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shig-a-shig-ah · 3 years

Text

LAYING CLAIM

» pairing: dabi x fem!reader

» cw: dubcon, revoked consent, noncon (we’re going on a journey, okay?), rimming, anal fingering, anal sex, crying, gratuitously fanon characterization. 18+, minors DNI.

» a/n: Started this months and months ago, and since I’m finally getting around to wrapping some WIPs, I guess you can have it now. Thanks @thebiggergroove for beta-reading!

» wc: 5.3k

» ao3 mirror

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The thing about Dabi is he's not usually a possessive guy. Fucking is fucking, as far as he's concerned—it doesn't really matter who is doing it with whom as long as everyone is getting off on it. But goddamn if there isn't something about you that makes him want to make you his.

And he's gotten that, more or less. It took some sweet talking and cajoling, and a few late nights where he made you come until you couldn't see straight, but you agreed not to go sleeping with anyone else. Sure, you've made him promise the same, but that's fine. Not that he's going to actually stop, of course, but he goes out on recruiting missions alone and he figures what you don't know won't hurt you.

That's all enough to satisfy him, at least for a little while. But then a few weeks pass and there it is again: that stupid jealousy and all those unbidden thoughts about the people you were with before him. People he knows. You never talk in too much detail about your past hookups, but he's not stupid, is all too aware that he's not the first one in this ragged band of miscreants that you've crawled into bed with. You've fucked Jin, and Shigaraki, and probably even Magne, god rest her soul—Dabi hadn't missed the way the two of you had huddled up giggling in the corner of the old bar one night, disappearing together unusually early, making those bedroom eyes at each other. And in theory that's fine. Nothing wrong with two girls having fun together, after all. Hell, bi chicks are hot and Dabi wouldn't mind taking advantage of that someday.

But first he needs to find a way to get the image of you with your legs spread for half the League out of his goddamn head.

If he's being honest, it's Shigaraki who bothers him the most. Magne is dead. Jin is a decent dude and, Dabi has to imagine, tame as a kitten in the sack. But Shigaraki, well...Dabi can tell just by looking at the guy that he's a freak, and the idea of you riding Shigaraki's dry, crusty dick, of letting him do who-knows-what filthy shit to you? It just gets to him.

And then Toga has to suggest that stupid game and go putting ideas in his head.

You're all sitting around the crumbling office space that passes for a hideout, drinking to celebrate the League's first successful double-amputation (because fuck that germophobic, transphobic prick), and blondie is just begging to play a drinking game. Normally Dabi doesn't go for that shit—why anyone needs an excuse to get wasted is beyond him—but he's in a good mood, and you make that adorable pouty face as you tell him that you played in college, that it's really fun, and somehow he finds himself sitting in a circle on the dusty floor with the rest of you losers playing 'I haven't' or whatever the fuck it's called.

It's all bland shit to start. Toga's never driven a car, Shigaraki's never gone to school. But, after you've made your way around the circle once, everyone seems to be loosening up and Spinner takes one for the team by getting to the interesting shit and admitting he's never slept with a girl. It spurs a moment of awkward silence made all the worse by his red face and obvious self-consciousness about being a virgin, but then Compress stage-whispers "Neither have I," before winking salaciously at the blushing lizard and taking a dramatic pull from his beer bottle. It's enough to lighten the mood.

After that, Dabi's forced to admit it's a decent game. There's not much he hasn't done sexually or criminally, and since those are the two topics everyone focuses on, he finds himself getting hammered faster than usual. It's a good thing too—his buzz makes it easier to ignore the look you and Shigaraki exchange when Jin announces that he's never tried watersports, easier to pretend his gut isn't twisting at the knowing smirk on your leader's face as he raises his beer bottle to drink and you follow suit.

That particular moment makes it all the more surprising when, on your next turn, you hide an embarrassed face behind your hand and announce that you've never taken it in the ass.

Dabi can't stop thinking about it the rest of the night. Obsessing over it, and the idea of being your first, your only, even if only in some less than conventional way. The thing is, it's downright tame in comparison to a lot of what you two get up to, so barely even kinky that it's almost impossible to believe you've never tried it. Sure, you've never done it together, but he'd just figured neither of you were all that into it, since it hadn't come up when you were doing lewd shit to each other.

That kind of sex is fine from his perspective, but only fine. He doesn't actively seek it out because in his mind nothing beats the feel of being balls-deep in a warm pussy, but that doesn't mean he hasn't done it. He's hooked up with plenty of girls that were into it and has always been happy to oblige; hell, he's even taken it more than once, on account of the fact that when it comes to the bedroom he's willing to try anything twice.

But doing it with you? Well, that thought sticks. The two of you finally go to bed and Dabi's so turned on by the idea of your virgin ass that he can't help testing the waters, prodding teasingly at that tight hole with one spit-slicked finger until you're squirming away and whining. He doesn't manage to convince you right then, but he makes those puppy dog eyes that are far more effective than they have any right to be, and you agree to give it a go in the future.

"Not here," you specify, the words fuzzy on your drunken tongue. "Someplace nicer, with a real bed." You already have your reservations, and you certainly don't relish the idea of undertaking that particular venture now, on a worn mattress in this falling apart building, with its paper-thin walls and complete lack of hot water. Between your booze-fueled haze and the seeming interminability of the League's poverty, you mostly forget about that casual promise by the following morning.

But Dabi doesn't. He picks up a small bottle of lube the next day and carries it around in his pocket shamelessly, a little reminder that he has something to look forward to besides roasting that prick Endeavor, and he strokes himself off to the idea more than he's proud to admit as he waits for the League to move on to better things. He can be patient, when he needs to be.

That patience takes a toll though, and the minute the League settles into their new digs in Re-Destro's sprawling villa, where there's actually privacy and clean, comfortable beds, Dabi shows up at your door with a cheshire grin and every intention of finally getting something from you that's just for him.

You grimace when you remember that promise, try briefly to talk him out of it even, but he isn't so easily dissuaded. It's made all the harder by the fact that you can't give him a specific reason why you've never tried it, beyond that it seems uncomfortable and you hadn't particularly enjoyed the couple instances when you'd allowed someone to slip a finger or two in there.

"C'mon, baby girl," Dabi coos, his breath hot in your ear as he pins you to the wall, working two unnaturally warm fingers into your cunt. "I'll make sure it's good for you. Be gentle, get you nice and warmed up first, all that sweet shit."

It really is unfair how persuasive he can be when he fixes those pleading turquoise eyes on you. The way the pads of his fingers are curling just right deep inside isn't helping either, and he teases you like that until you give in to his cajoling, though you still insist on waiting a couple nights so that you can do your research and make sure you're entirely prepared. Dabi demonstrates his appreciation by burying his face in your cunt and not surfacing for air until you've come three times and are begging for a break.

When the night finally arrives, Dabi's feeling positively giddy. He slips into your bedroom with a bottle of wine and a couple glasses he's brought, a little something to help you relax because he's a gentleman when he wants to be. It should be good booze too—he lifted it from Re-Destro's private stash, and he's certain baldy doesn't drink anything that costs less than ¥30,000. Of course, Re-Destro doesn't love sharing either, but the uptight prick is too scared of Shigaraki to complain about anything the League does. They all take advantage of that, because they can and because it's fun to watch him bite his tongue when they piss him off.

You don't make it easy for Dabi to focus on pouring the drinks though, not when you're reclining in that armchair by the window, freshly showered and fidgeting nervously. He was half-erect before he got here from just thinking about what he was going to do to you, and the sight of you acting like you're some blushing virgin spurs him all the way to rock-hard. By the time your glasses are close to empty, he's straining uncomfortably in his pants, and can't fight back his impatience any longer.

"What do you think, doll?" he murmurs, setting his glass to the side and standing up, shrugging his jacket off before leaning down to ghost his lips over your neck. "You ready to move this to the bed?"

The way you chew at your lower lip anxiously before nodding makes his dick throb.

You empty your glass with one final, large swallow, your heart racing as you rise. You know it's stupid—you and Dabi have fucked countless times and a lot of it hasn't exactly been vanilla—but it's been a long time since you've actually tried anything new. His obvious excitement doesn't help either, paradoxically; it leaves you fretting about what will happen if you're somehow bad at this, or if you can't take it and have to stop. You've never really worried about disappointing him before, but now the thought weighs acutely on your mind.

It's with halting steps that you approach the bed and then, when you can't realistically drag your feet any longer, you finally tug the nightgown you're wearing off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor to reveal what's underneath.

"Damn, baby girl," Dabi breathes, looking you up and down. You'd figured that since it was a special occasion you might as well dress up, donning a strappy bra and panties. They're little more than elaborate, crisscrossing pieces of lace, all white since he'd seemed so fixated on this pseudo-innocent, first-time act. His reaction doesn't disappoint, eyes lighting up as he stares at you hungrily.

You let yourself fall back on the bed, nestling against the many pillows. The look on his face has your stomach fluttering, and the wine has helped you to relax a bit despite your nerves, a pleasant warmth spreading throughout your body. It's joined by a different kind of heat when you feel the mattress dip beneath Dabi's weight as he positions himself over you, one knee resting between your thighs, just barely brushing against your center, a hint of what's to come.

"You look so good I could just eat you up," Dabi whispers hotly against your ear before tracing his lips over your jaw. Even though he wants to take his time, let himself savor this, it's taking every ounce of patience he has to keep the promise he made to get you worked up and ready for him, to not to tear those pretty bits of satin and lace off and have his way with you right then.

You whine eagerly when his mouth slants hungrily over yours, savoring the feel of those mismatched lips, the way the rough skin of the bottom one contrasts so deliciously with the top. Hot hands run over your sides as the kiss deepens, your tongues tangling together, and you moan against him.

When you finally break for air, Dabi moves his lips to your throat, his tongue lapping at your pulse before he sinks his teeth into you. He loves to mark you up, loves making sure everyone can see that you're indisputably his, and it's even hotter now that he knows he's going to fuck you in a way no one else has. You're shivering beneath him as he works, your hand tugging insistently at his hair, and Dabi lets out a low, throaty growl.

"Guess I'm not the only one who's eager, huh?"

Your hips tilt in response, pressing needily into his firm thigh, and Dabi can feel the skin on his cheeks straining against his staples as he grins. He traces one hand up over your ribs, cupping at your supple breasts, teasing your hardening nipple through the flimsy fabric of your bra. Those deft fingers work under the seam of your lingerie as he shifts his weight, increasing the pressure against your center while he pinches and tugs at the peaks of your breasts until you're whimpering, spreading slick along his leg even through your thin panties.

Dabi pulls away abruptly, rolling onto his back and tugging at you to change positions, shaking his head when you move to mount his hips.

"Come here, baby girl," he says, his tongue tracing over his bottom lip. "Like I said, I wanna eat you up."

The promise in those words sends a bolt of heat straight through your core as he guides you to straddle his face, hot breath tickling your inner thighs. One calloused thumb brushes your clit lightly through your underwear, blue eyes sparkling when your breath hitches at that soft touch. When he pulls that useless fabric to the side and runs his tongue over your already-damp slit, you shudder.

Dabi lets out a pleased groan at your reaction and gets to work more earnestly, lapping at your sensitive nub, licking and sucking until you're moaning and only then shifting a little so that he can lap at your insides, that same rough thumb replacing the pressure of his tongue on your clit. It strokes firm circles as he buries that hot, wet muscle inside you, the metal barbell there teasing your inner walls as you grind involuntarily against it. You can't help but whine when he withdraws it, but that disappointment is quickly replaced by you startling as that same wet muscle extends further back to tease at your puckered entrance.

"A-ah, Dabi, wait," you protest, your face heating up self-consciously almost at once.

Dabi pauses, shifting just enough to keep his reply from being muffled as one warm hand runs reassuringly up your thigh. "I don't think I can help myself, doll," he says, his slick-coated lips splitting into a wide grin, "you just taste too good."

That heat in your face worsens as he dives back in, not even waiting for you to respond before he's flexing his tongue to poke at that tight ring of muscle. You still try to squirm away, feeling unprepared for this. You hadn't even considered it among the possible activities were volunteering to participate in, but Dabi is holding you firmly in place with the hand not working at your clit, and when another whine of protest escapes you, it's weaker than the first. The foreign sensation of his tongue against your neglected hole has you hyperaware of the press of his thumb at your apex, and you can feel tension building in your core even as you writhe in embarrassment.

It's as though he knows, too, and you suppose maybe he does; after all, he's the one who's done this before. He thrusts his tongue a little deeper, rolling your clit between two hot fingers with enough pressure to cut off any further protests. A long moan is the only sound you can muster as you spill over the edge, your thighs clenching around his head and your hips jerking shakily as you ride out your climax with his tongue still buried obscenely in your rear.

Dabi's face is covered in your juices by the time he slides from between your thighs, and he wipes it away carelessly with one arm as he repositions you again, pinning you on your back and wasting no time peeling away your now-soaked panties. He grins at the sight of your glistening folds and swollen clit before stripping off most of his own clothes, kicking them unceremoniously to the side and relaxing between your legs, kissing at your still-trembling thighs.

He teases at your sensitive cunt with his fingers, coating them in your juices as you whimper. "Ready for a little more?" he asks, and you nod despite the fact that your cheeks are still burning from before and your stomach is knotting with nerves.

"Just...go slow, okay?"

"Of course, baby girl," he promises, "I told you I'd take good care of you." With that, he starts to work you open, dipping one finger into your tight hole just until he reaches the first knuckle, working it in and out slowly. His other hand toys at your clit, stroking and rolling that puffy nub again, making you mewl.

Dabi waits until you're relaxed before trying any more, pulling away from you just long enough to dig the lube from the pocket of his discarded pants, coating his fingers with it. He works that lone finger deeper this time, in and out until it's buried to the last knuckle.

The sensation is strange, but not entirely unpleasant; even if you think you'd rather have that finger curling in your cunt, the slight stretch is still adding to the faint throb already growing inside you, the one that worsens when his thumb returns to your apex.

"Fuck, you're so tight," Dabi growls when one well-placed stroke of his thumb has you clenching lightly around his finger. He ruts his hips against the sheets, trying vainly to find some relief for his aching member, but it's not enough—he needs to feel you, needs the vice-like grip clutching his fingers to be wrapped around his cock, and he needs it soon.

You feel him withdraw to add more lube, and then he's fingering you again, adding another digit to stretch you wider. It comes with a stab of discomfort when he forces his way past the second knuckle, and you reflexively try to pull back. "Dabi, that's too much."

He abandons his soothing attentions to your clit, one warm palm pressing you tight against the mattress to keep you in place, stroking soothingly at your hip. His breath tickles over your inner thigh as he chuckles softly. "If you can't take this, how are you ever gonna take me, hmm?" he says teasingly. "You're doing great, baby, just relax."

You will yourself to unclench, trying to picture Dabi's satisfied face once you're taking him, that adoring look he sometimes gives you, the one that you relish. Your efforts are only marginally effective, but Dabi keeps pushing deeper, fucking you slowly but insistently with those fingers, and when you don't complain again, his thumb returns to caressing your sex.

"That's a good girl." Dabi picks up the pace, cursing under his breath. "You're doing so good."

You're wriggling against his hand now, trying to increase the friction at your center, not quite minding the foreign sensation of his fingers and the uncanny fullness they bring so much now that there's heat thrumming in your core. "Y-yeah, like that," you pant encouragingly, and Dabi grins.

"That doing it for you?" he purrs. "Think you can take more?"

You start to shake your head—the stretch now feels like all you can handle—but Dabi's already adding a third slick finger, shoving it in with less restraint than before. You feel more than discomfort this time when three knuckles breach your asshole, and it quickly dampens the arousal that had been steadily building. "Dabi, slow down," you gasp.

"Aw, are you sure you can't handle it?" His blue eyes meet yours, pupils blown wide with arousal as he looks you over with the hungry gaze. "'Cause if I'm being honest, it feels like you're trying to suck me in. Like this greedy little hole wants to get fucked."

The huskiness of his voice sends a shiver down your spine, even as another whine of discomfort escapes you. For just a second his expression darkens slightly, but then he's slowing his movements, twisting his fingers instead of thrusting them in and out.

"Better?" he asks, and you think you catch an edge of impatience in his voice.

It is better though, a little at least, enough that you can focus on the way your cunt flutters every time his thumb strokes over your clit. So you just nod; it's not like this wasn't bound to be a little unpleasant at points, right?

Dabi's smile stretches wider, his thumb working faster. A mewl slips from between your lips and Dabi takes that as encouragement, his fingers resuming their persistent thrusts. It's still uncomfortable, though not quite as bad as when he started, and your teeth sink into your lower lip to bite back your complaints. You let your eyes fall closed instead, trying to focus on his attentions to your hooded nub, on the heat that's pooling in your lower belly. You're inching towards another release, and you let a hand lift to your breast, tweaking at the pebbled flesh of one nipple to help yourself along.

"D-dabi, I'm close," you stammer, your hips bucking against his hand.

"Yeah?" His movements speed up, his voice breathy and excited. "Do it, baby girl. Come for me and then I'm gonna fuck this tight little ass of yours."

You swallow hard, trying not to dwell on those words for now—you can tell you've loosened up more, tolerating the jab of his fingers, but his cock is substantially larger than those, all too intimidating. Thankfully, it's not hard to remain distracted, to focus only on your approaching peak.

Dabi can feel that orgasm rip through you when it hits, your asshole clenching around his fingers as you keen, and it's then that he reaches the limits of his patience. He needs you now, needs the thrill of burying himself in your tight ass and claiming you for his own, of reaching his own release deep inside and then watching his seed spill out afterwards. What a satisfying sight that will be.

He scrambles up from between your legs to catch your lips with his, fumbling his boxers off as his tongue invades your mouth. When he pulls away, his eyes are bright, needy. "Ready for me?" he asks.

You're not, not really, but you can see the fervor in his eyes, hear the urgency in his voice, and you convince yourself that he won't be able to work you open much more with his fingers no matter what. Your agreement doesn't matter anyway—he's already rolling you onto your side and slotting his chest against your back, his straining erection poking at the cleft between your thighs.

"Like this?" you ask, surprised by the choice of position.

"Just like this," he pants in your ear. His teeth nibble at your lobe as he slicks his cock generously with lube. "Want you spooned against me so I can see those cute faces you make, feel you squirming when you take me."

And fuck, when he slips one hand back down to finger your asshole one last time, it doesn't disappoint—your body ripples against him when that invasion catches you off guard, and he can see the way your lips part obscenely as you gasp at his touch. His fingers abandon your tight hole almost as quickly as they'd entered, and then Dabi is aligning himself with your entrance, using the last of his restraint not to slam his hips forward and bury himself inside with a single thrust.

You can feel the spongy head of his glans, and the slick coolness of the ring that adorns his tip, prodding at your rear. One of his arms worms its way under your side, his hand groping distractedly at your breasts as you tense in anticipation.

"Relax, baby girl," he murmurs, but he doesn't wait for you to even try. He's already slipping in, moving slowly until he encounters resistance an inch or so inside, and then pausing.

He has to struggle to keep his composure. Even like this, with not even the full head of his cock in your ass, his balls are tightening, just the thought of what he's doing nearly enough to send him over the brink. He waits until he's sure that won't happen and then starts moving, pushing insistently to work you open around his length with shallow thrusts.

"A-ah, Dabi, g-go easy," you stutter, already squirming. You can feel your body resisting the intrusion, so much larger than his fingers, and it aches slightly every time he tries to breach that inner ring.

"I am, baby, don't worry. I'll take care of you." His cheek is nuzzling against yours, his lips kissing and sucking wherever he can reach, but his motions don't change at all even as he murmurs so sweetly. He only slings one arm over your hips, toying lazily at your clit. That attention helps you relax, helps distract you a little, but it's not enough to prepare you for when he drives himself in further, finally surging past that taut band of muscle.

The invasion brings a sharp pain, one that has you crying out. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, your body reflexively contorting to try and escape the cause of that hurt, but his arms tighten around you, holding you in place as he continues to work himself deeper with every thrust.

"Dabi, that hurts." Your words are sharper this time as each stroke sends another unpleasant throb through your overstretched hole, but his only response is to plunge the fingers rubbing at your clit into your dripping cunt.

"Shh, you're doing great." He curls his fingers, stroking against that spongy spot deep inside. It makes you writhe, but that does nothing to address the pain between your legs as he fucks you.

"Dabi, don't, that's not helping, I—"

"It's okay, baby girl, you're taking me so well," Dabi coos. You'll adjust, he knows you will—you're usually up for anything, of course you can take this. And fuck, there's no way he can stop now, not when it's even better than he'd imagined—hotter and softer, your pillowy walls enveloping his length every time he plunges into you, the exquisite tightness of your entrance massaging his shaft with each thrust.

"I'm not— I don't— I don't want to do this anymore." You can hear the desperate edge in your voice now. Your heart is racing and there's a cold sweat forming on your skin as tears of pain and confusion start to leak down your cheeks. "Dabi, stop."

"Shh, shh, you're fine. You—fuck—you feel so amazing. 'S never been this good with anyone else, fuck."

"I don't care, I don't want this." You can't understand what's happening, why he's not listening. You twist your head to look at him, pleading with your eyes, but he's barely even focusing on you. His blue eyes are glazed and half-lidded as his lips wander over your shoulders and your neck, all the while murmuring those useless reassurances against your skin. You're thrashing now, your feet scrambling for purchase on the sheets as you try frantically to pull away, but he keeps his tight grip on you, one of his legs hooking around your own to hold you in place. "Dabi, I said stop!"

He shushes you again, rutting into you harshly, and a choked sob escapes you when he bottoms out inside you, his hips flush against your backside as you struggle against him. You feel sick to your stomach, and it only worsens when he pulls out until nothing but his tip remains, then drives himself back in with one agonizingly rough thrust.

You keep begging, pleading, wracking your brain and trying every past safe word you can recall, but he only continues to pound into you, his breathing erratic as he pants in your ear. "It's okay, baby. You're taking my cock like such a good girl. You're—ngh—making me feel so good."

The ache between your legs is diminishing slightly as you adjust to his girth, your body entirely unconcerned with whether you want that or not. He's still fingering your sopping cunt too, his palm grinding against your oversensitive clit with each plunge of his long digits, the lewd squelching sound of those attentions mingling with the sharp slap of his hips against your ass as he fucks you.

"You like this?" he asks, but you know he's not really asking. "You like knowing I'm the only one? That I'm making you mine, just mine, just like how it should be?"

"Dabi, stop. Please stop." Your appeals are feeble now, far more for yourself than for him as you continue to utter them between quiet sobs. Dabi's somewhere far away, awash in the tight heat of your ass and the satisfaction of finally staking his claim on you, aware of your supplications but not hearing them, not really.

You slump, still sobbing, and let him take what he wants. His attentions to your cunt have a coil tightening in your gut, but when your climax hits it's perfunctory and mechanical, no real pleasure to be found even as your hips jerk and your holes spasm, a joyless whine passing from your lips.

No real pleasure for you, at least. But fuck, the feel of you squeezing around his cock as you come is what Dabi has been waiting for, your insides massaging his length as though desperate for him to decorate your walls with his cum. It's a gift he's glad to grant—he rocks his hips more urgently, keeping his thrusts shallow now so that he's sure to get it all deep inside.

"Fuck," he groans against your neck. "Gonna make me come, baby girl. That what you want? Want me to fill you up?" You shake your head, but his movements are already growing spurtive and erratic, his grunts louder and throatier, and then you can feel his cock jerking inside you, a hot rush of cum flooding your guts.

Dabi doesn't stop then, either, keeps fucking his seed into you until he's softening, not quite able to work himself in and out of your tight, abused hole any longer, and only then does he finally pull out, a dribble of cum leaking obscenely down your thigh.

You're sniffling, drawing shaky breaths, and you try to pull away the moment his arms relax around you. They only tighten again, his lips planting soft kisses along your temple.

"Shh," he murmurs. The sound of his shushing makes you want to scream. One hand lifts to wipe at the tears on your cheeks. "You were so good, baby girl, there's no need to cry. You were fucking incredible." He means it too, doesn't think he's ever come so hard in his life as he did now, making you his.

Dabi can't wait to do it again.

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imagineimpact · 3 years

Text

I'm Glad You're Alright (Albedo x Reader)

An experiment goes wrong and you wake up days later. Your boyfriend, Albedo, is assessing you after the incident.

(Request from a personal friend)

I'm Glad You're Alright

Albedo x Reader

...

A darkness rests, the figures hovering over you in a frantic hurry as the world around you shifts around, arranging itself to make sense and clear the fog from in front of your eyes. It was most certainly a peculiar instance, the strange lack of clarification in the confusion of everything that had been occurring around you.

All you know is that you had just woken up.

That, and something was terribly wrong.

A familiar face hovered in front of you, retrieved by someone else who you hadn’t had enough awareness to identify. His blonde hair swept down towards you, his face in it’s usual expression of calculation. He was talking, but the words weren’t registering… the mindful mumbling from his mouth relating to your condition. You just reached out your hand from under your blanket and found the motion unusually stiff, but grabbed his hand nonetheless.

He paused for a moment, eyes wandering over to it as if the motion was a strange one to make, then shifted his hand to hold yours too. The words started to make sense to you… He was checking your condition.

“And what were you thinking, trying to pull off such a feat. You must’ve been aware of all the potential side effects of such a formula.” Albedo lays the back of his hand against your forehead. “You were passed out for days.”

“Albedo? I… What do you mean?” He instantly stopped his unclear mumbling, looking down and gazing into your eyes for just a moment before moving his hand to your cheek.

“The first word you utter when you wake up from days of being unconscious is my name.” There’s a momentary smile that peaks through his calculations, and then it falters again, his eyes clouding with a seriousness. “Good, your memory is working then. What is the last thing you remember?”

A standard question. He’s impatient for your answer, eyes flickering between yours as you realize that recalling it isn’t as easy as it maybe should be.

“I… I was doing an experiment… and…” Your memory was fuzzy at best. “I don’t…” You didn’t want to finish that sentence, it was a terrible thing for you to say. “I don’t quite… recall… anything that might have occurred after that.”

“Hmm.” He hummed. He quickly stood up, parting from you as the door had a quiet knock on it again. When he returned from the door with a bucket and a cloth, you knew that your condition must have been bad.

“I didn’t mean to worry you. Please, I’m sorry. Forgive me.” You want to grab his spare hand and pull him back to you, to hug him and apologise for whatever trouble you might have caused. “I thought it would be a good test.” A quiet sigh left him as he knelt beside you again, placing the bucket aside.

“Indeed, it might have been. The issue lies in the fact that you decided not only to test the experiment on yourself, but to also give no warning to anyone else.” He fetched up a small towel from the bucket of ice water beside you, wrenching the water from it before gently running the cloth over your face.

“You do that all the time!”

“It’s different. I am in full capacity of my calculations and my science. If something could kill me, I wouldn’t take it.” He shook his head. “You, on the other hand, did not properly assess the dangers, and thus you’ve landed yourself here.” He sighed. “Do you know that the small fragments of slime condense that you added were all it took to incapacitate you for three days? You should have known that it would react negatively with-“

“I know, Albeido.” You interrupt. “I just thought-“

“And you were wrong.”

“I know!” You snap. He looks slightly taken aback, and his gaze rests firmly on yours. You falter. “You don’t have to tell me that.” Your words are in a huff, though less harsh than before.

There’s a moment where the air is still. His eyes are baring into you - not anger or calculation, just the sheer blankness that accompanied perplexity. You feel queasy for a moment, as if you could fall back into your coma. Sound itself seems to fade as you link eyes, watching each other. It gives a feeling that not even science can explain.

“I see.” Albedo breaks the silence, peering down and away from your eyes. He leans over you, a hand running through your hair and then resting on your cheek as his expression settles. His eyes return to you for a moment, and then he leans down to leave a kiss on your other cheek. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

You place your hand over his. You know that he’s frustrated with you but that that’s all that it really is: He’s worried about you. And maybe he doesn’t really understand why you got annoyed at him.

“Next time I’ll let you know before I do anything like this.” You insist with a quiet voice. “Someone, at least.” You feel a strange sense of dejection when he doesn’t respond right away. “I’m okay now. I’m sorry that I worried you.”

He silently watches you, then leans down and plants a soft kiss on your lips. “It’s alright. You’re unlikely to repeat such a mistake.” The air around you stood still, allowing for the two of you to just stare into each other’s eyes, a simple connection. “Just be careful, alright?”

“Of course.” You insist. “I don’t want you to worry about me when you have to go away.”

He looks away again, taking a spare piece of paper from a log of your condition that he was writing up. He doesn’t share his thoughts with you, but you can tell that he wouldn’t want you to know anyway. You let him sit beside you, grabbing his spare hand as he balances the clipboard against his leg, facing you. It’s a subtle inconvenience to him, but it’s also a way of showing you that he’s there, and that he loves you.

#genshin x reader #genshin impact #genshin imagines #albedo #albedo x you #albedo x y/n #albedo genshin impact #albedo x gender neutral reader #Albedo x reader #oneshot #genshin scenarios #genshin impact scenarios #scenarios #genshin fic #Albedo fic #imagineimpact

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the-last-kenobi · 3 years

Note

Most of your fics absolutely destroyed me emotionally so, on my own risk, may I request #13 “You shouldn’t be this easy to carry" with Qui-Gon and padawan Obi-Wan? Thank you!

Ohhh I’m happy to write this one! Thank you! (Always pleased to hear I’ve emotionally wrecked innocent people lol)

From this various prompts list.

Qui-Gon descended the ramp of his ship with something less than his usual grace, his expression was rather sour. Other than that, he looked his usual self, untidy but comfortable and serene.

He waved to the attendant heading towards the ship, and bowed to a small mechanic droid that squeaked with excitement, ran in circles around him, and then darted off after the attendant.

Qui-Gon chuckled. He paused to take a deep breath, tasting the metallic scent of Coruscant on the air, but also the warm and familiar notes of the Temple, of home. It was good to be back. Tedious diplomatic assignments that ran well overtime were nothing worth dwelling on, especially when it was done alone.

“Master Jinn!” a warm voice called.

He turned his head and saw Shaak Ti walking towards him, a smile on her lovely face with its striking colors.

“Knight Ti,” he greeted her. “How are you?”

“I’m well,” she answered. “I’m just about to depart to Alderaan; it’s a royal wedding and I’m the token Jedi invitee,” she informed him, but there was no offense in her voice. Alderaan was well known to be genuinely welcoming, and had been more than courteous in their dealings with the Order for centuries on end.

“Enjoy it,” Qui-Gon advised her. “Weddings are rarely something you’d like to miss.”

“I will,” she promised. “Oh, is your Padawan around? I was hoping to catch him when he returned, he forgot to sign off on his departure notice and was scheduled for three shifts in the crèche, which he obviously missed.”

Qui-Gon’s head tilted to one side, and he frowned.

It was obvious that Shaak Ti believed that Obi-Wan had accompanied him on his mission, which had in fact been a solo assignment. The twenty-one-year-old Padawan had remained behind for class rotations.

And Obi-Wan had never missed... well, anything. He was notoriously early for everything, beyond punctual. It was almost annoying.

Perhaps he’d finally slipped into a belated teenage fit of laziness, or he’d fallen so behind on class work that he’d forgotten about the crèche. Both would be extremely out of character, but one instance of this in nearly nine years of training could perhaps be excused.

Shaak Ti was waiting for an answer.

“I’ll talk to him,” he promised, revealing nothing. “Thank you for letting me know. I had no idea.”

She waved it off. “These things happen. You have a good student on your hands; he’s easily forgiven.”

Qui-Gon smiled.

