#and him after the fight being soaked like a wet cat from making it storm and being covered in mud and titan ichor

[aroaceleovaldez]

doodle from thinking about how big 3 kids deserve to go off the shits more. ft Jason immediately after killing Krios <3

#pjo #riordanverse #jason grace #my art #ft fun personal hcs from the roman side of the titan war final fights #including: Jason's scar splitting at some point during the battle #and him after the fight being soaked like a wet cat from making it storm and being covered in mud and titan ichor #particularly just his face being covered in ichor because you cannot convince me he did not just straight up bite Krios

[halfmoonshines]

I'll Always Know You

summary; a series of events following bucky barnes and the reader

hurt/comfort, fluff

You had decided about fifteen minutes ago that this was probably your dumbest idea to date; now you were just miserable. The thunder boomed loudly overhead, the sky bucketing rain down on you like a small monsoon. You'd long abandoned the newspaper you'd fruitlessly held overhead to stay dry.

Why didn't you accept the ride from your work partner? You knew the storm was rolling in but you were so hellbent on being self sufficient.

You didn't hear the car roll to a stop on the empty street next to you, the rain putting a quiet blanket on everything but itself. But the voice that broke through definitely scared the shit out of you.

"Miss?"

You jumped, turning to the dark haired man standing opposite you. You probably would've thought his broad shoulders and defined muscles you could see beneath his quickly soaking wet shirt were attractive if you weren't immediately afraid of being murdered.

"Yes?" You replied with a subconscious step back.

His smile was tentative, hands half raising in a surrender. "I was driving by and noticed you fighting for your life against the wind. Could I offer you a ride?"

Every cell in your 21st century body said that you should turn around and start running. Never accept rides from strangers, even handsome ones. But it was truly storming now and you were still a twenty minute walk through the city home.

Sensing your hesitance, he tacked on. "You could either risk me being a murderer or almost definitely die to mother nature or pneumonia."

"Fair point." You followed him to his car.

--

Turns out, that would just be the first time you saw Bucky Barnes.

He showed up at your door three days after the rain incident, and you were almost freaked out if you hadn't been kicking yourself for not giving him your number.

"Sorry for just showing up, but I was wondering if you'd be interested in grabbing some coffee?" The arm positioned awkwardly scratching his head and the nervous smile on his face was enough to make your suspicions melt fully. Ted Bundy be damned.

"Let me grab my coat."

--

Turns out Bucky likes warm mochas, and also holding hands. You learned a lot about him over the next few weeks; his likes and dislikes. You fit together like the last pieces of a puzzle, you barely noticed the months passing and when you started leaving clothes at his apartment.

"You're kidding me, you've never seen Pitch Perfect? It's like quintessential 2010's cinema."

Bucky's laugh never failed to warm you inside. "I was a bit busy during that decade."

Your eyebrows scrunched, those little comments only confusing you. "The whole decade? What are you, 80?"

"Not quite."

---

"Would you still love me if I was a cat?"

"Yes." His reply was instant, warm arms wrapped around you while he leaned down for a kiss.

You dodged his lips, a playful smile on your own. "How would you know it's me?"

His hand found your cheek, pulling you in for a demanding kiss. The feeling of his mouth on yours always electrified you.

"I'll always know you."

---

The first time you felt he ever truly lied to you was a year in, which is a considerable span, as you tried to rationalize.

But there was no rationalizing the photo in your hand. A black and white snapped picture of your long term boyfriend, James Barnes, in a WW11 military uniform. Same boyish smile, same stance. The only difference was the haunted look that seemed to plague your Bucky.

There had to be an explanation, right? I mean vampires weren't real. This wasn't Twilight. A distant relative maybe?

A voice in the back of your head was insistent that this was him.

"Bucky?" You called him to the room before you could lose your nerve.

His smile was easy when he entered the room, but you couldn't help but notice the tenseness that filled him when he noticed the box you'd be rifling through.

"What's up, Doll?"

You lifted the picture along with an eyebrow, nervousness trickling into your stomach. "Who's this?"

He paused for only a second before it was like a switch flipped in him, and his smile eased back. "That's my grandpa. I don't really display his pictures for the sake of my sanity. We could be twins." He snatched the picture from you, depositing it back in the box.

"I'll say. You look the exact same." Your head was cocked to the side, a question still sitting on your lips.

"Strong genes."

---

He should've told her. No, he should've never gone back to her apartment. Never pulled his car over in that fucking downpour. All he ever brought with him was death and tragedy, and Bucky was terrified that she was about to make that list.

"We're five out." Sam's voice was carefully guarded, knowing his partner was on edge.

It was just a normal day a few hours ago when Bucky had come home to the door of their apartment hanging off it's hinges.

His panic was instant and only mounted when he searched the home and found nothing but signs of struggle and you missing. It was always a fear gnawing at the back of his mind. He had plenty of enemies, people he'd ruined the lives of. It was negligent to keep you in the dark, to even keep contact with you. But James Barnes was a selfish man.

When the jet landed and his boots hit the wet concrete, he wasn't Bucky. He was the soldier. And he would bring you home.

---

The sight of you, broken on the examination table was almost enough to take his knees out from under him. He put a steadying hand on the door frame to your room while Bruce gave him a diagnosis he had feared.

"It seems like they experimented on her. Traces of nodes connected to her neck and head. Until she wakes up I won't be able to tell the extent of damage, if there even is any. Worse case... she doesn't remember you."

Fuck. Bucky's breathing was shallow. If he could go back and rip every single man in that facility apart slowly, he would. Even then it wouldn't be enough to punish them.

Maybe you not remembering him was a blessing. Maybe you'd be safer.

--

The lights over you were like the blazing sun, and the only thing you could assume was that you had an insane hangover. Your brows pulled together, eyes squinting to recognize your surroundings. Vaguely clocking the IV attached to your arm, your vision started to clear and so did your thoughts.

Being at home, the bang of the door coming open, men swarming you.

And then nothing.

Your heart rate quickened, panicking now to inspect what was around you. You'd been taken, like some cliche movie. But by who? Why?

Just as your panic was mounting to a full blown freak out, your eyes found a familiar figure to your left. Head hanging off the back of the chair he was passed out in, your boyfriend was a more than welcome sight.

"James." Your voice was hoarse, scratchy, but he awoke instantly.

He was wordless, flying out of his chair and onto his knees beside you. Your handsome man was haggard, dark bags under his eyes and mussed hair. His warm hands roving your face distracted you from his gaunt appearance.

"Do you know who I am?"

His question confused you, as did the worry in his eyes. You brought your hand up to the one sitting on your cheek and gave him your best, exhausted smile. "I'll always know you."

--

a/n: have requests? submit here

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x you

[tavvattales]

Come Back to Me

GENSHIN IMPACT Character x GN Reader Angst Stories

Characters: Scaramouche

Pairings: Scaramouche x GN Reader

Warnings: 16+ for violence. TW- reader death please PLEASE read at your own risk. You have been warned.

Click below if you're ready to suffer.

As the storms begin picking up, the rain and wind violently whipping at your face soak you to the bone. Your eyes, stinging from the tears that started to fall at the sight before you, glossed over as you struggled to push forward. You seemingly call out towards nothing but a purple hue in the distance, glowing luminously, like a single star in the night sky, "Kunikuzushi! Please. . .do not make me do this!" You plead, your heart shattering with each word, "Please. . .I love you. I don't want to do this. ." You continue, reluctantly unsheathing your blade with a flick.

The purple hue in the distance grew closer with each unwilling footstep of yours. The grip of your sword grows tighter as you finally face your foe, The Balladeer, Scaramouche, your lover. Kunikuzushi's eyes are not the same as you remember, blackening and glazing over with a cruel gaze as he grins wickedly at you. Glancing him up and down, you notice the Delusion had taken a further hold on him than you were expecting.

Like a gloomy vine, the Delusion begins taking up half his face, much to your anguish, "Y/N, it's a shame you can't feel this surge of power. With the Gnosis and my Delusion, I'm indestructible. And yet I see you're prepared to go against me. ." Kunikuzushi says with seething resentment.

"Kuni-" you start

Before you can finish your thought, Kunikuzushi shouts bitterly, "DON'T. Don't you dare use that name. I am The Balladeer, Scaramouche," the bitterness now turning to animosity.

Closing your eyes and taking a deep painful breath, your tears still falling, you finally open them, meeting his indignant eyes, "So that's your choice then. . .I see." Your eyes felt hot, like white-hot daggers. Feeling a surge of remorse at your lost love, you raise your blade, preparing yourself, the rain still lashing the two of you in the face.

Lunging forward with your sword, you attempt to strike down Scaramouche. Still, he swiftly evades your blade with a sinister laugh, "Haha, I truly didn't think you had it in you," he says, feeling a prickling surge of electricity coursing through his veins as he readies an attack. The tips of his fingertips begin generating a purple ball of electricity, launching it towards you with a loud crackle.

Just barely dodging the quick attack, the electricity orb lands mere inches from your feet, causing a ripple to expand on the wet ground, shocking you. You groan from the sudden shock, feeling it buzzing through your body, but that wasn't enough to knock you down. Raising your sword to Scaramouche once more, you finally reply, "That's where you're wrong."

In a brilliant display of swordsmanship, you step forward, swishing your blade viciously. Like a game of cat and mouse, you finally, after what seems like hours, land a cut on his face. Wincing as blood trickles down his cheek, Scaramouche scoffs, blindingly letting another electro orb fly your way, "Oh, my dear, you made a grave error," he laughs, abruptly teleporting behind you as you dodge his ball.

As he strikes you down, for a brief moment, you see him. Kunikuzushi. For a split second, you see him fighting with his Delusion, a look of anguish distorting his face, his once lavender gaze pleading with you. Dropping to one knee, you cough up blood, reminding you of where the two of you now stand, "Hng. . .Kuni- I know you're still in there. . please COME BACK TO ME," you say, not giving up as you wipe the blood from your lips.

Again you see his eyes flicker. Standing up clumsily, your hands now shaking as you struggle to hold your sword, you finally drop it with a mighty clang of metal hitting stone. You extend your arms outwards, begging him to come back to you, "Kuni, please. ." you plead weakly. With every tired ounce of your being, you begin moving closer to him.

With a whack of your hand, Scaramouche grabs you by the throat, "I warned you. ." he says viciously, slamming you to the ground, knocking the wind out of you as his grip on your neck grows tighter.

Seeing your life flash before your eyes, you desperately reach towards his face, stroking his cheek, and with your last breath, you say, "I've always loved you. . ."

As your body grows limp and your eyes become lifeless, Scaramouche releases his grip, a painful surge shooting up his body as the last ounce of Kunikuzushi breaks free, "Hey, Y/N. .why are you so quiet. .this isn't like you. Throw complaints, yell at me, scream like you normally do. . .No, no-no-no. .Archons, please. ." he pleads, eyeing your body up and down and discovering the painful marks on your neck; a storm of guilt washing over him, "What have I done?! I'm so sorry, Y/N," the tears begin to fall as he desperately holds your body close to him, "Please. .come back to me."

#rebby writes #rebby rambles #genshin impact #genshin impact fandom #genshin impact fanfic #genshin impact x gn reader #genshin impact imagines #genshin impact scenarios #genshin impact angst #genshin impact scaramouche #genshin scaramouche #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche #scaramouche angst #kunikuzushi #potentially triggering

[levissmollpp]

➩Rainy dates ☈

[Mikey,Chifuyu,Hanma & Baji] ✦

⤷ going on a date together with them but it starts to storm

✦

[Warnings; little bit of manga spoilers || slight use of swear words und little mention of drugs!]

Mikey;

You and Mikey were going out today to a new store that opened just recently. Mikey was constantly talking about it for the whole day since he find out how good their dorayaki were. Since u got nothing to do today u guys decided to check it out.

The line was long but you still waited for an hour until it was your turn to go in. As you both ordered and exited the sudden rush of wind made you shiver.

"Uhmm mikey should we go home it looks like it's gonna thunderstorm"

The clounds turned into dark gray color pretty quickly and the sun disappeared out of the sight. Meanwhile mikey was in his own world munching onto the food.

Little droplets of rain started to fall as you quickly grabbed mikey hand and walked into a playground. There was a playhouse in the middle of the playground and you both decided to wait there for the rain to end.

"Mmh... glad we stopped by" mikey smiled as you nodded. "Are you cold tho" he proceeded to give you his jacket.

After awhile the rain got stronger and you guys still sat there chatting and cuddling under the rain.

When it finally finished raining all there was to see was a big rainbow covering the sky and the sun coming back up.

As you were about to stand up you noticed the weight on your lap as you saw that mikey fell asleep.

"I love you Mikey"

Chifuyu;

It was a sunny afternoon as you decided to visit your boyfriend chifuyu who's currently working at the pet shop. You waited infront of the shop as you noticed the dark clouds slowly covering up the sun. You cursed to yourself for not bringing an umbrella.

The sounds of a door being open made you quickly shift your focus to your dark haired boyfriends exiting the shop.

"Chifuyuuu!!" U ran into him to give him a huge hug making him blush.

"Why did you come over? I told you it was gonna storm today and you're gonna catch a cold"

Chifuyu quickly wrapped his jacket around you and both of you decided to ran home as quickly as possible.

When the rain started pouring you guys got desperate since your home was still 5 minutes away.

" you know what? It doesn't matter let's just enjoy this moment and we can take a shower later" chifuyu grinned as his hair covered his face.

You both just played in the rain like little kids and jumped into every puddle you were able to find until the both of you were soaked.

Chifuyu pulled you in and gave you a long passionate kiss before entering your home. You both showered togethered and watched movies for the rest of the day.

Hanma;

The relationship between you and hanma wasn't the greatest. Fights would occur often between you two and it always felt like a cat and mouse game.

Him teasing you was something you got used to and the smell of cigarettes was something you used to hate but now it's nothing new to have him smoke around you. It was already past midnight and hanma was nowhere to be seen.

You being like a worried mom decided to call him multiple times and wait outside for him to come home. Your legs shaking and your anxiety of something bad happened was unbearable.

You hated this. Worried about him you never noticed the rain slowly pouring. Suddenly a familiar voice was heard in a distance.

Oh fuck rain..ughh"

You turned to the direction of the voice to see hanma throwing down his cigarette as he was soaked wet from the rain.

You quickly ran towards him almost tearing up because of how much you were worried about him.

The smell of alcohol and drugs was all over him. It disappointed you alot that even he noticed.

"What's with that shitty face baby? It's late you should've been asleep" the words he soflty spoke hurt you.

You can't sleep when he's doing stuff like that making you worry so much.

Hanma quickly took you in a hug as he says

"I'll ease up on alcohol and drugs if that makes you happy"

he was pretty wasted and kinda high as you noticed him leaning his head onto you shoulder trying his best to stand. You smile as you try your best to bring him home and but him onto the bed.

He fell asleep with a alight smile on his face that made your heart melt.

Baji;

Baji was usually on house arrest but today he was supposed to get groceries since his mom worked that day so he had to do it himself so he decided to invite you along.

You both met near the convenience store near by and went to the restaurant next to it since they have pretty good peyoung yakisoba.

You both were full and by the time you guys finished it started to rain heavily.

Baji quickly gave you his hoodie and tried his best to cover you up while you two ran to the stroe to buy all the things he needs.

Even when you both finished with buying all the stuff the rain hasn't stopped.

"Get on my back bby" baji suggested as you got onto his back and he caried you quickly over to his house where you two played game for hours.

Anyways hope you guys liked it cuz I'm not that good in writing lol<3

#tokyorev smut #tokyo revengers #tr mikey #mikey sano #chifuyu matsuno #hanma #tokyo revengers baji #baji keisuke

[braiawrites]

Lost & Found

Summary: Admittedly, taking in a strange stray cat is not the brightest idea one might have when one lives in a world of faeries and magic and mythical creatures straight out of old wives’ tales. But no one told this to Jude Duarte, and so taking in that cat is exactly what she does... || From this prompt by @newblood-freya

Genre: Soft, Feel Good Fic

Words: 1862

Rating: sfw

Links:

Fic Masterlist

CHAPTER TWO

Prompt by newblood-freya

Read it on AO3

Writing Masterlist

Send me an ask!

***

Admittedly, taking in a strange stray cat was not the brightest idea one might have had when one lived in a world of faeries and magic and mythical creatures straight out of old wives’ tales. 

But it had been cold and rain had been pouring down in sheets, and the poor scrap of a cat had been huddled in a pathetic little ball among the trees of the Milkwoods, its pelt growing soggy in the onslaught. 

And if that weren’t pitiful enough, dawn had been creeping ever closer, and—while darkness was dangerous in the human world—nighttime in Faerie was quiet and as generally peaceful as it could get in a land where a wrong turn might spell death-by-endless-dancing. Yes, in Faerie, the darkness meant safety, whilst daylight brought dangers from stories untold. 

Consequently, when Jude had stumbled across the sopping black cat—literally, tripped over the thing, as it had lain in the dimming shadows—she had made the somewhat-horrible decision to have mercy on it. She was, regrettably, only human, after all.

“You look as lost as I feel,” she had admitted, crouched before the little creature, hand outstretched. It was staring at her with dark amber eyes, crouched low amongst the wet grass.

“Come now,” she coaxed. “I won’t harm you, little one.”

The animal had sidled up to her, somehow managing to seem hesitant and haughty all at once, and she had scooped it up and held it to her chest, wrapping her coat around its shivering body. 

She ran the rest of the way home.

~ ~ ~

Jude wasn’t entirely sure how Madoc would react to her bringing a cat into his house—she had a vague fear that he might view it as a meal, and a brief image of the lizardlike guard who had taken the tip of her finger for a snack flashed through her mind. 

She couldn’t leave the poor thing in the stables, lest the stablehands find it and kick it out, or one of the larger, carnivorous mounts decide to gobble it up, and so she slipped in through a servant’s door, pausing for a moment beneath the light of a torch set into the wall to peek into the folds of her jacket at the warm, wet cat huddled against her chest. 

“Alright in there?” she asked it, and smiled as the glowing amber eyes blinked back. 

Carrying her boots so as not to track mud through the halls, Jude tiptoed up the stairs to her room. She ducked into a guest room once, when she heard voices down the hall, but most of the manor was asleep by this time. 

As she snuck through the corridors, she felt, for a moment, like a normal human girl in a normal human world, perhaps creeping in late from a party.

“Sometimes,” Jude breathed, turning in to her room and closing her door behind her, “it’s nice to just pretend, don’t you agree?” 

The cat mewed, its little voice creaky.

“Exactly. You get it.” She plunked the creature on her bed as she stripped her coat off and slung it over a chair. The cat jumped down. It had left a little wet patch on her blankets.

“You poor thing,” she exclaimed, “you're soaking!” 

Grabbing a towel from the bottom of her wardrobe, Jude sat on the floor and pulled the cat into her lap. It sat patiently as she rubbed at its ears and shoulders, running the towel over its long, thin body. It closed its eyes as she patted at its soft cheeks.

“Cats are funny, you know,” she remarked to it. It opened its amber eyes at the sound of her voice, looking up to meet her gaze. 

“So delicate,” she scratched the animal on it's fine jaw bone with a single finger, “and yet, if you were to fall out my window, you could walk away perfectly fine.” 

The cat gave what Jude could only interpret as an indignant squawk and dug its claws into the damp fabric of her leggings. 

“I'm not going to throw you out my window,” she laughed, stroking its soft head. “Don’t you worry your pretty little kitty mind.”

They sat quietly for a few moments, the only sounds Jude’s breathing and the cat’s rumbling purr as she stroked its drying pelt, until Jude began to shiver in her damp tunic.

The cat meowed, climbing off her lap and kneading its paws on her leg until she went to grab a dry nightgown, and then turning its back to her as she peeled her wet tunic over her head. 

What a strange cat, she thought as she shimmied out of her leggings. She smiled. They were already covered in cat hair. 

~ ~ ~

Being a human among faeries, Jude had to fight for each moment she spent on the Isles of Elfhame. She had long ago learned that knowledge, while dangerous, was also powerful, and she had made it a priority to know what she could about the goings on of the Faerie court. 

So, naturally, when the palace messenger had arrived with urgent news, Jude had taken it upon herself to learn what he knew. He’d refused to divulge anything to anyone except the General himself, and so Jude found herself crouching outside Madoc’s office, her ear pressed to the door as the messenger began to speak.

“What do you mean the prince is missing?” Madoc rumbled. His voice carried a level of concern that Jude could not believe was entirely sincere. 

“His Highness Prince Cardan has not been seen nor heard from in three days,” the messenger boy repeated. “High King Eldred wishes you to conduct a search.” 

Despite herself, Jude found she held a modicum of respect for the boy; she would have snapped something smart at Madoc’s senseless question, and probably would have received a threat in return.

She held her breath, listening for the Redcap’s next words.

“Where was he last seen?” Madoc sighed. “Or who spoke with him last? Do you have any useful information for me?”

“Only that he was last seen with a pixie girl during the Full Moon Revel four nights prior to this. The girl has been detained but she hasn’t spoken.”

Jude’s chest tightened at the thought of the insolent prince wandering off with some pixie. The girl had probably been tortured for information, although if it were up to her, Jude would have provided ample compensation to the girl for having spent any time alone with Cardan. 

Against all conscious efforts, the thought of the prince’s long, slender fingers sliding up her skin crept into her mind, accompanied by a picture of his face—his cruel mouth and his dark eyes—jeering down at her. Her stomach lurched and she wrestled the nauseating images from her mind.

Madoc’s armour clinked as he marched toward his door. 

Jude spun on her heel and ran. 

~ ~ ~

“Kitty, I’m back,” Jude called into the empty darkness of her room. She tried to pitch her voice softly, but her nerves were still frayed from the messenger’s news.

The cat slunk out from under her bed, a living shadow with bright eyes, and watched intently as she set two small bowls down for him against the wall. 

After dashing away from her foster father’s office, Jude had stopped by the kitchen to find some water and scraps of meat for her furry visitor. 

By the time she’d made it back to the relative safety of her room, the faerie boy had already left, as had Madoc. If he had caught any sign of her presence outside his door, he had either deemed it irrelevant or had decided he would deal with her later.

The cat mewed, stretching up to hook his claws into her leggings. He had devoured the meal. 

“Someone was hungry.” Jude gave a small laugh and scooped the feline up. During the few days he’d been with her, she’d discovered that she quite enjoyed his company. He was a friend she could confide in without worrying her secrets would get out, and more than that, he was a presence she could stand to be around.

Jude pulled off her boots and plopped cross legged onto her bed, cuddling the cat in her lap, stroking his silken fur. 

“Enjoyed dinner?” she asked him.

He said, “Mrrow,” and yawned in her face, showing off long, sharp fangs. 

“Oh, really? And how was your day?” she hummed, to which he grumbled in response. She liked to make idle conversation with the animal, as though she understood him.

“Well, my day was lovely, thank you for asking.” She thought for a moment. “But it was a bad kind of lovely. You know when you get a bruise and it hurts but you keep pressing on it because you like the pain? Like that, but opposite. Like the sun is making the clouds shimmer, and it’s beautiful, but those clouds are going to cause a flood. The sky is still lovely, but it’s the kind of lovely that hurts.”

The cat’s eyes were fixed on her, shining that bright amber as he stared in the way only cats could. It made her uncomfortable.

“No, I suppose I’m not making any sense, am I?” She pulled the cat onto her chest as she lay back, staring up into nothingness, and stroked his back. She pretended the deep rumble of his purr was the thunder of a summer storm, shaking the earth before bathing it in a warm rainfall.

“I’m worried,” she admitted at last, shattering the spell. “It’s been three nights since he’s been in class, and I wonder where he could have gotten to. Why he’s not coming—not that I care about him, specifically. I just like to keep an eye on what he does and the specific messes he decides to make.” 

The cat looked at her sidelong, his gleaming amber eyes pinning her with a look that she couldn’t quite place, although it was decidedly human. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” she scolded, although the cat, being a cat, did not heed her request.

She sighed. Outside her window, the sky began to lighten as dawn crept closer, the daytime sky stretching up to meet the stars through fog and wispy clouds. Her kitty snuggled into her, tucking his head beneath her chin.

“I wonder if maybe he’ll never come back,” she mused, watching as the first drops of rain tapped at the glass, sparkling in the lamplight. 

The cat purred, sounding as though he agreed, which Jude found unfathomably funny.

“I think you and I get along rather well,” she told him.

“Mrrmm,” the cat grumbled, patting at her face with soft paws. He turned his amber gaze on her and she smiled, scratching the cat behind his ear with one gentle finger. She felt warm and content, listening to his purr, feeling his small weight atop her chest as she breathed.

“Maybe,” she hummed, letting her eyes drift back to the rain outside, “we were meant to find each other.”

The cat’s rumbling purr echoed in the space of her room, and Jude felt like she was home.

***

A/N: Alternatively titled Catboy Cardan 2021 but I somehow I felt like that didn't fit the vibes... Anywhomst—thank you, lovely human, for reading my self-indulgent Jude Gets A Cat fic! It had no plot and I did not proofread it, but I hope you enjoyed nonetheless!! If you have the time, I'd love if you reblogged and left a comment to let me know what you thought. Thank you again for reading, lovely, and I send my best wishes your way!

(PS: Please let me know if you’d like to be added to or removed from my tag list!)

