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syrupgirl · 1 year

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warnings:

descriptions of blood(like fr), mentions of death, i call neteyam’s injury ‘a hole in the chest’, my very limited knowledge of medical procedures(both human and na’vi), me changing the severity of his injury probably, that’s it methinks?

a/n: this one just fell out of me. a fix it fic if you will.

Lie si oe Neteyamur -Neteyam

“You cannot rush this, daughter.” Your mother says as she strokes your head.

It has been days since the battle. Many lives were lost, even more injured. And as selfish as it is, you mind would not drift away from one person.

Neteyam.

You had been in charge on taking care of the injured that were brought back to the village. Being a Tsahik in training, you mother deemed it essential to have experience in real conditions to feel the pressure you would be carrying until you passed on the status to the best Tsahik.

After countless gruelling hours of tending to the wounded, you heard your name being called from the shore. After passing of your patient off to your partner, you down ran to the beach, only to be greeted by a sight you never thought you would have to see.

“Neteyam?!”

Sand kicked out from under your hurried feet as you approached Tsireya who had a bleeding Neteyam attached to her side.

“H-he..He was shot! It went straight through h-him.” The poor girl was hysterical. The blood of her friend covered her hands and even some of her stomach.

Neteyam himself looked terrible. His complexion was blanched and his eyes could barely stay open. Across his chest, he looked to be wrapped in seaweed, probably to stop the bleeding. You guessed that once you undid the bindings you would also find sea moss plugged in the wound as well. Curtesy of your sister, you guessed.

As much as you wanted to curl up and cry until you couldn’t anymore, Neteyam didn’t have that time. Right now, you weren’t Neteyam’s…friend..You were the one in charge of saving his life, in charge of his healing, and, if all went well, his recovery.

“Here, give him to me, I will take him to our marui.” You shouldered his body and he groaned. “Yes, yes, I know and I’m sorry.”

Neteyam didn’t seem to be capable of conversation but keeping him conscious was your top priority until you could get your remedies.

It was a struggle up the shore but you made it, with Tsireya stumbling behind. You lay him down as gently as you could.

“Neteyam? Neteyam, can you hear me? It’s yn.”

You spoke to him as you checked his body for any other injuries. Anything that would make it more difficult to deal with the hole in his chest. Nothing turned up so you continued to speak to him.

“Neteyam? I’m going to unwrap your chest now, it will hurt but I need to to stay with me, okay?”

He was awake but you had no idea if he was actually hearing anything you were saying. With a deep breath, you slowly started to unwrap his chest.

You weren’t ready for what greeted you.

The tight wrappings had slowed down the bleeding but there was still so much. It covered your palms and wove itself between your fingers. You heart was beating out of your chest and you got closer and closer to his naked chest.

Neteyam was moaning and muttering above you but you didn’t want to take your eyes off his injury.

“Tsireya? Is he still awake?” You asked your sisters, fingers still working on the makeshift bandages.

“Uh..uhm.” She knelt down closer to his face. “Yes, I think h-he is.”

“We need to keep him with us, as much as it will hurt him, we cannot risk him slipping away.”

Tsireya nodded and started to try make conversation with him. “Your brother still needs you, he is lost but he needs you to bring him back.”

You felt yourself tear up at her words. It was not just his brother who still needed him.

After discarding the seaweed in a pile, you came face to face with the bloody mess. Fortunately, it didn’t seem to be bleeding as much as it was before and just like you thought, there was a large clump of sea moss packed around the wound. You picked it up as gently as possible and the boy above you jerked.

“It- it hurts!” He whined and you put a hand gently on his shoulder.

“I know and i’m sorry but it is what needs to be done.”

He didn’t respond after that but kept whining in pain and wriggling slightly.

“Tsireya-” your sister looked up and you handed her a tightly woven basket, “-fill this with water.”

She nodded and takes it from your hands hurriedly. You use the sea moss to clean up the sight as much as you can before putting is next to the seaweed.

In record time, Tsireya ran back to your side, handing you the basket now filled to the rim.

“Thank you, sister.” You said. You brings your hands up to her face and she closed her eyes. “Be calm, he will live, i’m sure of it.” She meets your gaze again and sniffs. You try to give her a reassuring smile before turning back to Neteyam.

With the basket in hand, you shuffle up next to his shoulder. As slowly as you can, you tip the container forward and watch the water wash into the hole in his chest. The blood melts off of him as the water takes its place.

Neteyam sounded like he was downright sobbing and you hear Tsireya whisper to him, “Be still, Neteyam. You are in good hands.”

You hoped she was right.

It had taken many hours of tears and screams but you had managed to bring Neteyam back to where he was stable. He now rests in his family’s marui like he has been for days, surrounded by the love of his family.

And as much as you want to see him, you know better than anyone how important family is in times like these. They need space.

“You did a great thing, without you, my love, the loses would have been so much greater.” Your mother is known for her stone cold resolve and tough exterior but you wouldn’t have it any other way. She loves you and your siblings in her own way. “I feel so proud knowing I chose you to take my place as Tsahik of this village once I return to our great mother.”

“Thank you, mother. It is a great honour.” She smiles down and you and holds you closer.

That night you cannot sleep, opting you go for a swim, a now common occurrence since the battle. You lie of your back, floating on the surface and looking up to the sky. You remember your father telling you that Jake Sully was from one of the distance stars. How fascinating.

Small waves lap underneath you. A small light shoots across the sky. Everything is still.

Well it is until someone dives in next to you.

You’re so surprised, you slowly a mouthful of water.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” It’s Lo’ak’s voice you hear while dying cough out all of the water from your mouth.

“It is okay,” You splutter, turning to face him. “Why do you come to me, Lo’ak?”

He looks down into the water and it is silent for a beat. “To thank you. I should have done it sooner and I apologise, but I just couldn’t..couldn’t-”

“Leave him?” You interrupt him and he nods. “I understand. After something so major, your family needs to heal. That includes you.” The sound of lapping water fills the silence between you.

“That’s not the only reason i’m here.” He continues. You look up to him again, slightly confused. “Neteyam, he has been asking for you.” Your eyes widen a little. “While our parents aren’t around, he asks us where you are and how he still has to thank you.”

It’s a bit sill, but you can feel small tears well up in your eyes; he’s been asking for you?

“Since his..injury, he has been moved into a separate marui to heal and he asked if I would bring you there.”

Now you feel like laughing; this whole time while you have been aching to see him, he has been feeling the same.

“I would like that, Lo’ak.” You sniffed and Lo’ak grins.

“I had a feeling you would.”

Before you reach Neteyam’s marui, Lo’ak decides to go back to his family’s marui. You try to insist that he joins you but he flat out denies and just grins while he walks away.

When you arrive to the doorway and look inside, you see Neteyam sitting up against the side of the dwelling.

“Neteyam?” His head immediately spins your way and there is a big smile on his face. It is contagious.

“yn, it’s so good to see you!” He whispers as you kneel next to him.

“How are you feeling? Should you be sitting u-”

“I knew that would be the first thing you ask me.” His smile gets even bigger and again, you match it.

“I’m sorry, force of habit.” You both chuckle. “Was there any reason you wanted to see me?”

“I want to thank you, for saving me.” You are about to tell him that you were just doing your job but he keeps going, “I was..I was so scared. I felt like a little kid again. But when Tsireya brought me here, to you…I knew that I would be okay.”

“Oh Neteyam…” Your eyes well up with tears and Neteyam out his hands on your cheeks.

“I’m sorry, i didn’t mean to make you cry.” His thumbs caught the tears that rolled down your cheeks.

You suddenly wrap your arms around his neck. “I have been so worried for you Neteyam…” Your words are muffled against his skin and he can feel the vibrations echoing up his neck. Neteyam hesitates, before wrapping you up into his embrace. Silence blanketed the two of you, interrupted only by the sound of your occasional sniffles and the waves breaking against the beach.

Neteyam is the one to finally shatter it.

“While I was out there, I fought as hard as I could…To defeat our enemies, yes, but also…I knew that, whatever happened, I had to get back here,” He brings a hand up to your face that is still planted in his shoulder and lifts it gently. “I was so scared…”

Your eyes flutter close and another tear slips down your cheek, down past your quivering lips.

“But when Tsireya brought me here, to you.” A smile weaved itself into his voice and you looked up to him. “I knew that I was going to be okay.”

Neteyam looks like he is crying now and you can’t bear it.

“Oh Neteyam..I’m so happy that you’re okay.” You lean forward and rest your forehead again his.

“The great mother is not ready to meet me yet.” He chuckles and you let out a watery laughter with him.

In this moment, all is well, all is calm. He is here. With you.

You wouldn’t have it any other way.

Your dear Neteyam.

#not beta read #avatar fanfiction #could be riddled with mistakes #avatar #avatar x reader #neteyam x reader #avatar imagine #avatar way of water #jake sully #lo’ak #neteyam #neteyam x metkayina!reader #tsahik!reader #tsireya sister!reader #neteyam imagine #neteyam x you #neteyam x y/n

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fourfoldfires · 12 days

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some friends drawn from memory!

#ffxiv #shadowbringers #urianger augurelt #y'shtola rhul #thancred waters #alphinaud leveilleur #alisaie leveilleur #ryne waters #vayne's art tag #oh FUCK me i got the twins' hair fwoops the wrong way around. rookie mistake 😔

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miasmaghoul · 2 months

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moutaindew frotting <3

"You smell different."

Dew offers a questioning chirp, lays his head back on Mountain's chest to peer up at him. Water splashes against the sides of the tub, carries the sweet-scented suds over the sides to drip onto the tiled floor below. Mountain noses at his temple, sniffs at his soaked hair.

"How can you tell?" Dew settles back against his chest, stretching sore legs with a groan. "All I smell is oranges 'n dirt." Mountain snuffles against his ear and Dew squawks, slaps at his leg under the water. "Quit it, you weirdo."

