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shibaraki · 1 year

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IF TIDES COULD SPEAK (THEY’D CALL YOU HOME) ┊ BAKUGO KATSUKI

synopsis: an unlikely hero comes in the form of a barbarian. your stolen pelt is returned by his hand— but for a selkie that is more than simple kindness. it is a proposal.

tags: AFAB reader (referred to as a 'wife' once + 'baby' a few times), fantasy au, barbarian bakugo (+ the squad), selkie reader, brief non graphic suicide attempt, minor injuries, previous forced marriage + captivity, strangers to friends to lovers, accidental marriage + bond, magic elements, bathing together, sharing a bed, miscommunication, love as a choice, getting together, shapeshifters, angst + fluff, eventual smut, bakugo carries reader (he’s strong!!), oral + fingering (reader receiving), unprotected vaginal sex

wc: 25K+

↳ for the mermay collab hosted by the teahouse server ↰

The battle rages on behind as your bare feet carry you frantically toward the cliff side, incognisant to the uneven earth and jagged rocks cutting under your heels.

A magnificent orange glow is cast across the land. Blistering heat radiates at your back and seeps through the thin robes pulled across your shoulders. Fire eats away at the canopy above, at the dry grass in the gardens, at the place you deign to call home.

It is a sight you wish you had more time to savour. A draconic clan hailing from the north had descended upon the land and sought to reap the riches for themselves. The anguished screams of your once wretched husband still echo in your heart, dancing through its chambers like wind through chimes.

You fled with only one destination in mind.

Many, many moons ago, you had been stolen away by greed. A man that called himself king yet acted anything but kingly. Lord only in name. He speared your pod mate and took you, dirty calloused fingers sinking into your flesh, violently tearing the pelt from your back. Nausea churns in your stomach as you recall his grin, eyeing you greedily, desiring servitude that was not his to have.

“You are to be my wife,” he said, drunk on tales of rare creatures who would keep a hearth burning and bear his children if only he stole their hide. “Now you belong to me”.

Your pelt remained locked away in an armoured vault along with his other opulent treasures— goods that would now be burning, turned to ash. He had finally taken from the wrong people and must reap the consequences.

You are so relieved to be free of his clutches that there is no time to grieve the loss. This is your chance. With or without your pelt you are a selkie, and the ocean always welcomes her children home.

Guided by the tides' tumultuous song you sprint through the woods, treeline funnelling out on a plateau to reveal the edge of the cliff. You take a staggered breath, wincing at the pain in your chest. Now your momentum has slowed to a stop, the fatigue catches up with you. An ache seeps through your legs and your knees threaten to buckle as you shiver.

This is it, you think. You watch the waves below roll like dark ribbon. Steeling your resolve you spread your arms as far as they go, until the sinew holding your back pulls taut. Something acrid sinks in your gut and you feel distinctly ill. It takes all of your willpower to deny the fear pounding in your body as you step forward.

The wind billowed around you, swaying your human form towards the edge. Faux wings spread and a roar pushed to the limits of your small voice, sound whipped from your mouth and cast far asea. Eyes squeezed shut, you tip into the oncoming depths trusting your mother will catch you.

The sound is cacophonous. Not even your pulse can be heard over the waves; elemental fingers apply sharp pressure to the north and south of your body, shaping flesh until you're nothing but a pebble caught in gravity's path.

If you should concentrate you’d hear a frantic shout through the white noise. And between the milliseconds left before bone collides with the tide, a large clawed foot encircles your forearm. A rush of air swells in your lungs as you try to scream, the abrupt disruption of your freefall forcing your shoulder from its socket, talons tearing through capillaries as if your skin were wet paper.

Suddenly, you’re a sail without a mast, rippling over the open ocean. Dark and cloudless, not a speck on the surface. The spray is icy against your ankles, a million papercut kisses. In the mirage, you can see fleeting reflections. The silhouette of a dragon mid-flight.

You’ve no memory of hitting the sand or being carried along the shoreline. Your consciousness dips and peaks. The few times you come to are when your body is being jostled, a blurred figure looming above and unrecognisable. In one breath they are washing your wounds with water poured from a wineskin, the next you are flinching away from salve covered fingers as they poke and prod to stem the bleeding.

Warmth is the first thing on your mind as you wake. With a sudden gasp for air, all the exhilaration and adrenaline hits you as if your soul had been caught, suspended in that moment. Phantom touches skim the length of your spine and all at once you are overwhelmingly aware of your body.

The sharp noise startles a figure in your periphery.

“Back in the land of the living, huh?”

A broad, bare chested man sits at your bedside with his arms crossed tight and pillowed in his lap. There’s a single delicate braid by his ear, longer than his short-spiked hair and dangled loosely beneath his jaw. You’d find him beautiful if not for the searing glare.

“That was a fucking stupid thing you did back there,” he snarls. Brusque and overfamiliar. When you don’t respond he continues, “What’ve you got to say for yourself?”

You shrink back.

There’s an awful pinch in his brow. Concern seems to be superseding what was a show of honest anger. Dimly lit by a few oil lamps, from what you can ascertain there is no one else in the room but you two. Inhaling the residuals of healing magic you find that your throat is unbearably dry, tongue stuck to the back of your teeth. How long have you been asleep?

You couldn’t find a voice to ask, exhaling a pathetic whine. The silence provides a window of opportunity for him to further scold you yet he doesn’t take it, fuming as he recedes into his chair. “Don’t need to act so fucking skittish. M’not here to hurt you,” he exhales hard through his nose, reaches out and leaves his hand upturned on the edge of the bed. “Alright?”

Something draws you to this stranger. Inexorable, like the pull of the tide. You accept his proffered palm and it feels unsettlingly familiar. The skin is rough, battle worn and hot. Slowly, your fingers intertwine, and you see fair hair on the back of his knuckles.

Disorientation, loss and anxiety err on the edge of your consciousness. The lamp above his head gives him a warm hued crown, highlighting strands of gold. You can feel sleep weighing on your eyelids but you don’t yet want to look away. “Whatever,” his mouth sets into a frown. “Get some more rest or I’ll knock you out myself”.

When you come to the sun has risen and filters into the room in thin streams of light. Dust fairies dance around the bed. You squint as your vision sharpens, a dull throb reverberating through your skull.

You look at your body first, arm well bandaged and the rest of you bruised tender like an old peach. The wounds throb in time with your pulse when you shift, reminding you that they’re there as your thin clothing brushes against them with little movement. All you can remember is falling. How the waves had careened up the cliff side to catch you, only to have you snatched out of reach once again.

Wherever you are now it is obviously far from your Lord’s grasp. He has never bothered to take you to a healer. You are in a private office, tucked into a bed with soft blue sheets. The shelves are stocked with various medicines, salves, and analgesics. Herbs and chopped petals are stuffed in glass jars labelled with messy penmanship you can’t decipher. A metronome sits on the nearby wooden desk, ticking back and forth, filling the silence until the door is pushed open.

Whoever enters is trying to be careful. You can tell by how slowly they turn the handle and pause at every little complaint the hinges give. Their hair is green, richer than the later weeks in spring, with loose waves that bounce as they move. You watch wearily while they move through the space, humming under their breath and picking up a notebook from one of the desk drawers.

The healer, you presume, pinches the end ball on the metronome and brings it to a stand still. He hushes it as though it were an unruly child before turning on his heels toward you—

And immediately screeching as your eyes meet.

Loud enough for the entire country to hear, his abrupt shout seems to alert others in the building, causing a gaggle of people to burst their way into the room. A metallic tang fills your senses; magic ready, the man that sat brutish yet kind at your bedside wields explosive sparks in the palm of his hands, adorning chains with carved talons and beads and asymmetrical armour strapped to his left bicep beneath a red fur lined cloak.

“What is it, Deku?!”

You offer wordless gratitude to the final dregs of sedatives in your system. You barely flinch at the hostility in his voice, time seemingly slowed as your gaze drags to the companions at his back. First a woman doused in pink. And like the sun, her face glows the rich ochre of dawn, framed by silky salmon toned curls. There are horns protruding from the top of her head, bending like the junction of a tree branch.

Beside her is a large man. Red, red, red. Bright eyes split with a reptilian slitted pupil. Crimson hair styled into sharp spikes. He’s built like a warrior, tall enough to swallow most of the doorway, yet you feel no true fear when you look at him. Something innate in your gut tells you this is a kindred spirit. Energies aligned, you think he must be a shifter of some kind too. He locks onto you first, his alarmed expression smoothing into a wide toothed grin.

Last are two men who have managed to tumble to the floor amidst their rush to get into the room. Distinct gold bangs with a symbol of lightning, pale faced, an undercurrent of electricity thrumming below his skin. Dark shoulder length hair, white spools of rope wrapped around the crook of his elbow, grappling hook in hand and ready to strike.

“Sorry, Kacchan!” the healer, Deku, spluttered. He holds his hands up in surrender, shaking them in a placating motion. “Nothing, it’s nothing! All of you please calm down!”

Deku is quite the unfortunate name, you think. At his insistence the group lower their defenses and slump forward, relieved. All but ‘Kacchan’, who only raises his hackles further.

“Don’t fuckin’ scream like that if it’s nothing,” his upper lip curls to bear his teeth, moving fluidly as his group slinks past him to stand by your bed. “I damn near blew up the building”.

Distantly, “I couldn’t help it…!”

The frame jostles, mattress dipping as it takes on the weight of another. Head turned into the pillow you blink dazedly at the sharp toothed shifter. Propping his chin in his hand, his elbows are braced next to your thigh. “Hi. I’m Kirishima,” he chirped, unmoving as his friends wrapped themselves around him to get a look at you, all repeating his jovial greeting with introductions of their own.

“…Hello,” you rasp. The word grates the inside of your throat and tears well in your eyes as you fight the urge to cough. “Where am…?”

“Back up, losers,” ‘Kacchan’ forces his way to your bedside, shoving the group aside. There’s that odd sensation again as you stare up at him. Strong jaw clenched with eyes narrowed and blazing; sliding to where you lay, waning briefly. “Have some manners”.

“Since when have you cared about manners,” the pink woman, Mina, bemoans.

“Shut it!”

Deku’s nervous disposition dissipates quickly and he ambles to the opposite side of your bed, his notebook flipped open to a page covered in incomprehensible scrawl. While the others squabble he leans forward and flashes a trembly smile.

“Hi! I’m Midoriya Izuku, the one that fixed you up,” Midoriya—not Deku—lowers his voice into a more soothing tone. “It’s good to see you awake. Do you think you could tell me your name?”

You remember your name. Yours. The one given to you before human hands stole your hide. Midroiya’s pen scratches at the parchment as you recite it, his lips silently repeating it. “Great! Thank you. Now can I ask, how are you feeling?” he asks, eyes darting across your face, your body, scanning the bandages wrapped around your arm. “Any pain? Nausea? Loss of vision? Numbness in your limbs? Hallucinations?”

“Slow down, nerd,” Bakugo grunts.

Midoriya immediately appears sheepish, “I’m sorry”.

“It’s okay,” you say. “My mouth is dry and my arm hurts but I’m— okay, I think”.

“That’s my bad,” Kirishima speaks up from his place next to Bakugo, lifting a hand. Despite their difference in stature it was clear who led the charge and who fell in line. “I was rushing so I wasn’t very careful when I caught you”.

Your first thought is that he must have been the dragon. Your second thought is, ah, right. You had tried to fling yourself off the cliff.

As though he’d read your mind, Bakugo scoffs. “Not much choice when you’re saving someone that’s trying to kill themselves”.

Overlapping objections ring loud in your ears. “Bro, not cool,” Kirishima groans, similar sentiments sent loud and fast from the rest of his group.

“I wasn’t trying to—” your half lie is halted by the seething look Bakugo turns to you. Same as before, beneath it all is worry and confusion, unblinking as though you might disappear between the seconds. “I just wanted to go home,” you confess weakly, tethered by the restless twisting of your fingers into the linen.

“Home?” the electric blonde, Kaminari, murmurs.

Tension returns to your limbs, instinctively bracing for the greed you have learned to expect. You may get away with evading questions now, but the healer—if he’s worth his salt—would already know what you are.

“I’m a selkie,” hesitance bleeds into your tone, the confession coming quiet and small. Your chin dips as you swallow, canines sinking into your inner cheek. “The Lord whose castle you raided stole my pelt and kept me hostage for months. I figured it was long gone, so as soon as the attack gave me an opening I ran”.

The atmosphere is stifling. Silence befalls the group, equally stunned. Midoriya is the only one that does not react, kind eyes closely observing you.

A litany of emotions weave through Bakugo’s face as you speak. Disbelief, anger, regret. “Sick bastards,” he mutters heatedly from behind gritted teeth.

A head of pink hair rests by your knee. You’re taken aback by how informally they all behave towards you. “You still would have died though,” she says, bottom lip jutted, sadness colouring her features.

“I would have become seafoam,” you rectify passively. “It doesn’t mean death, not to my kind. It’s a sort of rebirth. My pelt is with the ashes now. I thought… it was my only option”.

“Wait. It got burned up in the fire?!” Kirishima straightens worriedly, eyes wide and apologetic. His fingers twitch as though he wanted to reach for you but thinks the better of it.

“Surely. I mean, I assume it was,” your mouth thins into a strained, rueful smile. “He kept it in the vault with all his other treasures. I watched his quarters go up in flames”.

Recognition passes over Bakugo’s expression but Midoriya is already stepping forward with his outstretched hands waving dismissively. “Okay, guys! No more stressing my, uh… patient,” he says, allowing some strength into his instruction. “Give us some space. You can ask more questions later. Please?”

Your new guests surrender with a chorus of groans. Bakugo squints pointedly at you over his shoulder as Sero ushers him out into the hallway. You feel rooted by its significance somehow. An unspoken instruction that you can’t decipher.

“Are you really feeling okay? No wooziness?”

Drawn to the gentle cadence your gaze meets Midoriya’s. He has set the notebook back onto his desk and rolled up his cuffs. “I’m okay,” you reply after a moment of consideration. “Thank you. You fixed me up, right?”

Rubbing at his nape, Midoriya shoots you a sheepish grin. “To the best of my ability, yeah,” he says. “I’m just a researcher and I don’t have an affinity for healing magic, but Kacchan insisted that I help”.

“You’re not a healer?” it’s then that you notice how untraditional his dress is for a doctor. A bishop sleeved shirt, six buttoned green waistcoat and dark pants. There’s a belt strapped tight around his hips, small satchels hooked into the leather, and an empty waist sheath clearly meant for a sword. “Ah. You really aren’t a healer,” you repeat blithely.

Midoriya giggles, nervous. “No— I mean, this is my office! And I guess I am an apothecary of sorts, but that’s only a small part of what I do,” he explains, gesturing to his various shelves and cabinets. “Kacchan could’ve taken you to the next town over on Kirishima’s back but I think he was panicking— oh, please don’t tell him I said that. He just doesn’t trust other people much. So you got shafted with me”.

When he leans down to untuck your bedsheets you bend your unharmed arm, propping your upper body onto your elbow and working in sync with him as he fluffs the pillows behind your back. Sat upright you hold your bandages out to him. “Thank you,” he mumbles, delicate as he slides his hand around your forearm, patting around his belt and satchels with the other.

Finding a small pair of scissors he tucks it beneath the top of the bandage and carefully cuts down the length of your arm. Your chest constricts as the inflamed skin is slowly revealed to the tepid air. There are ribbons of sutures running from your inner elbow to your wrist, puckered but thin and largely healed, sinew clumsily fused together.

“Sorry about my poor suturing,” Midoriya says as he overturns your arm in his palm, checking from root to stem. “Everything looks good, though. No infection or fever,” he continues muttering, thumb pressed to the shadow beneath his lip. “Your immune response was pretty quick. I wonder if it has something to do with your selkie blood…”

You barely register his apology, stuck on the jagged scar tissue decorating his own hand. The cautious call of your name breaks your reverie. Midoriya’s brow is furrowed, eyes wide in genuine concern that wanes when you try to smile at him. “Got lost in my head there, sorry”.

“I get it,” he breathes, glancing over to the largest cabinet in the room. Reaching the ceiling, stained dark wood, and looks slightly out of place alongside his other furniture. Misaligned, you realise. It is on four small wheels and placed an inch away from the wall. Odd.

You watch Midoriya stroll over with a bounce in his step. His biceps strain under the pale sleeve fabric as he grabs either side of his cabinet and pulls. The wheels squeak and it rolls away with some exertion to uncover a hidden door. Dust cascades through the air; he coughs into his shoulder, shaking out his hair.

“I’ve got a private washroom through here if you’d like to use it,” he explains after catching your questioning frown. The room is barely bigger than a closet. There’s a toilet, a tiny sink, and a tub that, given the width and depth, would require you to sit with your knees beneath your chin. A mere speck compared to home. If you closed your eyes and concentrated, maybe you could pretend you were resting in a tide pool along the shallows of a beach.

You stand for the first time in who knows how long. An uncomfortable prickling sensation crawls the length of your legs as the phantom turns solid and blood rushes to your toes. You grip at your bare thighs where the hem of your robe falls, flesh bursting through the gaps between your fingers, and you gasp through the pain. It’s as if you’re growing a new limb all together.

“Careful,” Midoriya murmurs kindly, hovering at your side in case you need assistance. You hobble over to the washroom, each step like treading on seaglass. He moves away once he is happy with your progress.

“It’ll take a while to warm up,” he warns. “But there are various medicinal soaps and salts under the sink that I’ve made, so you’re free to use them”.

The door is closed behind you.

Left to your own devices the first thing you do is fill the tub with water. You find that the bathroom has no lamp, illuminated only by the cool light flooding in from the main room. His warning had not been exaggeration — fingertips touching the bottom of the basin, the water comes slowly and remains cold up until your second knuckle. Then it warms, warmer than the sea, and with no salt at all.

Bare knees against the floor and skin pimpling under the thin robes, your breaths come quick, stumbling over the erratic jumping of your diaphragm. Indentations between each tile press uncomfortably into your skin, the initial pain dulling into numbness as you sit back on your heels. Beneath the sink behind you are the medicinal soaps and salts. You delicately take a small pot, squinting to decipher the handwritten labels in the dark.

Pulling back one of the lids you’re overwhelmed by an unfamiliar floral aroma. Inside are rocks— tiny, tiny pink rocks, with dried white petals. You pinch some with your already damp fingers, feeling as they immediately dissolve in the moisture, and sprinkle them into your bathwater.

Once full enough, you strip yourself of the robe and fold it neatly, left by the closed doorway. The cold air prickles, your nipples pebbling and the soft hair across your body standing on end, but the water is hot.

You dip your foot in and breathe a sigh of relief as the temperature suffused through your skin, swaddling you in warmth. You submerge yourself completely. As suspected the space is remarkably cramped. Your legs are bent, tucked against your chest with knees below your chin, arms folded around your shins to keep yourself together.

Enclosed in four walls again, shrouded in little to no light, you feel lonely. The type of quiet that makes you whisper. Your mind drifts to the stranger that had saved you, wondering where you might’ve met him before. You smile ruefully, cupping the scented water between your hands. He’s strong for a human. Imposing, you muse, staring back at the reflection held in your palms. Not only in his stature, but even his presence is difficult to ignore.

You bathe, scrub away the blood and grime until you’re a flesh wound. The temperature is cold by the time you’ve turned focus to your fingernails, neurotically picking away the flecks of blood dried beneath them. Drain the murky water, refill, repeat. No matter how harshly you pinch and pull, the feeling of being dirty does not go away, but you stay in the water at least until you feel like yourself again.

The towel you find is coarse to the touch. Sitting in the heated water has tended well to the knots in your muscles. Ungainly as you re-enter Midoriya’s empty office, you flop back onto the freshly made sheets with little guilt. You sit there for a while and let the air dry your body.

There is a pile of spare clothes on the end of the bed; neatly folded shirts, tunics, skirts and pants. You throw on a sleeved shirt and come across a simple beige kirtle as you parse through, the skirt falling just above the ankle, delicately sewn buttons lining the back. The fabric is very soft, though fitting and naturally cutting at the waist.

After putting on some thick knitted socks and a pair of hardy brown boots left by the desk you run both hands down your sides and spin on your heel, causing the free flowing skirt to plume. Satisfied, you slip out the door and creep toward the gathering voices at the far end of the hall. Phantom fingertips walk the length of your spine. Odd, but you put it down to the apprehension churning in your stomach. Gradually you are able to make out what they’re saying.

“Get your filthy hands off it,” Bakugo growls venomously.

“I just wanna feel,” another whines. You recognise it to be Kaminari. “Why is Kacchan the only one allowed to touch it?”

“Stop calling me that, fucker!”

You round the corner and the bickering halts with a harsh shushing sound. They’re all in the centre of a cramped lobby, few chairs lining the walls, woven tapestry hung from the ceilings. Kirishima stands in front of you wearing a pleased grin, comically large. The armoured plates on his naked shoulders clink as he moves. “Hey! You clean up nice,” he tells you. “Feeling better?”

“Much better,” you affirm, perking up at his sincerity. “I’m grateful to you all for watching over me”.

“Our Bakugo did most of the work, really. Got a little protective,” Mina, the one kissed by dusk, leans into your space with her plump mouth curled into a smile. The thin gold jewellery hung from her lobe to ear cuff glints in the late afternoon light. “Barely let us in the room”.

“Cause you idiots are too loud,” Bakugo grumbles, stepping forward holding a shiny garb. The fond undertones belied his annoyance, and everyone heard it loud and clear. Your skin prickled as he drags his eyes over your clothed body, evoking a sense of insecurity that is foreign to you. You aren’t sure what, but you wanted him to see something in you worth coveting.

Then your gaze falls to the fabrics folded over his forearm. Your heartbeat ricochets through your ribcage. A tide of emotion wells at the base of your throat. He handles the pelt with purposeful care. Shivers break out across your skin as he smooths a hand over it. Holding it out, he says your name as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

“Here,” he thrusts the pelt into your arms. You scramble and clutch it to your front. Something deep inside you shifts. “This is yours, right? We took it during the raid”.

You’re frozen to the spot, mouth gaping around words that won’t come. Bakugo frowns, the group members behind him glancing at each other and shrugging when they find no answer to your silence.

“Well?” he demands, embarrassment staining his ears pink.

“Yes,” you choke, bringing the hide up to your face and rubbing your cheek against it. So warm and alive. Brine fills your senses, overwhelmed by the smell of home. The relief is short lived. “Thank you for returning it, but…”

Losing strength, you try to convince yourself that he needn’t know— that the old ritual would not be binding if done with a human. If the Gods were merciful there would be no condition that tied you together for the rest of your lives. Yet you felt it the moment your pelt was handed back to you. You’ve been feeling his touch all this time, even before the bond had solidified. Heat rose to your cheeks at the realisation; such an intimate act, and it had been accidental.

From one prison to another. Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad. Bakugo seemed good, in his own rugged way, and he was handsome even by faerie standards.

You wet your lips, breath shaken. “Bakugo. Do you understand the significance of what you just did?”

Bakugo’s expression darkens and he becomes rigid. You get the impression he hates being left in the dark. “What is it?”

“To…” your nails sink into the short velvety fur. “To a selkie their pelt is like an extension of their soul. In our culture, to find and return it is viewed as a…marriage proposal”.

Sero catches Kaminari and Mina as they grapple one another in a dramatic fashion, swaying on their feet. Kirishima puts a hesitant hand on his friend’s shoulder, eyes flickering between the barbarian and your slouched form. “Bro… don’t do anything hasty,” he faltered.

“Bakugo is married now?” Mina shrilled, promptly shut up by the hand covering her mouth. Sero sends you an apologetic grimace.

“Like hell I am”.

Hackles raised, voice sharp and commanding, Bakugo is staring you down like an enemy. Your knees threaten to buckle but you stand your ground, shielding your body with your thick hide. His hands remain by his hips, sparking as the tang of magic bleeds into the air. Despite making no move to attack you still feel his rejection strike you.

“Break whatever vow I just made,” he demanded. “Now”.

“I can’t,” you admit helplessly. “It’s more than a legal contract or a declaration of love. We’ve— it binds us together”.

The barbarian starts forward, upper lip curled into a beastly snarl, held back by the dragon shifter’s grip. Stumbling as you dodge, two familiar scarred arms catch you before your fall. “Kacchan, what are you—?!” Bakugo darts out to grab you and Midoriya immediately pushes you behind his back, shielding you with his body. “Stop it!”

“Midoriya,” Kaminari wheezes, tears beading along his lash line. “Kacchan accidentally got married. Can you believe it?”

Midoriya observes their exchange with a look of confusion. In the seconds that follow you see his eyes fall to the pelt folded against your chest, eyes brightening in understanding. Incognisant to this, Bakugo continues his verbal barrage. “Oi, Deku. You’ve got brain cells. Figure out a way to fix this”.

Mouth gaping like a fish out of water, Midoriya pins Bakugo with a pleading look. “Kacchan. Please tell me you didn’t personally give back the selkie pelt”.

“You knew and didn’t think to say anything?!”

“Why would I?” Midoriya returns, equally irritated. You press your face into the space between his shoulder blades, feeling the vibrations of his voice as they argue. “It’s common folklore!”

“You know I don’t listen to fucking fairytales, Izuku”.

Midoriya reaches back to brush your wrist and offer a comforting touch. You knock your knuckles to his own, grateful for his consideration but unneeding of it. While Bakugo’s furious refusal hurts, and his volume is harsh on the ears, you aren’t truly scared of him. More than anything your body remembers those warm palms— how he had held your hand, even as a stranger, and how he meticulously groomed your hide only knowing that it was of importance to you.

“There’s nothing I can do to fix this,” lowering his tone into something more apologetic, Midoriya’s shoulders slump in defeat. You step to the side, coming into view. Head bowed, weight shifting between each foot. You refuse to be subservient any longer but cannot ignore the guilt that churns in your stomach.

Bakugo sees you. Something flickers in his features; a brief glance, a rough exhale, it flies across his face like the shadow of an albatross and disappears, equally fleeting. Never taking his vermilion eyes off you he argued, “What about cheeks?”

The golden hour spreads her hands all over the room, air cooling when his spitting frustration dwindles to uncertainty.

“Uraraka?” Midoriya mused aloud. His softer countenance tempers your anxiety. “It’s possible she could do something… Let me go see if I have her recent coordinates written somewhere…”

Midoriya scurries back down the hallway, leaving you defenseless. Without thinking you ask the group, “Uh. Who’s Uraraka?”

Everyone’s attention falls to you and you resist the reflexive urge to cower. “She’s a witch,” Kaminari supplies happily, arms wrapped around Sero’s neck like a scarf. “An old friend of ours, but she’s pretty hard to find now. I heard her place is always moving”.

A building that could move with magic. The human world never ceased to be fascinating.

Mina nudges her elbow into his side and a shock of electricity sparks from his crown. “That’s outdated, dummy! You’re supposed to say occultist”.

Kaminari whines, rubbing at his ribs. “To-may-toe, to-mah-toe,” he enunciated, pouting. “Same thing”.

Bakugo growls, ignoring their exchange in favour of pacing the room. Your pelt is a comforting weight as you follow the back and forth motions, taking the chance to really look at him. The fur lined cloak across his shoulders billows obnoxiously as he turns, jewels and talons strung around his neck knocking against his clavicle. Doused in sunlight, the markings painted across his bare chest are highlighted, and you notice the uneven skin beneath them— more scars.

He combs his fingers aggressively through his hair and his arm bulges beneath the armour strapped to his bicep. Kirishima tires of watching and cuts into his path, hands open in surrender.

“Stressing won’t do you any good, man,” the shifter reasoned. “We’ve all got your back. I’m sure Uraraka will know what to do”.

Bakugo huffs. You think there should be steam coming out of his nose. “I know, shithead. I just,” he takes a quick look at where you are awkwardly standing. “I don’t like this”.

There’s an abrupt yelp in the distance. Midoriya’s cry is followed by a crash, the sound of books tumbling from shelves onto the wooden floor. He stumbles out into the hallway slightly dishevelled, patting off the dust on his waistcoat and proffering a sheet of paper. Tucked under his arm is a rolled up map.

“Kacchan,” comes his breathless chime. “Here’s where she was last. But I remembered that she was planning on taking a short trip to the valleys near the coast to find more idiran leaves since they’re in season now. I mapped out all the areas where they usually grow, in case you—”

Bakugo snatches the coordinates and the map without ceremony. “Thanks,” he grunts, turning on his heel and making for the exit. “Come on, losers. We only got a few hours until it’s too dark to fly”.

The group works in perfect synchrony. Sero reaches under one of the nearby chairs and drags out a large bag, hoisting it over his shoulder. Mina does the same, pulling back the draping tapestry by the doorway and taking back a concealed sack. You watch as they walk leisurely behind Bakugo, in no real rush despite his demands, Kaminari lamenting how little they trusted him with their cargo.

Kirishima lingers behind, clapping Midoriya soundly on the back. “Thanks for everything as usual, man. We appreciate it,” he emphasised his gratitude with a strong squeeze.

“I’m always happy to see you,” you’re impressed by Midoriya’s reaction; a smile from ear to ear, sturdy and unaffected by Kirishima’s obvious force, his smaller frame belying his strength. “Just promise not to shift too close to the building. I don’t have time to re-thatch my roof”.

“I promise!” Kirishima traces a cross over his heart with his fingers. Their focus turns to you. You tense, feeling entirely out of place. “Sure you’re feeling alright? Have you ever flown before?”

“No,” you admit, needlessly smoothing the fabric of your kirtle down. “I’ve probably never been this far inland, nevermind flying”.

Midoriya’s eyes widened, though not unkindly. They’re sparkling, as if he were excited on your behalf. “Then you’re in for a real treat,” he beams, the intensity dimming within the next breath, sadness hemming his smile. “Just know you’re in good hands. Kacchan is a little abrasive but he means well”.

“And I swear I’ll fly carefully,” Kirishima interjects. It’s funny, a man so large exuding such gentility. “I’m a dragon shifter, if you hadn’t already guessed”.

You had sensed it immediately. Shifter energies were palpable and animated things. They hung in the air like a humid fog. Despite your similarities you are still so uniquely different. While you were tied to the pelt in your arms, Kirishima had no such restriction. You envied his freedom.

“You caught me…?” you say. He nods at your words. “Thank you, then. Again”.

“That was all Bakubro. He saw you before anyone else did,” as though on cue, Bakugo’s voice penetrated impatiently through the walls, demanding that you both get outside. Kirishima’s lips uptick affectionately.

“If I don’t get to see you again, well…” Midoriya begins to corral the pair of you to the door as he speaks. “I hope you make it home. And I’m really happy I could meet you”.

Surrounding Midoriya’s residence is a dense forest. The trees are tall, older than any you’ve seen, their branches reaching out and intertwining with one another to conceal your group under a canopy shrouded in gold. Further ahead it thins out onto a winding road. Built on a steep hill it dips in the distance, opening up to the many plots of land below.

The earth is soft under your boots. There are wildflowers at your feet. You try to step around each one carefully while Kirishima advances forward to the group with vigour.

Bakugo is saying something but you barely hear it, lost in your thoughts, besotted by the vast canvas around you; a sense of harmony as the pigments blend together. It is like a dream in which you can’t tell one side of the veil from the other, and nothing like the dreary castle you were once stowed away in.

Your moment in lucidity is soon interrupted. You instinctively pull the pelt closer to your chest before realising who had approached. “You listening or what?” Bakugo calls quietly, an attempt at being reposeful. Amidst your daydreaming Kirishima has disappeared into the overgrowth and the others are watching your interaction with poorly veiled interest.

“Uh, sure,” you blurt uselessly. He raises a brow and you feel ridiculous.

“Kirishima said it’s your first time,” he pauses and you nod in affirmation. A hand comes to rest on your back, breath caught in your throat, pressure pulling you close to his side. “Then you’ll sit up front with me”.

Your head bobs again, unrolling the pelt and knotting it tight to your waist, skin prickling under his close scrutiny. Bakugo brings his fingers to his lips and whistles, “Red!”

‘Red’ answered the call with a low room and a rustle of wings. The dragon’s head lifts, towering above the treeline, his body following as he steps out into the open. Amber eyes gleamed in the early evening light as he bobbed his head on a serpentine neck. His deep red scales shimmered with a faint golden sheen as he flashed his teeth in greeting.

You err on the side of reticence while Mina and Kaminari sprint toward the dragon whooping excitedly. Various lines of thick rope trails behind them and Sero picks up the slack, looping it thrice through their bags. He spins the cut end, undulating as the momentum builds, and throws it over Kirishima’s back to be caught by Kaminari and pulled taut.

“C’mon,” Bakugo leads you forward. He is surprisingly patient with you now. You’ve faced young whales and sharks yet still you feel dwarfed by the sheer size of the dragon, heart all pitter patter behind your ribs. It is the prey animal in you.

Kirishima snorts, lowering to the ground. The earth trembles, a gust of wind dancing through the grass. Another rope is flung around his neck, threaded through the horns protruding from his skull like a set of reins, dropping in front of you.

The hand by your hip slides further at your abrupt flinch, arm securing around your waist. “On three I want you to climb,” he commands, giving you no time to think. “One… two…”

Bakugo takes the weight like it’s nothing, lifting you higher so you can grab the rope. Molten heat. You pull yourself up, scrambling to straddle Kirishima’s upper back. The others are further down his spine, playing around at the base of his tail without a care in the world, as though they were not about to be thousands of feet in the air. Kirishima’s lungs expand for breath and you cling to a spike protruding from the dragon’s nape, grip flexing at the warmth that settles behind you.

Bakugo frames your body with his thighs, thick by the skirt bunching above your knees, and pulls the rest of the rope up to wrap it around your pelt. In an instant you are all too conscious of him as a man, the proximity plucking at your centre of gravity, a cold sensation spreading throughout your chest. “Sorry,” he mutters unprompted, so quiet you aren’t sure you were meant to hear it. You get the impression he doesn’t say it often. “For dragging you into more shit”.

You mull the words over as you relax into his hold. With that one sentence you think you understand him a little more than before.

Sero’s voice travels through the silence, “Good to go!”

Fastening his arm across your middle, solid and steady, Bakugo brings his boot hard down onto Kirishima’s shoulder. “Get moving, Red!” he roars.

The dragon’s movements are heavy, slow. Aligned with the winding road, he builds up speed. As though he’d shaken off his own mass Kirishima is suddenly quick on his feet and breaking into a run; forced back in the momentum your stomach swoops, upheld by inertia as your body follows the broad bounding movements.

Leathery wings snap open into the clearing. Your hands clutch at Bakugo’s forearm and he digs his fingers in harder, his lips warm against your temple. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, but all you can hear is the thundering wind and the blood rushing in your ears. You watch the steep edge approach and take a reflexive breath as it abruptly disappears.

Air pours into your lungs and then out again in a ragged, exhilarated gasp. The ground falls—and then you are gliding.

The cool air whips against your cheeks. Smooth and steady as a horse’s canter, Kirishima soars through the open skies, his magnificent wingspan bearing the weight of five riders. Below, the fields coalesce into one land. Towns and villages become an inscrutable speck. Incredulous laughter bursts from your throat, nerves evolving into excitement in the climb towards the clouds.

Bakugo mellows by the second, tension ironed down by gravity. There’s a particular satisfaction to his expression, contentment you’ve only ever experienced in the ocean’s depths, and yet, as he squeezes around you intermittently to remind you he is there, you can feel it too.

“You with me?” he shouts. “Not scared?”

You lock eyes and try to show him a tremulous smile, answering at the top of your lungs, “I’m good”.

Then he bares his teeth, grinning proudly. Over you comes the sense of being praised. Your smile widens.

