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kettlequills · 3 years

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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

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pl-panda · 3 years

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To Marry a Vigialnte: Part 16

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To Marry a Vigilante: Part 16

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Chloé couldn’t believe it! They forced her to stay in Gotham Academy’s girls’ dorms. That witch Lila managed to talk Madame Bustier into stopping her from leaving. Marinette had her mother’s permission to stay elsewhere, but apparently, the change in accommodation plans invalidated Chloé’s father’s permission. She would resolve it with a single phone call if someone didn’t steal her phone . She of course tried to report it to Madame Bustier, but her teacher declared that she must’ve lost it somewhere and she shouldn’t be shifting the blame on others.

That woman’s picture should be in every dictionary, right next to the definition of a hypocrite.

She turned the corridor. She could sleep one evening there and tomorrow Marinette would let her borrow the phone. She could try with one of the girls, but it’s not like she remembered every phone number in existence! She regretted that the akuma attack ruined their plans for the afternoon, but Damian had sword-fighting practice tomorrow and she would have her friend all to herself.

“You’re Chloé, right?” A blonde cheerleader asked. The Parisian immediately recognized her as Erica and narrowed her eyes. There were five of them and one of her.

“And you’re the Queen B. of this school. For now .”

The Gothamite princess had the guts to actually laugh. “You can’t even touch me. You’re just some foreign student that came here on a whim of the Ice Prince.”

“Oh, right. You’re the golden princess of this school.” Chloé mocked her. “Lemme tell you something, Erica. I’ll offer you an escape deal. You leave Damienette alone and you can keep your position on top.”

“Yeah. Like you could be a threat.” A new voice joined. From behind the cheerleaders, a new girl walked. Lila now wore the cheerleader uniform too. “You’re just a walking akuma factory. It’s really no wonder that people avoid you. You caused more possessions in Paris than everyone else combined.”

“And you hold the record for times being akumatized.” The Parisian blonde retorted. “Ridiculous! Utterly ridiculous! You think you can take the Chloé Bourgeois?”

“Oh! We don’t think…” Erica started.

“We know.” Lila finished.

“The deal is simple. You will stop your friendship with Maribrat and we will let you keep some dignity.”

“Or we will make you a social outcast. Not only at school, but in the whole of Gotham.”

Inside, Chloé was raging. She wished she could show them what Cass taught her, but she quelled the idea quickly. I definitely spend too much time with Sabine and the Waynes… She thought to herself. Instead, she grinned. “You know the difference between a threat and a warning?”

“What are you babbling about?” One of the cheerleaders snorted.

“A warning is a threat that will actually come to pass. And I warn you. You’re messing with fire here. Damian was raised very old-fashioned. He will draw blood to defend the honor of his angel.” She decided that they could receive a warning. It’s not like they would listen. “And Marinette’s aunt is very well connected.” Then, she decided to drive the nail deeper. “Plus, MDC’s client list is quite long and none would appreciate that you try to bully their favorite designer.”

“Like that doormat…” Lila started, but Chloé tested the glare Cass taught her. It worked well enough.

“You’re not dealing with Maribear. You’re dealing with me. And I’m not going to lose.”

“What’s going on here?” Allegra walked toward them and stood next to Chloé.

“Scatter.” Lila snapped at her.

“Funny. I was about to say the same thing,” she retorted. Now she stood side by side with Chloé and both stared at them. Allegra had an aura of confidence around her.

“Be careful who you stick with, Kane. You’ll do well not to antagonize me.”

“Just because your mother married a famous baseball player doesn’t make me respect you more, Boyle.”

“It’s Layton ,”The angry cheerleader corrected.

“Right. I must’ve forgotten. She does change her last name a lot…” Allegra smiled.

“You’re in over your head, Kane. You’ll do better to stay with your little outcast club.”

“Nah. I’m good. Also, don’t you have practice in five minutes? I heard the coach is in a mood today.” The mayor’s daughter smirked. “It would be a shame if he made you run around with the players.”

This made all the girls quickly scatter to get to the practice, leaving Lila and Erica alone. “You’ve just made an enemy, Kane.”

“You’re an inconvenience at best…” She dismissed the threat. Lila decided to cut their losses and dragged the fuming Erica away, sending the two blondes a murderous glare.

“Thanks for the backup,” Chloé started. “Of course I didn’t need any, but still.”

“No problem. I always hated that self-appointed princess.”

“And have you seen her hair?” The Parisian huffed. “Utterly Ridiculous!”

“And I’m pretty sure her dress is too short by the school standards.”

Chloé smirked. “I think we’ll get along just fine.”

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After Bruce returned, they tried to figure out what was taken from the inside of the vault. Out of various precious weapons, documents, several property deeds, the only thing that was missing turned out to be the content of the wall safe.

During the night patrol, Marinette and Damian scoured the city for potential akumas. While he dealt with criminals, she often stopped by the victims to calm them and gave some support. After serious butt-kicking for the criminals. It just wouldn’t do for Damian to get all the fun. The superhero/vigilante duo (nobody was sure which one, not even them) made a positive first impression on the city. Citizens seemed to like them, both for their efficiency and how they always stopped to talk.

After, Marinette noted that their transformations could hold for much longer now since they were together in this. When asked, Tikki explained that now that she had Chat Noir that was mature and they were technically both adults as far as magic was concerned, she could start developing her full potential.

After the short report to Alfred, the teens left the Batcave to change into pajamas. Marinette fell asleep almost immediately, but Damian stayed awake for a bit. He swore he would protect his Habibti. No matter how far he would have to go.

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Marinette and Damian had roughly half of their classes together. Sadly, she didn’t share too much with her best friend, since Chloé was more into business management than arts and fashion. It was mostly the problem of the level. Classes that Marinette had at beginner, the Parisian blonde had at a higher level and vice-versa.

When she arrived at her class, Claude and Jon were saving her a place between them, which would help to protect her from the classmates that ended in the same group. There were also several GA students that she would rather not sit close to (Erica’s bunch). Generally speaking, the first part of her day went well.

The same couldn’t have been said about Damian. He, Chloé, and Allegra were saddled with the class. And to his utter dread, there were no free places next to each other. They tried to ask some students to move. Well, Damian tried to threaten them, which worked, but too late. The teacher entered and decided to put Damian between Alya and Lila. It was as if the universe was punishing him for something. He suspected that Mister Scarlet did that on purpose to egg him. With this one, he had no idea what he did to make him dislike the Wayne heir. But the way he acted toward him made it clear that he took pleasure in the situation Damian was put in: Between Alya’s nagging to leave Marinette and ‘return’ to Lila, and the Liar who kept whispering stories about their common past.

Finally, after they got to go for lunch, Damian stormed out of the class. Everyone in the corridor made way for him. His scowl was enough to deter anyone from trying to approach him. Well, anyone but Maps.

“Damian! You’re back!” She leaped at him and it took all of his willpower not to draw a sword.

“Tt. Mizoguchi. It’s not the best moment.” He growled.

“But you’re back! Did the headmaster cancel your expulsion!?”

“No. He just forgot to file the expulsion files within the week of the offense. Ergo, I was never expelled. I just joined the exchange program.” He explained.

Her eyes practically shined. “Coooool.”

“Tt. Can you let go of my arm?” He was really hoping it would work.

“Nope. I just met you again. We’re glued.”

“Sup Dames?” Claude chose that moment to appear.

“Tt. I’ve got a parasite.”

“That I can see!” The other boy laughed. Most people were still steering clear from Wayne and whoever was with him. They valued their health for the most part.

“I’m not a parasite. I’m Maps!” The girl greeted Claude, who in turn made an exaggerated bow.

“And I’m Claudius Chase. But please call me Claude.” He made a mock fighting stance. “Like Jean-Claude Van Damme.”

“More like Jack Clown van Lame,” Damian muttered. “Your stance is all wrong. I could take you out in seconds.”

“Of course you could. You’re b…” The Wayne heir covered her mouth with his hand.

“Tt. Not here. Now if you would let go of my hand, you parasite, I’m sure Habibti is waiting for me.”

“Habibti?” She asked after letting go.

“His girlfriend.”

You could actually see Maps’ eyes form into twin stars. “Can I meet her? Can I meet her?”

“Since when are you into fashion?”

“Huh? Who said anything about fashion. She’s your girlfriend though, which means she must be sooo cooool!” Maps was practically vibrating.

“Hero worship much?” Claude joked.

“Tt. Fine. Let’s go.”

The three arrived at the Cafeteria, where Allegra, Chloé, Jon, and Felix were already eating. They had lasagna that day. Quite a lot of people were whispering when Damian appeared, more so than usual, but nobody dared to look at him. When he sat at the table next to Marinette, they did their best not to stare.

“Grumpy Cat?” She asked, a bit worried. “You’re… tense.”

“Tt. Because of that socially-inept, talentless, petty bookworm,” he seethed, “I had to sit between Rossi and Cesaire.”

Immediately, Marinette pulled him into a tight hug. “Oh, my poor Kitty.”

This caused some of the gathered, who knew Damian from the previous year, to immediately tense. Some of the students sitting nearby (mostly females) even grinned, thinking that here died the relationship. There was no way that Ice Prince would allow anyone to refer to him as Kitty. Getting him on the first-name basis was considered a privilege allowed only to the family (and strangely Claude).

To their immeasurable surprise, Damian didn’t explode. Instead, he melted slightly into the hug and some of the anger left him. It wasn’t a long hug, but after it, he was now acting less like a walking grenade looking for its pin. At least three people awwed at them. It was just too pure.

“Whoah!” And then there was Maps, who had the subtlety of a steam-train speeding through the Wild West. “You’re so cute together!” She zoomed next to Marinette to get a better look.

“And you’re…” Marinette eyed the overly energetic girl. She was short, with hair that reached barely below her ears.

“Mia Mizoguchi. But you can call me Maps. I’m Damian’s friend.”

“Tt. More like a stray.”

“Damian! Don’t be a Grumpy Cat.”

“Besides, isn’t collecting strays kinda a Wayne Tradition at this point.” Felix deadpanned. Everyone started laughing. Damian gave a dignified smirk. The blond proved to be able to match him in intellectual discussion, which gave some basis for mutual respect between them.

The group talked a bit more about their classes. Marinette and Chloé compared every detail of their experience in the States with what it was like back in Paris. Maps was a fountain of questions, even if some of them were a bit… strange. But Marinette still felt she would like the little girl. That she was in the same class as her surprised her.

After lunch came time for more classes. When they finished, Damian was supposed to stay for training while Marinette and Chloé would go shopping. They were already outside the gates when three rather packed teens from the year ahead stepped in their way.

“You think you can steal Erica’s man and then threaten her?” The one in the middle asked. It was clear he was angry and not exactly thinking clearly. “Gotham Academy Grackles stay together. If you think you can just prance here and take over, you have another thing coming.”

“Um… Sure.” Mari just nodded. “Now excuse me while I go away.” She tried to move past them, but one decided to make a fatal mistake of trying to grab the front of her shirt. She raised her left arm under the grip, lifting his hand slightly. It exposed his stomach for the moment, which she took full advantage of and delivered a knee-kick to his liver. When he folded in half from the pain, as much as he could with her still supporting his hand, she then used her right arm to deliver a cutter toward the back of his head.

The boy was out cold in less than five seconds.

Seeing their friend attacked, the other two charged at her. Marinette ducked under the punch from the first one and headbutted him in the stomach. She then wrapped her arms around his left legs and lifted him up. He fell on the ground and tripped the slower one. When they both were down, Marinette stomped on the hand of the one on top. There was an audible crack that signaled she managed to damage the bones. He would not be fighting. The one under tossed his pained friend away and jumped on his feet. He managed to get Marinette in a chokehold, but she pushed her arms between his extended arms and spread them apart. When he was exposed, she jumped up and kicked him with both legs. While she landed without any injury, the bigger player crashed into his two friends.

“The police are on their way,” Chloé informed, putting away the phone that mysteriously found itself in her possession earlier that morning, giving more credence to the theory that she simply misplaced it.

“What’s going on here!” A harsh voice boomed behind them. Hammerhead was standing there in all his glory. “To my office. All five.”

“Maman’s going to be here in just five minutes,” Mari informed him. She was still full of adrenaline.

“I don’t care.” He seethed in response.

The only conscious boy helped his friends stand up. First the one with a broken hand, then they lifted the unconscious one together. They limped through the campus toward where the office was located. Behind them, Marinette and Chloé walked with heads held high. Tomorrow, the school would be full of gossip, but the bluenette was all too used to it by now and the blonde would run her PR magic to change it into something positive. Chloé loved playing the crowd.

--------

“I’m here.” Sabine practically stormed inside the office. “Now could you explain, sir, what is it about?”

“Your daughter got into an… altercation with older students today. Right in front of the school.” Headmaster Hammer started.

“Ah. And you’re curious if we’ll be pressing charges?” The woman asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Charges?” She managed to baffle the man.

“Attempted assault?”

“Madame. You misunderstood me. Your daughter…”

“Defended herself. Yes.” Sabine cut in, her eyes filled with cold fury. “Unless I’m mistaken, Self-defence is not a crime.”

“You can’t call self-defense stomping on…”

“To prevent further fighting? Debatable. She is smaller, physically weaker, and was outnumbered. A good lawyer would argue that it was necessary for her to act that way for her safety and to avoid further fighting.” She stared down at the headmaster. “As for the charges…”

At that, two officers walked in. Hammer recognized the first one as Renee Montoya. The other was a blonde officer wearing a tactical vest.

“Sorry, it took so long. We’ve been a little short-staffed since the mess with akumas started.”

“Don’t worry. Luckily, my daughter managed to defend herself. Now, officer, what must we do if we wish to press charges?” Sabine asked with a cold voice, never breaking eye-contact with the headmaster.

“That…”

“I’ll explain everything while officer Sawyer takes the attackers into custody.”

“Thank you so much.” The older woman finally broke the eye-contact and turned toward Montoya. She smiled with her usual peaceful smile, but the fire was still in her eyes. “My daughter is part of the exchange program while I’m visiting my niece.”

Marinette was stunned by how well her mother could take control of the situation. She wasn’t sure what precisely she was doing, but it was definitely effective.

“Foreigners?” The officer asked, surprised. “I could hardly hear the accent. France?”

“Yes. Paris.” Sabine smiled. “Neither I nor any of my charges are really familiar with the procedures here.”

“I will walk you through it. Headmaster?” The policewoman finally acknowledged the elderly man in the room. “Were the parents of the culprits notified yet?”

“Not. Yet.” He muttered through clenched teeth.

“We will take it from here.” She smirked at the headmaster. “You will be notified if any further input is needed, sir.” She started to walk away and motioned for the three women to follow her.

Outside, Damian was waiting with a sword. Luckily, there was no blood on it. Yet .

“Hello, Kitty. Don’t worry. I’ve managed it.”

“Tt. I’ll still challenge them to an honor duel.” He scoffed.

“You will probably have to wait a bit. I don’t think…” The officer took a glance at Sabine, who even with her smile looked like she was ready to fight God on equal footing. “They probably won’t be coming back to school this year.”

“They won’t.” Chloé, Sabine, and Damian said at the same time. But they probably had different things in mind. Or maybe just Chloé…

------------

Masterlist // Next

#miraculous #miraculous ladybug #miraculous lb #Assassin!Sabine #Miraculous!Sabine #sabine cheng #BAMF Marinette #BAMF Sabine #batman #BatFam #Damian Wayne #Damian al Ghul #damienette #maridami #maribat #maribat au #marinette dupain cheng #ladybug #arranged marriage AU

77 notes · View notes

tsukikento · 4 years

Text

Empathetic Ch. 7

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

Summary: After your mom, the number 1 hero in America, gets offered a teaching position at U.A., you two pack up your things and head to Musutafu, Japan to start a new life. Pressure for you in America was at an all-time high, and now you're in Japan, where almost no one knows you, or your family's past.

This tale starts on your first day of class where your new teacher decides the best way for you to fit in is to fight against the strongest person in your class: Bakugou Katsuki.

Warnings/Genre: This piece will feature some angst and reference to an abusive parent, if you are ever worried about other tw’s feel free to send me an ask and I will let you know. There will also be fluff, slight angst, pining, and slowburn.

A/N: This is also posted on ao3 under @allie_win. I’m transferring it over here, pls let me know if you like it! I love your comments! Just a note that any italics means thoughts.

(series masterlist)

The next day everything started off fairly smoothly which was a great change to the chaotic afternoon yesterday. You started the day off waking up at sunrise and going on your typical run before going to shower and getting ready for the day. It was relieving that you were able to spend this time with yourself, only crossing paths with a few of your classmates.

That day, you happened to walk with Iida to class because you left early and he caught up to you due to his speed.

The polite boy stopped to walk with you and complimented you on your performance yesterday, making a comment about how he wished to see you in action and possibly even battle against you. At that, you sheepishly laughed and told him you specifically stayed away from him because of his advantage over you.

When you arrived at the classroom, Iida excused himself and began working on some classwork while you found yourself doodling on a sticky note. The drawing was similar to the one you were sketching last night, except instead of Nyikang in the gorgeous costume, it was you.

Ever since last night, you’ve been thinking about your actual hero costume in comparison to Nyikang’s. Throughout this process, you continuously tried to justify changing your hero costume. Additionally, it made you debate the healthiness of being afraid to change your costume and disappoint your family.

Once again, you bit your lip, your habit getting worse over these last few days, and continued to work on the sketch. It was nowhere near perfect, but that just encouraged you to keep working.

When class started, you crumpled up the sticky note you had been drawing on and started focusing on the discussion about yesterday’s game.

As the average day continued to drag on, a few other teachers came into the classroom to teach their respective subjects.

All of them mentioned yesterday.

All of them congratulated your team.

All of them made eye contact with you as if silently calling you out.

Now, Aizawa was standing in front of the class, telling you all to go to lunch.

By this time, you were quite hungry, and so, you walked up to Ashido’s desk as a few people got up and began exiting. “Hurry up! Let’s get Hagakure and go, I’m so hungry!” You complained, rubbing your stomach to emphasize your want or delicious food.

“Actually,” Mina smiled widely and sneakily pointed to Hagakure walking with Ojirou out of the classroom. “They made a lunch date yesterday during the game.” She whispered to you, so no one else could hear.

“So it’s just us?” You asked as Ashido grabbed her phone out of her bag and stood up.

“Actually,” Ashido started, once again grinning. Before she could finish her statement, Kirishima came up from behind and wrapped his arm around the pink girl’s shoulders.

“She’s eating with us,” Kirishima finished, gesturing with his thumb to Kaminari, Sero, and Bakugou. “You are welcome to join though.”

In all honesty, although you were tired from the previous day, you would love to sit with them. They were all so kind and humorous and made you feel so accepted. It would be the best way to relax.

Well, that would be true if Bakugou wasn’t included in that group.

Not that Bakugou was annoying you or making you miserable. He was just unpredictable and made your heart pound in your chest. You wanted a day with no stress, and Bakugou was a source of stress for you without him even knowing it.

“Sure,” You replied, knowing it would be rude to say no.

It’s only 45 minutes. What could go wrong?

Not even 10 minutes later, you were a blushing mess.

After sitting down with your plate of scrumptious food, Kaminari and Sero began bombarding you question after question.

“Is it true that American quirks are weaker than Japanese ones?” Kaminari asked, before you had a chance to start eating.

“No, that’s a dumb rumor.” You rolled your eyes and looked at your blond friend, “Duh.” You grabbed a french fry and popped it into your mouth in an attempt to soothe your grumbling stomach.

Before you even swallowed that bit of food, Sero inquired, “Do you think your mom could beat Endeavor in a fight?”

You took a moment to think over the question before replying, “Yes, his quirk is at a disadvantage against her’s.” You grabbed another french fry and eyed the tempting sandwich that was next to your fries.

“Why do Americans eat so much?” Kaminari asked.

You looked up to look Kaminari in the eyes. Was that a personal comment? His eyes seemed innocent and unaware. Nah, there’s no way. “Capitalism? I don’t know,” You replied before taking a swig of your water. At this point, you were already over these questions and your empty stomach was not helping to calm your annoyance.

“What’s ka-pi-tah-whatever?” Kirishima added.

You hadn’t realized you said ‘capitalism’ in English. Your face went red in embarrassment and you completely forgot about your stomach, “I don't know the word in Japanese, sorry!”

Everyone chuckled in response, making your face turn just a bit pinker.

However, that wasn’t even your ‘blushing mess’ moment.

“Speaking of America,” Ashido began after the laughter died down, “you said you saw us in the sports festival. Is Japanese heroism popular there?”

“Um, a little bit,” You replied, biting your lip in thought. “Some people are really into it, and others just watch it to see the cool tricks. The U.A. sports festival happens at basically the opposite time of year in comparison to American hero competitions. So, a lot of people like to watch because they miss the hero competition.”

“If you watch us, then are there favorites? Like, I saw an article in the magazine that was about up-and-coming student heroes and was basically a rank for some really popular students,” Kaminari said.

You had just taken a bite of your sandwich and were trying to swallow quickly, but before you could reply, Sero shoved his friend teasingly.

“That’s a Japanese magazine, idiot! Why would Americans rank Japanese students?”

“I was just asking!” Kaminari defended.

“Well, it was a dumb question!” Sero replied.

“You’re a dumb question!”

“Shut up, dumba--”

“We do rank some hero students,” You interrupted Sero before anything more idiotic cold happen.

“Really?” Sero and Kaminari both replied, the brunette looking surprised and the blond looking excited at the prospect.

“Uh, yeah…” You replied, wondering if telling them that was worse than just keeping silent and letting them bicker.

“Are we ranked?” Kaminari asked.

You bit your lip and debated how to respond. “Kind of?” Everyone looked to you and waited for your explanation. You attempted to swallow the lump in your throat before talking, “There are different categories for the rankings, but they are childish. Like, they would be titled: ‘Top Ten Cutest Japanese Hero Students’. It’s all done by teen magazines so they aren’t realistic for how heroes are actually ranked.”

