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localgenius · 3 years

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Her Favourite Story

Thank you so much for liking my first fic! It’s wild to think about people liking what I’m writing, but it makes me very happy! So all the love to all of you guys!

A story about the domestic life Spencer longs for when the team is away on cases, aka more fluff - this time featuring a small baby Reid. I’ve done so that this story sort of exists in the same universe as ‘To Love’, but they don’t really have anything to do with each other.

tw: mentions of dead children (regarding a case)

Spencer Reid x fem!reader (3.5k)

The staircase had seemed to have become miles longer over the duration of the past eight months. The creaking wood gave way under his feet as he shuffled to the side to avoid running into a man that he recognized to be living a floor above him.

His satchel was bouncing heavily against his side as he hurried up the seemingly endless amounts of steps. The many files were weighing him down, keeping him from reaching the end goal in the desired time.

His jacket was hanging loosely around his shoulders, keeping him warm from the winter cold that had managed to creep into the hallway from the constant revolving door and the small cracks that lathered the building.

His eyes were still droopy from the mediocre nap he had gotten on the plane ride home from the latest case.

A family annihilator had been tormenting a small suburban town outside of Detroit, and while cases regarding children had always been a bit tougher, this one had hit closer to home than he’d originally anticipated.

There had been something about watching young children lying dead in a basement, a brother and sister together in their last moments, that had him craving the sweet serenity that filled apartment 24 in the old apartment complex.

It had been over a year ago since the team had had to handle a case like this, and for the first time, he finally understood; he understood the melancholy look in Hotch’s eyes when they briefed before flying off, he understood the silent tears JJ shed on the plane home. He finally got it.

The landing had never been a sweeter sight than right then. His feet were practically bouncing on the last few steps before hurrying to stick the key in the lock.

A warmth, that could never be replaced by a jacket, greeted him as soon as he stepped through the threshold. The late afternoon sun was shining through the windows, making tiny specks of dust swirling around visible, feeding the numerous plants on the windowsill and making her look even more ethereal than usual.

He didn’t even know that that was possible. But really, he shouldn’t be surprised. Everything about her had surprised him from the day they first met.

Her gentle voice was talking in a low mumble, probably telling one of the many stories she had memorized over the last eight months. She had argued that she refused to be put on the side-line when it came to story time, simply because he had an eidetic memory.

She simply wouldn’t have it.

So, she had spent months lying on the couch, simply reading and memorizing all the books that JJ and Penelope had brought over.

And it had finally paid off.

Because, more often than not, Spencer would find his wife walking around the apartment, murmuring sweet fairytales, fables or research articles while staring down at a big pair of eyes that matched her own to a tee.

At the sound of the door gently being pushed shut, her attention was dragged away from the big eyes, to see a pair of brown staring at her with the utmost adoration.

“Look who’s here!” she whispered down to the sweet boy in her arms, “Is it daddy?”

She turned her body towards Spencer, slowly moving her way graciously around the couch, down to the front entrance.

“Is daddy home?” she giggled down at the baby, a big smile on her face when the baby provided gurgles of joy from the familiar word.

“Oh yes,” Spencer groaned, quickly pulling his satchel off of his shoulder and messily hanging his jacket on the coat rack, before moving to meet his loves halfway. “Daddy's home.”

When the baby finally got a proper look at him, a joyous shriek left the spit covered lips and arms were already reaching out in the open air.

“Hi bug, hi,” Spencer smiled when he finally got to get the sweet baby in his arms, letting the small being thaw up any coldness that had possessed his body over the past few days.

Big eyes and an even bigger smile were looking up at him, while arms were reaching up to touch his face.

“Hi daddy,” she smiled at him, letting one of her hands fall to the back of the baby, while the other came to tangle in the curls in the back of his head, dragging his lips down to meet hers in a gentle kiss.

“Hi mummy,” he smiled down at her, and let himself bask in the harmonious moment. A baby that was happily mumbling to himself in his arms and his wife at his side, with a gentle hand running through his messy curls.

“Good flight?” she asked softly, while rubbing the hand on their sons back up and down.

“Mediocre at best,” Spencer responded while entertaining the small baby in his arms. His eyes were big and enamoured while he was watching his daddy pull funny faces crossing his eyes. “What story were you telling him?”

“Just a little love story,” his wife happily told him, leaving his side with a quick kiss to his cheek, and a final kiss to the baby’s fine hair.

“Mummy told you a love story, huh?” Spencer mumbled down to the baby, moving to follow his wife through the apartment to the kitchen. “Mummy has always had a fondness for those hasn’t she?”

“Oh yes she has,” he heard his wife say from where she was standing with her head in the fridge. “They are the best stories to tell.”

“That can be discussed,” Spencer mumbled down to the baby, happily accepting the slap to the back of his head as he moved to sit down at one of the kitchen chairs. The baby was still looking at him with big eyes, a smile revealing the growing teeth. “What story was it this time?”

“My favourite,” she said as she was moving around behind him. “A tale about a boy and a girl that loved each other very much.”

A small smile started to break out on Spencer’s face. He knew this story all too well. He knew the ins and the outs. The plot twists and the cliff-hangers. “Yeah?” he asked breathlessly as he looked back at her over his shoulder.

She was moving around, digging through cabinets to get pots and pans out on the stove. “Hm,” she hummed in agreement.

“Would you mind sharing it with the group?”

She laughed softly, turning to look at him over her shoulder. He sat so innocently in the wooden chair – one they had been talking about donating because he insisted that it was the source of his frequent back pain – with their innocent baby resting on his chest, and big brown eyes nearly on the verge of begging.

“It’s a tale as old as time really,” she started, while moving around to start chopping up vegetables from the fridge. “There was this girl, who was so tired of being alone and was just waiting for a boy that was willing to spare an ounce of love on her.”

While she was telling the story, Spencer couldn’t help himself from falling in love with her all over again. The light green sweater falling loosely around her shoulders, her favourite pair of jeans, mismatched socks and glasses perched on the tip of the nose completed the look of a new mum.

He had foolishly thought that she couldn’t ever be prettier than she was on their wedding day, but for once he was happy to be proven wrong, when she had laid in the hospital bed with their new-born resting tenderly on her chest. And from every day since then, she had a special glow around her.

The mummy glow, as he liked to call it. Everything about her radiated love, it had from the very first time they met, but it seemed to only have grown from the moment she had brought their son into the world.

“And when she was ready to give up, an angel in disguise came by and said that she knew a boy that was so willing to give out the love he had inside of him. She only had to go out and have dinner with him, and the girl could see so for herself,” she was mindlessly talking as she was cutting up an onion, taking occasional breaks to look up to the ceiling to avoid crying too much.

“So, she put on her prettiest dress, and went to the restaurant the angel had told her about. And in there was the boy. The boy who was more than willing to love her, and the girl was so happy. Because she finally had the love she had always dreamed about.”

Spencer was gently rocking the baby in his arms; the gentle hum of his mother’s voice lulling him into a light slumber.

“And about a year and a half later,” she continued before being interrupted by a soft mumbling.

“One year, six months and 14 days.”

“Right,” she turned around from the cutting board, “sorry. And a year, six months and 14 days later the boy asked the girl to marry him. And the girl was so happy.” Spencer could hear the smile in her voice, his own mind going back to the evening, where they both ended up with tears in their eyes, and a ring sitting in its rightful place after weeks hidden away.

“And then the boy and girl got married, and all of their friends and family were there to celebrate with them. And the girl had never felt so much love for a person in her entire life,” she continued softly, remembrance seeking out of every word passing her lips.

Spencer moved to get up, making sure the baby was securely pressed to his chest as he made his way over to the kitchen counter she was standing by.

“That was of course until the girl found out that she was pregnant.”

She glanced at her two loves, both eagerly listening to the story.

“Nine months later the girl gave birth to the most beautiful baby boy in the world. And in that moment the girl realized that nothing could ever top the love she had for her beautiful baby. And so, the girl, who once was so sad and lonely, suddenly had a husband whom she loved dearly, and a small baby boy that she loved more than life itself.”

When she finished the story, she leaned over and pressed a delicate kiss to the top of the baby’s head, before leaning up and giving her husband one.

“That’s a very good story,” he mumbled against her lips.

“Thank you,” she laughed as they pulled apart, her focus going back to the vegetables. “It’s one of my absolute favourites.”

Light snowflakes were dancing around outside of the window, the yellow light from the streetlamps highlighting them like ballerinas on a stage.

The chill had seeped its way into the small room, making goosebumps rise on the back of his neck, yet the cold was the furthest thing on his mind.

At the forefront was the small baby, who was sleeping peacefully in the wooden crib. His small onesie covered chest was moving up and down with the deep breaths, helping to calm Spencer’s mind.

The nightlight was shining from its place on the bookcase, that was already overflowing despite only having been used for eight months.

Small coos left the baby, and the small arms moved to stretch over his head, before resting back again in a peaceful sleeping position. The small tongue came to stick out past his lips, something she said always reminded her of his father.

Spencer let a small smile tug on his lips, before he moved up from the chair, lingering by the crib for just a small moment, soaking up all the love he felt from the small baby.

Before he could move away from the crib, he heard the wooden door creek open, and before he knew it, he felt a pair of arms wrap around his waist, taking a firm grip on the dark blue cardigan he was wearing.

“Tough case?” she mumbled against his shoulder, letting her lips rest there and giving the spot an occasional kiss or two.

Spencer moved to interlock their fingers, and letting their arms wrap tightly around him, letting the security of her arms prevent him from falling apart.

“Yeah,” he whispered, tears already burning in the corner of his eyes.

He felt her lean her head against his shoulder, hearing her taking a deep breath in before she started talking again. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Spencer let out a deep breath before shaking his head.

“Spence,” she whispered, slowly removing her arms from his, helping him turn around to face him.

His brown eyes were glistening with unshed tears, yet they seemed as lovely as ever in the light of the streetlamps, the nightlight and the glowing moon. His nose was scrunching up in a way she knew meant that he was fighting to not let the stream of tears fall.

“We made a deal,” she whispered to him, moving closer so they stood chest to chest, hands interlocked by their sides. “When Noah was born, we made a deal, that you wouldn’t keep all of this in anymore.”

Spencer lifted his eyes to the ceiling when he felt the tears make their escape, choosing to focus on the glow-in-the-dark stars that lithered the ceiling instead of the concerned eyes of his wife.

“Spencer,” she said a bit more sternly, tugging on their locked hands to draw his attention back to her.

“It was kids,” he finally mumbled, closing his eyes and let his head fall to rest against hers. “Just small kids.”

She let go of his hands in order to wrap her arms around his shoulders, hoping to help him stay together for just a little longer. Hoping to make him feel okay for just a little longer.

One of her hands buried itself in the tangle of curls, while the other was rubbing soothing patterns on his shoulder blades – the same way she did to their son when he was upset.

“One of them was called Noah,” he mumbled into her hair, squeezing her tightly around her waist. “He just looked so much like him it was scary, and we couldn’t save him.” Tears were falling freely now, a lump clogging his throat. “I couldn’t save him.”

“Oh, Spence,” she mumbled softly, tightening her arms around him. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“It’s just,” he started as he slowly pulled away, only to drag her into his side as he looked down at the sleeping baby, “we haven’t had a case revolving kids since he was born. And then I saw him; he looked like he was sleeping. And all I could think about was our Noah; our Noah that falls asleep to your stories and that giggles every time I do a magic trick.”

He could feel her eyes on him, while his were solely focused on the sleeping baby.

“And I got to thinking,” he started, savouring the feeling of his wife pressing herself closer to his side, “what if, at one point, I can’t save him? What if I can’t save you?”

“Hey now,” Y/N reached up and directed his line of sight to her, ensuring that his mind wouldn’t drift away to a dark place, like it had a tendency to do. “That’s never going to happen, okay? You’re his daddy okay? And he knows that his daddy always will protect him.”

Spencer squeezed his eyes shut and sniffled, tuning his ears into the sound of deep breaths coming from his son, and the gentle soothing voice of his wife.

“It’s just,” he started to mumble, afraid to let her open the door to the deepest darkest corner of his mind, “sometimes I wonder if it’s all worth it.”

With his eyes till squeezed shut, he let himself go in the feeling of her rubbing her soft fingers up and down his cheeks. The smell of her perfume and baby shampoo filled his nose, making the deep, scary corner of his mind seem further and further away.

“What do you mean,” she inquired softly, letting her head fall to the crook of his neck.

“I see so much evil every day, and sometimes it's hard to shut it out when I get home. And I’m gone for days at a time, sometimes not home for weeks. And I guess it was fine when it was just me. But then you came along,” he leaned down and let his lips ghost over her ear, while whispering his confessions to her. “You came, and suddenly it was harder leaving, but you’ve always insisted that you were fine with me leaving.”

“Because I am,” she whispered into his neck, slowly starting to rock them from side to side.

“I know,” he mumbled sweetly, “And then Noah came along, and now I’m terrified that I’ll miss everything. That I’ll miss watching him grow up, because I was too busy chasing down monsters, and that it’ll only drag me further away from you – from him.”

Y/N pulled her face from the crook of his neck, and gently grasped the sides of his face, before leaning up to give him a slow, deep kiss.

They just stood like that for a while, a boy and a girl, so in love with each other that nothing else really seemed to matter.

“Spencer Reid,” she mumbled against his lips, refusing to even let the space of an atom come between them. “You are the best man I’ve ever known. You are the best husband and the best dad that I could ever wish for for our son.”

His eyes remained closed, but more tears started to trail down his cheeks again, only to be kissed away by a pair of soft lips.

“You’re his hero,” she told him softly. “Even though he’s not old enough to know what a hero is,” they laughed softly as she spoke, “he cries every time you leave, and gets excited every time you come back home. And I swear, that no matter what bedtime fairy tales I tell him, nothing will ever beat the plethora of stories I can tell him about his daddy.”

They pulled apart, and she dragged him over to stand by the side of the wooden crib, soft breaths filling the silence.

“This is why what you do is worth it,” she said, letting her hand rub up and down his back, as he let one of his big hands gently smooth over the frail hairs on his little head. “Every day, when you and that amazing team of yours chase down monsters, you make the world a little bit brighter. A little bit safer for our Noah to grow up in.

“You show him what it means to be good, to fight for what you believe in. And if that means that you have to travel a lot, then so be it. Because the passion you have for saving other people, for helping those in need is what made me fall in love with you. And that will never change.”

One of her hands went down and squeezed the tiny onesie covered foot that was flailing around in his dreams.

“But if you decide to leave it behind, to find something else to do, then I support you. Always. And so will he,” she giggled the last part, releasing the tiny foot to wrap both of her arms around Spencer’s midsection.

“I love you,” he mumbled down to her, his nose nuzzling into the crown of her head.

“I love you too,” she smiled up at him, but was quick to turn her attention to the crib when a soft cry was released. “And you,” she said, her mummy voice immediately being activated, “I love you so very much.”

She let her arms fall from his waist in order to pick Noah up, his cries immediately subsiding by the comfort of his mother’s arms.

“Why are we crying, huh?” she whispered softly, letting her lips brush against the soft temple, as Noah slowly relaxed into her chest. “Mummy’s here, Daddy’s here, Noah’s here,” she said as she started to rock him back and forth. “You wanna go to daddy?”

Spencer happily accepted the small baby into his arms, letting his nose bury in Noah’s hair, welcoming the smell of innocence that filled him.

“Daddy’s right here,” he mumbled, bouncing the baby up and down slowly, just the way he knows help him fall back into a slumber.

“Do you want to take him to bed?” Y/N asked, looking at both of her boys with the uttermost love in her eyes.

“Yeah,” he nodded, eyes never leaving the small baby that was slowly, but surely, falling back to sleep.

“Then let’s go to sleep daddy,” she said, turning the nightlight off, and starting to guide them out of the door and down the hallway to their bedroom. “I have an inkling that sleep will do you some good.”

#spencer reid #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid imagine

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silverynight · 3 years

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"Oh, yes George, it's you again," Newt grins at the curious seal, looking at his camera and laptop. "How are you doing today?"

The seal moves towards him and makes happy noises, Newt chuckles and his laughter resonates all over the cave he just walked in.

The people who live there warned him about some kind of monster that Newt thought was probably some creature; he knows no animal is evil or dangerous, people just need to respect their space and not to bother them.

So when the creature comes (which makes him feel really excited) he'll be ready to leave the cave or do whatever is necessary to make it feel like it can trust Newt.

He's been working as a marine biologist a few years now and he's had experiences with all kinds of creatures, he also has a couple of scars that can prove it, but Newt has never regretted any of it.

He loves studying and helping creatures as much as he can.

George goes back to his family and Newt has a few hours to clean up the cave; sadly some of the trash people throw in the shore ends up there because the waves that crash into the cave.

Once he's done he takes a few pictures of the place and proceeds to take notes on the fishes he sees in the water.

Then, just for a moment, he has the weird feeling that someone is watching him, but when he turns around and finds himself completely alone, he relaxes and keeps typing.

After two hours, he decides to go back to the house he's staying at and return the next day.

***

"Oh, hello!" When Newt sees the man with mismatched eyes swimming inside the cave, he smiles excitedly, thinking about all the questions he could ask him about the place.

"Why are you not scared?" The man asks, getting closer to him; Newt notices his bare chest and wonders how he could be there without any kind of suit and looking perfectly fine. He must be freezing.

"Why should I be?"

"The monster," the man says, like it's obvious and Newt notices his accent then, but can't tell where he is from. He doesn't sound like most of the people there.

"Well, you're the one inside the water," Newt points out and the man can't help but grin in return. "Besides, based on what I've been told, it's most likely an animal, one that lives in the water and therefore not a monster. The creature is probably angry because it feels like humans are invading its territory."

"Exactly," the man agrees, looking particularly amused for some reason. "But you're here too..."

"When the creature shows up, I'll try to let it know I'm not a threat, if it doesn't work, I'll leave," Newt tells him. "I just want to study the animals here."

"Don't worry, the monster is not going to be mad at you," the man assures, staring at Newt with so much intensity the biologist starts blushing. "You're beautiful and he likes pretty things."

"I don't think animals have the same concept of beau–"

"He does," the man uses his hands to sit next to Newt, making him gasp when he realizes he doesn't have any legs but a beautiful green fin that's still touching the water.

After his initial shock, Newt realizes he's probably the first or one of the first biologists looking at what people would call a merman.

"Can I see?" He beams at him and the merman smiles back.

"Yes," he mumbles lifting his fin. "But only if you tell me your name."

"I'm Newt."

"Gellert. It's really a pleasure to meet you. I've never seen a human so beautiful before."

Trying not to get too flustered, Newt gets closer to the merman and starts asking him questions.

He's never been that excited in a long time.

***

Gellert is with Newt almost all the time, he even follows Newt to the house he's staying by turning his fin into two perfectly functional legs.

Although Newt had to cover him with his coat to the merman's amusement.

"I've explored your world a couple of times in this form, Newton," Gellert says, taking the biologist's hand in his. "I didn't like it that much, there was nothing interesting for me here, until now of course."

Newt would've blushed if it wasn't because he was pretty much distracted by the fact that there could be more like him.

"Does this mean I can meet other mer-people like you?" Newt grins excitedly, not noticing the frown upon Gellert's face. "Or maybe I should go back to the cave for–"

"Not many of my kind decide to explore the world of men like I did," Gellert tells him, looking slightly irritated. "Besides, you can't meet anyone else because you're mine!"

Newt looks back at him in shock, until he realizes that Gellert is jealous.

"You'll always be my friend. I just want to meet others like you to ask them questions about the way you live, but they're not my frien–"

"We're not friends, Newton," Gellert almost growls as he takes him by the waist and pulls him closer. "You are my mate and I'm going to claim you."

A shiver spreads through Newt's back as his face turns bright red; he likes the possessiveness he sees in the merman's eyes.

"But, we can't–"

"Why not?" The irritation vanishes to be replaced with vulnerability and fear. Gellert is afraid of losing him. "I love you. I want to be with you for the rest of my life. Don't you want the same?"

Newt stares at him for a moment and realizes quickly that he hasn't actually thought about leaving him. It'd tear him apart. He can't imagine himself being without Gellert.

"I... I want the same."

The merman starts kissing his neck affectionately and Newt shivers again when he feels Gellert's sharp teeth on his skin.

"Wait. Are you sure about this? I'll have to travel and–"

"I'll go with you, my love. Anywhere." Gellert assures him. "We can even get married to. I know your people like that."

Newt chuckles before kissing him; he's not sure if he can marry him or what his brother will say when he meets him, but he knows he wants to spend his life with him.

***

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#merman gellert #grindelnewt #gellert grindelwald #newt scamander #fantastic beasts #fbtcog #fbawtft

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stevesharrlngtons · 4 years

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wherever i’m going -- i’m taking you with me.

roman godfrey x reader

summary: you run through roman’s dreams nightly, but this time it’s different. this time it’s an omen where you dawn a white dress with blood pouring for your mouth, your body ripped to shred. and this time peter sees it too.

word count: 3.5k

a/n: kinda short for me, i hope that’s ok! got a couple of other stories in the works tho. but, i really hope you enjoy!

“I gotta run,” You said as you stood from the couch in the Godfrey’s sitting room.

Roman let out a childish groan as he deflated into the stiff cushions, lanky limbs melting across the furniture like a Dali clock.

“No, you don’t. At least stay for one more episode?”

“I promised I’d have dinner with my mom before she has to go in to work graveyard tonight.” You reply, gathering your discarded sweater and shoes and redressing in them.

“Come on,” Roman practically whines, reaching out with his foot to hook you around the back of your knee, “One more episode.”

You turn to give him a reprimanding look, a look that was utterly ineffective as a smile threatened to form on your lips.

“Shelley, can you please call him off?” You look over your shoulder toward the younger Godfrey, holed up in an armchair with a grin.

“He’s not used to hearing no.” She typed out and you snort.

“Some help you are!” Shelley just giggled.

“Yeah,” Roman pushed himself up with a grunt, quickly snaking his arms around your waist, “I’m not used to hearing no. Let’s not start today, yeah?”

You looked down at him, his chin resting against your abdomen while he gazed up at you with his most convincing puppy eyes.

You move your hands to hold his cheeks, squeezing them together causing his lips to pout, “Everyone’s right, you are a brat.”

You lean down and peck his pursed mouth, “Walk me to my car?”

Roman gives a heavy sigh in defeat, collapsing back into the couch for a moment before begrudgingly getting up, making the movement seem like a great effort.

“You owe me,” He responds in a grumble.

“Oh, of course,” You reply dramatically as you walk over and give Shelley a chaste kiss to the forehead in goodbye.

Roman waits for you by the door for you to finish your farewells with his sister, then leads you outside.

At your car, you toss your bag through the open window into the passenger seat, then lean against the door to look up at Roman.

“I think you should just move in here, you’re over enough.” He comments, placing his hands on your hips.

“I’m sure our mother’s would love that,” You counter swiftly.

“Fuck my mom,” Roman says, “And yours, well she could finally travel like she’s always wanted.”

“So what? I’m just the dead weight holding her back?”

“Oh c’mon, you know I didn’t mean it like that.” Roman sighs, moving closer to you.

You stay quiet, letting him squirm a bit. You knew he meant nothing by his comment, nothing more than a desperate search for you to agree to his offer.

“I would, but I’d only be giving into your spoiled-rich-boy complex. I can’t do that. I have to be the one to teach you hard work and perseverance. I want you to turn out to be a well rounded young man.”

The scowl that overtook Roman’s face made you burst into giggles.

“Fuck that, and you for saying it.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” You say, giggles dying down as you lean up to give him a kiss. A longer one to appease him, “I’ll call you later, OK?”

“OK,” Roman says breathlessly to your lips, “Love you.”

“Love you, too.” And you pulled away from him.

Parting from Roman was always a five minute process, or longer. Because he would kiss you deeper, and beg for one more, and whisper sweet words and begs for you to stay, trying your resolve each and every time. Tonight was no different. You finally left the Godfrey grounds seven minutes later with swollen lips and the beginning of a love bite on your neck.

You ran through a field of grass and wildflowers. Looking over your shoulder with a wide smile and echoing giggles.

“Catch me! Faster! Before I fall! Catch me, Roman!” Your voice carried far and wide.

The dress you adorned was white, gauzy, and thin. Roman could see the hazy outline of your body beneath the fabric, your soft curves shining through as the sun basked you in it’s buttery glow. The world was saturated in warm tones and smelled like fresh laundry on his skin.

“Please, Ro! Catch me! I’m going to trip!” Your melodic voice begged, as you remained just out of arm's length.

Roman ran as fast as he could, panting and heaving as he tried to keep up with your light feet. His fingers would dust the fabric of your dress, feel the fibers and loose threads on his nails, but he could never get close enough to wrap you his grasp and capture you. He tumbled through the tall grass and felt a distinct tightness in his chest of yearning and fear. He just wanted to reach you.

As he continued the chase, Roman’s legs began to feel utterly heavy and stiff. A smattering of pins and needles danced under his skin and began to numb his extremities. It felt like he was pushing through water and running through sand. When he looked down to his feet, suddenly he was. He was encased in thick slimy sand and he could barely move.

“Roman?” Your voice was far away and trembling.

Roman snapped his head back up to look at you, still in your field of wildflowers and fragile gown.

“Roman, please, it’s going to happen…” You were suddenly crying, your face streaked with tears that left unforgiving wet trails over your delicate skin.

“I won’t! I won’t!” Roman calls, trying to dig himself from the swallowing sand.

“Baby… it hurts,” You whimper and groan and Roman watches as you reach down to clutch your stomach. Your crisp white dress now swathed with red.

A long, jagged cut marred your abdomen, blood pouring out of you like rushing water.

“No!” Roman screams, chanting the word until his throat was thick and hoarse.

You hiccup, and heavy currents of dark crimson drip past your lips. Your sputtering as the blood splatters your once spotless face, freckling your draining cheeks as a new outpour of blood furthers to ruin your dress.

Roman claws at the sand sucking him under, the little particles cutting into his fingers like shards of glass as he continues his tireless efforts to escape.

He watches as you stare at the blood in question, trying to push it back into your jutting abdomen wound fruitlessly, only managing to push more out.

“Stay right there, I’m coming! I’m coming!” Roman shouts, but the sand has sucked him down despite his best efforts and is up to his chin. The sun was so bright now, it was beginning to blinding him.

“No, you’re not.” You say with blood painted lips, teeth slimy with cardinal colors and sickly browns.

Roman tries to shout again, only for the sand to begin to enter his mouth and fill his lungs, before it engulfs him completely.

Roman shot awake, slick with sweat and an intense weighing heat covering every inch of his body.

His eyes stung with unshed tears as he scrambled to reach his phone on his nightstand. It told him it was just after two in the morning before he dials your number.

With his trembling hand to his ear, he listens to the incessant ring and waits for you to answer.

But the phone just rings, and rings and rings. And Roman swallows down the bile that raises in his throat as he gets your voicemail.

He calls back immediately, listening to the endless tone with shallow breaths. Once more, he gets your voicemail.

“Fuck!” Roman shouts, his voice carrying in the silent bedroom.

He starts to kick away his blankets and press your contact once more, when his phone buzzes. He doesn’t hesitate to answer.

“Hello? Baby?” Roman gasps.

“No, it’s uh, it’s me.” The voice on the other end isn’t yours, but Peter’s.

“Peter, dear fucking -- did you have it? Did you see her?” Roman asks, his voice frenzied.

“Yeah, I… I needed to call and see if she was with you. But I guess not.”

And Roman starts to hyperventilate. He tries to gulp in as much air as he can, but his lungs are tight and constricted with tears and terror.

“Peter, she’s next. No, no, no, no, no! Fuck! This isn’t happening, this can’t be happening!” Sobs wracked his body as Peter did his best to calm him.

“Hey, hey! Calm down, alright? She’s probably just fine.”

Probably, probably, probably.

But not definitely.

Roman’s mind began to churn out pictures of your pretty little face on the news next to Brooke Bluebell and Lisa Willoughby. A newscaster reciting your name mournfully and telling the world that you were the latest victim of this horrific animal prowling after young girls in a sleepy Pennsylvania town.

“She’s not answering, Peter! She’s not fucking answering her phone. She’s not -- fuck!” Roman could barely get the words out.

Your face in print, the ink smudging and transferring to the pads of Roman’s fingers from the amount of times he strokes your still features. Perfect and frozen in time. The headline saying something about another teen dead. Another beautiful girl with so much potential… torn from the world and limb from limb.

“Calm down, Roman! We need to find her, OK? I’m sure she’s just asleep and didn’t hear her phone. Let’s find her before we have a fuckin’ melt down, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah, Ok, yeah.” Roman nods, running a tense hand through his hair.

“So, why don’t you sit tight and I’ll go over to her house and bring her to you?”

“No!” Roman shouts, “No! I’m going, she needs me.”

Roman stands from his bed and rushes around his room to gather any discarded clothing he could find crumpled on the ground or splayed over the back of a chair.

“Roman, let’s just think about this for a minute. You’re worried, stressed out of your mind, you’re not thinking straight. You’re gonna fuckin’ crash your car if you drive like this.” Peter tries to reason.

Roman scoffs, “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re really not,” Peter lets out a humorless chuckle.

“Yeah, y’know what? You’re right, I’m fucking not,” Roman spits.

He’s running down the stairs in a mismatched outfit in a search for his car keys, “I’ll be fine when I see she’s OK.”

