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soulmate-game · 4 years

Text

Maribat March 2021 @maribatmarch-2k21

Day 1: Found Family

“Ah! Bonjour!” A cheery voice called, as a short Eurasian girl bound over to the unfairly intimidating mob of tall people with sharp eyes. Chloe had called in a favor. “My name is Marinette Dupain-Cheng. Chloe told me that your tour guide cancelled at the last minute, so she blackmail—sorry, begged me to fill in for them. You are the Wayne’s, non?”

The one at the front of the group, clearly Bruce Wayne since Marinette didn’t live under a rock and had seen the man on several American news broadcasts before, nodded and cleared his throat. Man, was he intimidating. Even when he shot her a dazzling smile that was sure to blind Paparazzi with fake cheer. It was a nice smile, Marinette wasn’t about to deny. But it was empty. Distant. And Marinette wasn’t going to buy it for a second.

“Yes, that’s us. Mademoiselle Bourgeois mentioned she had asked a close friend of hers to take care of our tour.”

Marinette nodded again, clasping her hands behind her back. “I guarantee, you won’t miss anything the tour guide would have shown you. In fact, Chloe mentioned that you all were very curious about the now retired Parisian heroes, right? My former best friend ran the Ladyblog back when they were active. I am more than confident that I can answer any questions you have while we go through the city.”

A boy with a white streak in his hair rose his hand, as if he was in a class and needed to wait to be called on. Which, considering the sheer size of their family, Marinette was actually grateful for. But damn, this was another imposing figure. Slightly taller than even the six-foot-three-inches that Bruce Wayne owned, he was solidly built and rocked a brown leather jacket and ripped black jeans. Marinette smiled and nodded for him to speak.

“How old are you? Because I don’t know if twelve year olds are allowed to do guided tours,” there was an obvious tease in his voice, but there was also legitimate concern in his blue-green eyes. Marinette almost missed that concern amid her quickly building annoyance. She even felt her eyes twitch.

“I’m turning eighteen in a few months if you need to know, Monsieur,” she evened out the bite in her voice with an overly sweet smile. “And if you want to get lost and possibly pickpocketed in the busy streets of Paris, then please continue to make comments on my height. If not, we can begin our tour and you might even enjoy it.”

Several Wayne’s snickered at her comeback, one man in particular elbowing the white haired gentleman with a little too much glee. Even the stoic Bruce laughed softly, and a boy with enough bags under his eyes to make the airport jealous nearly fell over himself with his suppressed laughter.

The man himself just snorted, sending her a lopsided smirk that oddly radiated approval. It was almost as if she had passed some sort of test.

“My name’s Jason, Pixie. You already know B. The guy trying to break my ribs,” he pointedly shoved off the one who had elbowed him, “is Dick. He’s Bruce’s first adoptive casualty. The one that looks like a zombie is Tim, we might need to take a break to get him more coffee before he passes out halfway through. The one who hasn’t stopped glaring at you is Damian, the badass redhead is Barbara but we all call her Babs. The annoying blonde is Stephany, the other cool badass over there is Cass. She doesn’t talk much. And the one trying to pretend he doesn’t know us is Duke.”

Each member he introduced gave her a little wave or nod. Even Damian managed a short nod of acknowledgement before resuming his glare. He looked to be a couple years younger than her, so she just brushed it off as teenage drama.

“Alright then! It is very nice to meet you all. Now, Chloe did inform me that you guys are very multilingual, which is another reason she asked me instead of one of our other friends. If you ever need it, I obviously am fluent in both French and English. But added to that, I am fluent in Cantonese, Mandarin, Italian, and I know basic survival Japanese. I also know French Sign Language, though I’m not sure if that’s very useful for you unfortunately. If you ever need to communicate non-verbally, I will do my best to accommodate that. Now, I believe you guys were scheduled to start the tour with a visit to the Louvre, non? Right this way.”

As Marinette led the large group out of the Grand Paris, they didn’t bother taking time to admire the sights before asking questions.

“Have you ever met one of the heroes?” Dick, who might have been shorter than Jason and Bruce but was muscular enough to still inspire caution (and admiration), asked. His blue eyes seemingly stared right through Marinette as he continued; “If you’re almost eighteen, then they must have been active through a lot of your school career.”

Marinette smiled. “They did only retire last year,” she agreed with a nod. “Yes, I have met all of the Parisian heroes at least once,” she snorted at a stray thought. “In fact, I met Chat Noir quite a lot. You see, my old College was basically ground zero for a lot of akuma attacks. And by a lot, I mean a majority of them,” she shook her head before pausing to get everyone to cross a street. “After a while, Chat Noir started calling me ‘princess’ to make fun of how often he had to save me. He’s an annoying ass.”

Despite her words, everyone behind her could easily hear the fondness there. They all traded glances. What if this was a Lois and SuperMan situation? Regardless, they all had a suspicion that Marinette knew more about the heroes than she let on. Or, at least more about Chat Noir.

“When you say that your school was a hotspot for Akuma attacks,” Bruce spoke up cautiously, his Dad Senses going haywire. He didn’t like how nonchalantly she had said it— she was far too casual. Sure enough, he watched as the muscles between her shoulders stiffened slightly at the conversation change. “What do you mean? Surely it couldn’t have been that bad if the school is still around.”

Marinette sucked her teeth, grimacing. “The school is still there, yeah, but only because of Ladybug’s ability. You’ve heard about the Cure, right?” It was Tim who answered her;

“Yeah. It fixed the damage done during a fight, right?” He asked, tilting his head a little. Marinette ignored her brief thought that the gesture made him look like a curious puppy. She sighed.

“Yeah. But when they say damage, they mean everything. Injuries, collateral. Death,” she said the last example darkly, far too much weight behind the word for it to be meaningless. She heard Jason hiss in sympathy. “But there are good things. The Cure also erased anyone’s memories of dying besides the vague knowledge that it did happen, so there isn’t much trauma there to unpack. Not as much as there could have been anyway,” she assured them. “And I’m one of the lucky ones. I never died, and I was never Akumatized.”

“Hmph,” Damian’s voice cut through the brief silence that followed her admission. She looked back at him to see his sharp green eyes staring right into her. “You don’t honestly believe that’s lucky.” It wasn’t a question. Marinette clenched her jaw, turning around and ignoring him.

Because, no. It wasn’t luck. It wasn’t lucky that she was the only one that remembered everything— all of the deaths, all of the Akumatizations, everything that others mercifully forgot. Since she lived through all of it, she remembered all of it. And survivor’s guilt is nothing to scoff at.

But she wasn’t about to reveal her trauma, or at the very least the full scope of it, to people she had just met and was leading on a tour.

“If you look to the left, you’ll see a statue that was made depicting Ladybug and Chat Noir back during the first years of their activity,” she suddenly told them, gesturing to the still-standing statue. Nobody missed the obvious topic change, but nobody commented on it either. Turns out the statue was something they had been looking forward to seeing in person, Tim even went up to take a few photos with his camera. Barbara took a few circles around the statue, easily pivoting her wheelchair around it as if she was trying to see every angle and imperfection possible. Marinette couldn’t help but chuckle fondly at the sight.

“Your family are pretty big fans, huh?” She asked Cass and Duke, the only ones that had stayed back with her. Duke snorted, and Cass gave her a small grin.

“They like to keep up to date with all the heroes,” Duke answered with a shrug. “Since we’re so high profile, it isn’t weird for us to be saved by one here or there even when we’re away from Gotham.”

Marinette just gave him an odd look, furrowing her brows. “But the Miraculous team has been disbanded since HawkMoth was defeated,” she reminded them. “There’s no need for them to save anybody anymore.”

“Old habits,” Cass spoke up softly, her voice barely a whisper. Her eyes locked with Marinette’s. “Not easy to break.”

The smaller woman had a feeling that Cass wasn’t talking about her family’s habit of keeping up to date on heroes.

“Alright! We need to head to the next stop or we might not have time to see everything!”

The tour went pretty similarly. The walks between stops were pleasant, and filled with questions about the period of time where HawkMoth was active. Marinette wasn’t even the least bit surprised nor put off; everyone was curious about those years now that the tourism restriction was lifted and people could ask freely about it. Besides the many questions about the Heroes, Marinette found the group to be very pleasant company. They were polite, but also rowdy in a very endearing way. She caught a lot of inside jokes they had with each other, and a lot of good natured teasing and fighting. They even managed to rope her into it somehow, and she found herself snidely teasing Damian or casually threatening Tim with not allowing them a coffee break. She even got to ride on Jason’s shoulders for a bit after he made another comment on her height that she Did Not Appreciate. But the ride she got made it worth it.

But soon the sun was high in the sky, and it was about time for them to take a lunch break. They had all been walking for hours with only a few chances to rest, and honestly Marinette was impressed that none of them seemed too tired out by it.

“Alright,” she put her hands on her hips proudly. “Since some of you won’t stop whining about needing coffee or being hungry— Dick, don’t you dare buy anything from that vendor! I’m gonna lead you all to my parent’s bakery so we can have lunch and caffeinate all of you. And conveniently enough,” she smiled widely. “The bakery is right across the street from my old College! So you’ll be able to get a look at where the majority of Akuma attacks happened, and maybe I can tell you a few specific stories if you want,” she offered. There were a couple cheers (Tim and Dick) from the crowd and everyone seemed pretty pleased with the next step in their tour. Smiling, Marinette turned and began to lead them in the direction of her home.

Sirens blared, a fire truck zooming down the street next to them.

Headed in the same direction.

Marinette frowned, watching it go. “That’s weird. I hope everyone’s okay, whatever happened,” she mused idly. But as they kept going forward, the sirens didn’t get any softer. If anything, they started getting louder again after a while. Marinette was visibly concerned by then, her pace picking up. “This is my neighborhood,” she told the solemn group behind her. “I know everyone on this street—“ they rounded the corner, and Marinette stopped in her tracks. Her world ground to a halt.

There was the fire truck, stopped right in front of her bakery.

Which was completely ablaze.

A string of curses flew out of her mouth, the little Eurasian wasting no more time before sprinting towards the building. She could hear people yelling at her to wait, slow down, stop! But she ignored them. The only thing on her mind was that her home was on fire.

“Marinette! Wait!” Dick reached out to grab her arm, but like a snake Marinette easily slipped out of his grip and continued forward. Steph was next, deciding to just tackle Marinette— to no avail. The Parisian just shouldered the bigger woman off of her with pure adrenaline fueling her muscles, and everyone else knew by then that they could not stop her. The Wayne’s decided all they could do was jog behind Marinette, keeping her in sight as they tried to gauge the damage.

“The top floors don’t look like they have even been touched by the fire yet,” Tim whispered, though his eyes flew between the building and their tour guide. Marinette was speaking rapidly with a firefighter that wasn’t immediately busy, trying to get information. But before anyone could decipher what was said, Marinette tore a large strip off the bottom of her shirt and tied it in a hasty mask around her mouth.

“Wait!” Bruce was the first to realize what was happening, with his years of experience with self sacrificing children and their stupid stunts. But Marinette managed to kick him away before he could grab her, dashing into the inferno without paying any heed to the many protests that followed her.

The group of Gothamites could do nothing but watch the flaming building, then. If they went inside, it would only overcrowd a hazardous area. Minutes passed, and there was movement in the fire. Out of the doorway came Marinette and a firefighter, both having to work together to carry the body of a large man outside. The sight of the man made the Gotham family blink— he was as big as Bane! And that was nothing to scoff at. But despite his unusual size and muscle mass, the man had all the signs of being a normal civilian.

Marinette didn’t stop there. She ran back in. Coming out a lot more quickly this time with a barely conscious Asian woman— everyone saw the resemblance between her and this new woman immediately.

It had to be her mother.

“Shit,” Duke hissed. Nobody else could say a word. It wasn’t looking good, and this wasn’t a situation where random vigilantes showing up out of nowhere could actually help. Not this late into the fire. Bruce’s hands curled into fists.

The woman that everyone guessed was Marinette’s mother was suddenly struck by lucidity; she gasped and grabbed at Marinette’s hand without seeming to see who she was even talking to. A single word that none of the Waynes could hear left her throat, and judging by Marinette’s returning panic it hadn’t been good.

She rushed right back into the building, and came back out with the last firefighter who had been searching inside.

Marinette carried a child. She screamed out in panicked French;

“She’s not breathing! I need first aid now!”

That was their cue. The firefighters started their hoses, focusing on getting rid of the flames now that nobody was left inside the building. Bruce and Damian got to Marinette first, and this time she listened as they instructed her to set the child down. Damian, being smaller and having more hands-on medical knowledge, took charge of the resuscitation. Marinette sat there silently, eyes riveted to the small child— a girl.

But Marinette wasn’t reacting like a normal civilian to tragedy. She was eerily calm, eyes focused and barely concealing a terrible rage. She took over chest compressions when Damian started to lose momentum, not giving up.

But then the EMTs arrived, and it was only five minutes with the child hooked onto oxygen that the news arrived—

Marinette heard the monitors on the ambulance flatline before she even registered what people were trying to tell her. Manon. Manon was—

Marinette didn’t register Nadya Chammack at first. She was just another body in the quickly growing sea of them. That is, until she heard Nadya’s pained shriek. A mother who had just lost her baby girl.

“Perhaps we should head back,” Bruce offered softly, giving Marinette space but keeping a keen eye on her. He saw her begin to tremble, then shake. He was pretty sure he could hear the grinding of her teeth for a second before she went still. Just… all movement stopped, the tears that had been building just falling silently for a second before they ended.

And he recognized that carefully practiced emptiness in her bluebell eyes. The same emptiness he had seen in Damian’s eyes when he had first arrived at the Manor. The same emptiness he saw in Dick’s eyes in the days following his parent’s deaths.

The same emptiness he saw in the mirror, every time he had another nightmare about the day Jason had been taken from him, years ago.

Suddenly he could imagine all too well exactly what kind of strength she had to have, to avoid her negative emotions ever being used against her during Hawkmoth’s reign. Especially if she had constantly been dealing with her friends and family being Akumatized and/or dying on multiple occasions.

She didn’t even seem to have heard him. Bruce sighed.

“I called Chloe,” Barbara informed everyone solemnly, holding up her phone for emphasis. “She’ll be here in five.”

—*—*—*—*—*

Chloe hadn’t come alone. With her had been Adrien Agreste, former model when his father hadn’t been… well, in prison. Nowadays he was just a normal student who occasionally gave lectures on neglect and child abuse, and how to help children in those situations.

And, apparently, he was also Marinette’s closest friend. Even more so than Chloe. As soon as they arrived back at the Grand Paris, Chloe herded everyone up into her suite and she and Adrien surrounded Marinette with pillows and blankets. Adrien curled around Marinette like an affectionate cat, and Damien even swore he heard the guy purr at some point

“We should probably leave,” Bruce whispered to their hostess, who looked inbetween him and her friends for a moment before jerking her head towards the door.

“I wanna talk to you first,” Chloe whispered back. Once they all filed out into the hallway and the door was safely closed, Chloe took a breath. “First, I want to tell you that I got a call from the hospital. Marinette’s father is stable, but in a coma right now.”

“Is that the man who looked like he could bench press a car for fun?” Dick asked, earning a weak grin from the Bourgeois heiress.

“Yeah, that’s him. But…” Chloe’s face fell, and she looked around as if to double check nobody was eavesdropping. She still lowered her voice anyway. “Her mother, Sabine. She…” Chloe swallowed a lump in her throat, images of the extremely kind Chinese woman flashing through her mind without permission. “She didn’t make it.”

Several people took a sharp breath, acknowledging everything that had gone so wrong for Marinette on a day that had started so perfectly.

“The smoke?” Cass asked gently, but Chloe winced and shifted on her feet.

“No. They… there were rope marks on Sabine’s neck,” Chloe clenched her eyes shut at the admission. “Marinette’s dad might be big, but he’s not a fighter. Sabine, though… Sabine was. She was raised in a martial arts family back in China. I’ve seen Sabine take down five men at once, all twice her size,” Chloe kicked her lips, shaking her head in disbelief. “Somebody knew… somebody knew that the little Chinese woman was a threat but the big baker with tons of muscle was harmless.”

Nobody took that well. Not only had Marinette just lost her home and half of her family, but her father was in a coma and it had all been foul play.

“Okay,” Bruce nodded once the news had time to sink in. They could help with this; this was their specialty. They might have only known Marinette for six hours, but she had made a big impression. It wasn’t just anybody that could mesh with his family so seamlessly in that short span of time. “Is there anything else?”

“I want you to get temporary custody of her,” Chloe said it the way only Chloe Bourgeois could. With her back straight, chin high, and the tone of a woman who expected to be listened to or else she’d make life Hell for the person that didn’t take her seriously. Bruce could only blink.

“Can I ask for your reasoning?”

“Marinette has been closing herself off more and more over the years,” Chloe admitted. “Hawkmoth’s reign was hard on her. Only Adrien really knows everything she went through during those years. But even after the disbanding of the team, she hasn’t… she hasn’t allowed herself to get close to anybody new. That’s why I tricked her into doing your tour. She needed to socialize with new people, and if she wouldn’t do it herself then I had to pull some strings.”

A few eyebrows raised at the admission that Chloe had fully planned for Marinette to be their tour guide the whole time. It honestly seemed like the kind of well meaning manipulation that one of them would try to pull off.

“She likes you,” Chloe’s voice went soft again, showing how uncharacteristically serious she was about that fact. “She was comfortable enough to let you guys carry her back here. To let you try to help Manon. That might not seem like a big deal to you, but it says a lot to me and Adrien. And… getting her away from Paris for a while is probably a good idea. She was planning to go to Gotham for university anyway.”

The Waynes traded glances before Bruce crosses his arms and asked some more questions first. Doesn’t Marinette have other family? Answer; only her grandmother, who travels all the time and nobody ever knows where she is until she shows up. Bruce agreed that Gina Dupain didn’t exactly seem like a good candidate for Marinette’s new guardian with that description. But finally, to none of his children's surprise, he did end up agreeing.

“But,” he held up a single finger. “We’ll Wait here in Paris for a week, so that she can try to salvage everything she can from her house and so we can get an idea on how her father is doing. There’s still a chance he’ll come out of his coma fairly quickly. And of course, we will only go through with this if Marinette agrees when we ask her tomorrow.”

Chloe agreed to those terms, looking like a weight had been lifted off of her.

Chloe never cut corners when taking care of her hive. And if that meant making sure that her brave soldier bee could move on to start a new hive, one that was better equipped to take care of her, then Chloe would do everything she could to help that move. And really; Chloe was far more resourceful and observant than people gave her credit for. The butts definitely matched, and Bruce Wayne was her last hope to get Marinette the support she needed. Outside of Adrien, anyway.

Chloe took a breath, watching the Waynes trickle off into their own rooms. Marinette was like the little sister she never wanted, but grew to love more than anything. Though, Chloe knew she really chose Marinette as her sister the same way they both chose Adrien as their brother. She just didn’t want to admit she was sentimental like that. But Chloe knew that someone like Marinette needed a bigger family. More support.

She could only hope that Marinette and the Waynes grew to become family for her like she and Adrien had. Kwami knew that Marinette needed all the help she could get for the foreseeable future.

“You did good, my Queen.”

“I know, Pollen. Now we just have to find out who dared hurt my hive.”

—*—*—*—*—*

Dude this took so long to write, but I’m actually really proud of it. Probably gonna take this Maribat March a little differently than last year, and make a few longer stories by connecting some of the prompts together. Maybe each week will be a full story? Idk I’ll figure it out. I know I’m behind but I’m working on it.

I tried to keep the angst out, but it found it’s way in here anyway. Oh well!

#mlb x dc #ml x dc #maribat #maribat march 2021 #Maribat March 2k21 #platonic brucinette #found family #day 1 #Maribat March #day 1 found family #I was a little late but oh well

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cherryyharryy · 3 years

Note

angst to fluff where y/n finds out she was originally just supposed to be a rebound type thing after he broke up with someone like idk something like he broke up with someone on the european leg of tour and she was supposed just be with him until he went on another leg but then he started to love her and brings her on the rest of tour with him and she finds out abt the rebound thing after the last show of tour where everyones drunk and celebrating and one person lets it slip

I tweaked it just a bit...hope that's ok:)

WC: 3.5K

****

“You look beautiful.”

I skim my nose across Harry’s cheek, his chin resting on my shoulder, and hum against stubble that wasn’t there this morning. “You’ve said that five times tonight.”

“And?” He slips around to face me.

His suit is a deep maroon, probably black if you’re far away, probably purple if you’ve had too much champagne. His chest expands when I slide my hand down.

“Love this dress.” He takes my hand off and pulls me closer, pressing a kiss to my head.

“You two forget where you’re at?” Another foreign voice surrounds us, well, foreign to me.

“Fucker,” Harry says to the man. They pat each other’s backs as the guy walks away. “Tyler Johnson.”

“Oh.”

“He worked with me on the last album.”

“Okay.”

It’s like the fifteenth person that I’ve been introduced to tonight, all of whom pass by with quick hellos, inside jokes with Harry, and little interest in me. The fast paced world of the rich and famous doesn’t slow down, even for charity.

“Harry, so glad you could make it.” Another voice, another man. This one lingers, long enough to receive my name, and offer a cliche compliment about my patience to put up with this beautiful bastard on my arm.

I thank him with the smile I’ve learned to speak through. These celebrities never stop smiling. Never stop posing. Never stop.

Then he’s gone too, and Harry’s whispering yet another name in my ear, of which I’ll forget seconds later because these people ultimately mean nothing to me. They all seem to pass through each other’s lives whenever convenience allows, playing house and acting like grown ups who get the privilege of not truly growing up.

I feel like the Gucci dress Harry had tailored to my body doesn’t fit. My posture sucks. I’m too scared to eat any of the finger foods being carried on silver platters through the hall. I haven’t learned how to smile through food I don’t like or not make a mess or take small enough bites. I swear, not one glass of champagne has any lipstick on it. They’re like magic.

I look at Harry. He’s stepped away to converse with a face that I do know. He and Jeff speak animatedly, Harry’s arms gesturing to whatever story he’s telling. I step over to one of the dressed tables and place what little weight I can onto the chair, needing to cling to something. When I look back up I smile, the two of them now laughing, and probably a little too loud for this charity auction.

“Y/n...right?”

I whip around, a man I’ve seen in pictures on Harry’s phone holds out his hand.

I straighten my back and accept his greeting. “Yes.”

“Finally we meet!” He catches my confusion and chuckles. “I produced Harry’s last album.”

Something clicks in my head, and he’s suddenly more familiar. “Oh! I knew that.”

Tom Hull...Kid Harpoon I process just as he introduces his name.

“I—”

An arm slipping around my waist stunts my question, Harry tipping back a red drink with his free hand while the other squeezes my hip. “Just tell this one to leave you alone,” he jabs.

Tom rolls his eyes, patting the breast of his green suit to look for something, only to show off his middle finger.

“Can’t believe the two of you haven’t met,” Harry says.

“I know, I guess we just missed each other.” Tom nods to me. “Heard you went to quite a few shows.”

“As many as I could.”

An uneasy sting travels down my spine. I did go to many shows, practically following Harry around his entire tour...all on his dime. Lord knows the man can afford it, but I still felt weird about him dishing out thousands of dollars to add me to each plane ride.

“Well I’m happy to see you two kids together,” Tom jokes, patting Harry on his back. “I’ve told him he needs to date women who will fuck him up. That’s where the songs are.”

He saunters off like he did not just say that. No. Absolutely not.

My face burns and it hurts to turn my head, but I still manage to narrow my eyes at Harry.

“Do you want another drink?”

I wait. I give him more than enough seconds to explain what the hell that was. But he’s clueless—ignorant.

“No. I do not.”

***

I do not bother taking my heels off in the car. My plan is to storm into our hotel room the second we park. Possibly locking Harry out...haven’t decided on that part yet.

The vague chit chat he makes with the driver stirs my nerves. It shouldn’t make me angry, and it’s not so much the act as it is his demeanor. He’s too cheery right now and it’s pissing me off.

“Okay,” he grabs my attention from Los Angeles flying past my window, the partition rolling up to leave us completely alone in the back seat. “What’s wrong?”

I bite my tongue, literally. “Nothing.”

“You seemed...irritated.”

“Did I?”

“Y/n.”

I turn to face him, inhaling sharply to calm my coming words. “Why are you with me?”

His face pales, and not a muscle moves. He just stares at me until he finally blinks and starts jerking his jaw around. “What are you talkin’ about?”

I roll my eyes. “The fact that you don’t know, bothers me even more.” I sigh, fighting back tears because I am determined not to cry in front of him. “Tom said that you should date people that fuck you up.”

“O—oh. That’s all?”

I squint, curling my lip. “What do you mean, that’s all? Is that not enough for you? Because that was a lot for me to hear tonight.”

“Baby, he was just messing around.”

I don’t budge.

“Really, it’s nothin’ to think about.” He tucks my hair behind my ear, trailing his hand down to cup my jaw. “Promise. It’s just like when people told you that you could do better than me, or insult me to compliment you.” He shrugs. “It’s just party talk.”

I process his words, supposing he’s not wrong. He did receive quite a few insults in lieu of my praise tonight. Maybe I was just on edge because of the setting; being surrounded by the rich and famous while I struggle to pay my rent each month isn’t exactly grounds for positive thinking.

“Okay, I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for.” He leans over to kiss me, stroking my face as his lips skim over mine. “Did I tell you how stunning you look tonight?”

***

It’s funny how your brain works. How emotions swoop in and corral your thoughts, like a salesman who pretends to care about you so they can get what they want. My mind was desperate for relief, from hearing Tom’s nervy comment, and I naively allowed Harry to take what he needed in that moment.

Something’s not quite right. I don’t know what it is, but I can feel it.

I’ve been mulling over Harry’s words in my head all weekend, playing them on repeat, hoping they’ll start to make sense, but if anything their value keeps dropping. What worries me the most, is that I don’t know whether he’s trying to protect me or himself. I don’t know if one is any better than the other.

It’s golden hour when we pull up to the beach. I can hear the music before I even open the car door; a volleyball shoots up over the rows of bushes hiding the party, disappearing and popping back up a moment later.

I don’t really want to be here, but I also don’t want to be the girlfriend who won’t support their boyfriend.

“Ready?” Harry asks, and I nod.

The closer we walk, the clearer the music becomes. Harry’s voice takes over the private beach, and I wonder if they’re playing his entire album or just Golden on repeat.

A good bit of the people drinking and chatting I recognize form the event the other night, but there are still plenty of new faces. I take some fruity drink that was offered to me and down half of it before my feet hit sand.

And so the routine continues. I’m introduced to someone, they compliment me, laugh with Harry, congratulate him on pretty much everything he’s ever done, and then repeat with a new face. I do manage to find Sarah at one point after I’ve detached myself from Harry, and the two of us head for the water.

“Are you feeling okay?” Sarah asks once our toes are wet.

I hold my breath and count to five, finishing whatever the hell I’m drinking before I can answer her. “I’m great.”

“Harry said you weren’t doing too well after the auction?”

“Yes, Harry does a lot of talking with people when I’m not around.”

“Alright, spill it,” Sarah says.

I trace the rim of my glass, flicking my eyes over my shoulder to make sure we’re far away from the party. “It’s stupid, really, I’m just a little...I don’t know...Tom said something the other night that rubbed me the wrong way. And Harry doesn’t seem to care.”

“What did he say?”

“Just something about how Harry needs to have relationships with people who will fuck him up.”

“Ooh,” she nods, seemingly well versed in the statement. “Yeah that’s an Iggy Pop quote. Tom mentioned it in Rolling Stone when he was interviewed.” She sips her drink, eyes growing small over the rim. “It was just a cheap line of advice he gave Harry after he was torn up after his last breakup.”

“Wait, so he actually did say that before? Like before the other night?”

Sarah drifts her eyes up in thought, nodding. “Um hm. After him and Camille broke things off.” She shrugs, and gestures to the party exploding on the beach behind us. “Fine Line.”

I have no idea what I’m feeling. No clue what is coursing through my veins, but it’s not blood anymore. The corners of my jaw tingle until my face starts going numb, my breathing shallow and chest tight.

“You okay?”

“I uh, I gotta go.”

Sarah calls after me but I let my name die in the breeze as I march back to the crowd. It’s nearly dark now, and finding Harry among all his people will take forever. I try to look for him, but I’m so distraught I can’t concentrate long enough to make out faces. I give up and head back to his car, only to find it’s locked. The asphalt is warm on my legs as I lower down to the ground, careless to the dirt I’m getting on my clothes and the scratches on my skin.

