#((and the second set of lungs he has that allows him to breathe underwater! it's SO stupid and annoying!))

[theheadlessgroom]

@beatingheart-bride

"Sounds like Dorian alright," Randall chuckled; even as a boy, his best friend seemed to take any and all opportunities he found to try and throw a party, and although these attempts didn't always pan out, he still tried. Even as a child, Randall knew it wasn't because Dorian enjoyed being the center of these parties (unlike what some suspected), it was simply because he wanted everyone to have a good time drinking, dancing, playing party games, and just overall having fun, and that especially went for Randall, who got to enjoy some of these lavish get-togethers through Dorian, who always insisted his best friend and his mother get to join in.

(And who knew-maybe that'd still be the case once they made it to California; Dorian throwing parties. They'd probably be scaled down from the wildly over-the-tip ones held at Gracey Manor, of course, but he could see his dear friend still putting quite a few on for even the most minute of celebrations.)

"I wish I could see these dresses too," he smiled, brightening at the idea of making him and Emily matching outfits, and especially giving his all when it came to his bride's dresses; he'd never do anything by half when it came to her. It was a shame she couldn't have brought them back with her from the future, he really would've liked to see them (and see if he'd any gotten better post-mortem-Lord knew he had all the time in the world to practice and improve!)

"Did you, uh, have a favorite that I made, for a particular party, I mean?"

[waiting4inspiration]

Stories IV (Bjorn x Mermaid!Reader)

Summary: You find Bjorn injured and take him to a cave where you can heal him. He sees a figure in the water when you are away. You see the same woman after saying goodbye to Bjorn and something strange happens to you.

Warnings: strong language, mythical elements, angst, fluff, a long-anticipated 4th part is finally here

Word Count: +3k

Part 1 II Part 2 II Part 3 II Vikings Masterlist

There are only so many places you can go to look for Bjorn, where streams, rivers, and other bodies of water link up to the fjord you were released into by Hvitserk during the raid on Kattegat. Still, you’re determined to find him no matter what. You can’t bear to think that he has died for something like... the title of King. 

It’s almost like hunting, sensing any prey moving around in the water or at the edge of the water. If it’s not Bjorn you find and instead another human, you can make them find him. You can be intimidating if you want to, even though you haven’t used your intimidating looks in a long time. Maybe the feeling of your nails turning into claws will feel weird to you. But if it will work to get someone to help you then so be it. 

You sense something in the distance, like a call to you through vibrations in the water. Pausing for a moment, you wait to see if you feel it again just to make sure it’s something and that you’re not following a dead end. But you sense it again. And you know it’s blood. Human blood. 

It’s not hunger that pushes you forward, propelling you through the water. It’s fear. You know what’s going on out there in the surface world. You know that there’s a war going on and you know that Bjorn is involved in it. You know that where there’s blood, there’s a man and if he’s still alive, you can find Bjorn and make sure that he’s alright. 

The stronger the smell of blood gets, the quicker you swim, popping your head out of the water every now and then to see if you can see something before you get to it. When the water starts turning red, stained with blood, your heart drops in your chest.

Then you see it. The figure that had set your senses off. And you’d know that braid of hair anywhere. “Fuck,” you mutter before pushing yourself forward. With just a few flicks of your tail, you get to the water’s edge and to Bjorn lying face down with his hand in the water.

Pushing yourself half out of the water, your tail still in the water, you roll him over onto his back and see a broken arrow embedded in his chest. “Shit,” you whisper, turning your attention to his face that you cup between your hands, hoping that his eyes open. 

His eyes flutter open at your touch and that’s enough for you to pull him into the water with you. Keeping his body close to yours as you swim with his head above water, you can feel his slow heart beating against his chest. You can feel the breath in his lungs, the life in his body. 

It’s hard to keep yourself above the surface with Bjorn dragging you down, but the determination inside of you to keep him alive and safe is enough to keep your tail beating against the currents. You hear him muttering your name, your head turning down to him for a second. Fearing that he doesn’t have much time left, you force yourself to go faster, ignoring how tired you are. 

You finally get to where you want, an underwater cave where you push yourself to go faster than ever because you don’t want the already unstable man in your arms to drown. But when he’s finally on the rocky surface, you can allow your tail to rest for a moment. Your tail can rest, but your mind cannot. You try to push aside the constant warnings that he does not have a lot of time, that whatever you need to do, you must do it now. 

Your claws come out without even a thought, ripping open the tunic covering his chest to inspect his wounds. The thundering in your heart deafens you to the dripping sounds in the cavern or how Bjorn calls out your name again. Now that you know what his wounds look like, you know what you need. You only hope that these seas have what you need. 

Bjorn’s eyes catch sight of your tail before you disappear under the water. He smiles to himself, happy that his plan to find you worked, happy that you had stayed, that you didn’t swim away home when you were released. But most of all, he’s happy that you’re alive and out of Ivar’s reach now. 

His mind goes blank, thinking about you, imagining the glee you must have felt to be back in open water. In his mind, he can see the way your tail flicks in excitement and the smile on your face to be out of the confinement of the tank you were living in. He wishes he could see it himself.

He feels something against his face, something wet that breaks him out of his dreams, and his eyes snap open to find you hovering above him. There’s a glowing light around you, making him think he’s still in a dream. Perhaps he has gone to Valhalla and you are a part of his. 

“Tell me you’re alive,” you whisper to him, caressing the side of his face with the back of your hand. 

He reaches up to touch your hand, taking it in his as he smiles. “Only if you were the one to save me,” he whispers back, his eyes adjusting to the light of the cave so that he can see you smiling down at him. 

“I thought I couldn’t,” you say, moving closer to him as you glance down to his chest, his wounds now covered in a substance that you had made with sea life, a substance your kind uses to heal wounds. You didn’t think it would work above the water, but it did. “You have different sea life here than at home. But it worked.”

“And I didn’t think you would find me. I thought you had gone back to the sea. But I thought that if there was still hope that you stayed, maybe you could find me by my blood,” he says, trying to move but you stop him by placing a firm hand on his chest. 

You laugh at his words, shifting closer and causing your tail to move out of the water. “It worked. And now you should rest while I look for food,” you say, reaching up to caress his cheek. 

He grabs your wrist, almost as if he’s asking you to stay. But he’s not strong enough to keep his grip on your wrist. You smile gently at him, the softest you’ve ever given him, and you lean closer to his face. Then, you start singing in a language Bjorn has never heard before. It sounds like a lullaby from the soft, gentle melody leaving your lips. He wonders if it’s the song you said your kind uses to lure men to their deaths. If it is, at least he will be happy when he dies. 

When he drifts into a restful state, you smile down at him and continue to caress his face. Your eyes drift down to his lips, your fingers making their way down to them as you remember how close you’ve come to kissing him, the times when he wanted to kiss you but you stopped him. You stopped him not because you didn’t want to kiss him, but because you didn’t want the story of The Mother to be true and you end up turning him into a merman. It would not suit him. He is the King of his people and how can a King lead if he does not live with his people. 

Thinking about that now, you make it a note in your mind to make a stop before hunting for food. You’re going to find out what happened with the war and if there are still people fighting. You’re going to find out if there is a way Bjorn can get back the throne that is his.

When Bjorn wakes, the cavern is quiet except for the dripping sound somewhere in the distance. He opens his eyes, and pushes himself up to look around to find you. But you are not at the water’s edge. He almost misses another figure in the water, his head doing a double take and looking in the distance at the head just jutting out of the water’s surface. 

“(Y/n)?” he calls, squinting to see if it is you. 

It’s not you. He sees that when the figure moves closer. Bjorn shifts back, cautious that this is another mermaid that has found him and sees him as prey. He moves away from the edge of the water, but the woman keeps moving forward. 

But when she gets to the shoreline, Bjorn can see that she does not have a tail like you have. Instead, she has legs. She smiles down at him, holding out her hands to show that she means him no harm. “Who are you?” he asks, his voice echoing in the cave as she comes to kneel down in front of him. 

She said something to him, but it is as if her voice gets lost in the air, the sound floating around him as she rests her hands on his chest. He feels a stir in her heart and it’s as if the breath is being pushed out of his lungs. Then he hears her last words before his mind goes black. 

“Give her a good life.”

His eyes open when he hears rocks clicking together, echoing in the cavern. When he sits up and turns to the sound, he sees you propped up with two stones in your hand and a makeshift fireplace beside you, and a big fish next to it. You mutter curses to yourself as you continue to strike the rocks together. Bjorn can tell that you’re trying to start a fire. 

Before he pushes himself up, he looks out to the water where he saw the woman. He tries to figure out if it was a dream or if it happened. Considering the wounds he has, he must have been in a fever that caused him to be in and out of dreams. 

“I didn’t think you knew how to make fire,” he speaks, catching your attention and making you turn to look at him. 

You laugh, shrug your shoulders, and look back down at the rocks in your hands. “I don’t know anything about it. Only that you use it to cook food because you do not eat it raw like I do,” you say, looking down at your tail. “I only know things to do with water.”

Bjorn moves closer to you, sitting beside you, and reaches for the rocks in your hands. “I will teach you if you want to learn,” he says, his fingers brushing against yours as he takes the rocks from you. 

Nodding your head, you train your eyes on his hands to watch him strike the stones together with such skill that it only takes a few tries before you see a spark. Seeing the spark makes you gasp in excitement, your eyes growing wide to see him do it again. Then, one final strike lights the fire pit. 

“You built it well. Strong,” he mentions, smiling at you as he reaches for the fish you had brought back on your hunt. 

You smile, happy with the praise given to you. “I watched you do it,” you say, looking up at him in glee. He imagines that it’s the same look you had on your face when you saw the open ocean again to hunt. 

And yet, you still came back to him. 

“I went back to Kattegat,” you mention when he starts to cook the fish. His eyes snap up to you, his jaw tightening at the thought that you might have put yourself in danger. “Hvitserk is still fighting against Ivar. There are still people that are loyal to you,” you explain, thinking that he would be happy to hear that. But he instead casts his attention back to the fish. “When you are strong again, you can fight back again.”

“And what about you?” he asks, your smile falling from your face at the question. 

“What about me?”

“What if I win? Would you want to go back into that tank now that you are free?” he asks. “I do not think I could do that to you again.”

He doesn’t look at you but you can see there is guilt in his mind. You reach out to lift his gaze by touching his cheek. “This is my home now. I cannot go back to where you found me. I will stay in the fjord and all you have to do is call me and I will come,” you say, shifting closer to him, your tail making the water splash around it. “I can help as much as I can in this fight. Whoever is closest to the water, I can take.”

Seeing your enthusiasm to fight and give him back this throne makes him smile. Knowing that you have decided to stay makes him all the happier. He leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours, knowing that if he tries to kiss you, you will only pull away again. He knows you have some kind of fear in your mind about it, but he doesn’t know what. 

You rest your forehead against him, leaning into his touch when he cups your cheek. The quietness in the cave makes this moment all the more intimate. There is no shouting from outside like there was when you were in his room in Kattegat and you know there is no way someone can burst in and interrupt the two of you. 

It’s perfect. And you wish to have more moments like this in the future.

You’re surprised at how quickly Bjorn’s strength came back. You thought that it was almost as if The Mother had blessed him to heal quickly. It took him a day to be back on his feet and the next day, you’re confident that he is strong enough to go back and fight again. You can only imagine that the cold cave isn’t the best environment for a human to stay in. It’s ideal for you as a mermaid because of the dampness and you think that you might come back here after Bjorn is king again. 

When the sun has set and you’re both ready to leave the cave, you lead Bjorn into the water where you both float on the surface where the underwater entrance is. You take his hand in yours, smiling gently at him as your other hand comes to his shoulder. “Take a deep breath,” you whisper, moving closer to him.

He can feel the fins brushing against his legs, reminding him of when he swam with you in that pond. He remembers the moment he had with you under the water. “Don’t eat me,” he teases, making you laugh as you start pushing him down by his shoulders when he takes a deep breath. 

“I’ll try not to,” you tease back, with a big smile on your face. 

Bjorn swims with you, knowing that you’re taking it slow and that you’re not swimming at your normal speed so that you can keep up with him. It’s always amazing to see you swim. The way your tail moves in the water is so strong and so majestic, the bubbles forming in the water seem to be like little pearls leaving your tail. It only makes his decision to not cage you anymore stronger. 

Hvitserk is waiting for Bjorn at the boat builder’s house, not far from your cave. When you get there, Bjorn pushes himself out of the water and onto the dock where a boat rests beside it. You pull yourself up to rest your arms on the wood, keeping your tail in the water. Bjorn sits beside you, his legs hanging off the edge as he reaches for your hand. 

“Don’t die away from the water where I cannot save you again,” you say, holding his hand tightly. “If you are hurt again, go to the water and I will find you.”

Bjorn can tell that you’re scared that this fight isn’t going to go well. You’re scared that he will get hurt again and you won’t be able to save him again. You’re scared to lose him. 

He cups your face in his hands, leaning closer to you as you push yourself farther up to get closer to his face. “I will see you again. This I promise,” he whispers, causing you to smile. 

You know that there are men at the end of the dock watching the two of you. They only heard stories about you, only being able to see part of your tail during the movement from the Great Hall to the pond. This must be the first time they’re seeing you in your full glory. But you don’t care. 

You mutter a small prayer to The Mother before you do what you do next. 

Pushing yourself up more, you press your lips to Bjorn’s, finally kissing him as you wanted to do for the past few days. You push away the fear that your kiss might turn him into a merman, thinking that if he is on land and you don’t pull him into the water, it won’t change him and he’ll remain a man.

Bjorn pulls your face closer to his, relieved that you have finally allowed him to kiss you. He kisses you back, his hands weaving through your damp hair. He wants this moment to last forever, but when Hvitserk calls his name, making you pull out of the kiss. But you keep your forehead against him and he keeps his against yours. 

“I will meet you at the docks in Kattegat when it is over,” you whisper to him. 

Instead of saying anything in response, Bjorn just places another kiss to your lips before he lets you go back into the water. The last he sees before you disappear under the water in the fins of your tail. 

As you swim, you feel something stirring in your chest. Your vision goes blurry and it’s like your lungs are screaming for air. Unsure what’s happening when your tail starts to falter, not allowing you to swim forward anymore, you quickly breach the surface and take a deep breath of air. 

Breathing the fresh air outside of the water has never given you such relief. You pull yourself out of the water, and onto the shore with a tree canopy overhead. Your heart beats wildly in your chest as you glance down to your tail, only to find that your scales and fins have started to disappear. It’s as if your tail starts to split in half, but you feel no pain. And when the scales fade, the skin replaces them, and feet and toes replace your bottom fins. 

Hearing someone walking closer to you, you lift your head and see a woman a few feet away from you, holding a pile of clothes in her arms and a loving smile on her face. You know exactly who she is. 

The Mother.

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[alienaiver]

Kaminari and 3? I love the colour theme of your blog! It's so sunny and happy

i gotchu my dear! and thank you so much 🥹🧡 i like that you think of it like that, that was the intention!! 🧡✨

number 3 is: "just please open your eyes" which.. took a heavy turn here 🫡

warnings include canon typical violence and wounds (no wounds are described in any detailed or gore-y way but they are still there and mentioned briefly) but dw, a happy ending and 1.2k words!

(this was also formatted and posted from my phone as i have flunked down on my gengar plushie and cannot get up. if theres any mishaps let me know and ill fix them on my pc tomorrow! 🥰🧡)

Kaminari whips his head around, a triumphant smile on his face as he searches for your hero suit's color scheme in the mess of settling debris and civilians. This is the first respond and rescue you both have officially been a part of as Pro Heroes and the overwhelming victory has Kaminari's veins buzzing in a way that he haven't felt like before. He might even feel brave enough to confess to you right now.

Now, where are you?

In more depth he takes in his surroundings. There's paramedics by their vans, helping civilians with their wounds and cuts, over by the setting sun there's his mentors talking to civilians who passed by, there's Bakugou crouched down by an unconscious person and then there's the media by the edge of the scene, trying to catch the scoop of today's events. Only one building fell down and that was the villain's doing. The debris around you is so small and dusty because Bakugou's fast reflexes and quirk prevented the falling debris from being big enough to kill anyone. Kaminari sure is lucky he's got so capable friends -- colleagues, he reminds himself with a cheerful glee.

Wait, rewind.

Who's Bakugou crouched over? He's checking for a pulse. Kaminari scrunches up his eyes to get a better look and his heart stops beating as time freezes. He thinks that his breath hitches but the second that the dusty air returns to his lungs, everything goes into overdrive. His heart beats faster than he thought was possible, sweat travels down his brow, his back and his hands feel sticky. Every muscle is begging him to move, to run.

So he does. He runs and screams and yells your name as loud as he's able, hurrying to be by your side. He stumbles and falls down on his knee and in the back of his mind he does register the scraping, the blood trickling but none of that is what he feels.

There's blood on your face. Kaminari can't see more for the paramedic hooking you to a machine. He pushes and pulls uselessly at Bakugou's arm and somehow, the brute lets him -- doesn't even reprimand him for accidentally scratching.

Did the debris hit you? Did the Tech Villain get a hold of you before Kaminari zapped and paralysed him? Someone grabs a hold of his arm but he can't tear his eyes away from you to look at who it is and what they want.

In a muted, underwater sort of way, he hears Yaoyorozu's voice as she starts fiddling with him, putting a mask over his face without kaminari flinching or moving to stop her. It seems logical in a situation that isn't, so he lets her.

At the hospital, the doctors have a hard time being allowed to check the cut on Kaminari's abdomen that's still bleeding and while Kaminari has always prided himself in being way more collected in serious crisis than his peers (which is a debatable feat according to you and Sero, but he digresses), he shamefully has to admit that a coffee table has been punched hard enough to break in blind rage. He refused to leave your side, so the doctors have settled on fixing him up as he looks at you from another bed they put in for him. Cruelly, his mind supplies the thought that he'll probably receive disciplinary action at the agency for acting out like this on his first job and creating trouble for the doctors and paramedics. He scoffs at the thought, eyes trained on you.

Someone is patching up a minor cut on his shoulder as he sighs out, "just please... open your eyes."

He's drained now. His battery's running on empty and the buzzing that's been going in his ears settle to a low hum so when he's asked to lie down on his stomach so that they can clean a wound on the back of his thigh, he simply does as he's told without a fight.

He falls asleep. Somehow, miraculously, he manages to fall asleep while fear and anger has him tossing and turning in his mind, drowning and burning, crying and yelling. His dreams are nothing comfortable, but they're not tangible either. He can't describe any of what he sees and hears in the dream to anyone, they're not coherent.

So when he wakes up with a startle, his eyes widening as tears roll down, he's surprised to feel a weight on his mattress that isn't his own. Slowly, almost fearfully, he turns his head to his left, where you're propped up, a fidget toy in your grasp.

He whispers your name, almost in disbelief and you look at him with a bright smile. Your head's still wrapped in bandages and he can see that you're connected to an IV you've dragged with you to his bed, but you seem... fine?

"Yo!"

The way you so casually greet him with a grin deflates him slightly as he lets his head fall back on the pillow. "You're okay?" he asks muffled half through the fabric and you put down whatever gadget you were fidgeting with and runs a hand through his hair, "are you? I heard from Momo that you've caused quite a stir."

"You were unconscious!"

"I got a concussion and passed out."

He looks up at you with furrowed brows, "they hooked you up to some kind of machine."

You can't help the snort that escapes you. You can tell he's anxious and from what Yaoyorozu has told you, he hadn't listened to anyone since he spotted you passed out.

"Yeah, because they couldn't assess the damage properly on site and needed to take precautionary measurements until I was brought here, you know protocol. All this has done is give me a giant headache and a free pass from writing reports for a few days. I'm okay, Denks."

He sighs as he snuggles close to you. You wrap an arm around him like you usually do when he gets cuddly and needy. Your heart is beating faster than you'd like to admit and hope he doesn't notice. He'd been so beautiful today on scene, fighting with confidence and brilliance. You wanted to confess when the battle was over.

No time like the present, right?

"Hey Denks?" you carefully ask, and he hums a reply but seems to exhausted to look up at you. You kiss the top of his head and feel him tense, "I'm in love with you. I'm sorry i worried you."

There's quiet for a moment, like time stands still. Then, he jumps to sit up, groan from the pain of his stitches -- though no less excited -- and yells out a, "really?!" with stars and hearts in his eyes. You can't help but laugh.

Kaminari's never been subtle, but you needed some time before you were ready. Then, he coughs into his hand and turns all serious and nods solemnly, "mhm. I mean, I appreciate the apology. Don't pull that shit on me ever again."

He tries to shake hands with you, face still pulled tight like he's doing business and you just laugh, grab his hand and pull him down so he's face to face with you, "I'll do my utmost, handsome." and then you kiss him. You both grin into the kiss before deepening it.

[jenamonoxide]

My brother's best friend.

The trust was a different level. Not a second thought crossed my mind when letting him in. He was older, wiser, handsome, everything that would never truly end up with someone like me. He towered over me and made me feel worthy. I couldn't wrap my head around why this 34 year old man, who has his life together and stable, would want anything to do with 27 year old me. I'm not done with college. I'm as financially independent as possible with a daughter who keeps me on my toes and constantly on edge. He convinced me that he saw me; behind all of the defenses and rough edges. I gave him all of me...mistake #1.

This was a secret love affair. No one knew. It was filled with excitement, giggles and secret meet ups. Like the movies. But that's all it would be. A movie. A fantasy. But, no happy ending. As soon as I allowed myself to trust him and jump all in...he stepped back and watched me fall. My self-esteem chipped away more and more each day. I started to drown, but I couldn't ask for help or else I'd blow our cover. The one person who should've saved me wouldn't even throw out a life preserver to help me stay afloat. Did he really see who I was? Or did he just see the potential I had to become weak for him? I fell in love with him anyway...mistake #2.

