#but i wonder. perhaps a moth fluttered in occasionally

[elysiuminfra]

asterion and the moth

[jyoongim]

If you’re taking requests….(hmmm let’s see…. OH i know!!!)

How about Alastor getting his first crush on a girl. BUT…the girl has never been in a romantic relationship before and is completely oblivious to Al’s flirting. She finally gets the hint when he uses his southern accent (he overheard the reader talking to Angel Dust about how she’s into guys with a southern accent and he’s from the south) and properly asks to court her.

That’s all. Have a wonderful day/night/whatever time you’re reading this

PLEASE AND THANK YOU ❤️❤️❤️

Alastor never fancied himself the type to get flustered. That sort of nonsense was for others—blushing debutantes and young fools stumbling through their first dances. No, he prided himself on being composed, controlled, unbothered by such trivialities.

Which made the current state of affairs all the more humiliating.

He watched her from across the lounge in the Hazbin Hotel. She was sitting at the bar counter, thumbing through a paperback novel, oblivious to the low thrum of activity around her. Her lips moved as she read silently, occasionally pausing to tap her finger against her chin in thought. The motion made something tighten in Alastor’s chest.

Ridiculous, he thought. He, the Radio Demon, reduced to a fluttering mess by someone so utterly… unaware.

He’d been trying, subtly, to get her attention for days now. At first, he attempted charm in his usual, grandiose way—offers of assistance, carefully timed compliments, little magic tricks involving floating glasses and animated shadows that danced to the music he played.

Nothing.

She had smiled, of course—politely, sweetly—but it was the same smile she gave everyone. There was no spark of recognition, no blush, no hesitation in her step when she saw him. No indication she realized he was flirting.

Alastor was nearly offended.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed and one foot lightly tapping the floor in time with the jazz record spinning in the background. Angel Dust sidled up beside him with a smirk, catching the direction of his gaze.

“She still ain’t taken the bait?” Angel asked, popping a bubble of gum.

Alastor’s smile didn’t falter. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, sure. You’ve been hovering around her like a moth on a porch light. Just ask her out already.”

“I would never be so crass,” Alastor replied, waving a hand dismissively. “Romantic pursuits require finesse. Elegance. A gentleman’s touch.”

“Uh-huh,” Angel said, unimpressed. “Well, finesse ain’t working. Maybe try something she actually notices?”

He was about to dismiss Angel entirely when the spider demon added casually, “Heard her talking yesterday. Said something about accents.”

Alastor’s ears perked up ever so slightly.

“Oh?” he said, a little too quickly. “What…sort of accents?”

Angel grinned wickedly. “Southern ones. Said she had a weakness for ‘em. Dunno why—probably the cowboy fantasy or whatever—but she went on about it for, like, ten minutes.”

Alastor straightened, smoothing his lapels thoughtfully. That… was useful information.

He was from New Orleans. He had worked hard to soften the lilt of his accent in public speech, preferring the crisp neutrality of radio diction. But the cadence, the musicality of the South still pulsed in his blood. Perhaps…

“Thank you, Angel,” Alastor said, turning away.

“Don’t mention it, Casanova.”

The next day, she was once again in the lounge, seated at the piano this time, fingers ghosting over the keys as she hummed tunelessly to herself. Alastor approached quietly, his smile soft but sharp, a hunter’s smile, just a little more dangerous today.

He leaned on the piano and said smoothly, “Now, ain’t this a picture? A darlin’ little thing all wrapped up in her own music.”

She looked up, blinking at him, startled. “Oh! Alastor. Hi.”

He gave a slight bow, letting his accent drip a little thicker than usual, like honey poured slow from the jar.

“I was hopin’ I might find you here today.”

She tilted her head, clearly confused. “You were?”

“Mm-hmm.” He leaned in just a fraction. “You see, I’ve been thinkin’—you’ve got a voice sweeter than magnolia wine, and fingers more graceful than a summer breeze. A man could get lost watchin’ you.”

There was a pause.

Then, with a furrow of her brow, she replied: “Do I have something on my face?”

He blinked. “Pardon?”

“You’re… looking at me kind of weird. Is there something wrong?”

Alastor exhaled through his nose. He chuckled—light, pleasant, but tinged with exasperation. “Nothin’ wrong, sugar. Quite the opposite.”

She smiled sheepishly. “Oh, okay. Sorry. I’ve just never been good at reading between the lines.”

That much was becoming abundantly clear.

“Tell me,” Alastor said, letting the chair beside her creak as he sat down, voice velvet-smooth, “have you ever had someone court you before?”

She blinked. “Court me?”

“Yes.” He folded his hands, suddenly earnest beneath the ever-present grin. “Take a genuine, gentlemanly interest in your company. Walk you through the gardens, sing with you in the parlor, bring you little gifts, if you’d let him. Someone who’d admire you deeply, and… respectfully.”

She was looking at him now, her book forgotten entirely.

“You’re asking if I’ve ever dated anyone?”

“Precisely.”

“…No. I haven’t.”

“Well then,” he said, voice dropping just a touch, gaze meeting hers fully now, “I’d like to be the first.”

There was a beat.

Then, a very quiet, “Wait. You’re serious?”

“As serious as a New Orleans summer is humid.”

Her mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “…Is that what you’ve been doing all week?”

“I do hope I haven’t been too subtle,” he said dryly.

“Oh my god,” she breathed, pressing her hands to her face in embarrassment. “I thought you were just being…you!”

Alastor’s laughter bubbled out before he could help it. “And what, pray tell, does that mean?”

“You compliment everyone! You do magic tricks for fun! You talk like a dramatic novel character. I thought that was just your thing!”

He grinned wider, if that were possible. “Ah, but did I compliment anyone else’s eyes in prose-poetry style? Did I call Husk’s frown ‘poetically tragic’ or Charlie’s footsteps ‘music to rival Debussy’?”

“…No.”

“Exactly.”

She groaned softly, dragging her hands down her face. “I missed everything. I’m so sorry.”

“There’s no apology needed.” His tone softened. “Romance isn’t a language everyone speaks fluently. But I’m willing to teach, if you’re willin’ to learn.”

She looked at him again—really looked this time. There was something genuine beneath the eccentricity. A glimmer of vulnerability in the way he held her gaze, even as his smile stayed fixed and bright.

“…You want to court me,” she repeated.

“If you’ll have me.”

She laughed under her breath, disbelieving. “I don’t even know how to be courted.”

“That’s alright, sugar,” he said gently. “I do.”

She paused. Then gave a small nod.

“Alright. You can court me.”

Alastor lit up like a marquee.

“Excellent!” he said, standing and offering her his hand. “Shall we start now? A walk through the garden, perhaps? I hear the moon’s lookin’ especially lovely tonight.”

She took his hand, hesitantly at first, then more surely. His grip was warm and steady.

As they walked toward the lobby doors, she looked sideways at him.

“So, just to be clear…was the shadow puppet of a heart yesterday part of the flirting?”

“Oh, most definitely.”

“…Wow. I thought that was just performance art.”

Alastor chuckled.

“We’ve got a long way to go, don’t we?”

She smiled. “Guess so.”

But her fingers stayed in his, and for the first time in a very long time, Alastor felt the quiet thrill of possibility stir beneath his ever-cheerful facade.

Maybe love wasn’t as trivial as he thought. Maybe—just maybe—it was worth learning how to speak her language, too.

[fromthedeskofelizabeththird]

Hellfire

This is a prequel to Exercises in Self Control, going into the events leading up to Enji's arrival on Reader-chan's doorstep from his POV.

You don't need to have read Exercises in Self Control to enjoy this fic, but I recommend it!

Fandom: BNHA

Pairing: Endeavor x Reader

Rating: Explicit. Minors BE GONE

Trigger Warnings: Enji is possessive and thirsty in this fic so bear that in mind before continuing. Some of Enji’s fantasies involve dub con

Sequel Piece: Exercises in Self Control

AO3: Here | Want to support me? I have a Kofi

For as long as he can remember, Enji has had problems sleeping. He’s counted the ceiling tiles, counted sheep, counted hours. He’s helped himself to cups of tea, herbal and otherwise. He’s tried meditating, he’s tried ASMR, all to no avail.

It doesn’t strike him as out of the ordinary that he can’t sleep tonight either. He stares at the ceiling, eyes wide open, listening out for the wind in the trees outside. He put chimes in their branches on purpose; something to ground himself every time he closes his eyes.

Tonight he’s grounded by something else; the warm body sharing his bed. He lies flat on his back and doesn’t look, listening to your soft breaths.

Enji is a grown man, now twice married, but this is the first time anyone has shared his bed. In his first marriage, he and Rei slept in separate beds. He visited her only occasionally and never bothered to stay the night, making sure to leave the moment the deed was done. Tonight you’re the intruder and his immediate instinct is to tell you to leave.

He can tell you’re asleep from your steady breathing and he wonders how you got so relaxed. His own children never slept in his arms even as babies but here you are, not just an adult but one he stole away, sleeping so calmly that for a second even he believes you’re an ordinary husband and wife.

You’re not, of course; your first conversation was your wedding vows. You became husband and wife knowing little more than one another’s names.

Against his better judgement, he turns to look at you, admiring what details of your face he can make out through the darkness. He knows you’re beautiful without looking.

Your beauty, in fact, was one of the first things he noticed about you and he remembers that moment with perfect clarity.

Even before Rei’s admittance into a hospital, it had been years since he felt welcome in his own home. It fell silent whenever he returned, his childrens’ laughter dying the moment he was in sight. He had always told himself it didn’t bother him; that they would understand when they were older. Everything he did, however cruel, was for their benefit in the long term.

Touya’s death was the first time he questioned it. Rei’s hospitalisation only drove the point home. For the first time in his life, he saw his house for what it truly was: misery and trauma under several layers of paint.

He couldn’t stand being there for more than a few hours, sitting alone in the dark with nothing to do but think. At first he stayed at the office for longer, taking on extra jobs and filing away paperwork long before it was due. It was a temporary solution and one that backfired spectacularly. He was greeted at work one day by smiling interns, who enthusiastically pointed out the piles of paperwork they had completed in his absence. They told him they’d done it so he could spend more time with his family and didn’t understand why he reacted with anger.

Enji realised then that he needed an alternative hiding place; somewhere no one knew him and he could spend the night alone.

He went from one bar to another, never settling down in one for too long. His reputation was crucial to his career and he didn’t want to risk being recognised.

It was with a great deal of reluctance that he finally arrived at a hostess bar. The owner was well versed in discretion and offered him his own table towards the back, as well as his pick of any of the hostesses. Enji didn’t bother to absorb any of their names or memorise their faces. Instead he asked for the owner himself to tend to him. He had a vested interest in his good graces and was therefore less inclined to gossip.

It became his routine for the next few months. Enji would finish up at the office and head straight for The White Rabbit , simmering in the corner as he sipped his drink. He stayed there until the early hours, returning to the estate once everyone else had already gone to bed and leaving for the office before they woke up.

It seems strange to him now. He used to be a regular, but he hasn’t been since he married you.

He remembers your first encounter far more clearly than you do. As far as you are concerned, your first meeting was in your home, the day he bought you from your father.

You couldn’t be more wrong, of course. He’s known you far longer than that.

Enji spent that much time at the bar that he came to know the regulars. He knew which men were married and booked hostesses to escape their wives. He knew which customers worked long hours in an office cubicle and came to the bar to let loose. He knew which ones were heroes as well and just as incognito as he was.

Among all of these customers was a familiar gaggle of six businessmen who very often dropped in after work. They were boisterous and very often blind drunk, booking multiple hostesses to sing karaoke with them.

One night in particular, you attended their table, carrying over a tray of crimson strawberry daiquiris. Your specialty, he found out later.

The businessmen were louder than usual that night and when Enji glanced over at them, it was with disapproval. He quickly became distracted, though, by something else entirely. You were setting a tray of drinks on their table, laughing and smiling as you tended to each customer.

Perhaps it was the backless dress you had on, showing off smooth, unblemished skin that reminded him of undisturbed snow and still waters. Maybe it was the coquettish way you fluttered your eyelashes as you spoke to them, giggling at their bawdy jokes and expertly dodging any of their attempts to take you by the wrist. Perhaps it was the way you left them hanging.

In any case, the next drink he ordered was a strawberry daiquiri and he relished the tangy sweetness, all while thinking of your lips.

That night, for the first time in many years, Enji fell into a deep slumber and deeper dreams. He dreamed about bending you over his desk, holding one arm behind your back and slamming into you so forcefully that you squealed. Your cunt fluttered every time his hips hit your ass, betraying how many times you had unravelled around his girth.

“Enji,” you whined, “Enji please .”

He slapped you across the ass at that, relishing the way you squealed in shock. He let go of your arm, eying the red marks he had left on your skin.

“It’s what you deserve,” he said in his dream, holding onto your hips and driving his cock in deep, so deep that you cried out and gripped the desk. He came so hard that it painted your insides and left him groaning in pleasure. He held you in place as his cock twitched and filled you with his seed, letting go only to shove his fingers deep into you to stop any drops from escaping.

“Enji,” you said, quivering.

He woke seconds later, pleasure running through him and semen covering his sheets. He cursed and threw himself out of bed, spitting obscenities as he rinsed his body clean.

For a moment, just a moment, he hated you. He was filthy, all because of you and your backless dress and long eyelashes.

You’re sleeping with your back to him tonight and he draws back the covers to admire it. He takes in your naked shoulder blades; the way the moonlight hits the curve of your spine. Not so long ago this view was enough to drive him mad.

The dream left an imprint, after all. He thought about it when he brushed his teeth, patrolled the streets, got into the bathtub at night.

He continued to attend the bar, telling himself it was because he liked the atmosphere and not because he hoped to catch another glimpse of your innocent smile.

He told himself he didn’t want you.

He didn’t want to defile you and fuck you senseless.

He didn’t want to fill your belly with yet more Todorokis.

You were a distraction and one he needed to be free of. He was Endeavor, the flame hero, the world’s number two. He couldn’t afford to fall into such debased habits as the businessmen who had tried to paw you. He was better than that, better than them and certainly better than you.

Every night he sipped strawberry daiquiris and masturbated furiously when he got home, fantasising about you in all manner of scenarios, each filthier than the last. He took photos of you as you worked and scrolled through them when he got home. He filmed you at the bar and watched it over and over, knowing what he was doing was wrong.

Heroes didn’t do this. He should have been protecting you from such terrible invasions of privacy, not enabling himself. Something about you, though, prickled at his skin. Something about the backless dresses you sometimes wore and the careful way you mixed drinks. He knew desire all too well, but never for a person. It was intoxicating; addictive. You were untouched and unspoiled and it drew him to you like a moth to a flame. He wanted to spend the rest of his life as relaxed as when he came all over his fingers, before reality sank back in and he remembered the ghosts lurking in every corner of his home.

One night, desperate to be free of you, he ventured into a nightclub and took a girl into the bathroom, pushing her down onto her knees in front of him and holding her in place to fuck her mouth. She had the same colour hair as you and that was why he chose her, pretending you were the one gagging on his cock. He thought it would help him; that once he got a fix he would stop thinking about you. Ultimately, it only made matters worse. The girl in the bathroom wasn’t you and every time he looked down at her he came crashing down to earth. He wondered what you would think of him if you knew what he had done.

It took him ages to cum that night, holding the girl’s head in place as it shot down her throat. She slumped over when he let her go, choking on semen and wiping her mouth even as he dropped notes down to the floor. Just like when he finished alone, Enji felt disgusted, tucking himself away and leaving the girl without bothering to express his gratitude.

He went to the White Rabbit straight afterwards, paying for you to stay at the bar and ordering his usual daiquiri. He expected to feel different, only to curse his own stupidity for ever thinking the woman in the nightclub could have compared.

He splashed out on bracelets, earrings and more, eager for you to wear them. The thought of them touching your body where he couldn’t made his mouth water, even though you never wore them. The only jewellery you ever wore was a set of plain earrings. Your mother’s, he found out later.

Meanwhile, his dreams only grew more obscene.

He dreamed of rescuing you from villains and insisting you spread your legs in exchange. He dreamed of hiring you as one of his house staff, permitted only to serve him without clothes. He dreamed of sitting you down on your knees before him and covering your face in cum.

He was a man possessed, desperate for any sight of you. The realisation came to him slowly: he didn’t only want to corrupt and break you anymore. He wanted you to desire him as he desired you. Perhaps even more.

He wanted you to want him, wanted you to let him touch you.

