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biohazard-inevitable · 1 month

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FINALLY finished chapter 1 of my self insert fanfiction of me and sir crocodile called These Cold-Blooded Sands and it banged out to a WHOPPING. 7.5K WORD LENGTH!!!!

I’m gonna post the link to it here but if you dont want to read it on ao3 I’ve also posted it under the cut without the ao3 edits (italics etc) cause i am NOT scanning through all that again!!!

Ao3 link

The desert of this island was a harsh, inhospitable place. Miles upon miles of scorching, arid dunes stretched between the towns that were few and far between. Winds howled like rabid dogs baring the wind as their fangs as the storms churned and grinded even the heartiest men down to the bone, that is, if the dehydration didn’t kill you first. Many a weary traveler collapsed before ever seeing another town, crumpling to their knees beneath the sheer power the desert held, just as the man that fell now, the dust of the afternoon air kicking up into the air before being lost amonst the scattered grains in the wind.

The sand crunched beneath his weight as he fell, tattered clothes torn by battle flapping weakly in the wind as the sands began to consume his body, scraping against his skin like the claws of a predator, the distant howl of a brewing sandstorm on the horizon already. His dark, ebony hair splayed wide across the golden dunes, mixing like thread into the ever consuming wastes. It swirled and fluttered in the heavy breeze, covering his face as he wheezed and coughed in desperation, incapable of staying conscious without water in his system as the clouds upon the horizon grew nearer, and the winds grew more violent, ready to sink more of their fangs into their newest prey.

The winds screamed as the sandstorm approached, swift and vile in its destruction as it tore its hungry claws into the earth, raking stone and dust into the air to become a most lethal sycthe before it came to a sudden stall around the fallen figure, a tan whirlwind focusing around a flicker of metalic gold before the typhoon ceased around that central point, leaving behind only a second figure whose heavy footfalls crunched into the dunes as he joined the first in the eye of the storm.

“Hm? What do we have here..?” The deep, gravely voice mused, puffing a breath of smoke into the swarming air as the owner of it dug the tip of his shoe into the side of the collapsed husk on the ground, flipping it with a firm kick, unsurprised when it didn’t so much as twitch. “Another pathetic stray?”

His stern, lavender gaze sweeps over the body lain in the sand, taking in its beat up, dehydrated form with a degrading sneer before suddenly settling on the strange protrusions from the man’s hair, curious surprise changing his sneer to a troubled frown.

Atop the unconscious man’s head peek out two pointed ears like that of an animal’s, and the living sandstorm of a man realizes that amongst the tattered clothing, a small, canine tail is also peeking out from the disheveled rags, sand clinging to its ebony fur and coating it in a dirty, tawny brown.

“A zoan user?” He hums to himself, kneeling for a closer inspection as he brushed a strand of coarse, filthy hair out of the smaller’s face with the tip of his shiny golden hook. “Mh, couldn’t be. Zoans are a bit of a rougher form… this one is far too soft… too human to be a mink. So then, what are you, kid?”

No response came from the unconscious body as the man sighed, using his right arm to scoop the body upwards, cradling the man half his size in his far larger limb. He glanced down with a look full of annoyance and curiosity taking another long drag from his cigar.

“Boy should be grateful to me, really.” He mused to himself, shrugging the body into a better grip as his legs began to melt into the dunes, dissappearing into a storm of grainy stones whilst he held the smaller man close to his chest, covering his face with a bit of fabric to assure no sand from the storm suffocated his new treasure during their trip. “Perhaps he’ll be useful when he wakes up.”

With a humming howl, the sands beneath began to churn once more, lifting the man into a great tower of wind and stone as he willed the dunes to carry him to his destination as they always had for the many years he’d been staying in Alabasta. What would normally take a camel several days, the man arrived within a short hour, fine golden grains cascading off his form as he regained his shape, still carrying the unconscious man as his dress shoes clacked across the tile of a casino in the middle of a grand oasis, people parting like the waves of the sea with every powerful step.

“Back from your ‘walk’ already?” Hummed a smooth, gentle voice as a dark haired woman joined the man’s side, uncannily sapphire eyes flitting down to examine the crumpled form in his arms. “And what’s that? Its unlike you to bring back anything, alive or dead.”

“You ask too much, Miss Manager.” The larger man spoke with a dark tone, gaze flitting around to the flocking patrons as practiced lies began to spill from his tongue like honey. “This is just a curious stray I saved from death, like the kind man I am. We should really get him somewhere safe and quiet, like the private VIP quarters.”

“Of course, Sir.” Spoke the woman, tone sharp and wise as she silenced her queries. “How generous you are.”

The patrons of the grand casino gazed in amazement as the man continued forward, unwavering to the questions as he hoped his brief conversation would explain enough to those who hailed him a hero. He was thankful when he passed the doors that led to the VIP rooms, the clammor of the casino falling into docile silence as he let out a deep, rasping sigh, smoke billowing into thick, curling clouds past his lips as he continued forward.

“Gods do those pathetic worms ever shut their traps when they see me?” He grumbled to himself once they were behind the safety of the hallway, shifting the body in his arms.

“They’re just in awe that a warlord such as yourself walks in their presence.” The woman chuckled, still at his side. “Thought you’d be more than used to it by now.”

The last comment was met with nothing more than a low rumble of a complaint as the warlord tucked himself into a guest room and set the unconscious man onto the plush mattress.

“So, whats the truth behind the body?” The manager hummed, glancing over the meek form with curiosity brimming behind dark lashes.

“Ironically, what I spoke out there was mostly the truth for once. Mostly.” The large man began, finishing off his cigar with a wave of his hand. “Found it crumpled in the desert, nearly dying of thirst and so I scooped it up. Figured you could take care of him, nurse it back to health all nice n’ shit.”

“Why?”

“Take a closer look at the thing. He isn’t human, and I’m almost certain he isn’t a Zoan or a mink either. Odds are, he could be useful, and he owes me for saving his life, though he doesnt know how deep his debt will run now.”

The woman glanced over at the form on the bed, her expression unreadable as she brushed a hand gently over dark ebony wisps of hair that draped over his features like wisps of shadow. Her wandering gaze wandered lower, surprised by the soft mounds of breasts that surely the warlord had overlooked in referring to the body, though she was far more surprised by the sharp, canine ears that stuck out from their head, distracting her from her thoughts entirely.

“And what do you plan to do?” She asked, taking a seat at the bedside.

“I’ve got paperwork to get done in my office, this casino doesn’t run itself.” The man huffed, his hulking frame now hovering by the door. “Get him fed and bathed when he wakes up, and answer his questions as best you can, see what you can learn.”

“And if he asks to see you?” She followed, daring not to correct the man on his possible misunderstanding of the being’s gender, though she herself was no stranger to bodies of a different kind.

“Then bring him to me.” The man smirked as he said this, his sharp, violet gaze flitting over the small man’s form. “I have my own questions.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Zayne awoke, he was hit with the sudden cool chill of shade, shade that was sorely missed as he had trudged through the desert sands. Missing, however, was the coarse grind of sand beneath his body, replaced instead with the soft embrace of fabric and the plush give of a mattress. His ear flicked softly to the sound of paper sliding against each other, like the rustling turn of a page as his brilliant, sapphire eyes fluttered open to take in his surroundings.

Gone was the arid wasteland he wandered, replaced instead with the prestigious garnishings of a wealthy man’s room. Reptilian themed paintings hung upon the walls dipped a emerald green in hue while soft carpet lined the floors, somehow lacking even a speck of sand throughout them by some miraculous feat.

By the bedside, a single chair had been pulled up, the source of the sound sitting quietly atop the cushion. It was a tall, slender woman, her legs crossed as she sat with a thick novel in hand, sleek, ebony hair falling like curtains around her neck as she seemed entirely engrossed in her reading, almost completely ignoring the presence of the man in the bed.

“Good morning.” Her voice purred, long fingertips closing the book with a soft snap as she turned her gaze upwards with a light smile. “You’ve been out of it for a while, you must be quite thirsty.”

Without a response from the fox, she reached over, handing him a cup full of clear, pristine water to which he eagerly chugged down.

“Easy now, relax.” She urged with a chuckle, gently pulling the cup back a bit from his mouth. “Don’t want to choke so soon after you’ve been rescued do you?”

“Who are you?” Zayne rasped with a desperate gasp after he had finished the contents of the cup. “Where am I?”

“My name is Robin, and you’re in the VIP quarters at Rain Dinners casino.”

“Last thing I remember was passing out in the middle of the desert…” The boy groaned, stretching himself out a bit, joints crackling with lack of use. “Seriously tjought I was going to die! Thanks for saving me.”

“Oh, it wasn’t me who saved you, though truly, I wish it had been.” Robin hummed softly, a forlorn look in her eyes.

“Well then who did? I’d really like to thank them if I can.”

“Well, he’s a bit busy right now, and for one we do have a few questions about you if you don’t mind?” Robin gently began, a concerned look upon her face as she spoke. “For one, how old are you miss?”

“Oh. I’m 18, I think… honestly I haven’t been keeping very good track of how long its been.” He answered, gaze drifting to the floor as his tail curled up into his lap, his pointed ears laying flat as he fiddled with his fur. “And… I’m not a girl.”

“My mistake then,” Robin corrected with a curt nod, continuing about her questioning. “How long has what been?”

“Well, I was captured by pirates when I was younger, mainly for well- what should be obvious.” Zayne scoffed softly, gesturing to his strange additional limbs, ears flicking as if to make a point. “I was able to escape a while ago, but without a log pose I’ve just been trying to get from island to island, whatever gets me as far away from them as possible.”

“I see.” Robin hummed, familiarity flickering in her eyes. “It must have been hard to have to run like that. I can’t guarantee things around here are much different, but I can assure you I won’t be the one to turn you in.”

“Thank you….” Zayne mumbled a little, giving her a soft smile in response. “Though now I’m a bit worried about the guy that saved me. I mean, from the way you’re putting things, you make it sound like he’ll be the one to sell me back to the pirates.”

“I suppose to him, it depends on your use. He’s… crude, like that.” She answered with a sigh, casting her own gaze to the ground as she adjusted her posture and returned her attention to the strange man. “Speaking of, what exactly are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Oh, well- I’m me?” The boy shrugged with an awkward laugh. “I mean- you might have to be more specific, I’m a lot of things.”

“I mostly meant your tail and such.” Robin chuckled softly. “Are you a zoan user?”

“Oh! No, I’m not a power holder. I’m my own species. I guess you could consider my kind closest to what you’d call a werewolf, except I’m not a wolf, I’m a fox. If that makes sense? We’re distant cousins to Minks!”

“Well, I’ve certainly heard and seen weirder.” Robin smiled. “Truthfully, thats all I wanted to know personally, but my boss may want to know more about you, since he’s the one that found you.”

“So let’s go and meet him!” Zayne piped up eagerly, already beginning to stand out of bed with a bit of a wobble.

“Not just yet, though I’m sure he’d appreciate your tenacity.” She laughed, sweeping in to catch the boy before he fell. “Though you should probably drink some more water first, and eat. We also have a shower and spare clothes since I’m sure wandering around for so long wouldn’t have allowed for many opportunities like that.”

“Oh, um… thank you, miss Robin.” The little fox smiled, his tail beginning to sway in a soft wag as she helped steady him on his feet, handing him another cup of water.

“Oh please, its just Robin.”

“Okay then, thank you Robin!” Zayne smiled as he finished another cup.

“It’s really no problem,” She smiled, handing a small charcuterie board over to the boy. “Now eat, or at least a snack to regain some of your energy.”

Zayne’s tail beat steady thumps against the cushions of the bed as he began to eat from the board, scarfing down almost the entirety of cheeses and meats from it while completely avoiding the selection of fruits.

“Didn’t think you’d be so selective.” Robin commented, taking a grape from the board.

“Never really been a fan of plants.” The boy shrugged, taking another cup of water.

“I see. Well I’ll have to make note of that for your stay.”

“My stay? What do you mean?” Zayne mused, his ears tilting with his head as he looked at her with curiosity.

“Ah, well I suppose he’ll probably explain it.” Robin hummed, taking another grape. “You see, leaving this place isn’t very simple. Not many do once they meet him.”

“You mean I won’t have to run anymore?” The fox suddenly perked, his tail wagging even faster as he leaned forward with intense interest. “The guy who saved me won’t sell me out? Won’t give me back to those pirates?”

“Of course not.” Robin smiled, though it didnt quite reach her eyes. “But you probably won’t be able to go back home either.”

“I… don’t have a home to go back to.” Zayne sighed, his black ears flattening against his head. “They burned it to the ground.”

“Oh…” Robin whispered with a small gasp, a solomn look crossing her face. “I… know what thats like. It’s not pleasant. You don’t have to speak of it if it hurts.”

“Thank you…” The boy sighed, tail curling in over his lap. “I just hope your boss will be as understanding. I don’t want to go back out there, not while they could still be hunting me.”

“I’m sure he will be.” Robin assured, standing to gather the now empty board and cup. “He’s more understanding than most would think, though hes a shrewd buisnessman and always knows how to get exactly what he wants. He may have saved you, but my word of advice? Be wary of him.”

“Thanks for the tip.” The boy hummed as he stood eyeing the ajar bathroom door as he did so. “I assume the shower is in there?”

“Yes, I’ll bring you some spare clothes for when you’re done.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The new robes Robin had left for him were soft, cozy pajamas dyed a deep, cactus green that seemed almost dull against the bright blue shock of his eyes. The shirt of it all was oversized just enough that it hid the way the hem of the pants dipped to accommodate the bushy tail that extended from what would be the lower back of a normal person., the under half of the tail a vibrant ember flash of dusty red now that the sand and dirt had been washed away.

Along with the clothes was a small note from Robin, informing the fox that she had to attend to some buisness, but he was welcome to visit the boss’s office just down the hall, and so Zayne had curiously ventured out, his bare feet hardly making any sound as he shuffled across the soft, carpeted hallway, adoring the texture of it beneath his soles as he walked. Occasionally, he glanced down at the paper held between his fingertips indicating the general direction for how to get to the office so that the little fox wouldn’t become too lost.

After a while of walking, Zayne arrived at a large set of doors that were very ornate and with darkly stained wood that contrasted with the cream-colored walls of the hallway. Hesitantly, he raised his hand to knock a few gentle raps against it, though he got no response aside from a light creak as one of the double doors slid open a small crack, indicating they were unlocked.

“Well… Miss Robin did say he was wanting to see me… and I don’t have anywhere else to wait.” Zayne reasoned to himself before pushing the door in even more. “I’m sure he’d understand.”

The door continued to creak as he cautiously pushed it forward, opening it up into the yawning darkness of the office inside, the golden light from the hallway spilling forward into the room as Zayne walked inside, the feet tapping softly from the change of carpet to cold, blue tile.

“Hello..?” Zayne called, his ears perking as he listened to his own voice echo throughout the large, seemingly empty room. “Is anyone in here..?”

His eyes swiftly adjusted to the darkness as he closed the door behind himself, admiring the ornate decor of the grand office. The walls were lined with grandiose floor to ceiling windows framed by deep violet curtains, a faint blue hue to them as they seemingly looked out into the ocean itself, as if the room itself were underwater. A lone desk sat further towards the back of the room, a singular desk lamp glowing a dull orange as paperwork and a quill sat atop the darkened wood, a dreary Den Den Mushi fast asleep off to the side of it all. Two plush, deep forest green chairs sat on one side of the desk, facing towards it a bit lower as if made for much smaller visitors, yet also emphasizing the sheer size of it all, as if the room was made for a person twice the size.

The enormous, high backed office chair seemed empty, and was messily spun around to be facing the submerged window as Zayne walked forward, his tail held tightly between his nervous fingertips as his ears flicked down into a pinned position, an eerie chill running up his spine at the sheer vast emptiness of the room. His eyes flicked around to see a giant archway in the middle of one of the walls, low rumbling sounds coming from it as suddenly, something enormous began to move.

The sound of scales sliding across the floor was the first to hit the little fox’s ears, then came the deep, warbling bellow that seemed to shake the room entirely as a shadow began to lumber through the ornate archway. Closer and closer it came until the snout of an enormous alligator shuffled through, the lizard’s cold, golden eyes glaring forward at the tiny fox before it let out a huff that blew across the floor, emphasizing its already incredible size.

Zayne felt like a speck before the monsterous lizard, though he also couldn’t help but be incredibly curious, if possibly to his own detriment as he walked closer to the beast, gazing upwards in awe as it towered before him. It was almost as tall as the cathedral-like roof as it too shuffled closer, the spines down its back just barely brushing against the top of the archway as it passed through, easily reaching a height of 40 feet, maybe more, and it was entirely impossible to guess at how long it was as barely even the front half was all the way through the arch.

The fox’s breath hitched in his throat as he stepped closer, sure he was about to die from such a massive creature, but he knew he’d be rolling in his grave if he never got to learn what it would be like to touch such a beautiful creature as he reached his hand out and pressed it against the beast’s cool, green scales. He gasped a little as the creature seemed to hum with a deep, gutteral noise in response, not caring about the little man’s touch in the slightest as Zayne eagerly began to slide his hand across the reptile’s body, feeling every dip and curve of the individual scales with a brilliant smile adorning his face, his tail relaxing into a steady wag at the excitement of it all.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Purred a honey sweet voice deeper than the sea from just behind him, the succulent baritone rumbling down his spine as it awaited an answer.

“Y-yes, shes goregous…” Zayne agreed hurriedly after a small yelp of surprise before turning around to face the owner of the voice.

As he turned, he came to realize that the chair that had been facing the window was spun around, and sitting back against it, perfectly hidden by the frame of it all was a tall, muscular man, long obsidian hair slicked back against his scalp except for a few rogue strands that fell just barely in front of his face. His eyes were droopy, deep-set pools of rich violet and a thick, bitter cigar hung from his teeth like a chunk of carrion in a lion’s maw, practically a decoration in and of itself as the man breathed out deep puffs of thick, hazy smoke. Across the man’s nose bridged an even, tightly stitched scar, practically splitting his face in two as it crinkled up around his eyes hazed by dark shadowy bags.

His chest was broad and powerful, shrouded only by the soft fur of a coat falling around him. In his right hand, he held a folded up newspaper, glittering rings adorning every finger and shimmering in the lamplight as he set the paper down with a casual slide before bringing that same bejeweled hand up to the cigar in his mouth, taking another slow, steady drag from it. His other hand lay in his lap, or at least what seemed to remain of it as instead, a glittering, golden hook, base bulbous like a beehive rested in his lap, the hook’s curve twisting like an impatient finger against his knee.

“You know, it’s quite rare I have someone come into my office so boldly like you did.” The man purred as he rose from his seat, standing to a towering height at least double Zayne’s, if not more so as he closed the distance, peering down at the little fox through discerning eyes. “Let alone someone without fear of such an enormous creature like her. Most would be more concerned about wether or not they’ll be her next meal.”

“W-well, I don’t think I will, hopefully.” Zayne stammered, looking back at the creature with curious blue eyes.

“And why’s that?”

“Because I’m told you saved me!” Zayne piped up, returning his gaze to the man as the man’s right hand pressed against the creature’s smooth scales, giving her a gentle stroke. “And you wouldn’t save someone just to kill them… right?”

“Such strange trust in someone you hardly know.” Mused the man, a dangerous glint in his eyes as he smirked. “But yes, I don’t intend to kill you, yet. I’m not that kind of man. Everything has a use.”

“What… is she, anyways?” Zayne asked, changing the subject a bit as his tail tucked against his leg, on edge from the implications of the previous sentence. “I’ve never seen something like her before.”

“Oh, she’s a bananawani. A truly powerful beast.” The man smiled, a hint of grim fondness in his gaze as he continued to pet the reptile. “The only known predator of sea kings, quite admirable for both their ferocity and sheer power. More importantly though, what are you?”

Zayne froze as he felt that predatory gaze wander over to him again, his ears trying to hide themself in the fluff of his hair as his hands went back to his tail, wringing and teasing at the fur in a nervous pattern as he turned his own gaze to the floor, unease settling into his bones as he remembered the grim warning Robin had given him. The hair on his neck bristled as he worried about what this man would do with the information, what might happen if he was careless enough to misstep and anger the giant of a man, and wether he’d even live to regret it if he crossed him.

“Such a quiet little thing all of a sudden.” Came the low chuckle as the man moved closer, though Zayne was too frightened to take a step away, his prey-like gaze locked solidly on the sharp curve of the golden hook on the man’s left arm. “I’m not going to sell you, if that’s your worry. I’m not one of those mongrels of Sabaody, I simply wish to know what you can do.”

“S-shapeshifter.” Zayne finally mumbled, trying to come up with some way he could be useful to this man. “I’m a shapeshifter, o-of sorts. I can only really do one other shape though, my given shape, but everyone on my island is born able to do it with their given shape.”

“And does your ‘shape’ as you call it have something to do with these cute little ears you’ve been trying to hide?” The man teased with a hum, his right hand reaching forward to gently pinch at the fuzzy base of the fox’s ears, causing them to spring forward, revealing themself from the mess of hair they had been trying to scurry away into. “Or are they just decorations?”

Zayne’s face grew flushed and heated at the man’s carless minstrations, the gentle pulls and tugs of his ears as his well manicured fingernails and caloused fingertips gave the lightest of scritches in just the right spot of the thin skin that sent the fox’s tail into an eager wag, despite the intimidation he felt from the far larger man. A small sound almost like a purr struggled its way out of his throat against his will as the petting continued, his ears fluttering against the soft touches that urged an answer out of him.

“It’s my animal type… I’m a fox, can turn into one.” Zayne muttered, desperately trying to resist the way he wanted to melt into this man’s arms in the moment as he took a hesitant step back, freeing his ears from that sinful grip.

“Care to show me?”

Softly, Zayne nodded, feeling the familiar numbness spreading down his arms as he allowed his body to shift and bend. Smaller and smaller he shrank, bones crunching and crackling as his joints reversed, becoming more canine and feral until his fingers became stubby little toes, palms bulging and reddening as dark, soot colored fur sprouted all across his skin. Along his underbelly bloomed bright embers of orange fur that mixed with the black, and his mouth and nose elongated, skull filling out with sharp, jagged teeth in a yawning stretch before it snapped shut again, the new snout now topped with a wet little nose. His ballooned palms suddenly shrank and became tiny pink pawpads that softly pressed against the tile as he reverted to all fours before delivering a final shake of his body, revealing the form of a small fox only slightly larger than that of a domestic cat.

“Well now,” The man purred, his smirk widening as he stared down at the much smaller figure. He twirled his cigar in his hand, tapping it against the ashtray on his desk a few times before bending down to scoop the little animal up by the scruff of his neck, bringing him closer to his face where he blew out a long, foggy cloud of bitter smoke. “Isn’t that something?”

Zayne coughed, his nose scrunching in discomfort as the sour smoke invaded his sensitive nostrils, an all too adorable sneeze forcing the particles out as he shook his head at the smoke. His paws dangled underneath him as he was held up like a naughty feline, hoping that his little display had impressed the man enough to keep him around.

“W-well..?” Zayne asked with a tilt of his head, voice sounding a bit higher with his smaller voicebox.

“And you talk like this?” Came the deep, rolling chuckle tainted with a smoker’s rasp as the man’s eyebrows raised in mild surprise. “Well, aren’t you the curious little thing. Can you bark?”

“What?”

“Can. You. Bark?” The giant man repeated, each enunciation bringing his face even closer until his deep violet eyes seemed drill holes through Zayne’s skull, making it difficult to maintain eye contact at all as the fox instead turned his gaze downwards in mild embarrassment.

Slowly, not wanting to anger the man that held him in such a tiny form, Zayne felt his maw opening, a soft pant preparing him before he let out a tiny yip that sounded somewhere between a scream and a meow before making one last squeak and closing his muzzle again. Bright blue, expectant eyes gazed at the hooked man’s face for any type of expression to judge if his little sound was good enough, tiny ears flat against his head as he nervously stared forward into those deep violet pools of uncertain frost, the man’s mood entirely unreadable except for the slow stretch of a reptilian grin.

“That’s a good boy.” Came the low, rumbling chuckle that rattled the fox to his core, a soft warmth flushing through him at the sound and he was thankful a blush didn’t appear beneath his charcoal fur as the enormous man set him back down on the ground with a soft stroke through his fur. “I think I have just the job for you, once you get settled.”

“Really?” Zayne perked, his form shifting back to a more humanoid one, though it still sat on the floor with the posture of a dog as his tail dusted the tiles with excitement. “You’ll let me stay?”

“Of course, under the condition that you work and report exclusively to me, little one.”

“Report..?” The fox questioned curiously.

“Yes, you’re the perfect ruse to be used as a spy. No one would suspect an animal to be my eyes and ears into my ranks.” The man purred. “That’s why, so long as you can keep up the act that you’re nothing more than a mere pet of mine, with no way to communicate, I can leave you in meetings while I step out of the room to get an idea of what my allies or enemies may really be plotting. A simple job, truly.”

“I see… and- forgive me for asking- but… who exactly am I reporting to?” Zayne asked, still having neglected to get the name of such a threateningly attractive man.

“I go by many names, little one.” He hummed, using the curve of his hook to tilt the shapeshifter’s chin upwards as he gazed down through cold-unfeeling eyes, a prideful grin stretched wide across his face. “And since you’re my spy, you may call me by any. Some call me by my codename, Mr. 0, while others more knowledgeable, like you and dear Miss Nico Robin, may call me by my true name. Sir Crocodile.”

“T-the warlord?” Zayne stammered, having only heard whispers of the name in the months he was on the run.

“Precisely.” Confirmed the man in question, the look upon his face seeming darker than before as he took another drag from his cigar. “It seems my reputation precedes me?”

“Only the occasional story…” The fox admited, tail curling in on itself. “You’re a pirate. A legal one, sure, but a pirate’s a pirate.”

“Mh, perhaps. But I’m not like the slavers that caught you.” Crocodile mused, rounding his desk to take his seat again with a springy slouch, flapping out the newspaper with his right hand as he casually returned to whatever reading he had been doing. “I prefer to strike deals when I get a chance, especially with sweet little things like yourself. I can be generous when I wish to be.”

“And…” Zayne began, rising to his feet with a dry gulp, doing his best to swallow all his nerves as he stood before the warlord’s desk, his curiosity getting the better of him. “And what if I say no? What if I run away?”

“You wont.” Crocodile laughed in response, his smokey crackle vibrating through his chest before those piercing eyes peered over the newspaper at the fox again.