Mountain ignores him for the most part, and Dew doesn't have the energy to balk at the attention. They'd spent a large portion of this sweltering summer day in the orchards, picking peaches and citrus by the bushel. Delivering some to the kitchens and the rest to the truck waiting by the greenhouse, all destined for the abbey's farmstand in one form or another. Dew hadn't minded the work, but it left him with jelly legs and a crunchy spine that demanded a nice warm soak.

Thankfully, Mountain hadn't objected to his request for a piggyback ride to get there.

"You need a better nose," the other ghoul rumbles, dragging the tip of his nose from the crown of Dew's head to the base of one horn. "What hair treatment did you use?"

Dew shrugs, letting his eyes slip shut. Resting one hand over the arm Mountain has looped around his waist and the other on a muscular thigh. Mountain's other arm rests on the rim of the bath, fingers swirling through the surface of the water. It's started to go cool, and Dew sighs.

"Dunno."

The little ghoul up his temperature until the tub is steaming again, pouring warmth into the broad body behind him as a bonus. Mountain clearly appreciates it, judging by the way he holds him a little tighter. Task accomplished, Dew waves at the bevy of bottles on the shelves next to the tub.

"Whichever one's in front," he mumbles, tipping his head when the other ghoul moves to sniff at his neck instead. "Didn't care what I got, just needed the gross gone."

Mountain chuffs, warm breath flowing over his wet skin. Dew hums with it, a sound that melts into a gentle exhale when Mountain presses his lips to the sensitive spot just below his ear.

"The blue one?"

"Maybe?" Dew strokes the soft skin of Mountain's thigh, an unconscious motion that mirrors the way Mountain's lips travel down his neck, across his shoulder. "Maybe green. Why, s'it smell bad?"

"Far from it, droplet," Mountain assures him. "Just...interesting. Different, but familiar."

Well that explains a lot.

"Are you tellin' me I stink or - ah!" Dew squeaks in when Mountain nips at his shoulder, fangs he's not expecting pinching his skin. "Hey, what the -"

"You smell good," Mountain whispers, and whatever Dew was about to say fades into nothing when he feels something stir against his lower back. "Really good."

Dew gasps when a rough tongue laves at his shoulder, shivers when it glides up his throat. His own cock twitches despite the ache still threaded through his muscles, and the little ghoul sucks air through his teeth when Mountain sucks his earlobe.

"Shit, Mount," he groans, raking his claws along the taller ghoul's inner thigh. "Thought you were tired."

"I'm fucking exhausted," he confirms, shifting his hold to splay a large hand over Dew's belly. "But you just smell so good..."

Mountain drags him closer, until he's fully flush with his chest and Dew can feel his half-hard cock mold to the small of his back. Mountain buries his nose in his hair while more water splashes to the floor, taking a long, deep inhale.

"So you keep saying," Dew mumbles, but he really can't complain when every breath seems to make Mountain throb against him. He wiggles as best he can, just to make the other ghoul gasp. "This thing seems to agree."

"Can't help it." Mountain's other hand sinks beneath the suds, grips Dew’s skinny thigh. "Dunno why, but -"

"'S fine," Dew sighs, working to make himself sound put out despite the fact that he's gotten all chubby himself. "But since you want it so bad," he lilts, a gentle tease, "don't expect me to do any of the work."

He means it to sound haughty, like a taunt, something for Mountain to bounce off of. To call him lazy, or a princess, or any of a thousand other things that would only add fuel the embers starting to burn in his belly.

"Okay," Mountain breathes instead, and Dew doesn't have time to process it before he's being moved.

Not far, mind, but still. Mountain hooks his hands under each of Dew's thighs and lifts him, the water aiding the motion. He sits the little ghoul higher in his lap, thick shaft dragging between Dew's cheeks and wringing a surprised sound out of him.

"Mount, what -"

"Shh," Mountain soothes, slouching further into the water until his knees break the surface. "Just let me have you."

Well, it's not like Dew would ever say no to that.

He's not sure what to expect with the way Mountain's arranging them, but it becomes clear soon enough; he settles Dew against his chest once more, but further up. Far enough for the little ghoul to rest his head on Mountain's shoulder. He rests Dew's legs between his own, keeps them spread just enough to -

"Oh."

Dew sucks his lower lip between his fangs when he feels something hard and hot insert itself between his thighs, pressed right up against his tight sack, and despite the warmth of the water Dew shivers eyes fluttering shut. He squeezes his legs together and loves the loud thud of Mountain's head hitting the porcelain wall of the tub. He snickers, rests his hands on Mountain's exposed knees.

"Like that, big guy?"

Mountain doesn't answer with anything but a low purr, the vibration lovely against Dew's back. Encouraging him to relax even further, to slip a little deeper. He can't even be bothered to open his eyes when one of those massive hands slides up his thigh, over his hip, fingertips drifting through his sparse happy trail. Mountain finds his stiff little dick, gives it a single stroke, and Dew doesn't bother hiding his soft moan.

Then the other ghoul chages his grip, presses Dew's cock against the firm shaft of his own, and as Mountain takes both of their lengths in one hand Dew feels him nosing at his scalp again.

"Who'd think you'd get so boned up over some soap," Dew mutters, as far from complaining as he could be. Mountain chuckles as he fists their cocks, one long, slow stroke.

"Can't help it," he repeats, and Dew responds with the tiniest roll of his hips. One that makes Mountain choke and hold them even tighter. "Fuck, Dew -"

"Just keep sniffin' me, weirdo," the little ghoul teases, happy to do nothing but lay back and enjoy the way Mountain's veiny shaft feels against his own. "But if you cum first you're suckin' me off."

#miasma's work #the band ghost ficlets #dewdrop ghoul #mountain ghoul #mountain/dew #mountain x dew #mountain dew #got it done just in time for #mountain monday #(spoilers - dew used rain's special shampoo and smells like water and fire mountain just really likes it a whole bunch)#not rereading before i post so if you see mistakes #no you dont

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ms0milk · 2 months

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𝟏𝟔 | 𝐇𝐞𝐦 𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬

ー✧ prince!bakugou x royal guard!reader

"This is so much worse than fury, and you rip your hand away from his to take a step back. You didn’t mean to. Bakugou stares like a dragonslayer, heartbroken."

cw blatantly suggestive, an accidental kiss and the panic that follows. bkg doesn't know why he's been looking for you. you couldn't be angry about it if you tried. laughter, bite marks, magic, a warm hiding spot. 8.1k

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A slap across the face and the spatter of blood that follows in an arc across fine rugs. Bakugou bleeds when he tries not to think of you. You are too easy to be with and too difficult to find.

Your prince and fragments of rehearsal fineries that you would beam at if you appeared in this frigid foyer– which he knows only because you’ve done nothing but smile at him for seven cursed days– storms towards warmer hallways. There’s nothing for it but to track you down. He wakes up and you are not outside his door. He eats and meets and eats again and you do not materialize behind him or emerge from shadowed corners to brandish a weapon when unpleasant lords are unpleasant. Are you still following orders or are you finally sick of him?

Bakugou pretends he is not walking quickly. A maid has pointed him in your direction. The waitstaff here has no particular affinity for either of you, so they’ve tried their hardest to answer his questions this week and be rid of Alderans for the day. After all, once he finds you he doesn’t bother anyone else until dawn.

Find is a strong word, the maid thinks as she chews a dry lip. You don’t seem to be hiding from him.

It's the busiest morning, second only to tomorrow’s actual ball, and Bakugou has spent the whole of it in dress fittings and board meetings and appetizer tastings. He was meant to rehearse the first waltz with Fuyumi but for four days in a row she’s had her hands full with final adjustments to royal rosters and seating arrangements. The king is home afterall. And he does not dote on his daughter.

Bakugou turns up a second staircase once he arrives in the center castle and barks at a guard, stationed and startled, in the doorway where he emerges. Shinsou clutches his chest and stares at the imposing prince, heavy but silent.

“Boo. You seen my captain?” Bakugou only half-waits for a response from the apprentice before following his intuition to the left. You like to hide in odd places.

“Yeah,” Shinsou breathes and finds his position again, “carrying her lunch to the catwalks.”

Bakugou grins and hopes you can feel him wherever you are, rolling his eyes.

She was in common clothes– I think, headed towards the throne room.

Haven’t seen her, sir.

Your Alderan? It’s freezing, she should request a jacket from the supply corps.

Five days ago he found you rehousing spiders in the rafters of the greenhouse much to the chagrin of delicate flowers. Two days ago he finally spotted you among a dozen soldiers all helping the blacksmith resilver the inlay of the soldier quarter’s door. Yes, he’d told you to leave his babysitting to Kirishima but he didn’t expect you to listen.

Yesterday, Bakugou caught you wandering through the ninth-story walkways, the walkways sculpted onto the side of the castle like wasp nests where the archers hide. Your fingers gripped the hem of your padded tunic, red with cold, and your back pressed flat to the white castle marble even as you craned to gaze the city and sea over the edge of the balustrade.

Your prince almost screamed when he glanced out one of ten thousand pale windows in his search when instead of the depressing gray sky, it was your braids whipping in the wind outside, several stories higher in the air than he would have liked you.

“Eyes!” He jerked the window open and stuck out his head.

“The marble is too smooth Highness, please stay inside.”

White pointelle curtains rattled on their rods with the ferocity of the afternoon wind. “Come now,” he’d barked. He swallowed a roar to keep from startling you off the wall. You turned from the view towards his outstretched hand and half a golden body out the little window, and smiled.

You smiled from the cobwebs when he asked you what the fuck you were doing in blue begonias. You smiled at him among the crowd when he mimed flexing from the gallery to mock the blacksmith. You smiled when he caught you practicing sword forms for bored children and again when he and Kirishima joined in. You smiled without thought and he warmed at the sight of it. He laughed.

