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spencers-renaissance · 3 years

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i can't forgive me & you can't forget

Summary: Spencer is happy that his boyfriend is as compassionate as he is, but watching Derek do everything he can to help Strauss with her alcoholism when he stood by and did nothing back when he was struggling with his dilaudid addiction is beginning to take its toll.

Tags: hurt!spencer, miscommunication, angst, insecurity, est. rel., hurt/comfort, cuddling & snuggling, angst w a happy ending, fluff TW: referenced past drug use, addiction, and overdose, implied/referenced alcoholism

Pairing: Derek Morgan x Spencer Reid

Word Count: 4.5k

Masterlist // Read on AO3 // The other fic in this universe

Inspired by @marisatomay’s post here!!! The title is from the second part of the poem Betrayal by Lang Leav.

It’s pushing ten pm by the time Spencer finally hears the front door open and close with a soft click, hears the rustling of Derek ditching his leather jacket on the crowded coat rack and toeing off his shoes — no doubt placing them neatly at the side of the hall like he always does — and listens to his footsteps as he nears the bedroom where Spencer’s been holed up since Derek left.

“Hey, baby boy,” Derek says with a warm, relaxed smile, his fingers already working on undoing his shirt buttons, before digging through their wardrobe to find a more comfortable top.

“Hey.”

Spencer watches him with tired eyes. He’s been feeling as hurt and despondent as he does this evening for weeks now, but tonight is the first time he doesn’t have the energy to hide it. He’s spent the entire afternoon in bed, and he’s certain it shows in the imprints of the creased pillowcase on his cheek and his messed up hair, and where just a couple of days ago he’d rush to hide those tells, he simply doesn’t care enough anymore.

Derek turns around from the wardrobe and shrugs off his shirt, replacing it with a soft blue t-shirt Spencer’s always liked on him. “Have you had anything to eat yet?”

Spencer shakes his head. Derek undoes his belt and switches his trousers for a pair of grey sweatpants before walking over to the bed and climbing onto the mattress, grinning cheekily as he rolls over Spencer’s body and leans down to press a tender kiss to the tip of his nose.

It’s sweet and romantic and so painfully normal, and maybe that’s exactly why he suddenly finds himself swallowing back tears. He’s hardly spent any time with Derek outside of work in weeks and he’s hurt and sad and struggling, and it’s only making it worse that his loving and attentive boyfriend hasn’t seemed to notice. Really, Spencer knows he needs to communicate, and that a significant part of his pain is his responsibility, but the shame—

“Well that just won’t do,” Derek murmurs, interrupting his thoughts as he brushes his fingers over a lock of curly hair resting on Spencer’s temple. “I’ll go and make you something. Or we can order in? What do you fancy?”

Spencer shrugs, looking away. He’s not trying to be difficult, it’s just incredibly hard to think about food and a relaxing night in with your partner when you feel like your insides are splintering and you’re just barely holding yourself together.

Even without looking directly at his face, Spencer can see Derek’s brow furrow and his happy expression fade, and soon enough Derek’s fingers are at his chin, gently moving his head until he’s looking at him again. “Hey, pretty boy,” he says gently, looking so concerned it makes his chest ache, “what’s wrong? Tell me what’s going on in that big old head of yours.”

So much of him wants to give in and tell him everything, wants to spill his fears and his anxieties and his anger and his shame onto the sheets of their bed and lay it all out for him. He wants to shout, “See? This is who I am! This is all my mess and my pain and my regret! Look at it!”

But he can’t. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before opening them again to meet the swirling worry in Derek’s deep, beautiful brown eyes and he wills himself not to cry. “Nothing,” he lies. “I’m just tired. Hungry.”

He knows Derek doesn’t believe him, but there isn’t much he can do if Spencer isn’t willing to communicate, so he nods reluctantly and leans down to place a kiss on his forehead this time, lingering there for a moment longer than he usually does. The feeling of his boyfriend hovering over him and asking him what’s wrong and kissing him so tenderly is all Spencer’s craved for weeks, but now it’s here, he still feels sad and empty and hollowed out by shame and bitterness, desperate for something more without so much as an idea as to what exactly more might entail.

“I tell you what, I’ll go make you some tortellini, alright? There’s a pack in the fridge and it only takes a couple of minutes so I’ll be back before you know it,” Derek promises, and Spencer can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

Regardless, Derek hops off the bed and heads out to the kitchen, leaving Spencer alone in the softly lit bedroom. He pulls the duvet further up to his chin and buries his face in it, the soft fabric gentle on his skin, and the comforting scent of Spencer’s shampoo mingling with Derek’s cologne settling him slightly.

Derek had spent the afternoon with Strauss at the rehab centre. And not for the first time.

The problem is, how can Spencer be mad at him for that? Really, it’s the epitome of his character: genuine, constant, unconditional compassion for everyone around him, no matter who they are or what his history with them might be. Of course he’d see Strauss struggling with her addiction and swoop right in, getting her settled in at the centre and spending hours with her on visiting days, fighting alongside Hotch to persuade the director to let her keep her job.

But watching him leave every week, watching him text her encouraging messages, hearing him talk about her progress and recovery… it strikes a nerve deep inside Spencer. He isn’t proud of how he feels. He knows it’s petty and illogical, but he can’t help it.

Because somewhere deep in his soul, an old version of himself, a sad, lonely, scared, addicted-to-dilaudid boy is crying out, why didn’t you do that for me?

It’s that question that really plagues him. They’re called into work the next day for a fairly interesting case in North Dakota, and there are some fairly strong links to the world of academia, so usually, Spencer would be all over it, reeling off facts and statistics and reaching out to his contacts to further the case. But for some reason, he just can’t get his head in the game.

He finds himself zoning out on the jet and wandering off at crime scenes without even knowing where he’s going. Initially, his team had assumed that he was thinking, or was going somewhere deliberately that might help them with the case, they’d all counted on Doctor Reid to come up with some brilliant theory to bring them closer to catching their unsub.

But Hotch had quickly realised that his head was somewhere else and kept him close to his side from then on. At least staying at the police station with Hotch and being tasked with reading through the unsub’s literary work and constructing a geographical profile both gives him something specific to focus on, and — as much as Spencer hates to admit it — keeps him away from Derek.

“You want to tell me what’s going on?” Hotch asks gently when they both find themselves at the coffee pot in the late afternoon. He doesn’t look over at him, his eyes focused on the stream of coffee and creamer headed straight for his mug. Spencer knows it’s a tactic to make him feel less ambushed and more relaxed, but that doesn’t stop it from working.

“No,” he says honestly.

Hotch nods in acceptance. He puts a warm hand on his shoulder and squeezes briefly. “Well, you know where I am if you change your mind.”

Both JJ and Emily eye him suspiciously throughout the case as well, but no one is more confused and concerned than Derek. Spencer tries not to think about the irony.

“Baby, what’s got you all distracted like this?” Derek asks softly when they’re finally alone in their room that night, full up from the rushed dinner they’d all had in the lobby before crawling to their rooms for a couple of hours’ sleep before the manhunt continues in the morning. “This is so unlike you and you know it.”

Spencer doesn’t reply, just continues quietly changing into his pajamas before brushing his teeth and washing his face. Derek’s still sitting in the same position when he comes out, looking frustrated and contemplative, and Spencer feels guilty for making him feel this way, but he just doesn’t know what to do. He can’t act like everything's okay because it isn’t, and he’s tired himself out from pretending that it was for weeks, now. But he can’t tell him what’s going on either.

The thing is, how is Spencer supposed to admit that he’s still hurt over something that happened almost five years ago now? And how is he supposed to admit that Derek doing the right thing is only reopening wounds he’d tried so hard to heal and close? That both Derek and Hotch had specifically helped him heal and close?

He doesn’t know how to verbalise his feelings without sounding petulant or pathetic, so he doesn’t. He keeps them buried deep inside him and hopes desperately that no one comes digging.

“I’m fine, Derek,” he lies again, leaning down to kiss him gently before rounding the bed and crawling under the covers. “Just having an off day, I guess.”

Derek sighs but doesn’t push any further, clearly knowing a lost cause when he sees one. Instead, he follows in Spencer’s footsteps and gets ready for bed silently, whispering a quiet good night before switching off the lamp and climbing into bed on the other side.

It feels like the expanse of white sheet between them goes on for miles.

It’s the first time Spencer’s regretted Hotch’s decision to continue letting them share a room.

The question continues to plague him over the next week. He gets marginally better at pretending he’s not falling apart at the seams, and it’s enough to make almost everyone back off, but Hotch is still concerned and Derek is still confused, and he can feel himself drifting further away from the team each day, as though his rope tying him to the others has been cut, and now the current is having its way with him.

Nothing much changes. He continues in his hurt and lonely quietude, and Derek continues to ask what’s wrong, sighing sadly when he gets nothing out of him, and they exist in tandem.

It had always felt — ever since the beginning of their relationship — as though their relationship was a salsa dance. They were tangled in one another’s lives, both physically and emotionally, and they existed in this relaxed kind of ease that Spencer’s only ever seen before in long-term relationships. They’d fallen into a lucky, easy kind of love, and it was never as much work as everyone had promised him a relationship would be.

They’ve been together for four years, and their worst fight was over whether the cheese grater went in the cupboard next to the sink or above it. (Granted, it had spiraled into some other disagreements that came along with cohabitation, but. Still.)

Spencer knows he’s introducing a dynamic they’re unused to, and he hates it. Guilt plagues him, mingling with his shame and sadness until he’s drowning under the weight of it, no way to claw himself to the surface to take a breath.

They exist on parallel lines: next to one another; yet never crossing over. Their relationship is no longer a salsa dance.

The next off-day they have, Derek can’t get out the door fast enough. “I’m off to visit Erin,” he tells Spencer, and it still makes him irrationally angry that he’s stopped calling her Strauss and now refers to her like a friend.

Is it better that Strauss is now Derek’s friend? Him helping someone he actually cares about makes him not caring about Spencer all those years again slightly less of a gut-punch, he supposes. But the fact that Derek and Strauss of all people are becoming closer while he and Spencer drift apart hurts in a way he can’t even begin to explain.

This time, he spends the entire day crying. Every time the tears slow down and he catches his breath, another wave of grief and pain and anxiety and shame and jealousy crashes over him, and all of a sudden he can’t breathe again. It’s an exhausting cycle, and by the early afternoon his stomach muscles are aching and his ribs feel bruised.

It’s also the first day he gets a craving.

He’s an addict, right, he’s had periods of intermittent cravings over the years, that’s completely normal. Sometimes, even thinking about it in passing is enough for the itch to come back, to whisper the number of his old dealer in his ear, to recall in both his physical and mental memory the feeling that came with each press of the syringe.

This is the most intense one since his withdrawal immediately after waking up in hospital following his accidental overdose in his parking garage. It’s so intense that it scares him.

Crying harder than he thought it possible, he fumbles for his phone on the nightstand and — fighting the temptation to type in the digits of his dealer — he dials the number he’s had memorised since he was nineteen. He can’t speak through his gut-wrenching sobs, but he knows the sound of him crying this hard will be enough, so he lies in bed and continues his pity party until he hears the front door swing open and the rapid steps through the hall.

Soon enough, Hotch is pulling him into his arms and he finally feels a little less alone.

Hotch lets him cry himself out, and only when his tears have dried up and the hiccups have subsided does he say anything besides the reassuring murmurs he’d spoken into Spencer’s ears as he cried.

“Spencer,” he says — somewhat desperately — “please. You have to tell me what’s going on. Let me help you, okay? Whatever it is, I’m here. I won’t let you suffer on your own anymore, I promise.”

Spencer doesn’t raise his head from its position buried in Hotch’s t-shirt, but he does finally say something. He doesn’t know what overrides the shame that’s kept him quiet — maybe it’s the exhaustion or the loneliness finally winning out — but whatever it is, he’s glad it does.

“I had a craving today,” he whispers, because it seems like a good place to start. “Haven’t been feeling good since, uh. Since… Strauss.”

It’s hopelessly phrased, but it’s the best way he can explain it and Hotch, being the miracle profiler and father figure of Spencer Reid, figures it out instantly.

He feels the way he slumps slightly, hears the tired, frustrated sigh, and knows he’s probably beating himself up for not figuring it out sooner.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I just… I couldn’t. I didn’t know how.”

Hotch shushes him. “You don’t need to apologise for that, Spencer, don’t be sorry. I’m the one who should be sorry for being so blind, and I am. I hate that you’ve been suffering like this and we’ve all been too stupid to realise why.”

“It still, it still hurts,” he says quietly, sadly, regretfully, “it still hurts that no one helped me until it was almost too late. But everyone dropped everything to help Strauss— I’m sorry, it’s so selfish, I shouldn’t be—”

“Hey, Spence,” Hotch interrupts him, caressing his arm gently. “It isn’t selfish. It’s human. And you’re right, we should have helped you sooner and it’s always been my greatest regret that we didn’t, and that because of that dereliction of duty, we almost lost you.”

“I’m not, I’m not trying to make you feel guilty or anything—”

“Spencer, I know that. But you need to stop feeling guilty for how you feel, alright? It makes complete sense that this is bringing up both the feelings of rejection and betrayal, and also cravings for the drug you were addicted to at the time. It’s so obvious that I don’t know how I didn’t see it earlier.”

Spencer nods, but he doesn’t say anything for a couple of minutes. “Derek’s been visiting Strauss on our days off,” he admits quietly. “I’ve barely seen him for almost a month now, and that— it isn’t helping.”

“I can understand that. Have you talked to him about any of this?” he asks, even though Spencer’s sure Hotch already knows the answer.

He shakes his head.

“I know it’s hard, Spence, I really do, but I think you need to talk to him. Obviously, it would’ve been better if both he and I had figured it out without you having to tell us, but clearly, he isn’t going to realise by himself. I know that as soon as you explain it, he’ll understand completely.”

Spencer sighs. Some part of him had known this was coming, he just didn’t know how it would come about. He wouldn’t have put money on Hotch being involved, but maybe he should have done. He always seems to come to Spencer’s rescue.

“He’ll probably be out for a while. He usually stays out for hours when he goes to visit her.”

“Well, how about I stay until he comes home, and then you can talk to him? How does that sound?”

Spencer looks up at him. “What about Jack?”

“He’s out with a friend and their family anyway,” Hotch reassures him, smiling as he runs a hand down his arm. “Now how about I make you some tea and we go and sit on the sofa?”

Spencer reluctantly agrees and moves from the safety of his bed to the comfort of his sofa, but he has to admit that the light streaming in from the big bay window and the feeling of sitting up makes him feel just a little better straight away. Once Hotch is back and placing a cup of chamomile tea into his hands, he doesn’t feel quite so much like he’s going to burst into tears at any moment.

“I have to ask, Spencer,” Hotch says carefully, “did you buy any dilaudid? Or attempt to contact your dealer?”

“Thought about it,” he admits, not meeting Hotch’s concerned eyes, “but I didn’t.”

Hotch relaxes. “Good. I’m proud of you, you know.”

Spencer looks at him with a hesitant smile that only grows when Hotch beams back.

They spend the afternoon watching nature documentaries — and Spencer admittedly dozes through a lot of them, exhausted from the burden of carrying so much pain around and the physical exertion of crying so hard — until Derek comes home at just gone five thirty.

“Hotch?” he asks, confused, and his voice wakes Spencer up from one of his unintentional naps.

He scrambles to sit upright, going inexplicably red at the thought of what he knows is coming. For some reason, he feels like he’s done something wrong and he’s about to be told off. He hates that this is what his relationship with Derek has come to.

“Hi, Derek,” Hotch says, squeezing Spencer’s ankle and getting up from the sofa. “Spencer asked me to come over earlier” — which is a bit of a stretch when really Spencer sobbed into the phone until Hotch showed up — “and I was just keeping him company until you came home.”

Derek’s eyebrows only furrow further, looking between them, confused. “Right.”

“Spencer,” Hotch says, meeting his eyes, “are you okay if I go now? You’ll tell Derek what we talked about?”

Immediately, Spencer blushes red as Derek’s scrutinising eyes fixate on him, but he nods and smiles weakly at Hotch, following him with his eyes as he lets himself out, if just to avoid meeting Derek’s.

“Pretty boy?” Derek says cautiously, slowly taking off his jacket and approaching the sofa like Spencer’s a wild animal liable to be spooked away at any given moment. He supposes it’s probably quite a good analogy, actually.

Spencer shifts nervously in his seat, moving his legs out of the way to give Derek more room to sit down on the sofa.

“You finally gonna tell me what’s been up with you these last few weeks?” Derek asks, and Spencer isn’t oblivious to the hope in his voice. “I’ve been worried about you, baby.”

Spencer nods and closes his eyes for a moment, taking a couple of deep breaths to compose himself. He’s told one person, and it went fine— it went well, actually. Derek is his life partner, his soulmate, and they tell each other everything. He just needs to start at the beginning. He needs to tell him all of the disclaimers, remind him that he’s not angry at him for doing the right thing or for being the compassionate person he is, he just needs to— He needs to focus, and he needs to tell the truth.

“I called Hotch earlier because I was scared of myself,” he says, finally opening his eyes and looking into Derek’s. “I was having some of the most intense cravings I’ve had since being sober, and I was seriously considering calling my dealer, but I managed to call Hotch instead, and we talked about how I’ve been feeling.”

“Baby, I’m so sorry I wasn’t here,” Derek says regretfully, his face melting into the very picture of apologetic as he scoots a bit closer on the sofa so he can grab Spencer’s legs and pull them over his lap.

“I know,” Spencer replies, ignoring for now that him not being here is why they have a problem in the first place. He moves on. “I’ve been… struggling… over the last month or so with feelings that I haven’t really known how to rationalise or explain, and when I finally did make sense of them, I felt that I couldn’t share them with anyone, which is why I’ve been so distant and private. And I’m sorry for that, by the way.”

Derek just smiles, caressing his bare ankle with one hand as he rests his other over his shin.

He pauses for a moment, trying to find the best way to word his thoughts, but before he can think about it too hard, the words come spilling out, unbidden. “I’ve found it hard to reconcile your attentiveness and willingness to throw everything at helping Strauss, and the way no-one helped me with my addiction back in 2007.”

Derek’s face instantly falls, and saying the words out loud brings all the emotions he’d managed to control back again in full force, and suddenly his face is crumpling, too. Derek surges forward, moving them both until he’s situated between the sofa cushions and Spencer, cuddling him as close as he can while Spencer cries into his chest.

“I’m so sorry, baby, I’m so sorry,” he whispers, voice breaking as he begins to cry as well. “I’m sorry I didn’t do anything then and I’m sorry I didn’t put two and two together to realise why you were struggling so much. I can’t believe I was so oblivious, Spence, oh God.”

They lie there for a long time, crying together as Derek runs his hands through Spencer’s hair and Spencer clings desperately to the fabric of Derek’s t-shirt.

“I was just feeling so distant from you because we weren’t spending as much time together, and I had no idea how to admit that I was feeling hurt about something that happened almost five years ago,” he continues when they’ve both calmed down again, and they’re ready to resume the conversation. “I guess I just felt… ashamed of both my feelings now and being jealous, which is so ridiculous, I had no idea how to tell anyone how I was feeling. And I’m so sorry that my lack of communication affected us so much.”

“Oh, baby,” Derek sighs, leaning in to press a kiss to Spencer’s lips. “You don’t need to be sorry. I’m sorry that I was hurting you when I should’ve known the effect my actions would have. This whole mess is on me for so many reasons.”

“Der, I don’t want you to feel guilty,” Spencer says insistently, urgently, looking at him imploringly. “You’ve apologised enough for what happened back then, and there’s no way we can change what happened. You were just being the same kind and compassionate person you always are when you were helping Strauss.” He reaches out and cups Derek’s face gently, hating the tells of guilt and self-loathing he can see all over it.

Derek sighs and moves Spencer’s hand to his lips so he can kiss his palm. “When I was sitting in that hospital room waiting for you to wake up,” he explains, “I made a promise to myself. I told myself that I would never let anyone down like that again. I was never going to stand back and watch anyone else I knew fall into the same trap you did. So when I realised Strauss had a drinking problem, all I saw was an opportunity to keep that promise.

“The only problem was that I was so wrapped up in doing the right thing in helping her that I wasn’t doing the right thing by you. I should’ve realised all the feelings, physical and emotional, that this would bring up for you, but I didn’t think. I’m so sorry, baby boy, I really am.”

Spencer cuddles back into Derek, burying his face in the juncture between his neck and shoulder and relaxing into the reassuring scent of his person. “I know, Der. I forgive you.”

“How about we order in some Thai for dinner from your favourite restaurant and watch some Doctor Who?” Derek suggests after a couple of minutes of silence. “I think we’re long overdue for some quality time together.”

Spencer smiles at him, feeling so much of the heaviness that’s been weighing him down over the last few weeks lift that he feels almost like he’s floating. “I think that sounds like a plan.”

They set the living room up to be as cosy as possible, lighting the candles Penelope had made for them and using only their soft lamps to light the room, before piling the couch high with blankets and pillows until they’re cuddled together in a little nest.

The evening is spent eating their favourite food and watching their favourite season of Doctor Who, and while Spencer’s still hurting and they still have healing to do, this feels like a damn good start.

“I’m proud of you,” Spencer whispers to Derek late into the night, when they’re close to falling asleep in the comfort of their blanket pile.

Derek turns to him, looking confused. “What do you mean?”

“You made a mistake when you let things get bad with my addiction back in 2007,” Spencer explains, “and when you saw someone headed down the same path, you stopped at nothing to make sure you didn’t make that mistake again. If anything shows me how much you regret not doing anything sooner, it’s your devotion to Strauss’ recovery.”

Derek smiles at him, his eyes a little watery, and holds his chin gently as he leans in to kiss him. “I love you,” he murmurs. “I love you so much.”

Spencer kisses him again before cuddling back into his side. “I know you do, Derek. And I love you, too.”

And really, when it comes down to it, that’s enough.

Ahhh, this was the first fic in forever that actually felt fairly easy to write thank GOD. I loved this concept and writing that good, good angst was so much fun. Plus, we always love a happy ending in this house! Also, a reminder that how other people when you confront them with the way they hurt you or made you feel is not your responsibility.

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @lesbiantodds @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @negativefouriq @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @livrere-blue @hotchseyebrows @enbyspencer @reidology @transhanniballecter @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @hotchedyke @tobias-hankel @hotchscotchh @marsjareau @oliverbrnch @im-autistic @anxious-enby @kuolonsyoja @reidreids @ropoto @thosecriminalminds @wifeyprentiss @cmily @love-pyramus @notevanbuckley @thebipolarbisexualnerd (add yourself to my taglist here!)

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gaiuswrites · 3 years

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King of Cups || Chapter 9

Chapter 9: The Hanged Man

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | eight

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: After some time apart, new conclusions are met.

Word count: 7.8k~

Rating: Explicit

Warnings/tags: SMUT, fingering, unprotected piv sex, emo emo emo (are we even surprised any more), mature themes, abandonment/family trauma, loss

Notes: Friends, wow. I'm honestly embarrassed by how long this took. Thank you for your patience. I hope you find the reward worth the wait. This chapter is nearly all in Din's POV until it switches and blends in the last chunk. If you’re new to KOC, you’re more than welcome to start at this chapter! Love you guys x (gif credit: @bestintheparsec)

“Din.”

Familiar fingers brush through his hair, a hand he knew once combing over his overgrown locks. He feels the drag of nails across his scalp, tucking a truant curl behind his ear, and the act feels like home— like hearth.

Somewhere beyond his open window a morning bird trills, perched in its roost nestled into the forked branch of the elm.

He breathes a sigh, the sound thick with sleep, and turns to his pillow, burying himself deeper into the linen.

“Din, honey.”

He blinks— lazily, molassesed— her shape clearing into focus.

Green eyes peer back at him, fine lines framing the corners of them, and crescents crease around her lips, pulled warm into a soft curve.

Small toys— wooden things, baubles and bits, dolls made from scraps of old fabric—litter the floor, spilling from the chest butted against the stone of the wall. A book, well-loved and dog-eared, rests on his nightstand—the one he insisted she read from each night, the story he couldn’t possibly fall asleep without hearing—the images written on the page, dancing in his small mind to the tune of her voice.

It’s all there now as it was then before.

“It’s time to wake up.”

She sits at the edge of the bed—his bed—the weight of her arm draped over his shoulder like a blanket— like shelter. Like never being fearful again. Like never dying. Like summer, forever.

“I am awake,” he murmurs, and it is with his own tongue that he speaks. Not that of a boy, but a man—unfiltered, unmodulated. Stripped of his helmet, he hardly recognizes the tenor of it, of its richness, but he feels the words reverberate against the hollow of his throat and he knows they belong to him.

Light casts through the window behind her—particles of dust, trapped in the tines. Floating there, suspended on strings.

She only smiles, and strokes a thumb across the sweep of his cheekbone, there in the room he last felt safe.

“No, not yet.”

It’s time to wake up. It’s time to wake up. Wake up wake up wake—

“Not yet.”

His eyes blur open with a flutter of his lashes, the lifeless durasteel ceiling coming into view—the jade of her gaze fading, fading. Blowing away.

He shifts a hand through his hair— through the long strands in dire need of trimming— lying on his bedroll, spine knobbing into the thin mattress. The cold metal overhead stares back at him.

His chest rises. Falls.

Din can still feel her, the warmth of her, there on his cheek.

///

There is no part of this that comes easy.

He knows what you’re thinking, he can see it in the guard you’ve encased yourself with— your glass walls, your glass house. Transparent but impenetrable, Din can only look. A spectator, watching as you go about your routines— a stranger on the outside.

And he sees how you look at him.

You think he’s fine.

You think he’s marble. Unbreakable. Impervious to time, to cold, and he does nothing to correct you; no, he allows the belief. He lets you believe the calloused veneer of his beskar— lets you assume he is more machine than man.

Din thought it would be simpler. Convenient. Din thought it would hurt less.

Because how can he tell you? How can he possibly communicate the imprint you’ve left on him— how his mind revolves around the imagery of that evening in vicious figure-eights. How he can’t unremember your heat curling around his fingers, how he can’t unbridle the pulse of his cock in your palm. How he can’t unspeak that which he called you, his virgin tongue flicking new and flighty around the word.

Cyare.

It tripped—in the midst of his pleasure, it sprang clumsy from him how the inevitable always seems to where you are concerned: transport to Coruscant, his past, his history, his identity— it just happens, reasonless, illogically. Some driving magic beckoning him to buckle, wishing him to give.

Your moans, your gasps, how you prayed his name— this is the white noise murmuring through the ship, harmonizing with the tinny mechanical beeps and settling groans of the bulkheads. You churn like smog through his helmet. Ever present, the memory of you is constant— invasive. It’s suffocating him.

He’s been dealt plenty of injuries and contusions— he has the scars enough to prove it— but it’s this. It’s this that’s killing him. It’s you.

All of these paintings, life-like and lurid, and yet it is this wound - untended, uncauterized - that scalds most: the moment Din, that beskar apparition, slipped away from you. You were there, hip under the weight of his glove, and he simply

went, like fog.

He watched your face crest and fall—felt your heart, skipping nervous like a stone over a morning pond, little waves rippling lightly, lightly out and out until it puttered quiet and

sank.

He abandoned you there. He left you before you had the opportunity to convince Din that you wouldn't do the same to him. Because Din has learned this, his suit of armor a trudging reminder of the inherent fact: good things leave.

You’ll be gone soon. You’ll leave him—he’s taking you home and you’ll leave him. His son will leave him.

He’ll be alone again. He’ll have the Crest, he’ll have the Guild—he’ll have the life he once cast in stone for himself, the life he’s worn as proudly as the Mudhorn emblem he boasts on his pauldron. But that was then - before - and he can never find his way back to that now; now that he knows what he knows—of breakfast and bitter caf and laughter like church bells and warmth and goodness and you.

There is no part of this that comes easy.

There in the galley, lamp-lit iridescence caressing your countenance, you asked him once if he was scared of anything and he told you he wasn’t sure— not yet.

Din lied.

As a rule, he doesn’t make a habit out of dishonesty; it doesn’t typically suit him, he is blunted to a fault— earning allies and enemies alike with the very attribute—but he lied to you then. Maybe his fears are the same as everyone else’s, maybe they’re simple. Human.

Maybe he’s scared that you’ll unchain him from his armor, of his shortcomings and tragic flaws and see the pulpy heart of him—that you’ll look and look and look, and you will like nothing that you find there. That he’s just a man.

And perhaps, he’d rather remain unknown than risk the chance of being unlovable.

For there is a certain hollow you befriend in the aftershock of loss—there is an aperture loss gores you with. There are some holes time can never fill; they remain trenched, dug from rusted trowels— left to fester, left to ill.

Sometimes, in the surly vacuum of space, in those dulled moments in which he has nothing but to count the seconds as they tick clocklessly away, Din attempts to conjure the last word his mother gave to him. He didn’t know it then—he didn’t know it was intended as a gift, boxed and ribboned and bowed. He didn’t realize—a child, wide-eyed with naivety, drenched in fright—that he should cherish it. Remember it. Keep it safe.

No matter how hard he tries, how hard he strains, he can’t recall it. He practices the nightmared memory of it, transports himself into that war zone, dodging shrapnel and brimstone just to catch sight of her face— and he can see her lips moving, can feel the fan of the flames as his world is reduced to cinders, but he cannot hear her.

Was it goodbye? Was it I love you? Was it be safe? Was it hide? Hide hide hide for me. Be good and hide, kind boy—

It dogs him. The nothinged mumble, his silent passenger.

There is no part of this that comes easy.

He heard you. There in Valentia, the city buzzing cacophonously like an orchestra tuning their instruments, he overheard the Twi’lek translate for the older woman.

Family, she said. You have a beautiful family.

Din has never in his life considered forsaking his Creed— forgoing the thing that saved him, made him, honed him to tungsten, sharp as a blade.

But he did then.

It was a flash, something fickle and brief— like the flicker of a candle before it diffused to smoke— but in that nanosecond he saw himself ripping off his helmet. He saw himself going to you, pulling you close to his plated chest. He saw the surprise wash over you—the shock that bubbled to elation. He saw you smile, that crippling gorgeous thing, with his own naked eyes and—

And then suddenly you were there before him, snapping Din from his reverie, blanket snug to your chest, the child — his child— slung beside you. He wished he had an explanation, but before he could process his actions his hand was drawing itself to your body, tugged by some unseen force—robbed of his autonomy— and rapturously, he touched you. He felt you.

His knuckles grazed your arm—your warmth, radiating past the aged leather of his glove—and the wisdom that woman uttered, the plain truth only the ancient could learn— only a mother could know— rattled around his mind, unanchored and barreling.

Yearn for the past. Reclaim time.

Hold onto them hold onto them hold on—

Never let them go.

Ready? he asked you, arm resigned to his side, feigning monotony beneath the cover of his visor.

You threaded an even smile to your lips, as if Din were none the wiser— as if he hadn’t catalogued every lick of your expressions, every curve and bow and wrinkle as your emotions sung across your face. As if he didn’t know when you were lying. As if he didn’t know when you were falling apart.

Ready, you replied, swallowing past the disappointment welled in your throat.

Both your hearts broke then. Perfectly—the same.

This is the Way.

///

Din is gone over a week. It’s the longest he’s ever been away for a hunt—it’s the longest nine days of your kriffing life.

The ship feels vacant without him; she’s cumbersome, too cavernous for the likes of only you and his foundling. Her durasteel sidings yawn morose against the wind beating restless against her—her metal stretching like a lothcat in a patch of sun. The doors and hatches complain ajar and gripe shut, as if she’s recalcitrant to go about her standard operating procedures without Din’s presence. The old gal misses him, down to her steely bones and dual ion turbines, and in truth — and despite yourself— you suppose a small part of you feels the same, shares an inkling of that same loneliness.

The rituals and dog-eared routines you’d drawn comfort from are now rinsed in a forlorn wash.

The single bowl of food you prepare looks wrong without its twin beside it.

You scroll a finger over your display screen, flicking through various articles, the faint light from the holopad basking the contours of your face in a lonesome shade of inanimate blue.

Anything good you hear him ask, there in your inner ear— the memory of his voice leaving a nick among the many wrinkles of your brain.

You sigh, quietly— alone. Never.

Even Munch misses him, although he expresses it differently. He’s been a downright terror with Din gone. At first it was a vacation, a luxury retreat; you and the child gorged yourself on crackers and grava berries and dried bantha meat—mindful of sweeping up the crumbs on whichever surface you snacked. You giggled and ran amok and shared secrets in code only the two of you could decipher.

But one day grew to two, and two to three and three to four and by the fifth you were out of treats and your patience too had dwindled to short supply.

The child is special— unquestionably unique. And as much as you adore him, would lay down your life for him if it came to it, Maker he is uniquely qualified to send you round the bend twice over. He’s baffling, infuriating— just like his father. Of all the things he could have inherited from the man, of course he decided to latch on to his vexing penchant for mystery.

You lost him for half a day. He was somewhere aboard the Crest, of that you knew that for certain, but he managed to enact a stunt that could’ve puzzled even the most illustrious of illusionists with how quickly and effectively he vanished, seemingly out of thin air.

He emerged eventually for dinner, babbling wickedly. There was that, at least: you could always count on Munch to — well, munch.

Over a week of this— nine days, sixteen hours, and twenty-two minutes, to be exact… But who’s counting.

The sky glitches with lightning, sparking like a bulb in dreadful need of changing, and veins of violet skitter along the horizon, chased by the clapping hammer of thunder. Fat drops of rain trace down the transparisteel, the metalled drum of their pattering against the Crest lullabying your eyelids to a slumbered close. You drift, weightless, waxing and waning in and out of a reoccurring dream that always blurs to mere suggestion - to shadow - as soon as you wake.

The harsh sound stirs you—the ramp’s gears springing to life, signaling the Mandalorian’s return. Rapidly, you blink clear the slog of sleep from your eye, re-emerging from the forgotten depths of your subconscious and half-roused, you bound from the copilot’s chair. You rally from your stupor, instinct urging you to meet the bounty hunter by the entrance—some tittering, foolish part of you still so glad and girlish just to see him.

Hobbling down the ladder with veteraned coordination - one leg one arm one foot one hand - you hop the last two rungs to land catlike on the balls of your feet, heading towards the stern of the ship and—

You don’t make it three steps.

He’s there. Din is there— nine days later and finally, like a hallucination, he’s here— ominous and backlit by the glow seeping in from the galley. An obelisk, undaunted.

Your gut somersaults, flipping until it dizzies.

Knee-jerked and reflexive, the basest part of you demands you go to him, to cross the threshold separating you— the time and space and uncertainty dredged like a moat between you two. But instead of greeting him as you wish— two arms thrown around him, welcoming him home—back to the Crest, to the child, to you—you stand there, dumbstruck and wanting.

The passage of the corridor is like a strait. It's so narrow you can smell him— his carbon musk, his petrichored sweat—and it furls thick into your sinuses, fogging up your vision, clotting the faulty wiring of your mind. He’s brought the wet in with him, drip dropping from his hulking frame to splat puddled onto the deck.

plop

A beat ferments, hanging ripe from its branch as the tempest rages outside the sheltered hull of the ship. Distantly, thunder booms from above.

“Din— hi.”

“You’re up.” He doesn’t move from the archway. Stiffened, composed from granite, the man hardly breathes. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you offer hastily—untruthfully.

Din scans you: your obviously tousled hair, the drowsy flush kissing your jaw, the tell-tale crinkle of your tunic. Your tongue darts out to skip over your lip and his lungs pull, aching beneath his ribs.

Maker, you’re pretty even when you lie.

“Go back to sleep,” he assures, but you hardly register it; it’s scarcely above a murmur by the time the words hum through his modulator.

“Can I make you some food? Can I—"

There’s a tarred shake of his helm, tiredly dissuading you. “No, you—you’ve done enough.”

“But you must be exhausted, Din. Let me help you,” you urge, sincerity shaping the lilt of your voice. “Please, I—” You falter. Vision finally adjusted in the dimmed hall, it is then that you spot it.

Your mouth runs dry.

He’s dappled in a violent scarlet, foreign red splatters contrasted against all that silvered grey, bleeding with the rainwater to roll sanguined down the rounded edges of his armor.

Blood. He’s covered in blood.

Something pitted—something vital— in you contracts; horror, prickling the fine hairs along your forearm. “Maker, what happened?”

Eyes gaping fearful, you skitter around his breastplate, his vambraces, the paneling of his flight suit, roving meticulously in search for the source of his injury. Thoughtless, consumed with only one concern - is he hurt? - your hand flies to his chest where it rests—solid. Fretting. “Stars, are you—”

He can see it—he can see you, always—how your gaze swells, laced with a surge of adrenaline, of care, and Din lays his broad palm flat over your knuckles, grabbing your frantic attention. “It’s not mine—hey, it’s not mine.”

Your shoulders deflate, relief visibly relaxing the rigidity in your spine, and for the first time in what feels like minutes you release the breath you’d fostered high behind your teeth.

He doesn’t know what overtakes him. Perhaps it’s your sleep swollen lips or the soft petal of your cheek— taunting Din, daring him to feel you again, as he did before— or perhaps it’s the all too apparent fact that you simply give a shit about him— despite everything he’s done, all of that which he has left unsaid. That you worry. That you care.

Puppeted, arm hoisted by some invisible strings of fate—those unseen threads of inevitability—he reaches for you. Din’s thumb roams the slope of your cheekbone, the buttered hide of his glove gliding over your skin. Something rattles flustered in your chest, and you must look pathetic— how your eyes bat at him and your mouth parts, breathy and demure.

“Dala.” He sounds pained when he says it, as if it’s poisoning him; the very syllables like hemlock dripping down his tongue—slowly gradually, ending his life— this life.

This life as he knows it.

You nuzzle into the cradle of his palm, encircling a hand around his wrist, urging him still. You both know he could break away from you without an ounce of strength squandered, but he doesn’t; he listens, he quiets for you. Enchanted, neither of you dare move— neither of you, willing to shatter the profound spell of intimacy you’ve stumbled onto.

He holds you like this, and you hold him to you. His hand on your cheek; yours over the birdcaged throb of his heart— burning - devouring - its entombed aril like the heart of a dying star.

“Where’d you go?” you whisper, heathered, into the heel of his hand. There is something broken in your cadence, like the chipped rim of a fragile cup, and it punctures him just there beneath his sternum.

Where’d you go?

Where’d you go before? When you left— where did you spirit away to?

Why didn’t you take me with you?

A sick wave rots his stomach. He couldn’t answer you then, not when you were wobbly and coltish beneath him—Din can barely answer you now. His digits twine into your hair, cupping the arc of your neck. The gesture is not unkind. It is delicate— urgent, too—and the following hush you share speaks tomes for the both of you, the sob of his leathered fist admitting what he cannot utter.

I couldn’t. I couldn’t.

Maker, if you could see him. See how his face folds for you, grief lined into the shallow grooves that mark him. The cycles of it— how they bend him into something contorted. Something in need - I need you I need you I need - something ugly, he thinks. Leftover. Hidden. Hide hide hide hi—

You turn, pressing a kiss into the rough of his palm. It’s a soft thing— trepid and cautious—too worried you might frighten him away to offer anything more than a chaste brush of your lips—too worried you’ll send him scurrying back into the cratered unknown he crawled out from.

