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wasabito · 3 years

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home feels like you | naruto x fem!reader

here’s my entry for the konoha simps server collab with @bakubabes-hatake; prompts are roommate au and “i was so stupid to make the mistake of falling in love with my best friend.” (i will be making edits to this later lmao)

wordcount: 3.0k

tags: fluff, angst, modern au, healing after a breakup

synopsis: it’s a little hard for him to describe the way he feels these days, but if anyone asked, he’d say that home feels a lot like you.

Naruto didn’t wake up that morning to the sound of his alarm blaring through the stillness, or even to streams of early morning sunlight filtering in through his curtains. Yet, he sat up in bed, shirtless, hair askew, with a dry streak of saliva at the corner of his mouth.

Even though he searched for what had woken him up so abruptly, Naruto found nothing.

Blinking back at him in bright neon green, his alarm clock read 5:23 am, approximately thirty-seven minutes until it was time for his morning run. Not one to miss out on the chance to get more sleep, Naruto was just about to turn over in bed, stuff his head back under his pillow and be dead to the world once more—then he heard it.

Harsh whispers and...sniffling.

The Uzumaki remained silent, sleep suddenly gone from his eyes. His gaze was trained onto his bedroom door, knowing that you, his roommate, were probably just a few feet beyond it. You’d been an early riser for as long as he’d known you and Naruto imagined you were shuffling into the kitchen to make yourself some coffee before heading to work for the day.

This time, however, it seemed your peaceful morning routine had been interrupted by an unexpected and seemingly unpleasant phone call.

Naruto listened close while you spoke hurriedly into the receiver, a rush of words garbled together and unintelligible due your shaky voice that pierced through paper thin walls. Even from where he laid, Naruto could tell that you were just barely holding it together; it sounded like you were a moment away from crying.

Unable to sit still, he pulled off the covers and followed after your voice. The entire apartment beyond his bedroom was cloaked in darkness, so much so that he could barely see his own two feet. The only source of light came from your cell phone that illuminated a single corner of the room where you sat.

“Hey...you uh, you doin’ okay—” Truly he hadn’t meant to be so loud, but his voice boomed regardless, causing you to flinch. Not to mention, it sounded like he’d gargled nails just five minutes prior with how gravely his voice was. Great going, Naruto, he thought to himself.

He cleared his throat, whispering, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, heh.”

You sat curled up on the sofa, with your phone wedged between your shoulder and ear, but it didn’t seem like anyone was talking anymore. With a sigh, you hung up the phone, plunging the room in muted darkness.

“I’m fine,” you muttered. “...don’t worry about it.”

Bypassing his curious look, you trudged back into your bedroom. It seemed he would not be getting an answer anytime soon. Naruto blinked slowly, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he reentered his room as well. But the more he thought about you, the more unsettled he became.

You had moved in with him six months ago after Sasuke left for business overseas. But even since then, Naruto still only knew as much about you as he had when he first met you, which was literally next to nothing. He could respect that you were a private person, but he still felt it was a little ridiculous that you both shared a refrigerator and he’d had to stalk your Facebook page just to find out your birthday.

The two of you had lived as nothing more than strangers for an entire six months, but in all that time, he had never heard you sound like that...

His curiosity had gotten the better of him. Normally he wouldn't be so bothered, but with Sasuke away and Sakura busy with her own life, he was beginning to feel as if he had nothing else to steal his attention. Naruto was only now realizing how invested he was in the lives of his friends, more so than his own even. Being involved was second nature.

Two and a half weeks later, the reason behind your odd behavior made itself known. In fact, it quite literally stood at your shared doorstep.

It was a normal Saturday night, and for once he was home instead of gaming the entire night away over at Kiba’s place. Naruto had been in the kitchen making himself yet another cup of instant ramen when a knock came at the door, shattering the evening stillness. Before he could even set down his chopsticks, you had bounded down the hall with a duffel bag slung over your shoulder. He had never seen you so upset, but your anger was unmistakable as you wrenched the door open with enough force to rattle it on its hinges.

“Here’s your shit.”

“Can we at least talk abou—”

“No!” You slammed the door shut in the face of… whoever that was.

Naruto came around the counter to stand in the hall. He didn’t bother hiding the fact that he was so blatantly eavesdropping on you. Was there really a point in hiding?

You turned in time to catch him out of your peripheral, frown still set on your lips, though it softened a bit when you caught sight of him watching you. “You’re pretty nosy.” Was your only remark, but despite the edge in your words, it didn’t sound like you were annoyed at him, almost like you had expected it.

“Well, can you blame me?” Naruto scratched his neck sheepishly, “You were actin’ pretty weird, so of course I got curious, what did ya expect?”

You snorted. “So, that’s your perfect defense?”

Naruto gave you the goofiest smile in response. “Gimme a minute and I’ll think of a better one!”

With a laugh you slumped into one of the bar stools near the counter. You hadn’t stopped laughing at him for another minute, but then… your teetering laughter slowly turned into sobs. You shoved your face behind the palms of your hands, but Naruto could see the way your entire body shook. The sound of your crying startled him so bad, he nearly choked on his own spit. Every thought running through his mind came to a screeching halt. It was as if the sounds that escaped your mouth was set to a frequency that would break his heart to pieces over and over again.

“H-Hey,” Naruto reached over, placing a heavy arm over your shoulder and pulling you into his chest. “It’s...gonna be okay, okay? Whatever it is, it’ll work itself out. Please, don’t cry...”

After another moment, your sobs quieted down to a whimper, your cheeks were still wet and Naruto was about seventy percent sure there was a little snot on his tee shirt. Nevertheless, he remained still until you were ready to pull away.

“Um, thanks…” you whispered, lips accidentally grazing his collarbone. Not a second later, you released him, and wiped at your eyes with your shirt sleeve.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“I—um...I guess I owe you some sort of explanation, considering I just used you a human tissue.”

Using humor to cope, that was familiar.

You were trying to lighten the mood, Naruto could tell, so he went along with your joke and laughed. “Yeah, I guess havin’ you tell me is better than me playin’ spy, huh?”

He reached for his forgotten cup of noodles. They were a little soggy after being neglected for so long, but that didn’t stop him from slurping up the entire thing in record time.

“Ah! That hit the spot!”

You laughed again, sniffling as you did so and for a moment he was captured.

That watery smile, the wrinkle in your eyelids, the upward curve of your lips, even the very sound you made, all of it caught him by the throat. It was almost like he was just now realizing that you were a girl. And a really pretty one, at that. Naruto gulped and looked away. He wasn’t sure what was happening to him or why he was just noticing how cute you were, but he shook his head as if to dispel some of the mental fog.

“That was my boyfriend—ex boyfriend, I mean.”

“Ex boyfriend?” he repeated.

“Yeah, um, we kind of do—er—did the long distance thing...he lives a few cities away, goes to a completely different university so um…anyway I was just uh, returning his clothes....”

You seemed to be struggling to find the right words, likely still processing everything that had happened. At times like this, Naruto was thankful that he and Hinata had ended things so amicably. Not everyone had the luxury. Relationships were hard as it is, and when it was over, picking back up like nothing happened was nigh impossible. There was always something left behind as a reminder, be it scars, old wounds in the form of memories. Sakura had once dubbed it ‘relationship residue’.

“Hey, don’t push yourself!” Naruto offered a grin and a thumbs up. “C’mon, let’s get your mind off it. We can watch a movie, or play some music, or…” he looked around the apartment in search of something you both could do but came up short.

“I appreciate the gesture, Naruto, but I think I’m just going to head to bed early. I’m a little tired.”

You gave a small smile, and though it didn’t reach your eyes, Naruto could do nothing but watch after your retreating back yet again.

He didn’t like the helpless feeling that latched onto him. He would always and forever be doer. He couldn't just sit idly by while you went through this hard time alone. Though he kept quiet, he was determined to make you feel better somehow. He never wanted to see you cry like that ever again.

Following that night, the dynamic between the two of you had changed. Naruto, naturally friendly as he was, made it his first priority to check up on you and see how you were doing. And instead of heading straight to your bedroom upon returning from class or work, nowadays, you spent your free time in Naruto’s company. Whether it be just by watching the evening news together or doing homework in the same area. For the first time in months, you two were acting more and more like roommates—maybe even friends. You still hadn't opened up much about your ex boyfriend, but that was okay. Naruto knew that as long as you understood he was there to support you, that you were not alone, one day you’d be able to speak about it with him.

A change in weather seemed to follow the change in pace. Winter was fast approaching and with it came colder mornings, frosted leaves that crunched under foot, and a need to remain bundled up lest one catch a cold. Naruto had just returned home to find that you had made a hot pot. The entire apartment was filled with such a delicious smell that had his mouth watering and stomach grumbling in askance.

“Hey there!” you called from the kitchen. “I just finished up, grab a bowl and get some.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. Naruto quickly shrugged out of his coat and scarf, doing a little shimmy, then grabbed a bowl from the cabinet. “It smells sooo good~”

His eagerness managed to pull a laugh out of you. You quickly handed him the ladle. “Go nuts...well...not too crazy.” Knowing Naruto, it was safe to say he would inhale the entire pot if left up to his own devices, you’d come to learn this the hard way.

“Yeah, yeah.” he said, scooping himself a hefty serving. He wasted no time at all, digging in with much gusto. “Damn!! This is hella good! You’re such a great cook, roomie.”

You were unsure whether he was merely flattering you for that sake of flattery or if he truly enjoyed the meal, but you accepted his compliments as gracefully as you could manage.

Eating dinner like this was nice. Naruto made for good company. For the time being, you let yourself enjoy the simplicity of the moment, the utter lack of expectation, the vibrant energy that came with mutual understanding, all of it made you feel much warmer inside. You knew it wasn’t just the hot pot.

Several more nights were spent just like this, relishing the friendly companionship that was slowly being fostered between you two. It wasn’t like you had very many friends to begin with, but you could admit that Naruto was a breath of fresh air. His sunny persona and steadfast disposition always managed to brighten up your day. Most nights, he talked enough for the both of you and was a pleasant distraction from less than savory thoughts regarding your ex. It was safe to say that you rather liked being his roommate. Naruto made you feel safe in your own skin again.

You had just returned from class when you heard Naruto fumbling around in the bathroom. He wasn’t a quiet roommate by any means, but he usually never made this much noise in the mornings. From the looks of things, he had just returned from a run, and was now showering away the sweat and grime.

“You okay in there?” you called. There was no answer.

Instead, the restroom door was thrust open and your roommate burst through, darting down the hall at breakneck speed, naked as the day he was born. You blinked rapidly, mouth hanging open. What...the actual hell?

“My bad!! I forgot my towel!” His awkward laugh echoed from somewhere in his bedroom.

“You could’ve just asked me to bring you one.”

“I kinda panicked a little.”

You snorted behind your hand. “A little?”

“Okay, maybe a lot.”

Naruto returned to where you stood, thankfully he was fully dressed, although his wet hair hung low around his face, wispy tendrils clinging to his cheeks. The water droplets were left to be caught by the towel around his neck.

“Dude, you’re gonna get sick,” you grabbed the towel and draped it over his head. Naruto was just a few inches taller, but you still managed, even if you had to get on your toes a bit, while he bent to accommodate the height difference.

You carefully towel dried his hair as best as you could. Naruto kept his eyes solely on you. It was a little unnerving, but you did your best to ignore it, until he finally spoke up.

“How are you feeling?”

Due to proximity, you could feel his puffs of breath fanning against your cheek.

“I’m good now, Naruto. Great, actually.”

He smiled at that. “I’m glad.”

You chewed your lip to stop yourself from smiling back but it was too late, he’d already caught a glimpse of it.

“There you go,” you returned the towel to his open hands. “All done.”

“Thanks a bunch! I don’t think anyone’s ever done that for me before.”

You found that a little hard to believe. But Naruto was walking away before you could question him about it. You thought about the way he looked at you, how his eyes seemed to gleam as he did. It made your cheeks feel like they were on fire.

Days later, you still thought about it even as you stretched yourself across the carpeted floors of your apartment living room in an attempt to gather your thoughts. It was a feeble attempt, and you weren’t really a yoga person, but you were insistent on doing something that didn’t fall into the category of wondering what your roommate was currently doing. And it worked for all of five minutes before you simply laid on your back and stared up at the ceiling.

That was the exact image of you Naruto walked in on. He tossed his keys on the table, left his backpack by the door, and toed off his shoes like normal, it was a routine ingrained in him by now.

“Uhh, what are you doing on the floor?” Naruto stood over your figure with a quirky grin. He was wearing a turtleneck… which was a little odd, you’d only ever seen him tee shirts and sweatpants. But it was nice. He looked nice. Wait, no—

“Why are you wearing…?” You trailed off as Naruto laid himself by your side, wedging himself between you and the coffee table.

“Nope! I asked first!” He shuffled a bit to make himself comfortable. “So, what are we doing on the floor?”

Keeping your eyes glued to the ceiling and not on the man who was getting a view of your side profile, you replied simply. “I was doing yoga at first.”

Naruto was silent. Did he know what yoga was? You were going to ask, but he beat you to it, humming an ‘oh cool’, and accepting your lukewarm response easily.

“You know...these past few months have been kinda like a dream.”

“What do you mean by that, Naruto?”

Finally craning your neck to the side, you were greeted with the full view of him. Soft blonde hair, ocean-blue eyes, and the kind of smile that made you want to smile too. It was so hard to be sad or down in his presence, it was like he vanquished darkness with his light. God, you were sounding so shakespearean.

Unaware of your inner battle, Naruto continued. “I grew up in an orphanage, so the thought of having a home was...a bit like a fairytale. But then I learned that people can be just as much a home as any random building, ya know?”

You did know. You knew it too well, in fact. Once you had made the mistake of falling in love with your best friend. He had become your home, only to leave you broken and abandoned.

“Yeah...I get that.”

“And you,” Naruto continued. “You feel a lot like what I think home feels like.”

You blinked at him, stunned, heart stuttering because you could tell he meant what he’d said. Goddamn him for being this way. For being so good.

Naruto sat up and you followed suit. “I just wanted to say thank you, Y/n.”

And with that, he leaned forward and pecked your cheek.

#naruto #naruto uzumaki x reader #naruto uzumaki x y/n #naruto uzumaki x you #naruto x reader #naruto x y/n #naruto x you #naruto uzumaki #naruto fanfiction #sabi.writes

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mollymauk-teafleak · 3 years

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honey don't feed it

Just some Hades smut! Please reblog and comment over on Ao3!

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Thanatos has told his love a thousand times to be careful when overindulging in boons from the Olympians. Too many, too much from one god and he starts to get some strange side effects.

Ares' boons make him angry. Dionysius' made him laugh.

Aphrodite's do something entirely different.

------

Thanatos read the note a few times over, hearing it in his lover’s voice.

I need you. Please come home. I love you.

“Let me guess,” the grin on his twin’s face was far too smug for Than’s liking, “You’re taking your break now?”

Than gave him the kind of dark scowl that had been cowing the unruly dead for years but had never seemed to work on anyone who actually knew him. He folded up the note and stowed it in one of the many hidden pockets of his flowing robes. I need you.

“I don’t just drop everything and go running when Zagreus clicks his fingers,” he muttered. Please come home.

“Never said you did,” Hypnos shrugged, leaning back and putting his slippered feet on the desk in a way that was quite unprofessional, not that Than would look anything but petulant if he said so, “Just thought your face really lit up when I said Zag had left you a message…”

Than really hoped his cowl hid enough of his face that his blush couldn’t be seen. Something about Hypnos’ widening grin told him his hopes were in vain. I love you.

“There’s a gap in my schedule,” he sniffed, sheathing his scythe and gathering his robes with as much dignity as he could muster, “An unrelated gap.”

“Sure,” Hypnos shrugged, marking it down on the time sheets, “I’ll tell anyone looking for you to check Zag’s place.”

I need you. Please come home. I love you.

“Best not, I think,” Than said flatly, turning away quickly so he didn’t have to see the expression on Hypnos’ face.

He’d catch up on the work he missed later.

He knew what the problem was as soon as he walked into their chambers. Their chambers, not Zagreus’, it had taken some time to get used to thinking of it that way. But when he hadn’t slept in the Chthonic Wing once since they’d begun openly courting, when half of the items in the close, comfortable room were his own, when the word home evoked images of this place and the godling he shared it with, he’d settled into it.

It wasn’t a smell, not exactly. But it was a presence in the air, like a heat without the warmth or a sound without its timbre. And when Thanatos felt it play across his skin, like a ripple of energy that somehow tasted of pink, he stopped. And he realised how this evening was going to go.

“Tough run today, my love?” he said delicately, hanging up his cloak and moving deeper into the room.

His answer was a low, affirmative grown from Zagreus, curled on his side in the middle of the bed they shared. Around him the aura grew even tighter, thick enough to taste. There was a faint pink flickering behind his green eye, a tension in his muscles as he held himself, an unusual rosy colour in his veins, standing out starkly in his corded wrists as he gripped the sheet underneath him.

Thanatos sighed softly, pushing all thoughts of returning to work out of his mind. He knew the signs of overindulgence in a god’s boon, as varied as they were, there were always common threads. When Zagreus depended too heavily on one rather than using them sparingly and variedly as he’d been told half a hundred times, he would begin to shake, his eyes would unfocus and flicker, he’d experience deep instinctual urges that were nigh on impossible to ignore. What his body demanded, how his brain responded, well that depended on which god he’d been indulging in. Dionyseus’ boons made him slur his words, lose the ability to walk straight, laugh helplessly at anything. Ares’ were especially worrying, making him violent and bloodthirsty, filling him with the need to strike out at something and not stop until exhaustion collapsed him. Too many from Hermes and he would be filled with energy that crackled and sparked, putting him on a level with a small child who’d eaten their body weight in raw sugar.

But none of those gave Zagreus this tense, hungry energy with it’s tinge of rose pink and it’s smell of amber and heat. That was solely the symptom of far too many boons from one goddess of love and lust. That was all Aphrodite.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Zag groaned, his voice strained and coming through clenched teeth. He seemed to be fighting to keep himself still.

“What am I going to say, beloved?” Than murmured, golden eyes sweeping over him, assessing just how far gone he was. There was a shine of sweat pooling in his collarbone, an unmistakable dampness on the inside of his thighs, the red fabric turning dark.

“That I’m an idiot,” Zag moaned, “That I went too far again, that I need to listen to you.”

Thanatos considered that a moment, confirming to himself that he’d locked the door firmly behind him. Then he calmly unclasped his robe at the back and swept it over his head, leaving him bare but for his jewellery, all in one smooth, efficient stroke. He moved to the bottom of the bed, joining Zagreus up on it, setting his hands lightly on his lover’s knees. He knew from experience that far too much sensation right now could easily overwhelm him. Sure enough, just that barest touch of Than’s cool palms through the fabric of his trousers dragged a strangled noise from Zagreus.

“What I was going to say,” Than said patiently, eyes glowing in the candlelight, “Was that I love you too. And I’m here for you. Alright?”

Zag swallowed hard, eyes wide and wet, fixed completely on his lover’s face. Too many of these boons and it wasn’t just what was between Zag’s legs that took control, it was his heart as well, love and lust together. Than knew he needed gentle words, soft touches, closeness. That and to be bent near in half.

After a long few days of solid work, of being apart more than they were together, Thanatos was rather ready for both.

“I love you,” Zag nearly sobbed, whole body trembling with tension that needed release, “Than, please…”

“Slowly,” Than promised, moving to unbuckle his sword belt and unwind his tunic. His lover hadn’t even undressed himself before he’d fallen to the bed, likely nervous of what he might do without even the feeble barrier of fabric, “Gently. I’ll give you what you need but not more than you can take and you’re going to listen to me. Yes?”

“Yes,” Zag was panting as Than rolled his leggings down, casting them off the side of the bed though he wasn’t entirely sure they were salvageable, “Yes, gods, anything. Just fuck me or kiss me or let me fuck you, I’m dying here.”

“You’re not dying, we’ve done this before…”

Than kept his voice level but there was something in the heat rolling off his skin right now as he took away the last of his adornments, the salt and musk smell of him, something animalistic about it all. He was finding it hard to concentrate. Or he would, if such a thing could pull his focus at a time like this…

“Come here, my love,” he moved Zag’s lean thighs apart, making him whine at just the slight touch of his breath, “I’ll take good care of you.”

Zagreus nearly came the moment Than’s tongue touched his flesh, a kind of electricity seizing him. But it passed, achingly, and then his fingers were in Than’s hair, taking full advantage of how long it had been getting of late, how easily Than had bowed to a sleepy, murmured comment from his lover a few weeks ago that he looked beautiful with it long. He tugged needily, hungrily, but still not enough to truly hurt, as Than fluttered kisses between his lips. He built slowly, starting to lap and suck and slip his tongue into him only when he was sure Zag could bear it. Every movement drew more gasps and moans from his lover, more grasping at his hair, strained whispers of muddied devotion.

Than had seen the sea of course, it claimed so many souls he had to go and collect, even some that were peaceful. He’d stood on it’s shores, felt it’s salt sting the inside of his nose and throat and wanted badly to be able to swim in it. When Zagreus came, sudden and sharp and with a high, wild cry, Than felt for a moment as if he had.

“Well then…” he drew back, wiping at his mouth and cheeks with the back of his hand.

“Than…” Zag moaned, relief in his eyes but only for a moment, the aura still twitching and writhing around him, “S’not enough...still burning…”

“I know, my love,” Than was already moving, taking his wrists now, immediately feeling his racing pulse under his skin, “I cleared my schedule, don’t worry.”

“Yeah, your workload was my biggest concern, just edged out my cock literally feeling like it was on fire…” Zag said dryly, making Thanatos smile. If his lover felt enough like himself to crack his little jokes, then his work was having the intended effect.

“Let’s see what we can do about that then, hm?” Than grinned, bending to his task again.

It took another half hour of slow, almost lazy ministrations between Zag’s thighs, a gradual introduction of his fingers, all very cautious and almost worshipful before he judged his lover ready for something more without it breaking his brain. He was still burning hot, the sheets under him near ruined, thighs shining with slick in the low light. But he could speak without that wanton whine in his voice, he could focus on something other than Than’s fingers or tongue- he’d had him reciting poetry a moment ago just to prove he could- and his eyes looked their usual colour. The boons were slackening their hold on him, bit by bit, as the seconds ticked by and Zag’s needs were filled.

But that didn’t mean they couldn’t have a little more fun before it was over.

“Want my cock?” he purred, licking his fingers lightly as he sat back on his heels.

“Gods, yes, you tease,” Zag groaned, eyes closely following the play of his lover’s fingers, the way his tongue ran across them, “I’ve only been begging since you walked through the damn door.”

“And if I’d given it to you then, you’d have ridden me until you blacked out while scratching my back to ribbons,” Than explained with prim patience, “What happened to listening to me?”

“Sorry,” Zag muttered, his kiss swollen lips sliding into a needy pout, “I’ll behave. I’ll listen. Please?”

Than smiled crookedly, drawing their hips close, throwing his lover’s legs over his shoulder, “Seeing as you asked so nicely.”

“Watch the feet, you’ll singe your hair again,” Zag hummed with a hint of smugness rather too strong for someone in his situation.

“I thought we agreed never to speak of that again, my love…”

Than pressing into him chased the look off Zag’s face, replacing it with one of mixed relief and rapture. Than had to bite down on his own gasp as his lover’s body opened up to him, he’d been neglecting himself as he’d focused on Zag’s predicament and was only now realising how much.

“Oh gods, yes,” Zag moaned, eyelids half closed, head tilted back, “Right there. That’s where you belong, my love, my heart…”

Than swallowed hard, bracing himself with his hands bracketing Zag’s head. It was the effect of the boons, he told himself. They were not two lovers in a sappy play whispering ridiculous, overwrought words of passion in some moonlight drenched garden.

But wasn’t it fun to pretend.

“My beloved,” he answered, voice a little strained as he began to thrust, “I’ve got you, you’re here with me and I’m going to give you just what you need...”

Zag whimpered helplessly, legs locked tight as chords around him, soon unable to do anything but gasp his name and strained pleas for more, faster, harder. Than answered, giving him everything he could, everything he had left, kissing him through the surging pink haze until he wasn’t quite sure who it was coming from or who it was ensnaring any more. And he wasn’t fully certain he could care, not when the world shrank down to Zag’s hands on his face and in his hair, his warm, wet heat around his cock, his breathy gasps of his name, how could he care about anything else? How could he care about anything but the one he loved?

“Come with me,” he whispered into Zag’s mouth, hips working hard and heavy.

Apparently he’d just been waiting for permission, as soon as the words left Than’s mouth, Zag arched up and came hard with a strangled cry of his lover’s name that sounded as sweet as any prayer. Than was helpless and could only follow, tumbling over his own edge, filling Zag deeply, crying out in a way that was very undignified and very un-death like.

When his vision cleared and his brain felt connected to his limbs again, Thanatos opened his eyes to see his husband smiling crookedly up at him.

“I think I’m all set,” he chuckled, eyes a little unfocused but very much his own beautiful colours, the only thing in the air being the smell of sex and candles that had guttered out while they’d been distracted.

They untangled themselves carefully, cataloguing their various aches and pulled muscles, collapsing over each other against the pillows.

“So,” Than shifted so Zag could pillow his head on his chest, “What are we going to do next time?”

“Use the boons sparingly,” Zag just sounded exhausted now, Than was beginning to suspect the much needed bathing would have to wait until after a brief nap, “Vary them. And listen to Thanatos.”

“Good boy,” Than laughed, stroking his hair back from his forehead, “And?”

Zag thought before frowning sleepily, confused, “And...and I don’t know.”

Than leaned down and kissed him softly, lingering before murmuring tenderly, “And I will always come running whenever you need me because I love you.”

Zag smiled at him, reaching up to trace the curve of his nose, “I love you too.”

Thanatos knew Zagreus was satisfied, he could go back to work and catch up on the souls he missed, the ones that were probably mounting every second he spent watching his lover drift into sleep.

But still he didn��t move, he didn’t stop letting the silky black hair run through his fingers again and again, admiring his beloved’s face, relaxed and peaceful in sleep. He would go back to being the emissary of Death, he’d pick up his scythe and he’d return to work. But not now.

For now, how could he care about anything but the man he loved?

#hades #smut #thanzag #zagreus #thanatos #hades game

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schmokschmok · 3 years

Text

i’ll mako mermaid out of you

Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender

Relationship: Keith Kogane x Lance McClain

Characters: Hunk Garrett, Keith Kogane, Lance McClain, Pidge Holt

Wordcount: 6,166

Freeform:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Alternate Universe - Fusion

H2O: Just Add Water Fusion

Mermaids

Comfort/No Hurt

Summary:

It's Lance's idea to steal Coran's boat to go to Mako Island, so it's basically his own fault that he'll never swim competitively again.

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29940753

CN: Anxiety Attack, Blood (not graphic); Mentions of Death & Food

What could go wrong?, Lance said.

It’s not stealing if we’re bringing Coran’s boat back before dusk, Keith agreed.

I don’t think it’s a good idea. Maybe we should wait ’til tomorrow, Hunk objected.

Vroom, vroom, motherfuckers!, Pidge exclaimed as they jumped into Coran’s boat. Get in, losers, we’re going Mako Island.

Keith’s got to confess that it seemed like a good idea when Lance first suggested it: Borrowing Coran’s boat, driving out to Mako Island, examining the bush. (He would be lying if he said that he didn't think about all the rumours of supernatural phenomena surrounding Mako Island. And he would also be lying if he said that he didn't feel excitement rush through him at the mere thought of finding signs of monsters or cryptids.) But now that they're trapped inside a fucking volcano, he begins to regret every decision that led them to this point.

“It’s too steep,” Pidge says, not for the first time. They stand at the tunnel they all climbed down about half an hour ago, Hunk’s next to them, and they both won't stop looking for a way out the same way they got in.

Keith and Lance, on the other hand, are pretty sure there's no chance they could climb up again. (Keith tried, okay, but if he can’t do it, it’ll be impossible for Pidge.) So, their fingers search for openings in the wall while their feet carefully avoid stepping into the pool in the middle of the room.

“Found anything, yet?” Lance asked from the other side of the pool.

Keith wipes sweat from his forehead and shakes his head before he replies: “No. Nothing.” He turns around and catches sight of Lance who's feverishly patting at the stone as if there could be an opening if he just looked thoroughly enough.

The full moon shines brightly through an opening at the top of the cave, seeping into almost every nook and illuminating the water, the floor and the crowns of their heads. Maybe, if they wait just a little longer, there could be enough light to see properly. Maybe that will help them find an alternative exit.

“Hey gays,” Pidge says suddenly. “There are tide marks on the stone.” They're sitting at the water now and feel up the edge with the tips of their fingers. Right beside them is Hunk crouching down to verify their assessment. “There has to be a connection to the ocean.”

Cautiously making his way back over to Hunk and Pidge, Keith attempts to look for a passage deep down in the water, but he can’t make anything out in the darkness. He wants to say It’s worth a try. However, in the exact same moment Keith opens his mouth, Lance says: “Heck, only one way to find out!” And he jumps in like there is not even the slightest possibility of sharks on the other side; like he could just do that without Keith jumping right after him.

And Keith definitely would have rushed into the water mindlessly if it wasn’t for Pidge’s hand on his shin holding him back. (He wants to look down and reassure Pidge that everything’s alright because of the way their fingers claw their way into his clothes and the underlying skin, but he can’t avert his gaze from the point where Lance disappeared into the darkness with not more than having taken off his shoes.)

It feels like forever until little bubbles surface and Lance emerges with a smug grin on his face. (Hunk, Pidge and Keith release a breath they all very much knew they were holding.) Almost floating, he moves his arms in little motions to stay above the surface.

On one hand Keith really wants to smack him, on the other hand he’s glad that their escape seems to be easier than feared. Lance’s voice echoes off the stone walls: “It’s not far. Everyone could do it. A toddler could do it. Even Pidge could do it.” Maybe his grin is even wider than before.

Sighing, Hunk takes off his shoes, slides his feet over the edge of the pool and slowly sinks into the water to Lance, with clear disdain on his face. Following his example, Keith crouches down to remove his shoes, when he hears Pidge’s voice low and almost inaudible near his ear: “Keith, I … I can’t do this.”

“I don’t think it’s that bad,” Keith replies irritated and glances at their face. “Lance says it’s not too far.” They wince and move the hand they were leaning on in front of their body. (Keith doesn’t want to make a scene or draw attention to them but it’s hard given the fact that they’re only four people in one single volcano.)

“Keith, yes, it is,” Pidge says in a hushed tone, perhaps even quieter than before. “I never told you because I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it but … I don’t really know how to, y’know, swim.” Nervously, their index finger and thumb adjust their glasses and it’s obvious they expect some sort of comedic response or mild laughter but Keith only furrows.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to. We got this,” Keith reassures them, before gesturing towards their shoes. “Take them off. And don’t think we’re not going to talk about this later.” He sinks into the water, before reaching out to Pidge, who’s just now pocketing their glasses, encouraging them with a small smile to trust him. And, surprisingly, they accept the hand he’s offering without questioning him. Hesitatingly, they lower their body.

They can’t stand (in fact, none of them can) and Pidge holds onto Keith, panic evident on their face. To comfort them, Keith slings his arm around their waist.

“Everything’s alright?” Hunk asks, moving closer to them. “Pidge, you don’t look too well.” Wax-pale face and shaky hands, they nod, maybe a tick too frantic, but Hunk and Lance don’t seem to realise their emotional state. At least for now.

And that is precisely the moment the full moon is finally in its zenith, filling up the whole opening at the top of the cave. The water surrounding them begins to bubble and glow in an iridescent blue light. An unnatural fog builds up right above the water surface and disperses the moonlight between their bodies.

“What the fuck? What the actual ever-loving fuck?” Pidge screeches, while basically scrambling to get on top of Keith. Every word out of their mouth is accentuated by near hysterical panic and huffed, air sucking breaths.

In a nigh impossible attempt to not suffocate or drown, Keith holds Pidge in place, fingers digging into the hem of their top and stabilising their hip, while gulping down air and staying afloat. (But he’s barely holding it together himself because this? This is not natural. And it’s probably not good.)

Lance and Hunk cling to each other, indulging in litanies of oh, my gods and what the hecks.

It only lasts for a few seconds until the full moon surpasses its zenith and the water calms down, glow slowly fading. Aghast and brimming over with fear, Lance separates from Hunk and exclaims: “We should get the heck outta here.”

Hunk and Keith nod, then Hunk and Lance disappear below the surface without another word.

“Inhale deeply and don’t let go. On three,” Keith says, before counting to three in a low voice. Almost at the same moment Keith and Pidge inhale and submerge, following Lance and Hunk through the dark water and the passage deep down to the other side of the stone wall.