I’m not in this position for long. Not long enough, at least. Harry rounds the corner of the bushes, speeding up when he sees me.

“Baby, what’s wrong?”

He moves to sit down beside me, but I jump up before he can.

“You’re a fucking liar.”

“Whoa! What!? What’s gotten into you lately?”

“I told you! What Tom said the other night!” I’m yelling, too loud for public, I know. But a small part of me wants someone to hear. I want to disrupt the bubble Harry lives in.

“And I told you that it was just nonsense.”

“And that’s why you’re a liar! Sarah just told me, that he said that to you after you and Camille broke up.”

“Okay...and?”

I inhale as deep as I can. It makes me dizzy, adds to my headache. “And, what the fuck am I supposed to do with that? With the knowledge that the only reason you’re even with me, is because I’m gonna fuck you up so bad you’ll get songs out of it?

“Y/n,” he pinches the bridge of his nose, “you’re taking this waaay too literally. Trust me.”

“You’re not in a position right now where I even want to trust you.”

“This has gotten completely out of control. I cannot believe you’re this upset over something so stupid.”

“Right there, Harry!” I point at him. “You keep dismissing how I feel! You don’t even care that this upsets me! That I feel like I need to reevaluate our entire relationship!”

“What is there to evaluate!? I haven’t even done anything! You’re blowing up about something that someone else said!”

“But you listened to him!”

“What,” he shrugs, “what do you want?”

“I don’t know what I want, Harry. I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Do what?” He pauses, swallowing. “Us?”

I roll my eyes. “Yes, us. I can’t be with you if—if you’re just waiting around for me to ruin you emotionally.”

“You’re seriously gonna let someone else’s words do this to us? You’d break up with me because of something another person said?”

“Harry, if I break up with you it’s gonna be because of what you’ve done. I don’t care that he said it, I care that you agree to it. And quite frankly, it’s pretty insulting to Camille. You spent a part of your life with that girl, and you just capitalize off of it. I’m not gonna let you do that to me.”

“I’m not capitalizing off of anyone! What the hell am I supposed to write my songs about? I’m just supposed to not date then?”

“It’s the fact that you sought out a relationship in order to fuel your writing.”

“No, y/n, that’s not what I did.” He narrows his eyes at me, and even in the dark I can see his anger. “I sought you out because I was devastated after me and her broke up. You were only supposed to be a rebound.”

I feel like the wind’s been knocked out of me. The music overhead blurs into noise scraping my eardrum, my vision grows weak and foggy. He wanted to hurt me, and he did.

“I expect a thank you when you release your next album.” I spin on my heel and head towards the main road, yanking my phone from my pocket to call an uber. For the second time tonight, my name trails behind me in the wind. I can hear Harry’s steps pick up, and as fast as I walk, he still catches me.

“Y/n, please, let’s go back to the hotel. You can hate me and not talk to me, but please don’t leave.”

I ignore him, trying to set up my ride. “Where the hell are we?”

He glances at my phone, and I can tell he considers keeping the answer to himself, so he can keep me to himself. He drops his voice, much weaker than before. “Carbon Beach. Canyon road.”

Ten minutes.

“Y/n—”

“I am not interested in discussing this with you.”

“I’m so sorry. I—I was mad and was just trying to win the argument. Whichever way I could.”

“Congratulations on your win.”

“Y/n, please, honey. I don’t want to lose you.” He drags his hands down his face, keeping his palms dug into his eyes. When he lets them drop, there are tears spilling down his cheeks. “I can’t lie and say you weren’t, but yes you were a rebound for me, but that went away. Literally weeks after we started dating. I care about you so much. I wouldn’t drag you to every show and event I have if I didn’t. I’m so proud to call you mine. The last thing you are to me is—is just grounds for my writing.”

I stare out across the road. A jeep speeds by and the gush of wind it brings sends chills down my arms.

“Harry, I just...it’s a lot. You’re a lot. Your life is a lot.” I sigh and slowly turn to face him. “It feels like the significance of us being in each other’s lives are so different.”

He kicks a rock across the road, dust flying up around us. “Fuck. Y/n I’m begging—”

“They’re here.” I nod to the headlights approaching us.

“Baby, please.”

“I think I need to be alone right now.” I get in the backseat. “Enjoy your party.”

***

I text him when I’m back at the hotel, having nowhere else to go. I didn’t think my plan of leaving through, because he’ll come back here before the night’s over. But I’m hoping he’ll stay away for a bit, long enough for me to process everything at least.

Deep down I know there’s not as much to the comment as I thought. And Harry’s not that type of guy. But the lack of concern over my feelings...the fact that I was just used as a warm body while he got over Camille...that’s what hurts the most.

There’s a fine line between being sorry because you’ve been called out, and truly being sorry. How sorry can he be when he got what he wanted? Even if I’m not what he envisioned past a few quick fucks, he still comes out on top happy.

I feel like the lifestyle these people live is embedded with secret codes, all of which I’m not wired to pick up on. The money, the mistakes, the adoration... Everything is a lot, and playing catch up is nearly impossible.

I don’t get the alone time I’d wished for. There are curses and clicks of the doorknob right before Harry comes in. He stands at the entrance, staring at me on the lounge chair like he’s unsure if I’m real.

“Wasn’t sure you’d come back here.”

“Where else can I go?” I nod to his phone in his hand. “I texted you.”

“I was driving.”

I sigh, flinching when he turns the lights on. “I know you wanna talk, but I don’t even know what to say.”

“You don’t have to,” he says, dropping his keys on a table to come sit beside me. “I’ll talk though.” He inhales, holding his breath for a second before forcing the air out. “I know that me saying I’m sorry means shit to you right now. And to be honest, it probably is coming from me...in a way. You’re right about everything. And whatever you’re feeling, once you figure that out, you’re valid about that too.”

“How would you feel if you were only meant to be temporary in my life? You never mentioned why you were interested in me in the beginning. And no, I never would have gone out with you had I known. I would never want to be someone’s rebound. There’s just something sneaky about that.”

His head drops into his hands, and his shoulders shake right before I hear him cry. “I know, I—I get so caught up in myself sometimes. I’m such a fucking prick.” When he looks up, his eyes are burnt red, glassy and defeated. “I don’t deserve you, and I really don’t deserve anyone.”

“Harry,” I chastise, not expecting the downward spiral he’s ventured onto.

“I swear I care about you. I want you to be happy, and I want to make you happy. I don’t want to be the one to treat you this way. Ever.”

I inhale as deep as I can, holding my breath until it hurts. “I know.” I take his hand in mine. “And I know your heart, and I know you care about me. I—” I sigh, “I’m not comfortable with...just forgetting all of this though. I can forgive you, but I think we need to take a couple steps back. I’ve gotten so swept up in your life and your world, I’m losing my own.”

He nods slowly, accepting my words with a pained face.

“I care about you too.”

He looks up for the first time, catching the last few tears with the back of his hand. “I know you do.”

I offer a small smile and lean in to kiss his cheek. His eyes fall closed, and blindly he turns to press his lips to mine. Our kiss is salty and urgent.

“What did you say to everyone when you left?”

He frowns in thought, like the memory is too far away. “Nothing. Jumped in my car and prayed this is where you’d be.”

I take his hand and pull us both to our feet. “We should go to bed. It’s been a long night. Too long.”

We’re quiet and slow as we shed our clothes and brush our teeth, slipping into bed around two a.m.. Harry doesn’t waste a second in pulling me into his warm chest, wrapping his arms around me in a tight hug that has me burying my face into his neck.

We lay there, silent, but when I know I don’t have much longer before sleep overcomes me, I kiss his shoulder, whispering how much I love him before I close my eyes.

#ehhhhh #idk #i think i'm ok with writing angst #but struggle with turning it into fluff #i tried tho #requests #requested #harry styles #harry styles writing #cherryyharryy #cherryyharryy writing #harry styles blurb #harry styles one shot #harry styles angst to fluff #harry styles angst #harry styles fluff #harry styles ou

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toomanyfandoms02 · 3 years

Text

Shameless // Fred Weasley

Summary - The gang challenges Fred and the Reader to fluster eachother after each being called shameless.

Word Count - 1.7k

I'm not gonna lie this was hot LMAOO

Fred and I were often compared to eachother. These were usually the words we were called

Outgoing

Spontaneous

Idiots

Humorous

Shameless

Pranksters

Delinquents

These were said by a mixture of people, but most knew us as best friends. I marched the halls with the twins every day, but everyone knew I was a just a little closer to Fred. There was just some connection there. A connection lots of people took out of context.

Sure, we flirted, but I flirt with a lot of people. Theres another word we were called, flirts! Though this had a good majority of my friends convinced that we were in love. It was at the point where people openly talked about it in front of us.

*"Nice ass Weasley!" I shouted as I entered the Great Hall. This drew a few eyes towards me, snickering. Fred turned around and looked to me, gesturing to his bum.*

*"Oh this old thing? Nothing compared to yours." I licked my finger and made a sizzle sound. Everyone was right, we really had no shame.*

And that's what my friends were on about at the moment. A big group of us were sitting in the Gryffindor common room. This included Harry, Hermione, Ron, the twins, Seamus, Dean, Angelina, and Ginny.

"You two flirt all the time without getting all ruffled. How do you do it?" Ginny asked.

"I don't know, it's just how we are I guess." I shrugged to Fred as I answered. He nodded in agreement.

"Matter of fact, I don't think I've ever seen either of you flustered." Dean butted in.

"I say we change that." George said with a simple nod. Fred looked at him with furrowed brows. "I say we challenge them!" It was clear that not one person in the room knew what George was on about, so he continued. "Alright see, I give them 3 days to see who can fluster who first. One of us has to see it though, to know it happened. Can the unflusterables fluster one another you think?" Georges arms were crossed at his chest cockily.

"I think that's a brilliant idea." Hermione agreed.

"That's easy, I'll totally win. I have no shame, no embarrassment." Fred announced with glee.

"We will see about that." I smiled at him with one eyebrow raised.

*Oh its on.*

After barely an hour of thinking about this whole challenge alone in my dorm, I realized that I walked myself right into failure. It wasnt that I though Fred could win, it was that I *knew* I would lose. In the way that I had never really charmed any boy. I didn't have anything up my sleeve. I was really just going to have to wing it.

That being said, Fred was quite the charmer. It was hilarious watching 1st years see him for the first time and swoon over him. Pulling girls in with simple winks and little waves across the room.

But now it was dinner time, so I see this as round one to this weird challenge George has concocted.

I made sure to make my way into the Great Hall nearly unnoticed, walking in with a sea of other students. I immediately spotted Fred and made a beeline towards him. Some of the group spotted me but said nothing, letting me go with my improvised plan.

I stood right behind Fred, reaching my hand into his hair and running my fingers though it. He turned his head slightly to see me.

"Hello love." He smiled at me sweetly. I continued, wrapping my arms around his neck lightly and leaning down so my chin was rested on his shoulder.

"You're hair is so soft." He turned his face to mine, our noses almost bumping.

"Thanks sweet cheeks." He put a small kis on my nose which made me smile, sitting next to him after.

"Nothing? Really? No blushy cheeks, or stuttered speech?" Angelina was flabbergasted clearly, her hands gesturing wildly in the air as she spoke.

"I honestly don't know if it's possible." George shrugged. "I just thought it would be interesting if it was."

"Oh I've got plans don't worry, this sexy ass will be blushing to the moon and back when I'm done with her." Fred looked down to me, smirking. He gave a challenging face.

"I know your deepest darkest secrets Weasley. Don't test me." I raised my eyebrow cockily as the whole group just stared puzzled.

"I wish I could talk to Cho like that." Harry huffed, earning a laugh from most of the group. (Aside from Ginny, who I was quick to tap her hand under the table at the comment. She had told me weeks ago how agonizing she felt.)

Later that night a good portion of the gang was hanging out in the common room again. I had just walked through the entryway and saw Fred sitting on the couch. As soon as we made eye contact he patted his lap. All heads whipped my way. I walked over and sat right on his lap, making myself comfortable. He grabbed my face lightly and put a small kiss on my jaw.

"Where were you love, we missed you." The few first years that had joined whatever conversation was going on looked as if they were going to be sick.

"Just went on a walk handsome." Everyone shook their heads with disappointed looks.

"Nothing, seriously?" Hermione laughed in disbelief. The youngins asked about the situation and it was explained to them. They all giggled about it for a while as we watched. Soon Fred was leaned very close to my ear.

"You should just give up now beautiful, you know you're going to lose." He whispered ever so lightly in my ear. I pushed his face away from mine so his ear was towards me.

"Really cute of you to think so." I whispered back. That was the last we spoke that night seeing as it was 10 pm.

I woke up the next morning hearing giggles from Hermione and Angelina. I sat up slowly, rubbing my eyes. They got very quite as they saw me waking up.

"What are you two up to?" They looked down at the books they had in their hands, ignoring me. Just then I heard our shared bathroom open, seeing Fred come out wearing only a towel hanging low on his waist. I looked him up and down with a smile. "Not bad Weasley. Working out lately?"

I would never admit it outloud, but this one almost got me. He's only in a damn towel. I mean come on, everyone found Fred attractive.

Right?

"Yeah. Maybe you can try this whole thing in my dorm later? Maybe surprise me?" He winked and left the room quickly.

"Hey! Get your arse back here, that's my towel!" The girls followed us close behind, peaking out of the door to watch us in the hallway between the rest of the dorms.

"Oh you want it back? Her you go love." He pulled it right off his body and handed it to me. I knew if I closed my eyes, or covered them, they would count it as a loss for me. So I just maintained eye contact with him and yanked it from his hands. "Nervous?" He squinted at me. Man was the boy lucky there was not one else in these halls at 6 am.

"Never." I replied with a smile and turned away, walking back into the dorm. "Nice try ladies!" I dropped the towel in our hamper and they fell back onto Hermiones bed with a loud groan.

Later that day Hermione, Fred, George, me, Dean and Seamus had free time in Care of Magical Creatures.

"He was literally naked in front of her and she didn't even blink." Mione deadpanned.

"Maybe it's because shes seen it before." Fred elbowed my side.

"You wish." I rolled my eyes.

"Maybe I do." He stared daggers into my eyes.

"At this point I feel like even if you guys made out nothing would happen." George shrugged. This gave everyone a collective evil smile.

"Oh are we doing that now?" I asked as nonchalant as possible. Even with my heart racing a mile a second. Fred looked at me with confusion. "Unless you're too pussy." That wiped the confusion off his face.

"Nope." He grabbed my face and pulled it inches from his.

"I'm just going to warn you, I've never kissed, let alone made out with, a boy before. So I apologize in advance." I laugh-whispered to him, pushing my lips onto his. I grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him closer, running my hands through his hair.

His hand traced my jaw with one hand and the other was gripped to my hair.

"Pretty good for never kissing anyone, you sure you arent lying?" He said quietly in between kisses.

"I would never lie to you." He took my open mouth as an opportunity to use his tongue and deepen the kiss. I was ready to give up at this point, this boy was unknowingly ruining me. "Would you ever lie to me?" More questions between kisses.

"Never."

"You like me don't you?" His nose bumped with mine at the question. Starting to kiss up my jaw near my ear.

"Of course love." He laughed lightly, pulling back from the kiss. We turned back to the group which was a mixture of disgust, confusion, and knowing glances.

"Seemed like a lot of whispers for just making out don't you think?" Georges arms were crossed over his chest. We both shrugged.

"Sometimes friends just make out." I admitted, which was a very obvious lie.

"So you would make out with me then?" George challenged. Fred grabbed my waist and pulled me closer to him with a glare to George.

"I think I won in a different way than anticipated." George smirked. "So are you guys going to get together or what?" Everyone nodded.

"Was that what this bullshit was about?" Fred asked loudly.

"Yeah of course. Two dimwits you are, walked right into it." Hermione shook her head. Fred grabbed my hand and squeezed it, making me blush furiously.

"I win!" He pointed to my heated cheeks.

"Shut up ares hole." I elbowed his side lightly.

"It didnt even take 3 days!" George cheered.

*Boy are we going to have some stories when we get older.*

#fred weasley fic #fred weasly x reader #fred weasley #weasley twins #harry potter #harry potter fanfic #harry potter imagine

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ferraii2 · 3 years

Text

im bored...

1. stats:

H: 164cm, hw: 53kg?, cw: 50kg, gw1: 48kg, gw2: 45kg, ugw: 42kg

2. height and do i like it?

164cm. im happy with my height but not my bone structure. it doesnt fit me well.

3. fav thinspo and why

her arms, legs, upper body... shes so tiny.

4. greatest fear about weightloss

eventually gaining back all the weight ive lost.

5. why do i wanna lose weight?

because i think im ugly. i feel like if i lose weight, i'll atleast have something about me that is beautiful and/or desireable.

6. do i binge? if so, why?

binge as in emotional eating? no, i dont, luckily.

7. do my parents know that im tryna lose weight? do they care?

they dont know but even if they did, i dont think they'd have a problem with it or prevent me from working out and losing weight. but when it comes to eating less, they, especially my mom, will definitely not leave me alone.

8. my workout routine

unfortunately, i dont workout regularly. i only do it when i feel like i overate, but then also only a little, light workout from youtube.

9. did anyone ever comment my weight negatively?

yeah, many times by nearly everyone. especially my sister as she has an eating disorder along with anger-issues. she always used to attack me for my weight when i was a (chubby) kid (keep in mind she is 12yrs elder than me).

10. the hardest thing i gave up during weightloss?

nothing until now!

11. my fav thinspo blog and why?

my own blog which got deleted a few days ago lol. it was my fav thinspo blog obviously cause i reblogged everything that i liked the most.

12. what do i normally eat?

i eat whatever i want as long as its below my calorie limit. that includes fast food, anything my mom cooks, proteins, etc

13. am i losing weight in a healthy or an unhealthy way?

healthy i believe. i mean, i allow myself to go up to 1100 calories a day, sometimes even 1200. i dont starve because i know that it has no benefit whatsoever.

14. whats my ugw and when do i expect to reach it?

my ugw is 42kg, thats a total weightloss of 8kg. i wish to lose it by march, basically in about 2⅔ months.

15. am i a vegan/vegetarian and would i consider becoming one?

no, not for weightloss purposes nor moral reasons. meat and milk products contain a lot of vitamins which i wouldnt want to give up!

16. when did i first decided to lose weight?

when i was 12. and i did lose weight succesfully (from 53kg to 46-47kg)

17. do i have an eating disorder?

luckily i dont.

18. what food is my weakness?

easy, cheese cake... i could eat a whole cake on my own.

19. when was the last time i ate fast food?

today, actually. i only ate sweets today.

20. fav diet?

eating-below-1100cals-and-work-out

21. what are my clothing sizes?

european sizes: my pants are 36 and my clothes also 36 i believe, not sure.

22. what was my lowest weight and how and why did i gain?

my lowest was about 47kg 3yrs ago. i gained due to puberty/growth and food, obviously.

23. did media play a role in wanting to lose weight?

i dont think so, atleast not consciously. i barely know any celebrities and all the women i see on the internet are thicc.

24. how do i feel about the term "proana/mia"?

"pro" is definitely disturbing to me. its like saying "pro suicide".

25. have i ever purged?

nope.

26. what excites me most about reaching my ugw?

wearing smaller sized clothes, having sticky legs that dont touch, constantly looking delicate, being treated more nicely, being taken care of, no insults on my weight by anyone ever again, jealous looks of other girls, not feeling ashamed to undress in front of somebody else, not being scared to get intimate with somebody, etc etc...

27. how do i deal with being around food?

when im really hungry or have high appetite, i'll probably eat some of it. if i dont, i just ignore the food.

28. do i want a thigh gap and why?

i do, because i find it aesthetically pleasing.

29. my definition of beauty?

a kind, honest, polite and respectful nature.

30. ten facts about me:

i'm 16 years old.

i am practically religious (muslim).

i developed an obsession for mukbangs over the past few years.

im extremely shy and awkward in real life.

i love animals but im afraid of them in real life (literally every animal... even birds or cats).

i cant eat meat off of the bone (e.g. drumsticks). it just disgusts me.

i actively try to improve my character.

i have a naturally athletic and fit body.

i live in germany.

im addicted to chocolate and other sweets, i need them nearly every day

if you actually read all of this, ily and wish you all the best 😙

#thinspo #30daysthinspochallenge #weightloss #diet #thin inspo #tw ed #ed #eating disorder #anorexia #ana #proana #notproanythingjusttags #i wanna be skiny #sweetspo #meanspo #anorekic #fitspo

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wienerbarnes · 3 years

Text

When It’s Over

Pairing: Bucky x Reader (Cheek to Cheek)

Word Count: 2,762

Warnings: canon level violence

A/N: back w cheek to cheek😌 there's some heavy inso from the fight scene from fatws w walker so peep that👀 as well as some linked references to past pieces!

MAIN MASTERLIST | CHEEK TO CHEEK MASTERLIST

The near-silent sound of the door clicking shut wakes you up. While you know if there was some kind of actual threat there’d be alarms and lights going off because of F.R.I.D.A.Y. 's security measures, your body still tenses at the unnatural sound.

Why is someone in your room in the middle of the night? Unless -

A sweaty and musky smell floods your nostrils as the intruder hunches over your body, burying their face into your neck and breathing in deeply before pressing a soft kiss. Bucky’s home.

You turn over and place your hands on either side of his face to kiss him properly but you pause when his face feels unnaturally wet.

“Is that sweat? Why are you all wet?” You whisper into the darkness, reaching over to turn on the lamp on your bedside table.

You gasp when the light reveals Bucky’s face, neck, and hair drenched in blood. You eyes roam the rest of his body to see his tactical gear in the same condition.

“Jesus, Bucky, who were you fighting?”

He smirks, fatigue clouding his features, “You should see the other guys.” Your eyebrows scrunch at the sound of more than one person as he reaches into one of his pant pockets, pulling out a wrinkled piece of paper.

He hands it to you and turns away to begin stripping off his dirty clothes. You unfold it carefully so as to not rip it or mangle it up further to reveal your list, with all of the names crossed off harshly and a new one added at the bottom, a name not in your handwriting nor in your memory.

“Is this what you were doing? Who is the last name? I didn’t write that.” While you're upset he lied to you, you feel an indescribable sense of relief wash over you, a feeling you don’t think you’ve ever felt before. No more HYDRA after you. No more handlers. No more guards after your blood, your powers.

“The soldier who shot you. With the metal arms. I destroyed everything that even looked a little bit like a serum in every building I went to, so I think he’s the last super soldier. Or at least for now. I hope.” He tells you, finally down to his underwear. He’s still breathing kind of heavily, probably from pure exhaustion. He’s only been gone for six days and he took out all the names on your list. Did he even sleep?

You’re still holding the list in your hands when he emerges from the bathroom, freshly showered. He uses his towel to scrunch out as much water from his hair as he can and tosses it in the pile of dirty clothes. He pulls on a pair of underwear and doesn’t even bother putting on actual pajamas, approaching the bed.

“I promise we’ll talk about everything tomorrow. He’s supposed to be in Minsk. I’m so fucking tired…” He sighs, trailing off, taking the list from your hands and placing it on the nightstand, turning off the lamp.

“Where is that?”

“Belarus. Above Ukraine.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry for waking you up. And for not telling you, I didn’t want to -”

“Shh, don’t apologize. We’ll talk tomorrow. I’m just glad you’re home.”

The thought of technically being free hasn’t hit you, it hasn’t even begun being processed by your brain yet. It probably won’t for a while, a few days, maybe weeks. No more HYDRA.

Bucky slumps into the mattress next to you, not even getting under the covers, too tired to adjust his position. You get out from under the covers as well, pushing yourself up against his back, spooning him like a backpack, trying to pull him as close to you as possible.

In less than a week, he got rid of everything and everyone you’ve been afraid of for years. People you had nightmares about, that hounded your every thought every single hour of every single day. He got rid of them for you.

He grabs your hand that rests on his chest and brings it up to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss on it.

No more fear.

...

Bucky sleeps for fourteen hours, into the following evening. He wakes up to the smell of toasted bread, the crust around his eyes pinching at his skin until he brings up his right hand to rub it away. He sees your back at the counter and after another deep inhale, smells acidic tomato and smoky bacon.

Sandwiches for lunch. He glances at the clock to see the time as 5:18. Sandwiches for dinner.

He lets out a long yawn as he sits up, left arm reaching up to scratch at his head, hair feeling knotted due to the fact that he fell asleep with it wet. I need another haircut soon.

He gets up and walks around the kitchen island to greet you, despite missing most of the day. You turn to face him as you hear his footsteps approach and reach up to plant a long kiss on his mouth.

“I have mornin’ breath,” Bucky mumbles against your lips, hands resting gently on the tops of your shoulders as he feels your hand wrap around his naked waist.

“I don’t care. I love you.” You kiss him again and again, harder and harder each time.

“Babe,”

“You freed me.” More kisses.

“Huh,” He giggles against your lips, finding your affection amusing, but unknowingly needed.

“I love you. Thank you. You freed me, you saved me.” You repeat, kisses smacking in between your words.

He thinks back to the mangled list he tossed in your direction last night, how he came home covered in blood in an exhausted haze. You freed me, you tell him. From HYDRA, he understands.

“You don’t thank me for nothing,” He pulls away, hands cupping your face in order to temporarily stop your kisses, “I love you. I’ll do anything for you. It’s the bare minimum.” He tells you.

All you do is stare up at his blue eyes. As though he’s Atlas, holding up the world underneath your feet. The bare minimum. How he’s ruined you for any man or person at all with the way he treats you, the way he loves you. You don’t look away from him with your loving stare as he steals a piece of bacon off the pan on the stove before turning and going into the bathroom.

...

You, Bucky, Sam, and Joaquin occupy the small jet on the way to Belarus.

“Who are we fighting again?” Sam asks, half-serious, as he adjusts the shield on his back.

“His name is Jean-Baptiste Allaire. But I don’t think he knows that.”

“...Am I supposed to know who that is?”

“A bad guy.” Bucky answers this time.

I suppose that is all he really needs to know.

Soon enough the plane lands and the three of you go off, leaving Torres in the jet to monitor and wait in case there’s a need for backup, eventually ending up in a dilapidated building. You assume it’s a facility used to house the soldier, if Bucky was able to trace him back to here. They probably keep him away from the major facilities with most of the guards to limit the risk of him dying during raids or other compromises, you think.

“Be careful around this guy.” Bucky warns Sam as you get closer, approaching the building, slowly walking down a long hallway in order to find anything that would signify him being here.

Bucky slows down, causing everyone else to slow down as they approach the end of the hallway, allowing the only option to turn to the left, revealing a large cell, the soldier sitting in the corner.

A flash of confusion flashes across his face before it disappears, an emotionless expression replacing it as he stands, the whirring of his metal arms being the only sound as he approaches the three of you, ready to fight.

The three of you back up down the hallway to allow more space, but it doesn’t last long as he begins to attack, launching himself at Sam to start mindlessly fighting.

The soldier and Sam throw punches at each other and you run over to help, but as you come up to them, he whips around, grabbing you by the collar of your tactical vest, and throws you across the room with one swing.

“Woah!” Your body smashes into a wall, a loud creaking sound coming from the metal of his arms as your body makes impact and slams to the ground.

“Shit!” You groan, getting ignored as the three men fight each other. He’s strong as fuck.

Your vision stops spinning and you stand, a shield whizzing past your head, nearly decapitating you, and lodging itself into the wall behind you.

Bucky’s already got blood all over his face from fighting him, and you take a wild guess that the soldier has some sort of serum that’s the same or stronger than Bucky’s in his body.

He grabs Bucky and flings him to the side, his body crashing into the cell he was originally in. A metal pole with wires wrapped around it stands in the middle of the small cell, which Bucky’s body slams into, electrocuting him and knocking him unconscious.

You remember Bucky explaining to you one time that he was always going to be a lot more sensitive to electrocution and shock therapy after what HYDRA would do to him, regardless of how super he is.

You look to Sam to see the soldier straddled on top of him, throwing punch after punch into his face, then moving to tear off one of Sam’s wings with his bare hands, sparks flying around them.

Suddenly something flows through you. Not something; anger. Pure rage. You realize that this guy is out to kill and it’s like a switch has been flipped. You're reaching over towards the wall and ripping out the shield, throwing it as hard as you can and hitting the soldier in the side of the face.