Roman hangs up his phone before Peter can argue anymore.

When Roman gets to your house, he doesn't waste time knocking. He just picks up the trick rock in the front flowerpot to retrieve the spar key from inside it, and storms into your house. He barely remembers to shut the door behind him.

“(Y/N)! Baby!” Roman calls, searching around for any signs of disturbance or foul play.

He bounds up your staircase, frantically calling for you all the while. When he reaches your bedroom, he plows his way through the door without ceremony. His grip warping the thin gold plated knob, fingers molding into the cheap tin with worried fury.

You shot up from your mattress when Roman burst in with a shriek, clutching your chest as Roman stood dumbfounded in your doorway.

“Jesus Christ, Roman! What the hell? You just about gave me a heart attack! Fuck,” You let out a loud breath and fell against your pillows, sucking in calming breaths, “What is wrong with you?”

Overwhelming relief rushed through Roman’s viens as he watched you, annoyed and disgruntled in a sea of sheets and blankets from his entrance.

“Oh my God,” Tears sprang back to his eyes as Roman quickly closed the short distance between himself and your bed and vined his arms around you.

He blanketed you in his body, crushing you to the mattress as he sobbed into your neck.

“Whoa, hey, Ro? Baby? What happened? What’s going on?” You asked, anger turning quickly to worry as you moved to wrap your arms around his shaking shoulders.

His forearms press into the base of your neck and the hollow of your back uncomfortably, arching you into him in an awkward position. But the pain only served as a reminder to Roman that you were real. You’re here and you’re breathing and your bones clash with his and your breath fogs his brain. He couldn’t speak, all he could do was inhale your clean scent and the pattern of your heartbeat.

“Roman, you’re scaring me. What the hell is going on?” You tried again.

“Just stay right here. Be safe,” He hushed, nuzzling closer to you, pressing his cold nose to your clavicle.

A distinct prick of worry and fear made itself known in your gut, but you tried your best to subdue it.

For now.

“Alright, but please just tell me you’re OK?” You whisper, gripping the back of his shoulders tightly.

“Yeah. And so are you.”

You woke the next morning with a stabbing pain in your side and with stiff limbs. The sun had peeked over Roman’s head and cast onto your tired lids. Your hands were still tangled in his hair, resting loosely on the nape of his neck, having stopped combing through brunet strands sometime around dawn when sleep finally took you back under.

You tried to shift your weight around to alleviate the discomfort, but a small voice stopped you.

“Don’t get up,” Came Roman’s throaty plea.

“I wasn’t, just getting comfortable. M’back hurts.”

Roman doesn’t reply, just moves his arm from where it had been digging into your muscles and moves onto his side so you can too. His other arm stays firmly coiled around your shoulders.

You sigh in relaxed pleasure as you stretch out the kink in your back and are able to snuggle back into Roman with no pain.

“Thank you,” You mutter and kiss the hollow of his throat before you begin to drift off again.

His warmth, his soft pine cologne, the weight of his arms around you, the safety he offered, it was hard to stay awake all while under the thick cloud of blankets and early morning heat. Roman began to drag his fingers gently up and down your spine, helping to lull you back into sleep. That was until you remembered that Roman hadn’t just snuck in the night before to sleep next to you. You two hadn’t fucked and smoked and passed out in each other’s arms. He had come storming into your bedroom last night with crazed glazed eyes, looking like he’d seen a ghost, or something worse. So, you blink away any residual urge for slumber.

“What happened last night?” You asked, running your nose along his thrumming pulse.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” Roman moves his palm up to cup the back of your skull, “We’ll talk about it when you wake up.”

You wiggle away from his embrace far enough to see his face. He looked pensive and worried. His sweet lips chapped and gnawed raw.

“I don’t want to wait, Ro. You really freaked me out last night.” You lean further back, “Was it Olivia? Did she do something?”

“No, no,” Roman sighs, “Not this time. It wasn’t her.”

“Then what was it?”

Roman ran the tip of his tongue over his cracked lips and sniffs loudly. He makes a scene to look anywhere but your eyes. He looked scared, and Roman never looked scared. Angry? Interested? Annoyed? Curious? Yes, but never scared.

“Ro? What is it? You're freaking me.” You reach for his hand that is resting on your hip and wrap it in your own.

His jaw flexes and swivels, his bottom teeth jutting out before he finally sighs, “You were in my dream last night…”

“And?”

“Peter had the dream, too.”

It felt like the wind had been knocked from your lungs. You knew Roman could feel your hand tighten around his own, because he pushed your face back to press into his chest.

“But it’s OK. It’s going to be alright. I have you, I have you, I have you,” He chants, slipping his long calf around your legs to further his point.

“Peter saw me, too?” You asked, voice quivering with uncertainty.

“Yeah, baby. He did.”

“And it was the same dream?”

Roman took a long pause that told you more than his words ever could.

“Did you see it, too? Did it get me?”

You can feel Roman shutter against you. Like someone had poured ice water down his back.

“No, we didn’t. It wasn’t there. It was just… it wasn’t pretty, I’ll spare you the details but it wasn’t fucking pretty. It freaked us out.”

“Oh God,” You muttered, your mind moving a mile a minute, “Oh my God. I’m next.”

“No.” Roman says, an animalistic roar from deep in his chest, his arms working to pull you even closer, “No. Nothing is going to happen to you. I won’t let it.”

“What if something happens that you can’t stop? Or you’re not there? Or I’m alone? Or, or, fuck! I don’t know!” You gasp, your heart palpating in your chest.

You had never been faced with your own mortality before. You had never had a near death experience or even anything close to one. You sometimes felt embarrassed when your peers would talk about terrifying advantentures they had embarked on that almost ended fatally but they triphumpanlty survived. Or activities they foolishly starred in and swore they saw their lives flash before their eyes. The stories were likely embellished, but you still felt square. You weren’t an adrenaline junkie, you didn’t even like carnival rides. You liked knowing you’d wake the next day, safe and sound with two feet planted firmly on the ground. This feeling of possible and even probable death by crazed werewolf made your vision blur and bile coat your tongue.

There wasn’t enough air in the world to satisfy your thirsty lungs.

“Hey, hey, stop!” Roman said sternly, his voice working to break through your wave of panic, “Nothing is going to happen, OK? Nothing. I will do whatever possible to keep you safe. I don’t care what it takes.”

“Ro --” Tears had begun to fall from your eyes without your knowledge, and his name came from your lips weak and whimpered.

“I have you, I’ve got you. I am going to be with you 24-fucking-7 until we kill this thing. I am not going to leave your side until I have a fucking Vargulf head in the trophy room.” He reassures.

“How can you be with me when you are going off to kill it?”

“Then I’m gonna lock you in Shelley’s room and make you stay put until I’m back. We aren’t taking any chances with this.”

You pull back once more to look at him with glazed eyes; his face pink from sleep and tears.

“You’ll stay at the house until we kill this thing, alright? I don’t care what Olivia or anyone else says, you’ll stay with me.”

“What if it comes here anyway? What if it hurts my mom? Oh my God, Roman, my mom!” Your blubbering again.

“Fuck it, she can come, too. We’ll make something up, have Peter forge some documents from the city that say you guys have to get out of this house, then I’ll offer up guest bedrooms. We’ll figure it out.” He replies, smoothing your hair against your head.

“Do you really think it’ll work?”

Roman sighs, “I mean if it doesn’t I could, y’know, persuade her.”

“Roman, no.”

You knew Roman would never do anything to hurt your beloved mother, but the thought of him using his eye-thing on her made your stomach twist.

“I would and I will if I have to. I’ll do what I have to to keep you safe. That’s just how it is.”

He was your protector. Your warrior. Fuck Peter, fuck his mother and Destiny. Fuck anyone who told him this wasn’t his fight, that he should bow out and let the Rumanecks handle this. Because now it definitely was. Now, he was to be the one who saved the town and you and Peter and Letha and Shelley. He was to be the one who cut off the head of this wolf or ripped it apart with his bare hands to keep his loved ones safe. He was strong, he was the warrior.

“OK.” You surrendered to his declarations of safety and tried to let his presence lull you.

You’d have to pack some things in a few hours, help come up with a lie to convince your mother, then move into the Godfrey mansion and hope it’s walls were enough to shuck this black omen from your soul.

“I got you, I promise I do.” Roman hushes, placing a delicate kiss to your forehead.

Your burrow deeper into his embrace and refuse to tell him about the dream you’d had the night before. The dream about spitting your teeth into his hands and running your tongue over your coppery gums. You needed to call Destiny or Peter’s mom to get the prognosis on if it meant anything. If it was just unsettling or apart of whatever Roman and Peter were seeing at night. For now, all you could hope was that it was the former, and Roman’s energy was enough to heal your fearful heart.

hi (-: i hope you enjoyed! if you did, i’d love to hear from you <3

#roman godfrey x reader #roman godfrey imagine #roman godfrey imagines #roman godfrey x you #roman godfrey reader insert #roman godfrey fanfic #roman godfrey fanfiction #bill skarsgård x reader #bill skarsgard x reader #bill skarsgard imagine #bill skarsgård imagine #bill skarsgård fanfiction #hemlock grove fanfic #hemlock grove fanfiction #hemlock grove imagines #hemlock grove imagine #stevesharrlngtonswrites

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heartsofbeskar · 3 years

Text

from the ashes

chapter four | read on AO3

din djarin x oc

WARNINGS: potential mild self harm, swearing

WORDS: 2.1K

EXCERPT: Her anger seethed beneath her skin like an ocean, and he could feel the waves crashing just below the surface when he stood next to her. He couldn’t blame her. He was waiting for her to crash her emotions down on him at any moment, because Din knew he was the one who’d convinced her to take this job, and therefore an easy target for them. But, to her credit, she at least kept them contained to her own body.

He knew too well what it was to lose people that he’d put in danger in the first place.

MASTERLIST | SERIES MASTERLIST

PREV | NEXT

Her mind was numb as she picked up Jula’s stiff body, ignoring the Mandalorian’s offers for help, and carried her towards the garden she knew Jula kept around the back.

Sweet, innocent, Jula, who tended to her ships and her vegetables, and hesitated to even spray her homemade pesticide with the knowledge of the insects it would kill. The galaxy was a cruel bitch to take someone like her, especially like this.

Ten found a flowerbed between some groupings of her herbs, and gently laid the small girl down on top of them. With her eyes closed and a woolen blanket covering her chest, she really did appear to be asleep. At peace. She wished she could bury the girl, but they didn’t have the tools or the time to spare.

She swore, turning around to the nearby tree and slamming her fists into it. She felt the rough bark split open her skin, and rubbed her hands in harder, deepening.

“She was your friend?” A deep voice came from the building entryway. She didn’t know how long he’d stood there silently.

“She deserved to live way more than you or I do.” Ten removed her hands from the tree, flexing them in front of her. Some beads of blood had smeared on her fingers. Looking at the Mandalorian, he nodded mutely.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

She scoffed, moving past him and heading back towards the ship. “You think it was a coincidence someone shot her in the chest after we took this job? After I called her for repairs? This was fucking Imps. An execution.”

He followed her back into the hangar. “She’s been dead for hours. This was planned; there was nothing you could have done.”

“I could’ve let her live here in peace and not be involved with me,” she said, beginning to rifle through the organized crates of parts. The ship was still going to need repairs, after all. “You know what this means, right?”

As she began to separate out parts she knew she needed, he stayed silent. Ten rolled her eyes.

“Do you trust Karga?” she asked, stopping and turning to face him.

“I do.”

“Then there’s a rat in his circle. Someone knows about this job and about me and about my damn mechanic, and I’d be willing to bet it’s one of the job financiers. This is a warning.”

“Could someone have bugged the ship?”

She shook her head. “Possible, but not likely, I have proximity alarms.”

“If it’s a warning…” his modulated voice trailed off. “We need to move quickly.”

“No,” she said, still shaking her head. “No, they have all the information we do, if we go after the informants, they’ll get to them first.”

“Do you have a better idea, then?” he pressed, shifting his feet slightly. She moved her eyes to stare into his visor.

“What else do you do with a rat? We flush it out.”

—

They spent the better half of the afternoon combing the ship for bugs and then, when they found none as Ten had expected, loading the parts she said they needed into the main hold.

Part of Din — likely the part that was remembering Kuiil and Grogu and the people he’d tried to protect — felt guilty for pillaging this poor dead girl’s shop. But a more logical part of him knew they needed it, and the girl wasn’t around to use the parts anymore anyways.

He could see Ten was trying to act unbothered by the whole thing, but she was failing miserably. Her anger seethed beneath her skin like an ocean, and he could feel the waves crashing just below the surface when he stood next to her. He couldn’t blame her. He was waiting for her to crash her emotions down on him at any moment, because Din knew he was the one who’d convinced her to take this job, and therefore an easy target for them. But, to her credit, she at least kept them contained to her own body.

He knew too well what it was to lose people that he’d put in danger in the first place.

They both knew they were on borrowed time on this planet. Imperials had been here, not long ago, and knew they were coming. Even if they had just intended to scare them off by murdering the mechanic, staying there would be stupid.

“We need somewhere close by where I can attempt the repairs,” she said, once they’d loaded the ship and sat in the cockpit. “Unpopulated would be best.”

Her mismatched eyes scanned the chart displayed between them. Din made himself refocus.

“Looks like there’s a small belt of asteroids a couple hours from here,” he said, pointing. “Can we make it there? The caverns would shield us from surface scans.”

“As good a shithole as any other,” was all she said before locking it in and sending them into hyperspace. She didn’t look back once at the planet where they’d laid her friend to rest in the small back garden. Din found he couldn’t help but ask.

“She was your friend, wasn’t she?”

Ten sighed, and he could see her jaw clench. He regretted asking, and was glad when he thought she wasn’t going to answer.

“Her father built this ship. She took over his shop when he got sick.” She leaned back in the pilot seat, crossing her arms. “I should never have gone back after he died.”

She said nothing more, and Din didn’t ask further. For the first time since boarding the Ursa, he pulled out the small metal sphere from his belt, his fingers slowly rolling it back and forth.

He wasn’t sure how long they sat there in silence before he looked at Ten again. He was surprised to see her eyes were closed now, hands resting on her thighs. Her breathing was even, but her back was straight, and Din couldn’t tell if she was asleep. His gaze returned to her hands. They were thin, nimble, he was sure they had to be to handle the knives she seemed to covet so much. Scars littered them, zagging in all directions, creating a web over her hands. He looked back to her face.

“Can I help you?” she asked suddenly. Her eyes were still closed, her head facing forward.

“Pardon?”

“You’re staring at me.”

How the fuck did she know that? “I thought you were asleep.”

She still kept her eyes closed. “I’m meditating. Ever heard of it?”

“I wouldn’t have taken you to be the type.”

“Because you know me so well.”

“You seem to think you know me.”

Her eyes finally opened at this, sliding over to him. For a moment, Din thought he felt his chest tighten and his breathing shallow, as if someone was stepping on him. But she looked away and it stopped, and he couldn’t be sure he hadn’t imagined it.

She studied him for a moment. “Prove me wrong, then, Mandalorian.”

He rolled his eyes, standing to leave the cockpit. “You can call me Mando.”

—

“Shit!” she exclaimed, banging her fist against the metal looming above her. The sound reverberated through the floor of the ship. They’d been on the asteroid a little over a day, she estimated, and Ten had spent most of that time underneath the Ursa, trying to fix its botched landing systems.

She didn’t have much to show for it, however.

A sense of frustration was beginning to settle in the bones of her body. Her exposed skin was covered in a thin layer of sweat and oil and Maker knew what else. And Ten knew the wall of exhaustion was creeping up on her as well. If they didn’t get off this damn asteroid soon, she was going to have a serious problem.

“Not going well?” a modulated voice came from the direction of her feet where they stuck out from underneath the ship.

“What do you think?” she replied, gritting her teeth. “I never said I was a damn mechanic.”

“What do you think the problem is?”

“Well if I knew that, I could probably have it fixed by now,” she snapped, that frustration wrapping even tighter in her insides. It was somewhat unlucky for the Mandalorian that he just happened to be the only one here to take out her emotions on.

As she reached for a new tool, she suddenly felt pressure on her ankle. Before she could react, it pulled, yanking her in one fluid motion out from under the Ursa. She glared up into the visor which was now in front of her.

“You’re damn lucky it’s just the two of us on this rock, or I would stab you in the neck,” she seethed. His gloved hand remained tight on her ankle.

“When was the last time you slept?” he asked, voice even. Damn that modulator.

“You’re concerned about my beauty sleep now?”

He sighed, tightening his grip. “When was it?” Ten thought maybe she heard a hint of anger creeping into the baritone. Maybe.

“I don’t know, Mando, maybe … I think a couple of hours after we left Nevarro.” She tried to act nonchalant, but she knew her body was not pleased. But she had done worse stretches than this in the past.

“You should sleep,” he said, finally releasing her ankle. He straightened to stand at full height. “I can try some repairs while you do.”

“No, Mando, it’s fine, I just need a minute,” she insisted, also standing.

“You’re not fine,” he said. “And you’re going to be less fine as time goes on. Sleep.” Obviously considering the matter closed, he began to walk away, towards some of the tools and parts she’d strewn on the rocky ground.

“I…” she struggled for words, not wanting to say it out loud, but floundering for another excuse. “I can’t sleep if I’m not in hyperspace. It doesn’t feel safe enough … So there’s no point anyway.”

He stilled but didn’t turn around, surveying the ground. She almost wondered if he hadn’t heard. She hoped he hadn’t. Finally—

“I can keep watch, if you’d like.”

She was taken aback, processing his words for longer than necessary. “What?”

“While you sleep. I can sit in the hull, keep watch, wake you if anything happens. Would that work?”

“I—” she fumbled for what to say for a moment. No one had ever offered something so … kind to her. At least, not in many years. “Maybe. I should shower first.”

He said nothing else, nodding.

In the refresher, she stripped herself of clothes, grimacing at the stickiness of her skin. The warm water wrapped around her body as it massaged her muscles. Bracing her arms against the walls of the shower, she took a moment to close her eyes. Jula’s serene face appeared on her eyelids.

Mando was in the hull when she finished, cleaning one of his blasters. He didn’t acknowledge her presence as she passed by him and got into her hammock, for which she was grateful.

She pinched the bridge of her nose as she lay there, starting up at the ship’s metal ceiling. Time stretched on in the silence between them, as it often seemed to. She felt silly, and had half a mind to tell Mando to go try repairs. She settled on distraction, instead.

“Mando?” Ten heard a responding hum from across the room. “On Nevarro … you said you never used to care. Wouldn’t have taken a job like this. What changed?”

She heard some shuffling, then a sigh. “You … were right about what you said. About bounties. I took a job for an Imp. He was offering beskar.” He paused, as if waiting for her to become enraged. But she just shut her eyes. He continued. “But the bounty they wanted … he was just a child. An infant, really. I don’t even know what they wanted him for. I couldn’t hand him over. I didn’t. That’s when it changed.”

A child. It seemed strange that was apparently the key to melt the Mandalorian beskar heart. Ten pondered it, but didn’t ask anything more. Their silence resumed, as it had before.

Darkness pulled her under all at once, and then she was asleep, with the Mandalorian’s steady presence standing guard.

#the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfic #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x oc #the mandalorian x original character #din djarin #din djarin x oc #din djarin x original character #din djarin fanfiction #star wars fanfic #star wars fanfiction #star wars

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frogs-spawn · 3 years

Text

it’s true lads, i have actually written something

(this was a prologue of a long canon fic that i’m writing/on hiatus on (oops) but i was thinking of changing the pov of it, so this doesn’t fit in it anymore) i may end up finishing the canon one, but it is long, so it probably won’t see the light of day, but we’ll see

anyway, here’s the ao3 link if you would like to read it on there: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31116254

a tragic twist of fate:

summary: the lupin family are enjoying a quiet evening, when an unwelcome visitor shows up, changing all of their lives forever.

word count: 1.6k

The sun was setting, casting a burning haze across the sea, and subsequently over the unsuspecting cul-de-sac in the Gower. The pebble-dashed bungalows that hugged the road were quaint and uniform, with a meagre patch of grass out the front that barely constituted as a garden. All things considered; it was a very normal street. There were the Jones', with their tiny Yorkshire terrier, which was small in size but easily compensated with its tremendous bark. The Thomas', who were always out the front regardless of the weather, observing the street's comings and goings. The Liu's, whose windows were constantly filled with an assortment of different lights, illuminating the street, making it feel like Christmas every day. Opposite them, were the Lupin's. There was Lyall, who has a mysterious job that no one is quite able to figure out exactly what it entails; his wife, Hope, who made sure that the whole street was well and truly fed; finally, their 5-year-old son, Remus, who's usually found playing out on the empty street.

Remus, as expected, was having a game of tag with Julia from across the road when his mother called out from the front door. She had thick blonde hair, slightly greying at the crown of her head, which was tied up into a loose bun, the fly-always whipping the side of her face, which was covered slightly with gravy.

"Remus, it's time to come in now. Your father has just gotten home, and dinner's almost ready."

"But Mammy! I'm not even tired," Remus pleaded, shouting back, a little breathless. "Can we have a few more minutes? Please?"

"It's okay, Mrs Lupin." Julia panted, brushing her dark fringe from out of her eyes, it was a miracle she could even see. She was a few years older than Remus but was still somehow shorter than the boy (who was only slightly tall for his age). "I think my parents want me back soon anyway." She turned to Remus and smiled, "We're going to go out and play again tomorrow, aren’t we Re?”

"Yeah, okay then. I'll see you tomorrow! Bye!" Remus chirped back, with some newfound energy. He then proceeded to hurtle up the driveway and stumble through the front door.

“Not even going to give your old mammy a cwtch?” Hope laughed, following her son through the door, shoving her hands into her pockets.

He clambered onto his chair at the kitchen table and watched eagerly as his mother took a roast lamb out of the oven and began to dish it out on to mismatched plates. There were roast potatoes, which were crispy on the outside, but still fluffy and buttery on the inside, peas, carrots, and parsnips - that were roasted to perfection, and it was all smothered with thick gravy that was laden with salt and had the potential to clog up your arteries – but if it’s bad for you then that meant it would probably delicious. Remus’ mouth was practically watering.

"Now, as you've been running around all afternoon, I'll give you the extra roastie, how about that?" Hope smiled down at Remus, scooping a roast potato onto the plate.

Lyall stooped into the kitchen at that moment, placing his tattered briefcase down onto the splintered wooden counter and bent over to kiss his wife on the head. He was tall and lanky with brown curly hair that was just starting to thin. He wore deep navy robes over the top of a well-fitted suit, looking as if he had just walked out of a very important meeting. He could have been a very intimidating man if it weren't for the way his eyes lit up and his mouth formed a crooked grin when he looked adoringly across his small family, with an immense sense of pride.

"This looks wonderful, darling. What did I ever do to deserve you?" he laughed as went over to his son and ruffled his hair. "According to Mrs Thomas, you've been charging up and down the road all day! No wonder you look knackered." He fell into the chair next to him, as Hope brought the dinner over.

The family ate with easy conversation. Hope explained how she had heard from Mrs Thomas that Mrs Jones was apparently putting empty wine bottles into her recycling bin and Lyall explained his new case at work, but it seemed boring, so Remus didn't pay it much attention. He wolfed his food down so quickly, barely stopping for a breath, his poor mother thought he might end up with indigestion.

"Stay in your own lane, Lyall, that's what they said," Lyall explained in between mouthfuls, gesturing at no one in particular with his fork. "They won't believe me though, and that Greyback has been released again, the man makes my skin crawl." He used air quotes when describing him and huffed, as he took another bite out of his roast. "It's madness, I told them that. Did they listen? No. Cases of lycanthropy are going up and it's because of creatures like them. String 'em all up for all I care. Bloody werewolves.”

"Not at the table Lyall," Hope piped in, sensing that her husband was about to go on another one of his world-renowned rants. "I understand it's a pain, especially if no one listens to you at work, but let's keep dinner time a happy affair, don't you think?"

"Yeah, no, sorry love" he gave her a sweet smile, which she returned. "Anyway. Did you have you had fun today, Re?"

The boy looked up and nodded quickly. "Yeah, me and Julia played lots of games. We had a race to see who was faster. And I won!" he exclaimed, talking at the speed of a hundred miles per hour, he spread his arms for dramatic effect and sat up higher in his chair. "She said I was cheating, but I wasn't, I promise!"

"No, of course, you weren't." Lyall laughed and looked down at his son like he was the most precious thing in the world.

After dinner, the family were positioned around the small-rickety fire pit that was positioned in the corner of the patio, made up of broken slabs of concrete with weeds emerging like great vines through the gaps. The fire crackled and spat, specks of charred wood and the burning flame releasing swirling smoke into the atmosphere. They sat on wobbly wooden chairs, that they had gotten from the charity shop, which were starting to rot and covered in splinters. However, Hope had made some colourful and slightly garish cushions, so it was incredibly comfortable, despite the small risk of the chairs collapsing from underneath them. Hope was sat with a pair of knitting needles in hand, focusing on the burgundy jumper that Remus would undoubtedly get for Christmas in a couple of months time. Remus sat opposite and was looking eagerly at his father, who was making the little old wooden figurines of soldiers that Hope collected do an Irish jig across the uneven stone.

Then, there was a rustling in the undergrowth at the far end of the garden. The birds that had nested and settled in for the evening took flight, flying off into the rising moon, bright and beautiful.

"What on earth could that be?" Hope wondered out loud, staring out into the distance, squinting her eyes.

'I'll go check it out.” Lyall chuckled as he pushed himself out of the chair. "Probably just a fox, I shall go shoo it away."

He wandered to the end of the garden, managing to avoid the snail hotel Remus had built a year ago. He lit up his wand so that he could see at least three steps ahead of himself.

It was a surprise that it remained standing, despite the howling gales and torrential rain it had to endure, it stayed. For as long as he could remember, Remus looked after the snails in the hotel, gave them any leftover lettuce. They were his favourite magical creatures. It fascinated him, the way they could stick to the walls and go upside down, the only way that was possible, Remus decided, was magic. Lyall didn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise.

"Ah, Lyall Lupin. Just the man I wanted to see." An unfamiliar voice snarled. The voice was deep and ragged as if it had been strained from screaming too loud "Fancy seeing you here."

“Fenrir.” Lyall cut back, voice curt but contained a small tremble. "Leave me and my family alone and take your unpleasant business somewhere else." He straightened his jacket and stood rigidly, making himself taller. But the figure, Fenrir, stood a head above him, despite his hunched posture.

"I don't think that would be necessary." He countered, his voice becoming more and more menacing. "How is your family? I'd love to meet them." He shoved Lyall out of the way, causing him to lose balance and he stumbled into the hedge.

“Hope! Remus! Get into the house and lock the door!” Lyall shouted, desperately, unable to keep up with Greyback, who was striding across the garden.

Hope quickly grabbed her things and ran, pushing open the back door with a creak.

“Remus, come on lamb, into the house.” Hope coaxed from the door, trying to sound as calm as possible.

But Remus stayed rooted to the spot, unmoving, fixed and waiting, staring into the monster before him.

Fenrir Greyback was a giant of a man, towering easily over 6 feet tall. He was unkempt and greasy, covered in black matted hair. His deceitful yellowing eyes emitting nothing venom. Remus scrambled off of the chair and edged slowly towards his mother. It was too late.

Their eyes locked. A deal had been struck.

Under the silver moon, Greyback's manic grin turned pointed and wider. Bones cracked, twisted, and popped. Hair became thicker, wired, and coarse. Tortured hands and feet transformed into gnarly claws. His previously crooked nose became a leathery, wet, snout.

Barring his teeth, Fenrir Greyback took a couple of paces forward, crushing the hotel under a monstrous paw, towards a terrified Remus Lupin.

And pounced.

#remus lupin #hope lupin #lyall lupin #fenrir greyback #young remus lupin #marauders era #marauders fic #hp fic #cait has actually written something #(don't worry i'm as surprised as you are)#sorry this is quite sad

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stareaten · 4 years

Text

pynch.

~5k words.

read on ao3 instead

Adam collects things. He clings to them; he hoards them.

You wouldn’t notice it at first, not with how logical and calculating he is, certainly not within the small space of Adam’s tiny apartment above St. Agnes filled with the mismatched, makeshift furniture, and surely not in the cluttered mess of the mismatched, makeshift desk where Adam is sitting, hunched over, and scribbling some shit about some fucking thing in one of his notebooks.

But because Ronan is Ronan, he starts catching up. He is lying sprawled on his back on Adam’s uncomfortable mattress, bored out of his mind. He left his headphones back at Monmouth and can’t be assed to go back to pick them up. Adam shows no intention on paying him any attention – at least not until he’s finished with whatever the fuck he’s working on – so Ronan decides to bother him just a bit. (It’s his philosophy notes he’s working on, Ronan knows it, because Ronan clings to everything Adam tells him. That’s why he knows it isn’t so important, because Adam knows it but still insists on being a giant, pain-in-the-ass nerd.)

Ronan rolls back onto his stomach and scoots closer to Adam’s desk, peering over his arm to try to understand Adam’s chicken scratch. He grabs one of the pens lying around and goes to write something – something stupid or sweet or rude or, considering he’s Ronan, all three at once – in the margin of the open notebook. He starts to write but the pen doesn’t work so he picks up another one. This time he manages to write one big letter before it runs out of ink. He scowls at the pen in an attempt to intimidate it into working, and then shakes it vigorously. When it still refuses to work, because apparently pens can feel no terror, he chucks it away and searches for another one. This one manages two more letters before dying out. Ronan frowns again, shakes it – again – and tries to press it more firmly into the paper before Adam’s hand comes up to grab at his wrist.