Tagging:  @stardustsroses @nahthanks @jurdanhell @my-one-true-l @thefolkofthefic @newblood-freya

#the folk of the air #folk of the air #tfota #fota #the cruel prince #tcp #the wicked king #twk #the queen of nothing #queen of nothing #tqon #qon #holly black #jude duarte #cardan greenbriar #jurdan #jurdan fic #jude x cardan #cardan x jude #jude duarte x cardan greenbriar #cardan greenbriar x jude duarte #jude gets a cat #catboy cardan #soft jude #soft jude duarte #ya fiction #fanfiction #folk of the air fanfic #jurdan fanfic #jurdan fanfiction

[open-three-inches]

ponyboy’s coming of age headcannons🤍🤍

when he’s fourteen his favourite songs are my generation by the who and don’t think twice it’s alright by bob dylan

 the gang tease the hell out of him for liking bob dylan

 they call him a hippie

 this changes when he first hears led zeppelin on the radio in the late 60s, his soul literally ascends from his body when he hears robert plants voice for the first time 

 he shoots up in height at around fourteen and half

 by 15 he’s taller than Soda

 Soda hates it lmao

 grows to be about 6′1

 is terrified of spiders

 soda always gets rid of them for him

 but soda will also chase ponyboy around the whole house with the spider

 ponyboy once gave soda a black eye after he got a spider thrown on him

 he says in was an accident but honestly didn’t feel guilty about it lmao

 darry thought him how to drive

 sodapop came for ‘entertainment purposes’

ponyboy did eventually learn how to drive but it cost him almost losing his life

not from almost crashing or anything, just from darry almost strangling him out of frustration

also has a real dirty mouth

like cursing

he's the worst out of the whole gang for it 

he is such a pretty boy and has most of Tulsa in love with him

he’s pretty dumb and doesn’t realise how good looking he is though

 for example curly flirting with him for years before they got together

 disaster bisexual omfg

 lowkey a hopeless romantic too

 will think nonstop about the boy who held the door open for him or the girl who served him in a restaurant lmaooo

 HE’S A LITTLE SHIT AS WELL

 HIS SMARTMOUTH FUCK

imagine the sass of eric forman, harry potter and jess mariano all rolled into one

that’s ponyboy

everyone thinks he’s really nice but then he’ll hit someone with a roast that is so fuckin good that they will cry for the person who was insulted 

its steve getting roasted most of the time

 he’s really really witty

 becomes a lot more outspoken as he gets older

 very talented at hot wiring cars

still hates fighting but has and will break anyone’s nose if he feels the need to

 has his first kiss at 14 with a girl named betty

 he dated her for a while 

 he dated a good few people in his teenage years

 once he went skinny dipping with his then boyfriend and got caught by police and was brought home in a cop car

 darry hit the roof 

 steve claims the greatest moment of his life was ponyboy being led into the curtis house by a policeman soaking wet and half naked

 never really fell madly in love with anyone he dated though

 until his junior year when he suddenly couldn’t get curly shepard out his  head

 loves animals

 darry wont let them get a pet but ponyboy feeds stray dogs and cats around tulsa

 he has a name for every single one

he considers them his pets.

 in 1967 he cuts school to listen to sgt pepper by the beatles 

 he figures its the greatest album ever made

but he’s really stubborn and won’t admit for months that he likes the beatles after all the shit talking he did about them.

 he gets high for the first time with curly and they listen to the album again

 a stoner. 100%

 he cuts back on smoking cigarettes but gets high all the fucking time 

 has a stash under his mattress for when darry or steve are really pissing him off

has a really good group of friends 

they’re the same age as pony so it’s different to the curtis gang

he considers them brothers anyway so they don’t count

 they get into a lot of shit together

 soda thinks all the stuff they get up to is hilarious 

 darry is tired

 his best friend is a girl named juliet

 lesbian + bi duo

 juliet has common sense, something which ponyboy lacks, so they work well together.

 they talk about girls together

 juliet has a girlfriend named flo and they’re very much in love <3

 ponyboy will third wheel them sometimes lmao

 like he did with johnny and dal

him and curly finally start dating when ponyboy’s 16 going on 17

it surprises him how quickly he fell in love with curly

they’re both absolutely whipped for each other

darry and soda don’t really like curly but pony makes it clear they have to just put up with him

curly doesn’t exactly help, pissing darry and soda off seems to be his favourite pastime

they open up to each other about everything 

pony tells curly all about windrixville

 he thinks about johnny and dally a lot still

 he still has johnny’s letter inside the gone with the wind

 it’s really important to him, it comes with him to college.

 speaking of which, he goes to columbia university in new york

 full scholarship bby

 wasn’t going to go due to the fact it was so far from home, and he didn’t want to be that far from his family

 darry found out and almost killed him

 they had a talk about it though

 it was sweet and it helped pony feel better about leaving tulsa

 he also graduated from high school top of his class

 sodapop bawled at his graduation and two-bit made a poster for him

 he went to see his parents after his grad

 he really did wish they had been there for it

 curly didn’t see him graduate either which really hurt ponyboy

 they had gotten into a big fight a week or so before

 the reality of ponyboy leaving tulsa had been the elephant in the room for a while, but both of them were just avoiding it

 eventually tensions rise and both of their emotions explode

 they say things they regret and curly storms away from ponyboy

 curly later gets hauled in for getting into a bar fight

 so he misses ponyboy’s graduation

ponyboy loves curly more than anything and he knows curly loves him just as much

but he also knows it won’t work

so he visits curly in jail 

he keeps his emotions under control while he’s there like he always has had to do living on the east side

he tells curly that he’s leaving in a few weeks 

curly, who has always been closed off about his emotions, pleads with ponyboy to stay through tears

ponyboy loves curly but he can’t stay in this town anymore

and curly can’t seem to bring himself to leave it

so they break up

he cries himself to sleep most nights after

sodapop helps him through it 

he tries not to think about it though, making himself busy with packing and getting ready to leave for new york

he sees curly once more before he leaves

he’s out with his friends for the last time before he leaves when he sees curly, fresh out of jail, with some of the shepard gang

their eyes meet and they hold each others gaze for a few moments

ponyboy breaks it

he can’t quite find the strength to talk to curly

he finds himself wondering for months after what would have happened if he had just talked to curly that night

ponyboy can’t help but hope that curly will show up the day he’s meant to leave for college and everything will be okay again

he doesn’t

both of them are to stubborn for their own good

he leaves new york just after his 18th birthday

his brothers hug him tighter than ever and ponyboy almost changes his mind about leaving right there and then

sodapop, through his tears, swears that if ponyboy doesn’t call them everyday he’ll hunt him down in new york and kick his ass

steve wishes him well and looks almost misty eyed

ponyboy of course makes a smart comment about this which leads to steve rolling his eyes instead

not in a mean way though, almost sentimental, like he’ll actually miss ponyboy 

he drives around the town one more time before he leaves taking in everything and the memories, good and bad, he associated with his home

it’s a bittersweet feeling to leave behind his childhood but ponyboy thinks he’s ready

he almost drives to curlys just to see him one last time

Almost.

#wow this really went off track at the end #it was kind of long so i plan on making a part 2 #it was kind of sad damn #im self reflecting whoops #im sorry this turned into basically a fic at the end #purly #The Outsiders #the outsiders headcanons #Ponyboy Curtis #ponyboy curtis headcanons #curly shepard #coming of age #curtis gang

[cclementinee]

post-argument (booboo stewart)

“Fine! You know what, Booboo? You can take your stupid easel, your stupid canvas and fuck off!” You scream at your boyfriend, pushing him towards the door of your apartment. 

“Fine, you fucking psycho! All I wanted was some peace and quiet anyways!” He yells back, making you wince. Booboo never yelled at you, no matter how mad he was. He packs all of his supplies up quickly, which you’re thankful for so he doesn’t see the tears streaming silently down your face, and leaves. With a slam of the door, you’re alone. You sink down to the floor, sniffling as your cat saunters over, rubbing her body against you, almost like she knew what happened. One of your hands reaches down to pet her, the other wipes a stray tear from your cheek. You hated fighting with Booboo and he knew that, which is why his yelling and storming out both surprised and upset you even more. Was that the final straw? Did he not love you- want you- anymore? 

You sit, wallowing in your self pity for about an hour before you hear your phone ringing, you get up but miss it just before your hand grabs your phone. Your screensaver lights up with a notification from the man who’s smiling face was staring back at you. You call him back, he picks up on the first ring, “Y/N?” He asks, sounding hoarse, as if he’s also been crying for the last hour too. He asks you to come down to his studio and you agree, thinking it was a good sign that he didn’t want to break up, throwing on a sweatshirt and grabbing your keys. He hangs up without saying I love you and your heart drops. You can’t think of anything else the entire drive to his studio. This was it, this was his breaking point.

The sound of Elvis’ velvety voice flowing through the hallway of your boyfriend’s art studio was literal music to your ears. This was a good sign. You open the door to the room he was in quietly, being sure not to disturb him; you loved watching him paint. When you walked in, his back was facing you, he was wearing a mustard yellow hoodie and beige sweatpants, no shoes and his long dark brown hair was up in a bun. You tip-toed over to the small burgundy couch in the corner of the room, sitting down and pulling your legs up to your chest, watching him work. A few minutes pass before he turns to dip his brush in a new color, your presence making him jump. You give him a smile and stand, walking towards him. “Is this where you dump me?” you ask, looking down at your hands, fiddling with the gold ring embezzled with a small moon, he made it for you for your 2nd anniversary and you’ve never taken it off. He looks at you in confusion, “No baby, no. No no.” he says, pulling you into a hug when he sees your bottom lip start to tremble. You collapse in his arms, “You yelled at me.” you say softly, looking up at him with a pout on your lips. He shakes his head, running his thumb over your bottom lip, pushing it back in place, something he’s always done when you pouted at him. 

“I know, and I regretted it the second I did it. I love you, I always love hearing you talk about every little thing that crosses your mind. And I am so sorry if I ever made it seem like I don’t.” he mumbles into your hair, squeezing you close a few times before releasing you. “I thought you hated me.” You say, crossing your arms over your chest, sniffling.

“I could never hate you.” he says, and he reaches for you. “Hey baby.” Booboo says in a low voice, still a little scratchy from crying. He really was so beautiful. “What are you thinking about, pretty girl?” he asks, kissing your nose and pulling you into a hug. 

“About how much I love you.” you say quietly, looking up at him and he gives you a toothy grin, leaning in and giving you a peck on the lips, “What about you, Boo?” you ask, running your hands from his shoulders, over his chest before wrapping your arms around his middle. 

“About my girl, always.” he says into your hair, kissing the top of your head and sighing in content. You hum, nuzzling your face into his chest as his hands slip under your sweater, grazing over your hips and rubbing up your back. You stop as you feel a squishy substance touch your nose, “There’s fresh paint on this sweatshirt.” you mumble, pulling away and he starts laughing at your paint covered face. “It’s not funny!” you say, pushing him away jokingly and laughing too. 

“Oh, come on, Y/N. Now we can shower together.” he says, waggling his eyebrows at you, still laughing and reaching for you again. You let him pull you close and look up at him, batting your eyelashes and puckering your lips. He leans down and closes the space between you, wasting no time and wiping his tongue over your bottom lip, you open your mouth and let his tongue massage yours as his hands trail from your hips to your backside, squeezing your ass and pulling you closer, if that was even possible. He starts to walk you backwards towards the couch, sitting down and pulling you down to straddle his lap. His hands ghost over your hips, up your sides and he separates your lips only to pull off your sweatshirt, grinning when he sees you were bare underneath it. His lips go to your neck, leaving hot, wet kisses down to your chest before taking one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking and then pulling away, kneading it with his thumb whilst blowing cool air on it. You bite your lip, sighing softly as you reach to take his sweatshirt off as well. He pulls it off, throwing it behind him and pulls you back in for another kiss, biting on your bottom lip as one of his hands dives below the waistband of your leggings, your breath hitches in your throat as his fingers brush against you. He looks up at you through his thick lashes, “You like that, baby?” he asks, one of his fingers circling your clit as he continues kissing down your neck. You nod, unable to get a word out before he inserts two fingers inside you without any warning. You moan out his name as he pumps them in and out. “That’s right, baby, who’s making you feel this good?” he breathes before capturing your lips in another kiss, swallowing every one of your moans selfishly. 

You break away, chest heaving, “Please fuck me.” you beg and before you could utter another sound, he flips your body so you’re underneath him. His hands work to get the rest of your clothes before he kicks off his sweats, he kisses you again and pumps himself in his hand a few times before sliding his tip between your soaked folds, teasing you before pushing in and bottoming out inside you. You both let out a moan before he starts a steady pace, one hand beside your head and the other on your hip. Your hands find their way to his shoulders, gripping onto them tightly, nails digging in. One trails a line of fire up to his bun, letting his hair out and he smiles, “Gonna pull on it baby?” he asks rhetorically, he already knew the answer but you decide to show him by wrapping your fist around his hair in a makeshift ponytail and pulling, earning a low grunt from your boyfriend. Then you get an idea.

“Baby, baby, wait…” You start, whimpering softly in his ear as he starts hitting your spot with every thrust. “I want you to fuck me from behind and pull my hair.” you say, smiling shyly up at him. He all but has a conniption as he pulls out, helping you turn and get on all fours. He slowly slides back in, hands on your waist as he does. One of them gently glides up your body, tracing a line to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair and he pulls your head back, his lips pressing back into your neck, “Call me daddy, baby.” he moans, setting the pace again, hitting every inch of you with every thrust.

“D-Daddy, please, holy shit-” you moan, a hand reaching behind you and tangling itself in his hair, he moans out as his thrusts start to get sloppy, and one of his hand cups one of your breasts, squeezing gently as he pushes you both to your orgasms. “Daddy, yes, fuck- I’m there!” you scream out, legs shaking as he pushed in deeper, if that was even possible. Within minutes you were cumming together, falling into a tangled heap on the small sofa. As you both caught your breath, he wrapped you in his arms, snuggling up to you. “I love you, Boo.” you breathe out, barely above a whisper, nuzzling your head into his neck.

“I love you.” He replies, kissing your forehead, “I promise I’ll never yell at you again.” He whispers, twirling a piece of your hair around one of his fingers. His lips ghosted over your fingers as he held your hand up to his mouth, kissing each finger gently, his lips pausing over your ring. “Do you remember when I gave this to you?” he asked, smiling down at you.

You nod, smiling back at him, “Of course I do, B. It was our 2 year anniversary, every plan we had made fell through but you were determined to give me this.” you say, laughing and he kisses you gently, deepening the kiss only after pulling you on top of him, his hands on your waist. You decided that spending every post-argument in his arms was exactly what you wanted to do for the rest of your life, and unbeknownst to you, so did he. 

#booboo stewart #booboo stewart imagine #booboo stewart smut #jatp #descendants #twilight

[starlight-vixen-emiko]

Adrigami Week 2021 Day 4: Alternate First Meeting

@adrigamiweek

I apologize if there may be a few errors, I wanted to work on this quickly.

I won’t give any context for this one because it’s a surprise.