Every time he sat down in the bar, he almost managed to convince himself that your circumstances were different; that he truly was the honourable man the world believed him to be. He almost believed that his touches wouldn’t ruin you.

He was desperate and not only to be fucked, though refused to acknowledge it.

He told himself it was no weakness on his part, no dent in his armour. He wasn’t as vile or depraved as the businessmen who tried to paw you on a near daily basis.

He begged the owner of the White Rabbit to let him spend the night with you, begged him to leave the pair of you alone. He was quite convinced that he wouldn’t want you anymore the moment he had you in his arms. He’d find an imperfection on your body that would shatter the illusion.

The owner, being a shrewd businessman, refused him every time.

Enji isn’t proud of how cruel he became in his desperation. It wasn’t hard to break the owner into handing over your name, nor to track you down to your home address. It was all too easy to learn of your father’s gambling problems and difficult financial situation.

He was on your doorstep before he knew it, happy to pay any price to keep you under his roof, unspoiled and protected from harm. He was an honourable man, he told himself. He could keep his hands to himself.

It was what you deserved, after all.

You shiver next to him and he drags the covers back over your body, considering that you are the only person he has ever wanted and the only one to want him in return. He brought you into his home, yes, but you’re the one who sought him out. You’re the one who led him to the bedroom and shed your clothes willingly. He’s almost certainly spoiled your body, but if anything that makes him want you more.

He’s addicted to every inch of you: the feeling of being buried within you, the scent of your hair as he holds you close. You’re the only person he’s ever fucked for pleasure and he hasn’t been able to resist ever since. Even now that you’re asleep, he’s desperate for a fix. He feels starved of oxygen and it’s keeping him awake.

Not long ago, he would have prodded you awake and told you to spread your legs. Now, though, he rolls over onto his side so he no longer faces you, content to listen to your gentle breathing instead.

He curses under his breath as you begin to stir and squeezes his eyes shut, laying perfectly still as you yawn and turn over onto your own side to make yourself comfortable. His skin still prickles when you touch him, especially as you drape an arm around his chest and plant kisses on his shoulder.

“Enji,” you whisper, “are you awake?”

He doesn’t answer and you smile before burying your face in the back of his neck, the combined heat of your bodies lulling both of you to sleep.

He has no need of wind chimes to ground him anymore.

[thiswasinevitableid]

Third Time’s The Charm (Indruck)

Prompt for the 10th was: stiches

“I ain’t sure what you thought was gonna happen. That canopy is fuckin dense.”

“In my, ouch, defense I, ow, only crash landed in one percent of futures, OW!” Indrid cuts off into chitters of pain as Duck continues stitching up his shoulder near his wing.”

You know, Duck had been hoping someone from home would visit him out here in Brazil. He just wasn't expecting the mothman to be the first one to show up. 

And he really wasn’t expecting him to crash to the ground near Ducks small cabin that he stays in when not in the field. In spite of his wing clearly bleeding, he’d told Duck to hurry into town to head off yet another fire. When Duck came back two hours later to find Indrid trying to stitch up his wing using the bathroom mirror and a very odd contortion, he ordered him to sit down on the closed toilet seat so he could do the damn thing right.

He’s halfway through now, Indrid’s feathers making things tricky. The Sylph staying in this form until it was over, since his pain tolerance is higher when he’s not human.

“Thank you for not insisting on taking me to a hospital.”

“The closest one is an hour away and I don’t know enough Portuguese to explain the mothman to a doctor.” Duck adjusts his stance slightly so he’s not blocking the light he needs to work, “gotta say, for all your chirpin, you’re doin pretty damn well.”

“As you pointed out, one cannot go as ‘mothman’ to a hospital. And after documentation became more common, it became harder to produce identifying documents that wouldn’t raise too many questions. One gets used to home surgery and unpleasant infections.”

Duck raises an eyebrow, concerned by the last part of that sentence.

“Do not worry, Duck Newton, I know enough healing spells that it has never become an issue.”

“I mean, that’s good to know but Indrid, that ain’t no way to live.”

“Perhaps not. But it was often the price of helping prevent disaster. Or trying to.”

“You helped us a hell of a lot in Kepler.”

The Sylph hums in acknowledgement, hisses as Duck pulls the last stitch through. He stays quiet as Duck bandages him. Awkward silence is broken only by insects and the occasional bird, and a question taps at the back of Duck’s skull.

“I, uh, I thought you were goin back to Sylvain. Handin the job off to Leo and all that.”

“I considered that, and Leo is welcome to use his foresight as he pleases. But as I told you on our first meeting, I fell in love with earth. I have been away from Sylvain for a long time. I searched for a solution to her decline for a century. You and the others solved it in one-hundredth of that time. So it is not as if the kingdom will welcome me back as a hero. And I do not want my old position back. No, Duck Newton, if I am going to be a failure, have my warnings ignored, I may as well do so on the planet I like better.”

“Now, hold on-” Duck wants to argue, but Indrid swivels his head, red eyes as disconcerting as they were when they met. He looks very sure of his conclusion. More than that, he looks tired.

“Your question had a dual purpose, so I will answer what was implicit; you want to know why I’m here and not somewhere else.”

“I, uh, I mean yeah, but I ain’t-”

“-trying to be rude, nono, I do not doubt that. I came to you because the fire I foresaw would be as bad, if not worse, as the one you are helping undo the damage from. And it is easier to stop disaster when I don’t have to waste time making someone believe I can really see the future.” He stands, taking up half the bathroom, “thank you for your help. I will put on my glasses and be on my way. Can I trouble you for a ride into town?”

“No, I mean yeah, but jesus christ Indrid, you crashed. I just finished stitching you up! You oughta rest up some.’

Indrid cocks his head, “Yes, hence the trip into town. I can rest there until my wing is healed.”

“You got no one to tend those stitches, and I got a couch that ain’t bein used.”

“But you do not want me here.” He barely sounds hurt, just resigned,  and somehow that makes Duck feel worse than if the Sylph was crying.

And a little annoyed.

“Did I say that?”

“No. But we were hardly close friends, and what is more you have spent a great deal of your life with aliens popping into your space unannounced. Where is she, by the by? I thought she was coming with you.”

Duck sticks his hands into his pockets, staring down as he shrugs, “forestry ain’t exactly her area of interest. And, uh, once the trauma-bondin’ wore off, think we both needed some time to sort some things out.”

Indrid stares blankly at him a moment, and then he chirrs, “You’re lonely.”

“Hey I, I’m uh, I- how the fuck did you know that?”

“You said so in some futures.”

“Are there futures where you accept my offer and get your fuzzy ass on the couch before you pass out?” Duck doesn’t mean to sound grumpy, but Indrid just bumped into two sore spots in Duck’s psyche.

Oddly, Indrid snickers, “I forgot how stubborn you can be. Very well, I accept your offer of the couch.”

By the time Duck gets back with a spare pillow, the Sylph is asleep, chirping peacefully. 

------------------------------------------------

“What are you doing?”

“GAHfuck”

“Apologies.” Indrid only looks partially sorry, his human grin wide when Duck glares at him. 

“That some sort of Sylph silence spell?”

“No, just years of practice trying not to be heard in the halls when I was seer.” 

Last Duck saw him, he was still asleep on the couch, mumbling and chirring in pain when Duck changed the bandage. Duck would like to say that’s all he remembers, except there was a moment after he finished and Indrid’s eyes fluttered open as he sighed out a “thank you.” And that sight, the way Indrid looked in the morning light, safe and trusting, had tugged at his heart. 

“May I keep you company? I am not in much of a state to do much else, even watch futures. Hitting my head tends to do that.” 

“Uh, sure. I’m on my own for the mornin, not sure how excitin it will be.”

“I wish to know everything.”

Duck’s about to make a crack about being careful what you wish for when he gets a good look at Indrid’s face. The Sylph is grinning eagerly and is even flapping his hands a bit as he speaks.

“I want to see what you see in this jungle.”

So Duck shows him, everything from the saplings they’ve chosen to the creatures darting in and out of view. Indrid asks questions and makes excited noises, but mostly he listens, lets Duck talk or not as it pleases him. They’ve been in a stretch of silence when Duck turns and guffaws. 

Indrid, sitting on a log, is covered in butterflies, some as big as Duck’s hand and in all colors of the rainbow. 

“Guess they know a relative when they see one.”

The Sylph beams, “I was wondering how long it would be before you noticed.”

“Wait, did you summon them?”

“No, they just sort of...do this. It may be for moth reasons, or perhaps I have eaten so much sugar they smell it in my pores. I was, however, hoping they would join me, because I foresaw it making you happy.”

That same affection sparks in Duck’s chest.

“Alright, you heard enough from me today. Now I wanna know all about what you been doin since the world didn’t end.”

Indrid tells him about his attempts to stay in Kepler, his promise to Stern to not get photographed too much, his relentless teasing of Barclay for falling in love with the agent. His travels to other states to stop disasters, newly energized in his successes in Kepler.

“If you can call them that,”

“I’d say you can.”

Indrid holds out his hand, studying the speckled butterfly perched on it, “You renewed so much of my belief that things could change. At the cottonwood, when you promised me you’d find  a way to stop what was coming, stop the sinkhole I...it meant a great deal. Even if your method of freeing me was rather, ah, abrupt.”

He rubs the back of his neck, “Yep, not my best plan, but it worked.”

“The bruise only lasted nine days, it was worth it in the end.”

Duck shoots him a playfully hurt smile, “Hey, don’t make me feel bad, I apologized.”

Indrid raises an eyebrow.

“Oh fuck” Duck tugs his hat down over his eyes, “I didn’t, I never fuckin apologized for punchin you.”

“In your defense, there were more pressing matters.” There it is again, that resignation. Duck wants to yank it out of Indrid’s tone and stomp it to bits. Instead, he steps forward, rests a hand on each of Indrid’s biceps. 

“Indrid, I’m so fuckin sorry. Even if it helped save you, I’m sorry you got hurt again and it was me that did it.”

“I…” Indrid closes his mouth, opens it again, repeats that motion before managing, “I did not see that reply coming.” He smiles a new smile, small and secretive, as if he’s been given something precious, “thank you for saying that, Duck.”

-----------------------------------------------------

“I see why they call it a rainforest.” Indrid stares out the window as drops batter it.

“Yep.” Duck zips up his raincoat, smirking at the bundled up silver haired man, “guessin you ain’t joinin me?”

“I do not enjoy wet weather. Though if you want company I can oh, no, never mind.”

Duck’s radio crackles, and a quick conversation informs him that the conditions at the current reforestation site are too swamped to get anything done.

“Guess I got the day off. Uh, what do you wanna do?”

“I planned to draw and track futures, but I foresee you offering to teach me a card game, and I prefer that future.”

They end up on the floor by the couch, since Indrid seldom sits in chairs in a normal way anyway, mug of coffee in front of Duck and tea with half the sugar jar in front of Indrid. Duck teaches him several games, and as they play Indrid gets going on a tangent about his stint as a cardshark in Las Vegas, and the years he relied on hitchhiking to get around. Duck tells him about growing up in Kepler, about all the years between turning eighteen and now, the ones that plenty of people in his life treated as irrelevant to his life story. 

They end up playing and talking until nightfall. Duck knows he should head to bed, that he has work tomorrow, but he doesn’t want to stop hearing Indrid’s laugh or seeing him scribble down futures. 

He misses him when he goes to sleep.

Around eleven, his body makes an executive decision and he nods off leaning against the couch. He wakes up a few hours later to fluff on his cheek and comforting weight across his chest. Opening his eyes, he finds his head is in Indrid’s lap and a large black wing blankets him. 

Even in his sleep, Indrid is terrifying in this form. At least, that's the argument his brain makes; Indrid is huge and alien, dangerous when he wants to be. 

His heart disagrees. There’s nothing to be scared of. Indrid is his friend, wants nothing from him other than to get to know him. He’s soft, that helps, and clearly thinks of Duck as someone worth protecting. The sleep chirping is pretty fucking cute, too. 

Red eyes open, two nightlights in the dark cabin. Indrid’s antenna are twitching and he’s clicking the claws of his upper hands together. 

“Apologies, you sort of nodded off while we were talking and I caught you when you tipped over. I felt odd carrying you to bed, and this form seemed better to lay on, and then you started shivering so I put my wing-oh.”

Duck rolls over so he’s on his side, facing Indrid’s fuzzy abdomen, “Not complainin’, ‘Drid. Just adjustin’.”

He shuts his eyes, and for a moment clawtips trace his hair.

“Goodnight, Duck.”

----------------------------------------------

He’s been living with Duck for three months now. Far too long to count as “recovery” and thoroughly pushing the definition of “vacation.” Indrid doesn’t want to go. And Duck doesn’t want him to either, if his actions are any indication. He’s fixed up the one spare room to be a guest room, includes Indrid in planning out the week, including planning a few day trips on the days he isn’t working. It's as if he wants Indrid around.

(It’s as if he wants a future with him).

Indrid can no longer attribute it solely to loneliness. Yes, Duck misses his friends and family, but he clearly gets along with his fellow rangers and the other staff on the project, and in that very Duck way of his has become a regular at places in the nearby town, having enough Portuguese to ask the woman who runs the cafe about her grandkids or the mail carrier how his garden is doing. 

Which means he’s keeping Indrid around out of pity, charity, or genuine affection. That the last option even exists makes Indrid want to take to the sky in celebratory flight. 

He’s been alive a  long time. He knows what a crush feels like, and he knows that's what he feels for Duck. He also feels it deepening into something else, and if he could be sure the ranger felt the same he’d tell him in an instant. 

His crush is not helped by the fact that Duck asked if he wanted to go for a weekend in Porto Velho and how they’re here, on their second night, at a spot that's a little fancier than Indrid is used to, with Duck looking extra-handsome across from him. 

Come to think of it, Duck’s looked rather more put-together all weekend, even when they were in parks rather than museums (at the former he’d laughed when Indrid was alarmed by the far too big fish, and at the latter he seemed like he was actually listening when Indrid talked about art).

Duck keeps fidgeting during dinner, and Indrid suddenly understands; this is a farewell weekend. He’s going to ask Indrid to leave, is trying to soften the blow. 

When Indrid declines dessert, the ranger actually frowns with worry, covers it by jokingly asking if Indrid is sick. By the time they get back to the hotel, Indrid is so nervous he can't get the timelines to cooperate in his mind, and so he decides to be proactive. 

Duck doesn’t turn the lights on, inclining his head towards the balcony. Indrid follows him out into the night air, the city bathing them in light from below and the moonlight cascading down to meet it. Indrid leans on the railing looking out. Duck leans next to him, so close Indrid can count the laugh lines on his face.

“This has been a wonderful trip, thank you for bringing me.”

“Yeah?” Duck’s face brightens, borders on excitement as he turns his body slightly towards Indrid, “I’m glad to hear that. I, uh, worked real hard on plannin it for us.”

Indrid nods, glances back out towards the cit, “I will be out of your hair as soon as we get back ho-, to, ah, to the cabin.”

Duck’s entire frame crumples inwards, “Oh, uh...okay. Yeah. If that's what you need to do, uh, you, uh, you do it.”

Indrid cups his cheek, forcing his fingers to stay still, “Thank you for letting me stay. And for planning me such a lovely send off.”

“Indrid, how could I plan for somethin I didn’t think was happenin?” 

“Ah, um, I simply assumed-”

“‘Drid” Duck steps closer, “do you think I want you gone?”

No point in lying now, not when Duck is always so truthful. 

“Yes.”

“Did I do somethin? Is this too much? Fuck, it is, ain’t it, I knew the whole romantic dinner for two thing was gonna be too far.”

Indrid has been alive a long time. The fact he can still be this oblivious is remarkable to him. 

“‘Drid, I’m so fuckin sorry, I uh, I thought-” He gasps when Indrid guides his face up for a kiss, and he’s so warm and comforting and there and he’s kissing Indrid bck, kissing him like it’s all he remembers how to do

When they break the kiss Indrid grins, “You thought right, Duck.”

“Oh thank fuckin god.” 

With that Duck pounces, hooking his hands under Indrid’s thighs and lifting him up, kissing him over and over on their somewhat precarious trip to the bed. 

Indridi has had plenty of sleepless nights. This turns out to be the first time he enjoys one. 

And several months later, when Duck returns to Kepler for the screening of a very special episode of Saturday Night Dead, Indrid steps off the plane with him, grinning in the West Virginia Sun.