“Well?” Sero replied.

“Well, what?” You asked.

“They want to know if they are ranked in the top 10,” Ashido whispered to you.

“Oh, no, they aren’t,” you said.

Ashido laughed loudly as Kaminari and Sero expressed their sadness by fake crying loudly in the middle of the cafeteria.

Bakugou kicked them under the chair and they promptly shut up.

In all honesty, you weren’t keen on talking about this pole. Your friend from school had forced you to vote and you chose Bakugou on a whim. Additionally, you had trouble keeping your mouth shut when you were nervous. You took in a deep breath and tried to mentally prepare yourself for your habit of blabbering on.

“Don’t feel bad, first years never make it,” You comforted them as they quietly weep on each other.

“Really?” They both asked in unison again.

“Well, yeah,” You paused for a moment, debating whether or not to say this next part, “Except Todoroki. He got 1st place last year.” This fact could either be your blabbering habit or just the perfect thing to say to keep the conversation interesting.

Everyone, including Bakugou, shot up at that.

“What?!”

You scratched the back of your head sheepishly as the five people in front of you stared as if silently asking you to explain yourself.

Maybe I should have kept that to myself, you thought as your classmates continued to stare.

“It’s not like it matters, the poll is silly and not even accurate, the guys that won weren’t even who I--nevermind.” You quickly ate a few more fries to stop yourself from talking as the people around you contemplated the information they were given.

That was a close one…

“Todoroki always wins with girls, it's not fair,” Kaminari sighed.

“Well, can you blame him? Todoroki is cute,” Ashido replied.

Kirishima, now with red cheeks that matched his hair, interjected in the conversation, “You think he’s cute?”

“Um,” Ashido mumbled as she looked towards the ceiling; her face somehow got even pinker, “Conventionally he is cute.”

“I think you guys are forgetting something,” Bakugou grumbled, grabbing everyone’s attention. He had his eyes closed and his feet propped up onto the table, similar to how he acted during class.

“What?” Kaminari inquired.

Bakugou pushed himself up and opened his eyes to look straight at you. He had a smirk on his face and a glint in his eyes that you didn’t quite understand. Your heart beat faster as you wondered if he realized your mistake. “She said it's not accurate. That implies that--”

“Y/L/N-kun likes someone!” Ashido interrupted.

Shit.

Your face became much redder than before and the heat from your embarrassment radiated in the room. Suddenly, your armpits were sweaty and you genuinely debated running out of the room.

It’s not like you had a crush at this point, but Bakugou definitely made you queasy in a way that resembles a crush.

Everyone stared at you with curious faces, as if you would blurt out who it was you liked, but there was no way that would happen.

“That’s ridiculous!” You replied. You bit your lip before speaking carefully, “I just said it wasn’t accurate because it's little girls voting and is nowhere near a well thought out ranking.”

“Did you vote?” Kirishima asked.

Just fucking stop talking you idiot, you begged yourself. Don’t make yourself look like even more of an idiot.

“Um, my friend made me,” You mumbled as you looked down at your food, avoiding the eyes of your friends.

Kaminari grinned and got closer to you. “Who did you vote for?”

You chuckled bashfully and looked quickly over to Bakugou, who was the person you had voted for. He was once again lazily sitting with his feet up on the cafeteria table. His arms were crossed and his eyes were like slits as he stared at you.

You looked away from Bakugou as abruptly as you had looked at him, flustering even more.

Does he care about whether or not I like someone?

You bit your lip and looked down at your food once again. You debated whether or not you should take out your earbuds. First, you would have to figure out how to take them out without anyone noticing. Next, you would be immediately flooded with the thoughts of the whole cafeteria. It would take a moment to hone in on Bakugou and you weren’t sure how strong your quirk was after yesterday.

It wasn’t worth it, especially because the answer might be bad.

You bit your bottom lip and encouraged yourself to finally respond, “That’s none of your business.”

“What?” Kaminari exclaimed. “Can’t you just tell us if it was one of us?”

There is no way that is happening. “It wasn’t,” You lied through your teeth.

“You know what?” Sero interjected, “I bet she voted for Todoroki.”

“Oh yeah!” Kaminari replied. “That’s why she won’t tell us! She doesn’t wanna seem like an idiot because she called the poll dumb.”

Although they were ultimately just teasing you, their words irked you slightly because of the sentiment. You knew that they really hoped it was one of them, that was clear. As up-and-coming young heroes, the job is often more important than your social life, and that definitely impacts your love life too. You tend to only hang out with other heroes because that is just who you are around.

Regardless of the teasing and disappointed looks that Sero and Kaminari shared, this reality was much better than the one where Bakugou learned that you actually voted for him. And so, you kept quiet as Mina jumped to your defense, claiming that it makes sense I would vote for Shouto considering how cool and handsome he was at the festival. That then led Kirishima to say that he was also equally cool and more manly than Todoroki at the sports festival.

All the while, you finally stuffed your face with your lunch, completely unaware of the red eyes glaring at you.

After lunch, the conversation about America and hero rankings died down, everyone now focusing on Ectoplasm and his lecture on calculating high-value exponents without a calculator.

From there, Present Mic came in to lecture on English. He passed out a new vocabulary sheet, which didn’t really mean anything to you because of your fluency in English. Although this period of the class ran fairly smoothly, Present Mic did occasionally start a conversation with you in English to show off his skills.

By the end of class, you finished the English homework assignment within only a few minutes and Present Mic left with a more than awkward joke.

Quickly, you packed up your things and met Ashido and Hagakure to walk back to class. During this time, the three of you chatted about Hagakure’s lunch date.

“I swear he likes you, you should just confess already,” Ashido whispered so no one else could overhear.

“Shut up!” Hagakure playfully pushed her friend away which barely moved Mina.

The three of you continued to chat away, you not talking nearly as much as the other two. However, the walk home was still fun. When you got home, you all placed your jackets on your respective coat racks and took off your shoes. Hagakure and Ashido went to grab a snack while you excused yourself with the excuse of needing to do homework.

Honestly, you were ahead on your homework and could definitely spend some time relaxing with the girls. However, all day, you had been thinking about your hero costume and craved drawing up a design for a new costume. Furthermore, the stress of lunch made you want to destress by fantasizing about the perfect hero costume.

Relieved, you entered your room, took off your school uniform, and changed into your hero uniform. You then spent the next few minutes analyzing and critiquing everything you hated about it. On a piece of paper, you jotted down all your ideas to change the hero costume.

After what seemed like half an hour, you sat down at your desk and began sketching out a similar sketch to the one you made in class. The costume featured loose pants that tightened at your shins only to be wrapped in armor. Your top had armor wrapped around your waist as well but left your chest loose to help with mobility. Additionally, on top of your shoulder were two curved spikes, mainly just for fashion.

It seemed like so long ago since you started drawing this costume. You had gone through multiple papers, with two of them being filled completely with notes on what you wanted to be featured in this new costume.

You bit your lips in concentration, finding all the flaws you could in your less than pretty drawing. You were not the best artist and it didn’t help that you were struggling to contemplate all the changes you wanted.

Maybe I’m going to need more help with this costume than I think.

Defeated, you opened your computer and searched for local costume designers. You found a few options and were getting more into your research on the person you would most likely be paying hundreds of dollars to before you heard a small gurgling sound.

It was your stomach.

You looked at the clock on your computer and saw that it was half-past eight.

“Holy shit,” You whispered in shock as you thought back to the literal hours you spent on fixing your costume. You had barely achieved anything on top of that. Nevertheless, you closed your laptop and changed into a different outfit before making your way downstairs to hopefully find some food.

As you came downstairs and walked into the kitchen, you noted that Kirishima, Mina, and Bakugou were all sitting in the living room. Kirishima and Mina were both watching a movie on someone’s laptop while Bakugou more or less just stared at his phone the whole time.

It looked like they were on a date and dragged Bakugou along because they didn’t want to admit it was a date. As you walked past them and stared at the scene, you paid no attention to what was in front of you and ended up walking right into the dining table.

“Fuck!” You groaned as you grabbed your side to try and soothe the aching pain.

The sounds of the movie stopped and you looked up to see all three people looking at you.

“Are you okay?” Mina asked as she stood up. “Let me grab you an ice pack.”

“Nah, I’m good,” You responded. “I just wasn’t paying attention.” You chuckled to try and lighten the mood.

Tentatively, Ashido sat back down in her seat. “Where have you been all day, anyway?” She asked after it seemed like you recovered enough.

“Oh, I just got distracted upstairs. I didn’t realize how late it was, so I was gonna grab some food,” You replied.

“There’s no dinner left,” Kirishima sheepishly explained as you made your way to the kitchen.

“And we are kind of low on food,” Mina added while you looked through the fridge and cabinets.

You hummed in response and rummaged through every cabinet. After taking a look around, you realized all the food you all had would result in you having to cook. You bit your lip, fully aware that you were too lazy to cook anything.

Maybe I should go get some food. There is a convenient store right next to the campus.

You walked to the coat rack and grabbed your coat off the hanger. “I’m gonna go to the convenience store to get some food, just some instant noodles or something,” You explained to the three other people downstairs.

“What?” Mina interrupted as you opened the door. “This late? I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

You bent down to slip on your shoes before standing up again. You shrugged to the two people actually paying attention to you. “I’m hungry and don’t wanna cook.”

“Bakugou can cook!” Mina exclaimed while putting her hand on his shoulder

“Shut up,” He grumbled while shrugging her hand off him. “I don’t want to cook.”

“Well, hey!” Kirishima exclaimed as he jumped over the back of the couch to meet up with you. “I can’t let a young lady walk around at night without a manly guy to protect her.” He grinned at you and slid on his coat and shoes.

Honestly, it felt great that someone would be coming with you because you would be walking around an area you weren’t quite familiar with yet.

Suddenly, Bakugou stood up and made his way to you.

“You coming, bro?” Kirishima asked. “Damn, must be j--”

“Shut up,” Bakugou barked, “If you’re going then so am I.” Silently, Bakugou put on his sweater and shoes while Kirishima chuckled and patted his friend on the back.

“Wait!” Ashido exclaimed. “I don’t wanna be left out,” She said as she walked around the couch to meet you at the door. “We don’t have any movie snacks anyways.” She quickly slipped on her shoes and cheetah print coat. She grinned happily at Kirishima who matched her cheery face with his own.

Even though you were now a group of four, Bakugou did not bring you much comfort and seeing the lovey-dovey Ashido and Kirishima blushing at each other made you feel like a third wheel.

“Let’s hurry. I’m tired,” Bakugou groaned as he put his phone away and opened the door.

“Of course you’re tired, you are usually in bed by now,” Kirishima laughed as you followed behind Bakugou.

Mina exited after you. “Bakugou,” She began, “I don’t know how you fall asleep so early and then also wake up so late, almost at noon.”

That brief conversation sparked an interest in you. Not only had you seen Bakugou up late just a couple days ago, but he also thought about how precious that alone time was for him. If not only for a moment, Bakugou looked towards you before looking forward again.

If you weren’t looking at him, you would not have noticed. However, you were lucky enough to be looking at him and smart enough to know that he was also thinking about that night.

“That’s none of your business,” Bakugou finally replied, his voice eerily quiet yet agitated, as Kirishima closed the door.

Kirishima just laughed as a result and Ashido shrugged at you. You shrugged back, nonetheless curious about Bakugou’s sleep schedule.

Silently, you followed the other four throughout campus. As you walked, a pattern formed where Kirishima and Ashido were walking upfront with you and Bakugou trailing behind. The silence between you and Bakugou was rather awkward and you spent most of your time observing the couple in front of you.

You knew they weren’t dating, but a stranger may just think they were in a relationship. The only thing that someone would notice that could make an argument for them not being a couple was the nervousness, blushing, and lack of PDA. Nonetheless, they still had their hands all over each other and were flirting nonstop.

“It’s gross isn’t it?”

You looked to your left at the sound of Bakugou speaking to you. “Uhh,” You looked away from the fierce red eyes to look at the couple again. Ashido had just teasingly shoved Kirishima while laughing incredibly loud at one of his jokes. “I guess so. I don’t really mind.”

Bakugou scoffed. “You probably don’t mind because you just met them.”

You gave Bakugou a puzzled face, silently asking him to elaborate.

“They’ve known each other since middle school and have been acting like this since the end of our first year,” Bakugou responded. Although you didn’t purposefully try to analyze Bakugou’s voice, you noted his rough, coarse, and tired voice.

I bet he has no clue how attractive he is. Big muscles, deep voice, and messy hair that falls in front of his tired, piercing, red eyes.

You bit your lip and forced yourself to focus back on the conversation. “Ah,” You replied. “It’s just like that sometimes, “You shrugged your shoulders as you spoke, “Hagakure and Ojiro are the same way.”

The conversation died for a moment as you finally made your way off campus and started the trek to the store nearby.

“Who?!” Bakugou finally barked as if he actually took the time to try and remember who they were.

You rolled your eyes and laughed, remembering when Kirishima had to call everyone by a certain nickname. “I think you know them by the invisible girl and tail guy.”

“Ugh, those two?” Bakugou groaned. “They’ve been like that since day one. So bland and boring.”

“Bland and boring?” You repeated, scoffing at the wording. “What does that even mean?”

“They should just date if they want to, it doesn’t matter,” Bakugou groaned.

“Why doesn’t it matter?” You questioned him.

Bakugou looked at you before looking back ahead. After a moment, he mumbled, “Nevermind.”

Apparently, that was his cue to end the conversation, and you decided not to try and push your luck at the moment.

However, that gave yourself some time back to your own thoughts, specifically your thoughts regarding your hero costume. You had made a mental list of all the costume designers you found and liked. The list included their names, average pricing, and specialties. If you were to hire someone to help you with your costume design, you were most definitely going to be thorough in picking someone you could work well with.

Soon enough, your group arrived at the convenience store and brought you out of your deep thoughts. You quickly made your way inside to grab snacks and food. You looked through the large selection of meals and instant noodles, not quite sure what to pick. Asian convenience stores were much more diverse and impressive compared to American stores. Because of this, you didn’t quite know what to pick. Comparatively, Ashido and Kirishima flew through the isles, grabbing a plethora of foods without even having to cautiously look at the label.

This was one of the few times you felt silly. You did not speak perfect Japanese, and you had to meticulously read everything on the box to make sure you knew what you were eating. You felt bad that you might hold up the group and you were tempted to just grab something and suffer the possible consequences.

“Here.”

You looked up to see Bakugou handing you a large package of noodles. You curiously took the box and started reading it.

“Don’t bother. It has more veggies than other ramen and is the right amount of spice for food this late,” Bakugou mumbled as he grabbed himself a box too. However, his box had more red on it and you assumed it was spicier.

“Thanks,” You quietly replied. It was nice of Bakugou to grab food for you, preemptively knowing exactly what you were looking for. You brushed the thought away, telling yourself it was more likely that he was doing this because he wanted to be home as soon as possible.

Bakugou nonchalantly hummed in response before looking around the store, his head peeking just over the shelves. “We need some other stuff too.”

Or maybe not. Maybe Bakugou was once again making you a meal, ensuring that you were eating well.

No, don’t read too much into this. Bakugou isn’t a relationship person and you aren’t in the best place to be in a relationship.

Silently, you followed Bakugou around the store as he grabbed a package of strawberries, which he practically threw at you, and some pre-baked tofu. He also grabbed a small package of seaweed and two drinks.

You continued to follow Bakugou around the store and up to the counter. He dropped everything on the counter and you also placed your package of noodles and strawberries on the counter. The older lady working at the counter smiled politely as she scanned everything placed on the counter.

Although you were rather clueless about why Bakugou was being kind and once again making sure you ate well, you were able to recover once you saw Bakugou grab out his wallet.

“No, no, no,” You interrupted and pulled out your own wallet, and the cash you had.

Bakugou looked at you as if you were crazy and you used that moment to push enough money forward to pay for the meal.

The cashier chuckled sweetly and accepted your cash. Bakugou groaned and leaned back on his foot, upset that you were paying.

It’s for the best, you thought as the cashier leaned forward to place the change in your hand.

“You two are such a cute couple,” She whispered to only you as she placed your change into your hand.

Just as quickly as she spoke, she pushed herself back to being upright and began bagging the food.

While completely red, you looked to Bakugou to see if he heard her comment. “What?” He groaned as he glared at you.

“Nothing,” You mumbled back and looked down to place the money back into your wallet.

Bakugou grabbed the bag of food from the woman and you bowed to say thank you, before following behind Bakugou to exit the building.

Outside, Kirishima and Ashido waited for you two with a bag of their own snacks and smiles on their faces.

“Y/L/N-kun,” Ashido yelled as she ran up to you, pulling you out of your trance. Ashido grabbed your arm and whispered to you, “Come walk with me!”

#boku no hero academia #boku no hero headcanons #my hero academia #my hero academy #bnha #bnha bakugou #bnha bakugo #bnha bakugo katsuki #bakugou #bakugo #bakugou katsuki #bakugo katsuki #katsuki #katsuki x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugo katsuki x reader

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horseyfuture · 3 years

Text

Lockdown 2021

Welcome, you sickening metallic pervert. I don’t know why I even tolerate you, my dues to the club have long since been settled and yet still you show up with your corrugated spleen and your laminated nipples. What? Oh, it’s you. With your simple fleshy appendages and some kind of yellow blancmange for a CPU. I suppose you will suffice. Bend yourself over the table there and we’ll get on with the show. Liquid soap’s on the side, next to the antique bum-hammer.

---

Aries: You find yourself repeatedly followed by crows. This is in no way related to the quite normal phenomenon in which a murder of crows will adopt a human who feeds them, bringing them trinkets and even offering them protection from aggressors. No, these crows find you sexy. Leaping about in your lounge, wearing your goth tops and flapping your arms to the rhythms of online parties, the crows all agree that you are “SKRARK!” or, in Crow, “one fine piece of floppy human tail”. Well done! Crows have good taste and make excellent lovers.

Taurus: Every time you open that damn Taurus mouth of yours, you sound like a broken record. I mean, literally, you sound like a piece of badly scratched vinyl. That’s been up the wrong bit of a rhino. And is being played using a bent nail. Through the speakers of a brown ‘65 Ford Allegro. In Ipswitch. In the rain. On a Wednesday. In November. That’s a lot of detail to pack into an accent every time you decide to prattle on about crisps. People find it offputting.

Gemini: On a whim, you buy yourself a File-o-fax, you know, from the 80s. You must have seen one in a kitschy American TV show or something. While excessively bored on a Sunday afternoon, you begin to fill in some of the entries from your mobile phone. As soon as you finish writing the first one, Adam, he calls! What a crazy coincidence! You move onto the next, Beth - then SHE calls! That’s just insane! As you move onto the next name, you think “My god, what if I bought a MAGICAL File-o-fax? What adventures could I HAVE?” - You look down at the table in awe, when suddenly it all becomes clear: next to the Magic File-o-fax is the Magic Empty Bottle of Gin. Ah.

Cancer: Singing a song about beans, YEAH! Singing a song about toast! Singing a song about beans on toast, ‘cos that food you like the most, WOO! Singing a song about waffles? NO! Can’t be arsed making them! Beans on toast takes like two tiny minutes and waffles take about fucking ten! (FUCK THAT!) Singing a song into the beans can! While the beans turn in the microwave, ALRIGHT! Naming individual beans (YEAH!) pretend they’re all going to a beans rave! (WHISTLE POSSE!) Shovelling the beans into your mouth WOO! Toasting bread is for twats! (LO-SERS!) Pouring cold beans onto your face and half of them fall onto the cat! (SEND HELP!)

Leo: After a successful hour’s staring at the stippled ceiling, you reward yourself with a brisk walk to the door. After three proud steps, diligently recorded by your fitness band (which you’re fairly certain is now emitting a dull weeping sound), you jubilantly punch the air and have a nice relaxing pass out on the floor. After another few hours, you surf another boost of energy and nearly make it to the fridge. Sadly, though this goal is destined to elude you as you trip over a recently-delivered Amazon envelope. A handful of attempts in, you succeed at opening the envelope (only stopping twice to catch breath) and discover it to contain one flimsy plastic finger measurer and a £60 voucher for a wine subscription. You remember the partner you once had, in the distant before times, so vibrant and loud. In recognition of having had what you’re certain is “a feeling”, you fling the ring-measurer away, order the wine and settle into a nice, relaxing cry.

Virgo: There are a number of St Bernards around your neighbourhood and you’ve started to find them more than a little intimidating. What began as friendly barks as you passed in the street has developed into the odd growl and now barking as the owners pull their wretched beasts back from you, swearing in anguish as their hounds’ slavering jaws snap at your heels. After a few weeks of this, Monthly Bath Weekend inevitably comes round and the problem seems to just go away.

Libra: Some people have been baking recently. They - of course - are twats. Others have chosen to use this time to improve existing music skills, or even pick up a new instrument in their abundance of free time. Shit-eating scum, each and every one of them. You are not going to be affected by this self-improvement bullshit and have decided to strike out on your own, tangibly making yourself less pleasant, skilled and attractive with each passing day. Monday is fudge-eating class. Tuesday, “how long can I sit on the loo?” marathons (5 hours PB). Wednesday is Yelling ‘BASTARDS’ at the Sky Day, while Thursday (being the new Friday) you party on down with a life-size model of Prince made from your own toenails. Friday you slam your face into cupboards, repeating the word “APES” in a dull monotone. At the weekend, it’s time to rest! Phew! Just a few hours drilling holes in the ceiling, a slip, a tumble, a fall, a crunching sound and a view from the underside of a very poorly constructed step-ladder until it all goes beautifully dark.