You march over while he’s distracted and disoriented by the blood pouring out of his head and kick the side of his face, knocking him over and off of Sam. You use the same leg to kick at the shield that’s now on the ground, flipping it up into your hands, and slam the flattest part down onto his head, using it to block the punch he throws.

You toss it to the side and straddle him yourself when you get a split second of a chance, him hitting you with a gnarly punch - a Bucky-level, super-soldier punch - but you hit him back, ignoring the fiery hot pain that explodes in your face. Though not as strong, you feel your fists break his nose and crack his cheek bone, his blood making your hands stickier and stickier as you punch and punch and punch.

“Don’t! Touch! My! Friends!” You yell in between punches, using both your hands to slam down at the same time, blood dripping from your own face from his singular punch.

You slam both hands onto either side of his face, and in a second, you realize you’ve tapped into his brain. His arms drop to the ground beside his body and you’re in complete control.

Never have you ever tapped into someone’s mind so quickly. Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was the fiery anger of seeing your friends getting hurt that made it so easy.

You smile wickedly, laughing in his face, “Now, you’re mine.” You pant through your teeth.

“51, don’t.” Bucky groans. You glance up to see him on his hands and knees now, still feeling the after effects of the electricity, small sparks jumping from creases in his arm. You look over to the side to see Sam also leaned over on the ground, looking at you. Waiting.

They’re not scared of you, but they’re… wary. Everytime you’ve controlled someone’s mind, they’ve died. The man from prison. The scientist from the HYDRA video. Dead in a second because of your powers.

Bucky looks at you and he sees the same girl from that video years ago, one of few survivors of a HYDRA facility, smiling with blood caked in between the cracks of your teeth, pure powerful energy running through your veins.

The soldier lays underneath you, unmoving. You look down at him again and his eyes are pooling with fear. An understandable feeling for someone who’s aware of what’s happening, who’s present in the moment, but has zero control of their body. A feeling he probably knows very well being under the control of HYDRA.

He probably came into the picture after Bucky’s escape and the initial fall of HYDRA, a sad soul that was captured and forced to comply. A job that used to be yours. Tortured, arms torn away, and mind blended until he didn’t know anything other than to fight.

“I wasn’t gonna do nothing,” You reassure, “Maybe just… have him jog around the block in his underwear a few times. For fucking up my shoulder and all.”

You release his face from in between your palms, forcing his head to slam back onto the concrete floor.

“Don’t. Move.” You point at him with a bloody finger.

You take one final look at him before standing up off of him and turning to walk back in the direction of the jet.

“I’m not waiting around for the feds,” You mumble, exhausted. Your face is pounding less and less and just going numb altogether, which you don’t think is a good sign.

“Go after her,” Sam tells Bucky, “I’ll call Torres to come over and help me. And reach out to Shuri, see if there’s anything she can do to help him.” The soldier remains unmoving on the ground, eyes shooting around the room wildly, but body stiff as a board.

Bucky gets himself up, grabbing the vibranium shield and handing it back to Sam, who’s still groaning on the ground. It’s not easy fighting super soldiers, Bucky imagines. It’s not like Sam has mind powers.

He walks out of the building to try and catch up with you.

“Hey,” He says, gently reaching for your arm to pull you back towards him.

The blood from your shattered nose has now pooled down your chin and neck, soaking your tac gear. Bucky tilts your face up with barely any pressure. A thumb brushes across your face and you wince, but try not to move so he can assess you.

“I think your cheekbone is broken.”

“My fingers,” You all but whimper, bringing them up from your sides.

“Also broken. At least six of ‘em,” He presses and pulls along each of them, ignoring your wincing and pulls on your right middle finger, a pop sounding and a loud groan coming from your mouth, teeth clenching so hard you think you’ll crack them, “Five. That one was just dislocated.”

“You guys will help him, right?” You confirm, Bucky still gently roaming his hands along your body to check for major injuries.

“He didn’t do anything,” You whimper, and Bucky looks up to see tears in your eyes.

“Babe -”

“He’s not evil, he didn’t mean to do anything,” You cry, and begin to sob, your emotions overwhelming you.

“He didn’t, baby, we’ll help him as much as we can. Right now, we need to get you to the jet so we can go home and get you to the MedBay, can we do that? Can you walk, want me to carry you?” He coos, hating the sight of his girlfriend in both physical and emotional pain.

You sniffle and close your eyes, ducking your head, and Bucky takes your silence as a plea to be carried, gently scoping you up bridal style and carefully walking back in the direction of the jet. He hears a few more sniffles as you curl into his body, nuzzling into his jaw, as you close your eyes and try to ignore the pain in your face as much as you can.

“Can we go out tonight? To that little Italian place we went to that one time?”

“If you’re not too tired or in too much pain, sure, baby.”

“And a movie?”

“Yes, sweetheart. I’ll wine and dine you real good.”

“Red wine or white?”

“We can have that pink raspberry one you like. The one that tastes nothing like wine.”

“Ugh, don’t make me smile, it hurts.”

“Sorry. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes fanfiction #marvel #o she powerful #and overprotective of her frens

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actually-reid · 3 years

Text

filling in the blanks as we go - chapter six

pairing: spencer reid x reader

summary: spencer is absent and you try to sort out your feelings over your argument

We're all back in the bullpen by 9am. Luckily for us, there's no case yet so I'm sitting at my desk typing up reports and statements until we get assigned something else. I'm sat up straight, my complete attention trained on the screen in front of me in a desperate attempt to ignore the looks I can feel I'm getting.

I had made sure to put extra effort into my appearance today, wanting to look as unbothered as possible. My hair is in one of my favourite styles I usually don't leave time for in the morning and my clothes and makeup are impeccable. Unfortunately for me, this doesn't seem enough of a front as I feel JJ and Emily look at me from the coffee machine whilst they chat and my desk neighbour stealing glances at me whenever he gets a chance.

The best way to dissuade Reid of my feelings would be to show no real care over the altercation; if his accusation was false, why would I worry? I waltzed in with my coffee in hand and a smile before settling and getting to work quietly.

Until now.

"Y/N?"

My head turns to face him automatically which is probably best despite how much effort I was putting into tuning the rest of the room out. My mask shows a face of interest with raised eyebrows and my eyes land on his cautious expression. I can see him looking for a line between us that he just can't find, unsure whether to mirror ignorance or hit it head on. We're both reading into each other a bit too much.

"Do, uh, do you have the plans of the unsub’s house? From the file?"

It's the worst excuse I've heard in a while, especially coming from him. I know for a fact that he has a plan of the house in his head that he's probably made down with rough dimensions of each room from memory but I dig out the plans from my case file anyway and hand it to him with a cheap smile before getting back to work. I swivel back to my monitor but I can see in my peripherals that he's still facing me, still looking at me like he wants to say something but can't quite build up the nerve. I'm thankful that I make eye contact with Morgan on the walkway as he comes out of his office.

"Hey princess, how you holding up?" He says as he shuffles down the stairs and heads towards us. I roll my eyes with a grin at the nickname before fixing my glare to the computer again.

"I'm fine, Derek." I don't look up at him. I don't look at Reid either though, which is harder because my ingrained response to that nickname is to look at Reid and shake my head. Pretty Boy and Princess usually suffered together.

"If you say so." He leaves it at that, patting my shoulder as he walks past towards Garcia's office. By the time he's out of sight, Reid has resigned back to his paperwork and I let out a quiet sigh in relief before resuming my work.

Another cup of coffee later and with Prentiss sat at her desk on the other side of me, Reid's phone starts ringing. The Doctor doesn't usually get that many phone calls so I glance at him in curiosity. There's a tinge of reluctance in his speed to answer the phone, staring at the number or contact for a second too long before placing the device to his ear.

"Hello, this is Dr Reid."

I can tell that he recognises the voice on the other end from his manner and everything seems fine until his free hand lifts to rest on his cheek anxiously.

"Alright, I'm going to come visit, maybe I can help calm her down." He's up in a second, hurrying to Hotch's office whilst still on the phone. My eyes follow him as he goes and after he knocks and lets himself into Hotch's office I turn to Emily who has the same worried look on her face as I do. He's in and out as quick as a flash, everyone knowing that Hotch is always sympathetic towards family issues. No longer on the phone, he rushes back to his desk before he starts to shove things haphazardly into his satchel.

All thoughts of our disagreement have left my mind, his anxiety to get going enough to show how serious this must be. "Spence, what's happening?" My voice is soft and quiet but it's clearly something he doesn't expect and I can tell I've halted whatever train of thought he was following. He pauses his movements for a moment and I notice his breaths are heavy as he swallows hard. His tongue peeks out to wet his lips as he thinks before he says, "Walk me out?"

I nod with no hesitation and he closes his satchel before slinging it over his shoulder. We march towards the elevators and when the door closes it seems to cut all tension between us as I watch him sag against the wall. I wait for him to start.

"Mom had a major delusion that one of the other patients was a spy and she just assaulted him so badly he's going to the hospital. I don't think her new meds are mixing well. I'm going to go try and calm her if she isn't calm by the time I get there and then I'm going to have to persuade the study not to kick her out despite their no violence regulations."

"Spence, I'm so sorry."

I'm slow in my movement so he has time to pull away if he wants to, but my palm finds its way to his arm with no resistance. My thumb moves minutely in comfort for a second or two before I hear his bag thud on the floor and feel his arms around my waist. His chin rests gently on my shoulder and he's grasping me tightly but not enough that it's uncomfortable. Despite still not being used to touching him, my arms automatically loop around his neck. He's so warm and completely flush up against me, the smell of coffee and cinnamon nearly overwhelming. We stand there for a second and I pray that the lift keeps moving and no one calls for it. I feel him shake his head slightly into my shoulder and my hand drifts upwards into the hair at the nape of his neck.

If this had been anyone else, I would have wanted this to end as soon as possible but it's him and I can tell he's scared. There's a chance his mom won't recognise him or he won't be able to help and he'll be sidelined leaving him to watch whilst feeling completely useless. Not only that but if he can't convince the facility to let her stay he'll be tasked with finding somewhere else to look after her to good enough standards on extremely short notice. It's daunting and completely understandable. I may be mad at him but no one deserves this.

Eventually, the elevator arrives on the ground floor and I let my hands drop to my sides. He leans to pick up his bag and it's back on his shoulder as the door opens.

"Do you want me to come with you?" I ask him, because if he wanted me to, I know I would go without another thought, whether Hotch allowed it or not. He shakes his head though, stepping out to stand on the threshold between the doors.

"Let us know how it goes, okay?" I say, hoping he hears my desperate me under the us. "Send her our love."

He gives a curt nod to show he will before half turning to go. I even press the button for the sixth floor before I realise he's still stood in front of me.

"You should still be angry with me." He breathes, like he can’t believe I’m even talking to him despite everything that just happened.

"I am a bit." I say honestly. "Your mom is more important right now, we can sort that later."

"Last time you said that I ended up being an idiot."

"Yeah well, try not to be this time?" I say and I'm trying not to sound too exasperated. "Or maybe we'll wait until we aren't in public."

"I don't deserve you." he mutters before stepping forward and putting his hand on the back of my neck. For a second, my breath hitches and I'm so confused about what's happening until he pulls me forwards slightly and I feel warmth coming from his lips on my forehead. It's brief but after he pulls away the sensation lingers like a brand on my skin.

He seems unsure of the action after committing it, scratching at his neck and looking at the floor between us. I'm still recovering from thinking for a split second that he might kiss me, as if he would do that in the middle of Quantico. I feel my face heat slightly just at the thought.

"I'll keep you updated." He says, before he finally looks me in the eyes again. He gives me his signature tight smile and turns to head towards the door and leaves. My fingertips shoot to where his lips had touched me as the doors shut in front of me and I am surprised at the doors closing before I remember that I'd already pressed for the sixth floor.

The first thing I register is the return of some of the anger I felt this morning. How hypocritical was it to do something like that after the events of the early hours, especially if he still believed that I did like him. The only reason you would do something like that would be if you felt the same damn way, which he had clearly proved he didn't. Then comes the doubt because his behaviour really was also hypocritical and his words come rushing back. To notice my pupils dilated or my rushed breathing, he would have to be looking and the only reason you would look for those kind of things was if you wanted them there. He'd admitted to liking my touch and just proved it by the hug in the elevator.

It was so confusing.

I step out of the elevator automatically as the doors open and linger for a second as my mind can't really settle on the correct next step. Surely, everyone would want to know why Reid had left so quickly although I knew most of them would have figured out only his Mom would make him leave in such a rush. The other details he'd told me I wasn't sure if he would be comfortable with me sharing.

"There you are!" I hear and I watch as Garcia shuffles towards me at speed in a pair of kitten heels. "My office now!" she says, all but grabbing my arms and dragging me there.

When I'm finally in her office, she locks the door and plants me into the chair behind hers as she sits down before looking at me expectantly.

"What's going on Penny?" I ask her seriously and in response she crosses her arms.

"Did Boy Genius just kiss you goodbye?"

Of course it's my luck that none of my interactions with Reid seem to be private; first the jet, now this. I sigh and I wipe my face with my palm in what I know even for someone who isn't a profiler is an act of admittance.

"I just wanted to check he was okay and then you guys kind of just hung around the doorway of the elevator for ages and obviously there's no audio like I just wanted to see what kind of state he was in before he left on his own and then I saw him-"

"We didn't kiss Penny, he just kissed my forehead goodbye for some reason." I sigh, putting an end to her rambling.

"Oh honey, for some reason? You can't be that blind."

"Morgan told you everything?"

"I know that you might have a little soft spot for him which I don't blame at all - I think you guys would be great together and uhm yeah, Morgan told me what happened on the jet last night or I suppose this morning really."

I'm shaking my head. "You weren't there, Penny. I've never seen him so pent up and then to say that I liked him in front of everyone, I mean he knew everyone was listening and he didn't wait or anything he just said it because he was losing the argument and Hotch could transfer me with that-"

"Hey, hey - Hotch isn't going to transfer you. You're too good for that and you're part of our family, even if Hotch knew he would turn a blind eye if he could."

"Exactly, none of this even matters because of the stupid rules Pen. I just want everything to go back to normal. You can't tell anyone what you saw okay? Not even Derek."

She nods and coos at me, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. I take this as her agreement and cover her hand with my own.

"You know you can talk to me about this honey bun?"

"I know, I know Garcia but I can't right now. I'm gonna go back to the bullpen."

I'm confused, angry and almost upset and yet as my eyes find the empty desk next to mine, longing becomes the most overwhelming emotion. He's been an idiot but isn't everyone from time to time? He's still my best friend and his mom is ill and I know what kind of emotional toll he must be carrying from his mother must have just got ten times heavier.

"His Mom?" Prentiss asks, her voice drawing my attention away from the row of books that lined his desk.

I nod and meet her eyes. I've known Prentiss long enough to know the look she's giving is her attempt to not profile me but still figure out what's wrong.

"He asked you to walk him out?" She prods cautiously.

"He just needed some comfort before he left. He was aware I was still pissed at him."

She takes a moment, either to digest the information or choose an appropriate response. "Good. He shouldn't have pulled that shit last night. How are you doing?"

"I'm okay."

"I wanted to tell you, you played it off well. I can't imagine how you must have felt."

I give Prentiss a grateful but sad smile and she squeezes my hand. I think about telling her everything, how betrayed I feel and how confused I am but Hotch emerges out of his office in a rush and it drags our attention away. Seeing that he's caught our eyes, he lifts a manilla case file before saying, "Five minutes.", and we know that we've got a case. Prentiss gives my hand another squeeze before letting go and we head to the round table in a comfortable silence.

As we sit and wait for the others to show, I try to kick myself back into work mode. I'd been concentrating on Reid so much the whole morning that I find it hard to stop and his empty chair doesn't help. The caffeine from my earlier coffee must be kicking in because I'm jittery and my leg starts jogging under the table as I think until I register Prentiss noticing it and I forcibly stop myself.

I can't seem to concentrate. The others seem to just appear in front of me and then the briefing starts. I take in all the important information but I let everyone else do most of the talking. It's a set of family annihilations and it's not as if all the crimes we deal with aren't abhorrent but destroyed families are always the worse for me, especially with young kids.

"Wheels up in 30." Hotch finishes with and everyone stands up to gather their things.

"What about Reid?" I ask before immediately wishing I didn't. I feel everyone glance at me simultaneously as if in warning. I had barely said a thing the whole meeting only then to ask about Reid. It didn't even take as good a profiler as Hotch to work out where my mind had been the whole briefing.

"He'll join us when he can." Hotch replies and I'm glad that he lets it slide. Knowing him, he can probably sense my own annoyance at my attention being distracted from the work. I give a quick nod before rushing out of the room, wanting to get out of there before I embarrassed myself even more.

I think I hear JJ calling for me from across the room but I ignore it. I grab my go bag from under my desk and head to the bathroom. I drop the bag by my feet and with both hands grab the edge of the sink in front of me and stare into the mirror.

Something must be wrong with me. I've never had a problem with concentrating when it comes to working because I know how important this is. One missed detail can halt the investigation for days which can lead to more victims when we don't catch the unsub in time. I can't let this happen. In the mirror I see my face which I now regret spending so much time on in the morning. I should have slept more, maybe it would have helped and now I can't splash my face with water to calm me down since I have makeup on.

I'm in the middle of pulling myself together when I hear the door swing open. I'm standing up straight rather than leaning on the sink and washing my hands as JJ walks in.

"Y/N?" Her voice is gentle and quiet much like the tone I had used with Reid earlier in the elevator. Do I really look that fragile? I think to myself.

"It's okay to be worried, you know. I'm worried too. We all know how much Diana means to him."

"I know. I just don't want to be something else he has to worry about, like what if the whole thing on the jet was just him trying to dissuade me or, or I don't know. He must have known his mother wasn't doing well but he hadn't told me because we've been barely speaking and then we were so busy with the case yesterday and-"

"Hold on there." She interrupts, probably not wanting me to fall down a rabbit hole when we have to meet with the others so soon. "What happened on the jet wasn't your fault, he was just...an ass. And he knows it, he was looking at you with such regret the whole morning. Did he say sorry when you walked him out?"

"No, he just needed a hug. His mom assaulted someone and we all know how hard he looked for a good study for her Alzheimers, now he's worried she'll get kicked out for it."

"Oh God. Well, I'm sure he'll find a way for them to keep her." she says and I know she's right but it doesn't seem to help that much. We stand there in silence, not quite meeting each other's eye.

"You like him a lot, don't you?" She asks and I realise that this checkup is for more than what's going on with Reid. "We all assumed it was just a little crush at O'Keefes you know."

I hum approvingly as an almost silent laugh. "I suppose that makes me feel a bit better. I was so embarrassed, knowing all you guys knew whilst he was just rambling off 'symptoms of attraction'."

"He's such a nerd! Not even a 'I saw the way you looked at me' just an immediate 'your pupils dilated by 50%'." We both giggle for a minute, knowing that as much as we make fun of him for it it's never maliciously. "Does that turn you off him at all?" JJ asks cheekily with narrowed eyes and a sly smile and I shove her playfully.

"Is it bad if I say no?" I reply and we laugh some more. Usually, I was much closer to Garcia or Prentiss about personal matters but JJ was definitely the second closest to Reid after me and she had been here for many years with him before I had reached the team. It crosses my mind that he had probably defaulted back to her when I had shut him out slightly.

I dry my hands on some paper towel before tossing it away into the bin. JJ hands me my go bag and we link arms, which we've never done before. I'm not sure if it's a breakthrough in our friendship or if she wants to march me to the jet to make sure I don't delay it any longer and I find I don't really mind either option. Morgan, Hotch and Prentiss are all waiting in an SUV outside the lobby and we hop in ready to start another case.

tag list: @measure-in-pain @ilovespencerreidmarryme @spencersrose @chelsea-the-enchanted @just-arandomwriter @jswessie187 @mynameis3-14

tags that are struck through - check your privacy settings :/

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fic #spencer reid x you #dr reid #reid #spencer reid fanfic #myfics #tags please work

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ickle-ronniekins · 4 years

Text

the riot

request from nonnie!! “Hi! just wanted to say that i LOVE your writing!! I was wondering if maybe you could do like a fred imagine where the reader is a prefect and is leading the first years to the dorms the first night but he keeps pestering her and using some sort of pet name like “love” or “dear” and all of the kids think that they’re dating and tease her for it but of course she denies it. Sorry if this sucks, I’ve never done this before :( Thank you!!”

pairing: fred x reader

word count: 1.7k

A/N: i'm in love with this request, thanks so much, hope i’ve done this justice, fred weasley can tie me up to a four poster in gryffindor common room anyday, bye

tag list: @mintlibri @seppys-return-to-madness @how-do-life-does @fopdoodledane @fredd-weasley @iprobablyshipit91 @semmelsemi @cottageoflove @laneygthememequeen @snakesonaplane-7 @lupinsx @keoghans @helloallthethingsilove @bobduncanlover @dreamer821 @the-hufflepuff-of-221b @62442-am @wtfweasleyy @obsessedwithrandomthings @thoseofgreatambition @harrysweasleys @sleep-i-ness @shadowsinger11 @shadychaoticcollection @haphazardhufflepuff @afriendlyneighborhoodhufflepuff @hood-and-horan @letsfightsomeorcs | message me to be added loveys

Your seventh and final year at Hogwarts had come far too quickly, and brought with it a very dry heat at the beginning of September. A melancholy sort of feeling crept its way through your bones during the Sorting ceremony; you were both excited and woefully saddened that this was, in fact, the last Sorting you’d watch. You bit down on your lip as the very final first year, a measly little brown haired boy, made his way excitedly over to Ravenclaw, who’s table was bursting with cheers.

Although the majority of the new first years had grown up in magical families, each and every single one of their eyes widened at the sight of the feast; Hogwarts feasts were rather famous, after all. Once they’d all cleared their plates and finished their evening tea, Dumbledore bid everyone farewell and sent you all off straight to bed, as morning, and lessons, would come quickly.

You couldn’t wait to see the look on the new first years' faces at the changing staircases.

It was something you looked forward to every September 1st.

You waved over the tiny boys and girls in your house and gave them a warm smile. “Our common room is this way,” you began, pointing toward the right side of the castle. A few of them looked absolutely mortified at the sight of the very large corridors. You added, “Just follow me and you’ll be alright!”

“Ma’am?” a young boy with dark, curly hair asked. Ma’am? You couldn’t help but laugh to yourself a little bit. You were only seventeen; surely you didn’t look much older. He looked positively dreadful; first year jitters, of course. “Is it true what they say?”

“What who says?”

“The Ghosts!” another blond haired boy squeaked. His eyes were wide with wonder.

You grinned; you knew exactly what they were discussing. You made sure your voice sounded soft and welcoming; you didn’t want to scare them. It was their first night in the castle, after all. “And what’ve the ghosts said?”

“That the Gryffindor Common Room is haunted!”

“..and that we’re going to be pulled out of bed by our toenails!”

“Ew!” a few young girls in your group began to squeal and giggle.

You patted the dark haired boy on the shoulder, hoping to calm his nerves a bit. “No, it’s not haunted. Here’s your first tip for your time spent here at Hogwarts — don’t listen to a single thing Peeves says, okay?”

Just then, a bit of raucous laughter began to flood the corridors, making a few of your first years nearly jump out of their skin. Rounding the bend was none other than the group you were hoping to avoid, including those absolute gits that always seemed hellbent on making your first night in the castle one to remember.

They were so bloody annoying.

“What’re you on about, telling these lads not to listen to Peeves?” Fred hopped his way across a few steps until he was right up next to you. He leaned against the wall in a relaxed sort of state; he folded his arms across his chest and smirked at you. “C’mon, love, we all know how brilliant Peeves really is.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got a low standard for brilliance, then, Freddie.”

“That’s rude,” George piped up, elbowing you in the ribs. He continued to march up the staircase with Ron, Ginny, Harry, and Hermione at his heels, but Fred stayed put. To the first years, George said, “We can tell you loads of funny stories about Peeves — just find us in the common room, and be sure to check out our newest inventions —”

“—ah, yes, Extendable Ears —”

“—Nosebleed Nougat—”

“—we’ve got tons, don’t be shy!”

“Cut it out, you two!” you called over the now very excited group of first years, who’s laughter and applause seemed to echo up the stairs. “Could you please save your advertisements for another time, please? I’ve got to get these young ones up to the common room in one piece; they’ve got an early day tomorrow.”

George and the others continued to laugh and bid farewell to the youngins; they disappeared through the next corridor in the blink of an eye. Fred, however, stayed where he was.

“Darling, you know we’ve got products to sell.” His eyes were dark and smirk was large; another year, and he was still hellbent on sending you into a frenzy. Don’t things ever change?

Before you could answer with a snarky retort, a few younger girls began to giggle quietly, but you heard them. Fred asked them through a smile, “What’s so funny over there?”

They continued to laugh and tried to cup their hands over their mouths, but they fell into one another and giggled even louder. One of them, a very short girl with chin length hair and black-framed glasses perched on her nose, asked you both, “He called you ‘darling’. Is he your boyfriend?”

Now all of the first years were laughing. You crossed your arms and turned back toward Fred, who was licking his lips to try and help him suppress the laughter that was rising in his chest. It didn’t work. He wiggled his eyebrows at you and glanced back and forth between you, the Prefect, and the gaggle of younger students in front of you both on the stairs. He actually snorted. “Well, you going to give them an answer or not?”

Through gritted teeth and a bit of a grin you couldn’t seem to hide, you told him quietly, “I hate you.” To the students, you said, “No, he’s not my boyfriend. I don’t have time for a boyfriend. I’ve got lots of studying to do, you see. Which is why we all need to get up to our four posters, because we’ve got an early day tomorrow. First day of lessons! Are you lot excited?”

Every single one of the students ignored this, much to your dismay. Fred, however, looked just as relaxed as he did when he first arrived a few minutes ago, if not more so. The blond haired boy asked, “If he’s not your boyfriend, then why did he call you ‘darling’?”

“And ‘love’?” a redheaded girl squeaked from the back of the group.

You couldn’t help it, you rolled your eyes — especially when Fred was laughing like an absolute idiot next to you. He placed his hand on the small of your back and you stealthily smacked it away. “Because he’s silly, that’s why. Come on, now. Let’s go. The common room is just around the bend.”

Fred spent the rest of the walk toward the common room doing everything in his power to annoy you; he kept poking you in the ribs, tried very desperately to sling his arm around your shoulders or around your waist, and kept saying things that made the children fall into a fit of hysterics — Rumor has it that Gryffindor’s team is the best it’s been in years.. coming to the first match? I know you can hardly resist my playing.

Once the first years learned the password and were settled into their four posters for the evening, you walked back down from the girls dormitory only to find Fred sprawled out on the couch with a copy of the latest Daily Prophet in his hands. He sent a rather sensual smirk your way; you shook your head, marched over, yanked him by his tie and dragged him completely through the portrait hole and into the corridor.

“Bloody hell, woman, I know we’ve done some wild things, but I’m not that much into choking.”

A bright grin split your face; you couldn’t help it, he was so bloody charming, it was hard not to turn to complete mush around him. You ignored his statement, though. “First years think you’re a riot.”

“Yeah, well, who wouldn’t?”

“You’re a git, you know that?”

“That’s mean,” he pouted, inching himself closer to you. He teasingly added, “So was when you denied that I’m your boyfriend. You’ve got to make it up to me, love.” He lingered on the word for emphasis.

You draped your arms over his shoulders and began to play absentmindedly with the hairs at the nape of his neck. “Sorry, Freddie — needed to get my first years in bed in one piece, not all riled up, like I promised. I’ve got to be a role model to them, you know. And you’ve got a distracting sort of personality.”

You could practically hear the smirk that grew on his face. He pushed you slowly back against the wall outside the portrait hole, leaning his one hand right next to your head against the bricks; his free hand grabbed at your hip. He licked his lips impatiently. “Distracting in a good way?”

“In the best way, darling.”

He grinned. “You know,” he paused, eyeing you up and down as if this was the very first time he was seeing you. “Letting me tease you like that did seem to get them all riled up.”

You swatted him playfully with the sleeve of your sweater.

“I reckon you’ve still got to make it up to me, though.”

You pulled on his tie again, gently this time. “New year at school, Fred. Final year. Surely you’ve figured out a way to hoodwink the jinxes and break into the girls dorm, haven’t you?”