He laughed when the florist shrieked over a clutch of spider eggs and he laughed when you hammered Aizawa’s door crooked in your distraction. He laughed when Kaminari tried to teach you to juggle apples in potion storage, and very softly he laughed when he found you asleep beside proofing ovens.

The castle’s vanity seeps into every orifice, it bleeds from the seamless walls and into seed-sized crannies. Family portraits, royal crests, kingdom’s colors, wards against death written in old Takoban like they think this is the only kingdom on the continent where people might live forever. Superstition and agitation nick the Alderan like thorns through cold blue hallways. He itches for forests. On the third floor of the East Wing there is a great open gallery. It presides over the grand staircase of the castle’s entrance so that an invading army couldn’t so much as piss over the threshold before the legion of soldiers that fit upstairs fired off their arrows.

It was only a matter of time before you found yourself a roost here, warmaster.

He knows where you are. He can hear the king shouting from an open door downstairs and crosses the entrance gallery, bathed in warm sunlight from its volley of windows. It takes him exactly as long to walk it as it takes stained glass heat to pink his shoulders and with a perfect golden hue he dips under a doorway to find you perched at the lip of a ledge. You’re always about to fucking fall off something.

You sit cross-legged behind a black railing, picking at the cup of fruit beside you. Your hair is getting longer, wilder, and your braids tumble with white ribbons as you follow the scene below. Two stories below the ballroom is awash in afternoon light and hundreds of potential floral arrangements with the king dead in the middle, roaring at artisans. Prince Natsuo is slightly behind him and his neck is an agitated red. You pop a berry in your mouth.

You were always going to love the catwalks– the thin system above important rooms that servants use to gauge crowds and light the tall candles. All of tomorrow it’ll be crawling with footmen and today it looks like it’s already been dusted in preparation, although it’s not meant to be seen. You sit comfortably in its shadows and watch.

Tension melts from his veins when he finds you and nothing replaces it, so Bakugou isn’t quite sure what he’s thinking when he slips inside to be closer. Jeanist taught him too, he can be quiet. You wipe juice from your lip with your thumbs and polish it with a lick. Your fingertips are purple. You run them through your hair to push the braids behind your shoulders and focus again on the agitated king and his crying arachnophobic florists.

“You stare like the best of ‘em,” Bakugou whispers as he drops behind you and cups a hand over your mouth in case you make a startled sound, although, you react before he actually finishes the thought or announces himself, and jerk forward to catch his gentle hand with your teeth.

King, prince, artisan, maids, seagulls, and dustbunnies pause their meeting to agree that a grunt did in fact come from the chandeliers and that they aren’t insane, before continuing their jury over the fate of the party decorations. A whiff of caramel is the only thing that keeps you from breaking the hand with your bite and just as quickly as you attempt to reveal the intruder through pain, you swing your arm around to cover the prince’s mouth before he gives away your position with a yelp or fireblast. The momentum flattens you both.

Maybe one day Bakugou will remember that you are filled with the same fire that he is, before trying to bother you. When did the urge to bother you even occur to him? Both of you, square on your backs to hide properly in shadows, are close enough for your hand to still be firmly planted over his face like a muzzle. He smiles first this time. You smell like blackberries.

Your prince wires his jaw shut when he laughs in the shadows to keep from kissing your palm. In the seconds that the king and his entourage fall silent, Bakugou can only just barely contain huffs from his nostrils and the wet at the corners of his eyes. You stare like always and he must have melted fast enough because horror and apologies haven’t tumbled out of you yet. His dragon’s nails have gotten longer. Loose and wild hairs frame the face he only ever knew as perfectly kempt and unreadable. He cannot stop finding new things to notice here on the itchy rug beside you and he’s grateful you have only covered his mouth because his firebrand eyes gleam when you succumb to your own smile. Immediately you hide it behind your own free hand to stay quiet and the pair of you swallow stupid mirth in the dark.

Where did his anger go? “Ow,” the prince rasps when he’s collected himself and pulls your hand into his.

“Excuse me, Highness,” you whisper back. Your smile still rattles him like a blow to the side of the head. What the fuck is it about you that makes his pulse drum? Bakugou rolls onto his back. If you were sick of him you probably wouldn’t lay so close.

He tilts his gaze back to you, “What are you doing up here?”

Watching, you mouth like you’re signaling him to shut up. You pull your hand away from his and look over your shoulder towards the ledge where roars and curses roll up from the king like crashing waves.

“Why?”

It’s as close as Bakugou has ever seen you come to rolling your eyes. You blink at him and press forward. Something horribly soft started to grow the night you helped him carry drunk friends to bed. Something like rot. It eats away at the strongest parts of him, the parts of him that are poised and beautiful and ready for war. It’s eating you too. The strongest parts of you that are silent and obedient and deadly.

You drag your body across the floor to be closer to him– so much closer– so close that your thigh practically drapes over his and you cup your hand to his ear so you can whisper an answer that he can’t even focus long enough to hear. Maybe the rot started earlier. Maybe he should never have picked a fight with you.

A sudden scream flies up from the ballroom and Bakugou reacts before you do, less to offer protection and more because he knows you’ll launch right off the walkway if he doesn’t hold you down, but still his hold is protective when the scream is followed by a pillar of white orange fire that flies high and soots crystals in the chandelier. It’s brief and scalding like a geyser and you are not strong enough to protest your prince tucking all of you under his chest in the interim. You smell like home, like forests like moss. The scent of the sea is finally falling out of your hair.

“In what world is this my responsibility?” the king seethes. His drop in volume is menacing and it echoes violently in the empty room, “pick your own fucking flowers, I have work to do.”

The ballroom doors are not meant to be closed or opened with such force and they scream louder than he can when he burns his way through, leaving the prince and his artisans in the cold and terrible hall. A ball in Takoba is an oxymoron. A malicious idea. Bakugou leans back on his arm to release you and sits up to watch Natsuo console his workers. The eldest Takoban prince wears patience well. Whose idea was this party? The same person who sent for Enji? Belligerent. Bakugou hasn’t seen the queen in weeks.

He grumbles before he turns to look at you, “Missed what you said.” But when he does finally look, you are so much Alderan that the cold of Takoba falls off his shoulders like frost. Maybe that’s why he’s been searching for you. The fire that only a life in his castle could stoke, ravages the blacks of your eyes. Even though you are silent, he knows what you’re thinking.

“Down girl,” he grins and kicks his legs out from under him to settle more comfortably. Flowers below are picked in whispered consensus and the room empties under your glare. The sun has started to set. The far wall of the ballroom is, in classic Takoban fashion, one long series of windows taller than most houses and the sea shines behind it in a trick of rolling warm shapes like smoke from a fireplace. You both linger at the edge of the shadows up on high. Bakugou watches you shamelessly.

“I will not attack the king.”

“Who’re you trying to convince?”

You think for a few seconds and turn to him with an awkwardly soft look that crackles into a smile too easily for you to be the same girl who grew up learning how to kill in his castle. Everything you do but fight is bizarre. Like blue fire, he cannot make himself look away from you.

“What’ll you do at the ball?”

“What do you mean?” The ballroom is empty so there’s no need to whisper but neither of you know how to talk to the other.

Bakugou cocks his head and doesn’t need to hope you know when he rolls his eyes anymore because he can finally do it in front of you. He crosses his arms, “Do you dance? I can’t think of anything else to keep you distracted enough to avoid assassination.”

But you are already distracted by something and he can see the moment you stop listening to him talk. All the better, he thinks. He might have just asked you to dance with him.

“Your hand Highness, I– mers–” and you reach forward to take up his bitten fist like touching him is suddenly the easiest thing in the world. Your fingertips are ice-cold. The rot spreads. “You startled me, I’m so sorry.”

Now Bakugou isn’t listening. You rub at the divots your teeth left in the side of his palm and press them like imperfections in pie dough. Your hands are so much more slender than his. So much rougher. Do you feel it too? The death of fury? How the ocean slowly laps at the bonfire until wood can no longer fight back? Do you remember the library like he does? He wants more than anything to sit in a nook and read for a thousand years in recovery from this trip. Is it a safe place for you, or has he ruined it? Do you miss home like he does? Or has he ruined that too?

“No. I’m sorry,” he admits before thinking. He startled you after all, but immediately he is silent with realization; breath holds in his lungs. Fuck, that’s not– you asked him so clearly not to do that. Is he incapable of leaving you with anything? You watch his fingers twitch for a moment like you can feel his heartbeat there and then look up at him and stare. He’s not sorry for sneaking up on you at all. That’s not what he meant.

Eyes was an apt nickname, if not a little mean. Bakugou has never envied telepaths before. How ignorant he was, to think of you as the bloody little girl in a velvet carriage. You hold his hand now with just as much strength as you did all those years ago; obviously it was strength and not desperation. You did not hang laundry to thank him. You did not catch fruit to thank him. You didn’t learn to fight the rain or windows or soldiers or the sea for your prince. It was only him, making magic for you.

“Never thought I’d hear a sheep apologize to the sheepdog.”

He startles a little, just a slight widening of his eyes, because you hold his hand up to see the ring of teeth clearly and cover your chuckle with the tips of your fingers.

“Callin me a sheep?”

“You are biteable like one.”

Do you know what you’re doing? Bakugou wonders as his own smile escapes the confines of horror. He snatches his hand back and leans against the black iron railing to face you. Quick wit, quicker draw, why do you hide such pleasant things under such a ferocious– the Alderan blinks and his face falls for half a second again in realization.

You blink back because you cannot read his mind, “Are you okay, sir?”

The same fire. If he stopped and thought for a single fucking second you wouldn’t have been the enigma protecting his home. You would have been a girl that he wanted very much, to talk to in his ceaseless boredom. He melts into a smile again and this time his teeth glint, “Don’t call me that.”