“Why not? You think I can’t?”

“Mh, yes and no.” He responded with a shrug. “For one, you’re desperate for safety, safety I am oh so graciously offering you. I saved your life, and so long as you work for me and be a good little brat, I’ll continue to keep you safe. Second, you couldn’t even get out those doors before I grabbed you.”

“I’m faster than you think.” Zayne huffed, his chest puffing out defiantly a bit with self pride.

“Oh I’m sure.” Came the sarcastic drone from the man as he set his newspaper back down, a twinge of annoyance wrinkling his brow. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you one try, free of charge. One try where I won’t punish you for your feeble attempt, so try and make it interesting, boy.”

With a soft, hesitant shuffle, the fox adjusted himself before shifting suddenly and violently, paws scrabbling against tile as he made a mad dash for the exit, not out of any real attempt to escape, but rather an attempt to prove himself to the challenge he had been offered. His ears flicked softly at the coarse sound of grain against stone, grinding like the shuffle of sandpaper and crunching like packed snow as a warm, arid wind began to blow from behind, though the little fox didn’t slow in his movements, seeing those massive doors grow closer and closer with every dash until the wind swept by him, sand coming from seemingly nowhere as it swarmed around him like a rolling storm. Golden, glittery grains raced past, tangling into his fur unpleasantly before gathering in a pile in front of the door, a pile that quickly grew larger and larger and swiftly took shape into the warlord’s figure, though Zayne had been certain he had just been behind the desk as his claws dug into the tile, slipping as he careened to a stop into the man’s leg, only to be scooped up by the scruff by the man’s right arm.

“What did I tell you?” He sighed, face still forming from the individual grains as he held the fox. “You couldn’t even make it to the door.”

“You cheated though.” The fox pouted with a soft sneeze, earning an eyebrow raise from the warlord.

“There is no ‘cheating’ at life, little fox.” He spoke, low and threatening. “You either win at all costs, or you die trying. You should be grateful I’m even letting you live with what knowledge you have been granted from this room.”

“Yes sir…” Zayne spoke with a soft whine, ears pinning back down to his head as he averted his gaze from his new boss.

“Good. Now that you understand your place here, run along.” Crocodile sighed as he set the little fox back down on the ground. “Robin will show you to your accommodations, any questions should be directed towards her. I will call for you when I am in need of your services, and unless called for, don’t bother me. Is that understood, boy?”

“Yes sir.” Zayne nodded, shifting back into himself with an expression like a scolded child as the warlord stepped out of the way of the door, opening it for the boy expectantly. “Just- one last question?”

“What is it now?” Crocodile grimaced, glaring down with an annoyed expression.

“How did you know I was a boy?”

“Are you not one?” Came another question in response, tone a touch gentler than before, genuine concern costing the warlord’s expression.

“I am… but,” Zayne began, gesturing to his chest awkwardly. “Y’know.”

“The appearance of one’s form doesn’t necessarily indicate alignment with gender.” Crocodile hummed. “If I am incorrect in my assumption or refferal to you, correct me as needed, and do not hesitate to correct others.”

“But how-“

“I have my ways.” He interrupted. “Now go, unless you wish to ask any more questions?”

“No sir.” Zayne responded with a curt nod of gratitude before exiting the room, tail tucked against his legs as he shuffled out hurriedly, the door closing behind him.

He could feel the way Crocodile’s eyes lingered as the door shut with a click, though the little fox shrugged the discomfort away with a soft shake of his shoulders before taking a deep breath, reminding himself that as long as he behaved, he’d be fine. Everything was going to be totally, and completely fine.

“I see you weren’t eaten alive by his pets.” Came a smooth, taunting comment, and Zayne’s attention swiveled to the woman in a pristine white cowboy hat currently walking towards him from down the hall. “How did it go?”

“Robin!” He greeted with a smile, tail starting up into a gentle wag. “It went alright I think? He didn’t kill me and hes not going to sell me so, I’d call that a success! Though, he’s kind of a hermit if you ask me. He said I’d report to you mostly!”

“My you have so many things to say about him.” She chuckled with a smile. “I have my own report to place with him, but I suppose I should show you to your quarters for the evening before you start getting weary.”

“Mh, that’d probably be good too.” Zayne mewled as he stretched his limbs out, rocking back against his heels as his tail swished calmly. “Lead the way!”

“Of course.” Robin smiled, waving her hand softly as an invitation to follow as she began to walk down the halls. “You’re awfully chipper after the meeting, weren’t you frightened of him at all?”

“A little at first, but he seems nice enough.”

“How so?”

“He likes animals, treats them well too. I’ve got some experience with reptiles, and judging by how those bananawani behave and look, he takes good care of them. How big is their tank?”

“Tank?”

“Yeah!” The fox continued excitedly, his mouth running a mile a minute and his tail beating heavily back and forth. “I could see that office is underwater from the windows, and it seems to be the main access point into the tank from the arch, so I was curious how big it was?”

“Oh there’s no tank!” Robin chuckled. “This entire building is in the center of a giant oasis fed by the sea. You should be able to see part of it from your room’s window actually.”

“See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about! Plenty of space for them to swim around and also able to keep them well fed and docile enough to be handled! Its impressive.”

“He’d probably be very proud that you think so highly of his care.” Robin mused out loud as she guided the fox to an elevator, wordlessly gesturing him to follow.

“You think so?” Zayne mused as his tail wagged eagerly, stepping into the elevator beside the dark-haired woman. “I wonder if he’d let me take care of them sometime, I mean, despite the fact hes a pirate, he didn’t seem too bad. I mean, the navy clearly trusts him if they made him a warlord, right?”

“Perhaps, though I wouldn’t be that fast to trust the navy, little fox.”

“Why not?”

“They have their own secrets, and aren’t strangers to putting bounties on children.” Robin sighed, a pained look stretching across her face. “You should be careful who you put your trust in. Not everyone is deserving of such innocent trust, especially not pirates nor the navy.”

“If you say so…” Zayne huffed with a sheepish shrug, ears pricking when the elevator finally dinged to a new floor.

With a gesture of a nod, Robin stepped out of the elevator as the doors slid open, inviting the fox to follow as they quietly walked through what looked like the hall of a hotel, bright emerald carpeting with faint golden scale decals tracing out an endless pattern through the space, muting their footsteps and any other echoes that might disturb any residents. Each door was a bright, deep mahogany red, golden doorknobs and accents adorned each one while golden sconces lit the hall in a comfortable, amber glow.

Eventually, after only a few moments of walking, Robin stopped at a door numbered 469 before glancing over at the younger man and pulling out a shiny golden key.

“Here, this is yours for as long as you stay with us here.” She smiled, tossing the boy the key.

“Thank you.” Zayne replied with a bit of a shy nod, slotting the shimmering metal into the hole that it was made for, his ears pricking as the pegs clicked into place and unlocked the door with a satisfying clunk.

The glittering knob of the door pushed forward with ease, the hinges barely making a sound as the well cared for door opened to reveal a modest, but luxurious room.

Truthfully, it was quite spacious for a mere hotel room, boasting a tight but well polished kitchen with glossy marble countertops and the best appliances money could buy mere steps away from a comfortable living room. Dark, fern-colored velvet lined the plush couch and dual armchairs in the living area, a soft oak coffee table sat perfectly in the center with various magazines neatly set out for complimentary perusal. Against the wall sat a well stocked home bar, whiskey glasses glinting in the soft amber of sunset that streamed in from the wall to ceiling mirrors framed by deep golden curtains.

Closer to the windows sat a goregous four poster canopy bed with matching emerald sheets, and as Zayne oressed his hand into the mattress, he practically shuddered at how deep his arm sank into the soft, plump mattress. It would be like sleeping on a cloud, he imagined, eyelids already feeling drowsy just thinking about sprawling across the surface and snuggling into those warm, heavy sheets, his tail beginning a steady wag at his wandering thoughts of sleep.

Suddenly, a soft click grabbed his attention, his ears springing upwards and swiveling towards the sound as his gaze soon followed, finding Robin standing in the kitchen, her fingertips placing a small card on the counter.

“Your allowance.” She explained as if the question was already hanging in the air. “Mr. 0 gives all his employees an allowance, though I can’t begin to imagine how he tracks all the numbers. This card is yours, you may use it to buy anything you’d like or would need.”

Zayne’s expression scrunched as he looked down at himself, remembering how he didn’t really own any extra clothes as of yet, and probably could use a new style anyways.

“Thank you, Robin.” He nodded politely.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it. I can usually be found in the library if you need anything, but the room’s Den-Den connects to our intelligence officers if you need to contact anyone else in the organization, and it will ring to give you information on meetings and such.” Robin smiled with a hum at the bashful fox before turning towards the door to leave, her hand lingering on the handle as she sent one last expression of warmth the boy’s way. “Welcome to Baroque Works.”

#self insert fanfiction #sir crocodile #sir crocodile x self insert #sir crocodile x zayne foxx #WHEN I TELL YOU I WORKED MY ASS OFF FOR THIS #LIKE HOOOOOO BOY #i love this man so SO MUCH

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stlispenard · 3 months

Text

066: on a ship hundreds of miles from the nearest coast.

“you will take half of my ration.” all, if he gets it his way.

james’ face twitches when eskel grunts. apparently he’s aware enough to protest even if his swollen eyes remain half-shut and his mouth is the same washed-out colour as his skin. james’ humourless laugh hangs in the air between them as he reduces their conversation to an exchange of sounds. thus, nothing much is changed in the haze of eskel’s fever. except, perhaps, the urgency of it.

battling an infection when you are days (weeks even — james just can’t afford the pessimism) from your target, and there is a shortage of food and supplies, is not what you want. fleas and pests live in the crevasses between the floorboards; blood, dirt, feces live on the hands of all men on board, with no real way of avoiding it. james has delegated command and left silver at the helm. the captain scarcely believes his crew will see another sunrise (at least without any trouble). mutineers may very well wait at the threshold of his cabin, rope in hand, guns pointed, but the thread is negligible as long as eskel’s suffering subsists. consequences be damned. james has removed him from below deck, barred the cabin door, and propped the man against pillows and a pile of fabrics (discarded scraps, shirts, blankets). he has cleaned, dressed and re-dressed his wounds, brought ale, wine and rum to parched lips and cursed at his inability to swallow.

james has watched him in stillness, counted his breaths, flipped through the pages of the book in his lap that he won’t read, paced from one end to the other. watched eskel’s face morph into thomas’ and back into itself or a terrifying hybrid with their features fighting for dominance. lose one in the war you wage for the other. another fucking sacrifice to the all-devouring james flint. eskel’s blood will leave his hands with another permanent stain and he will join miranda and gates in tormenting him. the apparitions that poison his mind like some shakespearean banquo, the prelude to madness that he, like macbeth, must fend off:

avaunt! and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee! / thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold / thou hast no speculation in those eyes / which thou dost glare with!

he has hallucinated the death rattle, his final breaths, and eskel slipping through his fingers like sand or ashes. he’s imagined the worst to prepare himself for when the feverish snore that prompts it is no longer just that. james doesn’t sleep in case he misses it. he wants to be there to cradle the body until someone finally forces him to let go. he imagines the satisfaction he’ll feel from punching silver or billy or joji when they try. they’ll leave him be if they know what is good for them; they will leave him be and take him to shore to bury another lover. such lovely bones would be wasted lost at sea.

but the fever does break.

“and i might leave you on the next fucking island i see and make sure you have no other choice, but to recover. considering that you’re not a fucking pirate, either, i suppose i could send you to the spanish or the english and they will have remedies and food that i can’t provide. you’d look handsome in red and blue, but i suppose it will make me want to punch you a little.”

is there any sanity left? he wonders as he bends besides eskel — like a man kneeling in prayer — placing one hand on his bandage-covered abdomen and the other near his face, thumb brushing over where the scar on his cheek cuts his upper lip. he traces it backward, up his face and over his cheekbone and back down again. this time his finger moves over his lips, feeling them softly yield to the touch, and down to the cleft in his chin. he shifts himself forward and presses the lightest kiss across the other man’s brow and the side of his face: “your journey is not yet complete. i need my companion still.”

@blzna/@nohtora

#ic answers.#ch: james flint.#alright i am actually not okay now #blzna

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anyoneseenadam · 3 years

Note

Hii

Can you please write something for fenrys? first meeting maybe? And the bond clicks? Thank you 🥺🥺

pairing: Fenrys x reader (throne of glass)

warnings: implied smut, kissing and nudity, lil bit of blood and injuries but mainly pure fluff

a/n: fenrys is my fave and u can tell in the fic omg!! i hope you enjoy it cause it’s probs my fave one i’ve written yet :))) (i also made it a teensy bit ddlg but that’s just cause i want Fenrys to baby me lol)

——————————————————————————

Shit

Fenrys pressed his hand to the wound in his side, feeling the slow pump of blood seeping between his fingers as he stumbled through the woods. He had won the fight. The other guy now lying in the dirt, however not without consequence. And he wasn’t entirely sure he would stay alive unless he could find a healer soon.

He stopped to lean against a tree, breathing heavily as he held himself together. He transformed into a wolf, moving faster, and trying to pick up a scent, any scent, that could possibly help him, when he caught the sweetest smell he ever had. It was a female, smelling like peonies and blackberries, sweet but with an underlying smoky smell. She smelled of long days in flowers fields and even longer nights beside campfires, evenings spent curled in hand woven blankets and mornings spent drinking dark coffee and eating sweet toast.

He whimpered and began running in the direction of the scent. If he wasn’t so focused on not bleeding out he may have stopped to consider why the scent was pulling him in the way it did. He would have considered the direction he was running into, the direction of his future, his past and his present. But he just kept up, going as fast as his injured body would allow, concentrating on the sweet smell and putting one foot in front of the other.

He felt the change almost immediately, the cold snow and rough bark being swapped for cool moss. The pine trees swapped for tall, oak trees teeming with life. The silence of a frozen forest swapped for the rustling of bushes as nocturnal animals moved silently under the guise of darkness. The chill of the snow-covered woods swapped for the warmth of a summer evening. He pushed between two bushes and found himself facing a clearing, in the middle of which stood a wooden cottage, the wood dark and the roof covered in more moss, flowers growing from every surface and ivy peeking out of the crevices in the house. He stumbled down the path to the cottage, turning back into a male and crossing a small bridge over a stream that separated him from the intoxicating scent he chased.

He let out what he could only describe as a bark, calling for the female that carried the scent he was growing addicted to, collapsing onto his knees, feeling his conscious fade as he held to the side of his stomach, searing pain replaced by fiery veins as his head swayed. He barely heard the door open, only noticing the scent get so much stronger. He attempted to look up, the movement making his head spin as he collapsed, the last thing he saw, a girl in the halo of the moon.

Fenrys awoke in a foreign bed. An unbelievably comfortable bed, but foreign all the same. He pushed up on his forearms, gritting his teeth at the reminder of his wound.

The room he was in was dark, not just in light source, but also in décor. The window was cracked open with lacy curtains half closed, there was a tall bookshelf sat next to a desk with leather-bound books lining it, and tall candles flickering and casting the room in a golden glow. The bed he was in was small, clearly just for one, but so soft. He had blankets surrounding him and copious amounts of pillows, some that appeared hand made. In fact, upon closer inspection, a lot of the room looked handmade. Art covering the walls depicting crying women or bloody scenes that he presumed had been done by the owner of this house, given the pallet and assortment of brushed he saw on the windowsill.

And then there was that scent. It was stronger here and he pressed his face into a pillow tentatively, breathing in through his nose as he picked up on the deeper undertones. Fresh picked daisies, melted wax, the pages of old, worn books and something he couldn’t describe. Something so intoxicating he felt tears spring to his eyes, his body reacting in an unheard-of way, so overcome with emotion from scent alone.

He heard footsteps approaching the closed door and hastily put down the pillow, sitting up straight and readying himself to fight whoever it was if they were an intruder. But when you entered he faltered.

Mate. The word clanged through him as he came face to face with an angel. You were wearing a dark brown broderie dress with white hearts lining the hem, your feet bare and toenails painted black. Your hair was falling around your face, messy and untamed, and you had dark smudges around your eyes, makeup that accentuated your features and made you look like a character from the scary books he read as a boy. However right now you looked more like a teddy bear.

He briefly remembered the tail of a witch he had read. An evil witch who lured men into her house with whispered words and sweet kisses, only to steal their hearts and use their blood to keep her skin young and eyes bright. This girl however was no witch, you had elegantly pointed ears and a graceful way of moving that only came from being Fae. He watched as you moved to his side, silent on your feet, putting a tray down beside him before moving an opening the curtains further, letting in more natural light.

“How are you feeling?” your sweet voice interrupted his thoughts. His mind coming to a halt as he heard you speak.

“I- er fine..?” His voice was rough, and you smiled, a reserved smile. Moving to his side and sitting at the edge of the small bed he was on, pouring him a glass of water from a small decanter you had brought through.

“(Y/n.)” you answered his unspoken question.

“Fenrys.”

He muttered a thanks as you passed the glass to him, noting the crystals that hung around your neck and adorned your fingers.

“Crystals?” he asked, and you looked down, playing with the rings you wore nervously.

“My mother taught me about their meanings, they’ve always helped me.” You bit your lip and Fenrys decided he would never meet anyone as cute as you again, it simply wasn’t possible.

“Me too, my mother used to carry them everywhere.” You smiled at him shyly, a beat of silence passing between the two of you as he listened to the birds outside.

“Can I see your wound? I want it make sure it’s healing properly.” You asked and he nodded, pulling the blankets down slightly, grinning as your eyes widened as you took in his physique.

“I’m presuming you’re the healer I have to thank for letting me see another day.” He flirted playfully but you shook your head,

“I’m not a very good healer I’m sorry, but I did stitch it up and it should do the rest itself.” You pressed gentle fingers against the skin surrounding his wound and he glanced down, seeing it was already practically healed.

“You still saved my life.” He said, completely serious and you looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes.

“I’ll let you rest.” You said quietly, standing to walk away and he smiled, feeling more at ease than he ever had since the war, watching his little mate leave.

He woke up again a few hours later, wound completely healed and puckering into a scar. Standing he stretched his arms above his head, not bothering with a shirt as he left the room in search of the girl that had occupied his dreams.

The rest of the house was alike your room, tall candles and worn books everywhere. He passed a kitchen filled with copper utensils and a living room with an old armchair, a half-filled mug left next to it, but still no you. He saw the front door was cracked open and wandered over to it, pulling it open and stepping into the fresh air, barely feeling the chill on his body as he found you kneeling on the moss-covered ground facing away from him.

You were muttering under your breath and as he got closer he saw you were cradling a small bird with a broken wing. He watched as you closed your eyes, the ground and air seeming to still as you called upon your magic, a soft white light flowing from your hand into the bird until its wing was healed and it could flutter away.

“I thought you said you weren’t a healer,” he broke the silence and you turned to him with a small smile.

“I said I wasn’t a very good healer.” You replied, standing with green stained knees, your hair now piled atop your head and lip gloss coating your soft lips.

“What are you then?” he came closer to you, unable to resist holding his mate, even if you weren’t aware yet.

“My mother said we were natural faeries.” You said, looking at him shyly, “we derive our power from the earth, crystals, sea water, dirt, fire, stuff like that.”

He hummed, “So technically you could have any type of magic?”

“I guess, but I’m not very good at magic,” you muttered, hands fiddling with your rings again as he wrapped his arms around your waist. “Fenrys?” you asked, all pouty lips and wide eyes.

“Have you realised yet darling?” he asked, and you bit your lip. He knew he could tell you, but he wanted to hear you say it.

“I- we’re mates I think.” You were practically shaking, and he didn’t know why he suddenly had this burning desire to scoop you into his arms and protect you against the horrible world that was out there. He nodded with a smile, watching as awe took over your stunning face.

“Can I kiss you princess?” he asked, and you felt your face heat up, looking down as he pulled you closer. “Have you ever been kissed before angel?” he asked, his face hurting from the grin that was spreading over his face when you shook your head.

He tilted your head up to his, looking deeply into your eyes as your breaths came out quicker. “Not many people can find our cottage, my mother put up wards when she got ill, our family wasn’t well liked by the king. You probably only got here because we’re mates,” You muttered.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked again, running a soft hand over your head, smoothing your hair away from your face as you nodded sweetly.

He smiled before leaning down and kissing you gently. Pulling away and feeling as smug as a thief when your lips followed his, pouting at the loss of contact so quickly. He chuckled at your put out expression and leaned down to kiss you again, deeper this time, his tongue slipping into your mouth when you gasped against his lips, quickly beating your own in a battle for dominance and taking his time exploring your mouth.

He laid you down that morning and took you for the first time in the soft moss. Then again in your even softer bed. Now you were sitting in his lap, eating strawberries of a bush you had in your back garden as he pressed dizzying kisses into your neck, both of you still as bare as the day you were born, Fenrys having forgot how much he missed skin to skin contact, when you suddenly remembered.

“Fenrys?” he hummed in response, completely enamoured with the feel of your soft skin against his rough calluses. “Why were you hurt last night?”

“I didn’t tell you my job did I angel?” he asked, the pet name making you giggle as you shook your head, “I work for the queen of Terrasen.”

You gasped, “But she was killed!”

“Oh angel, when was the last time you left this cottage?” he asked, worry coming over him as he realised you had been holed up alone for so long.

“Not since my mother died. She said the king was dangerous and that he would hurt me if he found me,” your bottom lip was wobbling and Fenrys quickly kissed it away, shushing you as it dawned on him just how innocent his little girl was.

“No baby, he’s gone now, the new king of Adarlan is a very kind man and the Queen of Terrasen is wonderful,” he promised, “Will you let me take you to meet them?”

You nodded enthusiastically, bouncing slightly in his lap making him groan. He nipped at your ear lobe and you squealed as he pushed you down. You could meet them another day, today he was too busy with his little mate.

#throne of glass #tog #fenrys moonbeam #fenrys x reader #fenrys moonbeam x reader

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rodeoxqueen · 3 years

Note

Me again 😖😖😖 I hope you like angst cuz I got a doozy. Sparda twins when the sibling dies to protect the other. This was inspired by the Marineford arc in One Piece.

Howdy Howdy,

I just wrote some very sweet and soft work about the Spardas watching One Piece, and then I remembered this was requested. Duality and coincidence, man.

Needless to say, my friends found me trying to bury myself in another shallow grave after writing this.

-Rodeo

Dante Dies For Vergil

When Vergil sees a flash of red knock him over to the ground in the midst of battle, he never expects the sight before him.

Dante stands before his older brother, staggering and shaking. A giant gaping wound bleeds crimson onto the earth, and it refuses to close. Vergil’s widened eyes slowly look at the line of red that follows his brother’s lips.

Vergil doesn’t know what to do, seeing Dante like this. So solemn, serious, and-

He swallows thickly.

A lightning bolt shocks his veins in a frigidity he hasn’t felt in a long time. His hand reaches for his brother as he is reminded of the past he fought to never repeat.

His brother is so solemn, serious, and-

Dante’s dying.

Vergil quickly gets up and grabs his brother before he falls. It’s a clumsy excuse of an embrace, and anyone who was watching would know it was nothing but.

“You-you-”

Dante chuckles weakly, his body pliant and weak.

“Why? Why would you do this?” Vergil stammers. His own legs are weakly supporting the two of them. He can’t fight this. He can’t do anything.

Dante squeezes his arms around Vergil, and his blue counterpart can feel the strength and soul leave him.

“Why would you-after everything I’ve done-” Vergil is stammering, his body screams at him to have more grace than this. He is weak. Why is he weak?!

He can’t stop rambling, he cannot focus, he is not composed, he can’t, he can’t, he can’t, he can’t-

He can’t be alone again.

Dante claps his hand against Vergil’s shoulder.

“I’ve never been one for regret-”

“And I’m not going to start now.” He coughs dark red.

“But I can’t help but feel sorry.”

Vergil feels himself fall apart as Dante’s arms seem to fight to stay wrapped around him.

It’s tragic. Dante spent his whole life trying to piece things together just for both the twins to shatter at this moment.

“Take care of yourself alright? Tell everyone, tell everyone I’ll miss them.”

“Vergil?”

“Dante?” Vergil croaks dumbly.

Clear tears wet his coat.

Dante’s attempt to keep his words steady fails him in his last seconds.

“Thank you for loving me.” Vergil is still and Dante’s body finally slumps, a long sigh as his soul is freed from this mortal burden.

Dante’s amulet has gone cold against Vergil’s neck.

Vergil falls to his knees, his rapidly and painfully thudding heart rattling in his ribs. Dante’s body softly lands and turns over on the earth.

Dante’s pale face, eyes closed and gently smiling, greets him. He looks at his own shaking hands

Red. Why are his hands red? No. No. This is Dante’s blood. This is his brother’s blood. It’s on his hands. Why is it on his hands?

Dante got hurt. Dante got hurt. Dante got hurt. Dante-

Dante’s dead. Dante’s dead.

Vergil’s breaths are quick and he finds he still can’t breathe like he’s drowning from the air.

He lets out a guttural scream as he beats the earth with ochre hands. Vergil pulls at his hair and streaks blood on his face.

On his hands and knees, he has surrendered to his humanity at last. And it is a terrible sight.

He screams until he can’t anymore. And he sobs brokenly, a house fire of a man.

Vergil Dies For Dante

Blue and red. Blue and red. Blue and red. Dante always wanted those colors to be of him and his brother. Together, complementary.

But today. Oh, today.

Today Vergil stands before him, blue coat soaked in crimson blood that is all his own. Even when he is fatally wounded, Vergil stands with attempted poise.

When The Yamato falls onto the earth with a clang, Vergil begins to come forward with a dying man’s tread.

Dante is quick to grab Vergil, and he is panicking.

“Vergil!” He tries to staunch the bleeding, the hole in his chest right over his heart the size of his hand. His brother stops him, eyes blank and mouth leaking blood.

“It’s no use,” Vergil says, coughing red flecks.

“No, I can do something. Vergil, I- We can find Nico, she-she can build you a new heart, come on, we-we have to get help-”

“No!” Vergil barks out, legs losing balance and leaning upon his brother. The fall breaks Dante out of his in-shock rambling. His brother’s embrace chills the blood in his veins.

Dante failed. Dante let his brother, his reason for fighting, get hurt.

Vergil looks away from him, eyes weary as he fights to stay. It is a losing battle, the amount of time left slipping away like sand through his bloodied fingers.