He raised his eyebrows at you and clicked his tongue. In a hushed whisper, he asked, “On the first night? What’s gotten into you? So much for being a role model.. don’t let the young ones see you.” His wink sent you into overdrive. It was really rather rude of him.

You pulled him closer to you; you were extremely grateful that the surrounding area was empty and tried very, very hard to ignore the talking portraits that lined the corridors. You felt him grin against you, surely thinking of what the first night back at Hogwarts would bring, and before closing the slight gap between you both, you told him,

“What they don’t know won’t hurt them.”

BONUS, because i’m a brat

“I lied, by the way,” Fred whispered once you both hopped back through the portrait hole. He rested his head on your shoulders and let his hands creep over your hips and around your stomach. “I am into choking.” #BYE

reblogs, comments, and feedback are always appreciated! thanks for reading and requesting, darlings x

#fred weasley #George weasley #fred and George weasley #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley reader insert #fred weasley fanfic #fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasley imagine #weasley twins imagine #weasley twins fanfiction #hp fanfic #hp fanfiction #my writing

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glacecakes · 4 years

Text

Slowly Led up From the Deep

Despite what anyone else (Lance) said, Eugene wasn’t a mother hen. He wasn’t! There was a distinct difference between being cautious and prepared for the worst due to living on the streets, and mother henning the shit out of everyone.

(“You mother hen the shit out of everyone,” Lance would say. “And I’m a dad. With the same past as you.”)

Case in point: Varian.

(Or: the Baron tries to kidnap Varian to get back at Eugene.)

Weeee another project! This one is a lil different tho Basically I have ideas for four (maybe more? Debating whether or not to expand to 7) angst oneshots with each oneshot pertaining to an element. So this is water, I have a plan for earth, air, fire if I decide to go thru with this. Poor Varian, sorry not sorry

(“You mother hen the shit out of everyone,” Lance would say. “And I’m a dad. With the same past as you.”)

Case in point: Varian. Following the events of… well, yknow, life , Eugene was a bit nervous about letting the kid out of his sight. After all, he got kidnapped, drugged, assaulted, imprisoned, and flung out a tower. And that was all in one day! So excuse him for being concerned about his friend's health. The guy had a death wish, and clearly someone had to watch over him or else he would die from falling, or forgetting to sleep, or setting himself on fire, and then Eugene would have a very angry beef-tittied man at his throat.

Since his redemption, Varian had quickly weaseled his way into the man’s heart, not unlike how Rapunzel did. He’d always wanted a younger sibling as a kid, and Varian fit the bill. His tiny frame and nervous demeanor made him a prime target for Eugene to try and instill life lessons into, no matter how much Varian protested. So long as he worked in the castle, Eugene saw to it that the kid got three square meals a day.

And when he’d failed to keep Varian safe...

Being trapped in unbreakable rock, helpless while Varian slid across the floor, the fading screams as he plummeted to what should’ve been his death…

Let’s just say Eugene has bolted awake to those sounds more than once.

And now he was Captain of the Guard, on top of being a big brother. Which meant that he had to oversee the Royal Alchemist’s (aka Varian’s) more… delicate experiments.

As of this moment, Varian was mixing a glowing red liquid, goggles pulled over his face. Eugene had tried to peer over his shoulder and watch, but the younger pushed him away, grumbling something about not spilling it all over.

Gloved hands wrapped around a pipette as he worked, mumbling scientific jargon under his breath. Rapunzel was able to follow along a lot better than he was, which meant Eugene had no clue what was going on.

“Hello, Allo, Varian?” He waved a hand in his face, startling Varian and nearly causing the liquid to slosh out its beaker. “Hi. Yea, I’m still here and I would like to know what’s going on.” He gave the kid an unimpressed eyebrow raise when he turned, sheepish. Clearly Varian forgot about his “lab partner”.

“Right, sorry.” Varian coughed, setting aside the pipette to hold up his substance. “So, the thing with the water tanks is that… they’re really hard to work on once they’re up and running. Right? You can’t exactly go into the tankers,” he snorted. “I mean, you could, but you’d boil alive.” His brows furrowed and he brought a free hand to his chin, deep in thought. “Actually, I don’t know what would happen… maybe…” His brain was off to the races, already miles away from the current conversation.

“Varian,” Eugene snapped, crossing his arms in frustration. Not that he didn’t want to be here, but he really didn’t want to hear about Varian’s new plan to throw someone into a vat of flynnolium to see if they’d survive. “Royal Engineer, more like Mad scientist.”

“I take that as a compliment,” Varian said, turning back to his lab table with a grin. “Aaaanyway, this stuff should, if my calculations are correct, and they are,” He added, knowing Eugene had already opened his mouth. “This stuff should dissolve stuff like rust, but only when exposed to water. So basically we’d just throw a vial of this into the tankers, wait a few minutes, and drain it. Then, tada! Sparkling clean tanks, good as new.” His voice floated with each step, bouncing around his workspace with eagerness and joy. Varian hummed under his breath, grabbing a pitcher and filling a small cup with water. Water from the nearly full pitcher sloshed around, nearly spilling onto the table as he sang along to the song in his head.

“Hey, kid, isn’t that the jug you use for drinking?” Eugene asked, walking over.

“Hmm?” Varian glanced back, not really caring, too in the zone. “So it is.”

“And it’s full, even though I gave it to you this morning?”

“Yeah?”

“Which would mean…” He circles his wrist, expectant gaze meeting Varian’s confused. The boy lifted up his goggles to reveal eyes bluer than any sky. “...That you haven’t had anything to drink?”

“I had some juice at lunch.” Varian said.

“That’s not the same.” Eugene responded.

Varian shot him an annoyed gaze. “Seriously? We’re doing this now?” He asked, a hand moving to lean on his desk. He missed, sending him stumbling, but he kept his gaze trained on Eugene.

Eugene simply hummed, walking over and plucking the red vial from it’s test tube. He placed it in his coat pocket. “Yea, we’re doing this now. No experimenting on that glass, you are to drink it right now.”

“What?” Varian’s face turned slightly green. “This thing hasn’t been properly washed in who knows when! I use it as my paint cup!” He gestured to the wall, covered in notes, writings, and the odd Rapunzel doodle. The one Varian was pointing to was a doodle of his pouty face, perfectly matching his current expression.

Eugene didn’t miss a beat. “Fine. Drink from the pitcher.”

“No!”

“Right now, chug it! Come on, you won’t do it, pussy.”

“I’m not going to chug it,” the alchemist pinched the bridge of his nose. “And didn’t Rapunzel tell you to stop calling people that?”

“No experimenting until you drink it. Captain’s orders.” Varian threw his arms up in frustration. “Why are you so against drinking right now? Come on, I know you’re thirsty!”

“I need the water for the experiment! If I drink it, I’ll have to get a refill!” Getting a refill meant going upstairs, disrupting his thought process and ruining the zone he had been in all day. It was hard to get into that state of absolute concentration, and leaving the lab would surely cause his bubble of productivity to pop.

“Oh no, a refill! The absolute horror!” Eugene fake gasped. The younger’s face burned red as his older friend draped his hand over his forehead in mock distress. “Whatever shall you do, cursed to go get some fresh air by… going upstairs!?”

Varian growled. He wasn’t going to win this argument, they’d had it often enough. But between his excitement over his invention, and Eugene’s teasing, and pulling rank… his ears burned as he took a long swig from the pitcher. He’d be dead before he told Eugene how soothing the cool water felt on his throat, how it spurred him to gulp down half of the pitcher in one go. “There.” He bit out, eyes narrow as daggers. “Are you happy?”

Eugene’s eyes, which had closed in his mock despair, opened to see the teen’s melancholy. Honestly, he was so moody over drinking water , it was ridiculous! All he was doing was making sure the kid didn’t die, oh how wicked of him.

“Yes, quite!” He grinned. “See, wasn’t that hard! I swear, you give me more grey hairs every day. How your dad kept you alive, I’ll never know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Varian asked, eyebrows raised in offense. Did Eugene not think he could handle himself?

“Well, y’know, the guy always ignored you for hours on end, the fact that you didn’t die of dehydration or starvation is a miracle,” Eugene snorted.

The atmosphere grew tense in a heartbeat. Varian froze where he stood, fingers outstretched towards the cup quickly retracting. "What did you just say?" Varian hissed, eyes narrowing as he turned.

“Just that your dad wasn’t there for you like I am.” Eugene couldn't stop the words that escaped his throat. Jealousy clawed at his mind, sinking sharp talons and cutting his common sense to ribbons. He’d been looking after Varian during his stays at the castle, both before and after he’d become Royal Engineer, and yet he was the bad guy here? He was the one who risked falling off a tower to crawl out to Varian while his dad, who was well versed in the moonstone, had decided he’d rather play with his pumpkins then get involved, despite his son being asked to translate a death spell.

“You did not just say that,” Varian growled, trying to keep himself in check. He hated getting mad, especially at his friends, seeing as he didn’t exactly have a good track record with it. “You did not just suggest that you’re better than my dad.”

“Hey, all I’m saying is that he literally let you cause earthquakes with no supervision when you were fourteen and then got mad when it didn’t exactly turn out great.”

“At least my dad didn’t abandon me for three months.”

“At least I came to save you when Cass kidnapped you.”

Varian slammed his fists on the table. “Did you even tell him about that? Or did he not know I was missing, just assumed you were taking care of me until I came home with broken ribs!?” The alchemist whirled around, marching up and planting a finger on Eugene’s chest. “He thought you guys were keeping me safe, but no ! So what, now you’re trying to make up for it by breathing down my neck? I’m not a little kid, Eugene! It’s one thing to look out for me, but a whole other to smother me and insult my dad!”

The man huffed. “I’m not smothering you, I’m concerned for you! What reasonable parent is ok with their kid forgetting to eat or drink?”

"Well I’m sorry he trusts me to! You’re just a control freak who can’t accept that not everyone needs his input! You don’t trust my judgement at all!" The anger in Varian's eyes... Eugene hadn't seen it since the battle of Old Corona. He couldn’t stop himself from what came next; it was like a reflex, some leftover anger from before.

"WHY SHOULD I TRUST YOU!?" Eugene screamed, before quickly covering his mouth in horror.

Varian's eyes widened, filling with tears. Then he carefully schooled his face back to impassive and cold.

Eugene faltered, guilt boiling red hot in his stomach. He really messed up, didn't he? It wasn't that he didn't trust Varian, far from it. From his sassy remarks to dorky antics, and the way he was so passionate about everything, it was clear that Varian put his heart and soul into everything he did, and he only shared that with the people he trusted. Eugene was honored to be one of those people. Now, he might have just lost that.

He trusted Varian with his life. But Varian's life? He couldn't trust anyone with that. It was too precious to him. He'd failed to protect Varian so many times, he just wanted to do it right from now on.

Eugene tried to reach out. "Kid, I didn't mean it like that," he began, but Varian ignored him. Instead, he shouldered past, marching up the stairs towards the main castle, pitcher in hand.

"I don't know, Eugene," Varian spat as he walked, words as bitter as the feeling in Eugene's gut. "Why should you? After all, I'm just a traitor to the crown. I could be a spy for the Baron or Saporia, you never know."

"Come on, I know that’s not true," Eugene stepped forward, moving to follow, but refrained. He could see the quaking of Varian’s shoulders, almost imperceptible to anyone who didn’t know him as well as he did. "Varian, you've come so far, you're an amazing kid, I just.."

Varian whirled around, showing that sure enough, his eyes were brimming with tears. "You just what? Fear me? Like everyone else? It's fine, go ahead! Just next time," he sniffled, brushing away an angry tear. "Next time, don't pretend to care. Don’t pretend that you are monitoring me just out of the goodness of your heart. Just treat me like the criminal you think I am.”

He left the lab, leaving Eugene alone with his still untested compound.

About a minute after Varian had stormed off, a guard poked his head in.

“Hey Captain… is now a bad time to tell you a prisoner escaped?”

He groaned.

You could practically see the steam coming out of Varian’s ears as he stomped through the castle, to the point that all the maids and guards gave him a wide berth. His cheeks puffed up as he stomped. Stupid Eugene, stupid pitcher, stupid rules, stupid stupid stupid!

“Ugh!” He cried, kicking at the ground and delighting in the scuffing noises. What did he know anyway? Varian was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, he had been for years! He’d been fine on his own in the months he’d been abandoned, after all. He didn’t need Eugene then, and he didn’t need Eugene now.

Never mind the fact that his descent into madness had been because no one was there.

He burst into the supply closet with all the fury of a thousand suns, thankful that no one was in there at the moment. His hands shook as he placed the pitcher under the pump, letting out his frustration at each up and down motion of the lever.

“What does Eugene know,” Varian hissed. “He was on his own for-fucking-ever, and yet here he is thinking that I can’t handle myself? Says he doesn’t trust me to not die, I survived just fine without him!”

He was so focused on his task, on letting out his anger and ignoring the tears that fell into the pitcher, that he didn’t hear the muffled yelling, or the shuffle of guards, or even the heavy groaning of iron on wooden floors.

The door slammed shut with a heavy thud, and Varian frowned. So much for being left alone. He didn’t want to look up, didn’t want to face who he assumed was looking for him. For a moment, the only sound was the other party’s heavy breathing, and Varian’s sniffling.

“What do you want, Eugene?” He hissed. “Come to yell at me for not taking a break?”

The other person doesn’t speak for a moment. Then, a gruff, and decidedly not Eugene speaks. “Are you talking about Flynn Rider?”

Varian startles. He glances up to see the buffest man he’s ever seen (and considering his dad that’s saying a lot) is bent over, fiddling with something on his shoe.

“...yea. Eugene.” He says, turning back to the pitcher. Odd, no one in the castle called him that anymore. Maybe this guy was a visitor? A tourist who got lost? Ambassador, even? He wasn’t sure. Despite his technically high status, he wasn’t exactly welcome in court. Which meant he was often invited to royal balls only to not know a single person or anything about the current politics. It sucked.

There’s a clink as the man unlocks something. He smirks, turning back to where Varian is distracted. “So, you know him?”

“ Know him?” Varian scoffs. At the silence, he realizes the guy is serious. “Yea, I do. He’s annoying.”

“Tell me about it.” The man gruffs. Unfortunately for him (or, more accurately, unfortunately for Varian), the boy takes the invitation.

“He’s like a big brother to me, which is nice… except for the fact that he treats me like a baby brother instead of a younger one. Constantly hovering, always worried about me. I get that he means well,” he goes on, completely oblivious to how the man’s face lights up in a wicked grin, before shuffling around the closet, searching for rope and linen. “But god, it’s so frustrating when I’m trying to do something and he’s just yelling at me to take care of myself! He just wants to, to keep me locked away or something! And then today, he-he insulted my dad, tried to imply that my dad didn’t care. I get that to him it seems that way, since he’s only ever seen my dad a few times…” he let out a sigh. “I just… I appreciate what he’s doing, but he needs to chill.”

“I don’t know,” the man hums. “I’d argue he’d be valid to be concerned at this exact moment.”

Varian furrowed his brows, eyes glancing back and forth as he tried to make sense of the statement. “What does that…?” His eyes widened as the man turned around. Long blonde hair… rope in one hand… a ball and chain in another.

The Baron smirked.

Eugene kept a brisk pace, anger and annoyance growing by the second. Of course the one time he needed to be looking for Varian, he was stuck instead looking for a maniac. Leave it to Stan and Pete to mess up a prisoner transfer.

“Any sign?” He calls as he passes a guard, who turns to keep in step.

“No sir, but we have reason to suspect he hasn’t left the kingdom.”

“Good. I want all units on the lookout.” The guard saluted and ran off to execute. Their forces would be spread thin, but it was their best bet. He just hoped no one else would run into their convict.

Especially considering his past with the bastard.

No sooner does he make that wish, there’s a loud crash, akin to glass breaking, and a scream.

An all too familiar scream.

“No no no…” He breaks into a sprint, following the source of the noise. Please, for the love of god, let this not be the case. Let him be wrong, it’s just a scared maid, he just spooked him, let him be ok…!

He skids around the corner, and his heart stops dead in his chest.

Varian was strewn over the Baron’s shoulder, violently thrashing. His arms were bound behind his back, and a cloth tied into a gag over his mouth. Tears of desperation budded as his eyes were screwed shut. Strewn at his kidnapper’s feet were shards from a vase. Said man turned, and he saw how it was broken. Varian’s legs had been tied together, with one also chained to the iron ball that had been used to keep the Baron contained. A lot of good that did.

“How on earth are you still fighting?” The giant hissed. “That chain should keep your legs from moving!” Varian glared daggers down at his kidnapper, no doubt spitting fire through the cloth the likes of which would make Lance faint.

Eugene’s shock quickly morphed as he drew his sword with shaking hands and leveled a glare. He couldn’t protect Varian the last time he was kidnapped, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to fail this time.

The Baron smirked. “Ah, Rider. How nice of you to join us.”

Varian’s eyes snapped open, trying to look over his shoulder to see his brother. Large, tear-filled eyes met dark brown in a silent plea. Their previous argument no longer mattered. All that mattered was keeping him safe.

“Let him go. Now.” Eugene’s voice was deadly level, no longer filled with its usual charm and life. “And maybe I’ll be lenient on your sentence.”

The baron hummed, readjusting Varian in his fireman’s carry. “I have an alternative idea. See, I know you, Rider. And I know how weak you are for your friends. Your family.” The last bit caused Eugene to briefly glance up at Varian, before returning his glare to the Baron. “You’re going to let me walk out these halls, and out of this kingdom.”

“And if I don’t?” He really didn’t want to ask, he knew the answer. But he needed to know. How much danger was Varian in? It was one thing to hurt Lance, an adult who already was disliked by the Baron. But an innocent kid…?

The Baron smirked. “Let’s find out, shall we?” With that, the man thrust his fist into the giant window beside him. Glass spewed from the wound, splinters causing both Varian and Eugene to flinch, the latter taking a step back. It was all the advantage the Baron needed, climbing out and into Corona’s sprawling streets.

“Fuck!” Eugene hissed, leaping after, but it was too late. The man had vanished into the maze. He only had one option left, he realized, his gaze turning to the mainland.

“I wasn’t planning on taking hostages, but you’re the Royal Engineer, hm? And Rider’s little brother. I’m sure I can fetch a pretty penny… though I’m not opposed to just killing you,” The Baron hummed, moving through the city’s alleys at a speed that really shouldn’t be possible when the man had a squirming teenager on his back. But the words had stunned Varian into submission, helpless to do anything but try and kick his chained leg. If he could just get the damned ball to move, he could potentially use it as a weapon.

Maybe then Eugene would actually trust him to take care of himself.

The main bridge was fast approaching, unguarded, with nothing stopping the criminal from making off with his prize. Wait… there! Straight ahead, a lampost. Varian didn’t need to move the ball, just get the chain stuck around it, and that should buy him some time!

Slowly, so as not to alert the Baron, he began to swing his leg, letting the ball’s momentum begin to carry. He couldn’t swing very much, its weight too much, but his timing was just right. The ball swung around the pole as they passed, hooking on. The Baron was not prepared for the jerk, and so he stumbled, Varian slipping down his grasp and tripping him further. He fell to the floor, grunting slightly in pain.

He only had one shot. If he didn’t get himself back up now , his attempt would fail. Nimble hands twisted around in his bonds, trying to slide out of the rope, but they were too tight.

Come on Varian, he thought to himself. Eugene taught you how to escape this stuff! Think! How do you get out of ropes?

His mind trailed to the post-Cassandra “Hostage 101” seminar Eugene had given (read: forced onto) him. Something about using your elbows to create a space in your wrists? No wait, that was for when your hands are in front of you! Gah!

Despite it all, Varian can’t help but let frustrated tears prick at his eyes, slicing down his cheek and cutting open his soul, leaving it raw, exposed to the elements, to this bastard. He couldn’t even get his binding undone! At least with his last kidnapping, he could not escape because it was literally unbreakable. Here, he was just too weak. Too naive. Too oblivious.

If Eugene was here, this wouldn’t be a problem. Eugene would never let anything bad happen to him on his watch, it was his job, after all. And he was damn good at it.

If only Varian hadn’t stormed off.

He squirmed forward, trying to drag himself away from the Baron and buy himself more time. But it didn’t work. The man grabbed onto the ball, and yanked hard , dragging the teen over rocks that slashed at his skin.

“I will admit, that is exactly what I should’ve expected from you,” he growled, his massive form towering over Varian. With one smooth motion, he hauled the alchemist up by his shirt collar, forcing their eyes to meet. “But you won’t get away that easily.”

“Neither will you!”

The Baron turned, a feral smirk crawling over his face as he saw Eugene’s panting form. “Rider. I thought I told you not to follow?” He clicked his tongue, more akin to scolding a small child.

Eugene didn’t back down, sword drawn and pointing straight at his prey. “Let him go. Now.” It wasn’t a suggestion, but an order.

The Baron raised an eyebrow, hand still tightly gripping Varian. “You took everything from me. My daughter, my legacy, my empire. You really think I should let him go?”

“He has nothing to do with any of that!” Eugene barked, protective rage racing through his veins and spitting out of his mouth like flames. “Release him. Or I will engage.”

The Baron teeth were bared, canines flashing. “Good.”

He turned and threw Varian off the bridge.

Time moved in slow motion. Wind whistled in Varian’s ears, ruffling his hair and sending it spiral above his head, filling his vision with raven edges. The sky seemed to shrink, growing farther and farther away.

Eugene’s horrified face from high above was the last thing he saw before he hit the water.

Water rushed up his unprepared nose, spilling into his soul as he choked and tried to spit and cough it out. But he couldn’t, gag remaining firmly in place. He thrashed, trying something, anything, to stop his rapid descent, but the heavy ball on his ankle prevented any success. Blue overtook his vision, rays of sun fading more and more along with his loss of oxygen. His ears ached with increasing pressure, more and more until finally the ball hit something, vibrations rocketing up his leg.

He tried desperately to think of something, anything that could help him, but as the fog of unconsciousness creeped ever closer, the haze growing stronger and stronger, all he could think of was Eugene .

It was his last thought before darkness overtook him.

“VARIAN!” Eugene shrieked, watching as his little brother hit the water with a splash . His horrified gaze whipped around to see the Baron calmly walking away. “Get back here!” He yelled, running forward with his sword prepared to strike the man down once and for all. It hit its target, slashing the Baron’s shirt open and his form onto the floor. Blow after blow, he whaled on the large man with fists so fast his enemy had no time to strike back. The Captain raised the sword with both hands on the hilt, preparing for the final strike in a fit of fury…

“Sure,” the Baron grinned through a split lip. “Kill me, go ahead. But you’ll be killing him too.”

Eugene froze mid air.

He had a choice to make.

He could fulfill his duty, keeping Corona safe… at the cost of his baby brother…

Just like during the blizzard, just like in the months after…

The Baron cackled, seeing the emotions flicker across Eugene’s face. “Tick tock, Rider!” He yelled, laughter ringing in the captain’s ears and drowning him in panic just like how Varian was drowning now-

He dropped his sword in horror, sprinting over to the bridge’s edge, barely able to make out a familiar shape down below.

There was no more hesitation; he dove straight down, teeth gritted as he took a deep breath and fell down into the murky abyss.

There was one small blessing, and that was that the bay wasn’t terribly deep. It didn’t exceed beyond 20 feet in depth, and while that wasn’t much, it was still enough to cause a problem when you’re fucking drowning .

His boots hit dirt level, eyes straining in the freshwater as he tried to make out Varian’s face. It was slack, no emotion, no open eyes… he was running out of time.

Think, Eugene, think! He’s dying! His panicked mind screeched. In theory, the gag and hands could wait, but the ball and chain needed to go. Where were his lock picks, he thought as he rifled through his pockets until he landed on a vial.

His eyes widened as he took it out, the red glow illuminating Varian’s rapidly paling face. Of course! The kid’s alchemy! Thank god he’d listened, god his brother was so smart!

Please, please work, he prayed, smashing the vial on the ankle chain, watching with delight as it dissolved like paper in water. Immediately, Varian started to float. His big brother wrapped his arms around him, pushing up off the floor to propel them to the surface.

He gasped, lungs aching as he treaded water, Varian’s head lolling against his chest as the captain struggled to keep them both afloat. Thankfully, the mainland was right by, and in no time he was pulling Varian onto a grassy bank.

He wasted no time, starting chest compressions the second they were both on shore. “Come on kid, come on, don’t die on me!” Eugene hissed, water dripping from his hair onto the teen’s face. “You survived fucking Zhan Tiri you do not get to die from this-”

He was cut off as Varian began to cough violently, rolling over onto his side as he threw up water. A soothing hand ran over Varian’s back, consoling him as the kid slowly came back to life.

Finally, he stopped gagging, only panting heavily as each breath felt like heaven. Clouded blue eyes glanced back at his savior, melting into relief when he saw who it was.

“Eugene,” he sighed, letting the older man pull him into a hug he quickly reciprocated.

“Fuck,” Eugene breathed, laying his chin on Varian’s head. “You ok, kid?”

“...I think I drank enough water for today.”

Eugene laughed, tightening his grip just a bit more. “Yea, ok, you got me there.”

The walk back to the castle was slow going. By the time they both got there, they were shivering like crazy, so much so that the maids took one look at them and tossed towels their way.

For now, they were settled in the infirmary, letting the doctors check Varian over to make sure he wasn’t at risk of secondary drowning. A fresh fire crackled nearby, permeating the room with a comfortable atmosphere as Varian laid his head on Eugene’s shoulder.

“Did…” Varian was the first to speak. “Did you catch the Baron…?”

“...No. He got away.” Eugene sighed, defeated. He was not looking forward to writing a report.

“I’m sorry,” Varian whispered.

“Don’t be.”

“But I am!” The teen leaned back, frustrated blue meeting confused brown. “If I had just remembered any of the stuff you taught me, I would’ve been able to escape on my own! I shouldn’t have to rely on you for everything…!” His face burned red at the admission, guilt overpowering.

Eugene frowned. “Hey, whoa. You were panicking, it’s ok to not remember! If you want a refresher I can give you one.” His eyes glanced elsewhere. “Or maybe. Someone else should. Don’t want me hovering after all.”

Varian was quiet for a moment, eyes looking anywhere but his brother as the words evaded him. “No. I… I don’t really mind hovering. Sometimes,” he added, holding a finger up. “Sometimes. It’s nice to remember you guys care. But… you need to trust me to not fall over at the smallest push.”

“You mean like this?” Eugene joked, poking Varian in the side, smirking when the kid leaned heavily and fell onto his back, resting against the cot.

“Not fair,” Varian grumbled, but sure enough, there was a small smile on his face. It faded slightly. “I’m sorry for blowing up. You were just trying to help.”

Eugene smiled, slightly pained, but still a smile. “Nah, I deserved it. I’m sorry for all the stuff I said, kid. You know I trust you with my life, right?”

Varian nodded, grabbing Eugene’s arm and pulling him down till he was resting beside the younger. “And I trust you with mine,” he said.

“Well, I would sure hope so.” Eugene snickered. “So, we good?”

“We're good.”

“Excellent. Now, I don’t know about you,” the man wrapped an arm around Varian, till he was resting his head against Eugene’s chest. “But I am exhausted. You exhaust me, you know that?”

“Someone’s gotta keep you on your toes,” Varian teased, but didn’t argue as his eyes slid shut.

“Grey hairs, Varian. Grey hairs.”

#varian #tangled the series #tts #tangled #rapunzel's tangled adventure #eugene fitzherbert #tts varian #tts eugene #team awesome

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heyitssmiller · 4 years

Text

Chop It Like It’s Hot

Chapter 8: Penne for Your Thoughts

Food and shenanigans. Need I say more?

Tag List: @peanut-in-the-goal @whataboutmyfries @raxelle-nite-in-gale @heyoitslysso @spookydiyharrypotterbat

Chop It Like It’s Hot Masterlist

@lumosinlove

“When you said you were cooking for an entire hockey team, I thought you’d stick to the basics. Maybe a salad appetizer and something easy to make that feeds a lot of people.” Dorcas looked around at Leo’s countertops, which were covered in flour, measuring cups, and homemade pasta. “This seems a little overboard.”

Leo rolled out more pasta dough and mentally took note of the different kinds he’d made so far. Linguine, fettuccine, penne, pappardelle, farfalle…

“Leo.”

“I just want it to be good, ok?” He finally looked up from his dough and rolling pin and stopped cooking for the first time in several hours. “Besides, this is a good outlet for me. If I focus on cooking, I don’t have to focus on-” He cut himself off, then added lamely, “Anything else.”