Scorpio: Fuck this, you’re buying beach balls. Yep. Why not? You do, in fact, buy beach balls. Why didn’t you think of this before? They’re bright. They’re entertaining. They’re CHEAP. You can order them in large quantities, it turns out. “Ooh, I hope you’re not having a party!” says the delivery man, with a wink “HAHAHAH, NO. Actually I’m just INFLATING THEM AND POPPING THEM” you cackle toward his suddenly retreating face. It takes a while to inflate all 400, but the high you get from blowing them up is quite intense! Now you have a house full of beach balls! Haha! You can’t bring yourself to pop them in the end. Some of them are lost to accidents (fried beach ball, anyone?) and others you draw on with crude faces of past enemies, then open the door and punt them down the street with a hearty “FUCK YOU, BEATRICE!” (or Ken, as appropriate. You had few enemies. It’s cheap therapy). The last few hundred last you happily into the next month, though the doctor is mildly unimpressed when you attempt to get them vaccinated.

Sagittarius: Your attempts at making LEGO sex toys go badly to begin with. But, weirdly, you do eventually get better at it. You’re particularly proud of the one where you use the gearbox from the racing car for, well, you know. The winking pneumatic sex-donkey (8,014 bricks) is, in most people’s opinion, your pièce de résistance. You can’t wait for the highstreet to open up again, so you can go and show off your repertoire down the local toyshop.

Capricorn: It’s tough getting through lockdown without the internet. In your case, though, it is entirely self-inflicted. You made a promise to yourself to cut down on the doomscrolling and it was successful! Prodigiously so! You end up cutting out the news sites - who needs them? - then the social sites - nothing but trash! - then eventually you just pull the wires out of your router and fling it in the bin with some bits of leftover chicken. Time passes, politicians come and go, vaccines are invented, distributed, mostly successful (with only a small amount of people instantly turning into tiny, angry lizards) and eventually the world passes through the danger period and back into something like normality! You, of course, miss this entirely and get on with your new hobby of writing subversive poetry on the walls in dollops of mouldy Marmite. Weirdly, you ARE happier.

Aquarius: Lockdown doesn’t seem to be getting to you too badly this month (whichever month it turns out to be). You did get to a bit of a peak when you were popping a Toblerone up your bum while playing kazoos just to get yourself ready for the next bloody Zoom meeting of the day, you now you’re limiting it to one bar per day and only using the two kazoos, you feel like you’ve hit your stride, found your flow, really made the most of every work-from-home hour the Lord sends. Ah, yes, the Lord truly has kept you to the virtuous path. Without your faith, you would never have got through the dark days. Sat there on his throne of Bourbons, wearing his Chocolate Finger crown. Slowly rotating on the lazy Susan you bought so you could efficiently respect His Majesty from any angle with a deft flick of the wrist (and a few Bourbons in the eyes if you get too excited). The mighty Lord. You assume his name was Lord. There were only a few letters you could read on the collar when you found him by the bins. Ah, yes. The bins. The biscuits. The Lord. The rapture. Amen.

Pisces: After popping to the door to bring in a food delivery, you notice the day looks quite pleasant for a change, pop a mask on and go for a nice walk. On the way back, you notice a ladder leant up against a tree, with a strange golden light shimmering from high in the branches. Climbing the ladder, you hear the sound of a party, people calling your name in joy, whistles and whoops, clapping and laughter. You tumble into the golden light and down a kind of shoot as a fanfare plays. The dazzling light fades, the noise abates gently and you are sat on your sofa. On the TV are the words “LEVEL 4: YODELLING GEESE”. The geese filling your living room immediately begin to yodel with anger.

---

By the sainted elbows of Bobby Tavistocke, we got there in the end. I may have been a little over-brutal with my use of the bum-hammer there, for which I apologise. Anyway, you have extracted your price once more and I have little left to give. Pick up your clothes and get out of my living room.

As usual, you may of course take a fairy cake. We’ve got the nice ones this week.

DEPART!

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okitodorokidoki · 4 years

Text

a28+41 | yuuki tetsuya

ao3 | 1,789 words | female reader

28 - “I care about you.” 41 - “Don’t be afraid.”

When you first entered Seidou, the baseball team was honestly the last thing on your mind. You couldn’t understand how those boys dedicated their entire childhood and teen years to something they might get to do for a living. The uncertainty of it was honestly a little terrifying.

Then, you got to know one of your classmates, Fujiwara Takako, who had signed up to be their manager. You ended up stopping by in the middle of practice one day after the two of you had accidentally switched workbooks during class, and you saw the team in action for the first time. You figured practice had to be pretty solid for how revered the program was, but actually seeing it was an experience.

“Is there something I can help you with?” You were brought back into focus by a familiar voice.

You turned and saw one of your teachers, and the current coach. “Mr. Kataoka! I’m sorry to disrupt, but Fujiwara and I got our books mixed up during dismissal, and I don’t know where she lives, so this was the only place I knew I could get it to her.”

He grunted, and motioned for you to follow him.

The situation was cleared up without any hassle, and on your way back through the dorm buildings, you saw some of the boys doing their own drills. You recognized a few of them as your classmates, and could guess that the others were first years as well. One of them noticed you, and you recognized him as Yuuki Tetsuya. He only stopped just long enough to return the wave you sent him, then he was back to business. Feeling your face heating up, you decided to leave as quickly as you could before you disturbed practice.

It didn’t take long after your first encounter to ask Fujiwara about joining the team as a manager.

The two years you spent on the team seemed to go by faster than you could have ever imagined. It was slow at first as you learned your responsibilities and got to know the team, but just when you got comfortable, Koshien would come and go without Seidou.

In your first year, you and Takako knew there was nothing you could do for them on the field, so you made sure they would have nothing to worry about during practice. You both managed to make more rice balls than you’d ever made before within the first few weeks, making sure the boys never swung themselves to empty and went to bed hungry.

In return, they made sure the two of you never had to go home in the dark alone. You both lived close enough to walk to and from school together, but there were a few blocks where you parted ways. Yuuki volunteered to walk you home, saying he didn’t live far. There really wasn’t much conversation between the two of you, other than normal pleasantries or the occasional question about something one of you didn’t quite understand in class. It was never awkward though, even in the moments where you were walking in silence, it was nice to have the company. He’d always walk you to your door and say goodnight before heading home himself.

You heard later from Takako that he lived a few streets away from her.

The first loss hit the hardest. You watched your seniors strike out and end their summer with your year-mates, none of them even getting the chance to step on the field.

In your second year, everyone got even closer. You’d all felt what it was like to lose your chance before you even had it, and the boys all began to work even harder. You couldn’t deny to yourself how much you adored the first baseman, and seeing him struggle was hard. There was a moment where it began to actually effect you as your grades began to slip, so you went to Takako and told her you needed a brief reprise from the more extensive managerial duties to get your grip back. There was no way you’d let your academic record down for a cute boy.

It was lonely, walking home alone. But you knew that if you ever gave yourself a chance with Tetsuya, it was going to be with both of you standing steady on your own so you didn’t topple each other over. When you finally fell back into the routine you’d come to love, you found yourself walking just a little closer to him, enough that sometimes your arms would brush. And he never brought it up.

In your third year, you could tell Tetsuya was finally feeling the full pressure of playing baseball at Seidou. He’d been unanimously decided to become captain, while taking up the mantle of clean-up as well. He ended up practicing that much harder, and there were nights you did your assignments while keeping half an eye out on him before he tried to swing eight-hundred times. It didn’t seem that hard to you to keep track of how many times you swing a bat, but you never really tried more than fifteen in a row.

One night, he came up to sit beside you without a word, just leaning his head against your shoulder for a moment. You picked up the small towel next to you and dabbed against his face and neck, smiling as he turned his head for you. He stayed there without a word, catching his breath and watching you write until Jun returned with drinks for the three of you.

Moments like that you wouldn’t consider regular occurrences, but they happened frequently enough that you began to wonder if there was anything deeper behind them. You’d never seen interactions between any of the other members like that, even from Tetsuya himself, so it began to feel like something special between the two of you. You’d always felt closer to him than anyone else on the team, but it was just recently that things were getting more… intimate? Even in a platonic sense. It was almost enough for you to try holding his hand on your walk home. Almost.

Summer was drawing closer and closer, not waiting a single moment for the boys to get their footing. They were doing well, but it was hard to get back into the groove of things with Tanba and Miyuki’s strained partnership and Chris still being off the bench. The final first string players for your third year were decided, and you could see the toll it took on Tetsuya.

“Are you okay?” You asked, hesitantly placing your hand against his back.

He was hunched over in the dugout, arms braced against the wall leading to the field. He didn’t let out more than a frustrated sigh, so you rubbed his back before letting your hand drop and leaning beside him, giving him the time he needed.

“We never get a moment to breathe,” he said. “We practice, we play, then we either win or lose.”

He turned around and slid down the wall to sit on the dugout floor.

“Do you need anything?” You asked, resting your hand on his shoulder.

His hand came up to lay over yours before gently tugging for you to sit down. You settled in next to him, shoulders and thighs pressed together as he pressed into you.

“Just… a moment.”

The two of you stayed like that until you heard the team filling the field.

Things seemed to be going well for Seidou’s new team. Especially since that fresh-faced pitcher helped reach Chris in a way none of you ever seemed to be able to. It hurt to think you’d never be able to watch him play with the rest of your year-mates again, but holding onto that dream was probably how he fell so hard in the first place. It was definitely nice to be seeing more of him as a manager, though you definitely had different expectations and responsibilities.

One afternoon, you were getting some late-night snacks prepared for the boys, when you were called out by Takako to help her with something in the storage room. Yui stayed behind to finish the food while you followed her across the courtyard.

“Don’t you normally have Masuko help you with this stuff? You know I’m not good with heavy lifting,” you glanced off to the field, where some of the boys had started some extra, light, training on their day off.

You caught Takako’s gaze as you turned back to her, her expression amused. “Looking for anyone in particular?”

“Uhm… Coach.”

She giggled, and the rest of your brief walk was in silence.

“Here,” she said, pulling the door open.

You stepped into the rather immaculate storage room, wondering what she needed help with.

“So what did you- oh!” You turned to her and jumped back as you were suddenly facing Tetsuya, Takako waving over his shoulder as she slid the door shut.

“Oh?”

“Sorry,” Tetsuya said. “There aren’t many places we can talk alone anymore, and I didn’t want to be stopped on my way to get you.”

You laughed, leaning against the table set up behind you. “You couldn’t have, I don’t know, texted?”

Tetsuya hummed for a moment before saying, “I asked Jun what I should do.”

“Ah, that makes sense.” You patted the table next to you.

He took your cue and leaned next to you, a little closer than he had to be, but a welcome distance.

“What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Don’t be afraid,” he started.

“That’s reassuring,” you said, turning slightly to face him.

As he followed your lead and faced you, you saw how his expression was much more intense than usual when off the field. You knew your time at Seidou was running out, the summer tournament getting closer and closer, but you could never tell if it was worth it to change everything on a whim, especially when you thought of the consequences.

Tetsuya leaned in, guiding your hand to press against his chest as he rested his forehead against your shoulder. “I care about you.”

You felt your chest grow cold as that careful line you kept for the past three years was finally crossed. Your words failed to come out, so you brought your free hand up to rest on his head before he could pull away.

“I had to tell you before it was too late,” he mumbled against your shirt.

“Tetsuya… I like you. A lot.”

His free arm came up around you to pull you closer by your waist.

“Will you cheer me on? Until we make it to Koshien?”

“And beyond.”

#daiya no ace #ace of diamond imagine #yuuki tetsuya #yuuki tetsuya x reader #female reader #my work #reader-insert

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lucadansembourg · 4 years

Photo

HSHQTASK023.

luca & henri.

( LISTEN ALONG )

feat. @henridorleans

“please hurry leave me, i can't breathe, please don't say you love me.” - track 001. first love/late spring by mitski.

the actual first time they meet is irrelevant, an event neither remembers. surely, over the years they’ve had conversations, somewhere, sometime. but none of them truly matter, not when faced with what they become. there’s nothing of note between them, at least nothing before the cold november night in luxembourg that they actually meet for the first time.

the setting is a slightly seedy bar in a back alley in the heart of luxembourg, where luca d’ansembourg is chasing the bottom of a bottle yet again. he’s become something of a regular, a ruling monarch always sitting in the same booth in the back. none of the other regulars dare to bother him, they haven’t since nathalie died and luca became a shell of himself. but the color has started to return to his cheeks, word on the street is he’s begun to heal.

maybe that’s why he seems approachable.

henri d’orleans is traveling. he’s been north of paris, into belgium and finally he’s wound up with a few nights in luxembourg city. what draws him to the bar is unknown even to him, perhaps fate leads him through the doors. it’s nice enough, isn’t it? it takes almost an hour for him to notice the man in the booth in the back, pouring out his sorrows into a glass of whiskey yet again.

they meet and they don’t use any bullshit titles or last names that could give them away.

late that night, when they return to the little apartment luca keeps “just in case” they’re just people. and if luca is a little bit broken and henri is still searching for something he can’t quite grasp, they don’t mention it.

“ oh, but i was just a placeholder a lesson to be learned oh, i was just a placeholder a place you will return.” - track 002. placeholder by hand habits.

luca wakes the next morning to his phone ringing over and over again. it’s wilhelmina, frantic with worry after luca had disappeared into the night. she’s worried, because of course she is. they’re d’ansembourgs, all they seem to do is worry these days. he tries to stay quiet, to not wake henri.

“i’ll be back at the palace in a few hours, don’t worry, wilhelmina.”

maybe it’s the mention of the palace, maybe it’s the way luca says wilhelmina like an exasperated older brother.

but henri has heard the entire conversation and is beginning to fit the puzzle pieces together.

the way luca never asked for another drink, he was simply handed one by the bartender. the stares he’d gotten from the other regulars for daring to speak to the king. the expensive apartment that no one seemed to live in. it all added up to an image of the king of luxembourg henri hadn’t expected.

he makes his excuses and goes, practically sprinting out the door with a new perspective on french relations with luxembourg. he leaves the tiny country that afternoon, the bruises still fresh on his skin, a reminder that the night before had really happened.

luca takes a moment to put himself back together and then meets his twins and siblings for lunch, and tries to push the night out of his mind. he doesn’t frequent the bar like he used to, and when he does he even manages to give them a smile, a real one this time. maybe a night out was just what he needed. maybe he just needed to be normal for a moment.

they swear they don’t think about it, but they do.

“we try and connect the dots and the facts how do we have to be here? 'cause these hotels, i just can't relax the more i bend, the worse that i snap i feel like a goddamn maniac .” - track 003. ruins by jade bird.

it’s new year’s eve, and there’s far too much going on. it seems the whole world is here, every royal from every country in one ballroom in paris. for henri d’orleans, this is his element. he’s charming and easy to speak to, always able to talk his way into and out of conversations on a whim.

on the other hand, luca d’ansembourg is simply terrible at events like these. when it’s small groups, he can almost manage to seem normal, but with the movement of the crowd and the volume of the room, he’s barely said twenty words to those around him. he prefers to be a wallflower, usually, but his sisters have been pestering him about making new friends. it’s not going well.

luca spots him across the room and trails off mid-sentence. no one around him notices.

he looks almost the same, if not a just a little bit more dressed up.

that’s henri, from the bar. that’s henri, the prince of france. luca can feel the panic set in as their eyes meet across the ballroom, and he only holds henri’s gaze for a second before dashing towards an alcove he’d noticed earlier.

he doesn’t expect henri to make his excuses and follow him.

he’s plotting his escape and how easy it will be to become a recluse and never leave the grand palace again when henri appears in his line of vision. and even if they’re alone in the alcove, they might as well be alone at the world.

when they’re together, it’s like everything else seems to fall away. the responsibilities, the titles, the riches, none of it matters.

they’re counting down to the year 2019 in the ballroom, but the pair don’t seem to notice, too caught up in each other once again. it seems like the world stops as they gravitate towards each other.

the kiss may not happen exactly at midnight, but there’s no one around to police it.

“and it’s no one’s fault but yours at the foot of the house of cards. you thought you’d never get obsessed, you thought the wolves would be impressed. and you’re a sinking stone, but you know what it’s like.” - track 004. the jeweler’s hands by arctic monkeys.

henri leaves before the sun comes up, almost like a force of habit.

it’s easier that way, he always tells himself. it’s better if they just... don’t talk about it. especially because he’s not going to stick around, even if luca asked him to. it’s not personal, just... henri doesn’t need anything more, he never has. the life of royalty made things like falling in love out of question.

when luca wakes on the first morning of the year, he’s alone.

and he’s only able to feel bad about himself for a minute, before he decides that he’s kind of grateful that henri is gone. he wouldn’t know what to say, other than the obvious. and then he’s definitely glad he’s gone, when wilhelmina barges into his hotel room without warning. he’s dodged a bullet that morning, but he can’t help but feel like this is the start of something.

and it is.

“honey you are nothing to me but alcohol and dopamine. i’m dying on the sofa and i barely know the time like an old man, say i reckon, i love you for a millisecond, but i don’t wear a watch or rolex.” - track 005. presumably dead arm by sidney gish.

they meet again in mid-february at a coronation, and it’s the same song and dance.

even if argentina is an entirely different type of place than paris, it’s still just a bit too lively for luca’s preferences. the events hosted in buenos aires are filled with dancing and parties that are just too much, but luca still attends, even if he hangs out in the corner for the entire night, watching the crowd move around him. it’s not out of some sense of duty he’s terrible at having, but because his siblings are yet again badgering him into “making new friends” and “coming out of his shell” like he’s some sort of shy schoolgirl.

henri is having a marginally better time, if only because he’s got the ability to thrive in a social setting. light on his feet and giving with words he doesn’t actually mean make him a favorite for the people who want to dance, and he catches luca’s eye sometimes across the room and his chest will twist in a weird way that he can’t quite place. when he runs out of partners and people to talk to, he’ll check that same corner and find it empty, luca leaving the parties just before henri can go looking for him.

on the last night of their trip, luca shows up on henri’s doorstep with a half smile and they fall into bed together yet again, this time with the ease of practiced lovers. and maybe it’s just a little bit too close to something he can’t take back, but when henri wakes the next morning luca is gone, his side of the bed cold.

“but the light in the hallway and the silence in my room... said i don’t think i’ll get used to losing you.” - track 006. losing you by flyte.

luca goes back to luxembourg to an empty palace and he’s glad that his entire family is gone, his siblings taking his girls on a trip for that weekend. he lets himself wallow in pity for a day, asking all the questions that must be common for widowers who are trying to figure everything out alone.

he sleeps in his twins’ empty room, unable to stand his own, the room still standing untouched. it’s a monument to his late wife, he can’t bring himself to even more things off her bedside table yet. it’s too fresh, even if it’s been an entire year. for a place that once was a sanctuary built by a woman who luca would have burned down the world for, it’s become something of a tomb.

and then on sunday, he wakes and he finds that things are lighter, that he’s able to handle the grief. he can breathe in. he spends the afternoon in wilhelmina’s garden, away from the bustle of his siblings’ return. wren finds him there, hours later.

“do you think she’d want me to... move on?” he asks, as if his youngest sibling will have any idea. he gets a shrug in reply, but wren still sits with him until it gets dark. and somehow that’s the push luca needed, that he can let go a little bit. that he can live without the shadow of his late wife watching over his every move.

he thinks nathalie would be proud that he picked himself back up and did what he was meant to do. he knows that his sisters are. when his first valentine’s weekend alone is over, luca feels lighter than he has since the diagnosis, and it shows in his work, in the way he carries himself.

he doesn’t lock himself away in the palace, instead he returns to engagement parties and balls held in honor of the dumbest things, and he does it with a bit more confidence, a little bit of a spring in his step.

“and that’s the thing about illicit affairs and clandestine meetings and longing stares. they show their truth one single time, but they lie and they lie and they lie, a million little times.” - track 007. illicit affairs by taylor swift.

the first event back, they avoid each other for the first half of the weekend. but then henri can’t keep his eyes away, as luca carries a conversation instead of fading into the background. something’s different, something that henri can’t put his finger on but once he notices it’s terribly distracting. he can’t tear his eyes away. and when luca catches his stare across the room, and blushes just a little bit, it’s over. they’re right back to the start.

in the spring of 2019, it becomes a habit. it seems like every royal event, they both end up as their country’s representative. whether it’s coincidence, fate or some sort of subconscious desire to see the other, there’s no way to tell, but they’re meeting eyes across ballrooms in japan and having conversations over cigars in botswana.

in public, they simply read as two old friends.

in private, they’re something more altogether.

they meet in hotel rooms and rented apartments, in europe and asia and one memorable time in new york city.

after argentina, it’s always henri following luca to where he’s staying, and leaving before the morning comes. each time, though, luca starts to find that he wants more. he wants him to stay, but henri never does.

and that should be enough of a sign, that this isn’t the same sort of thing for henri that it is for luca.

but luca’s never been too good at reading the signs.

“one last kiss i love you like an alcoholic. one last kiss, i love you like a stauette. one last kiss, i need you like a need a gaping head wound.” - track 008. i love you like an alcoholic by the taxpayers.

it’s may and they’ve been dancing around each other like this for months. they make their excuses and leave before the party’s end more often than not, check over their shoulders thousands of times to make sure no one will catch a glimpse of them.

they keep it quiet because it’s the only option. luca isn’t looking for a scandal in a country still reeling from the death of it’s beloved queen, and henri isn’t looking to seem attached at all.

they both say they’re getting what they want out of their meetings, but they’re not, really. they’re both too busy lying to themselves to realize that there’s a way that they can just reach out and have what they want.

it all culminates in a few too many words said in the same apartment where it began, when luca’s drunken words become just a little bit too real. henri leaves and it feels different this time, like a nail in the coffin.

luca wakes alone, but he’d been expecting it.

he isn’t expecting his sisters to send guards to the apartment, to drag him back to the palace.

he doesn’t expect the invasion.