The door to their quarters opened for him with a casual wave of the hand. Jedi did not lock their doors often; privacy was an understood thing, something not casually breached. No Jedi would enter another’s rooms without first asking permission.

He wasn’t sure what he expected.

Obi-Wan in the common area, reading.

Or Obi-Wan out and about, somewhere off with some of his more trouble making friends. (Quinlan Vos.)

He was not expecting to find Obi-Wan huddled in the corner of their kitchenette, half-hidden in his cloak, knees drawn up under his chin, crying.

Obi-Wan saw him enter and flinched away, shuddering.

Qui-Gon stared.

The entire scene was so unexpected, so wrong, that for a full five seconds he simply stood there, unable to process it. Obi-Wan had buried his face in his knees and was attempting to stifle his tears, seemingly by holding his breath, which was only making him shake harder.

Qui-Gon jolted out of his paralysis and stepped nearer, dropping onto one knee, sensing that looming over his Padawan was not going to help.

“Padawan?” he asked cautiously.

Obi-Wan looked up reluctantly. His face was a sickly grey; his cheeks were bright red and his blue eyes were feverish. They darted around, seeming to fix on nothing.

“Obi-Wan,” the Master tried again, warily reaching out a hand and resting it on top of one of Obi-Wan’s, clenched around his knee.

Obi-Wan took a rattling breath, more tears spilling down his cheeks. “...What... day is it...?” he gasped.

Qui-Gon’s chest tightened with something close to terror. What in all the galaxy was going on here?

“It’s the 29th,” he said gently. “Taungsday. I returned a day late from my solo mission. Do you remember that?”

Obi-Wan’s tears had increased throughout the brief speech. “Y-yes.”

“All right,” said Qui-Gon, struggling to remain as calm and patient as possible. “All right. Can you tell me what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

Obi-Wan shook his head, his expression crumbling. Suddenly he very much resembled the boy Qui-Gon had met on Bandomeer, uncertain and frightened, although even then he had not cried. This was different.

“Are you sure?” Qui-Gon pressed.

Obi-Wan nodded, strangling a loud sob by clapping one hand over his mouth. He said something, but of course it was impossible to understand behind his clamped fingers.

“What?” asked his Master.

“...so...stupid,” Obi-Wan burst out angrily through his tears. “I just... don’t feel well.”

“Don’t feel well?” Qui-Gon stared at his apprentice in confusion. “You’re sick? Obi-Wan, why didn’t you just go to the Halls?”

Obi-Wan shuddered. More tears slid down over his flushed cheeks. “I...I...I fell,” he said, sounding deeply uncertain. “I was working, and it was late, and I fell. I think I fell. I can’t walk. I can barely move. I don’t know how long it’s been—”

Qui-Gon was already moving, alarm ringing in his head like sirens. In two seconds he had Obi-Wan in his arms, cradled like a child, his head resting under Qui-Gon’s chin.

“You shouldn’t be this easy to carry,” he said tensely. “You haven’t had anything to eat or drink since you fell?”

“Some... some water,” Obi-Wan murmured. His skin was blazing hot against Qui-Gon’s, a sick and feverish heat. He had stopped crying — his tears seemed to have stemmed from a combination of confusion and shame, not pain — but he seemed on the verge of passing out. “I... I got some water... don’t remember when...”

“Stay awake,” Qui-Gon ordered. He was striding down the hallways, ignoring the few bystanders who watched them pass with bewilderment and concern. He did send a grateful nod to one young woman who raised her comm in her hand at him, asking a silent question, and at his gesture raised it to her lips and murmured ‘Tell the Healers that Master Jinn is bringing in his Padawan. Have someone ready.’

Obi-Wan murmured something vague.

“Stay awake,” insisted Qui-Gon. “Don’t fall asleep.”

Obi-Wan moaned but nodded, forcing his eyes to stay open. “I...I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize.” The words came out harsh and insincere in Qui-Gon’s urgency, and he realized it, because he dropped a swift kiss to the top of the fevered head in apology. Obi-Wan relaxed ever so slightly.

They arrived in the Halls of Healing and were immediately received by a Healer and his apprentice, who had Obi-Wan safely tucked in a bed and monitored in less than two minutes. Obi-Wan had closed his eyes against the bright light and seemed in danger of falling asleep again.

“Stay awake just a little longer, Padawan Kenobi,” the Healer instructed kindly. “I’m fairly sure of your diagnosis but I have to be more certain before I can administer treatment. Then you can sleep.”

“Yes, Healer,” rasped the young man.

Qui-Gon watched from the wall, his hands tucked deep in his sleeves to hide how they trembled. The shock of the last quarter hour was setting in, and he scrambled to keep his wits about him, worried about what this diagnosis might be. He still remembered Obi-Wan’s confusion about the day, his bewildered tears, and that memory was not going to be going away anytime soon.

He had been far too light in his arms.

Just how long had Obi-Wan been trapped in their rooms, unable to call for help and too confused to figure out a way around that? How long had he gone without eating and sleeping?

He found out.

An hour later, Obi-Wan was fast asleep, hooked up to an IV and blissfully pain-free due to a dose of pills he had managed to swallow. The Healer turned to Qui-Gon with a weary smile.

“You’re all right?” he asked.

“I’m fine. I’ve just returned from a mission, but I wasn’t hurt.”

“That’s good to know. I was asking about shock, however,” the Healer said gently. “I know this can’t have been a pleasant homecoming.”

Qui-Gon’s throat tightened, but he said nothing.

The Healer seemed to understand. “Obi-Wan has contracted a strain of the flu,” he explained, moving past the brief surge of emotion. “As you know, most strains of the flu are easily combated these days and many species have evolved or inoculated to the point where it’s hardly a concern. But sometimes the flu is stronger. In this case, it’s clear that it’s job was made easy. I don’t think Padawan Kenobi was eating or sleeping properly before the sickness began to set in. It would explain the severity of his malnutrition, and his confusion.”

Qui-Gon’s eyes flickered to the bed where Obi-Wan was sleeping, the fever still burning in his cheeks.

“...How long?” he asked.

“A few days at most,” the Healer said. “But I suspect it’s a habit that’s related to stress and overwork. Does Obi-Wan struggle with stress or insomnia?”

The Master hesitated a moment, opening his mouth to deny it, and then stopping to think better of it.

“...Maybe,” he admitted. The hesitation stung. Shouldn’t he know? “He’s very private with his habits when we’re in Temple. He prefers to study alone in his room, and we usually only manage to share one meal a day during his busier semesters, if that.”

The Healer nodded. He didn’t look or sound at all accusatory when he said, “That’s understandable. I’m going to suggest keeping a closer eye on that. Don’t force him out of his comfort zone, at least not right away, but make sure he understands that three square meals — or better yet, a light meal or snack every two or three hours — is expected of him. As is sleep.”

Qui-Gon nodded, his throat tightening again to the point of pain.

“Rest easy, Master Jinn,” said the Healer, briefly laying a supportive hand on the taller Jedi’s shoulder. “He’ll pull through this. The illness, and everything else. I believe it’s nothing more than a bad habit formed from good intentions. There are crueler demons out there.”

“Yes, I know,” said Qui-Gon. And he did know. One didn’t reach Jedi Mastery without learning the galaxy for what it was.

But he didn’t think he would ever quite move past the shock of today, of carrying his adult apprentice in his arms, sick to the point of tears and helplessness, and then discovering that he could possibly have prevented this if he had paid a little more attention to Obi-Wan’s work habits.

Well. They would, as the Healer said, overcome this.

Qui-Gon drew up a chair to the side of the bed, resolving to wait until Obi-Wan woke, and slowly reached out and set his hand next to his Padawan’s. After a moment, Obi-Wan stirred, and even in his sleep he gave a contented sigh and shifted his hand, his fingers searching blindly for his Master’s hand. Qui-Gon took it and held it tightly.

They had overcome so many things in nearly a decade together.

They could handle this.

And besides, Qui-Gon told himself, even after Obi-Wan was Knighted, he would always be here to watch his back.

He would never abandon Obi-Wan.

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imlovethomassanders · 3 years

Text

Eyes are the Windows to the Soul(mates) - Chapter 3

You can also read on ao3

Once again, huge thanks to @strongindependentcheesecake for beta reading

This work is complete, and new chapters will be added everyday until completion:

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 (FINAL)

Summary: The lucky few who have a soulmate are born with heterochromia, with their left eye being the color of their soulmate’s eyes and their right eye being their own color. Not only was Virgil one of the lucky few to have a soulmate, but he was given four. His left eye changed colors every time he blinked, rotating between his four soulmates’ eye colors. His rotating eye colors caused him to be a bit of an outcast growing up, but when he finally leaves for college, things start to fall into place. This is the journey of five strangers finding each other.

Pairings: DLAMP with background Remile

Warnings: None I believe

Words: 4631

Taglist: @touchstarvedvirgil @lamp-calm-sanders @ninjago2020 @confinesofpersonalknowledge @secret-novelisthost18 @phander-sides @sherlock-lives-on-bakerstreet @bookbingingproblem @viana-dascolli @sharktryingtofly @crofters-n-falsehoods @turnedthefreakingfrogsgay @little-kat07

The rest of the summer Virgil kept up with Patton and Logan in a group chat Patton made. Patton would regularly send Virgil selfies of him and Logan together. And while Virgil was always filled with a warm happiness upon seeing them together, he couldn't ignore the bitter pang of loneliness.

As the start of their junior year drew nearer, Logan went back to his apartment. With the three of them all in separate locations, they would have regular skype calls that would usually last hours longer than planned (they'd only end once Logan was insistent they go to bed).

Logan sighed after he hung up the skype call. Virgil and Patton were comfortably back in their dorm and were cuddling on one of their beds as they talked with him. Logan didn't mind watching them show affection for each other (he actually enjoyed it, though he'd never admit it out loud), but he was starting to feel the bitter truths of the isolation he built for himself. He hadn't bothered to try and make any friends during his time at college. He told himself he wanted to focus on studies. He was okay, better even, on his own. But then he ran into Patton and Virgil, and he felt more alone than ever.

He got up from his desk and went to the kitchen to refill his water bottle before heading to bed.

'Hiya, Logan," his roommate Emile said from the couch. "How are Patton and Virgil?"

"They're doing well."

Emile was studying to be a therapist at the same university and had answered Logan's roommate ad. Logan had started off rather distant, engaging in small talk but never bothering to try and get to know him. It wasn't that Emile wasn't a good roommate - he was as good a roommate you could ask for. Always paid his share of rent on time, never made a huge mess, did his share of chores - but Logan just always claimed to be too busy to let himself get "distracted." But since Logan met Patton and Virgil, he decided to make more of an effort to get to know Emile, much to Emile's delight.

"What are you watching?" Logan asked as he glanced towards the TV.

Emile's dual-colored eyes lit up. That was a big reason Logan chose him as a roommate. He also was one of the few with a soulmate. "Steven Universe. Have you heard of it? It's about this kid named Steven-"

Logan listened as he waited for his water bottle to fill up. He had heard of Steven Universe, though he never bothered to look at it before. Patton had talked about it, saying he wanted the three of them to watch it together sometime. Maybe he should try and introduce Patton to Emile. The two would probably get along well-

"Logan?" Emile asked, snapping Logan from his thoughts.

"Sorry," Logan said as he twisted the cap back onto his water bottle. "I just got lost in thought.

Emile gave him a soft smile as Logan started to head back towards his bedroom. "You miss them?"

Logan paused. Well, of course he missed them a bit. They were soulmates. But in actuality, did he miss them that much? To the point of it hurting? To the point of it affecting his mood? When he was with them, they never got past hand holding, never said anything "lovey-dovey" past sending the occasional heart emoji. And even that was sometimes overwhelming. Was he ready to admit how much he actually liked them?

Logan shook his head. "Goodnight, Emile."

"Goodnight, Logan."

After quickly getting ready, Logan got into bed. He turned over to switch off his bedside lamp, ignoring the buzz of his text alert.

Logan woke up to good morning texts from Patton and Virgil. He responded with "Good morning." before pushing himself up to get coffee and prepare for school.

His day went on as normal, which he appreciated. On his way to his first afternoon class, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket but he ignored it. He could always read the text when class was over.

He sat down in the front row and pulled out his laptop. He tried to ignore the growing volume of people coming in and sitting around him.

Class went as it usually did, Logan asking too many questions to where the professor got annoyed and his classmates rolled their eyes. The teachers especially didn't like it when they didn't have answers.

Logan couldn't help he was smarter than them.

Class ended before Logan could ask his last question. He huffed in annoyance and started to pack his bag when his pen rolled off his desk. Before he could reach down for it, someone else had already grabbed it for him.

"You really gave the teach a run for her money, huh?" the stranger teased as he handed Logan his pen.

Logan vaguely recognized the stranger. He was the guy who was always on the posters all around campus for the theatre productions.

"Thank you," Logan said. He looked at the stranger's face and froze. His right eye was a deep brown and his left was a light green.

He couldn't be, could he? There was the possibility that the man in front of him only had one soulmate who's eyes also happened to be green or-

The man blinked and his left eye turned from Patton's green to Virgil's gray.

He was Logan's soulmate.

Logan watched as his soulmate's eyes widened and a large smile graced his face.

"Roman," he said in a breathless voice.

"Logan."

Dear God, why now? He was still trying to figure out his feelings towards Patton and Virgil, and now the universe wanted to introduce him to another?

"This is amazing!" Roman exclaimed as Logan finally stood from his desk. "I've been waiting to meet one of you for such a long time! Let me take out to-"

"I have another class in fifteen minutes," Logan interrupted. Roman's smile faltered a bit, and Logan felt a bit guilty but pushed that aside immediately. His studies came before anything. Classes - Logan understood those.

"But we're soulmates! This is the first time I've met one of you. Surely we can miss one class"

"No," Logan said. "I'll see you in class Thursday."

A disappointed look fell on Roman's face. He opened his mouth to speak, but Logan started heading towards the door before he could. Roman scrambled to get his backpack together to follow him.

"Wait!" Logan didn't stop walking. "Wait!"

Logan jerked back as Roman grabbed his shoulder.

"I've dreamed about this moment for as long as I can remember!" Roman pleaded. "Logan, we're soulmates. We're made for each other-"

"We can always talk later-"

"Why wait??" Roman asked as he reached for Logan's hand, but Logan jerked it back. "Why not take full advantage of the time we're given?"

"I need to go," Logan said adamantly. Roman opened his mouth to object and Logan sighed and pulled out his phone. "If I get out of class early I'll text you."

Roman eagerly took Logan's phone and punched his number in. As soon as Logan had his phone back he turned and started heading towards his next building.

Logan wished Patton was the one to meet Roman. Patton would have been a much better match for Roman. He would know how to react and what to do. Logan sighed as he walked into the building, hoping for a long and boring class.

Of course not.

Of course today was a day the professor decided to let them out early. Logan's mind raced as he tried to think of anything else he could work on.

He was all caught up on his homework - ahead, even. He had all the terms he needed to memorize memorized and had already created all the study flashcards he needed. He had read all the book chapters that needed to be read and had already highlighted everything important. He had no future tests or quizzes to study for nor did he have any extra credit options to due as he had already completed them.

Dammit, why did he have to be so diligent at school work??

The thought of not telling Roman he was out of class flashed through his mind, but that thought made him uneasy. While he was not the keenest on other people's emotions, he was no liar. Besides, Roman was his soulmate. At the very least, he deserved a chance to speak with him.

The campus coffee shop was nearby, so he texted Roman that if he was out of class to meet him there. He ordered his coffee (black, of course) and sat down in a secluded seat by a window. It was fairly crowded, and this was the one instance Logan was grateful for that.

Very shortly after Logan sat down, Roman walked in and eagerly looked for him, beaming once he saw him. He sat down in front of Logan and flashed another cocky smile.

"Hello," Roman said. "I am very glad I get to see you again."

"Hello. Did you not have class?" Logan asked as he put his drink down. "If you did, it was very convenient you were dismissed early as well."

"Actually, I just left," Roman grinned.

"You were dismissed just a few minutes ago?"

"Well, no. I got your text so I just got up and left."

"In the middle of-"

"In the middle of the lecture, yeah."

"...Okay, then," Logan said after a couple tense moments of silence.

"I want to know all about you. How old are you? What year are you in? Did you grow up around here? What are you-"

"I'm twenty-one and a senior," Logan interrupted before he could get barraged with more questions. "And I was not raised here. I grew up out of state."

"...What about yourself?" Logan added onto the end. It was polite to ask others about themselves as well, right? Besides, he needed to get to know his soulmate, right?

God he hated this.

"I'm nineteen and a sophomore," Roman said as he relaxed back in his chair. "And I grew up in a small town not too far from here. "God, I hated it."

"So... you've met two others?" Roman then asked, voice laced with hope.

"I met them this summer."

"So they were already together?"

"Yes."

Sadness flashed over Roman's face for a split second but was quickly disguised again by Roman's large grin.

"Could you tell me about them?"

"Their names are Patton and Virgil. Patton's the green, Virgil's the gray," Logan said as he picked up his coffee again, wanting to avoid the soft gaze Roman had on his face. "They're both juniors and twenty, though Patton is older than Virgil by three months. They're art majors but Virgil has a minor in creative writing and Patton has been looking into dual majoring in psychology. They both live and go to a university out of state."

"Could you introduce me to them?"

"I'll tell them I met you tonight and see if they'd prefer video call or in person."

Roman nodded.

"Back to you," Roman said as he managed to catch Logan's eye. "What are you majoring in?"

"I am majoring in chemical engineering, with a minor in education so that I may teach one day if I so choose."

As Logan talked, Roman rested his head on his hand and smiled at Logan in such an admiring way it almost made Logan uncomfortable. Those looks were for Patton and Virgil only, who he already knew to a degree. How could Roman look at Logan with such eyes when they had met not two hours ago?

"Yourself?" Logan asked.

"I'm majoring in musical theatre with a minor in theatrical costuming, but I also persuaded the chorus professor to give me voice lessons that are usually reserved only for voice majors," Roman said with a proud grin.

"Hm," Logan huffed, though immediately regretted it.

When Logan met Patton and Virgil and learned they were both art majors, he was a bit disappointed he couldn't talk to them about the sciences, but it didn't bother him too much since at least he had two other soulmates who could share his passion for math and science.

But now his third one is a theatre major, leaving only one. Logan was running out of options.

"...What does 'hm' mean?" Roman asked defensively, straightening his back as he examined Logan's face.

"It's nothing. I shouldn't have said it."

"It's clearly something."

"I just... I can't understand why you would spend your time and money in higher education only to indulge in over-glorified make believe," Logan said incredulously, completely aware of how rude he sounded but not being able to help himself.

"I wouldn't put it like that," Roman said defensively. "I don't think you're aware of how much hard work one has to do to refine one's acting abilities-"

"One's higher education is one of the most important and deciding times of one's life," Logan interrupted. "And you're here studying theatre and skipping classes."

"I bailed so I could see my soulmate," Roman said, voice rising in volume. Logan glanced at the people around them. "Perhaps you're taking college a bit too seriously! Yes, and education is important, but college is also the time to have fun and discover yourself!"

People were staring at them.

"If you are just going to yell, I am going to take my leave," Logan said as he grabbed his bag. Roman's eyes widened as he stood with Logan and went to say something but Logan didn't let him speak. "I will see you in class. Goodbye, Roman."

"Really!?" Roman shouted after him. Now everyone was staring. "When I imagined my soulmates, the ones made for me, I always imagined someone who I can share my passions with. But are you really so impersonal you'd abandon your own soulmate? Is school really all you care about!?"

"Goodbye, Roman."

And Logan left.

Logan fell back onto his bed and groaned into his hands. God, why did he have to be so bad at interacting with others? Why did he have to be so bad at understanding emotions that he could neither understand his own or read others? Why did he have to have no filter between his brain and his mouth?

He heard his phone buzz and he groaned again. He knew who it was.

Patton: Me and Virgil are ready to video chat when you are <3 <3

Logan had to stop himself from correcting him to "Virgil and I."

He bit his lip as his thumb hovered over his phone keyboard before quickly typing out a message.

Logan: I'm afraid I'm feeling a bit sick tonight. I think I'll just go to bed early, but I'll talk to you soon. Patton: Oh, I'm sorry! :( I hope you feel better soon <3 <3 <3 Virgil: take care, logan Virgil: <3

He couldn't let them see him. He hadn't had the courage to look, but he knew his left eye was just light brown now. Once Patton and Virgil noticed his eye no longer changed color, he'd have to tell them about Roman and what a disaster that was.

He did go to bed early that night, exhausted from all the emotional turmoil from the day. He wasn't looking forward to Thursday.

As much as Logan wished the Earth would have been engulfed by the sun before Thursday, that wasn't due for another billion years, so Logan had to go to class.

He got there early and sat in his seat in the front row. He pulled his laptop out of his backpack and stared at it, not being able to comprehend anything on the screen.

Other students started trailing in to their usual seats, though Logan' refused to look at any of them. But when someone in red walked past him, he knew it was Roman. He recognized the cologne.

When the class finally ended, Logan stood right outside the doorway to try and catch him.

"Roman!" Logan called when he walked out. Roman's eyes widened a bit but he nodded.

"Logan."

"I wanted to apologize-"

Roman held up a hand to stop him and motioned his head towards the end of the hall where it was quieter.

"I wanted to apologize for what I said on Tuesday," Logan started. "It was very rude of me to say, and I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I... I'm sorry if I was a bit overbearing," Roman shrugged back.

"It's fine," Logan said. The two just stared at each other for a few moments, not knowing what to say.

"I... I have another class," Logan started.

"...I guess I'll... see you around?"

Logan nodded and the two parted ways. Logan didn't normally leave using the back door, but he didn't want to have to walk back down the hallway behind Roman.

Of course it was awkward. Of course it wasn't okay. There was no way to take back what had been said. Even though Logan apologized, Roman still knows what Logan thinks about his major, and Logan still knows Roman thinks he's stuck-up.

Logan sighed as he walked towards his class. At least he'll have calculus to distract him.

That next Monday, Logan was sitting at one of the outside tables outside the school union. He was working on extra credit for astronomy, one of his favorite classes. The weather was a bit cooler, and he was almost cold in the shade, and the fact that there had been steady wind all day wasn't helping.

Logan heard the chair across from him scrape against the concrete. Logan looked up to see Roman sitting across from him.

"Hello," Roman said with a small smile.

"Salutations," Logan responded, a bit dumbfounded. "How- How are you?"

"Fine," Roman said. "Rehearsals for the fall musical started. It's going really well. You?"

"Fine. Classes are going well."

"Good, good."

Awkward silence fell back over them as the wind rushed past them again, causing Logan to shiver.

"Are you cold? Would you like my jack-"

"I'm fine, thank you," Logan said quickly.

Another awkward silence.

"What are you working on?" Roman asked.

"I am working on an extra credit paper for astronomy, but I can't decide if I should write about the Copernicus and heliocentric models of the galaxy, black holes, or dark energy and matter. All of the topics are so interesting, it's hard to decide."

"I... understood maybe half those words," Roman admitted.

"Oh..."

"Why don't you tell me about them?" Roman asked, voice almost hopeful. Logan stared at him for a few moments.

"...Are you sure?"

"Yeah," Roman shrugged as he sat back in his chair. "I'm done with classes for today. Maybe talking about it out loud will help you decide what to write about?"

So Logan did. He told Roman all about his astronomy galaxy models and black holes and what dark matter is (or really, what it isn't), but soon he found himself rambling about other things, from space travel to gravitational waves to how the human eyes perceive light - any topic he came across relating to the subjects he had to talk about. They were all so interesting, how could he not?

Roman's own face lit up as he walked Logan talk. The way Logan's face brightened with excitement, the way he excitedly moved his hands around - it was all... adorable.

"Nice to see you excited about something, Specs," Roman said with a grin as he rested his head in his hand.

"Wh- what?"

"I like knowing you have passions, Roman shrugged. "Let's me know you aren't such a straight-ass as I thought."

Logan felt his cheeks heat up and he prayed to God that it wasn't noticeable (it was).

"That love you have for astronomy? That's how I feel about theatre," Roman said as he shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. Logan just stared at him.

"...I'll see you around, Logan."

Then Roman stood and walked away, leaving Logan with a blush dusted across his face.

That Friday, Logan was walking back towards the student parking lot. It was the end of a long week, and Logan was frankly ready to get back to his apartment, make some tea, and relax while listening to podcasts.

"Logan?"

"Oh, hello, Roman," Logan said once he turned around to see who had spoken to him.

"So. This is the Logan you were telling me about," the man next to Roman said as he placed the hand not holding an ice coffee on his hip.

"Oh boy. Logan, this is my cousin, Remy."

"It's nice to meet you."

"Pleasure, doll."

Logan could tell it was anything but.

"Logan!" someone called out. "You left your phone in the union- oh, I'm sorry. Am I interrupting something?"

"No. And thank you, Emile," Logan said as he took his phone back from his friend. He said nothing else for a moment before he realized he should probably introduce everyone.

"This is Roman. Roman this is-"

"I'm Remy," he interrupted. "What's your name, dollface?"

"I'm Emile! Lovely to meet you. Do you how do?" Emile said with a large grin.

"Uh... what?" Roman asked quietly.

"Adorable," Remy smirked as he pushed his sunglasses down, exposing his eyes. His left was a light blue while his right was a dark, coffee brown. Emile gasped, and their eyes shifted into their own colors.

"Oh my goooooosh!" Roman squealed as he lifted his hands to his mouth and glanced between the two.

"Oh my stars! It's so nice to finally meet you," Emile stammered as his face grew red.

"Wanna go grab a coffee? Get to know each other?" Remy asked as he looked Emile up and down before sliding his shades back over his eyes.

"You already have a coffee," Logan pointed out.

"No I don't," Remy said as he poured the remnants of his cup onto the grass and shoved the empty plastic into Roman's hands. "What do you say?"

"I'd love to!" Emile said with a wide grin. Remy returned it with a cocky smile as he looped his arm around Emile's and looked down at the shorter man, Emile's blush growing darker.

"We'll see you two gents later," Remy said before turning and leading Emile down the sidewalk.

"...Well then," Logan said after a moment as he and Roman watched the two walk away.

"Oh, Logan, wasn't that incredible?" Romans sighed. "We got to bring two soulmates together!"

"Yes, I suppose it was."

"...Hey, so, uh," Roman started before the silence between them got too awkward. "I was just about to head to rehearsals, if you'd like to come watch?"

Logan's first instinct was to say no, but he hesitated. It wasn't like he had anything to do. Besides, Roman's making a clear effort to move past their first day together. Logan should, too.

"Sure."

Roman beamed.

Logan sat in the middle of the house, watching as the director stopped the actors again and again and again - giving notes and drilling them with questions about their characters and their choices. They went over and over the same scenes until even Logan knew the lines.

But Roman never seemed to get tired. While a couple actors would roll their eyes, huff in frustration, Roman never did. He took all the criticism in stride, answered all the director's questions in a heartbeat, and took the notes from the director to heart as he improved his performance in the next run.

Roman was really... dedicated.

Logan waited in his seat at the end of rehearsal as everyone filed out. When everyone had left except Roman, Logan stood up and went backstage where he found Roman playing notes on the piano.

"Oh, sorry! Honestly, I completely forgot you were out there," Roman said sheepishly as Logan walked in. "...Did you see how many times I messed up the notes in the opening song? I was practicing to make sure that didn't happen again."

"Roman I'm... I'm sorry. Truly this time."

Roman froze for a few moments before he patted the piano bench as he slid over, leaving room for Logan.

"You were correct in your previous statement about me not knowing how hard one has to work to be a talented actor. I saw how passionate you are about this show, about your performance - how dedicated you are to your craft.

And I'm sorry. My statement was ignorant, and I wish I could revoke my words. But I can't, so I can only offer my sincerest apologies and hope you can accept them."

"Thanks, Logan," Roman said with a soft smile. A genuine one, not one of the cocky ones Roman often flashes around campus. One very few get to actually see. "I'm sorry I called you impersonal, or whatever. I was just angry."

"You had every right to be."

"We're not so different, you and I," Roman said with a cheeky grin. "We hold similar fervor, we just fan different flames. I saw that spark in your eyes on Monday. You're passionate in your own way. I admire that. Plus, you're super smart and have a gorgeous face. How lucky am I to get you as a soulmate?"

"I admire your passion and dedication, as well," Logan said as he glanced away, feeling his face heat up again.

Roman smiled, and when Logan looked back at him, he couldn't help but smile back.

"So, you play piano?" Logan asked.

"Yep. And guitar. And drums. And french horn and violin."

"Wow. How did you manage to learn all those?"

"French horn I learned in my school's band and violin in the orchestra. Piano, guitar, and drums I taught myself by saving up money washing cars and buying discounted instruments online."

"Incredible," Logan whispered. Now it was Roman's turn to blush. "And you can sing and act. Now who's the lucky one?"

"Still me," Roman grinned. "But thank you," he added softly as he glanced away.

"Will you play me something?"

"Happily. Any requests?"

"One of your favorites."

Roman thought for a moment before placing his hands on the keys. He started singing in that low, beautiful voice Part of Your World.

"You're magnificent," Logan said as Roman took his hands off the keys. Roman's blush returned.

"Thank you."

"So you like Disney?"

"I love Disney," Roman grinned. "Do you?"

"I have never seen a Disney movie. I never watched much TV growing up. My parents told me it would hinder my studies," Logan said. "I've seen parts whenever Emile watches them in the apartment, and I'm familiar with a few songs I've heard over the years, but I can not say if I like Disney or not."

"Never seen Disney?" Roman gasped. "Come over to mine and Remy's apartment tomorrow. I'll kick him out for the day, and we can binge Disney movies. I'll show you all the classics."

"I think I could enjoy that," Logan said as he made the mental note to finish his assignment tonight so he had free time tomorrow.

"It's a date?" Roman asked with a hopeful smile.

"It's a date. I'll let you continue practicing, now. I have schoolwork I need to do, anyways," Logan said as he stood up.

"I'll see you later, Specs."

"Goodbye, Roman."

"...Wait, Logan?" Roman asked once Logan was at the door.

"Yes?"

"Do... do the others know about me yet?" Roman asked so softly Logan almost didn't hear him.

"I'll tell them about you tonight. I promise," Logan said. "I'll text you what they say about meeting you."

"Thanks, Logan."

Logan nodded and turned to leave, the sound of the piano and Roman's beautiful voice fading as he walked away.

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pparkerpoetry · 3 years

Text

Face Reality (Part 10)

Title: Healing as The Pain Fades (gunpowder and fire don’t mix well)

Summary: While Purpled and Ranboo recover, Sam is reminded of his past. It takes Puffy to get him to open up, but he does. His past is an ugly one, but his family doesn't love him any less.

- Chapter One - Chapter Eleven

Masterlist

_______________

Purpled was fast asleep, mind clear and dreamless, for once. Ranboo’s was the one that was running, but from what, he wasn’t sure. Maybe nothing. Perhaps he was just paranoid. He was thinking about the end, and the way that they left the portal shining and vulnerably open on their way home.

All three of them were home now, safe, warm, and healing, but Ranboo couldn’t shake the deep pit of concern that had settled itself in his stomach. The portal had been closed for a reason- to protect the End from the people that roamed the over world. Ranboo knew that if the wrong one found its way into the portal, it would be over. Ransacked. Looted.

Even after all that it had done to him, the End was still connected to him. He’d never sever that tie, he’d never be able to cut off that past. He was fine with it, though. Besides the obvious bad parts, the End really was beautiful. When he wasn’t being abandoned, he liked it there.

Maybe it was just his enderman instincts feeling comfortable there.