It only takes about thirty seconds until they reach the other side and break through the surface, able to breathe again. Not even for a moment did Keith’s grip on Pidge loosen. Nonetheless, they look deranged and almost close to tears. They suck in air heavily and cling onto Keith as if he’d let go any second now.

“Only a few metres, now,” Keith huffs, more paddling than swimming but without getting far.

Suddenly, there’s a second arm around Pidge’s waist and half of their weight gets lifted off his shoulder. Their face is still buried in his neck and their hot, heavy breath meets his exposed skin. Keith smiles at Hunk who lends him a hand and together they make their way to the shore under Lance’s sorrowful eye.

Pidge’s breath becomes shallower and shallower. They attempt to control it by forcefully holding their breath and then slowly releasing it. But it doesn’t seem to work. The shallow little breaths return.

Keith’s feet hit the ground just a moment after Hunk’s. With joined forces they carry Pidge onto the beach and set them down on the sandy ground. Or at least try to because Pidge won’t let go of Keith and he hangs awkwardly in the air right above them, placing his entire weight on his knees.

“What’s going on?” Lance’s low voice is almost inaudible because Pidge’s laboured breath is drowning out about nearly everything around them.

Voice matched to a soft murmur, Hunk answers: “Not sure.”

Keith wants to tell them what’s going on, just to make sure that they don’t worry too much, but it’s not his place to tell them Pidge’s secret, is it? (At least they’re keeping their distance in an attempt to lessen the pressure on Pidge.)

Keith’s hands wrap around Pidge’s and free him with slow, gentle movements from their grip. While carefully pushing them away from him, Keith murmurs comforting words to calm them down. (He’s not even sure what he’s saying.)

“You know, you’re seriously badass,” he says, and Pidge lets out a sound akin to a laugh. “No, no, no. I mean it. That was incredibly brave, Pidge Gunderson.”

“Fuck you, Keith,” Pidge huffs in between sobs, then they let themselves fall onto their back and giggle hysterically. “Shit! Shit!” Keith sits down next to them, and Hunk and Lance join them, still unsure how to handle the situation.

“You’re gonna tell us what’s going on?” Lance asks as he’s searching for Keith’s hand on the ground. Their fingers interlace with each other and Keith gives Lance a small smile.

Even though Pidge was in the process of wiping tears from their face, they make a dismissive gesture with their hand, telling Keith to answer for them.

“Well, apparently Pidge thought swimming would be a useless skill, so they never bothered to learn.” Lance freezes. The only reason Keith even realizes it is because Lance's grip on his hand tightens. He doesn't say anything and neither does Keith. Instead, it's Hunk who speaks up.

“Oh my god, Pidge, why didn't you say anything?” It's obvious he's working himself up and Keith knows for a fact how horrible it is to feel guilty on top of a panic attack, that's why he's shooting Hunk a look who immediately ducks his head and blushes.

“Pidge, is it okay if I hug you?” Hunk asks next, slowly reaching out to them but merely hovering above their arm, unsure if he's allowed to touch them.

A soft voiced and shaky “that would be nice” later, Hunk wraps his arms around Pidge and squeezes them tight against his chest. The pressure on their ribcage seems to force them to even out their breathing, and after good half a minute, it looks like they’re finally in control over their body again.

Lance is uncharacteristically quiet beside Keith, and Keith throws a glance out of the corner of his eyes towards him. There’s a tension between his eyebrows and his lips form a hard line, discontent oozing from every single pore.

“You okay?” Keith asks lowly as to not disturb Pidge’s and Hunk’s moment, ready to get brushed off by Lance who never really liked being called out on his insecurities, especially not in front of other people. Even if these people are his best friends. (It’s a strict one-person confidentiality with Lance, has always been.)

“It's just … they go to the beach with us regularly. I dropped them into the ocean several times. I could have killed them.” Lance stumbles over the words trying to come out too quickly and all at the same time, hushed voice almost breathless. Suddenly, all blood drains from his face, he’s even paler in the light of the moon, and he stares right past Keith at Pidge.

“Did you just,” Lance can’t seem to decide whether he wants to sound outraged or scared shitless. “Did you just dive, like, under water? Even though you can’t swim?! Pidge, what the heck!” Keith tightens his grip on Lance’s hand, but the tension in Lance’s shoulders doesn’t ease the slightest, and Lance doesn’t even close his mouth all the way before he continues. “This is dangerous as fuck, Pidge!”

It’s not hard to see how this is going to go if nobody stops Lance right this second. Keith can hear Pidge’s breathing picking up again and feel the rapid beating of Lance’s heart in the space between his fingers.

“Lance,” Keith says with a finality in his voice, “this is not helping. And you know I wouldn’t have let them drown. Matt would kill me. They’re stuck with us.”

Lance groans in response but keeps quiet otherwise. Keith doesn’t know what he did to shut Lance up, but this is clearly not the time to question it, so he turns towards Pidge and Hunk, the latter finally letting go of the former.

“I for one,” Keith continues, calling the attention to himself, “think we should get the fuck out of here.”

And no one tries to argue with him.

It’s only been a day since they’ve come back from Make Island, hurriedly bringing back Coran’s boat before he can realise it’s been missing in the first place. Keith fell right into bed after a quick shower to wash off the sea salt because he can imagine all too clearly Lance’s smug comments about his dried up, flaky skin if he wouldn’t. And the thought alone is enough to warrant precautions.

He’s been lying in bed all day, only getting up to snack through the kitchen and bother Shiro during lunch hour. But after a few hours he got restless, skin itching with the need to go out again and exercise in any shape or form. So, he slipped into knee-length joggers and a tank to take a short run through the neighbourhood.

The first ten minutes stretch longer than anticipated, exhaustion from a too short night still prevalent. (He hasn’t talked to Pidge yet, anger at their carelessness and dishonesty predominating now that the initial worry has worn off. But it’s not their fault, they didn’t really lie about anything, and it’s in their right to not disclose information. So, he’s left with aimless anger that he’ll hopefully run out of his system.)

After almost half an hour, he finally feels more at ease, the steady thrum of his feet on the pavement soothing his nerves and lulling him into a somewhat peaceful state of mind.

And that’s when he runs past a sprinkler, right through the spray, seeking out every little refreshment in the summer heat he can find, and, all of a sudden, losing the ground underneath his feet, falling face first into the wet grass.

Keith doesn’t know what just happened, rolling onto his back to stare at the sky self-pityingly for a second, breath coming and going in short, controlled bouts. When he tries to plant the sole of his feet on the ground to get up again, he realises that he can’t and props himself up on his elbows to take a look at his feet, getting caught completely off-guard by the sheer absence of his feet. And legs. In lieu, a red scaled fish tail flops aimlessly on the ground.

“What the fuck,” Keith says to no one in particular, not even in the right mind to thank every deity in existence that there is no one to witness his incoming breakdown.

Without his own volition, his right hand reaches out and prods at a stray scale on his hipbone where the tail bleeds out into his skin.

Now, Keith knows the weirdest thing should be that suddenly he’s half fish or whatever, but he can’t comprehend that right now anyways, so he’s mostly weirded out by the fact that it doesn’t feel like he’s touching skin but more like applying pressure to a finger- or toenail. It’s not a real touch, but the ghostly remnant of applied pressure. It feels terrible and Keith fucking hates it.

“What the fuck,” he says again for emphasis, because how is he supposed to explain this to Shiro? Shiro, gotta move out, live under the sea, doing fish things? That's not going to happen.

He tries to get up a few times, to find footing even though he knows it's impossible. Because if he doesn't try to fight his tail, what is he going to do?

A few unsuccessful attempts later, hands and forearms covered in grass stains and dirt, he thinks that if he can't get up and walk away, he can still crawl his way back to safety. (His mind helpfully supplies him with Lance's name and face, apparently the only choice at hand as Shiro is still at work and Lance is the only human in Keith's life that he knows like the back of his hand. And for the first time ever it actually proves useful because Keith knows that around this time Lance is training for an upcoming swimming competition.)

Digging his elbows into the ground, Keith crawls his way off the grass, only to be met by the rough texture of the pavement that scrapes across his abdomen and tail in the most painful way possible. Dragging skin (or scales for that matter) across asphalt is admittedly not the smartest decision Keith has ever made.

For a moment he contemplates just rolling the whole way, but he’s as quick to dismiss it entirely when he experimentally rolls onto his back and sees the blood and dust clinging to his skin. Maybe the pavement had been rougher than anticipated.

His head drops onto the ground with a low thud, and Keith can’t hold back an exasperated groan. If anyone’s going to see him, he’s sure to find himself within a fish tank in under an hour. (Is he able to breathe underwater? What if he’s just a dude with a fish tail and can’t even breathe underwater, but they think he’s some kind of mythical mermaid creature in desperate need of water, and he drowns?) This can’t possibly get any worse, he thinks.

The sprinkler splutters to a halt, and the only thing Keith can hear is the crying and chattering of the seagulls and the ships and boats dashing through the water not too far away. Just one single human being with binoculars could end his suffering – or his life, depending on their nature. At least he’s still in the sun, slowly but steadily drying off (and out? He’s still not sure how this is supposed to work).

In the end, it doesn’t take too long for him to be completely dry again and a prickling sensation to set in in his legs – tail, whatever. He wonders surprisingly clear headed if this is how he’s going to die. Just softly prickling to death until nothing is left but a few stray red scales.

But instead of losing consciousness or ascending into another plane of existence, the collar of his shoe starts digging into his heel rather uncomfortably. Keith wonders if he did something wrong in this or in his past life to deserve dying with a shoe collar pressing into his Achilles tendon.

Keith shoots upright with wide eyes and stares at his shoes, at the exposed skin of his shin and finally his grey joggers, trying to comprehend that the tail is gone. No scales, no fins, nothing. Not a single trace of his mermaid moment. This time around, Keith wonders if he hit his head on Mako Island, and the resulting concussion made him hallucinate for about ten minutes.

He doesn’t know what to do or think, so he jumps up and takes up his run again, changing directions towards the public pool in hope of catching Lance.

The pool comes in sight in record time, and if Keith had more on his mind than fuckfuckfuck, he’d probably be at least a little bit proud of the fact that he’s not panting in utter exhaustion as he passes through the gates and heads straight for the pool Lance is most likely to train.

When he reaches the pool, he can already spot Lance’s brown head of hair, surprisingly dry. Not a single drop of water clings to his skin even though he’s sitting right next to the water, only inches separating him from being able to dip his toes. His arms wrapped around his knees, he rests his head on them, too, gaze loosely directed at the surface, but Keith’s quick to realise that Lance doesn’t actually look at the water. He’s far off with his thoughts, and he almost jumps in shock when Keith flops down beside him.

“Jesus Christ, Keith,” Lance exclaims, hand pressed against his rapidly beating heart, “make a noise, dude.”

Keith doesn’t answer, studying Lance’s pale face instead, almost reaching out to touch one of Lance’s freckles to will the rest of his face into colour again, but he holds himself back in the last second possible, hand hovering aimlessly in the air until he places it gently on Lance’s shoulder as if that had been the plan all along.

“Everything okay?” Keith asks.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Lance replies defensively, obviously not good in the slightest. “You spooked me, that’s all.”

Keith nods, and silence engulfs them for a few heartbeats while they look at each other. Keith with an imploring gaze, Lance with a closed off expression as if he’d stand a chance not telling Keith what’s going on with him.

“Did something happen?” Keith asks after a moment because if Lance is in a bad mood, his ten-minute fish tail hallucination can surely wait half an hour or longer. Maybe he doesn’t have to talk about it at all again. If he’s waiting long enough, he’ll forget it himself. Maybe. Eventually.

Lance (who is really, really bad at keeping anything secret from Keith) almost mewls in uneasiness, but quickly corrects his outburst with a dismissive: “You won’t believe me if I tell you.”

“Maybe,” Keith agrees, trying to keep his tone light. “Maybe I will. You’ll never know if you don’t at least try.”

Furrowing his brow, Lance seems to contemplate Keith’s words, weighing his options against each other, growing visibly more anxious with every second that ticks by. But Keith keeps quiet, gives Lance the space to make up his mind. And even if he doesn’t want to (and even if it will be the hardest thing to do) if Lance decides that he doesn’t want to tell Keith, then Keith will accept that, too. (Is that character growth? Shiro’ll be so proud of him, disgusting.)

From one second to the other, Lance’s gaze hardens in earnestness, and he straightens up, turning towards Keith, opening up his whole posture to puff up his chest while he says determinedly: “I can’t tell you.” He pauses as if to muster up all the courage in his bones. “But I can show you.”

In one flowing movement, Lance stands up and extends his hand for Keith to take, then he hoists him up with surprisingly little effort, and Keith’s cheeks heat up embarrassingly. But Lance doesn’t pay him any mind, just drags him along with their still intertwined hands.

“You can’t show me here?” Keith asks in confusion, watching Lance shake his head in response.

“I cannot. Under no circumstance,” Lance replies, not slowing down in the slightest when Keith almost trips on his own feet trying to trail after him.

They leave Lance’s bag behind, and Keith is soon to realise that they’re walking towards the beach, the rocky part where Keith knows for certain that the possibility of running into other people is slim. – He has no idea whatsoever why Lance would drag him there.

“Why did you come anyway?” Lance asks absentmindedly, clearly preoccupied with his own problem at hand.

So, Keith decides that it really, really doesn’t matter what he thought he experienced, and says dismissively: “Nothing of importance. It can wait”, and it can. Lance’s thing is much more important, whatever it may be. (And if Keith gets enough distance between himself and the aching scrapes on his stomach, then he can ignore the episode forever. Probably.)

“Okay,” Lance says lowly, and they don’t talk for the remainder of their way. Which is unsettling in its own way, because Keith can count on one hand the times that Lance hasn’t filled their silence with mindless chatter and exaggerated retellings of stories Keith has heard a hundred times before. Not one of those times had been a happy one.

He tries to swallow down the agitation welling up inside him, but it’s harder than anticipated to swallow down something that has already nested just inches shy of his stomach. Needless to say that he doesn’t feel calmer when they finally reach the beach and Lance climbs down the stairs, still pulling at Keith’s hand to ensure that he’s still following, still coming, still present.

After a short walk around and over a few large rocks, they reach a small part of the beach that is entirely secluded from the rest, sheltered from prying eyes and curious minds, and Lance comes to a halt, back still turned to Keith, but still holding onto Keith’s hand as if he’s in constant fear of Keith disappearing on him. (As if Keith could leave Lance. As if anything on this planet could make Keith leave Lance. It’s ridiculous.)

“I’m going to show you something,” Lance says before turning around and staring into Keith’s face, looking for something Keith can’t comprehend. “And you’re going to stay calm.”

“Yeah, I thought that’s why we’re here,” Keith retorts impatiently, agitation growing steadily, but Lance doesn’t let himself be bothered by Keith’s temperament. They’ve known each other for so long, Lance is probably not surprised by anything Keith does anymore. (Well, except the whole tail thing. Which Keith won’t bring up, so Lance doesn’t even get the chance to be surprised. Check and mate or whatever.)

A shaky smile appears on Lance’s lips, and he lets go of Keith’s hand all of a sudden, leaving behind a sense of loss Keith only experiences when Lance touches him and withdraws again. It’s a unique feeling that reminds him unpleasantly of the equally unique flutter in his abdomen whenever he sees Lance after too much time apart. (Too much is a malleable phrase, because on some days Keith can’t even escape the flutter when Lance comes back from the kitchen after getting up to fetch them a glass of water or a snack for their movie night.)

Lance walks backwards, eyes trained on Keith, until only a few inches separate him from the roll of the waves lapping against the sandy shore. With a last shaky breath, Lance repeats: “Remember, stay calm,” and takes a huge step backwards, suddenly ankle-deep in salt water.

For a moment, nothing happens. Lance just stares at him in apprehension, obviously waiting for something to happen. Keith is about to open his mouth to ask Lance what the fuck he’s thinking he’s doing, when the water around Lance’s feet starts to bubble, and his knees give out under him, sending him into the shallow water with a surprised yelp.

“What the fuck,” Keith hears himself say, not for the first time today, and most likely not for the last. “Lance!”

Keith stumbles forward a few steps, scrambling towards Lance, but he freezes as soon as his feet come too close to the steady waves, because now that he’s not only focused on Lance’s toppling, he realises that Lance seems to be more disgruntled and unhappy than hurt. Which could be caused by the large blue fish tail he wears like his least favourite shoes.

“What the fuck,” Keith repeats, loud enough for Lance to hear him, too. Because, let’s be honest, what else could he possibly say. Today is one big clusterfuck of a shitshow, and Keith doesn’t have the emotional range anymore to respond accordingly.

“I don’t know, man,” Lance calls back, even though Keith could probably hear him too if he were whispering. “You’re not going to, like, freak out on me, are you?”

“No,” Keith lies, you know, like a liar. He even shakes his head for good measure.

Displaying his vast knowledge of Keith’s tone of voice and every single expression Keith could sport at any given moment, Lance says: “Sure thing, buddy, please don’t, like, pass out or anything, I couldn’t catch you if I tried.”

“Yeah,” Keith says. He says: “No. I get it.”

“You do?” Lance’s voice is sceptical, and he furrows his brows again. Obviously dissatisfied with Keith’s reaction to the whole situation. Or rather lack of reaction. (Maybe he doesn’t know Keith as well as Keith knows him. Or maybe Keith is a terrible human being with one puzzle piece up his sleeve that Lance can’t possibly know about.)

“Yeah, still in shock, I guess,” Keith replies easily, toeing his shoes off his feet and taking the smallest step known to man toward the water. “Funny thing is that I came by to talk to you, too.”

“You said it’s not important,” Lance responds, face growing even more disgruntled. “We’re talking about my thing right now, Keith, get with the program.”

That pries a self-deprecating chuckle from Keith’s lips, and he draws in another deep breath, before he steps forward, cold sea water embracing his feet like an old friend. – Maybe they’re really friends now, considering the big fucking tail that appears where Keith’s legs have been until a second ago, sending him down into the water right on top of Lance who’s yelping in surprise again.

“You dick,” Lance splutters, mouth full of sea water. But then his eyes zero in on Keith’s tail and they grow wide in shock. He scrambles, fingers digging into wet sand until they hit Keith’s scales for the first time and hold onto them like Keith’s tail is Lance’s lifeline. Lance screeches: “This is not important? Not relevant enough to mention once?”

Being propped up on his elbows complicates Keith’s attempts of shrugging, but he thinks he’s getting the point across when he retorts: “You said you had something on your mind.”

For the first time almost completely engulfed by water, Keith tries to ignore the burning of the salt in the scrapes on his stomach, only to relent and navigate his tail into the same direction as Lance’s while rolling onto his back to lift his stomach out of the water.

Meanwhile Lance questions: “Have you always been a merman? Did you bite me to turn me into a merman, too?”, completely ignoring Keith’s admission. He eyes the contrast of their tails – red and blue, both unnatural like poisonous fishes –, wandering until they settle on his stomach, finally taking in Keith’s scratched up skin. “What happened to you?”

“Went for a run, got into contact with water, didn’t know it would end when it dries off, tried to move on asphalt anyway,” Keith rattles off detachedly, taking in the way Lance’s tail bleeds out into his back, singular scales just shy off the dimples above his hip bone. (The tail looks far better on Lance, but Keith won’t say that out loud.) “You seriously think I’d werewolf you into becoming a mermaid, Lance?”

“Maybe merfolk is immortal, and you just can’t live without me anymore,” Lance replies smugly, obviously growing accustomed to the thought that they’re amphibian now. Or whatever else the fuck mermaids are.

Keith decides to give Lance one more win to keep him from getting anxious again, even though he’s not sure if Lance really needs another reason to be self-complacent: “Well, if I were an immortal mermaid and I could turn you into my kind with a bite, maybe I’d do it.”

Lance grins at him now, big and wide and rosy-cheeked, and he lifts his wet hand to gently brush a strand of Keith’s hair out of his face. He doesn’t take his hand back, however. It settles on Keith’s cheek instead, cool skin soothing Keith’s fluttering nerves.

“You know,” Lance says, and his words don’t have the same joking quality to them anymore, clearing a path for earnestness that threatens to spill into Keith’s heart, “if I had to spend eternity with an immortal fish, I’d rather it be you.”

And Lance doesn’t know what he elicits in Keith’s soul, that he throws blotting paper into the burning hot flames of Keith’s yearning right beneath his skin. Lance doesn’t know, and it infuriates Keith greatly, beyond anything else. – And in extenuation of Keith as a person, he never said he’s got any impulse control, and just because he’s grown as a person since his angry teenage years, don’t make him less of a hothead. So, it’s to exactly no one’s surprise that Keith reaches out to Lance, cupping his face hastily and probably a little bit on the rough side to pull him close enough to kiss him.

Keith is not a strong man – mentally wise. He’s really, really weak emotionally speaking. And not kissing Lance has been on his agenda for so long now that he surprises himself with the fact that he didn’t do it sooner. Because only now that he actually does it, he realises just how natural it feels to have Lance pressed against him, bare skin on bare skin.

It doesn’t take long for Keith to realise that Lance hasn’t exactly kissed him back, which is as unsettling as it is anxiety inducing, so he pulls back only to be met by Lance’s wide eyes and slack jaw. Keith’s hand falls down, leaves Lance’s face hurriedly, but Lance stays glued to Keith’s cheek, mouth opening in quiet awe. (Oh, God, Keith really hopes it’s awe.)

“You kissed me,” Lance says matter-of-factly, eyes still widened in surprise.

Keith sighs sheepishly. “Yeah.”

“And we’re both some kind of weird half-mermaid,” Lance states for good measure.

Keith averts his eyes, not knowing where to look instead. “Yeah.”

“What the fuck,” Lance says.

“What the fuck,” Keith agrees.

And then Lance’s lips find his again, and he’s suddenly confronted with half a lap of blue fish tail while Lance’s second hand joins his first, burying themselves into Keith’s hair like it’s the only thing they were ever intended to do.

This time, Keith doesn’t immediately kiss back, still kind of reeling from the whiplash of Lance throwing himself at Keith. And Lance pulls back, almost bending over backwards in an attempt to give Keith some space if he wants it, because Lance is a good guy. (Which is probably the reason Keith fell for him in the first place.)

“This wasn’t some spur of the moment split second decision, was it?” Lance asks almost breathlessly. “You’re not going to back out on me, are you?”

“Kinda, I mean: No—well, I didn’t plan on it,” Keith says, shaking his head to drive his point home. Whatever that point may be. “Not going to back out, though. Don’t worry.”

Lance’s face almost splits in half with a smile so blindingly boyish that Keith forgets to breathe for a moment. He wants to frame this moment, savour it for as long as possible, and never ever let go of Lance’s face or arms or hip. (He will, they can’t stay in the water forever. But a guy can dream, right?)

(Kissing Lance is intoxicating, and it definitely makes up for the throng of hypothetical questions and hypotheses Lance throws his way in between, trying to examine every last possibility of their new state of being before plunging into the water and experiencing it first-hand, even though Keith can’t answer one of them because he’s as new to this as Lance. – Kissing Lance might even be the best thing Keith has ever done, and while he’s still a bit peeved that it took them so long to finally do it, he can’t help himself but think that he doesn’t mind the tail as much now that it is evident that it’s the catalysator of bottled-up feelings Keith didn’t think he could have endured any longer.)

Being a merman is kind of amazing. (Even if Pidge doesn’t agree.)

#voltron: legendary defender #klance #vld #keith kogane #lance mcclain #schmok writes #fanfiction #mermaid lance #mermaid keith #h20: just add water

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bisexual-horror-fan · 3 years

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"Crescendo." Warwick Wilson X AFAB!Reader.

Hey! So I know, I know, I still got asks in my box and am commited to those but it has been a minute since I have done something fully for me and totally self indulgent! So that means some Warwick Wilson. I have always wanted to do a follow up to this piece I did back in Feb, Upon His Table, that, as well as this are movie spoiler free so read away with no fear if you haven't seen the movie! Hope you all dig this and enjoy this follow up!

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Rating. Explicit. Length. 6.4K. Warwick Wilson X AFAB!Reader. Warnings. Teasing. Dirty Talk. Edging. Asking For Permission. Asking For Forgiveness. Punishment Play. Fingering. Public Shenanigans. Oral Sex. Blow Jobs. Road Head. Vaginal Sex. Creampie.

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Crescendo.

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You wanted to kiss your friend.

You wanted to thank them profusely, take them out for dinner or at the very least send them an edible arrangement for the part they played in this. If it wasn’t for the fact that your friend was late that night at that art exhibit you might not have ever met him and that was simply unthinkable now.

You fit together so well, couldn’t be happier with him honestly.

He was drawn to you inexplicably that first night and struck up conversation over the painting you were looking at and it was a fantastic choice on his part, you had impressed him with your knowledge and insight. You looked great and your opinions were incredible, the conversation continued as you both viewed more art and he had such a great time. He was into you and if the way you were looking at him was any indication you were very much into him in return. Just when he thought you couldn’t get better, you surprised him. He had to run, unfortunately, but wanted to get your information, more than just your name and instead you suggested something totally wild and out of left field, suggested as you called it a serendipitous act of faith, call it for now and if you run into each other again to hold on and not let go.

He never could have anticipated you saying that but he was so utterly enamored by you that he simply couldn’t turn you down, as much as he wanted to do everything possible to get to know you at that very moment he decided listening to you was imperative. He agreed. And so you both bid farewell and while it took a few days for you to be kicking yourself for not getting his number, for him it was that very night when he was back at his job that had so cruelly cut your first meeting so short.

Luckily he ended up finding you. It was over a week later, he was out grabbing some lunch and on the way back to work when he saw you, he had to pause, looking at you sitting at that table outside. You were drenched in the afternoon sunlight, pouring over an open book, drink and pastry in front of you and he knew he couldn’t wait a moment longer as he strode to you and took the seat opposite, unable to stop his smile as he said simply, “Found you.”

And thank God he did.

That was the start of you two dating and it was kind of unbelievable how well you two meshed and got along, bonding over art and literature and food, it was wonderful.

And speaking of wonderful, that first night that he brought you to his house with the offer to cook you dinner fit that word perfectly. The food was amazing, the conversation was mentally stimulating and painfully fraught with ample flirtation and it escalated so the first time you got truly physical beyond basic kissing happened on his dining room table. He ate you out with care and skill that made your head swim, edged you beautifully and one hundred percent on purpose, you used your own mouth on him and were a bit too cheeky and ended up bent over the table. You were treated to the simply exquisite feel of him sinking inside of you for the very first time, stretching you beautifully, you were made to hold on as he fucked you and it was better than you ever could have dreamed of.

You might have gotten just a bit too into it however, hands gripping that white table cloth, twisting and tugging on it and in the throes of ecstasy you pulled too hard and tipped your wine glass, spilling the sweet pink alcohol and making such a mess.

He stopped with you on the bleeding edge of what promised to be a mind melting orgasm, calling you out on the mess you made and wondering out loud just what he should do with you. What he did to you really sealed the deal that yes you two were in for something special in being together, that this was the right call and utterly amazing, that you were compatible on every level, not just mental and emotional or on interests but on that oh so important physical frontier.

He told you that if you wanted to make a mess then he might just be in the mood to make a mess too, and what better thing to make a mess of than you? He held still, cockwarmed you and made you apologize, beg for his forgiveness, barely moving at all in you, one of his hands snaked around you, fingers pressed to your aching clit and if it weren’t for the table supporting your weight surely your legs would have given out. You begged as he wished, pleaded, and finally when he deemed it good enough, truly believed your words he set to it again, he fucked you and made you come for that first time and you nearly sobbed, his name the only thing on your tongue.

Once wasn’t good enough.

On it went and by the end of it you were three orgasms deep and your legs wouldn’t stop shaking and he came over your ass and let the sticky evidence of his pleasure run down your ass and over the backs of your thighs as you feebly attempted to catch your breath.

He checked in to make sure you were fine. You were more than fine, you fucking loved every second of it and made sure he knew. You loved how he was so seemingly proper and could carry on conversation about the most intelligent of pursuits and cook the best food and then fuck you like that; insanely well and with heat and a dominative aspect and nigh reckless abandon.

He proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that you really could have it all.

And all of that and more is what led you to wanting to find some way to thank that friend of yours for setting you down this path with him. You’d been seeing each other for a couple of months now and couldn’t be happier. The physical aspect was still fairly new, you two didn’t rush into it, taking weeks upon weeks to reach that point but now that you had? Keeping your hands off of each other was essentially impossible if you were in private.

Tonight was a big deal.

Your dates so far have been an amazing time but you hadn’t done anything crazy, most of your first dates were day dates, sightseeing and lunches and things pertaining to art and culture and history, lunches and walking in parks, all more casual and freeform. Until that dinner he hosted just for you of course but even still you hadn’t gone out together at night, just had some admittedly very fun nights in. He told you he had taken care of everything and knowing him you were positive he planned it all with as much finesse and care he put into everything he did. All he told you was to not eat and to dress up, like really dress up and so you listened, the tone he used on the phone with you was delicious and you couldn’t help but let your mind run wild wondering with thoughts of what he might have planned.

He was coming by your apartment for the first time in order to pick you up. You had made the trek to his place instead of him coming over thus far and you were so fine with that, I mean he actually owned his own house and while you loved your apartment his place was much admittedly nicer.

You were practically vibrating with excitement as you got ready. You hoped that what you had was nice enough, you might have gone out and gotten a new dress just for the occasion, what could you say? You wanted to impress him as much as he impressed you on a constant basis.

You weren’t planning on staying here but you cleaned up all the same, it was the first time he was seeing your place after all, and just as you were making sure you had everything in your clutch and slipping into your heels, almost as if it was on cue, there was a knock at your door. You strode to the door and pulled it open to find him there ready and waiting, perfectly on time as expected, even more dressed up than usual, which for a man like him who seemingly lived in suits was saying something. He was looking away and upon opening the door he took in the sight of you and the smile that crossed his face as he looked you up and down, you were so curious about what he might have to say about how you were dressed and he didn’t keep you waiting as he spoke, “Well look at you. Making me feel underdressed.”

How did he always know just what to say?

“You’re one to talk you big flatterer.”

You reached for the lightswitch near the door as you asked, “Ready to go?”

“What? Aren't you going to invite me in?” He asked it in a tone that read as being mock-offended and you were tempted but you knew it could go one of two ways, you knew yourself and you knew him and if you invited him in that you might not end up leaving at all tonight, might get too wrapped up in each other. Or the alternative, you could invite him in and allow him to tease you relentlessly and rile you up and THEN go out while making a mess in your panties and not get any relief until hours later, after whatever he had in store for you both tonight.

So you took the third option, not allowing him inside at all. “And let you mess up my outfit and make-up before we even go anywhere? Not a chance.” You teased him in return, turned off the light with a smile and stepped out, door shut and locked. He snapped his fingers as he said, “Damn.” and after putting your keys in your bag you took his hand and said, “Maybe next time Warwick.”

“Promise?” He asked hopeful and you nudged him with your shoulder and a light laugh, a nod as you said, “Promise.”

Soon you were in his car and on your way, he still hadn’t eluded to what you were going to do tonight, he did however have much to say about how good you looked and you loved the attention from him. You were sure to make your own thoughts on his appearance crystal clear and he took those compliments graciously, after that he asked if you wanted to know what he had planned and you told him of course you were dying to know. He told you to open the glove box and take a look, you did and fished out an envelope, he encouraged you to open it and you did so, pulling out two tickets and you gasped upon reading them, “Warwick! Are you kidding me?! I thought these were sold out for months! How’d you get your hands on these?”

He was grinning and glanced from the road to you, “Oh I have my ways, certain connections. So I take it you’re excited?”

Excited was an understatement. He managed to score seats to this amazing, professional symphony concert, one you had been simply dying to attend but of course had sold out near instantly, the fact he got his hands on them was astonishing, you knew he wanted to attend but also knew that he had definitely got them mostly for you, if his intention was to impress you then he achieved that.

“So excited! This is amazing, thank you!”

You would have to come up with some way of showing your appreciation and thank him properly. He said that you were welcome and he had been really looking forward to this, but first things first it was time for dinner. He picked the restaurant, naturally, and the dressing up made perfect sense, not just for the symphony but for this too, it was by far the nicest place you had ever been in. He assured you it was his treat and to not worry about how much it would be and you weren’t about to argue, you knew it would be futile so why press the issue. You were looking over the menu and noticed the lack of prices but tried not to let that bother you, he said he had it covered and you trusted him.

Speaking of trusting him you asked for his opinion on what to get and he brightened at that, he had good taste and you made sure he knew that. Once the food arrived asking him was obviously the right call, it tasted fantastic. Spirited conversation started over dinner, you had found your way onto the topic of one of his previous dinner parties, you inquired what the best one he felt ever hosted was.