Enjoy!

~~~~~

As nervewracking as it was that Kagami was starting her first day of high school in France, she headed in with her head held high. Regardless, some students still made fun of her for the Japanese school outfit she choose to wear out of comfort.

Adrien wanted to break out of home-schooling for once. He looked forward to making new friends, but his lack of social skills made him a fish out of the water, and he feared some of the students considered him weird. He decided to just keep walking down the hall.

Kagami thought she was surviving her first day of high school, and then the laughter of a girl named Lila had returned. She decided to not let it bother her.

"Hey, Kaga!" Lila cried as she pushed Kagami and caused her to fall and scatter her books. "Have a nice fall!"

Kagami got on her knees and glared at the horrible girl. Lila didn't know that Kagami was skilled in kendo and archery, but now wasn't a time to fight fire with fire.

As Kagami gathered her books, she didn't realize that Adrien was in the same hallway, and the blonde-haired boy's heart gave in as he knelt beside Kagami to pick up books.

"Here, let me help you," Adrien said gently.

Kagami lifted her head and met eyes for a gorgeous boy her age with beautiful peridot eyes. Adrien was just as enchanted by her as she was with him. He didn't expect to meet such a pretty girl on the first day of school.

Even if Adrien's face was heating up, he held out his hand. "I'm sorry that happened to you. You didn't deserve that."

Kagami was too busy blushing to say anything, so she took his hand, and just then, she felt her heart rate accelerate. Adrien felt energized as well, but he didn't think much of it.

Adrien helped both of them up, and he placed his hand on the back of his neck while trying to hide a blush.

"So…" He paused.

"Thank you so much," Kagami said with a grin.

Adrien held his hands out in defense. "Oh, it's no problem at all!" He dropped his hands and composed himself. "Anyway," He paused again, trying to fight back nervousness. "Is it possible I can get your name?" Kagami was very charmed that this blonde-haired boy was both attractive and awkward.

"Kagami Tsurugi," she said with a small bow.

“Nice to meet you, Tsurugi-San.”

Kagami was stunned that this boy seemed to know a thing or two about speaking Japanese, but she didn't want him to be too formal with her.

"You can just call me Kagami."

Kagami held her book close to her.

"Can I please get your name?" She asked.

Adrien shrugged. "I am Adrien Agreste, Paris' golden boy, you know." He said with a lack of enthusiasm.

Kagami remembered now, she did see Adrien on a few billboards, but they were so over the top and superficial. The Adrien right in front of her was sincere, and his true beauty shined through.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Agreste-San."

Adrien chuckled a bit. "You just call me Adrien, Kagami."

And he had to admit the pleasure was all his. Both of them didn't realize they were lost in each other's eyes until the school bell rang. Both of them snapped out of it and took a moment to get back to reality. They smiled at each other one last time before running in different directions.

It was such a brief meeting that ended abruptly, but little did they know they would meet as superheroes the second time they would meet.

Kagami met a little kwami named Long, and even though Kagami's life was already complicated enough, she agreed to transform. Adrien met up with a kwami named Plagg, and he was super eager to become one of the superheroes he read in the comics.

Adrien was free now. He was now Chat Noir, and he belonged to himself. He wasn't Paris' golden boy who suffered from harassment from crazed fans. And he enjoyed so much traveling Paris like a superhuman without a care.

Kagami was stunned, she looked like she came out of an anime, and she had powers! She could turn into water, air, lightning, and fire. And as weird as life suddenly got, she could feel herself in tune with all the elements. She was the dragon girl Ryuuko.

She turned into air again to get a bird's eye view of Paris. And it was beautiful, not just the view, but the freedom.

Adrien decided to test his high jump skills with the pole staff he had and held felt invincible high jumping against the blue sky. Until he was face to face with a girl who came out of the air.

The two of them gasped and lost their momentum as both of them fell. But Chat Noir couldn't allow a lady to fall and get hurt, so he grabbed her hand as he landed on top of a roof with the girl cushioned by his body.

He let out a soft groan of pain, and the girl tried to get up only for her lips to nearly brush against his.

Ryuuko felt terrible for doing something reckless, and she quickly picked herself up.

"Are you alright, M'lady?" Chat Noir asked.

Ryuuko walked over to the cat boy and checked him for injury. "I should ask you that question. You saved me." She held out her hand for him.

Chat took her hand, and he felt a familiar connection, but he just brushed it off as holding hands with a pretty girl.

When the cat finally got on his feet, he took a moment to flex a muscle. "All in a day's work. I cannot allow lovely ladies like yourself get harmed."

Ryuuko smiled and shook her head. "I appreciate it, kitty, but I am perfectly capable of handling myself."

When Chat got a closer look, he had to admit this dragon girl looked absolutely gorgeous. More pretty than the female superheroes in the comics. His smile curled, and he let out a soft purr.

"I will keep that in mind, Princess." Chat held out his hand. "I'm Chat Noir, by the way."

Ryuuko smirked at the charming kitty and took his hand. "But you make such a cute kitty. My name is Ryuuko, by the way."

Chat Noir gave a dreamy sigh and looked up. "Such a lovely name. But I think "Princess" still suits you." He said with a wink.

Just then, their miraculous beeped at the same time, and the both of them knew they needed to preserve their identities. But they felt such a connection to each other that they couldn't help but feel like they could trust each other with their identities. Although their kwamis would be very disappointed.

"Gotta go!" Chat cried. He took a moment to salute Ryuuko. "Hope to see you around, Princess."

Ryuuko blushed slightly under her mask. "Likewise."

Then like a speedy kitty, Chat Noir launched himself away using his staff, and Ryuuko took a moment to watch him before fading to air and floating away.

The both of them transformed back to their civilian forms feeling stunned. For Adrien, he met two beautiful girls in one day. And Kagami, two charming boys in one day.

Both of them wondered what fate had in store for them. But before they could wonder, lightning crashed.

Neither of them saw lightning or rain coming, and both of them ran. But the rain was falling fast and hard.

Kagami ran to a closed building that only provided a bit of shelter from the rain. All she could do was lean in and wait out the storm. But then she heard panting, and before she knew it, a boy with soaked blonde hair was running toward her and ran into her arms. Kagami was stunned, but she kept a hold on the boy.

"Oh god!" Adrien cried. "I'm sorry!"

Adrien lifted his head up and ended up shocked because he just now realized he ran into Kagami.

"Kagami!" He cried. His face was either red from the weather or from blushing.

"Hello Adrien," Kagami said. She had to admit she enjoyed holding him.

And then another big lightning bolt lit up the sky, and both of them cried in shock. Adrien stood up and wrapped his arms around Kagami, protecting her.

Kagami wished she could transform and beat the storm, and Adrien wished he could transform and get both of them out in a rush, even if no one likes a wet cat. But neither of them could risk having their identities found out.

So they held each other as the rain continued to fall, and they were willing to hold on to each other for as long as the storm would hold out. But surprisingly, the rain didn't last too long. Kagami and Adrien couldn't help but look up and see the rain become softer and the grey clouds starting to move. Both of them let go of each other without saying anything and walked out of their shelter. Adrien held out his hand to check for any remaining raindrops. Then he turned to Kagami. Her adorable short hair was now soaked.

"Are you alright, Kagami?" He asked.

Kagami nodded. "I'm fine, thank you, Adrien." She let out a bit of a loud sneeze.

"Oh god!" Adrien said as he got closer to her. "I should take you home."

Kagami turned away. "My home is a little far away."

Adrien placed his hands on her shoulders. "Then I'll take you to where I live, and we can get my chauffeur to drive you."

Kagami didn't want Adrien to go through the trouble, but at the same time, it was hard to argue with a guy who was being so gentlemanly. Not to mention Adrien took her hand and guided her.

Kagami honestly didn't want to go back home where everything was strict. She wanted to stay with him, even if she just met him today.

But after some time of walking together and feeling the sunshine, the self-driving car Kagami's mother was riding crossed their path.

"Mother!" Kagami gasped.

Kagami's mother took a moment to process her daughter's voice. "Kagami!"

"Where have you been?" She said a bit sternly.

Adrien looked down on her and noticed she felt a bit of shame.

"I'm sorry, mother," Kagami said.

Adrien took a moment to squeeze her hand. "It was my idea, Madame!" Adrien said. "I was just trying to take Kagami home."

Kagami's mother paused for a moment. "And who may this be?"

"A friend!" Kagami said. "His name is Adrien."

Kagami's mother took a moment to ponder. "Well, he does sound like a trustworthy boy. But I insist you come home with me right now, Kagami."

"Yes, mother." Kagami promptly opened the car door, but she couldn't help but turn to the blonde-haired boy smiling at her.

That smile was eventually going to drive her crazy.

"We'll see each other again, right, Kagami?" Adrien said.

Any sour mood Kagami felt today was sweetened thanks to him, and she managed to smile back.

"Of course we will."

And when Kagami got in the car, she couldn't help but look back at the adorable boy as the car drove away, and he watched her as the car drove away as well.

Adrien sighed happily, thinking how much changed on his first day of high school. Then he noticed a rainbow above him. It was surprising, and then he placed his hand over his heart.

Kagami was lost in thought sitting in the car, but eventually, she noticed a rainbow through the slightly opened window. She placed her hand over her mouth at another pleasant surprise of today, then she giggled.

So much had happened on their first meeting.

Author’s Note: Finally a longer fanfic! And now I have a headcanon that Adrien likes comic books!

Really I hope you lovebugs enjoyed this...I hope there wasn’t too many errors.

I will see you lovely lovebugs tomorrow! This is Emiko Gale signing out! <3

#adrigamiweek2021 #adrigami #otp #my writing #my fanfiction

[metanoiamorii]

❛Maybe we are not meant to be, not yet. Maybe we’re stars, waiting to collide in another life.❜

♧ Title: Be Still My Foolish Heart [BSMFH]

♧ Status: Brainstorming & Drafting

♧ Point of View: Third

♧ Genre: Fantasy, Action, Drama, Romance

♧ Warnings: Violence, War, Death of major and minor characters, nudity, past abuse, generational trauma, generational healing, racism, transphobia, homophobia, character corruption arcs, ethics vs morals, star crossed lovers, tragic endings, codependent and complicated relationships.

♧ Featuring: Diverse LGBTQ+ characters, enemies to friends to allies to lovers slowburn, complex and complicated characters, fantasy religions, plenty of symbolism, complex world building, ethics vs morals, a whole lot of moral grey can be fit into this bad boy, character redemption and corruption arcs, some found family, learning to separate one from their family's trouble and taking control of their life, soulmate trope, setting the groundwork for future generations.

♧ Setting: An Ancient Chinese inspired, fantasy setting

♧ Synopsis:

In Oidien there has always been a defined split against the Heavens and Ghost City. No one can remember what sparked the feud between them, it's possible after all these years of the fighting and endless war... they don't even remember themselves. They know it's tradition to keep fighting, to ensure the cycle of violence continues. So that is what they do; they keep fighting.

In recent years, the King of Ghost City has drawn back from the fields off battles and distants himself from politics. He leaves the affairs in his eldest children: Lianhauzi holds the crown, Lutaizi knows his way around the court, Suming’qiu is gifted with the army, and Taixuan is there to ensure everyone takes a break, to take care of her family.

A fight against children is how the Heavens view it... To their surprise, these children are more than gifted than their father. This isn't a game to them, it's a livelihood. They know how to secure a victory within minimum casualties, and they know how to balance one another's weakness.

The Heavens cannot take another loss. No matter how many battles they have lost, they have always managed to win this war. Each time. But on this account? They're afraid to admit they've been beat. So they come to a resolution: they have to take out one of the links. Take out one and the rest should crumble.

It's...

Not as easy as one would imagine. Or so their spies in court relay. The four know to keep their distance in public, and if they meet in private no one knows. They handpick their servants carefully, and they ensure each servant knows their tasks and do not overstep. They've taken every precaution necessary.

Even when it works, when one of their spies is welcomed inside that well guarded, hidden court... no one expects the game of cat and mouse to transpire. Their spy is humored until she's willing to change her allegiance and eventually is brought into the family by marriage... In the very least, she offers the weakest link to exploit to destroy the family.

♧ Tease

Of all I have done,

Forgettable they to none;

Has it now begun?

No, not forgiveness.

That I would never ask for, love.

I wish, regret comes.

You know as I do,

Games I once played, have turned you,

A pretty face blue.

I made no mistake,

You know as I do, the stakes

Required; played.

Once, for you, my rule

To survive, I broke, for you;

That forsaken dual.

My conscious it haunts;

My sleep, in dreams it will taunts

And it brings your scorn.

Pour me a wine glass,

For my sanity to last

And my wrath? To trap.

For me, preform; dance

Distract me with your nice laugh

Until I collapse.

And leave, in silence,

See to it, quiet your lips

Of the truth won't slip.

Allow me my sleep,

Don't be cruel, do not slight, cheat

You ugly she-beast.

A single night, peace,

That is all I ask for, please...

Better, just leave.

I have discovered,

Regret? No, I now confessed

Not for you, coward.

♧ Excerpt:

Her booted feet pattered against the puddles of rain droplets as she hugged the umbrella close to her shoulder, protecting herself from the storm. In a hurry she rounded the corner, following after the image of a soaked cat that had caught her attention and ran before she could approach it properly. It had been the first time in awhile since she had taken to sprinting, to follow the cat. Around the corner Xihuli came, brought to an abrupt halt when she turned into another person, as insane as she was to be out in the midst of a storm.

Her umbrella clattered to the floor, dropped as she staggered back a pace. The bright red silk was out of place, spinning upon the rain soaked ground. She gained her footing, no longer staggering to place distance between them. Her head threw back, an angry look quick to find purchase upon her features. Having yet to reach for her umbrella, the rain begun to soak the bright red and white silks she wore, drenched and sticking to her figure. "Watch—"

Her protests are so abruptly cut off. She watches the man tilt back his own umbrella, dark as the stormy sky with red spider lilies imprinted upon the fabric; the hanging tassels brush against his form, parting to expose his face. A youthful face that should have been smiling, with those eyes— so red to match the spider lilies upon his umbrella— staring at her as if she were a lesser being. The umbrella sits back upon his shoulder, head tilted forward with his chin forward, a sign he was in fact superior to her.

"Don't you know better, Zhuque?" The tone he speaks in, it's unlike that rambunctious voice he's known for, full of laughter that becomes too obnoxious for the ears. How serious it is, no jest spoken, no room for his games. He stares her down, staring through the dangling tassels of his umbrella. And how unkind that look is, a look that's no better than a wolf staring at a lamb. "You should never be out so late."

The two men, another prince and his own dog. Wine and lilac gives him away, wearing the golden lotus crown in his hair. Face unfriendly, a natural scowl he had been born with. He stands beneath the umbrella held above his head, keeping him dry from the rain. Held by that fucking bastard, smug and vain, with the bones acting as hair pins. He's uncaring if he gets wet, of course he is. When he controls the ocean why would he care about a little storm?

Lianhauzi pulls back his hood as he now stands blocking the last exit, Lutaizi and An Huli keeping the woman pinned in. He takes a step forward, Xieyuan moves with him, holding the umbrella in place. When he steps forward they all watch Xihuli push herself back, struggling to press her back into the wall, able to stare in each direction where one was coming from. "The fear in your eyes betray you... You know why we are here."

♧ Characters:

Love Interests

Shenguai Suming’qiu; Heizhao-jun

Amab • Agender • He/Him • Asexual • Reciproromantic

The Fourth Master of the Phantom Palace; that has earned the name of Black Sinister Claws. Said to be cursed from birth, as he has come to age and stepped into the politics and warfare, he has come to be their lucky charm. A conniving young man with a sharp intellect, and a shaper wit. For his family, he has taken up the role as master of intelligence and handles all correspondence, planning, and diplomacy. As a front, he appears an apathetic man, detached and void of all emotions, only hellbent on his work; only his siblings and a selected handful are able to see another side of him.

Yi Xianzi; Courtesy Name Ke’ai

Afab • Genderfluid • She/They • Pansexual • Demiromantic

The Young Mistress of the Yi Manor is a woman with high and strong morals, and lives to maintain peace for the Heavens, and secure a future for the younger generations. She bears conflicted emotions of supporting her mistress’ less than moral ambition, but often does not speak of them and turns a blind eye instead; she tries to justify these actions for the greater good, despite knowing better. Often at times, she is torn between her loyalty to her household, and her own sense of justice and morality.

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Phantom Paradise

Shenguai Bixie’e; Guiwang

Amab • Nonbinary • He/They • Pansexual • Apothiromantic

The King of Ghost City. Despite years and generations of war with the Heavens, he remains undefeated and stays alive. Defying the odds, many believe he is unkillable, and quite well, untouchable. He has retired, for the most part, from the battlefield, and remains within the Phantom Palace, allowing his children to helm the war. He spends his time with his concubines, or with his council. Few see his face, fewer are able to gain an audience with him.

Shenguai Lutaizi; Heige-jun

Transmasc • Genderfluid • He/They • Omnisexual • Demi-Homoromantic

The unorthodox First Master of the Phantom Palace; that has earned the name of the Lord of the Black Song. First in line to the throne, he has conceded his right to it, and would concede his own royalty if not for his siblings. Despite being a Prince of Ghost City, he is nothing like his father. Carefree and reckless, he would prefer to spend his days drinking, goofing off, and living life to the fullest, uncaring of a familia grudge that makes little sense to him.

Shenguai Taixuan; Duandaojian-jun

Transfem • Nonbinary • She/They • Demisexual • Panromantic

The Second Master of the Phantom Palace; that has earned the name of the Princess With A Broken Blade. She takes greatly after her elder brother, and refuses to partake in a war that has not personally done her wrong. Despite her heritage, she is a woman with a strong sense of justice, morals, and honour. She protects her family from harm, and she will not turn away someone in need, no matter their origins. Opposed to being a sister and a daughter in her family, she fills the role of mother and acts as the woman of the household.

Shenguai Lianhauzi; Baoli’jífeng-jun

Amab • Agender • He/They • Asexual • Akioromantic

The Third Master of the Phantom Palace; that has earned the name of the Violent Tempest. Pressed by his elder siblings, he has taken up as their father’s heir to the throne; the Crowned Prince. He is known for his bad temper and strict nature. At heart, he has good intentions, he lacks the best judgement to execute his intentions.

Shenguai Kuangre Ai Du De; Dubo'mogui-jun

Amab • Genderfluid • They/He/She • Pansexual • Cupioromantic

The Sixth Master of the Phantom Palace; that has earned the title of the Gambling Demon. He is a man unaffected by grudges, politics, responsibilities. He prefers to take a page from his brother, Lutaizi’s, book and spend his time enjoying life to its fullest. He is very much a hedonist, and a compulsive gambler. Everyone he meets, he is obligated to gamble with them, at least once. The catch? He’s capricious, he’s erratic, and he will always change the game and stakes with every person.

Shenguai Jiaxiu; Mei-jun

Amab • Genderfluid • He/She/They • Pansexual • Frayromantic

The Seventh Master of the Phantom Palace; that has earned the name of the Beauty Lord. Arrogant and narcissistic, he is a very conceited man. He enjoys simple flattery and having others fawn over him, being the center of attention. Out of admiration he has taken after his brother, Suming’qiu’s, footsteps and assists him with his tasks. Himself, he carries out the more… darker duties called for, and gathering information; assassinations and spying tends to be his expertise.

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The Four Calamities

An Huli; Chui Feihong

Transfem • Agender • She/They • Homosexual • Homoromantic

Little Fox, as she’s called, is the favored of Prince Lutaizi, and the oldest of the Great Calamities. She is a woman who knows what she desires, what she is determined to do, and she refuses to allow anything or anyone to stand in her way. She comes off to be blunt, spiteful, angry; a she-devil, some claim in kinder terms than a bitch. Ahead of her time, she refuses to hide herself behind a mask, to be perceived as a gentle woman when, in truth, she is a walking storm, and for that, many frown upon her.

He Ruxie; Hei Xieyuan

Amab • Agender • He/They • Demisexual • Gyneromantic

Lord Black Water, as he is called, is the favored of Prince Lianhauzi, and the second of the Great Calamities. Formally a scholar in his past life, he experienced a string of bad luck, costing him his family, his wife, his daughter, his livelihood, his freedom, and soon his sanity. When he perished in his mortal life, he returned as a malicious spirit, and soon came into the service of the Shenguai family and serves loyally and viciously

Da Chen; Nitu Guiguai

Transfem • Nonbinary • They/She • Asexual • Demiromantic

The Enlighted One, as they are called, are the favored of Princess Taixuan, and is the third of the Great Calamities. In their previous life, they lived the life of an honest priest, surrounded by corruption and sin. When they met their end, their resentment for their peers remained and thus they rose to power to root out the corruption and seek retribution. Of the four, they are the amicable. They often forgo emotions and act only in rationality. Their mind is never clouded, and each act they make are in good conscious. Good will is shown to those that live an honest life, no matter their origins; ruin is shown to those are decide to live a dishonest life.

Wusi Linghun; Bai Wulian

Closeted Transmasc • Agender • He/They • Akiosexual • Demi-Akioromantic

The White Devil, as he is called, is the favored of Prince Suming’qiu, and the youngest of the Great Calamities. Formally a young lord in the Heavens, he turned his back on a betrothed he held no affection for. Openly, he cast aside his previous life, to serve the Shenguai family, and became a quick aid to the Fourth Prince. He is said to be two-faced, in some encounters being ruthless and apathetic, and other times he is genuine and compassionate; a toss up upon which side someone will see when their paths cross with him.

━━━���━━━━━━

The Heavenly Host

Meng Zhang; Courtesy Name Amnizha

Transfem • She/Her • Demisexual • Demiromantic

The First Master of Dongbu, and the acting Qinglong. Kindness is the one rule she lives by: kindness to her family, kindness to her allies, kindness to a stranger, kindness to her foes. She sees no reason to rule with fear and hatred, and actively will not promote negative emotions. She is a stern and serious woman, she takes pride in her knowledge, her power, and securing the truth. Behind closed doors, she opposes Xihuli and the Emperor, knowing both have secrets they would prefer to keep buried, in public she maintains an appearance of being a close ally.

Ling Guang; Courtesy Name Xihuli

Cis-female • She/Her • Demisexual • Apothiromantic

The First Master of Nanfang, and the acting Zhuque. Openly, she is perceived as a compassionate woman, who puts the needs of her people before herself, and acts selfless; in truth, she is surprisingly violent and vulgar. She continues to fuel the war, slandering and starting rumors of false deeds to rile the public, and gain the support of her supposed allies. There is nothing she is not willing to do to gain fame, support, and what she desires.

Jian Bing; Courtesy Name Cixia

Afab • Genderfluid • She/They • Asexual • Demiromantic

The First Master of Xibian, and the acting Baihu. She is known for being a compassionate woman, she wears her heart upon her sleeves, and acts out of the goodness of her heart. She openly encourages peace, to cease endless war and bloodshed; to make amends. For which, she is seen as an enemy to Xihuli, but is a close friend to Amnizha. Her only downfall are her chronic illnesses that have left her sickly since birth.

Zhi Ming; Courtesy Name Lu'yongshi

Amab • Agender • He/They • Closeted Homosexual • Homoromantic

The First Master of Beifang, and the acting Xuanxu. He has a reputation that precedes him as an honorable gentleman. He is a man of his word, he acts in accordance to justice and honor, and rarely strays from it. At heart, he is a warrior, and lacks the delicacies for social greetings; he comes off as blunt, uninterested, distant, and often lacking a heart to care.

Zhi Shi; Courtesy Name Yansbi

Cis-female • She/Her • Asexual • Aromantic

The younger sister of Lu'yongshi, the Second Master of Beifang, and acting Xuanshe. She happens to be her brother’s polar opposite. She is less than honest, she lacks honour, she craves power, she will use blackmail to get what she desires. As, she is not above blackmailing and guilting her own brother to act in accordance to her own agenda. She is also a close associate to Xihuli.

Long Jianhong; Courtesy Name Canren

Cis-male • He/Him • Bisexual • Apothiromantic

The current Emperor of Zhongxin, and the acting Honglong. A prideful man that cares more of his own person than his own people. Often, he turns a blind eye to all suffering, and allows Xihuli to do as she pleases. He is a womanizer, with various concubines’ , and elicit affairs with others. He was loveless to his wife, as there are rumors he was behind her untimely death. Whether these rumors are true or not are unproven, and few challenge them out of fear.

Long Shisan; Courtesy Name Li Busengren

Amab • Genderfluid • He/She • Quoisexual • Quioromantic

The Fourteenth Prince of Zhongxin. With twelve siblings in line of succession to the throne, Li Busengren acknowledges the chances for him to be the heir are little to none; this is added by the factor of being, from birth, his father’s least favorite child. With a will to prove his father wrong, and desperate for his father’s approval, he’s ready to do anything for an ounce of recognition.

Taglist

BSMFH: @writings-of-a-narwhal, @kittensartswriting, @inkflight, @qelizhus,

General: @endlesshourglass, @writerray, @poore-choice-of-words, @alexwritesfiction, @primusesgiantmetalballbearings

Both: @cecilsstorycorner, @little-boats-writes, @hazard-writes, @egg-shark

#My writing #Wip intro #Wip introduction #Writeblr #Writeblr community #Writing community #Writers on tumblr #Writers of tumblr #Fantasy #Star crossed lovers #Original writing #Fantasy writer #Morri's collection #Morri's wips #Did Morri really say instead of being productive with new content they would just make a re-intro to this wip? #Yes yes Morri did #Original works #Original story #in the midst of chaos there is queue

[tallstars-rewrite]

Chapter 20

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As Reena said, the visitors kept to themselves for several days after Hen passed away. Heatherstar sent someone to inform them they would be allowed to stay visiting their territory for at least the rest of greenleaf if they wanted more time to say goodbye to their companion. She seemed genuinely remorseful that WindClan had not been able to help, but Bess and her company were grateful as ever that WindClan had offered at all. Well, almost all of them. Tallpaw hadn’t seen any sign of Sparrow at all since he’d ran from the camp that day, and neither had anyone else in the clan as far as he knew. He couldn’t place why, but it made him uneasy how effortlessly the little loner crept around undetected. Reena claimed Sparrow was still with them, that he’d never leave for good, but even she wasn’t seeing him very often. It clearly worried her, but there was nothing to do but give him more time. 

The amount of energy Tallpaw had to spend on pitying the cold loner was limited anyway. He, unsurprisingly, still hadn’t had a single conversation with his father. When Heatherstar heard about the accident that had happened in the tunnels, Sandstone’s project was put on indefinite hold. Tallpaw had been very careful not to be in camp during that time, but based on what he overheard from Woollycloud, his father had not taken it well at all. Now he was honestly terrified to risk even being in Sandstone’s line of sight without an escape route, so it was safer to continue being out of camp as much as possible, and hiding behind other cats when he had to be. Tallpaw was completely exhausted from all the extra patrols and hunting missions he kept insisting to Dawnstripe he definitely had the energy for, but in the end, it was worth it. Besides, now that it was clear he was no natural tunneler, there was more time to double down on moor runner training, to make it up to Dawnstripe. Tallpaw had to at least not let some cat down.

Late newleaf storms had returned hard, cloaking the moor in a gloomy shade. It was difficult to tell how low the sun was from behind the thick cloud cover. Tallpaw trailed along on his second patrol that day, almost grateful for the rainy chill to keep him awake while the sunset patrol was scouting from the north to the eastern border. It wasn’t ideal in the wet weather, but Tallpaw preferred water in the grass infinitely more to the thought of water leaking into tunnel walls around him, so he was among the few younger cats who didn’t complain about damp patrols.

 Shrewpaw, Hareflight, Brackenwing, and Fallowspring traveled with them. Even through the slight haze of exhaustion that always weighed on him in some way or another, Tallpaw could feel that he had gotten stronger in the moons since he started training. He and Shrewpaw walked a bit ahead of the others, keeping an eye out for a chance to catch something. Stuck only training with each other, their teamwork hunting had vastly improved since their first attempt. Shrewpaw silently signaled to him the location of a rabbit a short distance off from the patrol. Wordlessly, they fanned out from one another as the rest of their patrol paused to watch. They had the luck of being down wind on their side. Tallpaw crept as close as he dared before he shot out of the grass. The rabbit wheeled around and took off, Tallpaws claws only managing to graze it. But he had expected as much. Keeping close behind it, he drove it to where he knew Shrewpaw was waiting, and in a brown blur of fur, Shrewpaw rammed into it from the side. The animal was almost the same size as the apprentices, and it put up a fight. Tallpaw gripped it by its shoulders and yanked its head up, allowing Shrewpaw to jump on top of it and sink his teeth into the side of its neck. The rabbit eventually stopped kicking, Shrewpaw yowled triumphantly while he heard their patrol call out their praise at the fairly clean catch.

Tallpaw rolled the rabbit off of him “You’re welcome by the way, for letting you show off with the final kill. Aren’t you glad Fallowspring joined the patrol?” 

Shrewpaw flattened his ears “Like I need your help to show off.” 