6 months. It took 6 months for my self esteem to completely deteriorate. I spent days wondering what I was doing wrong. I wasn't enough. He drained me. My depression came back. My anxiety had me biting my nails down to the quick. I swallowed my pride. I cried myself to sleep; and not just a few tears. It was the gut wrenching cries that knock the breath out of you because you just want the pain to stop. He built a trauma bond by taking jabs at me that left stings in my self esteem, only for him to pacify me and write it off as a joke. He held my head underwater and gaslit me anytime I finally spoke up from my lungs burning. I never understood his jokes, nor did I ever feel the need to calm down. My feelings were valid. I never laughed. I never calmed down, especially internally. I just kept loving him, and I continued to be a pathological people pleaser. I still continued to accept less than what I deserved...mistake #3.

Now that the rug has been pulled out from under me, the truth did not set me free. I was thrown under the bus and the blame was put on me. It took two to fuck. It took his words and broken promises to make me swoon and fall in love with him. Lastly, It took his actions to break me completely. Everyone wants to move along and forget it happened, but how am I supposed to do that when I am the one who fell in love? There's no moving on in the matter of days. I still have to pick myself up and put the pieces back together. Why isn't he held accountable for how reckless he was with my soul and heart? They were dark grey when he came in, and now they're a black bottomless pit.

Never again.

I will never allow someone to see all the cracks and crevices that define me. They never appreciate who I am as a person. They see my defenses and strength as a challenge. A game. I'm seen as nothing but an ego boost and a temporary use to fill a void. No more. I am done. I'll never be soft again. There is no fight left in me in all aspects. I will allow myself to die in battle before someone takes me away from myself ever again.

[bokettochild]

request: sometimes time likes to be alone underwater. with his iron boots and zora helmet, it's easy to just take a stroll at the bottom of a deep enough lake, away from the rest of the world. he did not expect, however, to find legend relaxing inside a small hole in the stone. Mer Legend.

Oh boy! I was vibing with this one for a while, I just wanted to make it perfect!

I'm pretty happy with what I made too, but man is it long!

(I hope this makes you happy, anon!)

When he and Malon have kids, he hopes they don't have this many.

Nayru knows he loves his boys, but they can get a bit much sometimes. They can get loud and overwhelming, and as a man who’s used to traveling primarily alone, with maybe a fairy trailing behind him or his trusted mount, it’s a bit overwhelming. He’s not used to being around people so much, Malon and Talon are his only consistent company and even then, the work they share means that often times it’s only him and his thoughts as he mucks, mends and tends things around the ranch.

Sometimes, when the boys get especially rowdy and playful, it’s just nice to get a moment of quiet to himself. Between Sky and Twilight he knows that nothing overly chaotic will go down, and he trusts the boys to keep each other in check.

So, when they come to the Pup’s Hyrule, their battle in this world over and most of their number restless as they wait for the next portal to arrive and whisk them away, Time allows his boys their space, and with a quick exchange with the only two he can trust to not burn something down (at least while the younger ones can still see them) he heads off into the forest to get a little space to himself.

Of course, he can’t really go far, not if he needs to hurry back, but he doesn’t really need to. His destination is Lake Hylia, which is only a short distance from their camp, maybe ten or fifteen minutes, and, when he gets there, he allows himself to actually breathe for once.

Wild, Warriors and Wind had been locked in a game of cards when last he left, the champion soundly beating the other two both at cribbage while Wars bemoans his poor luck, and Twilight and Sky were discussing wood carving with Hyrule, with the occasional comment from the smithy, who is only too happy to throw in something related every so often as he looks up from his book. That leaves himself and Legend, and he’s long since learned that the vet was one to disappear for his own space when possible.

He’s not overly worried. Legend has items and experience that far outmatch most of their group, and if he runs into trouble Time has little doubt that he’ll be able to get himself out of it to at least gather reinforcements, if not handle the issue by himself.

A deep breath of relief escapes him as the eldest of the heroes pulls a few items from his own bag. The boots are a familiar if not welcome weight as he slips out of his armor and dons the tunic and cap of the Zora, his breath bubbling softly as he steps into the lake before him with a contented sigh.

The cool water floods over the top of him, tugging at his hair and bubbling in his lungs, but it’s doesn’t burn the way that it should. He breathes easily beneath the rippling surface of Lake Hylia, the Zora tunic granting him freedom beneath the waves.

There is little sound beneath, only the muffled noise from above the surface, the flow of the water and-

Time’s ears prick forwards as a single blue eye turns to search the space around him.

Someone is singing.

It’s a haunting sort of melody, one that draws you in and makes you dazed, and Time finds himself stumbling over his own feet as he searches for the source. It is not a Cursed song, nor anything powerful from what he can recall, in fact, it’s almost familiar. It sounds similar to something he hears hummed about their camp at night while the boys take watch. He’d never been able to place which of the young heroes hummed the lilting melody, but he’s let it carry him off to sleep many a time before. Only this song, the one that twines about his head and whispers in his ears and makes his feet trek closer and closer to its source, this song is different, it’s haunted and Broken, and it is sung in a Voice.

Not a voice like most of those above the surface have, but a Voice like a fairy or spirit might have. One that pulls at your very soul and sings in your mind, un-hampered by wind or waves, able to carry across miles to be heard by those that it Sings too.

Heavy feet trod faster.

He’s under no spell, but he is a Link, and by now he has learned that all of their kind are blessed or cursed with courage and curiosity both, and to be without the latter is simply unthinkable for the young-at-heart hero. Something –the forest imp in him maybe- tells him to find the Voice, find the Singer.

He’s only made it part of the way across the lake, hasn’t even left the shoreline properly, when the song stops. Unease creeps over him as he looks around, alert and ready for trouble, only to see nothing but the peaceful stillness of the lake bottom around him.

There! His mind supplies as something pink flits in the corner of his vision, and he’s whipping around to come face to face with-

Long tangled hair drifts in the waves as glistening scales reflect the light pouring down through the waves. Too deep, too dark eyes stare at him in shock for a brief moment, and then-

The creature, the thing, is gone in an instant. Whipping away as it’s glimmer fades into the waves around him, speed no doubt granted by the brilliant tail of the thing sending it rocketing out of his grasp before he even has a chance to speak.

He tried to follow it. He does! But quite soon the adult part of his mind is reminding him how dangerous the thing could be, and that he still has his boys to return to back on the surface. It’s been exactly thirty-two minutes and thirteen seconds since he left them at their camp, and by now they usually would have sent someone to check and make sure that whatever member of their party had strayed off was alright.

Removing his boots is all it takes to float to the surface, despite the fact that he still holds the things in his hands, and it’s with no small amount of relief that he realizes that the bank of the lake is free of other heroes.

Time gathers his things together, wringing out his hair and clothes before returning to his normal gear and heading back to the camp.

Smiles and chuckles greet him as the young heroes tease.

“Go for a swim, Old Man?” Legend quirks a brow, staring up from his place by the fire.

Time doesn’t answer him, but he does shake his head violently enough to spray the younger heroes with water, earning shouts and shrieks from them as they try and shield themselves from the wet. “Seriously, Time?” Warriors moans, wiping lake water from his face. “What are you, a dog?”

Time smirks at the captain and, to everyone's surprise (which produces no small amount of delight for him), he barks.

“What sorts of people have you met in your adventures?” Sky asks a couple of days later, head cocked to the side as he watches his brothers. “You all talk about so many races, but I don’t think I've heard of most of them.”

“Well,” Wild smiles, there’s a glint in his gaze that isn’t quite mischief, but it’s a warning to be wary anyway, because they all know what a crack-pot their cook can be at times. “There’s Hylians, of course, and Sheikah, Yiga, Gerudo, Rito, Gorons, Zora and koroks! You’ve probably already met the Sheikah, since you mentioned knowing an Impa during your journey, and the Yiga are an offshoot of that group.”

Twilight blinks and stares, Warriors furrowing his brow as he two older heroes stare at the younger, but Wild seem entirely unaffected.

“Gerudo are a desert people. They’re really tall, and extremely strong! Most of their race have long red hair and slightly darker skin than the people around Hyrule. They are a society of all woman, with only one man being born to them every hundred years. They worship the goddess Din for the most part, and live out of an opulent city set in the desert where they specialize in the crafting of weapons and jewelry, and the farming of exotic plants.” The champion then proceeds to run down traits and knowledge about the other races, matter-of-factly, as if the details he is sharing are things that everyone from the surface knows.

“Wow.” Sky laughs as Wild finishes. “I had no idea.”

“There’s also the minish.” Four adds. “And the Wind Tribe, who are sky people, of course.”

Sky looks curious, but Four says nothing more, instead gesturing to the other heroes to share their thoughts, which they do.

“Terminans.” Time offers. “Very similar to Hylians.”

“Ordonians.” Twilight adds with a fond smile. No explanation is needed.

The others all nod along, but Legend rolls his eyes. “Humans, like, non-Hylian humans, Shifters,” The vet stares upwards with a light scowl as he ticks the races off of his fingers. “Technically they’re humans too, but Wild counted the Sheikah and Gerudo, so there’s also the Lorulians, Labrynninians, Holodrumese folks, Hytopians, Drablanders, Subrosians, Catalians-” Legend frowns. “I could swear there are more but I can’t really recall.”

Time, for whatever reason, he can’t really say why, cocks his head. “Any water people other than Zora?”

The vet snaps his fingers. “Mer-folk! Thank you, Time. I guess fae and animal folk count on that note.”

There’s a scoff and Warriors is leaning forwards with a smirk. “Fairies and animals, sure, but mer? Seriously, Legend? Have you even met a mer before?”

“Many times.” The veteran drawls, cocking a brow in the captain’s direction. “On multiple adventures. What about you, cap? Jealous you couldn’t snag one for your guild of brides?”

Warriors blusters about indignantly, earning laughter from the others as Legend smirks, but the man recovers quickly enough. “I do not have a guild of brides! That is- that is utterly disgusting!”

“Could have fooled me.” Legend teases, sipping some water from a flask.

“Give him a break.” Twilight snickers, shoving the vet playfully.

The unfortunate thing about Twilight’s shoves though is that the ranch hand doesn’t seem to know his own strength, and Legend is small enough that the light push is enough to send him scrabbling to not hit the ground. More laughter rings about their camp, but this time at the vet's expense, as Legend topples over into the dirt, spilling his drink and failing his arms as he goes.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up.” Legend huffs, pulling himself back up and dusts off his clothes, scowling at the water spilled on him. “Great.”

“Oh, come on, you came back soaked to the skin earlier, what’s a bit of water going to hurt you, huh, vet?” Warriors ribs, smirking.

Legend shoots him a half-hearted glare.

“Legend,” Time starts slowly. “How would you describe the mer?”

The vet pauses, gaze resting maybe a moment too long as his hands as he brushes off the hem of his tunic. He’s already done so and there’s really no reason for him to do it again, but he does anyway. “What you’d expect.” He shrugs haltingly. “Hylian on top, fish beneath. Tail, long hair, that sort of thing.”

The old man hums. Legends ears twitch, nose shivering slightly as violet eyes flit over their group. “Care to expand on your sky people story, Four?”

“I’m good.” The smithy replies lazily.

Time would pass it off as a strange one-time thing, he would, but there are... other factors at play.

They’ve traveled to Four’s time, fighting off monsters and solving puzzles the same as they’ve always done. The boys are taking some downtime, playing hide and seek, and just like the last time, Time takes himself down to the river they’ve made camp ear and dons his Zora gear.

He isn’t expecting to see the creature, the mer, again, much less hear them singing -after all, this is a Hyrule far before his Pup’s- but there the creature is. It- or they- frolic in the water, chasing fish and singing softly. The tune is lighter than the last one he heard, a different song entirely, but there is no denying that it is the same mer.

Gold flecked, petal pink scales shimmer beneath the twisted lights that invade the water, hair of the same colors flowing in the current as long fingers, tipped with pointed claws, reach out to swipe at the fish swimming wildly away. They don’t catch anything, but Time hears it giggle anyways, the tune of its voice bubbling in merriment as it rolls like and otter and turns to explore some other part of the river bed.

The cursed curiosity of a hero niggles in Time’s mind. How is the same mer from before in this timeline, ages before Twilight would even be born? And why do they play and explore as if they’ve never seen this river bed before in their life?

Long claws pull through sand, and although their hair blocks their face from his view, he can still hear the warble of delight as the creature removes something sparkling and bright from the river bed. The mer floats in place, turning the item over in their hands curiously before whisking it out of sight and returning to their search.

A mer that likes treasure, huh? Why is he unsurprised?

His own soft laugh startles them, and for a half of a moment, golden ringed, violet eyes, wide and bright and full of shock, meet his own.

The mer is gone before he can make a move.

He asks Legend about it the next day. As they travel along the path towards the nearest town, Time falls back to ask the vet more about mer.

“Do mer like treasure?”

Legend starts, eyes wide as they meet his own, and something in the back of his mind is nagging him that the look in the vet’s eyes is somehow familiar. “What?”

“Do mer like treasure?” He repeats himself.

Legend stares at him, blinking slowly as they continue along the path, but eventually the vet shakes his head and answers. “Depends on the mer. They’re people too, Time, they can have varying interests and hobbies. There is no standard for mer. None.”

“Don’t they all swim at least?”

Legend’s gaze is flat. “There are disabled Hylians aren’t there? Not all Hylians can walk, and not Mer can swim. Some just choose not to because they don’t like it!”

Time frowns. How does the vet know so much about mer culture? “How do you know this?”

The vet shrugs, eyes darting away. “I’ve been a lot of places and met a lot of people. Mer are no exception.”

“I thought you hated swimming and the water?” Wind breaks in, falling back to join the two of them with an odd look on his face. He looks like a puppy and it’s killing Time not to ruffle the kid’s hair.

“Didn’t always.” Legend returns, smiling wryly down at the sailor. “But enough of that. The real question here is if you’ve ever met one, sailor.”

“A mer?” Wind furrows his brow, looking away with a soft sigh. “The water in my world isn’t safe for the people who lived in it. There’s hardly even any fish in most places. The Zora in my time had to adapt to the air instead in order to survive.”

Awkward silence falls over them, the vet looking guilty for a half a moment before he settles a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “The goddesses aren’t always fair, Maliit, it’s not your fault.

Time hums his agreement, heart aching for yet another young hero and a world that suffered for Time’s failure to have properly saved it.

He sees the mer again. Not just when he’s in the water himself, but when he’s keeping watch during the night or on occasion when he goes fishing with Twilight. The Pup says nothing about seeing gold and pink beneath the water, but Time finds himself watching it all the same.

It darts beneath the dock they’re fishing on one time, and when Twilight’s line gets a tug, the rancher pulls it up only to find the one of his boots dangling from the other end.

Time can’t help it, he laughs.

So, this mer is a prankster, huh?

He takes to seeking them out, trying to catch their attention or try to talk to them, but nothing works. The minute that gold and violet eyes meet his own, petal pink scales flick deftly in the waves and the mer is swimming away.

But Time isn’t dumb.

He knows that the same mer cannot reasonably exist across all of time, not with all the changes that come to the world with each hero. He knows that this being is somehow following them, and h’s got a rather good idea exactly how it’s happening.

It’s a long shot, but he knows for a fact that Legend is always gone from camp before he sees the creature, and enough times startling the vet when asking about mer has taught him that the expressions between the two are the same. All he knows on the mer’s face is shock, but the vet’s eyes glimmer the same shade of violet, even if they are different in size and shape, and the petal pink hair that the vet comes out of the forest with one evening after their group was separated is uncannily similar to the shade of the mer.

They’ve made camp again, and rather than climbing into the water when he catches a moment alone, Time settles on the shore, not in the mood to be in the water but in need of its calming song. The air has been tense the past few days, and Time welcomes a brief moment to relax, forcing himself not to think of the gaping wound in his Pup’s side or the ragged breath that wheezes between the rancher’s lips.

Twilight will be fine, he reminds himself. Hyrule and Warriors had worked together to tend the wound and while it would definitely leave a scar, the danger of losing their beloved friend and brother (and maybe son?) is not so high anymore.

He welcomes a free breath, away from the hurt gazes of his boys as they try and process that their beloved canine friend and the rancher are one and the same. A chance to think without having to stop those who were out of the know from bombarding those who were in it with questions.

He’s glad to be free of the questions himself.

Legend seems to be too, if the glint of pink beneath the waves is to be believed.

He doesn’t approach this time, doesn’t try entering the water to speak. He’s tired and he wants his spae, and he imagines Legend would like his own too. So, instead, he sits on the bank, feet trailing in the water and ocarina on his lips as he plays softly.

The tune is a sweet one, one he’d written himself that lilts and dips softly, very nearly perfect for a dance, but far more suited to a night by a fire or watching the sunset. And sunset it is, fading light stretching out across the water, glinting of the surface and reflecting off of gold and pink-

He stops, eye wide as he turns towards the flash in his vision.

Gold and violet stare back at him, framed in curling pink as Legend freeze half-way through pulling on his tunic again.

Gold fades just as the scales dissapear and leave the vet siting on the shore, tunic still bunched around his shoudlers and violet eyes wide with fear as he regards his leader.

“I won’t tell.” Time forces, turning away his gaze and returning his focus to the instrument in his hand. He doesn’t play, but he doesn’t look up either.

“It’s an item.” Legend forces, strained. His voice is still tainted with whatever power had shifted him between forms, and it’s sweeter and more melodious than normal. “I found it on my third adventure. Got cursed.”

“Like the rancher?” Time hums softly, not having to look up to know that Legend is shifting nervously, foot tapping madly at the ground beneath him.

“Yeah.” Legend huffs.

“Okay.” And he does look up them, calm and as open as he can make himself seem as he meets the vet’s gaze.

“Just okay?” One brow cocks as Legend crosses his arms.

“Just okay. It’s your secret, Legend. I can’t change what I’ve seen, but I won’t tell the others either.”

Legend nods, wary bit willing to accept the words, if only for now. “If you say so.”

They’re on their way back to camp, Legend carrying an armload of fish and Time carrying both of their bags when the vet stops and glares at him. “I don’t want to hear any jokes, alright? I get enough of those from Twilight and Sky.”

“They know?” The old man tilts his head in question.

Legend flushes, ducking his head and setting off again at a speed some might label a scurry. “No. Hurry up, these fish are gonna rot!”

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

Waves lap around his head and it’s all Time can do to break the surface, coughing and hacking as he struggles to remain above the water.

The portal had come at the worst time ever, and no one had been ready to be dropped into the center of the ocean.

Lightning crackles overhead as waves swirl and crash about him. The ocean rages and Time is again reminded how small Hylian’s are in the face of Mother Earth herself.

“Boys!” The shout rasps from his throat as he spins to look about, praying to every deity he knows that he’ll find the rest of them safe and sound, or at the very least together. Never mind that Twilight still can’t walk, much less swim. Never mind the smithy’s shattered arm and Wild’s fear of the water. He can’t panic about those right now, he has to find them!

“Over here!” Sky’s voice answers him. The Chosen Hero clings to the shivering form of the smithy, both are soaked and trembling, but they’re managing to stay above the waves.

“My Hyrule!” Wind calls out as Time strikes out towards them, and the sailor continues once he’s close enough to see that at least five of his boys are safe. “We’re near land,” Wind nods in a random direction and Time wonders briefly how the sailor even knows that. “It could be a challenge in these waves, but we can make it. Have you seen the others?”

Hyrule looks up at him hopefully, the water-logged traveler fighting madly to stay above the water but succeeding despite the waves. Time reminds himself to help the boy learn to swim more effectively later, and more importantly how to properly tread water, but for now he focuses on answering Wind. “You're the firsts. We’ll have to hope the others are alright, getting y’all to safety is my first concern.

“But Wild!” Hyrule splutters, choking on some water as Time swims over to give the traveler someone to cling to. Freezing fingers latch ahold of his armor as teeth chatter, the waves are neither kind nor warm and with their health as it is he’s certain someone is going to end up with a cold when this is all over. “And Twilight! A-and Legend and Wars! They’re out there somewhere!”

“We have to hope Legend and Warriors can elp the other two. We can’t do them any good if we’re fighting to stay above ourselves.” He tries to same calm, but his own mind and heart scream with the same message that Hyrule’s voice does, and its all he can do to push it down.

Thunder rolls overhead and waves beneath as they push off towards the shore, each of the older heroes aiding a younger one as Wind guides them all towrads the supposed island.

Time hs never been so relieved to see sand in his life, and as Hyrule pulls himself up the bach and Wind helps Sky to settle Four, Time can only pray that he’ll find his way back again. “I’m going to look for the otehrs. Wind, stay and help Sky.” The sailor looks as if he wants to hesitate, but he knows better than anyone how a small body can be lost to the waves much easier than an adult. “Make a fire, warm up as best you can. Keep an eyes out. I’ll come back if- when I find the others.”

He stops only to shed his armor and don his Zora gear, but a single dive beneath the water is enough to tell him that it’s for naught. Wind wasn’t joking about his water being toxic, and a single breath of the stuff leaves Time heaving as soon as he breaks the surface.

His chances of finding the boys have lowered considerably.

Nayru above, don’t let anyone have sunk beneath!

Time swims for all he is worth, pushing past weariness as he battles each and every wave. And he’s just beginning to lose hope when he catches sight of something silver reflecting in the water as lighting flashes above.

“Time!”

Blue whips around to meet its twins as Warriors comes to swim beside him. “Have you found any of the others?”

“Wind, Sky, Hyrule and Four.” he breathes back. “You?”

The captian looks rueful but nods to his side. “Legend.”

Time can’t help but start as Legend’s eyes peek above the surface. Golden and violet are glassy in the pale ace of the vet, but they’re there and that means that Legend is alive.

“I’ve officially met my first mer.” Warriors sighs, but there’s worry in the captains voice and face both.

“Split up.” Legend’s voice rasps, and there none of the melodic song that Time is used to hearing from this form of the vet.

Legend is pale, far too pale.

“What’s-”

“Wind’s world.” Warriors tells him. “Water here is toxic.”

The water is toxic. The water, which mer have to breath to stay alive, is toxic.

Time’s gaze shoots to the vet but there’s only a flick of gold and pink as he disappears beneath the waves. Warriors groans.  “He keeps doing that! I swear, I have no way of knowing if he’s even still there, but he still insists on disappearing like the little shit he is.”

Usually, Time would scold his brother for such a tone, but he knows that Warriors is just sacred. He’s terrified, and it leaks into his voice and his actions, and the only way that the soldier knows how to hide the fear is by biting back with venom, not dissimilar to the vet’s own actions.