Dorcas sighed. “That’s not how you face your problems and you know it. Talk to me.”

Leo didn’t even fight back about talking about his problems. That was Dorcas’ first clue about how bad this was.

“I can’t do it.” He rubbed at his forehead in frustration. “I can’t be ok with being just friends. I can’t be ok with taking a step back and distancing myself. I can’t be ok with trying to get over them. And I don’t know where that leaves me.”

“I only see one other option here. Talking to them.”

“They’re already perfectly happy together-”

“And who says they won’t be with you?” Dorcas demanded. “You’re only imagining two possible outcomes – talking to them and being rejected, or not talking to them and keeping this a secret. But they could also be in the same position you’re in right now. The only way you’re going to know is if you talk to them.”

“I don’t think I can do that, either. Even if they feel the same, that doesn’t change the fact that they are in love with each other. I can’t get between that.” He laughed dully, and the sound tore at her heart. “My mama would kill me if I became a home-wrecker.”

“Who said love is only between two people? Leo, I know you know this. So why is it so hard to grasp now?”

She could see the second he began to shut down and sighed. “I’m going to hug you now, okay?”

“Okay.”

Dorcas wrapped her arms around him and glared at the wall. She was ninety percent sure Logan and Finn both felt the same way and clearly none of them were going to bring it up.

So now it was her turn. And she didn’t hold back her punches.

Those two hockey players were going to get a severe talking-to tomorrow.

“You guys have to promise to be more well-behaved tonight.” Logan told the team as they drove to dinner. Next to him, Finn was nearly bouncing out of his seat in excitement. “Please.”

He got several grumbles in response, but no teasing – which was a surprise.

“So are you two finally going to ask him out?”

And there it was.

“Are you guys finally going to mind your own business?”

“Nope!”

“It’s not like we don’t want to.” Finn sighed. “We just don’t know if he’s interested.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“He’s cooking your entire hockey team dinner. That’s dedication right there.”

“Also did you even watch the episodes of your show?”

“You just had to go and run your mouth.” Logan groaned, shooting Finn a look. He just shrugged apologetically as their charter bus pulled into the parking lot.

“Do you know what’s for dinner?” Someone asked from the back of the bus.

“He said it was a surprise.” Finn responded as they all filed out of the bus and inside the restaurant that had been kind enough to host them.

Leo and Dorcas were standing in front of several tables covered in food, which took Finn back to three months ago. He smiled broadly and waved at the two of them. Leo waved back and waited for everyone to settle down before explaining dinner.

“I figured a build your own dinner was probably the best idea for so many people. I hope pasta’s alright with you guys.” Leo said, then began pointing to each variation of noodle as he explained, “We’ve got regular noodles, gluten-free noodles, and then some cauliflower noodles for y’all to choose from. Then we’ve got sauces and proteins to choose from, including some vegetarian and vegan options. Everything is labeled, so go ahead and grab a plate and help yourselves!”

Everyone clambered to get in line and grabbed portions that were way to big for the day before a game. Their nutritionist watched on in horror.

Finn was watching Leo talk to Loops when Logan nudged him with his elbow. “Finn, look.”

“Hmm?” He asked, turning back around to look at what Logan was pointing to. There in front of them was a pot full of creamy white sauce, bacon, and sausage with a little label that read: carbo’hara.

Finn melted.

He’d told Leo that joke during their first conversation and how he and his brother would have it the night before every hockey game as kids. And he had remembered.

“Logan.” Finn said, not bothering to hide the yearning in his voice.

“I know.”

Dorcas was watching all of this with growing frustration. Were they blind or were they just stupid? All of this could be solved so easily with a single conversation, but none of them were willing to take that first step.

She really shouldn’t get involved. It wasn’t her business. But-

“It’s painful to watch, isn’t it?” A stranger’s voice asked. Dorcas turned to look at a girl with blonde hair and mischievous brown eyes. She stuck her hand out.

“I’m Marlene. And I just want to say that I am so sorry you’ve had to deal with the three of them for months now.”

Dorcas smiled and shook her hand. “So you’ve noticed, too?”

“I think everyone has.”

“True.”

“You’re thinking about interfering?”

Dorcas shrugged. “It’s either that or waiting for them to get their acts together.”

“And who knows how long that’ll take?”

Dorcas laughed, looking appraisingly at her new companion. “I like you already.”

The other girl grinned. “I told Leo when he was in Gryffindor that he should introduce us. He said it was a terrible idea.”

She smiled back. “He was right.”

“So I’ll take Leo, you take the other two? I’m assuming you’ve been trying to talk to Leo but haven’t had any luck.”

“He’s being really stubborn about the whole thing.”

“From all the complaining I’ve heard from the team, so have Logan and Finn.”

Dorcas rolled her eyes. “After dinner I’ll talk to them. Normally I wouldn’t interfere, but this is ridiculous.”

“Agreed. Good luck.”

“You too.”

“Hey,” Marlene spoke up, “Can I have your number? You know, for meddling purposes.”

Dorcas grinned. “I really hope that’s not the only reason you’re asking for my number.”

“Guess you’ll have to see.” Marlene said with a wink.

Oh, boy.

Dorcas was in so much trouble.

But she had other things to focus on right now.

She marched over to Finn and Logan and stated firmly, “You two. We need to talk.”

A dark-haired guy in glasses sent her a wide-eyed stare. “You’re terrifying.” He looked to his teammates. “What did you guys do?”

“Now.” Dorcas said, ignoring the others entirely.

“Rest in peace.” Glasses guy said solemnly as Logan and Finn got up nervously. “It was nice knowing you.”

Logan shared a worried glance with Finn, but they both followed her to a quiet hallway where she turned to glare at them.

“Are you two actually interested in Leo or are you just stringing him along? If it’s the latter I won’t hesitate to punch you.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Logan asked, then frowned. “Fuck, does he think we’re stringing him along?”

“So you are interested?”

Finn looked confused. “I thought that was obvious.”

“What’s the holdup, then?”

“We’re not sure he’s interested.” They shared a sad look. “He’s never given us any reason to think so.”

Dorcas pinched the bridge of her nose. “Oh my god, you three are so stupid. It’s not that he doesn’t like you, trust me – he’s terrified. Think about it. He likes two guys who are already in love with each other, which would be daunting for anybody. And he’s worried that if one of you didn’t feel the same he’d come between the two of you and ruin everything. Not to mention that if he got rejected he’d be rejected not once but twice.”

They stared at her, then turned to stare at each other.

“Fuck.” Finn stated simply.

“Fuck is right.” Dorcas agreed. “Now what are you going to do about it?”

***

“You were so wrong when you said introducing me to Dorcas was a bad idea.”

Leo laughed and turned to face Marlene. “Hello again.”

“Hey, cooking guy. Anyways, I’m in love.”

“Oh, really?”

“She’s awesome. And terrifying. And I really want to take her out on a date.”

“If you hurt her-”

“Oh my god, are you giving me the shovel talk?”

“No. All I’m saying is that we had entire class of knife skills in culinary school. She knows how to properly butcher things. You hurt her, you’d better prepare for the consequences.”

Marlene blinked, then broke into a dopey grin. “Fuck, that’s so hot.”

Leo laughed, shaking his head a little as he grabbed an empty pot and brought it back into the kitchen to clean. Dinner had been a huge success – almost to the point of them running out of food. Leo had noticed the nutritionist shooting him glares all night and made a resolution to send him an apology letter. He just hoped it didn’t affect their playing too much tomorrow.

He was scrubbing the pot down when another pot was set down on the counter next to him. Marlene shoved his shoulder to get him to move to the side a little. “Figured you could use some help.”

“Thanks.” He said with a smile as she grabbed a sponge.

“So,” She started, and that’s when Leo knew he was in trouble. “I know Dorcas talked to you earlier. And I’m sure you don’t want to hear any more of that, but I wanted to let you know that no matter what happens, it’s going to be okay. I mean, yeah, it might suck for a while, but at the end of the day wouldn’t you rather know than be left guessing forever?”

Leo stopped cleaning out his pot and looked at her, surprised at the turn this conversation took.

She shrugged. “Just a thought.”

He’d never really considered it that way before.

There was a knock on the doorframe, which startled them both. Leo turned around to see the head coach standing there.

“We’ve got to head out soon to get to our hotel at a decent time. Thank you so much for dinner! My guys will be talking about this for months.”

“I’d be happy to do it again sometime.” Leo said, then winced. “Maybe something with a more controlled portion size, though.”

The coach laughed. “That might be for the best.”

After all the goodbyes, Logan and Finn were the last two inside, seemingly reluctant to leave. Leo took that as a good sign.

“We’ll see you tomorrow, right?” Logan asked, green eyes hopeful. “At the game?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” The bus driver honked the horn, clearly fed-up with waiting. “You’d better go before they leave you behind.”

Logan and Finn gave one last wave before heading towards the door while Leo began making his way back to the kitchen.

“Hey!” Logan called suddenly. Leo turned back around to look at them. “Can we take you out to dinner tomorrow? After the game?”

Leo’s stomach churned at the wording. He gathered up all his courage, took a deep breath, and asked, “Is this a date?”

Finn and Logan beamed. Leo’s heart skipped a beat.

“I sure hope so.”

#lumosinlove #sweater weather #coast to coast #finn o'hara #logan tremblay #leo knut #o'knutzy #chop it like it's hot

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kettlequills · 3 years

Text

that world will cease to be: here in my shrine

For anon, who wanted a fic of Laat and Miraak exploring each other's bodies, and everyone who wanted a sequel to the soulmate au. Here you go: I tried. At the bottom there's a gloss of all the Dovahzul used, though pretty much all of it is contextually explained or translated.

This fic contains explicit n.s.f.w, sexual content, and is 1.8. +. Also: suicidal ideation, oral , b.d. sm, species dysphoria, light blood drinking, praise, overstimulation, abusive relationships, including featuring jealousy and possessiveness, and implied/referenced mind control and manipulation. Read at your own risk. Available on A03 here (and recommended, because this is Long).

There is an island where time does not exist. Or rather, where time has stopped, warped, turned half-counter-clockwise and decided that it would like to go four to the left actually.

Dead men stride ashfields that burgeon with last season's and four years of yesterday's summer crops. Their haunting cries part darkened smoke-clouds from a mountain that can't decide whether it has erupted and their dragon-claw boots leave no footsteps. No trace at all of them on silvery sand that thinks itself still a cliff, but a trail of dead netch and liquid-eyed nixhounds. Long-gone elves peer confusedly through gaps in ice-tunnels to a broken sky and thick air long distant from what their lips once tasted, trading the ancient pelts of great cats and wood-carved weapons made of some icy material that radiates magic with the commoners of Raven Rock. Sometimes, old Nords chase them through the snowfields up on the Moesring mountains, but that happens only in Sun’s Dawn, and everyone sensible knows to simply stay inside then. They will disappear on Tirdas, but it is Middas, all the time, until it is Fredas instead, shortly after Morndas afternoon (never morning). And that is not even starting with the month of Hearthfire, which as everyone in Raven Rock knows, is simply that time between ten and five o’clock where the sun shakes in what they have been generously describing as the sky.

The town itself is largely unchanged, for what could have been centuries now. Fethis Alor still tends his stand, the Retching Netch waits in a perpetual state of nearly closing down. Glover Mallory has yet to add a single wrinkle to his collection. Every so often, oldfolk come wandering out the barrows, shrivelled bodies that pay in ancient coins with flickers of life in death-blue eyes, but coin is coin, and if old Crescius has been working a thriving trade with the dead priest Zahkriisos in oil and coal, plenty of others in Raven Rock see no need to be stingy.

Occasionally, there are newfolk, outsiders. Furious bureaucrats from Morrowind, perhaps, come to see why their island flies colours that have not been seen since mighty dragons swept their hungry wings over every inch of Tamriel. Beggars, refugees, curious wizards, come to see the Temple. It is not often they last long before they are unmade from the fabric of expectation that links the threads of reality together, or they quite simply go mad. For the most part, though, even gods avoid Solstheim.

The Dragonborns are not known to be fond of gods.

It is best not to pay too much attention to the Temple or the dragons that live within it. Focus instead on the routine, the script, and know in your heart that time is broken and fate is a lie. Choose ignorance. The summer storms shake the ground from the Temple, Shouts of laughter and rage, growing pains, and dragons scatter from its roof like doves. It is a magical untime on Solstheim, and there are worse things than the total freedom of a world shaped by the expectant whim of two godsouled-mortals that keep for the most part to their temple and themselves.

Frea does not choose ignorance. She has been shaman of the Skaal for, at least, twelve generations, or maybe even three days, and the sight of the Tree Stone still turns her stomach. Sometimes long-dead friends are standing round it, smiling at Frea like nothing has changed at all (and it hasn’t, surely? The sun still rises on the day where Gjalund Salt-Sage brought the dragon-break into Raven Rock port), but Frea is tired now. Still young, still strong, she goes to make the same plea she always makes to the Last Dragonborn.

“When are you going to let us go?” Frea asks, over ale. This year’s season has been terrible for crops, but no one quite ever expects to run out, so the barrels remain full of thick Skaal ale that always tastes just like the last time Frea could remember having it.

She is growing to hate that taste.

Laataazin, the Last Dragonborn, is shorter than Frea, being one of those warm-blooded humans from across the sea. Their feet just lightly brush the ground from where they sit next to Frea on the fallen tree stump not far from the Stone. They wear the same armour they always have, as bright and well-used as it has been since the day they walked out of Apocrypha hand in hand with the murderer of Frea’s friends and broke the world. The only difference is their mask hangs from their belt instead of concealing their scarred spider-web of a face, its blank owl-eyes staring accusingly up at Frea.

They grimace at the ale Frea hands them, pulling the cork out with their teeth. Laat says nothing, but looks at Frea, the wisps of blonde hair that escape her hood, the air of terrible exhaustion that slumps her shoulders. They like the Skaal shaman; Frea is the sort of companion that Laat may have considered taking adventuring once, strong enough to keep up, quick enough to get out of the way, and wild enough to relish the months of uninterrupted travelling through the depths of Skyrim’s countryside.

But it has been a long time since Laataazin has gone adventuring, longer still since they have stepped foot in Skyrim. They miss it; the vastness of the wilds, the clear air, the promise of a fight and treasure to be won. Surely it must be time for a visit, soon? Laat cannot remember the last time they went. Beyond their beloved wife, there is little to draw them back there.

And I am here, Miraak presence brushes against their mind, like a touch on their arm. It is tinged with smugness.

Yes, Laat thinks, hiding their smile from Frea, you are. Did you not want privacy?

That is, after all, the reason they decided to hold their regular meeting with Frea today – it is not like Frea, not being dragon-souled, is aware enough of the passing untime to know if Laat reschedules. But Miraak has ushered them from the temple, claiming to want of all things solitude. This is impossible with their souls interlinked, but physical distance and polite-pretence is easy to arrange. It is unusual enough for Miraak to request it instead of Laat seeking the embrace of nature that it makes them immensely curious.

Miraak radiates discontent for a moment (you miss me, Laat’s chest warms), but withdraws. He is fussing with something involving water, trying not to get the sleeves of his robe wet. They do their best to leave him to it and focus on Frea.

“How long do you plan to keep us imprisoned here?” Frea is asking dolefully, as if rephrasing the question will compel Laataazin to give her an answer she wants to hear. “Trapped in this unliving existence, where no thing changes or grows as the All-Maker bade it?”

Unimpressed, Laat scowls at Frea. They kick the ash with their boots, digging with their heel a scar into the earth that exposes a scurrying beetle. That is change, right there. Not the same as the orderly march Akatosh imposes upon the land, but then, it is his rules that argue that two Dragonborn may not walk Nirn at once.

Laat is no longer inclined to listen to such rules.

Frea looks at the beetle. Something in her eyes flickers. Her loose hand drops the ale, which floods from the bottle, soaking the little scar where the beetle rapidly crawls to escape death by drowning. Curiously, Laat watches, but when the golden liquid gets too close they nudge a line of sand to dam it. The beetle, saved, disappears into the ash.

“I wish to return to the All-Maker,” Frea says, quietly.

A sudden surge of annoyance from Miraak catches Laat’s attention. Unthinkingly, they press into his mind. Through his eyes they glimpse Miraak’s bare hand – ink-veined and thin – clutching at a bar of soap, the dim outline of his body beneath the surface of the bathwater, even one knobbly knee, a hint of-

Laataazin, he chides, vexed. Laat blinks and with effort wrenches themselves away. Anchoring themselves to the feel of the wooden stump underneath them, they inhale the salty scent of seaspray and ashfall. Their boots scuffing the ash, Frea’s solid warmth against their side, the weight of their armour on their shoulders.

Are you all right? Laat asks. They are really trying not to think too much about the fact that Miraak is bathing, and that means Miraak is naked. He has never been fully undressed with Laat. They have seen only glimpses of his body beneath the robes when they have sex, his hands, and rarely, his face. Usually, Laat occupies themselves with something like hunting or sleep that distracts their mind when Miraak bathes, because Miraak is very sensitive to his privacy where his body is concerned.

Miraak is naked. And wet. Wet and naked.

Geh, he replies. I dropped the soap.

His indignation at their amusement tempts them to laugh out loud. They do not, because Frea with her gentle mortal-soul and fragile eardrums sits next to them, long legs not struggling to reach the ground at all. Cursed Nords.

Stop thinking about my naked body, he adds, and do not try to look.

Don’t be shy, Miraak, Laat teases slyly, doing their best to ground themselves in the moment, on the tree with Frea not in the bath in the temple, even as they poke fun at him. You’ve been inside me from the moment I awoke in Helgen, and I know you were still watching even when a gentleman might … look away.

They both know it is true, and though Laat is already well aware that Miraak watches them when they bathe, undress, or fuck, Miraak’s embarrassed defensiveness immediately confirms it. They have never minded - Laat has a soldier’s easy practicality about their body.

I was keeping an eye on you to make sure you were not taken advantage of in your many distractions, Laat Dovahkiin, he retorts. Laat has a vague sense of him splashing water over his face.

They roll their eyes and pull away.

“Dragonborn, do you hear me? I wish to die,” says Frea, intensely. “This is no way to live. You must know this, somewhere. Are you not tired of this unending nightmare?”

It is difficult to remain focused on Frea, because Miraak’s thoughts keep drifting to Laat like a ping on the edges of their awareness. They are soft thoughts, warm ones, shy-feeling, tinged with a little note of – is that arousal? Laat’s barely-restrained curiosity piques.

Is he trying to masturbate? It is rare for Miraak to do so. Admittedly, Laat doesn’t remember the last time he has tried without Laat sensing it and volunteering a… helping hand. No, the last time they have felt something like this from him, they followed him to the icy cell he prefers to sleep in when alone. In the memory, Miraak’s hand is hidden in the folds of his robes, but his masked face jerks towards Laat when they open the door, biting off a sound Laat is suddenly very eager to hear. Laat comes to sit beside him – ignoring his fluster, his demands – and murmurs to him about certain options they have. The night ends with Miraak writhing underneath them as they push into him, rocking him slowly against the bed while he gasps and begs, the echoes of his Voice he is desperately trying to muffle in the pillows sending shivers into the walls. There is no exact translation for ‘please, fuck me, please’ in Miraak’s preferred tongue of Dovahzul, but Laat learns that night several new ways to say it anyway.

Miraak sighs wearily, and Laat feels him cast an ice-spell in his bathwater.

Sorry, thinks Laat, sheepish.

“Please,” says Frea, somewhere distant. “Please hear me, Dragonborn. You are the only one who can wake us from this spell.”

Ni faas, replies Miraak, It is a memory I also … fondly recall.

Apologetically, they take a sip of their ale. They wince. Vile. The wines of Cyrodiil, where Laat likely hails from, are infinitely better. But Miraak enjoys the taste on their tongue, and they feel him hum where he lays in the bath.

Gripping Laat’s arm, Frea shakes them roughly. Snapped into their body, Laat blinks and glares at Frea. The Skaal is wise enough to back off, hands upraised, but her blue eyes are full of terrible sorrow when they look at Laat, no fear at all of Laat lashing out with a gauntleted fist.

“The Traitor has changed you,” Frea says to them. “He has changed us all. But you… I do not think any of the people you left behind would recognise you, Dragonborn.”

“You do not know me,” Laat signs, the shapes sharp and clipped. They are in Nirn now, after all, and their Voice would hurt Frea if not kill her if they spoke aloud. Dragons alone are strong enough to bear it. “You know nothing of the world beyond this island, girl.”

“I have heard tale of you, and when first we met… You slew Alduin World-Eater,” Frea shakes her head, slowly. “You would have helped us. You would know that what is happening is wrong.”

Laat rises to their feet, nettled by the reminder of their bitter fate, but Frea only stares at them, as if hoping something will happen. When nothing does beyond Laat’s glare, dimming into confusion at the odd look on her face, the light gutters out in Frea’s heart. Her shoulders bow, as if slumped by immense weights.

“I suggest,” Frea says heavily, “that you reflect on what it is that has changed in this time of unreality. And what has not. Tell me, what do you truly know of the lands beyond these shores that you have seen with your own eyes? Please, remember my words, Dragonborn.”

With that, she turns and crunches away over the snow.

Laat takes a step after Frea, rage bubbling in their gut like a noxious poison – Miraak, touching in concern the edges of their mind – but gritting their teeth hard enough to feel the bones creak, they drag themselves back. No. Laat likes Frea, they do not want to kill her.

They do, however, want to hunt.

Enjoy yourself, Laat thinks to Miraak, taking a moment to send him a soothing pulse. I’m going to go and catch dinner.

Don’t get something large, I have already prepared food for us, Miraak requests.

Full of surprises, today, aren’t you? He grumbles something about being much maligned that Laat ignores, already setting off at a light jog into the wilderness surrounding the temple.

It is a bitter day on Solstheim, with high winds and a brittle, icy chill. The animals are wary, and it takes Laat a few hours to find anything worth catching. Eventually, they manage to corner a small arctic hare. It is dead with a Shout, and Laat skins it with their boot-knife. The hunter in them unwinds at the kill, the blood on their hands.

Frea’s words echo through their mind. “Tell me what you know of the lands beyond these shores that you have seen with your own eyes.”

Laat considers. It has been a while since they have spoken to one of their dragon acquaintances. Odahviing and Venfokest avoid Miraak, but Odahviing at least is bound to come if Laat calls. Perhaps they will ask how Skyrim is doing.

Something about the prospect makes Laat feel a little uneasy, as if there is something they are forgetting.

When are you back? Miraak’s question is more a vague feeling of longing for their presence and a desire to know where they are than it is words, but Laat answers it anyway.

I am coming to you now.

They feel from him a definite tinge of bubbling excitement, and then again that strange anxious spark. Pruzah.

He is definitely planning something. Seething curiosity carries Laat home, to the great Temple of Miraak sprawling between towering fences of heaped dragon-skeletons, fused and warped together by thousands of years of moving ice and snow. Laat ducks under the tongueless jaws and over the fleshless claws, poised in permanent screams of rending agony. As always, they grimace. It is not their favourite of Miraak’s choice in décor.

The interior of the temple is much better, these days, its hard edges softened by the multitude of pelts that ripple along the walls like the sides of some great breathing beast. Laat has hunted all of these themselves, and it still plucks their pride to see the fruits of their work displayed so prominently in Miraak’s temple. The rabbit they pack in ice and leave in an empty brazier. It will not go anywhere.

You are skilled, he interjects into their thoughts. And also prone to cold.

Laat closes their eyes and goes to him, not needing to ask, not needing to see – Laataazin could find Miraak blind and deaf, robbed of all sense, even dead, even dying. The ties that bind them are beyond such petty things as flesh, as mortality.

Soul-of-my-soul, they think, trailing their fingertips over the thickly covered walls, the soft furs, the unyielding stone beneath. Breathing in the smoky scent of incense, the long-distant iron tang of blood and daedra. Always I come to you. Through Apocrypha, through storm, through time and fate itself, no creature could bar me from you that I would not tear asunder.

Do not keep me waiting any longer, Miraak answers, softly. Laat can feel his hunger.

He is outside in the room they usually use when sleeping together. It is fairly large, walled-off, but open to the great sky and set with wards to deter prying eyes and inclement weather. There is no furniture at all, save for a cooking pot in the corner by a fire, a small chest that holds additional blankets and other supplies, and a huge bed, made completely of stone in the Dwemer fashion. It is piled high with furs to make it soft.

The reason, of course, is Laataazin.

“Miraak,” they whisper, as soft as they possibly can, and their Voice shudders the air with a low sonic reverberation. Anything more fragile than stone would be destroyed in an exhale.

“Laat Dovahkiin.”

He is perched on the bed, masked face tilted towards them measuringly. Over his lap luxuriates a thick snow-bear pelt, his long fingers fiddling with something under it almost absently. They can just see a small glimpse of his foot peeking out of the shaggy fur, wider than Laat has expected, the curve of his arch flattening towards his clawed toes. He is wearing a robe of deep purple, belted tightly around his waist so that no skin shows in the fall of its folds around the tucked hood of his mask. But simply by virtue of how uncomfortably stiff he looks, Laat wagers his robe is only a layer thick, his gloves are nowhere to be seen, and he is not even wearing socks.

Laat starts to strip off their armour, hoping to join him in the plush furs. He shifts; his presence strengthens in their mind shivery and avid, like ghostly lips are under their skin caressing the tight strings of nerves as Laat’s fingers fumble over the buckles. An urgency makes itself known, whether it is his or theirs they cannot tell, only that it seems incredibly important that the bulky plate is gone, leaving Laat in their breeches and tunic.

“Are you hungry?” Miraak says in his rich, deep voice. “I made soup.”

“You made soup?” Laat signs, honestly taken aback. They scrub their hair with one hand, dissatisfied with the length of the limp strands. Time to cut it soon.

“I told you I did.” Miraak’s rejoinder is curt, but Laat can feel a storm of emotions inside of him, more nervousness, quiet sparks of hurt. Puzzlingly, underneath it all is vast breathlessness.

“I am sorry,” Laat signs, “I thought you meant you got someone else to cook.”

Like normal, they don’t add, but clearly Miraak senses their confusion.

“It is pea soup,” he adds, with all the snappishness of an insult, and then looks down at his hands like he is hoping they will wring his own neck for him.

Pea soup is Laataazin’s favourite. They like the warmth, the simplicity, even the odd green of it. It is the first meal they recall eating, served by Sigrid after their escape from Helgen. It is decidedly not Miraak’s.

Miraak acting strange, trying to make one of Laat’s favoured foods, wearing slightly fewer than his usual full robes, having just bathed –

“Miraak,” Laat signs, slowly. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

Miraak says nothing, but Laat can feel his frustration. Not for the first time, Laat wonders how they would have ever come to know him without a window into his soul, for his mask is expressionless, his body language has not changed at all, and his manner is anything but welcoming. Still, their heart squeezes at the thought of him taking the time to do something as simple and sweet as make their favourite soup.

“I am not hungry,” they sign, “but I would love to try it with you later.”

Laat takes a seat on the bed next to him. This close, they can see what he is fussing with in his hands. It is a coil of soft cotton rope, dyed black, and he is threading it through his hands again and again, rhythmic, hypnotic. His shoulders are tense. Understanding dawns as Laat gains a sense of what he wants.

“Want some help?” Laat signs.

The anxious movement of his hands pauses. His chin tucks close to his chest. The dim firelight plays over the gold surface of his mask, making the shadows jump and dance like the carved tentacles are twitching.

“Geh,” says Miraak. “I would relieve your curious mind.”

He trails off, but his mind does not, conveying a soft fear of exposure – unwanted, terrible, frightening, but at the hands of Laat, intriguing, even exciting. Another dragon-soul, who… knows, who has the most immediate window into how it feels.

No wonder he is being shy, Laat thinks, Miraak has never in all the time they have known each other reacted to having to remove his clothing with anything other than discomfort. To some extent, Laat even understands. They have times when their body feels wrong, too little, too soft, no teeth or claws or worst of all no wings, but for Miraak, that sense of not fitting his body never fades at all, and the marks of daedric corruption from years in Apocrypha has only worsened it.

Laat inhales. “You want me to take your robe off and touch you under it?”

They both feel the tug of arousal in his belly as Laat’s hands finish the signs. Laat’s approval at it makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle. The air electrifies, Laat’s blood warms. Already, Laat’s mind feels closer, overlapping with his, drifting in and out of seeing with their eyes or his. The rope seems to grow heavier in their - his - hands.