“Vergil-” Dante hugs his brother and he sobs. Vergil’s skin is unnaturally cold.

Since their rekindling, he has familiarized himself to be used to the new contact. Vergil’s arms shake as he slowly brings them to clutch his brother’s leather coat. He sighs.

He has sacrificed his body and mind all his life. He sacrificed himself for revenge, for power, for strength, and for his own selfish intentions.

This was his last time sacrificing himself. And he felt no shame.

“Do not cry for me, brother,” Vergil says, his voice quiet. Dante holds him as if he fears he will squeeze Vergil’s life out of him if he pressed any harder.

“Now, my time is running out. I can only say this once. So heed my words.” Vergil rattles. Dante nods and his broad shoulders shake in fear.

“I have been a terrible brother, a terrible father, and a terrible man for a very long time. I blinded myself in isolation. I had abandoned you, my dear little brother. Forgive me.” Vergil says, swallowing thickly.

Dante’s eyes are wide open as he shudders in breaths. This is the first time and last time his brother will ever ask for his forgiveness, his death bed his brother’s embrace.

“Forgive me, as I had lived for so long thinking I had nobody. And I may hope Nero forgives me for this.” Vergil stirs, his arms moving around Dante’s neck, one of his worn hands upon the back of Dante’s head.

“I’ll take care of him.”

“I know you will.”

His life is leaving him, his ice-blue eyes rain-clouded as he thinks of his existence. A stray tear leaves his face.

“Even though I've been good for nothing my whole life, you have not relented in my redemption. Stubborn devil.” He wheezes. Dante laughs and it turns into a sob. He knows. He knows. He knows.

“You saved me, but most importantly, you loved me.”

It’s Vergil’s turn to cry.

He forces his weeping voice to work before he expires. He lets out a choked sob.

“Thank you for loving me,” Vergil says right into Dante’s ear, his hand slowly losing grip of his brother’s hair.

A smile slowly creeps onto his face as the twinkling sounds of a woman’s voice ring in his ears.

Vergil, where are you, Vergil?…

Vergil’s unseeing eyes shine with unshed tears as he mouths something to no one in the living world.

I’m right here, mama.

The storm has approached and dissipated, and Vergil surrenders to his end.

When Vergil’s nose brushes against Dante’s jugular, Dante already knows. And the truth is fatal.

And yet, he pushes Vergil’s body away from his in hopes to see his brother take another breath.

He doesn’t.

His dead brother’s face is calm, eyes clouded over with a rare smile on his face. Bits of his hair has fallen to his face. Dante dumbly moves his hand over, shifting to brush his hair aside.

Smears of Vergil’s crimson soak into his hair. Dante realizes his hands are covered in red.

Dante shudders and he immediately goes back to holding his brother with a grip tighter than he was holding him prior.

Red and blue. Red and blue. Red and blue.

He looks down. All of Vergil’s coat is ochre. He doesn’t want to look at it anymore.

He is mute, a long pathetic whine leaving his mouth as he falls to his knees, cradling himself and his brother.

History repeats itself in a new way.

Dante kneels with his head down, just like he did when he was a child during the first time he thought he lost Vergil. Instead, now his brother is in his arms, this time-

This time he knows for sure.

It is red, and all there ever will be is red.

Half of him has disappeared.

Dante stays there for a very long time, a shell of who he used to be.

#dante imagine #vergil imagines #dante sparda #vergil sparda #angst #rodeo is best at angst #rodeo cried several times because of this #request #devil may cry angst #devil may cry imagines #devil may cry

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mostlydysfunction · 4 years

Text

Sacred Part 2

Summary: Tusk has made his decision, something that changes both his and Chloe’s lives forever.

Pairing: Yautja x human OC

Warnings: Some violence, shitty Yautja anatomy descriptions, some fighting, a little blood, smut

A/N: OMG I did it. I finished part 2. I’ve literally been working on this since I wrote Part 1 like three months ago. My muse bit me in the ass and here we are. BONUS: extra love to whomever can figure out the ending....

Part 1| Masterlist|

Tarei’hsan frantically presses buttons on the console, the ship shuddering as shots are fired at them. Chloe is safely tucked away in a pod, strapped in and ready in case things go wrong. The coordinates are set, ready to send her to the nearest oxygen-based planet. All he has to do is press a button.

He weaves the ship, dodging fire as he attempts to start a jump. He needs to get as far from there as he can, his ship only capable of taking so much fire. Things had not gone as he’d hoped. He had thought they were in empty space, but it appeared there were others in the area.

He had abandoned the idea of returning to his Clan Ship. There was a chance they would be killed on sight. There was a chance they would kill Chloe and make him watch. There was a chance she would be hated for her entire time there, shunned by the males and scorned by the females. He couldn’t put her through that. So he had changed course, cut the ties with his clan, and sent the ship off to empty space where he would have time to figure out where they were going to go.

But then she’d come in, smelling like sweet meat, clean and musky and he’d completely lost control. He’d mated with her, lost himself in her. He’d let his guard down and now they were being pursued by another spacecraft. He had sent the ship right into a trap and now he was paying the price.

He curses, steering away from another blast. The ship was almost ready, vibrating from the force of the damage and the power needed to make such a big jump. It was the safest place he knew for both of them and their best bet on a place to lay low for a while.

The wormhole opens in front of him, his ship jumping through, thankfully closing before the other ship can follow. He slows his ship down, preparing to enter the atmosphere of the planet before him. He keeps Chloe stored away, wanting to be ready for anything. She would forgive him later, he’s sure of it.

He lands on the planet, kicking up dust as he sets the ship down roughly. He runs a scan, pulling up everything that’s damaged. He’d need to do repairs before they did any more serious traveling. He makes sure the cloaking is on before he leaves the pilot’s seat, heading back towards the pods. He opens the pod, catching Chloe as she slides out. It would be a few minutes before she would wake up, so he returns to the pilot’s seat, holding her in his arms.

She’s soft and warm against him, and he can’t help but remember how she’d felt wrapped around him, tight and wet. He’d let her dominate him, let her take control. He’d wanted to fuck her like a female but he knew she was more fragile, more delicate than the females of his kind. He didn’t want to risk hurting her. She’d been so receptive to him, the sounds she’d made, the way she shivered when he touched her. He can feel himself getting hard again and pushes the thoughts away. That was for later.

Right now, he needed to find them someplace to stay, someplace to lay low.

Chloe starts to shift in his arms, groaning a little as she stretches. He purrs quietly to her, smoothing a hand down her back. She groans again, nuzzling closer to his chest. He stares down at her for a moment, tracing her features with his eyes. Yautja don’t define beauty in the same way humans do. Yautja don’t have a concept of beauty at all. Strength, power, hunting, and fighting abilities. Those were things Yautja took into consideration when looking for mates. But this small ooman, pathetically weak compared to him, had warped his ideals. She had wormed her way into his mind, into his heart, and changed him. But he had been the one to let it happen, too. He had let her worm her way in, twist him inside, change him. He liked it.

He leans back in his seat, cradling his tiny ooman in his arms. His clan may not agree, may not accept her, but he was willing to let it all go, leave it all behind for the sake of his ooman. His Yeyinde.

Chloe starts to stir again, Tarei’hsan’s helmet picking up her rising heart rate and her quickened breaths. He doesn’t loosen his hold, staring down at her as her eyes flutter then open. She frowns for a moment, looking around, her body tensing slightly.

“Tusk.” She says, her voice groggy and rough.

He purrs in reply, shifting her slightly to free one of his arms, reaching out a clawed finger to brush a stray hair from her eyes. He lets the claw trace lightly down the side of her face, watching her struggle to come out of the drugged sleep she had been forced into. He had given her half a dose, knowing her biology was different, and regardless of his blood running through her system, he could have easily killed her with a full dose.

“What...happen...”

“Attack.” He says, searching for the words in his database. “Hostile ship.”

“Where are we now?” She asks, rubbing her eyes.

“Safe.”

She groans, laying her face against the armor on his shoulder. He continues to hold her, hoping he did the right thing. Hoping he made the right decision. He was forever an outcast, leaving his clan, his family behind, all for this tiny, fragile human in his arms. Was she worth all of it?

Yes.

He could start his own family, his own clan. He had heard of it being done. Bad Bloods did it all the time. He would be his own leader now.

********

Chloe rubs at her eyes, bare feet kicking up sand as she follows close behind Tusk. She was still groggy and disoriented, but Tusk had told her that would wear off soon. She pulls the blanket tighter around her, picking up her pace so she doesn’t get lost behind the long strides of her alien companion.

She hadn’t gotten much out of him, not that she had asked much to begin with. Wherever they had ended up, he had deemed it safe enough for them, at least for the time being. Chloe starts to get flashbacks to the time she’d watched Star Wars, being reminded of it as they enter the metal building. It wasn’t enough that she was being reminded of it, she’s living it. She was on an alien planet in outer space. Obviously one that was heavily trafficked, as the many ships sitting outside had told her.

She keeps her head down, a blanket covering her as she sticks close to Tusk nearly pressed up against his back. He’s speaking with someone she can’t see, not that she really wants to. It was enough of a shock to register the fact she wasn’t on Earth anymore, let alone the fact she was with an alien...an alien she had fucked...to try and wrap her brain around the fact there were more aliens around her. They were all aliens to her. Or was she the alien?

Chloe grips the back of Tusk’s belt as he speaks with someone, pressing up against his warmth. It had been warm outside, but the metal floor is cold against her bare feet. Thankfully no one seems to pay them any mind, giving them a wide berth in fact. Perhaps it was the nature of her companion. Or maybe that was just alien etiquette.

She’s pulled along as Tusk begins to move, making his way through crowds of creatures. Chloe keeps her head down, holding onto Tusk as he weaves his way towards a staircase, heading up. She nearly runs into his back when he stops, heading down a hallway before opening a door. She’s ushered inside before he closes the door, the airlock hissing. She pulls the blanket down so it’s wrapped around her shoulders, looking up at him. He’s at the small window, glancing out. Chloe takes a moment to look around the room, taking it in.

Had she not known she was on a different planet, she would have guessed she was in some sort of strange hotel. Maybe something one would find in Roswell or the Southwest. The entire room is metal, giving it a very futuristic look despite the obvious wear and tear. There’s what seems to be a bed in the corner, and a desk in another. There’s a door next to the bed, what she assumes leads to the bathroom. What she hopes leads to the bathroom.

Tusk moves from the window finally, making his way towards her. She looks up at him, craning her head to see him as he stops inches from her. He lifts his hand, clawed fingers tracing over her cheek before his palm presses against her skin. She leans into his touch, letting her eyes flutter closed.

“What happens now?” She asks, lips brushing the rough skin of his palm.

“Stay until safe.” He says through his helmet, claws running through her hair gently. “Then...I don’t know.”

She opens her eyes, looking up at him. “We’re not going to your clan are we?”

He shakes his head. “Too many...risks. Not...worth it.”

Chloe frowns slightly, pulling away from him and sitting on the bed. He watches her, mandibles clicking in confusion.

“I can’t help but feel this is partially my fault. Actually, it is all my fault. I’m the reason you can’t go back to your family. Your clan. You did all this for me and now you can’t ever see them again.” Chloe runs a hand through her hair tugging on it slightly. “Your entire life is ruined because of me.

The hand on her shoulder startles her. She had been so lost in her own thoughts she hadn’t even noticed him move close to her. Her back hits the mattress with a hard thump, nearly knocking the wind out of her. It’s not as soft as she’s used to, not even the pile of furs she’d been sleeping on the past few days weren’t as firm as this mattress. Despite its firmness it still dips as he climbs on, heavy weight denting the firm substance.

She can feel the warmth of him as he kneels over her, caging her in under his body. He lowers himself down, holding himself up on his elbows. His mask is nearly touching her face, close enough she can see the roughness of the metal, the divots and impurities in it.

They lay like that for a few moments, breathing in each other’s air before a single word is uttered.

“No.”

Chloe stares into the eyes of the helmet, lips parted slightly as she breathes in the slightly musky scent coming off him. She feels exposed suddenly, the blanket had fallen open. She had been forced to dress in her dirty clothes, her torn pants and the tank top she’d worn under her layers on Earth. The room is cold, making her aware of her lack of bra but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Yeyinde.” He breathes out, shifting ever so slightly over her. “Worth it.”

Chloe bites back tears at his words. They were simple but she could understand. He wouldn’t have risked taking her on his ship in the first place, he would have left her to die in the cold on Earth if he hadn’t thought she was worth it. He wouldn’t have risked his entire life, he wouldn’t have saved her. He wouldn’t have let himself be so vulnerable with her...he wouldn’t have been so gentle with her had he not thought her worth it. He hadn’t left his family, his clan because he felt like he had to. He was doing this because he thought she was worth it. He was putting her above everything he knew.

He pushes himself up, kneeling over her on the bed. Chloe chases him, pulling herself up so she’s kneeling as well, only putting her about eye level with his chest. She puts her hands on his shoulders, bringing herself up to press her lips against the metal of his helmet. He tenses slightly under her hands, but she moves back before he gets too uncomfortable.

“I understand now.” She says, sitting back on her heels. “Besides, we don’t need them. We can be our own clan.”

***********

It’s dark out when Tusk returns to the room. Chloe is wrapped up under layers of blankets, trying to get warm. It was warm on the planet during the day, but the nights were something else. Chloe had her back to the door, not wanting to move out of the warm spot she’d created. She knew Tusk would be disappointed in her lack of awareness, of her lack of self-defense, but she was tired and finally starting to get warm.

She hears the familiar hiss of air as he removes his helmet, setting it on the desk with a clunk. A few more clunks follow, meaning he had stripped off his armor. The bed dips as he settles on it, cold air meeting her skin as he slips under the blankets. She instantly rolls back against him, seeking out his warmth. She can feel the wire netting against his chest, pulsing out warmth under the blankets. She sighs contently, her sigh being met with a purr. She smiles softly to herself, a thick arm wrapping around her stomach, pulling her tighter against the solid body behind her, mandibles twitching in her hair. She feels small like this, his sheer size evident in moments like this. She’d been close to him, closer than this. She’d seen more of him than she ever thought she would when she first woke up in his ship. They’d shared an extremely intimate moment, one she wasn’t even sure the cultural meaning of to him completely, and to be totally honest, she wouldn’t mind doing it again.

But not right now.

She’s tired, the last of the drugs he’d used to knock her out wearing off, leaving her feeling exhausted despite the fact they’d put her to sleep. Despite the unknowns, more on her part than even his, she feels safe and comfortable in his arms. She knows he’ll take care of them both. He had so far.

********

The clothes help infinitely. Chloe’s not sure where they’d come from, or how they look perfect for humans, or even how he’d gotten the right size, but they fit almost perfectly and they’re extremely warm. She could gauge enough from his silent emotion and his posture he still wasn’t comfortable with her leaving the room yet, but at least he remembered to feed her and he had tried to make her as warm as he could. It seemed aliens were more adapted to the chill of space, and so most outposts like this were colder than humans were used to. It made sense to her. It wasn’t like humans were exactly traveling out this far. They weren’t adapted to this kind of life. She was the first, and no one even knew it.

It made her feel slightly melancholy. She did miss Earth. There were things she had hated, but it was still her home. She hadn’t left much behind, but her exit had been unexpected and the reality of her situation hadn’t hit her during her blissful time on the ship. But it wasn’t like she could convince him to go back. From what she could garner, his kind visited Earth fairly consistently and so going back would be a risk. It would be easier to track them. This was her life now.

He was her life now.

*******

“What are you doing?” Chloe asks him one day. She figures they’ve been there about a week now, as far as days go on the planet.

“Fix ship.” He says, messing with something electronic on the floor of their room. Chloe couldn’t even begin to tell you what it was or what it did. “Damaged.”

“From the other ship?”

All she gets is a grunt in reply.

“Was...was it your kind...that attacked?”

He shakes his head, locks swaying back and forth. “No.”

“Oh.” Chloe looks down at her hands. “Can...can I do anything to help?”

“No.”

Chloe bites her lip, pulling her knees to her chest. She can’t help but start to feel bored. She had absolutely nothing to do. She was stuck in their room all day, every day. The only excitement she had was his coming and going and their mealtimes. She needed something to do. Some entertainment. Anything.

That’s why she decides to leave the room one day when he’s out. She knows she shouldn’t, she knows she’s entirely alien to everyone that could possibly be in the outpost. She knows it’s dangerous, but she’s tired of being cooped up and bored. So, she leaves the room when he’s out fixing the ship.

She slowly makes her way down the steps, entering the lobby of sorts. There are creatures her mind couldn’t fathom sitting around. It was more like a bar than a lobby, really. She’s utterly fascinated by the completely different world, taking in everything she can.

She’s drawn to where groups of creatures are sitting around tables, playing what looks like Craps, but she can’t discern anything else. She leans against the side of the table, watching them curiously. None of them give her more than a glance, Chloe trying to work out the rules and point of the game on next to nothing as far as information goes.

After a couple of rounds, the creature next to her sets the dice in front of her, giving her a look. She doesn't need to speak the language to understand what that look means. She’s reaching for the dice before she can really think it through, but she’s stopped when a clawed hand wraps around the back of her shirt, yanking her away from the table. Her feet slide on the floor as she’s dragged towards the stairs, Tusk’s nails cutting into the skin on the back of her neck.

He’s angry. She can hear the angry trills and growls from his chest as they move away from the lounge area and back towards their room. Her feet leave the floor as she’s quite literally tossed into the room, hitting the metal floor hard. She coughs, the wind knocked from her lungs at the impact. It jars her, but not quite as much as the seething Yautja across the room.

Chloe jumps as his helmet hits the floor with a loud thud. She’s shaking, she realizes as she props herself up on her hands, staring at the angry alien. His eyes are filled with rage, glaring yellow slits at her. His mandibles are flared wide, fists clenched.

“Ooman stay.” He growls out, pacing back and forth.

“I was bored.” Chloe tries to defend herself. “I have nothing to do.”

“Dangerous. Ooman not know.”

“You won’t tell me anything! How am I supposed to know when you won’t tell me anything?” Her voice is rising, pushing herself up to her knees. Her side is sore where she hit the floor. She knew he was strong, but she hadn’t ever pictured the strength being used against her. She had herself convinced he wouldn’t hurt her. But he was still an alien. Had she made a mistake in thinking that of him?

“Ooman stay safe. Ooman do as told.”

“You’re not the boss of me!” Chloe says, feeling childish but she’s so angry and tired she can’t help but fight back. “I didn’t ask you to take me. I didn’t ask to be with you. I didn’t ask you to leave everything behind for me. I didn’t ask you to-”

A loud roar shocks her into silence. It’s louder than she’s ever heard from him, her ears ringing at the sound. She can’t help but fall back at his roar, backing up in fear. The sound is primal, dangerous, awakening some prey instinct in her that has her making herself as small as she can in the far corner of the room.

He’s standing there, eyes wide in anger, mandibles splayed. Chloe hadn’t felt this afraid of the one she’d met on Earth. She hadn’t ever felt this afraid before.

He stops roaring, glaring at her for a moment before bending to pick up his helmet, leaving the room with a slam of the door. Chloe curls up tighter in the corner of the room, burying her face in her arms.

**********

Chloe sleeps alone on the alien planet that night. She hadn’t seen Tusk since their argument and part of her is afraid he had left her. Abandoned her on this planet in his anger. She had just been bored. She hadn’t known anything. She didn’t know anything about the galaxy or other planets or the life on them. A few weeks ago she hadn’t even known life existed outside of Earth. Of course, there had been the “sightings” and the people who were convinced, but she had always been skeptical. Skeptical until proven real. That was her mantra.

But aliens were real. She was on some distant planet Earth probably didn’t even know about yet, crying over a fight with an alien species Earth also didn't know about. It was all very real, and here she was, crying after a childish argument with a species that could probably tear her in half with his bare hands. Who was she to think she could make decisions like that. Act stupidly in a place she was totally ignorant of? She doesn’t know what she’ll do if Tusk doesn’t come back. If he really did abandon her here. She really doesn’t know.

*********

Tusk can’t sleep.

He’s staring up at the three moons in the sky from the pilot seat of his ship. He had been so afraid...so worried when he’d spotted her in the lounge at the table. He had told her to stay in the room. He had told her it wasn’t safe and she had acted like a pup and defied him.

But her face when he had roared. The...fear in her eyes.

He feels a sick twisting in his stomach as he replays the moment in his memory over and over. It was a side of him he hoped she would never have to see. A side he never wanted to direct towards her. She was fragile, small. His little ooman and he had roared at her like...like an animal. He hadn’t meant it. He was blinded by his anger. He had lost his temper like a fiery Young Blood. He wouldn’t ever hurt her. Not his little Yeyinde.

And now here he was, sulking in his ship while she was alone.

He gets up, heading back into the outpost and up to their room. It’s dark inside but he can see her, curled up in the bed. She’s asleep, her breathing soft and even. He sets his helmet quietly on the table, getting rid of most of his armor as well before climbing into the bed next to her. She doesn’t wake, but she does shift closer to him. He runs a hand down her arm, feeling the softness of her skin, how delicate it is. He can smell the dried blood on her neck from where his claws had cut into her when he’d grabbed her. He feels the twisting in his gut again, moving his head to lick at the wounds.

He purrs quietly, tongue tasting the metallic blood. She stirs slightly, letting out a quiet groan.

“Tusk?” Her voice is thick with sleep, hand rubbing at her eyes.

He lets out a louder purr, nipping softly at her shoulder. She rolls back over, settling into sleep again, Tusk wrapping himself around her tightly, holding onto her determined not to let go.

**********

Chloe wakes up warm and comfortable. Her head is moving slightly, up and down in a smooth pattern. She would have been convinced she was on a boat if the past day’s events weren’t flashing through her head.

She moves slightly, lifting her head so she can look up at him. His eyes are closed, face relaxed as he sleeps. Chloe wants to move away from him but she’s stuck to his side by the arm around her waist. Her leg is thrown over his, body pressed tight against his side. She rests her chin on his chest, fingers tracing the mottled pattern of his skin. She doesn't remember him coming back, doesn’t even remember him joining her in bed.

She can’t help but remember the day before. The anger in his eyes, the roar. She’ll always remember that roar. More so that it was directed at her. But staring at him now while he’s sleeping, it’s hard to picture him as that fearsome predator she had seen yesterday. He’s still fearsome, but there’s a softness about him in his sleep. This is the Tusk she knew.

She looks back up at his eyes, finding them open and staring at her. She had been so lost in thought she hadn’t realized he had woken up. Hadn’t felt the change in his breathing. He stares at her with his yellow eyes, all signs of anger and malice gone. Her wandering hand is almost at his jaw now, her fingers wrapping around one of his locks. He lets out a trill and suddenly she finds herself laying on top of him.

“You scared me.” She says quietly, running her fingers over his lock, feeling the texture of it. “I thought...maybe...”

A purr rumbles through his body and into hers, vibrating every inch of her. His hand is splayed on her back, the other tracing the skin on the back of her thigh. “No hurt Yeyinde.”

Chloe lowers her gaze for a moment before looking back up at him. His hand has drifted down her back, splayed out on her lower back now. She can feel his heart thumping in his chest, an unusual rhythm to what she’s used to, but it’s become comforting to her now. She wraps her hand around his lock, tugging on it lightly. His body jerks under hers, hips shifting slightly. She gets a mischievous glint in her eye, tangling a hand in his locks before tugging hard.

He lets out a roar, but this one is different than the one he’d made yesterday. She’s familiar with this roar, having heard it before. She tugs again and he’s sitting up, her body dropping the few inches into his lap. Her shirt is history, claws leaving light lines on her skin as he rids her of the fabric, hands sliding up her sides. His nails brush against her nipples, making her shiver. He does it again, her body starting to flush in response.

He leans down close to her but her hand in his locks stops him. He stares at her with a question in his eyes.

“No.” She says, tugging on his locks again, his breath fanning over her face in a huff at the motion.

She stands up on the bed, standing over him, and for a moment he wonders if she’s changed her mind, or it wasn’t what she wanted in the first place. But the moment her knee hits his chest, attempting to shove him back onto the bed he understands. Her hand yanks his head back as he grabs her leg, his other hand pushing against her back. She tugs his locks again as he flips her, easily overpowering her in this fight as she winds up on her stomach on the bed.

He’s faster than she is, somehow having removed his loincloth in the time between when she’d hit him and when she’d been flipped. His hand presses between her shoulders, her head turning so she can still breathe. Her pants are yanked down, hips being lifted and rested on something soft. She goes limp as he positions her, taking a moment to make sure she’s comfortable before his hand is between her legs.

She’s already wet, slick and warm against his fingers. A breathy moan leaves her lips as he brushes over her clit, hips jerking slightly to chase his fingers. He purrs deeply, the head of his length replacing his fingers, running it along her slit. Her blatant displays of aggression towards him, along with her hand in his locks, had pushed him over the edge, his length straining against his loincloth painfully until he had released it. He was well versed in doing this quickly, having to tame several females who had fought him for dominance in bed. But she wasn’t a Yautja female. She had given over quickly, and he had made sure to be gentle with her. She had known she wouldn’t win against him, her actions were solely to rile him up.

He’s not as gentle this time, offering her no preparation as he begins to press himself inside her. A low whine leaves her lips at the stretch, her body having forgotten already what it was like. He seemed bigger than before, her body stretching, trying to fit him in.

She’s glad the pillows are holding her hips up, her legs already shaking by the time he’s seated as far as he can go. His own breathing is labored, mandibles flared at the sensation of her tight, wet heat. He begins to move his hips, fighting the resistance of her body as he pumps himself in and out of her. She’s slowly relaxing, hands gripping the blankets on the bed, the most endearing sounds leaving her lips.

He snaps his hips into hers, her body jerking in response. Her eyes roll closed, a high pitched moan leaving her lips. His mandibles click together in a laugh, repeating the action. She tightens around him even more, a deep growl leaving him in response. He picks up speed quickly, thrusting in and out of her hard. He folds his body over hers, hands resting near her head as he mates her the Yautja way. The sound is wet, along with skin slapping skin and their moans and growls.

He leans down, shifting his hips slightly as his mandibles trace along her face, tongue tasting the sweat on her skin. She grips the blankets tighter, squeezing impossibly tight around him, ooman words spilling from her lips before she goes silent for a moment. A long, keening whine leaves her then, eyelashes fluttering. She’s squeezing him, fluttering around him. He growls, hands gripping her hips as he picks up speed even more, thrusting harder and harder into her.