Ranboo pushed the thought away for a few minutes as Purpled stirred on the bed. They had both crawled into it after Sam deemed them bandaged up enough (although, their wounds were really just minimal. It was Sam’s they were worried about. He assured them that he’d get it looked at, but some small part of their mind doubted the truth of his words.), and fallen asleep. Or at least, one of them had.

Purpled blearily opened his eyes, and saw Ranboo looking right back at him. “What d’you want?” He groaned, burying his head into the pillow. “It’s too early.”

“Just making sure you’re doing alright.”

A small hum formed in Purpled’s throat. “Oh, yeah. Almost forgot about that.”

Ranboo snorted. “I wish I could. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Purpled rolled over to cling to Ranboo’s arm as the enderman hybrid was sitting up. “Why’re you so concerned?” He laughed almost deliriously at a joke that he hadn’t made public yet.

“What?” Ranboo asked, amused at the scene unfolding before him.

“Ranboo? My brother? More like a bother!” He laughed for a little before quieting and snuggling closer. “I’m sorry. That was mean.” He whined in a sad voice.

Despite that, Ranboo felt a grin creep onto his face. He ruffled Purpled’s hair and let the grin widen as Purpled leaned into the touch. “Nah, that’s alright. I know you didn’t mean it like that.”

They let silence linger, heat radiating off of both of them.

“Hey, Ranboo?”

The enderman made a little noise, waiting for Purpled to continue.

“I’m not going to have to fight anymore, right? I can rest?”

Ranboo knew in that moment that healing was going to be even more intricate and difficult for Purpled than he had thought. Purpled had been left alone for so long, he learned to give up on others and rely on himself. Of course he wouldn’t immediately trust again. It was a process.

Realizing he hadn’t responded, he spoke. “No, Purp. You’re safe here. You can rest.”

Purpled was already asleep, and Ranboo wasn’t far to follow. They were both still sleeping when Sam came to check on them, side healing but not quite properly taken care of. He pulled up the blanket to cover them, and smiled softly as he left. It was a good thing he had arrived when he did, because he didn’t want to think about what would’ve happened if he’d gotten there a little later.

Sam knew the scene that he’d seen in the stronghold a little more than he’d care to admit.

__________________

When Ranboo woke up, he was alone in his room. Purpled’s side was cold, so he must’ve gone a while ago, but he had no desire to get up. He needed to, at some point, but he didn’t really want to. Who does, honestly, when they’re in bed? The blankets were warm, the pillows were soft, and Ranboo’s mind was still muddled with the weight of sleep, so really, he had no reason to get up. What did the waking world have to offer him that his dreams didn’t?

The sound of laughter echoed into the bedroom, and Ranboo managed to lift his head up a little. He swung his legs over until his feet hit the floor, then made his way over to where the noise was coming from.

Only a few of the family was in the living room (Most were missing, like Fundy and Eret who were restoring the castle and Tubbo who was in Logstedshire), laughing at a joke someone said. Ranboo wasn’t sure who said the joke. Probably Tommy, if the way his wings were proudly puffed up were any indication.

“Ranboo!” Purpled called from next to Tommy on the couch. “You’re up!”

All eyes turned to Ranboo, and he chuckled uneasily. “I sure am. What’ve you guys been up to?”

Sam spoke up from a recliner that was in the corner. His voice was quiet, almost concerningly so. “No much. Just resting.”

“Are you alright?” Ranboo asked, tilting his head.

Sam just shrugged sluggishly. “Yeah. I think.”

It got quiet. “I’m gonna call Puffy.” Tommy mumbled, leaving the room. If the only responsible adult wasn’t being responsible, then they needed another one to make sure they were all okay. Who better to reach than Puffy?

“What? No, don’t call Puffy.” Sam sighed. “I’m fine.” He was met with blank stares. “Fine,” he agreed reluctantly. “Call Puffy, if you want. It’s a waste, though, I promise I am okay.”

“Yeah, yeah. Keep talking, big man.” Tommy yelled from out of the room. His voice softened when it was clear that Puffy had picked up his call. “Hey,”

Ranboo turned to Sam. “I don’t believe for one minute that you’re fine. What’s wrong?”

“I dunno.” Sam fidgeted, trying to get comfortable. “That’s a lie. I do know. I just don’t like looking at it.”

“Looking at what? Sam, if you say your wound, I swear-”

“Yeah. I’m sorry,” Sam giggled. Ranboo didn’t like how Sam sounded when he giggled- it was concerning and almost scary, because Sam had always comforted them. What did they need to do when Sam was the one needing help? “Ranboo?”

“Hmm?”

“Is Purpled okay? Are you?”

Ranboo scrunched up his eyebrows and looked at Purpled, who was sitting on the couch, staring back. “Of course we are. You brought us back. Remember?”

Sam’s eyes started to water. “I remember. I just didn’t want it to be like last time. Needed to make sure you made it out alive.”

“Sam,” Ranboo began cautiously. “What do you mean by last time? None of us have died.”

When Puffy burst into the room, Tommy was trailing behind her. Sam never got to answer. “I came as fast as I could,” She fretted, looking over Sam and clicking her tongue in sympathy when she saw his wound. “Alright, big guy, let’s get you into the medical room.”

The three boys listened to Puffy berating their father on his lack of care for himself for a little bit, before leaping up when they heard the door close. Sure, maybe eavesdropping was a little morally wrong in this instance, but they wanted to know why Sam wasn’t tending to his wound. Would he be okay?

Puffy’s voice was muffled, because it was soft and laced with concern. “Why didn’t you call me sooner? Those boys need you, and they can’t have you if you die.”

Sam’s was loose and tired, “I didn’t want to think about the wound. It made me think about that… thing, standing above Purpled and Ranboo, like back then.”

“Back… when? Sam?”

They didn’t hear Sam’s answer, because he never did. They could, however, hear Puffy panicking. Tommy frowned. “C’mon, guys. Let’s go watch a movie.” He wrapped his wings around the other two, and turned up the volume to try and pretend that they couldn’t hear Puffy yelling at Sam to not fall asleep.

It was a while before Puffy came out of the room, and when she did, Sam didn’t follow. She made sure that they couldn’t see into the room, so they just waited for her to come over.

“Hi, boys.” She sighed, “I’m sorry you had to hear that. We’ll probably have to talk once he’s awake, but he’ll be fine for now.”

They made room for her on the couch, and they all sat in silence. At some point, after Puffy made them all dinner, they fell asleep, but Puffy woke up alone. The boys had all moved to sleep by the door to the medical room, in a large cuddly pile. She had to smile, but it faded when she remembered how Sam was.

It was rough, she had to admit, but he’d make it. If the nonsense he’d let out in a fit of distress about his past was any indication, he’d gone through much worse. They’d have to talk about that.

The room was cheerful, not the plain white that the Community House room had on its walls. Here, there were soft lights, not harsh, and it was welcoming. On the far wall there were a few beds, only one long enough to fit Sam. Clearly, he’d planned to end up there at some point. Given the server, Puffy couldn’t say she blamed him.

Sam was sitting up, which she wasn’t pleased about. She didn’t want to redo the stitches, but his weary grin made her decide not to be so fussy with him.

“Hi, Puffy. I’m guessing my boys called you?”

So he didn’t remember. That was a little concerning. “Yup. You’ve got some good ones, there. Do you know how you got here? Any recollection of anything from when you got home to now?”

“I… yeah, pretty much everything, except from a little after I sat down in the recliner. I can’t remember what, but I know I definitely spilled something to you.”

Puffy gave Sam a tense smile. “Yeah. It was a bit of your, your childhood. Do you want to talk about it?”

She could see the confliction in his eyes before he sighed and looked down. “I probably should. Talk, I mean. To both you and the boys- you deserve to know. The only person who really knows turned out to be a pretty awful person.” He chuckled harshly, sniffling a bit.

“Dream, you mean?” Puffy asked slowly, wincing at the mention of her… of the child that should’ve grown up so different. What had happened to the happy little boy that had been so innocent? “He knows?”

Sam nodded. “He was the one that brought me here.”

Abruptly, to change the subject, Puffy spoke up. “The boys slept outside the door last night because they weren’t sure if they were allowed in. They’re worried, Sam.”

“Can I go see them? I should apologize.”

“You can go see them, but you don’t have anything to apologize for, Sam. You were just trying to avoid the past. We can all understand that.”

It was comical, they all had to admit, watching Puffy try to help someone two feet taller than her walk, so Ranboo stepped in. He was the tallest, besides Sam, anyway.

They all sat in the living room, and they chatted aimlessly until the others came home. They’d been messaged, saying that Sam needed to talk.

“It started when I was younger, I guess. I forget how old, exactly, at this point. Young, innocent. Impressionable. I lived with my mother, because my dad was never there. She would never tell me why, but I know, now. Hunters got him. Hunters that are hired to go after hybrids, to make sure that they never felt safe. My mother must’ve fled, at some point. I’m not sure if I was born yet or not when they got seperated, but we found a nice server and lived there for a bit. Recovered. Spent time together because she lived in fear that it would get cut short.”

Sam looked out the window and smiled ruefully. “We had a nice life, the two of us. Until the hunters found her, and then me.”

________________

The sun was beating down on the plains, hot and fierce. Of course, little Sam had always liked the heat. It was comfortable. His mother wasn’t all that fond of it, but she tolerated the heat for him. She really did love Sam, she loved him with all of her heart, and would do anything, give anything to keep him safe.

And so, the day started off. Sam woke up and had breakfast, and since it was a weekend from the homeschooling that his mother insisted on doing despite how much he begged to go to a real school, he had plans laid out. They were elaborate, they were detailed, and they would take up the whole day, right up until he ran inside to have dinner with his mother. It really was a shame they never got carried out.

“Good morning, you little munchkin. Sleep well?” His mother had asked, smiling fondly at him as she mixed up some eggs.

Sam grinned as he climbed onto one of the seats by the table. “Yup! I had a cool dream, too. Wanna hear?”

He rambled about his dreams, which were elaborate in themselves, because he had such a vivid imagination. He wouldn’t know it, but those were the last dreams in a long time that wouldn’t be plagued with fire and death. His mother listened as she continued cooking, fiddling with the old, rickety stove every now and then to coax it to work.

Eventually, she sat down and handed him a bowl of eggs. “Make sure you eat all of those before you go and run off, okay?” She said, propping her chin up on one of her hands and smiling at her son.

“I will!” Sam promised, not knowing that the bowl of eggs would be overturned, chipped and forgotten, before he even got halfway through.

It was quiet for a moment, but his mother got up to get a glass of water at some point. She was at the sink, filling the cup up, when she looked out of the large window. “Sam,” she started, voice shaking slightly, “Go downstairs and hide, okay? We’re, uh, we’re gonna play a game of hide and go seek, okay?”

Sam scrunched his face up. “That doesn’t sound like a whole lot of fun, if you know where I’m hiding.”

“Sam,” she said, sharper this time. Tense. “Go. I need you to stay down there, okay? Even if you hear people calling for you. Stay here until I come back and knock three times, alright?” She demonstrated a small rhythm, easy for the child to remember.

“Okay.” Sam said. “But momma, you’re scaring me.”

“It’ll be okay, honey.” She promised, tears filling her eyes. Which one of them was she trying to reassure? “It’ll be fine. Just go now. I love you.”

“I love you, too!” Sam called as he went down the stairs into the cellar.

His mother could spare no time to think about Sam anymore. He was a great hider, he was too smart for his own good. He would be fine. He was a good boy, but it was a shame he didn’t get to be a child any longer than now.

She went to her room, grabbing some armor that had been hidden. Really, she was just glad that Sam hadn’t found it when he was looking for a spot for hide and go seek. Next, she went into her bedroom closet and took out her weapons. She was a little rusty, but she hoped it would be enough. She’d given up the blade for motherhood, chosen her battles and chosen life. Now, their time was up.

If she listened hard enough, she could hear Sam scratching around for the perfect place to hide, but it settled down. She opened the door, whispered a prayer that he’d found it, and stepped into the fields, where a group stood waiting for her.

Hunters.

She’d been expecting them. Not this soon, but she had been. She only hoped she’d done enough to ensure Sam’s survival. As she raised her weapon, she tried to smile. Best case scenario, she’d see her son again. Worst case, she’d see her husband.

Sam wanted a fun game. He really liked winning, and his mom had seemed a little stressed, so maybe he could win if he found a really, really good spot.

He searched for a little, but a small part of his brain told him to hurry. He wasn’t sure why, it was just a game, right? Maybe his mom was going to trick him and give him less time to hide so that she could win. She wouldn’t do that, though, right?

The hunt for the perfect spot ended when he spotted a small part of the wall that looked like it was loose. She wouldn’t expect him to go into the wall, right?

A piece of the wood came off, almost as if connected by a hinge. It swung outwards, harder to access from the outside than the inside. It was perfect. He gave it no thought, then, at least, as to why it had opened so easily, like it had been made for that very purpose.

He was expecting to be met with whatever the inside of a wall looked like, but as far as his little brain knew, walls didn’t lead to empty tunnels. Did they? Was this just an abandoned mine from when they had first moved in and his mom went mining?

The small part of his brain urged him forward. He played it off as finding an even better place to hide, but he was getting scared. It was dark down there, he’d just woken up, and he hadn’t eaten much before he was sent down here. Without his momma.

He wandered down the small corridor, which looked as if it was for a child, so surely it wasn’t used by him mom. What was the use of having a mine if no adults could go down it?

“For a child to escape,” His mouth said. Where had that come from? Escape? From what? The word ‘instincts’ appeared vividly, and as he continued down the poorly lit passage, he started to cry.

He didn’t want to play hide and go seek. He wanted his mom, but she had told him to stay down there until she came knocking, and he didn’t want to disobey her. It was a good thing he had started crying, in a way. If he had been quieter, he would’ve heard his mother’s screams and the laughter of men as they approached his home. He would’ve heard the crackle of fire, a little later, and the sound of horse’s hooves as they searched for the child they’d been told lived there too.

The child, however, had reached the surface, a long ways away from home.

Sam surfaced next to a lake. He’d never really seen a lake before, because his mother wanted to live in the plains so that she could see around them. “Momma doesn’t like being sneaked up on.” He said to himself as he climbed out of the tunnel. He vaguely remembered this lake, he thought. He wasn’t sure why, as he was almost positive that he’d never actually seen it, but the more he stood there, the more he felt like he knew it.

He was in a forest, but his mother had always told him to never go in the forest. The forest meant getting lost.

“Momma?” He asked, looking around. His tears had stopped for a moment, but they started up again. He felt like he shouldn’t shout, but he really wanted to. “Momma?” He asked, a little louder this time.

“What is wrong, child?” The voice wasn’t his mother’s. It wasn’t soft, honey-like, or comforting. It was smooth, and it sounded like a hiss. “Why do you weep?”

Sam turned to see where the voice was coming from, and he gave a little yelp when he saw the green-speckled face of a creeper staring at him from under one of the trees a little further into the woods.

“I want my momma. She told me to go hide, but now I’m lost.” He sniffled. “Do you know my momma?”

“Oh, child.” The creeper mourned, hissing softly. “You’re the hybrid who lives in the plains.”

Sam nodded, “Can you bring me home?”

The creeper shook its head. “I can’t, little one. There’s nothing left. The hunters came and burned your house down. They search for you, now. I was worried you’d been found. It’s a good thing your mother had prepared for this.”

Sam furrowed his brow. “It’s gone? But where’s momma? She promised that she’d come back.”

The creeper hummed, burning slightly. “Then that is your first lesson in survival, child. Never trust promises.”

Sam didn’t stay with the creeper long. It was killed by a lone player before morning, and he was left, alone, in a forest. Crying, most of the time, dirty, and tired. He fell asleep in a bush that he had crawled into, cold after spending most of his life in the sun of the plains.

The forest became his home. His safe place. It was easy enough to evade the hunters for a while, if he let his instincts override his mind, but he never liked doing it. He hated the explosions he caused, loud and disruptive. His skin was always sore and tender when he cowered in a crater of his own making, and he had to limp back to the shelter of the forest before the hunters brought more backup.

As the explosions grew more frequent, the barrier between creeper and human thinned. He hissed more than he spoke, he lurked more than he walked, he exploded more than he fought. He was still a child, small and vulnerable. The creepers of the forest gave him a wide berth. To be by him meant to be hunted.

He was a little feral child, at best, before someone from the server who had known his mother found him. It was a miracle that it was someone who didn’t support the server’s choices to let the hunters in, and even more of a miracle that they were leaving it.

It had taken a while to convince Sam to leave with them.

“Sam? Oh, my god, Sam? Is that you? I thought they’d gotten you, oh, Sam,”

The words fell on empty ears. He’d learned to survive, not to live. He ran as soon as he had gained passage out of the server, because to be with people was to cause death.

Sam grew on pilfering and server-hopping, often illegally. No one knew his name, just his face. As he grew older, better at hiding, the pictures grew outdated. His older features were his own disguise from the wanted posters that displayed the badly drawn photos of a small creeper hybrid, but it was better to still hide.

A few years later, Sam managed to find himself a friend. Unnamed, now, the title they went by blocked from his memory once he’d grown, either because of the pain the memories caused or because of how long ago it was. They didn’t last long anyway, despite how much the two trusted each other. Their friendship was for survival, but it meant a lot to both of them. Unnamed was a hybrid, too. A blaze hybrid. Fire and gunpowder was dangerous, but they made it work.

Sam had been injured, pushed into a corner, Unnamed standing over him as the hunters approached.

“Hey there, sonny. Been a long time since we caught your trail, huh?” One of them sneered, and Sam whimpered.

Unnamed snarled right back. “You aren’t getting him.”

“And why’s that?”

“He’s lived too long to be taken by you filth. Sam,” Unnamed said desperately, knowing how grim their situation was, “I’m lighting up. You know what to do.”

“No,” Sam responded, sobbing at either the pain or the sorrow he felt, “It’ll kill you.”

“But not you,” Unnamed retorted, “And isn’t that the point of me? To ensure your survival? Sent by your mother to protect you?”

“What?” Sam had asked, mouth dry, but it was too late. The gunpowder had risen, and he was alone, in a crater raging with flames as his blood fell onto the ground.

He made sure to travel alone after that. Trusting no one was in his very genes at that point. He was tired of life, but he needed to keep going. His momma would be mad if he went to see her this early.

___________

“Yeah.” Sam said, looking at the ground. “At some point, Dream found me. It was many years later, anyway. You don’t want the whole story.”

“Sure we do,” Ranboo protested. “If it’s important, we want to hear it. As long as you want to share, of course.”

Sam just shook his head. “No. You don’t want to hear it. What I did, how I survived… It’s not a story you should hear. Just know that I’m doing okay, now. I guess this family is as much for me as for you guys, though, huh?”

Ranboo hummed, then snuggled into Sam’s side. “I love you. You know that, right, dad?”

Sam couldn’t respond immediately, though, because Ranboo had spurred a whole chorus of ‘i love you’s from the group, and once they were done, he was laughing.

“Aw, I love you guys, too. Now, it’s late, and way past your bedtime.”

They didn’t move, though. They just let Tommy use all of the blankets to make a giant nest for them to sleep in, right in the middle of the living room. Niki had traveled over to spend the night with Puffy, and Eret stayed as well. They were a big, happy family, and though they all had pasts that they didn’t want to think about, they had a future that they looked forward to.

#ranboo #tommyinnit #dream #dreamsmp #awesamdude #captain puffy #eret #purpled #awesamdad #tubbo #angst #found family #momma awesam #fluff #hurt/comfort #ao3

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komahinasecretexchange · 4 years

Text

Title: maybe not star-crossed (but daybreak)

Author: @fieldofsunflowers8

For: @emmakoneko

Pairings: Hinata Hajime / Komaeda Nagito

Additional Characters: Kamukura Izuru, Nanami Chiaki

Rating: M

Warnings: No specific warning applies beside the ones that could be applied in Danganronpa in general

Prompt: Hajime realising he loves Nagito.

Author’s notes: hi!!! this is my exchange piece for the komahina secret exchange!!! this was super super fun to write, and i really hope my giftee likes it! special thanks to my friend for looking over this and making sure it’s coherent :D have a good day, loves!

Hinata Hajime is not a romantic, but romance fills his thoughts anyway.

It’s an identifier that isn’t exactly of importance, of course. Romance on Jabberwock Island, specifically in the aftermath of the Neo World Program, is something privately kept by each individual pairing. Occasionally, it’ll be the subject of harmless speculation on the slow days, but overall, it is just… a part of life.

A part of life that most of them never got to fully experience.

A part of life that Hinata doesn’t necessarily need to have a piece of.

A part of life that he wants, all the same.

He isn’t certain if it’s the influence of Kamukura on him that makes him hesitate in the face of it. The other is a lull in the back of his head most of the time, diminishing everything to uninteresting, and yet seamlessly taking control when Hinata gives the slightest hint of needing help, slipping into the role of the Ultimate Talent easily. It’s a difficult dynamic, and it would be a lie to consider it a linear sort of thing– lines blur when you are made to become another person, and further, residing with that person in the headspace.

Hinata wonders if, before it all happened, back at Hope’s Peak Academy in the suffocating reserve course dorms, with little to hope for… he maybe pined after romance in a desperate way, if he wanted something to break the suffocating silence, if it would all really be any different to him now.

It’s not something he needs right now, which is what he tries to convince himself matters the most. He has enough overwhelming quiet, and even more overwhelming noise. He has tasks to commit to– even though all of the Remnants have awakened, there are Future Foundation members to call, emails to send, resources to manage, buildings to reconstruct, surgeries to conduct… it keeps him busy, to say the least.

(He hardly allows himself more than the clinical, repetitive process of healing. Not his own healing– that is far from the forefront of his mind. Rather, constructing robot arms and extracting rotting body parts and starting up chemotherapy. For the others. Not him,

never him.)

Prioritizing romance is selfish, in all cases. Putting it before himself and everyone on the island, losing himself in the want of something he isn’t even sure he could recognize, if he saw it in front of him, if he had a flickering chance of love… it’s selfish. Excess. A lapse.

However, there is still a kind of yearning he keeps in the back of his mind, in the endlessly swallowing part of his throat, in the throes of his heart. A sort of fixation, solely focused on a single individual, who keeps him awake through restless nights and sends him directly to the infirmary for more work, who leads him to discover new places on the island that the person tends to frequent, who leaves him with an unfamiliar warmth that his body rejects like a disease because love is not-

One that defies all his wants and needs, all his thoughts on relationships and the others, all his thoughts on the person whom he thought he hated more than anything.

One fixated on Komaeda Nagito.

And this is where his doubt is born.

–

The first time he hears the name Komaeda Nagito is in a time before the seeds of despair were planted by his hands, before The Project became more than just a whisper of Hope’s Peak conspiracy and research. He hears it from Nanami Chiaki, before she became just a program, before an entire class gave into despair at the sight of her death.

He hears it from her at the fountain. Their fountain, he has taken to calling it, because while they aren’t exactly the only people to come here, they are most certainly the two students who frequent it the most. Before, it was a place to admire Hope’s Peak from a distance (one he maintained out of respect, or maybe self-hatred, or maybe an amalgamation of both), but after meeting Nanami, the cynical tones of the setting were replaced with a sort of safe haven.

It’s now comforting, for him, to hear the sound of her game starting up against the sound of rushing water, leaves and blossoms fluttering around them as the sun lights up the campus around them.

In all honesty, it’s easy to get lost in the surroundings, in his own thoughts, especially when he has the space to. Nanami rarely presses any matter, unless it is something she’s particularly passionate about, so Hinata zoning out isn’t exactly an issue for her. It’s not like she doesn’t do the same. Which leaves them with a pretty nice relationship, because either of them are free to completely lose themselves in their thoughts without having to make small talk.

However, he does jar himself back to reality to pay attention to the game she’s playing– it’s a survival game, which is sort of exciting, because that’s the kind of video game he thinks he’d be best at– and listens to the soft breath she always takes before she starts to speak.

“Do you know a lot of Ultimates, Hinata-kun?” is what she asks, her voice as dreamy as usual.

It’s sort of a harsh question unintentionally, since it sort of nags at the parts of him that wishes he could be an Ultimate, would do anything to be an Ultimate, but he shoves that down and keeps his voice casual. (It’s not a big deal, anyway. Nanami affirms him of his worth a lot, and really, he should just… accept that things are the way that they are. But it’s really, really not that easy. Not when everything seems to loom above him, dangling promises of talent and hope).

“Uh, not really?” he answers tentatively. “I mean, I know Koizumi, and I sort of know Kuzuryuu because I’m friends with his sister.” Friends is probably not the right word for it, but being her friend is pretty much impossible. “And I know you, of course. But, I dunno about the others.”

“Mm,” she hums. She focuses back on her game for a while, and Hinata focuses right alongside her, but she ends up speaking again only a few moments later. “I was just thinking… a lot of my classmates would really like you.”

“Oh?” He leans forward, just a bit. “I don’t really know much about them, but maybe?”

It’s not really relevant, in any case, or possible, because I’m a reserve. So, why do I want to entertain this impossibility?

“Well, I can tell you about some of them.” There’s some passion in her voice, underneath the languid sort of pace her words take.

He shrugs. “Sure.”

She opens her inventory as sort of a pause screen, organizing all of the items while talking. “There’s Mioda-san. She’s… sorta loud, but she’s the Ultimate Musician, so that makes sense, I think. She’s really optimistic, she likes bright colors… reminds me of a dancing game… you’d get along with her, probably.” The idea that Hinata could be friends with someone like Mioda Ibuki is unsettling in a hopeless way, but he’s interested in the descriptions regardless. “She gets along well with Pekoyama-san, who’s the Ultimate Swordswoman. She’s really pretty and quiet; she’s defensive over Kuzuryuu-kun, too. Like a Skyrim housecarl, kinda. I remember Komaeda-kun saying something, once, and she was immediately at Kuzuryuu-kun’s defense. I don’t think Komaeda-kun meant it badly, though.”

Hinata tilts his head. “Who’s Komaeda?”

Nanami bites her lip, stacking some potions before saying, “He’s the Ultimate Lucky Student. He’s… sort of an outcast, I think, but he cares about the class a lot. I wish he would talk to us more.” She puffs out her cheeks in a cute way. “You might like him… but you also might hate him. Maybe.”

“Why would I hate him?” From what Hinata’s hearing, maybe dislike would make sense, but hate sort of implies he would have done something… really off.

“Mm… Komaeda-kun has strong views on talent and hope. It might annoy you, but…” she sighs. “I dunno.”

That’s a vague description, but it gives Hinata enough information to sort of… make inferences. Of course, Hinata sort of expected some Ultimates to view talent as superiority, and he knew that some of the adults believed it, but to hear it being an actual thing from someone his age… sort of sucks. At least the rest of the class seems to not agree with it.

But… is Hinata really sure of that?

In any case, he tunes back into the way Nanami continues talking about her classmates, about a sheepish mechanic and a princess she seems to have a slight crush on. He laughs along with her, listens with intrigue and fascination at some of the things her class has done and somehow not gotten expelled for, and feels the sense of peace grow overtime (alongside his quiet bitterness).

All the while, though, part of his mind thinks about Komaeda with a… weird sort of interest.

(And for some reason, Hinata wants to both avoid him as much as possible– which might be a bit harsh, admittedly– and also… maybe meet him.)

–

Hinata doesn’t sleep well.

His sleep patterns vary. Sometimes, he falls asleep in a random place– he’s been found on the floor of the dining hall and at the beach, once, both instances embarrassing– and stays asleep for the better part of a day, barely brushing below twenty hours as he restores his energy. Then, he pushes himself, neglecting rest for three days straight until he downright collapses again.

He tends to get nightmares, too. When he’s sleeping deeply and for a long time, it’s not enough to jar him. When he first woke up from the Neo World Program, though, they were relentless, leaving him paranoid and guilty constantly for all he has done to his friends– his family, now.

His family that he needs to stay awake to care for. His family he has to keep intact– physically and mentally.

(He remembers that, for a week, all he saw in his dreams was a burning warehouse.)

He doesn’t sleep well, working on restocking and labelling all the medications they have in the infirmary, and he finds that none of the others sleep well, either. Some sleep too much, some function on caffeine and nothing else. But there’s one other person on the island that varies with Hinata, not exactly the same but similarly.

Komaeda.

Hinata’s been monitoring Komaeda’s progress closely, almost closer than the way he fusses over the others. Komaeda’s health is precarious, even with the rotting flesh of Enoshima’s arm fully removed from his body, and one of the facets of his lifestyle that directly impacts his not-ideal progress is his shitty sleep schedule.

A simple example: he falls asleep at 4:00 PM, wakes up at around 7:29 PM. He goes to the dining hall, all of the other inhabitants having finished dinner and retired to their rooms for the later parts of the afternoon, and eats a worryingly small portion of dinner. He goes to his room, stays up for hours, and falls again the following day at 10:00 PM, successfully bypassing lunch and repeating the process.

It’s horrible in every possible way– it doesn’t do wonders for his prognoses and mental health, and Hinata doesn’t like the dark circles under his eyes that grow more familiar with each progressing day.

(It doesn’t suit his face. Because, well, Hinata can acknowledge that Komaeda is very, very pretty. But the shadows are… worrying. He still looks beautiful, but he looks more fragile than he’s ever been, even in the green pods, and Hinata wonders why he’s worried in a way beyond medical observation.)

However, there is one benefit to it, a meek silver lining that could hardly be considered one at all: Komaeda and Hinata end up accidentally interacting quite a lot. Komaeda follows lights– buildings with fluorescents open, signalling that Hinata is currently occupying them– and Hinata follows the soft sounds of Komaeda hanging out at the beach, throwing rocks into the ocean or tripping on some ridges and yelping.

The latter ends up happening when he exits the infirmary and sees in the distance a white-haired man face first on the beach shore, and he sighs in a way that isn’t fully exasperated as he walks over to help him out (maybe fond, maybe fond).

Komaeda tilts his face, his cheek still buried in sand, and looks up at Hinata. He decisively accepts his help, straightening himself out and brushing the sand off his pants with a smile. His voice is cheerful– far too cheerful for 5:00 AM– as he says, “Good morning, Hinata-kun! I’m so sorry you had to see me in such a disgraceful way!”

Hinata rolls his eyes. “You weren’t disgraceful. You just tripped. Also, why are you even out here?”

Komaeda’s lips curl slyly. “Do you even have to ask, Hinata-kun?”

“Ah.” Fair enough. “Well, you should, uh, try to get some sleep.”

“Will Hinata-kun get some sleep?”

It’s equally frustrating to talk to Komaeda and get him to do anything… and interesting. There’s also a bit of heat that wants to pour into his cheeks, something he fights with a poker face, at the idea that Komaeda cares about his sleep schedule. Technically, a lot of people on the island do, but it all comes back to the inexplicable feelings he has around the other. In any case, Komaeda’s due for an answer. “I was actually heading back to my cabin to do that.” It’s sort of a lie. Sort of.

(He was probably going to lay awake, staring at the ceiling again. Maybe he’ll think about the other, maybe he’ll think about everything else.)

“Can I come with you?” Komaeda asks.

Hinata squints. “… Why? How would that help either of us sleep?”

“It could be relaxing to be near another person,” Komaeda defends, his logic slightly flawed. “But I understand that being around me is absolutely dreadful, and I shouldn’t impose even the disturbing thought upon another person. I apologize for that, Hinata-kun! I’ll get out of your sight, now!”

“Wait,” Hinata finds himself saying before Komaeda can actually leave. The other stops and looks at him, a curious but not demanding expression in his murky grey eyes. It’s sort of cute. Hinata isn’t sure why, why he looks at the other in that way.

It’s with a defeated sigh that he says, “You can come with me,”

and Komaeda’s eyes light up in a way that’s really, really endearing.