There was this look on his face, kind of wistful as he recalled it to you, he talked about the food he made and how his usual friends were in attendance and how that dinner party escalated into drinking and dancing, and general revelry, but part of what made made it really special was this one guest who was in attendance. You asked about this guest and the way he talked about him only made you more curious, “His name is John and he is without a doubt the best guest I have had, he made the night so exciting, utterly unforgettable. He had such panache.” Hmm. Good word. You couldn’t help but wonder what made him use it, what made John have such panache.

“Oh don’t tell me all of that. I am already nervous enough for when I finally get invited to one. All of your friends sound so interesting, however am I supposed to measure up?” You pulled your glass up and took a sip, damn the wine he picked was again, fantastic and had the added effect of soothing your nerves just a touch. You were genuinely excited to get to go to one of his dinner parties but everyone he regularly invited seemed so damn put together, you were worried about fitting in, every time it came up you got a little nervous.

“Don’t tell me that little miss serendipity herself is worried about being interesting enough for my friends.” His hand was on yours and you gave a small nod, smiling however, you didn’t admit it but you liked the nickname he had given you based off your first meeting, “Okay, maybe just a little.”

“You have nothing to worry about, I am sure they will be just as smitten with you as I am.”

And that made you smile wider, ‘smitten’ he used the word smitten to describe his feelings for you and it certainly did something to bolster your confidence. The rest of dinner was lovely, conversation had continued and moved on and over dessert, creme brulee, his suggestion, you were looking down at it, “Good choice. Been years since I have had it.”

“One of my personal favorites, why’s it been so long since you have had it?” He asked, spoon coming down and cracking his open in a rather satisfying manner and you figured since he shared earlier you could recount a memory of your own.

“Reminds me of someone no longer in my life. First guy I was ever really into made it for me. I was at this theater camp, working in the kitchen, he was lead cook and I helped, we became friends and then more than that. It happened over the course of one summer and I totally fell for him.” He had his spoon in his mouth as he was listening to you and once you took a pause he removed it, “Sounds like a very lucky guy. What happened then?”

You let out a sigh and a slight shrug of your shoulders, you couldn’t tell him what really happened, so you edited, “Summer ended, so did our little romance, we both left camp and lost touch. Creme brulee always makes me think of him so for the longest time I just didn’t partake in it.”

“Too many memories.” He said and you hummed with a nod and finally brought your own spoon down, splitting the sugary crust and scoop some up, bringing up that first spoonful and when it hit your tongue you couldn’t help your eyes falling closed or the moan you let out around the dessert. “Damn.”

You realized what you said and opened your eyes, looking to him and he gave you a particular look, a small warning, ‘damn’ was a pretty inoffensive curse word but still one all the same and you were at the table. Sharing a meal. You knew better. You bit your bottom lip and knew he wouldn’t do anything here, not out in public like this but you thought you just might end up paying for it later, you did your best to look apologetic and he had his arms crossed on the table in front of him, leaning forward on his forearms as he asked, “Good?”

“Very good.” You admitted, “Don’t know why I waited so long.” Were you talking about the dessert or about being with him? He was smiling wide and with a nod said, “Well eat up then, enjoy it to your heart's content darling.”

You couldn’t say no to that. Seems he was dropping the fact you swore for now and you finished the dessert with gusto. Drinks were finished and he paid and soon you were off again.

It felt good. Being actually out and about with him, on his arm, you felt great about it, felt important and special and more. The seats he managed to get you were pretty damn nice you had to admit. You were so excited for this, nearly thrumming with energy and barely able to believe you were really here and getting to do this, share this experience with him.

It was his hand that pulled you out of your thoughts, starting on your knee and your attention pulled down to look at his hand, his fingers started to trail up your leg, he was leaning over and whispered to you, “I really love this dress on you.” His touch as light as he traced over your skin, dragging up your leg, your eyes glanced up to see his own eyes down, watching as he moved, “The skin it shows is simply divine.”

God the way he said that word, it sounded nearly sinful, you were glad you knew his taste so well already, when you tried it on you knew the slit that ran so high up your thigh would please him. His gaze caught yours and while you were distracted with that his hand didn’t stop, his touch was so bold for being in public, fingertips dipping under the fabric of your dress, he could feel the soft and delicate lace of what you had on underneath. The lights dimmed and it was about to start and your eyes widened and your hand made a move to grab his wrist and he said in a firm tone, “Don’t.”

“Warwick…” It left you rushed and very quietly, trying to beg him quietly to not do this, not here, not now. He leaned in closer to make sure you could hear him and only you could hear him as the music started he told you, “If you didn’t want this then you shouldn’t have said what you did at dinner.”

God.

You knew you were going to pay for it but you didn’t expect to be paying for it so soon or so publicly. It was dark, no one was looking at you and now with the music starting there was no way that anyone could hear you if you made any sounds. But even with all of that, you still didn’t want to do this here. His eyes were still looking into yours, “I’m sorry.” you mouthed to him and he smirked, his fingers moved closer between your legs, another attempt, “Please?” and a small shake of his head told you that no, you were simply going to have to endure this.

He was leaning back comfortably in his chair, his hand still on your thigh, fingers curling over soft flesh, resting so close to your heat, right fucking there, the pressure was apparent. You were sitting back in your own chair, hands on the arm rests of the chair, just anticipating, waiting for it.

You got swept up in it. The music was fucking amazing. You were utterly enraptured listening to it, you actually managed to forget about the threat of what he was going to do for now.

Until he started doing it.

He was unfairly good with his hands. He was still only over your underwear but it felt incredible all the same. The movement wasn’t even intense, it didn’t need to be, he was well aware of how much of an effect it was having on you, the fact of where you were was what was amplifying it. In such a public and fancy setting, the way you were dressed too, looking so fucking proper and put together and here he was, touching you with no one else aware of it even though there were people seated all around you.

His fingers traced over you, fingers slipping over your clit, slow circles with decent pressure, it made your grip the arm rests hard, knuckles nearly white, trying to control your breathing and your face, not giving away what he was doing.

He didn’t touch you through the whole performance. It was on and off and purposeful. You could only hide so much from him, he could feel how much you tensed, the ways your thighs pressed closer together and other small signs, knowing just went back off, hand going back to resting on your thigh.

Your heart was racing, chest rising and falling, breathing harder than you probably should but the music was loud, no way you could be heard, your eyes fell closed and your hips tilted forward slightly, pushing into his hand, trying to get some more contact, it wasn’t dignified but you were desperate, you wanted more. He continued, pressure increased, bottom lip tugged on with your teeth, you were getting so close, he had stopped and started so many times now it didn't take much for you to hit the edge again.

He wasn’t stopping.

You were wondering when, or IF he would stop this time, what his goal was. To rile you up, make you a mess once again in this public setting or to actually do that, take you all the way there and make you cum out in the open. You didn’t think he would do that before but right now he wasn’t slowing at all, and you didn’t want him to.

He pressed on and you got closer still, toes curling in your nicest pair of heels and the intensity of the music rose as did the pleasure inside and you realized that yes, the bastard had every intention of doing that, and he did it with impeccable timing too. As the music hit its crescendo, so did you, you managed to suppress your shaking but unable to stop yourself, you knew no one could hear you, were sure not even he could hear you over the music, even if it was for you and you alone you gasped his name in awe and reverence.

It was entirely unforgettable.

He had given you so much already by bringing you here and giving you this wonderful experience you had wanted so badly and in typical Warwick fashion he found the best way to elevate it, improve upon it and make it something truly unique.

You had barely come down from your orgasm, still heaving when the applause started and his hand was out from between your legs and instead on your arm, you were pulled up on your heels, legs still trembling and eyes opening to see everyone else up, a standing ovation. Your smile broke out as you joined in, clapping and just trying to stay upright, you glanced at him and he looked very pleased with himself and damn right he should, he had a plan and executed it beautifully, you were pretty pleased yourself.

After the excitement had died down and people were beginning to leave you retrieved your clutch from under your chair and when you came back up he had those fingers he used on you in his mouth. You swallowed hard and asked, “Do you want to go back to your place?”

You left pretty giddy and hanging off his arm, excited for the rest of the evening you had ahead. The second you were in the car you playfully smacked his arm with the back of your hand, “I cannot believe you just did that!” “Really? Because I think it totally seems like something I would do.” He teased and you conceded, “Alright, alright-” “Besides I think you loved it.” Your seatbelts we’re done up and he was pulling out of the spot and you teased, “How can you be so sure?”

“I was looking at you.”

What?

His eyes were on the road and yours were on him. He continued, “Everyone else was looking ahead, watching those musicians play and I couldn’t do anything but watch you. I saw every little way it played out on your face and even though I couldn’t hear it, I saw it.” He glanced at you, “You gasped my name. Am I right?”

Fucking hell. You were falling for him way too fucking hard and way too fucking fast. You couldn’t say it, weren’t about to pull a Schmosby and risk ruining all of this, not a chance.

“Yes.”

Is what you said instead and you wanted to do so much and then the realization hit. Why not? Why couldn’t you. What was holding you back? He was so good at it and did it constantly, teased you amazingly and the way you were feeling, how much he had riled you up was totally his fault, he deserved some of his own medicine.

Your hand was on his inner thigh but it didn’t stay there for very long, dragging up and you caught how his grip on the steering wheel tightened, he asked, “What are you doing?”

“Nothing. Just focus on the road.”

Easier said than done. You palmed him through his pants and felt him shift under your touch, he kept his eyes forward and you kept yours on him, he was normally so good at playing it cool but you knew what you just did back there got to him too even if he kept his composure outwardly. You wanted to make him break apart, crack the facade, you needed it, you teased him until he felt painfully hard under your touch and you haven’t even gone skin to skin yet.

You leaned in closer to him and asked softly, “You okay Warwick?” He cleared his throat and gave a short nod, “Yes, fine.”

Your other hand joined the first and you started to undo his belt, “Just fine?” A hum from him and you continued, “Well I think we can do a hell of a lot better than just fine.” And once your hand was in his pants, closing around him, grip decently tight you watched his lips part a quiet gasp and you felt power in that moment and it was delicious.

You started to stroke him, slowly, grip tightening and you could see him start to struggle a bit, focusing on the task of driving was a getting more and more difficult and you really shouldn’t be doing this, it was dangerous and stupid but it was just so fun. So enjoyable and you decided to push it even further. Your seatbelt was adjusted and you shifted in your seat, tucking a loose bit of hair behind your ear and leaning down, you were a mere few blocks from his place so he wouldn’t have to endure this for long. You had no intention of finishing him here but you wanted to up the game, try and match this even a little bit with what he did to you earlier. Your tongue left your mouth and licked over his head and you could already taste pre-cum, you must have gotten to him more than you had anticipated, you heard the harsh intake of air above you, a soft groan of your name and you pushed onwards.

You had never actually given road head before and weren’t sure if he had received it but even if he had he still seemed to be really enjoying it, why wouldn’t he though? Of course he did when you did it like that. Even with the off angle you really were giving it your all, and if how tense he felt under you and the way he groaned when you pushed him as deep inside as you could manage was anything to go by he was having a hard time handling it. In a few short minutes of you bobbing up and down his cock, messily sucking and allowing hums and moans around him to slip out, he was unable to stay still, bucking up slowly into your mouth.

You felt him make a turn and believed that was the last turn onto his street, your hand on his inner thigh, squeezing as you decided to really push it. You increased the pace, fucking your mouth on him and the choked moan of your name from him made you press your thighs together again, you were drenched and wanting. You lost yourself in the motion of it, you knew you were good at what you did and took pride in it, as you rightfully should. Soon you felt the car stop, he put it in park and turned it off and you were coming up, mouth wet from the effort of what you did to him and with you so close his hand was on your neck and pulling you to him, his mouth crashing into yours.

So there you were, furiously making out in his car, hands grabbing onto each other, desperate for more, in between kissing and rushed breathing he told you, “You’re terrible, you know that?” That made you laugh, pulling back to speak and instead of giving you space he instead leaned further forward, his hands were on your back and he pulled you closer to him, kissing your neck making that same laugh break off in a moan, “Me? Wha-what about you?”

Your hands went to his shoulders and pushed on him lightly, he pulled back as he repeated the same sentiment of what he said earlier, “Don’t pretend you didn’t love it.”

You couldn’t argue and so you didn’t, hand on the collar of his dress shirt, pulling him closer as you said, “Shut up.” Another deep kiss that he didn’t protest as he tucked himself back into his pants and you needed to get inside already, you shifted your hips and it was a reminder of how soaked you were and you needed to deal with that already. You were surely both looking a little disheveled as you exited the car and made your way up the walkway, not able to keep off of each other, but it was dark and late and who the fuck cares, it felt too good. You did have to actually pause for a moment to allow him to unlock the door, bless him he tried but you were quite the handful at the moment and didn’t make it an easy task. Second the door was open and you were both inside that was rectified, Christ he was a good kisser, dinner was hours ago and you only had a glass of wine but you felt drunk off of him.

After all the build up, the fact that you were now fully alone meant there wasn’t a single thing left standing in the way. You still had so much time, no reason to rush but with how turned on you both were it was impossible to stop, couldn’t even make it to the bedroom. He had this sitting room that was right near the front door, it was a nice room, fireplace, hard wood floors, tastefully decorated but most important for right now, a couch. He was the one to lead you there, you were the one to push him back onto the cushions and straddle him, back to kissing him and the possessive way he returned it made you melt just a little, hands on his jacket, helping him remove it. Jacket is thrown aside and he is loosening his tie and you are reaching back, hands pulling your heels off and letting them drop to the floor and you move your hips forward and back, grinding on him and it makes you finally break your heated kissing, your head falls back with a soft moan. He took advantage of his opportunity. Hands on your waist, grinding up onto you and you responded immediately, hips moving with him, feeling how hard he was and you felt almost painfully empty right now.

“Warwick. Fuck. Pl-please?” You sounded wrecked already, desperate and he loved that he could get you to that point, do that to you. He was feeling a little drunk himself at the moment, looking up at you in the moonlight coming through the window and the way your lipstick had smeared, hair out of place, grinding on him and weakly begging him to ruin you, break you open, so in need you couldn’t wait to get down the hallway to his bedroom or for either of you to fully get your clothes off. “Please?” he repeated and you nodded frantically-

“Please, God, please-” and his grip tightened on your waist and he moved you, soon you were on your back, he was on his knees on the floor. His hands slid down and caught the hem of your dress starting to push it up and you aided him, tugging the bottom of your dress up and as soon as he could see them he took a moment to admire what you had worn just for him before ripping them down your thighs, thrown aside.

The tension was ridiculous, you watched as he removed his belt, dying to get him inside of you already, thankfully the wait wasn’t long until his pants were far enough out of the way, his hands on your hips, tugging you further down the couch. Your legs were spread for him, and he was on top of you, lined up and finally sinking inside of you and the relief made your breath catch before moaning his name. He was seated inside of you, he breathed your name in return and his hands were on your thighs, your legs wrapped around his hips and he started to move. There was this moment, this shared gasp upon him pulling out before driving back in fully, you both felt it, something different about this, electric felt like a fitting word, far better than it had any right to, one of your hands scrambling for purchase on the couch cushion below you.

“Oh my God-” You moaned, eyes closing, his breathing was heavy, your other hand reached up and wrapped around his loosened tie around his neck, tugging on it, pulling him closer, you were practically on fire for him. How into it was really driving him forward, he wanted so much more, to pull every possible sound he could from you, he fucked into you harder and you gave him just what he wanted, rewarded his efforts with those beautifully melodic moans and sweet gasps, rocking with him, legs pulling him closer still. You felt incredible wrapped around him, soaked and so hot, writhing under him, it was too good. You were too fucking good, no way could he last like this but who said this would be the only time this would happen tonight?

Your hand tugged on his tie, leaning up, kissing him again, messy and with tongue, he returned it with equal hunger, a groan into your mouth, you tasted amazing, better than the dinner you shared earlier by a mile. It was getting to be too much for you too, getting close again, you tugged on his tie again, breaking the kiss with a whimper, “Close.” his forehead rested on yours, the only other sound was skin on skin from the pace, how hard he was fucking into you, nearly panting, “Me too-”

“Inside, Warwick pleas-ah!” And you cried out as your second orgasm of the night overtook you, legs locked around him, back arching as he didn’t stop, fucking you through your high and as yours was ending his started and his name was on your tongue as he came inside of you. God it was good, he slowed and finally stopped still buried in you, both of you breathing so hard, you kissed him again, softer, sweeter and let go of his tie, you started to slowly untangle from each other. He pulled out and the excess of the both of you spilled forth, thank God the couch was leather, could be easily wiped off or you were sure you’d be paying for that and not financially.

You spoke first, “You are too good at that.” A light laugh from him, he was sitting up on his knees, finally removing his tie fully as he asked, “There is such a thing as being too good?”

You propped up on your elbows, “There is such a thing as having a mouth that is too smart.” “I can give you that. But you just won’t stop talking.” Again that playful way he said it, before you could retort he was speaking once more, “You better be careful leaving tomorrow by the way.”

“Oh? And why’s that?” You asked and he was smirking, “That way too nosy neighbor of mine caught a pretty good view of us on the way in.” Your hand came up to your face with a groan, “Goddamn it.”

He had leaned over and grabbed a box of tissues so he could clean up the mess on the couch as he said, “You know she wouldn’t be a problem if you had me over to your place.”

Fuck. He was right. Maybe next time you should have him back to yours.

#BHF writing #AYYYY!#I am SO happy with this!#Hope everyone else vibes!#Warwick Wilson #Warwick Wilson X Reader #The Perfect Host (2011)

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florenceandthemachine · 4 years

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i am in major need of some soft and happy stackson so talk to me about when they first get together and they can’t keep their hands off each other, both in a gross way like making out in front of all their friends and not giving a fuck but also being lovey dovey as shit all the time and surprising the hell out of the whole town because it is not what they were expecting at all.

BB I hope you are ready for a Full Canon Rewrite because honestly, they would probably get together after something super, terrifyingly emotional. Like after Jackson’s monster-master-driven apparently death, it would be Stiles who had leaped forward, and clutched Jackson’s body like his own life depended on it—and then, to everyone else’s shock, Jackson wrapped his arms around him just as tightly, his face now fully wolfed out, not a kanima scale in sight.

It would be... unexpected. But if anyone could defy the odds, it was Stiles.

And Jackson, of course. But only when Stiles was involved.

They weren’t disgusting, though. Not at first anyway. Nothing compared to what Stiles had to put up with in the past, between Jackson and Lydia and Scott and Allison.

It would start with the little touches—the tenderness between the two of them would be undeniable. Stiles would be the type to be walking in the halls next to Jackson, texting with one hand, and the other would instinctively latch on to Jackson—his hand, or his arm, his backpack strap, and ultimately his belt loop, tethering himself to Jackson in a way that made Jackson flush. Jackson would never bring it up, of course, too worried that if he were to say anything, it would stop.

But it would never stop.

They would sit front and center in any of the classes that they had. Coach only tried to separate them once during Econ, and they had both done so disastrously bad on their next test that he immediately gave up. After all, they certainly weren't a disturbance in class, it was just kind of.... hard, sometimes, to watch two idiot teenagers in love sitting in the front of the class.

Stiles would be the one who instigates almost all of their contact, but he would only be comfortable doing it because he knows Jackson not so secretly loves it. He would be the one to link their legs at the ankles when they were studying in the library, if they were at a table too far apart for them to hold hands. He would be the one to loop an arm around Jackson’s shoulders during their pre-game locker room rituals, and he would be the one who almost pulls Jackson into his lap during pack meetings.

(He worried, for all of twelve minutes, that Jackson was just tolerating his touch—he had tried to stop it only once, and after nearly an hour of Jackson being far grumpier than usual while simultaneously staring at Stiles hands, Stiles had idly gripped Jackson’s shoulder, given just the smallest squeeze, and watched the tension bleed out of his face almost instantly. So, obviously, the touching was a win win.)

The only hard part would be getting Jackson to understand that touch was okay between the two of them, in public. Private Jackson was plenty affectionate, but in public, while he responded well to Stiles touch, getting him to instigate anything was nigh impossible.

Stiles, as usual, dealt with it in a sneaky and underhanded way that appealed to Jackson and his wolf and would probably make Scott frown at him, so he considered it a win.

In the end, all he had to do was sigh and kiss Jackson’s knuckles while they were walking in to school, smiling sheepishly when Jackson looked over to him with an impossibly dopey smile.

“Sorry. I just, uh, I like this. Like it when you touch me, you know? Makes me feel like I’m yours.”

His heartbeat was steady—he was telling the truth, of course—but just as he expected, Jackson’s eyes blew wide, and suddenly he had his arms full of happy werewolf, dipping him into a deep kiss on the school steps like they were in some kind of Disney movie.

If he had known what kind of monster he had released, Stiles would have done that so much sooner; because Jackson, he was basically insatiable once he realized he was allowed to initiate physical contact. And Stiles loved it.

Holding hands in the hallway wasn’t enough anymore. Jackson would have his arms round Stiles waist, walking perfectly in step, close enough that Jackson could point out the rare odd calculation as Stiles poured over his notes, and Stiles could laugh at some snarky observation that Danny texted him.

Sitting together at lunch wasn’t enough anymore. Jackson would sidle up behind him, arms around Stiles and chin on his shoulder, huffing impatiently when Stiles was too absorbed in something to notice him right away—and that said something, that Stiles was so comfortable with Jackson in his space that he didn’t always notice it, it said something that Jackson both loved and was terrified of.

Hell, even going through doorways wasn’t enough anymore. Jackson would open the door for him and then guide Stiles through, let his hand rest on the small of Stiles back in a way that was the perfect balance between sweet and possessive.

Stiles would, completely unconsciously, lean into any touch that Jackson gave him.

But no, they weren’t disgusting. At least, not at first. And not in the broad public eye. Publicly, they were fucking tame, or so he told himself, ignoring the way his breath hitched when Jackson bit down on his collarbone, smothering his own groan in Jackson’s mouth when he finally came in their hiding spot beneath the bleachers, whipping an undershirt out of Jackson’s gym bag to clean himself up before sixth period started.

(Jackson acted like he hated it, but Stiles wouldn’t even entertain the notion that Jackson didn’t love having Stiles’ scent so close to him all day.)

They had actually waited a long time, teenager-wise, before they started fucking. Jackson was afraid of being Stiles first, to be frank, and Stiles was willing to deprive himself of the bounty of Jackson’s body for as long as it took to convince Jackson that he wasn’t just in it for sex.

(They had come painfully close to it, one Tuesday night when Jackson was staying at his place—literal months after they started dating. Stiles was on top of Jackson and Jackson was being so responsive to his touch, so good, and Stiles could barely hear anything over his own heart hammering because finally, the time felt right, this was right, they were both ready and—

and then Scott had come bursting through his unlatched window.

“Stiles, are you okay? I was patrolling and your heartbeat sounded super fucked up and I wanted to be sure that OH MY GOD MY EYES JESUS CHRIST WHAT THE FUCK YOU TWO OH GOD I AM SO SORRY I DIDN’T MEAN TO OH MY GOD.”

Jackson, the asshole, had almost laughed himself into a coma, but Stiles was so red you could fry an egg on his face, his self confidence gone in a flash. Jackson made it up to him with lots of cuddling and reassurance and Thai food while they watched a movie. stiles had said “I love you” for the first time that night, and even though he reassured Jackson that he didn’t have to say it back right away, Jackson just beamed at him and parroted it back almost instantly.

[The first time they did have sex, neither of them lasted longer than a minute, and suddenly Jackson was the embarrassed one, and it was perfect.])

Once they had started, though, it brought a whole new level of insatiable to their touches. Stiles no longer just held Jackson’s arm while they walked, he let his fingers trace every vein and contour of muscle beneath his shirt, in a way that was so blatantly pornographic—and somehow completely innocent—that even the most sexually comfortable bystander felt the need to avert their eyes.

When they studied, it wasn’t enough to have Jackson’s hand on his thigh—Jackson would let his fingers ghost over Stiles shorts, or pants, or whatever, his fingers getting closer and closer to Stiles groin with every trace, pretending like he didn’t love how Stiles would lean closer to him, until he was basically in Jackson’s lap in the library.

They had kissed in the locker room before, sure—but now it was to the point where Scott announced himself, loudly, when entering, if there was even the slightest suspicion that the two of them were alone in there (and even then, he had walked in twice to find the two of them very, very scantily clad, blushing bright red and avoiding eye contact with Scott and one another).

Sties, in his defense, had started to fight fire with fire, meaning that each time Scott complained about them at the lunch table (and okay, maybe that one time where Jackson had licked some ranch dressing off of Stiles palm was a bit much), Stiles immediately redirected with some embarrassing thing he had in his Scott folder—which proved to be entirely unnecessary, because less than a week into Scott and Allison bringing Isaac into their little romance, Stiles had more ammo on Scott than he ever wanted to have on anybody else, ever.

Their relationship was fairly public, and that was easy to see, but... there was so much more that came with that. There was a certain level of trust between them, the kind that Stiles would never have imagined before—but once Jackson had those walls down, it was like they were down for good. Stiles was there for every moment of it—he could still remember the first night he had to wake Jackson up from a nightmare, being extra mindful of the claws, the first time he had walked in on a fight between Jackson and his parents, had witnessed first hand what he could only call a temper tantrum where Jackson had nearly shredded his own mattress.

(Whenever Jackson had an outburst like that, Stiles always took note of the things he took his aggression out on. It was always his own things, never Stiles, and never anything that Stiles held near. It was... fascinating, and so sad, all at once.)

Jackson, in turn, could tell when Stiles was on the brink of a panic attack by the sound of his heart alone, and had actually (literally, unfortunately) ripped a door from its hinges to get to Stiles before he had completely spiraled out of control. Jackson was better than Scott, even, at getting his breathing to even out, his heart to slow. And for once, Stiles actually had the chance to talk about what was bothering him, what had pushed him over the edge in the first place.

Full moons were some of the best worst nights that they had together, because Jackson basically went “full beast mode” as Stiles called it. Basically, anyone or anything came near Stiles, and Jackson could not be held accountable for his actions. Stiles loved it almost as much as the day after, when Jackson was soft and a little embarrassed and Stiles got to pamper him with kisses, and soft touches, and so much love.

So, alright, maybe they were that disgusting couple, but they were in love, and Stiles didn’t care who saw it. They were together through literally the worst parts of their lives, and now they got to be together for the best, so who cared?

Stiles had his arms around Jackson when Jackson decided to come out to his parents. Jackson was there for Stiles when Stiles told his dad about all the supernatural stuff. They got through some of the incredibly harder points of their own lives with one another—and all the physicality along the way—and Stiles wouldn’t have it any other way.

After all, as much as he loved Jackson taking his hand as they got ready to walk the stage and receive their diplomas, as much as he loved Jackson giving him a kiss when they all tossed caps, as much as he loved Jackson kissing his wrist when he got down on one knee in that ugly ass graduation robe in front of God and everybody (and he cried, oh God did Stiles cry), he loved the man behind it even more.

#stackson #teen wolf #stiles stilinski #jackson whittemore #fluff #idiots in love #touch starved #they in love you can't stop them #sorry bout it #flospeaks

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project-ohagi · 4 years

Text

Keigo Takami ღ Hawks x Reader {Kingdom AU}

Buy me a coffee!! <3

Why do birds deem it necessary to shout during such early hours?

The matutinal chirping was that which your mind vehemently claimed to hate, and yet you couldn’t get enough - you remained unsatiated, even as the chorus reached its most deafening. Your hunger for the oddly-mellisonant noises grew with each passing day.

It tells me that they're still alive. When did I begin longing for such an ensemble, so spirited…so within my grasp? Perhaps they hide the key to my cage…to this prison of self-spite and deceit? If only I could capture one. I would ask it all that I wish to know - its infinite knowledge of my future…if I am doomed to live. The birds here…they’re so, incredibly free. I yearn to have that same liberty.

With a drawn-out sigh, you added, That's but a mere fantasy, a childish day-dream. It is certain to disappear with time. These shackles are the curse of my birth. Freedom…true freedom…it will forever evade me.

Your untamed, maudlin delusions penetrated every crevice of your being, but as you rose from a half-slumber, you pushed them down. Shifting your focus to something real, something imminent, was the best course of action. So, exhaustion-glazed eyes ghosted over the makeshift bed to which you had confined yourself. Or, more accurately - to which the villagers had confined you. This was far from a gesture of concern for your health, although disease was often rife amongst the peasantry. No…this was the result of their refusal to so much as acknowledge your existence. Only work managed to rouse you. Work - the very warrant for your ostracization. In a way, you supposed that was valid. You never wanted such unsavoury jobs, but how else were you to make ends meet…especially now?

What if I simply abandoned my post? Would I be punished? Executed? Either way, I am deserving of it. If only death could cleanse me of my sins…Is food off the menu today, too? It is becoming nigh-impossible to find enough, even for a single day. No-one sells to me anymore. Not even that kindly old woman near the village outskirts…

"Is that my fate then, to die of starvation?" Despite the indifference lacing your tone, you prepared for an onslaught of tears.

This world, infinitely cruel and rotten as you perceived it, seemed to loath your very essence. It slowly whittled you to the bone, rejected your abject cries and those pitiful, helpless tears. Yet, not a soul threw you pity - not even an ounce. Nothing should have tethered you to this ground, this filthy house, where the faintest illumination of a flickering candle was all the hope you could afford. Though, lack of money was never truly the problem. No…the fault lay solely with the villagers. And the King. If only you hadn't been threatened to assume your mantle. If only this was the fantasy - this bloodthirsty kingdom, the ignorance to such plights as yours, the senseless slaughter of your parents…

By my own hands. I cannot masquerade as the victim forever. They already haunt me…the ghosts. All the ghosts…

"It would be a fitting end, I suppose." The breaths that tore apart your lungs failed to distract your wandering gaze.

It fell suspiciously upon an unopened scroll, donning a sickeningly-familiar wax seal. Had a member of the Royal Guard crept inside, under the cloak of night? It appeared that even the most highly-trained soldiers in the land would wretch at the thought of an encounter with you, awake and alert. How utterly ridiculous. A young, sullen-faced girl couldn’t exactly compete with the King's personal guards, even if you were able to wield an axe. Your defeat would be anticipated, underwhelming. You strolled over to examine the parchment, malnutrition forcing your slowed movements. It was a fresh order, you wagered, straight from the King himself.

I had hoped to be proven incorrect. No bother. Well…perchance with another few coins, I could convince a poor villager to sell me some bread? A nice loaf, maybe?

Your stomach grumbled its agreement. 'Kill or be killed' wasn’t simply an idle comment, after all - it encompassed the very nature of humanity.

"Brutish." A susurrant sound tumbled from your lips. "But I am no better."

If honesty must prevail in this world, then I shall attest to being so much worse.

The scroll's seal broke with ease, leaving you to unfurl the paper and trace the words, bile endeavouring all the while to scale the walls of your stomach. The name engraved in black ink was a recognisable one. He, alongside his unfledged son, worked as palace servants. The latter was especially flighty, always being reprimanded by his seniors. This, you had witnessed on occasion. A fleeting glance was all you ever allowed yourself, and that name never once caused your skin to crawl so horribly, as it did now.

"XXXXX Takami…a thief?"

Is there no justification? I wonder if he truly stole anything. The King is most likely in the mood to watch an execution today. If so, then this will not be the first instance of an innocent dying by my hand.

As guilt poured from your eyes, silent and crystalline, you muttered, "I cannot profess to be his champion. Nor even my own…Why must my resolve be so frail?"

Why must cruelty reign supreme?

Your reflections were quelled by the searing pain exuding from the mark that tainted your wrist. It was customary for executioners, but designs varied. You were unfortunate enough to be branded with something simple, yet imbued with the weight and meaning of an entire people. It was as though your words, however few, and your actions, spoke for all your kin. It was curious, as the symbol was the runic ᛒ, although Japan was far removed from any other civilisations. The deplorable truth of the matter, was that it solidified your societal status. It served as a reminder that you wouldn’t ever escape from the Burakumin - the lowest class. The peasants. The dirty, the untrustworthy, the sinners. You couldn’t cover it up. To do so might be counted as treason, fighting against the authority of the crown. You would be executed, just as your parents, and now…as this conceivably blameless man.

…This father.

You would so disturb the structure of a family?

Have I any other choice?

Life never presented you with choices, different paths to follow, to branch off from the main narrative. The door to your cage was securely chained. The key, presumably, rested within the bulging pocket of the King. Your sleight-of-hand skills weren't masterful enough to allow the evasion of every soldier at the King's command, so you couldn’t ever move to grasp self-sovereignty. That worthless tyrant had to understand this. He likely laughed at the image. You couldn’t simply neglect your responsibilities, for this one man, for his youthful son…

What use are sentiments, if only to distract from this morbid reality? Their family cannot be satisfied, if he would stoop to thievery. Criminals cannot proceed unpunished.