“Stop it,” Adam says without looking up from finishing his page, “you’re gonna tear the paper.”

“I wouldn’t have to tear your paper if you had a damn pen that works,” Ronan replies.

Adam says nothing, just flips the page and starts writing on the left side of the notebook, effectively stopping Ronan’s attempts at delinquency.

Ronan huffs. And picks up another pen. He manages to write a big capital A on the corner of the page before Adam elbows him in the face. Ronan rubs at his chin. “I was just testing to see if this one works.”

Adam hums. “They all work.”

“Like shit they do.”

“They all work in a pinch.”

“This is a pinch. And they don’t fucking work.”

“I would hardly call your attempts at desecrating my notes ‘a pinch’,” Adam says, nose still buried in said notes.

“It’s not desecrating if I make them more fun,” Ronan says.

Adam sighs. “Go be bored somewhere else.”

Ronan scowls, but lies back on the bed. He manages some good 10 minutes before picking up a crumbled up receipt from the floor and drawing more inappropriate things before the pen dies out.

***

Adam picks up empty yogurt cups Sargent leaves lying around the Barns and washes them out in the sink. He dries them with a kitchen towel, stacks them up and puts them in the cupboard above the microwave, where neither of them will actually be bothered to reach them.

“You can’t recycle them,” he says when Ronan tries to dump them in the trash. “Doesn’t mean you can’t use them again.”

“What for?” Ronan groans. “There are plenty of cups here. Plastic cups and glasses and cups that sing and cups that curse at you and whatever kind of cups your ass desires. Fuck, Parrish, I’ll dream you up another cup, just for you, which recites pluperfect of esse whenever you drink your gross fucking no sugar coffee out of it.”

Adam rolls his eyes. “We can use them for seedlings.”

“Right,” Ronan mutters. “Fucking seedlings.” But he sees Adam putting the yogurt cups up in the cabinet anyway.

***

Ronan visits Adam at college one weekend when Adam isn’t too busy studying and Declan is too busy to chew Ronan’s ass over one thing or another.

Adam wraps his arms around Ronan’s shoulders and releases a deep sigh.

“Fuck, Parrish,” Ronan says, rubbing his hand up and down Adam’s ribs. “You know freshman fifteen means you gain those pounds, not lose them, right?”

Adam huffs into his neck. “Guess you better learn how to cook then.”

Ronan groans and for a moment considers how difficult it would be to dream up a stove that makes any meal on its own. He would probably still end up eating pizzas anyway.

Adam’s dorm room is not big and Ronan knows which side of it is his as soon as he enters. There is a corkboard above his desk and Ronan leans closer to inspect everything that is pinned there while Adam changes out of his clothes.

There are receipts from the store and scrawled reminders for papers and homework and exams. There is a single black feather and a printed out picture of Gansey, Blue and Cheng standing in front of- some fucking monument Ronan didn’t care enough to remember the name of, Cheng’s ugly mug uncomfortably close to the camera. Gansey sent it to Ronan’s phone some time ago, but giving that Ronan only started actually checking his phone once Adam left for Harvard, it sat in the messages until Adam picked it up and grinned at it so hard that, one afternoon later, Ronan cursed and kicked and glared his old printer back to life in order to print it out. There is also a postcard Sargent sent him from Bumfuck, Nowhere just recently - Ronan can’t see the message on the back, but he knows who it’s from because he has a matching one sitting next to his computer, collecting dust so he can pretend it didn’t make his insides twist when he found it in the mail. (His personalized message only read ‘miss you, asshole – blue’ and he grinned before thinking better of it.)

And then there are… other pieces of trash. A bubblegum wrap and what appears to be a torn piece of post-it and one of those paper bracelets you get on those obnoxious student parties. There is a red solo cup right underneath it with two fugly red and white pens with Harvard logo sticking out of it. Ronan silently wonders if they even fucking work. There’s also a bunch of pamphlets stacked neatly on the edge of the desk and Ronan flips mindlessly through them. Fuck, he thinks, I’m in love with a hoarder.

He is quickly distracted from that thought by the aforementioned hoarder’s arms sliding around his middle. Adam kisses the back of his neck and then the soft spot under his ear, so Ronan has no choice but to turn around and kiss him senseless.

“Hi,” Adam breathes against his lips once they part, soft and quiet. His thumb gently massages the back of Ronan’s skull, while fingers of his other hand come up to trace Ronan’s cheekbone.

“Hi,” Ronan says, soft and quiet, because he loves Adam, loves him when he gets all pushy and hungry, loves him even more so when he gets soft and gentle and private and just for Ronan to see.

“I missed you,” Adam says and Ronan gets an excellent idea about moving Adam’s fingers closer to his lips but then there is a knock on the door and Adam’s hands fall away.

To his credit though, they don’t go very far. Adam takes a step back, but stays well within Ronan’s personal space, one of his beautiful hands resting on the inside of Ronan’s elbow. Ronan still scowls at the person knocking even before they enter the room.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Adam’s roommate says poking his head inside. “I just forgot to grab my notes.”

“No problem,” Adam replies, smiling politely. Ronan elects to stay silent this time.

The roommate leaves the door open as he moves to his side of the room, rummaging through his stuff, and Ronan almost groans when he sees another person standing in the doorway.

“Hey Adam,” the other boy says, nodding. “We’ll get out of your hair right away.”

Adam waves his arm dismissively. “It’s alright, really.”

Ronan would beg to fucking differ.

“Adam?” the roommate says and makes an apologetic face. “You wouldn’t happen to have some notes from the last Doyle’s class, would you?”

“From Wednesday morning class?” Adam frowns and lets go of Ronan’s arm to search through his own pile of notebooks. Ronan grits his teeth.

He doesn’t care to hear the rest of that conversation and instead turns to scowl at the boy at the doorway when he feels his eyes on the back of his neck. “What?” Ronan presses out.

The boy seems to remember himself as he stands up a bit straighter. “Sorry, just. You’re Adam’s boyfriend?”

“Yes,” Ronan say, frowning deeper.

“You’re the farmer?”

“Yes,” Ronan repeats and stuffs his fists into his pockets.

“Huh,” the guy says and leans on the doorway again. “Sorry, you’re just. Not what I expected. But that explains the jacket.”

“The jacket?” Ronan wonders how deeply he will have to twist his face in order to get this guy to leave.

“What do you grow?” the boy asks instead of explaining himself, in an attempt to be polite or rude or nosey or fucking annoying, see if Ronan cares which one. “On your farm?”

Ronan shrugs, feeling out of his depth and hating it. “Potatoes.”

“Potatoes?” the boy repeats, frowning like he’s never heard the word before.

“He’s Irish,” Adam suddenly says, grabbing at Ronan’s elbow. He looks at Ronan and there it is again, that private smile of his. Ronan has no choice but to deflate a little. “He thinks it’s funny.”

The guy at the door breathes out a short, fake laugh and Ronan hates him. But the roommate is already pushing him out and saying to Adam over his shoulder: “Thank you so much, Adam, for the notes, and sorry for bothering you again. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He smiles and then they're gone.

Ronan still scowls at the door.

“Sorry about that,” Adam says and he is already putting his hands back where they belong, kissing just under Ronan’s jaw. Understandably, Ronan loses the ability to think for quite a while.

It’s only when he is finally, finally removing his shirt over his head that he remembers to ask: “The jacket?”

“Huh?” Adam says intelligently, his sole focus on the button of Ronan’s jeans.

“The other guy. He mentioned your jacket.”

“Huh?” Adam repeats, but now he raises his head to look at Ronan. “Oh!” he says as his eyes light up with understanding. “I took your jacket. The old leather one.” He shrugs. “You were going to throw it away, didn’t think you’d care. Some of the guys were teasing me, said it didn’t fit my style – whatever they think my style is supposed to be – I told them I took it from you.”

“The one with the burnt sleeve?” Ronan frowns again. “Parrish, if you needed a new jacket…”

“I didn’t need it, okay?” Adam says and rolls his eyes. “It’s just a nice jacket and you didn’t want it anyway. Can we now stop talking about clothes and get back to removing them?” To prove his point, Adam lifts the edge of his own shirt and pulls it off, and every other thought Ronan might have had flies right away with it.

***

Opal runs across the pasture straight into Adam’s arms as soon as she hears his car coming around the corner. Ronan berates her for it (“Let him catch a breath, for fuck’s sake.”) if only because he didn’t get to do it first.

But Adam just smiles and lets Opal cling to him, crouches down to be at the same eye level. She pulls out a piece of colorful candy wrapper, half-eaten and sticky with spit and fuck knows what else, and holds it out for Adam to take. Ronan watches, amused, as Adam tries not to make a disgusted face and promptly fails at it.

“Thank you, Opal,” he still says, taking it from her. Opal beams at him.

And then Adam finally straightens up and turns around so that Ronan can wrap himself around him and kiss his temples.

“I have a trunk full of stuff to take upstairs,” Adam says in lieu of hello.

“You also have two perfectly working legs and arms to match, so I don’t know how that has anything to do with me,” Ronan replies into his hair.

Adam huffs a laugh. “Asshole.” He pinches Ronan’s side and Ronan pushes him away, feigning being hurt, before turning around and heading straight for the trunk of his shit car.

It’s much, much later that Adam drags him to the laundry room. Well. He doesn’t exactly drag him there. It’s more that Adam hoists up a bag full of dirty clothes and heads towards the laundry room and Ronan wordlessly follows him there, picking up a new box of washing powder from the pantry.

Adam starts talking about the last oral exam he had and it’s a testament to how much Ronan missed him that he doesn’t even make a crude joke about it, just leans against the washing machine and watches Adam empty the pockets of his pants, clinging to his every word. And for someone who is constantly giving Ronan shit about the state of his car, Adam sure does carry a lot of trash in his pockets.

He pulls out a piece of candy wrapper Ronan at first doesn’t even recognize as the one Opal gave him – its colors shifted now that it dried in Adam’s pocket – and he doesn’t even pause his story before straightening it and putting it in the back pocket of the jeans he is currently wearing. Ronan frowns, but stays silent.

***

It was Adam’s idea to clean out the closets in the first place. Ronan, understandably, groaned and rolled his eyes and kicked the floor and used very colorful language to express his disdain. He even promised to dream up a new closet, just for Adam and his bunch of shit, really, Parrish, you won’t even have to look at Ronan’s clothes ever again, he’ll make it so that it chews and spits out Ronan’s tank tops even if he puts them there by mistake, just please don’t make him spend another summer day holed up inside.

But Adam, ever the pragmatic, just shakes his head. “Where would you even put a new dresser? The room’s cluttered enough.”

Ronan considers giving him a very imaginative answer to that particular question, but realizes that he is still going to end up cleaning the closets anyway, only this way he won’t have to deal with both of them pissed off. Not that either of them ends up happy though. It’s an incredibly uninteresting and tiring chore, especially given the fact that ninety-nine percent of Ronan’s clothes is black – the remaining one percent being dark gray or somewhat lighter gray or, very rarely, deep dark blue – and it’s hard to recognize which of his tees are the ones good to keep and which ones are too tight or too ripped even for him to wear. After an hour or so he just ends up chucking them on two separate piles randomly.

He stays out of Adam’s stuff for quite a while, mostly because Adam has significantly less stuff than Ronan (not that anyone would guess it, given their respective fashion choices), but Ronan’s fucking boyfriend is as pedantic about this as he is about anything else. Adam holds up every item, squints at it for a second or two, and if he decides to keep it he folds it carefully on one of the piles he has around the room.

“Go find a box,” Adam says after Ronan sighs for the fifth time in a minute, idly pushing Adam’s stuff around.

Ronan frowns. “What for?”

Adam doesn’t look up from his pile of clothes. “So we can pack up some of the clothes you just tossed away and I can drive it to Goodwill on my way to Boyd’s.”

Ronan considers it for a moment and nods. Okay, maybe Adam has a point, so what. Doesn’t mean he won’t be difficult about it, since he’s still bored as hell. “What boxes?”

“In the small barn, bring the sturdy ones,” Adam replies, folding another t-shirt carefully.

Ronan stomps to the small barn, kicks some stuff around, comes back empty handed. “There isn’t one.”

Adam frowns. “There has to be at least a few. I left them there months ago.”

“Oh, those,” Ronan says, sarcastically, but is immediately hit with a flashback of one very boring afternoon when he and Opal decided to set shit on fire after Adam let him know he won’t be able to come that weekend after all, and Declan called to tell him he’s coming down for some shit or another and he and Ronan should get lunch. “I got rid of those,” he says, because he doesn’t lie but also isn’t too keen on explaining Adam what exactly happened to them.

Adam closes his eyes and sighs. “Well, there’s gotta be at least one box around here somewhere.”

Ronan shrugs. “I’ll check the long barn.”

He manages to find two cardboard boxes, similar enough in sizes. He brings them all the way to the porch before thinking better of it and bringing them back so he can dust them off first. When he finally hauls them upstairs, he finds Adam frowning at a pair of jeans.

“I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt,” he drawls as he watches Ronan drop the boxes at his feet, “and assume you know what kinda clothes are good for donation.”

“Fuck you,” Ronan says, which roughly translates to I’ll go through all my shit again and throw the good ones in the shittier looking box, and then he gets to it with just as much enthusiasm as before. Adam says nothing, but Ronan sees one corner of his mouth lifting into a very rude smile.

It must have been hours, days, weeks, fucking years later that they finally manage to sort the old but wearable clothes into the donation boxes (it’s mostly stuff Ronan doesn’t want to wear and Adam doesn’t want to steal from him, and then some stuff of Adam’s that do not fit him right anymore) and the unwearable clothes into trash bags. It’s certainly been long enough that Adam decides they deserve a break.

“Come on,” he says, offering his hand to Ronan who’s sitting on the floor, his legs splayed out. “There’s some ice cream in the freezer.”

Ronan squints up at him, suspicious. “Since when?”

Adam rolls his eyes. “Since the other day when I came from Boyd’s while you were busy chasing goats away from the long barn.” He wiggles his fingers a little. “Unless you want to keep cleaning.”

“You kept ice cream from me for three days?” Ronan huffs, but still takes his hand and lets Adam pull him up.

“It’s not hiding it if you never think to check the freezer,” Adam replies, because he has to be a smartass about everything. Ronan forgives him as soon as the ice cream is out and it’s the kind that Ronan likes the best but rarely when buys because Adam prefers a different one.

Ronan fills two mugs – cause they have a shit ton of those, but no clean bowls apparently – with the ice cream and brings them out to the porch where Adam is already sitting on the stairs facing the pasture. He hands him his mug and Adam leans up to press a chaste kiss to his cheek.

They sit in silence broken only by soft clicking of spoons against ceramic and crickets singing in the grass. The sun is setting behind the woods surrounding the Barns, coloring the sky red and pink and orange. Adam presses his leg against Ronan’s wordlessly and Ronan leans into him until their shoulders brush. Sometimes Ronan thinks he could stay like this forever, just feeling Adam’s body calm and relaxed against his, sharing the quiet between them without a care in the world. He wishes he could somehow freeze the moment and tuck it into his back pocket to look at it later, when Adam’s away and his side of the bed is cold.

“You know we still have to put the clothes away, right?” Adam asks nudging his knee with his own.

And sometimes, Ronan just wants to fucking kill him.

Instead of dignifying that with a response, he leans forward and licks Adam’s cheek.

“Eww,” Adam says, pushing at him playfully. “Real mature.”

“You had some ice cream on your face,” Ronan replies. “Couldn’t let it go to waste.”

“Gross,” Adam says, standing up and rubbing his hand against Ronan’s scalp.

Ronan follows him inside begrudgingly.

Once the boxes are out of the way, putting away the clothes is going much faster than sorting it out, albeit it’s not any less boring – for one part because Ronan doesn’t care where exactly in the closet his clothes end up and Adam is too busy organizing his own to berate him for just bunching up a handful of tank tops and stuffing them on the second highest shelf.

Once done, Ronan looks around the room to make sure nothing is left lying around when he spots one of Adam’s tees lying on the bed. He picks it up and sees that it’s threadbare, with a hole in the front and pieces of thread hanging from the sleeves.

“Hey, Marie Kondo,” Ronan calls, “you forgot this one.”

“The fact that you know who she is takes a significant part out of the insult,” Adam says, returning back to the room.

“Everyone knows who she is.” Ronan glares for good measure, even though he knows Adam is immune to it, and balls the tee in his hand, already reaching for a trash bag with his other, before Adam stops him.

“No, wait.” He grabs at the hand holding the tee. “I’m keeping that one.”

Ronan frowns. “It’s shit.”

“So is a good portion of your wardrobe,” Adam replies. “Give me.”

“My shirts at least don’t fucking look like moths had a dinner party,” Ronan says. “I’m throwing this out.”

“It’s my t-shirt,” Adam says, frowning deeply. “You can’t throw it away.”

“Watch me,” Ronan says and raises his hand higher in an attempt to get out of Adam’s reach.

Adam doesn’t attempt to reach anymore, though. He just crosses his arms over his chest and now Ronan knows he’s really upset. “Why are you being such a dick about it?”

Ronan’s frown deepens. “You were giving me shit about tidying up all day and now you’re giving me shit about throwing away an old t-shirt?”

Adam’s jaw clenches. “Sorry we can’t all afford to have twenty Tom Fords in our closets, Lynch.”

“You have a wardrobe full of shit, Parrish. This one’s basically see-through.” Ronan raises the tee in front of his face to prove his point.

Adam snatches it away. “It’s mine,” he says and turns back to the closet.

Ronan watches him as he folds the old t-shirt, his back tense and shoulders up to his ears. “Whatever, Parrish,” he says and takes the last trash bag outside.

***

Ronan can’t sleep. Which is nothing new, to be perfectly honest. He kicks the covers to the foot of the bed and gets up to piss. On his way back he pulls his t-shirt off and throws it in some corner of the room or the other. He glances at Adam’s back before climbing back to bed next to him.

There is no way Adam is asleep while it’s hot as balls, not while the sheets keep sticking to their skin every time they move, not while his body is wound so tight he would probably jump out of bed and straight through the window if Ronan touched him.

Fine, Ronan thinks. If Adam intends to stay pissed at him for no fucking reason whatsoever, who is Ronan to stop him. Adam always does what he wants, when he wants, anyway. Leaves when he wants, can leave Ronan behind if he wants, leaves Ronan feeling like shit over something he doesn’t even know he’s done wrong.

Ronan punches his pillow into, truthfully, no more comfortable lump than before and turns to lie on his back. He can hear the owl hooting outside. There is no fucking wind. Ronan rubs the heel of his hand against his right eye, but doesn’t curse out loud.

“It’s what I was wearing,” Adam says suddenly, his voice carefully neutral, “back then.”

Ronan considers this for a moment. “What?”

Adam stays silent for a moment before curling into himself a bit more. “Nothin’,” he mutters. “Forget it.”

Ronan frowns, thinks back to the fucking t-shirt now lying somewhere in the closet. “You were wearing it when?”

He hears Adam exhale slowly. “When you first kissed me.”

Oh, Ronan thinks. He lets the words sink in, but he can’t find anything good to say. “That’s why you didn’t want to throw it away?” It comes out more as a question than an explanation.

“Yeah.” Adam swallows. “No.”

Ronan stays silent, at a loss as to what to do. He wants to reach for Adam, pull him close and kiss away whatever it is troubling his mind. He wants to hold his hand and feel at ease. But he knows Adam would only just pull away now. So he waits.

Adam takes a breath before slowly rolling over onto his back and staring at the ceiling. “I didn’t have much growing up,” he says, and, no shit, Ronan still remembers the meager backpack and a cereal box Adam carried out of that fucking trailer years ago, remembers carrying the duffel bag and thinking ‘this is Adam’s whole life here’, remembers being careful not to bang it against anything.

“I had to take care of things if I wanted to have them for longer,” Adam continues, “cause once they were gone, they were gone. And even if something breaks, you keep it, because you can always reuse it in a pinch. Like the pens.” He swallows. “I can’t write an essay with an empty pen, but sometimes I can write down an important phone number or a reminder. A broken thing is still better than no thing at all, right?”

Ronan sneaks a look at Adam and finds that his eyes are firmly closed even as he continues.

“And if you gotta spend money, you want evidence of what you spent it on, so it doesn’t just disappear one day without you noticing." He pauses. "You want to make sure that the thing was real, y’know.”

And oh. Oh, Ronan thinks, there it is. “Adam,” he whispers gently and slides his hand across the sheets to find Adam’s. Because Ronan would know a thing or two about wanting to stick to something so badly, about being so scared of losing the one good thing he has, about being terrified it wasn’t even real to begin with.

Adam rolls his head from side to side, rubbing at his forehead with his other hand, but he lets Ronan entwine their fingers. “I know it’s stupid,” he says.

“Kinda is,” Ronan says. Tries for humor: “Glad to know that I’m not the only stupid one in this relationship.” Fails.

Adam rolls his head again, doesn’t open his eyes.

Ronan shifts until he’s lying on his side. “Hey,” he says quietly and leans forward to kiss Adam’s shoulder. “You’re not planning on getting rid of me, are you?”

“No,” Adam answers and finally blinks his eyes open. “Of course not.” He sighs and turns to face Ronan. “It’s just-,” he stops himself, swallows, tries again. “I’m happy. I’m so impossibly happy, Ronan, and one part of me keeps waiting for everything to be taken away from me.” He kicks the cover off with his legs. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”

Ronan wants to say something. He wants to say you’ll always have me, and if it’s up to me, you’ll never lack anything ever in your entire life, and I don’t want you to worry ever again, and I want you to have everything, and I love you so much it hurts sometimes. But Adam is smart, the smartest person Ronan knows. Adam knows all this already. Some scars just take longer to heal. Some scars just never completely heal. Ronan would know a thing or two about that, too.

So Ronan just scoots closer, heat be damned, and lets Adam hide his face into his neck.

***

Ronan dreams up a pen that never runs out of ink and puts it in Adam’s messenger bag while he’s working at Boyd’s. He debates dreaming up a pencil case when he realizes Adam doesn’t have one, then debates buying one from Amazon like any other asshole would, but then decides that Adam wouldn’t let him get away with that. He got better at accepting gifts from Ronan, though. It’s more that Ronan would be compelled to buy something ugly or funny or ridiculous – like that disgusting one shaped like a dead fish – and Adam would refuse to take it to classroom.

Adam washes out yogurt cups and ice cream containers, and Ronan dries them with a kitchen towel before turning around and using it to smack Adam’s ass with it. Adam cusses him out and chases him around. They both somehow end up in a laughing heap on the floor.

One night, Adam takes a cardboard box out of the closet and sits it on the bed before beckoning Ronan over. He takes out pieces of papers and shit and tells Ronan stories for every single one. Ronan recognizes a few of the items instantly: scraps of candy wrappers and dry leaves from Opal, a flower Ronan took out of his dreams while he was still building Lindenmere, one half of a watch band with teeth marks on it, another postcard from Blue.

Then there is a piece of wrap from a chewing gum Adam’s college friend gave him on his first night there. There is a movie ticket from a screening of some boring ass movie they had to see for one of their classes, when Adam and his roommate were the only ones in the theater and they ended up laughing so hard they were sick. There is a safety pin one of Adam’s classmates gave him to temporarily fix a shirt when he accidentally tore it right before his big presentation in the class.

Ronan knows every one of these stories already, Adam telling him everything over the phone, but he still soaks in every single word Adam says. He never realized before that Adam kept mementos. He realizes that, yes, these little scraps make the stories a tiny bit more real.

There is also an old, beaten to shit notebook which Ronan recognizes as Adam’s old Latin notebook and, sure enough, when Adam flips the pages there are profanities written in Ronan’s handwriting on the margins of the pages.

Next time he visits Adam, he takes him out for lunch, and Ronan pockets the receipt before leaving the restaurant. Back in Adam’s room, he scribbles something on the back of it – having found a working pen on the first try – and stuffs it in Adam’s pocket while hugging him goodbye.

(Ronan also happens to leave his hoodie under Adam’s pillow. Adam doesn’t ask, Ronan doesn’t lie.)

Adam comes home for the winter break hauling more dirty clothes and a bookshop worth of notebooks. He spots Ronan’s addition to the room right away, but waits until he deposits the bags so he can put his hands on his hips judgmentally. “This is new,” he says.

Ronan shrugs. He watches wordlessly as Adam crosses the room to carefully slide his hand across the big wooden chest. Its honey color is still shining faintly, and its hinges are golden. (It’s the third one he’s made, but Adam doesn’t have to know that. The first two were so goddamn awful that all the evidence of them was quickly destroyed, this time no thanks to Opal.)

“And you didn’t think we have room for another dresser,” Ronan says, just to be a smartass.

Adam doesn’t fall for it this time. “It’s beautiful, Ronan.”

Ronan crosses the room to stand closer to him. “Figured you’d need something sturdier.”

“Hmm?” Adam hums, still admiring the chest.

“You know,” Ronan says, and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Your box is good and all, but it’s cardboard. It won't last much longer, not if you keep adding shit to it, and you’ll run out of space. And I know Opal keeps giving you fucking rocks, whatever, it’s your fucking fault for enabling her, but she-,”

Adam cuts him off by grabbing his face with both of his hands and kissing him, deeply and roughly. “Thank you,” he breathes against Ronan’s lips before diving in for another kiss.

***

Ronan considers the possibility that his boyfriend has some weird ass tidying up kink (and then promptly considers the possibilities of using that to his advantage) because Adam’s barely been home for three days before Ronan finds him decluttering their room. But apparently it’s just, no, Lynch, we’re already hauling stuff out so we can repaint the room so it’s only logical to go through the shit we don’t need anymore. Maybe it’s pragmatism kink. Or competency kink. (Fuck, does Ronan have competency kink?)

Ronan watches as Adam dumps a handful of pens into a trash can, follows those with candy wraps and a broken pieces of plastic from fuck knows what. Ronan joins him by throwing out three empty glue sticks, a pair of broken scissors, more fucking yogurt cups (which Ronan won’t ever admit drinking out of because he couldn’t be assed to wash out any of three hundred glasses lying around the sink). He gets bored quickly enough, and he doesn’t want to throw out anything Adam might want to keep, so he settles on hauling furniture out of the room. Adam teases him about showing off, but Ronan doesn’t miss the way Adam checks him out, his eyes catching on Ronan’s exposed arms, so fuck you, Parrish, I win.

“Hey, what’s this?” Ronan says picking up a ball-up piece of fabric lying on top of a trash can, before he recognizes it.

Adam comes to stand next to him. “You were right,” he says, and some other time Ronan might have been smug about those words coming from him. “It’s shit. And I don’t need it anymore.”

Ronan looks at the t-shirt in his hands, pokes a finger through the hole on its front. “No, you don’t need it.”

“I can kiss you whenever I want now,” Adam reasons, and leans forward to kiss Ronan’s shoulder to prove his point.

Ronan turns his head to press a kiss to Adam’s hair. “Maybe you could keep this one, though,” he says, too nonchalant to be anything but. “It kinda grew on me.”

Adam smiles up at him.

Yeah, Ronan thinks, some things are worth clinging onto.

175 notes · View notes

gaaruto-kage · 4 years

Text

Bad Ideas - Kakashi x Reader

I hope that you don't think I'm rude

But I want to make out with you

And I'm a little awkward, sure

But I could touch my face to yours, oh

For the fourth time in the same amount of days, you found yourself ducking behind the nearest object as quick as you could in order to hide from someone. Not just anyone, though, you were hiding from the one and only Kakashi Hatake. You squeezed further into the doorway as Kakashi walked past your not-so-great hiding place hoping the long evening shadows would keep him from noticing you. Luckily he didn’t seem to, so you let out a long sigh of relief as you watched him round a corner further up the street. This couldn’t go on forever, you thought to yourself. Kakashi and you would end up working together again at some point, as was the nature of your jobs, and beyond that he was your friend, so this awkwardness you felt around him had to stop as soon as possible.

And no one ever called me smooth

But I just wanna see the grooves

Between your hands, your teeth, oh

Tell me, do you think about me?

You could not get the words Kakashi whispered to you the other day out of your head. It had been a long day of training with your respective teams so the two of you, along with Kurenai, Asuma, and Guy, decided to unwind a bit with some ramen and sake. It started off normal enough, with the five of you talking about your day, laughing when Guy challenged Kakashi to three different competitions, each one more ridiculous than the last, with nothing out of the ordinary happening. One by one your friends all left until it was just you and Kakashi left. He had drunk a bit more than usual, so you took it upon yourself to make sure he got home okay, not to say you didn’t think he could handle anything that could possibly happen ever if he was drunk. Regardless, the two of you walked towards his home together continuing the conversation from the ramen shop, words only dying out once you made it to his front door.

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow Kakashi. Hopefully you don’t have too bad of a hangover in the morning,” you said. You moved to turn away, but immediately his hand shot out to grab your arm and stop you from leaving.

“Wait, Y/N, don’t go yet,” Kakashi said, his words slurring together just the slightest bit. You turned back to face him and were about to ask why he wanted you to stay, but before you could, you were suddenly wrapped up in his arms in a very un-Kakashi bear hug.