Winter really has arrived; the sun sets faster with each second and soon the ballroom below is a great orange pool. He was meant to rehearse the opening waltz today and the thought of you watching him, concealed, makes his ears hot. Florals drift up and up from their vases where they’re warmed in afternoon light.

You cross your legs and turn too, so that the prince isn’t just staring at a profile. “Are you looking forward to it?”

“To what?”

“The ball, Highness. Are they fun?”

“You’ve attended balls,” he grunts and scans his memory for the last party thrown in Aldera, although you don’t appear in the pictures his brain conjures up. “They’re fine. Loud.”

You nod. There are ten-thousand things he could think to ask you and a hundred more questions he knows that the answers will spur but sitting beside you in the dark without a threat to either of your lives is new and overwhelming. Your wild hair makes wild shapes.

“Fuyumi wants to dress you up.”

You don’t find that as funny as he does and you’re gawking when you turn from the view of the ballroom to look at him. He thinks you aren’t afraid of him– he hopes– but he knows you still won’t say what you long to for fear of sounding unprofessional. He’ll have to work on that.

“She gave up on Ochako years ago.”

“Is it a gown?”

“Takoban,” he rests his head on the metal too, enjoying all the scandalized expressions your pretty lips make, “frilly lace, the works.”

You consider this for a moment and make the shape of his name before swallowing it. One more time, “I see.” And you turn back away to think some more, about how to phrase something unprofessional. He’s teasing, he hasn’t seen the damn thing but for a moment your prince can see you so clearly, sewn tight into a dress made of sealace. You try to speak again, fail, and lean closer. Your breath is sweet from fruit and your bowl is empty behind you.

“I can’t wear blue for another second, Highness, I’ll hurl the tailor into the sea.”

Bakugou spits over the railing in amusement and huffs, a subdued panic, when he crosses his arms again.

“Highness please,” you chuckle, “I’ll get violent,” and you smile under the frown, which just serves to make you look even more like a dragon– like you’ll make good on your word– and less like an obedient footsoldier. How do you do it? What are you doing to him? Bakugou can only stare with a rough affection because if he tried to speak right now something might come out.

You run a hand back through your braids to settle them where you like them to lay. It’s draconic, regal, every way you sit perch and glare from the clearest part of any room. His mother calls it King’s Corner, or the Seat of the Queen, that perfect spot where you can see everything important without showing your back to a soul. That’s always where he finds you. That’s your secret. He pinches an ear between his knuckles to try and cool it down.

“Takoba’s lucky you aren’t a mage,” he manages. He has to look away to say it but he does manage, “should thank you for it.”

“I did try,” you don’t need to manage back. Proximity to him isn’t eating you alive. “And I don’t work for thank yous, thank you very much.”

When Bakugou was ten years old he celebrated his birthday in a parlor with boughs of cherry blossoms and sweets for which he never really had an appetite. He was doted on and he worked hard to deserve it so that anything he wanted to do that day, and any birthday thereafter, was his. You were not celebrated with cake. He wouldn’t know until years later that his mother brought you gifts and good food on your birthday because he could find you every day of the year at work somewhere in his castle. You did not fall ill, you did not fail, and on his birthday you, nine years old, practiced forms in the paths between spring orchards just downwind from the parlor. Jeanist was seated inside with him among the family’s guests. No appetite for cake. Bakugou only celebrated ten birthdays and you have never stopped breaking his heart.

“Tried what?”

You ruffle your own hair so you don’t have to look at him either because at least one thing embarrasses you. “Magic.”

“Magic.”

“It’s not funny,” you chirp at his flat tone and round on him with your legs crossed. He leans back when your voice comes out a bit louder than expected and his bitten fist aches when it clenches. “I would copy you.”

The rot makes him weak and useless and susceptible to your stare, but the rot makes you fearless.

“I used to watch you studying– when we were really little– when we were both supposed to be eating with everyone in the Hall. You used to,” you look briefly to your side like someone important might be watching you acting so casually and it dims that fire he needs in your eyes.

“Used to what?” he smiles. He knows you watched him, you must know that too. Finish, please finish your story, he wants to hear your voice tell you more about home.

“Used to watch you flail your chubby arms until sparks came out.”

When Bakugou laughs this time he tries not to hold anything back, if only just to douse you in oil and keep the fire alight. Fucking please, just talk.

“I used to try every night too!–” you laugh, slightly louder, “– wind up my arms tight and spin around my room after curfew– disturb the horses– pretend to be a dragon.”

“Your runty prince looked like a dragon?”

You grin, “My runty prince taught himself magic, didn’t he? What’s wrong with wanting to breathe a little fire?”

“I don’t breathe fire, dumbass.”

“You still make miracles. Ever seen a dragon?”

“Of course I have.”

“Have you ever sheltered from a spray of ethereal flames?”

He frowns and smirks, confused, as if to ask, why have you? And the flint tinder in the bright part of your eyes sparks white hot.

“Melting, crushing, it’s completely inescapable without a barrier mage,” you pull your knee up with a bit of theatrics and lean because with everything inside of you except for actual realization, you want him to listen too. “Pink and red, blue, green golden and white hot. Highness, has no one ever told you how beautiful your magic is? You make magic like a dragon, who wouldn’t want a blessing like that?”

No one would want this cursed fucking magic that prickles his palms with sweat in the dark for no other reason than because you are looking at him, when all he wanted was– he just wanted to see you– watch you, he didn’t need you to watch him back and now the fire of Aldera he keeps trying to warm beside will blast him all the way to the wick. This is the flattery he hears so much about from his blushing mother.

“‘s not special. My magic maims people.”

“So do I.”

He frowns deeper, “Not the same.”

“I worked hard to maim people, it’s not the same because what I do isn’t beautiful.”

“That’s not–” he doesn’t think that. Don’t think that he thinks that, “–work isn’t beautiful. War isn’t beautiful.”

“You’ve never seen war. Highness you make–”

“Fuck off,” he tosses at you like it’s ever worked before.

“I won’t.”

“Eyes–”

“– it’s beautiful.”

“I make bombs.”

“You make starfall.”

Bakugou stares. Rough affection, yeah right, he’s melting.

You fall back on your hips when you realize you’ve broken clear through the confines of professionalism and the embarrassment sets in quickly. Eyes dart sideways, chest and knees turn. Your embarrassment is a subtle grip on fraying rugs. What do you do to your heart to make it pull so strong in every direction? Is it a spell? One that makes him quiet and happy to wait for his silent guard to speak again. This must be how the queen feels. You turn fully back to the rising orange light of the ballroom below and your lips part before any words are actually ready to come out.

The first time you try to speak, he doesn’t hear you. Bakugou traces the path between your shiny scars with his gaze. One below your ear to the one at your eyebrow and down again, past an old cut in your cheek. You couldn’t douse the forest fire behind those lashes if you tried. Not under orders or oath. Not from embarrassment.

“What does it feel like?” You whisper, looking a great distance down past abandoned flowers.

Both of you have fallen closer to each other in the waves of your nothing conversation, so much so that your shoulders would press together if the rot just ate away a little bit more. Bakugou’s heart sinks into the ballroom. It plummets like a drowned man.

“Gimme your hand.”

This is a fucking mistake, but all your prince can see is the last time pure joy ever sailed across your face in an evening spent around your wonderful campfire. He caused and extinguished it with one spark thrown into your cupped palms, the last time you ever tried to make magic. “I won’t hurt you,” he rumbles even though it kills him to look at you now.

Your side of the catwalk begins to glow at the lips because the sun has set far enough to climb walls towards the ceiling. You glow with it. Pink in a thousand places, ears and throat, lips, because you’re thinking too hard about what it is to be a proper guard and how much it is probably not raising your voice to delight in magic that does not belong to you. The corners of your mouth tremble. Who was it that told you you talk too much?

“Is that an order?”

“No.” Of course not.

You study the details of the itchy rug for too long, in the new light at its edge. Bakugou used to hate hiding up here in the cold but it was the only place the idiot children his mother sent him here to entertain couldn’t find him. He couldn’t be happier now, now that no one but you can see just how hard he flounders without fury.

Your hips swivel back towards him in precise decision then you fold your knees neatly underneath them to get closer. A few white ribbons in your hair seem to catch fire as the sunlight climbs higher and the sun dips lower out an infinite distance. Every mile it is far, is a mile Bakugou can feel in measures of chill. If Aldera is at the center of the world, Takoba is the outer edge and you remind him just how blessed he is when his hand melts at your Alderan touch. You reach and pull both his fists into the space between your bodies from where they lingered in the air.

“Yes sir.”

“Don’t,” he breathes, watching all the shapes your fingers can make together. He’s a prince, this is ridiculous. He sits up tall and stretches his arms out so you don’t need to reach so far, and makes a safe place for your strong fingers, those calluses and scars, to rest atop his open palms.

“Don’t call me sir.”

You are looking at him and considering something about his face, or his words, who knows– one of your eyebrows twitches in decision. It’s remarkable how steady your heads are. You are sure of everything you do even when it’s destructive and disruptive and punishable by death.

Laid out plainly like this and stiller than either of you have ever been together, your fingers and wrists, your palms, even your fingernails are so much more delicate than his. Like if he closed his golden fists, you’d disappear. Compared to the princess you have the hands of a farmer, but not a single thought– past how each other part of your body might look beside his– is allowed to rattle through his head when you watch him, straight ahead, and smile.

“Okay.”

He clears his throat. He’s a mage and magic is easy. He’s not going to set off the sweat on the back of his neck. “Don’t be nervous,” Bakugou grumbles to the dark.

You grin and ghost a thumb over the warmth and damp of his open palm, “Who are you trying to convince?”

