#so pale that his skin reflects every color of light that has ever graced it and I dont know what to do with it

[secondjulia]

Procreate experiments in the form of Dream of the Endless.

[floralcavern]

Working on my character design and writing up character descriptions

Solaria’s godly form: Golden, fiery hair that’s shaped like a candle in the wind with skin as white as wax. Blazing eyes as black as scorched ash. A permanent glow surrounds her, like the sun in the darkness of space. She shot up like a bamboo shoot, now towering any mortal to have ever existed. Despite how terrifying she is, her blazing beauty is a sight to see. She’s tempting to stare at, like the sun in the sky. Gradients of golden orange ran up her long, graceful arms. Her limbs stretched out nimbly, like sun rays reaching for the Earth. Her dress seemingly disappeared, replaced by a brilliant light enveloping her body.

Nox’s godly form: His skin darkened like a shadow setting in. He was the embodiment of darkness. His eyes are like sunken in craters, a silver light emitting from the hollows. The silver bells on his outfit seemingly melted into his skin, creating starlike spots along his arms and chest. His hair went from black to a type of darkness so indescribable, staring at it was like staring into the void of existential nothingness. His body became like mist, a ghost standing at a distance, forever bound to the fog engulfing him. There was no telling when the mist, the body, and the air stared nor ended. He was one with every little shadow around him.

Spexik: Bright, shining, long, golden hair that flares sharply toward all directions, like a bush set ablaze. Waxy skin that shifts colors depending on the angle the light hits him. Elegant white, silky clothes and a fiery red cloak billowing behind him. His eyes are like an eternal bonfire, brilliant and blinding. He has a halo glow around him, the light seemingly stretching toward every path. He’s dashingly handsome, but it’s clear how dangerous he is, as if stepping too close is a sure fire way to become a pile of ash. But he’s tempting to be near, soothing you by seeming warm, but he grew more and more unbearably warm by the minute. With a golden sword at his hip, it’s obvious he is always ready for combat.

Lunid: Her hair was long and flowy like the northern lights, but pitch black with a few stars and constellations dappling the darkness. Her skin was smooth and pale, like cut marble. Her eyes were eerie to stare into, caliginous voids of nothingness. No light reflected onto her. She seemed to be like a black hole, where anything too close is sucked in and lost forever in a pit of tenebrosity. But despite her dark demeanor, she has such a kind smile, like a full moon offering comfort. You would’ve expected a woman so dull, so frigid to be callous as well. While she emitted airs of frost, it was clear she was a warm person. Her long, silver dress hung loosely and casually off of her shoulders, and while seeming so elegant and dainty, it was clear she was laid back.

[danydragons21]

The Shadows That Sing: Ch. 9

Elriel Multi-Chapter Fic

Chapter 9 is up, and it’s definitely one of my favorites. I just love writing Vassa’s character!

Read it on Ao3 here: 

Shoutout to my betas @shedoessoshedoes and @helloyesimrhys!

Let me know your thoughts, my sweet Elriel babies. 

xoxo, dany

CHAPTER 9: TRUTHS AND LIES

An old man answered the door. Perhaps it was because she was around immortal and young-looking Fae all the time, but she thought he might be the oldest person she’d ever seen. Deep wrinkles formed grooves and channels among the topography of his face. His mortal heart started beating faster as he took in the sight of her and Azriel (though she was sure this was mostly due to Azriel’s intimidating presence rather than her own, since she was as intimidating as a sack of potatoes), but to the human’s credit, he gave no outward sign of fear.

After introducing himself as Damien, the Steward of the Manor, the man ushered them inside. A split staircase made of stone stood in the center of the spacious foyer, the wide steps leading to a roomy landing with two narrowing flights branching off to either side. The staircase railing was made of wrought iron. Stunningly intricate marble statues and busts atop podiums were placed strategically throughout the entrance hall, and as Elain’s slipper-clad feet pitter-pattered lightly across the black-and-white tiled floor, a glimmer of light caught her eye. Glancing upward, she saw a gigantic crystal chandelier hanging from the high ceiling. The light from the candles on the wall reflected against the crystals and cast glittering diamonds of colored light on various surfaces throughout the hall.

She and Azriel did not speak as they continued to follow Damien throughout the Manor. For such an old man, he was surprisingly quick, and she found herself wishing they could slow down, if only so she could admire her surroundings: astounding frescoes painted on the walls and ceilings, tapestries woven with what looked like real gold, and carpets so plush she thought she could sleep on them. But the Steward led them through the Manor’s winding hallways, and Elain settled for exploring the many treasures another time. She’d be here for a month, after all.

Eventually, they entered a hall that was much darker than the rest of the Manor, and much sparser.  Blood-red columns and dimly-lit candelabras lined the narrow corridor. Damien halted in front of a set of arched crimson doors at the end of the hall. Words, etched in gold, covered the doors’ surface, but it was of no language Elain could recognize.

“This is the entrance to the Throne Room. Her Grace is waiting inside for you both.” Damien said.

Elain and Azriel’s eyes met. With a slight nod of her head, Elain motioned to Azriel that she was fine, she was ready, she could do this. And it warmed some crucial part of her when Azriel nodded in return, offering her a small smile, his belief in her nearly palpable.

The doors flew open and the pair stepped inside the cavernous throne room. Lucien stood at the bottom of a set of steep steps. Above him, sitting on a golden gilded throne, was Vassa.

The mortal queen was utterly stunning. Fiery red hair fell to her shoulders, contrasting magnificently against her golden-brown skin. The top of her emerald gown was made of lace and clung tightly to her delicate torso. Once the dress hit her waist, it expanded outward, the perfectly-creased pleats flowing to the ground like a river. The train of the dress was so long it reached the bottom of the steps that led to the throne. Bright blue eyes scanned them smartly. The thought suddenly struck her that if anyone were to figure out her secret mission, it would be Vassa.

Elain curtsied deeply. “It’s lovely to meet you, Your Grace. Thank you for inviting me into your home.”

Vassa smiled slightly, though her piercing eyes still appraised Elain. “You are most welcome, Elain Archeron. Kingslayer . You are even more beautiful than Lucien has described.”

Elain remained silent, schooling her face into cold stone. She felt an irrational flash of rage at the thought of Lucien discussing her beauty like that, as though she was a painting to be ogled at like the frescos in the entrance hall. She snuck a glance at Azriel, trying to gauge his reaction, but his face was as steely as ever.

“I appreciate the compliment, Your Grace.” Elain said finally.

The mortal queen waved a dainty hand, her heavy bracelets jangling as she did so. “Call me Vassa. Your Grace is so formal, don’t you think? We’ll be living together for the next month, and if I have to hear such courtesies every day, I might as well just hand myself over to Koschei now.”

Elain blinked. Even Azriel seemed surprised at the queen’s words.

Clearing his throat, Lucien said, “You’ll realize soon, if you haven’t already, that Vassa does not have a filter. If she thinks it, she says it. It’s something she’s working on.”

Vassa scowled at Lucien, who grinned lightly back at her. Elain felt the strangest tug in her belly at the sight. Ignoring it, she said, “I appreciate the familiarity, Vassa.” Familiarities are for friends. She wondered what that made her and the mortal queen.

Turning her attention to Azriel, Vassa said, “Shadowsinger. It’s lovely to make your acquaintance again.”

Azriel bowed slightly. “Likewise, Your—Vassa,” he finished uncertainly.

She beamed, apparently pleased with his discomfort. “I hear you’re going to be a regular visitor at my manor. I hope you know that you are always welcome at any time, even outside of your scheduled sessions with Elain.” Elain felt an awkward tug around her heart, as though someone had tied a string around her ribcage and pulled. The feeling was uncomfortably familiar, and she knew without looking at Lucien that he would prefer the Shadowsinger not take the queen up on her offer.

Azriel inclined his head. “That’s very gracious of you.”

Grinning mischievously, Vassa said, “It’s not every day someone so devilishly handsome enters my home. I’d be silly not to take advantage of it.”

Elain’s eyes widened. She was not sure what she expected Vassa to be like, but never in her wildest dreams did she imagine her to be so... forward . She turned to Azriel slightly, gauging his reaction, only to find the Spymaster blushing . The knot in the pit of her stomach hardened.

“Is Vassa already scaring off the newcomers?” A drawling voice appeared from the other end of the throne room. Elain knew that voice. She’d heard it before, on two of the worst days of her life.

Jurian strolled into the room, all ease and confidence. He was quite handsome, she supposed, for a mortal, but he paled in comparison to both Azriel and Lucien’s otherworldly beauty. He stopped in front of Elain. “Lady Archeron,” he said, “It’s lovely to see you again.” He then proceeded to bend obscenely low, grab her hand and kiss it lightly, holding her gaze the entire time. Elain’s cheeks turned scarlet. She wasn’t sure she liked the man too much - he seemed far too arrogant.

“Elain is fine,” she told him evenly. He continued to hold her hand. Behind her, she heard the rustle of Azriel’s wings flexing ever so slightly.

“Jurian, you absolute prick, let go of her hand before you lose one of your own,” Vassa said, and although it was clear she was joking, an edge of honesty laced her words. The mortal queen’s eyes flitted to Lucien, who stood tensely beside her, frozen like a statue.

“Just welcoming our new roommate,” Jurian said. He winked at her, but dropped her hand all the same. The mortal then turned to Azriel. “Shadowsinger,” He said with a trace of apprehension. Jurian had been the one to shoot Azriel with an ash arrow in Hybern, Elain suddenly remembered, and her dislike for the man grew. Azriel acknowledged Jurian’s greeting with the smallest nod of his head, like he was flicking off an irksome fly. His shadows swirled ominously around him, and Elain was pleased to see Jurian wince slightly at the impressive display.

Vassa rose gracefully from her throne and made her way down the steep, stone steps. Jurian rushed to grab her hand, helping her down; Lucien’s eyes flashed curiously in response, but he said nothing.

“Azriel, you’ll be staying for a while, I hope?” Vassa asked.

The Shadowsinger nodded, his shadows bobbing along with the movement. “Yes. I’ll be making sure Elain settles in, and then I’ll depart after our daily training session.”

Vassa clapped her hands in excitement. “Oh, you must stay for dinner! I’m having the cooks prepare something special for Elain’s first evening here. We even imported some exotic wine from the southern realms. Oh, please say you’ll stay!” Her azure eyes gleamed with sincerity.

Shifting, Azriel replied stiffly, “I couldn’t possibly impose--”

“You wouldn’t be imposing. You would be a welcome guest. If anything, you’ll be doing Elain and I a favor, saving us from listening to Lucien and Jurian all evening. I’ve never met males who enjoy hearing themselves talk as much as these two.” The two males in question attempted to argue this point indignantly, but Vassa ignored them and looked expectantly at Azriel, awaiting his answer.

Elain bit back a grin as Azriel finally nodded his agreement. She’d never seen the Spymaster acquiesce to someone’s demand so quickly, but it was abundantly clear that Vassa excelled at the art of persuasion, the skill either stemming from her sharp intelligence, inviting aura, or some lethal combination of the two. Either way, she was certain that Vassa would not be easily fooled. That made Elain’s mission all the more difficult.

“Wonderful!” Vassa beamed at Azriel, who continued to look as awkward as she’d ever seen him. It was quite funny, really. “Now we can really get to know each other,” She winked.

Elain frowned. Quickly, she cast around for a new subject, but Lucien beat her to it.

“Have you had any more visions about Koschei?” He asked Elain.

“No, I have not.” She didn’t look at Lucien as she responded, instead staring at Vassa, who had gone still at the question.

“But you’re trying to see him, right? You’re trying to find a way for Vassa to get out of the curse?” Jurian demanded.

Elain blinked. “Yes, of course.” She answered.

Coolly, Azriel said, “Elain just started training her powers recently. She has made immense progress, but does not have complete control over what visions she receives. That will come in time.”

“We don’t have time,” Jurian growled.

Azriel’s wings snapped out menacingly as Vassa laid a steadying hand on Jurian’s arm.

“That was uncalled for, Jurian.” She told the man sternly. The voice of a queen talking to a subject. But when she turned to face Elain, emotion burned in her eyes.

“Please excuse my friend. This curse has, unfortunately, been a burden on us all. But I hope you know how grateful we are--how grateful I am-- that you are doing all you can to help me. After so long with no hope…to even have that glimmer of optimism returned, well, it means more than I can express.”

Elain swallowed back the lump in her throat. “I will do everything I can. I promise.” It was all the comfort she could offer, but Vassa nodded like it was enough.

“Well, enough of this horrifyingly morose chat! Elain, I would love to give you a tour of the Manor. I hear you enjoy gardening. I’m afraid we don’t have a garden on our grounds, but we have something else I think you’ll enjoy just as much. Would you like to see?”

It wasn’t like Elain could say no. Besides, Vassa had her curiosity piqued.

“Gladly,” She responded, smiling lightly.

“Should I come, too?” Azriel murmured. Elain looked up at him, surprised at the question. Why was he acting so protective?

“Oh, we’ll be just fine.” Vassa trilled. “Besides, the aggressive male testosterone emanating from you all is clogging up my pores. Us girls need some fresh air.”

Elain couldn’t help it. She giggled.

Everyone in the room turned to her. Embarrassed, she covered her mouth with her hands, lowering them just enough to whisper, “Sorry.”

But the human queen was smiling at her, something like approval glowing in her eyes. “Well, at least one of you has a sense of humor.”

***

Vassa led Elain through the manor’s hallways, pointing out various portraits of past queens, also known as her ancestors. “That’s my great-great-grandmother, Althea,” Vassa said, gesturing toward a painting of a particularly rotund woman with a face like a toad. “She was the most-hated queen of her age, and almost got my family kicked off the throne.”  

Elain’s eyebrows raised at that. “Why was she so hated?”

Vassa smirked slightly. “Did you see that painting of her? She looked like an old witch and had a personality to match. Althea would execute anyone who dared disagree with her, even if it was over something as insignificant as what tea to serve at breakfast. Thank God she died of The Pox before she could desecrate the family name anymore.”

Elain laughed, shaking her head slightly, bemused by this mortal queen with humor and heart as fiery as her tresses.

The Mortal Manor, it turns out, actually was a castle, or at least it had been built as one initially. A lesser Lord and Lady had lived there, so the castle was rather on the smaller side, according to Vassa, but Elain thought it would be a miracle if she ever managed to find her way around the place without an escort.

“It’s considered a manor now, though,” Vassa told Elain, lifting up a tapestry and motioning for her to follow. “It’s a secret passageway,” the queen said in response to Elain’s confused look. “I can’t say it’s much of a secret, though; I’m pretty sure every handmaiden and their pet cat know about it. It’s rather short and just leads to the conservatory.”  

The conservatory, it turned out, was the most beautiful room Elain had ever seen. It’s high and arching walls were made entirely out of wide windows. Rows of colorful blooms, perfectly trimmed hedges and shrubs, sprawling plants, and flowers of every kind covered nearly every surface of the wide and spacious area. Heavy sunlight refracted in the glass, coating the various fauna in a blazing, golden brilliance. In the very center was a rectangular pool; lilies floated lazily on the clear and calm surface. The heavenly scent the flowers emitted, the angelic glow of the afternoon sun against the blossoms, the soft chirping of the birds that lived in this cavernous haven...she took a deep breath, soaking in the sudden and steady sense of peace she felt.

“Do you like it?” Vassa’s voice shattered the quiet of Elain’s thoughts.

Turning around, Elain saw the mortal queen standing a bit behind her, a curiously vulnerable look on her face. As if she was nervously awaiting Elain’s reaction. As if she truly cared about her opinion.

It softened that part of Elain. That part she’d hoped to shove away and ignore during her stay because she knew it would only complicate her mission. While her sisters were vehement and slightly mistrustful of every stranger until proved otherwise, Elain had always found a way to connect with each person she came across. Like ivy, sprawling and uncontrollable, her heart just reached out to others.

And that’s what happened now, as she stared at this passionate and willful young woman who she rather liked but was assigned the task of spying on her: Elain’s heart reached out to her.

“It’s sublime,” Elain told her honestly. A beaming grin appeared on Vassa’s face, and Elain couldn’t stop her own smile. “Thank you, truly, for showing me.”

“I hope it makes you feel a little more at home.”

“It does. You’re very kind.”

Vassa smiled again and walked forward to lightly stroke a gardenia. When she turned to face Elain again, the smile was gone, replaced with a look Elain could only describe as queenly . “I know why you’re here,” Vassa said.

Elain froze. “What?” She asked, her throat dry. How could she have figured it out already? Elain had been nothing but polite and kind and oh-so-convincing --

“I know you are not interested in the bond with Lucien,” Vassa said, and Elain’s racing heart relaxed slightly. “He’s told me much about your interactions, and while I don’t blame you for anything...I think it’s clear to everyone here that you have no desire to connect with Lucien. So that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To reject the bond once and for all.”

Swallowing nervously, Elain said, “I...I’m not sure what to say.”

“The truth,” Vassa replied simply. “Just tell me the truth. What is it you want to accomplish during your stay?”

Just be yourself . Azriel’s voice rang in her ears.

“I don’t know, “ Elain answered. “I am not sure exactly what I want to accomplish. And that’s the truth.”

And it was the truth, to a point. Enough of the truth to cloak any deceptions. That’s how Azriel operated, a mix of honesty and an omittance of anything that might erase that honesty. Just enough truth to hide the lies beneath. And so that’s what Elain emulated as she spoke to the mortal queen.

Vassa appraised her for a moment, her sharp blue eyes gleaming. “Why do you detest Lucien so?”

“I don’t detest him.” Another truth, one that Elain had barely admitted to herself. “I just…” she breathed deeply, longing for air and for the insight of what to say next. Truth and lies , she reminded herself. “All I know about him is that he didn’t help Feyre when she needed it most. That he worked with the King of Hybern to steal her back. To steal me , and Nesta. And, whether or not he knew of the King’s plan, he was still there the night my future and my freedom were ripped from me in mere moments. And ever since then...ever since then, I haven’t known what to do with myself at all.”

It was, perhaps, the most she’d ever spoken about the emptiness the Cauldron had left in her. Feyre and the others told her that the Cauldron had gifted her with her powers, while Nesta had stolen from it, but it didn’t feel like that to Elain. No, all she felt was an aching hollowness that echoed in her very bones. A constant and cruel reminder of all she’d lost.