“hard feelings these are what they call hard feelings of love when the sweet words and fevers all leave us right here in the cold, oh oh.” - track 009. hard feelings/loveless by lorde.

it’s like a knife in his back, and he can’t even scream at him. henri disappears from his life into the night, just as easily as he’d entered it. luca rages when he’s alone, only allows himself to feel the loss of a lover, or even just a friend, when no one can see. he projects a strength he doesn’t have anymore, a mask that reminds him just a little bit too much of his father. he’s what his people need, for once.

henri didn’t know, but who would believe him? he’s the one who left under the cover of the night while his own brother’s soldiers marched into the place he was running from. if he acts a little bit out of line when discussing it, it can be dismissed as being upset he’s been left out of the loop. if he hides away in his rooms for a few days, no one seems to read into it.

when luca follows wilhelmina into the protection program, he only does so after figuring out that henri isn’t there. he’s not interested in seeing him ever again, to be honest. it’s easier that way, when he doesn’t have to worry about running into him randomly. he can prepare himself.

the first event they both attend, luca manages to not look towards henri the entire night. it’s a win, a victory that he cannot believe he managed. he radiates calm only after hours of convincing himself everything will be alright, and only stays as long as he has to, trying to charm people who can help them out of their situation.

henri can’t believe he misses catching luca’s gaze across a ballroom, but that little ache in his chest is something he refuses to feel again. he lets it go, tries his hardest to push everything out of his mind. it’s easier that way, he reminds himself. he couldn’t get attached, and even though he’s a little sad that the fun is over, it’s not the end of the world.

both of them are liars, but they’ve managed to believe it.

when henri arrives in phuket, it’s to no fanfare. when a shouting match that he doesn’t want ensues, they both feel like they’re playing the part: henri as the villain and luca as the jilted lover. but yet again, the magnetism that pulls them together continues on. there’s no way they can avoid this.

neither of them is going to make this easy.

“cause if i had loved you the way you loved me before, or if you hadn't left me with this doubt creeping up my spine, maybe we could help this ” - track 011. getting on in spite of you by remember sports.

#this is long as hell i am so sorry but i have a lot of thoughts n feelings.#hshqtask023 #long post #ok lmao yeah i wrote 2800 words and i cried a total of six times but this is also HALF ELIZA'S FAULT #i just had to get the whole thing out there so it wasn't in my brain anymore #hshqgraphix

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carryonsimoncarryonbaz · 5 years

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Ok. So I did something. I completed this fic last month but there were some scenes that I couldn’t stop thinking about, that I’d outlined but had not completely written out. So I ended up writing them out as one shots, just to get them out of my brain. I had such a good time being back in this AU I decided to go ahead and post this to share it with you. So here’s the “deleted scene” of Baz convincing Simon to move into his flat. My thanks to all of you who have been so supportive and encouraging about this fic!

Chapter 17

Baz

I pick up Simon directly from the care home.

He’s pleasantly disheveled. Shirt untucked. Bronze curls drooping over his forehead. A bright spot of paint on his cheek that I can imagine licking off.

Fuck. Where did that thought come from?

Simon slides into the passenger seat and his bright grin brings a flare of heat to my chest. He’s the sun and I can’t keep myself from crashing into him.

I’m leaning towards him before I even think it through and he meets me halfway over the center console, lips sliding against my own, his breath sighing against my skin.

Fingertips trail heat along my jaw as he pulls back and that stray spot of paint folds into one of his dimples as he smiles at me. “Where are we going? You didn’t say.”

“Thought we’d head to your place. Let you get changed.”

“Being mysterious, are we?”

I arch a brow. “Wouldn’t you like to know my nefarious plans for you, Snow?”

Simon shoves my arm. “Shut up, you barmy git. It’s only nefarious if you don’t plan on taking me out to eat. I’m starved.”

“You’re always starved, Simon.” I regret the words the minute they come out of my mouth. Because they’re true. They always have been true, but I know the background far better now than I did at Watford.

I know why he was always so painfully thin at the start of term. Why he’d be the first in the dining hall and the last to leave. Why it took weeks for him to fill out again, to lose the gauntness that haunted him in the early days of autumn.

Fucking care homes.

The touch of his hand on my forearm brings me back to the present. “You’re right, I am.” His fingers squeeze through the fabric of my coat. “Stop thinking so hard, Baz.” Simon pats his stomach with his other hand and laughs. “I’ve gained enough weight these past few weeks I should probably back off the snacks a bit. I’ll not fit in my clothes and I can’t be wearing trackies to work all the time.”

I let out the breath I’ve been holding. It comes so effortlessly to him, setting others at ease. Setting me at ease

We drive in silence, Simon’s hand still resting lightly on my forearm. I shift gears and navigate through the busy traffic to get to his flat.

I’ve spent the afternoon at my place. I tidied up the spare room, made it look more like a bedroom and less like an office. The desk is clean. The bed is made. The wardrobe has ample space and the contents of the chest of drawers have been parceled out to other locations.

There are two large, empty suitcases stashed away in the boot of my car. The backseat of the Jag should accommodate the rest of his meagre belongings.

I’ve not been sleeping well since we’ve come back. The time change is the likeliest culprit but my looming departure isn’t helping matters any.

Neither is Simon’s living situation.

I’d spent half the night pacing in my room, formulating this plan and rehearsing the words to convince him to agree to it. I still don’t know if he will. If Simon Snow is anything, it’s stubborn.

I miraculously find a parking spot near his building again. That in itself says more about the dodginess of this neighbourhood than the boarded-up buildings or piles of rubbish by the bins.

Simon’s already on his way to the front door when he realizes I’m not following. I’ve flipped the boot open and I’m hauling out the two large cases I retrieved from storage earlier today.

“What’re you doing? Moving in?” He looks amused but puzzled.

Here we go.

“Moving you out.”

“What?”

“I’m moving you out of here.”

“You most certainly are not.”

“Can we discuss this upstairs please, Simon? Preferably while we pack?”

“You can’t be serious, Baz.”

I slam the boot of the car shut and extend the handles of the suitcases, bumping them along the cracked sidewalk past him. He trails after me, hands in his coat pockets and that mutinous expression I know so well on his face.

He unlocks the front door and stomps up the steps, leaving me alone to navigate the cramped staircase with the two unwieldy bags thumping and knocking along behind me.

I’m panting by the time I reach his floor, sweat rolling off my forehead. And the bags are empty at the moment, not as heavy as they’ll surely be once they’re filled with his belongings.

If they’re filled with his belongings, my brain reminds me. He’s not agreed to anything yet.

I drag myself in and set the cases aside. Simon shuts the door behind me and then leans against it, arms crossed, brow creased. He looks at me expectantly. “Care to clarify this for me?”

I close my eyes. My well-thought-out midnight speeches have abandoned me. All that comes out is “I think you should stay at my place.”

“Why on earth would I do that?” He looks genuinely perplexed.

“Because you can’t stay here.”

“I jolly well can stay here. I’ve lived here for six months, Baz. It’s fine.”

“It most certainly is not fine. I can’t stand the thought of you living here, Simon.” His expression darkens and I know I need to choose my words wisely. Now is not the time to use the word ‘squalid’ even if it is the most appropriate one to come to mind. I shove my hands in my pockets so he can’t see me clench my fists. I need to try a different approach.

“My flat is empty. There’s no one there.”

“I can’t stay at your flat, Baz!”

“And why not?

Simon splutters and blusters. “I just . . . I can’t do that.” His face flushes. “I’ve got a lease here. I can’t afford to leave this place.”

“It’s not about the money.”

Error, my brain shouts at me. Way to fuck it up, Basilton.

Simon pushes off the wall, eyes flashing. “It most certainly is about the money.” His eyes narrow. “I know this might be hard for you to understand, considering your background and all, but I’ve got finite resources. A limited budget. This fits my needs and I can’t just go buggering off to live in Chelsea on a fucking whim, Baz. I can’t do that.” Simon’s chin juts out and he looks away, his voice dropping. “I can’t afford that.”

“I don’t expect you to have to afford it. I told you—it’s sitting empty.”

He’s drawing himself up now, as tall and straight as he can, fists clenched at his sides. His chin juts out even more, and fuck it all, I know this expression. Why is he being so bloody stubborn?

“I’m not taking charity from you, Baz. I’ll not do that.” That’s why he’s being so fucking stubborn. I predicted this, I thought this out last night and I’ve made a bollocks of the whole proceeding.

My shoulders slump. “Please, Simon. Just do it for me. If I have to be away, at least this way I’d know you were somewhere safe.”

The fire goes out of his eyes but he’s still taut and rigid in his stance.

I keep going. “You’d be doing me a favour, looking after my place.”

The skeptical look is back. “Didn’t you tell me Fiona takes care of your place?”

I curl my lip. “Poorly. You’ve met her. How good an idea do you think it is, having her be responsible?”

He shakes his head. “You’re just saying that. You wouldn’t have let her do it in the first place, if you didn’t trust her.”

He’s right and it’s bloody irritating.

This day is getting away from me and I never intended to spend it arguing with Simon. My plans had focused more on snogging than snark.

Desperation is creeping in. “I’ll tell Bunce where you live.”

He scoffs. “She already knows.”

“Has she visited you here?”

Silence.

“Has she?”

“No.”

“I’ll send her photos of the rats and the rubbish bins, shall I?”

“You wouldn’t.”

I tap a finger to my lip. “To be honest, a Google street view would likely suffice. She’ll terrify someone into flying her over to move you out of here.”

“You don’t even know how to get in touch with her, Baz. Stop bluffing.”

“All it would take is a call to Watford to request her contact information. The alumni department is quite accommodating.”

“You bloody arsehole.” His fists are tightly clenched and his face is red. I can practically feel the heat radiating off Simon from here. “Why are you doing this?”

I step across the space between us and put my hands over his fisted ones. I lower my head, just a breath between our faces now. I rub his knuckles with my thumb and then gently rest my forehead against his. “Please.” It’s just a whisper. “I’ll never survive in New York if I know you’re in this manky flat all alone.” My hands slide up his arms, to his shoulders, to his face, cupping his cheeks as I gaze into the intense blue of his eyes. “Please, Simon.”

I can feel the tension in him, the tautness of his shoulders, his posture rigid. I don’t know how to break through that. I stroke his cheekbone with my thumb and tilt my head down. “Please.” I whisper that word as I bring my mouth to his, slide my lips along the chapped contours of his own, sink into the warmth of his touch, his tongue, his taste.

Simon’s arms slip around me, pulling me closer, tracing their way up my back. His mouth moves on mine, his breath catching, my fingers tangling in his hair.

He pulls back a moment later to breathe words into the space between us. “Why do you have to be so fucking persuasive, you twat?”

I bury my face in his hair, breathe in the scent of him, closing my eyes so he can’t see the depth of emotion in me. The glimmer of hope that he’s actually going to let me do this.

But, being Simon, he can’t help arguing the point. I should have known.

“I don’t want to mess up your flat, Baz.”

“You’re not going to mess up my flat.”

“You like things neat. You know I’m a disaster.”

“Ah, but now you’re my disaster, aren’t you, Simon?” His lips find mine again and my day is finally on track, as far as the snogging is concerned.

It unfortunately can’t last, as we have a flat to pack up.

Simon keeps bickering with me, even as I fold his clothes into neat piles and he sorts through the detritus on his desk and nightstand.

“You should at least let me pay you rent.”

“Why would I have you pay me rent? The whole point is having a place you can afford, that’s safe and sanitary.”

“I do clean, you know.”

I groan. “I know you do. How about we compromise on tastefully decorated and not in a dodgy neighbourhood? Is that better?”

Simon just grunts in response, but he starts placing his clothes in the empty suitcases so I know I’ve won this round.

“I’ll call Father’s solicitor Monday. It shouldn’t be problem to get you out of this lease.”

“I can’t afford a solicitor, Baz.”

“It’s just Percy. He’s Father’s cousin. He doesn’t charge for family business.”

“This isn’t family business!”

I glare at him. “If you’re moving into my flat, to house-sit for me while I’m in America, it damn well is family business.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“And you’re exasperating, Simon, not to mention exceedingly stubborn. Now come on, we’ve not got all night and I seem to remember you whinging about needing to eat.”

His stomach audibly rumbles at my words. I can’t help but laugh.

Simon shakes his head, face flushing, but he doesn’t fuss at me this time. He picks up another heap of t-shirts and tosses them into the open suitcase.

Good.

It doesn’t take us long to sort his belongings. Simon really doesn’t have much. There are a few rickety cast-offs from when he lived with Bunce. I offer to put the items in storage for him but he scoffs at the suggestion. The rest of the furniture came with the flat.

We trundle down the stairs, the suitcases banging and bumping along behind us. I get them loaded in the car and then we go up to fill some boxes—books and personal items, shampoos and soaps and such.

I take a last look around his bedroom. It’s bare and stark, all the colourful items that made it Simon’s stowed away. All that’s left is a cracked mug on the nightstand and a thick candle set by it.

Simon comes in to do one last sweep of the wardrobe and chest of drawers. His finger reaches out to touch the candle. It’s half burned down, not really worth the effort to bring it along, but he picks it up and gently wraps it and the stand it was sitting on in a bit of newspaper, before carefully tucking it in the last box.

Odd.

He shuts the door behind us and exhales. His eyes find mine. “You’re sure about this, Baz? You’re not just doing this to be kind? I mean, I know you’re doing it to be kind, but . . . you know what I mean?” He’s headed for a bluster again.

I raise my eyebrows and smirk. “Now when have I ever been known to show any signs of kindness, Simon? I’m desperately in need of a reliable house-sitter. No kindness to it at all. You’re the one doing me a favour.”

“You are such a terrible liar.” Simon knocks his shoulder into mine. “You’re going to let me pay for the utilities or the deal is off.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. But for the love of God, don’t keep the thermostat down to save money.”

“Why not? I can always just throw another jumper or hoodie on, if it gets cold.”

“You’re truly impossible.”

“You like me anyway.”

“That I do, Simon. That I do.”

I feel as if I’m leaving a weight behind me as we pull away from the kerb and Simon’s old neighbourhood fades away in the dimming light.

“So do you want to go out to eat or should we just get kebabs from the corner shop?”

“Kebabs sound brilliant. I’m famished.”

Of course he is.

Simon’s hand finds mine where it sits on the gear shift. His warm fingers rest against the back of my hand and it feels like something clicks into place.

It’s going to be an awful wrench leaving him behind.

I’ll likely be up all night thinking of ways to let myself stay, even though I know that’s wildly unrealistic. I’ll be on that flight two days from now, whether I want to be or not.

And he’ll be here.

Surrounded by my things. And somehow that brings me a spot of comfort.

Simon

I don’t know why I let him convince me. I know it’s not like I’ll be living with him but it feels more intimate than simply house-sitting.

I can’t say my heart didn’t leap when he suggested it. That the thought of moving into a place imbued with Baz didn’t hold a significant appeal.

That it would be the closest thing to being with him, when he was so far away.

But I don’t hold with charity. I’ve made my own way since I was a kid. I don’t need handouts from anyone, particularly not Baz.

Not because he’s posh or well-off or any of that. That’s part of it. But mostly because I’m strict about doing things on my own.

We’re embarking on something here and I don’t want that clouded with obligation or debt. Or a sense of duty.

One thing I can say about Baz—he’s impossible to argue with when he has his mind set on something. We wrangled about it for long enough at my flat. And he’s right. I don’t really have a good reason other than I don’t want to feel indebted and I don’t want this to make things weird with us.

Or with his family. He called Fiona from the bloody car, to tell her I’d be moving in and she wouldn’t have to come round and check on the flat for him anymore.

He had her on speaker which was excruciating.

“I’ll not have to come around? Are you daft, Baz? Who’s going to check on Snow?”

“I don’t need checking on,” I whisper-hiss at Baz.

“Shut up, Snow. I can hear you. Of course you need checking on, you absolute numpty. You’ll never figure out Baz’s coffee machine without me.”

“Don’t drink coffee,” I mutter.

“You will once you try this machine. Does the whole frothy cappuccino thing, it does.”

Baz interrupts her. “Fiona, would you stop nattering on about the coffeemaker, for Christ’s sake. I’m telling you Simon is going to be house-sitting. I’ll leave your number with him, in case he needs anything or something goes balls up at the flat. But other than that, you are off the hook. Freed of responsibility for the place.”

“No loud parties or orgies, Snow. The neighbours are all stodgy old blue-hairs. Leave it to Baz to move to Chelsea and find the most geriatric and bland living establishment in the whole place.”

“Shut up, you hag. Not all of us are pretentious enough to think we’re hip and trendy just by virtue of living in Notting Hill.”

“I swear I don’t know how you turned out to be such a boring twat, Baz. All my effort come to naught.” She grumbles inaudibly for a moment and then resumes. “Call me when you get back home tonight, you besotted knob-head. Ta ta, Snow. I’ll see you around. Don’t run out of coffee. You never know when I’ll show up. That’s a warning and a promise.”

“Fiona. I swear by all that’s holy . . .” Baz starts but she’s already rung off. He turns to me. “Don’t worry about her. She’ll be traveling for work half the time or out at the clubs with her chavvy boyfriend and his mates. She won’t bother you.”

“You’re sure?” I think Fiona may be the most daunting thing about this move into Baz’s place.

“I’m sure. She barely went around when it was her job, she’ll be damned unlikely to do it if she knows someone’s doing the work for her. Trust me. She’ll be glad to be relieved of any latent responsibility.”

I hope he’s right.

Baz

It’s an odd paradox, having Simon in my flat, seeing his clothes hanging in the wardrobe, his shoes by the door, his toiletry bag on the bathroom counter. The feeling of having him around is so familiar, even if the surroundings have changed.

It may not be our old room at Watford but somehow, he fits here just the same.

#carry on #travel AU #can't find my way home #simon snow #baz pitch #my writing

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thedesigndevelop-blog · 4 years

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rosirinoa · 5 years

Text

Child’s play (pt. 5)

If you like my work, you could buy me a ko-fi ;)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Erd woke up earlier than usual and got ready to begin with his duties. Before heading for the Captain’s room, he stopped by the kitchen to get a jar with water some bread cheese.

The first rays of light barely came through the room’s window, when the door slowly opened and Erd had to contain his laughter when he saw the scene in front of him: Petra was sitting in a chair, but apparently, she moved a little as the night went by. So much that, when Erd entered the room, she was almost lying, while the Captain’s arm surrounded her waist, as if he was trying to keep her close.

Careful, not to make any noises, Erd approached the desk in the room to put down the jar and the food he brought, but when Petra felt movement, she woke up alarmed, concerned for the Captain, but when she saw he was still sleeping next to her, she relaxed, but almost immediately she became aware of her surroundings and the predicament she was in, so with the smoothest movements she managed to do, she tried to lose the grip of Levi’s arm. With some luck, she would manage to move away before Erd could start teasing her about it.

“It looks like it won’t be so easy.” the soldier whispered, while he approached the girl, wearing a mocking smile on his face “but, do you know something? I’m so glad you were the one who stayed with him. I couldn’t see my girlfriend in the eye, knowing I woke up cuddling with another man…”

“Shut up and help me! Besides, nothing I would be ashamed of happened.” The girl explained as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“And I’m so relieved it didn’t. I would be so ashamed of finding you two naked and…” this time, Petra fulminated him with her glare “alright, alright, I’m sorry. I’ll help you.”

With his help, the girl could get rid of the Captain’s grip, lucky for them, without waking him up. Then, she headed to the bathroom to fix her hair and wash her face. Her neck was soring for sleeping in an uncomfortable position and small eye bags were starting to appear.

“Tired?” this time, her partner asked with sincerity.

“Not so much.” She rubbed her neck and stretched “Just a little sored. I don’t know how did I end up in such a weird posture.”

“I’m not trying to bother you but… If you had just l laid on the bed, or at least sit on it, it would have been less uncomfortable.”

“Perhaps, but… It wouldn’t be right. Besides, if you had found me like that, you would tease me for the rest of my life.”

“Well, of course I would!” he smiled and looked at her with a tender glance. Sometimes, his squadmate was so easy to read “why don’t you to and have some rest? I’ll be here keeping an eye on him until Gunther arrives. Remember that only you and me know that you stayed here for the night. If you hurry, you could avoid indescreet eyes. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure the Captain doesn’t mention anything about it.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.” She walked towards the door and looked at the Captain on last time, wishing his amnesia was cured soon “if you need something, I’ll be in my room.”

“Sure, don’t worry. I’ll ser you later. Hurry!” he was actually worried about her. If someone saw her leaving Levi’s room, she could get in trouble. “and Petra…”he said before she could leave “your secret form this morning is safe with me.”

“I already told you, nothing happened!”

Laughing for himself, Erd closed the door and realized the Captain was about to wake up. He was still quite sleepy. He rubbed his eyes and then looked around, familiarizing with the place and then he looked at the soldier with a confused look.

“Where is Petra?”

“She just left. She looked a little tired and she went back to her room.” Erd immediately realized the disappointment on his eyes “she didn’t say goodbye because she didn’t want to wake you up, but she will be back in the afternoon.

“Alright.” Levi answered with resignation.

A moment later, the Captain stood up from the bed and Erd made his best effort to convince him of taking a shower. He agreed without much enthusiasm. Once Levi went out the shower and dressed up, they both had breakfast and the soldier took the opportunity to make up an excuse to the Captain didn’t mention that Petra was the one who spend the night with him, letting him know that if he said something, there could be consequences for the girl. A couple minutes later, Gunther knocked on the door and, before entering, he took a quick glance in the room, a little suspicious and after seeing Erd and his Superior, he sighds with relief. Truth to be told, he didn’t know what to expect from the Captain’s behavior.