“Kakashi, what- what are you doing?” you stuttered out, confused. He mumbled something into your neck, the movement tickling you. “I can’t understand what you’re saying,” you said through a giggle. He pulled away so you could see his face, but still held you in his arms. The intensity of his eyes looking into yours made you shudder.

“You’re so beautiful, can I kiss you?” he repeated in a whisper. You tried to respond but it took you a few tries before any actual words came out.

“Kakashi, I- you’re drunk, you don’t mean that.”

“I may be drunk, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re beautiful right now. I’ve always thought you were beautiful, and you’ve only grown more so each day that I’ve known you.” He paused for a moment just looking at you, then opened his mouth as if he were going to say something else, but no words came out. You turned away from him to try and hide the blush that had creeped its way across your face. His grip tightened around your wrist in an attempt to keep you from leaving, but you panicked and ran down the road, not knowing what else you could or should do in this unexpected situation.

I just wanna kiss you

And even if I miss you

At least I'll know what it's like to have held your hand, oh

After your near-run in with Kakashi, you walked home, shoulders slumped and feeling dejected. Why did he have to go and say those things? Sure you thought Kakashi was handsome, but your mind never wandered further than that before. Now it took all you had to stop thinking about what would feel like for him to kiss you, your hands tangled up in his wild hair while his held onto your waist. You knew it could never happen because there was a chance it could ruin your friendship and your working relationship, and you could not put your personal feelings above your duty to the village. Despite this, you let yourself indulge in these daydreams more often than you probably should. More than once you found yourself thinking about his mouth on yours when you had more important things going on.

Bad ideas

I know where they lead

But I got too many to sleep

And I can't get enough, no

I wanna kiss you standing up

And if tomorrow makes me low

Well it'd be worth it just to know

'Cause I can't get enough, no

I wanna kiss you standing up

After staring at the wall for what seemed like ages, you groaned and sat up in bed to take a look at the clock. It read 2:14am. For hours you just tossed and turned in bed, unable to sleep, and you still had so much more of the night to go. You cursed the man whose silver hair and mismatched eyes you saw every time you closed your eyes. If he was going to occupy your mind at night, the least he could do is be in your dreams, rather than keeping you awake. You rolled over and pulled your pillow over your head as if that could block out the incessant thoughts, subconsciously leaving enough room for another person to fit in bed with you. You didn’t know how long it took, but eventually you fell asleep, though not quickly enough to get enough rest for the next day.

I don't know what compels me

To do the very thing that fells me

I wake up, still high on you

But by the night, I'm crashing through, so

You woke up to a summons from the Hokage to meet with her in her office, so you quickly got dressed and headed over to the Hokage Residence, running into Asuma and Kurenai on the way. They had recieved summons as well. When you all arrived Tsunade was sitting at her desk and to your surprise, Kakashi and Guy were standing in front of the desk. Guy seemed to be saying something to Kakashi, but the second you walked through the door it became apparent that Kakashi had stopped listening to him. He seemed as if he was going to take a step towards you but hesitated and instead turned to face Tsunade. The rest of you lined up to face her as well.

“Thank you all for getting here so quickly; I know my message came on very short notice,” Tsunade began. “I have a mission for some of you, and whoever does not go on this mission I would like to take over training of the others’ teams for the duration. Several shinobi from the Village Hidden in the Rocks have been seen camping just outside of our borders and while they haven’t done anything in the way of attacking our village yet, they also have not come to talk to me and that just doesn’t sit right. I would like some reconnaissance done to figure out what is going on. Kakashi and Guy have already volunteered to help me out with this, so Asuma, Kurenai, Y/N, which of you would like to join them and which would like to take on a few extra students for a little while?”

Asuma and Kurenai looked at each other without speaking, and before you could think about it you broke the silence yourself.

“I’ll help Kakashi and Guy with the reconnaissance.” As soon as the words slipped out you mentally berated yourself. You had been trying to keep away from Kakashi, why would you volunteer to go on a mission with him where the only other person you could interact with for who knows how long would be Guy? And the mission, you shouldn’t have jeopardized that when you know you’d be distracted the whole time. But it was too late, you already volunteered your services and now you had to deal with the consequences. Tsunade nodded at you.

“Thank you Y/N. Kurenai and Asuma, you can decide between the two of you which students you’ll each be teaching for the time being. As for the three of you, I trust you to come up with and execute your own plan for gaining information on our guests and that you will tell me anything you think I need to know.” With that you were all dismissed from the Hokage’s office.

Kurenai and Asuma walked down the hall, presumably to discuss their new temporary students, leaving the three of you on your own. You definitely did not want to be around Kakashi for any extended period of time, but at least Guy was there to act as a sort of buffer. If something was off between you and Kakashi, which it definitely was considering you refused to even look in his general direction or address him directly, Guy certainly was not picking up on it. Even so, the three of you managed to come up with a decent plan for your mission, which involved having a sort of home base at your home because it was right on the border of the village near where the mysterious Rock Village shinobi had set up their camp. You all agreed that Guy and Kakashi would gather anything they might need and meet you at your home later in the day.

Why I'd wanna kiss you

Even though I miss you

Guess I just want to know what it would feel like, oh

The second you got back to your apartment, you began pacing. Why, why, why would you put yourself in literally the most uncomfortable situation you could think of, given your current circumstances? This lasted for several minutes, before you realized you had your own things to get together and deal with before your partners on this mission arrived. You managed to lose yourself in thoughts of the mission ahead, so much so that you didn’t realize how quickly time was passing until there was a sharp knock on your door. Please be Guy, please be Guy, please be Guy, you thought to yourself as you walked over to open the door and - it was Kakashi. Of course. You mumbled something not even coherent to yourself and moved aside to let him in. You couldn’t bring yourself to face him, so instead you just faced the closed door as you heard him put his stuff down somewhere behind you.

“You’re avoiding me,” he said, not a hint of questioning in his voice.

“No, I-” you began. You realized lying to him now would be pointless, so you sighed and turned around, but still didn’t look at him. Instead you stared at the floor. “Yes,” you admitted.

You looked up at Kakashi. He was standing in the doorway to your kitchen, leaning against the door frame. There was an unreadable expression in his eyes. You both paused waiting for the other one to say something. He broke the silence first.

“What have I done wrong? What did I do to make you hate me so much that you’ve been avoiding me for nearly a week?” The hint of pain in his voice made you immediately feel like shit. You knew Kakashi wasn’t one to let onto his emotions that often, so you knew you really must have hurt him with the way you’ve been acting. You quickly shook your head, taking a step closer to him but not wanting to get too near.

“No, you’ve got this all wrong. I don’t hate you, Kakashi,” you assured. “I just- do you remember the other day when we all went out drinking and I walked you home?” He nodded. “Do you remember what you said to me when we got to your house?” This time he shook his head.

“I mean, I remember us talking, and then you ran away pretty fast, but I don’t really remember the specifics of the conversation. That’s why I thought you hated me, because I said something that upset you. I’ve been beating myself up these past few days, thinking I’ve ruined our friendship somehow,” he admitted. “So, what did I say to you to make you run away and avoid me?” You didn’t know how to respond, but luckily you were saved by one Might Guy suddenly bursting through the door.

“You two didn’t start the spying party without me, did you?” he joked, making you giggle. You silently thanked him for relieving some of the tension, even though you knew that you and Kakashi would have to deal with this unfinished business sooner or later.

The three of you went over your plan again and then set out to get into the positions you had planned on for watching the Rock Village shinobi. There were three vantage points on different sides of their camp that were far enough away that unless one of them was specifically looking for you or had a special jutsu that allowed them to detect where you were you wouldn’t be seen, but they were also close enough that if something went wrong you could make it to the camp or to one of your partners quickly. Thus began a long day of watching literally nothing happen, as the shinobi just seemed to be chilling out in their camp.

Bad ideas

I know where they lead

But I got too many to sleep

And I can't get enough, no

I wanna kiss you standing up

And if tomorrow makes me low

Well it'd be worth it just to know

'Cause I can't get enough, no

I wanna kiss you standing up

That night, well after the sun had set, you and Kakashi returned to your home, with Guy staying behind to hold down the fort overnight. He had napped during the day while you two kept watch, so he insisted he was fine to keep going. You didn’t bother to argue because you were tired and a little worried about the fact that the shinobi had done nothing worth noting all day. Were they still planning some sort of attack on the village? Did they already have a plan and were now just waiting for the perfect time to strike? Either way, you knew you wouldn’t be in shape for any fighting if you didn’t get a good night’s sleep, and though you offered to sleep in the field in case anything happened, Guy assured both you and Kakashi that you would be close enough to help should he need you for anything. So that was how you ended up alone with Kakashi once again. Without a word, he took a spare blanket out of your closet and started rolling it out on the floor.

“Hey, what are you doing?” you asked.

“I’m setting up a place for me to sleep. I figured it would be fine using this blanket, but I’m sorry I should have asked,” he responded. He sat down on the blanket as if to get comfortable, but didn’t yet lie back.

“You can sleep in my bed, if you’d like to. I don’t want you to sleep on the hard floor if you don’t have to.” You felt bad for him after mistreating him all week, the last thing you wanted to do was make him physically uncomfortable on top of the emotional stuff.

“If I sleep in your bed, then where would you go?” he questioned. He cocked his one visible eyebrow in a gesture that showed he already knew the answer before you gave it.

“Well, I’d sleep on the floor, I guess.” He shook his head.

“I’m not gonna let you sacrifice your comfort for my own, Y/N.” You hesitated before responding.

“Well, we could always both sleep in my bed,” you said meekly. He gave an incredulous look, so you hurried to explain your reasoning. “The bed is big enough for the both of us to be in it without feeling crammed, you know. And that way neither of us will be in pain in the morning from sleeping on the floor.” You were certain he wouldn’t accept your offer, so you were shocked when he stood up and moved the blanket that was on the floor over to on your bed.

“That makes sense to me. Thank you, Y/N.”

The two of you finished getting ready for bed in silence before climbing into opposite sides of the bed. You were practically hanging off the side of it for fear that you would accidentally bump your body into Kakashi’s.

“So, is there any chance you’re willing to talk about why you’ve been avoiding me now that we’re alone?” he asked. You took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry, Kakashi. I can’t. I will soon, I promise. Just, not right now.” He let out a sigh and you could tell he was disappointed, but he didn’t push the matter any further. Soon you could hear a gentle snoring sound that meant he had fallen asleep, but the thoughts swirling around your head kept you awake and staring at the ceiling for a few more hours before you finally drifted off to sleep.

Smitten's a bad look on me

And if I'm talking honestly

It takes everything I got not to text, and

I just want a kiss to get me through

'Cause now all my bed-sheets smell like you, so

You woke up to your back pressed up against something and a pair of arms wrapped around your waist. Naturally, you screamed. This made Kakashi, the owner of the arms wrapped around you and the thing your back was pressed against (his chest), instantly wake up and fall off the bed in shock. Your hands instantly went to your mouth as you gasped.

“Well, good morning to you too,” he grumbled as he picked himself up off of the floor.

“Kakashi, I’m so sorry, I woke up and you being there scared me!” you explained.

“Y/N, you’re the one who invited me to sleep in your bed, why would me being there scare you?” he asked, rubbing the back of his head where he hit it against your bed on the way down.

“Well yeah I know, I just didn’t expect you to be spooning me!” At that, his face turned red as a beet.

“Spooning? What do you mean I was spooning you?”

“I mean I woke up with you cuddled up behind me with your arms around me, what else would I mean?” you answered, exasperated. This was not how you planned on starting the morning.

“I… was not aware I was doing that, I’m sorry. Um, I’m gonna go grab something for breakfast,” Kakashi said before all but running out of the room. Not thirty seconds later he called for you to come out there.

That was how you came to find Might Guy sleeping on the floor of your kitchen with six tied up and possibly unconscious or else just unmoving Rock Village shinobi. Kakashi nudged Guy with his foot, making him immediately jump to his feet into a fighting stance.

“Ha! Oh, you two. Have a good night’s sleep?” he asked nonchalantly.

“Guy, what happened? Why are these shinobi on my kitchen floor?” you questioned.

“Right! Well, shortly after you left last night they all started moving around their camp, which I thought was weird because we had seen them all go to bed hours earlier and it was also very late. Once I saw them gathering quite a lot of weapons and strapping them to their persons, I knew something shady was going on. There were only six of them, so I figured I would be fine fighting them on my own, so I didn’t bother going to get you guys. Once I took care of them, I brought them back here. Don’t worry though, I left a note at the Hokage Residence to let everyone know what was going on and to tell them where they can find these six. I expect someone should be around shortly to pick them up,” he explained with the utmost confidence, as if what had transpired was the most normal thing in the world to happen.

“Okay,” Kakashi said. “Okay, well Guy, why don’t you stay here and wait for them. Y/N, do you want to go for a walk? Clearly we’re not needed here.”

“Yes, let’s go,” you agreed. You got dressed and ready for the day as quick as you could, and as you and Kakashi left out your front door, Guy called out a farewell.

“See you later you two! Have fun!” he said with his signature grin and a wink. Maybe he did realize something was up.

If you think you miss me

Come on back and kiss me

I just gotta know what you and I would feel like, oh no, hey

You and Kakashi walked around town, occasionally exchanging words but for the most part you were just walking in silence. You stopped at a stand to get some fresh fruit for breakfast and then continued your directionless wandering. Eventually you ended up in a part of the woods that many team leaders, you and Kakashi included, took your teams to for training. There were three logs sticking vertically out of the ground, and Kakashi jumped up to sit on top of one. He gestured for you to come closer, so you joined him by sitting on another of the logs.

“So, are we going to talk now?” he asked. You looked away into the distance, steeling yourself to face the truth before facing him.

“Yeah, I guess we are,” you answered. “The other day when I walked you home, it isn’t just what you said to me, it’s how you said it and what you did while you were saying it. It was just a really weird experience and I haven’t been able to get it out of my head.”

“Y/N, really, if I did anything to offend you, then I apologize a thousand times. Can you please just tell me what I said and did since I don’t remember?” he pleaded.

“Okay, well, it started off when I tried to leave and you kind of just grabbed my arm to keep me from going. You basically pulled me around in order to hug me which caught me so off guard. Then, you called me beautiful and said you wanted to kiss me. I was so shocked that I ran, but ever since then I haven’t been able to get the thought of us actually kissing out of my mind. I mean, it’s gotten to the point where I’m losing sleep over it and it’s starting to drive me crazy.” You started speaking so quickly to just get the words out that by the time you got to the end of it you didn’t know what you were saying. It took you a second to realize what you just admitted.

Yikes

Kakashi laughed. He laughed! Here you were, spilling your most mortifying secret to the one person that secret actually affects, and he was laughing at you!

“Is that all?” he asked.

“What do you mean is that all?” you practically yelled. “This has been tormenting me for a week!” He just chuckled again.

“You should have just talked to me about it and I would have cleared it up. I really do think you’re beautiful. It wasn’t just me saying things while drunk, although I do wish the first time I told you was when I was sober. I’d been thinking about it - thinking about you - a lot lately, so I guess drunk me just got impatient and let the cat out of the bag.”

You didn’t know how to react, so you looked down at your feet and said the one thing you could think of. “Oh.”

“Do you mean that though? You’ve been thinking about kissing me?” he asked, sounding a lot more timid than he was before.

“I mean… yeah. A handsome man tells me that he thinks I’m beautiful and he wants to kiss me, why wouldn’t I think about that?” you scoffed as if it were obvious. He reached over and grabbed your hand, causing you to look up at him. He was leaning closer to you than he had been before.

“In that case, Y/N, I am completely sober and I think you are insanely beautiful. Can I please kiss you?” he whispered, as if speaking any louder would ruin the moment.

“Yes,” you whispered back. You reached up to pull down his mask before your lips met in a tender, sweet kiss, the first of many.

Bad ideas

I know where they lead

But I got too many to sleep

And I can't get enough, no

I wanna kiss you standing up

And if tomorrow makes me low

Well it'd be worth it just to know

'Cause I can't get enough, no

I wanna kiss you standing up

________________________________________________________________

This is the first fanfic I’ve written in about a year and a half. After listening to Tessa Violet’s album non-stop I just felt really inspired, and so this happened. It feels really good to write something for myself instead of for school.

#kakashi #kakashi hatake #kakashi x reader #kakashi hatake x reader #naruto #naruto shippuden #naruto reader insert #kakashi reader insert #naruto fanfiction #naruto fanfic #reader insert #bad ideas #tessa violet #song fic

372 notes · View notes

whatifidontwanttobethesavior · 4 years

Text

Arranged

“Just a little bit...”

“I don’t think- Oof!” Cadmine winced as the wooden brush was pulled harshly through her long chestnut colored locks by one of the many hand maidens who tended to her daily needs. Her hair had always been an unruly thing, never straight like her mother’s nor curling like her father’s but somewhere left awkwardly inbetween to the point where there was nothing to be done about it except to restraint it like some kind of untamable beast in a cage. The seventeen year old closed her eyes as her long, thick tresses were gathered upwards, curling onto the back of her head into a proper bun that would take all of give minutes to come loose unless it was contained properly. She felt the numerous pins being placed, at least a dozen of them and that was then followed by the cover. It was a white thing, pretty and satin, dotted with beautiful real diamonds in order to match the wedding gown she would be shoved into shortly. With her bun completely covered, a soft mousse was then applied to the rest of the girl’s head, smoothing down the remainder of the locks to keep them neat for tonight. It was very important that she look her most presentable. It was her wedding night after all, as well as her birthday. It would simply not do for even one thing to be out of place, especially due to the incredibly serious state of the party being set up out in the back garden. Everything had to be absolute perfection, nothing could go wrong or be even the least bit unseemly, for how would that appear to their guest of honor?

Cadmine was not particularly looking forward to her wedding, in fact, she was positively dreading it. She had spent her entire life locked away behind the walls of this mansion and its grounds, confined to a wheelchair due to a birth defect that would have had her killed shortly after she’d entered the world if not for the swirling pattern upon her skin that indicated just how incredibly special she was. It was unheard of for any vampire or vampiress to be born with any kind of flaw, but Cadmine had had the misfortune of not developing her spine properly. It had left her incredibly weak in the legs, able to move them but with very little ability to hold herself up without a great deal of help. She could hardly feel her own toes, let alone wiggle them, not that it mattered in the long run. Once she had undergone the change that all female vampires had to experience, she would surely be cured. Her body would go from the weakened state all females were born in, to be strengthened by the husband she was about to gain. It would take days and was supposed to be a horrifically painful process, but her mother and sisters before her had survived it. Cadmine would as well, and then pray that it would heal her. And if it did not, no one was about to get rid of her. Not when she was the only one who could change a human with just one bite. To add to the dwindling population of vampires ravaged with a plague of infertility to the point that a lot of couples never managed to conceive and if they did, it usually ended in a miscarriage or stillbirth. The Areidessans were lucky in that manner. They had managed to have twelve children in all, an unimaginable feat that had not been understood until Cadmine’s birth. She was the last of the brood, her mother unable to carry to term after her birth. The mothers of every savior had been blessed with fertility until the birth of their gifted child.

It was more of a curse though, as far as Cadmine was concerned. Ever since she was little she had been forced to bite at least one human a day, sometimes two. At first, she hadn’t understood what was happening, why the people would fall onto the floor and writhe in pain. Sometimes, if the venom didn’t take properly, their eyes would begin to bleed, then their nose, mouth, and ears. The venom ate them up from the inside, killing them. When it did take though, they were safely placed upon a gurney, brought to a recovery building where they would go through the change and then, when it was over, added to the populace. Usually, when the change didn’t work, someone was there to shield Cadmine from the sight of it, to block her view and take her from the room quickly. Unfortunately, when she’d been three, she had become curious and had rolled her chair to watch. The sight she had seen was still burned into her memory, the blood leaking out of a screaming man, the one she had just bitten because it was ‘the right thing to do’. She had cried and screamed after that, every time they brought her into the ‘biting room’ as she called it. It was just a large empty space with a drain on the floor and chains on the walls that people were sometimes attached to if they were being ‘difficult’. She had begged and pleaded, to please not make her do it, to please take her out, but no one had listened. Not her parents, not her nannies. They had simply reiterated that it was okay, this was how it was supposed to be. It had taken a hard slap across her face to get her to stop screaming and she’d been so shocked by the touch she had started behaving again. No one had ever raised a hand to her before, everyone had always been gentle, but with the fate of their people at stake, there was no time for a little girl’s fears.

The worst days were the ones where her parents would purposely throw some kind of party and invite humans, usually tourists who wanted to see the pretty old mansion up close. There they would wine and dine them, even dance and enjoy the event fully before they were ushered, one by one, into the Biting Room. No one could hear them scream there and any failed attempts were easily mopped up and discarded out the other door before the next victim was introduced.

“Come meet our daughter, she’s such a darling thing.” Her parents would croon. The adults would coo at her in her little chair and when, as trained, she asked for a hug, they would be all too willing to give it. It was this that got them too close, her sharp little teeth sinking into their flesh just once, long enough to inject the venom before they were falling onto the floor. Over time, Cadmine’s eyes shifted away from the bright mismatched green and blue she had been born with, darkening first to a deeper blue and then, eventually, to a deep shade of indigo that was uncommon unless one looked at an older vampire who had lived many years and been through a lot, and even then, it didn’t always stay. Eyes were more than just a window to the soul for them, it was a sign of their emotions, flashing colors or staying steady, easily displayed for others to see. Indigo was rare, a sign of the deep depression that had sunken into Cadmine’s heart, locking her down and weighing on her shoulders like a brick for every person she had ever bitten had been placed upon them.

The vampiress sighed as her leg braces were put on, stiff things that would help give her the strength to walk if accompanied. Her dress had actually been hand tailored with an inner brace for her back and waist, straightening her out completely as it was pulled onto her body and she was fastened into it so many tiny buttons up the back that were hidden by a long row of diamonds, blocking out the stiff rod. It ended in a choker style collar on her neck, tight to the point where she couldn’t tilt her head in any direction very much. It left her even stiffer than usual and it got no more comfortable when she sat back down in her wheelchair to have her shoes put on, satin flats that would give her decent balance and her veil was attached to the top of her bun with it’s sparkling comb. Completely done, Cadmine was pushed from her chambers and she looked back at them, knowing this would probably be the last time she would ever see her childhood bedroom and sitting area. She would be expected to stay with her husband as soon as the marriage was official. It was expected, typically, that she and her groom would spend the night consummating their marriage in the special cottage on the grounds of her family’s home. As far as Cadmine knew, this would still be occurring so perhaps she could see her room once more afterwards. There would be hours of course, until she would have to go to the cottage. This was the part she was most afraid of, but while vampire weddings tended to be fairly short in ceremony, the receptions were well known for lasting hours, sometimes even days depending on the number of guests.

What would her betrothed be like, Cadmine wondered. Was he similar to her brothers? Or was he more like her father? All Cadmine knew about him was that he was old… as in, old old. One of the oldest in vampire society, so much so that when a letter had been received about a month ago that her parents hadn’t even questioned it. Her father’s face had lit up with surprise while her mother had been overcome with so much joy she had cried. They had had plenty of requests for her hand since she had been born, but most had been shut down due to disgust, stating that how could they betroth their daughter when she hadn’t even been weaned from her mother’s breast yet? It wasn’t uncommon for there to be an age gap between vampires, for it never mattered in the long run but it was clear there was no real interest in Cadmine except for her gift in those cases. Vidmir Nezhdanov was one of the oldest, most upstanding of vampires in their society. He was so ancient that it didn’t matter that he rarely appeared in public any longer nor kept up with the usual gambit of parties vampires tended to throw throughout the year. Every now and then, perhaps once every fifty years, there would be an invitation to a Nezhdanov party and even then, it was uncertain if the host would even make an appearance. What did he look like? Would he be as frail and old as his age implied or would he, like most vampires, have aged like fine wine? Why couldn’t her parents have at least given her away to someone younger? Of course, they couldn’t. Because when someone like Nezhdanov came calling, you didn’t reject him. As far as Cadmine was concerned, she had never seen the man before in her life even if she had, in passing, heard of him. He was mostly a hermit, if the stories were true. The fact that he had written to request her hand in marriage was almost impossible to imagine as it was terrifying. Why her? Cadmine wanted to know, but of course, it had to be because of her gift, didn’t it? Why else would someone be asking for her so close to her coming of marrying age? Cadmine knew she should consider herself lucky, but… well, who would want to be married off to a stranger? What ever happened to marrying for love instead of status? It was just another bad part of the curse she’d been born with, something she had to learn to live with even if it ravaged her heart further than it already had been.

“You look stunning, my darling.” Aleksander beamed at his daughter as she arrived in the atrium that with all glass walls that would lead out into her favorite garden. She had requested, gently, to have her wedding outside among the greenery. Lights and white tulle had been hung from tree to tree. Chairs were set up and a long piece of gorgeous white velvet had been laid upon the ground in between them, leading to the flowered archway covered in fairy lights that was serving as tonight’s alter. Further into the other gardens the reception had been set up with food and gifts, a place to dance and of course, plenty of tables to serve tonight’s feast that would barely be touched at. Most would probably mainly drink the blood spiked wine instead or find someplace private to feed from their spouse.

“I can’t believe my little one is marrying Nezhdanov.” Mariette, Cadmine’s mother, said for about the millionth time since the letter had come. She kissed her daughter’s hands and scurried out to the garden. Aleksander took his daughter’s hands, hoisting her up to her feet. He held her tightly around the waist, helping her stay upright as she tried to breathe. Cadmine was beginning to feel a bit faint with nerves, though her tight dress didn’t help much. She clung desperately onto her father’s arm, stumbling slightly as he slowly began for the door.

“Just think, this may be the very last time you have to use that chair.” Aleksander laughed, tightening his hold and pulling down Cadmine’s veil as they stepped out into the garden and onto the white velvet path. Cadmine’s view became slightly distorted by the mesh but she found she preferred it, avoiding all of the eyes suddenly staring at her and her father. The music began and they walked at a pace that was dreadfully slow, especially by vampire standards, but safe for Cadmine as she lifted one foot and then the other. Her braces were so tight they hurt, her knees bending awkwardly but this wasn’t visible beneath her dress, giving her the appearance of gliding along instead. It felt like forever, but eventually, the pair reached the alter and Aleksander shifted his hold, lifting his daughter’s veil to reveal her face. She stared forward, eyes as deeply indigo as they had been for the past ten years. They fell first upon the vicar and then, down to her hand as it was removed from her father’s arm, offered to the man standing there, waiting.

“I love you, darling. Take care of my girl.” Aleksander smiled as he kissed his daughter’s cheek and then stepped back, keeping close just in case Cadmine needed extra support again.

The vampiress’s hand landed in a larger one, her dainty pale fingers falling upon a warm palm. Her eyes followed up the arm of the suit it was attached to and her breath caught in her throat as her eyes fell, for the first time, on her groom’s face. She was met, not with the frail visage of an old man, but the youthful face of someone who may not have been that much older than herself. Vidmir Nezhdanov’s appearance did not speak to his age at all. His hair was dark, blacker than ink almost and he had nary a wrinkle upon him. And his eyes… his eyes were the only thing that hinted at his age. They were indigo, like hers, but that could be age right? It didn’t mean he felt the same pressing weight she did. With a gulp, Cadmine looked down and away from her betrothed. She needed to concentrate of standing up on her own now that her father had let go. She spread her legs a bit, giving herself a wider base to work with, chest barely rising and falling beneath the constraints of her dress. The corset she wore beneath it felt even more pinning than ever and the stiff disguised metal collar was making it even harder to breath than it had been before. It was so tight on her neck. Hopefully the ceremony would be quick and she’d be able to sit back down soon. At least then her body wouldn’t be under so much strain. Ugh, why did she have to get married in the first place? Even if he was incredibly handsome.

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varian-and-the-seven-skies · 4 years

Text

Cor Meum | Chapter Two: Pieces Set, Start

Synopsis: In a world of floating cities and steamships, Captain Rapunzel runs the fastest ship in all the skies. But this rowdy crew is not without its secrets—or its treasures— and Hugo, newly-hired, is ready to discover them all. Now if only Varian, the whip-smart lead engineer, would get out of his way.

A TTS & 7k AU of epic proportions, featuring cool fight scenes, steampunk machinery, and an inevitable romance. Written by @littlemisslol-fic and @izaswritings.

Notes: Thanks so much for all your guys’ support for this new fic! Your comments were a joy to read, and we’re so excited that you guys are excited! We have a whole lot in store for y’all— we hope you guys enjoy!

Warnings: There is mild reference to implied child abuse—nothing explicit or graphic, but please be wary! If there’s anything in this chapter you think we missed, let us know and we’ll add the warning up here.

AO3 Link is here!

Fic Playlist can be found here!

Chapter One can be found here!

Chapter Two: Pieces Set, Start

. . .

Standing in the burning midday sun, hand half-shading his eyes, Hugo stares up into the shadow of the Aphelion and thinks: This is too easy.

He almost feels bad about it, honestly. Like stealing candy from a kid—not that it’s going to stop Hugo from robbing them blind, blah blah blah should have held onto it better—but still. The fact remains that this will be painfully easy. It’s been maybe two hours since he set foot in Corona, and he’s already been hired and secured a place on the ship. Fastest infiltration he’s ever done.