Vassa stared at her, her beautiful face unreadable in the glowing sun. “It changes you,” She finally said. “To have such decisions, to have such freedom taken away from you…” Vassa inhaled sharply, tilting her head up to face the gleaming sun. Elain watched her, watched her golden skin reflecting in the light, watched as the mortal queen whipped her head back. “I understand how you feel, Elain. I hope you know that.”

And while Elain did not know the full extent of Vassa’s story or exactly what she’d gone through while under Koschei’s grasp, she believed her. And she didn’t just think it was because of Vassa’s endearing personality or her own - what had Azriel called it? - ability to inspire trust in others. She felt a kinship in Vassa, like she’d known her in a past life. But she couldn’t put all that into words, so she just nodded.

Vassa combed through her fiery hair and then said in a calm voice, “I also hope you know that, over the past year, I have spent a lot of time with Lucien. I would never try to negate the trauma that you’ve experienced, or try and convince you that he did not play a part in it, willing or not. But I will tell you this, as objectively and simply as I can: He is a good male, Elain. He would never force you to accept the bond. Just as he would never tell you how much your denial and evasion is tearing him apart. I say this as his friend...and as yours.”

Elain just blinked. The honesty was scalding and refreshing all at once. And while her stomach twisted angrily every time she thought of her sisters telling her to address the bond, she found she didn’t really mind Vassa talking about it.

“While you are here, I hope you get to know him. And at the end of your stay, I hope you can make a decision about the bond. One way or another.”

“I will,” Elain said. “I will make a decision.” And it was entirely, completely, wholly the truth.

***

Azriel sat in the dining room with Jurian and Lucien. After an uncomfortable and tense tour of the Manor, the three had gone to the dining room for dinner. The two females had not yet arrived, though.

Elain had been gone with Vassa for a long time. Or perhaps the incredible awkwardness between him and the two males just made it seem like a long time. Either way, he needed Elain to return soon, or else he might just go mad, stuck with just these two pricks and his morose thoughts for company. He couldn’t stop reliving the conversation from the previous evening, when Elain had agreed to this foolish plan. It was nearly unbearable for Azriel, to sit there and listen to everyone try and convince Elain that the bond was something she had to address. Why should she have to do anything? She didn’t ask for the bond. It was clear she didn’t want it.

And yet Azriel said nothing, did nothing, just let them all bombard her with their words and pressures. He didn’t even need his shadows to know how upset it made Elain, how her beautiful face fell into itself a little more with every word the others spoke.

She had agreed in the end, though. And he kicked himself for ever holding out hope that she wouldn’t.

It’s not that he didn’t have faith in her. He knew she could fool and charm just about anyone, so he wasn’t worried about her spying skills. Spying was simply hiding in plain sight, and Elain certainly excelled at that.

No, he was worried about something else entirely. Someone else, to be exact. Because whatever the others might say about not caring if Elain accepted or rejected the bond, he knew that wasn’t true. Elain accepting the bond would be incredibly beneficial in improving the Night Court’s relationships with both the Autumn Court and the Spring Court, and would ensure the continued support of Vassa. As much as Azriel didn’t like Lucien, he couldn’t help but feel a begrudging sort of respect to the highly influential male who held sway over multiple courts. But that didn’t give any of them the fucking right to pressure Elain into anything .

The Mortal Manor made him feel even worse. His shadows had rarely ever been limited in their power, and so it was strange to have them so confined. They could move, of course, and still followed his command, but the entirety of the manor seemed to be close enough to Vassa that all his shadows heard were a faint humming noise, like a mosquito buzzing in his ear.

Even with Vassa out of the room, the buzzing lingered. He wished he could have gone with them (not only did he wish to keep Elain in his sight while he still could, but he had no desire to spend quality time with Lucien and Jurian, both of which were arguably two of his least favorite beings. If only Eris was here to complete the motley trio).

Lucien had yet to speak to him directly since his arrival. Azriel knew it was because of his parting remarks the week before -- his warning. About what he’d do to Lucien if the male ever forced Elain to do something she didn’t want to do. He didn’t regret it, not in the slightest. But sitting across from Lucien’s murderous glower wasn’t exactly an enjoyable experience. He’d rather do something more pleasant, like stick toothpicks under his nails.

And Jurian was, if possible, even worse. The human never. Shut. Up. He talked constantly, about any and every thing that popped into his head, it seemed.

Now I feel even worse about leaving Elain here. His cold heart hardened a little more at the thought.

The doors swung open and Vassa sashayed into the dining room, Elain following.

It took all his effort to not let his mouth drop as he took in the middle Archeron sister. She was wearing a silver gown with material so smooth and sleek it looked liquid. The dress clung to her small chest and the generous curves of her rear like a second skin, but she still somehow looked innocent, intoxicatingly so. Her golden-brown hair was piled into an elegant but simple updo at the top of her head, a few curls hanging loosely around her angelic face.

A heaviness settled in his chest as his eyes zeroed in on her exposed neck. It seemed the greatest tragedy of his life: he’d touched her there, once.

Elain’s eyes flitted up and locked with his, and time ceased to exist, for a brief moment. That was all he and Elain were allowed to have. Fleeting moments, as vital as they were destructive.

“Sorry we’re late,” Vassa said airily. She was wearing a new dress as well, Azriel suddenly noticed.  He frowned. Usually his shadows would have told him that the two females had ventured to their respective quarters to change. Without his shadows abilities working, he felt impaired.

The two females settled themselves into chairs. Azriel tried to control his disappointment when Vassa took the empty chair to his left, leaving Elain to sit between Lucien and Jurian.

“How was your afternoon?” Lucien asked Elain.

Bitterness filled his chest at the gentle, cautious way he spoke to her, like he was approaching a timid animal. She was not a creature to be coddled and comforted. She was a lethal and lovely force of nature.

“It was delightful. How was yours?” She kept her voice neutral, not engaging but not dismissive. His stomach dropped at the light that appeared in Lucien’s eyes.

“It was pleasant, as well. I’m glad you enjoyed your afternoon. I hope you know how excited I...how excited Vassa has been to have you here.”

Ignoring his stumble, Elain smiled tightly and nodded once before piling green beans onto her plate. Her eyes flashed up to Azriel; he was watching her closely, but could see nothing in her expression besides discomfort. Good. Without it, she would seem suspicious to the others.

But then Elain began asking Lucien and Jurian a few questions; it was casual, polite conversation, but still: she was initiating it. He stabbed his chicken angrily with his fork, trying to ignore her light, lilting voice, trying to pretend the sound didn’t make his skin tingle.

“Are you alright?” Vassa asked him. The mortal queen was watching him curiously.

“Yes,” Azriel responded shortly.

Vassa arched an eyebrow. “You’re quite prickly, you know.”

Azriel frowned. “And you’re quite nosy.”

Across the table, Elain froze with a forkful of beans halfway to her mouth, dark eyes flashing in warning. Azriel almost chuckled at her shock. But then Vassa laughed, an uninhibited, ringing sound. “Yes,” She agreed.

“So I’m curious,” Vassa began, swirling her wine glass and taking a deep sip before continuing, “What is your stake in all of this?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

Vassa nodded across the table to Elain, who had returned to her conversation with the other two males. “You’re helping her train. Why?”

Azriel stiffened. “My High Lord and Lady asked me to. As a member of the Night Court, it is my duty and my honor to serve their wishes to the best of my ability.”

“Oh, please,” Vassa said loudly, and Azriel saw the others glance curiously at her before continuing their conversation. “Don’t feed that bullshit to a Queen. I may not know you, but I know of you, and reputation eclipses familiarity, much of the time. You don’t do anything you don’t want to do. So, I’ll ask again...what is your stake in all of this?”

You don’t do anything you don’t want to do. How he wished that was true. But he kept his face as unreadable as ever as he said, “Helping her means helping you, and that means helping my Court. I am sorry that my answer is not the one you were looking for.”

“So you and Elain aren’t close? That’s rather surprising. Aren’t both of your alleged brothers mated to her sisters? And you’re quite protective over her.”

His wings tensed. This mortal woman was certainly tenacious. And observant. “I wouldn’t say we are particularly close,” Azriel said. Anymore, he thought. “But I would consider her...a friend.” He finished.

Vassa surveyed him for a moment, her piercing blue eyes nearly scorching in their intensity. Azriel held her gaze. Whatever Vassa found, she seemed to accept, as she turned back to the others.

“She certainly is an easy person to be friends with,” Vassa said, watching Elain with a small smile on her face. And that’s how easy it was for Azriel to see that, like everyone who’d ever met the middle Archeron sister, the mortal queen had fallen under Elain’s spell.

Swallowing down the lump in his throat, Azriel replied, “Yes. She is.”

***

After dinner, Elain and Azriel left the others for her training session. Elain had asked if they could hold the sessions in the conservatory - “It just makes me feel safer and more in control of myself, to be in such a beautiful place,” Elain said to Vassa at dinner. The queen had lit up at Elain’s request, telling her the room was hers as long as she needed it.

So that’s how Az found himself in the manor’s conservatory with Elain. It was dark outside, now, but the moon shone so brightly that they had no trouble seeing.

She sat across from him on a bench in the very center of the cavernous atrium, her wide brown eyes surveying the peaceful scene in front of her.

“This is a nice place,” Azriel commented lamely.

This is a nice place?! He could not be more awkward if he tried.

But of course Elain did not tease him. Not like she used to. Because they weren’t friends anymore.

Instead, she said, “It is, isn’t it? I also figured it would be difficult for anyone to overhear us here.”

Az grinned. “Smart,” he said truthfully.

Shrugging, Elain said with a slight sparkle in her eye, “It’s been known to happen.” There . Even if it was faint...that little piece of her that treated him with amusement and (dare he say it?) affection still existed.

“You did well today,” He told her, leaning back and stretching out his long legs.

“It was easier than I thought,” Elain said. “To pretend...or at least to hide. I don’t know if that makes me happy or not.”

He cocked his head. “Why wouldn’t that make you happy?”

She looked at him. “It feels an awful lot like lying. I don’t want to be a liar.”

Azriel found he did not know what to say to that.

“I do think the conservatory will help with my training,” Elain mused, turning her gaze up to the wide windows. The moon gleamed through the glass panes like a beacon. “The peaceful darkness...the quiet contentment...the vibrant life you can feel ...all of it makes me feel more in control of myself. More powerful, even.” She smoothed down the front of her gown. “It was very kind of Vassa to offer this room up to us.”

“She thinks very highly of you.”

“I know.” Elain’s voice was tired, resigned. “I could easily see myself becoming friends with her. But I know that would only complicate my mission.”

“Perhaps. It’s all about finding a balance. You can respect her, like her even, share confidences and stories and experiences...but it’s true you need to stay objective. Get close to Vassa - but not too close. The same goes for both Jurian and...and Lucien.” The name tasted like vinegar in his mouth, but he forced himself to say it.

Elain was quiet for a long moment, lost in her thoughts. “Shall we begin training?” She asked after a while.

“One other thing first.” Straightening up and fully turning his body to face Elain, he waited until she met his gaze. Trepidation filled her brown eyes as she noticed his solemn intensity.

“What?” She asked slowly.

“Are you ready to talk about how your hands glowed at dinner last night?”

[kiirokero]

Zephyr (MYG)

Zephyr: A soft gentle breeze; Comforting wind on a hot summer's day.

Part of the “Protect the Village!” Oneshot series.

Masterlist

Pairing: Florist!Yoongi x Reader

Genre: Fluff, mentions of death (not major, don’t worry) Yoongles doesn’t know how to express himself, soft boi hours.

Note: Time for me to pass out. We’re back on schedule hoes. :)

Summary: First, it was flowers for your grandmother. Next, it was flowers for a sick friend. Now, its flowers because the handsome flower shop owner lives in your head rent free.

Word Count: 4.3k

      A dense, luscious forest surrounds Bangtan Village. Filled with sturdy oak trees and delicate blooming flowers. As far as the eye can see, it’s nature. Trees stretch to the heavens, touching the sky with their strong appendages. Flowers draping over the petrichor forest floor, gracing those who walk through its lush maze. 

      It’s magical, really. Some rumour that Bangtan Village is ancient, rivaling the Mayans. Local historians say that the people here were protecting something that lays dormant in the forest. What that relic is? A mystery to most. But town elders always warn against wandering in the woods. Whispers of a magical heart that keeps the town alive roles through the town every year after New Year’s celebrations. 

Because nobody knows why every year the village gets a new influx of natural resources

      But thanks to this odd phenomenon, Min Yoongi never runs out of flowers. Peonies, sunflowers, hibiscuses. Every kind of flower grows in that forest, regardless if it scientifically should. Everyone collectively dismisses the impossible things that go on beyond those trees. Ignorance is bliss.

So because of the logic defying forest, Min Yoongi always has the best flowers. Which, in turn, means you always know where to find spider lilies. 

      Any event. Birthdays, weddings, minor celebrations. They always called for flowers. That was your motto. Flowers make everything better. Roses here, daisies there. Nothing can go wrong with flowers. They can make someone smile, ignite love, mourn a loss. Flowers can do anything, and your glad Min Yoongi indulges your thinking.

She loved roses. 

      Your grandmother was a bit old-fashioned. Not the most tech savvy, would rather do things by hand, and was a sucker for a beautiful red rose. Maybe it was because those were the flowers in her wedding bouquet. Or maybe its because your grandfather always brought her one every single day before he passed. It doesn’t matter. 

What matters is your getting her those roses, one last time. 

      When you first walked into Min’s Flowers, it had a peculiar petrichor smell. Like the shop was in an endless cycle of spring. Solf showers and light rays. It was a comforting calmness that soothed the cracks in your heart. Every which was there was a flower resting in peaceful serenity. 

      All the flowers seemed to look dreary, or maybe the soft petals were acting as a mirror, reflecting the melancholy of the day. You wouldn’t know. The only thing currently on your mind was red roses. Red roses. You needed to get those red roses. 

      Walking deeper into the shop, the walls greeted you with blissful silence. Not a sound was made, not a person in sight, shopkeeper or customer. It was just you and the flowers. A cruel thing, really. Alone with beautiful works of art that couldn’t distract your racing mind with words, only looks. But everywhere you looked, memories of your grandmother lingered. You needed words to revive your slowly beating heart. 

      “Hey, can I help you with anything?” A gruff voice sounded through the hazy, quiet aura of the shop. Turning around, you saw a man with scruffy noir hair. He wasn’t the tallest, but wasn’t short either. He had sharp brown eyes that emanated a hidden warmth encased in cool glass. His skin was as pale as petunias and he wore a desaturated blue apron with flowers peaking out of the pocket. 

      “I’m looking for red roses...” You somberly informed, unable to keep the emotion out of your voice. His cat-like eyes slightly softened, flashing a look of sympathy for your lost soul. You wondered if he often encountered lost souls here in the shop, using his business as a pit stop in a wayward journey. “I have just what you’re looking for,” He said, gesturing me to follow him.

      He led you through the shop in silence, like a drifting ghost. He floated elegantly through his shop, uncaring of the twist and turns that appeared in his way, even if there were few. Soon, he led you to an area full of roses, all different colors. White, blue, yellow. It was a beautiful image. 

      But he walked passed them, going towards a door in the back. “Where are we going?” You asked, stopping just a bit behind him. “Those roses are pretty, yes, but I think you need something more,” He said, face unchanging from a stoic expression. He opened the door, walking inside to grab something out of the artificially sun lit room. 

      Reappearing, he held a bouquet full of two dozen bright red roses. The petals undamaged, their color as lush as the day they came out of the Earth. “I’ve been saving these for a special occasion, I think they’d be of use to you now,” The man said, handing you the bouquet, You held them gently, afraid to damage the perfect flowers. 

      “How are they so perfect?” You marveled, unable to peel your eyes away from the beauty of which you held. “A lot of odd things happen in Bangtan,” Was his answer, nothing more. “Go on, I’m sure you have somewhere to be,” He said, putting a soft hand on your back, guiding you to the entrance you came in from. 

      “But I have to pay!” You protested, but the man didn’t stop guiding you. “Consider it a gift,” He shrugged. “But I don’t even know your name,” You argued, looking at him incredulously. “It’s Yoongi, what’s yours?” He asked, tilting his head slightly. “Y/n,” You answered. “Well Y/n, it was nice to meet you. Now go on, I hope those roses bring peace,”

      You didn’t go back to Min’s Flowers for three months. You decided it would be best to mourn in your own way, by yourself. That didn’t mean your close friends didn’t keep an eye on you though, Jimin and Jeongguk would never let you forget that they were there for you. Whether it was late night junk food runs to Hoseok’s store or messing around with Taehyung at the bakery. They made sure you knew they were there, waiting for you when you were ready to be picked back up and put back together.

      Which you were. You picked yourself back up and hammered yourself together. Life didn’t wait for anyone. Seasons still changed, flowers still bloomed, zephyrs still came and went. Maybe the tape you used to patch yourself up was still a bit brittle, maybe the glue you used to fill the cracks in your heart hasn’t quite dried yet, but you were okay. 

      And Jimin was not. Poor bastard caught a nasty case of the flu and has been miserable ever since. Jeongguk and you have been taking care of him whenever you could, and when he started complaining about missing the outside, flowers seemed like the perfect remedy. “I really like yellow and white chrysanthemums” 

      Those were Jimin's words when you asked him what his favorite flower was, and by golly were you going to get him the prettiest yellow and white chrysanthemums ever. So that’s how you found yourself back at the shop which aided your once wayward soul. 

      The shop still had that same comforting petrichor scent. Memories of the pixie like world that the flower shop simulated came back to you as you saw the same flowers in the exact same places as last time. When you first came to the shop, you had a heart leaking with melancholy. Now, you have a heart with scars and a mission to make your friend feel better. 

      “Oh, you’re back,” A familiar voice said. Turning, you saw the same man as before. He had mint hair now, standing at the counter. “That I am, Yoongi,” You said. You don’t know why the name stuck in your head the way it did, but you couldn’t forget it. Every time you thought about getting some flowers, Yoongi popped into your head. 

      It surprised Yoongi that you remembered his name. He thought that the interaction between the two of you was significant to him and him only. But hearing your soft utterance of his name made him freeze longer than he should’ve. “I’m surprised you remember me,” He said, cracking the slightest of smiles. 