“It’s this stupid fucking magic,” he bites. A bead of sweat drips through his knuckles onto the floor and if he’s not careful he might take out half the castle. Prince and apprentice assassinate world’s most fucked up royal family– he can already see the dossier sitting pretty on his mother’s desk.

You’re suddenly in a wonderful mood and you sit up slightly at the beginnings of warmth under your fingertips. He can hear your knees squeak and count your heartbeats in the veins of your wrist that his own fingertips reach. Those eyes again– always your eyes. They’re colored like any normal pair anyone might ever see but he’s one of few people who watch the dragons. You must have watched them too, too long, for your gaze to become so similar.

It feels like any other second of Bakugou’s life. Setting fire to own hands and measuring the strength of his magic in reds and whites. It’s an ordinary moment for many whole seconds until your prince follows the beginnings of light up from his palms, to your starving and unabashed awe. The sparks bubble up as hungry fish would in a pond, and then jump, spit, between your fingers like cooking oil. Your touch is so gentle at first. You train and measure your own skill every day so that Jeanist’s recruits don’t lose varied limbs, but as your excitement wells up you spill a bit from your seams. You rise slightly higher and give him more weight to hold and your prince dissolves into a smile.

Four hands rest inside one another and fire from the dragons illuminates your hiding place.

“Highness,” you whisper and startle a thousand times at every new color Bakugou ignites between your fingers. You’re fully up on your knees now having risen higher and higher to watch his magic as best you can and Bakugou sits on the floor beneath you, rotting.

“Highness what,” he whispers back.

You abandon the thought and jump when a green sparkler squeals through the air between you, and when your prince thinks to pull away your fingers are already wrapped tight around every part of him you can manage. He could have done this for you a thousand times; your joy was always this simple, raw, and unjealous. Purple and gold soar across the highs of your cheeks and hug your jaw. It’s all he can bear, to love this smile and to know that his sweat is plastered across your hands and soaked through the cuff of your sleeves, and so he freezes with the realization and embarrassment and with your last words.

“Highness, thank you.”

He doesn’t have the wherewithal to speak yet. The smile he loves. The magic dies with his concentration and as the sun finally crests your walkway for its fleeting moments of warmth, Bakugou tries to muster something like confidence because you’re looking at him with a softness he didn’t realize you had. Is it overwhelming because he knows you could kill him? Maybe it’s because he’s never wanted to kiss anyone before.

Bakugou’s pomegranate eyes dart up to you, saying goodbye to the last of the light and something like sugar scalds his throat. That new thought is fleeting because your golden prince drains the life from it like a butchered animal– gods, can’t he leave you with anything?

“Told you I don’t bite,” he grins and swallows the last selfish thought to death, “that’s your job right?”

You beam before bursting into deep and hungry laughter in the sun-soaked air above him. Whatever. Bakugou supports you as you cling to his arms and struggle to stay upright in your laughter. You’re overflowing. He smiles and huffs, he can’t help that. He can’t help goosebumps either but you don’t need to know about those and he’ll never utter a word. He still needs to meet the dressmaker for alterations and finalize the appetizers, and make sure the kitchens send dinner to your door.

“Highness,” you breathe like a bird and try to collect yourself enough to stop laughing. You plop back onto your hips, “Highness–”

“Highness Highness,” he taunts. The sound of it will make his ears bleed. Bakugou palms for a handkerchief with one hand and lets you hold his other. You cling to the bite you left there. Your legs overlap. “This is ridiculous,” he chuckles when your joy almost folds you in half, “A real joke might kill you.”

“Let it,” you breathe, canines twinkling, and dip slightly closer, laughing, to press your lips to his.

It’s so easy, you don’t mean to. You are lightheaded in the warmth of the sunset, magic trembles across your sensitive skin and you only want to be closer. Just close enough to bury yourself in that place that is so safe and that fills you with such a horrible comfortable joy–

As Bakugou reaches inside his tunic for something you lean too close. Your chest falls over his lap before either of you remembers that it shouldn’t be like this, that there are a thousand other places your prince belongs and ten thousand rules you have engraved on the meat of your skull to keep comfort at bay. It’s so warm with your eyes closed and his smile tastes like cinnamon. He doesn’t pull away.

You only realize what’s happened after that smile falls dead against your lips. Venom and rage betray a soft exterior. He’s soft against your touch. He’s soft like he’s never fought a day in his life. Your hands hold his beautiful golden head right where you need it and in the quiet, your eyes open to blinding and beautiful sunlight.

A touch is all you wanted, gods know why– they’ll never tell you– and you draw your chin back an inch to breathe. Bakugou is staring violently and his eyes are more like targets now than cherry pits. Eyebrows wider, higher, than the sky, he stares like his heart has stopped. What happened? He doesn’t look like anyone but himself anymore. You freeze.

Prince Bakugou is staring at you until he’s not, on the itchy rug in the sunset of the great black catwalks, until his eyes close and he kisses you back. Soft, closed lips brush so hot they’ll leave a mark, they’ll brand you and everyone will know what you did. The doom spreads quickly. You have never been so graceless in your life as you are now, falling backwards out of his warmth and stumbling onto your feet. He’s still on the ground and you only know he is holding you because sweat drips from the fingers of yours that he clutches.

“Wait,” he gasps. This is so much worse than fury, and you rip your hand away from his to take a step back. You didn’t mean to. Bakugou stares like a dragonslayer, heartbroken.

You run. Before you can breathe or be reasoned with, before you hear him call your name, you turn and dash through the back doorway alone. If this were Aldera, where would you hide? The frozen air of the seashell castle whispers straight through your flesh as you, sprinting, stumble your way past the castle’s vanity. There is a nook in the wall of the principal staircase where only Jeanist can find you. There is a seat on a high window in the Great Hall that you can reach with a library ladder. There are two tiny battlements in the east corner of your queen’s castle without a real way to get inside and on any day but a lightning storm, you can wedge a hunting knife in loose mortar and climb the masonry over its edge to lay and nap and stargaze at the tallest point of the most beautiful kingdom. An ant couldn’t hide in Takoba. There’s not one dark seam for the bugs.

A guard barely moves in time to avoid being crushed under your boots because fuck this horrible waterlogged place. The ocean drips out of your ears like tears from a seashell, drop by drop because you picked a fight with the goddess and thought yourself lucky to live before you realized she had made a home for herself inside your heart. Now you laugh with your prince and you touch him happily and you spar with him and hold nothing back and you tell him how much his magic helped you to live.

Resisting the urge to kill him, fighting to win Mitsuki’s favor, the threat of blue fire and a mage you doused in the sea, it was all so much easier than this. It could have been that easy forever, what were you thinking?

“Y/n!”

You weren’t, that’s what being too content gets you.

When Bakugou calls your name again his voice cracks because you are so much faster than he is at slipping through corridors. There is nowhere to hide in this awful country. Why are you running? If you were just slightly calmer you might have known where you were but white windows will always look like white windows and Bakugou is not so slow that you can ever really outrun him.

You duck under a low wall and its hanging tapestry and emerge on the other side at the edge of a stretch of empty hall. Setting sunlight pours past ten silver vases and someone left a window open, so lace curtains flow around a pedestal with its silvery prize in the center.

“Y/n, please.”

Agony. This isn’t what you want. When Bakugou calls to you one last time you have no choice but to face him because he has never asked for anything before, and when you do, tears drip off the highest parts of your cheeks.

He lets the tapestry fall over his shoulder and stops at the front of the long, long room. Neither of you speak for an eternity besides the sound of breath being caught again, him at the edge and you in the center being swayed by cold air. His shaggy hair has been pushed back too many times in his rush to follow you and his eyes glow unobstructed. Bakugou’s broad shoulders fit too perfectly into his baubled tunic. It’s easier to watch him than to think.

When he leans forward, you step back, and he pauses like you might start sprinting again.

He doesn’t realize there’s something rotten stuck in the depths of your throat that keeps you from straying too far.

“I–”

“Don’t be sorry,” he begs, reading your mind. He’s never looked like this once in his whole life. He fell a step closer in his panic and when you do not run, his fists unclench from where they draw blood at his sides. “Don’t cry.”

You shake your head and he cautions another step. How can you ever go home now? How much longer can you survive here? The thought is suddenly and immediately overwhelming and Bakugou freezes again when you drop your head into your hands. It’s too much, you can’t believe how badly you want to hate him again and how much easier it would be than this.

“Y/n,” he whispers. His voice is candled ash. You know exactly how close he is even with your eyes closed because Alderan fire is unmistakable and you know too that he’s giving you a moment to escape.

“I didn’t mean to.”

Prince Bakugou’s magic-worn hands reach up from where he wires them and you snatch them both, and all their kiln-fired warmth, out of the air before he can touch you like you might break the first finger that moves. You don’t mean to bare your teeth either, you hope you aren’t, if you are he doesn’t care. Your prince stands above you, brows knit and eyes stupid with worry.

“Forget,” you plead in whispers.

He pulls your grip higher so that he can rest his palms under your ears. You aren’t doing anything but hanging from him. He moves easily because you do not stop him and he brushes his thumbs over stray hairs and their wild shapes. Silence is worse than his rage, but he’s trembling and his eyes never once look away from yours. He’s studying, contemplating something that continues to break his heart.

“Highness.”

Bakugou cups your jaw like it might bruise and tilts your head up just enough to kiss you. He could not care less about broken fingers.

His lips quiver and press just once to yours before pulling back, reconsidering, and dipping into you again. Your hold on his hands and his hands at your throat are melting, shaking, sweating. His chest swells above yours. You melt with him because you have lost your mind and push against the body you know can hold you. It can pull you from a current and throw you over its shoulder. Bakugou can lift you in strong arms, he can make you laugh until not even an order could compose you at your station.

You part your lips to be closer. He tangles his fingers in your braids so that you can take whatever you want. Your prince tastes like his favorite pastries, and Alderan peaches, and gold, he tastes like he’s fireproof.

