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beckettj · 1 month

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The Heart of a Villan - Chapter 5/5

Chapter 5 - Keeper

Summary: Three-thousand miles from home, Henry drags Emma into a land she never imagined venturing to; the realm of English football. She holds no interest in the sport but when she’s approached by Villa Captain Killian Jones, she determines that there could be something in the sport for her after all.

Words: 6181

Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four

Read on AO3

Killian sees his chance and seizes it, bursting into a sprint and Robin – ever on his wavelength – spots his run, lifting the ball over the defence. Killian watches the ball’s flight closely as he runs; gets the ball under his control and he’s through on goal – he fancies his chances against the Arsenal keeper.

He lifts his foot, preparing to make contact.

Darkness.

A serene peacefulness overcomes him; a light dream-like sensation as if he’s floating in the clouds. He hovers in tranquil limbo until it’s ripped from him, just as quickly as it had arrived.

He’s flat on his back; the ground beneath him hard and cold, his head slightly more cushioned by something soft beneath it. It’s not grass. He’s not on the pitch any longer, but he should be. He was about to be one-on-one with the keeper, a goal all but certain. How had that been robbed from him? He wants to open his eyes, to figure out where the hell he is, but his eyelids are heavy, and he’s too tired to fight them. His whole body feels weighed down and his heart races, feeling trapped, longing for a hint of that brief serenity to return.

Faint, muffled voices swirl around him, too many at once; lacking clarity and jumbling together. It’s like having five different radio stations blaring different songs at the same time, chucking two more with static interference into the mix for good measure, and then plunging them all underwater. If his arms didn’t feel so heavy, he’d have his hands over his ears, blocking it all out. It’s as if the water level decreases slowly over time, voices becoming sharper, words becoming intelligible.

“I came in and he’d bloody lost it! He were rambling about victory and prices, I could barely make sense of any of it. The man was slurring like he’d just necked ten pints. Then he dropped like a sack of spuds!”

“Is he going to be okay?”

“Is he breathing?”

“What’s actually happened to him?”

“Was it a cardiac arrest?”

“Alright, alright, guys,” Robin’s calming voice is a comforting sound amongst the tense, panicked ones. “Let’s all back up, give him and the doctor some space.”

Doctor?

What the bloody hell was going on?

His eyes fly open, taking in the sight of his encircling teammates – many of whom are shirtless – being ushered back by Robin. They all shuffle backwards, their stares fixed anxiously on him; over twenty sets of eyes bore into him and whilst he’s used to being watched intently on a football pitch, it’s ominous now – whilst lying on the floor, disorientated, mind racing to catch up – to find himself the centre of attention.

He starts to sit up but a hand is placed on his chest, slowing him down.

“Careful, Killian,” Whale’s words draw Killian’s attention to the doctor knelt beside him. “It’s nice to have you back with us but let’s take things slow and steady, okay?”

Killian nods slowly in response. Whale orders the pile of shirts they’d been using to prop his head up to be moved – explaining the shirtless teammates – and enlists Robin’s help in guiding him back into a sitting position against the nearby wall. Killian’s zoned out through most of it, trying to put pieces together. His mind’s foggy, slowing down his thoughts and he eventually realises that he’s back in the changing rooms. He doesn’t remember returning to them. He doesn’t remember leaving the pitch.

He was about to score a goal.

“What… what happened?” Killian questions, looking to Robin, then to Whale in search of anyone who was willing to help jog his memory.

“You collapsed, mate,” Robin tells him simply.

Killian stares at him, his mouth dropping open, and asks, “On the pitch?”

Shit. The game was being broadcast on Sky. His parents were watching. His brother and sister too. He can only imagine their panic. Someone needs to let them know he’s okay. Is he okay? He feels okay, his energy’s high, he could easily go play a full ninety minutes, but he had collapsed.

“No, you were already in here,” Robin answers.

“No…” Killian says slowly, shaking his head. “No. I was on the pitch. There was a goal scoring opportunity. You… you played me in.”

A frown flickers over Robin’s brow and he glances to his left, looking to Whale.

“That’s the last thing you remember?” Whale checks.

“Aye,” Killian confirms because it is but there’s a lack of confidence in his answer and his eyes shift from Whale to Robin as they share a concerned look. “That’s… that’s not good, is it?”

“It’s certainly not fantastic but it does point towards an explanation,” Whale attempts to maintain a positive spin. “Tell me, Killian, have you suffered any head trauma?”

Killian shrugs, “You remember more of the game than I do. Did I have a disagreement with the post? Take a high boot to the head? Clash heads with another player going up for a header?”

“Not during the game. But I was talking about prior to the game,” Whale clarifies. “Do you recall suffering any head trauma before the game?”

“Nothing,” Killian shakes his head then hesitates, “Well… except I did bash my head against the bedside table, but that was first thing this morning and it didn’t bleed or anything.”

Killian gestures towards his right temple and Whale gently runs his hands over the area, the pressure eliciting a shooting pain which causes Killian to wince as he grits his teeth.

“Didn’t bleed externally, that doesn’t mean there isn’t internal bleeding,” Whale corrects him. “We’ll get you to the ambulance, get some tests run at the hospital.”

Internal bleeding. Hospital. Tests. Killian does not like the sound of either of those. He’s known too many players over the years get wheeled off to the hospital with talks of tests only to be forced into early retirement by the findings.

He’s not ready to retire.

“Is that really necessary?” he asks, hoping to dissuade the doctor. “I feel fine.”

“And you felt fine earlier too,” Whale points out, making a good argument. “There’s always a cause for collapse, Killian – reasons with simple solutions like being too hot, standing up too fast, not drinking enough, but it can also be a sign of something bigger at play and with the history of a recent head injury and memory disruption, you need to get checked out.”

“But-”

“Doctor’s orders,” Whale insists. “I can’t clear you as fit to play until I get those test results.”

He’s left with no choice. He has to be able to play.

Beep.

The incessant, irritating high-pitched noise of the infernal vitals monitoring machine is doing his bloody head in. It’s a constant reminder of how quickly his life has fallen apart around him and all he can do is sit in the bed, stare fixed on the door and will for it to open; for a doctor to return with his test results and magically wave all worries about never playing again away.

Is he kidding himself? He reckons he has more chance of a fairy godmother coming through that door than positive test results.

He considers the way Adam Gold was forced into an early retirement by his leg injury and how he’s still made a career for himself in the professional game. He doesn’t know if he has the great tactical skills to be as successful in such a career move, and he certainly doesn’t think he can stand to stand on the sidelines, watching others do the thing he loves; the thing he can no longer do. He’s seen the longing look in Gold’s eyes during training sessions, the urge to get the ball at his feet and demonstrate what he’s trying to drill into them or simply ping a ball into the upper corner of the goal, just for old time’s sake.

Killian knows it would drive him crazy. The pitch is where he belongs; it’s like a second home. When the ball is at his feet and he’s sprinting, a light breeze blowing in his face, everything feels right. Any worries and stresses melt away; all that matters is giving his all for the badge on the shirt.

He longs for that calming sensation. If he were on the pitch, the anxiety of test results would dissipate. Instead, he stuck in a hospital, a growing sense of dread nestled in the pit of his stomach. He needs a distraction.

“Did we win?” he asks.

“Huh?” Liam responds.

“With collapsing, being brought in and the tests, and Elsa using staff privileges to get you in outside of visiting hours, I never even thought to ask; did Villa win today?”

“Villa didn’t play today.”

Killian glances at the clock, it’s gone noon. He blinks in surprise. It’s a new day. The two days have blended into one continuous nightmare. He wishes it were so simple as waking up to discover the whole thing to be a dream.

“You know what I mean,” Killian sighs at his brother’s pedantic words. “Did Villa win yesterday?”

“Two three, final score,” Liam finally tells him. “Your team pegged it back from two nil down.”

“Wait, two nil down?” Killian repeats. “But I was through on goal at nil nil, I remember that much.”

“Aye, until your poor touch took you to the corner flag,” Liam fills him in. “Trust me, you don’t want to look back on your forty-five mins.”

“That bad?” Killian grimaces.

Liam responds with a short nod, “Doctor Whale was kicking himself when he called me to break the news, he said he should have seen the warning signs.”

Killian groans, throwing his head back against the pillows and rubbing his tired eyes. He hasn’t slept, not for lack of trying. Every time he closes his eyes, he’s haunted by visions of the team playing in Europe whilst he’s stuck on the outside of the stadium, desperately trying to find a way in to no avail, relishing in gaining tiny glimpses of the action through thin slits in the stadium walls only for such holes to be promptly sealed up and he’s left standing outside, alone.

“Are you going to eat that?” Liam questions, pointing to the plate of bacon, sausages, eggs and beans lying untouched on the table over the foot of the bed.

Killian shakes his head and mumbles, “Not hungry.”

Liam rolls his eyes, “Stop worrying.”

“I’m not worrying,” Killian insists.

“The not eating, not sleeping, shaking leg, finger drumming and constant staring at the door would suggest otherwise,” Liam knowingly returns.

“I just want the bloody results already,” Killian admits.

“Not eating isn’t going to make the results come any sooner,” Liam points out.

“Will you stop bloody nagging me? I’m not a kid. I’ll eat when I want to eat,” Killian snaps at him. “And right now, I don’t want to eat. I want to know… if I’ll still be leading the lads out on the charge for Champions League football or is that it? My playing career done. Then what am I? Without football?”

“Let’s not fall into an existential crisis before we even have the results, Killian,” Liam advises. “There’s every chance it’s just a concussion and then FA protocols rules you out of the England camp and the two international friendlies during international break. Then you’re back to full fitness in time for the next Villa match, back leading the charge for Champions League football and all this will be a distant memory.”

“That’s the best-case scenario,” Killian reminds him. “There’s been talk about bleeds on the brain and they ran echocardiograms. That’s looking at heart conditions, Liam, how many players have we known over the years get forced to retire early due to a heart condition?”

“And if anything comes back from those tests, we can devise an approach from there,” Liam remains calm. “But nothing you do right now – including worrying – is going to change the outcome of the tests. So just stay calm and we’ll proceed as necessary as soon as we have all the information.”

“At this rate, the waiting around is gonna bloody kill me,” Killian grumbles.

The door to his hospital room opens and a doctor steps through, slowly and carefully pressing the door to. Killian heart drops and he instantly takes back everything he’d said. He wants to keep on waiting. He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t know how he’s going to react to the coming news, to the confirmation that his playing days are over. He’s taken it all for granted, didn’t realise what he had until it was ripped from him.

“Mr Jones, I come baring great news,” the doctor smiles at him. “All your test results have come back clear.”

Killian stares at him, not daring to believe he had heard him right. Or perhaps he has relented to sleep, slipping into a dream of a happy ending.

“Killian,” Liam prompts, poking him gently in the arm. “Did you get that?”

“I…” Killian struggles to put together words; he’d been so sure, talked himself into expecting the conversation to begin a different way. “What?”

“The tests have come back clear,” the doctor repeats for him. “At this point we can safely put the collapse and loss of time down to concussion.”

The weight of the world lifts off Killian’s shoulders at that news and he lets out a laugh of relief, hastily wiping away a tear which escapes his eye.

“I’m happy to discharge you so long as you have someone monitoring you for the next forty-eight hours,” the doctor continues.

“I’ll stick to his side like glue,” Liam willingly volunteers.

“Any changes in behaviour, any sudden headaches, or anything that doesn’t feel right, you come straight back,” the doctor states warningly. “In the meantime, stay hydrated, no alcohol, try to reduce your screen time, and avoid any rigorous activities. Sound good?”

“Perfect,” Killian nods along.

He’s willing to agree with anything if it means getting back on that pitch within two weeks.

The doctor leaves to get the discharge paperwork sorted and Liam jumps on the phone to their parents to fill them in on the latest update. Killian is eager to start collecting the few things he had dotted around the room, a huge smile plastered on his face; his push for Champions League qualification remains alive.

That’s my ultimate goal, right there.

The very words he had spoken to Emma just five days ago echoes in his head. The ultimate goal; the ultimate treasure; there’s a burning desire to land his hands on that trophy. If not the trophy, he at least needs to help get Villa back to competing in the top level of European football, not only for his career but to give back to his parents, for everything they had done for him and Liam. Some parents make sacrifices for their children, he knows that; he’s learned it, he’s seen it, but it doesn’t stop him from desperately wanting to do something big for them in return.

His mind wanders from his own parents to Emma, to the sacrifices she has made as a parent to Henry; the way she had given up two days of her vacation to Aston Villa and a sport she held no interest in, all for the glee that it brought to her son. If it weren’t for parental sacrifices, he would never have made it in professional football, she would never have been at Villa Park for the Manchester United game, and they would never have met.

He would never have known what he was missing out on.

“Emma,” he says suddenly. “Did anyone tell Emma? We… we had plans.”

His outburst cuts Liam off mid-sentence in his phone conversation and he raises an eyebrow as he turns to Killian, “Who’s Emma?”

That’s as good as a no. Shit. He has visions of her standing around, waiting for him after the game, just like they’d planned, patient at first but growing more and more irritated as the time ticked by until eventually assuming that he’d ghosted her, calling him all the names under the sun including egotistical jock as she heads back to her hotel with her family.

He’s opened up to her, let her in, agreed to try and make things work despite the difficulties they face, it’s all happened so fast, all within a week, and he’s not prepared to let it all slip away from him because of a concussion.

He tries to check his pockets for his phone only to realise that he’s still in his football strip – no pockets.

“My phone. Where is it?” he demands.

He doesn’t know her number for who learns people’s numbers anymore? Certainly not him. Not when he can store numbers in a device he always carries with him, except for when he’s on the pitch, when he keeps it in his locker. He has a terrible feeling it’s still in that locker.

“The doc said reduce your screen time,” Liam reminds him.

“Liam. Phone. Where is it?” Killian growls impatiently.

He doesn’t give a damn what the doctor had said, not when it came to Emma.

“Relax, it’s here,” Liam tells him, picking the small but powerful device up from the table at the end of the bed. “You were holding it when you collapsed.”

Liam holds out the phone and Killian grabs it immediately.

“Whoever this Emma is, she must be important,” Liam comments.

He’s fishing for information but Killian doesn’t have time to give it to him, too focused on Emma, too busy hoping that it hasn’t all gone to hell and, if it has, that she’ll be willing to hear him out.

He turns the phone screen on, expecting to find messages or missed calls from her. There are no such notifications. It’s puzzling; he thought she would have tried to get a hold of him. He wonders whether his phone is playing up, not displaying notifications, and so he clicks on his messages and pulls up the ones between him and Emma.

He very nearly drops his phone. His eyes go wide when he reads the latest message in their chain, a message he has no memory of typing, let alone sending.

sorry love cab’t risk distractions oflong distants with europe victoru so close thanbks for the goof night zzz

Killian gapes at the message as he rereads it twice, three times, four times over. Concussions are no play thing; only a man with all the sense knocked out of his head would give up on a woman like Emma Nolan in such a fashion. Whatever he was thinking when sending that message, he most definitely wasn’t thinking straight.

He has to move fast. Emma’s flight to Boston leaves at four in the afternoon. She may already be at the airport as he sits there, staring in disbelief at the message, as if it’s a trick of the light.

“Liam. I’ve made a huge mistake. I need to get to the airport.”

She was on vacation; a one-time thing, that was the agreement she and Killian had made outside of Villa Park. They had both gotten a little bit caught up in each other, but it was an agreement they had ultimately stuck to.

Yet it hurts.

Henry has kept his Aston Villa soccer shirt on for the journey home, parading proudly around the airport with his head held high after the amazing comeback of the previous day and, as she follows him around, Killian’s name stands out against the shirt, teasing her, a constant reminder of what has been lost. She wants to forget all about him; she doesn’t want to hear his name again, and she certainly doesn’t want to hear about him winning that damned trophy should he manage to get his hands on it, but she will. Henry’s unaware of the full extent of what went down and he’s never going to stop talking about his favourite team and favourite player. Every accomplishment Killian Jones goes on to have, there’s no doubt she’ll hear about it. She’s cursed to forever be reminded of him, of their one-time thing, and what may have been.

They reach their gate and find four seats in the waiting area, positioned facing the large windows which overlook the vast airfield, putting them in a prime position to watch the departing planes. Henry gets his camera out, busying himself with capturing photos of planes taking off, disappearing into the low clouds. She can’t wait to get onto one such plane herself, eager to leave the country and its stupid national sport behind her. She sighs; less than twelve hours ago she was dreading the thought of leaving, wishing for more time, now their departure time couldn’t come fast enough. She wants her home and her own bed – her cold and lonely bed, seemingly forever destined to remain that way.

Mary Margaret squeezes her hand, “How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine,” Emma insists.

“You forget how well I know you, Emma. When you say you’re fine, you’re usually not,” Mary Margaret doesn’t buy a word of it and gently prompts, “I know you like to be tough but feelings can’t be helped and it’s no good bottling them up, they’ll only explode. Better here than on an eight hour flight. Talk to me.”

Emma glances around, the seats behind them are empty and Henry’s busy showing off the picture he’s taken to David. With confirmation that her mom’s the only one paying attention, she feels able to open up a little.

“You and Dad are the only people in my life who haven’t straight-up left me,” Emma says. “People leave me, that’s just how it works. Any time I find a guy, any time I dare to believe there’s a chance there, they just leave, it’s like I’m cursed to be alone forever.”

“You’re not cursed, Emma, and you can’t give up hope,” Mary Margaret urges optimism. “I once thought like you did, until I met your dad.”

“Except you met him when you were eighteen,” Emma argues. “I’m almost thirty!”

“Life’s unpredictable,” Mary Margaret returns. “Who knows who’s moved into Storybrooke in the two weeks we’ve been gone? That house next to yours might have finally sold. Your dream guy could be waiting for you back home. Or, your dream guy could even be the guy seated next to you on the plane. You’ll find someone, Emma.”

“Just maybe not a sportsman, next time?” David suggests, jumping into the conversation with his eager contribution.

“David!” Mary Margaret chastises.

“I’m just saying,” he shrugs innocently. “They’ve not exactly left a good track record for themselves, have they?”

“Third time could be the charm,” Mary Margaret sticks up for them and pointedly adds, “Like with us, finding Emma. They say three’s the magic number.”

Emma will never truly be able to understand Mary Margaret’s ability to see good and hope in almost everything. Whilst she appreciates the effort, she agrees with David. After Neal, and now Killian, she’s ready to swear off sportsmen for life. She should have listened to her gut the first time Killian had left her hanging; all sportsmen are egotistical jocks. She’s learned her lesson; they can camouflage, they can draw her in, but the façade always cracks and, when push comes to shove, their career gets prioritised over their romantic endeavours.

“Emma! Emma Nolan! Emma!”

Emma freezes as her name is yelled from across the airport. It’s an unmistakable voice, one which possess the talent of speaking her name like she’s the most important person in the world, the husky tones once had her hooked to his every word, now it just fuels the fury coursing through her veins. Killian Jones can fuck off; he’s made his priorities abundantly clear and yet he’s running across an airport, screaming her name like a scene straight out of a rom-com movie.

He skids to a stop in front of her and she raises an eyebrow at his appearance. He’s always looked so well put together, even when sweating after ninety-minutes of a high-tempo game, he retained that well-groomed image, like he’d just stepped off the printed page of the programme she’d first seen him on. The man before her looks nothing like the man she’d first laid eyes on. His hair is dishevelled and, where it’s usually meticulously styled, it has been allowed to drop onto his forehead, there are dark bags developing under his eyes, and he remains in the same soccer strip he’d worn yesterday, the green grass stains up his white shorts from his multiple trips a dead giveaway. He's breathless, panting heavily, as if he’d been running for his life, and she’d never seen him look so worn out before.

“Emma, listen-”

David’s fist connects with his jaw.

“David!” Mary Margaret gasps.

A satisfied smirk flashes across the older man’s face as Killian’s hand flies up to nurse his jaw.

Killian puts his free hand up in a sign of surrender, “Okay, I deserve that but-”

They say not to hit a man when he’s down but Emma’s own fury – at a trophy being worth more than her, at him lacking the balls to tell her face-to-face, at him giving her hope only to tear it away so carelessly – bubbles over and her own punch lands squarely on his jaw.

Henry jumps up from his seat, eyes lighting up like it’s some kind of game and proclaims, “I want a go!”

“Violence is never the answer, Henry,” Mary Margaret tells him, coaxing the boy back to his seat.

Clearly, Emma takes after her father where her temperament is involved.

“Like I said, deserved, not disputing that whatsoever, but,” Killian says as he winces, rubbing his jaw, “I don’t think medical professionals would be too endorsing of punching a guy with a concussion.”

“What?”

He fills her in on collapsing, undergoing multiple scans in the hospital, and the lack of memory but maintains, “It’s no excuse. I may be missing time but I still remain responsible for my actions during that time, and it appears I sent you a text.”

“You did,” Emma confirms.

She thinks of the uncharacteristic spelling errors in the message, wonders whether she should have sensed something was off, whether there was anything she could have done had she realised.

“Emma, the Champions League trophy is career defining, I used to dream of lifting it but never did I expect to get this close to getting my hands on that elusive award,” he tells her.

“You’ve been over this in text,” Emma responds bluntly. “If you wanted to do it the right way, face-to-face, you should have done it that way the first time. I don’t want to listen to it again.”

“Emma, I had a whole speech planned, it was bloody good… I think… but I’ll cut to the chase; only a man who isn’t thinking straight would ever send that text to you. I meant what I said yesterday morning. I want to make this work.”

“And I wanted to make this work,” Emma reminds him. “I really did. But, Killian, that text…”

“I have no clue what drove me to send that text. I can’t even remember doing it.”

“But you did. Something compelled you to send that message. Probably because that is where your priorities lie.”

“Emma-”

“And I get it. Killian, you’ve known me a week. Football is your life. I don’t expect to come above that so soon but I can’t allow myself to be branded a distraction and when I look at you now, all I can think about is the way you so easily tossed me aside. I won’t leave myself vulnerable to abandonment. I can’t.”

“I know, love. I realise I’ve destroyed any trust you may once have held in me, Emma, but I am willing fight to regain every last bit of it and more. If I lose you today and go on to win that trophy next season, all it will be is a reminder of what I lost in order to win it and I don’t think it – I don’t think you are a sacrifice worth making. It’s early days, there’s still so much to learn about each other, but I already know that winning your heart would be the greatest result of my life. But, ultimately, it’s up to you, Emma… is the match over when it’s barely begun?”

“Or is there a chance for a comeback?” Henry jumps in, taking the metaphor and running with it.

Who needs a wingman when you have a wingboy? Killian’s eyebrow raises slightly in surprise and if it wasn’t for the gravity of the situation, Emma is convinced he would have high-fived her son. Instead, his deep, ocean-blue, captivating stare is fixed on her, barely daring to blink, as he awaits her answer.

Emma glances in Henry’s direction to find him nodding encouragingly, entirely enthralled by Killian’s words; what need does Killian have for Robin, the king of assists, when he has her son? It’s comforting to know that Henry’s on board – that’s one potential difficulty ruled out – but she already knew it was the least of their problems. She’d been all but ready to swear off sportsmen but Killian had a way of drawing her in, capturing her with his accented words. She thinks of their time spent on the London Eye, a fine evening with charming company, flavoursome food, and captivating conversation, tied up in a perfect bow with the night’s end. It was the perfect day, a taste of potential greatness to come, only to be tainted by the damning words in that text.

A fierce debate rages in her head, her heart willing her to give him a shot, her brain fighting for rationality, urging caution. Third time’s the charm, Mary Margaret had said, could she risk moving forward with him, only to be forsaken for the third time?

She’s thinks to the future, to the possibility of him achieving his dream, winning the Champions League. She thinks of hearing the news from Henry, memories flooding back with a deep regret for not giving them a chance. She imagines watching the final, urging him on, her heart soaring every time his team went forward with a chance, her heart dropping every time they were put on the back foot and forced to defend until the final whistle goes, marking them victorious. She envisions watching him lift the trophy, celebrating with his teammates before finding her afterwards, marking the triumphant occasion in their own way.

“There’s always a chance of a comeback,” Emma says. “The players just need to show that they want it.”

She doesn’t just want to hear about it. She wants it. She wants to see him fulfill his goals, to support him on his journey but, ultimately, she wants him.

She has him, right in front of her, his eyes narrowed and his head tilted slightly, her statement vague and subtle, and he doesn’t dare to get his hopes up by reading into it.

The referee’s called time on subtlety.

She throws herself at him, lips crashing against his and it may have only been less than two days since they last met but it feels like a lifetime. She clashes against his teeth in her eagerness to get reacquainted. They break briefly, to exchange a brief, shared chuckle. It’s not initially perfect, but it doesn’t have to be, for their burning desire for one another fuels a perseverance to go again, smothering any distance between them, and they get it right the second time. She’s not yet departed London, she’s over three-thousand miles from Storybrooke, but she feels at home in his arms and whilst her head is still screaming at her that she’s making a mistake, it just feels right.

“My mom’s kissing Killian Jones!” Henry gasps and then the realisation seems to kick in for the more typical reaction follows, “Ewww!”

Emma and Killian share a laugh as they separate and Emma wraps her arms around his neck.

“What are you doing here?” Emma asks.

“Chasing after you, love,” Killian replies smoothly.

“I know that. I mean how’d you get through security?” Emma questions, her mind envisioning a remake of Thomas Brodie-Sangster’s airport run in Love Actually, with a fully grown Killian Jones taking his space and most likely putting the airport on red alert.

“How else, Emma? I bought a ticket,” Killian says as he brandishes said ticket from his pocket.

Her vision of Killian leaping over an unsuspecting airport security officer gets shattered.

“I’m coming to Boston,” he announces, a big grin on his face as he waves the ticket.

“How?” Emma gapes at him, confused. “You have training, and matches.”

“FA’s concussion protocols,” he answers with a wry smile. “No training of any kind for a week. No playing in matches for twelve days.”

She looks at him suspiciously, “Is it safe to fly with a concussion?”

“No one’s entirely sure,” he admits. “I tried googling it and the experts say they don’t have enough evidence. I imagine it’s a matter of ethics, finding willing concussed participants for a research study. For you, Emma, I’m a willing guinea pig.”

She’s gone from being desperate to leave him far behind to soaking up every last second with him and wishing for time to slow down. As tempting as it is to go along with his crazy plan in exchange for a week with him in America, she’s not convinced.

“No way,” she speaks adamantly, pushing him back lightly and pointing a warning finger towards him, like she’s going to tackle him to the ground should he make a move towards the boarding gate when it opens. “As much as I look forward to welcoming you to Storybrooke, you are not taking that risk. The concussion is clearly still having an effect for you to be thinking so recklessly!”

“Buying a plane ticket was my only way of getting to you. I’m through security, Emma, I can’t just go strolling back through! How suspicious will that look?” Killian argues. “Besides, this is our only chance to spend some time together before the end of the season.”

Emma starts working on ways to get him out of the airport without setting the place on red alert because there’s no chance she’s letting him board that plane, as she asks, “When’s the end of the season?”

“The final game is on the nineteenth of May,” he tells her.

Two months and two days. It wasn’t ideal but it was certainly manageable.

“Then, further concussions withstanding, I shall see you in Storybrooke on May twentieth, Captain Jones,” Emma orders.

“If you insist, love,” Killian concedes with a short nod. “In the meantime, we can resign ourselves to screen dates and…” his eyes hover on Henry, “one-on-one activities.”

David looks like he’s ready to punch him, again, concussion be damned.

Emma grabs Killian by the arm, leading him a safe distance from her father who maintains a watchful gaze, even once out of earshot. She marches him up to flight check-in desk where the two airport staff members are preparing to commence boarding. She fills them in on his recent concussion, questions their airline’s policy on the matter and points out that he looks in no fit state to fly, his dishevelled look after a night in hospital playing in her favour. He gets offered a refund and one of the workers radios for a member of security to help guide him back out of the airport without raising any alarms.

Content, Emma pulls him away from the desk for one last moment until they’re forced to part ways for two months.

“You know, your dad was right,” she tells him.

“How do you mean?”

“‘You don’t choose Aston Villa, Aston Villa chooses you’,” she repeats the words he had once shared with her. “I think it’s safe to say my heart is now claret and blue. I’ll be watching every game.”

“Every game?”

“Every game,” she promises.

“You do realise we sometimes have early twelve-thirty kick-offs which, with time zones, will be a seven-thirty viewing for you?” he points out.

“I’ll be watching,” she maintains. “And who knows? Maybe I’ll have converted the whole town into villans by the time you get to us.”

“A lovely sentiment but I don’t need a whole town of villans,” Killian tells her as he wraps an arm round her. “You – and Henry – are all I need.”

Emma’s gaze hovers on a nearing security officer, come much too soon, and she wants to yell at him to do two laps of the airport before returning. Killian pulls her in for a tight embrace, seemingly also noting their time is numbered.

“I’ll see you in two months,” he murmurs in her ear. “There’s not a day that will go that I won’t think of you.”

“I know.”

Tags: @teamhook@laianely@booksteaandtoomuchtv@exhaustedpirate@anmylica@hollyethecurious@kmomof4@winterbaby89@undercaffinatednightmare@resident-of-storybrooke@tiganasummertree@stahlop@lfh1226-linda@darkshadow7@fleurdepetite@captainswan-kellie@motherkatereloyshipper@soniccat@jrob64@whimsicallyenchantedrose@jonesfandomfanatic@myfearless-love

#cs ff #captain swan #the heart of a villan

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bonktime · 3 years

Text

Take a Breath

Ezra (Prospect) x AFAB!reader Oneshot (no use of y/n)

Masterlist

Rated: Explicit

Summary: Your ship has crashed on a planet with low oxygen. With no other options you begin a tenuous partnership with a strange prospector in need of your help fixing his pod. He’s charming but dangerous and if he finds out the whole truth about you, you’ll probably end up dead. With trouble closing in from all sides, you navigate this new connection and hope you both survive in one piece.

Warnings: Swearing, descriptions of violence, blood and death, mentions of religion, sexual harassment (just a couple comments), me having no clue what asphyxiating is actually like, Two has a clear helmet for plot reasons, smut: unprotected PinV sex (there’s no STDs in space), cunnilingus, dom/sub elements, rough sex, size kink, choking (just a little), spitting, praise kink (this one surprised me), biting, a little dirty talk (it is Ezra) - let me know if I’ve missed anything!

Note: I was totally inspired to create this by @jura-moon ‘s fic Nostromo which lives in my head and without it, this never would have been written. I have used some of her story beats and ideas so absolute credit goes to her for that. This is sort of a fanfic of Nostromo in many ways 💘 I’d also like to throw thanks at @absurdthirst who reawakened my love of fics, @slater-baby who awoke something in me specifically, and especially to @danniburgh who not only deals with my damn near weekly requests for softness but who also got me to stop editing at 1am whilst drinking tequila. She did us all a favour, let’s be honest.

I hope everyone enjoys this behemoth. Don’t forget to reblog!