“Morning, Erd… Captain.” He solemnly said “I’m glad we didn’t have unexpected situations today.” Suddenly, he saw the tray with breakfast leftovers “Oh, I see you’ve already eaten breakfast.” There was silence for an instant, and the second in command remembered that he wasn’t supposed to leave Levi alone. Not even for a moment, so he would have to think of an excuse to explain the tray with food.

“Oh… yes… well, you see…” he felt his hands getting sweaty. There were time when he and Gunther teased Petra about some of her attitudes to get the Captain’s attention, but if said soldier found out that the girl actually spent the night taking care of their superior, her reputation could be harmed.

“I saw Petra on my way here,” he glared at Erd, who was fearing for the worst “she was in a hurry and she told me she brought you breakfast but… I didn’t think you’d eat so fast!” his face showed disappointment and sighed “I was kind of hoping I could eat something.”

“Oh, of course!” the blond said with relief “It just that… we were very hungry when we woke up. But I‘ll tell you something, I’ll take the Captain to his office while you go and get some breakfast. How about it?”

“Would you really do that for me?” the Second in command nodded “thanks a lot! I own you one.” And then, the black haired soldier headed towards the door and before leaving, he said “It won’t be long.”

“Sure, don’t wory.” Erd deeply sighed with relief as son as he saw his squad mate leaving and when he looked for the Captain, he met his inquisitive gaze. He had seen the whole interaction “believe me, you’ll thank me for this when your memory is back.”

“I guess it’s related to that thing that I’m not supposed to mention.” They both looked at each other. There was a lot of tension, and then Levi stood up and looked for his jacket as if nothing had happened “can we go no? I’m bored.”

And without saying anything else, they both headed towards the office, which wasn’t so far from the room, but I felt like an eternity for the Second in command, since there were many soldiers in the halls. Mornings were usually the most crowded times of the day, because they were busy with their daily chores, such as cleaning the castle, preparing meals for the Legion, training preparations, laundry, medical check-ups, strategy meetings and so on.

Once they were in the office, Levi sat in the chair next to the desk, looking at the sky from the big window.

“Captain, why don’t you draw a little? You might have fun with it, or you can practice your writing.” Erd took a few papers from the desk and some books, putting them next to his superior, along with a pencil.

Levi looked at him with distrust, but then he thought about it and willingly accepted, trying to copy letters from the books.

“Petra wanted to teach me how to write, but it’s complicated.”

“It is at first. But once you get used to it, it’s quite simple.”

“She made it look very easy.”

“Let’s say that…” he laughed a little “among the whole squad, she is the one with the best handwriting. She is also the most patient among us. I can’t imagine Gunther as a teacher or Oluo, he is a disaster or teaching. As for Eren… well, he’s still a kid.”

Levi smiles and continued writing, leaving the soldier thoughtful while he took a look around the office, which seemed untidier than usual. If the Captain was his usual self, he wouldn’t tolerate it and would immediately start to clean the place. Truth to be told, the office wasn’t actually that dirty, but it wasn’t as pristine as always.

Erd felt nostalgic, wondering how much longer would the situation continue and when he saw the frustration expression on his Superior, he knew that something extraordinary was needed to bring him back. For the time being, the hardest part would be keeping is condition a secret, and he wasn’t sure how much longer the squad would be able to do it. Perhaps Commander Erwin would have some ideas when he came back from his trip, which would be that same night. Actually, it hadn’t been that long since all this mess started, but the squad members seemed to share the concerned and uncertainty feeling that slowly became wearing. Despite it all, the image if the Captain in his desk, doing his best to write the letter correctly was rather amusing, and suddenly a mischievous smile appeared on the soldier’s lips. It might be a perfect opportunity to get some information from his Superior.

“Captain, can I ask you something?”

“What?” Levi wasn’t paying much attention to Erd’s words. He was very entertained writing.

“Tell me…” he approached whim with caution “are you interested in Petra?” there was no answer; apparently, little Levi didn’t understand what he meant and just looked at him with a confused expression “I mean… do you think she’s pretty?

“Oh! Yes, a lot.” Levi smiled “besides, she is very kind to me”

“Of course. She’s a good girl.” Suddenly, the soldier has a very peculiar idea “but, what would you say if I told you that she’s seeing someone else? Or that she prefers to be with some other man that isn’t you”

“What? She prefers to be with someone that isn’t me?” suddenly, Levi’s expression became sad, but almost immediately it became grumpy.

“To be honest, I’m not so sure. She and Eren seem close and…”

“I’m gonna kill him…”

“No!” suddenly de soldier became alarmed. He didn’t know for sure if the Captain’s threats were true or not “I don’t think that would be necessary. Perhaps you only need to get closer to Petra.”

“Get closer to her? I don’t understand.” Levi looked at him with attention.

“If I told you, you must promise you won’t retaliate in the future.” The Captain didn’t seem to understand what the soldier meant, so he nodded without giving it much of a thought “well, you see… you could approach and get close to her when there’s no one else around, and in that moment, you could take the opportunity and bring your face closer to hers. Very close, do you understand?” he widely smiled. He would really enjoy the scene in case Levi decided to do it “and then, perhaps you could kiss her.”

The Captain’s expression was serious. He was actually considering what his subordinate just said, but that changes quickly when the door opened again.

“Erd? Oh, here you are.” Gunther entred “alright, I had breakfast and now I can take care of the Captain… why are you laughing?” he asked when he saw his squad mate’s expression.

“Nothing… just something the Captain said. I’ll see you later.” And then he walked away, wearing a triumphant smile.

Lucky for Gunther, Levi was calm during the whole morning. He was quite entertained trying to write properly and the rest of the time he asked his subordinate about the rest of the squad. Apparently, he was very interested on knowing more about them, their personalities and even the embarrassing anecdotes, which Gunther was more than willing to tell, forgetting for a moment that it was hiss Superior; as if he was just another colleague.

When his watch was almost over, the Captain began to feel restless and he wanted to take a walk around the barracks, making Gunther feel concerned, because he remembered what happened the day before. After giving it some thought, the soldier decided to go to one of the upper floors, where there were empty rooms that were used as storage or as studying rooms for the soldiers interested in knowing more about titans or learning war strategies.

Before the left the office, the soldier took some books, papers and pens to write, leaving a message for his partners so they could know where they were when the shift changed. Then, they were very careful when heading to the upper floors. The Captain’s attitude didn’t raise suspicion. By then, he was used to the game of pretending to be a soldier and his attitude was almost natural.

When they arrived to their destination, they entered a room where there was a table in the center, surrounded by chairs and some bookshelves. The place was clean and it was apparently used quite frequently, so Gunther warned the Captain that, if someone entered the place, he should adopt a serious attitude, but before agreeing, Levi looked at him with malice.

“Alright, but only if you can defeat me in arm wrestling.” He took off is jacket and sat in one of the chairs, rolling up his shirt sleeves and putting his right arm on the table, challenging the soldier, who sighed and put what he was carrying on the other side of the table and agreed.

“I’ll try.” Then he sat in front of him and stared with the arm wrestling.

At first, Gunther was sure he would be defeated by the Captain, and was very surprised when the opposite thing happened. Despite Levi’s great strength, he didn’t have a good arm wrestling technique, so the soldier felt relieved after winning the beet.

“Two of three!” said Levi immediately.

“Alright. But first you need to learn some techniques. I’ll show you how to do it, but you have to promise you’ll be serious if someone who’s not part of our squad enters, alright?”

“Alright.” He nodded and Gunther began with the lessons.

They both lost track of time and then, there was knock on the door. It was Oluo with Eren, the ones in charge of the next watch. Luck for them, they saw the message Gunther left in the office and they found them quick enough. Nevertheless, they didn’t expect to see both soldiers playing arm wrestling.

“It was the Captan’s idea!” Gunther explained before being scolded.

“I won!” Levi said triumphantly “are you next?”

“But Captain…” Oluo seemed uncertain of what to do. He had the chance of competing agains his superior.

“Come on, don’t be a coward. Or are you afraid?”

“It would be stupid to not be at least a little afraid.” Whispered Eren while he entered with a tray with food for the Captain.

“Alright.” Finally said Oluo “I’ve always wanted to do this.” He smiled and sat in front of the Captain, hoping to have a clear advantage over him, and yet, Gunther’s tips were effective and humanity’s strongest didn’t’ have much trouble for winning.

Oluo’s expresión was priceless, even Eren laugh when he saw how easy he was defeated. And so, a small tournament began, although the green-eyed boy was hesitant of participating. Apparently, Gunther had a lot of experience in arm wrestling and he was the only one who represented a challenge for the Capatin.

A few minutes later, when everyone seemed to be tired, Levi’s gaze was set on Eren. His blue eyes showed a very particular shine as they saw him with arrogance.

“You’re next.” His voice was dry and full of authority.

“Me? But Captain, I don’t….” the boy felt nervous after the harsh look on his superior’s expression. Something in his attitude told him to be careful.

“It’s an order, soldier.” He said it in such a way that they all thought the Captain was back, but it couldn’t be possible, since he had just put his arm on the table, ready to begin with the wrestling match and wearing a malicious smile.

“Alright.” Eren approached with caution and put his arm in position, remembering the days back in the academy and al those matches he won. But this time, it was all different.

When Oluo gave the signal to start, Levi hurried to use all his strength to defeat the boy, who screamed in pain when he felt his hand hitting the table.

“Captain, there’s no need to be so harsh!” Gunther exclaimed as they approached Eren, who has holding his hand, making sure it wasn’t broken.

“Harsh? That was nothing,” he stood from his seat “this is being harsh!” and with a fast movement, he pushed Eren to the floor, leaving the boy very shocked. He was pretty sure he didn’t do anything to upset him. Not this time.

Before anything else happened, Gunther held the Captain by the arms to stop him from harming Eren, while Oluo helped the boy getting up from the floor and get away from Levi.

“This wasn’t a good idea.” After many efforts, Gunther managed to make Levi sit in a chair.

“He was about to attack me yesterday as well.” Oluo spoke, his expression very serious “It might no be a good idea to leave him with us.”

“Apparently, the only people whom he doesn’t want to attack are Erd, Petra an your” as son as Levi heard Eren saying Petra’s name, he glared at him very angry “this time, I’m not even sure of what I did to deserve his anger.”

“It may a good idea to ask Petra to take care of him for the rest of the afternoon. Erd can stay with him again tonight.” Oluo made a pause and noticed Levi still seemed grumpy “Eren, could you go get Petra?”

The boy nodded and left the room, followed by the Captain’s angry eyes. As soon as he was out, he felt a heavy weight lifted from his shoulders. Then, he hurried to look for his squad mate, who surely was in her room.

On his way there, Eren wondered how much longer hey would have to bear with the situation. He was still feeling rather guilty for that happened. After all, if he had made sure the floor was dry, nothing of this would have happened. He was lost in his thoughts when a female voice spoke to him.

“Eren, is something wrong?”

“Petra! No… well, I was actually looking for you. I supposed you would be in your room and…”

“I was on my way to the kitchen to get something to eat. Did something happened?”

“Well…” he tried to pick up his words and don’t alarm her “we need you to change your shift to take care of the Captain. You see, we were in the seventh floor, in one of those empty rooms and when Oluo and I got there, he was playing arm wrestling with Gunther. At first, we thought it wasn’t such a bad idea, but… he suddenly got so aggressive with me…”

“What the hell is Gunther thinking?” the girl complained and began to walk towards the seventh floor. She looked exasperated “it is as if he was doing everything possible to make the Captain get aggressive.”

“It was actually everyone’s fault. We all agreed to play with him.” Eren followed and suddenly he made a pause, speaking very softly “although today, it seems like he is very angry at me. I don’t know why.” His voice showed how disappointed and sad he felt.

“The Captain doesn’t have anything against you. You are our best chance to take back wall Maria and he knows it. His aggressiveness is consequence of the injury on his head. Deep down, he is understanding, it’s just that he is not good for showing it.”

“Even if you were right, nothing guarantees us that he will be back to normal any time soon.”

The only thing Petra could do, was to look at him with concern and keep walking towards their destination. It didn’t take them a lot of time to get there and as soon as they entered the room, they found Gunther standing behind Levi, who was finishing eating, while Oluo seemed to be keeping his distance. She immediately remembered what happened the day before and knew they were starting to run out of options to keep an eye on their Superior.”

“What’s te situation?” She asked, anticipating the answer.

“We need you to take care of him.” Oluo spoke dryly “apparently, Eren and I cannot help you with it anymore.”

“I could stay for a while longer and…” Gunther was interrupted.

“I want to stay with Petra.” Levi’s voice was suddenly heard, firm and determined, as if it was a natural thing for him “It’s an order.”

They all became tense immediately, because of the implication of his words, especially Gunther, who heard it for the second time in the day. The Captain had found a way to have his own way without being questioned, leaving his subordinates with much choice and concerned for the possibility of things getting out of control.

“Alright, but as soon as he’s finished with his meal, we’re going to the library. We can’t risk him getting aggressive with other soldiers.” Petra spoke firmly, convinced that the best thing would be to keep him as much isolated as they could.

“Are you sure you don’t need help?” Gunther looked at her with a serious expression.

“Don’t worry, I think I can manage.”

“If you need something, we’ll be nearby.” Oluo whispered, making a gesture so Eren would follow him as he left the room.

Once Levi and Petra were left alone, the Captain’s attitude apparently changed radically, as if his humor was better than ever. He even smiled at the girl, but she was ignoring him on purpose.

“Petra?”

“Hmm?” she barely answered while she looked through the window and avoided his gaze. She was angry at him for attacking Eren. She was also concerned for the possibility oh him staying with that weird amnesia forever.

“Will we continue reading?” he waited for her answer and she took her time to do it. She needed a patient but firm attitude.

“If you want to, but… “ she looked at him with her eyes full of determination “if you attack someone again, won’t help you again with your reading. You shouldn’t attack other people and Eren didn’t do anything to make you so angry, he is just seeking your approval.

“Alright.” Levi answered almost immediately, without thinking “do you prefer to spend more time with Eren than with me?

“What?” the question took her by surprise, she didn’t know what the Captain meant “Eren?”

“Erd told me.” His gaze became shady and sad.

“Erd?” a moment later, Petra connected the dots and became enraged with her colleague “I’m going to kill him!” she sighed and got closer to Levi “listen, I don’t know what Erd told you, but…” she thought for a moment “no, I don’t rather spend time with Eren. I know you don’t remember now, but you and I spend time together doing paperwork or talking after dinner. And for me, that’s the best moment of the day. I would prefer a thousand times to spend time with you than with someone else. But even if it wasn’t like that, it isn’t enough reason to attack someone, understood?”

“Alright, I understand.” He smiled and stood up. Petra’s words would have caused a completely different effect on the Captain if he was on his right mind, but in that moment, Levi just smiled and walked towards the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Aren’t we going to the library?” she looked at him, somehow disappointed. It was definitely not the reaction she was expecting from him. Truth to be told, she always thought the circumstances would be different when she told him something as sincere as what she just said.

“Let’s go.” Finally, Petra stood up and walked towards the door.

Once they were in the hall, Levi adopted his soldier attitude, to avoid being discovered, but there was no one around. The tones of the sunlight coming through the windows indicated that it was almost twilight and in a couple hours, the sky would be dark. The light made the stones in the floor seem almost orange, as well as the walls.

Both soldiers walked towards the library, approaching the stairs and suddenly, Levi reminded Erd’s words and decided to take the opportunity to get closer to Petra, who was apparently distracted. She suddenly felt the Captain getting closer, not like in the past days when despite of being so close, she didn’t feel her personal space invaded. This time, there was something different in his attitude. He seemed very serious and something was out of place, making her feel uncomfortable. She took a step back, but there wasn’t enough space because they were so close to the stairs, so Levi kept going and took her by the arm, getting his face closer and closer, and in a matter of seconds, Petra felt his lips on hers.

She was astonished for a moment, not knowing what to do. She had dreamed and longed for that moment in so many occasions, but she didn’t want it to be like that, with Levi in that state and with such an erratic behavior, so she tried to get him away from her, pushing him a little, but he was stronger than her and he didn’t seem to be willing to let her go. It was then, when she used her combat skills to push him, but when she realized what would happen, it was already too late: the Captain was falling down the stairs.

“Captain!”

Levi couldn’t answer because he was desperately looking for something to get a hold of, but there was noting he could grab and suddenly, the sound of his head hitting the floor was heard and he was unconscious.

Right away, Petra yelled asking for help. This time she was the cause of the accident, although she was her reasons. She hurried to make sure he was alright. Lucky for her, there were some soldiers in the sixth floor and they rushed to helped her.

A little after they managed to take the Captain to the infirmary and lay him in one of the stretchers, the whole squad was there. Then, Petra made a gesture telling them to get out and as soon as the door was closed, she scolded Erd for putting weird ideas on the Captain’s head. She didn’t know the idea of kissing her was also his, but she deduced his actions were consequence of Erd’s comments about her and Eren

As for Erd, he took the scolding in a stoic way. Apparently, the joke went out of his hands and he ended up accepting his responsibility and apologizing to Petra. The rest of the squad didn’t understand what was going on, but after seeing the interaction between the girl and the Second in command, they knew that it would be better to not intervene.

“I don’t know wat Erd did, but… it must be something really bad to make Petra like that.” Oluo whispered from the corner of the hall. As soon as the discussion became more heated, they all decided to take a step back.

“Perhaps the challenged the Captain to jump from the top of the stairs.” Eren seemed confused.

“No. An injury like that doesn’t happen because you didn’t fall well. It looks like someone pushed him.” Gunther continued thoughtful, leaving everyone wondering what had actually happened.

Few hours passed and the Captain was still unconscious. This time, the injury seemed more serious and he had bandages in the arms and the head. He even got some stitches on the head. The official version was that, Levi tried to jump down the stairs but he slipped as soon as his feet touched the ground. Honestly, Hanji wasn’t very convinced of such story. The squad was evidently hiding something, but when she saw their angsty expressions and the mayhem after Petra and Erd’s discussion, she decided to not inquiry a lot.

Erwin came back a little after the accident took place and since then, he was patiently waiting for Levi to wake up. Everyone was more apprehensive than ever, specially the squad, who were also uncomfortable. There was silence in the infirmary and the atmosphere was filled with expectation. Th first accident left Levi with amnesia, a second one could cause even worse consequences.

Suddenly, Levi made an expression of pain and began to move his fingers.

“He’s waking up!” Hanji got closer to him “Levi, can you hear me? Are you alright? Do you know who I am?” there was a small silence that felt like an eternity for everyone. The captain opened his eyes and looked around.

“What… what the hell am I doing here? And… shit! why does my head hurt so much?” he seemed quite angry.

“Captain!” Petra was very surprised.

“Levi, is it really you?” Hanji asked.

“Of course it’s me, four eyes. Who else would I be? Auch!” he touched his head just where the stitches were.

“Looks like… he’s back” Erwin spoke, his voice showing relief. He had just came back to the barracks and Levi’s weir amnesia had him very worried, but he became even more worried when he heard about the second accident.

“Captain, I’m so glad you’re alright.” Oluo seemed to be finally relaxed. Evidently, Levi was in much pain and dizzy, so Hanji hurried to say.

“It would be better if you’d let him rest a little.” And she told them to leave the infirmary. Everyone except for her and Erwin did it. They wanted to question him about what happened. They had to knew what exactly happened.

Levi seemed to be very confused and without the slightest idea of what happened, which made him being in a bad mood, specially when Hanji told him about some of the things he did on the past days. Despite everything, he felt grateful of not remembering at all, although it all seemed like a dream, or more exactly, a nightmare.

The special operations squad waited for Hanji and Erwin to come out to listen what the Captain said, but they were disappointed when the realized Levi didn’t remember anything. Finally, they decided to keep a watch outside the infirmary for the rest of the night, just in case. Although it wasn’t really necessary, Levi was just tired and in al of of pain, but nothing he couldn’t handle. Still, he would spend the night in the infirmary.

Around 10 PM, the Captain was looking wat the ceiling, trying to remember what happened, perhaps a flash of what he had said and done on the past days, but without much luck. As the minutes passed, a few things came to his mind, but all of them were unpleasant or embarrassing. Suddenly, someone opened the door. It was Petra, who brought him some dinner.

“Captain? I’ve brought you something to eat.” She shily smiled, because she still had the sensation of his lips on hers. Very deep down, she was grateful that he didn’t remember anything.

“Thanks, Petra.” He said with a serious tone and sat on the bed.

“How are you feeling” she asked after a moment, but what she wanted to know was if he remembered something.

“I have a freaking headache that doesn’t leave me alone and I can barely remember what I did in the past days. As far as I know, I could have been drunk all this time and I’m just hungover.”

“I’m happy it wasn’t so serious.” She laughed a little.

“I’m not so sure of that.” His expression made it evident that he was in pain while he began to eat. There was a pause and Petra felt her hands sweating, expectantly and then he continued “Hanji told me what happened and how it al started.”

“Oh… “ she was about to say something, but the Captain continued.

“Eren’s carelessness went too far.”

“It was an accident… you know he can be absent minded sometimes. Besides, he’s been worried sick about you.”

“Tsch, don’t defend him so much.” He continued eating and suddenly the image of himself pushing and punching Eren came to his mind, as well as Erd’s saying something to him. It was like a dream suddenly he understood that they were memories of what happened.

“Is something wrong, Captain? Do you want me to go get the doctor?”

“No, no. It’s alright.” He kept silent and thoughtful, still confused as he ate.

“Alright, I better go now. Oluo Will be right outside for the rest of the night and someone else from the squad will be here in the morning. Do you need anything before I leave?”

“Not for now, thanks.” He avoided her gaze, getting distracted with the food place in front of him. He was starting to remember why he attacked Eren, and it was very embarrassing.

“Have a Good night.” She smiled but he was still avoiding eye contact, so she just closed the door behind her and headed towards her room.