His hips still, head rearing back as he lets out a roar, length pulsing as he releases inside of her. Pleasure tingles through him, traveling along his spine into his stomach and through his length. His little ooman is whimpering at the sensation, legs trembling still from her own release.

He pulls out of her, sitting back and watching as their mixed fluids drip from inside of her. He leans down close to her, letting his tongue run the length of her slit. Her hips jerk in response, her back arching slightly. She’s tangy on his tongue, mixed with his musky flavor. He finds he likes the taste, pressing back in for more.

**********

Chloe can barely leave the bed for a week. She had complained about being bored and having nothing to do, but she hadn’t quite had this in mind when she had said that. Tusk had become relentless, every moment he wasn’t fixing the ship, feeding her, or sleeping he was between her legs. He let her take the lead sometimes, but others he was ruthlessly fucking into her, leaving her with bruises and scratches. She can’t exactly complain, though. For all of their differences, he at least knew how to be a decent lover. She’d lost count of the time she’d cum from him.

But thankfully he seems to be slowing down, spending more and more time fixing the ship, meaning it was close to being done. Perhaps that meant they would be leaving soon. Where they were going to go, however, she hadn’t gotten an answer. Perhaps because Tusk didn’t know either.

She’s also thankful he’s gone more because she’s started to feel sick. She was eating less, none of the foods he brought seeming to be appetizing to her anymore. She had managed to stomach most of them before, but it seemed like she had lost all taste from them. Her mind comes back to the stories she’d read about alien diseases, bacteria and microscopic lifeforms brought back from space destroying humanity. Could she have gotten some sort of space parasite suddenly? Had that been why he’d been so adamant about her staying in the room?

Chloe rests her head on the edge of the toilet seat, or what she calls the toilet seat, wiping some of the sweat from her brow. She’d puked up breakfast again, thankfully Tusk gone from the room so he wouldn’t be worried. She felt fine otherwise, just nauseous and tired.

She washes her hands, splashing water on her face before going back to the room. She’s barely sat on the bed when Tusk comes into the room, leaving the door open for a change.

“Come. We leave now.”

“Now?” Chloe asks, watching Tusk grab the few things they had accumulated during their stay.

“Yes. We go now.”

Before she knows it she’s back on the ship, tucked safely in Tusk’s bed as he takes off. Her stomach lurches as they leave the planet, threatening to bring up the nonexistent food left. She lays there, thinking for a moment when it suddenly hits her. Her stomach drops as the ship rocks as they leave the atmosphere, eyes wide as she calculates the numbers in her head. She didn’t know exactly, but from what she could figure out, it had to be true.

She rises out of bed, making her way from his room towards the control deck. She doesn't get that far, however, Tusk meeting her halfway.

“Yeyinde.” He says, pausing mid-step.

“Tusk, I need to talk to you. I want to know where we’re going.”

“Somewhere safe.” He says, moving past her.

“Tusk, please, tell me.” She turns to him, watching him go with a sigh. “Tarei’hsan.”

He stops at her attempted pronunciation of his real name. He turns slowly to face her, shoulders tensed. She approaches him, staring up at his face through the helmet.

“Tusk, I’m...” She bites her lip. She’s not sure if the word will translate correctly or even have a meaning to him. So instead she grabs his hand, putting it over her stomach. “Pup.”

He stares down at his hand for a long time, her small one covering his where it’s resting over her stomach. He rapidly switches through signatures on his helmet, finding the small zygote resting in her body every time. It’s faint and barely there, but he can see it.

**********

EPILOGUE: 40 years later

Chloe steps out of the hut as the ship lands in the clearing. The other members of their clan, cast outs and loners like them stepping out as well. They had been gone for weeks now, something Chloe had gotten used to after Naugui was born. Tusk had been adamant about raising him the Yautja way. Chloe had no problem with that, after all, Naugui took after his father in every way. An outsider would have questioned whether he was Chloe’s son, but he knew, and so did his parents. Chloe had nearly died birthing him herself, and it was something she would never forget.

She pulls her greying hair back, tying it up from her face as Naugui and Tusk step out of the ship. Tusk had managed to keep himself connected to other Yautja clans without them knowing, secretly spying on them since he left. There had been talk recently, worrying talk. There had been word of an invasion on Earth spreading through some of the clans. Tusk and Naugui had gone to see if it was true.

Chloe can tell by their body language when they approach her what the answer is.

“What do we do?” Chloe asks, wrapping her arms around Naugui.

“We can do nothing,” Tusk says, cupping her face.

“Earth was my home once. To think it could be gone...wiped out...” She chews on her lip, Naugui pulling away from her slightly.

“The armor.” He says, looking to Tusk. “If it can get to Earth...”

“No.” Tusk says. “It’s too risky.”

“They need a chance to defend themselves. Oomans are part of me. If I can give them a chance, I will take it.”

Tusk lets out a breath Chloe understands the meaning of. She turns back to her son, wrapping her arms around him tightly. She knows the risk well. She’d heard first hand the whispers. Being the clan leader’s wife she knew everything he did. If Naugui did this, there was a strong chance he would not be coming back. But that was the Yautja way. It was a risk they took on every hunt. A fear they faced unflinchingly.

“Do your best, son,” Chloe says, cupping his cheek through his helmet.

He leans forward, resting his forehead against hers for a moment before standing up straight. Chloe watches him walk to the ship, leaning against Tusks’ side, ruminating on the fact this could be the last time she sees her son.

#sacred part 2 #i finally wrote it #yautja #predator #predator x human #yautja x human #preadtor x reader #yautja x reader #preadtor x oc #yautja x oc #violence #space adventures #the ending is a reference #who can get it #well see

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borea-liss · 3 years

Text

Chapter One

⇨ Dragonborn!Todoroki x Tribe Chief Descendant!Reader

⇨ An AU in which Reader is apart of a tribe that lives to fight against a mythical group they call the Ice Dragons. One day, the Reader’s tribe fellows bring in a young man - an alleged Dragonborn, descended from their worst enemy. The young chief in line, whose heart is too compassionate to kill an innocent, convinces the raging tribe to keep him alive for research purposes, while they set out to free the captive, but the story turns out to be much more complicated than what they thought it would be...

⇨ Reader’s Quirk: Groundbreaker - the ability to bend and manipulate earth and rock in all of their varieties (think Earthbending). The Quirk’s drawback is incredible soreness and temporary muscle paralysis after prolonged usage.

Disclaimer: Characters are all aged up. The story doesn't follow the exact plot of the manga/anime, although it has some elements incorporated (ofc, it's fanfiction)

Taglist: @fukyouthink @midnighttflowers

Thank you for expressing interest in my story!

"A long, long time ago, our lands were roamed by enormous creatures, scaled and glistening like fresh snow, cold as death and breathing frost. Nobody knows where they came from, but they were ruthless, bringing eternal winter wherever they went. Our kind was starving, slowly freezing to death, too small and weak to chase away the Ice Dragons," multiple pairs of doe eyes, brimmed with curiosity, stalked your hands moving over the fire, dark shadows dancing upon the walls of your enormous tent. "That was until a man that could wield fire came along. His flame was bright and carried hope, sparking the will to fight in the hearts of men and women. He gathered the best fighters and fought the Ice Dragons, bringing them to the brink of extinction. This era of peace and prosperity we owe to him."

You adjusted the Scroll of Myths in your lap, "Or so the legends tell."

"(Name)-nee, are the Dragons going to hurt us?"

"No, sweet little Eri!" you cradled the little girl's head close to your chest. "I don't believe they're evil. Stories need villains and they were victims of circumstances. They're not going to hurt you."

She gave you all her attention, tiny hands firmly grasping the front of your robe.

"Besides, they've been gone for decades." you smoothed her hair back and pressed a kiss to the little horn on the side of her forehead. "Many believe Chief councils Todoroki and Yagi have driven the last of them away. Only time could tell."

Eri was still cradled in your arms as you stood up, ushering the other kids to follow you. "And right now I'm convinced time tells me you little doves should be in your beds. Let's go."

After the kids were tucked away and knocked out like a light, you returned to put away your scrolls, only to find your best friends Midoriya and Uraraka grinning like idiots.

"Ah, did you clean up for me?"

"Yeah, no big deal!" Uraraka placed a cup of steaming hot tea in your hands. "You put the kids to bed so I thought it'd be nice to do this instead. Do you wanna come stargazing with us?"

You sipped your drink, pretending to be deep in thought. Uraraka's expression was slowly shifting to one of disappointment and you couldn't help but crack a grin, "Of course I'm coming! But it's gotta be quick. You two are on hunting duty tomorrow and I have matters to discuss with the council."

Midoriya wiggled his green eyebrows at you. "But of course, fellow chief council successor. We absolutely can not fall off behind your schedule, hurr durr- Uck!"

"DEKU, ARE YOU OKAY??"

"Next time, drink your tea with more caution instead of taunting my habits, Izuku," you gave him a strong slap on the back. "Let's go."

"Oi, dumbass, think you can land me a hand?"

"It's (Name), not dumbass, Katsuki," you angled the movement of your foot, protruding a rock with your Quirk. The surprised yelp was enough to tell you had hit Bakugou's shin successfully. "We've been friends for 16 years, c'mon now."

"Yea, yea, fine, just stop bruising me with your rocky shit, you're like Kirishima in a way- OW OW OW OKAY STOP IT!!"

You merely rolled your eyes at his yells, instead taking the scroll from his hands.

"So what they want us to do is build a ramp for a new training area," you rolled the sketch and put it away.

"Precisely, Chief Aizawa said it needs to be done by tomorrow." Bakugou looked over the flat terrain. "I suggest we split the work, you do the ramp with your Quirk and I'll arrange the dummies. Kaminari and Yaoyorozu will do the rest."

"On it, boss. Shouldn't take long."

After half an hour you proudly stood in front of a large arena resembling an octagon shape. Bakugou nodded in approval and wordlessly dismissed you, already preparing to nail down the sparring dummies.

As you judged by the position of the sun, the hunters should be returning in a bit over an hour, which gave you plenty of time before lunch to pick up the new book Chief Aizawa gave you several nights ago. He promised there was plenty of information about the Dragons, even accompanied by illustrations and schemes.

Well, he certainly wasn't wrong, you thought, sparkling orbs peering down at the worn-out pages. Frankly, you didn't know when your fascination with the Ice Dragons began. When you were little and the Chiefs told you legends around the campfire, you thought you'd get to see a real dragon when you grow up. There wasn't much known about them after the first fire-yielder, Todoroki someone allegedly drove away the creatures. His descendant and a current Chief of the Tribe Council, Todoroki Enji, along with another Chief, were supposed to have defeated the last few Ice Dragons.

It saddened you - never getting to observe their habits, learn about them, and document their existence for future generations. All they'd get would be from legends and the book you were currently flipping through - the only one describing the Ice Dragons in-depth - or at least as much as possible.

Your right hand froze as the last page you turned settled down with a quiet rustle. "Dragonborns?"

Now that was something you had never seen before. The section of the book depicted images of humans with skin partially covered in scales. Straight white locks cascaded over their shoulders and you shuddered at the piercing gray eyes that stared back at you from the pages. The script said it was possible for Ice Dragons to acquire a human form and if they made love to a human, hybrids could be born. They inherited the ice powers of their scaled parents and the form of their human ones.

You couldn't wait to tell your friends about this.

"Incredible!" Yaoyorozu Momo exclaimed, her spoon clattering on the table. You had just finished explaining your discovery to those gathered for lunch.

Uraraka and Midoriya weren't back from hunting yet, but you couldn't wait for their return and then tell everyone about the book.

"Incredible indeed! I would've never imagined an Ice Dragon and a human can be together. The Dragonborn are resistant to extreme cold, most winter illnesses, and frostbites, but their bodies are fragile when near fire. Also-"

The horn announcing the hunting team's return cut you off abruptly. As you were about to resume, yells and shouts gathered everyone's attention. Glances were exchanged between the people on your table and in no time you were on the move to find out what was happening.

Near the Tribe Council tent, several people were gathered in a circle, hiding from sight whatever was in the middle. You quickly recognized Midoriya's signature green hair and elbowed yourself a place next to him.

"Deku, what's all this commotion about-"

"Scales!!" Mina shouted and you snapped your head in her direction.

Kneeling in front of you was a young man around your age. His hair was split in the middle, half red and half pure white. He seemed tattered and had no shirt on, iron chains shackled around his wrists. Iridescent scales covering his shoulders, parts of his back, and as much as you could see from his wrists. Frost was beginning to form on the links of the chains and you couldn't help but yell when the facts clicked inside your head.

The sound made the unknown guy avert his head to you, heterochromatic eyes piercing through your own. One was a sparkling turquoise, and for some reason, he had a huge scar over the left side of his face, but the other eye resembled a glassy gray, just like the ones you had studied earlier.

The most prominent features of a Dragonborn.

oh whew, this took a bit to write. i have the whole fic mapped out - but it took me three days to come up with a starting chapter. dumb.

i hope you enjoyed reading as much as i enjoyed writing this!

word count: 1,030

#todoroki shouto #todoroki x reader #shoto x reader #todoroki x you #todoroki x y/n #todoroki shoto x reader #todoroki shoto #bnha imagines #bnha shoto todoroki #bnha shoto x reader #mha todoroki #mha fic #bnha x reader #todoroki shouto x reader #todoroki fanfic #bnha fanfiction

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j-hawthorn · 3 years

Text

Hollow Halls of the Rabbit-Hearted King: Chapter 4

(Also on AO3 here!)

'Crowley!' Fell called. He barreled through the glade, cradling the flowers in his arms. He could feel them shifting, the poor things. He sprung through the tall grasses into the camp.

They blinked bleary eyed at him, rubbing their eye with a floppy hand. They yawned, getting to their feet while stretching like a lazy, sun drunk cat. Crowley frowned, leaning forward, hands braced on the edge of their nest, 'What you doing?'

'I was out! In the halls!' Fell panted, 'I wanted to see how far it took the fruit to rot -'

'What did you do?' Crowley's lip curled. They jumped from the nest, head snaking from side to side, pupils angry black slits.

Fell paled, 'I...I took two apples. And they rotted like one thing. So I thought I'd test it with flowers and,' He opened his arms, showing the half wilted things.

With a vicious snarl Crowley snatched them from him. They turned, body hunched over the flowers. Fell followed. His hands shook. He hadn't expected this.

Crowley fell to their knees and clawed at the ground. They dug lines into the earth, long claws easily cutting through. Fell came to kneel a small distance away. 'Can I help?' He asked.

'No!' Crowley snapped, not looking at him. 'You've done enough.'

Fell watched as Crowley carefully replanted the flowers. They got up in a flash, running back to the camp before returning with a jar of water. They hissed low words Fell couldn’t make out, watering the newly planted flowers.

‘...Why did you do this?’ They whispered, sitting back. Crowley had dirt on their knees and clothing.

Fell shook his head, ‘Don’t you want to find out more about this place?’

‘...I know enough,’ Crowley said. ‘Don’t take them again.’

‘I didn’t mean to upset you. I am sorry for that, but Crowley, please, if we’re ever to leave here we need to know these things-’

‘I don’t want to leave,’ Crowley said, their wings curling around themself.

Fell stared at his hands in his lap. ‘I am sorry, Crowley. I wanted to experiment. I don’t know this place as well as you and...and I don’t live here. I can’t recall how, but I got here from somewhere else and I... I want to go home.’

Crowley peeked out at him from behind their long red hair. They heaved a sigh, ‘Just...be careful. It took me a long time to build all this.’

‘That must have been difficult,’ Fell said. He shifted ever so slightly closer, reaching a hand out. He smiled softly, ‘To do so on your own.’

A small smile crept over Crowley’s face and they bit their lip, ‘Yeah. On my own.’ They wrinkled their nose at him, golden eyes focused on his hand. They gave it a quick pat -

A droplet of water hit Fell’s hand. The pair looked at each other, then up. More drops started falling. Crowley whined, scrambling to their feet, ‘What did you break?’

‘Nothing!’ Fell stood as more and more drops hit the ground. ‘It’s just rain-’

‘It’s never done this before!’

Fell grabbed Crowley’s hand, pulling them towards the camp. He gathered up his cloak, and Spread it as wide as he could over the branches above Crowley’s nest. ‘Get some reeds and tie the ends!’ He ordered.

Hissing Crowley did so, shivering as the rain grew thicker. Fell gathered what he could, tying some of the younger branches together to make as much of a barrier as possible. He threw his satchel into the nest, and climbed in.

Crowley followed suit, arms wrapped around their body. They shook, turning this way and that, watching the water pour in rivers around their plants. ‘I don’t like this,’ They muttered.

Fell sunk against the side of the nest, hugging his knees, ‘Surely it’s rained before?’

‘I’d bloody know if water started plummeting from the dome! You did something.’

‘What dome?’ Fell sat up, eyes wide.

Crowley growled, flattening themself into the moss lined bedding, ‘Above the walls, you numpty. Let’s the sun in, doesn’t it?’

‘Are you sure-’

‘I bloody flew up there myself! I know what I smacked into!’ Wings fluffed up against the cold, Crowley hissed at Fell. ‘You broke it.’

‘How the bloody hell would I break a damn dome?’ Fell snapped. ‘Can I fly? No! You can’t blame me because something new happened.’ He panted, the anger sudden and shocking. His lip trembled.

Crowley bared their teeth, but made no further comment. Fell’s heart pattered in his chest. He rubbed his face with a groan. It was bloody freezing now, the wind and rain cutting through him.

A wing wrapped around him. Without looking at him, Crowley shifted closer, and draped their wing around his body. The warmth was astounding. The wing was surprisingly heavy. He found himself sinking into the moss beside Crowley, their bodies near touching. Crowley lay on their front, chin resting on their folded arms. The rain had slicked their hair and it clung in curious, rounded patterns over their shoulders. Fell watched droplets of water roll down their upper arm.

The bedding smelled earthy. It had a comforting warmth that took Fell by surprise. He found himself yawning. The rhythm of the rain and the heaviness of Crowley’s wing made Fell suddenly aware of just oh weary he was. He could not recall the last time he’d slept. Perhaps it would be safe. Crowley didn’t seem to be drifting off any time soon. With their wild eyes, and slightly pointed ears that twitched at every sound, Fell felt surprisingly safe.

He closed his eyes, and fell.

#my writing #good omens #good omens fanfiction #good omens fic #good omens au #also on ao3

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thepandapopo · 4 years

Text

Weak - Sylvix Week Day 2: PDA

Sylvain and Felix embark on the road to becoming a couple in typical Sylvain and Felix fashion – completely backwards and embarrassingly obvious.

Felix is weak for Sylvain.

Four times Sylvain initiates PDA and the one time that Felix does instead.

Felix really should have known better.

He should have known that this joke, this mockery of his pent-up feelings, would become more than a one-off thing. But he is weak; so very weak to Sylvain and even if he could, Felix doesn’t think that he would have put a stop to it anyways because despite all his hissing and cursing, he really is touched starved for the fool.

Yet here they are again, about to ride off into yet another battle – because that’s what war is; just a never ending string of blood and death and loss – and Sylvain is leaning down from atop his warhorse, looking every bit the intimidating Dark Knight that he is with his black armor shining boldly in the afternoon sun, and threading one large hand between the inky strands of Felix’s hair to bring his face closer to his prize.

Felix has lost count how many kisses Sylvain has bestowed upon him in the calm before the storm. It’s a testament to just how many battles they have gone through together, how many wordless promises they have made to each other to come back alive and whole after the blood has finished soaking into the earth beneath their feet.

However, no matter how many times Sylvain brings his warm, soft lips to Felix’s own rough, chapped ones, Felix still feels the strength drain from his legs and all his senses hone in on the heat of lips on lips, sliding easily over each other with practiced movements slicked with spit.

“Come back to me alive, yeah?” The words are murmured so close to him that Felix can feel the brush of Sylvain’s lips even as the hot air escapes between them, flushing both of their faces with soft crimson.

Felix scoffs – a typical Felix response – and that’s more than enough of a promise for Sylvain who straightens back on his horse and gives his lance a practice twirl with a grace that belied his fierce strength.

“I always do. You’re the one who needs to be careful, what with your dismal training regimen.”

And it’s true. Felix always keeps his promise and comes back to Sylvain. After all, he thinks to himself, he still has yet to confess his feelings for his childhood friend and Felix knows, just as he knows that the sky is blue and that Sylvain’s hair is more beautiful than any sunset will ever be, that he will always come home; home to Sylvain.

How else will he get another kiss?

ii.

Felix is weak for Sylvain.

But then again, that was something that Felix had already established early on in his life – even before they had made what Ingrid liked to call their ‘morbid childhood death pact’.

Not many could say that they could annoy the Fraldarius heir to the point of sputtering without making an immediate acquaintance with the sharp end of a blade. Even fewer could get away with initiating physical contact with Felix outside of training, much less casually throwing an entire arm around his shoulders and then proceeding to whine like a child about anything and everything.

But the most telling sign of Felix’s softness towards Sylvain is the fact that the Gautier heir is the only person who is allowed to touch his hair.

“Tilt your head down a little.” A calloused broad hand cradles the back of his head gently and pushes Felix’s forehead to meet the warm muscle of Sylvain’s shoulder. They must make an intimate picture, Felix thinks to himself as he inhales the warm citrusy scent of bergamot and honey that he has come to associate with his childhood friend. They are in Felix’s room behind closed doors and it is still early morning. Were anyone to enter his room, the sight of Sylvain kneeled at the edge of the bed between Felix’s legs with his hands buried in raven locks and Felix with his face in Sylvain’s shoulders would have invited more than a few salacious rumors to the monastery grounds.

“Ow. Be careful.” Felix hisses at the not-so-gentle snag of fingers against a tangle.

“Sorry, Fe.” The puff of hot air grazes the back of his neck and sends shivers down his spine.

In the back of his mind, Felix recognizes that it’s probably a colossally stupid idea to let Sylvain tie his hair up every morning while he is recovering from a broken arm. The fact that the Fraldarius heir allows himself to indulge in their pre-battle kisses is already torture enough; but letting Sylvain run his long fingers through his raven strands to pull and tame them into his customary ponytail?

It isn’t an exaggeration to say that Felix’s nights have since gotten more restless.

“Your hair is longer now.”

It’s a plain statement. Neutral grounds in terms of speech, but the sinful way Sylvain tugs his hair, landing a little on the side of deliciously hard, makes the words drip with suggestion and invitation.

Felix must be going crazy if he thinks he can hear anything other than plain, factual observation in Sylvain’s tone. But if it is the madness that conjures images of the Gautier heir yanking his hair to expose the expanse of his neck and suck his claim… then he decides that insanity must not be half bad.

It is both an eternity and not long enough when Sylvain finally announces that he is done with a breathy whisper. Reluctantly, Felix pulls back and reaches his good arm up to pat the neatly tied strands under the pretense of checking Sylvain’s work. If Felix secretly revels in brushing his fingers along the lingering warmth clinging to his hair, then that is his own business.

A familiar strip of leather lays on the desk to the side.

“You didn’t use my normal hair tie.”

Sylvain smiles as him just a little too wide. Wide enough that Felix is suspicious.

“Yeah. I figured it was starting to get really old so I got you a new one.” Sylvain says very matter-of-fact. The sincerity in his voice sends Felix’s heart thumping wildly in his chest and he feels the heat in his cheeks even as he scowls.

“I am perfectly capable of buying my own hair ties.”

As usual, Sylvain is an expert in understanding Felix-speech and simply laughs. You’re welcome rolls off his tongue with ease born from years of enduring harsh words and learning to read the subtext behind barbs.

Even as they walk through the monastery hallways together down to the dining hall, Sylvain rolls with the punches and their conversation doesn’t so much as falter for even a moment, instead slipping into a familiar and achingly comfortable banter that hides years of unspoken emotions.

No one mentions anything about how Sylvain seems to stick more closely to Felix now that his arm is in a sling.

No one mentions the bright Gautier-red leather strip that stands out so glaringly obvious against the dark canvas of Felix’s hair.

No one mentions anything when Felix hands Sylvain that same hair tie the next morning to complete their new morning ritual, the unspoken subtext wrapping soothingly around them as Felix once again bows his head in the only surrender he will ever acquiesce.

I’m yours.

iii.

“Felix!”

Pain. Screaming. Panic. Sylvain.

Where is Sylvain?

“Fe! Fe, stay with me. Don’t you dare die, you stubborn asshole!”

The part of his mind that is still rational and conscious tries to cajole the rest of his body into letting out an indelicate snort, but all that comes out is a wet cough that sends pain and blood spilling out his mouth.

“Mercie? Lin? Marianne? Healer, please, anyone! I need a healer!”

Felix’s arms feel more like dead weight than limbs at this point given the numbness of his extremities, but that doesn’t stop an agonizing lance of pain from shooting through him as he feels his body lifting up and being cradled against a cold metal chest plate.

A low moan manages to slip its way unbidden past his chapped lips.

“I know, Fe.” Warm honeyed words wash over him. Even in his half unconscious and delirious state, Felix can hear the unbridled fear that lurks beneath the forced calm. “You’ll be okay. I’m gonna get you to Mercie and she’ll fix you right up, okay? Stay with me.”

Sylvain’s voice cracks at the end along with Felix’s heart.

He doesn’t like it when Sylvain is in pain.

With herculean effort, Felix manages to pry his eyelids open just enough to look at the underside of Sylvain’s clenched jaw.

Huh. When did he get on a horse?

“Are you… okay?” The words are harder to wheeze out than Felix is comfortable with, but he forces his lungs to work with him because above the pain and fear for his own life looms the overwhelming need to make sure that Sylvain is unhurt.

Otherwise the axe he took to the side would have been for nothing.

Sylvain lets out a choked laugh, “yeah. Yeah, of course I’m alright. Fuck Felix, you shouldn’t have pushed me out of the way like that.”

You should have trained more, is what Felix wants to reply, however his mind and body are no longer working in tandem and somewhere along the line his heart decides to step in instead.

“Don’t…cry, Syl…”

In all their years together, Felix can count on one hand the number of times he has seen Sylvain cry; most of them in their childhood before Glenn dies. The last time Sylvain had allowed his emotions to bubble up to the surface was the day he shoved his lance into Miklan’s chest in an attempt to give him a merciful ending rather than living on as a demonic beast.

But none of those times can compare to the wrecked look and unending rush of tears that are carving their way through the grime and gore on Sylvain’s cheeks.