Wordcount: 22k

~~~~~~~~

It's not the worst planet to crash on.

The thought is so ridiculous you'd laugh if it wasn't for the blaring alarms and the screaming. Instead, you wrestle into the pilot’s seat and strap in. With the engine dead you'll have to manually time releasing the parachute. It's completely insane. Too early and the parachute burns, you crash into the ground and die. Too late and the parachute doesn't catch you, you crash into the ground and die. Provided you do survive you've at least got your suit on, oxygen tank attached, you'll be able to breath. The planet's oxygen is too low to survive for longer than two hours alone but it'll aid the tank and give you two days, three if you're careful, to get more. At least it isn't poisonous.

Thoughts all over the place you wonder where the other ship will fall. Hopefully close enough you can still make use of it. Hopefully they've got a good pilot.

You've been lucky this far, now all you can do is hope your luck holds. You break atmosphere flames blurring the view of the planet and then it's rushing to meet you. You start counting, watching it come closer, closer. You see the other ship careen away from you.

“Fuck!” Someone behind you shouts “Pull the damn lever are you trying to kill us all?!”

You ignore them, don't lose count. Ok

Three… two… one…

You close your eyes and pull.

You don't open your eyes.

No. For the first time in years. You pray.

⧫⧫⧫

Pain is the first thing you register, across your chest aches like, well, like you've just crashed a ship. The next is the smell, smoke, that can't be good, it's not entirely unpleasant though. Then the noise, someone's shouting in your ear telling you to get up, to move, they swear and leave you dangling upside down, still strapped into the pilots’ seat. Oh, that's why your chest hurts, ok, you think to yourself, you’re alive. You need to move. You need to open your eyes.

You do.

Lights are flashing, disorientating you more than your current position, blood rushing to your head. You reach up and press the release on the seat belt and drop to the floor, or maybe the ceiling, head first. Didn't think that one through you chastise yourself. The engine is on fire, filling the hull with smoke but your legs are numb so, seizing your pack where it’s fallen beside you, you crawl to the light you think is the door and to your relief, flop outside.

No one notices you. They're all looking away, throwers out and pointed into the dead trees you sit back against the ship still reeling from the crash, too slow to realise how absolutely fucked you are. They come out the trees fast, even with spears and blades, you watch as the crew falls one by one. You can't process what you're seeing, frozen in place. Blood splatters, coming down like rain around you. Too late your body reacts and you stumble to your feet and run.

You get out of sight and then you stop, panting. Every breath aches your chest.

Something's wrong. Something you're not seeing. Right before your eyes. What is it?!

It hits you, slowly like a wave, realisation and then panic. You reach up slowly and touch your head. Gloves come away wet and dark with your blood.

Your helmet is shattered.

You aren't sure if you're crying or blood is dripping into your eyes. You suspect the blood. Feeling numb you keep moving, one foot in front of the other vaguely glancing down at the dial on your arm. After the running you'll be unconscious in at best an hour and a half, dead a little after that.

The petrified forest seems to close in around you. It’s a stillness like you’ve never experienced. Trees tower above you, skeletal branches reaching up like fingers. The limbs cast dark shadows in the bright sun, crossing over the dry brush underfoot, hiding foot falls and branches to trip on.

You walk on.

⧫⧫⧫

15 minutes left.

You decide to find a place to sit, ideally somewhere with a view but you can't me picky. A fallen tree does the job and you pull off the remainder of your helmet. Trying not to think about your imminent demise you look up. The suns are low, three of them. It twinges in your chest that you'll never go home, never see that sky again. Left to rot alone, no one who knows your traditions to perform your rites. Not that you deserve them. If you're going to put the ring back on, now would be the time. Make penance, but you don't think you can. Perhaps the hundred years wait is what you deserve.

7 minutes left.

There's someone approaching. Silhouetted against the scorching red sky, the heat rising from the ground distorting them, making you wonder if you’re hallucinating. The only clue they’re real is the crunch of the ground beneath their feet, but even that seems to echo around you.

Hope is the thing with feathers and it just flaps a wing wearily in your chest. And then stutters. The sun glints off their pistol, a beautiful sparkle that dims your hope. You do what you're good at, grab your own and shoot first. His gun flies from his hand and you smile, at least your aim is true. It falls off your face as quickly as it appears though as you feel a barrel press into your skull.

Clever buggers divided and conquered.

You drop your thrower but whoever it is doesn't lower theirs. “A little creature all alone,” a low voice drawls, “No helmet? No breath? What will we do with you?”

Staring straight at the man in front as he picks up your pistol and glares at you, you respond. “If we are going to chat, can we do it wherever your pod is? I have quite a story but I'll be dead in…” you look down at your dial, the gun increases its pressure on your skull as you try to suppress the panic “In about 5 minutes” the man remains silent, his pistol staying pressed into your skull. Your mind races, trying to find a way to argue your survival and clutches at the one thing you have. “I chose not to kill your friend when I could have done. Can you at least hear me out?”

The man behind you clicks his tongue “Ok! Well, I'm certainly intrigued and I'm sure even my partner here can't disapprove of allowing you to argue your case.” The comment seems pointed like he'll definitely disagree but even as you see his mouth twist he stays silent. “On your feet creature I'm not inclined to lug you back myself.” Standing the man lowers the thrower into your back and gently pushes you forward.

Their pod is close but you're feeling dizzier by the second and don't even think to protest when, as soon as you're in and the doors shut, the man at your back ties your hands behind you.

Focusing on him as he moves in front of you and pulls off his helmet you notice he’s favouring one arm and despite his sharp brown eyes, he looks feverish and drained. Not paying it much thought, you breathe deeply feeling sharper but it only draws your attention back to the pain in your body. Kevva you're tired. The urge to lie down and rest is near overwhelming, but the one who talks is eyeing you coldly for weakness, you’re no use if you can’t even stand.

Still, you try to get your bearings. The pod is small and rectangular, they haven’t turned the lights on and the looming shadows seem to pull in the walls, making your saviours into giants, making you feel like you’re pledging your case to The Olympians. There’s a small bench with a couple chairs next to a tiny stove and sink, there’s only one cot up against the wall, opposite what could be a cupboard but your eyes can’t make it out in the dim light.

“Now then creature, it's not every day we come across such a little thing with no air on this breathless planet and certainly not one who can shoot so damn straight!” The chuckles “I am just fascinated to know how you got into this predicament.”

You nod thinking carefully about your words. “We were a prospecting crew,” that's definitely a lie, “I'm an engineer but I know how to dig.” Well that's true at least, “Our ship fell of orbit but I managed to deploy the chutes in time so we didn't die on impact but…” you close your eyes as the images of the blood flashes before you.

“Let me guess your theatrical entrance gathered a welcoming party?”

“Something like that, I didn't realise my helmet had broken right away, I managed to run… I think everyone else is dead.” In a way you hope they are, else you really are in trouble.

The man is grinning at you, showing his teeth but the calculating gaze doesn’t falter “An engineer I'll be damned! And you can dig too? This is my lucky day. We happen to be in need of an engineer. See, our little pod has seen some better days and now it is unwilling to fly. Say, if you can fix it up and help us dig a smidgen, save us some time, we'll give you a lift out when the time comes? Quid pro quo”

An unwanted thought strikes you, settling deep in your stomach like a stone. “That sounds like a great deal but I won't be able to help you, not unless you supply me with a helmet.”

With that the other man seems to reach the end of his patience. And he moves gesturing at the talker.

“Now then, it just doesn't seem right to let such a pretty little thing suffocate on this rock... Well, I can't argue with that I suppose… I do apologise, little creature, I find myself, however unwittingly, agreeing with my partner. If you can’t help us then I can find no reasonable excuse to waste our resources on you. Looks like the deals off” he sighs “This is disappointing, I had such high hopes for our association.” With a shrug he pats your shoulder in sympathy that doesn’t meet his eyes. You shouldn't have hoped, your lucks all spent.

You take a deep breath, mind racing to find a way to survive, “Untie my hands at least, I'd appreciate some dignity as I walk to meet my maker.” You glance at your pack on the floor, you won’t need it now.

He pauses for a second, seeming to size you up before nodding and turning you around to face the door. In the reflection of the glass, you see the profile of his sharp features as he looks back, “Now then two, surely you can do the creature the quick the justice of a shot rather than a slow suffocation… Right good.” He cuts your hands loose and instantly the other man is there pressing his thrower into your back. You walk together, back into the waste.

There's only one way you're getting out of this so you close your eyes for a second and pause. He shoves you, lifting his gun to the back of your head. You take a breath and act.

Bending forwards and shoving your elbow up into his arm so the shot goes over your head, you spin knocking the gun aside and grab the small switchblade concealed in your pocket. He should have searched you. You don't hesitate as you stab him in the heart, following him to the ground and wrenching his helmet off. You close your eyes as the light leaves his.

Shaking off the nausea clamouring at you, you pull out the blade blanching as it sprays blood across you. You wipe it clean before stowing it away and then swipe a hand across your face, there’s no way to tell whether the deep red that rubs off on your hand is his or yours, or someone else’s. Feelin around in your pockets for a coin, you suppose the least you can do is pay his boatman so you place the coin under his tongue. You don’t pray. The dead don’t need it.

Ezra watches as you perform this strange ritual, he had to admit that he's captivated. Perhaps his wound has rotted so much he's delirious, finally driven mad by the toxins. Perhaps that was why he agreed to free your hands, why he didn’t check you for a blade. He considers you as he watches, so determined to stay alive.

You pull off the man's suit grateful he's small, even if it'll still swamp you, and grab his helmet. Stripping your own suit quickly you ignore the bandages on your forearm and pull his on. The fit isn't bad, it still seals around your wrists and ankles but it’s loose at your neck. You've got 12 minutes before you pass out unless you fix the hole your own knife made and get a tank of oxygen.

You look at the pod, the other man is watching you. Brown eyes piercing yours as if looking into your soul. It's him or nothing. You've got to try.

You approach the pod carrying your suit. Looking through the glass in the door and you gesture a setting for your radio, there’s a click followed by his harsh breathing.

“That was not especially kind, little creature. I certainly underestimated your ferociousness”

You shrug, “It was him or me.”

“What makes your existence so exponentially more important than his d’you think?”

You frown, “I didn't decide that it did, the powers that be choose. I did bring a knife to a gunfight” He smiles slightly and lets out a little chuckle.

Ezra watches you carefully, you look so tired, so small as you lean against the door of the pod his feverish brain seems to be attempting to soften a long-hardened heart. Still, he's not an idiot. “I'm afraid letting you in may be a detriment to my state of being, creature, you are indeed viscous and I'm not inclined to trust someone that murdered my acquaintance with so little hesitation.” He watches your eyes closed and for a second you look so hopeless but when they open, they've hardened.

“I could simply pull apart your pod from the outside, make sure you suffocate with me!” The last words come out in a shout of frustration. You bang your hand against the glass window of the door.

He glares at you, his voice low and menacing “I do not take lightly to threats, creature.”

This day’s too long, too hard, you've done too much. How many deaths? You realise that you can't kill someone for, sensibly, not letting you in. You laugh “I feel like the wolf at your door,” you sigh god your head hurts “There's no point!” you gesture, “Killing you would do nothing but damn me further I won't kill you out of spite. Fuck!” You glance and the dial on your arm,

6 minutes.

You turn away and sit, suit back against the door. It's as nice a spot as any. “I will choose to die here though I think, just as a reminder that you killed me when I fall through the next time you head out”

You chuckle at the macabre thought then turn off your radio and pull off the helmet.

3 minutes.

The final sun is setting, this really is Apollo's world and it is beautiful. The orange sky outlines the forest’s hands like an oil painting waving you off. Not a bad place to go at all.

2 minutes.

At least it's quiet.

1 minute.

Black spots are filling your vision, blurring out the beauty. Rude you think to yourself and you let out a delirious giggle.

The door behind you slides open and a strong hand grabs the back of the suite as you flop back, hauling you in, snagging the helmet and sealing the door. You don’t move, staring at the ceiling for a second breathing deeply.

Ezra drops heavily down onto the cot and watches you, you're quite something up close even covered in another's blood and your own, you're beautiful. He imagines this is what a witch would look like after a ritual, all blood and magic and secrets.

You open your eyes and peer up at him. “What changed your mind?”

He grins “Call it a reckless curiosity fuelled by this festering limb of mine.” He gestures to his arm.

It’s your turn to size him up, he seems to be looking worse by the minute and now slumped against the wall, you could probably just kill him and take what you need. Maybe you would if he hadn’t let you in. “Perhaps I can patch it up, I've got steady hands and too much experience with wounds from weapons” you struggle into a seated position with a grunt as pain flashes.

“You might as well have a gander, I'm afraid if left to my own devices I'll have to saw the thing off myself or else perish” He frowns down at his twitching fingers, “I do believe this may be my lowest point, little creature. I invite in trouble and then ask it for help? I have certainly had preferable days, for instance, when the ship I was presiding upon became infested with channel rats seems superior to today.”

You hum in reply not really paying attention as he continues to talk. Reaching for your pack, you pull out a pretty well stocked surgery kit. “I'll numb it as best I can but it's not much”

“Anything that alleviates this agony will be a blessing little creature” You raise an eyebrow at him in acknowledgment, clearly doubting it as you hand him a tablet which he swallows. He pulls off his shirt and you examine the wound trying not to stare at his strong arms and broad chest. It’s a couple days old and badly infected, you’ll have to get out the rot before you can think of sealing it.

“Lie back” you tell him

“Perhaps in another situation your choice of language would be quite desirable” he smirks at you, not succeeding in disguising the worry in his face.

You sigh at the comment “Scream all you need but don't move”

That makes him chuckle, “You're a siren luring me in to slay me, aren't you?” His jaw clenches as you start cutting away the rotted flesh. It is slow work, carefully taking as little pink away as possible. To his credit he doesn't move a muscle and you know it must be agony. He talks the entire time, telling the tale of how he got himself shot in such a long-winded way you can’t tell the truth from the fiction. It seems to give him distraction though, so you don’t ask if he’s lying. As you close the wound with foam, he smiles at you, softer than before.

“Names Ezra, by the way.” Then he passes out.

He’s rather strange you decide, but most prospectors are. You’ve got to be a bit odd to spend your days nearly isolated on hostile planets. Asleep he looks peaceful, none of the calculating gaze or darkness. That little patch of blonde is so distinctive, you find yourself almost hypnotised by his face. Frowning at yourself you move away and sit back against the other side of the pod facing the cot.

A few things left to do with him unconscious, you pull off the stolen suit and grab the patch gun from your pack, melting it closed. You pull it back on and holster your pistol. Sitting back, you take a pill from your med kit to ease the pain in your chest and let it pull you into sleep.

Unsurprisingly, you wake before him. You check he's alive then pack your stuff together. You're even, you suppose. He saved your life. You saved his (or at least his arm) and you'd rather not stay around to find out if, when less fevered, he decides to get more even with you for killing his partner. He did give you his name though and names are powerful things so you pull out your notebook and leave a note as you grab an oxygen tank.

You glance behind you as the door seals behind you but you don’t turn back. If you head towards the ship your crew had brought down yesterday, it should have an escape pod still on it. Hopefully you can fix it up if needs be. You follow your compass East.

⧫⧫⧫

Ezra wakes slowly, he hasn't slept so deeply in years, he feels comfortable if a little cold and slowly he opens his eyes. The previous day returns to him in a haze, a pretty face and bright eyes glaring through the door, a gesture to old gods, his arm…

He looks down and moves his fingers. It's good, remarkably so, still stiff and aching but whatever you’d given him seems to have hurried his healing. That stuffs expensive. Not the sort of thing a prospector would usually have and certainly not something they'd share. You were quite strange, he concludes, but fascinating. Why on earth would someone who could act so brutally for their own survival give him something so valuable? Sure, he let you in but you certainly hadn't needed to let him know you had such a thing in your possession. He supposed guilt over his partner, perhaps you were truly naïve or, bizarrely, you could have money. Which would create a more baffling question of just how you ended up here.

It doesn't occur to Ezra for a moment the other reason, until he looks around the pod to find you gone along with a portable oxygen canister leaving a bit of paper in its place. Things stolen hold less value.

The paper was clearly torn from a notebook on it, it simply said your name.

He curses pulling on his suit and following your tracks into the forest. The trail is light but visible, branches broken where you’d passed, dry brush crushed under your feet. He moves quickly, sure of his footing after spending so much time navigating the dead forest. He’s only travelled about a mile before he can hear you moving ahead.

⧫⧫⧫

You walk through the trees, one sun shining above you warming your bones. As you check your direction you pause. A twig snaps and you freeze listening carefully. There's another noise behind you and you spin tensing. You can't see anything or anyone as you peer around you, the forest is too dense.

A body crashes into you from behind flinging you into the ground, looping something around your neck. Your head ricochets off the inside of your helmet shaking your brain, opening the cut again but not breaking the glass. You try to lurch up but get nowhere so you roll into your back with them now beneath you but the cord around your neck holds you back. Choking, you catch your fingers in it so you can breathe and pull forwards, hard, rolling again and thrusting your helmet back into theirs, loosening their grip enough so you can pull the cord away, only for them to shove you head down into the ground.

The world is swimming now, wobbling around you as you try to get your body to listen to you. To get away. To fight back. Anything! But their weight on your back prevents you from moving. You try to look out of the corner of your eye to see your opponent but get nothing. It surprises you when a tear tracks down your face. You suppose you have been putting off the inevitable for days now, Kevva has called you back.

Whoever it is clicks on your radio and a familiar voice hisses, “You stupid fucking cunt, I'm bringing you to hell with-“ A shot rings out and the body slumps on top of you, you lift yourself up and shove it off sitting up on your haunches looking around for the shooter.

It's him, Ezra, gun still trained on you. He watches you halt, eyes wide.

“You took something of mine, and although usually I don't go out of my way to find trouble, which you little creature certainly are. I awoke to find myself abandoned and a little peeved to discover that you had liberated a couple of my possessions and shimmied out of part of our prior agreement.”

Your heads still spinning and with the blood trickling into your eye you find it immensely difficult to focus on what he is saying. “Prior agreement?”

“Yes indeed. You'll find you had affirmed in exchange for breath you would fix up my little ship so when the time comes, I may leave this barely liveable planet. I do not appreciate reneging”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“On your feet creature,” he approaches, “I find myself growing impatient.” You stand and instantly stumble forward. He grabs onto your shoulder steadying you, his other hand darting out before you can relax and snagging your thrower from its holster. “I underestimated you once, I will not again. Now, your assailant seemed to know you, if I'm not mistaken, by the way they deemed to remark upon you. Pray tell me the tale?”

Looking at him you do feel a lot like prey. He's close, grip still firm on your shoulder and towering over you. A grin showing all his teeth like a wolf, all you would need is a red cloak and you’re dinner.

You glance down at the body and clench your jaw, it was Cora. Formally, a member of your crew, she had always distrusted you. Rightfully so, you think to yourself.

Steadying yourself you shrug off Ezra's grip, ignoring the gun still aimed at you and kneel down to pull off her helmet. Taking a coin from your pocket you place it under her tongue and look back up at him, the helmet still in your grasp. He's watching you curiously, seeming to be rolling words around in his mouth as if completely thrown by your behaviour.

“She was part of my crew, I was the engineer so the crash was my fault,” well that was definitely true.

Ezra chuckles darkly, “I'm not too sure I want you to repair my ship after all, creature. Your predilection for incident does appear wearisome.”

You tilt your head up at him, “See any other engineers around here?”

“I suppose you'll have to do, but I will be watching you mighty closely little bird, in case you decide to take flight again.” You frown at the new nickname but don't get a chance to argue as you both hear a horn a little way off. “Unfortunately, my shot appears to have alerted the ever-irritable locals to our location.” He grabs your arms and hauls you back to your feet pulling you along with him as he walks back the way you had come, Cora’s helmet still clasped in your hand. “Luckily the settlers are not quick on their feet, I must say.”

You can't think of a response, your head is still reeling and your feet feel like lead as you trudge after him, his hand gripping firmly onto your wrist.

You're grateful you hadn't travelled far when he tugs you into the pod. Closing the door and turning, Ezra finds you slumping down to sit on the floor ripping off your helmet and attempting to wipe the blood out of your eye. It feels a little voyeuristic as he watches you tug off the suit soaked with his partner's blood, revealing the black insulating vest and leggings beneath before flopping back eyes closed for a moment. You feel his stare and pointedly ignore it as you grab your own suit, abandoned the day before, and shimmy into it. Cora had the same suit and so her helmet will fit yours. You feel a little relief at no longer having to wear the blood of someone you'd killed, not to mention more secure in something that fits.

Glancing up at Ezra as you transfer your possessions between pockets yet again you see he's elected to tie his suit up around his waist revealing those damn arms again. He crouches down in front of you and gently grasps your chin to tilt your head up at him. “That's quite the cut you've got there little bird.”

He carefully watches your face but your head is still fuzzy so with no retort he moves away from you and picks up your med kit. He cleans your wound gently, wiping the dried blood off your face. As he does, you study him. Close up you can see the wrinkles around his eyes from when he smiles and the curved scar on his cheek. Fighting off the impulse to trace your fingers over it, you ask how he got it. He grins as he places a plaster on your head “Now that’s quite a story” but you don’t get to hear it yet, sounds outside means the settlers have found the pod.

“They'll leave provided they don't know we're here” He grumbles, tugging you into the cupboard running along the wall.

It’s slim but long inside, there are blankets on the floor, a lantern and a small stack of tattered books. “Do you sleep in a cupboard?” you have to ask but you do your best to keep the incredulity out of your tone.

“I'd rather you didn't insult my little burrow as a guest, there's only one cot in this pod and I lost the wager so I made do. I think you’ll find it’s rather cosy”

You nod, a little thrown by his change in attitude since being in the forest. As you both sit you watch his face in the golden light of the lamp. It makes him appear to glow, almost like a painting. He'd look almost relaxed if it wasn't for how his eyes were watching you carefully.

Ezra studies your features, if you hadn't been such a bringer of chaos, he'd think he'd made you up, that, or Kevva had reached into his head and plucked you out. You're just perfect, perhaps anything his own mind could come up with would have to come with chaos, there was no fun without it.

The quiet moment is disrupted by a bang on the side of the pod, you jump and Ezra tenses slightly but seems to be expecting it. “They're trying to frighten out anyone inside” he whispers, “If we stay quiet and hidden, we'll be just fine”

You nod and tilt your head back against the wall trying to block out the noise as Ezra reaches for the book at the top of his stack. You read the title ‘Perfume’, you haven't heard of it but judging by the battered pages and writing in the margins Ezra knows it intimately. He glances at you. “It is a tale of a man who gets so enraptured with the scent of a woman he endeavours to turn her essence into perfume.”

You hum in response “That sounds a little morbid.”

Reaching into your bag you pull out a similarly dog-eared copy of ‘The Power’ and do your best to ignore the man opposite you.

Ezra frowns at his book. It's not often a good read fails to pull him into its world but something about your presence has driven him to distraction. Instead, he closes the book and continues to study you, it's a nice change having a stranger in such close quarters. You're frowning at your book a little furrow in your brow he finds endearing. It's only then he notices you're shaking. He wonders if it's from the death of your friend, from the settlers’ insistent pounding on the side of the pod or from him. He supposes it's quite scary to be trapped in a small space with someone twice your size and he hasn't exactly been kind to you. Ezra frowns to himself, not that you've given him a reason to act kindly. You will be useful to each other but there's no point making friends on such rough terms.

You look up meeting his eye as he glowers at you and swiftly glance away, trying to take up as little space as possible.

“You said you came to prospect?” he murmurs to you. You look back at him, wide eyed, and nod. “Good, you can help me finish me dig, 60/40 split, since you so callously divested me of my partner.”

You nod “You ridded me of mine too. Looks like we're even again. Equal split.” He’s tempted to laugh at your boldness, negotiating with no leverage. He keeps his face stern, unwilling to let you know how much he is enjoying your spark.

“I don't think so.” he speaks lowly making you tense, “I will permit that without you my arm would be about as useful as stim gum is at staving off hunger. And at least to me my arm is equal to a partner.” He tilts his head at you, the light cutting plains across his skin, “Even so… we still aren't even. That’s twice I saved your troublesome arse. One could suggest you’re indebted to me.”

To his surprise you nod, even as your jaw clenches and he watches you swallow “I guess I'll have to make it up to you another way. Even split or I don’t dig” That breaks him, he can’t hold in his grin at your fearlessness. He strongly suspects you’ve had an abundance of practice getting what you're owed from characters more unscrupulous than himself. He frowns at that, even hardened prospectors treat him warily, there must be something else to you. He agrees though, more out of curiosity than necessity.

“Even split it is then.”

⧫⧫⧫

You both agree there's no point going out to dig with the settlers so close but after the noise has subsided Ezra looks you over and suggests you shower. You don't tell him what a gift that is but he sees how your eyes light up at the prospect of washing off the past days’ grime. He hands you a towel and as the water starts running, he distracts himself from picturing you naked by satisfying some of his inquisitiveness and going through your pack.

There's not much of interest. Your med kit, some protein bars, instant caf, ammunition but in the front pocket he finds an old ring. Round like a signet but instead of a family emblem it is simply a small coin, plated in gold. He studies it, it's roughly hewn, well-made but not particularly fine. He wonders if you stole this too, but it isn't flashy and everything else you've taken had been useful so he posits it is yours, but why don't you wear it? Frowning he puts it back as he spots a notebook, worn and well-loved but as he reaches for it the water shuts off and he leaves your pack, choosing to get nourishment for you both before you sleep.

You emerge dressed just in your leggings and vest, Ezra gestures to the seat noticing the bandage on your arm. “What did you do that your mystical little tablets cannot heal?”

You finger the material absentmindedly, “Oh it's an old wound I keep reopening, better to keep it covered to prevent infection.”

He peers at you clearly unconvinced but he doesn’t question you further, you avoid his eyes looking at the floor as he sticks some food in front of you. “Eat up little creature, we've hard work to do tomorrow and we'll need our energy.”

You take a mouthful before asking, “Where will we sleep?”

“Better we stay out of sight in case our hospitable friends return, so back into the burrow. And I'd rather keep you close in case you start to feel flighty again” You sigh but to his surprise don't argue, perhaps the settlers really did shake you.

Ezra returns to studying you as you both eat, without your suit on he can see the harsh bruises around your neck where your former friend had tried to strangle you but the gash through your eyebrow has stopped bleeding and fresh from the shower, you're quite the vision. It has been so long since he'd had another body to warm his bed and you look so soft and vulnerable without the suit and imminent danger, he finds himself picturing you under him, writhing, brow furrowed like before. His hands grabbing your arms, your hips, your neck- He shakes himself of the image. Your partnership is tenuous at best without bringing in the pleasures of the flesh and he doesn't really want to scare you off potentially leaving him alone and trapped on this world.

When you've eaten you head into Ezra's ‘burrow’ as he called it and settle opposite each other, legs stretched out in front, feet almost touching. Ezra is next to the door ensuring you can't leave without waking him but you're not inclined to try, you know your luck is running out. You're grateful he doesn't try to scare you into staying, instead curiously he picks up his book and looks at you.

“I propose an exchange, it appears we are both almost prepared to recite our beloved tomes cover to cover, so, would you acquiesce your book for mine?”

You shrug, “I wouldn't mind something new but I'm not sure how much you'd enjoy ‘The Power’ and I have nothing else.”

He smiles his eyes crinkling with amusement, “Well then, read me the blurb and let me decide for myself. It seems only I would know what I may delight in.”

“It's about how women become the dominant gender in the world, told by a man in the future where a male dominated society seems absurd.”

Ezra grins, “I am intrigued! It'll be a joy to discuss books with another person, a pleasure I can rarely partake in”

You smile back as you swap books. A tentative exchange that leaves you both a little hopeful for the progress of your partnership.

You both read in silence until you yawn twice in a row causing Ezra to yawn too and he suggests you turn in. Or you guess he does, his choice of language seems to baffle you here and there. He wrangles a blanket out from under you and you settle in, top to tail, his feet level with your chest and yours to below his hip. You didn't realise how the adrenaline of the day had worn you out and you're asleep in seconds.

You awake on your front, head nestled into your arm. It's pitch black and there's a weight on your ankle. Trying not to panic you wait for your eyes to adjust and peer over your shoulder to see what's grabbed you. It's Ezra.

Asleep on his back one hand on his stomach where the blankets had been shoved down and his under shirt had risen revealing a strip of tan skin glowing in the low light. You try not to focus on that. His other hand, by his side wrapping nearly all the way around your ankle. You wonder if he grabbed you awake to stop you trying to escape or if unconscious, he simply wanted to keep your warm body close, that idea makes you feel a little soft, this is easily the gentlest he's touched you apart from patching your head. You debate if you should shake him off but you don't want to wake him and his warm hand is anchoring so you just put your head back down on your arms and go back to sleep.

⧫⧫⧫

Ezra had his sleeping pattern nailed down, a necessary thing for a prospector, usually out cold for 7 hours so he's surprised when he startles awake. He doesn't usually dream. He grasps at the threads of images his mind had conjured committing them to memory. It was about you and it was enough to make him flush and now as he rouses himself, he gently detaches his hand from your ankle unsure about when he grabbed it. It's still early, he looks over you asleep on your stomach breathing slowly. He sighs adjusting himself in his pants if he can't get these images of his head, he's going to have an even more difficult time working with you than he already will. Desire is fickle like that he supposes, giving him a beautiful creature, he can't trust. One who is clearly concealing something and who certainly doesn't desire him in return. A beep tells him the suns are rising and you begin to stir

“Arise little bird, a day off struggle and fortune lays in wait.”

You grumble in return shuffling onto your back and sitting. Ezra tries not to stare as the blanket slips away revealing your body. To avoid further thoughts, he leaves his burrow taking his suit, subtly clutching it to his front so as not to alert you to his predicament, and heads for the shower to sort himself out, eternally grateful that the pod had connected to an underground lake making the water supply essentially infinite. Hopefully a brisk wash will clear his head and body of the lust.

You flop back and sigh. That damn blonde tuft and those sharp features were following you even into sleep. It had been far too long since you'd enjoyed another person and if it wasn't for the dilemma you were in, Ezra would be an easy yes. Broad and handsome and charming in a way that just spelled trouble, but your uneasy alliance, and your lies, and the fact that he could easily kill you make you especially wary of being vulnerable in the way you truly crave. Instead, you shake yourself, grab your pack, dig around for that terrible instant caf and leave the cupboard.

Ezra's shower was doing nothing for his erection. Feeling a little exasperated he grasps it harshly and tries not to picture you so vivid in his dream moaning around him. The water raining down on him acts as a lubricant as he harshly begins pumping his hand not wanting to take his time and fall into a fantasy of you. It doesn't work, he imagines how soft your hands would be, how wet you'd be, how he'd take you here up against the tiles. It's quick and dirty. He grunts, swears, then cums, the water washing the sin away leaving him panting and if anything, more frustrated than before.

You hear Ezra swear in the shower and wonder vaguely if he dropped something as you grab two mugs and start heating water for caf. The shower shuts off and you look round as he emerges with a towel wrapped around his waist. His eyes are dark and he looks furious so you turn away and try not to think about how the water droplets on his broad shoulders shimmer as he disappears back into the cupboard.

Seeing you there, making you both caf, dressed in your underclothes sparked a craving of domesticity within Ezra. For the briefest moment you weren't a reluctant partner on a hostile planet, instead you were a lover he could wrap his arms around from behind as you giggle and try to get breakfast and it aches.

When Ezra re-emerges, dressed with his hair sticking in all directions, you've put his caf on the small bench and are sitting waiting for him. He sits too and picks it up.

“There's only a couple months left in the dig” he says, “You up to it? I will be displeased if you slow us down”

You glare, so this is what he's worried about, “Don't worry I've had plenty of practice. If anything, I'd worry about your arm!”

He grins at you “No need to fret little creature, I managed to do my job with a hole in it and with your miraculous medication, it is only a little unyielding.” He carefully looks over your face, “Speaking of, I would appreciate you being candid in not only the precise location you acquired such a potion but why in Kevva you deigned see fit to give it to me?”

He watches you chew on your words, “I relieved them from a man who sought to take from me, and I gave them to you to even my debt. You saved my life if I didn't give you one, I wouldn't have been able to save your arm.”

What a strange little thing, he thinks, so worried about balance, “Did you happen to also relieve this man of his life?” You stare into your cup and don't answer “Well if he sought to take from you, I'll assume it was just.”

You sit in silence as Ezra smoothly changes the subject and grabs a bar for you, spinning quite the tale as you eat. Not stopping for breath as you pull on your suits, boots and helmets, only pointing you towards the equipment you need to grab before opening the door and leading you back into waste.

Ezra hadn't given you back your thrower which you supposed was fair although he had left you your blade which you're sure he remembered you carried. Perhaps a little act of faith to gain your trust? It didn't hurt.

As you approach the site Ezra looks back at you, “Stay close little creature we wouldn't want you to get lost.” His voice is low and threatening and sends a shiver down your spine that isn't entirely fear. You nod slowly and he grins, wolf-like just as before, as if outside you the pod he is an entirely different beast to reckon with.

“I'll get in the pit and do the heavy lifting, you can treat and polish on the surface, we'll go for as long as we've got light and head back. It's gonna be a long day little bird”

The dig comes as a relief, the repetitive labour clears your head and Ezra seems to be filled to the brim with stories and anecdotes, although, you don't think you're actually learning much about him. The way he talks is open yet totally guarded, as if he has the compulsion to speak but the sense not to trust you. You aren't offended, it's not like you're exactly opening up to him either. The day passes quickly like this and as the sun dips too low to see well Ezra hauls himself out of the pit, tells you to pack up and you both head back to the pod to eat and sleep. You wake with his hand around your ankle again.

⧫⧫⧫

A couple of days in, the suns seem to be burning even hotter than before. The dig is gruelling and you’re grateful Ezra so far, hadn’t let you into the pit. You aren’t sure you could bear it in this heat. By the time you finish and return to the pod, taking off your helmet is a relief. You feel hot and sticky and bone tired so you plop yourself down into the cot in the main room still in your suit. Ezra chuckles, “You must be out of practice, else you'd still find these long days easy.”

Ah, so he is bringing it up. You raise your head to look at him, “I still kept up with you, didn't I?”

“True, true, although I am not functioning at full capacity at the present time.” He gestures to his arm.

You flop back and gaze at the ceiling, “Or I just survived a crash from space a few days ago and I'm still a bit worn out.”

That makes him laugh. It's a big warm noise, that makes you giggle too at the absurdity of it all.

“Are you confident you wish to slumber there?”

“Why? You afraid I'm going to make another break for it?”

His grin is just a little softer now, “A little. But if I were you, I'd be more concerned about the neighbours might pop by.”

“Shit, alright” you sit up and instantly yawn.

“Let's get some food in you and turn in, little bird. If I'm not careful I'll have to carry you into my burrow.”

Smiling back, you mock him a little, “With your arm? I'm not sure you'd be capable.”

At that he grins and you realise you've given him a challenge he won't back down from. Stalking up to you like a cat he seizes you under the arms and hauls you against his chest making you huff and giggle as you try to wriggle free. He carries you across the pod like you weigh nothing and plonks you down on the little work bench. Hovering too close for just a moment too long, his breath ghosting your cheek.

“Now how about you keep your smart comments to yourself, lest I have to keep proving you wrong?” he smiles at you, letting you see the crow’s feet by his eyes.

“I'll admit defeat this time I suppose, but you really should go easy on that arm!”

Ezra turns away from you, his heart pounding a little and reluctant to leave your embrace. Instead, he ignores the feeling urging him to clasp you close and grabs your food. As you slide off the bench and into a seat, he hands you a bowl. Neither of you attempt to meet the other's eye and both of you fail to see the flushed face of your companion.

Once again sleep comes easy, the hard work making your body crave rest to heal but even so in the dark you wake. There's no rush of panic this time instead you feel warm and sleepy as you glance at Ezra at the other end of the cupboard. He's not grasping your ankle instead his side is pressed against yours, leg to leg. It's cosy and in your half-awake state you don't think about how you had gone to sleep separated, and who had sought out whom in the black.

The next day goes much the same, you bicker before you head out deciding who should be in the pit and who shouldn't. Ezra concedes that he'll do the treating of the gems today if you keep alternating so neither of you gets too worn out. You agree though you point out yet again that he needs to go easy on his arm and he points out your bruises and gash on the head as hypocrisy. It's an argument with no malice and it feels refreshing to have a go at someone without worrying they'll get angry and shoot you. Although perhaps you should be more concerned by how at ease you are. If he was to see the scar on your arm, you doubt he'd be so understanding.

As the day ends Ezra offers you his hand to pull you out of the pit, his touch lingering in yours for just a second too long.

⧫⧫⧫

Working like this you form a sort of routine. Up early, dig till you can't see, talk, eat, sleep, press together in the night. Ezra is starting to reveal little details about himself, where he was born, how he got into prospecting, his favourite books. In a way it makes you feel guilty for staying guarded, only relinquishing the barest details about yourself, but if he notices he doesn't point it out.

A month passes like this and as you watch Ezra hop into the pit you wonder vaguely if he'll ever run out of things to talk about. He describes an incident where an amateur prospector managed to get his arm stuck in the pit resulting in its brutal amputation but your attention fails as you wait for the next potential gem and you look into the trees behind you.

An uneasy feeling claws at you so trusting your gut you tell Ezra to shut up and get down out of sight just as someone emerges. No one you recognise, thank Kevva, and not a settler either. They are carrying a rifle though. Bowing your head to your work so they can't see your mouth move, you quickly describe what's happening.

“I can only see one, he's armed. A prospector. You stay quiet unless I shout.”

“Right then birdie. I await your call.”

You look up at the man staying on your knees and gesture your radio setting.

“What's someone like you doing out here all alone?” You repress a shudder at his tone.

“Same as you, I expect, making my way in the universe.” He comes closer and you fight the urge to back away but you don't want to draw attention to Ezra. “I don't have much to offer you and I don't take kindly to thieves.”

“Big talk from someone unarmed.” Wishing Ezra had given back your thrower, you stand and decide an attempt to bargain will be the best option.

“What do you want then, we can trade.”

“I'm not looking to trade anymore, I'm stuck here. My team's dead.” He levels his gun at you. “If you take me to your ship, I'll let you live for a price. Protest too much and I'll shoot and have my way while you bleed out.”

You gulp and stand starting to back away. Even with the element of surprise Ezra will have to act quick and be lucky if you both want to live. Why would he though, he doesn't have much motivation to risk his life for yours, he'll just have to hitch another ride. The man keeps moving towards you as you reach the edge of the pit, eyes not leaving your face and presses the gun to your chest. You glance down for a moment, hoping he doesn't look too, and see wide brown eyes and a miniscule nod.

At the same moment Ezra reaches up, you drop back into the pit and land heavily on your back, winded. He slices across your assailants achilles tendon and grabs onto his leg pulling him in after you. Frozen in place, you watch the tussle, for the first time properly witnessing how formidable of a foe Ezra can be. His size and strength easily overpower the other man as he rolls on top, throwing down heavy blows that fill the air with the soft thuds of impact, like a heartbeat. A yell is cut off with a gurgle as Ezra shoves his blade into the man’s neck repeatedly, using his weight to hold the man down until he stills.

There's a moment before he turns, he lowers his head trying hard to calm his harsh breathing and sighs. “I do apologise little bird,” he turns to you scowl in place, eyes dark. “For my brutality, I'd rather you didn't have to bear witness.”

His voice is low and he's watching you carefully as you sit up. You feel lost for words at how far he'd gone to defend you, you wonder how close he got to becoming the man dead in front of you. Alone and cruel. All you can do is nod in response.

Ezra curses himself at how quiet you've become. Moving the body out of the pit had taken time and once done, as he watched you place a coin in his mouth, he'd announced that to continue the dig today would be futile with adrenaline running so high and at your nod you had gathered the equipment and headed back to the pod. He watches you carefully as you pull off your suit and decides that the fact you didn't just sprint for the trees after what he did was a good sign. But you continue to surprise him.

“Thank you,” you say softly, “For not letting him…”

“Nonsense, without the pleasure of your company I don't doubt my humanity would soon become as weathered as his own.” He frowns, “It was rather like being visited by the ghost of Christmas yet to come.” You tilt your head not really sure what that means but he shrugs. “Don't fret about it.”

Then there's silence as you watch each other. Lost in thought as you make your meal and eat.

Ezra ponders on the panic he felt deep in his chest at the waver in your voice. He wonders when saving you switched from utilitarian need to something more. He knows how stupid it is to get attached, how reckless. But your bright eyes and determination to stay alive were admirable and captivating and he craves to know more, what makes you laugh, how well you'd take him. He sighs and attempts to brush the lust aside. Even if you weren't terrified of him, he just knew you were concealing something.

The silence stretches out, both unwilling to break it, as you head into the burrow. For the first time, you sleep next to each other.

⧫⧫⧫

Ezra is wrapped around you when you wake, safe and warm and comforting. You can feel his heartbeat against your back, its steady rhythm relaxing you before your brain starts whirring. Then you feel guilty, like you're taking advantage of him. He doesn't realise how much you enjoy him holding you close and you certainly don't deserve it. The weight of your lies heavy on your shoulders you ease out of his arms, careful not to wake him, and leave the sanctuary of the burrow.

A wonderful dream slips away from him as he stirs. His little bird's weight in his arms, grounding him, giving him something to protect. Looking round for you and finding you gone, he swears and stumbles to his feet. Kevva, he hoped you hadn't left him alone.

He almost sighs with relief when he leaves his burrow just to spot you sitting by the window watching the suns rise, notebook in hand and mug beside you. You look up, a little wary of his wide eyes but shrug. “I couldn't sleep.”

“Me neither little creature, my dreams are haunted.” He picks up your mug and takes a sip, with a grimace he says “Can you truly enjoy something so acrimonious?”

You chuckle, “Habit I guess.”

“Well, it's certainly rousing” he smiles at you “What are you scribbling there?”

“I had a look round the ship, it's all the repairs I need to do.” You hesitate, “If we swing by the other crashed ship for a couple parts, we can be gone in two days.”

Ezra's eyes darken just a little, his voice low, “You wouldn't be trying to wiggle out of our agreement now? The dig isn't done and I demand satisfaction.”

He watches your mouth twist, “It's just I think our luck's run, the longer we stay the more trouble we're going to get like yesterday.”

“That cannot be helped, little creature. I'd like to live well for a while, and so, the dig must be completed.” You think to that other ship, there's immeasurable wealth on it but you can't tell him. Then he'd know what you were. So instead, you nod and start preparing for the day.

The change in your attitude has Ezra feeling nervous. He realises if he doesn't show a little faith, you won't feel safe and he'll lose you, and possibly himself. Just before opening the door to the waste, he turns to you, “Here.”

He's holding your pistol out to you, frowning slightly, you peer up at him “What?”

“If something like yesterday happens again I'd rather you be able to look after yourself,” you nod and reach for it but he keeps it in his grip for a moment, “Don't get any ideas” his voice is low and dangerous eyes hard on you. You swallow and nod shoving it into your holster.

To your relief the dig is quiet and Ezra has returned to chatting away to you from his perch outside the pit and eventually you're able to chat back making him laugh as the day passes.

There's a change between you, him trusting you to be armed has given you a chance to breathe, but, with that a new tension has come between you. One you're trying very hard to ignore. It’s crawled into your head and planted thoughts of closeness, of more, that you can ignore during the day but not at night.

After that day you'd formed a new routine. Going to sleep next to Ezra and waking up feeling secure in his arms before the guilt hits and you leave before he wakes. Not letting him know the comfort you've found there.

⧫⧫⧫

Apart from the locals coming to bang on your walls every few days, weeks pass incident free as you both perform this dance around each other. Ezra finds that his cold showers are doing less and less to quell his lust, and heart is another matter entirely. So, he ignores it, treats you a little coolly, tries not to scare you off, it's getting more difficult now nearly every night he dreams of you. Sometimes it's lewd, sometimes you're chatting together, the worst are when he dreams he's just holding you. He might think it was real if not for how when he wakes up you aren't there.

Until the morning he wakes first.

He's groggy, breathing deeply and so, so comfortable. It takes a moment to get his bearings. Shifting slightly, he realises how he's curled around you, hand on the strip of skin of your stomach where your shirt has rolled up, face pressing into the back of your neck and he has to fight the urge to kiss it. When you moan quietly, he props himself up on his arm looking down at you in the low light. For a moment he thinks you're having a nightmare but you flushed, breathing shallowly and he's certain you aren't. When you whimper, he shudders, such a pretty noise. He feels tempted to stay pressed against you, to touch you, to make you make more of those noises. He fights it off, and eases away from you stepping out of the warmth of his burrow.

He thinks, perhaps later he can talk to you, there's nothing wrong with getting some pleasure and easing some stress in each other’s arms. There isn't long left of the dig and then you'll go your separate ways, the thought stings a little. He leans back against the door. Kevva, he craves more, he wants to learn every inch of you intimately, to learn what makes you tick, to wake up with you in his arms. It aches deep in his chest, so many years spent in poor company. He hears you moan once more and groans himself, pushing off the door he trudges to the shower.

For the first time in ages, he runs it hot before stepping in and grasping his cock. He lets himself take his time, starting slow, increasing the pace till he feels like he could explode then slowing right back down again. He doesn't fight off the images of you that spring into his head now he knows what you can sound like. He imagines you making them with his tongue on you, fingers buried in you as he presses you down, how you'd whine his name, how you'd beg. Ezra grunts, staving off his orgasm once more his cock red and throbbing with his heartbeat. He pictures sinking into you, hot and wet with you pliable in his arms as he fucks you into the ground. He cums hard with a growl and a curse and then curses himself both for being loud and for allowing himself to yearn for you, then finally he begins to wash.

⧫⧫⧫

You wake with a start, panting. Your dream is vivid in your mind. Ezra grasping your hands so you couldn't move as he fucked you with his tongue moaning against you. He'd talked too, both eloquent and totally filthy as he got you exactly where he wanted you. You huff, now you were left frustrated and still pining for a man who must just see you as a utility, a way to get off this planet. Hell, he barely even knew anything about you, didn't know the most important thing. But you know you can't stay in this limbo for long now, the digs nearly done and after then what can you do. There are two options, tell him who you are and how you feel and hope for the best or just ignore it, get off the planet, take your money, and go live the quiet life you'd intended. You focus on this debate and instead of the wetness between your legs as you leave the cupboard.

You look around for Ezra and exhale as you hear the shower running, there's no way for him to know what you were dreaming of, right?

That's when you hear him, it's a low, erotic groan followed by a string of swear words and you flush as you became achingly aware of how wound tight you are. You turn away and try to ignore it, heating up water for both of your cafs as the shower stops.

As it brews the steel door swings open and Ezra emerges wrapped in a towel and glowering, you ignore his stare and the way droplets of water slide down his chest making you want to lick him as you hand him a mug.

Ezra watches you gnaw on your lip as you look him over and can't hold in the grin at how frustrated you seem. He can't help but tease.

“Did you have pleasant dreams little bird? You seemed unwilling to rise this delightful morning.”

His grin widens with your eyes as you look away “Err I don't remember… did you sleep ok?”

“Like I was in the welcoming arms of a lover” He doesn't miss your little inhale of breath, and he wonders how best to broach the topic of mutual pleasure with you. Perhaps it'll quell the urge to keep you safe in his arms.

The way Ezra is teasing you makes you think perhaps he can read your mind. As he goes to dress you make a decision, after the dig you'll explain how you really got here, explain how you don't want to leave him after the dig is done. And hopefully he'll be worn out enough that, should he decide you're too much of a liability, you can out run him.

As you head out an uneasy feeling settles in your stomach, you tell Ezra as much but he just chuckles, “Perhaps you're still tired”

The morning goes smoothly, you're in the pit this time handing stuff out every so often to Ezra, his fingers brushing yours. Both of you work quickly, you puff, out of breath, as you stretch yourself up for yet another hand off. His ability to talk is once again surprising you. You laugh at his story despite the unease and the beat of the sun in your back and miss the delighted expression that crosses Ezra's face from your position in the pit.

Like a light switching, the energy shifts. You know there's trouble before Ezra mumbles through the comm “Little bird, stay down. Company approaches.”

Your blood runs cold when a voice responds, already on your frequency, a voice you know. “Greetings friend, we think you can help us out.”

Ezra eyes the pair in front of him, knowing you’d been made was adding a layer of worry to a tense situation, “I'll help if I can but, you're encroaching on my little territory you know how it is. I will be obliged to defend it”

You hear the pair step closer “Actually we're looking for someone,” your eyes slip closed as you stay stock-still, “See they greatly are responsible for our predicament. However,” the voice is clear like they already know you're here, crap, how long did they listen in? “If they were to help us find something we've lost. I can assure their punishment is… swift.”

You swallow as they step to the edge of the pit, Damon glares down at you “Hello darling, long time no see”

Ezra looks shockingly calm, still smiling as you glance at him, “Now then, that is not a polite way to address my partner.”

The other man scoffs, second in command Barlow, “Your partner? Back to your old ways I see.” He looks Ezra up and down. “You’re their type”

You think perhaps you see Ezra's jaw clench before he's grinning “It hardly seems fair for you to make off with my partner, does it? No, not without compensation which unless my ears deceive me, you can't give me without them.”

Before you can blink guns are drawn and you feel like a fish in a barrel, stuck in the pit without Ezra to pull you out.

“You don't know who we are, do you? I suppose in the suits you can't tell but I'd have thought with your… intimate relationship to our engineer you might have figured it out.”

Ezra’s gun doesn't waver for a second but his mind reels. The bandage on your arm, it couldn't be. Surely, he hadn't been so blinded by your company not to notice that. His eyes darken and he thinks, for a moment this man, Damon, realises he's going to die the split second before Ezra shoots.

Barlow’s slower, surprised at him for making the first move but despite his fumble this was a real stand-off. He meets Ezra's glare and they're frozen in time for a moment. Just as he watches the man start to squeeze the trigger and prepare to shoot, he flops sideways. Ezra swings his thrower round you see you, gun in one hand, body turned to the side, still poised from the shot neither of them had seen coming.

Ezra looks as surprised as you feel, even taking aim you hadn't been sure you should save him. But, in the second the men had forgotten about you, you'd let instinct take over and your instinct had chosen Ezra. You hoped it was correct.

Perhaps not. You watch as Ezra’s face darkens, his teeth bared as he levels his pistol at you. “Little bird” his voice makes you shiver despite the heat, “Be so kind as you toss your shooter up here. I think we will be having words.”

You can only nod, what can you do? He says he wants to talk so you'll talk, out of the pit. Where you can stand your ground. You swallow and throw your gun up to him. He gives you a curt nod picking it up and turning away. For a terrifying moment you think he's going to leave you here to die slowly but before you can beg him not to, he returns and tosses a pack down.

“Pack up your gear. We're leaving.” His tone leaves no room for argument so you pack away his equipment as quickly as you can and put it on as you wait and listen to him packing his own, wondering if the shots will draw more trouble.

After all the time spent getting used to his talking, his silence is terrifying. It allows you to think, to panic, to imagine the worst thing he can do. Probably leave you on this planet to rot or be torn to pieces by the locals. You squeeze your eyes shut at the thought.

“Come on now, your elevator awaits” You open them to see he's offering his hand down for you to grab. You do your best to ignore the pistol in the other as you grab a hold and scramble out of the hole you had been sure was going to become your grave. Ezra doesn't loosen his grip on your arm as he hauls you to your feet and strides away from the dig forcing you to trot behind him to keep up.

You stare up at him as he pulls you along trying to read his thoughts. He doesn't look at you scowling straight ahead, his grip vice like and bruising. You don't try to shake him off, you’re sure he's worked out who you are. Your former co-workers hadn't been subtle but you can't gage whether or not this is a walk to the noose.

⧫⧫⧫

Tugging you into the pod he releases your arm and turning to seal the door he finally speaks. “Take off your helmet” His tone sends goosebumps over prickling over your skin so you pull it off and go to set it down on the table. When you turn back, he's right in front of you glaring down eyes dark. It makes you feel tiny. “Show me your arm.”

His words are too concise, so abrupt you hesitate. It's like he's a different person, an enemy you aren't sure you should comply to. Ezra decides you're taking too long and seizes the top of your arms spinning you both around and pinning you against the pod's wall, knee hitched up between your legs keeping you in place. You squirm in a futile attempt to get away and gasp as he unzips the front of your suit and shoves it down to your waist. Ezra breathes heavily as he rakes his eyes up to your body to your face. Doing his best to swallow down his desire, he ignores your own heaving chest and grabs the back of your neck forcing you to look up at him.

“Little bird, take off that measly scrap of fabric and reveal the truth.” You gulp eyes wide fingering the knot of the bandage on your arm. Ezra gives you a little shake. “Do it now.”

So, you do, pulling apart the knot and unwinding it from your arm. You don't look at it, perhaps if you don't see it, it's not really there. Instead, you watch Ezra's face for his reaction, gleaning nothing as he releases your shoulder and grabs your wrist bringing it up for him to see clearly. His brow furrows as he inspects your forearm, a brand of three circles linked like a chain. Kevva, he'd hoped he'd been mistaken. You're frozen as his gaze returns to you, dark eyes furious he crowds around you, filling your senses, body pressing you against the wall. His leg shifts slightly between yours and you almost whimper.

“You've been dishonest, little bird, and I do not appreciate it.” Ezra feels at war, he's furious you lied but he understands why. He's fuming you had been running with a violent, malevolent group of pirates. He doesn't understand why you'd ran after the crash or why you'd turned to him. He wants to know what you have that your crew found so valuable. He wants to know how you're both so hard and so soft. All these thoughts rattle around in his head as he stares at you, your mouth slightly open and your lips wet, until he can only think about how good you feel pressed against him, how delicate you feel under the hand on your neck. How much, despite everything, he wants you. He doesn't notice how close he's gotten to you until he feels the puff of your breath on his face. And then you utterly surprise him.

You can almost hear him think as he stares down at you. You don't want to interrupt but his hold on you is drawing attention to his size, to how much strength and power he holds. It's like he's swirling all around you clouding your brain, filling it with him. So, you let yourself do what you want. You've got nothing to lose. Everything that's yours is in his hands and you can't bring yourself to care. He's leaning closer, bending so with his hand on your neck tilting your head up it's like you’re sharing breath. You close the gap and kiss him.

For a second, he freezes in surprise and then he's kissing you back. Harshly biting your lower lip before shoving his tongue into your mouth. It's desperate and rough and you lick into his mouth in response loving the low moan coming from deep in his chest. He releases your wrist and grasps your hip closing any distance left between you. He grinds into you, the leg between your thighs causing a delicious friction as you whimper into his mouth. He breaks the kiss and stares down at you for a second moving his hands to the bottom of your vest. At your nod he tugs it off and pounces back on you. He rubs his hands up your sides as he kisses you, loving the feeling of how big they are on your frame and how you gasp as he pinches your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. You wriggle against him trying to unfasten his suit and shove it down his arms. He obliges, stepping back he pushing it off and kicks it away leaving him in his underclothes, staring at you, pupils blown wide with lust as he takes you in. Then he's back on you, seizing your jaw and tilting your head up to look at him as his other hand tugs down the remainder of your suit taking your leggings with it.

Eyes look up and down your form, drinking it in as he reaches down to rub a finger over the wetness soaking your underwear. Your mouth drops open and Ezra seizes the opportunity to shove his thumb in your mouth, his grip adjusting to your chin. Smiling as you suck on it.

“Look at you” he coos dragging his nose into your cheek almost mockingly “On display for me, you look good enough to eat.” He punctuates this by biting your neck and pulling your thin underwear taut against your clit just enough you cry out and stand on tiptoe. He grins down at you as you bite down gently on his thumb and then pulls off your underwear letting you kick it aside before stroking his fingers across your slit so gently it makes you buck towards his hand. He moves his hand back to your hip, pinning you back to the wall as he pulls his thumb from your mouth and wraps his hand around your throat, not squeezing just resting there.

“I want you to stay still,” his voice is low and commanding so you nod. “Repeat it back to me, I want to hear you.”

You whimper, “I'll stay still” and he grins before bending to kiss and nip along your jaw above his hand as his other moves back down to your cunt. He circles your clit so gently it's like he isn't really touching you and just as he slightly increases the pressure he draws back. A needy whine falls from your throat but you stay still and he murmurs against your cheek.

“Good little bird, so wet for me. You're positively dripping,” and then just as slowly he eases a finger into. You cry out, so wound tight it's agonising, the contrast between how harshly he gripped you before against his irreverent touches now making you ache for him more than ever. “Sing for me little bird” he demands and then he's really moving, pressing his finger against that spot inside you that makes you see stars, thumb drawing circles over your clit making you moan so loudly it surprises you.

Ezra watches the flush spread over your skin as your eyes roll back, he doesn't know how he wants you first. Just as you’re getting close, he realises. He wants you begging.

He forces himself to pull his hand away from you and watches as you shudder with tension eyes opening to look up at him. “Ezra…” your voice is so soft he grins.

You watch him as he raises his hand to his face to lick your juice off it, sucking his finger with a pop. It's so erotic you can only whimper as he smirks down at you. You want to touch yourself, make yourself cum while he watches, but as you lower your hand down he grabs your wrist and moves it back to his shoulder. “Don't misbehave birdie, right now all your pleasure is mine.” You bite your lip.

Then he returns his hand to your pussy, this time shoving two fingers in pumping them as he rubs his thumb against your clit more firmly than before. Your body quivers but his hand against your neck keeps you in place as you moan desperately. As soon as you get close again, he slows down to a stop this time keeping you stuffed with his fingers as you try to get some friction. “Please Ezra,” the tone of your voice shocks you, you've never sounded so needy.

He moves his face away from biting your ear lobe to look at you, “Please Ezra what, little bird? You've got to be clear”

You can't stop the words tumbling out of you, “Please can I cum, please make me cum Ezra”

He smiles almost cruelly, “You sound so exquisite when you beg.” He starts working his thumb again, brushing his lips against yours. The hand on your neck finally starts to squeeze, turning you on more. “Do it again.”

You do, no power could stop you begging for him, saying his name like a prayer. And then you're cumming, your vision goes white as Ezra squeezes your throat firmly, cutting the blood from your brain dragging it out as he shoves a third finger into your wet pussy.

Ezra swears he's never witnessed anything so magnificent. Your eyes rolling back into your head, mouth open and lips wet, unable to make a sound. How you soak his hand, how you tighten around his fingers. Now all he wants is to find out how many times, how many ways, he can break you apart.

When you begin to squirm, he reluctantly pulls away, you look up only to find he's pulling off his shirt and trousers. Your eyes widen as his cock springs free. You'd known he carried himself like he had nothing to be insecure about but Kevva… he's packing. It's huge and beautiful, slightly curved, a striking vein runner down it. You feel a little more breathless at the sight.

Ezra catches you staring and grins, pressing back against you, grabbing your arse and lifting you against him. You wrap your legs around him as he pins you up against the wall. His cock feels even bigger pressed against your stomach. Ezra grinds against you sucking marks down your neck as he notches himself at your entrance. You whine and claw his shoulders, he's barely into you and you're sure you've never felt so full. “Ezra” your voice is thready “Ezra I don't think you're going to fit.”

He coos in response thrusting shallowly getting slightly further in and making a cry out as you feel yourself drip around his cock. “Don't fret little bird,” he thrusts again getting deeper, kissing you, relishing the feeling of your heat around him, “I know you can take me.”

He thrusts decisively, bottoming out and pushing the air from your lungs. It feels like he's breaking you open, splitting you in two with his cock and you love it. Love the ache as you adjust, love how you can almost feel him in your stomach, love how he has you pinned to the wall supported by those strong hands and his body and totally at his mercy.

You can barely register he's talking as he grinds his hips against your clit. “... squeezing so tight around me. Never in all my time have I gotten so close to Nirvana.”

He waits until you've started to writhe in his arms, just add he'd imagined, begging for him to move. Then he starts long deep thrusts, interspersed by him grinding against your clit making you whimper and moan as you feel his cock drag across your walls.

“Kevva plucked you out of my head and sent you here for me. You're divine, exquisite…” you can't focus on the words, in no time at all you're cumming again. Squeezing him so tight he chokes on his words and kisses you deeply. He doesn't slow down or speed up, keeping his devastating pace until your body starts to relax. Then he nips at your jaw, hooking his arms under your knees and around your back, spreading his palms wide. He steps away from the wall and, slightly afraid he'll drop you, you grab the back of his neck, but you needn't worry.

Now with you impaled on his cock suspended in the air by his arms, he truly begins to ruin you. Lifting you up and slamming you back he watches your cunt take him, watches how your breasts bounce, watches you throw your head back in a silent scream. He bites into your neck leaving a mark as he sets a brutal pace. Seeing you like this, feeling you like this, has stolen his vocabulary so he curses and growls as he watches, totally enraptured by how well you take him. He thinks maybe he tells you but he can't be sure.

Ezra’s still talking his sentences shorter but still as dirty, the way he praises you makes you moan and combined with his he is destroying you; you don't think you'll ever experience something this good again and then you don't think anything much at all. Just Ezra, his strength, his beautiful words, how perfectly he's fucking you.

Ezra knows he can't last much longer, not in this heaven but he's determined to make you cum again before he does just to feel it. So, he moves you slightly in his arms until he hits that bit which takes your cries even higher. He grins as you dig your nails into his shoulders, the slight pain both grounding him and making him lose his mind.

You feel so overwhelmed and overstimulated that when he adjusts his thrusting you can't help the few tears escaping as you wail. He just pulls you slightly closer and licks them up before staring down and watching how your pussy stretches to take him. You’re so close again you're sure you might explode if you don't cum, or if you do. And then you do, you can't even make a sound as your whole body goes rigid and Ezra doesn't stop pounding you. Instead, you hear him growl and curse and his thrusts get faster and shorter.

Ezra had never experienced anything hotter. The way you threw your head back and took it as he fucked you like a ragdoll. The feeling of you clenching around him. How you soaked him, the sound of your fucking would stay with him forever. And then he's cumming, he bites down on your shoulder groaning into your skin as he releases. His mind is wonderfully blank as he squeezes you against himself and fills you up with a dozen shallow thrusts.

He doesn't release you right away, just holds you to his chest as he turns to lean against the wall cock still in you. Blissful in the moments before his thoughts start buzzing again. When you can move you look up at Ezra, he meets your eyes, gaze totally unreadable. He reluctantly releases you with a groan and grabs his shirt as he kneels and begins to clean off your combined juices dripping down your legs. Seeing him on his knees taking care of you threatens to give you hope which you tamped down. He didn't know the truth yet and he had readily thrown you out once before. When he's done, he stands and tosses the shirt to the side, tugs on his soft under trousers as you pull on your own clothes. The silence feels like a giant pit between you and you glare at your feet unsure how to start this important conversation.

To your surprise Ezra gently pinches your chin and tilts your head up to look at him. “We've still got much to discuss, little bird.” At your nod he pulls your hand into his ignoring how small and delicate it feels and gently tugs you towards the burrow. He has to know the truth.

⧫⧫⧫

You sit next to each other, his back against the wall, you sitting forward nervously running your fingers over the brand on your arm. Ezra just watches you, waits for you to explain and hopes you aren't a threat he'll have to get rid of after you've shared such intimacy.

“I don't… I won't come off like a very good person or partner when I tell you this. So just listen… please?”

Ezra nods, “None of us can be considered a good person, our humanity is dependent on our survival” he sighs, “Spin your tale, I'll remain in silence until it's done and keep my judgement of our partnership till it's completion”

You swallow, “I fixed a ship, that's how this whole mess started. We were leaving a dig and something had gone wrong which would have forced us to land. But I suited up and fixed it in zero G. It was completely stupid and shouldn't have worked but it did and we made it back to the dock. It wasn't till we'd sold off all our gems and separated that I was cornered. Turns out the malfunction wasn't an accident and by fixing it I'd cost them a lot of money in what they would have stolen from us. They reckoned I owed them and… they aren't people you want to owe”

You close your eyes and Ezra watches you tense. He'd like nothing more than to pull you into his arms but as he reaches for you, he clenches his fist. He needs to hear you out.

“They went through the rest of my team to get to me…” oh, Ezra understands they'd totally isolated you. “Well, they worked out since I could fix their brakes, I could mess up the ships in ways that couldn't be fixed without an emergency landing. They branded me there and then. Didn't even tell me how long I'd have to work to balance what I owed; probably thought I'd be dead by then.” You look down at your arm and frown.

When you look back at Ezra, his eyes are sharp, watching you intensely. “That scars old, little bird, how long did you dutifully aid their robberies.” Robberies of prospectors, people like him, people who'd been like you.

You look away, jaw clenched, “Long enough for it to get easy.”

Ezra doesn't move behind you, doesn't speak. You can't look at him.

“And then I couldn't anymore, I saw what I'd become and I hated it.” Your nails dig into your arm. “No one's good out in the fringe. But I was worse. I can't make up for what I did… can't take it back, can't return lives, possessions any of that. But I could stop, bring my crew down too. We used a distress beacon to lure in the other ships and…” you laugh “This time as I boarded after dealing with the other ship. I dunno, I just snapped and blew our engine too.”

Your mouth twists at the memory, “The pilot saw and I… when I was done, I just thought one down. I didn't want to die myself, that’s the easy way out, so I did my best to pull the chutes, hoping I'd play dead and hitch a ride out. Well, you know the rest.”

You stare straight ahead as a tense silence follows not daring to see Ezra glare at you. You don't see his soft eyes looking you up and down, his mind reeling. Had he known this when you’d first met, he would have shot you without question and left you to rot, your presence nothing more than a risk to his survival. But now, you’d saved him, talked with him, he’d gotten to know you. How you drink your caf black saying you’re “sweet enough”, how you look in the morning, how you laugh, how you moan. He knows he can’t kill you now, but you are a threat. He doesn’t know what to do. “Why are they searching for you? What do you have that they want? Your friend mentioned something.”

You laugh humorlessly, “They don't know where the other ship crashed, I was in the pilot’s seat, so no one else could see it go down. Fat lot of good it'll do them wrecked here.”

There's a bang on the side of the pod, “Shite” Ezra mumbles, “Our quixotic friends have returned.”

⧫⧫⧫

The wait for them to leave seems to take hours, the silence making your heart pound and your thoughts race over what you can do now. Ezra will definitely want you gone, only a mad man would keep you around with your history. Perhaps back to the original plan, see if you can mend the other ships escape pod and get the hell off this planet.

By the time the locals have decided your pod is empty, your plan is set. You stand, not looking back at Ezra. “I'll get scarce, I know I'm a problem waiting to happen.”

You grab your bag feeling in the pocket for your ring, a memory of a home you can't return to, old gods you're no longer sure are there. You look down at it as you step out of the burrow not noticing Ezra follow. You shove it into your suit pocket.

He is stumped for words as he watches you grab your possessions that have become scattered around the pod. He sees how your lives have become enmeshed. Scraps from your notebook scattered around where you'd played hangman or left notes and reminders for each other, items of clothing he watches you fail to pack, that damn terrible caf on the workbench.

He's not sure that he'll ever get all the pieces of you out of the pod, out of himself. You're under his skin, the very smell of you making his heart beat with more determination. As you reach for your helmet, he grabs your hand and finally you look up at him.

“Don't leave, I don't want you to leave.”

It's so simple but it means so much more and he thinks you maybe realise as you look up at him tears in your eyes. “I don't want to go.”

And then he kisses you. It's slower than before but no less fierce sparking a deep need in your chest. Gently now, he pulls off your suit as if he's still persuading you to stay before running his hands up your arms and down your back and sides like he's memorising your shape. When he kisses you again it's hungry, intense, he's trying to put words he's afraid to speak into it and it totally wiped your mind as you let him pull you back into his burrow.

Then he's peeling all your clothes off you. His touch is irreverent like he's unwrapping a precious artifact. He tugs you to lie down and settles between your legs pulling off his own shirt. He balances his weight on his arm above your head to nip at your lips, you reach up to run your hands up his chest, feeling him shudder as you gently rake your nails over the skin.

His other hand is squeezing your breast and pinching your nipple before seizing your hip and pulling you flush against him. The friction of his trousers against you, combined with how he's surrounding you, invading all your senses, is overwhelming.

“You are something else entirely,” he's kissing his way down your body, sucking purple bruises as he goes, seeming determined to mark every inch of you. “I could travel the whole breadth of this hostile galaxy and never find a sight as breath-taking as you laid out before me, a divine meal worthy of gods”

His words turn you on more as his ministrations make their way down to your legs. He bites your inner thigh almost too hard, making you squeal and jerk away but he grabs your hips and pulls you back, laving his tongue over the slight indent left by his teeth. You don't know how he's done it, not hours ago he railed you into oblivion and somehow, he has wound you tight all over again. It's like he's playing an instrument, plucking your strings both hard and soft so you melt.

His eyes meet yours, dark and hungry and he holds your gaze as he licks up your slit, his tongue wide as flat. You moan softly as he smiles, “Straight from the source your essence is even more delectable.” He stares at your pussy, seemingly fascinated by how it's fluttering around nothing, totally rapt by a droplet of your arousal sliding its way down.

You whimper at him, and try to buck your hips in his grip, desperate for him to do anything other than stare. He chuckles at you, “So willing to give yourself to me,” then he spits on your cunt. You gasp, half from shock and half from how much it turned you on. He grins as you tense and dives in.

Ezra eats you out like water from a well after crossing a desert. It feels as if he's writing the words, you’re stopping him saying all over your clit as you cry his name. His eyes closed he reaches up and seizes your hands, pulling you closer and settling his elbows over your hips keeping you still and at his mercy as he moans against you. Your eyes close as you feel sparks travel up and down your spine as he shoves his tongue into you making you whine but then he pulls away. Rubbing his cheek on your thigh, his beard tickling you.

“I want you to look at me little bird.” You can't help but obey his command instantly opening your eyes to see his pupils blown wide as he smirks. “You'd do just about anything for me to let you cum, wouldn't you? Don't worry your pretty head. I want you to cum in my mouth.”

Then he's back on you, sucking your clit between his teeth, you gasp his name trying to squirm away. his eyes piercing you, his mouth on you, his hands covering yours, his arms holding you down. It fills your head with him totally overpowering you and then you cum.

You go totally rigid, you're still looking at Ezra but your vision has gone so white you can't see him, just feel him moan against your cunt as you soak his tongue. Even as you start attempting to twist away, he continues, switching between sucking and licking at you as his strong arms pin you down. You cry out at the overstimulation, shuddering from it, tears leaking from your eyes and in no time at all you're thrown over the edge again. Cumming so hard your mind is totally wiped of anything but Ezra.

This time he grants you a reprieve, sitting up he watches your chest heave as you slowly come back into your body. He's lost for words, seeing you like this is better than anything he'd ever imagined and he still wants more, wants to ring every drop of pleasure out of you. And when you smile up at him, totally blissed out and willing, he's sure he'd do almost anything to keep you.

He doesn't put it into words though. Instead, he crawls over you seizing your jaw “Open that pretty mouth little bird,” something about how you so readily obey him twists in his chest and makes his cock twitch. He ignores it and bends close spitting into your mouth. You can taste yourself in it and it sparks your desire all over again.

He can't hold in a groan as you swallow, still smiling, his head seems too empty so he kisses you. It's fiery, filled with lust as you kiss him back and wrap your legs around him reaching down to pull off his trousers, he pulls back to kick them away as his cock springs free, it's hot and red as you wrap you hand around it, not even able to meet finger and thumb and squeeze slightly making him growl and bite along your jawline. “Tell me little bird, what would you will me to do?”

You meet his gaze, “Fuck me.” he groans into your neck, “Please.”

He watches your face as he positions himself at you entrance, “Kevva,” it's like he's not really talking to you, “I've never borne witness to anything so magnificent as your perfect cunt soaking me,” he slowly pushes his way in. It makes you whimper and him growl and you watch the tension in his neck as he restrains himself from ruining you, “Fuck you're tight.” His language is getting simpler as he starts losing control. His soft eyes beg you to let him move as his jaw clenches and you can't help but give in.

“Please Ezra, move! fuck me”

The noise he makes is inhuman as he starts drilling into you. He shoves one of your knees up over his shoulder, deepening his thrusts making you cry out as he shreds against your walls. All he can think is how hot you are, how wet, how tight, how perfectly you take him. He's shoving up against your g shot with every thrust, coarse hairs grinding on your clit, you feel totally at his mercy to do nothing but take it and it may be the best sex you've ever experienced, ever will experience.

He looks beautiful, your juices still glistening on his face, brow furrowed and eyes half lidded but so piercing you might think he was furious if not for how in-between curses he's describing you, what he thinks of you. You aren't sure he even knows he's talking and the need in his words drives you higher and higher despite how spent you feel, how much you don't think you can cum again. And then you do. Kevva the way you clamp down on him clawing his back makes him lose his mind, he shoves both your knees up to your chest bending over you to bite you lower lip. The change in angle adds more friction, his thrusts get shorter, faster. Ezra cums so hard he can't think, you watch his eyes roll into his head, the groan he makes cuts off his own speech as he shoves himself as deep into you as he can get and releases.

Ezra’s ears are still ringing when he manages to roll himself off you. Both of you are panting, as you stare at the roof of the pod and try to muster the words. Naturally, Ezra succeeds first. “Little Bird, I didn't know experiences such as that could be bestowed upon men like me.” You can only make a little noise in reply as he takes your hand and silence falls again.

Finally, when your breath is caught and you can both think again, he pulls you to his chest and wraps his arms around you resting his chin on the top of your head.

“Little bird, I'm starting to agree our dig may be bust. Trouble is biting our ankles and I should have listened earlier. Let's pillage what we can to fix the pod and get going. The dig is almost done, even split it'll be a while before I need to pick up another job.” You feel a sting at how quickly Ezra had returned to talking business but you do your best to brush it off. There's nothing wrong with some shagging between friends and it's no reason for him to feel the same fluttering in his chest that you do in yours.

“Right then we should travel light, get everything we need and come back. The fix won't take long, we can be gone in two days.” Two days left with Ezra makes you feel a little sad, you suppose you'd just gotten used to his company.

Ezra smiles grimly, “If we're lucky.”

You turn and roll over enjoying how he follows, wrapping you in his arms, tangling your legs like he can't bear to be separate. “I do have a question for you if you don't mind?”

You shrug, “Depends what it is.”

“What is that strange ring you carry but don't put on.”

“It's… it was a gift when I left home. It's supposed to be my payment.”

Ezra's mind casts back to how you paid honour to the dead, even those he certainly didn't think deserved a boatman. Saving them from a potential purgatory. But you didn't wear yours.

“Little bird, forgive my bluntness but curiosity is driving me to ask. Why don't you wear it?”

You squeeze your eyes closed, forcing away images of your past, grounded in Ezra's warm grip. “It's,” you sigh, “It's just too heavy.”

Ezra can feel how tense you've become and fights off the heavy guilt threatening to settle in his chest. You think yourself deserving of the hundred-year wait wandering the shore, think the loneliness is just. He kisses the back of your neck. “We should let our dreams take us lest we attract more trouble. It is salient we are well rested.”

You sigh, relaxing against him despite yourself. Long since exhausted by the day and his attentions, you let yourself drift off. Faintly feeling a hand caress your cheek, but you could have imagined it.

⧫⧫⧫

Waking up with someone warm in his arms is something Ezra could get used to. He tells you as much but you brush it off, someone isn't necessarily you after all. Ezra talks as you pack but he avoids the subject of you, of you both. He didn't want to scare you off, he tells himself, his flighty little bird. But he knows he's lying to himself, just being a coward, afraid of your reaction. He avoids meeting your eye until, helmets on, you both stand by the door. Taking a moment of peace before heading into the waste. He takes your hand seeking reassurance as much as trying to give it. You meet his eyes looking a little afraid but determined. He squeezes it tight before letting go and opening the door.

The walk East is easy enough, a pretty straight shot over flat ground. The only real problem being navigating the increasingly dense petrified forest. Ezra talks continuously, but you're grateful, glad it isn't awkward between you and enjoying his descriptions of other worlds he's visited. Where instead of breathless death and grey, there's vivid greens and blues of plants and flowers. Where the beauty is just as dangerous as this blank world. And, slowly, you start to talk too. Really talk. You describe a world that, to you, had seemed to be entirely made up of a casino, and the trouble you had gotten into there.

“Too rich for my blood,” Ezra chuckles and you agree.

You don't tell him about your home, not yet. But being able to talk, to laugh about something you'd done, feels freeing. Like a weight has been lifted ever so slightly off your shoulders.

You’re both grateful the walk is uneventful but you can't relax as the looming silhouette of the other spaceship appears through the trees. It's still too early for hope.

As you approach you see that the crew had successfully pulled their parachutes, but too late. The side of the ship had caved in where it had skidded across the earth, giving you both a way in. When you stop Ezra’s looking at you, “Any chance of survivors, little bird?”

You just shrug. “I doubt it after this. They were running a skeleton crew.” You wince slightly at the double entendre, hoping you have the time to find their bodies and pay their dues.

Ezra raises an eyebrow at you. “On a ship this big? That is most peculiar.”

“I guess, I didn't get a chance to think about it at the time.”

You go over the list again, 5 items, 5 areas. All small enough to carry in your packs. To yourself you add another item, just in case you get the chance.

“We stick together, watch each other’s backs.” You nod in agreement and you both step into the ship.

⧫⧫⧫

There's a faint dripping noise, like a clock ticking. It sets off your nerves as you leave the light of the suns. Inside is cast in red, a good sign the electrics haven't been fried, but totally unsettling. It casts humanoid shadows across the grated walls seemingly flickering with every step. Ezra had gone totally silent but his presence behind you is reassuring. Together you pry open the first door.

Inside has the same red light but the weapons board flashes at you telling you it's still live which is strange. You mumble it to Ezra. “These things usually shut down first after a crash, they drain loads of power that's usually diverted out.”

He frowns at you. “Mayhaps a malfunction? It looks like a rough crash.”

“Yeah. Probably.” But it niggles at the back of your brain. All you can do right now is ignore it so you wrench the panel out from the wall to the side and stick your arm in. Feeling around, you brush your fingers up against the dotted cylinder you need. These old ships had a habit of hiding important components in baffling locations, apparently to protect them in a crash which you do suppose this has, but you suspect it's to confuse novice engineers and pillagers alike.

Ezra is keeping a sharp eye on the door but he can't help but enjoy watching you work, grumbling about what a stupid place this was for a fuse break and how it would have been harder to wreck their engine had it actually been where all the ships power came from. He grins at you and you smile back tugging the, whatever it was, out of the wall. He tosses his pack over to you.

“I'll get this one birdie,” making you roll your eyes but you gently place it in and hand it back.

“Take care of that.”

“I'll cradle it as if it were a new-born.” He says so sincerely you can't help but snort.

“Don't worry too much, ships like these are made hardy, they don't just fry things like your pod.” He scowls playfully at you as you head back to the corridor.

“I will not hear a negative word about her, we've been together for years.”

The ship groans around you as if it's a living creature as you head deeper in. The maze of corridors makes Ezra feel turned around but you seem to know where to go and he follows dutifully. The next stop is a storage closet smaller than his little burrow.

Inside is a collection of boxes from which you produce two tiny discs. You look at Ezra, “I doubt they'll mind me taking a spare, these things are expensive.” Still not being entirely sure what everything you're searching for is, he just shrugs,

The moment of ease sputters out when you enter comms. There's a buzzing that sets your teeth on edge, someone's been on the radio. Ezra clicks it off but the silence is suddenly oppressive. Trying hard to hear any sign of life you scan the dark corners of the space.

“We don't know how long this has been on.” Ezra’s voice is steady but there's an edge you know too well. You agree all the same, hurrying to rip the tubing out from under the console. The blinking lights shut off with a hum as Ezra takes it from you, looping it together and shoving it into his pack. You don't argue.

Two items left, you'd saved the cockpit and the engine till last, both at the opposite end of the ship.

The door to the cockpit is open. you look at Ezra, his jaw is set glaring into it. You head in first moving swiftly to the control panel to the side to start pulling the whole thing apart for one measly chip. He disappears into the shadows to search the room. It's too big, too many places to hide, he thinks to himself trying to picture the best place for an ambush.

He finds one body, curled in on itself as if tossed into the corner. The next is under a nav table, arms over its head. The final one is the hardest to look at, in the pilot seat, hand still grasping the parachute release. He swallows as he takes in this futile effort to survive, picturing the final moments as the ground rises to meet them, the hopelessness.

He spins when he hears your voice.

“Wait, wait!”

“You should have stayed away-“

Ezra doesn't even think, he just shoots and the man with a blade at your throat drops. He didn't even know he could draw that fast. He fights off the adrenaline, calming his breathing as he approaches you. Your eyes are wide with shock and you take a deep breath looking up at him.

“Thank you, Ezra.”

He just wants to pull you close, hold you against him, protect you with his body. With the suits and helmets, it would be uncomfortable so he grabs your hand and pulls it to his chest.

“Think nothing of it.”

“I didn't think there could be any survivors.” At that he examined the body. Shit, the suit, the emblem, the skull etched into the glass of his helmet.

“That, little bird, is because there aren't any. It appears that the locals are here.”

You squeeze his hand. “We've got to hurry.”

He nods, “Give me three coins.”

He’s found them. You'd already known they'd be dead but the confirmation sits heavily over you. You hand him the coins.

“You finish here, I'll take care of them. Don't worry.”

The kindness he's showing by doing it for you aches in your chest. You take the frustration out on the unsuspecting control panel. Tearing into it, pulling parts out, desperately trying to get a grip on your emotions and breathe a sigh of relief when you emerge, chip in hand. No one has ever extracted one so quickly you reckon. You shove it in your pack.

Heading to Ezra you take his hand, try to convey thanks through the touch alone. Thanks for saving you, thanks for not making you bear this burden solitarily, thanks for just being company after so long alone. You look up at him, he's chewing his words again but doesn't speak so you turn and lead him out.

In the engine room you seize a battery and yank it from the wall, grateful the lights stay on. Ezra takes it from you. “Don't argue birdie I'm bigger than you.”

He's cut off by a horn echoing through the ship. You swallow.

Taking his hand again, you both creep out of the room. Every sound is too loud, you curse your boots, the rattle of your tools, your own harsh breathing. You can't fail now, you're so close. At the sound of footsteps, you pull Ezra through a door into a room with bunks, closing the door as quietly as you can, you both hold your breath. As they pass the door his grip tightens on yours so much you feel the heat of his hand through your gloves. His eyes scan your face, like he's trying to memorise what you look like. You realise you’re doing the same to him.

When they pass you glance around the room as Ezra slumps against the door his eyes shut tightly. As you let go of him you see something in the corner of your eye. No fucking way. It's a gem case, unassuming on the outside but far bigger than the one Ezra carried. Item number six.

You shove it into your bag.

⧫⧫⧫

Neither of you seem to breath for the rest of your journey through the ship. Eyes and ears too peeled to do much else. The second you see the light outside you swallow. You say a prayer to yourself as you creep towards it.

The light blinds you as you step out. Something shoves you to the side, you hit the ground hard knocking the wind out of you as you try to see what hit you. The second your eyes adjust to the light you see Ezra trying to knock back one of the locals, trying to gain space to draw. You wrestle your pistol out of your holster and aim but you can't shoot. Their dance is too close and you're afraid to hit Ezra.

It all happens in slow motion. The stranger thrusts his spear into Ezra's stomach and pulls it out. He cries out stumbling back giving you a straight shot. You fire the same moment as the local brings his spear down on Ezra’s helmet.

You shoot too late.

Ezra drops back against the ship sliding to sit. Shattered glass glitters over the ground around you threatening to cut your knees as you crawl to him. His helmet is shattered.

“No no no no no” you press on the wound in his stomach tugging your pack off your back to get the med kit. “We've got to go, there's going to be more of them.”

He puts a hand over yours. “Little bird, I'm afraid my adventure has come to its conclusion”

You look at his face. “No Ezra! I can close this for now, we've got time. We can make it back.” His eyes are wide and sad, wet with the threat of tears. “Don't look at me like that!” There's desperation in your voice.

“You've got to go. Relieve yourself of my burden, you can repair the vessel and get away by yourself. You don't need me.”

“Shut up! I can't just leave you here.” You push his hands away and pull out a gun of sealing foam “Don't fucking argue with me, we've got so close you can't just give up.” Ignoring his arguments, you press the nozzle through his suit and fill his wound. He lets out a groan. As quick as you can, you pull your pack back on and stand seizing Ezra's arms and heaving him to his feet. He gives a short shout of pain but doesn't protest as you hook his arm over your shoulder for support.

You start to walk like this as the suns begin to dip. Keeping your pistol in your free hand you scan around you. The dead trees provide good cover but they also give any attackers the element of surprise so you do your best to listen out whilst you support Ezra.

It's a little difficult with his talking but you can't complain, not when it means he's still alive. But he's getting heavy, putting more weight on you, you don't know how long you can hold him up. Just as you're beginning to feel truly weak his topic of conversation changes.

“Little bird, it has been an exponential honour to be enclosed within your company. To have your trust if only a little. Kevva, the chance to learn your body the way I got to was a treasure worth more than any gem I could find. I only wish I could learn your mind just as intimately, to possess the knowledge of what makes you laugh, cry, your favourite food, favourite music. I'd cherish every drop of yourself you'd let me have until I could carry a vault of you with me”

“Ezra, don't…”

“The opportunity is being stolen from me, I both resent it and I'm so grateful for the time I've had. Little bird, don't let my soliloquy deceive you. I mean every word.”

You can't stop moving, but you grab onto him a little tighter. Letting yourself squeeze your eyes closed just for a moment to fight off the tears. There's no guarantee he'll survive, no hope yet, no point admitting feelings just to let him die. It would hurt too much.

You keep walking. Reminding Ezra to breath as slow as he can. Holding yourself together just to keep him upright.

Then you see it, your pod, through the trees, dark against the burning red sky.

There are two locals at the door. They turn.

Before you can think to react, Ezra pushes you aside as a spear careens where you'd just been stood. Drawing before you can blink, he fires twice. The locals fall. And then, so does he.

⧫⧫⧫

You aren't sure if you're saying his name out loud or just in your head. You roll him into his back and try to shake him awake. He doesn't even stir.

Instead, you seize the straps of his pack and use them to drag him towards your pod.

Your muscles are screaming after supporting him for so long but you don't let up, drawing strength from who knows where.

How did the pod seem so close minutes ago? Now it's miles away.

You don't know when you started crying.

You don't stop moving, can't stop until you've managed to pull him inside and seal the door. You yank off your helmet, tossing it aside and falling to your knees next to him pressing your ear to his chest, desperately trying to hear his heart through his suit.

It's dead silent.

That's when you scream. Tears streaming down your face you bring your fist down on his chest as hard as you can.

“Breath you bastard! Take a fucking breath!” You're sobbing now, “You can't just leave me here, leave me all alone. Not after all this. Not when we got so close.”

You curl over him pressing your face to his, your tears dripping onto him leaving tracks through the dust and blood on his skin. “You can't leave me alone,” it's barely a whisper. “Ezra.” You say his name over and over again like a prayer.

And then his chest moves.

You don't know whether you should laugh. You just keep bawling as you tear off his suit and grab his hand.

He doesn't wake up but it's enough, you squeeze his warm hand for another second before wiping at your face and getting your med kit. “Let's see what I can do about this wound hmm?”

⧫⧫⧫

Ezra hears someone calling his name. But they seem so far away. He tries to move towards the voice but it's like moving through syrup. He lets himself sink back.

⧫⧫⧫

The wound is deep and spurts with blood as you pull out the foam, painting your hands in the same red as the sky outside. Pursing your lips, you apologise to him, hoping he doesn’t feel the pain. Cleaning the wound takes time but as far as you can tell the spear managed to avoid all his organs so you seal it up as best you can. The lack of oxygen is what has you truly worried, who knows what damage could have been done in the time it took you to drag him to the pod. With your medication he might heal but you can’t be sure. You fight off the thoughts of what you’d have to do if he never did wake up. Would you be able to bury him?

You sleep curled to his side, a hand on his shoulder. It’s fitful, plagued by nightmares of waking up to find him cold. Every time you wake up crying, you watch his chest rise and fall and pray, he’ll make his way back to you.

⧫⧫⧫

The next thing he hears is a clang followed by a curse, then it's silent again

⧫⧫⧫

Ezra made it through the night. To distract yourself from worrying he might never wake, you wrap him up warm and begin to repair the pod. It’s slow work but its methodical movements help regulate your breathing. Until you hear a grunt. You drop whatever you were working on and swear to yourself as you kneel by him. But he’s no more present than before. Perhaps you had imagined it. Prayed so hard you’d began torturing yourself. You look over him, how could you go on without him. No one to make you laugh, or care what happens to you. It’s justice you suppose, just another thing for you to feel guilty about. You suppose you’ll go on just to keep feeling that guilt.

Again, you barely sleep.

⧫⧫⧫

And then, as if surfacing from a dive, Ezra opens his eyes. His back hurts. He works out why as, slowly, he identifies the ceiling above him. He's lying on the floor with nothing more than a pillow and a blanket that's been tucked all around him up to his neck. He wrestles his arms free, stretching them above his head and then prodding his stomach, it's tender but the wound is closed. Then he sits up with a grunt.

You're stretching up to try and pull a ration bar of the top shelf of your measly kitchen cupboard. You swear and turn to find something to climb on and then you see Ezra.

He's sitting up, grinning from ear to ear. You nearly jump a foot into the air and then you’re frozen to the spot. He chuckles to himself and clambers to his feet, it looks difficult but you aren't sure you can move to help so you stay put as he supports himself along the wall and approaches you.

“Little bird, you are the most incredible, fascinating, stubborn creature I have ever laid my eyes upon.” And then he's pulling you into his chest, wrapping you in such a grip it's a little difficult to breath but you don't mind. You just hug him back, if gently, very aware of how he'd recently been stabbed. He buries his nose in your hair. “How long was I out?”

“Three days, I managed to melt down some meds to inject you so you… well, so you actually healed. Oh, and then I fixed the pod but it didn't feel safe to take off what with you having a hole in you.”

He laughs, you can feel it rolling through his body and it makes you grin. It's so alive.

“May I also ask why I was on the floor?” That's your cue to laugh to.

“Do you honestly think I could lift you onto the cot?”

“Frankly little bird, I didn't think you could have got me to the pod. You are certainly a force to be reckoned with and not one to be underestimated.”

You close your eyes and breath him in. “I almost didn't make it.” He just shushes you running his hands up and down your sides.

“No point wondering what could have been birdie. You saved me.” You look up at him, his eyes are wet as he smiles down at you. “What I did to deserve it may evade my knowledge forever, but it must have been spectacular.”

You feed Ezra and then force him to stay still for the day. Even as he protests you don't really think he minds, finally getting an opportunity to finish reading ‘The Power’. You sleep curled into his side.

The next day you leave.

⧫⧫⧫

Two days floating in space before the station slings back to pick you up. The sense of relief is immense. Ezra is in the seat next to you, any other person telling such a graphic tale about a flight home wrong would've sprung anyone with nerves but you just grin. You made it, you both made it.

“Even split, little bird? Although, I can't say I find the idea of us separating particularly appealing.”

You grin, “Me neither, although I do maintain the even split, you save my arse, I save yours.”

He smirks, “I'll have your arse anytime” you smack his knee with what was formerly his copy of ‘Perfume’. He scowls playfully, tossing his own book aside and tugging you into his lap.

And then looks totally bemused as your mouth drops open, “Holy shit I can't believe I forgot!” You hop off him and he grumbles at you but watches curiously wondering what you'd forgotten that was so important. You kneel to open your pack, pulling out a gem case. A huge gem case.

“Where in that abhorrent hell did you manage to acquire that?”

“I think it was why I was told to bring down that ship, I picked it up in the bunk room.”

It's locked but you happily spend the next half an hour gently taking apart one screw at a time. Ezra watches you the whole time, not even thinking about your bounty, just enjoying how you hum to yourself and smile every time a screw comes loose, batting his hands away every time he grabs at you. It's domestic.

You meet his eye as the last screw comes loose and he joins you kneeling on the floor. “Let's not get our hopes up” you say, “We've got more than enough to last a while whatever happens.” He nods and you pull the case open.

His jaw drops. “That is remarkable.”

You meet his eye and laugh. You've never seen him look so surprised. There are three gems inside, each one about the size of your head.

He lets out a huff of laughter “I’m beginning to suspect there was nefarious business afoot on that ship…”

“Ezra?”

“Mmhm?”

“I think I'd like to go somewhere with a sea.”

“Little bird, I suspect that can be arranged” Then he kisses you, pulling you against him.

You wriggle back, “Even split?” He just grins and bites at your ear.

In no time at all you’re in his lap as you pull off each other’s clothes. He rubs his beard against your bare neck to make you giggle as he nibbles it, hands roaming all over you. You nip his collar bone making him groan, it flips a switch in him and seconds later he’s grabbing your hips to position you over his cock.

He lowers you down so slowly it makes you squirm and whimper and beg him to move.

He grins at you, catlike, “We’ve got all the time in the world, little bird. And I intend to use it”

⧫⧫⧫

Hours later you wake. Ezra is snoring quietly into your neck tempting you to rouse him. You’re thirsty though, so, reluctantly, you peel his arms off you to get a glass of water. As you return your toe catches on your suit where it lies on the floor. As you reach to move it your ring drops out of the pocket, clinking quiet onto the ground.

You bend to pick it up and look at Ezra, then back at the ring. Had you not gone through all those years in that gang of pirates, you’d never have found him, never got to save his arm or his life. You both might be dead. You had been right; you couldn’t change your past. But you’d never know what else might have happened. There’s still guilt, there always will be. But you feel a little lighter.

You put on the ring and return to Ezra. He pulls you against his chest without waking.

You smile.