Time moves differently in the skies. Closer to the sun, you thought perhaps things naturally moved slower. Change is always less apparent when you are walking alongside it. Instead, you measure the hour by the shadows cast chasing Kirishima’s tail, and eventually the skies darken.

Lowering his head, tilting a wing to swing out in a broad arc, Kirishima angles toward the earth. Bakugo raises up a battle worn hand, the lineaments of his face irradiated by streams of dim light threading through his fingers. He makes a specific gesture, signalling to the others of the incoming descent. Like the sun, you can’t look away from his raw brilliance.

Kirishima lands at the base of a mountain valley. It sends a gust of wind across the clearing. Through the dark you make out a familiar reflection of light in the distance. The lake is hardly an ocean, but you’re extremely comforted to be by a body of water.

Chest pressed flat to your back Bakugo’s natural heat spreads through your shirt. Helped down much in the same way you were boosted up, he seems determined to keep you near. You can’t say you mind it— a quiet attraction comes and goes as he steadies you on your feet. He clicks his tongue, muttering clipped insults that he doesn’t mean.

It’s decided you’ll remain there for the night. “You can bet your ass we’re having an early start,” Bakugo says, pointing at each of you with stubborn intent, squinted glare lingering on the less than enthusiastic members. Kaminari slumps forward dramatically and you worry his knees might buckle.

Kirishima leaves again, briefly, to circle the area in his full form while Bakugo starts on the pit. It’s lit by a whisper of fire from the returning dragon’s mouth, setting the tinder ablaze over the nest of branches; the dry, withered pine slowly releases years of energy soaked up from the sun, the air, and the ground, keeping the camp brightly lit.

Smoke swirls above and dissipates into the atmosphere. You are far enough from any large human settlement that you see the night sky in all its clarity. Around you now are the soft voices of acquaintances filtered between conversations; none you could hear properly, but the sounds were still soothing, coming in hushed tones that add to the intimate atmosphere.

Flames dance on their cheeks, illuminating the prominent parts of their faces. You’re sitting beside the water’s edge with your pelt strewn across your lap, close enough to feel the warmth as it crackles and spits, watching the way they love each other.

Kaminari has fished out a big bottle from his bag, dramatically popping the cork, and is steadily passing it around. Alcohol, you guessed. Sero took a heavy swig without flinching. Mina had tried to do the same and now has her head pillowed by Kirishima’s thigh, thick and sturdy as a human, and his fingers stroked through the curly by her temple aimlessly as he lost himself in discussion. Sensing your gaze, she meets your eyes and smiles dazedly, lids fluttering.

You look away, take a breath and notice the air tastes like sake and smoke. Darkness covers the lake. Under the waxing moon your face stares back at you, swimming among minnows and echoes of stars. It ripples where you dip your fingertips, mind empty, anaesthetised by the chill.

“You idiots never pace yourselves,” Bakugo’s voice rumbled over the flames and rolled over your skin. He is sitting closest to you, legs loosely crossed in the dirt . “If you throw up on Red tomorrow I’m not cleaning it up”.

Kaminari shakes the bottle in his direction. The bubbles fizz upward, some spilling out. “Such a stick in the mud, Kacchan. We gotta celebrate your marriage somehow!”

Sero cackles as the other two chime in agreement. You stroke your pelt, restless at the mention of your union, and it soaks up the water from your fingers. Surprisingly, Bakugo lets it slide, though not before scooping the loose earth into his hand and throwing it at an oncoming Kaminari.

Eyes of amber briefly flicker over your form in his approach. Kaminari drops into the empty space beside you and pulls the bottle from his mouth with a resounding pop, leaving behind a wet sheen, and tilts it forward. “You too,” he grinned. “Congrats. Our boy is quite the catch, y’know”.

“So I can see,” you smile, letting the gloom be pulled right out of you, your fingers wrapping around the bottle's neck. They grazing his own and spark static. Neither of you comment on it, his squinted stare fixed curiously on your expression as you bring the finish to your lips.

The aroma is rich, sweet like overly ripe bananas. You tip back, feeling it dry and bitter on your tongue. There are hints of vanilla and brown sugar, a sting to your throat that begs you to cough. You hear a quiet laugh.

“Too strong?” Sero teases lightheartedly from across the campfire.

Your expression twists, “It’s good. But it burns. Is that normal?”

“That’s why it’s good,” Kaminari snickers. You clear your throat, handing the bottle back, attention drawn back to the lake in a beat of comfortable silence. “Oh, hey. I did want to say— you can swim if you need to, y’know”.

“Hm?”

“Kiri has all sorts of weird urges if he doesn’t shift for a while. Gets all restless and snappy,” Kaminari gives a knowing look to the man in question. Kirishima nods at you, his features taut with sincerity. “So if you want to swim for a while or something we totally get it”.

You’re flustered by their earnestness, gripping at your pelt, all too aware of it. Slipping into your other form feels far too personal; well meaning as they are, they’re still strangers to you. “That’s— I’m alright,” you politely decline, “my needs as a seal aren’t really felt while I’m like this”.

A surprised noise resonates from Kirishima, Mina unmoving from her place in his lap but watching with rapt curiosity. “You’re practically human right now, then?” he asks.

“Practically,” you give a self conscious shrug. Somehow admitting it felt like stripping yourself. Confessing to a weakness. Unsettled, you deflect the subject back. “Do you keep your dragon traits as a human?”

“Nah, not while I’m in this form. I don’t even have my hydrogen glands— look,” Kirishima hooks his fingers into his cheeks to spread them wider. You lean in for a closer look. The glow from the campfire illuminates the back of his throat— barely, and ironically. His tongue wiggles as he tries to lay it flat. You’re not sure what he’s trying to show you. You’ve never seen a dragon’s maw before, but aside from the shark-like teeth his mouth really does seem the same as any other man’s.

“Pretty boring, right?” his words come garbled around his fingers and so he pulls them out, wiping the spit on his pants. “But even though I can’t breathe fire right now, I can do this!”

You stare in surprise as the skin along his forearm hardens into tough scales. He holds it out to you in permission to touch; they feel jagged under your fingertips, tough like the bark of an ancient tree. “That’s amazing. You have your own shield,” you breathe, awed.

“Damn right,” Bakugo interjects. There’s that unfettered pride again. Kirishima’s cheeks redden and you sympathise with him. In your short time with them you knew receiving praise from Bakugo felt like standing under the sun. “Should‘ve seen him as a kid,” he continues, eyes alight and mirthful. “Had scales like wet paper. Even cried when he first shifted”.

“D’you have to bring that up,” Kirishima groans, though not upset by it. He shares in the amusement, uplifted by the sound of his friends' laughter, and pouts playfully in your direction. “It was scary!”

Mina giggles. Her movements are sluggish and dopey as she waves her arm in Kaminari’s direction, who then stretches around the pit to Sero, who then passes it off to her. She takes a quick sip, free hand pinching Kirishima’s cheek. “Wasn't your first time an accident, too? That’s so cute”.

“He sneezed actually,” Sero supplies, smirk crooked, foot tapping Kirishima’s ankle in a preemptive apology. “Destroyed half his house”.

Kaminari slaps his knee, “Man, you were stumbling around like a newborn foal. It was hilarious”.

Bakugo grinned as the others bickered, a fond, radiant thing that lit up his whole face. He’s softer like this, drenched in warmth. Cloak tucked behind his shoulders you are given the view of his broad chest. And when he finally looks at you, his half lidded gaze has been softened by his third swig; though he remained considerably sober compared to his companions.

“What’re you starin’ at?” he mutters.

“Nothing,” you answer quickly, then, quieter, “It’s just nice that you’ve all been together for so long”.

“Since we were snot-nosed brats. We hail from the same clan. Deku too,” he replies, elbow propped on his knee, chin cupped in his palm. “Getting sick of seeing their faces at every turn”.

“Liar,” you hum amusedly. “What do humans call it…? Emotionally constipated”.

His eyes slide over you, brow quirked. With his friends distracted he is more emboldened giving you attention. “Got some liquor down your neck and suddenly you’re givin’ me cheek?”

“Guess so,” you feel yourself endeared by your not-husband. The pleasant honeyed sensation shrouding your body must’ve loosened your tongue. “Anyone can see they’re like family to you”.

The barbarian kisses his teeth and shifts himself toward you, an ugly look on his face. You catch his peek at your pelt. “What about you?”

“Me?”

Bakugo grunts. “Yeah. You got family?”

If not for the alcohol that question might’ve sucked all the joy from the air. You settle on a sad smile, dragging your fingertip through the dirt to draw a vague seal shape. “That’s hard to answer,” you intoned gently, barely audible over the crackling fire. “My memories of them are vague. The longer I stay human the more I forget”. He frowns, but you continue, unperturbed, “Usually it would be the same thing in reverse, if we weren’t bonded I would likely forget all of this”.

“And you’re okay with that?” he says, some edge to his tone. “You’re okay with being stuck here?”

The ‘with me’ goes unspoken but you hear it, and you fall silent. Because you have no answer. You’d had months to reconcile a pallid future— at one point you thought you would never again see the ocean, least of all your family. It was probable that they’d already moved on without you.

“I don’t feel stuck,” you admit. His actions and his words, albeit harsh, proved that to be true. Aside from the obvious differences from your previous capture, the biggest is that you are equally in possession of Bakugo’s individual liberty— you’re married, you mentally amend, not in possession. While it is true you wouldn’t be able to stray far from him with the bond established, you held your pelt, independence, control.

A near imperceptible tension seeps from him at your answer. “What about you?”

He scoffs, stretching out his legs. The soles of his boots drag in the dirt. “Do I look fuckin’ stuck?”

“No,” you murmur with amusement, turning to gaze at the flickering pyre. “A man that can fly hundreds of miles on dragonback in a single day certainly isn’t stuck”.

“Now you’re getting it”.

The other conversation has worn into soft murmurings. Kirishima drunkenly hands off the last of the alcohol to Bakugo, gesturing to the three who’ve surrounded him and fallen asleep. As the dragon shifter repositions himself to join them, curled together like a pack of seal pups, Bakugo takes a sip.

There’s probably only a mouthful left and you accept it when he offers. “You should sleep, too”.

You heed his instruction and lie down on your side, your pelt pillowed under your head. The smell of home swaddles you. “Early rise, right?” he nods, leaning back onto his arms. “How long do you think it’ll take to find the—uh, occultist?”

“A week if she’s where she’s supposed to be,” he scowls. You’re not sure what draws the heat to your face; the drink or his voice, now gravelly with fatigue. “Three at most”.

“Okay,” you exhale, eyes fluttering closed. “Thank you, Bakugo”.

A soft breeze dances through the brush. Your skin pebbles, shivers slipping down your spine. Something heavy drapes over you and encases you in a warm cocoon. Fluff tickles at your nose. Your fingers curl into the familiar red fabric of Bakugo’s cloak. He has pointedly angled away from you, ready to ignore any attempt at interrogation. The gruff act of kindness makes your heartbeat faster. Fondness settles in your chest, so big that it aches. His natural scent mixes with yours and it’s like being laid on the shoreline, stitching sea and land together.

“Don’t fuckin’ thank me yet,” the muscles in his back ripple as he tends to the dwindling fire, declaring with conviction, “Just follow me. I’ll fix this and get you home”.

You lick your lips, mouth dry from the alcohol. In that very moment you want to tell him that the ocean and the sky are like a two way mirror; that when you were up there with him, strangely, your body thought it was at home.

Instead, you close your eyes and watch the embers paint yellow and orange kaleidoscopes behind your eyelids.

Instead, you sleep.

The weeks that follow are arduous. Uraraka is nowhere to be found, and your group resorted to searching the areas of iridian growth Midoriya circled.

You weren’t used to hiking up mountainous lands, navigating forests or scaling dragons, not in the beginning. Rising with the sun, enduring unpredictable changes in weather, wincing through the ache that grew in your weaker human muscles, Bakugo found your crankiness amusing and irritating all at once; never missing an opportunity to comment on your lack of stamina, then using it as an excuse to assist where assistance is not truly needed.

But you saw through him, and let him. You did not need help climbing, yet your hands weaved together so he could pull you up. You’re soon practiced in saddling Kirishima, yet you always wait for Bakugo to put his arm around your lower back every ride. Your inner voice sings whenever he brings you food— begrudgingly, he throws it into your lap and grunts like the barbarian he is— or hangs his cloak over your head without a word as though you were a rack. It’s a little more charged every time you interact, and you found you liked being taken care of in those subtle ways that did not undermine your independence.

The others noticed and teased accordingly. They call him a dutiful husband and his aggravated explosions saw you driven out of two small settlements for startling livestock. You become closer to each of them. Their patchwork family makes room for you quicker than you know what to do with. And you enjoy it; learning about the people around you, peeling back the rind of their lives piece by piece with mundane questions, seeing what they’re made up of.

You learn Kaminari enjoys literature, dramatically reciting love tales in the night, referencing poems you’ve never heard. He’s charming but never with actual intention. It is somehow more endearing that he doesn’t know his own allure, finding comfort in the role of a jester. Mina is pure joy wrapped in flesh. Apologetically overbearing and well meaning. Like an older sister she showed you how to securely fashion your pelt—over one shoulder, a belt fastened around the waist, keeping it in place— and let you use her combs. She speaks fast when she’s happy, hits hard when she laughs and gossips avidly, picking up new information wherever she goes.

Kirishima looked at you with kindness and iron surety in his eyes from the start. Good natured and feeling— he has a heart so big that he apologises to a flower bed after he steps on it. There’s a natural fraternal air about him that sets you at ease and the group’s clear affection and appreciation for him diminished any worry about your own treatment as a shifter.

But of everyone else in the group you found Sero the most easygoing. Conversation came fluidly and your initial diffidence was thrown by how naturally you were able to fall into place with him. He lends an ear to any questions you have, practised in the art of human interaction; a man capable of adapting to any one person he comes into contact with. As such, he is the member sent to negotiate, collect information, and make arrangements.

When you make it to the last destination on the map you are drenched in a time-steeped sunset. Sero trudges back through the brush, returning from the nearby port town. Landing at such a late hour Sero had been tasked with finding the local tavern to buy a few rooms for the night, and the lazy thumbs up he waves from a distance is proof he accomplished his goal.

“They don’t get too many travellers passing through here so I swiped up three rooms,” he huffs, coming to a stop and brushing the dirt off his pants. “They’ve got a bathhouse, too”.

Bakugo makes a noise of approval, lifting a bag over his shoulder while Kirishima carries the rest under his arms and flashes a toothy smile. “Glad it went smoothly, man”.

“Thank the Gods,” Kaminari cheers, clapping his friend on the back. “You’re a lifesaver. I can’t wait to sleep on an actual bed again”.

“Uh huh. Two twin rooms for us lowly minions,” Sero continues, his grin curling into something more sly. You get a sense of foreboding. “And of course, a double room for the newlyweds”.

Mina whistles, slipping her hand into yours and tugging. You freeze, heart in your throat, and force yourself to relax, not yet used to how tactile they can be. She’s too invested in Bakugo’s response to notice. Your eyes flicker over to find him red faced and incensed, knuckles white with the pressure he has around the drawstrings of his bag.

Sharing a room with Bakugo. Alone. Thus far you’d all been together. Either under the stars or in caves, or packed into cramped quarters stuffed with wattle and daub if a villager felt kind enough.

“You've got exactly five seconds to explain why you thought that was a good idea”.

Sero quickly put his palms up in surrender. “You gave me a budget, Bakugo. They offered to lower the price as a wedding gift. I figured it would be okay for one night”.

Bakugo jerks his head in your direction, his steely glare unmoving. The tips of his ears are pink, too, frustration unfolding across his skin. “You don’t get to decide that,” he chided, tone harsh like a hiss.

Suddenly, Sero looks rather ashamed of himself. “Shit, I’m sorry. Should’ve asked,” he says to you, rubbing at his neck as his head lowers. It’s unlike him to be so wilted— and all because of your potential discomfort.

You meet Bakugo’s eyes, gleaming intensely, already trying to scrutinise your reaction. Mina hums quietly. She tightens grip on your hand again in reassurance, the other running along your bicep. “If you want I can swap with you”.

Bakugo snorts at that, as if the idea was ridiculous, but he doesn’t shoot it down despite his clear aversion to sharing with Mina. You understood his disbelief. They behaved much like siblings, squabbling and poking at one another. It’d rouse suspicion and you didn’t fancy being chased out of town for swindling the keepers for a discount.

“Thank you guys. But it’s alright,” you reassured, mouth lifting into a small smile and reciprocating Mina‘s gentle squeeze. “I don’t mind sleeping with Bakugo”.

A few beats of silence. You see Bakugo’s expression slip, jaw loose and eyes wide for a brief moment before it twists. He turns away from the group as a chorus of suggestive crowing erupts.

Understanding your mistake almost immediately hot mortification comes over you, stifling beneath the pelt on your shoulder. “Shut up, you useless fuckin’ perverts,” Bakugo snaps, flustered and wild, swatting at the nearest victim. Kirishima feigns a wounded noise.

“Hey, I didn’t do anything!”

“Just get moving,” the barbarian marches onward, tearing his way through the overgrowth and heading for the tavern. “And walk behind me!”

His choleric mutters continue, heard even at a distance. Tucking your chin to your chest, you hide your laughter in your silken pelt as you follow after him, mouth filling with a comforting briney scent. You think Bakugo undeniably cute when he’s embarrassed; a sight you’ve had the pleasure of seeing more than once on account of his pod. That feeling from the campfire returns, fills your chest, pulsing through to your fingertips, tempting you to reach out, to touch him.

More and more you’re inundated with the need to be close. You quell the urge and tighten your grip on Mina, her cheek squished to your shoulder, loose curls the colour of blossom tickling your throat. “Don’t worry. He’s not really mad,” she tells you furtively, as if it were a big secret.

“I know,” gaze lingering on Bakugo’s back, covered by that thick red cloak, you wonder if your scent still clings to it. Contentedly, “I’m getting used to it”.

The town is beautiful. Bursting with flora and fauna, accentuated by the dusk, ocean curling around the village in a way that reminds you of mother. Nature's cradle. You cling protectively to your pelt, scenting the salt in the air and hovering closer to Bakugo. If anybody could identify a selkie skin it would be fishermen. Stray drunken locals stumble by, arm in arm with boisterous cheer. You’re greeted like a long lost friend, neither person recognising your true identity. Humans really can be hearty and genuine at their core. Life before had been so desolate in comparison, so lacking in love and colour.

“Oi,” Bakugo beckons you to his side. When you don’t fall in line he grabs your wrist, pulling you close. His natural body heat lingers like a brand. “Make sure you call me Katsuki from now on,” he instructs under his breath.

You blink at the unexpected request. The muscles in his face are tight, twitching, and his nose flares the longer you stare. Given names are important to humans in this region. Sharing them is an intimate thing, a sign of your close relationship. “Are you sure?”

“Wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t sure,” he punishes your questioning with the fleeting tightening of his grip. You can’t help it. He’s pink again and you like it. “I’m your husband, yeah? So call me by my fuckin’ name”.

The keeper waits surreptitiously by a sheltered stairwell leading to the inn above her tavern. A small Elven woman, uncloaked, the lantern overhead creating a halo of light to circle her ginger crown. She perks up when Sero hands over a small velvet sack, the drawstrings pulled tight. “For the rooms,” he emphasises, coins chiming dully against one another as he shakes it. The woman takes it and cradles the payment to her breast, exchanging the gold for three keys.

You’re guided up the stairwell and into the building, presented with a narrow corridor. There are numerous doors, decorative runes carved into the frames, a coloured piece of string hung from each handle corresponding to the colour of the keys. “It’s good to see some youngins pass through. We only ever get the same old geezers around here,” she says, “Makes for a mundane life”.

The crows' feet wrinkle by her eyes when she smiles, laughter lines framing her mouth. She hands out the keys to your pod who all rush in childish excitement to see their rooms. At last she turns to where you stand stiffly beside Katsuki.

You’re handed a key. The stem is long and thin and made with copper, the key wards in the bit uniquely shaped to your door. Threaded through the bow is a lavender string. “It isn’t much but I hope you will be comfortable for the night,” with a wink, she adds, “Congratulations to you both”.

“Thank you. We will be in your care,” your reply is tremulous, undecided whether to be pleased with the sincere acknowledgement of your marriage or nervous to be seen through. At your side, the large barbarian grunts.

It is uncharacteristic of him; always very respectful of his elders. You lean against him, just a nudge. His attention snaps to you and you smile innocently. “Be polite, Katsuki”.

Like it was meant to be spoken only by you, Katsuki’s name sits right in your mouth, lips shaping around the characters softened by warm intonation. The reaction is instantaneous. His jaw ticks. His faint blush returns. His stoic expression wanes as he looks to the keeper, who is observing the interaction with mirthful eyes. Lowering his head he mutters, “We appreciate your hospitality, ma’am”.

“You’re quite darlin’ together, aren’t you,” she comments heartily, mostly to herself, as if airing her thoughts. “We got good food and drinks downstairs, do come if you’re hungry! Blessings be upon you”.

On her departure you enter the room. Spangles of light dusted the air. While it clearly isn’t lived in, it is homely. You canvas the space. Two square-headed windows facing the street are covered by thin cloth. There is an old, tattered tapestry strung across the wall to cover up a fist sized hole, a patterned glass vase and various other unique tchotchke adorning the shelves. You drag your fingers across the brick fireplace opposite a wide double bed, mattress made of wool but compensated by the many feather pillows and blankets.

“This is good,” you say, “homely”. Though there is an animal hide on the floor, which you find rather… untoward. A soothing musky smell with overtones of caramel and vanilla rising through the cracks in the floorboards from the tavern below. You breathe it in deeply.

“It’ll do,” Katsuki voices his agreement and drops his bag with a conclusive thud. “Let me hide our stuff and we can meet with the others for food downstairs. You haven’t eaten in hours”.

The small consideration makes your heart flutter. “Ah. I’ll be there soon,” you tell him. He squints at you, attempting to mentally pry the answers out of you. “I’m okay, Katsuki. I just need a minute”.

Pausing in the centre of the room, Katsuki scrutinises you. You fidget under his intense appraisal, undecided whether it pleases you or not. It is strange to want something that often leaves you feeling excruciatingly… exposed.

You wait apprehensively and wonder if he’ll comment on your use of his name— needless, this time. After all there are no ears or eyes in these walls. You’re not sure what you’ll do if he asks you to stop.

“Are you sure?” you nod, mouth strained in a thin smile. Bakugo frowns but ultimately gives you your space. “Make sure you catch up. If you’re not down in ten minutes I’m coming back”.

“I will,” you land heavily on the edge of the bed, wrinkling the sheets as you unclip your pelt. The collar of your ill-fitted shirt slips forward with the motion to reveal cleavage, and Bakugo immediately averts his gaze.

“Whatever,” he rasps, unexpectedly shy. The door slams as he leaves. You right the collar, tugging it back up, lips pressed thin to repress the laughter that bubbles in your chest. Aimless and left to your own devices you take a solitary moment to groom the pelt in your lap, marbled and downy-soft. Brushing through the coat, fingertips trace the rings of black and brown.

Things are so different. Being a person is more overwhelming than you imagined. Being locked away had kept you in a state of inertia, suffocating in numb misery, but now you were left to grapple with the immense spectrum of human emotion. Urges and wants that you had never experienced before meeting Katsuki.

You swallow, staring at the spaces between your fingers. Spaces filled with short tan fur. Selkie marriages were simultaneously complicated and simple. Rather, they were so simple that they bore unnecessary complications.

A stolen pelt creates a one sided bond but upon return it is consummated. Between two selkies in courting pelts were exchanged, solidifying their promise to one another, deeply unified by their magic. Elder podmates said that it meant they belonged to only one another. Abandoning the tides, in a way.

Since being a pup the voice of the sea was a ceaseless whisper you were always aware of. Yet since Katsuki held your seal skin, unknowingly cradled your very being and returned it to you with only sincere intention, that voice had gradually been ebbing away.

Would there come a day that you no longer recalled your identity as a selkie—? No. You quickly smother the thought. The immaterial, chimerical magic that made up your very being could never be forgotten. And deep down, you knew Katsuki would not let you. Indeed, you can only picture his surly retaliation if you ever woke up and could not recall your lineage.

With that you get to your feet. Ten minutes would soon pass and his probable wrath was enough motivation. You consider the pelt in your grasp and give a surreptitious glance around the room for somewhere to hide it. Taking it into a tavern full of drunken strangers and mariners seemed like a much worse idea.

After rolling it up tight you stuff it behind the pillows at the head of the bed, further pulling over the coverlets. The hallway is quiet when you step out. You lock the door, tensing at the loud click. You can hear muffled laughter rising through the floors.

It grows in volume when you step out into the evening air. Slurred conversation and bickering pour through the tavern windows. At front is a large, arched door, overshadowed by a dark blue awning. The wood panels are weatherworn and rustic, covered in rivets. You reach for the brass handle. It’s heavy in your palm as you turn it, using your full strength to push forward.

First, you are met with a crescendo of boisterous cheers. Stepping inside, your eyes are drawn to the green dyed sailcloths hung from the rafters above the bar. The establishment is modestly sized, enough that there is a longtable set up in the centre of the room and a fair few smaller roundtables dotted with stools.

Across the far end of the tavern is a line of small booths, separated by wooden screens decorated with mosaic carvings. Oil lamps are hooked on the walls, casting a warm sepia hue that seems to cohesively bring everything together. It felt welcoming, and intimate, like approaching a friend by the fire.

You try to seek out a familiar head of blonde hair. The place is busy but nobody bats an eyelid at your entrance, lively enough that you cannot hear clearly above the overlapping voices around you, intermingling with the low playing of music.

“Lost, stranger?”

You startle.

She finds you easily, like she’d been waiting. Mina curls an arm around your back, pressure light as if she was suddenly worried about being too familiar. It tightens when you lean into her and she smiles with more vigour.

“C’mon. Let’s get you something to eat”.

The distance between you and them is barely that of a crevice, but it is daunting, yawning like a trench. Over in the far left booth, both secluded and closest to the bar, is a group of friends. Directly beneath a lantern strung onto a hook, Katsuki is bathed in orange and nursing a drink. The others are tucked away in the booth, cups and plates lining the table top. Their laughter slows as you approach and you battle the urge to recoil from everyone’s eye. Mina, sensing the discomfort, begins to rub her hand along your back.

“All of you scoot up,” she asserted, wiggling her pointer finger. “Make some space for us!”

They move around on the long, curved seat to make space. You end up on Katsuki’s right, sandwiched in by Sero who smiles, though awkward, earlier remorse persisting as you take your place beside him. “What’s the verdict, are you happy with your room? Best I got from Bakugo is a grunt”.

“Yeah, I like it. You did good picking this place. It’s cosy,” you glance over toward Katsuki. “Beats a cave. The fireplace is nice. I wonder if it works…”

Mina tucks into Kirishima’s side where he sits across from you. Most of the plates are piled up in front of him, food aplenty to sate his dragon-sized appetite. His chin dimples as his bottom lip juts forward, “You guys get a fireplace? That’s so unfair”.

“C’mon, Kiri. The fireplace is there for…”—Kaminari leans in, suggestively lowering his voice and nudging Katsuki’s left arm—“…ambiance”.

You feel a gentle nudge. Katsuki, ignoring his friend's harmless influx of innuendos, slides a glass across the table toward you. “What is it?” you ask, bringing it to your lips. The liquid is dark, red like fresh blood, but it smells fruity. Before he can tell you, you’ve taken a sip.

It is weighty on your tongue, unlike anything you’ve tasted before. Cherries and jam and oddly well paired notes of spicy tobacco. The corner of his mouth curls into a barely there smile, pleased at the immediate delighted sound. He brings forward a large opened bottle and presents it to you.

“Barmaid gave us this to share,” Katsuki taps at the calligraphy on the label. “It’s wine. Expensive too, usually”.

“Guess marriage does have benefits,” Sero gibed, raising a glass of amber liquid you assume to be beer. Expression open in sincere merriment, he declares, “To the happy couple!”

Six glasses come together, toasting to your accidental bond, alcohol spilling over your hands. Katsuki’s cup is there too, his monotonous voice blending into their hurrahs. A hand slides from the back of the booth to rest upon your shoulders and you lean into it, heat prickling over your skull at the feel of his bare skin. Blood thinning, belly full, inhibitions lost to bliss.

Mina brings her hands together in a succinct clap, weaving her fingers. “Another round!” she beams, and the enthusiasm stirs once more.

The evening crawls on. Your modest group barely puts a dent into the chaotic din but it sure can eat. You’re made to swallow your fill under Katsuki’s direction—watching you closer than he did anyone else—and savour the dishes, heady and complimented by your flavoursome wine.

Stories pass through loosened lips, new and old. You don’t mention it when Kaminari repeats himself twice over— nobody else does, either. You all sink into the balmy atmosphere, sharing food and conversation, relaxing entirely for what felt like the first time in months.

Sero chokes on his drink as Kirishima recounts the story of when he and Katsuki first became friends. How the tiny blonde barbarian would sneak up on him through the bushes, throw rocks at his tender head, and challenge him to battle all in pursuit of friendship.

Your shoulders shake, burrowing into Katsuki’s side to sap his warmth. Bare skin pebbles as your fingertips skim his ribs, poking near his armpit. “Would it kill you to communicate like a normal person?”

Trembling mouth pressed firmly together, Katsuki refuses to give anyone the satisfaction of making him laugh. You see through it plain as day. “Shut up,” he grumbles.

“Didn’t even flinch when ma threatened to eat him if I came home with any more teeth missing,” Kirishima continued, sighing happily. “My bro is so manly”.

Steadily the energy begins to dwindle into a pleasant hum. You’re together, drunk on wine and laughter and a sense of harmony. Being with them is startlingly effortless. It feels like family.

In the recesses of your mind you think, I don’t want to let go.

“Hey,” Katsuki says, sharper when nobody hears him. “Hey, shitheads”. You lift your head from where it had come to rest on his shoulder, cheek slightly numb. “Think I’m going to head up”.

You hear a chorus of sluggish objections with no real heat behind them. While he’s fighting off their interrogation you simply watch him, awkwardly angled and ignoring the twinge in your neck. The bead in his braid glints in the low light.

Sensing your stare, Katsuki looks down at you, dappled by lamp light. The flames dance in his irises, gaze unbearably soft, as it had been that first night by the campfire. You hold your breath when he sets his thumb with his tongue and uses it to wipe a crumb from your cheek. The touch is like a spark to flint. A fleeting sort of hope stirs in your chest, like this is all you’d been waiting for, that the universe was finally making things right for you.

Then he snatches his hand back, as though waking up to what he was doing.

“I’m going to bed. You idiots better behave,” he groused, returning his focus to the group. You mourn his attention. “If we get kicked out early I’ll kill you”.

“You love us too much,” Mina tucks her drunken smirk into the cradle of her palm, arm almost slipping with the weight. Cloudy eyes follow Katsuki as he forces his way out of the booth like a bull. “Admit it!”

Bending at the waist he meets her stare head on and deadpans, “Die”. Mina merely laughs and plants a kiss on his forehead that he aggressively rubs away as he leaves.

You stay a little longer but find your mood dampening. Katsuki’s absence makes known an ache usually quelled by the weight of your pelt, almost as though his presence had placated that innate yearning for home. The thought leaves you dizzy.

“I think I’m going to go, too,” you announce out of the blue.

Expressions fall, concerned. Kaminari tilts into your space. You barely even blink at the proximity now. “Everything alright? Y’dont feel sick or anything, do you?”

“No, not at all—“ he frowns at you, unconvinced, “—I just feel like going for a soak before bed. Sero, you said there was a bathhouse?”

Sero perks up at his name and nods loosely, head barely held by his neck. “Yeah! They’re around the back, apparently. Just walk beyond the stairwell,” he shoots you a thumbs up. “They’re mixed but only guests can use ‘em, so don’t worry about it being crowded”.

That’s comforting to know. If luck was on your side it would be empty. You duck out of the tavern with a final wave and a promise to see them in the morning. Thankfully the boisterous chatter grows dull as you step into the night air, stopping to look up the stairwell. You hope Katsuki can sleep through it.

Heeding Sero’s instructions you follow the beaten path around the back of the tavern. There you discover another building, smaller, but with a steeped tile roof and shuttered windows. Curious, you gently lift the green dyed curtain hung in the doorway and enter the earthen-floored threshold.

You are led to what you guess is a small changing area. Cabinets left open, again each handle corresponding the key colours. You find a lavender ribbon and peer around the empty space, contemplating getting undressed.

Gathering courage you pull the strings in your shirt slack, slipping your arms from the sleeves and pulling it over your head. Tepid air breathes over your skin as you push down your pants, stepping out of them where they pool at your feet. Your clothes are folded and left on the shelf, boots lined neatly by the doorway.

Further in is an open space covered in tiles of smooth green. There are low stools and basins with natural running water, washcloths and soaps. While unpracticed you are at least somewhat familiar with bathhouse etiquette. Sitting hesitantly, hissing as your bare thighs meet the cool wood, you dip one of the cloths to soak and begin to scrub at your body.

The knots in your muscles become undone with the repetitive motions, again and again until you’re lathered in bubbles. You breathe in, feeling the humidity cling to your lungs, and rinse away the soaps.

Eventually you dub yourself clean enough to enter the baths. The seafoam tiles soon taper to stone that borders the baths. You take in the tall ceiling with beautiful carvings along the walls and high placed glass windows allowing the moon to shine in easily. The patterns are comfortingly familiar. Shells, waves, gulls, rock formations and arches. Though the bathhouse is much warmer, hot tendrils of steam rising from the bubbling water.

Penumbral light glinted on the water's surface. It held a distinct earthy scent, rolling in from the nearby springs. Again, you are reminded of a tide pool, but deeper. Clear and clean and natural. What immediately seizes your attention is the familiar man sitting close by, a head of wet golden hair still somehow holding its shape, the loose strands that typically make up his braid now tucked behind his ear.

Katsuki tips back to rest on the bath's edge. A thin white towel is laid across his face. Your gaze follows the slope of his shoulders, roving over his defined chest, skin pink with the heat. Rivulets run between his pecs to his sternum, lower body distorted below the water but patently bare, same as you. You exhale a breath you hadn’t known you were holding and quickly look away from his lap.

Time spent with Katsuki taught you that he hated being treated delicately. Tip toeing around this was not an option. You would join him in the baths and behave as normal. But—

Humans were fickle about nakedness. Where should you sit? What is an appropriate distance? Straying too far could make him defensive, yet getting too close might—

“Are you going to stand there all night?”

Startled, the soles of your feet almost slip on the smoothed stone. “You knew it was me?”

Katsuki scoffs. The towel remains over his eyes, obstructing his view, that which you were grateful for. Your previous indifference had so abruptly burgeoned into apprehension. Just the thought that he might see you this glaringly bare and skinless, a body without boundaries, made your stomach swoop. It is a peculiar sensation; you wanted him to look and you didn’t.

“Nobody else thinks that loud. Unless you’re Deku,” you can imagine his eyes rolling, the exasperation clear in his voice, though not unkind. The corded muscles in his shoulders shift beautifully as his arm stretches across the bath’s edge, wrist limp to allow his fingertips to breach the surface. He flicks the water in your direction, creating capillary waves. “Just— fuckin’ get in already”.

“Right,” you laugh quietly under your breath, descending the steps into the baths. The heated water is soothing, climbing the length of your lengths, eventually coming to rest above your hips.

You sink near to him and pointedly keep your eyes above his collar. Katsuki neither twitches nor acknowledges your approach. In fact, you aren’t sure he is even breathing. It occurs to you that he too could be nervous, tempted to look but refraining. The possibility of being wanted by him brings a sudden sharp sort of awareness that slides through you and heightens your senses.