“She’s perfect,” he says, with a smile that maybe shows a bit too much teeth. Oh, well. Hugo’s probably fine. What does this kid—Var-something, Varitas, Varian?—know of threats and dangers anyway? The cotton-weave shirt, the brass cuff bracers, the worn work-pants and even the shine of his boots; given all that plus the oil and grease streaking his face, and the way he barely even notices, Hugo is almost positive that this kid has never even stepped three feet outside of a workroom.

Hugo doesn’t have a good opinion of this kid’s instincts, either. After all, it’s taken everything Hugo has not to laugh in his face from the moment he got hired, pint-size here being his new ‘boss’ or no, and the other teen hasn’t even noticed.

“So?” Hugo says. “Do I get the grand tour?”

Varian (Hugo is, like, 85% sure it’s Varian) doesn’t react. He seems distracted, staring hard at the ground with a furrow to his brow. He jumps at the sound of Hugo’s voice, and shakes his head hard as if to chase away his own thoughts. At his feet, that creepy little rodent automaton chases circles around them. “What? Oh. Um, yeah. If you want.” He gestures, listless. “It’s, uh… just up the ramp.”

Hugo eyes him, just a bit—where’d the fire go? The sass? The really annoying attitude?—but he doesn’t actually care, in hindsight, so he shrugs and dismisses it, heading up for the ship ramp. The closer he gets, the more impressive the ship looks: Hugo hadn’t been lying, at least, when he’d called her perfect. She’s a mish-mash of colorful cloth-weave and metalwork, and even from here Hugo can tell she’s a labor of love. The Aphelion is… beautiful isn’t a strong enough word for what she is. Stunning, maybe. Ethereal is closer. He can’t even imagine what the work inside looks like. What sort of pipe system do they use? What model are the engines?

By the Maker, Hugo is almost excited.

He just barely keeps from bouncing on his feet—he’s not a child, he knows how to control himself—and when he reaches the deck, he takes a moment to step out and turn around, taking it all in. It's huge, wide open and two-tiered, with heavy metal chains and cables of thick braided wire trailing up to the sails and envelope high above. The railing is a mix of shiny brass and dark, reddish wood; the whole deck is varnished with a nice coat of gloss that keeps the wooden planks waterproofed even through the heaviest of storms. Hugo slams his foot down, just to be sure, and—yep. That heavy thunk tells him all he needs to know. No leaky roofs on this ship, no sir.

Gods above, she’s fucking gorgeous. Hugo might be a little bit starstruck.

“Where to first?” he calls back, still staring up at the sails. Is that embroidery? Holy shit, it totally is. This ship is ridiculous, and Hugo hasn’t even seen the inside yet. “Engines? Captain’s quarters?” A thought strikes him. He keeps his voice casual. “Cargo hold?”

He can hear Varian step up behind him, still quiet. “Well,” the other says, a little dryly. He holds out one arm, and that raccoon automaton of his runs one last time around his feet and then jumps up on his shoulder. Varian rubs at its ears. “I have to find Yong, and you’re stuck with me, so… probably going to start with the library and work our way from there.”

Hugo clicks his tongue, disappointed, but knows better than to argue. He’ll see it all eventually, he knows, and has to bite back another mean smile at the thought. When Varian makes his way for a massive door of intricate iron,Hugo follows him.

“Yong,” he echoes to himself. “Assistant to engine-man, right?”

“Xavier.” Varian looks up at him, half-hidden in the shadows of the sails, his eyes flashing bright and burning. “Yong is— fire prone, so it works out pretty well for him. You’ll see.” He scowls. “And learn people’s names, would you?”

“Hm.” Hugo makes a show of thinking about it. Leans back on his heels, resting his chin in his hands, humming—and then grins. “No.”

“You—!”

“Varian!”

Varian’s eyes snap away from Hugo, and he’s almost sad to see them go. Hugo looks towards where the voice had come from, seeing a younger teenager standing in front of them with her hands on her hips. She’s tall, taller than Varian even which is hilarious. Her curly black hair ripples in the gentle breeze of the dockyard, pulled up in a perfect little up-do that Hugo can already tell takes her way too long in the morning to perfect. She’s got dark skin and amber eyes, and she’s fixing them both with a scrutinizing look, mouth pulling into a low frown when she notices Hugo. She’s wearing a purple tunic cinched tight around her waist by multiple brass-buckle belts, a sash of dark brown silk tied overtop, and dark leggings that look almost black in the sunlight. Her little heeled boots are purple as well—Hugo can sense a bit of a theme with her—and they click against the polished deck as she impatiently taps her foot.

“Nuru!” Varian says, ignoring her pointed glare. “Haven’t seen Yong by any chance, have you?”

“Afraid not,” she says, eyes flicking from Varian to Hugo. Hugo can’t help but feel the need to size her up, maybe due to the suspicious look in her amber eyes. It’s obvious she doesn’t trust him; if Hugo wasn’t absolutely certain his true identity was still secret he might even feel nervous. Ah, well— something to work on.

She finally tears her gaze away from scrutinizing Hugo, looking to Varian once again. “Why, are you looking for him?”

“Xavier is—” Varian shrugs. That creepy little automaton on his shoulder makes a mechanical chitter, a puff of steam fluffing out from between the mismatched plating making up its body. Varian doesn’t acknowledge it, his voice strong over the steam. “—and I’m giving our new junior engineer here a quick tour while I look for him.”

The title boils Hugo’s blood, it really does, especially in the self-satisfied way Varian says it. It’s like an insult, this idea that this pipsqueak is suddenly better just because he has some fancy position handed to him by his beloved Captain. As if that makes the fact that Hugo is older, smarter, and better than him null and void. Honestly, infuriating, but Hugo grits his teeth and bears it. Once this is over, once the target’s acquired and the money’s made, Hugo’ll just pitch the annoying little shit off the edge of the ship and watch him fall. It’ll be like a present to himself, a reward for a heist well heist-ed.

Hugo’s so wrapped up in the delightful image of Varian screaming as he’s tossed over the rails of the top deck, he nearly misses the conversation continuing on in front of him.

“Are you going to introduce us, then?” Nuru says primly. Her glare flicks back to Hugo, who straightens his spine a little under the scrutiny. Something in her makes Hugo wary; he’ll have to keep an eye on her.

“Oh!” Varian shakes his head. “Duh, obviously. Nuru, this is Hugo, Rapunzel’s new hire for the junior engineer position.” At least this time Varian doesn’t say the title in a way that makes Hugo want to punch him. “Hugo, this is Nuru, our assistant navigator. She’s usually up on the bridge, but you’ll see her around. Aphelion isn’t that big a ship, after all.”

Understatement of the year, really. The Aphelion is minuscule when compared to basically every other ship in port. Just a tiny trading ship, small and unassuming. Kinda like the brat who built it, Hugo snickers to himself. She might be a well made, ethereally stunning machine, but she’s small. Fast too, from what Hugo’s heard. Fast enough to outrun a band of pirates, even—

“A pleasure.” Nuru’s nose wrinkles in a way that makes it obvious this is anything but. Hugo schools his face into a delighted—it’s always so much fun making new friends—and locks eyes with her in a challenge.

“I’m sure it is,” Hugo smirks. Nuru doesn’t back down, the two of them glaring over Varian’s head. From the corner of his eye, he can see Varian scowl at being ignored, before the younger boy bodily shoves his way between them.

“Okay, enough of that,” Varian says, putting a hand out to either side, pushing Hugo and Nuru apart. “We’re all going to have to get along if we’re going to be stuck together for six months, right? Can we at least try to be civil?”

Hugo wants to retort with the obvious fact that Varian has been nothing but borderline hostile since they met, but Nuru speaks before he can, taking the stage with ease. She nods once, and steps back, almost diplomatic.

“Of course,” she says, giving Hugo one last once-over before turning back to Varian. “Have you tried the dining hall for Yong yet? Lance said he was making ginger molasses cookies, and I think Eugene was trying to rope some people into helping him steal some.”

Varian nods in thought, already moving forward. “Good enough place to start, I suppose.” He gestures for Hugo to follow, and they walk together across the polished deck of the ship, towards the back end where a large portion of the deck raises up into a second level. A large door of iron and brass stands centered on the wall, twin staircases spiraling up on either side. It’s embossed with faint carvings, suns and moons and the occasional star, all winding around a large, interlocking wheel made of solid brass in the very center. The whole thing almost looks like a square bank vault door. It’s certainly over the top, in Hugo’s humble opinion, but it’s also becoming increasingly obvious that the Aphelion, and the crew that sails her, are decidedly over the top in basically everything they do.

Ruddiger slips off Varian’s shoulders, the little automaton chittering in excitement as it hits the polished deck. The raccoon is gone in a second, scaling up one of the large chains with its weird little metal claws. It looks down on them with neon green eyes, the aperture clicking open and closed as if it were blinking. By the Maker that thing’s creepy; Hugo hates it on principle.

Varian grunts as he grabs the wheel, turning it with no small amount of effort. The spinning wheel retracts a series of pistons, a small plume of steam puffing out as the door swings open, revealing a long hallway made of the same polished wood as the deck. Large copper lights line the hallway, emitting a cheery glow that bounces off the glittering pipes of metal tucked away near the ceiling, running through the Aphelion like veins through a body. Hugo could almost call it homey, dare he say quaint, with a maroon carpet running down the length of the floor, and redwood walls lined with strips of warm brass.

It seems Aphelion is just as immaculate on the inside as she is on the outside. Hugo can’t help but grin. There’s nothing better than a ship that’s obviously been loved from her very conception.

Varian leads him on through the narrow halls, deeper into the labyrinth of the ship, roughly gesturing to the occasional doorway. “Library,” he says, pointing to a set of double doors, not faltering a single step.

“Crow’s nest.” An iron spiral staircase, spinning up into the ceiling above.

“Navigation room,” Nuru butts in, gesturing to another door. Varian smiles at that, nods.

“Navigation room,” he repeats, as they reach the end of the hallway. There’s another door like the one outside, with the same locking mechanism. Varian turns that one as well, and the first thing Hugo registers when the door opens is heat. Both Nuru and Varian continue like there’s nothing wrong, Hugo forced to follow or else get left behind. Through the door lies a metal catwalk, level with the wooden floor.

The ground, however, dips right away, the catwalk hovering at least three stories high as it crosses the length of the large room. In the very center is a large main engine, quiet for now, but Hugo knows that once Aphelion takes flight it’ll be near deafening. It’s so big Hugo has to crane back his neck to see the top of it, surrounded by a string of metal scaffolding, catwalks and ladders and stairs, an intricate mess of pathways. The heart of the Aphelion is a large monstrosity of iron and brass, a mess of metal panels and pipes, dials and gauges, all covered in the slightest sheen of grease. It’s obvious the heart has been well loved, shined clean and immaculate, but she’s a working thing. There’s dust in her corners, grease and oil in all the little nooks and crannies, dents in her panels and places where her casing is mismatched.

She’s the most beautiful thing Hugo’s ever seen.

The room below them is a mess of pipework and wires, weaving down through the many catwalks spider-webbing the large space. They cluster and split at random, and for a second Hugo’s truly shocked. He’s seen main engine rooms before, but never one so… busy. Hugo can’t help but feel awed at seeing an honestly perfect machine, one designed from the ground up with love and dedication.

Varian strides forwards into the room with the confidence of a man three times his age, and Hugo follows slowly, almost dazed.

“Main engine room,” Varian says with an air of pride, his voice echoing against the metal walls.

Hugo finds himself following in their footsteps, sandwiched between Varian and Nuru. He doesn’t get the time he’d like to stand and stare; the tour must go on, it seems. The engine block is in the direct middle of the Aphelion, from the looks of it. Across the catwalk they go through another iron door and Hugo once again finds himself surrounded by wood panels and vaulted ceilings. It’s almost like most of the living quarters surround the engine block in a ring, an odd design for a ship. Usually engines get tucked away in the back, closest to the rudder and turbines, hidden from sight. In Aphelion, her beating heart is on display like a piece of art.

Hugo’s sad to see it go, but he knows he’ll be elbow deep in the guts of that machine soon enough. The thought is enough to tide him over, as they continue Varian’s tour.

“Cassandra’s office, for the sky guard,” Varian says, passing a large wooden door. Ah, they’re back to the list. “By invitation only.” There’s a few marks that could only be made by throwing knives that are deep in the wood. Hugo thinks that maybe it would be a good idea to avoid that particular door as they move on.

Finally they get to the end of the hall, and Hugo knows they must have walked the majority of the ship’s length by this point. They come to the final set of doors, a double wide pair of solid redwood with intricate hand-painted flowers decorating the woodwork. There’s the sound of clinking kitchenware from inside, muffled but distinct.

“Dining hall,” Varian says, with a sense of finality.

Varian pushes the door open without preamble, gesturing for the other two to follow. Nuru does so without question, and Hugo follows only a step behind. Always good to know where the food comes from, after all. Beyond the door is a large room, decorated in the same style as the rest of the living quarters of the ship; large redwood panels of wood and perfectly polished floors. A large rectangular table takes up half the space, and Hugo can count almost thirty chairs surrounding it. Small ship, small crew, Hugo supposes, though really why anyone would want to eat with their crewmates, he has no idea.

The whole back wall of the room is made of windows, from floor to ceiling. The sunset is just beginning, painting the sky a bright, cheery cherry color. Red sky at night, Hugo thinks to himself, watching as the sunset plays off the brass panels of the rudder peeking up below the large windows. Varian moves further into the dining hall, peeking over to the other side of the large space.

The other half of the room is a wide open space with couches and side tables, a sitting room of sorts. A large carpet covers the floor there, the mismatched furniture looking well worn but comfortable after years of use; it’s the kind of place where one could sit to read a book and accidentally fall asleep. A large galley window is beyond that, embedded into the wall. Hugo can see the kitchen through it, the sounds of clattering pots and pans coming from within. He logs that information for later, just in case.

Large pillars of iron support the high ceiling, the paneling almost seeming to curve, and when Hugo looks straight up he can see a perfect dome of glass in the center of the roof, held up by large iron trusses in the ceiling. The fading sunlight streams through it, bright and cheery, casting the whole room in a warm and reddish glow.

“I guess Yong’s not here,” Varian grumbles, looking around the space with a sigh. “We’ll have to keep— hey!”

Hugo only just sees Varian get tugged behind a couch, the flash of a small hand around his wrist. Nuru lets out a small laugh, gesturing for Hugo to follow as she too disappears behind the ornate velvet backing of the couch. Hugo doesn’t do hiding behind furniture like a child, so instead he opts for leaning over from the side. He bites the inside of his cheek, seeing Varian, Nuru, and a smaller boy all giggling like a bunch of idiots, sitting on the floor without a care.

“Eugene said to wait for the signal,” the boy says, red eyes alight with mischief. “And then I’m supposed to cause a distraction!” With that the kid reaches into his red vest, drawing out—

Holy shit.

“Is that dynamite?” Nuru chokes out. “Yong, we told you after last time that you weren’t allowed that anymore!”

“She’s right,” Varian says, gently taking the dynamite from the kid— Yong? Hugo’s pretty sure this one’s Yong. Little pyro— Hugo likes him already. Everything from the kid’s wide smile to his wild hair, black and nearly standing on its ends as if he’s been caught in an explosion, is eye-catching. He’s short, laughably so, shaped like a little bowling ball with all that baby fat. He can’t be older than fourteen, Hugo thinks— just an infant, really. His big eyes are red too, as vivid and bright as maraschino cherries, an oddity in Hugo’s experience. Hugo’s noticing a trend here: apparently the crew of the Aphelion all seem to be colour-coded. The kid, for example, wears a red vest and pants, only just accented by golden buttons and trim. A white shirt puffs out from under the vest, the sleeves billowing in a way that makes Hugo think it’s a hand-me-down, one the kid’s supposed to grow into. Would make sense, as it’s not like there’s many places to buy clothes for a growing boy while out in the open space between the cities.

Varian’s hands are gentle as he takes the stick of dynamite off the kid, holding it out of reach.

“There are better ways to make a distraction, ” Varian says with a smile, reaching into his tool belt. He pulls out a small, hollow ball of glass, filled to the brim with a glowing green mixture. Yong’s eyes go wide at the sight, his chubby face splitting into a grin. The kid reaches for the ball, but Varian closes his hand around it, snatching it back. “Do you promise to go help Xavier after this?” Varian asks, fixing Yong with a warning look.

The kid nods quickly, making grabby hands towards Varian’s closed fist. “Yeah, of course!”

Varian rolls his eyes, but still hands the glass ball over. Yong snickers in glee as he holds it, the green glow lighting up his face in a way that seems almost manic. Nuru bites her lip like she wants to say something— but sighs, instead, as a quiet whistle echoes through the dining room.

All four heads snap around to look across the room. Hugo raises his eyebrows. Across the dining hall, a man is poking his head up from behind a large, wingback chair made of a dark wood. He’s handsome, Hugo will admit, in a pretty-boy kind of way. He’s got a rogue-ish kind of charm to his face, with large brown eyes and tousled brown hair. And… wait a minute.

His eyes narrow. No, there’s no mistaking him. Hugo knows this one. And how could he not? Everyone in the Seven Skies knows the wild tale of Eugene Fitzherbert, former-pirate turned to a life of good, praised for helping free the lost heir to the City of Corona…

Hugo lip curls at the thought. What a disgrace, really. Flynn Rider had been a legend, the peak of the profession, and he’d thrown it all away for sickly saccharine love.

What a fucking waste.

Eugene brightens when he sees them, probably excited to see more co-conspirators, before his eyes land on Yong. He gives the kid a thumbs up, gesturing towards the window to the kitchen. With a sudden yell, Yong lobs the ball through the window, sending it flying in a perfect arc across the room. Varian tugs Hugo down by his sleeve as it explodes in a shower of smoke and glitter, and three angry voices scream from inside the kitchen. Hugo goes willingly, ducking down behind the couch as a large man comes barreling out of the kitchen through a nearby swinging door.

“My eyes!” he cries, bringing two hands up to his glitter coated face. He’s covered head to toe in green dust and glitter, the colour making him nearly monochrome. He’s big, and Hugo’s suddenly glad he’d followed Varian behind the couch.

The big man isn’t alone. Two small girls, children almost, come sprinting out from the kitchen as well, covered in the same heavy dusting of glitter. The difference being that these two look downright furious, and they’re scanning the room in rage. Hugo shrinks down further behind the couch, just in time for the shorter one’s dark eyes to land on Yong.

Yong pauses, takes in the situation, tilts his head— then straightens, grins, and gives the girl a cheerful wave. “Hi Kiera!”

“Yong!” the girl yells, her black hair flying in a flurry around her face as she charges. The other girl, a redhead, follows right behind her, borderline snarling. Yong takes one look and then yelps, turning tail and sprinting for the double doors leading back to the hall. Hugo presses his back against the back of the couch as Yong bails, the two girls following close behind as they all rush from the room. Yong’s terrified screaming gets distant and small as he tries to escape, the sound getting progressively higher pitched until a sudden series of loud bangs echo through the halls and cut him suddenly and terrifyingly silent.

The large man finally gets the glitters off his face, revealing dark skin and brown eyes. “Girls!” he wails, giving chase as well. “Girls, please, we promised no more collateral damage!” He disappears into the hall after the children, and the doors fall shut behind him with a final and echoing slam.

There’s a beat of silence, as everyone involved in this debacle waits to see if the big man will come rushing back, but after a moment it seems safe to say he’s otherwise occupied. Crouching down next to Hugo, Varian sighs, finally rising back to his feet.

“So that was Yong, Xavier’s assistant,” he says, wincing as another crash echoes from somewhere outside the dining hall. “And Lance—the big guy—and his two daughters, Keira and Catalina. They run the kitchens.”

Hugo doesn’t really care, but he nods to pretend he does.

“Fun bunch,” Hugo says, standing as well. Nuru looks torn, her eyes flicking between where the chaos is obviously reaching a crescendo outside, and then back to the two engineers. Varian grins and hands her the dynamite, passing it like a torch.

“Maybe you should go check on them?” Varian asks, and her face lights up in a grateful smile.

“I should,” she says. Hugo would even say her tone is nonchalant, if not for the way she seems drawn to follow the sound of chaos. Busy-body, Hugo thinks, busy, busy, busy-body, and he almost laughs as Nuru spins on her heel and follows after the sound of chaos, leaving without another word.

“Hey kid!” comes a loud voice, and Hugo groans. Right, Fitzherbert. Hugo had almost forgotten.

Varian’s face splits into a grin as the man in question sashays from the kitchen, shouldering into the room with a plate full of ginger molasses cookies in his arms. Eugene already has one cookie shoved in his mouth, chewing obnoxiously, and he tosses another to Varian. Eugene is grinning around his mouth-full of pastry, and as Hugo watches, a chunk of it slips free and splats on his shirt. Gross.

“Thanks for the help!” Eugene says, though it sounds more like fanks fer dah hemp by the time it makes it through the sugar. “Couldn’t have done it without you, kid.”

Varian laughs as he catches the food, snagging a second one when Eugene offers him the tray. With a small motion he offers one to Hugo, holding it up. Hugo eyes their ill gotten gains for a second, before shrugging and taking it. He’s never been one to turn down free food, really, even if it does come from such an irritating source. Eugene seems to notice Hugo then, eyebrow raising in question. He swallows down his big bite of pastry, gasping for a second before shaking himself and looking back to Hugo. “Ah, did you finally make a friend, kid?” he asks Varian, smirking as Varian lets out an offended noise.

“Not particularly,” Varian says, crossing his arms. He’s pouting, but when Hugo glances at him, one eyebrow raised in amusement, he’s quick to turn it into a scowl. “This is Hugo. Rapunzel hired him on as a junior engineer.”

Eugene’s brows shoot up for the sky, and he looks over to Hugo. “Really?” he says, “just like that?”

“Just like that,” Varian mutters. Eugene purses his lips in thought before shrugging and sticking a hand out to Hugo.

“Eugene Fitzherbert, helmsman,” he says with a grin. “Welcome to the crew, then. Don’t let my vertically challenged friend here scare you off, I swear we’re nice.”

“Hugo,” the blond responds, ignoring Varian’s offended noise. “And don’t worry. All he’s done is try to sass his way out of admitting I was right and he was wrong about an engine part.”

Varian boreline screams at that, the offense clawing its way out of his throat as Eugene cracks up laughing. Hugo smiles at a job well done. At least someone on this crew had a good sense of humor. The man merely ruffles Varian’s hair, moving past them with his plate of ill gotten goods.

“Make sure Yong goes to Xavier!” Varian calls after him, crossing his arms. Eugene offers a thumbs up, casually shoving another dessert in his mouth.

Varian rolls his eyes and waves Hugo forward, back into the hall. “Come on. Captain’s this way. She’ll want to talk to you before we set off.”

Hugo hums, unbothered, but behind his back his fingers tighten. The Captain. Right. Okay, then— showtime. He pulls himself taller, and sets his shoulders. He’s sold them the lie, and they’ve swallowed it, but now he has to keep it going.

There’s only one room down this end of the hall— a wide curricular door with a crossed little porthole window and a brass handle. Varian knocks twice, waits until a voice calls back, and then pushes it open. He doesn’t walk in, though, instead pressing himself back against the door and then gesturing for Hugo to go first.

Oh, so it’s like this then. Hugo grits his teeth a little and then forcefully relaxes, stepping inside. He resists the urge to shoulder-check Varian as he passes— this isn’t the time for it; there’ll be other opportunities.

The Captain’s room isn’t what Hugo expects, first stepping in. It’s smaller than Donella’s by far, almost cozy, with tapestries and scarves hanging across the ceiling and hand-painted artwork scrawling the walls from floor to ceiling. There’s a wide open window deck and small personal balcony, like Donella has, but even that is smaller than Hugo expects.

Beyond small, it’s also breezy— every window open, every door thrown wide, as if trying to make the room seem bigger than it is. Hugo can practically see the whole sky sprawling out her window, the distant horizon and even the slight glint of the copper-panel lightning shields that make attacking Corona so troublesome. A small door on the side looks like it might lead to the Captain’s personal quarters, and in the center of the room is a huge desk overflowing with paper and ink and half-open books, ship logs and journals and one bizarrely placed cookbook.

Captain Rapunzel is standing at the balcony, flipping through loose papers; when Hugo enters, she tilts her head with a smile. She’s still dressed in that fancy noble’s gown, like the filthy rich kid she is, though the shoes have made a sneaky disappearance entirely. On her shoulder sits a strange chameleon-looking automaton made of some fascinatingly reflective material, looking almost mirror-like but without the fragility of glass. A little ways away, a tall woman with curly bobbed hair and sharp eyes leans against the far wall, absently flipping a knife through her fingers.

Hugo glances between them, taking in every detail in seconds before he straightens and gives both ladies a smirk. “Captain,” he says, nodding at Rapunzel. He turns his attention on the sharp-eyed woman next to her, and forces his smile wider, giving a second jaunty nod. “Random stranger.”

The woman snorts; Rapunzel laughs aloud, one hand rising to hide her smile. “Hugo,” she says, sounding delighted. God, she’s peppier than most puppies— how on earth did she get to captain of a ship like this? “It’s good to see you again! Sorry, I’ll introduce you—this is Cassandra, leader of our sky guard force.” The woman gives a short, disinterested wave with the knife. “Cass, this is Hugo— our new hire.” She turns back to Hugo, beaming. “Have you been taking a look around? What do you think?”

“She’s lovely,” Hugo says, honest for once. None of you deserve her, he thinks, also, but that comment is better left unsaid. “Aphelion is a beautiful ship.”

“She flies like a dream, too,” Rapunzel says, with a little sigh. “Ah, I’m so happy you like her! You’ll be working closely with her, so—” She pats the wall next to her head, almost fond. “Well, it’s always good to know ship and engineer agree with each other.”

Varian snorts loudly. Hugo stills at the disrespect, shoulders going stiff and hands curling so tight his fingers ache— but all Rapunzel does is wrinkle her nose, giving the other boy a swift evil eye before turning back to Hugo with an apologetic smile. “Anyways, I just wanted to check in. I know I said you’ll be starting as a junior engineer, but unfortunately you’ll be on probation for a while before you can start properly. Aphelion’s engines and pipework can be… delicate, and we want to make sure you can handle her before we throw you into the fire.” She presses her hands together. “I hope you understand?”

Hugo wrestles with himself. Probation? He hasn’t been on probation since he was ten years old, and the demotion stings worse than that goddamn junior title. He can hear Varian snickering behind him, and that burns too— that this pipsqueak gets to deal with those burning, beautiful engines, while Hugo spends fuck-knows-how-long screwing in loose bolts? Fuck that.

But this is the Captain, her orders, her word, and Hugo thinks of Donella and the job and the payoff, and in the end he shoves his fury back in the corner of his mind, smiling wide instead.

“Of course,” he says. “Sounds… lovely.”

“Only for a little while,” Rapunzel repeats, sympathetic. The silver chameleon on her shoulder trills softly, and she runs her finger down the length of its spine almost absently. “Oh, thank you, Pascal. I almost forgot.” She looks back to Hugo and claps her hands. “Room assignments!”

“Yay,” Hugo says, dryly. He takes a breath, shaking off the disappointment about probation more firmly, and holds himself a little taller. It’s fine. The worst news is over with, anyway. Hugo doesn’t really care where he ends up; Hugo has never been picky about these sorts of things. So long as it’s quiet and he’s away from the annoying pipsqueak, Hugo won’t complain.

Behind him, Varian chants, in a very poor attempt at a low whisper: please be next to the boilers, pleaseeeee be next to the boilers, please please please—

Rapunzel’s smile grows wicked. “You’ll be in the empty room next to Varian’s.”

...Wait, what?

There’s a muffled thump as Varian dramatically falls over in shock.

“Also, the room isn’t ready yet—” Rapunzel adds with a grin, “—so tonight you’ll be sleeping on Varian’s floor.”

Hugo opens his mouth. Hugo closes his mouth. Hugo grits his teeth very hard, and reminds himself that mutiny two hours after being hired is not, unfortunately, part of the plan.

Behind Rapunzel, Cassandra is laughing so hard she’s starting to wheeze. Gods damn her.

Varian is still face-first on the floor. His answering “Fuck!” is muffled into the wood.

Rapunzel frowns at him anyway. “Language,” she says, but— holy shit. Is that a smile?

It is. They’re being mocked. By the Maker, she is laughing at them. What did Hugo do to her? He thought their first meeting went fine! What the hell!?

“Is this because I ate the last slice of pie yesterday?” Varian asks the floor. “Because I am sorry. For that. So sorry. Please have mercy.”

“Oh, c’mon, up— off the floor,” Rapunzel sighs at him, still laughing, and walks by Hugo to help drag Varian up to his feet again. The boy goes reluctantly, looking despondent. “I’m not doing this as punishment, Varian, please. He’s your assistant and you two are going to be working together very closely, so he’s your responsibility. That’s all.”

“But I—” Rapunzel gives him a look. Varian visibly deflates. “Fine, fine.”

Cassandra, Hugo notes, is grinning. He narrows his eyes. That’s all, hah, he doesn’t think so. They’re being played. Hugo can sense it.

Rapunzel draws away from Varian with one fond tuffle at the other boy’s hair, then moves back towards her desk. “That’s all I really had to say, I think… Eugene will drop off a spare blanket and pillow for you in Varian’s room, Hugo, and with luck we’ll have your lodgings prepared before tomorrow night. And… yep, that’s all! Unless you have any questions?”