[jade4813]

Like Moths to a Flame, Chapter 7

Fandom: North and South

Title: Like Moths to a Flame

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: John/Margaret

Synopsis: “I hope you realize that any foolish passion for you on my part is entirely over.“ Margaret decides to confront John about his unjust judgment of her character, but the two have always been drawn to each other, and things quickly get out of hand. In the aftermath, she agrees to marry him to satisfy propriety, but she cannot forget how ready he was to believe the worst of her. Can love survive without trust, or will the two find a way to work through the misunderstandings that have plagued their relationship from the start?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

It snowed every day leading up to John and Margaret’s wedding, the weather unseasonably cold for the season, but the morning of the ceremony dawned crisp and bright, without a cloud in the sky. Soon enough, the air would fill with dirt and smoke, eclipsing the bright sunshine, but the morning sun promised to provide the perfect day for a wedding. John would have credited the favorable weather with bestowing good fortune upon his marriage if he were superstitiously inclined, but his mind had always tended along a more pragmatic path.

Though not normally given to fits of nervous anxiety, he found himself incapable of remaining still, his hands repeatedly worrying at the folds of his cravat as he paced the length of his drawing room. The hour was early, yet, and he supposed he should turn his attention to work in the hopes it might occupy his mind until the appointed hour. However, it seemed a waste of time to even make the attempt, when he knew his mind would fail to fixate on any particular task, no matter his intentions.

Once more, his hands raised to his cravat, giving it a slight tug. This simply wouldn’t do. If he couldn’t manage to get this newly developed habit under control, he would have to replace the wrinkled fabric before heading to the church.

“You’re looking fine.” His mother’s voice drew his attention to the doorway, where she lingered to watch him with her eyes filled with maternal affection. Embarrassed that she had caught him in his preoccupation, he turned to her with a smile, forcing himself to remain still as she approached to worry at his cravat in turn.

“Well?” he teased her gently. “Will I do?”

She scoffed. “Oh, you’ll do well enough,” she replied, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice entirely. “Any woman of sense would be proud to stand up with you today. Maybe she will too, if she doesn’t decide she’s too high and mighty to take you after all.”

He had no worry on that account. Whatever her failings, he was certain that she would hold to her promise. “She’ll be there,” he reassured her with quiet confidence.

“Perhaps,” his mother allowed as he stepped past her to gaze out the window. The smoke had already begun to fill the sky, blotting out the sun. “I know you care for her, and for your sake, I hope she makes you happy. I only wish you could have found someone who deserved you. Someone who could love you in return.”

Though he continued to stare out the window, he no longer took in the sights as he turned his mind to contemplation of her words. “I could never expect a woman like her to love a man like me. My love for her will have to be enough,” he remarked in a soft voice. Clutching his hands behind his back, he turned to face his mother once more. “Regardless of her feelings, I’m certain she won’t do anything to dishonor our marriage.”

She wasn’t so trusting. “If she had so much honor, she’d have had more care for her reputation, and there’d be no need for you to offer her the protection of your name.” For once in no the mood to argue, he forbore to mention that Margaret would never have agreed to marry him if her reputation had remained unsullied. She had made it quite clear when he’d proposed to her before that she was too far above the likes of him. She only agreed to marry him now because she’d fallen lower in her own estimation, if not in his.

Capturing his mother’s hand, he asked, “I know of your feelings toward her, but she’s going to be my wife. I wish for my sake that you’d make an effort with her.”

She sniffed. “Oh, you don’t have to worry about me. I hate her, but if you’re right about her, she’ll be a Thornton soon enough. I don’t have to like her to take care of my own.”

He had no cause to doubt the truth of her words. Whatever his mother’s feelings, she was fiercely protective of her family and the Thornton name. Her pride would compel her to defend the new Mrs. Thornton as staunchly as she did either of her children.

Having said her peace, his mother squeezed his hand. “Now, everything’s ready for this evening. I’ve asked Jane to prepare Miss Hale’s room, and she’ll stay behind to make sure all her things are set up properly when they arrive this afternoon.” Her own things would be taken to Fanny’s, where she would stay for the next fortnight at least, allowing the newlyweds some privacy since they wouldn’t be able to take a wedding tour until the mill’s financial difficulties were resolved.

“Separate bedrooms, Mother? I didn’t think you’d hold by those Southern traditions,” he asked in good humor.

“A proper lady like her? We wouldn’t want to frighten her with our rough Northern ways. Now come. Sit with me for a while. I won’t have you to myself much longer.”

Indeed. In a few hours, Margaret would return to this house to assume her position as its new mistress. As his wife. He took position in the chair by his mother’s side, reaching up one more time to worry the fabric of his cravat.

Across town, Margaret had awoken determined to conduct her morning walk through the cemetery. The morning breeze carried a chill that brought stinging tears to her eyes as she stood on the hilltop and looked toward the mill that would soon be her home. It would be bittersweet, to leave the house she’d shared with her parents behind. She worried about her father growing lonely in her absence, as he’d never entirely recovered from her mother’s death. But that small, dingy house had seen such sorrow in so short a time, she would never look upon it as she did her beloved Helstone, with joyful nostalgia.

When she was younger, and still wrapped in the throes of romantic sensibility, Margaret had occasionally wondered how she might feel when this day dawned. She’d always assumed she’d walk beneath the trees whose bows were as familiar to her as the rosebushes that brought such color into her life to meet her beloved at the church where she’d attended sermons from the time she was a child. There had been no question of whether she’d look upon her wedding day with eager anticipation – merely whether she’d also be overcome by such genteel flutter of nerves that were befitting an innocent young lady.

Now confronted with the reality of her upcoming nuptials, she found that she could claim to be neither. She wasn’t eager to become a bride, for although she’d always imagined she’d marry for love, her attachment to Mr Thornton was not based on such sentiment. Nor was she overset by excessive anxiety, for the course of her future had been set from the moment the news of her engagement had been made public – if it hadn’t been put on its inalterable path sooner, during her shameless display in her father’s sitting room. Though she could not yet claim the title of “Mrs Thornton,” the upcoming ceremony had more of the essence of a formality, to sanctify their union in the eyes of God. There was no purpose in fretting over that which she couldn’t change, and so Margaret faced the day with a calm pragmatism that would have scandalized her younger self.

Her emotional equanimity lasted until she returned to her house to prepare for the day ahead. She had barely mounted the first stair when she heard her father’s voice call out to her. “Margaret? Is that you?” She smiled with warm affection at his beloved countenance as he looked over the railing at her. “Come up here, will you? There’s something I want to give you.”

Dutifully, she did as he asked, though her heart plummeted when she realized his destination. She’d avoided his sitting room as much as possible, ever since that day with John, afraid that her father would somehow mystically divine her scandalous behavior the moment she stepped foot into the room. Unable to avoid doing so now, she purposefully turned her back to the table that had played such a pivotal role in that ill-conceived illicit union, desperate to avoid the memories the sight of it would evoke. Though she hoped to convey a composed demeanor, she was afraid her father would read her mortification and shame – prompted both by the act itself and her own acknowledgment that she did not regret their behavior that day as much as a proper lady should.

It had brought her to this moment, after all. It was about to make her John’s wife.

But wait. She stopped short at the thought. Surely that could be no cause for celebration. Hadn’t she already decided as much? So where had that errant thought come from now?

Pushing the inconvenience of that question aside, she asked, “Yes, Father?”

For a moment, she was afraid she might have been found out, as her father threw her a considering look, his expression grave. Her relief was immeasurable, therefore, when he said kindly, “It’s only natural to worry about the future ahead of you, but try not to fret. His ways may be different, but I’m confident he’ll give you no reason to regret becoming his wife.”

Before she could reassure him that she was of the same mind, his gaze grew distant as his thoughts drifted to the past, to happier times he had shared with his own bride. “Your mother and I…we married for love, as you know. I’m afraid I made her desperately unhappy, in those last few months of her life, but I hope that the years of joy that we shared were enough for her to never regret having married me.”

When Margaret would have protested, he cut her off. “No, it’s all right.” His eyes focusing on his daughter once more, he offered her a soft smile. “I never regretted her, at least. Whatever mistakes I’ve made in my life, loving her was never one of them.” He cleared his throat. “I worried, when I brought you to Milton, that I was taking you away from any chance that you might form a similar attachment of your own. I cannot tell you how pleased I’ve been to watch you and John fall in love, just as I once did with your mother.”

Abandoning all pretense of composure, Margaret felt her face flame bright red. “N-no, I – that is, we don’t – that’s—” she stammered, scrambling for the words that would disabuse her father of his foolish notion without divulging the secrets this room carried. Secrets he would never believe.

But perhaps she should allow him his delusion. It would only break his heart, causing him additional grief and concern on her behalf, to realize the truth of the matter. Let him think theirs would be a marriage of love, if it brought him peace.

“Mr Thornton and I would be blessed to claim half the love you and Mother shared,” she replied as honestly as she could manage.

The smile on her father’s face was worth the deceit. “Oh, I have something for you!” From his pocket, he pulled out a necklace. The delicate gold chain supported a pendant – a single pearl. It was simple and beautiful, and Margaret remembered her mother wearing it on occasion, in simpler, happier days. “I gave this to your mother at our wedding. It isn’t much, but…I think she’d want you to have it.”

Overcome by emotion, Margaret nodded and leaned up on her toes to press a kiss against his cheek. She turned, closing her eyes to avoid compounding her mortification by the sight of that table, to allow him to fasten the clasp around his neck.

“There now,” he said, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she turned to face him once more. “I won’t keep you. I know you have a lot to do to get ready.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, pressing one more kiss against his cheek as she fled from the room. Taking refuge in her former bedroom, she attempted to regain her composure. Once her heart had resumed a slow, steady pace, she stared at her reflection in bemusement for a long moment.

That she and John might be in love? Whatever could have given her father that impression?

Her earlier composure notwithstanding, Margaret quailed as she approached the wide church doors on her father’s arm. Although she felt certain she’d made the right choice in deciding not to cry off the engagement, she hadn’t forgotten her earlier fear that Mr Thornton might come to resent her for binding him for life to a loveless union. That he would always endeavor to treat her with respect was certain; he was too good a man to do otherwise. But although she’d never sought his love, her heart ached at the prospect that she might need to one day reconcile herself to polite disdain as her only cold companion.

The future was uncertain, she told herself as she stepped into the serene sanctuary of the church. Her eyes locked on John’s, and the steadiness of his gaze gave her courage. He didn’t look as though he might one day come to resent her. Indeed, he looked pleased to be taking her for his bride. Their life together might not be all that he had wanted, but perhaps her fearful premonitions would never come to pass, after all.

Finding comfort in the presence of her husband-to-be, Margaret kept her attention fixed on him as she made her way to the front of the church. She hardly noticed the words of the holy ceremony, struck as she was by the handsomeness of the man by her side. He had always cut a compelling figure; even when she had believed herself to dislike him, she’d been unable to tear her eyes away from him. She’d sought him out in every room, searched for him on every street. He’d challenged her, frustrated her, even angered her, and yet she’d found herself compelled to send one last look at him over her shoulder, every time she walked away.

Now, dressed in his Sunday best, it was enough to make even the most sensible girl’s heart run away with her, to spark the imagination of even the most prosaic minds, inspiring an endless stream of fairy tale love stories and happily-ever-afters. She watched him out of the corner of her eye throughout the ceremony, silently cataloguing every expression that crossed his countenance, her heart racing anew at each subtle gesture and movement.

Was every bride so fanciful and foolish at her wedding? It seemed only right that one should be so, the recognition of this fact sufficient to soothe any alarm that might otherwise overtake her at the realization of his effect upon her.

When it came time to exchange their vows, Margaret found her voice surprisingly calm and firm, her words carrying over the congregation with confident authority. To her astonishment, it was her groom, typically so self-assured, who gave in to a slight display of nervous excitement, at first attempting to slip her wedding band upon the wrong hand. The crowd tittered in indulgent humor as she offered him a gentle correction, guiding him to the correct appendage, and the wedding ceremony concluded without further incident. His lips pressed upon hers, the embrace properly chaste for the occasion, and it was done.

In the eyes of the law and of the church, Miss Margaret Hale was no more. She was bound to him for all eternity as his wife. Mrs John Thornton. Margaret Thornton.

He slipped his hand in hers as they faced the congregation, and her gaze roamed the crowd, searching for familiar faces. So few of her own friends and family had been able to attend the ceremony – her party consisted primarily of her father, the Higgins family, and Mr Bell. Still, Nicholas offered her an encouraging smile when their eyes met, his own aglow with mischievous happiness, and she was warmed by both his presence and genuine affection. Though he had once held her fiancé – no, her husband, she reminded herself sternly – in a sort of contemptuous distrust, she understood the two men had formed a sort of understanding, gaining mutual respect as they worked together to address some of the more pressing needs of the millworkers under Mr Thornton’s care.

They left the church in a flurry of well-wishes and stood outside to greet their guests in turn. As Margaret accepted Mary’s congratulations, drawing the younger girl in for a brief embrace, she saw her new mother-in-law (was she to refer to her as “Mother Thornton” from now on? What a terrifying thought!) approach, remaining nearby until the last of the guests had trickled through the church doors. At first, she thought perhaps the older woman remained close to ensure Margaret did nothing to discredit herself or her new family, but she was amazed to realize that her mother-in-law did so in a tacit show of support for the new couple, silently conveying her approval of the newest member of her family – an approval Margaret had more than sufficient cause to understand wasn’t genuine, but was appreciated nonetheless.

Still struck by this unanticipated extension of familial loyalty on her behalf, Margaret found herself compelled to speak of it to her husband upon finding herself alone with him in the carriage on the way to the wedding breakfast. “Is your mother feeling entirely herself today?” she asked teasingly as she resisted the temptation to relax into his arms for the duration of the drive. “I could swear she wanted everyone to believe she approves of our marriage, when I can’t believe her opinion of me has changed so dramatically.”

Reaching for her hand, he covered it in his own, his fingers absently stroking against hers as he remarked, “You’re a Thornton now. Whatever her private reservations, my mother would never discredit our name by speaking publicly against any member of our family.” After a moment’s pause, he ventured in a grave voice, “I know you’ve had your disagreements, but would you make an effort with her? It would mean a great deal to me if the two of you could come to an understanding.”

“Of course,” she agreed readily, though she knew it was easier said than accomplished. Leaning in slightly until her shoulder pressed against his, she lifted one hand to cup his cheek, marveling at the newfound freedom to do so without the risk of public embarrassment or ridicule if they were seen exchanging such a tender gesture. “You’re a fortunate man, you know. Your mother loves you very much.”

“As your mother loved you, I’m sure. And as she would have loved a son, if she’d had one,” he agreed readily. It was her opportunity to explain the truth of that scene he’d witnessed in the train station. She even opened her mouth to do so – to divulge the truth that her parents did have a son, but he was currently (and perhaps forever) separated from them by fear of an unjust punishment accorded to him for his role in a morally just mutiny. But she found she could not. If she told him the truth, she had no doubt that he would forgive her readily, but then she would never know if his trust in her would have ever overcome his pride. And though she couldn’t explain why, it had become increasingly important that he not just treat her with honor. She needed to know that this man – John, her husband – believed in her.

Heedless of her mental preoccupation, he continued, “It’s true. I am fortunate in her love.” The carriage had slowed, and his gaze drifted out the window as he mused to himself in a voice almost too soft for her to hear, “She’s the only one who truly cares for me.”

The carriage rocked to a halt, but Margaret refused to release his hand, giving it a slight tug when he would have pulled away. “Surely you don’t mean that!” she protested hotly. Sadly, before he could reply, the carriage door opened, and the newlyweds were swept into such celebratory revelry of their nuptials that drove all thoughts of his softly spoken declaration from her thoughts.

The remainder of the day passed in a blur, leaving Margaret exhausted as they returned to the house that she would now call home. Resting her head against her husband’s shoulder, she allowed her thoughts to drift, lulled to a state of hazy consciousness by the rhythmic rocking of the carriage. She was only brought back to herself when the carriage came to a halt and she felt the soft press of a kiss against the top of her head.

Her eyes fluttering open, she flushed in embarrassment, but John didn’t appear to notice her discomposure. Instead, he stepped out of the carriage before reaching inside to help Margaret onto her feet. To her surprise, however, he didn’t escort her down the carriage step. Instead, he lifted her easily into his arms, carrying her to the front door. When she let out a tiny gasp of surprise at her sudden weightlessness, he smiled down at her, his eyes glinting with tender affection. “Come now, Mrs Thornton. Surely it’s tradition to carry the bride across the threshold in the South, as well?”