Outstretched fingertips brush featherlight between your shoulder blades where you lean back against the wall. You sit with your knees close to your breast, relieved to be covered. “I thought you were heading to bed,” you comment quietly.

“Saw the path and followed it,” he replies, stiff shoulder jerking as he shrugs. “Wanted some quiet”.

A deep pink flush is spreading across his collarbones, clawing up the column of his throat. Your rational mind knows it is caused by the steam, yet the greedy part of you, the part so distinctly human, wants to know if you affect him as much as he affects you.

These feelings had gradually been accumulating since the very beginning. You’ve no idea where to put them. The voice in your hindbrain all but panics at the idea of leaving. You’ve spent a lifetime listening to your instincts and they’re telling you to keep your place at his side.

You inhale until the pressure in your chest is smothered by your lungs and your heart beat slows. Exhale. The water shifts in sync with your subtle movement. Emboldened by the wine in your veins you slide closer. The soft hair on your legs prickles, everything in you gravitating toward him. Katsuki doesn’t acknowledge it.

“Always staring,” a flustered growl snaps you back to reality. “You got something to say to me?”

“No,” you answer too quickly.

“Good,” his upper body sinking lower. After a length of silence it must get to him. Voice pitched low, as though afraid to disturb the atmosphere, he mutters, “Ever had a bath this big, back at that shitty castle?”

You snort. He turns at the sound and the surface ripples as you quickly smother it with your wet palm. It’s easy to picture the searing glare beneath the face towel. “Sorry. It’s just,” your mouth pulls into a tipsy grin. “All things considered, this place is pretty small to me”.

“Dumbass. You know what I meant,” he huffs, not bothering to hide his fond exasperation. “The sea doesn’t count”.

Humans are cute, you concluded. Trying to emulate the ocean in their warm wooden structures. “It counts,” you insist, moving closer still. You’re giddy in the water, with him. Like you’re sharing some special part of yourself in a strange way. “Have you been?”

A rough hum, “Where?”

“The sea”.

“Which one?”

The steam must be making you light headed. You’re tucked to his side again. Thigh to thigh. Skin against skin. You are acutely aware of your shared nakedness. His arm has slipped over the bath's edge to drape around your shoulders. “The closest, obviously. Or any of them,” you knock your knees together. “It’s not like you to be purposefully obtuse”.

“Big attitude for a little fish,” he mutters, free hand reaching for the towel, sliding it up to his hairline and revealing a crooked grin. Your heart squeezes. “Course I’ve been in the ocean. Flown over it on Red a few times too”.

You want to do that, too. To bear witness to the wind driving the currents from above, feel the sea salt spray sharp on your cheeks, touch the unreachable seam where your two worlds become indistinguishable.

“Never bathed in it, though?”

“No,” he drawled, an impatient edge to his tone. “I don’t plan on giving the finfolk an eyeful of my dick anytime soon”.

You laugh, “Like you are now, you mean?”

Katsuki tears off the face towel before you’ve any time to process it. The water thrashes. You daren’t look away. His stare has a certain ferality, pupils dilated, fair lashes damp from the steam and clumped into little spikes; it pins you in place like prey.

The blush across his chest is matched in his cheeks. A droplet slides down the delicate slope of his nose. You feel the surface of the water calm and settle just above your breast. You watch his gaze flicker reflexively to them, then to the ceiling, then clamping shut with a growl. Apprehension pulses through you and your thighs clench.

“You—” he inhales sharply, gathering his thoughts. You track the movement of his tongue as it swipes across his lips. Thickly, Katsuki asks, “What are you trying to do here, exactly?”

A sense of dejection comes over you and your immediate response is to feign innocence. “Soak with you,” which is no more than a half truth. You attempt to create some distance and his arm coils around your waist. Any effort to twist away from him proves futile; a snake that constricts the more you struggle. He doesn’t allow you to slip away, hand hot at your hip.

“Yeah?” but there’s no real bite, no vitriol as he drags you closer. “Soaking, s’that what you call this? Rubbing up against me, practically climbing into my lap?”

You might feel demeaned if not for the lust hemming his words. His grip is bruising, fingers kneading soft flesh. You can see this for what it is— a choice, a question. He’s confused, and wanting. Presenting an opportunity for you to change your mind in the face of his callousness. Katsuki is kind, in his own way.

Your palms come to rest over his sternum, pushing with no real effort, an accomplice in whatever cat and mouse game he was trying to play. His breathing picks up, abdomen clenching. You stare where bodies meet, low light reflecting off the wet sheen. Beneath your touch his heartbeat ricochets around his ribs.

Katsuki calls you. Your name is barely above a whisper. Peering up through your lashes as his hand comes to cup your nape, the other massages simple shapes into your hip, his fingers splayed across your navel. You exhale shakily as his pinky fits into the crease of your thigh.

He cradles your nape, guides you into his magnetism, and then you’re tilting— your world with it— into a careful kiss. Static blankets your thoughts. Katsuki’s lips slot over your own, a gentle press that quickly grows feverish as your tongue traces the seam of his mouth.

Exhaling harshly through his nose he drags you over his lap, the bath water splashing onto the stone tiles, holding you to his front in a way that makes it difficult to discern where you end and he begins. You have all of him now. Half hard under you and tense like he was exerting effort not to do anything about it. Hands wandering, mapping out the topography of your body, clutching greedily at your thighs. Smoke fills your throat, a tang of explosive magic lingering in the grooves of your teeth.

Minutes passed imperceptibly. You leave it feeling as though all the sinew in your body had unravelled, undone in his embrace like loose skeins of yarn. Katsuki doesn’t appear any more composed than you are; staring at you, slack with hunger, jaw relaxed the way a beast would do to taste the air. Palms cupping his cheeks, thumbs moving in idle back and forth motions under his eyes, you smile—

“Katsuki,” you murmur reverently. For reasons you can’t understand, it wakes him up. Snaps him out of his stupor. Panic flits over his features and you’re being pushed away, deposited back into the water. It rocks with the abrupt movement, waves breaking against your chest as he brusquely wades toward the steps with the small towel barely covering his modesty.

Echoing louder now, “Katsuki?”

And he was gone.

You stare at the entrance to the baths for a long time, willing him to return. You stare until your eyes sting and you’re forced to blink. All that’s left is the soft sound of the running springs, your shallow breath, and the muffled chanting of a few drunken men.

An emptiness makes home in your chest. Bereft, you follow in his steps, exiting the baths and heading to the changing room. You pat yourself down, rough towel absorbing the moisture, and pull on your clothes.

A hopeful spark catches when a figure ducks in under the curtain. Snuffed out, then, when Mina greets you cheerily. She seems to have sobered up for the most part, more coherent than you’d last seen her.

“You took a dip too?” she bounces on the balls of her feet as she undoes her shirt buttons, oblivious to your somber disposition. “I saw Bakugo come from this way too. Looked a little constipated if you ask me. I thought hot baths were supposed to relax you, not—”

Finally, she looks at you. Her voice stops as her brows pinch into a frown. You offer a brittle smile and endure the scrutiny. “Did something happen?” she asks worriedly.

Your throat closes up. Your teeth sink into your cheek and lower your gaze to the tiled floor, cracks overlapping as your vision blurs. Mina reaches for you. She halts in your periphery, thoughts and actions misaligned. A flash of hesitance, and then determination. She strides across the threshold to pull you into an embrace. Her arms slip around your shoulders, crossing over one another at your nape, tightening.

The tension begins to soften. Your body slumps, sinking into her kindhearted warmth as the rigidity weakens with your resolve. Bowing into the crook of her neck, you inhale her gentle scent. A soliflore smell, a flower you don’t know the name of, earthy undertones and hints of saké.

Your eyes are wet. Tears cling to your lashes as you blink. The moths dancing in the lamp light blurs, small specks of white stretching and flickering like pallid butterflies. Breathing shuttered, there’s a thickness in your throat that squeezes your voice into a frail whisper.

“Thank you”.

She hums, rubbing a comforting hand along the top of your spine. Her natural heat seeps through the thin fabric of your shirt. Though her arms are muscled they are also supple, like her chest, like her waist. You haven’t been held like this since you last saw your podmates.

After a few beats she asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

You shake your head, grasping your bearings, “No”. It’s best left between you and Katsuki.

“If you’re sure,” Mina gives a final crushing hug before releasing you. “I’m bunking with Sero tonight. Knock if you need anything”.

“I will,” you say on the end of a shuddering exhale. “I’ll see you in the morning”.

She hums, watching apprehensively as you make your way through the changing rooms. The retention of her heat clings to your clothing when you step into the cold night air. Your boots rub at the sore skin around your ankles, fitting loose, having foregone tying the laces. They encumber your steps, obtrusively loud and ungainly on your journey up the stairwell.

A closed door should not be so daunting. Your hand hovers over the handle, steadily turning it, flinching as the locks click open. Low light floods in from the hallway and your eyes adjust to the darkness between blinks, the shape of a figure under the covers sharpening into view. Katsuki is laid on his back, hand disappearing under the pillow beneath his head where your bunched up pelt resides.

Hesitant, you shut the door and kick off your dirty shoes. You tiptoe around the frame and climb into bed. You try to alleviate your weight, balanced between your hands and knees so the mattress won’t dip, yet it is futile. “I’m sorry, Katsuki,” you whisper, feeling fragile as you lower into the linens. He’s awake, you can tell despite his efforts to appear otherwise, because you feel him stroking your sealskin between his thumb and forefinger.

“…Shouldn’t have done that,” his cadence is unsettlingly calm; gently sheathing the sharp words. “We’ve been getting too comfortable, letting shit influence us. It was just the magic talking”.

What?

“It’s not—”

“Go to sleep,” the volume raises in momentary frustration, but as quick as it came, anger dissipating. Dropping his head into the pillows he looks as defeated as you feel. He closes his eyes. “I won’t fuckin’ do anything to you so just. Sleep”.

You try, fitfully. The atmosphere is unbearable, keeping you glued to the far side of the bed lest you accidentally touch one another. Pressing your fingertips to your lips, you remember. You ache. You stare into the shadows and wonder at what point did the intentions become so crossed.

Katsuki valued the right to choose above all else. You liked that about him. He respected and surrounded himself with people who steered their own destiny, marching to the beat of his own drum; a rhythm you had fortuitously interrupted. In his mind he’d given into a temptation, and that act of indulgence was somehow the same as losing in battle.

Katsuki viewed your relationship as an infliction he needed to fight against.

That knowledge hurts you in ways you hadn’t expected. The words “we’re getting too comfortable” reverberated around your skull. Perhaps he was right. Somewhere along the lines you forgot that these truly were temporary circumstances, childishly wishing that maybe he’d come to love you, that you could simply accept this reality and grow into each other like a child into new shoes.

You blink. Linens rise and fall with his shallow breath. Katsuki’s mouth is open, the corner of his mouth wet with drool. His lips smack together as he bundles you closer. Unconscious, yet still seeking you out. He’s devastating even when he’s not trying to be.

Sleep feels impossible.

Then you wake.

Morning spills her dewy light throughout the room. Katsuki’s side of the bed is empty— made up and tucked at the corners. Cold. You are suddenly a distance apart and scrambling to make it all better again.

You push up into a sitting position. The bedsheets shift and pool around your hips, creasing the perfect slate Katsuki left. You rummage for the pelt hidden behind the pillows, dragging it out and around your shoulders, ducking your nose into the dark fur for comfort before tying it to your midriff.

Judging by the sun’s position you would guess it is still quite early. Sluggish movement can be heard through the thin walls, indicating that others are awake. Knowing Katsuki he would want to set off early to find Uraraka, especially after last night.

Another figure joins you in the hallway. Kaminari remains unaware of your presence as he fiddles clumsily with the key, squawking when it almost slips between his fingers. He’s dishevelled, shirt half tucked into his belt, cuffs undone and hung off his wrists; there’s still an impression of his pillow printed on his left cheek.

Having finally turned the lock, Kaminari spins on his heel with a happy hum. The tune escalates into a shriek as he notices you standing a few feet away. “Holy—! Warn a guy, would ya?” he clutches at his chest, exhaling harshly. “I think my heart just stopped”.

“Sorry Kaminari,” amused by his shrill intonation and melodramatics, you smile for the first time that morning. It exaggerates the bags under your eyes. “Did you sleep well?”

“Like a baby,” he falls into step with you, knocking your elbows together on your way out into the stairwell. “I don’t think you can say the same, though,” his mouth twists into a smirk, “did Kacchan keep you up all night?”

Normally the teasing wouldn’t bother you. In many ways you saw it as a sign of acceptance into the group. Now you wince like somebody had carelessly pressed a bruise on your body. Kaminari, for all his obliviousness, knows when to drop the masquerade.

Your smile tightens uncomfortably as his fingers circle your wrist. In daylight you are left feeling exposed, unable to temper the regret written so plainly across your face. His mouth opens and shuts, searching fruitlessly for the right words, only to be interrupted by a callous shout from below.

Katsuki’s voice is incredibly distinct. He’s yelling, which is nothing new, but now it is with genuine frustration. Kirishima, Mina and Sero are there alongside him, speaking in low tones as you would to an untamed animal.

Kaminari tugs at your sleeve and gives you a meaningful glance, gently coaxing you to the bottom of the stairs. He must’ve at least connected Katsuki’s poor mood with your own. “Kacchan, my man. It is too early for all this shouting,” he implored, settling back into his jovial self.

You collect yourself, trying to retain shape and rationality as Kaminari draws Katsuki’s ire. Those vermillion eyes rove over you, head to toe, before flickering to the man on your right. Fast, like he’s afraid to look too long. Nostrils flare. The warm puff of air from his nose is visible in the cool air.

“It’s late enough. What took you so long?” Katsuki snarled, poking a finger harshly between Kaminari’s eyebrows. “The keep told me cheeks is planning on leaving today, so all of you get moving”.

Kaminari pouts, rubbing at the spot. The pale skin turns slightly pink. Unheeding of the wary scrutiny he is receiving, Katsuki charges onwards in expectation that everyone will follow. Kirishima raises a brow at his shape verbiage but doesn’t comment. He takes you under his arm in a half hug, sharing a look of understanding with Mina and the others.

Sero recounts their findings. According to the townspeople, Uraraka, the occultist, landed her abode miles outside of their bounds and set up wards in the valley to confuse strangers. It steered them in opposing directions and sent them in circles, practically making her impossible to find. You’re worried clear up until your group crests the precipice of a steep hill several hours later.

You take in the gentle undulations of earth and fauna. Grass tall enough to brush your shoulders, wildflowers and weeds hugging the barely worn path, sparingly tended nature left to flourish. The magic becomes apparent with proximity. It hangs in the air like humidity, an unnatural sheen muddying your vision. Katsuki continued with brass-bound determination; weaving skilfully through the runes, barrier fracturing under the pressure of his explosive palms.

There’s a quaint cottage in the middle of the glen, done up with a sweet ivy on the walls, latticed strips of wood around the windows, and a cobbled chimney towering from the pink tiled roof. Each windowsill appeared to have a different unidentifiable herb growing on it. A small, circular stained glass window in the door refracted the afternoon light, a knocker below it. Hanging by the door frame is a wind chime, shells tied to strings producing delicate crisp sounds in the breeze; in the effort to knock, Katsuki shoulders it carelessly, and the tune turns sour.

His fist comes down with hard momentum, stopped midway by another. “Be careful,” Kirishima gently chides. Katsuki shoves his hand off, sparing him an incredulous glare, which the shifter subjugates with a pointed reminder: “She won't help you if you bust her door down, bro. Play nice”.

Katsuki grunted his understanding, jaw clenched. He raps his knuckles on the wood. The sound is dull, and you stare down at your scuffed boots as an unpleasant pang of anxiety knocks around your chest. A voice shouts from inside, somebody scurrying around, then the door is pulled open.

“Can I—Bakugo?!”

“Uraraka,” Katsuki greets bluntly, giving a short nod. It is the first time you’ve ever heard him say her name. His hands flex at his sides, restless. Through gritted teeth he adds, “Deku sent me. I need your help with something”.

“Oh,” Uraraka exhales in disbelief. She steps back, pink slippered feet in your periphery. “Come in, then. I haven’t seen you guys in forever…”

Their voices fade into the background. All at once subconscious acts like breathing and blinking become tiresome. Hearing him let go of his pride felt so final. You fall away, stuck in a cold fog. Your gait is uneven as you remind yourself to put one foot in front of the other, incognisant to the worried looks thrown your way.

You remember being seated on a plush feather-pillowed sofa. Hands running over your shoulders, grounding you. You reach for your pelt, sinking fingers into the downy fur, and find no comfort in it. Now you’re here it feels more like a husk, leaden and hollow, ready for you to be stuffed into.

“You married a selkie by accident?” Uraraka blanched, her volume rousing you from your haze. “You know, Bakugo, for someone so smart your ignorance is truly astounding”.

“Can you fucking reverse it or not?”

“Reverse it. Are you kidding? You’re not. Gods, Bakugo—breaking a soul bond isn’t common,” Uraraka snaps, rubbing roughly at her eyelids as she loses patience. You feel a pang of guilt, that which worsens as it unearths the hope that perhaps she wouldn’t be able to separate you from him. “Most of the methods are based on myth. You realise it will be incredibly painful, and possibly for nothing?”

You take in the surroundings while they continue to bicker. The cottage is modest. A small foyer leads to the living space, rugs of various shapes and colours laid to insulate a path through the house, runes and scrawls carved into the hardwood walls. Logs presumably for fuelling the hearth monopolise much of the space, spilling out from the nook in which they’re stacked. There is nothing particularly otherworldly, at least not where you can see it. Uraraka obviously lives within her means, a humble and frugal person despite wielding magic of her calibre.

“I do have something I can try, ” she sighs with a sidelong glance. The skin on her lip breaks between her teeth. Your prolonged silence has likely done nothing to reassure her. You try to feign interest, to smile and express gratitude, but she grimaces.

“What do we have to do?”

“Essentially I can sever the bond at the stem but not the root,” the group is quiet, tense as they listen. Mina’s grip is bruising, as though making sure you were still there. “The dissolution of your marriage will only be complete when the selkie returns to the sea. Within a day or two they’ll… forget you”.

You sense the atmosphere darken. Katsuki shifts his weight in your periphery. Neither one of you can look at the other. Whether he’s threatened by your feelings or ashamed of them you can’t be sure, but what you know is that they are real, sown and tended in the weeks you spent together.

Kirishima exhales a shuddered breath. His big body crouches before you, warm hand resting on your knee. Kaminari and Sero linger on either side, watching over the scene, wearing grief plainly on their faces. A broken part of you wants to laugh. They are acting as if this is your wake.

“Are you sure about this?” he implores, discreet and unintentionally cruel. If you were to say no, what of you then? Nothing to do but follow them on their journey, dragging along like the hide of some shorn animal. Stuck waiting for Katsuki to resent you over an incredibly frustrating and misplaced presumption that he played a part in fabricating your thoughts and feelings.

Uraraka’s method may well cleave the ties created in your accidental matrimony. You trust in her capabilities because Katsuki clearly respects them. You’ll say yes. And after it all, when your soul has been excavated, when you’ve gone home crying to your mother, rocked to sleep in her gentle undertow, you will still stubbornly want him.

The thought comes unbidden, a sudden clarity that overcomes you. At that point he would have no room to question your will. “I’m sure,” you say, still breathless with the realisation. “You can go ahead with it, Uraraka”.

Hesitating in her movement, Uraraka considers you for a moment longer before disappearing down the hall. When she returns she pulls seven tear shaped crystals from a velvet satchel. Dread churns in your stomach, sensing the energy emanating from them.

She begins to recite machinations beyond your comprehension. Opalescent rays of light burst from within her enclosed fist where it pressed against her mouth, dappling sentient shadows across her face, now taut with concentration. Her features ripple and distort, not unlike a reflection on the ocean's surface, then fades into obscurity as the spell settles into its conduit.

Uraraka hands the lustre of the stone to you, knuckles pale as she squeezes the magic out into your cupped palms. As a pup you would try to drink sunlight, specks chased across the seabed as the clouds shifted, caught like a cat to a mouse only to remain empty handed. Light was not made up of solid matter— it was intangible. To be felt, seen, but not touched.

Yet it is swirling in your hands like that lovely warm wine from the night before, slipping through the thin cracks in your fingers. “Drink it,” she coaxes gently.

You look at Katsuki. His eyes flicker up to meet your own. There’s an awful urgency coursing through your body, frozen like a fawn, something inside willing you to stop. Begging him to speak up. He lowers his gaze, expression pinched and inwardly furious.

Heel to chin, you tip your head back as if drinking from a cup. Her magic is entirely flavourless, waning with your own imagination as if it were allowing you to choose the taste yourself. The consistency is like steam; inhaled rather than swallowed, and hot on the roof of your mouth.

Elemental magic was external in the way it bursts forth from the user, often causing flesh wounds or dramatic change in the terrain. You think of Katsuki, the calamity at his fingertips, juxtaposed by the tender manner in which he would always touch you, cauterising your fear. Uraraka’s magic is unforgiving and uniquely invasive. It is so much worse than being burned.

It spreads through your sinuses like searing wildfire, pressure balloons behind your eye sockets, undoing the seams that make up the very fabric of your being. Waves of nausea engulf you, throat tight and constricted. Breathing laboured and irregular, you fight against the urge to retch it all up.

It’s too much. The incorporeal spell pierces through your mind, tearing at the bond, more overwhelming than anything you’ve ever been dealt. Knife-like pain persists after her chanting stops. You wince and cradle your head, weeping as it passes. Left in its wake is a muted soreness throbbing across your brain.

“Hi,” Uraraka is before you, ducking to examine for any injury. Careful, her fingers encircle your wrists and pry your hands away. “You’re okay. Can you look at me?”

You squint, reluctant to blink and irritate the soreness around your eyes. “How’s your vision?” she asked, sotto voce. Her touch is deliberate and gentle, slightly pulling down your bottom eyelids, petting over your jaw and down the nape of your neck, feeling for something. “Does anything feel wrong, or out of place?”

Wrong? your mind echoes. Out of place? Cold is creeping into your muscles, gritty and dense like wet sand. You’re unnerved by the veil of apathy that settles around you. “I don’t think I’m injured. The light is more intense. Hurts,” you admit, voice breaking.

Everything that remains the same yet is somehow more drab, lacking colour and difficult to look at. Your friends, clinging to each other. Your Katsuki, staring back at you. “But I can still see everything”.

“Good,” she breathes, relief entirely palpable. If this is success then you wonder what the worst outcome might’ve been. “That’s good. If you reach for the bond, is it there?”

You’re not sure what she means. Seeking connection you clutch your sealskin to your front, kneading at the familiar fur. It’s minor but it’s back— the voice belonging to the tide, beckoning you to shift again. “I don’t think so,” you reply.

“Then there’s only one thing left to do,” Uraraka smiles and covers your hands with her own. You sense the tips of her fingers ever so slightly across your collar where they brush the pelt bunched in your fists. “You’re free now. You can go back home”.

Her soothing countenance might as well be dry grass to your precipitous anger. “Right,” you deadpan, voice entirely devoid of emotion. Best kept that way, lest you release all your bubbling frustrations onto a woman that only wanted to help you; in her eyes—and the rest—you were just another trapped, useless selkie.

That anger carries you to your feet. You want to cry but the tears don’t come. When you exit the cottage with a curt bow and a ‘thank you’ you find yourself in the lead for once, marching ahead of the group. They remain a few feet behind, muttering amongst each other. Without the view of Katsuki’s back you feel lonely. Even so you keep your hurried pace, too afraid to turn around and be inundated with questions.

The journey back passes in a blur. Hours, surely, because you’re ready to pass out from the exertion. Loose dirt and geosmin clings to your clothes. Shadows stretch across the emptying streets as dark cloud cover canopies the town, sparse instances of light rainfall that stick to your skin. There's a chill in the air now, a bite to it that rattles your bones and quickens your breath. It’s damp, imbued with the scent of sea salt.

You don’t stop, not when the desperate calls of your name begin. Further up the dock is lit golden, lanterns lining cobbled roads and emitting a warm orange glow. You trudge through the quieting bustle, workers scurrying to shelter, while enduring a pervasive sense of wrongness.

You don’t know what to do with this freedom, this precipice, so joyless and empty. Slowing to descend weather-worn steps onto the beach there’s a presence at your heel. “Shit. Would you slow—!” Katsuki moves to stop you. His fingers flex, start to close around your wrist. Then they hesitate and fall away, clenching at his side until all the blood recedes from his knuckles. “You don’t need to immediately run off into the damn water”.

“It’s easier this way,” and quicker, you think.

“What?”

Listening to the sea sings an ancient litany, you let your anger wash away with the oncoming tide. The whiplash is intense. Your lips tremble, pulling into a tearful smile, laughter bubbling up through your chest, choked by the swell in your throat. “I think I understand why you’re always yelling now,” cumulus clouds pass overhead and bring with them a curtain of rain. “Being human is very melodramatic”.

Katsuki clearly hadn’t expected that, of all things. His expression softens in his surprise. The short hairs by his temples are laid flat, braid swinging in the breeze, the fur around his cloak dark and saturated. “That’s what this is? Baby’s first tantrum?” his tone is mean, and your hackles would rise if he were not visibly deflating. Katsuki reacts to vulnerability like a wounded dog. He laughs despite himself and scratches at his neck, “Fuck. I thought you’d be happy, or something close to it”.

Standing a few feet behind him, Kirishima, Sero, Mina and Kaminari are linked together, waiting to approach. They remain in your line of sight as you consider the barbarian in front of you. A cold shock billows through his cloak, a wave crashing onto the shore. He shivers, but remains stubbornly rooted to the steps.

“I’m not happy,” you lamented. “I’m going to miss you. You are an impossible man, Katsuki. Impossible to forget. I wish you’d believe that”.

Katsuki’s mouth opens and shuts. Silence falls once again, and he can’t find the words to fill it. Your fingers work at the belt keeping your hide secure, tugging it loose and letting the sealskin unfurl, blanketing the length of your body.

Mina takes this as an indication that you are leaving. She rushes ahead, stumbling past a stunned Katsuki, gathering you into her arms. The pelt is trapped between your bodies as you curl into the embrace. You feel yourself warm up, the wet winds rolling off the sea obstructed by three larger figures trailing right behind her, encasing you in a group hug.

Constricted from all sides, the arms around your waist tighten. Mina’s nails dig in, and she shakes you gently in an attempt to scold you, “Don’t go leaving us without a proper goodbye”.

Kirishima is at your back. He must be. The height, the rough skin, the hard spikes in his hair poking at your nape where he inhales deeply, memorising your scent. Sero flanks your left, resting his head on the shifter's shoulder as dark eyes watch you. Kaminari bears down his weight, slumping against your right, a sour metallic taste at the back of your throat as the grip on his magic loosens with emotion.

It feels wrong without Katsuki. You crane your neck and look for him. The sight of him dithering off to the side, alone and wearing a visage of muted guilt, makes your insides twist. Your hand bursts through a crevice in the huddle, coaxing him over.

He comes. Mina drags him into the middle without fanfare, and enclose around you in a last ditch effort to keep you together. “This is the worst,” Kaminari snivelled. “It’s like my parents are divorcing all over again”.

Katsuki weakens to it. Gives a quiet, choked laugh and it blows warm across your temple. You’d know his hands anywhere. Hesitant, they rest on your hips. You close your eyes and centre yourself in the present, tilting your head to rest on his collar. The motion drags your lips up to his jugular and you kiss the words against the damp skin, thicker than intended, “I’m—really, so happy I met you all”.

The briny air greets you when they finally step away. Mina rubs harshly at her eyes as your feet sink into the sand. There are stragglers by the port but nobody along the beach, so they trail after you to the shore, equal parts unwilling to leave and curious about your selkie form.

You’re pointedly aware of their presence as you shake out your fur. You hold it to your face for a moment, blocking out the wind, the light and the rain with how insulated it is, before setting it on the sand. Kaminari coughs, the group spinning on their heels when you begin to undress. Katsuki does not.

Kicking off your boots as you fiddle with your shirt strings, you consider the barbarian, impressing his appearance behind your eyes for a final time. “What will you do after this?”

Broad shoulders rise and fall as he sighs. Looks up to the sky, frowning, a blush on his cheeks. “Go further inland to one of the bigger cities to find something to pay back Deku, I guess. Circle around, head back, and then home”.

Shirt discarded, you unbutton your pants, letting them fall down your thighs, and step out of them. “How long will you be in the city?”

Shrugging, he grunts, “A week at most”.

That’s good. Long enough to wait out the final stages and prove his place in your memory. You nod, spine straightening with determination. “When you circle back I want you to stop here again. Just for a day”.

That half lidded gaze slides over to you, squinting. Pointedly kept above the shoulders. Searching. “Why?”

The tide crawls further ashore. A wave breaks around your ankles. Your toes wiggle in the sand, sinking as it is displaced, a small smile curling at your lips. You bend to grab the pelt and slide it around your shoulders like a coat. It’s comforting, familiar. Energy thrums at the surface of your skin, ready to pull. But you wait.

“In a week. Promise me?” you say without explanation.

Katsuki swallows. Eyes boring into yours. His jaw shifts. Then he nods, tersely. Reassured by this you hold the coat tighter, chin tucked as you steady your breathing. Consciously, you reach inward, drawing upon the pelt.

And you change. Falling to your knees, cold water biting at your thighs, you crumple in the sand, body shrinking as flesh and fur meld together. It’s painful after so long, unsettling to be snapped back abruptly into your hindbrain, but the discomfort eases quickly, like stretching a muscle.

You lift your upper body, nose flat and wide and twitching, scenting the air. The sand sifts under bootstrapped feet. A human approaches, beautiful and familiar, lowering into a crouch as you freeze. Forearms resting on his knees, he holds out his fingers. Faintly smoky, a mix of spice and earth.

The way in which this man appraises your form is uncomfortably solemn. Vacuous expression betrayed by the gentle light in his eyes. He smiles ruefully and readies himself to speak. Alight with a bitterness that is vaguely accusatory in the oncoming darkness he says, “Already forgot us, didn’t you?”

It steals the breath right from your lungs. Recognition strikes through you. Bakugo Katsuki. The thought is alarmingly fleeting, almost evading your grasp. Nostrils flaring, you drag your body forward to wipe the look of self-deprecation from his face. You nudge your snout into his hand, not shying away from the fierce elemental energy radiating from his palms. You unhinge your jaw, canines gently indenting the heel, as if to scold him.

He laughs, disbelief bleeding into the sound. It beckons his pod, more humans— one not so human. “Don’t fuckin’ scare them,” Katsuki calls over his shoulder. Not once do his eyes stray from you.

A thick tang of draconic magic overwhelms your senses as the largest in the group mirrors Katsuki, making himself impossibly small, aware of his magnitude and the imbalance between your species. “Wow…” the shifter, Kirishima, breathes in awe, genuine rather than tainted with greed. “So cute”.

More people come closer. Their faces filter through your memories in bits and pieces, stitching together into a patchwork timeline. “Yeah…” Mina echoes the sentiment. She gets on her knees, doesn’t care when the waves drench her skirt. “You’re beautiful like this too,” holding her hand an inch away from your skin, she asks, “Can we pet you?”

Five fingers to your scruff, one hard pull and you could be torn from your rudimentary shell. Human hands are dangerous but not these ones. You give a short tonal whine and hope she interprets it as permission. They do, taking turns tracing the marbled fur and clawed flippers, murmuring awe filled words.

The tides are high, wrapping around and coaxing you into their arms. You look toward the horizon and the itch grows. A seamless vista of clouded sky. Warm mouths litter the top of your head with kisses, their blunt human teeth behind soft lips, juxtaposed by rough, barely decipherable mutterings of something that sounds mournful.

Mina sniffles as Kirishima helps her to her feet and they wade backwards toward the port. Katsuki cups your muzzle in his palms, searing where his thumbs swoop beneath your cheekbones, brushing over the whiskers by your nose. “Stay safe out there, yeah? Don’t get eaten by a shark or whatever,” he bends, bringing your foreheads together as if to impress his thoughts onto you. “I won't wait around for a weakling”.

You can only hope he saw the promise held in your eyes as you stare at his retreating back. The swelling waves pull you into the current, submerged until only your head is above the surface. In the distance your pod breaks into cheers. They line up on the beach, jumping high as their legs will allow, waving their long arms in the air.

A descending chorus of trills build in your own throat, mellifluous and loud enough to cut through the wind and the waves. Noise becomes muffled as you’re submerged into the dense water. Wrapped up in brine the ambience fills your head. It pushes out rational thought, drawing only instinct to the forefront.

Your vision adjusts quickly to the dark the further you swim. Stretch your flippers and sweep them down like a dragon's wing, flying through the depths until you tire. Coming to an ocean shelf, there you rest. Cradled by a moving, ever evolving element. Creatures big and small pass by. Fish with vermillion scales haloing wide faces dart in and out of your dreams, shimmering under weak streams of sunlight.

The shifting tide keeps you cognisant. You linger close to the surface to monitor the sun. Days pass and you are unbearably alone. It is harrowing; this unending, sombre ache. You think of Katsuki. Repeat his name until it sounds foreign. You recall his handsome face, the way his eyes always seemed brighter in the early dawn, how his nose would wrinkle if you stared too long, like he’d tasted something bitter. You miss him.

Come the week’s end you’ve become something else, something new. Irrevocably changed by love’s hand. You recognise that you exist in two worlds: as a selkie, tethered to the seabed and embraced by buoyancy, and as a human, struggling against the currents, compelled back to land—

To Katsuki.

You glide through the waves, riding them as they swell and break onto the shore. Undulating your body, the hitching motion pulls you forward, wriggling up into a cluster of rock pools, safe from any onlookers. You wait there, chin propped on the shoulder of a jagged stone to observe the beach.

He finds you there beneath an almost oppressive dusk. The approaching footfalls command attention, announcing his arrival. You slink into the shadows for a moment, detailing the subtleties in Katsuki’s expression on his march along the sand, pinching more and more as he casts he searches the beach. The breeze ripples through the notorious red cloak, fur collar tickling his cheeks. Shirtless, wearing his scars proudly. His pants sit low on his hips, adorning various belts and jewels. Warmth curls up in your chest at the sight of him. Giddy. You remember him.

You lift your head. His focus immediately latches onto the movement. A croon rumbles in your throat as he approaches. He climbs up onto the rock, towering over you, his body obstructing the evening sun. It halos around his golden hair. The braid by his ear falls forward as his head tilts, squinting to get a good look at you.

The laughter lines by his eyes deepen, brow creasing. Almost slipping as he climbs down, Katsuki frowns at the lack of traction on the surface. You laugh and it comes out like a rough snort. The shallow pools splash loudly under his boots upon landing. He curls his upper lip at you, “Laugh at me and I’ll kill you”.

You do so again, more deliberate this time. He senses your sarcasm and flicks water at you. Your whiskers twitch, subtly tasting the air. He slumps hard on one of the flatter ridges and clicks his tongue. “This better be you and not some random fuckin’ seal I’m talking to,” he mutters, embarrassed.

Unwilling to prolong your reunion any longer, you shed your pelt. Joints slot into place, the sealskin receding, your human form unearthing as it loosens and pools around your naked lap. Katsuki watches the air bite at your skin, nipples pebbling as you shiver.

“Katsuki,” you rest your cheek on his thigh, knelt between his legs. You let him take it all in. Satisfied with his assessment of you his fiery eyes meet yours.

“Almost didn’t come. Figured you wouldn’t be here,” he intoned gruffly, chin dimpling as he juts his bottom lip. “You were supposed to forget about everything”.

You nod, mouth curling into a helpless smile. Your fingers flex and you feel the muscles jump underneath, “I know”.