      “You’re memorable, I suppose,” You chuckled, taking a few steps deeper into the indoor forest that was Yoongi’s flower shop. “So what brings you here this time?” Yoongi asked, not taking his eyes off of you. “My friend’s sick, so I wanted to get his favorite flower to cheer him up,”

      Yoongi nodded, walking around the counter to stand in front of you. “Well, I can guarantee that I have it here. What are we looking for?” He said, voice unchanging from a dull tone. “Yellow and white chrysanthemums,” You said, and Yoongi didn’t need to hear anymore before he was guiding you once more through the shop. The floor was slightly wet, showing that Yoongi had watered the flowers recently. 

      Quietly, he led you to where he kept the chrysanthemums, gesturing one of his hands to the yellow and white ones. “Go ahead and pick. A dozen flowers are 9,000 won,” Yoongi said, walking away to do his shopkeeper things. 

      That day you stayed in the shop a bit longer than you expected. You and Yoongi talked for what seemed like forever. Maybe it was minutes, maybe it hours, you wouldn’t know. You didn’t care, Yoongi was like a breath of fresh air. A whispering zephyr during the summer solstice. 

        So you kept coming back, again and again. Every day after work you made your way to Min’s Flowers, eager to talk to your new florist friend. You would arrange bouquets with him, tell him jokes, watch movies on the tv he had in the back. No matter the day or the weather, you never failed to meet with Yoongi every single day. Sometimes with Jimin and Jeongguk, sometimes alone.

You couldn’t get enough. Yoongi couldn’t get enough, and that scared him. 

      Min Yoongi was a quiet man. He preferred to stick to himself, hoping to limit the amount of human interaction he had on a daily basis. It’s not that he didn’t like people, per se, but he just rarely got along with others. It was a problem for him since Kindergarten. Being overly blunt with peers or arguing with the teacher. 

      He just drove people away with his cold aura and “unforgiving” personality. Yes, Yoongi had friends. He had Hoseok, Namjoon, Jin, Taehyung, even Jimin and Jeongguk hung out with him from time to time. But he’s never had that certain type of connection with someone. 

     Yoongi used to think he was critically apathetic. That no matter how much he wanted to bounce off the walls in celebration when Taehyung met his business goal, he couldn’t. He couldn’t muster up anything other than a “That’s good, I’m happy for you,” And he was! He knew he was, but he didn’t quite express that he was. 

      It left Yoongi feeling inferior, like he was a bad person. What kind of friend comforts you after a breakup by saying, “Love is dead anyway,”? Min Yoongi, apparently. Yeah, Yoongi had feelings. Things made him sad, mad, happy, annoyed. He wasn’t entirely broken. But those feeling felt like they were dampened, diluted. 

      “Aren’t you happy? Sad? Mad?” Those were the words Yoongi dreaded, because the answer was always yes. Yes, he was happy that Jin got a girlfriend. Yes, he was sad that Jeongguk couldn’t find the person painting flowers all over Bangtan village. Yes, he was mad Jimin shattered one of his terracotta pots. He just didn’t express it well. 

But you never seemed to care.

      You took Yoongi’s blunt words at face value. You believed him when he said, “That’s funny,” at one of your embarrassing childhood stories. You didn’t question why he wasn’t crying during “The Notebook” even if the tragic story silently broke his heart. You took his small smile just as seriously as you would a full one. That made Yoongi happy, even if he couldn’t express that to you. 

      You didn’t treat Yoongi’s lack of expression as a bad thing. You didn’t think he was cold and uncaring, because you knew he was. Actions speak louder than words. When he bandaged your ankle after you slipped in a puddle one day in the shop. When he gave you half of his granola bar after hearing your stomach rumble. Or how he never fails to ask how your day went, even if it sounded rather uncaring to the average person.

      Yoongi didn’t know when it happened or how. Yoongi didn’t know why your simple touches turned smouldering to him. Or why your smile was a picture he’d look at forever. He doesn’t know when he started eagerly looking at the clock, waiting for 4pm when you’d undoubtedly would come visit him at the shop. Yoongi didn’t know when it hit him, when his horribly suppressed emotions made him feel something like no other. 

Yoongi didn’t know when he fell in love with you, but damn did he fall hard.

      “Alright Yoongs, I agree with you on most things, but mint chocolate ice cream is definitely not it.” You argued, poking his carton of green ice cream with your spoon. “Well, coffee-flavored ice cream is weird too,” Yoongi retorted, stuffing a spoon full of ice cream monstrosity into his mouth. You dramatically gasped, “Yoongi! Coffee is totally a valid flavor,” You laid your head on the table inside Yoongi’s back room, putting a hand to your heart, “You wound me,” 

      Yoongi rolled his eyes, going back to his pint of frozen goodness. “You’re ridiculous,” He said, shaking his head. “Hold on, I speak Yoongi. You just said that I’m funny and you love me,” You teased. Yoongi felt his face slightly flush at your words, but he cleared his throat, changing the topic. “Whatever, wanna arrange a wedding bouquet with me?” 

      You quickly sat up, stars in your eyes as you ecstatically nodded your head. “Hells yes!” Yoongi hummed, grabbing both pints of ice cream and putting them away in the mini refrigerator he had. “Let’s go then, I already have my work space set up,” He said, walking out the room to which you happily followed him. 

      “So, a marriage? Is it a big one?” You asked. Yoongi shrugged, sitting down in his work chair to which he already had a spare one set up next to it. “I guess, I mean, how big can things get in Bangtan Village?” He said, picking up roses and cutting off bits of their stems. 

      “I dunno Yoongs, remember that time you found a huge sunflower in the forest? Bangtan Village may have a small population, but things can get pretty weird here,” You chuckled, joining Yoongi in his somewhat tedious task. “Yes, you are correct. Many things in that forest surprise me.” He said, nonchalantly. 

      “Really? Are there fairies? White stags? Gremlins?” You asked, turning towards the man contently snipping away at the stems next to you. “You and your fairy tales,” Yoongi sighed, secretly finding your interest in the unexplainable cute. 

       The two of you worked together in silence, enjoying each other's presence as the artful skills Yoongi had with flowers created beautiful bouquets. But the silent atmosphere was suddenly broken when your phone rang. Fishing it out of your pocket, Jeongguk's face appeared on the screen. You excused yourself and answered the phone outside, leaving Yoongi alone in the room. To him it felt a bit colder now.

      A couple minutes later, you peaked your head in the door, gaining Yoongi’s attention with a smile. “Sorry to say this Yoongs, but I have to help Jeongguk with something,” You said. Yoongi felt disappointed, but his face remained unchanging. “Oh... Okay... Do you- Nevermind,” Do you have too? Is what Yoongi wanted to ask. He didn’t want you to go, he wanted you to stay and make pretty flower arrangements with him. But he couldn’t express it.

      “I’ll be back tomorrow, don’t miss me too much, okay?” You joked, bidding the gruff florist a farewell. Yoongi tried to. But he really did miss you. Not only that, he felt... Jealous... He found himself wishing he was Jeongguk or wishing that you left your phone on silent so you wouldn’t hear his call. 

      It was selfish, Yoongi knew that, but that didn’t mean the feeling didn’t go away. He didn’t like this feeling. His emotions may feel weaker than others, but jealously always came on strong. Why did he have to be like this? Why couldn’t he just admit his feelings for you, ask you out on a date, tell you all the things that ran through his head about you?

      He needed to do something. What if Jeongguk made a move on you? What if you guys were kissing right now? Or worse, on a date... Yoongi’s heart felt heavy. His heart was heavy and his stomach was queezy. 

      One good thing came from Yoongi’s less than normal emotional responses. It meant embarrassment and shame were less of a bitch. Still total bitches, but bitches on chill pills. “Alright,” Yoongi told himself, “Operation fuck my emotional response and ask Y/n out on a date is a go,” Yoongi immediately pulled out his phone, dialing his friend Jin. 

     “Hello!” Jin answered. “Hyung... I need your help with something.” Yoongi said, his voice deadly serious. “What’s up?” Yoongi took a deep breath, wiping his sweaty palms on his apron. 

“You have a girlfriend...” Yoongi blurted out 

“Yes...?” Jin chuckled

“And you asked her out,” 

“That is correct.”

“How did you do that?” 

      Yoongi heard Jin’s squeaky laugh through the phone. “What?” He asked, confusion clear in his voice. “How d'you ask her out...?” Yoongi asked again. “I told her that I had feelings for her and asked her to go out with me,” Jin answered, most likely shrugging those broad shoulders of his. “How were you able to express your feelings?” Yoongi sighed.

     Jin was well aware about Yoongi’s trouble expressing himself in a way that didn’t make kids cry from his scary, brooding face. He had even helped him on a few occasions when he had to apologize and look like he meant it, (Whether he really did or not) But expressing a feeling like a crush or even love, was different for everybody. 

     “Yoongi, are you trying to ask that Y/n girl out?” Jin inquired, hearing a thing or two about you from when Yoongi dropped hints here and there. “Yes...” Yoongi said, resting his chin on his hand in defeat. “Yoongi, buddy, there’s no “right way” to express your feelings to somebody, you just have to do it in a way that is right for you.” Jin advised. 

“But the way I express things isn’t particularly... Nice,” Yoongi said. 

“Yoongi, if she likes you too she’ll accept that your just you,” Jin stressed, “And if what you tell me about the way she treats you, I’m sure she’ll understand just how hard and serious it is for you to admit something like this,” 

    Maybe Jin was right, you’d get that he’s basically head over heels for you, right? You know how he operates. You always treated him like a normal human with normal expressive capabilities. Okay, he’ll do it. 

      Yoongi can’t do this. What was he thinking? Inviting you over at 9pm to “help him with flowers” was probably the worse idea he’s ever had. You probably think he’s a weirdo. More of a weirdo than he actually is. What is he supposed to do?

      Well, it was too late. Because you just came barging through the door with a bag of takeout and that beautiful, blinding smile on your face. “Yoongs!” You exclaimed, placing down the food and giving him a hug. “Another emergency flower order?” You asked, taking out styrofoam containers and disposable chopsticks. 

      “Um... No. Yes... No,” He said, unusually indecisive. Yoongi sighed, sitting down at the table and taking a huge bite of the food that you handed him. “Yoongs, are you okay?” You asked, brows creased in worry. “I’m fine,” He shrugged, but you knew better.

      “Are you sure? You seem a bit off,” You pushed, hoping he would give you the honest answer. “Mhmm. I just- uh... I’m just tired,” He answered, turning his attention back to his food. You frowned, picking your lukewarm dumpings.

     You liked to call yourself a Yoongi translator. You knew a lot about his body language and usage of words. “I’m fine.” Usually meant just that. He was fine and meant it. But paired with his odd behavior just moments ago, you knew something was up. 

     But you also knew that Yoongi wasn’t an expressive person. He didn’t show powerful emotions very often. Yeah, he’s genuinely smiled before and chuckled. However, that was few and far between. Yoongi wasn’t good at expressing himself, and now that fact only worried you more. 

      “Hey Yoongs, you know the meanings of different flowers right?” You asked, brewing up an idea in your head. “Um, yes. You revealed that embarrassing fact when you snooped through my old books.” He said, raising his eyebrow incredulously. “What are you planning?” He asked. 

      You said nothing, instead opting to grab Yoongi and drag him out into the store. “Tell me how your feeling, but with the flowers,” You said. Yoongi looked at you like you’ve grown 3 head, “What?” He asked, still sounding iconically unimpressed. “I know something’s bothering you. I know it’s hard for you to express things sometimes, so tell me without words,” You explained, urging Yoongi to do as you say. “You don’t know the meanings though,” He argued. “Wrong. I studied them for a month straight to impress you. It’ll be fine,” You gave him a smile, and he felt his resolve breaking. 

     Yoongi thought about it for a second. Originally he was planning on just forgetting his entire plan and watching trash tv with you in the back until the sun came up, but this could work. Does he want it to work? Will you understand what he means when he gives you a pink camellia? Will you be weirded out if he presented you with red chrysanthemum? 

It was worth a shot. 

    Yoongi sighed, giving into your admittedly smart idea. This could work. Yoongi ran around the shop, picking out flowers of different kinds and colors, coming back to you with a messy bouquet. “Okay, lets begin. You won’t have to talk or explain, you can just nod your head,” You said. Yoongi nodded, handing you his first flower. 

A yellow hyacinth. 

“Jealousy? Are you jealous of someone?” You asked, 

Yoongi nodded.

A vine of ivy

“...Friendship? A friend? Are you jealous of a friend?”

Another nod. 

Gardenia

      “Secret love... You have a crush on somebody?” Your heart stung a bit at that one, but you schooled your emotions. This was about Yoongi, not you. “Your jealous of your crush?” You asked, but Yoongi shook his head no. “Your jealous of... your crushes friend...?” You guessed, Yoongi nodded, stoic face still unchanging. 

A red columbine.

    “Anxious, your crush makes you anxious?” You asked. Yoongi didn’t answer right away, but he lifted his hand and made a “sort of” motion. You racked your brain again for a moment. “Having a crush... makes you nervous?” 

Yoongi nodded

“Is it because your bad at expressing yourself?”

Yoongi gave you a ‘duh’ face, holding out another flower. 

 A yellow carnation

“They rejected you?” Yoongi shook his head, pointing back to the red columbine, “Ohhh, you’re scared that they will reject you.” A nod.

      Yoongi had one more flower left, but he didn’t give it to you just yet. He hid it behind his back, away from view, so you opted to cheer him up a bit in hopes that you’ll be able to comfort him enough to express this last thing. “Yoongs, you’re a great dude! Anybody would be lucky to have you! Sure, maybe your not as dramatic as me, but you care in your own way. That’s all that matters,” You said, giving him a smile. 

     Yoongi looked away from you to the side. He wasn’t usually a nervous person. Why is he so nervous? Why is this the one emotion that’s cripplingly strong? He could do it. He didn’t even have to say anything, just hand you the goddamn flower. He’s psyching himself out. Quickly, he thrusted the flower towards you without thinking.

Chucking, you took it in your hands

A red rose.

I love you.

      “Yoongi, you should give this to your crush, not me,” You chuckled, but Yoongi didn’t move, just stared at you with unimpressed eyes. “Yoongs, you don’t mean...” “I love you,” He blurted out, a soft blush dusting his cheeks. “Y-You do?” You asked. 

One last nod.

      “Sup loser,” You lovingly greeted your grumpy boyfriend, giving him a kiss on the cheek. Yoongi rolled his eyes, wrapping an arm around your waist from where he was sat in his work chair, meticulously finishing up his last order of the day. “And you claim you love me when you treat me like that,” He said, voice gruff and scratchy from not using it for a while. 

      “Yeah, yeah, I love you too,” You chuckled. Yoongi bent down under the table and grabbed a flower, wordlessly handing it to you. “A red camellia?” You asked, taking a whiff of its pleasing aroma. “I’m expressing,” He said, and you nodded, understanding. 

     Yoongi’s gotten a bit better with expressing himself, but it can still be hard for him. As a solution, he talks to you in flowers when he wants to say something but can’t form the words. “You’re the flame in my heart too Yoongs,” You smiled, kissing the top of his head

Yoongi might not know the exact moment he fell in love with you. All he knew is that it happened swiftly and silently.

Like a zephyr on a warm day.

[a-world-in-grey]

Sola/Calling for Rain

@secret-engima and, months later, the snippet I promised!

.

Karin’s first memories are her mother’s grave and her sister’s sick bed.

She knows more than that of course. She knows how her mother died, forced to use their family’s healing ability until they’d drained her chakra dry. She knows her older sister nearly followed their mother that night, eight years old and already scarred across her arms and shoulders.

But that knowledge isn’t seared into her memory the way her mother’s gravestone is, the bamboo marker plain and unmarked, nothing like the stone markers bearing carved names for the village shinobi. That knowledge doesn’t paint itself across her closed eyelids like Kyoho’s frail form, skin too pale, breaths too shallow, wild hair tumbling across the pillows like a splash of blood.

Karin remembers when Kyoho first opened her eyes, how her sister had looked to find Karin first, and hadn’t settled until she could clearly see Karin was well.

.

Karin doesn’t know how much Kyoho’s near death changed her older sister. She can’t remember what Kyoho was like before, can’t remember a time when Kyoho didn’t braid their hair with little painted beads and thin cords of braided thread. Can’t remember a time when Kyoho didn’t hold her close at night and whisper bedtime stories in words that sound like thunder and rain.

Stories and Songs and meanings just for the two of them. Braids and beads hidden beneath hair and cloth, Clan secrets told in the dead of night in a tongue only they knew. Teaching Karin to dance, to fly.

Teaching Karin to survive. 

Kyoho trains with the determination not to learn, but master every skill she can. Taijutsu, weapons, healing, ninjutsu. She claws her way up the ranks of Kusa’s shinobi, genin at nine, chuunin at eleven, jounin at fifteen.

Kusa’s own little prodigy. A match for Konoha’s Uchiha Itachi or Hatake Kakashi. Or so Kusa likes to think.

There’s a lot Kusa doesn’t know.

They don’t know of the fuuinjutsu, of the basics learned from their mother that Kyoho took and reinvented on her own. The black tattoos spiraling across Kyoho’s skin hidden from sight under dark green clothing. 

They don’t know about the chakra chains Kyoho painstakingly learned to use. Chains Kyoho learned to modify, to shrink to the size of a fine gold chain, to enlarge to the size of the massive chains that once rose from the waves to close Uzushio’s ports.

They don’t know of Kyoho’s sensory abilities, so fine tuned she can pick out a shinobi’s specialization from the feel of their chakra alone. They don’t know of the weapons Kyoho can wield beyond her glaive and curved shortswords.

They don’t know Kyoho’s taught Karin everything she knows. They don’t know Karin isn’t the fumbling, lackluster genin overshadowed by her prodigal sister’s brilliance.

.

“My name is Uzumaki Naruto, and I’m going to kick all of your asses!”

The room goes silent, every genin present turning to stare, and Karin feels her breath freeze in her lungs as the chakra signatures around her spike with anger and disbelief.

Karin buries her own chakra, smothers it down to a spark so small even Kyoho has difficulty detecting, hiding the surprise and recognition and the tangle of emotions she can keep off her face but not out of her chakra. And she knows she shouldn’t focus her attention solely on the loud Konoha genin as his teammates and comrades converge to scold him for his recklessness. There are others in the room far more dangerous than the rookie too dumb not to draw the ire of the rest of the competition before the Exams have even begun. And yet-

Uzumaki.