“No,” Hugo says, a little stiff.

“Great! And just in time for dinner… well, I won’t keep you two.” Varian is already turning away, heading for the door without so much a salute; a moment’s pause, then Hugo reluctantly follows, unsure how to deal with this odd relationship between Captain and engineer.

“I actually hate you,” Varian says with a scowl.

Rapunzel laughs. “Save me a seat!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Wild.

They’re halfway through the door when Cassandra calls out after them. “Sleep well tonight, lovebirds!”

Hugo rolls his eyes, and he grabs for the doorknob even as Varian whips around ahead of him, face flushed and eyes wide. “Cass!” Varian shouts through the door, right in Hugo’s face. “Come on! I have STANDARDS!”

Hugo chokes on a laugh, ducking his head quick to muffle it in his arm. Rude! he thinks, almost grinning at the offended face Varian makes at his back, and then pulls the Captain’s door shut with a heavy thump.

Through the door, he can hear both Cassandra and the Captain laughing. Varian is still shouting.

Six fucking months of this. Supposedly it’ll all be worth it in the end, but…

Ugh.

Hugo squeezes his eyes shut, pinching at the bridge of his nose, and refuses to admit he’s smiling too.

Dinner that night is… interesting, to say the least. Most of the crew is taking advantage of their last night on land, so the dining hall is decidedly empty. Still, there’s enough people to call the room cosy, the lot of them lining up to receive their food. Hugo’s used to a certain system: grab your plate, get your ration, and fuck off. Easy peasy. Varian doesn’t seem to want to chat too much, but he still shows Hugo where the large stacks of plates and cutlery are so he’s not totally lost.

Hugo’s surprised when Lance dramatically unveils a spread of food across the whole of the wide window between the large room and the kitchen. He must be pulling out all the stops for the last night before they set sail, Hugo muses, watching as those before them pick and choose at random what to put on their plate. It’s odd. Usually with ships you’d be lucky to get something that wasn’t freeze dried or hard as a rock. There’s actual food here, chicken and roast vegetables, and— by the Maker is that actual, honest to god cheese? Hugo can’t help but get a little excited. Rapunzel’s money must be good for something, he guesses.

The Captain isn’t there, probably off eating in her own quarters like Captains usually do. No point in associating with the common rabble, after all. Varian scoops food onto his plate, idly passing a large spoon to Hugo when he’s done with it, the motion happening without any thought. It seems that’s how it works, Hugo scooping food of his own before he passes off the spoon to Eugene, standing behind him. This is so goddamn weird, Hugo thinks to himself as he scoops more food onto his plate. Who the hell actually eats food like this on a working vessel?

The weirdness doesn’t end there, either. The way Hugo’s used to things is simple: after you win the scramble for rations, most people tend to immediately piss off to their own isolated corners of whatever ship they’re on, hiding away to eat in peace.

The crew of the Aphelion do it differently, because of course they do. When Hugo goes to leave the room, Varian grabs him by the sleeve, dragging him over to the large table he’d noticed last time they were in the room. Yong and Nuru are already there, as are Cassandra and Xavier, and a few others Hugo doesn’t have names for yet. Not that he cares, of course, because none of them matter in the grand scheme of things anyways, and why is he bothering to remember their names again?

Varian greets them with a smile, setting his food down and taking a seat. Hugo stands awkwardly for just a beat too long, holding his plate just a little too tightly, before Varian takes pity. The younger teen kicks out the empty chair next to him, gesturing for Hugo to take a seat. He does, looking around as people fill in about a third of the chairs, the lot of them clustering around one end of it. The head spot is empty, probably because it’s so close to the wall with the way the table’s jammed into the dining room. The gentle lull of conversation takes over, only growing when Lance and his daughters join as well, once everyone’s sat down. Another oddity, the kitchen staff eating with the rest of the crew.

“I just have no idea where they went!” Lance moans sadly, “I swear I made three dozen ginger molasses cookies, but now I can only find two dozen.”

“That’s rough, bud,” Eugene says, playing with the tines on his fork. “We haven’t even taken off yet and you’ve already lost your mind.”

Yong snickers from his place across from Hugo, as does Varian to his left. Hugo has to bite his lip to keep from laughing too. He’s got a reputation to uphold, after all.

Cassandra glares at them all, and they sit up a little straighter under her stare. The giggles stop, but then she smirks. “You guys tell me if he snaps,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “I need an excuse to toss him in the brig.”

Lance makes a dramatic gasp, clutching at his heart. “You wouldn’t!” he wails, “I am a single father, and you would throw me in the brig?”

“Absolutely,” Cassandra says blandly. “And your kids would help me.”

“We totally would,” Keira pipes up from her place next to Lance. “If you’re not around, bedtime is never.”

They all let up a little as Lance begins to blubber into his dinner, wailing about ungrateful children into his peas. They muddle through a little more awkward small talk, everyone dancing around the fact that Hugo doesn’t seem keen to join the conversation, until one of the doors flies open with a loud bang.

“Sorry I’m late!” Rapunzel crows, Pascal on her shoulder. “Got lost charting some stuff for tomorrow.”

She borderline skips past the table, grabbing a plate and humming as she loads it with food from the spread. Hugo nods to himself, ah that must be what the chair at the head of the table’s for. They all watch her spin around and come towards the table, and Hugo waits to be proven correct.

Therefore, when Rapunzel sets herself down to Hugo’s left, he’s left a little confused.

What kind of Captain eats with their crew? The absurdity of it throws Hugo for a loop, the sheer oddness confusing at best. Varian snickers by Hugo’s other side, watching as Rapunzel begins to shovel food into her mouth like she’s been starving for weeks. When she breaks for air she turns to Hugo, leaning an elbow onto the polished wood of the table and balancing her chin on her hand. She looks at him with excitement, bouncing in her seat. What an actual lunatic.

“So,” she says, her grin getting wider, “how was the rest of your afternoon?”

“Fantastic,” Varian says, answering for Hugo, but Rapunzel flicks a pea at him.

“Wasn’t asking you,” she says as Varian throws another pea back. She slaps it out of midair, obviously used to this. “I was asking Hugo. So?”

“Nah, it was good,” Hugo says, trying to school his face into a smile. “Very… educational.”

“It’s a lot at first,” Rapunzel nods. “But you’ll get used to it— I promise!”

Varian snorts, but doesn’t say anything. The conversation drifts then, easy and light like they’ve been doing this for years.

Hugo realizes with a start that they probably have.

He shuffles food around on his plate, unseeing as he begins to think of a game plan. It’s obvious that he’s going to have to tweak his original idea. It seems as though skulking around like he usually does is only going to seem more than a little suspicious with such a tightly knit crew. A bit of a wrench in the engine, but nothing he can’t handle. Donella’s counting on him, after all; it wouldn’t be due to let the boss down.

Xavier seems to be going on about some legend or another, the whole table politely tuning him out. Eugene seems to be almost asleep, borderline leaning on Cassandra as he balances his chin on his hand, elbow planted firmly on the table. Hugo can see a shimmer of something on his shoulder, startling when Pascal shifts into view with the faintest glimmer of shifting colour. God what a creepy thing to make. The chameleon shaped automaton wiggles on Eugene’s shoulder before letting his tongue fly, catching Eugene right in the ear. He wakes up with a shriek, loudy screaming as he jolts upright.

The whole table erupts into laughter, even Xavier. Hugo can hear Rapunzel gasping for breath through the loud laughs, cackling at her husband’s expense. Hugo can see Varian out of the corner of his eye, the shorter boy nearly face first in his dinner as his shoulders shake with giggles. Hugo fully turns to him, ignoring Eugene’s howls about goddamn awful frogs, and sees Varian just as he snorts on his own giggles, a hand coming up to cover his mouth. Hugo stares for just a second, caught up in the sight of it—

Cute.

—Oh. Oh, fuck no, he is not going there. Even if Varian isn’t half bad to look at, he’s still a certified pain in the ass, not to mention part of the crew Hugo is here to rob. No amount of sass or big, baby blue eyes will ever change that. At the end of the day, Varian’s merely an obstacle between Hugo and his prize, and there is no way Hugo is letting anything stop him. Hugo tears his eyes away from Varian, shaking himself. Think of the money, stupid, he tells himself, think of the fortune.

The laughter dies down after a few more seconds, Eugene finally getting Pascal off his shoulder and onto the table. The little automaton scurries back to it’s master, Rapunzel scooping him up and petting along his metal back with a coo. It reminds Hugo of Varian and that stupid raccoon, the way she treats the automaton like it’s a pet. Strange.

Dinner settles into a companionable silence after that, everyone too busy stuffing their faces to really make conversation. This, Hugo can already guess, is probably the quietest they ever get on this ship. Hell, he’d even put money on it. They’re nothing if not a lively bunch, to say the least. Not really Hugo’s style of people; the whole peppy, loving-life, sappy crew that children dream to be a part of someday.

It’s disgusting, is what it is.

Rapunzel doesn’t try to loop Hugo into any more conversations, thankfully, the Captain disappearing from dinner just as abruptly as she’d entered. “Sorry guys!” she says, borderline tossing her plate into a square bucket by the kitchen window. “Can’t stay long, lots to do before tomorrow!”

Everyone calls their goodbyes, but she’s out the door in a swish of purple fabric before many of them can even speak. Varian just laughs and gathers his own dishes, holding a hand out for Hugo’s as well. The blond stands when Varian gestures with his chin, following across the room to a strange set of three pipes, all embedded in the wall. They’re brass, blending in with the warm wood well enough that Hugo hadn’t noticed them until now.

“Forks, knives, spoons,” Varian says, gesturing to each one. He holds a fork up in display before putting it into the tube labeled forks in looping, whimsical blue-painted script. The other pipes are labeled as well, and under each label the pipes have a small metal button in the center. Once the fork is in Varian taps the button with his thumb, the tube making a little shwoop-ting noise as the fork is dropped down into it. There’s the tiniest puff of steam before a little piece of metal pops back up as Varian releases the button, blocking the pipe once again.

“I made Lance an automatic dishwasher for his birthday last year,” Varian explains, “It’s not… delicate enough for anything made of glass, but for silverware it’s great.”

Hugo snorts, his brain running a mile a minute as to how to make it work for glasses and the like before he has to stop himself. He’s not here to make friends, and he’s certainly not here to be helpful. Hugo tries the knives chute for himself, delighting as the cutlery disappears into the void below. He might have to ask Donella about getting that for their own ship, really, not that Hugo would ever give Varian the satisfaction of Hugo asking how he made it.

They’ve only just made it out of the dining hall, before Varian is nearly bowled over by a frantic man with red hair. The new guy— tall and gangly and looking one good breeze away from falling right over the edge— is the throes of panic, half-way ranting even as he grabs at Varian’s shoulders. Varian holds up his hands and backpedals, nearly falling into Hugo, shying away from the frantic energy of the man in front of them.

“Woah, woah— Feldspar, what’s happened now?” Varian asks, not-so-subtly trying to inch away as the redhead gets closer.

“It’s water pipe eighteen!” Feldspar— Hugo doesn’t even know where to start with a name like that— crows, nearly tugging his own hair out. “It’s popped again, I don’t know what happened!”

“Again?” Varian mutters. “We’re not even in the air this time!”

Feldspar only nods, grabbing at Varian’s wrist. The short boy sighs, looking back to Hugo with a scowl. “Stay here,” he says, already letting Feldspar tug him away. “I won’t be long.”

Hugo nods, smiling and giving him a thumbs up. It’s obvious that Varian doesn’t believe the false innocence for even a second—Hugo can tell by the way his eyes narrow and Varian’s head cocks to the side—but Feldspar is already screeching about water damage and oh by the Gods it’s everywhere, and so Varian has no choice but to follow the hysterical man back to whence he came.

Hugo keeps his grin in place until they round the corner. The minute Varian loses sight of him, Hugo drops the grin like it’s wronged him, pivoting once on his heel and walking right away.

“Stay there, Hugo,” the blond mutters to himself, pitching his voice to be deliberately wheedling and annoying. “I’ll be right back... buncha bullshit.”

The halls of the Aphelion are long and winding, but nothing Hugo can’t handle. He skates his way through with ease, eventually finding his way back up to the deck. Hugo steps out from a different door than he’d come in from, this one decidedly smaller and more unassuming than the one Varian had shown him earlier this afternoon. It’s still in the vault door style Hugo’s noticed they like to use, a great iron door embedded in the wood with a spinning wheel for a handle.

Hugo slips out onto the deck as quietly as he can, cautiously closing the metal door behind him. It ghosts along on perfectly oiled hinges, silent in the inky black of the late evening. The deck is empty, save for Hugo, but he still takes his time. He needs to find where the cargo hold is, and soon—

A sudden bang comes from the dock below. Hugo drops to the polished wood of the deck on reflex, dipping down so he’s nearly pressed up against the boards. He chances moving towards the edge of the deck, peeking over the immaculate railing and down to the dockyard below.

Four large figures stand on the copper panels that make up the docks, all of them wrapping chains around… a very large something. Hugo perks up with interest when he sees it. Bingo, something in him whispers. Donella had never told him exactly what the Aphelion had been transporting, only that it was incredibly valuable. From the shady way Varian had dodged Hugo’s questioning earlier in the day, Hugo can hedge his bets: it’s the kind of thing that can make a man rich beyond their wildest dreams.

The box seems to be a containment chamber of some kind, a five foot squared box of metal panels all bolted together with perfect accuracy. There’s a single porthole of glass bolted into one of the sides, and Hugo can only justsee a neon green light filtering through… is that ice? Sure enough the window is frozen over, and Hugo can even pick out the beginnings of hoarfrost crawling up the corners of the chamber.

Puffs of frozen air seep slowly from the seams in the metal box. Liquid nitrogen, Hugo thinks to himself, sinking down a little deeper as the side of the Aphelion slides open, a great door in the outer wall of the ship. The men wrapping the containment chamber finish their work, and a metal crane extends from the guts of the Aphelion. This is pretty standard for larger pieces of cargo, of course, to bring it directly into the cargo bay from the outside, but in the dead of night? With minimal crew to get it in place?

Suspicious.

Hugo watches as the great metal box is lifted into the air, lifting off the cart the men had brought it in, the Aphelion reeling it in like a caught fish—

“Hugo?!” a frantic voice calls behind him, and Hugo whirls around, half-rising from his bannister hiding spot to see Varian, standing right behind him and looking undeniably pissed. “Hugo, you’re not supposed to be up here!”

If anything Varian looks spastic, and when he hears the commotion being made from the cargo being loaded onto the Aphelion, he outright blanches, going pale in the face. He grabs at Hugo’s sleeve and starts to pull.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” Varian says, dragging Hugo away. The blond thinks about putting up a fight, but logic tells him that would end badly. Or, at least, with Hugo being fired before he can even get what he came for. He lets Varian drag him away, chancing one last look back.

He gets one last glimpse of the box, finally in the Aphelion, the doors beginning to inch quietly shut. In the next instant Varian has pulled him out of range, but the damage is already done.

Bingo, Hugo thinks again.

Varian bullies him off the deck, forcing him down into the labyrinthian hallways of the ship. “Why the hell were you up there?” Varian demands, stopping them once they are well and truly away from the deck. “You were supposed to wait for me near the dining hall, why did you wander off?”

“Got bored,” Hugo says, shrugging. Varian’s eyes narrow, as though trying to intimidate him. It’s adorable. “Needed some fresh air, goggles, is that a crime now?”

“It is when I told you to stay put,” the shorter boy snaps. “That cargo’s confidential; you weren’t supposed to know about it.”

“Need-to-know-basis?” Hugo asks with a smirk, remembering Varian’s words from earlier that afternoon. If anything, Varian’s scowl deepens, his teeth gritting just a little tighter.

“Exactly,” Varian hisses, “and you weren’t supposed to know, so you’d do well to forget everything you saw up there.”

Hugo holds his hands up in a placating gesture. “Sure, goggles, can’t be that important.”

Varian huffs out a frustrated noise, and Hugo smirks. Better to feign nonchalance now that he’s been caught; if he tries to dig now Varian would be more suspicious than he already is. Varian can’t prove Hugo was snooping, and that’s enough to keep Hugo safe… in theory.

The shorter boy looks ready to punch Hugo, but he can’t, and it’s so delicious. Hugo would laugh, if he weren’t so irritated.

Varian finally settles for clenching his fist in the air with frustration, then motions for Hugo to follow him further down the hall. This is a new part of the Aphelion, one lined with doors on every side of the hallways. Varian leads Hugo to one of the doors near the end, opening it and gesturing for Hugo to follow inside.

He does, without question.

“Your room’s not done until tomorrow,” Varian mutters as they walk into a sparse bedroom. Hugo makes a face at the room: the automaton, Ruddiger or whatever, is already sitting on the bed, fast asleep. So creepy. “You’re bunking with me, like Rapunzel said.”

Yeah, Hugo knows; he hasn’t exactly forgotten that he’s going to have to share a room with this pain in the ass. He steps inside and stands still in the center of the room, hearing Varian close the door behind them.

Despite himself, his hands curl into fists, half-hidden by his sides. Irritation bubbles bitter and acidic in his chest. He knows better, he knew going in this job wouldn’t be that easy—but still. They were loading the stupid thing right in front of him, and if it weren’t for Varian, Hugo could have…!

Damn it.

He lets out a thin breath through his teeth, a low hiss— then turns and meets Varian’s narrow gaze with a bright smile. Varian looks annoyed to see it; Hugo smiles harder in retaliation. Behind his back, his fists clench. It’s been a long day, a tiring day, and Varian is the cause of most of the bullshit. Hugo is allowed to be pissed about it, okay?

“So?” Hugo says, and if it takes more effort than usual to keep his voice light, well. “Where am I sleeping?”

Varian’s expression sours at the reminder. “Right,” he mutters, and makes for the far wall, towards a small bolted dresser with shuttered doors. “Eugene should have put some blankets in here somewhere…”

The room is cozy, Hugo notes, almost absently; sparse and clean and rarely used, the bed made and sheets crisp. Something tells Hugo that Varian doesn’t spend much time here—wherever his workspace on this ship, Hugo would bet good money it’s a disorganized mess with a cot under the desk for all nighters.

Still, the room isn’t shabby—a nice size, with a dresser and side table and a wide bed. There’s a large porthole window looking out the right side of the ship, into the dockyard, and a copper lantern hangs from the ceiling like a droplet, swinging faintly with the sway of the ship. A heavy shag carpet takes up most of the floor, a dark gray turned multi-colored from past experiments. The rest of the walls are taken up by shelves, stuffed full of books and materials and spare parts. The smell of oil lingers faintly in the air. If Hugo hadn’t been so irritated, he might have even found it nice.

Instead he finds it vexing, and as Varian shakes out the extra bedding and lays it down, Hugo rakes his eyes down the walls and feels a sneer curl his lips. “Homey,” he says, mild as the weather, and makes it sound like half-an insult. “I bet it’s real fun to fix those shelves up again once one rock sends them sprawling, hm?”

“They’re locked in with magnets. My design.” Hugo scowls; Varian looks up, grinning a little. “Also, all furniture is bolted down, too, to avoid exactly that.”

It’s clever. Hugo hates it. “Lovely,” he says dryly, as unimpressed as he can make it, and wanders across the room with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. His eyes catch on the dresser. There’s only one thing on it: a metallic frame with a small sepia photograph, faded and worn with time. The photo is of a young boy, obviously Varian given the matching stripe in his hair, and a man—tall and broad-shouldered with deep set eyes, smiling wide and fond at the child sitting up on his shoulders.

“Who’s that?” Hugo wonders, looking at the frame, picking it from the dresser. The magnet sticks a bit, but he pries it up pretty easy. “Daddy dearest? I don’t think we’ve been introduced. What’s he do— swab the deck?”

Varian’s voice is very quiet. “Put it down.”

Hugo looks back, mocking. “What—”

He goes silent, his mouth snapping shut. Varian isn’t even looking at him. He’s staring at the photo, pale and a little wild-eyed, hands clenched. “Put it down,” he says again, and there’s nothing in his voice at all.

Hugo’s irritation flatlines; something in his gut drops. Shit. He’s crossed a line, somewhere, without even knowing it. He puts down the photo at once, stepping back, hands raised and empty. “I didn’t mean to—”

Varian shoulders past him, dead-eyed and cold. “Good night.”

“I—”

“Good night.”

Hugo takes the hint. He edges towards his bed roll, lips pressing thin, uncomfortable. He’d just wanted to push some buttons, not—this. He’s not sure what this is, or why he feels vaguely ill. Is this guilt? Oh, shit.

Varian shucks off his coat, under the covers before Hugo can even blink. Hugo settles on his own blanket pile just as the light snaps off. It’s dark.

Hugo looks down at his hands, staring until his eyes adjust and he can see the shape of them in the dark, listening to the ragged drag of Varian’s breathing. He doesn’t move, not yet. He just sits, and listens, and watches his hands.

And he waits. Just to see. Just in case.

But Varian doesn’t speak to him again.

Hugo opens his eyes to a dark morning.

A headache pulses behind his eyelids almost at once, and Hugo grits his teeth and presses a hand against his temples. He hisses a breath between his teeth as silently as he can. He’d planned for this, when he’d finally laid down last night to sleep—there’s no better time for snooping on the ship then in the dead-hours of morning, after all—but still. He’d had a long day yesterday, and a late night, and something in him despairs at the dark sky he sees outside Varian’s window. The sun isn’t even remotely up yet.

Ughhhhhhh.

He climbs to his feet, silent as a grave, pulling up his coat and boots to take with him. He stands, listening intently for any change in Varian's breathing, and once satisfied he moves noiselessly to the door. It’s time to get to work at his actual job.

He slips out the door, and eases it closed; it clips shut with only the slightest of thumps. So far, so good. Hugo pulls on his coat as he pads his way down the hall, boots still dangling from his hands. The hallway is dead silent, and dark, only one out of every four lanterns still lit. Hugo takes his time, listening, but no one else seems to be awake yet…

No, wait. Hugo stills mid-step, eyes widening. Because there, if he strains his ears…

Footsteps, high above him.

The deck.

...What was it Varian had said, yesterday? Leaving tomorrow, and I mean tomorrow. Which means—a morning lift off.

It’s ass o’clock in the morning, and the rest of the crew has apparently chosen this to be the time to trope on back indoors. So…

Hugo closes his eyes and rubs at the bridge of his nose, tired all the way to his bones. Oh, he thinks. Fuck me.

Well. He’s awake now, no changing that, and there’s no way he’ll be getting back to sleep anytime soon. Hugo scrubs his hands through his hair and kneels down to put on his boots. He won’t be able to go to any of the places he needs to check out, but he can still take a look around. And if anyone asks, he’ll just say he couldn’t sleep.

Still: so annoying.

He steps up onto the main deck already frowning, and squeezes his eyes shut at what he finds—people, not enough to be loud but definitely too many to hide from, walking silent across the ship, carrying crates and tying down final shipments. They speak in muted, hushed voices; soft laughter drifts across the deck. Far-off over the edge of the deck, he can see sparks of lightning hanging in the air, Corona’s floating shields up and running even in this early hour. It’s still dark, but this high up Hugo can see the thin line of blue starting to band the horizon, the gold hue creeping into the distant clouds: dawn, slowly but surely on its way.

Hugo looks away, and beelines for the stairs leading up to the upper deck; if he’s going to be out here, he might as well get a view. He gets half-way up before he realizes the deck isn’t as empty as first thought—there, in the far corner, elbows resting on the railing and her eyes turned towards a slumbering Corona, is Rapunzel.

Hugo stills, preparing to back away—but it’s too late. She turns to look at him, and catches his gaze. Hugo doesn’t move.

After a long pause, Rapunzel smiles at him, something hushed in her expression. She gestures him to her, and Hugo, though reluctant, goes.

He steps up beside her, gingerly resting his elbows on the railing in a mimicry of her pose, and turns his face to the city too so he doesn’t have to look at her. He’s not sure what to make of this Captain, all things considered; she’s childish and naive and preppy, too genuinely cheerful by half, and these are all things Hugo holds in disdain. And yet, at the same time, the paradox: she is Captain of the Aphelion, the fastest ship in all seven skies, the jewel of the northern skyline. She is a legend.

He doesn’t understand her at all.

Hugo turns his face up into the wind, taking comfort from the cold. Corona is a dark blot on the slowly lightening skyline, as asleep as cities ever get, the lamplights burning a distant orange and the trains all silent. It is a dark city lit only by faint, distant dollaps of light like fireflies, but as Hugo watches, a thin band of gold haloes the highest point, the first spire of the Sun’s temple, a thin circle of sunlit glow like a crown.

The silence stretches, and Hugo shifts, a little uneasy. “What,” he says, for lack of anything better. “Homesick already?”

Rapunzel laughs quietly. “Do I look homesick?”

He glances at her from the corner of his eye and falters, because— no, maybe not homesick. Hugo doesn’t even know what that would look like. But there is something muted in her, something sad, a strange sort of melancholy as she looks out over the city.

“I don’t know,” Hugo says, and looks away, discomforted by his own honesty.

Rapunzel is quiet again. Then she sighs, soft, a heavy exhale. “No,” she says. “No, not homesick. I never really miss Corona, though I probably should.” Her smile twists, goes funny at the edges. “But no. Aphelion, this ship, she’s home to me. Corona is… just a place.”

Hugo makes a face at that, utterly involuntary, and turns away too late. Rapunzel hums, thoughtful. “You don’t agree?”

He thins his lips, fingers curling on the railing. He shouldn’t—it’s stupid and he knows better, never antagonize a Captain, and especially not her; Hugo can’t afford an enemy this early into the game.

But he’s tired, and his head hurts, and he’s so sick of it, this goody-two-shoes crew with their sweet sayings and friendship bracelets and lack of anything resembling a sense of reality, and his fingers are digging into the wood before he can even think to stop himself.

“What’s the deal with that?” he asks, unable to keep from sounding snide. “With all that ‘the ship is home’ shit. I mean—come on.”

Rapunzel tilts her head, brow furrowing. “I… I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean— ” He gestures, expansive, to the ship, something tight and angry winding in his chest, like laughter, only cruel. Because home? The Aphelion is beautiful, yes; Donella’s ship is lovely too, in its way. But Hugo has never been so stupid as to call a ship home. Ships are fallible, breakable, and crews shift like the tides; it’s a place of commerce and trading and battle. Not home, whatever home is, whatever that sort of thing looks like. Home stays on the ground; home is just Hugo, and all the riches in the world; home is—not necessary. Not needed.

“Look, I don’t mean any offense, Captain, but—how can a ship be a home?” He scoffs, scornful, and shakes his head, laughing under his breath. “It’s a place of employment. It’s a job.”

Rapunzel is staring at him now. She’s turned away from the city entirely, looking right at him. Her eyes are pale green and sharp as glass, and all at once Hugo realizes what he’s saying, who he’s saying it to, and he clenches his jaw and braces himself and waits for the verdict. Gods, if he gets fired over this, before liftoff, just because he couldn’t resist being mouthy, Donella is going to kill him. Hugo won’t even blame her. This was such a bad idea, in hindsight, so fucking stupid—

But after a moment Rapunzel blinks, and instead of going cold, or angry, or commanding, she does the most baffling thing she’s done yet: she smiles. At Hugo, directly at him, and it is a warm smile, a fond smile, a little crooked. As if he has said something funny, instead of something cruel.

And all she says is: “Give it some time. You’ll see.”

Hugo stares at her, utterly floored, for the first time unsure of what to say or what’s happening. And Rapunzel shakes her head, still smiling that strange, soft smile, and before Hugo can move she reaches out and pats his shoulder, once, twice, and then she takes her hand away and heads back to the stairs.

“I didn’t say it earlier, so I’ll tell it to you now, I think,” she says, face turned up to the wind. She’s smiling soft and small, and looks at him from over her shoulder. “Welcome aboard, Hugo. I really am happy to have you.”

By the time Hugo can even think to answer, she is already gone.

He stays there for a long time, just staring, not sure of what to do, or what to think about it all. For the first time in his whole life he feels—he’s not sure what this feeling is. Like being seen, or being known, like something Donella did at times, very rarely. Those brief snatches of a moment, when she’d look at him and her lips would curl into the smallest of smiles; those rare, rare times when she would reach out and ruffle his hair like he was her own. Something bizarre and strange and—

Warm.

He feels shaky. It unsettles him. He doesn’t like it—Hugo draws into himself, rubbing hard at his arms, turning back to the railing. He exhales, watching his breath mist, and shivers for a moment in the morning breeze. He—

He doesn’t know what to think.

Down in the dockyard, people are starting to shout. Dock workers are crossing to and fro around the shipyard, tossing ropes and chains, beginning to unbolt the line. The ramp up to the main deck begins a slow, laborious journey of being rolled back up for storage. The ship is waking up, getting started. He can feel the rumble of the engine starting to buzz beneath his feet with a distant hum. They’re going to fly, soon. In a few minutes’ time, they’ll be in the sky.

Hugo doesn’t move. As the blue line of the horizon turns golden with sunrise, he watches as the Aphelionslowly but surely awakens into life. The chains holding the balloon down fall first; next the fires of the engine, filling up the envelope. Muted yells are traded across the deck, and in the distance Hugo can hear Rapunzel calling orders. The sails are hoisted tall and high; in the back of the airship, the great copper turbine starts to spin. And little by little, bit by bit, the Aphelion starts to rise.