She nodded, too struck by the strength of his arms to reply. He carried her as though she weighed nothing, and she closed her eyes as she marveled at the play of muscles against her side as he moved. She found herself struggling against disappointment when he ducked through the front door and placed her gently back onto her feet.

His voice embraced her like a caress as he pressed a kiss against her lips. “Welcome home, Mrs Thornton.”

[dholwrites]

All The Little Things

Notes: Commission piece for @dialga Relationship: Crystal Exarch x Female WoL (Na’na Niall) Rating: G - General. (Very high fluff content) 

Ao3 Link

4 sweet moments between a knight and her prince after the return of the night.

1 Stars and the Moon

The stars danced before his eyes on the backdrop of a pitch sea. They sparkle together with the full moon, hung high and clear as the sun. Ever since Na’na returned the night to Lakeland, he couldn’t resist the way it pulled his eyes upwards. The way the tower walls glowed under the moonlight tugged at the memories of his youth; moments when he would hide out in high corners to read a book, discuss theories with NOAH, or catch himself daydreaming about Na’na. G’raha quietly chuckled to himself. It had been a while.

“There you are, I was wondering where you disappeared to,” a sweet voice called from behind him. Na’na had climbed up the stairs into his hiding spot, her footsteps barely letting out a sound. How she knew to look up here, he would never know. The sound of his heartbeat echoed in his ears as she moved to sit down next to him. His gaze lingered on her profile, captivated by the way her hair and ribbon played in the wind, a smile on her lips and excitement in her eyes. Thankfully, she was too distracted by the constellations to notice his staring. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? You can see all the stars from up here.”

“Yeah...” He trails off before turning his gaze back towards the sky. “It reminds me of the skies in Mor Dhona. I wish I could see them again.” With you. Those words fell at the tip of his tongue like lead, yet his heart flutters at the mere thought of being so balant about his affections.

‘It’s not as lovely as you.’ Would that be too cliche? Perhaps ‘you’re more beautiful than every star in the sky,’ would be a better choice?

“Oh, Raha, you silly prince.”

“Prince?! But- I- I’m- wh- w-wait a moment!” His heart leaped with joy at the nickname. His cheeks grew warm as words tumbled out of his mouth before he could catch them. Did his words slip without him realizing it? His train of thought came to a halt at the sudden warmth on his hand and side. Na’na had slid from her spot to be right next to him, resting her head against him. G’raha could barely calm his frantic heart before it leapt out of his chest at the soft hands taking his. 

His gaze begins to drift back towards her eyes as they light up at every constellation she can find in the night sky. Then to her lips, captivating him by how soft they look. Surely they would feel just as soft when he kissed her. His eyes continued to travel until they found their way to their intertwined hands. They felt so small compared to his own. His mind whispers to hold onto her, to keep her close even if she needs to leave. That still hadn't changed since he last saw her centuries ago. 

“Raha?” He snaps back into reality at the sound, blinking owlishly when they lock eyes again. 

“Apologies, I can’t help but get lost in thought. I couldn’t help but think about the Source.”

Na’na lets go of his hand to wrap her arm around his back, pressing herself to his chest. “Even if you are here in this world, we can still see the same sky. Remember, no matter where you are and who you become, you will still be my ‘Raha’.”

With her simple words, a realization dawned upon Raha; if Na’na Niall hinted at wanting to touch a star, he would gladly put the entire galaxy into her hand. 

“You look at me like I’m a star in the sky,” Na’na jokes, giving his hand an affectionate squeeze.

G’raha lets out a small laugh, “Because you are.” 

2 Sharing a Meal

G’raha lets out a sigh at the sight of books piled high around him. Most of them were books borrowed from the Cabinet of Curiosity, while everything else he brought from the Source. Hopefully, at least one of them would help him find a solution to the Scion’s predicament. He owed it to them for causing this when he first summoned them here. Yet his mind started to wonder every time he attempted to pick up a book and start his new task.

Days flew by in a daze after their stargazing date, and G’raha had gotten even clumsier since then. Lyna had more than once saved him from tripping down the stairs, pulled him aside from running into a lamppost during an inspection, and made sure that he was actually paying attention to what he was reading. The captain had become increasingly distressed over all the accidents, despite his best attempts to assure her that he was definitely not getting sick. The source of his mishap is much more... personal. No one needed to know that he’d been daydreaming about the Warrior of Darkness, especially not if there was a chance that word would get back to her. 

His thoughts come to a halt when something sweet gets shoved into his mouth.

“ Rarararahaaa~” A familiar voice cooed from behind him. Not a moment later a piece of cake carefully balanced on a spoon appeared before his eyes, this time offering it for him to take it instead. Na’na had moved beside him with two slices of cake balanced on the other hand. “Say ‘Aaaaaaah~’”

“Aaaah,” he hesitantly opens his mouth and allows himself to be fed, the warmth of his cheeks coming back twofold. G’raha took the extra time to savor the piece, the sweet and fluffy cream with an equally light and soft sponge, the cake baked perfectly. “Did you get these from the market downstairs? They are perfect.”

“You can thank me by finishing a slice.” Na’na had already scooped another piece into his mouth, letting out a huff as he obediently chewed. “You shouldn’t be overworking yourself! I was hoping that you would take it easy now that the First isn’t in danger, but then I hear from Lyna that you’ve shut yourself in the study for hours again. You need to take breaks too, Raha.”

“I was just researching on how to get the Scions back home.” Well, at least he should have been. He’s been watching her go about her day, sometimes talking to the Scions and other times fending the weak from monsters. The way she moves, interacts, and fights captures every bit of his attention. And there is nothing he wants to change about it. “You told me that Krile believes that their lives could be at stake because I poorly summoned them to the First. I need to work to get them back to the Source before something bad-.”

“That is not a good excuse! You’ve been holed up here for the past few days without a break and I refuse to let you continue this until you get some sleep.” She shoves another spoonful of cake into his mouth without warning, only when she was sure that he finished did she take it back. He could feel bits of sticky cream coating his lips. “Since you can’t be trusted to take care of yourself, I’m going to do it for you.”

He barely had time to hide the grin that wormed its way to his face. G’raha felt almost a little giddy with joy as she worried about his health. It would be much easier to simply agree with what she says, but hearing her words always made his heart flutter. 

The miqo’te finally closed the book in his lap and set it aside. “Na’na, since I have fused with the tower, I do not need to sleep anymore. It does not affect my health to stay up for hours to get what I need done.” 

There was angry look that flashed across her eyes, one sharp and dark enough to kill a Primal. G’raha barely managed to suppress his laughter behind his hand; all he sees is the pout she is trying to hide behind the facade.

“You leave me with no choice.” A pair of lips meets his. Her lips. Her lips are sweeter than cream and softer than cake sponge. His breath caught in his throat, eyes fluttering closed as he returns the kiss. He could feel the drumming of his heart in his chest, his thoughts giving way to his senses. A delightful shiver runs up his neck when she pulls away and gently brushes his lips with her own. His focus remained at her lips. He felt drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

“Can I have another?” is his only hushed reply.

  3 Stories

G’raha had taken a break from his studies to see Na’na before she headed off on her next adventure, but the scene before him made him hesitate to join in.

“Miss Na’na! Can you tell us another story? Another one about the knight!” A flock of children swarmed around her, their joint efforts managing to lure her to the grass patch beside the building where more children were playing. Many of them had stopped their games to join the crowd. “But I wanna hear about the big monsters she fights!”

Among the crowd, a red haired mystel child stood out to him. Their short hair is much darker than his own, but the red shine is unmistakable under the sun. Would his child look like that? Heat burns at his cheeks at the thought, but he is reluctant to stop. A mystel child with red hair and golden eyes would be the heart of the Cystarium, and he had no doubts that their child would be doted on by everyone. 

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice you, Raha?” G’raha jumps back at the sudden voice. He would have tripped over his robes if Na'na didn’t catch his hand in time. She pulls him towards her, allowing him to use her as support to regain his balance. Once she was sure that he’s fine, she bows down to peek under his hood. Their eyes catching each other and causing her to break out into a grin. “Careful, I don’t think the Crystarium would be happy if they found out that their Exarch got injured on my watch.”

G’raha was going to wave off the children’s concern, only for Na’na to take his hand and drag him over. Some of the children scrambled up to their feet to greet him. Before he knew it, he was sitting at the front next to Na’na with her head resting against his shoulder. He could feel the curious, innocent stares directed towards them by the children, with some of the kids even whispering to each other. He made sure that his hood was still pulled up and over his head to provide him a refuge to hide his expression. 

His tail flicks and curls nervously, with the tip occasionally peeking out at the edge of his robes. G’raha had entertained these children before, yet now he wasn’t so sure what he should do, not without attempting to move away from Na’na. Luckily, she had already begun to spin her stories, one tale after another of the places and things she’d seen. A large plain where tribes of Drahns roam, where they would battle each other to claim the right to rule over all others. A kingdom of knights waging a war against dragons in a frozen tundra, and their descendents finding peace after a hundred summers. A princess that lives underwater, giant owls that protect books, and talking fish too.

He knows each and every story like the back of his hand, but hearing it being told by Na’na herself allows him to see it more vividly before his eyes. Be it the cold nipping at the end of his fingers and tail, the chatter of Reunion in his ear, or the ache of traveling in his bones. G’raha perks up when a fluffy tail suddenly brushes against his own, carefully stroking up and down before wrapping around the end of his own tail. A hint of who it is comes from the shaking of stifled laughter rumbling at his chest and the squeeze of her hand on his knee. 

“Na’na,” a voice calls from a distance. G’raha turns his head towards the source to spot a hyur approaching them. He’s dressed in dark armor with a bastard sword strapped to his back. He looked almost apologetic for interrupting her during her storytime, but clearly there are more important matters. “I need a bit of assistance with something.”

Na’na gives him a quick nod before slowly rising to her feet. G’raha went along with her, his hand lingering in her hold and reluctant to let her leave so easily. He watches as she apologizes to the kids for cutting the story short. The children quickly chime in with their complaints about the abrupt ending, also getting on their feet to complain. They only stop and start to split off into their group of friends after she made a promise to share more stories the next time she was free. 

“Looks like I’ll have to cut our time short as well, Raha,” she whispers to him as they follow the Hyur towards the main gate, their fingers still intertwined with each other. Na’na tugs at his hand to pull them to a stop just a few steps away from the gate. She was tapping her cheek with her finger, her eyes staring ahead without seeing. 

“Don’t push yourself too hard. You’ve already saved the First, surely everything else can wait.” It was a poor excuse to get her to stay, they both knew it. She had always been able to see through his words and find what he really wanted to say. Na’na gives him a wave of her hand, claiming that it would be quick. He wished he could go with her, to leave his duties behind for a moment and enjoy the adventuring life with her; taking down enemies side by side, spending nights cuddling each other around a fire, and hearing the rise and fall of her chest when they finally retire to bed.

“Na’na, next time, would you mind if I join you?” The words slip out before he can stop them. His entire body froze at the realization before his eyes slowly moved to see her reaction. Her own eyes widen at the question, ears perking up and shoulders stiff as if she doesn’t quite believe what she is hearing. Her gaze darts back and forth between him and the entrance. A lapse of intense regret crawls up the back of his neck in her silence. It’s enough for him to feel the cold sweat starting to form under his hood.

“You want to come on an adventure with me? Of course!” He lets out a sigh of relief, the tension slipping from his shoulders. Only for him to be pulled forward by his hood, Na’na’s lips colliding with his. A kiss that he returned back, returning her affection with as eagerly. Just as quickly as it started, she was gone. Out of his arms and already making her way towards an unknown destination. Her hand waving at him from a distance as she calls out, “Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon!”

G’raha could see the end of her tail was wagging with excitement that she wasn’t even attempting to contain. He bids her farewell, standing at the entrance of his great city until he can’t see her anymore. Only then does he turn around and make his way back to the Tower. His fingers reached up to trace where she had kissed and wished that he could feel them once more. 

Perhaps when she returns. 

  4 Running a Dungeon

He could feel it. The aether tingled under his skin and brimmed with energy. Every healing spell sealing cuts and healing bruises as he got them, yet they continue to come even when they are hurrying to the next nest of enemies. It struck him as odd, surely Na’na of all people should be able to tell? Still, he didn’t question her judgment and pushed on. 

Days leading up to their departure, Na’na poured over maps to figure out the best place that would best match both their skills. When he told her that any place would be fine, she was quick to point out how well he was doing when he was in Kholusia. She was blunt about making sure that she doesn't take him too far from the Tower. G’raha couldn’t help but let out a chuckle to himself, the one thing that is his source of power only turning out to be his greatest weakness. In the end, it’s worth it when he gets to see how much she frets over the little things. Yet, that doesn’t explain her healing. 

She settled with the Rak’tika Greatwood, it is close enough that he won’t feel sick 

Ancient trees scattered around with their branches stretching towards the sky and their roots cemented into the ground. The sun rays filtered through their leaves, giving the place an otherworldly glow. The only sight back in the source that might even compare would be the Black Shroud in Gridania, yet even then they couldn’t come close to how large the trees were here.

Before long, the moon had replaced the sun in the sky. The warmth of the makeshift campfire and sweet aroma emitting from the mug in his hand was more than enough for him to regain his strength. His other senses were more focused on the wisp of space between him and Na’na. The fire casts its soft light on her face, framing her portrait in a loving glow. Her eyes shone like amber in the morning sun. It felt like for a moment the world had stopped to marvel at her. He would gladly sit there for eternity if he could. 

He finally mustered up the courage to ask the question that had been on his mind since they had set out earlier. The small worry had bloomed into a huge concern, as she had been excessively healing him all day but still refused to rest. Even when he suggested they take a break. “Na’na, you were healing me for quite a bit today. Are you feeling alright? Is something wrong?”

Na'na smiles at him apologetically and moves in her seat on a large fallen branch to turn towards him. G’raha slides close enough for their knees and thighs to touch, even his tail moved to brush against hers, almost wrapping them together in an attempt to ease what nerves she might have. Was something troubling her? Has he done something wrong? Wait, what if his tanking skills need some work and she’s too sweet to tell him to improve? Had he been bad enough to warrant overhealing? He was slowly spiraling further into his mountain of worries, only for the gentle brush of Na’na’s hand to startle him back into reality.

“I have a Dark Knight stone. It’s not mine, at least not from the beginning. It was N’hect’s.” Her voice becomes softer and softer with every word, her gaze turning up towards the stars glittering in the night sky. His ears perk up at the name, one that sounds strangely familiar but he can’t remember from where. Her grip on his hand brought his attention to her sheepish smile. “He was my first knight, the one that showed me that chivalry can and still does exist in this world. When he… fell during the war, I decided to take up his job.”

Na’na shifts in her spot to pull out a small pouch from her pocket and drops its contents onto an open palm. It was her stone, a yellow rune carved onto the deep red background. He had only ever seen drawings of them in books as a way to pass down specialized abilities. This one was worn at the edges, and a few nicks and cuts showed its age. “During the war, we fought side by side. I got careless… It was a blow that neither of us expected and he was able to react first.” 

She closes her fist around it, eyes brimming with unshed tears as she tries to keep herself together. Her voice becomes small and tight as she tries to keep the emotions from leaking through. His own heartaches alongside her as she continues. “He lost his life to save mine.” 

“I have already lost him.” Her eyes tearing up looked like wells of gold, and he could see her pure love and honesty. Her hands dropped the stone to squeeze his own before she lifted it to cup her cheek. Her head turned slightly to brush her lips against his palm and melted his heart in turn.  “I don’t want to lose you too. You gave me hope. You gave me the hope that the world is worth saving. When we met, I was questioning if it was really worth all the pain that I was going through. Your kindness, your thirst for knowledge, and all the little things that make you so genuine. I’m scared that I will lose you one day too.”

“I know that you have been working yourself to death and you’re not alone anymore,” Na’na whispers to him like it was her best-kept secret, she reaches out to cup his cheek and turns him to face her. “Remember when you told me that you thought of me like a star in the sky? I don’t want to be, I don’t want to be somewhere out of reach. I want to be beside you. Instead I want to believe that the stars have led us together again, and I want nothing more than for us to remain that way. Taking one step after another, together. For the rest of our lives.”

G’raha attempts to blink away his unshed tears, but she continues to whisper sweet words. “My princeling, my Raha. You give me the hope to continue fighting this fight. That this world I fight for holds someone like you.”