“Geh.”

Laat shifts to sit by his hip, trying to catch his eyes in the dark slits of his mask. Either he is avoiding their stare or the mask is at the wrong angle to penetrate the shadows.

“Tell me your watchword, Miraak.” Laat’s signs are firm but clear. They can’t hide their excitement from him, don’t bother trying, and his chest rises and falls a little quicker. Laat’s stomach quivers with butterflies.

He dithers, thinking through his choice, but when he speaks his voice is strong, steady, and confident. “Sikgolt.”

“Good,” Laat signs. They take the rope from him.

Miraak lifts his hands, and the voluminous sleeves fall to gather in indigo ripples around his elbows, baring his arms. Laataazin curls the first length of rope around his forearms and then just looks for a moment, memorising it. The contrast between the dyed rope and his sunless skin, stained murky ink-green-yellow like a slow-ripening bruise that makes Laat ache to dig their thumb in and push until it blooms purple. The green veins that fork through the softer skin of his wrists, the pulse-point that will hammer there if Laat tickles it with their tongue (and the groans that will fall from him, twisted, broken things, the bitten curses, the hungry ache).

There are scars there, just visible as thinned lines underneath the dark stipple of soap-softened hair, relics from a fraught past. His hands, thin and uncallused, a scholar’s hands still, offer up to the rope like the worshipful priest he still is (if to his own altar – Niid, zu’u losiil, he murmurs back), tipped by curving black claws that catch the light with a dim ebony sheen. He has filed them down, Laat can see the smoothed edges, the hint of dust caught under a nail that has escaped his washing.

Miraak has filed his claws so that he would not hurt Laataazin if he touches his fingertips to their bare skin, not even by accident.

The rush of admiration they feel for him is sudden, intense, and warm, warm, like the blush that climbs steadily into their cheeks. The arousal that sparks in one sparks the other, and Miraak is not as unaffected by Laat’s extended perusal as he is trying to pretend. Goosebumps raise where Laat’s eyes drag, and he grumbles and shifts on the bed.

It is false annoyance; Laat feels instead his anxiety, insecurity at having the marks of daedric corruption on display, his fear of exposure and powerlessness, the private worrying of his vanity.

Beautiful, Laat thinks, and politely ignores the confused feelings that flood through him as he catches their thought, all ending in an ember of lust. Miraak, despite his many conflicted feelings on his body, likes to be appreciated, but he finds Laat’s private, fond awareness of that fact intensely embarrassing.

“Laataazin.”

Laat’s shoulders shake in a silent chuckle.

They take his hand in theirs, smiling up at him. “Squeeze,” they sign with the other, and he obliges, gripping Laat’s hand until it feels like the bones creak. Laat makes a note of the pressure, then releases him with a gentle pat.

Loop by loop, they wrap the soft rope around Miraak’s arms six times, spreading the pressure out to protect his circulation. Checking the looseness with two fingers against his wrist, Laat tucks the tails around the loops, makes a knot, cinches it evenly, then knots it again for security. It takes a while, for Laataazin’s hands shake and tremble, and Miraak’s skin is sensitive to chafing. But as they work, Laataazin feels the rope’s increasing pressure acting upon him, the quiet, observant mood he settles into, dripped through with steady peace. His lassitude sinks soporific into the tired ache behind Laat’s eyes, and their head droops to rest on his chest.

“Not too tight,” he tells them, testing the rope. Laat skims kisses over his knuckles.

They allow him time to acclimatise to the ropes, feeling the minute tense of his muscles testing for give in the knots. They can hear the creaks of the flexing rope, his deep breathing metallic under the mask, even the distant wind blowing over the ashlands. Somewhere, a dragon roars.

Kruziikrel, Miraak identifies absently.

The fabric of his robe is silky and cool against Laat’s forehead. Beneath it, they can smell Miraak, old books, mouldy paper, spilt ink and the bitter reek of ash. From anyone else, it would be unpleasant – from Miraak, it is familiar, and thus, beloved.

Laat can feel the warm weight of their head on Miraak’s chest, the soothing hold of the rope, the robe shifting on his skin. He feels too warm, already, his breath fogging against his mask to blow soft as butterfly kisses against his dry lips. A little sleepy, too, wrung out by all the excitement and anxiousness of preparing himself for them.

“Ni faas. It was nothing,” Miraak rumbles. They can feel the vibrations through his chest when he speaks, the breath ringing in his lungs.

Their dragon soul.

It is tempting to indulge in the moment, lay their body across his legs like a pinning weight and allow them both to simply drift, hearts harmonising, breath mixing, until Laat has to untie Miraak’s hands and chase the blood to flushing. But they turn their cheek to the side, instead, so their breath skates into the opening of Miraak’s robe. He shivers.

It would be a shame to not take advantage of Miraak’s uncharacteristic willingness to be vulnerable.

Their fingers twist into signs. It takes Miraak a moment, either to parse it in his warm fog or to realise that Laat has signed, but when he does Laat relishes in the surge of indignation.

“I am not having a nap, and I am not that old,” Miraak huffs, and Laataazin laughs against his chest. It is nearly noiseless, but not quite. The furs tremble beneath them.

Wuth, they think to him. Old man.

“You’re the one whose – stopped,” Miraak snaps, and his voice loses its steadiness.

Must I do everything for you, Diist-Dovahkiin? Laat sighs gustily, teasingly, but they sit up and plant their weight square over his hips.

For a moment, they are both breathing through the sensations, Miraak’s heart thudding in his chest at the agonising burn of warm thighs squeezing his hipbones, the bend of Laat’s knees straining tight muscles from the hike to meet with Frea, the weight pressing his spine into the bed like a stone, even the arterial pulse he swears he can feel drumming his skin through the robe and their clothes pounding from the secret warmth of Laat’s inner thigh. The thought of all that blood, all that glorious heat, in their veins makes him dizzy.

Laat looks down at him and sees themselves mirrored in shadows over his mask and in his hidden gaze. The rolling slopes of their body encircle him, contain him, like a stopper in the narrow neck of a bottle. Their eyes smoke with intensity, flickers of amber red visible in the deep brown. In his eyes, they are handsome and powerful, beautiful as the killing edge of a new blade.

“You are so warm,” he tells them inanely.

“Let me see you,” Laat signs, bringing their hands deliberately wide in the movements so that their knuckles brush the blank gold face of Miraak’s mask. They want to show him his own face, his true face, the loveliness they find there among the ink-scars and exhaustion-wrung shadows.

Miraak hesitates. Old shames glare gluttonous at his vulnerability, and Miraak feels like shrinking into the safety of the mask. Is it not enough to let them do this? Must he lose every wall, every shelter, every defence he has against the rawness of this new Solstheim where bareness is unremarkable, and no one sings as dragons do? His face of flesh and skin does not even have majestic horns or tough scales - no, it is softened, wearied, by time and torture. The wrinkles he admires as they form on Laat and the steely greys of their hair remind Miraak only of the time he has lost to unwilling bondage on himself. They, after all, do not have the face of a prisoner of Apocrypha.

He is only a man. Despite the strength of Laat’s opinion of him, their dragon-soul, Miraak is only a man, and one beset by foolish vanity at that.

Laat says nothing, of course they don’t, but the swell of tender feeling is almost worse. This close, this hungry, the line between them is blurrier than it ever is. Without the mask, Miraak may as well … submit. Laat pursues the feeling, pressing into his mind, his body, until their touches feel mirrored and they are the hand that brushes and the skin that aches in response both.

Laat leans forward (catches Miraak’s irreverent thought about how so very warm they are, are they running a fever, against his bound wrists, his chest) and lifts the edge of the mask’s hood, revealing his neck. Old inkstains stripe his throat in greenish trails, splatters where he has coughed and choked on the fluid bubbling in his lungs, out his mouth. Laat can’t resist swiping their tongue over the arch of tendons, as if the coolness of their spit can smear such deeply-sunken marks. Tender kisses dot his shoulders, gentle lips mumble and mouth over the exposed ridge of his collarbones, blunt teeth threatening the bobbing gulp of the apple of his throat, sensations that spark fireworks behind his eyes. Laat’s lips tingle where they kiss him, his fragile skin papery and dry like the crumbling pages of ancient books.

They together feel his breathing fanning over his eyelids, penned in by the mask, as he tilts his head back. Exposes his neck to Laataazin, like a dog showing his belly to his master.

Beautiful, thinks Laat again, and Miraak swallows a groan.

Desire breathes like something living in the coil of his gut, drawing like a wave into his cock. The liquid movements of the robes over the sensitive flesh as Laat rocks back and forth over his hips while they kiss, sensuous, deliberate, rhythmic, just too far forward to grind against him, are exquisite torture.

Torture? Laat’s laugh is a sigh that ripples up to prickle the tainted skin under his ear. Miraak exhales roughly, flexing his wrists against the ropes to ground himself. They are edging ever closer to the lip of the mask, trying to steal it off without his notice. It is one of their more obvious designs. Not even close, soul-of-my-soul.

“What are you planning?” Miraak asks, more to reply than because he cares to know. Past experience has taught him that Laat is more than capable of using his anticipation as a weapon, stringing him on a teetering edge until he shatters like poorly blown glass in their hands.

You like it, Laat thinks, amused, indulgent as a cat in a sunbeam. Miraak, haughty, does not respond. He does not need to. The evidence that tells Laat they are right is beginning to rather eagerly tent his robe, after all.

This close he can smell the oil they use to clean their armour and weapons, and sweat, pure human sweat. Laataazin’s deals with daedra have been so much lesser than Miraak’s, and they barely have any marks, save for a wickedness in their grin as their hips roll against him that Miraak thinks must have come from straight from the Lord of Debauchery himself.

You know it didn’t, Laataazin contradicts. Their scarred nose bumps the underside of his mask as they lean forwards, palms pressing down heavy and soothing onto his chest. Hinting.

“Niid,” Miraak murmurs.

A flicker of disappointment, but Laat moves on from the mask without comment. They resettle their weight further over his hips, trapping his cock between their body and his. Miraak chokes, his arms twitching in abortive movement, like he could pull their body, their hands away. But Laat lingers, tracing the shape of his cock through his robe with heavy, palming strokes. It is so powerful a sensation that it hurts, hurts, like crackling lightning in his veins.

Miraak writhes, trying to unseat them, but Laat only rides him out like he is a bucking horse. His body undulates between their thighs and they grind down, eyes fluttering shut and mouth parting, a glimpse of their crooked teeth as they bite their lip.

Laat’s shameless pleasure in his struggle undoes him.

“Laat,” Miraak moans. They ground him with a hand to his chest, and his breath heaves like bellows against its firm weight.

Your arms are tied, Laat’s thought is involuntary, almost indistinguishable in heady lust, you just have to lie here and … take it.

They feel Miraak want to protest that he is not entirely helpless – there’s the Voice, there’s magic, they may be stronger physically but he could even flip them – yet his whole body is boneless, the ropes hemming him in sweetly, and they know if Laat just asks, he would take any amount of anything. To please them.

“Zu’u losiil, Laat Dovahkiin.” Miraak is shaky and breathless. I am yours. It is true. Without them, he would be a prisoner, lonely, bitter, still at the whim of the fates, bound to serve all his life in the hope for a taste of freedom. This service, he chooses. As they chose him, over the world.

“Good,” Laataazin whispers aloud, and the stone bed shakes. Somewhere distant, something smashes as it falls, shaken by the earthquake of their Voice.

Miraak’s eyes fly open to meet theirs through the slits of his mask, halfway through a ragged gasp. They see themselves as he sees them, scarred face is watchful, intent, their dark eyes alight with a rich glow.

“Laataazin.”

It is too much for him. Laat rubs his chest soothingly as Miraak’s head thumps back against the furs and his arms lift, futile, trying to cover his masked face, trying to hide. His knuckles meet only the coolness of his mask, smooth and hard, the antithesis of Laat’s body on his. He knows he is blushing, blotches of deep blue and yellow ink bursting like rotted flowers under the surface of his skin, knows that Laat could see it, if they open his robe.

The soul-of-his-soul thinks Miraak is good.

As if summoned, Laat deftly parts the folds of his robe and bares his chest. The bear pelt he lies on is so thick that the soft fur rises around the edges of his body like a wreath, his robe spread out beneath them like royal purple butterfly wings. The paleness of the fur and the richness of the silk all seem to exaggerate the archival yellow of his skin, warming to chlorophyll and indigo, like he is an unfinished painting given colour, depth, reality, by the paintbrush of his blush.

He is beautiful, and mine, they think, ghosting over pebbled flesh with indulgent, explorative touches. Miraak is thinner under his robes than he first appears, with jutting ribs from one-too-many forgotten meals to sustain a body that has not quite managed to process anything beyond ink with any reliability. His mottled skin is oddly smooth, hairless, and after a moment, Laat realises why.

“You shaved,” Laat signs, tapping his chest to get his attention. He lowers his arms cautiously, eyeing them through the slits of the mask. “Your beard, too?”

“Geh,” says Miraak.

Laat feels his embarrassed flush of self-consciousness. He shaved because he hopes Laat would put their mouth on him as they are so fond of doing, and does not want them to have to pick hair from their teeth. His hair grows very thick and all of it ink-soaked to dripping, leaving green stains on fabrics when he brushes against them. He worries; hardly thinks it’s beneficial for Laat to swallow any of Mora’s corruption that can possibly be avoided. Just as quickly, there is a fluster as Miraak tries to hide his thoughts from them.

Prickly and proud as ever, their dragon-soul.

“I wouldn’t have minded,” Laat assures him, their signs quick and fond at his worry. “And I certainly don’t mind you thinking of what I’m going to do to you.”

Their signs leave them free to smile, slow, wide, and Miraak shivers at the promise in it. Lightly they push on his elbows, encouraging him to lift his arms over his head so that his shoulders strain and his torso is exposed, like a sacrifice. Then, as Miraak has dared to hope, they lower their head and kiss his chest.

Laat explores, taking their time, feeling the raised lips of scars catch under their nails. He does not have many, all things considered, not half as much as they do, but there is enough to provide texture. Testament, they suppose, to his expertise with healing magic. Miraak runs cooler than they do, and as their searching hands find the secret, soft places that make him twitch and gasp (his sides are sensitive to broad strokes, but he jerks and hisses at gentle, featherlight circles over his hipbones, and the sound he makes when Laat licks a long stripe over his pectoral muscle and catches the edge of his nipple is so hungry it does not bear repeating), they feel him warm under them.

Sweat wells, bitter and acrid ink, in the dips of his collarbones, the dark hair of his armpits, his navel. Laat brushes the worst of it away and keeps going, ignoring the apocryphal reek and distracting Miraak from it before he can protest. They are determined to map his entire torso under their lips and tongue, the drugging strokes of their palms pressing against the heave of his lungs. His skin is soft and dry, curiously textured, delicate as vellum. When he blushes, sometimes the ink forms linear lines, swirls of no mortal language, as if it is trying to imitate the written pages of Apocrypha, like there are books not blood trapped underneath his skin. Laat knuckles his flesh until it fades into blotchy colours and pays it no attention at all.

They have no need for flesh-sunk knowledge and the words of magic lost to time. This is its own kind of lesson, and Laat will always rather be skilled in love than in secrets.

They hear the crackle of the fire, the wet noises of their mouth, Miraak’s moans and stifled cries. He whimpers when they give into the desire to suck on his skin until it bruises brilliant purples and blues, bright as an illustration commissioned by a master, so they do it again, again, until his nipples pinking with blood distract them. Laat torments the hard buds with quick, fluttering flicks of their tongue that make Miraak choke on a growl, and smile when they feel the tugging chains of arousal searing straight to his cock.

Miraak pants, half-wishing he let Laat take the damn mask off, because there doesn’t seem to be enough air and he feels like he is melting. It’s too much, he thinks, and Laat’s dark eyes flick up to his, measuring, probing for how he is doing, it hurts.

“Faaz,” Miraak gets out. You are hurting me. They must be.

Sensation so bright it might as well be pain has him arrested, senseless, sharp like needles in his lungs, and he is not sure where he is, only that the world is bound by the rope around his wrists, squeezing his thunderous crash of a heart into a mortal body that twists and rocks under Laataazin like it is possessed. He is aware that he is making noises, hisses and gasps and bitten off words that would embarrass him if he were more present, but Miraak is not – is gone.

He is, dimly, afraid of what is happening to his body, for he is fairly certain that sex has never been like this. With his nerves under-stimulated from years in bitter Apocrypha, Laat’s focused attention is utterly overwhelming. There are many reasons he prefers to remain clothed; safe concealment from the immensity of the world scraping at him like raw wool is one.

It always is like this, with Laat.

“You are fine, Miraak,” Laat tells him, knows he understands even if they are not certain he sees their signs, “This is not pain.”

He eases a little at their reassurance, but just to prove it, they bite him hard enough that their teeth carve welts into his flesh. Hard enough that the confused morass of sensation – pleasure, it is his and theirs, at the same moment – narrows into the piercing beam of pain, true pain. Miraak keens, and against him, Laat moans richly, reverberating.

If only – if only, but no, this truly is a rare opportunity. Laat needs to be gentle and relish the rare freedom of touching Miraak’s bare skin, not overwhelm him quickly.

Miraak bares his teeth. “I am not fragile,” he says, his pride bidding him ignore the quiver in his deep voice lodged somewhere in his stomach, and the nagging fear that he absolutely is, actually, and if Laat isn’t careful, his bones will shatter to dust like the ruined books that populate old tombs like monuments to impermanence.

“You blush so prettily when I treat you like you are,” Laat signs, cheeky. “Can you blame me?”

When they are done, though, their hands find his ribs again and push down, hard. Miraak wheezes a breath, but Laat only smiles at him, as if to say, See? We’re fine.

Miraak slams his head back into the pillows, hissing. Again with the praise. I am going to pulverise you in training later, Laat feels him think, and allows the ghostly curl of their amusement to thread like gold in his sternum.

Laat withdraws, gives him a moment to catch his breath. They check his bound hands briefly, then hum, satisfied by the strength of his grip. The break is barely a second, not long enough, just enough to admire his flustered state.

One hand tweaks his nipple, twisting it hard enough that the dull pressure will ache, the other smooths underneath the fallen robe around his hips and ghosts around the base of his cock. He reacts like their skin burns him.

“Niid,” says Miraak at once, “niid – Dovahkiin, saraan-“

The hand at his chest taps him. Laat does not move their other hand, not at all, allows Miraak to feel like he is dying, knowing that he will not.

“Your watchword, Miraak?” Laat signs. Their expression is serious, but their mouth is smiling, like they know a secret.

It takes him a moment, not to remember, for they feel the word come at once to the forefront of his mind, but to make his breathing cooperate so the word comes out steady and even. Always so proud.

“Sikgolt,” he says, at last.

“You know what to say, if you want this to stop,” signs Laat, “If not, behave.”

“I am not a pet,” Miraak tries to snarl, but his words are lost in an explosive cry when Laat spits into their hand and grasps his cock firmly with quick, rough strokes. Dry, it is just too much to be bearable, but Laat’s grip is workmanlike, brusque, and utterly unrelenting. Even when Laat smears his own ink-laced precome down his cock, it is not enough to prevent the agony of the friction.

Good, they think. Laat does not want him to be comfortable.

Miraak responds to that with a shattered sound.

Laat focuses on remaining in their own body, on the sweat-sticky shirt on their back, the slight grind and click of their wrist as they jerk him off, tries to distance themselves from the cacophony of Miraak’s thoughts. They want him to be overwhelmed, but not drag them with him to the point where they cannot be certain they will be able to watch him.

It is nice, they think meditatively, to be able to do this with him. They are surprised, but pleased, at how this night has gone, have not ever quite believed that Miraak would be capable of or willing to experience such a large amount of touch and vulnerability. After all, it took a long time of very patient compromises to reach the point of physical intimacy. Sex is studded with pitfalls, as having thick ink for blood means that Miraak’s arousal is not always reliable, and he regularly cannot bear touch, which his pride detests. Once they discovered they have a love of ropes in common and that Miraak can bring himself to ask for it, things became easier, and the rest Laat simply consigns to cultural differences he cannot explain in any way they understand, or the effects of his time in Apocrypha.

Still, Laat knows him well enough at this point to not need to think too hard about the movement of their hand on his cock. Dragging touches that form a circle for his jerking hips to thrust into, long strokes up the left side, switching to caress over the crease of his thigh and fondle his balls, rubbing that spot underneath that presses on the base and makes his eyes roll into the back of his head.

He is fracturing under their attention, their dragon-soul, twisting and shuddering on the bed like he can through movement plea for the violent pleasure to ebb enough for him to catch a breath. The mask shakes and casts golden reflections hurtling over the walls as he alternately thrusts his head back, then at once bows his body towards Laat, runnels of inky sweat pooling in the divots of his hips, staining the furs. He cries out, convinced they are hurting him, unable to register the intensity of the sensations he feels as anything other than pain.

Watching his anguish, Laat feels an erotic thrill. How glorious, to have a creature so ancient and strong under their power. They close their hand around his cock, caressing the sensitive underside of the swollen glans with their thumb. Miraak, sensing, perhaps recognising Laat’s warm appreciation, panics and jerks, his bound hands trying to interfere. Feeling indulgent, Laat lets him tug against their strength.

Laat squeezes his cockhead until he flushes turgid purple, then rubs their thumb against the dripping slit. They fuck him like this slowly, watching his balls flush and tighten up against the base of his shaft. It won’t take long. Cruel perhaps, for his mind is a mess and his body is not much better, but it always makes his cock throb.

Miraak howls like he is being murdered. His breathing is shuddering gasps and hitched sobs. He is being good, though, holding himself as still as he can through what Laat can tell is sheer stubborn will alone. His body tries to jerk away from their rough touch, and the sounds that fall so sweetly on Laat’s ears are utterly broken, but he does not wrench himself away. Miraak bears it.

He behaves.

A reward is due. Laat releases him to reposition themselves so their scarred cheek rasps against his cock and their arms are wrapped around his thighs and hips, holding him still. Miraak breathes heavily, they feel the muscles flex in his stomach and thighs as he strains to sit up without dislodging them.

“What -” His words crack off. He clears his throat and tries again. “What are you doing?”

“You’ll like it,” Laat promises. They dig circles into the bony jut of his hips, watching for his reaction. The hood of his mask hides his throat bobbing in a swallow, but Laat can see his shaky exhale. They can sense Miraak’s confusion, lust-fogged mind struggling to grasp what is happening, not even truly certain where he is, not particularly caring about anything beyond Laat, Laat, Laataazin. His thoughts are run-on strings of harsh dragon-words, difficult to parse, overshadowed by flashes of feeling and thought, lightning-bright among the seething sea of sensory overload.

Maintaining eye contact with the dark holes in the mask, Laat gives the bobbing cock in front of their face an exploratory lick.

Miraak jumps.

They do it again.

This time, he groans. Laat lowers their mouth to his cock and starts by licking him, flicking their tongue over the sensitive underside. When his hips start twitching and lifting towards them, they slip his cock into their mouth and go down, down, as if they mean to swallow him whole.

His bound hands fly to their hair, unable to get a grip on it, but Laat looks up. His mind is beset by visions of his cock hurting them, bruising their throat so they can barely speak, but Laat only shakes off his hands kindly, a strange feeling of warmth in their breast at his worry.

“I will not hurt myself,” they sign, “I have taken bigger than you before.”

So saying, their mouth envelops his cock. Their nose bumps against his hips, and they control themselves, drawing back just a little to gain a new breath, then back down. They swallow when they feel the head bump against the back of their throat, let it slide into the tight space there.

They catch an image flashing through his mind - young man, pale cheeks freckle-blazed, mask pushed up over frizzing carroty hair; “Quiet, quiet, do you want the whipping - you have to be quiet, Miraak!” Burst of coals against Miraak’s pinwheeling arm - incense and dragon rumbles overhead - “Vahlok- !?” - and Miraak rams his bound hands against his mask to cover where his mouth hides beneath it so hard Laat hears the metal ring.

Laat pushes in on his hips hard enough to bruise. They hum, quietly, but the shaking sound still catches Miraak’s attention, especially as the vibrations judder through his cock in their mouth. Name me, they think to him fiercely. Name who has you.

“Laat-aaz-in,” Miraak cries. The mask’s shadowed tentacles seem to curl and writhe like worms in the rain. His knuckles are reddening against the implacable metal, soft flesh, breakable, not enough to pierce it. They find themselves glad for once that it is there - they would not have liked to see him try to shove his hands into his mouth.

Make noise for me, my strong dragon, Laat thinks, bobbing their head even as their narrowed eyes watch him carefully, you can take this. It is for his benefit - he is still responding to their praise, to their encouragement, the iron core of his will soaking it in. It grounds him, earths him enough to birth a shattering wail rippling with the strength of the Voice.

“Niid!” Miraak tries to argue, “Laat – I cannot – I cannot-“

His mind is a mess, but they are confident he is present, that he knows where they are and what is happening. They can sense his watchword close to his mind, even lift their mouth for a moment to give him a breath to say it in.

Frustrated, Miraak jerks, and what comes out instead is “Aaz! Mercy - aaz, aaz!”

It is not the signal, so pleased, Laat continues. They are savouring the warmth of him, the throb and pulse of his veins through the soft, sensitive skin, his salty bitterness on their tongue, the reek of his sweat. A shame it would be to stop soon, for something as irrelevant as Miraak’s comfort.

“Zu’u losiil,” Miraak moans in a trembling voice at that thought.

They are reasonably certain that in the dark holes of his mask he is looking at them, so they sign to him, resting as much of their weight through their forearms to keep his hips still as they can. Still, he thrusts abortively when they try to take him down into their throat again, and Laat has to withdraw quickly to prevent choking.

“My strong dragon, I am here,” Laat asserts. “I will give you what you need. Shout if you need to, I have you.”

The wall stripes with the reflections of the mask in the firelight. He is breathing rapidly, his arms trembling lightly. His mottled skin gleams with the richness of his sweat. Miraak is trying, they can tell, but when they dip the tip of their tongue into the slit of his cock, curious to see his reaction, he breaks.

“MUL QAH!”

The thunder of his Shout rocks the room. Miraak’s Dragon Aspect roars into life, and Laat hurriedly yanks their hands back before they are pierced through by the sudden emergence of spines marching down his belly and chest, protecting his vulnerable innards. Frankly, given their choice of words, Laat is not entirely surprised. Still, the moment of distraction is all they need, and as Miraak stretches his resplendent wings, his iridescent tail, Laat swallows him down again. They hold their breath for as long as they can, encouraging him to rock into their throat.

“L- aaat,” Miraak manages. It is pleading. It has to hurt him, with how sensitive he is, how much this all is - the warmth, the wetness, the wet laps of their tongue, their breath, their humming, the flex of their muscles, the hungry pleasure of Laat watching him. If they allow him in their mind, they can feel it - the sharpness like the agonising piercing joy of being fucked with a needle, back and forth dipping in and out of flesh, pricks of red red blood lubricating the steely slide, back and forth, back and forth.

Swirling their tongue around him, Laat smirks. They grab onto the thick spines that jut razor-sharp from his hips and hold him still as they draw back up, hollowing their cheeks around him. Then down, to the accompaniment of his broken gasps and snarls. The spines make it much easier to keep him in his place. Despite his increased strength, Laat is always the stronger of the two of them. They control him like a wild animal breaking to the lash, Miraak’s power, his strength, his Dragon Aspect - they are nothing here unless Laat wills it.

You are going to take this until I make you come, they inform him. Miraak sobs.

His eyes are burning coals behind the mask, enough to shadow it. He is wreathed in horns, in fire, in the brilliance of his soul, the amber-blue scales that blaze over his chest, his arms, clinging the thickest to his scars in belts so bright it almost hurts to look at him. His bound hands are taloned and sharp, trimmed claws turned deadly knives, and Laat keeps a careful eye on them in case he tries to grab their head again.

They know he won’t. Miraak will behave for as long as they ask him to.

He slams his head back against the furs, in what Laat thinks is agreement.

It is thrilling. Triumphant desire burns in Laat, a thunderous need to break the shining, vicious, powerful creature before them, in their mouth, in their soul. His growls shudder their bones when they tease him, and his wings close around them like pressing hands on their shoulders, trying to urge them deeper even as he thrusts up. Laat resists the pressure, lets his cock scrape against their teeth as they rise up, a warning and promise both.