He doesn’t have the red hair. But that’s the mon on his shoulder, black and purple instead of the black and blue variant Kyoho’s stitched into their clothes, in places easily hidden because there’s Clan Pride but then there’s announcing to all the Elemental Nations that they’re female kekkai genkai bearers.

Karin lessens her hold on her chakra, reaching her senses past the thunderstorm-shadow-river feeling of the three genin standing beside him.

Warmth. Bright encompassing warmth, intense but not painful, the ocean breeze across her skin on a clear sunny day. Swirling reserves deeper than she’s ever sensed, even deeper than Kyoho’s hearth-fire chakra.

Karin suppresses her chakra the moment the blond’s thunderstorm teammate glances her way, glancing away and digging her fingernails into the back of her hand so hard she’s surprised she doesn’t break skin.

She swallows back a sob.

Uzumaki. He’s Clan.

But not Galahdian. Not a child of the Storm-Father, not someone who grew up with the Clan Laws and the certainty in their bones that even if the world fell apart, the Clan would always have your back.

The Uzumaki are a shinobi clan. Karin can’t… how can she know if she can trust this wayward Uzumaki? How can she know if he will hold that same fierce loyalty that blazes in her and Kyoho’s souls?

She shouldn’t. Oh, but by the Storm-Father, Karin wants to. This long lost kinsman who wears Freedom and Protection across his shoulders. Who looks at the world with Protection in his eyes and crowned with Love.

Karin knows the Colors don’t apply to the natural world. To things that are mere happenstance and genetic chance. But-

(‘Sometimes the Gods paint us with specific Colors,’ Karin remembers Kyoho telling her, ‘A message and a warning, for souls so strong the physical has no choice but to reflect it.’

Karin had looked into Blue eyes framed by Red hair, and never asked if Kyoho spoke from experience.)

For the first time in nearly ten years, Karin hopes.

She has to try.

And that means staying in Konoha long enough to get a measure of Uzumaki Naruto.

.

Karin is perfectly happy not knowing how something gets named the ‘Forest of Death.’

Unfortunately, as the location of the Second Exam, Karin’s not going to get a choice.

Kyoho would love it, Karin thinks as she miserably fills out the liability waiver. Kyoho had spoken of many places in her past life, but none so fondly as Galahd, deadly and wild and all the more beautiful for it.  

She lets her ‘teammates’ take the lead as they scout through the forest. Her head’s busy planning her next step. Should she focus on passing the Second Exam? Kyoho told her how the Third Exam was always an exhibition for clients, so she’d have plenty of time during the preparations to track down and try to get to know her kinsman. Perhaps with Kyoho’s help even - surely her mission would be finished by then?

But that assumes Karin and the two idiots she’s assigned to play chakra-battery for can pass at all. They aren’t the weakest team in the forest, even counting Karin’s careful pretense, but there are a lot of teams stronger than they are. Stronger, and all too willing to kill.

Karin could ditch the idiots. She’s kept track of where she last sensed Uzumaki Naruto’s chakra, so she could find him and get to know him in the time before the Second Exam ends. Maybe even steal the Earth scroll and bring it as a good faith gift. 

But she’d be on her own, carrying a high value target, and gambling on her kinsman caring enough about a cousin he didn’t know to trust and protect her.

Karin tugs on the loose ends of her hair in frustration. Why is this so hard?!

Kyoho would know what to do.

Kyoho’s not here, Karin firmly reminds herself. She has to figure this out on her own.

In the end, she chooses to stay with her teammates. There's too many unknowns for her to risk running now.

.

Two days later, staring up at the bear taller than her house, Karin's regretting her decision to stay.

They left me!

Stay and hide, they said. You'll be fine.

If they're still alive when Karin finds them, she's going to throttle them. Hiding her chakra doesn't matter when enemies can find her by her scent! The bear snarls, and Karin gives up any pretense of hiding her abilities. She's out of her depth, anything less than her full skill will only end up with her dead-

("Above all else," Kyoho had whispered the night before Karin left for Konoha, "survive.")

She reaches for her supply of explosive tags (way more than anyone thinks she has, way more than she probably needs, but they're the easiest seal to make and Kyoho always says there's no such thing as overkill) and prepares to turn the bear into a pile of charred meat and fur.

Only, there's movement above her, a blur of black and purple, a flash of silver-

Thunder. Lightning and rain and the howling storm as she huddles by the warmth of hearth, each flash of light in the sky accompanied by the rolling drums that echo in her chest; an invitation, a challenge, to face the storm and laugh in the embrace of the sky.

Uzumaki's dark haired teammate lunges from the trees like one of the jungle cats of Kyoho's stories, dropping down onto the bear with a spinning, flying kick, and Kyoho freezes.

Kyoho knows that kick.

(Karin stares wide-eyed as Kyoho all but flies through the air, leaping and spinning with the grace of a breeze through the prairie grasses. Kyoho's been teaching her how to dance, but those jumps have nothing on the ones Kyoho is doing!

"Will I learn to do that too?" Karin asks. Nerves flit in her gut like butterflies. She's trying to learn everything Kyoho can teach her, but those leaps are so high.

Blue eyes soften as Kyoho ruffles her hair. "You don't have to - it's not part of the Ostium Dance."

Karin blinks. "It's not?"

"It's Ulric, our sister Clan." Kyoho says. Her gaze grows distant. "Clan of Sky and Storm, Coeurl-kin, first of the Storm-Father's children."

Karin's touch on her arm brings her back to the present. "Were you Ulric first, before you were Ostium?"

Kyoho laughs. "I was Furia, Clan of Sea and Horizon, but I learned the Ulric Dance because I was Sky-born instead of Sea-born.")

She can't see a braid, but- Black and purple. A pair of well worn kukri at his back. The aerial combat she's never seen anyone but Kyoho use.

Her fingers tremble around the string of explosive tags as the genin checks to make sure the bear is dead. Then he turns to her with an easy grin. "You're an Uzumaki, right? Do you want to meet your cousin?"

And Karin has been so keyed up over possibly having Clan, over being in hostile territory with no one to watch her back, with desperate hope dogging her heels for the past three days of finding someone she can trust- 

(“You can always trust the Clans. Even the most bitter rivals will protect a Clan child, if they are threatened by Outsiders.”)

"Are you Ulric?" She blurts.

Dark eyes sharpen. "How do you know that name?" But his gaze flits to her temple, to the black braid joiner peeking out from her hair. Karin removes the grey hitai-ate and pulls her hair back to show him her braids. The Ostium Braid and the Mourning Braid for her mother, unlike Kyoho who also wears Marriage, Hero, and Revenge Braids. Braids Karin and Kyoho have never shown anyone but each other.

But the boy's eyes widen in shock and recognition, and pale fingers pull the Ulric Braid threaded with the purple ribbon of a Chief from its hiding place behind his ear.

("And if you get the chance, run. Before Kusa kills you too.")

Karin sobs.

This boy is Clan. He's safe.

[catharrington]

Nothin’ but a good time. (E, 4.2k words)

@harringroveweekoflove day 1: POOL SEX. Also included: body worshiping. Billy being a jerk. Steve being dumb in love. And accidental voyerism.

***

“That sounds like a bad idea, Bill,” Steve had whispered. His hair making a pretty fan out along Billy’s bed sheets. His face sweaty, sticky, his hair colored black as the moonlight as it shifted around with his movements. His shoulders rolling to get comfortable. His plush, bright red, lips chewing on the lit cigarette between them.

Billy turned so he could see more. See how King Steve, his King Steve, looked as he so gracefully fell from grace. Really, as he so gracefully fell from Billy’s spent cock. Now limp and wet between his legs. Quickly getting colder in the chill of the drafty Hargrove house on Cherry Lane.

No matter what, Billy couldn’t look away. Propped himself up on his elbow even so all he could see was Steve’s gorgeous face. His naked chest. As it moved with each breath.

“Fuck,” he mused out loud. Billy’s wandering eyes, his parted lips gasping for a breath of air, made Steve’s own breathless exhaustion break into a cocky smirk.

“What were we talking about?” Billy chucked low.

Steve rolled his eyes. Sucking on the end of the filter of his smoke so some ash, some lit cherry sparks, tumbled down to his moonlight-dark chest hair.

Billy didn’t hesitate in reaching out his hand not supporting his weight to rub the ash into his skin. Mess up his carpet of curls, feel how damp with sweat fucking Steve left his chest hair. He flexed his fingers, dragging blunt nails through the coarse hair.

It only made Steve’s breath catch a little. His smile growing ever wider. “The extremely romantic date night you just asked me on, lover boy?” Steve mutters. Like Billy’s an idiot.

He feels like an idiot. With his hand feeling up Steve’s shapely, muscular chest. Feeling up his bushy chest hair. Feeling the way his heart is working under his skin. An idiot in love, for sure.

“Let me fuck you at the public pool.” Billy repeated what he had asked.

Had asked when? Steve was above him, his narrow waist working his whole body in seizing jerks over Billy’s cock. His thighs bulging, his head thrown back. Steve was so beautiful— Billy’s brain didn’t work sometimes while he watched.

“It’s all I can think about at work,” he admits at the end. Adds it on like a confession.

Steve’s smile falters. His brows pulling down as Billy’s voice takes on a much more serious tune. “You’re serious?” Steve asks.

“As a heart attack.” Billy breathes out.

Steve breaks eye contact. His big browns drifting downwards in consideration. “So, is this some public fetish you have?” He says it so quiet, in a whisper, moving his eyes back to look out from under his dark lashes at Billy. “Or... if you’re trying to impress me, baby; know you’ve already got me. All right?”

Billy’s hand stops moving across Steve’s chest. He holds onto his shoulder to balance as he climbs across Steve’s long legs. Straddling him just like how Steve had. With all the intentions of pinning him down, drinking him up.

“Oh, I got you, huh? Pretty boy?” Billy leans forward so his hair spills out across Steve’s collar bones. They jump up as if to meet his kisses as Steve’s breath hitches.

“Bill,” Steve hisses quietly through clenched teeth. His head, with the still lit smoke, moving back as he tries to keep Billy’s hair from catching on fire.

Billy settles on looking up at him, pressing his chin into Steve’s muscular pec. Watching as Steve’s throat works on keeping back his moans. As his hand plucks the smoke away then knocks into the headboard absentmindedly.

“I know I got you, Stevie. And you know you’ve got me. For as long as you’ll keep me. But,” Billy paused to lick across his bottom lip. Could taste sweat, and ash, and Steve. Like a campfire roaring with life in the middle of the cold, dark woods. “Can’t a guy have a little fun?”

“You drive me crazy…,” Steve whispered out. Tilting his head to the side just so, just so his black hair moved with it like fine silk, just so his cheek squished up against his shoulder, just so he could see Billy looking up at him.

“So that’s a yes?” Billy didn’t wait for a reply. He dipped down, capturing a nipple in his mouth.

Then reached down between them and fisted both their wet, soft cocks together.

Steve’s eyes fluttered closed so beautifully. His lips making a silent moan and a perfect ‘o’ shape. His knuckles rapping on the headboard as his cigarette burned forgotten. Ash dropping into his messy head of black hair.

Billy takes that as an agreement. Just as he takes two more whispered orgasms from Steve before the boy climbs out his window at 3 in the morning.

Next week, finds Billy with a closing shift. The clouds above the Hawkins Community Pool rolling in pink and yellow with the falling sun.

Steve stands by his red car. Legs crossed and arms crossed. The clouds reflected a shade darker on his sunglasses. Billy licks his lips as he comes out from the employees only offices. Finished with his check list of closing requirements. All he has to do is go home now.

Instead, he watches Steve. Spins the keys on his fingers a couple times before he works open the padlock keeping the pool closed after hours.

Steve walks through with those damn, long legs in a pretty pair of pastel swim shorts. A towel slung over his shoulder. The matching pastel stripes blocking Billy’s view of the cropped shirt showing off Steve’s lean stomach.

As he goes past, Billy slaps his ass.

Steve turns around with a half shocked grin, his hand shooting up to catch Billy around the throat. But he only pulls him in for a soft peck on the lips before brushing past. Throwing a middle finger over his shoulder for good measure.

Billy whistles low. Locks the chain link gates back up with his red shorts now much, much more tight around his thighs.

They take a seat on a couple chairs right in the middle. Right next to the ladder of the pool. Steve throws his towel down before lounging across a chair. He uses those long fingers to snatch off his glasses as he looks around.

The pool water wavers like a molten steel mirror. Without splashing children or exercising Moms, it sways only with the light wind. Letting itself reflect back a perfect image of the watercolor sunset happening above them. The sky darkening again so that it could cast Steve in his best lighting. Making his skin more pale, just like his pastel shorts. And his chocolate colored hair loses that brightness, it changes to silky smooth black.

Steve’s eyes get darker too, two vinyl records cut from the star studded moonlit sky. Their music vibrates Billy’s skin every time he sees them.

Billy drops down in the chair behind Steve. His leg folded up on one side and his body bigger, made of all lean muscle, so Steve grumbles as he's forced to lean forward.

But then Billy’s hands are coming up around his hips. Wide palms still hot from the blazing sunlight of the day circling around Steve’s swim trunk waistband. Billy pushes his fingers up to lay out on the space so generously left exposed from Steve’s crop top. Pulling him backwards by the softest part of his belly so he’s burrowing his nose into the back of that perfect hair.

“This is breaking and entering,” Steve mutters darkly. One hand laying over Billy’s, the other lifting to find that mess of honey blond curls.

“Humm,” Billy presses a kiss into the nape of Steve’s neck, “how is it breaking if I got the damn key, Stevie?”

He can feel it in his stomach as Steve rolls out a filthy moan. He’s letting himself be louder, much louder, than they ever could be at Cherry Lane.

Billy circles his arms around Steve’s waist completely. Yanking him backwards with a jerk so that he can angle up his hips. So that Steve can feel the way his cock is already proud and hard inside his red shorts.

Presses the shaft of it right between Steve’s ass, rocking him back down by his grip around his waist so he has no choice but to feel it.

Steve lets out another filthy moan, lets his head fall back on Billy’s shoulder as if it took all his strength to do so.

“Wanna fuck you so bad, baby,” Billy started rambling. His brain shutting off all it’s gates and locks as soon as it heard that moan. “Looked so damn hot waitin’ for me. Such a good boy showin’ up just how I asked.”

Steve shivered as Billy’s words left a hot trail of breath up his cheek bones. He arched his back, moving so his ass pushed into Billy’s trapped cock.

“Then why don’t you show me how to swim, lifeguard?” He asked, voice sultry and teasing. Perfect in every damn way.

Steve leaned forward in the chair to give himself just enough space to grip the bottom of his crop top and pull it off. His hair bounced as he wiggled, shifting his shoulders out the fabric, then letting it drop to the wet tile under them.

Like a magnet, like a force he couldn’t control, Billy’s hands reached up for that bare chest. Getting two handfuls of Steve’s pecs just to squeeze them hard as he can.

Billy muffled his own moans at being able to touch his boyfriend again by placing wet, open kisses up Steve’s neck. “What did I do to deserve you?” Billy kissed the question.

Kissing so hard his teeth scrapped, abusing Steve’s sensitive and pale throat.

Steve let himself enjoy the attention. Arches his back so his chest went up to meet Billy's hands. But only for a moment, until he reached up to catch Billy's jaw mid kiss. He pulls Billy's plump, cherry red lips towards him. Not to kiss— just to mutter close enough to touch.

“Nothing yet,” he whispered.

Then Steve stood up from the chair. Putting his hands on his hips as he looked down with a cocky grin as Billy lays out across his chair. Hard in his shorts, flushed red down to his neck. An annoyed grimace on his face.

Steve took a few timid steps backwards as if he feared Billy could leap from the chair like an angry mountain lion chasing his food. When Steve reached the ladder he had to turn to follow the curve of the metal handles.

“Let’s get this over with, okay? I really don’t want to be caught in public.” Steve said as he lowered down into the water.

Billy rolled his eyes. But stood up and followed. Not by the ladder, but by dropping down to his ass on the side of the pool and letting his feet dangle over. “Sure, whatever you say your majesty,” he spoke with his arms, bowing at the waist slightly to show he was all Steve’s to command.

“Yeah, Bill,” Steve splashed towards him, loving way too much how it made Billy’s fluffy hair limp. “Some people don’t get off to getting caught, or being a total jerk!”

Jumping off the side of the pool, Billy got Steve back with his own large splash. When he surfaced, he squirted water out his mouth. Steve grimaced deep, scrubbing at his face as it got all over his cheek.

While Steve was furiously wiping the spit from his cheek, he didn’t notice the way Billy pushed him up toward the wall until his hair was flat against it.

“Bill,” he gasped out. Droplets of water falling from his lips. Hands were wandering over his ass under the water already.

“You really know me so well, pretty boy, it’s so damn cute,” Billy groans out.

“That was an insult!” Steve defends himself weakly.

“Yeah, baby,” Billy growls, his mouth finds Steve’s neck again with hard kisses, “and you know insulting me gets me off too.”

Steve’s voice is cracking, his brows furrowed together. Those big hands have dropped down to cup his whole ass under the water. And for some reason they feel heavier, warmer, than they ever have before.

“No, ahhh—,” his words cut off with a throaty moan.

“Asshole,” He croaks out before finally letting his head drop backwards. Letting Billy have all the access to his neck and chest he could ever want.

Billy lifts Steve’s legs by the back of his thighs to wrap around his waist. Pushing and pulling Steve’s weight that’s now all soft and marshmallow under the water until their cocks are kissing. Rubbing their shafts together, making their shorts bunch up around their hips and strain with the grown lengths.

Laying his head back, letting his damp hair spread out on the tile of the side of the pool, Steve wasn’t quiet in his moans. His mouth hung open with his noises and hitching breaths.

His hands braced onto Billy’s shoulders as the blond moved down to catch Steve’s nipples in his kisses. Sucking one dusty rose colored peak into his mouth. Rolling it between his front teeth before caressing it with a gentle kiss.

Steve tasted like expensive cologne and the same damn chlorine pool water Billy’s been swimming in all day long. He was warm, hot to the touch, and firm under his hands.

Billy went between Steve’s nipples, lapping at each one like a starving man. Digging his fingers into the back of Steve’s thighs like he wishes he could grip at his chest. He made up for the lack of touching with a hard bite, followed by a soft kiss.

The ministrations made Steve’s throat wrecked. His breaths more messy moans and groans than anything.

Billy lifted him up farther along the wall, until he could lift his arms and use his elbows to keep him up on the slippery when wet tiles. He gripped Steve’s legs tightly to his ribs as he moved down, down to where the water licked around Steve’s mole dotted skin.