As they dragged the rabbit back to the patrol together, Dawnstripe called, “we may need to have some of you branch off early to take that back. Unless you want to try dragging it the long way home.”

“It's not too long a run straight to camp from here, so I’ll come back when we’re finished.” Tallpaw said.

“I almost thought that rabbit was going to pummel you,” Fallowspring laughed. “It’s as big as Shrewpaw is.”

“Good thing my claws are better,” Shrewpaw boasted, licking rabbit blood from his muzzle.

The roll in the rain laden grass had soaked them both. Tallpaw sneezed disdainfully as Shrewpaw shook water droplets into his nose. “Maybe Briarpaw had the right idea after all, not having to go on patrols like us. He’d be even heavier than you in this weather.” Tallpaw said.

Shrewpaw sniffed. “Sure, but I still think going out more often would be better for his head. Did you see him this morning? He got all worked up about some prey blood on the ground, or something like that. Apparently he’s ‘really sure this time’ that something bad will happen, he’s been on about it for days.” Shrewpaw lowered his voice. “He keeps saying I can’t tell the old badger-face about all of his worrying. Like he thinks if Hawkheart sees him getting too worked up, he’ll make him quit training .”

Tallpaw frowned. “Well...did Briarpaw consider that Hen passing away might have been the ‘bad thing’? A cat did die, that’s pretty bad.”

“Try telling him that.” 

They’d fallen a bit behind the rest of the patrol, and Brackenwing turned her head to them. “Don’t think I can’t hear you two gossiping back there.”

“Sorry,” Tallpaw ducked his head, “We’re just worried about him.” Or I am at least. Shrewpaw seemed more exasperated by his brother than anything.

“I know it’s hard to understand what he’s doing, but he’ll be fine. When Briarpaw has his heart set on something, he sees it through. I’m sure Hawkheart will help him sort through this. Maybe you could bring him your rabbit to cheer him up when we get back. It was an incredible catch! I’m so proud of you,” Brackenwing looked warmly to her son, and then added to Tallpaw, “both of you. Your mother will be thrilled to see what a great hunter you are shaping up to be.”

Tallpaw wordlessly nodded and thanked her. Brackenwing spoke of his mother more than his mother spoke to him. At this point, he just let it go as if it was normal how little he saw her. Patrolling felt good to get his restless energy out, but sure enough there crept that familiar heaviness into his chest when he thought of Palebird. After all, part of why he wanted his father to understand him so desperately was because he didn’t want to lose him like he had her. So much for that. Though he’d sometimes catch Palebird staring at him from afar, he knew if she wanted him to approach first, she was going to be disappointed. Brackenwing had even tried to convince Palebird to join them on their patrol today, where she could have seen his progress for herself, but her “illness” that he knew little about had spiked up again, and she hadn’t left her den. Brackenwing seemed like she was trying not to draw attention to their distance, but she must have noticed the wistfulness in his response. 

She quietly licked his ear and murmured, “she really is proud of you. Your mother is going through a difficult time right now, but she loves you. I’m sure she’ll be able to join us on patrols again soon.”

Some part Tallpaw wanted to ask if she knew why his mother was so distant, but he was never sure if Brackenwing was being honest with him. If his mother was disappointed in him, he’d never hear it from Brackenwing. She only offered him praise and tried to smooth things over best she could. Sometimes Tallpaw wished he really had been Brackenwing’s kit as well. It was so easy between her and her kits, even when Briarpaw had chosen an unexpected path. But it would do him no good to dwell on that, and wishing his own kin away only increased the guilt weighing down his paws.

The patrol had very nearly made the complete round. As they approached the north-eastern border that ran against the treeline before the Thunderpath, he pricked his ears and stared a bit nervously off into the trees as the patrol marked the border.

“Things have been quiet on ShadowClan’s side for a while,” Dawnstripe said warily.

“Do you think Heatherstar was right to call their bluff?” Tallpaw asked.

“One can never be too sure.” Hareflight warned. “Keep a careful eye out, we’re still under orders to make sure this border is marked especially well.”

Tallpaw and Shrewpaw wandered a bit further ahead. Shrewpaw was casting glares into the dark pines on the border.

“I swear I can smell something,” he muttered. “If ShadowClan shows their muzzles anywhere near here again, I'll tear them off their ugly faces.”

 Tallpaw opened his jaws to scent the air. A particularly foul smelling monster had rumbled by not long ago, and it clouded many of the other scents around him. It was hard to tell if the ShadowClan he tasted was from their side of the border or over it. He got so caught up narrowing his eyes at every shape that moved in the trees, he didn’t realize the patrol had gotten ahead of him. As he turned to catch up, a very loud, and very deliberate, crack made him jump and wheel back around.

“Shrewpaw--” he hissed, looking around desperately for the other apprentice. Something moved in the undergrowth up ahead. Another crack. Tallpaw hurried forward and heard Shrewpaw’s snarl before he saw the dark cat sitting above him in a thin branch, glowering down at them with a malicious sneer. 

“Whoops,” the tom said, and Tallpaw recognized the smug bratty face of Darkpaw, crooked tail flicking barley within reach. “Looks like I've been spotted.”

Shrewpaw gave a low growl, loud enough to catch the rest of the patrol's attention. Fallowspring was there in an instant, bursting through the undergrowth to stand between them

“What do you think you’re doing up there, you little rat?” she demanded.

“Just an undersized apprentice isn’t much of an invasion.” Dawnstripe snorted.

“I’ll drag him down!” Shrewpaw swiped viciously at the ShadowClan tom's tail. 

Darkpaw blinked at the patrol surrounding him with wide orange eyes. “Oh no,” he whimpered, “you’re not going to hurt me are you? What would I do then?”

He was clearly mocking them. Did he think they wouldn’t attack him just because he was an apprentice? He was certainly old enough to know better. Dawnstripe and Hareflight looked at each other, clearly annoyed, but not worried. 

Tallpaw saw Dawnstripe nod to him.  “Why don’t you get rid of this runaway pest so we can continue,”

He stiffened as he realized she was giving him permission for a fair fight. Tallpaw stared up at the ShadowClan apprentice. If Darkpaw was going to behave like that, then he could certainly stand to get some sense knocked into him. Even so, Tallpaw had never really attacked a cat before. In his heartbeat of hesitation, Shrewpaw shoved ahead of him and made a mad leap for the branch with outstretched claws.

Darkpaw barely dodged and jumped down into the bushes below with a laugh. “You should really pay more attention to your surroundings!”

Tallpaw wasn’t quite sure what happened after that. A chorus of furious screeches came from somewhere behind him, something slammed into him, knocking him into the brush, his head smacked hard against the hard earth and his ears started ringing.

“Ambush!” he heard someone cry. The forest was alive with screeches. Tallpaw had no idea where Darkpaw had gone. He heard Shrewpaw snarl and swipe, and suddenly the furious apprentice was shoving a disoriented Tallpaw to his feet.

“Get up and fight!” Shrewpaw yowled as he plunged forward into the fray. There was a whole group of ShadowClan warriors wrestling with their patrol. Had they been hiding there the whole time? Tallpaw’s shock was replaced quickly with anger and a spike of adrenaline. There was no more time for wondering what to do, and he didn’t have time to be afraid as he launched himself at the first body stinking of ShadowClan that he saw. He wrapped his paws around thin spiky gray fur and sank his teeth into the shoulder of a tom much larger than himself. With flexibility he wouldn’t have thought possible, the gray tom turned his neck and bit the top of Tallpaw’s scruff, yanking him forward. Tallpaw opened his mouth to yowl in surprise as he was thrown onto the ground. 

“Stupid fight to pick,” A harsh raspy voice snarled into his face. He saw long glinting teeth and sharp icey eyes. Tallpaw vaguely recalled the appearance of ShadowClan's deputy himself, Stonetooth. He rolled out of the way as fast as he could as Stonetooth’s viciously sharp teeth snapped loudly an inch from his ears. A single hard swipe from the deputy knocked Tallpaw off balance, but before claws reached his pelt, Brackenwing slammed into Stonetooth and grappled him around the neck as she bit at his head. Tallpaw has never seen the molly fight, and she was terrifyingly strong and larger than her opponent, but Stonetooth was agile, easily twisting his way out of her grip. Tallpaw began to swipe at the enemy warrior’s back as a distraction while Brackenwing slashed at his face, but he was knocked to the ground again before he could aim it. Whoever threw Tallpaw down was gone quickly as Shrewpaw snapped at the retreating dark-furred figure before turning back to help his mother tackle Stonetooth. 

“Stay together!” came Hareflight’s yowl. Tallpaw scrambled for the scraps of battle training he could remembert, and held his ground beside Shrewpaw.

 But then from the shadows of scraggly undergrowth, he heard someone hiss, “what’s wrong little apprentice? You’re not good at fighting on your own, are you?”

Ashpaw, Tallpaw scarcely recognized the young ShadowClan cat that had tried to pick a fight with them at the gathering. She waited in the bushes just out of reach. Why was she just sitting there watching? Tallpaw swiped at her once and tried to turn again to keep pace with Shrewpaw lashing out at Stonetooth’s flanks. He heard Dawnstripe’s pained yowl somewhere.

“Too much of a coward to chase me off, then? guessed as much.” Ashpaw jeered.

It was stupid of him to try and take on an older apprentice alone, but the word coward echoed in his ears, sending a bristling bolt of fury through him. 

“Shut up!” Tallpaw snarled and wheeled around on her. Shrewpaw was lost somewhere behind him. He pounced at the voice, but she’d ducked away. “Who do you think you're calling a coward when you won’t even fight!?” he screeched. Where had she gone?

“You're making this too easy." The taunting growl came from his left, and before he knew what happened, he was on the ground again, Darkpaw snapping at his neck. Both ShadowClan apprentices were on top of him now and Tallpaw couldn’t flip himself back over. He was alone, teeth sunk hard into his ear and he yowled in pain as panic started to take over. Would they really kill him? It was against the code, but Darkpaw didn’t look like he cared. Tallpaw thrashed and swiped uselessly, all proper training forgotten as he flailed. Suddenly some of the weight was lifted off of him and he heard Ashpaw yowl in surprise as Shrewpaw grappled her to the ground. Darkpaw, less confident without his bigger friend, was distracted enough for Tallpaw to kick him hard in the face, just barely missing his eyes. Blood pooling from his nose, the ShadowClan cat turned and leaped back into the bushes with Ashpaw in tow. Shrewpaw skidded to a stop, panting hard, looking ragged.

“Thank--” Tallpaw began, but Shrewpaw just growled at him.

“You made me leave my mother to come save you because you ran off on your own! Stay together, you idiot!” 

Tallpaw tried his best to follow as they struggled towards the rest of their cornered patrol. We should retreat! This is hopeless! he thought desperately, but he had no idea where to retreat to. There seemed to be cats surrounding them on every side. He saw a bloodied Brackenwing take Stonetooth over a muddy slope, out of sight amidst the chaos. Shrewpaw leaped after them, but there were more ShadowClan warriors in his way now, and they wouldn’t let him through. The patrol was now completely split up, and severely outnumbered. He tried to help Shrewpaw shove through a much bigger warrior so he could get to Brackenwing, when suddenly, Stonetooth’s voice rang out a call for retreat. All at once ShadowClan pushed away from their opponents and slipped back into the shadows, streaming through the narrow Thunderpath tunnel. Tallpaw stared after them, bloody and bewildered. Stonetooth turned back to give them one last icy glare with bared and bloodied teeth.

“We warned you once, and we won’t do it again. You will back off this border, or next time face more of our claws.”

 With that he was gone, and the woods were quiet once more.

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#cw blood #cw violence #*canon typical violence #FRU20 #chapter 20 #~fight scenes my be-hated~

[kettlequills]

that world will cease to be: here in my shrine

For anon, who wanted a fic of Laat and Miraak exploring each other's bodies, and everyone who wanted a sequel to the soulmate au. Here you go: I tried. At the bottom there's a gloss of all the Dovahzul used, though pretty much all of it is contextually explained or translated.

This fic contains explicit n.s.f.w, sexual content, and is 1.8. +. Also: suicidal ideation, oral , b.d. sm, species dysphoria, light blood drinking, praise, overstimulation, abusive relationships, including featuring jealousy and possessiveness, and implied/referenced mind control and manipulation. Read at your own risk. Available on A03 here (and recommended, because this is Long).

There is an island where time does not exist. Or rather, where time has stopped, warped, turned half-counter-clockwise and decided that it would like to go four to the left actually.

Dead men stride ashfields that burgeon with last season's and four years of yesterday's summer crops. Their haunting cries part darkened smoke-clouds from a mountain that can't decide whether it has erupted and their dragon-claw boots leave no footsteps. No trace at all of them on silvery sand that thinks itself still a cliff, but a trail of dead netch and liquid-eyed nixhounds. Long-gone elves peer confusedly through gaps in ice-tunnels to a broken sky and thick air long distant from what their lips once tasted, trading the ancient pelts of great cats and wood-carved weapons made of some icy material that radiates magic with the commoners of Raven Rock. Sometimes, old Nords chase them through the snowfields up on the Moesring mountains, but that happens only in Sun’s Dawn, and everyone sensible knows to simply stay inside then. They will disappear on Tirdas, but it is Middas, all the time, until it is Fredas instead, shortly after Morndas afternoon (never morning). And that is not even starting with the month of Hearthfire, which as everyone in Raven Rock knows, is simply that time between ten and five o’clock where the sun shakes in what they have been generously describing as the sky.

The town itself is largely unchanged, for what could have been centuries now. Fethis Alor still tends his stand, the Retching Netch waits in a perpetual state of nearly closing down. Glover Mallory has yet to add a single wrinkle to his collection. Every so often, oldfolk come wandering out the barrows, shrivelled bodies that pay in ancient coins with flickers of life in death-blue eyes, but coin is coin, and if old Crescius has been working a thriving trade with the dead priest Zahkriisos in oil and coal, plenty of others in Raven Rock see no need to be stingy.

Occasionally, there are newfolk, outsiders. Furious bureaucrats from Morrowind, perhaps, come to see why their island flies colours that have not been seen since mighty dragons swept their hungry wings over every inch of Tamriel. Beggars, refugees, curious wizards, come to see the Temple. It is not often they last long before they are unmade from the fabric of expectation that links the threads of reality together, or they quite simply go mad. For the most part, though, even gods avoid Solstheim.

The Dragonborns are not known to be fond of gods.

It is best not to pay too much attention to the Temple or the dragons that live within it. Focus instead on the routine, the script, and know in your heart that time is broken and fate is a lie. Choose ignorance. The summer storms shake the ground from the Temple, Shouts of laughter and rage, growing pains, and dragons scatter from its roof like doves. It is a magical untime on Solstheim, and there are worse things than the total freedom of a world shaped by the expectant whim of two godsouled-mortals that keep for the most part to their temple and themselves.

Frea does not choose ignorance. She has been shaman of the Skaal for, at least, twelve generations, or maybe even three days, and the sight of the Tree Stone still turns her stomach. Sometimes long-dead friends are standing round it, smiling at Frea like nothing has changed at all (and it hasn’t, surely? The sun still rises on the day where Gjalund Salt-Sage brought the dragon-break into Raven Rock port), but Frea is tired now. Still young, still strong, she goes to make the same plea she always makes to the Last Dragonborn.

“When are you going to let us go?” Frea asks, over ale. This year’s season has been terrible for crops, but no one quite ever expects to run out, so the barrels remain full of thick Skaal ale that always tastes just like the last time Frea could remember having it.

She is growing to hate that taste.

Laataazin, the Last Dragonborn, is shorter than Frea, being one of those warm-blooded humans from across the sea. Their feet just lightly brush the ground from where they sit next to Frea on the fallen tree stump not far from the Stone. They wear the same armour they always have, as bright and well-used as it has been since the day they walked out of Apocrypha hand in hand with the murderer of Frea’s friends and broke the world. The only difference is their mask hangs from their belt instead of concealing their scarred spider-web of a face, its blank owl-eyes staring accusingly up at Frea.

They grimace at the ale Frea hands them, pulling the cork out with their teeth. Laat says nothing, but looks at Frea, the wisps of blonde hair that escape her hood, the air of terrible exhaustion that slumps her shoulders. They like the Skaal shaman; Frea is the sort of companion that Laat may have considered taking adventuring once, strong enough to keep up, quick enough to get out of the way, and wild enough to relish the months of uninterrupted travelling through the depths of Skyrim’s countryside.

But it has been a long time since Laataazin has gone adventuring, longer still since they have stepped foot in Skyrim. They miss it; the vastness of the wilds, the clear air, the promise of a fight and treasure to be won. Surely it must be time for a visit, soon? Laat cannot remember the last time they went. Beyond their beloved wife, there is little to draw them back there.

And I am here, Miraak presence brushes against their mind, like a touch on their arm. It is tinged with smugness.

Yes, Laat thinks, hiding their smile from Frea, you are. Did you not want privacy?

That is, after all, the reason they decided to hold their regular meeting with Frea today – it is not like Frea, not being dragon-souled, is aware enough of the passing untime to know if Laat reschedules. But Miraak has ushered them from the temple, claiming to want of all things solitude. This is impossible with their souls interlinked, but physical distance and polite-pretence is easy to arrange. It is unusual enough for Miraak to request it instead of Laat seeking the embrace of nature that it makes them immensely curious.

Miraak radiates discontent for a moment (you miss me, Laat’s chest warms), but withdraws. He is fussing with something involving water, trying not to get the sleeves of his robe wet. They do their best to leave him to it and focus on Frea.

“How long do you plan to keep us imprisoned here?” Frea is asking dolefully, as if rephrasing the question will compel Laataazin to give her an answer she wants to hear. “Trapped in this unliving existence, where no thing changes or grows as the All-Maker bade it?”

Unimpressed, Laat scowls at Frea. They kick the ash with their boots, digging with their heel a scar into the earth that exposes a scurrying beetle. That is change, right there. Not the same as the orderly march Akatosh imposes upon the land, but then, it is his rules that argue that two Dragonborn may not walk Nirn at once.

Laat is no longer inclined to listen to such rules.

Frea looks at the beetle. Something in her eyes flickers. Her loose hand drops the ale, which floods from the bottle, soaking the little scar where the beetle rapidly crawls to escape death by drowning. Curiously, Laat watches, but when the golden liquid gets too close they nudge a line of sand to dam it. The beetle, saved, disappears into the ash.

“I wish to return to the All-Maker,” Frea says, quietly.

A sudden surge of annoyance from Miraak catches Laat’s attention. Unthinkingly, they press into his mind. Through his eyes they glimpse Miraak’s bare hand – ink-veined and thin – clutching at a bar of soap, the dim outline of his body beneath the surface of the bathwater, even one knobbly knee, a hint of-

Laataazin, he chides, vexed. Laat blinks and with effort wrenches themselves away. Anchoring themselves to the feel of the wooden stump underneath them, they inhale the salty scent of seaspray and ashfall. Their boots scuffing the ash, Frea’s solid warmth against their side, the weight of their armour on their shoulders.

Are you all right? Laat asks. They are really trying not to think too much about the fact that Miraak is bathing, and that means Miraak is naked. He has never been fully undressed with Laat. They have seen only glimpses of his body beneath the robes when they have sex, his hands, and rarely, his face. Usually, Laat occupies themselves with something like hunting or sleep that distracts their mind when Miraak bathes, because Miraak is very sensitive to his privacy where his body is concerned.

Miraak is naked. And wet. Wet and naked.

Geh, he replies. I dropped the soap.

His indignation at their amusement tempts them to laugh out loud. They do not, because Frea with her gentle mortal-soul and fragile eardrums sits next to them, long legs not struggling to reach the ground at all. Cursed Nords.

Stop thinking about my naked body, he adds, and do not try to look.

Don’t be shy, Miraak, Laat teases slyly, doing their best to ground themselves in the moment, on the tree with Frea not in the bath in the temple, even as they poke fun at him. You’ve been inside me from the moment I awoke in Helgen, and I know you were still watching even when a gentleman might … look away.

They both know it is true, and though Laat is already well aware that Miraak watches them when they bathe, undress, or fuck, Miraak’s embarrassed defensiveness immediately confirms it. They have never minded - Laat has a soldier’s easy practicality about their body.

I was keeping an eye on you to make sure you were not taken advantage of in your many distractions, Laat Dovahkiin, he retorts. Laat has a vague sense of him splashing water over his face.

They roll their eyes and pull away.

“Dragonborn, do you hear me? I wish to die,” says Frea, intensely. “This is no way to live. You must know this, somewhere. Are you not tired of this unending nightmare?”

It is difficult to remain focused on Frea, because Miraak’s thoughts keep drifting to Laat like a ping on the edges of their awareness. They are soft thoughts, warm ones, shy-feeling, tinged with a little note of – is that arousal? Laat’s barely-restrained curiosity piques.

Is he trying to masturbate? It is rare for Miraak to do so. Admittedly, Laat doesn’t remember the last time he has tried without Laat sensing it and volunteering a… helping hand. No, the last time they have felt something like this from him, they followed him to the icy cell he prefers to sleep in when alone. In the memory, Miraak’s hand is hidden in the folds of his robes, but his masked face jerks towards Laat when they open the door, biting off a sound Laat is suddenly very eager to hear. Laat comes to sit beside him – ignoring his fluster, his demands – and murmurs to him about certain options they have. The night ends with Miraak writhing underneath them as they push into him, rocking him slowly against the bed while he gasps and begs, the echoes of his Voice he is desperately trying to muffle in the pillows sending shivers into the walls. There is no exact translation for ‘please, fuck me, please’ in Miraak’s preferred tongue of Dovahzul, but Laat learns that night several new ways to say it anyway.

Miraak sighs wearily, and Laat feels him cast an ice-spell in his bathwater.

Sorry, thinks Laat, sheepish.

“Please,” says Frea, somewhere distant. “Please hear me, Dragonborn. You are the only one who can wake us from this spell.”

Ni faas, replies Miraak, It is a memory I also … fondly recall.

Apologetically, they take a sip of their ale. They wince. Vile. The wines of Cyrodiil, where Laat likely hails from, are infinitely better. But Miraak enjoys the taste on their tongue, and they feel him hum where he lays in the bath.

Gripping Laat’s arm, Frea shakes them roughly. Snapped into their body, Laat blinks and glares at Frea. The Skaal is wise enough to back off, hands upraised, but her blue eyes are full of terrible sorrow when they look at Laat, no fear at all of Laat lashing out with a gauntleted fist.

“The Traitor has changed you,” Frea says to them. “He has changed us all. But you… I do not think any of the people you left behind would recognise you, Dragonborn.”

“You do not know me,” Laat signs, the shapes sharp and clipped. They are in Nirn now, after all, and their Voice would hurt Frea if not kill her if they spoke aloud. Dragons alone are strong enough to bear it. “You know nothing of the world beyond this island, girl.”

“I have heard tale of you, and when first we met… You slew Alduin World-Eater,” Frea shakes her head, slowly. “You would have helped us. You would know that what is happening is wrong.”

Laat rises to their feet, nettled by the reminder of their bitter fate, but Frea only stares at them, as if hoping something will happen. When nothing does beyond Laat’s glare, dimming into confusion at the odd look on her face, the light gutters out in Frea’s heart. Her shoulders bow, as if slumped by immense weights.

“I suggest,” Frea says heavily, “that you reflect on what it is that has changed in this time of unreality. And what has not. Tell me, what do you truly know of the lands beyond these shores that you have seen with your own eyes? Please, remember my words, Dragonborn.”

With that, she turns and crunches away over the snow.

Laat takes a step after Frea, rage bubbling in their gut like a noxious poison – Miraak, touching in concern the edges of their mind – but gritting their teeth hard enough to feel the bones creak, they drag themselves back. No. Laat likes Frea, they do not want to kill her.

They do, however, want to hunt.

Enjoy yourself, Laat thinks to Miraak, taking a moment to send him a soothing pulse. I’m going to go and catch dinner.

Don’t get something large, I have already prepared food for us, Miraak requests.

Full of surprises, today, aren’t you? He grumbles something about being much maligned that Laat ignores, already setting off at a light jog into the wilderness surrounding the temple.

It is a bitter day on Solstheim, with high winds and a brittle, icy chill. The animals are wary, and it takes Laat a few hours to find anything worth catching. Eventually, they manage to corner a small arctic hare. It is dead with a Shout, and Laat skins it with their boot-knife. The hunter in them unwinds at the kill, the blood on their hands.

Frea’s words echo through their mind. “Tell me what you know of the lands beyond these shores that you have seen with your own eyes.”

Laat considers. It has been a while since they have spoken to one of their dragon acquaintances. Odahviing and Venfokest avoid Miraak, but Odahviing at least is bound to come if Laat calls. Perhaps they will ask how Skyrim is doing.

Something about the prospect makes Laat feel a little uneasy, as if there is something they are forgetting.

When are you back? Miraak’s question is more a vague feeling of longing for their presence and a desire to know where they are than it is words, but Laat answers it anyway.

I am coming to you now.

They feel from him a definite tinge of bubbling excitement, and then again that strange anxious spark. Pruzah.

He is definitely planning something. Seething curiosity carries Laat home, to the great Temple of Miraak sprawling between towering fences of heaped dragon-skeletons, fused and warped together by thousands of years of moving ice and snow. Laat ducks under the tongueless jaws and over the fleshless claws, poised in permanent screams of rending agony. As always, they grimace. It is not their favourite of Miraak’s choice in décor.

The interior of the temple is much better, these days, its hard edges softened by the multitude of pelts that ripple along the walls like the sides of some great breathing beast. Laat has hunted all of these themselves, and it still plucks their pride to see the fruits of their work displayed so prominently in Miraak’s temple. The rabbit they pack in ice and leave in an empty brazier. It will not go anywhere.

You are skilled, he interjects into their thoughts. And also prone to cold.

Laat closes their eyes and goes to him, not needing to ask, not needing to see – Laataazin could find Miraak blind and deaf, robbed of all sense, even dead, even dying. The ties that bind them are beyond such petty things as flesh, as mortality.

Soul-of-my-soul, they think, trailing their fingertips over the thickly covered walls, the soft furs, the unyielding stone beneath. Breathing in the smoky scent of incense, the long-distant iron tang of blood and daedra. Always I come to you. Through Apocrypha, through storm, through time and fate itself, no creature could bar me from you that I would not tear asunder.

Do not keep me waiting any longer, Miraak answers, softly. Laat can feel his hunger.

He is outside in the room they usually use when sleeping together. It is fairly large, walled-off, but open to the great sky and set with wards to deter prying eyes and inclement weather. There is no furniture at all, save for a cooking pot in the corner by a fire, a small chest that holds additional blankets and other supplies, and a huge bed, made completely of stone in the Dwemer fashion. It is piled high with furs to make it soft.

The reason, of course, is Laataazin.

“Miraak,” they whisper, as soft as they possibly can, and their Voice shudders the air with a low sonic reverberation. Anything more fragile than stone would be destroyed in an exhale.

“Laat Dovahkiin.”

He is perched on the bed, masked face tilted towards them measuringly. Over his lap luxuriates a thick snow-bear pelt, his long fingers fiddling with something under it almost absently. They can just see a small glimpse of his foot peeking out of the shaggy fur, wider than Laat has expected, the curve of his arch flattening towards his clawed toes. He is wearing a robe of deep purple, belted tightly around his waist so that no skin shows in the fall of its folds around the tucked hood of his mask. But simply by virtue of how uncomfortably stiff he looks, Laat wagers his robe is only a layer thick, his gloves are nowhere to be seen, and he is not even wearing socks.

Laat starts to strip off their armour, hoping to join him in the plush furs. He shifts; his presence strengthens in their mind shivery and avid, like ghostly lips are under their skin caressing the tight strings of nerves as Laat’s fingers fumble over the buckles. An urgency makes itself known, whether it is his or theirs they cannot tell, only that it seems incredibly important that the bulky plate is gone, leaving Laat in their breeches and tunic.

“Are you hungry?” Miraak says in his rich, deep voice. “I made soup.”

“You made soup?” Laat signs, honestly taken aback. They scrub their hair with one hand, dissatisfied with the length of the limp strands. Time to cut it soon.

“I told you I did.” Miraak’s rejoinder is curt, but Laat can feel a storm of emotions inside of him, more nervousness, quiet sparks of hurt. Puzzlingly, underneath it all is vast breathlessness.

“I am sorry,” Laat signs, “I thought you meant you got someone else to cook.”

Like normal, they don’t add, but clearly Miraak senses their confusion.

“It is pea soup,” he adds, with all the snappishness of an insult, and then looks down at his hands like he is hoping they will wring his own neck for him.

Pea soup is Laataazin’s favourite. They like the warmth, the simplicity, even the odd green of it. It is the first meal they recall eating, served by Sigrid after their escape from Helgen. It is decidedly not Miraak’s.

Miraak acting strange, trying to make one of Laat’s favoured foods, wearing slightly fewer than his usual full robes, having just bathed –

“Miraak,” Laat signs, slowly. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

Miraak says nothing, but Laat can feel his frustration. Not for the first time, Laat wonders how they would have ever come to know him without a window into his soul, for his mask is expressionless, his body language has not changed at all, and his manner is anything but welcoming. Still, their heart squeezes at the thought of him taking the time to do something as simple and sweet as make their favourite soup.