–

The first time he meets Komaeda is a month after his conversation with Nanami.

Stress has settled onto his shoulders, making a permanent residence there, as exams approach at increasingly rapid paces and life-changing emails chase him forward, forward, forward. He finds little enjoyment in his spaces between classes, isolating himself up in his room and hardly having time to reply to any of his friends (not that there’s an overwhelming number of people on that list). Occasionally he takes a break, but these times just remind him that he has so much to do, so much to consider, his entire life might change with a few signatures and-

-he needs a breather.

He ends up leaving half-finished history homework on his tiny desk, nearly tripping over his laundry bin in exhaustion as he makes his way out of the dorms. He figures a small walk might do him some good, since he’s hardly seen the sun as of recent and it might be less intimidating to think through things when he has fresh air to breathe and the soft ambience of nature surrounding him.

He hums to himself for the first part of his walk, careful to stay out of the way of others, but he eventually falls into silence as the number of people around him dwindles. He’s tired– he’s so, so fucking tired– and he should probably be adjusted to fatigue and restless nights, since he’s not exactly new to overworking himself, but he hasn’t. Not fully. And God, he’d probably kill for a nap, for someone to hear him scream everything he thinks, to go to a completely different school for a few days and relax.

But would he even want that? Would he know what to do with so much free time? Would it even be okay, going to a place that would view him as equal, not endlessly lesser than another sector of the school? Would it even make sense to be worth something, when he has spent so long not being worth anything?

It’s in this rumination that he ends up near him and Nanami’s fountain, and he almost expects to see her there…

… but instead, he sees someone else.

The Main Course uniform is the first thing he sees, the red tie loose around the Ultimate’s neck, their jacket still buttoned properly. They must have been out there for a while, since their white hair, unruly atop their head, is slightly ruffled from the wind. Their grey-green eyes that remind Hinata of mercury he had seen in chemistry class is focused on the pavement, but looks up when Hinata’s footsteps grow closer. On their face, there’s a pleasant smile, one that Hinata finds strikingly pretty…

… one that disappears when they make eye contact with Hinata.

He can’t say he expected anything other than this.

“I thought reserve course classes were still in session,” they muse, which is an interesting conversation starter in any case. Paired with the way they were almost glaring at Hinata, it left him with… an unsettling feeling.

“They, uh, aren’t,” he replies eloquently. “They ended a bit ago.”

“Ah.” They smile, slightly, but it looks… more cold than friendly. “Can I get a name? Or should I just refer to you as ‘reserve-kun’?”

Hinata quickly decides he doesn’t like this person. “Uh, Hinata Hajime.”

They nod. “Komaeda Nagito.”

That name is… kind of familiar.

Oh. Oh. That’s the name of Nanami’s classmate. The Ultimate Lucky Student, who has strong views on talent and hope, if he remembers Nanami’s words correctly. Someone that Hinata would either like or hate– and it is strongly veering towards the later– someone who is a bit of an outcast. Someone who Hinata isn’t sure if he should have a lot of pity for, or none at all.

He’s heard more stories since, ones where Komaeda is a background character. He’s gotten the vague idea that aside from his unsettling opinions, he also tends to be an overall concerning individual, with a shocking inferiority complex, calling himself trash near constantly. It seemed to worry Nanami, which in turn worried Hinata.

But from the way this guy is talking, it doesn’t really seem like this guy feels inferior at all. At least, not compared to Hinata. Which is…

… not surprising.

Hinata isn’t really sure how to progress the conversation, especially one that started this oddly, so he figures he should make do with this new information, asking, “Oh, you know Nanami, right?”

“Nanami-san is my classmate, yes.” He tilts his head to the side and sits up a bit straighter. “You must be the reserve she’s friends with, then. In retrospect, I remember she’s mentioned your name once or twice. I thought she was kidding.”

Yeah. Hinata definitely doesn’t like this guy. “Well. She wasn’t.”

“So it seems.”

This conversation is going nowhere. “Well, I’m gonna go. And, uh. Finish my walk. So-”

Before Hinata can leave, Komaeda speaks up. “Don’t you feel awe, Hinata-kun, walking around Hope’s Peak, looking at a school filled with such hope and talent?” He punctuates those words, wrapping his arms around himself and looking up at Hinata. “Doesn’t it put you in your place? Knowing that you’re a stepping stone for hope, just here to further the Ultimates’ abilities? Isn’t it beautiful, so beautiful that you know you’re unworthy of it? Do you have another purpose aside from this, or do you put your value in mindlessly pacing the perimeter of Hope’s Peak Ac-”

“What the hell are you even talking about?” Hinata interrupts. This guy looks really worked up over the random bullshit he’s saying. He’s managed to get under Hinata’s skin really fast– which, yeah, Hinata has kind of a temper, but Jesus Christ.

This must be the whole concerning thing.

Komaeda just smiles wider. “You’re rather disrespectful for a reserve. Shouldn’t you be worshipping me? I mean, I’m utterly worthless in every possible way and deserve to be destroyed like the filth I am– but at least I’m an Ultimate.”

Hinata gives up, walking away from the other and running an agitated hand through his hair. He can hear Komaeda laughing raspily, still at the fountain, and it just forces his steps to go quicker.

(The most aggravating part of all of that is that it hurt. It shouldn’t– the opinion of a slightly-unhinged, annoying, pretty Ultimate shouldn’t hurt him. But it did.

Because there was some truth in that mess of shit he was saying. Hinata is inferior. Hinata would always be inferior to the Ultimates he looks up to– not as much as Komaeda said, but still. The whole being a stepping stone thing, he didn’t get, but… he is unworthy of this place. That much is true. That much hurts.)

He decides, without much hesitation, not to mention the encounter to anyone.

–

“Uh, make yourself at home, I guess,” Hinata says when Komaeda steps into his cottage, his eyes wide as he looks around the scene. Which is fair– Hinata hasn’t exactly had time to clean the place, and he’s sort of a restless sleeper, so it’s a shitshow of a mess, as of current. Komaeda’s room, from what Hinata’s seen, is a lot neater than this, so hopefully he isn’t all that judging.

(Not that Hinata really cares about Komaeda’s thoughts on his cabin.)

“Thank you, Hinata-kun,” Komaeda replies politely, sitting on the edge of the bed. Hinata sits beside him, and they both ignore the bed sheets that are tangled at their feet. “Once again, I apologize for intruding.”

“I invited you,” Hinata points out.

Komaeda frowns a bit. “Well, yes, but-”

“I wouldn’t have invited you if I didn’t want you here. I don’t exactly do things out of pity or kindness when I’ve been awake for over a day,” he states bluntly.

The other stares at him with a weird expression in his eye, something like understanding. “Ah.”

“Yeah.” Hinata kicks the sheets. “Speaking of.”

“Are you going to sleep, Hinata-kun?” Komaeda sort of teases, but there’s a level of seriousness in it. Hinata sort of hates the way the other makes him feel like he’s fucking up by neglecting himself (which is sort of an oxymoron in thought, but). It’s something Komaeda has always done– made Hinata feel like a fuck up, that is– but it’s sort of different, now, when it’s more of a constructive criticism than a blatant attack.

He’s not sure how he feels about the change.

“I was going to talk about you sleeping, actually,” he retorts, clearing his throat.

Komaeda smiles mischievously. “Did you invite me here just to watch me sleep? How flattering, Hinata-kun, but I assure you I would not be able to do harm to others or myself whilst asleep.”

“That’s,” he takes a deep breath, “not what I meant.”

“Ah, okay. Sorry for assuming!”

“It’s fine?” It sounds too much like a question to his ears, but. Whatever. “I just meant, like. I’m sort of concerned about your health.”

“This doesn’t seem like the mood to discuss this,” Komaeda observes.

Hinata blinks. “Was there a specific mood set by any of this?”

Komaeda looks unimpressed. “Hinata-kun, we’re in your room at 5:00 AM, spending time together. I don’t think this is ideal for a medical visit– especially considering how exhausted you are. I thought you were more trying to be a person than a doctor, right now.”

… There’s some truth in that. There’s some pain in that. Hinata doesn’t try to be inhuman in any way, but he knows, deep down, that it’s a difficult task to accomplish. Months of conditioning combined with the instinctual drive for survival resulted in Kamukura’s eternal boredom and apathy to manifest as a defense mechanism, one that Hinata employs in situations that aren’t necessarily defense-requiring. Like administering medicine, or investigating his own psyche, or trying to breach any topic with Komaeda.

He hates it, but it’s part of him, neither nature nor nurture. Just… a trait, forced upon him, one he has to adapt to.

“Hinata-kun?” Komaeda’s smile is thin. “I apologize for overstepping!”

“It’s fine.” He sort of has a headache. Maybe he should sleep. “You’re right. Sorry.”

“Ah, Hinata-kun doesn’t have to apologize! He can do whatever he likes! I still appreciate him regardless!” he reassures enthusiastically, in an almost adoring way.

… And. The thing is.

Hinata has been viscerally aware of Komaeda’s attraction to him ever since he awoke from the Neo World Program. It didn’t take overwhelming amounts of self reflection and memory analysis to realize that Komaeda has had feelings for him, ever since the Despair Era, when neither of them were the person they are now or were before it all began. It’s present in Servant’s endless worship and Komaeda’s subtle (and sometimes, less subtle) affections.

It’s something that Hinata thought, initially, he could just… accept. The fact that the other likes him is simply a fact of life, like the fact that this same individual is still suffering from frontotemporal dementia and lymphoma, like the fact that the other has trauma neither of them can even begin to impact, like the fact that Hinata is privy to entirely too much about the other that he’s hardly aware of.

This is why his yearning and fondness for Komaeda, despite his conflicting thoughts of romance, takes him by surprise. The idea that Komaeda’s affections could be requited is a shocking concept to both of them, one that might be earth-shattering or simply a natural progression of their current behavior. It’s a thought that he keeps in the back of his mind, primarily, believing that not much can be done until Komaeda heals.

And yet, it surfaces in the quiet moments like this, where Komaeda has that energetically adoring expression, where the moonlight accentuates his face in a pretty way that will only get more beautiful with daybreak, where Hinata is just staring at him mindlessly. It surfaces like this, and Hinata wonders, to himself, if he loves the other.

If this is how it comes to him.

“Hinata-kun?”

Or maybe it’s just a lapse.

“I’m tired,” he replies, which isn’t a proper response but it is the only thing he can find himself saying, right then.

Komaeda nods and starts to stand up, “Ah, okay! I apologize if I bored you, I know I can tend to do that. I hope you sleep well, Hinata-kun-”

Hinata catches his wrist.

“Maybe,” he inhales. “You can stay? And sleep beside me?”

Komaeda’s face shifts, emotions spreading across his face like auroras, but they’re quickly stifled by another smile, one that seems a bit more genuine. “Ah, of course! Whatever Hinata-kun wants.” He takes the eagerness Komaeda exhibits while taking off his shoes and scooting to the center of the bed as confirmation that Komaeda wants this as well.

It’s odd how Hinata has the courage to ask something like that, despite everything.

Hinata draws the curtains closed, hoping that the sun won’t wake them up, and he slips beside Komaeda in bed. The other adjusts well to sleeping in someone else’s bed, all things considered, but he looks fairly stiff all the same. Hinata knows there’s nothing he can do to change his slight discomfort– anything he could do would be a bit too courageous, and he’s already expressed a lot of bravery considering that he’s more contemplative than rash, at the moment.

So he lays down beside him, facing the other who faces away, and he finds himself tracing the contours of his body (innocuous and entirely unrelated to medical concerns), the way his hair curls against his nape, how his hands lay at his sides. It calms him to study the other, and he wonders if that is love, if all of this is love, even if he has a thousand other concerns.

It takes a pathetically short five minutes before he says, “Komaeda…?”

“Yes, Hinata-kun?” Komaeda still sounds awake. He wonders if he was planning on sleeping at all.

He breathes out a soft exhale. “Can we talk?”

–

He does not see Komaeda again until after despair overcomes the world.

But by then, both him and Komaeda are separate people. The memories prior to the creation of himself– Kamukura Izuru, that being– are vague and only documented in a diary that Hinata Hajime struggled to maintain. And Servant, while not suffering direct memory loss of everything regarding Hope’s Peak Academy, does not appear to want to verbally recall anything regarding the school to Kamukura. This could be from lack of trust. This could be his nature.

They meet in a bloodied street, bodies scattered across the asphalt in an unpleasing way. From an aesthetic standpoint, it is disgusting, but Kamukura does not necessarily dislike it. He does not dislike anything.

He only finds this despair base.

Servant’s hands are dirtied from crusted blood, which is to be expected. His hair is awry, his face in a considerably tormented frown, and his attire is dirtied aside from his chain that drags obnoxiously loud on the pavement.

Kamukura clears his throat.

His face shifts drastically when he sees Kamukura, which is the most interesting part of his appearance, as of current, and he immediately drops to his knees. It is certainly an interesting display, yet predictable, and Servant’s voice is raspy when he says, “Kamukura Izuru.”

“So you have heard of me.” That is understandable. The only reason Kamukura is at this location, after all, is because Enoshima requested prior to her death that Kamukura take ownership of Servant. She had considered it a present to him, but Kamukura finds nothing to be a gift, especially when it is at her hands.

One of her hands is severed and attached in place of where Servant’s would be. Expectable.

“You’re the Ultimate Hope,” he breathes. “I- I have been looking for you-”

“How convenient,” he cuts off his likely obnoxious rambling. He does not want to hear about his godhood from the lens of a worshipper. “As I was looking for you.”

Servant’s face flushes. “You were looking for me? Ahaha, I’m sure you must be mistaken.”

“Enoshima stated that in her death, you were to be my property. Transitive ownership.” His face twists at the sound of her name, which is not necessarily expected, but can be easily explained retroactively. “You are mindlessly idling, as of current. You plan to travel to Towa City, but have not done so yet. You have killed seventeen people directly in your time of being a Remnant of Despair, but you are growing bored.”

Despite his wide eyes and droll expression, Servant is clever enough to catch on. “You would like me to travel with you, Kamukura-kun? I warn you, I am useless in every possible way and unworthy of your presence.”

Kamukura glares at him. “I will determine that.”

“… Understood.” Servant hesitates before standing up, and there is shocking amounts of excitement in his expression. “I apologize for being overeager, I’ve never travelled with someone like this before. Someone like you before.”

“That is to be expected,” Kamukura says as he begins to walk, stepping over corpses with grace as the Remnant beside him trips and stumbles, babbling about despair and hope and talent all the way.

From there, an attachment forms. They continue to travel in this manner, relocating from place to place with little but each other’s companionship (and what they can find, in this cataclysmic scenario– assorted piles of canned vegetables and month-old water bottles). Along the way grows learning, basic answers to questions that benefit both of them only slightly, though prove to be boring, as Kamukura does not have a favorite color or movie or food. But the basis of small talk leads to a more expanded exploration of morality, of death and life and the liminality of such matters, philosophy and physics and their prediction for where the world will be.

Kamukura discovers, then, that Servant is not capable of matching him in intelligence. However, he nears close to having this ability, exhibiting his cleverness in a distinctly separate way than how Enoshima enforced her analytical prowess upon her victims. It is refreshing, to have this difference. It is refreshing, by extension, to have him.

That is how the evolution of their relationship begins.

Sexual ties between them have been present from the start. Servant is poor at concealing his overwhelming attraction to the other, and Kamukura has curiosities he was not interested in exploring with Enoshima. Thus begins tumultuous, albeit safe to an extent, exploratory intercourse, which Kamukura finds not particularly boring.

Then becomes an inherent domesticity in residing together, in sharing beds (although, Servant only allows himself to sleep beside Kamukura if he is particularly in pain, that day. Kamukura does not necessarily mind if Servant continues to sleep beside him, but it is a matter of principle that is tedious to undo, especially with no distinct want to commit effort to it). Along with sleeping together, there is having meals together, defending each other from robotic Monokumas when it becomes necessary, and even reading together.

It is all not particularly interesting. It is all not particularly boring. It exists in a grey area that Kamukura struggles to define.

He dislikes struggling.

There is a particular day, once, that he would consider lucky (were he to indulge in this thought towards Servant, the other would likely break down) due to the numerous realizations had. The primary one, and the most convoluted one by far, is the realization that he is perhaps infatuated with the other.

It comes whilst Servant is asleep, his body bare aside from the marring of bruises and hickeys, thin sheets layered in dust resting atop him. Kamukura observes him from where he sits at the edge of the bed, admiring the way the red sky highlights Servant’s body in an almost rosy way, porcelain skin glimmering with red contours that made the Ultimate Artist in Kamukura transfixed. Part of him desired to reach out and trace his body on impulse– and it would not be the first time he sought touch out of poorly placed impulse. However, he refrains.

A small part of him– a romantic, likely, in all but practice– finds that touching him may, perhaps, detract from the natural beauty he exudes. It is not like Kamukura is anything other than manmade.

This is a thought that crosses his mind often. Rather, the latter is. However, with Servant in his life as a catalyst, the frequency of such thoughts rapidly accelerates, and he finds a sense of permanence in the other. Something he is rather interested in exploring, given the time. There are many, many inquiries he would indulge in, given the time.

They are not given time.

He had prepared an injection in advance, one to make Servant unconscious for approximately 48 hours. It is enough time to execute a procedure that would remove Servant’s memories of Kamukura, a similar procedure that he will attempt to repeat on himself (he has done thorough research into lobotomies due to his experiences. Even without this research, it would not be a particularly difficult task. However, his emotions pose a hindrance). He is aware that he should inject Servant now, as, according to his predictions and intuition, he has confidence in the fact that the Future Foundation will locate them within that period of time.

He would like to evade them. He knows he is able to, that he has a capacity to outwit them, that Servant would heed every command necessary to guarantee their survival. After all, there is no certainty in the prospect that the Future Foundation would keep them alive.

Despite this, Kamukura is… curious. He is intrigued as to what the Future Foundation will do, once they capture him and Servant, and he knows that they cannot evade the Future Foundation forever. They will grow bored.

It is regrettable, he thinks as he injects Servant with the serum, stroking his hair for purely selfish purposes as he does so. It is regrettable that they did not have infinite time together. However, Servant is dying to his own illness, and Kamukura is dying, metaphorically, to the boredom that he can not fully stave away, even with his agreeable companionship. It is poetic, in the same sense, that they will be captured and perhaps be executed before they could fully breach the barrier of worship and love, something Kamukura is not certain he could attain.

In all senses, it is over, and Servant will not remember him by the time he awakes in the grasp of the Future Foundation.

(A part of Kamukura recalls their first meeting with feigned nostalgia, remnants of the emotion that must have existed before his creation, and he wonders– or, cynically, he hopes– that he may meet the other again, and finish the life they began.)

–

Komaeda rolls over and smiles, slightly sleepy. “What do you want to talk about, Hinata-kun?” After a pause, he asks, “Do you want me to leave?”

“No,” he says with a little too much force. “I’ve just had some. Things on my mind. That I want to talk about?”

It’s sort of a half-truth, because it feels wrong to say that it’s been something on his mind. Because it has been, and it has been for a while– but he hardly knows if what he’s feeling is love, if it’s worth indulging in this when he has so much to work on. If he can even be certain of his thoughts at all.

But he wants to talk to Komaeda– maybe to get perspective, and finally decide.

So, he closes his eyes and starts talking. “I was thinking about the simulation, and before. More specifically, us.”

He can hear the bitterness in Komaeda’s voice when he says, “Ah. How I betrayed and belittled you?”

“Not exactly.” But it’s part of it. “… You said in the simulation that you were in love with me, right?”

There’s a pause. One that’s long enough that Hinata almost wants to open his eyes, but he needs to isolate himself in his thoughts temporarily, dissect the words and his feelings and come to a conclusion. It’s something he’s good at (but love isn’t survival games, or class trials. If they were, he would have figured this out a long time ago, back when Nanami was still around).

When Komaeda eventually speaks, it’s brief but telling. “… Yes.”

“And. You didn’t like me much before all of that, but… as Servant, you-”

“Worshipped and admired Kamukura-kun, yes.” He sounds almost nervous. Komaeda rarely sounds like this, and it’s almost enough to stop pushing. “… Why do you ask? Don’t you already know this, Hinata-kun?”

Hinata sighs. “Yeah, technically. But I’ve been thinking about it more, and…” he opens his eyes, now. Komaeda’s face is vacant– no smile, no frown, just a straight line that wavers if he stares hard enough. His eyes are filled with emotion he can’t uncover, emotions he doesn’t want to uncover. But… he watches them carefully regardless, makes note of how they shift. “We’ve had an interesting relationship, throughout all our time knowing each other. In our one encounter back at Hope’s Peak, we didn’t get along, and things in Despair were… intimate, yet twisted.”

“That’s one way to consider it,” Komaeda says, and it isn’t quite hatred in his voice, but something close. Something Hinata knows not to take personally.

“And. I’ve been thinking about where it leaves us, now. And– I mean, it’s something in the back of my head, but not really. Filling all my thoughts? It just sort of came up while we were sitting here, before I said we should sleep, and sometimes I think about it when I’m not working around the island. So it’s sort of…” a dormant thing, has been in the back of my mind forever because I put it there, because I didn’t want to accept that I like you, because I’m too afraid and I know you are too, but there’s something about you, something about this, and I’m curious to know where it goes- “Yeah.”

Komaeda nods. “I see.”

“I think you know where I’m going with this.”

There’s a silence. Then- “I’d rather not.”

“… Rather not what?”

He already knows, but he wants to hope, wants to hope that Komaeda will allow himself this, despite everything. And yet…

… “Rather not believe what you are implying, Hinata-kun.” And the bitterness is directed at him this time, but Komaeda has always tore at him claws to hide something else, whether it be personal insecurity or infatuation or fear. Hinata thinks it might be all three, now. “You are aware of my love for you, how you could use it to your benefit, how you could disregard me and I would-” his breath catches.

“Komaeda?”

“… hardly complain,” he finishes. “I would hardly complain if you used me, because it’s you. You’re aware that you could make this so easy– and you aren’t even certain of this. I’ve been certain ever since I knew you, even when I hardly knew anything about you, even when I stayed with you to wake up on that island, I knew. But you don’t, and you could make it so easy and just give up on me, because it’s not like I would love you less or hate you more, but you’re acting on impulse. You rarely act on impulse, so why are you…”

There are tears in Komaeda’s eyes.

“… When I first met you,” Hinata starts. “I thought you were pretty. An asshole, but pretty. In despair, Kamukura was interested in you, and he was bored of everything else, even her. And he knew your worship, and that was the most boring part of you, to him, because he didn’t like being treated like a god, not by you. And… and in the simulation, I remember the betrayal I felt when I knew one of the only people I trusted turned their back on me. And- and when I saw your corpse-”

Komaeda shakes his head, but Hinata doesn’t stop. “-When I saw your corpse, I was so fucking pissed, because you’re smart and fucked up and I almost missed you that trial, despite everything. And despite everything, now when I woke you up, when I had to run into the infirmary and out of it and had to do all those fucking psychodives to get you out, I thought it was worth it.”

“Hinata-kun.”

“I thought– I knew, and I know– that you are worth it.”

And even though Komaeda’s stare is intimidating, and even though Hinata’s so uncertain of everything right now, he’s confident in that.

He’s never been more confident in anything, actually.

–

When Hinata wakes up on an unfamiliar island, with an aching head and endless questions about his surroundings, he’s greeted by a stranger, with a slight smile on their face. They had slightly tostled white hair, cloudlike and wispy, that falls just above their dim green eyes, and they have a slender yet alluring physique that Hinata almost finds pretty, in his dazed state.

After they confirm that Hinata is awake, they introduce themself. “… I’m Komaeda Nagito. Nice to meet you.”

Hinata accepts the hand he offers him and stands up, brushing sand off his pants (why are they at a beach?) and replying, “Hey, I’m Hinata Hajime.”

Komaeda leads him around the island, introducing him to all the others that had left him behind, unconscious, on the beach (he can’t really blame him. He’s still embarrassed about how he just… passed out. At least Komaeda isn’t judging him for it). He offers his own quips and commentary about the island, one Hinata finds insightful, if not slightly odd at times, and he begins to develop a trust for the other.

Sort of. Because, well, it’s not like he can really trust anyone, when they all woke up on a random fucking island with no idea of what’s going on, aside from some random shit a rabbit tells them. But, for as weird Komaeda can sometimes be and the weird situation they’re in, he establishes him as trustworthy early on. Someone to rely on, even when everything goes to hell.

(And littered in there, far enough in the back of his head that he sort of forgets about it, he is sort of infatuated with the other. In a super base way– because he’s a teenager, c’mon– but, still. Komaeda’s pretty, and he’s friendly, and he thinks there’s some significance in that.

Of course, everything changes when the first murder occurs. When the trial happens, and truths are revealed. When everything spirals downwards for the rest of their ‘island vacation’, and Hinata realizes that Komaeda should have never been trusted at all.

… But he can’t bring himself to hate him, despite everything. Even when he’s faced with his corpse.)

–

There is a long silence that fills the room, after his admission.

It’s understandable, considering that Komaeda… has never quite had anyone stay by his side as long as Hinata has. He’s probably never considered the possibility of requited love or care of anything, has never been able to reconcile with the idea that Hinata wants to stay despite the fucked-up mess of trauma and disease his brain is filled with. He probably finds himself vacant, like Hinata does, sometimes, like every quirk about him that makes him distinctive and worthy of love is completely null, and that he is cursing Hinata by being around him this long.

It’s more fucked up than Hinata can sometimes conceptualize, but. As he said, it’s worth it.

Hinata breaks the silence, knowing that he should be patient with the other, who has had his mentality partially shattered in a brief period of time, but slightly worried that the progress they’ve made would fall at a stalemate in complete silence. “… Komaeda?”

“Hinata-kun.” His voice is both empty and emotional, and it leaves an ache in Hinata’s chest. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I understand, still. I’m not…” he trails off.

“You are worth it,” Hinata insists, because he knows the way that Komaeda thinks, knows where his mind is going. “We don’t have to do anything, or be anything, if you don’t want to. I just… thought you should know, and I’ve been thinking about it a lot, so. Thought it was worth saying.”

“Worth,” Komaeda echoes quietly. His laugh is at the same volume, raspy and choked. “I… I really like you, Hinata-kun, but I can’t let you endanger yourself.”

Hinata shakes his head. “Your luck can’t affect me badly, remember? I’m lucky too.”

“It has in the past. Before you remember. When me and Kamukura-kun were together, and how bad luck and consequent good luck would follow us around. He thought it was interesting. I knew we weren’t safe. And we weren’t.” He sighs, and Hinata wants to reach out and brush his cheek with his fingertips, ensure that he isn’t just a ghost. “If I hurt you, Hinata-kun-”

“You won’t,” Hinata argues.

Komaeda raises his voice, slightly. “But if I do, then I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. Knowing that you chose to have something with me, despite all your responsibilities and all the risks I bring to you just by existing… it would kill me, Hinata-kun. I’m already dying and I’ve done it once, but… it would really, really kill me. I don’t think I would be able to lose you. I don’t…” He looks so tired.

Hinata reaches out, then, and intertwines their fingers. Komaeda doesn’t push him away, and he takes it as a good sign. “You aren’t going to lose me. And I know we can’t be certain of what’ll happen in the future, but… I think we deserve something good. So much bad shit has happened, and we’re healing and everything, but I think we also deserve to find something like… hope. In each other. Y’know? And, obviously, it’s only if you want. I’m not gonna, like, make you date me, or something.” He squeezes his hand. “But, I don’t want you to keep yourself from someone you want– something we want– out of fear. We’re not going to die, Komaeda. And even if we did… every second that led to it would be worth it.”

Komaeda’s eyes flutter shut. It hurt to see the pain in his eyes, but his scrunched eyebrows and shaky lip is almost worse. “I… I don’t know what to do.”

“What do you want to do?” Hinata asks gently.

“I…” he cuts himself off, thinking in silence as Hinata rubs circles into his palm. Eventually, his eyes open, and his expression is tentative and a bit scared, but Hinata can see some hope in it. It’s almost enough to make him smile, but he fights it off and waits for Komaeda to finish. “I… I want this. But, I don’t deserve it.”

“You want it,” Hinata reminds him softly, “and I want it. So, I think it’s okay for us to have, yeah?”

He hesitates, but eventually says, “… Maybe.”

“Maybe,” he repeats, and then he gives him a slight smile. “I can work with maybe.”

Komaeda responds with a fleeting smile, one that makes Hinata let go of his hand and tug him forward into a warm embrace. Komaeda’s face nestles into the other’s shoulder, and he can hear a muffled voice whisper, “I love you, Hinata-kun. I really do.”

A weight he thought would permanently be on his shoulders disappears, and he breathes out a long sigh of relief as he tightens his grip on Komaeda’s waist. And, with a voice that echoes himself through all of the years of knowing Komaeda, through the stress and irritation and curiosity and trust, in a journey that was just as much his as it was theirs, he says, “I love you too.”

Even after everything.

#komahina #komahina secret exchange #fanfiction

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welkynars · 4 years

Text

Morrowind was not a pleasant place. Seyrena had known that even before the prison ship had docked in the waters of Seyda Neen. Even the other Dunmer in Cyrodiil spoke of the ashy air, unpleasant patrons, and the lingering scent of tar that followed wherever one went. The province was disagreeable even at its best, and on nights like tonight she longed for rolling hills and sweet-smelling lavender fields of Cyrodiil.

Because… well, Cyrodiil was her home, was it not? It was the only place she ever remembered being. Cyrodiil was where she grew up, where she learned her trade and fell in love for the first time and where she’d made her mistakes. Mistakes that had landed her here. In Morrowind. A hot, unfamiliar, wretched land.

It should be unfamiliar, at least. Recently it had felt more and more like home. She did not want Morrowind to feel like home. She never asked for any of this. She never asked to be the savior of an ancestral land she’d never even been to. She never asked to be the incarnate of a man who’d died so long ago his existence was unfathomable. Never asked to be forced to bring the downfall of three fervently worshipped gods, one of whom had given her a welcome she did not deserve. Never asked to have to stand over the corpses of two mer who she apparently once called friends in a life she didn’t remember. Never asked to feel like she’d killed her own friends.

Seyrena sighed deeply and took another swig of the unknown drink. It tasted like guar piss but it got her intoxicated and that was all she cared about. That, and the fact that the patrons of the small tavern in Pelagiad hadn’t a clue who she was. If she had to hear the title ‘Nerevarine’ one more time she would certainly slice the fingers off of whatever poor soul it was who’d said it.

No, to the Dunmer of the Halfway Tavern she was just any old Empire-assimilated Dunmer. An outlander; a term she’d hated when she first arrived in Morrowind but longed to be called again. She was an outlander. Her own personal feelings of the Empire aside, she was of the Empire. Raised in Cyrodiil. There was nothing else she knew and nothing else she wanted to know.

A year ago that was how it had been. The alcohol in her hand let her pretend that’s how it still was.

“If you’re not careful there, elf, you’ll drink yourself to death with that,” A voice mumbled from a few feet beside her. She looked up from the corner she was sitting in. A grizzly-looking Nord man sat on the bench to the right of her, watching the bard sing and swing with harsh eyes. His clothes were splattered with dirt and grime and his hand gripped a large wooden mug. The stench of alcohol filled her nose even with his distance from her and she wondered how he was one to talk.

“I can handle my drinks just fine, Nord,” She replied coolly, also averting her eyes to the bard. A pretty young Breton woman playing the lute and singing tales of dragons. Seyrena was glad there were no songs written about her feats just yet.

The man laughed a hearty but mocking laugh and she scowled at him. She hadn’t said anything funny.