But he doesn’t.

Din doesn’t turn tail and run, he stands firm—weaving his hand further into your scalp, guiding you closer to him with a throaty sound. The forehead of his helm sinks to yours, and through its filter you discern the tremor of Din’s breathing, made fuzzy by the tinny modulator.

This is nothing like before. Din was hot blooded and vicious then, possessed by the infernal likes of some great beast, but he has since been tamed, if only momentarily—coaxed into a certain meekness by the frail ache of his heart—by the grace of your kind mouth, kissing his gun-worn glove.

He groans your name, mumbled and brassy. The two of you so close, so merged, that if it weren’t for his helmet, you’d feel the tickle of the syllables as they sweep over your face. Din repeats himself, repentant—praying for forgiveness on the cross of your name—your kiss, a benediction.

Again, he calls you. I’m sorry.

Again, you kiss him. There is nothing to forgive.

Again. Again.

With a flutter of bravado, you sling a lumbered arm over the span of his neck, notching yourself into his chest, an interlocking piece finding it’s match. Din’s forearm comes to coil around your waist, wide hand spanning the small of your back, and if possible, gathers you nearer— a growl emanating somewhere from under his beskar.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathes, bullet riddled—grating—warring with the countless shards of himself he has yet to reconcile; but his body betrays his intentions as Din’s grasp finds itself lower, filling his fingers with the plush of your ass. “Tell me, please.”

Arousal rushes to pool in your depths—at the proximity of him, the hungered way at which he paws you—and it’s a reaction you feel mimicked by the iron rod straining against Din’s flight suit, pressing into your thigh. You shake your head, gaze colored earnest, and you shift, applying a grind of your hips against him in response.

Din lets out a defeated groan; weak to you, a fabled Mandalorian warrior brought to trembling knees by the guile of a good woman. And suddenly, like striking a match in a room swarmed with gas, you are incendiary.

He’s everywhere— groping and kneading your arms, your ass, your neck and waist. You are malleable beneath him, sculpted like wet clay under his eager touch—as if he is committing your form to memory; the fervor of his grip, reclaiming time.

He hooks a hand under the crease of your knee, yanking you to the column of his armor, sealing your bodies together. Gyrating your hips against him, your clit yearns against his thick outline as you dig into the cowl draped over his shoulders.

Sliding his hand down your backside, he presses his palm into your clothed heat from behind, pads of his fingers insistent as you saddle your spine into his touch, granting him better access. His cock brays, straining beneath his many layers, and a withered moan breaches past your lips.

“Gods, Din.”

Din. He can’t stand that—his name, lush in your wet mouth—and without ceremony, drops your leg from where he’d glued it to his hip. Like a beggar, impoverished and need-stricken, he begins to fight with your clothing, half tempted to rip the damn things off you, leaving you tattered; he’d happily buy you a new wardrobe if it meant having you as he’s wanted for these long months—naked and vulnerable and his.

Your tunic and pants come off in a flurry, your underwear too, discarded hastily in some forgotten corner—and with a hand on your chest, he walks you backwards until your bare ass connects with the durasteel, a jagged inhale tearing through you at the chill. A question knits your brows to meet as Din paces away from you, increasing his distance.

“What are you-”

He interrupts you with a groan. “Just - gedet’ye - just let me—”

His gaze drips like wax down your body—eyes dressing over your clavicle, the supple weight of your breasts, the gorgeous dusting of hair at your mound, the sweet press of your thighs as you clench them together, your pretty knees, your pretty ankles, your pretty feet, pigeoned inward nervously.

Pretty pretty pretty—fuck, all of you. So fucking pretty.

With the cock of his chin, his gaze returns to the heave of your breasts—tracing over your nipples pebbling in the everpresent draft of the Razor Crest— and you rile under him, heart stammering loud—so loud you’re convinced he can hear it with the aid of his helm. And Maker above, the way you’re fucking staring at him—all hooded lids and flushed cheeks. Din wants to fucking ravish you.

Dismantle you.

Pick you apart bit by bit until you’ve come undone completely.

And as if slogging through gravity itself, movements prowled, he steps to you. Din finds your hips, running the whisper of his gloves along the slopes of your sides; a master of patience, commanding time to his will, he crawls up your skin

slow

deliberate.

You’re all but helpless to the shiver that traverses the planes of your body, zipping along your synapses like the fault lines of a quaking planet—cracking you open, exposing your molten core. You’re not proud of the noise you make when he cups your breasts. Starved, you whine as he takes you into his hands, pinching and groping until you’re pert and sore and you drive your pelvis into him, rutting yourself against his frame like some flea ridden slum-mutt in the prime of her heat.

Din seethes, mumbling in Mando’a—spitting curses you can’t pretend to comprehend, but that blot warmth along your cheekbones at the oaky depravity of which he utters them.

He seals over your mound, blood pumping at your seam, bundle of nerves pulsing steady against the heel of his hand. Immobile, he waits, hovering stagnant and teasing before his lust to feel you outweighs his desire to make you be good and wait—and parting through your curls, he kisses the tips of his orange gloves into your honeyed cunt.

It’s dirty. He’s dirty, he’s fucking filthy—covered in foreign blood and alien soil—and you feel depraved, unclean. Powerful. You feel, perhaps, as the Maker intended—wild and without shame, to roam his gateless garden and sully the soles of your feet.

You feel raw. Din Djarin sands you raw.

The pump of his wrist is merciless, pistoning in and out in shallow thrusts, knuckles angled to prod at that spot— that piece of primordial heaven sequestered at the channel of your cunt—and he keeps discovering it over and over again with a sharp shooter’s precision—zeroing in on his mark and releasing the trigger. Dead eyed.

You grab greedily at his bulge, at his cock begging for regard beneath the protective fabric covering him, and you squeeze the best you can. The angle is awkward and unweildy and it’s not nearly enough for either of you, but it conveys your intention well enough.

Can I have this? Will you give this to me?

Din growls his reply, leaving your pussy to fumble with the waist of his trousers, fidgeting over the pesky buttons—the final of the flimsy holdouts separating you and the tempered steel hanging solid between his legs. It bobs free from his pants, ruddied tip straining and pining for you, and without spending another moment idle, he rediscovers the warmth of your naked body— molding himself to your form, his grip once more finding the pit of your knee and bracing it to his side.

He ruts the underside of his shaft through your slick folds, his blunt head nudging at the swollen cleft of your center—each pitch of Din’s hips sending bolts of pleasure crackling through your core. He’s stifling a string of moans while he does it, while he undulates against you, the sighs and gasps digitized to near silence as he coats his cock in your gloss—and not for the first time do you find yourself considering how fucking colossal Din is. How fucking virile and engulfing, like blaster smoke and tabacco and cedar. Like coaled smog from a cremulator. Like giving life, like taking it away— like mercy. Vengeance.

Din swipes your standing leg up to match the other in a fluid motion, effectively levitating you off the ground with only his palms secured beneath your hamstrings and your strangled hold around his neck to suspend you.

“Tell me to stop and I will.” He’s practically begging you now, anguish wrecking through the timber of his voice—grasping blindly for an excuse not to lose himself in you completely, not to bury his primal drives and fears into the chasm of your sex.

You’ll leave him you’ll leave him he’s terrified you’ll leave him

“I-I don’t want you to stop— I want this. Din, I want you, I missed you. I miss you.” You miss him. He’s right here, cock streaking through your middle and still, you miss him. You’ll never stop missing him—wanting him. An unscratchable itch at the median of your back, burning for his affection, for his touch.

He releases a husked sound at that, as if hearing it from you hurts— your words, purpling a bruise into the bloody beat of his heart—and like a dipping sun sinking below the crust of a darkening planet, the last of Din’s resolve fades to utter black as he finally - finally - buries himself into where you weep for him.

Oh Maker. Fuck, fuck—

You muffle a relieved cry, forehead collapsing to the slope of his shoulder. Your walls shutter, blinking and gasping around his cock as he rolls up into you, lips pulling taut around his girth with each drag through your cunt. Din fucks you slurred and languid—his pace, sweltering like a summer fever—heavy, punitive. Smothering and thick. You can feel every vein, every silken ridge, as he notches himself inch by inch— the cant of his hips meditated, aiming to melt you open with each wave.

Stuffed to the hilt inside you, he rakes in a ragged breath, calming the race of his bloodstream drumming percussive in his ears.

It occurs to you then that he might be trying to be careful with you, curled around him like this, crushed up against the bulkhead. You think he might be treating you as a jeweler would handle a rarified gem— gentle and tip-toed, afraid of letting you clatter to the counter, of scuffing your facets— devaluing you.

But you don’t want that. You don’t want cautious or considerate or any of those awfully pious things. You want to be owned. Devoured. You don’t want to feel anything else but him. You want him to need you so terribly, so primally, he bleeds. You want to forget your own damn name and replace the memory of it with his—just his, to sit besot like liquor on your tongue. Din Din Din.

“Fuck me— please - please - fuck me harder Din.” Fuck me like you need to. Fuck me like you want me— please just tell me you want me. Tell me I’m wanted. Tell me I’m worth this.

You can see the deliberation span over his mask, the light glinting off the steel there hesitant, wary. Are you sure?

“Fuck me.” I want this. I want you.

He wants to give this to you somewhere soft— somewhere you deserve. With a feathered mattress and molted down pillows and gauzy curtains billowing in a sea breeze as light dapples prismed patterns on your dewy skin. He wants to give this to you somewhere beautiful—perhaps on that planet you once probed him about - Adega - with its red trees and warm nights and friendly natives you’d cherish and keep aloft in your breast.

He wants you to feel safe. Adored.

But what he wants and what he needs are two vastly different things—two opposing extremes at odds with the other. Because he needs to fuck you here— it has to be here. Needs to score your backside with metaled bites from the Crest’s unforgiving interior; needs you crumpled and sloppy, panting out his name to echo shamelessly into the deviled bowels of his gunship.

He needs you charred for him. Scorched earth.

And with your panted pleas, lilting addictive and irresistible, he is all but helpless to deny you— to deny himself. Relenting, resolved, his voice bottoms out.

“I-I’m gonna fucking ruin you.”

He fucks you frenzied. The snap of his hips drives you into the wall; he lifts you off his cock just to spear you on it once more, fucking up up up into you, unleashing all his strength— his neglected need—into the grail of your womb. The salted slaps of skin are loud enough to make a lecher blush. It’s a chorus of beskar rattling, wet and ugly and Maker, he’s splitting you open and all you can do is mewl.

You screw your eyes shut, lost to oblivion—crown of your head shoved back, jugular bared for him like prey before the slaughter.

“No.” Leveraging his mass against you, Din clasps at the nape of your neck to command your focus, forcing your chin. “No, look at me,” he orders, brutal and sinewed and there’s desperation there. Din needs you looking at him — seeing him— the embrace of your gaze like a life raft, tethering him here, grounding him to this plane of existence, the one where he has found salvation—if only fleeting, if only like hourglassed sand sifting through his fingers—within the temple of your body. Struggling and led-lidded, you pry your lashes apart, shivering as you drink in the punishing expression leering across his visor; and as you always do, you peer past the murky T there, meeting his eyes camouflaged in their sockets behind it.

“There you are. There you are, my pretty thing - hnng—” He silences himself with a hoarse moan, the sensation of you clenching firm around him, gripping Din like a man would a rope, dangling some feet above the ground, hiccuping him to stutter. “T-That’s it, dala—fuck, y-your pussy is so godsdamn tight.”

You go boneless at the praise—at how he tongues out those fond epithets, vehement and covetous and brined in sincerity—and your breathing quickens as you soak the coarse weave of Din’s flight suit, chafing your clit to shambles with each bow of his starved sex.

You’re close. Stars, you’re so kriffing close—reach out and touch it and you’re there, a promise fulfilled dancing at your fingertips—and you almost tell him; you wish you could - don’t stop don’t stop please right there Din - but you’ve lost your voice, vocal chords stricken with tension. More than that, you’ve lost the wedge of your brain that recognizes articulation all together. Speech itself. You’re wasted. You’re shattered. You’re being fucked within an inch of your sorry life.

Nimbled, without a word of warning, Din relocates— grappling under the plats of your thighs and bracing you featherlight to his chest—negligible in comparison to the ton of armor he dons cycle after cycle, weightless when compared to that of his Creed, hanging like a yoke around his gullet. You yip in surprise and scramble around him, calves digging into his back, forearms clamped around his shoulders—his cock remaining delved within your pussy with each footfall.

Four long strides and he’s reached his destination: a large crate, stranded just outside the hallway leading to the galley. Stooping at the waist, he lowers you down with astonishing ease until you’re flush on your back, knees flanking his frame. You heave a sigh, petulant and wanting, when he slips from you mid-adjustment, a lewd squelch accompanying the movement. It is to the fervor of your clawing, desperate nails scratching down metal - please please please - that he glides back into you with one deft sweep, a satisfied gasp tumbling loose from him.

He looms over you now— Din, a tower unyielding—thrusting into you rough and hard and perfect. He’s filling you in undiscovered places long gone unrealized, nooks you didn’t know you had—the length of him completing you, making you whole.

“Tell me to stop,” he pants, orange pads of his gloves dimpling your hips.

With a tremor of your chin, you moan—broken and chirping. “Don’t - please - please don’t - shit - don't stop—” Your prayers convulse, dying in your throat, sentence cut short as he circles his thumb over your clit, catching at your slippery bud. Ever the marksman, he’s debilitatingly attentive to you, the hide of his glove snagging against your cleft, and combined with the steady rock of his dick shredding you open, you’re all but defenseless to the dawning of your release, crawling closer and closer and—

“Din,” you pant, ”Din Din Din, I think I—I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna, oh Maker—”

The muscles in your stomach seize, a twisted expression cramping your brow. You scamper to his arms, reaching out for something - anything - a parcel of real estate to clutch onto while you unravel. You’re grappling with his pauldrons, the pulsepoint at your wrist humming over the symbol welded to his shoulder, and you mage into starlight. You’re fizzing. You’re blind. You’re atomic and phasing in and out of realities and you burn— a meteor hurtling through the upper atmosphere crashing crashing crashing and—

Language exhausted, all there is left for you to do is cry, the evidence of your orgasm ricocheting like a hail of gunfire against the Razor Crest walls.

“That’s a good girl, that’s a good girl for me—f-fuck." It’s like taking a jab to his solar plexus, how you cinch around him— the corset of your walls milking his cock until he’s shaking, stumbling. The drive of his pelvis has gone erratic, the throbbing bloom gnashing its teeth in his gut—that rabid thing desperate to be released, uncaged—teeters on the identical ledge you’d just leapt from.

“Tell me to stop - please - tell me to, tell me to stop—” You’re all eyes. Your whole face, swallowed by the sweet, glassy orbs notched below the quiver of your forehead, and you’re looking at him like he could hang the damn moon and it’s too much— it’s too much too much he can’t levee this raging need— and with a hurried gasp he pulls out of your heat to tug at his slicked cock— panting ragged as he gushes onto your stomach, your legs, your pretty pussy made pink and puffy with abuse.

His breathing is labored; you can see it in the mountainous rise and fall of his chest plate as his strokes slow, his other hand digging into your flesh, indenting you. He exhales, scraping clean the fissure between his lungs, and Din tips his head, angling it backwards— granting you a rare sliver of the stubbled swath along his neck. The sightly patch, treasured behind his silvered grotto, shouldn’t be the thing that plays upon your heartstrings like one would pluck a harp— not after he’s burrowed himself inside you, not after he’s carved you to his likeness— but it does. You’re butterflied and cherry blossomed and you grin— not so much on your lips but in your soul, and there is a purring warmth that’s radiating like candle flame from the anima alive beneath your breasts and—

And then, suddenly — like time, like memory— he is gone.

He leaves you. Mirrored, he does as he did that night—laying a squeeze into the meat of your hip, he transpires to atoms, dissipating round the unknown bend of a corner and you’re alone again—alone, with only the citric bile steeping in your insides to accompany you, threatening to rise up your windpipe.

No. No no nonono—

Din’s presence, a beacon in the moonless night, disappears— leaving you orphaned and moored and mortified. He’s done it again— he’s left you, he keeps leaving you— and it renders you sick; viscerally, you’re angered and ill and green-washed with naivety.

Fool you once, shame on them. Fool you twice, and what in Maker’s name did you expect? A declaration? An about-face? As if a Mandalorian could let the beskar from his blood. As if Din could reanimate the cadaver of his past—could slip into that old snakeskin he’d shed cycles before.

It paralyzes you. Immobile, you are chambered flat on your back in the resin of your embarrassment, bereft of your vision as you stare sightless into the steel. You’ve separated—your mind and your body disjointed like oil and water, and you don’t hear it. You don’t hear the tread of Din’s feet, you don’t register his aura, Illuminous in the archway; you don’t see the stray towel fisted in his grip, you don’t feel the clench of a frozen hand around your heart as he does his. For he sees you there—a tick in your jaw; eyes distanced, fogged—and he knows he’s done this to you. The scarring of how he derelicted you then tarnishing the new-leaf flesh of the present.

He steps towards you, closer now, and your alerted gaze pins to him. A surprised expression makes a home there, astoundment freckling your face— and although he hasn’t earned the right, it strikes him bullseyed between his plated ribs because it hurts— the obvious shock of him returning for you hurts. Din is not a good man— not all of him. Sometimes, you and all your heaven-lit gleam, you make him forget that.

But sometimes, you make him remember.

And Maker, if you don’t look good like this. Streaked with his seed, creamy white pearling the maps of your body, the shine of it catching in the cannistered shafts of filtered light.

There’s a word for this—for you, for how you look, splayed and painted with his cum—with him. It puffs up like petals would, there in the square of his center. He’s never said it. His mouth doesn’t know the feel of it, his lips don’t know its shape. It’s scribed in Mando’a, and as native as the language is to him—as fundamental as Basic, if not more so—the word itself is foreign. Gawky. The thought of it alone hobbles through his mind on foaled legs. Din keeps this word barred, its essence clinging to the iron partitions of his skull, its perfume clouding his senses, his better judgement, his confounded rationality dangling precarious by a string.

Beautiful. Mesh’la.

You shift under his watchful eye, knees steepling mousy, and gingerly, he prizes the two apart and you let him.

You let him you let him of course you let him.

Din runs a damp cloth up your seam, up those hypersensitive folds, towards the expanse of flesh leading to your belly, and you hiss—a startled chill icing through your body.

“It’s cold,” he informs you, well after the fact, and you chortle a note in response. He continues to lave you clean, the drag of the material smoothing over your stippled planes and it’s intimate—how he takes you under his care, how he unmakes his mess.

Your heart, silly flustered thing it is, it tells you the act feels worshipful—reverent, maybe—but your head convinces you to look away, to cower, to do anything but address the blaze left in the wake of the rag he’s swiping over you. It’s too much. You feel vase-like— fragile and dainty, for the bounty hunter to either fill with wildflowers or crush under the heel of his boot— and it’s too unbearable. Bringing a hand to your sweat-sheened face, you shadow your eyes, ostriching shyly— if I can’t see him, he can’t see me.

A clipped tone escapes his helmet and it’s a sound you can’t place— it’s short, a blip—and you presume he’ll remain mum until he speaks. “You don’t have to hide from me.”

You don’t have to hide from me. I don’t want you to hide from me.

You nearly whimper at that. There’s something endearing and bronzed about how he says it, something torn, too—and you peak through the curtain of your fingers to watch him perform his ministrations. Almost begrudginly, you remove your hand from it’s shelf, resting it on the swell of your breast while he passes the cloth along your inner thighs, erasing the sticky traces of himself. There’s a quiet pause, a moment of distilled nothing before—

“I didn’t think you were coming back,” you admit, small.

He soothes his thumb into the crook of your hip, voice blunt with guilt. “I know.”

Sighing, you nod a little thing, a half-gesture, practically creeping under the Mandalorian's radar undetectable. Thunder shouts, lightning cracks— the bombastic storm outside apathetic to the lull within. Din clears his throat, rasping. “Was that okay?”

You resist the temptation to snort. Din is such a juxtaposition—one you don’t imagine you’ll tire from any time soon. He’s dangerous and protective and clever and strong and kind, despite his best efforts to snuff his compassion to ash like the butt of a dead cigarette. Lifting your palm from its perch, you extend to him, measuredly sliding your fingers against the crate— stretching stretching until he meets you, dubious and toddling like a child’s first steps, orange-dipped digits touching nude flesh. Your everbright grin brightens all the more— bewitching, back-breaking—as you entwine your hands to mesh.

“More than okay,” you say coyly. “Was that-was that good for you?”

Din huffs out an airy chuckle rich with disbelief, like he can’t fathom you’re even asking him—like you’d even have to ask at all. “That was—that was good. Very good,” he confesses gruffly, never a man for poetry, breathlessness still apparent in the bleed of his vocoder. “Even better than I imagined.”

A feline grin unfurls your lips, boldly quirking the droll corners of your mouth. “You imagine this often, Mando?”

Smirking wry and devastating, Din ushers you up by your woven hands, your body pliable and easy to his will; uprighted, his hips slot between your pretty knees, and he expertly twists your arm behind your back, snaring it there. Spine swooped, breasts brushing against his beskar, your nipples pebble cold. “Don’t let it go to your head, dala,” he gravels, visor tilted down at your dwarfed form, tenting you.

“Well," you tease lightly, "I’ll try my best.”

And you look at each other with all the tender awkwardness of two people standing on the edge of a brave new unknown.

Nervous, girlish, you smile.

Fluttering, pussy-drunk, he smiles back.

///

Nested in the pronged branch of a tall tree spindling up from the graveled soil, Din— a man, a boy too— reclines supine against the bark. His feet dangle like they did then, back when he wasn’t so afraid, and the air is dusted with a rosy haze as dusk settles upon the tired day.

The sun sets. The world twinkles a midnight blue, winking starshine as she spins.

Somewhere, behind him, his mother calls him home for supper.

tags: @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @miranhas-art @djarrex @djarinsbeskar @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled @bookishofalder @helmet-comes-off @grumpymuffinmama @niiight-dreamerrrr @spideysimpossiblegirl @janebby @greatcircle79 @gracie7209 @thatonedindjarinfan @altered-delta @email2ash @stevie75 @shegatsby @onebrownoneblue @uniquebiscuitmongerdonkey @severinsnape @kirsteng42 @justanothersadperson93 @mrsbentalmadge @radiowallet @librariantothejedi @whataperfectwasteoftime @babydarkstar @punkremus @mandobloggin @alma-rt1 @not-the-droids @pedrostories @kylieann0716 @jk7789

#King of Cups #din djarin x reader #din djarin x fem!reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x ofc #din djarin #the mandalorian #mando x you #mando x reader #mando x fem!reader #din djarin fanfic #din Djarin smut #the mandalorian fanfic #star wars fandom

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moonstrider9904 · 2 years

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Chapter 5 - Cave of Pools and Diamonds, Part 2

Chapter Summary: Sarah and Crosshair tread through the cave system with more confidence, and Sarah even picks up valuable items on the way. But another close brush with death will make feelings be manifested, perhaps by more people than just the couple.

Word count: 7.4k (it's long but so worth it i promise)

Warnings/tags: descriptions of mild injury (no gore) and poisoning, language, bit of angst, pining, hints of soft!Crosshair cuz I love him, medical procedures (injection w/ syringe), giant insect.

A/N: While writing this, I listened to City of Tears from the Hollow Knight soundtrack on repeat. It fit the mood :3 Hope you enjoy, and thank you for reading!! Also, enjoy the smiles in this chapter, because after this chapter we'll be hopping into TBB season 1's plot ;)

Series Masterlist | Previous chapter | Next chapter | AO3 link | Wattpad link

Another a/n: I'm so sorry if someone asked to be tagged, it's been a long week and I forgot who it was so please reply or dm me if you want to be tagged for this series :3

The events of the night before they continued their voyage through the caves seemed to solidify their bond. There was silence, but it no longer felt tense. Words could have been spoken to express how they both felt, but it wasn’t strictly necessary for them to be heart. Both of them more confident in what they were doing, Sarah And Crosshair managed to find a few more clusters of iron ore they could mine out of the cave, each time getting closer to reaching the amount that they needed to fix the ship.

Carefully, they walked down the ravine. They could tell how much deeper they were getting gradually; the air was cooler, more humid, and it felt enclosed. It was darker too, and getting more difficult to see the way ahead even with the aid of the lanterns. With their vision compromised, it wasn’t long before Sarah mildly tripped over a rock, and upon regaining her balance she felt compelled to point her lantern down at it.

She let out an audible gasp. The white light of the lantern seemed to reflect yellow on the rock. Crosshair feared the worst when he’d heard her gasp, but when he checked on her, all he saw was her crouching on the ground to pick something up as well as the way her gaze lingered on it, her lips forming the word “wow” as she held it delicately.

“What is it?” Crosshair walked up to her and got a look of the little pebble she held, a tiny nugget of a yellow reflective mineral.

“It’s actually gold,” Sarah said as if she still couldn’t believe what it was. Entering the system of caves brought with it many concerns, so many that she didn’t bother to think much about the rare minerals that could be found in those depths. Using a part of the fabric of her blouse, Sarah wiped lingering dirt off the golden nugget and pocketed it inside one of the pouches of her belt where it would be safe, and she thought of Tech as she did. She had a feeling he’d like it.

They moved on. Quickly, they realized being so far underground would bring them the fair reward of encountering many more clusters of iron, perhaps more than would be necessary. They didn’t have to walk as much between clusters, and with Tech’s tools, mining wasn’t time consuming. The hover cart began filling up, lifting Sarah’s mood, and she could swear she sensed Crosshair feeling lighter as well.

He had his face covered by his helmet, but it made Sarah’s heart warm to think of his gaze softening; she’d had a taste of that rare sight of softness in him when he slept on the Marauder, and just the thought of him looking like that while awake and conscious, genuinely happy about something, made her quiver.

“Focus,” Crosshair broke the silence.

Despite her usual confidence, Sarah averted her gaze from his as she felt her cheeks heat up. “What do you mean focused? I’m perfectly focused.”

“No you’re not, Ace,” he chuckled beneath his helmet. “You’ve been all jumpy since we left the lagoons. You’re smiling more, I can tell.”

“I have not,” she denied, and she would have continued doing so were the words not echoing within her mind as Crosshair turned his back on her and began walking forward, lighting his trail.

Sarah watched him firmly, her heart racing as she thought of the possibilities. “Crosshair? How could you tell?”

Lightly, Crosshair scoffed. He turned around and walked back towards Sarah whilst removing his helmet, allowing her to see his eyes once more, illuminated by the dim white light of their trail. Crosshair moved closer to her than he usually did, his body inches from hers, leaning his face down until his lips were so near hers it was a sin not to let them touch. Sarah felt her marks burn, her eyes staring into his, not daring to move but an inch.

Then, Crosshair smirked. “I could tell because your face is obvious as fuck and you can’t hide shit.”

Sarah felt her heart drop, blushing out of sheer embarrassment. “Right.”

Crosshair had that smug look on his face, but his expression softened into something more sincere. “And I… I felt it.”

He’d spoken it so quietly it was as if he was afraid anyone would hear him admit it. Sarah jerked her gaze to him again.

“You felt it?”

“Forget it,” Crosshair turned his back on her again and walked in silence until he seemed to force himself to a stop. He reached his hand out to the wall and grabbed something out too only to scoff slightly at it before tossing it over at Sarah. “Here.”

Sarah caught it, another tiny stone, a rich, deep blue color with a few specs of earth. It was a lapis lazuli, gleaming even though it hadn’t yet been polished in a color not unlike the distinctive hue of the 501st.

“You’re most likely not going to want to leave until you have a little souvenir for everybody,” Crosshair said monotonously, “you may as well take that one for Echo.”

Sarah smiled as Crosshair put his helmet back on, concealing his expression yet again. “He’ll be touched to know you care enough about him.”

“You’re never going to tell him I picked that out,” Crosshair pointed at her firmly. “Now move.”

Before she kept moving forward, she smiled once more at the lapis lazuli and secured it in her pouch along with Tech’s gold pebble.

Their trail continued; there wasn’t much more room in the cart for remaining ore and its data dashboards displayed that the minimum mass of ore that they needed had already been reached, but they decided to look for more iron to spare in case it was necessary. Sarah made sure to thoroughly light the trail as they advanced, which became all the more necessary when the path they were on grew narrow, too narrow for them to fit the cart.

The time wore on and more iron was found, but Sarah felt she wasn’t ready to go back up yet. She got a hunch that had her looking into one of the narrower caves that led even further down, and before she went down through it, Crosshair grabbed her wrist.

“Where are you going?” He asked, partly worried, partly rough.

“Down that cave,” Sarah said normally.

“Why?”

“I…” she realized she didn’t have the best alibi. “I just have the feeling we could find some more things down here.”

“I was kidding about the souvenirs,” Crosshair slurred. “Get back here.”

“Excuse you, prince,” Sarah raised her brow at him and shook her hand off his grip. “This is my intuition, alright? I know better than to ignore it, so wait here for me.”

“Sarah–”

“I won’t be long.”

Crosshair groaned, clearly rolling his eyes at her under the helmet. “I’m coming with you.”

“You don’t have to,” she said.

“Between letting you go down there by yourself and staying near you, I’d rather not let you go alone,” he admitted.

Sarah clasped her hands together and faked a dreamy sigh. “My hero.”

Crosshair chuckled. “You pretend to fake it, doll. Now make this quick, I want to get back topside.”

She playfully rolled her eyes at him and enjoyed the witty banter. On the way, they stumbled upon specs of redstone, handy for conduction and weaponry, a quality Sarah felt Wrecker would appreciate.

Lights continued to be set down along their trail, and Sarah led the way according to what her intuition told her. Crosshair followed her several meters back, wordless, and just when she was beginning to miss his snarky remarks, Sarah felt the dusty ground beneath her begin to crumble–it was gravel. The slightest disturbance on it was enough to tumble it off its balance, and Sarah was sent falling alongside it.

Sarah hit the ground hard, but was lucky to not have any gravel falling on top of her. Her body ached, but she wasn’t hurt, and she stood up and dusted herself off as Crosshair ran up to the edge of the hole and aimed his lantern at her.

“Sarah!”

It was odd–so odd of her to think this that she thought she’d hit her head–how lovely Sarah thought Crosshair’s voice sounded when he yelled. He was always quiet, monotonous, his voice was that of a coiled snake contemplating when to strike, but she found his yelling of her name endearing.

Yeah, I hit my head.

“Sarah!” He yelled at her again as he began to prepare the hook attachment onto his rifle.

“I’m fine!” She called back at him.

“I’m coming to get you,” he said.

“No,” she held her hands out. “No, it’s okay. All the gravel that had to fall already did, the rest of the walls are solid. I can just climb my way out…”

She trailed off when she felt her hunch getting stronger, but above her, Crosshair wasn’t anymore patient.

“Then get back up here already,” he commanded.

“Hang on…” Sarah looked down one of the caves before her. “Let me look around more.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, Sarah–”

“Crosshair,” she spoke his name firmly, the sound reaching him like an arrow through his body, straight through his heart.

He’d seldom heard someone talk to him like that; it was clear authority but dammit, he respected her for it.

“Trust me,” she said unwaveringly.

Crosshair sighed. “You have to stop playing that card.”

Sarah giggled and the sound filled the whole cave. “As soon as I’m back, you’re in charge, I promise.”

She began to turn around, resolved to enter that cave.

“Sarah.”

His voice was now at its usual tone, but it was nonetheless endearing. Sarah stopped and looked back up at Crosshair, who’d removed his helmet, and gazed at her with worry despite his decision to trust her.

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

Sarah winked at him and nodded, hoping it was enough to give him the little boost of confidence he needed. Finally, she walked into the cave making sure to light the way well, and as she walked, Sarah heard the sound of bubbling magma that got only slightly louder the more she walked, and not far away, Sarah could hear a stream of water as well. Another round of intuition came to her and she felt like picking down the right side of the tunnel, opening herself a pathway to a whole other maze of caves.

She signaled its entrance and went past it, knowing she couldn’t have found it by coincidence. She didn’t have to walk long to notice a faint light at the end of one of the new tunnels that had to be a magma channel–probably best not to go down that direction–but she went down anyway. The mysterious red glow of the magma reflected on some specs on the roof of the cave, and her eye got caught on one that was peculiar, since she could almost swear it had a green hue. Sarah walked carefully closer to it until the little spec was directly above her.

There, resting safely on the roof of the cave, was a single emerald, one that was very small, and timelessly rare.

She extracted it despite how long it took her to do so, long enough to make Crosshair worry. Still, she felt it was worth it when she held the little emerald in her hand and secured it in the same pouch where she had the other stones.

Sarah only had one more thing to do before leaving, to look down the stream and see what she could find. It didn’t seem menacing, so she got inside and let the water carry her, but it appeared she’d underestimated its strength, and in a matter of meters, the stream had become too strong for her to swim against it. The water shoved her to the end of the cave, leaving her cornered with only the lantern to give her some view.

When she tried to move up the stream and couldn’t, she began to panic. In her stress, Sarah looked around at several directions, but she forced herself to a stop when another sight caught her eye. Not far from her, two more specs gleamed, reflecting the light of her lantern. Sarah then realized she was probably the only person in the galaxy who was stupid enough to try and go toward the specs rather than trying to find a way out, but she didn’t care, because she had just stumbled upon diamonds.

“Sarah!”

His voice added a touch of magic to the sight of both diamonds reflecting the light of her lantern; Sarah had to use all her strength and aid herself through the Force to keep herself still and hold onto the cave walls. They were cold and humid, slippery on her fingertips, but her eyes remained trailed on the prize. Why she was so keen on going through that risk baffled her, but it became clearer as Crosshair’s voice traveled down the cave.

“Sarah!” Crosshair called again.

“I’m down here!” She yelled in response.

She looked over her shoulder and made out his tall silhouette in the dim cave lighting, smirking to herself when she realized he was knocking his palm to his forehead. It was warming to think he did care about her after all, beyond all banter and heat. Sarah paid little attention to him and continued down the stream until she finally reached the glimmering specs. Using the ray Tech gave her, she extracted them: two diamonds, one bigger than the other, but both equally beautiful, equally rare.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?!” Crosshair called.

“To you I am!” Sarah replied, smiling brightly as she secured both diamonds in the pouch where the other stones were, hoping to the gods they’d be safe from the stream. “Help me out of here?”

“Sith hells, you’re a pain,” Crosshair muttered and detached the barrel of his rifle to replace it with the hook and cable. He launched the hook in her direction and it landed square inside the stone wall, giving Sarah the chance to pull herself through it. But as soon as she held onto it, the force of the stream threatened to overpower her and Crosshair.

Sarah knew that the only way he wouldn’t be dragged down with her was if something countered the strength of the stream. She held out her hand and concentrated on the Force around him, pushing against Crosshair and pinning him to the wall behind him. Now that the stream wasn’t overpowering him, it would make it more difficult for Sarah to pull herself up and maintain that grip, but she resolved to manage. She had something to give him, after all.

She struggled towards him, fighting both the water of the stream and her own push of Force, hanging onto the wire with one hand, though eventually making it to the other end of the stream. She noticed Crosshair fighting her push and holding out one of his arms, offering his hand to her. Without a second thought, Sarah took his hand and let go of everything, and out of the stream, the two were sent tumbling to the ground with her body above his.

The two quickly shuffled into sitting, though still entwined. Sarah panted to catch her breath after such an effort, and Crosshair quickly scanned her for any injuries as well as a reason for why she could have done something so clearly stupid.

“Are you fucking insane?” His voice remained with his usual sneer, but he hid in it a note of concern.

Alarmed, Sarah frantically felt within her pouch and counted the items. Six small objects were safe and sound inside her pouch, and she gave a deep sigh of relief only to begin laughing afterwards. The soft sound of her laughter echoed within the cave walls, filling Crosshair with bewilderment.

“What?” He asked her.

Sarah then felt inside her pouch and took out the two diamonds, holding out the bigger one to him as she continued to grin. Her nebulae irises beamed at Crosshair, her smile equally as big, and the marksman then realized he was being presented with a gift.

Not only had he never been given a gift–the enhancements to his rifle and weaponry that Tech made were more a favor than a gift, and that was all he’d ever received–but it baffled him why he’d be worthy of a present from Sarah. His piercing gaze softened as he looked at the little diamond, less than half the size of a fingernail. He took it from her gentle touch and met eyes with her, rendered, for once, speechless.

He stuttered, and rather than questioning, Crosshair affirmed, “You’re insane.”

Sarah couldn’t help but laugh once more, and this time, the laughter passed onto Crosshair.

“You’re batshit insane, you know that?” Crosshair said through a smooth laughter, a sound Sarah cherished deeply, feeling its warmth in her marks.

She continued to giggle and rested her head softly on his shoulder as Crosshair put his diamond inside a small compartment within the handle of his rifle, after which he helped her stand up. Sarah’s laughter faded and she looked at him with a kind smile, one that made Crosshair feel more than he ever had.

“As promised, you’re in charge now,” she broke the silence.

Crosshair sighed, a smile taking over his features against his will, all but astonishing Sarah. He was truly beautiful when he smiled.

“Don’t you dare run off on me like that again, you hear me?” He told her.

Her smile widened. “I promise I won’t. But only if you don’t run off either.”

“You’re stuck with me,” his tone was a threat, but his smile held a gentle promise. Crosshair removed the hook and cable from the rifle and switched them for the usual barrel, and once again, he donned his helmet. “Come on.”

The way back was long and time consuming, and getting the hover cart up was quite the challenge, but they both prevailed. Eventually, they reached the bulb where Crosshair first got wounded, and after that, it wasn’t long before they exited the rift and returned to the initial maze of caves they’d been in. They were high enough below ground for the hover cart to regain its location signal; Crosshair stopped and digited commands onto the hover cart’s controls, and when he finished, the cart began to move on its own through the caves, leaving them behind quickly.

“I didn’t know it could do that,” Sarah said.

“Tech showed me how to not long before we found you and Echo,” Crosshair replied. “I couldn’t do that further down for obvious reasons. Any more obvious things to point out?”

“Um, I don’t know,” she played along. “Maybe the fact that you’re a bit of a pain.”

Before Crosshair could shoot back an even wittier response, they were both stopped by a rumble, one different from all the noises they’d heard up until then. It went on for longer than the others and it was much deeper, and after it, they could hear multiple taps on the walls like claws moving quickly.

“Any feelings about that?” Crosshair asked her.

“It can’t be anything good,” Sarah’s voice shook as her body went cold. She put her hand on the wall and tried to sense whatever it was, and the first thing she noticed was the fast movement, then the size, and finally, she gasped when she noticed the amount of legs that thing had. “We have to move!”

Without questioning, Crosshair prepared his rifle. Sarah got her blaster ready too, and the two ran in the same direction that the hover cart went in. Sarah could feel that thing getting closer, but without a warning, the walls behind them exploded open followed by a big centipede emerging from them. It was huge, almost as big as the tunnels themselves, with about eight eyes and its two frontal legs thick enough to make new tunnels, their tips being fine and sharp, most definitely stingers.