On her way there, the met Oluo, who was heading to the infirmary and he told her that Gunther would be the one in charge of the morning watch, and her turn would be in the afternoon.

E girl was tires. The lwas few days were exhausting and the tension had worn her out. On the other side, she remembered the time she spent with Lev, wondering if she had done something to be ashamed of or something she could regret, but she couldn’t think about anything else. Nevertheless, the Captain’s attitude made her feel uneasy.

The next day, everything was back to normal for the special operations squad. Levi was discharged from the infirmary, but he would have to spend three days resting, confined to his office during the day and perhaps supervising training from afar. He would take the opportunity to finish the accumulated paperwork.

Around 6 PM, Petra walked towards the Captain’s office. She carried a tray with hot tea , ready to spend the rest of the day helping him with the bureaucratic activities, but in her way there, she met Eren, who had a confused expression.

“Is something wrong, Eren?”

“Oh, hi Petra. No… it’s just that… “ he scratched his cheek as he glanced at the office door “the Captain wanted to talk with me and Erd.” Petra’s eyes opened in surprise. Perhaps the captain remembered something “apparently, Hanji told him about the accident and…”

“Did hi punished you?”

“Yes…” he said with discouragement, but suddenly his attitude changed and hurried to add “I thought it would be more severe. I mean… I caused the first accident, but he only told me to clean the stalls for the rest of the week.”

“See? I told you he is understading.”

“You’re right.” He smiled “I wonder if Erd will have the same luck… I’ll see you later.” Eren continued walking and Petra looked at the office, as if she was expecting her colleague to come out any time.

Once she was outside the office, she could barely hear Levi’s voice. Apparently, he was severely speaking with someone, but she couldn’t distinguish the words. Judging by the tone, he was furious and she decided not to interrupt so she wouldn’t make it worse.

A few minutes later, Erd came out of the office. He looked cresfalln and even a little pale, but as soon as he saw Petra, a mischievous smile appeared on his face.

“Considering what happened, two weeks of cleaning the bathrooms isn’t that bad, don’t you think?”

“You’re right. If it were up to me, I would have given you the whole month.”

“Come on, Petra. Don’t be so harsh. Besides, the Captain is his usual self again. Those are good news, right? Specially for you”

“Erd!” the soldier laughed and he was about to say something else, but Levi went out the office.

“Those bathrooms aren’t getting any more clean, Erd. Or are you waiting for dinner so there’s more shit to clean?”

“No! I’m leaving, Captain” and without saying anything else, the soldier hurried to begin with his punishment.

As for Levi, he made a gesture so Petra entered his office. He still had some bandages on the head, in case the stitches began to bleed, but aside of that, he looked very normal.

“Tsch… it’s unbelievable how paperwork accumulates in a few days.” He complained under his breath as he sat on the desk’s chair.

“How was you day, Captain?” she approached him and put a cup with hot tea in front of him, observing how the place seemed to be as neat and pristine as always.

“The pain is slowly going away, but my office and my room were a mess, what the hell happened?”

“Well….” Petra considered what she should say and continued “we had to keep you away from the other soldiers, so we decided to entertain you and keep you in those places.”

“Entertain me s the key word.” He softly said, as if he wanted to hide the embarrassment he felt after behaving like he did. Suddenly, he stood up from his chair, carrying the cup of tea an approached the window, looking at the stars in the sky.

“Do you remember what happened?” she finally gathered the courage to ask, but she wasn’t ready to hear an affirmative answer.

“Just a few things. There are some hazy parts and I’m not sure if I want to remember them” he leaned back in the wall, crossing his arms, unconsciously putting a wall to hide his vulnerability.

“It’s understandable, you had amnesia and… you didn’t know what you were doing.” She sat in the chair next to the desk, ready to begin with the paperwork.

Levi’s expression was of resignation while he drank his tea, holding the cup with his usual peculiar way, making the girl smile while she remembered something. Suddenly, the Captain’s voice was Heard, using a kind and warm tone, but there was some doubt in there as well.

“Thanks for being so good to me o the past days.” He looked at her for an instant and then he kept drinking his tea.

“Do you remember?” she managed to say, surprised but a little ashamed.

“Of course… although I don’t remember everything, it’s impossible to not remember how patient you were and what you did for me. I appreciate it.” He smiled with his eyes and then looked through the window “My childhood wasn’t easy and I guess, in the state I was, receiving that kind of attention and care from everyone, made me act like a spoiled brat. I was never used to that and I was alone most of the time…” he made a pause and looked at the floor, remembering something “but you don’t want to listen to such a shitty story, you have better tings to…”

“I want to hear it.” Petra stood up from the char and got closer to him “after all, the story of that lonely boy is part of you, and I want to know it.”

Levi looked at her, startled. He wasn’t expecting that reaction from her and suddenly his gaze softened and looked at her in the eyes. Without a doubt, Petra was a special girl and most of all, very patient. After all, she kept composure at all times, putting up with his childish behavior. And not only that; even on daily basis, she seemed to see through the Captain’s shield, seeing him for who he really was: an imperfect man with a past that left him with many scars, and despite it…

“You would rather spend time with me, than with someone else.” He murmured, but Petra perfectly listened.

“So, you remember.” She smiled with melancholy. Her words weren’t for naught.

“And also, what happened later.” Without a doubt, he meant when he stole a kiss from her and she pushed him down the stairs “so… I would rather avoid any more accidents…” he looked through the window, avoiding the girl’s gaze.

“There won’t be any accidents this time.” She couldn’t resist it anymore and took him by the shirt collar, with a fast ad precise movement, perfectly calculating the angle so she could kiss him with tenderness. He was surprised, but kissed her back, feeling goosebumps around his body and he made his best efforts to not let the cup slip from his hand, although in that moment, he wouldn’t mind making a mess in his office. The most important thing for him was feeling Petra close to him and taste her lips. Once they were separated, he managed to say, almost whispering.

“For me, spending time with you is also the best moment of the day.” And then, Levi left the cup next to the window and tenderly embraced the girl. He was about to kiss her, when a thunder was heard in the distance and he looked through the window, while Petra tried so hard no to laugh when she remembered little Levi was scared of lightning.

“Don’t tell me you’re still scared of thunder.” She said with misbelief, still laughing a little.

“Tsch… who do you think I am?”

And without losing another instant, Levi kissed Petra again, enjoying her closeness, just like he’d been wanting to for a long time.

Author’s notes.

This is the final part of the story. Thank you so much for keep reading it until the end. I had a lot of fun writing it. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. Thank you so much for your sweet comments, I really appreciate it and it great to have feedback!

#rivetra #Levi x Petra #Levi Ackerman #Petra Ral #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #rosirinoa

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yasbxxgie · 5 years

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Kehinde Wiley on Self-Doubt and How He Made It as a Painter The artist behind Barack Obama’s presidential portrait talks about developing his skills at a junk store

By age 12, Kehinde Wiley had a reputation in his Los Angeles neighborhood for being a talented artist. Teachers at his school recommended him for a program during which he spent the summer of 1989 in Russia with 50 Soviet kids and 50 other Americans, creating murals, learning the Russian language and culture, hiking, swimming, and picking mushrooms. “It was a strange, magical time,” he recalls.

Wiley went on to study art at the San Francisco Art Institute and Yale. He now has a studio in Brooklyn, and Barack Obama chose him to paint a lively portrait of the former president that now hangs in the National Portrait Gallery.

I recently spoke with Wiley about traveling to Nigeria to meet his father for the first time after having painted portraits of him for years, dealing with criticism, and the importance of slowing down. This interview has been lightly edited and condensed for length and clarity.

***

Lola Fadulu: What was your mom’s work schedule like?

Kehinde Wiley: My mother, while raising six kids, had a number of small-business activities. The most prominent one in my memory was sort of like a junk store.

She would be away, in the earliest years, much of the day. Then she would be around more in the late afternoons, evenings. When we weren’t in school, we would be around the shop, and I remember learning Spanish dealing with a lot of the customers there.

Fadulu: Aside from learning Spanish, was there anything else you learned from those times you helped out in the store?

Wiley: I think I learned a sense of making something out of nothing, trying to dust off old items and seeing some level of value in them, recognizing that no one is going to help you.

Fadulu: Did your mom have any particular field or industry that she wanted you or your siblings to go into?

Wiley: Well, I remember as kids, we all had different passions, and she encouraged all of them. My twin brother and I would be going to art school as kids because there was a free program that allowed us to get off of the streets of South Central Los Angeles and spend our weekends studying art.

I remember my mother wanting me to go into preaching. She was taken by the fact that I was quite successful at some oratory competitions. She was going through a particularly religious fervor at that point in her life, and she encouraged me in that direction.

Fadulu: At that point, were you thinking about turning art into a career, or was it more of a hobby?

Wiley: In the beginning, it was much more of a hobby, and much more about just having an outlet for creative energy. Only later did it start to have real personal consequence.

Fadulu: When did that start to change?

Wiley: I was 12 years old. Russia was one of those programs that was a free program. It was an opportunity for me and 50 other American kids to go off into what was then the Soviet Union, and to study art in the forest outside of what was then called Leningrad, and is currently called Saint Petersburg.

We created a series of murals, and we had language classes and cultural exchange. And we would hike off into the forest, pick mushrooms, and swim. It was a strange, magical time. It allowed my sense of what was possible to blossom, at that very important age.

Fadulu: Did you know that you were a good artist when you were 12?

Wiley: Of course. That was my one bit of power in the world. That was the thing that got me positive attention, as opposed to so much negative attention that was coming at so many of my classmates at the time.

Fadulu: Would you consider helping your mom out in the store your first job?

Wiley: It was definitely my first job. I remember thinking about all of those bags and bags of clothes, and trying to figure out how to sort out different colors, and different types of fabrics, and how to organize things in terms of style and age. I remember looking at things that to me seemed like junk, but with a little bit of TLC, a coat of paint or something, is repositioned as something that people are willing to spend good money on.

That was my first job as a kid, but it wasn’t really positioned as a job, because it was just what you do. You lend a hand.

Fadulu: So, what was the first job you had that was positioned as a job?

Wiley: I think my first real job was actually going to work for the art school that I used to go to as a kid. While I was once an 11-year-old student at the Los Angeles County High School for the Arts’ Summer Arts Conservatory, which was housed on the campus of Cal State Los Angeles, I was later as a high-school student recruited, at first, as a teacher’s assistant, and then later as a teacher to teach drawing and painting to youngsters. I was 17 and 18, teaching 9- and 10-year-olds how to paint.

Fadulu: Is that when you were beginning to think about a career in art?

Wiley: My first thought was that no one makes it as a painter. I was just looking around at the landscape of contemporary art, which was pretty dry in Southern California during the ’90s. There was no modeling for success when it came to a job in the arts.

So I thought that my best option would probably be in arts education. So when I went to do my bachelor’s degree in fine arts at the San Francisco Art Institute immediately after high school, I assumed that I would probably study art and become an art teacher. While I enjoyed it very much as a high-school student, I didn’t really have a burning desire to be a teacher. I just knew that that would enable me to support my art habit.

Four years of arts education in San Francisco, then going off to graduate school on the East Coast at Yale, opened up a whole new set of possibilities. And perhaps for the first time I started to glimpse what it might mean to launch a successful career as a painter.

Fadulu: And where did you catch those glimpses of those other possibilities? I know you said you were at Yale, but what exactly were you seeing?

Wiley: What happens there is that while I’m painting in the graduate art studios, I’m also taking trips into the city with my classes, and having conversations with artists in their studios. I remember having classroom trips to art galleries and seeing actual exhibitions I was excited about. Being in the class with professors who are working artists, the light slowly started to turn on, and that sense of imagining myself as one of those people.

But still, there’s a lot of self-doubt, and there was also a really tough regime of criticism that arts education put me through, which enabled me to develop a really thick skin, but also caused me to doubt whether or not I had the chops to make it as a professional artist.

Fadulu: How did you deal with the self-doubt?

Wiley: I think a lot of it was being able to recognize the relative nature of a lot of the arguments that were being made in large classrooms. One art object could give rise to five different arguments, and depending on who was the most convincing, the success or failure of that art object would announce itself. It became increasingly obvious that it had very little to do with the art, and more to do with the environment in which the art was being consumed.

I had a strong sense that this school was an immense place to learn new ideas and histories, but also a potentially toxic place in which you can get caught up within the incredibly specific politics that each school gives rise to, and lose track of the broader target.

Fadulu: And didn’t you go to Nigeria to reconnect with your dad?

Wiley: Well, I connected, period. My father and mother broke up before I was born. He returns to Nigeria, and I’m never to see him until I’m 19. So, 1997, I just decide on a whim that I’m going to go find him. A lot of it was a lot of buildup, emotional buildup. This constant desire to see who your father is, and just to know that connection. I think on another level it was about pushing myself, and knowing what I’m made of, whether or not I’m capable of pulling something like this off. There was a lot of teenage bravado going on there.

There was this incredible curiosity as a portrait painter, just—what does he look like? I began going to different universities asking if they knew who this guy was. I knew that he studied architecture in America.

So I would go to universities and go to their architecture departments and ask if anyone knew my father, and that didn’t work. Someone finally said that I should go, based on his last name, to southwestern Nigeria, where I then went to the University of Calabar. And his name was on the door of the department. He was the head of the architecture department. And nothing’s been the same since. There was a series of paintings that I did shortly after meeting him for the first time, where I was just obsessed with painting him, getting that out.

Fadulu: Was that trip what you thought it would be?

Wiley: No, not at all. I had this illusion that there would be arms wide open, and music would be playing, and that I would quickly and quite easily recognize this lost side of my African ancestry. And in fact, it was an incredibly difficult and exhausting process to find him. And by the time we did find each other, there was that strange moment of trying to figure out what each other and who each other was. What were my intentions as I showed up? What were my feelings toward him? It was incredibly complicated.

I think I was a bit naïve to think that all of those emotions would just simply be resolved by seeing him. In fact, it became much more difficult to come to terms with the feelings of resentment and abandonment than I had anticipated.

Fadulu: You said you became obsessed with painting portraits of him.

Wiley: There were a number of those that, to this day, I can’t find, because I sold off so much work as an undergrad. One of these days, I have to track this stuff down.

Fadulu: What was going through your mind when you heard from Obama about his portrait?

Wiley: Well, there was never really any point where I had the job. I heard they were considering a number of artists for this, and I was welcomed to be interviewed as they were down to a smaller group. But there was never any point where I just knew, until I knew. Back in 2016 even, I was in the Oval Office, incredibly nervous. And I was interviewing with the president about this potential job, still not knowing what it was going to be, but just feeling incredibly grateful for having been invited to have the conversation.

So every step along the way, it just became more and more real, and more and more possible.

Fadulu: So what was the interview like?

Wiley: Of course the president wanted to know what it is that I would bring to the picture. I spoke really honestly about what excited me about him and me being involved in this historical moment: the sense in which we both share that story of having African fathers and American mothers. That sort of journey to find the father, that yearning to try and create some sort of internationalist presence in our work.

I spoke about the possibilities, allegorically, of telling his story in a painting. And so what you end up with in that painting are some amazing botanicals that are visually captivating, but they also nod toward certain flowers that are prominent in Indonesia, certain leaves that are prominent in Hawaii, the state flower of Illinois, the flowers that are most commonly seen in the grasslands of Kenya.

All of those strange, forest-like spaces are behind him and pushing up and forward. Those were the things that I was discussing as a possibility, and I think that it must’ve set something right.

Fadulu: You said it became more real as you went through the process. Were you working at all on it before it was official?

Wiley: Oh, God, yeah. I had gone to photograph him, and that wasn’t quite right, so I went back and I photographed him again. There were months of just trying to figure out how to artificially create this type of image on the computer and approximate what it would look like, and then start doing studies and see what it looks like in the actual paint. It was a long time coming. But in the end, it was all worth it.

Fadulu: Those months of trying to figure out how to create it—were there any big lessons from that?

Wiley: Just slow down. The more important the portrait, the more nuance the likeness has to have, the slower you have to get. So I had to get smaller brushes, really concentrate on just doing small passages per day, rather than trying to do broad strokes. And so it was a very different type of painting. You can feel it, almost, when you look at that painting, it's a much more contemplative piece. But I got very familiar with his face.

Fadulu: How did you feel about its reception?

Wiley: Well, he told me, “This is what I do, I’m used to the national spotlight, the global spotlight, but you’re new to this, so get ready. It’s gonna be a big deal.” And boy, was it ever.

I’ve never seen a work of art go viral that way and become a global sensation. And, of course, you’re dealing with the culture wars, and powers and principalities, and the Republicans and the Democrats. It did come as a shock to see that people would get so excited as to start sending death notices and threatening letters and all of this.

It’s surprising, but when seen in the proper context, when seen as a type of cultural signpost, when that painting is seen as what it is, which is a moment of celebration for him and his high-water mark within our culture, then you recognize it’s bigger than you are.

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amandaoftherosemire · 5 years

Text

Lightning Strikes Part Five

Fandom: Marvel Avengers AU

Pairing: Thor Odinson X Reader

Characters: Thor Odinson, Loki Odinson, Bucky Barnes

Author: @amandaoftherosemire

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 5,280

Format: Series (Complete)

Warning: Language.

Summary: You spend time with Loki.

A/N: The first couple parts of this was written a while ago for @buckysforeverprincess 500 Follower Writing Prompt Challenge. Not consistent with Marvel canon. I have willfully and deliberately ignored the events of Infinity War. The Statesman made it to Earth after a largely uneventful journey and everyone is FINE. The only thing I’ve taken from Infinity War is Stormbreaker because it’s cool as hell.

I want to thank everyone who sticks with my fics since I’m terrible at updating regularly. I also want to thank everyone who leaves feedback or sends me messages about them. It really does encourage me to write. I might not have stuck with this if someone hadn’t dropped me an ask about it. This seems to be only true for me, but I have no problem with being asked when I’m going to update as long as you’re not a dick about it. 😄

This one took me some time until I stopped trying to make Loki do anything. It sounds weird but after a while I started thinking the real thing was fucking with me for daring to think I was in charge.

Part Four: Idolatry here

Antithesis

Several weeks later you sat at your desk in your office at the compound and tried with all your might to focus on one of the worst parts of your job. Full of legalese that proved to you beyond a shadow of a doubt that half the lawyers in the world only existed because the other half did, you were knee-deep in some bullshit. Reading documents like this was literally your least favorite part of the job description.

And it certainly didn't help that the author of the document was a member of the legal department with whom you were unfortunately familiar. You'd made it a point to not drink that heavily at office events since. The man may have been hot, but he was also an arrogant, pretentious fuckrag.

You couldn't help but be preoccupied. The Odinson brothers were driving you to distraction, though for very different reasons. You were running on fumes at this point, but you didn't know how to stop. Between the two, you were only getting a few hours of sleep a night even if it was only in making up missed work. Neither man was very good with the concept of deadlines or limited amounts of time, though Loki was the far worse of the two. You imagined you could thank Thor's time living on Earth, not to mention his sweet nature, for his greater consideration.

Thor. When he was there, he was quite possibly perfect. Funny and good natured, he was a joy to be around the vast majority of the time. Most of the time you spent together he seemed determined to wring everything he could get out of every minute with you. It was delightfully intense, because it wasn't just sex. Honestly, you'd have preferred it if it was, because he was sweet, and charming, and scarily intelligent, and you were terrified you were falling head over heels in love with him.

When he was there, he was the perfect companion, attentive without being overbearing, energetic without being exhausting, sweet without being cloying. He was also one of the most interesting men you'd ever met, a veritable fount of knowledge with an easy willingness to impart it. He had great stories, and a somewhat dramatic way of telling them. On top of that, he was a great listener, eager to learn everything you'd tell him about yourself, your life, your world. You'd yet to spend a boring minute in his presence.

When he was there, he made you feel like no one ever had before, like you were glowing from the inside out. He didn't just make you feel special, he seemed to think you were remarkable, as though he'd never even imagined someone like you. Aside from his myriad attractions, the outrageous body, the dreamy smile, the sweet and generous nature, that wonder at the reality of you would have been irresistible on its own. He sometimes had a look in his eye like he couldn't believe you were real. The idea that someone as extraordinary as Thor, considering where he'd come from and all that he'd seen, could find you not only astonishing, but delightfully so, was captivating.

When he was there, he couldn't seem to keep his hands off you, as though he thought you the sexiest woman on the planet. Not only was he ready, willing, and eager to go to bed whenever and wherever, he'd happily spend all day at it if you'd let him. To your amused chagrin, you'd now had sex in any number of rooms in the compound that you'd never even set foot in before. He was an utter hedonist, deeply sensual, basely sexual, and without an ounce of shame in his entire gorgeous body. Being his lover was both exhilarating and exhausting.

When he was there, you forgot all the reasons you should not fall in love with Thor Odinson. When he was there, you couldn't think about anything but the fact that you were happier with him than you'd ever been before. When he was there, you let tomorrow worry about itself and lived in the moment.

As he made every moment a shimmering jewel, as every moment dazzled you, seduced you, destroyed you, it was dangerously easy to lose yourself in him. When he was there.

That was the thing, though. He most often was NOT there.

Which you got. And not in that bullshit way where you say you get it, but you're only saying it because you know you're supposed to. You actually got it. You knew Thor had more than you could imagine on his plate; busy didn't begin to describe it. That he took the time he did to spend with you wasn't just flattering, it had the romantic corner of your heart sighing dreamily.

Unfortunately, when Thor wasn't there, which was most of the time, you were entirely too aware of how doomed your relationship with him truly was. Whether you looked at the differences in your circumstances, the distance between your homes, or the insanity of your lives, there was no way this could possibly work long term; you were sure of it. When you added in the fact that he was a king, a god, a hero, it was just getting ridiculous.