Katsuki exhales a long breath, fists clenched tight in his lap with obvious restraint. “Why didn’t you?” his eyes track the movements of your hands. “It worked, I know it did. Cheeks doesn’t do shit halfway. I felt when… So what the hell are you doing back here?”

You pause when his words register, suddenly off kilter. There it is again, the displeased wrinkle on the bridge of his nose. You had never considered that he, too, would’ve experienced the connection. Admittedly a naive oversight on your part—but he never mentioned it. You figured it was just a selkie thing. Perhaps, all that time, he had been contending with his own feelings as well as yours. Wondering if he could trust himself, if they were true.

Vows dissolved, he still chose to come back for you. To bet on that slim chance. Just as you did.

The knowledge compels you to touch him more, to reassure, to lean further into the clutch of his thighs. The intrusion forces his legs wider and when you reach to cradle either side of his taut jaw he lowers to close the distance.

“I felt it, you know. Before you offered me my pelt I felt you touching it,” you begin, watching how his expression splits open as your eyes meet. “I knew it was safe with you”.

“That’s stupid,” he utters, though you can hear that he doesn’t mean it. Embarrassment slowly stains his cheeks pink. You can feel him twitch, smothering the instinctive urge to snap at whatever made him feel so intensely.

“Maybe,” you pull back a hair's breadth to lightly knock your heads together. “My point is, I was drawn to you before all that, in such a short window. I think… I didn’t forget you because those feelings grew naturally”.

The more you speak he progressively gets pinker, flustered and mad about it. It births an odd, primal urge to sink your teeth into something. To bite his cheek white, watch the blood retreat under the skin. Instead, you slide your hand lower to rest on his neck and his own cuff your wrists.

“That first day, you apologised to me because I never had a choice,” there’s a soft grunt in acknowledgment. His pulse dances under your palm. “I’m making one now of my free will. And you—can say no, if you want,” you stutter, then, suddenly realising the real possibility of him rejecting your request altogether. “But I want to be here with you”.

The last rays of sun stretch across the land, cosseted behind soft clouds as it sheaths. Katsuki considers you quietly. There’s a soft sort of intent in his eyes, wearing the revelry of dusk. You kneel in the rock pool, literally and figuratively bare, heart pounding in your throat as he readies himself to respond.

“Back at the bathhouse…” he hesitates, promptly clears his throat and struggles to look at you.

“Nothing was influencing me that night. Except maybe the wine,” you admit timidly, abashed at his sudden demurity. “I’m sorry”.

That garners a reaction from him. In true Katsuki fashion his tongue clicks behind gritted teeth and applies pressure to your wrists, pulling you up. “Come here,” he tells you. You uncurl your legs and begin to stand moving with all the grace of a newborn fawn. “Oi, don’t—!” jerking his head to the side, he averts his gaze from your naked lower half, glaring at the shoreline. The sea-scented air prickles your skin, heat gathering where he has you held. “Expose yourself to everyone in the fuckin’ country, won’t you? Come here,” and then he’s hooking behind your knees, making them bend, gathering you into his lap in bridal fashion.

“What’s the problem?” you mutter. Heat creeps up your neck, feeling defensive and distinctly embarrassed by his behaviour. “I don’t see how my nakedness is any different here than it is in the public bathhouse”.

He holds you closer, voice vibrating through his chest as he roughly insists, “It’s different”.

Your pout softens into a small pleased smile, letting him manhandle you until he’s satisfied with his grip. He bends, incidentally baring his throat stretching for the pelt discarded by the rocks. Tucking your nose to the underside of his jaw you revel in how his arm tightens around your lower back.

Katsuki draws the pelt into your lap, covering your modesty. You laugh at how sweet and boyish it seems. “Laughin’ at me again, huh?” two fingers pinch at your cheek, pulling until you whine. “Got a death wish?”

Kneading at the sealskin coat your affections roar into existence once more with an intensity. “You wouldn’t hurt me,” you grin, and he abandons the pinch to stretch his big hand across your face. Thumb on your left cheek, fingers on your right, he squeezes together until your mouth is misshapen and pursed.

“Sure about that?” he warns, tone steeped in fondness. It is exhilarating to have him touch you again, more freely than he ever had before; it is as close to ‘I believe you’ as you think you’ll get.

You smile with your eyes, locked with his. Close enough to count every fine eyelash. Your words come garbled as you say, “You still haven’t given me an answer”.

Katsuki exhales shallowly through his nose. His throat contracts as he swallows. The pressure releases. His hand cups your face, flexing with uncertainty. You shudder when he dips to press your lips together. You’re kissed without hurry, besotted by his firm but cautious movements. He relaxes as you lean into the rhythm, humming proudly. The soft, wet sounds of your mouths meeting again and again echo over the crawling waves.

Katsuki pulls away first, eyes still closed but smiling to himself. He licks his lips and rasps, “I guess you can come along with us,” as though that was all the answer he needed to give.

Alight with excitement you squirm in his lap, earning a quick slap to your hip. Katsuki ignored your grumbling and set to covering your body entirely. “Hold onto the corners,” he says, draping the hide over your shoulders, comforting warmth enveloping you as you obediently take the corners. “Put your arms around my neck. Do not drop it”.

You do, curtaining both of your bodies with the pelt in the process, fingers interlocking at Katsuki’s nape. Your faces remain a whisper away. It feeds a skin hunger that plagued you for days. Satisfied, he then unties his cloak to slide it over-top, layering the two to keep you covered.

Your stomach swoops as Katsuki pushes to his feet, carrying you in his arms with no sign of exertion and much better balance than before. His bicep bulges, fingers flexing under your thighs. “Where are we going?”

Sand and broken shells crunch under his boots, gait leaden like wading through mud. Mariners whistle suggestively in your direction as he climbs the steps to the dock, making his teeth grind. “Taking you back to our room,” he grunts.

You flush with heat at the implication. “You still have the key…?”

Without disrupting his pace, Katsuki’s nose nudges along your temple to press a kiss there. “Said my shitty wife left something behind,” you feel his mouth pull into a smirk, “so they gave me it to go take a look”.

A pleasant sensation erupts in your stomach. Fluttering like butterflies. “And the others?”

Darkness covers you when he ducks into a narrow alley. Katsuki meanders along the winding path with unfettered confidence. “I sent them on ahead. Said I’d catch up on foot,” he explains, eyes darting over the surroundings, striding back out into a familiar road leading to the tavern. “Wanted to be alone”.

You’re carried up the stairwell despite the stern assertion that you would be just fine on your feet. In that same vein, Katsuki is clearly just fine taking all of your weight— proud of it, you think. Unwilling to put you down.

He shoulders into the room and kicks the door shut. It is as you remember. Dim and homely, accented by a lamp that casts a soft yellow glow over the bed. Heavy footsteps take you forward, and you are swiftly deposited on the mattress. You bounce a fraction, losing purchase on the pelt and cloak. Both layers peel away, rumpled under your back, leaving you splayed out and bare.

Katsuki stands next to the bed, watching the rise and fall of your chest. His features are tender in the light, smoothing his hard edges. It flickers in his irises. Gaze hungry, restless.

Your body can’t help but react to Katsuki’s silent observation. The ardent stroke of his eyes across every part of you like it were his hands themselves. Heat races through you and coils between your legs. Feeling exposed, you try to close your thighs.

There’s a hand on your knee, stopping the movement, firm but gentle as he pries them back open. Katsuki moves closer and kicks off his boots. The mattress dips under his weight. One knee on the bed, your legs part further to make space for the intrusion, wrapping around his waist without second thought.

“This okay?” he murmurs, barely above a whisper. You exhale shakily, hands roving along the thick of his arms to clutch at his shoulders. The buckles on his pants bite into the back of your thighs. You can feel his arousal swelling through the fabric.

Rocking your hips, your feet cross at his lower back. “Yeah. I want…” his eyes flutter, almost rolling up into his skull, pupils dilated. You chase the phantom feeling of his lips with your tongue and he tracks the movement. “Kiss me again”.

“Thank fuck,” Katsuki groaned, the sound dwindling into a low chuckle. His forearms settle either side of your head, pressing all his weight down, pinning you to the bed. Taking up your vision until only he is in your orbit. The braid by his ear hangs loosely, the bead cold where it brushes your jaw. You tremble, fingers threading into his hair to scratch gently at his scalp.

Your mouths slot together and he kisses you full, nibbling your lips until they part. Pushing deeper, tongues sliding over teeth, stealing the breath from your lungs. He handles you with indecision. Careful kisses followed by rough ones; grabbing at the soft parts of your body a little too hard, smoothing the flesh with his thumb in apology.

It’s overwhelming how much he wants you. And you try to return the fervour, arms sliding around his back to keep him close, undulating your hips to feel the tremors wrack through him.

The talons strung around his neck graze over your chest as he descends. Kisses left on the corner of your mouth, cheek, jugular. He takes your pulse between his jaws and you whine, clenching at his waist. Katsuki moves away, laving his tongue along your throat.

“Wanna touch you,” he says. Goosebumps break out across your skin as he blows cool air over the wet stripe left behind. “S’all I could think about. You’re fucking distracting”.

“Yes. Please,” your eyelids flutter, leaning back to hear your throat. “Please”.

“Needy,” he mumbles, a satisfied lilt to his tone. His hand slides down to your ass, grabbing one cheek and filling his palm with it as he spreads you open. “Bein’ too quiet. I like it when you say my name,” he rasps. “Gonna let me hear it?”

Fingertips brush against your sex. Heat flushes under your skin, anticipation and understanding unfurled within you. “Katsuki,” you sigh into his mouth.

Katsuki flashes a predatory grin. Pleased, and pink all the way to his ears. Breath puffing over your lips he says, “Again”.

“Katsuk—ah,” his thumb circles over your swollen clit, sparks zipping up your spine. Your breath hitches. You chase the touch, his four fingers splayed low on your navel; the other cups the back of your knee to keep you spread as he descends from throat to chest, forging a path of wet kisses, stopping intermittently to softly suck at the flesh and coax blood to the surface.

You’re wet. Wet enough, warm enough, that the still air feels cold on your skin. His lips wrap around your nipple and you arch up into the sensation as he slowly sinks a finger inside of you. You take him to the knuckle, and he waits, gradually pulling out until you’re clenching around a fingertip.

Again and again he fucks you on his fingers, adding another, curling them up mid stroke to brush the most sensitive part of you, spreading them to work you open. You mewl, steeped in pleasure as it diffuses through your belly, pooling between your thighs.

Katsuki watches you, peering up through heavy eyes, mouth full of your breast. He flicks his tongue over the pert nipple, coming up and switching to the other, lavishing you in attention. You exhale, tremors wracking your body. Cradle the back of his head, grip tightening reflexively when he hits that sweet spot, and the groan rumbling in his throat prickles under your skin.

Satisfied, he continues lower. Throws your legs over his broad shoulders, laid flat along the bed. The mattress jerks when he ruts into the sheets, still confined in his pants. You hold his gaze as his cheeks hollow. Saliva pools into his mouth and he tucks his chin, spitting it on your clit, massaging it over with his thumb.

You shudder, hips canting. “Shit, look at you,” he pants, voice so thick and supple you want to wrap yourself in it. “Keep your eyes on me, yeah?” he litters kisses across your inner thigh, pressing praise into the sensitive skin there. Your heels dig into the thick muscle at his back when he dips to kiss your clit, licking in and around his fingers. “I wanna see your face when you cum”.

You’re pulsing around him, frantically chasing the feeling. It’s— overwhelming, like you can’t breathe through it, and every string in your body has been pulled taut, wavering on the precipice. You reach to grasp his forearm. The muscles flex under your palms, pave unrelenting, and tears begin to sting behind your eyes.

“Fuck, Katsuki,” you gasp, breathlessness abated by the sudden rush of air to your lungs. “Feels so good, I can’t… Katsuki I can’t—”

A broken sound reverberates throughout the room the moment he stops, pulling back and leaving you empty. You can barely believe that it came from you, squeezing your eyes shut in shame. But then he’s right there, crowding into your space, caging your body with his own. “Oi,” he softly takes your jaw, “What did I say? Look at me”.

You squint up at him. You take in his swollen lips, lidded stare, the sheen of sweat on his brow, hair matted to his forehead, arousal and spit coating his chin. For the first time you think you might understand, just a fraction, the greed of those who kept you. Because now you desire to be the one to take. To keep. To stow away his shamelessness and be the only one to see it.

“You hurt?”

“No,” you whisper, blinking away the haze. Katsuki tucks his knees up higher against your middle, tops of his thighs shelving your splayed legs. You feel yourself clenching around nothing, empty. “I’m sorry”.

“Don’t fuckin’ apologise,” he tucks his nose against your temple, indifferent to the sheen of sweat. You inhale his musky scent and slide your arms around his shoulders. “Got too in your head, huh?”

His cock twitches in his pants, still hard and pressed to your thigh. Gathering your bearings you subtly rock your hips into his lap. You shiver at the sharp hiss by your ear, the drag of his soft lips over the shell. He nips at it in warning.

“You want to keep going?”

You nod, playing with the thin hair at his nape. He rumbles and it feels like a purr, pushing up only to pull at the belt buckles around his waist. Impatient, you reach to help, pulling the leather out from the loops, fingers trembling.

Katsuki frees his hands and lets you work at the buttons. He wears a small, crooked smile on his face as he watches, chest rising and falling with every anticipatory breath. You pull them down his hips, a trail of light hair leading from his bellybutton to his cock. He shifts, hooking into the waistband and pushing them down his legs, kicking them off the bed.

In your impatience your fingers wrap around his length, playing with the soft skin. You circle the blushing tip, smearing pre with your thumb. He throbs, abdomen clenching with a guttural moan that shoots straight to your own.

“So impatient,” he cups your jaw and forcing you to meet his eyes. “Get me nice and wet?”

“Yeah,” you rasp, detailing how his pupils expand as you slide his cock through your folds. The corner of his mouth twitches. He grins as he dips to kiss you. It is more chaste than the last, a kiss for the sake of kissing.

Then the grip on your jaw tightens. Firm and unyielding. Katsuki’s big hand engulfs yours, squeezing his dick, teasing the tip at your entrance. “Gonna make you cum on my cock. But you’ve got to listen to me and relax. Okay?”

You desperately want to dig your heels into his lower back, to drag him inside and fill up that awful emptiness, to take him to the hilt and keep him there. Instead you acquiesce, forcing yourself pliant; rewarded with a soft kiss, he presses his forehead to yours.

“Take a deep breath for me,” he tells you. You inhale, ribs expanding as your lungs bloat. Slowly, Katsuki pushes his tip past your entrance, and begins to sink his cock into you. His expression shutters, eyes rolling shut as his face scrunches up. Strained, he says, “Breathe out, baby. Slow”.

You exhale, ending on a long moan as skin meets skin. He settles in the cradle of your hips. “Good,” his voice is gravelly, strained. His nails bite at your waist, “And in”.

Repeating the motions your muscles clench around him as he pulls out, as though your body couldn’t be without him. He huffs through his nose and you feel it hot on your cheek. It continues like that. He fucks you slow and deliberate, pinned to the bed like a butterfly, guiding your breathing. You cannot look away from him. He’s devastating. He’s yours. Wild spikes are tousled around a flushed face, mouth kiss-bitten and slack with awe. “Katsuki,” you whisper, each more frantic than the last.

The earlier intensity does not return, rather, it accumulates inside of you with every inhale, suffusing through you like a warm, pleasant fog. The pressure has you bursting at the seams, undone by the indelible drag of his cock, how his pelvis pressed so perfectly against your clit, little incantations of your name murmured into your hair.

“Ah, fuck. Katsuki, I’m—” your thighs seize either side of his waist, toes curling as the words catch in your throat. “M’gonna…”

“I’ve got you,” he fucks you a little deeper, gritting his teeth. The muscles in his neck flex with exertion. “In and out, baby. I’ve got you”.

Those practised breaths quickly stagger into uneven whines as you’re tipped over the edge. Ley lines erupt behind your eyelids. You arch back into the sheets—pelt and cloak rumpled beneath—as the pleasure quakes through you.

Katsuki fucks you into your orgasm and then beyond it. You cradle him to your chest when his rhythm stutters, releasing a long groan as he spills into you.

Together you collapse back on the mattress, rolling onto your sides. He slides his arm beneath your head and hooks your knee over his hip, keeping himself nestled inside you for a while longer. You lie there until the fog recedes, leaving a sated contentment in its wake.

In that instance you can no longer tell where the line of your own body ends and where Katsuki’s begins. You feel warm, comfortable against him. All the fears and hypotheticals that sought to fill the hole in your chest have faded. You realise in those intimate few minutes that home is what you choose it to be. A place, a concept, a person. Home is the ocean, said to cover more than half of the earth, fissuring inland and stretching further than the eye can see; it is a current that will always run in your veins. But humans, too, are made of the sea. Water, minerals and tissue. Home is in the blood that rushes to Katsuki’s cheeks when you kiss him.

This is where you belong.

Eventually Katsuki decides he needs to get up. Your objections go ignored, silenced when he returns dressed with a damp cloth to wipe you down. Once he's done he pulls up the bed covers and manhandles you under them, declaring that he needs to go downstairs and pay ‘that woman’ for the room.

“Won’t be long. Don’t even think about getting up. I’ll need to buy you some clothes tomorrow…”

Grin hidden under the blankets, you call out to him before he goes. He stops in the doorway, softened by the lamp light. Feigning innocence, you jokingly ask, “Before you go, could you pass me my pelt?”

Your heart races when he reflexively goes to do so, only for him to halt halfway. His eyes narrow, lips thinning into a smirk:

“Real fuckin’ funny”.

#bnha x reader #mha x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugo katsuki x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader

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cherryslyce · 1 year

Text

Amalfi Coast | Theodore Nott

Synopsis: The end of your years at Hogwarts brings about stirring changes: the unveiling of your betrothal to Theodore Nott and an all-expense getaway to Italy for alone time with your husband-to-be.

PAIRING: Theodore Nott x GN!Reader

WORD COUNT + NOTES: 4.5k. I am so weak for Theodore.

The shards of glimmering light that dance across the soft peaks of water distances away seem to speak to you as you drift into your thoughts. Crowded between cliff-hanging abodes and the frothing shore, you’ve never felt so insignificant until that moment.

Your hand absentmindedly brushes against the fine grains of sand below you, the microscopic beads emanating a pleasant warmth against your palm. You hear a soft thud from beside you just as a comforting presence graces you, the uncomfortable stir of disorientation washing away with the drag of the waves.

“The unit should be prepped soon. We can grab some food after Mitzy brings over our luggage.” Theodore’s smooth voice hums out, eyes clambering to drink in the sight of the sea as well.

You smile softly at the mention of the boy’s house-elf, remembering how she had been keen to help you pack for the trip. Nodding, you unconsciously shift closer to the boy as you glance at him, “Sounds like a plan.”

Theodore looks completely serene much to your confusion. A large part of you was grateful that Theodore was chosen to be your betrothed, but another chunk of your heart twinged painfully at the thought. It was no secret that Nott Sr. was a strict man, and you couldn’t help but spiral into a web of thoughts about how Theodore was likely forced into being with you.

It had only been a few months since you both graduated from Hogwarts, but you distinctly recall how close Theodore was to Millicent Bulstrode. Your brain sifted through your memories of the girl, remembering her calculative eyes and pin-straight posture.

You just hoped the girl wouldn’t hex you for swooping in and stealing her boyfriend.

You and Theodore weren’t exactly close friends, but you both sought out each other’s company during exam season, enjoying the comfortable routine of silence that you both fell into during those days. Outside of the library, interactions with the boy dwindled into nods and occasional smiles. Despite the distance between you both during school, you held onto hope that your familiarity with one another would serve as a stepping stone towards a smooth relationship.

Conversation with Theodore is sparse for the hours that follow, the both of you mulling over thoughts of pleasantries and faltering topics of chatter. The fervid wind settles the farther you trek from the shoreline, now teetering past assortments of clustered buildings, all mottled with bright colors.

Your wand presses stiffly against your side as you tuck it into the waistband of your bottoms, concealing it from view as you both approach a swarm of people. Theodore keeps beside you, donning black sunglasses that keeps his searching gaze hidden as you both bask in the foreign environment.

It was lively and bright, the antithesis to the perpetual gloom and blisters of humming that was encroached in every stone of Britain. White verandas and endless shrubbery adorned the collection of shops around you, catching your eyes every so often.

“Here we are.” Theodore mutters, throwing you a small smile as your mouth drops into a vague o-shape.

The restaurant is stretched open with white beams of wood streaming upward to a flat wooden ceiling, the entirety of the seating area is squared away by the side banisters instead of proper walls, letting in the cool wind and seaside view. Theodore steps forward to speak with the hostess, hand lifting up to tug off his sunglasses as a blanket of shade envelopes you both.

You’re entranced by Theodore’s rapid-fire speaking, wondering if he had chosen Italian for his language lessons in order to strengthen his friendship with Blaise. With Theodore’s fluency and the restaurant’s expansive array of tables, you’re both seated in a matter of minutes.

The speckless table cloth drapes past your legs like a waterfall, effectively providing a shield against the breeze as you take your spot across from Theodore. The boy plucks his menu up and shoots you an indecipherable look from above the booklet as you remain motionless, seeing as your elementary understanding of Italian begins and ends at Ciao and Grazie.

Theodore’s lips flicker up momentarily before he lays his menu down and shuffles it over to you, “Do you want pasta? Or salad? They also have pizza, if you prefer that.”

Your lips split into a small smile of relief, a warmth blossoming in your chest as the stiff atmosphere around you both seems to wash away. Theodore reads off of the entire menu for you, eyes occasionally shifting to your concentrated face as you pedal between a few options.

When you finally decide on a dish, Theodore offers you a light hum and shining eyes, paralyzing you for a few moments. Perhaps, and to your relief, your relationship could work out after all. You just needed to clear the air between you both first.

The meal continues on without a hitch, but you have to make a conscious effort to not stare at the boy in front of you when the sun begins to sink behind the basin of sea water.

The swirls of orange and pink of the sky illuminate his sharp features, complementing his already striking complexion. A tamed buzzing of conversation wafts through the air, spurring you to word-vomit the thoughts that were plaguing you since your first joint dinner with Theodore and his father weeks before.

“I’m sorry,” You begin, looking away from Theodore when he meets your gaze with furrowed eyebrows, “about our marriage.”

Silence ensues after your vague words, and when you finally work up the courage to glance back at Theodore, confusion settles into the etches of your mind as you see his frown and penitent gaze. You had expected false platitudes of reassurance, or bitter resignation—hell, maybe anger—but certainly not the look he was giving you right now.

Clearing your throat, you sit up and lean forward, “I mean, I know that you would rather not be betrothed to me, so I’m sorry. My parents are quite lenient people, so I should have fought against it since I know your heart belongs to someone else already.”

“What?” Theodore wheezes out, reeling back to process your words.

Feeling heat creep up your neck, you falter back with quiet words, “Maybe, if I had refused vehemently, my parents could have convinced your father to not force you. I just wanted to apologize because I don’t want any lingering awkwardness or expectations for each other.”

Before Theodore can respond, your waiter paces over, giving you a polite smile before turning to address Theodore. The boy in front of you distractedly answers the waiter, eyes flickering back to your rigid figure amidst his words.

Once the waiter parts from your tableside, leaving behind a quaint black tray for your sum, Theodore seems to fall into a silent daze as he robotically composes himself and leaves the money on the tray. When he pushes his chair back, you follow suit, ready to play catch up if he swept away and down into the streets without you.

To your muted surprise, Theodore stops by your side and holds out his hand for you to take. Hesitantly clasping his calloused hand in yours, you are only able to await his words with bated breath, distracting yourself by focusing on the feeling of his rings against your fingers.

Theodore leads you yards away from the restaurant, only falling to a halt once you both reach a secluded area beside a blocked-off cliffside. The sound of crashing waves tangles into the air as Theodore’s eyes run around your face for a few moments.

“Do you want to call this off?” Theodore whispers, eyes steely with resolution as his other hand moves to lightly grip your arm.

You gape at his blunt words, swallowing thickly as your gaze falls to the ground, “If that’s what you want.”

“But what do you want?” He mumbles, stepping closer to you as another chilly gust of wind flies around your unguarded figures.

Peering back up to him, you frown before divulging, “I don’t want to call it off.”

“Good. Me neither.” Theodore nods, eyes softening at your honesty.

“But what about Millicent?” You mutter, head tilting with visible perplexion. The poignant reminder of her existence evokes a storm of doubts in your veins, and your head starts spinning with the culmination of the day’s events.

Theodore cranes his head back to assess you as he plainly responds, “What about her?”

This time, it’s your turn to survey his confused face with a mirrored look, “What? She’s your girlfriend? I can’t in good conscience do that to someone, arranged or not.”

Theodore’s mouth parts as he stares at you, and for a moment you’re disconcerted by the thought that he perhaps only just remembered her, but then, the most remarkable thing happens—Theodore starts to chuckle. His shoulders quake faintly with every muffled sound, and after a few moments, he throws his head back to let it out toward the darkening sky.

Before you have a moment to question the boy’s sanity, he turns back to you with a wide grin, “Is that what you were talking about earlier? You caught me from left field. I was worried that you were displeased because your heart belonged to someone already.”

Seeing your inquiring eyes, he shuffles closer and shakes his head, “I’m not dating Millicent, silly one. Where’d you get that grand idea from?”

“You guys were always together, and all the rumors–” Your words come out borderline defensive, neck blazing from embarrassment.

Theodore huffs and squeezes your arm, softly cutting you off from your spiel, “Just rumors. I wouldn’t have agreed to any sort of arrangement if I was with someone else, my father knows that much.”

“Right, yeah. Sorry.” You nod, scratching at your neck to dispel the humiliation that would live on in your head until your last moments on Earth.

“Silly.” Theodore hums, letting go of your arm to tap at your forehead, “Let’s head to our place before we freeze, yeah?”

Your rental unit was quite spacious to your surprise, and you were almost too enraptured with touching every inch of furniture to notice that there was only one bed in the entire space. Almost.

Theodore is cognizant of the same dilemma, clicking his tongue dryly as he murmurs quietly under his breath.

“I can take the floor.” You speak up almost zealously, easily masking how the prospect of waking with a sore back was killing you on the inside. Theodore and you had barely started building a thin understanding for your relationship, and you’d be damned if a single bed would stir up tension again.

Theodore swivels to look at you, “No need, we can share the bed. If you’re uncomfortable, I’ll take the floor.” His voice leaves little room for argument, and he runs a hand through his locks as he nods reassuringly at you. You’re touched by his consideration and understanding, glad that you weren’t in such a position with someone like Crabbe or Goyle, both of whom would likely grunt inaudibly and leave you to your ministrations.

“Let’s share, then.” You concede, heart thrumming fervently in your chest.

Theodore smiles softly at you and beckons you closer as he sits down on the bed, hand reaching out for you as you slowly tread forward. When you gently place your hand in his, he gives a faint tug, eyes darting down to the empty spot beside him.

Once you’re snug on the plush mattress, you turn to him with a wry grin, “We’ve skipped pretty much every single conventional step to get here. From study partners to life partners.”

“I suppose you’re right,” the corner of his mouth slants up, “from barely knowing my name to taking my surname, hm? Quite unorthodox.”

Shaking your head, you flop back onto the bed, keenly aware of how Theodore tightens his hold on your hand as it begins to slip away. Peering up at him, you raise an eyebrow, “Who said I’m taking your last name, Nott? You’re taking mine.”

“Hyphenating, it is.” He murmurs as his eyes trail toward the balcony ways off across the room.

You chuckle and stare into the abyss of the dim ceiling, “Any excuse to have a ridiculously extensive name.”

“Never as ridiculous as Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.” He muses, slowly lowering himself to lay beside you.

A few tantalizing beats pass before your jumbled mind seems to take away any semblance of restraint from your mouth, “I never thought it would be you, to be frank.”

“Yeah?” Theodore hums, head now turned towards you.

Nodding, you run your free hand along the edge of the bed as you continue, “My parents had been considering Crabbe for a while. I mean, they know nothing about him, but I can just imagine how that dinner would have gone once they realized just who they were shipping me off to.”

Theodore continues to study you, hand squeezing yours again before he mumbles, “I knew it’d be you.”

Snapping your head to the side, your eyes widen at his hooded gaze, “Really?”

“My father knew it too. That I wouldn’t have anyone but you.” His admission knocks the wind from your lungs, and you almost want to throttle yourself off the bed to ensure that you weren’t dreaming.

“Yeah?” You ask dumbly, heart stuttering against your ribs.

Theodore shifts to lean on his elbow, bringing his face closer to yours as he whispers, “Want to know a secret?”

All you can do is nod, trying to blink away the dizziness coiling around your head from the close proximity.

He hums and slowly retracts his hand, bringing a finger to trail the bedding beside your shoulder, “I was the one to ask your parents for permission to court you. Now, I’m going to wash up first, I promise I won’t be long.”

Without a hitch, Theodore swiftly clambers off of the bed, leaving the mattress to gently recoil against your back as it expands to its original form. You’re only able to grapple for a coherent thought once the bathroom door shuts with a click, barring you from staring at Theodore in wonder.

Once you hear the stream of the shower head emit from the bathroom, you slowly prop yourself up and trudge towards the balcony, swinging the glass doors open and allowing the whistling wind to zip through the newly exposed aperture. The biting breeze nips at your cheeks as you stare into the sky, surveying all the twinkling stars as you recount the day’s events.

You aren’t exactly sure what you’re going to say to Theodore, or if you’re even going to be able to look him in the eyes once he emerges from the bathroom, but you supposed that the turn of events unfolded more pleasantly than you could have hoped.

The distant clamoring of partygoers ways away from the balcony lulls you into a loop of idle daydreams, and you aren’t sure how many minutes have passed since Theodore’s departure from your side, but the whirlwind of your elusive thoughts dissipates when a warm hand grazes your arm.

“You alright? I’ve been calling your name for a bit now.” Theodore mumbles, eyes glazed with worry as he searches your blank expression.

Blinking slowly, you nod and offer a faint smile, “Fine, just lost in my thoughts.”

“It’s a bit chilly out here,” He glances to his right, evidently hearing the faint pulsing of music as well, “why don’t we head in?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, smiling at him, “I’ll try not to wake you when I get out of the shower.”

As you make your way to weave around the boy, body feeling weightless despite the fatigue drenching your muscles, you can feel his eyes following you until you’re swallowed by the shadows of the room.

The numbing balm of the night’s wind melts away from your face as you peer up into the shower head. The swath of steam that swirls around your body, cloaking the mirrors and walls, seems to inhibit the taunts of your overactive brain.

Your getaway would continue for another week before you’d begin wedding arrangements, already feeling the splintering headache emerging at the thought of sitting down and picking between a plethora of cloth samples. Unions between pureblood families were a big deal for the elite circle of families as the event would serve as the perfect opportunity for pretense and business transactions between different houses.

When you crack the bathroom door open with a muffled pop, dismissing the rush of steam that flees hurriedly into the cool room, you vaguely make out the figure of Theodore propped up against the headboard. The hues of moonlight peek through the bare panes of your window, curtains swept aside, faintly illuminating the silhouette of the furniture.

“Still up?” You whisper, padding over to delicately arrange yourself beside the boy.

As you shuffle under the plush covers, dragging the edges under your arms, you turn to peer at Theodore’s profile, watching as his throat bobs down as he slowly turns to you.

“Didn’t want to sleep without you.” He mutters, slowly sinking to lay down beside you.

You suppress the tender smile threatening to peel across your face and nod, “I see. You’re not a restless sleeper, are you?”

“Are you?” He quietly intones, voice growing fainter as sleep begins to grip at his consciousness.

“No, I’m not.” You hum, resisting the urge to sweep your fingers forward in search of his, “Goodnight, Theodore.”

“Goodnight.”

You both fall asleep facing one another, inches apart as the glow of the moonlight chases away the gulfs of darkness that slink in the corners of your room. It is in this position that your slumber is torn away from you mere hours later, moonlight now dispersing into small shards that nearly blend away against the white covers.

The foggy film that clouds your senses and sight reel away as you hear a small grunt from beside you followed by incessant shifting. Blinking away your drowsiness, you slowly shift up to survey Theodore, slowly comprehending his distress.

Theodore huffs out, a muffled groan blooming into the quiet atmosphere around you. Carefully reaching over, you shake the boy’s arm, eyebrows furrowing when he simply shifts again.

“Theodore, hey,” You feebly call out, shaking his arm more frantically as he remains trapped in the desolate rapids of unconsciousness.

Leaning down you bring your other hand to softly pat his cheek, you wait with bated breath as his ministrations quell before ceasing entirely. Eyes now accustomed to the veil of midnight darkness, you see his eyes slowly blink open, a light sigh escaping his lips as he begins to claw back into reality.

“Hey, it’s alright, you’re alright,” You softly murmur, bringing your fingers up to gently card back his waves, any semblance of fatigue evaporating from your bones as you focus on comforting the boy.

Theodore brings his hand up to yours, eyes beginning to sluggishly droop again, “Y/N?”

“Hm?” You hum out, readjusting your position as sickly soreness jolts up your arm.

“I guess I am a restless sleeper.” He mumbles, nudging against his pillow before he emits another sigh. His voice rumbles lethargically, and you sense that he is about to slip away into slumber again when he tightens his hold on your hand.

“Hm. What’s up?” You whisper, moving to lay down as well.

Theodore is silent for a few seconds before he tersely whispers back, voice nearly drowned out by the thumping of your heart in your ears, “Can I hold you?”

You shift closer to the cocoon of warmth batting off of him, steadily bringing your arm to wrap around him, “Of course.”

Theodore wraps his arms around you and drags you towards him, a content hum buzzing from his throat as he tucks you under his chin. For the few grand moments that pass afterward, you are left to contemplate the consequences your position would entail for when the sun rose, and you fervently hoped that no awkwardness would ensue.

Your close proximity to Theodore allows you to hear the faint thumping of his heartbeat, now undeviating in its rhythm. Bringing your free hand forward, you tuck it in the nestle of warmth between your bodies, trying to conjure inklings of sleep as a dense pressure burrowed itself in your eyes.

The lull of concentration fades into blind navigation in the crevices of your mind, and when your pulsing thoughts dwindle to incomprehensible echoes, slumber greets you once again.

When your mind blisters into stark clarity, it is with recognition of the orange hues flashing in your vision and the traces of aimless lines on your back. Your body instinctively pines for the cushion of bliss that mutely calls for you: a mixture of aftershave and pear.

For a few moments, it is completely tranquil. Until you realize that your pillow had a heartbeat.

The revelation is enough to jumpstart the discombobulated wires of your brain. Your eyes crack open to greet the rays of light that crowd your vision, an unpleasant stinging causing you to squint as you huff out.

“Good morning.” Theodore’s voice is gravelly, barely above a whisper.

“Hi Theodore.” You mumble out, remaining motionless against him.

His chest vaguely rumbles and you feel him splay one his hands against your back, “Theo. Only my father and Blaise call me Theodore.”

“Blaise?” You tiredly repeat, cheek squishing against his shirt.

“At his insistence, honestly. He thinks it’s fun.” Theodore hums, and that reminder has your hazy brain blinking with a sudden memory.

“Wait. Theodora, right?” You raise your head up, a wide grin plastered on your face as you remember the one night when Blaise dragged him away from your study routine using that nickname.

Theodore blinks before he groans into the air, bringing one of his arms up to throw over his eyes as he grumbles, “Merlin, I was hoping you’d forget or even mishear that.”