~~~~~~~~

Taglist: @engineeredfiction @mothandpidgeon @sleep-tight1

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the-darklings · 3 years

Text

╱ i only love it when you touch me, not feel me.

pairing: jean & clara verse: npfh word count: 3.1k+ warnings: nsft, bathroom/mirror sex (because that's who they are as people), rough sex (but they're both so into it I'm not sure it even counts), cockwarming. notes: so this was written all the way back in January but it's the first piece of what I considered to be the real beginning of their dynamic (which I've expanded upon in ASE) despite writing them a lot prior to this point. it's also the first time I ever tried to write from jean's pov so enjoy. this is not super explicit and more character exploration because apparently smut is good for those. as always, any feedback is loved and appreciated 🌿 ✨

He’s never cared much for his name.

Or, more accurately, never cared what sentiment it was spoken with. He’s heard his name being called lovingly, with hatred, suspicion, fear, and hatred alike. Moaned desperately and worshipped—latter he’s always preferred the most.

“I'm not going to touch you unless you beg.”

Clara, however, has an infuriatingly persistent ability to make him crave his own name. From her mouth specifically.

Jean could fuck her until she’s barely coherent and it still won’t be enough. This woman fights and fights, and doesn’t give him an inch of ground. All liquid flame and viciousness, and he can’t help but wonder where the hell she’s been hiding all this time.

With Camorra, a sly voice reminds him, Giovanni De Stefano’s deadly little matchstick. So good at death.

She is. She's a master at death and maybe that’s what makes this so fun, so good, and addictive. Why he irritatingly finds his blood burning whenever he sees her. Why he looks forward to every occasion their bodies touch. Whenever those dark eyes fixate on him and pin him in place, a monster deep down stirs, purrs at her presence. His desire is a monster with its own life, its own insatiable appetite for her.

Jean prefers when she pins him with her lithe body—eyes flashing and teeth bared, a powerful but dangerous package of hunger.

He had expected her to be meek. Broken. Especially after Tokyo. She’s proven to be anything but. Even at her worst, she’s still a sharpened blade. A danger, a promise of destruction. Damaged, certainly, but unbroken and unyielding. The more he learns about Tokyo the more his head rings with but one downright greedy thought.

The Viper hasn’t taken another lover since then. No one has touched her or tasted her since her rebirth. No one has fucked her, brought her to the edge, made her moan and shudder. Given her an escape and a release. Satisfied her.

No one knows the scrunch of her nose or the way her lips part softly. A whisper of air slipping free with every slow, lingering kiss against her throat.

Expect him.

His hips stutter at that thought. It always makes him feel good. To know that he alone has claimed some tiny part of her. Jean knows full well it’s only because she allowed him to claim it but that’s its own kind of buzz. He likes how she burns. How she yields only when she wants to. Liquid flame melting into his body like she was made to fit in his arms.

It’s sex at the end of the day. It doesn’t have to or even need to have meaning—he would know—but she makes it mean something. Emotions aside, she challenges him with such acute precision, he can’t help but come and meet her in the middle; an unending battle of wills. For all the dullness and predictability of their world, she’s a tempest, utterly untamed.

“And would you prefer if I begged?” he whispers against the shell of her ear, watching their reflection—the way they fit, the way she leans into him, trust, trust, trust, that he won’t let her fall, and they exist in these tiny victories. “Mmh? Ma vipére.”