“Run!” Sarah yelled.

Crosshair shot out two of the centipede’s eyes before running after Sarah, but that didn’t seem to do much to the creature except for angering it more and making it run after them at top speed. Risking making an avalanche, Sarah forced the roof down on the centipede to create a wall between them. It stopped the centipede for a while, giving them a chance to run, but it had gone to a tunnel beneath them, making the ground crumble underneath their feet. Crosshair could run past the hole, but Sarah wasn’t as fortunate, and she ended up falling in.

She was left facing the centipede, who approached her slowly, hissing at her with its stingers clearly visible. Though Sarah fired her blaster on it endlessly, she was terrified, and her blasts didn’t seem to do anything to its seemingly rock-hard cortex. She was too scared to use the Force. She felt she’d reached her end.

Above her, Crosshair shot the centipede in the eyes, but the centipede was faster. It charged toward Sarah and she barely dodged it, but she was still cornered. She tried to angle its face towards Crosshair so that he could have a clear shot, but she wasn’t as successful as planned. The centipede charged at Sarah one more time, and this time, Sarah couldn’t dodge. A sharp pain invaded her lower waist, causing her to grunt.

When her vision started going blank, she heard Crosshair shouting out her name as the pain began to expand every corner of her body.

Crosshair

He watched as her body fell limply on the ground, though he could still hear her grunting, even above the hissing of the centipede. She was still alive, but she was in pain, and he knew he had to hurry. His blasts drew the centipede's attention from her and now it was coming for him, which was exactly what he wanted. He wanted it to face him directly. Sith hells, he’d dare that thing to look him in the eyes if it meant he’d get to kill it after the way it hurt Sarah.

Crosshair was confident in the distance between him and the centipede. It was anxious to kill him, so it didn't deviate from his path. Crosshair took advantage of its lust and shot directly in its eye. Instead of shooting its other eyes out, like he’d been doing up until then, he kept shooting the same eye repeatedly. The blasts had to go deep enough into its brain eventually. As he predicted–and he was never wrong–the fire of his rifle penetrated the exoskeleton and finally made it to the creature’s brain. At last, the centipede hissed loudly and then it too fell limply on the ground.

Crosshair went down the hole that thing created and ran up to Sarah. He threw his helmet and rifle aside; he only cared about getting to her. He reached Sarah and flipped her over, and he was chilled to his bones when he saw how pale she looked. He held her body in his arms and felt her shivering, for once making him terrified. "Cross?" She said weakly.

“Sarah–” he choked. Gently, his gloved hand ran over her cheek, and her skin felt like ice. “Sarah, stay with me. Please.” The sight was awful, her irises were filled with fear and sadness.

He knew he had to hurry. He picked her up and placed her over his shoulder, and with strength that he pulled from gods knew were, Crosshair managed to climb out of the hole.

"Hunter, Tech!" He yelled into the comm, his fearful voice sounding alien even to himself. He knew his brothers would be concerned as soon as they heard his tone. "Come in, dammit!"

"Crosshair!" Hunter replied with the worry Crosshair had anticipated. "What is it?"

"Sarah’'s down," Crosshair growled into his comm device. "I'll meet you at the ship, come fast."

"We're on it," Hunter said.

"What happened to her?" Tech's voice came in.

"She was stung by a large centipede," Crosshair replied. He didn't go into much detail as his priority was still getting her out of there.

"Oh, no," Tech replied.

"What the fuck do you mean 'oh no'?" Crosshair’s voice sounded angry, as was his usual defense mechanism.

"She was poisoned," Tech explained as Crosshair kept running. "The Mortis Centipede's venom is strong, and it causes the victim to go past several stages. The good news is that its substance keeps the victim alive, meaning Sarah won't die of it, not soon, at least–”

“Tech, I swear to the fucking gods–” Crosshair growled again.

“Calm down and listen to me, Crosshair,” Tech said. “I’m telling you she’ll live. The Wookies must have an antidote, and if they don’t, I’ll blend something for her."

Crosshair's thoughts ran too quickly in his mind as they usually did, but all of them focused on Sarah and the burning need he had to return her to safety. She was still just his teammate, that much he was convincing himself of, but he couldn't help the shudder that overtook him when Tech mentioned Sarah dying. The thought would bring him to his knees shattered if he let it dwell in his mind any longer.

"Just head to the ship," Crosshair snarled into the comm.

"Do you happen to know what stage she's in?” Tech continued. “How is she behaving?"

"She's unconscious right now."

"Okay, well, just to give you a heads up, she's going to start laughing and speaking nonsense very soon," Tech explained. "The venom eventually makes its victim feel blissfully at ease while maintaining it alive. The centipedes prefer to eat their prey this way."

"I don't care! I'll be ready, just meet me at the godforsaken ship," Crosshair said and cut the comm. He kept running up the tunnels as fast as he could. As Tech had predicted, Sarah soon began mumbling stuff Crosshair couldn't quite make out.

"Crosshair?!" She groaned out.

He stopped and carefully set Sarah on the ground. When he did, Sarah began to laugh, but the sound wasn't like it had been before when she'd given him the diamond, it wasn’t sweet or full of life like it should have been. No, this sounded almost hysterical. He picked her up again, this time cradling the girl in his arms, and he hurried even more, eventually reaching the surface and running back to where the Marauder had landed before.

He’d never admit it out loud, but Crosshair had never been more grateful to see his brothers waiting there for him. The other four were rushing over to him as he held Sarah in his arms, who still occasionally babbled nonsense, and Tech was in front of all of them with his holopad ready to inspect her.

"What's her state?" Tech asked.

"I think she entered the blissfully at ease state," Crosshair replied to him. "But she doesn’t sound well. She's mostly unconscious but wakes up now and then."

Crosshair was about to hand Sarah over to Tech when the girl began giggling again and she clinged harder onto Crosshair, her arms wrapping around Crosshair’s shoulders, her fingertips caressing the back of his neck, catching the sharp-shooter way off guard. She kept laughing and, as she quieted down, she looked him straight in the eyes, which glistened for a moment, making Crosshair believe she wasn't poisoned for just a second. Her exotic orbs lit up as they observed Crosshair, and Sarah's lips curved up into the most adoring smile Crosshair had ever seen.

"I love you, Crosshair."

Crosshair's eyes widened. He looked at the rest of his team, who were all as shocked as he was. What had shocked him the most was how normal she’d sounded, how healthy and sweet and natural her declaration had been. Sarah’s voice had been loving, like she'd meant it.

"She's delusional," Crosshair dismissed the thought as he handed a giggly Sarah to Tech, who cradled her in his arms similarly, making Crosshair feel a twitch of anger.

"Clearly," Tech said. "Alright, you guys load the ore into the ship. Echo and I will take Sarah into the village, I'll give her an antidote there."

“I’m not leaving her,” Crosshair snarled, catching his brothers off guard.

“Crosshair,” Tech snapped his brother out of it. “She is going to be fine with me and Echo. I have never failed you before. Now load the ore onto the ship. She’ll be fine.”

Crosshair hesitated, but Tech and Echo rushed Sarah away before he could react. As they got farther, Crosshair caught a glimpse of Sarah poking Tech's goggles while laughing.

"They're round!" She yelled, followed by more loud laughter.

Her drunk-like state gave Crosshair the slightest hope that what she had said about loving him hadn't been true. He’d been messing with her in the cave, for sure. There was teasing. And he didn’t deny feeling things, things he couldn’t explain. But how in the fucking hells of the galaxy could that be love?

Could it even be love?

Crosshair’s head began to ache. He turned around to begin loading the ore into the ship but was blocked by Wrecker, who was grinning indiscreetly.

"What?" Crosshair said.

"She meant it!" He laughed loudly, in pure Wrecker fashion. "SHE LOVES YOU!"

Crosshair scoffed and shoved Wrecker away with his hand. He put his helmet back on and completely neglected what had just happened with Sarah.

"Let's just load the ship," Crosshair said.

And as he made his way to the ore, he caught a glimpse of Hunter looking at him in a way he couldn't quite understand. No, he understood it alright. He knew his brother Hunter all too well, but Crosshair wouldn't do anything about it. There was no way he could, and that he repeated to himself as he loaded the raw iron onto the Marauder.

Soon enough, Hunter appeared behind him. “You doing alright?”

“Sarah’s the one we need to worry about,” Crosshair barked back.

“I know,” Hunter hid a certain tone in his voice.

Crosshair finally faced his oldest brother and removed his helmet to glare down at Hunter. “What do you want?”

Hunter hesitated until he sighed the tension away. “Crosshair… I’d never heard you that scared before.”

Crosshair felt his chest heat, and against his will, his features softened when the realization came. “I’d never been that scared before.”

He never had. The thought of losing Sarah, the thought of her being taken away from him, regardless of what he felt for her, he wouldn’t allow it. He wouldn’t handle it–couldn’t handle it.

He still didn’t dare to admit to himself that he loved her.

Instead, Crosshair’s attention was brought back to Hunter. Crosshair knew how to read all of his brothers very well; he knew them better than anyone else in the galaxy. Regardless, Crosshair had never seen Hunter like that. Crosshair was intelligent, and he knew Hunter had sparked some emotion for Sarah as well. He made it obvious too, and much like Sarah, Hunter wasn’t good at hiding what he felt.

Crosshair smirked. “Load the ore to the ship–”

“Since when do you think you can order me around?”

“I have to go see Sarah.”

Crosshair walked past Hunter, not bothering to look back at him even over his shoulder. He’d been the one down in that cave with Sarah. He was the one clouded with conflicted emotions over her, not Hunter. In a way, Crosshair was guilty. He was also relieved she’d be fine. He wanted to be there when she woke up, but he wanted to hide from her.

He knew how much he’d been rendered an embarrassing mess, and it was all because of those few words she’d managed to say before she was carried away from him.

As he walked, Crosshair felt Hunter’s gaze on him, but he didn’t intend to let that change anything.

Sarah

The bright lights blinded her for a moment and made her head sting. When she could finally open her eyes, Sarah looked around to register the room she was in. Her soft bed on the ground was surrounded by medicinal herbs and medical equipment, most likely Tech’s, but what caught her attention the most as she looked around was the sight of Crosshair cleaning his rifle as he sat on a chair at the edge of her bed.

“Why are you here?” Sarah asked him, her voice creaking and weak.

“Someone has to make sure you don’t die,” he responded as bluntly as ever.

“You wouldn’t happen to be worried about me, would you, now?” She teased.

“No.”

When Crosshair rested the rifle on his lap, Sarah got a look of the chain dangling from his neck, which wasn’t there before. At the bottom of the chain was a small, shiny stone, and it made Sarah grin like an idiot when she realized it was the diamond.

Crosshair noticed her reaction and looked at her questioningly. “What?”

“You have the diamond,” she squealed.

“Yes.”

Her eyes sparkled, and she let out a soft laughter, one that sounded much more like hers. “Is it possible that the big, mean, grumpy marksman actually does have a heart after all?”

“Shut up,” Crosshair said with a smile that betrayed him.

She sat up on the bed when the door opened and the rest of her team showed up. Hunter was the first one to walk up to her bed and crouch beside it, laying on Sarah a soft gaze.

“How do you feel?” He asked her.

“Tired. Woozy… but better,” Sarah replied. “And you guys? What’s happened?”

“We got matters taken care of,” Hunter said. “No Separatists will be coming back here anytime soon. Some things did get damaged in battles,” Hunter looked over at Wrecker, who grinned proudly, “but that’s almost fixed too.”

“Sounds like it was all worth it then,” she told him and then looked over at Tech. “We did get enough iron, right?”

“Oh, yes, more than enough,” Tech told her. “It’s being processed now.”

Sarah sighed in relief. “Good.”

“Um…” Wrecker began shyly. “I brought you something to make you feel better.” He approached the bed and held out his very own Lula, which Sarah took with a huge smile.

“Lula!” She hugged the plush toy and looked at Wrecker. “Thank you. You know, that reminds me, I brought presents for you guys too.”

Sarah looked around and found her belt and pouches beside her bed; she reached for it and carefully took out the stones, one by one, starting with the golden nugget.

“This is for you,” Sarah said as she handed it to Tech. “I thought you’d like it.” Then she took out the rest of the stones and gave them to each batcher. “Redstone for Wrecker, because it’s handy for weapons, it’s lively and hot, and it reminds me of him. And Lapis Lazuli for Echo, who no matter what, will always look damn good in blue armor.”

“Ah, old times,” Echo smiled serenely.

She then looked at Hunter and handed him the emerald. “And this one’s for you.”

Hunter smiled softly at her. “Thanks, Sarah.”

Sarah smiled back at him and felt her cheeks a bit hot.

“How did you find that?” Tech adjusted his goggles. “Finding emeralds is far more rare even than finding diamonds.”

“I know,” Sarah replied and looked at Crosshair. “We just stumbled upon it, like we did with everything in that cave.”

In the silence that loomed, Sarah could have sworn Crosshair had wanted to smile at her.

“Well…” Tech then spoke up, awkwardly showing a syringe to Sarah. “I, uh… I hate to break this up, but I do need to give you your second dose of antidote.”

She began to feel nervous at the sight of such a big needle. “That is a big dose. A-and what do you mean with second dose? How long have I been out?”

“Two and a half days,” Tech said.

“Two and a half?!” Sarah’s eyes widened. “Woah.”

“Do not worry,” Tech continued as he bumped the syringe to rid it of air bubbles. “That was mostly because of the sedatives I gave you. It was either that or having you wake up every hour and acting like a hopeless drunk. You should have heard the things you said.”

“Oh, I’m sure it wasn’t that bad,” said Sarah.

Without exception, every trooper in the room looked over at Crosshair, who glared defensively in return.

“Oh, no…” Sarah laughed. “What did I say?”

“Nothing,” Crosshair scoffed.

“I’m just hoping it was nothing too bad,” Sarah teased. “Whatever it was, I get the feeling I meant it.”

Once again, they all stared at Crosshair, but this time around, he smirked and shook his head without saying anything else, leaving Sarah puzzled.

Tech cleared his throat. “Anyways. Sarah, your antidote.”

She sighed, dreading the needle. “Fine.” She held out her arm and covered her eyes with her spare hand. “Do it.”

Nothing happened for a while; Sarah couldn’t even hear movement, causing her to suspect. She peeked at Tech and uncovered her eyes. “What’s the matter?”

Tech sighed. “Sarah, if I inject this into your arm, it will hurt multiple times more than it should and your body will poorly process the dose.”

“Well if not my arm, where are you going to put the needle?” Then, Sarah’s eyes widened and she went pale. “Oh, no. Absolutely not.”

Tech nodded. “I’m sorry. Though I have done it once already.”

Sarah winced out of dread and embarrassment and let out a tiny sob, but ultimately she began to turn around. “Fine, get it over with.”

Hunter, Echo, and Wrecker made their way to the door and left the room. Before Crosshair did the same, he went over to stand next to Sarah, looking down with a smug grin.

“What?” Sarah sneered at him.

“Would you like me to hold your hand?” Crosshair teased.

She scoffed. “I suppose you chose this angle strategically to get a good look at my butt.”

“I’m a sniper, Ace,” he winked at her. “I always get the best angles.”

Sarah frowned at him. “Get out now.”

Crosshair laughed smugly, but Sarah could still detect that lingering softness whenever he talked to her, causing her to grin lovingly at him even if he was being a bit of a cocky bastard.

“No, but seriously, get out,” Sarah said. “I only want Tech here.”

“Actually, you need me here,” Tech corrected.

Sarah glared playfully at Tech as Crosshair finally left the room, closing the door behind him.

“Well, Tech,” Sarah sighed. “I think it’s safe to say you and I hold no more secrets from one another.”

Tech raised an eyebrow as he wiped her skin with disinfectant. “That is debatable.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Tech laughed softly. “Do you really not remember anything?”

“I remember poking at your goggles, but only because I’ve always wanted to do that,” Sarah said.

“And that’s it?”

“Yes. Why?”

Tech remained mute and raised both brows, nearly proceeding to injecting her.

“Tech,” Sarah stopped him. “What did I say?”

“That’s not for me to tell.”

“I’m asking you about something I said,” Sarah tried to persuade. “Now tell me, what was it, and what does it have to do with Crosshair?”

Tech looked at her, and for a moment it looked like he was about to tell her. Instead, Tech decisively poked the needle with the antidote into Sarah’s left glute as the words “Son of a bitch!” shamelessly left her mouth in agonizing pain.

From there on out, it took Sarah a couple more days to recover completely. In that time, the rest of Clone Force 99 helped the Wookies rebuild their huts until they were as good as new. Sarah couldn’t do much to help, with her being mostly landed on a wheelchair watching from afar as everyone carried things to and fro.

The iron had also been refined. As a sign of gratitude, the Wookies helped the clones with that process as well, meaning that, with Tech and Echo’s brain power combined, the ship’s engines would soon be up and running. With all of that done, the troop resolved to leave the village as soon as Sarah could stand.

Most of the Wookies went to see them off at their ship before they left, and the chief bowed down and spoke, leaving for Tech to translate.

"He gives us his most sincere thanks on behalf of the village, and says we are welcome here whenever we may need it. He and the villagers wish us a good voyage," Tech said.

"It's us who should be thanking you," Hunter replied. "You helped bring one of our own back to health."

Hunter’s gaze landed softly on Sarah, who smiled back in return, and she bowed down at the Wookies in gratitude.

The Wookies slightly bowed down again and the whole squad did the same in return. Then, most of them turned around to head back to the village, but Tech quickly grabbed the holopad and stopped one of the villagers, asking her for a favor.

"What are you doing?" Sarah asked him.

"We don't have a picture of us yet," Tech sayid. "We haven't taken one with you and Echo."

"Aww!" Sarah yelled, trying hard not to hug Tech for showing his soft side. "I agree, we need a picture of all of us."

Tech handed the datapad to the Wookie girl and the squad huddled up. Wrecker, being the biggest one, towered at the very back. Slightly in front stood Crosshair, the second tallest, leaving Echo and Hunter to position themselves at Sarah’s sides in the next row, making her stand in the very center right in front of Wrecker. And finally, Tech crouched down in front of all of them, and the Wookie took their picture. Tech thanked her afterwards and she returned to the village.

They all took some time to look at the picture, laughing and commenting a bit on it, and after that it was time to get back on the Marauder and head to the next mission. Crosshair and Sarah were the last ones to get on, and before stepping up the Marauder’s platform, Sarah reached out to grab Crosshair’s wrist.

"Hey," Sarah said as he turned around. "I… I just wanted to say thanks."

"What for?"

"You saved my life."

Crosshair scoffed. "Tech did that with the help of the Wookies, not me."

"You carried me out of that cave," she told him. "And you killed that thing. So... really, thanks."

His lip very slightly curved upward. "You saved me too. We're even."

Sarah stopped him one more time before he got onto the ship, and Crosshair looked at her, once again, rendered puzzled by this girl’s behavior.

She was almost too nervous to speak, but she managed to get the words out. "When I was still poisoned, what did I say to you?"

Crosshair chuckled, shaking his head slightly. "Nothing."

"Tell me."

Crosshair took a step closer to her. Sarah had to look up at him, and she began to feel nervous at how close he was, so close she could feel the very heat radiating from his body. At that proximity, it seemed easy to lean in, get it over with. She’d have to stand on her toes, but she could finally close the gap between them. Sarah’s eyes fell on his lips, partly hoping she wasn’t being too obvious, but mostly not caring. They looked soft, skilled. They looked delicious.

But before she could kiss him, Crosshair smirked and popped a toothpick into his mouth. With his finger, Crosshair lightly tapped on Sarah’s chin, looking smugly at her. “Come on, doll.”

He then walked into the ship. Sarah was left staring at him, longing for what could have been, if only for a few seconds, and then she followed him inside, unable to hide the grin he’d just gotten out of her.

#the moonwalker series #oc sarah adhara #moonstrider writes #tbb crosshair #tbb fanfic #tbb fanfiction #the bad batch fanfic #the bad batch #crosshair

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hollyhomburg · 3 years

Text

Of Fire and Love (Pt. 7)

(Dragon! Yoongi x Reader) (Fantasy au!) (Coe-parenting au)

Summary: You dream, nightmares and sweet memories- Yoongi just tries to hold onto you as best he can but he’s never felt so lonely.

Genre: Fantasy! au, gender exploration, Coe parenting au, Dragon! Yoongi x Reader, Dragon! Hoseok x Sorcerer! jungkook, Minjoon, Taejin

W/c: 20.0k

Tags: Angst, loss of hold on reality, violence, non-explicit sexual content (taejin), possessive behavior, genderfluid characters, gender non conforming characters, gender exploration, alcohol mention,

A/n: For those of you who've followed this story you’ll know that I’ve teased there being a hopekook relationship and this chapter touches on their relationship a lot. i dont think it will make anyone uncomfortable because its explicitly stated their love is not sexual- but just a heads up!

- Hoseok and Jungkook cling to the side of a building, their feet gripping the bare inch bricks just narrowly. This library is old, with drafty long hallways and a crumbling facade that doesn't help their predicament, every other brick crumbles when they step to it.

- Every few shimmies Jungkook’s feet slip a little and fear lurches in his gut. he uses every bit of his body to cling. Hoseok has no such misgivings about falling into open space- now the arrows- that might frighten him. Their backs are weighed down with books that make it hard to move, while arrows clang below them against the red stone.

- One almost hits Jungkook’s head and Hoseok shoves it closer to the wall. Panic keeping it laced in Jungkook’s hair, “Keep your head in you idiot!” he shouts over the din and clank of metal armor. The nights and soldiers below them that gather. Every metallic clink against the stone another person come to kill them. Jungkook only grins, but flinches when one strikes closer to Hoseok’s head.

- Searching for books in the human realm isn’t an easy task. Not when all too often they face opposition like this. The humans might be semi-hostile to Jungkook but everyone is out for dragon blood. Enough of the men from this area have already been sent west to the war, but the sheer number of arrows shows that there are still soldiers here guarding this stronghold.

- They hadn’t been here until Jungkook and Hoseok had been spotted. It had been Jungkook’s fault. Dropping a book that echoed loudly- then someone had seen Hoseok’s horns when his hood had fallen and it was all over from there- they’d been made.

- One arrow pins Hoseok’s shirt to the brick as they shimmy along and he rips it loose without a second thought. He can’t shift when it’s like this- it’s too dangerous. Too likely that one of those arrows would hit him and hurt him- unless- “Kookie? any day now!?” Jungkook’s wide eyes are a balm against Hoseok’s frustration, lighting up with blue magic when he puts two and two together. “Oh! Sorry- I’ve got it!”

- The push-pull tide of magic fills the air, trembling with it as Jungkook’s arm glows bright blue along with the whites of his eyes. Every time Jungkook uses his magic Hoseok feels a protective pride flare. Especially when he hears and sees the arrows fall to the ground with a few dozen thuds. Another soldier tries to loose one and it falls like it’s made of lead. Maybe it actually is- maybe that’s the avenue the magic has chosen to take to stop the arrows.

- The soldiers below them stop their flurry brought to awe as the magic makes everything still (even them). The rust crusts in the joints of the armor bringing it to a squeaky halt. The break in the fighting finally gives him an opening to shift. And soon Hoseok is clinging to the side of the tower with claws instead of hands, wings stretching and fluttering. Jungkook gets on his back, a difficult maneuver with the precious books held close.

- One of them slips out and falls onto the stone, and Hoseok swings back around so that Jungkook can lean from his back, hooking his foot around one of Hoseok’s spines and reaching to scoop it up before he rights himself- abdominal muscles straining As he leans over and snatches it from the rooftop.

- Hoseok makes a noise and Jungkook interprets it. “Who you calling a showoff?“ he grins then settles in for a long flight back into dragon territory. A simple strap around Hoseok’s waist keeps Jungkook pinned to his back. It helps to at least elevate some of the strain.

- The first time they’d ever flown 12 hours straight, Jungkook had slid off of his back with a thunk. Looking up surprised at Hobi who’d sniffed through his hair worriedly, wondering why he’d fallen. “I don’t think I can move my legs” his muscles too sore to even clench.

- Hoseok had been laughing when he’d shifted. Helping pull Jungkook up- only to have him fall back down again. “You look like a baby deer Koo, come on- help me unpack at least.” They’d spent the rest of the night huddled around the fire, and not once had Hoseok complained about having to get up to fix dinner or stoke the fire.

- Hoseok and Jungkook have been hunting books on and off for the last ten years, it’s not like they’re unused to unprovoked aggression from the humans. Their two sides are at war- and it’s a wonder the humans aren’t more curious about the ragtag pair of book thieves that have been periodically dipping over the battle lines and raiding their libraries.

- Jungkook wonders what rumors if any, are lingering in the human lands. Jungkook would give anything to keep the smile Hoseok shoots him when he asks one night, “What you think they’ll make urban legends about us in 100 years? Keep your books close and your enemies closer?”

- Whatever the rumors, the pair can only hope that none of them make it back to their father and their uncle. If yoongi got wind of what Hoseok and Jungkook were doing without permission- then he might be tempted to end the war just to make sure they stayed safe. But What Yoongi doesn’t know won’t hurt him. If Hoseok and Jungkook were flitting in between the human lands and the dragon lands on occasion just to see if the nearest city even had a library- well then that’s just that.

- Hoseok and Jungkook never spend more than a month or two away from Yoongi and you. The timing of their homestays Often hinging on how successful their search is going and how many books they’ve collected. Hoseok can only carry so much on his back. They don’t mind coming back periodically to visit and drop off another load. If anything- it gives Seokjin and Yoongi an excuse to take a break or two and the young ones an excuse to enjoy a little coddling.

- Yoongi’s doing better, recently he’s started taking more flights like he used to when Jungkook was a kid. The air does him good and he no longer looks like guilt and sadness and longing are eating away at his soul- like he only comes alive when you wake.

- Over the years, Yoongi has read himself into a tizzy more than once. Always to be brought back by Seokjin encouraging him to rest his eyes and put the books down for a day or two. “This just doesn’t make any fucking sense- first the fairy anatomy and then this- if we could only get our hands on- ugh!“

- Yoongi is about to throw the book and would have if Jin hadn’t caught his wrist. snatching it out of the younger mans hand. Before he can- sparks light up the spine. Yoongi’s anger and fire meeting in the middle- the heat dosent hurt Seokjin’s hand as he extinguishes it with a brush of his palm. Cooling yoongi’s frustration with a knowing look.

- “Yoongi, you need to sleep.” Yoongi doesn’t fight him on it though both of them know he could if he wanted to. He’s been up for days and the bags under his eyes look dangerously like bruises. “Rest is an investment into future productivity Yoongi- you can’t read forever like this without resting your eyes every now and then.”

- Yoongi has always found it hard to sleep with you gone, why waste the hours when every second spent brings them closer to a cure for mortality. Yoongi hopes it’s only a matter of time and not a matter of ‘if’ they’ll be successful. that question keeps him awake no matter how many days it’s been since he slept.

- The next time the boys come home carrying a pile of books for Seokjin and Yoongi to go through Seokjin gives them a look, fingering the spine of one. He corners both of them later- when Yoongi’s away in the kitchens putting a meal together. Happy to have them all home the nesting instinct itching under his skin.

- He fingers the edge of Hoseok’s shirt, his fingers hooking through an edge and tearing it further with a rip. His magic flares just as quickly to fix it and the tear is gone before the shock has left Hoseok’s face. Seokjin raises an eyebrow at Hoseok’s surprise. Seokjin is dressed in a flowy deep plum shirt- parted to show his chest, the rock at the hollow of his throat pulsing with life but swimming with something darker.

- He’s rightfully angry, “I know an arrow hole when I see one, where have you both been where you’ve been being shot at? Hopefully not in the human world” He taps the side of the book in his hands, “And I distinctly remember losing this book over a night of cards with a wizard 300 years ago- so there’s that too.”

- “It was only once-“ Seokjin gives them a withering look and they both melt “okay- maybe more than a few times, but you know how frustrating it was? For us to stay behind and-”

- Seokjin knows why they had to but still can’t reconcile that with his protective instincts. Before they can go any farther Yoongi comes back with a plate full of sliced meats. The fireplace crackles happily in response to him and Hoseok helps Yoongi set up a grate to fry it. The same recipe for marinated meat that you used to make them when they were children. A celebratory meal steeped in tradition and familiarity to welcome Hoseok and Jungkook home.

- Hoseok starts the discussion when Seokjin asks- pointedly if finding libraries and old dragon castles in the countryside and in the mountains had been any harder than usual. It has been- they ran out of places to search for books in the dragon lands years ago. Though they still occasionally spot a new one when they go over the mountains again. A hidden hovel or a falling down castle that’s abandoned or inhabited.

- “You’ve said it yourself Seokjin; a good portion of our family's records are on the other side of the world. I don’t understand why it’s such a big deal, Hoseok and I are more than capable of looking after ourselves.”

- Seokjin sighs, running his hands through his hair. Whatever spell he uses to keep it dark must be wearing off, the tips are looking a little silvery these days, it’s Probably stress. The pile of books in the study that they’ve gone through is becoming cumbersome as well they can barely walk around it. There are probably more than 30,000 that Hoseok and Jungkook have collected in the last 10 years.

- What Jungkook’s saying about their family isn’t wrong; Seokjin’s family did settle on the human side of the mountains first. They were responsible for enlightening humanity to the finer parts of magic. Without Seokjin’s family- the humans would probably still be waving sticks around and hoping for gold on the other end. The books they hunt for are the first records and spell books of witches and wizards that were taught by Seokjin’s father or books from the man himself.

- Not that their paltry party tricks could ever compare to the kind of magic that Seokjin and Jungkook were capable of. But the witches and wizards guilds do have strength in numbers. One which might have a droplet compared to the ocean of a sorcerer’s power, but 100? 1,000? That might be enough to match some spells.

- If the struggle at the border was enough to judge the powers of the guild, then they certainly were a formidable force to deal with. Their spells enchanting the humans swords and armor, making them resistant if not impervious to most fire. That was the only reason why the dragons hadn’t been able to immediately decimate the human army. They had to fight the harder way- with tooth and claw and brute force.

- The dragons would always have strength on their side and the humans would always have the numbers and carelessness with their lives. So short- you’d think they’d be more careful with their lives- but no. Over the years the death tolls have risen on both sides. It helps the human’s odds that they outnumber the dragons five to one.

- It’s been years since they left home- though it still feels weird to think of them ‘leaving’ in any capacity since they still come back almost as much as they leave. In the past few years, Hoseok and Jungkook have often flown across the battle lines or near them. But never close enough to see the battle or the carnage.

- Most of the time they divert their course north and fly over the tall mountains through brisk winds that would have Jungkook's muscles chilled for hours. a predicament usually only fixed by Hoseok curling up with his warm throat and chest cuddled around his too cold soulmate. quieting the protective urge in his stomach that said to breathe fire over the sorcerer- some sort of instinct, probably something instinctively dragon that he barely manages to repress.

- They’ve hunted books through the crags of long empty castles, through cities forgotten and new. They spend a good two months last year in the smaller dragon city to the south. Yoongi sniveled his nose up at them when they told him that’s where they wanted to go next. It felt a lot different than the northern city, the buildings rough made from wood and easily burnt and rebuilt. Definitely wilder and less aristocratic than the north.

- It’d burned down in the last war- so it’s no wonder the dragons there seem less attached to the buildings. some dragon had lit their board house on fire the first night they’d been there, roused from smoke and a shout. hoseok had shifted and carried jungkook out with his teeth hooked into jungkook’s shirt- lifting the younger like a cat would a kitten.

- Seokjin had gifted a map to Hoseok for his last birthday. It’s a delicate bit of magic, spelled to be paper-thin and bendable but the ink never fading or flaking off. Unable to be ripped or stained. The little red dot that shows Hoseok’s location and a black dot for Jungkook's. It changes each time they move- so that they know exactly where they are. Hoseok’s dot even gets a little more feathery when he shifts. The ink feeling fuzzy to the touch.

- The battle lines to the south also change too, rusty orange ink rough to the touch- with every league that the dragons push into the human lands ticking a lines with on the map. all So that hoseok knows how far he has to fly out of the way to avoid it if he wants too.

- Jungkook is just a little bit curious to see what dragons look like in battle, but a cautionary look from Jin and his father was enough to extinguish that possibility. “Trust me- it’s not a thing you should want to see” their father had said cryptically. “You never talk about the last war dad- what was it like?”

- “Bloody and long” was all Yoongi had answered. Because in truth- he’d given as much as he could give to that war. The end had left him broken and with the taste of blood in his mouth that just wouldn’t leave. He’d spent months looking for something in the mountains- an itch under his skin that wasn’t for more hoard.

- The wanting hadn’t abated until he met you and known deep in his bones that he’d never fight for another thing in his life. he’d found what his dragon soul hungered for more than gold or diamonds or anything that glitterd. a family- his hatchlings and his mate.

- But Hoseok and Jungkook are fully grown now and Yoongi still finds himself begging them not to go close to that battle- to stay out of it. Feeling like control and safety is slipping through his claws. The thought of both of them- of gentle Hobi and curious Jungkook getting a taste for carnage like that- Yoongi doesn’t ever want it to happen.

- Even though they already did that day in the manor house all those years ago. Still- a father can’t help but want to protect his hatchlings. Even if they’re both taller than him now they’re still his hatchlings. Jungkook especially likes to playfully lean his arm on his shoulders And Yoongi can’t ever correct him. He would let the youngster do anything without little more than an annoyed sigh, just as he had let him swing from his horns when he was a baby.

- When Seokjin had gifted the map, Hoseok had asked why they’re where two dots and not just one. “In case you get separated” the older sorcerer had said, a faint flush on his cheeks as he let Jungkook manhandle him into position on the couch perfect for snuggling. Sending smoke-filled bubbles to smart Jungkook’s nose when he keeps touching his thighs and rolling his eyes at his nephew’s endless touchy feely-ness. But even Hoseok can see the way that Seokjin relaxes with both of them around. Their presence a welcome reprieve from-

- “Yoongi- would you mind not breathing your lizard breath all over your sons?” Seokjin says haughty. Yoongi raises his massive head from where the coffee table should be (moved to make room for yoongi in his dragon form). blinking at Seokjin before his tongue darts out to lick at Hoseok’s hands- ignoring the older sorcerer.

- Hoseok can feel his happiness rippling out from his father at having his hatchlings back in his nest. He flicks his tongue out to hit Seokjin’s palm too and the elder recoils with a disgusted noise that makes Hoseok and Jungkook laugh.

- As if on queue, a book on the shelf falls, interrupting the moment.

- Every head flicks in the direction of the movement, the flecks of dust in the room pause, hanging in its shafts of light. the air too still to be from anything other than Seokjin’s magic or Jungkook’s- it doesn’t discriminate. After another moment. Hoseok gets up and puts the book back. the spine feels warm to the touch and for a moment- Hoseok holds onto it- savoring the warmth before he puts the book back on the shelf.

- There have been more moments like that than they’re all willing to admit, and despite their conversations- no one wants to admit what it is. The things that move on their own or flowers that Seokjin’s watched be plucked and fall to the ground in neat concentric circles. He’d gone out into the garden and found a whole pile of blooms- piles around a suspiciously shaped lump. It’s always the multi colored ones. Those moments are as startling as they are special.

- Everytime you wake Seokjin scolds you for it.

- “You realize the more you try to act outside of the dream world the more likely it is that you won’t be able to return back to your body?” Seokjin had snapped. Tae a happy puddle in his arms. You’re tearing into the food on the table while Tae just nibbles. He’s never hungry in the mornings really. Hadn’t been even when he’d been awake.

- Yoongi wonders if it has anything to do with the little field trips your soul takes outside of your body. The breaks you take from dreaming when you travel as a ghost in their world. Moving books and picking flowers and the countless other little moments.

- “It’s not like I’m trying to control it Seokjin, it just kind of happens. when I watch you guys- when I feel closer to you- it's easier” you definitely do not mention you’re only ever knocked out of your body after you’ve had a nightmare, but Taehyung knows. He looks up at your words, an egg yolk sliding out of his spoon and onto his plate bursting golden.

- Taehyung meets your eyes and you shake your head imperceptibly, and he keeps eating, declining to offer up the information that would surely make Seokjin and Yoongi more concerned. But the clock is ticking- and they only have 18 hours with you this year. No one wants to waste it arguing even if it does scare Yoongi.

- Every time when you wake and it takes a little longer for you to stir, Taehyung always awake and upright before you. Yoongi stroking your back in small circles- calling your name as you furrow your eyebrows and blink awake. kissing your face a few dozen times before you’re truly back. It only took 3 kisses the first year- and now it takes at least 8. Yoongi’s the kind of dragon that keeps track of that sort of thing.

- Later in their own private time together- Tae asks Seokjin with a pout “Why can’t I come out of the dream world to see you guys like she can Jinnie?” Seokjin washes his back in the bath, his hand warm and soapy. Jin exults in washing his love with long strokes, a little scratchy just the way that Tae likes it. just gentle enough to make his love squirm and make the water slosh against the sides of the silver tub. “It's not a thing you should want Tae, none of us know the long-term effects.”

- “But still,” Taehyung’s eyes are like warm honey over peaches, “it would be nice to see you more often.” Seokjin hums a gorgeous sound and Tae relaxes further into his lover's hold. Seokjin’s hands thumbing along his sternum counting his ribs and indulging in the touch. Tae shivers, shifting uneasily in the water, neediness sinking into his core like hot fire. Seokjin’s hand slips below the water and the layer of bubbles.

- “there are any number of reasons why the magic doesn’t want to work on her. It’s been a while and she’s probably just getting used to it, I probably just have to tweak the spell a little bit for y/n” Taehyung sighs, Seokjin’s mouth swallowing a bitten-off moan, kissing down his lovers throat and forsaking his mouth. Tae’s hips rock up, knocking the warm water out of the tub and onto the slate floor with a slosh that neither of them pay much mind to. “I’m not sure I want to hear another name from your lips when you’ve got your hands on me.”

- Seokjin smirks against Tae’s neck, the movement of his hand keeping up its pace under the water. His actions and his sly smirk betraying his words “Why wouldn’t I? We’re having a conversation, aren’t we? Or is something distracting you my love? Would you rather have me chanting your name?” like an incantation- if love were a spell then tae and jin would have the strongest.

- It is nice to see your family even for a few seconds on the occasion that you leave your body. It makes you feel like you’re helping, even just a little bit to watch over them. You try to disrupt something just to let them know you’re there. The first few years- the only thing you can manage is blowing out candles. but it gets easier to move books or make pages flip over as time goes on. and you get to ruffle their hair or pet over it as they sleep Where you stand and watch. Making sure their dreams don’t turn into nightmares.

- You wish you could say the same for your own dreams, but those are far more difficult to control.

- Often Yoongi will look at whatever just moved, and speak into the open air, through the glass barrier of the dream you can barely hear him. But he’ll go to the couch and sit, hold out his hand palm up on the cushion and you’ll touch it. Knowing by the way he shivers- that he can just barely feel the shape of a hand touching his. Yoongi has always had a thing for hand holding. And it’s worth it- just from the way he smiles.