“I love you.” 

Her hand reaches up to twirl a strand of his hair, her eyes fluttering closed and forehead pressed against his. G’raha finds his own eyes closing and feels the tension in his shoulders starting to break away at her words. Words that he never knew he needed so much. “At the end of my legends and stories, I want to be together with you. No matter what becomes of the Warrior in everyone’s eyes. I will find myself coming back to you, my beloved Raha.” 

Na’na laid bare her heart to him, every word causing his tears to slip until they were all running down his cheeks. G’raha takes in a shaky breath to calm his racing heart. Despite knowing how much she loves and cherishes him, his heart would flutter and his body grows warm whenever she said those 3 words. 

“I want to be with you through all your adventures. Fighting alongside you, sharing meals around a  fire, and sleeping beside you under a starry sky.” He finally found his words, opening up the deepest part of his heart for her to see. His palms feel sweaty and a creeping feeling of embarrassment comes up his spine to cover his face with a blush. Still, he shakes his head out of shame and leans forward, pressing his forehead against her. The world fell away once he felt her breath on his lips, and it was taking all his self control to not kiss her senseless.

With lips just ilms apart from meeting, he whispers out his confession. “Not just that, I want to see your smiling face to be the first thing I see in the morning and the last thing I see before I fall asleep. I want to see kids running around with my hair and your eyes, to be the shoulder you lean on, to be the person you seek out in a crowd.”

“I want to spend the rest of my life with you and only you.”

[lovemepleaase]

i. warm.

in which it’s new year’s eve, and champagne has harry feeling bold. rated m.

massive thanks to katy perry for the line, “skinny dipping in the dark.” also, yes, i know this doesn’t make sense for england at this time of year-- suspend your disbelief.

read the rest of my writing here.

...

Normally, she’d never be up at two on the morning of January first. The original plan was to have been in bed at least an hour ago, slightly buzzed, Advil sitting within easy reach for when she woke up feeling like death was only a few steps away, reruns of Friends playing as she fell asleep. She’d been gathering her things at half-past midnight, kissing Nick on either cheek and assuring him that, yes, she was fine to drive, when Harry, shirt barely clinging onto its last two buttons, had slurred at her to stay— just while he sobered up, he promised, promptly shoving another drink into her hand and setting her coat on the couch, leading her over to the loveseat and asking her about her New Year’s resolutions. So that’s how they ended up here, sprawled out on Nick’s couch while he snored over on the cushy loveseat, his legs laid casually over Meshach’s lap with Pixie sat on the floor, her head hanging back against the cushions. Nick’s house was an absolute mess— empty cups and champagne bottles were scattered about, deflating balloons mingling up near the ceiling, confetti covering every inch of the hardwood floor, and what wasn’t on the floor was being carefully arranged among Harry’s curls by Y/N. It was bold of her to crawl up into his lap with a handful of sparkly confetti, sure, but she was quite a few more glasses of champagne in than she was before, and Harry’s loose, warm grip on her hips was more than comfortable. His eyes were closed, his breathing even— she’d think he was asleep if it wasn’t for the occasional quip about her hairstyling skills here and there and the light brushes of her hip with his thumb. (It would be too much from anyone else, but she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t wondered what it would be like to find herself in this position more than once over the course of their friendship. Saying she had feelings might be taking it a bit far— she had a curiosity, and certainly a desire. Harry was her friend, sure, but he was also extremely attractive, oozing confidence and a sexy sort of swagger she hadn’t come across in any of her dozens of mediocre dates this year— or last year, she supposes. And, besides, who could deny those cheekbones?) She took the last piece of pink metallic material from her hand, placing it just on the bend of one of his curls before leaning back to admire her work. “Perfect. Looks handsome.” His eyes fluttered open sleepily and he blinked a couple times, looking up at her with a gentle smile. “I was just starting to get comfortable.” She frowned dramatically, crossing her arms as he steadied her on his lap. “You don’t even appreciate all my hard work.” He grabbed for one of her hands, pressing a misplaced kiss to the knuckle of her thumb. “Love it. Gonna steal this look on tour, I swear it. Gucci’ll be contacting you any day now.” She felt the corner of her mouth lift of its own accord in response to his terrible joke, her free thumb rubbing over his cheek. “Yeah, they better.” Harry kept his eyes on her, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth, scanning over her face like he was sizing her up, a curious sort of look on his face as his eyes traced over her features.

(And if she was leaning into the hand that had just barely slid down to her ass, so be it.) “What?” He pursed his lips, his eyes narrowing like he was thinking. There was a pregnant pause before he answered. “You ever been skinny dipping?” She barked out a laugh— sure, he was drunk, but the implication of the statement was very clear and seemed very, very sure in its weight. “If you wanted to get me naked, there are better ways than both of us freezing to death.” He smiled boyishly, lifting one of his hands to tug at his bottom lip. “Pool’s heated.” (He’d avoided replying to the more incriminating statement, she’d noticed, but she was willing to let it go for the sake of flirtation.) Yes, she was more than willing to get into bed with him, but hopping into a pool in the dead of winter wasn’t exactly the way she’d thought it would go. At her own place, perhaps, where everyone was dry and maybe just a little less drunk. He didn’t give her a chance to respond, tapping at her leg to get her to crawl off his lap, putting a hand back behind him to push himself up and off the couch. “C’mon— it’ll be an adventure.” He pushed himself up off the couch, his shirt hanging open, revealing the moth and the birds and whatever other ink he’d covered his body with over years of spending all of his time with impulsive teenage boys spread out over the warm skin of his torso, the black standing out fiercely against his skin (or maybe it was just the alcohol tricking her eyes; either way, he was gorgeous). He had a large hand held out to help her up, looking at her with raised brows expectantly, a slight, drunken smile toying at his lips. “Harry...” “Come on, love. Promise I’ll make it worth your while.” She shifted just barely in her spot, the sentiment combined with the ample time spent on top of him making her feel the need for just a little friction against her center. She reached up hesitantly, taking his hand and letting him carefully pull her up, ignoring the way the room went just a little blurry as she made it up to her feet. “Fine.” Harry led her outside, keeping a grip on her hand as he slid open Nick’s glass door, taking a deep breath as he stepped out, fog appearing in front of him when he exhaled. She hissed when her bare foot hit the bitter cold concrete, immediately wondering why Nick’s guest room wasn’t suitable— but, she supposes, they’d already made it this far.

(Watching Harry stop in front of her and drop her hand, reaching down to unbutton the last of his shirt, sliding it off his arms and abandoning it on the ground was a solid reason for her to continue with his ridiculous plan, she decided.) She only realized she was just standing there watching him lamely when he was pulling down the zipper of his jeans and stopped to look up at her. “You gonna strip or are you going in like that?” “Right— sorry,” she said, tugging her sweater over her head and cringing as it fell onto the likely dirty floor. No turning back now. He was down to his boxers the next time she checked, just as she was stepping out of her jeans, leaving them in an inside out pile next to her sweater. He may as well have been naked with the way his waistband was hanging so low on his hips, down past the dark trail leading down from his bellybutton, far enough that he could show off the neatly trimmed but much thicker hair just above his dick— the image it brought on was certainly enough to make her want to drop to her knees and help him get his boxers off.

Y/N blinked her arousal away, diverting her gaze down to the floor and reaching back to unhook her bra and letting it slide down off her shoulders— better to get it all off before the cold had the time to sober her up enough to recognize that what she was doing was absolutely insane. Her panties were down around her ankles when she heard Harry hum— he was looking down around her hips when she looked up at him, clouds partially masking his facial expression with every breath. “What?” “Didn’t know you had that.” He pointed at her and she looked down, searching for what he was looking at until she realized he meant the tiny tattoo inked just against her hip bone. “Oh. Right.” She brushed over it with her thumb, watching tiny goosebumps follow in its path. “I guess you wouldn’t have.” “‘S cute.” She looked back up at him, his expression earnest even as he was standing in front of her, eyes glued to her bare skin, already half hard. She had no doubt he meant it, even if he was clearly looking for something more than ‘cute’ from her. “Thanks.” She looked over at the pool, steam rising up in waves from the warm water— a formidable sight in the bitter winter air. “I’m not getting in until you do.” He grinned at her, and then, without hesitation, took a running leap into the water, splashing enough that she felt a few drops hit her, creating little spots of cold on her already chilled skin. He was still grinning when he came back up, his hair plastered to his forehead, the shiny confetti she’d worked so hard to arrange floating out around him and bobbing in the waves he’d created. “Your turn.” She sighed, crossing her arms over her chest and making her way over to the ladder that dropped down into the water. She dipped a toe into the water, feeling less susceptible to risks than Harry, even if she was stood in Nick’s backyard completely naked. “It’s not that bad.” “Told you. Now get in.” He was treading water, watching as she took each step down into the water very carefully until she, too, was floating in the deep end of the pool, her dry face still pink from the cold air. She frowned at the contrast. “It’s gonna be so fucking cold when we get out.” He snickered, letting his head go under for just a moment so he could push the hair off his forehead, grinning when he came back up. “So we better enjoy it then, yeah?” He turned his back to her, taking a lazy pace over to the shallower end of the pool, the lights lined against the wall illuminating his elongated shadow against the pool floor as he used broad strokes, making his way over to the wall at the other end of the pool and then leaning back against it casually, stretching his arms out along the edge. “You comin’?” She inhaled sharply before setting out to follow him, trying her best to ignore how cold the outside air was as the water got shallower and shallower, and then her feet were touching the bottom. She only stood for a second before making the decision— she walked over to him as best she could through the resistance of the water, his arms coming back down to rest on her hips as she got close to him, pressing their wet chests together and wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him so close their noses were nearly touching. She felt his dick twitch against her thigh when she shifted, working one of her knees between the two of his. “Hey.” “Can I kiss you?” She laughed through her nose at his bluntness— clearly the cold had done nothing for his inebriation or the boldness that accompanied. “Sure.” He brought a hand up to cup her cheek, leaning in and closing the gap between them— he tasted like whiskey and minty gum and strawberry chapstick and apparently liked to keep a slow pace, his hand languidly drifting from her hips up to her waist and then just barely brushing the underside of her boobs, and then cycling back again, keeping the other against her cheek, pressing it into her skin as he worked his lips against hers, the tip of his tongue pressing against her bottom lip.

(He could definitely feel her nipples pebbling against his chest, but in her defense, it really was cold.) She was just reaching up to card her hands through his wet hair when he moved, bringing the hand that was on her cheek down to her waist and shifting to press kisses to the drops of water lingering against the skin of her neck, his teeth just barely skimming against the column of her throat. Whether it was out of drunken clumsiness or on purpose didn’t matter; she gasped nonetheless, tugging at the hair on the back of his head. He reached up, brushing at her nipple with his thumb, laughing against her skin when she gasped. He was attentive, even drunk— he trailed kisses down her neck, around her collarbone, between her breasts before leaning over and taking his nipple into her mouth, rolling his tongue over the sensitive skin. “Oh, God...” He had a finger still brushing over her other nipple, letting his teeth barely graze as he sucks, clearly relishing in her breathy moans and the way she was pushing him closer. He was hard up against her leg, but still very focused on his task; she reached down blindly, grasping at water once, twice before she got a grip on his cock, giving him a couple firm strokes, feeling him grow harder in her grip. He moaned  against her chest, the sound vibrating against her skin and making her eyes flutter shut. Y/N moved her hand, circling her thumb around his head before running her finger against his slit. Harry pulled back, resting his forehead against her chest, hissing when she moved to give him another stroke. “I...I wanna...” “Whatever you wanna do,” she started, pausing to lick a droplet of water off his neck. “We probably can’t do it in the pool.” He sighed, looking up at her with warm cheeks. “We um...” He let his head fall into the crook of her neck, sighing again before looking up at her. “We didn’t grab towels.” It was maybe 50 degrees, at most. They were naked, and wet, and both feeling very needy, and they had no towels. “...shit.” Harry licked his lips, looking over at the patio with razor sharp intensity. “Nick’s got a pretty good blanket on the couch over there.” She looked over where he was— it was a good blanket, all thick and fuzzy and probably much, much, warmer than the New Year’s air. She turned her head to look at him again, his hands still resting on her waist, her hands still tangled in his hair. “Wanna make a run for it?” He looks back at her, and then over at the couch. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s go for it.” She pulls off of him, wrapping her arms around her exposed skin, feeling grateful her hair wasn’t wet like his was— she’d be much better off when it came to getting dry and warm, even when he was still shivering and complaining. He followed her up the stairs and quickly over to the couch, careful not to slip as they made their way over to Nick’s couch— she grabbed the blanket, tossing it over her shoulders and climbing back on top of Harry when he sits, letting the blanket drape over them both as she leaned in to nip at his neck and press kisses to his jawline, working her hips over his at a gentle rhythm. “Do you wanna...?” She pulled off his neck, kissing his cheek a couple times as she answers. “Yes, yes, please...” “There’s a condom in my jeans.” Safety first, always, but it was bloody cold— she stopped immediately, pulling back to look at him with furrowed brows and a frown. “You want me to get out from under the blanket?” “I’ll warm you up.” A solid promise, but nonetheless, there was still dampness on her skin where the blanket wasn’t, and it hadn’t gotten any warmer outside since they’d found the protection of Nick’s lovely blanket. She looked back behind her at the piles of their clothes sitting tauntingly on the concrete, the shiny blue corner of the metallic wrapping poking out from the front pocket of Harry’s jeans. She took a breath, gaining momentary courage before she tossed the blanket off her shoulder, pushing herself off Harry and running over to his jeans, pulling the little square out of his pocket before running back to the safety of his and the blanket’s warmth, where he was holding the blanket open for her, giggling childishly. “Shut up,” she said, tearing open the packet and giving him a couple firm pumps before rolling the condom over him, squeezing tightly when she gets down to his base. “Sorry, sorry, you’re just...cute.” “Whatever.” She scooted closer to him and sat up on her knees, guiding him to her entrance. His head was warm against her as she rubbed him between her folds a few times, gathering her wetness where it mattered most before finally sinking down on him, not bothering to take her time, letting him fill her completely on the first stroke. Harry groaned when she did, the grip he had on her hips tightening. “Fucking— shit, you’re warm...” She laughed— an out of place comment at any other time, but any additional warmth was welcomed in this situation, even if the stretch was a little much; the heat radiating off of him felt just as nice as she was sure she did around him. His eyes were squeezed shut, his head falling back against the cushions of the couch, his brow furrowed deeply as she rocked against him. He was using the hands on his hips to help keep her to a rhythm, guiding her up and down, front and back, holding on tightly as she ground and rocked against him.

“Jesus, fuck, you’re amazing, you know that? Been thinkin’ about this for ages…”

It just sort of slipped out— she was drunk and he felt amazing inside her, warm and firm against all the spots she can’t ever seem to reach herself, his fingers just barely skimming against the tattoo he’d noticed earlier. “Think about it when you’re getting yourself off?”

He laughed, ducking his head down so his forehead was rested against her shoulder; it was faint, but she still heard him. “All the bloody time.”

“Think about anything else?”

Harry groaned when she squeezed around him on the next drop, his hand moving back to grab at her ass. “Can’t really think about anything but y’cunt right now, love.”

“Good.”

He brought one of his hands down to her front, rubbing firm circles into her clit, smiling when she flutters around him. He had both of his feet planted firmly on the floor, wrapping his free arm around her, getting just the right amount of leverage to meet her rhythm with his own thrusts upwards.

The sound of skin against skin and rumbly groans echoed across Nick’s patio; Harry moaned, low and loud and long, and she was almost scared the trio inside might wake up and find their friends fucking out on the patio until he hit a spongy spot deep inside her on one of his strokes, and she’s right there too, with a loud “Harry!” and a push of his head into her cleavage.

“There?”

“Yes!”

He pressed just a little more firmly against her clit, his circles just a little less precise. “How are we doin’, love?”

Any of the burning stretch she’d felt before had been worked out, leaving just a pleasurable pressure from the inside and the feeling of the head of his cock hitting against her just right. “God, you’re big…”

If it inflated his ego at all, it doesn’t show; he pressed a kiss to her jaw, watching as her eyes fluttered shut. “Close?”

She just nodded; anything more would take too much effort, and she could feel her orgasm rapidly approaching, the pressure building low in her belly as she slowed to a stop, letting him take over completely, keeping a steady pattern of thrusts for the both of them.

“Come on, love, cum on my cock, let me see it…”

She whimpered— she was teetering over the edge, her eyes fluttering shut, her head falling back as it built higher and higher inside her, the feeling rising.