He hums with a wolfish grin, his words throaty, pressing another greedy kiss against the back of her neck, then side, his lips dragging over her soft skin. “For you, I might,” he adds slyly, meeting her stare in the bathroom mirror again.

He might be losing, but she's losing quicker.

Clara doesn’t answer right away—a clever, careful thing that she is, his viper—and they watch each other for a moment, his pace slowing.

The bathroom door is closed, secured with one of her blades, they don’t need to rush but Jean wants to. He can savour her later, in their bed, where she’s his and his alone, where he can do everything to her. If only because he knows she’s no better. Because any scrap of pleasure she will return with an intensity that will leave him bloody.

She has in the past. His back is a colourful tale of her ravenous hunger. The Viper likes to mark him. It likely pleases her, to know she has her venom in his system in the form of her sultry whispers, kisses and moans. Blazing eyes and coil of her limbs around his.

Clara’s stare is, as usual, burning—an almost physical thing. Even like this, with him so deep inside her—and fuck if she isn’t hot, and slick, and welcoming in ways he quite remember fitting with others, and there've been plenty—she doesn’t lose her proud edge. She enjoys it, getting under his skin. Pushing him. Melting the ice, she once murmured with her mouth pressed against the taut skin of his lower stomach and sinking ever lower. Testing his self-control with her mouth wrapped around him, and her tongue searing and wet; a viper delighting in her poison spreading so effectively.

It does say something about his self-control because, despite the temptation, he doesn’t simply fuck into her until they’re both lost in pleasure so deep they can’t get out of it.

The skin of her chest is flushed, her swollen lips parted, her expression slacker with pleasure but she still stares him down.

His fingers sink into the cut of her hip, pushing her harder against the cold marble of the bathroom sinks, rolling his own hips, and it makes her shudder in his hold. So Jean presses another hungry kiss to her pulse, lets his teeth scrape against it, sucking on it. Prodding at the weak spot masterfully. He can be mean, too. She likes it when he is. Just as much as he likes it when she lets those sharper edges of hers out.

Her strong legs hold her upright but she clenches around him in reply and fuck, fuck, fuck, what is it about her?

All he wants to do is bend her over this fucking counter and fuck her until she’s screaming his name. Not that it would do him much good. Clara is as likely to let him do it as she is to graze her blade across his throat for trying. He would be lying if he said the thought of that fight doesn’t thrill him, makes him want to try it anyway. He’s only managed to get a drop on her like this a few times. Sink himself into her from behind so deeply she hadn’t been able to shake him off till she was sated and panting with pleasure.

Then, of course, the viper had tightened her grip on him in return, paying him back in kind with her bite and her venom.

The bite he enjoys a little too much. The venom is becoming… a concern.

He’s worked for years to remove any ties, any weaknesses, from his life. No one can ever have anything on him. He’s the one with the web, he’s the one who controls others. Sly implication and whispers and they’re oh, so destructive but she…

Jean snaps himself inside her, pulsing and so hard he has to grit his teeth. Clara’s hand seeks purchase desperately, her fingers snapping behind herself. Breathing deeply, she lets her nails sink into the back of his neck—firm, near painful—and he hisses through his teeth, pulling away from the hollow of her neck.

“You would like it, won’t you?” he gasps into her ear, and her nails sink deeper, so he fucks her harder. His hips are merciless against the soft skin of her thighs. Yet Clara stands unmoving, near silently goading him with her resilience and coyness. She’s so fucking wet. He’ll need a cigarette after this, or three. “On my hands and knees, non? Vicious vipère. Give in first.”

“No.”

He almost laughs at that. At the caustic hiss of her voice. Of course, she won’t. It’s why even though he’s gotten her, it makes him wonder if he truly has. If he ever will.

The more he has her, the more he wants her. And it’s a dangerous thing. To want, to crave, to hoard her the way he does.

“Then I’ll just fuck you harder, chérie.”

He wraps around her tighter, nibbling on the shell of her ear, dragging his other hand between her thighs. He feels the muscle there, the strength, he likes those legs around his waist and head too. Usually when her taste is hot on his tongue and she’s a squirming, hateful mess above him, tearing at his hair as hard as she can while she grinds onto his face.

He sucks on the curve of her neck at the memory, nibbling, wanting nothing more than to mark her with his teeth as she marked him this morning. Crinkled eyes and a content smile when she curled around him after. A predator satisfied with her hunt.

She’s addictive.

Usually, it’s the other way around. Maybe still is. But he can’t let it go much further than this. A carnal need and nothing more than that.

If he knew about this, about her…

Jean doesn’t allow the thought conclusion.

She’s nothing, he repeats to himself with every push and every strangled exhale, just a means to an end.

She never once looks away.

Clara gazes at them, takes in the way he moves in her, her eyes hooded and intent. Daring him. Even after she confessed to him how that man used to watch her. How it made her abhor every touch, despise being watched. She watches him—them, joined, with his fingers hard against her clit, drawing more of those little gasps of pleasure that sound like music to him—and he can’t help but stare too.

He should take advantage of the weakness, prod it and scrub at it until he can bend her to his will, but he loves her fire too much. Covets it like a man starved—and they both are, aren’t they—starved for more. Each other.

He wants her. For more than just a quick fuck. More than just a means by which he can bury his problems. Just more, more, more. And it sickens him, but it also makes him feel strangely relieved as well, that realisation. The acceptance of it. He would never admit it to anyone but himself but he does. It forces him to feel raw, unbalanced. He hasn’t felt like this in years. He hates it but it also makes him feel high, alive.

In revenge, he sucks on the smooth skin again, lets his teeth bite and nibble, releasing her hip and burying his fingers in her pulled-back hair. Chestnut strands loosen in his iron grasp and he only does it because he knows for a fact she doesn’t have any sharp pointy metal hidden up there. He watched her get ready. Her graceful, supple body was an open invitation for him. A sight to admire, and he did. He worshipped her with his attention, letting her know without a word how every curve and every freckle of hers sang to him. Beguiled him further.

He pulls on Clara’s hair, forcing her chin upwards, at an angle, and she still defies him. Still glares and brims with power.

A strangled pant escapes her at the change of angle, in how he slams back into her, her nails slicing into his neck. Jean hopes she draws blood even if he would have to get creative about explanations later.

“Jean.”

It’s a breathy, bewitching thing—snaring him, pulling him deeper into her, and he audibly gasps a breath, feeling even more starved. Now he wishes to claim a litany of those tiny, appreciative exhales of his name. He feels the muscles in his lower stomach grow tauter with every thrust, with every taste of her skin, and the sounds of their shared pleasure.

They penetrate the air, echoing off the walls, and they are as animalistic and as intensive as the pleasure they create.

“What?” he groans appreciatively, their eyes still locked, and heat between them sweltering. She drives him insane. He’s removed emotional attachments from himself years ago—didn’t even realise he’s still capable of them—but nothing about her, them, makes sense. She’s the one thing he can’t predict or control. “What do you want? Tell me.”

Drive me to the edge, he wants to goad her, tugging on her hair again, and he manages to dislodge a moan from the back of her throat, push me, claim what you want.

“You,” she whispers in teeth-clenched defeat but to him, it’s a symphony. This time, he won. He knows she’ll get him back. Twice as badly most likely. But saints above, did he win? She’s so open and warm, the scent of jasmines and earth mixing with his cologne and musk of sex, and he pushes into her deeper till they’re completely pressed into each other. Moulded into one being. “You.”

He feels every tense muscle in her body, and his fingers slip from her hair, curving around her throat instead, and a flutter of a smile appears, coy and knowing.

Fuck.

The things this woman does to him.

He speeds the already merciless pace until she’s a shivering mess inside his embrace, clinging out of sheer stubbornness alone. Deeper, deeper, deeper—a cruel part of him is set on planting himself inside her very marrows, so she will never be able to feel or know another lover. Not even the Italian, a voice deep down snarls. It’s so wholly and truly selfish yet he craves it. If he is to lose this game between them, he will make her lose first. Make this need between them mutual until neither of them knows where one ends and the other begins.

Jean can’t look away from her, certainly not when pushes and pushes, not when he feels her throat bob under his hand as she swallows. Wanting and needing and trusting his touch. He feels her quivering, her muscles tightening, whispering to him that—

Her orgasm washes over her like a tidal wave—slow but so intense that for the first time, he feels Clara’s legs tremble. His hold on her constricts, steadying her, and his viper withers in his embrace, a beautiful undoing. He lets her ride her orgasm out, watching her mouth, her fluttering lashes, the bead of sweat clinging between the dip of her breasts.

It's then—watching her, memorising how she looks like this; relaxed and glowing—that his own orgasm finally overpowers him. For a moment, Jean finds himself robbed of sight because she washes everything away. He spills himself inside her, letting her feel his pleasure this time. He moans for her, splinters for her, lets the world fade away just for a moment.

This is his gift, he wants to tell her then, the fact that when it’s them, it’s just them alone. There’s nothing else outside of her and he’s never allowed another this close, not since…

But he can’t adequately put that into words for her, nor does he want to. She can’t know. He hopes there will never be a day when he has to explain everything to her.

If she knew him—saw all the festering darkness like a rotting carcass out in the open—she would hate him. It would be better if she did. Maybe her hatred would make it easier to let her go.

He can’t think of that right now.

Instead Jean sinks his teeth into the slim arch of her throat, savouring the appreciative gasp she releases, dragging her nails down the side of his neck. He promised her this morning he will return the favour sooner rather than later after all.

He laps at the bite with his tongue—heat, sweat, and remnants of her soap tingling his tongue—and looks up from beneath his lashes. Her eyes appear black with pleasure. He can barely see blue in his own.

Two monsters, a thought comes then, unbidden. It’s as pleasant as it is seductive. Mainly because he knows he’s right. Cut from the same cloth, sewn into being by similar hardships, and capable of such awful things.

He’s still semi-hard inside of her but his grip on her throat loosens—and the thought she trusts him enough to let him touch her like this is thrilling enough—his palm journeying downwards. Clara sighs quietly when his palm settles against her lower stomach, and he pushes gently, savouring the breathless gasp that follows. He has to choke one back himself. She feels like heaven. Or hell. A mix of both. Still, he keeps pressing, letting the pressure sit there, feeling himself twitching inside her. Them, joined together at the seams, and the heat between them overbearing. They could go again but he doesn’t want to move just yet. It feels good to be inside her like this; a promise of more gratification sitting snugly between them.

His nose drags up the length of her neck, and he buries his face in Clara’s hair, inhaling deeply. She’s wearing his favourite perfume tonight. Something warm and deep with jasmines blooming in his lungs. If it were her, she would go on a whole monologue, breaking each chemical ingredient down and every scent used in creating it.

He likes her distracted, mind-boggling dialogues. Then nearly scoffs at the mere thought. Since when? Since when does he give a shit about something like that? It serves no purpose to him and he doesn’t waste time on things that don’t.

Because it’s her, comes the sinking realization, because she says these things, so they matter.

Merde.

He tenses when her hand settles on top of his, pushing once, harder. Another soft sigh leaves her while Jean doesn’t bother biting back his groan of appreciation at the flare of fierce hot pleasure.

Clara’s mesmeric expression arrests something inside of him when he spots it. For a second, his vision blurs and the black dress drips into white, and she wears that same peaceful expression as she sinks into a river and doesn’t resurface. A dream that haunts him near-nightly now.

He blinks and then he’s back in the bathroom, his arms still around her. She’s here, with him, and his grip constricts further. He can make it work. He’ll find a way.

When has he ever compromised?

She means nothing, he tries to convince himself once again now that he’s back from his high.

But as he peers her—tiniest of smiles on her face, her freckles a roadmap for him to re-examine, loose strands of dark hair framing her flushed cheeks—a voice scratches itself from deep inside his chest.

A voice he hasn't heard in years, not since he called somewhere earthier and greener his home.

Liar.

an: head empty, just them. I could go on about them for five calendar months but hope you all enjoyed this little peek inside his head. ASE does contain Jean's pov so you'll def be seeing/learning more about him outside of just smut dfjhgdfg

#original writing #original prose #spilled prose #oc x oc #oc writing #writing #s: almost love #c: jean #c: clara #nsft

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samstrugglingwithlife · 4 years

Text

Babysitting With A Reserved Male Friend And Developing A Crush On Him

Genre: Fluff

Characters: Ushijima, Osamu, Daichi

Warning: Swearing.

A/n: Male reader x character. This is super long, I sorta got carried away. I GOT CARRIED AWAY WAY TOO FAR MAN! The premise of this ask was so cute and I can only hope I did it justice. I hope you guys enjoy it. This is my first time writing for a male reader so let me know if I did something wrong or if I didn’t capture the essence right.

It’s super long, so everything is under the cut.

USHIJIMA

This guy is pretty reserved himself, and on top of it, he's also pretty blunt and says things without much consideration. The two of you became 'friends' in your first year when one of the teachers asked you to help him with his studies.

You realised that Wakatoshi is not really as cold as he is clueless. Also, he was a bit of a dumbass, you were pretty surprised when you found out that his brain functioned at full capacity only when it came to volleyball. (A/N: Boy thought that the earth is flat and that Hinata was muscle training by clinging upside down to the surface on the other side of the planet... such dumbassery, I want him.)

You're third years now; you guys have been friends for about two years. Ushijima and you are both serious guys, you two like each other's companies even when you two sit together in silence.

It was a week before exams, that's when the two of you would usually get together in Ushijima's dorm room, and you would tutor him.

"Y/n," he called you just as you left your last class of the day. "Hmm?" "Are you coming today?"

You sigh, "Sorry. Maybe tomorrow. I have to babysit my little sister tonight," he nodded in reply and proceeded to walk away. You thought about it a little and called out to him, "Hey, you can come to my house. I was gonna study literature today."

Wakatoshi nodded and promised to see you at your place after practice. You texted him your address.

Outside the boundaries of your home, you were very reserved, you kept to yourself and hardly had any friends other than Ushijima, and Tendou by extension. At home, you were a loving brother, you played with your sister, and you were her best friend; she was the reason you decided not to live in the Shiratorizawa dorms.

That evening, around six, Ushijima showed up at your place. He had never seen you in casual clothes before, you two only ever hung out at school, so he had only seen you in uniform, but you looked cute; he was dressed in his jogging tracksuit, typical.

Your sister was busy watching her favourite cartoons, so she didn't pay any attention as you led him to your room. You left him there to go get the two of you drinks from the kitchen.

Your room was just like you, it gave nothing away. It was sparsely furnished with only a bed, a dresser and a study table. All the colours were plain and neutral. However, there was one thing that stood out, a corkboard. It was covered in children's drawings and pictures of you and your baby sister.

There was one photo of you that caught his eye, it was you with your sister in your arms, and the two of you were grinning from ear to ear, paint smeared on both your cheeks.

"It was last month," Ushijima turned towards you. You walked further into your room, placing the tray with your drinks on your study table, you stand beside him and stare fondly at the photo. You trace your fingers gently over it, a small smile playing at your lips, his heart does a little ba-dump.

The two of you are immersed in your studies until your baby sister opens your door just a crack, "Nii-chan..." she calls out groggily, her little fists rubbing her eyes. You turn towards her and get up from your seat, picking her up. You look at the alarm clock and inhale in disbelief, "Oh! It's that late?"

"It's way past your bed time!" you pat her head as she places it in the crook of your neck and shoulder, tired. You softly hum a lullaby as you gently rock her. Ushijima's heart does another flip. He had known you for two years, but he had never seen you like this, with a sweet smile on your face and a gentle cadence in your voice. He didn't know you after all.

After you tuck your sister in bed, you walk with Wakatoshi to the end of your street. He always enjoyed your company, during lunch, in his dorm room when you helped him out with homework, yet he never in these two years felt what he felt in the last two hours.

Ever since that day, his heart always did a flip whenever you were around, he felt the urge to be near you, he felt protective of you. He didn't know what to call this feeling, but he quite liked it, whatever it was.

OSAMU

You and Osamu were classmates, you were his seat neighbour. The two of you became friends when Osamu offered to share his homemade onigiri with you, and you decided to share your homemade dessert with him. He enjoyed the feedback you gave him about his food. He wasn't exactly a fan of sweet things, but the desserts you made were to die for.

Osamu figured early on that you liked to keep to yourself most of the time, you just couldn't get along with your peers. You were on the soccer team but you never hung out with your teammates after practice, so far, Osamu was your only friend. You were both the quiet type, neither of you spoke much, but you always shared your lunches and sometimes chatted about your clubs - Osamu liked to complain about Atsumu sometimes, you found it very amusing.

It was during summer break. The two of you were texting (dry ass texters both of you), he was complaining about his brother and wanted to get out of the house. He invited you to hang out, but you had to decline because your mother was away on a work trip leaving you to look after your nine years old little twin brothers. You told him that he is welcomed to come to your place and hang out if he really wants to get away from Atsumu.

Osamu took you up on your offer, and within half an hour, he was at your doorstep, a bag of ingredients and snacks in his arms. The first thing he sees when you open the door to let him in is two identical twin boys clinging to you, all of you covered in flour.

You let him in, "We were just baking," you tell him awkwardly. You had flour in your hair, on your cheeks, your t-shirt, and your arms; for some reason, Osamu's heart quickened in his chest.

You looked questioningly at the bag in his hands, "Was gonna make onigiri..." he mumbles. Your brothers perked up, "Really?" they asked simultaneously. You chuckled at their voices. It was as if an arrow shot him straight through his heart. He had never heard you could laugh like that. How could you sound so boyish, so cute?

Nonetheless, Osamu followed you to the kitchen. You picked the boys up and sat them on the counter with a grunt, "Ushah! Now sit tight and lemme work ya lill' runts!" you playfully scold them. Osamu blinked, who were you? He didn't know this Y/n at all; the Y/n he knew spoke quietly and never uttered more than three words at a time, he especially did not make that fuckin' cute grunting sound.

He unloaded the items onto the counter next to you, he leaned closer to look into your bowl, "What're you makin'?" he asked. "Cookies," you reply. "I saw it online, wanna try it out."

You were busy working on your dough, animatedly interacting with your brothers, as Osamu rolled the onigiri, stealing little glances at you. He was caught completely off guard when he heard you laugh loudly at something your little brothers did, his face flushed as he looked at you, you sounded so different, so charming, your face looked so handsome and cute. He was seeing things he never noticed before, like how one of your incisors was sharper than the other and like despite being big and strong, your hands were so beautiful and so attractive in the way they delicately dealt with the food. "Osamu! yer squeezin' the rice too hard!" oh shit! He turned the rice ball into mulch.

After cleaning up, eating and playing with the boys, you found yourself seeing Osamu off at the door at the end of the day. "Sorry 'bout my brothers," you say as you nervously rub the back of your neck. "Don't worry 'bout it," he replies softly and places his hand on your head shocking both you and him. He retracts it quickly, "I-I had fun, see ya later," he says and hurriedly walks away.

"Ya had fun?"Atsumu asks him when he finally gets home and buries his face in his pillows. "Fuckin' cute..." Osamu mumbles to himself. "What?" Atsumu asks, not really catching what his brother said. "Shaddup," he replies. "YOU PICKIN' A FIGHT ASSHOLE?!!"

DAICHI

You and Daichi were neighbours. He knew you since you two were little so he knew you had trouble getting along with others and you mostly kept to yourself. He was the only exception, but even with him, you never spoke much.

Both of your parents were close friends as well, and both of your younger siblings were more or less in the same age group.

You often looked after all the children when the grown-ups had to go out since Daichi had club activities that ran pretty long on most days. The kids loved you, though Daichi found it hard to believe that such a quiet and reserved guy could entertain a bunch of hyperactive kids.

Today as well, you were in charge of taking care of the children as the adults left to go enjoy Friday. You were in the Sawamura household with the children, Daichi was still at practice.

On his end, Daichi felt relieved that practice ended early today and coach Ukai allowed them to go home. After buying his teammates pork buns he made his way home.

What he came home to caught him off guard, you were sitting on the couch with a storybook in your hands as the kids all sat in front of you on little cushions; you were reading to them, doing all the voices quite animatedly.

All of you heard him enter the house. The kids ran to him and swarmed around him, greeting him. "Y/n onii-san was reading a story to us!" his little sister exclaims. "Is that so?" "Wanna join us?" your brother asks him. "Sure."

Daichi took a seat beside you, you nod at him in a greeting. He rolls his eyes, "Hello to you too."

As you continued the story, the kids demanded that Daichi should do the voices as well. "I'm the wizard and the dragon," you tell him. "You have to be the princess and the parrot." Daichi groaned, "They're both very high pitched, I literally cannot do that!" You shrugged, "Not my problem."

As you continued the story and did your voices, Daichi kept his eyes on you, in all the years he had known you, this was the first time he had seen this side of you. Honestly, this bright personality suited you.

Soon his turn came, you scooted closer to him so you could share the book. "Oh no, I'm trapped in the tower," he started in his usual voice, all the kids whined, "Onii-chan! You have to do the voice!" his sister scolded him. Daichi sighed, "Help me!" he cried out the dialogue in a much higher pitch. "Pfft!"

He turned to glare at you and yell but his words got caught in his throat, your shoulders were shaking in a silent laugh, your hand on your mouth. Your eyes met his, they were so bright and looked so cheerfully youthful, so different from your usual look of guarded emotions. His breath hitched and he felt his face grow warmer as his heart did somersaults in his chest. 'It's the embarrassment,' he tried to convince himself.

He didn't know that he was staring that long until you nudged his knee with yours and pointed at his next line. Daichi cleared his throat and read it in a high pitch voice.

After the story was finished, the kids were sitting together and eating their snacks. Daichi slumped against the back of the couch, deep in thought, did his heart race because of you or the embarrassment?

"Hey," he looked up, you were standing over him, a glass of water in your hand. He sat up and gratefully took the drink from you, his fingers lightly brushed against yours and he felt his heart jolt in his chest. You didn't seem affected at all. 'It was because of you after all.'

"Thanks for playing along, man," you say in your usual reticent tone. Daichi shook his head and chuckled, "Like I had a choice," you chuckled at that.

From that moment onwards, Daichi was hyper-aware of everything you did, the way you looked in your uniform, the way your features were so boyish and young looking, the way your lips moved when you spoke.

Daichi cursed himself for having a crush on his childhood friend who also happened to be a guy; he needed to get over it fast so you wouldn't find out, afraid that you would distance yourself out of disgust if you ever got to know his feelings. Until then, however, he was going to hang around you as much as he could, just so he could admire you a little more before the crush wore off.

Spoiler alert! It never wore off and you found out.

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handy-dandy-monster-candy · 3 years

Text

Ruathym, part Three

Rating: NSFW Length: 2272 Pairing: Male Drider x GN Reader

The finale for the romance for @kim-monsterlings!

xxx

Much to your surprise, Ruathym gives you space. There are fewer summons and the spies make themselves ever scarcer, until you could swear there were long stretches of time in which you were truly alone. Even more surprising, you found yourself becoming restless and ill-tempered in these moments, losing your patience with even Tinki. (Of course, you make it up to the little, well-meaning creature; spiders, you learn, are surprisingly good at puppy-dog eyes.)

“You’ve been snapping at the staff left and right,” Ruathym says with no small amount of amusement some days later, braiding your hair down your scalp. It’s gotten longer, you realise, and you contemplate cutting it before your captor speaks. “Have I displeased you in some way?”

Yes, you wish to say, but you’re sure that the King has done nothing wrong. Not truly. “No,” you say instead, though it sounds unconvincing to your own ears.

“Hm,” hums Ruathym, tugging gently at your hair in admonishment. “With the way you’ve been acting, one might get the impression that you dislike being far from my side.” You twitch and he laughs, triumphant. “Is that it, my little bug? Have you come to crave the pull of my silk?”

“I wish you wouldn’t mock me,” you grouse, sighing heavily. “It reminds me why I prefer my own company.”

Ruathym chuckles, fingertips skating along the skin of your back before he picks you up and cradles you against him in his four arms. “I thought humans needed time to mourn their losses,” he says, searching your face with something sharper in his eyes than his usual derision. “I’m no reader of minds, my sweet. You must tell me if you have want of me.”

You scoff. You can’t help it. When has being vulnerable ever served you well? You almost bite his fingers when he turns your face to look into your eyes, sighing once again in your defeat. “And if I do?” you challenge, lifting your proud chin. “What of it?”

“Then you shall become my consort,” says Ruathym, with a simple frankness that flabbergasts you.

“Your—what?” you gasp, distantly aware that your lips are flapping like a fish on the docks.

“Do try not to make me repeat myself,” Ruathym replies in exasperation, pinching your chin. “My consort. My lover. Whatever you humans call those of our stations in courtship.”

“But I’m human!” you splutter, struggling to sit up straighter in his arms.

“I’m aware,” drawls Ruathym, helping you get your bearings—at least physically. “Did you think I was sleeping with you because you disgusted me?”

“I…” You don’t have the words. You don’t know what you thought, but it definitely wasn’t this. “You think I’m attractive?”

“What did I just say about making me repeat myself?”

You huff, scowling up into his handsome, angular face. “You wouldn’t be. I want answers, not riddles.”

Ruathym snorts indelicately, one of his few habits that doesn’t come with some modicum of damnable grace. “Yes, I find you attractive. No one else has the audacity to speak to me the way that you do. I find it thrilling.”

“You mean you like it when I’m cruel.” You frown. “That’s not what I’m after. I don’t want to be cruel to my lover. If you want to court me, you do it right.”

Ruathym carefully sets you down on the bed, curling his legs up under himself and draping his humanoid torso across plump, velvety pillows. “Teach me what humans do ‘right’, then,” he commands, gesturing for you to speak.

You flounder for a moment; this was not how you expected your evening to go. “We… We court,” you say dumbly, gesticulating helplessly. “We exchange gifts of trinkets and flowers, we write one another letters, we—well, usually there’s pining involved, I suppose.”

“How dull,” sighs the King, watching you beneath his thick, silvery lashes. “Driders kill for their lovers.”

The weight of his words isn’t lost on you. You think of your brother and his knights—of the entirety of the kingdom laid to waste at your feet. You feel lightheaded, blood creeping up your neck and up into your face. You have to resist the urge to hide from the slow, smug smirk of satisfaction that melts onto the Drider King’s face. Damn the man. Had he been courting you in his own way this entire time? Damn him!

“What about the Queen?” you ask, hedging around the obvious revelation and latching onto one of your more prominent doubts.

Ruathym blinks hard, clearly startled. “What about her?”

“You’re married,” you say, “and she hates me. Won’t she want me dead once she realises her lover’s attention has strayed?”

The King laughs, hard and loud, throwing his head back with his mirth and revealing his fangs. “She’s never loved me a day in her life,” he manages to gurgle after several seconds of laughter, “and the feeling is mutual. We married for politics and to spawn strong children. That’s all. If she so much as schemes to harm a hair on your head, I will kill her or die trying.”

“Ruathym!”

“What? Does it shock you? I protect what is mine, little bug, and you are what I wish to possess in your entirety.”

You bristle at this, though you curse your stupid heart for fluttering in your chest like a tizzied moth. “I’m not a thing, Ruathym. You can’t possess me. Either you love me, or our arrangement remains the same.”

Ruathym shrugs an elegant shoulder, expression shifting into something bordering on thoughtful. “What is love to a human may not be love to a drider, little one. I want you, more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. Is that not love? I would kill you before I allowed you to court another. Is that not love? I would lay down my life to protect you. Is that not love, this powerful, ugly thing?”

You don’t know what to say to this. You want to object, but your heart is pounding too loudly, your thoughts are too muddled. Never has someone felt so strongly about you, and while your feelings are conflicted, you can’t deny that there’s something intoxicating about the King and his firm command of you in and out of the bedchambers.

Courtship with Ruathym is… interesting. He sends you poisonous flowers at first for their beauty, unaware that their very touch could kill you. When you correct him, he expresses his disdain for human frailty, but then he sends for roses and takes the care to have their thorns removed so as to avoid any chance of injury. It’s excessive and obnoxious, but it’s endearing in its own way, even if you’ve never been particularly fond of roses. Still, each bouquet is a different colour paired with different complimentary flowers, and you begin to look forward to your weekly deliveries with something like anticipation.

Then there are the letters.

As expected, Ruathym’s lettering is swooping and elegant, more reminiscent of ornamental calligraphy than what one would use for writing to a lover. Still, each letter holds within it a terribly sweet awkwardness that lets you know that he’s never written a letter out of love in the whole of his life. He’s strangely formal at first, addressing you by all of your names in the greetings of his first few letters, but it isn’t long before he’s dropping them all in favour of addressing you as he does in person. It makes your heart flutter oddly in your chest to see ‘little bug’ written in such beautiful, glittering script, shimmering silver on charcoal grey parchment.

Soon, they become less letters and more little notes delivered on scraps here and there. Tiny doodles of advisors dying terrible deaths done in the throes of boredom, or tidbits of trivia from the kingdom at large. Did you know we had 5,363 cattle in the region of the L’Surba Caverns? Neither did I know nor care, one says, and you snort into your tea at the thought of the King sitting proudly while some poor sod with an abacus counted out their livestock from the sum of several reports. While you missed the weight of your crown, you did not exactly miss all of the bureaucracy attached to it.

He takes you on little outings, here and there. At first it’s a simple stroll through the gardens, sharing meals and speaking about your days. Then, as you both grow bolder, outings to meet—or, in his case, intimidate—the people. Finally, with glamours and enchantments, you take to the countryside for days at a time, disguised as a couple or adventurers on a quest. It’s during these outings that you get to know him best, away from the bustle of the castle, where his impetuous charm and rakish smiles lure you to him like a moth to flame, and you crash and burn in his heated embrace.

One evening many months later, you are summoned to a part of the palace that you rarely frequent, for it is usually crawling with servants and vassals of every kind. Now, however, the halls are quiet and still, and the servant who leads you to the chamber where Ruathym awaits disappears like a whisper in the dark. There, in the centre of the room, is a set of robes unlike any you’ve ever seen, woven in shimmering silk dyed the colour of rubies. You approach as if in a dream, running your fingers along embroidery in the shape of tiny silver spiderlings along the shoulders and hems—you nearly jump out of your skin when the King drapes himself across your back.

“What is this?” you whisper, looking over your shoulder at his soft, searching face.

“Your wedding attire,” he says, and he seems unperturbed when you draw away, stunned.

“My what? Your wife!”

“Is dead,” Ruathym simply replies, shaking his head at your unasked question. “We had a clutch of eggs. She went the natural way. The children feed on her yet.”

You grimace at this, though you can’t deny the relief you feel at her passing. “You’re a father now?”

“I am. You will also be their parent, when we wed.”

“‘When’? You’re assuming I’ll accept!”

“Would you deny me?” he asks sharply, eyes narrowing into gleaming slits.

Your stomach flips. “Well,” you say, flustered and at a loss. “This is all so sudden, Ruathym!”

“Is it really?” he asks, reeling you in against him again. “We’ve posed as newlyweds before. Why is it so different now?”

“Because it’s real now! We wouldn’t be pretending!”

“Who says that I was pretending before?” he demands, trapping you between his body and the robe on the mannequin. “It was practise.”

You feel your face burning, and you’re sure you might blend into the robe at your back if given just a little more provocation. “You despicable little—“

“Yes, yes, call me names,” he says, waving away your insults. “Later. Give me your answer now.”

“You know my answer,” you grumble, pushing ineffectively at his chest.

“I know it,” he confirms, smugness in every syllable. “I wish to hear it.”

You kiss him instead, drawing him into a passionate embrace and climbing up into his arms when he lifts you off your feet. You hadn’t seen the bed in the corner of the room, but that’s where he takes you a moment later, tossing your “irritating human clothing” over the edge of it and onto the floor. You expect him to bend you over the pillows. You expect him to claw at your skin, to bite at your shoulders, to whisper filth into your ears.

He kisses you instead.

He kisses you like neither of you have ever borne a crown—as if he could find the answers in the hazing of your eyes when he steals your breath with his tongue, hands in your hair and burning along your spine. He teases you open with his fingers until you’re reduced to begging for release, and then he presses into you with soft, shuddering breaths spilling from his lips, eyes on your face as you toss your head back into the sheets and writhe.

He sighs your name like a psalm when you come around him, and then he pushes into you again and again, his cool fingers threading between yours and holding you firmly against the bed as you shake apart beneath him. You feel something in your chest unbreak when he bites you without fang, staying present for every moment that his lips brush against yours and your name falls into the pool of heat between you.

This time, when he comes, he shatters like a shower of glass and sparks, cresting against you like a wave and pushing you over the edge all over again, throat trapped desperately—willingly—between his teeth. When your eyes focus again, you find him looking down at you with a tenderness you’d never thought him capable of, and it makes you want to hide. “What?” you whisper up at him, trying and failing to tug a bit of the sheets over your body.

“I love you, little bug,” Ruathym whispers back, tracing your lips with his thumb. “I have done and will do so until this heart in my chest stops beating.”

“That’s so dark,” you say, “for a declaration of love.”

“It is my declaration, and I am not a man of light. Would you deny me?”

“No,” you breathe, shyly reaching up to touch his face. “I love you, too.”

Ruathym smiles, and despite his words, it lights up the room. “I know.”

You snort. “Bastard.”

“I know that, too.”

#exophilia #exophilia fic #monster romance #monster lemon #monster boyfriend #drider boyfriend #drider #monster x reader #gn reader #Ruathym #POSTED THIS TO THE WRONG BLOG AT FIRST LMAOOOO #My work

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isis-astarte-diana · 3 years

Text

strings to pull

Prompt: @thefourthdoctorsscarf wanted psychic link sex, with 49: “You’re going to come untouched, do you understand?”

Warnings: NSFW. Mind control, I guess. Is squirting a warning? Anyway, there’s a bit of that. It’s all very soft and enthusiastically consensual, just... for a change.

Word Count: 1564

NB: Yeah, I threw in some soft!domme!Missy and a needlessly painful psychic link, because... because I can, and you can’t stop me. also because this is very targeted

With your face buried in the crook of Missy’s neck, every breath is laced with her perfume. She cups the back of your head, her fingernails carving slow spirals under your hair, easing you through the final aftershocks of pain while they pulse through your temples. Her other hand works across your back, tracing the curves of shoulder blade and spine.

“Feeling better?” The question comes with a soft kiss to the side of your head and you nod against her shoulder, relaxing your death grip on her blouse. With gentle pressure at your nape she coaxes you back from your hiding place. Her fingers are cool and deft, stroking the hair away from your forehead, following the line of your jaw until they can curl beneath your chin and tilt your face to hers. One side of her mouth quirks upwards. “No more pain?”

The newly formed telepathic link throbs faintly behind your eyes, not quite a headache, not quite a high. You can feel Missy unfurling at the base of your skull. She trickles down your spine, a wave of warm affection lapping at you from within even as her thumb sweeps the tears from your cheek. You smile back at her, a little dazed, and echo, “no more pain.”

“Good.” She presses her lips to your forehead, the tip of your nose, the damp skin of your cheek, leaving sticky pink marks behind her. The first kiss to your mouth is gentle. The second is less so, her tongue ticklish on your bottom lip. The third comes deep enough to steal a gasp from your throat, and she swallows it eagerly, her satisfaction pooling hot and fluid in your abdomen. You shift in her lap and breathe in the hum of her laughter.

My lovely girl.

Felt, more than heard, the words seem to come through the nape of your neck, a low reverberation that makes you shiver. She continues to run her fingers along the length of your spine, her nails etching red lines into your skin for her to tease later. It stings, just a bit. You’d quite like her to do it harder.

No sooner has the thought crossed your mind than your right shoulder comes alive with scalding pain. Five narrow stripes of heat appear in the wake of Missy’s hooked fingers and thumb, and you jerk in her arms, breaking the kiss with a cry. She smirks.

“Hard enough for you?” She arches a brow, but her fingertips stroke over the raised scratches, blunting the sting into a tingling warmth. You flush with embarrassment.

“I forget, sometimes,” you admit, relaxing under her touch. “That you can hear me like this.”

“Oh, poppet.” There’s a bright glimmer of mischief in her eyes, and her smile broadens, revealing teeth sharp enough to match it. She nuzzles at your nose. “I can do so much more than hear you.”

A sudden jolt of sensation through your breast takes you by surprise. You start, gasping, and Missy titters. Her arms tighten around you as the feeling comes again, stronger now, a spark of abrupt pleasure like the blunt edge of a thumbnail flicking across your nipple. It’s nothing particularly alarming, save for the fact that your bra remains fastened and both of her hands are still behind your back.

“Was that-?” The question dies in your throat, fading into a whimper when both nipples, this time, throb with twitching sensitivity. “Is that you?”

“Is what me?” She flutters her lashes and it happens again. Your breath hitches, hips rocking of their own accord, your grip tightening once more on the cotton of her blouse. Another flicker, and you whine indignantly. “Oh! That.” She pouts, all false modesty. “Well, yes, I have to admit, that was me.”

“How?” Again, and your voice comes as an awed and breathless laugh. “How are you doing that?”

Missy grins. She traces one of the scratches on your back with her fingernail, reigniting the burn there until you twitch away. “Really rather well, if I do say so myself.”

The next phantom touch rips a cry from your chest with such violence that your jaw falls slack. Whatever she’s doing, her focus is shifting; no longer limiting herself to teasing your breasts, you feel this pulse of sensation as acutely as if she’d run her finger through the seam of your labia to tap directly on your clitoris. Undone by the shock, you turn your face away, breathing hard.

“Ah, ah,” Missy chides, and turns your head back with a firm hand under your chin. Her face is bright with impish amusement. “Look at mummy.”

The words alone are powerful, but they come punctuated by another beat of pleasure, and you mewl pitifully. Once more, you roll your hips, seeking out friction from her thighs underneath you, finding very little. You’re throbbing, now, with desperation so deep that you’ve repositioned yourself before you even notice it. One arm is slung around her shoulders for support, freeing up your other hand to slip through the space between your bodies and make tangible the feelings she has you slave to.

In fact, you don’t realise you’re doing this until Missy catches your stray hand in hers.

“None of that,” she says, playfully, but you recognise a reprimand when you’re given one. She laces her fingers through yours. “You’re going to come untouched, dear.”

Another pulse, and your thighs twitch with the force of it, and your answering whine threatens to bring frustrated tears. You squeeze her hand, harder than strictly necessary, and fix her with pleading eyes. “I don’t know if I can,” you confess, voice trembling. She tuts.

“Yes, you can.” As if to prove her point, she plucks at your nerves again, pleasure thrumming in your breasts and your clitoris and clenching like a fist in your abdomen. She leans in to nip at the edge of your quivering jaw, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Let me show off, hmm? Just a wee bit.”

You might have answered, but the feeling comes twice more in quick succession, first stealing your breath and then making your whole body stiffen in her arms. The effortless building of an orgasm at the base of your spine is familiar enough; as is the way she resumes her careful irritation of the scratch marks on your back, teasing hot and cold pain from them. The only thing foreign to you is being pushed higher without her mouth or hand to rut against, leaving you riding the vacant space between her thighs and yours. You find yourself glad of the grounding hand in your own, squeezing rhythmically whenever another rush of sensation drags you under.

“I can feel you getting closer,” Missy whispers, her mouth close enough at your ear to make you shiver. “Shall we make it a good one, my dear?”

Before you have time to wonder what she means, the next wave hits you, deeper and sharper than the ones before. You twist in her embrace, yelping, caught off guard by the intensity. In the absence of touch you can feel the pulse of blood through your clitoris, the staccato twitch of muscle in your cunt. Every breath is a strained whimper.

“You’re shaking,” she observes, and scrapes a sore spot on your shoulder with her fingernail. Hanging over the edge by a thread like this, the sting sends light bursting behind your eyes. She hushes your cry. “Such a pretty thing. I could keep you like this for hours.”

“No!” It’s louder and harsher than you mean it to be, tears biting in your eyes at the thought. “Don’t, don’t, please, just-”

Missy laughs, but she squeezes your hand gently. “Perhaps another time, hmm? For now,” and she pulls back a little, enough that she can meet your eyes. Her lips curl into something between snarl and simper. “I want to see you come apart.”

She bares her teeth; the thread snaps; you shatter like so much glass.

The climax comes deep, right in your brainstem, a shock to every nerve. Your voice breaks on a sobbing squeal. Your fingers lock vice-tight around hers, muscle bound on clenching muscle, the pulsing pressure of your orgasm untethered to any physical touch. Something bursts in the very depths of you. Your thighs are flooded, heat soaking through your underwear, no doubt staining the dark wool of Missy’s skirt. She coos with pleasure and presses a kiss to the corner of your panting mouth.

“Good girl,” she praises. Her fingertips soothe the inflamed ridges on your shoulder, and she stretches out languidly in the back of your mind, echoing again, good girl. You curl tighter into her chest. “Didn’t you make a lovely mess for me?”

Your face flushes at the words, and you shudder through another aftershock. The wet fabric of your knickers is cooling rapidly in the air. “I didn’t mean to,” you whisper into her blouse.

Missy hums. She guides your hand down between your legs, pressing your palm to the drenched cotton. You’re still sensitive, though not as raw as you would be if she’d touched you, and the pressure makes you twitch.

“I meant to.” She draws a fingernail over the material, teasing your flesh with it. “Let’s get you out of these wet things, and see if you can do it again.”

#mine #nsfwork #missy x reader #the master x reader #gomez!master x reader #request

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wallwriterstuff · 3 years

Text

A Stitch In Time || Alec and Jane and Reader||

Warnings: Mentions of poverty but mostly this is fluff

Word Count: 6429

Summary: Alec and Jane are...going to school? As if that wasn’t bad enough, they’re constantly pestered by one irritating little human who clearly has no concept of self-preservation. Spending a winter in Forks was not how they had planned the end of their year to go, but winter traditions have changed since they were human, and they find the new ones aren’t all that bad.

It was well known that you didn’t anger the witch twins unless you wanted to die. First, there was Jane, whose temper was as quick to flare as though it were a match being struck. Alec was, in comparison, far calmer in outward appearance while he mentally plotted twenty steps ahead as to how best to exact his revenge for the displeasure caused to him. In both cases the victims of their anger met ruthless ends; it was merely dependent on which witch twin they had pissed off as to how swiftly the end came. With that in mind, one has to question what on Earth Felix and Demetri were thinking when they started sending the twins to school.

When Carlisle had entreated the Volturi to aid them in reclaiming their territory, Aro had agreed without a second thought to “aid an old friend”, as he had put it. None of the guard had any qualms about helping the coven (they had done them no wrong after all even if their way of life was rather strange) but they hadn’t expected it to be such an arduous process. The nomads who had taken over the Olympic Peninsula travelled in the usual small group but Demetri just couldn’t track them. He had caught the tenors yes, but the trail they left just…looped around. Somebody was clearly messing with his gift and enjoying watching him run about in circles, and it was taking a considerable toll on the tracker to try and figure out where the group was at any given time.