“You Dark Elves wouldn’t know drink if it slapped you in the arse,” He was looking at her now with a dangerously mocking smile.

“Well, I grew up in Cyrodiil so I’d wager I know more than you think I do,” She took another sip of her drink as if to prove a point. “And whatever this is, it's certainly better than that poor excuse for alcohol you call mead.”

He laughed again, and again she did not know what she said that was so funny.

“Imperials are even worse!” He managed to breathe out between howling laughs. He was obviously very drunk if he found a conversation about beverages so hilarious. Seyrena turned away from him and went back to festering in her own misery and regret and longing for a life that no longer existed. She’d rather that than any sort of conversation with a drunken man.

Apparently the gods were again, not on her side and Nords were unable to take obvious hints, because he continued speaking to her. Spoke to her about his homeland(“If this were Skyrim I’d teach you a thing or two about mead, lass”), about how he was grateful the Empire was reigning in the uncivilized Dunmer(“Imperials are good for something, at least”), and finally, about the pretty little Breton girl dancing along to her tunes.

“They don’t make them like that in Skyrim,” He grunted, watching the bard with a look that made Seyrena’s stomach twist. “We Nords are beasts of men, good for fighting and drinking. But it makes for unflattering women at the very least.”

Her anger was only growing at this point, fingertips clenching into her own fists. The young woman was simply trying to make coin, perform, and have fun. She didn��t need some malodorous man twice her age commenting on her appearance. If Skyrim was so much better then maybe he should return.

“Is that why you’re here instead of Skyrim? Because of the unflattering women?” Her tone was cold but the man was too drunk to notice.

“Ha! No, despite her flaws I’d return in a heartbeat, if I could. I’ve been exiled for one reason or another.”

Well, wasn’t that poetic.

The Nord stood, steadying himself on a wooden post and slamming his mug on the table. Seyrena narrowed her eyes.

“Well, I’d best be off. Better if I talk to the bard before some other skeever can get his hands on- hey! W-What’re ‘ya doin’?”

Perhaps it was the alcohol, or her desire to protect the Breton girl, or maybe it was just because she’d had the worst year of her life. But Seyrena found herself with her longsword drawn and pointed to the Nord’s throat, his eyes wide with fear and hands up in surrender. So much for the mighty warrior.

She was also, suddenly, very aware of the people in the room with her; as they’d all turned to stare at the quiet Dunmer in the corner with her sword to a man. Pelagiad was a quiet and no-nonsense settlement. They weren’t quite sure what to make of the scene. And then, her voice rang out from the crowd.

“Rena? What on Nirn-“

Mehra pushed her way to the front of the forming crowd. She looked as beautiful as ever, dressed in a quaint traveler's garb with her hickory-colored hair let loose to fall over her shoulders. She looked quite different from the Temple-apprentice Seyrena had met what felt like so long ago; older, only by a year, but her eyes held the same burden Seyrena’s did. Seyrena swallowed. Mehra didn’t deserve to be weighed down by her troubles.

Mehra pulled her ash-cover down from over her face, looking incredulously at the scene Seyrena had created. Seyrena couldn’t fully tell if the look on her face was one of disappointment or defeat.

Before her lover could even get a word out, Drelasa came marching over, huffing something about outlanders. Seyrena rolled her eyes.

“Mehra, I am fond of you but if your friend is going to cause scenes in my tavern you’ll never see the inside of it again!” Drelasa wagged her finger in Mehra’s face and Seyrena had the impulse to swing her sword and cut it off.

“I know, Publican, I-“ Mehra turned to Seyrena, her eyes pleading. “Rena, please. It’s a day long trip back to Seyda Neen.”

Seyrena scoffed and looked back to the Nord who was now backed up against the wall. “You leave that girl alone or I’ll cut off your hands and stitch your lips shut.”

The Nord nodded, and she lowered her sword. He scurried off like a mouse out of the Inn to the border of the Ascadian Isles and the Bitter Coast.

She defeatedly let Mehra take her sword from her and place it back in its sheath on her back. The Publican was still watching them, arms crossed and tapping her foot.

“It won’t happen again, Drelasa. I apologize on behalf of both of us.” Mehra sounded sincerely sorry and Seyrena felt a pang of guilt.

“You’re damn right it won’t happen again. B’vehk, it’s every other night with you two.”

Mehra took Seyrena’s hand and led her to their room. The latter Dunmer’s head was held low, not out of shame but in an effort to keep any patron from doing a double-take on her. “Hey, aren’t you that…”

When the two reached privacy, Mehra’s fist promptly collided with Seyrena’s shoulder. Much harder than she’d expected the mage would’ve been capable of.

“Ow,” She muttered, rubbing the raw skin. Mehra’s gaze was as fiery as her palms in battle, and Seyrena found herself unable to meet it.

“Why do you do these things to us? Do you want to have to walk miles in ash to find a new place to stay again?”

“He was being a s’wit,” She silently cursed herself for using the Dunmeris term. This was not her home.

“So was the Imperial Guardsman in Suran, and the Telvanni Noble in Sadrith Mora, oh! And, of course, the poor fellow who simply wanted your autograph in-“

“Alright! Alright, I get it. I ruin everything I touch. I’m sorry.”

Seyrena took a seat on the bed and pulled Mehra to stand in front of her. Apologies weren’t her strong suit. It was hard to apologize to someone else for your actions when you couldn’t forgive yourself for them. So, she intertwined their hands and looked up at her with the most apologetic eyes she could muster, her actions speaking the words that got lost in her throat.

Mehra sighed. “You don’t ruin everything.”

“I do.”

“You don’t. In fact, you make many things quite grand,” She smiled and Seyrena, who smiled back despite herself. “You saved me, for instance. You saved Morrowind. Twice.”

Seyrena’s smile dropped and she moved away from the other woman, laying down on the bed and turning the other way. She wished Morrowind just did not exist at this moment.

“I doomed it, more like,” She said. “Doomed to it to a future of political discourse and perhaps even religious wars.”

“That is inevitable for this country.”

Seyrena made a sound of exasperation and sat up again. “You don’t understand, Mehra. I know what is good for Morrowind. I don’t know how and I truly wish I didn’t, but I do. And this was not. Yes, Dagoth Ur had to die. The Blight had to end. But how can you diminish everything a country believes in, how can you kill-“ Her voice caught and tears threatened to spill from her eyes, which she absolutely would not allow. “How can you kill a goddess who has spent thousands of years keeping a country and it’s people afloat and expect everything to be the same, or better?”

“Almalexia went mad. It wasn’t your fault.”

“But she wouldn’t have!” Seyrena cried, frustrated that Mehra couldn’t understand what she was saying. “She wouldn’t have if it wasn’t for my existence! Everyone keeps telling me I am a blessing, that this prophecy Azura created is a blessing; it’s a curse, Mehra. It’s a curse of vengeance and I don’t want to be a part of it. I never did. I don’t want this,” The Moon-And-Star ring slipped off her finger and was thrown across the room. The tears were now falling freely from Seyrena’s face. “I’d rather have been executed for my crimes in Cyrodiil. It would’ve been merciful.”

Mehra was quiet, and now she was the one who couldn’t look at Seyrena. It was silent for what could’ve been hours.

“There’s so much blood on my hands and no matter how often I wash them it won’t go away. Please, just make it go away.”

Still not speaking, Mehra pulled the Nerevarine into her arms and held her as she sobbed. There were no words that could be spoken to comfort her at that moment, she knew that. But it broke her heart to watch the woman who she viewed as a hero come undone before her.

Eventually Seyrena pulled away from her, dried tears stuck to her face. Her eyes were wide and bright and Mehra wanted to latch onto her before she realized the vulnerability she’d showed and promptly went to bed.

“I want to go east,” She said, surprising Mehra.

“East? Like, back to Azura’s Coast? I suppose-“

The Nerevarine shook her head. “No. Farther. I want to leave Tamriel. I want to see something else, anything else.”

Mehra’s mouth opened and closed a few times. “But-“ She’d heard stories of other continents on Nirn, and none of them were good.

For a moment she believed her beloved had lost her mind right there and then. That the stress was too much to handle. But Seyrena’s eyes were dead serious and her composure was eerily calm.

“Will you join me?”

#for a friend #seyrena almost beats up a gross old nord #tw alcohol #ok goodnight #oc seyrena #nerevarine #morrowind #tes 3 #morrowind fanfiction #elder scrolls fanfiction #nerevar #dunmer #almsivi #the tribunal #fanfiction #the elder scrolls morrowind #dark elves

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fortheloveoffanfic · 4 years

Text

Put Me In a Move

Keanu Reeves x Reader

Summary Prologue 1 2 3 4 5

Warnings- Angst, Smut/NSFW, light bondage, sensory deprivation, slight dom/sub whipped cream

Chapter 6- Come On, You Know You Like Little Girls.

When Y/n awoke the next morning, her back was stiff and her joints ached. She was curled up on the small sofa in her trailer, the checkered fleece blanket usually thrown over the back now draped over her form and the air-conditioning humming quietly. As she sat up, a soft groan escaped her lips, which felt uncomfortably dry, in dire need of hydration and she had to squint at the light filtering through the thin curtains guarding the two windows on either sides of the trailer.

Dazed and bewildered, Y/n let the blanket slip off her shoulders, she was still dressed in her cropped jeans and striped t-shirt from the evening before, though someone had taken off her shoes. That was when Y/n remembered; her talk with Keanu, the talk that had somehow turned into a kiss and then her falling asleep on his chest.

Vaguely, Y/n also remembered that she'd asked him if he wanted things to go on like that. 'That', in this instance being completely undefined. His answer wasn't one that she could readily recall and Y/n could only assume that he'd left some time during the night, which, arguably was enough of an answer in itself.

But he'd kissed her.

Didn't that mean something?

It did to her.

Using weary fingers, Y/n combed some sleep-disheveled hair out of her face. It was so stupid of her to think that kiss could mean something. Standing abruptly, Y/n barely spent a minute to hastily swipe the fallen blanket off the floor, dumping it to the leather cushions. Blinking quickly, she tried to dismiss her unshed tears and swallowed the bitterness stuck in her throat. Sure, it hurt, but if he was going to just leave without as much as a note, then she was going to act like it never happened.

Of course, immature pettiness got you nowhere, but Y/n thought that she had enough time left of her life to learn the hard lessons. For now, she'd stick to acting like a teenager.

Exhaling deeply, Y/n absently shook her head, hoping the troubling thoughts, the hurt and twinge of regret would just roll off her back. But the last thing stayed, clinging to her even as she headed for the small bathroom, brushing her teeth and then stripping herself for a shower.

How could she have trusted him that easily?

As Y/n stepped under the spray, the water just warming up as it hit her skin, a choked sob fell from her mouth and unable to restrain the emotion for any longer, Y/n finally let the tears fall. How could she have been so naive? Did she think a handful of moments spent together and a kiss would magically make everything okay between them? That he’d ever want more from her than sex? Maybe befriending him in the first place was a mistake, maybe it was time to set things right once and for all.

Spending the rest of the morning holed up in her trailer, wallowing in her misery seemed like the favorable option, but Y/n couldn’t deny that the comforts of a queen size bed and room service were ones that she’d probably appreciate. So instead, she’d pulled on a dress she’d left over as a spare outfit a while ago, finished getting ready and called her driver to come pick her up.

Back at the hotel, she’d kept her head down and her sunglasses on, not in the mood to interact with anyone and hoping to, for just once, successfully avoid Keanu, at least until she’d mustered up the courage to put him in his place. Her dullness slowed her pace though and even as Y/n dragged herself down the hall, eventually passing the door to Keanu’s suite, she couldn’t bring herself to put a little pep in her step to ensure that they didn’t cross paths.

Upon finally reaching the unassuming oak door, Y/n sullenly rummaged through her bag for the key card, sighing softly as she eventually slipped it into the slot, turning the knob and pushing the door open. Everything looked the way she remembered leaving it early the morning before, that was, until Y/n’s feet led her to the living room.

What was he doing there?

How’d he even get in?

The little table near the screen door that opened to the balcony was decked off with a cheerful breakfast spread. The summery colors of berries sparking her attention and the waft of fresh pastries almost had Y/n drooling. The rich aroma of coffee, some of it still in a dainty french press delighted her senses and delicate china was tucked neatly in its designated spot, awaiting use. It looked as if he’d ordered almost every breakfast food he could think of; savory baked goods, fluffy pancakes, golden toast, diced fruits, seasonal berries and even a can of whipped cream. “Ke….” She breathed, unable to manage much more. At least she now knew why he’d left.

“Surprise,” he mused, approaching to slide his hands to her waist, drawing her closer.

Clearly, he remembered something that she didn’t.

“What is all this?” Y/n giggled softly, looking around, cooing at the flowers he’d chosen for the centerpiece, a handful of pink roses, some of them still in bud. “And how’d you get in?”

“Well,” Keanu affectionately pecked the top of her head, easing the bag from Y/n’s shoulder, discarding it on the armchair a few feet away, “It may or may not have taken a bribe to the cleaning lady, her name’s Ester and once you give fifty bucks she’ll give you anyone’s key card, which is worrying, but not the point,” he added lightly before getting back to the story, “And all of this,” he gestured to the spread, “Is kind of my of saying that what I said last night, but better.”

Furrowing her brows, Y/n looked up at Keanu, “Well what did you say last night?”

His mood sobered but the air was still charged with possibility, “I said that, I think that we could try this. I mean, we’re obviously both no good at staying out of each other’s way,” he chuckled nervously, “And I do have feelings for you. I know I’m not good at talking about them, but maybe if we tried to…..”

“Date?” Y/n finished for him.

“Yeah,” Keanu breathed, “Maybe if we dated,” even then, Keanu sounded unsure of if he was saying the right word. It almost sounded dirty; the notion of them dating, what would people think of them? What would they think of themselves? “We could figure it out, see where things go.”

Nodding stiffly, Y/n tried to push down the swell of panic that arose upon his wording. Keanu wasn’t looking for something committed, clearly. And Y/n? She didn’t know what the hell she was looking for. Commitment was obviously hard for her, but something casual could ruin their friendship. But above it all, she did have feelings for Keanu.

What if it was too soon after Luke?

What if she ended up hurting him too?

There were so many ‘what if’s that Y/n probably didn’t have enough fingers to count them. But the feelings were there. That night in his room, the other one in the pool, their kiss; it all meant so much to her. He meant so much to her, maybe he always did.

Keanu looked down at her, his gentle hold on her waist slackening with the worry that she might tell him to go, that he’d misinterpreted the situation and tell him to leave. His intention wasn’t to spring a decision on her, and he didn’t want to force her to return his feelings. Had he overstepped? Were things ruined between them for good that time?

The surge of anxiety was one that Keanu wasn’t expecting and nearly served to knock the wind out of him. He didn’t think that Y/n meant that much to him. But his entire being screamed otherwise, despite his logical mind’s protests. It had only been three months, a few intimate moments, not enough to constitute anything but an awkward friendship, but still, he didn’t want Y/n to reject him.

But he wasn’t sure if he wanted her to get closer either.

One problem at a time.

Keanu didn’t know how to begin to sort that out, and he certainly couldn’t do it there, right when Y/n was looking at him like the prospect of them dating was more unsettling that pretending to have sex with him while she was dating someone else. It stung a little, especially knowing that he’d gone all that way to offer her something to make up for intruding on her time the night before.

He was ready to cut his losses, when finally, a ghost of a smile turned Y/n’s lips, her speechlessness having passed, “I think I would like that,” her smile widened at the sight of his, and Y/n tilted her head, sliding her palms to his biceps, closing the space between them, “Are you sure about this?” Y/n’s hands passed his neck, fingers barely grazing his skin before she had finally had her arms looped around his neck. He liked that, more than he was expecting to. For a minute more, he considered her question; was he sure?

No.

“Yes,” Keanu’s smile wavered, but he hoped Y/n didn’t see it. Drawing her in, he bent to catch her lips, and just like the night before, the world seemed to stop, letting Keanu bask in Y/n’s sweetness.

They moved together, one of his going over Y/n’s, her tongue barely grazing his lower lip, humming quietly at the after taste of a cigarette and black coffee that still clung to him. The tip of his nose brushed the side of Y/n’s face, but she barely felt it. Slowly, Keanu’s hands inched downwards, all the way to her hips, just before circling her body, jerking her closer.

Stumbling forward, Y/n’s breath hitched and Keanu swallowed up her little breathy yelp of surprise. Gradually, the sensuality of their kiss grew, a sweet, tender moment of shared affections quickly grew heady and hungry, mutual desire flowing between them. Keanu's hand slid lower to her ass and emboldened by lust, one of Y/n's petite hands traveled down to cup his growing bulge, the rough denim contrasting with her delicate touch.

"We supposed to be having breakfast," Keanu chuckled, not yet willing for them to break apart.

With a wicked glimmer in her eyes, Y/n broke their kiss, briefly glancing towards the table before leaning over to swipe up the brightly colored can of whipped cream, "We are," beaming, she offered her hand, and intrigued, he took it letting her lead them to the bedroom.

The can was hastily set on top of the nightstand before they took each other in arms again. Y/n's lithe fingers reached for the fastenings on Keanu's pants and just as quickly as they were undone, he pawed at the flimsy plastic buttons of her dress.

By the time they were down to their underwear, Y/n was taking the initiative to shove Keanu to the bed, straddling his waist when he was propped on the pillows, his calloused touch steady at her pelvis, admiring her unrestrained breasts. Her hand closed around the cool tin uncapping it, though just as she was spray some on him, Keanu grabbed her hand and made easy work of hastily flipping their bodies so he was on top, "I'm afraid I don't do that little one," he chortled, low and husky, swiping the whipped cream from her grasp.

Dragging her lower lips through her teeth, the teasing nickname already riling her up, Y/n rolled her eyes, giggling, "I think that's called toxic masculinity."

Raising his eyebrows, Keanu absently shook his head, "I think it means I'm the boss here," he corrected.

Scoffing, Y/n wasn't ready to give in without a little bit of a fight, "Oh yeah? Prove it," she taunted, feeling shivers run down up her spine at the shift in his gaze. The playfulness now gone, replaced with wicked mischief and a darkness that had Y/n licking her lips.

Keanu leaned down, his cotton clad erection brushing her inner thigh. His hot breath fanned her ear, "Oh, I wouldn't mind doing just that," he nipped her ear lobe, "But I'm not sure a little girl like you could handle it."

Y/n's breath caught in her throat and her eyes widened, "You'd be surprised," Y/n bucked her hips, the strip of arousal soaked lace barely touching his skin, "Try me," Keanu pondered on it for a minute, seemingly trying to decide for himself, "Please," Y/n whined seductively, pouting.

Huffing a chuckle, Keanu rose off her a bit, glancing around eventually settling on Y/n, the inkling of an idea urging a smirk to upturn his lips. Skimming her sides, he eventually stopped to tug on the sides of her white panties, peeling them off, “Do you like these?” He hummed, just as Keanu freed her ankles.

“I-” Y/n was going to say that she was actually fond of them, considering the perfectly matched the bra that now laid strewn on the rug a few feet away, when Keanu, looking her straight in her face, ripped the front. The tearing of lace was louder than her gasp and even as Keanu maintained the arrogant twinkle in his eyes, Y/n’s jaw hung slack, not sure if she was bewildered or aroused, “Those…..” were new; she’d gotten them when she went shopping on her afternoon off.

“Be good and we’ll get you new ones,” he winked. By then, with half the crotch now ripped down the front, what was left of Y/n’s underwear now resembled a hasty strip of fabric. Keanu leaned over Y/n, still stationed between her wildly spread legs, capturing her wrists and holding them together, “You okay with this?” He questioned teasingly, pinning them over her head, “Or is it too much yet?”

Huffing, Y/n met his gaze, longing for more, “Do it,” she challenged, “Go ahead.”

“If you say so,” without another word, Keanu tied Y/n’s wrists together, making sure that they were tied tight enough to stay put but not enough to cause any damage. Afterwards, Y/n made light work of testing their strength, a little surprised at how the delicate material held up, the feeling foreign yet strangely encouraging. She’d never been tied up, but so far, she quite liked it. “Hold them over your head and tell me if you want to stop,” thinking for a moment, he continued, “Do you have a scarf?”

“That bag,” she nodded to an open suitcase, “There should be one or a couple you can choose from.” At no haste, Keanu got off the bed, and Y/n admired the way he looked from behind, his back muscles flexing as he dug through her bag, eventually producing a black silk scarf, with pink flowers about it. He took his time, folding it down to the right size before, with her permission of course, tying it over her eyes.

Now deprived of two senses, Y/n’s breathing quickened on for a minute, but she tried to relax. It was okay, she trusted Keanu. After a minute or two, she exhaled quietly, though, his ears still caught it, “You good?”

“Yeah,” she half sang, a breathy smile and rosy cheeks prompting Keanu to continue. Sitting back on his heels, Keanu decided that he’d rather start slowly, to savor the moment, and enjoy the sight of Y/n squirming beneath him.

Angling the can, Keanu sprayed a bit on her lips, immediately going to kiss Y/n, the sugary condiment smearing slightly. Y/n moaned quietly at the taste, responding eagerly when his tongue swirled around hers and when she felt his free hand roaming her body, groping and squeezing where he liked. When Keanu finally pulled away, Y/n gasped, her surprise only growing when he covered her hardened, sensitive nipples with whipped cream.

Keanu took one of her full breasts in his mouth, sucking off the fluffy, white, sweetness which tasted even better now that it was mixed with the taste of her skin. As he teased the tip with his teeth, Keanu’s palm slittered between her thighs, the tips of his fingers grazing her folds, “You're so wet already,” he mused, only raising his head so he could transfer his ministrations to her other boob. Meanwhile, he firmly palmed her pussy, his thumb pressed into her mound, rubbing in circular motions, stirring a string of moans and pleas from Y/n.

The feel of his tongue and teeth teasing her breasts, paired with his touch on her arousal had Y/n longing for more. Part of her wanted to see, but another knew that being blindfolded was half the fun. Her remaining senses were springing to life; she was staring to easily make out the rustling of the sheets, feel the warmth of his mouth while the coolness of the cream and tingling left by his fingers was magnified twofold, “Keanu,” her breath shuddered, her whisper getting lost in the air around them.

“Do you like this babygirl?” A new coolness spread in a line, starting at the center of her cleavage, down her stomach and stopping at her public bone.

“I do,” Y/n’s breath hitched at the feeling of Keanu’s lips once again descending upon her skin, his fingers slipping between her folds, his thumb rubbing her cilt as two of his digits invaded her center, their roughness creating a pleasurable friction.

Slowly, his lips inched lower and lower, until Keanu had reached his destination. Altogether, he stopped for a moment, and Y/n whined in frustration, barely fighting the urge to move her hands and reach out for him. Not long after though, he propped one of her smooth legs on his shoulder and then Keanu ran his tongue up the length of her pussy, extracting a pleasured whine from Y/n. Just barely, she could hear Keanu’s hum of enjoyment as he sucked on her swollen nub, occasionally flicking his tongue over it, shocks dancing their way up her spine and spreading to the tips of her fingers and toes. Her back arched and Y/n tried to buck her hips, the only thing hampering her was one of his hands slayed on her stomach, pinning Y/n to the bed.

“More,” Y/n pleaded frustratedly, her aching need driving her to impatience, “Please Keanu, more.” Keanu didn’t respond, instead, he carried on, frenching her cilt and reintroducing his fingers, curving them slightly to hit the right spots. “Ke…..” she moaned eventually, “I’m close.”

“Do it,” he urged against her cunt, feeling her walls already starting to clench around his fingers, “I want to taste you.” Just at the beginning of her climax, Keanu replaced his fingers with his tongue, letting it work her core and lapping up her release eagerly. Her legs felt boneless and Y/n’s body reverberated with waves of ecstasy, an incoherent version of his name falling off her lips, lost in translation.

She couldn’t see him, but Y/n felt Keanu crawling up her body, “I want you to taste yourself.” Without anything further, he captured Y/n’s lips, stealing her ragged breaths as his tongue slipped past the barrier of her teeth. It was foreign to her, having herself on her lips like that; salty, sweet and strangely erotic.

Shoving off his boxers, Keanu maintained their lip lock even as he lined himself up with Y/n’s entrance, pushing into Y/n until he was sheathed deep inside.

The feeling of having Y/n wet, warm tightness around his hardened cock was unmatched and light years better than Keanu recalled. He groaned loudly into her mouth, taking a minute to let the feeling consume him. Unlike their first night together, he didn’t feel an ounce of guilt; he’d waited too long for that moment, it was his, Y/n was his.

At least for now.

Until she left, like everyone else.

In an effort to push away the turmoil that had just plumed in his lust clouded mind like oil on water, Keanu started moving; slow and aggressive, Y/n’s initial yelps enough to fully shatter his troubling thoughts, encouraging him to look down at her.

Y/n’s bound hands clumsily pawed for fistfuls of the pillow, still eager to follow his instructions, her eyes still covered by the black and pink silk. With each drawn on thrust, the sound of his balls hitting her heated core joined his low, throaty grunts and Y/n’s audible breaths. It all bounced off the walls, maybe even loud enough for the guest in the next room to hear. The ordinarily sturdy bed rocked with them, the cushioned headboard slapping the cool grey wall with a loud thud, the subtle creaking of the frame drowned by everything else.

She looked so good, bound up like that, under his control. Keanu liked that, but still, he wanted, no, needed to see. To meet her gaze every time he stretched her wide, “I need to see you,” he managed through gritted teeth, pushing off her makeshift blind fold, the other still pressed into the mattress next to her head. Keanu watched as Y/n blinked slowly, eyes a little bleary and her pupils dilated, her lashes brushing the tops of her cheeks each time she closed them. Though still, even with their eyes locked, he craved more, “Louder,” he grunted, roughening his pace, using his other hand to steady her hip, “I want everyone to hear you.”

Out of instinct, Y/n continued holding back, even as the roll of his hips reached the point of nearly being assaulting. Only trashy girls screamed, right? It wasn’t in her nature for Y/n to let herself go like that. But it hurt so good. He stretched her so wide it burned and the throbbing veins running along his god-like cock were deliciously rough. Then there was his pace, fast and volatile, unforgiving and completely dominating. No one would have thought that Keanu could go from softie to a nearly violent control freak that quickly, and Y/n was living for it. “Louder,” he demanded, going faster.

Finally, it happened, though it was out of Y/n’s control when she moaned loudly, lolling her head to the side, arching her back. Her mind was a mess and the only thing that Y/n could recognize was that she was being literally fucked senseless. After the first one broke through, Y/n’s loud moans and garbled prayers came freely and already she could feel her second orgasm creeping up on her, “Fuck!” She screamed, absently wriggling her wrists in their bind, the lace bruising her tender skin.

“Who’s fucking you good?” Keanu cocked an arrogant grin, rousing a faint smile of Y/n’s sticky lips in return, “Let them know who’s fucking this little slut good.”

“You!” Was all she managed initially, her petite hands now slipping out of the loosened tie, her ruined panties still hanging from one hand as they both flew to Keanu’s lower back. Her long nails sunk into her skin, like feline claws, stinging pain awakening as Y/n dragged them up his back.

“Who?” He gritted, sounding almost angry, his eyes frenzied and wild, primal desire evident in the dark pools.

“You! You, Keanu!” Y/n screamed scandalously, and for sure, anyone passing by in the hall knew what was happening, “Holy fuck!” The knot in the pit of her belly snapped, the only warnings physical, a second warm gush rushing out between her thighs as her walls clenched around his member. Her legs tangled with Keanu’s thighs going limp and jelly like.

Riding out her high without slowing, his pace growing sloppy as Keanu approached his own climax. Y/n was barely settled when Keanu was pumping hot spurts of creamy cum into her, the bucking of his hips rigid as he grunted her name, accompanied by a string of obscenities.

"Fuck," he breathed, eventually rolling off her. Y/n winced, knowing, but certainly not regretting, that she'd be nursing the soreness for the next few days.

"That was…." A ghost of a bright, dreamy grin tickled her cheeks, "You're…..wow."

Keanu chuckled lowly, glancing at Y/n's sated form beside him, drinking in her disheveled hair and drooping eyes, "I told you." Easing and arm around her shoulders, he reeled Y/n in, letting her settle against the chest.

"You did," she giggled sleepily, too tried to roll her eyes at his confidence. "We have to get to set soon," though, if her tone was any indication, they really wouldn't be leaving that bed before noon.

Keanu yawned, her tire contagious, and it didn't help that sleeping with her on the cramped sofa the night before wasn't particularly refreshing. "We do," he could tell she was already mostly asleep and took the initiative to pull the duvet over them, "But it's not like they're going to start without us," those were the last words that either of them registered before succumbing to sleep, knowing that they were in for one a hell of a clean up before they could leave for work.

*****

Tagging- @harrisongslimited @paanchu786 @thesadvampire @fanficsrusz @fickensteinn @ladyreapermc @babygirltaina @septimaseverina @snatchedbylele @omg-imagine @21stcenturyyfoxx @magnificentclodpiebanana @keandrews

#keanu reeves #keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves x you #keanu reeves fanfiction #ff #keanu reeves fanfic #john wick x reader #john wick x you #fanfic #fanfiction #john wick #put me in a movie #lana del rey #john wick fanfic

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dr-matthew-r-mullins-author · 3 years

Text

The Captain Who Couldn't Swim

Dr. Matthew R. Mullins

The first time I went on a boat I never came back - at least, that iteration of me didn’t.

“She’s a beaut, isn’t she?” The Captain touted, strutting around his forty-three-foot yacht. “Yeah, there’s only a handful this sweet in the whole marina.”

I was there strictly on business, an interview for the ship’s captain, Marco Fontaine - a twenty-something, trust-fund child from a long line of hideous, capitalist swine; not a rare sight in this neck of the woods.

This neck of the woods is an island, just south of Detroit; only the finest of reptiles live there.

Before I arrived, I had stopped to buy some tabs of acid from a man who resided somewhere between the crumbling outskirts of Detroit, and the million-dollar homes on the island of Grosse Ile. “Be careful with these ones, they are not for the faint of heart,” he said to me, with a watchful eye.

I slid one on my tongue and drove off, I had work to do. My phone rang and I let it go to voicemail, like always, “uhm, hey Matt, it’s Keith. Just a reminder you have that interview with Captain Marco Fontaine. You’re there to cover his departure for his six-month trip to and from the Gulf of Mexico. Make sure you get plenty of pictures and please - the deadline is at ten on Tuesday, let’s get this one in on time.”

“So how does this work? Like do you ask me questions and then we take some pictures?” He asked me, his face melting in the summer heat. I nodded my head and looked down at the dock under my feet. It was slotted, white metal that looked like it had been recently painted. The water was moving underneath and I could see some of the fish underneath.

He started to nervously chuckle, “okay, so are we going to get started or what?” I looked up toward him and pulled my notepad out of my back pocket and a pen from my collar. “What’s your name and age?” I asked.

He straightened his blue jacket and tilted his captain’s hat back a little and confidently belted out, “Captain Marco Fontaine, I’m twenty-seven.” I wrote something down, but looking back on my notes it’s pretty clear that the acid had kicked in a lot earlier than I thought.

My notes for question one read: the reptile-sailing community hasn’t realized there’s an invader among their forces. An Imposter. Was I talking about me… or him?

“What makes someone want to spend six months of their life sailing to the Gulf of Mexico?” He looked at me for a moment and cleared his throat, “It’s a time-honored tradition to sail the gorgeous Everpeddle to the Gulf of Mexico and back. In fact, my father, my father’s father, and his before him, all sailed this very boat there and back. It’s a journey all Fontaine men must make - to truly complete their journey into adulthood.”

He was incredibly proud of himself, I’m glad I had a tape recorder running to remember any of this.