“Hold yourself up, pretty boy,” Billy ordered. Keeping one hand on the back of his thighs while the other moves him around by the hips. He watches as Steve shifts around to get comfortable on his elbows.

“Yeah,” he growls out, feeling feral as he looks upwards to Steve’s already sex flushed face. “Just like that. Perfect.”

Steve has enough sass left in him to roll his eyes. It makes Billy smile as he gets to work tugging down Steve’s swim shorts just enough to let his cock free. The curvy pink head and velvet shaft come free with a wet slap to Steve’s stomach. He can only get the shorts down mid thigh, but that’s enough for Billy.

Soft, little kitten licks are all he gives at first. Lapping at the chlorine flavor until he can taste the pearls of pre-cum off the tip. But Billy doesn’t like nice, or slow. And he can all but hear Steve’s blunt nails scratching across the tiles in the empty community pool. So he makes quick work of swallowing down Steve until he hits the back of his tongue.

“Oh, Bill! Oh!” Steve’s breath hikes. Threatens to give out on him. And his shoulders jump up as if to close himself off from the pleasure of being blown in a cool pool on a hot summer day.

He catches his breath in short gasping jerks. Billy can feel the way his legs tighten, even, around his ribs. So he steadies out his maddening pace, bobbing shallowly up and down the mid-length of Steve’s cock. Setting a rhythm to match his breath to.

Steve lays back so his head is flat on the tile. His eyes flutter closed as he enjoys the way Billy’s wet mouth works over his cock.

And Billy’s enjoying himself too, so damn much. His own legs tense as he holds up Steve’s weight. Still heavy even with the assist of the water making him float. Making Billy’s muscles bulge and grow hot even with the water up around his shoulders.

Each time he bobbed his head down to swallow Steve’s cock his chin touched the water. All around them the only noises he could hear was splashing, and the breathless and pretty as hell moans coming out of Steve’s mouth.

He stole one more glance up at Steve, one more lingering look up at that flexing Adam’s apple, before he dropped his head down under the water.

***

Steve lays so his head is completely thrown back, his chest heaving with the last of his air, as he feels Billy take him deep to the root of his cock. His shoulders give a weak little jerk as he tries not to come immediately. Eyes fluttering in the way he wants to close them and savor the moment, but he doesn’t want to stop looking around and remembering just where they are.

It’s then, as he’s letting his eyes wander the empty pool recliners around them. Usually bustling and filled with people. When he notices it. A yellow light flicking through the chain link fence.

Steve blinks a bit. Watching as the light sweeps across the water. But it’s when he hears their splashing and sex noises get drowned out by the clanking of the locked fence again, does Steve realize.

His hand moves to try and cup Billy’s hair. To pull him up from where he was jerking his cock so perfectly. The water took all the friction away so he could feel only Billy’s plump lips and eager tongue perfectly wet and warm against him. Steve didn’t want to stop.

And neither did Billy. He lifted for a second only to shoot a disgustingly handsome grin, suck in a breath, and go down under again.

Now, he was nuzzling his cock with his nose. His perfect, cute, round nose Steve loved to give him shit for. It pressed just on the side of his cock, while Billy’s mouth toyed with the sensitive skin of his balls. His tongue pulling in as much as he can take, sucking like he’s proving a point.

Steve could only tighten his grip on Billy’s messy hair as he rolled his head backwards again.

Looking up, he can see how the gate is open, and the light is still surveying. It’s only a matter of time before—

“Stop right there!” A booming voice broke into their perfect little silent moment. Accompanied by shuffling work boots as the flash light came closer. “After hours, this is trespassing!”

Steve lifted his one hand in the air, surrendering at the madness of the situation. He had to gulp down some chlorine scented air before he had enough in his lungs to reply with a meek, “Howdy, Hop!”

“What?” The voice loses some of its boom, but Chief of Police Jim Hoppers always has a loud voice. At least when he’s scolding Steve for something. “Harrington? What the hell are you doing here?”

The flashlight drops from Steve’s face so now he can see the Chief in all his bristling, uniformed glory. Thankfully, he had stopped a good few feet away. So maybe he hasn’t seen Billy.

“Not what it looks like,” he exhales.

“Of course not…,” Hopper shuffles around as if holstering something. He had taken his gun out to search the pool, that’s just fantastic.

“Seriously,” Steve’s voice catches with a breathy moan before he can stop it. Just for a second. He covers it with a wave of his hand before continuing. “Seriously! I’m here with Hargrove so he works here, he’s got a key— s-so it’s not a crime, right?”

“Figured as much,” Hopper grumbles, “Where is that bad influence?”

Steve whispers out a short prayer to God for that question. And then, as if Billy knows exactly that he’s being talked about, he moves his sinful tongue back up to swallow Steve’s cock to the root.

He has to control his breath more than he ever has. His body is edging hard, wanting to cum down Billy’s throat as it works over his sensitive head so perfectly. So warm and wet, and so dangerous. If he came now, if he made a sound like he did, they would be caught. It sends crackling electricity up and down his body at the thought of it.

His fingers pull at Billy’s hair mean-like, trying to punish him. And he manages to push down the way he wants to absolutely messily beg for the boy to continue with a couple shaky breaths.

“He’s getting his towel from the lockers. Should be out soon.” He turns over his shoulder with an innocent smile. Steve is surprised at his own voice, surprised he can talk at all with Billy’s throat milking his cock so hard.

“Getting a towel,” Hopper mused. Turning to look at the doors for the locker rooms.

Steve took that second to let out a silent moan. Parting his lips widely as if to scream in the way he wanted. In the way he will, as soon as Hopper leaves. If he even lasts that long.

“That’s all?” Hopper snaps, turning back to glare at Steve.

And Steve just barely covers his moan with biting down on his lips. Sucking them in and scraping his teeth against them as a mild distraction. “Yeah, yeah,” he laughs out. “Sure, Hop—,”

“You two boys better not be drinking!”

“Drinking?” Steve manages to hide a groan brought on by a particularly hard suck inside that word, dragging it out as if he can’t believe it. And he can’t. He can’t believe he’s trying to lie to Chief Hopper while getting blown.

“Geez, Hop, we’re not drinking okay? Just swimming!” He pleads.

“Just swimming?” Hopper’s glare has softened. His brow that was constantly up and suspicious lowered to a more fond exasperation.

“S-Sure.” Steve nods desperately.

“I come back in an hour, I won’t find two dumb teenagers floating belly up?” Hopper cracks a smile. Oh good, he’s joking. He must believe him, and that must mean he’s close to leaving.

Steve rolled his eyes, matched the laugh with a forced one. “Don’t be so ancient, man, holy shit.”

Hopper dips his head as if offended at the language. Steve tries to crack another good natured laugh but a moan almost slips out, so he claps his hand over his mouth. Hopefully, it comes off as comedy. Not as him trying to power through Billy trying really hard to make him cum right now.

A second ticks by of silence. Hopper narrowing his eyes at Steve, while he looks back with every ounce of pleading puppy-dog eyes he can muster. And Steve’s been told his puppy-dog eyes can be pretty powerful.

“No drinking?” Hopper asks.

Steve shakes his head profusely. His hand still covering his mouth.

“You two are gone in an hour?”

Steve nods, his hair messily falling around his forehead shakes with it.

“Jesus Christ,” Hopper rolls his eyes and moves his whole body with it. Turning around in a very interesting show of self battling. “Fine. You two don’t cause any more trouble,” he grumbled out as he turned to walk away.

“Thanks, Hop!” Steve yelled after him. Throwing out a weak, quivering thumbs up as Hopper waves over his shoulder.

As soon as he gets out the gate, Steve drops his head down and lets out a long, whimpering moan. His hand on Billy’s head pulling hard on those wet, golden curls, as he thrusts back up into Billy’s mouth. It only takes a couple. A few deep, hard, thrusts that punch his cock head into the back of Billy’s throat, before Steve’s cuming hard.

He keeps his hands on Billy’s hair so he has to stay down, stay under the shifting waters of the pool, and swallow his whole load. Steve feels it makes up for the torture of talking to Hopper. It also feels just so damn good.

His grip on Billy’s hair lets go when he starts wiggling around. He comes up from the water with his mouth open already trying to suck down a desperate breath. Billy’s lips are swollen, huge and cherry red. Like a lollipop. Like his damn sexy swim shorts uniform.

Steve growls from deep in his chest as soon as he sees Billy’s smug ass face.

“Damn, when I told you I wanted to drown in you, Stevie, I meant your pretty eyes. Not your big dick—,”

“I hate you,” Steve muttered darkly.

“And fuck, baby, how you kept your cool with that pig? That was really fuckin’ hot—,”

“I hate you,” Steve repeated. His hand petting through Billy’s hair didn’t match the hate in voice at all, and he was fine with that.

“Shucks,” Billy drawls out, his grin going up on one side. Turning into a lopsided smile. A real smile. Steve’s heart fluttered around inside his chest. “Keep showing off like this, you’re going to make a guy fall in love!”

Steve cracked his mean mug with a cloud-soft laugh, his eyes crinkling around the edges with it. He couldn’t stay mad, not even when he’s trying.

He pulls Billy down by a fistful of hair into a blistering kiss. Without shutting him up, Steve might start confessing shit Billy wasn’t ready for.

Not yet, at least. Maybe a couple more sunset swims and he’ll be ready

[moonbeamsung]

Bad Dracula

I have no intention of scaring you, baby~

member: jaemin

au: vampire!jaemin x gn!reader, supernatural au

word count: 2.1k

genre: fluff, a little angst, slightly suggestive

warnings: mentions of blood, kissing, implied strict parenting

recommended song: bad dracula by red velvet

author’s note: Based on the song above. This was so much fun to write and I thought it fit well with the time of year, so enjoy!

The dance floor in the large ballroom pulses with energy and vibrations from the DJ booth at the far end of it. It’s packed, so much so that all the people, all the shuffling pairs of shoes, threaten to overflow from the carefully manicured tiles on the ground and into the remainder of the space. This poses a problem considering there isn’t much, due to the dozens upon dozens of fancily decorated round tables scattered throughout the brightly lit chamber, some empty as their occupants sway to the beat of the music and others full with those still finishing their exquisitely prepared meals.

Dancing close to the edge of the massive crowd, you catch sight of the moon’s reflection on the polished floor, oddly clear. A strange feeling starts to overtake you as you continue to gaze at it, physically compelling you to raise your eyes. When you do, there’s a devilishly handsome stranger you’ve never seen before leaning against the wall, directly across from you. The moonlight spilling in through the glass casts a haunting shadow on his chiseled features, but your heart stops when the sliver of a fang peeks out from between his lips, gleaming a blinding white.

How no one else notices him, you’re not sure. What you do know, however, is that he’s definitely bad news.

...Right?

Your gut pinches at the thought, the silent signal begging you to correct your instant judgement based solely on his appearance. How could you possibly be wrong, though? He’s a vampire, for goodness’ sake! You’ve been lectured and warned enough times to remember that they’re always up to no good.

The inner dilemma going on in your mind causes you to stare blankly, zoned out and unaware that your focus is drilling into the boy. Amused, he waits for you to realize this.

Eyes blown wide with surprise, you whirl around to weave in and out of the throng of people, making your way to the center of the crowd in a pathetic attempt to undo what just happened. Attention trained on the ground, a pair of shiny black dress shoes come into your line of sight.

There’s that feeling again. You don’t want to, you fight the urge this time, but trying to resist the supernatural pull makes your head ache. Bracing yourself, you unwillingly lift your eyes again, tracing the length of his figure from the hem of his dress pants all the way up to the lapel of his suit. The wine-colored ensemble seems fitting, considering the craving vampires instinctively harbor for a similarly colored substance.

His looks are even more striking up close. The allure he possesses is something otherworldly, and he has to repeat himself for you to realize he’s speaking to you. “My name is Jaemin, and you are...?” He questions, the lilt of his voice silky and seductive. Stammering a somewhat coherent response, you freeze when his cold fingers grasp your wrist, lifting it to his lips and pressing a kiss to your trembling knuckles.

“Shall we dance?” It’s a statement, not a request, and not wanting to cause a scene, you make no attempts to protest. You get lost in the way his arms feel wrapped around you, every so often being twirled by the graceful movements of his hand.

Your eyes lock with his and they put you in an inescapable trance, casting a spell on your mind until the moment that he breaks the contact, glancing almost worriedly at something over your shoulder. He returns his gaze to yours as quickly as he removed it, and the enrapturing haze settles in around you once more.

For the final minute of your dance, he brings you closer than you’ve ever been to him before, head resting firmly against his chest. A triumphant feeling of rebellion bubbles up inside of you knowing that you’d be in big trouble if your parents could see you right now, in the arms of an enchanting vampire. The mere act of associating with one would be enough for them to explode with fury, so going even further than that would surely elicit a wrath of pure, unadulterated rage.

The song ends, its slow tempo coming to a stop before being replaced by a much peppier tune.

Most of your fright forgotten for the time being, you’re more curious than anything else when he begins to drag you away from the center of the ballroom, pulling you with urgency and a force that completely contrasts with the gentleness of his touches as you danced together. Stepping out from the crowd, he leads you around to the other side of the wide marble staircase, ducking to stand behind a pristine white column that extends all the way up to the heightened ceiling. It dawns on you now that he could actually be dangerous, and all the fear comes flooding back to you.

Jaemin sees it too, the way your pupils dilate to indicate your terror of the situation you’ve gotten yourself into, your terror of him. You’re about to cry out when he stops you by covering your mouth with his hand, the low temperature of his skin startling you even more, and you wince.

“Sorry, sorry!” He whispers hastily, panicked. You take notice of the instant change in his demeanor but it does nothing to calm you down. “It’s alright, don’t freak out, okay?”

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he breathes, finally providing you with some sort of relief. You relax a little under his hold, still cautious but deciding to give him a chance. Slowly, he removes his palm from your lips, allowing you to speak.

“What do you want with me, then?”

Glancing around with that same look of anxiousness on his face, he leans in, murmuring into your ear with every word.

“Well, I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, but I’m a vampire. I come from a whole family of them. My parents brought me here tonight to... uh, well, you’ve heard the stories. They want me to find someone with the best blood to drink.”

Come to think of it, you do recall seeing a carriage parked outside, black as night and delicately carved like it came from the darkest depths of the underworld. Must’ve been his, you realize.

“And that’s me because...?” You interrupt his explanation, causing him to wave a hand in the air, exasperated.

“Let me finish, okay? The thing is, vampires drink blood but it’s not the only thing we need to survive. In fact, we don’t even need it. Over time we’ve found ways to get the same nutrients in other ways and from other things. Some of us still do it for tradition’s sake. And my family is all about preserving history.”

Inhaling sharply, he continues. “But I... I can’t do it. Not only does it feel morally wrong, but I get sick just thinking about it. On nights like this, I just have to find a way to lie about finding some.”

“That’s,” he leans back to point a finger at you, “where you come in, angel. We just have to make it look like I took some of your blood, and that will be enough to satisfy my parents for a while.”

Too stunned to speak, you gape at Jaemin, leaving him waiting for your answer, wondering whether you’ll commit or not.

“Wow.”

“I understand if you don’t want to help, I can always find someone—”

“You are nothing like who I thought you were.”

Jaemin’s pale skin flushes with a color you’re not sure even exists before he beams at you. A few minutes ago, you would never have guessed the mysterious man leaning against the wall could smile this brightly. “Not all of us are bloodthirsty monsters.”

“I’m sorry I was afraid of you,” you tell him, looking down at the floor with a guilty expression.

“It’s not your fault, you had every right to be.”

“...Hold on, what was all that out there?” You accuse, brows raised in slight suspicion and a hip tilted to the side as you await an explanation.

“What do you mean, ‘all that?’”

“I mean the dance! I mean the way you introduced yourself, the way you spoke, everything... You were so cold, so intimidating. But you’re acting so different now.”

“All to put on a show for my parents, sweetheart.”

Blushing like mad, you shake your head as you remember the reason why you’re back here with him in the first place. “I’ll do it,” you say, heart fluttering at the way his eyes light up with gratitude.

“Really? You will? Thank you! Thank you so much...” he trails off, and you find the excitement in his voice adorable.

“So, how do we do this?” You ponder for a moment, tapping your shoe against the floor before an idea comes to you. “You don’t mind ketchup, do you?”

Jaemin knows what you’re getting at, nodding. “I don’t have a problem with it, so that should work fine.”

“But... how close are they going to look? Would a bite mark make it more realistic?”

Considering your words, Jaemin’s tongue darts out to lick at one of his sharp fangs, the action drawing your gaze down to them.

“You’re probably right...”

Closing your eyes and straightening your posture, you tilt your head to one side, exposing your neck. “Go ahead, I don’t mind.”

Here goes nothing, Jaemin thinks to himself. Only he doesn’t aim for your neck.

When you feel his lips on yours you’re startled to say the least, but just like when he danced with you, you don’t pull away. The kiss is a delicious secret, only for the two of you to know about and no one else. Instead of ice his hands are like fire on your skin, and the sleeves of his satin suit jacket feel heavenly against your arms as they cling to his shoulders for dear life. It’s so intense, so heated and passionate a kiss that you feel yourself back up against the pillar you’ve been hiding behind all this time.

Not wanting anyone to get suspicious about what’s taking so long, Jaemin reluctantly separates his lips from yours and drags them across your skin, down past your jaw to halt at your neck. The magic bestowed upon all vampires gives him the power to temporarily restrict the ability of his fangs to take blood, rendering them harmless. Once he’s done this, he sinks them into the spot above your collarbone just far enough to leave an impression, eliciting a small whine from your lips but nothing more.

“That wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be,” you pant, taking heavy breaths in through your nose and out through your mouth while you wait to regain the strength you lost in the moment. It’s funny, you think. He didn’t take any of your blood, so why do you feel so dizzy?

Jaemin chuckles, brushing your hair out of your face since it had become slightly tousled during the kiss. His eyes widen in sudden realization and he snaps his fingers, “The ketchup!”

“Right!” You exclaim, hurriedly running over to the nearest deserted table and grabbing a single packet.

Tearing the corner, you squeeze a small dot of the condiment onto your finger before smearing it onto the skin below his lips, making it look as if it’s dripping from the edge of his mouth. Jaemin takes it from you and does the same, the red smudge complimenting the bite mark he left on your neck quite nicely, if he says so himself.