They had stayed at the Cullen’s house for the most part, Carlisle and Esme sending them the keys and alarm codes before they had arrived, and once the place was scoped out and found to be clean they had moved in post haste. The place was lavish, large, modern, and it allowed them to live in seclusion and comfort. It became their base of operations as they tried to track down these nomads. They were vicious and killing in droves, drawing attention to themselves and threatening the Cullen’s openly. Demetri was grateful for the encounter that Rosalie had had or else he would have had very little hope of finding a tenor to follow.

Then the Chief of Police had come past.

It was an unusual pattern, not at all a regular patrol route since it took him so far off of the main path, but fate had determined he was going to come their way and spot Alec and Jane just as they were headed back into the house after an afternoon walk. They had ran at a human pace, warning the others as they went, and by the time Police Chief Swan rang the doorbell they all had contacts in and was prepared to greet their unexpected guest. After a lot of explaining they had managed to convince him that they had rented the property while they worked abroad for a short period. Volturi Ltd. Was a legitimate company he could look up after all and the Secretaries were trained in how to handle inquiries into the company from the outside world. The only problem then was Alec and Jane. Despite being a thousand years of age, the twins still looked to be physically 14 at the most. Any self-respecting people would be sending their 14 year olds to school wouldn’t they?

Well, what else could they do at that point?

“Sister.” Alec placed a hand on her shoulder but couldn’t help the way his lips quirked upward in amusement. Her glare was fixated on a boy of small stature, with an ego twice his size. She wasn’t quite using her gift on him yet, but the boy had twitched a bit and was showing obvious signs of distress. Jane broke her gaze, turning to look at Alec with an expression that screamed of displeasure.

“I dislike him immensely.” She deadpanned.

“So I can see.” Alec murmured. They kept their voices so low nobody would hear them, and the teacher was so busy praising the know-it-all bully Jane had had her eye on he doubted she would see he was clearly not playing attention.

“I do not know how much more of this I can take. Ugh, look, Y/N is writing you another note, insufferable little-“

“Alec? Pssst.” your voice was so loud in comparison to theirs. He tried not to sigh, though he found your consistent need to bother them somewhat amusing when he was in better moods. Lucky for you, this moment was one of them. He let you whisper for him once more before he turned, raising an eyebrow at you. You stared ahead robotically, so obviously up to no good it made him wonder how anyone could ever think you innocent in that moment, and slid a piece of paper across the tabletop to him. Alec opened it up with a slight sigh.

Want to play tic-tac-toe with me?

He tilted his head slightly.

“What’s that?” he whispered. Your jaw dropped slightly and you hurriedly took the paper back from him, drawing out a 3x3 grid and drawing a circle on it.

“Noughts and crosses?” you murmured hopefully, wondering if he knew it by another name. Alec stared at the strange design with a furrowed brow.

“I’ve never heard of it.” He said finally, glancing back up towards the front of the room as the teacher asked for contributions to the discussion. You were absolutely screwed. You were still looking at the side of his head.

“I’m sure you know Y/N since you’re so keen to tell Alec all about it. Would you share with the rest of the class?” she asked, her eyebrows raised and expression screaming ‘I caught you’ despite her friendly tone. Alec stifled a laugh, enjoying your obvious discomfort as you stuttered for a response. Jane smothered a smile with her hand, a very human action she had picked up from you but didn’t realise. This was how they spent the majority of their days since they’d started school three weeks ago; lessons were boring and covered topics they already knew, and the children were cruel. Cruelty was nothing new to either of the twins but there had been some small part of them that had hoped that perhaps it would be different this time, that perhaps they were too different now they knew how to blend in better.

Of course, vampire teenagers in an otherwise human class was not going to be as discrete as they liked but there was just something about the twins sharp tongues and apathetic expressions that was not inviting enough for the other children to even pretend to be friendly – that and they were all teenagers in a small town who had grown up in their cliques since birth. Only you had bothered to welcome them with any sort of warm regard, and it was both tiresome and heat warming that at least one of the wretched little humans had tried. By the time they trudged into the cafeteria to sit with a tray of food they wouldn’t touch unless you forced them to, Jane was grinding her teeth in distaste. She was enjoying this even less than Alec was, though he put his twin’s rotten mood down to the need to hunt.

It was nearing December now and the winter months had brought with it even more rain that quickly turned to ice, with cold winds that stung human cheeks. Jane and Alec felt none of it of course but given the way your tray of food nearly toppled on top of the table with the violence of your shivering it was safe to say the humans did. The twins had guessed you weren’t from the richest family in the world, your clothes didn’t have the same labels as the other children did and were sometimes too big or too small, a little tattered or sewn back together with patches or mismatching threads in a shade that was similar, but not exact to the colour of the material.

“Here we go again.” Jane muttered for his ears only. You had sat with them at lunch every day for the past two weeks since you realised they often sat alone. Your wide Y/E/C eyes took them in, teeth chattering.

“How a-are you n-not cold?” you demanded, limbs trembling as you rubbed your hands together furiously in an effort to warm up. Your jacket looked thin, definitely not able to withstand the temperatures that had continued to drop throughout the day. The grey sky was threatening snow. Alec could smell what would be rain but had the fresher, sharper scent snow brought with it.

“Because it isn’t as cold as you think.” Alec answered. Not when your flesh is already frozen he tacked on mentally. You frowned.

“N-not cold? Are you insane?” you shook your head, ignoring your shivers for now to dig into your food. You always ate like you were starving to, and Alec sometimes wondered if you were getting enough to eat at home, but it wasn’t his place to ask. You had a hot chocolate today to, something you had clearly saved up to buy since he remembered you looking rather sad when you read the price beside it on the menu board the other week. It struck him that perhaps your kindness stemmed from your own perceived difference. You weren’t the same as the other children. You worked harder and were quite obviously poorer. Alec and Jane were the strange new kids. In some ways, your trio was perfectly compatible when it came to categorical ostracization.

“Are you?” Jane’s answer was curt but you tilted your head like you were genuinely considering the question.

“My brother says I am.” You shrugged, shovelling another forkful of mac and cheese into your mouth. If it tasted as bad as it looked, Alec pitied you greatly. Jane just blinked, looking slightly surprised.

“You have a brother?” she questioned. You hummed around a mouthful of food.

“He’s older than me, he g-goes to high school.” Your shivering had lessened a little, the food warming you up even if it did little else. The usual silence fell over you all then. You tended to fill the silence when you were done eating, usually with questions about why they weren’t eating and if they were sick, or simply trying to coax more information about where they’d come from out of them. Today the routine was interrupted by the snow Alec had predicted.

“It’s here! It’s here! The first snowfall!” a young girl yelled, pointing back outside. A cacophony of noise made Alec and Jane cringe, their sensitive ears protesting against the sounds of scraping chairs and shrieking children, a thousand little feet thudding into the tile to reach the snow first as zippers on jackets whizzed up towards chins. Your eyes were sparkling, obvious delight on your face as you worked twice as hard to finish off the last of your mac and cheese. Alec’s eyebrows rose as you turned to your dessert next, the jello cup being ripped open.

“If you eat too fast you’ll make yourself sick.” Alec reminded you. You gulped, almost choking on your jello.

“I’s ‘no’.” your voice came out all garbled but Alec understood the general premise of it, his disapproval at your decision to go outside with the others obvious on his face.

“You were just complaining you were cold.” Jane huffed. You swallowed.

“But it’s the first snow! Come on! Come on you have to come! Please please please please please please please please-“

“My god we’ll follow you!” Jane snapped. You ignored her tone completely and jumped to your feet, whizzing to collect your things and clean up your tray. Alec watched you go with a shake of his head. Humans were such stupid little creatures. He knew you’d be freezing the moment you set foot outside but that didn’t deter you in the slightest. Neither, apparently, did their cold skin. With your warm hands enveloping theirs you dragged the twins outside into the snow. It was something they had seen before of course, but Alec and Jane had the added advantage of having enhanced eyesight. They could see every little snowflake as it fell, all its unique edges and shapes. Your arms flew outward as you span around, giggling all the while as you reached out and tried to catch a snowflake in your palm. Alec tilted his head as he watched you, Jane sighing quietly beside him.

“They seem so happy...they don’t even see the full wonder of the phenomena.” he mused. Jane was watching you with critical eyes, but Alec could see the slightest softening of her expression and guessed she was as fascinated with your reaction as he was. Your hands were far too warm too catch anything of course, the snowflakes melting upon contact with your skin, but your smile never once dropped and you kept trying again and again, your enthusiasm undeterred.

“They’re already shivering, and yet they carry on,” Jane observed, “Their determination is admirable though.” Alec chuckled.

“You almost sound fond.” He teased. She scoffed, shooting him a wry look from the corner of her eye.

“I’m about as fond of any of them as I am of those idiots picking us up later.” She sniffed. Alec had to laugh at that, even as you came running up to them rabbiting about snowmen and snow angels. You were trembling head to foot. With a small sigh, he shrugged out of his jacket and held it towards you. Your eyes widened.

“But y-you’ll g-g-get cold.” You said, teeth gnashing together noisily.

“You are already frozen. Just swap my jacket with yours.” He huffed.

“But-“

“Y/N.” his voice was curt, no nonsense, the same sort of tone he imagined his mother had once used on him when he was smaller. You obediently took his jacket from him and even though it wasn’t saturated with any sort of human warmth, the wool was thick and you snuggled down into it like it was a lifeline. Your own threadbare denim looked slightly ridiculous on him, too small and the fit all wrong, but Alec didn’t complain once. He held his hand out, knowing it would be cold enough for what he wanted to do, and in one go caught a snowflake he let you inspect to your heart’s desire.

“Softie.” Jane grumbled under her breath. He ignored her. What was the point of making themselves miserable at school? If they had to be here then they should try to make the best of it right? Besides, when you looked at him like that…how could he say no? You invoked some of his oldest, foggiest memories of a wide-eyed Jane staring up at him with awe and admiration, it felt like he was getting a second chance to be the big brother he should have been in that cold, snowy moment.

“Oh Alec! Isn’t it so pretty!” you cried. You can’t even see it he thought incredulously, though he still nodded in agreement. He really hadn’t been expecting you to hug him and he wasn’t quite sure what to do in reply either. Did he hug you back? His arms hesitated, not quite winding around you. His hands were awkwardly left bent outwards as if too touch you would be lethal. His awkward display only made Jane snort, smothering her laughter in her jacket as you bounced back from him and demanded that they all go the Jungle Gym. The bars would surely freeze your fingers and gloves were so slippery not many people were on them today, and those that were quickly disappeared when they saw Alec and Jane coming anyhow.

This was the day Alec blamed for your absence the following week.

You hadn’t bounced in like you usually did, hanging your jacket on the peg beside Jane’s, nor had you wished the teacher good morning when she called your name for the roll call. Truth be told, both twins were rather worried about you when you didn’t show up by the end of first period either, so much so, Alec decided to ask about you. Miss Destiel was a fairly nice woman, strict perhaps but she always found time for her students, so she greeted the two strange newcomers to her class with the same warm smile she gave everyone. Alec didn’t have to be Edward Cullen to know she was probably thinking of several different ways to get them out of her way as quickly as possible despite her friendly demeanour.

“We want to know if you know where Y/N is.” Jane said, cutting straight to the point. She tilted her head.

“I see. You three are good friends, aren’t you? I see you together at recess a lot. You needn’t worry too much. Her mother called in to tell us she was sick, a little bit of a flu bug they think. She should be back by the end of the week.” Miss Destiel promised them. Alec let his disgust show on his face. A flu bug? Why did humans have to be so weak! It was the cold wasn’t it? It had seeped into your bones and tried to leech the life out of you. Dammit! If only you’d had a better jacket! Or maybe some gloves! Maybe you shouldn’t have been stupid enough to play outside in the snow with them…

You didn’t show up for another four days, and when you did return you drove them half mad with your sniffling and nose blowing and coughing. The other children were giving you dirty looks to, calling you germy and demanding you stay away from them in case you passed on your germs. Alec and Jane were not popular and neither were you, but you did have a few other friends beside them, even those children tried to stay away till you were better, and only one of them was apologetic about it. You were obviously disheartened by the whole affair and prodded at your food with a miserable expression.

“Cheer up, you don’t need to cry in that pie, it smells salty enough already.” Jane’s attempt at comfort was half-hearted at best but Alec was amazed she had even tried at all. You gave her a weak smile.

“I’m not feeling all that hungry.” You mumbled.

“But you always eat,” Alec frowned, “Even when they bring out that awful soggy pizza.”

“S’just the flu.” You sighed.

“Y/N you have to eat.” Alec reprimanded. He really wasn’t sure if you’d make it through the day without a little something in your system and was pleased when you forced down another few bites for him. You glanced at the clock through droopy, watery eyes. You really weren’t ready to come back to school today and it was obvious to both of them.

“I need to go get my medicine from the nurse. I’ll see you in class.” You sniffed, a tickle you tried to clear turning into a coughing spree as you walked away.

“We need to do something.” Jane scowled at her tray.

“We cannot make her better, sister.” Alec pointed out. Jane stared him down for a long moment, and then a smile twitched up her lips.

“Maybe not, but we can stop her getting sick again. Come on, help me.” She ordered. Alec raised his eyebrows but followed her lead, dumping his tray and heading back towards the classroom with her. He stood guard, hearing paper shuffling inside the room as Jane put whatever plan she had into action. He didn’t question it until Friday afternoon rolled around and Miss Destiel decided to read out the names of the secret Santa pairings one more time, at Jane’s request. Next Thursday was the last day of term before the Christmas break started and there would be secret Santa and some choosing time in the afternoon that neither twin was looking forward to.

“Alec and Y/N…huh? Debbie didn’t you have Y/N last time we read out the names?” Miss Destiel looked to the red headed girl for answers, but she just shrugged, uncertain. Alec smiled slightly.

“You switched the papers.” He murmured. Jane hummed, her face the picture of angelic.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about dear brother, but I do have an ideas as to what you could get Y/N if you’re interested.” She was hardly done with her plan just yet though. Demetri wasn’t particularly surprised when the twins came marching towards him; they were often eager to get out of school, but the surprise lay in their demeanours. Usually he could count on a very grumpy Jane and a clearly exasperated Alec, but today they both looked determined. Jane brushed past him with all the regal stature of a woman who knew her self-worth, and Demetri raised an eyebrow slightly as he turned to face Alec.

“We have plans to attend to Demetri. We’re still headed to Port Angeles tonight are we not?” he questioned. Demetri nodded.

“We are, why?”

“We’re going to go earlier than planned. We have secret Santa obligations to fulfil.” He explained, ducking into the car. Demetri looked even more confused at that, but he didn’t dare question either twin as he headed for the driver’s side door. Wasn’t Santa always secret? Had he misunderstood human traditions? He didn’t know and neither Alec nor Jane cared enough to tell him. They were hyper focused now on their plan, a plan they hoped would ensure the health and happiness of the one human being they actually (though they remained very reluctant to admit it) liked. Secrecy was the very nature of their work and yet Alec’s tongue itched whenever he saw you, the secret on the tip of his tongue desperately trying to leap off into the air between you both. Jane struggled too, unable to hide her growing impatience as the week dragged on and your shivers grew worse, your sniffly nose a new, permanent feature on your face.

“Good tidying everyone. Nicky, tell me one thing you’ve learned today?” Miss Destiel snapped Alec out of his daydream and he sat up straighter, wanting to give the appearance of paying attention. Nicky was a smallish boy who had yet to have any sort of growth spurt apparently, all long gangly limbs and braces.

“Erm…After World War 2, they split up Germany and Berlin?” he sounded more like he was guessing than anything else and the twins fought the urge to scoff. How ignorant these little humans were.

“Yes they did! You can go and get your secret Santa present. Can you expand on Nicky’s point somehow Bridget?” Miss Destiel turned to the opposite side of the room now and Alec almost groaned when he realised what she was doing. One by one, they were left to answer questions in order to exit the room, and the process was excruciatingly slow given how stupid the small beings were. By the time the whole affair was over and everyone had a present in front of them, Alec’s fingers were itching at the colourful paper he’d wrapped your present in. Jane had watched multiple youtube videos to get the bow on top just right.

“Miss Destiel can we please give our presents out!” Debbie whined.

“Yeah please?”

“Please!”

“Let us give our presents Miss!”

She held up her hands, waiting for silence, and not until you could have heard a pin drop did she nod and motion for them to get up out of their seats.

You didn’t move.

Alec watched you with a small frown as Jane moved away to find Nicky in the sea of humans. She all but threw the small package at his chest, briefly thanking him in a curt and ice cold voice for the present he gave her in return before she gave him a nod, and the pair drifted with all the grace their vampirism allowed towards you. You only seemed to grow smaller in your seat, some wrinkled looking tissue paper wrapped around a lumpy looking package on your desk in front of you.

“Merry Christmas, Y/N.” Alec held out the parcel in his hand. It looked much neater in comparison, with shiny gold paper and a shimmering, expertly tied black bow. You swallowed, your fists clenching on top of the tabletop as you took a breath and gathered the courage to face him. Your eyes widened slightly.

“It looks so…fancy…” you fretted. Alec frowned, tilting his head.

“It’s just a present.” Alec said. You bit your lip, taking it when he shook it impatiently before you and carefully setting it on your desk like it was made of precious gold. He folded his arms, standing and watching expectantly as your shaky fingers lifted to try and untie the bow. Jane watched in surprise as you reverently unfurled the ribbon from the paper, making sure it didn’t crumple. You were equally as careful with the paper, a sharp exhale escaping you when you pulled it away to reveal the present within.

Your fingers brushed the thick, woolen fabric, shaky and unsure as you carefully unfolded the clothing and stood up to hold it before you. Your wide eyes looked over the shiny black buttons on the coat, your eyes drifting to the hallway where your own, threadbare denim hung still. You hadn’t taken off the hoodie you wore underneath all day in an effort to keep away the chill, but with your new coat you definitely wouldn’t need to wear triple layers just to stay warm anymore. Tears welled in your eyes.

“Is it not to your liking?” Jane asked confusedly.

“I thought you would want to be warmer given the cold weather.” Alec added. Had they got it wrong? Had your denim maybe got sentimental value they’d accidentally besmirched by giving you a new coat? They just wanted you to be warm! They didn’t like seeing you sick and shivering…

“This is expensive. You weren’t supposed to buy expensive things!” You fretted, but your fingers had curled into the fabric like you didn’t want to let go. Alec tilted his head.

“Y/N, this was hardly-“

“I can’t give you mine if you give me this! It looks so stupid and – and – it’s not – it’s not-“

“Y/N,” Alec gripped your shoulders with a troubled frown, “Our parents have more money than they know what to do with, spending a little of it to keep your warm is what we wanted to do for Christmas and we didn’t expect anything in return for it.” He said firmly. You sniffled, looking absolutely overwhelmed at the gesture. Neither twin could fully understand why. Sure, they had guessed you didn’t come from a well-off family but this reaction seemed extreme…then again, they couldn’t really remember what it was like to not have things. They had grown up farming, self-sufficiency meaning anything they didn’t have they grew or harvested to acquire it. Once they were turned, they had access to the Volturi’s vast treasury - money really had no meaning to them anymore.

Your fingers twitched for the lumpy package on the desk and Alec gave you an encouraging nod.

“I…they’re not…I couldn’t buy anything but, I wanted you to be warm to…so…so…” you stumbled over your words, your apparent shyness taking over. Alec and Jane had never known you to be lost for words. You were always chattering away at them, even when they were less than responsive. Jane’s eyebrows rose as you pulled out a second lumpy looking package with her name on, and the twins exchanged a glance as they felt the squishy, thick material through the thin paper. You had ducked your head, cheeks flushed with embarrassment as they pulled away the paper as carefully as they could. If you had been so intent on keeping theirs intact to recycle they would show you the same courtesy.

Alec blinked, and not just because the contacts were irritating his eyes. The thick and squishy material beneath his fingertips turned out to be black and blue, two colours he wore often as part of his charade since he couldn’t wear his guard uniform to school. The stripes of chunky knitting unfolded as he held them out into a long strip, the wool a little scratchy but soft, dense, designed to hold heat. Jane’s own red and black piece tumbled out of the paper towards the floor. They had seen them before of course, but with the slightly uneven width in places and a few missing stitches here and there, these were clearly homemade and not the fancy store bought ones they knew of.

You’d knitted them each a scarf.

He didn’t need it, he didn’t get cold, but Alec carefully wrapped the woolly scarf around his throat anyway. It warmed him in ways he couldn’t explain, his expression softening as he stroked the soft but scratchy material that dangled against his chest. Jane followed his lead, admiring the stitching with awe.

“You made these for us?” she asked. You nodded sheepishly.

“I know they’re not very good but-“

“They’re perfect.” Alec interrupted. Your fingers were still clamped around your new coat and Alec’s eyes rolled, taking it from you to force you into it. Your fingers trailed over the fabric, the buttons, a soft smile lighting up your face.

“Can I really keep it?” you asked quietly.

“Only if we can keep these.” Jane replied. You nodded, more enthusiastic now. Your Y/E/C eyes sparkled as you snuggled down in your new coat. Already Alec could see the colour returning slowly to your cheeks as your temperature rose, and he and Jane shared a nod of approval at the sight – it was a job well done. Alec and jane cared for very few people, none of them human until you came along, actually disappointed when they caught the nomads over Christmas and realised they couldn’t return to school to say goodbye to you properly.

You’d pressed the call button hours ago.

When the tightness in your chest had began Tuesday night you were sure it was going to pass. It had rapidly gotten worse however, so much so your daughter had been forced to call an ambulance out to you. The hospital was doing all they could but the place was miserable. Nobody saw you unless it was to do your observations and the food tasted awful. Not that you really had an appetite of course given how weak you felt.

It had been three very long days.

“If you don’t eat, you’ll make yourself sick.” The voice seemed so familiar but you couldn’t quite place it. With a gentle sigh, you turned your head away from the window you were lucky enough to be near and found a young boy watching you, his eyes gentle and sad. Beside him stood an petite blonde girl, both of them with the deepest brown eyes and palest skin you had ever seen. You frowned slightly, the faintest itch in your brain telling you that somehow you knew these children.

“That’s very true young man,” You nodded finally, “Are you visiting someone? I think you have the wrong room.” He nodded slowly.

“We are visiting a friend, I don’t think she knows we’re here.” He said, head tilting. The small girl beside him sighed. You hummed.

“Well you can ask at the desk, they know all the rooms.” You coughed slightly, a bony, age spotted hand reaching for your water. Your mouth felt rather dry, or maybe the room was just warm. You didn’t feel warm though.

“Has nobody come to visit you?” the girl wondered, helping bring the water to your lips. Her touch was gentle against your own but her hands were freezing cold. You shivered involuntarily, sipping at your water in an effort to soothe your throat.

“My daughter and grandkids came yesterday, you don’t have to – to worry about me.” You frowned slightly as you swallowed again. You had found breath a little hard to come by recently and the oxygen running up through your nostrils was hardly any use now. The boy was gentle as he pulled your blanket up around your chest.

“I’m glad, you haven’t been alone. You won’t be now, either.” He promised. Your frown deepened. Why was the room so cold all over a sudden? Why did the lights seem dimmer? You chest rattled slightly as you tried to take in air, the oxygen making you choke a little. The small blonde girl stepped up, pulling a red and black scarf that looked like it had been worn often, the threads worn down. Once it was carefully looped around your throat she stepped back, her cold hand settling in yours while the young boy took the other one. The air was stuffier still, even the breeze from the slightly open window wasn’t helping now, and everything suddenly became so clear. It was like you had previously been sitting surrounded by static.

“Alec…Jane…”your breathed, eyes watering. They looked exactly the same, not a day older than the day they had left. You had been so excited to see them in January when school was finally in session again but they hadn’t been there, they’d moved away again.

“Hello, Y/N. It’s been a long time, old friend.” Alec smiled softly, though his expression remained saddened. Your eyes watered.

“It’s been 70 years.” You rasped.

“78 years, 5 months and 13 days, if you want to be precise.” Jane spoke up. Her voice and her face was as apathetic as you remembered it to be. It was her scarf, she had given you her scarf. 78 years and she still had it. Alec pulled a stack of letters from his pocket, and you recognised the spidery handwriting easily in your bizarre state of clarity. All the letters you had written to Volturi Ltd in the hopesof keeping in contact with your friends. It was Jane who gently wiped away the few tears that spilt down sallow, wrinkled cheeks. You were so old, but they were wondrously young, vibrant in their youth. You wanted to know how, but you sensed somehow you didn’t have the time for the explanations you wanted.

“There were a few important answers we felt we should give you,” Alec said, sitting beside you and opening the first letter, “Firstly, we are well, we are happy and we did miss you to. We miss very few people, it surprised our masters when we requested to come and visit you.” You croaked a laugh. It was hardly surprising from what you remembered of the twins; even your friendship with them was strained at points, but they were hardly palatable to most in your class. Alec continued to scroll through the letters, and you suspected he knew with every answer he and Jane gave you that you were running short on air and time with every word he spoke.

When your lungs were really starting to battle for air you couldn’t quite stop the tears from coming. You wanted more time. You wanted more time with your old friends to try to understand why they left, why they were still so long. Maybe they weren’t even real, but the way their hands felt in yours was so realistic you doubted you could imagine it.

“I…d-don’t want…to go.” You struggled to get the words out, your heart trying to hard and your lungs ready to give up. Even if your mind was desperately pleading with it to hold on your body was clearly ready.

“Sometimes, it is simply our time, little human.” Alec said softly.

“Please don’t think less of us for not calling a nurse or a doctor. We think it’s kinder this way. You’re ready, even if you don’t think you are.” Jane promised, giving your hand the lightest squeeze.

“My g-grandaughters…she’s graduating i-in March…”you whispered. Alec soothingly ran his thumb over the back of your hand.

“She will keep you with her I’m sure…you’re quite difficult to forget, you know,” He smiled gently at you.

“It’s time to sleep now, Y/N.” Jane said. There was a darkness creeping in at the edges of your vision as your heart finally gave way in your chest, and Alec watched as you desperately fought for one last breath, his grip on your hand tightening ever so slightly while the light in your eyes died. Your heart monitor was screaming, the noise was going to attract someone very quickly they were sure, but they had finally gotten the goodbye they had been deprived of all those years ago.

“Will you take your scarf back with you sister?” Alec asked as they stood up and quickly cleaned away the letters and any other trace they had ever been there. Jane paused briefly, staring back at your frail body. You were much older now, still as skinny as they remembered, but any colour was stripped from your hair and replaced with grey. She very gently closed your vacant eyes, unable to keep looking at the empty Y/E/C, and shook her head.

“No, she’s still cold.” She frowned. Alec placed a hand on her shoulder briefly, his ears picking up the sound of feet thudding on the tile outside.

“We need to leave.” He said. Jane nodded her head.

“Lets.”

They disappeared as quickly as they came, Demetri waiting for them beside a Sedan with tinted windows. His eyebrows rose ever so slightly as they approached but neither twin said anything, so he didn’t either. He had felt the familiar tenor fade as you passed, he knew what they had come to do now, understood it even. Every winter Alec and Jane had worn those threadbare scarves, even when the wool had faded and it was clearly past the prime of its life. You had made a lasting impression on the witch twins, a friend they had made without any interfering influence from the masters or Chelsea or any other outside force. Alec stared at the hospital getting smaller in the rear view mirror. They wouldn’t go to your funeral, they had said their goodbyes to you today, and until the last thread unravelled, he would always have his scarf to remember you by. You had been stitched into the very fabric of whatever was left of his soul, where you would always be, to keep him warm when his heart threatened to turn cold once more.

#twilight #twilight fanfiction #alec volturi #jane volturi #x reader #demetri volturi #volturi #volturi fanfiction #alec and jane got to school #scarves #the ending got away from me #i got wrapped up in feels #and hurt my feelings

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monstersandmaw · 4 years

Text

Male shadow/room monster (Lamorak) x female reader (nsfw)

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

The first-prize winner of my giveaway from a little while back, @honeysugacube, requested a tentacled shadow/room monster for the 3k story, so here it is!

Content: Reader is both touch- and affection-starved, feeling distant and detached from her family who provide her with things and objects instead of the warmth of affection, equating them with love... In a version of her own fairytale, the reader gets the friend and affection she longs for. Wordcount: 3825

___

Leaving the campus and the stresses of your course behind you, you stepped onto the bus and drew out your phone to text your mother. ‘Just leaving - I’ll be home in half an hour or so.’ With that done, you slipped your earphones into your ears and turned up your music. Moments of your day replayed in a random shuffle through your mind, but always you felt always on the outside of things.

Your classmates had arrived at the lecture that morning and immediately hugged their friends, slapped each other on the back, and blurted questions and anecdotes from their weekends, while you doodled quietly on the edge of your notebook, waiting for the professor to show up. It wasn’t that you had no one, but they had different classes, and when you did share lunch together, there was nothing between you like the depth of friendship you saw with that group in particular. You didn’t really see them outside of a university context, and you’d never been all that good at making friends.

The bus jolted and you blinked, realising that you’d drifted off into your reverie, and now the bus was pulling away from your stop. It wasn’t that far to the next one, so you pushed the stop button and slouched to the front of the bus, bag slung over one shoulder.

Closing the front door behind you twenty minutes later than you’d intended, with sore shoulders from lugging your book bag all that extra way, you sighed. The hall light was off, casting odd shadows across the walls and floor, and as you kicked your shoes off and one bounced off the skirting board, you thought the shadows shifted just a little bit, drawing back, almost as if they’d tried to shrink away from the blow of your shoe.

You frowned, but paid it no more attention than that, and headed for the kitchen. Your father stood at the kitchen counter, chopping vegetables while your older brother lounged nearby, nose buried in his phone. It had been a little quieter around here since your older sister had got a job about three hours’ drive from the city, and you were still getting used to that absence, like an instrument missing in a group while the others play on regardless. You were the only one who really seemed to notice the difference.

“How was class today?” your father asked without looking up.

“It was fine,” you said as you poured yourself a drink. He didn't comment that you were later than usual, and perhaps he hadn’t noticed. You’d learned not to bother trying to elaborate on the intricate details of your day to your family. It wasn’t that they didn’t care about you, so much as they just… didn’t engage. You’d spent a good five minutes with your mother telling her about the first day’s lectures last year, and once you’d finished, she’d said, “I’m glad it went ok. Would you like rice or pasta with supper?” That pretty much summed up your relationship with your family; they were good providers, but there was no warmth.

As your father finished with the vegetables, he asked, “Are you planning on going out with any friends for your birthday next week?”

You shrugged. “Maybe.” If you’d been honest, you’d half forgotten that it was your birthday anyway. You hadn’t made any plans, worried that anyone you asked would either accept only to be polite or would find somewhere better to be and leave you feeling worse than before about not doing anything.

“You’re still up for going to that Italian place round the corner though, right?” your brother butted in from the other side of the room.

“Sure?” you shrugged. He and your parents loved Italian, so that would probably make for an easy evening all around.

“Great,” he grinned and turned back to his phone.

A week later, you woke in the pre-dawn of your birthday and felt absolutely certain that there was someone in the room with you. With a gasp, you sat bolt upright and stared at the door, but nothing was out of place, and there was clearly no one else there. With your heart pounding, you sighed, feeling the ghost of a touch on your face from some lingering dream that you only half remembered. Fingers had been stroking gently down your cheek, and combing through your hair, a soft voice whispering that they were proud of you.

Sighing deeply, you flopped back into the pillows with a groan. The more you thought about it though, the sharper the details became. The fingers had not been fingers, but soft, smooth tentacles of dark grey smoke, and there had been milk-white eyes blinking in the darkness; four of them.

“What a way to start my birthday, huh?” you mused aloud. With another sigh, you rolled over and pulled the covers up around your ears.

Hours later at breakfast, your parents gave you your presents - a modest list of things that would have been useful to almost anyone your age at college, and, with a small degree of fanfare, they offered you the latest iPhone, telling you how much you deserved it for working so hard and making them proud. No one gave you a hug though. It was hard not to feel ungrateful as you cradled your new phone in your hands, and the guilt that accompanied the sentiment troubled you. They loved you, of course they did, and they showed it by providing you with everything you could want. Except what you actually needed in the truest sense of the word…

Conversation at dinner that night was mostly centred on your father’s work, but there was a bit of discussion about the progress that your brother’s favourite team had made through the league tables, and your mother even asked you about the assignment you’d been struggling with a little bit the last week. “I got an A,” you smiled and her face lightened instantly.

“Well done. I knew you’d do us proud.”

Your hand twitched on the fork, as if you’d been expecting her to reach over and squeeze it, but she didn’t. She topped up your glass and chinked hers jauntily against the rim instead, the cold glass chiming oddly in the busy restaurant.

Back at home your brother nudged you in the ribs and tilted his head curiously. “You ok? You were kind of quiet tonight…”

“I’m fine,” you said. “Just a bit tired.”

“Ok, look, I was going to give this to you earlier, but I thought I’d wait til tonight. I know you used to read all those creepy fairytales under the covers as a kid and play with all the dolls mum and dad gave you…” and with that, he handed you a badly-wrapped parcel, the selotape lifting off at one end where it had refused to stick to the brown paper. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m kind of shitty at wrapping.”

“It’s alright,” you smiled. “Thank you.”

Awkwardly, he flashed a smile at you and walked away, leaving you standing in the hallway with the present he’d pulled out of his jacket pocket where it'd been hanging on a peg on the wall. From the weight of it and the shape of the package, you were certain it was a hardback book. As you swept your fingers over the cover, the light above you flickered off suddenly and you glared up at it. In the absence of light, the shadows seemed denser somehow, and you shivered, the hairs on the back of your neck prickling slightly. A heartbeat later, and it came back on. With another shiver, you left the hall and headed upstairs.

Alone in your room, you unwrapped your brother’s present.

Old, slightly cracked leather bound the book, and it had metallic corner pieces to protect the edges. It was only about as long as your hand from palm to fingertip, and there was nothing on the cover at all. Opening it carefully, your nose picked up hints of a scent like distant woodsmoke, herbs, and something akin to petrichor. Inside was written a phrase in Latin and, with the help of your new phone, you discovered that it meant, ‘In the heart there lives a shadow’. “Odd title,” you murmured aloud.

The story itself, thank goodness, was written in English, in an archaic typeface that might have looked at home with a first edition of Dickens or something.

‘In a house on the hill above town lived a young girl,’ it began in typical fairytale style, and despite the cliche, you found yourself falling further and further into the story. It spoke of the daughter of a witch who had grown up feeling isolated, her mother always working. The parallel hit you hard almost immediately and you wondered if your brother had finally noticed how your family behaved towards each other. Dismissing it as a fluke, you turned your attention back to the book.

To make up for the lack of time the spent together, the witch bought her daughter gifts, and among one of those gifts was a small chest, meant for jewellery or trinkets. When the girl opened the chest, however, she found a pool of inky liquid that stirred and rippled when she dipped her finger into it, the fluid never leaving any trace on her skin. She left the jewellery case open on a table in her bedroom, and that night when the sun went down, when there was only candlelight in her room, a small black cat crept up to her.

You smiled as you read the next bit, having spent the whole of your childhood longing for a pet that you could share some kind of connection with; a cat to curl up in the creases of your duvet, a dog to play with… frankly anything would have done, even a goldfish to swim around in circles in a tank, but your parents had said no. The dream of one just appearing one day had been a near-constant one for you. The little girl in the story discovered that her cat was not a normal cat and was in fact a creature formed from the strange darkness in the chest.

As she grew, the creature changed shape, eventually taking on the form of a young man. “You’re happy tonight,” he said as the two of them lay on a grassy hillside, gazing up at the stars.

She reached her hand across and touched his strange, smoky skin. Beneath the twisting mist that surrounded him like an aura, his body was smooth and hard, cool like leather, and as he linked his fingers with hers, she said, “I have you - I have a friend. I’m no longer alone.”

Tears rolled down your face as you finished the story, leaving the little book open in your lap. Never had you felt more alone than in the wake of finishing that strange fairytale. “I wish…” you sniffed, smearing the back of your wrist under your nose. “I wish I wasn’t so alone all the time…” you hissed bitterly, before you began to laugh softly to yourself. Your whole body ached, right down to your bones, and your chest twisted, leaving you feeling wrung-out and empty.

Heck, you’d probably even have taken a shadow monster yourself for a friend in that moment, and no sooner had you thought it than something moved across the room, startling you out of your tears. Blinking to clear your vision, you watched a shadow growing slowly in the middle of the empty floor, like a spreading puddle. A moment later, you thought your ears must be deceiving you as you heard a soft, rasping voice whisper, “Please don’t cry… I can’t bear to hear you cry.”

“What?” you breathed, sitting up and staring wide-eyed at the rippling darkness in the centre of the room. Fear clenched your heart so tightly you wanted to scream, but you weren’t sure you had enough voice.

“Please… don’t be afraid… I swear I will never hurt you,” the entity murmured, and the surface of the small pool surged and rippled before quietening down.

“What are you?” you hissed, heart thudding. “How is this happening?”

“Don’t you remember me?” came the response.

You stared blankly at the shadow. “Remember you?”

A gentle smile crept into the voice of the creature you couldn’t quite see, and you heard the voice say, “When we were both very small, we used to play together. I’ve grown up here alongside you.”

“Oh my god,” you whispered as a flood of memories you didn’t know you still had rushed across your mind. “My imaginary friend… I… called you Lamorak…”

“Indeed you did. After one of the knights of Arthur, I believe,” he said, sounding amused at that.

You paused and then swallowed nervously. “So… if you’re real, then what are you?”

“I… I’m honestly not sure. I believe that I am formed of the shadows in this place, and that I was partly conjured by you when you were young to fulfil the needs of a young child who was often overlooked.”

“But… how is that possible?”

The darkness rippled again and the voice answered, “Magic, most likely. The force of a wish can be pretty powerful, especially in someone very young.”

“Tell me you’re the only one like you that lives here,” you demanded, a twang of anxiety shooting through you at the thought of innumerable shadow beings hiding in every crevice of the house.

“To my knowledge, yes,” he replied.

“I… I think I remember you in a different shape…” you said after staring for another few seconds at the mass of ebbing shadows on the floor, breathing like an ocean on a sandy shore. It was true, though you hadn’t thought about Lamorak for years. Your mother had dismissed your talk of the shadow boy for childish fantasy, and you’d started to see and think of him less and less after that. Forgotten, he had apparently banished himself back to the shadows of the house but had never left. Something about that made your heart hurt all over again.

He chuckled and said, “I take many shapes now.”

“Do you have a favourite?” you asked shyly, realising that you were no longer afraid.

After a little pause, he asked, “Would you like me to show you?”

“Yes,” you said, breathless with excitement for the first time in a long time.

The shape began to shift and move, rising up and filling the space in the centre of the room to a height of six and half feet or so; it was difficult to be sure because the shadows that surrounded him like an aura were constantly moving. There was a part of his ill-defined silhouette that was clearly his head, and from it, four milky, silvery eyes blinked at you, all slightly out of sync. From his broad shoulders down, he got stranger and even less humanoid; his arms looked more like tentacles, writhing slightly, and as you continued to stare at him from your bed, you realised that there were more of them behind him, and the two which were most prominent were just the largest of them. His legs too were not humanoid, but were a seething mass of tentacles, some thick, others almost wispy, ending in tiny coils of mist like candle smoke.

“Wow…”

“You’re not the only one who’s changed a bit,” he chuckled and you warmed to his dry sense of humour instantly.

“Yeah, but you were supposed to be my imaginary friend… Emphasis on ‘imaginary’…! Come here,” you smiled and he obliged, if somewhat tentatively.

“Not so imaginary after all,” Lamorak breathed as he neared you, shadows frothing and roiling around his lower tentacles like waves around sea-kelp. “I’ve missed you,” he admitted as he drew to a halt in front of you.

You got slowly to your feet and stood beside your bed, dwarfed by his presence, but instead of being intimidated by him, your stomach twisted and you began to cry again.

“Hey,” he murmured, leaning down and bringing a soft-looking tentacle to your face. He drew the very tip of it across your cheek, and you watched the shape of his eyes change from almost completely round, like giant pearls, to pinched tight at the outer corners, as if worried. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“I… I feel awful that I forgot you… I… I didn’t know how much I missed you too…” you sobbed, and in a heartbeat you felt his arms wrap around your body. Darkness enveloped you and you let it consume you utterly.

The peaceful thum-thum of his heartbeat was all you could hear for a moment, before a different noise rose around you. Gentle whispers, like spring leaves tickled by a soft breeze, filled your ears and mind, and when you lurched back, suddenly recalling having heard them before in moments alone in your room, he cocked his head to one side and shrank back. “Did I hug you too tightly?” he asked, half joking, half worried.

You shook your head. “You’ve always been here, haven’t you?”

He shrugged slightly, all the tentacles on his right side heaving and shifting. “I’ve mostly been dormant in the basement,” he admitted. “But I have come to see you sometimes. When you’re lonely, you call to me. I don’t think you know you’re doing it though.”

“The whispers…?” you asked.

“I think it’s these,” he said, first looking at one tentacle and then bringing more up to touch your cheek again, and you shuddered violently as sparks of inexpressible joy flashed across your whole body. “You like that?”

“Mmm,” you said, another tear escaping your eye. “I… I don’t understand…”

“Understand what?”

“Why that feels so good…?” you admitted. “It’s… I… Is there something wrong with me?”

In an instant, he had picked you up in his arms and sat you down on your bed. “No,” he reassured you, even as he drew back slightly to give you a little room to breathe. “No, there’s nothing wrong with you. You’re just… alone.”

“Why did you show yourself to me tonight?” you asked, hoping to distract yourself from the way your hands were trembling and your skin felt suddenly too tight all over.

Lamorak gestured at the bed beside you and said, “May I sit?”

“Sure.”

He leaned in close and nudged his side against your shoulder; it was the gesture a familiar friend might make and it brought a lightness to your chest. He was still tall and you also liked the way you had to look up at him. “You’re hurting but you’ve stopped noticing. You felt it all over again tonight when you read that story, and… well… I felt it too.”

The aching in your chest redoubled and you leaned into his welcoming darkness. “It’s like my wish came true,” you breathed.

“May I hold you?” he asked in a voice as gentle as velvet.

When you nodded and whimpered, “Please,” he drew you easily into his lap, as if you were still a child, and allowed his dark tentacles to hold you while you curled up against him.

“Lamorak,” you smiled as exhaustion washed over you and you let him stroke your cheek and your hair until you drifted off to sleep.

He came to you night after night following that first reunion on your birthday. Six months later and your grades had gone up, you’d become marginally more confident and sociable at university, and you’d been invited to three people’s birthday events.

Returning after the latest one, you shot down the corridor and into your bedroom. Going still as you reached the middle of the room, you looked around. “Lamorak?” you whispered and the darkness beside the wardrobe coalesced into his familiar, tentacled form as he stepped out to greet you. “I had so much fun tonight!” you grinned, elated and buzzing. “Thank you for encouraging me to go!”