Miraak shudders a breath, his hands flexing into fists. His tail underneath Laat curls sinuously around their leg, angling for the fork of their legs. Laat moans as they suck him and grinds down against the muscular coil. They can feel the intoxicating ridged texture of his scales against them through their breeches, igniting sparks in the seething pressure in their belly.

They release his cock with a pop and sit up to rut harder against him, using the spikes thrusting from the bones of his hips to dictate his movement. They stare down at the slits of his mask with intense, dark eyes.

“Good,” Laat whispers, needing to vocalise their approval, and Miraak’s body locks up as he is ripped into orgasm.

All the grounding in the world cannot prevent the backlash of searing white that flashes across Laat’s eyes, the sympathetic clench in their belly and the heated lance of pure want that stabs into the base of their spine. Their hand fumbles at him, pinning his spurting cock to his belly with clumsy strokes, the other bracing themselves against the bed as it feels like shuddering waves rock the island.

Laat is even fairly certain that one of them briefly blacks out.

In the aftermath, Miraak shakes. His auroral wings curve around them both, like he is protecting them from the world. Shredded fur dusts his shoulders like snow from his gnashing horns. His come is sticky and warm on his chest, chased through with shimmering greens and blues. Laat, cheeks flushed and breathing hard, runs a finger through it, gathering some of the pearly fluid.

They lift their hand to his mask, intentions clear. Miraak’s bound hands scrabble at the edge of the mask, the deadly-sharp dragon-talons a hindrance, trying to lift it enough for them to reach him under the hood. In frustration, he tears it off. Laat hears it clatter to the floor beside the bed.

Exposed, Miraak pants. He is luminous with the Dragon Aspect, his eyes, the thinness of his veins limned as if he is lit from within, haloed by horns. Laat presses the finger to his lips and he lets it slide into his mouth obediently. He glows there, too, his teeth sharpened to lambent daggers of gold and blue. The gaunt arches of his cheekbones blaze with a green blush. His long, dark, wet hair is plastered to his forehead, dripping ink as it continues in a thick mane down his shoulders and back, speared by the flaming spires and spikes of his dragon-soul.

His curious eyes, double-irised, one malachite and ice, the other goat-pupilled and bronze, are dark with lust. Laat can barely make out his second irises behind the brightness of the Dragon Aspect. Fresh tears trace the paths of the stains on his face. When he blinks at them with his wet eyes, more follow. His thin lips hollow around Laat’s finger, and they can feel his tongue, forked in this aspect, soft, wet, warm, licking even as he draws back and releases them.

Laat cannot help the quiet, fractious sound they make at the sight of his tears, the dizzying pulse of lust. It rumbles between them like a stormcloud. His tail tightens around their leg, intangible muscles of light rippling around them like the coils of a vast snake.

“Beautiful,” they sign, “you are beautiful.”

The growl that rumbles out of Miraak is half-feral. His slitted eyes watch them, the tips of his wings brushing their back with ghostly caresses. Pulling off their shirt, Laat wipes him clean as gently as they can. They toss the soiled shirt over their shoulder, not particularly interested where it lands. Unbinding Miraak’s hands with just the slightest tinge of regret, Laat chafes them quickly to make sure the blood is flowing. If only they could keep him like this forever.

They try to avoid scratching themselves on the curving talons burning with the strength of Miraak’s Shout, but it is either that or the sharp scales that armour him like gauntlets. Pursing their lips, Laat stares at the small line of welling red across their palm.

“Hi los ahraan,” Miraak says, you are wounded, and then all at once his wings flare and his tail twists and his body surges, and Laat is slamming down onto their back. His sinuous length curls above them, flaming eyes narrowed at the cut like it is a personal offense. He leans down, great horns digging into Laat’s cheek, obscuring their vision.

Laat holds their breath, anticipation hot in their belly. His forked tongue flickers out and laves the cut. He is gentle, but it stings. When he pulls back up to regard them they fancy they can smell the tang of their blood on his breath. He rumbles at their approval, and they can feel the vibration all the way down into their breastbone. The heaviness of his perpetually wet hair falls about them like a curtain.

Laat tries to unwedge their hands, gives up and thinks instead, as strongly as they can, Remember, no magic, Miraak. It is only a little cut, not worth risking a seizure over.

“Geh,” he says. His voice is even deeper in Dragon Aspect, rough as untumbled stones creaking in ancient cliffs. His vast wings completely block out the surrounding world, until it feels as if the sky has fallen and they have been swallowed up into the gullet of Aetherius, as if Aetherius could ever be half as beautiful as the soul-of-their-soul. The wings of Miraak’s Dragon Aspect remind them of the skies of Sovngarde, flaring with impossible, vivid colours, martial flickers and deep, internal glow that cannot be tarnished by any amount of daedra.

Not for the first time, Laat feels a pang of jealousy. How come you get wings and a tail with this Shout, and I don’t? And with only two words?

“Zu tiid.” I have had time. “This Shout was my mind in my prison. Morah, Laat Dovahkiin.”

Meditate, Laat thinks sourly. You sound like the Greybeards. Can’t you just show me?

“Geh.”

But you won’t.

Miraak’s tail rubs along their leg, then twines round it like a thick vine. Trapped between their chests, Laat can feel the steady beat of his heart against their hands, the roughness of the patches of scales that fringe over his skin. They push lightly, and his wings spread as he lifts himself enough to free their hands. When he breathes, ghostly flames flicker and curl in his nose and mouth.

“Zu laan aam hi,” he says in his voice of a mountain, and Laat understands the sense of what he means from the press of feeling in their mind. He wants to repay the favour, to give Laat the pleasure they have given him.

They wriggle against him, considering, but their muscles cramp in fatigue. “That very much did for me too,” they sign, with a rueful smile, “I can’t believe you didn’t feel it.”

Miraak snorts, and pale flames shoot out to lick against Laat’s cheeks. They do not hurt, only tickle softly, like the soapy caress of water on dry skin. Well, he was rather preoccupied, they suppose, their smirk widening.

“You can give me a massage later, if you want, though,” they add, as his dissatisfaction with that answer is blatantly clear, “My back’s been giving me grief.”

“Geh,” he says immediately, with true enthusiasm, and they feel him twitch as if struggling not to flip them and begin at once.

Laat exhales in amusement. “What a dedicated servant you are,” they tease him. “If only I had a team of people half as devoted as you, I’d be living like an emperor.”

“Will this please you?” Miraak says, and before Laat can even sign his mind turns to practicalities.

His cult is the best place to start, though he is reluctant to lose many of them, but fewer than six servants is an insult of the highest degree to Laataazin’s status. Four, at least, Soskro and Mirdein were loyal blades - supplemented with Sulis and Ulf, all well-trained by Miraak himself and comely to the eye, which is important, should Laat wish a break from Miraak’s own charms. Then for variety, he could turn to Raven Rock, there is surely some soft-handed noble there craving the honour of serving Laat Dovahkiin (that Severin girl?), and perhaps that dashing sellsword that Laat enjoys, with the chitin armour and the handsome jaw-

No, no, Laat is laughing in breaths that shake the bed, No, I don’t need servants, Miraak, - sensing his mutinous feelings, they add swiftly - I don’t want them. And his name is Teldryn! He is attractive though, isn’t he?

“Geh, zu mindok,” says Miraak, unsure why they need to confirm the obvious.

“Perhaps,” Laat signs, “I’ll ask him to come join us one day, will you like that?”

Miraak’s wings tilt backwards like the ears of a startled Khajiit, and his cheekbones blaze emerald. “Rul laan,” he says, if you want, in a voice that strains to be noncommittal. But underneath that very interesting reaction there is a very real thread of baffling fear, and Laat reaches for him.

“I chose you,” they tell him, “I will keep choosing you.”

Miraak tilts his head, wary of his horns, so that their foreheads press together and their breath mingles. In that resonating voice, he murmurs, “This I know. We are the only ones who are real, Laat Dovahkiin. The others – their lives, their deaths, their pains or desires for freedom, it is less than nothing. I am here, you feel me in your soul, as I feel you in mine.”

Staring into those dual eyes, Laat cannot suppress a frisson of unease. They do not agree - how could they? It is as if he has reached down and found the darkest, guiltiest thoughts Laat regrets having, internal measures of their power against those around them, knowing, knowing, that all those who attempt to constrain them live in ignorance at Laat’s pleasure - but they feel him frown.

“Was it not I who sheltered you from the daedra in Whiterun, I who tended you when the Greybeards trained you in languages you did not know, I who comforted you in your solitude? As it was you who touched me in my cell in Apocrypha, brought me to Nirn and set me free. You alone, my equal. You would not have come to me in Apocrypha if you did not wish to stay with me, Laataazin.” Miraak pronounces each syllable separately, drawing it out as a dragon does. “You broke my chains, and now we are together, and so we will always be. It was not I who offered this choice, if you recall.”

“I do.” He is right in that. “Other people matter, Miraak. We all have lives, no one... is more real than the other. But you don’t have to worry. I still choose you, I am not letting go.”

Miraak’s nostrils smoke. “You will never have to, Laat Dovahkiin. My Voice sings your name. There is nowhere you can go that I cannot find you.”

Laat breathes out slowly and chooses to hear the devotion in his words rather than the threat to their freedom. If he does not fear their interest waning as he claims, they do not know what it is that he fears. They offer him a thread of their own affection, warm regard softened by their intimacy, and his slitted pupils dilate. His shimmering wings soothe against his back, and the Dragon Aspect flickers away.

With that, he rolls off them, casting an ice spell in one hand to cool himself. Frost sheens over his skin, crackling over the soaked robe. It melts in rivulets, taking his inked sweat with it, running down to freshly stain the furs, until he looks streaked with stripes of his natural paperiness like a painted statue in the rain. The sopping darkness of his green hair clings to his shoulders and neck, curls in long strands dragged straight by the weight down to his hips.

As Laat’s eye lingers on the exposed line of his thigh, loops of graceful text begin to appear out of the ink below. They tear their eyes away before their mind can convince them they understand it, and stare at his face until the itch of temptation subsides.

Laat is not certain what he is thinking of - they feel strange, deep musings turning over in his mind, in languages they do not know - but he seems content enough, if quiet.

They tap him to get his attention. “I wasn’t done touching you. Do you need to get dressed now?”

Miraak looks down at the robe clinging wetly to him like he has forgotten it is there. One hand rubs at the bridge of his nose, irritatedly brushing away a lock of hair that drips tears down the angle of his jaw. After a moment, his gaze rises to meet theirs, bolder than they would have thought without the mask.

“Niid,” he says simply. “How do you want me?”

Laat smiles and moves over the bed towards him, feeling his eyes trace over their bare chest, the softness of their belly, their strong shoulders, the slight sway of the relaxed muscle and fat of their arms. An ember of his appreciation warms the blood in their cheeks as they reach his legs.

Lifting his left foot into their lap, Laat kisses his knee. The shape of his bones are fine against their lips. He looks back at them, brows raised, but wedges some of the furs behind his back to support himself, and does not pull away. His foot flexes. The hard claws catch in the fabric of Laat’s breeches, pulling free a loose thread, and they pause to gently untangle him.

He has strong legs, muscled by years of dragon-riding. Laat runs their fingertips over the hard bumps and dips of the thick, crisscrossing calluses and scars that abrade the insides of his legs, imprints of dragonscales made permanent in his flesh. They rub the muscles they can feel underneath it, unsurprised to find them loose and limber. They kiss the soft crinkle of the side of his calf, just under his knee, smelling the warmth of his skin, his musty scent of books and scale.

Their tenderness affects him. Miraak leans towards them, wanting to touch, Laat watching the folds of his loose skin dimple at his waist. Obligingly, they shift closer, hip angled between his thighs, and draw his right leg into their lap instead, palm warm on his knee. He is cold from the ice spell, enough that their skin numbs.

His large hands reach for their face, drawing it to face him. His hands cup their cheeks – they feel him become aware, suddenly, of how small Laat is in comparison to him, how his palms almost eclipse their cheeks, his claws tangling into their short hair. Laat closes their eyes, sighing at the gentle scratch of his blunted claws over their scalp. It is unutterably soothing.

His thumbs brush over the thick spiderweb of scars patterning their face, depressing the cartilage of their nose. Their lashes brush their cheek, his exploring fingers over the thinness of their eyelids, careful of his claws. Lifting to encircle his wrist, not trapping, but touching, just touching, Laat squeezes him and they both sigh at the spreading warmth of lassitude.

“Can I kiss you?” Laat signs one-handed, their movements small and restricted by the circle of his arms. They know he can feel their subtle sort of longing, quite apart from sexual lust that burns like coals in their belly, and even a little nervousness. Nowhere to hide from the soul-of-their-soul.

Miraak hesitates. Laat winces at the confused storm of feelings washing over him, his desire to please and curiosity warring with old fear and instinct. Like any dragon, he does not, as a rule, like having his voice obstructed.

It is not the first time they have asked him, not the first time he has acquiesced. Nor even the first time that his face has been fully bare, not just Laat’s head under the warm darkness of the hood, the metal face angled up to let them just reach his lips. Quick brushes, sometimes longer, where Laat curls their hands into his robes and pushes against him, some bright sparking feeling in them, the forbidden soft warm wetness of their tongue ghosting along his lip, the brilliant spark of their blunt teeth scraping his lower lip until pain waxes, hot and hungry. But it never quite grows easier for him, even with the increase of pleasant memories.

His eyes soften. One hand drops, rubbing over their shoulder, admiring the round cup of muscle filling his palm, the indent of their tan flesh marking under his thumb’s claw. This is Laat Dovahkiin, who brought him from Mora’s cursed Apocrypha, who anchors him to Nirn, who keeps him company on his lonely island and wraps him in soft ropes like he is precious.

Laat is patient and radiates calm. They interpret for him the confusing signals of their bodies, the tightness in his gut that makes him feel like he can’t quite breathe (arousal, affection) the oversensitive pain of his hips and thighs (just a little muscle tiredness), and the throb of his airy mind (the pleasure of submission, soul-of-my-soul).

They know that he does not understand why they desire to put their mouths together so (to restrict his Voice? To gag him, to bite out his tongue? And thus disarmed, choke the air from his lungs? No, no, soul-of-my-soul, Laat whispers in his mind, for pleasure, only that…), but it is… important to them, and it is enough that they want it. For Laat Dovahkiin, he will do this thing.

Something in Laat melts when he thinks that.

“Geh,” says Miraak, unable to quite hide his trepidation.

He tugs them a little closer, his free hand trailing over the meat of their shoulder, stretching over the sharp forks of lightning scars on the back of their neck. Strokes over their muscled back, admiring the folds of their flesh. Laat is fat and warm where he is thin, ghostly, their solidity and weight as unquestionable as the earth. He moves the hand on their cheek to their chest, splayed wide over the ridges of their collarbones, the swell of their small breasts, feels the gentle movement of their breathing. It is only natural to crook his other leg around their body, holding them within the circle of himself, like they are a ship in his whirlpool. How odd, then, that Miraak feels as if he is being pulled into their orbit, not the other way around.

Affection brims in Laat at this thought. They reach into his mind, seeking to feel how he feels, measuring his reactions.

It is Laat that bridges the distance between them when Miraak is unable to, slow and patient with the unconscious reflex that has him jerking back before their lips meet. They simply wait for a beat, then close in regardless, hands squeezing his thigh meditatively. It is grounding.

They feel him think their lips are full, very soft and warm, uncharacteristically undemanding, treating Miraak as if he is a tender thing that must be lulled into peace. Soft, heady brushes of their lips over his closed mouth, sometimes diverting to dust along his cheeks, his jaw – once even, the tip of his nose, making him snort reflexively. Laat laughs at that in their silent way, the puffs of their exhales warm as their kisses on his lips.

Their eyes close when they kiss him again, and they feel him watch their face, close enough to see the near-invisible span of freckles buried under the scars, the faint gleam of sweat on their forehead, the rich curl of their eyelashes. The scraggy tufts of their hair dusting over their cheekbones, the warm shadows clinging beneath their eyebrows.

This is the good thing when they want to kiss him, Miraak thinks, for they come so close he can see every crinkle and crease of their skin, and he can fill his hands with their body.

He runs his hands up and down their spine, and their body yearns towards him like a plant in the sun. Laat sighs when he finds a tense muscle and undoes the knot with his thumb, and smiles when he lingers over their ribs, fascinated with the slow movement of their breath, the rolls and curves of their strength.

Close your eyes, Laat thinks, softly, softly, close your eyes, and open your mouth.

He obeys with a ripple of nervousness, but nothing happens for a long moment. Laat just keeps kissing him, close-mouthed, gentle, until Miraak eases. Their tongue, when it comes to flick lightly at the crease of his bottom lip, surprises him, but even more so is the hazy release of their exhale from their mouth and nose. Their breath is close enough that Miraak could breathe it himself. They feel his flare of excitement at taking and tasting the air that carries their Voice inside himself, and he clumsily nudges closer.

Laat obliges him with a speed that betrays their true eagerness, feels his head swims under the sudden influx of warm, warm approval, pride and pleasure, and their breath, tinted, he thinks, a little, with the power of their Thu’um. They stay like that a moment, Laat’s hands bracing on his stomach, breathing into each other. Miraak’s mind is clouded and warm where it tangles with theirs, as if it’s full of cotton.

Laat wants to kiss him so badly it feels like they want to devour him, greedy with their indulgence, wants his lips, his tongue, the warm wetness of his mouth. The urge to just take it, to fuck his throat with their tongue, is so strong, and they cannot help the way their hands dig into his sides, tense with their restraint. But this is good, they think, a little reluctantly, and there is no need to push on this. With this, Laat has patience on their side.

They pull back to let Miraak breathe properly, but do not go far. Their foreheads press against each other. Laat swears they can feel the hollow thudding of his heartbeat in their chest at the place where their souls meet like tributaries.

“I only moved slightly, there is no need for all this… excitement,” Miraak mutters, but his voice sounds a little destroyed, and Laat grins.

They move to pull away, but Miraak catches their face in his hands again, preventing them from going too far. Laat blinks at him, warm and steady like a cat, and sees their own face reflected in his eyes, his soul, their blown pupil, the way their mouth parts, almost automatically, at the proximity.

“You enjoy it so,” Miraak says, a little bemused.

It is not often that they manage to surprise one another, being as interlinked as they are, but Laat is truly shocked when Miraak furrows up his brow and boldly presses his cold lips to theirs. He has never initiated a kiss, not once, Laat has never thought he would. They feel his determination, shot through with threads of insecurity – am I doing it right? They are not responding – and, classically Miraak, his hands tighten on their cheeks, holding them in place, redoubling his assault instead of pulling back. It is a clumsy mishmash, and they bump noses and once clash teeth, but it is the best kiss Laat has ever had.

Afterwards, they lay down next to each other. Chilled, Laat wraps themselves in the furs they pull over from the drier side of the bed, sighing at the feeling of the cosy softness. Miraak presses up close behind them before they can roll back to face him, their bodies separated by the furs. Laat’s heart warms.

“Want me to fetch your robes and mask?” they sign, knowing he can see over their shoulder.

His nose against their hair shakes. “Niid. Like this I am fine.”

Miraak, insistent and affectionate as a cat, rubs and nuzzles his face against the back of their head and shoulders. His arm curves around their waist, pulling him flush against them. Laat can feel his warm breath against the shell of their ear. Involuntarily, Laat thinks of the warmth of his dragon-wings, how large they are. Larger than his arm, for certain.

Pulling back, Miraak’s lungs billow with air. He Shouts, and the shimmering wings Laat has just been thinking wistfully of drape over them like a blanket. His tail curves around them, hemming in their body against his. They can feel the bladed tip against their stomach, the point made dull by their thick swaddling of furs. It is immediately warmer in the safe cocoon of his wings.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Laat can’t help laughing as they sign, ignoring the stony bed vibrating underneath them, “It was only a thought!”

“Fah hi.” For you. The resonance of his voice echoed with the tenderness of the feeling they can sense in him seems to make his every word louder.

Laat is still for a moment. “I do love you,” they sign, eventually, the burning of their eyes making them glad that they are facing away. They clear their throat.

Miraak’s grip tightens. “Zu’u losiil, Laataazin.”

I am yours. Laat sighs, and wonders if he will ever learn that love and possession are not the same. Though they are not sure that Dovahzul has a word for love, not in the way that Laat means it. Is it even possible for him to return the sentiment in the language he prefers?

For some reason, this line of thought summons Frea’s face before their mind, her sanctimonious words, and Laat’s mood sours.

Sensing their disquiet, Miraak hums against them soothingly. “You are troubled.”

“Frea wants to die,” Laat signs. “I don’t know what to do about her.”

“Do you not like Frea?” Miraak asks, and they feel him turning faces and names over in his mind, struggling to recall which of the many people of Solstheim Laat means. The Skaal woman? He does not associate with the Skaal much - they are not overfond of him, and Miraak is likewise not fond of being called a monstrous traitor by people he must refrain from killing.

“I do.” Laat touches the twitching tip of his tail, as if to soothe his momentary annoyance.

“Then keep her,” Miraak says, as if the answer is obvious. “You will miss her if she dies.”

“But she is unhappy!”

They feel Miraak’s shoulders move in a shrug. “You know my Shout,” he says calmly.

At that, Laat jerks their elbow into his ribs and wriggles. Miraak’s enfolding wing lifts hesitantly, enough for Laat, sweating, to work their way down to lying on their back. Thus freed, they jab a finger in his face as they sign.

“That’s wrong, Miraak! It is immoral to compel someone to go along with you just because it’s easier!” Miraak’s fire-bright eyes blinks at the finger in his face, all four pupils narrowing to focus on it. Laat deflates. “It doesn’t last that long anyway,” their motions are jerky and frustrated, “it would wear off then Frea would cleave me in two with her axe, and I would certainly deserve it.”

“Only because you use it like a hatchet, Laat Dovahkiin,” says Miraak, gaze returning to Laat’s eyes, “blindly superimposing your mind over another. Bend Will works best as a suggestion enforcing a desire or pattern that is already there. Simply find what makes them happy, find what is a barrier to your will, and remove it. The Skaal girl wishes to live as she once did, yes, free to worship her god? Then with your words allow her to do that, and her mind will do the rest.”

Laat’s hands lowered. “I didn’t know it could do that,” they sign, meek, unsure whether the feeling in them is horror or awe.

“With time and patience, the limit to my Shout is your will and the breadth of your imagination,” Miraak explains. He lowers his wing again, slowly, as if fearing that Laat will push it away. “With skill, you could encourage a resentful Greybeard to become a career warmonger, or a compassionate enemy your staunchest defender to the grave, all of their own volition.”

Some strange tinge of unease roils in the back of their mind. Laat touches the wing, feeling the bony spur of the joint, the leathery membrane, unsure how to respond.

Miraak’s voice is quiet and persuasive. It rumbles like the song of earth into Laat, through each bone, each thought in their mind.

“What is worse,” Miraak murmurs, so soft, so low, so deep, “allowing a good woman that you care for to die, or bringing her many more years of happiness and joy through the use of one Shout? A lifetime of bliss with one you love, all for speaking three words? How could you deny her that?”

“I suppose,” Laat signs, but they cannot meet his eye for guilt.

They feel him observing them quietly, some strange dissatisfaction in him that they cannot identify.

“I will do it,” he volunteers suddenly.

“What?” Surprised, Laat glares at him. “No! It’s unethical! You cannot force someone to be happy, or to stay with you simply because you want them to! It would be nothing but a lie.”

For a brief moment, Miraak scowls, the jagged crown of horns and his glowing teeth making him look truly fearsome. But then his expression smooths. “Dismiss it from your mind, Laat Dovahkiin,” he says, gently. “It is simply handled, and already agreed.”

“Don’t hurt her,” Laat signs anxiously, searching his face, “You’re just going to talk to her? Don’t-”

Raising a taloned hand, Miraak clasps theirs to stop their words. He gives Laat a soft, odd smile. “She will not even remember we have spoken,” he promises. “Only where there was frustration and pain, there will now be joy and peace.”

He strokes their hands with the backs of his talons with immense tenderness, nuzzling in close to with his breath and careful rubbing of his sharp cheekbones caress the warm hollow of Laat’s neck. With his touch and his mind he lulls them, sending soothing waves of affection and warmth, feelings of safety, recalling to them the ache in their muscles from sex, the tender sweetness of their kisses. His nose fits under their jaw as if it has been made for him, and despite themselves, Laat sighs. It has never been wise, loving him. But how can they help it? He is the soul-of-their-soul.

“Zu’u aam hi unslaad,” he whispers, with the air of a promise, “rii se dii zii.” I serve you forever, essence of my soul.

They reach for his hair, combing the thick wet locks over his shoulder, avoiding the spines on his back. Droplets of ink run down their arms as they begin to braid, loose and messy.

“You worry too much about people that are not worth your time,” Miraak says, and by his smile Laat supposes he means it lightheartedly.

With a heavy heart, they allow themselves to be cheered, and offer him a small smile in return. “Who should I worry about? You?” they tease, not entirely how much they are joking.

He smirks. “You could.”

Despite themselves, Laat chuckles, hearing the distant crack of stone in their Voice. They tug on the messy braid of wet hair they’ve made, and Miraak goes, a tingle of arousal running through him at the sensation. Laat kisses his cheeks and nose, making his dual eyes flutter shut as he sighs.

“Why,” they sign one-handed when he opens his eyes at their lack of movement, fingers so close they brush his cheek, “you attempting to take over the world again?”

“Niid,” says Miraak, his taloned hand coming to cup their face with the tenderness of a man who knows he is touching something immensely precious, “I have the best of it here, and that is everything I desire.”

With thanks to thuum.org:

Geh: Yes.

Laat Dovahkiin: Last Dragonborn.

Ni faas: lit. no fear. No worries/it’s fine.

Pruzah: Good.

Sikgolt: lit. rune place. Library.

Niid: No.

Zu’u losiil: I am (emphatic) yours.

Wuth: Old.

Diist Dovahkiin: First Dragonborn.

Faaz: lit. (you cause) pain. You’re hurting me.

Saraan: Wait.

Aaz: Mercy.

Los ahraan: (You) are wound(ed).

Mul Qah: Strength Armour (Dragon Aspect Shout)

Zu tiid: I (have had) time.

Morah: Meditate/think deeply (upon it).

Zu laan aam hi: lit. I want to serve you.

Zu mindok: I know.

Rul laan: When (you) want.

Fah hi: For you.

Zu’u aam hi unslaad, rii se dii zii: I serve you forever/ceaselessly, essence/soul of my spirit/soul.

@argisthebulwark as promised.

#inkwrites #minors dni #my fic that world will cease to be #not safe for minors #tw possessiveness #tw jealousy #tw blood #laataazin #mind control #skyrim #tes #miraak #fic

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cloudyskywars · 4 years

Text

Back to December is about Anakin and Obi-Wan and here’s 2,000 words why

So there I was, listening to Back to December, you know, as one does. And then I nearly started crying because this is without a doubt an Anakin and Obi-Wan song. I roped my friend @renegadeontherunn into doing a full song analysis with me. The whole analysis is based from Anakin singing this to Obi-Wan immediately after the events of Return of the Jedi. So everyone’s a Force Ghost, and feelings ensue. Enjoy the angst!

The analysis will be below the cut, because as I said, it’s approximately 2,000 words.

I'm so glad you made time to see me/ How's life? Tell me, how's your family?/ I haven't seen them in a while - Obi-Wan’s family was the Jedi. And Anakin has spent the past twenty five years hunting down the Jedi, eliminating them one by one. And now that he’s one with the Force, he’s gotta be wondering, “Are the other Jedi here too?” because he may not have realized it, but they were his family as well. I’m just imagining Anakin asking Obi-Wan where everyone else is, and Obi-Wan having to tell him that not everyone stayed with the Force the way that he and Yoda did.

Your guard is up and I know why- Obi-Wan’s guard probably wasn’t up, but Anakin would expect it to be. He rightfully feels guilty, and probably expects Obi-Wan to hate him and not trust him anymore.