“Oh, I almost did, but Blaise’s ruckus was far more interesting than a Potions essay.” Theodore hums tiredly at the mention, and his reaction only spurs you on, “So, does he make it a habit to say Theodora, or is Dora better?” You say cheekily, shrugging innocently when Theodore peers down at you with a playful glare.

“Enough about Blaise,” Theodore mumbles, poking your ribs with his fingers as he maneuvers to sit up, dragging you to lean into his side as he did so, “I have something planned for today.”

“You’re being frighteningly vague, should I be worried?” You hum, muffling a low yawn.

Theodore shakes his head and dryly huffs , “Actually, I was planning on testing a few levitating charms on you.” His fingers dance lightly against your back as his voice drops into a feathery tone, “Have some faith in me.”

“I trust you.” You murmur, exhaling through your nose in amusement before you grow serious, “Anyway, did you sleep okay?”

Theodore doesn’t answer you, and you slowly raise your eyes to meet his face in confusion, “Theo?”

“Hm?” He hums distractedly, face craning closer to yours as he seems to almost stare through you.

Your heart collapses into the void of your ribcage for a split second before it begins to thrust violently against your chest, spurring a sea of warmth up your neck and ears. Theodore’s eyes flicker across your face as his hands begin to absentmindedly draw patterns against your sides.

You aren’t sure you’re breathing properly. Or at all.

One of his hands trails up to your arm, sliding to rest on the junction between your neck and shoulder as he muses, “Before we get up and go on about our day, I have something for you.”

Your eyebrows wrinkle at his words, eyes not straying away from his unwavering gaze. This time, it’s you who gives a small hum, patiently waiting for his next words.

“Just a small gift,” He whispers, slowly slotting his other hand on the small of your back, “It’s been a long time coming, really.”

His eyes drop down to your lips and that’s all you really need before you’re leaning towards him with anticipation, hands steadying themselves on his chest. Theodore’s lips part and he gazes at you for confirmation, jaw clenching imperceptibly as words become lost between you both.

When you remain resolute, he swiftly connects his lips to yours, mouth moving feverishly against yours. His hands press against your body, keeping you grounded as he begins to lean over you, lips never ceasing in their frenzied dance against yours.

Grasping the sides of his neck, you tug him impossibly closer to you as he hovers over you, one of his hands moving to run soothingly along your waist.

A few more heated moments pass before the tug for air becomes too great to ignore, causing you to break away from him, head tilting to the side as your lungs tinge with a faint tightness. Theodore grunts at your escape, chasing after you as he tries to satiate his desire, only opting to leave heavy kisses against your cheek and jaw when you tap his neck.

Closing your eyes, you bring your fingers to card through his hair as you attempt to halt the dizzying stars spinning across your eyelids. Amidst your fruitless efforts, a sudden tug has your eyes flying open, a bemused hum echoing through the air once you realize Theodore is guiding you to sit up.

He remains silent as he glides down from the side of the bed, hand drifting to lace with yours as he pulls you to sit at the edge of the mattress. Reaching towards the bottom drawer of the white dresser, Theodore only briefly glances away as he fishes out a small velvet box.

“Theo?” You mumble, eyes widening as he drops down on both of his knees.

“Ring.” He answers quietly, deftly opening the box and pulling out a thin silver band.

He drops kisses to your knees as he gazes up towards you, bringing one of his hands forward in muted questioning. Smiling softly, you place your left hand in his outstretched one, holding your breath when he slips the ring onto your ring finger with ease.

His hand continues to hold yours, thumb rubbing against your skin as he stares at the band.

“Thank you.” He finally says, lifting his face up to survey yours, his position leaving him at your complete mercy.

Your hands instinctively reach out to cup his face, bringing him in for another kiss as a newfound contentment curls into your chest. Theodore remains on his knees as he leans forwards, hands chancing a light slide against your hips as he reciprocates your affection.

“Fuck, how mad do you think everyone will be if we just eloped?” He grunts out before diving forward again to meet your lips.

Pulling back with a small laugh, you shake your head, “My parents would have your head.”

“I’m willing to pay that price, love.” He grins against your lips, nose nudging against yours.

Patting his cheek, you narrow your eyes playfully, “Well I’m not, so behave.”

“Yes, dear.”

masterlist

#theodore nott #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott imagine #theodore nott fluff #theodore nott fanfiction #harry potter #harry potter imagine #theodore nott x y/n #theodore nott x you #theodore nott imagines

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poraphia · 10 months

Text

"A Heart-Shaped Necklace."

heartbroken!wilbur x newlywed!reader 1971 words • 8.11.23 cw ~ unrequited love, heartbreak, depictions of vomiting. Reader uses she/her pronouns! wilbur soot masterlist

I was going to give you a heart-shaped necklace after a gig in Paris, but you met your future husband, and it wasn't me.

♡♡♡

“Will, seriously, we don’t have to do this, mate.”

I clutched the brim of the toilet seat. The bottomless pit in my stomach served me no good other than throwing up what little breakfast I had this morning. My temples pulsed as I could do nothing but kneel over what disgusting mess I’d created before me. I shook my head, exhaling a shuddered sigh.

“I promised her. I promise we would perform…” I mumbled in a croaky voice. With what strength I could muster, I reached over to flush the toilet before standing up with wobbly knees. To prevent myself from stumbling I leaned against the stall’s wall, backing up a bit to unlock the door and to face my band mate.

There stood Joe. The man that agreed to ditch our previous band to start Lovejoy. The man that has seen me through every breakdown and tear to my heart when I would catch a glimpse of her face at my shows. The man that has been with me through thick and thin. He gave me a half-hearted smile, but it wasn’t enough to hide his furrowed eyebrows and eyes glossing with concern.

“Will–”

“Joe, please!” I begged. I brushed past him and made my way toward the sink, washing my face to fight back the nausea. “I just– want to be there for her, okay?! I want to give her the most perfect day possible. I want her to feel like– like she’s on top of the world! And if performing for her and–” I choked on my own words, stumbling in my nonsense. “H-her fucking shit husband.” I propped myself on my elbows, staring at my reflection before looking at Joe. “Then fucking fine! I don’t even give a shit about him?! I care about HER!” I shouted, slamming my fists onto the marble counter. “ITS FUCKING FINE!”

But who was I kidding?

I put my head down, clenching my jaw to avoid any sobs that would’ve dared to escape my lips. Joe, with careful steps, approached me, placing a hand on my back. My quickened breathing started to ease down. However, that painful ache in my chest that felt like boulders pressing down my body remained. If the weight were to suddenly manifest in front of me, with open arms I would’ve accepted its crushing embrace, accepting the sweet release of death.

Yet here I stand in the bathroom with my bandmate and friend crying over what loss I had no way of preventing.

I’ve loved (y/n) since our first gig.

We had been friends for a while before that, but I distinctly remember telling her that my first performance will be the next day, and within the same hour, she called off of work and made plans to drive all the way to Brighton to come see me. Once she made it, she brought us cold bottles of water and showed nothing but her undying support.

When we had finished the performance, she ran up to me, and with open arms I engulfed her in the biggest hug, mumbling bits of gratitude in her ear as she exchanged back with praises. I felt like the happiest man on Earth. Nothing could strip away what joy she brought me for she has seen me through scrapped lyrics and broken guitar strings.

I planned to confess to her on stage.

It was envisioned perfectly in my head. After our performance in Paris and the stage had been cleaned out, I would ask the stage crew if I could borrow the set for another hour. I bought roses, a mini stereo for us to listen to our favorite music, and a golden necklace to profess my love to her.

And oh, how I imagined her smile.

I was so giddy that day too. My heart was dancing in my chest and my energy reflected it like a mirror. I woke up early before everyone else despite the jetlag. I had the widest smile on my face each time I would brush my hand against my pocket, and there rested the velvet box which I shall present to her later. I told my bandmates my plan over soundcheck and they all cheered me on. There was not a single doubt she would say no.

That was until during the concert.

In the midst of me performing consequences, I searched among the crowd to find that face. That gorgeous face that would never leave my dreams. Eventually… I did find her. My eyes widened as I looked over to Joe, who caught the same sight as well. My heart, once pumping a lovesick melody, came to a stop and dropped onto the floor below me. There she was, with hands wrapped around the neck of a man I’d never seen. Their faces were just centimeters apart as those lips I only daydreamed of kissing were parted just for him. It felt like the world around me stopped moving, and despite the screaming crowd in front of me, I was only listening to an ear-ringing screech and my heart beating in my ears.

Painfully, I strained out,

“I’m yours. I’m yours! I’M YOURS!”

I liberated my pain and anguish in the final verse of The Fall. Thousands of fans screamed and cheered for me, but I was only met with lonesome. I looked over to (y/n) who was now clapping and cheering as well. The man still wrapped his arms around her.

I smiled at her, and she smiled at me back.

I didn’t dare to face her after the show. As soon as I left the venue I buried myself into hotel blankets and pillows as if this grief was pinning me down by the neck, choking me into this mattress as I lost all strength to get up. The next morning Mark noted that she was looking for me, but I shook it off.

It took me a while to even face her again. When she asked me what happened that night I lied through my teeth and told her I was sick for a long while and didn’t want her to get sick either. It took persuasion like a lawyer to convince her, but she accepted it in the end.

I took in a sharp inhale, and looked up to meet Joe’s gaze. He looked over at his watch. “We’re going to be going on in ten. Are you ready?”

I looked back at my reflection, squeezing my eyelids shut to blink away the tears. Every breath I took felt like a shudder. My voice only came out in weary croaks. But still, I stood up straight and looked back at Joe.

“Give me five minutes.”

With what sanity I had left, I freshened myself up by washing my face and pressing down my suit and tie. After some soft encouragements to myself and convincing myself that I look fine, I pushed open the door and was again met with the dim-lit reception littered in white floral decor. People were happily dancing under the shimmering disco ball. Friends and family were laughing with one another at different white rounded tables topped with bouquets. Chefs were working promptly as they dished out all sorts of fresh foods for the ravenous guests.

But what stood out the most was the bride and groom, (y/n) and Jared, sitting at a long white table by themselves. They smiled at each other lovingly, holding each other’s hands on the table with their new golden bands wrapped around their finger. I bit the insides of my cheek, having to rip my gaze off of the couple, and headed toward the small stage where we were placed. Mark and Ash exchanged worried glances at the sight of me.

“Will, are you—”

“I’m fine.” I quickly muttered to Mark. I looked over to Joe. He checked his watch before nodding toward me. Ignoring the worried exchange of glances from my bandmates, I tapped on the microphone, grabbing the reception’s attention. The DJ ushered down his music.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, we are Lovejoy.” I spoke in a low voice but forced a smile as I talked. “I’d like to, uh– congratulate the bride and groom over there. Hi guys.” I slightly waved to them as the guests cheered. (Y/n) grinned at me, and I felt that familiar flutter in my stomach. I looked down at my mic, determined to keep my focus.

“I’d like to especially thank (y/n). She’s been with me since we started this band, and I– I couldn’t be more thankful.” I looked back at her again, and there she was. Her stunning white gown was decorated with rhinestones. Her hair was styled beautifully, flowing gingerly with the soft AC cooling the venue. Her lips were colored subtly with a shade that matched her gentle skin.

What was missing was a pretty heart-shaped necklace that was supposed to be given to her after a performance in Paris.

I cleared my throat. “We’re Lovejoy, and this is Call Me What You like.”

I spent the next twenty minutes with the band as we performed various songs from our different EPs. My heart slightly ached with each song I shouted into the mic, knowing that most of these songs' meanings have changed over time. A breakup album dedicated to the United Kingdom? More like intense jealousy of wishing to get in between my friend’s healthy relationship because I’ve longed for her more than anything.

We were nearing the end of our performance, with our last song “It’s all futile, it’s all pointless.” A song that she loved even before the band began. A song that she would ask for me to play when she used to visit my apartment. A song she asked me to teach her as she sat between my legs with her back pressed against my chest and I would guide her hands and fingers from behind. I closed my eyes and talked through the lyrics. The noise soon started to drown out. No longer there was an audience in front of me with guitars and drums to accompany my vocals.

I was back at my old flat, and there (y/n) sat on my couch as I sat on the floor. I was smiling up at her with fingers pressed against steel strings with my thumb rhythmically strumming down.

“We’re getting to your favorite part.” I noted. She giggled, kicking her legs.

“I know!” She beamed.

“Ready?” I asked, scooting closer to her. She nodded. With voices harmonizing we sang the final run of the song. I couldn’t help but stare at her. How she closed her eyes while she sang. How she fiddled with a pillow in her lap with a smile pulling at the corners of her lips. Her eyebrows slightly furrowed, concentrating on getting the lyrics perfectly.

My only wish in this world is to drink in that look once again. To have a moment like that again.

I felt the tears pricking at my eyes as the memory fades out. The music and crowd crashed into my senses, and soon enough, I was back at this dreaded venue. With what passionate rage I had left, I belted out the final words. Her favorite part.

“Eat my rent!”

”and eat my food!” Her faded voice echoed back.

“And eat my dues–!

“and eat those kids!” I screamed out the last words, straining what little voice I had left, letting the tears roll down my cheeks and onto my blazer. The band riffed into intensity as I felt the inside of my pocket again, the box still there. The guitars, the bass, the trumpet, and the drums, all halting to an end–

I looked up and smiled at her.

“And maybe use a sextant.”

♡♡♡

a / n ~ angsty hehe. this is my fav fic so far. reblogs are appreciated :D!!

#wilbur soot #wilbur soot oneshots #wilbur soot x reader #wilbur soot x y/n #wilbur soot x you #lovejoy #wilbur hc #wilbur soot fanfiction #will gold #wilbur soot fluff #wilbur soot jealous #wilbur #mcyt #ash kabosu #joe goldsmith #mark boardman

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ladykettlechips · 6 months

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Sweet Little Loaf (A Drabble)

I have no idea what to title this, so... yeah. This. This is a random drabble of 935 words based on a tweet that @folklauerate thought was very Kate and Anthony. In a nutshell, a woman was driving home from the shops and saw someone walking a corgi, came to a stop and went to say hi. Turns out, it was her corgi and her husband. So, I made a drabble out of after writing some random dialogue between Kate and Anthony. Enjoy! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Tapping the steering wheel with a hum, Kate’s eyes slid from the empty road to the path closest to her. The warm evening sun had cast a golden hue upon the dark concrete, bereft of the life she had witnessed just a half hour ago.

Then, she saw it: a glimmer of red and white, streaks of late summer sun bouncing off soft fur. A wiggling bottom and a wagging tail, attached to a loaf-shaped body and carried by stumpy little legs. His ears pricked up, eyes bright as the little guy turned his head, tongue lolling and trying to keep up with his owner’s pace.

Gasping, Kate slowed her car until she crawled to a stop, her own eyes wide and shining at the sweet little corgi. She had to say hi, perhaps give the sweetheart some scratches, a little bit of fuss and love because, well, he simply deserved it.

At the very idea Kate’s own fingers began to itch and, opening her car door, stepped out onto the pavement a short walk ahead of the precious loaf.

She felt her smile stretch across her face when the corgi caught sight of her and, with an energetic yip, began pulling on his lead, his tiny paws scrabbling to get to her. Kate nearly melted at the sight, his precious face lighting up at the thought of being adored.

Bending down, Kate laughed when the corgi all but shoved his head into her hand, his paws resting on her knees with eyes shut, enjoying the fuss. Above her, Kate heard the owner groan and even tap his foot. Good God, she hoped the poor baby hadn’t been stuck with a miserable bugger for an owner.

“Babe,” the voice was low, a sigh heavy on his lips. “I thought I told you to stop coming up to strangers who have corgis.”

Looking up, Kate scowled at Anthony, now tugging on Newton’s lead, and narrowed her eyes. Shit.

“Oh, shut up,” she muttered, and with another stroke of Newton’s beautiful fur, she stood to her full height and snatched the lead from Anthony’s grasp. “It’s not like you haven’t done it yourself.”

A low growl fell from Anthony’s lips and, turning on her heel, Kate walked Newton over to her car. Opening the back door, she picked up her – admittedly, quite heavy – dog, and placed him on the seat where he obediently parked his bum and panted up at her excitedly.

“I was chatting you up, Kate,” Anthony hissed from behind her, one arm wrapping around her waist and tugging her into him. “I was not interested in the corgi.” Flattening his other palm onto the window of the car door, Anthony slammed it shut.

Huffing, Kate wriggled in Anthony’s grasp, which only served to make him pull her that much closer.

“Funny, because I distinctly remember you only asking about Newton when you pulled up beside us,” she teased, and lowering her voice to a gruff cadence, continued with a grin. “What was it you said? Oh, yeah, What a beautiful little dog. You take such good care of his fur…”

Anthony groaned, his head dropping onto her shoulder, his arm tightening. Before Kate could finish her impression of their first meeting, she felt her body turn until her back was pressed up against the car, Anthony’s face mere inches away from her own.

His eyes were dark, lips slightly parted while he took her in, his gaze lowering down to her mouth before returning to her eyes again.

“I only asked because you were walking him, you menace,” he murmured, his nose barely brushing against hers. Kate shivered. “You can’t believe that everybody who walks up to a corgi has innocent intentions, sweetheart, nor should you believe all corgi owners won’t think twice about asking you out.”

Sliding her hands over his shirt, Kate hummed. “So, you didn’t have innocent intentions, then?” she asked with a tilt of her head, her arms wrapping around his neck and tugging him closer. Anthony smirked, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest.

“Not even one,” he whispered, his lips impossibly close to hers. Kate’s eyes fluttered closed.

“Poor Newton will be heartbroken,” she sighed softly, her fingers playing with the curls at the nape of Anthony’s neck. “He really thought you liked him.”

“Oh, I do,” Anthony admitted, his nose brushing against her cheek as he inhaled. “I like that he adores you just as much as I do.” His lips ghosted over her cheek and over her jaw. “I like him because he makes you happy.”

He kissed her brow, her chin, the tip of her nose, both of his arms crushing her against him, and Kate sighed contentedly.

“I like that fat corgi because he’s yours, Kate,” Anthony murmured, giving her hip a gentle squeeze. “I like him because he gave me a reason to meet you.” And then he captured her lips with his in a bruising kiss, swallowing any further arguments.

They broke apart moments later when a whistle sounded in the distance. Faces burning brighter than the evening sun, Kate rushed to get in the car and started up the car again, Anthony sliding into the passenger seat beside her.

They started the quiet drive home, Anthony’s large hand resting on her knee. Looking up into the rearview mirror, Kate spied her beloved corgi, now snoozing on the backseat and smiled to herself.

She loved Newton, her perfect little corgi, and she had to thank him, too; without his aid, Kate probably wouldn’t have met the man she now called her husband.

#kanthony #anthony x kate #kathony #anthony bridgerton #kate sharma #anthony bridgerton x kate sharma #kanthony fic #kathony fic #bridgerton #bridgerton fanfic #Newton Bridgerton #Newton Sharma #Drabble #Random Drabble #Kanthony Drabble #kathony drabbles #Kanthony Modern AU #Kathony Modern AU drabble

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primofate · 2 years

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The Ruthless Prince (Part 15) Scaramouche x fem!reader [Genshin Royal AU]

Summary: When Prince Scaramouche picks you out of a random group of commoners to marry, your life is turned upside down. He’s mean, snarky, condescending and he doesn’t act like a proper husband or prince at all. However, when Prince Tartaglia from the neighbouring kingdom takes an interest in you, Prince Scaramouche finds himself even more annoyed than usual. This is the story of him and you navigating this roller coaster of a relationship.

Warnings: NOT PROOFREAD forgive me, longer than usual, a bit of fluff I guess?, medieval Karen alert

Word Count: 3.2k

Summary and a recap on the Royal AU plots are here.

Read other parts: (Ruthless Prince Masterlist)

You were distinctly aware that Scaramouche had sat next to you on the carriage enroute to the annual celebration. Before then, he’d always sat across you instead. Why were you paying attention to such details anyway? You’d been telling yourself not to overthink things, but it seems as if your mind just loved to wander, especially after that small moment yesterday night.

Try as you might to pretend that last night was nothing, probably just him being moody again, something inside you stirred in a way that had you curious, bordering on wondering if Scaramouche was actually starting to warm up to you…or maybe, possibly, even something more.

You shook your head vigorously at the thought.

“What’re you doing?” Of course he had to notice and of course he had to give you a weirded out look.

Your eyes darted towards and away from him all at once. “Uh…Nothing,” and then it was silent in the carriage again, up until the two of you arrived at the venue.

It was a special one, unlike any other that you’ve been to before it actually looked simpler, yet it was still quite large with intricate ceilings and chandeliers, exotic looking windows and long elegant tables of food and drinks.

Your arrival had to be announced. It was Scaramouche’s day and his presence was of the utmost importance. For some reason that didn’t bother you too much, though a lot of the attention would be on you for the night. Unlike usual gatherings, much of the guests were younger people. Possibly around your and Scaramouche’s age rather than the older nobles and aristocrats.

Perhaps it was for that reason that you felt like there were a lot more stares on you than usual.

“The opening dance will start in a few,” Scaramouche warned you, your arm hooked around his, a standard stance when the two of you enter a venue.

A somewhat familiar face stops in front of the two of you. You reach back into your mind to look for her name. Ah. Right. Amaya. The young noble who saw you as nothing but dirt under her feet.

“How can a nobody like you become the princess? We’ve all come from royal and pure blood, and then you, tainted and filthy like where you came from–there’s no way the prince would ever love you!”

You’ve seen her a few more times after that, in the same ladies tea party, but she didn’t speak up as much, seeing as the other nobles started warming up to you, regardless of your background. Amaya, however, you could see in the way she stood in front of the two of you that she was out for trouble.

“Prince Scaramouche,” she curtsied towards him, and completely disregards your presence next to him. Scaramouche’s eyebrows raise up, also noticing the lack of greeting towards you. Amaya wouldn’t even glance at you.

“Happy birthday, I’ve brought an extremely valuable artifact as a birthday present. I’m sure it’ll be to your liking,” Amaya was rather graceful. They all were. She motions her hand towards her left for a server to come forward. A perfect looking square shaped gift wrapped in golden paper was atop the tray he was holding, red ribbon encircling it.

“If I may be so bold as to suggest something…I don’t believe she’s fit to do the opening dance with you…I heard that she hasn’t had the proper noble upbringing. I’m sure it’s stressful for her too,” Amaya threw you a fake smile as your eyes widened a little. She was really doing this in front of you, JUST as the two of you walk in. The night had barely even started and it was starting out with this, insinuating that you were nothing but commoner trash, and she wasn’t even done talking yet. “If you’d like, I’m confident that I’ll be able to do the dance flawlessly,”

Even the server holding the gift looked uncomfortable with her words. There was no world in which it was appropriate to suggest to the prince that he should do the opening dance with someone else who WASN’T his wife. The beginning was already looking grim for you.

There was a moment of silence, and you were at a loss for what to say, not knowing how far you could go with your words. However, a short snort of laughter cut through the tension, your eyes darted sideways, realizing that it was Scaramouche. There was a wide grin plastered on his face and he was looking at Amaya as if SHE was the trash beneath his feet. His momentary snickering gradually turned into chuckles, and his chuckles bellowed into obnoxious laughter, his head tipped back like a villain.

Your eyes were wide while Amaya was making her declaration, but they were full blown saucers now, watching Scaramouche laugh like a maniac and everyone in close vicinity was looking at him, astounded as well. “S-Scaramouche?” You started, wondering if he had finally gone crazy.

His laughing abruptly stopped and he leveled his gaze towards Amaya. His glare was unlike anything you’ve seen before. Sure, he always had one on his face, but this one was vicious, like you could be poisoned with just one look. And then, with humor in his voice, he asked Amaya “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Amaya was frozen in a second, and you couldn’t help but tug at Scaramouche’s arm with your own, like a mother who was embarrassed. You whispered at him, “Scara, just leave it,” you tugged again, but he didn’t budge. “You’re a great example of why I didn’t marry a noble, conceited witch,”

“Scaramouche!” You hissed, aware of the eyes that were already turned towards your small group. Amaya was looking paler by the minute but Scaramouche was looking more entertained by the second.

“Listen carefully, either you apologize or you’re going to leave and count on it that your family will be wiped out of noble existence,” Scaramouche gave his final command and Amaya immediately blurted out, looking straight at Scaramouche “I-I’m sorry! I apologize,” almost as if she didn’t know what was happening.

But Scaramouche sneered, tipped his head sideways towards you and exclaimed, “to her,”

Amaya was horrified, but she still turned towards you, finally meeting your eyes and curtsied. “I-I-I” she seemed to be having some trouble.

“Now!” Scaracmouche was ruthless in his demands, and Amaya finally breaks.

“I apologize, princess!” you could hear the tremble in her voice. Shamed and embarrassed, she turned around and fled to the restrooms, you could almost see her watery eyes in your mind’s eye. The server was left standing there with the gift and Scaramouche clicked his tongue. “Throw that out, I want nothing from that family,” and finally tugged at you to retreat over to one of the tables with drinks.

Scaramouche unwound his arm from yours and took one of the champagne glasses flawlessly, taking a sip from it as if nothing had happened and you were left staring at him, jaw slack and open. “Scaramouche, you can’t just–” you blinked, and looked around to see if anyone was staring at the two of you, then your eyes darted between crowds to see if you could catch a glimpse of Amaya again. Strange enough, part of you felt bad, despite the fact that Amaya was the one who struck first.

“Quit looking so worried, I’m the crown prince,” Scaramouche watches as your eyebrows scrunch up in worry. He doesn’t understand what’s got you so riled up or anxious. “Don’t waste your time over that hag.” and he meant it. You knew because his hand flew over to your chin and forced your gaze away from the crowd and towards him. “Stop. Forget about it,”

Easy for him to say. He must be so used at making people feel like crap. You opened your mouth to say something, but he spoke sooner than you did. “If she isn’t showing respect then she doesn’t deserve it either,” then he dropped his hand away from your chin, but your gaze stayed on Scaramouche. Your shoulders relaxed. He had a point, but it was really strange coming from Scaramouche’s mouth.

It’s as if when it came to other people he knew what the rules were, but for himself…it’s like etiquette didn’t matter. He could be rude and snappy all day long and yet he wouldn’t expect anyone to talk back to him.

You took in a long breath while closing your eyes and sighed it out just as slow. You kept your eyes closed for a moment longer before opening them with a half defeated and half accepting grin. “Alright, fine…I’ll just…wipe everything over, pretend it didn’t happen and get on with this party,” then you set your hand out to him. “Opening dance?” Suddenly you had the determination to show others that you DID know how to do the opening dance properly. Amaya be damned.

Despite being in close proximity of each other during the actual opening dance, it didn’t have the same intimacy as it did the night before. Perhaps because there were people looking at the two of you, scrutinizing the dance and probably whispering about how the two of you had no chemistry at all, or something. Nevertheless it ended without a hitch, and unlike the night before, you and Scaramouche came apart as soon as the dance finished, but your hands stayed together as you walked off the dance floor and onto another table with food.

He glanced sideways at you. “You were a little stiff,” he commented and you swerved your head towards him with a glare.

“I was nervous, what do you expect?” It didn’t really feel great to be told that when you were so determined to show others that you had “perfected” the dance.

“...It wasn’t a poor performance…but being stiff just makes you…heavier,” Scaramouche continued to talk as if he didn’t know he was digging his own grave.

“Oh now you’re calling me heavy! That doesn’t even make sense–I’m the same weight all throughout the dance!” you hissed at him and he turns to look at you with a blank look on his face as the two of you walk, though it looks as if he’s about to say something mischievous.

“...Then maybe you’re just naturally heav–”

“Prince Scaramouche! Princess Y/N!” You fumed at him, though he didn’t finish his sentence, he has a grin on his face. The two of you turn to see Kokomi curtsying towards the two of you. Your mood instantly brightens up.

“Kokomi!” You can’t help but break away from Scaramouche’s hold on your hand and greeted Kokomi with a hug. She seemed like such a good break from a terrible start of the evening. Kokomi receives it and greets Scaramouche as well.

“Happy birthday, prince,” she nodded and Scaramouche only let out a hum. “It seems like the two of you are getting along better these days,” Kokomi comments as you slide away from her hug and back to Scaramouche’s side.

“Nonsense.” Scaramouche pipes up right at the same time as you say “Hardly.” with a roll of your eyes. But Kokomi giggles, hiding her laugh behind her hand and moves on to a different topic. She fetches a black box from her sleeve, small enough to fit in the palm of her hand and hands it over to Scaramouche. “It’s done, milord. There should be no issues whatsoever with it,” She sounded so proud, but you had no idea what was in the box, and Scaramouche looked as if he didn’t have an idea too.

So, the first thing he did was receive it, and opened the top. There were two rings resting inside the velvet of the box. One was clearly for a female. A simple, silver band ring with a pearl embedded into the middle. The other was a larger and thicker ring. It was silver as well, but it had a mysterious sheen to it, like it wasn’t completely made of silver.

Then it hit Scaramouche, a quiet “Oh,” escaping his lips. He closed it back and pocketed the box of rings. Kokomi looked far too pleased with herself. You only blinked, confused. “Is that… a gift?” you asked the two of them.

Scaramouche doesn’t answer but Kokomi gives you an explanation. “For generations, our clan has been tasked to make pearl rings for the future king and queen. These rings are exchanged during the first birthday in which the prince has been wedded. They’re quite special, you see. The Sango pearls we use are one of a kind, magical properties are infused into the material and…well, you’ll experience it yourself later,”

“Oh,” you let out just like Scaramouche did earlier. “I didn’t know about that,” your gaze moves to Scaramouche, and he feels it on him, questioning him as to why he didn’t say anything about it earlier.

“...I forgot,” he simply said, and you buy it but you deflate, wondering if he really was fit for the role of king. He just…didn’t know how to communicate with anyone.

“Why was it not exchanged during the wedding instead?” You ask Kokomi curiously, who is oh-so happy to answer your questions.

“Back then the rings were originally simple gifts from the Sangonomiya clan to the crown prince on his birthday. I suppose that tradition just stuck despite some changes on the rings itself. So, in a way, you could say that it’s simply a birthday gift,” She brought her hands together with a pleasant smile.

Come to think of it, the wedding rings that the two of you exchanged during the wedding were…fake. Just for show. You exchanged them during the ceremony but they were taken off as soon as the whole thing was over and you didn’t see them again. Perhaps these were like replacements, or maybe the real ones.

“Perhaps the prince can explain more about the rings if time allows. Now then, I’ll have to catch up with you later, princess,” Kokomi curtsied again, and smoothly leaves the conversation. Without her there it’s as if the two of you are back to your gruff demeanors.

You cross your arms on your chest and say “Well?” to fish out an explanation from Scaramouche. He lolls his head lazily towards you. “You’ll see later, they’ll make a big show of us exchanging the rings, after we cut my birthday cake.”

Oh great. You thought to yourself. The whole thing was quite literally a show. Scaramouche’s birthday show for all the young nobles to see. It was rather horrifying and just as you thought you didn’t mind the attention, it really did seem like all of it would be on you for the rest of the night.

Surprisingly, you and Scaramouche seemed to share the same thought. He didn’t like these theatrics either, and so the two of you silently agreed to just hang out on one table together, discreetly eating some food unless a noble disturbed the two of you and engaged in conversation. However, these ones were not that adept at making long conversations. The young ones would say something about the weather, ask how the two of you were and would have nothing else to talk about and leave almost instantly.

It was like a blessing in disguise.

When Scaramouche’s birthday cake was rolled out, you had to tip your head up to see the entirety of it. It was a royal lavender colour, and you didn’t bother to count how many tiers there were, it looked as if one poke would tip it over.

The announcer was talking. Something about celebrating Scaramouche’s birthday and it being a joyous occasion. You tuned it all out cause all you were focused on was not making a fool of yourself while the others watched on and clapped in awe at how grand the cake was.

Scaramouche was passed a knife and he took it. Then, with the knife still gripped in his hand he seemed to offer it to you. “We’re supposed to cut it together,” You blink at him but follow suit, lest you would just stand there like a fool. You placed your hand atop his which was holding the cutting knife and just followed as his hand hovered above the cake. There was a countdown, and both of your hands pushed down through a piece, making a clean cut and perfect slice.

That piece of cake was set aside on a plate, possibly for the two of you to enjoy later. The theatrics didn’t stop there. It was the ring exchange now, and Scaramouche still looked as bored as ever as he fished it out of his pocket.

“May our hearts always be connected,” Your head jerks up as you hear Scaramouche utter the words. It takes you a moment to realize that he’s picking up your left hand, ring ready on his other. You can’t stop the goosebumps that rise behind your neck, making you shiver. The words seemed out of place in his mouth, with his expression so blank it’s hard to think that he’s sincere, but then his eyes hold yours, there seems to be a slight squeeze on your hand as he slips the ring around your ring finger. “...no matter the distance, you’ll always be protected,”

He finished just as the ring rests snugly on your finger, and he takes a moment to admire it on your hand, still splayed atop his.

The sentences he said were your short wedding vows, and though it’s your second time hearing it, there’s something different about it this time around. “I–” You start, when you realize that it’s supposed to be your turn. You remember yours clear as day, because the two of you had practiced it back then, endlessly.

His eyes follow your every move, from the way you picked up his ring, to the way there was a slight tremble in your hand when you picked up his. “I vow to always be by your side…” Your hands are a little cold, he notes…and yet…why does he feel nothing but warmth, watching your lips move to recite the vows? “...To be your shelter, your strength…and your bride,”

As you place the ring in the correct place on his finger, the two of you move your head at the same time, meeting each other’s gazes. Your lips are slightly apart in wonder.

When did it become easier to say those words?

“Y/N,” Scaramouche rarely says your name, but when he does it sounds like a delicacy. Something that you only enjoy once in a while. You realize he calls your name to warn you, your heart suddenly leaps out of your chest and starts galloping like a frenzied horse.

You’re supposed to kiss. Why did no one tell you about this?

Scaramouche’s hand easily rests on the side of your face. You don’t think you’re ready for this. You’re slightly panicking and you only hope it isn’t evident as he starts to dip closer–

BANG!

You startle and jump, instinctively clutching at Scaramouche’s coat when the ballroom starts to register that someone had come in rather forcefully. There are sudden whispers all around you and it seemed as if the atmosphere had changed drastically. Scaramouche still has his hand on your cheek when he turns to face the intruder striding towards the two of you.

Prince Tartaglia approaches.

In full armor and battle gear, knights following behind him.

You aren’t aware that the pearl on your ring suddenly glows a fiery red.

Scaramouche has time to glance at his, the pearl sheen on his ring turns dark, almost black under the light. Then, as if reading your emotions clearly, he states “Being afraid does nothing,” he drops the hand that was on your cheek, and subtly places himself in front of you as Tartaglia nears. “Besides, I’ll make quick work of this uninvited bastard,”

Scaramouche grins, and it’s as if an unspoken war had just started.

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dreadsuitsamus · 1 year

Text

Lost Part Four | Vegeta x Reader |

part one | part two | part three | part five | part six

author's note: i actually got the majority of this done within the last two days. i had such a strong burst of inspiration and this is where we've landed! i apologize for the wait, and hope next time won't take as long!

pairing: vegeta x fem!reader

warnings: canon typical violence, does not follow canon timeline of events, implied nsfw but nothing explicit

"I taught him everything I know." Vegeta's not surprised you've given him zero room to talk— but he's got an entire year to find you vulnerable, to get you talking and more importantly listening, so he'll quietly bide his time and allow you to steamroll his plans.

"Any new techniques?" Vegeta's arms cross, mind itching with the curiosity of a cat, wondering how you've spent the last twenty years. You're a Super Saiyan now, his pride in that achievement alone tops any pride and happiness he's ever felt, and the excitement for the impending year of training sends a tingle down his spine— of all the bad things, shitty choices and cruel twists of fate he's suffered in the last several years, this is perhaps the only time he's felt right, like he is exactly where he should be.