“Do you have a career or significant other you’re leaving behind to do this?”

“Well, of course, I work at my father’s company, so I’ll be welcomed back with open arms after I return. As for a ‘significant other,’ let’s just say I have options.”

The smell of rainwater filled the air, there was a crack of thunder and lightning; the Captain winced and shuddered at the sound. “I hate storms,” he confided, “I honestly, don’t actually enjoy rain or the water, I can’t even swim.”

“A boat captain that can’t swim?” He stared at me, his eyes were opening up and filling with black goop, and his jaw unhinged. He began slithering around the dock, leaving a trail of snail-like ooze behind him. At this point, he was gurgling and screeching obscenities into the water, “I’m just glad to get out of this godforsaken place. Did you see the homeless asshole begging outside the marina? Put that in your story, tell Detroit to keep its trash in their city and away from people like us.”

His smile showed rows and rows of hideous, perfectly white teeth, jagged and sharp. There was a drop of blood coming from the corner of his mouth that he hastily lapped up with his long, red, pointed tongue. “Don’t you agree? It’s a real problem around here.”

His legs were long and thin, matching his torso and narrow chin. He was as sharply dressed as an inside-out iron maiden. He clicked his heels and walked onto his boat, “don’t you agree?” He insisted. “Don’t you?” His tiny talons combed through his black, greasy hair - he placed the cap back on his head.

I nodded my head - you can’t upset the status quo on an island. Don’t you know these people can be real primitive? Disagree with their twisted opinions and you’ll be hanged, drawn, and quartered, goddamnit. Tribal life is different than suburban life - for instance, they walk around with their genitals out - even worse, if you don’t fall in line with their wild ways of thinking, you’ll be excommunicated. Ousted to the outskirts of a dying city.

“Good, I’m glad you agree. My father told me your publication was truly professional,” he said, his body floating and melting like the contents of a lava lamp. “He’s going to get washed away in this storm.”

“What was that?” He asked me. “Nothing,” I insisted. I asked another question, “you’ve told me what this means to your family, but what does it mean to you?” His eyes drooped below deck, there was a sadness behind his pale blue eyes. Further behind that was an inherited disease as horrendous as the trust fund.

He had clearly inherited a sickness from his father, his father’s father, and his before him. A sickness born from years of cowardness and finger-pointing; a sickness that was sure to be the death of him.

“This trip means that I’ll be able to prove to my father that I belong, and… hey are you okay?” He was looking at me as I started to take my shoes and socks off. “I’m perfectly fine, please go on,” I grunted, leaning over.

“Okay… Well, when I make it back from my trip, he will have to respect the kind of man I am and he’ll promote me to a partner. Then I’ll… are you going to get into the water?” I was rolling up my pant legs, “no, no I’m not going all the way in. Please, go on,” I was rushing him, there was a storm coming after all.

“Well, once I become a partner then I can… okay you’re in the water. I thought you said…” I interrupted him, “I’m just dipping my feet.” I lowered my feet into the water and sat on the dock, “please, go on.”

“I can’t take you seriously if you’re going to sit there and put your feet in the water,” he squealed. I stood up and picked up my shoes, “I can’t take you seriously either.”

We both stood back and locked eyes. I felt like he was ready to pounce. Any moment from now I could be attacked and sent into the sea where my body would never be found. This was a life or death situation and I could taste colors.

He took a step forward, lumbering like an athletic bear - his breath was horrible and the stench grew the closer he got. “I must have disturbed his baby bears. I have to play dead.” I flopped to the ground, feigning death - in hopes that he would just go away.

“Are - are you okay?” He knelt down beside me, nudging me with his huge, brown paw. After a few minutes, he backed down and hid in his boat. I popped up as quickly as I could and ran to my car. I sped away, lighting another cigarette, relieved that I had just bearly made it out with my life.

After a few days, my editor had given up on trying to get a story from me. I submitted the horrific tale that I’m telling you - he didn’t buy it; but I know what I saw.

A few weeks later I received a phone call - Captain Fontaine, the twenty-something ne'er-do-well, had died after he was thrown from his boat during a storm.

It’s a real shame I never made that deadline.

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mentallyunstableunicornwrites · 4 years

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Prompt 114

“Wha - Get your face out of my hair.” “I’m just trying to mask the smell of the shit floating around.”

There was a running joke, for as long as Viktor could remember, about how hockey players and male figure skaters just didn’t get along. Supposedly, hockey players saw male figure skaters as far too delicate and weak to compete in ‘real’ sports. Meanwhile, male figure skaters saw hockey players as brutish bulls with no manners. This was, of course, just a joke as far as he knew. He had always gotten along well with the hockey players that made up the Russian Olympic team. He even dated one in the past. If you asked him, Viktor would tell you that it was nothing more than a joke. Or, at least that is what he would have said before he arrived in Japan.

For a country that prided itself on their respectable nature, there were some instances where Japanese people were just plain rude to one another. Rivalries were common practice in Japan as it seemed everyone had the same goal, to the best at their craft. More than once Viktor had listened to a chef at one restaurant try to prevent him from giving his business to a rival restaurant blocks away. For the most part, the practice didn’t really bother him. On occasion, it was more of a nuisance than anything, but he didn’t really take it to heart and could overlook it most of the time. There was one group of people, however, that rubbed him the wrong way every time. Hockey players, in particular the recreation hockey team that trained out of Ice Castle.

Before Yuuri had returned to Japan and started training at Ice Castle again, the men’s recreation hockey team practiced for three hours on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday nights. They rented out the entire rink to themselves and had been doing so for the past three and a half years. Viktor knew that the Nishigori’s were not partial to the hockey team and found them to be a rather rude and destructive bunch, but they paid good money and that was something that they couldn’t afford to let pass them by. It was, perhaps, the hockey team alone that kept Ice Castle afloat during the economic recession that hit their region.

But the Nishigori’s were, at heart, a family of figure skaters. So, when Yuuri came back to Hasetsu they were more than happy to once again allow him access to the rink anytime he wanted provided it was not already booked out. For a while this was enough for Yuuri, after all, he had not really decided on having a competitive season after his last one ended so miserably. He mainly used the rink after closing hours, when the ice was clean and there were no wandering eyes (or in the case of the triplets, phones) to pry oh his private reintroduction to the ice. However, when Viktor blew in with the winter storm things changed, fast.

Ice time soon was something that Yuuri was needing and Viktor gladly booked Ice Castle for them, typically a day at a time. Tuesdays and Thursdays worked for them at first. Yuuri wasn’t allowed to touch the ice to train but that didn’t mean that he couldn’t learn from watching Viktor skate himself. After long runs and grueling weight training sessions in the gym, Yuuri would spend hours at a time watching and absorbing Viktor’s technique with nary a word passed between them.

As soon as Yuuri was ready to touch the ice, Yurio mysteriously appeared in all his angst-filled glory and ice time was needed in larger quantities. This meant stepping on a few toes, or rather skates, as Viktor appealed to the Nishigori’s for help. Viktor offered to pay double the usual rate for the hours the hockey team utilized in exchange for a Monday, Wednesday, Friday schedule. It took a lot of convincing, but Viktor secured their much-needed ice time and the hockey team begrudgingly moved their practices to Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday morning,

Their first Wednesday practice was marred, however, by every locker in the locker room being covered in crusted over shaving foam. A gift from the hockey team for the new arrangement. Viktor prided himself on his ability to remain level headed in most situations. This, however, was not one of those situations. His anger seemed to amplify when he was in direct contact with Yurio who allowed a string of Russian expletives flow freely like a sailor who hadn’t seen land or a woman in months. Yuuri on the other hand just went to the cleaning closet, collected a bucket of water and a rag, and began cleaning the lockers.

Friday morning the trio arrived early just in case there were any other nasty surprises awaiting them in the locker room. Luckily, there was nothing more than the overwhelming stench of man sweat that typically followed one of the hockey team’s practices. They thought that they had got away scot-free until they went to hit the ice and found it to be unfinished with large divots carved out in random places. This time it was Yuuri who was angered by what the hockey team would later call a ' harmless prank’.

Yuuri grabbed Viktor’s hand and pulled him along to the office where they waited for Yuuko to show up. Yuuri relayed what had happened to her in a calm manner but made it very clear that something needed to be done. Upon seeing the chaos of the rink herself Yuuko agreed and called for a meeting between the skaters and the leaders of the hockey team later that night.

Viktor, Yuuri, And Yurio took their time patching the ice carefully, ensuring they packed each divot well with ice shavings before giving it a cleaning with the Zamboni. Yuuri was silent through the process but Viktor could feel the anger radiating off of him in waves. It seemed like he took it personally.

Later that night while they awaited the representative from the hockey team, Viktor lounged against the wall along the back of the office while Yuuri stood a few paces in front of him, eyes glued to the security footage that was paused on the small TV in the corner. Yuuko sat behind her desk, a small stack of papers in front of her, occasionally thumbing through them to ensure everything she needed was there. The knock on the door seemed to jar Yuuri out of his thinking as the door swung open and admitted a large muscular man who was dressed as a repair technician. Viktor assumed he must have come directly from work.

“I assume you know why I asked you to come in tonight?” Yuuko asked Eiji Shimoto, the captain of the hockey team.

“Sorry to say that I don’t really. You said that you wanted to review our unofficial contract with the rink.” He sounded genuine, it was a good act, but the lie angered Viktor.

He stepped forward until his chest was practically resting against Yuuri’s back and then proceeded to bury his face in Yuuri’s hair managing to both startle and completely fluster the man in the process.

“Wah-! Get your face out of my hair!” Yuuri yelped in a panic as he pulled away and turned to look at Viktor with a bright red face.

“I’m just trying to mask the smell of the shit floating around,” Viktor said innocently as he pegged Shimoto with a glare. Shimoto did his best to look confused but his face suddenly fell as Yuuko turned on the television and played the security footage for everyone to see. The entire hockey team was seen purposefully chipping away at the ice with the tips of their skates. Shimoto at least had enough decency to look at the floor in shame after he realized that he had been caught.

“You are lucky that Yuuri came to me and not my husband with this kind of information otherwise I am sure that there would be worse consequences then your team not being allowed to practice here any longer.” Yuuko may have been a small woman but she spoke with such authority that Shimoto said nothing in response.

“What you did was reckless.” Yuuri followed up, his voice was as sharpened with the anger that he held back all day. “The three of us that booked this ice time are international champions for our respective countries. Viktor here is an Olympic gold medalist. This is how we make our living.” He took a step closer to Shimoto who seemed to have shrunk in the process of the verbal lashing.

“You could have ended someone’s career. All it would have taken is one of us not noticing a single gouged piece of ice while we were patching up your mess and hitting it wrong. We don’t hide behind pads that protect us when we fall. When we fall, we don’t tend to do it from a low height because unlike hockey players, we are taught how to fly high above the ice.” He took another step forward and gestured at Shimoto’s outfit.

“Unlike you, we don’t have a day job to fall back on should we be injured in a way that removes us from the ice. What gives you the right to toy with the safety and quite possibly the lives of other people. If you were so opposed to the arrangement, you should have said something instead of acting like toddlers. What kind of adult puts shaving cream all over the locker room because they are upset with an arrangement they agreed to. What kind of human destroys a person’s property because they didn’t like being told that they had to be flexible.” He took one more step forward until he was face to face with Shimoto and then pretended to smell the air.

“Let’s go Viktor, I trust Yuuko can hand the rest of this and I am starting to smell that shit you were talking about earlier.” He abruptly spun on his heels and left the room. All the dazed Viktor could do was follow him as he was told to.

They walked out to the front of Ice Castle before Yuuri slowed his pace and stopped. It was only then that Viktor noticed he was shaking with the anger that boiled inside him. Viktor didn’t think twice before he wrapped his arms around Yuuri, the Japanese man tensing momentarily in his hold before finally relaxing and allowing himself to be held.

“You were brilliant,” Viktor whispered.

“I was angry.” Yuuri quietly countered, “All I could think about the whole day was what would happen if we missed one of the divots. What if-” He sighed in frustration trying to get the words to form in his mouth.

“What if you had hit one of the divots and gotten hurt.” He finally whispered.

“Oh, Yuuri, my sweet Yuuri,” Viktor whispered back and held him tighter. They stood there for a long moment saying nothing beyond that. A part of Viktor didn’t want this moment to end, it was the first time that Yuuri had allowed him physical contact since the banquet at the Grand Prix. But the logical side of him knew that it was getting late and after a hard day of training Yuuri was more than likely running on fumes.

“Come now,” He said gently stepping back, “Let’s go home”

#yuri katsuki #Viktor with a k #Viktor Nikiforov #vicuuri #Yuri on ice #writing prompt

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youareiron-andyouarestrong · 4 years

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35 49 - cassianxjyn, please? *-*

bathtub + fake married (only not really because they are, officially, as of the last prompt, married–legalities notwithstanding)

they say he likes a good time (my oh my)

he comes alive at midnight (every night)

my mama doesn’t trust him (my oh my)

he’s only here for one thing (but so am I)

“As honeymoons go,” Cassian says thoughtfully, lounging back in the tub, “this is definitely one of the better ones.

“I still say it sounds like something you eat,” Jyn says, leaning against him, the water sloshing softly around them. “Some kind of ridiculous overblown Core world dessert.”

“A moon made out of honey,” Cassian muses. “Either that, or a really bad porn holo.”

“Can you imagine,” Jyn says, laughing at the thought. Her head falls back on his shoulder, her hair tucked up in a messy bun at the top of her head, rather than the base. It leaves the elegant line of her neck bared to his view, in what feels like a greater show of intimacy than what they’re currently doing.

Cassian has Draven to thank for this mission, his commander’s way of (more or less) approving his marriage to Jyn. Not that Cassian needed or even looked for it; he’s already proved that when Jyn is involved, he’ll follow her anywhere. Draven was remarkably philosophical about Jyn hooking his best agent out from under him; he offered them blunt, if sincere congratulations after the ceremony.

“You were headed to burn out before Erso,” he tells Cassian in private, later. “You’re more effective with her than without.”

Cassian had nodded, accepting this and turned back to his–wife. Jyn was his wife. He wasn’t going to get over it anytime soon, and every time he looked at her it was a fresh marvel.

According to the hotel roster, they are Eduardo and Liliana Strax, newly wed and freshly bedded on this plush Core world resort. They’re hungry young couple, just about to come up in the world, but not so jaded to the luxuries of this resort that they can’t be deeply impressed by the amenities on offer–and the personalities who stay there. It’s mostly mid to high level Imperial officers who stay here, with their entourages, wives and mistresses and assistants, all out to relax, enjoy the sights. Everyone’s a little freer, a little looser in their time, morals and money when on vacation. Which for spies like them, make perfect marks.

Eduardo and Liliana are young, eager, maybe a touch too openly ambitious. They fit right in with the rest of the strivers. The resort, the Jewel of Worlds (a stupid name, Jyn had said contemptuously, when they had gone over the brief together) is known for being the destination among the couples looking to show off how up and coming they are, and more importantly, for their complete and utter discretion. The amount they pay in taxes to keep the rooms unbugged, soundproof and camera free is truly obscene, which is probably why they charge so much. In this instance, Cassian can afford it; or rather, Eduardo Strax can. Being with Jyn has brought so many joys and changes to his life, not the least of these things being her truly incredible ability to scam Imps out of their money.

He could love her for that alone.

He loves her for a lot more than that, not the least of which being the way she fits against him in this tub big enough to float a very small freighter in.

“So this is what people do, on honeymoons?” Jyn asks in a musing way. “Lounge around the place, eat everything in sight, roll around in bed together–”

“They take in the sights,” Cassian offers, as she leans forward a bit, enough for him to take one of those luxurious bars of soap and run it up and down her back. It smells like flowers and the sea, and he’s found in the last few days, he’s liked the combination on her skin, how it smells and how it tastes. “Take tours of the town. Do some wine tasting. Some kind of outdoor thing.”

“Outdoor thing?” Jyn repeats, laughing. “Like what?”

“Hikes,” Cassian says, though frankly, his level of interest in outdoor things is negligible. “Beaches. Cliff sides. I don’t know.”

“City boy,” Jyn says, continuing to laugh as he washes her back, then her neck, her shoulders, and then the bar of soap makes it’s smooth and slippery way to her front, down to her chest… Then her laugh becomes a sigh, something like a moan.

“What else?” she asks again, the water making their bodies move in interesting ways against each other. “What else do people do on honeymoons?”

Cassian considers this, the woman in his arms, his wife, the warm water and big soft bed, and all the interesting things they can do to each other therein.

“Whatever they want,” he says and Jyn pulls away from enough him to turn and face him. The water makes it easy for her slide into his lap, pressed right up against him. A noise he’s never made before in his life escapes him as his thoughts scatter like clouds before a ship. “Whatever they want?” she echoes thoughtfully. “Well, I can think of a few things.”

“Please,” he gets out, staring up at her. She’s practically glowing in this soothing, neutrally colored room, a flash of life and vitality and vibrance, her hair gathered up like a crown, her green eyes commanding him, smooth white skin and strong muscles, her kyber crystal glowing… right between her breasts. That alone would’ve commanded his attention immediately, but she’s strung something else on the chain now as well–his ring. His true wedding band that he gave her when he married her in the eyes of the Alliance, not the flashy gold one currently sitting on their dresser in the main room.

He reaches up a hand to take the crystal and ring between his fingers, rub his thumb across it, like he’s trying to convince himself that it exists. A slow smile spreads across her face as her own hands creep into his hair, wind the strands around her fingers, tugging on it hard enough to make him groan softly. “You like that,” she murmurs, a statement of fact. “Seeing your ring on me.”

“I do,” he gets out, barely aware of what he’s saying. “I do–”

“I seem to recall something like that in our marriage vows,” Jyn says thoughtfully. “From this day it shall be only your name I cry out in the night–”

“I remember,” Cassian says, vaguely wondering how he’s holding a coherent conversation right now. “I liked that part.”

She laughs again, softly, amusement and affection all over her face. “I know. You honored that part of the vows a lot. At least three times, if my memory serves.”

“It does,” he agrees, because what is he going to do, say no? It wasn’t her name he practically screamed, worshipped, begged for over the course of the last few days? He’s a good liar, but he’s not that good.

One of Jyn’s hands releases his hair, slides down his neck to where his own chain is, where his ring is. They can’t wear them out in public this mission–the rings don’t fit with their covers–but here, in the privacy of this very nice suite, they keep them on, around their necks. Jyn takes her own turn rubbing the ring between her fingers, even as his own clenches around her crystal and ring. “I like it too,” she murmurs, “so let me show you how much, husband.”

“Yes,” he says again, eager and willing, “yes, yes, wife–”

There’s a lot of snickering and indulgent laughter around the dining room table at the evening meal. Eduardo and Lilianna are flushed and dazed, snuggling against each other, smudges on their necks and hands intertwined, when they’re not using them for eating or feeding the other from off their plates. They say they’re honoring their wedding vows. Eduardo offers Lilianna a piece of iced fruit, which she parts her lips for; Lilianna casually helps herself some chocolate dessert of Eduardo’s, smirking at she licks the sauce off the spoon.

“So are you two enjoying yourselves this evening?” an older guest jokes. He’s got a fat, self-satisfied face of someone who’s just won a lot of sabaac games. He has no idea Jyn’s already sliced his winnings out of his account.

Eduardo smiles, the love-glazed look of a man who is well-sated. “It’s not so bad.”

Lilianna giggles girlishly, one hand stroking his thigh as she turns to whisper in his ear, “Feel like getting lucky?”

“Any more than I already am?” he whispers back, as the wives around them giggle at their antics.

She smiles, all sweetness and danger, a combination that makes his blood run hot and fast. “Let’s go steal some credits,” she breathes and Cassian feels like honeymoons are the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

#star wars #rogue one #rebelcaptain #my writing #otp: and make death proud to take us #you can consider this a direct sequel to the one i just put up #because what else have i to do with my time

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surveys-at-your-service · 3 years

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Survey #292

“dear god, let’s make this fucking clear: dear god, there’s nothing that i fear”

What internet browser do you use? Chrome. What brand water do you drink? (Smart Water, Dasani, etc) Mom just grabs the Great Value jugs. Do you have a job? No. Are you full-time or part-time? N/A Are you watching TV right now? No. Or are you listening to music? Yeah, "Mr. Crowley" by Ozzy. Such a great song. Would you go to jail for 3 years for $1,000,000? No. I would NOT survive in jail. When's your birthday? February 5th. I cannot fucking believe I'm almost 25. Thoughts on kids? Too impressionable for me. Even with my niece and nephew, I feel like every single word I say just like... stamps into their brains, and what if I say something that negatively affects them? I feel like it's my responsibility as an aunt to be a fountain of wisdom when I'm definitely not. I just get nervous around kids. Worst punishment you've ever received by your parents? I wouldn't call it a "punishment," but when I skinned the everliving fuck out of my knees and Mom was patching me up while I was just sobbing away, my dad literally roared "SHUT UP!" from my parents' bedroom, and it's stuck with me forever. Honestly, I think it may be a root in my extreme fear of men yelling. Worst punishment from Mom, probably this time where she smacked the shit outta my arm as a kid and left a clear handprint for a while. Are you the type who is completely against abortion? Why? No, I am firmly pro-choice, despite being pro-life most of my life. I don't feel like writing a moral essay, but basically, I absolutely cannot agree with forcing a woman to carry a human they don't want for whatever reason for nine fucking months, endure one of the most traumatically painful things known to man, and then properly and adequately care for that child. That is such a huge fucking responsibility that should be forced upon *nobody*. "But adoption!" Yeah, go tell that to the thousands of children waiting on you. This is leaning on exactly what I said I wouldn't do, so moving along. Have you ever read a book that actually changed your outlook on life? "I’ve read some books that were phenomenal, but I wouldn’t necessarily go so far as to say that they 'changed my outlook on life'." <<<< This was Johnny Got His Gun for me. Does your favorite flower hold any meaning to you? No. What would you do if your favorite animal became endangered? I would fucking freak. Have you ever owned an expensive eyeshadow palette? No, but I honestly do want at least one, primarily with a deep black and then some nice grays and neutral colors. Do you own a tripod for your camera? Yes. Are your nails always painted? Quite the opposite. What's one thing you've had a toxic reaction to? A breakup. Which holiday is your favorite to decorate for? I honestly don't really decorate because I just don't have the motivation, but Halloween is the best. Were you popular in school? Nope. Are there any foods that often give you heartburn or indigestion? BANANAS, dark sodas (like Coke or Dr. Pepper), peanut butter can... It's hard for me to tell much now because I have chronic heartburn and am medicated for it. Works great, so I don't experience this much. Is there something you intend to buy in the near future? Yes. Once my tattoo is done (I'm setting the appointment the next time we leave the house, AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH), what I have left is going towards Venus' new terrarium. She really needs a 40 gallon. Is anyone in your family artistically talented? What about musically? I was the art kid, and family still insist I should be an artist. What cute behaviors or characteristics does/do your pet(s) have? Omg, Roman has so many. He nuzzles me all the time, will collapse into my hand to pet him, he insists on being the little spoon at bedtime (no, really), he literally tries to groom me with his teeth, licks my face... He is just a doll. My little buddy for sure. Now onto Venus. She loves to chill next to me in bed or find a cozy place under the covers, and omgggg does she love to slither around the bed doing the periscope thing. So curious. What's the screensaver on your computer? I don't have one. What’s the sexiest thing about a guy? I am WEAK for nice shoulderblades/muscular shoulders ok. What’s the sexiest thing about a girl? I am an ass bitch and I will not hesitate to admit it ayyyyyeeeee. Who were you with at midnight on January 1, 2021? Nobody. Who was the last person to send you a message on social media? My sister Misty. She's planning to surprise Mom (her stepmom, anyway) by showing up in a few weeks with her fiance and all her kids she's never met but desperately wants to. My mom is the only "real mom" she's ever had, and she just feels so bad that she has a by now teenage daughter (among three other younger ones) that has never met her "grandmother." It's just an expensive and long trip, but Misty's finally called it enough and is just driving down here with everyone. Mom is going to fucking sob. ^ What qualities does this person have, that you appreciate? Nice timing for this, since her fiercely anti-mask bullshit is all I can focus on about her lately... but there are good things about her. She truly is a very loving, passionate woman that, just like me, feels deeply and expresses it. What was the last thing that caused you to scowl, or frown? Does grimacing count from a sudden bodily pain? Have you smiled at any point during the last hour? Yeah. I'm watching the VOD of Arin Hanson playing Kingdom Hearts 2 for charity, and he went on a total fucking laughing fit. His laugh is so precious, so I just couldn't stop grinning. What was the last thing you consulted Google for? Ensuring "grimace" was the right word for my former expression, even though I was pretty positive it was correct... I don't know if anyone's noticed, but my English skills are degrading, particularly in spelling. It's concerning me. I was an English whiz my whole life up to now. My only guess is it's related to how godawful my memory is also declining. So, did anyone send you a "Happy New Year" message when midnight hit? No. When was the last time you were on a carousel? Probably not since I was a teenager being goofy with Jason or somebody. What is the closest you have ever been to an elephant? I have a picture on my dA of a beautiful elephant walking RIGHT by its fence at the zoo. It was pretty amazing, considering just how incredibly immense their enclosure is. Have you ever played Halo? No, it's not my kinda game. Have you ever read a National Geographic magazine? Oh, I'm positive I've read sections while in waiting rooms of various places. When was the last time you had a pillow fight? I have no idea. Realistically it was probably w/ Jason since that sounds like some cute playfighting thing we'd do, but I don't remember a particular instance. Name somebody who you think deserves more respect: "Retail works. The horror stories my mom has on the daily is absolutely ridiculous. People can be so incredibly rude." <<<< I absolutely agree with this; what friends and strangers alike rant about is just depressing. Nobody, especially those working through a goddamn pandemic that's killing thousands, deserves the disrespect that comes their way. Have some goddamn decency and know half the issues you bring up to retail workers isn't even their damn fault. Ohhhh, I could rant about this. In your own words, define what the word sexy means. So you mean like, what I think is considered sexy, not just the general definition? If that's the case, uhhh. Self-confidence (but absolutely not arrogance) is very attractive to me as a bitch who lacks it entirely, as well as good manners, being outgoing, and just... charm. I don't quite know how to describe that "charm" other than I'm really drawn to people who are unique and happy with it and just seem to have an aura about them that feels good to be in. What is the most popular tourist attraction where you live? I'm going to look at this question as if you're asking about my state and not general location because 1.) there ain't shit here and 2.) I'd prefer to keep relatively where I live quiet on the Internet. Looked it up and apparently NC's biggest tourist bait is the Biltmore Estate. Never been there myself, but it'd be pretty dope. Without looking - do you know what brand your underwear is? I'm in my own home and pjs, who the fuck wears underwear with that criteria lmao. Are you any good at volleyball? NOOOOOOOOO. I went to a volleyball camp thing once when I was younger and that shit hurts the hell outta your hands. I didn't stay long. Have you ever had a water balloon fight? Why of course. Do you think some babies are ugly? Quite honestly, probably most, especially newborns. Don’t you miss Chuck E. Cheese? I do; going there was one of the most exciting possible things to me as a kiddo. Do you think Fall Out Boy is gonna be a classic band, like Queen or AC/DC? Possibly. I mean they sure are pretty successful and well-known. Do you love stuff-crusted pizza? Eh, it's not my preference, but I'll eat it. Do you apply lotion after you bathe? No, but I really should, given how dry my skin is. What’s your favorite color? Pastel pink. Who did you have your most amazing kiss with? I'd like to not think about this. Has a YouTube video of yours ever gotten over 10,000 views? Lol definitely not. I think at least one on my older channel hit 1k somehow???? It was a birthday gift I made for someone. Would you ever get a tattoo on your collar bone? lol I already have one there. At some point I'm getting it covered, though. Do you like Robert Frost poems? I do! Do you go to church every Sunday? I never do. Have you ever been in a relationship on-and-off for more than a year? No, I don't play that game. You want me or you don't, so I'm not wasting my time on your uncertainty or just our lack of stability for whatever reason. If you had to get famous for one of the following, which would you choose: music, acting, writing, modeling? Absolutely writing. What do you think of girls with huge boobs that don’t wear bras in public? ?????????????????? i don't?????????????? care???????????????? they're not my tits??????????????? What is the last thing you tried on in a store? I don't know. I avoid trying shit on like the plague. And then it ends up being too big/small. I wonder why. Is sleeping naked more comfortable than in clothes? I've only ever fallen asleep naked once, and accidentally at that, so I really don't remember how I felt about it? Consciously though, I would feel very, very vulnerable so don't have plans to when I have my own place. Have you ever had a dream in which you were making out, or more, with someone? HAHAHA Y'AAAAAALLLLLLL THIS WAS DEADASS THE ONLY LUCID DREAM I'VE EVER HAD LMAOOOOO Do you feel as though you have a good memory, or are you forgetful at times? Do you feel that your short-term memory or long-term memory is better? My short-term memory is absolutely atrocious, like to the point it seriously affects my ability to get shit done. You can give me something that needs to be done and I will forget in a heartbeat. Now, my long-term memory is astonishing. I can remember many things from my childhood in incredible detail. Have you ever had a concussion or some other sort of brain injury before? Did you need to have surgery for it? I've had a concussion or two. I can't remember which. I didn't need surgery. Do you have any sort of mental illnesses or disorders? What do they involve? Yeah: chronic depression, crippling social anxiety, generalized anxiety, avoidant personality disorder (AvPD), obsessive compulsive disorder, PTSD, bipolar II, and I think that's it. My head's a mess and a half. What’s the longest that your hair has ever been? How about the shortest? When is the last time that you got it cut? About to the small of my back; how it is now, which is pretty much shaved on the left and fades to near my chin on the right. I actually got it cut last month; we've gone to a family friend for years whose shop is just an extra building by her house and very rarely has more than two clients in it. We had masks on, of course. At what age did you start getting gray hairs, if you happen to have any? I don't have any. Somehow, given my stress level at all times, haha. What are some ways that you style your hair? Do you use any sorts of products in it? It's too short to style. I don't use any products in it but obviously shampoo. Who was the last person to truly get on your nerves? What do you think caused you to feel that way? Probably my mom. I think she was in a rotten mood for one reason or another and just being snappy and generally rude. Do you recycle? Is this through choice or do you live somewhere where it’s compulsory? We do; it's by choice, and it'd be immensely ignorant not to where we live considering it literally gets picked up with the other garbage. Do you prefer plain, carbonated, or flavored water? Do you think you drink enough water throughout the day? I've never tried carbonated water, and flavored water rarely works for me due to artificial sweeteners giving me beastly headaches. So I'll just take really cold, filtered water. Have you ever needed to call the police, ambulance, or fire department? I had to call the ambulance for my mom right before her cancer was discovered because she was literally immobile and in ungodly pain. When was the last time you visited the library? What was the purpose of your visit? At my old college, as the newspaper photographer, I took some artsy pics up there. I will probably forever worry that leaving school resulted in the biggest career opportunity slipping through my fingers through that newspaper. Do you see a lot of wild animals where you live? Are any of them dangerous? I guess about the normal amount you'd see in the country. Some dangerous animals live here, sure, that's probably everywhere, but you very rarely see any. Aside from when you were born, have you ever had to stay the night in the hospital? For suicidal thoughts and one attempt, yes. Have you ever experienced a panic attack? Ahhhh, do I know those well. Thankfully, it's been a long time since I had an all-out panic attack. Would you ever want to go into the medical profession? Was your answer different pre-COVID? Nope. Well, besides being a vet, which I haven't wanted to be since I was a kid. Where you live, are people paying attention to whatever restrictions are in place to help control COVID? Many? No. Because it's apparently a fuckin hoax or not as bad as the government wants us to think. Fucking cretins. Do you get a real or artificial Christmas tree? Artificial. Real ones aren't worth the money nor mess. What’s your favourite type/flavor of popcorn? Caramel corn. Do you drink oat milk? No, but I'm interested in at least trying it. The dairy industry is absolutely repulsive if you look into it, and I'd love to do what I can to take as little part in it as possible... even though I am a dairy fiend. I seriously wish I could go vegan, I am just WAY too picky for it. Do you love thrifting? Oh fuck yes. I've been very few times in my life, but I'mm all about it. Do you consider using only lowercase letters your aesthetic? I do find it visually appealing; I like the flow of similar letter height. I never do it for "serious" things, but on places where it's "for the aesthetic," it's likely that's how I'll write something. Do you say “mood?” Way too much lmao. Do you own fairy lights? No, though I would like them if it wouldn't look stupid in my room. Do you own glass straws because the metal ones kind of gross you out because you can’t tell if they are clean or not? ... I didn't know glass straws were a thing. I have a handful of metal ones though, but I always forget I have one in my purse when I go out... Have you made a TikTok? No. Do you own airpods? No. Are you afraid of Mercury in retrograde? I don't believe in a planet's position or whatever having any effect on people. Do you make life choices based on astrology? Definitely not, considering I don't believe in it to begin with. How many pairs of converse shoes do you own? Maybe like, five? Number of jeans in your closet: Zero. What accent do you have? Not really any, but sometimes I sound kinda southern with specific words. Do you have a big butt? Yo I got a Hank Hill ass, so no. Do you count how long you and your gf/bf have been together? In my past relationships, yes, I assigned our anniversary to memory. I don't really... know why, like it doesn't really matter how long you've been together, I just do. Have you graduated? From HS, yes. I dropped out of college three times lmao. Rihanna or Lady GaGa? Ohhh, not sure. Maybe GaGa, but both ladies have songs I love. "Disturbia" doess beat all of her songs, tho. The fuckin BEAT. Do you use fake eyelashes? Never tried 'em. Which was the last book that really captivated you? The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood. What makeup brands do you use? I'm not loyal to any, really. I would be if I could afford expensive shit, but yeah, that ain't my life.