Wet drips from your bottom lip in the mess of it all, before Bakugou tilts your chin in strong hands to catch what he’s missed. The slick of your tongues, a clicking of teeth, you want to eat him whole. He’s going to devour you.

He holds your face now to move you as he’d like– four feet tripping over each other to find a wall– and you grip at the patterns on his tunic between stolen breaths and steps stumbled backwards. Magic crackles where he touches you like he can’t control himself. His voice comes out with his gasps in growls because there is too much and nothing to say. You have forgotten apologies.

“Your hands” he breathes between nips for the softest warm parts of you, “cold.”

“The window–” but he kisses you again before you can finish. His hands are shaking, he is a starving dog and still he holds you like you’re going to break. You terrify him.

How long have you wanted this? There’s not enough focus left for your brain to turn its wheel and if there was you wouldn’t have pulled him so close. You suckle at his lower lip because his heartbeat tastes like home and he lets you dip inside again when you’ve had your fill. He fills you with himself in return. Wet, soft against you. It’s clumsier than sparring, and so much warmer.

At the end of cold hallways, where servants bustle and where there is still work to be done, the guard who barely survived your warpath ducks out from under the tapestry. He only wanted to check you were okay, but in the almost empty hallway Shinsou’s hand falls slack and his baton slips from it. It rings out against white marble and your heart stops beating at the same time as your prince. Your wheel groans in its new turning. The guard stares and you bristle.

You do not hear what Bakugou says in your panic but he does not let you go so easily this time. You will run, you’ll find somewhere to hide in this prison because that is your job and no one has ever done it better than you and there you will figure out what to do.

The last breath you take before darting away is shared in the sunlight with your prince, and just as you tip in a hint of escape Bakugou cups your cheeks one last time to keep you still. Your claws jump immediately back around his. He stares. His eyes are a study over every scar and warm flush, the violence of your sudden caught fear, even the parts squished and wrinkled in his hold. His magic vibrates unlit through your skin for one more second just one more second he takes to look and then he whispers,

“Okay.”

You take off the moment he releases you to deal with the apprentice and slip as best you can around a blue-tiled corner. Seedsized carvings raise their axes and little white waves fall. Sparks fight the chill on your jaw.

You forgo the seaside for fear of worrying your prince again. Manure pools around your pretty white boots because in the stables, horses don’t mind if you need to cry. The ocean swallows the last of the sun and you are suddenly a child again rinsing the blood from her face and into the hay and finding a dark place to hide. Every step is labor. Agitated white stallions complain to you in a line about their dinner and restlessness, and about chickens roosting inside uninvited, and about the woman who has sat here for hours and done nothing to help them.

The port city of Takoba shimmers at twilight under the hill that the stable looks out on. Its waters are silver and beg you to join them on all sides from their great distance. They have the advantage as you turn your back to the view.

When you amble towards the last empty stall, a figure drowning in blue is perched on a bed of straw. She is sickly beautiful and she stares like she hates everything she gazes upon.

“Majesty,” you startle and forget to take a knee.

Where you tread carefully in borrowed clothes, the Takoban Queen is happy to ruin her gown sitting up to her hips in straw beside a very plain horse. She runs a brush over the sheen of its black mane.

“Yes?” She sighs, defeated, until she turns to you and cocks her head like she might have expected someone else. Hundreds of translucent layers fall over themselves in her skirt like a flower and catch imaginary light for every inch that she moves. There is an ache so deep in your bones, chilled first then charred like dipping cold hands in hot water, you struggle to compose yourself. You cannot muster the question of why a queen might be hiding in the belly of her stables but you could guess.

“You were crying.”

“Please don’t tell Mitsuki.”

When will you be allowed to go home? The queen looks between her horse and the space you haunt above her, and pulls a second curry comb from the depths of her soft straw seat. “They’ll find you if you stand in the open like that.”

The day drags on like a dream you have made from picturebooks of Aldera and the man that you will never be free of, but queens don’t much mind if you need to cry either. You crumple into the spot she digs out for you in the straw and until it is too cold, the two of you sit quietly in shit together.

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tagged angels ✧.* @nnubee @nonomesupposedto @kotarousproperty @sveetnn @lunrai @km7474 @cathwritestragediesnotsins @idimmadontgiveashit @kooromin @k1tk4tkatsuki @litiri @kiwibao @sarcasticlittlebook @condy-wants-a-cookie @mysticalfridge @falling4fandoms @katanaski @romiinlove @cherripunch26 @acid-rain27 @bakugouswh0r3 @zukowantshishonourback @ultracrii @chandiewashere @screechingdreameater @when-you-are-just-done @levisbae2 @flyhighinthesky @thebluespacecow @mizzfizz @butterscotch-ripple-icecream @phoenix-draws77 @ltadoriyuujl @dreamingoftomorroww @optimisticprime3 @misscaller06 @the-omnipotent-phlowr @king-dynamight @sky-angel101 @faetoraa @sageandberries-png @king-explosionmurder @aqua5ky @idkwhatisgoingon24-7 @midnightprocrastinator @animeobsessed03 @sakurarr1122

could not tag for some reason :(

#a hymn to black water #i make good on my promises #this one really took it out of me- editing was an afterthought there might be more mistakes than usual #thank you for loving these weirdos #bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #bnha fantasy au #mha fantasy au #fantasy bakugou x reader #fantasy bakugo x reader

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yomeiu · 1 year

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can you see me clearly?

#drowning live on the monitors #my poor pookie schmookie broke his leg #chuuya where are you #i have no reason to make this into skk but i will anyway #hes waving at his bf chuuya ofc #dazai be like *twirls hair* chuuya i know you're being possessed by the devil but im on the big screen #sigma next to him: bro what the fuck #literally dont know what this looks like because on every screen i own the colors are different #i also lost the file of these so what ever mistake you see well its there foreve my bad #recent chapters getting me scared #water practice #dazai osamu #dazai #bsd #bungo stray dogs

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perfectlypanda · 6 months

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But I'm a fire and I'll keep your brittle heart warm If your cascade ocean wave blues come Peace/ Taylor Swift

♥ Please do not repost. If you like it and want to show people, share a link to this page instead. Thank you!

#zutara #zuko #katara #fire lord zuko #master katara of the southern water tribe queen consort of the fire nation #atla #avatar #cozy fall vibes #When you've stared at something so long that you're sure there are mistakes but also you're /done/#look I made a thing #pandaverse

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knightmareaceblue · 4 months

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Merry Christmas and happy holidays to everyone! And especially to @water-lemon-alex, who's my AVA/AVM Secret Santa recipient! Sorry to keep you waiting, I... didn't have as much free time leading up to Christmas as I anticipated. Still! I hope you like it.

The request was for Second and Purple interacting, either romantically or platonically. Don't know if this counts as romantic or not, but I'll tag for ships anyways. Happy New Years, everybody!

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nattikay · 1 year

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psa for all avatar fanfic writers who feel the need to use Na’vi terms in their fics:

“ma” does not mean “my”

I know it’s tempting to think of it that way because it sounds similar, but it doesn’t. It’s a particle used when addressing someone directly. Think of it like a verbal @ sign. You use it when you’re talking to someone, never when you’re talking about someone.

✅ You should fix the basket, ma ‘itan. ❌ You should help ma ‘itan fix the basket.

✅ Ma Neytiri, did you go hunting earlier? ❌ I heard that ma Neytiri went hunting earlier.

Ma ‘ite = @ daughter, not “my daughter” Ma ‘itan = @ son, not “my son” Ma yawne = @ beloved, not “my beloved”

With ‘ite and ‘itan specifically I sometimes see it smushed into one word (ma’ite/ma’itan)--this is also incorrect. Even more so is using the tìftang as a connector between ma and whatever name or term you’re using (ma’yawne, ma’Jake, etc), which I’ve also seen once or twice. Tìftang is just a normal part of the words ‘ite and ‘itan; it has nothing to do with the “ma”.

furia aynga zola’u ne TedTalk oeyä, irayo thank u for coming to my Ted Talk

#avatar #avatar 2 #way of water #lì'fya leNa'vi #i'm sorry to be that person i knoooow it's unfair to expect the average fic author to go out of their way to study Na'vi grammar #just for a fic #buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuut it is still rather distracting ^^;#i've seen all sorts of other...um...interesting na'vi mistakes as well but this is a particularly common and easy to correct one #so #now you know :P

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aryastarkthelittleshewolf11 · 7 months

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Ah yes, the boy who’s currently staying at the last known location of Arya and who’s entire personality shifted because of her kidnapping is was definitely never intended to have any further importance in her story. Brienne reminding the readers of his parentage was also just a funny tidbit that George added for shits and giggles. No importance, he just wanted to make fun of Brienne for still liking Renly is all…

Also find it fucking hilarious that people sight the show as giving Gendry “more importance than he was ever intended for” ,when Arya just hooks up with him and fucks off while he’s left with a title but literally nothing else of importance in the story. He might as well have kept rowing. (On top of the show cutting a lot of their important scenes)

#I’m sorry for any mistakes #I’m sleep deprived and annoyed #I know those anonymous fandom opinions are just done by people trying to rage bate because they’re incapable of making original content but #…still #arya stark #ser gendry #gendry waters #gendrya #bookgendrya #Gendry

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brainworms-all-night-long · 2 months

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I've already written this headcanon somewhere but basically Nine drinks those disgustingly sweet and synthetic juices that only have the fruit mentioned on the packaging (cuz that's what he's used to drinking from back in New Yoke) and they're mostly safe from everyone else because no one wants a whiff of that stuff.