"Though they can, and often do." The glimmer of remorse reflecting in your eyes alluded to the ever-dwindling fire in your soul - you couldn’t comprehend your position…why you still lived, after everything - every rolling head, every spatter of blood, every jeer and taunt…

Between the burning of the brand on your wrist, and the nipping of the tears in your (e/c) irises, you decided that a moment of respite was needed. You perched on the unsteady floor, clutching both face and wrist. Why was this happening now? Morning-tide shouldn't be harder than any other time - least of all early afternoon, when families would gather around the execution grounds, blithely chatting away and gnawing on bread, or the rare sliver of cheese that almost compelled you to salivate. Honestly, it was a miracle you could still hold the axe aloft, in spite of your meagre diet. You sighed, rehearsing the time of this newest dispatch. Three hours…that was hardly fair. It required far longer to mentally prepare for such a killing. This man had a wife, surely, and a son! As you defended against the sick feeling nestling in your stomach, the repugnant sight of ebony in the corner of the room caught your attention. You wished so desperately to sacrifice that garb to the flames of Hell. You couldn’t bear to look at it, let alone adorn it.

Why do I bother to wear a mask, when they all recognise me?

Oh, of course…"It veils my tears."

And also, perhaps, my rugged appearance. I cannot even claim to resemble a respectable young woman. The villagers would sleep easier without beholding such an unsightly face. I should pay thanks the gods that the cloak disguises my figure, as well.

Broad shoulders and pancake-like breasts plagued your waking thoughts, but they were well-shielded underneath the dark, flowing robe you had just picked up. You utterly despised them. With less than three hours before the execution, you slipped on the cloak, but left the mask. It couldn’t be properly washed by hand - the blood of hundreds, innocents and sinners alike, had seemed to seep into the very essence of the fabric. It repulsed you, and yet an odd warmth accompanied it. Maybe…because it was the only constant in your life? The only thing providing purpose, whether you desired it or not? The fragrance was familiar, sometimes comforting on a particularly savage night. It nearly stung.

Just as a sorrowful breath escaped your lips, a series of frantic knocks alerted you to the door. Your entire being shuddered, nerves exploding. A bead of sweat rolled down your forehead. If you opened that door now, which now appeared more foreboding, who would you greet? The Captain of the Royal Guard? That once-lovely elderly woman, who used to sell you bread? A tax collector? A thief? Nobody in their right mind rapped on the door of an executioner…an outcast. They must have a certain degree of battle prowess, then. Shakily, you started towards that wooden entrance.

The knocking never ceased. In fact, was it intensifying? Whoever this was, they were desperate.

There would be nowhere for them to hide, in this small house.

The door swung open, revealing a dishevelled young man.

Is this…him?

The moment his words flooded your ears, the whole world collapsed around you. "Are you the executioner who is going to kill my father?"

You wanted to deny, to beg for forgiveness, but you couldn’t. Instead, with an averted gaze, you responded, "I am afraid so."

"You don't…you don't want to? You aren’t excited about this?" His tone indicated confusion, perhaps even sympathy.

To where did his formalities retreat? What a brazen boy…

You shuffled in discomfort. "I apologise for not taking pleasure in my work."

He looked unsure. "Please don't kill him. He is not thief - it's a lie!"

"That is quite a claim. Do you have any proof?" You didn’t wish to interrogate the poor soul - he was about to lose the greatest role-model he would ever know.

"No…" He stared at the ground briefly, before a fiery determination illuminated his eyes, and he looked back up. "…Would you…would you help me save him? Please?"

Does he assume me a hero? Or a vigilante?...Me?

The idea was half-baked, teeming with flaws. Wasn’t your capture, and subsequent execution, almost inevitable? Clearly, this had been a spontaneous decision, and the consequences floated just outside his mind. You swallowed down any further words. Something about him, something he exuded…pain? Fear? There wasn’t a single spark of confidence twinkling behind those golden eyes, and yet…you felt your heart pounding in compliance. In truth, did you not yearn for such an opportunity? Did you not wish to bellow to the universe, that you were capable of possessing a righteous nature, even at the expense of your life? If you couldn’t save one innocent from your own axe, you would never again begin to dream of redemption. It would set in stone your utter worthlessness.

Paranoid, (e/c) eyes skirted around the boy, searching for any characters of suspect. With a heaviness burrowing amid your heart, you ushered him inside your humble abode. Immediately, he spotted the scroll lying on the table. You made no effort to divert his attention.

After a few moments of tense silence, he spoke. "(L/n) (Y/n)…that your name?"

"Yes, though I rarely hear it anymore."

"Would he be in the dungeons right now? My father, I mean." He was deep in thought, incredibly serious.

Your gaze strayed - this boy was far too ethereal to be viewed by your peasant eyes. "Yes, along with the other prisoners."

"You believe me, don't you?" Shock was evident in his voice.

"Should I not?" You questioned, still refusing to glance his way.

A low chuckle tore from his lungs. "You should. How long do we have? We need a proper plan, right? Unless you're leaving me to do this alone. Something tells me you aren't willing to do that…"

"Alone, you would achieve nothing."

"Haha, well, behind every man there's a strong woman, right?" He displayed a closed-eye smile, blinding you for the few, sparing seconds you allowed yourself to witness it.

You couldn’t have realised the crimson hue worming its way on to your cheeks. "Absolutely not."

"Why're your replies so short? You not like talking to me, or something?"

Is he forgetting his reason for being here, so quickly?

"What of this plan? What of your father's fate?" You asked, hoping to remain on topic.

He chuckled again, sourly this time. "The plan…I was thinking, would it be possible to sneak him out of the dungeon? Or…replace him with someone else? I know it's horrible, and I feel awful about it, but…"

"The first one would never be possible. If we entered as two, and left as three, would you expect not to be questioned?" You bit your lip in contemplation. "On foot, journeying to the castle will take an hour. No matter our plan, we have to leave soon."

"You're right…of course you're right." He smiled, crookedly. "Is it bad to say I hate that?"

Shaking your head, you muttered, "Once in a while, the prisoners will wear masks, to shield from the jeering eyes of those in the crowd."

"So…if we had someone with a similar figure…" He trailed off.

Is this…a choice? Do I really have the option to save someone? To do a modicum of good, for once in my life? I…I have to...I cannot tear apart this family. I cannot accept that responsibility.

"Me."

The concerned expression painting his face was replaced with one of terror, of guilt. Clearly, this was an unexpected turn of events, and he opened his mouth, about to protest. He was likely to spew some nonsense regarding being young, throwing your life away…but you would remain resolute. You wouldn’t waver - not on such an important matter. As the years slowly trickled away, you had already reached a conclusion about your life, about your future. You reasoned that it wasn’t worth all the hassle, all the blood, sweat and tears. It wasn’t worth anything. So…why bother? Why bother living it, only to be thrashed around, ripped to shreds and then eventually killed, anyway? You adored nothing of yourself. You adored nothing of anyone. Without a meaning to your life, weren't you simply a husk? A broken shell of a once-pure, youthful girl?

"You?" His voice was quivering, as if he was infinitely opposed to your proposition.

A single, solemn nod confirmed his query.

"But…" He managed, trying to find a different solution. "…aren’t you the executioner? And…why does it have to be you? Can't we find someo-"

"It should be me." You cut him off, desperate to put this behind you. "I am not the only executioner. The other one…I have no doubt he will assist us, voluntarily."

All his dreadful emotions clogged his throat. The words wouldn’t exit seamlessly. "Why you? Tell me why…"

Your sigh was drawn-out, heavier than all the previous ones. "I can bear this world no longer, Takami. This job…even this house…everything is a cage, a prison. I cannot continue to live this way. I need you to understand, and respect my decision."

If not for the dire circumstances, a blush would have exploded on his face; you referred to him by name. Though…he couldn’t fathom the idea of you being separated so soon after meeting. For years, he had watched you, silently admiring all your adorable little quirks. All the features you despised, he loved with the passion of a thousand suns. To him, you weren't any less than human…no, in fact, you were a goddess, sent from the Heavens to bewitch him, to make him swoon, all while erecting an ignorant façade. He spent hours upon hours, mostly during nighttide, wondering, praying, that you had taken note of his presence…that you saw him, as you glided around the castle. He wished so desperately to be your swain, but despite being little more than a peasant boy himself, he still held the higher title. He knew of your job, but he witnessed your anguish. He observed the unrelenting tears that dripped down your face. He knew you were hurting.

Was he honestly now granting assent to your death?

"Keigo." He suddenly made a grab for your hands, feeling them callous and trembling slightly. "My name…it's Keigo."

You nodded, plunging into uncertain waters. "Keigo…"

"Please call me that, every time you address me, from now until…" His head fell; was this really happening?

Was he truly unable to stop you? Unable to change your mind? Even as this thought rocketed around his brain, he knew the truth. He couldn’t ever hope to stop you. It was clear - your decision was final.

He waited until you nodded again. "We should probably go now."

No response came, but none was necessary. The two of you ran, bounding towards the castle, side-by-side. You were determined - Keigo and his father would live. In this cold, cruel world, they would flourish…they would become something. And you would watch this, his adventure…from another plane. Perhaps it was Hell, perhaps Heaven, perhaps neither. Either way, you wouldn’t let this be the end. If you had the chance to keep walking by his side, even in death, then you would welcome it with open arms. You wouldn’t shy away from it, from providing him with security - you could ward off all the negative energy, all the malign spirits, threatening to cause him harm. You would be there.

Even in death.

The courtyard approached. Tugging on his sleeve, you directed him to a large, metal door, complete with padlocks and some ominous-looking scratch marks. So far, nobody seemed to have paid you any mind. You thrust the key into the lock, hoping that the sound of metal against metal wouldn’t attract too much unwanted attention. Keigo was fixated on the patrolling guards, who were thankfully more interested in showing off their swords to the noblewomen. You slipped inside, unnoticed. Awaiting you was Keigo's father, alongside a few others, mostly unconscious. From severe beatings, you presumed.

"(Y/n)! What is he doing here?"

You shushed him. "Shinya…I need to call in a favour."

"I have a bad feeling about this." He pointed to the two males, now attempting to comfort each other. "Does it involve them?"

He managed to unlock the shackles, so easily?

"Yes. You must listen to me - I am begging you."

He was hesitant, but replied, "Alright. What do you need?"

"I need you to execute the criminal in my steed. This, I cannot do." You answered, pouring your heart into the words.

"The criminal…" He paused. "…You are not speaking of Takami, are you?"

You shook your head. "I am afraid not."

"Then…" He sighed, as the truth dawned. "…You are speaking of yourself."

"Indeed."

A glint of sorrow lingered in his eyes. "Are you certain? You cannot recover from death."

"I am certain, beyond question." There was no hesitance in your voice, no doubt…not even a hint of anxiety.

You sounded free. At long last, you sounded free. Finally, you could dictate which path you took, and when it all ended. To object your wish now…Shinya couldn’t imagine the guilt. Forcing his heart to agree was no uncomplicated task, and he wasn’t likely to cease grieving for many moons, but…he couldn’t deny you. He couldn’t strip you of what little serenity you were able to feel, in this moment. He was already dressed in his executioner's garb, anyway. Nobody would recognise him…not until everything was over. The head probably wouldn’t be checked, either. Not for a while. By that time, Keigo and his father should be liberated, freed from the clutches of the evil King Enji Todoroki. Hopefully, they could settle within the boundaries of land of King Toshinori Yagi, or All Might, as most affectionately named him.

That loathsome, ebony robe slipped from your body, and Shinya presented you with some smaller, dirtier clothes. You didn’t mind. In fact, you relished in it. Finally, finally...something was happening on your terms. You would die, on your terms, not by the instruction of the King. And…even though it signalled the end, the extinguishing of your life…you couldn’t have been happier, in that moment.

"(Y/n)…" Your young accomplice whispered, half-adoring, half-fearful. "…Do you really intend to do this? Isn't there anything I can say, to stop you?"

What sort of…no, that would be giving himself false hope. Your intentions were crystal-clear. He couldn’t sway you. Before a single word fell from your lips, he took a chance, he grasped at straws. He did something for which he had waited a lifetime…something that ignited a passionate flame within both your hearts.

He kissed you.

Time, obligations, fate…everything ceased to exist. Your lips danced together, like they were created for that exact purpose. It felt natural…It felt right. When you parted, gazes burning into one another, everything clicked into place.

"I will always be with you, Keigo. I swear, not even death will do us part." The words you uttered…they weren't scripted, weren't rehearsed, but…maybe they had forever nestled on your tongue.

Maybe it was something I always longed to say?

A sad, little smile perched on his lips. "I know, and I will always look for you. I will see you in everyone…in everything. I will be yours, until the very end."

"I wish you would live…I wish you would marry." Your whispers caressed his ears, and he shivered.

"But you know I won't."

How things progressed so far, you knew not. A loud bell-toll, a harbinger of death, echoed across the castle. This was the end. You captured his lips again, swiftly, and then you pushed him away. He couldn’t be allowed to witness such a tragedy. He looked about to cry, about to compromise this entire plan. You placed a finger in front of your mouth, as a reminder. You wanted this. You had always wanted this. Shinya donned the mask, but you saw his strife, the melancholy swimming in his eyes. You smiled. You smiled at Shinya, at Keigo and his father, and at the glaring sun, as you were led out, into the courtyard. The mask obscured your vision, but it would have been difficult not to realise how brightly the sun was shining.

I am certain that it will shine brightest when the axe is at my neck.

In spite of the agonising loss, the newfound frigidity of his heart, Keigo ran, his father in tow. Nothing would tempt him to glance back. Nothing could. Your promise, your wish for him…all except the marriage, he would honour. To be caught now, imprisoned, killed…your bodies would never again find comfort in each other, for there was a separate, less well-kept burial space for people of the Burakumin. If he was captured, he wouldn’t be buried with you. And your spirit might wander eternally, never finding him, never achieving peace.

So, he continued to run, tears cascading from his eyes. It seemed merely a second, but the reality was hazy. He was panicking now, whispering, then screaming at the top of his lungs. He knew it was idiotic, he knew it was a death sentence, but he was lost...so, hopelessly lost.

"Father! Father, where are you? Answer me, please!"

That wasn’t the man with whom his body collided. His tears were incessant, stinging.

This…this was a Royal Guard.

In an instant, he shattered all your hopes…all your dreams. A crow, no…perhaps three crows, flew close, carried by the gentle wind. Keigo collapsed, exhaustion, shock and unadulterated grief stabbing at his heart. Your head had just rolled…hadn’t it?

[Word Count: 4128]

#bnha x reader #my hero academia x reader #my hero academia imagines #bnha hawks #hawks x reader #kingdom au #keigo takami x reader #bnha keigo takami #bnha edgeshot #shinya kamihara #bnha all might #toshinori yagi #bnha endeavor #enji todoroki

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lizzieraindrops · 4 years

Text

Your chance to make the sun rise thrice (Chapter 3)

that a garden will grow (11,143 words)

"There are no happy endings, because nothing ends." - The Last Unicorn, Peter S. Beagle That does not mean that there is no joy.

Veera is alive.

Also on AO3 | Playlist soundtrack | Aesthetic sideblog

Happy autumn equinox, everyone.

When I started this story as a oneshot back in 2016, I had no idea that it would turn into a series spanning four years of new life for these characters, much less that it would end up taking me nearly the same amount of time to write it.

I wrote the first part during the darkest yet time of my life as an abstract fantasy of being in a better place. I finish writing it today from a better place, physically, mentally, emotionally, and even spiritually. If I've learned anything from this, it's that your own creativity saves you and is powerful enough to call the better things that seem so impossible into existence.

This is my tribute to Veera as a character and everyone like her and anyone who has identified with her. She changed my life. Even with all OB's many, many flaws (dear god there are SO many), without the explicit representation of Veera's neurodivergence in the Helsinki comics, I don't know how I would have figured out that I'm autistic. That has been both the biggest hurdle and the greatest blessing in the trajectory of my healing. Since it's been so central to this story and its writing, I've included a link to some resources for autism spectrum self-diagnosis.

Part 1: Herbs on the windowsill

Part 2: Someday colors

Part 3: Your chance to make the sun rise thrice | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

***

Veera wakes gently, early, unexpectedly so. As she sits up, her weighted blanket slips off and crumples around her waist like a shed skin. Bands of muted morning coming through the blinds slide over her as she rises from the plane of the bed. The summer sun has still risen first, of course. True dark never falls here in the summer, at this high a latitude. But right now, its light is softened and diffused by a thin veil of cloud over the city. Listening, the others aren’t up and moving yet.

Slight shifting of her relaxed limbs makes the softness of the sheets into an extravagance. She’s in a rare, delicately balanced state, one where her senses have sharpened just enough to turn ordinary sensations exquisite without overwhelming her. She’ll have to spend some time listening to music – and with Niki and Beth. That was the plan anyway. But the others aren’t up yet.

Today, there’s a restlessness in her. Most days, she gets up slow, simply waiting until her body is ready to go about the day. Yet a quiet kind of discomfort has made a home in her core, nudging her to get moving. The feel of it is neither full nor hollow, not exactly painful yet nothing like comfort. It’s just there, a subdued directionless yearning.

But her mind needs to go at its own pace waking up. Inertia drags at her when she tries to move too fast or cut corners in her daily ritual. Subtle distress quickly follows that inertia if she tries to press the issue. It shows in the incrementally increasing fine tension of her muscles, slowly winding her up like clockwork. So she sits with the feeling. Motionless except for her breath in the middle of her bed, she thinks.

Light. Leaves. Home. Hunger. She should eat soon. They’re out of cereal, though. There’s a farmer’s market a few blocks away that should have fresh summer fruit. She could go. She does, sometimes, early in the morning like now, before Niki wakes up, and just wanders around. As long as she keeps it short and doesn’t talk much, she should be able to manage it without giving herself a headache.

Twenty minutes find her feet traversing muted pink granite. Neat rectangular stone cobbles pave the street below her living room window. The rumble of a loud truck passing right by close makes her flinch, but she manages to shake the discomfort out of her neck and shoulders easily enough once it’s gone. Other than that, the streets are unusually peaceful. Most people like get out of the city this close to midsummer.

She steps lightly over the stone in snugly laced canvas shoes, toes touching down first. There’s some sort of bird hidden in the trees lining the street, singing two repeated notes on a slow loop. A flycatcher, she thinks.

Being in motion somewhat soothes her restlessness as she slips through broad swathes of clouded morning light between the shadows of buildings. The persistent sensation is nothing so strident as the hypervigilance that used to keep her so high strung. But its subtle company has been constant, lately. She can tell she’s internally processing something, but she can’t quite pin it down. Maybe that’s why she’s been waking up so much earlier than normal.

Lately, a strangeness has been gently tugging at the edges of her mind. In part, she knows it’s a growing awareness of how much things have changed since four years ago. It’s happened so gradually. It was nigh invisible until she cast far enough back along the path of her own footsteps to see how far she’s come. She almost died, but she didn’t. She’s no longer in a desperate race to survive. Now, she’s alive. The question of who and what she is now is an unnervingly open one.

These days, she wakes within a body that is soft and scarred. She is both a wounded creature walking this world with strange steps and a thing healing yet already whole. More often than not, she finds her shoulders loose and her chest open, instead of curled tight into a semblance of stone. They can still seize up when her fears circle back around to worry at invisible scars. But it’s not an endless anxious state. It isn’t everything she is anymore.

Likewise, her nightmares don’t spend as many nights haunting her. Weeks pass between them, sometimes. When they do steal back to the surface of her psyche, the quiet fear they stir up saps all her energy and trails lazily through the daylight hours like an oilslick. She spends those days baking something sweet in the apartment’s warmly lit kitchen. Or she takes inventory of the shapes and textures of the leaves that hang suspended in the air of every familiar room.

It helps, even if dreams or memories linger smoldering in the back of her mind the whole time. The sensations and sense of space keep her grounded, both within herself and outside of the fickle fear and pain that flares and fades and keeps returning. Of course, nothing is so immediately comforting as the presence – and, in this searingly ephemeral moment, presences – that remind her she is not alone. But even when they aren’t there, the space itself reminds her that she lives with and in this place she’s chosen to call a home.

The apartment is the first home she can remember that feels the way she suspects one is supposed to. It fits around her, small and enclosed enough to know every inch without uncertainty scratching at the bounds of her awareness. Tucked away up on the third floor, it nests in a quiet old brick building that’s as comfortably worn in as her favorite hoodie. Its wide windows spread big and bright in every room, reminding her to breathe freely. She is no longer a creature caged. Shadows are soft in this place, and the sunlight is as much a part of it as the walls. Its radiant forms lance through glass and smile through aches, never failing to wrap her in warmth.

Leaves unfurl gently in every window. She likes to run the living silken or waxy greenness of purposeful growth between her fingertips. Perhaps their green faces are outnumbered by all the strangely familiar human ones in the photos along the whitewashed walls, marking where friendships have germinated. But then again, perhaps not. It’s a close call, and there’s always more of both growing. They’re still something of a miracle to her, after so long alone.

Low murmurs of outdoor conversation bring her back to the pop-up stalls of the market hovering just ahead. She’s there.

There are somewhat fewer visitors than normal, but the market still appears to be proceeding about business as usual. Early on, this Saturday market tends to be quieter than the Sunday one, not quite as full of people. It's that perfect balance of un-crowded enough that she can keep to her own internal world without interruption, but bustling enough that she doesn't stand out. She's just another woman at the market. Once in a while, gazes will slide over the scars on her cheek, or her upper arm if she’s wearing short sleeves (not her leg or ankle, as she never wears anything except pants). Her skin begins to remember to crawl - but then the eyes keep on sliding past, on to the peppers or the green beans or the fresh cut flowers.

Weaving her way into the dispersed crowd, she heads for the egg stand first, just in case they run out. They often do. With a dozen blue and brown eggs in tow, she roves about until she finds a stand with peaches she can smell from several paces away. Their sweet tang fills the air as she picks them out. She also gets some fresh apricots, brushing her fingertips over their velvety little coats of fuzz. She tucks the stonefruit and eggs safely into the backpack she brought and keeps moving. A yeasty oaf of fresh bread for picnicking later joins them. The rounded tip of the long loaf pokes out the top of the zippered pocket, hovering just behind her ear. She leaves the top of its paper wrapper open so it stays crisp.

Live music rolling out from the street corner captures her, pulling her out of her trajectory mid-stride to swing toward the unadorned sidewalk stage. The resonance of shimmering metal strings and singing wood flows over her and through her, and she simply sways with it, part of it. It sparkles over her skin and hums along her bones, making her flutter her fingers in pleasure, and it’s blissful. After everything she’s been through, the long gauntlet of near misses and fires and nightmare flames, it still seems wrong somehow for things to be this okay, to feel this good.

That’s why, when visceral self-consciousness swoops down on her again without warning, its familiar fear is as much something like relief as it is a thorn in an old wound. Nothing even causes it, really: just a stray passing glance from a stranger that slid over her hands instead of her scars and didn’t even linger. But it makes her remember the oddness of the ways her hands move, when she’s happy, when she’s stressed. It makes her stand out if she doesn’t make the effort to hide them – or if she takes a little too long to think in a conversation – or if she lets on that she can be hurt so easily by the smallest, normally inconsequential things.

In more dangerous times, standing out could have ended very badly for her. The feeling of being hunted might have retreated to the back of her mind, but it has never truly left. In moments like this, she still snaps back into old habits. Her fists clench into stillness, her mind into sharp wariness, her whole self into the ache of immobility except for consciously calculated movements. It’s not quite the old full-body taut-wire tension of terror. Nonetheless, it’s a painful tender twisting inside, pulling things skewed and wrong in her chest.

The thing is, she knows she’s one of the lucky ones. For so many people, the fear never gets to recede at all. Either the danger remains ever-present in the casual cruelties of the world, or their wounds never get the care they need to heal. Not everyone can be set free by toppling a single old castle of corruption into the sea. Veera gets to try to heal, as impossibly hard as it is and always will be. She has support to fall back on now, kind hearts that hear her, arms that will hold her when she hurts. Though they’re rare, she has days where she doesn’t feel like she has to hide at all. It’s so strange. Even before the Helsinki fire, she spent so long becoming acquainted with the wariness of attracting too much attention. She’s still trying to understand who she even is if she’s not hiding.

That’s why she’s doing the work she does with CYGNet. They’re all muddling their way toward healing from their one-off odd brand of hurt, but the support system they’re building could be useful for so much more. In her mind, they’re just the beginning. One day, maybe they can expand to help even more people beyond the Leda project. The Beths with different faces but surviving the same family history. The Nikis with different nightmares but recovering from the same betrayal. The Veeras with different scars who are just as overwhelmed by the everyday world, but deserve just as much of a chance to experience it without having to hide their truth in shame and become someone they’re not.

Well. Maybe one day. For now, one thing at a time. She has to take care of herself and her own healing if she’s going to make any progress down that distant path. Sometimes, the path she’s on right now still seems to stretch so much further ahead than she can fathom.

Eyes closed, Veera takes a breath into her tense stillness. To her own fragile heart, she whispers, It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay. She breathes; it passes.

Giving herself a few minutes more to listen to the music, she waits until the grip of physical memory lessens. The sound is still lovely, even if she can’t quite fall back into the two-piece symphony the way she did mere moments ago. She calms further as she carries herself onward again down the tent-lined street. Under the surface, though, in the same hollow where her restlessness lives, her heart remains sore where something still won’t settle into place.

Fortunately, there are other good things at the market that help soothe the ache. Even for someone like her who needs to limit her exposure to overstimulation and crowds, they make it worth braving all the bustle now and again.

A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth at the sight of a profusion of green fronds leaning out from beneath the awning of the stand up ahead. It's bursting with foliage in more shades of green than she knew existed, and chock full of rows of those knobbly little succulents she loves so much. The vendor is a quiet man with a ponytail and a kind face. He merely smiles at her whenever she comes by. He’s one of those strangers who are friends by the shared appreciation of silence. Sometimes words get in the way.

He nods at her in recognition as she ducks into the stand to avoid a loud group of shoppers. Though there are people in there, something about the vendor and the greenery keeps things calm. The tiny forest is an island in the flow of people. It’s nearly on the opposite end of the market from where she started, and it always provides a brief respite where she can recover a little before heading back. Besides, she likes to look over the lacy ferns and trailing philodendrons and all the tiny succulents in every color of the rainbow, even if she already has too many.

She still leaves most of the houseplants to Niki to look after. But to her own surprise, she’s quite good at taking care of the succulents. For the most part, she leaves them somewhere sunny and ignores them. They love it. Sometimes they even treat her to little shiny-papery flowers in brilliant pink or yellow.

Ranks of mini succulents line one of stall’s tables. She’s barely skimming her fingers over the surfaces of a row of flat, stone-like lithops when she sees it. One of the tiny pots is filled with what appear to be little green spheres like peas. Looking closer, they’re round, succulent leaves attached to thin trailing stems. Sprouting from the end of one string of them is a long, spindly stem curving up to a closed flower bud that bobs in the breeze. She’s never seen anything like it.

The man running the stand notices her looking at it. Veera points at the plant and tilts her head in a question. He smiles and extracts a sheet of paper for her from a messy pile half tucked under the cash box. Its a care sheet for Senecio rowleyanus, or string of pearls.

Veera did promise Niki she’d stop bringing home so many succulents. But the plant man’s pressing the little pot of pearls into her hands, waving her wide eyes away with a smile when she reaches for her wallet. This one will have to be an exception. Her small smile and wave of thanks receive another nod in acknowledgement and farewell. Cupping the pot in both hands, she ventures back into the mid-morning river of people to take herself home.

On the way back down the street, the plant cradled against her chest draws smiles from the crowd. They often transfer to her as well. Something about the green thing in her arms softens people’s expressions, even when they see her scars. It makes it easier to walk softly, and to carry her dull ache of residual fear just as gently.

As if struck, she stumbles when she remembers that today, she gets to go home to her two best friends in the entire world. The ache that knowledge calls forth is just as arresting as the kind that comes with the clinging oilslick fear, yet different. This is far stronger and far sweeter, its truth a soft clarity. Veera clutches her plant close to her chest with one hand as she catches her balance on a fruit-covered table with the other. A handful of little oranges roll off as she bumps into it.

Stammering apologies, Veera scrambles to gather up the fallen fruit. A nearby woman browsing the citrus in a purple sweater kneels down to help her. Veera wasn’t planning on buying mandarins, but she can hardly knock them all over the ground and run off. She hopes she has enough cash left. Straightening up, she looks for somewhere to sit the fruit down so she can check her wallet.

But the woman in the sweater holds her hands out for them. She’s already put the ones she picked up in a canvas bag.

“I’ll take them,” she says. “I was gonna buy some anyway.” Her sweater is a few shades bluer than the warm purple of Veera’s own hoodie.

Veera blinks at her. “Are – are you sure?” She holds out one of the mandarins, showing its dented skin, fragrant with released citrus oils.

The woman gives her a small smile. “Yeah. I’ll eat that one first.”

“Oh. Um. Okay.” Veera delicately hands three more mandarins over. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Don’t worry about it.” The woman’s voice is like her smile: small but kind.

Veera whispers her thanks again, then hurries home before she can be waylaid by any more painfully kind gestures from strangers.

***

Veera’s so relieved to walk through her own door into the kitchen that she doesn’t realize someone’s in the living room, not until she hears a soft sob. Her head snaps up. Niki’s on the couch with her face in her hands and Beth next to her with an arm around her. Alarmed, Veera drops her bag on the kitchen counter and begins to make a beeline for her. But she hesitates. She’s used to offering Niki comfort whenever she can, but is she interrupting?

Too late. Beth makes a small sound of surprise when she notices Veera hovering halfway into the room. Niki looks up too, but she wipes her eyes and gives Veera a watery smile. It’s okay.

Niki holds a hand out as Veera makes her way over to the couch. Gladly, Veera takes it. As Veera stands there before the scruffy secondhand sofa in the hazy light from the window, the three of them are briefly an interlinked chain. Beth watches the other two with soft, understanding eyes, her arm steady over Niki’s shoulders.

Niki heaves a shaky sigh. Then she gives Beth’s knee a thankful squeeze and uses Veera’s hand to lever herself up to standing. She briefly embraces Veera, who returns the gesture. “I’m okay,” Niki whispers. Veera nods. Then Niki slips away into the kitchen and starts bustling around, half-seen behind the half-wall that divides it into an alcove off the main room. Presumably, she’s taking a moment to collect herself while unpacking Veera’s groceries. She does that. Niki doesn’t mind if Veera sees her cry – or Beth, apparently. But she always takes a moment alone afterward to put herself back together.

Veera shakes her head to clear away the traces of her second unexpected fright of the morning. In its wake, the empty spot on the couch is too inviting.

She flops onto the cushions next to Beth with a sigh and goes limp. Maybe going to the market was a little too ambitious for today. She’s already had too much excitement this week with Beth visiting, and she hasn’t slept well because of it, which only saps more of her limited energy. Even good things can be so exhausting. She knows she needs to get more rest than most people do, especially when there’s so much happening. But that’s so hard to remember when she knows that this moment is such a rare blessing. Both of her most important people are right here with her right now. It’s so hard to not throw herself completely into every possible joy she can have, in this transcendent sliver of time.

She rolls her head where it rests against the back of the couch to look at Beth sideways. “I got breakfast,” she offers.

“Looks like you wiped yourself out doing it.” Beth leans against the arm of the sofa to look at her. “Morning.” Her own tired eyes twinkle.

Veera smiles. She tries to fix this moment into memory: the wisps of Beth’s unbrushed hair catching the light, the wooden clatter of Niki opening and closing cabinets in the kitchen.

“Are you okay?” Veera asks.

Beth runs a hand through her hair. “Yeah. We were just talking, about,” she waves a hand around, encompassing all the faces in all the photos on the walls, “everything. We’re so different. But some of the stuff, it’s the same. The things we’re all going through. You know?”

Veera does.

The kitchen clatter intensifies as Niki starts moving pots and pans around and clinking them down on the stovetop.

“How many eggs do you want?” Niki calls, voice more steady now. When Veera and Beth come over to investigate, she’s already got a skillet out and is debating with herself whether to start a pot of porridge, too. Veera’s always in favor of porridge no matter what, and Beth’s never had proper Finnish porridge before, so that settles that.

Niki starts scooping the mixed grains into the pan without measuring, like normal. She fills it with an unknown amount of water from the sink with some arcane skill of estimation that Veera has never understood. It always turns out fine. As Beth gets to work slicing some of the fresh fruit, Veera sidles up to Niki and lays a light hand on her arm.

Niki meets her questioning eyes. “I’m okay,” she says again. But she leans into Veera’s touch and stays there. Veera says nothing, just strokes a thumb over Niki’s shoulder and holds the space. Oats and rice swirl in the saucepan as Niki stirs them into the water with a wooden spoon.