Leading you back around the staircase, Jaemin shares a second dance with you in the middle of the ballroom, and this time you’re both more comfortable with each other. From across the room, his parents’ enhanced senses of sight allow them to see your stained skin, humming in approval at their son’s apparent obedience.

“Will I see you again?” You ask in a soft voice, wavering at the possibility of losing the new friend, and maybe something more, you’ve made tonight.

“I don’t know, my dear,” Jaemin admits. “But I’ll try.”

Smiling lovingly up at him, you sigh, the three words you so desperately want to utter on the very tip of your tongue, but you feel it’s a little too soon. One day, you tell yourself.

Hidden amongst the crowd, he ducks down a little to steal a final kiss before a tall figure that’s probably his mother whisks him away and into the distance. You exchange longing glances before he’s forced to turn around, walking completely out of sight.

Taking long strides at an inhuman pace between both of his parents, Jaemin grins to himself, thinking of you and how amazing you looked tonight in that elegant outfit of yours.

From beside him, his father sniffs the air, pale nose wrinkling in distaste.

“Is that ketchup?!”

[booksimp]

Flame of Autumn - Part Two

A/N: Part two of Midnight at Rita’s is finally here, everyone! Sorry it took so long, I started a new job and I’ve been a bit overwhelmed. As you can tell, I’ve named this series something different. That’s because Midnight at Rita’s was supposed to be a smut one off, but it has a mind of it’s own and has become an actual fic. This will be part two of a series called “Flame of Autumn”. This fic is going to be quite long, and more elaborate than anything I’ve written here so far. I hope you enjoy!

“Oh, fucking hell.” I curse, clapping a hand over my mouth in shock.

Azriel chuckles sardonically, running a hand through his already sex mussed curls, puffing out a shocked breath. His cheeks are an adorable shade of pink, eyes wide.  

“Well said.”

For a few moments, we just sit and feel the bond thrum between us, like the plucked string of a cello. We’re still flushed and dazed, our panting breaths the only sound in the room as we stare at each other. 

A strange intermingling of emotion overwhelms me. Elation, joy, desire. A desire to take hold of Azriel and never, ever be parted from him. But all of it is entirely eclipsed by a sense of dread. It wraps itself around my throat, my heart, like a noose of ice. 

A mate is just another person to lose, to endanger with my own existence. 

The faces of all those that have suffered to protect me, that I ultimately lost, flash across my vision. A macabre version of a scrapbook. Just as easily as he perceived my earlier insecurities, Azriel notices the rising emotions in me. With the mate bond newly revealed, I wonder if the connection we’d felt all night had been the first clue. That, and his uncanny ability to read me like an open book. 

“Sabine, I don’t expect anything from you. But I- I’d like to explore this. We can go at whatever pace you’re comfortable with.” 

His face shines with hope as he takes my hand in his, squeezing gently. A hesitant reach down the bond caresses against me. His eyes are open and earnest, a shy smile on his face. The epitome of honest and trustworthy. 

I wonder what he would think if he knew Sabine isn’t my real name. 

A pang of guilt shoots through me, at the dishonesty of it, and it's suddenly hard to breathe. Lying to others has become disturbingly easy over the years I’ve been in hiding. I’m skilled at it now, diversion and distraction like second nature. But the thought of keeping up the ruse with my mate is unbearable. Having to lie every day, and to the person who should know the absolute truth of myself? I can’t do it. I won’t do it. 

I’m opening my mouth to admit things I haven’t in years, when my mothers face flashes through my mind. She was the first to implore me to hide my abilities, and the first to die because of them. 

“You threaten his crown. He will destroy everything you love to keep you quiet, my girl. You cannot give him more ammunition. You get close to no one. You keep moving. Don’t ever come back here.” 

Her words ring in my ears like I’m hearing them for the first time. I shut my mouth with a snap. I can’t tell Azriel anything, for fear of bringing the wrath of my father down on him. Can I even stay in Velaris? 

When I first heard of the hidden city of the Night Court, heavily guarded by the most powerful High Lord, I rejoiced. Isolated and with a varied population, it made the perfect hiding place. Not to mention that Velaris is far outside the reach of my fathers court. I’ve felt almost safe here, and the thought of leaving this city, of leaving Azriel, has my heart sinking into my stomach. Azriel slowly places a hand on my cheek, breaking me free of my internal struggle. Concern shapes his features, hazel eyes heartbreakingly gentle. He is too perceptive to not see the indecision and fear in me, bond or not. Without meaning to, I speak. 

“Okay.” 

A relieved grin graces his lips. I feel the apprehension fading from him, being replaced with soft joy. It makes my decision for me. Azriel is an Illyrian, not exactly an easy target. We’re in the safest place there is for me. If I guard my secret well enough, I can stay. Stay, and see where this newfound bond leads us. I pray to the Cauldron that I’m not making a stupid, selfish mistake. 

“Are you sure?” His brow furrows, intent on my response.

In that moment, I know that no matter how strongly he feels, Azriel will let me walk away. If I decide he’s not what I want, he would honor my choice no questions asked. It only makes me more certain of my decision. I’ve never been one to tolerate a controlling male.

“Absolutely. Are you?” I ask, inching closer to him, still clutching the sheets against myself.

His eyes flicker down to my chest, and back to my eyes. When a faint blush paints his cheeks, I nearly drop the bedding in shock. So the confident male can get flustered. I file the information away for later, barely containing a smirk. 

“Of course I am, I’ve waited almost six hundred years for you.” His voice is low, each syllable more sure than the last. 

My heart soars inside my chest at his words. Depthless hazel eyes bore into mine, and his shadows brush against my bare skin. They send shivers all along my body, and I edge even closer to him. He meets me in the middle of the bed, his forehead touching mine as his gaze roves over me like I’m a precious, once lost jewel. I do the same, drinking in the sight of the magnificent shadowsinger before me. My mate. 

Long ago, some inexplicable force decided that he belonged to me, and I him. I wonder what makes us so compatible, and I find I’m excited to discover every reason for myself. I want to know all the simple, small details of him like the back of my hand. I want to memorize the planes of his face, every color in his eyes.

If my mother could meet him, I imagine she’d remark on the beautiful grandchildren we’d make her. It's that thought, and the sudden realization that we are both very naked, that has a fierce blush coloring my face. 

“Maybe we should get dressed.” I whisper, only slightly breathless. 

Azriel’s eyes run along my sheet-clad form once more, before he pins me with  that now familiar alluring smile. 

“As you wish.” 

He says again, only making me more flushed at the memory. Without an ounce of shame, the Illyrian rises to his feet and walks to the dresser at the other end of the room. He begins digging through the drawers, before selecting some grey sweatpants and a long sleeve black shirt for himself. I’m still wrapped in his sheets, attempting to not gawk at the unobstructed view of his ass, when Azriel looks over his shoulder at me. He smirks at my obvious observation of his body.

“Do you want something other than your dress? Something more comfortable?”

I look down at the rumpled silk garment on the floor and grimace. He’s right, the thought of shimmying myself into it right now is about as appealing as a cold bath in the middle of winter.

“Yes please. Preferably something a bit warmer.” 

He nods, and picks a few items from his dresser. He places them on the bed before me and fixes me with a sweet, slightly shy grin. 

“Are you hungry? I have pastries from the bakery down the street. I could make coffee?” 

My ears perk at the mention of food, and my stomach grumbles in agreement. I like that instead of pushing me to continue our conversation about our future, he’s making sure I’m fed and comfortable. That warm, light sensation flutters in my belly again.  

“I never turn down coffee or carbs.” I manage to get out, smiling coyly. 

“Noted.” Azriel smiles again, a quiet amusement in his eyes. 

He leaves me to change, heading towards the kitchen to start the coffee. I put on the sweatshirt and black briefs left for me. Both are too big, but they’re warm and soft against my skin. Worlds better than the dress. I pull the collar of the sweatshirt up to my nose and inhale his scent of cedar and moonlight and rain. Gods, what does he bathe in that makes him smell so good?

For the first time all night, I’m able to observe Azriel’s bedroom. My eyes widen as I take in the beautiful A frame ceiling with exposed wooden beams. The soft patter of rain on glass draws my eyes to the east wall, which is made entirely of paneled windows. Silver rivulets of water run down their surface, reflecting flickering beams of moonlight into the room. The floors are a dark oak, the walls a calming sage.

Candles burn on Azriel’s overflowing bookcase, and the fireplace crackles merrily on the opposite wall. I reach out hesitantly with my ability, and feel the heat of each flame flicker inside my awareness. For a moment, I watch the candle flames dance and twist under my will. It's rare that I ever have the chance to explore my gift, the small flames too often exploding into an uncontrolled inferno that attracts attention. But I can’t help playing just a little.   

The sound of a kettle whistling startles me from my reverie, and a few tea lights extinguish entirely. I wince, and quickly light them again before following Azriel into the kitchen. 

He’s at the counter, adding hot water to a french press. The earthy scent of coffee tickles my nose as he presses the grounds down, the muscles of his arm flexing deliciously.

“How do you take your coffee?” He asks, gesturing towards a pale box of pastries for me to choose from. 

“Cream and sugar. Lots of cream.” 

“You like your coffee sweet.” He smiles to himself as he pours extra cream and sugar into my cup, as if adding the observance to a mental list.

 I pad closer and peer at the box of pastries over his broad shoulder. On the front it reads ‘Diana’s Bakery and Coffeehouse’ in elegant script. I bite my lip to keep from laughing as I open the familiar box, and take a bagel from inside. 

He notices me smiling at the pastries and raises a thick eyebrow at me, the corner of his lip quirking up.

“What is it?”

“Nothing it's just - well I work at Diana’s.” I laugh, taking a bite of the magically warmed bagel after liberally smearing it with cream cheese. 

“You do? But I’ve been in there everyday this week, I haven’t seen you.” 

He passes my mug to me, filled to the brim with creamy coffee, and I take a careful sip. He leans against the marble counter, hazel eyes looking me up and down, that small smirk making an appearance once again. What is it about males liking us in their clothes? Not that I’m complaining. 

“Well, you wouldn’t. I work in the back with Diana as her baking apprentice. I even baked those cinnamon rolls.”

 I know they’re mine by the slightly imperfect glazing. Diana is meticulous and every single treat she bakes is always flawless.

He points to the icing covered cinnamon rolls inside the box, mouth gaping in shock. 

“These cinnamon rolls? They’re the best I’ve ever had. I’ve been buying you guys out everyday.” Azriel exclaims, eyes wide and alight with surprise. 

“Oh, so you’re the reason I’ve had to make twice as many recently?” I chuckle, pink staining my cheeks. The fact that Azriel loves my baking brings me way too much delight to be proper. 

“I’m sorry, but Cassian and I can’t get enough of them. What do you do to them? They’re like biting into a cloud!”

“I can’t tell you that! It's a secret recipe!” I wink, a goofy grin on my face.

Azriel rolls his eyes and smiles, grumbling about how secretive bakers are as he deposits a large mound of cinnamon rolls onto a plate. A truly genuine smile breaks across my face at the sight. He collects his own mug and leads me to a comfy couch, where we both plop down and tuck into our midnight snacks. 

I can’t help but watch him, completely mystified. This sexy, adorable male is my mate? I’ve never felt lucky a day in my life, but as Azriel finishes his third cinnamon roll, I can’t help but feel like the fates smiled on this one aspect of my life. Having finished my bagel, I sip on my coffee and relax into the couch. I’ve been running for a long time, keeping everyone at arm's length, never staying in one place for more than a few years. But maybe I can stay hidden in Velaris and keep Azriel a lot closer. Maybe I don’t have to be alone. I want that future so badly it becomes hard to breath.

“So you bake. You dance at Rita’s. What else?” 

Azriel’s voice brings me back to the present, and I glance up from my coffee cup. Silent laughter dances in the hazel depths of his eyes, his plate of pastries discarded on the coffee table. Suddenly self conscious under his intent gaze,  I reach a hand up to feel the tangled masses of my dark hair. I grimace when I realize what a mess it’s become. It will probably need to be dyed again as well.

“I play music. Mostly the piano. I write sometimes. And you?”

The admissions, however small, make my throat tight with anxiety. I haven’t told anyone anything true about myself in years, and I haven’t touched a piano in just as long. The feeling is nerve wracking, and I can’t help but feel exposed. My eyes follow the upward curve of his lips as he smiles at me, one arm draped over the back of the couch. 

 “I can see you playing piano. You have the hands for it.”

I blush at his statement, my gaze falling to my entirely ordinary hands. What does that even mean?

“I’m something of a homebody. If I’m not with my brothers, I’m probably here with a book. I train, I work, I come home."

That explains the mountains of novels all over his room. And the incredible body. He reaches over and runs a hand through my slightly curling hair, the hours I’d spent straightening it made useless. He curls one of the ringlets around his finger, giving it a slight tug, before he tucks it behind my ear. Every single nervous thought evaporates at his touch.

“I like your hair like this, especially since I’m the one who made it this messy.” 

He murmurs, a sudden heat in his eyes. I feel my body warm in response to that look, and I have to divert my gaze down at my lap to keep from jumping him right there. Again.

“You’re a shameless flirt, shadowsinger.” I mutter, playing with the silver ring of leaves on my finger, noticing that his thigh is now pressed against mine. When had he moved so close?

“Not usually, trust me. My brothers would be astonished.” He laughs, running a hand through his own messy hair. 

“Not usually?” I trace a finger along the back of his hand, fascinated by the combination of scarring and complex veins. 

He shivers slightly, and I smile in satisfaction. He’s not the only one who can play that game. 

“I make exceptions for my mate.” He whispers, taking my hand from his and pressing a kiss to my palm, lips soft and warm. 

“I was supposed to have drinks with my brothers. They must think I decided to stay in.”  He laughs against my skin, kissing his way to the pulse point of my wrist.

“Little do they know, huh?” I gasp, made breathless by his ministrations and the thought of exactly why he’d ditched his brothers tonight.

“Little do they know. When you’re ready, I - uh. I know they’d love to meet you.” He looks up at me, cheeks filling with color as he straightens. 

My stomach drops, and a bit of reality comes crashing down. A mate is one thing, but letting his family into my life? They’d be two more people to lie to, two more people in danger because of me. I avoid any straight answers, and decide to divert his attention elsewhere.

“Tell me about them?” I drink from my mug, using it as an excuse to break eye contact. I can’t shake the feeling that he can see down to the very truth of me when our gazes meet. 

“Their names are Cassian and Rhys. Complete idiots. But those two have saved my life in so many ways.” His eyes glow with a warm, far away look, a goofy smile on his face. 

“It sounds like you love them very much.” I speak softly, not wanting that radiant look to ever leave his face.

“I do. Do you have any siblings?” His eyes flicker back to me, the distance clearing from them. 

“An older brother. Micah.” I try not to let my voice break on his name, the longing slamming into my chest like a horse at a full sprint. 

I curse myself for using my brother's real name, a slip up I wouldn’t have made with anyone else. Azriel’s mere presence is enough to disarm me, and it's a struggle to focus with him this close. I haven’t seen Micah since the day our mother was murdered by my fathers sentries, and we both fled for our lives. In opposite directions. The day that started my life on the run. 

“Are you two close?” Azriel’s shadows curl around me as he squeezes my hand in silent support, like he already knows the answer. 

“We used to be, when we were young. Not so much anymore.” 

I tense, hoping that he doesn’t push the subject. I can’t exactly tell him the truth of our forced estrangement. At least not yet.

“Where are you from?” 

 His tone is light, and I am endlessly grateful for the change in conversation. He doesn’t seem to miss a thing when it comes to me. The thought is a constant inkling of worry in the back of my head. 

“Not Velaris.” I reply quickly.

It technically isn’t a lie, but the evasion feels even worse.

“I could’ve guessed that, love. I’ve lived here for hundreds of years, if you lived in Velaris I would’ve found you sooner. Are you from the Night Court?” 

He chuckles, taking up another strand of my hair to play with. For a moment, I forget that he’s waiting on a response. 

“No, Summer Court. Adriata. Did you grow up in Illyria?” 

 I attempt to change the subject, the subterfuge like spoiled milk in my stomach. I wish I could tell him all about my little cottage on the outskirts of the Autumn Court, about my mothers smile, and Micah’s penchant for getting me into trouble. Instead, I have to wriggle my way out of letting him get to know me. This is going to be harder than I thought. 

“Unfortunately, I did.” Shadows rise from deep within his eyes, blotting out almost all the light in them. 

I’ve heard many stories about the brutality of Illyria. Their perilous winters and sprawling mountains, the discipline that they ingrain into their children, how they throw themselves into the path of war. I wonder who put the scars on his hands, his wings, and I feel sick for an entirely different reason.

I search his eyes for answers, glimpsing an age old sadness there. I feel him trying to shove it down deep, but he can’t hide from me anymore than I can from him. A burning rage seethes in my chest at that sadness. It makes me want to grow claws and rip and tear, scorch those responsible with my flames.

He closes his eyes and rests his head where my shoulder and collarbone meet, a deep sigh leaving him. From the tension in his body, I know he wants me to let the topic drop. So instead of asking the questions on the tip of my tongue, I kiss the top of his head and stroke his back softly. He practically purrs, pressing closer, telling me to continue. I smile softly, trailing my fingers down his spine in slow circles. His back is deliciously firm, and rippling with muscles from his often used wings. Heat scorches across my face as I remember how I brought him over the edge just by kissing them, the absolute unleashing of it. 

“I- I didn’t realize. That, well um- your wings. That they were so-“ I stutter pitifully, the blush spreading down my neck. 

Azriel leans back to meet my eyes, a slight smile beginning on his face, previous troubles forgotten. 

“You didn’t know?” He asks, disbelief in his tone and a glint of amusement in his eye. 

“No, they just looked very kissable.”

He throws his head back and gives a loud, full belly laugh. I beam at the musical sound, satisfaction flowing through me. I want to make him laugh like that again and again.

“An Illyrian males wings are the most sensitive part of their body. If touched in the perfect spot, we can finish from that alone. As you saw. But they are also our greatest weapon, and we protect them accordingly. For that reason, I usually keep them far away from any - partners.” He explains after sobering from his laughter, voice soft and a slight blush painting his elegant cheekbones.

“But you make exceptions for your mate?” I ask, eyes downcast as I play with the cuff of his long sleeve shirt.

“I do. Only for you.” He takes my hands from his sleeve, and presses them to his lips once again.