- But too Yoongi it just feels like you’re already a ghost. It just makes him yearn for a time when it wasn’t like this. How will it feel? When he’s been without you longer than he was ever with you? If they don’t find a cure for mortality soon- then he’ll find out. His boys too.

- It feels like he can almost taste you on the air when you come and visit them in-between your naps (its easier for Yoongi to say they’re just that- just really long naps- even if it makes him feel childish, the weight of ‘eternal sleep’ is just too heavy on his mind some days).

- For that reason, he favors his dragon from more than his human one these days. it’s not like he can see you at all in either, but he can tell when you’re there and almost smell you when he’s in dragon form. And that feels more real than curling up around your coffin upstairs (or when he starts to worry that you actually are dead- that you won’t be able to come back).

- It’s been a long time since they started searching but it barely feels like a second to them. Like hardly any time has passed at all. Such is the way of immortals- years pass like months, and days like hours. It’s been years since Hoseok and Jungkook truly stopped aging. They’re both frozen somewhere in their twenties, their hair keeps growing, but their faces never change, their bodies don’t change either accept to get stronger or weaker with the care they show them.

- Jungkook doesn’t like to think about his age when he can help it. He still feels like a little kid whenever Yoongi and Seokjin look at him, sharing a special secret adult look that he’s not sure he’ll ever be capable of giving. He’s very content to stay the baby of their little family.

- But being the baby also means that Jungkook gets treated like a child too.

- “We’ve been over this, it's too dangerous boys,” Yoongi says it like it will make his heart break to see them in danger. If Yoongi knew they’d been shot at- even by one arrow- he’d fly over to the human cities and start leveling them one by one.

- “Not anymore, we’re not kids dad” Hoseok looks fluffed up, his curly hair and wild, so long it almost brushes his shoulders like Jungkook’s. (More than once Seokjin has snipped his fingers threateningly at it, “you both look wilder than the wind I swear, one night I’m going to take a pair of scissors to you whether you like it or not.”)

- That is just another thing that makes Hoseok ache all through his chest, and he’s never been able to put a finger on why it makes him uncomfortable. The thought of needing to have short hair for whatever reason. The same feeling lights up in his chest when Jungkook continues- “ right! we’re not boys- we’re men!” Jungkook’s swinging feet under his chair beg to differ.

- Yoongi sucks on his lower lip, hands tightening over the back of Jin’s chair. They talked about this possibility while the boys were gone, after the last time when they had a similar argument. In the years since your departure, Jin’s taken on something of a parental role with the boys- and it’s nice to have a second set of ears again. Even if it would make both Yoongi and Jin shriek indignantly to be compared to anything like what you and yoongi had. “They’re not children anymore Yoongi, you’re going to have to start letting them take their own risks sooner rather than later”

- “But I already did,” I already let them not be here he wants to say. Every single parental instinct of his telling him to keep his hatchlings close. But it’s better than it was before; now he rarely feels the urge to fly on after them and drag them back by the scruff of their necks. Sometimes when he’s out flying he pretends he’s doing just that.

- Seokjin taps his fingers against the table, sparks dancing between his fingertips. “As much as your parental concern is sweet, you have to admit- nothing can hurt Jungkook or me in any meaningful way.” Seokjin is being as soft as he can be. “You know this, and it's not like Hoseok is unformidable either.”

- Hobi gives Jungkook a toothy grin at that. Seokjin lets Yoongi stew with it for a moment. And the feeling in Hoseok’s chest dissipates. Strange. Though he’s glad to have it gone. Though he knows it will probably have him up later, turning in bed while Jungkook sleeps beside him in the little mock nests they’ve made together since they were kids. Sure that something must be wrong with him- something other than the feeling poisoning the happiness in his chest.

- “If you don’t let them go they might choose to go all on their own. Would you rather find out after? Or before?” Hoseok and Jungkook barely manage to keep a straight face. Their father will put two and two together if they even so much as grin. Yoongi’s pout as he looks down at the table and weighs the options is cute. Under the table, Hoseok’s leg jumps with nervous energy.

- You certainly think letting them go is a better option- standing in the corner of the room, not that any of your family can see you when you’re like this. A specter and a ghost and just as lonely. How your hand itches to reach out and smooth out that pout on Yoongi’s face. But you can’t, not in this form. Upstairs in your glass coffin, your hand twitches. Reaching out to do the touching that your soul wants to do.

- Yoongi can’t argue with logic like that even if he wants to. Honesty and freedom are better than a protective cage and lies by omission on both sides- no matter how loving the cage is.

- “You can go-“ he starts, interrupted by Hoseok and Jungkook’s excited whoops, Jungkook tossing his chopsticks into the hair where they hover and spin like pinwheels, before he jumps to Hoseok’s side, grinning at him while Hoseok pumps a fist in the air. The fire in the hearth flares higher from Hoseok happiness Sending sparks onto the floor. “yahhhhhh you’re going to burn the meat, and this carpet is 500 years old!” Seokjin fans it with his hand as if to knock the sparks off of the carpet and back onto the slate.

- They pull themselves over to Yoongi’s side and drag him into a tight hug, Jungkook pressing his forehead against Yoongi’s cheek in thanks. Yoongi goes stiff at first and then melts as they squeeze him tight. Hoseok hooking his chin over Yoongi’s narrow shoulder. Pulling away only to immediately begin to lay out plans of where they want to go first. Jungkook jumps up to go get that map, already dreaming Cities and wizarding guilds that they only know from the maps and Seokjin’s stories.

- Not that they haven’t been to half of them already- but going there with Yoongi’s blessing is much more exciting than sneaking around behind their backs. There were a few places that they were too worried to brave alone and without backup should something bad happen. But Now they can ask questions and learn where more books might be hidden, what cities to avoid and the secrets Seokjin might know of each.

- “Maybe a little bit of a change of scenery will do you good” Seokjin comments, a small smile tugging at his lips at the boy's excitement. Hoseok almost asks if he wants to come too- just to get out for a little bit. But the moment passes when jungkook unfurls the map in front of the hearth. Seokjin never leaves Tae’s side unless he has to. “I’ll teach you some cloaking spells and the like to hide Hobi’s horns.” His hands hover on Yoongi’s shoulders, reassuring him that he’s made the right choice.

- Weeks later, on the other side of the mountains Hoseok and Jungkook cling to a rooftop again pressing their bodies close to the slate roofs. A few new books in their bag and a group of angry soldiers shouting at them from below the parapet, enchanted arrows seeking them out until Jungkook cuts them off with a wave of his hand, learning to do it first off rather than wait until they are shot at.

- “Was this what we bargained for Hobi?” Jungkook asks with a grin as he looks over at his soul bonded partner. Hobi answers his grin with one of his own. “Maybe more- but I think we’ll raise hell either way.” Jungkook laughs, “imagine dad’s face when we tell him about this.”

- There isn’t a place they’d both rather be.

- Hoseok and Jungkook don’t like to fly at night when they can avoid it. but they need to when they’re closer to the border- where traveling bands of warriors might have sneaked around the battlelines and sunk into dragon territory. It’s safer to sink into the humans lands under the cover of night and fly up ahead. They’ve flown too close to traveling bands of warriors during the day before and though their arrows had fallen short it was still frightening to fly over a hilltop and be suddenly shot at.

- After accumulating a fresh thrush of books in a rather small library from the southern human lands- They’ll head to the coast for a day or two and stay at Jimin’s and Namjoon’s seaside cottage castle crossing over the mountains just north of the battlefield. It would be shorter to just fly straight home. But they have a few more books than usual this time. And the sea air and updrafts will make the flight north easier on Hoseok.

- Too many times have they overshot their load. only realizing when Hoseok had landed to find his once broken shoulder mottled and strained, unable to fly or even move it in human form for several days after. Staying at Namjoon and Jimin’s cottage always brings back fond memories too, though their favorite fairy and uncle Joonie isn’t there of course still south in the thick of the war.

- They’d run into Jimin a few years back- though they still send regular letters north to stay in contact. Jimin had spotted them in the skies and fluttered in their direction. One minute the only thing they’d been able to see was puffy clouds and the next, Jimin falling out of the sky whooping in joy when they saw them. His wings moving so quickly that they where nearly invisible.

- He’d made camp with them and lingered for as long as he could. It was nice to have someone familiar with them on the road. A face that loves them. And Jimin is perfect at giving them the right amount of affection.

- Since the wars started Jimin has split his time between helping Namjoon at the battlefront and going back and forth to the fairy world in an attempt to negotiate an alliance between them and the dragons. he’s Constantly trying to convince the royal family to come to the dragon’s aid.

- It’s not something jimin likes to consider- but if the humans managed to push through dragon land. They’re no telling how far they’d try to go. and if the dragons side seemed bountiful to human kind- then the fairy world would be something out of heaven.

- But just like the last war the fey are refusing to get involved and Just because they won’t help doesn’t mean Jimin won’t. He’s been Namjoon’s right-hand man in the war, the hidden second general to the dragon army. He’d even convinced a few of his brothers and sisters to join in the battle.

- “How do you actually get to the fairy world? Isn’t it like- on the other side of the ocean? Can you fly that far?” they’re stretched out around a fire, the woods a dark and impenetrable barrier beyond their little hallow of sparks. There isn’t anything that the three of them fear in these woods. though they had heard the single howl of a wolf earlier- lonely and echoic in the tall hills that eventually melt into the eastern mountains.

- Jimin had split his affection equally- running his fingers through Hoseok’s hair and head rested on one thigh and then through Jungkook’s on the other. It’s been a while since they’ve seen each other. Even longer since they’ve been small like Jimin misses. It’s hard to reconcile these gangly twenty-somethings with the tiny dragon and human he used to baby.

- Jimin doesn't like to think of the children now, the ones at the capitol without families (orphaned or displaced by the war) or his own...forgotten hopes. War is not the time to want something so gentle. Not when jimin needs to be strong as much for his mates sake as for the world. Jimin needs to forget his own hopes now more than ever. Even if seeing Jungkook and Hoseok reminds him so much of those times when he’d felt like a parent- as close as he and namjoon had ever gotten to having kids of their own.

- Maybe as close as they ever would get.

- Jungkook and Hobi remember seeing the fey ships at the market. Their hulls like skeletons, made of silver and a strange clear material, not glass- but certainly not any kind of wood. Jimin shakes their head at hoseoks question- the fey world is not on the other side of the ocean. It’s an easy mistake to make. “ I don’t think I could fly there if I wanted to-it's more like stepping through a very cold doorway. You can come there with me one day if you want.”

- “Do you think they’d have anything that-“ “that would turn you immortal?” it goes without saying that Jimin knows why Hoseok asks. Sucks on their lower lip as their eyes turned shadowed with your ghost. God- Hoseok shivers, he hates thinking that you’re dead, hates when everyone acts like you are.

- “Probably not, fey have good memories and there isn’t much of a reason to write things down, but it’s still a beautiful city- makes home look like ruins,” Jimin says the words like he wishes he hadn’t already. Because all of them know how likely it is one day- that the dragon city might one day fall to ruins.

- There is more than one live ghost- that threatens to haunt them.

- Jungkook can’t help but remember that day as they get close to where they’d run into Jimin the first time. It’s been a long day of flying, and they crossed over the majority of the mountains in one good push. As the sun dips close to the horizon coloring the world in orange and gold, Hoseok and Jungkook spot a glittering speckle among the forested hills of the Southern part of dragon territory. A small waterfall that runs clear and strong.

- He leans over, gripping the band around hoseok’s waist with one hand and pointing in it’s direction with the other until he gets Hoseok’s attention and he spots it too, listing to the side and settling into a slow dive. Jungkook hooks his feet into the squishy side of Hoseok’s ribs to make sure he won’t fall off. His thighs protesting from the strain of gripping Hoseok’s back for many hours.

- He remembers when they’d been younger- Hoseok nearly flipping when they’d first flown together. Jungkook eager but still nervous on his back, hugging Hoseok’s neck so so tight. Jungkook remembers when his neck got thicker- and suddenly he couldn’t link his hands around it- how he’d clinged with every other muscle in his body- only airborne for a few minutes until they both plumited towards the ground in a way that made Jungkook’s stomach lurch. Tossed onto the soft grass in a flurry of feathers and dandelions puffing.

- They’d both tumbled, Hoseok shifting mid-roll spitting grass and dandelion fluff. “Stop putting your feet there! I’m ticklish!!” he’d laughed. That was a far cry from how he felt now, Hoseok was used enough to it that it didn’t bother him. Jungkook an extension of himself on his back, tucking close when they flew fast and leaning to help Hoseok make those tight turns easier.

- They’re not far enough away from the battlefront that they can entirely let down their guard. But they’re both tired enough to make the risk unavoidable. They’re Only a spare 50 miles away is where the fighting’s thickest. It’s probably okay, There probably isn’t any danger here. Maybe they shouldn’t light a fire- just in case.

- As Hoseok touches down into the pebbled bank of the waterfall his claws sink into the sand with his and Jungkook’s combined weight, buffering the trees with flaps of his wings. Keeping them tucked in tight so that they don’t hit any stray branches. Jungkook slides off his back- hitting the ground with a lurch, almost falling in his tiredness. Jungkook has always had that floppy puppy way about him when he gets sleepy- every bit of his body a little more limp and sweet than usual (if that’s even possible).

- The water runs clear and cold as Jungkook stoops to fill up their canteens, unlatching their packs from Hoseok’s back with a push of magic. The roaring from the falls nearly blocks out the sounds of Hoseok’s bones shifting. His hair windswept, fangs clicking against the ones on his lower mouth- what he needs to say doesn’t necessitate a full shift. “I’m going to circle overhead and find us a place to make camp okay?”

- It’s too dangerous to camp so close to a water source. They can hardly hear each other over shout over the thunder of the falls- let alone any intruders that might try and sneak upon them in the night. Jungkook makes a small noise in agreement, the hours of flying in silence lingering.

- Hoseok can tell his soul bonded partner is only a few minutes away from needing to sleep- probably even forgetting to eat, which is pretty typical as far as traveling goes. Jungkook will push himself to the brink before he drops, and it’s Hoseok’s job to make sure that doesn’t happen. He’d never say anything to Jungkook but it’s a little scary to see the magic sustain him even farther than Hoseok’s own stamina will take him.The magic will suppress his need to sleep and eat the more he uses his magic.

- When Jungkook stretches in the morning, arms above his head pulling his shirt up to show a few inches of skin, Hoseok takes each and every rib that shows as a reminder. As Hoseok circles overhead, he reminds himself that he has to make Jungkook eat something before he falls asleep.

- Hoseok usually does a good job of keeping Jungkook well taken care of and Jungkook takes care of him in turn. Many a night have they curled up together; Hobi in his feathers and Jungkook rubbing soft soothing motions over the sensitive’s scales of his face, they’re never more than a few feet apart these days.

- They go hours without talking during the day, but the silence never bothers either of them. Who else can you truly be silent with if not your soulmate? Sometimes- Jungkook looks at Hoseok and wonders ‘are you thinking what I’m thinking? Or are your thoughts and feelings just as much a mystery as my own are to me?’

- Is it a soulmate bond? Or just a soul bond? Sometimes, Jungkook isn’t sure- and finds himself questioning that which never should be questioned. he’d never asked Jin if his and Namjoon’s bond had drifted into more romantic territory- sensing there was a story there somehow that maybe the younger one shouldn’t pry into.

- Hoseok takes off, the wind from his wings buffering his clothes; the flowers that grow near the waterfall- red and bright, sway under the weight of their heavy nectar.

- Jungkook breathes in then out, settling himself into wait. It’s easier for Hobi to search while he’s not on his back; it’s a little harder for him to make his tight turns with all of that weight altering his center of gravity. No matter how hard he tries Jungkook doesn’t have the same sense of balance that Hoseok has. He’s been unseated by Hoseok landing in trees more than once.

- When Jungkook remembers enough to check back in with Seokjin, the elder is still very intent on teaching him how to alter that. Jungkook may have mastered a hundred or so spells, but he still doesn’t wield magic in the same easy way that Seokjin does. He hears his uncle’s voice now; ‘Breathe in Jungkook, feel the energy around you, the pulse of that which gives things their life- and you- your powers.’

- And ‘don’t get frustrated- you’ve got all the time in the world to learn magic. You can’t expect to be as good as me with only a few years under your belt... especially given the circumstances.’

- It's hard to find time to practice on the road, So Jungkook takes a second for this, closes his eyes, and reaches out, his mind like a bubble, the edges of it swirling and turning multicolored. He feels the offal energy in those red flowers. Poisonous his magic tells him, stay away- sweet but don’t eat. The water turns and curls and he feels the life of the little fish below in the deepest parts, the way the air moves as it falls with the water, and endless hello between the two.

- He’s so calm, so intent on being peaceful (breathing with the slowly moving things that are immortal like him) that he doesn’t hear the rustle of movement behind him. The sharp eyes that have caught his human scent and found it unwelcome here. The dragon in the woods. They eye the thin sword on the ground, the only one Jungkook still keeps for those just in case moments of misfortune.

- Jungkook hasn’t been a sorcerer long enough to smell like the magic, and this far into dragon territory; it’s no wonder why they consider him a threat. Though most dragons know there is another sorcerer alive by now or have heard of him. Yoongi is a historical figure after all, and their family does have proximity to Namjoon and the dragon council.

- Before they exhausted the dragon realms libraries they’d used that to their advantage often. There are many older dragons that own those old castles, charmed by his and Hoseok’s mere mention of the council. Many had asked how their father was doing.

- Hoseok was usually the one who talked with them and heard their grievances; (too many taxes, too few social programs- the usual), while Jungkook raids their libraries and fills out his little booklet so that he knows which books come from where. He and Hoseok aren’t intending to be thieves so hopefully they’ll be able to return them (Most of those books now sit in a pile in Seokjin’s library, pages unturned for years with no drive to give them back- but it’s the thought that counts right?)

- The dragons that hoard books are the worst ones to deal with- always-eyeing Hoseok like he’s here to steal their trove of musty moldy tombs. As if the golden bands that line his fingers and dot his ears now aren’t enough of an indication of where Hoseok’s proclivities lie.

- Hoseok’s hoarded object will be gold, not unlike his father. Though you’d once called Yoongi a crow- only interested in that which was pretty and shiny. Many a time when they were children, Hoseok had watched their father growl at you playfully and snag you close by your waist, snapping his teeth close to your neck and nuzzling there, “maybe that’s why I’ve kept you.”

- Most dragon folks are much more interested in Hoseok than they are in Jungkook. But the gossip mills and rumors haven’t touched the people here this far out into the countryside. No one knows who- or more importantly what Jungkook is.

- Least of all the dragon in the woods.

- The growl ripples and Jungkook straightens, searching in the cover of trees. The hair on the back of his neck standing on end. He instantly goes on the offensive, the waterfall behind him goes still in the magic as does the softly falling leaves, hovering in the air like baubles- like time has stopped.

- The magic reaches out at the threat with greedy hands, and the shadows part around it, letting in the hazy afternoon goldenness that glints off of sharp claws and even sharper teeth.

- Jungkook is used to dragons more so than he is to humans, but the sight of an aggressive one is still enough to have him nervous. He holds his hand out, showing that he’s unarmed. He sets a foot back- boot sloshing in the water, sending one of their packs tumbling in surprise. “I’m not- I’m not a threat- calm down- I’m no soldier.” his voice shakes.

- He’s never been one to attack first when it comes to dragons But this one stalks forward with Jungkook as it’s prey. Tail raised like its ready to attack. They’re about as old and as large as Hoseok if not a little larger and meatier. Their mouth sparking with bright yellow fire. Eyes angry and unchecked by restraint.

- And still- Jungkook isn’t afraid, and it takes him a moment to realize why, even when he sees the dragon preparing to spit jet of fire in his direction. It’s not that the magic has made him reckless; Jungkook just knows in his heart that nothing can hurt him.

- But if it tries- then the magic might act without Jungkook knowing. The magic will always protect its host and there’s no telling what damage it might do to his opponent. “Please- please don’t do that” why does is own voice sound tired to his ears? “I can’t be held responsible for what happens if you do.” If Jungkook weren’t scared for the dragon’s safety he’d release a tired sigh.

- Nothing is interesting anymore when nothing can hurt you.

- The dragon growls before spitting it’s fire- and Jungkook is just about to hold up his hands to throw the protective bubble around him when Hoseok falls out of the sky. Crashing down in front of him. Wings flaring to stop the fire from crashing into Jungkook. Dealing out a savage kick that sends the other dragon out of the shadows and into the light.

- Jungkook’s breath hitches.

- They’re the same species- or if not the same then similar. Their feathers mix in the fight- Ruddy red yanked out by Hoseok’s claws falling to the ground with Hoseok’s bright crimson coral. Rather spill feathers than spill blood.

- Hoseok doesn’t notice much about the other dragon beyond a particularly strong scent in his nose. When he spotted them overhead he acted without another thought. Air going out from under his wings and fiery anger filling his heart when he saw them. No one flashes their fire at Jungkook without him retaliating.

- He manages to pin the dragon for a moment before they turn, swiping out with their wing. Sending small stones scattering in Jungkook’s direction, One nearly hits his face before the magic hurls it in a different direction. Jungkook flinches regardless.

- For the first time- Jungkook can see the differences between Hoseok and his species. Where Hoseok has dark red feathers on his underbelly they have white golden ones, their secondary feathers are different too- striped with a slightly darker red like blue jays would be striped blue-black. Comparatively- Hoseok is more colorful but less ornate.

- Where Hoseok’s horns go in theirs point out, the other dragon tries to bash their head into Hoseok’s sideways. Hoseok flips them over with a push of his tail. Their wings tangle, flap against the ground in a thwack that leaves the poison flowers crumpled, but then Hoseok get his jaws around the other dragon's neck and the fight is as good as over.

- His growl ripples out along the forest floor making the leaves shake. He doesn’t mean to really hurt them but as the other dragon moves against his jaw and a little bit of blood splatters. A shallow cut on their neck. The dragon continuing to thrash even with Hoseok’s jaws around their throat until they yield. It's obvious that Hoseok is the only one out of the two of them that’s been trained to fight, those sparring sessions with their father and his schooling at the academy paying off.

- The dragon shifts below Hoseok. Red feathers melt away into red-brown hair. the girl that shifts below Hoseok is so much smaller and vulnerable compared to her dragon form. “You’re one of us! Sorry- just got startled by the human!” she’s not scared of having Hoseok’s teeth so close to her, still bent over her with his mouth parted, nearly as wide as she is tall. She pushes his snout away with one hand and Hoseok- blinking perplexed- lets her. She looks like the kind of woman that isn’t easily scared of anything.

- Her clothes are grubby and worn from weeks on the road, her skirt thick and woolen pulled over her legs. She’s doing a good job of concealing how scared she is but Jungkook sees her fear in the slight tremble of her shoulders as Hoseok stays shifted between her and Jungkook as if he doesn’t believe that she won't be a threat anymore. Hoseok’s tail flicks agitated, splashing into the water.

- Jungkook sees another flash of movement at the edge of his vision, brings up his hand in defense as he turns. But the smaller heads in the woods just look curious and frightened. Two other small dragons, a small one sandy with fluffy feathers, a hatchling whereas the other is shifted. Her horns are a deep bronze. They nearly get caught in the underbrush as she cocks her head like a bird.

- “He’s a city thing.” she comments at the smaller dragon, which sniffles and snorts around her waist. He curls around the shifted one with his head hidden behind their back. Shy- Just like Hobi was when he was younger.

- They’re others of his kind, the same species. Jungkook knew they had to exist but he doesn’t know why he’s so shocked.

- Hoseok finally shifts, obviously furious, a head taller than the woman and instantly combative. Her blood a harsh brand at his mouth, red and dripping around his chin. “Don’t you have a little more sense to wait and see if he was doing anything harmful? God-” freaking savages Hoseok curses internally- but then immediately berates himself for that choice of language.

- That kind of rhetoric was the words that dragons from the capital often used to refer to the dragons that wanted to exist out here where they were naturally more comfortable. Unburdened by the comforts and expectations of polite society. The girl tosses her long dark hair, matching his energy with her hands on her hips, “well he should know better than to come into dragon land unaccompanied-“

- “He wasn’t unaccompanied- he has me, I scent marked him this morning, and if you stopped to use your senses instead of just going fire first and thought second- You’d have realized he’s spoken for.” Jungkook remembers the scenting and barely suppresses a flush.

- Hoseok had extensively rubbed his chin all over Jungkook’s chest this morning. They’d been curled up in the dewdrops, staying cozy until the absolute last moment they had to leave the small clearing where they’d made camp, a hanging valley in the mountains. Secluded, safe, and quiet.

- It makes Jungkook shy to think everyone can smell that on him- that they’d been so close. and in the next second he’s questioning his own shyness- what was there to be shy about? Hoseok is his soul-bonded partner so it’s only natural…right?

- The girl sniffs the air, crossing her arms. The shallow gash under her jaw is already healing. Really- it wasn’t more than a scratch, and Hoseok won't feel guilty for that- not when it was her who tried to move when she obviously should have yielded the fight to him. “You’re right- he does smell like you” the way she says this- like she thinks it’s a bad thing but that’s rich when she stinks like something heavy and heady. A sweet scent that’s so strong it hurts Hoseok’s nose. No one else has ever smelled this way to him before.

- Another older dragon dashes through the forest, accompanied by a third- both of them are male and at least as old as Jungkook and Hobi. Hoseok steps a little more firmly in front of Jungkook. Hiding him from view.

- “What’s going on? We heard a roar?” the smaller one asks, though the larger of the two turns to the female dragon his eyes only for her. His thumb running against her blood-soaked throat, checking to make sure she’s not hurt. The second he verifies she’s not hurt he turns his attention to Hoseok, putting himself in front of her the same way Hobi had stepped in front of Jungkook. He even steps up- about to shove Hoseok but she catches him around the waist. Stopping him from hurting Hoseok.

- Jungkook takes a second to size the three of them up- he and hoseok could definitely take them in a fight, he shakes off his trepidation and steps up too- holding the glare of the smaller of the two men.

- More of that smell fills Hoseok’s nose and he wants to choke on it, or gag. Hoseok scoffs, arms rippling in his shirt. (Jungkook’s brain sure chooses the weirdest things to fixate on, but when did Hoseok gain so much muscle?) Jungkook reaches out to tug on Hoseok’s sleeve, “Hobi- it’s okay, let's just go,” Hoseok’s eyes lose their anger the second he looks back at Jungkook, hot fire melting to burning coals.

- Jungkook doesn’t like to be hated by dragons, even if he’s used to it by now and grew up with it. Hoseok’s priorities shift in a second; to getting Jungkook away and where they can be alone and safe unthreatened in their little bubble. He’d rather make sure Jungkook was safe and comfortable than devote any more energy to these people. “It doesn’t matter Hobi.”

- The woman that Hoseok’s fought goes white as a sheet, her knees going weak in a second. “What did you just say?” the beefier male dragon steps forward and Hoseok barely manages the impulse to cover his nose. The other one sends a nervous glance at the two of them, then back at the kids.

- A knowing look shared between all of them, and Jungkook is hit with the realization that something is about to change. And in the same second, it happens before Jungkook can tell what it is and protect Hoseok from it. The woman pushes the beefy man to the side, stepping up to Hoseok.

- “Did you just say Hobi? What’s your name?” the woman is still staring at Hoseok open-mouthed, and all at once- Jungkook sees it. The same way their hair falls, their face shape, their similar small noses, and their eyes. The kind of familiarity that only genetics can cause.

- “My name is Hoseok,” Hobi says, and she rushes forward, tears spilling over her cheeks, Hoseok flinches back from her hands, “I thought you were dead- I thought you were gone- Hoba- I’m so sorry- I-”

- Now it's Jungkook’s turn to put himself in-between her and Hobi. Catching her wrists in both of his. though the larger dragon’s nostrils flare at her being touched- he’s gentle when he takes her form Jungkook’s hold a second before her legs give out and she devolves into sobs. Holding her protectively against his chest as she cries, staring at Hoseok like she’s seeing a ghost.

- Hoseok looks stricken for a moment before it hits him “Dawon- my sister's name was Dawon. Is that you?” she nods, eyes still shining as she drinks in Hoseok, wiping the tears away so she can see him more. The other smaller male dragon grimaces- looking about as uncomfortable as jungkook feels.

- “You have a sister” Jungkook breathes, a weird feeling of betrayal welling up in him. “You didn’t tell me.” Hoseok is scared- that’s the only emotion Jungkook can pin down when he turns, his hand closing around Jungkook’s shoulder, “I didn’t know- I always assumed she’d died. And I haven’t-“

- Jungkook sees something settle between Hoseok’s shoulders, the tension dissipating “I barely remember you. I’m sorry.” And he really is, her sadness doesn't well in him a protective urge- he feels nothing at all but discomfort as he watches a stranger cry over him. He wishes he remembered her like she remembers him.

- “If it helps,” the dragon holding dawon says, “she thought you were dead too” he holds out his hand, “I’m Jinseok and this is my brother Felix, what’s your name human?”

- The little ones seem to be the perfect distraction- the midsized one shifting- while the hatchling bounds forward in their direction. Felix is finally knocked out of his reverie to try and snag them by their feathers but missing at the last moment. They flutter around Jungkook’s and Hoseok’s feet- curious at the newcomers. It gives dawon the opportunity to wipe her eyes.

- The larger one of them barely braves enough to sniff at Jungkook's hand, recoiling when he smells the magic sparking at his nose. Shifting with a pop. Her hair is red-tipped like Dawon’s, but black at the roots. “You smell funny,” she says before she pops back into her dragon form The smaller hatchling brushes up against Hoseok’s legs as a cat would weaving between his ankles.

- Though he doesn’t say it aggressively, Jungkook still feels his annoyance prick at this and at the whole meeting. “i’m Not human- but my name’s Jungkook, I’m Hoseok’s brother,” the small one shifts back and forth with a crack, “how can you be his brother if you’re not a dragon?”

- “Areum!” Felix scolds. trying to grab at her again as she shifts and darts away. “It’s okay- we- we can talk about it,” Hoseok says, Hand smoothing over the head of the smaller one, the hatchling presses up into Hoseok’s hand.

- As Dawon gets her feet underneath her the other dragon- Jinseok- who hoseok gathers is her mate judging from the way he’s been trying to comfort her steadies her with a hand on her elbow. He’s significantly meatier than felix- who like Hoseok is lithe and delicate by comparison.

- And Jungkook knows without being able to smell him that maybe- this means he’s an alpha. Not all dragons split themselves up into designations of alpha, beta, and omega. When they were younger Jungkook pored over every book they could come by about dragons to learn about Hoseok’s type.

- “Why are you even reading about me- you know you can just ask Namjoon right?” Hoseok had teased in the old library of their manor house, a book from jimin’s library on the study table. “Cuz I wanna know everything about you- don’t you want to know too? Which one you are?”

- “Not really- it doesn’t matter to me” and maybe back then it didn’t. Neither Namjoon or Yoongi were the kind of dragon that split into designations and neither could tell. Jungkook wonders if that’s still true. If Hoseok still doesn’t know- it’s been so long and Jungkook’s never asked, he wonders if the others can tell.

- “Come this way- we’ve already set up camp and you both should join us,” the smaller one shifts finally, hair fluffy and red-blond just like their feathers, tugging on Dawon’s skirt. He’s a soft sweet thing, barely more than a toddler. “why is it all like that unnie?” pointing behind Jungkook and Hoseok.

- They all turn, and Jungkook isn’t at all surprised to see the waterfall still frozen in time, no sound of it tumbling, still the same way it was when Dawon first attacked. The other small dragon tries to touch the water's edge and finds it impenetrable. Like it’s glass.

- Jungkook leans down and runs his hand through it letting it ripple slowly- much to the excitement of the youngsters who stand on the surface. Pouncing and trying to break it. Neither of them can break through the surface like Jungkook. “Kookie,” Hoseok asks, “sorry- that’s my fault.” He holds up his hands and with a flash the water unfreezes and resumes its rushing and roaring. The older child falls ankle-deep into the water, squawking and splashing back to the shore- Shaking her feathers out.

- The dragons go white, Felix mutters a low curse. “We’d heard about another sorcerer- but we didn’t think” Jungkook rubs his hands on his thighs, picking up his pack, suddenly shy. Still Hoseok and Dawon stare at each other- this time not trying to get close.

- Jungkook sighs, the heaviness in his chest aching. “You said you had camp set up already?”

- Hours later after the fires been stoked and the foods been made and the sun has set, Jungkook tries not to let the food in his mouth taste like ash. Rolling it against his tongue, the meat-rich with spices as he watches Hoseok and Dawon from across the fire. Ignoring the clamor of Felix wrestling the hatchlings into a makeshift nest.

- at one point tonight Hoseok had mistakenly referred to the two hatchlings as his sister’s children and she’d laughed, her mate blushing and melting underneath her playful look. They’re not her kids, but that they’re all orphans from one of the last attacks at the border before the war began. In much the same boat as Dawon was when their nest was destroyed. The group of three are on their way north to drop the youngsters off in the capital before they head back to the battlefront.

- the two children seem terribly attached to the group of three- Hoseok comments on this. Felix looks down at the small one- the little boy curled up in his lap, cheek pillowed against Felix’s thigh. His voice hushed and pained “We want to fight. Even if it means we have to leave them, we can’t take care of them like they need to be taken care of.”

- Jungkook doesn’t say that you were younger than he was when you first started taking care of him and Hobi. But things are significantly faster passed for humans. And maybe parenthood has more to do with personality and attitude than age. If Jungkook had to judge it- he’d say that out of this group- Felix seems the fondest of the hatchlings.

- Jungkook doesn’t intrude much onto their conversation. For the most part he just sits across the fire with his empty bowl and listens. Nursing his skein of wine that they’ve so graciously gifted him and Hoseok. Marveling at the refilling spell that jungkook shows them half way through the night when it begins to run dry.

They don’t notice the difference- but to Jungkook the wine tastes flat and bitter the magic stealing away the joy of its taste. There are some things that the magic just can't recreate and maybe jungkook’s just sensitive to that.

- But it does enough to liberate his anxiety regardless; Jungkook’s head is spinning as he watches the dragons, feeling apart from them on the other side of the fire. The two youngsters sleep on soft packs a little bit away, packs piled up to keep the light of the fire out of their eyes.

- “How did you- how did you survive? Did you run away?” (The memories that Jungkook’s seen flicker back across his eyes, a tiny Hoseok sitting in a treehouse nest, hiding until his mother came. “Stay here- your sister will be back in a moment” and then Hoseok leaving, heading out into the fray of the battle. So small and so so brave.)

- Jungkook tightens his lips. Hoseok knows what he saw that day when he became a sorcerer and they don’t have many secrets between the two of them. But this feels too private for Jungkook to pipe up. The fact that he might be the only one of the three of them that has a clear picture of what happened that day lingers on his mind.

- Jungkook wonders, and has asked Seokjin about how, and why- the magic showed him what it did. ‘I think it probably wanted you to understand, wanted you to know what had happened and how it did. Every sorcerer has a different specialty, maybe yours is time.’

- “I almost didn’t, I went out to fight but our parents were already-“ Hoseok cuts himself off. Everyone knows what happened and he doesn’t need to say it in any detail. “I went back for you- but you weren’t there- and the others were leaving.“ she doesn’t need to say anymore. Takes a swig of her wineskin too, the words rolling off her tongue better with the alcohol lubricating them. “Two other hatchlings got killed because I went back to look for you.”

- Hoseok doesn’t have anything to say about that. He’d been as good as dead, and she must have been about 11 when the attack happened. Hoseok would tell her that he forgives her but really there’s nothing to forgive. “What have you been doing since then, where did you end up?” Hoseok needs to ask- needs to know. What could have been his life if Yoongi had never found him?

- It says something that this woman in front of him left him for dead, while their father didn’t. Now that her scent buffs over him from the hot wind he thinks he recognizes it. In the first few weeks he’d been with you he remembers missing her scent. Longing to curl up around it and the rest of his nest.

- Hoseok remembers smelling Jungkook His snout pressed to Jungkook’s black curls trying to recreate the same smell. It smells kind of like family- but not really. Jungkook would never smell the same way she did- and that was a good thing. Hoseok subtly leans away so that more of it doesn’t get in his nose. Craving Jungkook’s clean sweet scent across the fire.

- “I ended up getting adopted by their rookery” she gestures to both of the boys Felix leans back on his hand's feet playing with the soil while he gazes at her fondly. Felix is the only one of them who doesn’t have horns, instead- his dragon mark manifests itself in his clawed feet.

- That’s how I would look at her if we’d grown up together Hoseok thinks. It’s clear they’re close though he can already tell her bond with the alpha runs deeper than her bond with him. “Their parents died three years ago in one of the first battles, we were sent north to the city and the academy before we were approved by the council to head south when we found them.”

- “Hoseok studied at the academy too” jungkook supplies quiet, no one but hoseok acknowledges he spoke.

- In their little nest, the two hatchlings breathe on, “we were trying to make it to the battlefront to finally fight but now that we’ve got them- we’re on our way back to the city.” Hoseok sees the way that Jinseok touches her hand, soft and cradling. It’s strange to Hoseok, who doesn’t often pick up on the scents of other dragons that those of his own kind smell so strong.

- Dawon smells sweet and cloying, like a baked cake or like an overly ripe fruit. Nearly spoiled. Whereas Jinseok smells like incense and burning oranges (a smell that Hoseok finds it hard to like to be honest), and Felix smells like the edge of winter and fall, clear air, fresh in a way. Other dragon’s scents have never been so pungent to him- even his own. if they smell so bad he wonders what he must smell like.

- “How did you…” Hoseok’s eyes hover on the tender way they hold each other hand, Jinseok brushes over the scent gland on the inside of Dawson’s wrist something so intimate and gentle. He can see the way she viscerally shivers. “You’re both mated right?” he asks, wants to know, both of them blush but nod eagerly.

- Felix leans back further. “I told them to wait until after the war but-“ he lifts his shoulders, “when you know you know.” Dawon smiles brightly in his direction, knocking her forehead with Jinseok. “You’re not-” Dawon sends a glance in Jungkook’s direction as if shaking her head at the very thought. Jungkook bristles (and so does Hoseok) but as if sensing some sort of possible conflict, Felix pipes up. “It makes sense that you’re not since you're like me, we don’t often mate.”

- Confusion replaces the tension as everyone turns to Felix, Hoseok’s eyebrows furrow. Something’s not lining up “what do you mean?” Jungkook asks. Hoseok is wide-eyed “how am I like you?” Felix- seeming to realize that he’s overstepped or supplied information that he shouldn’t have, has the good sense to look a little bashful. “You didn’t know? You’re a beta-”

- Hoseok and jungkook share a startled glance, hoseok's hands shake a little- he tries to hide it- but Jungkook notices (Jungkook always notices). Hoseok had never thought it mattered- but now it feels like it does. the way that felix says it- like it’s something to be happy about. “You didn’t know? ah- I’m sorry I didn’t mean to”

- “It’s alright it's just-” Hoseok looks down his hands tightening into fists, a small smile pricking at the corner of his mouth. “I’m a beta?” Jungkook can’t help but feel like he’s slipping even further away his breath hitching. Felix relocates to Hoseok’s side, taking his shaking hand in one of his “yes, you’re a beta- like me. there aren’t many of us left- even fewer now, but you’re a beta Hoseok.”