Hugo stares down at the city, unmoving. He can see the puff of steam rising from the first morning train; the wind is starting to pick up, a comforting howl in his ears. The ship rocks beneath his feet as she settles into the wind currents, and Hugo grips tight at the railing, riding out the first fits and starts of a ship finally waking up.

And just like that, they leave Corona behind.

It takes almost no time at all to leave the dock. Even less to pass the lightning shields, those chained-linked copper panels shining bright in the sun, a loose circle around the city. After all the work it took to get here… leaving Corona takes only a moment.

As the first bit of sun crests the distant hills, Corona is already falling into silhouette. It’s beautiful. Hugo has never put much stock in cities, but… even he has to admit it. The flying city is shadowed and soft in the early morning light, outlined in shining gold, and for a moment he can truly, honestly understand why it’s named for the Sun. There is something ethereal about it. Something fragile and light like a dream, a glow that exists only now, in these in-between daybreak hours.

He watches as Corona fades away, swallowed up by the clouds, and it is only when the city is at last out of view that Hugo lets up on his grip, exhaling hard.

He bows his head over his arms, feeling a tension he didn’t know he’d had ease away from his shoulders. He laughs, a little, then remembers the Captain and her words and—that, whatever that was, and feels the smile falter and fall off his face.

He exhales into his elbows. He lifts his head, staring blankly into the clouds. What had she meant by that? You’ll see. He thinks of last night’s dinner, of Varian’s hiccuping laughter, of the way Rapunzel looked at the dawn, and—

And he thinks: Does it matter?

Does it matter what she meant? Does it matter what she wants? Does it matter that Lance has two kids and Varian snorts when he laughs; does any of it actually matter at all? Of course not. Of fucking course not. Hugo’s not here to play games or play at being their friend—he’s here for a reason, for a job, for the money at the end of the journey. Their words don’t hold any meaning. They don’t hold any meaning, not in the grand scheme of it all.

Hugo’s expression firms. His eyes narrow. His fingers curl. He shakes his head, inwardly marvelling at his own stupidity, because—seriously. What a joke. That he’s hesitated at all, that he’s wasting time on this… he knows better than that. Or, he should.

The Captain—he’s underestimated her, he thinks. He understands a little better how she came to command the ship. For a moment, despite everything, despite all logic—

Hugo shakes his head again, shakes the last echoes of that conversation away, and straightens up to his full height, yawning into one hand. Stupid, really. He knows better, he always has; at least he’s gotten one good thing out of that odd, odd conversation. He’ll have to keep an eye on the Captain after all— she’s more of a threat than he first thought, and that means… Hugo’s going to have to watch his step.

He has a job to do. He has a treasure to steal. Corona is gone and the Aphelion is in flight: six months left, now, till they touch down in the City of the Moon. Six months to plan—to prepare—to pull off the best heist this side of the northern sky.

Hugo closes his eyes, and inhales deeply, and his conviction settles hard and cold in his chest. He’s ready. He has to be. The board is set—the pieces in place—the main players chosen. Hugo versus Aphelion; Hugo versus Captain Rapunzel. Everything is as it should be. All that’s left is to play the game.

All that’s left is to win.

Hugo opens his eyes to the first dawn of many to come, and grins.

“Game on.”

#tangled the series #varian #varian and the seven kingdoms #varian and the 7 kingdoms #hugo tangled #varigo #tts #rapunzel's tangled adventure #rta #rapunzel #varian the alchemist #eugene fitzherbert #cassandra #vat7k #fic: cor meum #chapters #chapter

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delldarling · 4 years

Text

choices | harper & peregrine pt.iii

looking for pt.i or pt.ii?

female faerie x body/gender neutral reader x male faerie 2.1k sfw | found family, hugging - not strictly written as asexual or aromantic, but definitely holds heavy hints of it

You follow Peregrine on slightly unsteady feet, half wondering if your first step on the melted stair of the candle tree is going to be soft. When you test it, half pulling Peregrine to a stop, you find it surprisingly solid. A small breath escapes you, a smile curling your mouth as you move with more surety, with purpose.

“Is this place… Not to your liking? Strange?” Peregrine asks, teeth worrying at his lower lip. He looks concerned about your answer, turning his head to look over the area surrounding his home as if with new eyes.

“A bit? Strange, I mean,” You offer, not wanting to hurt his feelings. “Amazing, too though. I- I don’t know when you were last in the human realm, but we generally do not have houses made of candle trees.” You glance back, gaze darting through the surrounding woods, and then turn to him once more, taking another step up the porch stairs. No need to make them tarry any longer on his steps.

Peregrine still seems to be mulling over your words as he leads you inside though, thumb stroking idly over the heel of your hand, calluses catching on your skin. The inside of his house is clean, if cluttered. Shelves are bowed heavily with items you’ve never seen before, gleaming glass and trinkets that seem to move out of the corner of your eye, and the main room reminds you a bit of a nest as he leads you into it. There’s heavily mismatched furniture - made of strange materials like still growing grass or blossoms - in a semicircle, crowded with blankets and throw pillows in various shades of warm and cool colors. There’s a large candle stump in the middle, bigger around than the three of you mushed together, wick spiraling up into the air. It reminds you vividly of a firepit, and you’re half tempted to ask Peregrine to light it, just to see, though the room is plenty warm enough.

Harper follows you in, closing the door securely behind her, and then moves around you to deposit her fiddle carefully on one of the arm chairs. The grass on it shifts, as if a wind has blown, and then grows longer, as if it's trying to help cradle the fiddle to gain Harper's favor.

“What questions do you have for us?” Harper asks, sitting primly on the edge of her seat, arranging her gauzy looking dress just so around her thighs.

Peregrine totes you over to the selection of seats, releasing your hand only reluctantly so you can choose and follow suit. You decide on a seat in the middle, bridging the gap they seem determined to make between them. It’s overflowing with blooms that hold their shape, even as you sit on them. Hesitant, you brush your fingers over the blossoms, pleased to find that your touch doesn’t seem to bruise them, that just like the grassy armchair, they seem to shift to make you more comfortable. Your lips want to tremble with humor - memory flora. You clear your throat to make yourself concentrate.

“Peregrine played the song that made me wander?” You ask, even though they’ve all but cemented that particular answer already.

“I did,” he murmurs, finally sitting in a seat adjacent to yours. He arranges his robe just as carefully as Harper, and the sight makes you want to laugh. You keep it down, though you don’t make any effort to hide your smile. They share such similarities, even though they try desperately to act differently. “The song is meant to bring changelings to Faerie. To Call you home, if you’re willing.”

“The only trouble is, you didn’t reach Peregrine after you heard the song,” Harper says sharply, cat’s eyes narrowed and focused entirely upon Peregrine’s pouting mouth. He leans away in his chair, as if he can escape the ire in her gaze.

“I was… Too slow?” You ask, confused about why exactly it was that you missed finding him. Both of them make sudden disgusted noises.

“No. Peregrine should have taken better care, should have waited even if it took days, before coming back home,” Harper starts, though her thin shoulders slump when Peregrine whimpers mournfully under his breath.

“I’ve been trying to correct this for years,” he says, reaching for the pan flute still belted to his waist. He strokes over the reeds with care, eyebrows drawn together as his gaze follows the path of his fingers. “Every night I play-”

“And look where that’s gotten you?” Harper shoots back. “Calling continually from behind the veil of Faerie, leaving anyone who might answer unable to reach you. A wanderer, Peregrine!! Did you not hear? The potential injury to their physical body alone-”

“I’m alright,” you offer, though tension is rising in the room, and you’re not entirely sure that either of them hear you. “I’ve never actually run into trouble when I wander about, honestly, and it’s always been a little strange-”

“If you stay within Faerie, if you choose to- to come visit, you should stay with Harper,” Peregrine interrupts, turning to you. His cheeks have gone dark and ruddy with embarrassment. “If you want to stay, or even visit at all. I won’t blame you if you don’t. After all, I’ve failed you once already, leaving you there, who is to say that I wou-”

“My Call wouldn’t have been answered if they hadn’t heard yours, long ago!” Harper interjects, half rising off of her seat. The grass clings to her skirts, like it’s trying to get her to sit back down. To calm before she says something she cannot take back. “The geas was a Call to Faerie. Just because it was I that was answered doesn’t mean that you’re beholden to me-”

“It’s a reasonable decision though, isn’t it?” Peregrine throws out, lower lip jutted out. “You didn’t leave anyone aching in the human realm, lonely and desperate for-”

You glance at either of their faces, but it almost feels like they don’t realize you’re here any longer. Harper is arguing for Peregrine to reflect on his mistake and move past it, but Peregrine seems determined to wallow under the blame. They volley words back and forth, neither of them noticing when you slump in your seat. Having them argue over you isn’t really swaying you towards a decision, not when you can see both their points, not when you’re surrounded by.. By magic on all sides and you still have that hollow ache of longing trapped inside your chest.

“Shouldn’t it be my choice?” You ask, raising your voice. They stop their arguing, turning to stare at you with wide eyes and open mouths. The room has gotten too hot, and with a start, you realize that the candle stump in the middle is now blazing cheerfully, casting the room with shadows. “You said-”

“We did,” they reply, in tandem again. Both of them turn their heads, looking at opposite sides of the room. “You always have a choice,” they both add.

Harper’s tongue flicks out to wet her lips. “Shall we lay out our strengths, to help you make a better informed decision?”

“Or perhaps you’d like a moment of silence,” Peregrine murmurs, hands sliding to his knees like he’s about to get to his feet. “After our, our bickering, surely you-”

“Silence,” you agree. “But I’ll go outside, just give me a moment,” you tell them and then get to your feet, heading for the front door. It’s hard not to glance back at them, especially when Peregrine makes a strangled noise. You’re half expecting the landscape to have changed when you open it, but you’re still standing in the midst of the candle forest, warm light cast in pools on the ground, pixies flitting from tree to tree. You close the door behind you, taking up Peregrine’s stance at his porch railing, and smile wryly.

The spot is a good one for thinking, and watching the pixies fly is beautiful enough to capture your attention without making you forget why it was you came out here. It’s almost like… They’re offering themselves as some kind of host family, opening their doors, their world to you this way. You can’t deny that it’s irritating, knowing you’ve been wandering the streets searching for that tune without any actual hope of finding it. But strangely, you can’t summon up anger. Maybe it’s this place. Maybe it’s their ridiculous antics, and how they mirror each other and obviously care for one another, even though they’re opposites.

Your eyes trace over the whirling wax branches of one of the candle trees, coming to rest on the burning wick at the end. Idly, you wonder who lights them.

...Either of them would tell you, if you asked. Harper would probably be succinct, but melodious, giving you the answer like a puzzle piece to mull over, to fit in with the rest. Peregrine is no doubt the type to tell you the reason with extravagance, making even the most simple things sound magical and exciting.

Music begins to play from inside the cottage. Fiddle and pan flute together. Just like the night you’d first heard Peregrine’s song, the music is heady, makes your shoulders grow lax and your eyelids flutter closed. You can see it all again, how you’d frozen on your dim doorstep, how you’d been lamenting something- something unimportant, now, and then the music had reached your ears. The wind had picked up and a buoyant warmth had filled your chest near to bursting and after a moment - or several, you still weren’t sure - it had felt like it’d begun to move away. You’d started searching that very night, had been convinced at first that one of the neighbors must have been playing something, but everyone you asked had just stared at you with blank faces.

The song nearly drives you to tears before the constant ache you’ve carried fades. You have to blink the tears away, to wipe quickly at the corners of your eyes and let your nerves calm. You don’t want to go back inside and have Peregrine throw himself at your feet, thinking you’re upset. For as nerve wracking and strange as this has been… The choice is actually easy.

As soon as the door opens, the music stops, both of them staring at you with guilt in their eyes, written clearly in the corners of their mouths, in the way they clutch their instruments. You wonder what finally made them decide to try the song in tandem.

“The geas,” you say quietly, closing the door behind you. “The compulsion to search, it’s gone.”

“Of course!” Harper says, expression gone tight when Peregrine wilts in his seat. “The completion of the song helped that. You won’t have to worry about it again.”

“I don’t think that’s the reason,” you say, feeling a little more sure of yourself. “I think I simply found what I’ve been missing. You say the geas was meant to call me Home?”

Peregrine and Harper blink in surprise, and then nod, one after the other.

“When I’m here, when I visit, or when I decide if I’d like to stay - I’d like to spend time with both of you. I wouldn’t have searched without Peregrine, but I wouldn’t have found Faerie at all without Harper.” You can’t well make a decision to stay after knowing them for a scant hour or two, can’t pick or choose between them when they both seem to be good hearted, when they both seem to want you to feel at peace.

Peregrine bursts out of his seat, and you think he might be about to hug you, but Harper catches at his arm, stopping him and arching a brow.

“Besides,” you tease, trying to ignore the heat crawling up the back of your neck, “I think it’d be more fun with both of you around. Your opinions alone-”

Peregrine doesn’t shake Harper off, he picks her up, ignoring her yowl of embarrassment and crosses the room, crushing you both into a hug. “Wonderful! Lovely! Oh, surely you still have questions for us? If I don’t know, Harper can tell you, but before that - you must tell us about yourself. Do you like sugared violets?”

“Peregrine,” Harper snaps, but her tone, the way she sniffs, like she’s embarrassed and yet fighting a smile - this time you let yourself laugh, relaxing into their hold on you.

You’ve felt a… rightness since you arrived. A settling in your chest, in your bones. You don’t know that you can quite call this place Home yet, but it could be. They could make it that way. You desperately hope that they will.

#exophilia #monster lover #monster boyfriend #monster girlfriend #faerie x reader #female faerie x reader #male faerie x reader

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incensuous · 4 years

Text

demon!NezuTan AU

fandom: KNY character(s): Nezuko/Tanjirou (not explicit, but they are together), Yoshiteru (Zenitsu), Aoba (Inosuke) rating: T, pretty gen tho words: 1522

basically, what if NezuTan had stayed demons and lived to the present-day. mild spoilers for ch 205/end of KNY

read on AO3

“Are you reading those stories again, Yoshiteru?” Aoba sits down across his friend, at a cafe, rolling his eyes. “We’re supposed to be studying, not reading some sci-fi, fantasy stuff.”

“Hey, my great-grandpa wrote these, you know!” Yoshiteru huffs. “Apparently, he was good friends with the Kamado demon siblings, and helped in the fight against Muzan. So I might be related to the reason Japan is still standing today!”

“Okay, sure, then maybe I am, too,” Aoba rolls his eyes again, before opening his book. “Can we get to business, now? I want to go into research. I’m not gonna make it there if I don’t get into the university I want.”

“Ugh, you’re so boring, Aoba,” Yoshiteru grumbles. “I think they’re real.”

At the sight of his friend’s incredulous face, Yoshiteru frowns. “You don’t think they’re real? There’s so many sources and stories about them--”

“Yeah, just a bunch of people spreading the same rumors, and wanting to get some attention,” Aoba shrugs.

“But these stories are from all over Japan, and there are even some from outside too in recent decades. And they corroborate, even though there’s no way these people would know of each others’ stories--not back then.”

Aoba raises an eyebrow. “Well, even if those stories are true, there certainly aren’t any demons now.”

“Probably because they don’t want us to know they’re around. And maybe the Kamado siblings got rid of most of them!”

He snorts. “What next? You’re probably gonna say the Kamado siblings are still running around in modern day Tokyo, being vigilantes or something.”

His friend’s eyes sparkle.

Aoba grimaces. “You actually do think that? I bet you’re only so interested because Kamado Nezuko was said to be a great beauty.”

Yoshiteru leans forward, eyes ablaze, and practically drooling. “She is a great beauty! My great-grandpa writes how any man seeing her would be overwhelmed with emotion!”

“You’re disgusting. Sounds like your great-grandpa was the same.”

Suddenly, Yoshiteru’s eyes intensify and Aoba sighs, because he knows that look.

“Aoba! Your six o’clock!” Yoshiteru half-whispers, as if trying to be discrete, but nothing about the boy was discrete, from his personality to the volume of his voice.

Regardless, the cafe is quite bustling, so Aoba hopes whoever Yoshiteru is pointing out to him hasn’t heard the whisper.

When he stealthily tries to peek over his shoulder (not that he really cares, but he knows his friend wouldn’t let it alone), he’s briefly worried they were overheard after all, because a beautiful girl is in fact sitting across the cafe, and she’s staring directly at them now.

There’s no way she should’ve heard them, not as far as she was. Her stare isn’t threatening or annoyed, more like curiosity.

Aoba quickly turns away. “Yoshiteru, don’t you dare go and bother that girl.” But it’s too late, and Aoba can see the hearts forming in his friend’s eyes.

Almost as if in a trance and true to his convictions, Yoshiteru strolls over to the girl in question and Aoba frets before rushing after his friend to wrangle him away.

By the time he reaches them, he gets a better look at the beautiful girl Yoshiteru is currently talking nonsense to. She seems a bit older than them, perhaps in college.

She looks the part, in a cozy sweater, jeans, and combat boots in contrast to his and Yoshiteru’s high school uniforms. Her long, pink-tipped hair is free flowing, with a small clip to keep it from falling into her face. But most strange of all, she was actually smiling at Yoshiteru.

“Miss, I’m so sorry,” Aoba apologizes, slightly bowing at her, as he insistently tugs on his friend’s arm, whispering harshly of how they needed to sit back down because he really didn’t want to get banned from another cafe, dammit. The one owned by the strange, mismatched couple had the best donuts, and he was lucky the pink-haired woman still let him in on occasion. “My friend was dropped on the head as a baby many times, so he has no working brain, you see.”

For his credit, the taller boy remains obstinately in place. “You said your name was Toko? Toko-chan?”

Aoba smacks the back of his friend’s head, and normally he would wail, but it’s as if Aoba turned into a ghost, his strike having no more effect than a breeze.

The girl, apparently Toko, giggles and waves a small hand. “It’s okay,” she assures him. “It’s nice to meet you two. And your name is?” She turns to Aoba.

“Uh, Hashibira Aoba,” he offers, after a beat. He can’t believe a pretty college girl is actually giving the two of them the time of day, even if out of pity.

He might be imagining it, but when he says his name, it seems like her eyes soften at the two of them.

“Hashibira-san,” she nods her head, still smiling.

Suddenly, he feels a tingle down his spine, like a deep rooted instinct, passed down from his ancestors. But when he turns around, all he sees is a kind-faced boy with light purple eyes, smiling at him.

“Hello,” the boy grins gently, tilting his head. “Have you two been keeping Toko company?”

Aoba freezes--crap, is this her boyfriend? Is he about to beat the two of them up for trying to hit on his girlfriend? This guy’s face is one of the softest faces he’d ever seen, but there’s no mistake there’s a lot of muscle hidden underneath his hoodie and jacket, and he doesn’t disregard the shock down his spine from earlier--

“Onii-chan, you’re pretty late.”

Okay, they’re siblings, it changes things but still does not rule out the possibility of getting beat up for bothering Toko-san.

“Sorry, Toko,” the red-haired boy ducks his head sheepishly. “I’ll buy you a pastry, I promise.”

“I made some new friends,” Toko says instead. “This is Hashibira Aoba-kun and Agatsuma Yoshiteru-kun.”

“Nice to meet you. You can call me Sumihiko,” the newcomer bows and beams at them, almost too friendly.

Yoshiteru is giving Sumihiko a dirty glare, as if Sumihiko somehow insulted him by being related to a beautiful girl.

“Nice to meet you,” Aoba bows, forcing his friend to bend forward as well. “I’m sorry to have bothered you two, we’ll leave you to it.”

“Wait, Toko-chan, can I get your number, please?” Yoshiteru howls, and Aoba can never stop getting embarrassed when he’s loud enough people around them start to take notice. “Just your number, and I swear I won’t text too often, maybe just once every other day, maybe once a day, okay?”

Aoba futilely attempts to drag his friend away. “Goddammit Yoshiteru, if someone calls the police on you one more time, you really might not get away with it--”

“Sure.”

Even Yoshiteru himself is in shock at Toko’s ready agreement, and dumbly hands over his phone for Toko to input her contact information. Again, Aoba isn’t sure if it’s the lighting in the cafe, but now it’s as if both siblings are looking at him and Yoshiteru with tender, fond eyes.

Before he can stop himself, he blurts out, “Have we met before?”

Sumihiko shakes his head, slowly. “No, I don’t think we have.”

“Oh… sorry, I thought you two just looked a bit familiar,” he blushes, feeling like an idiot in front of these two very attractive siblings now.

“It’s alright, we get that more often than you’d think,” Toko assures him.

Aoba isn’t sure why, because the two of them definitely stand out enough to not be confused with other faces, but he doesn’t question it further.

“Toko-chan, perhaps we met in a past life!” Yoshiteru croons, cloyingly. “Maybe we were even married!”

Aoba notices the matching grins on Sumihiko and Toko--and also realizes they really do look alike, considering at first glance, he could hardly believe they were actually siblings, with neither their hair nor eyes matching.

“Okay, I think it’s really time we start studying, Yoshiteru,” Aoba grits his teeth, and with herculean effort, wrenches the boy away from his newfound infatuation. “I don’t think Toko-san will want to talk to a high school dropout.”

“We’ll meet again soon, Toko-chan!” Yoshiteru blubbers, reaching out towards her.

“Do you think we acted weird?” Nezuko ponders quietly, when Tanjirou returns to her with the promised croissant. “We smiled like fools the whole time.”

Tanjirou shrugs, the grin not leaving his face. “I couldn’t help it. I was so happy to see them again.”

Nezuko giggles, wistfully. “I know. Me too.”

(“Let’s bring Yushiro some cake pops, later.”

“He’ll only eat them once we leave.”

“I know.”)

#nezutan #shipcest #consanguinamory #fic #kny #kny spoilers #kny spoiler #my writing #fanfic #demon AU #kamado tanjirou #kamado nezuko #i dont love this but idk what else to do w it #im imagining yoshiteru and aoba are like carbon copies of zenitsu and inosuke bc idgaf who they married lol #i also love imagining nezutan in modern streetwear

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goldeneyedgirl · 4 years

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Fic-Mas Day 3: Jessamine & Alice

Day 3 <3 Today I bring you a larger section of the Jessamine/Alice fic I posted about previously; today was meant to be something else but I think it was a really unsatisfying post, so I’ll rework it/find another fic for tomorrow.

Today was spent putting my mother’s giant, elaborate Christmas tree up, so I have no other thoughts. Hope everyone is having a good day!

(Warning for internalised homophobia; ‘//’ signals a time jump, as there are large chunks still unwritten.)

When Alice wakes up, she isn’t Alice.

She just is.

Her eyes open, her lungs fill and she exists for the first time in her memory. Her heart is still in her chest, her eyes draw in every detail of the forest around her, of the grains of dirt in the mud smearing her legs, of the beetle crawling up her leg.

And then she sees the girl with the blonde hair, and that is when the world slowly pieces itself together. Mostly with a soft smile and a gaze that strips her down to the bone, and a soft, “Alice”.

That is when she is Alice. She wants nothing more than to be that Alice, an Alice that inspires that smile, that gaze.

There’s a lot that she still doesn’t understand, and her throat is burning, but she knows two things.

Her name is Alice.

And she loves that girl.

Alice has a tiny hotel room in a terrible neighbourhood. It smells of dust and mildew, and is barely large enough for the mismatched bed, wardrobe and desk. The wardrobe is open, and Jessamine sees three dresses hanging there – yellow gingham, red polka-dot and blue floral. They are so small and remind Jess of doll’s clothes, with the ruffled hems, the puffy sleeves, the tiny buttons. She is wearing a filthy tweed skirt and threadbare blouse that was once grey that she peeled off a past meal, and this girl… she has actual tissue paper stuffed into the toes of the shoes in the closet.

Alice is perched on the desk, beaming at her with barely disguised excitement. The emotions that she can feel coming off the tiny girl are ones of excitement, joy, awe and pure adoration. She is utterly charming, with her pink dress and blue coat, her tiny gloves and curled hair.

The clothing Alice has chosen her are… nice. Nicer than she deserves – a dark blue shirtwaist dress, stockings and flat shoes. A pair of tailored pants and a blouse, in dark blue and yellow. Even underwear, silky and brand new. It is more than she’s owned in seventy years. More than anyone has ever given her.

When she finally emerges from the bathroom, months of dirt and blood washed away, Alice’s eyes light up, at her in her new blouse and pants, her hair damp around her face.

“You are so beautiful,” Alice coos, and is at her side, practically vibrating, and Jess doesn’t know what to say.

The kiss is so unexpected – Alice on her tip-toes, leaning up to kiss Jessamine on her lips. It is a moment so sweet and so impossible, Jessamine freezes and isn’t sure what to do.

This isn’t right. This isn’t right.

Alice knew that they would be tentatively welcomed at the Cullens – Jess is apparently rather intimidating (she doesn’t see it herself) and her own gift is a dangerous one. But the Cullens are peaceful people, do not seek out battle when there is any other alternative. They will sooner pack their things and leave, than claim their territory through warfare.

But she also knows that it will be their relationship that will throw the Cullens. That they live the closest approximation of a human life that they can manage. Husbands and wives, daughters and sons, brothers and sisters. There are no grey lines, just right and wrong. She sees religious iconography in her visions of their house, and that worries her a little.

She also knows that this is what Jess needs, more than anything. A peaceful retirement, a place where she is loved for herself, and not what she can do.

Once they arrive, it takes a few days for the family to realise. Edward has a pinched look on his face the first time Jess’s thoughts turn away from defence back to her Alice, and she is glad she cannot read Edward’s thoughts, because they would not be flattering. Rosalie has a slightly quizzical expression on her face when she catches Jess dropping a kiss to Alice’s lips in the hallway, and Esme just becomes flustered, but in a sweet way that overcompensates in her desperation not to offend them.

Carlisle is no less gracious to them, though – later – Edward will tell Alice that he was torn. Over the half-remembered lessons of his youth at his father’s knee, at the human principles he clung to with all his life, the ones that have guided him, with moderate success, this far in his afterlife.

But of everything that he has seen in his centuries of life, is a pair of mated females really that extraordinary? The idea that the bond could form between two souls, despite time and gender and all of the other minutiae that had to align is not so impossible, or he would not have found and lost, and then found Esme again.

And he watched them, to see the way they move in sync, the constant contact, the long looks that could be entire conversations, and the peace that surrounded them. To see the way Jess anchors Alice, contains the boundless energy and joy that is the slight girl; the way Alice brings Jess back to life, banishes the ghosts that haunt her gaze.

Carlisle knows that he cannot condemn that sort of soul-deep bond, cannot turn them away for their most genuine love because of old, narrow-minded teachings, because of social expectations that should have been discarded generations ago. Whatever brought them here, they did so for a reason and he will trust in a higher power, and Alice’s visions.

Emmett is the last to realise, in the middle of a hunt, and his mouth drops open, staring between the pair – standing apart from the rest of them, Alice tucked under Jess’s arm.

“They share a room,” Edward says slowly when Emmett splutters, still clutching his bear corpse. Alice can feel the tension in Jess’s body, waiting to protect and defend, should Emmett’s opinion threaten her.

Emmett contemplates them for a second, and Alice can almost see the wheels turning in his head, as he reevaluates their interactions with this new information.

“Oh well. Esme’s still got you to marry off, Eddie,” Emmett says cheerfully, and drags his bear corpse off to be buried and Alice tries not to laugh at Jess’s expression at Emmett’s response, at Edward’s scowl, at Esme’s bright smile at idea of Edward getting married.

After Italy, there was celebration, relief, hope. They were coming home to Forks, and everything would be okay once again. Even Edward thought that everything had been righted.

But then, he’d never seen Jess in full-flight. Alice had caught one of her fits of temper in a vision, before Peter went back for her, but had never witnessed the full scale of Jess’s wrath in person. Peter and Charlotte had both alluded to the temper that had made Jess such a legend in the south on occasion – it was rare that she was ever ‘out of control’; usually it was cold rage with a clear aim.

But when she lost her temper, well, neither Charlotte nor Peter had words for it, aside from a warning that it usually involved some property damage.

Perhaps the fact, according to Peter, was that even Maria backed down when Jess was in a ‘confrontational’ mood was the best indicator, to Alice, of how terrible Jess could be.

It was never planned ahead, and Jess was probably second only to Carlisle at keeping Edward out of her head.

The pacing was what caught Alice’s attention, and by then it was too late to stop Bella and Edward from coming into the house. And if her sight was any indication, the sooner the confrontation happened, the better off they’d be.

Edward realised the issue a moment too late, but there was no way to get Bella somewhere ‘safe’. And from the look on Rosalie’s face, it was clear Rose thought that Bella witnessing the result of the trauma of their eternal lives would probably be good for the girl.

“Jessamine,” Edward had said cautiously, and Alice wanted to bang her head against the wall. Only three people called Jess by her full name – Carlisle, as a mark of respect for her age; Alice, on occasions when she wanted to be taken seriously, and Charlotte, as a sign of deference for her former leader and creator. Peter called her Jessie, Maria had called her Major or Majorette, depending on her mood, and everyone else knew her simply as Jess.

For Edward to use her full name was a red flag to a bull, and Alice just knew Edward was going to be without some extremities by the end of this.

Jess hissed outright at Edward, and Bella was backed into the corner, eyes wide. Esme had ghosted over to the human girl, obviously to sooth and protect, and Alice just perched herself on the side table, waiting for the fireworks.