Sails definitely plays it like he's drinking rum and being all adult and pirate or something when it's really just grape juice in that glass bottle. Now that he can actually go and safely buy(sometimes steal but don't tell Sonic) any flavor at almost any quality he wants, he than snatches a bottle of actual alcohol just to clean it out and have it as a reusable container for his fruit juices just to fuck with people

And Mangey loves fruits and berries and stuff, and he also learned that if you mash some of it in a bowl it's also super tasty in a different way and sometimes theres also a really tasty drink left behind. But because he rarely actually got to eat them he always had to savor the most of it while he could, but once he learns that he can just get the juice out of almost every fruit there is he's absolutely ecstatic

#sonic prime #thinking about that post about tails loving juice in every universe #imagine one of them mistakes a bottle of syrup(concentrated clear water flavoring meant to be used in small doses for each drink)#for juice and just #their entire face gets vortexed in on itself #exept for nine. he doesnt notice the difference #tails is the only normal one btw #as ussual #miles nine prower #nine the fox #sails tails #sails the fox #mangey tails #mangey the fox #prime bros

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monstrous-munch · 10 months

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Ok I’m back with more thoughts…. I ended up writing way more than I thought I was going to haha also why is it every time I actually write some stuff for this blog is fae or fae adjacent ?? pfft

Tw: voyerism, dubcon ?? Like at the start ?? Idk just to be safe, vague mention of rejection by other humans, mentions of feeling isolated, yall get jiggy with a water elemental

Ok, but imagine living by yourself, out in the wilds, away from the village full of people you turned you away. Do you get lonely sometimes ? Sure, but it’s better than being around those who don’t want you.

Most often you’re fine with it. You enjoy your own company, and spend your days in a comfort of your own making. But sometimes that ache arises. The one that yearns so desperately for warmth. To be held by another. To no longer feel alone….. when this happens you take a trip to the hot springs.

Slipping into the warm water, you bask in the heat - letting it seep into your tense muscles and ease that aching in your chest. Faint ribbons of steam dance in the silver light as you relax fully. You’ve been coming here for many moons now, and each time you leave feeling content.

Hands creeping downward, you gently brush the skin of your chest, stomach, thighs….before dipping further. The water already feels so good, why not add to the satisfaction you feel before it’s time to leave ?

Eyes closed, you feel the the pleasure from your fingers, and the warmth of the water - the way it’s gentle volume seems to craddle you, move against your legs, gentle lap at your throat.

With a soft moan you lazily lift you eyelids, only to be startled by the form of a man waist deep at the other side of the pool. Well not really a man. Although it takes on a humanoid shape, the figure across from you is completely formed from the hot springs water. You’d heard of creatures like this. Ancient magic so strong it took on a life of its own; through water, air, earth or fire.

There world around the two of you totally stills, waiting for someone to break the silence. It’s the water elemental who speaks first. Well, he doesn’t really speak, the sound of a babbling stream emerges from him, though you understand as if he were speaking in your own tongue.

A garble of flustered apologies tumble out. He hadn’t meant to watch you… but he couldn’t really not, seeing as he was the hot springs. He should have revealed himself when you first came to the pool, but you were so beautiful, he felt unable to manifest as anything other than a puddle. And the way your tension eased as you lay within the water…the way you seemed so much happier when you left… he couldn’t stand to take that from you.

After hearing all his rambling, only one thing hummed in your mind.

“You’re the reason I don’t feel alone.”

Although the elemental had no need to breath, you swore you saw him gasp softly, eyes filled with yearning as the water around you gently swirled.

Standing, you made your way towards him; parting the spring slowly with your hips as you came to stand before the curious being. Lifting a hand, you gently pressed your fingers against him. Sliding them up his chest as the water tension kept you from sinking in. With only a moments hesitation, you tentatively pressed your lips to his, cradling the warmth of his cheek and raising to your toes to press closer. The crash of an ocean wave filled your ears, what could only be a groan from this watery creature, as he pulled you’re naked body further against him.

Soon sweet moans filled the night. The elemental held you close, his touch at times almost human - strong arms around you, his mouth pressed to you neck - but the sudden morphing of sensations, into the caress of water you had grown familiar with, reminded you what held you was much more than a man. A gentle current seemed to spread you legs wider as you were filled over and over. First by a tender caress, the tide against a river’s edge in the mauve hours of evening. Then, growing, swelling, till you felt like a rocky cliff meeting the crashing waves of a storm. Despite the rhythm of waves rushing forth, you still felt safe, the warm water holding you, soothing you as it always had - only now the whispers of steam carried with them sweet words of worship.

With a final cry you pleasure reached its peak. The waves around you lulled, encircling you in a soft embrace. The spring had always been something that helped ease your loneliness, now running your fingers over the water elementals tenderly smiling face, you felt a lightness in you chest like nothing you’d known before.

#im a little sad so we’re having fluff tonight haha #also if you don’t like all the water imagery too bad #pfft #as always if you see spelling mistakes….no you don’t #I can’t spell for shit guys so pls ignore it if you see that I goofed #monster fucker #monster lover #monster boyfriend #tetrophilia #monster boy #monster x human #monster x reader #monster x you #monster x gender neutral reader #tetro

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carnivalcarriondiscarded · 5 months

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Was Frank present when Eddie got dropped in the water? Bc that sounds goddamn hilarious.

no but Wally had to go over to him like "um. Frank. i dropped Eddie-" "you what" "-in the water. i dropped him in the water" "you WHAT?" and then they went to the Lake™️ to just. stare at his facedown unconscious body.

#then they sprinted to get poppy bc she has the longest reach of all of them-#listen wally was bringing everyone back to the storeroom after the latest Sally Storytime #and he just kinda slipped!!! oopsies!!! it happens!!!#but wally is immediately in a bit of a Panic Mode since he understands that water damage exists #then they had to get howdy from wherever he was so that he could help pull poppy as she pulled eddie #big ol train of dragging eddie's soaking wet corpse- i mean Alive Body out of the water #rambles from the bog #wh lights out au #im enjoying imagining frank just staring down at eddie with a mix of exasperation disappointment and pain #while wally stands behind him trying to act So Normal and not at all Guilty or Nervous #and then frank starts to go down to get him and wally has to physically stop him from making That mistake

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fangirl-of-the-end · 2 years

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I’m a doctor

#trafalgar law #trafalgar d. water law #op law #op fanart #one piece #(Law’s introduction as an important character will always have a place in my heart)#(Got this idea stuck in my brain a while ago and I finally came around to drawing it)#(Yet another artwork in almost exclusively blue hues because I -#- Really liked how the last one turned out)#(This was a rush job so please excuse any obvious mistakes xD)#marineford #my art #digital art #fan art #monkey d. luffy #op shachi #op bepo #op luffy

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miasmaghoul · 5 months

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honestly something i’d absolutely love to see in your style of writing would be mountain and one of the other ghouls having a relaxing day potting plants in the greenhouse :) maybe they’re talking about something deep, maybe they’re exchanging gossip, maybe they’re working in comfortable silence, but whatever it is, they’re having fun, they’re soft and chaste, and they’re so so in love <3

yes uh huh yep absolutely lets go

soft boys below the cut

Dew sways in place, humming a tune to complement the raindrops pattering against the glass walls surrounding him. A springtime sunshower that makes him feel refreshed, makes his skin buzz and his gills flutter. He's tempted to sneak away, just long enough to get his fins damp and his hair frizzy, but it's a fleeting thought.

Dew's tail swishes aimlessly on the ground, stirs up fallen leaves and withered petals. The result of one of Mountain's seasonal repotting days, of hours spent pruning and stripping and checking for root rot. Of lugging around countless pots and sacks of dirt and the putrid fertilizer Mountain swears by. It's lousy work, really. Delicate but backbreaking, especially for a ghoul of smaller stature. Exhausting.

Dew's been here since just after sunup, and there's nowhere else he'd rather be.

It's been hours now, the sun hanging high where it peeks through the rainclouds. He has at least six different kinds of soil caked under his nails and streaked across his face, muddy smears covering both his apron and the garbage pair of jeans he'd yanked on this morning. They're more stain than denim at this point, and Dew wears them exactly four times a year. The little ghoul stretches his arms over his head and relishes the way his spine pops.

He's sore all over, truth be told, but it's a kind of good sore. The kind that comes from manual labor, from hard work and dedication. Dew catalogs the places he'll need to ask Aether to rub later, a little quintessence analgesic that he'll definitely have earned; his shoulders for sure, they're starting to crunch when he rolls them. His fingers too, Dew knows his knuckles will be all swollen up otherwise. Probably his legs and feet as well, but that would be better saved for -

"I'm back."

Dew's ears perk up when a deep voice calls from across the greenhouse, accompanied by the telltale squeal of the heavy glass door. Booted footsteps follow, wet soles squeaking against dirty concrete, and Dew hops off the stool he's been perched on just in time for Mountain to round a nearby pallet of exotic ferns.

"Don't get up on my accout," he chuckles, smoothing wind-mussed hair back between his antlers. Dew can just barely see misty droplets clinging to those auburn strands. "Besides," Mountain adds, holding up a paper bag, "I brought you lunch, and you don't want to eat standing up."

Dew's stomach growls mightily the moment he says it, loud enough that they both look down at it.

"Good timing," he says, poking at his belly. Dew hops back up onto his seat and scoots it closer to the filthy bench he's been working on. "Any longer and I might have started consuming things with no regard for signage."

Mountain laughs, but it's true. Dew hasn't eaten anything since he and Mountain found each other in the kitchen this morning. Even that wasn't much, a couple pieces of toast and a container of some weird coconut yogurt he'd found on the bottom shelf of the fridge.

Dew has these four days memorized at this point - three days before a solstice or three days after an equinox - but Mountain still always seems surprised to see him stroll into the common room in his work boots and crusty jeans. Dew supposes that has something to do with the fact that he usually sleeps until at least noon, but that's neither here nor there.

"Wouldn't recommend that," Mountain rumbles, setting the bag on the table for Dew to pounce on. "Last time Ifrit did that I couldn't keep him off me for a week."