- Jungkook can’t stop himself, physically can’t keep himself in his seat at the sight of Hoseok and the other beta sitting so close on the tree stump. The way his sister seems so close on the other side in Jungkook’s spot. Felix touches Hoseok’s neck- the spot where Jungkook knows his scent gland is even if he can’t smell Hoseok the way the dragons do. explaining to hoseok what he smells like- It makes Jungkook’s blood boil with an acrid something that feels like wanting and shame at being so impossibly jealous.

- So he gets up and walks to the edge of the makeshift camp trampling someone’s feathers as he goes. Hoseok starts after him and the alpha makes an unhappy grunt at Hoseok leaving. Almost reaching out.

- Logically Jungkook knows Jinseok is his sister’s mate- so of course, he’d be worried about her younger brother leaving- especially if it hurt the feelings of Dawon. But Jungkook can’t help but hate that they’re already trying to stake a claim over Hoseok. Typical alpha behavior already trying to exert his will over someone he barely knows.

- Jungkook doesn’t know if Hoseok had felt his displeasure down the threads of their bond, but he calls Jungkook’s name again as he stalks into the woods. Jungkook ignores it, stomping carefully through a grove of ankle-high toadstools that glow a faint pink. They’re enough like to see by, and they illuminate the forest in great swathes. A fairy lifts its head from the surface as he jostles one, hissing in Jungkook’s direction as he disturbs their sleep.

- “Kookie slowdown- just STOP” Hoseok has never shouted at Jungkook and sounded like that. Jungkook’s so surprised he stops in his tracks. He steps on a toadstool and it winks out- the rosy glow beneath them diminishing. A flurry of sprites are startled from their hallow by hoseok's shout, the cloud moving sleepily away from the clearing, wings whistling in the quiet. When he turns around, Hoseok’s stricken expression is lit from below, his lower lip glossy from the wine.

- One of the things about their bond is that Hoseok doesn’t have to wonder if Jungkook is upset. He can feel it echoing hot into his own body, jealousy and anger and deep underneath- fear. Fear that Hoseok had found something he’d been looking for that Jungkook couldn’t offer.

- Jungkook can’t get the happy expression out of his head- the way Hoseok had looked when they’d told him. “I’m a beta” the smile like an answer he’d been searching for but hadn’t found. Jungkook couldn’t fit into that system- couldn’t be an alpha or a beta or omega. He could just be Jungkook.

- And For the first time, being only that doesn’t feel like enough for Hoseok. Hoseok had never cared that Jungkook was a dragon or human but now it feels like it matters.

- “Do you- are you going to stay with them Hoseok?” Jungkook’s voice doesn’t sound like his own. Hoseok recoils at the mere suggestion of it like he’s just been slapped “what?! Of course not- we’re going to leave in the morning? And then they’ll head south. Dawon and I have already talked about it while you were getting firewood.” Hoseok reaches out to grab Jungkook’s wrist but Jungkook takes a step back- out of Hoseok's reach.

- “It didn’t look like you had any intention of leaving just then” Hoseok steps forward into Jungkook’s space. Between them, personal space rarely exists, but now, Jungkook feels like he he needs some. Jungkook never thought their bond might hurt- but now he’s worried it is.

- “You don’t need to be scared Kookie,” Hoseok says because he can feel his fear, “I don’t want you to feel scared.” one of the terrible things about their bond is that Hoseok can feel everything every emotion. Good and bad, secret and shared all wound in an anxious ball that only Hoseok can tease through.

- “Maybe it would help- if I knew what you were thinking” because thoughts and feelings aren’t the same things. hoseok knows jungkook is feeling this way- but can’t understand why more than a good guess.

- Jungkook sits on the edge of a stump, a fallen tree, and beside him, Hoseok stoops to sit too. Careful to rearrange their feet so that they don’t hurt any of the toadstools, through the underbrush they glimmer and bloom more brilliant than flowers.

- They remind Jungkook of the flowers that grow in aunty Jimin and uncle Namjoon’s house. Jungkook doesn’t watch them, leaning his head on Hoseok’s shoulder, looking up at him from his perch. After a second, Hoseok pulls him closer, pacifying him with the contact.

- Hoseok starts slow. “You know im different.” it seems silly to say- to voice this when jungkook can feel the otherness in his bones. “that I feel like I’ve always been in-between kind of in the same way that Jimin’s been in-between.” jungkook’s egear nodds encourage Hoseok on to talk more.

- “I’ve never been worried about it because I knew- I know whatever it is- that I feel loved- I know you love me.” Jungkook’s heart feels like it’s going to shake in his chest, lit from below. Hoseok reaches out, touches his cheek in just the right way that Jungkook knows it’s not- not that sort of love. The thing that’s built itself into something formidable in his chest.

- A love that is neither purely platonic nor brotherly or romantic- something different and new and definitely not sexual but still love. Hoseok is apart of Jungkook’s soul in a way that nothing else could be. There is no space left in his heart. Nothing left for anyone else. All of Jungkook belongs to this and their bond.

- Briefly, he wonders if maybe all this confusion is just Jungkook’s magical body getting re-used to the bond. Jis magical body can feel it so much more than his human body ever could.

- “I know” Jungkook feels breathless- but the whole in-between thing, he knew that too. For years Jungkook Has watched Hoseok battle with his hair enough times to know that the frustration was deeper than any superficial change. Jungkook has seen the looks- the longing when he sees something pretty and golden.

- When they were younger, Hoseok jokingly put on one of your corsets, almost too big for him. You’d loved it- thought it was just the cutest thing and hadn’t made him take it off until bedtime. “I promise you don’t want to sleep with it on Hoseok.”

- “This- all of them- Dawon” Hoseok takes Jungkook’s hand- more of a routine then any motion- and unlike before Jungkook lets him. “that just feels like a reason for all of that- that discomfort. If i’m a beta- then it all makes sense you know? but still I-”

- Hoseok steals himself to say the next words sighing them out “-I don’t think I could love anyone the way that mom loves dad you know” Jungkook thinks those words should hurt. But they don’t. He’s been thinking about the pain recently. How their father is their mother’s constant shadow, a ghost that cannot sleep, a love that haunts more than it loves.

- No question. Yoongi would tear apart himself for you if given the chance. But Hoseok- Hoseok doesn’t know if he’s ever felt something like that with such intensity. Sure he’d fight to the death for Jungkook and fight even harder if something was to separate them. But was that foundation built on the same kind of love? Could more love even fit in the space of his heart- with so much Jungkook already filling it up? Could this love change when it has no room to grow?

- It would be easier if they were bloodily related, jungkook realizes- then there would be no question. But the fact of the matter is that any romantic relationships that they might have with other people would feel like too much of a betrayal on both sides.

- Hoseok and Jungkook cannot love each other the way Yoongi loves you. and yet- Jungkook doesn’t want that with anyone else. Can’t even think about loving someone who isn’t Hoseok. Jungkook holds Hoseok’s hand to his face for one moment, then lets it go- lets the idea of this fall away, “I’m sorry for getting angry- let's go back”

- When they go back Hoseok sits next to Jungkook on the log. The others give them both a measured look- like theyre trying to find any remaining discord between their bond, leaning back satisfied when they find none.

- Jungkook doesn't need to know what they talked about while they were gone. Especially when hoseok immediately launches into another conversation with dawon- talking through their childhoods- and the parents that they’d both eventually found. “I think you’d really like my mom, she’s like a healer- a good one too” Hoseok can’t help but boast. “Healed my shoulder after-“ he trails off but tilts to show her how he can roll it.

- Jinseok comes over and inspects Hoseok’s shoulder, tilting it between his big hands and unlike before- it doesn’t make Jungkook jealous, (but that might have something to do with Hoseok’s hand on his thigh). Jinseok’s eyes are appraising when he lets it go “of course you healed! I’ve taken a few tumbles myself over the last few years. Almost thought my tail was gonna fall off that one time.” Felix laughs and Dawon rolls her eyes at it. “Yes we’re all aware of your stupidity that one time when-”

- “You’ll always be my person Kookie- I don’t need anyone else. I don’t want anyone else” Hoseok tells him when they’re pressed close underneath their bed things, set out underneath the stars. They’re both Significantly more full of wine than they’d been before and Hoseok’s words are nearly slurry.

- “I think…I think I might be a little broken.” Hoseok’s says like the words are a secret, eyes fluttering with tiredness. Jungkook presses closer in reply like Jungkook is making up for pieces Hoseok might be missing. He presses his forehead to Hoseok’s. Hoseok smells like home- Hoseok will always be home to Jungkook.

- “If you’re broken, I’m broken too” Jungkook’s words are cushioned against the skin of Hoseok’s shoulder. That night, Hoseok lies on his back and Jungkook slings a leg over his thighs. they revel in the closeness, loving every moment.

- Jungkook is already asleep- but Hoseok speaks anyway. “I don’t need anything else but you Kookie.”

- The next morning the two groups part ways. Dawon hugs Hoseok so tight that Jungkook feels his own spine ache a little. Hoseok must have explained to her last night about their goal of saving you. she seems like she understands why they need to leave. But Even so, she’s a little teary-eyed, reluctant to let him go. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?” Hoseok nods, his red curls bouncing, not a hit of hesitation.

- Hoseok hands her a little scroll. If they do make it to the Southern front where Namjoon is, the scroll will make sure that she and her flock are well taken care of by their uncles. Hoseok thinks that Jimin and Namjoon would like his older sister. That she’ll fit in well with the army.

- It isn’t until a few days later when they’re staying at uncle Namjoon and Jimin’s house that Jungkook and Hoseok have a chance to talk about any of it again. Jungkook could feel the flickers of uncertainty down their bond, judging that Hoseok needed to parse through his feeling and figure out what he needed to say.

- They only stay for the night, happy to have a familiar bed instead of curling up under the stars before they fly north. The house is empty besides them, though a housekeeper still comes by every day to water Jimin’s plants and make sure too much dust doesn’t settle.

- They ready for a long day of flying in one of the many guest rooms. Jungkook is just leaning down to tie his boots when he catches Hoseok looking at himself in the mirror. Running a brush through his curls. Hoseok thinks back through his memories of this house- and of the fairy and dragon that should be here with them. And particularly- words that Jimin said to Hoseok long ago when he’d asked about Himin’s gender.

- Hoseok can’t remember how old he was- but he remembers the fairy bending down to his level in the garden. “To tell you the truth, being a girl or a boy doesn’t matter much in our part of the world. What matters is that you’re good to the people who need you and kind to the people that don’t when you meet,”

- Its that memory that gives Hoseok the strength to finally meet Jungkook’s gaze in the mirror. “I think…I want to grow out my hair.”

-“Like aunt Jiminie?” Jungkook asks, standing and moving to stand behind him, Jungkook’s hands play in the small hairs at the back of Hoseok’s neck, and he leans forward to sniff, Hoseok already smells like the ocean. “Yeah” Hoseok looks worried- like it might not have Jungkook’s approval. the set of his shoulders tense like he’s readying jungkook to say something negative. But there isn’t a change he could make that would put Jungkook’s love and devotion in jeopardy. hoseok knows that but the worry still lingers.

- Jungkook tangles a hand in Hoseok’s hair, his reflection grinning back at Hoseok- Boyish and beautiful in a way that makes hoseok ache. “We’ll grow it out together” and they do, flying back and forth across the world. When Jungkook cuts his- Hoseok doesn’t. All until it’s down to his shoulders. The first time Yoongi sees he doesn’t even mention it- not even a little bit- too busy preening and what can only be called nesting.

- It’s something he’s started to do over the years to relieve his stress, piling up every single soft thing in the room around where your glass coffin is. No doubt preparing for you’re waking in a few days. A healthy flush in his cheeks that hadn’t been there last time they’d been home.

- Seokjin doesn’t say anything, but he does tug on the end of Hoseok’s hair, twining the long red strand around his fingers. He doesn’t say anything like he might have before, sensing Hoseok’s tenseness. He leaves a few spells tacked to his and Jungkook’s door spells for hair lengthening and to change the color should Hoseok desire it.

- Yoongi is so happy to have them home he doesn’t even notice anything’s different until the day Hoseok gets into your makeup collection. It’s only for them, just a tiny bit of rouge on his cheeks and to plump up his lips. Yoongi puts down his book when Hoseok walks in, eyes tracking him as he walks in. and Hoseok feels the worry sink underneath their skin before Seokjin taps Yoongi with his book, and they both go back to reading.

- But when Hoseok goes to his room later he finds a tiny pile of cosmetics on his bedside table. A delicate sea green brocade shirt that’s flowy- all but the sleeves opaque and embroidered with tiny flowers. It looks like something jimin would wear and Hoseok touches it with a reference he doesn’t quite know how to handle. A fondness growing in his heart.

- The next time they leave, Yoongi corners him, while not corners him- but sidles up to him while he’s on the back patio when the sun is just cresting over the trees just past sunrise. Hoseok might be an early riser but Seokjin and Jungkook still need a little while to sleep. “So, should I call you she now? Is that better for you?”

- Trust yoongi to go straight to the point. He’s so awkward, so cagey and quiet. So obviously wanting to offer comfort and understanding but unsure how to reach out. He’s used to using the rolling pronouns with jimin, but to use them for his son- his child- will take a second. It’s better to ask than wonder.

- “No, not yet- if ever.” and then in the quiet of the morning, a simple truth, “they is fine for me dad.”

- “When did you know?” Yoongi has to wonder, had you and him not being open enough? You’d both never talked to Jungkook and Hoseok about jimin, but you’d both believed you’d raised your children to come to you when they had a question or a concern. And Yoongi doesn’t like the idea that Hoseok could have been holding onto these feelings for some time. too afraid to be honest.

- Hoseok doesn’t answer right away, because there isn’t a good one. Was it the way he’d never played with strictly the girls or boys in grade school? The way he’d often found himself clinging to you and wanting to dress in your pretty fabrics than the drab black clothes his father favored?

- it was hard to tell what if anything had made Hoseok first question their gender. Did his betaness cause it? Or was the difference caused by not settling purely into one side? “I met my sister.” is all he can say, the only bit of information it makes sense to proffer up.

- That- out of everything they might have said does get a reaction out of Yoongi. his hands tightening on the edge of the stone wall. “I didn’t know she was still alive.”

- “Neither did I” Hoseok busies their hands with playing with the flowers that have gathered along the rock wall, small and pink. The ever spring around them so delicate and careful. The exact way that Hoseok feels today. “She told me I’m a beta, and after that- it all kind of makes sense?”

- Yoongi makes a noise in the back of his throat. Then suddenly, turns his golden eyes on his…child. (That train of thought will take some time getting used to) “Well if there’s anything I can be doing better- let me know okay?” he pulses Hoseok in for a quick scent mark, and the sudden affection nudges a purr from Hoseok’s throat. But overall the conversation just leaves them feeling soft and taken care of, understood and accepted in a way Hoseok had never realized they’d craved.

- By the time they leave, Yoongi is pushing a small velvet sack of coins in their directions. “You should get a few things that fit you better the next time you're in the city.”

- And they do, Hoseok and Jungkook work their way through the cloth market with a vigor they haven’t found in years, fine silks and velvets- perfect for the cold weather up north. Most in rich tones of gold, purple and red- red is Hoseok’s favorite color. Hoseok gets their ears pierced on a whim- fills his studs with little bits of gold that make them glow when they catch sight of themselves in a mirror.

- And when they come back after a day of shopping. It's Jungkook who pulls him close. Running a finger over the corner of their mouth to correct the placement of their lipstick. A fresh tube. Sometimes Hoseok doesn’t bother putting it on, or with the more cumbersome pretty clothes, but if they’re going to see anyone, even if that someone is just Jungkook- the red lip color stays.

- When you wake a few months later; you cup Hoseok’s cheek- hands still a little shaky and reluctant to move. “You look-” you search Hoseok’s eyes for something- anything that would show misgivings, “it looks so pretty Hobi” Hoseok plays with their fingers in their lap. It’s a cute behavior, one that Jungkook’s noticed appears more as time goes on and hoseok gets more comfortable with changing their body.

- “Don’t you mean handsome?” they say, swallowing back a lump in their throat. Their long hair is pulled back today, to give the same appearance of masculinity at least from the front. Jungkook braided it this morning, he’s been learning how to do it for hoseok- not quiet as nimble with their fingers yet like Jungkook is. The moments in the morning when Jungkook brushes their hair and winds it back- are some of his favorites- the soft moments he can spend with hoseok. Hoseok didn’t want to scare you too bad, from the front- they almost look the same. “Not if you don’t want me to mean it. You can be pretty too.”

-It’s not until the next time Hoseok and Jungkook set out that they actually quantify it in words. “I think I’m like Jimin- well not- like jimin. But I think I could be.” aunty and uncle Jimin, who’s just as comfortable in a skirt as they are in a pair of pants. Jungkook leans over, combing through Hoseok’s long hair. Reaching down to the sensitive spot between his- their shoulders. “Okay” is all he says, but his smile is sweet even in the light. “That’s okay with me Hobi.”

- And it is- it always will be, as long as Hoseok has people like this, the ones that have always made him feel like it was safe to be himself- no matter what form he wants to take. Hoseok will be okay. At night, their arms tighten around Jungkook. “I want you to be okay too Kookie” Jungkook sleeps on, oblivious to the turmoil-taking root in Hoseok’s heart.

- Yes, he loves Jungkook, but can Hoseok really love in the way that Jungkook needs? Are they just keeping each other from happiness or is this the only thing they’ll ever need?

- In his arms Jungkook dreams fitfully. But down to his core, he knows If there was ever a time when he felt like he needed more from Hoseok- if what they have ever felt like not enough, He’d never do anything about it. Never ask for more. Never. They don’t need anyone else- no lover, friends, or mates. Just each other. Their bond will always be enough.

- The days spent waiting pass like sluggish honey for Yoongi, sweet when they meet the tip of his tongue but only a hint of the sweet eternity he promises you. They blend together for you- more than the dizzying cacophony of dreams. Sometimes you forget where you belong, and forget that you have to wake up.

- When you can- you strong arm and squirm your way into wherever he is, curled up around you and set a hand on his scaly cheek, there is a limit to how far you can go from your body, and that seems to be a fair mile from where you sleep. So if you wake when Yoongi flies, it’s enough to be able to sit in the garden and enjoy the flowers and sunlight. Every time you manage to knock yourself out of a dream, you can go a little bit farther. Like your soul is getting used to how it feels outside your body.

- And when you do actually stay in the dream world- lucid dreaming becomes an avid habit of yours. Taehyung teaches you how to do it. As dangerous as it is lovely to feel real things when you can, you do often get lost in the way you can change the world you’re in. Are you a god? Or just a dreamer? Taehyung’s hand in yours keeps you tethered. You wonder how he managed to keep his sanity living alone like this for so many years. In the dream world- days are years and years are eons.

- And what makes it worse is that you know it won't feel like so long when you wake- the sluggish feeling that not so much time could have passed even though you know it has. The spell around you keeps you dreaming like it's been days, while your body lives those hours as a second. Your mind and your body age out of sync.

- Yoongi’s timed it before, every hour he sees your chest rise and fall. One breath for every hour

- You feel like you’ve spent years in the dreams at this point, recreating each of your wildest fantasies. Though some feel too real not to be born of your memories. You dream of The walls of your cavern home that you haven’t gone back to in years, feeling the cold stone with a warm body behind you- Yoongi. Or hours spent just outside the front doorsteps of your manor house, waiting for Yoongi to come home with Hoseok while Jungkook plays in the field.

- Flowers that flash like beacons out of the corner of your eye, and then it’s not only Jungkook but Hoseok playing in the field too. Both of them running through the field and casting the dandelions onto the floor that spark like embers. Yoongi chases after them- both of them barely come up to his waist. You watch it from the corner of your eye knowing it will feel less real if you turn your head and look at the memory directly.

- The smell of cooking peaches stings in your nose- sour- and you know if you went into your house you could probably find taehyung there- cooking a peach pie. Though it’s a toss up if it would actually be him- and now just a memory you don’t have confused in this.

- You Watch as Hoseok flashes red from human to dragon tackling Yoongi to the ground with a warped grumbly giggle. Jungkook is quick to flop on top with one hand fisted and knocking against Yoongi’s chest, the other buried in Hoseok’s feathery coat.

-It makes you smile- the dreams- these memories are the only thing that makes you remember you’re dreaming. Because you know Hobi and Jungkook haven’t been that small for years. Your children are fully grown now.

- You wish you could go back to those times when it was simpler. And the dreams let you do just that, again and again until the memory barely feels real.

- What surprises you the most are the nightmares. They always bleed into your dreams the moment you least expect them and when you truly let your guard down. Ink darkening the edges of this story before you realize the badness is bleeding through. Anger and a wordless hunger tainting the happy moments.

- You dont think the anger comes from you- maybe its anger from the dream- the world that has found you an unwelcome guest. People aren’t supposed to sleep for so long. And the dream world tries everything it can to get you to wake up.

- Maybe it’s worried you’ll learn how to dream when you’re awake.

- The worst part about the nightmares aren’t the fear- It’s not the falling through the sky, or faceless men chasing you, monsters, or tragedies that you can’t escape. It’s that the nightmares don’t feel the same as when you were awake, no blurry edges- everything too real. These nightmares are born of your memories only to be twisted by the dream world into something more sinister.

- Sometimes you feel like they’re showing you the future- or if not the future- then something that could have happened to your family.

- The nightmares show you realities where Jungkook still wants to be a warrior. Ones where Yoongi never found him and you all meet another way, Not as a family but as enemies on the battlefield.

- In the nightmare, the war has come earlier with Yoongi at the head of the council. And he’s become everything he always feared he could have been, those whispered confessions he’d uttered to you and you’d uttered back under only the cover of darkness. “I think I might be a bad person” “it doesn’t matter if you’re good- just that you’re good to us Yoongi, and for the record- I think it shows the content of your character that you care so much- even when caring hurts”

- In the nightmare world He’s everything he would have been without you. Easily tempted to war without knowing softness and love, without having something to protect. And he’d never chosen a mate either- Yoongi is as lonely and touch-starved as he is bloodthirsty and violent.

- In this nightmare Hoseok is just another dragon soldier who hates humans because of what they’ve done to him. Hoseok and Jungkook first meet each other on opposite sides of the war. Not as brothers but as enemies. Does Hoseok fall by Jungkook’s blade? Or will Jungkook burn without ever knowing about the magic that lurked in his veins? Or worse- would he have found out and used his powers to aid the only people he’d ever known.

- Would he and Seokjin fought in that reality? Two forces so destructive that they could only take out each other- flattening the mountains and ending thousands of lives when they clash. You hear them- from where you watch them fight. the dream war is just as bloody and terrible as the real one- and it's worse to see your family fight.

- Seokjin’s face is tense, eyes slowly dripping blood as he holds the magic in his hands. and jungkook- jungkook looks almost evil. Jungkook’s words don’t sound like your son- his voice deeper- like the dream just can’t get it right “this issue here uncle- is that you have something to fight for and I do not.”

- You beg the dream world to let you wake up but Seokjin’s spell holds you there with ironclad hands.

- You wonder what’s become of taehyung in this reality. Would he have woken from his coffin without Seokjin’s magic to keep him there- or would he have stayed asleep? Never to be woken again? would he sleep the same way Seokjin does, chest broken open on the battlefield, his heart removed clutched in Jungkook’s hand?

- In the dream where Jungkook doesn't know he’s magical, you’re a medic for the human army walking along with the isles of the wounded. Treading over piles of feathers and blood to check the faintly moving chest of a young man, so beautiful despite the fact he’s nearly dead. You don’t recognize Jungkook when you look at him- barely 19 and dying without the magic to protect him and keep him alive

- Maybe it’s some consolation that this other version of you gets to hold Jungkook as he dies. Gets to soothe him and say, “it’s alright, it won’t hurt in a second, you just have to stop breathing and you’ll be at peace.” As he sputters and tries to breathe through his torn lungs. You know what those claw marks mean on his chest- that they’re too deep to ever heal. Jungkook only has minutes left with his shredded lungs.

- You’re so focused on comforting the fallen soldier that you don’t notice the beast that lurks in the shadows. Yoongi might be large but he’s also near-silent and invisible in the darkness. Yoongi only feels hate and not love as he watches you, fire growing in his belly. You might be a medic but you’re still a human and every man you save is just another that will one day fall. The kiss of fire on the back of your neck burns hot and painful one moment, and then the touch of his lips soft the next as you breathe through the nightmare.

- Those are the worst sort of dream because part of you is convinced that’s what could have happened if Yoongi had never killed Jungkook’s blood family. As gruesome as it sounds, you think you’d rather have it this way than be doomed to that fate. At least now- you’re all loved, though you’ll have to see if one day, the one you love becomes the reason the other dies. For both you and Hoseok.

- Maybe soulmates hurt each other just as often as much as love each other.

- When you wake- you tell Yoongi about the dream and kiss his forehead where his head is pillowed against your thigh. Head tilted so his horns don’t knock into your hip. “Do they feel real? The dreams in which I kill you?” he asks you. He doesn’t want you to ever think of that, the improbability of him deciding to hurt you. that you could ever believe that his hands that love you could ever hurt you makes his stomach drop. Yoongi would let himself die, would turn his hands on himself- before he let himself hurt you.

- “Sometimes” you admit, as you kiss him more, deeper now that you can verify it's real. Kisses in the dream world always feel 2d, not like now- when you can taste him and feel his warmth. Kissing him is like hello and a new daydream all at once. Sweet and sweeter because you know it's real. Syrup and honey in equal measure. “But don’t worry, I never believe those dreams for long,”

- But Yoongi does worry, And the day comes that you do forget.

- It’s one of the rare times that Hoseok and Jungkook haven’t come home in time to see you wake. They’re kept south by a snowstorm wiping through the northern lands. But Yoongi’s glad they weren’t they're- glad they didn’t see it.

- It’s the first time that you wake and don’t remember them, your memories and your mind lost to the dream world. Screaming for Taehyung of all people as you fight Yoongi’s hands (only trying to hold you up seeing as you look about ready to pass out). You backpedal on shaky legs and hit the glass edge of your coffin with a violent thud. It shatters against the floor in a great cacophony of glass shards.

- Yoongi barely scoops you up in time so that you don’t fall against them and hurt yourself. Your hands weekly pushing at him to stay away, a monster that you never learned to love, a face you don’t know.

- Taehyung is crying in his coffin as he says your name. Hand weakly reaching out to Tae, Your panic stinks in Yoongi’s nose. Your body is afraid of him- that’s what breaks his heart the most- that he can smell the fear on you and he knows he’s caused it. it's all he can do to repeat in his mind that you’re just Sleepwalking, that’s what it is. You don’t actually hate him- you couldn’t.

- But you won’t wake up- no matter how much Yoongi calls your name. How is it so much harder for you than it is for Taehyung? Seokjin’s never said he did anything like this, Taehyung has never lost himself in the dream world like this.

- The second Tae feels like he has control of his legs he pushes Yoongi off of you. Cupping your cheeks and pulling you up and onto his glass coffin. “It’s not a dream- you’re not dreaming” but your eyes dart around the room like you’re not really seeing it. Yoongi sits there surrounded by glass watching as you don’t fight Tae.

- “Y/n you’re awake- this is your real life- this isn’t another nightmare” But his words fall on your unhearing ears. You stare at Taehyung like they’re something growing out of his head- and who knows- maybe there is. A piece of the dream world that you’ve carried into your waking hours. A hallucination. Yoongi doesn’t want to think about what you might have seen when you looked at his face.

- “Why are you calling me that? That’s not my name.” that’s the final straw, Seokjin knocked out of his reverie and Yoongi pining himself to the wall while Seokjin puts you back to sleep, a thumb pressed to your forehead until you slump in Tae’s arms. Tae holds you so delicately. And it takes seeing him cry for Yoongi to recognize the wetness on his own cheeks as tears too.

- He almost wants to reach out and keep you here. Because he knows- Yoongi knows- once you go into that coffin again they’re no getting you out. One more year to tick by without you. Two at once- They’ve never done this before and they can only hope it works- that you come back whole the next time.

- By the time Jungkook and Hoseok get home at noon, Hoseok’s wings are coated with a faint layer of frost. Yoongi is still sitting out on the edge of the property, watching the faintly raging snowstorm outside the barrier. Eyes wet and dark. His arms wrapped around himself like he’s trying to comfort himself. To alleviate the ache of being untouched. Maybe it’s dramatic- but Yoongi aches like he’s been shot down by an arrow. He never knew he could get so touch starved.

- His children watch him, mixed terror and discomfort at finding their father without their mother on the one day they should be seen together. “She’s not awake- you can get inside and see her though.” yoongi feels like he’ll never be warm again.

- The eternal spring of Seokjin’s home is more than enough to have the cold dissipate, but the cold at seeing you in Tae’s coffin stays. Yours shattered to the side (Seokjin will repair it for Tae later), is something that chills Jungkook to the bone. Jungkook doesn’t realize he’s using the magic in a panic until Hoseok touches his cheek and calls his name.

-All Jungkook knows is that your coffin magically replaced behind Tae’s and that the roses on the trellis outside are sneaking in through the open window. The warmth of Hoseok’s palm is welcomed comfort that Jungkook leans into. Trying not to cry.

- Jungkook and Hoseok get the story from Tae and Seokjin and then go back outside to sit next to their father. “Am I doing the right thing? Or should we just let her wake up and-“ Jungkook is the first to shake his head. “Mom doesn’t want to die dad- she’d say the same if she could” Hoseok’s hands tighten on their pants. Their whole body shaking at the thought of letting you- just letting you die.

- “Next year- it will be different.” No one says that they don’t know that for sure. That they’re just trying whatever they think will work without knowing if you’re right. If you even can come back. Jungkook and Hoseok stay for longer this time, to comfort their father. But then-one day weeks later, he stands up.

- They’re out of books. At least for now- until Hoseok and Jungkook can rocket across the world, every swipe of Hoseok’s wings faster- harder, pushing themselves to carry more. They feel like time is ticking down.

- The next year you wake without a fuss. And no one mentions the last year to you; you don’t remember what happened at all. You have no idea that it’s been two since they last saw you. And this time- Yoongi treasures it even more. For 18 hours- he doesn’t stop touching you. A hand on your lower back or your cheek. 18 hours of love after two years of nothing.

- Hoseok watches you carefully, looking for a hint that you know what happened, that you remember it in any way. But the day remains lost to the tangle of your memories and dreams. More than once- Hoseok catches you watching them, eyes furrowed like you’re having some sort of inner debate or trying to decide if what you’re seeing is real.

- Your brief wakefulness might be their favorite part- but it’s also the scariest.

- It gets a little better, the dreams can’t create new things for you- only things you’ve experienced before really. So when you see them in newer clothes, when they actively change things about your surroundings before you wake up it makes a difference.

- Seokjin changes the spell around his castle to fall just for you, and you spend ages in the garden, pressing sweet tomatoes to Yoongi’s mouth and cooking pumpkin seeds with Hoseok and Jungkook. Hoseok excitingly shows you their new trick- a little jet of fire that they can manage on their hands in their human form. It’s far from Yoongi’s near magic control of fire but it still makes you smile and shout and give Hoseok little scratches on the head a proud feeling in your chest.

- No matter that you need to reach up to do it now- they’ve been taller than you for so long it’s hard to remember they were ever so tiny. Hoseok’s change is also another thing that makes it easier. You dislike it- and you’d never treat your child any differently than how they wanted to treat them- but when you dream Hoseok- they’re still listless in their skin, a boy along with Jungkook.

- It’s reassuring when you wake and find them still the same as ever but so much more comfortable in their skin than they’d ever been before. As a child, Hoseok had been quiet and easily anxious (only soothed by Jungkook) now they’re louder and happier, a little bit of something shimmery gold on their eyelids, dancing around the kitchen and sending off little puffs of yellow fire (only to be contained by Jungkook’s magic).

- “Really Hobi- the kitchen is made of wood- you’ve got to be careful’). Their face stretching in a familiar heart-shaped smile that you all love. Hoseok is so so happy.

- You’ve never seen them this happy, and that makes the discontent rise in your chest because- how had you never realized they weren’t? How did you never see that Comfort was a fickle thing in Hoseok’s chest in a way it wasn’t for anyone but Jimin.

- You try to remember back to their meeting sometimes. Hoseok had looked at Jimin like he hung the stars and asked more questions than anyone else. You’d assumed it was just childlike curiosity- but maybe that had a deeper meaning than you’d initially thought.

- Before you sleep you unpack some of your old clothes and hand them down to Hoseok. Fine clothes and silks that Yoongi had made for you when you lived closer to the dragon city. Seeing as you have no use for them anymore, they’re a similar size- and Hoseok is only a little bit larger than you, maybe a tad bit broader but you liked your clothes flowy and loose anyway.

- You anchor yourself with their smile when you go into the dreams again. Excited to wake and help Hoseok explore their feminine side more.

- The nightmares are ever vibrant and feverish, with reality at a resolution just out of clarity. You dream of each of your family hurt beyond repair and you dream that they’re happy without you. Those hunters grabbing a tiny Hoseok by his feathers and tear them- his beautiful- delicate wings, and pluck him like a chicken.

- They do the same to Yoongi- albeit slower, removing every inch of his wing membrane until his bones clatter together like a wind chime. You have to watch, unable to move regardless of his roars that shake the earth. Maybe it says a lot about your love if the thing you’re scared of most is not being there to comfort Yoongi.

- Other nightmares of black fire that climbs the walls and sinks close to Jungkook in his baby basket. A calamity that you cannot end, like the trudge of time- the nightmares feel like they last forever. The wand in his arm burning too- unable to bond with him. His soul burned from the inside out. You scramble over his ashes, grasping at them like it will bring him back.

- You can’t help it, sobbing like your heart was ripped out. Hoseok falling too, crying in anguish as part of his soul dies. his wings fall limp- unable to fly without Jungkook. The saddest death is that of someone who can no longer do what they love, and the second saddest is a dragon without its wings.

- It’s so sad, It’s just like that time you woke up and saw only strangers in your bedroom, the nightmares always feel so real.

Please Reblog and Comment! Likes are nice but they do little to support content creators!

Part 8: The Woman and The War *coming soon*

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feralphoenix · 3 years

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a thing that i really love about hollow knight is that part of its incredibly strict Show Don’t Tell policy means it works a lot in juxtapositions. comparisons and parallels.

like, rather than Telling us what makes for a good and responsible ruler, we get to know about various different heads of state in the various nations of the crater, and we can observe how they handled international relations, public policy, etc and the consequences/effects of their choices, and draw conclusions by ourselves.

there are lots of different parent-child relationships, and sibling relationships, so that we have many examples to compare ghost and their family to.

there are also a number of higher beings around and you can compare them to each other to understand their different approaches to godhood, how they handled being the center of a culture & the responsibilities that entails (radi, unn, tpk) or the ways they sidestepped those roles (white lady, grimm). in addition to forming our opinions of these characters this also contextualizes what ghost does when they attain godhood in the godseeker endings & after the delicate flower variant, in godseeker mode.

like you can use these points of reference for a lot of different analysis topics!!! but one of the things that always Gets Me In My Emotions is the direct juxtaposition between herrah, radiance, and tpk and how differently these three characters handle the cost of fighting Existential Crisis.

the pale king’s policy is officially No Cost Too Great, but just like the hunter says in hollow’s bestiary entry, for tpk “cost” was a thing for other people to pay, and he was not willing to risk any sort of harm to his own person. his plan to deal with the infection involved sacrificing the dreamers & the hollow knight, and his plan to create a hollow knight involved birthing hundreds of thousands of children who were designed to be expendable - they were there so he could experiment on them, select a candidate, cull the failures, and then sacrifice said candidate.

the worst tpk might have experienced through all this is emotional turmoil, and it’s left ambiguous in-game whether he was actually conflicted about the child sacrifice/felt attachment to hollow or whether his personal low point throughout all this was being butthurt about his wife walking out rather than birth a second batch of vessels for the slaughter. (he must’ve been pretty darn butthurt to have lied to the kingdom that the white lady was dead.)

as soon as his plan failed and he had no other recourse, tpk fled rather than expose himself to any potential harm. he was willing to - perhaps desperate enough to - expend any number of chess pieces if it would save hallownest, but his own life and safety was NEVER on the table.

just like tpk, radiance is trying to protect herself and her people. just like tpk and herrah, she too is willing to go to any lengths necessary to get the settlers to fucking step off, give her children back, and leave her alone.

for her this entails being willing to bend her own principles - i’ve talked about this in depth before so you can find all that in my essay tag if you’re interested, but in-game evidence points to radiance having been a pacifist like the rest of her tribe pre-hallownest. and the infection is a curse that’s only sometimes fatal, but it causes extreme amounts of harm and fear and chaos to inflicted parties. and this level of harm is something she’s willing to do just to threaten/pressure tpk into backing down.

her method also causes a large amount of collateral damage (including lateral harm to other indigenous bugs!), suggesting that she either doesn’t have the emotional wherewithal to worry about who might get hurt, or just plain doesn’t care. if you squint, it’s possible to make the argument that radiance might have warned unn before her counterattack against hallownest, but even then forewarning was the only mitigation she was able and willing to provide. if this is what it takes to protect herself and her tribe, then so be it.

so, compared to tpk, who chose to actively sacrifice the lives of individuals to protect the institution of hallownest, and radiance, who doesn’t care about splash damage to bystanders as long as she can save her tribe... what i find extraordinary about herrah is that when she determined that sacrifice was necessary to protect deepnest, she took all that sacrifice upon herself.

most obviously herrah accepts the role of dreamer in hopes of ending the plague, sacrificing her life. in order to keep tpk from taking advantage of that to conquer deepnest, she also negotiates that he has to provide her with an heir, thus ensuring deepnest’s sovereignty... but this means she has to have sex with the very creature who has been trying to commit genocide against the spiders for generations. she has to let her lifelong worst enemy who she’s been fighting alone since the death of her husband impregnate her. this decision had to have come with some form of emotional distress for her, and yet herrah shoulders it and soldiers through it.

and then even through this, it’s implied in the white lady and midwife’s dialogue (+ posed in the dev notes/style guide) that tpk snatched up hornet when she was a child to raise her in the white palace. it’s unclear whether he did this to keep hornet as a hostage to make sure herrah couldn’t renege on their treaty now she’d got what she wanted out of the bargain, to ensure his offspring would be raised in the culture he created rather than in deepnest, which he clearly believed to be barbaric and uncivilized, or both.

yet instead of calling bullshit and flouncing on the deal or trying to steal hornet back, thereby exposing deepnest to the threat of both the infection And aggression from hallownest once more, herrah stuck with it. midwife says that herrah paid dearly for her involvement with this plan, but herrah valued deepnest’s survival over her own individual life, and saw it through to the end no matter how tpk’s plan caused her to suffer or hurt her dignity.

there’s an incredible amount of nobility and integrity herrah shows here. she refuses to let any harm come to her country, and insists that any and all sacrifice required of her as a leader be her sole responsibility. her courage, her political intelligence, and her strength of character as a leader are all nothing short of awe-inspiring.

at the same time, there is still a downside to herrah’s spirit of self-sacrifice. as anyone who’s ever watched steven universe can tell you, self-sacrifice is actually kind of a shitty solution to one’s problems because self-destruction hurts the people who love you.

we get glimpses of hornet’s intense emotional torment over her mother’s fate and her understanding that it’s necessary to let ghost murder herrah to change the status quo; similarly we can understand the crushing amount of personal responsibility hornet feels towards the whole crater comes from knowing the cost of her own birth, and having front row seats to her parents’ political power struggle.

we hear from herrah herself that everything she does is done for hornet, so hornet’s pain is probably the last thing herrah would have wanted, but ironically what hornet goes through in hollow knight is a direct consequence of herrah choosing to martyr herself.

anyway all of this speaks SO much for herrah and radi and tpk’s individual priorities and problem-solving strategies and also their blind spots... plus, there’s a lot about herrah’s character that goes underappreciated and this is one of those unsung aspects. fandom... fandom blease be SAD about SPIDER MAMA with me

#hollow knight #herrah the beast #the radiance #the pale king #hollow knight meta #essay #this got longer than i meant it to be i just have a lot of FEELINGS about HERRAH HOLLOWKNIGHT #also about radi hollowknight too but everyone knows that already lol

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tealnymph-writes · 3 years

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Adrift

Gwyn gets lost in her own head, thoughts and memories surfacing and pulling her down into the icy waters.