They swim together, searching and calling out for the two missing heroes. Hope is beginning to fade and Time can feel a gnawing fear eating away at his heart as he thinks of the gaping wound in his Pup’s side and the likelihood that Twilight would even be able to swim with it.

His pup’s chances aren’t high.

“Look!” Warriors shouts over the storm, jerking him from his thoughts as his eyes follow the captain’s pointing hand.

Pink bobs on the surface, backed by bedraggled and soaked black fur as Legend hauls Twilight’s limp form through the water.

“Pup!”

He’s taking the lad from Legend as soon as they’re in reach, and Legend seems to sag in relief as the weight is removed from his shoulder. “Was with Wild. Bring him to-” The vet wheezes and ducks beneath the water for a moment, coming up with a pained expression on his face. “Bring to shore. I’ll get Wild.” He gives them no time to respond, tail flicking as he disappears beneath the waves again.

Time and Warriors exchange a glance and head back to shore, supporting the weight of the rancher between them.

Wind and Sky have managed to get a virtual bonfire going on the shore, and the sailor has laid what blankets and bed-rolls he’s found of their equipment in front of it, allowing their dampened things to ry as he and the other three heroes bundle together for warmth.

It’s with a cheer that they al; greet Time and Warriors as the two emerge from the ocean, and Time can’t help but smile a bit in relief at seeing them all safe again. Only a little longer and Legend will be back with Wild, and then he can rest easy knowing they’re all out of the storm.

Rain still patters against already soaked skin and cloth, but with the fire flickering before them Time can’t bring himself to care over much.

Hyrule’s fingers shiver as they slide over the wound in Twilight’s side, cleansing it from the poisonous water that has soaked into the bandages, and while Twilight grits his teeth and winces, he’s at least conscious enough to do so, and that alone brings some peace to the others.

Warriors informs the others of the whereabouts of their two missing brothers, and Time helps to settle Twilight on one of the warming bedrolls. It made still be wet, but it’s better than getting sand in the pup’s wound.

They wait in tense silence, bundled together to share heat as nervous gazes watch the shore. Wind hasn’t stopped muttering under his breath and Four isn’t doing much better with his half formed sentences and steady murmurs.

It’s only when Wild’s golden hair can be seen on the shore that they all release a breath of air.

Cornflower blue is wide and glazed, likely from shock, but it doesn’t stop the champion from reaching back into the waves to pull out his companion.

Legend is a mess.

The veteran gasps and splutters for breath once he’s free, skin a sickly shade of white and eyes just as glazes as Wild's own as the two clings to each other, and when the two stand together Legend is leaning heavily against the shaking champion, and it’s only through sheer luck that Time and Sky get there in time to catch them before the duo collapses back into the waves.

Wild curls against Time’s chest, fingers shaking and eyes blank as the man carries him back to the fire. Legend doesn’t even stir, lying limp in Sky’s hold as the Skyloftian bustles back to join the other heroes.

Nothing is said about the glistening tail that fades into legs once Legend is warmed and dried, and even if anyone had dared the stern gaze of the first of their number would have been enough to silence them.

Violet blinks hazy and distant beneath the warmed fabric of Sky’s sailcloth, but they are all safe. They are all safe and they are alive.

“Thanks to Legend.” Wild whispers when he comes back, head resting against Times collar bone. “Without him I would have never got Twi back to shore.”

“Three cheers for the vet.” Wars forces a smile, and while the cheers are heartfelt and thankful, they do nothing to lighten the mood.

Legend doesn’t even seem to hear them.

[dothwrites]

15.18 coda--the best of things

The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater.― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

---

There’s something. 

This is significant because, for as long as Castiel can remember, there’s been nothing. 

The Empty alternates between shoving him forcefully into sleep and yanking him out of it, just so he can experience the full horrors of wakefulness. He wanders and doesn’t know if he’s walking, screams and listens as his cries are swallowed by the darkness. He pulls at his hair just to feel, but even that bright pain is muted. 

I want you to suffer, the Empty had warned, and so far, it’s lived up to its promise. No, he doesn’t regret anything, he’d make the same decisions time and again, as long as they led him here, but he can’t deny that he is suffering. 

It would be better if he could somehow quench the little gutter of light and warmth that still resounds in his chest, but he can never quite manage to do so. Somehow, it still beats, giving him purpose, allowing him to set his compass by its enduring beat. 

And somehow, impossibly, there’s finally something for it to latch onto. 

Castiel walks forward, feeling the sensation of movement for the first time since he can’t remember when. His steps quicken as he runs towards the something, towards something that he almost forgot. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, how many centuries have passed. Time ceased to have meaning a long time ago, and in between bouts of sleeping and waking, Castiel forgot the knack of telling it. Now, he remembers, along with other long forgotten concepts such as fatigue and hope. 

His long neglected heart beats then, violently, with enough force to send him staggering. Castiel runs faster. 

If he were human, if this were earth, then the breath would be tearing out of his lungs. As it is, he feels a ripping in his chest, like he’s shredding apart from the inside out. He feels like a piece of paper torn in half, and he doesn’t know how much of him will be left by the end, but he continues to sprint forward. 

There’s something up ahead. 

A faint golden glimmer, a thread of hope so slender that if he thinks about it too long then he’ll shatter. It twists and turns in front of him, so far in the distance as to almost be a mirage. 

But for once, there is distance. 

Castiel forces his legs to keep moving, even as the pain claws through his chest, ripping into his very essence. Every step brings him the worst pain he’s ever known, but he doesn’t dare to stop. He keeps his eyes fixed on the golden line, now guttering as though it’s struggling to survive. With every step, memories flood back to him. 

The scent of coffee in the mornings when he would start a fresh pot before Dean and Sam awoke. 

The smell of leather and gasoline as he sat in Baby’s backseat. 

The feel of blood and grit underneath his fingernails. 

The salt and butter molecules of popcorn exploding across his tongue as he watches yet another inane movie starring a young Harrison Ford. 

The clear sound of Charlie Bradbury’s laughter. 

The whiff of sulfur that followed Meg, the crisp ozone of Hannah, the tang of what he was informed was an ‘84 and not 19, you have no taste, Cassie, by Balthazar. 

The rough flannel of Bobby Singer’s shirt. 

The whisper of Eileen’s fingers moving through 

The fragile strength of Jack, warm through his jacket as Castiel hugged him for the last time. 

The warmth of Sam’s arm slung around his shoulders, the steadiness of him, the unwavering loyalty, the brightness of his smile and joy of his friendship. 

Dean. 

Dean. 

Dean. 

Breath finally tears out of him as he sprints, pushing legs which refuse to move faster to fly. The golden tear glows in front of him, the only bright thing in an eternity of nothing. He has to reach it. He has to. 

A scream rips out of his chest as he stumbles his way forward. By now the pain is almost overwhelming, obliterating everything else except the most basic desire for survival, but he can’t give up, he can’t, he can’t--

Even in Hell, Dean’s soul glowed like a beacon, even when he lost hope he was still the most beautiful thing Castiel had ever seen. The smoke and whiskey smell of him, the strength and gentleness of his hands, the rumble of his laugh, the rasp and growl of his voice, the careful way he handled delicate things, the light in his eyes as he would look at Sam and Jack, the sheer love he’d seen shining out of his soul--

With a desperate cry, Castiel launches himself forward, straining towards the beautiful golden tear. 

His hand goes through the rip in the world and for a second, there’s nothing, nothing, nothing--

Strong fingers grab his wrist and pull. 

It feels like being tugged through quicksand, the Empty finally realizing that something is wrong and seizing onto him. Darkness covers him, and Castiel can’t see anything, can’t scream, can’t hear. All he knows is the strength of the grip around his hand, the fierce flare of hope in his chest even amidst the ripping pain. 

No, he thinks, with all the force left to him, no, I want--

Something finally bursts in his chest, and he thinks he screams, though he doesn’t hear any sound leave his mouth. Instead, he’s pulled, shredded, torn apart, eviscerated, and then, and then--

There’s light and sound and sensation and touch and smell and taste and a thousand different things like gravity and mass and body and Castiel can only gasp, helpless as a newborn as his sightless eyes blink through all the light. 

He’s shivering, cold and aching, and he’s never felt this kind of pain before, but it’s glorious. He wouldn’t give up feeling like this for anything, the sunburst of agony flaring through his body as he tries to sort through his senses to try and understand where he is. 

Something warm and soft settles over his shoulders and it’s then that Castiel becomes aware of his body, down to his toes and fingers and the tip of his nose. Naked, he thinks, somewhat innocuously, that’s why i was cold. 

Then the larger realization comes, which is, if he was naked, that means that he has a body to be unclothed. 

With a final blink, sight returns, though it’s unreliable. Smears of color appear and disappear from his vision, too quickly for him to hope to make sense of them. Sound returns, in deep rumbles like he’s underwater. Stop, he tries to say, let me just wait a second, but his voice doesn’t seem to work. He opens his mouth and all that emerges is a pathetic sounding croak. 

Syllables garble above him and then something cool and hard is pressed to his mouth. Cold and wet explodes over his lips and tongue, and Castiel thinks Water. 

It’s never tasted this good before. 

He gulps greedily until the glass is taken from him. He whines, wanting more, but his wordless request is denied. Touch explodes over his cheeks, his neck, and shoulders, and Castiel struggles to make sense of it. He would like to rest in the comfort of those hands, but they’re gone before he can process their being there at all. 

The sound coalesces into a single word, and Cas blinks, stupefied. He knows that word. More importantly, he knows that voice. 

He tries to force his rusted voice to work, but only a low croak comes out. Frustrated, he licks his lips and tries again, putting all of his force into the word. 

“Dean?” 

Touch returns to his cheeks and this time, it stays. He blinks again, and the haze in front of his eyes clears, and he can finally see that face, familiar and beloved. 

“Dean?” he asks, sure that he must be dreaming, even though the Empty never allowed him to do so. Perhaps this is a hallucination, a cruel manifestation of his hopes, perhaps he’s still there, in all that nothing, and this is no more than a dream--

“Cas, stay with me,” Dean says, his voice urgent and worried. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.” His voice breaks on the last repetition and warmth envelops Castiel. 

A hug. Dean is hugging him, somewhat fiercely, if the lack of air in his lungs is to be trusted. 

Castiel blinks, surprised. He’s never needed air before. Come to think of it, he’s never needed water either. 

He shifts underneath the blanket, careful not to dislodge Dean’s arms from around his body. His palm presses flat against his chest. Underneath it, he can feel his heart, beating steady and strong. 

“Human?” he asks, blinking in wonder. 

Dean’s arms release him, though they take a long time to do so, as though he’s regretful. “Yeah,” he says. Castiel’s eyes aren’t working well enough to pick out the intricacies of his facial expression, but he thinks he sees guilt in the depths of Dean’s eyes. 

“It was the only way to get you out. Sam found the spell and Jack powered it up, and I...” It’s then that Castiel comes aware that one of Dean’s hands is bleeding, is leaving smears of red across the blanket and the skin. “I did what I had to do, but there was a catch.” Dean’s breath hitches for a moment before he looks back at Castiel. “You see, we looked into it, and it turns out that the Empty only cares about angels and demons. Humans, it doesn’t have any power over. So in order to get you out--”

“Human,” Castiel repeats, his mind working through the problem. It’s an elegant solution in its simplicity. The ripping and tearing makes sense, as does the pain. 

Anna described tearing out her grace as the worst pain she’d ever felt, like digging a kidney out with a spoon. Castiel understands. His whole body aches with the memory, muscles screaming for rest, his stomach for sustenance, and his nerves for peace. He doesn’t want to sleep; there’s been too much of that. But he does want to rest. 

“Dean.” Castiel pauses to let the word sit on his tongue, to feel the weight of it. It feels as good as it ever did. 

“Yeah, Cas?” 

Castiel could get lost in Dean’s eyes. Have they always been that green? Have those crow’s feet always bracketed them, like lines on a map, proof of a life well lived? 

“Home?” Castiel finally asks, once he realizes that Dean is waiting for an answer. “Can we go home?” 

Dean’s face splits in a smile, kinder than the dawn and brighter than the sun. “Yeah,” he says, though he makes no effort to move. “Yeah, Cas, we can go home.” 

Castiel tilts his head, wondering why Dean doesn’t move. Instead, he looks like he’s working himself up towards something. His teeth bite at his lower lip, while his eyes dart to either side of Castiel, like they can’t bear to land on his face. An unwelcome spike of fear lances at Castiel’s chest. 

“Dean,” he begins, but a harsh movement stops him. 

“I gotta say this,” Dean says, his voice rough. “What you said, before you were...” He swallows before he finally looks at Cas, his eyes brimming over with tears. “I haven’t been able to sleep in a year because all I could think was that I never had a chance to say it back to you.”

Hope flares and bursts in Castiel’s heart. A happiness so bright it’s searing tears through him, and this time, he can feel it, he can feel it all, he can have it--

“I love you,” Dean says, his unbloodied hand resting on Castiel’s cheek. “I love everything about you, you stupid bastard, and don’t you ever, ever try and leave me again, don’t you ever, you’d better die after me because I’m going to stick with you until we’re old and gross and creaky and we’re going to have to figure out how to have old people sex with all my fake joints and--” 

“Sex?” Castiel’s brain might not be working fast enough to pick up on every word Dean says, but he’s aware enough for that. 

Dean blushes, the tips of his ears turning red. “Yeah. I mean. If you wanted. And if you didn’t want, that’s fine, because i know you said once that angels didn’t--”

“I’d very much like to have sex with you,” Castiel interrupts, because even in his state, he can see when Dean is trying to work himself into a hole. “But not right now.” Exhaustion hits him like a wave, dragging him under and only reluctantly giving him up. He looks up at Dean, finally allowing himself to be weak, allowing Dean to step in and take care of him. “Home?” he repeats, wanting nothing more than to sink into Dean’s bed and rest. 

“Yeah, Cas. Let’s go home.” Dean shifts, but doesn’t move, and Castiel is just about to complain about the lack of progress on the home front when Dean leans forward. His eyes are determined, his lips slightly parted, his hand trembling where it rests on Castiel’s cheek. Fireworks and galaxies explode in Castiel when he realizes Dean’s intentions. 

He’s lived through several ice ages, through meteors and wars, through life and death and rebirth. He’s seen the formation of planets and constellations, seen entire solar systems collapse into themselves only to birth a new sun. 

But he’s never seen or felt anything as wondrous as the first touch of Dean’s lips on his. 

The kiss is soft, barely pressure, but it feels like everything. It feels like a promise and a wish. It feels like a homecoming. 

It feels like a beginning. 

---

Remember, Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies.― Stephen King

A star falls from the sky and into your hands. Then it seeps through your veins and swims inside your blood and becomes every part of you. And then you have to put it back into the sky. And it's the most painful thing you'll ever have to do and that you've ever done. But what's yours is yours. Whether it’s up in the sky or here in your hands. And one day, it'll fall from the sky and hit you in the head real hard and that time, you won't have to put it back in the sky again.― C. JoyBell C.

[huilian]

for @sassydefendorflower in thanks for being a mod in that chaotic environment we call a server 😆

“Robin, watch out!”

Damian turns around to find Richard jumping in front of him, intercepting the blow that one of the kidnappers aimed at Damian’s head. The bat hits Richard’s head with a sickening clang, and Damian watches almost in slow motion as Richard’s body drops onto the wooden surface of the pier.

“Nightwing!” Damian cries out in warning, but it’s too late. The bat comes down to land another hit on Richard’s unprotected head, and before Damian can incapacitate his own opponent and moves to help Richard, the man with the bat has already kicked Richard’s unconscious body out of the pier and into the murky waters of Gotham harbour.

“You’re next, little boy,” the man growls out, but Damian has had enough of playing nice. He strikes the man in front of him with a nerve strike that he very rarely uses nowadays, for fear of it being lethal, and ducks down to tackle the other man. Damian wrestles with him, and, after a few seconds of vicious struggling, grabs the bat from his hands and hits him with it.

The man goes down in an instant. Damian did not pull his punches.

He looks up, and checks that all five men of the kidnapping ring are unconscious— no time to bind them more securely, so he’s just going to have to hope that they don’t wake up— and that the shipping container that they have identified as the victims’ holding place is at a safe place. He would love to be able to free them right now, but Richard’s life takes precedence.

All of that done, Damian takes a deep breath and jumps into the icy waters of Gotham harbour. This kidnapping ring was actually smart for once, and when they realized that Nightwing and Robin had tailed them to their shipping place, they activated an EMP.

An EMP means that none of their electronics work. None of their electronics working means that Damian can’t call for backup.

He just has to hope that whoever is watching in the Cave notices that their trackers are deactivated and sends in backup. Preferably soon.

Once inside the water, Damian turns on the night-vision in his mask lenses, but even that did not help in the murky waters of Gotham harbour. He can’t see anything that is not the grey of the water and the small slivers of light that manages to come into the water in the middle of the night.

But Richard must be here. He must be. Damian will not accept any other outcome, so he must be here.

He chants that in his mind while circling around the pier, trying to find any sign of life, but still, no trace of Richard anywhere. He widens his radius, but still, he can’t see where Richard is, and his lungs are already burning with the need to breathe in. Damian could hold his breath for three minutes, in an ideal condition, but he was already breathing hard from the fight right before he jumped into the harbour, and he needs all the oxygen he can get to haul Richard’s body up from the depths of Gotham harbour.

Damian resists the urge to huff in frustration— no use in wasting what little air he has— and swims up as quickly as he can.

One big breath in, and he is swimming back down. If his sense of time is right, then Richard has been down here for nearing four minutes already. He cannot afford to be inside the water any longer.

He got lucky. On his second dive in, Damian sees the bright blue of Nightwing’s uniform, reflecting what little light is visible down here.

He forces himself to swim faster, to reach Richard as quick as he can, while ignoring the protests from his aching muscles. He is Robin, and he will do this, regardless of what his muscles say.

As soon as he reaches Richard’s body, Damian hooks his arms around Richard’s armpits and pushes against the water to swim up. His lungs are once again burning, but he is not going to let go of Richard’s body, no matter how much harder the extra weight made it for him to swim up.

It takes him twice as long to reach the surface as it would with him alone. By the time he breaches the surface of the water, Damian is already opening his mouth to gasp for air. He wishes there’s enough time for him to just get his breath back, but Richard has been underwater for far too long. So, after just one breath— which would have to be enough— Damian starts kicking as hard as he can to propel them in the direction of the shore. The pier is closer, but there is no way that Damian can climb up the rigging while dragging Richard with him, and so, even though it is a longer swim, he would have to go all the way to the shore.

After several kicks, Damian manages to gain enough momentum to switch his hold on Richard to a one-handed one, allowing him to use his other hand to help with the swimming. He has to reach shore as fast as he can. Even with the water all around them and through his gloves, Damian can already tell that Richard is no longer breathing.

He forces himself to swim faster.

The very moment he reaches the shore, Damian’s fingers are already searching for the switch for the built-in AED in their suits. Before he could reach it, however, he remembers. EMP. No working electronics. No AED.

Shit.

Damian gets on his knees, places his hands on Richard’s chest, and starts pushing.

One, two, three, four, five. He hopes that someone notices that their tracker is dead.

Six, seven, eight, nine, ten. He hopes that backup will come soon.

Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Richard has no breath. No pulse.

Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Breathe, damn it. Breathe.

Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five. Damian is not going to lose Richard to this. He is not.

Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. Why isn’t he breathing?

Damian tilts Richard’s head back, pinches his nose, and breathes into Richard’s mouth, watching as his chest rises and falls. He wishes with all his might that the next breath Richard can take on his own, but no such luck. Damian had to breathe for Richard again.

He goes back into position, places his hands on Richard’s chest, and does it all over again.

By the fifth repetition, Damian’s legs are trembling with the effort to hold him up. Richard is much, much heavier than he is, requiring far more effort from Damian to properly do the chest compressions, and he is already exhausted from fighting five men and pulling Richard from the water. By the ninth repetition, his shoulders are screaming in agony, and he can barely regulate his breathing to provide the rescue breaths to Richard. By the fourteenth repetition, it feels like his entire body is on fire with the effort required to maintain the proper rhythm of chest compressions.

Damian ignores all of that. Ignores everything that is not the rhythm of his pushing, and the fervent effort of trying to keep Richard alive.

One, two, three, four, five. His uniform clings to him in a foul mixture of Gotham harbour water and sweat.

Damian ignores that.

Six, seven, eight, nine, ten. His hair clings to his eyes with every up and down movement of his body, obscuring his vision.

Damian ignores that.

Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. He hears voices coming from behind him.

Damian ignores that.

Wait.

He hears voices from behind him.

“Over here!” Damian shouts, still pushing on Richard’s chest in a rhythm he refuses to abandon. He hopes that he is right, and that it is backup, because if it isn’t, there is very little that he can do right now. He keeps pushing on Richard’s chest, finishing the fifteenth set of the compressions, and bending down again to do the rescue breaths.

When he straightens up again, he sees the tell-tale mask of the Red Hood, and breathes out in relief.

“Get clear, kid,” Todd says, and for once, Damian obeys.

Todd pushes the button to activate the AED that he has placed on Richard’s body when Damian was giving the rescue breaths, and shouts, “Clear!” just before the AED beeps, indicating that a shock was given.  

As soon as the beep stops, Damian gets back in position, preparing himself to do another round of chest compressions, even though every single one of his muscles is screaming with exhaustion. He already places his hands on Richard’s chest when a gloved hand rests on his shoulders.

“Let me do it, Robin,” Todd grunts, pushing Damian away from his place next to Richard’s chest. Damian considers protesting, but the moment that his legs are no longer supporting a combination of his weight and the power needed to do chest compressions on someone that is nearly twice as heavy as him, they collapse. He watches as Richard’s chest goes up and down with the force of Todd’s compressions, and prays to every god, spirit, and deity that he knows of for Richard to start breathing again.

In Todd’s third repetition, Richard starts coughing.

Damian has never been happier to hear the sound.