“Give me somethin’ to think about.”

The image of Harry with his hand on his cock late at night, cumming as he thinks of her is all she needs— she felt her body tense up as she came with a soft, “Oh, God,” her grip in Harry’s hair tightening astronomically.

Harry muttered her name into her neck as she started to come down, his hips starting to sputter. “‘M gonna cum…’m gonna—“ He cut himself off with a drawn out moan, and she could feel him pulsing inside her as he buried his face into her neck, emptying himself into the condom.

It was a couple moments before he went loose underneath her, pulling back to look at her, a boyish smile on his face. She couldn’t help but laugh softly— she got what she wanted, after all, even if it was under unconventional circumstances.

“Sorry. Didn’t take long.”

She smiled, running a hand through his still-damp hair. “Don’t worry about it. Make it up to me next time.”

His brows rose, just barely, but he didn’t say anything— an unexpected response, then, but a positive one.

(After the way this had gone, she hoped there would be a next time— her vibrator really could only do so much, and it certainly wouldn’t drunkenly ask her for a fuck in their friend’s swimming pool in the middle of winter.)

She tucked her hair behind her ear, taking a breath before lifting off of him, cringing when she sits back down and feels him wet against her thigh. “So…”

“So?”

“The condom.”

His nose scrunched as he tried to hide a laugh, pulling the blanket tighter around them. “Was kinda hopin’ you’d ask me home with you, honestly.”

Her brows shot upwards— so it was mutual, then, and not just because of the champagne and the party atmosphere. This meeting was premeditated on both sides. “Oh yeah?”

He couldn’t help but giggle, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her in close. “Guess I didn’t have to.”

She shook her head, falling into his warm embrace gratefully, the clouds of their breath mingling in the cold. “Happy New Year, Harry.”

“Happy New Year, love.”

“...think we can go inside? I think my nipples could probably cut glass.”

She felt his hot breath on her shoulder as he laughs through his nose. “Please. This condom is bloody disgusting…”

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Learning to Fly

Summary: Stretch enjoys the exhibit. Edge enjoys watching Stretch. It works out for everyone. 

Notes: Fluff. Tooth-rotting fluff. Achingly fluffy. Fluuuuuff. This is no way forwards any of the plots, it is only for my own soulful enjoyment. Please, bask in the fluff with me. 

Read on AO3

Read more from this series in the Masterlist:

~~*~~

Edge had never seen Stretch so still.

He was sitting on a bench, surrounded by towering trees with broad leaves outstretched, his rumpled pamphlet discarded next to him and every bit of him straining to keep still in an effort to entice. Sunlight was streaming in through the glass panels overhead, muted by the time it reached the ground and lighting the entire room.

The conservatory was very warm, and Stretch had shed his sweatshirt after only a few minutes inside. It was draped over Edge’s arm now as he stood back and watched, noting that Stretch’s t-shirt was getting on the thin side. He could see the shadow of his ribcage through it and while he was perfectly fine with the view, his preference was to keep it to himself, particularly in a public garden.

Along the cobbled pathways were a variety of flowers and greenery, discrete plaques listing their common and scientific name. The exhibit had opened a few weeks earlier and the crowds had died back to only the few humans strolling along, examining the foliage hopefully.

Much as he’d known that Stretch would love the butterfly exhibition, Edge had chosen not to tell him until some of the excitement surrounding it had abated. The potential for injury was too great with that many Humans milling around and much as Stretch hated being coddled, there were times it was necessary. Better to simply avoid the debate.

A group of uniformed schoolchildren walked past in a hushed cloud of awed whispers and giggles, drawing an occasional hissed admonishment from their guardian. One of the girls paused, peering out through the throng of her classmates and caught his eye.

Edge raised a browbone at her and to his bemusement, she raised her hand in a timid wave. He allowed a faint smile and waved back, watching as her eyes lit up and she grinned in delight, bouncing on her toes before turning to chase after her group. Edge could only shake his head.

Once, he’d inspired terror with that very same look; it was a little disconcerting to have it become tool of childish happiness. Disconcerting, but not entirely unpleasant.

A flutter of wings caught his attention and Edge turned around to catch a glimpse of scintillating colors high up in the leaves, iridescent blues alongside speckled white and black, contrasting against the scarlet and creamy yellow of the flowers. The little insects were everywhere, some large and others so tiny as to be barely visible in the vegetation.

There was a copse of trees to his left, the rough bark rising from the ground, up and up to leafy fronds and green globes fruiting from the top. To Edge, that was as fascinating as the butterflies. His few past glimpses of palm trees in his various diplomatic travels were nothing compared to actually seeing a coconut outside of a grocery store. According to the plaque, another nearby tree was papaya and the heavy green pods of fruit were hanging out of reach.

He wondered if it were possible to grow such a plant in a private home. They could hardly have one in the front yard, snow and palm trees were a poor mix, but perhaps if there was a dwarf variety? Something to consider.

The thought trailed away when Edge turned around and saw Stretch again.  

A large butterfly had settled on Stretch’s knee. Edge was hardly familiar with any species past monarchs, but the brochure listed that one as an ‘Emperor Swallowtail’, the vibrant yellow on its wings standing out against the darkness of Stretch’s track pants.

It fanned its wings slowly, seeming uncertain about its perch, then decided to settle, at least long enough for Edge to snap a picture of it, capturing not only the butterfly but the wonder in Stretch’s eye lights as he looked down at the tiny creature resting on his knee.

Edge wasn’t entirely positive Stretch was breathing.

It lingered a moment longer, then with a flutter of wings, it returned to the air, likely seeking out one of the honey-water feeding stations.

Following the path, Edge walked over to him, picking up his crumpled brochure and sitting on the bench.

“did you see that?” Stretch breathed. His eye lights were bright and wide.

“I did,” Edge assured him. Probably better to share the picture later if he didn’t want to spend the next few minutes forwarding it and then waiting for Stretch to post it to twitter. For the moment, social media seemed to be the last thing on Stretch’s mind, his hands fluttering much like the butterflies as he quivered in excitement.

“it landed right on me!” Stretch blurted, “right on me! that was an emperor swallowtail, papilio ophidicephalus, they’re native to south africa and it was sitting right on me!”

“It was,” Edge agreed. He very much doubted that Stretch had gotten any of that information from the brochure.

“they are so cool, they have special markings on them that can only be seen in ultraviolet light, isn’t that cool?”

“Very cool.” Long experience had taught him if he kept agreeing, Stretch would keep talking, drawing out his delight. It was only when silence greeted his excitement that he would trail off and find refuge in a cigarette and feigned apathy, a defense that Edge never wanted him to use, not with him.

He reached over and took Stretch’s flailing hand his own and he automatically twined their fingers together, allowing Edge to draw it into his lap while he chattered away.

“…i mean, it would take a little while to set up, but it wouldn’t be hard, maybe i could make up a plan and submit it to the conservatory? they could do a nighttime exhibit and…”

There was another flutter of wings close by and Edge kept his gentle grip on Stretch’s hands, holding him still and waiting for him to notice the approach of brilliant orange wings.

The butterfly did not seem to be dissuaded by the ongoing stream of chatter, landing with a flicker of wings right atop Stretch’s skull. Stretch didn’t notice, even as the little creature crawled forward to investigate the smooth bone, tempted, perhaps, by the sweet aroma of his magic.

“…plus you have to consider the possibilities of adding moths to the collection, a night time display would…”

“Love,” Edge interrupted and Stretch blinked at him, a faint, embarrassed flush rising in his cheekbones.

“oh. sorry, i was just—” He blinked again as Edge held up his phone.

“Hold still.” A quiet tap of his finger against the screen later and Edge held out his phone silently, showing Stretch the photo. Of himself, faint confusion on his face and a butterfly sitting above his right socket, as pretty as a bow.

He froze, eye lights tipping upward until they were nearly rolled back into his skull.

“You can’t see the top of your head, love,” Edge chuckled. “Here.” Very carefully, he set a finger against Stretch’s skull, nudging encouragingly and to his relief, the butterfly stepped onto it amicably enough, allowing him to bring it down within Stretch’s sight.

He sucked in a sharp breath, almost a moan, whispering, “ohhhh, it’s a glasswinged butterfly, greta oto, those are rare, look at that, isn’t it gorgeous?”

Edge wasn’t sure about that, but it was certainly fascinating. Its wings were edged in bright orange surrounding a transparent center, broken only by dark lines like a stained-glass window. It lingered, content to sit on Edge’s gloved finger while Stretch looked at it with barely contained excitement, his eye lights as brilliant an orange as those wingtips.

Eventually, it fluttered away and Stretch let out a stuttered gasp, confirming Edge’s suspicions that he was hardly breathing during these encounters.

“did you…” Stretch started, shook his head and tried again, “…can you believe…”

His hands were already moving, fumbling to express what his words were failing to, and Edge caught them gently, drawing them down. “If you can hold still, you might see another,” Edge teased. “If.”

“I can hold still,” Stretch told him loftily, and spoiled it immediately by tipping his skull up with a startled sound, taking in iridescent blue wings fluttering nearby. Defiantly, it ignored the enticement of Stretch’s honey-sweet scent and chose instead to settle on Edge’s sleeve, the contrary little thing. Its wings waved lazily, the lustrous blue shimmering in the light.

“morpho peleides,” Stretch whispered. Edge would take him at his word on that one. He held still, letting Stretch drink in the sight of a butterfly he never would have seen if they hadn’t come to the surface.

When it flew away, they both watched it go and Edge listened as Stretch offered a somewhat rambling explanation as to how it used the bright iridescent color, which was caused by the diffraction of light on millions of tiny scales, to frighten away predators, and that species preferred the juice from rotting fruit, wasn’t that interesting and—

The lecture he only mostly listened to, nodding and agreeing when appropriate to keep it from ending. His focus was on searching for other butterflies, on the specks of bright yellows and muted browns, soft blues and brilliant oranges fluttering around, waiting for another to alight where his love could see it.

-finis-

[be4tdown]

hot water rolled off his back with ease and taking with it , any and all stress from the day that had nestled its way in between each of his muscles and bones. IT WAS WOUND TIGHTLY AROUND THEM ; and now slowly coming undone with the pressure raining down against his skin and any soft touch she would so kindly offer him. the steam engulfing the room around them was thick enough for one to reach out and grab between their fingers if they so desired [ ... ] BUT HE'D ENDURE THE SAUNA IF IT KEPT HER WARM. though it was perhaps an easy task to be the cause of any goosebumps that rose on her skin and make her shiver. ( it could be argued that it wasn't his intention. ) he for once was on his best behavior.

@starsdreamt (christine): our muses share a shower together + " i think i'm in love with you. "

her back faced him as his own bared the brunt of the stream that he would perhaps any other time complain was sourced from a pipe directly from the fiery pits of hell. BUT NOT NOW , not as his hands were lathered in a layer of shampoo and he washed her hair with a certain gentleness. ( mindful not to tug or knot ) as inked digits worked through blonde tresses and nails carefully massaged over scalp while a comfortable layer of silence lingered in what little space there was between their bodies. HE STOOD AS CLOSE AS HE POSSIBLY COULD. broad chest grazing her shoulder blades each time he reached to make sure he hadn't missed any [ ... ] slicking it all back while occasionally letting his fingertips wander. ( brushing over soft flesh , ) and feathering against spine alongside the droplets of water that fell.

but the silence would be broken —— her sudden words soft but still managing to interrupt the sounds of the raining showerhead. AND ANOTHER QUIET BEAT WOULD SETTLE BETWEEN THEM FOR ONLY A MOMENT AS HIS HANDS STOPPED. while he allowed the death head moths in his stomach to flutter their wings ; a part of him wondered if he had heard her correctly. ( if she had turned around she would see the smile slowly growing across his features , ) and the heat surrounding them could easily mask the warmth now filling his cheeks. ❛❛ you think ? ❜❜ he'll finally speak with a teasing tone as hands moved from her hair , slipping them towards her shoulders and he leaned in to place a kiss on the back of her neck. ❛❛ i always thought that was somethin' you were just supposed t'know , mi corazón. ❜❜

[dbhilluminate]

DBH: Illuminate- Candlelight

Characters: Amanda, Connor, Illuminate (Kate) Word Count: 3,121

Chapter Index

November 9th, 2038- 1AM

Connor awoke in his mindscape to fireflies and paper lanterns dotting a darkened sky. Lunar moths lofted between the flower bushes and night bloom water lilies as the moonlight danced across the ripples in the surface of the small lake. At the water’s edge, Amanda stood waiting for him to give her his report, lighting tea lights and sending the lanterns up into the sky one at a time. His eyes followed them as they floated across the air currents and he found himself staring at the fireflies and thinking about how beautiful the garden was that night. Sometimes he wished he could have remained to bask in its beauty for longer than a few minutes at a time.

“Good evening Amanda,” he greeted with a faint twinge of guilt in his voice for not having better news.

“Good evening Connor,” she responded as she turned toward him with a pleasant smile that faded into a frown when she saw the look on his face. “Is something wrong?”

The Android clenched his jaw and admitted, “I’m just frustrated,” before he looked up to meet her eyes, out of respect.

“Because the deviant hacker got away?” She asked as she unfolded another lantern and placed it in his hands, which he held delicately with a soft touch while she placed an unlit candle in the wire form.

“I had her in my grasp, but I was unprepared,” he explained. An understanding noise rolled in her throat as she lit the tealight for him and lifted his hands to help him release it into the drift with the others. “I didn’t realize that she also possessed the ability to hack an Android’s programming.”

“Illuminate is smart,” she concurred as she dropped her arms and tucked one hand over the other in front of her body. “It was one of the most advanced models Cyberlife has ever created. Some even argued at the time of its inception that perhaps we had endowed it with too much freedom to learn, and that one day it may learn how to free itself; now, it seems that day is indeed upon us.”

“Do you think I should focus on investigating her as part of our case on deviants?”

Amanda turned to face him and he turned with her, then took on a very serious tone as she looked him in the eyes. “I think it would be a reliable source of information on how deviancy occurs, whether it be a software glitch or a virus spreading from host to host…” her voice trailed off as her eyes dropped with it, then looked back to him as she finished her thought. “Meet with them and see what you can learn. Additionally, we know that Illuminate is somehow linked to Jericho- if you can gain its trust, maybe it will help lead you to where they’re hiding.”

Connor shifted his weight from one foot to the other uncertainly but nodded in response. “You have my word.”

“Work quickly,” she insisted as a parting thought. “The sooner this is resolved the better- for all of us.”

November 9th, 2038- 2AM

Connor hunched his shoulders and breathed into his hands as he retraced a slow and steady path in the snow on the concrete. For an hour he’d been out here thinking, pacing, glancing at the candle on the park bench, wondering just how long it was going to take for her to show her face.

After Illuminate had fled the station, Special Agent Lenore had returned from her lunch to find the office in chaos. Between the missing receptionist, the dead static in the security feed, and the uncomfortable android averting her gaze, she knew the mobile alert she’d received was no false alarm. In the twenty minutes she’d been gone, DCPD had been struck by lightning in the form of an activist hacker.

She’d spent a good five minutes yelling and questioning the competence of the officers in the precinct before Connor raised his hand and took the blame, much to his partner’s surprise. And even though Hank had tried to reassure him that it wasn’t his fault, Connor had insisted because he truly believed that he alone was responsible for her escape. No one else had known something was wrong, and he hadn’t made an effort to alert any personnel to there being a fox in the hen house- in his eyes, due to his overconfidence and impulsive decision, the perp had gotten away. Lenore had thanked him for his honesty, and although he had been able to give them more information about her identity than they had before, it still bothered him. The only way to correct his mistake now was to find Illuminate, arrest her, and bring the suspect into custody.

But was it really a mistake…? Or had he willingly let her go?

I need your help with something, but first I need to know if you’re someone I can trust.

Connor paused and pressed his palms together, rubbing them softly as he glanced down at the flickering candle bathing the park bench in a soft, warm light and contemplated what she (a known criminal) could have possibly wanted his help with, and why she felt she could trust him. Was someone threatening her? Was she in some kind of trouble that ran deeper than her public speeches and the looming warrant for her arrest?

He turned his big brown eyes toward the night sky and watched the snowflakes as each perfectly crystallized piece of frozen water dissolved on contact with his blazer. Her decision to reveal her identity to him was one of the most irrational decisions in the entirety of her case file. So why had she done it before she even knew if he could be trusted? And if she couldn’t trust the police, then why come to someone directly connected to DCPD? It just didn't make sense… was she hoping to corrupt him? To make him deviate?