“I am not hungry,” they sign, “but I would love to try it with you later.”

Laat takes a seat on the bed next to him. This close, they can see what he is fussing with in his hands. It is a coil of soft cotton rope, dyed black, and he is threading it through his hands again and again, rhythmic, hypnotic. His shoulders are tense. Understanding dawns as Laat gains a sense of what he wants.

“Want some help?” Laat signs.

The anxious movement of his hands pauses. His chin tucks close to his chest. The dim firelight plays over the gold surface of his mask, making the shadows jump and dance like the carved tentacles are twitching.

“Geh,” says Miraak. “I would relieve your curious mind.”

He trails off, but his mind does not, conveying a soft fear of exposure – unwanted, terrible, frightening, but at the hands of Laat, intriguing, even exciting. Another dragon-soul, who… knows, who has the most immediate window into how it feels.

No wonder he is being shy, Laat thinks, Miraak has never in all the time they have known each other reacted to having to remove his clothing with anything other than discomfort. To some extent, Laat even understands. They have times when their body feels wrong, too little, too soft, no teeth or claws or worst of all no wings, but for Miraak, that sense of not fitting his body never fades at all, and the marks of daedric corruption from years in Apocrypha has only worsened it.

Laat inhales. “You want me to take your robe off and touch you under it?”

They both feel the tug of arousal in his belly as Laat’s hands finish the signs. Laat’s approval at it makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle. The air electrifies, Laat’s blood warms. Already, Laat’s mind feels closer, overlapping with his, drifting in and out of seeing with their eyes or his. The rope seems to grow heavier in their - his - hands.

“Geh.”

Laat shifts to sit by his hip, trying to catch his eyes in the dark slits of his mask. Either he is avoiding their stare or the mask is at the wrong angle to penetrate the shadows.

“Tell me your watchword, Miraak.” Laat’s signs are firm but clear. They can’t hide their excitement from him, don’t bother trying, and his chest rises and falls a little quicker. Laat’s stomach quivers with butterflies.

He dithers, thinking through his choice, but when he speaks his voice is strong, steady, and confident. “Sikgolt.”

“Good,” Laat signs. They take the rope from him.

Miraak lifts his hands, and the voluminous sleeves fall to gather in indigo ripples around his elbows, baring his arms. Laataazin curls the first length of rope around his forearms and then just looks for a moment, memorising it. The contrast between the dyed rope and his sunless skin, stained murky ink-green-yellow like a slow-ripening bruise that makes Laat ache to dig their thumb in and push until it blooms purple. The green veins that fork through the softer skin of his wrists, the pulse-point that will hammer there if Laat tickles it with their tongue (and the groans that will fall from him, twisted, broken things, the bitten curses, the hungry ache).

There are scars there, just visible as thinned lines underneath the dark stipple of soap-softened hair, relics from a fraught past. His hands, thin and uncallused, a scholar’s hands still, offer up to the rope like the worshipful priest he still is (if to his own altar – Niid, zu’u losiil, he murmurs back), tipped by curving black claws that catch the light with a dim ebony sheen. He has filed them down, Laat can see the smoothed edges, the hint of dust caught under a nail that has escaped his washing.

Miraak has filed his claws so that he would not hurt Laataazin if he touches his fingertips to their bare skin, not even by accident.

The rush of admiration they feel for him is sudden, intense, and warm, warm, like the blush that climbs steadily into their cheeks. The arousal that sparks in one sparks the other, and Miraak is not as unaffected by Laat’s extended perusal as he is trying to pretend. Goosebumps raise where Laat’s eyes drag, and he grumbles and shifts on the bed.

It is false annoyance; Laat feels instead his anxiety, insecurity at having the marks of daedric corruption on display, his fear of exposure and powerlessness, the private worrying of his vanity.

Beautiful, Laat thinks, and politely ignores the confused feelings that flood through him as he catches their thought, all ending in an ember of lust. Miraak, despite his many conflicted feelings on his body, likes to be appreciated, but he finds Laat’s private, fond awareness of that fact intensely embarrassing.

“Laataazin.”

Laat’s shoulders shake in a silent chuckle.

They take his hand in theirs, smiling up at him. “Squeeze,” they sign with the other, and he obliges, gripping Laat’s hand until it feels like the bones creak. Laat makes a note of the pressure, then releases him with a gentle pat.

Loop by loop, they wrap the soft rope around Miraak’s arms six times, spreading the pressure out to protect his circulation. Checking the looseness with two fingers against his wrist, Laat tucks the tails around the loops, makes a knot, cinches it evenly, then knots it again for security. It takes a while, for Laataazin’s hands shake and tremble, and Miraak’s skin is sensitive to chafing. But as they work, Laataazin feels the rope’s increasing pressure acting upon him, the quiet, observant mood he settles into, dripped through with steady peace. His lassitude sinks soporific into the tired ache behind Laat’s eyes, and their head droops to rest on his chest.

“Not too tight,” he tells them, testing the rope. Laat skims kisses over his knuckles.

They allow him time to acclimatise to the ropes, feeling the minute tense of his muscles testing for give in the knots. They can hear the creaks of the flexing rope, his deep breathing metallic under the mask, even the distant wind blowing over the ashlands. Somewhere, a dragon roars.

Kruziikrel, Miraak identifies absently.

The fabric of his robe is silky and cool against Laat’s forehead. Beneath it, they can smell Miraak, old books, mouldy paper, spilt ink and the bitter reek of ash. From anyone else, it would be unpleasant – from Miraak, it is familiar, and thus, beloved.

Laat can feel the warm weight of their head on Miraak’s chest, the soothing hold of the rope, the robe shifting on his skin. He feels too warm, already, his breath fogging against his mask to blow soft as butterfly kisses against his dry lips. A little sleepy, too, wrung out by all the excitement and anxiousness of preparing himself for them.

“Ni faas. It was nothing,” Miraak rumbles. They can feel the vibrations through his chest when he speaks, the breath ringing in his lungs.

Their dragon soul.

It is tempting to indulge in the moment, lay their body across his legs like a pinning weight and allow them both to simply drift, hearts harmonising, breath mixing, until Laat has to untie Miraak’s hands and chase the blood to flushing. But they turn their cheek to the side, instead, so their breath skates into the opening of Miraak’s robe. He shivers.

It would be a shame to not take advantage of Miraak’s uncharacteristic willingness to be vulnerable.

Their fingers twist into signs. It takes Miraak a moment, either to parse it in his warm fog or to realise that Laat has signed, but when he does Laat relishes in the surge of indignation.

“I am not having a nap, and I am not that old,” Miraak huffs, and Laataazin laughs against his chest. It is nearly noiseless, but not quite. The furs tremble beneath them.

Wuth, they think to him. Old man.

“You’re the one whose – stopped,” Miraak snaps, and his voice loses its steadiness.

Must I do everything for you, Diist-Dovahkiin? Laat sighs gustily, teasingly, but they sit up and plant their weight square over his hips.

For a moment, they are both breathing through the sensations, Miraak’s heart thudding in his chest at the agonising burn of warm thighs squeezing his hipbones, the bend of Laat’s knees straining tight muscles from the hike to meet with Frea, the weight pressing his spine into the bed like a stone, even the arterial pulse he swears he can feel drumming his skin through the robe and their clothes pounding from the secret warmth of Laat’s inner thigh. The thought of all that blood, all that glorious heat, in their veins makes him dizzy.

Laat looks down at him and sees themselves mirrored in shadows over his mask and in his hidden gaze. The rolling slopes of their body encircle him, contain him, like a stopper in the narrow neck of a bottle. Their eyes smoke with intensity, flickers of amber red visible in the deep brown. In his eyes, they are handsome and powerful, beautiful as the killing edge of a new blade.

“You are so warm,” he tells them inanely.

“Let me see you,” Laat signs, bringing their hands deliberately wide in the movements so that their knuckles brush the blank gold face of Miraak’s mask. They want to show him his own face, his true face, the loveliness they find there among the ink-scars and exhaustion-wrung shadows.

Miraak hesitates. Old shames glare gluttonous at his vulnerability, and Miraak feels like shrinking into the safety of the mask. Is it not enough to let them do this? Must he lose every wall, every shelter, every defence he has against the rawness of this new Solstheim where bareness is unremarkable, and no one sings as dragons do? His face of flesh and skin does not even have majestic horns or tough scales - no, it is softened, wearied, by time and torture. The wrinkles he admires as they form on Laat and the steely greys of their hair remind Miraak only of the time he has lost to unwilling bondage on himself. They, after all, do not have the face of a prisoner of Apocrypha.

He is only a man. Despite the strength of Laat’s opinion of him, their dragon-soul, Miraak is only a man, and one beset by foolish vanity at that.

Laat says nothing, of course they don’t, but the swell of tender feeling is almost worse. This close, this hungry, the line between them is blurrier than it ever is. Without the mask, Miraak may as well … submit. Laat pursues the feeling, pressing into his mind, his body, until their touches feel mirrored and they are the hand that brushes and the skin that aches in response both.

Laat leans forward (catches Miraak’s irreverent thought about how so very warm they are, are they running a fever, against his bound wrists, his chest) and lifts the edge of the mask’s hood, revealing his neck. Old inkstains stripe his throat in greenish trails, splatters where he has coughed and choked on the fluid bubbling in his lungs, out his mouth. Laat can’t resist swiping their tongue over the arch of tendons, as if the coolness of their spit can smear such deeply-sunken marks. Tender kisses dot his shoulders, gentle lips mumble and mouth over the exposed ridge of his collarbones, blunt teeth threatening the bobbing gulp of the apple of his throat, sensations that spark fireworks behind his eyes. Laat’s lips tingle where they kiss him, his fragile skin papery and dry like the crumbling pages of ancient books.

They together feel his breathing fanning over his eyelids, penned in by the mask, as he tilts his head back. Exposes his neck to Laataazin, like a dog showing his belly to his master.

Beautiful, thinks Laat again, and Miraak swallows a groan.

Desire breathes like something living in the coil of his gut, drawing like a wave into his cock. The liquid movements of the robes over the sensitive flesh as Laat rocks back and forth over his hips while they kiss, sensuous, deliberate, rhythmic, just too far forward to grind against him, are exquisite torture.

Torture? Laat’s laugh is a sigh that ripples up to prickle the tainted skin under his ear. Miraak exhales roughly, flexing his wrists against the ropes to ground himself. They are edging ever closer to the lip of the mask, trying to steal it off without his notice. It is one of their more obvious designs. Not even close, soul-of-my-soul.

“What are you planning?” Miraak asks, more to reply than because he cares to know. Past experience has taught him that Laat is more than capable of using his anticipation as a weapon, stringing him on a teetering edge until he shatters like poorly blown glass in their hands.

You like it, Laat thinks, amused, indulgent as a cat in a sunbeam. Miraak, haughty, does not respond. He does not need to. The evidence that tells Laat they are right is beginning to rather eagerly tent his robe, after all.

This close he can smell the oil they use to clean their armour and weapons, and sweat, pure human sweat. Laataazin’s deals with daedra have been so much lesser than Miraak’s, and they barely have any marks, save for a wickedness in their grin as their hips roll against him that Miraak thinks must have come from straight from the Lord of Debauchery himself.

You know it didn’t, Laataazin contradicts. Their scarred nose bumps the underside of his mask as they lean forwards, palms pressing down heavy and soothing onto his chest. Hinting.

“Niid,” Miraak murmurs.

A flicker of disappointment, but Laat moves on from the mask without comment. They resettle their weight further over his hips, trapping his cock between their body and his. Miraak chokes, his arms twitching in abortive movement, like he could pull their body, their hands away. But Laat lingers, tracing the shape of his cock through his robe with heavy, palming strokes. It is so powerful a sensation that it hurts, hurts, like crackling lightning in his veins.

Miraak writhes, trying to unseat them, but Laat only rides him out like he is a bucking horse. His body undulates between their thighs and they grind down, eyes fluttering shut and mouth parting, a glimpse of their crooked teeth as they bite their lip.

Laat’s shameless pleasure in his struggle undoes him.

“Laat,” Miraak moans. They ground him with a hand to his chest, and his breath heaves like bellows against its firm weight.

Your arms are tied, Laat’s thought is involuntary, almost indistinguishable in heady lust, you just have to lie here and … take it.

They feel Miraak want to protest that he is not entirely helpless – there’s the Voice, there’s magic, they may be stronger physically but he could even flip them – yet his whole body is boneless, the ropes hemming him in sweetly, and they know if Laat just asks, he would take any amount of anything. To please them.

“Zu’u losiil, Laat Dovahkiin.” Miraak is shaky and breathless. I am yours. It is true. Without them, he would be a prisoner, lonely, bitter, still at the whim of the fates, bound to serve all his life in the hope for a taste of freedom. This service, he chooses. As they chose him, over the world.

“Good,” Laataazin whispers aloud, and the stone bed shakes. Somewhere distant, something smashes as it falls, shaken by the earthquake of their Voice.

Miraak’s eyes fly open to meet theirs through the slits of his mask, halfway through a ragged gasp. They see themselves as he sees them, scarred face is watchful, intent, their dark eyes alight with a rich glow.

“Laataazin.”

It is too much for him. Laat rubs his chest soothingly as Miraak’s head thumps back against the furs and his arms lift, futile, trying to cover his masked face, trying to hide. His knuckles meet only the coolness of his mask, smooth and hard, the antithesis of Laat’s body on his. He knows he is blushing, blotches of deep blue and yellow ink bursting like rotted flowers under the surface of his skin, knows that Laat could see it, if they open his robe.

The soul-of-his-soul thinks Miraak is good.

As if summoned, Laat deftly parts the folds of his robe and bares his chest. The bear pelt he lies on is so thick that the soft fur rises around the edges of his body like a wreath, his robe spread out beneath them like royal purple butterfly wings. The paleness of the fur and the richness of the silk all seem to exaggerate the archival yellow of his skin, warming to chlorophyll and indigo, like he is an unfinished painting given colour, depth, reality, by the paintbrush of his blush.

He is beautiful, and mine, they think, ghosting over pebbled flesh with indulgent, explorative touches. Miraak is thinner under his robes than he first appears, with jutting ribs from one-too-many forgotten meals to sustain a body that has not quite managed to process anything beyond ink with any reliability. His mottled skin is oddly smooth, hairless, and after a moment, Laat realises why.

“You shaved,” Laat signs, tapping his chest to get his attention. He lowers his arms cautiously, eyeing them through the slits of the mask. “Your beard, too?”

“Geh,” says Miraak.

Laat feels his embarrassed flush of self-consciousness. He shaved because he hopes Laat would put their mouth on him as they are so fond of doing, and does not want them to have to pick hair from their teeth. His hair grows very thick and all of it ink-soaked to dripping, leaving green stains on fabrics when he brushes against them. He worries; hardly thinks it’s beneficial for Laat to swallow any of Mora’s corruption that can possibly be avoided. Just as quickly, there is a fluster as Miraak tries to hide his thoughts from them.

Prickly and proud as ever, their dragon-soul.

“I wouldn’t have minded,” Laat assures him, their signs quick and fond at his worry. “And I certainly don’t mind you thinking of what I’m going to do to you.”

Their signs leave them free to smile, slow, wide, and Miraak shivers at the promise in it. Lightly they push on his elbows, encouraging him to lift his arms over his head so that his shoulders strain and his torso is exposed, like a sacrifice. Then, as Miraak has dared to hope, they lower their head and kiss his chest.

Laat explores, taking their time, feeling the raised lips of scars catch under their nails. He does not have many, all things considered, not half as much as they do, but there is enough to provide texture. Testament, they suppose, to his expertise with healing magic. Miraak runs cooler than they do, and as their searching hands find the secret, soft places that make him twitch and gasp (his sides are sensitive to broad strokes, but he jerks and hisses at gentle, featherlight circles over his hipbones, and the sound he makes when Laat licks a long stripe over his pectoral muscle and catches the edge of his nipple is so hungry it does not bear repeating), they feel him warm under them.

Sweat wells, bitter and acrid ink, in the dips of his collarbones, the dark hair of his armpits, his navel. Laat brushes the worst of it away and keeps going, ignoring the apocryphal reek and distracting Miraak from it before he can protest. They are determined to map his entire torso under their lips and tongue, the drugging strokes of their palms pressing against the heave of his lungs. His skin is soft and dry, curiously textured, delicate as vellum. When he blushes, sometimes the ink forms linear lines, swirls of no mortal language, as if it is trying to imitate the written pages of Apocrypha, like there are books not blood trapped underneath his skin. Laat knuckles his flesh until it fades into blotchy colours and pays it no attention at all.

They have no need for flesh-sunk knowledge and the words of magic lost to time. This is its own kind of lesson, and Laat will always rather be skilled in love than in secrets.

They hear the crackle of the fire, the wet noises of their mouth, Miraak’s moans and stifled cries. He whimpers when they give into the desire to suck on his skin until it bruises brilliant purples and blues, bright as an illustration commissioned by a master, so they do it again, again, until his nipples pinking with blood distract them. Laat torments the hard buds with quick, fluttering flicks of their tongue that make Miraak choke on a growl, and smile when they feel the tugging chains of arousal searing straight to his cock.

Miraak pants, half-wishing he let Laat take the damn mask off, because there doesn’t seem to be enough air and he feels like he is melting. It’s too much, he thinks, and Laat’s dark eyes flick up to his, measuring, probing for how he is doing, it hurts.

“Faaz,” Miraak gets out. You are hurting me. They must be.

Sensation so bright it might as well be pain has him arrested, senseless, sharp like needles in his lungs, and he is not sure where he is, only that the world is bound by the rope around his wrists, squeezing his thunderous crash of a heart into a mortal body that twists and rocks under Laataazin like it is possessed. He is aware that he is making noises, hisses and gasps and bitten off words that would embarrass him if he were more present, but Miraak is not – is gone.

He is, dimly, afraid of what is happening to his body, for he is fairly certain that sex has never been like this. With his nerves under-stimulated from years in bitter Apocrypha, Laat’s focused attention is utterly overwhelming. There are many reasons he prefers to remain clothed; safe concealment from the immensity of the world scraping at him like raw wool is one.

It always is like this, with Laat.

“You are fine, Miraak,” Laat tells him, knows he understands even if they are not certain he sees their signs, “This is not pain.”

He eases a little at their reassurance, but just to prove it, they bite him hard enough that their teeth carve welts into his flesh. Hard enough that the confused morass of sensation – pleasure, it is his and theirs, at the same moment – narrows into the piercing beam of pain, true pain. Miraak keens, and against him, Laat moans richly, reverberating.

If only – if only, but no, this truly is a rare opportunity. Laat needs to be gentle and relish the rare freedom of touching Miraak’s bare skin, not overwhelm him quickly.

Miraak bares his teeth. “I am not fragile,” he says, his pride bidding him ignore the quiver in his deep voice lodged somewhere in his stomach, and the nagging fear that he absolutely is, actually, and if Laat isn’t careful, his bones will shatter to dust like the ruined books that populate old tombs like monuments to impermanence.

“You blush so prettily when I treat you like you are,” Laat signs, cheeky. “Can you blame me?”

When they are done, though, their hands find his ribs again and push down, hard. Miraak wheezes a breath, but Laat only smiles at him, as if to say, See? We’re fine.

Miraak slams his head back into the pillows, hissing. Again with the praise. I am going to pulverise you in training later, Laat feels him think, and allows the ghostly curl of their amusement to thread like gold in his sternum.

Laat withdraws, gives him a moment to catch his breath. They check his bound hands briefly, then hum, satisfied by the strength of his grip. The break is barely a second, not long enough, just enough to admire his flustered state.

One hand tweaks his nipple, twisting it hard enough that the dull pressure will ache, the other smooths underneath the fallen robe around his hips and ghosts around the base of his cock. He reacts like their skin burns him.

“Niid,” says Miraak at once, “niid – Dovahkiin, saraan-“

The hand at his chest taps him. Laat does not move their other hand, not at all, allows Miraak to feel like he is dying, knowing that he will not.

“Your watchword, Miraak?” Laat signs. Their expression is serious, but their mouth is smiling, like they know a secret.

It takes him a moment, not to remember, for they feel the word come at once to the forefront of his mind, but to make his breathing cooperate so the word comes out steady and even. Always so proud.

“Sikgolt,” he says, at last.

“You know what to say, if you want this to stop,” signs Laat, “If not, behave.”

“I am not a pet,” Miraak tries to snarl, but his words are lost in an explosive cry when Laat spits into their hand and grasps his cock firmly with quick, rough strokes. Dry, it is just too much to be bearable, but Laat’s grip is workmanlike, brusque, and utterly unrelenting. Even when Laat smears his own ink-laced precome down his cock, it is not enough to prevent the agony of the friction.

Good, they think. Laat does not want him to be comfortable.

Miraak responds to that with a shattered sound.

Laat focuses on remaining in their own body, on the sweat-sticky shirt on their back, the slight grind and click of their wrist as they jerk him off, tries to distance themselves from the cacophony of Miraak’s thoughts. They want him to be overwhelmed, but not drag them with him to the point where they cannot be certain they will be able to watch him.

It is nice, they think meditatively, to be able to do this with him. They are surprised, but pleased, at how this night has gone, have not ever quite believed that Miraak would be capable of or willing to experience such a large amount of touch and vulnerability. After all, it took a long time of very patient compromises to reach the point of physical intimacy. Sex is studded with pitfalls, as having thick ink for blood means that Miraak’s arousal is not always reliable, and he regularly cannot bear touch, which his pride detests. Once they discovered they have a love of ropes in common and that Miraak can bring himself to ask for it, things became easier, and the rest Laat simply consigns to cultural differences he cannot explain in any way they understand, or the effects of his time in Apocrypha.

Still, Laat knows him well enough at this point to not need to think too hard about the movement of their hand on his cock. Dragging touches that form a circle for his jerking hips to thrust into, long strokes up the left side, switching to caress over the crease of his thigh and fondle his balls, rubbing that spot underneath that presses on the base and makes his eyes roll into the back of his head.

He is fracturing under their attention, their dragon-soul, twisting and shuddering on the bed like he can through movement plea for the violent pleasure to ebb enough for him to catch a breath. The mask shakes and casts golden reflections hurtling over the walls as he alternately thrusts his head back, then at once bows his body towards Laat, runnels of inky sweat pooling in the divots of his hips, staining the furs. He cries out, convinced they are hurting him, unable to register the intensity of the sensations he feels as anything other than pain.

Watching his anguish, Laat feels an erotic thrill. How glorious, to have a creature so ancient and strong under their power. They close their hand around his cock, caressing the sensitive underside of the swollen glans with their thumb. Miraak, sensing, perhaps recognising Laat’s warm appreciation, panics and jerks, his bound hands trying to interfere. Feeling indulgent, Laat lets him tug against their strength.

Laat squeezes his cockhead until he flushes turgid purple, then rubs their thumb against the dripping slit. They fuck him like this slowly, watching his balls flush and tighten up against the base of his shaft. It won’t take long. Cruel perhaps, for his mind is a mess and his body is not much better, but it always makes his cock throb.

Miraak howls like he is being murdered. His breathing is shuddering gasps and hitched sobs. He is being good, though, holding himself as still as he can through what Laat can tell is sheer stubborn will alone. His body tries to jerk away from their rough touch, and the sounds that fall so sweetly on Laat’s ears are utterly broken, but he does not wrench himself away. Miraak bears it.

He behaves.

A reward is due. Laat releases him to reposition themselves so their scarred cheek rasps against his cock and their arms are wrapped around his thighs and hips, holding him still. Miraak breathes heavily, they feel the muscles flex in his stomach and thighs as he strains to sit up without dislodging them.

“What -” His words crack off. He clears his throat and tries again. “What are you doing?”

“You’ll like it,” Laat promises. They dig circles into the bony jut of his hips, watching for his reaction. The hood of his mask hides his throat bobbing in a swallow, but Laat can see his shaky exhale. They can sense Miraak’s confusion, lust-fogged mind struggling to grasp what is happening, not even truly certain where he is, not particularly caring about anything beyond Laat, Laat, Laataazin. His thoughts are run-on strings of harsh dragon-words, difficult to parse, overshadowed by flashes of feeling and thought, lightning-bright among the seething sea of sensory overload.

Maintaining eye contact with the dark holes in the mask, Laat gives the bobbing cock in front of their face an exploratory lick.

Miraak jumps.

They do it again.

This time, he groans. Laat lowers their mouth to his cock and starts by licking him, flicking their tongue over the sensitive underside. When his hips start twitching and lifting towards them, they slip his cock into their mouth and go down, down, as if they mean to swallow him whole.

His bound hands fly to their hair, unable to get a grip on it, but Laat looks up. His mind is beset by visions of his cock hurting them, bruising their throat so they can barely speak, but Laat only shakes off his hands kindly, a strange feeling of warmth in their breast at his worry.

“I will not hurt myself,” they sign, “I have taken bigger than you before.”

So saying, their mouth envelops his cock. Their nose bumps against his hips, and they control themselves, drawing back just a little to gain a new breath, then back down. They swallow when they feel the head bump against the back of their throat, let it slide into the tight space there.

They catch an image flashing through his mind - young man, pale cheeks freckle-blazed, mask pushed up over frizzing carroty hair; “Quiet, quiet, do you want the whipping - you have to be quiet, Miraak!” Burst of coals against Miraak’s pinwheeling arm - incense and dragon rumbles overhead - “Vahlok- !?” - and Miraak rams his bound hands against his mask to cover where his mouth hides beneath it so hard Laat hears the metal ring.

Laat pushes in on his hips hard enough to bruise. They hum, quietly, but the shaking sound still catches Miraak’s attention, especially as the vibrations judder through his cock in their mouth. Name me, they think to him fiercely. Name who has you.

“Laat-aaz-in,” Miraak cries. The mask’s shadowed tentacles seem to curl and writhe like worms in the rain. His knuckles are reddening against the implacable metal, soft flesh, breakable, not enough to pierce it. They find themselves glad for once that it is there - they would not have liked to see him try to shove his hands into his mouth.

Make noise for me, my strong dragon, Laat thinks, bobbing their head even as their narrowed eyes watch him carefully, you can take this. It is for his benefit - he is still responding to their praise, to their encouragement, the iron core of his will soaking it in. It grounds him, earths him enough to birth a shattering wail rippling with the strength of the Voice.

“Niid!” Miraak tries to argue, “Laat – I cannot – I cannot-“

His mind is a mess, but they are confident he is present, that he knows where they are and what is happening. They can sense his watchword close to his mind, even lift their mouth for a moment to give him a breath to say it in.

Frustrated, Miraak jerks, and what comes out instead is “Aaz! Mercy - aaz, aaz!”

It is not the signal, so pleased, Laat continues. They are savouring the warmth of him, the throb and pulse of his veins through the soft, sensitive skin, his salty bitterness on their tongue, the reek of his sweat. A shame it would be to stop soon, for something as irrelevant as Miraak’s comfort.

“Zu’u losiil,” Miraak moans in a trembling voice at that thought.

They are reasonably certain that in the dark holes of his mask he is looking at them, so they sign to him, resting as much of their weight through their forearms to keep his hips still as they can. Still, he thrusts abortively when they try to take him down into their throat again, and Laat has to withdraw quickly to prevent choking.

“My strong dragon, I am here,” Laat asserts. “I will give you what you need. Shout if you need to, I have you.”

The wall stripes with the reflections of the mask in the firelight. He is breathing rapidly, his arms trembling lightly. His mottled skin gleams with the richness of his sweat. Miraak is trying, they can tell, but when they dip the tip of their tongue into the slit of his cock, curious to see his reaction, he breaks.

“MUL QAH!”

The thunder of his Shout rocks the room. Miraak’s Dragon Aspect roars into life, and Laat hurriedly yanks their hands back before they are pierced through by the sudden emergence of spines marching down his belly and chest, protecting his vulnerable innards. Frankly, given their choice of words, Laat is not entirely surprised. Still, the moment of distraction is all they need, and as Miraak stretches his resplendent wings, his iridescent tail, Laat swallows him down again. They hold their breath for as long as they can, encouraging him to rock into their throat.

“L- aaat,” Miraak manages. It is pleading. It has to hurt him, with how sensitive he is, how much this all is - the warmth, the wetness, the wet laps of their tongue, their breath, their humming, the flex of their muscles, the hungry pleasure of Laat watching him. If they allow him in their mind, they can feel it - the sharpness like the agonising piercing joy of being fucked with a needle, back and forth dipping in and out of flesh, pricks of red red blood lubricating the steely slide, back and forth, back and forth.