“I was talking to her about what happened with Aleks, and mum and dad.” Niki’s voice goes soft, but not hushed. Her words aren’t directed at Beth at the other counter, but they’re not hidden from her, either. “How it made it so hard to trust anyone anymore. Especially Suvi, ‘cause she was there before. And you know how that gets me all... ugh.” She twiddles her wooden spoon in the air. Then she leans even more into Veera, into the arm that curls around her in half an embrace. To think, that Veera is someone who offers such gestures now with hardly a hesitant thought.

“She just gets it, you know?” Niki continues. “Not that you don’t, but it’s different. Like, you understand about how people are always expecting things from you. People see what they wanna see, and only take you seriously if you play along with it. It’s so frustrating. And it’s bullshit! I’ve never met anyone who understands that better than you.” She stirs the porridge again.

“And Beth... she was telling me some about her dad. She knows about having someone close to you just pull the whole rug out from under your world.” Niki pauses her stirring, and looks at Veera. “I’ve always been amazed, how you just landed on your feet and hit the ground running, when you found out. I couldn’t have done that, if I was alone.”

Veera shrugs, incidentally squeezing Niki sideways. “I never was very close with Matti.”

Watching her, Niki’s face falls a little. “I’m glad he didn’t hurt you that way. But I wish... I don’t know. I wish you’d had someone who was there for you, then. Everyone deserves that.”

“Huh.” Veera blinks. “I’d never thought of it that way.”

Arms suddenly wrap tight around her middle, a face tucked into the crook of her neck and shoulders. The handle end of a wooden spoon presses into the muscles between her shoulderblades.

“Niki!” Veera exclaims softly.

“Hey, look.” Her voice is sniffly again. “I’m having a day, okay, let me just –” She holds Veera tight.

“Nikiii,” she cajoles. “I’m fine.” Her eyes flick toward Beth over Niki’s shoulder. Her hand hovers over a peach on the cutting board as she meets her eye. Veera tucks her head down a little, embarrassed. But Beth’s smiling, if also looking a bit watery.

“I know,” Niki says into her shoulder. “I know you’re fine. You’re wonderful. But I’m here, okay? You’re always here for us. But we’re here for you, too.” Niki reaches an arm out blindly toward Beth until her fingers make contact, then gathers her in as if calling in backup. Beth gladly lays down the knife and joins the impromptu embrace next to the stove.

“Um.” Veera automatically relaxes under the extra pressure. It’s nice. But she’s still flustered. And the vociferous burbling of the porridge is getting a little concerning. “I think the porridge is going to boil over.”

Niki releases her with a groan. Veera’s sure she’s rolling her eyes, even though she’s a little too overwhelmed to look at either of them.

“That doesn’t mean you’re getting out of letting us be nice to you,” Niki says as she returns to the stove. Soon, the porridge is placated and eggs sizzle in the skillet, providing a crackling accompaniment.

When the food’s ready, they crowd around the table squeezed into the little kitchen nook below the window as if they do this every day. They pick slices of ripe peach and apricot off a cutting board in the middle. Spoons click in bowls as they do their best not to elbow each other. Stonefruit and cinnamon mix in the air with the light sulfur of fresh eggs and the pervasive aroma of the basil in the windowbox.

After a languid breakfast and a long morning spent simply enjoying each other’s company, the cloud cover is well on its way to burning off. The three head out to the nearby park, determined to make the most of the sun while the two Finns show off the splendor of the Helsinki summer to Beth. They pack up the fresh bread and cheese and the rest of the fruit for a picnic later.

Veera’s companions’ eyes are bright and animated as they leave behind the crisscrossing tracks of the train station and step into the shelter of the park’s old trees. Boughs bend and leaves whisper lazily in the light wind breathing over the bay. Veera follows them. With the hood of her jacket pulled down, the cool and verdant breeze caresses her short hair. Shade and sunlight dapple the grass between the footpaths and spatter the old blanket that they throw over the green, the one that usually lives on the couch that Beth’s currently taken over. They’re exposed to the open sky and anything else that might wander the earth with them. But branches lace and lattice across the blue, and the handful of other park-goers are too immersed in their own summer reverie to pay them any mind.

It’s surreal, almost. Niki basks like a lizard, looking like she needs nothing else in the world to keep her happy. Beth keeps running over to stick her toes in the salt water of the little bay. She takes every deliberate step into grass and gravel as if both she and the world are fresh and new. Peace settles into Veera’s bones. She spends half her time watching the others while reading an old fantasy novel in the shade. The other half, she looks upon the scene as if watching herself, absolutely bewildered by the way she both sees and cannot see the pain that still lives in the three of them, even as she still feels the scores it left trailing across her heart.

It's a long and lazy afternoon in the best understated way. By the time they return home sunwarmed, though, Veera’s starting to feel the effects of having been out all day doing too many things. Her skull is beginning to ache. But it’s familiar and cool and quiet here. She can rest.

Once they unpack the remains of their picnic, Niki makes good on her earlier threat of not letting Veera get out of being fussed over. She chivvies the other two into the living room and onto the couch. To Veera’s mild bemusement, Niki sits next to her, across from Beth, looking far too pleased with herself.

Then Niki pulls all three of them into a cuddle pile with Veera caught in the middle.

Veera lets out a little squeak of surprise as she’s smothered in limbs and warm laughter. Beth’s only too happy to help Niki tag-team her, the traitor. She squeezes Beth’s wrist in retaliation, but all that gets her is Beth slipping out of her grip just enough to tangle her fingers with her own.

With a little shuffling, Veera ends up with Niki pressed comfortably up against her side leaning her head on Veera’s shoulder. Niki also tucks an arm around her, as natural and necessary as breathing. Curled up against her other side, Beth backstops her. She lets Niki play with the ends of her long dark hair with the hand that reaches around Veera’s shoulders. Beth’s still holding onto Veera’s hand, steady like she’s never planning on letting go. The intense late afternoon light slants into the room, sending stars refracting off of the glass bottles on the sill that trail green-leaved vine cuttings.

Veera doesn’t know that she’s ever been as happy as she is right now. She watches herself in half-believing wonder, then stops. She breathes. She feels the others’ breathing like her own. She reminds herself to just be here, just exist.

But the restlessness that she awoke with doesn’t cease, even now with the two presences she treasures most on either side of her, tucked almost as close to her body as they are to her heart. It still aches and whispers in her ear with a soft insistence. Something about the fragile intensity of this moment calls to that unknown quantity like its own.

This little apartment on the edge of the city was never meant to be more than just enough for her and Niki to carve a safe space out of a terrifying world. And it has been that. But then there was more. There were the herbs keeping the kitchen and the succulents dotting the shelves. There were the colors covering the floor in rugs and memories covering the walls in photos. There was ample quiet to replace chill silence, and the fullness of kind words spoken like truth. There were pancakes. There was sunshine. There was Jade and Justyna and Janika and Sofia and Sarah and Helena and Katja and Aryanna and Danielle and Alison and Cosima and Jennifer and Tony and Femke and Fay and Krystal; and there was Beth, and there was Niki, and there was her.

Perhaps that’s the strangeness that keeps plucking at her mind. Not only have her situation and surroundings strayed so far from what her life used to be, but she herself is someone different now. She emerged changed out the other side of the two fires that consumed her entire life. Maybe the flames were bookends. She doesnt remember anything from before the first, and the space between them was long and lonely. The person she became during that in-between time is still fused into her foundations.

And yet, so much of the structure of her self has shifted. New parts of her unfurl daily. Being within her own body feels both utterly familiar and completely new. She can look back at the strange girl she once was and still recognize parts of her as the strange woman she is now. Now, she’s someone who gets called Veera with a voice full of love and Mika with sense of wonder and Leda with mild curiosity, and they are all her.

The unexpectedness of being given so many names still leaves her bemused. There’s a surprising intimacy to them, the way people speak them like they’re describing the shape of her in so many other lives. She’s unaccustomed to it. As difficult as people can be, what she has now is... good. When she thinks on it too hard, it makes her ribs feel like they’re closing in on her heart even while her lungs expand to take in the whole sky in an single endless exhilarated breath.

She’s thinking about it now. It’s not just a thought. It’s a longing and a fulfilling, an ache and a balm, a memory and a future, a call and response. It becomes all of her in this moment, and she shivers with its intensity. The shiver ripples into the bodies nestled on either side of her. Only a few years ago, she could never have imagined being so close, or wanting to. Sometimes it’s still too much, even with Niki – even with both of them, now, who are both so inexplicably easy to be around. The companionable solitude bathes her soul like the green breathing of a forest in eternal spring. She thinks about the unlikeliness, the flouted impossibility of it all. The feeling that it calls into bloom from her seed of a heart is almost too much.

“Veera?” Niki turns to face her in response to the shiver, her golden head catching and holding the gilded afternoon light.

“You alright, Veer?” She blinks at the new sound of the new name spoken in Beth’s softest-leather voice. It fits, too.

Veera inhales to speak, but words evade articulation. She releases the breath again to its own wordless purposes. The hand that’s been interlaced with hers squeezes gently as Beth makes a little questioning sound like a cat and shifts the comfortable weight of her knees in Veera’s lap. On Veera’s other side, Niki leans even further into her than she has been and rests her chin on Veera’s shoulder.

The press of their affection and concern envelop her in dearest aching, and it’s so much. She wants to stay right where she is. But she’s hardly slept for the past two nights and she’s tired and aching from overextending herself and her words have left her again. The immensity of feeling blooming inside her on top of everything else is just too much. She won’t be able to stay like this much longer. She needs to be by herself, to quietly sort through the backlog of everything she’s experiencing that’s stacking up faster than she can process it.

First, though, she needs them to know how much this means to her. Her ears pick up every breath and brush of smallest movement, and her world is filled with little strokes of sound that fall across her skin and hum in her chest as if painted there. They’re closer and dearer to her than anyone has ever been. Veera lifts Beth’s hand with her own and sweeps Niki’s hand into her grasp as well. Then, she presses both of them hard against her heartbeat. She bends her head down and locks her arms over her own chest to hold them there. No sound escapes her except a minute whimper.

Wordless murmurs and small shufflings to stay close tell her that they understand what she can’t say right now, and tell it back to her twofold. She sniffles a little, then begins to untangle herself without yet letting go. She doesn’t want to leave. But if she doesn’t, the waves of overwhelm that currently shove at her will become a tide that pulls her under and leaves her head pounding.

Niki’s voice, low. “You getting overloaded?”

Veera nods.

“Okay,” she says gently. “Go wind down. We won’t be loud.” Niki’s always been so understanding, right from the very first moment she’d shared her strangeness. Secret for a secret, she’d said, guarding Veera’s like her own and holding her trust like a treasure.

“Take care, Mika,” Beth says, mimicking Niki’s tone. Beth’s never been here here for this before. But Veera has texted with her at length numerous times in the past, when she can’t bear conversation out loud but still wants company. Veera can still hardly believe that Beth’s really here, proving herself as compassionate through soft sounds and touches as through a keyboard. “Don’t worry,” she adds as Veera still hesitates to let go. “We’ll be here later.”

Veera breathes out and nods again. She manages to stand, still holding one hand in each of hers. She squeezes them one more time, one after the other. Then she picks her way around the blue-and-brown mess of clothes spilling out of Beth’s suitcase onto the living room floor and steps softly into her own room. She closes the door.

With the blinds half shuttered against the afternoon light coming through the west-facing window, it’s cooler, dimmer, quieter than the main room. Veera likes it that way. She needs its restful seclusion as much as she needs the sun-glazed warmth of the rest of the place. Filled with muted purples and greens, there’s no dizzying array of photographs here. The only picture on the walls is a large cream and gray poster of a detailed sketch of the moon with all its craters arcing over its surface. Stubby succulents dot the heavily book-laden shelf and her cluttered desk in front of the window. They sort of glitter in the sunlight. The beams catch the water stored in the overlarge cells of their chunky little leaves, brightening their soothing shades of green, grey, dusty lavender, and mauve.

Nerves spangling, she changes out of her jeans into something softer without looking at what she’s doing. Sometimes, even just looking at things gets to be too tiring. Her hands know exactly where she keeps everything stashed in her dresser drawer, and her fingers are familiar with the texture of nearly every piece of clothing she owns. She doesn’t need to see them to tell them apart.

Veera sinks into the soft give of the comforter spread over her bed with a sigh. When she pulls the weighted blanket at the foot of it over herself with the rain-like rustle of plastic beans in its quilted pockets, it wraps her in gentle even pressure from above and below. The heaviness of it flattens out the frayed edges of her nerves. Laid out flat on her back with her arms floating loosely on either side and her elbows bent upward, the blanket covers everything except her face and hands.

As the creeping tension begins to trickle away, another sigh escapes her lungs. It’s a slow process. With how large her emotions are now, and with all the excitement and exhaustion of the past three days, it will take a few hours to wear down the worst of it. The tightness of her shoulders and the pinched feeling in her neck will fade. But they won’t completely disappear for a day or so – and that’s if she does nothing but rest her body and mind. The strain is mental as much as it is physical. Her brain just does what brains normally do, only sometimes slower and sometimes faster, and getting there via unorthodox roads. When rushed, the process only gets backed up, the road blocked, the paths tangled. Pushing it is like trying to run with a twisted ankle. It only makes it worse.

At times like this, it’s even easier than usual for the world to turn into sandpaper on her soul and senses. Overexposure to the riptide of existence all around rubs her nerves raw, living faster than she can think and burning brighter than she can bear. Sounds become ocean waves with weight behind them and lights fill her eyes with their intense brilliance. Gentle touches catch her skin like fire, while firm pressure forms a gravity well that could either pull her into a stable orbit or sling her satellite round reeling. It’s so easy for her to get overwhelmed by pain and pleasure alike. The line between them is faint and fluid.

To some degree, that vibrant intensity was always going to be part and parcel of the way she experiences the world. She was always going to be strange. Maybe if she hadn’t been put through two fires, it wouldn’t be quite so overwhelming quite so often. Probably. But she doesn’t know where the scars end and the inherent self begins, because they’re the same now. Whatever the cause, the person she is now is someone subject to both exquisite sharpness and terrible softness, captivated by so many infinitesimal pangs of ache and grace. It’s a lion’s share of pain and wonder across a lamb’s shoulders.

She wouldn’t change it, if she could. She didn’t choose it, but it’s hers. It’s her. It’s given her an unprecedented ability to be gentle in just the right ways with the people who need it most. That comes in handy considering how many traumatized Ledas she works with. Besides, she’s found all sorts of unusual yet efficient ways to do what she needs to do, because the normal ways don’t work for her. Sometimes that results in really neat new things, like the advanced cyber-security system she personally designed for CYGNet. It hasn’t been beaten yet, and if her constant updates have anything to say about it, it never will. If she ever gets tired of co-running the organization with their board of Ledas, she could always actually go into the tech field.

Right now, ever leaving CYGNet seems such a remote possibility. After a couple years of a reduced workload so she could actually finish school and take a few courses in database management to supplement her work, she’s finally returned in her full capacity. It feels good. Between her responsibilities managing the sheer volume of information DYAD had surrendered to them and protecting both it and their secure communication network, she has plenty to keep her mind busy and satisfied.

Now that Sofia and Aryanna take care of most of the administrative work, things run a lot smoother, too. Sofia’s steadied into tenacious steadfastness as her confidence grows, and she’s got a level head and a killer knack for budgets. Aryanna’s a great project manager and she’s got plenty enough charisma to handle the public-facing parts of CYGNet that Niki used to wrangle.

Niki’s stepped back a lot from CYGNet since Veera came back full time. She’d only been involved out of circumstance and necessity in the first place. For years, Niki had been the smiling face of Leda to the world, giving their story the life it needed to be told. Veera doesn’t know how she’d ever have done any of it without her. But really, all Niki wanted was a quiet life with the people she loved. So now that things were steadier and the world’s scrutiny had moved on, she was taking more time for herself. She worked part-time in a cat café downtown a few blocks away from the park, went on dates with Suvi around the city, and came home smiling to Veera and their little apartment.

Niki seems softer these days, happier. It’s like she’s settled into her natural gentleness, rather than defiantly clinging to it like a lifeline after the fire tried to burn it out of her. Her recovery is a thing of beauty. Sometimes Veera is stricken into stillness at the sound of Niki humming to herself in the next room, or at the sight of her smiling to herself while reading in a patch of sunlight, her legs stretched out on the couch. Sometimes, the memory of almost losing her so soon after finding her four years ago floats forth, casting Veera’s current joy in a sickly shade.

But they’ve talked through that fear they both have, many times. They’re both here, alive. They both care too much about the closeness they’ve created to ever choose to be too far apart. Anything else that might separate them will just be the ebb and flow of life, and that’s always true for everyone. Veera tries not to worry about it too much. She’s lucky to have Niki in her life. And these days, Veera’s gotten better at believing her when she says she wants to stay.

She finds her mind going unfocused, her body gone heavy like she needs a nap. It’s been an eventful day. Veera curls up on her side under the blanket, burying the rough texture of her scarred cheek in the softness of her pillow. To see her now, anyone might assume she was one of the others, marked only invisibly. Instead, a chapter of her story is written all down the right side of her body in curlicues of too-light ridges and and too-dark indentations, dappled from face to elbow to ankle. People don’t always read past that page to reach the rest of her. Much of the time, she still can’t, either. But at least there is another chapter now. It’s right here where she’s living in this strange new moment.

Her already heavy limbs go slack. Thoughts shift and sift and slip over each other half-defined. Maybe there will be more chapters she can’t even imagine yet, even better than this half-healed, aching glory.

***

When she wakes once again, Veera finds evening falling in its long, slow descent. It’s late. The sky glows with that particular kind of soft, omnipresent golden glow that only comes with the midnight sun at the height of summer. Niki and Beth have probably gone to bed already. They’re both early risers, and Beth is adjusting relatively well to her jetlag. As usual, the evening belongs to Veera.

Evening here is a half-seen time, gilded in twilight in the summers and shrouded in restful darkness throughout the long winter. Her eyes get a reprieve from the sharp definition of day among the soft placement of shadows. Even in winter, she rarely turns on the lights. Navigating the familiar space is easy by the sound of her feet on thin carpet and linoleum, by the brush of her fingertips on the matte whitewashed walls. She’s usually the only one awake. Even when Niki wakes up with bad dreams and seeks her out for comfort, they don’t talk much. Voices are kept low. Most of the time, it’s a space for her to be alone with her thoughts, turning them over and laying her experience of the day to rest before she sleeps.

Cautiously, in case Beth’s asleep in the living room, Veera pries her door open so it doesn’t clunk in its uneven frame. Sure enough, Beth’s curled up in her nest of blankets on the couch. Niki’s bedroom door is ajar, and through it she can just catch the barely-heard sounds of an occupied room, the imperceptible breath or rustle of presence simply felt. It’s the difference between quiet and silence. It's subtle, but worlds away from the dullness that permeates an empty space. Having grown up roaming two floors of dim, silent rooms with only the click of the keyboard from ‘uncle’ Matti’s office for company, Veera is endlessly familiar with that emptiness. This is something else: a living seed hidden under the soil; a flower that’s closed its petals for the night.

Pulling the hood of her well-loved purple hoodie up to shield her ears from the mechanical hum of the fridge, she slips out of her room and heads into the kitchen. Things are less sharp now, but she's still unusually sensitive, especially her ears. Retrieving a tall glass of room temperature water and a tin of chicken soup tipped into a bowl takes only a minute. She doesn’t heat it. The quiet is worth more to her than the warmth, in this comfortable stillness. She retreats to her room with the bowl clutched in her hands and curls up at the foot of her bed for a quiet dinner.

She’s far more relaxed and grounded now than she was earlier. But, checking the clock, she’s just woken up from one of her exhausted five-hour recovery naps. She’s too awake, if in a mild and focused sort of way, to go to sleep like she normally would around now.

Well. Though she’s mostly taking the time Beth’s here off from CYGNet work, she has been checking once a day just to make sure nothing critical or time-sensitive has come up. She hasn’t done that yet today because she was absolutely and completely passed out and dead to the world for half of it, so she might as well get that done now.

She cracks her door partly open so that the presences of the others can better keep her company at a distance. Then she boots up her computer and dials down the display to a dim setting in the endless dusk.

Everything looks fairly normal. There’s nothing of note in the security reports, just the usual bots automatically blocked. Other than that, there’s only two messages in her inbox that have been flagged for immediate attention by her custom filters.

The first is a notice of identity confirmation for Jennifer Fitzsimmons in the States. She filed a request not long ago for all her information retrieved from DYAD to be destroyed. It’s one of the solutions they originally came up with to make sure CYGNet didn’t just replace DYAD as a repository of excruciating detail. The whole point of the organization was to help them all reclaim the autonomy that had been stolen from them. That meant making sure every Leda had full control over their own records. CYGNet couldn’t do much for those who didn’t contact them except seal and guard their data in case they wanted it someday, which Veera did dutifully. But they could make sure that anyone who heard about the organization knew they had the option to cut that unauthorized tie.

Veera was surprised how few chose to do so - only 34 of the 113 Ledas in contact with CYGNet. Many seemed to simply consider it a comprehensive if unnervingly detailed medical history that they could refer to for their own use. Others, like herself, saw the data as a window into otherwise lost parts of their lives. After she’d decidedly parted ways with Matti, she had no one to tell her anything about the times she was too young to remember. Still others, like Beth, wanted nothing to do with their records, but chose to preserve them as proof of their ordeals.

On the other hand, a minority including Jennifer had made contact for the exclusive purpose of requesting their data be destroyed and didn’t seek any engagement with it. CYGNet verified their identities to make sure the files in question pertained to the one who was actually making the request. But they made a point of doing the verification by traditional means. They’d all had enough of blood tests and lab rats.

It was more common for people to decide to delete their data after actually accessing some of their records, the way Niki did. After confirming the identities of her monitors, she’d wanted nothing to do with any of it. She said all it did was hurt. She’d already experienced enough of the sharpness of betrayal without knowing the prickly details of every last lie. Her DYAD records were the first ones they erased. Veera deleted the digital files, and Niki burned the hard copies herself, her smile strangely grim yet satisfied as she set them alight with shaking hands. She seemed lighter, after, and less wary of the warmth of flames.

Veera spends a few minutes completing the second half of double-authorizations for Jennifer’s digital and physical record destruction (permanent removal needed confirmation from two board members) before initiating file deletion. She watches the progress bar creep toward 100% while sending the requisite forms off to Danielle in record storage. She’ll put the hard copies in the incinerator. Set to its lowest volume, Veera’s computer gives a small congratulatory bloop as Jennifer’s digital data disappears for good.

Finally, the only other thing that needs her attention is a request for the general Leda health packet from a new sender, [email protected]. Piquing Veera’s curiosity, it specifically asks after the packet’s chapter on the autism spectrum and common comorbids, even though the sender “would hardly deem it necessary, but my new psychiatrist wants to be thorough.”

As she delves further into the odd letter, it hurts a little to read. It’s laced through with the kind of disdainfully certain air of superiority that reveals just how deeply someone has internalized the cruel views that the world holds of certain ways of being. Veera’s found that this attitude is particularly common in people who actually are on the spectrum, but have been taught since before memory, consciously or unconsciously, to suppress every natural expression of their own differences from the norm. They’re more likely to notice and disparage any deviations in others, specifically because they’ve spent so long trying to disavow their own. They’ve gone so long unsupported, learning to see support only as a weakness instead of as a natural and too-often-denied necessity.

It’s heartbreaking, because Veera’s recognized so many of her own eccentricities in so many of the others, and hardly any of them know what it probably means. She sees it again and again, over CYGNet video conferences and at the occasional Leda meet-ups. Cosima’s hands dance while she talks in much the same way that her own flutter when she’s nervous. Tony’s always blasting his music like his life depends on it, and as far as sensory regulation is concerned, it probably does. Rachel deliberately tilts her head in just such a way that Veera can tell she’s masking, trying to remain poised while she takes an extra moment to process and adapt to a situation.

It’s not that surprising, really, since they all share the same genetics. Most people don’t notice, though, because they only know the broadest and most inaccurate stereotypes. That’s why Veera had insisted on adding the neurodiversity chapter to the health packet.

Veera lightly skims her fingers back and forth over the keyboard without pressing down, thinking. The clicks of the barely jostled keys clatter out a tiny rhythm. Normally, they’d want new contacts to establish a secure CYGNet account. This email’s tone and its throwaway address, though, suggests that it’s either from someone who either isn’t comfortable making contact, or who is struggling too hard with internalized shame to ask for help without doing so anonymously.

It’s an easy decision. Veera attaches the health packet PDF to her reply and sends it along with just a few words of her own.

Hey,

Here’s the health packet, including the neurodiversity chapter. Whether or not any of it applies to you, I hope it helps you find your way closer to yourself. We’ve all got a long way to go if we’re going to build lives we can call our own.

Veera’s fingers hover over the keys. She wants to somehow tell whoever this is that it’s okay. It’s okay to wonder, to look into their own strangeness, to perhaps embrace it. But they’re probably not ready to hear it.

If looking into neurodivergence ends up being a path you need to walk to do that, you’re not alone. I’m here, and so are a lot of the others. You know where to find us.

She signs off as merely MK, hoping that whoever it is might feel more comfortable with another semblance of anonymity. That’s all she can do, and for herself, that’s enough.

All at once, weariness weighs her down. Synthesizing such a delicate appropriate response takes so much effort. She’s gotten better at it, especially when she has time to compose and distill her thoughts. But such nuances don’t come naturally to her. She sags, shoulders loose. Though the light is still golden, it’s actually past midnight now. She hadn’t realized how long she spent trying to craft her words into the right shape. She folds her laptop away and sits on the end of her bed, opening the blinds to stare at the glowing amber of the summer night sky.

Now that her senses are less flooded than they were this afternoon, they itch in the way that means they’re craving some kind of input to regulate them, to calibrate her back into balance. Her vast collection of shared music is her go-to for that. There’s really nothing for it quite like becoming a song for a little while. It lets a steady measured flow of clean water smooth down the troubled riverbed of her nerves, torn up by the passing of the flood.

With her headphones on, she’s bathed in a swell of sound that washes over her like the cool sea on a warm day and just as refreshing. Her widely varied tastes change from hour to hour and minute to minute, but she always comes back to metal. The density and intensity of it literally drown out everything else with that single symphony of sensation. Now, she sways to its current in much the same way she wanted to at the market earlier – was that just this morning? Except now she can because she’s alone, and the only people near are the ones she trusts most. She lets herself dance in it, soothingly rock herself back and forth within its waves, shake out her hands along its endless ripples. She forgets the passage of time for awhile, existing only in the sound and the single present moment.

She emerges from her reverie far more relaxed and substantially more grounded. Setting the headphones aside and stretching her spine out along the bedspread, her limbs have gone soft and slow. Even with her long nap earlier, her overload was exhausting enough that she can probably manage to sleep again til morning. The thought is barely formed before she’s already drifting off.

***

She knows what’s different, when she wakes in soul-deep stillness. Lingering tendrils of vague golden-glazed dreams might just be yesterday’s memories. They retract from her consciousness like opening petals, only to birth her into that same sunlight. She can see the brightness without even opening her eyes, warmth flooding into her room through the door she’s left open.

It’s not just that she’s different now; it’s that she’s actually okay, sort of. And even after years, she’s also clearly not. And somehow... it’s enough.

The truth of it holds her in stillness for a nascent moment, like gentle hands around the wings of a bird about to be released into the sky. Then her eyes open to a room washed in brightness. Her neck and shoulders still ache, but her sight is sharp and clear. The bedroom is the same it’s been for years now, furnished simply, with a mess of cords spilling over her desk to the power strip and the too many favorite books crowding the shelves. But she can see it now, the way it’s filled with life in a way that these traces only barely begin to show. It’s not alive because she moves things around and grows plants in it now. She grows plants in it because she is vulnerably, tenaciously, heart-breakingly alive. She is what is filling the space.

Her life is now full of joy in ways she once could never have imagined. Her happiness feels strange because she is not used to it. She is healing, but she is also just beginning to understand the shape and nature of the scars on her heart and mind. They are just as deep and real as the ones on her skin. They may never truly leave her, and she has made peace with that. But that has done absolutely nothing to stop beauty from seeding her life and springing from every fracture like grass from cracks in concrete.

The restless discomfort that’s been plaguing her has been nothing more than her own hesitance, holding back from fully inhabiting this current joy. Some part of her must still believe that it’s undeserved, or that it’s impossible until she is completely okay.

But it’s not. It’s right here and already making itself hers, as broken and whole as she is. She’s been looking at every new leaf wondering if she’s allowed to love it, even while it’s sinking roots into her life and breathing life into the air.

Few people like her get the opportunities she has; to heal, to help, to grow. She’s already trying so hard to give back as many of those chances as possible, even if it's just to the handful of Ledas she’s been able to help. But that doesn’t change the fact that these opportunities are hers; and yet she’s still half holding back.

She could take them. Not from anyone, but for all of them – and for herself. She could choose it in the unknown names of all her people who have been so lost and alone and longing, the ones who never will be found and the ones who are still hoping. She could believe for all of them that she deserves the joy right in front of her. Maybe this whole time she’s been trying to help the others, she’s been trying to heal herself.

It's a terrifying prospect. But maybe doing right by people like her means doing right by her self, too. Maybe it’s as simple, as impossibly hard, as just letting herself be where she is.

With a shock that catches her breath, she realizes that she’s already made her choice. Somewhere deep inside, something has already shifted like a flower turning toward the sun. She has changed.

It’s never going to be easy. She is going to be healing for the rest of her life. Not to mention, she’ll have to do it in a world where she knows all to well that people are often cruel. But there are also people it’s easy to be around. People like her, and unlike her, but kind people, understanding people, even strangers like the plant vendor at the market and the woman with the oranges. Perhaps she needs to mourn the fact that it took her so long to find any. But now... oh, now.

She tumbles out of bed in yesterday’s clothes. She makes her way out of the room past the crusty soup bowl that she left on her desk last night. Brushing past the great glossy leaves of the swiss cheese plant like a forest creature through the undergrowth, she steps into the central room that’s blazing with light and color and life.

As she enters the kitchen, she ignores the twin cries of greeting from the stove. She casts about for her new little pearls plant. Looking around, she spies it in the kitchen window half hidden under the canopy of the basil. She marches right up to it and into the vault of sunlight streaming in.

One by one, each round little bead of a leaf leads up to the stem holding its spindly floating flower - and it's actually a compound flowerhead. It’s opened up several miniscule pinkish-white flowerets with five pointed petals each. They’re giving off the most incredible, intense smell that fills that whole corner of the kitchen and seems like it couldn’t possibly be produced by something so tiny. Her hands flutter near her shoulders in absolute delight. As she breathes in, the little flower’s fragrance mixes with the pungent aroma of the herbs growing next to it. She drinks it all in deeply, breathes in the smell until it fills her lungs. Sometimes she feels as if she could survive on the richness of such things alone, like a hummingbird subsisting on nothing but nectar.

Nonsense. Her world is so much larger than she ever thought it could be, and she wants it, chooses it. Unlatching the window, she flings the shutters open wide to the trees just outside dancing in a kaleidoscope of green and brown and gold and the sunny city beyond and the blue sky above. The summer breeze that rushes in ruffles her messy hair with a wonderful effervescent sensation.

She laughs out loud, then turns around and practically throws herself at Niki and Beth with arms outspread. She seizes them both in a messy hug that somehow manages to include that wooden spoon again. Veera still laughs, and she feels tears on her cheeks, too.

“Whoa! Hey, girl.”

“Oh, shit! Hi Mika.”

“Hey, Veera, are you okay?”

No. Yes. Always. Never. She finds herself crying harder than she’s ever cried in her life. But she’s still smiling, steeped in a deeper kind of joy and certainty than she’s ever felt before. Someone threads their fingers through her hair and strokes her head until the tide turns and sets her free. And then, still, she is held.

None of this will last. Nothing does. There is more elation and agony and monotony and uncertainty and wonder up ahead. And yet, they’re still here, and she’s beyond grateful. She’s never stopped being here. Maybe this really is exactly where she needs to be. Maybe all she needs to do is tell the garden of her heart that it doesn’t have to stop growing.

When she can, Veera breathes in deeply, her ribs pressing against the arms circling her. She feels the way her exhale blusters soft and warm in the small space between her face and the shoulders she leans it into. The yielding soft pressure of the embrace engraves itself into the very bones of her arms, and she will never ever be able to forget the ache of it and will never want to.

Fuck the fires – this is what’s real now. She wants this to be what makes her who she is. This dance of joy in strangeness can be the story she makes of the rest of her life. All she needs to do is remember her choice, and make it, again and again and again.

“Hey, there, hey... there you are,” Beth murmurs. “You’re here. I’m here. We’re here.”

She is; they are.

They are.

#orphan black #clone club #veera suominen #beth childs #niki lintula #mk ob #fic #long post #herbs on the windowsill au #queerplatonic #aroace #lizzie's adventures in writing #lizzie taking up space #it's here!#it's done.