I glance up at him, to find his eyes already on me. The warmth and tenderness I find there has my heart flying in my chest, and tears pricking my eyes. I blink them away hurriedly, looking to his wings instead of the intense emotion he’s showing me. For some reason, the adoration I see there has a small burst of fear running through me. 

“I’m glad you let me touch them. They’re beautiful.” I whisper reverently as l behold the incredible expanse of his wings. 

Vibrant plum and lavender, veined with maroon and the silver of scar tissue. I can’t even think of these beautiful, majestic wings being mutilated like that. My hands ache to touch them again, feel their silky warmth. 

“You definitely showed your appreciation for them.” He leans closer, his breath fanning across my cheek as he whispers in my ear. 

It sends shivers deep into my core, and I have to squeeze my thighs together and hope he doesn’t catch my scent. The confident, seductive Azriel of earlier tonight is back. 

“Not yet I haven’t.” I murmur, emboldened by my renewed need for him. 

The need comes quickly, overwhelmingly. Especially now that I know what being with him is like. Entirely world shattering. He may have ruined every other male for me. Again, not that I’m complaining. A low rumble comes from deep in his chest, and he wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me onto his lap with ease. 

“Is that so?” There’s a sultry promise in his voice, and I feel him stir against my thigh. 

The room is filled with our mingled arousal as he inhales against my neck. 

“I still can’t believe I found you.” He groans, pressing kisses against my throat. 

I let my eyes fall closed, shocked anew at how easily he reduces me to a gasping mess. His hands begin to roam over my hips and waist, his touch worshipping and disbelieving. When I begin to slowly move myself over his growing arousal, I feel a shift in him. His hands halt their exploration, and he tenses beneath me. I open my eyes to find his face veiled with worry, his brow creasing. 

“You don’t have to, Sabine.” He cups my face in his hands, dark eyes gleaming with concern. 

I try not to flinch at the false name, and I wonder what his voice would sound like saying the name my mother gave me.  

Shoving those thoughts away, I shake my head, a small grin forming on my lips. Does he not see how infatuated I am already? Of course I don’t have to, but I want to. 

“Az, you idiot.”

And with that, I plant my lips on his. He doesn’t need further convincing. His body responds to mine eagerly, a low growl building in his chest. My back meets the leather couch as Azriel maneuvers himself above me, his hands sliding under the hem of my sweatshirt. He is somehow gentle and commanding all at once, his skin burning hot against mine. I sigh into the kiss as I give myself to him, entirely content to do so this time. 

“You are the most exquisite thing I’ve ever seen.” 

He whispers against my lips, that reverent tone back in full force. My eyes prick as my chest fills with equal parts warmth and fear. I can see how easy it would be to love my mate. To fall fast and completely. And the part of me that’s been running scared from those I once loved is terrified.  

“I’m scared.” I murmur back, surprised at my own honesty.

I feel his frown against my lips, and he only holds me tighter. 

“I’m scared too, love. But I won’t ever hurt you. You’re - You are everything.” His eyes, soft and dark and endlessly kind, convince me. 

I smile sheepishly at him, holding out my left pinky. 

“Promise?”

Without hesitation, he wraps his finger around mine. 

“I promise.” 

The next morning, sunlight streaming in through the expansive windows wakes me. A sleepy contentment keeps me drowsy and warm, and I stretch like a cat after a particularly restful nap. 

“Good morning.” 

Cauldron, his morning voice is the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.

I blink my eyes open, the blurry image of a very amused Azriel coming into focus. His black hair is tousled and falling onto his forehead, and pillow marks color his cheeks. 

Delicious.

I cuddle closer to him instead of replying, not ready to start the day yet. He wraps both arms around me as I bury my head in his very bare chest. Memories of last night rise to the surface, and I feel my cheeks warm. After his pinky promise, Azriel made love to me. That's the only way to describe the beautiful, tender way he touched me. He made sure every ounce of doubt was replaced with complete trust. It was the most intimate I had ever been with anyone in my entire life. 

“Did you know that you talk in your sleep?” He asks, a teasing grin curling his full lips.

I can’t help but remember those lips on my body in the living room. And the bedroom. And the bathtub. Needless to say, we didn’t sleep until dawn.

“W-What did I say?” I can only imagine the mortifying things my sleep self has to say to this male.

“Just my name. Over and over again.” His voice deepens, eyes darkening.

“Shut up! I did not!” I hiss, giving his shoulder a shove. 

He only chuckles and waggles a brow at me, before placing a kiss to my forehead. He smells even better in the morning, his cedar scent more potent. How is that even possible?

“How did you sleep?” 

He brushes my hair over my shoulder, peppering even more kisses across my collarbone. I shiver under his attention, my eyes falling closed again.

“Better than I have in a long time.” I admit, my voice still raspy with sleep. 

“So did I.” 

He runs gentle hands through my hair, our legs still entwined intimately. I haven’t felt this safe and content in someone’s arms since I was a girl, when my mom would hold me after I woke from nightmares about monsters under my bed. Azriel already feels like home, and the thought doesn’t scare me as badly as it did last night. Thoughts of my father seem distant and insignificant now, chased away by the bright morning light and warmth of my mate’s presence. 

“I wish I could stay here with you all day, baby.” He groans, a deep sigh leaving him. I can feel his reluctance in how firmly he presses me to him, strong arms locking me against his chest. 

“Then stay.” I grumble moodily, a frown curling my lips downwards. I know we can’t stay sequestered in his apartment forever, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy about it. 

“I have to do some work for my brother today, but you’re more than welcome to stay in my bed. In fact, I hope you do.” Azriel chuckles, untangling his limbs from mine and kneeling before me. He drops a tender, lingering kiss on my lips  before standing.

My cheeks warm as my blood sings in my veins, and my breath catches in my chest. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the way his touch affects me. I hope I never do. 

“Oh? What kind of work do you do for him? Does he have his own shop or something?” I yawn my way through the question, cuddling myself into his vacated warm spot. 

Azriel smiles over his shoulder at me, while sliding into Illyrian fighting leathers. My mouth goes dry at how the skin tight garment outlines his muscular thighs and powerful chest, accentuating the golden tones of his skin. Hubba Hubba.

“Actually, Rhysand is High Lord of the Night Court. I’m his Spymaster. I have spying to do.” His lips twitch as if he’s trying to not let the easy smile fall from his face as he continues dressing. He watches for my reaction intently.

The blood in my veins turns to ice, freezing my heart in place as my eyes shoot open in shock. 

Azriel’s brother Rhys is... Rhysand. High Lord of the Night Court. All sleep leaves my body, and I have to fight to stay still. Every instinct is screaming at me to run, run far and fast. 

Because Rhysand knows my father, seeing as he’s High Lord of the Autumn Court.

In fact, I know Beron has met Rhysand many times. He often spoke about the half breed bastard who challenged his authority at meetings.

I met Rhysand at Beron’s court once, when I was barely fifteen. It's been decades, but he could easily recognize me as Beron’s bastard daughter. And he could tell my father where I am, maybe even deliver me to him. 

Even if he doesn’t recognize me, grown and changed as I am, Rhysand is a Daemati. He could rip the truth from my own mind with hardly a thought. And the High Lord of the Night Court has a reputation for finding pleasure in that sort of thing. The thought has me shivering despite the warm blankets tucked around me. 

“Oh. You didn’t mention that last night.” I rasp, trying not to look like I’m about to throw up. My stomach roils, and my palms dampen with cold sweat. 

“I forget that he's High Lord sometimes. He’s just Rhys to me.” Azriel shrugs, with his back now turned to me as he readies himself for the day. I thank the Cauldron for it. 

I can only imagine the stark horror in my expression, and I take a few extra moments to reign my emotions in. Gods, no wonder Azriel can read me so effortlessly. It's not only because of the bond, he’s a spymaster. Reading people is his job. A job he performs for a mind stealing, murdering monster of a High Lord. Bile rises in my throat, and I feel my heart crack in my chest. 

Azriel is not who I thought he was. The trustworthy, gentle male I spent the night with could just be another mask he wears. A tremble begins deep within me.

“When will you be back?” I try to sound eager, like I can’t wait for his return. 

In reality, I’m trying to find out how far away I can get before he even realizes I’m gone. 

“Tonight. I just need to visit some - colleagues in another court.” He says, while lacing his sturdy looking boots into place. 

What court is he ‘visiting’? Will he be spying on other High Lords for Rhysand? Despite the new revelations about his dangerous brother, I feel a stab of fear for my mate. Any High Lord would slaughter him in a moment if they caught him spying on the Daemati’s behalf. 

“Will you be safe?” I hear the worry in my own voice, and Azriel either hears it as well or can feel it from me. Damn mate bond. 

The male perches on the bed next to me, a reassuring smile on his striking face. The two versions of him that exist in my head clash terribly; the vulnerable, kind Azriel of last night and the formidable Spymaster I’ve heard grave stories about. My gaze falls to the dark dagger strapped to his leg. Truth Teller. I try not to shiver as the light glints lethally off its razored edge. I wonder how many truths he’s tortured out of his enemies using it. 

“Of course. Always, but especially now.” Azriel strokes stray curls out of my face, his eyes brimming with unabashed tenderness. He kisses me soundly, a promise to return. 

My stomach flips and suddenly my heart is no longer racing out of fear. For a moment, I almost forget the hidden lethalness and only see Az. But that’s foolish. I can’t shiver at the sight of his famed blade and crave his touch at the same time. 

“I’ll see you tonight?” I ask, mentally calculating how long I have to leave Velaris. I go through the well rehearsed steps of my escape plan, focusing on mundane details to keep the fear and longing from rendering me completely useless.

“Of course.” Shadows of worry cloud his eyes, and I can almost see the sharp, spy's mind calculating behind them.

Azriel kisses me once more, his lips hesitant for the very first time.

His mouth tastes like sorrow, and I feel a flicker of something down the bond. It's gone too quickly for me to decipher it. I curse internally, hoping he only thinks I’m intimidated by his brother’s position. Between the bond and his spymaster abilities, who knows what he can decipher from my reaction alone.

“I’ll be back soon, okay?” He stands, tucking his wings in close and letting his shoulders droop slightly. 

He searches my face, lips slightly turned down at the corners, brow furrowed. 

“I’ll be here.” The lie burns my throat like acid, and I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes.

Instead, I pretend to settle deeper into the bed, closing my eyes as I bring the blankets up to my chin. I don’t want to see the confusion and worry in his gaze. And I can’t watch him leave, knowing that I may never see him again. Azriel squeezes my thigh softly, whispering another farewell as he leaves the room with a sigh. 

I wait until I no longer feel the thrumming current that is Azriel’s presence,  when I know he’s well and truly gone. Then I spring into action. I burst from the bed, and head straight for Azriel’s dresser. I yank a pair of sweats from the drawer and pull them on hurriedly, shaking so hard it takes me three tries to get my legs through the correct hole.  I practically run through the living room, propelled forwards by thoughts of obliterated minds and the dank cells beneath the Autumn Court. 

I glimpse the forgotten mugs and pastry box from last night on the coffee table. Tears prick my eyes at the memory of the hope I felt during that meal. I told Azriel, my mate, more than I’ve shared with anyone in years. He let me see some of the anguish he carries with him, buried so deep it's become a part of him. I gave my body to him. And he felt like home. Can I really run from that?

Yes, I can. I have to. I was a fool to think that I could ever be outside my father’s reach.

On impulse, I hunt down a pen from the kitchen cabinets and scrawl a quick, cowardly note on a scrap of paper. Shame coats my tongue so thoroughly I think I may choke on it.

I’m sorry. - S 

  With the note finished, I raise the hood to conceal my face and tear down the stairs, avoiding the elevator Azriel first kissed me in. Soon enough, my bare feet are slapping against the rain slick pavement, my heart cracking with every step. I don’t stop to notice the people that watch me fly by, or the sun shining over the Sidra. I let the fear cloud every guilty thought, until all I know is adrenaline. 

Once I reach my apartment, I change into clothes more appropriate for an escape attempt, and collect my emergency bag from beneath some loose floorboards. Not the most creative hiding spot, but it’s better than my underwear drawer. 

Less than an hour later, I’m standing on the rickety, wooden deck of a foreign boat, sailing away from Velaris. Tradesmen man their vessel, hardly paying attention to me as I stare out over the water from their starboard side. I can imagine the mystery I pose. A lone, cloaked female, begging to stow away on their watercraft.

The money I slipped to their captain keeps the curious glances to a minimum, and I hope it keeps their mouths shut in the future. Either way, I won’t be settling where I first disembark. I’m not entirely sure where I’ll go yet, but maybe that’s for the best. If I’m entirely impulsive, my actions will be harder to predict.

I’ve run scared so many times over the years that I’ve lost count, but I’ve never been so conflicted. Every mile I put between me and the shore of the Sidra is another knife shoved up under my ribs, and it becomes harder and harder to breath. Eventually, the vibrant colors of the Rainbow fade from view and the citrus scent of the river becomes the salty brine of the ocean. Hot tears sting my eyes, and I let them fall. The hood of my cloak covers my face anyway. 

“Goodbye, Az.” 

[vercopaanir]

Don’t Go Far

The Lovely Moons, Chapter 9

Masterlist for this series

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Blind!Reader

Summary: Listless from your time in space, you’re grateful to spend some time in the sun. It’s hard living in the dark.

Warnings: None.

Notes: I haven’t written for fandom in a few years, but the stars have aligned! This is a part of a larger whole, but I’m just testing the waters to see if it’s worth any interest. All the stories I read for MandoxReader are so good, and this whole series story has been in my head for weeks now. Also on AO3.

Weeks spent in the cold cavern of the Razor Crest sometimes offered disassociation with certain things of the natural world. The air was stiff and recycled. The walls and floors were made of unforgivable metal that often made your legs and feet sore the first few weeks aboard, since your shoes weren’t exactly made for it. The worst was the darkness. Even with the glow of power ever present beneath buttons and switches, you felt your head begin to ache trying to decipher the shapes and shadows beyond the pale, unseeing veil of blindness.

Most beings thought being blind meant total darkness, but that wasn’t the case. You could make out certain shapes of things, shifts in patterns of light. Colors even bled through, if the sun shone bright enough. Sunshine afforded you shades and shadows, but the Razor Crest seemed to take your advantages and left you utterly frustrated with the dark.

So, when you woke up to a strange, cool breeze kissing your face, you wiggled your toes beneath the threadbare blanket and took a deep breath. It wasn’t the stale air of the stars, but something almost sweet. As your mind began to come alive, you became aware of the silence that missed the dull hum of engines.

Then, as you listened, you could hear the baby gurgling a little ways away, and you pushed yourself up. Pulling your soft soled boots onto your feet, you ignored pulling your outer robes on, content with the linen dress that gave you a bit of layering against the lower temperatures, because this cool breeze wasn’t just cool. It had a strange warmth to it, too, and a fresh feeling that swept up your legs and arms and made you think of bright water and clear skies.

Moving out of your quarters, you held a hand out against the rough, metal wall, and you followed the breeze as it grew stronger. The sounds of the child, now babbling, also grew louder. You’d surmised the ship was docked, but where the ship actually was, you hadn’t the first idea.

Coming into the hull, the breeze was practically airing out the heart and belly of the Razor Crest, and you couldn’t keep the sigh from your lips. The ramp had been lowered, because you could make out bright, shining sunlight reflecting off of it and illuminating the hull. Against the light, there was a shape lower to the ground, and it shifted towards you.

“Good morning.” 

You kept your voice low by reflex, the hoarse tinge of your own tone undeniable. As you moved forward, you reached out to the threshold of the door, lowering yourself to sit next to the Mandalorian warrior you traveled with. Normally, neither of you spoke much, but neither of you were impolite, either. The air was so easy to breathe here, you couldn’t help yourself as you settled comfortably onto the floor, taking in the breeze.

You felt the Mandalorian shift again, and when he spoke, his voice was directed towards you, his own tone even and quiet. “Good morning.”

The baby gurgled happily, and you could nearly make out the tint of green in the sun, the small misshapen shape of the child tumbling from the darker shadow of its father and waddling towards you. It fell into your lap with a delighted coo, and you grinned, lifting your hands to gently stroke the long, petal shaped ears through your fingers. “Hello, there.”

The three of you sat in companionable silence, and you found your eyes closing in relief. It had been weeks since you’d been to a temperate climate, and one as peaceful as this. The warmth of the sun and the cool breeze mingled on your skin, rinsing your neck of perspiration from the night. You could hear animals somewhere in the distance, birds singing to each other. 

Then, another sound, something you hadn’t heard in a long, long time as you paid close attention.

“Is that water?” you ask, tilting your head towards your silent employer. You can hear lapping, the sound of sloshing. It’s unmistakable, and your skin suddenly blooms with goosebumps.

There’s a shift in fabric, and he replies, “Yes.”

You can tell when the Mandalorian turns his head to you. He always does, when he’s speaking with you. It makes you feel warm to know he still maintains eye contact with you, even though you couldn’t make out his eyes even if you weren’t blind. It’s polite, in a way that you hadn’t realized you missed until you met him. Every time he does it, your heart seems to press itself against your breast.

“A river or a lake?”

“A stream, I think. Haven’t been out to check, but it’s not far.”

The child shifts in your arms, and you realize you’d lapsed in petting his ears. You return to the task, and he coos before settling again. The tranquility that blankets the three of you is remarkable, considering what a chaotic void of distress you’d come through to get here. A balancing act between security, shelter, and sustenance, and that’s simple survival. You know there are grasping hands in the dark, frigid reaches of the world wanting the little one you cradle in your lap. You don’t bother asking if where you are is safe, because you know the Mandalorian wouldn’t have chosen anything less without being on complete guard. You don’t question if you’re alone, or if you’re secure in supplies. 

For now, it seems that those things can wait...just a little while. Just this once.

Without prelude, you push yourself up to stand with one hand, and you can feel the shadow ever present beside you shift. It dawns on you, as you lift the child more firmly against you, that he must expect you to fall more than you do. He himself isn’t the most graceful, you consider, and it almost makes you smile to think of how many times you’ve heard him curse under his breath if he bumps his head or smacks his side into something. 

He never asks if you need help, though, and you are grateful for the allowance of asking for help yourself. You step down onto the ramp, smiling when the baby starts to wiggle in excitement.

“Where are you going?”