Swirling their tongue around him, Laat smirks. They grab onto the thick spines that jut razor-sharp from his hips and hold him still as they draw back up, hollowing their cheeks around him. Then down, to the accompaniment of his broken gasps and snarls. The spines make it much easier to keep him in his place. Despite his increased strength, Laat is always the stronger of the two of them. They control him like a wild animal breaking to the lash, Miraak’s power, his strength, his Dragon Aspect - they are nothing here unless Laat wills it.

You are going to take this until I make you come, they inform him. Miraak sobs.

His eyes are burning coals behind the mask, enough to shadow it. He is wreathed in horns, in fire, in the brilliance of his soul, the amber-blue scales that blaze over his chest, his arms, clinging the thickest to his scars in belts so bright it almost hurts to look at him. His bound hands are taloned and sharp, trimmed claws turned deadly knives, and Laat keeps a careful eye on them in case he tries to grab their head again.

They know he won’t. Miraak will behave for as long as they ask him to.

He slams his head back against the furs, in what Laat thinks is agreement.

It is thrilling. Triumphant desire burns in Laat, a thunderous need to break the shining, vicious, powerful creature before them, in their mouth, in their soul. His growls shudder their bones when they tease him, and his wings close around them like pressing hands on their shoulders, trying to urge them deeper even as he thrusts up. Laat resists the pressure, lets his cock scrape against their teeth as they rise up, a warning and promise both.

Miraak shudders a breath, his hands flexing into fists. His tail underneath Laat curls sinuously around their leg, angling for the fork of their legs. Laat moans as they suck him and grinds down against the muscular coil. They can feel the intoxicating ridged texture of his scales against them through their breeches, igniting sparks in the seething pressure in their belly.

They release his cock with a pop and sit up to rut harder against him, using the spikes thrusting from the bones of his hips to dictate his movement. They stare down at the slits of his mask with intense, dark eyes.

“Good,” Laat whispers, needing to vocalise their approval, and Miraak’s body locks up as he is ripped into orgasm.

All the grounding in the world cannot prevent the backlash of searing white that flashes across Laat’s eyes, the sympathetic clench in their belly and the heated lance of pure want that stabs into the base of their spine. Their hand fumbles at him, pinning his spurting cock to his belly with clumsy strokes, the other bracing themselves against the bed as it feels like shuddering waves rock the island.

Laat is even fairly certain that one of them briefly blacks out.

In the aftermath, Miraak shakes. His auroral wings curve around them both, like he is protecting them from the world. Shredded fur dusts his shoulders like snow from his gnashing horns. His come is sticky and warm on his chest, chased through with shimmering greens and blues. Laat, cheeks flushed and breathing hard, runs a finger through it, gathering some of the pearly fluid.

They lift their hand to his mask, intentions clear. Miraak’s bound hands scrabble at the edge of the mask, the deadly-sharp dragon-talons a hindrance, trying to lift it enough for them to reach him under the hood. In frustration, he tears it off. Laat hears it clatter to the floor beside the bed.

Exposed, Miraak pants. He is luminous with the Dragon Aspect, his eyes, the thinness of his veins limned as if he is lit from within, haloed by horns. Laat presses the finger to his lips and he lets it slide into his mouth obediently. He glows there, too, his teeth sharpened to lambent daggers of gold and blue. The gaunt arches of his cheekbones blaze with a green blush. His long, dark, wet hair is plastered to his forehead, dripping ink as it continues in a thick mane down his shoulders and back, speared by the flaming spires and spikes of his dragon-soul.

His curious eyes, double-irised, one malachite and ice, the other goat-pupilled and bronze, are dark with lust. Laat can barely make out his second irises behind the brightness of the Dragon Aspect. Fresh tears trace the paths of the stains on his face. When he blinks at them with his wet eyes, more follow. His thin lips hollow around Laat’s finger, and they can feel his tongue, forked in this aspect, soft, wet, warm, licking even as he draws back and releases them.

Laat cannot help the quiet, fractious sound they make at the sight of his tears, the dizzying pulse of lust. It rumbles between them like a stormcloud. His tail tightens around their leg, intangible muscles of light rippling around them like the coils of a vast snake.

“Beautiful,” they sign, “you are beautiful.”

The growl that rumbles out of Miraak is half-feral. His slitted eyes watch them, the tips of his wings brushing their back with ghostly caresses. Pulling off their shirt, Laat wipes him clean as gently as they can. They toss the soiled shirt over their shoulder, not particularly interested where it lands. Unbinding Miraak’s hands with just the slightest tinge of regret, Laat chafes them quickly to make sure the blood is flowing. If only they could keep him like this forever.

They try to avoid scratching themselves on the curving talons burning with the strength of Miraak’s Shout, but it is either that or the sharp scales that armour him like gauntlets. Pursing their lips, Laat stares at the small line of welling red across their palm.

“Hi los ahraan,” Miraak says, you are wounded, and then all at once his wings flare and his tail twists and his body surges, and Laat is slamming down onto their back. His sinuous length curls above them, flaming eyes narrowed at the cut like it is a personal offense. He leans down, great horns digging into Laat’s cheek, obscuring their vision.

Laat holds their breath, anticipation hot in their belly. His forked tongue flickers out and laves the cut. He is gentle, but it stings. When he pulls back up to regard them they fancy they can smell the tang of their blood on his breath. He rumbles at their approval, and they can feel the vibration all the way down into their breastbone. The heaviness of his perpetually wet hair falls about them like a curtain.

Laat tries to unwedge their hands, gives up and thinks instead, as strongly as they can, Remember, no magic, Miraak. It is only a little cut, not worth risking a seizure over.

“Geh,” he says. His voice is even deeper in Dragon Aspect, rough as untumbled stones creaking in ancient cliffs. His vast wings completely block out the surrounding world, until it feels as if the sky has fallen and they have been swallowed up into the gullet of Aetherius, as if Aetherius could ever be half as beautiful as the soul-of-their-soul. The wings of Miraak’s Dragon Aspect remind them of the skies of Sovngarde, flaring with impossible, vivid colours, martial flickers and deep, internal glow that cannot be tarnished by any amount of daedra.

Not for the first time, Laat feels a pang of jealousy. How come you get wings and a tail with this Shout, and I don’t? And with only two words?

“Zu tiid.” I have had time. “This Shout was my mind in my prison. Morah, Laat Dovahkiin.”

Meditate, Laat thinks sourly. You sound like the Greybeards. Can’t you just show me?

“Geh.”

But you won’t.

Miraak’s tail rubs along their leg, then twines round it like a thick vine. Trapped between their chests, Laat can feel the steady beat of his heart against their hands, the roughness of the patches of scales that fringe over his skin. They push lightly, and his wings spread as he lifts himself enough to free their hands. When he breathes, ghostly flames flicker and curl in his nose and mouth.

“Zu laan aam hi,” he says in his voice of a mountain, and Laat understands the sense of what he means from the press of feeling in their mind. He wants to repay the favour, to give Laat the pleasure they have given him.

They wriggle against him, considering, but their muscles cramp in fatigue. “That very much did for me too,” they sign, with a rueful smile, “I can’t believe you didn’t feel it.”

Miraak snorts, and pale flames shoot out to lick against Laat’s cheeks. They do not hurt, only tickle softly, like the soapy caress of water on dry skin. Well, he was rather preoccupied, they suppose, their smirk widening.

“You can give me a massage later, if you want, though,” they add, as his dissatisfaction with that answer is blatantly clear, “My back’s been giving me grief.”

“Geh,” he says immediately, with true enthusiasm, and they feel him twitch as if struggling not to flip them and begin at once.

Laat exhales in amusement. “What a dedicated servant you are,” they tease him. “If only I had a team of people half as devoted as you, I’d be living like an emperor.”

“Will this please you?” Miraak says, and before Laat can even sign his mind turns to practicalities.

His cult is the best place to start, though he is reluctant to lose many of them, but fewer than six servants is an insult of the highest degree to Laataazin’s status. Four, at least, Soskro and Mirdein were loyal blades - supplemented with Sulis and Ulf, all well-trained by Miraak himself and comely to the eye, which is important, should Laat wish a break from Miraak’s own charms. Then for variety, he could turn to Raven Rock, there is surely some soft-handed noble there craving the honour of serving Laat Dovahkiin (that Severin girl?), and perhaps that dashing sellsword that Laat enjoys, with the chitin armour and the handsome jaw-

No, no, Laat is laughing in breaths that shake the bed, No, I don’t need servants, Miraak, - sensing his mutinous feelings, they add swiftly - I don’t want them. And his name is Teldryn! He is attractive though, isn’t he?

“Geh, zu mindok,” says Miraak, unsure why they need to confirm the obvious.

“Perhaps,” Laat signs, “I’ll ask him to come join us one day, will you like that?”

Miraak’s wings tilt backwards like the ears of a startled Khajiit, and his cheekbones blaze emerald. “Rul laan,” he says, if you want, in a voice that strains to be noncommittal. But underneath that very interesting reaction there is a very real thread of baffling fear, and Laat reaches for him.

“I chose you,” they tell him, “I will keep choosing you.”

Miraak tilts his head, wary of his horns, so that their foreheads press together and their breath mingles. In that resonating voice, he murmurs, “This I know. We are the only ones who are real, Laat Dovahkiin. The others – their lives, their deaths, their pains or desires for freedom, it is less than nothing. I am here, you feel me in your soul, as I feel you in mine.”

Staring into those dual eyes, Laat cannot suppress a frisson of unease. They do not agree - how could they? It is as if he has reached down and found the darkest, guiltiest thoughts Laat regrets having, internal measures of their power against those around them, knowing, knowing, that all those who attempt to constrain them live in ignorance at Laat’s pleasure - but they feel him frown.

“Was it not I who sheltered you from the daedra in Whiterun, I who tended you when the Greybeards trained you in languages you did not know, I who comforted you in your solitude? As it was you who touched me in my cell in Apocrypha, brought me to Nirn and set me free. You alone, my equal. You would not have come to me in Apocrypha if you did not wish to stay with me, Laataazin.” Miraak pronounces each syllable separately, drawing it out as a dragon does. “You broke my chains, and now we are together, and so we will always be. It was not I who offered this choice, if you recall.”

“I do.” He is right in that. “Other people matter, Miraak. We all have lives, no one... is more real than the other. But you don’t have to worry. I still choose you, I am not letting go.”

Miraak’s nostrils smoke. “You will never have to, Laat Dovahkiin. My Voice sings your name. There is nowhere you can go that I cannot find you.”

Laat breathes out slowly and chooses to hear the devotion in his words rather than the threat to their freedom. If he does not fear their interest waning as he claims, they do not know what it is that he fears. They offer him a thread of their own affection, warm regard softened by their intimacy, and his slitted pupils dilate. His shimmering wings soothe against his back, and the Dragon Aspect flickers away.

With that, he rolls off them, casting an ice spell in one hand to cool himself. Frost sheens over his skin, crackling over the soaked robe. It melts in rivulets, taking his inked sweat with it, running down to freshly stain the furs, until he looks streaked with stripes of his natural paperiness like a painted statue in the rain. The sopping darkness of his green hair clings to his shoulders and neck, curls in long strands dragged straight by the weight down to his hips.

As Laat’s eye lingers on the exposed line of his thigh, loops of graceful text begin to appear out of the ink below. They tear their eyes away before their mind can convince them they understand it, and stare at his face until the itch of temptation subsides.

Laat is not certain what he is thinking of - they feel strange, deep musings turning over in his mind, in languages they do not know - but he seems content enough, if quiet.

They tap him to get his attention. “I wasn’t done touching you. Do you need to get dressed now?”

Miraak looks down at the robe clinging wetly to him like he has forgotten it is there. One hand rubs at the bridge of his nose, irritatedly brushing away a lock of hair that drips tears down the angle of his jaw. After a moment, his gaze rises to meet theirs, bolder than they would have thought without the mask.

“Niid,” he says simply. “How do you want me?”

Laat smiles and moves over the bed towards him, feeling his eyes trace over their bare chest, the softness of their belly, their strong shoulders, the slight sway of the relaxed muscle and fat of their arms. An ember of his appreciation warms the blood in their cheeks as they reach his legs.

Lifting his left foot into their lap, Laat kisses his knee. The shape of his bones are fine against their lips. He looks back at them, brows raised, but wedges some of the furs behind his back to support himself, and does not pull away. His foot flexes. The hard claws catch in the fabric of Laat’s breeches, pulling free a loose thread, and they pause to gently untangle him.

He has strong legs, muscled by years of dragon-riding. Laat runs their fingertips over the hard bumps and dips of the thick, crisscrossing calluses and scars that abrade the insides of his legs, imprints of dragonscales made permanent in his flesh. They rub the muscles they can feel underneath it, unsurprised to find them loose and limber. They kiss the soft crinkle of the side of his calf, just under his knee, smelling the warmth of his skin, his musty scent of books and scale.

Their tenderness affects him. Miraak leans towards them, wanting to touch, Laat watching the folds of his loose skin dimple at his waist. Obligingly, they shift closer, hip angled between his thighs, and draw his right leg into their lap instead, palm warm on his knee. He is cold from the ice spell, enough that their skin numbs.

His large hands reach for their face, drawing it to face him. His hands cup their cheeks – they feel him become aware, suddenly, of how small Laat is in comparison to him, how his palms almost eclipse their cheeks, his claws tangling into their short hair. Laat closes their eyes, sighing at the gentle scratch of his blunted claws over their scalp. It is unutterably soothing.

His thumbs brush over the thick spiderweb of scars patterning their face, depressing the cartilage of their nose. Their lashes brush their cheek, his exploring fingers over the thinness of their eyelids, careful of his claws. Lifting to encircle his wrist, not trapping, but touching, just touching, Laat squeezes him and they both sigh at the spreading warmth of lassitude.

“Can I kiss you?” Laat signs one-handed, their movements small and restricted by the circle of his arms. They know he can feel their subtle sort of longing, quite apart from sexual lust that burns like coals in their belly, and even a little nervousness. Nowhere to hide from the soul-of-their-soul.

Miraak hesitates. Laat winces at the confused storm of feelings washing over him, his desire to please and curiosity warring with old fear and instinct. Like any dragon, he does not, as a rule, like having his voice obstructed.

It is not the first time they have asked him, not the first time he has acquiesced. Nor even the first time that his face has been fully bare, not just Laat’s head under the warm darkness of the hood, the metal face angled up to let them just reach his lips. Quick brushes, sometimes longer, where Laat curls their hands into his robes and pushes against him, some bright sparking feeling in them, the forbidden soft warm wetness of their tongue ghosting along his lip, the brilliant spark of their blunt teeth scraping his lower lip until pain waxes, hot and hungry. But it never quite grows easier for him, even with the increase of pleasant memories.

His eyes soften. One hand drops, rubbing over their shoulder, admiring the round cup of muscle filling his palm, the indent of their tan flesh marking under his thumb’s claw. This is Laat Dovahkiin, who brought him from Mora’s cursed Apocrypha, who anchors him to Nirn, who keeps him company on his lonely island and wraps him in soft ropes like he is precious.

Laat is patient and radiates calm. They interpret for him the confusing signals of their bodies, the tightness in his gut that makes him feel like he can’t quite breathe (arousal, affection) the oversensitive pain of his hips and thighs (just a little muscle tiredness), and the throb of his airy mind (the pleasure of submission, soul-of-my-soul).

They know that he does not understand why they desire to put their mouths together so (to restrict his Voice? To gag him, to bite out his tongue? And thus disarmed, choke the air from his lungs? No, no, soul-of-my-soul, Laat whispers in his mind, for pleasure, only that…), but it is… important to them, and it is enough that they want it. For Laat Dovahkiin, he will do this thing.

Something in Laat melts when he thinks that.

“Geh,” says Miraak, unable to quite hide his trepidation.

He tugs them a little closer, his free hand trailing over the meat of their shoulder, stretching over the sharp forks of lightning scars on the back of their neck. Strokes over their muscled back, admiring the folds of their flesh. Laat is fat and warm where he is thin, ghostly, their solidity and weight as unquestionable as the earth. He moves the hand on their cheek to their chest, splayed wide over the ridges of their collarbones, the swell of their small breasts, feels the gentle movement of their breathing. It is only natural to crook his other leg around their body, holding them within the circle of himself, like they are a ship in his whirlpool. How odd, then, that Miraak feels as if he is being pulled into their orbit, not the other way around.

Affection brims in Laat at this thought. They reach into his mind, seeking to feel how he feels, measuring his reactions.

It is Laat that bridges the distance between them when Miraak is unable to, slow and patient with the unconscious reflex that has him jerking back before their lips meet. They simply wait for a beat, then close in regardless, hands squeezing his thigh meditatively. It is grounding.

They feel him think their lips are full, very soft and warm, uncharacteristically undemanding, treating Miraak as if he is a tender thing that must be lulled into peace. Soft, heady brushes of their lips over his closed mouth, sometimes diverting to dust along his cheeks, his jaw – once even, the tip of his nose, making him snort reflexively. Laat laughs at that in their silent way, the puffs of their exhales warm as their kisses on his lips.

Their eyes close when they kiss him again, and they feel him watch their face, close enough to see the near-invisible span of freckles buried under the scars, the faint gleam of sweat on their forehead, the rich curl of their eyelashes. The scraggy tufts of their hair dusting over their cheekbones, the warm shadows clinging beneath their eyebrows.

This is the good thing when they want to kiss him, Miraak thinks, for they come so close he can see every crinkle and crease of their skin, and he can fill his hands with their body.

He runs his hands up and down their spine, and their body yearns towards him like a plant in the sun. Laat sighs when he finds a tense muscle and undoes the knot with his thumb, and smiles when he lingers over their ribs, fascinated with the slow movement of their breath, the rolls and curves of their strength.

Close your eyes, Laat thinks, softly, softly, close your eyes, and open your mouth.

He obeys with a ripple of nervousness, but nothing happens for a long moment. Laat just keeps kissing him, close-mouthed, gentle, until Miraak eases. Their tongue, when it comes to flick lightly at the crease of his bottom lip, surprises him, but even more so is the hazy release of their exhale from their mouth and nose. Their breath is close enough that Miraak could breathe it himself. They feel his flare of excitement at taking and tasting the air that carries their Voice inside himself, and he clumsily nudges closer.

Laat obliges him with a speed that betrays their true eagerness, feels his head swims under the sudden influx of warm, warm approval, pride and pleasure, and their breath, tinted, he thinks, a little, with the power of their Thu’um. They stay like that a moment, Laat’s hands bracing on his stomach, breathing into each other. Miraak’s mind is clouded and warm where it tangles with theirs, as if it’s full of cotton.

Laat wants to kiss him so badly it feels like they want to devour him, greedy with their indulgence, wants his lips, his tongue, the warm wetness of his mouth. The urge to just take it, to fuck his throat with their tongue, is so strong, and they cannot help the way their hands dig into his sides, tense with their restraint. But this is good, they think, a little reluctantly, and there is no need to push on this. With this, Laat has patience on their side.

They pull back to let Miraak breathe properly, but do not go far. Their foreheads press against each other. Laat swears they can feel the hollow thudding of his heartbeat in their chest at the place where their souls meet like tributaries.

“I only moved slightly, there is no need for all this… excitement,” Miraak mutters, but his voice sounds a little destroyed, and Laat grins.

They move to pull away, but Miraak catches their face in his hands again, preventing them from going too far. Laat blinks at him, warm and steady like a cat, and sees their own face reflected in his eyes, his soul, their blown pupil, the way their mouth parts, almost automatically, at the proximity.

“You enjoy it so,” Miraak says, a little bemused.

It is not often that they manage to surprise one another, being as interlinked as they are, but Laat is truly shocked when Miraak furrows up his brow and boldly presses his cold lips to theirs. He has never initiated a kiss, not once, Laat has never thought he would. They feel his determination, shot through with threads of insecurity – am I doing it right? They are not responding – and, classically Miraak, his hands tighten on their cheeks, holding them in place, redoubling his assault instead of pulling back. It is a clumsy mishmash, and they bump noses and once clash teeth, but it is the best kiss Laat has ever had.

Afterwards, they lay down next to each other. Chilled, Laat wraps themselves in the furs they pull over from the drier side of the bed, sighing at the feeling of the cosy softness. Miraak presses up close behind them before they can roll back to face him, their bodies separated by the furs. Laat’s heart warms.

“Want me to fetch your robes and mask?” they sign, knowing he can see over their shoulder.

His nose against their hair shakes. “Niid. Like this I am fine.”

Miraak, insistent and affectionate as a cat, rubs and nuzzles his face against the back of their head and shoulders. His arm curves around their waist, pulling him flush against them. Laat can feel his warm breath against the shell of their ear. Involuntarily, Laat thinks of the warmth of his dragon-wings, how large they are. Larger than his arm, for certain.

Pulling back, Miraak’s lungs billow with air. He Shouts, and the shimmering wings Laat has just been thinking wistfully of drape over them like a blanket. His tail curves around them, hemming in their body against his. They can feel the bladed tip against their stomach, the point made dull by their thick swaddling of furs. It is immediately warmer in the safe cocoon of his wings.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Laat can’t help laughing as they sign, ignoring the stony bed vibrating underneath them, “It was only a thought!”

“Fah hi.” For you. The resonance of his voice echoed with the tenderness of the feeling they can sense in him seems to make his every word louder.

Laat is still for a moment. “I do love you,” they sign, eventually, the burning of their eyes making them glad that they are facing away. They clear their throat.

Miraak’s grip tightens. “Zu’u losiil, Laataazin.”

I am yours. Laat sighs, and wonders if he will ever learn that love and possession are not the same. Though they are not sure that Dovahzul has a word for love, not in the way that Laat means it. Is it even possible for him to return the sentiment in the language he prefers?

For some reason, this line of thought summons Frea’s face before their mind, her sanctimonious words, and Laat’s mood sours.

Sensing their disquiet, Miraak hums against them soothingly. “You are troubled.”

“Frea wants to die,” Laat signs. “I don’t know what to do about her.”

“Do you not like Frea?” Miraak asks, and they feel him turning faces and names over in his mind, struggling to recall which of the many people of Solstheim Laat means. The Skaal woman? He does not associate with the Skaal much - they are not overfond of him, and Miraak is likewise not fond of being called a monstrous traitor by people he must refrain from killing.

“I do.” Laat touches the twitching tip of his tail, as if to soothe his momentary annoyance.

“Then keep her,” Miraak says, as if the answer is obvious. “You will miss her if she dies.”

“But she is unhappy!”

They feel Miraak’s shoulders move in a shrug. “You know my Shout,” he says calmly.

At that, Laat jerks their elbow into his ribs and wriggles. Miraak’s enfolding wing lifts hesitantly, enough for Laat, sweating, to work their way down to lying on their back. Thus freed, they jab a finger in his face as they sign.

“That’s wrong, Miraak! It is immoral to compel someone to go along with you just because it’s easier!” Miraak’s fire-bright eyes blinks at the finger in his face, all four pupils narrowing to focus on it. Laat deflates. “It doesn’t last that long anyway,” their motions are jerky and frustrated, “it would wear off then Frea would cleave me in two with her axe, and I would certainly deserve it.”

“Only because you use it like a hatchet, Laat Dovahkiin,” says Miraak, gaze returning to Laat’s eyes, “blindly superimposing your mind over another. Bend Will works best as a suggestion enforcing a desire or pattern that is already there. Simply find what makes them happy, find what is a barrier to your will, and remove it. The Skaal girl wishes to live as she once did, yes, free to worship her god? Then with your words allow her to do that, and her mind will do the rest.”

Laat’s hands lowered. “I didn’t know it could do that,” they sign, meek, unsure whether the feeling in them is horror or awe.

“With time and patience, the limit to my Shout is your will and the breadth of your imagination,” Miraak explains. He lowers his wing again, slowly, as if fearing that Laat will push it away. “With skill, you could encourage a resentful Greybeard to become a career warmonger, or a compassionate enemy your staunchest defender to the grave, all of their own volition.”

Some strange tinge of unease roils in the back of their mind. Laat touches the wing, feeling the bony spur of the joint, the leathery membrane, unsure how to respond.

Miraak’s voice is quiet and persuasive. It rumbles like the song of earth into Laat, through each bone, each thought in their mind.

“What is worse,” Miraak murmurs, so soft, so low, so deep, “allowing a good woman that you care for to die, or bringing her many more years of happiness and joy through the use of one Shout? A lifetime of bliss with one you love, all for speaking three words? How could you deny her that?”

“I suppose,” Laat signs, but they cannot meet his eye for guilt.

They feel him observing them quietly, some strange dissatisfaction in him that they cannot identify.

“I will do it,” he volunteers suddenly.

“What?” Surprised, Laat glares at him. “No! It’s unethical! You cannot force someone to be happy, or to stay with you simply because you want them to! It would be nothing but a lie.”

For a brief moment, Miraak scowls, the jagged crown of horns and his glowing teeth making him look truly fearsome. But then his expression smooths. “Dismiss it from your mind, Laat Dovahkiin,” he says, gently. “It is simply handled, and already agreed.”

“Don’t hurt her,” Laat signs anxiously, searching his face, “You’re just going to talk to her? Don’t-”

Raising a taloned hand, Miraak clasps theirs to stop their words. He gives Laat a soft, odd smile. “She will not even remember we have spoken,” he promises. “Only where there was frustration and pain, there will now be joy and peace.”

He strokes their hands with the backs of his talons with immense tenderness, nuzzling in close to with his breath and careful rubbing of his sharp cheekbones caress the warm hollow of Laat’s neck. With his touch and his mind he lulls them, sending soothing waves of affection and warmth, feelings of safety, recalling to them the ache in their muscles from sex, the tender sweetness of their kisses. His nose fits under their jaw as if it has been made for him, and despite themselves, Laat sighs. It has never been wise, loving him. But how can they help it? He is the soul-of-their-soul.

“Zu’u aam hi unslaad,” he whispers, with the air of a promise, “rii se dii zii.” I serve you forever, essence of my soul.

They reach for his hair, combing the thick wet locks over his shoulder, avoiding the spines on his back. Droplets of ink run down their arms as they begin to braid, loose and messy.

“You worry too much about people that are not worth your time,” Miraak says, and by his smile Laat supposes he means it lightheartedly.

With a heavy heart, they allow themselves to be cheered, and offer him a small smile in return. “Who should I worry about? You?” they tease, not entirely how much they are joking.

He smirks. “You could.”

Despite themselves, Laat chuckles, hearing the distant crack of stone in their Voice. They tug on the messy braid of wet hair they’ve made, and Miraak goes, a tingle of arousal running through him at the sensation. Laat kisses his cheeks and nose, making his dual eyes flutter shut as he sighs.

“Why,” they sign one-handed when he opens his eyes at their lack of movement, fingers so close they brush his cheek, “you attempting to take over the world again?”

“Niid,” says Miraak, his taloned hand coming to cup their face with the tenderness of a man who knows he is touching something immensely precious, “I have the best of it here, and that is everything I desire.”

With thanks to thuum.org:

Geh: Yes.

Laat Dovahkiin: Last Dragonborn.

Ni faas: lit. no fear. No worries/it’s fine.

Pruzah: Good.

Sikgolt: lit. rune place. Library.

Niid: No.

Zu’u losiil: I am (emphatic) yours.

Wuth: Old.

Diist Dovahkiin: First Dragonborn.

Faaz: lit. (you cause) pain. You’re hurting me.

Saraan: Wait.

Aaz: Mercy.

Los ahraan: (You) are wound(ed).

Mul Qah: Strength Armour (Dragon Aspect Shout)

Zu tiid: I (have had) time.

Morah: Meditate/think deeply (upon it).

Zu laan aam hi: lit. I want to serve you.

Zu mindok: I know.

Rul laan: When (you) want.

Fah hi: For you.

Zu’u aam hi unslaad, rii se dii zii: I serve you forever/ceaselessly, essence/soul of my spirit/soul.

@argisthebulwark as promised.

#inkwrites #minors dni #my fic that world will cease to be #not safe for minors #tw possessiveness #tw jealousy #tw blood #laataazin #mind control #skyrim #tes #miraak #fic

[eivorsjawline]

Trigger warning: smut and talk of blood/open wound.

You take a medieval bath in the opening of this chapter in the safe space of a close friends estate. When you return to the settlement you’re greeted by Eivor with a sweet bouquet. You both head back to your room and having a little one on one time before getting disrupted by someone at the door.

Chapter 5: Sweet Escape

Readers POV

Bjorn ended up bringing me to whom he calls Erke’s living quarters. One of the servants made a bath for me to clean myself off, it had been so long since I had a nice bath. The servant filled an ewer with fresh spring water, heated it up then poured it into a large wooden tub. Careful to not step in too early, I waited and let the steam hit my face.

I started to strip my clothes off and after a while of letting the water cool down, I poured a pitcher of the warm water over my hair. A bucket lay nearby for me to place any of the now dirty suds. I ran some of the soap through my hair and began to scrub afterwards rinsing it out. Wrapping my hair in a linen towel, I stepped into the tub and started scrubbing my body all over.