“I can feel it,” he chuckled, approaching and lifting your chin. “You look happy.”

Easily you stepped into his arms, but something felt different that night. The bond between you and this shadow creature suddenly drew taut as a bowstring and your heart began to pound as you sensed the slight change. “Lamorak,” you gasped as his tentacles touched your neck and throat with searing affection, yet more winding around your waist and thighs. “Oh my god… that’s… that…”

“You want me to stop?” he purred in your ear.

“No!” you gasped, and a tentacle slithered up your spine, beneath your clothes.

Shaking, you tipped back into his hold and let him carry you to the bed. “I want you,” he said. “I want to show you how much I love you…”

“Please…” you hissed, throwing your head back as his shadows skimmed under your bra and brushed over your nipple. “Please…!”

Slowly, with the reverence of a pilgrim at a shrine, he undressed you, taking care to keep caressing you all the while with his many other tentacles. His four, pearlescent eyes blinked rapidly, though none of them at the same time, and as he worked you closer and closer, delving inside you and circling your clit enough to make you gasp and moan and cry out against his dark body, you caught a glimpse of his mouth for the very first time. A long, horizontal slit in the blackness of his face opened up, revealing a maw of pointed teeth, and a black tongue, long and languid.

He dragged it over your thighs and stomach, over your hips, and finally down to enjoy the taste of you. Again and again his tongue savoured you and sent waves of pleasure throughout your whole body until you almost forgot how to breathe and your skin felt aflame.

“Perfect,” he moaned against your body and you felt the echo of it in your mind. The constant whispering of the shadows around his tentacles rose to a cacophony as you bucked and heaved, heat coiling inside you.

“I’m…” you cried out just before you came.

Lamorak held you while you clenched and heaved, stroking you tenderly all the while, caressing you and kissing you until you finally fell back into the sheets beneath you. Your body was wrung out and tingling all over, and every time he moved even a little bit, you twitched again. He gave you kisses and told you in hoarse whispers how beautiful you were.

“Don’t leave me,” you whimpered as he adjusted his tentacled embrace around you, and he washed slowly back over your body in a tide of darkness.

“Shh,” he crooned. “I’m here. I’m always here for you. As long as you need me, I’m here. And I’m always yours.”

With those words echoing in your mind, you drifted quietly to sleep, naked in the safety of his arms.

—

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#shadow monster #room monster #shadow room monster #monster x reader #exophilia #shadow monster x reader #female reader #shadow monster x female reader #monster x female reader

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cheri-translates · 4 years

Text

[CN] S2 Gavin and MC’s Main Storyline Meeting (Eng Translation)

🍒 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers for the Season 2 main storyline, which has not been released in English servers! 🍒

If you don’t know anything about Season 2, do check out this post first!

Chronology: Throbbing Date -> Chapter 1 -> Chapter 2

[Note: I won’t be doing other main storyline translations 😅 I translated this for a future analysis]

[Brief context you need to know prior to Ch 1-9]

Kiro is working as an artiste in MC’s company

MC is a successful producer and a member of Black Swan

Lucien is a neuroscientist, professor in Loveland University, and an advisor in STF for confidential R&D

Anna informs MC that a clip of Kiro announcing he’s an Evolver has appeared in the news and there are rumours of Kiro hurting someone. At present, he’s uncontactable

The STF is going to investigate the matter (they maintain the peace between normal humans and Evolvers), but MC doesn’t want it to blow up

She sneaks into Lucien’s office in STF and tries to persuade him to stop STF from investigating, but he says there’s nothing he can do

After she leaves, she gets spotted by a detective, and she alters his memories with her new Evol

It’s revealed that her Evol only worked on normal humans at first, but she’s been able to use it on weak Evolvers after training it

She overhears two STF officers talking about a new captain on the Special Operations Team, and prepares to plant a tracker on them:

[End of Chapter 1-8]

Before I take a step forward, there’s a sudden tightening on my wrist.

My hands are firmly clasped behind me. Before I can get a proper look at the person’s face, my whole body is pressed against the glass behind me.

[Chapter 1-9]

??: What are you doing here?

A familiar voice enters my ears, reminiscent of wind from the past awakening my memories.

I turn my head, looking at the person behind me in disbelief.

As compared to in high school, his eyebrows have become sharper. Yet, there seems to be more substance in that sharpness.

The brief encounter in front of the school gate, the inadvertent meeting of eyes after class...

Scenes from six years ago flash before my eyes, along with an even more distant time, leaving me slightly lost.

He came back after all.

This reunion after six years catches me off guard.

In the days before this reunion, I frequently thought about it.

As though waiting for the first bloom after the snow melts - slightly restless, and slightly anticipating.

Even though he said it was all right to arrive a little late, from what I see now... neither of us were late.

[Note: She’s making reference to her farewell with Gavin in Ch 37]

The hard, small tracker is in the palm of my hand. My thoughts whirl around in countless circles. In the end, I say the most normal words.

MC: ...Gavin, it’s been a while.

Gavin: What are you doing here?

Without waiting for my response, a soft and faint voice enters my ears.

Gavin: Someone’s coming. You don’t plan to say anything?

MC: ...

Gavin turns his head slightly. He doesn’t loosen his grip. The light remains on me.

To prevent myself from being discovered, I lean backwards against him, using his body to cover my existence.

Vaguely, I seem to hear a soft chuckle. I turn my head to its source.

Gavin maintains a straight face, but his slightly arched eyebrows betray a certain emotion.

Gavin: You still have one last chance.

MC: I’m really just surveying the place.

Warmth from his body travels to my back, like a wordless greeting.

He exerts more pressure, and I turn my head involuntarily.

At this moment, I seem to feel something leaning against my back gently.

A bird flies past the window, and Gavin releases my wrist.

The feeling of being shackled earlier disappears.

MC: No one was even around just now!

His expression is light, and his eyes crinkle upwards for a moment. He immediately turns his head to the side.

Gavin: Come with me.

My earlier shock settles, and I follow behind him as he walks along a corridor.

Away from the hall with passers-by, Gavin and I stand face-to-face near the corridor window. Neither of us speak.

Seeing the face illuminated by the sunlight from the window, I take a light breath and focus my attention on the matters at hand.

Gavin... has been transferred back to Loveland City? Could he be the new Captain of the Special Operations Team?

My line of sight sweeps over his white uniform and the badges on his chest. My speculation becomes more certain.

Considering how much attention this case has gotten, it should be handed over to him.

Gavin: You didn’t finish speaking just now. What exactly are you surveying here?

I regain my senses, trying my best to smile.

MC: I’ve been collecting solved Evol cases for a program recently, so I thought to come to STF and have a first-hand look.

Gavin purses his lip slightly, his gaze on my face. I calmly place my hands behind my back.

MC: I was looking for those two special officers to understand the process of how STF handles cases. I didn’t think I’d meet you here. Since you should be very busy, I shall not be a nuisance...

Gavin: You can be a nuisance. What program is making you go through so much effort? Tell me about it.

Facing Gavin’s straightforward gaze, I can only thicken my skin and continue speaking.

MC: The... name is tentatively “The Ins-and-Outs of STF’s Unknowns”.

Gavin: The name of the program isn’t bad, it sounds ambitious. Let’s talk about it in detail.

MC: ...wait! You’re newly promoted, so go and celebrate. It’s important to meet your subordinates. I can wait for you to be free before taking up your precious time.

I lower my head to avoid his eyes. I decide to rush off, but Gavin blocks my way.

Unable to withdraw my foot in time, I crash into his chest, and hit against the badges painfully.

I rub my cheek, slightly aggrieved, and look up to Gavin.

Seeing this, Gavin simply knits his brows slightly. His eyes are clear, as though waiting for another answer from me.

He doesn’t speak, but quietly gives me one last chance. Faced with such a Gavin, my heart sighs silently.

MC: I’m here because of a matter involving an Evolver artiste working under me.

...perhaps it’s my misperception, but his expression is no longer as cold as it was before.

With that, I meet his eyes, and no longer beat around the bush.

MC: STF’s intervention will only delay the matter. If he’s being used by some Evol organisation... it will just worsen the divide between normal people and Evolvers.

Gavin: After saying so much, what are you trying to say? Persuading me not to investigate?

I shake my head.

MC: No. If it were someone else, I might think of another way to handle the investigation. Seeing that you’re the one in charge of the investigation, I have nothing to worry about now.

Gavin: Why are you so confident?

I’m stunned for a moment. Only when I see his eyebrows furrowed questioningly, do I realise that my entire answer left my lips.

MC: It’s mostly because... I know what kind of a person you are. I don’t need to explain further, and I didn’t think of making an excuse, because lies can never become truths. I believe you’d use your method to find a true ending to this issue. You’ll give me, Kiro, and all the innocent people in this issue a true answer.

I believe every bullet from you resounds in the name of justice.

His amber eyes freeze for a while.

Gavin’s eyes flicker faintly, and looks like he’s about to speak.

The sound of footsteps draw near, and someone calls Gavin’s name from afar.

Gavin watches me, and there’s a change in the look in his eyes. After a while, he lowers his voice.

Gavin: This isn’t a place you should be in.

MC: Got it.

I understand that, at least right now, he wouldn’t probe further on the reason for my appearance in STF.

...after all, given Gavin’s identity and his investigative abilities, he definitely already knows that I’m in Black Swan.

No matter what my attitude was, we have been standing on opposite positions from the start.

MC: Gavin, I...

Gavin: Whether it’s your company, or the other people behind you, don’t interfere in this matter. The STF will handle everything.

Young Special Officer: Captain Gavin, Captain Eli is looking for you...

Gavin: Got it.

Gavin walks towards the special officer who called him. After giving him some instructions, he turns his head to look at me again.

The young special officer nods, then walks to my side.

Young Special Officer: Miss Reporter, the exit is over here.

I stare at Gavin’s retreating form and take a deep breath. I affectionately pat the young special officer’s shoulder.

MC: All right, I’ll leave now.

The miniature tracker hidden in my sleeves sticks to his body. Flushing red, the special officer takes a few steps, completely unaware.

Saying a “sorry” in my heart, I retract my hand and quietly follow behind the special officer.

The bracelet on my wrist dangles along with my action. The thin ginkgo leaf falls quietly against my wrist.

I grip my wrist lightly, my palm overlapping with the place Gavin had clamped earlier.

He didn’t use any force. It isn’t painful at all.

[Chapter 1-10]

The STF training grounds.

Special police: A! Warm! Welcome! To! Our! New! Captain!

Gavin: ...

Seeing Gavin’s expression cracking slightly, Eli desperately suppresses the urge to gloat.

Eli: The famous Special Police Officer B-7. Every new kid here has memorised your deeds back then by heart.

Gavin: When did you have so much nonsense?

Gavin arches his brows. Eli could have sworn that on Gavin’s face is a look of ridicule which he hasn’t seen in a long time.

The inauguration ceremony, which was originally meant to continue for the entire afternoon, ends quickly in ten minutes on Gavin’s request.

The special police officers on the training grounds disperse after looking at each other. The two of them leave the training ground, heading to the Administration Building.

Eli: How is it, are you able to adapt well?

Gavin: Not bad.

Eli: Need me to celebrate with you?

Gavin: No need.

Eli: ...you’re still the same as always.

Eli releases a soft sigh and catches up with Gavin.

Eli: You suddenly transferred to Loveland City - even I was a little surprised. From how you looked just now, it seems you were already prepared for it.

Eli looks at the comrade who once escaped death with him, and only one thought is in his heart-

Whoever is in the Special Operations Team next time is going to suffer.

Eli: Oh right, I have a question.

Gavin hears the hesitance in Eli’s voice. He pauses.

Eli: Why aren’t you willing to announce your identity as the Commander-in-chief of STF?

Gavin: You should know why I returned to Loveland City.

Initially startled, Eli quickly understands the meaning behind Gavin’s words.

Eli: Don’t worry. Since you’re the Captain of the Special Operations Team now, we’ll cooperate with you fully. The mission you’re referring to is still considered “top secret” in STF. There have already been some initial developments, so you can rest assured.

Watching Gavin nod inattentively, Eli suddenly thinks of something very important.

Eli: Also, was the person you met just now...

Gavin: What are the results of the investigation?

Eli freezes for a moment after Gavin cuts him off. He smiles and nods.

Eli: We’ve got them. The report should already be on your desk.

Gavin: Let’s go quickly then.

Seeing Gavin walk towards his office without a turn of his head, Eli sighs in his heart, speeding up his pace to catch up.

There are no traces of the office being used. On the table rests a stack of newly sent documents.

Gavin flips through the documents briefly, pursing his lips.

Gavin: This isn’t everything.

Eli: Should I contact the general advisor of the confidential R&D department?

Gavin: No need. How much we have here represents how much he’s willing to disclose. We’ll find the rest ourselves.

Gavin locks the documents in a drawer. Casting a glance at the window, his lips move slightly.

Gavin: We’ll take action tonight.

Eli: Such a hurry?

Gavin: We can’t?

Eli: We can, but are you hurrying to settle work, or hurrying to settle work to meet someone?

Gavin: I already have.

Eli: I didn’t mention who it was.

Gavin: ...

Eli: What are your thoughts? Do you find the change very large?

Gavin: ...

Seeing that Gavin isn’t speaking, Eli knowingly remains silent.

In the room, there is only the faint sound of the computer running.

The thread of memory is pulled, one end holding that figure disappearing in the opposite direction, and the other gently tugging on his emotions.

Gavin: She has never changed.

Although the morning trip to STF was alarming and dangerous, I managed to confirm one thing.

Since this matter has fallen into Gavin’s hands, there's nothing to worry about on the media level.

But whether he will use this as a chance to keep an eye on Black Swan is a different issue.

I remember Gavin’s resolute attitude, letting out a sigh.

Since I’m a member of Black Swan, he might not be willing to be associated with me...

The sun shines through the gaps of the leaves, bringing with it a melting warmth on every corner of the street.

I narrow my eyes slightly, thinking about that eternal night of the earth - it’s so distant, just like an illusion.

The comet cluster X1917 and the doomsday which really occurred, had brought everything back to seventeen years ago.

In the seventeen years I’ve experienced again, there have been many dramatic changes.

But under the surface of this seemingly balanced society resides the friction and disputes between two groups of people, like a dormant volcano.

Perhaps this peace can be maintained, or perhaps it would explode in the next second...

There’s suddenly an earth-shattering cry behind me.

I turn and see a five or six year old girl crying as her balloon floats in the sky.

In the next second, the balloon which almost disappeared floats back.

The passing teenager grabs the string, bends over, and ties it onto the girl’s wrist. The girl quickly breaks into a smile.

Looking at the two of them waving at each other and going off in opposite directions, I applaud in my hand and sigh softly at the same time.

To maintain such a balance, and also find “that thing” - it’s an immense challenge to me.

...forget it, I’ll take it one step at a time.

I rub my deflated tummy, deciding to resolve the problem of hunger in front of me.

For the sake of completion: MC goes into the convenience store and meets Kiro. He didn’t hurt anyone - the guy slipped and fell on his own LOL

Wondering why MC has a ginkgo bracelet? Fan speculation here. [Update: This question is answered in Chapter 2]

Phone call: here

🌸 MOMENTS 🌸

Gavin’s Post: It’s windy.

MC: The wind today seems colder.

Gavin: Because the next season is coming.

Minor: Bro Gavin, where are you? I’m treating you to a congratulatory meal right now!

Gavin’s Post: It’s windy.

MC: Probably because you’ve returned.

Gavin: Do you think so?

Minor: Bro Gavin, where are you? I’m treating you to a congratulatory meal right now!

Gavin’s Post: It’s windy.

MC: It’s very common for it to be windy in Loveland City during this season. Have you forgotten?

Gavin: I haven’t forgotten anything related to this place.

Minor: Bro Gavin, where are you? I’m treating you to a congratulatory meal right now!

#mlqc #mlqc cn #mlqc spoilers #mlqc gavin

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imagine-darksiders · 4 years

Text

Cold Hands, Warm Heart.

Chapter 13 - Nepenthe.

Summary: Upon returning to Tri Stone, you discover just how much of an impact you’ve made on the makers there....

Tags: Darksiders, Found Family, Fluff, Death X Reader, Dust is here too, Muscly women, giant dads, giant mother, Idk what Alya is? Feral?

-----

The first thing you notice when you step through the yawning hole that serves as Tri Stone's main gateway, is that the village is eerily, uncharacteristically quiet.

Nothing but the strange duet of lava and water murmuring side by side disturbs the blanket of silence that has settled upon every corner, and even the wind seems to hold its breath as you follow Death over to the stone staircase. Tentative in the face of such a noticeably change, you begin to descend, taking a peek over the wall's side to cast your eyes warily around the training circle where Thane is typically busy laying waste to his wooden dummies. Tonight however, the warrior is nowhere to be found.

“Where is everyone?” you ask aloud, not expecting any kind of answer from the night air or the insects chirping in nearby trees.

Death slows to let you catch up and, providing his own answer to your question, he points a finger down the length of the village, guiding your eyes to the vast doors that lead into the maker's forge. Brows furrowing, you venture up beside him and begin to hear muffled shouting from inside. The closer you get, the louder and sharper it grows.

“That... sounds like Thane, huh?” you gulp, earning a snort from the Horseman.

“It certainly does.”

There are no discernible words, not until you reach the door and Death moves ahead of you to slide them open. As soon as there's a gap to slip through, he nudges you inside and is about to follow when a flurry of pitch-black feathers shoots part his nose and into the forge behind you. Death glares at his bird's receding tail feathers and grumbles, “Oh, by all means, after you.” Then, he too steps inside, letting the door close with a dull thud.

Evidently, your guess as to the owner of the muffled voice had been spot on.

“Yer bloody LUCKY she wasn't hurt!” Thane's roar bounces around the cavernous room and you're fairly certain the force of it dislodges some dust that rains down on you from the ceiling.

All six of the makers are gathered around the anvil in the centre of their forge with a familiar youngling hunched in the middle of them, his ears cast down and his spine bowed under the torrent of scolding he's apparently received before you even arrived. None of them have noticed the newcomers ambling slowly down the hall towards them. As you reluctantly fall behind Death’s longer stride, you can hear the meagre defence Karn is presenting to a notably furious Thane.

“I weren't gonna let anythin' bad happen to her!” he whines.

A patient sigh alerts you to Eideard's presence as he steps up to Thane and rests a hand on his shoulder, tugging him back a little to give Karn some breathing room. “We know you weren't, young one,” he says with the patience of an experienced mother, “And we're sure you were more than prepared to protect her if you had to. But that is besides the -”

“Oh hooo, no. No, you don't!” Thane roughly shrugs the Old One's hand off and whips around to face him. “Don't you start coddlin' the boy! He needs to know he crossed a damn line!”

The last word booms out like a clap of thunder and almost has you ducking behind the safety of the Horseman.

As it turns out, makers absolutely can be as scary – if not scarier than - Death.

You'd never stopped noticing their size, but you violently recall how much bigger makers are when Thane draws himself to his full height. There's a stony edge to his tone that's harder than the surface you walk upon and each ragged breath is puffed out through flaring nostrils, reminding you more of a beast than a man. Even Karn looks as though he wants nothing more than to sink into the ground and escape from the tirade and the judgemental eyes of his fellow makers.

He's fiddling with something in his hands, turning the object over and over anxiously and although you're at a distance, when a flash of copper glints in the firelight, you recognise it as the lost compass you'd found for him in the Temple. His knuckles are almost bone-white as he clings to it with his ungloved hands and every reprimand that Thane tosses his way causes the youngling's fingers to flinch. For all of Karn's size and strength, in the face of Thane's chastising, he looks as though all the courage has been sapped right out of him.

Something in your belly suddenly twists itself into a hot, ugly coil and any dread is replaced with indignation. The gleaming tusks of Tri Stone’s resident warrior don’t seem nearly as intimidating after you’ve seen your friend cowering in a horribly familiar reflection of yourself.

If you could face down the Grim Reaper in Karn's defence, then you sure as Hell aren't about to refrain from defending him again now.

Rolling up your sleeves, you begin to march up ahead of Death, missing the shock that flashes in his eyes and the hand he shoots out to grab at your arm. The Horseman barely manages to keep his fingers from curling into the back of your jumper before he freezes, blinking down at his appendage in surprise. The reaction to try and hold you back had been completely driven by instinct as some older, more cautious part of him recalled how dangerous an angry maker can be.

‘No need to worry about Thane hurting her though,’ he rationalises. Seconds later, Death remembers to aggressively assert to himself that he was not, in fact worried. Snapping his gaze away from his hand, he pads along behind you as you reach the foot of the steps and raise your voice to be heard over Thane's new bout of hollering.

“HEY! Leave him alone!”

The Horseman rolls his eyes. 'Oh, that'll be effective,' he scoffs to himself.

More fool him because funnily enough, it is.

Thane's tirade is promptly cut off at your shout and he swings his head around towards you, his lips falling to cover the tusks jutting from his lower jaw. “Lass?”

Alya and Valus immediately perk up at the sight of you and Muria splays her fingers over her heart, breathing a quiet sigh. “Thank the Stonefather...”

Even Eideard leans a little more heavily against his staff when his old bones are flooded by a dizzying wave of relief washing through them.

Ignoring the others, you march up the stairs like a human on a mission, striding forward until you come to Karn's side and proceed to park yourself directly in front of him, folding your arms and tipping your chin back to glare at Thane. “I've said it to Death and I'm not afraid to say it to you as well!-” That isn't entirely true, given how clammy your hands are becoming as you meet the warrior's steely gaze. “- Don't take it out on Karn! I'm the one you should be yelling at.”

The enormous warrior stares you down with his clouded eye screwed shut and his chest heaving. He's torn, for a moment, between relief at seeing you back unharmed and anger that you'd managed to slip past him earlier. The whole forge seems to wait with bated breath as his face tries to settle on one expression until at last, he curls his lip and looks like he's about to take your advice and divert his frustrations onto you instead of the youngling. Before he can however, there's the sound of a throat being softly cleared and it draws his stare to where the Horseman is leaning back against the surrounding wall.

Death isn't making eye contact with him, apparently too busy inspecting some dirt beneath his fingernails, but the message conveyed in his over-casual stance and hardened jawline is clear to the warrior.

'Don't.'

Thane clenches his teeth as he swaps a heated look between you and the Horseman a few times before he finally lets out a bearish grunt and stabs a finger down in your face, giving it a shake for good measure. “You and Karn,” he growls, “have about as much sense between you as a... as a bloody bomb bug.” And with that cutting retort, he storms past Karn, making sure to collide with the youngling's shoulder on the way.

'Oh,' you blink, pleasantly surprised when Thane doesn't utter anything further as he trudges to the wall and lets his arms slump over the ledge with a churlish huff, 'Is that it?' You'd been prepared for a much louder confrontation.

With a shrug, you peer up at the young maker at your side, finding his eyes are already locked on you and he's sporting a crooked grin.

“You okay?” you mouth.

He whispers back a soft, 'Yeah,' before a wrinkled hand falls on his shoulder and he's guided aside, leaving room for Eideard to step forwards and look down at you. “Y/n, Death. It is good to see you both return in one piece,” he says, giving you a pointed stare, “Thane told us the Horseman had left you here, so when we couldn't find you, I’m afraid we assumed the worst.”

Unable to hold herself back any longer, Alya jumps in, glaring at Karn. “Aye! N' when we realised this howlin' eejit was gone as well, we put two an' two together!”

“Alya!” Muria all but gasps in her direction.

“What? He is an eejit!”

“Alya, for goodness sake, don't be so childish.”

The young maker crosses her arms, lips pursed.

Shooting her a withering glance, Eideard clears his throat. “In any event, the important thing is that you didn't come to any further harm. And-” He lowers his eyes to Death. “- You managed to awaken the Warden. His help will be instrumental in reaching the Foundry.” The Old One then bows his head in a show of both respect and gratitude, uttering, “Thank you, Horseman.”

Regarding how Death's eyes flicker, you imagine he may never get used to receiving a heartfelt 'thank you.' As if he's doubly eager to shrug off Eideard's words, the Horseman pushes himself off the wall and wanders over to you. “Don't thank me just yet, Old one. I have yet to awaken your Guardian.”

“Given your track record, I have no doubt you will succeed in that endeavour as well,” the maker smiles, though the expression soon turns more serious and he adds, “You must, if you want to reach the Tree of Life.”

His pale eyes flick down to you before darting away again so quickly, you nearly miss the movement.

“Ah... Horseman. I understand you are eager to reach the Tree, but...” He stops to think for a moment, unsure of how to phrase his question without insulting Death's abilities. Eventually, he settles on, “The Foundry is dangerous enough in the daylight. Do you intend to tackle it tonight?”

Death narrows his eyes. He knows what the old maker is doing. It's a subtle attempt to keep you in the Forge for a few more hours, to give you some time to rest. They both know, after all, that if you followed Death once, chances are you'll do it again, even if it means foregoing some much needed respite.

He still isn't sure how he's going to address that particular detail – of whether or not you should accompany him to the Foundry. Perhaps waiting until morning will give him time to ponder over the issue. “The darkness will not hamper me,” Death huffs. From the corner of his eye, he sees your face fall. Ah. Perhaps even you are starting to realise you can't keep going forever. “But,” he adds, “There are some.... preparations I need to make first. The Foundry will still be there come sunrise. As will the Tree.”

“Sunrise?” you ask, “What time is that here?”

When all you receive from Death and the makers are blank looks, you smack a hand lightly to your forehead. “Oh yeah, forgot you guys don't wear watches.”

Death resists the urge to let his eyebrows knit together. How many things that he and the makers deem unnecessary or pointless do you miss having from Earth? Things as trite as timepieces? An odd twinge tugs at his chest and it takes him a second to register the sensation as sympathy, and then only another second to shake the feeling loose.

Abruptly, the Horseman lifts his hand and claps it down on your shoulder, getting a surprised 'oof' in response. You turn to shoot him a quizzical look but he's already given you a tender squeeze and let his hand drop, striding past you. “Sunrise will be here soon enough. In the meantime, why don't you 'take a load on,' as you humans like to say?” he suggests, and you're so perplexed by the decidedly considerate gesture, you dumbly stammer back, “I-it's 'take a load off, actually.'”

The Horseman doesn't particularly care if he got the phrase wrong, only that you understood the sentiment behind it. Grunting, he otherwise doesn't respond as he heads towards the furthest set of steps that lead down to a bench sitting beside the outer wall, leaving you in the company of six makers and a crow, who has found a new perch atop Eideard's pronged helm and twists his beak to regard the proceedings with a level of interest only a nosy corvid could have.

Briefly, you make as if you're going to follow Death, then your footsteps grind to a halt when it occurs to you that he might be deliberately separating himself from the group and you're reminded of how much you enjoyed your alone time back home. You can certainly relate to needing some moments to yourself, so, though your legs are burning from being on them all day and your bruised side has begun to ache you remain where you are. Karn and Eideard are still standing by your side, the latter of whom has his long, gnarled fingers stroking absently through the bristles of his beard.

There's a long silence following Death's departure, stretching on and only growing more deafening he longer it remains unbroken. You struggle to find a word to fill it. What should you say? And who should you say it to first?

It's suddenly all so.... overwhelming – having their eyes on you. They've never been gathered together in one place like this before and you can't help but feel as though you're at the centre of the world's biggest intervention. Ironic that the elephant in the room happens to be the smallest member.

Ironic too, is the fact that Valus is the one who eventually breaks the uncomfortable stalemate. He shifts, mumbling something that's lost in his metal helmet and gestures to you with the back of a hand.

“I-I'm sorry, I didn't catch that...” you say in a small voice.

“He said~” Alya huffs, taking a deep breath before she suddenly snaps, “What in the blue, blinkin' name of the Stonefather were you thinkin' of, you - Ow!”

She's cut off by a swift elbow to her side from Valus. “Ugh. Fine, he dinnae say that.” Her bunched shoulders loosen a little, the hard glare on her face turning less severe. “He... just wants to know if you're alright?”

Six pairs of eyes –

Dust ruffles his feathers from the top of Eideard's head-dress

- Seven pairs of eyes peer down at you expectantly, causing a flash of heat to creep up your neck unwarranted.

'Shit,' you think, 'Are they really that worried? I must've been more banged up than I thought after Karkinos...'

It doesn't make sense to you. You knew there was some level of concern but this is...

You don't know what to do with this.

Answering the lingering question seems like a good place to start though.

Linking your hands, you scuff at the ground with the toe of your boot and shrug, peeking up at Valus from beneath your lashes. “I'm okay, guys. Really. Karn kept me safe.”

All at once, Alya's expression sours and there's a skeptical growl from Thane's corner.

On the youngling's behalf, you grimace, sheepishly raising your head to meet his glum stare.

“I'm sorry for getting you in trouble, Karn,” you whisper to him and reach out to give his boot a consoling pat.

The maker blinks down at you, utterly dumbfounded by your apology. He's grown so used to things being his fault – and being told they're his fault – that seeing somebody take the blame for him feels like an oddly pleasant slap to the face. Technically, this time, he is at fault. You never would have been able to leave the village and follow Death were it not for his interference. However, even if the other makers hold Karn accountable, you don't seem to.

Suddenly, he finds he doesn't much care if the others are angry with him.

You - his first, best and only friend – are not.

After several seconds of staring dumbly down at you, a lopsided grin worms its way onto the youngling's face.

“Karn can take care of himself,” Eideard interrupts, “He may be a little foolhardy, but he is undoubtedly a strong and skilled adventurer. And he is aware of the many dangers that lurk in our realm. He should have known better.”

“He... he did know better...” you murmur, ducking your head and wishing you'd worn something with a higher collar that you could hide behind, “I was the one who kept pushing until he agreed to take me.”

The Old One sighs, sending you a gentle frown. “I had hoped that you were at least sensible enough to know you were – and in fact, still are – in need of recuperation.”

You watch the maker's bushy eyebrows furrow, drawing the wrinkles on his forehead down to form crevasses in his ancient skin. He's staring you down, and though you try to meet his gaze, you find it easier to cave in first and avert your eyes, dropping them to his boots instead.

After a moment, you hear the maker's chest heave with a slow exhale.

“I am not angry with you, lass,” he says softly, “None of us are.”

Snorting, you raise your head to glance pointedly over at where Thane is aggressively drumming his fingertips on top of the stone wall and muttering a string of words too low for you to pick up, though you have a sneaking suspicion they aren't very polite.

Eideard follows your gaze and a smile crinkles the corners of his eyes when he sees who you're looking at. “We all worry in our own way. Some of us worry louder than others.” He nods towards the warrior. “While some worry quietly.” This time, his focus shifts onto Valus.

At once, Alya barks out a laugh. “Ha! Quiet?” She pauses to roughly elbow her brother in the arm before carrying on. “When he realised you left the village, all he did was pace up and down the forge, moanin'!”

Valus twists his helm and grunts something accusing, in response to which she merely offers a shrug. “Well, s'true.”

“If I recall correctly, Alya,” the Shaman says from her spot beside the cooling trough, “you were particularly vocal as well.”

Vocal was an understatement. The Forge sister hadn't stopped huffing and growling about what she planned to do to Karn if he didn't return you to Tri Stone in one piece. The boisterous young maker shoots Muria a scathing look, tipping her ears down in displeasure.

There's a sudden tightness in your throat and you swallow past the lump, fingers twisting into the fabric of your jumper. “I... I didn't realise,” you murmur, more to yourself than the giants around you.

Thane pipes up anyway.

“Didn't realise what?” he grunts, “That you about scared the life out of us when you up n' disappeared?”

Wincing, you drop your gaze to the floor. “I didn't realise that you... Well, it just seems like you all care. About... about me.”

There's a long spell of silence in which all the makers share wide eyed glances with one another, save for Muria, who tilts her head to the side, listening attentively to the shifting room.

Then, slowly, Alya's lips split into a grin, a grin that soon turns into a loud chuckle. With a hard blink, you stare up at her, confusion evident in the way your brows creep together. Even Valus seems to share his sister's sudden mirth and his shoulders begin to heave up and down with silent laughter. Behind you, Thane’s head turns slightly to peer down at you over his shoulder pauldron, something fond tugging at his lips.

Eideard however, remains perfectly unaffected whilst he watches you carefully, examining the bewilderment on your face.

His old heart hums in displeasure. Do you really think so little of yourself that you can't even fathom how others might care about you?

Swiping a few fingers underneath her eyes, Alya's giggle finally tapers off and she exclaims, “Well of course we care, you daft girl!”

“But...” You pause, scrunching up your nose as you try to understand why. “But I'm not even a maker?”

“Well... Do you care about Karn?” Eideard suddenly interjects.

The answer comes to you immediately when you flick your gaze up and meet the youngling's wide, curious eyes. He looks as though he fully expects that you might say 'no.'

“Yes. Yes of course I do.” Shyly, you glance down again. “I care about all of you guys.”

“Why?” Eideard lowers his head to try and coax you into looking at him. “We are not humans.”

“Well, yeah, but -” Perplexed, you fumble for words, eventually settling on, “-but that doesn't matter!”

The point he's trying to make finally hits home and you promptly snap your mouth shut. The Old One's aged grin widens when he recognises the wave of realisation that crashes over your face.

You miss the secretive glance he shares with the others.

“Come. Walk with me,” he offers gently and turns, his robes sweeping along on the ground behind him as he trails down the steps and makes his way towards the doors leading out onto Tri Stone's lower courtyard.

Dust gives an offended squawk and flutters off Eideard’s helm, swooping down to the wall and tossing the maker’s back a dirty look, irate that his perch had begun to move.

After a moment of hesitation, still reeling at the knowledge that you are worlds away from home yet there are still those who care, you trot along behind the village elder.

------

The cool night air laps at your skin once you step outside again, prompting your hands to retreat inside the sleeves of your jumper as you follow the old maker through his village with your eyes transfixed on the gently swinging braid that hangs halfway down his back. In the pale moonlight, you could imagine his hair had been spun from solid silver.

Chewing your lip, you ponder over the things that had been said inside the Forge. Perhaps it had been wrong of you to assume that humans were the only species who could know compassion. Is it really so strange that the makers care about your wellbeing? After all, you do care about theirs. Just as you care about Death’s - enough to follow him into dangerous temples, at least. Or just as you care about whether or not Blackroot gets his stone bites - ‘Ah!’ You almost smack yourself on the forehead for nearly forgetting. ‘Blackroot!’

“Um, Eideard?” you call out, kneading at your jumper, “Can I ask you something?”

Without breaking his stride, the Old one twists his head around and you catch the gleam of his tusks as he softly replies, “Anything.”

“Do you know someone called Blackroot?”

“Blackroot,” he breathes, his grey eyes going wide and misty, “Ah, now there's a name I haven't heard in a long time.” Turning to face forwards again, his steps suddenly falter, as though he's just realised you have no way of knowing that name. Perhaps Karn had... Hmm.

“I know him, yes. He was an old and dear friend of mine.” Eideard looks down at you as you jog to fall in line beside him. “But... How do you know of him?”

“Because we met him. In the Fjord,” you explain.

This time, the maker does stop and his breath hitches. “He's alive?”

Nodding, you feel a flutter of hope ignite in your belly for the construct. “Yeah! Yeah, but he's stuck. I think his roots go down too far. And he said he's gonna starve soon! Death and I gave him some stone bites to tide him over, but...”

“You fed him!” Eideard laughs breathlessly, riding the elation at hearing the news of his friend, “Of course you did, you compassionate little thing!”

Covering a cheek with one hand, you scoff away his praise, asking, “So.... can you help him?”

“I – yes, yes, of course! I shall need -” Pausing, the maker inhales long and deep, regaining some composure. He'd allowed himself to get a little too excitable. But good news is rare and hard to come by in the Forge Lands of late. “I shall need to speak with Muria. His roots, you say? Hm. She may have something that will preserve him if a severance causes any damage...” He trails off and places a hand underneath his chin, deep in thought.

Once again, Eideard begins to walk while in the meantime, you're content to let him ponder and so you keep your lips pressed respectfully together until the giant's footsteps come a halt. Automatically, you stop as well, peering up at him and finding one of his hands has begun a slow descent towards you. You remain stock still, gulping as you watch the appendage loom closer and closer until the pad of a single, warm fingertip lands on your shoulder, pressing down with the barest amount of pressure.

He's smiling at you, the lines around his eyes as deep as his voice when he breathes, “Thank you, Y/n.” Before you can reply, he pulls away and sets off again. After a beat, you grin, feeling a weight lift off your chest before you follow.

The world around you is peaceful and silent once more save for the soft thumps of his boots hitting the stone pathway and the clinking, clanks of his staff as it strikes the ground ahead of his footfalls. He leads you to the fallen tree that had first brought you into Tri Stone and strides through it without a word.

Stone gives way to soft, bouncy grass when you emerge out into the tunnel on the other side, the path ahead lit by dozens of lunar thrips and the scattering of moonbeams that slip through cracks in the jagged ceiling and fall upon Eideard's shoulders, casting him in dappled light as he passes underneath them. It isn't until you amble by the place Muria had brought you to bathe that curiosity finally compels you to break the shroud of silence that presses upon the back of your mind like a persistent presence. “Um, where are we going?”

Twisting his head around, Eideard peers at you over his shoulder, head dress glinting as he strolls under another stray flash of moonlight. “Patience, youngling. You'll find out soon enough,” he replies, as though he'd been expecting that very question.

“Thought you said I could ask you anything,” you smirk.

The maker’s eyes glint with mischief and the smirk he returns is an almost perfect reflection of your own. Deliberately so, you’d wager. “Ah. But I did not say I would answer anything.”

You stare up at him for a moment, jaw hanging slack. Following a disbelieving little huff, you lower your gaze to the grass underfoot and press on.

It isn't long before the two of you traipse out into the glade where you'd first awoken to the sight of an old giant's bearded face smiling warmly down at you.

“It's so weird,” you mutter, idly watching the lunar thrips as they whizz around the clearing, their tiny lights leaving streaks of orange and gold across your vision for a few moments before fading to darkness.

Up ahead, Eideard hums questioningly, stopping beside a short, rocky slope and then hefting his bulky weight around to face you.

Tearing your gaze off the bugs that remind you so bitterly of fireflies, you trundle over to the maker and rub at the edges of your eyes, shrugging. “It just feels like I've been here a lot longer than I actually have, you know? I can hardly believe it's only been... what? A few days since Earth was -” Your jaw snaps shut and you grimace, lips twisting at their corners. 'A few days? Is that really all it's been?'

An enormous hand suddenly appears before you, a quiet offer from the village elder and you accept it with nary a second's hesitation, though a tiny part of your psyche wonders if you ought to reflect on how far you've come since you were cowering away from the makers. If you had been told a week ago what you were going to accomplish in the coming days, you'd likely laugh as though you'd just heard the funniest joke in the world.

Now, your hand rests delicately on Eideard's wrinkled thumb and you step into his equally calloused palm, sinking to your knees without ever once worrying how much larger and stronger he is as he raises you to the top of the slope and settles his hand down there, patiently waiting for you to disembark. Throwing him a bemused glance, you wordlessly slide off his palm and the Old one steps back, lifting an arm to gesture over the edge of the plateau you're now standing on.

“Tell me, youngling, what do you see?” he asks.

Raising a brow, you follow the line of his index finger and look out towards the inky horizon.

Far below you, glistening silver beneath the light of the moon, sits a vast, serene lake. Your ears abruptly pick up on the distant thundering of waterfalls that tumble down into it from the precipice of a nearby mountain. There's a sharp, refreshing sweetness carried up to you on the wind that conjures faint memories of Christmas trees and pine needles and suddenly, your lungs are swimming in the smell of December as you inhale deeply through your nose, holding all the air in your lungs until you have to expel it in a rush.

All the while, Eideard remains perfectly still at your back, content to let you have a few moments to just breathe.

“I see a lake,” you finally answer.

A gust of warm air glides across the back of your neck. Even from your vantage point, the maker's head is still at the same level as you. “What else?” he coaxes.

There isn't anything obvious, at least not until you cast your gaze further to the left and as your eyes adjust, you manage to pick out several shapes in the dark that sit on the lakeshore, at least a mile's walk from the glade. They're enormous, whatever they are, set individually from one another yet still close enough that they're obviously part of the same feature. Some are square, some are oblong, set like pitch-black monoliths against the dark mountain behind them. Silhouettes of what appear to be -

“Houses?” Turning about to face Eideard, you find the bristles of his moustache have been pushed up by a kindly smile. He nods his head and you turn back to face the shapes below once more.

“Our homes,” the maker elaborates, “Where we used to reside. We lost them eons ago, to Corruption.”

“There are quite a few of them,” you mention.

Behind you, Eideard releases a plaintive sigh. “Once, there were quite a few of us.”

Grimacing, you try to apologise for dragging up the clearly tender memory, but the Old one simply waves your words away and continues, “Before you arrived, we never thought we'd get to see our homes again. But now, you and the Horseman have done what the rest of us failed to do. The Fire and Tears flow through our Forge once again, the Warden has been reawakened-” He pauses for a while, long enough that you throw a quizzical look over your shoulder at him. Once he catches your eye, Eideard leans forwards and fixes you with an earnest stare. “-You are bringing our realm back to life.”

“Death did all the work,” you argue, instantly knowing that the old maker disapproves of your claim by the way his eyes slip shut and he shakes his head, a low gush of air blowing from his nose.

“Stop that,” he scolds you gently, “Stop doubting the impact you have on our realm. On us. Since you arrived, I've never seen Karn happier. Muria's garden is in full bloom, I've discovered an old friend still lives, and for the first time in so long, my people have hope that they will see their old homes again.” The maker's frown lifts a fraction and the corner of his eyes crinkle like plummetless chasms as he smiles, nodding towards the collection of shadowy silhouettes down on the lakeside. “Karn, I know, is especially keen. There's a house next to his own that he's been dying to show you.”

“Why? What's in there?” Curious you stand on your toes and peer over the ledge, trying to pick out the individual huts.

“As of yet, nothing more than an empty home in need of filling.”

At your back, the maker listens to the noncommittal hum you give him in response. Then, after his words have had some time to sink in, you grow still and quiet, your back rigid. The only movement comes from the hair on your head that waves in the nightly breeze.

He can almost feel the uncertainty pressing down upon your shoulders. You've drawn some conclusion from his subtle prompting, that much is clear, but you aren't sure. Not entirely, not enough to react just yet.

Perhaps you require a more direct nudge. “Y/n.” He prepares himself to reach out and steady you because you've begun to sway a little on your feet. “We – that is, the other makers and I - have discussed it at length and we were hoping that you would be the one to fill it some day.”

“What?” you choke, at last shuffling about to fix him with wide, glistening eyes, “Eideard, what are you saying?”