[bubsdolan]

y/n going on a hawaii trip with gray 🌺

waimea bay, an area notorious for the breathtaking views, beaches and the best landmarks for cliff jumping in hawaii. hawaii was ancient and humbling, the freshness of the air opening your lungs and allowing you to live life to the absolute fullest. it was an area that held happy memories, nostalgia and a large chunk of your heart. it was the area you first locked eyes with your now husband- grayson dolan, and the rest was history.

falling in love with grayson three years ago to date, in the exact location of waimea bay, felt like a dream. your group of friends merging into one late one summer evening, all having the same idea for a midnight cliff jump. yourself and grayson hit it off immediately, it was a gravitational force that pulled you together subconsciously. grayson could sense your fear of the cliff and was your support system when you felt pressured into the jump. he never let go of your hand the entire night, getting to know you for you and breaking down your walls little by little. that night your life changed forever. 

walking hand in hand down the mesmerising beaches, your feet dripping the sand beneath you, you remised on the earlier stages of your relationship. pointing out the exact underwater cave you shared your first kiss, the cute little hut on the shore where grayson took you one night for a traditional hawine feast and not forgetting the rock you slipped on and spilt your head open when trying to show off for the most attractive man you had ever laid your eyes on- resulting in a night in urgent care with an emtional grayson by your side just hours into knowing each other. that’s the exact moment when you knew he was something special.

yourself and grayson were now on your honeymoon. vowing to spend the rest of you lifes loving each other before fleeing to the one place on earth you felt the most connected. the sun was setting on your first magical night in paradise, a trip down memory lane as you conversed with the locals, supporting the small family owned businesses you came to love and experiencing the culture around you. grayson held you as you walked, your hair flowing in the wind, your eyelashes fluttering agasint your cheeks when the sun got to bright. grayson felt at home.

he had planned a date night, a dinner at a private rented beach accompanied by local catering and views that were to die for. setting up a sea of pillows, treats, blankets and dimly lit fairy lights, he wanted everything to be perfect. after all you were the definition of the word and he knew exactly what was required to show you how much you mean to him, to show you without so many words that you’re his endgame.

you sat on the secluded bench in peace, untouched golden sand and a rise of yellow in the distant horizon making you pinch yourself at your life. being with grayson felt like a fairy tale, a childhood dream that you never wanted to wake up from.

there was something so romantic about the beach. maybe it was the way grayson watched in awe as the soft touch of the gentle ocean breeze blew across your distinct features he has locked to memory. perhaps it was the calming vocals of the waves crashing that therapeutically washed away any built up stress, making him forgot about work for a few extra minutes as all he ever cared about was you. nothing could top the feeling of being there with you. his one true love.

“i have one more surprise for you, baby.”

grayson dusted his body down, chewing the last residents of a chocolate coated strawberry you had fed to him moments prior, before reaching a tender hand down to your level in order to assist you to your next adventure. you never questioned him for a second. happy to follow him to the ends of the earth if it meant you were with him.

“gray, you’ve done enough already,” you giggle as you try to keep up with his long, excitable strides. one hand reaching down to tame the craziness of your sundress that was seconds away from exposing you as grayson dragged you along the shore. a smile so bright, it lit up your whole world. you would do anything to keep him this happy. that was your one true purpose in live- grayson’s happiness.

“you know i love you right?”

was the only response grayson gave you, turning his head for a spilt second to witness a rose coloured tint on your cheeks bones as you nooded shyly. after so many years side but side, grayson never failed to make it feel like your very first day meeting. you were giddy yet he was your husband. shy like a school girl with an adorable crush.

“and you trust me, yeah?” he already knew the answer, but required your reassurance nevertheless.

of course, you nodded once again.

“good because we’re here.”

grayson stops you short before the edge of an all to familiar cliff. the formation of the giant rock engraved in your vision as you can already pinpoint the exact ledge grayson held your hand, allowing him to gain your trust and your heart all those many years ago.

“are we at-“ you begin to tear up. always so shocked on how you managed to bag the gift of grayson. he was better than you could have ever asked for.

“it’s our rock, baby,” grayson pulled you into his arms as he rubbed the pad of his warm thumb under your eyes, collecting the tears that has fallen from the thoughtful gesture. the perfect end to a perfect night. going back to the place it all started.

“together, on three. we jump, just like old times.” grayson pulls you to stand on the edge, making no attempt to loosen his grip as you stand and absorb the fresh air.

before you plummet into the water, with thrilling screams leaving your lips, a roaring laughter from grayson and the crash of the crystal clear water, you share a quick yet meaningful kiss.  a kiss that held a thousands words.

coming up for air, you immediately wrap your arms and legs around your husband. husband- never get used to saying that. grayson dolan was your husband. you, out or millions of suitors won his heart. protecting it with ever fibre of your body.

grayson caught you with no hesitation, his hands gripping just below your arse cheeks as he paddled in the water. holding you tightly to his chest, heart to heart, you could feel every deep breathe he took, his heart beat bringing you a sense of comfort. no matter how cold the night was turning.

you adored the way small droplets of water fell from his ever growing head of hair, his eyes sparkling with such love, pride and happiness as you couldn’t resist the urge to comb your fingers through the ends and release any tangles. you hummed in content as he lent into your palm, his eyes falling shut at the feeling of being so well looked after and loved.

your touch a drug to him as you held each other in the water. your body’s entwined.  you knew in that very moment the true meaning of being in love.

if love was a sound, it would be the contagious melody of grayson’s laughter. if love was to be described as a colour, it would be the perfect blend of browns that made up his eyes. if love was a smell, it would be the combination of his musky cologne with hints of salty water after your spontaneous jump. of love was a place, it was right here in his arm. if love was a taste, it was the sweetness of his plump lips against your own.

if love was a person, that person was grayson dolan.

“my wife.” grayson leaned in closer as the night drew to a close, the shadows of your face mirroring his own as his attention was fixated on your lips, so inviting he was eager to taste. his legs still working to keep you both above the water surface, forgetting all his surroundings as you were his main focus.

grayson’s heart beat grew faster as your lips joined in harmony. moulding like the perfect puzzle pieces as the water calmed around you, the breeze dying down and the sun setting on what happened to be the most magical night in the most magical island paradise.

“my husband.”

“forever, baby.”

[galaxywhump]

Warmth

For @whumpmasinjuly, day 12!

Timeline: set after Scars + Collared.

cw: slavery whump, forced relationship, creepy/intimate whumper, defiant whumpee, forced domesticity, referenced noncon, nudity mention, suicidal ideation, discussion of drowning, referenced animal attack, alcohol mention.

~~~

It’s always warm on SV-240.

They’re near the equator, Daniel explained once, the only part of the planet able to sustain so much flora and fauna - and human life.

Wren can’t help but bitterly wish Daniel had crashed anywhere else, the lucky bastard.

There are no seasons, just temperatures fluctuating from pleasantly warm to unbearably hot, occasionally dropping to where they need to wear long-sleeved shirts outdoors; but there’s no winter, no snow, no chilly wind, and even the rain is lukewarm. Adds to the atmosphere of permanent summer vacation that Daniel enjoys so much, Wren supposes, wiping his forehead, his gaze fixed on the ground as he tries not to trip and fall on a terrain that he, unlike his captor, isn’t used to.

It’s one of the unbearably hot days, and they’re both exhausted after working in the garden in the early morning; the crops had to be harvested and watered, and the heatwave has been going on for a few days already, so waiting for it to end was too much of a gamble. Afterwards they tried to escape the heat by hiding back in the house, which didn’t offer much relief with how hot and stuffy the air was, and opening the windows did the opposite of helping. 

“I have an idea”, Daniel said after a few minutes of miserably sipping on iced tea for a sliver of relief. “But we’ll have to walk for a while.”

At least this time it seemed unlikely that the idea would involve torture. Small mercies.

And so they’re walking through the forest, still and almost quiet, as if all the alien creatures have been defeated by the weather, forced to retreat into their lairs and burrows. Trying to find a bright side to the unbearable heat, Wren hopes that the predators are too lazy to hunt too; he remembers the attack, the creature biting into his leg and trying to drag him away, all too well. Daniel knows the planet, though, and has a weapon at hand just in case - a weapon that, Wren notes with silent resignation, can only be activated by him. Of course. It would be too beautiful otherwise.

“Almost there, sweetheart”, Daniel informs, and mere moments later they reach their destination.

It’s a small lake, closer to a pond, really, with impossibly turquoise water, like a kitschy postcard saturated to the extreme - but it’s real, surrounded by lush flora, with flowers (at least Wren chooses to believe they’re flowers) of vivid colors bobbing on the surface. 

For just a moment Wren allows himself to be enamored with the view, with the underlying beauty of his prison, as rotten as his captor has made it.

Daniel exhales with contentment and throws his backpack aside.

“There’s nothing dangerous here”, he says, taking his shirt off. Other than you, Wren thinks, but keeps the thought to himself. “And the water should be cool.”

It is, Wren discovers with relief when he crouches down on the edge of the lake and dips his hand in it. The water is crystal clear when he takes some in his cupped hands, and splashing some in his face is the best feeling he’s experienced in a while. He sits down on the damp sand and takes a deep breath, closer to feeling at peace than he has been in ages.

“Come on”, he hears and turns his head to the side to look at Daniel, the illusion immediately shattered. “There are swim trunks for you in the backpack. Oh, there’s some beer and tea in there too, put it in the water so it can chill.”

“Sure”, Wren sighs, slowly getting up.

Orders are infuriating, no matter how casual and innocuous they are, but at least they’re sobering. He wants to enjoy this day at the lake as much as he can, as long as Daniel doesn’t try anything, but he can’t let himself forget that he’s here against his will, that he’s a captive, even if he’s not restrained, in the middle of a forest that he could try to hide in if it wasn’t for the tracker under his skin.

I’m always restrained one way or another. Even if he wants me to believe otherwise.

He changes into the swim trunks as fast as possible while Daniel has his back turned. Sure, he’s already seen everything there is to see, but if Wren’s given an opportunity to avoid being naked in front of him, he’s glad to take it. He nests the bottles in the soft sand, making sure they’ll stay put, and then, opting against the rational option of slowly getting his overheated body used to the chilly water, he takes a plunge.

The cold knocks the air out of his lungs and paralyzes him for a split second, thousands of microscopic freezing needles pierce his body, but the shock is gone as fast as it appeared, and he relaxes, opening his eyes and watching air bubbles rise to the surface. He feels weightless, slowly moving his hands in a steady motion to stay underwater, and he shakes his head and smiles at the feeling of his hair flowing through the water. 

He could stay down here forever.

He could.

Suddenly he feels heavier as the thought appears in his mind, echoing the one burdening him on that nightmarish day, when he was staring at the wall, wanting nothing more than to take the plunge and never emerge. And now he’s here. He could inhale the perfect water, let it fill his lungs, close his eyes and finally be free.

It would be easy, and it’s so tempting, but...

Not like this. I can’t die here.

Expelling the last bit of air he has, he pushes himself off the bottom and swims up to the surface. 

“Thought I’d have to rescue you there”, Daniel comments when Wren emerges and takes a big gulp of air. “I never asked if you can swim, did I?”

“You didn’t”, Wren replies, drifting away a bit to discreetly put some distance between him and Daniel. “But don’t worry, you won’t have to play the lifeguard.”

He regrets his words as soon as he sees Daniel’s smirk.

“So I’ll miss out on mouth-to-mouth breathing?” He laughs when Wren groans. “Just kidding, sweetheart.”

Wren rolls his eyes and disappears underwater again, escaping from Daniel’s voice into silence. He sits cross-legged on the bottom with his eyes closed, submerges himself in the cold, and with how different it is from the warmth of the planet he lets his mind carry him to Earth, to the chill of winter he only now realizes he misses so much it hurts.

 ~~~

taglist:   @faewhump​ @inky-whump​ @whole-and-apart-and-between​ @whatwasmyprevioususername @procrastinatingsab @inkyinsanity @special-spicy-chicken @redstainedsocks @luminouswhump @spookyboywhump @lonesome--hunter @as-a-matter-of-whump @renkocchi @whump-only @rose-whump @muddy-swamp-bitch @girlwithacoolcat @wildlywhumping @sophierose002 @mnmlover2002 @whump-headspace @to-whump-or-not-to-whump @kixngiggles @ohwhumpydays @whumpvp @tropes-for-my-md-daydreams

[mae-gi-writes]

From Now On | Kevin (The Boyz)

You break down with Kevin when a loved one passes away.

Genre: angst, fluff, sad, mention of death, Kevin moon is an angel 

A/N: for a very special soul. <3 I love you. Stay strong. 

----

Numb. Empty. Void.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” 

“My sympathies.” 

“She was an amazing woman.” 

A hand on your shoulder. You don’t bother looking up, “I can’t imagine how hard it must be.” 

No, you think to yourself. You can’t. Because right now, I am walking through hell. 

There is an abundance of hushed murmurs that fill the room where your mother lays in her casket, looking so ethereally beautiful and serene with her eyes closed and a tinted pink flush scattered over her cheeks. But that’s all a lie, for you know exactly without looking too closely that her chest isn’t rising and falling as its supposed to be. 

“Y/N,” another hand on your shoulder, though this time you recognize the sadness etched in your older brother’s tone. Turning to see Hyunjae’s composed features, what gives him away is the puffiness of his eyes, the scarlet tint to his nose. 

Almost instinctively, your hand reaches out to grasp his arm. A reminder that you are here, with him. Next to him. 

“I can’t find the sandwiches,” he croaks out in the shell of your ear, quiet enough so that no one can hear, “could you help me find them? I think the guests--” 

At this point you can already feel his voice choke up and trip over itself. You squeeze his arm in a gentle manner, “I got it,” you send him what hopes is a sweet smile, though it can hardly pull up your cheeks, before slipping away intot the kitchen. 

It’s impossible to navigate through the swarm of bodies currently littering the corridors. You maneuver yourself to the best of your ability but soon get yourself trapped between a few older women who claim to be your mother’s old classmates, which does not help the tide of pain wrenching through your chest and practically snapping your heartstrings in two every single time the reminder echoes through your mind. 

“She was such a dear! So talented! You look just like her you know,” one of the ladies say with overzealous flair and with tears dotting her eyes. It makes you feel sick, though you manage to plaster a shaky smile.

“It’s sad that I didn’t even get to say goodbye to her,” another sniffled into her tissue. 

“It must be ten times worse for you, Y/N,” they throw you a bunch of watery-eyed gazes and it takes all of your self-control not to scream in their faces to leave you the fuck alone.

You take a step away, “Sorry, I’m just really busy. I’ll talk to you guys later--”

“But wait Y/N, we want to know more,” one of them cry out. 

The other tugs onto your arm, “we can’t believe it happened. And she was so young too.” 

Your brain is screaming at you to run away. To hide. Anything to stop the slow pain spreading through your limbs and causing you to freeze up, your heart clenching and your lungs squeezing so hard through your chest. It’s hard to breathe. Like drowning underwater. Ears blocked and through raw.

You don’t realize that you’ve stumbled back a few steps their arms pull you forward. The women keep on talking over you in hurried sopranos, their voices bouncing around in your skull and causing your head to pound. 

It’s too hard. It’s too much. The memory of your mother’s face surges up through you. The way she died, unfairly, too young. Tears gather before you know it and you can’t breathe and can’t breathe can’t breathe --

“Sorry, I’ll have to steal Y/N for a bit.” 

A hand clamps down on your shoulder, pulls you away. The voices fall away and you take this moment to focus yourself on the warmth of the hand gently holding on to you as its owner steers you away until you are clearly out in the terrace.

It is only then that you manage to let out a shaky exhale. Your headache clears, just a little bit.

And it is only when he speaks that your eyes slide up to the said voice in question.

Kevin gazes down at you wordlessly, maroon orbs soft in the dim afternoon light. 

“Hey, you okay?”

Gratefulness rushes to your heart, just as your eyes fill with unexpected tears. 

You burst into sobs. 

It takes only a second for Kevin’s arms to wrap around your shoulders before he tugs you over to his chest, and as you bawl your eyes out at the unfairness of the world that you can’t even say goodbye to that one person who’s been present from the moment you were born, your hands find purchase onto his shirt if only in a pathetic attempt to stop yourself from getting overwhelmed by the amount of emotion that rips through your throat in the form of hoarse whimpers. 

“Shh,” Kevin mumbles a bunch of sweet nothings in your ear and though you loathe the fake sympathy that comes with a crowd that barely knows you and much less what you are currently going through, you can’t find the energy to push your boyfriend away.

After all, you do trust him more than yourself. For once, you allow your walls to come down. 

You cry and cry and cry. 

You cry, until there seems to be nothing left of your tears, until your tear ducts have dried out and until your entire body seems to be shaking with barely restrained tiredness. 

And through it all, Kevin holds on to you. He holds on like he’s never planning to let go, and your hands clench a little tighter, you hold him a little closer. 

A while later, after almost all guests have vacated your house and after you’ve managed to nod at Hyunjae when asked whether you’re doing okay, you manage to retreat to your room with Kevin in tow, his hand holding onto yours and providing you with a warmth that brings you comfort. 

He sits beside you on your bed as you both watch the sun set in the distance, pinkish hues dominating the sky and painting it in various shades of golden orange and red.

It’s beautiful and yet saddening at the same time to see the first day go by without your mother’s gentle voice floating from the kitchen. The emptiness lingers in the air, a void that mimics the hole in your heart. 

I miss you.

More tears slowly well up at the corner of your eyes and you quickly wipe them away adamantly. You’ve cried enough these past few hours. Enough is enough.

I’m sorry I never told you how much I loved you.

Kevin’s thumb rubs comforting circles over the back of your knuckles. In the silence, you allow yourself to bask in his presence. 

That is really all you need for now. Nothing more. Nothing else.

Just time. Time to heal. Time to suffer. Time to just exist until the pain ebbs away.

I’m sorry I took you for granted.

“Y/N,” Kevin’s soft murmur reaches your ears, “you want to talk about it?” 

You shake your head before biting your lip so hard you taste blood.

“Okay,” he mumbles. That’s when he beckons you into his arms, an embrace that you gladly accept as you crawl into his lap and curl up -- head pressed against the crook of his neck and hands held close to your chest -- as his head comes to a rest atop yours, but not before pressing a gentle peck to your forehead. 

“You know,” his words are muffled against your temple, lips moving against your skin with lingering warmth, “you don’t have to hold it in with me right? I don’t--I care about you. I don’t want you thinking that I can’t handle it. Because that’s what I’m here for.” 

God. This man. A sob almost crawls out of your throat. So you nod, grip his shirt a little tighter. His scent washes over you, a mixture of pine and a dash of coffee mixed in with a boyish smell that comes from his deodorant. 

 It makes you feel at home. At ease. At least with Kevin, there’s no playing pretend.

You’re unsure whether you fell asleep in his embrace, but before you know it your eyes are drowsily fluttering open to meet Kevin’s back. You go to call out his name, only for the smell of fried food hitting your nostrils and turning your head to catch sight of the plate of untouched food by your nightstand, your heart can’t help but melt a little at his thoughtfulness. 

Noticing your movement, the said young man turns before smiling down at you softly, “hey,” he murmurs gently, practically throwing his phone on the other side of the bed and crawling over to where you lie, “you hungry? I brought food. Or rather, Hyunjae did.” 

You know you should eat. God knows when was the last time you’d eaten. But the thought causes your stomach to churn slightly and you shake your head.

“But Hyunjae brought your favourite: meat buns,” Kevin pouts ever so slightly, and pairing that with the slight rumble of your stomach makes you cave in. 

So you nod and he grins back at you, quickly scrambling to your bedside so that he can feed you before you can even protest. You find you don’t have the energy to, only watching him peel off the wrapper and break it into small, bite-sized pieces. 

“Ah,” he holds one out to you and you accept it begrudgingly. You’ve never been too fond of being taken care of. But at this precise moment, you can’t find it in yourself to argue, especially since Kevin has been nothing but your pillar of support throughout the last few hours. How you would’ve managed without him, you don’t even know yourself. 

As he feeds you the rest of the bun, he talks aimlessly about the food vlog on youtube that he’s just binge-watched and how he wishes to visit New York someday to be able to try out all these fancy street foods that keep haunting his dreams. Somewhere along the line, you realize that it’s a little easier to swallow, a little easier to smile up at your doting boyfriend talking animatedly while swinging his arms around. He always does that whenever he gets overexcited. 

Right now, he’s moved on to talking about safe driving on roads implemented by AI technology, “seriously though, it’s kind of scary how technology can do everything these days. At this point we’re not going to  have a zombie apocalypse but rather a robot apocalypse. Can you imagine?” 

“Then they’d be easier to kill, wouldn’t they?” you mumble out, and while it is soft and barely coherent, Kevin’s ears perk up at your participation. That’s probably the first word that falls from your mouth ever since you woke up.

“I guess so, unless they’re already programmed with a hundred of ninja combat moves or something,” he shrugs, moves a little closer to wipe off a few bits of flour stuck to the corner of your lips, “maybe they can even google search it and analyze movements within seconds,” he shudders at the thought, “ooh, scary.” 

“Kevin?” 

“Hm?” his eyes peer into yours, coffee-coloured orbs swirling with naked affection, hand pushing away a stray strand from your face. 

When you speak next, you feel a sob catching in the back of your throat, “thank you,” you swallow hard, “for everything.” 

It happens all too fast. The way Kevin’s arms reach out to swallow you up once more in a bone-crushing hug that leaves you breathless, his lips permanently pressed to your forehead before he nuzzles his nose into your cheek. 

“You don’t have to say thank you,” he murmurs in-between the smallest of pecks he litters across your cheekbone, “that’s what I’m here for.” 

The familiar sting of tears cause your eyes to grow glossy, but this time it’s almost as if your own heart feels a little lighter, a little less burdened. Sleeping had done you some good, and eating had appeased the swelling ache in your stomach.

But Kevin. Kevin had definitely patched up a band-aid over your heart. 

"I know it’s going to be hard, these few months to come,” Kevin continues in a gentle murmur, “but from now on, if you feel like you cant handle it, you have me.” 

Your murmur out a soft agreement, but that doesn’t seem to cut it, for Kevin’s fingers clasp your jaw to tilt it upwards. Your eyes slide to his, intense and persistent. 