It's insane to think of how we take for granted the small things in the modern world. I soaked in the tub worrying about the settlement and how Eivor was handling everything. Though I'd never seen her in battle, I imagined she fights like a true warrior. Even in modern times Eivor would be considered strong and brute. However, my wandering mind still managed to come up with dreadful worries and scenarios.

Though I didn’t want to leave the bath, the water began to cool down a little too much for my liking so I stepped out onto a towel on the ground. I started to rub myself dry with the extra towel getting my legs, chest and arms. An assortment of oils and herbs in jars lay on the table near me. I washed my face with some more soap and water residing in a basin and then doused my face in rose oil, afterwards removing the towel from my head. Feeling clean and fresh, I pulled a long tunic over me along with a pair of undergarments and headed towards my room.

Erke’s furry friend Tibert, a chubby orange striped cat joined me alongside the bed and begged me for pets. Since I was here alone basically, I might as well have someone accompany me while I slept tonight. I blew out the candles next to my bed and rested my head on the fluffy feather pillows. There was no way I was getting any sleep tonight but I still tried, until the bone shattering emotion of loneliness covered me. Since I’d arrived I missed my home, I missed my friends too, the technology, and even the food. Nevertheless, I missed Eivor more than anything else.

My eyes began to water and then I heard creaking footsteps near the door. It was so late, who could possibly be here at this time? With a knock on the door I heard Bjorn’s voice asking me if he could come in. I jumped up from bed and opened the door from him, hoping for news on Eivor and the settlement.

“It’s not looking good. We have to relocate the camp completely.”

His words shattered my heart and made my already disheveled mind worry even more. I started to pace around the room and my anxiety set in. Myself and war had not been acquainted yet due to the sheltered life I’d lived compared to these people.

“What about Eivor? Please, tell me she’s okay.”

“Eivor is fine, for Randvi I cannot say the same. She was struck and the wound is very bad. I'll take you to the new location in the morning, you must rest here for tonight. Eivor instructed me that I stay and keep watch for you.”

Even from afar I felt protected by Eivor. Although relieved I didn't have to be alone tonight, I felt bad for Randvi. I hoped she would be okay even if she didn’t care much for me. She was very strong, stronger than I could ever be. Bjorn and I conversated a bit about where the location will be before saying goodnight and heading to bed. I closed the door and noticed Tibert still laying there. Swooping the covers over my legs, I snuggled up with my new furry friend and tried to rest but I knew damn well I wouldn't be getting any of that tonight.

Eivors POV

The next morning

I woke up in the morning and the first thing I felt was the soreness of the cut in my arm. Blood ran through the linen covering my wound overnight. Letting out a groan, I reached over the table next to my bed for the medicine that Valka gave me and applied it to the cut before cleaning myself and rebandaging.

The new settlement was surprisingly nice. A larger pond to the west of the new longhouse, good for fishing. The land was more vast and colorful flowers grew by the riverbank. When sunset came you could see the light hit just over the valleys and the bushes and trees grew with the greenest of leaves and ripest fruits. Almost everything was finished setting up with the exception of a few huts.

My head pounding from little to no sleep, I decided to go check on Randvi. I figured Valka was probably keeping a close eye on her so I headed there. Valka’s hut was just East of the longhouse and across, a closer span than Ravensthorpe. On my way there I couldn't help but to think of [y/n] and how I missed her. I wish I could have been with her last night but I had to get the people to safety first, all I could do was send Bjorn with her.

Walking into the seer's hut I could smell her cooking some sort of potion, the smell of lavender filled the air. Randvi lay next to her, the life in her eyes seemed to be returning. She lost so much blood, but she fought through it. Kneeling down to get to her level, I saw the corners of Randvi’s mouth form a smile as if she were happy to see me for once.

“You look better than ever.”

“Oh, stop it.”

Randvi let out a small laugh then thanked me for helping her last night. She explained that she tried to fight back but she was far too late for the Picts had already infiltrated the camp. Our conversation was brisk but for the first time I felt a genuine friendship forming between the two of us and a mutual respect. Valka joined in saying Randvi should be back on her feet in no time.

Perhaps even through all of this, we lost nothing and only gained. Today was a bright sunny day and those days were very rare in this green land. After one of the worst storms I’d ever seen, today was a new day. Since we moved further south west into the country, there was no need for a heavy cloak at least for today. I settled for an embroidered gray tunic rolling up the sleeves, a pair of brown linen trousers and secured them with a belt afterwards, lacing up my usual boots.

Looking out the window, I saw [y/n] leave Valka’s hut. I presumed Bjorn sent word of what happened. Quickly, I combed through my hair, fixed my braids and snuck out the back of the longhouse. Some red and blue flowers grew by the backyard and I began to pick some off the vines, creating a small bouquet.

This feels stupid, yet I cant help myself.

I gripped the bouquet in one hand and hid it behind my back, straightening my posture before approaching her.

A cheeky smile formed on her face when her eyes met mine and a grin escaped me.

“Eivor, how are you feeling?”

“Better now that you’re here.”

Grabbing her by the waist with my free hand, I pulled her in for a peck on her soft lips. Slowly, I revealed the flowers I picked for her and she looked down at the ground as if flustered by the small gesture.

“For me? That's so sweet…”

Exchanging the flowers from my hand she stood up tall to reach for a kiss and with a bend of my knees our lips met once again. Our hands clasped one another and I led her to show her around the new settlement then finally our new room in the longhouse. We exchanged some more passionate kisses in private before stopping and snuggling on the bed.

“There is something I wanna talk to you about.”

After hearing my words she repositioned herself, ready to listen to what I have to say.

“Of course, what is it?”

“Be honest with me, do you miss the future?”

“With every fiber of my being, there is so much that I miss. Everyday, I realize there is something that I miss about my time.”

I reached to stroke the hairs on the back of my neck and avoided making eye contact. The weight of her words hit me hard, to think she was in a foreign place with no one she knows. Noticing the change in my body language, she nudged my shoulder.

“There something else. Tell me the truth and look at me.”

“You want to go back, don't you?”

She placed her small hand over mine and pushed herself closer to me.

“Even though I miss it, I would give up all of that to stay here with you.”

I let out a sigh of relief and placed my hand on her thigh.

“Prove it, then. Show me how much you’ve missed me.”

Readers POV

Letting out a chuckle, I pushed Eivor on the bed and started to kiss her neck. Eivor let out a soft moan underneath me and started to caress my body over the tunic I was wearing. Already trying to reach for my shirt to pull it off, I pinned her hands back and gave her a passionate wet kiss. Eivor bit my bottom lip and started to squirm underneath me. She had all the strength to push my hands back but she let me hold her down instead. The heat radiating off our bodies grew as Eivor started to grind her pelvis underneath me, my legs wrapped around her.

I released her hands and started to explore her body, placing kisses on her collarbone. I lifted her shirt off and started to toy with her breasts, rubbing one of her pink nipples between my fingertips and my tongue making circles around the other whilst looking her in the eyes. Eivor moaned my name and arched her back as I continued to tease her. I ventured lower in between her rib cage and then back up, the tip of my nose rubbed against her ivory skin.

One of my hands ran up and down her torso as my fingers played with her belt buckle. From the downwards view I had of her I caught a glimpse of her biting her lip. After undoing her belt one notch at a time, I pulled her pants off along with her underwear as she lifted her body to aid me. Her subtle happy trail glimmered in the sunlight. Appreciating her body, I started to kiss her inner thighs and watched as Eivor melted into the bed. I pressed my fingers and massaged the folds of her labia, noticing she was even more wet for me than last time.

“Is this what you want, my wolf?”

Sticking my tongue out and swirling against her hole, I made sure to get a good taste of her. Eivor’s moans grew heavier and she pulled the hairs falling onto my face to the side to get a better view of me eating her out. My tongue started to focus on her swollen clit and began to flick with vigor. Eivor threw her head back trying to keep her eyes open as she spread her long legs wide for me to feast on her. My middle and ring finger slid into her wet pussy and started working her from the inside. Her walls clenched tight around me as I pounded and curled. Pulling my body up for Eivor to taste herself on my tongue, my fingers remained inside her but back to a steady pace. Eivor grabbed my face to kiss me harder and moaned in my mouth.

“You’re gonna make me cum all over you if you keep fucking me like that.” She whispered in my ear with her raspy deep voice.

While our tongues clashed, I stretched my fingers as far as I could and pounded her into oblivion with all the strength I had. I felt Eivor’s muscles twitch and saw her chest start to convulse as her cum coated my fingers. I pulled out of her and let her watch me lick my fingers clean. With no time to catch our breaths Eivor began to strip my clothes off one by one before pinning me down on my stomach onto the bed.

“How dare you fuck me with all your clothes still on!”

She pulled my arms back and latched onto my wrists kissing the back of my neck. Her firm authoritarian grip and the stretching of my back muscles and arms caused me a miniscule amount of pain that made me want her to really have her way with me.

“Mmm, what are you gonna do about it?” I let out a moan and gave her a cheeky grin.

Before I knew it Eivor’s hand met my bare ass with a slap, the sting making me moan out loud. My back arched and with small breaks she spanked me again and again. My eyes closed but quickly opened when I felt Eivor’s wet tongue start fucking me from inside, her rough hands grabbing onto my now red ass cheeks. Switching her focus she started to flick her tongue fast on my clit, almost making me climax. Eivor pulled herself up and started whispering in my ear.

“Oh, you better not cum yet… Such a dirty girl, letting me fuck you like this. You’re so damn loud, everyone will hear you.”

She cupped my mouth with the palm of her hand and muffled my moans, her other hand teasing the entrance of my soaking wet cunt. She slipped two long slender fingers inside of me, stretching me nicely, sliding from the tip of her fingers down to her knuckles with a steady pace. Her fingers twisted inside of me, making sure she filled me as deep as possible.

Eivor’s hot breaths onto the back of my neck sent chills down my spine. The sounds of her pounding me from behind and my suppressed moans were all that could be heard. Eivor didn’t care how loud she made me moan, only for the pleasure that she gave to my body and neither did I. The stress of the outside world quieted as we released onto one another.

A knock on the door interrupted us and suddenly we stopped, turning to one another with evil grins. Trying not to laugh, we rushed to put our clothes back on. Before now, I had never got dressed faster. Eivor fixed her shirt and fastened her belt buckle, fixing her hair. Feeling a little flustered, I ran to hide behind the door so whoever was behind it couldn’t see me in the room. Clearing her throat, Eivor straightened up and switched from her playful demeanor to her serious one before opening the door.

Eivor’s POV

“Well, don't stop now that I’m here. Continue just as you were, Wolf-Kissed...”

“Rollo, long time no see my good friend!”

Thankfully, Rollo was never one to judge people for what they do behind closed doors. After we gave one another a friendly embrace and exchanged a few jokes, our conversation turned to more important matters. So distracted from [y/n] returning, I completely forgot we had discussed plans for a raid this evening. Peeking past the door I noticed [y/n’s] face changed from an impudent smile to a sour expression. I told Rollo to give me a moment and wait outside before closing the door.

“You’re already hurt, why go on a raid?”

“I'm not sure how things are where you’re from, but this is normal. We lack resources, It’s what must be done. I'll be careful, just for you. Besides, plenty of others will be at my side.”

She crossed her arms and tilted her head while looking down.

“Also, what's this? I found it in your belongings when I was packing up my bedroom.”

I reached into a bag that held the clothes I found her in and a rectangular platform that lit up when held to the light. I shook it and gave it a bang on the table to see if It would do something else before she reached and grabbed it out of my hand.

“Dont! Holy shit, that's my phone!”

Your what?

After entering some sort of code, she swiped the strange gadget and It appeared as if she unlocked something on it.

Looks complex...

“There’s still some power in it, no service of course. Eivor, come here and look.”

Though confused, I took a look and she showed me an assembly of what she called, “pictures” of her previous life. She looked different and the world around her looked different. She showed me pictures of her with friends, and places she traveled to. My curiosity grew more from what she showed me. We don't have anything like this, so any doubts I had about what she told me completely disappeared. A loud bang on the door interrupted us, I assumed Rollo was getting impatient.

Damn, I have to leave.

I gave her a kiss and reassured her everything would be okay before leaving through the door.

#fem!eivor #fem eivor #eivor x reader #female eivor #ac valhalla #fan fiction #assasins creed #assasinscreed #writers on tumblr #series #reader insert

[karasu-hieis-dragon]

PEACE AND CHAOS

Sith Kenobi and my Jedi OC Kyrhyraeth Scath. Kyra has been fighting her feelings for Obi Wan Kenobi for years. She would never allow herself to give in because her loyalty to the Order is too strong.

Or so she thought.

I am marking this Explicit NSFW 18+ because of smut in later chapters and cussing.

Sith Kenobi is a gentleman, he will never take what he wants from Kyra. Permission is hot. I will beat a mother fucker with another mother fucker who says otherwise. There is a small amount of man handling though so if that is a trigger please keep scrolling.

Peace and Chaos Chapt. 1

The heavy rain was falling onto the city streets from the dark Coruscant sky, the drops slamming onto the ground, hitting your ears like echoes of ancient chants from a time long gone. She stood out in the storm letting the rhythm of the water pour onto her cloak, she imagined this is what it felt like having fingers strumming across an instrument. She was used to the cold rain, it always made her feel renewed, it was never a bother, in fact it made her feel powerful. As a child she would crave the storms that would rage outside, it calmed her mind when the water would hit her bedroom window, it was like music to her ears. No, the rain never did bother her, what did though was the dark red tendrils that were weaving their way into her Force signature. The swirling red vortex mixing with hers, it was never unsettling and if she was being honest it felt like home.

Bastard.

She knew who it was, she knew what he wanted and no amount of closing herself off helped. He knew her too well he always knew how to get in, he always could but she would always let him in no matter what. They were just children when they met at the Jedi Temple, both ripped from their homes - or at least that is how they felt at the time – brought in at the age of ten to train to become Jedi. Trained to be peacekeepers only to be thrown into a war neither wanted to fight in. She will never forget the day they met, they were just children, but their bond was instant.

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The first day of Jedi training for the young Force Sensitives was with Master Yoda, the Younglings were brought into a big room and told to have a seat on the floor. She held off sitting so she could look around the room at all the Younglings to see who she may want to sit next to and the moment she saw him she knew she wanted to sit next to him. All the other kids were already sitting up front and center talking to each other eager to learn how to become a Jedi. But not him, no, he was alone in the corner as if he was trying to hide, focused looking at his hands folded on his lap. He looked scared and it made her sad, there was something pushing her to meet him, a tugging inside of her soul that told her this was the right thing to do. So, without any more hesitation she walked over and sat down by his side. She felt as if she was home. When she took her place next to him, he looked over at her and just smiled, even back then his smile was warm, and it called to her. Looking at her with those eyes so blue they looked like the storms she loved to watch through her bedroom window back home.

She reached her hand out to him and asked his name, he surprisingly didn’t hesitate he just moved his hand out slowly and shook her hand. It must have taken every ounce of confidence he could gather to respond “I’m Obi-Wan Kenobi” whispered in a shy voice. His face lit up though when she repeated his name back to him “Obi-Wan Kenobi. That’s a neat name.” He didn’t let her hand go he just kept slowly shaking her hand up and down and after what felt like a lifetime he finally sputtered out “W - what’s um, what’s you – your name?” Without missing a beat, she said “I am Kyrhyraeth Scath but you can call me Kyra” followed by a little giggle. From that moment on the two were inseparable.

She liked to tell herself the reason they had bonded so quickly was because she had punched another Youngling across the face for him, but she knew better than that. At lunch that first day a Bantha of a kid came up and stole his dessert right from his tray, Kyra didn’t even think twice, she just walked up to the kid, hauled off and punched him. She came bouncing back with his dessert in hand leaving the Youngling behind her bleeding and crying.

It left Obi-Wan totally speechless.

Looking back though she realized it was the balance between her and Obi-Wan. Where Kyra saw a chaotic storm in his eyes, Obi-Wan saw a calming peace in hers. It was almost tragic but they both found solace in each other.

They were drawn to each other’s energy.

Balance.

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Kyra was trying to remain strong; she knew it was wrong to go see him but like a moth to the flame...

If the Jedi Council knew she was in contact with him there would be repercussions and she could not allow that to happen. She thought the rain would help drowned him out, but it seemed to only make it worse. The red tendrils wove their way into her head, swirling and mixing with her purple Force signature. Purple. Of all the kyber colors that could have chosen her, she gets purple. Both light and dark power. Rare. Obi-Wan had tried to comfort her the day they built their lightsabers but it was futile, it was supposed to be a day to celebrate but all she could think about was that she would be susceptible to the Dark Side.

In a way, her younger self was right.

You know you are going to come see me you always do.

Maker, Kenobi, why are you doing this?

Last name basis now? I am crushed.

Fuck off.

Only if you’re the one I’m fucking.

Where are you?

You know.

And just as quickly as he had invaded Kyra’s head, he left it just as fast, knowing it would drive her crazy.

And it did.

He knew every kriffing button to push and she fell for it every fucking time. She allowed it, she craved it. She needed his chaos.

Soaking wet, standing outside his door like a lost loth cat, dripping wet and cold. Cursing at herself for always falling for his shit.

If the Council knew…

But she didn’t have a chance to finish her thought, the door abruptly opened cutting it off. Of course, he knew she was out there, kriffing Force bond. He leaned against the door frame in the cockiest fashion looking very much like a Sith Lord. Dressed in all black, black fitted tunic, loose pants and red belt draped around his waist perfectly.

Maker, Why does he have to look so handsome? Those tortured amber eyes that replaced the beautiful cerulean hue, they still sparkled every time they saw her and she wasn’t sure how that was possible.

“It’s because you make me happy.”

“Shut up.”

“Your feelings betray your tone, little one.”

“Don’t fucking call me that, you Sith bastard.”

“Again, your feelings betray you.”

She tried storming past him to get inside and out of the rain, knocking into his arm hard as she tried to push by. Before she could get even a step past him, he had reached out grabbing her arm, slamming her back against the wall. He pinned her hands back with the Force then using his right hand he grabbed her chin making her look up to have direct eye contact with him. Kyra looked at him with defiance, she knew he would never hurt her, so she stood her ground. This only made it worse, he loved when she didn’t take his shit.

“Let me fucking go, Kenobi”

“Say my real name.”

Bending down slightly he brought his lips to her ear and with a low growl he whispered.

“My Sith name.”

Kyra tensed up, he could feel it in his bones, and he relished in it.

“That is NOT your real name Obi-Wan and I would rather you kill me than even whisper that filthy name.”

“You wound me.” Tsking low into her ear. “Do you find me so barbaric that you think I would ever kill you? Besides, Kyrhyraeth if I kill you how would I ever make you…” He took in a deep breath then exhaled right next to her ear. “…scream my name.”

It took all of Kyra’s strength not to collapse, feeling the burn swirling in her stomach and the pooling between her legs that wasn’t rainwater.

“Oooh, you like that thought.”

Obi-Wan pulled back, snaking his calloused hand across Kyra's cheek then gently grabbed a handful of her wet hair. He was mere inches from her face – Stars, why does he have to smell so good? His warm body pressed against hers, amber eyes lit with the flames from the candles he had burning in the room, lips twisted in a sensual smirk. He knew she wasn’t going to budge; she never gave into him when it came to intimacy but that didn’t stop him from trying. He knew she craved him so he was relentless but Kyra never wavered, the Order was too important to her.

He has never met another person like her, she was a perfect storm. Defiant but loyal. Strong but caring. Dedicated but so fucking reckless. She was perfection.

He looked down at her wet, dripping form and he couldn’t help but think how beautiful she was pinned to the wall by him. Her drenched flaming red hair was sticking to her pale, freckled face, those fierce blue eyes staring up at him with all the strength she could conjure yet - there was something else there, there always was.

They were filled with love.

Love for him, a Sith Lord and no matter how hard she tried to hide it; he knew she loved him. Just like he loved her except he would never try and hide that from her. Ever.

Fuck her Jedi Code.

Her lips were closed into a tight perse, eyes narrowed now shooting daggers at him. He loved it, he loved that he caused her to react this way, he thrived off it just as much as she did, but he would never cross a line she didn’t invite him to cross. He was a Sith, yes but he will always respect her, she was his universe, he would never take his anger and hate out on her. She deserved better than that, she deserved better than what the Jedi Council offered her as well.

She saw his eyes soften, and his face relax. As hard as she tried to put on a good act she knew he saw right through her, so many times almost caving, before he became a Sith and after, neither were easy to say no to and right now was proving to be no different. He was so close, his eyes pleading with hers, all she had to do was give him the hint of an approval and his lips would come crashing down on hers. She needed to push those type of thoughts aside though, she was already giving a big fuck you to the Order by forming this kriffing attachment to a Sith she will be damn if she makes it worse.

“Please let me go, Obi-Wan”

Kyra felt his Force grip and hand grip loosen, hands dropping to his sides in mock defeat, but his eyes never left hers. He finally allowed her to walk past him, he had a fire lit so it warm in his apartment and it felt really good. She was freezing in her wet clothes.

Without a word he turned on his heel and walked into his bedroom, returning a few minutes later with one of his long sleeve shirts, a pair of pajama pants and a towel, all of them black.

“Here, as much as I love seeing you disheveled, you’re going to get sick if you stay in those wet rags” He smirked at his jab towards the Order for their choice of robes they made the Jedi wear.

She knew he wasn’t going to let up so she grabbed the dry clothes out of his hands and headed to the refresher. She looked at herself in the mirror, hair tangled, face flush and her robes a wrinkled wet mess. She didn’t understand his attraction to her, he could have any woman he wanted in the galaxy but he always came to her. Then the memories started to flood her brain, it had been the worst fucking year of her life. They had fought the night before he left on his mission to protect the Duchess of Mandalore. He begged her to let her dedication to the Jedi Order go, he was so worried he wouldn’t make it back alive and he wanted to have what could have been their last night together to be special.

But she denied him, he poured his heart out to her, and she fucking denied him. Not only that, she had lied to herself. He was everything to her and she let him leave not knowing if she would ever see him again. She let him leave thinking she didn’t want him. It was the biggest regret of her life because she did love him but she refused to tell him. He loved her but she broke him. Then much to her distain he allowed the Duchess to put him back together. Kyra was all he ever fucking wanted.

Until Satine.

Tears started to roll down her cheeks.

Kyra took a deep breath cursing herself as she removed her lightsaber, focusing on the cold, black metal in her hand. Putting it down on the sink she got undressed and stepped into the shower turning the water on to the hottest setting letting the water pour over her. Get yourself together for fucks sake. She grabbed his soap and it smelled distinctively like Obi-Wan. Gods, why does he have to smell so good? Spicy, woodsy and….Maker, why does he do this to me? Kriff, how the hells am I still a Jedi?

She finished washing her body and hair then she just stayed there letting the hot water run out before she allowed herself to get out. After drying off she slipped into his shirt and pajama pants, throwing her hair up in the towel. When she walked back out to the living room she noticed he had put out some cheeses, meats, crackers and a fresh pot of tea. He was standing facing the fire, fists balled up she could feel his unease. Kyra sat down on his overly plush sofa and poured them both some tea trying to ignore the tension, then he finally spoke.

“She didn’t mean anything to me.”

“Are we really going to do this right now?”

He still wouldn’t face her, she knew it was because he was ashamed.

“It doesn’t matter Obi-Wan, you owe me nothing. You were protecting her and were on the run for a year. Shared trauma. I don’t blame you.”

“I know it still hurts you.”

“A lot still hurts me.”

He finally turned around, eyes solemn.

“You’re a terrible Sith, you know that?” She teased.

“Only when I’m around you.”

Smiling weakly he walked over to taking a seat next to her on the sofa.

“You know, while we are on the subject the same could be said about you, Jedi.”

“I like you better when you’re a dick.” Kyra smiled weakly.

You both sat there in silence, sipping tea, enjoying the delicious treats he had put out for the two of you. Though comfortable there was still the underlining tension of so many things not said. As many times as Kyra had agreed to see him this is the first-time things had escalated this way. It was usually quick meetings to have kaf and catch up and torture each other but this time it was different, and she couldn’t figure out why. Suddenly the silence was deafening. Before she realized what she was doing and before she could stop herself, she blurted out a question that she instantly wished she could take back.

“Did you love her?”

Silence.

Fuck it, I have taken it this far and the damage is done.

“I asked you a question.”

Silence again, he just sat there looking at his hands on his lap, like he did the first day she met him.

“Answer. Me.”

He let out a shaky breath, closing his eyes.

“Yes, but not the way you are thinking. Yes, I cared for her as a friend but that was as far as the love went. I would never allow myself. She was just a pawn to get back at you for hurting me.”

He opened his eyes to look at Kyra who was sitting there with tears streaming down her face. Suddenly there was rage behind her eyes, as many times as he has pushed her, he has never seen her allow that emotion to take over her. Even in the worst of battles she was composed. No, his little Jedi was at her breaking point and it made him tense.

Shit.

The next words she spoke were strangled as she fought to control her emotions.

“Did. You. Fuck. Her?” She stated through gritted teeth.

There it is, she finally allowed herself to let go enough to ask the question that has been plaguing her since you came back alive and stupidly told her about Satine. Obi-Wan had instantly regretted it not realizing she would harbor the pain for so long.

At the time he just wanted her to hurt like he did. Not realizing she had been hurting just as bad choosing the Jedi Code over him.

Maker, Kenobi, you’re a fucking idiot.

He was finally snapped out of his stupor by her yelling, seeing her hands curled into fists, shaking.

“YOU SITH ASSHOLE, ANSWER MY QUESTION!”

Obi-Wan turned to look her in the eyes, relieved he was finally able to tell her the truth. He gripped her shoulders; he could feel how hard she was shaking trying to control her anger and it pained him. So much of her time requires her to remain calm and not show emotions such as fear and anger. She was allowing herself to let go and it was intense. He raised his hands to cup her face using his thumbs to wipe the tears away. Her eyes were pleading with his to just answer the question.

“No, I didn’t.” He exhaled the breath he was holding, raggedly.

Then he saw a change in her eyes, the rage and pain turned to relief and something else he couldn’t identify.

Then she was crashing her lips into his.

All the pain melted away as soon as her lips touched his, she finally felt so free.

Fuck the Jedi Code.

Than you for reading please let me know if you want to be tagged for future chapters.

#sith kenobi #star wars #jedi #obi wan kenobi #fan fic writing #sith #sith!kenobi

[dovewingz]

moonkitti bramblesquirrel video: summary notes

please keep in mind that because i wanted to keep things shorter and, well, summarized, i included close to no quotes. moon uses a lot of quotes, so if you want evidence from within the text i would suggest skimming through the video. secondly, i didn’t include any of my personal opinions for obvious reasons.

link to video. content warning for discussions of abuse.

BRIEF SUMMARY: to say that bramblesquirrel are both entirely in the wrong is completely ignoring the consistent signs of an abuser that bramblestar exhibits, just as squirrelflight behaves like a victim of abuse. there is a clear power imbalance between them that has been present since the beginning of their relationship.

NOTES: about a 10 minute read

INTRO > the fandom has brought about a belief/take that squirrelflight and bramblestar are equally bad to each other. this is a compromise; a way to excuse bramblestar’s poor behaviour & find reason for him to treat squirrelflight poorly.

> the fandom consistently brings up reasons for him to treat her cruelly (victim blaming), as though someone being annoying is any reason to treat them badly.

> the fandom also jumps between using cat morals (the warrior code) and human morals to back up their opinions. when squirrelflight helped the sisters, she disobeyed her leader (against the code), but it was for a morally good reason. she was doing the right thing.

> there is a clear power imbalance between bramblestar and squirrelflight. more on that later.