“We makers know how it feels to lose a world,” he presses on, soft and slow, “And we would never wish the same on any friend of ours.”

Your lips press firmly together because you don't trust yourself to remain composed when you fully realise just what it is he's offering.

Eideard's tufted, white brows ease together until he looks as sincere as you've ever seen him. “You do not have to accept,” he continues, “You do not even have to entertain the notion. All I am telling you, is that wherever you choose to go from here, there will always be a home waiting for you with us, should you want it.”

The dam around your tear-ducts starts to crumble and you part your lips to draw in a rasping breath as words try to form on your tongue but none of them strike you as particularly adequate. It's too much, the enormity of suddenly being given the chance to belong somewhere again. So, in lieu of words, you do the only thing that feels right.

Using the back of a wrist to scrub at your eyes, you drop down onto your backside and shuffle forward, sliding feet-first down the rocky slope and pushing off once you reach the ground, staggering straight at the maker. As soon as he sees you move, Eideard bends himself down onto one knee, wincing at the resulting crack of his bones. His arms swing open like a warm invitation and you should find it strange that a maker can anticipate a human's course of action without too much thought.

Before your knees can buckle underneath you, you fall against his leg, wrapping your arms around as much of him as you can and immediately find your back enveloped by a pair of strong yet ancient hands.

The fur trim around his sleeves tickles at your neck as you bury your face into his robes and part of you feels you ought to be ashamed of how sodden the fabric becomes in those first few seconds but then the Old One is rubbing soothing circles into your spine with his thumb and suddenly, your tears don't matter.

“My apologies,” Eideard rumbles above you, “I did not mean to cause you such distress.”

Stifling a sob, you shake your head against his robes, sinking into the comfort and security provided by having the giant at your back. “You didn't.... I mean, I'm not distressed. I'm just...” Your mouth opens and falls shut a few times as you attempt to come up with something to fill the blank.

What are you? What does his offering you a home when you have none mean?

Another, wet sob leaves your throat before you can muffle the sound against him. “I just can't... believe you would offer something like that... to me.”

“And why wouldn't I?” he asks, unfurling his hands a little so you can lean back and look up at him through bleary eyes, “You have been a friend to my people, and we take care of our friends - what seldom few we have.”

Despite willing yourself to remain composed, his words strike at an already tender wound in your heart and your face crumples, so you shove it back into the robes draped over his bent knee and grit your teeth, frustrated that you're letting him see you cry again.

For some time, Eideard remains crouched in the same position, his fingertips resting against you in such a way that you aren't left feeling trapped by his hold. The touch is light yet secure, and you know you could step away whenever you want. For the time being however, you choose to stay.

With that same, unshakable patience, the maker is content to wait for as long as you need him to.

Soon enough, your shoulders stop heaving and the tears making tracks down your face run dry at last. Peeling your forehead off Eideard's knee, you release a rough exhale and swipe at the moisture clinging stubbornly to your lashes.

“Ugh. Sorry for crying all over you,” you sniff, flashing the maker a wobbly smile, “Seems I'm doing a lot of that nowadays. Crying, I mean.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” He stops to take a long breath, scrutinising the newfound puffiness of your eyelids with a curious, if not concerned tilt of his brows. “If I may speak plainly, it is a relief to see.”

“A... Wait, what?” Your smile falls and you ask, “Seeing me cry is a relief?”

The Old One moves a hand away from you and lays it on his beard, thoughtfully thumbing the jewelled band that holds his braid in place. “It is a relief to see you cry, youngling, because it means that despite the terrible things you've been put through, you haven't lost your heart.”

Swallowing back a lump, you look down at your chest, fingers slowly unfurling to splay out above the delicate organ that lays tucked beneath your ribcage as if to check that it really is still there.

Above your head, Eideard's smile turns tender. “You humans,” he chuckles, shaking his head in wonder, “You feel things so magnificently. You're a complex little species. The extent of your emotional expression is... it's.... ” He trails off and his hand waves in the air as if trying to pluck out the right words and you notice his voice is almost breathless, awed by an aspect of humanity you've never really taken into consideration before, and you have to briefly wonder how in the world a being as majestic as him could possibly be in awe of a species that only lives a century at best. To you, it hardly makes sense, but you're so busy frowning contemplatively at your own chest, you don't see the way he's marvelling at you. “Well,” he eventually puts, “At the very least, it is astounding.”

A shift in the air draws your head up and you tilt it back, stepping away to give Eideard some more room as he braces a wrinkled hand on his knee and pushes himself upright, a strained grunt brushing past his lips. The leg you'd been crying into gives an abrupt crack that has you pulling a face in sympathy.

Once again, you find yourself cloaked in a shadow that stretches along the ground when Eideard's broad shoulders eclipse the moon. “Are you ready to return to the Forge?” he asks, smoothing down his rumpled clothes, “I imagine the others will be wondering where we are by now.”

Seconds pass and he doesn't make a move, merely regards you expectantly and it suddenly hits you that he's waiting for you to either confirm or deny that you're ready to go back to the others. He doesn't say it with words, but the Old One's knowing gaze speaks volumes. If you aren't ready, if you haven't adequately collected yourself together, he'll wait.

At the sight of your ensuing, grateful smile – one that pushes one last tear from the corner of your eye – Eideard's chest swells with pride, like a father watching his child pick themselves up, dust themselves off and carry on.

With a last, lingering glance back at the rocky slope behind you, you give your head a decisive nod and say, “Yeah. Yeah, I'm ready. Let's go.”

----------

Several heads swivel towards the Forge's entrance when Eideard pushes it open with a resounding clang and you step through ahead of him, your spirits considerably higher than they were before. Fatigue drags you down by the ankles but you manage to trundle all the way up to the anvil, where Alya is the first to greet you. The young maker doesn't ask for permission, she simply bends down and sweeps your legs out from underneath you, pulling you up until you're level with her beaming face.

“Well?” she demands, “Did he tell you? What do you think? I thought it was a grand idea!”

Yes, he told me, Alya,” you laugh, giving her thumb a reassuring pat and casting your eyes over the other makers surrounding you, “Not sure what I did to deserve that kind of offer, but... Well, you have no idea what it means to me. So, thank you. All of you. Alya's right, it really was a grand idea.”

“Well, of course it was!” the maker exclaims, “Thought of it meself, you know.”

“Really? It was your idea?” you chirp.

At once, her mouth snaps shut and she balances you on one hand, sliding the other out from under you to scratch at the back of her neck. “Er... Well, I mean, I thought of it first!”

Behind her, Thane harrumphs and flicks his thumb over at Valus.

“Ach! Don't take credit for yer brother's idea, Lass. He's the one that suggested it.”

Alya turns with you still poised across one of her palms and you can't help but gape a little at her twin.

“Valus?” you ask, head tipped to one side.

The maker swiftly turns his head to the ground and shrugs his burly shoulders but he peers up at you through the slat in his visor, catching the heartfelt grin you're sending his way. Suddenly, it grows very warm inside his helmet.

“You stayin' here is gonna be so much fun!” Alya announces, all but dumping you on the anvil to save you from being jostled as she begins to gesticulate wildly with her hands. “I've always wanted an apprentice! With me teachin' you, you could become the first human blacksmith!”

“I believe humans mastered blacksmithing some time ago,” Muria says gently.

“Oh...” For a moment, it looks as though Alya's exuberance has been well and truly doused. However, she doesn't stay deflated for long and hardly a second passes before she's bouncing back up again. “Buuut ~ none of them had a maker tutorin' 'em, eh?” She turns to beam at you. “So you won't be the first human blacksmith, but you'll sure as Stone be the best!”

You don't really feel the need to point out how that won't be hard, given that you're likely the only human left who could hold such a title. Her eyes are alight with enthusiasm and you can practically hear a vast whirlwind of ideas scurrying around in her brain already. Far be it from you to take the wind out of her sails.

Pursing your lips to hold in a laugh, you adopt a thoughtful expression and nod agreeably, causing Alya's chest to puff out even further.

“Now, hang on just a tick.” There's a scraping of metal to your side as Thane shifts forward and thumps his axe's handle against the ground to gather the room's attention. “How'd you know the wee lassie wants to be a smith?”

It's easy to tell that his question instantly puts Alya's back up, for she whips her head around and shoots him a challenging glare, her lips parting in such a way, you can't tell if she's smiling or snarling. “Course she wants to be a smith!” Her glare softens as she looks down at you and confidently adds, “Don't you, Y/n?”

You'd been in the process of plonking yourself down on the anvil but her question gives you pause. “Uh-”

“Ha!” Luckily, you're saved by Thane's booming laughter as he slaps a meaty palm against his knee hard enough to rival a thunderclap. “The human kills Karkinos, and you don't think she'd make a better warrior?!”

Raising your voice, you try to interject. “Technically, Death was the one who-”

“Oh! And who's goin' to teach her how to be a warrior? You, old man?”

“Maybe she wants to be an explorer,” Karn bravely suggests.

Naturally, there's an uproarious response.

From the wall of the forge, Eideard's face is bright with peace as he casts a watchful eye over his fellow makers... until he spots Muria standing quietly on the sidelines, her lips pressed thinly. Even without seeing her eyes, Eideard knows she's looking directly at him.

Humming to himself, the Old One collects his staff and begins to skirt around the arguing youngsters, his footfalls and clanking head-dress lost underneath their shouting match. He reaches Muria and greets her with a brush of his elbow against hers and with a subtle inclination of her head, she beckons him to turn his back on the Forge alongside her.

Releasing a curt breath, she delicately drapes her arms over the low wall whilst Eideard does the same, though he leans a little more heavily against the sturdy brick than she does, as though the burden on his shoulders is physically weighing him down.

“Something troubles you,” he muses under his breath, recognising that in turning away, she does not intend for the others to overhear. Not that they really could anyway, given the racket they're making. Alya and Thane have put aside their differences and teamed up to loudly convince you why being an explorer like Karn is sure to end in disaster.

“You should not let them influence her like this,” the Shaman murmurs, her blindfold creasing at the centre between where her brows would be, “She must decide for herself whether or not she wants to stay.”

“They aren't doing any harm...”

Muria turns to the Old One, jaw set. “You want them to sway her decision,” she accuses and her measured cadence rises enough that Eideard has to shush her.

They both glance over a shoulder to see if you've grown suspicious of their hushed whispers, but instead, they find you preoccupied with hiding your face, shoulders wracked by silent laughter as Alya bunts her chest up against Thane's in challenge. Both of the fiery makers have a similar spark in their eyes and cocksure grins, showing one another their teeth.

The sight pulls at Eideard's lips and he heaves a great sigh, fingers drumming on top of the wall for a moment. He'd told you the truth earlier. He hasn't seen his fellow makers this happy for quite some time. Having a human around has been as welcome a distraction to them as they likely are to you. Your fresh and otherworldly presence is... refreshing, especially given how dreary life in their realm has become lately.

The Old One looks back at Muria then, a worry-line growing between his eyebrows. “I only want the girl to be safe. I couldn't bear yet another death on my conscience.”

“Still blaming yourself? Oh, Eideard,” she tuts, though her tone is fond, “Sometimes I think your heart must be larger than your brain.”

“Sometimes? You tell me so at least twice a day.”

The Shaman chuckles at his rare show of playfulness but the pleasant laugh soon turns into a weary hum and she hesitates, tongue flicking over her teeth as she considers her next words. “Eideard... What happened to the others.... There was nothing you could have done differently that would have saved them.” At her side, the village elder half closes his eyes, gazing off at a distant memory as Muria continues, “Since then, you have worked tirelessly to protect us. But, you of all makers know that you cannot keep everyone safe.”

She knows him so well. It has never been spoken to the open air, but all who know Eideard know he bears the weight of guilt upon his shoulders more heavily than most. He's their leader. If he can't protect his own people, then what good is he?

“I can understand why you want her to stay,” the shaman utters, “but do not try to alter her course. However indirectly.” She makes a subtle motion behind her, to the others. “Whatever she may decide, we must trust the human to follow her own destiny. And we must trust Death to be her shield if she travels beyond this realm.”

'Trust,' Eideard thinks, is a funny word to associate with one of the Charred Council's enforcers, but then, in the recent days, he has caught split-second glimpses of the heart that lays twisted up inside the Horseman's ribcage. Cold and motionless though it may be, it's still there. And if a creature so ruthless as the eldest Nephilim – whose sins outweigh most others’ in the Universe – can have a heart, then truly anything is possible.

Even something as absurd as a human surviving impossible odds.

But, the shaman is right, of course. Eideard had barely even noticed that ever since you arrived, he's been trying to guide you down a safer path, without considering that you are your own person, capable of making your own decisions. Just now, he'd been happy to sit back and watch as his fellow makers tried to decide for you what you should do with your life.

Freedom or safety. He wonders if humans ever had to deal with such conundrums.

Slowly, he releases a long exhale and bows his head so low that his helm slips a few inches and the prongs sweeping up from the top of it lay parallel with the floor. “And here I thought I was always the voice of reason.”

“I thought it was about time somebody else started speaking sense.”

“I have always maintained,” he says with a small smile, “that you, Muria, will make a fine leader after I'm gone.”

The shaman finally turns from the wall and rests a hand on her hip. “Not that I wish that day to arrive any time soon, but given the options are myself and Thane, I daresay you're right.”

They share a quick huff of laughter before Eideard dissolves into a few, rasping coughs. He thumps his chest and shoos Muria's hand away when he senses it hovering towards his shoulder. “I'm all right,” he assures her, clearing his throat and straightening up, “I'm all right.” Once she steps back, he pushes himself away from the wall and pivots around to face the Forge alongside her.

A lot appears to have happened since their backs were turned.

Karn has apparently been bullied into sulking beside the south staircase. Frequently, he casts you glances, wearing his jealousy in a tight-lipped pout, and all because your attention has been commandeered by Thane and Alya.

The former of the two has his gigantic hand wrapped around Alya's in a crushing grip, both of their elbows balanced on the anvil whilst you sit precariously close to its edge, looking between them with uncertain amusement that pulls your brows together but your lips apart.

“Thane, Alya?”

They flinch at the sound of their names and look over towards Eideard.

“What are you doing?” the elder asks with practiced patience and authority.

The makers poised above you exchange a glance and you pipe up in their stead. “Arm wrestling!” Hopping up to your feet, you point excitedly at the pair of interlocked arms. “Humans used to do this all the time on Earth!”

Eideard watches you bounce in place on the balls of your feet. It must be a comfort, he realises, to you to see something you recognise from your own species in the makers.

Alya, whose brow glistens with beads of sweat, blows a lock of hair off her face and grunts. “I'm showin' her how much... stronger.... smiths need to be... than warriors!”

Across from her, Thane's biceps bulge and quiver like tightly coiled springs, yet he hasn't broken out into sweat and looks altogether far more relaxed than the youngling. Rolling his eyes, he grins at her teasingly and says, “Think all you're doin' is showin' the wee lassie why she'd want to be a warrior. If she's lookin' to get stronger, that's where she needs to train.”

“S'not just about strength!” Alya rasps, her face rapidly turning the same colour as her hair, “Smithin' build endurance too!”

Valus grumbles something loudly from behind you and Alya starts to sputter, her eyes narrowing as they flick over to glare at her brother. “Wha-! I am not showin' off,” she hisses at him from the corner of her mouth. He merely grunts again and crosses his arms, clearly unimpressed.

“What kind of a brother are you, anyway!? You should be cheerin' me on!”

“All right, that's quite enough.” Eideard steps forward and thunks the end of his staff on the ground. “I'm sure Y/n doesn't care for such antics.”

“Well, actually,” you reply as the warring makers shove themselves off the anvil and shoot one another identical sneers, “Two burly makers fighting over me? I wasn't even this popular at school.”

Alya practically glows after you call her burly and she thrusts her nose in the air, beaming whilst Thane merely barks a quick laugh and reaches over to you, using the tip of his forefinger to ruffle up your hair. You bat his hand away and smooth your tousled locks down into place once again.

Before long, the atmosphere lapses into something a little less competitive as the makers begin drifting over to their own corners of the forge and fall into warm conversation with one another, their voices low and oozing contentment. In the meantime, you laze upon the anvil, picking up the odd fragment of sentences here and there whilst your eyes grow heavier and heavier with every passing minute.

Eideard had accosted Karn before the youngling could hog all of your attention and now they stand side by side, leant back against the wall and talking in hushed tones. Alya sits below the enormous fireplace, tinkering away with a set of gauntlets whilst her brother hovers close by, watching her work. Every now and then, she pauses what she's doing and speaks to him, after which he replies with either a grunt, a hum or a simple shrug of his immense shoulders. To you, he's utterly unreadable, but Alya seems to have no trouble interpreting the vague sounds filtering out of that helm. 'Must be a twin thing,' you shrug mentally.

Behind you, Muria and Thane have occupied the empty space by the south wall and he's telling her how impressive her garden has grown since the Tears flowed back into Tri Stone.

Inhaling a deep breath through your nose, you let it out again in a sigh. There's an air of happy domesticity hanging over the forge that etches a wistful smile on your face.

The reminder is bittersweet – of the times like this you'd spent back home, in a room full of friends, all laughing, talking nonsense at one another, evenings that had seemed so throwaway but now leave a dull ache in your chest at their memory.

A silent wish passes through your mind, a wish to go back to those kinder, easier days when you thought you knew how hard life could be – when you didn't know how much harder it could get. You used to wonder why people preferred to remain blissfully ignorant of things happening all around them. Now, you can't help but think they had the right idea, at least partly.

You let your eyes slip closed for several minutes and simply listen to the hum of conversation around you. If you concentrate, you can almost imagine that you're surrounded by humans, like you. You're sitting in a restaurant, or perhaps a cozy cafe, and you're waiting to meet an old friend you haven't seen in a long, long time....

But then, inevitably, your eyes open again and the illusion is shattered. Suddenly, you don't want to start thinking about home.

Unnoticed by the group of makers, you carefully lower yourself off the anvil and meander down the steps and over towards where Death sits quietly on his bench.

The Horseman doesn't acknowledge your approach at first, but after you hover there for a moment, twiddling your thumbs, his pale mask tips in your direction and one of his eyes cracks open, spilling out an eerie, golden glow. “Can I help you?” he grumbles, causing you to jump.

“Mind if I sit down?” You gesture to the opposite side of the stone bench.

For just a second, Death's glower falters. In the dim light of a wall sconce, he notices that the whites of your eyes are tinged with just a suggestion of red. Wordlessly, he jerks his head towards the empty spot and you waste no time in hauling yourself up alongside him.

The bench is too wide, having been crafted with makers in mind, so when you swing your legs out, only your ankles dangle over the ledge. Still, it isn't uncomfortable, and with a shrug, you lean your shoulders back against the wall behind you, feeling heat rise from the lava reservoir that boils far below, warming the stone underneath you.

The moment you get settled, a sharp caw signals the arrival of Dust. He swoops out of the gloom and lands gracefully on your thigh, his talons clamping down to keep himself steady.

“Hey, boy,” you greet him and reach out to run your nails down his sleek, feathery back, earning yourself an appreciative gurgle. The crow sidesteps a little closer to your hip before he sinks down onto his belly, the feathers around his neck puffing up in contentment.

The Horseman shoots him a withering look but Dust returns it by letting out a lazy croon and promptly tucking his head beneath a wing, the very picture of a smug bird. Death’s brows snap together in response.

The makers' idle chatter dulls into the background as time drags on and your mind grows thick with fatigue. From the corner of his eye, Death regards you quietly, glad that you're apparently too preoccupied with staving off sleep to notice you've gained his attention. Slowly, the Horseman's gaze starts drifting down to your injured side. He doesn't realise he's curled his hand into a fist until there's a sudden, stinging sensation and he blinks, glancing down to find that one of his sharp fingernails has pierced the skin of his palm.

Quick as a flash, Death jerks his arms up and folds them tightly across his chest. 'That was... unexpected.'

“So,” he utters, loud enough to rouse you from the slumber you've slipped halfway into, “The makers offered you a place to stay.”

Your eyelids flutter and you draw in a deep inhale through your nose. “Hmm? Mmhmm. They did.”

“Do you think you-...” Death grits his teeth and viciously reminds himself that curiosity drives his question. Nothing more. Following your lead, he leans his head back against the wall and gazes nonchalantly up towards the ceiling, being sure to inject a degree of boredom into his tone when he asks, “Do you think you'll remain here, in the Forge Lands?”

“Why?” Rolling your head around to peer across the bench at him, you throw the Horseman what you mean to be a playful smirk, blissfully unaware that what you end up with is more of a dopey, heavy-lidded grin. “You worried I'd rather stay with them than go with you?”

The Horseman's eyes narrow to deadly slits and let lets out a venomous snort. For several seconds, you manage to hold your tongue, gauging the level of your courage. Then, pursing your lips, you bravely say, “That wasn't a 'no.”

“I'd have thought the absurdity of such a statement would speak for itself,” he snaps.

You try to toss him a grin but it breaks when your jaws part into a wide yawn.

Beside you, Death stews in his seat. 'Does she really think-' he seethes, '- Does she really believe, that I would give a second thought as to whether she stays here or-?”

Something soft slumps against his arm and breaks his private rant. Snatching his head to the side, he's about to give an involuntary jerk but catches himself just in time when he sees what’s pulled him from his musings.

It appears you've fallen asleep sitting up, right there on the bench next to Death, the day's events having caught up to you at long last. Your head lolls sideways and it bumps noiselessly against the Horseman's shoulder. A soft, warm cheek presses against his skin and he feels each of your breaths as they slip between your parted lips.

Dust, although upskittled at first, soon resettles himself and shoves his head back underneath a wing, but not before he fixes Death with a critical eye, as if daring the Nephilim to disturb his comfortable perch.

There is a moment where the Horseman considers pushing you upright again – especially when he glances up and spots Alya bent over the upper wall looking his way, her chin propped on a hand and a smirk stretching from ear to pointed ear.

He sneers at her before remembering she can't see it beneath his mask, so he settles for an exaggerated roll of his eyes instead.

But, he doesn't push you off his shoulder.

Frankly, he can't be bothered to deal with any of the makers reprimanding him for depriving a human of her sleep.

Just then, you mumble something incoherent and the Horseman's lips give a reluctant twitch. To think, just a few, earthen days ago, you'd been a near-inconsolable wreck when you first saw him standing over you on the Crowfather's mountain. And now...

Death finally gives up fighting the ghost of a smile that haunts the edge of his mouth.

“Humans,” he sighs, settling back into one of the few moments of gentle peace that either of you are likely know on your journey.

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greytoiletpaper · 4 years

Text

Out on Allen Street, it’s 7 in the Morning

Set in the same-ish street-siblings universe as First Contact by @cryptids-and-muses and @a-sketchy-character @streetsiblings (they’re still awesome). I present to you... Angst.

Drizzle | AO3

Chapter 2: Deluge

Felipe Garzonas falls.

Jason cannot find it in himself to care. The man was human garbage at best-

A shriek of anguish rents the air, a woman's, while the stalking man pounces on her and bays with his manic glee.

-and they were just going to let him go? No dice. Jason did not push him off the edge, but it’s still satisfying enough for him to know the man is gone now.

It is here, on this rooftop, that Jason understands that the horrors of the world can never be contained, only controlled. In what ways, he isn’t sure yet, but when he thinks of killing, all he can imagine is a figure adorned in a red helmet, ruthless and proud.

When Bruce takes Jason away from the scene, long crimson snakes flow off Garzonas’ body with the deluge, painting the face of Gotham.

Cass believes Jay when he says he didn’t kill Garzonas. He can lie like the best of them, but he can never hide anything from her. Bruce still doesn’t believe him even when she says as much.

“You’re a danger to yourself and the people around you,” Bruce is saying. Cold is the only way that Cass can describe his body.

For as long as she has been with Bruce, Cass has not thought of David. But looking at him now, a small, insidious part of the man that projects the urge to control (something she had only seen from David) starts to slip through. She is so thrown about what to think that she almost misses him firing Jay as Robin.

“No.”

“But Cass-.”

“No.”

Jason resists the urge to groan at his sister. Above them, the three names of his potential mothers are displayed clearly and brightly.

“I get why you don’t want me to. But think of what will happen if we manage to bring one! We could- we could-.”

“My brother,” Cass says, with finality. She gestures to the names (although ‘Sandra Wu-san’ in particular catches both their eyes). “Not theirs.”

Cass makes that stance she always does when she wants him to stop, her back hunched and her eyes pleading. He hates it when she does that, which is why he bites back a sigh.

“Fine. I’ll leave it alone,” Cass has been trying harder to get her smile right. Her effort shows when she gives him a mega-watt grin when he relents.

“My family, love,” She says as she hugs him before leading him away to raid the freezer for Neapolitan.

Later that night, Jason leaves his copy of Huckleberry Finn on her nightstand. He has to make sure that she doesn't think he'd left her behind when he goes. As Jason leaves the window wide open, his sole companion is the rain for the first time in years.

Gotham feels it as it happens. As the madman clubs her boy over and over with his crowbar. She feels every bruise, every bone that fractures, every act of pure, unadulterated cruelty inflicted on Jason.

Her eldest cradles the body, surrounded by a field of debris and smoke left in the wake of the monster that is the Joker. She washes the blood away with her tears.

When Cassandra wakes to see her brother’s prized possession on her nightstand, she instantly knows and never lets it go, even as the sky opens up in time with her tears.

As the casket lowers into the earth, she absently notes no rain, not a cloud in sight. Somehow, in the void that is the Jason-shaped hole in her heart, she realises he would have hated it.

“I think… I want to have my burial when it rains. Gives a whole ‘nother meaning to bleary doesn’t it?” Jason had confessed that once, a slight chuckle drawing from his chest. It fades as fast as it came. He looked away, then. “I don’t think I’d rest in peace without it.”

Cassandra fills the silence with the hymns of her tears – droplets staining the well-loved pages of the last piece of her brother – and hopes that it will be enough.

In her mind, her efforts are for naught when they devolve into wails as the first shovelfuls of dirt encase the ebony coffin.

The first thing she sees when she enters the cave is- is the atrocious thing. All the noise in the cave seems to phase out. The squeaking of the bats. The banter between Dick and Babs. The low murmurs of Bruce and Alfred in the corner. All she can focus on is the caricature of her brother in full view of everyone in the Batcave. She looks at it, and the world becomes a sea of pink and brown and white. The uniform he died in still bloody and ragged; all her thoughts a cacophony of wailing; iron on her tongue; roaring in her ears; she feels nothing in her but pain.

Jason Peter Todd

A Good Soldier

She hates it. Hates it with a passion because Jason was so much more than a soldier. He was her Jay, her brother, everything; all she has left of him is a small paperback and this disgusting mockery of his memory.

But he’s Batman, and he grabs her by the arms and pins her, even as her legs kick out viciously. She headbutts him and manages to push him off, nailing him square in the jaw with her knee as she flips back.

“Cassandra-.” Batman starts.

“Mine,” She snarls, eyes blazing and her hand pushing Bruce away from her. Even with the pads of his armour, she knows it hurts. She turns to leave.

“Not Robin. My Jay. My Brother. My Jason.”

Standing in Jason’s room, Cassandra closes the window he left open. She notices a picture frame on his nightstand. It’s of them, Huckleberry Finn spread between their legs and their foreheads pressed together.

Cass curls into a ball and clutches his treasures to her chest, sobbing because there is no rain to fill the vacuum she’s found herself in.

Far, far away, a man between worlds shatters the dimensions. The ripple disturbs Gotham, but she cannot deny her love of the results.

Gotham watches as her prodigal son begins his dramatic return; rising from below to walk above once again.

“So, is it really true that you took down Troia when you were only thirteen? All on your own?” The new Robin, Tim, is okay. Really. Cassandra just can’t look him at and see someone else in the uniform. When she doesn’t answer, the boy seems to fidget nervously. She doesn’t even know what his eyes look like.

“I–I guess, since I’m here to be Batman’s new Robin, I was hoping I could be the Robin to –.”

Cassandra doesn’t even let the boy finish before she leaves.

Jason wakes up drowning. It’s not water that enters his lungs, but an unnatural, sickly green liquid that vexes and rots and makes his body feel like he’s on fire. Nandra Parbat is where he is when he’s calmed down from being dipped into the Lazarus Pit, trapped in a fortress of assassins that want to mould a Bat into one of them. It’s an entirely different League.

This time, Cass is not here to keep them away.

When she meets Steph, Cassandra is enamoured because the girl smiles and laughs (except she still isn’t the same, no one is), almost just like Jason. But there are slight differences between the girl and her brother. Her hugs are great, but they don’t feel right. She smells like lavender instead of the rain. Despite how much the girl likes to joke with her, not one of them manages to draw out her smile.

Cassandra holds onto the girl like a lifeline anyway.

What bone she can throw, Steph has an uncanny knack of finding things that others take ages to locate, which is helpful enough for right now since Tim is still missing. It doesn’t help when Steph reads that Tim is in a warehouse with none other than The Joker.

He’s practising his aim when she comes in, almost plucking the gun out of his hand. Jason grips the girl’s arm and flings her over his back. Rose Wilson, a wolfish grin plastered on her face and snowy hair fanning under them, doesn’t even look fazed.

“Wow Jace, if you wanted to pin me you could have just asked,” His only friend in this place is what keeps him sane; when the Joker of his nightmares haunts the edges of his mind, she is there to let him know it isn’t real. Despite how different they are, she’s a breath of fresh air in this hellhole they’re in. He should probably tell her how he feels.

“You’re such a fucking chicken-shit,” Is what comes out of his mouth instead. Rose only smirks at him, silver mane and eyes with almost the same mischief his sister had.

“Your aim still sucks balls by the way.”

He growls, raising his arm to let his gun do the barking.

Ranting and raving greet her as she sneaks in through a window, a litany of nonsense and stammers echoing around the warehouse. She drops from the catwalk as silently as she can, but the madman obviously still hears her as his head bends at an impossible angle to look right at her.

“Oh. Look who showed for quality time with Uncle Jay!” She doesn’t mean to, but Cassandra flinches, and the Joker’s twisted grin shifts. Big mistake. “Oh? Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” It takes every inch of willpower in her not to rasp the words, but Joker sees through it regardless.

“What? Don’t like my name?” The Joker pouts, but it looks more like a sneer. “It’s just me yaknow? Your Uncle Jay.”

Another flinch, and the Joker steps closer, a snake in the reeds.

“Mister Jay,” He’s stalking closer now; her body won’t move. “JayJay.”

“Jaybird,”

“Jay,” She is so still as the Joker seems to tower over her, his sick grin crueller and sharper (David flashes in her mind) than any other time she has ever seen it. Poison flows from his mouth like saliva as he croons.

“That’s what you called him, isn’t it? When he was still here, your precious Robin. Not this -,” He gestures to Tim, who is wide-eyed and struggling. “-phoney replacement. Want me to-? Let me tell-.” The Joker stops, frowning at the ground before continuing, his voice aberrantly low. “When I beat him over and over with that crowbar – pink with blood and brown with dirt over the white of his skin –, do you want to know what he was saying?

“The only thing that came out of that pretty little mouth of his was how sorry he was that he was for leaving ‘Cass’ behind.” The madman leers at her. “Was that you? Cass? I gotta tell you, the whole apology shtick got really boring after a while, but…

“I’ll tell you one thing. Something you can keep between just you and your Uncle Jay,” He leans in close to her ear. “I think that our Jay is almost just like me now!”

The madman cackles, his eyes sick and twisted, and his body is nothing but mania. Something in Cassandra, strained and twisted for the past three years, finally snaps.

She strikes him, harsher than she’s struck anyone ever before. So severely, she can feel his ribcage snap. His flesh becomes mince under her fists. He stumbles and contorts as she overwhelms him with every piece of her fury. The gale-force that is Cassandra Todd blows through the Joker, who laughs and laughs and laughs.

The monster scrambles for his gun, suddenly slick and focused. Cassandra snaps off the comic ‘Pow!’ that sticks out of the muzzle when he fires it at her. She backhands his face with the full force of her knuckles, knocking him down, and all he does is chortle. The Joker’s body twists and squirms as he is pinned in place. She raises the broken end of the comic and skewers his leg into the ground.

The Joker’s mouth froths. His eyes are bloodshot as he becomes more depraved and maunders yet, he’s still fucking laughing. Laughing as his spittle flecks onto every surface around them when he thrashes. Laughing even as she clenches the sides of his head and pulls. Laughing even as they both feel his flesh strain and shear as she tries to tear it off. The part of her that has so vehemently denied killing now cries for bloodlust. For this is justice, this is vengeance, this is for her, Jay. Cassandra, with all her might, prepares to wrench off the monster’s head and-.

And Batman pushes her off him. Batman blocks her assault on his body when Cassandra rebalances herself. Batman protects the god damn fucking Joker. She roars with her rage, her grief, and doesn’t even feel the sedative that Tim plunges into her side until it’s too late.

Glaring at Bruce, at Batman, all she sees from his body is fear and concern and all the latter is directed at the death-worshipping monster he cradles in his arms. Absently, before it all goes to black, she thinks she should leave. Leave without Batgirl, without Jason, without everything she has ever cared for.

She does, and like her brother, the tears of Gotham are the only family she has left.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

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mysticm3ss · 4 years

Note

Eyh! so glad to see a new headcanon blog! Can I request the RFA+V/Saeran reacting to MC being the one to give the first kiss? whether because she/he's too excited or they're having a close moment or whatever, up to you!

yes yes absolutely, i love this request!!

Yoosung:

After ten long, anxiety-ridden days, the party was finally afoot.

And there he was–injured, yes, but alive. And smiling. At you.

Your heart stammered a frantic beat as he approached you once he’d delivered his speech, and you threw your arms around his shoulders, holding yourself flush to his chest as you buried your face in the crook of his neck.

He stumbled back in surprise at your sudden affection, his arms curling around you as his nose finds your hair, keeping you close as he smiled against your temple.

Blinded by pure relief to feel him safe and warm in your arms, you didn’t give Yoosung a chance to so much as consider kissing you first before your arms were around his neck and you were tugging him in for a desperate kiss, not gracing him with so much as a hint of warning.

When you finally pull away, this boy will be a blushing, flustered mess.

It takes a few seconds for what just happened to sink into his bewildered brain, and he just kind of stares at you with wide eyes. His mouth hangs slightly agape, cheeks dusted with a blush and ears burning red as he drinks in the warmth of your eyes and the relieved tears pricking their corners.

When he finally remembers how to speak, he finds himself smiling shyly before leaning in to kiss you again.

Zen:

The stars are bright and the moon glows as you sit next to Hyun on his rooftop. His leg is resting beside him in a cast, but it’s the last thing on your mind as he throws you a nervous smile, topped off with flushed cheeks.

His silver hair catches the starlight, though it’s nothing to the stars in his eyes as he swallows hard and tries to look anywhere but the soft slope of your lips.

Zen had just bared his soul to you–shared his past, his insecurities, and though you longed to pull him into a hug and find a way to make it all better, you settled for resting your hand over his own.

He stiffens, eyes wide as he looks at you like a deer caught in headlights at the contact. You can’t help but giggle as his cheeks darken, and the melodic sound has him smiling in awe.

“Y-you should leave,” he manages to whisper, his voice deep and rough as he rips his eyes from yours. “This is dangerous…”

Men are wolves MC !!1!!!!

You hum in amusement, slowly raising your hand to run your hand along the hard line of his jaw. Zen’s eyes fall shut, and he actually moans when you slowly tilt his head to fall in line with yours once more.

“What if I don’t mind a little danger?” you tease, and you can almost hear Zen’s heartbeat falter at your words. You can definitely hear his breath catch, and he keeps his eyes closed, taking a deep breath as he presses his face into your palm.

You lean in, pressing your lips delicately against his, and Zen immediately drags you closer. He whimpers into the kiss as he finally leaves his inhibitions at the door, losing himself in the taste of your lips and the softness of your skin and sweetness of dessert still lingering on your tongue and-

Zen pulls away with a groan, and you giggle, pecking his cheek and brushing a loose lock of his silver tresses behind his ear.

“Goodnight, Hyun,” you breathe, sparing him a wink as you get to your feet. “Driver Kim is waiting… will you see me to the door?”

Jaehee:

She was even more beautiful in person.

You watch in awe as she addresses the crowd, and when you finally get to speak to her in person, you think your heart might just burst out of your chest.

Jaehee smiles at you, and your stomach erupts in butterflies. You can’t say ‘yes’ quickly enough when she asks you to move in with her and co-own her cafe.

Your chest is tight with excitement, and she’s so close–you can smell her perfume, see the slightly smudged lipstick at the corner of her mouth, and before you can think twice, you’re kissing her.

She pauses in surprise, and for a moment you thought you’d blown it, but suddenly she’s melting into your arms, her hand on your cheek as yours finds her waist.

Pure ecstasy runs through Jaehee’s veins at the realisation that you share her feelings towards you.

She’d never thought that you’d care for her as more than friends, not in a million years…

But god, Jaehee Kang has never felt so relieved to be wrong.

Jumin:

You kiss him during the first night you stay at his penthouse.

You’ve only known him for a week, but the bond that you two have developed is undeniable and visible to anyone who happened to bear witness to it–the RFA had never seen Jumin Han treat someone so tenderly, and his kindness towards you was only enhanced the evening you arrived at his home.

As night falls, you change into pyjamas, and Jumin walks to your room to bid you goodnight.

You’re curled up on the bed, tangled in heavenly silk sheets with a book in your lap. Jumin sits beside you, the bed dipping beneath his weight as he loosens his tie and looks anywhere but your eyes.

“MC… I’m… glad that you’re here. Thank you for coming,” he murmurs, slowly raising his gaze to your own. He’s so close–you can hear the rustle of his clothing as he adjusts, see the beads of stubble beginning to prick his chin.

You sidle closer to him, your shoulders brushing as you lean some of your weight on him. Jumin relaxes into your touch; your gentleness is something he’s not sure he’ll ever get used to, but it’s a blessing he would rather die than live without.

“Of course,” you reply, voice swallowed by the hush of your room. Your eyes meet his, and his ears burn red as you spare a glance down to his lips.

When you dare to span the distance between you and brush your lips over his own, Jumin’s eyes widen, paired with a half raise of his brow, but he’s soon melting into you and humming contentedly against your mouth.

As you draw away, he offers you a small smile, placing a kiss to your forehead before leaving you to sleep with a gentle whisper of,

“Sweet dreams.”

Seven:

Saeyoung had finally started to open up to you, after days of ignoring your affections.

You were on the phone with him, despite him being mere feet away from you. Sitting comfortably on the bed, you threw him a cheeky smile as you patted the space next to you.

“Do you want to come and lie down beside me?”

“I’d like to… but no, don’t come down! I still think we need some distance between us. You seem to forget this often, but I’m a guy too,” he chuckles nervously. “Just know that. You’re defenseless… and you can’t be wearing things like that!”

His cheeks are almost as red as his hair, and you feel your own face burn at the implication of his words. You smile shyly, hanging up and crawling to the edge of the bed, standing up on your knees to bring yourself to Seven’s standing height.

“Defenseless?”

You smirk, and he laughs, ducking his head and rubbing his hand over the nape of his neck. His glasses slide down over his nose, and you lean forward to push them back up. His cheeks flush a dark shade of scarlet as your fingertips brush over his hot skin.

Your breathing is unsteady, and Saeyoung stays deathly still as you tentatively lean forward, brushing your lips over his.

He sighs into the kiss, his shaking hands cupping your cheeks as he pulls you closer, inhaling you as desperately as the air he breathed.

The kiss exchange is broken when both of your faces split into wide grins, and Saeyoung presses a playful kiss to your nose.

You giggle, and drag him down for another kiss.

He just looked so… sad.

His eyes were cast downwards, lips curled into a frown, and you felt your heart break as he tried to offer you a smile that didn’t come close to reaching his eyes.

Your hand finds his, squeezing, and you lean forward to rest your forehead against his.

V exhales shakily at the tender touch, leaning into you as you move a hand to gently comb through his hair. You pull away slightly, running your thumb over his jaw. He keeps his eyes closed, humming appreciatively as he leans into your touch.

Tentatively, you press your mouth to his.

V’s surprised, gasping softly into your lips, but you capture it with your kiss as your mouth slowly moves against his.

V softens against you, drawing you close and holding you tight as he loses himself in the taste of your lips and the softness of your skin.

He doesn’t deserve you–he knows that, and yet, he can’t bring himself to pull away.

Just a moment longer, his mind whispers.

But a moment turns into two, and two moments into three, and V knows that so long as you’ll allow him to hold you, he’ll never find it within himself to let you go.

Saeran:

He was so close. You could feel his breath on your lips, feel the heat radiating from his skin, and his face was so close to yours you could count his eyelashes.

Saeran is smirking, your heart is pounding, and it becomes too much for you to control.

Finally, you give in.

You slam your lips against his, sagging in relief against his chest as his hand meets your hip.

Saeran is, quite frankly, shocked at your sudden advance, freezing with wide eyes beneath your kiss as your lips plead with his.

He slowly returns your kiss, exploring the new sensation hesitantly, before harshly pulling away.

Poor boy has no idea how he’s supposed to react, and his first instinct tends towards anger.

“What the hell?!” he snaps, tongue sharp and eyes sharper. His resolve shatters as he sees the hurt register in your eyes, his heart sinking as he hears your whispered apology.

You turn to walk away, still mumbling apologies, but before you can take so much as a step, Saeran is grabbing your wrist and pulling you back to him, crushing his lips to yours.

“Don’t apologise,” he breathes into the kiss. “Don’t you dare apologise for that.”

And as you smile against his mouth, Saeran can’t help but smile, too.

hope you enjoyed! please reblog/comment if you did! ^^

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blake-belladonna-defence-force · 4 years

Note

5 or 10 for the prompts list from superficial stark? gotta get that sweet sweet angst

So... this is the one you wanted, right?

Yeouch. I had such a hard time with this one because it just... is so outside of Yang’s character! It’s just not her! So thank you for giving me a challenge, I guess 😂

Anyway... I hope the angst gremlins enjoy this one because it hurt to write. I think this might be one of the more draining fics that I’ve had to write, tbh 😅

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

“I am so glad that you decided to return to me, my darling.”

Blake wanted to scream as her body, without any permission of her own, stepped forward into Adam’s tent and allowed Adam to cup her jaw, his grin sick and sharp as his thumb roughly caressed her cheek.

‘No.’ Blake thought desperately. ‘No, why am I back here? Why is he still alive? He should be dead!’

“As am I, Adam. Leaving was a mistake.”

Blake wanted to cry, kick and scream when her voice left her throat without her consent. Those weren’t her words! She didn’t want to say them! This was all wrong!

“Oh… that makes me so happy, my love.”

Blake felt sick. It was like she was a passenger in her own body. She had no control.