"Some, of course." Your feet are planted onto the ground, back still pointedly facing him. Despite the reprieve in your anger before, as you cuddled with him and kissed him fondly on the cheek just a few days ago, the burning fire dwelling within has reignited in full-force and Vegeta's struck with the nagging reminder that you possibly hate him more than you love him.

Possibly. He can work with that.

"Show me."

Idly, Vegeta thinks in the back of his mind that perhaps asking for you to attack him may not have been his brightest idea.

You turn on a dime and the yellow, jagged energy in your palm takes the shape of what resembles a bow, your other hand quickly firing off an arrow directed right between his eyes. And knowing your aim to always be true, the prince is swift, easily bypassing your little weapon of doom.

A mere swoop of his head is enough, and try as he might, Vegeta can't school his face; you're capable of way more than whatever that silly attempt was. "Points for style, I-" The smirk on your lips, so tiny and fleeting, is too out of place. "What's your- Shit!" You raise your palms and fire off quick little beams, spacing them out in an irregular pattern that's difficult to counter. You knew he'd underestimate the technique; it's what kept it in your arsenal, at the end of the day. If Vegeta, the master tactician and one of the most gifted fighters in this world, not to mention your husband that has spent more hours training with you than anyone else and knows your capabilities, could look down at the attack, then so would just about any foe.

He feels the sizzle of the arrow coming back, having to twist his body in a shape he didn't know was possible— and the twinge in his knee tells him it's, at the very least, not recommended.

Should've gotten that damn immortality when I had the chance.

"I believe I told you to mind your ego; if you still had a tail, you'd have felt it coming sooner."

Vegeta doesn't miss a beat, you find, as a hefty blast bursts from his palms and then it's you having to dodge, bending over backwards to avoid what would become a broken rib or two. Fast as ever, Vegeta's right above you and sends his fist to your gut, fully knocking you flat to the floor.

"And you…" He huffs out. "Clearly still underestimate me after knowing me for over forty years."

"Bite me." You growl; the absolute nerve of this man! To be so confident, as if no time passed since your last real brawl— he'd done the impossible and inflated his ego even more. Bastard.

"I hate to take a page out of Kakarot's book, but don't mind if I do."

Within a blink of an eye he's dropped to his knees, fangs sunk into that same spot as always, the mark so clear and distinctly his. The contact burns, Vegeta's lips hot and fangs molten lava as they break the barrier of skin— the taste of your blood kisses his tongue, a warning sign to stop biting deeper that he just barely heeds. But the sheer euphoria in his body, in yours, keeps him in place. Your bodies were never made for such distance between one another, yet withstood a twenty year gap— lesser Saiyans would have perished far sooner, perhaps even after a mere month apart if they faced the circumstances you and Vegeta had.

Your strength has always drawn Vegeta to you, ever since that day you punched him in the face. You survived not only a devastating separation, but an attack by his heir that, by all means was meant for, groomed to be an all-elite Saiyan like the rest of his royal lineage. You are stronger than Vegeta, and even his traditionally massive ego is able to step aside to only find nothing but the purest pride in you. He could have no other woman for his wife or his mate— you are simply the strongest, and the prince could never expect or have any less than that.

"Vegeta…" Your breathless whimper of his name urges his jaw in a tighter hold, clamping down on your mating scar. His brain searches for his tail, urging a signal to the lost appendage to tangle with yours as yours flicks at the very end, your hot body trembling beneath his.

And then there's a snap sounding in your brain as your tail fails to find your mate's, that stiff reminder of what's happened since the mating ceremony like a punch to the gut, eyes flying open with a growl as your nails dig into his muscled flesh. "Get the hell off of me."

Vegeta's cry of pain releases his bite, and he growls while forcing your hands off of him, using his weight and superior physical strength to pin your wrists to your sides. "Must you be so damn difficult, woman?!"

"I refuse to be your mistress, you vile-"

"If anyone's the mistress here, it would be Bulma and you know it." Vegeta says dryly. "And I'm not here with you for that. If V is as strong as you say-"

"He is." You scowl, the chip on your shoulder still very much present.

"Then I need to train too, and with a clear head. What good is training if our primal instincts have a score to settle?"

You huff and muster the strength to tear your hands free of his hold, pushing him off of your body and kicking him squarely in the gut before rolling backwards onto your feet, standing tall before his crouched form. "That's for earlier, Prince."

"Oh, you're gonna get it, Princess." Vegeta seethes, clutching his stomach.

"You refused to fight before; don't tell me the earth woman's made you soft."

Your husband grunts and forgets his pain to retaliate, his fist solid to your jaw with an uppercut. And thus the real brawl begins, fists and swears and smoldering looks passed between you. Each strike is calculated, your experience as seasoned fighters on display— you hold no audience, but perhaps your aim is for one another, rather than your Saiyan pride. Together as long as you were, you never did stop aiming to impress one another. It's in your Prince's blood to have an ego, of course, and as you throw your forearm up to block one of his mighty kicks, the possibility that you still want to be desirable to him crosses your mind, rather than training for the sake of strength.

What a shallow Saiyan you are.

But the fact that he spent any amount of time with her, pleasing her and potentially even courting her, has you set in a jealous rage that won't settle. They've got a child, a filthy halfling that's what, a year old? Maybe? And he's been living with her this whole time. Do they share a bed? What a nonsensical question, they must-

"You're getting distracted!" Vegeta growls after landing a fierce strike to your chest, knocking the wind out of you as you land right on your back. You stay down, Vegeta giving you reprieve as he stands tall above you, a stern frown on his lips. "Surely you don't find this a game, princess."

Your teeth clamp down on your tongue, the searing rage inside built up further by his taunts. "How dare you even suggest such a thing."

Vegeta offers his gloved hand to you, and you slip your hand in his after a moment's hesitation. Your prince has always had mercy on you, no matter how slight. His palm burns you through that white glove, and as he pulls you up to your feet his scent, a mixture of sweat and his natural musk beyond that, sets your insides alight. The mating scar you left eons ago is particularly sightly against his pale skin, the impression of your fangs clear to anybody with a set of eyes.

Your jaw quivers with need, aching to bite his most sensitive spot and take in his pheromones— he's always smelled so sweet despite his rough exterior; ever since your teenage years, when the genuine romance in your betrothal began, you've noticed that special scent of your prince.

You catch a whiff of that saccharine fragrance again, this time as you're walking through the palace for tea time with your betrothed and his father. You've been slated to marry the prince for many years now, though only recently have you taken a true liking to him— the idea of marriage is favorable in your mind now, with Vegeta having matured into a gentleman rather than the rude boy you decked solidly in the jaw just a few years ago.

He's also gotten quite handsome, regrettably.

It's breezy out, so tea is on a balcony with a view of the lower class's work division— Vegeta and his father are waiting patiently, though Nappa informs the king of an urgent matter he must attend to before you can even take your seat. King Vegeta grimaces, nodding apologetically before taking his leave. Leaving you and the prince alone, Nappa closes the doors to the balcony. The sweetness is stronger now, with Vegeta pulling your chair out for you. He's so close— clearly Vegeta must be the source of that intoxicating scent. You swallow thickly, hesitating to take your seat for the briefest of moments.

The urge to take a bite of him is new and strong and the sense of want is so disgustingly present, though the back of your mind coils in repugnance. Betrothed or not, attractive or not, he's still Vegeta. An arrogant, rude—

Vegeta tucks your chair in, his strength easily moving you to the table with grace. He's solidly behind you, hands lingering on your chair for just a second longer than necessary before he breaks away, taking his place beside you as the wind only forces more of his sweet pheromones your direction.

— perhaps you judge him too harshly.

You maintain your composure and refrain from biting him like a savage (though it's Vegeta that loses it at your very next encounter) but you do end the afternoon with a kiss that's passionate enough for your father to pass you a sideways glance when you return home absolutely covered in Vegeta's scent.

Vegeta nearly trembles under that hungry, near lustful gaze in your eye. He feels like meat, the mere prey to your raging ferality that's run so rampant, it's doubtful you've even noticed the way your tail sharply flicks around. You still hold his hand, bodies as close as possible without touching. Wetting your lips with a quick swipe of your tongue and nearly cracking under Vegeta's handsome stare, you step back with a scowl.

This is no time for my biology to intervene.

"This has been a wash." You mutter, turning on your heel and powering into Super Saiyan.

"Glad we're in agreement." Vegeta follows up, the glow from your ascensions meeting in the middle for a brighter light, forcing both of you to squint. Vegeta holds a hand out, fingers curled as he seeks out your form beyond the blinding glow of Super Saiyan.

You hold two fingers out, generating a fraction of your power into the very tips of them, and Vegeta follows your lead.

"May the strongest Saiyan win." You say in unison, and with a charge and a call out, your fists meet in the middle, creating a shockwave that bellows out through the endless chamber, your brawl not missing even a single beat.

Your hair loses the luster of Super Saiyan as you collapse to the ground, entirely spent and bruised head-to-toe. Vegeta's sporting a messy cut above his brow, left eye closed as the wound bleeds a steady stream. With a huff he falls to his knee, holding his injured right arm carefully at the crook of his elbow— he watches your chest rise and fall with every breath, soon comforted with the movements.

Vegeta swipes away some blood rather fruitlessly, wiping it on his ruined armor. With a grunt he falls on his rear, holding his palm to the wound as he gathers his bearings. You push yourself up despite the cries of your ribs, grimacing at all of the blood on your husband's face. His open eye flicks your direction and he waves his hand nonchalantly— "No worse than a scratch."

"Scratches don't bleed profusely." You snap, itching closer to him as you shrug off the remaining scrap of the poor t-shirt you'd walked in the chamber with. Your leggings aren't in much better shape, but to be stripped down to the bare necessities certainly wasn't an option. "Move your hand."

Vegeta complies at the snippy tone of your voice, his head throbbing as you examine the wound. Your heated skin is close, so infectiously hot as you cup his face and tut at the mark you've left on him, pressing the ruined t-shirt tightly against the wound to soak up the blood. "I've got to bandage this." You murmur, clutching your side as you attempt to push yourself to your feet to reach the medical supplies in the rest area, which is a regrettable distance away.

"Stay down, princess. Your ribs aren't in any better shape than me." Vegeta tugs you back to the ground roughly, wincing at your groan of pain as you hit the floor. His hand is quick to your side, searching for the worst of the injury on the side you favored. His palm skims over a spot that's already bruising and your body shifts involuntarily, a whimper hidden behind your gritted teeth.

"You haven't got much experience fighting in Super Saiyan." He murmurs, pushing himself up and tossing the bloodied remains of your shirt aside before kneeling and carefully picking you up. He shushes softly your cries of pain, taking care not to jostle you as he flies back to where the door to the chamber is.

"It feels like home in here." You murmur as Vegeta lays you gently on a bed.

"It does." Vegeta says softly, removing his stained gloves. "The gravity in here is the same as Planet Vegeta's."

"I miss home." You stare blankly at the purple curtains that divide the sleeping quarters. "V and I spent our years on a Frieza colony, laying low. I worked on a farm to earn our keep, and V grew up like a normal child. I think our neighbors knew of our race, but they didn't ever speak a word to it— I don't know if it was loyalty to us, or just so Frieza wouldn't come back and destroy that planet too. We lived peacefully for a long time."

Vegeta quietly wraps a bandage around your ribcage, tying a cold compress tightly to the worst of your wound. His nimble fingers pause as you look back at him, searching his dark eyes for a moment before zeroing in on the slice above his brow. The bleeding has stopped, but he's still left with a large gash. "How did you train him?"

You push yourself up, not falling to his demanding hand that presses against your chest, urging you to rest. "We practiced basic hand to hand for a long time, and when he was older we began going off planet for more serious training. By the time he was 16, I had him trained like our parents had trained us. He would've been of great service to Planet Vegeta… You can't imagine how proud I was of him. How proud I am, even after what's happened."

"He's our boy. Of course he would be great." Vegeta's chest puffs out in pride, though his face bears the sorrow in his heart. He takes a place at the edge of the bed at your gentle insistence, his hands finding the curve of your hips— your exposed skin is hot under his touch and he brushes his thumbs up and down carefully while you wipe away blood from the wound.

"This cut you deeper than I thought." You toss away the bloody wipes once it's clean so you can inspect the wound. "I'll need to suture it."

Vegeta watches as you collect supplies from one of the many medical kits he's already laid out on the bed. Battered as you are, angry as you are, even, you don't bat away his hold. He watches you intently as you thread up the fresh needle, and your hand comes to softly touch his face after. "This is going to hurt."

"Try not to enjoy it too much."

The quirk on your lips tells him there won't be much trying.

Once you're gloved up, you begin work on suturing the wound. Vegeta's strong hands clutch your hips as the needle pierces his skin, but he remains strong throughout. He took your beating like a champ, and he'll take your healing with grace.

"Do you remember the last time I had to stitch you up?" You murmur, attempting a distraction as you work your careful stitches.

"I'd prefer not to." He mutters dryly, and you laugh a little.

"I kept my word, you know. I never did tell your father why you had stitches."

"Tch, give our planet a few more years and I'm sure that cat would've been out of the bag."

Vegeta watches your face as you laugh, squeezing your hips with the memory clear as day in his mind.

Vegeta storms to your bedchamber sporting his trademark scowl as he quickly moves through the castle. Why you've sent for him during an important war room meeting with his father and the men he commands, he doesn't know. His eyes burn like fire when he sees you, lounging in bed like it's a breezy afternoon where your husband isn't planning perhaps the riskiest invasion the planet has ever attempted.

"Have you lost your mind, woman?!" He stops short of the bed, biting down on his tongue, lest his angry tongue get him into trouble that the late-night prince would regret.

You roll your eyes and sit up, setting your book aside. "You didn't have to come now if it was that important."

"As my wife and my mate, I will always answer your call. It is up to you if you abuse that level of care I have." Vegeta's beefy arms cross over his chest, his anger simmering down into something less explosive once he's caught a whiff of your pheromones. There's something different— the gears in his mind turn.

"I didn't call you for nothing. It's actually quite important, and I think you'll find it worth the interruption."

"Well? What is it?!" Vegeta huffs, your scent getting stronger as you slink off the bed and into his personal bubble.

"I've just met with our physician." You smile widely, excitement palpable in the air.

"And…?" Vegeta's heart threatens to burst through his solid chest. Could it be…?

"I'm pregnant." You whisper, and your concerned face as his vision fades is the last thing he sees before total darkness.

"It's not my most honorable scar, but I wear it with pride all the same." Vegeta's fingers brush over the faint, thin scar lining his temple to his hairline. The smile that graces your lips at the memory makes the embarrassment worth it.

"Almost done." You assure him softly, and soon enough you're snipping the last of the thread and peeling off the blue gloves.

Vegeta heads to the bathroom, inspecting the patch job in the mirror. "You've always been exceptional with a needle and thread." Your stitches are neat, and the scar will be clean.

"Thank you." You brush by him, washing your hands as Vegeta turns his head.

"I'll draw a bath."

Slowly toweling off your hands, you look at the tub and then into the mirror. "No, I don't have much experience fighting in Super Saiyan. I tried it against V a few times, but couldn't keep it up for too long."

"First you must master the form, so the energy drain will be negligible." Vegeta powers up easily while testing the temperature of the water. "You're exhausted easier because of the transformation, but with diligence you'll master it as I have."

Your side aches as you take in a breath, gritting your teeth to power up into the legendary form. You've got to plant your feet to not topple over and lose it, but your sheer willpower alone saves you from failure. It's so draining and you're already exhausted of just about all you can give, but there's never been such a thing as a Saiyan who wasn't headstrong.

"Kakarot and I used this chamber once before to master Super Saiyan. It comes to us as easily as breathing now— there's no strain at all on our bodies. I dare say the form is beneath us now."

"Saiyans always get stronger." You grit out, nearly blinded by your own reflection. "I've had a few zenkai boosts through the last two years. I never really thought I could actually reach this power level. It's unheard of."

"I always knew you would continue to climb, though I wish it wasn't in part to zenkai." Vegeta murmurs, stripping away his armor to dip into the relaxing bath. "You were made for greatness. We would have been the strongest to lead our glorious race, had we been given the chance."

"That was only natural." You mutter bitterly, fingers gripping the sink tightly enough to crack the stone. "Perhaps we could've gotten out from under Frieza's thumb…"

"It's a wonderful thought." Vegeta murmurs thoughtfully, sinking further into the tub. And it calls for you, the scent of soap and the heat radiating from his way has you absolutely yearning to be in that tub. "Ruling over Vegeta together, raising children to be even stronger than us."

Your ribs ache with each breath you take, the icy compress burning against your skin. Though it's the sting in your eyes that hurts the most as the infinite what-ifs assault your imagination— More children? A strong, large royal family? The greatest warriors the world would have ever known? A life where your son didn't try to murder his own mother?

"Life is cruel." You whisper, two tears slipping past your lids as you close them.

Vegeta turns his head, closing his eyes— only to open them again when the glow of your transformation approaches the tub and you slip in with him, bandages and compress abandoned at the sink. He opens his hand to you and his heart soars at your willing contact in return, fingers wrapped tightly around the other's. Your husband leans forward for a gentle kiss to your knuckles, and you softly poke the tip of his nose.

"How long did it take you to master Super Saiyan?"

"A full year in this chamber to start, and on top of that I spent weeks in constant Super Saiyan after the fact." Vegeta explains, and damn if he isn't attractive when he's talking battle techniques to you in the tub.

"I see." You murmur, staring pointedly at the center of his broad, scarred chest. Several of the scars there are new to you; they're healed and have aged like the rest of him, and it's now that it truly hits you— your time with Vegeta was another lifetime ago. Could he really be the same man you mated? Are you the same woman he mated with?

"It will be hard." He warns. "But I know you'll persevere, as the stubborn brat you are."

You scoff indignantly, fingers still laced with his as the flutter in your chest contradicts yours words of objection. Vegeta just chuckles lowly during your tirade, massaging your hand and occasionally reigniting your fire with a small quip whenever it strikes him. It's a moment all too wonderful and comforting after all he's lost— your friendship hopefully isn't a casualty among the wreckage after all. His romantic love wasn't always there, as it rarely is with betrothal (especially as you were children when you met) but your connection very early on was in the form of a tight-knit kinship.

Your husband eventually begins wiping away the dried blood and sweat from himself, and your aching arms follow suit before sifting through the chests of clothes with a surprising amount of Frieza Force armors. Leaving behind the white chest piece, you smooth your hands down the perfectly fitted blue suit.

"Bulma created a variety of them for me, and I placed several here in the chamber." Vegeta murmurs as he pulls on a new pair of gloves. "Because eventually it will be Gohan's time to achieve and master Super Saiyan."

"He's a bright kid." You whisper to yourself.

"He may only be half of a Saiyan, but I believe he could be stronger than any full-blood."

Trunks could be stronger, is what you truly mean to say, Prince. Stronger than my son… Is that something you wish to see?

"Perhaps."

As beneficial as the use of the chamber is for your training, it's just as much a torture device as you spend every waking moment with your husband. The routine settles almost instantly, with breakfast and relentless training, bickering, and those brief moments, where the world slows for you for just a few seconds and all is right and you're almost living life how you were meant to— by Vegeta's side, through anything.

The hour on the clock above the door indicates you've got one final day as you lay in your bed, you and Vegeta separated only by a purple curtain, the way it has been since night one. The silence of the chamber is particularly deafening, jarring even—

"Bulma is not my wife." Vegeta breaks the silence, though barely. "She has cared for me, given me a son… But I've never thought of making her my wife."

You shift, turning on your side to face the sound of his voice. "And why is that? You begged me not to hurt her. You underestimate the level of your own care."

Vegeta's quiet for a moment. "She deserves a man greater than I am."

"But she loves you. Do you love her?"

His uncertain silence doesn't break. More than you, absolutely not. On the same level, doubtful. But his heart harbors that feeling, even if he won't admit it, be it to you or himself.

Vegeta slips past the thin purple barrier, climbing into the small bed and tugging you into his arms for a kiss as true as your first. Hesitation is at a full stop now, your lips passionate in the heated kiss. Four hands wander, though not necessarily out of lust, as you map one another's bodies again. The trail is more worn than it used to be, but the journey remains as pleasurable and familiar as ever as your lips begin to wander as well. It's all a messy tangle, teeth nipping and limbs fighting for dominance underneath the mutual glow of the after and even your mastered Super Saiyan past a certain point.

Your fangs itch and finally, The Rock has come back and you bite his mating scar, hackles of your tail raising with the sinking of your teeth into that delicious smelling flesh, heightened senses sending you in a euphoric spiral that leaves you dizzy in Vegeta's hot, scarred arms. He's damn near out himself, eyes rolled back so far he just might be able to see his brain as he releases all he's got, burning gold beneath you and damn if either of you have ever felt so fulfilled and at home.

A heaping mess of pants and lethargic limbs, sleep overtakes the remaining hours of the chamber's power, and it's your husband's hands and insistent lips that wakes you up in time to leave before another day on the outside begins.

Goku and Piccolo await you on the outside, the former buzzing with so much energy that adrenaline fills your veins with his crushing hug.

"You mastered Super Saiyan, didn't you?!"

"I did." Your grin is impossible to hold back against that innocent enthusiasm— Vegeta smirks proudly behind you, arms crossed tightly.

"She is far stronger now than she would've been with training you, Kakarot. She is a Saiyan elite!" Pride oozes out of every little pore, and it'd be a lie to say your heart isn't swelling with his joy focused so entirely on you.

"Well then, Ms. Saiyan Elite," Goku teases. "Show me what you're made of!"

"Darling, we would need an entire planet for a battle between us." You tease, which only seems to excite Goku further.

"Man, I gotta find the time to look for some! Maybe Bulma could help…?" He taps his chin thoughtfully, and Vegeta freezes briefly at the mention of her name.

The shift is palpable and Piccolo quietly ponders the situation further as you take note of Vegeta's pause, and he looks away from you and towards the sky. "We'll have to start searching for V soon."

"I have an idea of where he'll be." You eye your husband carefully.

"Good. We'll use one of Bulma's ships and go there within a few day's time. A little more training wouldn't hurt, though. For him to put a hurt on you as badly as he has, he's going to be hard to kill and-"

"What did you just say?!"

Vegeta's head turns and is met with your open palm to his face, your fangs bared and eyes razor sharp. He growls right back and steps forward, just as angry at your sudden change of pace. "It has been a constant two steps back with you. What the hell is the problem now?!"

"You are not killing my son!"

"You think I'd let him live?! He nearly killed you, his own mother! No damn son of mine will still breathe after such a betrayal towards my wife! What the hell did you think all this was for?"

"You won't lay a single hand on my baby."

"V is-"

"He has your name and your looks, but I raised that boy! I trained him, and I'm the one that cared enough about his life to trust Bardock and leave that doomed planet while you sooner preferred to leave him and I there like sitting ducks!"

"That's not fair to say." Vegeta sneers coolly.

"The truth doesn't care about what you think is fair. You will not kill my son. We fought hard to give him life in the first place, and I'd sooner kill you than V."

Vegeta doesn't back down, and you're locked in a standstill as you stare each other down.

Unstoppable force, meet immovable object, Piccolo thinks to himself.

#vegeta x you #vegeta x reader #vegeta #dragon ball #dragon ball z #dragon ball super #fic #db #dbz #dbs

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winterbuckwild · 1 year

Text

For @babyboymunson inspired by their adorable angry farmer Steve prompt.

Today everything was pissing him off. His coffee machine pissed him off when it conked out in the middle of the drip leaving him caffeineless and adrift at 5am. The horses had pissed him off: one not wanting to go out to the paddock and the other wanting to go out a bit too enthusiastically on his two hind legs.

The sheep had pissed him off by escaping their lambing pens running amok over the cabins front lawn and one adventurous cow had decided to investigate the commotion and took an entire fence line with it.

Which is why at 8am Steve was loading up fence posts onto the quad trailer and cursing the fact that they ever thought farming was a good idea in the first place.

He had just thrown the last roll of electric fence tape violently into the trailer bed when a dust trail could be seen kicking up across his unfinished driveway.

Dust. Fuck. Now Steve was pissed off with the lack of rain and the sheer blinding effort it was going to take to drive the god damned fence posts into the hard ground.

A familiar truck rounded the corner and he felt his bad mood lifting as a dark head came into view, curls bopping with the metal drum beat blaring out of the speakers.

A couple of sheep startled and took off towards the cabin, most of them used to the cacophony by now and not letting it interrupt their destruction of the rampant front garden. He glared after them and studiously didn't think about where else the little fuckers could end up and what they would destroy when they got there.

"Well, that is a face." The big truck cut off as Eddie stepped out, his long, lean body loose and relaxed and a lopsided grin on his handsome, scarred face. He'd gone out early - right before the coffee incident - to pick up the feed order and there was a large hump under a tarp in the truck bed that was distinctly non-feed shaped. "Who pissed in your cheerios, princess?"

He took a look around at the fence, the sheep and the damned cow, noticing the chaos and winced. "Nevermind. Need a hand?"

His husband skipped over, kissing him lightly on the mouth just because he could. It still made Steve go a little goofy on this inside, enough to make the whole thing worth it. Even the damned sheep. Eddie was worth everything.

"Give me a hand with the fence?" He gestured to the quad behind him. "We can round up the assholes when we have something to put them behind."

What he actually wanted to do was drag Eddie up to their shared bedroom and give him the morning wake up that he deserved. He contemplated just ditching the madness for a full three seconds before guilt over shirking responsibilities raised it's ugly head and he sighed. Eddie must have seen the hot look in his eyes, because his smile widened and he winked.

"Only if you give me something pretty to look at, big boy." He walked back to the truck to grab his thick work gloves and turned around to find Steve's shirt stripped off, skin golden and glowing in the morning sun. "Perfect."

They worked slower than they could have, the flex of Steve's biceps as he rammed the posts into the solid ground distracting Eddie while the latter tried his best to tease through the whole process, brushing against his other half, pressing kisses into sweating skin as he tried to resist climbing the ex jock like a tree.

When the last post was hammered in and the stock fence attached Eddie slipped his arms around Steve slim waist and pressed a soft kiss on the side of his neck.

"I love you." He whispered, just holding on. "I love this."

"I love you too" Steve answered, taking a long, deep breath and melting into his husbands embrace. "I love all this." He looked over the rolling land, fields of green and swaying hay in the summer breeze. He filled his lungs with sweet air and closed his eyes, the stress of the morning almost forgotten.

Almost.

A loud clang sounded behind then, the loud noise jolting through them like a live wire. Steve didn't open his eyes.

"I'm not looking." He murmered darkly. "I refuse to look. I'm comfy. You look."

He felt Eddie shift and swear, arms dropping from around him as he darted off, cursing a blue streak. Steve turned around as his beloved chased a sheep out of the bed of his truck, the feed and mystery covered item in danger and shook his head in despair.

"I fucking hate sheep." He sighed, "cock blocking bastards."

***

May do a little part 2 if people like it and I can gather the brain cells....

Sorry guys should have added that I'm not able to do tag lists right now :(

Also on Ao3..

#steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie ficlet #farmer!steddie #my writing

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setsugekka · 10 months

Text

『atarashī 』 ; 07

❝ injudicious ❞ | mlist ｡

student!hongjoong x fem!reader, husband!yeosang x fem!reader — drama, dark romance, mystery, heavy sexual content [6k wc] ch cws: smut, a lot of lying, public sex, jealousy, becoming aware of the potential consequences of our actions, bff!seonghwa does not deserve this shit!

A month comes and goes in a flash, with no help from the husband meant to aid in putting the pieces of your marriage back together.

Yeosang's job ramps up again. Normal, small breaks that allow for him to make time to come home even briefly now forgone entirely and made to jet set from old work sites to the new without so much as a breath of air inside of your marital home. It makes you sad, you miss him. Dinner for one is so miserable in an empty home made much too large to accommodate only one.

A problem that's made easy to forget, however, by the smoothing of Hongjoong's soft palms across your skin, lips that insist and devour you each and every time. How simple it is to moan his name and forget the others.

When you're not with Hongjoong, you want to be, but you want to go off of him too. A unique push and pull of complicated feelings; when you're away from him the thoughts creep back in, about how you shouldn't be doing this, about how you have to stop.

But all it takes to quell that is one perfectly landed touch from the man in question, and then you're unraveling for him all over again, like every time before.

The sex would be one thing, if that was always how it remained. Over time, nights are spent in bed talking about the future, about the past—about a different life and a different world if things were just that. Hongjoong often idly drawing shapes into your bare flesh as you reminisce about your family, when they were alive, when Aurelia was busy and booming and not meant to be your responsibility entirely.

His lips ghost over your shoulder from behind as he listens to you speak about all of the aspirations you used to have. Don't have any longer. Can't have now.

"Why don't you still paint?" he asks one night, lights of his apartment dim and the gentle flicker of the television doing the majority of the work to illuminate the space. "You know all the right people, you could really make something of it. Of yourself."

You shrug slightly. "Gave it up a long time ago."

"For him?"

Turning just a bit, you glance back at Hongjoong from over your shoulder. Watch him press a light kiss to your shoulder again, pleading silently to not have to answer that question out loud.

So, you don't.

"I'm obsessed with you," Hongjoong whispers into you, much later in the evening and firmly settled between your legs. Just where you want him. "Don't think I could ever go off of you."

Not sure I could ever go off of you, either.

"We shouldn't be here."

Your words are hushed, under your breath and only meant for the ears that reside just beside you. A hand slips between your thighs to grab at the skin there—no other point to it besides simply reminding you that he is there.

As if you could forget.

Numerous patrons walk by your booth and you watch each and every one of them carefully, eyes lingering as if anticipating the proverbial hammer to drop with the next one that intends on making their way by. The truth is that nobody is paying attention to you—not especially, at least—and it's only when one of Hongjoong's ill-timed touches jars a sound from you that you may catch the glance of another who does not know either of you, nor has any intention of doing so.

It's something like horny teenagers who can't keep their hands to themselves; no private place to feel the skin of the other beneath their fingers and thus, public places will have to do.

Except you very much have private places to go to, and this idea being distinctly Hongjoong's for one reason or another.

"Relax," he says as you clasp a hand around his wrist and push his hand out from under your skirt. "No one is paying attention to us. No one cares."

"Still." Hongjoong nuzzles his face into your neck immediately thereafter, cuts the words off that had only just been in your throat. The breath of him tickles, and you shrink down with a smile to remove the sensitive skin of your neck from the availability of his mouth. "We're not far from the Akademiya. I have colleagues that could come here."

"Ooh," Hongjoong chides, sarcastic. "What if they see us."

Finally he settles in beside you, hands to himself but still mostly turned towards you. Boxing you in, an arm draped up over the back of the booth that the both of you sit in.

It feels too open, too on display for you, however. You have so much more to lose from being spotted here with him, like this, Hongjoong has nothing. You're not familiar with the reprimanding that a student of the Akademiya faces as a result of fraternizing with one of the staff—much less whatever grouping of people you happen to fall under—but you can't imagine it's anything close to the scrutiny that you threaten to find.

"Why did you want to come out here?"

Hongjoong smiles slightly, tongues over his teeth like he finds the question to be testing him in some way. A fight looming, but not really, not handled any differently than anything else the two of you engage in.

He leans in again, face close to yours and lips just beside your ear. "Can't I want to take you out?"

"Are we dating now?" you ask, equally sarcastic as him before. "I'm married, you know."

"So I've heard." Hongjoong's voice drops to something deeper, more enticing. The fact of the matter doesn't bother him, never has, though it's not something that you appreciate being brought up all that frequently if you're honest. For obvious reasons.

"So, are you going to get up and go home to your husband then? Or are you going to finish your drink and come home with me so I can put my hands on every inch of your body?"

Lips find your neck, and you allow yourself to melt into the feeling for a brief enough moment that you lose sight of your surroundings. Less aware, for a second pretending that what it is that you're doing and who you are doing it with is acceptable, and reveling just a bit in the ability to enjoy it outside of the confines of a closed bedroom door.

You don't wish to be with Hongjoong, nor do you wish to leave your husband. You believe that he in turn has no desire to have you for himself either. It's complicated in many ways, but relatively simple in that: you're not leaving Yeosang, nor does Hongjoong wish for you to.

But you've not yet reached a place where you can quit him, either.

Fingertips on your skin that feel just as hot to the touch as they did the first time, drunk on how dizzying it is to be wanted like this by another person. To not have been grown tired of, to still be new and exciting to someone.

When Hongjoong's hand comes up to your face—turns your head to face his and with such ease brings the reluctance to engage with him in a public place comes crashing down with the firm press of his lips into yours—you forget everything else around you. The lounge goes quiet, and all of the other people in the room disappear.

Perhaps only to you, however; and your presence to others? Still very much seen.

Rushing down the sidewalk on a windy Saturday afternoon, you turn to glance at your surroundings for a brief moment—the sound of a car’s alarm firing off just within close proximity of you—attempting to gain your bearings once again in this side of the greater city area just outside of the Akademiya lines.

Walls of apartment buildings and other such shopping and eating sectioned off into unspoken districts around these parts; the hipster parts filled with thrift shops and aesthetically run down cafes, the luxury parts often frequented by the students whose parents have paid their whole way, the environmental interest types—none too fond of the other groups and their willingness to partake in leathers and furs.

There are offshoots of each that settle within, and Hongjoong sits somewhere on the axis of hipster-luxury. A man with money, though you're not entirely sure about the how or why of that. Maybe you should ask. You don't know if you're allowed to ask.

Hongjoong spends much of your time together asking about you, finding out about you, enthralled by everything it is that comes together and creates you. Sometimes it even feels as if he knows just a tiny bit more than he lets on, but asks anyway—questions that couldn't possibly come from nowhere, needing some form of place to manifest from. A starting point.

Not that it matters to you, not that any of that matters to you now.

With your bag clutched to your side, you stop in front of the apartment building that you've grown so accustomed to by this point. The shoddy door in the front that's seen its fair share of graffiti art over the years and one of the six window panels at the front broken—you take a step forward to make your entrance.

"Hey!"

But your heart immediately jumps into your throat at the sound. You know the voice, know the word coming from that voice so well that it's etched into your memory for the rest of your life. Absolutely no way you could be mistaken, and so instead you put all of your effort into calming your nerves enough to be able to handle what it is that is soon to come, because there's no getting out of it. This is your reality now.

You turn, smile a big grin and feign shock. A different kind of shock than the one that you're actually experiencing; happiness, surprise, delight. Not horror, terror, displeasure.

Seonghwa is with someone, a friend of his you've met a couple of times out on the town. Mingi. Another tall guy, he seems to like collecting them in his off time. They're both dressed casually so not with any particular sort of business in mind, and instead of just casually passing by, your best friend settles in close—slings an arm over your shoulders and around your neck—pulls you in close like he's displaying friendship, not actually partaking in it.

"Look who we found," he says, something sly about his voice but you brush it off as you projecting your own misdoings and the knowledge of that onto him. Guilty people always think everyone else is up to no good too. "What are you doing on this side of town?"

"I could ask the same of you," you reply, groaning into the grip still. Your eyes calmly fall to the other guy. "Hey Mingi, long time."

"Nice seeing you, as always."

"We were just on our way to grab something to drink," Seonghwa says, holding you firmer in his grasp. "You should come with us since we've already caught you out here."

He finally lets you loose then and you stumble for a second before straightening up and flattening your coat with your palms. You flash him a disgruntled look which he ignores in favor of a happy smile, but awaits your reply to the offer all the same.

"Ah, I can't, I have somewhere I have to be—"

"Somewhere that can't wait twenty minutes while we sit down for a drink?"