Felix doesn’t hear the reply that Sylvain gives, but knows that he must have said something given the comforting rumbling he feels against his cheek.

The world is dark now. There is nothing but a large black pool of nothingness and Felix can feel himself slowly sinking down, down into the depths.

He does not know how much time passes, but through the empty void Felix can hear fragments of words from someone he knows is important, but for the world cannot seem to remember.

Stay with me, sweetheart.

Don’t leave me, please. I can’t do this without you.

I love you.

Come back to me, Fe. My heart.

Felix clings to those words and the warmth that they bring. It takes an eternity, and slowly but surely, he manages to pull himself from the darkness and into the light.

When he wakes, he wakes with a full body ache and in the familiar arms of his crush, who apparently is still dripping salty tears on him and refusing to let him go despite Mercedes insisting that he’s fine. Of course that idiot is too busy sniffling to notice that he’s no longer unconscious.

“I told you to stop crying, didn’t I?” Felix croaks, bringing both Mercedes’ and Sylvain’s attention to him.

A new batch of tears well up in his favourite honey brown eyes and piercing relief crumples Sylvain’s expression like a house of cards in the wind.

“Fuck, Felix. Don’t ever scare me like that again.” Sylvain’s voice wobbles as he clutches at Felix just a little tighter, pressing his head to his chest as if trying to hide him away from the world.

The rapid staccato thumping against his cheek stays Felix’s hand and he lets himself (in what is starting to become a concerningly frequent habit) indulge in the physical display of affection, not caring that the rest of the world inside the infirmary can see them.

Right now, there is only Felix, Sylvain, and their beating hearts. And if that’s what Sylvain needs to chase away his fears, then Felix will happily concede because there is nothing that he wouldn’t do to protect Sylvain from the world and his own demons.

iv.

For a person born in the second coldest region of Faerghus, Felix does not do well when the temperature plummets.

Although his regular outfit consists of at least three separate layers - one of which is fur lined, for crying out loud – the cold somehow still manages to seep its way into his bones, rattling his entire core with shivers.

“Shitty night to not have a tent, huh?” Sylvain laughs humorlessly from where he is huddled up beside him, his long legs folded up as close as possible to his chest to conserve heat; his Gautier crest emblazoned cloak is thrown of his shoulders as are two more thin blankets that also cover Felix as well. Their sides are pressed together like two halves of a whole and on a regular day, Felix would have spontaneously ignited at their close proximity, but right now the heat that is radiating off of Sylvain is the only thing that keeps his body from succumbing to the cold. At their backs, Sylvain’s trusty warhorse acts as a third source of heat and also as a sturdy wall to lean against.

“Fucking bandits just had to torch our shit.” If they weren’t already lying six feet under buried in a shoddy, half assed grave, Felix would have personally saw to it that every single one of them died a horrible and painful death by his blade.

All around them their friends and comrades sat in huddled pairs, much like him and Sylvain. The sad, dismal fire they had managed to start did little to stave off the chill, but when literally everything around you is wet with sleet, it is already a small miracle that there is any fire at all.

“At least we’re together and alive though, right?” Sylvain smiles at him and it’s the small genuine one that Felix recognizes is specially for him; the one where burnt sienna glows molten and the corners of his eye crinkle with rarely used crow’s feet. “It was a pretty nasty ambush and we’re honestly pretty lucky that we had a small enough unit to quickly mobilize and pivot.”

Felix scoffs but it comes out as more of a pathetic chattering of teeth.

He doesn’t know when it happens, but he and Sylvain have become closer over the last few weeks. Close enough that Sylvain’s eyes no longer hold a shadow of doubt whenever he leans in for his pre-battle kiss, as if he now knows that Felix will give into him even as obligatory protests escape his lips. Close enough that Sylvain doesn’t even ask for permission anymore, but instead just silently reaches over to play with stray locks of hair that have escaped his updo after a long day.

Close enough that Sylvain now just takes whatever he wants from Felix because there is a mutual, silent understanding that no matter how much Felix protests, Sylvain just needs to look into his golden irises and find all the consent he needs from there.

“Come here, Fe.”

Felix often forgets that despite his awful training schedule, Sylvain is still a soldier through and through and is much stronger than Felix thinks. Such strength Sylvain currently demonstrates as he is quickly lifted like he is no more than a sack of potatoes, and gently deposited in a very warm lap.

If it weren’t for the cold, Felix would have run his childhood friend through with a sword for his audacity.

Of course, it’s only because of the darned cold that Felix’s hands slip under the outer layer of Sylvain’s armor to fist themselves in the fabric of his undershirt.

And it’s only because of the darned cold that Felix instinctively cuddles up to the human furnace next to him and presses his nose into the warm divot at the base of Sylvain’s throat, causing the older man to shiver at the hot puffs of air against his neck.

Yes. It’s only because of the darned cold.

“Better?” Sylvain’s voice is rough even as his words smooth over Felix like a balm. The one hand that isn’t curled around Felix’s back and supporting him reaches over to pull the two blankets around them so that they are swaddled in a little cocoon of warmth, leaving only their heads visible above the swathes of fabric.

Although a large part of his brain is screaming that this is wrong, dangerous, and too close; Felix cannot stop his body from betraying him as the shivers slowly subside and he begins to melt into Sylvain. Underneath the blankets and hidden away from the world, a gloved hand moves to settle near his upper thigh and rubs hot little circles that sends heat of a different kind flushing through him.

It’s unfair how his heart and body have decided to stage a mutiny against his mind.

Fuck Sylvain and his stupidly beautiful smile and his stupid velvet voice.

“Yeah.” Felix mutters, squeezing his eyes tight against the orange glow of the fire.

He practices counting his breaths using the meditation technique Glenn taught him back when he was only ten years old and manages to wrangle his heartrate into less of a sprint and more of a steady gallop. Whether Sylvain notices or not, he makes no indication that he can feel Felix’s heart trying to escape his chest, though Felix is pretty sure he can tell based on their proximity.

Instead, Sylvain lets his body curl loosely around Felix’s until his chin rests on the crown of midnight hair, barely disturbing the tresses even as his breath evens out and he falls to the persistent clutches of sleep.

Of course, it’s because of the darned cold that eventually Felix also lets himself be dragged under into dreams of memories long past when he never used to be fear being touched.

It was quite well known that Margrave Gautier was not a patient man.

It has not even been three moons since the fall of Enbarr when a letter arrives at the Fhirdiad castle sealed shut with ink the color of crimson and emblazoned with the Gautier crest.

“Father wants me to return home to meet a potential suitor.”

The teacup clatters loudly against the table, spilling Almyran pine over the dainty white tablecloth. In the pits of his stomach, Felix can feel the claws of jealousy and anger sink into his gut and travel up into his throat.

Perhaps it is because his mind is still in a daze trying to process the fact that the war is finally over, or maybe it is because Felix is half delirious from lack of sleep (no one had told him how much more exhausting cleaning up after a war would be than actually fighting it) that the words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“I’ll go with you.”

And fuck if Sylvain doesn’t light up like he was just told it’s his birthday, the millennium festival, and Valentines day all in one.

Felix is weak for Sylvain.

No matter how many times Felix repeats it in his mind, that statement has gone far beyond simple fact now into the realm of absolute truth. And it is exactly because it is an absolute truth that Felix rides with Sylvain non stop through the night all the way back to Gautier castle, and it is because it is an absolute truth that Felix finds himself eavesdropping outside the large oaken doors leading to Margrave Gautier’s study where he is introducing some noble girl to Sylvain who looks like he would rather be anywhere else.

“Olivia here is the daughter of a minor lord from the Gideon territory. Their family has done well with managing their lands and they have also made a name for themselves through the war.”

The margrave prattles on, completely ignoring the increasingly uncomfortable look on Sylvain’s face even as he tries his best to plaster on his signature fake smile.

From his position, Felix can only see Sylvain and his father through the tiny gap where the door sits ajar, but thankfully he does not need to strain to hear the conversation.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Gautier.”

Of course her voice sounds like wind chimes. She’s also probably fucking beautiful too given the Margrave’s tastes. It makes Felix want to dry heave just listening to this and he can’t imagine how Sylvain must feel having lived this exact situation hundreds of times.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Sylvain replies without missing a beat even though his voice comes out a bit strangled.

“The war has been rather unfortunate with our people and crops this year, but Olivia’s father has mentioned that their lands have an overabundance of yield that he has agreed to share with us should the wedding take place before the first snowfall.”

“What?” For the first time, Sylvain’s mask falters and there is an abject look of horror in his eyes.

“Preparations will need to be made immediately, but –“

“Father, this is too sudden. I cannot –“

“You will hold your tongue and stay silent. I have given you time to find your own wife, but you have done nothing but squander my generosity. This is no longer a choice you get to make.” Venom coats his words and the poison seeps into Sylvain’s veins as his mind automatically falls back to the terrified little boy who could never disobey his father.

Sylvain is pale and shaking, his eyes darting around frantically looking for, at the very least, a physical escape from this hell that he has walked into.

“As I was saying, preparations will need to be made immediately. I have already sent for a caravan to retrieve the dowry, but when it arrives, you will need to accompany them to ensure that they return safely. I expect that you will inform his highness of your engagement prior to your departure so that he has ample time to ensure his attendance.”

“I… no – this… I don’t…”

“Shut up, boy. I am your father and you will do as I say.”

“Like fucking hell he will.”

The door slams loudly against the wall and all three occupants jump at the sound. They whip around to stare in various expressions of shock as Felix stomps up to them burning with a fury that he has never felt before.

His heart is pounding out of his chest like it wants to escape, but the only thing Felix can focus on right now is trying to stifle the overwhelming urge to draw his sword and cut down the Margrave where he stands.

“Fraldarius.” Like the reptile that he is, Margrave Gautier hisses his surname and spits it out like venom.

“That’s Duke Fraldarius to you.”

Sylvain chokes on his own spit.

“Duke Fraldarius-” ugh, just hearing his voice makes Felix’s hand twitch for the hilt of his sword. “-I would implore you to keep your nose out of business that isn’t yours. This is highly improper to interrupt-“

“I don’t fucking care if it’s improper.” Shifting slightly, Felix positions himself closer to Sylvain while engaging in a stare down with his father. Eye contact be damned, Felix will not let himself lose this silent battle of wills even though all he wants to do is look away. “Sylvain is not marrying this girl.”

“Oh? You dare to come to my home and tell me what I can and cannot do with my son?”

His blood is boiling and images flash across his mind, filling his head with memories of a younger Sylvain looking so scared and sad every time the summers came to a close and he has to return home.

No. Never again. Felix will never let Sylvain go back to a life where he is shackled and beaten into submission by a family that only conditionally tolerates him and uses him for their own benefit.

“Sylvain is not marrying this girl,” Felix repeats adamantly.

“And why not?”

This is the moment.

Felix can feel the tension in the air; he can feel the Margrave’s furious and challenging glare on him, daring him to speak and make a fool of himself; he can feel Sylvain standing rigidly next to him, barely a hair breadth’s away watching with wide, fearful eyes (Nonono Fe, stop it please, I can’t let him hurt you too. Never you).

It might be 26 years late, but Felix finally figures out how he can give Sylvain the home that he has always deserved.

“Because…”

Confidence blooms in his chest and Felix is proud when the gloved hand he extends to tangle in the collar of Sylvain’s jacket does not shake nor tremble under the weight of what he is about to do.

“…he’s mine.”

Felix yanks and tilts his head up to catch Sylvain’s lips as he stumbles forward, their noses slotting against each other like two puzzle pieces and their lips meeting in the same practiced way they’ve done hundreds of times.

The kiss lasts only for a moment, but when they part, Sylvain is gasping for breath like Felix has stolen all the air from his lungs. Honey brown irises are nearly eclipsed by blown out pupils and the strong jaw that Felix so desperately wants to nibble is hanging agape in shock.

Felix doesn’t wait around for the aftermath of his actions. Immediately locking his fingers with Sylvain’s, his cloak flutters around him as he spins on his heels and proceeds to walk out the door with a shell-shocked Gautier in tow.

Later, it occurs to Felix that he didn’t even spare a look at the girl, so he will never really be able to confirm whether or not she was beautiful.

Not that it matters.

Right now, as Felix makes a beeline for his guest room to retrieve his belongings, the only thing that matters is getting Sylvain out of this wretched place and back to Fraldarius where he will never have to deal with that pathetic excuse of a father ever again.

“Felix, wait. Felix!” Sylvain tugs on his hand forcing him to turn around when they are finally behind the safety of closed doors. “Holy shit. What the… holy shit.” Reluctantly, Sylvain releases Felix and instead settles one hand in his own hair, tugging on it as if trying to ground himself with the pain.

“Go pack your things, Sylvain. You’re not staying here with that pathetic waste of space anymore.”

“What? But where are we going?”

For the first time in years, Felix allows the walls around his heart to come down as he looks as Sylvain. He has wasted too much time already punishing himself by depriving himself of the one thing he thought he could never have, but after five years at war with only stolen moments to motivate and push him towards survival, Felix would be a fool to ignore this bond between them any longer.

“What do you mean, where are we going? We’re going home, idiot. Back to Fraldarius.”

Sylvain freezes for a second as if he has misheard, but when auburn eyes detect no hint of a lie, the smile that blooms on his face is one that Felix has never seen before. It is radiant and genuine and everything beautiful that Felix knows is Sylvain.

And just like that, Felix is falling for him all over again.

“Hey Fe?”

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

“…I love you too, you idiot. Now go pack.”

BONUS:

Halfway to Fraldarius territory, Sylvain hums thoughtfully and turns to his now-boyfriend.

“Hey Fe?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I be your trophy husband?”

“Shut up.”

#sylvixweek2020 #sylvix #sylvain x felix #felix x sylvain #sylvain jose gautier #felix hugo fraldarius #margrave gautier #Fire Emblem Three Houses #fire emblem 3 houses #fanfiction #popo writes #pda #prompts #day 2 #4 + 1 fic #angst #fluff #pining #all the good shit

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imastrangeone98 · 4 years

Text

A Cradle Song

(A/N: I'm still deciding on how the plot for my au should go, but I think I'm narrowing it down. In the meantime, here's a fluffy fluff oneshot that no ones gonna read XD)

I can't decide if it takes place after chpt 18 or just after lost and found itself

Sweet dreams, form a shade o'er my lovely infant's head;

Sweet dreams of pleasant streams,

By happy, silent, moony beams.

Faith's eyes fluttered open. The chill in the room settled deep into her bones.

The remnants of her mother's soft, soothing voice still echoed in her ears.

It was the dream again. The one where her mother would pull her into her lap and croon a sweet lullaby as she coaxed her back to slumber.

The one where her family was whole.

A hopeless dream. A foolish dream.

And like a fool, she chased after it, anyway.

Sleep, sleep, happy child, all creation slept and smil'd;

Sleep, sleep, happy sleep,

While o'er thee, thy mother weep.

She ought to have cried. It would have made dealing with the unexpected torrent inside her more manageable.

But her eyes were dry.

If her mother were here, would she have wept for her brother? Would she have found some sense of meaning in his prolonged life and prayed for his salvation?

...Would she have saved him?

Sweet babe in thy face, holy image I can trace,

Sweet babe, once like thee,

Thy Maker lay and weep for me.

"Faith?" a drowsy voice called out.

Dante stumbled from his room, rubbing his eyes. He saw the half-angel huddled into a small ball on the ground, gaze fixated on the paintbrush that hung proudly on the wall.

The rush of concern he felt snapped him out of his sleepiness.

"Hey," he murmured, slowly approaching her. "What's goin' on?"

Slowly, she turned to face him. And in her golden eyes, there was only pain.

"...What did I do wrong?" she asked, but it seemed as if she wasn't asking him. "Could I have done it differently?"

He watched her, frozen. "...What do you mean?"

She turned back to look at the paintbrush. "I just... I just wanted a family." Unshed tears stained her eyes. "Was I asking for too much?"

His chest tightened.

"...Am I a bad person?"

Weep for thee, for me, for all, when He was an infant small.

Thou His image ever see,

Heavenly face that smiles on thee.

Dante slowly kneeled beside her, gently wrapping his arms around her. Her body trembled slightly under his fingertips.

He willed himself not to crumble.

"No, Faith," he whispered hoarsely. "You're not bad at all."

"I... I feel bad."

"I know you do."

"I didn't save him. My own uncle."

He swallowed down the bitter taste in his mouth. "You did what you could. Sometimes, that's all we can do."

What a hypocrite, he thought to himself.

"But..." she croaked. "But... he was all I had. I- I have no family left. Should I..." Her breaths came out harder; he didn't know how to stop it. "Should I have forgiven him? Should I have- at least- tried to understand him? What if I made a mistake?!"

"Faith..."

"What if- what if he was right?" She pulled away, and stared intensely at her hands, horror in her eyes. "I'm a murderer. I'm a murderer."

He bit his lip. He forced down his tears.

"Does... does not forgiving him- does it make me a bad person?"

He swallowed the lump in his throat. And he breathed.

"You don't owe Gabriel anything. All he did was hurt you."

"But..."

"We all do things we regret, but we keep living anyway." His hands drifted to her cheeks, rubbing warmth into her cold skin. "It's what we do with our regrets that defines us. Makes us who we are."

His thumbs grazed under her eyelids, and they came back wet.

"What if..." She furiously tried to wipe her tears away. "What if it's all I have? What if everything I am is just a mistake?"

Dante sighed and stroked her hair. "I don't know. But... but if you're still here... That means something. Right?" When she began to shake, he fought the urge to cry himself. "You still got a role to play."

And finally, Faith wept. Loud, ugly sobs that wracked through her whole body.

All he could do was hold her.

They sat together in the darkness. The snow continued to fall.

She began to sniffle and lean against him.

"It's cold," he murmured, carefully cradling her in his arms. "Let's get to bed, yeah?"

She just gave a weak nod.

And as he wrapped the blankets around her and pulled her close, he thought of his mother.

And he did something that she used to do for him- something he thought he would never do for anyone.

He sang.

Smile on thee, on me, on all, who became an infant small.

Infant smiles are His own smiles;

Heaven and earth to peace beguiles.

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

A/N: fluffy, right? Hehe I'm a woman of my word ;)

there was this one dmc fic I read that was based on a cradle song by William Blake, and it kinda motivated this one- this one isn't as good tho XD

#devil may cry #dmc dante #dmc oc #dante x reader #dante x oc

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heartbreak-of-a-marauder · 4 years

Text

Through the Rabbit Hole (3)

Part Three: Starlight

Pairing: Loki x fem!reader

Summary: The icy barriers around your heart are beginning to melt, and you and Loki have different ideas about how tonight will end.

Word Count: 1,545

Note: I’m a little late getting this part up but I hope you enjoy it! y/n = your name, y/h/c = your hair colour, y/e/c = your eye colour.

If you haven't read the previous parts STOP NOW and go do that:

<- 3 ->

~*~*~*~*~

"We won’t be disturbed here” Loki spoke softly leading you through another set of elegantly carved doors.

The cavernous room was bathed in sunlight making the gold accents on the furniture and architecture glisten. You’d never seen this room before, it was beautiful. Dark oak bookcases lined the wall behind you, they were filled with so many books and scrolls that some shelves had begun to bow under their weight. An archway stood in the centre of the wall to your right, a deep green curtain partially obscured what lay beyond. Chaise lounges’ and other plush looking furniture were grouped together creating communal spaces on either side of the arch.

You untangled your hand from Loki’s and wandered around a large dining table to stand in front of one of the windows. From here you could see down into the courtyard you knew so well and what lay beyond its hedged confines. Asgard was beautiful, villa-like stone buildings where everywhere, lining the waterfront. You were transfixed by the vibrant rainbow bridge that stretched across the great expanse of water; the way it refracted the sunlight reminded you of your rabbit hole. Loki lingered a few paces behind you, watching you appreciate his home, pride swelling within him.

“Sit with me?” Loki asked, gesturing to the table. You look over your shoulder at him, your y/h/c swishing around your face.

“I’d rather not,” Scrunching your nose, you shake your head in response. “Why’d you bring me here?”

“You wanted answers, did you not?” you nod, crossing your arms over your chest.

Wood scrapes against the tile floor as he pulls a chair out, his movements graceful as he sits. Even from where you stood you see his jaw clench and release a few times as he prepares himself for the inevitable look of disappointment that would grace your beautiful face.

“I am not who I pretend to be, I am not born of Asgard. My heritage is of something far less, far darker.” His eyes leave you to study the grain of the tabletop. “I should have been a king, th-that was my birthright. But Odin saw fit to take that from me... deny what was rightfully mine,”

“Hold on, you’re saying that you decided to attack earth because your father chose Thor over you? How selfish and conceited-”

“No,” the sound of his palm hitting the table reverberated off the high ceilings silencing you. “I was a trophy, stolen after the battle; for that, I betrayed my people. I fell, drifting through the darkness...” Loki shifted in his seat as a shiver passed through him. “That’s where they found me, their leader, a fanatical tyrant who expected compliance above all else, his goal to fulfil a vendetta against all beings,”

Keeping the table between you move closer, your hands grip the chair back, the solid wood keeping you grounded. You tried not to be sucked in by his story but the vulnerability in his voice was slowly convincing you this wasn’t a lie. Loki looked to you again, his green eyes unguarded, the shiny veneer shell slipping once more.

“He demanded total submission, and did anything to ensure he got it.” his voice a hoarse whisper.

“But you didn’t succeed,” you state shaking your head, a sinking feeling started to form in your stomach.

“Of course, the only reason I sit before you now is because he thinks me dead.”

“Dead.” You gulp, thickness tightens your throat.

Loki had been beaten and bent to the will of another. Things were beginning to make sense now, he wasn’t the carefree, young prince that you would visit, the man who sat in front of you was broken, having seen too much and shown only cruelty. Your heart ached for him. You hurried around the table feeling the overwhelming need to comfort the God.

You drop to your knees beside him, tentatively placing a hand over his. He rolled his palm to face upwards allowing him to hold onto you. You squeeze his hand gently hoping to offer some reassurance, the coldness in your heart thawing rapidly. Loki pulls you upwards so you stand and look down at him.

“A would-be king I may be, but you will never kneel before me,” his tone is firm, leaving no room for any answer you might have had, and you watch as the shiny shell repairs itself.

“Sit with me?” You comply with his request, settling into the chair next to Loki. You smile to yourself, realising that this scene was exactly like how you used to be.

“I do believe I promised you the Queen’s favourite fruit when you were last here, little one,” he smiles fondly at you, with a flick of his wrist golden plate topped with cubes of a vibrant pink fruit appear from a curtain of green light.

You flash a grin at Loki, reaching out to grab one before dropping it into your mouth. The flesh is smooth as you chew, it was unlike anything you had tasted on earth. A small appreciative moan escapes your throat as its juices slide across your tongue. You see Loki grin at you from the corner of your eye.

A warm feeling bloomed in his chest as he watched you, he had hoped to see you happy for so long. The way the two of you had left things never sat right with him, the image of the glassy quality your y/e/c had taken on as you fought against your tears flashed through his mind. While his reasoning had been true, he had never intended to hurt you.

He took hold of your free hand again seeking your closeness. He was resolute in his decision to make this last.

The rest of the day was very reminiscent of your last visit to Asgard, Loki provided for your every need, staying close to you always. Taking advantage of every moment he had to keep physical contact.

The sun had set long ago but the golden city of Asgard glowed in the darkness. You stood on the balcony watching how the stars twinkled delicately above you. Having lived in a city for years you rarely had the opportunity to see the sky in such a way. You heard Loki’s footsteps behind you as he approached, a goblet of the finest Asgardian wine in each hand. He set yours down on the railing before taking a swig of his own.

“I have to go soon,” you admit quietly keeping your eyes on the stars.

“I know,”

“Loki,” you sigh, looking down into the deep pool of red in your goblet. “Thank you for today, I got the closure I needed but...” You gulp half of the contents of the goblet down needing the liquid courage.

“But?” sadness tinged his voice, knowing what you were about to say.

“I don’t think I should come back again, it wouldn’t- I... I shouldn’t have even come here today, A-Asgard isn’t for people like me,” you fight with yourself to keep your voice level and not betray the regret you were feeling.

“There would always be a place for you here y/n,” he reasoned.

“Loki, that’s not what I mean,” you turn to face him, his brows are pinched in anguish.

“Perhaps if I came to you?” he offered, desperate to make sure he would see you again.

He had allowed you to walk away from him before thinking you would return, but you didn’t. Now here you were trying to tell him that this would be the last time again, perhaps for good. The tightness in Loki’s chest alarmed him, the feeling was foreign but he knew it was a sign.

“I don’t think-” you start, your eyes darting about your surroundings looking for support.

“Don’t,” Loki commanded, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

You stood there observing each other, neither sure of what to do next. For the second time in your life, you contemplated repeating the act that had driven you apart the first time. You gave a wry smile; it would be a fitting end. You glanced down at his lips and then back to his eyes, seeking permission. He made no attempt to stop you as you carefully crept forward, eyes fixed on his. His tongue darted out to dampen his parted lips as he closed the rest of the distance.

The kiss was gentle and unsure. You pull away remembering how the last kiss you had shared felt. With one more glance into your y/e/c eyes, his hand wrapped around the back of your neck and crashed his lips to yours. His mouth felt hot as he concentrated open kisses on your bottom lip, begging for entrance. You yielded to him as he pulled you flush against his body. His tongue quickly finding its way inside, exploring, tasting you. He kept one hand cradling your neck while the other snaked down your back, holding you tightly against him. You wrap your arms around his shoulders securing yourself to him, humming in approval.

Loki ached at the thought he turned you away all those years ago, that he could’ve had this sooner. His mind was made up, this was not goodbye and this would not be the last time.

TAGLIST: @jessiejunebug @seventieshead-modernlover @kinghiddlestonanddixon @danielle101370

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jessiewritesthings · 5 years

Text

Querencia

Barry Berkman x Reader

Hello I love Bill Hader and I love Barry and so this happened! Enjoy! x

---

You blinked twice, taken aback by the sight in front of you. The lights in your apartment were out, but you knew it was him. The lingering scent of his cologne mixed with what seemed to be sweat and blood met you as your eyes traced his outline, highlighted by the streetlamp outside.

“Barry… what the fuck?” you asked, unable to move or do anything more than stare at his figure heaped on the floor.

Stumbling over to the wall, you flicked on the lamp, wincing as your eyes adjusted to the light. Barry grunted at you as he shielded his eyes, adjusting himself so he was propped up against your sofa.