Note: First, it’s good to be back! I will be on vacation soon, so I won’t be back with my main fic for a few more weeks, but I have some one shots to hold you over until then.

Second, this is something I have had in my drafts forever, but I wasn’t ready to post yet. It’s very dear to my heart. Enjoy!

If you would like to be tagged in updates, please let me know!

Read on AO3

Azriel x Gwyn

Warnings: Depression, angst, grief, anxiety.

Word Count: 1,776

Masterlist

Gwyn walked to her bedroom in a haze, her mind somehow both numb and full of chaos at the same time. The half-prepared roll of pastry dough she had been attempting to make was left abandoned on the kitchen counter, the need to escape her own mind too great to allow her time to clean up her workspace.

She walked into her and Azriel's shared bedroom without turning on the light, quickly stripping and throwing on one of Azriel's sweaters before crawling under the covers. She just wanted to forget, to escape the memories that still managed to resurface on days when she least expected it, making her feel like she was adrift in a raging sea with no way to pull herself back in.

It was so rare for her to have these moments now. Moments when the snap of a belt or the clatter of a bowl on the kitchen table sent her spiraling into the past – fear and grief overriding everything. Yet, when she did fall into the darkness of her memories, they felt as fresh as all those years ago. She wished they would stop, but, as Azriel would remind her, healing isn't linear. Neither is grief.

But today, she wished grief was linear. She wished she didn't feel so sad when absolutely nothing out of the ordinary had happened. She just wanted to forget. To be happy and not full of this aching pain all because a bowl had broken on the kitchen table and sent her into a spiral.

Mostly, she just wanted her mate, but he wouldn't be home until tomorrow. She refused to let her grief flow down the bond and worry him, so she carefully ignored the familiar pull in her chest that connected the two of them, slowly smothering it until it was completely closed off.

She would be fine, she promised herself. By the time Azriel got home, she would be back to her normal happy self, and he would never need to know about this. There was no reason to worry him. She just needed to let herself feel this hollow ache for a little while and then she could go back to normal. There was no reason to bother anyone, and especially not Azriel.

Despite her determination to simply wish away her feelings, one hour passed, then two, and still she felt no better. As the time dragged on, she only felt worse, a stream of irrational thoughts and insecurities beginning to float through her head. Each thought felt like a dagger to the heart. By the time a third hour had passed, she had almost convinced herself that Azriel deserved someone better, someone less troubled.

As though summoned by her traitorous thoughts, the bedroom door quietly opened, a swarm of shadows carefully blocking the light from seeping in. As Azriel slipped in the door, Gwyn's head popped up from the blankets, her face tear stained and full of sadness and shock.

"Hi," Azriel quietly greeted her, his face full of a loving frustration as he walked to the edge of the bed and sat by her. "Gwyn, honey, why are you so stubborn?"

She didn't answer, her mind too clouded by all the memories and insecurities that had flooded her. He brushed a stray tear from her cheek, brow furrowed, then he quickly removed his shirt and boots, along with his siphons and Truth-Teller. When he was finished, he crawled over her, his lips set in a frustrated line, worry clouding his eyes.

"Gwyn, why didn't you have Rhys call me back?" He questioned softly, propping himself on one elbow and tugging her to his chest with his other arm. "And don't try to tell me you were fine. I know you better than that."

She stared at him, silent tears falling as she tried to form words. When she finally managed to speak, her voice was a broken chord, pain lacing every note.

"I…I didn't want to bother you. You shouldn't have to deal with this all the time. I didn't want to be a burden."

A sob escaped her as she whispered the last word, her chest heaving as she gasped for air.

"Oh, Gwyn, my love," Azriel sighed, tucking her gently against his chest while she cried. "Is that why you closed off the bond?"

She weakly nodded against him, unsure if he saw it or not but unable to force herself to move away to find out. She wanted to hide, to tell him that he deserved better, but she could barely even move as her body shook with sobs.

"Did you really think I wouldn't notice that I couldn't feel you through the bond?" He asked quietly, one hand softly stroking her hair while the other cradled her to him. "Gwyn, the only reason I didn't winnow here the instant I felt the bond go silent was because I had to take care of an injured spy first."

He sighed heavily, pulling her tighter against him. When she still only cried, unable to respond, he went on.

"Gwyn, you're not a burden, nor could you ever be one," he firmly said, still softly stroking her hair. "You could never bother me. I want to take care of you. I want to be with you, even when you're sad. You're my mate and I love you. We're a team. Please don't shut me out."

At the pleading note in his voice, the rest of her crumbled, the walls she'd put around their bond instantly tumbling down. Her emotions flooded the bond, no doubt hitting him harder than they would have if she had simply left it open. The only sign that told her he felt all her pain was the tightening of his arms around her, his shadows swooping in to cocoon them protectively.

As all the hurt and sadness faded to a trickle, she finally registered his emotions thrumming across the golden tether that bound them. She let out a soft sob, tears streaming harder than ever when she felt comfort, worry, devotion and unending streams of love coming from him.

How could she ever doubt him? How could she ever think this male was anything less than utterly devoted to her? He had shown countless times how much he loved her, yet that horrible voice in her head that told her she didn’t deserve him always reared its ugly head on days like this. She hated it. Hated that any ounce of doubt could creep in. She loved him and he was hers. He was her mate.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she sobbed, the words barely coherent through her tears. He tucked his head against hers, his shadows tracing soothing lines across her body while he cradled her. She sobbed even harder, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping her afloat. And, in that moment, maybe he was.

“Shhh, love. It’s okay. Try to breathe, honey,” he consoled her, murmuring in her ear softly. She focused on his words, the calming sound of his deep voice an anchor in the darkness. “Please just try to breathe, Gwyn. It’s okay. I’m here. You’re not alone, I’m right here.”

He kept murmuring to her as she tried to follow his commands, his patience never wavering even when it took her another hour before she could breathe for more than 5 minutes without sobbing. When she finally calmed down some and her tears had almost completely stopped, she finally pulled her head back to meet his worried gaze.

“If you’re about to apologize, don’t even think about it,” he commanded, his lips spreading into a thin line. She snapped her mouth shut, having been on the verge of doing exactly that. He gently stroked her cheek with his thumb, his eyes blazing as he watched her. “Gwyn, we’ve talked about this. Sometimes you have a bad day. So do I. It happens.”

“But…I just…I hate being a burden,” she argued, her voice barely a whisper. He sighed, gently rolling her onto her back and hovering above her. She sniffled, her bottom lip trembling while he softly kissed her forehead.

“Gwyn, you’re not a burden. And I will keep telling you that until you believe me,” he calmly replied, tilting her chin up when she tried to duck her face. “You’re always there for me when I have a bad day, so let me be here for you. Please.”

She managed a shaky nod, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face against his chest. He held onto her tightly, gently rolling them again so he could pull her into his lap. She tucked her face into his shoulder, letting his steady heartbeat calm her. When the tears eventually stopped and she was only left with the hollow ache in her heart to deal with, she finally looked at him, smiling when he tenderly wiped the tears from her cheeks.

“Thank you,” she murmured. He smiled softly, leaning his forehead against hers, one hand cradling her face. “I love you, Azriel.”

“I love you too, Bird,” he whispered, his shadows swirling through her hair. “When was the last time you ate?”

“I’m not sure,” she admitted, knowing it had been far longer than it should have been. He frowned, seeing the truth on her face.

“How about I make your favorite soup?” He offered, his patience never wavering despite his obvious frustration. She was prone to not eating when she had days like this, and he hated it. She knew it often worried him more than her tears did.

“Soup sounds nice,” she replied, the tightness in her chest slowly easing. She knew it would take a while before the sadness passed, but she could at least breathe now. The worst was over.

He brushed back a lock of her hair, studying her before responding. “Okay. I’ll make soup, then we can go into the sitting room and cuddle by the fire. It’s raining. I know how much you love the rain, Bird.”

She gave him a shaky grin, happiness intermingling with the sadness. He knew her so well. “I’d like that. Will you read something to me?”

“Of course,” he instantly agreed, kissing her with such tenderness it made her heart ache with love. “Anything you want, my love.”

She smiled, leaning her head on his shoulder while he carried her down to the kitchen, his presence an anchor in the stormy sea of her heart. It would pass, like it always did. Until then, she would lean on her mate for support, letting him soothe her in ways that only he could.

**************************************************

#gwynriel #gwynriel fanfic #azriel x gwyn #acosf #gwynriel supremacy #azriel #gwyn #azriel shadowsinger #gwyneth berdara #gwynriel fic #sjm #acotar #acotar fanfic #my fic #mine

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littlemisspascal · 3 years

Text

Death and an Angel part 8

Helmetless + Death!Din and Cupid F!Reader

Summary: “You have become the only one in the universe who can claim to uniquely know him.”

Rating: T

Word Count: 2,002

Warnings: fluffy fluff, some plot, swearing, reunions, soft!Din, Kuiil thinks Cupid is a fool, Kuiil’s backstory from canon, surprisingly little angst (it shocked me too)

Author Note: I want to apologize to those on the tag list not getting notified. I have no idea why Tumblr isn’t cooperating and I feel horrible about it. I love each and every one of you who spares time to read this segment/series and I hope you all have a wonderful holiday season.

Links to Part 1 and Part 7 and Part 9

Cross-posted on AO3.

Photo Inspiration:

The next morning you find Kuiil outside welding together two pieces of metal at his workbench. IG-11 tends to the small herd of blurrg the Ugnaught keeps in a large pen, feeding the two-legged creatures their breakfast. Although you were initially wary, the former assassin droid has been nothing but kind to you, if not a little obsessive about checking the bandage on your head every few hours.

“IG was explicitly warned by Death what would happen if your health declined in his absence,” Kuiil had informed you the previous evening when your attempt to stop the droid’s incessant fretting failed.

“He’s such a worrywart,” you muttered as IG-11 scanned your temperature, heart skipping a beat as it always does when you think about Din’s protective nature. There’s something unbelievably attractive about him making threats when it came to your wellbeing.

“A worrywart who left his gunship in my yard.” Kuiil aimed a sharp look towards the entrance of his home, as if he could see the Razor Crest from this distance.

You snorted a laugh at him calling Arvala-7’s desert landscape a yard of all designations, only for the rest of his sentence to register a beat later, making your eyebrows rise to your hairline. “Wait, what? He seriously left the Crest here? Why would he do that?”

“The quicker his trip to Nevarro, the quicker he returns to your side,” was the response, accompanied with a shrewd look implying you were a fool for asking such a question.

Your Ugnaught host reminds you of a grandfather figure; a bit prickly and blunt at times, but ultimately kindhearted and selfless at his core, wanting only what’s best for those in his care. Between his insistence you keep resting in his bed and IG-11’s nurse programming, you no longer wonder why Din chose to leave you with them, thoroughly convinced you’re receiving better around-the-clock care than most people experience in medcenters.

Kuiil turns when you approach him, pushing his goggles back to the top of his cap as he clicks off the welding torch, eyes giving you a cursory once-over. You feel better than you had yesterday, both headache and dizziness gone, and he must sense that since his head dips in a firm nod, satisfied with what he sees.

“Good morning,” you greet, smiling.

“Morning,” he replies. His expression turns repentant, eyebrows lowering. “My apologies for waking you, but I could not let these repairs remain unfinished.”

“It’s okay.” You tilt your head up towards the sky, enjoying the warmth of the early sunshine after spending the entire previous day cooped inside his home. “I’m supposed to report back to headquarters later today, so I needed to be up anyways.”

Hearing the words out loud grounds the upcoming meeting in reality. It’s really happening. Hours from now, you're going to have to tell your bosses everything, now including your new title as Din’s soulmate. Maker, you can just imagine Hess staring you down with those beady, rat-like eyes of his, asking question after question about you and Din.

And if Hess was serious before on the comlink—and you highly doubt the bastard’s ever told a joke in his life—then there is also the very real prospect of Moff Gideon being there to take part in your interrogation.

“Are you alright?” Kuiil asks, noticing how pale you’ve become. Without waiting for an answer, he ushers you over to a nearby stool. You sit, mouth opening to reassure him you’re fine, only to be startled by the knowing glint in his eyes. “I recognize your anxious face from my years as an indentured servant. You fear punishment from your superiors.”

Your eyes widen, stomach suddenly feeling hollow. “You were a servant?”

“From my birth until my hundredth year, yes.” The nauseous feeling intensifies. You knew Ugnaughts typically lived up to two-hundred years, meaning Kuiil had lived half of his lifetime in servitude. “Earning my freedom did not occur without harsh discipline.”

You draw in a shaky breath at that. It feels wrong, being worried about meeting with your bosses when there are others, such as Kuiil, who have endured far worse horrors.

“Those with power think it comes from weapons and control over others through means of fear and violence,” he continues, returning the welding torch to its proper placement in his toolbox. “True power comes from the strength of one’s hope. It allows you to believe in a better future for yourself and so long as you cling to it, no enemy can break your spirit.”

His rumbling baritone washes over you, calming the worst of your worries. You press your thumb against your soulmate marking, a nervous habit that has developed since you first saw it yesterday. You’ve become addicted to the warmth the mark emanates as it reassures you you’re not hallucinating its appearance.

“I just keep thinking about what their reactions are going to be when I tell them about me and him being together,” you confess, feeling shy as you duck your chin to avoid eye contact.

“Are you embarrassed of Death being your soulmate?”

Your head snaps back up, shocked by his bluntness. “What? No. Din means everything to me.”

The words seem too loud against the quiet atmosphere of the planet. They reverberate off seemingly every surface—the desert rocks, the Razor Crest’s steel paneling and the metal roof on Kuiil’s home—echoing for miles in every direction. Despite knowing that isn’t truly possible, you are unable to stop yourself from wincing.

“You gave Death a name?” Kuiil’s bafflement is visible in the way his head tilts, looking at you in a way that is reminiscent of Omera’s puzzled expression back on Sorgan.

"I didn’t.” You shake your head, for some reason feeling the need to clarify, “He named himself. It’s just something for me to call him when we’re around mortals.”

“I have known Death many decades now,” he begins, sounding no less confused despite your explanation. “He’s quite...particular about the mortal traditions he chooses to adopt, such as appearing as a human male and piloting a gunship.”

“Yeah, I know how picky he can be,” you say slowly, not understanding what his point is.

“Not once has he ever felt compelled to use a mortal name because, in his opinion, names establish ties."

“What does that mean?”

“Without a name, he is but another stranger amongst trillions of beings, unrecognized and unmissed,” Kuiil explains, and you find yourself leaning forward, elbows on your knees. “By giving you a name to call him by, he has tied himself to you in a way he has not permitted anyone else. You have become the only one in the universe who can claim you uniquely know him.”

“Huh.” You let out a long exhale, suddenly aware of your heartbeat pounding deafeningly in your eardrums as it begins to sink in just how monumental the gift of Din’s name truly is. “Well how bout that.”

And the shrewd look from last night makes a reappearance, conveying once again how foolish he thinks you are.

“I have spoken.”

People tend to forget a Cupid’s bow is first and foremost a weapon of defense. Comprised of wood from a Brylark tree, sinew from orbaks, and a thin layer of a mudhorn’s horn, it can be compared to Din’s armor in that it is virtually indestructible. A Cupid carries two types of arrows: one made from kyber crystal meant to lighten one’s emotions or, on rare occasions, induce lust, and the other one made from a kyber crystal coated in ichor, meant to inflict harm against enemies. Once a target is hit, the effects are instantaneous and the arrow vanishes in a burst of sparkling light, regenerating in your quiver seconds later.

You underwent rigorous training to learn how to become a master of archery. Your bow is bound to your Cupid abilities, capable of being summoned to your aid and dismissed with a mere thought. You were taught how to control your breathing, learning that the expanding and contracting of your chest cavity during a shot can ruin your aim. Missing a target is one of the worst mistakes a Cupid can commit, meaning you must make every single shot count.

All that to say, Cupids are fierce archers as much as they are dedicated matchmakers.

They are also dangerous when startled unexpectedly.

You’re in the middle of tidying up Kuiil’s tiny kitchen space, a task you had insisted upon after he’d served you a delicious lunch, humming to yourself quietly as you scrub at the dishes when hands wrap around your waist, pulling you backwards towards someone’s chest.

You react completely on instinct, teleporting out of their hold and reappearing on the other side of the room, bow ready with an ichor arrow aimed directly at the assailant. It is only when the meager light of the nearby lantern reflects off their beskar helmet do you realize who you’re facing.

Immediately you lower and dismiss your weapon before pressing a hand over your chest where your heart is fluttering like a trapped bird. “I’m so sorry, Din,” you tell him, limbs trembling as it sinks in just how close you were to shooting him. “Maker, you scared me and—and I thought I—well, I don’t know what I was thinking, just that I had to—”

In between blinks he appears in front of you, yanking his helmet off with such ferocity your words catch in your throat. You have only the slightest of seconds to glimpse the arousal darkening his brown eyes before he slips a hand behind your neck and crashes your lips together.

He kisses you as if you’re gravity and he’ll float away if he dares to spare a moment to breathe, sending a current of warmth surging through your body. You thought the mere touch of his hand had been life-altering, but it is a mere candle compared to the wildfire his lips spark. Your eyes fall shut as you kiss back with an equal amount of fervency, bringing him closer by wrapping your arms around his neck, grinning at the groan the action spurs from deep within his chest.

There is the heavy thud of his helmet striking the ground before he’s wrapping his hand around your waist, slotting a thigh between your legs to ensure every inch of your bodies are touching. Your cheeks rub against the scratchiness of his facial scruff, an invigorating burn you think you could easily become addicted to.

An embarrassingly high-pitched whine escapes your lips when he pulls away a minute later. He’s never looked more attractive, mouth swollen and hair disarrayed from your roaming fingers. His hands cup your face, and it occurs to you as he swipes his thumbs over your cheekbones he isn’t wearing his gloves.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, sounding slightly hoarser than usual and out of breath. His gaze roams your face, like he’s trying to re-familiarize himself with your features after the time spent apart. “Especially with your bow. When you pointed that arrow at me, there was this...fierceness in your eyes I’ve never seen before. Fuck, angel, you looked so gorgeous.”

“Seriously?” you say, raising an incredulous eyebrow, because of-kriffing-course he’d be the one being in the whole universe who is turned on by a weapon being pointed at him.

“Seriously.” He leans in, forehead pressing against yours, noses brushing. It’s hard to focus when he’s this close, like you’ve again entered that separate realm where it’s just you and him.

“Din, look,” you whisper, fighting the magnetic pull insisting you kiss him again long enough to show him your marked hand. “It’s real. I’m yours and you’re mine.”

The smile that stretches across his face when he sees it is nothing short of breathtaking.

“Angel,” he says, tilting your head so the words are spoken right against your lips. “I’ve wanted to hear you say those words ever since I gave you my name.”

Tag List: @leilei-draws, @theocatkov, @vintagesaph, @stardust-and-starlight, @adrieunor, @remmyswritings, @gallowsjoker, @rhiannon-russo, @randomness501, @sylphene, @softly-sad, @maytheglitter, @melobee, @rogertaylorsfalsettogivesmehives, @eleinemk, @captain-jebi, @aerynwrites, @promiscuoussatan, @stilllivindue2spite, @coaaster, @lin-djarin, @becauseican2, @kay2304, @odelia-d32, @nicotinebirds

#death and an angel #my fic #Din Djarin #din x you #din x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #mandalorian x reader #Pedro Pascal #pedro pascal character fanfiction #soulmate au #my writing

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mlm-writer · 3 years

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Hero of the Swamp (Shrek x Jaskier)

Edit by me

Pairing: Shrek x Netflix!Jaskier (Julian Alfred Pankratz/Dandelion) Rating: Explicit Words: 2893 POV: Third Summary: After being left on the mountain, Jaskier finds himself lost in the swamp and in need of warmth and comfort. Note: Y’all can thank @spielzeugkaiser and their amazing art for this. Sorry for the sloppy edit, but I really was not going to put even more time into this sinful work. Tags: I’ve been a bad boy daddy forgive me father fore I have sinned, pre-movies Shrek, post-mountain Jaskier, angst, fluff, Shrek’s huge dong, size kink, cum shower, monster cock, blowjobs, rimming, cum eating and Shrek has emotions ok

The growls of monsters lurking in the forest rolled over the muddy forest grounds and reached Jaskier’s icy ears. He shivered in both terror and response to the temperature. He told himself he could get off that mountain on his own, but who was he kidding? His frigid ears caught something in the dark. The bard bolted off the path, then later found himself in the middle of nowhere, chilled to the bone, disoriented, and, to be honest, frightened.

He was looking for a path, but even that seemed to not be present anywhere in the vicinity. Jaskier rubbed his trembling hands together and walked on. Jaskier thought he should at last find some shelter from the wind. Just as he was about to settle for a random tree, he noticed light in the distance, warm like fire, inviting him and promising warmth and shelter.

The fatigued bard all but ran towards it, the signs around the perimeter unnoticed in the dark. His boots sunk into the mud of the swamp, but he had his eyes set on the house-like structure in the middle of the swamp. He could not believe anyone wanted to live in this stinky place, but right now this someone was about to be his saviour. Once at what he assumed to be the door, he knocked on it. When there was no answer he knocked again. There were some angry, heavy footsteps, before the door opened.

Before him stood a massive humanoid, skin green like peas, frame built like Geralt who preferred cake over his nasty potions. “Eh, good evening, sir,” Jaskier tried. If it was living in a house, it must be intelligent to some extent… right? “Could you please spare some place for a weary traveller?” The green creature did not look nice, even without its facial expressions. Some tension left its body after the question. Jaskier recognised it as a hint of confusion. “I’m afraid I’ll freeze to death if I don’t warm myself by a fire.”

“No, get out of my swamp,” the creature spoke. It sounded like it was from Skellige. It was about to retreat into its home, but Jaskier put his foot between the door.

“Please, I’ll die out here,” he spoke dramatically, hoping for pity so he’d have a roof over his head tonight. He was not sure if he should try his luck with this creature, but at least it could speak. Wraiths had said less words, before trying to slice him.

“Not my problem. Get out of my swamp. The only way you get close to my fire is when I roast you over it.” “Oh please, you don’t mean that.”

Jaskier had barely finished speaking, when the green man grabbed him by his doublet and pulled him close. His breath stank of swamp water and fish. His mouth was wide and Jaskier was pretty sure he would fit inside there. The bard felt like he should be terrified, but underneath a thin layer of leather and cloth, there was warmth radiating off pear skin. He wanted to lean into it, thaw. What inhibited his survival skills further, where those eyes glaring into his. Under bushy eyebrows rested two brown pools of warm broth. He heard the green man roar into his face that he needed to leave, because he was an ogre and he was going to eat him, but it was hard to believe him.

Within those eyes that were so close to his, the ogre told the story of a creature that wanted to be alone, because alone was safe, alone was comfortable, alone was all he was used to. Jaskier never knew that, but after today, he understood why one would think that.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”

It stung, more than anything had caused him to ache in ages. Jaskier could feel the urge to never make friends again, never love again, never lust after one he could not have. However, he refused. It was pain that made life worth living. Without pain, bliss did not feel as good as it did. The rain made sunlight so much more appreciated. The cold made fire so much more precious. The monsters made the witcher so much more valuable.

The human knew this, but the ogre holding him up by his doublet did not. Jaskier had wished for pity, but he pitied the other now. He clumsily threw his arms around the ogre and hugged him tightly. The ogre stopped yelling at him. Jaskier could feel the muscles against his body tensing up. The hand holding him loosened and he threw his legs around the ogre too, holding on and hugging him tightly. “You don’t have to be alone. I don’t fear you,” Jaskier spoke gently.

“I am an ogre.” “And if you were really malicious I would not still be breathing. Please, just for one night. There are all sorts of dangers out in these swamps, especially at night. I just want to stay alive.”

Jaskier could hear the ogre letting out a long sigh. “Fine,” he spoke, “but you have to be gone tomorrow.” Jaskier let him go, but not after planting a delighted kiss on the rough skin of the ogre’s cheek.

“Thank you so much,” the bard exclaimed. He slipped inside, before the ogre could change his mind. The inside of the hollowed out tree looked cozy. It stank like hell, but he was in the middle of the swamp; what did he expect? “Do you like music? I have little to give you, but I am a bard.” Jaskier held up his lute as he grabbed the chair that had no food in front of it. One look at the giant slug on a plate and he was pretty sure he did not want to have any food. Jaskier pulled the chair a little closer to the fire and sat down with his lute in his lap. It seemed rather strange that there were two hand-crafted chairs, while the ogre seemed to be so keen on being alone. “Oh and you can call me Jaskier, by the by. What may I call you, my hero from the swamp?”

The ogre looked at him a little annoyed as he closed the door and sat back down to finish his dinner. “Uh… Shrek. You can play, but don’t sing.” Jaskier let the name roll off his tongue, before playing a calming tune. He didn’t speak, just let his fingers do their thing as he processed all that happened during the day, well it was actually more just those few minutes that haunted his mind. Each one of Geralt’s words cutting into his soul. “Eh… Jaskier?” Jaskier was pulled from his thoughts when Shrek spoke his name. He shook his head, before looking at Shrek. “You don't seem to be… you… you seem sad, well, what I mean is… I never heard such a depressing tune.”

Jaskier faked a smile. “My apologies, good sir. I’ll play you a happier tune, if you wish.” He diverted his eyes to the fingerboard, blinking away the tears he suddenly noticed pooling in his eyes.

“No, you don’t have to. I prefer silence, anyway.” Jaskier looked up and noticed Shrek had finished eating. He stood up and started cleaning up. “You can sleep on my good chair.” Jaskier followed the ogre’s gaze to the fauteuil in the corner. He nodded. It looked comfortable enough. He had slept on forest floors with Geralt. This was more luxury than a regular day with the witcher.

Shrek had some board and card games, which he seemed to enjoy to play. Jaskier wondered if Shrek usually played these games on his own or if he hosted guests more often. Neither seemed likely, since the games seemed to have gone untouched for at least a decade, if not longer. They shared a few laughs. Shrek turned out to be more fun company than Jaskier would ever have expected from an ogre. His jokes were terrible and sometimes a little insensitive, but he so clearly meant well. It was clear Shrek was not used to talking or any social interactions. He spoke like a young man still trying to figure out what was socially acceptable to say and what was not. Still, he was trying and Jaskier welcomes the vivid chatting.

When they got tired, Jaskier curled up on the comfortable fauteuil by the fire. Shrek had draped a shirt of his over the human. It stank and was dirty, but it was warm and Jaskier was still low key afraid of getting kicked out to sleep in the mud, so he didn’t voice a single word of complaint. In the silence of the night with no one to talk to, words that were already spoken returned to his mind. Jaskier tried to block them out, but they bit at his brain, keeping him awake and drawing tears from his eyes. He curled further in on himself, trying to stay quiet as he sobbed into his hands. It just hurt so much to be discarded like he was nothing but a nuisance. Was that all he was? He was sure his songs brought joy in taverns, but right now the unlikely and unrealistic idea that everyone just pretended to have a good time was so overwhelming.

The bard flinched when he felt a huge hand on his shoulder and arm. He looked up to find Shrek hanging over him in nothing but his smalls. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the ogre clearly wasn’t good with words. “I’m fine, Shrek,” Jaskier lied as he wiped the tears off his face, “I’ll just find the nearest town tomorrow and fuck the pain away.” The words had already left him, when he realised how that might sound. “And I’ll do that tomorrow, not because I think you’re hideous, quite the contrary, you might be the most handsome ogre to ever exist, but I just assumed you would not be interested in having sex with a human… male. Human male, doesn’t seem your taste, but it could be, I wouldn’t judge you. How could I? You’ve been a most generous host! I…”

Jaskier almost suffocated as Shrek’s palm covered the entirety of his face. He got the hint and just shut up. Shrek slowly let go of his face, allowing him to breathe again. Jaskier looked away, cheeks red. He was blabbering nonsense to an ogre who preferred peace and quiet. He guessed it was time to sleep in the mud outside, however, Shrek wasn’t yelling at him… yet.

“So you just have sex and that helps you feel better?” Jaskier nodded slowly. “I wouldn’t mind helping you feel better. It is not like I have had lassies lining up in the swamp… or lads.” He laughed a little awkwardly, making Jaskier laugh too. He took hold of one of Shrek’s huge fingers with two of his, by comparison, tiny hands.

“Oh Shrek, you are such a wonderful host. You really do not have to do this though. I will still want to visit you again, even when you don’t want to fuck my brains out, just so I don’t have to think about some brutish asshole.” Shrek gave him a long look, before enclosing his hand around Jaskier’s waist and lifting him off the fauteuil.

“It’s not just for you. It’s for me too.” And Jaskier wanted to read into those words, figure out the ogre with complicated feelings, but he had no willpower to. Shrek’s bed was firm, almost hard like a plank. It smelled like him, like onions and mud and firewood. Shrek tried to undress him, but his huge fingers couldn’t get a grip on Jaskier’s complex clothing. Jaskier smiled kindly at him, helping him without even needing to look at any button. “Can I kiss you?” Jaskier didn’t even reply. Instead he pulled Shrek’s head down. It was an awkward kiss. Shrek’s mouth was way too big and neither of them were very coordinated in the moment.

When his clothes were mostly off and Jaskier was left in his smalls, Shrek kissed down his body, his huge tongue lapping at his skin and Jaskier could hear him enjoy the taste. He hummed to signal his pleasure, letting the ogre go about his business. Shrek pulled off his smalls and to Jaskier’s complete surprise, the ogre took his cock in his mouth. Jaskier whimpered, hands grabbing the sheets. Everything about Shrek was big, including his mouth. Even when the ogre sucked him to full hardness, Jaskier still didn’t feel the back of the ogre’s throat. Shrek sucked in his balls at well and Jaskier almost cried from the pleasure of having his cock and balls inside a warm mouth.

When Shrek let Jaskier go, his length was hard, red and leaking. Jaskier barely had time to recover, before he felt that glorious tongue on him again, this time licking over his hole. Whispered pleas left his lips as he imagined that tongue inside of him. Then a thought crossed his mind. If everything about Shrek was big, what about his dick? Jaskier had seen the ogre’s hands and one finger was already bigger than the average cock. While he normally was down to go big, the imaginable size of Shrek’s dong low key terrified him.

His mind had no opportunity to freak him out completely, because Shrek’s tongue entered him and the feeling was so, so good. Jaskier moaned as big green hands spread his cheeks and thick wetness penetrated him. “Ah… ah Shrek I hate to be a uh… fuck!” The bard trashed his arms around when his new found friend started to stroke his cock at the same time. “I’m gonna cum! Way too soon, I know! Sto..aahh...” His whole body tensed as he spilled all over himself. Shrek was unrelenting. As the bard’s cock was spent, he still had his tongue inside him, pressing at the right places and wiggling around so talentedly. “Stop, stop, stop, it’s too much, really, too much.”

Jaskier was out of breath, head fuzzy with post-orgasmic bliss. His whole brain short-circuited as Shrek’s tongue licked over his torso, cleaning him off all the cum he had spilled over himself. “Are you all right?” The green-skinned sex machine inquired with innocent eyes that did not match the absolute tent in his smalls.

“Say, Shrek, will I die if I swallow ogre cum?” Jaskier almost laughed at Shrek’s expression. It was a ‘yes, no, maybe’. “Ok fine, but I will suck you off still.” The human pushed at the ogre, cornering the larger frame against the opposite wall, before getting on his knees.

“With all due respect, Jask, I don’t think you can fit me anywhere.” Jaskier didn’t listen, pulling down Sherk’s white smalls in spite of knowing the ogre was probably right. As soon as 12 inch of green cock basically slapped him in the face, Jaskier knew he was in way over his head. Still, he was confident that if he tried, he could still fit the head inside his mouth. With Shrek still assuring him he did not have to do this, Jaskier started licking all over Shrek’s length. The taste was not as bad as he feared. In fact, the more he licked, the more he started to like it. Jaskier made out with the head of Shrek’s cock, fucking the slit with his tongue. Shrek was holding his shoulder, occasionally squeezing a little as he moaned. And oh were those delicious moans, primal, guttural, deep and vibrating through Jaskier’s entire body.

The human tried many times, but he couldn’t slip the monster cock inside his mouth. He was resilient though and kept trying, while stroking the rest of the green length. He was so caught up in his quest that he didn’t hear Shrek telling him how close he was. He made a disappointed sound as he was forcibly removed from the cock in his mouth. Jaskier crawled back up the bed and stretched out his body. “Cum on me,” he wantonly moaned and Shrek did not disappoint. Jaskier had to close his eyes and mouth as he got showered in thick, beige cum. He never had felt this dirty, but it was a good kind. He wished he could have taken Shrek in his ass. He could’ve been so full.

Once Shrek had stopped groaning, Jaskier dared to open his eyes. He could see guilt already spreading over Shrek’s face. He must have been a sight, so much smaller than Shrek and absolutely drenched in his cum. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ve always fantasised about being showered in cum. Just never thought that all that cum would come from a single person.”

Shrek let out a relieved sigh and helped him wipe some cum off his face so it wouldn’t get into his mouth or eyes. “I’ll prepare you a bath,” he spoke gently, surprising Jaskier with the thoughtfulness. His eyes followed the ogre as he put his breeches on and moved out to probably get some fresh water. A laugh escaped Jaskier as he stared at the sticky substance covering his skin. Who would’ve thought that the swamp could’ve been so pleasant?

#shrekier #i've been a bad boy daddy #forgive me father for i have sinned #shrek x jaskier #shrek #julian alfred pankratz #dandelion #netflix jaskier #the witcher #lemon #the witcher fic #shrek fic #monsterfucking #ogre #ogres #ogres are like onions

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powdermelonkeg · 3 years

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Can you do Groose, The Fountain of the Horse God, and empty bottle please? I really loved the last one.

Yours Truly,

*Anon*

Absolutely.

Groose

So, the infamous Groose! Tall, stubborn, and loud, he's a well-known presence in Skyloft, and I love him.

The biggest assumption is that he's not very smart. This isn't true in the slightest; rather, he has a very tunnel-vision approach to his work. Whenever he decides on something, he'll funnel all the energy he's got into his goal; when he trains his loftwing, he notices every shift in the wind, every twitch of his bird, and adjusts accordingly. But in the process, he loses track of time and forgets his other obligations. When you're focused intensely on one task, you tend to be oblivious to other details.

The same thing applies to Zelda--his goal of going on a date with her blinding him to her disapproval--and the Groosenator--his mechanical work totally absorbing him whenever Link runs off to do who-knows-what. He has a very one-track-mind, and in the knight business, it serves him well...as long as he focuses on the right thing.

He's a skilled stunt flier, good in hand-to-hand combat, and a decent singer, all of those being skills he developed to try to woo Zel. Outside of her, however, he's got some amazing handyman skills and plant know-how; he's half the reason the gates and roofing in Skyloft is in tip-top shape, and 100% the reason Cawlin and Strich aren't failing Horwell's plant class. He's a bad cook, though; not because he can't do it, but because he gets focused on part of it--like making the icing for a cake--and burns the rest.

Groose knows Link's sign language because he needs to be able to insult him under the instructors' noses (and totally not because he felt bad for the loser, absolutely not, he'll kick your butt in combat class if you even SUGGEST that). The work involved to get that knowledge was a challenge to him, and he never backs down from one of those.

Onto his backstory!

Groose grew up in a nice house on the rich side of Skyloft. His mom used to do all kinds of stuff with his hair: braiding it, pinning it up, putting little clip in it. He hated every minute of it back then.

His dad worked as a gofer for the knights, delivering mail, getting soup, carrying newly-made swords around. Every opportunity, little Groose tried to tag along, hiding among the packages to try to get brought with the mail, climbing on his dad's back and refusing to let go, even going as far as to try to strap himself under his dad's Loftwing's wing.

None of those worked, but he did try.

Six years ago, a plague swept through Skyloft; the one that took Zel's mom.

Groose lost both his parents to that plauge. After the service for them, he spent a whole week locked up in his house, refusing help, or gifts, or consolation. It all felt hollow to him; there's no point in saying "sorry" if it wasn't your fault, or you couldn't do anything about it. That thought process is something he's held onto to this day--he doesn't need help, he can do things on his own, and he DEFINITELY never needs pity.

Groose joined the knight's academy shortly after; marched right in, slammed the headmaster's door open, and demanded he be put on the student roster. He wanted food that wasn't brought over with a "sorry for your loss," he wanted his own agency, he wanted to be left alone. But most importantly, he wanted to distance himself from his empty house.

He's so protective of his pompadour because it's his best hairdo attempt yet, and it reminds him of how his mom used to style it. It's not a sad thing, it's a matter of pride; insulting his 'do is like insulting both him AND his mom, and he's not gonna stand for that.

The Fountain of the Horse God

The Fountain of the Horse God was worshiped FAR more than the Fairy Fountains in its time. Horses have always been a big part of Hyrulean culture, so people from far and wide would visit to try to get blessings for their steeds. If you were unkind to your horses, however, bad luck would befall you; many an unobservant stablehand would find his horses escaped into the night, the doors to their shelter rotted away.

When Calamity struck, Malanya used the last of his power to free the horses still trapped in burning stables.

A century later, after Link came by, people in the area started to make offerings to the fountain again; they're hesitant, as the area is rumored to be cursed and looks a little eerie, but steady.

Malanya's power is weak, but each passerby gives him a little bit of his strength back. One day, he'll be at his former prowess, and any who dare harm horses in Hyrule had best fear that day.