“Y/N, I got you. Okay?” 

“Yeah,” you mumble. 

He keeps on watching you for a few more silent seconds. Satisfied then, he pulls you back against him, tucking your face into the crook of his neck once more and placing a chaste kiss right upon your left eyelid, then right eyelid. Then down to peck your lips as your breath stutters out shakily. 

“I’ll be there.” 

It’s a promise. A promise for better days. And hugging him a little tighter, you can’t help but believe in the hope laced through Kevin’s words.

-----

[teamxdark]

Drowning

When one has a water deity as a mother, one does not know drowning. Yet when Lancelot saves a man from a river, he might just find himself in too deep.

Read on AO3 here!

All his life, Lancelot had considered his life to be akin to a stream; small, perhaps, but endlessly flowing, able to carve down into the world and leave a mark. He had direction, being pulled forth with or without a purpose, and only became stronger and larger the further along he went.

But something had changed after he left Corbenic to retrieve his sword, the legendary Arondight, and learn the ways of the water with his mother. Training at Misty Lake had been a new sort of challenge, no longer working out his body but his mind and any semblance of magical ability he had. Lancelot was powerful, much more powerful than he had realized, and though he would never reach the ranks of a learned wizard, he had capabilities beyond most others with his mother’s blessing.

The Lady of the Lake had taught him well, and water would never hurt Lancelot.

Yet with a new threshold passed, Lancelot began to feel stagnant, less like a rushing stream morphing into a river and more akin to a lake, like his mother’s home. Impressive, but still.

He had asked Nimue for guidance, a next step, and so he found himself making his way to Camelot on foot, slow and steady, as he figured that whatever he chose would be what destiny had in store for him.

“Go to the capital city,” his mother had told him with a wise smile. “Something tells me that you will find enough there for the rest of your life.”

Vague, but worth listening to. Nimue had never been wrong before, and her guidance was something to be grateful for.

The man admired the world as it passed him by, step by step. The winds whispered around him, promising a world bigger than the corners that he knew, and it struck Lancelot just how far he could go, just how much he could learn, if he just kept exploring.

Was the rest of his life truly confined to Camelot?

He shook his doubts away. His mother had told him that there was enough for him there, not that he would stagnate further. An opportunity, perhaps, to see more of the world or consume the knowledge therein? A way to refine his power into something even greater? A purpose, guiding him like the wind guided the waters of the river as it began to carve its bed into the world?

Lancelot chose the long way to Camelot, following the river that flowed down from the north, finding serenity in its familiarity. He trusted the water, and always would.

“AHHH!”

The sound of a scream and a splash up ahead had Lancelot’s ears shooting up in alarm, and without a second’s hesitation, he rushed forward, looking for the source. Up ahead, he saw lines in the dirt, skid marks from someone who had tried to stop but was unable to do so in time, and further along, bobbing up and down in the river, he saw a head and a pair of flailing arms struggling to keep to the surface.

What are you doing, you fool?! Lancelot wondered as he rushed forth, faster than the river’s intense current. Swim! Swim or you will not survive!

The head surfaced one more time with a gasp, before the body collided rather harshly with a stone that jutted out above the water, then went under. Lancelot felt his blood run cold.

He had never had to imagine what drowning would be like, but he felt terror and panic sweep in when the other didn’t resurface, and without a second thought he jumped in after them.

Lancelot opened his eyes after submerging himself, drawing in a slow breath as he adjusted to breathing underwater again. He saw the figure getting pulled along, body limp and stunned, and far too much air was escaping the lungs. Lancelot raced forward, fast in water as he was on land, scooped up the stranger in his arms, and carried him to the surface.

They emerged, Lancelot easily coughing the water from his throat to make room for air once again, while the stranger in his arms curled up, heaving, trying desperately to expel what he could from his lungs. Lancelot was surprised; he would have thought that a blow like that would have rendered anyone unconscious. The black hedgehog stood up on the water’s surface, making sure to keep steady, and put his hand on the stranger’s back, focusing his energies on the droplets that remained. His hand stroked upwards, passing soaked blue spines, feeling strong but lean muscles that lied below the skin, and brought the water upwards until the other hedgehog in his arms coughed it all out, wheezing for breath.

Lancelot waited for a while, letting the other recover, before asking, “Are you okay?”

The stranger in his arms stirred, then uncurled, and then Lancelot was looking into the greenest eyes he had ever seen in his life.

His mouth went dry.

“You...” the other rasped, coughing a few more times. “You saved me...”

“I did,” Lancelot replied, his tongue feeling like lead and his eyes unable to leave the other’s. “I was not going to let someone drown.”

The man blinked, looking at him in gentle awe, and Lancelot willed his knees not to buckle below him. Then those eyes roamed away, and Lancelot mourned their loss, though suddenly he found that he was able to breathe easier.

“You’re standing on water?!” the man yelped, clinging to him in terror, and it brought Lancelot back to his senses. Now that he was thinking clearly again, it was probably a terrible idea to be standing right on top of the river that had almost killed the man in his arms.

“Don’t worry,” he tried to soothe him. “Relax. I won’t let you fall. Just look at me.”

Eyes greener than spring locked with his again, and Lancelot couldn’t have looked away if he tried. They stayed together as Lancelot walked along the water’s surface back to dry land, and all the while, the other man’s magnetic gaze pulled him in and held him until Lancelot felt as though he might never think again, for how could one think when looking at a sight so glorious as that?

He didn’t want to set the other down, but he did, softly setting him on the grass so he could regain his bearings and calm down. The man’s grip didn’t lessen, even as solid ground reappeared below him, and Lancelot made sure to keep his hands on the other’s torso.

Just in case...

After a minute or two, the panic faded from the other man’s gaze, and he shivered, glancing back at the river and breaking whatever spell that had been taking over Lancelot’s mind. He inhaled, feeling as though he hadn’t breathed in ages.

Had he? Had he been breathing when those magnificent eyes had been pulling him into their brilliant depths?

Was this what drowning felt like?

“You walked across the water as if it were land...”

The other man spoke, looking back to him, his gaze claiming every last bit of Lancelot’s attention with a beautiful effortlessness. The eyes were livelier now, bright with wonder and gratitude and open awe. “Incredible,” he continued, removing his hands to help shift himself into a sitting position, but soon after Lancelot began to mourn the loss of their touch, they were back on him, holding his shoulders. “Are you fae? A deity? Chaos themself?” the man asked, trembling with cold and excitement, and Lancelot felt his face grow warm under such praise.

“None of those,” he managed to reply. “Just a very fortunate man with very skilled teachers.”

“Incredible,” the other breathed, and the repeated compliment sent a new wave of heat to Lancelot’s face. “To have no fear of water...”

For a moment, they stared at each other, the other hedgehog in open awe and Lancelot in mesmerized silence.

“Tell me, brave stranger, what is your name? I wish to thank my rescuer properly.”

Lancelot had to clear his throat before responding. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and he saw the other man’s verdant gaze drop down to his mouth. A thrill ran through him, and that pushed him to speak.

“My name is Lancelot du Lac.”

“Lancelot,” the other echoed, and his name had no right to sound so good coming from that voice. The hands on his shoulders dropped down to take his own, and Lancelot thanked all six deities that he was sitting down right then. He doubted he would have retained the strength to stand as the other held his hands between his own. “My greatest thanks to you, Lancelot du Lac. I am forever in your debt.”

“Think nothing of it,” Lancelot insisted, for he was already overwhelmed.

“There must be something I can offer you as thanks,” the other man claimed, his eyes reclaiming Lancelot’s gaze and holding it without trying. “You’ve saved a very powerful person, and I would be more than happy to give you what you desire as thanks.”

The word ‘desire’ also had no right to sound so fantastic coming from that voice, and Lancelot fought it away before speaking again.

“I only want to find my way to Camelot.”

“And then?” the other persisted, his hands squeezing and weakening Lancelot’s resolve in an instant.

“...I haven’t figured out what comes next,” he admitted. He only knew that he could find his destiny in Camelot if he searched for it, but he had no idea where to start.

“Then allow me to accompany you there,” the blue hedgehog said in a tone of voice that remained light but didn’t allow for argument. Lancelot felt his tongue tie itself into knots as the other stood up, helping him to his feet with a pull of their joined hands, and Chaos above, he was handsome when standing at full height and without panic marring his features, wet spines and unkempt appearance be damned. “If you are looking for living arrangements or employment, I think I will be able to help without much trouble.”

“I... I don’t wish to trouble you--”

“Nonsense,” the other man interrupted, and Lancelot couldn’t even find it in himself to be annoyed about it. “Might I remind you that I would be dead right now if it weren’t for you.”

A great loss, to be sure, Lancelot thought as he silently let himself be pulled along.

With the lull in conversation and the lack of eyes to pull him under, he finally got a good look at the man he was with. Dark blue spines were beginning to dry off and lighten to a brilliant blue, and a waterlogged cape slapped unpleasantly against long, strong legs. A pair of golden gauntlets covered the hands of his companion, one of which remained stubbornly clamped around his own, and on his hip, a sword lay.

A sword... Lancelot’s eyes widened.

“Are you a knight?” he demanded, causing his companion to slow down.

“In a manner of speaking.”

Lancelot’s mouth went dry again. What did that mean? Just who had he saved?

“What is your name?” he whispered, his voice failing him, and when the other hedgehog turned around to face him, his breath failed him as well as he was sucked back into a world of green.

“King Arthur Pendragon.” The hand around his squeezed again, green eyes glinted in the sun, and Lancelot’s heart stopped in his chest. “A pleasure, I’m sure.”

It took all of Lancelot’s willpower not to collapse right then and there.

...

One week later, Lancelot found himself kneeling before the court, with Caliburn descending to tap both shoulders.

“Rise, Sir Lancelot du Lac,” came the command, and Lancelot obeyed, looking up at the green pools of warmth that were his king’s eyes. From his spot a few stairs above him, King Arthur extended his hand, and Lancelot took it in his left, bowing down to kiss the gauntlet, his eyes never leaving his king’s hypnotic gaze.

He had agreed to be knighted the instant Arthur had suggested it in his list of things he could do as repayment. Lancelot was a force that needed guidance, and he knew in his heart that Arthur was the right person to direct him. His king was a remarkable man, kind-hearted and free-spirited, and Lancelot knew that he was willing to fight for him. That much had been clear since the first moment he had been pulled into those eyes and drowned, quickly and easily and without terror.

Lancelot had found his destiny in Camelot after all, and it was King Arthur.

[thoughtfullyyoungduck]

water rippling

A/N: I’m so sorry this took so long, please let me know what you think! 

Summary: could you do a young losers x reader where the reader can’t swim but richie convinced her to come w them to the quarry bc he’ll teach her. but while he is pennywise comes underwater and tries to drown her so they have to save her

warnings: this whole chapter is basically about drowning and the fear of it so please don’t read it if that triggers you. 

‘I’m not getting in.’

‘If you don’t get in than I can’t teach you anything either. Fuck, just get in already.’

‘I told you I didn’t want to go swimming Richie, this is all your stupid idea so at the very least be fucking patient with me’, you bite as you dip in foot into the water, then lift it up higher again so the water can’t reach you. The scowl on your face deepens.

You never understood why people swim as a hobby. You’d get why everyone has to learn how to swim - even if you didn’t and never learned-, but actually enjoying swimming? No, those people must be out of their minds.

Richie laughs, mocking you, but all in good fun. ‘Start with one step. Just until the water reaches your ancles. You can’t drown from that Y/N.’

‘I could trip and drown.’

‘Literally how? I’m right here, the losers are further up keeping an eye on us, and all you would have to do is stand up. It’s not deep here.’

You sigh, but know that ultimately, Richie has a point.

Most people don’t automatically back away from water as soon as they catch a glimpse of it, but people hadn’t had a trauma related to it either.

Swimming always reminds you of the day you nearly drowned. It was on vacation, in the same resort your parents took you every year, and then left you in the Mini club while they went off and had a relaxing day. The animators who were supposed to be watching you, spoke a language you, at that time, hadn’t been able to disaffirm, and that’s where an almost deadly mistake was made.

The leaders lured you away from the club house, and you, like every other little kid present, followed them along unfearingly. They were older, and you trusted that they would keep you safe. Until one of them picked you up near a pool, and threw you in without any warning.

At the time, you hadn’t been able to swim by yourself without help, and so the second your feet left solid ground, you panicked. It didn’t seem to matter how many times you tried to wave your arms for help, none of the animators were glancing your way.

You can’t figure out how you somehow managed to reach the edge of the pool, but you did, only to get thrown right back in after by the animator, who thought you were having the time of your live.

Of course, you didn’t blame them. It’s not like you could tell them you couldn’t swim, so they had no way of knowing that, but it still scared the life out of you. For the rest of the trip, and after, you refused to go anywhere near the water. Not even your parents trying to persuade you with promises of ice cream and candy if you were brave, made you take another change in the thing that nearly killed you.

You never tried to swim again, and that meant you had no knowledge of how to do it. It was embarrassing, to decline going to swim during P.E and being forced to explain why. Your peers often ridiculed you for it, and it made you feel like a losers for being such a coward.

 But, cowardness is easy, especially when compared to facing your fears, and you never tried to learn how to swim, even after all the mockery. Only your new best friends hang out in the quarry all the time now, and you’re sick of being the one who has to watch from the shore as the others have fun.

Nothing bad has occurred to them in the water, -you’ve seen them go in about six times in three weeks now, and no one has come close to trouble - and Eddie, who is the most cautious person you’ve ever met, told you that statistically, there’s very little chance of you drowning. At your wits end, the only person you can think of asking for help, is Richie.

Richie might be an add choice, but he’s the only one who wouldn’t turn the lessons entirely boring and practical, like the others might. Richie jokes around a lot, brings humor into any situation, and you need that. You can’t get in your hard about the rippling water, or you’ll back out again.

‘Fine, I’ll go in, I’ll even sit down, but if I freak out and want to get out you’ll let me okay?’

‘Yeah I’m not gonna force you to stay. I’m not Eddie’s mom.’

Maybe you’ll be embarrassed by the motion later, but in the moment, you reach for Richie’s wrist, just to have some sort of support. Richie doesn’t mention it, just careful takes the same steps you do and lets you pick the pace at which you’re going.

It goes slow, but not at any point does Richie try to speed the process along. He does drop down in the water, on his ass, choosing a spot that just covers both of your torsos but is close to the shore.

You copy his every move, breathe deeply when you feel the water ripple around you and adjust to the new intrusion, until your closely packed to Richie’s side, in the water.

It takes a second to set in, that you’re sitting in the water and nothing is happening, but then you let out a breath of disbelief.

‘See, told you you could fucking do it. Repeat after me, you’re a woman who don’t need no man.’

‘You’ve been watching to many soap operas rich’, you tell him when you feel like you’re not on the verge of panicking anymore.

Inside the water, something pokes your leg, but you try to ignore it. You focus on breathing through the initial panic, remembering that nothing bad had happened to the losers despite being in the lake for a long time, and that pretty much ensures nothing would happen to you either.

‘Oh gross’, you utter as your try to force the slimy thing away from your feet. ‘You didn’t tell me there would be fish in here.’

Richie snorts, rolling his eyes as he grabs a handful of water and aims it at your face. He misses -Richie’s aim is always horrible whether you’re playing dodgeball or he’s trying to pass something on-, but he doesn’t care.

‘This is your fear Y/N/N, don’t try to scare me now. Besides, I’m not afraid of fish, Eddie’s mom vagina’s smells like a few died down there.’

You can’t focus on how disgustingly distasteful that joke is, because all you concentrate on is the slimy sensation, slowly sliding up your leg higher and higher.

‘Richie’, you beg, your voice reduced to that of a scared toddler. ‘Then what the fuck is touching me right now?’

A louder, slightly strained chuckle is produced by Richie, like he too is getting worried but is trying hard to convince himself everything is alright.

‘Stop fucking with me Y/N.’

Richie pushes the boundaries a lot, keeps going until somebody gets really annoyed and about ready to shut him up for a longer time, but the sincerity in his vox is so present that you’re instantly convinced he’s not messing around now.

‘I’m not fucking with you’, you raise your voice to a shrilled scream, so loud that the other losers, engaged in a game of chicken in the middle of quarry, also become aware of the situation. ‘Something is down there.’

It’s too late for them to help. The slimy blob, muddled by the water but visually a hand, tightens around your ancle, and snatches, hard.

Richie’s scrawny arms can’t resist against the strong haul, but he tries to hold on for as long as possible. His nails dig into your flesh, and the more you get pulled inside the water, the more marks his nails dig as you slide forward.

You shriek, arms flailing around now that the water is still too shallow for you to not be able to touch the bottom.

Plunges of water drip onto your face, both from your doing and Richie’s, and the others are advancing rapidly to come too your aid. Unfortunately nothing else can be done. Richie has no other options but to let you go, and the hand drags you to the middle of the lake.

Once you’re far enough away that you can’t touch the bottom with your feet anymore, the hand lets go, and you’re left to flounder on your own. Your legs slap around, trying with all your might to stay afloat and give the losers an opportunity to save you. A haunting chuckle breezes over the shell of your ear, and then the hand returns, satisfied with watching you struggle and panic for a while, but now ready to increase the terror.

You get one more chance to scream and suck in a handful of fresh air, and then your sinking down, under the surface.

The water douses your ears, muffles your ability to hear and see, and suffocates you with her insistence. You open your mouth, but it can’t produce a scream anymore, and you realize that you are completely as utterly doomed.

The hand has yet to free you, and it continues to pull you down. With each second that ticks by the fire in your chest spreads, and is unable to be ignored. After barely a few seconds, your movements turn sluggish, and you stop fighting against the hand. It’s at that time that it finally loosens his hold, but the fire has dilated up so much you can’t focus on anything other than the pain. Without ever learning how to swim, you wouldn’t be able to make it to shore anyway.

You read somewhere once that as soon as you swallow in water and it fills your lungs, you’ll die, and the pain will stop.

Your life plan hadn’t included dying this young in your life, but if you must go, you’d rather have it be quick. Losing the strength to hold out any longer, you open your mouth, and feel two separate pair of hands unclasps around your arms. The anxiety inside of you spikes, but you lack the energy to struggle against the grip, so you allow yourself to be guided. It’s not until your head breaks up from the water, and o2 greets you in plenty, that you see that the hands have brought you back up, instead of down.

You gasp, coughing up water, feeling as any minute you could pass out on the spot.

‘Jesus Y/N, stop struggling. We’re going to get you out.’

The two pairs of hands that saved you from drowning turn out to be Mike and Bill, and the float with you to the side of quarry where Eddie is gearing up to perform cpr if needed. If you had some breath back in your body, you would laugh at the sight.

Bev and Richie help drag you onto the dry rocks, away from the water, but still too close for your liking.

‘Get away’, you retches, crawling back in your arms. Eddie, who has been checking you over, tuts, but you don’t let it stop you.

‘It grabbed me. It fucking grabbed me. Get away from the water.’ You think you begin to cry, out of relief and alarm, but you can’t disentangle the water with your fluid.

‘There was nothing out there Y/N’, Ben tries to sooth, approaching you like a frightened animal. Eddie is less cautious, and stamps towards your with a frown on his face. He turns you on your side, his instruction not too brazen but still firm.

‘There was though guys. I swear on Eddie’s mom that something pulled her away.’

‘I saw it too,’ Eddie conforms, not looking away from your body, checking for any permanent damage.

‘Guys,’ Bev interject with a head shake. Her eyes gesture to you, shivering with wet clothes and crying hysterically. ‘Not now.’

‘Yeah. We’ll t-t-talk about it l-l-later.’

It’s Bev that gently ushers Eddie’s prodding hands away, as she opens her arms and awaits to see you reaction. You, once you pick up on what’s happening, accept gratefully, your tears subsiding only slightly once your wrapped up. The others join the cuddle pile soon enough, until there’s a shield of people protecting you and obstructing your view of the water.

‘Promise me we won’t ever go in there again. Not any of you. Please,’ you beg, afraid not solely for your life but for theirs as well.

‘Okay, okay Y/N. We promise.’

[donteattheappleshook]

She Came From the Water Chapter 6/?

Summary

Between his dissatisfying job, a constant battle to keep seeing his daughter, and a history of mistakes, losses, and broken dreams, Killian Jones has no place for magic in his life. But when he pulls in his fishing nets one evening only to find a woman caught in them, his life becomes infinitely more complicated. Is she a siren, a selkie, like his daughter believes, or just another lost soul like himself? Suddenly, his life is a thing of fairytales; beautiful women hidden away in cottages, selkie husbands coming back to claim them, and, just maybe, a chance at happily ever after.

A Captain Swan AU based on the film Ondine (2009) for the @captainswanmoviemarathon

Rated M for eventual smut.

I’m going to stop guessing at how long this fic is going to be.

Read it on Ao3  or Tumblr 1 2 3 4 5

Thank you so much @ultraluckycatnd​ for helping me through all my insecurities about this fic <3 you’re such a lovely beta and person <3

Big thank you as well to @elizabeethan​ @the-darkdragonfly​ and @xhookswenchx​ for letting me brainstorm out loud to you!

Finally thank you to @itsfabianadocarmo​ for this lovely aesthetic that made me start writing this fic again. 

****

Part 6

"Someone’s here." 

She looks outside again and Killian tenses. Nobody ever comes out here. Not unannounced. “Go into the bedroom," he tells her, absentmindedly stroking her arm. "I’ll see who it is.” 

He does his best to stay calm. Surely it’s David or Mary Margaret come to say hello. They just forgot to call. But he can’t shake the feeling that her past has finally shown up, that someone has come to break apart this little world they’ve created for themselves over the last three days and he grieves it already. 

Once she’s shut the door to the bedroom, Killian heads across the kitchen. He can hear it now, someone coming up the drive, steps light and quick like someone sneaking up, trying to avoid being seen. He opens the door, stepping outside in an attempt to keep whoever it is from coming in when suddenly the mystery visitor ducks out from the treeline. He lets out a sigh of relief. 

“Alice,” he calls and her head snaps up. “What are you doing here? You know you’re not allowed to come without your mum’s permission.” The words burn in his throat as they do every time he has to say them, every time Alice disregards the custody rules set in place. 