#survey #surveys #questions #questionnaire #lyrics: ''battle cry'' by blood on the dance floor

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adventuresloane · 4 years

Text

We Do Have Reputations

Pairing: Hurley/Sloane

Words: 3.7k

Rating: T (for suggestive language and description of injuries)

Light Angst/Hurt and Comfort

Read on AO3

((Imma keep it real with you chief, this is just an edited/expanded version of the fic I wrote for that ask meme lol))

Hurley rounded the corner into the alley and saw the blood black and bright as motor oil in the nighttime. She had been expecting and dreading it.

"Shit, Sloane." She didn't remember until a moment later about using real names out in public, and she couldn't bring herself to care even after she did. She ran forward to where Sloane sat slumped against the wall and slid to a stop on her bare knees.

Underneath the black, beaked racing helmet, her breathing came out ragged. She brushed away Hurley's hand when she carefully tried to lift the bird mask away. "Alright, Curls, I'd say you're the healer of our team, yeah?" Her hand rested on her belly, over the spot where the thin wooden shaft stuck out of her. "Do I leave this in me or pull it out now?"

"Sloane, you need a fucking hospital," she hissed. "I'm taking you."

"Oh, and you're going to check me in there, Lieutenant? That'll look good."

"I'll just drop you off and go if that's what you want! I'll be anonymous."

"No. They could still figure out who I am there, even without the mask." She pushed herself up slowly against the brick wall with one hand. "Besides, I'm not even that bad."

"Sloane..."

"I'm not! Just..." Behind the helmet's dark visor, it was difficult to tell whether she was making eye contact. But she turned fully toward Hurley for the first time all night. "Just help me out a little now, alright? Then I'll take care of myself afterward, I promise."

She tried to give Sloane a glare that she couldn't sustain for long. In the dark, it would be hard to see her disapproval anyway. Hurley finally relented and let out her held breath, though it left her feeling no more relieved. Drops still fell from Sloane's stomach now and again. "If you're going to run, you should take the bolt out. You might bleed more, but it's better than risking more internal damage while you're moving around," she murmured. Then she paused and placed a hand over Sloane's, where it rested over her gut. "Would you...would you rather do it yourself or should I..."

"Could you?"

For a long time, Hurley took in the cold air and just kept taking it in. It made her shiver as she wrapped her hand firmly around the tail end of the crossbow bolt. She kissed the only exposed part of Sloane's skin that she could reach, where her neck met her collarbone, and then she pressed her forehead gently against her chest there, mingling their cooled sweat. Then she removed the serrated arrowhead the only way that one could when one was without magic-induced anesthesia, surgical tools, and time.

Sloane barely kept herself from screaming. As it was, the sound strangled halfway up her throat and the air came out as a gasp. "Sorry, sorry, shh..." At once, Hurley tore the fabric from the bottom of her gi--first-aid kit wasn't as easy to reach--and started to press it against the wound. She imbued it with what healing ki she could, but a few seconds of contact would never be enough. Harm was an instance; mending was a process.

Sloane was almost doubled over, coiling her body around the wound like she were shielding a child in her lap. Briefly, she shook against Hurley but still stood. She shouldn't have had to. It might have been absurd, but she wanted Sloane collapsing into her, wanted to take on all her weight. "I know it hurts. I'm sorry. I'm..." She swallowed hard. "I'm so sorry..."

"No, it's fine," she croaked. "I asked you to do it."

"Well, you didn't ask for this! I'll kick their asses for you, alright? They're not getting away with this."

Sloane simply took the fabric from her hands and pressed it to her own stomach as she began to move away. "We'll talk later, okay? I'll get--shit."

Hurley heard it, too, a second later. The click of crossbows being cocked and footsteps rushing down the street. Without another word, Sloane took off running and disappeared around the bend.

That left her to turn around and face her troop of fellow officers as they came into view before her--bows drawn, and by the gods, she was going to report every one of them later for aiming a weapon without a target in sight. "Hold your fire!" she blurted.

Only when they all stopped and stared at her blankly did she realize that she should probably justify that, along with the panic that pitched her voice upward.

"Ah...these are apartments along this alley. All of them, I think. I'm not going to have stray bolts going into folks' homes while they sleep!"

It wasn't a good lie. She would've known that even if she hadn't seen the confused glances they gave each other. There was a reason she liked to leave the lying to Sloane when they were on the verge of being discovered. But anyway, her officers were meant to listen to her whether they believed her or not. "The Raven's still running. Took off down Hoopoe Street in the direction of Town Hall. You both, head west and see if you can cut her off!" And like that, she sent them off in different directions, none of them the way in which Sloane had gone. Later, they'd talk around the water cooler at the office about how the thief had slipped off again, how they'd practically had her in the bag before she'd just vanished like shadow passing into darkness.

Hurley followed them, but she wasn't with them. She thought of Sloane running on rooftops, stark black up against the moon, hair waving behind her. For a moment, she thought, again, of saying, Fuck every last one of you. Or else saying nothing to them, ever again. She considered how easy it would be to slip away herself, just to fall back from the group until the darkness took her away from them entirely, to leave her badge on the militia's doorstep and become a second silhouette coursing alongside the Raven, in the moonlight for all to see. And then she stopped, because if she thought too hard about it, she'd think of all the reasons it wouldn't work, and she didn't want the fantasy to deflate just yet.

She couldn't, however, make herself stop thinking of the possibility that Sloane was not running now, could not run now.

It was difficult, when she got back to the office in the wee hours of the morning, to convince her superiors that she was simultaneously too hurt to perform the rest of her shift and not hurt enough to be immediately sent to an ER. The signs of a scuffle with the Raven helped, though--she hadn't even thought to point out her torn clothes until someone mentioned it. Maybe they saw the worry showing through her shaken, shaking self and mistook it for a rare bout of concern for her own safety. That probably helped, too.

While she filled out the most perfunctory of reports, she attempted to put some of her training to use by looking at the situation for what it was. She had once watched Sloane walk off the racetrack with shrapnel in one thigh and a burn on the other, giving the crowd an overdone bow on the way out. She was no stranger to this. At this point, neither of them were. True, at the races, medical help was usually nearby, because it had to be. Sometimes it was very close indeed. Nobody had seen it, but after the Raven had walked away under her own power, she had gotten to a quiet place out of the sun and leaned on the Ram, who got to work on the gashes. The Ram wasn’t there now.

The safehouse that Sloane had set up for herself sat on the second floor of an empty apartment building that had been slated for demolition for three years. It was after moonset and not nearly soon enough that Hurley made it to the paint-chipped door on foot, having stepped around the places where she knew the invisible Alarm spells had been set, and rapped out the special, encoded knock signaling that it was her.

There was silence from the other side. She began to wonder whether Sloane had gone elsewhere, or whether she had been able to go anywhere. Both her actual apartment and the garage they shared were much farther away from the spot where everything had happened last night, so it wouldn’t have made sense for her to run there, but then, almost half a night had gone by. Already, Hurley had wasted so much time trying to get the militia off her back without them suspecting how urgent it was. She might not have been quick enough.

She was just preparing to knock again when she heard shuffling from deep inside. It must have gone on for a couple of minutes before the door finally creaked open. Through the crack slipped a hand clutching the shining, gold-painted horn of her familiar ram mask.

She blinked at it. "Why--"

"Just put it on!" Sloane's voice hissed from inside.

Hurley obliged and stepped through to see—thank the gods—Sloane, standing, still in the helmet that enclosed her whole head. She opened her mouth to speak, but she didn’t have the chance to get out a sound. Without a word, and without allowing for a chance to ask how she was feeling, Sloane turned. Hurley had come with the energy of Healing Hands tingling in her palms in case she needed it, but Sloane seemed to be walking better already, upright if a little slow and limping. She was walking away just fine.

Sloane was a good actress, Hurley reminded herself. She was pretending not to care. That didn't mean she might not have also been angry about being shot by people under Hurley's command.

"You know, Raven, I think I recall you being the one who wanted to keep this on the down-low." The call came from the living room, slathered in mock-sympathy. "Just between us and all that. Wouldn't want word getting back to the other racers that you weren't in top shape."

"Yeah, well, you're shit out of luck, because it's no one you can gossip with here. It's just my partner."

That word again. It was the only one she had ever heard Sloane use to refer to her, at least in front of anyone else. "Racing partner" is what she meant, of course. Hurley wasn't sure if she intended for the plausible deniability about what sort of "partners" they were aside from that. But no other word like "girlfriend" or "lover" had been used by either of them, not out loud. The question had been, after maybe the third instance of supposedly "no-strings-attached" sex, Hey, so is this just what we’re doing now? and the answer had been, Looks like it. It had seemed simple and natural. They hadn't been any more specific about what “this” was at the time.

"Oh, I know who it is."

Hurley pushed past the old woven rug that hung in the doorway to come face-to-face with someone who looked as though every part of them had been stretched out. They were human, tall and narrow as the gap between jail bars, with long arms full of measly muscles and straight hair down to their knees. There was smile on their face and a shine in their eye. "Well, hello, Ram! You clean up alright. I'm used to seeing you covered in dirt." They said this as Sloane sat down in front of them. They laid hands back on her bared belly, where the wound had begun to close up and her muscles looked tense.

Hurley took one look at Crane and then glanced back Sloane's way. "Raven, seriously?"

"What? They know what they're doing!"

"Why, thank you! I’m extremely talented," said the person who, though they hadn’t won a race in months, could easily clinch the award for Shadiest Cleric on the Racetrack, and Most Likely All of Goldcliff. (Honestly, maybe they were lying. They could have been some bizarre kind of warlock.)

"They're going to bleed you dry at best and might make it even worse if it suits them. You know that, right?"

"Excuse me? I think you'll find that I'm doing a fine job stopping her bleeding, no thanks to you. And it’d be bad for business if word got around I was hurting people who paid me."

"Hey, I didn't ask you to come and watch," Sloane said with a half-shrug, as though entirely unbothered one way or the other.

She was a good actress. But that, quite frankly, was a little much. Hurley chewed on the tip of her tongue until it just barely began to hurt. It was bad enough, she thought, that she wasn't the one doing the healing right now, that someone else was putting their hands on her. She could, just barely, watch strands of this asshole's foreign magic slither like worms into Sloane. But to imply that she'd ever choose not to be by Sloane's side was adding too much insult to injury.

On the other hand, it wasn't like this was anything new. Given how many racers engaged in worse illegal activity on the side, most rivals were loath to show their faces to one another, let alone share personal details that could be used against them. For her and Sloane, that had always meant keeping their closeness under wraps, in front of criminals and law-abiding citizens alike. Which was to say, everybody.

Finally, Crane stepped away and let Sloane run her hand over the spot that had just healed. "See, now, you're good as new! Be back to eating shit on that racetrack in no time. That'll be 700 gold, my dear."

"That's a funny way of saying 300 gold," Sloane responded at once, putting her jacket back on.

“Do you think I make house calls in the middle of the night for fun?”

“I think you’re out of your mind. I could have bought three healing potions for that much.”

“Ah, but you didn’t!”

Seeing where this was going and not especially keen on a five-minute-minimum bargaining session over how much Sloane's actual life was worth, Hurley stepped forward to drop a sack of coins into Crane's hand. "That's 650, alright? Now please leave."

"Ram, fuck's sake, don't give into them like that!"

"Aw, very sweet of you, sheep."

"Fuck you," Sloane said. A selfish part of Hurley hoped that was for her.

"So it's true, then?" Crane's grin stayed smug, but it was no longer satisfied. There was something new in the way they held themself. The way their head tilted as though trying to see from a different angle, the little bounce in their knee as they stood there. Behind those thin, grinning lips, it was clear, they salivated for an answer. "What they say about the two of you, I mean."

"They say a lot of things about us. Now kindly fuck off out of here." Her tone was flippant, but the skin stretched taut over her knuckles as her fist kept tightening at her side. She had one arm outstretched toward the door, and that was held stiffly, too.

But she might have just said yes. There weren't many these days in the racing scene who didn't at least suspect, and these were people who would wear their "lucky" boxers for two months straight if they thought it would let them win a race or outrun a cop. If they had a suspicion, any inkling of what might give them even the barest advantage, then they were acting on it already. Sloane lost nothing by confirming what everyone already thought they knew anyway.

As for what the pair of them stood to gain? Admittedly, Hurley wasn't quite sure. Maybe freedom, or maybe just a way of knowing that they'd been free all along. Free to share their victory kiss out in the open, drenched in sweat and the sun and the clamor of the crowd and each other. They didn't always have to crash together rough and quick as they ducked down a shadowed alleyway after a race.

"Sure, sure." They sneered. "I was just wondering if I could tell everyone that I heard wedding bells."

Her fingers uncoiled only to snap to the handle of the dagger at her thigh. Her shoulders were forward, the ruff of feathers around her collar seeming to puff out like the neck of a frilled lizard. She walked at them quick enough to startle them back a step, the black beak of her mask inches from their eye. Hurley had seen her like this before, this posturing. There was a time when she might have fallen for it herself. That was before she knew to look for the quickening of Sloane's breath, the way her whole body stiffened as if bracing for a blow. She almost felt like ruining it. She felt like saying, I see you bluffing. She felt like saying, You’re full of shit. She felt like saying, You don’t have to do this. "Crane, if you fuck me over--"

"Alright, alright!" Their hands were up in front of them. "Fantasy Jesus Christ, you woke up on rather the wrong side of the bed, didn't you?"

"I got shot."

"And you're a very bad sport about it." They spun on their heel and raised their hand without looking back. "Happy trails, you two."

Sloane slumped as soon as their footsteps had faded completely. She was stable now, and the only blood left in the room had long since dried to shit-brown, but exhaustion pressed down on her like a hand on the place where her neck met her spine. Hurley saw it and had the thought, as though it had been whispered to her without warning, One of these days, I'm going to make you honest.

As soon as she sat on the couch, Hurley joined her, trying to ignore the springs pressing up against her under the ratty upholstery. "Sloane?"

Sloane turned her way. This time, when she tried to lift the raven mask away, she wasn't prevented. For the first time since yesterday, she saw bright green eyes underlined by dark crescents, looking her softly all over. Sloane also didn’t flinch when she reached out toward her face—Hurley had always understood why she hadn’t liked hands coming near her, but she’d said that she wanted to break herself of the habit anyway, and it seemed that she had. She brushed aside the strands of hair that had been plastered to the side of her face by sweat since last night, rubbed lightly at the indents in her skin that had been left by the mask. She closed her eyes slowly when Hurley ran a thumb over her cheek, and she turned her head to the side when Hurley tried to get a better look to see if she was okay, and this was how Sloane loved her, by giving way to her like this. And this was why she loved to be loved by Sloane, because she relented for no one else, because she let herself be moved by no one else. This belonged to Hurley alone.

Though that didn’t mean it had to always be behind closed doors. Would it be such a bad thing if people knew the way those eyes fixed on her? Would it be so bad if, when they were out in the wind, people saw her brush Sloane’s hair aside to get a better look at them?

Of course it would be, for plenty of reasons.

"What are you lookin' at?" Sloane finally murmured with a small, tired smile. "I know I look like shit."

"I'm sure I do, too. We both haven't slept."

“Rough night, huh?

Hurley snorted. “I think I should be the one saying that to you.” In the growing light just before sunrise, she could see what she hadn't before, the smaller cuts across her chest and over her arms. Nothing big, but there, and red. "They missed all of this."

Sloane raised her brows a little. "I didn't ask them to take a look."

"You shouldn't have to ask." Hurley stared her down on purpose as she said it, to make sure the words stuck out to her.

It was unclear whether they did. She glanced away and scratched at her hairline. After seeming to think for a moment, then, she said, "Well, they would've charged me more for that, I bet. Speaking of which, I guess this means I have to pay you back."

"You're an ass," Hurley said just before kissing her, slowly this time. Sloane placed her hands over Hurley's where they rested against her damaged chest, keeping them pressed there. Hurley had her eyes closed, since she didn't have to look to feel the way the warm healing magic flowed from her fingers and into Sloane's body. She could sense the cuts closing one by one.

If she could help it, she’d always give Sloane a reason to be honest. She'd be the reason Sloane hummed to herself when she worked on the engine and laughed with her mouth wide open. Hurley would be the reason she felt safe enough to lean forward and rest her head on someone’s shoulder and doze at dawn in a run-down old apartment, the way she was now.

And it didn't have to be now, but Hurley saw forward to a time when the two of them clasped hands out in the desert noonday, out where people couldn’t ignore the flash of her black hair as the sun sparked off it. Where people couldn’t ignore how proud she was of this woman and being chosen by her. Not now, but one of these days, something would give. One of these days, they wouldn’t be able to contain themselves anymore.

#hurley #sloane #hurloane #taz balance #taz #the adventure zone #the zone cast #taz hurley #taz sloane #taz fanfic #fan fiction #hurt and comfort #light angst

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benvoliosantodomingo · 4 years

Text

@portiaphan asked for / actually friends au mentioned / @romroses

the apartment of jack hawthorne, oxfordshire, england / before

the sound of his phone vibrating against the nightstand rouses bellamy from sleep. jack makes a soft sound that might be an acknowledgement that something is happening, but might also be nothing more than an exhale of breath, and his hand tightens where it’s gently curled around the skin of bellamy’s hip, before it relaxes again. he smiles, and for a moment he is keen to ignore the instance of the intrusion--he closes his eyes again and focuses on the warmth of the contact, of the body pressed up against his spine, and for a moment he is lost to the memory of the night before.

i’ll be the first to admit that it’s cliche, jack had said, his lips and teeth stained by the wine. but i think you’re the most real and present person that i have ever met. bellamy had rolled his eyes and declared that such phrasing was cliche, and that someone with the level of education that his boyfriend possessed was capable of doing so much better--and then jack had smiled, in that way he always did. open and inviting, and yet somehow teasing--as if between his lips was the answer to every question bellamy could ever think to ask, if only he could conjure the correct phrasing. he had smiled and pressed his lips to bellamy’s jaw, followed the curve of the bone all the way to his lips. no, he had said. i think terribly real is the best way i could think to describe you. warm to the touch in a way that no one else is, at home inside of the cathedral of yourself. the sun in constant orbit, perhaps.

he feels the corner of his lips pulling up in a lazy smile, and he has a half formed idea that involves rolling over and seeing what else he can conjure out of the mouth of the poet, when the sound of the phone going off again begins to register. he huffs out an annoyed breath, and brings the screen close to his face, in an effort to assist his still heavy with sleep eyes.

three texts from marcelo, ten from roman, a missed call from odessa, one from paola and henry a piece, and two missed calls from pandora.

he drags a hand over his face and exhales slowly, before pressing a kiss between jack’s eyes and somehow managing to bring himself to his feet, and subsequently the kitchen. the sun, or at least, what passes for sun in england, is just beginning to rise as he fills the kettle with water and carefully places it on the stove, and he comes to the conclusion that it is far too early, relative to the amount of wine he consumed the night before.

he leans against the kitchen counter and presses pandora’s name on the screen. it's best to begin the process of healing whatever new wound verona has chosen to deal out with a modicum of truth--before he makes his way to whatever fantastic recollection his two best friends will inevitably share between them.

“bellamy,” she answers, and her voice is rough around the edges--tired in a way she doesn’t normally allow others to glimpse. “have you talked to anyone else, yet?”

“no,” he immediately starts to feel the familiar mixture of emotion in the pit of his stomach--something like survivor’s guilt, mixed with sadness and something that might be residual anger at the life they were all thrown into, at the city that brought them into adulthood exhausted, sharp edged in an effort to draw attention away from each tender bruise. “you were the first call i made--is everything all right?”

she is silent for a long moment, during which bellamy’s mind begins the process of coming to terms with about a dozen horrible possible scenarios. finally he hears the sound of a long exhale of breath, as if his friend is attempting to steel herself for something. for as long as he’s known her, pandora phan has been afraid of nothing--what could she possibly have to tell him that would require so much courage?

“are you sitting down?” she asks, and bellamy groans.

“just tell me--if something happened--” he huffs out a breath and worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “i’ll come home, i’ll help in any way i can--just tell me, so that we can get the hard part out of the way.”

she pauses again, before she speaks. “i wanted you to hear it from me, first. roman and i announced our engagement last night. or well--damiano, and my family, announced it to roman and i. bellamy--” there’s an emotion in her voice that he can’t quite place, that he hasn’t heard from her before--he’s not sure, he’s too busy trying to decipher the meaning of the sudden roaring in his own chest. “bellamy, you have to know that we had nothing to do with it. we can’t just say no to these things.”

i’m sorry, he wants to say. i love you dearly, but i can’t really process this information right now. for some reason, it feels like the floor, perhaps the earth itself, has suddenly given way underneath my feet. can i call you back?

i’m sorry, he wants to say. i love you dearly, but i can’t. not when it's him. you understand, right? no? i don’t really either. does it feel like the miles of distance between us has suddenly compounded in the center of your chest, as well?

i’m sorry, he wants to say, for reasons he can’t quite articulate.

instead, he chuckles, and he’s certain that the sound is the furthest thing from genuine. “panda--i’m happy for you, really. i’m glad that it's you.”

he notices then that his fingers are gripped tightly on the edge of the counter, that the tea kettle has been hissing steam and making noise for long enough to draw jack out of the bedroom, wearing a pair of bellamy’s pajama bottoms, his bleach blonde hair sticking up in odd angles that on any other morning, bellamy would gladly take the time to smooth out with a gentle hand.

“damiano is throwing a party, about a month from now.” pandora says, though bellamy has trouble processing the words--the sound of her voice suddenly seems at odds with the life that bellamy has constructed for himself here. his life that’s filled with books, the sound of rain falling gently against a pane of glass, laughter followed by the honeyed words of a poet--verona seems like it should be on an entirely different celestial body from that life, not on the other end of a red string, pulling on his wrist. “we’d both like you to be there, if you can make it. bring your english boy with you--i know everyone would love to meet him. i’d love to meet him.”

he can hear her smile on the other end--he can almost see it too. determined, all teeth, only sad around the edges if you know to look for it. “of course i’ll be there--you’re two of my best friends. i wouldn’t miss it.” he smiles in return, and hopes she can hear it in the same way, hopes maybe she’ll imagine it happier, than it is in actuality.

“it will be good to see you. take care of yourself until then, bellamy.”

“you too, panda.”

he sets his phone down on the countertop, before accepting the mug of tea that jack presses into his hands. warm, but not quite real, at this particular moment in time. “what was that about?” his boyfriend asks, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

he hesitates--taps his fingers against the mug. it's emblazoned with the logo of a play they’d seen together on the west end a week ago--it's been bellamy’s favorite, ever since. he sets it down carefully next to his phone, and shrugs one shoulder. “two of my friends from back home just got engaged. i’m thinking about flying out for the party.”

jack smiles warmly, gently rests a hand on bellamy’s shoulder, before it moves up his neck, cards through the short hair at the base. “that will be the first time you’ve been home in a while, won’t it? i can come with you, if you’d like.”

bellamy shakes his head. “i’ll be fine. i don’t plan on staying.”

the home of damiano montague, verona, italy / before

damiano montague towers over his guests, an image that is almost comically opposed to the glimmering crystal of the champagne flute in his hand. its clear to everyone invited that he is proud of his son, of the woman they’ll welcome into their family sooner rather than later, and it's clear to everyone invited that the young couple are a good match for one another--surely the montague empire will only flourish, once the uncrowned king and queen of verona ascend to their rightful thrones, once the mind of pandora phan is united in matrimony and purpose with the charm and energy of roman montague. it hardly needs to be said, and yet damiano still smiles, taps his knife against his glass, and declares that he would like to propose a toast.

bellamy takes the opportunity to wrap his jacket around odessa’s shoulders, and make a half hearted excuse about needing some air.

he steps out into the massive expanse of the montague garden, which has been strung up with an innumerable amount of fairy lights for the occasion. the night air is cool, as opposed to the oppressive heat of people pressed together inside, and the setting is almost beautiful--but he can’t un-know what’s happening inside, behind the door he now has his back to. he can’t un-know how he feels about it, either.

once, he had known the exact number of steps it took to gain enough momentum to push himself over the gate nearest to roman’s room. once, he had known the exact number of steps it took to get from the other side of that gate to the trellis that just to happened to climb just underneath his best friend’s bedroom window. it had seemed vital then, to know such things--now, as he wanders through the foliage, yet again trying to stay hidden away from view, it feels half remembered, unimportant.

why would he choose the boy who had been so desperate to be close to him that he had memorized every detail of the process, to the point of it being damn near muscle memory?

he throws back what remains of his champagne, startles at a hand on his shoulder.

pandora smiles, presses a kiss to his cheek. she’s holding both of her shoes, and wearing a black zip up hoodie over her dress. “i--wasn’t feeling well.” he tries to say, in way of explanation. “didn’t realize how much time had passed.”

“it’s all right.” she says, in a tone of voice that is kinder than it has any right to be, all things considered. “i can’t imagine how overwhelming it must be, to suddenly be back in the belly of the beast.” she leans her head on his shoulder. “i’m glad you came, bellamy.”

he exhales, a shaky release of breath that suddenly feels trapped and hard to draw. “of course--it’s not every day that two of your best friends get engaged, after all. what kind of person would i be if i missed this?”

she shakes her head, wraps her arms around his middle. “one with self preservation instincts, bell.” he hugs her in return, presses a kiss to the top of her head. her voice is quiet, meant for only bellamy to hear, in comparison to her usual concise and cutting manner of speaking. “i’m so sorry. i see how you look at him. i know how he talks about you. if he had a choice--”

her voice trails off, and bellamy bites down hard on his bottom lip, until he can taste copper on his tongue.

“i should be the one apologizing to you.” he murmurs, after an indeterminate amount of time has passed. maybe an eternity, maybe only a few minutes. “i wish i could stop--but i think--” he chuckles, though it’s a hoarse sound, like sandpaper rubbing against brick. “i think i’ve felt this way longer than i’ve known that i have.”

he inhales and exhales slowly, rubs a hand gently over her shoulder. “i’m going back to england tomorrow, you won’t have to worry about me.”

she pulls away, in an effort to meet his gaze properly. “don’t be an idiot, bellamy santo-domingo.” she shoves at him playfully, before she rests both of her hands on his chest. “i am always going to worry about you. but you should know, that until--i don’t know, whatever happens--i won’t hurt him.”

she hugs him again, and he rests his chin on top of her head. “just--don’t stay away too long, okay? he misses you more than you know.”

she laughs, and lets out a long and dramatic exhale of breath. “if we don’t get back in there, people are going to get suspicious of the wrong thing.”

her offers her his arm, and together, they head back in the direction of the house.

#i am inimitable ; i am an original / drabbles #if you don't have blood on your hands by the end of this ; you weren't listening / pandora phan #technically still on hiatus but I couldn't sleep so I decided to knock out some drabbles #this got SO LONG how did that EVEN HAPPEN

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sabraeal · 5 years

Text

We Seek That Which We Shall Not Find, Chapter 6

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5

Written for Trope Madness’s betting kitty winner, @ruleofexception! It’s been....over six months, but here is this HUGE BEAST of a chapter. I know I said I thought this would be the last Laxdo chapter, BUT...there’s gonna be at least one more!

There hadn’t been much in the way of entertainment, back in the country. At least, not the way Shirayuki’s constantly bombarded with it here, videos up on billboards and scrolling across phones on the subway. The B&B had a limping internet connection, and with the only television in the common room, she’d spent more time inside a book or outside the house than struggling to find a channel the other boarders would agree to.

So when Zen asked her to join D&D, when Kiki had teased her for not even knowing what she’d said yes to --

Well, she’d done her research. Not just the kind Izana gave her, reading source books and studying lore, but watching videos, listening to podcasts, finding the D&D episodes of popular shows -- anything that would give her something to expect. Nothing could have rivaled her disappointment or her relief when she realized costumes were optional; she hadn’t known how she would cobble together historically accurate, fourth century Welsh gown when even the SCA shrugged their shoulders at the idea, but, well...it was exactly the sort of challenge she would have risen to, if she had the excuse.

Still, she’d thought she had an idea of what to expect: roleplay, quick thinking, rich story, complicated feelings, improv, maybe even some funny voices, but --

Nothing had prepared her for the amount of planning.

“So that’s it?”

Shirayuki startles; she’d been deep into splitting healing duties with Mitsuhide. Paladins are only half spell casters, only good for buffs and an occasional off-heal, so all the curse removal duties fall to Lynet. Bedwyr is more or less moral support; unless the curse itself had some sort of permanent stat drain, there’s nothing he can do.

Zen isn’t invested in this conversation, of course; magi don’t have magic that can’t be applied to themselves or their weapon. Which is why he’s craning his neck toward Izana, incredulous. “We just cast a whole bunch of Remove Curse and then hit the road?”

Shirayuki isn’t an expert on Izana’s expressions, not when the difference between them is the angle of an eyebrow or the twitch of a lip, but she feels confident in calling this one positively withering. “Is that what you think you should do?”

The temperature of the room drops two degrees. That’s a question where everyone knows the answer.

“We still don’t know who started this,” Mitsuhide tries, haltingly, thick fingers worrying at the edge of his character sheet. From the dog-eared corners on every side, this isn’t a first-time occurrence. “It’s not a good habit to leave enemies behind us.”

“Not a healthy one, at least,” Kiki adds, leaning her knee against the table.

“But we don’t have any hints either.” Zen’s flushed, frustrated. “Do you guys just want to hang around here, waiting for him to come back? If he comes back?”