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theemightypen · 4 years

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my dear @heckofabecca asked for 11) reunion kiss but tumblr ate the ask, so here you go, bb! hope you like it <3

(for anyone keeping track, this is in the same pre-war political marriage as this fill which you may want to read first!)

The air is thick with the smell of blood and fear. Lothiriel is so tired she can barely stand, but stand she must. They need all the hands they can spare to help tend to the wounded and to soothe the children. The noise from the battle is muted by the caves’ walls, but she is the daughter of a war-time Prince, sister and cousin to seasoned soldiers--she knows what the sounds mean, and it is not a good omen.

The odds were impossible to begin with--an army of hundreds, a good portion of them withered old men and boys too young for beards, up against thousands of Orcs, if Lord Aragorn is to be believed. Hope has been dwindling for them all as the battle has raged on. Eowyn is brittle, defiant, in her anger at the situation they’ve been pinned into, but it is clear she has put her faith wholly in Lord Aragorn’s skill and luck.

It is clearer still that she thinks she loves the Ranger, but Lothiriel knows her sister-in-law well enough by now to know she will not appreciate her saying such a thing.

As it is, it is hardly the time to think about such matters. She should be focused on keeping her wounded charges comfortable, with offering comfort to the mothers and wives who may be widows and childless even now. It is what her father would want her to do. It is what Eomer would want her to do. The thought of him, riding across the Plains, unaware of what his people are suffering is like a dagger at her breast. The thought of never seeing him again is even worse.

At least he will not die here, she thinks, smoothing a whimpering boy’s hair as gently as she can, at least his fate will not be like so many others--

“Lady Eowyn! Lady Lothiriel!”

She blinks in surprise as Gamling--faithful, unwavering Gamling--limps towards them. He is covered in blood, likely his own and others’, and his face is grim.

“Gamling, what news?” Asks Eowyn, efficient and forthright as ever.

“The keep is near lost. Gather the supplies and people you can. You must take the people through the caves. I do not know how much time we can give you, but we will fight--to the last man--to keep you all from harm.”

Lothiriel swallows thickly. “But what of you? What of the King?”

“The King’s mission is to protect his people. Mine is to protect him. You must go, now, my ladies, and quickly.”

“We can fight!” Eowyn argues. “We are just as able as our brethren--”

“Eowyn, these are your king’s orders. Obey him--for what may be the last time.”

Eowyn’s jaw settles, mulishly, but Lothiriel suspects she is reacting this way to keep from crying. There is the very real possibility she will lose yet another member of her family in a matter of hours--if they are even alive at all to know it. Lothiriel is biting her own lip to maintain her composure, and her self control is nothing compared to Eowyn’s iron grip on her own.

“We will do as Theoden King asks,” Lothiriel confirms, because what else can she say?

The relief on Gamling’s face is painful. “Good. Bema be with you--you both are the Riddermark’s hope, now.”

That seems to snap Eowyn out of her pout and she turns, barking orders to any who are able to ready to move for fresh torches and all the water they can carry. Gamling vanishes back the way he came, leaving Eowyn and Lothiriel to manage the now frantic crowd. The sudden deep thrum of a horn makes her jump.

“What is that?”

“The horn of Helm Hammerhand,” Eowyn says, sharp with nerves and impatience, “it is said that Helm would kill Dunlendings barehanded when it was blown. If only we had a warrior like that now, perhaps we would not be scurrying away like frightened rabbits.”

“There is no shame in saving what life we can,” Lothiriel says, aghast at her sister-in-law’s position, “for the sake of those we lead and the sake of those who we have lost, Eowyn--”

“They are my people,” she snaps and ah, here it is again, this one jagged thing between them, “mine in a way that you cannot understand, Lothiriel, no matter how much you love my brother.”

The mention of Eomer stings, deeply, and Elbereth help her, this is not the conversation she wants to have right now. Not when it could be one of the last things she ever does, not when she knows, in part, Eowyn is only saying this because of the visceral fear she too must be feeling. “Perhaps that is true. But I will help you save them, care for them, as if they were mine in that way. Not only for the love I bear Eomer, but the love I feel for you. And for them.”

That softens her and she squeezes Lothiriel’s hand. The horn still echoes as they begin to herd the people towards the narrow passage. It would be slow going even with the fully healthy, but between the old and the wounded, it is nigh panic-inducing.

“Send the children first,” Lothiriel suggests. “The children and the most able-bodied young women--the rest of us can guard the back.”

Eowyn nods, reaching for her sword, but Lothiriel stops her. “Eowyn, you must go with them.”

“I am not afraid of a fight! I am a shieldmaiden--”

“And perhaps the last member of the House of Eorl. They will need you to lead them.”

Lothiriel is glad she has not had the time to mention her suspicion that has been growing in Eomer’s absence, for Eowyn would fight her if she knew--would likely fight any woman potentially carrying a child for not being among those going first through the passage. But Lothiriel has come to understand Rohan since her marriage. They will not follow her for the promise of a child, but Eowyn is as close to a princess as they have, at present. A daughter of kings. Their kings, unbroken for generations. They will follow her, as they followed her uncle, into battle and even death.

Still, Eowyn hesitates. “Eomer will not forgive me if I leave you.”

If Lothiriel’s last words to him must be ‘I love you’, she is content. She cannot regret them, even if he does not feel the same. “I will not forgive myself if we do not do what’s right for your people.”

Eowyn opens her mouth to say something, but she is drowned out by a sudden burst of cheering, intermingled with tears.

“My lady!” Someone shouts. “My lady, there is no need to take the passage!”

“What?” Asks Eowyn. “Explain yourself at once.”

“Gandalf has returned with a full eored! He and Lord Eomer--”

Lothiriel’s knees nearly give out and she slumps against the wall even as the women around her give cries of alarm.

“--they have defeated the Uruk-hai! We are saved!”

The tears begin in truth, now, and dimly she’s aware of Eowyn dragging her back towards the doors to the keep. There is a mad press all around them, of people crying and laughing and cheering, but Lothiriel can think of nothing else other than Eomer is here, Eomer is safe, we are all safe--

“Uncle!” Eowyn cries, and then she is gone, throwing herself at the weary yet triumphant form of Theoden King. A gentle hand on her arm has replaced Eowyn’s desperate grip and Lothiriel blinks a few times before recognizing that it is Gimli who is frowning up at her in concern.

“Lass, you’re white as a sheet. Come, come, let us find you somewhere to sit--”

“No,” she says, her mind foggy with relief and grief, all at once, “no, I must find--I must find my husband--”

“Your young horse master will find you soon enough, my lady,” he insists, gently shepherding her to a barrel and all but forcing her to sit upon it, “I do not think he would be overly pleased to find you in a faint when he does.”

That makes her laugh, a little. “I have never once fainted in my entire life, Master Dwarf.”

“No sense starting now, then,” he says. “Now, where is that confounded Elf? He had best not be trying to up his score…”

Lord Legolas is, in fact, poking at a few corpses with an arrow, and Lothiriel laughs herself nearly sick when Gimli explains why. Then Lord Aragorn arrives and Eowyn is throwing herself at him, too relieved to guard her more tender emotions. Gandalf appears, miraculously untouched by the grime covering everyone else, grumbling about something as is his wont. Behind him is--

Behind him is Eomer, broad-shouldered and magnificent in his armor. A few other soldiers are with him, clearly asking for his input on one matter or another, and he looks near to losing his impressive temper.

“Deorwine, enough,” he finally barks, “I will answer these questions later--I want to find my wife!”

Valar, she is so happy to see him whole and hale that she cannot speak. Gimli seems to know this and winks at her before crying over the din, “Your wife is here, laddie.”

She’s vaguely aware of standing, of starting to walk towards him, but Eomer is there before she can so much as blink, crushing her against his chest so tightly she can scarcely breathe. She knows she’s crying, messily and without reserve, and she should be embarrassed to behave in such a way, in front of so many people, but she cannot bring herself to care. Not when Eomer’s arms are trembling around her, or she can feel the rasp of his beard against her temple, and the deep rumble of his voice as he says something in Rohirric to her is overwhelming her senses.

“Hello,” she finally manages, leaning her head back just enough to meet his eyes, “oh, Eomer, hello.”

“Lothiriel,” he says, and then he kisses her. Dimly, she’s aware of a small smattering of applause and a happy hoot that sounds suspiciously like Eothain, but that’s of little consequence when Eomer is kissing her like he’s been desperate for it. Like he’s missed her as much as she’s missed him.

He rests his forehead against hers when he finally lets her up for air, and Lothiriel has to reach up to take his dear, dear face between her hands. He is plainly bone weary and smells strongly of horse. There has never been a more welcome sight.

“You came back to me,” she whispers.

“You asked me to. How could I do otherwise?”

She huffs a laugh--of all of the times for him to tease! But then Eowyn is pushing herself into both of their embraces, and they are all crying, even Eomer. The rest of the day is such a blur that she cannot recall all of the dear faces she has seen, the words of relief and love and joy shared. She blinks in surprise to find herself all but pressed into bed, stripped of her filthy gown and left in only her somewhat less dirty shift.

“I should change,” she murmurs, flinging a leg over the side of the bed with the intention to stand.

“You will rest,” Eomer says, falling upon his side of the bed heavily and managing to drape an arm around her waist in the same instant. “You looked near enough to sleep this morning and an entire day has passed since then.”

“I smell.”

“So do I. I do not care if you do not.”

She cares, but she cares more to have him close, stink or no. Sighing, she settles back onto the bed, pleasantly pinned under the weight of his arm for the first time in what feels like years. Rolling onto her side, she reaches for his face, cradling his still somewhat dirt-encrusted jaw in her hand. “I missed you. Oh, Valar, I have missed you so much.”

Eomer swallows, drawing her closer until his nose is pressed against her temple and she is tucked too tightly against him to see his face. “I have missed you more than I thought possible. Lothiriel...Lothiriel you must know, I should have said it long before Wormtongue’s damned machinations separated us, but I love you.”

She cannot help it--she sobs, just a little, against the hollow of his collarbone. Eomer tightens his arm around her and she thinks, I am home, he is home, he IS home--

For now, anyways. And for now, that is enough.

#eomer x lothiriel #eothiriel #prompt response #heckofabecca #unsurprisingly this got long #pre-war poltical marriage AU

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jergg · 4 years

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thinking about moms on mothers day

sometimes a family is a boar, a tiger and something that might be a fox but not really sure

Kuvirea and Misadori are a fae kacheek and silver kougra, K is their adopted moehog son. They're kind of ‘found family’ in both story and meta... my main account pets for ~15 years who were standalone concepts at the beginning, but they meshed together over time. I used to just have Kuve being snippy with Misa all the time but she mellowed out if you know what I mean... and eventually saying K has two moms wasnt a joke anymore. Although sometimes I have to say it like a joke because who knows what will wake up mods on neopets dot com

Kuve is a tiny strict accountant/homeowner/busybody, Misa is an ex-mountain bandit/wild tiger (but actually opposite of a tiger mom) and K their mushy little pile of laundry. He fills out when he grows up but he's still kinda mushy (and is still small enough for Misa to swing him around). K loves his moms because he’s a good kid and while he turns to Misa for hugs/wrestling/piggyback rides/opening jars, funnily enough tries to model himself after his daintier mom with parasols and morning tea.

blue glows

Insomniac sorta-police sorta-paranormal investigator Rai (grey kougra) is the kid of Roha (she's also a leopard but she was temporarily a dappervolk shroom rabbit for obvious reasons) a Life Fountain - so she is near immortal, nigh indestructible with super self-healing and such an overflow of magic aura she causes blue shrooms to sprout around her. But Rai's dad was a human, so his genes are dilute and his only supernatural powers are glowing hands and mild healing ability which lets him live on very little sleep. His aversion to sleep might be due to to some childhood incidents where Roha would go to sleep for weeks/months at a time, typical LF habits but not great for raising kid.

As a spacey 200-yr old, she was kinda unwittingly negligent of her half-human kid but never hostile, practically incapable of being upset. Even though she never stopped being spacey (or maybe because other kids made fun of that) Rai has always been defensive of his mom. His best memories with her mostly involve food. Since he grew up and moved out, she's always happy to see him again and now tends to wake up when he visits. maybe she's starting to notice that without the LF immortality aspect, he's aging a lot faster than she is...

picking out toys for your teenage daughter

The most dysfunctional but oddly also the most coherent family here, the Face Eaters are semi-feral mountain-wandering shapeshifters who chop down/eat humans they come across, and reproduce by cloning. The family is about ten strong, but there's only one child. Shu (ogrin) is a clone of her mom Ran, who is the clan queen (subeta exp #118, although I always compare that to a faerie xweetok.) They're shifters, that's why a fox bug has a llama kid it makes total sense shhhhhhhh.

Everyone in the family owns a mask to help the kids differentiate between the nearly identical adults, but that's all that you own in the Eater clan, everything else is to be 'shared' with whoever can grab it off you, and it's almost impossible to keep secrets from the horde. As an insular bunch of clones it's better not to have a sense of self, but life has gotten boring in recent generations and Shu gets restless and runs away.

Ran is proud of Shu probably because Shu most resembles her, and has total confidence in her daughter's abilities but isn't much in the way of empathy. Meanwhile out on her own, Shu's actually somewhat afraid of her mom, mostly that she's coming to take her stuff and maybe eat her new friends. But to them it's the equivalent of a kid having their parent barge into their room, so maybe she takes after her mom's lack of common sense too. One thing about the FE clan is they don't really know how to express contempt for each other so she'd probably greet her mom with a smile when the time comes. maybe they'll figure something out.

weirdly enough I don't think any of my characters have living dads (except one who is also adopted, but not officially) oh well those thoughts for another day

#just oc rambling #tiny gore under cut #t:k #t:kuve #t:misa #t:rai #t:roha #t:shu #t:ran

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burialhq · 3 years

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STATUS : mythic. CAMOUFLAGE : shapeshifting. however, despite being one creature, a reaper’s human form and their inhuman form are considered to be two separate bodies.

INHERITANCE : awarded. technically. some see it as more of a punishment. reapers are born after a death - specifically, after the death of someone who has committed atrocities ( or what they consider to be atrocities ) and who is actively looking for penance. nobody knows how reapers are chosen; they simply die, and then they awaken again with knowledge of their new purpose.

ABILITIES :

soul removal. perhaps the most important of a reaper’s abilities. successfully removing souls and sending them who-knows-where is a reaper’s bread and butter, a process that energizes them better than any feast could. souls must be removed from a being that is near death as someone who has taken their last breath has already given up their soul.

souls can be removed one of two ways: through a reaper’s scythe, the weapon they are born with, crafted for this very purpose (the weapon is not always a scythe), or manually. the latter process should only be done in desperate circumstances. to remove a soul without the help of a scythe is a use of excess force which causes extreme pain for the dying and considerably weakens the reaper.

inhuman speed. reapers can move from one place to another in the blink of an eye. in their inhuman form, reapers glide across the floor at whatever speed they wish; it is possible to physically see them move at whatever pace they choose. in their human form, it is impossible to see a reaper move quickly - they simply appear and disappear. to the reaper, however, moving this way in either form is perceived as gliding.

walking or running at a regular pace in their human form is also visible and looks just like any other human walking.

self-healing. reapers can heal any injury they receive in their human form. some injuries take longer than others, especially if they have gone a while without reaping a soul. these wounds never scar nor do they bother the reaper once healed. they have minimal ability to heal their inhuman form, but if they are permanently scarred in any way while in this form, these will remain visible in both human and inhuman form. reapers can only heal themselves, not any other beings - that includes other reapers.

death touch. in their inhuman form, nearly anything a reaper touches rots instantly ( exceptions include certain creatures, such as other reapers ) . this is why most take a human form, to avoid causing havoc and destruction wherever they go - reapers are akin to vultures : they hunt for death that is already coming, they do not seek to bring it where it doesn’t belong.

LIFESPAN : because reapers are dead, they are technically immortal. some are even thousands of years old. they’re also notoriously difficult to kill - not simply because they’re durable and competent opponents, but also because they’re so rare, it’s hard to find anyone who’d know or care enough about them to willingly seek one out and murder them.

the two ways reapers can die are a “ natural ” death, where they reach the final step of their penance and forgive themselves for the crime(s) that lead them to their current position, an act that allowed for their passing, or they are murdered by someone else.

IMMUNITIES :

most weaponry. regular human weapons are useless against reapers. they are able to injure their human forms to a certain extent, but never enough to kill the actual reaper. in a pinch, however, destroying their human form as best as you can to get away from them is a plausible option.

all illness. they’re dead, so illness cannot touch them. this immunity also extends to their human form: they are unable to contract sickness.

necromancy. ...in that no matter how much one can try, a reaper cannot be brought back from the dead / turned fully human once more. they have already been “ revived ” once - the only way forward is death.

WEAKNESSESS :

human form susceptible to all human weaknesses. with the exception of illness and the foe that is age, a reaper’s human form is… human. it can be completely destroyed for a temporary amount of time. this won’t kill a reaper ( their true, inhuman form is the only one in which they can be killed ) , but incapacitating their human form will force them into their inhuman form as they wait for their other form to heal. the only scarring that is permanent for both forms, however, is scarring done to their inhuman form.

inhuman form : direct sunlight. all reapers wear a cloak and veil in their inhuman form. if one is lucky enough to take it off of them, they will find an acute weakness to sunlight. this is typically not enough to kill them - it could take weeks or months, depending on how old and well-fed on soul extraction they are, for a reaper to die from exposure to the sun - but it can scar them permanently.

inhuman form : reaper scythes. other reaper’s scythes ( or even their own ) are incredibly dangerous for a reaper. they can cut straight through them, as they do any soul. stabbing them with a reaper weapon once will not be enough to take them out ( though it is enough to inflict pain and scar them ) , one must cut into a reaper as they do to a soul to fully kill it. alternatively, blessed weapons of any kind can also hurt reapers, to a lesser degree - they’re not demons, but their own perception of themselves as something unholy weakens them to these kinds of weapons.

surefire way to kill them : burning their body. all reapers have their old bodies buried somewhere. these are in stasis, unchanging, spared from time and decay. to dig up their body and burn it is to destroy a reaper entirely. it is the easiest way to kill one, and the only way which destroys both the inhuman and human form at once.

ATTRIBUTES :

some inhuman traits within human form. reapers retain some inhuman traits within their human form. as mentioned, any scars gained in their inhuman form will appear in their human form; however, reapers will also have elongated canines ( though not as sharp or long as a vampire’s might be ) and typically have some other feature - oddly colored hair or eyes, sharp nails, seemingly too tall - these features can vary between reapers ( some may have all, some may have only one ) and are usually easy to explain away as human body modifications or odd genetics at play.

breathy voices. reapers speak as if they exhale every word. very light, airy pronunciations.

lack of a pulse. being dead means reapers lack a pulse, their bodies effectively trapped in time. to press an ear against a reaper’s chest is to listen to a cavernous nothing.

typically well-mannered, calm, etc. it takes a lot of work to undo a reaper’s calm exterior. they are patient creatures, even if they weren’t so in life; they must be, to properly play their role as servants of death. when they are first “ born ” , reapers are unused to expressing human emotion - thus, they give off a very inhuman aura. as they spend more time around humans, they begin to regain human traits and bits of their old personality, though always maintaining a prim exterior.

EFFECTS :

death. reapers go where death is nigh, especially if many will die in a small amount of time; thus, they are considered bringers of death. most reapers haunt cities, but to have one appear in a small town could mean disaster for its residents.

cold. a reaper’s body, even in their human form, is naturally cold - freezing, almost. they also bring the temperature down around them. in the middle of summer, to be near a reaper is to feel a chill in the air. this temperature could remain cold for weeks even after a reaper has left.

arrival of creatures considered to be harbingers of death. some reapers enjoy taking “ pets ” who follow them on their excursions, typically always animals associated with bad luck or death. black cats, ravens or crows, black dogs, rodents - any or all of these creatures suddenly appearing en masse is a sign a reaper is near or has taken residence in an area.

#new rp #small rp #supernatural rp #spn rp #oc rp #reaper.#identified.#all.

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shineonyoucrazyyandere · 5 years

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Hey, can I get hcs for La Squadra with a crush who kissed them while drunk (just a peck on the lips), only to take it back as some kind of mistake when they're sober? :D

Yandere! La Squadra w/ crush who kissed them while drunk and denies it as a mistake when they’re sober.

I hope you didn’t mind me having a little creative freedom with this

Just to set up the scene :

You and your friends were hanging out a bar together. Drinking yourselves under the table, with eventual ridiculous conversations popping up You’re barely listening until one of them points to a man just some odd meters away from where you all were sitting. Your friends start giggling devilishly

“Dd..da…do…wha.. now?” Your words slur sloppily out of your lips

““Go….kiss… that guy over th-there” one of them piped up

“Y-yah y-you….almost…n-never…do…anything…troublesome…just tr-try it”

You looked over at the person sitting a few spots away, shrugging casually as you stumbled up from your seat and stride over to them.

They don’t move for a moment as your arms casually hang on their body. Your cheesy opening line of “hey cutie” in your drunken stupor escapes your mouth. Before long you managed to peck your lips on their own before nearly falling backwards trying to back away.

Yandere! Formaggio

He’ll definitely find you again and flirt hard as hell with you. You can’t just tease a man like that and leave.

He totally knows you were drunk while doing all that but denying it isn’t going to do you any favors.

Mistake or not you still have to make it up to him, he’ll make sure you know this as he comes up behind you to wrap his arms on your waist. All so similar to what you did to him.

Probably humiliates you, he kisses you intensely, intimate touching, he loves seeing the blush that streaks across your face. He’ll spook you quite a bit as well for extra effect.

He’s of course gonna shrink you and take you back home with him right then and there. You’re definitely not going to be with anyone else after that little stunt.

Yandere! Illuso

It’s a totally random day he slips you into a mirror to confront you on your little misdeeds. He smirks eager to return the favor.

He’ll harmlessly just play with your hair, twirling it around if it’s long enough. His finger might just gently graze your lips.

Doesn’t listen to you say it was a meaningless mistake you foolishly did.

The touching goes on for a few minutes before he leaves you where you were standing before alone and confused.

Illuso slowly ups the creepiness of his words over the course a few weeks, watching your paranoia increase.

He’s quicker to take care of competition, you should be looking his way after all. It helps him make you fearful to his satisfaction.

He’ll eventually make it all up whenever he finally thinks his little revenge streak is enough and kidnaps you eventually.

Yandere! Pesci

He really did think what you did was pretty cute, but when you tell him you didn’t mean it. There’s a slight break in his heart.

But he can’t help but keep thinking about it, the kiss was so nice even if he could smell the alcohol off your lips. He even still remembers the slight taste you left behind.

He can’t bare to leave you be though, he goes total stalker on you.

Pesci likely uses Beach Boy to snatch you up after thinking about it after awhile, he convinces himself it’s the right thing to do. He can get you to like him somehow, he’s sure of it.

Yandere! Prosciutto

He’s been mulling over that moment even after occurred, the choice of your friend’s alcohol was in poor taste. More so you were so sloppy, however he found it oddly endearing.

He finds you again and ignores you telling him it was a mistakes, he’ll likely scold you every mistake has it’s consequence. He won’t let you get away at any costs.

Hopefully you’re not with anyone else when he approaches you. He’ll make sure they’re out of commission in a heartbeat. So you don’t try to excuse yourself.

You’re likely kidnapped in a heartbeat, and taken somewhere you haven’t the slightest clue where it is.

You’re met with several bottles of expensive alcohol (that Prosciutto likely prefers).

When he eventually sits near you, He’ll criticize every little thing you did at the time of your stunt. Suddenly your drinking things you never thought you’d get a hold of, and he’s showing you up in every way possible. Especially with the flirting and intimate touching.

The blond makes it clear no one else will be able to do such things with you. He just doesn’t want trash touching you after all.

Yandere! Melone

He likely made a move on you when you did that drunken kiss, you likely made him want you more as he licked his lips clean afterwards.

He probably wrote about your kiss, even if it was just a peck to analyze your form. How soft and plump they were, it gets him worked up all over again.

Melone shows up in your daily life more often, he makes simple conversation. He doesn’t listen to that whole thing of that kiss being a mistake. It was simply meant to be you can’t convince him otherwise.

He gets unusually close in places that you’re forced to stay still, such as a day where public transportation is crowded.

He ends up softly teasing you every time you both come in contact with each other. Your horoscope is casually mentioned as Melone attempts to get you to understand your compatibility with him.

Ignoring him won’t work, to put it simply. He’ll easily fend off people you try to bring along to get him to go away.

That event somehow causes you to lose your friends, and anyone you intimately talked with. He’ll amusingly get close to you, you’re not chasing him off anytime in the future.

Yandere! Ghiaccio

Surprisingly he didn’t make a scene in the bar you were in, no it wasn’t until after the fact he got upset.

You give him a drunken kiss and just leave like that? No, it’s not supposed to work like that. He isn’t even sure why he let you escape in the first place.

He’ll track you down in a heartbeat, it’ll seem like he’s mad at you giving him an unwarranted kiss but it’s not that. He ends up closing in and returning the favor in full.

Tell him that that it was a mistake and he gets more upset, but he tells you he made a mistake in letting you go that night. There’s a literal chill in the air as he keeps you close.

Anyone that’s in his way of you especially if it’s a partner are frozen to death when he gets the time.

Yandere! Risotto Nero

He already knows about the whole stunt thing you had to pull, he was likely paying attention the whole time your friends were talking about it.

When Risotto confronts you on this he doesn’t take you telling him that it was a mistake lightly.

He looms over you with a firm tone telling you it was your mistake in doing such a thing to him. (He thouroughly enjoyed it honestly)

Trying to lose him after such an odd conversation, is nigh impossible. He manages to keep an eye on you the whole time you try to run.

It doesn’t take long for Risotto to catch up and get you falling to the ground against your will. He’ll kneel over you and do the exact thing you did to him back in the bar.

You won’t be going anywhere else except with him that’s for sure from that point forward.

742 notes · View notes

pluto-art · 4 years

Text

PatB Fiction - Close the Curtains

Type: Fan fiction Length: 2,320 words Genre: Tragedy/Hurt/Comfort Rating: PG-13 Fanfiction.net link: Close the Curtains

Author’s Note: One-shot. Brain is so incredibly stubborn and tenacious. This brief drab explores what the consequences might be were he unwilling to admit even his own mortality, turning from the haunting shadow of reality to block out the inevitable. To pretend it's all a dream. To close the curtains.

The pain wasn't particularly noticeable at first. It came as a delicate tickle, barely noteworthy, then graduated to a slightly bothersome nip in his abdomen, enough to earn a sharp, scrutinizing glance from its host now and again, and eventually blossomed into a deep-seated irritation that not only burned, but bit, scratched, and clawed at his insides.

Work on plans became nigh impossible, Brain only pushing through because it was the sole thing that gave him purpose - that made each day worth waking up to. Sleep was practically nonexistent, that sweet release of pain hanging on by a thread for two hours, perhaps three, at most before tossing him over the bed edge, an unsympathetic reminder that the affliction still stood close by, knocking at the door. Eating was painful. Drinking was painful. Existing was painful. It was all he could do to put on a face of complete and utter apathy in an attempt to throw his cohort off the trail, although he had an inkling that such efforts were in vain. Now and again, Pinky threw him a suspicious look or a furrowed brow, his worried, blue eyes telling all every time Brain uttered a sharp gasp or groan that couldn't be contained.

He was confronted about it, of course; many times.

"Um... Brain...? Are you sure you're all right? You've been rather quiet the last few nights..."

"I'm fine, Pinky, now... go fetch me a ladle from the kitchen. I need it for our next plan."

Not that the ladle would be of any use, of course. The kitchen was a fair enough distance away that the task would keep his curious companion preoccupied for at least five minutes. The more Pinky was not in his presence, the less he had to put on a facade. The less he had to pretend.

By the thirteenth day, things had begun to get out of hand. There was no point ignoring the pain anymore. Yes, he had admitted to his cage-mate, after he'd asked for the 152nd time if Brain was all right. He did, indeed, feel like there were several steak knives buried into his stomach at all times at this point, causing unbearable cramps and smarting like nothing ever should, but so what? None of that mattered. The world mattered - it mattered so much more than this. His comfort was secondary. Eventually, it would dissipate. It always did.

This was not the first time he'd been subjected to a particularly harsh experiment. The last time he'd had relapses this bad was after an uncomfortable bout of shock therapy to counteract the effects of... some test or other. He'd been sick for a week. Nothing out of the ordinary. He was used to this. Those at Acme Labs, or any lab, would never be satisfied until they'd squandered the absolutely most out of their subjects until they were no longer useful. If anything, he was surprised that he was still valuable. He'd expected to be dead by this point. By some miracle, both he and Pinky had evaded that fate. But perhaps he hoped too soon. Eventually, somehow and someway, they were going to get him. Eventually, one of the experiments would be too much. Perhaps this one was it.

He'd searched for the root of his discomfort, of course; poured over books and scoured the lab computers for information about what all of this might mean. But the symptoms he had were so sporadic, so unusual, so... misaligned to be explained away by something as simple as constipation or even cancer, that he couldn't locate nor pin down what it could possibly be. Whatever they'd stuck him with, whatever it was they'd injected into his system weeks ago, was slowly, painfully, killing him on the inside. He was surprised he'd held out this long, successful in hiding his torment. Or, perhaps, unsuccessfully.

Day nineteen was the clencher - the beginning of the end. They were atop the Eiffel Tower, on the cusp of a breakthrough in his latest scheme, when he collapsed, the pain so potent he could barely breath; barely see. And right when the world had just about been in his grasp. Naturally...

He didn't know how Pinky managed to get him home, much less keep him alive for all that time. Even after he'd been tenderly settled back in the make-shift sponge bed in their cage, complete with more tea and blankets than he really needed, his blurry vision still lingered, although the pain was a lot less and he could breath better. But that had been the worst. It had been the worst yet, and he wasn't so sure he'd be able to handle the next one. The next episode could kill him. And yet, as much as his soul hungered to spill everything out in one fell swoop, to tell Pinky the truth about what was going on, his ego wouldn't let him.

-o-o-o-

The twenty-fourth day of May found him stomach-up in one of the laboratory sinks, legs stretched out against the cold, wet metal, his head resting in someone's lap. He blinked rapidly at the blurriness coating his vision, a lingering pain coating his innards as he desperately tried to get a grip on where he was... and why.

Whomever had him in their lap was yelling at him, calling at him to wake up. He blinked some more, his vision slowly coming back into focus. Pinky. It was Pinky.

"Pinky...?"

"Oh, Brain! I thought you were chopped liver!"

"Pinky... Wh-What are you... talking about?" he mumbled, exhausted beyond all measure for some strange reason. Why was Pinky looking so worried, and why were they both in the sink?

"Well... O-Only big ol' pieces of food go in the disposal, Brain, and... y-you're not food..."

Only now did Brain realize that Pinky was shaking. He seemed nearly petrified. Brain turned his head slightly to the right to confirm his suspicions. Sure enough, there was the hole in the sink that led to the pipes... and the garbage disposal. He remembered now... Another unbearable wave of pain; another gasping sensation that far overstayed its welcome - the fifteenth that day. Had he really been that desperate to end it all? He assumed he must have passed out around the time Pinky grabbed him just before he plummeted into darkness. Oh, Pinky...

"Pinky... I have to tell you..."

"Brain... We can't stay here. The big men in white coats are going to come in soon. We have to get you out of this sink!"

"Pinky..."

"Don't worry, Brain. I've got you!"

And he did, indeed, have him - carried him, in fact, all the way back to the cage, and just in the nick of time. Not a few seconds after he'd laid Brain in bed... two white coats entered, each paper-laden, pens in hand and ready to take notes. And take them they did.

"What's the date?" the older of the two men asked.

"May twenty-fourth," stated the younger.

Some scribbling. Some writing.

"Subject was injected on..."

"... the first of the month."

More scribbling. More writing.

"Vital signs?"

"Unstable. We expect collapse within two... three days."

"Approximately one month for subject to reach final stage. We'll have to readjust."

The other nodded; took notes.

"All right. That's fine. What's our next subject?"

"Number 214."

"Right. Let's head on over..."

They left.

Pinky watched them go, ears perked. He had seen, had heard, but not understood. Brain still lay in bed. He had heard, and understood fully. Two to three days. Two to three more days of this torture. Two to three more days left to suffer. Two to three more days left to tell Pinky...

"They're gone, Brain! You can relax now."

Brain opened his eyes to stare sadly up at Pinky - at the mouse he'd called his friend for so long. He was going to miss him. By golly, he was going to miss him.

"Pinky..."

It hurt. It hurt so much. But he had to get the words out. He had to tell him.

"I... I need to tell you something... very important. And you need to listen, o-okay?" he stressed, his breath hitching at the last word.

"Okay, Brain. Is it about taking over the world?"

He almost smiled at his friend's naivety; his innocence. There was, at least, one nugget of relief that came with all of this: At least it wasn't Pinky. At least he didn't have to deal with this.