“Mum’s not home,” she shrugs. “Besides, I wanted to hear the rest of the story. Did she get her memories back?” Alice continues, ducking right under his arm and into the house behind him. He whirls around. His daughter might not be a threat or someone from Swan’s past coming to take her away, but she doesn’t want to be seen. 

“Alice, wait,” he starts but she’s already headed into the kitchen and dragged a chair to the counter so she can boost herself up and reach the cabinet. She beams when she finds the Poptarts. She’s climbing down and ripping into the bag before he’s even reached her so he can make sure she doesn’t break her neck on the way. “Careful,” he warns but is, of course, ignored. She’s utterly unphased as he scoops her up under her arms to set her safely on the ground. 

“So did she?” she asks again.

“Did she what? Who?” Killian’s head is spinning. 

“The girl in the net,” Alice clarifies, rolling her eyes in exasperation. “Really Dad, isn’t this supposed to be your story.”

“Sweetheart, now isn’t a good time.”

“Why not?” she asks and just then the kettle goes off. Alice looks at it and then at the two mugs next to the stove. Killian casts a slightly frantic glance at his bedroom door and her gaze follows him. “Do you have a friend over?” she cocks her head. “Is Ruby visiting? Why is she hiding? Are you doing grown up things again?” 

Killian is going to have a heart attack. “No,” he answers, hoping that Swan didn’t hear anything. “What are grown up things?” 

“I don’t know. You said you’d only tell me when I was older.” 

“Alice I-” The door creaks open and Swan pokes her head out. Killian whirls around, shocked, and wondering how much of the conversation she overheard. She smiles shyly and Killian looks between her and Alice, who beams. How is he going to explain-

“Hello,” his daughter says, setting down her snack and heading over to greet the woman now stepping out of his room. 

“Hello,” Swan answers. Killian stares at them both, unsure what to do or say, worried that this will make the woman staying with him feel betrayed, that it will traumatize his child in some way. But neither of them seem particularly angry or prone to holding this over his head in therapy, so he hesitates. 

“Um, Alice, this is Swan. She’s staying with me for a bit.”

“Oh, we’ve met,” Alice says. Killian’s eyes snap to Swan who nods, looking guilty. When had they met? Why had neither told him? Selkies. Suddenly it makes sense. “Oh, don’t be upset,” his daughter continues dismissively. “I asked her to keep it a secret.”

“Do you think you could keep me a secret?” Swan asks then, casting a glance at him, as though asking for permission. He nods. “I don’t want anyone to know I’m here.” 

“Why not?” Alice asks, frowning. And then her eyes widen in understanding. “Of course! Because of your seal coat!” Both the adults look at her in confusion. “You wouldn’t want anyone to know you’re here if you can’t remember where you left your seal coat. They could trap you.” 

She casts an uncertain glance at Killian. He doesn’t want to lie to Alice, but he also doesn’t believe that he’d be able to talk her out of her certainty about Swan being a selkie if he tried. He clears his throat, absentmindedly stroking the back of his daughter’s hair. “Right. So let’s not tell anyone just yet, okay, love?”

Alice nods. “I did some research you know,” she starts. “Selkies aren’t dangerous. They’re not like mermaids. They save sailors from drowning rather than pulling them under. Which is strange since in this case it’s you who was saved from drowning. Although, I don’t know if you can actually drown if you’re a seal-woman…” 

She continues on, rattling off facts and theories and rambling and Killian casts a hopeless, affectionate glance at Swan who is watching his daughter with patient interest. Alice has it backwards; he might have been the one who pulled her from the water, but it was he who’d been drowning. She’s reached through all the misery and the darkness he’d let himself surrender to and pulled him back to the surface, breathed air and life back into his lungs.

“And of course you can swim very fast and very long since you can breathe underwater,” Alice continues. “I wonder if you swim as fast as a seal? Although you were swimming without your seal coat. I don’t know what the rules are for a selkie in human form.” She frowns at Swan then. “Is it much much different? Swimming with human legs? It must be more difficult -”

“Do you swim, Alice?” she asks then and Alice shakes her head. 

“No. I’ve never had lessons. And Dad can’t teach me.” Killian glances awkwardly at his feet and shrugs when Swan looks at him in surprise. But she doesn’t pry. Instead, she turns back to his daughter. 

“Would you like to learn?” she asks. “... Unless you’re afraid of the water,” she suggests when Alice hesitates and there’s no challenge in her voice, no taunt, just understanding, like maybe she understands that fear. 

“I wouldn’t be afraid of the water if I had a sea creature with me,” the girl beams and Swan returns it. 

“I can teach you. If it’s okay with your dad.” 

Killian had been watching the interaction between the two in stunned disbelief. The way she’s watching Swan, with awe and admiration and enchantment, he’s never seen Alice so taken with anyone in his life. He wonders if everyone who meets her instantly falls in love with her or if it’s just Joneses. 

“Aye. It’s alright with me. But won’t you be cold?”

“It’s not that cold!” Alice insists and he can already see that there’s a tantrum brewing under the surface if he dares to deny her the chance to swim with a sea creature. 

He tries to hide his smirk. “Alright, but the second your lips turn blue we’re coming in.” 

He doesn’t think she’ll last very long. While the wind is mild today the water was still cold against his skin. No harm in a few minutes in the sea, he reasons, children here grow up with the cold in their blood and the water in their veins. He likes the idea of Alice learning to swim; he thinks he’ll sleep better knowing he doesn’t have to worry about her every time she wades out too far or is on the boat with him. 

Swan reaches out and Alice takes her hand and the two head off out the door towards the shore. They’re still on the steps when Swan turns back to him. “Aren’t you coming?” she asks, as though it should have been obvious that he was invited. He’d assumed this was girl-bonding. He smiles, happy to be included. 

It’s not until they reach the water and Alice kicks off her shoes and socks, dipping her toes in the chilly water that she turns to them both in panic. “I don’t have a swimsuit!” she realises. 

“That’s alright. Neither do I,” Swan consoles her. 

“What will we wear then?” 

Swan considers this for a moment and then shrugs. “Underwear,” she tells her and then pulls her dress off over her head. 

Killian’s mind suddenly goes blank, every thought and sound drowned out by the racing of his heart as his eyes cast over the long lines of her legs. His jaw drops, in shock, in awe, in disbelief. He watches the way her hair falls softly over the curve of her back, every smooth, pale inch of her on display and beautiful under his gaze, smile bright and shining as she laughs. She can’t be real. 

It’s only when she turns to look at him, and her smile falters a little with curiosity, lip catching between her teeth, that he realises he’s staring. He’s suddenly far too aware of his limbs, feeling awkward and clumsy and like he’s taking up far too much space. 

He darts his eyes away, staring fixedly out at the horizon as he tries to calm his racing heart. He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head as discreetly as he can to try to clear it. But he can’t get the image of her out of his mind. 

He tries to focus on Alice as the two of them wade out into the water, his daughter letting out a shrieking giggle when the cold reaches her knees, her fingers white knuckled against the woman’s. Killian’s certain that if he just stays right here and doesn’t move, doesn’t let his gaze stray from the spot right in front of his feet, that he can get through this without making a fool of himself. 

“Aren’t you coming in, Dad?” Alice calls and the blood drains from his face. 

“It wouldn’t hurt you to learn too!” He glances over at them and Swan throws a look at him, the challenge in it raised with her brow. 

He’d really, really rather not. He can barely handle the effect this woman has on him with all her clothes on. But he notices again the way Alice is clutching her hand, the slight nervousness to her posture despite her incessant bravery and he knows he has to. He kicks off his boots and his socks and leaves them on the shore before wading out after them. As soon as he reaches Alice, she clings tightly to his hand. 

“You swim with all your clothes on?” Swan teases and he smirks.

“I don’t swim.” She rolls her eyes, clearly not letting him off so easily. “Little girls and selkies might not get cold, but fishermen do.” She laughs and, as the water reaches his hips and shoots ice up his spine, he’s glad he’ll have at least one less thing to worry about. 

“Too bad.” She says it so softly he almost doesn’t hear it but his gaze snaps to hers, eyes wide. She’s focused on Alice now, asking if she’s feeling scared, and he wonders if he imagined it. 

“Okay, lie back,” she instructs and lets go of the little girl’s hand so that she can brace one arm under her shoulders and one under her legs, Alice squishing his fingers between both of her hands. “You’re doing great,” Swan encourages even as his daughter flounders a little nervously, letting herself be held up. After a long moment, she finally lets go of his hand and tentatively trails her arms through the water, toes kicking gently and untested. 

“I’m swimming!” she exclaims, nervous laughter bubbling out of her and Killian grins at her proudly. 

“You are!” Swan agrees proudly. “Look at you go, you’re a sea creature!” 

“You’re a natural, love,” he smiles at her. The two of them wade out a little further, Swan guiding the girl in circles, always holding her steady as she gets the hang of floating and he watches, amazed by how taken Alice is and how taken Swan seems to be as well. He’s never even dreamed of letting a woman into his life, not when that life includes Alice and he doesn’t even know if there’s room for someone else in his heart. But seeing them together, he can’t get over how perfectly she fits, or how much he likes it. 

Suddenly, Swan stops, gaze darting down to her foot beneath the waves and he worries she’s maybe cut herself on a rock. She continues to stare, brow furrowing further as she shifts her feet under her. He can see the anxiety building in her and he comes towards them, calling her name softly in question.

“Go to your dad for a second,” she says quickly and Alice must sense her change in mood because she practically leaps across the small space into his arms. He hoists her out of the water and onto his hip just as Swan takes a deep, gasping breath and dives down beneath it. She’s under for a long moment, just long enough that Killian fears he may have to go after her, but panics knowing he can’t do so with Alice out this deep. 

Finally, she breaks the surface, swallowing air in heavy swallows and the relief washes over him so forcefully that he’s made dizzy for a moment. She’s clutching something. It’s dark and leathery and covered in moss and seaweed. 

“What’s that?” Alice asks and Swan stares hard at it. 

“I don’t know. Just… something I found.”

Her eyes go wide suddenly. “Is it your seal-coat?” she asks excitedly.

“Maybe.” Her voice sounds far away.

“Are you going to bury it?”

Swan looks at them then for the first time since before she dove under the water, uncertain. But as her gaze turns to Alice, her expression softens, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Should I?”

“Yes. Then you could stay for seven years.” 

Her smile softens even more. “Would you like that?” Killian can’t help the way his breath catches when her eyes flit to his beneath her lashes. 

“Very much.” He hopes she knows, even if he can’t say it, how much he’d like it too. 

She clutches the leather and weeds to her chest. “Well then, I guess we better bury it.” 

Killian carries his daughter back to shore, Swan following closely behind them. Alice goes on at length without need for an audience about how and where they should hide the ‘seal coat’. Every time he glances back at the woman trailing in their wake, she’s fixated on the item in her hands, her expression unreadable. 

It can’t be her seal coat. That would be impossible, ludicrous, the stuff of fairytales. He appreciates that she’s doing this for Alice, letting her play make believe, indulging her games and fantasies. But the way she’s staring at the waterlogged bundle, like it’s something overwhelming and terrifying and familiar... it makes him doubt everything he believes. 

Maybe she is a selkie. Maybe she did swim here to escape a selkie husband and wind up in his net and in his life. All he knows is fairytale or not, figurative or not, her burying it means something. ‘Would you like that?’ she’d asked. She didn’t have to ask. If she wants to stay, seven years or a hundred, he won’t send her away. 

When they reach shore, Alice wiggles her way out of his arms and, after a small battle over the fact that she had to put her jeans and sweater back on (which she only agreed to when she saw that Swan was dressing as well), she begins leading them off back towards the house. 

“Where are we burying it?” Swan asks, still clutching it carefully. 

“I know the perfect place!” Alice insists.

Killian watches the woman carefully. Every now and then her eyes dart out around her, like she’s expecting someone or something, like she’s being watched. He tries to settle the chill in his bones, the worry that something is coming, that it’s on it’s way now to take her away and ruin this. He fears it; he can’t lose her, not yet. He hasn’t had enough time. He’ll never have enough time. 

Alice runs off ahead of them, disappearing around the back of the cottage. He doesn’t worry. She’s spent years getting lost and found on the grounds and the cliffs and the woods around his home. She knows every inch. When he looks to Swan again she’s frowning, gnawing at her lip as her fingers scratch at the moss and the mud that cover her package. 

He reaches out, fingers brushing gently along her spine, hesitant in his desire to comfort her. She glances up at him, snapped out of whatever train of thought she’d gotten lost in for a little while. He knows the feeling well. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, fingertips still barely touching the dampness of her dress, droplets falling from her hair and onto his knuckles. She watches him for a moment. They’ve stopped walking. He can’t make out her expression. She looks torn, pained and confused and so lost and he wants to help, but he doesn’t know how. 

Her eyes are uncertain as she looks down at the would-be seal coat and then back at him. “I -”

“Come on!” Alice shouts and her mouth snaps shut. Killian turns to wave at his daughter who rolls her eyes in exasperation, waiting with arms crossed. When he looks back at the woman beside him the helpless expression is gone, hidden behind some wall he doesn’t know if he can climb. 

“Swan?” 

She smiles, bright and shining and a lie. “I’m fine. Let’s go,” she insists, heading off after Alice and leaving him no choice but to follow. 

They find her in the greenhouse, an old, broken down thing that had been here when they bought the cottage and that his mother had always meant to turn into something beautiful. She’d run out of time though, and while Killian once swore to himself that he’d finish it for her, the decaying wood of the foundation speaks of his empty promises and forgotten good intentions. 

Swan looks around in wonder, eyes wide and mouth agape as she takes in the overgrown structure. Nature has overtaken it, moss and weeds and late season flowers climbing along the beams and covering the cracked stone floor. “It’s beautiful,” she breathes, gazing up at the canopy of leaves that wind around the remains of the ceiling, some trickling down so low that she reaches out to brush them with her fingertips. 

He’s taken in by the sight of her, by the way she finds beauty in the things he’s grown to loath and makes them magical. It’s as though the light she carries flows from her hands and into the room itself, turning the dark and shaded ruins into something wonderful. Strange and wonderful, like everything about her. He wonders if this is how Alice sees the world, remembers what it was like to see adventure and magic where others saw nothing. Perhaps he could see it this way again some day, or maybe it’s enough to surround himself with those who do. 

“Over here,” Alice calls and they both follow her to the far end of the structure. She’s trying to get a piece of cracked stone loose, the floor crumbling beneath them. 

“Here, let me,” he insists and kneels down to pry it free before she hurts herself. The rock lifts fairly easily, revealing soft, damp earth beneath it and Alice grins. 

“Right here,” she says, kneeling down beside him and beginning to dig. 

Swan finally sets down her burden and joins them on the ground, fingers sinking deep into the soil as she helps Alice dig. She looks at him, brow raised meaningfully and nodding at the ever growing hole. He shakes his head, laughing but complies, scooping mud and dirt and worms until it’s deep enough and she stands, picking up the bundle and setting it carefully inside. He’s never seen Alice so excited, and that’s saying something. 

“Will we remember where it is?” Swan asks as they pile dirt over it. “In seven years?”

“Should we mark it?” Killian asks, trying to remember if he grabbed his pocket knife or left it on the boat. “We could put something in the wood.”

“No, that’s too obvious,” Alice shakes her head. “Someone could find it!” 

Swan bites back a smile and turns to him. “Yeah, come on, Killian,” she sighs with a smirk. “Way too obvious.” He raises a brow at her, a disbelieving grin pulling at his lips. Is she teasing him? 

“I know,” his daughter says, standing. She walks out where the back door would have been, feet carefully placed one in front of the other until she reaches a giant oak tree that’s been on the grounds longer than Killian’s been alive. She turns to them. “Seventeen steps to the fairy tree.” 

“Brilliant,” he tells her and she looks very proud of herself. He doesn’t bother to question the fact that her feet will grow; he doubts she’ll remember this in seven years time. By then she’ll be too grown up, so for now he lets her believe in magic, hopes she continues to for as long as possible. 

“Thank you, Alice,” Swan says, taking her hand when the girl returns to them. 

“Now your selkie husband can’t make you go back!” 

“I have a husband?” she asks. 

“Of course. All selkies do. But now he can’t make you go back to the water for seven years. Not so long as your coat is hidden.” The excitement in his daughter’s eyes is unparalleled and he hates to break this up, but a glance at his watch tells him they need to get going. Alice needs to be home when her mother returns, and he still needs to go to the fishery. 

“Time to get you home, love.”

“Dad, no,” she starts to whine and while it tugs at his heart that she wants to stay, he knows she can’t. 

“Come on, your mum will start to worry.” She won’t. He knows that. She probably won’t even notice Alice is late or gone - who knows where Eloise is anyway - but if she finds out that Alice was here, she’ll make them both suffer for it and he won’t have her keeping his daughter from him any more than she already does. 

“Do I still get to come this weekend?” she asks, stepping back as though she’ll refuse to leave unless he promises. 

“Aye,” he smiles. “For the whole weekend.” Only then does she begrudgingly agree to come with him. The three of them head back out to the cottage, Swan sitting on the front steps and saying goodbye to Alice, saying she hopes she’ll see her soon. 

“Will you still be here Saturday?”

Swan looks at him quickly before answering. He only gives her a hopeful smile. “Yes,” she promises and he has to duck his head to hide his pleased grin. 

“Okay,” Alice agrees and then heads towards his extended hand. She’s only about halfway there when she stops. She turns suddenly, rushing towards Swan and wrapping her arms around her neck in a fierce hug. 

The woman looks stunned for a second, thrown back by the force of the small girl crashing into her, but then she smiles, eyes almost watery as she squeezes her back. Alice whispers something in her ear that he can’t hear and he won’t ask about. Let them have their secrets. One more kind woman in his daughter’s life is not a gift he takes lightly. 

Alice hangs on to his hand for longer than normal on their walk home, regaling him with tales of selkies and what exactly it means to bury her seal coat. He raises an eyebrow at some of the things she tells him she’s read in the books she found at the library, really hoping she doesn’t actually understand some of the stories about women and male selkie lovers. 

“Why seven years?” he asks and she rolls her eyes. 

“Because those are the rules. If she buries her seal coat she can stay for seven years. But burying it just means she has to stay. She can stay if she wants to. Unless her husband decides he wants to take her back. That’s why we had to make sure it was hidden. If he finds it, he’ll take her away.” There’s a hint of heartbreak in her eyes. 

“Then I guess it’s a good thing we hid it so well,” he says, squeezing her hand and her smile is back. 

“You know, Dad,” she says when they’ve been walking a little while. He looks down at her. “Sometimes selkies do stay on land forever. They say that selkies can often find happiness with a…” she frowns, certainly trying to remember whatever book she’s quoting. “A landsman! That’s it. Selkies can often find unexpected happiness with a landsman.”

“Is that so?” he asks, deliberately not acknowledging her meaningful look. 

“Do you think Swan will stay?” she presses.

“I don’t know, love. That’s her choice.” 

“I think she will. I think she likes it here. Maybe you can marry her and then she can stay forever.” 

Killian winces, not ready to get into why he can’t go marrying a woman with no memory who he’s only met three days ago. Especially when even now the thought makes him smile. “Alice…” he starts.

“Why not?” she asks, more to herself. “It makes sense. She’s already living with you, and she likes you.” 

“You think she likes me?” he asks before he can stop himself and regretting it the moment he says it. Alice gives him a sly grin. Killian clears his throat, making a point to sound less excited this time. “What makes you think she wants to stay?”

“She could have taken her seal coat and left.” 

He knows it’s not a seal coat. He knows she’s not obligated to stay for seven years because she hid it in his greenhouse. But he can’t help but hope when he thinks of the way she looked at him when she said they should bury it. It felt like a promise. Maybe not a promise, but the suggestion of one at least. 

“Besides,” Alice says, breaking him from his thoughts. “I’m not oblivious, you know. I’m seven. I know things.”

***

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[carpe-somnium]

The night Dazai left the Port Mafia

They entered the seemingly small chapel, after Chuuya had his fun with the guards outside. Pathetic, they could at least have made it a little harder for him. It was boringly easy for him to beat them up and stack them in a pile. Dazai sighed dramatically as he took the first step down the dark hardwood steps.

“Dammit. This is the worst day in years.”

He waved his hand to underline the statement. The Worst day in years, eh? Chuuya thought about this for a second. Usually, he doesn’t really keep track of his worst days; only if they were pure horror, so it was hard not to think about them. That unwillingly made him think about the worst day he had in the past couple of years.

“Yo Dazai, ever heard of Pétrus?”

He didn’t really know why he decided to bring up the topic. Maybe it was to rub it into Dazai’s face, how much he did not miss him at all.

“The flabbergastingly expensive wine.”

Dazai almost sounded bored as he answered Chuuya’s question. Probably because Chuuya always talks about wine, or at least thats what was Dazai’s impression of him. He didn’t really listen closely to the Chibi, anyway.

“The night you vanished from the organization, I opened an ’89 bottle in celebration.”

To keep up with Dazai’s pace, Chuuya jumped down a small set of stairs, and gracefully landed on one of the platforms, which was a turning point of the staircase, without making a sound.

“That’s how sick of you I was.”

Now he has said it. He didn’t ever bother telling anybody about this, since there was nobody who could have seen him that day, anyway. But for some reason, the urge to tell it directly to Dazai’s face the first time they were on a mission again, was just too big.

“I remember setting a bomb under your car that night.”

“That was your doing?!”

That actually explained a lot. Chuuya would never admit it, but this was the defining reason, why he didn’t go and look for Dazai that night, and instead drank the entire bottle of wine. He often had wondered if it was a coincidence, that his car had blown up, just as he pressed the remote button to unlock it. Dazai must have known, that he would always press it, when he was a few meters away from his car, out of an impatient habit. He didn’t even have a scratch in the end, despite his car blowing up into a million pieces.

All of that has happened on a breezy autumn day. Chuuya had woken up with a strange feeling in his guts that morning, but he didn’t give into it. He had a solo mission this day, a very welcome alteration to his usual partner-missions he had with Dazai. It would cost him fewer nerves if he was on his own. The mission was relatively simple, so it was clear from the start that there would be no scenario where he would have had to use corruption. This was reserved to difficult partner-missions with dimwit Dazai so there was at least a chance of survival for him.