“Or her.” Kiki’s brow twitches, and Shirayuki’s not sure whether to read it as amusement or annoyance. Maybe both is the better bet. “Then again, you haven’t tried to woo any rescued damsels this session, so probably not a dread sorceress. Unless there’s something Shirayuki isn’t telling us.”

Kiki turns to her with an inquisitive look, and even though she knows she’s joking, even though she sees the quirk at the corner of her lips, Shirayuki’s cheeks flare fire-engine red.

“Hey!” Zen snaps, not looking much better. “Shirayuki--”

“Well.” Obi’s mouth cants, eyes catching hers from their corners. “I know Beaumains is under her spell.”

She can feel it, this moment of opportunity being flung open like a window, and -- and his wink is not helping matters. Not at all. Especially not when Kihal’s flirt back or make out with his face is burning a hole in her pocket, reminding her of what she was trying to do before plot carried her away. It’s just --

She can’t say something now. This isn’t Lynet and Beaumains, this is -- is them, Shirayuki and Obi, and that might mean something, and she doesn’t -- she isn’t --

Well, there’s just a huge difference between a flirtation and a boyfriend, probably. And she hardly knows if she wants the first, let alone -- that. Not with some college boy she’s known a week. He might play trumpet, for all she knows.

The moment stretches on, too long, and Kiki hums, amused. “I suppose that is some damning evidence.”

“Okay.” Zen’s folded himself into a huff, fuming so hard it’s an honest surprise smoke isn’t pouring out his ears. “So you all think we should just...hang around? Hope for some Big Bad to come wandering back to check his work?”

“Well.” The word bursts out of her, unbidden, but -- she’s committed now, with everyone watching her. “We do have, um, another reason.”

He blinks, some of his flush fading back to pink. “Oh?”

“I, uh, only prepared one Removed Curse at our last rest.” Her hands twist themselves in knots under the table, anxious. “But I can fix that at our next one! If this works like it should, then I should be able to get everyone on their feet in...a few days, maybe?”

Zen lets loose a whine that would make a puppy worry. “A few days.”

“Um, well...” Shirayuki squirms in her seat. “Give or take.”

Kiki’s eyes narrow. “Just how many spell slots do you have?”

“Um...” She flips through her sheet, squinting at the chart on the second page. “Three?”

Mitsuhide lets out a worried hum, too high-pitched for a man his size. “How many people are under this spell again?”

The question sits heavily at the table until Izana leans back, the picture of surprise, and asks, “Oh, are you asking me?”

Zen stares. “Is there someone else who would know?”

“It could have been rhetorical. A nice little thought exercise.” He shrugs, and Shirayuki does not miss the way his mouth twitches at a corner. “But the answer is: as many as it takes to make a castle of this size function.”

Zen groans.

“Oh, looks like we better get comfy, my liege,” Obi says with a wolfish grin. “We’re gonna be here a while.”

This night is your longest yet; you had thought the first interminable, when all the miasma of illness hung thick over the room, choking you even behind yours mask. Despair had clung to every wrinkle in your gown, tight like a child’s hand on a mother’s apron, always niggling, reminding you that time would run out, that perhaps no amount of your cleverness could save them.

But hope is worse.

There is no reason to pick the man you do -- or rather, the lack of one becomes it. With only a single brew, Bedwyr suggests that you spend it on the castle’s healer, but--

But this magic is familiar somehow. It slicks along your skin like a drop of oil in water, and though you cannot divine its maker, you do not trust it to act as it ought. Curse though it may be, there is a part of you that worries any cure that you brew will only add to your troubles.

You worry over that same thought for endless hours, trying to get to the marrow of it, to logic out why dread settles so firmly in your gut. There has never been an instance, not one, where your gifts have failed you, where the joy of victory has turned to ashes in your mouth. Except for the one, of course.

Despite your misgivings, the man wakes at dawn.

It is not a calm thing, oh no; he heaves into life, breath filling his chest so forcefully it arches him upright. He clutches at his breast, wide-eyed, but besides the atrophy expected of long illness and the shock of waking, he is healthy. So healthy he empties the first bowl of broth you give him, and the second, and when you bring the third he inquires after a heel of bread as well.

“Well, this certainly stands as a testament to your skill,” Arturius remarks, bemused, as the man sops up his bowl. You are tired, and for a moment you are tempted to ask if he had doubted it, but -- it would be picking a fight, and it is not the prince’s fault that his particular skills meant he slept, rather than wait.

“I brewed more last night,” you tell him. “Enough dose for three.”

“Our priority is the healer, of course.” He bites his lip, head tipped back in thought. “But the others...”

For the first time in hours, you feel your mouth lift into a smile. “I did have a thought about that...”

Izana blinks. “The dwarf?”

“He’s cursed, isn’t he?” She must be the only one that remembers; despite happening only hours ago, the rest of the party stares blankly at her. “Worse than anyone else, if I’m remembering right.”

“Oh,” Obi hums, thoughtful. “Yeah, I think I remember that. He’s human.”

“Oh, right.” Zen scoops up the dwarf’s figure, squinting hard at its shapeless features. “I thought he was going to be the Big Bad’s sidekick, honestly.”

“Mm, agreed.” Kiki leans over, giving the plastic the same skeptical look. “I was waiting for the backstab.”

“Such little faith in your fellow man,” Izana clucks, shaking his head.

She arches a brow, eloquent in her disdain. “It is your game.”

His mouth stretches, curling into a smile Shirayuki’s only ever seen on the Grinch. “That is fair.”

“Still.” The word drags Izana’s attention back to her, his eyes almost comically wide. “I want to give our friend at least one of these. After all, he’s been helping us this whole time.”

“Has he though?” Obi mutters, and without even thinking, Shirayuki puts an elbow straight in his side.

Every hair stands on end as she realizes what she’s done. She’s -- she’s practically scolded him, the boy she maybe-kind of-might want to flirt with. Or his character, at least. For, you know, fun.

When she dares a glance at him, his eyes have rounded, eyebrows practically up at his hairline, but -- but --

He almost looks impressed.

“Huh,” Izana huffs out, drawing her attention back to the topic at hand. “Do you now.”

It’s not a question, but she hasn’t gotten this far by letting him practice his rhetoric. “I do.”

He hums, tapping at his notes. “Well, I suppose you could...try.”

“Me?” The dwarf shifts on his spindly legs, wringing his thick-fingered hands over his belly. “But -- but there are others. Other who would be of much more use than me!”

“We have more than enough for your healer,” you assure him, though you have to grit your teeth as he dances.

There’s something strange, off-kilter about the way he moves, about the way his face changes, as if your mind is trying to make him into two different people entirely -- one which is familiar, and one which is entirely not. It is tiring to say the least.

You meet his eyes, those warm hazel-green, and say, “You have helped us immeasurably. Who else could be more important than you?”

“The head of the guard?” he supplies with a squeak. “The steward. The -- the cook? Anyone, my lady, would be more helpful that me.”

You lower yourself to a chair, coming to his height. “No one is more important here than the man who knows how this all came to be.”

His gaze is watery when he tears it from yours. “No, no,” he insists, voice ragged. “Spend it on the others. All of them are more deserving than me.”

"Welp.” Obi pops the ‘p’, annoyed, and it draws attention to his mouth, to the way it fits around the words he speaks and -- well, Shirayuki really didn’t need help with that. “We’re doing real good, solving this mystery.”

It’s been three in-game days, and with every awoken man, more questions are asked than answered. So far none of them can remember being cursed, and when they bring the dwarf in front of them --

Well, Shirayuki knows this is all pretend, that the dwarf is really just Izana bending his voice into something new, but the way his expression crumples as every soldier calls him a stranger -- it’s a lot.

“What is even happening here?” Zen groans, fingers pulling at his face. “The dwarf knows something, but he won’t tell us.”

“He can’t tell us.” It comes out a little sharper than she intends, but -- it’s an important distinction. “He’s cursed.”

“Right,” he agrees absently. “But also he won’t let us help him, so it’s pretty much the same thing.”

Her hands clench on her lap. “It’s really n--”

“Can’t you just cast it on him anyway?” Obi asks, chin in hand, drumming his fingers on the table. “Then bingo-bango-bongo: the whole problem is solved.”

Her jaw drops. “I’m not going to treat a patient without his consent!”

Obi rounds on her, eyes incredulously wide. “He’s not real.”

That...is a good point, she’ll give him that.

“Well, he’s real to Lynet,” she informs him primly, setting her hands flat on the table. “And she would never.”

For a moment is mouth goes flat, annoyed, but then -- then it curls, Obi leaning casual on one fist. “I’m sure Beaumains could be persuasive.”

Her mouth wraps around the word, silent. The look he gives her is too knowing, eyebrows lifted in invitation, and she’s so, so tempted to ask just what kind of persuasion Beaumains might be inspired to do--

“Even if Shirayuki cast it, he could still resist it with a Will save,” Mitsuhide interjects, sending the moment skittering. “If he wanted to, at least. And then we’d be out of a spell slot.”

“If we’re stuck here, we should be focusing on the Big Bad anyway.” Zen settles back in his chair, running a hand through his hair and leaving it adorably askew, like he’d just woken up. “Someone has to have said something interesting, right? And we’re not just thinking about it.”

Mitsuhide leans a chin in his hand, pondering the idea. “The head of the guard mentioned that a traveling caravan came through before this all happened.”

Kiki nods. “And the steward mentioned buying wood from traveling merchants. Probably the ones who supplied the logs with the Will debuff.”

Zen settles back, thoughtful. “So you think they were force to sell the wood?”

“They must have some leverage on them,” Mitsuhide agrees. “They didn’t mention any children--”

“Or maybe,” Kiki deadpans, “they were all bandits?”

Mitsuhide gapes. “But there were women in the caravan.”

“Oh my,” she hums, teeth flashing behind her lips. “You’re right. How silly of me. We all know a woman could never be dangerous, oh no.”

“T-that’s not what I meant!”

“Oh?” Kiki smiles, and the room drops an entire degree. Shirayuki practically shivers in the chill. “It better not be.”

Shirayuki blinks, and between one moment as the next, Kiki stabs her pen into the table, leaving it quivering like a knife.

Izana huffs in annoyance. “Kiki, please. The table didn’t do anything to you.”

“It’s just between the leaves.” She shift her character sheets, and there it is: pen nib wedged perfectly into the crevice. With nothing more than a sharp tug, it’s back out again, twirling between Kiki’s long fingers. “Besides, it’s not like this is some family heirloom.”

“No,” Izana agrees, “but it’s the principle of the thing.”

“Okay, aside from Princess Kiki’s love for violence, which, by the way--” Obi tosses her a wink, which absolutely does not send a jolt of disappointment spear through Shirayuki’s belly-- “hot. It looks like our only lead are these bandits.”

Mitsuhide grunts. “We don’t know if they’re bandits.”

“Fine, Schrödinger’s bandits,” he sighs. “We don’t--what?”

The table is quiet, wide-eyed -- even Izana -- and into the silence, Zen says, “You know Schrödinger?”

Obi huffs. “What? I go to college. I know memes.”

“Wow,” Kiki manages, drawling every letter.

“Anyway.” Zen wields the word like a knife, trying to cut through the distractions. “We should track down these bandits--”

Mitsuhide clears his throat.

“Potential bandits,” Zen amends, annoyed. “So while Shirayuki is tending to the people here, we can start canvassing the area.”

“Oh!” It slips out of her, like a punch to the gut. If she’s back at the castle, and Beaumains is out looking for bandits --

She shakes her head. That’s not what this game is about. It’s about saving her sister and having fun with her friends, not -- not practice flirting.

Unfortunately, it’s too late to take it back. Every eye at the table falls on her, and she squirms. “Um.”

“That isn’t very fair,” Kiki observes, dragging her gaze to Zen. “Shirayuki should get a chance to have an adventure too, not just heal in the background.”

“But we can’t take her with us.”

She hadn’t even minded being left behind -- Izana would give her something to do, and it wasn’t as if Lynet would feel strongly about bandit chasing -- but it stings, hearing it from his mouth. Zen had wanted her to be Gwenhwyfar, to be the one waving the handkerchief from the parapets. Instead she’d made Lynet -- an alchemist, an arcanist, an asset -- but even still he’s finding ways to keep her at Camelot, leaving her behind when the knights rode out.

Mitsuhide grunts, disapproving.

“She’s using her highest slots to do this curse thing,” Zen explains, and she gets it, she does, it just doesn’t help. “If we find the Big Bad--”

“--We should probably have our healer with us.” Obi’s mouth cants into a lop-sided smile, cajoling. “Come on, my liege. We don’t have to jump in the deep end the second we get a hint of where this guy is. We have plenty of time to give my lady here a heads up before we get ourselves neck-deep in trouble.”

He winks, and -- and maybe she’s just projecting, but it feels different from the one he gave Kiki. More...personal.

“Um.” Now is really not the time to blurt out, I’m more upset that I can’t flirt with your character, so she just nods, ducking her head so he can’t see her blush. “Okay! But I’ll need a day to swap out my spells.”

He’s just -- adjusting, she knows that, but his foot swipes right along the bottom of hers and every hair stands on end. Oh, goodness. “We’ll see what we can do, my lady.”

Each day, more men awake from their stupors; three at a time, all of them disoriented, groggy. You had hoped that when you woke the healer, he would at least be able to ease your burden, but all the cursed are emaciated, their muscles atrophied to the point that they must be helped to the chamber pot and back. It is up to you to brew the potions, to cook the broth and, eventually, heartier stews to strengthen them.

And still there are more chores; small things: opening windows and keeping your stores stocked, organizing and documenting the treatment of your patients. Each day blends into each other, sleep only coming in fits and starts and never restful. Still, it is enough. You keep putting one foot in front of the other, hands doing what you ask of them, until --

Until one day they don’t.

Most of the men have not been moved from the great hall, though now, at least, there is room between them to walk, not just bodies laid haphazardly across the stone. It is not a situation you find ideal, however -- it is not feasible to move so many, and in their fugue state, few will care about privacy or proximity. However, those awoken few have been moved to more private chambers; the weft of the curse is thick, as fine a weave as any linen, and you suspect it does not allow any inference, either magic or mundane. Those who lay dreaming are free from any ailment save the caster’s making, but the others --

Well, that many men pressed so close is just tinder waiting for a kindling.

There is a way within Laxdo’s halls to reach the dormitories from the great hall, however, a quick dash through the courtyard’s arcades cuts minutes off a day that already has too few to spare. You hurry through, gaze set ever forward, laden with yet another heavy box of supplies.

Your mind is not on your day, of course. Oh no, it has long wandered far into stranger lands. The dwarf is what plagues your thoughts, for with every man that wakes, their eyes passing over him with barely more than a curious glance and no flash of recognition, he fades a little further. One day, you fear, you will turn to see he is little more than a shadow, a suggestion rather than a reality.

Whoever he is, he must be much changed. Perhaps he is knight, strong bodied and deep-voice; or perhaps he is truly only a boy, and --

Your heel catches, so hard that your teeth jitter in their sockets. It snaps your spine straight, feet staggering beneath you to balance both your weight and the box’s.

All for naught; the shock jolts like lightning through your limbs, and the moment you right yourself, the box slips from boneless fingers, straight to the stone below.

There is a moment where your life flashes before your eyes. Or at least, the last week, which has felt like a lifetime. On shivering fawn legs, you bend, touching each bottle and jar as if they were the saints’ bones themselves. It is not the first inventory you have done with your heart lodged in your throat, but it is certainly the one where you had the most to lose. After all, it wasn’t as if the people of Castle Perilous would rely on their young mistress alone.

Your breath huffs out on a sigh. Misfortune’s bony fingers have no hooks in your skirts today. Not one cracked jar or one broken seal.

You get to your feet, hauling the box into you arms, but -- but you are made suddenly and terrifying aware that you have not slept for days. The world swings in a mad carousel around you, and with the momentum of your lift and the weight of the box you tilt back --

But never hit the ground.

“Oh,” Zen groans, flopping back in his seat. “Come on. Really?”

“Oooh, master, you just wish you had moves like me.” Obi’s hips give a sultry swivel in his seat as he scoops up his natural twenty. It absolutely does not give Shirayuki any -- any ideas. The room is just unnaturally warm for a basement.

“Careful, smooth moves,” Kiki deadpans. “K-pop impressions and bad pick-up lines won’t save you from not investing in your health.”

Obi huffs out a laugh with one of his devil-may-care shrugs. “I don’t invest in nerd things like hit points, I invest in being cool, and I stand by that decision. Besides,” he says, pink flaring high on his cheeks, “my pick-up lines are great.”

“Name one that worked.”

“I dunno.” His shoulders hunch, defensive. “All of them.”

Kiki’s eyebrows lift. “On who?”

Me. Shirayuki catches the word in her teeth, swallowing it down. It’s not -- it’s not even true. Beaumains has been using them on Lynet, and Lynet is the one interested, not -- not her. They’re different people. Probably.

“You know.” He sniffs. “People. You don’t know them.”

If anything, Kiki’s brows only raise higher. “Hmm.”

“If we’re quite done speculating about Obi’s romantic prowess,” Izana interjects smoothly. “I do believe we’re in the middle of something?”

Heat blooms across your back, the way it would when you sat at the hearth, tilting a book so it might not lay in shadow. It smolders along your side, not like a bonfire, but a brazier, or even a bed warmer --

Ah, now there is a thought your father would not appreciate you having.

Your gaze is fixed to your supplies, but it takes you a long moment to realize you are not holding them. No, it is a steady hand over you, sheathed in black leather, and in one, delirious moment, you realize that bare indigo must be pressed into your back, hooking just so at your hip. He doesn’t even shake.

“Careful there, my lady.” The words rumble against your ear, too intimate in the cage of his chest. “Keep this up, and a man could get ideas.”

You lift your gaze, gold tangling with green, breath catching in your throat. He might have made a shoddy assassin, but as your protector, well --

“Do you think if it happens another time, you will believe it?”

He blinks, eyes as wide and gold as coins. “Believe what?”

With all the courage you can summon, you mimic his flirtatious smirk and say, “That I’m falling for you.”

If the birds still sang at Laxdo, then the air would not be so still, so silent. At it is, you could hear a pin drop, so long as it was louder than the throb of your heart.

In a single, staggering moment, you are back on your feet, and Beaumains shakes his head, hunching his shoulders against the cold. “You need to work on your delivery.”

Your jaw snaps shut. “What do you mean?”

“You’re not the flirting type, my lady.” He shrugs, a smirk peeking out from behind his cowl. “Too earnest, I think.”

Blood boils in your veins, and you know he can see it on your skin when you say, “It does not seem fair that you may make love as you wish, but yet I cannot.”

He huffs out a laugh, sweeping a step closer. Oh, he smells...nice. Leather and pine with a hint of brimstone. “You know what I have and you don’t, my lady?”

“What?” You wish it wasn’t so breathless.

He leans in, and unbidden, your eyes flutter to half-mast. “Charisma.”

“Wait.” Kiki snags his sheet, sliding it across the table. “How on earth is your charisma higher than your con?”

“I’m a rogue-sorcerer!” Obi squeaks, snatching it back. “It’s my casting stat.”

“This is ridiculous,” she decides. “Are you planning on using it any time soon?”

He gapes. “I use it all the time!”

“I mean besides for bad pick-up lines.”

“How do you think I snuck up on Shirayuki at all?” He waves his hands. “Obviously magic!”

“I mean...” Kiki shrugs. “There is a stealth stat for a reason. A good rogue wouldn’t need Invisibility--”

He sniffs. “There’s just no reasoning with you, Princess.”

“I thought you were supposed to be bandit hunting.” The words come out breathless, and you wish you were like Morgaine, who never sounds as if anything bothers her at all, instead of -- of this. A girl ripe to be teased, since she can never wear her heart anywhere but on her sleeve.

He looks out over the yard, eyes squinting into the distance, and it is a fine view for watching the smirk creep up the side of his face. “Seemed like my job was here, my lady.”

Warmth blooms in your chest, as suddenly and easily as if he had laid a hand over your heart. Still, you frown. “And you did not think to announce yourself?”

“You did well enough alone,” he tells you with a speculative glance, and the flash in his eyes makes you think he likes what he sees. That he is, perhaps, even a little impressed with you. “And anyway, it seemed like you understood well enough about hiding in plain sight.”

You do not miss the bite of censure in his words, the warmth spreading from your chest to your cheeks. He put space between you, but you close it as you say, “I am the only one who can do this work, I do not have the luxury of--”

“Peace, my lady.” He holds up his hands, as if he might ward you off like a bitch anxious over her pups. “I know well enough. Still...” He edges a step back, teeth flashing white against the dark of his face. “Should you not be wary of me?”

You stare, brows furrowed. “Wary? Has not Uther himself consigned me to your care?”

“That’s true enough,” he admits, hand raising to squeeze at his shoulder. An old injury must lay there, aggravated by the heavy weather. “Though I thought His Grace would fill your head with all sorts of things.”

“Things?”

“Speculations. Rumor.” He grins, sharp enough to cut, though it is not a blade faced outward. “Maybe even something close to the truth.”

“Beaumains.” You step closer, and he watches you now, not the quintain creaking in the distance. “I think my own thoughts, not those of Arturius. And I have never been wary of you.”

The arcade is so quiet, you can hear his breath rasp in his chest.

“Besides--” you let yourself share in some of his smile-- “I was the one who had you pinned.”

“My lady,” he protests, “I let you--”

“I think we can call this argument thoroughly explored,” Izana informs them. “Not that I do not enjoy the enthusiastic roleplay.”

“Oh!” Shirayuki chirps, hands clapping to cover her blush. “I’m sorry, I didn’t--”

“No need.” You do not miss the twitch of amusement at the corner of his lips. “Besides, I think we all know it was your tanglefoot bag that did the pinning.”

“In any case,” you continue, perhaps a little forcefully, “you have proven yourself to be a man worthy of trust in my eyes.”

Beaumains stares, inscrutable. “My lady...”

Whatever words he means to say are lost; he folds his lips around them and the moment carries them away.

“My lady,” he tries again, more sure. “You’re wearing yourself down.”

“I am fine--”

“Perhaps His Grace--”

“I am fine,” you insist, sharper than you intend. “There is no reason to worry Arturius. So you might as well not.”

The silence between you itches, and when those golden eyes look at you, when they stare through you as if you were a specimen under glass, you want to squirm out of your own skin. “Who says I have to listen to anything you say?”

Uther. The name bubbles up, unbidden. You would have to be a fool to speak it; what passed between assassin and king is known by them alone. To pretend you know either of their minds would be a mistake of the rarest form.

Instead, you take a step forward, skirt brushing over the toes of his boots. “You owe me.”

His eyes narrow, thoughtful. “Owe you?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “You do.”

He stares at you, and you know he remembers the same as you do: the botched assassination, him grabbing your wrists and pulling you under him, the way his skin had warmed so pleasantly against yours --

“Fine.” His gaze swivels away, chin turned so much your neck hurts just looking at it. “But...why keep it a secret, my lady?”

Teeth prick at your lips. You cannot just say, Arturius. Not when he has been so kind to you, when he has taken on this quest that no other would. But still, still -- you were barely allowed to come. If he were to know that you are weary, or weak, or, Father forfend, overwhelmed --

Well, you do not have to imagine what sort of behavior that might invite from His Grace.

“Because I can manage on my own,” you say instead, lifting the box from his hands.

Or at least, you would, if he would let go. “We’re only having this talk because you’re not managing, my lady.”

Ah, that is...a point. Your shoulders drop, grip loosening until it is once again only Beaumains that holds it. “I...”

“My lady?” You cannot meet his gaze, but you feel it on you, warm and inquisitive, perhaps even concerned.

“It’s only...”

He leans in. You can feet his heat against your skin.

“The dwarf,” you manage, a flush gathering at where your wimple meets your collar. “There’s something about him.”

“He’s short?” Beaumains offers, voice low, a pleasant rumble so close to you. “He’s cursed?”

Your mouth pulls thin. “That is not what a meant. However...” You shake your head, at a loss. “I only have this...this feeling. It is important that he be cured of his affliction. But...if he does not want to be saved before the others...”

Frustration tangles your tongue. If only you knew what words would convince him, what proof you needed to lay before him --

“Ah,” Beaumains sighs, mouth crooking into a grin. “Is that all?”

Izana blinks as his phone hoots at him, scanning the screen.

“Hm.” He sets it aside, laying it square on the table. “Obi, if you would come with me.”

Zen’s eyes narrow as they stand, gaze darting between them. “What are you doing?”

“Me and the big boss here have some business in hallway time,” Obi tells him with a grin even Shirayuki has to admit is insufferable. “Got a problem with it?”

He frowns. “Why do you need that?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” With a waggle of his eyebrows, Obi skips around the corner of the stairs and is gone. The door above shuts with an almost jaunty click.

“Wha--?” Zen stares after him, sputtering. “That’s why I’m asking!”

It is quiet, for once. Only the moan of the wind outside and the scratch of your nib against parchment reach your ears, the crackle of the fire long faded into the background of your mind. It lulls you, the gentle sweep of your own hand, and you close your eyes -- just a blink --

Only to wake at the creak of your door.

“Lynet.”

You do not expect the prince to darken your door, not this late at night, but here he is, cloak dusted with snow, sword at his hip. He follows your gaze, and he seems shocked to find his blade there as well, as if he does not always keep it at his side.

“Arturius,” you say, rising to your feet. “I didn’t think to see you so late.”

“I needed to know something.” He sweeps a hand toward your bed. “Would you mind?”

You blink, and for a moment, he is a different man telling you to get to a bed, gaunleted hands reaching --

“Yes,” you gasp, shaking yourself. This is different. Arturius is a friend. You trust him. “Of course.”

Your legs dangle off the side of the bed, toes just brushing the floor, and he draws his chair up in front of you, holding your hand.

“Close your eyes,” he says. “I’m going to count.”

“Are you taking my pulse?” His fingers are not in the proper place for such a thing. At your wrist is truly--

“Please,” he laughs. “Just trust me.”

You do, and so your eyes flutter closed. For a moment, you are only aware of your breath, of his touch, and you --

Jolt awake, as the door flies open again.

“Beaumains!” Arturius snaps, dropping your hand as if it scalds. “What are you--?

It is only once he is in the room room that you can see -- there is someone behind him. A small someone.

The dwarf.

Beaumain’s smile stretches smugly from ear-to-ear. “Our friend here says he’ll do it.”

“What?” Zen squaws, glaring daggers at his brother before settling back on Obi. “How could you?”

“How could I what?” Obi grins, hooking his hands behind his head. “Get the job done?”

“Intimidate him!” He waves a hand vaguely towards the head of the table. “He’s our friend!”

Obi blinks. “Izana?”

“No, not -- I mean the dwarf!” He lets out a huff. “Izana is definitely not our friend.”

“Brother.” Izana presses a hand to his chest. “I’m wounded.”

“You’re like Rasputin,” Zen tells him. “You’ll get over it.”

“I didn’t intimidate either of them.” Obi darts a glance at her, hooking her with a grin. “I just used my raw charisma.”

Kiki groans. “Go home.”

“Are you certain?” You glance at Beaumains behind him, but there is no menace to the man, just an unseemly amount of gloating. “I will not force you.”

The dwarf hesitates, wringing his small hands over his belly, but in the end he nods, meeting your gaze with a confidence that is wholly new. “I am ready, my lady.”

Your hand shakes as his fingers cup the rounded bottom of the flask, as he pulls the glass from your grasp, and with a deep, steeling sigh, upends the entirety of the potion into his throat.

“Oh!” The sound hiccups out of you, and though you’ve worn a groove in your voice the shape of the warnings you give each time, they tangle in your mouth. It is too late to say, drink slowly, to say, stop if it does not feel right, and oh, you are usual say this to a man prone, insensate --

And yet, nothing happens.

It takes time, you know. Your palms itch, eager to reach for your notes, to see if this was too long an interval, if this was a sign that this geas was worse, that the caster was fighting your remedy --

A muscle twitches. The dwarf blinks, raising his hand -- his hand that is now large, now small, that cannot decide its size at all, which is fine since his whole body follows suit, growing and shrinking. His shoulders rounds as his spine stretches, as if he’s hit a wall, some sort of barrier --

And it shatters, like an egg’s shell, his body growing well beyond its confines, the proportion of his limbs and face changing, until --

“Oh!” You whirl around, putting your back to him. “Oh my!”

“Ah,” the man says, his voice reedy, yet not as high as you remember. “I had hoped that this might be better done.”

“Here.” Arturius tosses one of the sheets from the cots. “Cover yourself.”

“I thank you,” the man says, humiliation riding high in his tone. “My lady, please forgive me, I did not think--”

“You...you are--” it is hard to find the words with your cheeks as hot as this -- “you are the lord of Laxdo’s son!”

He lets out a single, pained laugh. “I am afraid I am more than that now, my lady. I am Laxdo’s lord.”

“But--”

“Arturius!” Bedwyr sweeps into the room, ragged. “The men are all waking!”

“Wait, wait.” Shirayuki shakes her head, brow furrowed. “I removed his curse, and now everyone is healed?”

Izana lifts a hand in a lazy shrug. “So it would seem.”

“But...but...” She swivels, fixing on him. “But he didn’t want to be turned back! He wouldn’t let us, not until--” Shirayuki stops, her brain rushing to put the pieces together. “That was part of the compulsion. He wouldn’t let the curse be broken so that we -- so that I--”

She groans. “We could have done this in a day.”

“Welcome to Izanafinder,” Kiki deadpans. “He may not kill you, but he will make you wish you were dead.”

“My name is Shuuka,” the man says, better settled with the sheet around his hips. You still keep finding the wall just over his left shoulder fascinating. If only Bedwyr would be faster at locating the young lord’s costume. “I must admit, I had hoped you might remember it, my lady.”

You grimace. “I am...very bad with names. My father often despaired of it.”

And as in all his wishes, it bore very little fruit.

“I think I remember that.” He laughs, weary. “It is no matter. I am in your debt regardless.”

“Pray, do not think on it,” you tell him, even as Arturius grunts. “I would not have a soul beholden to me.”

You do not miss Beaumain’s cough, nor the amused way he watches you from the door. Doubtlessly, he would find time to say his piece on that, but it will not be now.

“But, my lady--”

“What would help us most would be if you told us what happened,” Arturius says, oddly strangled. “Since you are the only one that seems to remember.”

Shuuka blinks, as if he had forgotten his prince sat mere steps away. “Of course. I shall explain it all to you.”

“That would be--”

“But first.” He slips his hand around yours, smiling shyly. “We must celebrate how you have saved us.”

“Oh,” you breathe, gaze flying to Arturius. A muscle in his jaw jumps. “I do not think--”

“Please, give me this,” Shuuka insists. “A banquet in your honor.”

You do not look at him, but you can feel Beaumain’s grin as a palpable touch. “Truly, it is not necessary. It was all of us who--”

“Ah yes, then in all your honor!” He squeezes your hand, and gives you a boyish smile that sends you straight back to girlhood. “All the men have been healed, and it would do them good to have a night of merriment.”

You cannot refute it would raise morale. Which would be much needed, once they took in the state of Laxdo’s disrepair. “I suppose...”

He leaps to his feet, thankfully taking the sheet with him. “Then a banquet it is!”

Shirayuki buries her face in her hands. “Oh my.”

“Oooh,” Obi croons. “Looks like you got some competition, my liege.”

Zen frowns. “Oh, shut up.”

#obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #Dungeons & Dragons AU #my fic #ans #for all of you that were hoping for flirting #YOU NOW HAVE THIS #also please enjoy 6.5K of this because THERE WAS NO GOOD PLACE TO STOP #I keep hoping this arc will wrap up so i get get to SOME STUFF but NOPE #can't possibly shut up XD

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