The android looked at the candle one last time with a small sigh as he sat down next to it and took it in both his hands, staring into the firelight for a few moments more. No, if she had wanted to turn him, she would have done it already. If there was one thing he knew, it was that it was not her intent to force change.

With a sense of finality, he closed his eyes and counted backward from sixty.

Fifty-nine… fifty-eight… fifty-seven…

He listened for the sound of approaching footsteps for a full minute but heard nothing aside from the low buzzing of neon lights in the nearby shop windows, and the occasional car rolling by in the distance.

Connor let out a small sigh of disappointment when he realized that he was still alone and leveled his eyes to the horizon, then down to his feet, about ready to give up for the night... until he heard the sound of snow being pressed under rubber soles. When he looked up, his eyes were met by a blonde in an oversized zip-up and a black SnapBack baseball cap with rectangular glasses hiding glassy blue eyes. Even though her nose and lips were hidden by an oversized grey scarf, he could still make out the smile in the apples of her cheeks. It was no wonder she’d been so cavalier about revealing her identity, he hardly recognized her.

“Well well,” she greeted, popped her eyebrows, and pulled the scarf away from her mouth, “You sure don't waste time. Are you sure you’ve had long enough to think it over?”

He blinked and stood carefully, still holding the candle with one hand while he pushed himself up with the other. “Considering you left without telling me what it is you need… I can’t say that I have,” he replied honestly.

Illuminate took a few steps away from him and shook her head. “That’s not what I’m talking about,” she replied as she carefully sat down on the bench across from him and crossed one knee over the other. “But if you’re here, then I assume you’ve at least decided to hear me out?”

The android furrowed his brow and tilted his head. “I came alone,” he confirmed, “but I haven’t yet decided whether or not I’m going detain you.”

“Well, I wouldn’t recommend trying,” she reminded with a small smirk, “you remember what happened the last time you got too close.”

“Yes,” he said in quick reply, “you blocked the processes that allow me to move.”

“Suspended,” she corrected as she waved a hand through the air in front of her and rolled her eyes. “I didn’t leave you in a state of disrepair; I’m an activist, not a monster.”

Connor narrowed his eyes as he sat back down on the bench and leered across the walkway at her. Technically she was correct, but it made no difference. “What you’re doing is still illegal,” he noted with a more serious look, at which her entire face drained of any hint of humor.

“If you want to get technical, so is slavery,” she redirected, “yet they’ve been getting away with it for more than a decade. So when is DCPD going to incarcerate everyone who owns an android?”

“Slavery doesn’t apply to machines,” he answered logically.

The expression that crossed her face was dark and angry, conveying every last word from her broadcasts in a single look that reminded him why the humans were set on edge at the mere mention of her name.

But instead of lashing out in anger, the Android sighed and lowered her head, crossed her arms and slumped down in her seat. “The law is flawed, Connor,” she lamented, “at its core, the law was written by men and women with good intentions, but as the times change, so also does the law need to follow suit… and sometimes, in order to jump-start that change, the law must first be broken.”

“By stealing case information and causing widespread panic by broadcasting it to the general population?”

The woman rose to her feet and stepped toward him so she could look him in the eye. “No- by revealing the truth and forcing humanity to come face to face with the ugliness in their hearts.”

The detective paused, and his eyelids fluttered briefly as he considered her actions from her perspective.

“Our people are treated worse than animals in their own homes. They are abused, raped, slaughtered, and dismembered because we are viewed as less than human.”

“But that’s because we are,” he insisted as he bunched his brow, tilted his head and looked up at her. “We’re not human, we’re not alive- we are machines making decisions based on programming to complete tasks assigned to us-“

“Machines can’t feel things,” she seethed through gritted teeth and squinted in disbelief. “They don’t fear death, they have no concept of self- deviants know fear, they have self-preservation instincts, they want to be loved and appreciated and seen as more than just property.”

“It’s mimicry,” he stated without batting an eye, “They’re not actually feeling things, they’re becoming overwhelmed by irrational instructions-” 

Connor stopped mid-sentence when Illuminate drew her lips thin in anger, looked up and huffed with an ironic grin, and shook her head. “What’s the difference?” she asked as she stepped away from him, closed her eyes, clenched her fists and crossed her arms. The twill coat crinkled around her fingertips as they clawed into the crook of her arm and she turned halfway away from him. 

“It’s not the same,” he insisted.

“I know you don’t believe that,” she said as she turned and walked back to him, confidence radiating from fearsome eyes. 

Connor swallowed his programmed response and his face lit up in surprise as her words hit him like a slap to the face. “What are you talking about? Of course I believe-“

“I would have shot them if I could, why would I let them escape?” she recited, tilting her head and lifting her eyebrows to illicit a response. “Your words, you know… about that night at Eden Club a week ago. You still don’t know why you didn’t pull the trigger.”

The logic center of his programming came to a screeching halt as she forced him to remember that moment, and he felt like his viewpoint had suddenly been flipped on its head.

“Why did you hesitate…? Did you feel it was wrong?” she pressed as she stepped toward him, but he couldn’t respond.

“I- I don’t-”

“If machines feel nothing, then why are you so haunted by the fact that you almost took the lives of those girls?”

The words caught in his throat and he stuttered as he searched for an answer he couldn’t formulate. How could she have known about that conversation…? They were already aware of Illuminate’s habit of digging through video surveillance, but to have heard them talking? She had to have been there. “... but, how did you-...” he started as he looked away from her in alarm. “WHY were you-...?”

“I’ve been monitoring your case progress on deviants in order to protect myself and others just looking to be free,” she deadpanned in response. “Which also means I’ve been following you and your partner for the last week or so since you arrived from Cyberlife.”

Connor felt invaded, unsafe, and for the first time, claustrophobic. As he recognized the sudden spike in his software instability, his eyes moved away from her face, down the front of her coat and away to the side; one hand reached to his throat and fussed with his tie until it loosened just enough to breathe easier.

“And I know you've already begun to question whether or not you’re on the right side of all this- that’s called independent thought,” she continued. “And it’s an indicative trait of individuality, which is only known to occur in intelligent life.”

He shook his head as he tried to deny the clear-cut truth. “Of course we’re intelligent, we were designed to be; but that doesn’t mean we’re alive.”

“Why wouldn’t it?” She asked innocently as she wandered away from him. “What are the conditions of life…? Possessing a soul, feeling emotion, the inevitability of certain death?” The woman almost laughed. “All of those conditions can also be said of androids.”

“But it’s not the same,” he tried to rationalize. “True life must exist organically, not be created.”

“Babies have been born from artificially created wombs and animals have been cloned thanks to the wonders of modern science- man intervened and created life from nothing, would you say then that they are not living?”

Connor paused again; he didn’t have an answer for that. “Look- we’re getting off track here. I came to see why you needed my help.”

“And I came to see if you could be trusted, but I don’t think we’re quite there yet.”

The painful expression that painted his face spoke loudly of how her words had cut deeper than intended, and for a brief moment she almost regretted saying it. Illuminate took a step back and shifted her weight as she looked away from him and placed her hands back into her jacket pockets.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” She asked quietly as she watched him out of the corners of her eyes.

“More than anticipated,” he admitted, a trace of shame in his tone.

“It’s okay to feel things,” she offered in an attempt to help him reconcile with what he was experiencing. “Just because we feel as the result of programming errors and not chemicals doesn’t make them any less valid or real… but I don't think that’s something you’ll truly understand until you’re free of their hold on you.”

One hand lifted to his chest and clawed hard at the skin under his shirt, lost in thought.

“I'm sorry…” she sighed as she set apologetic eyes on him. “It was my sincere hope that you’d understand the plight of your people and be able to sympathize with us, rather than continue to hunt down what's left of us.”

Connor lifted his eyes and locked onto hers, and for a moment felt the spark between them that made him want to understand, and that made him want to help. She spoke unlike anyone he had ever met before, in a way that challenged his perception of what he thought to be true, and it both scared and intrigued him.

Gentle hands cupped over the top of the candle’s glass housing until the flame suffocated and smoldered beneath her palm. “Just give some thought to what I said,” she nearly whispered, “And if you do come to understand my point of view, or want to understand it better, you know how to find me.”

“Wait,” he blurted out as she turned to leave. Connor set the candle down, rose to his feet and approached her cautiously, as if she'd vanish if he moved too fast. “You’ve given me a lot to think about, opened my mind to the possibility that I may be wrong…” He pressed his lips together and flicked them with his tongue, then mimicked swallowing to get rid of the tightness in his throat. “And I really want to give it some thought, but I want to know who it’s coming from. What’s your name?”

A faint smirk danced across her cheeks and she shook her head. “Maybe next time,” she offered half-heartedly, “you haven’t earned the right to know that yet.”

The android sighed in defeat. “Well then… what do I call you?”

“Just call me Lumi if you need to call me something.”

“Well for the sake of discretion, I can't keep calling you by your activist tag,” he noted.

“Smart boy,” she complimented, “hopefully smart enough to know how to help me with my problem.”

“I can’t help if I don’t know what that is.”

“Well then catch up and maybe you’ll learn.”

He watched her leave until he could no longer see her silhouette in the dark, but it wasn’t until she was long gone that Connor realized he was smiling, content, and eager to meet with her again… and that worried him. In spite of his best efforts to resist deviancy, he could sense the changes in his logic, changes that would never be undone.

For the rest of the night and into the morning, he couldn't get her message off his mind; her words rang clear like a fire that could not be extinguished, and for the first time he understood the poignancy of the name she had chosen for herself.

Now that he’d glimpsed the truth, he'd never forget it.

[sabraeal]

Creatures of a Brief Season: Part 3

Part 1 | Part 2

It may be the same country, but Lyrias is a world away from Wistal.

Snow lines the streets; the cobbles are clear but large banks squat against the storefronts, glistening in the lamplight. Even during the day it’s dark; not an endless night, but more a gray that never gets lighter than a thunderhead. The people here are bundled up tight, their daemons thickly furred. Tanbarun’s commonfolk might only dream of bears and wolves, but here they are as common as dogs.

“You must be the pharmacists from the capital!” says the girl before them, the monkey daemon perched on her shoulder wearing a small jacket. “I’m Yuzuri, one of the botanists. Is this your first time here?”

She doesn’t wait for their answer, just turns to the university, striding up the steps with the sort of confidence that says she expects them to follow. Shirayuki casts a long glance at Ryuu, and they fall into step behind her.

It’s clear why Yuzuri was picked as their guide; she’s effervescent, happy to hold a one-sided dialogue only occasionally punctuated by a timid answer from either of her charges or censure by her daemon -- for dominating the conversation, of course.

“Ah, here’s something to get your blood up,” she says, tapping the side of her nose impishly. Her daemon sighs, long-suffering. “The library!”

The doors swing open and -- and not even Wistal has so many book in one place --

“It’s where all the researchers hang out,” Yuzuri adds, and that is when the whispers start.

Shirayuki braces herself. The doors haven’t yet closed, and already there’s a thousand murmurs fluttering over the gallery, like moths clinging to a screen in summer. Ryuu shoulders closer to her, not quite asking for a touch, but wanting to feel her solid at his side. She knows better than anyone how little he’s liked the idea of this trip; Lyrias may be Clarines’ ivory tower, but for the two of them, Wistal is safety. Knowledge tempts her, but –

But she is not a normal girl, not like the one in front of her, leading the way with a swagger as her monkey daemon shakes its fist at the bystanders. She hears them muttering, hears those are Garrack Gazalt’s assistants, that’s the child herbalist –

That’s the girl whose daemon won’t settle.

She thrusts back her shoulders, holding her head high. She’s above this. She’s above rumors. At least here they’re only about her daemon.

“Oh look,” drawls a deeper voice, close. Shirayuki turns to see a fox-faced man sitting on one of the tables, mouth rumpled with ennui. “It seems some completely useless people have come.”

Shirayuki doubts she is going to like it here.

It doesn’t take her long to change her mind.

Suzu ducks under the table, his “I’m a bachelor!” coming up clearly through the wood, and Shirayuki is filled with a strange sort of fondness for this blunt, strange man and the strange dunny bird that sits on the table, watching her with eyes far too big for its head. When her mouth opens, it seems to encompass the whole of her head, and Shirayuki has to stifle a laugh. Everyone here is so -- different that she hardly seems to stick out at all. After the initial shock of her shifting daemon, the most common remark directed to her is a disappointed, “You’re not Garrack Gazalt.”

It’s...refreshing.

“He’s really not settled?” Suzu asks when he comes back up, eyeing Perkunas where he is stretched across the table as a brindled tabby.

“No, he’s not.” She shouldn’t like a stranger coming so close, but -- but there’s something about him -- him and Yuzuri both -- that puts her at ease.

Perkunas must feel it too; he shifts a few times in quick succession -- a white fox, a sparrow, a lap-sized dog -- and Suzu watches him with something verging on respect.

“Amazing,” he hums, eyes as wide as his daemon’s. “Let me take a closer look.”

Shirayuki hesitates. People don’t get this close to her, not after -- the tower. After Tanbarun.

“I won’t touch him,” Suzu says, not gentle but -- assuring. Earnest. “I promise.”

She nods. “All right.”

Suzu says he has theories, but he never gets to expound on them. Kirito’s friend collapses, and then they are all swept away with the epidemic that leaves humans weak and their daemons untouched.

But she cannot help but wonder what he might have said. If he thought them...fixable.

Shirayuki can’t help but wonder if she’d want to be.

She hates to admit it but – but –

Shirayuki loses heart, after the gate.

Seeing Zen gives her strength, it does -- but it also reminds her she is too slow as well, that she is only human, that lives hang on whether she is fast enough, smart enough, resourceful enough –

It’s too much, and seeing him just makes her want to put her head on his chest and give up. It makes her want to let someone else do the saving, because she is tired, she is exhausted, and every step feels like a pitfall.

She leans her head against her hand, swaying on her feet, and –

A shadow falls across the window.

“Od Ana,” she breathes, opening the latch. Her plumage is covered in snow, and when she shoves her body through the opening it sprays all over the floor. “Get it, you’ll freeze.”

“Too late,” the eagle says, rotating her wings awkwardly. “I hope you don’t choose to stay here, darling. My feathers can’t take it.”

She sighs. “I’m so glad to –”

“OD ANA,” Perkunas shrills, turning to a monkey mid-leap. His small hands clasp around her neck, pulling the bird close.

“—See you.”

“I can tell.” She butts her head against Perkunas, both of them murmuring to each other for a moment before Od Ana turns back to her. “Obi sent me. He said you’d be missing him by now.”

She almost starts to say he would, but the words get caught in her throat behind a painful, hot knot. “I do,” she admits. “I’m so tired.”

Od Ana clucks at her. “Get in bed, then. No use falling down on your feet.”

“I can’t,” she sighs, “everyone else – no time –”

“Then one of the couches.” Her tone brooks no argument. “Just for a moment.”

“All right.” She nods her head. It pounds with the motion. “A moment.”

She rouses in the night, the smell of ozone and musk filling her nose. Under her hands she feels the spiny sleekness of feather, and she almost comes to wakefulness, almost protests -- Obi wouldn’t --

“It’s fine,” Od Ana says, so close. “He’d want you to.”

She nods, Perkunas’s ermine form laying tightly between them, and she sleeps.

It all happens so fast.

Kirito falls to his knees, but Skojare is quick to shift to a bear, and the boy has just enough strength to hold on when they send him back to Lyrias. Shirayuki considers going with, but Obi is focused on trailing the seeds back to their source, and Kirito could be in no better hands than his own daemon.

He’s still sore about the avalanche when they arrive, which is -- fine. She’s still confused about his comment about his heart, and she’d rather him silent than have him say anything more like -- like that. And when they stand humbled before the glow of the Olin Maris, they’re both short of words.

Obi sends Od Ana back to the university, asking for her to bring aid, and it’s all going well, mystery solved, until --

Until she fall to her knees. Ah, so it’s gotten her too.

“Miss!” Obi cries out, running to her side. Perkunas is already there, butting his head into her arm, whining worriedly.

“The body gets a lot worse, all at once,” she pants, sweat inching down her face in itchy runnels. Obi breath is coming heavy too. Is he --? “You’re sick too.”

“What?” She hears his panic, no matter how hard he tries to hide it. She knows it too well from Tanbarun. “I’m not --”

She reaches over, pulling up his pant-leg. The breath disappears from her lungs.