The argument was loud and unspeakably nasty, ending with Carlisle, Esme, and Emmett gaping in Jess’s direction, Jess putting her foot through Esme’s solid oak coffee table, Edward having his right arm snapped clean off at the shoulder, Rosalie enjoying herself immensely, and Jess storming off to cool down.

“I’m sorry about the table, Esme,” Alice hopped off the side table. “I’ve got another one ordered. It should arrive in a few days.”

Bella and Carlisle were already crouched beside Edward, reattaching the severed limb.

“You knew,” Edward said between gritted teeth. She shrugged.

“Did I know she was angry? I did. Did I know she would confront you? Yes. Did I let this happen? Only because if I had interfered, it would only delay the inevitable,” she said. ‘It would have been so much worse, Edward. So, so much worse.’

‘That’s the first time I’ve been scared of her,” Bella said, her eyes wide. Rosalie snorted at that comment.

“Don’t, Rosalie.”

#TwilightFicMas2019 #twilight fic #twilight fan fic #alice cullen #jessamine hale #jasper hale #alice/jasper #alice jessamine #twilight lgbt #twilight lgbt fic #my fic: jessamine and alice #my fic #my writing #wip #twilight: life and death

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katsukisass · 4 years

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PAIRING: Aizawa x F!Pro-Hero!Reader

WORD COUNT: It’s gonna be 5 parts, but this second one has 2,023 words.

WARNING(S): Lots of swearing. Body-image issues; self-esteem issues; reader is in pain and hurt, Aizawa is bae.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Again, if i’m honest idk what i’m truly doing with this, it wrote itself. I think their relationship is cute, tho Aizawa may seem a little ooc? Tell me what you guys think! Again, this is UNBETADED AND I’M NOT A NATIVE ENGLISH SPEAKER, please tell me if you find any errors and I’ll correct them right away! <3

RESUME: You never thought of yourself as particularly beautiful. But then a certain Pro-hero keeps telling you are and, at a certain point, you just can’t convince yourself he’s lying. [THIS IS PART II, FOR PART ONE GO HERE]

ii. scarred, tired and hurting.

A week later you're discharged, half-high on pain killers and going home. No one picks you up off the hospital and when you get home, there’s also no one expecting you. It’s very tidy, so your cleaning lady definitely showed up while you were in the hospital because you definitely didn’t left it like this. All you have on is a set of mismatched sweatpants you borrowed because your hero outfit was apparently beyond repair; thankfully the hospital provided those for you to borrow, but they smell strongly of cleaning products and honestly it is making you nauseated.

You need a hot shower and a fresh change of clothes, but you have a serious challenge ahead of you – strip; your shoulders are kinda busted, you did had a broken rib and lifting your arms made the wound on your lateral hurt like a bitch, so… You stroll around spending time while you prepare yourself for the pain that awaits you once you get to shower.

The pants come down easily but damn.

The first sleeve comes off and you kinda wanna leave it like that or maybe cut the fucking shit with the scissors you have on the drawer and then hop the shower. While you take a deep breath and starts taking the other sleeve off, you’re half seeing black and biting down to hold the growls of pain.

Once it’s out, you’re naked, having worn nothing underneath. You thank the heavens and breathe slowly for a bit to calm your heart. Then you enter the shower and close the glass door with the good arm, the other kind of holding your side where a bandage still stands glued to your skin. Recovery Girl was able to make your wounds close, but inside they were still healing, open and hurting. You half imagined she had left your wounds half treated because she knew the only thing that could make you take it easy was feeling that amount of pain in simple, daily gestures and damn if the old lady wasn’t a mastermind.

Under the hot shower you’re in paradise and plan on staying there some time. You wash your hair the best you can with only lifting one arm and it only going shoulder-high – it’s messy, you waist a ton of shampoo but if feels fresher and that’s all you need for today. The whole tentative of using the soap felt weirdly incomplete, you didn’t reached half the places you needed and there were pain for most of it, but well, what could you do?

You tried your best with the towel and at some point just gave up and went to get dressed – and once the sweatpants are on is that you catch your reflection in a mirror.

Fuck.

The marks on your upper body are dreadful. There are welts of vermilion lacerations stretching through your shoulders and down through your right arm and the lateral of your body. The place where the bandage once stood shows a fresh, closed but still healing scar, starting down your breast and ending close to your waist. Damn, so that’s why Eraser where that worried with you – you must have looked close to dying. There were bruises here and there, some gashes on your knees, thighs and arms and you wonder how you didn’t notice before. Did the purple and red become colors you grew used to? Did the pain from it seemed normal, now? Well… You quickly throw a baggy shirt on and decide to not think about it too much.

There was no use in commiserating about those scars. You were a hero and it was part of the job. It didn’t look pretty but they were fresh and you would grow use to it too… They definitely didn’t add to your already humble looks but well… it… were life? The first tear falls unpretentiously through your face and seems to break the dam. You barely remember the last time you cried but damn, you’re crying a river over some scars like a child and it pisses you off and you cry in annoyance and pain because crying makes everything hurt too.

It had to be the meds. Or hormones? Maybe exhaustion is making you a bit crazy and it takes some time before you finally can breathe evenly. You lie down on your amazing bed and fall asleep so fast somewhere in your mind you agree that it had to be exhaustion.

You wake up surprised and without any notion of time. Its dark out and quiet, but that tells you nothing. Getting up and groaning all the way because your body feels like it has been throw under a bus (fun fact: it has) and then hit by a truck (also true), you finally notices your cellphone shining away on your bed, vibrating.

“Hello?”

“Are you alive?” You know this voice, but sleep still clouds your thinking so you just ask who the fuck it is anyway.

“Don’t you have my contact?” The stern question burns a hole in your brain and Aizawa’s face emerges like a punch.

“I didn’t look.” You mumble half-asleep and he sighs.

“Can you open your door? I’ve been in front of your house for the last hour.”

“What time is it?” You look around like an idiot, despite having the phone in your hand.

“Almost eleven.” That shocks you.

“And why are you here at this hour?” You ask, despite knowing Aizawa probably won’t answer. He never does.

“Open up. I have food.”

Like awaking a beast, your stomach grumbles and you realizes just how long it’s been since your last meal. Trust Eraser to know how to press your weak points. You end the call without any warning and counts to three before getting out the bed, because every single thing hurts. Everything takes longer, like you’re carrying weight, so of course crossing your apartment also does. By the time you’re opening the door, Aizawa has banged on it two times.

“Are you familiar with the concept of waiting?”

“No.” He deadpans and you mumble a naughty answer under your breath, standing aside for him to enter because whatever he has smells good. You give him a once over when he isn’t looking and is pleased to see he’s in way better shape than you. He limps, but then again you’re pretty certain he fractured that leg, so just to be walking is a good thing.

“So what are you doing here?”

“Came to see how you doing. I went to the hospital and they told me you discharged yourself.” It has a bit of sting, but you’re both way past that.

“Can’t stand hospitals.” You mumble while ruffling though the paper bags he put on top of your american style kitchen counter. There are four takeout boxes and you smell chicken.

“Who would’ve thought, seeing as you keep coming back there?” You normally like Aizawa’s sarcasm. Not when it’s directed at you, though. But he’s a hypocrite and you make sure to call him out, with a finger in the air and everything.

“Look who’s talking. I know you left on day two of observation, don’t even start.”

“I had things to do.” He looks elsewhere like a lying bitch and you stare him into looking at you again. “Liar.” You accuse. It passes some time, in which you pass him two boxes and open yours, happily eating without seating; in the meantime, you also start making tea.

“Why is it that pro-heroes hate hospitals?” He muses while watching you struggle around the kitchen. You do mumble a “don’t know” with a mouthful and after you swallow, you keep talking.

“It remembers us that we’re mortals?” You’re eating a spring roll and talking absentmindedly but Aizawa looks at you through the other side of the counter with wide-eyes. “Maybe stresses our weak state and give us anxiety? Show us we’re not as powerful as we think? That’s not to say about triggering PTSD.”

“You put thought into it.”

“I told you I don’t like hospitals.” You say, matter-of-factly.

You two finish eating in silence. You have no idea if he’s just thinking or maybe tired, but when you look at him, his eyes are travelling through your fresh bruises, scanning the red extension of your new scars that are visible. When he looks at you again, there’s too much emotion in his dark eyes and you look away.

Shota always see too much, you think. Beyond any facade you put, behind your barriers and between the small spaces you barely notices you leave open but are enough for him to slither his way inside your mind. Inside you. He notices things you barely realize you let escape, holds to them, pinpoint them back at you and pushes, pushes, insist until you cave; until you’re bare. You hate it.

He doesn’t say anything. You do.

“And you? You’re ok?” It’s like a whisper, honestly, and in the silence his eyes seems to burn into you harder. Then he blinks.

“I’m fine. Broken ribs, arm and leg but they’ll heal.”

“Oh, that’s good.” You mumble and then ask, munching on the chicken. “How about your head?”

“My head?”

“You had a concussion.” It isn’t a question. You fucking know he had one. He had to.

“Why you think that?” There’s a somewhat humorous turn in his tone, and you avoid his eyes.

“You know why.” You peek at him, unsaid things in the air and he fucking smiles. The prankster smile, too - the one where the corners of his mouth quirk up, mouth open and teeth showing and his eyes shine.

“Cute.” He throws it at you like a threat, looking you dead in the eye, challenging. There’s a beat of silence while a stare down goes between you two before you literally whine.

“Oh, please. That again?”

“Can’t say you’re cute?” He has a smirk in those ridiculous lips of his and you want to wipe it away with your fists… or something else entirely.

“No.”

“Ok.” He muses. Then devilishly smiles. “Beautiful then.”

“Ok.” You get up from where you are, nodding towards the door. “I think you should leave.”

“Make me.” The daring tone is even worse than the troublemaker smile he has.

“Damn, ‘zawa.” Your hands fly to massage between your eyes. “Behave or I swear to god I’ll kick your ass out.”

There’s a moment while you both just stare each other. Then:

“Okay. I’ll behave.” And he does. He stays around and cleans the teacups despite you saying he can leave then in the kitchen. He throws the take out on the trash and cleans the table and berates you if you even try to help and despite you pouting on the couch, you’re thankful. You’re both throwing ridiculous comments around, like the fact your hair seems like it hasn’t see a brush in weeks - same as his, and that he may need a walking stick sooner than expected. He comes and sits on the couch and makes you lean against him like it’s the most normal thing in the world and you almost felt like it truly were.

He doesn’t talk about the red in your shoulders and you pretend you don’t catch him staring at it. You don’t talk about how his face scrunches up in pain just by having you lean against him and he pretends you didn’t see. It works for you both, this world of pretend, since it’s the only place where you both can say it doesn’t hurt. The distance and proximity, the scars and broken bones, all of which fading in the time while you’re both together on the too-small-for-you-both couch. There’s warmth in this fairy-tale world and the real one is way more dreadful, so you lean back closer to him like your blemish skin doesn’t sting and your arm doesn’t throb and close your eyes. And when you’re half asleep in his arms and could swear you heard his voice saying “damn, so beautiful”, you just pretend that you’re dreaming.

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#aizawa x reader #aizawa shota imagine #aizawa sensei #aizawa shota #eraser head x reader #eraser head imagine #aizawa bnha #aizawa mha #bnha imagine #gender neutral reader #ive been thinking about it and honestly only on the smut its gonna have some specific mention about the reader being female #i suppose i could adapt it #what do you guys think?#i honestly have no idea how this going because the angst kinda wrote itself #but i kinda like it #hope u guys do too #my writing

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longneckreach · 4 years

Text

Breakout

[Archive folder]

Longneck Reach struck under cover of night.

Aspis slithered flat against the ground, the hard stone beneath him still hot enough from the day to burn his stomach; but with no natural cover for miles, they had to be very careful.

He was grateful for the moonless night but more grateful, exponentially more grateful, for the dragons on either side of him. The Reach was reeling, still, in the wake of the Marrow Massacre raid; and there were only so many dragons they could justify sending on a mission like this, so different from anything they normally committed to.

Adecia defended her borders--the Council, Aspis reminded himself. It was strange thinking of a dragon like Adecia as not being mistress after the gods to her clan, even stranger to think of a clan leader who held no power except as a tiebreaker and willingly bowed to the will of a Council that was more Beastclan than dragon.

So, the Council, and the clan itself, they defended their borders and would send aid to allies and potential allies. But that was very different from a black-ops strike in the middle of the Wasteland.

Ostensibly, they were only here for Alumette, and the Serthis who was commanding the force had been sending messages up and down the arrowhead formation while they flew here. This was a rescue mission only, she’d said, firm. They were not here to destroy a clan of slavers...this time. Nor were they under any circumstances to cause so much damage that the clan was likely to fortify, nor were they to give any impression that they would be coming back.

Because they would, she’d said, razor-sharp blades somehow glinting in the black night, be coming back.

The handful of dragons that had been able to accompany the strike force were mostly smaller breeds. Ennis had shrugged off any attempts to get her to stay behind in favor of insisting Kenner, blue-and-white Wildclaw who’d healed Aspis’ injuries, was useless in a fight and better than her in an emergency. Chavi had shown up without being sent for with her mate, a Wildclaw who looked like the kind of cocky mercenary Aspis used to kill in the arena except for the way all the Resistance liaisons seemed to revere him. Aspis had secretly hoped that Adecia’s mate Radec would join them, or else Captain Turania; but Turania was needed to organize the forces remaining, and Radec’s injuries in the battle for the Reach had been too severe.

They’d picked up another Wildclaw in the form of an auburn dragon named Lexine, who’d introduced herself with a smirk as an “archaeologist” to general good-natured eye-rolling. The plan was to send her in as a scout to try to smuggle Alumette out without being seen, and she’d come prepared with a literal bag of thieves’ tricks, so Aspis had a pretty good idea of what kind of ‘excavating’ she usually did.

(“I’ve never stolen anything in my life,” she’d assured him when she saw his skeptical look. “Every artifact I’ve ever touched has ended up in the hands of its rightful owners, no exceptions.”

That gave him an even better idea of what her ‘excavations’ were about, but it also increased his respect for her considerably.)

Other than that, however, they were short on hard hitters. His new friend Katosomata, who gently told him to call her ‘Kat’, had flown him here; but she wasn’t a fighter at all. That role was being filled by a big red Imperial named Claret who’d carried most of their Beastclan allies—two centaurs, seven longnecks, four serthii. Kat was only here as a navigator. Aspis, after all, had only been to their destination once, and he couldn’t fly. Navigating from the air would be an exercise in futility, and they didn’t have time to waste.

She said she could “remember” the Pit, from the pain it caused. Aspis had first thought that maybe she’d been held captive there too; he couldn’t imagine that she had ever been part of the clan. She’d looked at him for a long time, smiled, and shaken her head. “Neither,” she’d murmured softly, and hadn’t offered him any more information.

He respected her too much to press. Alumette would have had a million questions, if she were here—well, she would have a million questions. If this worked, she’d be here very soon.

Nearly soundless even against the hard-baked earth of the Wasteland, the Serthis leader slithered up beside him.

“Shirala,” Kat greeted her.

“Hush, my friend, unless you need to speak. The scouts are closer than you know. We’re ready to move,” she murmured, face pressed close beside Aspis’ ears. He nodded, trusting her to feel it. “You’ll follow Lexine. Do as she says. Identify your sister. If she sends you back, come back.”

“Yes ma’am.” Even though he was nearly frantic with the knowledge that his sister was nearby, Aspis would never do anything to risk the mission.

“We expect an alarm to be raised,” Shirala continued. “Chavi will be with you; Perry will be close.” They’d sent Perry in on the ground earlier that morning; he had the blessing of being a generic-looking low-tier merc with a weirdly good reputation considering all of his Beastclan Resistance prisoners conveniently ended up escaping at some point. Exactly the kind of dragon who might sign on with a group of slavers for a quick, easy bit of treasure. “If you can run, run east. If you can’t run, do your best to make noise and light. Stay alive. Do not allow them to separate you. We will come. Trust us.”

“I do.”

Like magic, between one breath and the next, Chavi’s beautiful marbled-copper fur pressed into Aspis’ right side. Shirala clasped Aspis’ shoulder before dropping to the scorched earth and hauling herself flat away, and was replaced by Lexine.

“Tell me what I’m looking at.”

Aspis did his best to point without moving. They were crouched in the shadow of a low plateau, maybe half a mile from the edge of the Pit itself; it was the only cover to be found.

“That’s the Pit,” he said in a low voice. “The web of metal. The camp is behind it. It’s centered around Adder’s command tent. Um, the command tent is big and red. They weren’t keeping Al in the Pit last time, but they might have moved her.”

“Will she come with me if I ask?”

Aspis thought about it. “I’m not sure. She might think you’re one of Adder’s trying to trick her. Tell her...tell her that her brother says he wants her to get out of there like clockwork. They shouldn’t know that reference.”

“Clever,” Lexine whispered. “Ready?” Aspis gave a single, steely nod.

That was when the Pit exploded.

It started slowly.

A little too slowly for Alumette’s sense of comfort, actually, but it was within the expected parameters.

It started with a glow, racing through the wire she’d planted all around the Pit’s edge, and from there shooting through the ugly mismatched web of chain and razor wire that kept dragons from flying out.

It glowed, bright angry red then orange then yellow in the dark, then white, and then the network was no longer able to handle the strength of the electric current she’d created.

Alumette knew what that meant. It was the central thesis of her Plan, after all!

She remembered what it meant in time to duck.

Flames burst into existence like dropping a torch in lamp oil, not racing from one end of the wire to the next but all at once; violent green flames, fading to a furious red as the copper burned out and the heat began eating through the other parts of the net, the cords and the grime and the shards of glass. The wires unravelled, weak points snapped. Sharp nails and glass were flung in every direction; Alumette heard a strangled scream but couldn’t afford to care, because within seconds, the net over the Pit had collapsed.

Before the guards had a chance to recover, she’d already slithered over the side and was racing on all fours through the burning wreckage of the overloaded wires.

Without the net, there was nothing to keep the bridge up. And with the bridge down, that meant that if she could just get the keys…

And without the net, there was nothing keeping her from racing across the Pit, while the stunned and confused guards would have to run around the perimeter in order to get anywhere first.

The guards liked to taunt their prisoners while they ate. Some of them, not all but some, would have been standing on the metal bars over the prisoners’ cells when that lightning bolt ran through the circuit. Al raced toward a gap in the guards’ line. Part of her thought she should try not to look too closely at his body; but she did, anyway. He sure did look dead.

Maybe that should bother her. But maybe, given who he was, what they did here, it was fine that it didn’t.

She grabbed his key pouch in her teeth and tugged, hard, before diving back down into the Pit.

There was only one guards’ entrance to the Arena, and none of the guards on duty down there carried keys in case the prisoners overwhelmed them. So Alumette flung the key pouch through the arena-level bars of the closest cell, grabbed a spear from the rack and dove through the guard door. A guard, a Snapper, was on his way through it from the other side. She dodged snakelike around him; he shouted after her, like she was going to stop.

By the time she skidded to a stop in front of the cell she’d identified, the injured Skydancer on the other side was just coming through the outer door.

“Who the hell—” he began.

Alumette snatched the key back and shoved a spear at him. “Later! Fucking later!”

She kept running, and left the Skydancer to deal with the guard.

She really couldn’t have carried more than one weapon at a time, so when she fumbled all the other cell doors open she didn’t have anything to give them. They were dragons, though, or Beastclans who were used to hardship, and even if they normally hated each other they weren’t stupid enough to fight amongst themselves right now.

Hopefully. Probably. She did not have an appropriate alteration to the Plan if she were wrong about that part.

“Don’t leave without me!” she called to a venom-green fighter as she bounded from her cell.

“No promises,” the Mirror rasped back. “Every dragon for himself out here.”

“That’s dumb,” muttered Al, and ran off in the other direction.

Despite having just said every dragon for himself, the Mirror shouted after her, “Hey! No! Kid, don’t go in there!”

Aspis didn’t know what was going on anymore.

His first instinct had been to run toward the flames too, but that was just his first instinct. Whatever was going on, it had to be the perfect distraction. Who would notice them going after Alumette now, with a breakout in the Pit? Wasn’t this perfect for them? Lexine had said the same thing, gesturing them in toward the camp while chaos broke out.

But he wasn’t one of the Reach, and Chavi was; when she’d countermanded their “archaeologist” simply by virtue of saying that no, the fire was where they needed to be, Lexine had listened to her. And Aspis...gods forgive him, but Aspis trusted these people.

That being said, he really hoped reinforcements got here soon, because the two dozen escaped arena fighters plus the three from the Reach weren’t going to be able to hold out against the entire captor clan for much longer.

And ‘two dozen’ was a stretch. By now, it was probably closer to sixteen that had actually stayed, and a few of those were dead already. A lot of them had broken clear the moment they could spread their wings.

He knew the Reach force was right on their heels, he’d heard Ennis and Shirala marshalling them as his trio bolted for the fire; but as he slashed, hissed, twisted to slash again, a snarling leonine Tundra raised a battleaxe that Aspis wasn’t going to be able to dodge, and he knew they’d get here too late.

From the rear of the pack, he heard a bloodcurdling shriek.

“She’s loose! She’s loose! The plague rat’s—!”

The Tundra’s head snapped around. Even as he turned something flashed, black on black and gray, in the smoke and flames; red eyes and the wicked curled horns of a mutated daughter of the Wyrmwound glistened like blood as the Tundra’s life poured out, scarlet, pooling on ground too tortured by the sun even to drink up moisture.

Kpinga, free and with frills spread for the first time Aspis had ever seen, raised her head to look him in the eye.

“You’re an idiot,” she told him flatly. “Your sister is too. You were both right. Don’t let it go to your head. Duck.”

Before Aspis could process literally any of that, his body had already responded to the order; it had learned not to hesitate when his arena partner said things like that during a fight. As he was halfway through hitting the dirt hard enough to jar his teeth Kpinga beat her tattered wings once, shooting over his head and slicing out the eyes of the Mirror who’d been about to tackle him while both dragons were in midair.

The Mirror hit the ground screaming, and a Serthis finished it off.

Longneck Reach had come for them.

Serthii and longnecks swarmed down the bridge, one longneck warrior sitting astride a galloping centaur; she flung herself off to impale an enemy Wildclaw in passing. The other centaur, leading a group of beastclan warriors and Ennis, charged straight through the battle and into the guard’s entrance to sweep the back corridors for injured, or anyone left behind.

Aspis turned to Kpinga, who had managed to kill two more Mirrors and a Coatl since the last time he’d looked.

“Al’s here?” he asked.

“Spiral, bright silver, talks with her front paws, never sits still, picks locks like nobody’s business. She’s running a sweep. I like you, Aspis. But if you go back in there, I’m not coming after you.”

“You should run,” Aspis agreed. “While you still can.”

Kpinga dipped her head, spread her vast wings, and leaped into the sky without another word.

Aspis ran toward the guard’s entrance.

“No one’s coming, lightning rod.”

Alumette’s claws scrabbled against the hard ground, trying to find purchase. The Wildclaw digging bloody front claws under the scales of her tail had electric blue eyes too; she’d tried to shock him to no effect, except to make him grin wider.

She hadn’t liked that grin at all, so she’d stopped.

He tugged her back; reflexively, she tried to spread her wings and cried out when they jerked against the piercings. She lost her balance, rolling her front half onto her back to try to twist out of his grip, and also so that she could snap and bite. She flung an empty food bucket into his face, but he dodged it.

He raised one sickle claw and ripped it down; she twisted at the last second and it missed her wing, biting deep into her left flank instead and ripping open a long gash. She screamed.

“You, you can’t hurt me,” Al said desperately. “Nalkh—”

“Your brother’s running with the Resistance now,” said the guard, planting his foot firmly on her belly, killing claw raised again. “I don’t think Nalkh is very happy with him. You should be begging me to gut you quickly instead of waiting to see what she wants to make him watch.”

Al twisted again, trying to turn and bite; he jerked her tail until he flipped her back around, banging her head on the floor and hauling her tail under his arm and over one shoulder so her back legs were off the ground, pinning her to the floor with his sickle claw over her throat.

Al had never been very good with words. She was good at making things, like equipment, and inventions, and plans, and scripts. But talking was hard, and she didn’t know what to say that would help.

She hadn’t been paying enough attention. She’d been running one last circuit, making sure she hadn’t missed anyone. And there’d been a Wildclaw curled up in an empty cell who’d called out to her, so she’d slipped inside to free him, and hadn’t looked close enough to realize he was one of the relief guards...

Maybe she was imagining things, but as she closed her eyes and pressed back into the floor she could almost hear Aspis calling for her.

The guard growled low. “Oh, good. The meatshield’s still alive.”

Alumette’s eyes flew open. Her brother’s voice hadn’t been a dying hallucination?

Well. That was definitely not part of the plan.

“Aspis!” she yelled before the guard bore down on her throat and choked her.

“That’s your brother, right, lightning rod?” he said. “Good. I want him to watch this. I had a brother too, you know that? You’re carrying his key pouch.”

Al froze, then glared at him.

“Your brother was a piece of shit,” she informed him, since he was going to kill her anyway. “And mine’s gonna kill you.”

Claws shrieking against the packed dirt like a chalkboard, Aspis skidded to a halt outside the cell. “Al! Are you—”

He froze. The Wildclaw, turned to look at him, grinned viciously. He slowly raised his sickle claw over Al’s throat.

“Who’s faster, meatshield?” he said. “You move the tip of your tail, and I’ll—”

It wasn’t like the end of that sentence was exactly a mystery, but Alumette never did learn what it was going to be. Something rushed by overhead with a wet thud, the guard’s head snapped to the side, and his suddenly limp sickle claw glanced harmlessly off her throat scales as he collapsed.

“Kpinga?” Aspis blurted, looking around. Al didn’t know exactly what he meant by that.

Ss she picked herself up she did definitely know there was a white arrow embedded in the guard’s skull. She stood on her good hind leg, peering out the window in the thick wooden door to peek into the arena.

A white centaur, with elegant silver skin and flashing hooves, stood on the other side holding a second arrow to the loose string of a recurve bow.

She smiled when Alumette waved at her, put the arrow between her teeth, and waved back before turning and galloping away.

Aspis, big paws shaking badly, had managed to fumble open the cell door by then, and Al dropped back to the ground and dragged herself through it.

“Al,” her brother whispered. “Al, you’re—was this all you?”

Al’s tail twitched with the need to wind herself around him and never let go, but this wasn’t the time or the place.

“I made an electromagnet,” she explained. That was probably a sufficient summary. “You have friends!”

“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” protested Aspis, but at that moment an unfamiliar Mirror came loping up behind him. Al stiffened at first; but there were several longnecks and a serthis with her, and she slowed to an easy stop when she saw Aspis, so this was probably a friend.

Note to self: Not just the Resistance, there are also new dragons. Addendum: Do not electrocute strange dragons on sight.

“Your sister?” the Mirror confirmed. Apparently taking Aspis’ watery eyes as confirmation, she nodded to Alumette and said, “You need to lie down. Aspis, Shirala, Riin, cover me.”

Hoofbeats echoed along the corridor as the Mirror (“This is Ennis, Al, she saved my life”) worked. It was the beautiful silver centaur from earlier, the young archer. She took one look at Al’s injured leg, and winced.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured; then, to the Serthis, she said, “Chieftain, we’re being overrun. We have to move, now.”

“She can’t walk, and she can’t fly,” said Ennis. She tied off the bandage. “Can you carry her?”

“Like I would with a young Serthis, she’s almost the same size,” confirmed the archer. Al didn’t protest as she trotted forward.

“This is going to sting,” she said. “I’m sorry. Wrap your tail around my quiver and your body around my shoulders…”

“I think I’ve got it.” Al squirmed slightly, feeling sick as her injured leg twinged. “If I put my paws here I can balance and my head won’t get in the way when you shoot. I’m Alumette.”

“Alayna,” said the centaur. “That’s a beautiful name.”

Ennis double-checked Al’s bandage, then nodded to the Serthis who seemed to be in charge. Without pausing, she shouted, “Fall back!”

Everything was kind of a blur after that.

Alayna was very fast, and everyone seemed invested in getting their group to safety. The arena was mostly empty, but there was fighting at the top of the bridge that was probably going to present a problem…

Except that it didn’t. Their band sprinted toward the silhouette of a Guardian in the darkness, encouraged by shouts from the Beastclan already sitting on her back. As they started getting close the air shuddered, something made the black sky even darker…

“Oh!” Al realized. “That’s what it’s like being under an Imperial attack run—”

The Imperial opened his mouth, and gold flames enveloped the arena.

“He’s a Light dragon!” she informed Alayna.

The centaur turned to glance over her shoulder, grinning. “I know.”

Al twisted her head to watch the Imperial as he finished his first pass and pulled up. The golden light of his own flames danced along his scales, drawing out all kinds of beautiful shades of red. But the bigger members of the slaver clan, the ridgebacks and the handful of their own Imperials, were readying to meet him. If the smaller dragons and beastclan wanted to get out, it would have to be now, while they had a big red distraction and the smaller enemy dragons had been scattered or immolated.

And they weren’t all going to fit on that Guardian.

Judging by the Serthis’ expression, she knew that too.

“If you can fly, fly,” she shouted. “Everyone else, move! Get southeast! Now!”

#fr lore #flight rising lore

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