Empty Bottles

It's not common knowledge, but glass was actually a luxury back in medieval times! The fact that Link is able to find 4-6 just lying around in most of his games is INCREDIBLE, and bottles he receives as gifts are the equivalent of receiving a painted porcelain teapot. They'd have been heirlooms.

That being said, I refuse to believe that the elixirs BoTW Link brews are actually stored in bottles. He never gets/finds glass, and mass production doesn't exist, especially not in THAT era. Leather pouches, yes. Wooden canteens, sure. Maybe even hollowed out acorns or carved bone. But not glass. Not when I can have 60 slots all filled up with elixirs.

#also fun fact but botw link canonically drinks sunscreen #on the groose note it got sad because I was trying to figure out a reason he doesn't have parents #loz #zelda #headcanons #worldbuilding #groose #skyward sword #botw #ask bee

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dizzydancingdreamer · 3 years

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The Servant and The Prince | Four

Mama Mia, here we go again lovelies!

Description: This is very much a Cinderella trope because I cannot help myself and I am in love with Loki, chapter four

Pairing: Loki x Female!Reader, third person as I may adapt eventually with an OC

Warnings: anger, mentions of abuse (not graphic), mentions of death (not graphic)

Tags: angst, fluff

Word count: 6.2k (oh god)

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Master List

Y/n’s heart thunders as she gazes up at the glittering golden gates of the castle. If she was not so bogged down with bags she would throw a hand over her brow— a futile attempt to keep her eyes from burning out of their sockets. Do they really have to be this glittery? She thinks they are marvellous, that is not the problem. The problem is that she is not marvelous. Not in the slightest. Not worthy of such magnificent, splendid, rich architecture. She glances down at her simple dress— the loose green threads hanging from the side of the garment— she had meant to fix those— is this really where she must stay? Surely there must be a stable somewhere. A barn for animals like her.

“Come on you churl—” Estrid hisses, her demon-esq nails digging into her arm where her step mother’s hand curls over sleeve— “you are making us look bad. At least pretend to have some couth.”

Estrid drags her forward for a moment, ushering her— all but kicking her— through the blinding gates before losing interest and rushing to meet Anna. Y/n bites her tongue. There are many things she could say. It is almost strange just how many retorts rush to her tongue. They race through her skull, infecting her mind like a sort of mould. Unlike with the bread back home she cannot seem to pick away at it— she cannot make the bad spots go away.

Perhaps if they had not left her to carry all of their things then she would not be taking so long. Do they really believe the princes will spare their diamonds a glance anyway? They are sure to be able to smell the fakes from miles away!

Y/n blinks a few times at the roar of fire that swells in her chest, encasing her very lungs in flames, almost stumbling over the marble stairs beneath her. It feels as though if she does not scream right now— if she does not say everything on her mind, unleash this pent up resentment— then she will surely cook from the inside out. It bubbles, simmers, does the thing pots do when they begin to sizzle— like they are screaming but she is not screaming; she only wishes she was. But she has never wanted to scream and she has been through so much worse. What is one little name, one hand yanking her arm? It is nothing but still she is ready to let the flames engulf her and burn the entire city.

It is terrifying— this kind of all consuming rage.

Estrid turns back towards Y/n, who is still stumbling over the steps, always the faithful servant, and her step mother scoffs. Estrid mutters something under her breath that she cannot hear. An insult, no doubt. It does not reach her ears. There is no way she would have been able to hear it anyway, not over the sound of the flames disintegrating her bones and blood and flesh from the inside out. It makes her want to scream louder— harder, make the castle walls crumble the same way she feels like she is— loud enough to hear over the roar.

Can you not hear it? Do you not care? She can taste the words as they beg for mercy on her tongue, wanting nothing more than to die on the cobblestone before her, spat out in a string of venom like they are meant to be. Can they not see that she is burning to the ground?

She barely swallows the words— she can hear them crying as they pass her throat and she almost changes her mind. She almost sets them free. It is all she can do to bend her neck at her step mother, wonder if the flames are visible in her eyes, and try not to cough up smoke right here on the castle steps. That would be very unladylike— a dishonor on her family. Oh— wait— no it would not be. Her family is dead. She can vomit as much smoke and flames as her little, burning heart desires. She has no one left to bring shame to. Gods, she is so terrified.

Why she is terrified, she does not know. She has never been scared before— not like this.

She was scared of the dark for the longest time. She used to see shadows on her walls and under the waves in the wash basin and against the trees when her mother would make her fetch the cat before bed. She used to think that was true fear— the night. The shadows. The wash basin. But then the morning sun would come and fight the shadows— then her mother would empty the basin— and before long there was nothing left to be afraid of.

But then there was no mother to empty the wash basin and suddenly she was afraid of death and the dark. Surely death must be the greatest fear one can have. Right? The all consuming nothingness, the longest sleep, the unknown. What could be scarier than the unknown? Than losing the people she loves the most and being left to wonder where they are and what they are doing— if they can even do anything— and are they okay? Please, someone just tell her, are they okay? She is not okay.

Darkness and death— death and darkness. At least those were always the scariest things and at least she had overcome them— both of them. There is nothing scarier than those two things. Except, apparently, herself. That is all there is left to be afraid of. Not Estrid or Anna, not pain. Not him. Those are all things she has survived. Overcome. Enjoyed. There is only herself to be afraid now, and the overwhelming, unbearable anger unfurling in her chest and arms and neck and skull. She is terrified of herself.

She is terrified of the anger.

“This way ladies— your chambers are this way!”

Y/n blinks— certain her eyelashes are singed and the blur in her vision is from the smoke in her eyes— and finds that she is no longer on the marble steps but in a long hallway. Pillars rise to her left, showcasing an expansive forest and a smudge of blue that must be the ocean. It feels so close— she can see the waves cresting with white foam so it must be. She can smell the salt, like it is right next to her. She can almost feel the surf lapping at her toes, cooling some of the burning tingle. She would do anything for it to rush up her legs. Soak her dress. Make her skin sticky. She would take the stickiness over the relentless flames. There is no time, though, to take her moment of peace. No time for stickiness. There never is.

“Are you deaf?” Estrid’s hand presses down on her spine, right where the bruises are from the last time the two came in contact. “Move! I will not take kindly to getting the worst chamber because of your dawdling.”

Are the bruises purple? She wonders. Perhaps they are red and black— like molten lava, shifting under her skin. She does not voice her musings aloud, of course. She swallows those thoughts alongside the rest of them. She can feel the precise way they fall on top of their partners, each wasted syllable mushing into the last. They fill her aching belly all the way, pressing on the hollow dip of her throat. If her thoughts were food she would never be hungry again.

Of course, she does not say any of that. Instead she bows her head, eating the flames as they rise. She is so full already though. “I am very sorry, Milady.”

Estrid scoffs. “You should be. Henry should have drowned you at birth had he known you would be so slow.”

At the sound of her father’s name her head snaps up. Estrid is already walking away again, hurrying to meet her impatient daughter. Anna taps her heel against the marble. Click, click, click. Each tap makes her head pound harder. Soon she cannot hear the clicks anymore. Her father would never do anything of the sort— her father was kind! They are not looking at her anymore. They cannot see the smoke billowing from her ears. They cannot see the blackness she feels flashing across her vision. They cannot see the hate. Just like she cannot see the bruises. Are they purple? Are they scarlet? What would her father think of them? She cannot see the bruises but she can feel them. Hot and itchy and painful. Can they feel the hatred? Are they just ignoring it like she is ignoring the volcanic bruises?

Probably. And they are not the only ones. Y/n weaves through the crowded hallway, dodging women of all shapes and colors— quite literally, she narrowly passes a woman with purple tinted skin— all of whom spare her not even a glance. It makes her feel invisible. It makes feel like she can finally breathe. It makes her angry. She is breathing the smoke again. Every face that passes her that does not look at her makes her charcoal lungs ignite even more. Her only solace is the all too familiar feeling of being split in two. The anger is not wholly her own— it is his as well. She can feel him in her chest, that aching part of her anger where he demands to be seen.

Is he mad at her?

She stops dead in her tracks. Just like that, her own anger is gone, replaced with something ice cold and unbearable. It starts in her hands. Her wrists begin aching— freezing— as the ice flows up through her veins. She thought the fire was bad. She takes it all back in this moment— she wants the flames again. The ice is in her chest now. She can feel it creeping closer to her heart. She wants the anger back. Her anger. Why would he be angry with her?

Does he hate her? She can no longer feel her heart beating— the ice has done its job. It is after her throat now, climbing higher and higher. What would it feel like to throw up shards of Ice? Nevermind, she does not want to know. She had wanted to scream before. She had wanted to burn the kingdom down with her voice and words and screams. Now she cannot even whimper. Her tongue is frozen. Her knees hit the floor— she does not feel it. Maybe it does not even happen, maybe her eyes are just frozen now and playing tricks on her. They make her feel as though she is falling— pull the ground from under her and send her vision spinning— but perhaps she is still standing. Still following. Still invisible.

Why would he hate her?

She watches as feet pass by her, heels and boots of all colors all slowing when they cross her path. Well, maybe they are slowing. Maybe that is just her mind continuing to play tricks on her though. She would not be able to tell the difference right now— if there is one, that is. She cannot look past the soles of the shoes, cannot meet the eyes of those passing her. She is stuck— her neck which was so hot only moments ago now stiff. To think that a simple thought could send her reeling in such a grand way as to literally floor her. It is almost impressive, actually. If she could feel anything other than the crushing, ice cold weight on her shoulders then perhaps she would laugh.

To think that a nameless, faceless man could make her feel such torrential and devastating emotions. Anger and sadness. Longing and desperation. It is unreal the things he makes her feel. Otherworldly things. Impossible, tragic, wonderful things. There is no way that any of it is real. She must be losing her mind. She wishes she was losing her mind. Her chest zaps where the emerald ring hits her sternum, tied to a thin strap of leather around her neck, the ice melting for a fraction of a second. It taps against her skin as her hands meet the marble floor, a gentle reminder that this— he— is real. Gods. A measure of the anger sparks back up and this time she knows that it is entirely her own.

When she was a little girl she used to watch the dust devils in her neighbours corn field. Her father would watch with her sometimes. One of those times he explained what was happening. He told her that wind only spirals like that when the cold air meets the hot air. When that happens— and the temperatures collide— they begin to fight. Imagine them like two rivals, her father had said. The cold air grabs the hot air’s hair. In turn the hot air kicks out at the cold air’s knees. They keep doing that— kicking and shoving and biting and pulling— until finally their limbs are but a blur. That is all a dust devil is, my girl— two rivals fighting. She had not thought to ask him what happens when the cold air and the hot air are not rivals— she had not thought to ask what would happen if the hot air and the cold air were actually lovers. Would the same thing happen? Those little dust devils? Would it be better?

Would it be worse?

Much like most things in her life, she does not know the answer to that. All she knows is that she can feel the air— be them rivals or lovers— punching and kicking, kissing and touching, in her chest and it hurts. All she knows is that if he is real then he better come and get her right now before her body caves to the icy fire tornado that is swirling in her lungs. She is going to implode.

“My dear—” a warm hand lands on her shoulder and it is like magic the way her thoughts are silenced, leaving behind nothing but a harsh ringing in her ears— “are you alright? That was quite the spill you just took.”

Whoever is speaking to her has a voice that is like honey and silk. It wraps around her, soothing every ache in her weary body. The hand rubs a circle into her shoulder, not letting her go, and she begins to thaw, the ice around her eyes and throat and heart melting away in seconds. Not back to the anger— no, that is long gone, a mere thought in the back of her mind— but instead to a new feeling. She is neither ice nor fire— she is springtime. She is warm and calm, her fingers flexing against the marble like small creatures emerging from hibernation. She curls them a few times, relishing in the blood as it returns to her hands and the way it does not feel as though it is burning her. It is not fire, it is just blood.

“Do you think you can get up?” The soft voice is right next to her ear now and she closes her eyes for a moment. It sounds so familiar— so gentle. She never thought she would hear that voice again. “I think maybe we should go to the healers— just in case, my dear.”

She can smell it now— the yeast. The berries. She takes a deep breath in and she can taste the strawberry jam on her lips like she is eight years old again. Her father used to always sneak her an extra pastry after dinner. They would split it on the back porch, their fingers sticky and their laughter twisting into the twilight. Her mother must have known— she was meticulous. She was so aware of the things around her at all times. She was beautiful and kind and made the best jam in the entire realm.

“Mother?” The word slips off her tongue instinctively. Naturally. She cannot stop it because, for a moment, it is as though she is right next to the woman she misses most. It is as though everything is okay again.

Y/n lifts her head— she finally can, her neck is no longer stiff with ice— her eyes landing on a woman with flowing golden hair that twists and curls against her chest. It is not her mother. Her chest squeezes. She knows that it should not— it was never going to be her mother and she knows that— but she cannot help but feel deflated. If there was ever a time for a miracle it would be right now. Preferably a miracle that makes the best strawberry pastries and gives hugs that feel like taking a warm bath. She shakes her head lightly, clearing the thought and the mist that has begun to gather in her eyes. It is not the time for sentimentality.

The woman— the woman who is not her mother— has soft blue eyes— iridescent almost— that bore into her own. There is a ring around her pupils where the blue turns to a darker coal. For a moment it looks like the ring is pulsing. The longer Y/n looks into her eyes the deeper she falls into them. It does not feel as much like drowning as one would think. It is a softer kind of falling— it is as though the woman can see every inch of her soul with a simple look. Her aroma strengthens, changing slightly. The yeast is no longer present— that was only ever her imagination— and now there is a strong, flowery scent. It is strangely intoxicating.

She has to blink a few times, turning away for a taste of fresh air, her gaze falling to the woman’s flowing silk gown. It is a delicate ivory number with beautiful embroidery all over the bust. Little flowers. Perhaps that is where the scent is coming from, wafting off the garden around her collarbone. She really is springtime.

The woman laughs and the flowers sway, moved by a breeze of breath and glee. “Oh my darling, I think you just confirmed my thoughts. Let's get you up, alright? See if we can find someone to take a look at you. Your head must be pounding.”

She is like an oasis in the desert. Y/n has never been to the desert but still— this is what she imagines it would feel like. Gentle and easy, like a cool breeze or a patch of shade. It would feel like the soothing touch of this woman’s hands as she pulls her body from its heap on the ground, wrapping an arm around her waist to keep her from toppling right over again. Her legs feel unstable and her knees are shaking but everything is okay. But oasis’ are just figments of the imagination— or at least this one is. They are doomed to fizzle away eventually, taking with them the joyful shade and leaving behind the scorching heat.

As the golden woman begins to turn with her, no doubt pulling her in the direction of the supposed healers, there is an ear piercing screech.

“There you are! You were supposed to be following us you dense child.” Estrid is in front of Y/n in seconds, her narrowed eyes locked on her and the familiar, gut wrenching sneer on her scarlet lips. “It is like you never listen on purpose— you just mill about in your own little world. Always about Y/n, never about anyone else.”

The fire from before— the scorching heat— begins bubbling in the pit of her stomach. It splashes like tar, slowly coating her insides in that all consuming hate. She bites her tongue, clenching her jaw. She can still feel the woman’s hand on her shoulder. There is still a piece of the oasis and she clings to it. But even that is being consumed— the touch melting into the lightning in her veins. She is definitely going to explode.

Her step mother takes a step towards her but halts, her eyes darting to the floor where they stay for a long moment. When her neck snaps back up she is positively fuming. “You dropped our things! Why you ungrateful little brat, I—”

In less than the blink of an eye she is no longer looking at her step mother but rather at the back of a blonde head, her hand laced with a hand so soft she would think it an evening glove.

“This young woman has tripped.” The blonde woman’s voice is calm still but holds no more of that gentle tread. Her hand squeezes softly, a contrast to her firm tone. “I will be escorting her to the healers to see what has happened.”

Estrid blinks, her eyes darting away from Y/n and up to the new woman. When she does her entire face goes pale, as though she has seen a ghost. How odd.

“Your Majesty.” Estrid bows her head, her knees bending slightly in a curtsy.

Your Majesty? Y/n’s eyes drift back to the gown— the marvelous ivory silk. It is as though all the little details begin appearing in that moment. The high thread count, the intricate stitching at the waist and bodice, the gemstone bracelet on her dainty wrist. That bracelet alone must be worth more than her entire life. Sapphires and rubies and emeralds. She wears it as though she has no idea how much it is worth— as though she has no idea it is even there at all. She wears it as though she is royalty and she has many more of them in her room.

Oh no— no, no, no.

The blonde woman turns back to her, her crystal eyes softening marginally from what she can only imagine was an icy stare moments ago. “Come on, dear. I will take you to my healer.”

Y/n shakes her head, her eyes wide. Her spine aches as she does. Her mouth feels like it is filled with cotton. She cannot speak but she has to. She has to refuse.

“No, no, your Majesty—” She copies Estrid’s greeting, she does not know what else to call her— “I am alright, truly. I do not wish to burden you further. I will—” She pauses, woozy all of a sudden, the salty breeze ten times stronger— “I will be fine.”

The woman’s crystal eyes narrow but not in the sharp way her step mother’s usually do. “My child, I insist. You do not look well.”

Y/n can practically feel Estrid’s stare burrowing into the side of her face. She can feel the bruises on her back— perhaps purple, perhaps yellow. It does not matter. If she does not go now then they will surely be black in an hour. Less. There it is— there is the fear she had been missing. She wobbles slightly on her feet. The salt air mingles with the pine trees. It is intoxicating— it is deadly. She is going to pass out if she does not move. She shakes her head at the woman, hoping there is something in her eyes that conveys the danger she feels.

“I am alright,” even she can hear the pleading tone in her voice. “Please.”

The woman— the Queen— stares at her for a moment. It is only a few seconds, the coal ring around her pupils pulsing gently, but it feels like days. It feels like a lifetime. She purses her rosy lips, taking a deep breath.

A hand— one much more rough and hot— wraps around her other wrist. “Your Majesty—” Estrid’s nasally voice is high pitched, like she is attempting to hide her cruel intentions— “my daughter just needs to sleep I think. I can take over from here.”

Y/n forces a smile to her lips— one that tastes like metal and blood— like betrayal— hoping it is enough to convince the queen. She adds a little nod in there for good measure. It is all about appearances. For a moment she thinks it is actually going to work. The Queen’s shoulders sag gently, her chin dipping down in a partial nod. It is actually working— maybe she will not get punished too harshly. She will pick up the bags and hurry to their room and stay as silent as a mouse and everything will be fine. Right?

Estrid squeezes her wrist harder— enough to make her bones whine in pain— and she can feel the on her face grin falter. It is for only a fraction of a second, the corner of her lips peeling down in a grimace that she cannot suppress, but it is enough. By the time she has painted the fake smile back on her face the Queen is at her side, that silky hand curling around her shoulder, gentle but firm enough to pull her away from her step mother. Y/n does not know if she would rather thank her or cry.

“I am afraid I truly must insist. As a Queen—” She stresses the word, her title. This is no longer a suggestion; it is an order— “it is my duty to ensure that all my guests are properly taken care of. It will not take long; just a quick check up.”

The Queen’s hand ushers her a couple steps down the hallway. Estrid follows, her brows pulled together dramatically. “But your Highness, I—”

The Queen holds up her hand, an elegant and dangerous gesture, her kind face cracking under the weight of her furious eyes. She does not even try to conceal the rage swimming in the crystal pools. She does not have to— she will face no repercussion for her anger.

“But nothing. She is to go with me and that is final.” Her burning crystals glance down to the bags, all of which are still spilling over onto the marble, draping the stone with bits of lace and silk, none of which look nearly as exquisite as the Queen’s gown. “I will send someone to gather your belongings and return them to your chambers. Now, if you will kindly excuse us.”

With that she is spinning, pressing her hand gently against Y/n’s back and leading her back in the direction she had come from. She can feel Estrid’s glare on her neck, burning holes in the back of her head. If stares were able to kill then she would be laying in a heap on the marble again, she just knows it. Soon, though, they turn a corner and she can no longer feel her step mother’s lethal gaze. That does not stop her heart from racing so hard that she wonders if it will jump out of her chest. It does not stop the vomit from pooling in her throat. She should feel relieved—grateful— but all she can think about is the pain. Both the pain she is in now and the pain she will be in later.

“It was okay really,” she mutters. It is a last ditch effort, one that is destined to fail before it is even out of her mouth, but she has to try anyway. “I am okay. I think I just slipped.”

She did not slip— she lost it. She does not know quite what it is but she knows whatever it is has been lost. Her sanity. Her grip on reality. Her damn mind. Any and all of them, now gone.

The queen stops, turning her bright blue eyes on her once more. She sighs, her smile understanding. “I think if you had slipped then you would have gotten back up.”

The Queen’s tone is pitying, her fingers gentle on her hand, and Y/n drops her eyes to the ground. She resents it— all of it. She does not want pity. “I needed a moment is all.”

A hand presses under her chin, bringing her gaze back up. There is no more smile on the Queen’s face— only a firmness in her eyes. She does not look so much like a Queen here; she looks like a mother. Her mother. She can see some of her own mother in the faint lines near her eyes and the cupid's bow above her rose petal lips. She has to bite down to keep the ache from her throat at bay.

“That was not a moment, my dear. I was there. That was quite a few moments. You were ready to let those girls trample you, were you not?”

“I— I just—” she swallows hard, trying to make her words work. It seems like she cannot string a sentence together for the life of her. Like her entire vocabulary has vanished— “I needed a moment, your Majesty. That is all.” All she can do is repeat herself.

The Queen narrows her eyes, her thumb smoothing over her jaw before she finally releases her. “Frigga.”

Y/n’s heart stutters and she has to cover her cough from the way all the air whooshes out of her lungs. “Pardon me, your Majesty?”

“Please, call me Frigga.”

This time her heart does not just stutter; it stops completely. She presses a hand against her chest, taking a tiny step backwards. She cannot breathe again. The smile on the Queen’s— Frigga’s— face is too kind. Too gentle. Too much. This is not a trick, she is not trying to get her in trouble. She is not telling her to shut up or to hurry up or to grow up. She is just being kind. No one is kind to her. Not even when they want something from her. What could the Que— Frigga, Y/n, her name is Frigga— possibly want from her? What could she give her that would mean anything more than what she already has? She sucks in a breath, sounding quite like a dying animal in the middle of the thankfully empty corridor. It is too much— it is all too much.

“No, I could not. You Maj—”

Frigga grabs her hand again, her warm skin stilling her own, clammy hands. “Calm child. It is alright. You are alright” Her words are slow, her tone a low murmur. It works wonders on her nerves. It is magic. “Frigga. Please, nobody here calls me anything formal. You should hear my sons.” The side of her mouth quirks up, her tone becoming teasing, “mother, where is father? That is all anyone around here says to me. I am not used to such formalities. I would prefer Frigga, my dear.”

Y/n takes another breath, nodding her head.

“Y/n—” she whispers back, not sure what else to do besides introduce herself back— “my name is Y/n.”

Frigga’s smile grows, nodding as well. She makes it feel like this is a normal exchange— like they are just two new friends meeting for the first time. “That is a lovely name.”

The Queen turns after that, pulling her once more to continue walking down the grand hallway. They move in silence, Frigga no doubt trying to give her some room to breathe. It is surprisingly easy to just be there with her. It is serene. She stares out past the pillars as they walk, her eyes dipping back to the faraway shoreline. Now the water is sparkling in the high afternoon sun, the cresting waves catching the light and bouncing it back and forth amongst each other. It is as though each wave that passes winks at her before smoothing against the sand. She cannot tell if they are saying hello or goodbye. Perhaps neither. Perhaps they are just acknowledging that she is there. She bows her chin gently, acknowledging them as well.

She does not know how long they walk for, her attention too focused on the blinking shore, but soon Frigga is pulling open a heavy wooden door— one that has the most intricate carvings on it’s frame that Y/n longs to stare at in depth—and tugging her in behind her. She has no idea what she is expecting— maybe a herb closet and a long table for practicing healing— it is a healer’s closet after all— but whatever it is, what she sees is not it. She is not expecting the most exquisite room in all of existence.

The first thing her eyes fall to is a wonderfully large pool of water sitting in the middle of the room. It must be the size of her entire bedroom, which granted is not that large but in comparison to her own tiny tin basin at home this is pure luxury. The sides of the pool are golden and tiled with colorful gemstones. She cannot even name all them, not recognizing half of the stones. They catch the light pouring in from the expansive balcony, sparkling against each other. There are steps leading up the side, promising entry into the luscious looking water. Altogether it is hypnotizing, calling her name until she is taking a few stuttered steps towards it. As she gets closer she can smell the fragrant oils, much more rich than anything she is used to.

“Oh my.”

“It is quite something, I will admit.” Frigga laughs from behind her, meeting her next to the edge of the tub. She dips her hand into the water, submerging the expensive bracelet in the water without a care. “It was a present from Odin for our first anniversary. I was just as shocked. I did not leave this room for weeks. I even slept here, can you imagine that?”

“I think I would as well, if I were you. It is stunning.” She, too, dips her hand below the water. She almost gasps at how warm it is— at how soft the water is. “I have never seen anything like it.”

Frigga pulls her hand from the water, shaking the droplets lightly from her skin. She turns back to Y/n, her crystal eyes sparkling with joy. “Perhaps later— only if you would like, of course— you could try it.”

Her mouth falls open, her own hand, still swirling through the silky water, pausing. “Oh no, your Maj—” Frigga purses her lips, her eyes crinkling gleefully— “Frigga, I could not.”

The Queen laughs again and she can hear the way her own mother used to giggle. “Of course you can my dear. In fact, you must! But first let us eat.”

Y/n’s brows pull together— what about the healers? Is that not why she is here?

Frigga must notice her confusion because she lifts her hand to her face, the Queen’s fingers now scented like rose petals. “I have found that the best medicine is a full belly, would you not agree?”

Instantly the tears well up in her eyes again. They are not from sadness this time— nor from longing— instead they are from the relief she feels coursing through her body. It is so foreign that she does not recognize it at first. It is neither hot nor cold. There is no pressure on her chest alerting her to it. In fact there is nothing. She feels nothing. It is exhilarating.

She does not notice the first tear fall until Frigga’s thumb catches it. “Thank you.”

The Queen sighs, her smile faltering. It is still there but barely. “Come, child.”

Y/n follows Frigga to the balcony, passing under some gem coloured curtains and into the warm sunlight. She almost freezes in her tracks, the memory of the last time her back was in the sun still fresh on her mind. Her mind falls back to the man, her nose filling with salt and pine which leaks in from the gardens below. She can feel his hands on her back, crawling over her hips. She does not wonder what color her back is this time— be it purple or yellow or molten red— it does not matter anymore. For some reason the thought of him makes it not matter anymore. He makes it better.

Frigga turns on her heel, her eyes lighting up, her hands shooting out to grasp Y/n’s shoulders. It is all she can do not to reel back from the suddenness of the action, wobbling slightly but smiling. She, in turn, reaches for the Queen’s hands, steadying herself on her silken skin.

“I completely forgot my dear, I told my son to meet me here for afternoon tea. You do not mind, do you?”

Y/n’s breath catches in her throat, her memories surging again. She can taste him on her lips for a brief moment. A short, silly moment. She pushes him down, shaking her head lightly to clear her thoughts. That would be impossible.

“No, of course not this is your home.”

Frigga squeezes her shoulders. “Wonderful!”

As the blonde woman releases her, moving to sit in one of the golden chairs on the balcony, there is a voice that sounds from the door. It is deep, impossibly so, and sends shivers racing down her spine.

“Mother, are you in here?”

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Tag list: @crystal-siren

#loki laufeyson #loki #loki x y/n #loki x reader #loki laufeyson x reader #Loki laufeyson x y/n #loki fic #loki imagine #loki laufeyson fic #loki laufeyson imagine #mcu #mcu fic #mcu imagine

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bleuwrites · 3 years

Text

Tomorrow is Hard to Find

Chapters: 1/2 Fandom: Six of Crows Series - Leigh Bardugo Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Kaz Brekker/Inej Ghafa Characters: Kaz Brekker, Inej Ghafa Additional Tags: Past Rape/Non-con, graphic depictions of Dirtyhands doing Dirtyhands things, Angst, they may be able to touch each other but they're still disasters, the one where I chase them up a tree and throw rocks at them (figuratively), Kanej-related Rule of Wolves spoilers

Chapter 1

Since Jordie died Kaz does not stir into wakefulness languidly, he startles into it. His heart inevitably jouncing as his eyes reel around his rooms, looking for any sign of threat, always on alert. When he is not in the Slat it is even worse. It takes him bare moments to remember they are Shriftport, but in those moments between waking and recognition his hand reaches for the pistol left stuffed between the mattress and the bed frame.

There are gold rings stacked on the little table to his left, part of his and Inej’s disguise as a married couple on vacation in Novyi Zem. They left the glass-paneled doors to the terrace open to try to coax in a breeze, but the netting around the bed is still. He doesn’t know how it can be so hot before the sun has even risen, but at some point in the night he pulled his shirt off. Inej is still asleep, curled on her side to his right. He presses a kiss to her shoulder and slips out of bed, doing his best not to disturb her because even if he can’t sleep she should.

Kaz finds a chair out on the terrace and takes in the sweeping views the promontory their hotel is situated on affords, rolling the rings between his fingers like the trickster he is. The rising sun reveals the deep turquoise of the bay; the buildings painted in vibrant oranges and yellows like the jurda flowers Novyi Zem is known for. Mercifully, the dawn brings a breeze with it, rustling the green crowns of the date palms and kicking up little white caps on the ocean.

When he was a child in Lij, morning was his favorite time of day. Kaz thinks of the boy he was then, so mesmerized by the subtle changes that would reveal themselves to him each morning. The wheat stalks a little taller, then with leaves, then spiked heads of grain. It used to drive Jordie mad the way Kaz would demand his attention, pointing out each subtle change. That boy could not have foreseen the man he’d become, the things he’d have to do to survive, but little Kaspar Rietveld would have loved this morning in this strange new place, too.

For a long time, he thought that boy died in Fifth Harbor. But the truth was, Kaz had buried him somewhere deep inside himself. With every act of violence, act of cruelty and callousness, Dirtyhands had thrown another shovelful of dirt into the grave he put the boy he was in. It wasn’t until that terrible day on Vellgeluk that he realized Inej had slowly been digging Kaz Rietveld out, clearing the grave dirt from his mouth, letting him breathe again.

The first year was the hardest. He thought vengeance would finally silence Jordie’s ghost. It didn’t. That ghost had screamed and raged inside him. When Inej told him rage was just grief we’d held onto for too long, he screamed at her too. There were times - many times - he lashed out, used his cruelty like a whip to try and drive her away. He wanted her to leave, to turn her back on Ketterdam, to prove his worst instincts right. He wanted to put his armor back on, so, so desperately.

And always, inevitably, the question, asked with the kind of patience he found maddening, What are you afraid of, Kaz?

That you will leave me. Like Jordie. Like everyone I’ve ever loved. It took Kaz a long time to admit it to himself. He never admitted it to Inej.

The second year was harder. He took her to Lij and told her everything, wove together the whole rotten tapestry of his life for her. The wounds inside him opened up and wept so much fresh blood he thought he would drown in it. He would wake gasping from dreams of Jordie playing cards at the Crow Club, his skin mottled and bruised and sloughing onto the felt of the card table. Or his father leaving a bloody wake of entrails as he pursued Kaz through the Barrel. They died in his dreams every night, so he stopped sleeping. Kept himself going on coffee and jurda until he collapsed from exhaustion.

When Inej returned to port early she found him slumped over his desk after days of refusing to rest. Her face had been etched in sadness and worry when she roused him enough that he opened his eyes. “I was angry too. It took me a long time to realize I needed to grieve the life that was stolen from me,” she said, her voice quiet and her fingers gentle as they traced the too prominent hollows of his cheeks. “Did you never mourn, Kaz?”

He didn’t answer, just held her hand over his heart and asked her to stay once she had forced him up to his bed for some proper sleep. She did, for a while anyway.

The third year had been a nightmare for different reasons. That was the first time he asked her to be his wife. It didn’t help.

Her legend had grown by that point, big enough to put a target on her back. Per Haskell’s name on her indenture documents was enough to get the Slat, the Crow Club, and The Silver Six raided and turned inside out. They wanted Inej, but Kaz still had enough enemies in Ketterdam that they would have settled for throwing him in Hellgate for the trouble. They both knew what taking on slavers would cost them. His businesses had been clean and she had been free of them since he took over the Dregs, save for certain, select occasions.

When that didn’t work they put a price on her head. Inej’s wanted posters littered the city; no matter where he went her face was staring at him. She couldn’t set foot in Kerch or its colonies without risking arrest or assassination. Her partnership with Strumhond, and by extension the Crown, had granted her safety in Ravka. She had a home in Os Kervo (a house, she would chastise him, you are my home), and a life he felt only distantly a part of no matter what she said.

As he watched her dance and laugh so easily with Nikolai at Nina's wedding that year something had splintered inside of him. It wasn’t jealousy -- Nikolai’s love for Zoya was so obvious Kaz knew there was nothing to be jealous of --, but longing. The same longing that had him clutching at her hand on the deck of the Ferolind. The longing for impossible things.

What they wanted had been divergent after they kidnapped Kuwei; she wanted to turn her back on Ketterdam and never return; he wanted to bring it to its knees, rule it like a shadow king. After the auction Kaz got his power, Inej got her freedom and they found a way to forge a future together. Until it had been taken from them, at least.

Later, when they were alone in their quarters he’d asked her to marry him.

“Why?” she asked, her eyes searching for something she wasn’t going to find.

“Because the odds of us surviving will sink to zero at some point. Because if we’re going to die I want to go to the other side as your husband.”

“I will not marry you out of fear, Kaz.” She’d said it softly, tenderly, her voice heavy with regret.

He knew the words were coming before she even opened her mouth. The knowing did nothing to quell the pain in his heart as she said them. Kaz didn’t argue with her, but later, when they were in bed and the distance between them felt greater than the breadth of the True Sea, the thread that connected her to him felt perilously thin.

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hollyhomburg · 4 years

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Of Fire and Love (Pt. 3)

(Dragon! Yoongi x Reader) (Ft. Baby! Jungkook and Baby Dragon! Hoseok) (Dragon! Namjoon x Fairy! Jimin)

Summary: When Dragon Yoongi finds baby Jungkook in the wreckage of a house he burned down, he can’t bring himself to kill the child. Months after someone drops a baby at your door, you start to notice something- or someone, lurking at the edge of your farm.

W/C: 9.3k

TAGS: anxious! hobi, Mentions of mates and soulbonds, Brief nudity,

A/N: Hope you guys like this and are still interested in this story after so long between updates! the last few months have been kind of a struggle for me getting out of china during the coronavirus stuff, every single one of my family members was quarantined for 2 weeks besides me, but luckily none of them ever came down with the virus and they’re all okay! I hope we all are able to remain healthy in the next few months.

Also, it’s worth noting that namjoon and Jimin's manor house is not on the map provided in chapter 2! That manor house is a different one! this chapter is a little heavier in the plot and family sweetness vs. the Yoongi x reader romance. hopefully, you don’t hate it!

Part 1 Part 2

- You have no idea what the dragon council will decide. If they’ll let you keep Hoseok or decide that it’s better if he remains with his own kind. and that- not the dragons you might meet or the thought of being in a city that hates your kind- is what scares you the most.

- It’s a fear that Yoongi shares, but you try not to let it bother you- or to let Hoseok know that you’re scared. All of you ignore the possibility that Hoseok could be taken from you. But because of that, you also ignore the first missive summoning you to the council.

- For the second missive, the council deemeds it best (given how Yoongi had received the first emissary) to send a messenger hawk. You ignore that letter as well, but the next one that comes delivered while the four of you are away for the day off to a nearby village for the few things that Yoongi can’t get via plundering, contains less than cordial language.

- There is another smaller message tucked into the scroll, written personally for Yoongi and not ‘Yoongi windborne, commander of the western battalion’ or whatever title the council decided to give him after the last war (it hardly means anything- the dragon council’s garrison hasn’t been called in well over 100 years).

- The note is small and in a scrawl he recognizes: Come and visit! Jimin misses you. I hear you have a son now? And a mate? We’d both love to meet them. Namjoon’s chicken scratch writing is still the same after all these years, Yoongi flips over the other side of the note. I’m trying my best, but I can only hold them off for so long – KNJ

- Though it’s been years since the last time they spoke, and even longer since they’d seen each other in person, Yoongi’s heartstrings tug uneasily as he thinks of Namjoon sticking up for him in front of the other councilmembers. Once upon a time, Namjoon had been one of Yoongi’s lieutenants, though they’d been much more than that, the horrible business of war binding them closer than friends and more like family.

- He, Seokjin, and Namjoon had all found each other during the last war. yoongi had been without his family by that point, and searching for a cause- anything really- to occupy his eternity. Yoongi had been appointed as a commander after he’d been successful in a few minor battles. Namjoon had been assigned to his battalion, a dragon from the north with no formal training come south to prove himself.

- Seokjin brought to the same place as a medic who owed allegiance to neither side and only wished to make the war less bloody. Yoongi was the only commander that allowed Seokjin into his camp, as he was stalwart about treating both sides, enemy and friend alike, and yoongi was the only commander who would support him doing both. They’d been fast friends, outcasts among the ranks, and they were friends still.

- After the war they’d all scattered to different parts of the globe, Namjoon- because he had a dream- a dream to make the world better, and like all fools, had decided to go into politics. A mixture of grief and hopeful sorrow (and love- endless love) had driven Seokjin north.

- Yoongi still remembers it, the day that they’d paused on their march to join another battalion settled in for a warm afternoon in the human kingdom. the world so flat deep into orchard lands and taken refuge in peach fields that had turned to ashes in the coming months as the war had ravaged the countryside. He remembers hearing the shout, Seokjin leaping up from where he’d been reclined against Namjoon’s cool side, the dragon barely shifting let alone actually shifting.

- Yoongi runs with Seokjin, seen the teen- the young man sitting below a ladder, a knife meant for cutting peaches from their tree embedded in his arm. he’d seen the way that Seokjin had looked at the man as he pulled it out, the wide boxy smile as the human marveled at Seokjin’s magic.

- There is a reason why Seokjin never comes south anymore, the peach fields remind him too much of Taehyung not to hurt.

- But maybe Taehyung and Seokjin’s story is better placed for a different time.

- Yoongi like Seokjin, hadn’t wanted to go back to the city, too used to being on his own at that point. And still- the guile of war hadn’t ebbed the grief of losing his own parents. It’s rare now, that Yoongi thinks of them time finally healed those old wounds. When he looks at you- he knows he has a new family now, and this one he’s determined not to lose.

- They’d lost contact mostly because of Namjoon’s appointment to the dragon council- a feat in its self for a lowborn tundra dragon from a tribe like Namjoon. Yoongi hadn’t bothered pushing the contact- knowing that they’d remain friends no matter how much time separated them. He’s glad that’s still true even now.