Because the last time you saw me/ Is still burned in the back of your mind - on Mustafar, Anakin literally burning, the image no doubt haunting Obi-Wan ever since. In Obi-Wan’s 20 years on Tatooine, how many times do you think he replayed that memory in his mind? You were my brother Anakin, I loved you/I hate you. (grouped with previous two lines)

So this is me swallowin' my pride- Anakin as a Force Ghost, standing in front of Obi-Wan. He’s asking, begging for forgiveness, even though he knows he doesn’t deserve it. Anakin was always prideful for a Jedi, and this is him humbling himself and asking for Obi-Wan’s forgiveness (for so many things; Order 66, turning to the dark side, killing the Jedi, killing him)

Standin' in front of you sayin' I'm sorry for that night - the night Anakin fell to the Dark Side, their fight on Mustafar, and also probably the last 20+ years of him as a Sith and causing so much death and destruction. He’s sorry for so much, but especially that night when everything went wrong.

And I go back to December all the time - he revisits that battle in his mind constantly, still hating Obi-Wan as Vader, but feeling deep (deep deep) down, an enormous sense of regret and guilt, and especially at the end when he reunites with Obi-Wan

It turns out freedom ain't nothin' but missin' you - We see in Episode 2 that Anakin feels that Obi-Wan is constantly holding him back, preventing him from reaching his full potential (feelings no doubt put there by Palpatine) Once he turns to the Dark Side, he believes he is stronger than ever, (“I’m stronger than the Emperor, I can overthrow him.”)and so most likely feels “free” from Obi-Wan and the duty of being a Jedi. But we know that he learned, eventually, that all the Dark Side brings is loneliness and despair. “It is in this blazing moment that you finally understand the trap of the dark side, the final cruelty of the Sith — because now yourself is all you will ever have.”

Wishin' I'd realized what I had when you were mine - Anakin spent much of his time as Obi-Wan’s Padawan feeling less than and like he was never good enough for Obi-Wan. Then, when he finally became a Knight, he still felt held back by the Jedi. In reality, he had a substantial support system there waiting for him, ready to help him, that he never realized existed. He had the tools and the people he needed to be a successful Jedi and to have a happy life and to stay in the Light, but he didn’t use them. And now he’s wishing he had. That he’d recognized his and Obi-Wan’s friendship when he’d had it.

I'd go back to December, turn around and make it alright- Can you IMAGINE the regret Anakin is feeling right now? After 25 years of being the terror of the galaxy, Darth Vader, he has finally returned from the dark and knows all the bad things he’s done, and now recognizes that they were bad things. He slaughtered younglings, helped strike down the remaining Jedi, even took away the clones’ free will. Just imagining the pure regret that he must be feeling at this moment.

These days, I haven't been sleepin' - REVENGE OF THE SITH ANYONE??? We know for a fact due to the Matthew Stover novelization of ROTS that Anakin was getting almost no sleep during the events of the movie. I believe when he Fell he had been without sleep for,,,, at least three days? (I think it was five but I’m not sure) Anakin please take a nap. Nightmares!!! But also, as Vader, I’m pretty sure Anakin doesn’t actually need to sleep or at least doesn’t need a ton of it, so again he’s literally not sleeping and only sustaining himself on the Dark Side.

Stayin' up playin' back myself leavin'- Do you think- do you ever think that during his time as Darth Vader, he would constantly replay those days when everything fell apart in his head? I’m specifically thinking about the scene where he marches on the Jedi Temple. Granted, in that scene, he isn’t leaving, per say. He’s returning home, but it is no longer the place he calls home. I imagine that scene playing on repeat in his mind, because that’s the moment that he passed the point of no return. Before that, yes, he had already screwed up, big time. But he hadn’t crossed the line yet, I don't think.

Then I think about summer, all the beautiful times- At this moment I’m sure he’s feeling loads and loads of guilt and regret, as discussed above. But I can’t help but think he’s also thinking about the good times he shared with Obi-Wan and Padme. (Padme specifically because of summer and Naboo for that one good week, where they fell in love and it was beautiful.) And although his relationship with Obi-Wan was strained near the end (and eventually fell apart) there were good times, times that they both cherished. During his time as Darth Vader, he probably looked back on those memories with hate. But now that he’s Anakin again, he is probably remembering those times fondly.

I watched you laughin' from the passenger's side- [insert gif of Obi-Wan smiling in the speeder]

And realized I loved you in the fall - in the Fall. This could be for either Anakin or Obi-Wan. There must’ve been a part of Anakin that knew he was lying when he shouted “I hate you!” and felt happy when Obi-Wan said he loved him. And for Obi-Wan, he knew he loved Anakin, he had just never said it to him before. The only time he did was when Anakin had Fallen and was dying. And he probably regretted that with every piece of himself during his exile on Tatooine.

And then the cold came, the dark days - There are so many instances where Palpatine is connected with the cold, with darkness, with everything that is the opposite of the Jedi and, more importantly, of Obi-Wan. The darkness referred to here is the Dark Side, when it became overwhelming and Anakin fell.

When fear crept into my mind - Anakin’s already-intense fears of never being good enough or Obi-Wan not reciprocating Anakin’s love were intensified and heightened by Palpatine’s influence and him planting even more fear and doubt into Anakin’s head. This fear and this doubt in his friendship with Obi-Wan was ultimately one of the reasons he fell. Yes, it was his fear for Padme’s life that really did him in. Anakin was known as “The Hero With No Fear.” But there at the end, he became a person full of fear, and as we know: “Fear is the path to the dark side … fear leads to anger … anger leads to hate … hate leads to suffering.”

You gave me all your love and all I gave you was goodbye -Again, this is Anakin finally realizing that Obi-Wan did love him, that he was a good Master for him, and it was Anakin who hadn’t seen it, who had betrayed him. There is a quote from the book Lords of the Sith in which Vader acknowledges his betrayal of everyone he loved. Palpatine: “‘You were a traitor, were you not, Lord Vader?... To the Jedi. To Padme. To Obi-Wan. To all those you loved.’ Vader: Vader did not know the answer his Master wanted to hear, so he simply answered with the truth. ‘Yes.”’

I'd go back to December, turn around and change my own mind- Talking about guilt, again. Without a doubt, Anakin would go back to where it all went wrong if he could. He wouldn’t turn, he’d save Padme, he’d do everything differently if he could.

I miss your tan skin, your sweet smile/ So good to me, so right- Obi-Wan was so good to him. Obviously in a platonic sense. But Obi-Wan was the best Master for Anakin, and you can’t change my mind. Even if they had a rough start and maybe Obi-Wan should have had some time to recover from his Master dying before he took on his Padawan of his own, but I digress. He did the best he could with Anakin, and was most likely far more patient and understanding than other Jedi Masters would have been. Of course at the time, Anakin did realize this and only resented Obi-Wan. Hindsight is 2020, and Anakin would have only realized after everything went down how good Obi-Wan was to him.

And how you held me in your arms that September night/ The first time you ever saw me cry - This one doesn’t exactly fit because apparently Anakin and Obi-Wan never hug in canon and that is a crime (Filoni and Lucas I’m coming for you). But I am pointedly ignoring canon and choosing to believe that when things got really hard or bad, (after Satine died, maybe even after Ahsoka left the Order) they hugged. Maybe it was a sad hug, the kind where one of them breaks down in tears and the other just holds them as they cry. But I am confident that they have hugged, so this line applies to them. Fight me on it, I dare you. (I’m kidding but only partially)

But if we loved again, I swear I'd love you right - After realizing how wrong he was in becoming Vader and how his relationship with Obi-Wan wasn’t one-sided, and especially after seeing the pure, selfless love of Luke, which ultimately brings him back to the Light, Anakin is no doubt thinking of the millions of ways he could’ve done better. He wants Obi-Wan to know how sorry he is and that, yes it took him all these years, but he’s learned his lesson. If he could do it all again, which he probably wants to, he would do it right this time. He swears to himself (and to Obi-Wan) that if he just gets this second chance, he’ll do everything right.

I'd go back in time and change it, but I can't- Anakin knows he can’t go back and fix everything, no matter how much he may want to. All he can do is ask, beg, even, for Obi-Wan’s forgiveness

So if the chain is on your door, I understand - the metaphorical chain isn’t on Obi-Wan’s door, of course, he’d always welcome Anakin back. He wanted nothing more than to see Anakin succeed as a Jedi and be happy, and so of course he’s ready to see Anakin again, to forgive him. But still, Anakin doubts Obi-Wan’s love and his own worth and braces himself to be rejected, even though Obi-Wan’s arms are open. (this might be niche but think: doctor who, “You betrayed my trust, you betrayed our friendship, you betrayed everything I ever stood for. Do you think I care for you so little that betraying me would make a difference?”)

And, that’s it! If you read this entire thing, Fiona and I love you from the bottom of our hearts. As you can tell, we feel a lot of things about this song, and hope you enjoyed our analysis!

#back to december #song analysis #thank you for inspiring us caroline with your song analysis #taylor swift #how do i tag this?#fiona tag!#this was a lot of fun #but also i nearly cried #so i hope y'all enjoy our rambings!#also we didn't really proofread so i'm sorry for any errors

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eryiss · 3 years

Text

Ship: Freed x Laxus

Rating: Mature [References Bullying and Homophobia]

Prompt: AU Rivalry Teamup

Summary: Sent away to a delinquents academy, Freed knew life wouldn't be easy. That was proven to be the case when he met Laxus, a cocky, aggressive arse who used his fists over his words. At least, that's what he thought when they first met, but things can change over the span of a year.

Notes: This is the sixth submission for Fraxus Week, hosted by @fuckyeahfraxus. This one has a brief descrition of bullying and period typical homophobia.

Links: Event Masterlist ||| Archive of Our Own, Fanfiction

The London School for Delinquent Boys

Year 1890

Location: London, England

"We've a new boy in class today," The teacher – Mister Porland, that's what he'd called himself – said as Freed stood before the blackboard. "Freed Justine. I expect you all to behave and not cause any trouble with him."

Freed would have picked another way to be introduced if he'd been granted the choice. He would have much rather not had an introduction at all, and instead he'd slip into the back of the classroom, wave off all the questions that would be aimed at him, and try and get through the first day without any complaints. Instead, he'd been forcibly marched to the front of a class of about thirty sixteen-to-seventeen-year-old boys – all of whom had been taken from regular education and placed in a disciplinary academy – and been served up almost on a silver platter.

He had to wonder if this was a punishment in and of itself. A hazing from the teachers.

It wasn't that he was intimidated by them, of course. He'd earned his place in the school just like them, and he could more than handle himself, but he didn't care for the fuss. This was as close to jail someone of his age and social stature could undergo and, due to an enthusiast habit of reading and a slight flare for the dramatic, he'd decided prison rules might best serve him. Rule number one was to keep your head down.

A few jeers, exclamations and a patronising whistle filled the room, quickly quietened by the teacher. Freed made an effort not to pay attention to it. Animals, all of them. At least he could be safe in the knowledge that he held moral superiority over them, not that he'd state it out loud. Idiots tended not to like being told that.

Keeping his head down would be harder than he thought.

After he was allowed to take his seat, he was forced to walk through the lot of them to the back of the classroom. The jeering continued, albeit quietly, and someone tried to trip him as he walked. He ignored them, and nearly got to his seat when a particular classmate caught his eye. He wore an arrogant sneer, had a scar running down his face, and had shoulders larger and broader than a student their age ought to have.

Freed would have thought the boy attractive were it not for the look of challenge in his eyes, one Freed knew all too well. This boy was testing him, wanting to see if he would be a victim in the school or someone to be respected. To show him, Freed halted his step, made eye contact with the boy for a few moments, and then continued walking to take his seat.

A little 'hm' was the blonde's only response, but Freed paid it no mind.

Two weeks passed before the blonde actual did anything. The two weeks consisted of Freed getting used to his new surroundings, idiots trying and failing to one-up him in the hopes of looking tough in front of their idiot friends, and the blonde's presence being constant but in the distance. That changed when the blonde approached him in the dinner hall.

"Hey," The blonde grunted in greeting, storming towards Freed. His body was tense, coiled up and ready for a fight. "You think you're better than me or something?"

Freed didn't know why the blonde thought that, exactly, but his response was instant. "Better than you, yes."

He felt that was a fair way to think. The blonde had proven himself to be nothing of note intellectually, he barely spoke in lessons and when he did it was usually to make an unwarranted joke or to get an answer wrong, and he seemed quick to anger. More than once, he'd lurched at another student, looking ready for a fight he'd probably win. The fights never happened exactly, but they seemed like a constant risk. So yes, Freed did think he was better than him.

"This whole thing might 'a worked out in yer old school," The blonde growled, taking another step forward. Freed didn't flinch. "But actin' like yer hot shit and that yer smarter than everyone here ain't working. You're here like the rest of us, and you ain't better just because your pa's got money."

"I don't think I'm better than everyone here," Freed retorted, also taking a step forward. "But I am better than an idiot who can't shut up and takes his hobby by rolling around in the mud, somewhat like a little pig. My betterment was never in question."

The insult wasn't his best. The reference to the blonde's position in the rugby team tenuous at best, and Freed's supposed superiority complex might have shone through – but it annoyed the blonde, so it served its purpose.

He would have rather not been shoved in the chest, though.

Stumbling back slightly, Freed made a choice. He had been told in no uncertain terms that he wasn't to get into another fight, it was partially the reason he was there in the first place, but the blonde deserved a punching. He seemed to be something of an unofficial head-boy, and the fear of him was obvious to anyone who would look, and as such Freed felt a punch to the face was long overdue. He was a student like anyone else, and while others might want to lie down and take it, Freed didn't.

That was why he punched him. It hurt more than he thought it would.

Their fight was hardly that. It lasted less than a minute, and anger overpowered its elegance. Freed perhaps got another two punches in, and received one in return. Teachers were storming over the moment it started, and were dragging them away before it could get out of hand, but Freed felt good to hit the bastard.

"Laxus Dreyar, Freed Justine," Their head teacher yelled, voice filled with a rage that Freed felt was slightly exaggerated given the situation. "My office, now."

As Freed was dragged – literally dragged, which again was an overreaction – into the office, he was sure of three things. He'd already completely failed in his goal of not bringing any attention on himself; his father was going to find out and want him thrashed for getting into a fight again; and Laxus Dreyar had perhaps the most interesting name he'd ever heard.

---

"You heard what he did?"

"Nearly killed him."

"Apparently they're gonna kick him out."

"Nah, he's the team captain."

Freed didn't pay attention to the conversations happening around him as he ate. After three months of being in the academy, he'd learned it was best not to. Most of the people had nothing of interest to say, and the people who were interesting were the ones likely to try and start a fight with you if they knew you were listening. He'd learned that when a younger boy, Natsu, tried to punch him and Freed had ended up dumping a bowl of cereal over the man's head and temporarily strangling him with his tie. The detentions and lack of breakfasts for a week had been worth it.

In truth, he'd forged a comfortable place for himself in the school. He was known as the boy who gave Dreyar a black eye, and that title came with its perks. Mainly that most people would leave him alone. He and Dreyar had… something. He couldn't tell if it was a truce, or simply a stalemate. But either way, Freed would enjoy the calm and only reignite the fight should Laxus need another punching.

Other than that, Freed was forgettable in the school. People ignored him, he ignored them, and everyone went on as if he hadn't arrived. The school was fine – teachers were far too happy to punish, but that was to be expected – and their lessons were as good as his old schools had been. Had his parents been scammed, the tuition fee had been high?

His parents were an issue. They hadn't visited, but they were in constant communication with the head teacher, and apparently their 'donations' meant Freed was put under a spotlight by the staff. Maybe that was why they were so quick to punish: they were being paid to do so. Annoying, but it could be worse.

The food, however, was abysmal.

Mashed potatoes and sausages would be a good meal, but the potato was half cooked, and the sausages were tiny. He'd eaten as much as he could stomach within a minute, so he absently played with the food with a slight huff. The rain, as tended to happen in England, was heavily pouring and Freed knew the moment a teacher saw he'd stopped eating he would be forced into the yard for recreational activities. The eating hall was at least partially warm, and he had to admit that the conversation behind him was of interest.

"What's that got to do with anything?" One boy shrugged.

"They don't wanna piss off the rugby team, they all worship him," The other explained. "If they kick him out, everyone gets angry about it, and they fight back. They'll never do it."

"You didn't see the kid," The first dismissed. "Half dead. They've gotta do something."

"Doesn't seem like Laxus to just beat a kid up for no reason," The second argued, and Freed did have to agree. Laxus was an argumentative and aggressive man, but he did tend to stick to people his own age. Mainly those who knew how to fight back, as well. "The kid must have pissed him off."

"Romeo, nah," The first laughed, and Freed frowned. "Kid's nothing. Wouldn't bother Laxus."

Romeo. Romeo Conbolt. It took Freed a moment to put a face to the name, and when he did his fork stalled and his body tensed. He had heard the rumours of a kid being beaten half to death, of course he had, but he hadn't heard who it was. He wouldn't have cared, were it not for the fact he had seen days prior the beating Romeo had endured. Laxus hadn't been the one to beat the kid, it had been a group of six of his classmates.

Freed had stopped it, of course. They were all thirteen, he was seventeen and the boy who got into a fight with the school's toughest figure, so they scarpered when he yelled at them to stop. He told the kid to go to the nurse, and saw the issue as finished with.

Had the kid used Laxus as a scapegoat? Or had it been the group of brats?

Either way, Freed was a man of principles. As much as he wouldn't mind seeing the back of Laxus and his insistence of approaching problems with his fists, it wasn't fair to have him blamed for something he hadn't done. Especially when a grown man beating a kid was something that could get him taken from the school and placed into an actual jail. That wasn't fair. He stood, and quickly started to walk towards the head teacher's office.

"Enter," The headmaster, Mister Fernandes, said once Freed had knocked on the door. Freed entered, and waited in silence. "Mister Justine. It's rare you're here voluntarily."

"I suppose so, sir," Freed agreed, ignoring the insult. "Sir, I have a complaint to make."

"Of course you do," Mister Fernandes sighed, removing a pair of spectacles, and leaning forward in his chair. "You do know that this is a disciplinary institution, and I don't act on the word of my students. If you have issues with your treatment then it's not my concern."

"I understand that sir," Freed assured him. "But my complaint is more about the treatment of another student: Laxus Dreyar."

"You needn't worry about that," Mister Fernandes dismissed the complaint, despite the fact Freed had yet to make it yet. "I know that you and he have something of a… personal vendetta against one another, and I'm sure that the rumours about what he has done have reached you. I will be following a strict set of procedures which will likely end up with him incarcerated for what he did to a younger boy. He'll be out of your hair soon, so don't concern yourself about it."

"That is not my complaint."

"If this is something to do with your silly feud then I'm really not interested by it," Mister Fernandes sighed. "As I said, he'll most likely be out of here within the month. If you can't be civil for that long then that's a bad reflection on your own character. And boys your age really should be fighting their own battles."

Freed bit back a retort, wanting to point out that the time he did try to fight his own battle he was dragged away and reprimanded. Instead, he calmed himself and spoke again with the level of respect a teacher believed they deserved.

"Laxus wasn't the person who attacked Romeo, sir," He said, and the headteacher paused. "It was a group of his classmates. Six of them, I believe."

"And you know this how?" Mister Fernandes asked.

"I walked in on them doing it, sir," Freed admitted, not flinching when the teacher looked at him with sharpened poise. "They stopped when I approached, Romeo went to the nurse's office and I expected him to tell you who actually was responsible, rather than placing the blame on Laxus. Had I known earlier what he'd done, I would have spoken to you sooner."

Mister Fernandes took a moment, thinking before sighing. "He did, actually. He gave me a list of names, before returning a day later stating that it was actually Laxus to blame, and that he'd lied initially as he was worried about the consequences."

"And you believed him?" Freed asked before he could stop himself.

"Are you questioning me, Justine?"

"No, sir."

He was.

"You're dismissed, Justine. Thank you for speaking with me," Mister Fernandes waved a hand in his direction, and Freed nodded curtly and went to walk away. "It was big of you to do this, Justine. Well done."

"It's what's expected of me, sir," Freed dismissed.

"Good man," Mister Fernandes nodded, before waving Freed off again.

Freed left, closing the door behind him. He immediately turned to the right and started walking towards the courtyard, which was still being battered by the heavy rain. As he walked, he was completely unaware that Laxus was leaning on the wall outside of the office, looking at Freed with an expression of mingled bewilderment, disbelief, and belligerent respect.

---

The idiom that the enemy of one's enemy was one's friend was a complicated one. It was limited, didn't work for all situations, and seemed to fall apart under any scrutiny. Freed had long since decided that it didn't make much sense when thought about, and yet he found himself subscribing to the idea when it fitted him.

That was the reason he found himself walking into the rugby team's changing room.

Laxus seemed to notice him approaching the moment Freed walked into the room, and stopped mid-way through changing into his kit to stare Freed down. Freed wasn't put off by the intense and lingering gaze of the man, walking towards him without hesitation. The room seemed to quieten around him, and Freed couldn't be sure if it was because of his presence in the room or because Laxus apparently changed in the back corner away from most of his team. That worked well for what Freed wanted, at least.

"The hell are you doin' here?" Laxus said, voice growly and angry sounding. He always sounded like that with Freed, but it seemed more intense today. Perhaps this how he acted before a match.

"I have a favour to ask of you," Freed stated.

"No," Laxus rebutted immediately.

"You might enjoy doing it."

"Wouldn't be a favour, it'd be an opportunity," Laxus smirked, seemingly proud of himself. Freed had to give him credit, it was somewhat clever. "So, what's the great and powerful Freed Justine need from a man like me? Lessons on how to be an idiot; that's what you keep calling me. Or is it a few tips on rolling around in the mud? Y'know, because that's all rugby is, right."

"The captain of the team you're playing," Freed began, rather than rising to the bait. "Hurt him for me."

"What?" Laxus asked, a laugh tainting the word.

"Hurt him," Freed repeated. "Kick him, punch him, give him a concussion if you're able to. Or perhaps accidentally kick him in the balls, that'd be rather nice to watch. Just do whatever you can to make him cry."

"Why?" Laxus grinned, clearly enjoying this.

"You're playing my old school's team, and he's the reason I got sent here in the first place," Freed admitted, ignoring the quirked eyebrow he got. "He deserves more pain than he gets, I suspect. I want you to remedy that."

"And why should I?" Laxus said, voice a little taunting as he continued to change into his rugby kit. Freed forced himself to ignore the strong body that was revealed to him when Laxus removed his shirt. "We ain't exactly friends, are we? Maybe I'd have more in common with him than I do with you."

"Do you need an excuse to hurt someone?" Freed asked, and Laxus held his gaze. Freed eventually relented. "I can tell you the team's weaknesses. The coach wont change tactics and so they can be exploited."

Laxus thought for a moment. "Nah, you don't need to. I'll do it."

"You will?" Freed asked. He… honestly hadn't expected that.

"Yeah," Laxus nodded. "So long as you watch. If I'm gonna put on a show, I wanna know I'm gonna have an audience."

Laxus pulled on his shirt, much to Freed's quiet disappointment, and sat on the bench before his locker. He leant against it and looked at Freed expectantly, who was looking back with confusion and disbelief. His arrival in the changing room was stupid at best – he'd seen the man who had gotten him there in the first place and old resentment bubbled up faster than Freed would have liked – and as such he had thought Laxus would dismiss him. It's what Freed would have done were the situation flipped.

"Why?" Freed asked.

"This place is shit, anyone would wanna punch the guy who put 'em here. I don't get to do it, but it'll be fun to do it to some other guy," Laxus shrugged, standing up and cracking his back when the coach called for the team to leave for their warmups. He stepped past Freed, but halted once they were all alone. "Be there, pretty-boy."

"What?" Freed stammered slightly. Had Laxus just…

"You think I don't know the reason you're here?" Laxus chuckled a little, but it lacked the edge it normally did. He lowered his eyes slightly and spoke softer than Freed was used to. "You two get caught? Or did he catch you with some other guy and squealed on ya?"

Freed shouldn't answer. He and Laxus weren't friends and admitting anything to him was stupid, but he found himself whispering, "The latter."

"Fucker," Laxus growled, equally quietly. Freed didn't know what to think of it. "Yer right, he needs a kick in the balls. I'll handle it."

"Thank you," Freed whispered.

"Don't worry about it," Laxus dismissed. "Besides, I guess I kinda owe you for stopping me from getting expelled, don't I?" Freed frowned a little. That had been half a year ago, and he didn't know that Laxus even knew of it. Laxus didn't seem to notice Freed's change in body language and continued talking with a smirk. "And, you never know, having a pretty little rich boy watching me might make me play better."

That was all Laxus said before slowly dragging a knuckle over Freed's cheek in a gesture so light but so intimate that Freed felt a shiver run over him completely. Laxus grinned at him, pushed his knuckle against Freed's lips for a split second, before leaving Freed alone in the locker room, heart racing and eyes wide.

---

"How did you know?"

"How'd I know what?"

"The real reason I'm here."

Both Freed and Laxus were sitting on the school house's roof. Laxus had been taking a drag of his cigarette when Freed had approached him and sat bedside him, and the blonde absently offered Freed one. He didn't take it, and for a few moments they had been sitting in silence before Freed had broken it.

It was the last day of the school year. Freed would be dragged back to his home, where his parents would no doubt have a list of grievances about his behaviour throughout the year. His father would make threats about how if his behaviour didn't improve immediately, he would be punished off the back of the man's belt. Nothing would come of it, of course – the elder Mister Justine stopped punishing Freed that way the moment Freed was of an age where he could fight back – but the yelling would be near consistent. It always was when Freed met with his parents now.

He wasn't going to complain. There was no point. Instead, he was going to tie off the loose ends of his school life, particularly with Laxus. Because, when it came to the beautifully, and now somewhat flirtatious man, Freed really didn't know where he stood.

"It's obvious, when you've been here for long enough," Laxus explained, puffing out a stream of smoke. "Yer not obvious, I don't mean that, but when you've been here for years you look out for the signs."

"And what were the signs?"

"You never spoke about why you're here other than saying you got into a fight. I'm guessing it was with the guy who told on ya," Laxus shrugged a little, shifting slightly so that his side was pressed against Freed. "Everyone here wears their story like a badge of honour. Getting into fights, beating kids up, stealing from places. They're all good stories and get's you a lot of credit in a place like this. The worse you were, the more respect you get," Laxus chuckled. "There's only one thing that gets you in here that you don't talk about. Yer queer, and you get found out."

"You don't talk about why you're here," Freed pointed out, and Laxus turned to look at him with a lazy smirk.

"My dad saw me with the neighbour kid," He laughed. "He wasn't even good looking, felt sorry for him really and wanted to know what it's like to kiss a guy. But dad walked in, threw a fit, and I've been here since I was thirteen."

"That's awful of him."

"Maybe, but this place ain't so bad once you get used to it," Laxus shrugged again, leaning back against the wall he was resting on. "Kinda funny, really. I'd say about a quarter of the guys are here for the same reason we are. If you know what to look out for, you can have a pretty good time."

"You could have told me," Freed laughed a little. "I've been rather bored."

"If I told ya, I wouldn't have you all to myself," Laxus grinned, and blew a puff of smoke directly into Freed's face. Freed simply quirked an eyebrow. "I've been spending the last couple of weeks showin' off to ya on the field and I think it was working pretty well. Hardly fair on me if I got you all excited only for ya to use it on some other guy."

"You're a manipulative man when you want to be, Laxus," Freed smirked, leaning just a little closer to Laxus. "But you haven't done anything yet, have you?"

"Maybe I want ya to be desperate for me," Laxus whispered, voice low and rumbling. "Maybe I'm waiting for you to make the move on me."

"If that's true, then maybe you've waited long enough."

They were close now, and Freed wanted to be closer. Laxus' hand was resting against his thigh, and Freed leant further in. He could smell the smoke on Laxus breath, see the slight dilation of the man's eyes as he grinned, and slowly brought their lips together in a slow, tentative kiss.

His first kiss. A beautifully electric, smoky kiss that set Freed's very soul on fire.

He tangled his hand into Laxus' short hair, tugging at it slightly and relishing the slight groan that he was given in return. Laxus pushed into him further, and Freed practically melted.

Eventually, when a harsh gust of wind flew over them and shook them from the spell of their kiss, they pulled apart. They were quiet for a moment, the gravity of what happened only just hitting Freed. He had just kissed the brutish, angry, brilliant man he had once expected to hate, and had felt more alive than ever before.

"You better be here next year."

"Nothing could stop me."

"That's right, pretty-boy."

They shared a smirk, and leant forward to reignite another perfect kiss.

#Fraxus Week #Fraxus #Freed Justine #Laxus Dreyar #Fairy Tail #Fanfic #Writing #One Shot #1800's AU #Rivalry AU #Boarding School AU #Word Count: 4.2k

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