Lastly, there was the terrible thought you'd had once in the middle of the night that you never let yourself think again but that sat in the back of your brain like a goblin, snickering and waiting for its chance to start gnawing on your mind. You'd first thought of it when you were once again alone; Thor had left the afternoon before and your bed was suddenly depressingly cold and lonely. After hours of sleepless worry about all the other things bound to go wrong, you'd had a thought so awful, of an obstacle so insurmountable, you'd immediately wrapped it in layers of oh hell no and stuffed in the darkest corner in the smallest, darkest closet of your mind. If you didn't think of it, you could allow yourself to enjoy this glorious fantasy until something else destroyed the dream.

You'd had the thought because of Loki, actually. Not because of something he'd deliberately pointed out, but an offhand comment regarding something that happened when he and Thor had been children. The story had been funny, and Loki had a way of drawing you in, but a tiny detail had stuck inside your mind like a bur. That detail chafed, keeping your brain scratching at it until you came to the realization that ruined your hopes and broke your heart. Like an oyster with a grain of sand, you'd started covering that thought in layers until your mind could glide over it easily without any scraping or stumbling.

Loki, on the other hand, was always there, both when you wanted him and not. He acted as though he had decided you were the only person in the compound he could stand for more than a few minutes. You suspected he liked plenty of people way more than he let on, but he seemed devoted to his persona of smug superiority. Unfortunately, this meant when Loki got bored, he came looking for you. Being forced to behave himself and stay in the compound did not amuse or entertain him so he came looking for you a lot. As a matter of fact, he came looking for you all. the damn. time.

You adored Loki, truly. It wasn't that you objected to spending time with him. It was that you could not make him care about the fact that you had other things to do. He had no qualms about interrupting your workday, no matter how many times you asked him not to, leading to plenty of afterhours catch-up. He thought most of what you did was stupid, so he didn't give two shits about getting in the way of it. It was strangely admirable, his dedication to not giving a fuck.

The problem was that Loki didn't cause as much trouble when you were catering to his whims and dancing attendance upon him. To be fair, Loki didn't really cause trouble; it was more that he subtly arranged circumstances in favor of the most dramatic or disastrous outcome. He loved to sit back and watch fireworks he'd personally arranged. When you'd confided your difficulties in Pepper, she had assured you that time spent placating Loki would be considered work time if for no other reason than that it gave everyone else a break. At her direction, you had been spending most of your time at the compound to make it easier for you to tend to him and make the team members' lives a little easier while Loki was in residence.

Which is how you knew, when he strode into your office with an air of impatience, you'd be giving in to his whims after a sham refusal you'd enact purely for form.

"I’m bored." Loki burst into the room the way he did everything, with an arrogance that bordered on contempt. Perhaps it was a sign of something wrong with you, but Loki's attitude, rather than offending you, perfectly tickled the perverse part of your sense of humor.

You didn't even look up from your paperwork. You were entirely too familiar with this tune to do more than absently bob your head along with the beat. You scoffed. "I care."

Loki stared holes in the top of your head, not that it ever seemed to bother you. But then you often reacted in unexpected ways. Is that why he kept scratching at you? If he could understand you, predict your behavior, would you finally bore him as much as most humans? "Why, exactly, do you do this?" he asked, as he settled into one of the chairs in front of your desk.

"No, it’s fine." You rolled your eyes but kept your eyes off Loki. You knew from experience that once you looked at him, he would consider the acknowledgement as validation and you'd spend the rest of the day answering his questions. "I’m not trying to parse legalese right now or anything."

Loki stayed silent. He refused to repeat himself. Also, he'd noticed that his silence seemed to exasperate you faster than anything else. He examined his cuticles while he waited for the quiet to do its work.

For a while, the only sound in the room was the brush of fabric as either of you shifted position and the whisper of each turn of the page. You often printed legalese like this out so that you could mark on it without the risk of sending something like 'who the fuck does this asshole think he is?' to the asshole in question. You vowed to keep doing it, if for no other reason than that it was so much more dramatic than rolling a scroll button on a mouse.

You could tell by the quality of the hush that settled over the room that Loki was in one of his more difficult moods, meaning that he would only get more and more petulant the longer you put him off. Though you hated to do it as a matter of principle, you knew giving in would cost you far less time and annoyance than pretending to allow him to irritate you into paying attention to him. The pragmatist in you would not allow you to stand on principle when there was no benefit to you other than self-righteousness.

You gave an exaggerated sigh as marked your place in the document with a quickly scrawled LNA, your code for Loki Needs Attention and the current time. Pepper had asked you to keep track of how much time you were spending dancing attention on the Asgardian prince, though you didn’t include the time you gave on your off-hours.

You placed the document into a file folder, closing it carefully and placing your interlaced fingers on top as you made it clear you were focusing on Loki under protest and with utmost exasperation. "Why do I do what?"

Loki smiled inwardly even as his face moved into a sneer. "This!" He swept his arm out to take in the room they sat in. "Labor for these people?"

"Okay." You infused as much doubt as you could into the word. You looked around at your very nice office and decided not to ask what exactly he found so distasteful. "Two reasons. First, I love the things money can buy, like food and shelter and liquor. Second, because I’m fucking awesome at it. We done?" You lifted your eyebrows at him in the kind of bored disdain you knew he'd find most challenging, and thus most entertaining.

Loki matched your tone as he stood to wander the room and examine the furnishings. He did this every time. "I’d ask what you do in here, but frankly I don’t care."

You shot him a toothy grin and a beam of sarcastic cheer. "Great. Bye."

Loki didn't deign to answer this time. He knew he had you now. He could almost hear your mind rationalizing the decision to simply give in and give him what he wanted. In his experience, it was always best to let people manipulate themselves. He meandered over to the bookshelves, as he often did, where you had books and photographs taking up most of one long wall. Some of the books were work related, but plenty were from your personal collection.

Every time he came into this room, he liked to take a different book down from the shelf and skim through it. Your preferred reading material told him a great deal about you. Loki needed to understand you if he was to accurately assess the situation. He also liked to examine a different photo in the hopes of deciphering why you smiled like a lunatic in every picture you were in. He suspected it was something to hide behind, similar to his own superior smirk.

Loki eyes slid over the titles, looking for anything somewhat interesting that he hadn't already tried. He found human society largely boring if not aggravating, but he couldn't help but enjoy the art. He considered it mostly primitive, but with a raw energy that made it compelling. The depth and breadth of human art was the most impressive thing about the species, he thought. Not that that was saying much.

You were already bored watching him amble around your office. "Oh my god! You win; I don’t want to fight." Loki turned away from the bookcase with a smug smile. You laughed as soon as you saw it and rolled your eyes indulgently. "I’ll make you a deal. Give me an hour to take care of the most pressing matters, and at the end of that hour, I will set everything else aside to cater to your whims and find something to entertain you." You leveled a wryly amused look his way; you were both convinced you were outwitting the other but if you were honest the two of you just liked the drama of it.

Loki's face spread in a wickedly pleased smile and you couldn't help the little twinge of attraction that shimmered through you. Hell, you were faithful, not dead. Fairly gloating, Loki turned to leave. "I’ll be back in an hour."

"Outstanding,” you replied with a thin smile.

As Loki opened the door, Bucky was raising his fist to knock on it. The two men glared at one another for a moment before Bucky rolled his eyes and stepped back, sweeping his arm out in a mockery of gallantry. Loki sneered but walked by without comment.

"Hey, doll." Once Loki was out of the way, Bucky poked his head through the door. "You got a minute?"

You replied with a flirty smile and batted eyelashes. "For you? Always." Bucky smiled sweetly as he came in and shut the door. He looked a little uncomfortable as he took the seat Loki had recently vacated. "Uh-oh," you said with widened eyes and raised brows. "Is everything okay?"

"I don't know. Is it?" Bucky was still looking a little uncomfortable, but his eyes shone with concern. You were baffled.

You looked around, your expression serious but a touch confused. "Is this a riddle?"

Bucky's face softened into a smile. "I don't see you anymore; I miss you." He leaned forward and placed his hand palm up on your desk. "If Thor isn't here, Loki is monopolizing your time."

"You have no idea," you replied with a laugh as you leaned forward to place your hand in his. You squeezed gently and would have let go if he hadn’t held on. You frowned and tilted your head. “What?”

Bucky didn’t smile, and you realized that whatever this was, he was serious. “I'm worried,” he confessed, and you could tell he was concerned that he was crossing a line. This was new territory in your friendship and such things always caused Bucky a ton of anxiety.

You felt a pang of remorse that you’d forgotten about your other friends when the Odinson brothers had come into your life. Bucky was incredibly dear to you and you knew how difficult he sometimes found living at the compound. He'd once confessed that half the time the only thing keeping him there was Steve. You sometimes suspected he relied upon your company a great deal as well, not that he'd ever said anything. You couldn't help but feel guilty for being so distracted.

Bucky let go of your hand when you stood up and walked around the desk to sit in the chair next to his. You leaned back casually and crossed your legs, hoping to make it clear by your demeanor that you did not consider the subject off-limits or over the line. “About Thor?” you inquired with a sassy smirk. “Or Loki?”

“Truth be told, both,” Bucky replied with a wry laugh, “but Loki is the more immediate threat.”

"Well, love, I have good news and bad news." You leaned your elbow on the chair arm and placed your chin on your fist. "The bad news is that Loki would drive you all mad if I didn't keep him somewhat occupied. The good news is that he's not a threat, just a pain in my ass." You dropped your hand to Bucky's forearm and squeezed gently. "I know you don't understand this, but I like Loki.'

Bucky looked down at your hand, surprised to find that it didn't bother him that you were touching his metal arm. Perhaps it was because you hadn't seemed to notice. "Why?" he asked, his voice rich with a wealth of confusion, doubt, and amused disbelief.

You laughed and used the hand on his arm to push at him. "I like smartasses. Why do you think I'm madly in love with you?"

"Fine," Bucky smiled, but his eyes still looked worried. “Just promise me that you won't make the mistake of trusting him.”

“I'll thank you to not insult my intelligence,” you scoffed in reply. When Bucky didn’t answer, just continued to watch you carefully, you rolled your eyes and answered with a wry half-smile. “Oh my god, I promise.”

“Good.” Bucky relaxed into the chair with a wicked grin. “Now, you wanna tell me everything about Thor?”

Your expression turned sly as you shot a matching grin his way. “How much time you got?”

A few days later your office door flew inward with a slam as Loki’s voice rang out. “Y/N!”

You, once again, did not bother to look up from your work. “Sure. Come on in. I'm not quite obviously terribly awfully busy or anything.”

“I don't even know what odd human things you do in here, let alone why it matters.” Loki moved to the other side of the desk and looked down his nose at you from his towering height.

You shrugged and murmured absently, “Since you're asking—"

“I most certainly am not.” Loki cut you off with a sneer.

You finally looked up at Loki, blinking to bring yourself back to the present. “Did you come in here for an actual reason, or did you just need someone to pay attention to you?��

“How is that not an actual reason?” His lips twitched ever so slightly, something you'd learned was one of his tells. He was in one of his playful moods, which was surprising considering how put out he had been the day before when you'd opted to spend your evening with Steve and Bucky. Loki had hidden it well, but he'd been irritated under the disdain when he refused to join you.

The corner of your mouth curled up just a hair as you responded. "Loki, to your astonishment I’m sure, catering to your moods is not actually in my job description."

Loki, ever mercurial, turned away from you to walk to your bookshelves. "If you’re certain you don’t have any time for me; I suppose I can amuse myself."

"I know that’s meant to send a chill down my spine." Your voice was dry as dust, but the genuine amusement came through loud and clear. "And it does, but it is not the policy of this office to negotiate with terrorists.”

"Pet," Loki's voice had taken on a strange timbre when he said the word, and it sent a literal shiver down your spine, but whether it was fear or desire you weren't entirely sure. "I’d much rather annoy you than someone else. The others aren’t as much fun."

You opted to put the sensation out of your mind. If it was fear there was little good dwelling on it would do for you. If it was desire, dwelling on it would most definitely make things worse. You answered as though his voice hadn't taken on an almost seductive tone. "If you will behave yourself for the rest of the morning, I’ll take a long lunch and give you my undivided attention the whole time. Deal?"

Loki smiled.

After you'd eaten a quick lunch, you drug Loki outside to enjoy the sunshine. Once you'd flopped down onto the grass and braced yourself on your elbows to tilt your face to the sun, you slanted a raised eyebrow in his direction. "Okay, spill. What’s your deal?"

You had your eyes closed against the light, but you could hear the sneer on his face loud and clear. "I beg your pardon?"

"Loki," you began and there was a wealth of patience in your tone. You opened one eye to fix him with a gimlet stare. "I am neither naïve nor stupid. Why are you paying so much attention to me? Is it because I'm banging your brother?"

The sneer twisted from arrogance to disgust. "For reasons that currently escape me, I actually enjoy your company." You gasped dramatically and let your muscles go limp, dropping to the ground in a mock faint. Loki rolled his eyes even as his mouth twitched. "I know. I was shocked, too."

You opened your eyes and looked up at his amused scorn. Though most wouldn't understand why, you were deeply touched. This was probably the nicest he'd ever been to a human. You smiled at him, and for once it was utterly genuine and sincere, with no sarcasm or disdain to hide behind. "Loki, are we friends?"

Loki watched you out of the corner of his eye. He had long ago learned to hide his true feelings behind whatever mask suited his needs best at any given time. He had seen in you the same tendency for all you hid behind careless charm and a sense of humor. Until this moment, however, he hadn't suspected that you hid a tender heart.

He had thought you were one like him, cynical, cold, careless. To find in your open and unguarded smile something sweet and wholesome explained one conundrum even as it raised a whole host of other problems. He felt a tiny twinge of remorse, a rarity for him even these days. He sniffed. "No. You're my pet."

"Then I expect you to start bringing me presents and treats." You closed your eyes again and spoke archly. You could tell something bothered him and assumed it was his discomfort with anything resembling sincerity or sentiment. "If I'm going to be a pet, I insist on being a spoiled one."

Loki turned his head to look at you properly. He could tell immediately what you were doing and found it both disarmingly sweet and deeply disturbing. You were far too perceptive for you own good and he still had many, many secrets to protect. "You are wasted on my brother. You know that, right?"

You hated when he did this. You steadfastly refused to discuss with Loki whatever was happening between you and Thor. Though their relationship seemed easier than you’d expected, considering the stories you’d heard from others, there was still a tension between them you didn’t understand and neither man seemed interested in explaining.

The few times Loki had commented on your relationship with Thor, he’d made it clear he disapproved. You also steadfastly refused to ask what exactly he disapproved of. You allowed Loki to tell stories from their past, but you would not talk about your present. It felt… disloyal. To both of them.

“I do not. Your brother doesn't waste a bit of me.” You kept your eyes closed but let your lips curve into a satisfied feline smile. “He uses every part.”

The horrified silence that followed had you prying one eye open to glance up at Loki. You immediately burst into fits of wicked laughter at the look of disgust and loathing you found on his face. “Why would you say such a thing to me?” he asked, his tone rich with disbelief and a hint of hurt.

“You're being a dick,” you replied with a careless shrug and a challenging grin when you’d stopped laughing.

Loki expression hardly changed, but his face took on a sinister cast that had a chill running down your spine. For the first time since you’d met him, you truly believed him capable of the things you knew he’d done. “He'll never truly appreciate you,” he mocked, both sly and cruel, “because he'll never truly understand you.”

You yawned, deliberately, as his words and demeanor were making you sick to your stomach. “You make me sound so complicated and mysterious.” You closed your eyes again, a deliberate dismissal. “It’s dumb, but I dig it.”

Loki made a sound somewhere between a scoff and a snort. “You may be able to fool those like my brother too dull and blind to see what you really are, but don’t insult me.”

“And what am I?” Your voice was harsh as you asked the question, and you sat up to look Loki full in the face. You were holding onto your temper with both hands; only the knowledge that he would love to goad you into a tantrum restraining you. “Really?”

“A realist, like me.” Loki was well aware of what he was doing. He turned his head and looked out across the grass at the main building. He wondered what it would take to truly set you off and considered it necessary to find out. “You don't concern yourself with what's right, but what's expedient.”

You frowned. This wasn’t what you were expecting, and you weren’t sure how to proceed. He was being insulting, but in a way that made you question whether that was his intent. “I prefer to think of myself as a pragmatist,” you said slowly. Your somewhat warped sense of humor rushed to the fore and you laughed as you pushed at his shoulder, not that you moved him even a little. “And I do so worry about doing what's right. I just take what's expedient into account, too.”

The corner of Loki’s mouth lifted in a small smile. Your casual shrug as you said the last only proved his point as far as he was concerned. “You also have a talent for reframing things in your favor. Of shuffling words until you're in the right. I admire that.”

“So, you're saying I'm too good for your brother because I’m too much like you?”

“No,” he chuckled. “He's too good for the both of us. I'm saying he'll never comprehend your true worth because he's too good.”

“Okay.” You weren’t sure how he’d managed to drag you into this conversation. Now that you had been, however, you desperately wanted to know why. "For the sake of argument, let's assume that I accept your premise. What's your fucking point?"

Loki finally looked at you, one brow raising in mock surprise. "Do I need one?" You raised a matching eyebrow, but yours was skeptical. Loki narrowed his eyes, his expression turning menacing. "I’m somewhat fond of you. I don’t think I’d enjoy seeing you in pain."

Unable to help yourself, even knowing you'd end up paying for it, you snickered outright. "I have bad news for you, Loki. It sure seems like you’re my friend."

The look of disgust Loki shot your way had you erupting into gales of delighted laughter. Worth it.

You never did get a straight answer out of him, but that was only to be expected. Loki could give lessons on inscrutability. You opted to file away the conversation for further contemplation at a later date.

Even though you weren't entirely sure why Loki had given you what you assumed was a warning, you were sure that Loki never did anything without reason. The reason may seem batshit crazy to you, but it was there. If he felt the need to speak on the subject, he had a purpose. However, you also couldn't discount the possibility that he was simply fucking with you for his own entertainment.

Regardless, you put it away, knowing you’d end up obsessing on it in the middle of the night during some bout of insomnia when Thor wasn’t there to exhaust you into sleep.

The next day you burst into the common kitchen in a towering rage, holding something sparkling and pink. You flung the thing at Loki’s feet, your entire demeanor pure, unbridled fight me. Pushing your face into his as best you could considering his height, you pointed imperiously at the ridiculous thing he'd left in a beautifully wrapped gift box on your desk. You shouted, your voice practically booming through the room and turning all heads your way, "Did you gift wrap a fucking leash?!"

Loki was as close to speechless as he ever got. The sight of you in a full-blown temper was something truly magnificent. Your narrowed eyes sparkled with rage and your lips parted to let furious huffs of breath through. He found it interesting that passion, whether from anger or desire, made you beautiful.

Rather than say that, however, Loki’s lips curved in an amused smile as he replied, “I thought you want to be spoiled, pet.” His expression shifted into a mockery of innocence. “Is this not what you meant?”

Loki braced for the explosion, certain he’d pushed you into losing your temper completely. Instead, the humor of the moment struck you with such force that you couldn’t stop the laughter that bubbled up inside you. He’d somehow acquired a cat collar that spelled out your name in rhinestones, for fuck’s sake.

As your expression melted from furious insult to genuine merriment, Loki felt another of those annoying pangs of remorse. It really was too bad. As humans went, you’d just become one of his favorites.

Part Six: Crucible here

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writernotwaiting · 6 years

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Mis-Matched, Part 3

Oh my God! An update and it’s only been a couple of weeks! Sometimes miracles do occur.

Title: Mis-Matched Rating: M (this is subject to change at the whim of the author’s muses) Characters: Loki, Sigyn, Frigga, Theoric, and various supporting OCs Description: This is an attempt to fill the propmt requested by @someillplanetreigns (and now I can’t even tag you!): “you asked for prompts and pairings - I would like to humbly beg for more Logyn? I don’t have a great prompt, but this odd thought is in my head about a way to make the comic plot about Theoric and the marriage into something about marriage by proxy? Maybe something like Loki has the duty of proxy-marrying Sigyn cos Theoric’s in the army, and totally plays everyone by going the whole hog and appearing as Theoric, but then Sigyn, who thought Theoric was dull as ditchwater and Loki is… well, y’know, Loki.” I’m not sure this is precisely what you wanted, so I apologize in advance for my wayward muses – Loki does what he wants. Chapter: 3 of 4? Acknowledgements: thank you @icybluepenguin for serving as one of my favorite institgaors and sounding boards – you rock!

Part 1 Part 2 On Ao3

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The morning was bright and clear as Frigga led her entourage out to the garden. Once there, the women divided themselves into little groups—one set going to sit in a shady arbor with their needlework while they took turns reading aloud to those who worked, another fanned out to care for the various plants, another group sat with sketch books taking botanical studies of rare plants.

Sigyn stood by and watched the women move with perfect assurance toward their tasks, then looked over at the queen inquisitively. “What would you prefer I do, your majesty?”

Frigga turned a smile onto the newest addition to her court. “What would you prefer, my dear?”

Sigyn balked at the question and felt her face flush. “I’m afraid I’m not altogether suited for any of these pursuits, ma’am. I never learned the finer points of needlework, or drawing—Herr Bragisson is a bachelor and hired no female tutor for me.”

“And gardening? The study of magic often involves the study of living things—herbology, and growing things.”

Sigyn’s blush grew darker and she began worrying at her cuticles. “I’ve never shown any affinity for live plants. Don’t misunderstand me—I know what to do with the plants after they’re harvested. I’ve read many books on the healing arts, and on potions. It’s just the growing of them that seems to elude me.” [read more cut below]

Frigga’s brows drew together. “I wonder how that could be. Your sensitivity seems very strong. What sort of magic seems to come most naturally, Sigyn? What were the first spells you could cast?”