You crouched down, slowly shuffling closer to him. How on earth had he found his way here, his shirt torn through the middle, covered in disarrayed spatters of blood? His hand trembled as he softly touched the tear in his shirt.

“Barry, oh shit! Oh shit, shit, shit!” you gasped, only now realising that the blood that stained him was coming from his chest. “I have to get you to a hospital,” you muttered, more to yourself than him. Panic crept through you and beads of sweat started to drip down your neck.

“No, y/n, you can’t. Please, I can’t go,” he whispered, moaning slightly. His face was pale, and his tired eyes pleaded with you. He reached out to you, his hand clasping on to your bare knee. His hand was clammy against you, his fingertips rough as he gripped you slightly.

Inching closer, you peeled his shirt off, revealing a long scrape across his torso. Biting your lip in an attempt to keep quiet, you ripped his shirt in half, knowing he would be unable to get it over his head.

Barry’s eyes looked for you, and as you glanced at him he softened slightly. A sharp cough caught him off guard, and he groaned loudly as his stomach clenched. Wiping your stained hands on your skirt, you leapt up and ran straight for anything that might help clean and mend his wounds.

Your heart was pounding, and you were so afraid of what had happened to Barry that you weren’t entirely sure that you wanted him to indulge you. You were shaky as you made your way through your apartment, filling your favourite mixing bowl with water and disinfectant and grabbing the nearest towel before rummaging around to find your old sewing kit.

A loud groan and thumping sound came from the living room, and you darted back in to find Barry slumped on his side, hand cradling his stomach.

Your brows furrowed as you returned to your knees, water at your side. Gently you ran the damp cloth across his face, clearing him of the dirt and grime he was smattered in. Gulping, you ran your thumb along his chin as he turned to look at you. His nerves were radiating from him, and you leaned in closer to press a quick kiss to his lips, before diverting your full attention to his wound. He shuffled himself along, lying on the rug you’d bought back from Morocco, hands itching to touch you and feel you and remind him that he was still alive.

“y/n, I need to tell you –,” he started, but a quick look from you stopped him.

“Are you in trouble?” you asked as you began to rinse his chest with water. Goosebumps appeared on his skin, and his foot twitched, almost as if the sensation was making him ticklish.

“Depends who you ask,” he responded with a grimace, knowing that he had to tell you the truth even if it meant you might walk away.

“Don’t tell me now,” you whispered as you washed the blood away. It trickled down and across his chest, reminding you of the watercolours you did when you were a child. “Let me fix you up first.”

Barry reached for you, his calloused hand once again finding its place on your knee. His jaw was clenched, and he lay with his eyes closed as you washed the wound, his eyes creasing as the disinfectant stung him. Leaning in closer, you inspected the wound using your fingers to softly pry his skin apart, making sure there was no dirt left before you started to stitch the wound.

“Barry, I don’t have anything to sterilise this with,” you said, gesturing to the sewing needle that was neatly arranged in your sewing kit.

“Just wash it and put it over the gas until it’s red,” he replied, biting his lip as another bout of pain washed through him.

You headed back to the kitchen, following Barry’s instructions as you tried to keep yourself calm. ‘What is going on?’ you thought. You knew about Barry’s past in the Marines, and you figured that there were some things that happened that he might never share, and you were fine with that. But this? This was wild, not something you’d ever expect. You stood over your stove, tweezers gripping the needle. You’d expected to come home from work and cook the both of you dinner – you’d bought a special bottle of red wine that was way out of your budget, but you had every intention of asking Barry to move in with you tonight until you’d found him crumpled on your apartment floor. Closing your eyes, you took a deep breath in and held it. You could hear Barry coughing, and your stomach flipped. You knew how much he loved you – knew it with every fibre of your being – but your hands trembled slightly as your mind raced through scenarios that would result in him here, on your floor, staining your rug.

The needle turned red and you flicked the gas off, carefully carrying it back to his side before threading the cotton through it. You’d stitched people up before – namely your brother whose endless cycle of stupid stunts had earnt you the title of ‘Honorary Nurse’ before you turned eight. Placing a hand on his stomach, you followed the steps you certainly knew well enough by now, breathing carefully and avoiding his eyes.

Sweat was dripping sweetly down your back and you could feel it pooling at your knees as you stitched up your lover, still completely in the dark about what had put him there. His hand was on your knee again, gripping tightly in order to cope with the constant pricking of his already sensitive skin. Barry breathed in sharply, thumb pressing into your skin, leaving a bruise.

After some time – seemingly forever – you finished the stitching. You’d done a good job, all things considering, though you knew he’d have to get it dressed by a professional sooner rather than later. Letting out a sigh you weren’t aware you’d been holding in, you placed your hand over his, lacing his fingers with yours.

“I need to get a bandage for this,” you said, nodding at his chest. Barry glanced at you with soft eyes, squeezing your fingers quickly before you headed for the bathroom, certain you’d thrown a pack of bandages in the cupboard.

A shrill noise rang through your apartment, and you heard Barry groan and shuffle, before the noise stopped.

“Fuches.”

Bandages in one hand, you gingerly left the bathroom, nerves kicking through you. You could hear Barry, but his voice was so strained and severe that you couldn’t make out the words – except anger. You knew there was anger.

As you got closer, you could hear him clearly, and although you weren’t sure why, you felt oddly like you were disturbing him.

“No. No. Fuck off Fuches, I told you,” he retorted through the phone. “Do not bring her into this. I will fucking kill you.”

You watched from the doorway as Barry screamed in frustration, throwing his phone against the wall, shattering.

“Oh fuck,” he muttered, bringing his hands to his face.

“Barry, baby. I got the bandages,” you said, kneeling at his side once again.

His hands were still covering his face as you applied the bandages, his body tensing at the touch of your cold fingers.

“Can you move? We should get you off the floor… my rug,” you exclaimed, gesturing to the stains it had accumulated.

His hands fell from his face, a smile spread across his face as he began to laugh.

“You come home to find me bleeding on your floor,” Barry starts, taking a deep breath, “and overhear me telling someone I’ll kill them, and you’re worried about your rug?” You smile at him, the softness in his voice, his hands tracing your arm.

“Something I can have some semblance of control over,” you replied with a smile. “Come on, help me move you to the bed.”

The two of you worked together to reach your bed, Barry leaning on you for support. You removed the rest of his clothes, washing him down some more to finally remove all the dirt and blood that stained his skin.

“Are you hungry?” you asked as your own stomach rumbled. Barry nodded in agreement, and you went into the kitchen to throw a frozen pizza and fries in the oven, before pouring yourself a glass of wine. You absolutely needed it now. Returning to your bedroom, you climbed onto your bed, wine in hand.

“So, you wanna tell me about it? Who was on the phone?”

Barry turned to look at you, and you noticed him tearing up. Settling your wine on the bedside table, you curled yourself into him, taking his hands in yours.

“Barry, it’s okay. I love you. It’s okay.”

He took a deep breath. “I’ve done some pretty shitty things. Really bad things. Things that you won’t love me for, after I tell you.”

Brushing his hair from his forehead, you leaned in to kiss him.

“I’m not an idiot, Barry. I heard you on the phone. I don’t know what you do, but I do know you turn up here smelling like blood and sweat… and something else. And I always ignore it. Because I love you.”

“I love you, y/n. And I don’t deserve you. Fuches… that guy on the phone. He’s like, my manager – or he was. He uh, well, he gets me jobs. Jobs like what I did in the Marines, kind of,” he explains, looking at you with trepidation.

You remain silent, waiting for him to finish.

“I kill people for money. Like, you know, a hitman. And well, Fuches just won’t leave me the fuck alone. I don’t want to do it. He makes me feel like it’s the only thing I’m good at. But, I’ve stopped, y/n, I don’t want to live like that. I never did.”

Barry felt the shift in your demeanour immediately, although he knew it was coming. Your hands went cold, and you pulled yourself away from him. Barry lay in silence, cursing himself. He knew he had to tell you the truth, but that didn’t make it any easier.

Your head was running wild. Barry, a killer? No way. He was so soft, and loving, and gentle with his caresses. He couldn’t possibly take a life?

He didn’t try to reach you, to touch you. He didn’t even talk. He knew he’d ruined it – you were the only good thing in his life, and he ruined everything he touched. You left him on your bed, thinking only about the pizza in the oven. Yanking the oven door open, you reached in for the pizza tray without thinking.

“Oh fuck!” you yelled, an angry red welt already appearing across your palm.

Rushing to the sink, you ran the tap and submersed your hand in the cool water. Your mind started to slow, your thoughts clearing as you relaxed and enjoyed the water trickling over your hands and forearms. Your eyes focussed on a photo, smiling fondly at the memory. It was at one of Barry’s acting classes, his first big performance with Sally. You were so proud of him, so in love with him that night. The photo was the first you two took together, and Sally had snapped it proudly, exclaiming to the whole class that she was sure you two would be married one day soon. In the photo Barry was smiling, his big, beautiful infectious smile. His eyes were crinkled, and they glistened – he had been laughing at Sally’s declaration, and his hand on your waist had gripped you closer. You were gazing up at Barry, a similar smile on your face. Tears threatened your eyes as you let your heart swell at that feeling – that almost impossible feeling of being so hopelessly in love with someone that you would quite literally follow them to hell and back, to the ends of the earth, to battle all their demons no matter how terrifying. Flicking off the tap, you took a deep breath before returning to your bedroom.

Barry had shuffled himself up, so his back was resting against the wall. His eyes searched for yours as soon as you returned, and you marched up to the bed before clambering on, as close as you could get to him without hurting his wound.

“I don’t like it. Okay, I don’t like it. I don’t know what else I’m supposed to say.”

His face fell, even though he’d expected this response. He opened his mouth to speak, before you started again.

“I’m not finished. I don’t like it. In fact, I hate it. But I love you. I love you, I love you, and I will say it until I run out of breath. I’m not going to run away from this, from you,” you said as you gripped his hands, talking rapidly.

He opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t find the words. How he’d ever been so blessed to have you he did not know. Gently you leaned in to kiss him, savouring him and letting your fingers caress his face.

“I love you,” he murmured, tears quietly rolling down his face. “I don’t deserve you, but I’ll love you every day for the rest of my life,” he whispered as you both lay down, facing one another.

You closed your eyes and smiled softly. He could tell you more another day, but for now this was enough.

#mywriting #barry #barry berkman #barry berkman x reader #barry hbo #bill hader #barry berkman imagines #barry berkman fanfiction #barry block #barry imagine #barry x reader

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calebyap · 3 years

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Christmas Hymns by Timothy Dudley-Smith (1)

Lord Jesus, born a tiny child and held in Mary's fond embrace, who gravely looked at her, and smiled to see the joy upon her face, look with the same delight, we pray, upon this child we bring today. Lord Jesus, when the children came your arms were wide to welcome all, and for this child we ask the same, a heart responsive to your call. Receive and bless, O Lord, we pray, this child we here baptize today. Lord Jesus, bearer of our sin, who died for us and rose again, to make your children clean within and free from every sin and stain, so may this child be washed, we pray, whom with your cross we sign today. Lord Jesus, reigning now as King, whose subjects serve for love alone, let love enlist the life we bring and claim this child to be your own: in faith baptized, received, forgiven, to be by grace a child of heaven.

In the stillness, hark! Through the silent dark comes a sound of angels singing, comes a voice from heaven bringing news of peace on earth through a Saviour's birth. Here by faith behold Jesus, long foretold. In this infant here reclining, by whose light the stars are shining, we have seen and heard God's incarnate Word. Not with kingly crown does our God come down: but our human flesh he borrows, Friend of sinners, Man of sorrows, for our life to die, in our grave to lie. From that grave again he arose to reign! He who lay, by Mary tended, is the Prince of life ascended, honoured, loved, adored, he is Christ the Lord!

Had I been there that Christmas night and known that starry sky, the stable-lantern's fitful light, the newborn baby's cry, what wonder would my heart have felt as on the earthen floor I too could kneel where shepherd knelt to worship and adore. Had I been there among the hills and stirred by Jesus' call, who by his word would heal the ills, the deepest need of all, what though my heart were half-afraid, my spark of faith were dim, I too, his touch upon me laid, would turn and follow him. Had I been there that Friday noon and heard the rabble's cry, 'Hosanna to the King,' so soon exchanged for 'Crucify,' such sorrow would my heart have known had I been there to see how, scarred, forsaken and alone, my Savior died for me. Had I been there at break of day when Peter ran with John to find the stone was rolled away and Jesus' body gone, how would my leaping heart rejoice at what familiar word, when Mary heard again his voice and knew her risen Lord. * We were not there when Jesus came and walked this earth of old, to talk with him, to speak his Name, to hear the tales he told; we walk below in faith and love as sinners saved by grace, until with all his saints above we see the Savior's face.

Here is the centre: star on distant star shining unheeded in the depths of space, worlds without number, all the worlds there are, turn in their travelling to this holy place. Here in a stable and an ox's stall laid in a manger lies the Lord of all. Now is the moment: God in flesh appears, down from the splendours of his throne sublime, High King of Ages, Lord of all the years, God everlasting stoops to space and time. All that was promised now is brought to birth, Jesus our Saviour come at last to earth. Son of the Father, God's eternal Word, emptied of glory, born to cross and grave; ours is the secret ancient prophets heard, God in our likeness come to seek and save: Christ in his passion, bearer of our sins; and, from his rising, risen life begins. Come then rejoicing! Praise be all our songs! Love lies among us in the stable bare, light in our darkness, righting of all wrongs, hope for the future, joy enough to share. Peace to our hearts for God is on the throne! Christ our Redeemer comes to claim his own.

Child of Mary, softly sleeping, blessings crown your infant head; angel hosts, their vigil keeping, watch about your manger bed. Child of wonder, there reclining, kings and shepherds greet your birth; high above, the stars are shining on the Light and Life of earth. Child of promise: all our dreaming, all the hopes the prophets saw, God with us for our redeeming, lies asleep amid the straw. Child of sorrow, freely sharing this our world of joy and pain; Christ has come, our burdens bearing, all our human sin and stain. Child of glory now proclaim him! Hear the angel host reply: risen Lord and Saviour name him, `Glory be to God on high!'

Carols to Christ be sung, joy be on every tongue, welcome his birth! where in the starry sky legions of angels cry `Glory to God on high, peace upon earth'. Shepherds behold the sight, keeping their flocks by night, safe till the morn: down through the dark they tread, finding the cattle-shed, where in a manger bed Jesus is born. Kings from the East arise, worshippers strange and wise, journeying far; incense and gold they bring, gifts for a God and King, myrrh for his suffering, led by a star. Though, like the star that shone, shepherds and kings are gone long past recall, he who by faith is known, Saviour and Son alone, reigns from his Father's throne, Christ over all!

Child of the stable's secret birth, the Lord by right of the lords of earth, let angels sing of a King new born, the world is weaving a crown of thorn: a crown of thorn for that infant head cradled soft in the manger bed. Eyes that shine in the lantern's ray; a face so small in its nest of hay, face of a child who is born to scan the world he made through the eyes of man: and from that face in the final day earth and heaven shall flee away. Voice that rang through the courts on high contracted now to a wordless cry, a voice to master the wind and wave, the human heart and the hungry grave: the voice of God through the cedar trees rolling forth as the sound of seas. Infant hands in a mother's hand, for none but Mary may understand whose are the hands and the fingers curled but his who fashioned and made our world; and through these hands in the hour of death nails shall strike to the wood beneath. Child of the stable's secret birth, the Father's gift to a wayward earth, to drain the cup in a few short years of all our sorrows, our sins and tears; ours the prize for the road he trod: risen with Christ; at peace with God.

Forsake the courts of heaven, O angel choirs on high; our silent dark be riven with songs that fill the sky; come, rend the clouds asunder, on God incarnate gaze, and sing with awe and wonder of glory, peace and praise. Forsake your watch unsleeping, O shepherds of the fold, your night-long vigil keeping by starlight clear and cold; come, hear the angel's story and haste to journey down, to where the Lord of glory is born in David's town. Forsake your ancient learning, O Magi from afar, your new-born king discerning beneath his guiding star; come, greet the King of ages, the world's Redeemer see, of sinners, saints and sages, enthroned on Mary's knee. Forsake your care and sadness, all burdened longing hearts; by faith receive with gladness the gift that God imparts; come, join the angel chorus, believe the promised word, a new world lies before us through Christ our living Lord.

#dudley-smith #christmas #advent #hymns #carols #poetry

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artificialqueens · 5 years

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intents wicked or charitable (trixya) 7/10 - beanierose

AN: validation station, you ladies brighten my days and i’m so proud of all of you. and stutter, my love, i couldn’t do it without you. i’m so grateful and so thrilled to know you.

(read on ao3) | (find me at katiehoughton)

[one.] [two.] [three.] [four.] [five.] [six.]

a practical magic au for the spooky season. there’s a curse on any man who dares love you? love a woman, instead. | 5,680 words

“How could you do this to me?”

Trixie stays right where she is on the ground. The snow is soaking through the ass of her pants and getting inside of her boots so that her socks feel unpleasantly wet. Her face is red and everything keeps going blurry. She blinks to clear her vision again and a tear escapes her, slides hot down the salt-raw curve of her cheek.

“Honey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.” Katya is standing over her, red scarf wound twice around her neck so that it obscures half of her face as well.

“You hurt me.” Trixie lets the wail bleed out into her voice a little bit. She’s got her fists balled up inside her gloves so that the empty fingers flop limply when she moves her hands. She’s not crying, not really. Her eyes are just watering because her face stings.

Katya kneels down next to her and tucks her hair back. The tips of her ears are pink with the cold and Trixie finds herself fixated on the right one, which is folded over into a little point. Katya calls it her pixie ear. She sighs when Trixie seeks it out with her teeth and lips and tongue, but she always lets her and it always makes a moan stutter out of her very quietly.

“Trixie, baby, it was an accident. I’m so sorry.”

Her face is white with horror and her hands are hovering over Trixie like she’s not sure she’s allowed to touch. It’s not fun anymore. Trixie shakes off the last of her snit and reaches for Katya, fists both hands in the lapels of her coat to haul her in close.

She lets out a little squeak of surprise as she goes and Trixie kisses the noise right from her mouth. She’s the one to deepen things, the one to touch her tongue to the seam of Katya’s lips. It’s not a comfortable position, on her ass on the snow covered ground and Katya balancing herself with a hand at her thigh. Katya’s mouth is hot and wet and lovely and Trixie wants to keep kissing her. Her whole body feels strung out with need, pulled taut.

“Mm, Trixie, wait.” Katya is the one to break the kiss. It doesn’t feel time to break it, and Trixie keens low in her throat. “Do you concede? Are you defeated?”

“You hit me in the face,” Trixie says, and then steals another kiss.

It’s her own fault. She’s the one who started it. Katya had been pottering around with the chickens, watching them fussing over the warm oatmeal that they get now that the cold is unending and pervasive. She is endlessly delighted by how much it confuses them and she loves to set the dish down and then stay with them for a while. Trixie leaves her to it, most times, and every now and then Katya will turn over her shoulder and grin at her about it.

Today, Trixie took advantage of Katya’s distraction and hit her right between the shoulder blades with a snowball. It made her jerk upright on a yelp, in time to see Trixie breaking away from the house and taking off at a run. She has a bench out in the backyard and she had hooked her arm around one of the posts that supports it and used the momentum to whip around and crouch down behind it for cover.

She had busied herself forming as many tightly compact balls in the snow as she could, peeking up over the back of the bench every so often. Katya had taken a minute to stop reeling. It gave Trixie time to raise up a little more and launch another snowball at her. It had landed perfectly and hit Katya square in the solar plexus. The shock of it had made her take a few stumbling steps backward.

“Trixie!” she had yelled, affronted, and immediately dropped to the ground to start forming an arsenal of her own.

She’d gotten distracted then and let herself have a moment to watch Katya, felt her heart do a slow turn in her chest. Trixie favoured quantity, wanted to have as many snowballs as possible, but Katya took a different tack. It worked out better for her. Her shots were accurate every time, where most of Trixie’s crumpled mid-flight and sprayed Katya with powdery snow rather than actually hitting her.

She knows Katya didn’t mean to hit her in the face. She was mostly just being dramatic and a bit of a brat when she let the force of it knock her onto her ass. It’s worth it for how gentle Katya is being with her now. She helps Trixie to her feet and keeps a tight hold of one of her hands. The other comes up to settle at the back of her neck and Katya’s freezing fingertips tuck inside the band of Trixie’s beanie.

“I’m sorry I hit you in the face. I know your face is very important to you.”

“My face is very important to you,” Trixie says back. “Where else are you gonna sit?”

Every time Katya kisses her, it feels a little like the first time. They’re comfortable together — Trixie knows exactly what Katya likes and what will get her to bite out a tiny moan — but she still can’t quite believe that they actually get to do this now. The leftover adrenaline from their snowball fight is making her a little aggressive. Trixie’s tongue seeks Katya’s, slicking into her mouth, and she grabs clumsily at her in her gloves.

Their kiss burns itself out naturally because they’re both shivering now that they’ve stopped moving. Katya’s cradling Trixie’s face in both hands and her fingers are freezing but her palms are warm and her breath is too, where it skims Trixie’s cheek. Snow has gathered along the tops of her shoulders and in her hair like static and it makes her ethereal and electric.

Trixie wants to bury her face in the warm creases at Katya’s neck. She can’t quite manage that, not with Katya’s enormous wool scarf in the way. Instead she wraps her arms around her and clings tight, their bodies aligned from shoulder to knee. Katya lets them have a few moments of hushed awe in which she only fidgets a tiny bit.

“You okay, mama?” she asks when Trixie lets her wriggle out of their hug.

Trixie doesn’t hurry into her answer. There’s a lot she still hasn’t said. She’s thinking it, all of the time. In the early mornings when she wakes up for just a moment and opens one eye to see Katya sitting up against the headboard with a novel against her thighs. In the evenings when Katya insists on helping Trixie make dinner, which mostly means snacking on the ingredients Trixie is trying to prep and kissing her when she gets grouchy about it. Sometimes Trixie opens her mouth, and then she remembers Katya telling her I’m scared and she closes it again.

“Yeah. Happy.”

Katya makes a disgusted noise and screws her face up. She’s got one hand tucked into Trixie’s pocket and she wriggles it there to make her laugh.

“I think we should go inside.” She darts a glance just over Trixie’s shoulder and Trixie turns to look as well, sees Dolly’s dark head in the window and her eyes baleful on them. “I think your benevolent spirit is getting jealous.”

The dog hates the snow and absolutely refuses to go outside in it more than she has to. Whenever Trixie opens the back door for Dolly to use the bathroom she pitches a fit and whines and shivers for a good half hour afterward. If Katya’s there, she’ll gather Dolly up in her arms and rock her like an infant, muttering to her in Russian.

Trixie’s not jealous of her dog. That would be absurd.

They head for the back door stumbling and snow-drunk, clutching at one another like teenagers. Trixie almost trips over one of the chickens but Katya’s holding tight to her hand and she won’t let her fall down. At the back door, Trixie looks over her shoulder to see the crooked step of their twin footprints. Katya is already inside, so she lets herself have a tiny moment to smile to herself about it without being teased.

It’s nice to have somebody else in the house. They don’t always have to be on top of one another. It’s good to just exist in the same space and be peripherally aware of one another. Most evenings Trixie busies herself fixing them dinner and she likes knowing that Katya is right in the next room, reading or fussing over Dolly or sometimes doing yoga. Trixie will often leave whatever she’s cooking to simmer on the stovetop and go to find Katya, take the novel out of her hands and leave her thumb tucked inside to mark the page while she kisses her.

This afternoon she’s listening to music. Trixie doesn’t have a CD player. Katya keeps threatening to get her one, but for now she has the radio. Katya fiddles with it constantly, changing stations as soon as she gets bored with a song, which is usually immediately after the first chorus. There’s a stew in the crockpot, but it isn’t quite time to make the dropped dumplings just yet. She wipes down the countertops and puts the peelings from the vegetables into the little caddy she keeps for composting.

It isn’t snowing anymore, but the gunmetal sky is low over the earth and it could start again at any moment. Trixie is looking forward to their evening, lighting a fire and snuggling up on the couch. Katya can be coaxed into letting Trixie hold her if she feeds her something carbohydrate-rich and warm and then eats her out slowly. Once or twice she’s even fallen asleep with her head against Trixie’s shoulder or in her lap.

“Trixie, come look at this,” Katya calls from the living room.

Trixie can see her through the archway. She’s standing by the window with one hand up against the glass, her fingerprints leaving little smudges in the condensation. She’s taken all of her winter layers off and she has the bottom of her jeans tucked into her socks and her sweater pushed up past her elbows. Trixie’s chest is tight with how badly she wants to hold her, and how grateful she is that she gets to.

“Mm, just a minute,” she says back. There are a couple of dishes waiting in the sink that she wants to tackle before she lets herself get lost in Katya for the rest of the day.

“Trixie!”

The panic in Katya’s voice makes her head snap up. Katya has whipped around to look at her and her face is pale and slack like a death mask. Before Trixie can get her mouth open to ask what’s wrong, Katya rushes right past her into the mudroom and steps hastily into her galoshes. She’s frantic in a way Trixie hasn’t ever seen before and it makes her nauseated right down into the pit of her stomach.

“What is it, babe?”

“It’s Cash. Oh God. It’s Cash.”

Trixie can hear him, now.

The goats are noisy a lot of the time. She’s gotten used to their irate bleating whenever they encounter something that displeases them, which seems to be once every half a minute or so. They’re often cantankerous towards each other and Trixie mostly tunes out the loud bleats that she can hear all the way inside the house whenever they butt heads.

This isn’t like that. It’s a thin, reedy, sustained note of panic that cuts right through the core of Trixie and upwards so she feels it into her teeth. She’s cleaved in two by it. Trixie pulls her boots on as quickly as she can over her thick wool socks and hurries outside in them, unlaced.

Katya has beat her to Cash and she’s on her knees in the snow next to him. He’s lying sprawled on his side like a rag doll dropped from a great height and his foreleg is bent at an unnatural angle. Trixie presses the back of her hand to her mouth and takes a couple of ragged breaths in through her nose.

The goat is writhing on the cold ground, scrabbling to try and get up, but Katya holds him in place with the flat of her palm. With her other hand she touches her fingers very lightly to Cash’s leg and he cries out and rears against her.