It's only now that Seonghwa's pleasant and playful disposition falls away, though you're not entirely sure if anyone else would be able to discern the fact other than you. A man so good at playing the fence when it comes to this sort of delivery, his eyes sit onto you as if expectant, waiting for you to not only make a decision, but the correct decision.

He's not really asking you to come with them, he's informing you that you are, and part of that is because deep down he has a sneaking suspicion that he has caught you in the act of being up to no good.

And so, you have to relent.

"Yeah, it can wait twenty minutes," you finally say, glancing at Mingi again. "But I want you to know it's because I adore your lovely friend here, and it has nothing to do with a desire to spend time around you."

Seonghwa smiles, slow and calculated. "It's noted."

You send the message along to Hongjoong shortly after you are intercepted by the other two men. The cafe that you are taken to is only a stone's throw away from his apartment building anyway, thus, it's not the end of the world that you have to put off the debauchery that is meant to take place up a few flights of stairs.

A part of you expects some kind of snappy, displeased response from your lover as a result of the mishap, but instead, he says nothing in reply.

Probably busy working, not a big deal. The three of you settle into a small table in the corner by the window and listen carefully to Mingi explain about how he actually really likes this side of town, despite the reputation that it has. Frankly, you can see the appeal, but you've always been something of the art-adjacent kind anyway.

Seonghwa slips away to the counter when your drinks are ready, and the bell to the front door rings only a second later. With your back turned towards the barista and as a result—the action—you aren't able to catch much of the goings on behind you, but what you can see Mingi's eyes lingering on someone in a way that strongly makes you believe it is not Seonghwa.

"God, he is beautiful."

You reel a little bit, because your thoughts immediately go to Seonghwa still. He's the only guy you know that's behind you, so who else could the man be referring to, and your confused and slightly disgusted visage must tell the tale rather vividly, because Mingi nods in an effort to get you to look over your other shoulder. You do, slowly, and you might be able to find the humor in the whole thing if the circumstances were just a little bit different.

"If they got more guys like him living around these parts then I'm signing a new lease today."

Standing slightly hunched over the counter—leather jacket and brown slicked back hair—you watch Hongjoong greet the barista and most probably order something, you wouldn't know, because you feel a little bit too dizzy to be focusing on the details all that much.

Seonghwa sits back at the table then, all three drinks in hand. Hongjoong looks around the place, then glances down towards you for just a second as he brings himself off of the bar and begins to make his way towards the back of the establishment.

"They didn't really have any of those little sweet drinks you like so—"

"I'm gonna run to the restroom," you say, cutting Seonghwa off and almost with a little bit too much urgency to your tone. He stops the sentence, slowly looks to you as you're already pulling yourself up from your seat. "Been out all day, haven't had a chance to go."

Neither he nor Mingi have a chance to respond before you're off and down the very same walkway.

The loud bang of the bathroom stall door hitting the wall is almost so much so that you worry it will raise suspicion outside, but can't be bothered with it enough to halt Hongjoong's mouth on your neck and hands hurriedly digging at the button sitting at the front of your jeans. He presses you against the wall, shuts and locks the door behind the two of you as if it'll make any sort of difference should anyone find their way inside of the main door, and has your pants pulled down around your thighs without giving you even a second of time to protest. As if you would.

Hongjoong turns you around, face towards the cold wall and hands up against it—fingers of one hand prying your disjointed panties away and to the side, the other fisting himself out of his own jeans. It's so quick, so easy, so intoxicating. Like everything else is about being with him.

"We could get caught," you say, a groan taking your voice at the feeling of him sliding into you with a couple of quick, shallow drives.

When he settles into you fully buried, snaps his hips forward a few more times for good measure, the concern dies out in your throat and between your legs.

"And what if we do?"

Hongjoong asks the question lazily, like he knows that you don't have an answer for it, don't care. That must be true, because the thought of it falls away entirely to instead be fully encompassed by the feeling of him dragging inside of you with quick succession. One hand of his digs into your hips, pulling you back against him and holding your body firm in place to take him, the other sliding up to cover your mouth and the subsequent whimpers and moans that are already fast to fall from it.

"Sorry," you say, settling back into your seat at the table. "Did I miss anything?"

"We were starting to wonder if you fell in," Mingi jokes.

You laugh at the comment, body still trembling lightly from the goings on in the bathroom only moments before. A bit after the fact, you catch Mingi's eyes lingering on someone who makes their way passing along behind you, and you already know precisely who it is.

Seonghwa's eyes are set solely on you, however.

"God," the other says, still watching Hongjoong move behind you. "I might do utterly ridiculous things just to have a shot at that guy."

You know, you don't need to look behind you to figure it out, but you do so anyways to play along—glancing over your shoulder to find Hongjoong perched at the counter again and chewing on a toothpick like he's in some old western film. He must be waiting for a drink or something—you didn't really have a chance to ask.

"Yeah, I suppose I can see the appeal."

Laughable.

"You're both married," Seonghwa reminds. Firmly, too. Mingi shrugs, rolls his eyes like this other guy is just no fun at all.

"If things were different. Isn't your husband gone all of the time? You've never thought about it? Met anyone in passing that had you thinking maybe just once?"

That causes you to glance towards Seonghwa more than the other man, and he is frowning just as expected. This is meant to be a fun, light outing. It might be worth it to take some of the heat off of Mingi and partake in a little joking on the matter yourself. Besides, can Seonghwa even blame you? After everything that you've been through with Yeosang as of lately? Everything that he knows?

So, you take a slow sip of your drink finally, chuckle at the end of it before you go to speak. "I mean...I guess I have. The whole lonely housewife trope comes from somewhere after all, doesn't it?"

Mingi laughs, Seonghwa doesn't.

"Sometimes you think about it like...it's something that I could do just for me, that no one else needs to know about. Like a spin class, or tennis."

"No, having an affair is nothing like taking a spin class, or tennis." Seonghwa's looking fully at you now, and none pleased at all by the words that you are saying.

There's no humor in this to him, and you can't help but wonder why that is. Regardless, his judgment sits heavy in your chest and results in the swallowing down of any further comedy you might have expelled on the matter. Mingi catches the hint as well—eyes meeting your briefly to share a moment of feeling reprimanded before settling once again in silence and forgoing the conversation topic altogether.

"Someone always gets hurt," Seonghwa adds, a few beats of silence after the rest of the conversation has quieted down. "Everyone always thinks they have it under control, that it will come and go and it'll just be some memory that you jot down in your journal a few years down the line like it's a scene in a movie that you always wanted to live out but never could."

Someone always gets hurt.

You hear the door bell ring again, but you can't turn to check if it's Hongjoong making his exit or another random patron entering. The air is so thick with tension now, and with the words sitting so sternly at the front of you mind, you think of the man you are meant to see straight away after this excursion just that much more.

Can I go off of him? Will it ever be that simple?

The way that Hongjoong touches you, tends to you, hears you and makes you feel whole in a way that Yeosang doesn't, can't right now. You think about it with yourself in regards to the sex—what he has to offer you in the physical—but if you allow yourself to be just a little bit more honest with yourself, is that true? Is that the whole story about the affair that you're so willingly carrying out with this student of the Akademiya?

You like Hongjoong because he is addicted to you, obsessed with you in every way that makes you who and what you are. He can never get enough of you, probably couldn't go off of you if he tried.

And maybe you've let your obsession with him go just a bit too far, too. A need to be with him, to feel him, to bask in the way that he desires you so openly and endlessly. A delusional pursuit to think yourself any better off, or with any upper hand in comparison.

Mingi changes the subject, starts talking about a couple of the shops that he wants to stop into while they're on this side of town.

You nod along as if you're there, but really, you're already three floors up and locking the door of apartment 3B.

A little more than an hour after your outing with Seonghwa and Mingi, you find yourself right back in the very place you very much expected yourself to be.

This time doesn't feel as good, however.

Sitting at the edge of Hongjoong's bed, you watch him as he idly begins to disrobe in front of you; jacket first, then the lazy unbuckling of the belt that sits looped around his pants. All the while, his eyes remain on you, but you have a hard time meeting them with your own on account of the prior conversation that still weighs heavily on your mind.

Seonghwa's words sitting razor sharp and ringing in your ears.

There's a part of you that wants nothing more than for there to be no more of this. No more affair, no more Hongjoong in your life in the way that he has maneuvered. To say that it's over, be able to proudly and confidently say the words just as you have so many times before—always dying out with the simplest of touches from him, or the enticing prospect of what else you could be missing should you manage to do so.

God, you need him so badly though. How have you let it come down to this?

The excitement of anticipation paired with the already knowing; whether it's inside of this very apartment and in between these very sheets or across the street in the bathroom of a restaurant while your friends sit and wait none the wiser. Thoughts that make it feel almost impossible to ever put an end to this.

"You know," you finally say, voice quiet and even slightly humored in tone. Little force behind it at all. "We could end this now and nobody would get hurt. Go back to the way things were before we ever started this at all. Pretend this never happened."

Your eyes raise to find his, checking to see his response. An eyebrow raises on his face, small perk of the corner of his lips as he slips his shirt up and over his head and makes his way across the bedroom towards you.

"If we ended this now," he says, falling to the floor between your knees and hands finding the button of your jeans for the second time today. "Then I would get hurt."

Someone always gets hurt.

But the carefree admission is somewhat of a shock to you. Never has there ever been anything that could be taken as a romantic involvement between the two of you. It's always just sex—and sure, there is time spent outside of that—the before and after the fact where no one is in any particular hurry to escape the arms of the other.

Perhaps you have not been entirely honest with yourself in regards to what that entails to you either.

Hongjoong busies himself working your pants down your legs and as he does, you allow for your head to drop back idly to stare at the water-stained ceiling above.

"Is there no way that this comes to an end with no casualties to show for it?"

He chuckles under his breath, coming back up to smooth his palms under your blouse and pull the light fabric of that up and over your head. Stilling just in front of your face after discarding it to the floor, Hongjoong sits only inches away from your mouth—looks down at your lips briefly before finding your eyes again with the same intensity that he always seems to harbor for you.

"Not necessarily. There's a chance that we'll grow tired of each other naturally. The joys of a new experience must wear off eventually, after all. Nothing feels exciting and unexplored forever—" he quiets, kisses you deeply, passionately in the very way that always has you melting into him. Giving into him. "Not even us."

Mouth trailing down against your neck and nipping the skin carefully between his teeth, fingers make their way to nestle between your legs, so perfectly firm in just the way that he knows you like to be touched. Your eyes roll to the back of your head before closing, reveling in it all over again, and he doesn't even need to push you back against the mattress to have you finding yourself there on your own all the same.

Pants discarded at the edge of the bed, Hongjoong climbs up slowly to settle between your legs, hand fitted just where it had been before. Two fingers pressed in that have you groaning against the lips that have already made their way to kiss and bite at yours.

"I want nothing more—" you start, forced to stop by the pointed curl of his fingers inside of you in just the right way. Gasping out and digging fingernails into the bare flesh of his shoulders and back from where you lie beneath him. "Than to get tired of you. To go off of you entirely."

Hongjoong kisses you again, this time more urgency behind it, nearly sucking the air from your lungs and like it may very well be the last time. The thought of even just that awakens an ache in your chest that you've not ever wanted to grant any level of consideration to: that this is more than what it was ever intended to be.

Because once that happens, all bets are off.

"You're free to go any time," Hongjoong says in a whisper against your mouth, though the appropriately timed press of his hips up against your own and the subsequent glide of himself inside of you once more serves as evidence enough that you've not yet managed to find a place where that's a realistic possibility. "No one is keeping you here against your will. If you don't want to see me anymore, you don't have to."

Smooth, easy drives into you—slower, more time taken in between each one that has your head swimming perhaps even more than any of the other times before. You dig your fingers into his skin like there's a chance if you don't hold onto him tightly, he might not remain there with you at all.

And you simply cannot take the chance of that happening any longer.

Hongjoong's face settles into the crook of your neck, hot breath against the shell of your ear as you curve your back up and chest against his. The friction feels white hot, one of his hands tightly gripped at your hip and the other moved upward to dig into your hair.

It feels different this time, because it feels like he's making love to you instead of fucking you.

In the aftermath of your lovemaking, Hongjoong sits against the headboard of his bed with phone in hand and a handful of sketches strewn out along the sheets. Standing in the hall of his apartment that combines the bedroom and his bathroom, you remain there and watch him in silence as he appears to once again—like so many other times before—be lost in the work that will most likely get him so far. So long as he is able to get that one chance.

He deserves it.

"I heard the class that you did that garment for is doing the first showing next week," you say, smile painted across your lips as you lean against the warped wood. "Are you pleased with the outcome?"

Hongjoong looks over at you, eyes trailing your bare legs that end only at the hem of your barely oversized shirt in a way that implies you may not be walking out of here without going another round in bed with him. Not that you mind. Eventually he stops, however, and looks towards you with full attention on the subject at hand.

"Yeah, I did a fitting with her a couple of days ago and it looked good. Took some pictures and what have you but I'll probably stop by the day of to make sure everything goes according to plan and there aren't any huge malfunctions that will need my tender love and care to deal with."

"Oh," you say aloud, and before you're able to pull it back. You know this feeling well, though not in relation to him, and not having been felt in such a long time either. Jealousy. Nasty, ugly, and with no such place that it belongs here at all. So, you make the conscious decision to try to reel it back. Be mature about this, because what other option do you have? "Good. That's good then."

Ever perceptive, Hongjoong picks up on the tonality of that oh, and much to your displeasure. "What's that? Are you jealous? Weren't you just trying to end things with me only an hour ago and now you're livid at the thought of me putting my hands on another woman?"

His voice is calm, almost playful—as if amused by the fact of the matter at hand. You wish you felt much of the same. Instead, you cross the room and cozy yourself up in bed with him, head and hand against his chest to listen to his heartbeat and feel the warmth of his skin beneath you.

Because none of that matters—this is here, and now. This is what matters.

"It's not like that," you say at first, though perhaps realizing the absurdity of the lie, you pull back on it only slightly. "Well, it's a little bit like that, I guess."

"You're married, you know."

You have no room to be feeling any kind of way about this right now.

"I do know."

Hongjoong changes positions slightly then, curls himself up and in a way that he can gaze down at you as your head slides down to rest in his lap. Fingers toying at your ear, lightly tracing the outer edge in such a way that makes you shiver.

"So then what if I were?" he asks, curious.

"I don't know," is all you can muster up at a moment’s notice, but more than anything else, you want to end the conversation as quickly as possible. You pull up and away from him, clear your throat and look down at the side of the bed for your purse which is seemingly nowhere to be found. "Do we have to talk about that?"

He smiles, softly replies. "No, we don't."

The thought of losing him, seeing him in the arms or hands of another person makes you anxious, sick to your stomach almost. A sort of fight or flight response in your body that kicks up without a moment’s notice. There's little to nothing you can do to avoid such a thing ever happening, and even still, what is your plan? To engage in this affair forever? Unrealistic. To be the one with the upper hand someday who gets to call it off when it finally suits you and you alone? Similarly so.

Palms flattening over your face, you rub harshly and sigh—hopes of expelling all of these thoughts that plague you and the negative feelings that sit festering along with them.

How ill it makes one, the obsessive need to be the favorite.

"I was thinking," you say suddenly, though Hongjoong's expression changes little and remains calm all throughout the turbulence of your emotions thus far. "About the contacts list that I have for you. Give me a couple of days and I can probably have it cleaned up and ready to go out for you. I can even make some calls in your stead to put in a good word ahead of time if that would help."

A small, slow curl of his lips, Hongjoong's head cocks to the side just as calmly before leaning forward and closing the distance between the two of you. One hand cupping at the curve of your jaw, he bothers little with pulling you towards him and instead only leans forward to push you back against the mattress once again—kisses you unrushed and deliberate in his motions, just like all of the other times.

One knee hiked up just enough for him to fit himself between, Hongjoong reaches over to the nightstand just beside you, flicks the switch so that the room dims just a tad bit further, and then all over again and just as you had wanted; all of the attention is on you once more.

"What do you do on the days that we don't meet?"

A fascinating inquiry, Hongjoong drops the whisper of words into your mouth with a gentle simplicity as he once again carves out space for himself inside of your body. This question is easy though, because you think of it with a nightmarish frequency.

Your nails dig into his back once again, feeling the divots made from the previous encounter still holding their mark there. A roll of his hips and you're whimpering under your breath, bitten back slightly, even though you revel in the feeling of having won.

"Hate myself."

a/n: we gotta get seonghwa out of there besties...also, kinda feeling like he knows but doesn't know know 🤨 like he knows something is up but can't put his finger on it. ALSO! her getting jealous about hongjoong with another girl 😭😭🤭🤭🤣🤣🙄 when the obsession is making you ILL AND CWAYZEE.

if you got thoughts hit me up in the ask box let's discuss hehe 💗 hope you enjoyed!

#hongjoong smut #hongjoong x y/n #hongjoong x you #hongjoong x reader #hongjoong imagines #hongjoong scenarios #yeosang smut #yeosang x reader #yeosang x y/n #yeosang x you #yeosang imagines #yeosang scenarios #ateez smut #ateez x you #ateez x reader #ateez x y/n #ateez scenarios #ateez imagines

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roseharpermaxwell · 2 years

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Bite-Size Dramione - Under 5k (Part One)

These are your bedtime stories, your palate cleansers, your individual serving sizes of serotonin. It’s okay to enjoy these even if you only read slow burn 100k+ fics, I promise. Live a little!

This is a sampling of some amazing favorites, but I’m always reading new things and will add to it regularly. If you find something you love, I know the author would love to hear it, and so would I! Take a deep dive into their catalog to find other gems.

Part One below:

Only Dancing by @sunflower-swan. NR, 378 words. Hermione is only dancing. No harm in that. Draco can get jealous or go with it.

Give and Take by @ambpersand. E, 1k. The softness of her curls brush against his thighs, and Draco has just enough slack to widen his knees to get closer to her. She’s everywhere, and it’s still not enough. He needs her to consume him whole.

Indulge Me by @millennialgrandma. M, 1k. A little eighth year Veritaserum-fueled confession of feelings.

First Kiss(es) and the Path to Forgiveness by millennialgrandma. T, 1.2k. Returning to Hogwarts for an eighth year felt like penance. Kissing Hermione Granger felt like redemption.

You’re Older Now by @simplifiedemotions. T, 1.2k. “I don’t know how to do this,” he says, his breath coming out in harsh gasps. The only time Hermione remembers him being so harried was when she’d first woken up with no recollection of even her own name. She distinctly remembers his blood-shot gaze, the trembling of his limbs, when he asked her if she had remembered him.

Tentative Exporations by @dreamsofdramione. E, 1.2k. What Draco lacks in finesse he makes up for in enthusiasm.

a cure for headaches by @whimsymanaged. E, 1.3k. Hermione has a headache. Draco has a suggestion. (Hint: It's not a pain potion.)

Some things, however by @frumpologist. T, 1.3k. Officer Granger is annoyed with Commander Draco and finds solace in the ship’s library.

A Full and Careful Analysis by @eveningstruggle. M, 1.3k. “Truth or dare.” Hermione traced her fingers over Draco’s chest, trying to match the pattern he was tracing on her back. “Dare. Wait—no. I need a refractory period first. Truth.” “Hmm…what’s the best sex you’ve ever had?” “That's too easy; it was four minutes ago.” or: Draco and Hermione talk about their past romantic history.

This Singular Night by @misdemeanor1331. T, 1.4k. On their last night in Las Vegas, Hermione asks Draco an unexpected question. He gives her an equally surprising answer.

Love of My Life by @mykesprit. T, 1.5k. A surprising revelation at their anniversary party sends Hermione reeling.

Round and Fluffy by @caitybellfics. M, 1.5k. Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter arrive at the DMLE to retrieve their spouses.

Jealous by dreamsofdramione and @inadaze22. E, 1.6k. Draco isn't possessive. In order to be possessive, one has to have some sort of attachment to another person. There is no such ‘attachment’ to Granger. Sure, he knows the precise way to move his tongue inside of her to make her moan, the shape of her hip under his palm when he fucks her so hard they both see stars, and the exact pitch of her voice when she comes, but he’s not attached to her. This is the lie he tells himself.

Write What You Know by @pacific-rimbaud. T, 1.7k. Prompt: Muggle University Student AU: studying Classics or MFA Creative writing

Counting Days by dreamsofdramione. E, 1.7k. Arithmancy was never Draco's strong suit.

What Was Lost, and What Remains by PacificRimbaud. G, 1.8k. My name is Monica Joan Wilkins. I am 57 years old. I live in Sydney, New South Wales. I share a dental practice with my husband. We've been married for thirty-two years.

What To Do by @willhavetheirtrinkets. E, 1.8k. "I can," she said, smirking at him. "I have that authority. Since you're always going at it quick and hurried, without the slightest attention to detail, I've been given the authority to make certain it's done properly."

Draco ground his teeth. "You can't tell me what to do, Granger."

You Owe Me by musyc. M, 1.8k. Hermione has an anniversary plan.

Mutually Assured Destruction… by @grangerdangerfics. T, 1.9k. As Head Girl Hermione Granger and Head Boy Draco Malfoy wage an escalating war of aggressive acts of kindness, will it spell ruin ... or romance?

Upper Body Injury by @provocative-envy. T, 1.9k. Hockey AU! "Careful," he says dryly. "Or I might think you're trying to flirt with me." "Oh, you'd know if I was trying to flirt with you."

"Maybe," he concedes, flicking his hair back with a practiced nod of his head. "But would you?"

Coming in for Landing by @sunlightdaydream. E, 2k. Draco loved flying when Hermione worked. She truly was the best flight attendant he knew. She followed directions to the tee on most days, but even better when she's on her knees before him. Or: It's cockpit porn and he is the pilot.

Inventory of Moments by optimise. T, 2k. Hermione makes a lot of lists. And a list of names just happens to be one of them.

My Brown-Eyed Girl by PacificRimbaud. M, 2.1k. Draco and Hermione have a lazy snuggle in the grass behind the Quidditch pitch.

The Dumbing Down of Love by inadaze22. T, 2.1k. Hermione is an expert at foiling Draco's plans.

Never Have I Ever by @niffizzle. M, 2.1k. With a bottle of firewhisky, a set of enchanted cups, and a game of Never Have I Ever, things turn interesting during one of the final days leading up to graduation. But just how much will be divulged? Maybe some things should stay private.

Two Full Inches Above Regulation Length by granger_danger. E, 2.1k. “Granger.” Malfoy’s voice was an ember in the dark corridor. He grasped her wrist and she almost dropped her jar of bluebell flames. “Your skirt’s not to the bottom of your knees. I may have to take points from Gryffindor.”

A Whole New World by simplifiedemotions. T, 2.2k. Draco takes Hermione out flying.

Passing Notes by @sodamnradd. T, 2.3k. D: Pay you 10 galleons to cover patrol tonight H: STOP throwing notes at me ferret. And no. D: 50 galleons? and so ensues a term of note-passing between Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger

A Pretty Picture by @wickermayne. E, 2.3k. Draco wakes up with Hermione between his legs. Like a good boyfriend, he helps quench her thirst.

hands to myself by whimsymanaged. E, 2.4k. Every Friday night, Hermione goes to her favourite bar with her friends. One of the reasons this bar is her favourite is because she inevitably runs into Draco Malfoy. Tonight, all their flirting comes to a head.

Sucker 4 U by whimsymanaged. E, 2.4k. “You can’t just…casually talk about watching porn,” Hermione hissed, glancing around. “Why not?” Draco raised his eyebrows. “I’ve just discovered it, and I want to tell the world. Anyway, I saw a clit sucker in one of the videos, and I got to wondering how on Earth a contraption like that could feel like someone sucking your clit.”

This Time Tomorrow by sodamnrad. M, 2.5k. On the last night of school, Draco's unchecked feelings for Granger spill through the cracks.

A Different Kind of Magic by @canttouchthis87. T, 2.5k. Draco Malfoy watched Hermione Granger practice her Viola for six years. Returning to Hogwarts after the war, her music offers them both a place of freedom and sanctuary.

Shifting Perspectives by misdemeanor1331. E, 2.5k. Being a woman in a male-dominated profession is hard; being a woman and below average height is even harder.

Passing Notes by @shamione. E, 2.6k. Draco Malfoy has teased Hermione Granger for the last time, tucked away in an alcove with his fingers buried deep inside her.

Lessons in Darkened Rooms by @raven-m-3. E, 2.6k. Draco Malfoy's eighth year at Hogwarts should have been simple, if unpleasant. Instead he finds himself grappling with a Granger-shaped problem.

A Thousand Ways to Say Sorry by @wordswithways. T, 2.6k. Draco Malfoy goes on a gift-giving apology tour. But a crucial person on his list wants nothing to do with it.

How to Break a Curse by whimsymanaged. E, 2.7k. They only had a small window before the curse took effect. “Run me through it.” Granger swallowed. “We have thirty minutes to have sex that ends with you coming inside me.” Draco clenched his jaw so tightly that it cracked. “What are our other options?” She didn’t sugarcoat it. “Death.”

Caught Wet-Handed by millennialgrandma. E, 2.8k. “Did we not agree, sweetheart, that we wouldn’t?” “Yes, Draco, which is why-” “And were you not the one who suggested, no, insisted, we abstain until the wedding night?”

Draco’s Consolation Prize by emilyinwonderland. E, 2.8k. Head Girl Hermione Granger comforts a moody Slytherin Quidditch Captain.

Feeling This by @echoofpromise. E, 2.8k. The one where Hermione elbows Draco in the nose at a rock show and he likes it

Just Desserts by @thelashjedi. M, 2.8k. Why would you talk to me? Draco thought, behind a heavy wall of occlusion as he politely, but rotely declined the Head Girl’s offer to join her in the Great Hall, at the newly mixed tables set up in the wake of the war.

Two Dry Martinis by @darkofthemoonfic. E, 2.9k. “You’re brilliant,” he said, flashing those teeth again. “What did I do before you arrived? And what else might you teach me?” Hermione knew she was blushing so she took another sip of her drink. The gin crisp and just the slightest hint of vermouth — how she liked it. When she flicked her eyes back to the bartender he was watching her. “A fair number of things, I’d expect.”

Pin-Up by whimsymanaged. E, 2.9k. Hermione needs to raise funds for her non-profit. Putting together a calendar of naked Quidditch players seems as good a way as any.

Severn Way by @magicaltraveler3. E, 3k. Hermione didn’t know it but they weren’t going home. They were going to a log cabin far away from anyone that could bother them.

Taste of Affection by dreamsofdramione. E, 3.1k. “You’re doing so well, Pet.”

Savour by @mignon-chignon. E, 3.1k. Draco Malfoy had a dinner to savour, hopefully without any distractions.

Overtime by @scullymurphy. E, 3.2k. Draco and Hermione are working overtime. It's late, they've gotten into the whisky and Hermione's self-control is at an all-time low -- especially once Draco starts rolling his sleeves.

Triple Axel by @batmansymbol. G, 3.2k. “As I’ve said ten thousand times, Malfoy,” she says, unbuckling her helmet, still breathing hard, “you wouldn’t last a second in speed skating.” She tugs the helmet off and her hair springs free. She shakes it back with supreme disdain. “You know what, though? I’m starting to think I’d like to see you try.”

Deal by @its-banannaz. E, 3.3k. It was all a stupid deal, and why she made a deal with Draco Malfoy of all people? She had absolutely no idea. Suffice to say, she lost the game.

Good Girls Get to Sit on Santa's Lap by whimsymanaged. E, 3.3k. On a huge, plush red armchair that the Sigmas must have borrowed (they’re usually green and silver everything) sits a guy dressed as Santa Claus.

Well. He’s got the velvety red pants and the red coat, only the coat is open to reveal a hard, muscular, bare torso, and his Santa hat sits askew atop a pale blond fade.

Just Like the Ones I Used to Know by @acciomjolnir. T, 3.4k. It's 8th year, post war, and Hermione isn't feeling in the Christmas spirit. She's not the only one who has chosen not to go home for the holidays... and when they get into the eggnog, all kinds of things happen.

It’s Draco fucking Malfoy, bane of my existence.

*and it's followup: No Regrets for the New Year. E, 2.7k.

Where You Belong by @ecaworks, raven_maiden. E, 3.4k. When Draco Malfoy shows up at the Burrow over the holidays, Hermione learns she has a decision to make.

Third Time’s a Charm by @monsterleadmehome. E, 3.4k. Head Girl Hermione Granger has been hopelessly trying to seduce Head Boy Draco Malfoy all term, but he just won't get the hint.

Long story short (it was a bad time) by @ginnysocks. E, 3.4k. Were she and Draco currently shagging like rabbits every chance they got? Yes. Did they still utterly loathe each other? Also yes.

Flat(Mates) by WhimsyManaged. E, 3.4k. Hermione and Draco have been living together as platonic flatmates for years now. Neither have presented, so Hermione’s pretty sure they’re both betas. (Spoiler: they're not betas.)

Respite by canttouchthis. T, 3.5k. Hermione Granger is fine. Or at least there’s no reason for her not to be. But still, she finds respite under the stars, drawn to the night sky.

Mutually Assured Destruction by witchsoup. M, 3.5k. Hermione and Theo find ways to break it to each other gently... it's time to break up.

Continued in Part Two!

Give the authors some love! I also adore hearing if you found a new favorite fic or author.

I’ll be regularly adding to this, so if you’re seeing this as a reblog, feel free to check my Master List of Recommendations for the most current list. Lots of new tumblr users as well, so if you see yourself and you’re not tagged, let me know!

#dramione fic rec #dramione fanfiction #hp fanfic #hp fic rec #draco x hermione

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zarya-zaryanitsa · 7 months

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Treasure-bearing spirits mostly take the form of a flying fiery serpent, except for the West Belarusian khut, which is not tied to a specific form and can take the appearance of either an animate or inanimate object, as well as entities of the Belarusian-Lithuanian border areas like aitvaras/skalsininkas/kutas/hutas whose appearance is distinctly poly-morphic. Exterior polymorphism (zoomorphism, ornitomorphism, or shape-shifting into an object) is also common in such Estonian, and Estonian Russian diaspora’s, entities as kratt, tont, puuk etc. However, even shape-shifting treasure-bearing entities are often depicted as flying fiery serpents. In the East (as well as the West and South) Slavic tradition, the treasure-bearing serpent can also be a supernatural lover, and which case he has a dual appearance, taking the form of a fiery serpent in the air, and that of a human on the ground. The serpent appears as a deceased husband (or groom) that a woman misses dearly, and engages in sexual activity with her. As a result, the woman either becomes ill or dies if she is unable to find a way to drive the dangerous visitor away. In Belarus, texts about a serpent lover that also simultaneously function as a treasure-bearer were recorded from the rural oral tradition even more recently.

- The Treasure-bearer in East Slavic and Finno-Ugric Contexts by Mare Kõiva and Elena Boganeva

#Slavic folklore #serpent

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anticomedygarden · 1 year

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traitor

tws: death, blood, and nightmares

By the time Sirius realized he had made the wrong decision, he was already in the casino trying to blend in to hide from whichever Death Eaters happened to be chasing him, and before he knew it, he was sitting on a tall stool in front of a textured green table laden with different colored disks and playing cards to the point that he couldn’t read the words underneath everything.

For a breath, he let the sounds of the casino crash over him: the slot machines, the cheering and booing of betting patrons, the sounds of dice rolling, all sounds he was familiar with yet were also distinctly muggle, and he couldn’t come up with the name of the game in front of him if he tried.

A noise from the dealer broke him from his thoughts. “In or out?”

“What?”

“In or out, mate, it’s not a hard question.” The man shuffled the cards, and Sirius’ eyes were drawn from his tan hands up to his scarred face, a face Sirius would know even in death.

“Moony?” he asked, voice thick with questions. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at home?”

Remus narrowed his eyes. “I’ve got no idea what a ‘Moony’ is, but my name’s Remus, and I work here.”

Sirius’ heart plummeted. “What are you talking about? Why aren’t you at home in London?”

“Listen, Sir, I don’t know what kind of prank this is, but I don’t know who you are. I live alone in Wales, which is where we are right now. If you keep this up, I’ll have you thrown out.” He turned away, pointedly not dealing Sirius into the next round.

Sirius felt tears pricking at his eyes. Why was Remus acting like this? “Moony, I-”

“Security!” Sirius may not have known much about muggle culture, but he knew enough to tear himself off the stool into the crowd of drunk gamblers, tears running down his face, heart pounding. What was going on?

Somehow, he ended up at the slot machines, and, unthinking, he pulled the lever. While the little images spun, he tried to remember why he was in the casino in the first place but found he couldn’t think past the fog filling his mind.

One by one, the images came to a stop: three little rats, all in a row. He didn’t know why, but he was so overcome with anger that he pointed his wand at the machine and it exploded without a word from him.

Laughter filled the air behind, and he turned to see his best friend in the whole world.

“Prongs!” he cried, relieved, and went to hug him, but at the last second he realized James’ laughter was actually choking, and he watched, horrified, as James collapsed, blood leaking from his mouth.

He rushed over to where his friend had fallen and dropped to his knees, muttering, nonono, under his breath. Hands shaking, he flipped James over and screamed.

His whole face was covered in blood, and Sirius could just barely make out a lightning bolt shaped wound in his forehead. He didn’t dare do a diagnostic spell, already knowing what he’d find.

Abruptly, he heard loud, high-pitched sobs, and he thought he might’ve started crying, but, no. That was the sound of a baby, and it was coming from somewhere behind him.

Somehow, he managed to pull himself away from his best friend’s dead body to walk toward the sounds of the baby. He had to go behind the slot machines to what he thought was a maintenance door. He opened it.

“Avada kedavra!”

“No!” Sirius shouted, but it was too late. In seemingly slow motion, the green light of the spell traversed the dark bedroom, and Sirius lunged forward, just missing taking the spell himself. He watched it bounce off Harry’s forehead, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Then he realized it was coming back towards him. The last thing he saw was red hair fanned out on the floor and bright green eyes, wide, unseeing.

Then, nothing.

“Sirius,” someone was saying as they shook his shoulder. “Pads, wake up.”

Slowly, he peeled his eyes open, and they were met with dark amber ones.

“M-Moons,” he gasped, reaching blindly for his husband.

“I’m right here,” Remus responded. Sirius felt a warm hand encircle his. “You had a nightmare.”

He nodded but felt tears slipping down his cheek, and he tried to convince himself what he saw wasn’t real. It worked approximately until he heard a baby crying. “Harry, he’s-”

“You screamed, and it woke him up.” Remus’ eyes were full of tenderness, but Sirius looked away, unable to bear the thought that Harry was here, with them, crying, because James and Lily, they were-

“Hey, it’s alright, you’re awake now,” Remus said, impossibly kind.

Sirius barely heard him. “They’re dead, Remus. James and Lily are dead.”

Remus didn’t say anything this time, just gathered Sirius up in his arms and let him cry, cry because James and Lily were dead because Peter was the traitor, and they were never going to see anything of them ever again.

word count: 857

@wolfstarmicrofic

#ngl i teared up writing this one #wolfstar #wolfstar fanfic #my fic #my writing #remus lupin #sirius black #marauders #marauders era #wolfstar microfic #wolfstar fic #wolfstarmicrofic #james potter #lily evans #jily #tw death #tw blood #tw nightmare #traitor

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clairelutra · 10 months

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cuprous chloride (a Sapphire Blaze rewrite) (1/?)