When Chuuya returned from his mission however, the atmosphere in the Port Mafias headquarters had changed. Everybody seemed to be on edge, the air basically felt electric. It only fuelled his bad gut feeling, but still he didn’t give in. He probably had eaten something wrong that day.

Chuuya returned to Mori’s office to give him a first report of his successful mission and the files he had acquired. With a smug grin on his lips, he walked up to the Port Mafias leader and stretched out his hand with the files. He told the leader briefly how the mission went along and concluded it by saying: “It went even smoother than we thought. No problem at all.”

Mori took the files with a small smile and nodded. “Thank you Chuuya. You can rest now.” That was weird. Usually, he at least suggested writing down a report, just in case there would be issues concerning the mission in the future. He shrugged it off and thanked Mori as he went to the door. When Chuuya’s gloved hand touched the doorknob, he heard Mori clear his throat, so he turned around to face his boss, who was still sitting in his chair.

“Oh before I forget it... Unfortunately, Dazai left our organization today when you were away on that mission. For future missions, you will need a new partner.”

Chuuya froze in place, his hand clenching around the doorknob. His bad gut feeling instantly exploded into a rush of shock that washed over the redhead without warning. Dazai left our organization today. He repeated Mori’s words in his head a few times, until he realized that he was still standing in front of the door and had been staring at it, instead of opening it.

“Very well... Thank you for informing me. I’m glad that I don’t have to babysit this waste of bandages any more.”

Chuuya opened the door and walked out of Mori’s office, his body feeling weirdly numb all of a sudden. He didn’t understand why he was so shocked. Why wasn’t he running down the halls, cheering on top of his lungs because that bastard was gone? Instead, he had to force himself to walk down the hallway.

Dazai left our organization today.

Dazai left our organization today.

Dazai left our organization today.

Mori’s words repeated on the inside of his skull, over and over again. They seemed to burn themselves into his body, he just couldn’t stop thinking about this. He had to find Dazai. Convince him to come back. This was clearly a mistake. One of his sick jokes that he liked to pull. He can’t be gone. Not like this. Not without saying a damn word to his partner. But on the other hand... why would he have said anything? They hated each other, right?

Without thinking too much about his actions, Chuuya went to the parking spots on the back of the building. Down the stairs, not making eye contact with anybody on the way. They all better minded their own businesses. With an unnecessary amount of  force, Chuuya kicked the backdoor open - or more like kicked the door out of its angles. At this point, he saw red. If he found that damn boy, he would beat him up until he came to his senses. It just wasn’t fair to leave him - no, to leave the Port Mafia - like this!

Chuuya pressed the small emblem button on the keys of his BMW to unlock it, still walking forward in the direction his car was parked. Not even a second later, the world went silent. It forced Chuuya to stop dead in his tracks for the second time in the span of not even an hour. He watched in a strange state of awe and shock how his red BMW exploded in front of his eyes. Instinctively, he started manipulating his own gravity, so nothing would hit him, but that was almost unnecessary. Almost like the person who had placed the bomb knew he would stand far enough away to leave the scene without a scratch. Even though this really sounded like a Dazai kind of thing, he couldn’t quite believe it.

And that was the exact moment, when Chuuya gave in to all the feelings that had built up inside him that day. He dropped to his knees, his own gravity manipulated, so he was ten times heavier than usual, and started to scream on top of his lungs. It felt good to scream. It felt good to destroy. It felt good to have the rage pump through his veins like hot poison, fuelling his frustration even more.

He didn’t know how long he had sat there on his knees, screaming out the frustration and anger that had built up in his body all day, but eventually his throat became sore and not a single sound escaped through his lips any more. This idiot. This fucking idiot. He always knew how to tease Chuuya until he basically exploded with rage, just as his car did right in front of his eyes. Dazai was probably hiding somewhere around, right? Laughing about his success. Breaking the charade. Laughing at Chuuya because he actually believed that Dazai had left the Port Mafia. That Dazai had left him. But Chuuya didn’t hear laughter. He didn’t see a mop of brown hair or a lanky idiot wrapped in bandages. A burning car and a destroyed parking lot, that’s all there was.

Chuuya got up and wiped some dirt off his pants. He took a quick look around in the parking lot, hoping that nobody had seen his silly outburst. And then he started to laugh. Laughed about himself. About how stupid he was. He was finally free, wasn’t he? So why not enjoy the newfound peace? Without noticing it, he had started to cry. Hot drops of salty tears had started trailing down his cheeks. Probably due to the thick smoke that came off the car wreck. A little annoyed, he wiped the tears off his face and went back inside, silently still cursing Dazai as he went to his room.

When he entered the room, Chuuya slammed the door shut behind him with a loud bang. He stripped out of his coat and vest, which smelled like smoke, and carelessly threw both to the ground, shoes and hat following them only seconds later. Chuuya went to the small cabinet that had his most prized possessions in it - a lot of very old wine bottles. With a quick look around the cabinet, he found what he was looking for. The slightly dusty bottle of ‘89 Pétrus looked like just what he wanted to celebrate with. He grabbed the bottle and opened it by manipulating the cork’s gravity a bit. That was one of the most useful things, his ability allowed him to do.

He grabbed one of his lead crystal wine glasses and poured some wine into it, after he sat down in the leather chair next to the window, that was facing the port. The first sip of the expensive wine felt like the first breath after you had your head underwater for a while. It filled up Chuuya’s senses. The slightly sweet smell in his nose, accompanied by a sweet and sour taste in his mouth and the alcohol quickly spreading throughout his body, numbing some of the tension that had built up inside. He would never admit it, but Chuuya was actually a bit of a lightweight, so the effect of the alcohol kicked in pretty quickly. But it wasn’t enough to make him forget why he started celebrating.

Drinking actually had a reverse effect on him: He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Just why would he leave without a word? Chuuya just couldn’t understand it. He had to understand it. Even if they were bickering all the time, deep down he still cared about the suicidal maniac that was - no, used to be - his partner.

One glass of wine followed another, unitl the bottle was empty way too quickly for Chuuyas liking. He had drank it all on his own and ended up laying on the floor, staring holes in the ceiling. His thoughts eventually got slowed down by the alcohol that intoxicated his body. He cursed Dazai’s name so often in those lonely hours in his room, slightly hoping that would be enough to summon that damn demon. But Dazai didn’t come. So he fell asleep like this, cursing Dazais name, curled up into on the floor.

The demon whose name was cursed by a small redhead miles away meanwhile sat in his favourite bar. Alone and unbothered by anything. He had done what Odasaku had told him: Dazai had left the mafia. Why was he feeling so shitty then? It already felt like he was missing something, even though it hadn’t been more than a few hours since he had walked off the Port Mafias grounds. Before leaving, he had left a bomb in Chuuya’s car, just in case. He knew that his ex-partner was impulsive and would try to chase him down and therefore making himself a traitor, too. But he also knew how important the Port Mafia was to Chuuya, so he just took this as an extra measure to save Chuuya from himself. It was just fair. His goodbye present. Dazai raised his glass to an invisible audience and then drank to his newfound freedom.

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AN: I looked everywhere but couldn’t find any clue about what Chuuya’s car might have looked like. Since he’s probably an aggressive driver, I had to decide between Audi and BMW but went with a BMW (a bit biased on this one :D). His red bike set the colour choice. If you happen to know what his car really looked like, please let me know, and I will change it!

Ao3-Link:

[whumpingcrow]

"Lifeguard on Duty"

Another first person August drabble, focusing on parallels with Allen x August and Elias x August :)

CW: pool setting, drowning themes, injury descriptions (graphic), hypothermia mention, patronizing/degrading language, self destructive/masochistic whumpee, old injury being re-injured, stabbing mention, drug use/description (explicit), ptsd/flashback mention, weight mention, creepy/intimate/sadistic whumper, breaking bones, ableist themes, gun use (graphic), character death, blood (graphic), restrained whumpee (let me know if I missed anything!)

"Please," Allen whined for the umpteenth time, struggling helplessly against my tight grip. He'll bruise from it, I know, I've seen countless bruises blossom underneath my fingertips against his pale skin. He must be iron deficient, with how easily I can damage him. Unless I'm just much more rough with him than I realize. "Please, it's c...cold, I don't want to!"

I laugh at him. There's a sharp panicked edge to his begging, as if I'm not just tossing him in the damn pool, as if he's not a grown ass adult. I wonder if he knows how to swim. I don't ask him, deciding it would be more entertaining to find out this way. "I know it's cold, idiot, that's why it's fun."

Allen scrambled away from the edge of the pool that I'm dragging him towards, already shivering before he's even touched the water. He was only in a thin pair of boxers, and I bet anything the snow is making his bare feet burn. He gasps as I easily hoist him up, struggling, before I even knew him he was this small and pathetic thing, and sometimes I wonder if he sticks around me as a new form of self-destruction, if his bad habits before were getting old.

"P-please, I don't want to-"

I try to imagine what he feels when his body hits the water as I drop him carelessly in. His lungs probably constrict in shock alone, and judging from the way he doesn't move for a second or two, his muscles must be taught and paralyzed from the cold. When he does start moving, it looks like it might be taking great effort.

I watch in amusement as Allen thrashes about in the freezing water, gasping fearfully as he tries to keep his head above water. "You can't swim?" I tease him. Then, as if the idea of him keeping himself up by desperation alone isn't delighting me, I say: "If you told me that I wouldn't have thrown you in."

"N-no," Allen chokes out. "I-it's my leg-" his head slips back underwater, and he's only able to kick back up because of the panic that's overtaking him. I forgot about the old injury he told me about, one I've often thought about repeating, a pocket knife straight into his thigh, severing muscle and nerves. It must hurt to try and keep himself afloat in the bitter water with the not completely healed scar. And I nearly forgot that before we came outside, I had gotten him aggressively high, and he was complaining about his head spinning. I wonder how it feels now that he's nearly drowning. I can see his eyes search frantically for some sort of ladder or steps, but the pool is deep all the way around. It's surprisingly easy to remove ladders from a pool, if you've got the right tools. "P....please, August!" He begs again, reaching one trembling hand out desperately. He has no idea what it does to me when he cries my name that way.

"You're turning blue," I respond, kneeling down next to the edge. "It probably doesn't help that you're so thin, huh?"

Allen chokes on some water, pulled back under the waves once more. He stays under for a few seconds, allowing his legs to rest for as long as he can without letting the icey water or the lack of air take over. How much pain would it take for him to consider staying under, letting it overcome him? How long until he gives up, succumbs to the dark, choppy waves and sinks to the bottom, defeated?

Then he pushes himself back up above the water, his lips a slightly purple hue as he takes shivering, gasping breaths in through them. I want to kiss them until they're pink again.

"August," he wheezes weakly, the cold water is no doubt tiring out his muscles. "August, baby, I c...can't swim anymore....my leg...please..."

Again, my name coming out of his mouth in this way, soaked in desperation and agony and terror is too much, makes me melt on the inside. And then he's saying "August, baby," and it makes me think about how I'm going to have to warm him up somehow and I should probably get him inside and out of his wet boxers and start warming him up, that would be responsible of me. So I hold my hand out toward him. Allen takes it gratefully, eagerly, allowing me to yank him up and out of the water. He collapses onto his knees, wrapping his arms tight around himself.

He sighs in relief as I drape a towel over his shoulders, rubbing it against his arms to warm him up. "That wasn't f-funny," he huffs at me, almost scolding. "I was fucking sc-scared."

I stare at him in silence for a moment, then I stand straight again. Just as quickly as I started to adore him so much it hurt, I'm furious with him. He should be thanking me, thanking me for toying with him, for just dropping him in the water and not hurting him first, for taking him out so soon. I could have done so much worse, I still can do so much worse. He's ungrateful, he's an idiot, he's so fucking annoying. I don't say any of that though, I only take a step back before kicking him hard in the ribs, a sickening crack can be heard over Allen's animalistic cry. I watch him collapse, unable to breathe for a few seconds. Once he can, it comes in short, rasping gasps, and he grabs tightly at the towel wrapped around him. "Don't you ever speak to me that way, again." I growl at him, kneeling down and grabbing a fistful of his hair. "Understood?"

Allen doesn't speak, letting out a few weak, watery sobs. I see blood in his mouth, he can't breathe, his ribs are broken, I realize distantly, too distantly to care. He screams as I yank him up, holding him by the arm to dangle him carelessly over the pool.

"I said, understood?" I reiterate. Allen squeezes his eyes shut and his head drops back, like he's barely able to keep himself conscious under the haze of pain.

"Y...yes...." He manages to hiss out.

"Good. Now do a few laps." I drop him back into the water carelessly. As far as I can see, he doesn't even struggle this time, the pain probably too intense to allow much movement. He floats just under the water for a moment or two before he exhales, and he sinks to the bottom. I stare disdainfully at the water, waiting for Allen to struggle again. He doesn't though, and after a minute, I feel some of the severity of what I've caused.

I jump into the water after him, Allen was right, the water is viciously cold, biting and clawing at my skin. It takes all of my focus to push past it, not freeze up, and grab Allen to pull him to the surface. It's easy enough to fling him onto the snow covered concrete outside of the pool, then I climb out after him. Allen is still gasping in pain, holding his hand over an already bruising area of skin over his ribs.

"Sweetheart," I hear myself cooeing, my voice shaking from how badly I'm shivering. "Oh, I am so sorry, I didn't realize I hurt you so badly."

Allen flinches away from me, whimpering in pain. Once he's sure I won't hurt him again, he squints up at me, his whole body trembling. "I'm...I'm sorry...."

"Can you stand up? We gotta get you inside before you freeze to death."

Allen shakes his head weakly, sniffling a little as he does, tears springing to his eyes at how much even that hurts. I look over him, calculating. I have to figure out how to get him inside as quickly as possible, since I've obviously made painlessly not an option. "I think...I think I have to carry you."

"No," Allen pleads, voice soaked though with tears, "no, please, it...it hurts..."

"I know, and I'm sorry. But you'll get sick if you stay out here. How about I take you inside and get you a nice hot bath? Then I'll get you some blankets, we can watch a movie. How's that sound?"

Allen lets out a weak sob, closing his eyes tight as another bout of pain takes over. "Just g-go, hngh....go quick, please."

I nod, taking a deep breath to prepare myself. This specific brand of pain isn't as much fun for either of us, I've noticed that we both much rather prefer the purposeful, planned out torture rather than the agony that comes before relief. "I'll try to make this painless."

Allen's breathing catches suddenly at that, and he stares up at me in horror. I've said something upsetting, I realize, I can tell by the look on his face alone. This happens often, when I say something that sounds too close to things I've said before, when we first met. We were different then, I was hurting him for the money and he only knew me as the dumb ass rabbit mask I had to wear to not be recognized. I can tell he's spinning out into a flashback, the way the horror in his eyes is veiled over in a way that's not totally present, afraid of something he's been through before, frightened by the outcome he already knows is coming. He's suddenly overcome with adrenaline, and he scrambles way from me, slipping a little on the snow.

"G-get away!" He cries, holding up an arm in a pathetic attempt to defend himself. "Don't touch me again! Leave me alone!"

I frown at how quickly he's moving, how it must be wreaking havoc on his already shattered ribcage. I need to calm him down, he's hurting himself worse and it's going to be my responsibility to fix and I'm already annoyed enough with the damage I caused. "Allen...I'm not going to hurt you, swee-"

"Please, please, don't touch me! I'll do anything you a-ask, just don't t-touch me!" He's shaking still, but I guess at this point it's more out of fear than how cold he is.

"Ok," I speak softly, inching toward him. It's fucking freezing, I want him to stop freaking out so we can go inside and get warm. "I won't. Just please, calm down." I hold my hands up to try and make him understand that I mean no harm, that I'm just trying to help. Allen takes a few shaking, shallow breaths, looking at me with wary eyes. He slowly lowers his own hands. "That's it, good boy."

Recognition falls over his face, and just like that he's back with me. He's no longer apart of a ransom, I'm no longer a villainous rabbit, and he let's out a relieved whine. Before all of his adrenaline completely fades and his body remembers that it's supposed to be in pain, I pick him up and take him inside.

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

I left for ten god damn minutes. When I ducked out of the room to do some lines in the bathroom, I was slightly entertained by the idea of Elias, adorably stupid Elias, rolling on molly and tweaking helplessly in front of all of my patronizing friends. I had noticed how he was completely oblivious that they were teasing him, high as he was, thinking all of their mimicking and joking was all in good fun, and I wondered what it would take to make him realize that it wasn't.

And now, in the ten minutes that I've been gone, one of them had a gun. The first gunshot stuns me for a moment, freezing at the sink where I'm washing my face off, listening closely because who the fuck is shooting a gun? And then the second one rings out, and the third immediately after, and then I'm flying down the hallway and into the now empty kitchen. I see them crowded in front of the pool outside through the window, and my heart sinks when I don't see Elias.

When I'm outside, I can sense their panic before I'm even close to them, they're all cussing and shouting at each other, "oh shit dude why did you fucking do that you weren't supposed to really hit him what the fuck is wrong with you?!"

I shove my way through them, coming to a full stop in front of the pool. The water is stained red around Elias's thrashing silhouette under the waves. I turn to look at them to find the stupid motherfucker that did this.

Sawyer, the stupid motherfucker himself, gives himself away immediately, one of my friends from before I met Allen. He's holding the gun up in admission, horrified look on his face as he rushes "I'm so fucking sorry, man, it was an accident, I swear!"

I snap the gun out of his hand, enjoying the wet crack that comes when I pistol whip him right in the cheekbone. It's satisfying, but it isn't justice, not yet. Elias is bleeding in the pool, and Sawyer is just a pathetic bitch crying on the ground. I shoot him in the leg. There's the justice. Blood is already puddling underneath him, and everyone else is shuffling away in fear, worried they might be next for being bystanders.

I walk a few feet to the left, where Elias is growing still under the water, his fight weakening, presumably from blood loss. I'm able to get a grip on his arm, and I pull him up and drop him on the sidewalk. And then I see his arms are tangled up -tied up, actually- in his own shirt. Suddenly the single wound on Sawyer's leg isn't enough, suddenly I'm blinded by an overwhelming urge to watch him die. Suddenly justice just...doesn't cut it.

I untie Elias and pull him up to his feet, hugging him close to my chest to try and ease his panic. He gets my clothes wet and blood stained, his shoulder is where they got him, and it's now soaking the entire left side of his body in blood.

When I force the gun into his hand and tell him what he has to do, he freaks out. He begs me not to, he says he doesn't want to that. I don't care what he wants, he doesn't understand that this is well deserved, that Sawyer has to take responsibility some way.

Sawyer begs too, as much as he can through his fear. I'm bothered at how he thinks that asking for mercy is going to save him when he's done something so awful to Elias.

I tell Elias to stop moving, I tighten my grip on his trembling hand, I make Elias pull the trigger. He flinches and then turns to stone against me, it feels like his body stops completely, down to the beating of his heart, down to the blood in his veins. I feel better instantly, satisfied. I take Elias inside to clean him off.

[writefinch]

Dear Dairy, Pt.1 (cn: noncon, Mm, kidnap, emphasis on *forced* feminization, induced lactation, milking, bondage, drugging, induction of gender dysphoria in a cis guy, things of that nature)

7th July 2018

Cold day today. I dusted off my scarves for the first time this year. Not literally, they'd been vacuum sealed and packed away when the weather turned in October. I threw out the red and yellow knit scarf, something I should have done last year, as it's far too Harry Potter. I was going to pick out the UMIST scarf but that felt a touch dull for the first scarf of the year. In the end I picked out the green silk paisley, which I felt provided a contrast with the pink shirt. I wore them with the second-hand grey Armani that I've yet to have tailored; I haven't yet decided if it's worth the trouble. I'm leaning towards yes, as I received two compliments today, one from Jason's database administrator, a charming and flirtatious--to say nothing of attractive--lady from Perth. We've talked about the possibility of meeting up for drinks at some point, and I'm increasingly inclined to take her up on the offer.

Experiment C2 is adjusting to his newfound freedom since his release last week. It was sad to see him go, and I'll cherish the time we spent together, our first night especially when he violently objected to the idea of servicing me. Oh, how he kicked and fought, clawing at his neck chain, scratching me, biting, swinging wildly. He bloodied my nose rather viciously and left me in no mood for sex that night, to the extent that I almost let him go entirely.

Of course, his demeanor changed altogether after I bagged him. A clear plastic bag over his head, taped around his neck, watching him gasp and writhe for air that isn't there, screaming his silly little head off until he's sure that he's taken his final breath, then tearing a tiny hole over his nostrils. I let him suck in four generous lungfuls of air before I bagged him the second time, and I went through seven bags before allowing him a rest. After that he became such an agreeable and solicitous cocksleeve you'd have thought he was raised in a merchant marine!

Still, he was unsuitable both physiologically and psychologically for the experimental interventions, and I only have so much space in the cellar, so I had to let him go. Some of my social acquaintances are keeping a close eye on him. He's been told that running his mouth will lead to nothing but the cold grave, and I believe he's a bright enough lad to take that to heart.

I'm beginning the search for his replacement tomorrow.

20th July 2018

I've found him! I've found him I've found him, he is everything I've been looking for, he is perfect, it is as if God placed that boy on earth for no other purpose than my need for him. I can barely contain my excitement.

He is an itinerant surf bum, twenty years of age, single, underemployed, estranged from his family. He has flowing blond hair, a few wisps under his chin that can barely be called a beard, deep brown eyes, and a lithe, rangy figure that seems to be slowly growing into the top-heavy carrot-shaped build of a classic surfer. He's been living in town since May, surfing most days, doing temp jobs, lodging in the spare bedroom of a friend of mine.

What a perfect physique! His body is accustomed to being dashed over rocks and whipped by surf, what fun I will have finding and surpassing his tolerances for pain! Oh, to restrict and ration out air to a boy who has trained himself to hold his breath underwater since he was a young teenager, to see those taut muscles stretched over a rack, I cannot wait, I can't wait.