“Oh my God. What happened?” There’s no response and Trixie closes the distance in a couple of strides and knuckles the back of Katya’s head to get her attention. “Katya. What happened?”

She doesn’t look up at Trixie. Her eyes are roaming all over Cash and her hands too, busying at him like there’s something she can do. “He was climbing on the truck again, and he got onto the roof. I guess it was too icy, I don’t know-”

They’re both wailing now, Katya and the goat. Trixie kneels down too and Cash lolls his head towards her. The whites of his eyes are showing and his nostrils are flared with his fast breathing. Trixie can’t stand to see him hurting. She bows over him like that can shield him, like the warmth of her body over his will heal him.

“He slipped?”

“He slipped, he fell.” Katya has gotten herself together a little bit and she lifts her head to meet Trixie’s eyes.

“I don’t know what to do.” Trixie’s voice comes out in pieces. She can smell adrenaline and she swipes uselessly at her cheeks with the pads of her fingers. A few tears drop onto Cash’s flank. “Katya, I don’t know what to do. Tell me what to do.”

“Stay right here with him, honey. It’ll comfort him to have you close.”

Katya disappears inside the house. When Trixie lifts her head to watch her go she sees Guthrie a couple of feet away, watching. His head is low and he’s toeing anxiously at the frozen ground. Cash is still mewling and Trixie strokes his head over and over, murmuring softly to him.

Katya comes back with a sheet from the linen closet which she unfolds, and Trixie helps her ease it beneath Cash as carefully as they can. The snow helps to cushion him a bit, but he still cries out when they have to bring the sheet beneath his broken leg. Katya’s got the keys to the truck as well and she unlocks it. It’s a graceless, cruel production to get Cash into the cab of the truck.

In the driver’s seat Trixie swipes at her eyes with the sleeves of her sweater. There isn’t really room for the three of them on the bench seat, so Katya’s got Cash’s back legs in her lap. She’s twisted to lean over him and she’s muttering something that Trixie can’t really hear. She gets like this sometimes, with all of the animals. Her voice is melodious and whatever she’s reciting calms them immediately. More than once, Trixie has fallen asleep on the couch with Katya at her feet whispering to the dog.

“Do you know a vet? I don’t have one here yet, I don’t-”

“Let’s go to my house.”

Katya’s voice has an edge to it that Trixie hasn’t ever heard before. She looks at her, at the set of her jaw and the two little creases between her brows, and she knows better than to argue. Trixie drives as smoothly as she possibly can, but every time they go over a bump or a pothole in the back roads Cash whines. His breathing is easing with Katya’s continued muttering and the gentle brush of both of her hands along his flank and his head.

At the house she jumps out before Trixie has even cut the engine. It’s even worse getting Cash back out of the truck and up the porch steps. He isn’t heavy, but even doing their best not to jostle him he’s writhing in agony by the time they make it inside. Katya’s walking backwards and she doesn’t have to turn over her shoulder, makes a clear path through to the kitchen without smacking into the wall or tripping over anything.

Trixie feels foggy and disoriented with panic. She lets Katya tell her what to do and she sits on the floor with Cash’s head in her lap while Katya rummages around in the cabinets. Trixie can’t lift her eyes from the goat to see what Katya’s gathering, so it startles her when she kneels down next to her on the kitchen floor.

She’s got a mortar and pestle filled with herbs and a couple of things Trixie doesn’t recognise at all, and a roll of Ace bandage. Katya starts grinding everything into a paste. She has her eyes closed and she’s muttering again, still. Once it’s done, she uses her fingers to apply it in a thick layer over Cash’s leg. It’s purplish-green and smells a little like chamomile. There’s no break in the skin. Trixie can’t understand how an ointment is going to help.

“What are you doing? He needs to see a vet. Katya.”

Trixie watches Katya wind the bandage around and around Cash’s leg. He’s nosing curiously at it, trying to lick the salve, and she gently nudges his face away over and over until she’s got the bandage secured. His breathing is starting to even out in the warmth of Katya’s kitchen, but his eyes are still wide and darting.

“It needs ten minutes or so like that. You want tea?”

“I don’t- what’s happening right now?” Trixie presses the heel of her palm to her forehead. There’s a headache blooming in a livid burst behind her left eye socket. Katya is fussing with the kettle, and all of Trixie’s leftover adrenaline comes tumbling out. “Katya, stop ignoring me. What are you doing?”

Katya sets the kettle on the burner to boil. Her shoulders are up around her ears. Trixie watches her take a steadying breath, another, and then she turns to look at her. There’s a little smudge of black eyeliner beneath her eye and the lines of her lipstick are blown out and cracking from kissing Trixie all morning in the snow.

“You remember what Tom said to you the first day you met me?”

They’ve talked about it a little. Trixie is made brave by the darkness, and most nights she lies on her back with Katya tucked against her side in a haphazard tangle of limbs, and she spills all of her secrets. She’s talked about her life before she was here, in Wisconsin and in Los Angeles. She’s talked about longing and loneliness, told Katya how glad she is to have her. Warmed her cold fingers against Katya’s stomach.

“Yes I remember. I don’t have dementia. I’m not you.”

It’s a weak joke, and she doesn’t get a laugh. Instead, Katya gives her a tiny, tiny nod. “It’s real, Trix. It’s true.”

“Oh my God, shut up,” Trixie says. She’s still on the floor with Cash and she’s suddenly disoriented by the jarring height discrepancy. Trixie gets to her feet and her knees click as she straightens. “That’s not funny. Shut up.”

“It’s not supposed to be funny. I wouldn’t joke about this. Not with you.”

“No.” Trixie shakes her head to try and dispel the ringing in her ears. Her pulse is pounding everywhere, all over. She feels overripe, like her skin is going to split open at her wrists and the base of her throat and the insides of her elbows. “No you’re not.”

Katya gives her a somber smile. She’s holding her hands in front of herself and her fingers are knotted together. “I am. Well, I’m a znakharka, technically. A folk healer.”

“Katya, stop it. It’s not cute.”

Instead of saying anything else, Katya leans forward over the island. She has a collection of pillar candles in the middle. Each one is a different colour and they drip their wax onto an assortment of peculiar dishes. Katya blows out one long, steady breath and a flame stutters to life at each of the five wicks. She raises her eyes to Trixie, then. The sun seems to have set very suddenly and the darkness up against the windows is making her claustrophobic. At her feet, Cash lets out a little bleat.

“Please stop,” Trixie says. She’s backed herself up against the cabinets without realising it and the edge of the countertop is pressing uncomfortably against the base of her spine.

The kettle starts whistling and Katya gets out two cups and a pot. She brews loose leaf, always, and she pours the hot water through the metal infuser. Trixie has her hands either side of her hips, clutching at the counter to stay standing. She feels pinned in place and stripped bare. Katya gives the tea some time to steep and then pours it into their cups. She adds a splash of milk to Trixie’s tea and sets a dainty little spoon inside. It starts stirring around and around the circumference of the cup, and when Katya lifts her hands it continues on by itself.

“Katya, please, stop it. Please.” She’s on the edge of tears, and it feels like she’s been crying all day and couldn’t possibly have anything left, but she does.

Katya folds her hands together again neatly. The spoon clatters loudly against the side of the cup and Trixie flinches badly and bites down hard on the side of her tongue. All of the candles go out at once. There are deep swathes of shadow beneath Katya’s eyes and in the hollows of her cheeks. She’s beautiful, of course, but it’s like Trixie’s seeing her for the first time all over again.

“I’m so sorry,” Katya whispers.

“You lied to me.”

Trixie is humiliated by the tremble in her voice. There’s a hot iron taste in her mouth that won’t go away no matter how many times she swallows roughly. The solid edge of the countertop is still pressing hard into her lumbar spine but it’s a good pain, a grounding pain. Her breath is coming in these tight little gasps so that she doesn’t cry.

“I didn’t lie.” Katya comes around the counter. There’s a tiny squeak, like a small and petrified animal, and Trixie realises with a rush of cold shame that it was her. Katya stops where she stands and shows Trixie her palms. “I’ve never lied to you, honey. I just…I didn’t tell you the whole truth.”

“That’s the same thing!”

The hurt is reworking itself. Trixie feels it pouring outward from the centre of her chest, livid-hot so that it makes her ball her hands into tight fists. She keeps trying over and over to take a centering breath but each one comes out wetter and more shallow than the last. Katya is watching her, unmoving. It isn’t like she’s spooked or caught in a snare. She is perfectly calm; it’s Trixie who feels ready to gnaw off her own foot.

“You let me walk around town defending you. You let me- oh my God. I yelled at people for you. You let everyone laugh at me behind my back.”

Katya takes another tentative step towards Trixie. Their two cups of tea are left immediately abandoned on the kitchen island. Since they first met, Trixie has been awestruck over and over by how tiny Katya often seems. She’s spent as much time holding her as Katya will let her have. Now, it seems calculated. Like Katya has set herself up to seem vulnerable, when all along it’s Trixie who has been in danger.

“No one’s been laughing at you.”

“Of course they have.” Trixie is trying very hard not to yell. She has lost many arguments in her life because as soon as she lets her anger sweep through her she starts crying. She can’t hold her own with tears coursing down her ruddy cheeks and dripping from her chin. “I’m the only fucking idiot in this whole town who couldn’t see you for what you are.”

Katya’s crying now too. Even like this, she’s lovely. The tip of her nose is pink and her eyes are shiny and more grey than usual. She’s stopped trying to approach Trixie and they’re standing facing one another, Trixie backed against the cabinets and Katya leaning on the island.

“I’m sorry, honey. I’m so sorry.”

Cash is on the ground between them. He lets out a little bleat and Trixie looks down to see him getting slowly to his feet. He babies his hurt leg, cautious with his weight, but as soon as he tries to stand properly he realises that it isn’t hurting anymore. His ears swivel to point forwards and he takes a few careful steps. He nudges his head into Katya’s thigh and she reaches down blindly to pet him, her eyes still on Trixie.

Katya crouches to unwind the bandage from Cash’s leg. She can barely hold him still while she does, because curiosity at being in a new place is winning out now that his pain is gone. As soon as Katya lets him go he careens off around the other side of the island to nose at every unfamiliar smell in the kitchen.

“He’s- you…how did you do that.”

“It’s mostly about intention.” Katya is gnawing anxiously on her bottom lip. She’s folded the two ends of the bandage in on themselves so the salve doesn’t make a mess but she seems reluctant to throw it in the garbage. “A lot of it is herbology, connecting with the earth, all that. It’s hard to explain. I know it’s a lot to take in.”

“You made a fool of me.”

Katya’s face goes slack and her mouth opens. She’s still crying a little but it doesn’t seem like she’s even aware of it. She keeps lifting her hands like she wants to reach out to Trixie and then letting them drop back to her sides again. Sick satisfaction twists in Trixie’s stomach to see her looking so small and so afraid.

“I didn’t mean to.” Katya is only getting quieter the more Trixie lets herself unravel. Her voice is coloured by intimacy and it reminds Trixie of middle of the night tenderness, of leaning in close to share a secret. “That’s not what I wanted.”

“What did you want?”

It hits Trixie just like that.

Since the first time they met, she’s been so eager to be close to Katya. In spite of her better judgement and her past hurts. Accusations crowd inside her mouth, jostling so that she can’t focus in on just one. Her knees buckle and she has to hold herself up with both hands at the countertop behind her. The movement makes the black tourmaline in her pocket knock against her thigh.

She’s been carrying it with her every day since Katya gave it to her. She is very suddenly hollowed out with humiliation. Shame travels down the centre of her chest and cleaves her in two to let Katya look. It’s always been like that with them, she’s always felt like Katya has seen the pink-raw insides of her, but this is different.

Trixie is ensnared by the fact that she can’t accuse Katya of casting a love spell on her. Not without admitting that she loves her. She is in love with her, hopelessly, still. The indignity of the whole situation has a fresh flood of hot tears spilling over her cheeks. Her face feels itchy with saltwater and she’s getting a dehydration headache.

She thinks about Katya holding Trixie’s hands in hers and making heat bloom all over. Katya’s mouth between Trixie’s thighs and the lights in the whole house stuttering out at the first wet, delicious contact. How foolish she’s been. Over and over, she’s written things off as Katya’s marvellous eccentricity.

Opposite her, Katya rakes a rough hand through her hair. It makes her bangs stick up from her forehead. “I wanted you. I wanted you so much that I didn’t know what to do with myself.”

It’s too much. She can’t keep it back.

“You cast a love spell on me.”

“No, Trixie,” Katya says very gently, and shakes her head. “You just like me.”

“So you’ve never used magic on me?”

Trixie comes unstuck, quite suddenly, from the cabinets. She stalks away from Katya and runs both hands through her hair, swipes uselessly at her cheeks. She’s glad to turn away, even though Katya has already seen how much she’s hurting.

Cash has opened the garbage can with his nose and is rummaging through it, pulling things out to scatter all over the kitchen. Katya probably has a spell for that, so Trixie leaves him to it.

“Not on purpose.” Katya sounds small and exhausted. Trixie doesn’t want to turn to look at her, but she can see her reflected in the window over the sink. She pinches the bridge of her nose in two fingers. “Sometimes it just happens. When I care about someone. I’m a healer, honey. I can’t watch you hurt.”

“You’ve made me hurt.” Trixie whips around to look at her again. Her voice is shuddering like she’s coming down from her crying jag, but she doesn’t feel done yet. “You hurt me.”

“Trixie. Can you come here. Please.” She doesn’t move, can’t seem to make herself close the distance between them. “Okay. That’s okay.”

“I don’t understand why you don’t trust me.”

Katya makes a high-pitched noise of distress, wet with grief. “I do trust you. I do. Things were just so good with us. I was afraid to ruin it.”

“Well you have anyway.” It feels good to be unkind. It feels like vindication to watch Katya’s face twist with every new truth Trixie lays out in front of her. There’s an intolerable churning in the pit of Trixie’s stomach that won’t go away no matter how many steadying breaths she takes. “I can’t- I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be with you right now.”

Trixie reaches for the first thing she sees, an apple from the bowl on the island, and holds it out to show Cash. It draws his attention immediately away from his foraging and he follows her towards the door. It’s like nothing happened, and she can’t help wondering if she would have ever found out the truth if Cash hadn’t gotten hurt.

“Trixie, please.”

Katya’s pitiful voice stops her in the threshold. She doesn’t turn around, can’t bear the sight of her anymore, but she also doesn’t move. Cash is nosing at Trixie’s fist, trying to get a bite of the apple she’s holding.

“There’s a circle around the moon tonight. That’s a sign of trouble not far ahead.”

It isn’t what Trixie was expecting. She huffs a tiny breath of laughter, in spite of herself. The trouble is already here; they’re in it. She doesn’t want to entertain the thought of what could be worse than this. Katya gives her space to retort but Trixie is all out of words now. She’s exhausted suddenly, and has to put her empty hand against the doorframe so she doesn’t topple.

“Sometimes I…I feel like I have a kind of hole, inside. Like an emptiness that burns. I’m pretty sure if you lifted my heart to your ear, you could probably hear the ocean. Isn’t that nuts? That’s pretty nuts.”

Trixie closes her eyes. It doesn’t stop two round, hot tears from escaping. She knows it isn’t true. Night after night, she has pillowed her cheek against Katya’s chest and closed her eyes to listen. She’s fallen asleep more than once to the quiet, insistent rhythm of Katya’s heartbeat.

“I’ve had this dream of being whole. Of not going to sleep each night, wanting.” Katya makes a little noise as if she’s trying to clear her throat. “I dreamed of a love that even time would lie down and be still for.”

Trixie bites down on her tongue until the taste of iron floods her mouth. She wants to wail, wants to say that she loves her, she loves her, and Katya turned it back around into like. All the fight has gone out of her. Her pulse is loud in her ears, blood drawing out of her extremities and making them numb and tingly.

“I just want someone to love me. I want to be seen. Maybe I already had my happiness. I don’t know.” Trixie’s arms twitch, but she doesn’t move. She’s had a lot of practice ignoring the ache to hold Katya that lives in her stomach. “Still sometimes when the wind is warm or the crickets sing-”

“You’re running off at the mouth again.” Trixie can’t — won’t — turn and look at her. Katya makes a pitiful noise, loud in the stillness of the kitchen. “You don’t make any sense when you’re like this. You don’t- I can’t understand you.”

Outside, Trixie encourages Cash into the truck with the apple in her hand. The whole time, she can feel Katya watching her. She knows better than to come outside and try to help. Trixie feels a scream swelling at the base of her throat. It takes her a couple of tries to get the engine started and frustration makes her grip the wheel too tight, makes her grit her teeth until her jaw pops.

On the drive she has to pull over at the side of the street to throw up. When it’s over, when she’s finished, she swipes at her mouth with the back of her hand. Her eyes are watering again and the acid taste, the smell, is making her heave, but it’s good. It feels good to expunge something.

#rpdr fanfiction #trixie mattel #katya zamolodchikova #trixya #magical realism #tenderness #isolation #slow burn kind of #iwoc #beanierose #lesbian au

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alois-the-real-boy · 4 years

Text

JULY THIRTIETH

Colony 22 AU Bingo: crime/mafia

January Twenty-fifth.

“And you found him, where?”

“Skulkin’ around inside the garden wall.”

Alois looked down his nose at the man held kneeling in front of him, hands loosely pocketed in impeccably tailored slacks and line of his body awfully relaxed, for someone who was being presented with a man contracted to kill him.

Just another Sunday.

Crouching, he tried to get a look at finely carved features past dusty blond hair matted with blood, inclining his head with an expression that held little apprehension; only curiosity. “Who sent you?” He paused but, predictably, received no response. Alois reached out with his right hand -- the other was clad in a fine, soft leather he wasn’t about to get dirty -- and touched the pad of his thumb to the corner of a split lip. “I asked you a question.”

The man jerked his head away and promptly spat blood across the neat polish on Alois’s shoes. Muscle in his jaw working for a moment as he tried to maintain his patience, Alois eventually grabbed the man’s bruised chin with an equally bruising grip of thumb and forefinger. “I’m going to be lenient with you, because quite frankly, I’m impressed you got as far as you did. But let me be clear: you’re only living because I’m letting you, and you’d be wise never to cross my line of sight again.”

Contrary to that statement, the hitman fixed him with a cold, determined look that coiled uneasily in the pit of Alois’s stomach. “You’re not the one I’m taking orders from right now. And I don’t go back on a contract.”

“Don’t you?” Alois tilted his head, eyes flickering between icy blue to match his own before pushing the man’s chin to the side derisively. He held up a hand, one of the brutes materializing from the dim corner of the room to place a handkerchief in it, which Alois used to wipe the blood from his hand and then from his shoe before straightening. “I think we’ll be seeing about that.”

January Twenty-ninth.

“Modius?”

“Mm. New to the area but already, supposedly, one of the best in the game. Possibly the best. Contracts solo. He’s not tied to any family or organization save by business. Very lucrative, very violent business.”

“Clove Modius.” Alois repeated the name as he peered out the window and over the moonlit lawn with a faraway gaze.

Lise pulled her hair over one shoulder, affixing a sparkling string of diamonds around her delicate neck as she watched her brother in the vanity mirror. “I know that look. I never like what’s coming, after that look.”

Alois broke from his thoughts to meet Lise’s gaze, then half-smiled as he crossed to stand behind her, one gloved hand and one bare coming to rest on her shoulders. Lise immediately covered his right hand with hers, even as she fixed him with a dubious look via the glass. He shrugged. “I want one. That’s all.”

“Alois.”

He snickered at her admonishing tone, a quiet but clear sound between them, and squeezed her shoulders. “Trust me.”

“Til the ends of the earth. But I prefer you alive.”

The look she gave him was mixed, and Alois tried to smooth it away by leaning down to press a kiss to the crown of her hair. “If all goes according to plan, he’s going to be the one to keep me that way.”

February Eighteenth.

Alois woke to the heavy weight of a body pinning his waist to the bed and the cold press of a blade at his throat, pulling a breath through his nose before he slowly opened his eyes. Clove’s icy stare fixed unerringly on him from the shadows, and against all better sense of self-preservation, Alois caught himself fighting a smile.

They stayed frozen there for a moment, and then two. Finally, when Alois found his throat as of yet intact, he murmured, “Did you kill all my guards?”

Even in the dim light, Alois caught the unimpressed curl of Clove’s lip. “They didn’t even see me this time.”

“Mm.” Muted disappointment, with a mixture of newfound respect. “I’m going to fire all of them, and I’m going to hire you.”

Clove fixed him with an inscrutable look. “My contract isn’t currently on offer.”

“I’ll triple what Dervilia is paying you, because whatever it is, I can already tell that it’s less than you’re worth.” There was a half-second of hesitation before Alois felt the blade press more firmly into his skin. He ignored the stinging edge of it, eyes steady on Clove’s. “Don’t give me any of this ‘honor amongst thieves’ bullshit. My money’s as good as his, and I’d argue the company is far better.”

Emboldened by the simple fact that he was still alive, Alois tried to prove that point by easing a feather-light touch of fingertips past Clove’s knee, starting to wander up his thigh. Clove might’ve stopped him if he hadn’t been using his free hand to capture Alois’s other wrist, preventing him from sneaking his hand beneath the pillow for the revolver hidden there.

Alois actually did smile then, letting his fingertips dig suggestively into the muscle of Clove’s leg when there wasn't much else to prevent him from doing so. He could practically hear the gears turning in the silence that hung between them, and only with a wary look did Clove finally withdraw both blade and hands. Alois slid his own hand back into view, palm open and empty, gun unretrieved in a show of good faith.

“Think we can come to an agreement?”

Clove swatted the hand from his thigh. “I’m listening.”

February Twenty-first.

It was three A.M., but Alois hadn’t been sleeping. He strode down the hall with a frown of grave purpose, his father’s right-hand man flanking him with matched solemnity.

Clove was being held in the front hall, elbows tightly grasped by two of Alois’s more imposing hired muscle. There was no fight or defiance in the hitman’s eyes when they met Alois’s, hands draped in front of him with a loose acquiescence for the handcuffs encircling them.

“Get those off.” The command in Alois’s voice left zero room for argument as he approached and gestured to the bonds. They disappeared immediately before Alois’s goons took reluctant steps back, still clearly prepared for a fight.

Clove rubbed his wrists and glanced between each face in the room before settling on Alois, expression reticent. A bruise bloomed at his cheek that Alois knew his guards hadn’t put there. “I’ve terminated my contract.” There was a weighty pause, in which Alois said nothing. “He’ll come after me.”

“He can try.” Alois shook his head and stepped in, settling his hands on Clove’s shoulders to meet his gaze with an even reassurance. “You’re under my contract and my protection now.”

Clove’s shoulders relaxed fractionally under his hands. Alois took it as a good sign, even as the man nodded. “And you’re under mine.”

May Fifth.

Alois had been too embroiled in his own affairs to notice when the season had turned to spring. Now the days were encroaching on summer, and he stared at the sunrise bleeding up from the horizon in an inescapable tangle of thoughts, enough to distract him from the sound of Clove’s movement.

A lithe, finely-muscled arm secured Alois’s waist from behind, pulling a low, contented hum from the back of his throat. Deft fingers smoothed to flatten over the plot of skin with Alois’s heart thrumming underneath, exhibiting a tenderness that made it difficult to fathom how many lives that hand had personally ended.

It was still a good distraction from his thoughts.

Clove inclined his head to press a kiss where the scars of Alois’s shoulder blended into the smooth column of his neck, his free hand running carefully down the burn-scar mottled length of Alois’s left arm. “Why do you always keep this covered?”

“I like to be mysterious.” Clove obviously didn’t buy it, nipping his teeth at the same spot he'd kissed in a way that teased a soft laugh from Alois’s lips. He then hesitated, considered, and ultimately elaborated. “I feel like if I don’t, then it’s putting that weakness on display. I can’t afford that. The scar tissue, the nerve damage, it’s… extensive."

"Can you feel this?" Clove cradled Alois's hand in his, pulling it close to press a lingering kiss to damage that was decades old.

Alois's brow furrowed. "That's not quite how it works, I--"

"What about this?" Ignoring and interrupting with a brief, pointed glance and a muted smile, Clove pressed another kiss to the marred curve of Alois's shoulder.

He started to catch on. "Hm… I don't know." Alois inclined his head to expose more of his throat, memories of any knife pressed there long forgiven or forgotten. "Should keep trying."

Clove smiled against Alois's skin before grazing the edges of his teeth along the side of his neck, the hand previously settled so protectively over Alois’s heart drifting a path down to splay more suggestively between his hip bones. Alois let his eyes slide shut with a quiet sigh, leaning back into the reassuring solidity of Clove’s body until he couldn’t manage to keep his hands to himself anymore.

Twisting in Clove’s arms to pull him in for a kiss, Alois found him meeting the gesture halfway with a possessive certainty that pooled warmth and reassurance in Alois’s chest. Taking Clove’s hips in a grip that offered no hesitation whatsoever, Alois guided him back towards the disheveled bed with a clear purpose and without breaking the kiss between them.

June First.

“If something happens to me--”

“Alois--”

“Clove. If something happens to me, your contract is transferred to Lise. Do you understand me?” Alois swallowed hard against the pain as Clove put pressure against the wound thickly spilling blood, soaking his shirt with a bloom of red just below his ribs. “If something happens to me, protecting my sister is your primary fucking concern. Tell me you understand me.”

Alois could practically hear the grind of Clove’s teeth in the weight of the pause, and was certain that it was only by some miracle that the man managed to bite back further argument. “Fine.”

“Good.” The word was more a breath of relief than anything else, and Alois let his eyes slowly ease shut. Less than half a second later, Clove was digging the heel of his hand that much further into Alois’s side, and his eyes snapped open again with a sharp gasp. “Jesus fuck.”

“Don’t fall asleep.”

Alois grit his teeth and glared, petulant, fumbling to grasp at Clove’s wrist when his own hands were slippery with blood. “Like I should be taking advice on how to stay alive from a hitman.”

Clove fixed him with a bland, unimpressed look that seemed entirely too calm and out of place for the gunshots in constant exchange overhead. “It’s not that hard. I run through all the ways I could easily kill you right now, and then I do the opposite.”

“Not reassuring.”

The hardness in Clove’s expression smoothed, and Alois wasn’t sure if he could find that particularly reassuring, either. “Relax. My employer wouldn’t exactly be thrilled if I let you die, and this job comes with pretty good benefits. I’d rather not get fired.”