Fandom: Hidden Legacy series - Ilona Andrews Relationships: Catalina/Alessandro, Catalina & Runa, Catalina & Leon Rating: M Chapter Length: 7.8k (7.8k cumulative) Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence, Minor Character Death, Discussed and Attempted Suicide Additional Tags: For Want of a Nail, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Casefic, Action & Romance, Friendship, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Smart Catalina Baylor Notes: CATALINA!! DESERVED!! BETTER!! MUCH MUCH MUCH BETTER THAN BOOKS THAT READ LIKE SECOND DRAFTS!!! she's MY BLORBO now. i'm breaking out of my hiatus for this because i love what ilona andrews wanted her to be so much and it physically pains me to read books where she is Distinctly Not That. my blorbo now. m i n e. 😭 Read on SquidgeWorld

My dreams had been stressed out even before I was woken up. A perfect aquamarine ocean stretched out in front of me, looking like Florida but somehow I knew I was in Italy. I bobbed along in the water, unaided as it pulled me back to sea. There were fish chasing my hair, brightly colored and curious.

I knew that I had to stay very, very still, or their little mouths would open to reveal great big teeth. I'd already been bitten once, my arm stung with the injury just above the bicep. Just stay still and they won't bite, just stay still and they won't bite, just stay still, still, still...

BOOM!

I had a brief, powerful vision of the plane with my sister and brother-in-law it pitching into the water, and woke up with a gasp.

Heart pounding frantically, I scrabbled at the sheets, pain lancing through my chest as I took in the room around me—the loft room that had once been my sister, Nevada's, but was mine now because she wasn't here anymore.

In quick succession, I remembered that she wasn't here because she moved in with her husband and therefore wasn't dead, and then that she and said husband were out of the country for a funeral, and then that I, Catalina Baylor, was Head of House Baylor because she had stormed out less than a week ago.

A second stab hit my heart as I remembered her face, a mask of chilly stoic fury as she signed the rights and responsibilities of House Head over to me, witnessed by the Keeper of Records.

That feel when you disappointed your big sister so hard she just packed her bags and left, leaving you in charge of five people who'd never once in their lives thought of you as an authority figure? Hurt like hell.

I scrubbed my hand over my face, then realized there was another person in the room with me.

Or, rather, the head of another person in the room with me.

Arabella, my younger sister, was watching me from the doorway.

Habitually, I opened my mouth to tell her to get out, then shut it as I registered her expression. She was flushed, her blonde hair sticking up at odd angles—but her honey eyes were wide and alert, irritated and worried.

"You up?" she rasped.

No. But Heads of Houses didn't get to tell their sisters to fuck off, so I blearily nodded instead. My chest still hurt.

"Augustine's here."

That woke me up in a hurry. "Augustine Montgomery?" I croaked. It was still dark outside, and I had gone to bed at one A.M. after several hours of reviewing our business records. The alarm clock on my nightstand told me it had been only an hour or so since I had crashed.

Augustine Montgomery had come up in a lot of those papers, because technically, he owned our business. He was the Head of House Montgomery, and when we sold our business to pay for our late father's experimental cancer treatments, it was Montgomery International Investigations that bought us. We had it mortgaged on a 30 year plan, and Nevada, who supported our family after Dad died, had been whittling it down as much as she could... but there was still a solid one mil on the warehouse alone.

And she had left it to me to finish.

It was my job to keep the agency in good shape so we could do that, and my job to deal with the National Assembly politics, and my job to deal with any House matters that came to our table—which would be a lot more now, since our House was officially three years old and the protections afforded us as we found our feet were officially over.

Nevada had some timing.

And, unfortunately, she had left me to deal with Augustine too.

Sometimes, I really hated my big sister.

"Yeah. He's downstairs. He said he wants to talk to you. It's an emergency."

My first thought was, what could he want with me? and my second, sinking thought was, oh, he's here for the the Head of House Baylor.

Which was me, Catalina Baylor, the new Head of House Baylor.

My chest throbbed with a dulled pain, and I gave my younger sister a distracted nod. "Gimme five."

She bounced, no doubt jiggling that enviable figure; the genes for nice tits and a cushy ass had skipped right past me. "Hurry. Mom's with him in the conference room right now and she looks ready to shoot."

Mom especially wasn't particularly fond of our leash-holder, which meant I needed to get there fast.

Arabella snapped the door shut behind her and I flailed out of bed, the very image of grace and authority.

There was no time for anything I'd have liked to do when being faced with our scary, scary not-boss, but I staggered up to my childhood vanity and flicked on the rows of bare bulbs and viewed myself.

Oversized I <3 sleep tshirt over tawny stick-thin limbs? Check. Sleep-puffed face in desperate need of cold water? Check. A horribly tangled mane of dark brown hair? Check. The pock of a purple bruise on my left bicep from my fight with the cast iron skillet last night? I poked it and winced. Check.

I snatched up my hair brush and attacked my hair, mouthing the seconds to myself. It took 53 seconds to get it to a workable state and another 17 to get it into a messy but respectable bun. My shirt was shucked, my bra snatched off the bedpost, yesterday's jeans (miraculously unstained) pulled up over my ass, and a flowy white shirt that I saved for special occasions was snapped off a hanger in my closet. I stumbled out of my room and towards the bathroom with 116, 117, 118 on my lips.

Pressing cold water to my face and taming the strands of my hair that refused to put art into their messiness took me the better part of the next hundred seconds, but it tamed the flush and made me look (and feel) more awake.

No time for real makeup, but a brush of good concealer for the slight spots present on my face made me look a little less fresh out of bed, and a smidge of extremely careful eyeliner made my blue eyes seem a whole lot less groggy.

I was counting through the 250s as I took myself in.

Grandmother Victoria would have told me that if awoken between 11 P.M. and 5 A.M., I should be tall, regal, wearing a flattering silken bathrobe, with my eyeliner on fleek and a bit of rouge on my lips to perfectly project lady of the household, annoyed by your continued existence, don't test her.

Instead, I got professional 20-something after a long workday spent imbibing too much coffee, now trapped like a deer in headlights.

It was better than lazy teenager staggering out of bed on a Saturday afternoon, so I'd have to take it.

Though I should probably do something about the deer look.

I stopped counting for a few precious seconds, taking a deep breath to find my center (I was terrible at it, but sometimes it helped), then pictured what a Head of House should be—what Victoria Tremaine's granddaughter would be—and opened my eyes to the world, one hundred percent done with everyone's shit.

Good enough, I guessed.

(Nothing felt 'good enough' after Nevada left, but I couldn't give up before I began. My family was depending on me.)

My hands still trembled as I left the bathroom, counting 281, 282, 283 under my breath. I steadied them as I walked through the rehabilitated warehouse we called home.

The warehouse was where we had moved after selling our house to pay for Dad's treatment. The original plan had been to turn the whole thing into a comfortable house on the inside, but that was expensive and we had been broke (in more ways than one), so, predictably, walls and structures had been built as they were needed, and strolling through the main area that everything had been plugged into usually felt like strolling through a picked-over section of Ikea, if Ikea sold their showcases in blocks.

I found my family in the warm glow of the media room just as 300 left me.

Everyone was there except Mom. My brawny nerd cousin, Bern; his dark and wiry younger half-brother, Leon; my birdboned grease machine grandmother Frida with her halo of platinum curls; and, of course, small, full-figured and blonde Arabella.

They all looked even groggier than I had been, and they all were watching what looked like security footage.

The back end of a car was rolling through our gates, and one guard was saying to the other, "...a Bentley?"

The other shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe it was a birthday present."

"Dumbass," Arabella growled. I noticed then that the rest of my family looked distinctly pinched.

"Who? What?" I asked—and was glad I did, because it would have been terrible if Augustine heard me croak like that. I cleared my throat. "What happened?"

"Our security sucks," Leon announced. He said it lightly, but his hackles were up, his dark eyes flinty.

Grandma Frida's lips thinned, a rare look of condemnation on her laugh-lined face. "He didn't even knock. He pretended to be you and strolled right through the gates. And they—" She gestured harshly at the guards. "—just let him in."

A chill ran down my spine. If I had been more awake, a pit would have opened below my feet.

"What?"

Bern hit rewind and showed me someone who looked exactly like me passing the retina scan and the guards not so much as glancing at the logs that would show I was already home, and the person gliding through the gates was a fake.

Our three year grace period as a new house was officially over, painting a massive target on our backs that said fresh meat, and our staff didn't even double-check to make sure we weren't being infiltrated by an illusion Prime.

Nausea churned in my gut.

They had to be removed and replacements found ASAP. It wasn't reasonable to keep them on the payroll. The point of security was to keep the bad actors out, and for all we knew, these two would invite them in for tea and biscuits.

Mom wasn't going to like that.

"Try to look a little less like you swallowed a mouse," Grandma Frida advised, "and get in the conference room. Your mother is in there with that ass and a .50 Desert Eagle, and she'll put a bullet between his eyes any second now if there's no one to stop her."

She looked a bit mouse-inflicted herself, but she was right. I took a deep breath, fighting for my unimpressed and aloof cloak, and left the room.

I had been Head of House for three days, and twenty one for just as long. This would be my first interaction with another Prime as Head of a House, and Augustine was a shark in a multi-thousand dollar suit.

I couldn't fuck this up.

You are Nevada Rogan's sister, Penelope Baylor's daughter, and Victoria Tremaine's granddaughter. You can do this.

I walked across the hall to where the light could be seen shining through the frosted glass of the conference room window, bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper, and strode into the room.

The two adults sat on opposite sides of the table; Augustine swiveled to the door to watch me ener, while my mother watched him like a coiled cobra, focused as a sniper on duty with her right hand below the table, doubtlessly fingering the Desert Eagle just out of sight.

They were a study in opposites when you looked at them like this. Augustine Montgomery always looked like a marble statue of some Greek god who thought it could Clark Kent with a pair of wire specs, and my mother was an ex-military mixed chick with a bad leg and nerves-slash-balls of steel.

Both of them could kill you faster than you could blink, and Mom looked like she was very, very close to that edge right now.

House business, House business, House business, I chanted to myself as I sidled over to Mom. As reassuring as it was to have a gun trained on the shark in a multi-thousand dollar suit, it would look horrible if my first meeting with a Prime as a Head of House ended with the other guy dead.

"Mr. Montgomery," I said. My voice didn't shake, nor did I sound half asleep. Score!

I looked at Mom and silently begged her to look at me. When she didn't, I said, "Mom, Grandma Frida was looking for you," and caught her eye as soon as she glanced at me. After a tense moment of me trying to ask her to let me handle this with my gaze alone, she nodded and withdrew, clicking the gun into her holster as she left.

Turning back to our... guest, I said, "Mr Montgomery, you know you're always welcome in our home, but it's the middle of the night."

He almost looked apologetic—or, at least, His Holiness was trying to look apologetic, which was as close as he came—and said, "It's an emergency."

I cocked my head.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a phone, and showed me the screen. On it, there was a teenage boy with short, bright red hair and a mischevious grin—the kind of grin that seemed to lurk on Leon's face at all times, just ready to be whipped out on a moment's notice. There was something about the shape of his face that tugged hard on my memory, but I couldn't place it.

"This is Ragnar. He's fifteen. He has a dog named Tank. He likes detective books and the Sherlock Holmes show." Passingly, I wondered if he meant BBC, Elementary, or some new one I hadn't heard of yet. "He plays a Ranger in Hero Tournament. Two days ago, his mother and sister died in a fire."

My gut wrenched, even as a logical corner of my brain pointed out that all this was coming from Augustine Montgomery and there was absolutely no reason he would be showing me this unless he wanted something from me. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because right now he's standing on the roof of Memorial Hermann Hospital. He's thinking of jumping."

"Why are you telling me this?" I repeated around the lump in my throat. I couldn't look away.

"He's a Prime. Nobody can get to him. If we don't hurry, his broken body will be the leading story in the morning news."

I knew it would be broken, because I had been to Memorial Hermann Hospital all too many times myself. It was the place they told us that there was no hope left for Dad. It was far too many stories tall for little boys and girls who didn't want to be here anymore.

...If we don't hurry...

"Augustine, you know that's not what we do," I said quickly, but I knew it was too late. I was already praying I made it in time. "I've never pulled someone off a building before. We investigate insurance fraud, not..."

"But you can do it." He looked right at me. "It is within your power." When he saw my hesitation, he added, "Your sister asked me for a favor once. I'm calling it in. From one Head of House to another. He has one sister left. Right now, she's at the hospital praying he doesn't fall to his death."

It was within my power. If I walked away here and went back to bed, forget looking my reflection in the eye, I'd never sleep again.

"Okay." I straightened and wished I had something to fiddle with. "Let me grab my coat."

Augustine stood, a flicker of something that seemed terribly like genuine gratitude passing through his eyes as he stood. "Thank you."

---------

I turned the conversation over in my head as Augustine's driver took the silver Bentley through the empty streets at breakneck speeds, taking the two of us to the hospital.

Since when had Augustine Montgomery, leader of MII, CEO made of smoke and mirrors and ice, grown a conscience? Did Ragnar mean something to him? Did his sisters and-or mother? Who—or what—was worth waking him up at 2 A.M. and making a drive to a secondary agency to personally fetch a siren?

He had come to us.

There were a thousand halcyons out there. A careful poison specialist could immobilize him. A telekinetic could stick a wall in front of him. Why me? What game was he playing?

He had broken into our home, showed us our most glaring security weak points, and pulled all the pathos levers to get me to come with him. Pathos, not strength, not intimidation, not money. Just pathos. He'd called in a whole favor for it. I'd drink my favorite liquid foundation in a single shot if he'd done it out of the goodness of his heart.

God, House politics were exhausting, and I was still barely out of bed.

(What would Nevada think of all this? I wondered with a prick of pain in my chest. I wished I could ask her.)

"How do you know the family?" I asked. Might as well start with the basics.

"Ragnar's sister contacted MII in regard to her mother's and sister's deaths. She doesn't think the fire was an accident."

Which answered exactly none of my questions, and left me with several more. It didn't escape my notice that he had neatly sidestepped giving a House name—if they even were a House now. Ragnar was a Prime, and that was all I knew. Well, that, Tank, his preferred character in some video game, and his taste in fiction.

"Was it?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss the details."

So, that's a yes. And Baylor Investigative Agency was, as the name stated, an investigative agency. I'd drink the rest of my liquid foundations if he didn't plan to pawn this case off onto us.

That still didn't explain why we'd started with the suicidal teenager and not a formal meeting in his shark aquarium office.

"Did you take the case?" Do I get a say in the contract or not?

"She knows our rates."

"You turned her down." I didn't bother to keep the disgust out of my voice. As much as I appreciated being able to write my own contract, the thought of a heartbroken and desperate young woman getting the patented Augustine Montgomery treatment made my gorge rise.

"I'm not running a charity." He glanced at me in the rearview, clearly annoyed. "If I'm going to put my people in danger, I have to properly compensate them. You, of all people, should know how much is at stake when one looks into a Prime's death."

A Prime, singular. That meant it was a family of four, with at least two Primes. One dead Prime, one dead not-Prime, one living-but-suicidal Prime, one person of unknown magical strength. They were almost definitely a House. I still didn't know their last name. Or what happened to their father.

I did know that the mysterious sister was rich enough to get into Augustine's office, but not rich enough to hire him. Which meant she was likely rich enough to make our bills easier to pay and would still be on the lookout for investigators. Just $1,039,055.54 left on the mortgage.

I caught myself there and swallowed. Two people were dead and one more might be soon if we didn't get there in time, and I was thinking about the bills. God dammit.

I rubbed my forehead. "Did you at least tell his sister what to expect if I have to use my magic?"

"I told her the boy would have to be sedated."

Good enough.

The car pulled into the parking lot and a Hispanic man met us at a near sprint. He didn't bother with the front doors; he ripped mine open and subjected me to the sub-thirty temperatures. Thank god I had picked my windbreaker for this trip.

"Did he jump?" Augustine beat me in asking by a single breath.

"No, sir."

"Come on," he said, and jumped out of the car with me hot on his heels.

The gloriously warm air of the hallway beat back the icy chill of the outdoors. A group of people waited by the bank of elevators, some in scrubs and some in suits, all wearing the same panicked expression.

Apparently, they had been waiting for Augustine, because they saw us and scattered, leaving behind a single redhaired woman.

I knew that redhaired woman.

Runa Etterson.

I had met her at Nevada's wedding, when one of the many enemies of House Rogan (the House of her husband) had poisoned the cake. The only reason any of us were alive now, Augustine included, was because Runa had purged the toxins before the cake had arrived. She was a Prime Venenata, a poison mage.

Now, I could hardly recognize her. Her bombastic personality was muted; that vibrancy that could fill a room had been doused like a flame. Her pretty face was red, tearstained, and puffy. Her clear grey eyes were clouded over with fury and despair. She had grown since I'd last seen her, and shrunk again in the worst way.

Just looking at her was enough to make my chest ache so powerfully I couldn't breathe.

She looked at me like and a fire lit in her eyes. A blaze of hope.

I knew then that I would die before I let her down.

"Catalina?" she rasped.

"Catalina, there is no time," Augustine said, cutting off my reply. He strode into the open elevator, then turned and waited for me, and my feet obeyed.

The last thing I saw as the doors closed was Runa looking at me like I was the answer to all her prayers.

--------

The elevator hummed, carrying us upward, brightly lit and perfectly normal. In the mirrored wall, I could see the Heads of Houses Baylor and Montgomery standing side by side in the mirror.

At least I looked the part, even if I didn't feel like it. My bronzed complexion did me the favor of not looking too sallow, and my eyeliner made my eyes look more alert than they were. I took my thick, dark hair out of its bun and let it cascade over my shoulders—people liked that look.

Maybe it would buy me a few seconds.

Despite the older windbreaker and jeans, I could be considered a well-to-do young lady. Poorer than the painfully expensive suit beside me, but somewhat dignified. My eyeliner hadn't smudged yet.

If Nevada wasn't so pissed at me, she'd probably be proud of me.

I had a few answers now, at least. Augustine had likely rushed to get me because he had people inside the building, and a Prime Venenata completely losing it because she lost her last living family member would be more destructive than a sudden biobombing; as heartless as Heads could be, they often looked after their own with ferocious dedication. He had heard Runa out because he owed her a favor, and come to get me personally because he had a favor of his own to burn, free of charge.

Runa's little brother was going to commit suicide.

"You didn't say he was from House Etterson." If he was a Prime poison mage then that explained why that detail had been gently elided, but that didn't mean I couldn't be a little sour about it.

"Was it pertinent information?"

Yes. We owed Runa too, after all. Even more than he did. "That means he's a Prime Venenata."

"I told you he wouldn't let anybody get to him."

I could imagine. I was not looking forward to trying my luck.

"Has he killed anyone?" I asked. Distressed poison mages had been known to do that from time to time.

Augustine sighed. "He's a gentle child. He made them sick enough to turn them back, but he didn't inflict permanent damage."

I didn't show my wince. People I used my power on were not always so kind. Let's hope his nature held true.

The numbers on the digital display crawled up past the oncology floors. I had never been this high up in the building.

"When the doors open, turn left," Augustine said. "Go to the door marked 'exit', and up one flight of stairs. There will be a metal door that will give you access to the roof."

"And once I'm there?"

Augustine was too dignified to shrug, but he would if he hadn't been. "Have a talk with him, poison mage to siren."

"That's a terrible plan," I informed him sourly.

"Ragnar will hesitate to hurt you. If he does, I'll be there, and I'll help."

It wasn't me I was worried he'd hurt—or, at least, not primarily so. And Augustine being there could only make it worse. "If he sees you—"

"He won't."

Okay then.

The elevator doors opened, and I took the path at a half-run, heart in my mouth. The passage smelled overpoweringly of vomit, the stairs showing a hefty coating of chunky substance.

Okay, I could deal with a bit of unprompted food poisoning. Probably. It might make it hard to sing, though.

I took a deep breath, regretted it, and pushed through the door onto the roof.

Ragnar stood at the opposite end, a lone figure in a hoodie and jeans. The lights of Houston outlined him in their multicolored glory; he was young and small and far away.

Quietly, I took a few steps onto the gravel, then a few more. It was loud on the streets below, but not up here. Up here it was cold and dark and so very, very lonely.

The only thing worse would be to go back to the white walls and uncaring cacophony of the hospital below. To sit in that place that brought nothing but news of loss and pain.

"Hey," I said, just loud enough to carry, weaving the smallest amount of power into my voice as I could manage. The last thing I needed was for him to rocket over the edge because he felt me coming.

"You're not going to stop me either," said Ragnar. His voice was that high-low mess of puberty and terribly determined.

My heart pounded on my throat; I tasted copper. I wove a stronger thread into my voice as I said, "Why would I stop you?"

"Because people are stupid," he bit out. I took another few steps forward. "You don't understand."

"Runa—"

"Tell her I'm sorry."

I breathed through the lump in my throat and blinked my stinging eyes. I could hardly feel the wind. "That's not what you want to tell her."

Puzzle him. Make it so that if he jumps, he'll never know the answers.

Ragnar snapped around to glare at me. "What the fuck else would I say?"

"You want to tell her 'you're welcome'."

"...Excuse me?"

I shoved my hands in my pockets and gave him a wan smile. I pulled the power out of my voice again. I wanted him pissed off, not placid. "That's it, isn't it? Mom isn't here anymore. You're Runa's responsibility now. She's barely an adult herself. If you jump, she won't have to worry about you. All she'll have to worry about is herself. You know you'll be a mess, and she isn't any better off than you are; why would you want to drop that weight on her?"

It was what I thought about whenever I passed through the oncology office's waiting room. I remembered sitting there in one of those hard plastic chairs, nine years old, doing the math for how many mouths Nevada would have to feed all alone, and then subtracting myself and doing the math again. It would have been so much worse if it had only been the two of us. So, so, so much worse.

Ragnar stumbled away from the ledge, not wanting to fall by accident while he was processing that.

"No," he said, looking deeply disconcerted, "not that, I didn't mean— I didn't... wasn't..."

"My dad did chemo in this hospital," I continued. He focused on me again. "It wasn't working. My mom is disabled, and the rest of us were kids. My big sister was the only one who could take the hours needed to support us. She was seventeen."

The conversation had officially been deemed interesting enough; he took a few more steps back from the ledge and dropped into a sitting position like a discarded marionette. Thinking about Nevada hurt, but my pain wasn't for nothing.

I closed the distance, sitting a distant but companionable seven feet away, careful not to reveal how much I wanted to cry in relief. He wouldn't jump. "How much easier do you think her life would have been without me? Without us?"

"Lots." He was too raw and bitter to dress it up.

For a long time, that was what I had thought too.

"I don't think so," I said, and he shot me a flat, dubious, tearstained and empty look. I gave him another smile and a weak shrug. "You see, my sister is... responsible. She takes responsibility for things, and then she toughs it out. She would die for each of us, and she would live for us, too. I don't think she'd have kicked the bucket if she was the last one, but..."

Ragnar stayed warily silent, letting me search out the right words.

"She got married three years ago to a man she loved," I finally said. "Without us, she wouldn't have done that—definitely not this soon. With no one left to live for, she would still be fighting to get out of bed, not looking forward to her first baby." I held Ragnar's eye while blinking icy tears back from my own. "I don't know your sister that well, but I know family. If you jump, you'll save her the trouble of taking care of you. You'll take from her the will to live, survive, and thrive, too. You're the very last thing she has left."

Ragnar's mouth compressed, then stretched. He was absolutely furious with me, but too busy with his own heartbreak to do anything about it. In his heart of hearts, he knew I was right.

I had severed his way out.

I rested on the heels of my hands and dropped my head back to stare at the sky. Barely any starlight managed to prick through the pollution, but I admired what I could see. My fingers were well and thoroughly numb, and starting to burn with the chill, but I ignored that.

Healthy sobs from the lungs of a teenage boy wading through the worst night of his life came from a very mysterious source that I knew better than to seek out.

He wouldn't jump.

-----

By the time the noise had finally stopped for good, the rest of me was numb too.

I glanced down and found Ragnar a wreck, so burned out he looked like he was about to pass out.

I'd like to pass out myself, personally, but that seemed like a bad idea, especially when I couldn't feel my feet. That's what the little matchstick girl did, and look at how well that turned out for her.

With difficulty, I stood, and then I walked over to Ragnar and offered him a hand. He wiped his hands on his jeans and accepted—only to overbalance and drag me and my horrible footing down with him. Somehow, I managed to avoid kneeing him in the balls.

"Oops," he rasped into my windbreaker. Somewhere in all the pain, there were faint traces of humor. That was a good sign, probably. I hoped.

I patted his head, and together, we managed to get ourselves upright. Neither of us could stand alone, so we ended up supporting each other back to the door, and then down the stairs (they seemed to have been cleaned since I last saw them), and then into the elevator.

Augustine was waiting there, utterly impassive, to operate the elevator.

I didn't let go of Ragnar, and he didn't let go of me. With a stomach-turning bump, the elevator began its decent.

"Ms. Etterson will be thrilled to see you both in good health," Augustine said blandly.

I hummed an acknowledgement, gave Ragnar a squeeze, and waited out the rest of the trip in silence.

My eyeliner hadn't survived and now rimmed my eyes like a wannabe panda, but it felt more like a badge of honor than a failing.

When the doors opened, I caught exactly one flash of Runa's huge gray eyes and disastrous red mane, and then she was tackling her brother with a ferocity that made me ache inside.

Ragnar mumbled, "I'm sorry," and Runa started bawling, huge sobs of relief, too far gone for words.

I busied myself trying to rub some feeling back into my legs so that I could escape the elevator without falling flat on my face. Mostly I just got waves of pins and needles for my pathetic efforts.

Next to me, Augustine cleared his throat, and when I looked up, he offered a suited arm.

I grabbed onto it, and crushed back a smile when he stumbled under my sudden weight. Always nice to see an asshole taken off guard.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a guy in scrubs approach with a needle. I tugged at Augustine's arm pointedly. "He doesn't need it. He's fine. I didn't use my power." Or, at least, not enough to need fixing.

Augustine halted the man with a wave, then gave me the side eye from behind his wire specs. "I seem to remember bringing you here to do just that. What was that about never having pulled someone off of a roof before?"

"Well, it's not like I pulled him," I muttered, only aware of how lame that sounded when it hung in the open air. "He came back on his own."

"For you."

"Details," I replied, then remembered I was supposed to be the dignified Head of the noble House Baylor, and shut my mouth again fast.

Augustine led-slash-supported me further away, until we were at an intersection where the bustle of activity would cover anything we said.

"From one Head to another, you should have used your power," he said quietly. "It would have made all of this much neater."

"My power is temporary," I said, "and suicidal tendencies linger. If I had used it, he may well have jumped as soon as I removed it again. If anything, it would've made things much messier." He knew why he had to live now, and that would last much longer than the glow of infatuation.

"I can't decide if you are abominably stupid, or very clever," Augustine mused conversationally. He didn't look away from the throngs of medical personnel. "The state of your security leaves me inclined to the former."

I tilted my head in acknowledgement, even as my cheeks burned. There was no point in denying it.

"Now House Etterson owes you a favor they'll never forget," he continued, "and one ally is better than none. Even if their House consists of two Primes alone."

I nodded and suppressed a yawn. I didn't point out that while they may have the bare minimum number of members in their House to continue qualifying as a House, they were poison specialists, and active ones at that. The number of people who owed Runa their lives started at the hundred plus member guest list from my sister's wedding and only stretched on from there.

There was a good chance they were critically isolated now, and could use all the friends they could get. Especially if the fire that killed the other two wasn't an accident.

"The reprieve granted to your house has just expired," he said under the sound of foot traffic. "People will be coming for you and yours. You're powerful but inexperienced, and because of your sealed records, you are an unknown quantity. Unfortunately, being unknown isn't enough of a deterrent."

"Thank you for the heads up," I said, and smothered another yawn. God, it must be well past 3 A.M. now. I should've been in bed. And I still needed to hitch a ride back somehow. I didn't put it past Augustine to not just leave me here, and I didn't want to impose on the obviously grieving young duo. "Never would have guessed that the ancient and noble houses of Texas tended to be bold about offing the newcomers."

I wasn't an empath, but I could still feel Augustine's tick of annoyance. It wasn't his fault that the fatality rate of new Houses was something I was intimately familiar with.

"Have you put due consideration into the connections you'll forge?" he asked. "Your sister has been very careful to untangle your House from her husband's enemies, but little to none in building your own friendships."

This was not necessarily true, but we were too busy trying to pay the bills to wine and dine properly. All our potential allies remained at a vague 'maybe'. I dropped to massage my calves again; the pins and needles were getting really bad now. "Got suggestions for us?"

"More than that—I have an offer."

There it was.

I glanced up and over my shoulder, hands not quite pausing on my leg; his Greek statue face was as impassive as ever. I probably shouldn't let him know I knew he had made Nevada 'an offer' no less than three times before, and that she had turned him down every time. "Go on."

"I offer a strategic alliance between House Montgomery and House Baylor. Occasionally, cases which are uniquely suited to the talents of your family cross my desk. I'd like you to handle them. In return, I offer generous financial compensation, access to MII's resources within the scope of those particular investigations, and the benefits of an association with my house."

To his credit, it didn't sound overly rehearsed.

I massaged the tendon above my heel, wincing. Why couldn't teenage boys pick nice summer nights to attempt suicide? "Do those benefits include better security?"

"As needed," he said.

On the tail end of Nevada leaving me in charge of House Baylor out of nowhere, I almost wanted to agree out of spite. If she wouldn't help us, why shouldn't we run into the arms of someone who would? And we genuinely, desperately needed security.

But Nevada had had her reasons for repeatedly spitting on the offer, and they weren't all because she was a hopeless daddy's girl who poured her heart and soul into maintaining the agency Dad had left to us.

"We would make nice arm candy for MII, wouldn't we?" I mused. A secret elite taskforce, and we looked good too. With good security. I switched legs and swallowed a pained hiss. My voice came out strained when i said, "How long would this arrangement last?"

"Ten years under these terms. Future iterations will be negotiable."

Yeah, no. No way.

I nodded slowly, and continued working my leg. My whole lower half was a blaze of pain, and my arms weren't much better. It made it hard to think.

Still, I managed.

If Nevada were here, it would be the money that drew her in, and a need for independence that pushed her out. If Mom were here, it would be protection that drew her in, and her own integrity that pushed her out. If Grandmother Tremaine were here, it would be information and influence that drew her in, and obstinate pride that pushed her out.

I agreed with all of them and none of them.

"Then let me make you a counter offer," I said slowly, turning the pros and cons over in my mind. "Keep your dimes. We won't become a subsidiary. We will provide MII with one thousand billable hours of our services—with stipulations—to a maximum of twenty hours every week, free of charge. In exchange, you'll give us three months of your best security, and publicly take me, Head of House Baylor, under your wing as a protegee for one year, affording me social protection and access to your connections through you."

If Augustine had an opinion on it, he was reserving judgement. "And the stipulations?"

I stopped rubbing in order to count off my fingers. "One, if there's a conflict of interest with a preexisting client, the client comes first. This courtesy will likewise be extended to you; we won't be bought. Two, we will not break the law for you. That is final. Three, we will neither aid nor turn a blind eye to hate crimes, harm to children, human trafficking, rape, death of uninvolved civilians, or mass destruction."

My sisters, cousins, and I had spent a while hammering out what, exactly, 'being able to look your reflection in the eye at the end of the day' entailed when we were stuck in the house and bored, and I was very glad we had. We had all agreed that there were always special cases, but those six covered most of them.

Hopefully none of them would hate me too much for this.

Augustine gave me a narrow look.

I smiled innocently. "You did say you would compensate us generously." I knew he had quoted Nevada at something like a hundred thousand per month the first time, and it had only risen from there as she proved herself. "Isn't this a steal?"

"I suppose it is," he allowed. His mouth slanted in something that could be considered a smile, if only by the farsighted. "Your sister was quite concerned with separating your names from ours. You don't share her reasoning?"

I shrugged, tested the stretch of my leg, swallowed a pained whine, and kept rubbing. "She doesn't want us to get swallowed up, but we're never going to get established as a House if we don't make friends."

Some other emotion flickered across his impassive face—entertained? "Am I a friend to you, Ms. Baylor?"

I opened my mouth; 'oh hell no' and 'well, you haven't wanted us dead in a while' ran into each other and went boom. Eventually, I said, "No, but I know you, and if you screw me over, my family knows where you live."

And then I yawned for real. Dammit.

"I see," he said gravely. He pushed away from the wall and offered me a gentlemanly hand. "This seems like a good time to conclude our business. I will think on your offer and call you for the details of the contract should I find it acceptable."

I grabbed his hand, and then clung to it for dear life. The state of my legs was so much worse now that I had woken them up. So, so, so much worse.

Disappointingly, he was expecting it this time, and wound my arms around his left bicep, letting me koala on him for the short walk to the Ettersons.

"Let me give you a small piece of advice, prospective mentor to prospective protegee," Augustine breathed to me as we walked. His breath was surprisingly warm and human over my ear; somehow, I had expected him to breathe like an air conditioner. "Do not become involved in the Etterson case. I know exactly what you're up against. It is no place for a young House. Sometimes when you search the night, you'll find monsters in the dark. You are not ready."

I felt myself smile wryly even through the pain. "Message received."

He knew we were all bleeding hearts; that 'warning' was as good as thumping a stuffed file and a quote on my office desk.

Runa stood by Ragnar, the boy pale and exhausted but alive as he slumped on the sterile white bench, the young woman hovering with ghosts in her eyes.

She saw me and broke into a mask of gratitude and relief so intense it looked like it hurt. She lunged for me, barely giving me the time to let go of Augustine before she swept me into a bone-crushing hug.

"Thank you," she croaked into my hair, clutching me tight enough to make both of our skeletons creak. "Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you..."

I held her close and stroked her hair. It was a knotted wreck. I wondered if she had a hairbrush wherever she was staying, or if personal hygiene had fallen to the wayside in the wake of her tragedy. "I'm just glad you're both okay."

She clung to me with trembling ferocity.

"Where are you staying?" I asked her softly. "I heard your home had been burned, but not much more... Home? Friends? Hotel?"

A twitch ran through her, like I had struck a raw nerve, and she jerkily shook her head. "Hotel."

I squeezed her gently. "That's no place to try to find your bearings from." Pulling free, I grabbed her shoulders, gave her a little shake, and caught her hopeless gray eyes. "Come on. We've got a guest bedroom and hot chocolate. It's good hot chocolate, I promise."

Her face crumpled; I drew her into a much gentler hug as she broke down sobbing.

"Shh, shh, shh... It'll be okay, I promise... Shh..."

Augustine looked at me over her head, flatly unamused. I rolled my eyes—like this wasn't exactly what he had wanted us to do anyway—and rubbed my cheek on the top of Runa's head.

"C'mon... Let's sit down."

Once we were sitting on the bench with Ragnar, Runa's face still in my shoulder and the boy looking at me like he hadn't decided if I was friend or foe, I pulled out my phone to text Leon, careful to keep the screen tilted away from the two Ettersons.

How're we feeling about two grieving unstable poison mages?

depends on the poison mage

Ettersons. They need a place to stay. I offered.

dear god... you make her head for one week........ shes gone MAD WITH POWER........

Mad with the power of squaring away life debts, yeah. You gonna get fam up to receive us or not?

Leon sent me a picture of a good-natured white man with a scruffy beard pointing a finger and saying, 'You got me there!', and then yeah i gotchu, and then need 2nd drvr?

"Did you drive here?" I asked Runa quietly. When she nodded, I rubbed her upper arm and typed, Yeah. Get Bern.

on it and then, after about twenty seconds, he added, eta is 15 mins

I let out a long, slow breath, locked my phone, and leaned into Runa, grateful for lots of things, but above all, grateful for the slight abatement of the pain in my legs.

#catalina baylor #hidden legacy #ilona andrews #sapphire blaze #catalina's trilogy #my fic #hallie's hidden legacy tag #cuprous chloride

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