“But one thing still needs addressing.” This was wrong. Adam shouldn't be touching her face. His hand shouldn’t be on her hip. Blake watched as Adam’s grin became sharper, the hand on her jaw now becoming tighter and more painful. Blake’s closed against her will as she flicked her ears towards Adam’s voice. “Your betrayal.”

Blake felt panic and terror begin to set in as Adam’s voice started to shift and morph, becoming more feminine. More familiar. His voice became that of which had come to represent safety to her. It exuded warmth and care. When Blake opened her eyes, she was no longer in the White Fang camp, in Adam’s tent. No, now she stood in the centre of an Atlas dorm room and Yang was the one caressing her face and holding her hip.

“Yang?” Blake whispered, a surge of relief filling her as she realised that she was back in control of her body.

“You left me when I needed you.” Yang murmured, her voice sounding hurt and broken as she stepped away from Blake, her eyes shifting to red as her lips lifted in a snarl, making Blake take a step back in shock. “You know, Blake… I wanted to hurt you. When you left, I wanted to get revenge.” Yang said, her voice now sharp and unforgiving,an expression that was painfully close to hatred in her burning red gaze. I wanted to make you feel the way I did.”

“Do- do you still want to?” Blake asked weakly, terrified of the answer.

“I don’t know anymore.” Yang said in a flat tone of voice.

“Yang… this isn’t you-”

“And what would an emotionless brick of a coward like you know about me?!” Yang snarled angrily. “You never cared!”

“Of course-”

“Don’t lie to me!” Yang hissed as she stormed up to and glowered down at her, making Blake take a terrified step back. “If you cared, you would have been there! You left me alone!”

“I-”

“Trusting you was a mistake. I never should have given you a chance to destroy my pride.”

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Blake sat up with a gasp, her ears pressed flat against her skull as her eyes darted around their Atlas dorm room. It was still dark. Her teammates were still asleep. And Blake was trembling with terror and shock. The memory of Adam caressing her face made her feel sick and the pure hatred in Yang’s gaze? Her voice as she admitted to wanting to hurt Blake? It made her stomach churn as she desperately tried to separate her nightmare from reality.

“Oh Gods.” Blake whimpered under her breath as she felt bile hit her throat. She threw herself out of bed and ran to their bathroom. She had only just lifted the toilet seat when her stomach rejected it’s contents. Blake fell to her knees in front of the toilet, her body heaving paining as she retched, heartbroken sobs leaving her throat. By the time she was done, tears were flowing freely down her face and her throat and stomach burned. Her body shook and she still couldn’t separate reality from her nightmare. But Blake felt her body freeze when Yang’s voice called out to her.

“Blake? Oh my God, hey! Hey, I’m here, Blake. What’s-”

But as Yang dropped to her knees beside her and reached out, all Blake could see was the nightmare version of her, eyes blazing red and filled with hatred as she made it clear how she felt. Blake gave a sharp, terrified gasp and threw herself away from Yang and backpeddled into a corner, her amber eyes wide with fear as scared and pleading whimpers fell from her lips.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, Yang!” She rasped, her chest tight, her lungs suddenly seeming unable to draw breath. “I didn’t- I never- please don’t hurt me!” Blake recoiled into herself, hyperventilating.

“Blake… I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.” Yang’s voice wavered slightly. Blake heard the sound of shuffling and looked up, tears streaming and breath hitching, as Yang sat against the far wall and raised her hands so that Blake could see them. She smiled sadly at Blake and when she spoke, it was with a gentle compassion that Blake didn’t feel she deserved. “But I’m not going to leave you like this. I’m going to stay right over here, yeah? Where you can see me.” Blake trembled, her ears flicking towards Yang’s voice as it cut through the shadows of her mind. “I know you’re scared, Blake. I don’t know what happened but I need you to know that I would never lay a hand on you. Okay?”

Blake couldn’t tell you how long they spent in that small bathroom, her hyperventilating sobs quietly bouncing off of the walls as Yang spoke softly and gently, always keeping her hands in the eyesight of Blake. Eventually, Blake started to calm down, her breathing starting to even out as Yang talked to her.

“Hey, there you are.” Yang cooed softly as Blake took a deep breath and blinked as though coming out of a daze. “It’s okay. You’re safe, Blake. Keep taking deep breaths for me.”

As Blake continued to breathe deeply, reality began to return to her. And with it, a crushing sense of guilt.

“I’m sorry.” She rasped out, lowering her head in shame.

“Don’t be. Is it okay if I come over there?”

“Yes.”

Slowly, as though to give Blake time to change her mind, Yang approached her.

“Hey there.” Yang whispered gently as she sat beside Blake, still keeping her hands where Blake could see them.

“...Hi.” Blake mumbled, her voice much smaller than she’d like.

“Can I give you a hug?”

“...please.” Blake’s voice broke as she spoke. She felt Yang move slowly to engulf her in her arms and soon found herself sinking into her embrace, burrowing her face into Yang’s neck and inhaling shakily. How could she have ever thought that this woman would do something like that?

“Do you want to tell me what that was about?” Yang asked carely, her arms holding Balke close.

“Nightmare.”

“Okay. Is it okay if I ask what it was about?”

And so, the details of the nightmare slowly left Blake’s lip as they sat huddled together on the bathroom floor. As she spoke, she felt Yang’s arm tighten around her protectively. She heard her breath hitch violently when Blake spoke of what this nightmare version of her had done. By the end, Yang was shaking slightly herself as she pulled back and gently pushed Blake away to look her in the eyes, a pained expression in her lilac gaze.

“I’m so sorr-”

“No. Please don’t apologise.” Yang said with gentle firmness as she slowly cupped Blake’s jaw. Blake flinched for a split second before sinking into her touch. Yang’s thumb caressed Blake’s cheek gently and Blake found herself leaning into it. “You had a nightmare. You came out of it scared and confused. I am not going to hold that against you, okay?” Yang said softly, her voice wavering slightly. “I am so sorry that you had to go through that. That… I can’t even imagine how you must have felt to hear me… but I promise you, Blake,” Yang stared into Blake’s eyes, giving her the eye contact that was so important to her. “That none of that was true. Yes, I was hurt. But there was not one second where I ever wanted to hurt you.”

“I believe you.” Blake said shakily. And she did. Despite the terror of her dream, she could see it in Yang’s eyes that she was telling the truth.

“You are not an emotionless brick. You’re, like, one of the most caring people that I know. Your passion and dedication to helping others is amzing, Blake. And you couldn’t be less of a coward. You’re so goddamn brave, you know that?” Yang said quietly as they pressed their foreheads together, both of them desperately needing this closeness. When Blake gave a jaw cracking yawn, the nightmare’s effects starting wear down on her, Yang smiled softly and tucked a strand of hair behind Blake’s ear. “C’mon. Let's try to get some more rest, yeah?”

“Um,” Blake mumbled, hesitating for a moment. She knew what she needed but she admittedly was a little… apprehensive about it.

“Hey. Talk to me.” Yang whispered as she nudged Blake’s nose with her own sweetly. “What do you need?”

“It’s stupid.” Blake sighed, looking away as her cheeks burned. “But… could you… stay with me? Just for a bit?”

“Oh! Yeah, of course I can, Blake.” Yang murmured softly as she climbed to her feet and helped Blake stand and gently guided her over to their bunks. Yang climbed into Blake’s first and held out her arms welcomingly and Blake crawled into them easily. She tucked her head under Yang’s chin and sighed softly as Yang pulled her close, running a gentle hand up and down her back soothingly. “I’ve got you, Blake. You’re safe.”

“Thank you, Yang.” Blake mumbled as sleep finally claimed her, nuzzling into Yang’s collar as Yang kissed the top of her head.

As the nightmare faded away, Blake fell asleep wrapped up in Yang’s arms, a feeling of safety, care and reassurance enveloping her as Yang murmured sweet nothings into her ears.

#bumbleby #blake belladonna #yang xiao long #fanfic #my writing #rwby

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silver-wield · 4 years

Text

Fanfiction dork has returned!

Red XIII lay in a cramped corner of the cargo bay on the ship travelling from Junon Harbor. The group sneaked on board during Rufus Shinra's inauguration celebration and disguised themselves as public security to hide in plain sight. “How much longer until we arrive at Costa del Sol?”

Tracking Sephiroth was almost too easy and Cloud had his suspicions why, but kept them to himself. He didn't want to worry anyone when it could be nothing.

“Cloud?” Red pawed at Cloud's leg.

“Hmm? Oh, sorry.” His frown cleared and he shrugged. “By morning, most likely. If we don't run into trouble.” The ship had weapons and onboard defenses for dealing with large monsters. Who knew what floated beneath them just waiting for the chance to attack unsuspecting travellers?

Red sighed. “It's stuffy down here.”

Cloud took his helmet off and swiped a forearm across his sweaty brow as though just noticing the heat. “It's too risky you coming up on deck right now. Someone could spot you.” He looked around and put his helmet back on. “I'll send one of the others later when it's dark, okay?”

Red lowered his head. “I suppose I've endured worse.”

Guilt pinged Cloud's conscience, but also a lingering sense of relatability fogged his mind. He grimaced and gripped the side of his head as a momentary flash of something hit, bringing with it a headache. A familiar voice echoed in his ears and he swung round, drawing in a sharp breath.

“The subject's lack of tolerance to mako make it unfit for further study. I have therefore marked it for disposal and dissection.”

No. No. Don’t. Please.

“Cloud!”

Icy cold and breathing hard, Cloud didn't hear Red calling him at first. A sharp heat swiped his calf. The gun-metal grey walls of the ship snapped back into focus, wiping out the hazy, green-tinged visage. Who was that? He felt like he should know.

“Cloud, are you sick?”

Looking down, Cloud noticed a faint scorch mark on his trouser leg. “Nah, I'm fine,” he replied in a dismissive tone. “It's the heat.” Realising complaining sounded unfair when he could leave the stuffy berth and get some fresh air, he grimaced again. “I'll send someone for you soon as it's dark.”

“All right.” Red settled down in the corner. “Although I don't see why Barret gets to stay up top. He's more conspicuous than I am.”

Cloud bit off a short chuckle. “You haven't seen what he's wearing?” The girls couldn't find a uniform that fit, so they raided the sailors' lockers instead. Luckily, they found one they could cut and stitch together on the fly before they left. Barret had to lose the gun, which was left with Red to guard.

“Take a picture for me,” Red replied, tipping his head to the side and grinning.

“I don't have a death wish,” Cloud joked, shaking his head. “Remember, stay out of sight.”

“You can count on me.”

~*~*~

Got dark quick. What month is it, anyhow? Cloud wandered the deck, copying the patrol pattern he'd noted, though it felt like he didn't have to memorise it to know how public security officers would move about. Why is that? Eh, forget it. He'd already sent Aerith to fetch Red, moving the biggest liability out of sight for a while. Barret positioned himself at the front of the boat where the spray was heaviest. It meant less people would head that way; a smart move from someone known for impulsive choices. That leaves Tifa. Cloud frowned and looked around for her. He hadn't seen her since they'd separated at an alley in Junon City to board separately. Cloud's unique appearance made him an easy target, so he'd put himself on distraction duty. Before that, he and Tifa sneaked into the city to get the elevator moving for the others stuck down in the undercity. It was the only way up.

Gaze panning skyward, Cloud spotted movement on one of the high catwalks. Of course she's up there. Always goes where she can fall the furthest. Not even a public security uniform could hide her identity to him. He knew it was her from the way she carried herself. The way she stood. He'd know it was her anywhere.

Cloud climbed the ladders to reach Tifa's position.

“U-uh, everything quiet over here.” She offered a clumsy salute to go with the artificially deep voice.

Cloud stifled a laugh by pretending to cough. “Girls work for Shinra too, you know,” he said, to relieve her concern.

“Cloud?” Tifa's shoulders dropped. “You startled me.” She put a hand to her chest and took a deep breath. “I don't know what I would've done if you'd been a real soldier.”

Cloud's brows pinched beneath his helmet. A real soldier? Aren't I? No. I'm an Ex-SOLDIER. “You can handle it,” he said as a throwaway compliment.

Tifa laughed. “And don't you forget it.” She turned to grip the railing with both hands and leant forward.

“Careful.” He took a step in her direction.

“Sure thing,” she replied in a cheerful voice.

Watching her for a moment, Cloud became away of the lengthening silence. It was pleasant, but he found himself wanting to fill it. To hear her voice. Focus her attention on him. “So...what do you think of the uniform?”

Tifa turned his way and tipped her head to the side. After a slight hesitation, she said, “It looks good on you.”

“Huh? You think it looks good on me?” Cloud ducked his head. “Uh, thanks.” He could feel his cheeks turning red.

“Oh! You meant—I thought you were asking—!” Tifa's laugh was adorably self-conscious. She linked her hands behind her back and shifted from side to side. “It's okay. Apart from the helmet.” She stopped moving. “...Do you think it'll be okay if I take it off for a bit? It's kind of stuffy.”

Cloud looked around. No one about. He nodded. “Should be okay for a bit.”

“Phew.” Tifa lifted the helmet off and her hair unravelled down her back like a length of ribbon. She shook her head from side to side. “That's better.” She put it on the floor.

Why not? Cloud took his helmet off and held it one-handed. Hearing Tifa laugh, his eyes widened, asking a silent question.

“Your hair.” Tifa pointed. “I didn't think anything could flatten it.”

Embarrassed, Cloud tried to smooth a hand through the spikes. From the growing look of amusement on Tifa's face, he guessed he was making it worse.

“Here, let me?” Tifa nodded and smiled as she waited for permission.

“Uh, sure. Thanks.” Cloud nodded and dipped his head a little as Tifa came close. She reached up and he could feel her gloved fingers teasing his hair. Her gaze was focused on her task, and he found himself smiling at the concentration on her face. A small smile teased the corners of her lips and a faint frown fluttered between her brows. Her breaths were steady and even, but each one brought her closer to him. Or was he moving closer to her? His free hand touched her hip and he heard a slightly sharper in-drawn breath, but she didn't stop what she was doing. In fact, had her movements become more caressing? Was he imagining it? She bit her lower lip and Cloud stifled a moan. He tried to keep his gaze centred on her cheek, but his eyes kept flitting to hers, watching slight movements she made as she fussed with his hair. The atmosphere felt good. It was soft and warm and he didn't want it to end. This is nice. But, she was taking a while. What if she thought he was taking advantage? He didn’t want to think badly of him. “No good?” he whispered in a low voice.

Tifa's eyes went to his and widened. “Oh.” She took a step back. Her hand caught and knocked Cloud's helmet from his grip. It clattered to the floor. “Sorry. I was—I mean, I didn't realise—”

Damn it. Shouldn't have startled her. He didn't realise how much he'd enjoyed her being that close until she wasn't any longer. “It's fine. Is it okay now?” He lifted a hand to his hair.

“Yeah,” she replied in a soft voice. Nodding more firmly, she added, “It looks good.”

“Everything okay up there?!”

The shout from below had Tifa scooping up Cloud's helmet from where it fell and jamming it on his head, as he grabbed her around the waist and positioned her out of sight in front of him with her back against the railing. If the grunt caught sight of her he'd call for back up. Girls worked for Shinra, but he doubted any looked like Tifa. “Just taking a breather!” he called over his shoulder. “Dropped my keys!”

“Copy that!” The Shinra grunt continued on his patrol pattern.

Cloud watched him from the corner of his eye until he couldn't see him any longer, then let out a relieved sigh. “Quick thinking,” he said to Tifa. He hadn't thought about his own distinctive hairstyle. He'd been preoccupied with keeping her safe.

“T-thanks,” she whispered, keeping her head tucked against him.

Cloud swallowed. She was closer now than when she'd been playing with his hair. He gripped the railing with one hand and had the other around her waist, held flat against her lower back. He could feel one of her hands on his bicep and the other against his chest and he cursed the thickness of Shinra's uniforms. “You okay?” He said the words against her cheek, almost like he kissed her.

“I guess, I just...forgot where we were for a moment,” she murmured after a pause. When she stepped back, she gave him a sheepish smile, her cheeks a deep pink in the dim lighting. “This isn't a pleasure cruise.”

Something in his gut shifted as she said the word “pleasure”. Part of him wished it was just that, but there were bigger motives driving their actions. Once I settle things, then everything will be okay. “Yeah,” he said, voice flat and unhappy. “You should probably put your helmet back on.”

“Right.” She didn't sound any happier about it than he did. As Tifa bent over to scoop it up, something knocked into the ship and made it tilt to the side. “Oh!”

“Tifa!” Cloud darted a hand out and grabbed her arm. Pulling her close once more, he turned and scowled towards the ship's bow. “Felt like something hit us.”

“Yeah. Monster, maybe?” Tifa gathered her hair up and stuffed it under the helmet as she put it back on. “Should we check it out?”

Cloud had a quick internal debate with that annoying voice who made him dance at the Honeybee Inn.

If it's a monster, Shinra'll deal with it.

And if they can't?

Not my problem.

You're on the boat, Buddy. You going down with the ship?

Shit.

Tutting under his breath, Cloud nodded. “Probably should.” He moved away from Tifa and towards the ladder.

“Barret's over there, too, right?”

Cloud huffed. “God damn it. Yeah.”

Tifa nodded. “Then, let's hurry. Who knows what kind of trouble he's gotten himself into?”

Sliding down the ladder, Cloud and Tifa rushed to the front of the ship where they found Barret fending off some kind of squid monster trying to climb its way on board.

“'Bout time you two showed up!”

“Yeah, yeah.” Cloud reached for his sword and grabbed air. “Shit.” His gear was below deck, along with Barret's gun.

“What now?!”

Tifa couldn't fend it off with just her fists, no matter how capable she was.

“Is it my turn now?” Aerith and Red appeared from the rear and put themselves in front of Cloud and Barret.

“You two have no weapons. Let us deal with this.”

Cloud glanced at Tifa, who nodded in agreement. “Fine. Be careful. Barret, pull back.”

Barret slapped a tentacle away. “Eh, who are you to be giving me orders?”

“Just do it!” Cloud spun on his heel and moved out of range, glancing over his shoulder to check Barret followed.

“We got this, guys!”

Cloud's gaze panned to the upper deck. “Could shoot it,” he suggested to Barret.

Barret laughed. “Now you're talking my language! Let's go!” Slapping Cloud on the back so hard he staggered forward, they ran to the upper deck and the harpoon gun...

#final fantasy 7 remake #cloud strife #ff7r #ffviir #cloti #tifa lockheart #final fantasy 7r #final fantasy viir #final fantasy 7 remake fanfiction #Silver wields a pen

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handy-dandy-monster-candy · 3 years

Text

Inyez

Rating: NSFW Length: 5331 Pairing: Male Bat Creature x Male Reader (both cis)

xxx

Winter comes early up in the mountains, but I'm used to that. I like to sit by my living room windows and look down into the valley where I work, enjoying the way the city lights give the snow a warm glow. I figure myself lucky; I come from a happy family, I have a good career in a field I love, and I've managed to make a home out of the old observatory that sits like a squat little guardian at the top of a hill twenty minutes from the city.

My job gives me incredibly flexible hours, so I work whenever I'm awake and sleep whenever I want to. I've ended up with a mostly vespertine sleep schedule, which means I get to watch the sunset while I break for lunch. I'm a workaholic, though, so this "break" usually means that I step away from active work and focus on replying to emails from clients or looking up resources and reference images for my latest project as the sun goes down, and this time is no different.

I don't even notice the dark settling around me until I realise that I've been squinting at my laptop for the past half hour, and by then, the only source of light is its screen. I have outdoor lights, sure, and there's a street lamp or two on the way up the hill, but they amount to nothing unless they're on or nearby. I sigh and close my laptop to give my eyes a break, waiting for my vision to adjust properly to the lack of light around me.

I'm just contemplating making myself another cup of coffee when the window beside me explodes, and I have no qualms with admitting that despite being over six feet tall, I scream like a frightened squirrel. Instinct takes over and I find myself taking shelter behind my chair, waiting for the glass to settle before I risk peering around it. Adrenaline has made my vision sharper faster, but there's only so much I can make out in the darkness. I know I heard something heavy hit the floor after the crash, but nothing moves in the shadows, so I take the risk and scuttle over to the nearest switch plate to flick the lights on.

There's blood on what's left of the window and the scattered glass, and wide smears of it left in skid marks across the floorboards. Whatever has bled on my flooring is crumpled halfway behind my couch between me and my kitchen, cutting me off from any makeshift weapons I could use to defend myself. I creep around the other end of the couch with all the exaggerated stealth of a cartoon cat burglar, getting my first real look at the thing. It's dark and huge—about the size of a very large dog, at least—and even as my fingers grope for something to defend myself with, I don't take my eyes off of it for a second.

I approach the wounded creature with a skillet in one hand and a broom in the other, using the broom handle to prod gingerly at the thing that seems to be bleeding out on my living room floor. The first few pokes don't garner any reactions from the beast, and so I grow bolder, sending a silent prayer up to whatever gods might be listening that the thing doesn't have rabies or worse. I feel myself grimace as I lift one large, leathery wing to see more of the creature, only to snatch the broom handle back and away.

Whatever it was was awake, and it had been staring right at me with large, luminous eyes.

It takes me several seconds to work up the courage to repeat the action, and only then do I notice that those eyes are dazed and unfocused, shock settling in as blood dribbles down along its flat face. The creature murmurs when I prod it again—nothing I understand, but definitely something meant to be words—and that's when I realise that the thing on my floor is not a what, but a who. I swear and pace in my kitchen while keeping the thing well within sight at all times, but eventually my conscience wins out; I can't just let them bleed to death in front of me. Even knowing this, I know I don’t have the skills for what I need to do, so I pull an earpiece on and dial my cousin on my cell phone, grimacing when I glance at the time on my oven.

The phone rings a few times before there’s a shuffling on the other end, and then her groggy voice mumbles, “Hello?”

“Hey, Maraia,” I say, taking my first aid kit from beneath my sink and slipping a chef’s knife into my belt just in case. “I need your help.”

“Cuz? Do you know what time it is? I just got to bed an hour ago!”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. It’s an emergency.”

I hear more shuffling, and then Maraia’s voice is much more alert. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

“Some sort of bat crashed through my window,” I say, hurrying over with my first aid kit and kneeling in the blood beside the lump on my floor. “It’s hurt real bad. Blood everywhere. It won’t make it to the vet if I don’t do something now.”

“You’re treating a wild animal?!”

“Maraia. It’s dying!”

“Fuck,” my cousin mutters, slipping back into her role as an ER nurse. “You owe me. Okay, tell me what you see.”

“Thank you,” I breathe, and try to turn off my anxiety as I listen to her expertise. First and foremost, I rush to apply pressure to a particularly ugly wound on the creature’s pelvis and thigh, cleaning and bandaging it up as best as I can once I’ve stopped the majority of the bleeding. This is about when I bump into the creature's, er, fiddly bits, barely hidden by a thick patch of fur. I work around them as I wrap him up in long bandages.

Per Maraia’s guidance, I check the creature's eyes and find wide, fixed pupils that indicate significant head trauma; it doesn't seem like he can see me, or even sense that I'm here. Still, I speak softly to him as I work, carefully picking glass and small twigs from open wounds and doing my best to clean and close them with a combination of butterfly closures and careful stitches. He whimpers and whines very softly when the discomfort is too great, but for the most part he hardly makes any sound at all, which Maraia and I agree is more worrying than if the creature were screeching and struggling with all his might.

Finally, after what feels like hours, I sit back on my legs with a sigh, certain that I’ve gotten to every wound that there is to be found. “I don’t think I can move it,” I say to Maraia, wiping my shaking hands clean with antibacterial wipes. “Not without popping something open.”

“You can’t keep it there with you,” she replies, using the same stern, reasonable tone that she uses on her children and patients. “Bats have rabies. What if it bites you?”

“I don’t think it can. I don’t even know if it will survive the night. For all I know, it’s haemorrhaging somewhere and this will all be for nothing.”

“All the more reason for you to take it to a vet! They can treat it there, maybe put it down if they have to. Whatever they decide will be better than what you can do at home.”

“I know,” I murmur, packing away my supplies. “Thanks, Raia. I’ll take care of it.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Maraia sighs, and I can hear her exhaustion creeping back into her voice when she says, “Alright. Call me if you need anything, okay?”

“I will. Sorry for waking you.”

“Oh, bull,” Maraia scoffs. “You were scared and came to me. That’s a good thing. Love you, kiddo.”

I can’t help but smile, despite my weariness. “Love you, too,” I say, and hang up once we’ve said our goodbyes. It would be cruel to leave this poor creature on my living room floor, so I haul my inflatable mattress out of storage and set it up in my bedroom, grateful for the large amount of floor space in the converted observatory. I check on my guest several times during the time it takes the bed to inflate, and then I carry him into my bedroom, careful not to jostle him too much when I place him on the air mattress.

I watch the shallow rise and fall of the creature’s chest for a moment before I look up into his elongated face, taking in his small, black, dog-like nose and the sharp teeth that I can see peeking out from behind parted lips. Two large, velvety ears poke up from the thick fur on his head, motionless in his unconsciousness.

From what I can tell, whatever this creature is appears to be around four feet tall, with long curled toes on each slender, delicate foot and sharp claws on the tips of his hairless fingers. He's barrel-chested from the musculature needed to support both arms and wings, with a slightly narrower waist and wide hips that lead to lithe, muscular legs. The majority of his body is covered in a short, dense layer of dark russet fur over deep brown skin, perhaps a shade or two darker than mine.

Whatever he is, I've read enough books and watched enough movies to know with certainty that I can't take him anywhere—not without possibly endangering him further. The last thing I want is this creature ending up dissected in a lab somewhere, or worse. I scrub my hands over my face and get up to go clean my living room, taking one last glance at the creature in my bedroom before closing the door behind me as quietly as I can.

The first night is harrowing. Batty—as I've taken to calling my guest in my head—has his first of three seizures shortly after I finish taping garbage bags over the hole in my window. I drop the duct tape and run to him when he lets out an unearthly wail, all of the air in his lungs being forced out by seizing muscles. There's nothing I can do but make sure that he doesn't hurt himself further, sitting vigil beside him until his convulsions die down and praying that he'll still draw breath when they're over.

He's unconscious for the entirety of the next day, so thoroughly insensate that I risk calling out a repairman to replace the broken window so that the cold stops seeping in. Other than supervising the appointment, I hardly dare to leave Batty's side, taking my laptop into my bedroom to do as much work there as I possibly can. I clean him up when he messes himself in his sleep, though I worry about him dying of dehydration. To prevent this, I pulse ice cubes in my blender and carefully feed him ice chips at first, being mindful of his body temperature by keeping him thoroughly bundled in blankets.

By the third day, Batty makes as if to swallow, and I drip water into his mouth in an effort to keep him hydrated. I don't know what he eats, so I climb into my car and make the drive into the city, buying a variety of potted baby foods with what I'm sure is a wild look in my eyes that keeps the cashier from attempting any small talk with me. I make it back to the observatory in record time, and though Batty doesn't stir when I waft different foods under his nose, I still manage to coax him into swallowing mixtures of meat and vegetables.

He runs a temperature that night, and I spend most of the early morning hours before dawn wiping him down with a cool cloth and stroking my fingers along his brow when he starts to shiver and mumble in his sleep. His fever finally breaks the following afternoon, and in the fading light of sunset, his eyes crack open. He's still exhausted and disoriented, though, so he only blinks sluggishly at me when I ask him gentle questions, eventually fading back into unconsciousness again. I figure it's progress.

Batty recovers slowly. For a long time, I only hear his voice when he mumbles in his sleep or when he whimpers as I tend to his wounds. Eventually, he begins to communicate with me using little humming noises, or he summons me from other parts of the house with plaintive chirps that break my heart. I carry him into the bathroom and find that he's fascinated by the toilet after startling at the sound of the first flush, though that's nothing compared to his awe when I decide to show off the shower. He's visibly disappointed when I deny his peeping requests to be carried under its spray, but he seems to understand when I explain that we should wait for his stitches to come out.

He gets a little stronger every day. After a couple of weeks, he's able to sit up for short periods of time as long as he's propped up with pillows. He holds his water bottle by himself a few days after that. Eating still takes more coordination than he's capable of, at least when it comes to utensils, but he's happy enough to nibble at the fruits I cut up for him. I take him out to the living room with me when he’s well enough, and there I play nature documentaries for him and keep him warm as the snow falls outside. He stares at the television in reverent silence when the voice of David Attenborough warbles through my speakers, and he spends the majority of the day curled around a couch cushion in a nest of blankets.

I learn that he’s as omnivorous as I’d hoped he’d be, and so I go to the store and get him a few different meats. I cook them with little to no seasoning at first, feeding him like one would a dog, but it isn’t long before he begins showing interest in my own meals, too. This urges me to start buying healthier food for myself; I figure that if I wouldn’t feed it to Batty for fear of his health, I probably shouldn’t be eating it, either. That doesn’t stop me from indulging in the odd treat, and his face when he tastes my favourite soft drink is priceless before he spits it out in shock, smacking his lips and looking at the bottle as though it’s bitten him.

“What?” I chuckle, taking the bottle from his hands and offering him a cloth. “Don’t like the fizz?”

“‘Fizz’?” Batty echoes, and I nearly drop the bottle before I can get the cap on.

“You can talk?” I ask, and I feel my eyes widen when he nods. “All this time?”

Batty hesitantly shakes his head, claws gently scratching at the cloth on his lap. “Don’t know,” he slowly replies, brows furrowing over his big, dark eyes. “I remember some. It’s hard.”

“It’s okay,” I assure him, reaching out to stroke between his ears in a way I’ve learned soothes him. “You took a bad blow to the head. I’m sorry that I couldn’t take you to someone who could treat you better. I didn’t want someone bad getting their hands on you.”

Batty nods his understanding, sighing deeply and nosing up into my palm to guide my hand along his muzzle. “Wanted to say all this time,” he murmurs, his soft, fluting voice growing weaker. “Thank you.”

I smile; my heart warms. “I’m just glad that you’re okay. I’ll take care of you for as long as it takes. Do you have a name?”

He frowns again, briefly closing his eyes. “Inyez.”

“Inyez,” I murmur, testing the name in my mouth and finding it fitting. I introduce myself in turn.

Inyez’s face relaxes into a small, sleepy smile. He echoes my name, and doesn’t resist when I tuck him back under the covers.

“Rest,” I whisper, brushing my fingertips between Inyez’s eyes. They flutter closed and don’t open again as he lets exhaustion pull him under, and I turn down the lights to let him fall asleep to the sound of whale song.

Once I know that Inyez can speak with me, I go a little bonkers with the need to provide enrichment for my guest. It’s been a while since I’ve had the company with which to play games, so I’m at once overwhelmed and exhilarated when I stand in front of the tabletop game section of the city mall’s toy store. I grab classics like Jenga and Parcheesi, but I also pick up games like Tokaido, Wingspan, and Betrayal at House on the Hill. Inyez fawns over the beautiful illustrations and pretty trinkets needed to play each of the games, and he’s held rapt by the game mechanics and advancements.

I can’t help but mirror his delighted smiles, watching him delicately place tokens on the boards with his slender fingers. The furrow in his brow as he puts together jigsaw puzzles is incredibly endearing, and he’s quick to summon me from where I’m working to show me his accomplishments. “Come!” he cries. “Hurry, come see!” My name on his tongue is the sweetest sound to my ears, and I look forward to hearing it in that cheerful tone throughout the day.

I buy an extension for the desk in my office and give Inyez his own space while I work, though more often than not, he ends up watching my monitors at my elbow, marveling at my work and asking countless questions. At his urging, I show him my digital portfolio, where I have most of my character designs, logos, and even a few structural blueprints and landscapes.

“Where is this?” he asks, hardly daring to tap my monitor screen with a claw.

“Nowhere,” I say, enlarging the image so that he can drink in the details. “Nowhere real, anyway. It’s a fantasy world.”

Inyez frowns. “A fantasy world? But it looks so real.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Well, I specialise in realism. There’s a lot of research that goes into it.”

Inyez doesn’t look entirely mollified by this response, but he subsides for the most part, only murmuring, “You even got the horns right.”

I turn my head to look down at him where he’s resting his cheek against my arm. “The dragon’s?”

“Yes.”

I can’t hold back my surprise. “There are dragons? They’re real?”

Inyez looks up at me, and I briefly get lost in his eyes. “Of course they are. They’re rare, though. Rarer than most everything else.”

“Rarer than you?”

Inyez bares his tiny sharp teeth at me in a cheeky little grin. “No. I’m one of a kind.”

I laugh, helplessly charmed. “That you are. Maybe I’ll draw you sometime.”

Inyez’s mouth drops open, eyes growing wider until I can just about see the whites. “Would you really? Me?”

“Why not?” I pull up a new canvas on my illustration programme, sketching up a quick little scene from the memory of looking down into his upturned face. He gasps softly at my side and shifts to cling to my shirt, murmuring in his strange language and making soft little cooing noises as I add colour and detail.

“Do I really look like that?” he breathes, looking from my face to the screen and back.

“Mhm.” I zoom in on the eyes, adding depth and highlights before moving to adjust the shape and fullness of the lips. Inyez goes very quiet for a few minutes as he watches the portrait come to life, only stirring to place his hand at the crook of my elbow to call my attention back to him. “What is it?”

“Do you really think I am so lovely?” asks Inyez, voice very soft and gaze shy.

I’m grateful for my dark skin as I feel warmth creep up into my face. “I do. You’re very beautiful.”

Inyez scoffs, but I can tell that he’s flustered. “You’ve only met one of us. Who are you to say that?”

“Sometimes one is enough,” I murmur, gently stroking Inyez’s small chin with a crooked finger. He makes an odd little twittering noise and hides behind his wings, and I feel my heart flutter wildly in my chest. I'm falling for this creature, I realise, and I can't bring myself to care; as far as I'm concerned, Inyez is the best thing to happen to me in a long time.

“Where do you go when you get into that terrible thing?” Inyez murmurs some nights later when we’re cuddled on the couch, his head on a pillow in my lap and my fingers gently stroking his head.

“In the car? To the city, mostly. To get food and toilet paper and other supplies.”

Inyez shifts to look up at me, confused. “You get food in that noisy place?”

I nod, brushing my hand along his cheek. “Everything we’ve eaten here, I’ve bought there.”

“But it doesn’t smell.”

“Smell?”

“The city. It smells, but the food doesn’t.”

I feel myself frown in thought. “Probably because a lot of it is washed and kept in clean places, or in airtight packaging.”

“I smell,” Inyez mumbles unhappily, tucking himself up in his wings. “When may I wash?”

I hum thoughtfully, rubbing one of his velvety ears between my fingers in a way that he likes. “Probably tonight, if we’re careful. If you really feel that bad.”

“I do.” Big, dark eyes look up from my lap, beseeching. “I don’t want to smell anymore. I want to be clean.”

“Alright,” I say, shifting to gather him up in my arms and carry him to the bathroom. “As long as we don’t scrub too hard or get your wounds too wet. I’ll still need to clean and redress them after we’re done.”

“You’ll wash me?” asks Inyez, a note of excitement in his voice. “Like lovers do! Could we be lovers?”

I can’t help but laugh, startled at the sudden change in conversation; I distract myself by fiddling with the shower controls. “We could be,” I reasonably reply, “if we both felt the same about one another.”

“Then we can,” says Inyez as he slips under the spray, cooing softly at the water’s warmth. “You think I’m lovely, and I think you’re lovely, too. It’s really that simple.”

“Is it?” I ask, dubious, even as I pull my clothing off and over my head to join him.

“Why does it have to be complicated? Is it more for humans? Is it not enough to feel safe and happy and goodness when I look at you? It’s like my heart has bitten a big, juicy apricot—it’s full of sweetness and the juice is overflowing!”

“A heart-apricot?” I chuckle, shaking my head at the silliness of the comparison. “Well, I’ll try to find you an apricot next time I’m in town.”

“Would you?” asks Inyez, burrowing against my chest and sighing. “I’d like that. I like you. Can that be enough?”

I run my hands carefully between his wings, earning myself a sleepy little burble. “I think it can.” I curb my enthusiastic reaction to this new turn of events and focus on gently cleaning Inyez’s fur to his satisfaction, and then I blow dry him until he’s warm and redress his wounds. By the time I carry him to bed—my bed, our bed—he’s limp as a noodle and snoring softly in his exhaustion, and I take great pleasure in tucking him in so that he’s safe and sound.

The next morning, I am kissed awake. That night, we kiss until we drift to sleep. Kisses and affection make up the bulk of my ‘duties’ as Inyez’s lover, and I take to the task of keeping him satisfied with relish. For his part, Inyez is content to groom me seemingly at random, running his small, clawed fingers delicately through my hair and humming to himself as he does so. I get a little less work done, but I don’t mind it if it’s to see Inyez so pleased with himself when he’s decided I’m primped to perfection.

It’s another couple of days before I give Inyez the all-clear to fly after his injuries have healed for a couple of months. We have to wait until nightfall until he takes to the air, but then he’s a dark blur against a darkening sky until I cannot see him at all. It makes me breathless when I realise that he’s lost to the night—what if, I think, he decides right then that he prefers the night and its freedoms to me? What if he misses his family, his friends, his former life. When he lands in front of me, panting and exhilarated and beautiful, I wrap him into my arms and crush him to my chest, burying my face against the side of his neck.

“What’s happened?” he asks, petting fretfully at my face and hair. “What’s wrong? Did you think I’d not come back?”

“Yes,” I say, and the word chokes me, making me realise that I’m crying.

“Oh, sweet one,” Inyez coos, wrapping me in his wings as best as he can. “I would never. Why would I? I am fed and loved and pampered, and you are a very good snuggler. You don’t even have fur, but you are very warm! Why would I leave, mm? Tell me.”

“I don’t know.” I laugh damply. “Missing your family. Your friends.”

“I’ll visit my family when my body is stronger,” Inyez tells me, tutting softly and nosing at my ear. “They deserve to know where I am, and they can come and visit us when the spring comes. They’ll be jealous of my roost and my mate.”

“Am I that?” I ask, sniffling and pulling away to look down into Inyez’s eyes. Inyez turns his face away, however, and I recognise that he is shy.

“You could be,” he murmurs, “but it’s not official yet. To do that, we have to—well, have sex. Hopefully more than once.”

“Do you want to?” I ask him, stroking between his wings so that they relax and rustle softly.

“Oh, I thought you’d never ask,” Inyez says all in a gust, looking up at me plaintively. “I’ve been wanting to have sex with you for days. Weeks, maybe.”

I can’t help but laugh again. “You could have asked.”

“I could have.” Inyez pouts. “You would have said no, because of my wounds. You treat me like I’m fragile.”

“You are fragile, in comparison. But you’re right, I would have denied you. Now I won’t. So, ask.”

Big eyes blink up at me from that small, furry face, hopeful to their core. “Really? You’ll be my mate?”

I can feel myself grinning. “I’ll be your mate.”

Inyez wriggles against me, clutching at my clothing with a sudden fervour. “Mine?”

“Yours,” I assure him, drawing him against me and carrying him back up into the observatory. The next few minutes are a blur as we leave my clothing strewn across the apartment in a trail that leads to the bed, and I manage to find a bottle of lube I haven’t touched in months but mercifully has enough for at least a round or two.

Preparation happens before all else. Normally, this is the part where I would begin to lose interest because my previous partners have treated it like a means to an end, but Inyez is so sensitive and receptive that every little touch I give him sends him into a fluttering little tizzy on the bed. His prick is slick and red when it hardens out of its sheath, tapered at the end and thicker at the base. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I play with it with a careful touch that seems to frustrate and overwhelm the small creature beneath me in equal measure.

I drink Inyez in as he squeaks and squirms with my fingers inside him, watching his claws tear tiny little holes in the sheets as he grips them in his hands and trembles like a taut bowstring. When I finally push into him, he makes a noise like an exultation, and I fight to keep myself from coming right there and then when he wraps his legs around my hips and digs his feet into my ass to drive me in deeper. He wants more of me and I give until there’s nothing left to give, letting him adjust for a moment before I take up a rhythm that rocks the bed against the wall.

I need him, too, and I tell him so as I fuck him down into the mattress, listening to him mew and moan and say my name in a way more beautiful than any I’ve heard yet. He clings to the headboard when I roll him over onto his stomach, breathless and gasping raggedly, wings trembling like they’re weathering a storm.

“There!” he cries when I angle my hips a certain way, one of his hands diving between himself and the sheets to pump away at his hard, leaking cock. “Oh, please, there! There!”

“You want it?” I ask, and I hardly recognise my own voice, so low and guttural it is.

“Yes, gods, I want it,” Inyez mewns, almost sobbing with his need. “I’m close. I’m gonna—I’m—Please—“

“Tell me you’ll stay.”

“I’ll stay!” Inyez squeaks, not a hint of hesitation in his desperate tones. “I’ll stay, I’ll stay, I’ll never leave this roost! I swear!”

“Yes,” I growl, pushing my chest down against his back and reaching a crescendo that makes the headboard hammer against the wall. I come so hard and so suddenly that it feels like I get pulled inside out from the toes on up, and my vision whites out to the sound of Inyez wailing beneath me. When I come around, we’re tangled together in the sheets and I have him on top of me, both of us panting heavily and both of my hands buried into the soft, downy fur at the small of Inyez’s back.

“Christ,” says Inyez, and I choke on a laugh, turning my head to cough.

“That’s not an expletive.”

Inyez grunts. “You use it like one.”

I laugh. “That’s fair.”

Inyez takes a long moment to gather his thoughts, stroking the skin of my torso with careful fingers. “Would you be willing to meet my family?”

I blink up at the ceiling. “Of course. How many of them are there?”

“I have six brothers and eight sisters. I’m fifth down in the birthing line.”

My eyes bulge. “How old is the youngest?”

“Tiisa? She’s six months old. The oldest is in her forties.” I can feel Inyez smother a smile against my chest. “Mother says she’s done for now. We don’t quite believe her.”

I laugh, shaking my head up at the ceiling. “I would offer them shelter for the winter, but I don’t think they’d all fit in here.”

“Oh, Mother would hate it here,” Inyez chuckles. “It would be much too quiet for her liking. She likes life with the roost. I’ve always preferred quiet. This roost is perfect for us.”

Us. The word makes my heart swell, and I bury a smile against the top of Inyez’s head. “We’ll figure something out for their visit.”

“Mm,” hums Inyez, sighing softly before he sits up and smiles impishly down at me in the darkness.

“What?”

“Again.”

“Again?” I laugh, wrapping my hands around Inyez’s hips as they begin to rock and wriggle on my lap. “I’ve created a monster.”

“Your monster,” Inyez smugly coos, kissing my chest right over my heart.

#exophilia #gay exophilia #mlm exophilia #exophilia fic #exophilia lemon #monster lemon #monster fic #monster boyfriend #bat boyfriend #Inyez #a twink for you monster toppers out there ;3 #My work

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