Alois bit out a laugh, even if it faded into a bloody-toothed grimace. “Seeing as I’m your employer, then yeah: I’d be pretty fucking upset if you let me die.”

June Second.

“You were supposed to protect him.” Lise’s voice tightened to fever pitch, stalking down the hall with a fire and intensity in her eyes that only served to remind Clove of her brother. “That is your job. He trusted you. I trusted you!”

Clove slowed his steps as he came to meet her, the tightness in the line of his body contrasting sharply with the weariness hanging on his shoulders. He didn’t reply. There wasn’t anything worth saying in the face of her anger.

Lise took an abrupt swing at him, fast; but not fast enough. Clove caught her wrist in one deft, practiced hand, and only at this proximity did Lise manage to notice that his stony stoicism was starting to crack and crumble around the edges. His fingers trembled where they circled her wrist, and she could see the edges of his eyes were tinged with a sleepless red.

“You were the only thing he was worried about.” Lise blinked, then frowned. She relaxed her wrist in Clove’s hold, and he gently uncurled his fingers as he continued. “He said that if anything happened to him, my contract belonged to you. That protecting you should be my primary concern. I know that he’s not--”

Lise interrupted him with a mirthless bark of a laugh as she took a step back. “I don’t want your contract. It didn’t do him any good, what’ll it do for me?”

Again, he didn’t reply. All he could do was nod a careful agreement, but instead of turning heel to walk away, Clove stepped in closer. Lise faltered in confusion but didn’t retreat, watching him with sharp, tear-pricked eyes. Wordlessly he reached for her, and with only a moment’s hesitation did she let him, collapsing into Clove’s arms and burying her face in his chest with a dry, heaving sob.

Clove enveloped Lise with an indomitable protectiveness previously reserved only for her brother, tucking her head under his chin.

July Thirtieth.

The man sat alone in a pool of yellow light, tied securely to a rickety chair with thick, rough rope that bit into his wrists and trickled rivulets of blood down defiantly clenched fists.

“It’s been some time since your boss tried to send anyone after me. I thought he’d actually learned his lesson.” Alois straightened up from his lean at the door, ignoring the way fresh scar tissue pulled at his side with the movement. A couple of steps brought him to the edge of the circle, arms crossing over his chest with an understated assuredness. “If he thinks my father’s death has left me somehow unprotected, he is… woefully, woefully mistaken.”

“And you think just because dear ol’ dad is dead, you own this part of the city now?” He spat contemptuously at the floor between them. Alois arched an eyebrow, unperturbed. “You wouldn’t start this war. You can’t. You can’t even touch me, you spoiled fucking brat.”

“Oh, no. You’re right; I most certainly can’t.” Alois took a half-step back to the edge of light pooling on the floor, raising his left hand with a subtle twitch of gloved fingers. “But he can.”

Materializing from the darkness, Clove held nothing but cold, sterile, murderous intent in his gaze, and Alois had the good sense to appreciate his fortune in no longer being on the receiving end of that all-too-familiar expression. The impeccably bad timing wasn’t entirely this man’s fault; there was no way for him to know or comprehend the sheer exponential skyrocket in Clove’s protective and possessive streaks in the span of Alois’s recovery.

Clove casually cracked a knuckle. Their captive paled.

"If you survive this, you'll have to tell your boss he should've paid more to keep this one." Alois smiled and took a lazy step back until he could reach out and give Clove’s shoulder a firm squeeze.

“Because together, we’re going to run this entire goddamn city.”

#col22bingo #self para.#c. modius.#l. van asch.#tw: blood #clove borrowed with lou's permission and constant input ofc!#this is ... over 2.5k words #idek the last time i wrote so much in a go #buckle in #it’s also pretty extra™ and dramatic and ngl i had way too much fun writing it #back to regularly scheduled replies and starters i owe tomorrow #promise!!

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winterscaptain · 5 years

Text

wish me one more day to stay.

It's spring in the Big Valley. The Marstons visit an old friend. Contains spoilers for RDR2.

originally posted on ao3 here

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The mountaintop was cold that day, the wind freezing and curling around John’s neck, and weaving up his coat sleeve as he held Abigail close to his chest. The noon sun was high in the sky, reflecting off the snow that clung stubbornly to the rocks around them.

It was Arthur’s birthday, and the turn of the new century.

“I think we should do this every year,” Abigail said, her words lost quickly to the wind. Her thick hooded shawl fought off the wind, but she was thankful nevertheless for the weight she had put on since moving onto the ranch. Good insulation, John called it.

“Me too. Important to remember.” John wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Next time we should bring Jack.”

Abigail nodded and tapped his arm before she released herself from his hold. She walked carefully toward the marker, her cold-weather skirt and boots shuffling on the rocks. Kneeling, she took her gloves off and touched the earth were Arthur lay. Grass was poking stubbornly through the cracks in the rocks. The grey sky pressed in on her, this rocky outcrop perilous on the best of days, but felt more dangerous in the cold.

She looked out. The Big Valley stretched before her for miles. She could see the ocean, barely, above the horizon. Sunlight broke through the clouds about a mile out, and the greys and blues gave way to warm ochre and green over the valley, where spring was creeping in, persistent against the snow melt.

When John mentioned returning to the place Arthur held the line and let him go, Abigail’s heart leapt into her throat. What if they were waiting for him? It was irrational, but her fear was overwhelming. Beyond Pinkertons, Dutch scared her more than anything.

“I have to go back for him, Abby darlin’. He’s my brother.” John stared at the ceiling.

“I know, sweetheart. I know.” She laced her fingers in his, squeezing twice.

“I have to.”

She went with him after he finished, marveling at the simplicity of the place. The rocks jutted out into the air from the side of the mountain, a natural place for Arthur to rest. The mountainside was secluded, accessible by a path from both sides. Grass grew there in the late summer.

Abigail had carved the marker herself, with one of the beatitudes haloing his name. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness. She’d always been interested in woodwork, but she was immensely proud of this piece.

ARTHUR MORGAN, it read, surrounded by carefully painted flowers. She and Jack had crushed berries and sieved oil to make the paint, and Abby was happy she was able to involve her son in something so precious. The snowstorms of the past month had barely weathered the carving, but she suspected she would have to build another before the next rainy season. Maybe out of stone this time. Something more permanent. Stable.

The wind bit at her cheeks and nose as she thought of the gift Arthur had given her. Practically everything important to her – the things she couldn’t replace – was kept safe or rescued by Arthur at one point or another. Memories poured over her, and she hung her head, her eyes trained on the dirt between her fingers.

He rescued Jack from the Braithwaites…I could never repay him. She could easily recall her panic when she couldn’t find her boy. She remembered the burning that consumed her body as she searched camp, the way his hand felt securing her arm and soothing her ragged breath.

John held her tight, his black-and-white striped prison uniform coarse against her cheek. She clung to him and wept, certain before this moment that he was ripped from her forever.

Arthur saved John – again and again. She knew much of the time he’d only bent to her because he loved her so much. Sure, he loved John as his own blood, but since John’s year away they’d been feuding more often than not.

“You know you deserve more than that fool Marston.” Arthur watched her from his place by the fire as she finally managed to snag Jack’s chubby little arm. John had gone into town the night prior, but he was nowhere to be found now. Arthur noticed Abigail’s eyes, like a periscope, tracking the entrance to camp as people came and left. John’s year-long absence left her jumpy on long outings, even a year later

Abigail exhaled sharply through her nose, tucking a strand of brown hair behind her ear, struggling with her slippery son. Her bun was falling apart. Jack was just starting to walk, and half her time was spent chasing him around camp, keeping him out of Pearson’s way and out of reach of the ammo wagon attached to Arthur’s tent. “I know it. But I’ll be damned if I don’t love him to death.” She hauled Jack into her arms as he wiggled and laughed, reaching for Arthur. “It is a cross I must bear, so it seems.”

" I’d’ve married you myself and spared you from this nonsense, but I suppose shacking up with Marston isn’t the worst thing you could do.” He looked up at her and smiled.

She pressed her lips together tightly before she realized he was joking. She sighed, resigned. “I know it.”

Arthur stood and reached for Jack. “Go grab something to eat and take a few minutes to rest. I can entertain the boy for a little while.”

Abigail shifted her hold, her arms tightening around Jack. “Are you sure?”

“Sure,” Arthur replied. He saw her tight grip on Jack, and her eyes jumped around, landing on Bill and Javier before returning to Arthur, wide and shaky. “I’ll keep an eye on him. I’ll bring him out by the horses or down by the water if we need a little space.” He looked significantly at the other men in camp.

Her shoulders dropped from her ears and she cracked a smile, thin and tired. “Thank you.”

Abigail smiled. She wouldn’t have minded marrying Arthur, not in the least. But now she had John to be a father to her boy. They had their own home, and John tried his best to settle in. The transition to farmer from outlaw couldn’t be easy, and as much as the transition had been difficult on her, she couldn’t imagine the difference for John.

She looked down at her left hand, where the gold band cradled the little red stone. Even as she’d married John, she was still wearing Arthur’s ring. She shared a private laugh with herself. God did have a sense of humor, and Arthur gave her his whole world so she could live in hers.

“I’ll be in debt to him as long as I live.” John’s voice traveled to her over the wind, voicing her own thoughts exactly.

“We didn’t deserve him.” She looked over her shoulder, smiling at him.

“Maybe not me.” He winked at her, his arms crossed against the cold.

Abigail’s grin turned with her as she pressed her fingers to her lips and pressed them to Arthur’s marker. …hunger and thirst for righteousness. She desperately hoped that he was resting easy. Somewhere.

“What do you think happens when you die?” Abigail asked.

It was fall, and John had been gone for nearly three months. Abigail’s eyes were puffy and red much of the time, raw from crying. She was on her back in the grassy meadow, Arthur entertaining Jack beside her. Hosea and Lenny had built a couple of irregular blocks for the boy to play with. He was smacking them together, babbling and laughing.

“Couldn’t rightly tell you. All I know is I want to be buried facing west, so I can remember all the good times we had out that way when I’m gone.” Arthur was introspective. Unusual. Jack babbled alongside him and he nodded, making sure the boy knew he was listening to him.

“That’s nice. I hope that’s a long way yet.” Abigail reached toward him, pressing the tips of her fingers into the back of his shirt. She felt his smile more than saw it.

“Me too.”

She stood, pocketing a stone from the grave and brushing the nature off her skirt. She rounded toward John and took his arm. “Ready?”

“Give me a moment, would ya? I’ll meet you by the horses.”

“Of course.” She stood up straight and pressed a kiss to his scarred cheek. As she walked away, his throat closed, thick with emotion. He couldn’t afford tears with the cold. He was sure they would stick to his face and stay there forever, revealing to the western sky that he wasn’t as strong as he thought.

John deliberated for a moment before approaching the marker. Like his wife, he knelt. Unlike his wife, he spoke.

“I gave the ring to Abigail. She loved it.”

“Would you get up? We are married!”

“No, I know. But I want to do this proper. In front of God.”

“You were right. It looks at home with her.” He chuckled. Lately, he’d been laughing at himself over this. The only time he cared about the law is when it came to Abigail, but he would also raise hell and high water – law be damned – for her too.

“Where on earth did you get this ring? It’s beautiful but I’m sure we can’t afford –“ she paused, squinting at him. “Did you steal it?”

John rolled his eyes. “Of course not. I’m supposed to be doing right by the law now, remember?”

“I know, but…where’d you get it?”

They were in bed together, and she was admiring her new ring in the dim light of the lamp.

“It was Arthur’s. He gave it to me on the mountain, with his hat and everything. Here.” John rolled over and reached under the bed, where he kept the satchel. He searched for a moment before finding a letter. Mary’s letter. He read aloud. “I enclose a ring you gave me many years ago, when we were both young, not because I don’t like it, but because I care for it far too much and it reminds me too much of you. I hope, one day you will find some people in love who can use this, for it kept me thinking of you all these years…” John finished reading and folded the letter, gently placing it where it was before.

He looked up when he’d returned the satchel to its home under the bed. Abigail had tears in her eyes, and they tracked down her cheeks as she tried to blink them away. John kissed her then, and turned off the light.

John was wrapped around her finger, and he knew she wore Arthur’s heart around her hands for years as well.

“Well, God and Uncle and Jack, anyway. Nobody much else to see it. No –“

A gasp. “Oh Lord. I didn’t expect anyone else up here.”

John’s adrenaline spiked and he bounded to his feet, his hand on his gun. Mary Linton. As soon as he could process it, he took his hand off his revolver.

“Mary?” John rasped. He swiped quickly at his eyes with a sleeve. He was touched and sobered by the presence of someone else, here, to honor Arthur, less than a year after he’d died.

“Yes, er, John? Is it?” She looked unsure as she clasped her hands at her chest. He saw they were shaking. It couldn’t be from the cold, as she wore velvet, fur lined gloves.

“It is, ma’am.” He came to his senses and removed his – Arthur’s – hat. He watched Mary. Her eyes tracked the hat as it hung gently in his hand

She smiled shakily at him. “I came to pay my respects for Arthur’s birthday.”

John nodded. “Me too. My wife, Abigail is here as well.” He gestured toward the horses, out of sight around the corner. “I can’t remember if you’ve met her or not.”

“I have,” she answered quickly. John held back a laugh. It wasn’t hard to imagine Abigail’s feelings toward Mary. The women in camp weren’t ever shy.

“You have a letter from a Mrs. Linton, Arthur.” John watched as Tilly crossed the meadow with an envelope. “If you ask me, she ain’t worth the time.”

Arthur smiled thinly at her. “Thanks, Tilly.”

“I’m gonna go read over his shoulder.” Abigail stood and gathered her skirts. John reached out but couldn’t stop her as she marched herself across the yard. Karen tried to follow, but Abigail waved her off.

John sighed and kept an eye on her. When Arthur reached his tent, Abigail was waiting for him, her head tilted to the side and hands folded, leaning on his bedside table. He deflated and set the letter aside to listen to what she had to say.

From his place in their tent, John couldn’t hear, but he could see enough. Arthur had softened significantly as Abigail spoke. She was using all her maternal wisdom, patting and fretting over him as she likely told him how much he mattered and how much he was worth. He was worth so much for both of them.

It was like Abigail was reading his mind. She glanced back and gestured to John, who gave a small wave and a warm smile with the half of his mouth that wasn’t open and raw. Arthur returned it but focused quickly on Abby.

They talked for a long time, and Arthur landed with his head in his hands. Abigail stood, popped his hat off, and stuck a kiss to the crown of his head. She squeezed his shoulder and turned, floating back to John.

“He’s alright.” She sighed. “Women have a way of twisting him up, poor thing.”

John laughed loudly. “You’re one to talk.”

She winked at him.

Mary smoothed her shaking hands down her black coat. Now that John was really looking at her, he noticed she was wearing all black, with a black mourning veil pushed back on the crown of her head. Her wide, floppy black hat was pushed back, held to her with a ribbon that pressed against her throat.

She was in full mourning. John wondered what he had missed. He was under the impression that Arthur and Mary had ended things, bittersweetly, in Valentine. That’s why he had her ring. Why Abigail displayed it so proudly on her left hand.

“I can give you a minute.” John smiled warmly at her and started to walk toward Abigail.

“Thank you.” Her voice barely touched him as he rounded the corner.

Mary took a shaky breath and stepped toward the marker. It had been a few months since her last visit when the fall had started to grip the Big Valley, and the fog in Saint Denis became crippling and cold. It was shortly after she'd received a letter from Miss Tilly, one of the girls that ran with the gang, telling her of Arthur's passing.

At this point, she was more than allowed to present herself in half-mourning, introducing purples and dark blues into her wardrobe after a season of black, but she just added more petticoats to her mourning clothes as the winter grew colder. She’d failed him. She failed herself. A lack of faith. She laughed at the irony.

“I miss you, Arthur. I feel as if I miss you more every day.” Her hands trembled and her nose ran, affected both by the cold and the depth to which the words were true. “I was thinking about our time together, camping and traveling and finding all sort of wild adventures.”

She clung to his back, Boadicea galloping underneath them. They were hauling across New Austin, back to Blackwater, where they’d set up camp for the week.

Mary threw her head back and laughed, gasping for the wind that ripped her hair out of its plait and into her face. She could feel Arthur’s breath under her arms, and his free hand holding hers.

“Havin’ fun back there?” Arthur had to shout over the wind, and he pulled Boadicea back to a brisk canter. The wind died and Mary tucked herself into Arthur’s back.

“Always with you.” She was only half joking as she squeezed around his middle. He raised on of her hands in his and kissed it, his three-day beard scuffing the soft skin of her palm.

“I love you, Mary.” She felt rather than heard the murmur into her hand.

She smiled and leaned as close to his ear as she could. “I love you too.” She pressed a kiss to his leather-clad shoulder. “So much,” she said to herself.

“Do you remember that? We were on the road for two and a half days. I’d never seen Daddy so mad.”

Mary smoothed her hands down her long black coat, reaching into the pocket on her left side. “I brought this for you. It’s a letter I wrote but didn’t send from a long time ago.”

She placed it under a rock at the base of his grave marker. “Happy birthday, my dear Arthur. Rest easy. I’ll see you soon.”

As he rounded the corner, John met his wife’s warm eyes and she smiled at him. His heart leaped, and he kicked himself for ever thinking he could live without her.

“You’ll never guess who I just ran into.” He kissed her temple and breathed her in. Campfire and strawberries. She never changed.

“Was it Arthur? Because I’m sure if it was you woulda told me by now and screamed like a little girl.” She poked him in the ribs and he laughed.

“No not at all.” He made sure he had her rapt attention before he continued. Her brown eyes wide and cheeks flushed with the cold. He loved her. “Mary Linton is up there around the corner.”

“Mary? I thought she left him.” Abigail’s joy quickly fell into furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips.

“Me too, but she’s wearing full mourning blacks and a veil.” John shrugged. “I guess they made up somewhere along the way.” He looked toward where Mary was, around the corner. The wind had died down some, and he could hear her speaking, murmuring really, to Arthur.

“Maybe we’ll never know,” offered Abigail. She shrugged, turning to pat one of the horses that nosed into the bag at her hip.

“I could probably find something in his journal. He wrote about her often.”

Abigail squinted at him. “Is that really right?”

John shrugged but was warmed by her moral concern. “Maybe not. But he left it to me with his satchel. I’ve been reading bits and pieces every once and a while.”

Just then, they heard footsteps. Abigail raised her eyebrows as Mary appeared.

“Thank you both. I’ll be leaving from here, if you want to return to him.” She smiled at them shyly, nodding politely at Abigail.

Something warm suddenly possessed Abigail as she looked at this grieving woman, who she never liked but always understood. “Mrs. Linton?”

Mary turned, startled and surprised. “Yes?”

“Would you like to have dinner with my family?” The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them, and she could feel John’s shocked eyes boring holes into the side of her head. What was the harm? It couldn’t hurt to have her with them. Who could she tell about their little home, nestled in the west as it was. Abigail soothed herself. Arthur would like that. His family, all together under one roof. Maybe he wouldn’t like the attention so much, but all of his people? That’s where he was always happiest. Either that or outside in the rain somewhere.

Mary cracked a smile. “If you’d have me, I would be honored.” She looked around. “Though I’m afraid I’ve no horse. I came by stagecoach and foot.”

“No worries there, ma’am.” John stepped up, placing a hand on Abigail’s hip. “I would gladly take you on mine. He’s an easier ride than Abigail’s mare.”

Abigail rolled her eyes. “Shall we get going then?”

Mary nodded and ducked fully around the corner toward John’s horse. He helped Mary onto Old Boy and settled himself into the saddle. Once he was certain Mary was comfortable sidesaddle with all her skirts, he checked on his wife.

Abigail was taking stock of her saddlebags, adjusting the weight so it could rest easy on her mare. He watched her focus, appreciating the strong line of her arms, the concentration on her brow, and the way her eyes bounced from one point to another, analyzing and checking and double checking.

The horse wasn’t perfect, sure, but it was a ride. She hauled herself up, settling in and winking at John.

They prompted the horses down the mountain and began the trek back to the farm.

“I’m afraid it’s a bit of a ways, Mrs. Linton, but it gets warmer after the pass up ahead.” John raised his voice over the rhythm of the horses’ trot, Abigail leading.

“That’s fine.” He thought he heard a light laugh, but he wasn’t sure. “It’s not like I have anywhere to go anyways.”

John felt a flash of…something. Grief? Pity? Whatever it was, it wasn’t comfortable. “What about your little brother? Jamie, was it?”

“Yes, Jamie. He’s off working on a farm in Nevada. I’ll see him again once the planting season is over.” Her voice was careful, opaque.

“You living by yourself now?” John didn’t mean to pry, but he was concerned. If Arthur loved this woman (he was absolutely checking the journal as soon as he returned), he would do his best to take care of her. It’s what any good brother would do, he reasoned.

“I live in a women’s apartment in Saint Denis, run by nuns, I think. We don't see them often. I was there when…well.”

John understood. He nodded, and placed a reassuring hand over hers, holding tight to his waist. “That was a difficult time for us all. Arthur saved my life, and now I’m here.”

“He always talked about you like a brother.” Her voice changed then, pensive and quiet. “He was always a good man.”

John nodded. “I always thought so. I’m glad he was able to prove it to himself, in the end.

“It would really mean a lot to me.” Arthur stuffed his hat onto John’s head, looping his saddlebag around the younger man’s shoulders and reaching for his gun. “ Please.” He passed the revolver to John, loaded. “ Get the hell outta here.”

Mary lapsed into silence then. John really had to dig through Arthur’s journal now. He found himself liking her, which didn’t seem right at all. She’d broken his heart, right?

The rest of their journey, about two hours of riding, was uneventful save for some rabbits John shot on a whim. Dinner tomorrow, perhaps. It was enough to get them through the week if they were frugal, but then again they could have unexpected company, like Mary. More mouths to feed wasn’t a problem for the first time in their lives.

Abigail kept looking over her shoulder to where John and Mary rode. They were terribly quiet. Though, on such a day of mourning, she could not blame either one of them. She knew her husband would be brooding quietly all day, but she would wiggle something out of him before he fell asleep – she was sure of it.

Jack was at the gate waiting for them when they arrived. John could see his son’s grin from miles away, it seemed like, and the ride home suddenly didn’t feel so long or weary.

They dismounted at the stables, and Jack threw himself into Abigail’s arms. John watched her as she laughed and kissed him all over, only a little jealous.

“Go say hello to your Pa before he turns to stone.” Abigail deposited Jack on the ground and turned his shoulders toward John, who smiled at him.

Jack bounded up toward John and was caught in a pair of strong arms and swung around and around until he was laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe. John’s chest warmed, and he brought his son close, taking notes from his wife and peppering Jack’s dark hair with kisses. “How was your day with Uncle?”

“Pretty fun. We shoveled hay.” Jack’s eyes were bright. The boy resembled Abigail more and more every day. The wide, dark eyes. Sloped, delicate nose.

“Tell me he’s mine.” John tried to keep his voice down, but his fists were clenched and his jaw was tight. Jack was sleeping in a makeshift cradle by Abigail’s bed. His mouth was slack and his cheeks were flushed and soft.

“Let’s have this conversation in the morning. Everyone’s asleep and you’ll wake the baby.” Abigail’s voice was tense and tired, an aggravated whisper.

“Just tell me and be done with it.” John stood and grabbed his bag, preparing to go. Abigail heard Karen stir in the next tent over, recognizing the interruption in her snore.

“John, please.” Abigail reached for him in the dark, but couldn’t find purchase on his arm.

“Just tell me.” His shoulders tensed by the minute, and his knuckles were white where they held the straps of his bag to his chest.

“He’s yours. I’d swear it.” Abigail’s whisper was furtive, desperate.

“I don’t believe you.”

John kicked himself with the memory. Unbelievable. He’d been such a stupid ass. He looked to Abigail for a moment. She was minding the horses – scratching their ears and speaking quietly to them. Mary was by her side, patting Old Boy on the neck.

“Careful with him,” John heard Abigail warn. “He’s fond of women and might follow you home.”

John smiled. “Did Uncle shovel hay with you, or did he just watch?”

“Oh, he just watched.” Jack’s attention was beginning to drift, as young children were wont to do, and John redirected, ruffling Jack’s hair and steering him in the house.

Abigail let out a snort. “C’mon Mrs. Linton. Let’s get you inside by the fire.” A generous arm was offered to Mary, from Abigail, and they crossed the yard together.

Mary followed Abigail into their house and settled down by the fire. John tended to it, brought it back to a roaring blaze before sitting down on the carved log currently serving as their couch. Jack stood at the edge of the room, watching and waiting for an invitation from the adults. John waved him over, and took Jack in his arms, holding him close. Abigail was busy in the kitchen, setting the table and finding bowls for her family and the guests

John so rarely found an excuse to be physically close to his son. The day away, however, and the emotional exhaustion of the journey provided a clear path to Jack. He looked to Mary, who was watching them with a small, mournful smile. He smiled back.

“Where did you say you were settled down these days, Mrs. Linton?” Abigail returned, a rag in her hand.

“I’m in a women’s place down in Saint Denis, still. I miss the west, but it’s a good place to settle for a while yet, until things out here get a little more…organized,” Mary confessed.

“We’d be happy to take you to the nearest train station as soon as you’re ready to head home. You’re welcome as long as you’d like to stay. We can make up a bedroom for you tonight, even.” Abigail waved to Jack, who leapt off the couch and trotted to her side. Before Mary had a chance to answer, Abigail turned her attention to Jack. “Will you help me set the table sweetheart?”

Jack nodded and bounded toward the kitchen. How on earth did this boy have so much energy? John was certain he was far more lazy as a child.

“That’s very generous of you, but I would like to get back tonight. I would hate for our matron to grow worried,” Mary said, after Abigail had turned back.

“Just fine, then. Dinner’s ready now and then John can take you back.”

“Thank you.”

The Marston home was warm, the soup hearty, and the memories bittersweet. They would sing, later, around the fire. A song that Kieran taught them from his home, meant for goodbyes.

Oh all the comrades that e'er I've had Are sorry for my going away And all the sweethearts that e'er I've had Would wish me one more day to stay But since it falls unto my lot That I should rise and you should not I'll gently rise and I'll softly call Good night and joy be with you all

#rdr2 #arthur morgan #abigail marston #john marston #mary linton #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 spoilers #i love this one #let me know if this whole 'posting my fics' thing works for yall #tali writes fanfiction

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