I won't speak or write his name. I now take every action with the foregone conclusion that he is mine, and that he is already Experiment C3. In my mind, he is already in my cellar.

My friend has kindly allowed him to get behind on his rent, and C3 apparently plans to move to Sydney in ten day's time, driving out across the country in his decade-old Ford Ka, surfboard strapped to the roof. When he disappears a few days before that, people will assume he left to avoid paying his rent.

They won't be wrong, in a sense. C3 won't be worrying about rent for a long, long time...

26th July, 2018

It hasn't been an easy choice, and it is in fact a decision I've been struggling with for some time now, but I've decided to let my hair go grey. I'm almost forty for heaven's sake, and I noticed my first grey a year before the financial crisis. Ever since then I've been religious in my application of dye and toner, carefully concealing each and every one of the pale little buggers that pops up, but it's gone from something I'd do after a haircut to something I'm doing twice a week. I won't rush it, I'm going to ease off the dye over the course of the next year or so, but by next July I'll be au naturelle salt and pepper.

Work remains dull but tolerable. I know I'm blessed to be able to do most of my duties from home given my hobbies, but there's a certain sense of removal from everything, as if it's not really a job at all and I'm back at university doing a coursework-intensive compulsory module. On the other hand, I do enjoy going to the office in a way that I did not when I was going there five days a week!

Experiment C3 is screaming his head off again, I think. It's very faint, and I've turned off the air conditioning in the sitting room so I can hear it coming up from below. I suppose I can't blame the boy, given the circumstances. He hasn't seen me since the drugs wore off, and he's in the same configuration I first kept C2 in: his feet are in snowboard boots and locked into clips in the floor, his neck is in a steel collar connected to an eyebolt on the floor by a one-metre chain, his wrists are cuffed and pulled up towards the ceiling by another chain, he has noise-cancelling headphones strapped over his ears blaring white noise, and he's wearing a blindfold snug enough to prevent him from even blinking underneath it.

He's been there for seven hours now, since three in the morning. He can neither stand nor sit nor lie down, he cannot turn around, he cannot see--though it is pitch black in the cellar even if he wasn't blindfolded--he cannot hear his own voice, and I very much doubt he has any idea how he got there.

As I said, I haven't been down to see him properly yet, so I'm monitoring him at a distance via CCTV and also his pulse and blood oxygen readings. I'm keeping him watered through an IV drip and I'm not at all worried about feeding him just yet, though I'm sure he'll be getting hungry given that I emptied out the contents of his guts with an enema while he was still unconscious. I want him properly good and woozy from sleep deprivation before I introduce myself, either forty-eight hours or until his vitals get a tad skiffy, whichever is shorter. By my word, I am not an impatient man!

Of course, given the close monitoring required, I'll only be getting a few more hours sleep than he will. I suspect I'm getting the better half of the deal. Ah, the poor thing just wet himself. He needn't worry, it's all going into the bucket between his feet, and it'll go to good use later.

I've calmed myself down since his capture, for practical reasons as much as anything else, but I am still abuzz with energy. I am already looking forward to writing my next entry!

28th July 2018

I introduced myself to C3 today.

He spent an impressively long time in the stress position before he was unable to push his legs and instead dangled from his wrists, almost twelve hours, at which point I let the wrist rope go slack and allowed him to collapse. To prevent him from sleeping I intermittently blasted him with high pressure cold water whenever his pulse dropped below 100, for about a further four hours until I decided he'd had enough rest and strung his wrists back up.

He lasted five hours that time, so I let his wrists down again and stood sentry with a paintball gun, giving him a good and proper three-round burst whenever he stopped whimpering. Up again, barely an hour, down again, where I pinned him to the floor with wiring from an electric fence, set to deliver low-intensity zaps across his arms and chest whenever it seemed as if sleep was a possibility. He only got a few shocks, I think the first few put him in such a state of alarm that he didn't dare relax enough to be given another.

I strung him up a few more times, sometimes combining the motivators--his quivering thighs made a delightful target for paintballs as he tried to hold them in a crouching squat--until we reached the forty-ninth hour. I then played my recorded introduction tape through his headphones. It was identical to the one I'd played for C1 and C2, which was itself similar to the one recorded for B4 through B9.

Of course, as the deaf and blindfolded boy was crouch-squatting in place hearing my voice tell him that his old life was forfeit, that he was livestock now, that he would be used as a sex slave, that disobedience would only lead to misery, and the details of the hormone treatments he would be on, I was standing in front of him, masturbating.

My timing was impeccable. Just as the last lines of the recording said "if you're wondering when you'll meet me, I'm right in front of you," I came all over his whorish face. I'm afraid I'm no Peter North, I've no more than four spurts and the first one is always rather watery, but I nailed him right between the lips with one burst and smeared the rest over his face with the tip of my cock. He froze up rather delightfully during the whole ordeal, barely flinching as I cleaned off the tip in his hair.

I took the microphone and spoke directly into his headphones. I told him he'd been in his predicament for two days so far, that he was to obey my simple instructions, and that if he did he would be allowed food and allowed to rest. I told him that I would not require him to speak at any point during these instructions, and that if he so much as whispered I'd keep him strung up without food for another two days. He nodded in agreement, which earned him a hard slap, as I'd not asked him to nod or shake his head. I told him then to nod if he understood, which he did.

I freed one of his arms at a time, telling them to keep them in place and move them only as and when I told him to move them. He obeyed--a far quicker learner than C1--and I put him into the straitjacket. I unlatched his boots one at a time, putting him in ankle cuffs with a short length of heavy chain between them. I injected him in the buttocks with his first dose of anti-androgens, a painkiller, and his hormonal cocktail, and I removed the IV from his arm.

At that point I led him to his cage, a 2x3 metre cell, 1.5 metres high. I removed his blindfold, though it did him little good as it was pitch black in the entire room--I'd switched off the lights and was working via a set of light amplification goggles--and pushed him onto the wipe-clean bedroll.

"Lie still like a good little boy until the lights turn on, and then you can help yourself to some food," I said to him. He made a sound as if to respond, then silenced himself, lying still in his bonds.

The lights were on a timer, and they came on harsh and bright when I was upstairs, watching him through the CCTV on my desktop with a fresh pot of coffee. Three of the walls of his cage were walled off with a tarp, allowing him to see about a fifth of the basement through the remaining wall. Inside his cage was his bedroll, a doggie bowl full of oatmeal and bananas, a small plastic trough filled with fresh water, and a litter tray.

I considered staying up and watching him, seeing the fear grow in his eyes, his first attempt at eating cold food without the use of his hands, the humiliation of pissing in a litter tray, but I was exhausted. As soon as I've finished writing this entry, I'm going to take a well-deserved nap.

4th October 2018

The truffle salt from Coles is a waste of time. Don't misunderstand me, it's useable, it's palatable, and it has the necessary truffle aroma. "Has" is the key word there, it's got the half-life of Fermium and after a week in the cupboard it's now just table salt with black specks in it. I think I'm going to invest in some decent truffle oil at Christmas.

C3 is coming along marvelously. The combination of injections and a high-fat, high-calorie, vitamin-rich diet have had a visible impact on his physique. His skin has softened even further from a clear and healthy surfer's complexion to almost peachlike smoothness and he now has visible jiggle on his thighs, stomach and buttocks. Most importantly, he's now the not-at-all-proud owner of a set of A-cup breasts, complete with sensitive, pebble-sized nipples.

His breasts are extremely sensitive. He's told me as much directly, but I've confirmed it through experimental means. A few light stripes under the nipples with the cane used to bring a wince to his face when he first came under my care, now it brings him to his knees, and the mere sight of the thing leads him to cry and whine rather prettily.

He did have some issues with portion control, in that he wasn’t eating the full servings of food I had prepared for him. This was unreasonable and short-sighted on his part: while plain, I have not asked him to eat anything that I wouldn't willingly eat myself, and while I am not a professional cook I am certainly a talented amateur.

The solution was a simple one: if even a smear of food remains in his dish, I do not feed him for the next two to four days. I only had to enforce this rule twice, and he's finished every meal I've put in front of him for the past two months.

He's gone without sleeping for the last forty-eight hours, he's gone without speaking for the last three weeks, and I've added a low dose of LSD to his drinking water. Tonight he should be somewhat tractable for the induction of a hypnotic state. I am not trying to control his behaviour--there's nothing I want him to do that I couldn't compel him to do through more reliable means--but for an in-depth interview. In concert with a lie detector and a regulated dose of barbiturates, I am going to make him bare his soul to me.

There are a few specifics I'm interested in, such as confirming my assessment of his sexuality and gender identity, and it never hurts to shore up my security by inquiring of any planned means of escape or rescue, but in great part I am doing this for morale effect: I want him to have no respite from me, even inside his own mind. He will learn that he has no more control of his thinking than he does of his eating, sleeping or exercising.

Speaking of which, I had to leave him in an armbinder for a few nights when he insisted on doing press-ups in his cell. The additional restraints distressed him greatly, and he's seemed afraid to even move lest I restrain him further. That was back in August, and I have since acquired an elliptical trainer which I allow him to use daily, good behaviour permitting.

I will write again tomorrow with details of tonight's interview, and I only hope it's more productive than C2's interview was.

5th October 2018

Well, that was elucidating.

I left C3 unrestrained for the interview. It was his first time free of shackles and cuffs outside of his cage since he'd arrived, as I wanted him to be relatively comfortable and I was confident that his drug cocktail would prevent any serious escape attempts.

He is not a natural hypnotic subject and I was only successful in inducing a semi-trance state. I don't think he achieved a trance, but I think he believed he was in a trance, and for my purposes that was more than sufficient. He talked for hours and provided an unabridged history of his life so far. His parents, his brothers, his schooling, his love of surfing and camping, his romantic attachments and rejections, his childhood friends and bullies, his fear of dogs, his earliest memories, his deepest shames, enough to fill a short memoir.

The interview lasted for ten hours, with breaks every two hours to allow him to pee (as I'd also allowed him to drink lime cordial from a cup while he spoke) and to adjust his dose of drugs and deepen his trance state. He cried frequently and easily. He bears a great amount of shame and guilt for someone so young and so relatively innocent--raised by Catholics, naturally--and spent half of the fifth hour in uncontrollable hysterics. I let him rest his head in my lap and stroked his hair as he cried, and he clung on to me like a man drowning. Once he ran out of tears he had a bout of cathartic laughter, and after that a calm passed over him, and he remained in a state of detached, cooperative calm until I ended the interview.

Of course, most of this was filler and background information for the parts that truly interested me: his sexuality and gender identity. Both were perfect. His sexuality is less important but still delightful. He is entirely heterosexual and repulsed by men. He still has nightmares about the one time I have molested him so far, when I coated his face with cum shortly after his chapter. You wouldn't believe how hard I got as he told me that!

He sometimes masturbates in his cage, which he tells me is mostly from boredom than any sexual desire, and he fantasizes about sex with women. He has little interest in sadomasochism, no interest whatsoever about taking a submissive role, and aside from a weak interest in pegging he is plain vanilla. He has fantasies about sex in public, fucking multiple women, being woken up by receiving oral sex, and seducing older women.

His gender identity is much the same: male, through and through. He has insecurities about being slight and physically unimposing--related to bullying in school--and about being insufficiently masculine. He takes pride in the callouses in his hands and the scars on his body from surfing, and wishes that the thin, pale stubble on his face was thicker.

It's of little surprise then that he finds the changes from the hormones to be a cruel and unwanted imposition. His breast growth makes him feel powerless and disgusted with himself, he can feel his muscles weakening, the tenderness in his breasts is terrifying and degrading, and even the topic of penile and testicular shrinkage made him choke up and sob. He says that even when I allow him to sleep, his mind feels clouded and he finds it increasingly difficult to identify the particulars of his emotional state, which swings and changes in ways he is not used to.

Again, I must reiterate how promising this is. My experiments concern the induction of sexual neuroses and physical development on non-consenting subjects. C1 was unsuitable because he--well, she, more likely--was a little too keen to embrace the role I had planned for her.

C3 is sleeping now. I haven't actually left our impromptu "therapy room" and he's drifted off with his head in my lap. He needs the rest. I have big plans for him, after all.

24th October, 2018

I took a trip to the cinema today. Specifically the single-screen cinema in the back of the adult bookshop. C2 is turning tricks for the manager. I don't think it's his first career choice but for some reason he's been unable to get a job anywhere else in town. He tried being an independent streetwalker for a while, which didn't work out well for him as he was quickly picked up by the local police and treated rather roughly. Almost as if they were keeping an eye on him!

The manager of the adult bookshop got in touch with him, I believe he was waiting for him outside the local lockup in fact, and informed him of a safe, reliable means of plying his trade. Now he sucks cock in the back room cinema along with a handful of other whores in exchange for a roof over his head and ten percent of the ticket sales.

He was apparently given a second tour of the police cells for not handing his tips over to the manager in a timely and honest manner, so his left eye was still swollen shut when I saw him today. His garb was delightful: pastel pink yoga leggings with the Adidas stripes down the sides, and a duck egg blue midriff-cut t-shirt with "BOY" on the chest, with a female gender symbol in place of the O.

I sat down next to him in the otherwise empty cinema and flashed him my ticket, which had set me back $84--worth every penny--and he flashed me a charming smile. There was no glimmer of recognition in his eyes, like all of my experiments and side projects he'd never seen me without a mask. He put his hand on my thigh and told me his name, which I've already forgotten. The feature began, a rather energetic video from the noughties with Kelly Wells, Hillary Scott and Layla Riviera, prompting C2 to get on his knees in front of me. He gagged a little when he unzipped my jeans, not because I was unwashed but because I'd applied a generous quantity of deodorant and aftershave so that he would not recognise me via scent.

I enjoyed a slow, leisurely blowjob for the next hour, where he displayed all the basic techniques I'd so painstakingly taught him as well as a few new ones he'd picked up more recently. There's something to be said about consuming porn this way, not just the oral service but also watching the film from the beginning, without skipping forward to my favorite parts or switching between videos, letting myself slowly build towards my climax at the same pace as the on-screen action. I came just before the money shot, pulling out to cum all over C2's face as Kelly Wells guzzled piss on the big screen, and let C2 lick and suck my balls until the credits rolled.

Before he or I got up, I took out $20, waved it in front of his eyes, and then used the notes to wipe cum up from his face. He flinched at the roughness, scowled, told me to cut it out, and put his hand on my leg as if to push away from me. I said three words.

"Punishment position three."

It was as if I'd reached inside him and squeezed. He let out a pitiful squeak, straightened up on his knees, pushed out his chest, put his hands behind his back, closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and let his tongue hang out. I stuffed the cum-soaked banknotes between his mouth.

"Be good, C2," I told him as I stood up. He didn't move a muscle as I walked out of the cinema, and as the door closed behind me, I heard a single muffled sob. It was an enjoyable experience and I certainly needed it after the last few days because C3 has really been a handful.

It began on the weekend when the first signs of lactation appeared. C3 has been getting increasingly upset with the changes to his body, his widening hips, his weight gain, his shrinking musculature, his shrinking genitalia, and his C-cup breasts. The breasts are especially upsetting, he complains that they ache constantly and are tender to the slightest touch. In any case, when the first droplets of milk dribbled out of his nipples something snapped.

Through tears, he told me that he refuses to eat, that he cannot live with the things I am doing to him, and that I should either let him go or kill him. Obviously this is unacceptable. I told him I was not treating his request with any seriousness, and that if he did not eat his meal, he would go without for the next several days. He nodded forlornly, but still refused the food.

I strapped his hands into leather mitts to prevent him from improvising methods of self-harm, and continued as normal. For the next three days, he refused to respond to commands or obey orders, remaining silent and going limp. He wailed in pain when I caned his soles and slapped his tits, but he continued to wallow in self-pity.

He was ravenously hungry by Wednesday, but when I gave him the opportunity to eat, he would not. I left the bowl of food in his cage overnight, and in the morning it remained untouched. He had not thrown it out or despoiled it, he had simply ignored it in an admirable, if misplaced, display of willpower. I gave him one final warning that there would be serious consequences if he did not eat now. He refused, so I applied the consequences.

I fitted him into a padded restraining board, on his back, his arms, legs, chest, stomach, forehead, chin, wrists and ankles held in place by canvas straps. He could not move an inch, not that he was trying particularly hard. A hollow dildo gag with a breathing hole went into his mouth, principally to prevent him from trying to bite off his own tongue. I catheterized him and inserted a hollow plug into his backside, not overly gently in either case, much to his consternation.

Then, intubation. I fed a heavily-lubricated silicone hose into his left nostril. He thrashed and twitched, as is expected when such a procedure is performed without the aid of benzodiazepines. Undeterred, I asked him to start swallowing, lest the tube end up in his lungs. He did as much gagging as swallowing, but after a few eventful minutes I felt the tell-tale glide of it being pulled down his esophagus and into his stomach.

Once the tube was taped in place under his nose, I attached the free end to a pump until it drew fluid out from within him. A few drops of this fluid onto pH paper revealed it to be stomach acid, which hopefully meant that the hose was not in his lungs. I then attached the hose to the feeding machine, and explained to C3 exactly how it would work.

He would have his meals and water combined into a slurry, kept at a cool four degrees celsius, and injected into his feeding tube. The pressure inside the hose would make breathing difficult or impossible while the food was being pumped, and the volume of his meals--around a litre and a half of slurry--meant that each feeding would be spread out in thirty second bursts, delivered semi-randomly over the course of an hour.

As I told him this, I undid my belt and began to masturbate. Despite the obvious temptations, I had not molested C3 in an overtly sexual manner since that first facial at the beginning of his captivity. By combining molestation with removal of autonomy, I wished to impress upon him the importance of obeying me with whatever autonomy I allow him to have.

I pressed the button on the feeding machine as I approached my climax. C3 squealed and gurgled like a drowning cat from the sensation of ice-cold sludge pumping through a tube in his sinuses and down into his throat, choking as the diameter of the tube expanded enough to cut off his breathing. He thrashed in his restraints with such force that he almost moved the gurney beneath him!

Seeing tears stream from his eyes was too much, and his eyes were precisely where I aimed. I landed a good few ropes on each eye, which he scrunched shut in disgust. When the tube stopped pumping I pried open his eyelids with my fingers and made sure a good quantity of my burning, stinging cum got in each eye, then smeared the rest across his face. He tried to blink it out, with little success, and before he could do much else I applied the padded blindfold. He hates and fears the eye-shutting pressure from the neoprene padding at the best of times, and wasn't overjoyed to wear it with his eyes gunked up with sperm.

He's been like that for the last three days, unable to move, speak or see, fed three meals a day through his nose. The only interaction he's had is when I've unrestrained his individual limbs and allowed them some movement, one at a time, to prevent bedsores and deep vein thrombosis, and when I come down to grope his sensitive tits. He is only able to relieve himself through the catheter and through enemas.

After a few days of stick, he's almost ready for the carrot. Tonight I am making pork carnitas with soft tacos, which he has told me is his favourite meal. I have also purchased one of the Harry Dresden books, which he told me he is an avid reader of. When dinner is ready, I will make him an offer: he will ask me for normal food and apologize for forcing me to use the feeding tube. In return he will be allowed out of his restraints and returned to his comfortable cage, along with his favourite meal and a good book, which he will be allowed to read during his spare time as long as he behaves himself.

I hope he accepts, for his sake and mine.

16 November 2018

C3 had his first true milking today! I've been teasing dribbles of milk from his nipples with my fingers for weeks, but today the volume was so high that I had to deploy a handheld breast pump. He whimpered for the duration but was obviously relieved by the reduction in pressure. It was as if he found the whole ordeal rather humiliating.

The milk is rich, a touch gamey, and less sweet than expected. I don't think the taste will be anything to write home about while his stress levels are so high, and I think that will be the case for some time. I've taken half for myself, and I'm mixing the other half into his food.

He's been docile since the force feeding. The intensity and inevitability of the punishment is part of it, but the rewards are equally important. My deal is that he can ask for anything once. Obviously I laugh at certain requests--he's not getting a phone or a two-way radio--and some things require compromise, but otherwise I have been accommodating. His cell now contains a lamp he can turn on or off, two dozen books and graphic novels, an old mp3 player, and a box of wet wipes. His relief from the constant boredom of being confined in a cage for twenty hours a day is palpable, and he has chosen the comfort that obedience brings over the misery that stems from disobedience.

He has asked if he'll ever be free from this basement and I truthfully said yes. One day he'll be walking around outside free of physical restraints and he will sleep at night in a bed he can truly call his own, though I'm unsure if he'll ever truly be free of me. He takes comfort in the fact that he has not yet seen my face or anything that might identify me, as he reasons that I am therefore not incentivized to bury him in a shallow grave to protect myself. His conclusion is correct but his premise is wrong; he'll know who I am eventually and I still won't fear him.

I'm currently milking him once per day regardless of his feelings on the matter, and I think this has hidden from him the fact that he now needs to be milked. Without his daily milkings the pain in his breasts would become unbearable, and soon he will develop mastitis if he's not milked. This will form another important part of his development: begging for things that are distasteful but necessary. With the exception of the wet wipes, there is nothing inherently humiliating in the things he's asking for. I believe he'll find begging to be milked intensely humiliating, and more humiliating still because of the tolls I'll extract from him when he goes down that road.

A brief note on his physical changes: his breasts are bigger but they remain C-cups for the time being. There are now a striking set of stretch marks on the sides and undersides of his breasts, along with some smaller, subtler ones on his thighs and buttocks which have also thickened up nicely. At some point I'm going to give him a regular schedule of retention enemas until he gets stretch marks on his belly befitting a pregnant little broodslut. His skin is delightfully soft and I'm shaving his face daily until the home electrolysis kit arrives. The combination of hormones, daily exercise bike sessions, and a lack of any upper body resistance training has changed his physique from a surfer's build to a more bottom heavy one.

As soon as I have finished writing this entry I am going to give him two gifts. The first gift is an ear piercing. It will be home to a yellow plastic tag, a miniature version of a cattle tag. The second gift is his name. He's not C3 anymore, and he's certainly not whatever stupid name he called himself before I acquired him. He has lovely tits and he's a milk cow, so his name will be Cowtits.

Cowtits. I think it suits him.