"No, Pinky. But... you need to promise me something. Promise me... Promise me..."

It hurt. It hurt so much.

"Promise you what, Brain?"

Pinky was on his knees at this point, at Brain's level, looking almost as concerned as he'd been in the sink.

"Promise me... you'll..."

Twenty-four days. It took twenty-four days for his emotions to finally release; for the tears to flow. Physical pain he was used to. Physical pain he could at least deal with... until it got to this degree. It wasn't simply the bodily torture that was burning him up inside, however. No. It was the fact that, by the end of this week, he'd never see this happy little mouse again. Never hear that over-joyed laugh; never get an answer to what he was pondering; never turn to his friend in triumph... or failure... as they neared the climax of a plan. His life he could lose. His life never mattered in the lab to begin with. But Pinky...? He couldn't imagine life, even an afterlife, without him. Didn't want to imagine it. And what would Pinky do without him? Would he adjust? Would he crumble to pieces? Would he be completely fine and never give him another thought?

A trembling paw slipped underneath a sweaty one, holding it tight. The latter grasped the former's firmly, not wanting to let go. Not willing to let go. He wanted him by his side. The plan didn't matter anymore. The world, sadly, didn't matter anymore. All he wanted was to be with his friend - the closest friend he'd ever had - until it ended.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, willingly trying to gain some semblance of composure. He had to get this out while he had Pinky's full attention. The next two days were going to be hell, and he didn't think he'd be able to coherently relay what needed to be said after this point.

"Pinky. Promise me... that you won't ever lose that smile of yours. It's... it's going to be hard. It's going to be very hard. But... don't stop, okay? Keep... keep smiling..."

"I... I will, Brain. I promise." He said it with tears in his eyes... and a forced smile on his face. Brain couldn't help but smile back. Already he was practicing. What a trooper.

It was the last time he'd see him.

-o-o-o-

Blindness completely took over by the second-to-last day, followed by light convulsions that evolved into much heavier episodes by the last. If he knew his death was going to be this painful he would have left the lab years ago.

Briefly, he reflected on all that he'd done... and all that he could've accomplished. It wasn't a life entirely wasted. He'd had Pinky, after all. He'd also had his pride. It had been with him, like a faithful dog, every step of the way. And how utterly detrimental of a pet it had proved to be. It whispered things - foolish things that made little sense. You don't need to do research. The problem will dissipate. You're strong enough to handle this; you always have been. You can let it go a few more days. Just a few more days. Forget the research until later. You'll be fine. You'll be fine...

Fine, indeed. In a fine mess. This is where it had led him. This is where his ego rested: on a death bed. Worst of all, he'd made Pinky suffer in the process. Yet never once did he complain. Never did he hesitate to comfort him when the pain became too much. Always was he there to lead Brain by the hand to their water bottle in his blind state. Loyal to the end.

He almost rather he'd died alone, in some corner where Pinky didn't have to see him - didn't have to watch. But his friend would have none of it. He was going to hold Brain in his arms whether he liked it or not. And as he slowly faded in and out after another batch of convulsions, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps as he felt the life slowly drain out of him, he realized, cradled in his best friend's embrace, that he wouldn't have it any other way.

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

Closing Note: I'd had the "garbage disposal" suicide idea for some time and realized, as I was writing this, that it could be utilized here. Would have been a terrible way to go. What he'd do without Pinky, I don't know.

“Closing the curtains” has two meanings here. One, of course, is that it is a metaphor for death -- the end of a show; the conclusion of a story. The second is denial. He doesn’t want to admit what’s happening, and so he puts off the research until it’s too late. He doesn’t tell Pinky what’s happening ‘til the end, and he believes he has the strength to muscle past the seemingly inevitable. Could he have prevented such a terrible demise? Perhaps. Perhaps, if he hadn’t been so stubborn, this could all have been avoided. Alas, he will never know.

Why do I write such sad dang things?

#pinky and the brain #brain #pinky #fan fiction #tw:death #tw:suicide attempt

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howtowhumpyourhiccup · 5 years

Text

Words of Meaning

Summary: Post-Httyd 2. HICCSTRID WHUMP! On a mission to rescue some captured dragons, Hiccup and Astrid find a trap and set it off. Astrid is left to deal with his injured body while Hiccup is left to keep her hopes from crumbling.

Rating: Teen and up

Words: 1 393

Author’s Notes: A whump-shot written for an ask here on Tumblr.

Constructive criticism is appreciated!

Enjoy!

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“I’m okay. I’m- I’m okay, Astrid. I’m fine!”

Astrid’s jaw clenched in frustration when Hiccup attempted to still her hands. She didn’t believe a word he was telling her, but she wasn’t about to waste time arguing with him about it either.

There were much more important matters that needed tending to.

Such as the piece of metal stuck in his gut that she wasn't sure what to do with.

They had been trying to free captured dragons. The Trappers they were trying to rescue them from supposedly hid some more foreign species in the large cave system they guarded far outside their camp and the two of them along with Toothless and Stormfly decided to seek them out while the rest of their team took care off things outside.

It took them long enough to find where they were being kept. The group of four had defeated enough Trappers to get this far. Whatever they were trying to protect, it should’ve been worth it. What they found instead was a trap most likely meant for the Dragon Riders, if not for the Dragon Rider himself, and it got their intended target. Astrid's ears were still ringing from the explosion as she tried to tend to her betrothed's injuries.

Opening the door caused a spark to ignite some Monstrous Nightmare gel. That, in turn, was meant to set off these metal barrels of Zippleback gas stored in the back of the cell.

The trap was successful and the only reason why Astrid had remained mostly unscathed was because Hiccup noticed what threat lurked in the shadows before she did and managed to push her behind cover. It was with enough strength that she could’ve sworn she had been thrown, he hadn't held back.

A deafening explosion went off and heat had filled the cave’s chamber. It caused a cave-in and that meant they were cut-off from their dragon.

"Agh! Gods!" Hiccup tried to restrain himself as Astrid treated him for as much as she was able. She wasn't being too kind about it either, much more concerned about his well-being. He tried to keep every yelp and moan and shout suppressed, but it was a nigh-impossible feat.

His wounds were bad, but at the very least his dragon armour managed to save him from being burned alive in the initial explosion.

It had been mostly blown off, though. Shrapnel of the barrels and surrounding rocks remained lodged in his body as a result. Astrid was trying to get out whatever she could see, any pieces of debris that could be removed and would only make his chances on an infection bigger.

Armed only with a little bit of water in a flask, two daggers, and barely any cloth there was only so much she could do and Hiccup wasn't being helpful.

Understandably so, the process of digging them out was a painful one. To make matters worse, an arm and a knee of his were broken. They were also both covered from head to toe in dirt and grime. A clean scene for a "minor" surgery it was not.

"Can you- Gods, Astrid, stop!" Hiccup didn't mean to snap, but he couldn't stand it anymore. He grabbed one of Astrid's hands as she worked on digging out what was stuck in his side between his ribs. He needed her to stop.

"Hiccup, I need to-"

"I'm fine, Astrid! I'm fine." Regaining his composure, he placed a hand on her cheek. She was almost compelled to believe him.

"The others will find us and you know Toothless and Stormfly are trying to get us out as we speak. Everything will be okay." He must be in so much pain. Not just because of the trap that put them in this predicament, but also because of Astrid's less than careful way of treating him. Yet, there was still this honesty in his eyes.

Astrid sat up straight. Her hands were bloody, but she still wiped her hair out of her eyes. Her braid was nearly completely undone. Her breathing was rapid, she was seething.

She wasn't angry with Hiccup, but with the trap and the Trappers that had placed it here.

Astrid held his hands.

Looking down on the larger metal piece impaled into the right side of his abdomen, her deep frown remained and she felt her stomach churn at the sight. That was the biggest cause for worry.

"Gothi's treated worse and I'm not coughing up blood. Two good things, don't forget that. We just... gotta keep it in." Hiccup told her. Although, Astrid wasn't too sure

"not coughing up blood" didn't particularly mean he wasn't in any danger, he was right about everything else.

She hated this. Hiccup was in pain and she was useless. Two things she already despised separately were now paired together. She wished she could take the hurt away.

It was silent. The campfire made through the use of wood, leftover Nightmare saliva, and the Inferno flickered on the ground near them. Astrid could feel one of Hiccup's thumbs rub the back of her hand.

It was strangely peaceful. In an unnerving kind of way.

"Hiccup, realisticly speaking, your chances-"

"Fishlegs is rubbing off on you, Astrid. Don't think about the chances, okay? I need you to believe me. What did I tell you back on the Edge? When you- when you... After you got hit by lightning?" Hiccup asked her and Astrid almost smiled at the memory. It was hard to hold it back.

"You told me that there will always be a Hiccup and Astrid. In whatever way I wanted it to mean." Though the reality of the situation didn't allow her to smile, Hiccup did so in her place. He could see her tense shoulders relax just a bit.

Astrid could've sworn she heard him mutter a quiet "good" before resting his head and gazing up at the stone ceiling above them.

Muttonhead. Hiccup was a muttonhead. With his stupid positivity, his stupid stubbornness, and his stupidly effective words. Did he have any idea what he did to her? Even after all these years? Even back when their friendship had been young and new?

It took Astrid a while, still staring at the object impaling her lover, to notice Hiccup's affectionate gesture had stopped. His grip had lightened as well.

"Hiccup?" Curiously tearing her gaze away from her current source of hatred, she looked back up to his face. Was he starting to sweat? His forehead looked slightly clammy.

"Hey, Dragon Boy." She tried again, smiling, but wasn't given a response this time either.

Panic set in.

“Hiccup? Hiccup, babe? Babe?!” His lack of an answer was terrifying to her and she gripped his shoulder.

He wasn’t even unconscious. He was just staring straight ahead, up to the ceiling of the caverns above them. The look in his eyes was blank, unfocused. That was all she could call his usually intense gaze.

They were like a dying flame. Lifeless.

“Hiccup!” Finally, he blinked a couple of times and looked back at her. That was enough to make her smile in relief, but her fear held an icy grip on her heart.

For a moment there, she thought she'd lost him.

So screw it. Screw staying realistic! She needed to hear him say it.

“Tell me, Babe. Tell me you’re going to be okay.” Astrid asked of him, tears welling up in her eyes.

They slipped when he stayed silent, unaware she even asked. He was just staring at her, visibly slipping in and out of consciousness.

What happened? He was talking and smiling just a moment ago. All sunshine and rainbows! How could he deteriorate so quickly?!

"Babe..." Her forehead met with his chest. Letting go of his hand, she cupped a cheek of his instead. His skin felt warmer than before, his temperature was rising. Was an infection already setting in?

This silence was killing her. She wanted to ask him not to leave her, to stay awake, but the words wouldn't roll off her tongue.

There was a flurry of sounds coming from the other side of the wall the cave-in had created. Help was on the way. Yet, Astrid found she could only be comforted by Hiccup telling her that he would be alright. And he was no longer speaking to her.

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cannibalisticskittles · 4 years

Text

an act of kindness, ch. 14

pairing: unknown/reader notes: [14/16?]. part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, part six, part seven, part eight, part nine, part ten, part eleven., part twelve, part thirteen, ao3 link.

Misun is the first to say what you’re all thinking:

“...there’s nothing here.”

And unfortunately, she seems to be right.

Tracking down Saeran’s coordinates has led you miles past city limits, giving you hours of tense silence and ample time to contemplate all the ways this could go wrong — and now, here you are, seeing at long last the culmination of your searching, the supposed pot of gold at the end of your rainbow, and it is… pine trees as far as the eye can see, broken up only by a poorly-maintained dirt road that forks and winds out of sight behind more trees.

Vanderwood had pulled up an aerial map of the area on the way, in between monitoring Mint Eye’s mass exodus — and sure, it looked unremarkable then, too, but surely there had to be a reason why Saeran sent you here of all places? Surely he would be here?

But he isn’t.

To your left, Misun leans forward to squint out the windshield. “Are we sure we’re in the right place?” she asks.

“This is where the coordinates led,” Vanderwood answers.

Misun worries her lower lip between her teeth before she speaks. “Then — could the coordinates be a little bit… off? They were coded, weren’t they? So could they be meant to lead up the road somewhere, or a few miles away, or… just have been decoded wrong somehow?”

“They’re not wrong.” Vanderwood’s words are firm. “Not on my end, anyway. Maybe you should be asking if your brother-in-law coded them right, or if he even sent them at all, instead of doubting me.”

“I know that’s a possibility, I’m just saying we should double-check things on our end since we can’t do anything about potential problems on his end,” Misun says.

As Misun and Vanderwood continue to bicker, Seven, who has been silent thus far, reaches to the center console for your phone — sort of a communal phone by now, you muse, watching Seven snap a picture through the windshield. He navigates to the messenger app.

“...you have a plan?” you ask.

Seven opens the once-more purged chatlog with Saeran before answering. “A thought,” he says, and sends the picture. “We’re right where he said to be. If he did send those coordinates… if it was him…” Seven hesitates. “...it would be smart to wait until he knows we’re following. To make sure Mint Eye can’t find him first.”

You nod slowly. “So… we’ve got to prove that we’re on the right track?”

Unaware of your discussion, Misun and Vanderwood are still going at it.

“Look, I’m sure you’re very good at what you do, but can you really say there’s no margin for error here?”

“Not with this there’s not!”

Seven ignores their argument. “If I’m right. I… might not be. But—” And he shrugs helplessly. “It’s what I would do in his shoes.”

“And now we just wait here until he tells us where to go from here? Or… until…” You don’t want to think about the possibility that Saeran won’t reply.

And that, at least, seems to get Vanderwood’s attention.

“How long are we waiting out here in the open?” they ask. You can’t tell if the touch of irritation in their voice is from the idea of waiting or just a lingering side-effect of arguing with Misun.

“As long as it takes,” Seven says. “So keep watching the cameras to see if anything changes there and we’ll keep watch here.”

Vanderwood clicks their tongue. “Sounds like a good way to get ambushed,” they mutter. “We still can’t confirm who sent the message.”

“No,” says Seven, “but even if it is an ambush, we can handle it. This car is bulletproof.”

“Bulletproof,” Vanderwood repeats.

“Uh-huh! So if anyone comes — we stay in the car,” Seven says, “and as long as no one opens the doors, we’ll be fine.” There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips.

Vanderwood hisses out a breath between their teeth. “You won’t catch me opening doors for cultists,” they mutter. Still, their expression relaxes minutely.

For a moment after, there is silence.

Misun is the first to break it. “So...” She begins, “if Saeran doesn’t reply, or doesn’t show up, then… what do we do, eventually? I mean, obviously, if Mint Eye bursts out of the woods and rushes the car—” Your fingers clench against your thighs at the image. “—then yeah, it’s an ambush, but if nothing happens, then… do we assume they... caught him? And then, if they have — what do we do? Do we go to Mint Eye directly?”

“There’s no guarantee he’d be there,” Vanderwood adds. “Nobody’s seen him on the cameras yet.”

The reminder is sobering. If he’s not here, and if he’s not there… if Mint Eye really is a step ahead of you… where do you go then?

“I think,” you start, and then your phone blips.

You and Seven both scrabble for your phone before you realize that he’ll actually know what to do with whatever message has popped up and you concede it to him. He unlocks it, opens it, and scans the screen.

And then he tosses it to Vanderwood. “—more coordinates.”

Relief washes over you like a wave. You and Misun both lean forward to peer at the screen over Vanderwood’s shoulder, nearly knocking heads in your haste.

It looks like a jumbled mishmash of letters and numbers, same as before, but Vanderwood stares and stares and stares until they finally say, “got it.”

They set the phone aside and switch tabs on Seven’s laptop. Mint Eye’s camera feed disappears, replaced by the aerial map they’d used to navigate to the first coordinates. They begin to type something in, looking back occasionally at the phone.

“Oh, now was it really necessary to fight me on that for so long if decoding it is that quick?” Misun complains. Vanderwood ignores her.

When they finish entering in the decoded coordinates, the view on the screen shifts slightly. “Here,” they say. “North, and… a little west.” They glance through the windshield. “Take the left path.”

And Seven does. The car goes into motion so fast that this time, you really do knock heads with Misun. There’s little time to nurse your wounds; you’re too busy feeling anxious over what’s going to happen next.

‘North and a little west’ turns out to be just a few short minutes up the path, and looks much the same as where you’d been, with the exception of a slightly denser thicket of trees lining the road. Still, Seven takes and sends another picture.

The response comes much quicker this time. Again, Vanderwood scans the mess of a message and then plugs in the resulting coordinates, making sense out of chaos.

“North, then east this time,” they say.

And off you go again.

These coordinates lead you farther away, and you are brought to another branching path — three forks instead of two.

Another picture.

A minute passes in silence, then two, then three.

“I bet the next one will take us up the left path,” Misun says. Though her words are light, her expression is grim.

“...middle,” you guess, and she gives you a thin but genuine smile for indulging in her game, as though for a moment you could pretend the stakes weren’t quite so impossibly high.

It’s not too long before the next message comes in, though of course, worry makes it feel like it takes much longer.

You and Misun were both wrong: “East,” Vanderwood says. “Take the right path.”

As you watch the trees around you grow taller, blocking out more and more sunlight, you wonder how many times one road can possibly fork.

Not many more, it turns out, as the next coordinates take you off-road. You suppose you can see why Saeran chose this area to hide out in. As the trees become denser, and the trail grows thinner, it becomes nigh on impossible to see the road from the aerial map. You’re forced to slow to a crawl, each occupant of the car scanning the path ahead from out of the windows for some break in the trees, some sign of a road that has long fallen into disrepair, obscured by years of leaves and bits of detritus.

Your current location blips away on the map, moving through the canopy of trees. Vanderwood can point out the general area where the coordinates lead, but other than the slight thinning of the forest near the location, it’s unremarkable — and without being able to see the road, there’s no way to know how, exactly, you’re going to get there. Besides, it’s unclear how much longer you can even rely on the map; Seven’s phone is starting to die. Acting as a powerful enough hotspot to keep his laptop connected to Mint Eye’s cameras is really taking a toll on it, and it’s only through a stroke of luck that it’s lasted this long.

And with the difficulties you’re having navigating into the forest, you have to assume you’ll have more or less the same amount of difficulty navigating out of it — which will complicate matters in the event that this turns out to be a trap.

Which it might be. After those first messages, there hasn’t been anything that seems distinctly Saeran. Just coordinates, plain and simple. But then, is there anyone back at Mint Eye who comes even close to Saeran’s level? Anyone who can replicate even a smidgen of his talents? And on the other, other hand, how complicated would it really be to send slightly-coded coordinates and clear out old messages?

You flex your fingers to keep from digging your nails into the soft flesh of your palms, and it’s a relief when Vanderwood finally says, “we’re getting close. Be on the lookout.”

You refocus your attention on your window, watching diligently for a break in the trees.

On and on and on you go until Misun gasps. “Oh! There, there! To the right!”

It’s a sharp turn, and the car struggles over an exposed tree root, but you watch as your blip nears the area Vanderwood marked on the map, you watch as the trees thin out ever so slightly, you watch as the light up ahead grows brighter, and then —

And then.

And then there is a cabin, small and low and nestled tightly amongst the trees that obscure it from above.

The car slows to a stop at the treeline. Within, all is still and silent.

Seven is the first to move, releasing his white-knuckled grip from the steering wheel to raise your phone in a shaky hand, snap a picture, and send it. Then he just… stares. His breath, when he lets it out, shudders.

“...that’s it, right?” Misun asks eventually. You’ll have to thank her for asking, once you remember how to speak.

“Yeah,” says Seven, so soft you have to strain to hear him. “I think so.”

He sets your phone down. Four sets of eyes turn to it. The minutes crawl by, but you can’t bring yourself to look away. You can’t bring yourself to look at the cabin, unable to bear the anticipation.

And then Seven straightens. From the mirror, you catch the look of grim determination that crosses his face.

“I’m going up to the door.”

“You’re going to leave the bulletproof car,” Vanderwood says flatly.

Seven just nods, looking resolute.

“Seven…” Misun reaches out as she exchanges a searching look with him. You miss whatever silent exchange is going on between them, but her expression is rife with unspoken emotion.

He clasps her hand between both of his. “I have to know. I have to try,” he murmurs. And then he releases her hand and leans back. “Keep the car on,” he says. “Just in case.” The rest is implied: in case it’s Mint Eye in there. In case you need to make a break for it.

He steps out of the car.

But he only gets a few steps away before the door to the cabin opens, and there, there, there is Saeran.

Standing in the doorway, unmistakably himself.

He looks not to Seven, but to the car. You freeze, unable to breathe, unable to move, unable to think. He has you pinned under the weight of his gaze.

“I—” you start, then falter. Instead, you reach for the passenger door.

“Hey—” Misun grabs at your sleeve.

You slip easily from her grasp, clutching your arm to your chest to prevent her from trying again. What could you say to explain it to her, to impress upon her the absolute urgency you feel when you look at him, the need to be there, to know that he’s real?

“Please,” is all you can manage.

Her hand drops. She says nothing, but she doesn’t try to stop you when you reach once more for the door.

You dimly register Seven, still standing right where he was when Saeran opened the door as you stumble out of the car, but then Saeran is looking at you and when he sees you — his expression softens and he smiles.

The emotion you feel at that is indescribable.

You move toward him, steps unsteady at first, then stronger until you’re fairly running to him. He opens his arms somewhere along the way and you crash into him, are swept up in him, feel his arms encircle you as he draws you to him, his cheek resting against the top of your head.

“Saeran,” you breathe. He murmurs your name into your hair and you feel tears prick at your eyes.

You throw yourself into him, winding your arms around his waist. He smells like something acrid, something bitter, something… elixir-like. You pull away with some effort so you can look at him closely. Saeran resists this change, but you’re able to pull away enough to place your hands on his face.

His eyes are bloodshot, ringed with dark circles, and his posture, never great even the best of times, leaves him slouched against you in a way that conveys absolute exhaustion — but he is steady on his feet, and as he looks at you, there is affection in his gaze, a warmth that makes your breath catch.

“...hey boss,” you say, “good to have you back.” He snorts, but the corners of his eyes crinkle.

“Hey, you,” he whispers.

From behind you comes the crunch of gravel under hesitant feet. “...Saeran.”

Saeran stiffens at the sound of Seven’s voice. “Don’t,” he says softly, grip on you tightening.

Seven enters your peripheral vision. “Saeran, there are so many things I want to ask, to say… I…”

“Don’t. Don’t say that name. I don’t want to hear it from your lying mouth.”

Seven stills. You try to turn to see him better, and Saeran crushes you to his chest. “I’m not — I didn’t lie to you. When we were kids—” You feel more than see the way Saeran’s breath stutters, the way his chest heaves. “—I meant everything I said to you. I meant it when I said I’d protect you, that I’d get us out of there together, I swear. Saeran, I thought—”

“That’s enough.” Saeran’s voice is harsh.

Seven carries on regardless. “I thought you were safe,” he pleads. “I changed my name and became a secret agent to help you. I never wanted to abandon you, but I thought that the only way we could escape our father’s reach was if we separated.”

Their father?

Saeran flinches back at Seven’s words, but then he scoffs. “Who thought of that insane idea…?”

More footsteps. Misun?

“V did,” Seven stresses. “And V promised that he and Rika would take good care of you if I left! I trusted him, but it was still so, so hard to leave you Saeran.” Seven’s voice is soft, his words pleading.

Saeran is unmoved. “That’s fairly convincing… I almost believe you. A lot of people would.” His grip on you tightens. “But I know the truth. And I won’t be fooled again.”

“I never forgot you,” Seven insists. “I never stopped thinking about you. I wasn’t supposed to find out anything about you while I was in the agency, and it was better not to know where you were in case our father… found me in spite of the agency. Or if the agency learned that I was still trying to hear about you. But I couldn’t go on without knowing you were safe, that you were happy, so… I would ask Rika how you were doing.”

Seven takes a deep breath as if to steady himself. “Two years ago, Rika secretly sent me a floppy disk, and inside were pictures of you, of your smile, and a letter she wrote me. When she told me you were doing well, that you were happy, I believed her.”

Saeran scoffs again, but he’s begun to tremble and his grip on you loosens.

“Look, I—” Seven fumbles with his jacket, eventually pulling something out of his pocket. A floppy disk. He holds it out to Saeran. “I know this doesn’t mean anything to you right now, but I swear, it’s all on there, just like I said.”

“...no,” Saeran says. “I don’t believe it.”

Misun — you can tell it’s her now — takes a step forward. “Saeran, it’s true. I’ve seen it.”

Saeran shakes his head tightly. “No. Maybe there’s something on there, but even if there is, you’ve just made it up. You’re only trying to hurt me again.” The trembling is worse now.

There is frustration in Seven’s voice. “Saeran, please, if you would just listen—”

Saeran finally lets you go, and you can see his jaw clench and his hands curl into fists as he works out what to say. He fairly bristles with anger, with indignation, with hurt.

— and then he turns away.

“I’m going inside.”

And in he goes, pushing his way into the cabin. You are left standing there, staring after the spot he occupied.

“That, ah… could have gone better,” Misun murmurs.

“And it could have gone a lot worse,” you say, remembering his occasional fits of rage at the mere mention of Seven back at Mint Eye — and at the motel, and after seeing him at the apartment.

Seven looks downright devastated. “Saeran… what happened to you…?”

You look between him and the cabin.

You can’t wait for Saeran to cool down; Mint Eye may not know where you are now, but the longer you stick around, the more likely it becomes that they’ll figure it out, and who knows how long it’ll take for him to come out on his own? But you can not let Seven keep trying to talk to him when Saeran is this riled up.

...the cabin door is ajar. There’s nothing stopping you from following Saeran.

So… you do.

“Let me try to talk to him,” you murmur, though you don’t check to see if anyone heard you before you step cautiously inside, peering through the dim light afforded through the moth-eaten curtains and the open door behind you.

There’s no need to search; it’s a small cabin, one room, a sitting area with a little kitchenette off to the side. Saeran is leaning against the wall by the far window, fingers tangled in his hair. He does not look up when you enter.

You pad across the room. He remains still, staring blankly down at the floor even when you’re right in front of him. You spend a moment in consideration.

The likelihood of him being at peace with Seven’s presence after just a few minutes to cool down is… low. The likelihood of him being at peace with Seven’s presence if you talk to him about it is also extremely low, but, well. Maybe you can at least persuade him to make it back to the car with you without any bloodshed.

Never let it be said that you cannot, on occasion, be a halfway-decent optimist.

So you shuffle over until you’re standing beside him, then gently bump your shoulder against him. “Saeran?”

It takes a long, long moment before he reacts, but finally he raises his head and looks at you. “Has he been filling your head with lies, too?”

You’d thought he was handling things rather well, all considering, but the look in his eyes now is… less than tranquil.

Rather than address the explicit question, you lean into him. “Hey,” you say, “nobody’s said anything to change my mind on you, or on anything else. I still think what I thought before, just… stronger, maybe.” Though it helps that you’d never actually held any ill will towards Seven. Perhaps you can simply gloss over that part for now. “I’m still with you. Alright?”

This seems to mollify him, and the feverish look in his eyes cools. Still, you wouldn’t exactly say he’s relaxed. He flexes his fingers at his side, eyes cast down as if he’s thinking of something to say. You bite your tongue to keep from filling the silence, and after a moment, he speaks.

“The floppy disk...” He trails off.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “He never showed me anything like what he says is on it, but I was there for less than a day. Could be real, could be not.” Based on everything you’ve seen, though, you’d put your money on real. If Rika’s running Mint Eye, she’s been around Saeran for however long he’s been there, at least, so why wouldn’t she have been able to send Seven a few pictures?

Saeran shakes his head. “It’s not real. It might look like it, but he’s good at forging believable fake information.”

“And you’d be good at identifying it as fake information,” you point out. “You could look it over anyway.”

His brow furrows.

You hold up your hands, palms up. “Hey, I said could, not should.” Though perhaps it would help. God knows the animosity he holds towards his brother isn’t going to go away without chipping away at it with anything less than a sledgehammer.

Saeran’s gaze sharpens. “Could be bugged. Likely to be bugged. And it’s fake anyway. Humoring him by taking it would just be giving him what he wants.” His hands clench into fists. “Another chance to hurt me,” he mutters.

Oh. His mood is darkening. Deflect.

So, you adopt a cavalier tone and say, “eh, it wouldn’t work though, right? You could just buy a hunk of junk computer, haul it out to somewhere remote, put in the floppy disk, and if it’s a virus or whatever, you can leave it and run without caring that the location’s been compromised, no big deal.” He snorts, and you give an exaggerated shrug. “And if the pictures are fake, you’ll figure that out, and then you’ll have the peace of mind of knowing he doesn’t have any ammo against you. You can’t buy that kind of relief. ...but yeah, I see your point.”

You lapse into silence again.

You wonder how much time you have, whether you even really have the luxury of waiting at all. Maybe Mint Eye’s been figuring out where you are all this time and they’re gaining on you. Maybe you should be urging Saeran to rush to the car right now, speeding off into the horizon. Or maybe Seven finally finished tracking Mint Eye and he’s about to come in and say he’s pinpointed the exact evacuation point and he’s already got plans to storm the place and put an end to Mint Eye all drawn up and ready.

Maybe it’s all going to be okay after all.

And then Saeran shifts. “Wait.” He’s looking towards the doorway, where you catch a flicker of movement. “That person…”

You peer closer until you make out what the movement is — Vanderwood, walking towards Seven, where he is standing in front of the cabin. Huh.

“Vanderwood,” you say. “They worked with Seven at the agency. They helped us find you. I wonder what they’re doing…?” Trying to see what’s taking so long, maybe?

For a moment, he simply watches them near, and then he pushes off from the wall and walks closer to the door, remaining just out of sight. You follow after him, curious.

“Not thrilled to be leaving the relative safety of the bulletproof car like the rest of you,” Vanderwood says when they’re within earshot of Seven, “but something’s going on with the agency.”

“What?” Seven’s voice is sharp, alert. “Have they found us?”

“Could be,” they say, somehow managing to not sound panicked. “But… it seems like something else is going on. Hell if I know what. It’s big enough to get everyone worked into a tizzy. Based on the messages—”

“Messages?” Seven asks.

They wave a hand. “Same ones I always get: threats of what will happen if I don’t get you to do your work on time. More than I usually get, though. A lot more. I’d chalk it up to the boss realizing we’re deserters, but these messages are different. The boss seems—” And they pause, as if mulling over how to describe it. “—desperate. Panicked.”

“Shit,” Seven mutters. “Can you access anything currently, other than the messages?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Right. Okay," Seven mutters. “That’s not good, but we don’t know that they’ve managed to track us down. When Saeran — when he’s back with us — you drive, and I’ll send Jumin the coordinates to the evacuation point and hack into the agency’s mainframe, see what’s going on while we put some distance between us and Mint Eye. I don’t like how close we are now.”

You hear Saeran huff beside you, and then he pushes past, stepping into the doorway. “I didn’t leave Mint Eye just to get snatched up by your secret agency,” he snaps.

Seven startles a little, whirling to face Saeran. After another moment, you step out awkwardly behind Saeran.

“If there’s a chance that someone followed you, fix it now,” Saeran says.

“I second that,” Vanderwood says. “It’s not going to be good if the agency catches us.” And then they give Saeran a once-over. “...it’s uncanny how similar you look. I can’t believe that Seven’s had a twin all this time.”

Saeran’s mouth twists. “I knew it. I knew Luciel would never mention me. He just forgot all about me to have those grand parties.”

“Saeran, that’s not—”

Saeran cuts off Seven’s protests. “Shut up. I don’t care about whatever you have to say.” His lip curls into a sneer. “I’ve already been unfortunate enough to need your help, but that doesn’t mean you get to talk to me, and it doesn’t mean I’m going to clean up your mess.”

“Saeran, we can't stay here, it’s too visible. We can fix this on the way to somewhere safe,” Seven pleads.

“Then you can fix it here just as easily,” Saeran snaps.

Seven falters. “My phone — I don’t know if there’s enough battery left to learn anything before it dies.”

“All the more reason to stay and finish the job,” Saeran says. “There’s an outlet inside.”

“There’s power here?”

“There’s a generator,” he snaps. “Make use of it, or don’t, just fix this mess you caused.” His posture is stiff, his gaze imperious. But after a moment, he relents. “Then… when it’s safe… then I’ll go with you.”

Relief flashes across Seven’s face, and he opens his mouth to reply.

“But that still doesn’t mean I’ll allow you to talk to me,” Saeran is quick to add.

Seven’s mouth closes. Vanderwood looks between the two of them and quirks an eyebrow, but says nothing.

“Now… let’s go.” Saeran looks back at you, then begins to walk.

Seven blinks in surprise and raises a hand as if to reach out to Saeran — and then he lets it drop. “Where are you going?”