THE NEW PROPHECY > squirrelflight doesn’t trust hawkfrost, and neither does leafpool based on previous experience. when she confronts brambleclaw about this, he believes that this is because of who hawkfrost’s father is. squirrelflight insists that that is not why.

> brambleclaw continues to work with hawkfrost, training in the dark forest with tigerstar (the one thing that he is upset with squirrelflight for accusing him of). he believes that hawkfrost is a good person, even when mudclaw reveals that he and hawkfrost were working together.

> brambleclaw doesn’t listen to squirrelflight’s concerns or take her seriously. they do not trust each other.

> throughout their hawkfrost-disagreement, brambleclaw continues to find excuses to punish/scold her. squirrelflight defends herself, acting aggressive/defensive. she’s growing closer with ashfur, trusting him and preferring how he treats her. >>> “that’s what you want, is it? a loyal warrior to follow after you and smooth all the thorns out of your pelt?” brambleclaw mocks her for wanting someone who will treat her kindly.

> brambleclaw continues to get more controlling and aggressive, while ashfur is overprotective and also controlling/babies her. brambleclaw is very cold and passive-aggressive towards squirrelflight & her relationship with ashfur. it is unclear whether ashsquirrel are mates or not, but they are likely in the middle phase (on the path to becoming mates but not officially mates yet).

> squirrelflight eventually realizes she still has feelings for brambleclaw (for some reason) and breaks it off with ashfur. leafpool receives a vision from starclan which confirms that they are bramblesquirrel shippers too! wow thanks starclan.

> to conclude: brambleclaw was projecting his insecurities about tigerstar onto squirrelflight (while also training in the DF with tiger). he pushes her away when she attempts to talk with him, and goes out of his way to boss her around/control her. squirrelflight was not intentionally trying to upset him.

LEAFPOOL’S WISH > brambleclaw isn’t treating squirrelflight like an equal. >>> “brambleclaw wants me to fetch soaked moss for the nursery, even though it’s an apprentice task. he hasn’t stopped giving out orders since firestar made him deputy!” /// “...treating me like i’m still wet behind the ears.”

> squirrelflight is having issues only a month into the (new, romantic) relationship. she feels patronized. there has almost always been a power imbalance in their relationship (apprentice/warrior and now warrior/deputy).

> when it comes to the three, squirrelflight states multiple times that she doesn’t want to lie to brambleclaw. she doesn’t change her mind until she finds out that she is barren and will never have biological children. starclan themselves tell her this, pressuring her into taking the kits.

POWER OF THE THREE and OMEN OF THE STARS > their relationship is solid until hollyleaf reveals the truth about her parents at the gathering. brambleclaw breaks up with squirrelflight on the spot, not understanding why she didn’t trust him enough to tell him.

> the question is, can we trust brambleclaw? he trained in the dark forest and never told her, he held a grudge against squirrelflight for months, etc. of course he had every right to break up with her, but squirrelflight rightfully had worries.

> after their break up, brambleclaw avoids, ignores and acts very passive-aggressively towards her. in forth apprentice, it is mentioned that they hadn’t spoken in months. their only communication was squirrelflight watching him longingly & sadly.

> before the tribe quest, squirrelflight asks brambleclaw if he has a message for the tribe. jayfeather detects something else in her voice, and he realizes that she wants brambleclaw to show her any kind of sign that he still cares about her.

> after finding out about the three’s powers, brambleclaw accuses her of lying, intentionally trying to hurt him, etc. they fight several times. then, suddenly, near the end of the last hope, they are on good terms. this is a pattern in their relationship: brambleclaw only treating squirrelflight fairly during/after a huge crisis has occurred. this time, it’s the last hope battle. after the battle, he trusts her and makes her deputy.

> why does brambleclaw suddenly trust her after treating her so passive-aggressively for a whole year? he manipulated and controlled her, punished her for hurting him, and there was still a power imbalance. he’s not just her mate, he’s now her leader.

> while brambleclaw gave her the cold-shoulder, squirrelflight acted very submissive and sad. she’s typically headstrong, independent and active. brambleclaw makes her act scared.

BRAMBLESTAR’S STORM > bramblesquirrel are not together and their relationship seems to work best this way.

> bramblestar chose squirrelflight as deputy because she has her own ideas and will challenge him. he’s glad she’s deputy and thinks she’s good at her job, believing that he would be “lost without her.”

> scenes with jessy are trying to show us that squirrelflight is jealous. during a couple of scenes, squirrelflight does act unreasonably and snaps at bramblestar, where jessy defends him. >>> “wow, is she always like this?” “yeah, pretty much.” - bramblestar and jessy > later, bramblestar and jessy go out together. when they get back, bramblestar forgets to tell anybody that he saw windclan trespassing for, like, 10 minutes. squirrelflight is frustrated, but even after he gets injured, she doesn’t scold him.

> after they help shadowclan, bramblestar understands why squirrelflight lied to him. she was protecting leafpool, which he gets because he would also do anything for his sister. he says he respects her and her courage. they also acknowledge that lion, jay and holly are their real kids. >>> “squirrelflight and i share a bond that cannot be broken” - inner monologue from bramblestar 

A VISION OF SHADOWS > squirrelflight is pregnant, proving that starclan lied to her about being barren. bramblesquirrel have some casual scenes, although squirrelflight is a bit “toned down” / not as independent. this may just be because she’s not a pov character or because she’s getting older.

thats literally it

SQUIRRELFLIGHT’S HOPE this one is like 50% of the video!

> squirrelflight likes the idea of having another litter of kits and bramblestar gives her a vague response. it is important to note that she didn’t ask anything, she just mentioned the idea.

> she changes the subject, wanting to feel like they’re young again! bramblestar is serious and talks about the gathering. it is implied that they haven’t had fun in a while and that he isn’t giving her much attention.

> they discuss the skyclan territory dispute at the gathering. bramblestar doesn’t want thunderclan or skyclan to give away territory. squirrelflight gives her own solution, that there is territory above thunder and shadow. she believes that this is an open discussion for different ideas.

> after the gathering, he is furious at her for giving her own idea without discussing it with him first, and that skyclan will have to move again. he also mentions that the territory she’s talking about could have dangerous animals, and that warriors could die because of her idea.

> because this is a discussion over territory, squirrelflight mentions that the clans are getting bigger + that there will be new kits by new-leaf. throughout the entire talk, he had been growling and lashing his tail.

> bramblestar deflects and brings up something that she had already dropped: having more kits. he is scolding her, attempting to trivialize her feelings. he runs away, and squirrelflight follows him, trying to continue the discussion. >>> then he guilt-trips her, “isn’t being deputy enough?” he is accusatory and it is clear that he doesn’t want to have this discussion. > squirrelflight explains that she’s worried because she knows she’s getting older and wants another littler before it’s too late. to herself, she worries that because bramblestar has nine lives, he will live longer than her and eventually replace her. >>> “don’t you love me anymore?” she asks. could be a guilt-trip, could be a genuine question because squirrelflight feels unloved.

> afterwards, bramblestar apologies. he admits that he brought up the kits out of anger because he felt like she wasn’t on his side at the meeting. he says that he would love to have another litter with her, but squirrelflight can Tell that he doesn’t, he’s just saying it because she wants kits. she never brings up the topic of kits again.

> moon super briefly goes over the cycle of abuse: tension between the abuser and the abused (abused feels anxious), abuser lashes out, then afterwards feels bad/apologizes + there’s a brief “peace” period. this happens multiple times in the bramblesquirrel relationship, with hawkfrost, with the three, etc. something else to note is that every time they reconcile, they have a litter of kits, so it wouldn’t be hard to say that squirrelflight associates the “peace” period with motherhood.

> squirrelflight feels very guilty, like she’s replaceable, and blames herself. she goes over the argument in her head again. eventually, she and leafstar go explore the territory beyond thunderclan. squirrelflight feels bad about lying to bramblestar, but doesn’t tell him even when given the opportunity (running into sparkpelt). she believes that she is doing the morally right thing but knows that bramblestar wouldnt agree with her.

> while she’s with the sisters, she only grows more anxious, feels bad for the trouble she’s causing thunderclan, and worries about bramblestar’s anger.

> when thunderclan find her and bring her back to camp, bramblestar puts a restriction on her. if she’s “going to act like an apprentice,” then she must run every decision by him. no more going off on her own, no more “arguing” at the gathering. he is using his power as leader to control her. he threatens to replace her as deputy, causing squirrelflight to panic about how he no longer trusts her.

> later, bramblestar micromanages her. he orders squirrelflight to tell him how she’s organizing the dawn patrol and blatantly insults her methods. bramblestar is using a “trust exercise” to express his anger and lash out. squirrelflight defends herself, saying that she loves him & her clan. >>> “bramblestar was supposed to be her mate. why couldn’t he talk to her instead of trying to make her feel small?”

> after sparkpelt reveals that she’s pregnant and bramblestar mentions having kits to squirrelflight, squirrelflight snaps at him. she feels guilty about it. she also feels bad about not being happier for sparkpelt, feeling selfish, guilty for wanting something that bramblestar doesn’t, and scared that she’s never going to be happy again. she feels as though she’s making all the wrong choices.

> squirrelflight finds sunrise (a sister) injured and brings her to camp, knowing that bramblestar will be angry (as does the rest of the clan), but wanting to do the right thing. bramblestar refuses to help sunrise until he gets starclan’s approval, but it’s clear that he is acting out of anger towards squirrelflight.

> the message from starclan is incredibly vague, and bramblesquirrel disagree over it. squirrelflight insists on helping sunrise no matter bramblestar’s feelings, and bramblestar worries that helping sunrise will cause tension between the clans.

> when leafpool goes to help sunrise, bramblestar stands in front of her as a way to physically threaten her to step back. squirrelflight worries that bramblestar will fight leafpool just to stop her, so she jumps in front of leafpool to protect her. while this is happening, sunrise is dying. >>> “we can’t keep doing this. if you keep undermining my authority, you could destroy the whole clan” despite bramblestar’s words, squirrelflight wants to do what she knows is right. she believes that thunderclan is stronger than any leader/deputy disputes. >>> “why are you doing this to me? you’re my deputy. you’re my mate. you’re supposed to support me” /// “thanks to you, there’s not even unity in thunderclan anymore.” bramblestar guilt-trips her, unable to physically intimidate anyone into stopping. squirrelflight isn’t trying to hurt him, she’s trying to do what’s right.

> later on, bramblestar suddenly forgives her, but implies that he is willing to put the sisters in danger for what was previously squirrelflight’s plan. he wants to drive the sisters out by force. > tension between the clans grow, which sparkpelt blames bramblestar for. squirrelflight jumps to his defense. >>> “why are you sticking up for him? he’s hardly spoken to you in days. he’s been treating you like an apprentice. and you’re defending him! why are you being such a mouseheart?” sparkpelt says, making it clear that other cats are aware of bramblesquirrel’s toxicity. > bramblestar does not see squirrelflight as an equal. when he’s upset with her, he treats her as such, talking down to her, giving her apprentice-jobs, etc.

> bramblesquirrel haven’t properly made-up. squirrelflight is too anxious to talk to him, worried that she’ll make things worse or that he’ll lash out at her. she believes that bramblestar blames her for everything that’s wrong. as bramblestar plans the patrol to attack the sisters, squirrelflight hides away. he questions her about it, and she says that she doesn’t agree with what he’s doing, while bramblestar expects her to back him up no matter what.

> squirrelflight feels like he believes borders/battles are the only thing he cares about + bramblestar feels like the sisters are the only thing she cares about. he believes that he’s following the will of starclan. after that, squirrelflight apologizes to bramblestar and they say that they love each other. she supports him in front of the clan, despite the fact that she does not agree with what he’s doing.

> that night, she has a dream about kits dying in battle, and knows it was a prophetic warning. she talks to leafpool about this and they realize it was moonlight’s kits. they run ahead of the patrol, bramblesquirrel argue, they decide to attack then they don’t... it eventually results in squirrelflight’s death.

> [ moon skipped the starclan trial ]

> much like in other times, such as during the new prophecy and the last hope’s final battle, it takes a huge crisis for bramblestar to realize that he needs to treat squirrelflight fairly & apologize. he apologizes while she’s Dead, and once she wakes up he’s super worried about her. >>> “...don’t be sorry. don’t be sorry for anything. i was so worried. i love you so much. we should never have let things get so bad. i’ll never let it happen again.” even here, bramblestar is being manipulative, not fully taking the blame (”we”) and acting as though they are both equally at fault.

> from here, bramblestar is extra loving and supportive, defending her at the gathering. squirrelflight decides that she no longer wants another litter, she can be content with helping sparkpelt’s + the clan’s kits, plus she has bramblestar’s affection.

OUTRO/CONCLUSION my notes were getting less detailed by the end, but moon just reinstates some point she’s already made (as expected)

> bramblesquirrel follow the same patterns as the cycle of abuse. bramblestar consistently finds reasons to put her down and does things out of anger (even admitting to that). squirrelflight is constantly thinking about his anger and how he’ll lash out at her.

> there is a severe power imbalance in their relationship and there has been since the beginning. bramblestar does not treat her as though she’s on the same level as him.

> particularly in squirrelflight’s hope, the text presents squirrelflight as being in the right. she does what she believes is morally just, and bramblestar is shown as the antagonist. she constantly feels guilty and never even thinks of placing her wants/needs over his.

> it does not matter how many flaws squirrelflight has, it does not matter if she is annoying or entitled (she’s not) or bratty, she does not deserve to be abused. she is a victim of bramblestar’s abuse.

#i thiiink i got everything important?? please please lmk if youve seen the video and think ive skipped/skimmed over any key points #moonkitti #bramblesquirrel #abuse #cotton speaks #mk disc #bramblesquirrel disc

[skzafterdusk]

Stray Kids As Dates I’ve Been On

Unorthodox, but really this is just:

These are totally the dates each member would take you on

Chan: Why did you guys end up at Barnes & Noble? No clue, but you were here. And while you guys wandered through the sections, looking at various books, you stumbled across a book that intrigued you both:

500 Questions To Ask Someone

Luckily, there was a cafe in the store, so guys were able to order coffee, sit and go back and forth between asking questions.

Some were basic, some were very thought provoking, and it waged some lengthy conversations. You realized, as you watched Chan explain some of his most creative ideas, some of his plans for the future, that you’d never met anyone like him. To be so genuinely engrossed in what he was saying, to catch how he sent you soft smiles when you went on rants, it was a feeling you never had before. 

Even though you don’t remember which question it was, you knew to take a mental snapshot of that day, because it was one to remember.

Yes, you did end up buying the book for sentimental purposes.

Minho: (Should probably mention this now, there’s a lot of driving involved on these dates) He decides to take you to the lake. The summer is forgiving this year, and while the days can still be hot, the nights are met with cool breezes, whisping air that smells of the trees and grass that grow plentiful.

You sit on a bench after having stood near the lake, and you just talk. By this point, you’d gone on a couple dates, and still had so much to learn about each other.

Although Minho has a very forward personality, he stumbles a little when he suggests that you guys become official, exclusively dating only each other. He shakes his head quickly, almost like he is dismissing the idea, but you agree.

In the dark of the night, you can hardly make out each other’s faces that well, but even still you can see his grin and the way he looks back at you.

Changbin: Wasn’t a planned date. You guys closed the store you work at together, and you were both hungry and wired from the interactions with customers that day.

So he suggests you go to this diner. It’s one you’ve been to a couple times in the past, and Changbin has had some memorable late night meals with friends there. It was only fitting he took you to one of his favourite places, right?

The conversation you guys share is unexpectedly deep, you opening up about your relationship with your parents, him being the great listener like he always is. Given that it was your first time in this type of setting with him, you hardly thought this is what the night would bring. Sure, you’d had a crush on him before because he made you feel so comforted at work, but you had no idea that getting to talk with him -like, actually converse with him- would only make the crush turn into genuine feelings.

After the diner, neither of you wanted to go home, so you just drove. You guys ran unnecessary errands, anything to stay in each other’s company. And it was well past 2am when you finally said goodbye.

Hyunjin: The date hadn’t been planned. You just happened to be out near where he lived, and he asked if you wanted to spend some time together. 

It’s already late afternoon when you guys meet up. He suggests you guys go to a park near his home. After the day you had, it was nice to be out on such a lovely summer day, taking in the sound of insects buzzing around you.

After the park, you went to a Japanese restaurant in the downtown area. Sitting outside, you both could admire the skyscrapers just in the distance. And, afterwards, you took a stroll, the streets empty at night, so you took your time crossing. There was a memorial fountain nearby, and it looked lovely in the night.

All this random adventure just brought you back to his house, where you promptly spent the night just talking in your car.

You’re not even sure how or why you started kissing, but soon enough, the car was filled with heavy panting, the wet sound of your kisses. The center console was uncomfortable, so you ended up in the backseat. 

The only way you were able to drive home was because you had work the next morning. Yes, the Little Mermaid bandage on your neck to hide the hickey was a little ridiculous.

Jisung: There’s a college campus close to where he loves, and it’s almost like a hideaway for him. On a summer day, the campus is rather empty. Spacious lawns and intricate water fountains can be found across one cobblestone street to the next.

But his favourite place to visit? The archive room at the top floor of the library. Past the marble floors, sweeping candelabras and great oak double doors, there is a long room. The only way to illuminate the space is with its many fluorescent lights. Void of proper windows and the need for cool air, being in the archive can feel like being in another world. 

You split up, you get lost in towering shelves as does Jisung. But you find each other, given that you’re the only ones up there.

And when you do meet up, you stand close to his side. He’s skimming a book in the psychology section, and you don’t notice his gaze when you lean closer to look at the words on the page.

He puts the book back gently, turning his full attention to you. 

You feel one of his hands go to wrap around your waist, the other resting where your neck and shoulder meet. He gives a quick smile as he sees you won’t back away. Honestly, you’d been waiting for this, waiting for the moment where you could finally kiss him.

The automated voice that comes over the speaker is cold, harsh, and jarring. It makes your heart stop in your chest as you jump.

“The library will be closing in ten minutes.”

With a deep inhale, Jisung steps away.

“There’s some other places I wanted to show you,” he says, holding out his hand for you to take.

When you finally exit the library, the sun is going down in the night, but your adventures on campus do not stop until the sky is full of stars, and the horizon only shows ignited street lamps.

Felix: I never understood how people could go on dates in stores, but honestly I get it now. And Felix would definitely be the type to walk around Wal-mart with you as you picked up some essentials (toothpaste, a pack of UNO cards, etc), just talking about whatever that comes up. For example, going by the tire section and talking about how you love the smell of tires.

“They’re just rubber,” he’d say, simply.

And you would shrug. “I guess I like the smell of rubber.” And then, somehow, you get on the topic of enjoying the smell of ammonia, and he’s fighting off laughter because,

“Ammonia is in cat pee. You like the smell of cat pee?”

So, yes, you’re wandering aimlessly around Wal-mart for probably two hours when a storm comes by. Tornado and flood, to be exact.

You’re at the check-out line when Felix’s mom would call, telling him he needed to get home because it was supposed to flood really bad, and that a tornado was coming. Little do you know, it’s already absolutely pouring outside.

And you didn’t park anywhere close to the entrance.

So you both book it, a sad attempt at trying to shield yourself from the rain with your feeble hands. There’s so much water on the ground that it kicks up high as your feet pound the pavement. And once you get to your car, the both of you are soaked from head-to-toe.

He lives closer, so you drive carefully as the water is already collecting on the streets, and make it to his apartment. It’s not even a question of you coming inside since he wouldn’t dare make you drive back home in these conditions.

Hours pass by with endless conversation, laughs, giggles, light-hearted bickering. You’re both dry at this point, and he offers you guys watch Scott Pilgrim Vs The World because it was a movie you both really enjoyed.

But here’s the thing: we know Felix is a handsy person. No shame, but he needs physical touch at all times. And really, it’s not enough that you’re just sitting really close to each other on the couch. And soon, his arm is wrapped around your shoulders (smooth), and everytime he laughs, his head bumps into yours, endearingly.

So the movie is on for maybe 15 minutes before he decides to pause it, looking at you with intent. His eyes keep glancing down at your lips. Cheesy, you would think in any other situation, but your breath stutters when he finally leans in. It’s a simple peck, but it’s enough to make the room around you deafeningly silent.

Cue the makeout session that results, featuring some slight biting and mild choking. As a treat.

Then you get your ass home cause it stopped raining. (clearly a lot happened this night)

Seungmin: I don’t know where this idea is coming from, but something about him just screams, “How about you come over to my house and I cook you dinner?” as a date. He’s just that classy dude.

...you might have to help out, cause he’s not entirely sure what he’s doing.

But that’s what makes it so cool, to be in the kitchen with him, listening to some low music while you guys get in each other’s way. More than once thus he yells out in faux anger, and you laugh. Before he’s even done shouting, he’s smiling at you.

Did the dinner come out good? Well...it’s...edible. Luckily, he has a great selection of fresh fruit that makes a great sweet balance.

Jeongin: Movie and dinner sounds a little common, right? Here’s how it goes down:

Jeongin knows someone that works at the theatre. A manager (see where this is going?). 

So you guys essentially sneak into a movie for free. As much as you loved it, you spent a lot of the time curled into him as gorey scenes filled the screen. He teases you a couple times about being too weak, but he still gladly holds your hand, checking you to make sure you’re not getting too grossed out. 

Afterwards, you guys go to the sushi restaurant in the same parking lot. The place is rather empty, given that it’s late afternoon on a weekday, which is nice because you guys don’t have to talk so loud. It’s like you guys are in your own little world. 

From where you guys sit in the restaurant, you can watch as the sun sets across the parking lot. Not very romantic, but a chill date that still leaves you grinning when you get home.

Val’s Note

Hello, there! I hope you enjoyed my first post. This is something I’ve been thinking about since I got into skz, and I’m glad I could finally type it out and post.

I wanna be able to take requests for lists like these in the future, so feel to do so if you enjoyed this :) Until next time.

#stray kids #skz #stray kids imagines #skz imagines #stray kids headcanons #stray kids reactions #stray kids fluff #skz fluff #bang chan #lee minho #hyunjin #seo changbin #han jisung #lee felix #yang jeongin #kim seungmin

[tarlos-spain]

Cozzy Day 04 - Rainy

Fandom: 9-1-1 Lone Star

Pairing: Carlos Reyes/TK Strand

Characters: Carlos Reyes, TK Strand

The secrets of the mountain

Chapter 02

TK quickly regretted saying that about hating storms, because half an hour after they finished dinner and when they wanted to lie under the stars, to watch them and whatever happened next, the sky turned black and the first drops fell on them.

"It won't rain much." Carlos said. "It will be a totally passing thing."

Carlos certainly had no future as a prophet.

Five minutes later, the two of them were soaking wet running inside their tent, hoping that TK had set it up right and wouldn't fall on them.

Carlos liked the sound of the rain, it relaxed him when he had had a hard day at work, he would close his eyes and concentrate on the sound of the rain, on each falling, on the tapping on the glass and little by little, all the problems would disappear as he drifted off to sleep.

Inside a tent, the feeling was different, relaxing too and at the same time being in the middle of nature gave him the idea that no trouble could get there.

"I think for once, we could sleep early, no schedules or alarm clocks until we can't stand lying down anymore tomorrow."

TK didn't respond, he had been quiet for quite a while now, but Carlos had lowered his alarms, he was quiet and he imagined that after their conversation earlier, TK would be quiet too.

"Nene, are you okay?" TK nodded. "I know you said you didn't like storms - no rain either?"

TK shrank back and pressed his body to Carlos' as tight as he could.

"Rain only makes me nervous when it looks like the universal deluge and I'm in the middle of nature. It makes it seem dangerous." "It's not dangerous when you have a boyfriend who adores you, here to protect you from any danger."

Then the first flash of lightning illuminated the inside of the tent and everything around it and a second after it an intense long clap of thunder made TK cover his ears with both hands.

"Hey, take it easy." "Don't say it's just a storm." "I won't say it. Come, tiger...I think tigers and all big cats are afraid of storms." TK smiled as she listened to him talk to distract him. "They are big predators and could take out any of us with one bite, but then they hear thunder and climb the first tree they can find." "You're making that up aren't you?" "I really like nature documentaries, but you could say I'm improvising along the way." "Well I have to say you're pretty good at it." TK shivered as they were dazzled by the next flash of lightning and stopped breathing until he heard the thunder come closer and closer. "Keep talking please." "Sure... I don't know if you're a fan of savannah felines or prefer..." "You can talk about whatever you want, as long as I ignore the storm."

Carlos talked for the entire hour that the storm lasted.

TK tried to sleep, when he was a child, his mother used to tell him that the best way to fight the storm was to go to sleep and show him that he was important. But he didn't manage to do it, sleeping in his room was not the same as sleeping in a tent.

He would have spent a terrifying night if it hadn't been for Carlos by his side, protecting him as always and maybe it was because of the tiredness of a very long day, because of the confessions they had both made or because of the storm, but finally he fell asleep.

Carlos still took a while to let go of sleep. He liked watching TK too much, awake or asleep he didn't care, just looking at him made him smile. He stroked his cheek and was touched to see that he was smiling in his sleep. She then stroked his hair and settled down next to him, doing her best to touch as much of TK's body as possible with her body; that way any time he woke up, he would notice she was there and he would be at ease.

It had been a while since they'd had a chance to sleep without thinking about anything but the storm that had just passed and Carlos was grateful that the station had told him that there would be no surprise calls, no warnings, they weren't going to need him for absolutely anything for two weeks.

"You are indispensable here, Reyes, but you deserve to take a few days off now, totally free from the madness that is our job." His captain had told him before telling him to turn off his phone for those days and come back with his batteries charged.

He liked the idea of being indispensable, but he liked the idea of spending a few days with TK all to himself much more. Since they had started dating, he hadn't had that opportunity and he wanted to take advantage of it.

They slept through the night in one go and woke up much later than the sun came up.

It was strange that they were awakened by the birds and not by the beeping of the alarm clock or the song that one of them put on the cell phone as an alarm clock. But it was nice to stay in each other's arms unhurriedly, yawning, kissing and making love before dawn.

It was beautiful to live without time, without watches, without looking at messages on the cell phone and forgetting about any social network because inside that tent they had everything they could need.

"I'm going to make coffee." Carlos whispered in TK's ear as he noticed that he seemed to fall asleep again. "But don't fall asleep, I know you can't stand cold black coffee."

TK mumbled something and curled up a little more in the sleeping bag as Carlos got up and moved away from his side.

It was the first time he had rested after a storm, he hadn't really noticed when it was over or if he had fallen asleep before. All he cared about was hearing that Carlos was moving close to him and that there was no one there to disturb them.

When he felt his brain wake up he came out of his makeshift caterpillar cocoon. The morning was cool, not as cold as it had been the night before and he put on a t-shirt and pants and walked barefoot through the damp grass and dirt after the storm.

He circled Carlos' body from behind as he reached him and kissed his neck.

"Good morning..." "Good..."

Before Carlos finished speaking the ground shook slightly, just for a second under their feet. They both looked at each other, trying to find out if the other had noticed the same thing, their looks said yes, the ground had moved under their feet for a second.

"Was that an earthquake?" TK asked in surprise. "Looks like it, a very small one, but yes." "I hope it doesn't spoil our morning walk up the mountain."

Carlos smiled, he loved it when TK was in a good mood.

"Okay, but first a good breakfast."

#30daysofcozy #Tarlos #Mountain #Hurt Carlos #Protective TK #Protective Carlos #TK hates storms #Scared TK #Rainy #earthquake