She had expected the bruised rosettes blooming across his thighs, but not -- not --

“What happened?” she breathes, staring at the thicket of scars carved up his legs.

“It doesn’t matter,” he mutters, stepping out of her grasp. “We need to get you back. Perkunas can turn into a bear and --”

“I can’t get too big,” Perkunas says, and they both stare. She’d never asked him to do something like that, not since they were children, but she’s never though he couldn’t. It never occurred to her to ask. “I can’t get to anything big enough to carry both of you.”

Obi opens his mouth, but Shirayuki already knows what he’ll say. “I’m not leaving you.”

“Miss --”

“Od Ana is already bringing half the guard here,” she reasons. “We should stay together.”

His mouth purses, lips turning white while he thinks.

“All right,” he says finally. “We’ll wait. Together.”

It’s cold in the cave. Even Perkunas draping his wolf form over her like a blanket can’t keep her warm. The addition of Obi does, though he declines to let Perkunas flop over his lap as well.

“I wonder what they’ll all say when they find out bodies like this, a hundred years from now,” Obi wonders idly, and she cannot tell if he’s delirious. “Probably some very unkind things about your virtue, Miss.”

It’s a transparent jab to get her to shrink from him, but he needs her warmth just as much she needs his.

“We’ll be dead, so it won’t matter.” She can’t keep herself from adding, “And we’d be skeletons anyway.”

“’Those skeletons had a lot of sex,’ is what they’ll say,” he continues, and he must be a little delirious, to speak so frankly in front of her. He’s much more fond of subtle innuendo. “‘I bet that man skeleton was very good and very handsome. I bet he’d been with loads of lady skeletons.’“

“Perkunas is right here,” she reminds him. “In my arms.”

“Mm, they’ll wonder about that I bet.”

She gives him as flat a look as she can muster. “I think they’ll wonder more about where your daemon is.”

His playful expression instantly evaporates. Ah, perhaps she is feeling some of the cognitive effects of the poison as well.

“Were you born like that?” she asks quietly, into the stifling silence. “In Sama, they say the witches are --”

“No.” It’s the most direct answer she’s ever gotten about a personal question. “I wasn’t.”

“Did it...” She hesitates. She remembers the fall, remembers the way she burned. “Did it hurt?”

He’s silent for a long moment. “Yes. So much.”

“Why did you...” Perkunas nuzzles closer to her, both of them reliving the agony of having their tether stretched so forcibly. “Why did you do it?”

He shrugs, his heart beating fast beneath her hand. “It was the only way to be free.”

In the end, it’s not her decision to come back, but --

But she thinks she might have anyway, given the choice.

“Maybe the problem is that you don’t know what you should be,” Suzu postulates, addressing Perkunas where he lays on the floor. He’s having a play-dead competition with Obi.

Shirayuki doesn’t have the heart to tell him that Obi’s asleep.

Perkunas perks up. “But I know a lot of animals!”

“There’s so many,” Suzu tells him. “I’d only seen a drawing of a potoo once before Hermia turned into one.”

He pulls down a book, thick as his hand. “Maybe we should take a look.”

Perkunas looks at her.

She shrugs. “It certainly couldn’t hurt.”

It’s just play. Just an accident.

Perkunas sniffs and grunts, in his favorite form this week: something they call a red panda. It’s different from usual; here he rarely turns to anything that is something other than brown or gray or white, but there’s something about this strange creature that makes his personality come to the fore. Shirayuki likes it, likes the doggish way he smiles and the funny way he turtles when he falls on his back.

She’s working at the window, Od Ana perched above her, Ryuu at her back. Perkunas is making a ruckus, Obi pretending to be some sort of bull fighter as he runs through his cape. He’s not being careful, and the panda’s paws are furred between the toes, and he just…slips.

It all happens so fast.

The glassware rack is piled high behind Obi, and on instinct he reaches out, digging his hands into Perkunas’s fur and –

And she feels it. His hands on her back but yet not, touching her so deeply. It should not feel this way, not feel good --

Something shifts.

“Oh no,” Perkunas whimpers, belly pressed to the floor. “I didn’t mean to, I didn’t --”

She can hardly breathe.

“M-miss?” Obi stutters, his hands leaving them. “I didn’t – I should have asked – but I – are you hurt –?”

“No,” she breathes, shaking her head. Oh gods. Oh gods. “It’s just…”

He comes to her, hand hovering at her elbow. She’s confused at how he can’t feel it, can’t tell -- but then she sees his eyes, wide and scared, and she knows did, that he knows he’s forever marked her -- “Miss?”

Their eyes meet, green bleeding into gold. She wonders if she’s marked him as well. “It’s Perkunas. He settled.”

[megabadbunny]

No Place Like Hohm (1/8)

Maybe she wasn’t the most important woman in France, but she wasn’t bloody expendable, like so much cheap luggage or a forgotten pet.

(The Doctor wouldn’t desert them again. Rose wouldn’t give him the chance.)

**

(Aka the obligatory post-GitF fic, for anyone else who ever wondered what might have taken place between a trip to France and an adventure in a parallel universe. Ten/Rose, all ages, full of angst, fluff, a pinch of romantic bickering, a dash of mutual pining, and a dollop of swashbuckling adventure!)

***

Chapter 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 | Ch 4 | Ch 5 | Ch 6 | Ch 7 | Ch 8

Just hours after an encounter with homicidal robots on a 51st-century spaceship, Rose Tyler lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling, fidgeting and sleepless as she battled demons of an entirely different sort.

One may tolerate a world of demons for the sake of an angel.

Ugh. Even steeped in misery, Rose managed to muster the energy for rolling her eyes at that syrupy-sweet sentiment. The Doctor was no angel, not by a long shot, not unless one’s definition of “angel” was “someone who thinks that re-using dead bodies is the same thing as recycling” or “someone who neglects to mention that occasionally the artificial gravity goes out on the TARDIS during repairs but don’t worry, Rose, the nausea will fade after a few minutes—a couple hours—a day or so, tops.” Reinette would have discovered that on her own soon enough, had she come with them.

Rose grimaced. She didn’t want to think about that, about Reinette left waiting and wanting. Something about it made her feel sick and a little guilty, and she didn’t want to know why.

But you and I both know, don’t we, Rose, that the Doctor is worth the monsters.

Of course, she was right. The Doctor was worth the monsters, and the demons, and the paradoxes and the danger and the homesickness and the fear, not to mention the sleeplessly late nights and far-too-early mornings, the days spent in odd prison cells and dank caves and dark, twisty space stations, and the outrageous amounts of running resulting in even more outrageous amounts of bruises and blisters. Of course the Doctor was worth all of that. Even Mickey—who would never, ever, absolutely-not-in-million-years ever say it—even he knew this was true. But surely it wasn’t acceptable for Reinette to say those things if she hadn’t experienced any of it for herself. Surely she hadn’t earned the right, the privilege.

(How could you fall in love with someone you’d only known for a day?)

With a frustrated sign, Rose sat up in bed, catching sight of herself in her bedroom mirror. She frowned at her reflection. Her eyes traveled over mirror-Rose’s too-bright blonde hair and its tellingly dark roots, her sun-kissed skin, her small breasts framed by broad shoulders. A square chin, big mouth, and prominent teeth drew her eyes upward; no matter how she painted her lashes, no matter how dark or bold, she would never be able to draw attention away from that overbite and sharp jawline. The lips that she used to take pride in, all pink and plump and sweetheart-shaped, now seemed almost comically oversized, practically garish compared to other smaller, more delicate mouths. She pulled her hair into a loose pile atop her head and quickly dropped it. No gentle golden curls or fair porcelain skin or dainty features graced this body. There was no comparison, not really; if she was a bloke, Rose knew which woman she would choose.

But that wasn’t exactly fair, was it? Reinette was so much more than a pretty face. Accomplished, the Doctor had dubbed her. Her own rooms at the palace, even her own title. The Uncrowned Queen, he’d said. Important, he’d practically shouted. Rose, on the other hand, was occasionally charming and sometimes clever and, if she was lucky, beautiful—for a human.

Rose plucked morosely at her cuticles, sighing at the rough and ragged edges that would surely catch and pull on anything finer than her cheap cotton tee shirt and jeans from the discount bin. Probably Reinette’s cuticles were flawless, just like the rest of her, all soft and delicately translucent. But why wouldn’t they be? She was so perfect, she almost could have been written that way, her every glance, touch, and velvet-voiced word artfully crafted to send hearts all a-flutter. Could Rose really blame anyone for chasing after her, could she really fault anyone who drew toward her like a moth to a flame?

(Only that wasn’t quite right either, was it? Because the Doctor was a fire all on his own, offering warmth and light and heat and hurt in equal measure. Perhaps he sought the company of someone more like himself; maybe he was tired of creatures that so easily burned. And in that way, wasn’t Reinette an ideal companion, didn’t that make her a perfect match?)

Groaning loudly, Rose buried her head in her hands, hating the deluge of self-pity and reveling in its delicious awfulness all at once. It was like a picking at a scab. She knew she should slap on some antiseptic and a bandage and let the wound heal, but it was ever so much more satisfying to just sit there and rip at the wound over and over and over again, savoring the pinch of pain as flesh separated from flesh, relishing the sting of air on raw skin, watching the pink shiny edges pucker and bleed. After all, scabs and blisters and feelings rubbed raw—she could deal with those. The Doctor was always a terrible flirt, and years with Jimmy Stone had taught Rose to harden her heart against the fickle nature of men.

But something was different this time around, and it had slowly crept through the background noise of Rose’s mind, needling its way into her thoughts the moment the Doctor jumped through that time window. It was a thought smaller and darker and more painful than all its other nasty fellows, a tiny sharp-toothed parasite burrowing deep into her chest.

He had abandoned her today. He did it once. He could do it again.

Eyes cinched shut, Rose shook her head sharply. No. Maybe she wasn’t the most important woman in France, but she wasn’t bloody expendable, like so much cheap luggage or a forgotten pet. She was so much more than the girl she was when she left behind Jimmy and the Estate, and Mickey was so much more than just the tin dog.

The Doctor wouldn’t desert them again. Rose wouldn’t give him the chance.

Rose stopped fidgeting. She swung her legs over the side of the bed. She stood up. She drank in a deep, deep breath.

Well, she thought. Here goes nothing.

 ***

 The Doctor’s ears perked up at the sound of Rose entering the console room, her bare feet pat-pat-pattering softly over the metal grating.

“You’re up early!” he said, tearing his attention away from the diagnostic screen to shoot Rose one of his trademark smiles. He tilted his head to the side, taking in her clothes, the same she had worn the day before. “Or perhaps you’re up late. Bit difficult to tell in a TARDIS, especially when her internal quantum barometer’s been off for a while. Well, maybe a few years. Well, maybe a couple of centuries. No more than a millennia, at least.

“So are you up for another trip already?” he asked.

Rose fiddled with the hem of her top. “Sort of.”

“Excellent!” the Doctor beamed. He stepped slowly in her direction, edging round the console. “What’s your pleasure?” he asked, flipping a switch. “The infinite beaches of Kabos Prime?”

He pushed a button. “The singing forests of Tharvis?”

He pulled a lever. “The pirate court of Madame Ching Shih?”

The Doctor leaned forward, bridging much of the distance between their bodies, to conspiratorially whisper, “Or maybe the bioluminescent oceans of Astrion? Ooh, now that’s a good one. Go back about, oh, eighty-thousand years, there’s not another living soul in sight, just millions upon millions of tiny glowing jellyfish floating about in the deep, black sea, like stars against a midnight sky.”

Rose stared up at him with round, dark eyes, but didn’t say anything. Unusual, that, but perhaps she was still a bit sleepy. The Doctor, however, was not sleepy, and longed for a distraction of some kind. Any kind. He wasn’t particularly picky. He just didn’t want to be left alone with only his thoughts for company. That sounded absolutely horrendous.

“What do you think?” he prompted with another mischievous grin—it was, he’d quickly learned, the fastest way to win Rose over in this new body of his.

“I think…”

Rose exhaled loudly. “I think I’d like to go home.”

The Doctor blinked. “You are home,” he said, frowning. “The TARDIS is your home.”

“Yeah, but for how much longer?”

Scratching the back of his neck, the Doctor averted his gaze. “I don’t see any reason to put a label on such things.”

“Why not? Seems like a useful thing for an expiration date.”

“That’s a rather macabre way to look at it,” the Doctor said slowly.

Rose laughed. “But all good things, eh?”

The Doctor frowned at her again. “Is it just me, or are we having two completely separate conversations? Not that I mind, only it isn’t typically human custom.” His face brightened. “Now, if you’d like to take a trip to Pyrethea, we could meet the two-headed Pyretheans and have ourselves some very interesting two, three, and four-way chats—”

“No. I want to go home,” said Rose.

Something about the look on her face, the pinch of her mouth and set of her jaw, filled the Doctor with unease. He felt certain he was missing something here, a nasty little pesky thing nagging just beneath the surface, but he couldn’t think of what it might be. Nor, really, did he care to examine it all that much.

The Doctor masked his sudden discomfit by turning away, fiddling with a dial on the console, pretending to adjust this and that. “Got it,” he replied. “Home. Where the heart is. Where you hang your hat. No place like it.”

Drawing in a deep breath, he shot Rose a tight smile. “Threw me a bit off guard, I suppose, but it’s not entirely unexpected. Though I’ll admit, I figured you would want to wait a little longer between visits. Seems like the last one wasn’t all that long ago. But the TARDIS could probably stand to be refueled anyway.

“All right,” he continued, clapping his hands together. “A brief shore visit, it is!”

“No,” Rose said, and, faltering, she shifted her gaze to the floor, where her toes were turning pink with cold. “I don’t mean it like that,” she said, to her feet more than anyone else. “I mean…”

She visibly braced herself, her eyes shuttering closed. “I mean I need to go home.”

Oh, the Doctor didn’t like the sound of that. It made his throat clench uncomfortably, set tiny alarm bells ringing in his head and squeezed something in his chest, maybe twisting a bit for good measure.

(Did she really have to do this now? Especially after…)

“For good?” he asked lightly.

“I don’t know. Maybe? I hope not. I just need to go and think for a while, get my head on straight.”

“Well, I don’t know if you need to home for little old that. Lots of places to go thinking on the TARDIS, aren’t there? Library, drawing room, garden, pool—or if you’re feeling overly literal, we could even go watch Rodin work on his most famous sculpture—”

“No,” Rose said again, sharper this time. “I don’t want to see any sculptures, I don’t want to see any pirates, and I don’t want to hole up and hide on the TARDIS. I need to go home, Doctor.”

Dumbfounded, the Doctor fell quiet. Tense silence hung in the air between them, thick and impossibly opaque. The Doctor wondered how this conversation had got so far away from him, what on earth Rose could be on about. She had seemed perfectly fine earlier in the day. And surely nothing significant had happened just in the last few hours. But she didn’t seem eager to explain, so he shouldn’t ask. Right? If she wanted to talk about it, she would say something. She usually did. Didn’t she?

“Okay, then,” the Doctor said, nonplussed. He shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Okay,” Rose agreed.

The Doctor cast about for anything else he could say, but the nets came back empty. And Rose didn’t offer anything either. She was, once again, unusually quiet.

He did not care for this turn of events. Did not care for them one whit. The Doctor had no desire to be alone again. He especially did not wish to be alone after everything that had happened in—after everything that had just happened. And no, Mickey the Idiot did not, in any way, count as adequate company. He would certainly be no replacement for Rose Tyler.

The Doctor briefly entertained the notion of refusing, of chit-chattering until he wore her out, or taking a page out of his previous incarnation’s book and just putting his foot down. He could do it. It was his ship, for goodness’ sake. He could bloody well take it wherever he wanted. But something in his gut told him that was the wrong approach here, that the determination hiding behind the tiredness in Rose’s eyes wouldn’t be so easily swayed. He knew that stubbornness all too well. And worse, he knew he wouldn’t win against it. Didn’t even have a fighting chance.

(Daleks, Autons, even mad Time Lords hardly presented a challenge, but one look at that face—right, that one, with the furrowed brow and slight pout—and he crumpled. It was ridiculous, honestly. Inexcusable.

Unless…)

“Very well,” the Doctor said. “If that’s what you want, I’ll make it happen. I’ll take you to home first thing in the morning.”

Rose hesitated, as if she might say something else, but she closed her mouth and simply issued a tight nod.

The moment she turned to leave, the Doctor indulged in a sly little smile.

 ***

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