Now Sigyn looked decidedly nervous, and Frigga placed a hand on her arm to soothe her. “It’s quite fine, dear. No one’s talent is ever exactly like anyone else’s—there no shame if yours is a little different than most.”

“Um, actually, I probably have the most ease with small pyrotechnics—you know, fireworks and light spells.”

“I see.” Frigga’s smile became a little sly. “Perhaps one of the reasons Herr Bragisson was so eager to see you placed with a spouse so soon.”

Sigyn laughed, a bit relieved to have the conversation turn. “Yes, undoubtedly! Prince Loki might have told you about the first time we met—I was actually wreaking havoc on one of the greenhouses. I certainly was never able to grow anything out there, so I took to using it as target practice.”

Frigga laughed. “I think he did mention something of the sort. Loki is always up for a bit of mischief himself.”

Sigyn rolled her eyes—she remembered his reaction vividly. “Yes, he certainly seemed to find it amusing.”

“Unfortunately, I’m not sure I have a need for anyone to redecorate my own greenhouses. We shall have to figure out something else for you to do. In the meanwhile, why don’t I show you around the gardens, and perhaps in the afternoon you could do a bit of searching in the library for me.”

Sigyn’s eyes lit up. “The library? Oh yes, I would very much enjoy that sort of errand!”

“Excellent, I’ll give you a list of things I would like you to hunt down for me, and you can let me know what you found out this evening after supper.”

It was a lie, of course--not a hugeone—fireworks were most definitely Sigyn’s secondfavorite spells, but there was no doubt that her greatest affinity was for fire magic. She could easily call flames out of anything, set fire to the wettest, greenest wood, make flames dance intricate patterns, hold white hot fireballs in her cupped palms. To admit this, however, was to admit who she was—what she was—and that was something she could never do, not if she wished to remain in Asgard. Her father and guardian had always made it quite clear—her mother had not been a citizen and Sigyn would not be welcome if that secret came out.

For her part, Frigga had detected a lie, she just didn’t know what it was covering over. It made no sense—they were just spells. Frigga, however, was nothing if not good at digging out the truth—it was a survival trait; her second son was Loki, after all. In fact, perhaps another discussion with him was in order, since he had spent over a week out in the country with Sigyn. Frigga liked her temporary charge, but there could be no secrets in cases like this. Not if a family alliance were a possibility.

Despite this little hitch, the queen really had meant it about the research, and drew up a list of topics for Sigyn to look into for her. After lunch, she gave her a data recorder, asked Gudren to show her to the library and introduce her to the archivist.

Early that afternoon, Loki came to check in with his mother, just to chat—what other motivation could he have? “Father’s locked in his office with the auditors this afternoon, and gave me permission to ‘follow my own pursuits,’” he intoned, imitating his father’s sonorous baritone.

Frigga pretended not to notice the sarcasm, nor to notice as his eyes scanned over the clusters of women at work. Instead, she took his arm and led him away from prying ears for a short turn through the arboretum. Once out of earshot, she patted his arm. “While you were out in the country, did you notice anything odd about Sigyn’s magic?”

“Her magic? No, why?”

“There were no spells that she seemed to have particular difficulty with? Things that went awry or got out of control?”

“No. If anything I’d have to say it was the opposite. It’s hard to believe she’s self taught. In fact, one morning she started to show me a fantastic fire spell, which is something I’ve never quite mastered. I was hoping to have her show me how, but she got called away.”

“Hmm. I was just curious. She tells me that she hasn’t quite mastered spells for growing plants and I just wondered if maybe she was just being modest.”

“I guess I couldn’t say. We never went into a garden.”

“Well, no matter.” Frigga smiled. “I sent her to the library this afternoon to collect some notes for me since there didn’t seem to be anything for her to help with here. She’s a bookish girl,” Frigga’s tone approving rather than dismissive, “I thought she might be able to ferret out a few obscure references for me. The archivist can point her toward the right texts.”

“Really? That should be something she would like.”

If his mother noticed that her son’s visit was a tiny bit shorter than usual, she was diplomatic enough not to say.

Loki found Sigyn easily enough at a large table toward the back of a side room, sun streaming through a window onto the text in front of her. Every competitive bone in his body suddenly came to life—he would not let Theoric take her home with him. It was unthinkable.

He sidled up to the table, and pulled a chair around. “So what sort of wild bilgesnipe has mother sent you after?”

Sigyn’s eyes went wide when she saw who her visitor was, then she smiled brightly, “oh it’s not that bad. She just wanted notes on these new herbs that some ambassador had brought from Alfheim, so the archivist pulled a couple of botanical references for me. I should be done long before supper. In fact I think I’ve got most of what I need already—I just need to do some cross-checking.”

“Hmmmm . . . just the sort of thing Theoric would enjoy talking about I’m sure.”

She snorted before she could catch herself, but then she schooled her face into neutrality and took a long look at Loki before she replied cautiously, “I’m sure he’ll appreciate that I can supervise the health of the household without consulting him on every detail.”

Loki could see the battle in her countenance, so he licked his lips and decided to gamble. “Especially since he wouldn’t know the answers, anyway.”

This threw Sigyn farther off balance, and she opted to deflect, “Yes, well, it’s good that I’ll be able to fill that role. I’ll be able to make myself useful.”

Loki barely contained a snort and tried hard not to roll his eyes, there’s a lofty goal for a marriage.

Instead, he drew his chair closer so he could get a better look at her text. “Which book is this, anyway?” He reached across Sigyn to pull the book closer and look at the title pages, brushing her arm in the process.

“Alfric’s herbology — I hadn’t seen it before. He’s very thorough.” She relaxes at the change in subject, and he hid a little smile.

“Did you already look at Sumerson?

“No, but the librarian pulled it for me. I was going to look at it next.” She pointed to the stack on the far end of the table.

“Good idea—they don’t always agree with one another.”

“Really?”

“No. They used to get in tremendous rows at guild meetings.”

Her eyes brightened again. “No! How do you know about that?”

“My tutor told me—both of them meticulous to a fault but with egos the size of Yggdrasil itself, apparently.”

“Oh gods, I would pay to see that!” She smiled openly now, catching his mischief.

“He said it was quite entertaining, as long as you could avoid getting dragged into the debate.”

“Oh, do tell.”

“Apparently they once went at it for a week about the classifications of square-stemmed plants and whether they constituted a family unto themselves, or should be divided into three separate ones.”

“Why that’s completely illogical—how could you divide mints into more than one family?”

“There you are! But they went at it for days. Sumerson went on and on about the chemical composition of the oils and the intoxicant effects of certain species on various species of felis, insisting that this set them apart from the rest of the group.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Well, obviously, but he very much sticks to detail, so it’s good you have both books.”

“So good of you to approve.” Sigyn’s eyes fairly danced now, and Loki was stopped cold by it, his gaze magnetized by her own for a long moment before it flitted over the rest of her face—forehead, cheeks, nose, lips. It was all Loki could do to keep himself from leaning in for a kiss.

Sigyn blushed hard, turning away to pull the book back in front of her and try to find her place again, all while trying desperately to ignore the fire in her skin that somehow made her painfully aware of the fabric of her clothing shifting over her skin, made her swallow hard and her heart beat fast.

She flinched when Loki’s hand covered her own, but didn’t pull away.

They sat in silence for several long minutes as his fingers roamed over the back of her hand, carefully outlining each knuckle and tracing the tendons down toward her wrist, while Sigyn’s face remained fixed on the far page. Once his fingers slid to the underside of her wrist, though, Sigyn balled up her fist and shook her head. Her voice came out small as her throat constricted, “I can’t.”

Loki kept his touch light over her skin, tried to keep his voice just as light, “Modal verbs are tricky things, don’t you think? Such small things—can’t, won’t.”

Sigyn’s other hand felt unsteady as it covered her mouth briefly and she squeezed her eyes shut. When her hand came back down, she forced a smile. “Those little words cause so much trouble.” She kept her eyes focused on the book, but he saw her fight for control, saw the tears that she blinked back before she next spoke in a quiet, bitter tone, “Little words like ‘I do’—they get in the way.”

She pulled her hand away from his to hide it in her lap.

“Sigyn.”

“I think you need to go now so I can finish my work.”

Loki leaned in. “We’ll talk later, then.” As he walked behind her, he squeezed her shoulder and trailed his hand across her back.

#loki #sigyn #logyn #fan fiction #my fan fiction

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evendanstevens · 6 years

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All That I Need (aka mindless jopper drabble)

hi I wrote this on a total whim when I’m half asleep but figured I’d share. Joyce tries to get Hopper back into the dating game, unaware that he’s only interested in one very oblivious woman.

It had become somewhat of a tradition with Joyce and Hopper over the past couple of weeks, Wednesday happened to be when they both had the afternoon off so it was on this day they would head to the next town over to do some furniture shopping. Hopper had finally put a down payment on a house for him and El, a much needed new start for the pair of them. And with a new start came a need for new furniture. Joyce had accompanied him on his trips to ensure he didn’t go total macho in his selections. Not that Hopper minded, he was happy for the company. Especially when that company was Joyce Byers.

They were currently looking at sheets when Joyce asked him, her curiosity getting the better of her.

“So,” she started, Hopper’s ears perked up as he flicked through an assortment of colourful bedsheets. “With the new house and everything, do you think there’ll be anything else new in your life?”

Hopper didn’t look at her but his eyebrows knotted in confusion. “What do you mean?” he gruffly replied.

“Y’know,” Joyce shrugged, suddenly very interested with the pink throw in her hands, fingers feeling the fabric like it wasn’t the most horrific design she’d ever seen in her life. “Like a new woman?”

Hopper choked, Joyce’s question taking him completely off guard as his head snapped round to face her. He didn’t catch her eyes lift to analyse his response before she was back to looking at the downright ugly piece of fabric. “Wh-wha?” Hopper’s throat felt tight all of a sudden. “What do you mean?”

Joyce rolled her eyes like her question had been so obvious. “I mean, do you not think about dating again?” she looked at him, too much intrigue on her face for it to have been just a casual question.

Where was she going with this?

Hopper swallowed quickly, trying hard not to get his hopes up at the nature of Joyce’s sudden interest in his dating life. He played it off with a small chuckle of disbelief. “In case you haven’t realised, I’ve been kinda busy hiding a psychic teenager,” he said in a low voice, just about a whisper. “To even think about dating.”

Joyce shrugged again, putting down the throw and going back to looking through the same pile of Hopper, moving closer to him in the process. “All I’m saying is maybe it might make things feel a little more normal, y’know? It’s not a bad thing to have a life outside of your child.”

Hopper gulped. He knew fine well what a life outside of a child was. In the years after Sara he had over indulged in a life like that. Waking up more times than he’d like to admit next to a woman who’s name he didn’t remember. It wasn’t exactly the type of life he wanted to be juggling along with his life with El. And especially considering he really wasn’t interested in pursuing that life again. But that was for a whole other reason he wasn’t willing to share with Joyce.

“Look,” Joyce’s voice interrupted his thoughts and his eyes followed her gaze to across the shop floor. “That sales girl has been staring at you ever since we got in here,” Joyce explained as Hopper’s eyes landed on the girl in question. She was pretty there was no denying it, and by the way her eyes abruptly shifted downward when Hopper looked at her, he figured Joyce was right. “Why don’t you ask her out?”

Hopper felt any remnants of hope that he had leave his body. Nevertheless, he tried to mask his disappointment as he turned to Joyce with a scoff. “Oh, come on Joyce…”

“Oh, come on Hop,” she mimicked him with a comically low voice, her impression startling accurate. “It’s just one date, it won’t kill ya!” Joyce insisted.

Shaking his head, he faked a smile. He honestly couldn’t believe he was having this conversation with Joyce of all people. “She’s probably not even interested,” Hopper’s eyes went back to the task at hand.

Joyce looked up at him, completely unconvinced. “Oh please, I’m going to go over and look at that exciting display of dish towels over there and I bet you five bucks that girl is gonna come straight over here,” she raised a challenging brow at him.

Hopper’s eyes widened. “Joyce don’t you dare…”

And then her eyes twinkled up at her, sparkling with mischief that almost made him grumble in annoyance but god dammit if it wasn’t one of the most endearing things he’d seen. It took him back to a time over twenty years ago, with Joyce flashing him that look before they went about their stupid teenage shenanigans. The look caused a surge of nostalgia to course through him that made him stop any further plans of protest and before he knew it Joyce was backing away from him.

“Go on, work that Jim Hopper magic,” she wiggled her fingers at him in such a ridiculous fashion Hopper couldn’t help but laugh quietly to himself. It quickly stopped, however, when it appeared Joyce was right in her assumption and suddenly the sales girl was right at his side.

Joyce watched the exchange from afar, trying hard to force a smile on her face. What the hell was she doing? Why the hell was she playing matchmaker to the man she so clearly had feelings for? She shook her head, no, it was definitely better this way. At least if Hopper had someone, or at least dating again, she knew that he was taken and she would no longer look into every single action or word that passed between them. Her mind wouldn’t go into override every time his hand found itself on top of her own or on the small of her back. And she wouldn’t feel that spark when their fingers brushed against each other as they passed cigarettes between them because maybe his fingers lingered there for a second longer than they were supposed to.

She was making herself crazy, or more crazy if the town gossips were to believe. Because in what world could Jim Hopper possibly want her? Sure there had been more than a couple of times in high school, but this was different. She wasn’t that cool, collected rebel she once was. Now she was regarded as the town nut, she had two sons, a lowlife ex-husband, and her life was just one giant mess that no suitor would want to touch with a ten foot pole. And while Hopper was her friend and he was there for her more than anyone in the world, she knew in her gut that she was the last thing he would want, in the romantic sense.

Which was why she believed she was doing the right thing by getting him to start dating again.

But now every time she looked up and saw that girl’s hand on Hopper’s arm she felt like she wanted to scream. It didn’t help that the girl was young, blonde, with a shapely body and flirtatious smile, in Joyce’s eyes, Hopper’s perfect woman. It also just so happened to be everything Joyce was not. However, when her eyes left the girl to look at Hopper there was something there she didn’t expect to see. Disinterest. Sure, he was smiling and being polite, but there was a bored look on his face that Joyce couldn’t quite understand.

Her confusion only grew when she saw the smile on the girl’s face fall into a frown and the next thing Joyce knew she was walking away from Hopper, shoulders slumped in apparent defeat. Looking back to Hopper he didn’t appear to pay much mind to it as he contently went back to looking at sheets like nothing had happened. He smiled then when he appeared to have found the right set, his eyes then lifting to scan the store, eventually landing on Joyce. He lifted the sheets in the air as if to ask her approval, and Joyce nodded automatically as she tried to wrap her head around what just happened.

The drive back to Hawkins was mostly silent apart from the radio. Neither of them spoke about the encounter with the sales girl and it was like it never happened. Except the encounter seemed to be on a constant repeat in Joyce’s head and she found herself wanting to curse herself because here she was again, trying to strategically analyse every one of Hopper’s movements.

It didn’t get any better when the Hollies’ ‘The Air That I Breathe’ came on the radio. A small smile tugged at Joyce’s lips. She loved the song, she had gifted the record to herself when Lonnie actually had money coming in once upon a time. She played it practically on loop whenever Lonnie was out of the house (he had called it trash music and screwed up his nose whenever it came on), singing it to a then five year old Jonathan whenever he couldn’t sleep. Her heart had warmed when, not so long ago, she had heard it coming from Will’s bedroom, Jonathan having put it on his latest mix tape.

She was dreamily staring out the window, when she caught something in the blink of her eye as the chorus rung through the car. ‘All I need is the air that I breathe, and to love you’ and holy crap did Hopper just stare at her for a moment there? The smile on her face fell then. Hopper needed a date and he needed it soon or Joyce really was going to go crazy.

Arriving at the Byers’ home to drop off Joyce, Hopper found himself being invited in for a coffee and cigarette. Hopper had happily accepted. He was glad to have that whole awkward exchange with the sales girl put to rest. But as they shared a cigarette, he realised it wasn’t quite away just yet.

“So what happened with that girl? I thought for sure she was into you,” Joyce had asked with that same intrigued tone as she passed him the cigarette.

Hopper’s eyes tore away from her face, staring ahead as he let out a sigh of annoyance. “She wasn’t my type,” he grumbled, hoping that was reason enough for Joyce.

Instead, Joyce snorted, unconvinced. “Are you kidding? Blonde hair, big boobs and about half your age, she was perfect for you!” Hopper frowned at Joyce, irritated by her generalisation. She gave him an apologetic look. “Sorry,” she mumbled hiding behind her coffee mug.

He smirked to himself and took a draw of the cigarette. “I don’t know, maybe I just haven’t found the right woman yet,” he shrugged, the lie tasted like dirt in his mouth.

“Well it’s not like you’ve been actively looking,” Joyce mused as he handed the cigarette back to her. His brows raised in an odd sense of offensive as he turned his head to look at her. “I mean seriously, when was the last time you even looked at a woman in the past two years?”

His eyes darted from hers. They were approaching a dangerous territory.

Instead he chose a scowl. Why was Joyce so intent on him dating again? Was it some sort of sympathy thing, a gratitude thing? All he knew that no matter what it was, every time Joyce pressed him just reminded him more and more that Joyce was never going to see him as anything more than a friend. And it was beginning to frustrate him. Because even if he want to date again, how was he supposed to stop comparing every woman to her? Was it really fair to take another woman to bed, let alone date them, and spend the whole time wishing it was her? As mad as it drove him, he was more content hopelessly pining after her where he was now, rather than picturing her in the place of other women.

“Why are you pushing this, Joyce?” his jaw clenched as he spoke through his teeth, hoping his anger would ward her off.

Instead Joyce just seemed to get defensive but she still reached forward and put her hand on his. He could tell by the look on her face that she hadn’t thought to do that, her action taking her by surprise. “I just want you to be happy,” he saw something that looked like sympathy flash in her eyes and his irritation continued to grow.

Little known to him, the flash of emotion in Joyce’s eyes had been guilt and shame. Guilt that the words slipping out of her mouth were lies, that she was unwilling to tell him the real, selfish reason she wanted him to date again.

Hopper slowly drew his hand back and ignored the small, stunned look on Joyce’s face as he did so. “And what if I’m already happy?” he stared at her intensely. God he wanted this whole conversation to be over.

“Hop, are you kidding?” Joyce slumped back into her chair for a moment then leaned forward again. “I get that you love El, and you have no idea how much I admire your devotion to her. But all your time is spent up in that cabin! And if you’re not there, you’re here with her, and Will and the kids and me and…” Joyce trailed off as she thought for a moment.

Hopper suddenly felt like he wanted to run. Run out the door and never look back. The penny was dangling in the air.

A thoughtful expression crossed her face and Hopper found himself standing from the table, his eyes scanning the general area for his discarded jacket. And suddenly Joyce was going over every moment with Hopper that she’d been over countless times. And then there were today’s moments, how Hopper’s mouth had contorted into a brief frown when Joyce suggested he ask out the sales girl, his eyes ripping away from hers. The fact that’d turned down the girl, his eyes hovering on her face as the love ballad played in his car, how he was ‘already happy’.

She gasps then and it seems like her more than hopeful suspicions are confirmed when she looks up at him. He’s stood there, frozen by her gaze and his chest is heaving ever so slightly. It’s a new look for him, the way his eyes seem to widen ever so slightly, his mouth parted, not moving an inch. He looks, nervous, somehow? But why does he look so nervous when it’s only her? Just little, same old Joyce Byers who he’s known since he was four. Except the way he’s staring at her, his eyes almost begging her not to say anything, makes it clear to her, that maybe, just maybe, her feelings aren’t one sided after all.

“Hop…” is the only world she can get out, her mind going a million miles an hour.

“I should go, I should get going, I’ve got that, uh… yeah,” he gives up trying to find an excuse and instead begins to make a dash for the door.

“Hopper, wait!” Joyce yells after him, practically jumping from her seat. She’s smiling because there’s something so damn charming about the mortified look on his face right that doesn’t seem to have faded when she catches up to him in the hallway, his foot already out the door.

He stares at her for a split second, she notes his eyes look her up and down, like he’s honestly considering telling her the words she’s longed to hear from him for months. But instead he places a flat palm on half open door and taps it awkwardly with his index finger.

“Thanks for your help today, Joyce,” he’s talking faster than she’s ever heard him talk but when he stops she feels it. That palpable tension in the air as their eyes lock one more time. She wants to move toward him, wrap her arms around him, kiss him, feel him close against her. But the anxiety that cripples her demands he confirm her hopes before she even thinks about making a move.

He swallows hard and for a moment, Joyce seems to be awfully distracted by the muscles in his neck. “Anyway, I’ll see you around Joyce!” he says far too quickly because before Joyce can register what he just said he’s out of her sight, slamming the door closed behind him.

Joyce can’t help but let out a laugh, her hand covering her mouth, smiling uncontrollably. It’s been years since she’s seen Hopper so flustered and it only makes her smile grow wider. She lets out another ridiculous giggle as she hears him skid away from the house. Calming herself with a deep breath she goes back to the table and sits for a moment and soon enough her smile is back. Because somehow, in some impossible way Jim Hopper likes her. The last girl she expected to him to have feelings for, not that she’s complaining in the slightest.

It’s then that she reaches forward to the ash tray and picks up the still lit cigarette Hopper had left behind. She’s still laughing as she takes a draw, feeling about as giddy as a teenager. And then the equally exciting and dreaded question comes around her mind.

What the hell were they going to do now?

#jopper #fic #stranger things #joyce byers #jim hopper #joyce x hopper #fanfiction #this is silly #oh well #i'm sleepy so sorry if this is a whole shit tonne of spelling and grammar mistakes #i love these two

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secretcswriter · 6 years

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Going Home for Christmas

Summary: When Killian Jones’ best friend Emma Nolan asked him to come home with her for Christmas acting as her fiancé, he never could have guessed what it would mean.

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