"Woe is you, " Dew laments, collecting his prize. "I'm sure you suffered, what with his huge dick and endless stamina."

"It was a struggle like no other," Mountain deadpans, slipping his apron back over his head. He'd hosed it off before Terzo had called him for an unexpected meeting, and Dew had taken the liberty of pulling the moisture from it while he was gone. Left it in dark stains on the floor below instead. "I smelled like him for two weeks."

Dew snickers, opening up the bag. Pulling out a hefty container that's still warm to the touch and a real fork. There's a drink in there too, a bottle of coffee in Dew’s preferred mocha, and a paper-wrapped fruit pie the size of his hand. He looks up at Mountain with a quirked brow.

"What's all this?" Mountain tips his head while he secures his apron, makes a questioning sound. "You said lunch, I figured I'd have a sandwich or something. This is like," Dew gestures vaguely, "this is a whole thing."

Mountain shrugs, rolls up his sleeves. Dew definitely doesn't stare at his forearms for the second or two it takes to open the container. For the smell of it to hit him - roasted salmon with creamy polenta, along with a small pile of green beans flecked with garlic and lemon zest. His mouth waters immediately, and his stomach gives another loud complaint. Dew grabs his fork and gathers up an oversized bite, and it's halfway to his mouth when Mountain answers.

"I stopped by the mess after my meeting," he explains with a casual shrug. "Got there at the right time, I guess."

Dew freezes mid-bite, looks over at Mountain with his mouth still hanging open. He's in the middle of hauling pots onto his own bench, a cart of miniature rose bushes in the process of being repotted sitting beside it.

"You went to the mess?"

It's a well known fact that Mountain can't stand the parts of the abbey that attract swaths of humanity - it takes real effort to even get him to attend mass - and Dew can't imagine him braving the mess hall on his own. Again, Mountain shrugs.

"It was on the way back from Terzo's office," he offers, collecting a bush from the cart. Setting it on his worktable and brushing a few stray leaves to the ground. "You've been working hard, you deserve real food."

Dew's face goes unbearably warm, but he doesn't argue.

"Thank you," he murmurs instead, soft but genuine.

Honest.

Mountain's tail sways up to pat at his arm in response, the tufted end ticklish against his exposed forearm. Dew finally pops that forkful of food into his mouth, and the taste of it is exquisite. He groans, his eyes fall shut, his shoulders curl, the whole shebang. Surely an overreaction, but in fairness he's really hungry.

"Fuckin' hells, that's good," Dew sighs, popping a green bean into his mouth. "Say what you will about Sister Agata, but that old broad makes damn good food."

Mountain scoffs, shoots him a dramatic, offended look.

"Better than mine?"

Dew snorts, shoveling another mouthful of polenta. He makes a wavy gesture with his hand, a silent ehhh, maybe that Mountain responds to with a shocked gasp. Dew rolls his eyes, flicks his tail at Mountain's calf.

"'Course not," Dew assures him, spearing a bean on each tine of his fork. He gives the other ghoul a wink. "No one burns popcorn like you, Mount."

The end of Mountain’s tail whacks the back of his head, right above the knot he's tied his hair into. Dew waves it off, but makes a happy little sound when that tail settles on his thigh instead.

They fall into comfortable silence, Dew watching Mountain unearth a bush from its home and set it on his table. Munching away while he follows the way Mountain starts gentling its roots apart, spreading them out to better suit the large pot at his feet. No matter how often Dew does this, he can never get enough of seeing the way Mountain gets lost in his element.

If Mountain were anyone else, Dew would've asked where his lunch was, why he was eating alone. But there would be no point; Mountain has a certain philosophy when it comes to food, something that must have come ingrained in his vessel. He believes in only eating what he grows or catches himself - be it fish from the lake and streams, animals from the forest or even the odd, wandering sibling. He wouldn't eat mess hall food if it were the last thing Above.

Plus Dew's pretty sure he can photosynthesize, so there's that too.

Dew polishes off his meal quickly, while he watches flowering vines curl their way up Mountain's antlers. Speckled with tiny pale blue blossoms that Dew knows match his eyes. He's quiet, but his lips are moving like he's speaking to the plant in his hands. Dew imagines him encouraging it, coaxing life back into any fading roots. He's tossing back the last of his coffee by the time Mountain's hoisting the new pot onto the workbench, already lined with rich, black soil that will keep that little rosebush happy for months to come.

"What color will that one be?"

Full and re-energized, Dew slides from his seat and sidles up beside Mountain, observing the way he meticulously shake the old dirt from that mess of roots.

"Pink, supposedly," he mutters, brow gently furrowed. "That's what the label said, at least. Hard to know with these, though. Ivy did a lot of crossbreeding in her younger years. These could be black for all I know."

Mountain settles the little bush into its new home, carefully aerating the new earth with nimble fingers. Dew reaches forward out of habit, helps to redistribute that soft dirt and get those roots covered up nice and snug.

"I hope they're white," Dew chimes in, focused only on the task at hand. "The white ones are my favorite."

"And Zephyr's," Mountain hums, tapping the back of Dew's hand when he's happy with the plant job. Dew pulls back obediently, gives Mountain the space to fluff up its leaves. "Guess we'll just have to wait and see."

"Guess so," Dew sighs, leaning his elbows on the table while Mountain adds a layer of topsoil to the pot. "My turn now?"

"If you'd like," Mountain offers, standing back. "Unless you want to wait until they're all potted first."

"Nah," Dew straightens, cracks his knuckles, "I already walked all the way over here, might as well."

Mountain laughs, a brief but rich sound that Dew treasures every time he hears it. Dew extends his hand, takes a deep breath through his nose and exhales between his fangs. The tips of his fingers tingle, cool in the temperate heat of the greenhouse.

"Soil or leaves?"

"Both," Mountain replies, and with a nod Dew twists his wrist.

This is his favorite part, of course. When it comes time for the watering, for Dew to make himself useful and earn a pat between the horns for his efforts. He holds a flat palm towards the bush and manipulates the moisture hanging around them - in the air, consensed on the glass walls, even the few droplets still clinging Mountain's hair. Channels it all into a fine mist that he's sure to apply to every last leaf and burgeoning bud. Dew hums to himself while he works, cupping his hands once he's happy with his coverage and letting the water fill his palms instead.

"There," he says, pleased, pouring a few modest handfuls into thirtsty soil. "Good enough?"

Dew steps back so Mountain can check his work. He wipes both hands on his apron, smears around the caked on dirt that'll take a chisel to remove by the time the day is done. Mountain rumbles his approval after a moment, and Dew preens from the sound alone.

"Very well done," he lilts, and Dew rolls up onto the balls of his feet just in time to meet Mountain's hand. It rests perfectly between his mother-of-pearl horns, ruffling the loose hairs that have escaped their ties. Dew purrs, Mountain chuckles, and they part once more.

"One down," Dew says, peeking around Mountain at the remaining plants on the cart. "How many to go?"

"Eight," Mountain replies easily, already hoisting the next bush up to work on. "Of these, at least. I think the new guy is almost done racking the orchids, so those will be next."

Mountain looks at him from the corner of his eye, like he's waiting for Dew to complain. To whine about this taking too long, or that it's too boring. The look he gives him every time Dew volunteers to help him with this. Dew gives him a fang-filled smile instead.

"Sounds good," he says easily, striding back to his own work station. "I'm here as long as you want me, big guy."

Mountain chuffs, eyes sparkling. Dew can't believe how much more obvious the gold flecks in his emerald irises stand out on these days. He looks so...whole. Mountain's fingers dance over what will one day be a rose, now just a green bud, and Dew doesn't miss the way his ear flicks.

"Hey, Dew?" His voice carries something deep, something real.

"Yeah?"

There's a long beat of silence, and all Dew can hear are fading raindrops. The sun's getting brighter now, fewer clouds to hide behind. He can see Mountain’s freckles in the warm light, and the streak of copper in his hair. Then,

"I'm...really glad you're here."

Everything around them seems to soften. Dew smiles, unabashed and open, his tail drifting over to tangle with Mountain's just because he can. He huffs our a deeply amused laugh, staring down at his tabletop to hide the way his cheeks flush. Force of habit.

"Nowhere else I'd rather be," he replies, easy as anything, and he really hopes Mountain believes it. "Now gimme something to pot, my fingers are gettin' itchy."

Mountain snorts, shakes his head, but doesn't hesitate to grab another bush and a pot, depositing them on Dew's table. Dew busies himself scooping fresh dirt into the terracotta vessel while Mountain checks the plant for anything that requires pruning.

"This one's even supposed to be white," he says, not missing the way Dew perks up at the words. "Take good care of it, yeah?"

He will, of course. And in a few months, when these plants are hale and hearty and flush with springtime blooms, a bouquet of them will appear in Dew's room. Perfectly trimmed and never wilting, wrapped in silky green ribbon that Dew will save in a secret place behind his sock drawer.

For now, Mountain returns to his own table, and together they work. The silence doesn't last nearly as long this time, broken by Mountain humming a folksy tune that Dew has heard enough times to harmonize with. So he does, the sound bouncing around them and accompanied by the gentle rustle of leaves swaying in a nonexistent breeze. The plants singing with them, Dew thinks. Peaceful.

Soon enough, one of them will speak again. Will break up the monotony with talk of music or recent happenings, or maybe even indulge in a little gossip regarding Terzo's newest summon. He's a hybrid, Dew heard, fire and earth and supposedly just enough quintessence to make him a Problem. Dew wonders if that's what Mountain's meeting was about, but he doesn't ask. Not yet.

For now, all he needs is this.

#miasma's work #the band ghost fic #this is too long to be a ficlet lmao #mountain ghoul #dewdrop ghoul #water!dew #how do i tag this idk #im not reading before posting so if you see mistakes #no you didnt

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