“Out for a walk,” Saeran says without turning back. “Like I said, this is your mess, not mine, and since you can’t seem to shut your damn mouth, I’m moving out of earshot.”

Misun speaks up. “But wouldn’t that make you too visible? If someone’s looking for you...”

“I’ll stick to the woods,” he says. “The trees are dense, and I won’t be seen.” There is, you note, no hint of the irritation that plagued his voice when he spoke to Seven; his response to Misun is entirely polite. Interesting. Then he calls your name, and finally looks behind him. “Come on. I’m not leaving you with him.”

You stare at him, feeling a little like a deer in headlights. Do you… follow him? Just leave Seven and Misun and Vanderwood in the lurch? But then, you can’t just leave Saeran to wander alone. Part of you feels like you ought to call him back, try to get him and Seven to hash out their problems here and now. Like if he goes now, with things left unsaid, he’ll stay gone; slip away and disappear forever, off to somewhere he never has to see Seven again. The rest of you recognizes what a terrible, terrible idea that is, and of course, how can you expect years of hurt to be wiped clean all at once?

And yet there’s still a lingering touch of guilt when you take a hesitant step in Saeran’s direction.

“Um,” you say to the three pairs of eyes currently on you. “...we’ll be back? Good luck with — the agency, and all that.”

You can hear Vanderwood beginning to berate Seven as you scurry after Saeran. “Seven, you’d better tell me what the hell is going on here. This isn’t the reunion I was expecting.” Their voice fades with each step you take.

Saeran’s strides are long and purposeful, and it takes until the group and the cabin have disappeared from view for you to be able to keep pace with him.

You’re not sure if there’s any rhyme or reason to his wandering, but even so, you walk in silence for several minutes, following his lead. There’s no path to guide you — not that you’d really expected there would be, given the state of the ‘road’ leading up to the cabin — so he ducks under branches and steps over tree roots, and you shadow him, waiting for him to run out of steam.

The moment comes eventually.

His strides begin to slow, his steps lose some of that stiff purposefulness, and at last, he sighs, leans against a tree, and tips his head back against the trunk as his eyes slide shut. There’s a weariness to him that your short walk cannot account for. Whatever happened in your absence, he seems to be carrying it with him even now. God, they really did a number on him.

You shuffle awkwardly on your feet, unsure if he’s up for conversation right now or if he intends to just wait out Seven’s investigation of the agency in silence. Even if he does want to talk, he might not want to talk now, and you doubt he’d be thrilled if you immediately launched into an interrogation of what happened to him when he was back in Mint Eye. Not as a starter, anyway.

...off guard. He keeps catching you off guard. In Mint Eye, it was easier. You knew where you stood. You knew where he stood. Now… well, he’s dodging Mint Eye, and he still wants you near, and he still wants Seven to disappear, but beyond that? Hard to say.

Eventually, the silence and the wondering grows too much for you.

“A generator, huh?” You ask. “Got a pretty decent set-up going here.”

It takes him a moment to respond, but respond he does. “Someone used to live here once,” Saeran says, eyes still closed. “Why wouldn’t they make it livable?” His tone is even. Good. That’s a good sign.

“I suppose,” you say. “I guess I was just expecting something a little more rustic. Seems like anyone wanting to live so far out here would want the authentic experience.”

“Maybe,” he says. “Maybe not. They didn’t build it too off grid. It’s less than a mile off a main road and there’s a campground nearby, too.”

“Huh,” you say. You contemplate this, then ask, “how’d you know there’d be somewhere safe out here, anyway? Can’t imagine you just stumbled upon it.”

“I knew it was here,” he says. “It’s one of Mint Eye’s peripheral properties, gifted by a disciple when they came to Paradise.”

A chill runs down your spine. “So they know where this is?” You ask. “They could find us here?” Oh god, oh god, if they know you’re here, they’re coming—

But he finally looks at you and shakes his head. “The exodus is more important than reclaiming old territory, particular when it couldn’t even fit a third of Mint Eye’s believers. Later down the line, when things are settled, finding a use for it may become a higher priority, but for now, no.”

“But — won’t they come looking for you? I mean, they probably already are looking for you. And wouldn’t they start with places they know about?” You can hear the edge of panic creeping into your voice, but you can’t stop it.

He tilts his head at you. “You didn’t tell anyone about the cabin, did you?”

“We sent those pictures so you’d know when we’d reached your coordinates.” Oh, god, you sent them photo evidence of where you were.

“But in the group chat?” Saeran’s voice is firm, pulling you back to Earth.

You shake your head. “Not a word.”

“Good. Then there’s no reason for them to know.” Noting your puzzled look, he adds, “I didn’t have time to disconnect the main computer from most of the app, but my own, private messages should still be secure.”

“But — how can you know?” You protest. “What if not all their energy is going towards evacuating? What if they managed to get into your messages? What if—”

“Hey,” he says, “come here.” He beckons you to him with a sweeping wave of his arm. Your steps are wooden but you still comply, and when you’re near enough, he slings an arm around your shoulder and pulls you in close. “We’re safe,” he says. “Okay?”

You hesitate, mind swirling with thoughts of Mint Eye bursting out from the bushes.

“Okay?” he presses.

“...okay,” you say at last. “Okay.” Safe. What an odd concept.

“I’m here,” he says. “I won’t ever let anything happen to you. I swear.”

The tenseness doesn’t leave you entirely, but your shoulders relax as he rests his chin on your head. Funny how you always end up here, like this. Entangled. Using touch as an anchor point. Funny how much it comforts you. And it is kind of peaceful out here, when you let yourself soak in your surroundings. The birds chirping, the light filtering through the leaves, Saeran’s arms around you…

The moment is ruined by his phone beeping. Saeran makes a face, but reaches into his pocket anyway.

“I can’t believe you have service out here,” you remark as he scans the screen. He scowls at whatever he sees.

“‘Rescuing me…’” His lip curls.

You glance over his shoulder at the screen and, sure enough, there’s a message from Seven in the main chat, a bare-bones explanation that they are safe at the moment, still in the process of rescuing Saeran, and asking that the RFA refrains from attempting to find them. No mention of the agency.

You can see why Seven would want to update the RFA, reassure them that everything is still okay for now. You can also see how his choice of words might strike a chord with Saeran.

“Hey, c’mon,” you say, trying to avoid the old, familiar ‘Seven is the worst’ spiral. “You don’t think I look dashing enough to stage a daring rescue?” You strike a pose, as ridiculous as you can manage while kept in his embrace.

He snorts, but the look in his eyes is fond. “He isn’t. But you, yes.” And then he tilts his head. “...hmm.”

“What? Do I have something on my face?”

“Not yet.” Saeran’s smile widens, and then he dips his head and presses a kiss to your neck. You hear the telltale, shutter-like click of a picture being taken, but you don’t have time to dwell on it because in the next moment, he nips at your skin.

“Hey!” You squirm in his arms, but he holds fast. He smiles against you, and draws back just enough to lean his head against yours. There’s another shutter click. He nuzzles against you for a moment — too short, too brief, the warmth of him comforting — and there is yet another click.

“Cute,” he says as he finally loosens his grip and pulls away to look at his phone.

“Oh — well,” you say, feeling your face heat up, “not that I’m not flattered, I guess, but what was that for?” You attempt to peer at his screen but he dodges you, holding his phone to his chest. You huff.

Saeran does not relent. He squints at you, then at his screen. “Hmmm.” He fiddles with his phone, gives you another long look, then fiddles with it again.

“Saeran.” Your impatience is palpable.

Finally, though, he is satisfied with... whatever he was doing. “Here,” he says, and holds out his phone to show you—

...he’s made one of the pictures his lock screen. The pair of you, beaming on his screen, the moment of fondness now immortalized for all to see. There you are, face flushed, mouth half-open in protest, while his eyes are locked on you, obvious affection in his gaze. Your breath hitches to see such naked admiration.

It’s so… mundane, taking a picture of — and you grow bashful despite yourself — someone you care about for your wallpaper, that the last of the tension finally leaves you. Here, here is something free of Mint Eye, a sign that there will be many more Mint Eye-free moments in the coming days, and for a moment, you cannot speak, overwhelmed with relief over such a small and simple thing.

“God, I missed you,” you manage eventually.

And he chuckles. “Did you, now?” The low timbre of his voice draws a shiver from you, but you still make a face at him for the words themselves.

He’s teasing. He, who latches onto you at every opportunity like a barnacle against a ship hull — you’ll ignore the fact that you’re latching onto him just the same — feigns confusion in the face of your emotional vulnerability? The nerve.

Still, your sardonic response dies on your tongue. Why shouldn’t you be honest? There’s no point in pretending you didn’t miss him. Something simple, after all this confusion. Haven’t you earned that? Hasn’t he? And so:

“Yes,” you say. “I really, really did. I was — scared,” you admit. “Scared that maybe we wouldn’t get here in time, or that Mint Eye would find you first. I was scared that maybe it wasn’t even you sending these texts at all, that maybe Mint Eye had gotten ahold of your phone and someone was pretending to be you, or that—” You swallow back the lump in your throat and admit to the thing you had feared the most, the possibility you tried to set aside but that had instead hooked its claws deep into your belly and lingered, hanging heavy on you. “—that maybe you hadn’t wanted to go with me after all and it was you sending those messages, but you were just… luring me back in, I guess. Tying up loose ends.”

He wraps both arms around you. “You’re not a loose end.”

Your breath catches in your throat. Tears threaten to spring forth when you manage to loose it. “Yeah? Well. I’m glad to hear it. I’m — I’m glad you’re here. Part of me just can’t believe you’re here right now. Like you’re going to disappear if I take my eyes off you for too long.”

He gives a soft laugh. “I’m here. I’m real. And I’m not going anywhere anymore.”

After all the running and hiding and waiting and hoping… he’s here. Now you’ve just got to take care of the… substantial threats that could change that. You shake your head against him as you remember. “I can’t believe,” you say, more than a little rueful, “that on top of everything else, on top of Mint Eye and Seven’s agency — which would be bad enough on its own — there’s someone else after you that we’ll have to look out for? How could I not worry?”

He pulls away slightly, and when you look at him, his brow is furrowed. “Someone else?”

“Seven said—” you begin, by way of explanation.

Saeran’s eyes darken. “I imagine he said a lot of things.”

“—that there was someone who wanted to hurt you and then you also said — damn it, Saeran, you know—” You hesitate, but… oh, just go for it. “You know, if you want me to hear the truth of everything that happened not through Seven’s framing, you could tell me yourself.”

He draws in a sharp breath.

You try again, as gently as you can. “I’m not trying to dredge up old, bad memories, but… y’know. I’m here and ready to listen, if you wanna talk about it.”

Saeran watches you, considering. “No,” he says. You wince. He pulls you closer, holding you to his chest. “But I do want you to know.” He rubs his thumb idly against your arm as he thinks. “First… tell me what he told you.”

“Oh. Okay,” you say, “simple enough. Let’s see…” You rack your brain. “Well. To start with, he didn’t tell me this, exactly, I figured it out on my own, but… you and Seven are brothers. Twins.” Even now, you speak carefully, hesitant to bring to light their connection when any connection to Seven is something to loathe in Saeran’s eyes. “That’s why you didn’t let me look at any of his pictures, isn’t it?”

A terse nod. That’s as good of a reaction as you could hope for. You keep going.

“So then… Seven said that before the, ah, incident at the apartment, it’d been eight years since he saw you. That you and he had… a less-than-ideal childhood—” Saeran snorts derisively, but lets you continue. “—and that you’ve known V since before you parted. And way back then, V told him that if he joined the agency, that would keep him safe, but they wouldn’t allow him to keep in contact with his family. So V promised Seven that he would keep you safe. Ah, and I guess Rika did too, and she told him you were doing well a few years ago, but you heard that. That was the first I’d heard about any letter or pictures, though he did say he had something he thought might convince you he was telling the truth. He might’ve meant that. Seven also talked about V maybe being involved with Mint Eye—”

“He isn’t,” Saeran says.

“Well, Seven figured he was, based on finding Mint Eye blueprints in Rika’s apartment,” you say. “Though, then I saw a picture of her and recognized her as the Savior, so… that could explain it. Still seems like V knew something about Mint Eye, given how insistent he was that no one look at anything in the drawers, so… maybe he just knows Mint Eye exists and Rika was involved somehow and he’s covering that up? I wonder if Rika supposedly being dead has anything to do with that…”

“He’s always been a liar,” Saeran says mildly, though the frown is back. “Does anyone else know?”

“Besides me, Seven, and Misun? Ah, and Vanderwood, who doesn’t really care. The rest of the RFA knows we found something to do with Mint Eye, so they know V was trying to hide that, but… not about Rika. No one else knows about her yet. We thought… Seven thought… it would be too much for them right now.”

Saeran nods. “That may be the case.” He casts his eyes upward. “Betrayal is not easy to recover from.”

You peer at him closely as you mull over your next question, then ask, “So… it really is Rika, right? The same Rika who looked after you as a kid decided that keeping you safe meant dragging you to Mint Eye…?” Was that why he looked up to her so much? He’d already thought of her as someone who cared for him when she — proposed Mint Eye to him, or brought him there, or however it happened?

But Saeran just shakes his head. “Tell me what else Seven said.”

“Ah. Right. Okay.” Much as it pains you to leave the subject unexplored. “...safety. Seven told me that being safe, and taking drastic measures to make sure that was the case, mattered because someone wanted you dead. Guessing that’s… your dad, based on what you said at the cabin.” He nods. “According to Seven, that may be an ongoing problem. Seven thinks he’s still looking for you. Said we’d have to be careful, whatever else we did, because if word about you got out, it would… end badly.”

“...he is,” Saeran says. “He’s still looking for me. For us.” The disgusted curl of his lip does nothing to quell the way your stomach lurches with sympathetic horror.

You suck in a breath through your teeth. “I—” What can you say? You can’t even imagine what that would be like. “I…” You look down and he pets your hair reassuringly. How in the world did he end up comforting you?

“Well,” you say eventually. “There’s… not much else, actually. That’s about all he said. I still don’t know why your dad wants to kill you, or what we’re going to do about that, or how you or Seven know V, or why V knew about the agency, or why he thought that would help, or why Seven went through with it if he thought V could keep you safe without it, although obviously V failed at that, the lying bastard—” Your breath escapes you in a shaky burst. Focus. Calm yourself. “But, um, that’s what I know, little though it is.”

When you finish, he is silent. You want to prompt him, remind him of what he said, but… if he’s going to talk, it shouldn’t be because he feels like he needs to. Your curiosity shouldn’t take precedence when it comes to his trauma.

“The truth,” Saeran whispers at last, “is so much more than that. Seven... Luciel… only sounds sympathetic because he leaves out what he did. The rest of the truth.”

Saeran takes a deep breath. “The word wrong doesn’t even begin to describe what he did. He abandoned his little brother who absolutely trusted him and ran away to save himself.” And then his eyes go slightly hazy as a smile creeps up his face. “Oh, no, I said it wrong. It’d be more exact to say that he comfortably used his brother who absolutely trusted him to run away on his own.”

The things he’s said before ring in your ears, full of words like betrayal and shithole and nowhere else I belong.

“He said he left me with V, to be safe…?” Saeran scoffs. “He didn’t care whether or not V took care of me. He didn’t care if anyone did. He never bothered to check. And he has said... so many things he didn’t mean. Back then, he told me—” He cuts himself off with a bitter laugh. “He told me his plan was to work and work and work until he had enough money to escape with me. And I…” Saeran’s voice grows quiet. “When I was young... I thought that I would probably die before I become an adult. In that hellish house… I couldn’t imagine any other end for me. But when he said that… I started to believe in hope. I started to believe that maybe I wouldn’t die before that day after all, and I would escape that place with him.”

And though you know how this story must go, you feel a stubborn, senseless flicker of hope. As though the tale will suddenly change, and he’ll tell you that he was right and they got out and he was safe and he was happy, or — that there was some bright spot in his dismal past, something better than the nightmare he’s lived. Nonsensical as the thought is, it makes his next words hurt all the more.

“But I was naïve. It was all lies. The whole time, I know exactly what he was thinking.” Saeran adopts a singsong voice. “‘Oh,’ he thought, ‘I can use weak Saeran as bait and escape that monster of a mother!’” You jolt. Monster of a mother? “‘For now, I’ll take care of him because I feel bad for him... and when I see him suffer because of how weak he is, I feel like I’m living a better life. But one day I’ll leave this place, team up with V to create the RFA, have parties, chat online, and have fun! Saeran is just a burden… Yeah! I’ll feel much better if I just disappear without a word~!”

You wince at the excited flourish in his voice as he ends his imagining.

“And one day, he went out… and he didn’t come back. At first, I looked for him… the sun came up and morning came in that hell, but he wasn’t there. I was so worried. I worried that he might be dead, that our father got to him… I cried for days. No matter how many times that woman strangled me—” You stiffen in shock. “—hit me, threatened me for being noisy, that weak, naïve me cried for days missing him. And all the while, I asked myself, ‘did he leave because he was sick of me? Was he mad at me? Still, he’ll come back. Yes, he’s got to come back, he’s my brother… my brother… my brother…!’”

His hands clench into fists. “I thought he was dead. But… once I found out that he was alive, the shock…” A breathy laugh. “I can’t put it into words. I thought he was hurt. Dead. That he would never abandon me, knowing what it would do to me. But he did. He used his own brother to escape that hellish house, he left me there to be—” His hand flutters up to his neck. Your heart aches for him. “Without the Savior...” He hesitates. “Without Rika, I would have lived a miserable life with that woman and starved to death with shackles on my ankles.”

“That woman… your mother…” Your voice shakes. “Your mother was the cause of so much of your pain? Not your father…?”

“Oh, he wants me dead. I’m a stain on his reputation, and it would be better for him if I never existed at all. And since that’s not true, the next best thing is to make sure I stop existing.” So easily he says it, as though it’s just a simple fact of life. And… for him, it must be. “But it was that woman that made life a living hell. Nothing was ever good enough. I was never good enough. She…” He looks down. “I couldn’t bear it. But I had to bear it. Each and every day. So there,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Now you know. Now you know the truth.”

The truth…

Truth is a funny thing. You believe Seven when he says he left because he wanted to protect Saeran. In fact, you’re inclined to believe Seven in most everything he says; he may not have been entirely upfront with you, given that he didn’t tell you it was his father that was pursuing the both of them, but he was honest about not being able to tell you that.

But you also believe Saeran when he speaks of the pain he’s endured, that Seven has caused him. And regardless of Seven’s intent, or anyone else’s… that pain is there. It exists.

And to have so many sources of pain… his father, his mother, his brother, a cult …

“Saeran…” Tears spring to your eyes. Once again, you are speechless. You can do nothing to soothe the old wounds, nothing but wrap your arms around him and try not to sob into his chest.

“I’m… glad you know now.” He’s getting teary now. He sniffles, then says, “I’m not that weak little Saeran he used to know. I’m not.” His voice cracks on the last syllable.

You cup his face. “No,” you say, “no, you’re not weak.” You tremble. “I don’t think you ever were.”

A noise escapes him, soft and wounded but somehow grateful. He presses his forehead to yours.

And so you stand, trembling against each other, both nearly weeping and awash with the terrible and wonderful sensation of understanding.

“Please,” you say when the tears have dried and you are able to find your voice once more. “Let’s go. Let go together. I’m ready to close out this chapter of running and looking over my shoulder. I want to leave that behind and just… be safe. And I am,” you say, “so ready for you to be happy.” He is so, so close to being free from the first of his tormentors, and your heart thrills to think of it.

Still red-eyed, he takes your hand in his and just holds it for a moment. “...alright,” he says. “Together.”

And you begin the journey back.

As you wind through the trees hand-in-hand, hoping you remember the way back, you speak. “Hey…are you going to be okay? We’ve still gotta… work together. We’re not out of the woods yet.” And then you realize yourself. “I mean—”

“Obviously.” But there’s a faint smile on his face.

“Yeah, yeah, smart aleck.” It’s said with the utmost affection, glad that he’s of a mind to tease after… everything. “I just mean, are you going to be okay? With having Seven near?”

His face twists and he grunts in response. “No other option. I don’t want anything to do with him,” Saeran mutters. “But you… I’ll endure it. For you. As long as he doesn’t try to talk to me again.”

“Mmh.” He probably will. Well, he definitely will at some point; there is no future you can imagine in which Seven is at all okay with just letting Saeran slip through his fingers now that he’s found him again. But maybe he won’t try until after you’ve gotten somewhere safe.

“...we’ll have Misun as a barrier,” you say at last. If Seven is tempted to repeat his earlier attempts at conversation, Misun may be able to dissuade him, or at least redirect the flow of it. “Ah, and you’re… fine around her, right?”

“Misun?” He tilts his head at you. “Besides her terrible taste in partners, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Nothing to say about the bite?” There are still faint pink marks on his skin from the mostly-healed bite gained during their last encounter. You run your thumb along these, feeling the slightly-puckered skin.

“Her reaction was… understandable.” He flexes the fingers of his previously-bitten hand against yours as if remembering. “If not unfortunate.”

“You’re very forgiving.”

“I try to be,” he says. “To those who deserve it.”

Charitable.

You walk in silence for a while longer until you notice his pace slow. When you glance at him, he’s checking his phone. “Any word?”

There’s a moment before he responds, distracted by whatever he’s looking at. “...no. Not yet.”

“Huh,” you say. “Well, hopefully it’s all taken care of and they just haven’t wanted to bother you.”

He shrugs and slides his phone back into his jacket pocket. Before it disappears, you catch sight of his lockscreen again.

“...I wanna see those other pictures you took later,” you say.

“They were blurry.” He gives you a look, pointed but amused. “Someone wouldn’t stop squirming.”

“Hey, that is not my fault,” you complain. “You try staying still when someone’s biting your neck.”

His eyes light up and a wicked grin grows on his face.

“Not an invitation,” you groan. “They’ll come looking for us if we stay out too long, and I have no desire to be caught in flagrante delicto.” But all it takes is the barest hint of a pout to get you to relent. “...next time, maybe. When we take a pic for my phone.”

He hums a contented note and swings your linked hands. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Yeah, I bet you will.” But you can’t help the fondness in your voice.

As you get closer to the cabin, you come to be aware of something else, something past the sound of leaves crunching underfoot. There is noise up ahead. A car engine? They must be waiting for you. You hope they haven’t been waiting too long. If they’re already back in the car, though, that’s a good sign that they’ve figured out whatever’s happening with the agency.

“Sounds like they’re ready to go,” you say. “Good. I’d hate to wait out here in the open. I’ll feel better once we’re somewhere I know no one can... follow…”

You think, at first, that you’re imagining it, your worst fears realized before your eyes, and so your feet carry you forward numbly while your voice stalls out, noise without meaning.

Cars, black and shiny and not supposed to be here. Disciples in robes.

Found, found, found.

“Saeran.” His name comes out strained, strangled. You begin to regain control of your body, coming off autopilot and digging in your heels. “We have to go,” you whisper. “We have to run, now, before they see—”

But his hand, still in yours, pulls you forward.

You can hear voices now, stern commands amidst shouts of protest. Vanderwood is being led out of the cabin, arms held behind their back by two disciples guiding them to one of the cars. From the voices coming from inside the cabin, you can assume that there are yet more of Mint Eye’s believers within.

Surrounded. You are surrounded.

“S-Saeran...?”

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, “you’re okay. You’re with me. I’ll keep you safe.”

Oh.

Oh, no.

“Saeran…” Your throat is dry. Your feet are lead. The sound of your heartbeat is deafening. “Why...?”

“Why would you be safe? Why would I ever not want you to be safe?” There’s a touch of amusement in the way he smiles. It fades when you do not play along and remain aghast. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I wanted to be honest with you from the start, but I knew you’d never listen if I did. This was the only way to fix everything. But you are safe with me. I would never lie to you about that. I’ll never lie to you again.”

“You—”

A disciple turns, hearing your approach, maybe, and makes as if to move toward you — but despite your heart leaping into your throat, they do naught but bow their head in deference to Saeran.

And that’s what really clinches it — that of course, of course, of course they wouldn’t see him as a threat, of course they wouldn’t restrain him like the others. That though your stomach hollows out, you are not surprised. That this is only confirmation of what you’d already suspected — maybe already known on some level.

And if you have been promised honesty, then you may as well take it.

“You called them.” Your voice leaves you in a breathless whisper. “And back at the motel, you called them then, too. You were never going to leave Mint Eye behind.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. There is grief in his eyes, in the set of his brow, the twist of his lip. “I know this must be hard for you.” He does not dispute it. It is as a dagger in your heart.

He stops walking now, paused at the edge of the clearing, bidding you to wait with him as well. To observe? To give you time to absorb this information? As though it helps. Watching more disciples lead a struggling Misun from the cabin only makes the sting of this betrayal — because that’s what it is, isn’t it? — even keener.

“You c-c-called them.” You stutter out the words with effort, bitter as they are in your mouth. “You brought them here.” All those things you feared back at the motel, when you saw Mint Eye there, turning out to be true. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes and you blink them furiously back.

“I thought—” And a laugh escapes you because it’s so absurd now. Didn’t you know? Couldn’t you see? “I thought I — I — got through to you, I thought—” That he wanted to be with you enough to forsake Mint Eye. That you managed to undo their programming all at once.

“You did,” he assures you. You have to bite back another laugh. Clearly, you didn’t. “You showed me how much you care, how far you were willing to go for me.” His eyes shine with emotion. “You just didn’t see how good Magenta could be. And that’s my fault. You came at such a momentous time, and I was so focused on preparing for the endless party... it had to be done, of course, but to you, unfamiliar with Magenta, I understand how such devotion could seem… a burden.”

“A burden—?” As if that’s all it was. As if months, years, of sequestering himself to better invite others into a drug-happy cult warranted nothing more than a footnote, merely a minor inconvenience, easily overlooked.

“I know, I know,” Saeran soothes. “I know how it could seem that way. The long hours spent in service to paradise, the isolation that provided focus for the many tasks to complete that left so little time to bask in the Savior’s presence and learn from her sermons, having to watch over those who hurt me…" His jaw clenches momentarily, but then he relaxes and chuckles softly, reaching up to cup your cheek again. “You thought that was all it was. You thought the Savior was using me.” He makes it sound as though the idea is absurd, and not the absolute truth you know it is. “I understood the necessity. I knew the rewards that such diligence would bring us all, the peace that awaited those meant to join us at the endless party. But you… how could you know, when you were so new, so uninformed? How could you know without ever being shown?”

You feel numb. Or, no — you feel sick. Would he cut his explanation short if you vomited on his shoes? You think you understand the gist of it anyway.

“You have not yet seen the bliss that Paradise brings to those who were lost, the relief they feel to finally cast aside their painful lives and belong somewhere, to feel the endless love of the Savior. But you will. And once you see that we only want what’s best for everyone, then you’ll understand that it is safe there, and you’ll be happy. I’ll be with you, we’ll be together, and everything will be fine. Nothing will ever come between us again. And the savior—”

“Rika,” you say. A dead woman pulling the strings of a cult.

“The savior —” he persists.

“But that is who she is.” You can be just as stubborn. And if you’re going to be facing hell again, you can face it with answers. “The founder of the RFA. She knew you years ago, she looked after you, and she dragged you there with her. And because she made the RFA, now she has you targeting them, too.”

A sigh, and then he says, “She knows their pain better than anyone. She knows they need to be saved. And she knew I needed to be saved.”

“So why not just extend the invitation personally? She knows them, they know her, what’s stopping her from just asking them to join herself without all the secrecy?” Besides the greatly-exaggerated rumors of her death.

“Seven.” His lip curls. “He would pull them away with his lies.” And then he shakes his head, his anger fading. “Regardless of what you call her, she will understand your lapse of faith. She knows that you just needed more time to allow Mint Eye into your heart. And we’ll have all the time in the world now. She will forgive you for your mistake and welcome you back into Paradise.” And then he frowns. “She should be here by now… perhaps inside…?” He starts forward, toward the cabin.

While he’s distracted you could — make a break for it. Tear your hand from his grasp and run back into the woods. Sure, you’d be lost, but you could outrun them for a while. A good long while, most likely. He’d never catch you with those string bean legs of his, though one of the disciples might be able to. But… you do not.

You just trail behind him.

And then Seven emerges from the cabin, flanked by a pair of disciples, defeated. Saeran stops in his tracks, eyes alight with satisfaction.

“At last,” he murmurs. He sounds almost awed.

Seven is stiff in their grasp, but he resists still, in a way, scanning the area around him desperately — and when he catches sight of Saeran, his eyes go wide with surprise, then dismay, then outright panic. “Saeran!” he cries.

Saeran bristles, and he grimaces when Seven lurches toward him.

“Saeran, V—”

One of the disciples escorting him hisses a command to be silent and jerks Seven’s arm, pulling him away from Saeran.

Saeran is no longer delighted. “Shut up,” he hisses. And then his eyes narrow. “Did you say—” He follow Seven’s gaze, now directed at the other, silent disciple, and stiffens. “...you. Remove your hood.” His voice is low. Wary. Dangerous.

A moment of hesitation, and then the disciple complies, revealing—

Mint hair. Mint eyes.

“—you.” Surprised. Stunned. Then enraged. “Where is the Savior? Why are you here?!”

V is silent. Whether he has nothing to say or just cannot find the words doesn’t really matter, you suppose, because, either way, Saeran doesn’t give him much time before he speaks again, demanding answers.

“What did you do to the Savior?!” Saeran takes a step towards V, hands clenching into fists at his side.

“...the Savior sent me to lead them to Magenta.” V’s voice is soft when he finally speaks. “I’ve received orders to bring you all to Mint Eye.”

“Orders—?!”

“Saeran, you didn’t know?” Seven sounds plaintive.

“Shut up!” Saeran snarls, then jabs a finger at V. “And you shut up, too! Why are you here instead of the Savior?” He doesn’t seem to see the contradiction in his commands.

V is uncowed in the face of Saeran’s aggression. “Because the savior chose me… she said I had to be the one to send the message.” That last part is almost whispered.

Saeran seems to be processing this statement.

“I don’t like this,” he mumbles at last. There’s a ragged edge to the words. “But we’ll return to Magenta first.” He straightens, and it’s like he’s shrugged on that aura of authority again. “…disciples.” With that one little word, the robed disciples stand at attention. “They’ve been checked? All of them?” He very pointedly directs his question beyond V.

The disciple at Seven’s left nods. “We have checked them for weapons and any contraband that could be used against Magenta.”

“Their phones?”

Another nod. “Yes, we’ve cleared them of anything they could use to communicate. He was trying to send out coordinates.”

You feel a slight spark of hope at those words, but this is dashed when Seven shakes his head. No success. No help coming.

“Give his to me.”

The disciple complies, pulling it from the folds of his robes.

Saeran looks at it in his hands, turning it over. He squeezes it tightly, still staring. And then he drops it to the ground and crushes it underfoot. It makes a final-sounding crunch. He looks back up. “Take him,” he says. “Prepare to depart.”

You jolt as a hand closes around your arm from behind. You didn’t even know there was someone behind you.

But Saeran pulls you to him protectively, tucking you into his side. “No,” he says. “Not them. I will escort them. But the others — ensure they are prepared for the journey.”

When V starts to move, making as though he’s going to continue escorting Seven, Saeran stops him. “Don’t think of doing anything else, V.” His voice is sharp.

“He does not trust you,” says the disciple behind you. “We will take care of the nonbelievers without you.”

And V bows his head, conceding. Only then do the believers force Seven forward, into the car.

Saeran mutters as he pulls you along, away from Seven, away from V. “I don’t care what orders he has. V is in charge of nothing. V is worth nothing. A traitor has no place in the Savior’s eyes. He’ll know that soon.”

He speaks of betrayal when he has done this to you. When he has lied to you, given you hope only to snatch it away. Numbness stills your tongue, prevents you from giving voice to this irony. It wouldn’t matter anyway.

You toss one last look over your shoulder at V as Saeran pulls you away. What do you feel as you look at this man? A man who knew Saeran — and Seven — as children, a man who proclaimed the death of a still-living woman, a man who is standing before you in cult colors now, sending a message to those he’d once sworn to protect?

There is — sorrow on his face, but from what? He’s one of Mint Eye’s believers. And how long has he believed? All this time? Was this his plan? Their plan, his and Rika’s? Why does he look sad, then? And what right does he have to feel like that when he’s here, dragging you all to paradise?

What right when Saeran’s voice wavers so and his hand trembles in yours?

The second car starts. The door lies open. Your turn now.

A believer bids Saeran take his place at the front, and you prepare to climb into the cage-like back of the car alone. As you do, though, he slides in beside you, and there he stays as the car begins its journey to bring you back into the belly of the beast — by your side, hand gripping yours so tight it’s painful.

Despite everything, you don’t pull away.

#saeran #mystic messenger #saeran choi #saeran route fic tag #mine

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