- Over the next few days, Yoongi mulls it over, but he knows he can’t outrun the council forever. Fall has already gripped the mountains by the time Yoongi finally takes the four of you to the dragon city to meet with the council.

- Both you and Jungkook greet the awaiting hundreds of thousands of dragons with something like mixed trepidation on your part and wonder on Jungkook’s. Hoseok is another matter: he clutches at your hand the whole flight to the city, both he and Jungkook tied tight between your legs for safety. And though Jungkook might nod off most of the time lulled to sleep by the gentle up and down movement of Yoongi’s back in the sky. Hoseok curls close to you, nuzzling into your shoulder periodically. Glad to be so close.

- He can’t fly yet, but you know from the way his wide red eyes look at the puffy clouds that he’s feeling some sort of call to the wind that both you and Jungkook are immune too.

- Well... maybe Jungkook feels it too in some way. When he’s awake and not curled up, he and Hoseok shout into each other's ears over the sound of the wind, sometimes holding out their hands in mock flight.

- Your hands remain firmly around either of their waists, holding on harshly to a support rope in front of you. Somehow you don’t think you’re ever going to get used to flying, your stomach dipping with every new headwind.

- The journey is long and hard- but you couldn’t imagine making it on foot if flying takes a week. The first two days you don’t escape the frozen mountains; you’re lucky for Yoongi’s warm back between your legs to keep you from really feeling the cold. You keep your same old shawl- the first one that Yoongi gave you wound tight around your neck.

- before you’d left Jungkook had found his old baby blanket shoved deep in an old chest of Yoongi’s with a few old storybooks, It had surprised both you and Yoongi when he’d found it- and started wearing it much like you wear your shawl. “It has my name on it- so it must be mine” he’d said, proud over the fact that he could read.

- Hoseok had looked a little shy and unsure, fingering the red scarf whenever he can, until you’d gone to the nearby village to get some supplies for your journey and gotten him a matching one. Though his is blue so dark it’s nearly black, and has a hood that he can tug up to hid his horns if he ever needs too!

- He’d hopped up and down when you’d given it to him, wanting you to scent it before he put it on, snuggling down into in and hiding his mouth in it with a little happy dragon noise. He and Jungkook look like quite the pair, Jungkook’s black hair and red shawl, and Hoseok with his red hair and black shawl.

- You pass over woods on the other side of the mountain range, dotted with waterfalls and visible streams that grow over the next few days into rivers that wind in and out of view. You start to spy hollows and carefully carved out dens in the few mountains you pass, or even nests. You pass over tall hills dotted with red poppy fields and farmland, and even camp in one late at night.

- The tall blooms hanging over your heads as you sleep in your sleeping bags. you wake at first light with red petals dotting your hair, Jungkook and Hoseok sleeping on as Yoongi slowly picks them out, giving you a kiss to your face and chest for everyone. Ending his morning kisses with a scalding one just over your heart.

- When the little settlements that dot the countryside start to grow more numerous, more like large towns, Yoongi flies higher just to stay out of sight of the others of his kind.

- He doesn’t know how your and Jungkook’s presence so deep into dragon lands will be received, especially out here in the country where many are loathed to forget any of the wars in recent memory or the one that’s currently blooming. The citizens of the dragon city, on the other hand, are far more accepting, even overly curious if Yoongi remembers well- it’s been about 100 years since he last set foot in it, things could have changed.

- But Yoongi is still a little too worried for comfort, the last time that you land to make camp, everyone can feel how tense it is. It must be the hardest for Hoseok, already wound tight by anxiety and further stressed out by Yoongi’s off-putting scent of discomfort. The youngling spends the whole night shifted and scent marking both you and Jungkook, huffing every time either of you try to move away from him.

- There are some precautions that they have to take before you enter the city limits. Both you and Jungkook are carefully scent marked and each given something of Yoongi’s to wear as claiming items. Yoongi gives each of you a bracelet made from one of his shiny black scales that he made a few weeks ago. Any dragons that see you will know you’re claimed and spoken for- even if he turns away for a moment and you’re caught without them.

- In the end, it’s only the curiosity of what Yoongi is doing that makes Hoseok shift. Hoseok sweetly makes both of you one too- though his are rougher and not quite as elegant- a simple twine necklace with one of his red feathers for each of you to wear around your necks- that way everyone will know you’re apart of Hoseok’s family too.

- “Do you like it?” he asks after he steps up to where your legs are crossed around the campfire and puts the long string around your neck, you wrap your arms around him and pull him into your lap. Making him erupt into giggles “I love it Hobi I’m never going to take it off” he presses his cheek to the top of your head, scent-marking you before he darts away to give Jungkook his.

- on the day you enter the city, Yoongi is careful to circle the city from above, you can smell the ocean even if you can’t see it yet high above the clouds. He’d warned you before- to hold on, that entering might require some fancy flying. When you first breach the cloud line from above- you’re shocked, what you first assume is a cloud of brightly colored birds grows in size as Yoongi falls into the steepest dive he dares with you on his back, gliding into a slow spiral down.

- You’re glad you’re a little too scared from the dive to even look around- or else you’re sure that the sheer number and dimorphism would scare you. you break through the second layer of clouds and the city rises up to meet you.

- The city is in the center of a massive island miles across, on one side of it- the city rises up slowly to the edge of a cliff, a tall castle at the highest point. But even on the other side, you can see the cliffs are dotted with hanging buildings. On the less steep side of the city, tall buildings are wound through with canals, colorful ships docking to unload their wears from far off lands.

- You’ve never seen so much glass in one place, in the human realms, glass is costly and usually used sparingly- but this castle is nearly made of the stuff, piercing the sky like a faceted quartz crystal. The city it’s self-looks almost like a human city if not for the taller towers, landing pads, and wider roofs for sunbathing dotted with Jem colored scaly beings that look lazily at the sky when Yoongi descends.

- You’d never realized how Yoongi might compare to others of his species, but even here- his black wings seem to block out the sun, he’s easily twice as large as the average size. luckily none of them fly too near to you- the thousands of dragons dotting the sky too preoccupied with their own destinations to wonder at yours.

- You’re glad you’re a little too scared from the dive to even look around- or else you’re sure that the sheer number and dimorphism would scare you.

- The entire fiasco of landing takes about a minute but feels longer.

- When you land, it’s in a square in the shroud of the castle with steep walls and a large hall- faceted like a cut stone. The wide black landing pad is tiled with white stones in the shape of a coat of arms. The hexagonal black stones are warm underfoot as you slide off of Yoongi’s back the insignia- whatever it might be, indiscernible now that you’re at ground level.

- Attendants rush forward, some of them puzzled and others, who recognize Yoongi dropping into deep bows.

- Though Jungkook had been excited when he’d first learned that there was a whole city full of dragons- now he’s shy, tucks himself into your legs when you slide onto the stone. Hoseok falls into a flurry of feathers, shifts halfway down Yoongi’s back and steps in front of both of you, his feathers raised and puffed up to make himself look larger.

- It’s strange, you’d never imagined the different ways in which dragoness could present its self In human form but now you see there is some sort of dimorphism between shifting species. A young woman with wings rushes forward as if to take your bags, but halts when Hoseok hisses at her. There is even one with a tail poking out from underneath her skirt, and a group of small soldiers who look more dragon than human even though they’re still bipedal.

- A pretty looking soldier with silver scales sparkling along his shoulders like the armor he also wears steps up, a spear held in his shaking hands not at the ready, but held almost as if he is unsure of the threat. Yoongi steps in front of the three of you smoothly- the shift ending with a flap of his robes, suddenly toe to toe with the soldier who looks like he’s about to faint, eyes widening at the sight of Yoongi’s human form.

- He’s quick to drop the spear, and back up, you almost think you see Yoongi smirk. “I am Yoongi Windborne, victor to the battles of frozen fires, of tialug pass, the stolen city, Commander of the eastern battalion and victor to the 33 year war, I have come to the council when summoned, take me to them.”

- A dragon woman with no visible mark beyond her slanted emerald eyes steps forward, the pin on her chest of a large fire-filled flower (what you decide you must have seen in the center of the coat of arms. Later Yoongi will tell you it’s the symbol of the council) she introduces herself as The main caretaker of the castle and drops into an elegant bow “I will take you to them master, follow me.”

- The palace guards recede; Hoseok sifts back and straightens, Yoongi nods and then gestures with his hands for you to follow without turning from the woman. You would reach out and take his hand if it weren’t for Jungkook and Hoseok clutching either of yours. Jungkook is wide-eyed and a little bit frightened, but his wide brown eyes dart to take in absolutely everything he can. Hoseok is still and as tightly wound as a statue, his back rim rod straight holding your hand so tightly in both of his that it’s starting to hurt.

- “Your family may wait here,” the caretaker says, as you break out into a small antechamber. It’s a little enchanting, the open-air courtyard with a raised pool in the center pastel colored fish swimming lazily in the clear water. Great bushels of puffy pink flowers hang from the ceiling above- giving the whole thing an almost cloudlike aesthetic, small glass orbs hang periodically that seem to glow dully with muted light hang on unseen strings.

- “I’ll give you a second to settle in,” the caretaker says then turns her back to the two of you, farther on down the hallway you can barely hear it, the sound of clamoring voices and a small shout, a loud booming laugh. You figure you must not be far from the council room.

- Your boys look up at you, and you lean down, pressing a kiss to either of their for heads. “Would you give your father and I a minute?” they both nod, their mismatched black and red curls bobbing as Hoseok transfers his death grip from your hand to Jungkook’s and lets the younger pull him in the direction of the pool.

- Hoseok holds onto Jungkook, smiling down at Jungkook when he says something about the fish, the elder trying to stop the younger as he tries to climb up and over the ledge and into the pool, laughing when Jungkook pouts, “Don’t let them take him Yoongi- please- I can’t- if they do-”

- Yoongi shushes you gently, his wide hands combing over the back of your hair. He makes a comforting noise in the back of his throat. But his grip is tight, his body too tense to be entirely comforting. “I won’t let that happen, I promise” You nod, hold onto him extra tightly. Yoongi leans forward to scent mark dully against your cheek. The slow circles he draws with his nose tempting a watery giggle.

- He leans back, pressing his forehead against yours hard, eyes opening, more resolved, a rage you’ve never seen in his eyes before. You imagine not for the first time what he must have been before you. You always see Yoongi so soft its easy to forget he once lived the life of a warrior. His eyes flash with a rabid hidden fire, something that flares to consume and destroy.

- But it’s gone as quickly as it comes, his eyes softening once they focus on you. The giggles from Hoseok and Jungkook dancing along the tiled wall of the pool distracting him.

- “I’d burn down the whole city before I let them hurt you.”

- Together the two of you walk towards your children. You pull Jungkook away to a corner, wanting to look out over the city and the wide windows. Leaving Hoseok and Yoongi to talk.

- Yoongi crouches down to Hoseok’s level and hugs him tightly, the flechling holds back twice as hard. “My little flechling” Yoongi says, barely keeping his tears at bay. The words tugging out of him before he can think better on it…but there are some things that need to be said. yoongi might not have a chance after today.

- He hopes, not for the first time- that he’s not fucking this whole father thing up. He hopes he’s Judging correctly that Hoseok even so small and young will be able to make this choice.

- With everything he’s been through, he deserves to be treated like a grown-up but protected and cared for like the child he is. What Hoseok wants matters the most in this, regardless of what you and Yoongi want.

- Yoongi knows that Hoseok hasn’t had an easy few months- not by a long shot, losing his family and the long months of healing had been hard. But yoongi hopes that they’ve done the best that they could.

- “You know how much I care for you, how much Jungkook and y/n care for you too, we love you and we want you to stay but none of that matters if you want-“ Yoongi’s voice falters, and he doesn’t get the chance to finish his sentence before Hoseok is tugging back with a vice-like grip shanking his little head back and forth furiously knowing Yoongi’s words before he’s spoken them, little curls bobbing and flopping up to curl against his golden horns.

- “I want to stay- I want to stay with you and them, please- please don’t let them take me away.” he cries, clutching onto the back of Yoongi’s neck.

- Yoongi strokes down his back carefully, his arms a cage around his son to protect him from all that would harm the young dragon. Their horns knock together a little, as Hoseok scent marks Yoongi in the clumsy little kid sort of way that makes Yoongi’s heart clench painfully.

- “Of course not, I’d never let them take you from us hobi, i promise” from the corner, Jungkook giggles and calls for Hobi to come and see the view of the city below, oblivious, half hanging out of the window and probably in danger of falling if it weren’t for your hand fisted in the back of his shirt. Hoseok nods, and Yoongi knocks their foreheads together once before he lets Hoseok go, his hand lingering on Hoseok’s small shoulder for just a moment longer.

- Yoongi is ready to face them.

- The Dragon Council quiets when Yoongi enters, some of them even stand while the caretaker announces him by rank and title. Yoongi himself even rolls his eyes at a few of them- the council and their formalities must have anointed him with more than a few in his absence from the city. The council room is the same as yoongi remembered it. The sealing is hexagonal and faceted with glass like a jewel, the councils two dozen seats set up a few feet so that whoever remains in the anti-chamber below to meet with them needs to look up to make eye contact.

- He spots his old friend in the crowd, Yoongi sees the ice drakes face breaks out into a happy smile at the sight of him. Namjoon’s chair falling back as he stands up too quickly at the sight of his long lost friend. A smile that Yoongi returns with barely a press of his lips- later, there will be time for a more solid hello.

- The discussion and clamor is almost immediate. Yoongi quickly needs to reign in his temper.

- “While it’s not unheard of for human’s to be apart of a hoard, it is a little unconventional. Are we certain Yoongi is the best caretaker for the flechling? Should he not be put with some of his own kind? Someone with more natural inclinations?”

- Before Yoongi has a chance to growl out his anger at the impertinence and the disrespect they’re showing you- his mate- and not just a thing- Namjoon speaks up for him. The air chills in the wide throne room as Namjoon’s temper spikes.

- “You seem to discount Yoongi’s loyalty to us, despite the fact that it’s not in his natural inclinations.” namjoon throws their words back in their face, Namjoon is right, Most solitary species of dragons are more likely to tell the council to fuck off rather than follow their thinly veiled orders framed as requests.

- “He’s never hesitated to come at your beck and call. If he wants to look after him and the flechling also wants to stay with his adopted family, I vote to allow him that, and transfer custody of the child to Yoongi.”

- Namjoon has gotten far more eloquent during his time as a councilman, Yoongi realizes. As he watches the way that Namjoon takes the room's attention and focuses it. There is barely a trickle of his northerner drawl left in his voice. He’s not the same rough winged and backwater hatchling Yoongi had first met- nor the battle-hardened soldier he’d left on the edge of the city limits all those years ago. Namjoon’s done well for himself.

- “Also, he’s been verry clear during his explanation that the human woman is his mate Jaebeom- would you forgive such disrespect if the same indifference was shown to your mate?” the other dragon growls in reply and then mumbles something about Namjoon’s own choice of mate being unconventional at best and a conflict of interest at worst, but Namjoon is stalwart.

- “There is another nuance to this issue as well, there are proper channels for this sort of thing, I for the life of me can’t imagine why Yoongi did not bring the child to us when he first found him and instead left us to find out that he’d been illegally harboring the child-“

- Yoongi’s voice is a growl as he interrupts, “my s- Hoseok was injured, councilwoman, I assure you legal formalities were the last thing on our minds when we first found him.”

- That prompts a whole other vein of discussion. “A human healing a dragon? how preposterous!” “How do we know that she even healed him well enough?” “The fledglings flight abilities could be at stake! We must have him looked over by the healers at once” “You definitely should have brought him here if he was injured- the only ones who could heal him properly is us.”

- “I think we need to ask the child what he wants.” Comes the final vote, from an elderly woman in the back, she’s been a member of the council for most of her life and the wings that drag behind her when she stands are blown through with arrow holes and rustle like delicate paper. Yoongi wonders if she can even fly anymore.

- Not too surprisingly, you refuse to let Hoseok go into the chamber alone, and Jungkook too because you won’t let Jungkook be alone in a strange place either. Your family files into the room, and though more than one of the council members seem to view your very presence to be an insult the rest of them seem to relax momentarily.

- And of course, it helps that Hoseok enters the council room in his dragon form, makes them seem more at ease somehow, like they where worried he was being forced to stay in his human form (but come on really? You can’t help but be a little indignant at that.)

- At first, Hoseok will not step into the middle of the room, won’t leave your side by where you stand with Yoongi. you stoop to put a hand on his back, “Hobi it’s okay honey they just want to talk to you” Hoseok lets out a pained whine that makes more than one dragon in the room stiffen, you too, your hand smoothing over his feathered wing as they flutter a little agitatedly, snapping once. “I’ll go with him mom,” Jungkook says, tugging on the little mane of feathers on Hobi’s neck and leading him into the middle of the room.

- Hoseok goes, needing to be reassured every few feet by a soft word from Jungkook but he gets to the small raised circle, a podium just large enough for both of them to stand, without much fuss even though Hoseok looks like he’s about to bolt.

- “They seem to have a close bond” one of the council members notes to the open room, the awaiting dragons appraise Jungkook and Hoseok with every step. Hoseok holds the end of Jungkook’s scarf in his mouth for comfort.

- The closer they get to the Centre the more Hoseok shakes, his feathers standing on end making him look twice as puffed up. “We are! He’s my best friend!” Jungkook chirps, unbothered by the council members' scrutiny. some seem to bristle at Jungkook’s enthusiastic response and Namjoon stifles a snort, raising his eyebrows in Yoongi’s direction. the look seems to say “a spunky one you’ve got there” Yoongi barely suppresses a grin.

- “Will you be shifting any time soon?” a councilman snaps out when they’ve been hovering in the center of the room for a few seconds, Yoongi is careful to grab your arm tightly, making the snarky response die in your throat as a growl of his own ripples out of his throat. The look he sends you is apologetic, but you interfering will likely make it worse. Yoongi’s hand remains tight on your forearm, his thumb rubbing in soothing circles.

- “Sorry, it will only take a second,” Jungkook says, answering for the two of them Surprising both you and Yoongi. Maybe it’s something in the way that Jungkook says the words you think. Maybe it’s the unwavering trust that Hoseok has in Jungkook or the fact that he was the first one to crack through Hoseok’s shell when he’d come into your care. You have to admit- you have no idea what’s happening, and neither does Yoongi really, as Jungkook cups Hoseok’s cheeks in his hands.

- In dragon form, Hoseok’s head rises at just about eye level with Jungkook. The younger presses their foreheads together for a second the same way they always do. The council watches with confused looks at first and then wide eyes, the elder council woman’s eyes hardening and her hands tightening over her walking cane, her eyes bright as she looks down upon them.

- The council watches with bated breath as Jungkook presses his forehead against Hoseok’s hard, “Hobi, shift.” he commands, his quiet voice lingering in the dead silence of the chamber. By the time Jungkook pulls back Hoseok’s red hair is tangling with his black, and he blinks, suddenly more clearheaded as he peers up at the council. “Sorry, I can’t- I’m not so good at shifting still and Jungkook helps me when I need it.”

- You can’t imagine when before you’d seen it and then you remember- months ago- when that dragon had almost attacked the three of you, you and Yoongi had been busy with your bruises while Jungkook had gotten Hobi to shift. You can’t imagine what just happened really, but there must be some significance, whereas before most if not all of the council had held ire in their gazes when they looked at Jungkook- now their eyes are wide with shock and curiosity.

- You don’t like it, the way they stare at them like some sort of novelty. You watch from beside Yoongi, his hand fisted in the fabric at the small of your back, he can tell your whole body is fighting to go to your sons and put your body between the two of them, but he holds you tight to his side, knowing if you interfere you’ll only make it worse.

- “Well that settles it,” the councilwoman says, and almost immediately the others try to jump in, she raises her hand though and they fall silent, “all of you know as well as I do, that to separate a soulbond could spell certain death for either of them, if the hatchling has chosen the human boy then we need to respect it.”

- A soul bond? What is that? You want to wonder out loud, but if the faint widening of Yoongi’s eyes is anything to go by, it must be a big deal. That you might not have understood but it seems mostly unanimous, the few dragons who seem displeased are overridden by the vast majority who seem to be in agreement.

- As quickly as you’ve been summoned, you’re asked to leave, a little more politely albeit. Yoongi is asked to stay however, and he leads you to the door nodding that he’ll only be another minute or so before he can rejoin you.

- “How do you do that Jungkook?” you ask as you leave, one of your son's hands in each of your own, Hoseok’s is sweaty. Jungkook just shrugs looking a little indigent in the way that only a 6-year-old can muster. “I don’t know? Do you think they’ll have food for us when we get back? I’m kind of hungry.” you give Hoseok a look and he shrugs his small shoulders, “it’s just easier when he asks, it’s like, I can’t do it when I ask my body too but it listens to him,” you make a noise in the back of your throat.

- As it turns out, those few minutes really are a few hours, there is a fair amount to discuss. Despite the grumblings and arguing that extends well into the day, Yoongi is allowed to keep Hoseok as his charge as long as he agrees to yearly check in’s with the council, and quarterly medical check-ups to make sure his ability to fly is not impeded by his past injury as he grows into adulthood, and to introduce him to more of his kind whenever possible.

- There is another matter too, most younglings go to some sort of vocational school if they live within the city limits, magic school (if they’re so inclined like Yoongi was) or at least flight school so that they can learn best how to control their larger scaly forms. Normally, if they live outside of the city limits, schooling is left up to their parent’s discretion, but Hoseok- with his injured wing- is a special case.

- “The fledgling will be under mandatory schooling for 2 months out of the year, whenever his parents decide, during which time he will socialize with his own kind, and complete certain physical exams to ensure his body is developing correctly despite the injury, and learn to fight.”

- The burst of flame is almost immediate, as well as Yoongi’s rippling snarl that seems to shake the walls and make the windowpanes of the room rattle in their casings. When the smoke clears, Yoongi is toe to toe with the old councilman who has spoken the final missive- or sentencing, depending on your viewpoint.

- In the antechamber down the hall, you notice the glass orbs that hang from the ceiling swaying slightly though your children do not. You gnaw on your lower lip, sending the closed door, and the guard that's come to stand outside of it- with an anxious glance.

- “My child will not- under any circumstance- learn to fight- just so you can make him some soldier in your armies the same way you did to me. That, over everything else I will not allow.” He spits, fire dripping from his mouth even in human form.

- The old councilman cocks an eyebrow in Yoongi’s direction, unperturbed by his show of aggression, “this is our final say, take it- or leave the child in our care.” the threat hangs in the air for a second, everyone’s hair sticking on end, Yoongi’s hands tighten on the edge of the podium, breaking the edge away from the rest of the stone the rest of the podium creaking under his strength. Namjoon at the far end of the table- even stands up as if to come between Yoongi.

- With another snarl, Yoongi hurls the stone at the nearest window, which shatters in a fantastic splay of glass, then turns and walks away from the council- knowing that really- he has no other choice. behind him, he hears someone say something that sounds suspiciously like “overgrown baby” and “temper tantrum.”

- Yoongi’s temper has barely dissipated by the time he reaches your antechamber but is immediately cooled into syrupy warm sweetness when he sees the sight that greets him.

- There is a small food cart in the waiting room where he left you, though it looks absolutely raided. The honey cakes and small sandwiches taken apart by little fingers. Another plate only holds crumbs now, a small pile of tangerine peals piled on the floor (where Jungkook and Hoseok had sat and played a game while you’d paced and worried over the fate of your family).

- The fish in the pool now firmly in hiding after the last hour of terror inflicted on them by the two boys that are now taking a rest on the padded chaise lounge in the corner. Jungkook is piled with his head on your stomach the lower half of his pants soaked to the bone, his sticky face pressed to your stomach. The 6-year-old is never one to forget a nap, especially on a mid-afternoon as warm as this. The light from the dying sun making the room rosy and golden.

- Hoseok, on the other hand, is stretched out lengthwise, his head rested on your shoulder while you recline propped up a little on the velvet pillow. His eyes are barely open as you stroke down his back and over his hair. You hum something soft and melodic and relaxing as Hoseok holds you tightly around your middle. Hoseok sits up at the sound of Yoongi’s footsteps, the softness of your lilting lullaby silences. And Yoongi finally lets his smile break out.

- He holds his arms open, “come here Hobi” he says, and the youngling breaks out into a run, fully waking Jungkook. All of you pile in around Hoseok, squeezing the life out of him as the words spill from Yoongi’s mouth “you’re ours- you’re ours” and Hoseok happily snuggling into your tummy, then Jungkook’s head.

- “Okay! I can’t breathe! Stop squeezing so hard!” he says eventually, and you all separate from him with a few lingering touches, and Hoseok feels snuggled down and happy like he’s safer than he’s been in the last few months. Hoseok holds on a tiny bit, pressing his cheek to the side of your leg and holding around your knee, unwilling to let go even now.

- Before any of you can talk even further about what you might do next, or where you might be staying tonight, long confidant strides echo down the hallway as the council seems to get louder, stopped for a break perhaps or adjourned for the day, and a massive man in a dark blue robe rounds the corner.

- You barely catch the sight of his slicked-back silver hair- and his icy blue eyes before he swoops up your mate into a bone-crushing hug. Yoongi actually squeaks- though the sound is more of a result of all of the air being crushed from his lungs by those iron looking arms. “Min- fucking- Yoongi- you asshole making me wait that long” the much taller man starts talking a mile a minute before your mate has a chance to respond beyond a wide grin. The kind of look you thought was reserved for you and your family but- whoever he is they must be close.

- “You should have told me you where coming! And not just wiped into the council room like that- but honestly- it was worth it to see the looks on their faces- how are you? How was your journey? Jimin will be so happy to see you!” Namjoon withdrawals- knocking foreheads with him once and quickly before he pulls apart, though your mates face is equally as smiley, showing his gums and slight fangs “councilman Namjoon- who would have thought they would let a low blood like you join their ranks,” he teases.

- The grin Namjoon returns, looking down shyly- “it wasn’t easy- but I think I’m finally starting to make some headway with how they treat the lower races- oh!” he brakes off, suddenly looking down, “who might this be?” Jungkook peers up with him with wide eyes, still tugging on the long embroidered edge of Namjoon’s robes.

- “Excuse me!” Jungkook chirps, “I was wondering how you got so tall?” Yoongi stifles a laugh, you smile, and you can finally see the small nubby horns poking out of the top of Namjoon’s head start to turn from their silver that blends in with his hair- to a slight pink. Namjoon casts Yoongi an anxious glance, both of you stifle your giggles. “Ugh? Vegetables? I guess?”

- Jungkook makes a scowling face. His nose scrunching up cutely. “I was hoping you wouldn’t say that” Jungkook grabs Namjoon’s hand, giving it a little shake, “I’m Jungkook,” Namjoon looks a little bewildered but gives it a shake back, prompting both you and Yoongi to fall into giggles. “I’m Namjoon?” his sharp icy blue eyes flicker from Jungkook to Hoseok, who gives Namjoon a likewise small smile and a handshake, his small hand dwarfed by Namjoon’s large one.

- “You must be Hoseok and Y/n, it’s a pleasure to meet both of you as well” you hold out your hand and Namjoon stoops low to press his forehead against it- a strange thing- you’d almost been expecting him to kiss it. Later, Yoongi will tell you that it’s customary for other dragons to greet each other's mates that way, so as to not incidentally scent mark them with a hug, or a more familial press of a forehead to the others.

- Eventually, the conversation shifts to your plans for the rest of the stay in the dragon city. When Yoongi lets slip that you haven’t found a boarding house for tonight yet Namjoon invites you to stay at his manor house as long as you need. He doesn’t take no for an answer either, no matter how Yoongi tries to back out of it.

- The sun already set so you can’t exactly see everything but the moon hangs over the sea like an old friend, lulling the three of you on Yoongi’s back into the soft wakefulness that only a stressful day can bring. Yoongi and Namjoon are two opposites, Namjoon’s wings taking in the moonlight and almost reflect it, whereas Yoongi is an unseen shadow as he follows the lighter colored and smaller dragon east until the city’s glow is faint on the horizon.

- The yellow light of windows dot the countryside along with other mansions, Yoongi tells you later that most of the councilmen prefer to live within the city limits, but Namjoon felt he needed a little more breathing room.

- The manor house (or small castle really) is built for a dragon, tall windows with shutters and tall glass windows. it’s bricked not with red stone but smooth white river stones stacked on each other. It’s extensive gardens and pathways extend all the way to the edge of the Seacliff, the ocean turning below a spare 50 feet from the back patio.

- a massive greenhouse swallows the western edge of the building, almost dwarfing the manor house, it’s so dark and dense with foliage that you barely see it until you land in the lawn, the grass tall and speckled through with wildflowers turned grey in the ample moonlight is soft underfoot. when you slide off of Yoongi’s back to land softly.

- It’s late enough that neither Namjoon or Yoongi protest when you decide to turn in basically the second you make it into Namjoon’s entryway. The head housekeeper is a kind-looking woman with a cloud of curly hair that almost hides her dark brown horns, her eyes almost as orange as the candlelight, pressing you to take all of your things up to the guest wing while a youth helps her carry your bags.

- Both of your sons rub their eyes sleepily, almost knocking into one of the tall vases full of flowers tucked into the alcove by the door. And the though Hoseok furiously apologizes no one seems too mad at him, the housekeeper seems to look at them with softness too, Hoseok basically holding Jungkook up, something else in her eyes as she looks to you and offers to bring up some soup and some warm milk as well.

- Yoongi holds gently to your arm as an attendant helps Namjoon divest of his councilmen’s robes, your sons already trudging up the stairs after the woman who helped you with your things. “I think Namjoon and I have some catching up to do, will you be alright with the boys?” Namjoon chimes in “our guest suite is extremely comfortable- if you need anything please tell Muji and she’ll get you whatever you need.

- You nod slowly at namjoon, Yoongi’s hand coming up to grip yours lightly on the railing of the staircase. “Of course,” you say, putting your hands on his shoulders, leaning in to give him a kiss that he returns soft, his hands splaying on your hips, hands twiddling with the lacing that sits on the small of your back. “Enjoy your talk you old lizards” you tease, making yoongi and Namjoon laugh. You head up the wide staircase,

- Namjoon’s house is lit with enough of those glowing orbs that you don’t need a candle to see, and below you hear Namjoon mutter to Yoongi, “to think after all these years you’ve finally found one to make you soft” “oh shut it Joon- you’re twice as bad if not worse with jimin.”

- The guest wing in Namjoon’s house is comfortable with a main bedroom, a secondary bedroom with two smaller beds, a study, a sitting room, a bathroom, and a balcony that looks over the ocean the door already open to let in the cool sea breeze and alleviate some of the balmy heat that lingers from the day. Hoseok and Jungkook are a little more subdued in their exploring. Now that you think about it- you realize you’ve never stayed in a house this grand.

- Your old cottage was a hovel, and your student dorm at the medical school you’d attended only slightly worse, even when you’d been a child, you’d been passed from relative to relative, always shoved in back rooms or closets for space. You’d never- not until Yoongi- really been given enough space.

- It’s not that you were abused or mistreated, it just that having such a large family in such a world with so little hardly made it easy. You rarely think about your family now, or what little of it might remain. You hadn’t been well taken care of as a kid, left mostly to your own devices, and you don’t feel guilty- you never have, for suddenly disappearing with Yoongi a little over 3 years ago.

- But oh, how different your life is now, how different a life you’re giving your children. Hoseok shifts and climbs onto the big bed in the main bedroom. “careful of your claws Hobi” you remind him as he settles with a humph in the generous display of velvet throw pillows perfectly arranged at the headboard. Jungkook beside you lists into your leg and you tug him up into your arms, nearly already asleep and relaxing against you fully.

- Hoseok only wakes when the housekeeper shows, plopping a bowl of soup and some bread on the small table and setting down a dish of warm milk on the bedside table. Hoseok’s snout pokes out from under the pillows and he hums in thanks, his tongue darting out to lap it up.

- You thank her while you try to wrestle Jungkook into some pajamas, the youngers so uncoordinated in his sleepiness, you don’t realize until you’re in-between the rich sheets and pressed to the cloudlike softness of the mattress that it’s the first time you’ve slept in a real bed in a few years.

- You also realize you’d seen hide nor hair of Namjoon’s mate, but you guess that can wait for tomorrow. Yoongi’s told you more than a few stories about the dragon and fairy couple, and you’d begun to look forward to meeting Jimin a little bit.

- In your sleep, you dream you’re running through a garden, searching along the edge of a camellia path for someone, something, red and white and pink flowers leading the way. You hasten into a run and break out into a wide space, a dark curly colored head shoots up, hands hovering over a lily blossom, dark eyes on you.

- “You shouldn’t be here.” he says, voice deep and melodic. his lips purse, and he plucks one petal of the lily, you watch as the petal hardens to glass in his hands, shattering with a tinkle when he drops it. “but I guess I’ll be glad for some company after so long.”

- You wake with a start, the sun shining through the open balcony doors and the smell of lily’s stinging your nose, the sea ebbs and flows the lul of crashing waves clams your sudden panic. Yoongi’s face pressed into the nape of your neck. He grumbles when you sit up, pulling you back in close, “too early” he mumbles, pressing slow and sleepy kisses against your bare shoulder, the strap of your nightgown slipped down. You don’t remember when he came in, but you guess it must have been late.

- You turn to press a kiss to his sleepy face, eyes still closed, his mouth tugging up into the gummy smile that you love so much as you cuddle in closer. But your bed is suspiciously cold and absent of your children, and you know with a new place to explore they must have been too excited to sleep, you internally blanch when you think of the mischief they must be getting up to.

- but the bed is warm and even more comfortable When Yoongi grumbles and turns to scent mark you, and you hope that namjoon or the housekeeper is keeping an eye on them, at least for a little while longer so you can enjoy a quiet morning with yoongi. The events of yesterday come crashing down on your shoulders like a lead weight. yoongi stills by your throat, sensing your sudden discomfort. You ask Yoongi about the soul bond.

- he sits back against the pillows tugging you close to rest your cheek on his bare chest. his rough hands drawing aimless circles on the skin of your back. “It’s an old kind of magic Usually between two dragons not of the same family. it’s kind of an assurance to keep groups together really. It’s been a long time since they’ve regularly happened- and usually- it only happens when dragons are under stress” he looks down at you where you pepper kisses on his chest. “Now that I think about it, it kind of makes sense that Hoseok would need one after losing his family.”

- “Is it usually romantic or platonic??” you ask, feeling something strange curl in your stomach, trepidation maybe “it’s not like a mating mark is it?” you can’t help but feel like you’re out of your depth here, there is so much information about dragon kind that you’d been unaware of. you hadn’t realized how little you’d known about their basic political system or even their education system until you came to the city and heard about the flying school and magic academy.

- “No, it’s platonic mostly- it’s more like-” Yoongi gives a frustrated sigh “Namjoon has a soul bonded partner that isn’t Jimin- you know Seokjin-“ “your sorcerer friend that I haven’t gotten around to meeting yet? how many others do you have across the globe that you won’t introduce me to?”

-Yoongi nips at your jaw playfully, “can you really blame me for wanting to keep you to myself my love?” he growls, suddenly flipping you over and pressing your back into the soft mattress, his hand riching up your thigh- taking your nightgown with it. the pads of his fingers are careful and slow as they press in.

- By the time you and Yoongi truly rouse to join the rest of the house for breakfast on the patio, your sons have absolutely terrorized the staff and Namjoon, who seems to eye them with something like appreciation, the book in front of him forgotten. Watching from the head of the table with amusement as Hoseok shifts to be able to reach across the table for more butter better and then shifts back.

- The fresh bread smells sweet and cinnamony and Jungkook seems to already have eaten his fill with sweet elderberry preserve smeared across his face. Jungkook prattles to namjoon a mile a minute and asks about a billion questions about the ocean, mermaids, and pirates from the sound of it.

- He drops off abruptly and smiles when you and yoongi appear from the double doors. “mom you gotta try this it’s so yummy!” Hoseok pouts back, “I’m telling you the strawberry is better,” he holds out a little peace for you to try and the lump of jam slides off the side and onto the table cloth.

- You apologize for the mess but the same head housekeeper just gives you a smile and says that they’d both love to show you the ocean when you’re ready for some exploring today. They’d already made the climb down to the water's edge, and Hoseok tells you that there is a little private beach at the bottom and a set of stairs perfect for you and Jungkook to take.

- Jungkook and Hoseok’s hair is already curly from the saltwater. as you comb through Hobi’s curls and sit down next to him, yoongi sits across from you next to Jungkook, already prepared with a cloth to wipe his cheeks. yoongi grumbles, “how in the world did you get it in your hair Koo?” he says as he dabs at Jungkooks black curls.

- Both Yoongi and Namjoon are a little more subdued than the rest of you- having stayed up late into the night to talk, but you make polite small talk with namjoon about the book he’s forgotten about, and he promises to show you the library at one point “though really- Jimin’s the one who has a thing for collecting books”

-“No wonder the two of them get along,” you say, nudging yoongi with your foot. and it’s true- a seizable portion of Yoongi’s hoard in the mountains back home consists entirely of books. rare ones, old ones, “do you hoard books or more of just- some of the usual stuff?” you don’t see any cases of splendor, fine fabrics or jewels, only the brightly colored roses that line the patio glimmer.

- Namjoon blushes, his horns- once again turning pink in his silver hair, “Uhm no- I hoard other things- you know I’m an ice dragon right?” you nod. Even as the sun starts to warm into mid-morning namjoon looks unbothered by the warmth. a gust of cold air coming from him whenever he shifts in his chair. “well- the reason why I moved south in the first place is because my hoarded object is plants and there aren’t very many that grow where I’m from.”

-Suddenly, the variety of roses and the gardens that swath the property makes sense, as well as the greenhouse that almost dwarves it. “of course, I’m not that great at taking care of them- Jimin helps me a lot- really where is he- I should go get him or else he’ll sleep away the day-”

- It's funny, one-moment Namjoon’s staff are setting you out some sandwiches, namjoon is just sitting up to go get jimin and the next moment a man, a very naked full-sized man, is falling down onto the table. His bare feet knocking the teacups over,

- You have a face full of very pert ass, nothing on him save for the lacelike wings spurting out of his back, his blonde hair curling at his nape. “you called for me? lover?” he purrs “I was wondering when you where gonna come back to bed-“ he starts, voice low and seductive,

- You barely get your hands in front of Hoseok eyes as yoongi smacks both over Jungkooks. Namjoon- sat on the other side of the table- gets the full view going bright red, his horns the same color as the roses behind him.

- “Jimin!” Namjoon screeches, tone scalding. Yoongi starts to laugh.

a/n: A ‘hoarded object’ is the object that a dragon feels the instinctual urge to collect. there are four types of dragons, the type that does not hoard at all, the kind that dosent mind what they hoard as long as it’s shiny (Hoseok, though he does show a preference over gold things vs. silver), dragons that have a slight preference (yoongi- he’s not really sure if he likes books a lot, or if it’s his hoarded object),

and the last type, dragons that hoard one thing and only one thing, this can be literally anything- lamps, pets, teacups, rubies, beta fish, or in namjoon’s case- plants, though he does have a preference for things that flower and bonsai cherry trees.

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