You pause at the bottom of the ramp, testing the earth beneath you. It’s soft-far softer than the metal flooring you’re used to padding around on. Rather than underbrush and brambles, you’re met with gentle grass. You turn towards his voice and tilt your head.

“To find the stream.” You consider his hesitation, knowing he’s regarding you and the child with no small amount of apprehension. It hangs around him like a gloom, something he masticates on without ever voicing. Perhaps he’s nervous you will trip and fall. Perhaps he’s scared the stream’s current will sweep the baby away if you drop the little one. You have to bite your cheek to keep from smiling at the notion. “Would you like to come with us?”

The Mandalorian doesn’t answer with words, simply rising to his feet with less clamor than you expect from a fully armored warrior, and he descends the ramp to follow your steps faithfully. You wait until he’s beside you, and the sound of his boots on the grass is nice. A laugh bubbles out of you, though, when he quickly passes you.

“Don’t you ever go slow?”

He freezes ahead, a dark shadow against the sunlight, and you make him wait as you walk until you’re standing side by side. You relish the grass under your soles and the fresh air running through your hair. Your thin dress flutters around your ankles, and you move the baby into your other arm.

“Not really,” comes the answering huff.

Your smile widens, and with caution, you gently slip your hand in the crook of his elbow-beneath his pauldron and above vambrace. You feel his whole body go tense, and you pause, inclining your head up towards his shifting darkness in your periphery.

“Is this alright?” you ask, gently holding on as you start walking again. 

He must nod, or perhaps he just doesn’t deign to answer at all, because the silence falls back over you. You notice his pace seemed forced into submission, and you hide your smile at the stiffness in his side. It’s as if he’s concentrating on walking with you rather than on the destination for once, and you think he must feel utterly uncomfortable. 

The little one seems happy to be carried until the stream’s current sings louder in your ears. You crest a small slope, making out the sun glancing off the water, and the child wriggles and fights your hold.

“Alright,” you laugh softly, gently lowering him down to the grass. The baby begins toddling away, and you can’t quite make out the distinction of the green child against the grass. You can see a shape moving in front of you, small and stocky, though, and you know he can’t go too far too quickly. Your hand slips from your companion’s elbow, and you walk forward, trailing after the little one and placing your hand on a tree. The rough bark beneath your palm is coarse and unforgiving, and you savor it.

“Don’t go far,” the Mandalorian murmurs. You’re not sure if he’s talking to you or the child.

You spend what feels like hours languishing by the stream, dipping your naked feet in after shucking your boots. The stream isn’t deep enough for anything other than to get your ankles wet, and when you hear the child coo from behind you, you feel mischievous. Kneeling down with the hand not holding your dress, you scoop up some water and flick it in his direction, earning a delighted squeal.

You feel leaves, smell flowers, and even nibble on a blade of grass. It’s tart and sweet at the same time, and you feel the baby beside you tugging on your sleeve. Smirking, you grab a blade and let him chew on it before he promptly hacks and spits it out.

A sudden chuckle from behind you makes you perk, and you turn towards the Mandalorian. He’s seated himself beneath the same tree you’d touched before, some feet back from the stream. The modulator of his helmet roughens the sound of his laughter, and you think without it, the sound must be very rich and deep. 

Curiously, you move from your knees and follow the path of light where it begins to disappear in the shade. Your leg bumps his boot, and he scoots it away from you as you settle near his knee. 

The child follows, flanking his surrogate father on the opposite side until he flops over into his lap with a gurgle. You’re content to sit near them both, legs curled beside you as you drink in the sun and the air and the sounds of cool bubbling water. 

“H-Hey, don’t,” The Mandalorian huffs, and you turn your head lazily towards his voice. It’s harder to see in the shade, but you smile at the little babbles coming from the child as he shuffles away in the grass. The beskar clad shade shifts, reaching for the small creature, but the following ‘oof’ makes you laugh when he falls over. “Come back here!”

“Lost him?”

“He took my glove.” 

“Imagine, the greatest bounty hunter of the guild, distracted and outwitted by a child.”

You could hear the baby making off with his treasure, mouthing nonsense to the frogs of the streamside as he shuffled through the grass. He’d grown into a habit of holding onto things lately. The Mandalorian’s glove was just the newest casualty, it seemed.

“He wasn’t the one distracting me.” 

A shiver works its way up your back when the weight of the words settle around your shoulders. You turn towards his voice, blinking as if you might be able to bat away the pale veils clouding your sight. You lean away from his leg, tucking your chin to your chest and frowning, trying to think of what you might have done wrong. 

Suddenly, he moves forward, and you stop and hold your breath. 

“Don’t go.”

His hand is touching your arm, warm skin against the bare expanse your sleeve affords at your wrist. Your face slowly becomes warm at the feeling of skin-his skin against yours, thanks to his glove thief. But he doesn’t move, and neither do you. His thumb traces along the veins that lead towards your palm, and you swallow, feeling calluses against your own softness.

What you do next would have consequences, but drunk on fresh air, you do it anyway.

You shift closer, moving slowly. His hand doesn’t leave you, and you can feel his eyes from somewhere beneath that dark and shined steel watching you as you lower yourself back. Your head pillows itself comfortably upon his beskar cuisse, your neck warmed from your hair that was heated by the sun. The cool of the steel feels invigorating, and you let your eyes flutter closed. Your hands fall easily to your stomach, legs curling in repose, and you let your arm relax in his hold until he lets go.

For a long while, there are no noises other than the baby cooing to the frogs and the stream sloshing its current over mossy rocks. You begin to wonder if you should not have asked permission to be so close. You had never touched him without asking, whether it be to help remove his armor after a fight or pardoning yourself to move past him in cramped quarters. The uncertainty sits sourly in your belly, even as you begin to sink further into the grass, further against his thigh.

Before you can open your mouth to voice your concern, a titillating sensation draws a gasp from you. At first you think the child has sneaked his way back, returning for more bounty of his own, and has fallen into his guardian’s lap again-and subsequently, on your hair. But, the movements are too gentle, the rhythm too patient, and your breath leaves your lungs as you realize he’s stroking your hair that lays across his lap like a banner with his bare hand.

You let out a long, soft exhale and lay contentedly as the sun shifts above, bleeding through the leaves of the trees to dapple golden light across you. The peace that follows as you drift somewhere between dreaming and wakefulness is only mildly disturbed when he withdraws his hand for a moment. You hear the quiet rustle of fabric, the sing of metal as it brushes the grass, and you find yourself smiling as you lay next to the Mandalorian’s helmet.

It’s after that, he continues to stroke your hair.

[katsuflossy]

Soulful

Pairing: Todoroki Shoto x black! reader

Warning: Swearing

Synopsis: Shoto comes back to a deserted Alliance. Ready to go to his room, he gets the most angelic soulful performance: (Y/n) singing RnB.

Song: At your best (You are Love) by Aaliyah

A/N: This was supposed for Juneteenth but this is the Juneteenth weekend so 🤷🏽‍♀️. I was just listening to the song and everything came to me lol. So please enjoy! Btw it may be rough, I haven’t edited it. 

Taglist: @sunset-novice-writer​, @goatsenpaiultimate​ (wanna be in my taglist? Just message me!💖)

Peace and quiet, this combo hardly appeared together in the Alliance building. Even in the dead of night, occasional snores, riff raffs sneaking around to get a midnight snack, and rush awakening from nightmares were the nightly language on the building. But when this opportunity arose, you couldn’t allow it to escape you like the rise of a super moon for witches to charge their crystals and water. Izuku was the last to greet you off, highly concerned about your health, and the idea of leaving alone in the big building by yourself. You fanned him further to the door, telling him not to worry about your health. Yes, you fell from 200m off of a building but you caught yourself...this time. Recovery girl only said to rest completely for three days and this was your final day before rushing back into the hero scene of UA. With a final push, you ushered him completely out of the building, reassuring him that there was no need to baby you. He finally smiled with reassurance, the soft sunset glare rested on his skin, making highlight every freckle on his glowing skin. Dark green tresses absorbed and reflected the light like a green forest. He finally turned around and ran off but not without a wave and a “Be safe!”, before joining with the rest on their trip to a minigolf center too far from the school. With a sigh, your shoulders dropped, listening into the vacuum-like dormitory, nothing but silence. At that moment you knew what you wanted to do.

It was a party, but only with one person. You ran to the kitchen, music blasting loud and proud of ravishing the cupboards of secret snacks you snuck in since your last trip to the city. It was a typical “white girl finally at home alone scenario” with the overtly loud music but in explicit rap version, breaking out in dance but instead, it’s full-on twerking and sharp bouncing. But finally, the high energy moving died down. From your room, the view of the sunset was ever magnificent once you finally let the sunlight radiate into your room. A sense of nostalgia recreated the room, transforming the scenery to an apartment’s step. The block was bumping with your older cousin’s car 90s rap and RnB while your ears pick up on the argument on if B.I.G or Tupac was better. The cool sensation of the cherry slushie in your hand felt almost too real and your heart turned from the scene. That same sensation brought you back to the present, the snowball turning into a regular bottle of cold water.

It’s okay to admit it, you are a little homesick. So what do you do? Put on some 90s music.

It’s been a while since you’ve listened to 90s RnB. The work never stops and hardly anyone here knew the songs, except for Denki of course but it was all the mainstream ones. So the solution? A 90s RnB marathon. There, the mood was set. Songs of Lauryn Hill, Jodeci, and even Sade broke you into a bunch of musical numbers as you clean your room. Just in time for Shoto to walk into the building

Everyone decided to go minigolf to celebrate the end of exams. Both Shoto and Kastuki, however, were called in by the number one hero for work-study then he left early due to Endeavor getting called in for a “top secret” meeting that would last all day. Not that Shoto wanted to be there in the first place but it was a waste of time to go into the cursed agency and not do anything productive. The Atomic Blonde fumed beside him.  

“Why the fuck we arrived only to get shoved back out of the building. You knew he would’ve done this didn’t you?” Shoto could almost see him foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog, ready to pounce on anyone in a 5ft range. 

“If I knew wouldn’t you think I would be in that meeting currently? Or I wouldn’t have come in the first place? Your lack of common sense is showing.” Bakugo teeth bared harder and his hair comically shot up higher like an intimidated cat. “Fucking IcyHot! Shut your mouth before I blast you all the way to hell!” A few grumblings carried on until they reached the Height Alliance building. Shoto knew that this evening the dorms would be empty, he was invited to play minigolf after all however Endeavor called them in and wasted his time with his friends and (Y/n).

Yes, (Y/n). Shoto has been confused about his mind constantly separate you from the rest of his friend since you entered the school. He’d stared at you for eons until nudged by Izuku slightly teasing him or Iida reprimanding him about the importance of paying attention in class. But by Gods, you’re just a sight to look at and Shoto is a perceptive tourist. That skin has an ethereal glow to it when kissed by the sun. The way your eyelashes just flutter when you blink it seems like wispy threads of the flowiest dress blowing in the wind. All the images of your face and body slide through his mind like a gallery until Katsuki broke through his trance.

“Oi! Half and Half bastard! Stop dreaming about (Y/n) and come train with me! All the shitheads left so I can finally train without distraction.” The blonde stomped off towards the training area, not waiting on Shoto’s reply. The dual-colored hair boy just sighed and entered the building knowing that he too would like to train rather than wasting time.

Now if a building was empty, would there not be any music playing? That was the thought that had crossed Shoto’s mind as he entered the dorms to put down his suitcase. It was unusual, all of 1A left the building, therefore, no music should be playing. But the melody caught the dual-haired boy off guard, trying to figure out who would leave their music on. Kaminari or Mina could be one of the suspects, maybe they’ve left their Bluetooth on connected to their portable speakers and left them? Shouto hardly knew of that type of technology, regardless, he found himself walking towards the source. His auditory senses were pleasantly confused. The reason being the music was foreign, not similar to the regular beats and melodies of the songs he hears Mina and the girls play or the “Megan” that Kaminari would put on sporadically in the main room. But it was soothing as if touching his heart, addressing his whole being. Thankfully the grand English classes his home-school teachers and the school conducted allowed him to recognize the words of the song. It was addressing him, or maybe someone named “You”. Either way, he carried on to the second floor where a familiar hallway greeted him.

With his excellent detective skills (just simply walking), he found that neither of his suspects where correct; it was actually you. For his current present, he could’ve never been so grateful to be graced by the view in front of him now. Your door was almost completely open but not completely blocking the scene in front of him.

Your entire being encompassed by the fiery sunset, setting tones to your figure, and already radiant skin. It was like watching the clouds part and enters the first celestial spirit commanding herself from the rays of the sun. And he was a repentant worshipper. Your eyelashes batted at the stuffed bear on your made bed, singing to him in the what Shouto deems angelic whispers. Your voice was soft and melismatic as you sang the chorus again.

But at your best, you are love You're a positive motivating Force within my life Should you ever feel The need to wonder why Let me know, let me know Let me know

You carried on singing, swishing your hips as you carried on cleaning your room meanwhile Shout watched from the hallway, wishing he could switch places with the now taunting bear in your dorm room. Little his knowledge, you were dedicating the song to him, the bear a symbolism of him. Your thoughts actually manifesting your crush however not in the way you had hoped. The idea of Shoto smiling as you performed your admiration and love for him was actually occurring without your awareness.

Shoto could feel his heart pumping at a higher capacity and the butterflies in his stomach fluttering in swiveling motions as you stood in the middle of the room, the amber glow cast on every inch of your dorm and on your own figure, finishing the final note with a nostalgic look towards the skies. The sunset casting the lashes on your cheekbone. His eyes widening, making sure to take in all the details of this scene, the mental photograph forever etch into his mind for the upcoming and frequent daydreaming.

As soon he made an inch to escape without being caught, the universe made other plans. His suitcase clattered against the wall he was just leaning on to watch you. Your figure jumped and ran to peer through the door, meeting a heterochromatic gaze. You paled.

“Oh my God, Shoto! I-I didn’t know you were here!” Your face heated up, his own beet red from getting caught stalking you.

“N-no.” He cleared his throat from the shock, “I’m sorry I couldn’t help to watch and listen to you sing. You have a very beautiful voice.” A small smile cast on his lips as he stared straight into your eyes. His words traveled straight to your heart.

‘Lord, if I died right now, I would die mad happy.’ Your thoughts screamed as you replied.

“T-thank you, Todoroki. I didn’t know you could’ve heard me, I thought the song was loud enough.” You peered off to the bottom of your door frame, unable to take the staring any longer.

‘Be still, my beating heart.’ Todoroki carried on with his compliment.

“I’ve never heard of this artist but your voice really sounds angelic with the song.”Your thoughts stopped in shock.

“Shoto, you’re telling me that you don’t know Aaliyah! As in ‘Try Again’ Aaliyah.” He shook his head in confusion.

“What about TLC?” Head shake.

“Mariah Carey?” Head shake.

“Destiny’s Child?!” That was his last strike before you pulled him by the wrist, your intent being to drag in in your room.

“That’s it, we are going to get you musically educated right now.” You declared as his being passed through the door frame, grateful that he gets to spend time with you alone.

You were grateful that he didn’t stalk you a few minutes before “You are Loved” came on. It would’ve been more embarrassing seeing you perform “Anxious” by Ginuwine to the stuffed bear.

[quirky-hero-imagines]

Song of the lost

Pairings: Eijiro Kirishima x Siren!F!Reader

Genre: Angst, fluff, romance

Warnings: Mentions of; death, drowning and cannibalism. Cursing

AU: This takes place in a fishing village, around 1710. Quirks are far and few between and are seen as a curse.

This is for the @bnhabookclub Mermay event!

The prompts that I used are: “You look beautiful in the sunlight.” & “It’s alright, come here.”

The waves were peaceful that day, their slamming against the rocks barely making a sound. The sailors remarked that Poseidon must have smiled upon them.

As blessed as they may have been, Kirishima’s mind was filled with dark clouds. He sat upon the low wall of the village, gazing mindlessly over the shimmering sea.

No man nor woman would regard him as any more than a poor sob born in a poor fisher’s village at first glance, but alas his misfortune ran deeper than that. His skin could harden to levels no being known to man could. The revelation of this, at the mere age of 4, terrified his parents and sent the village into a frenzy. The curse that people whispered about had finally found their village. Potions, ointments, and spells were desperately thrown at the young boy, but to no avail.

After the day of the first manifestation, Kirishima had been shunned, barely tolerated by his own family and village. As soon as he could vent for himself his family send him to live in isolation at the edge of the village, and so he had stayed.

The salty air rubs harshly against Kirishima’s skin as a gust of wind blows past him. He had waited for something to change, it did not have to be something big, just any sign that things were looking up. But nothing came and he was left lonely and bitter.

He jumped off the low ledge, feet landing on the hot sand of the beach beneath it. His boots felt heavy as he slogged through the sand, crimson eyes focused on the edge of the beach. What was waiting there for him was something that many sailors had nightmares about when they lived to tell the tale. The sirens.

The dark rock of the cave felt smooth against Kirishima’s hand as he entered. There was no sound besides the echo of his footsteps and the soft dripping of water. The further he entered, the more faded the bright rays of sun became behind him, leaving him squinting to make out figures in the dark. Coming here had been a clear death wish, but as he made his way he considered turning around, his resolve wavering.

Kirishima’s footsteps slowed as he began stepping in shallow pools of water. He could feel from the low temperature of the water that it was still, left there between the rocks by a wave. When his booth encountered warm water, he quickly retreated it, eyes widening as shining figures began moving beneath the surface.

The cave filled with the light coming from the water, shimmers reflecting on the rocks. Kirishima took a few steps back as a sweet voice began calling out.

“Sailors come and sailors try.                                                                                To push me in so they can save my life.”

A shiver ran down his spine, muscles growing weak as the intoxicating song continued.

“They wonder why I feel like sand.                                                                            Saying ‘come on in, the water’s fine.’”

The creature who the voice belonged to swam in graceful circles up to the surface, faint lights dancing far beneath her.

“Poor sailor…                                                            You fell in love with some girl you made up.”

The siren’s head breached the smooth surface as she finished her song. “And I remind you of her well enough.”

 Kirishima’s breath hitched in his throat as he witnessed her beauty. Her eyes shone like gems, vibrant color circling her slit pupils as they dilated when she smiled.

“It’s alright, come here. Come to me” The siren spoke softly.

He took a step forward, balling his fist so he could dig his nails in the soft flesh, not wanting to get enthralled by this creature completely. “I do not fear you.”

She laughed, a chittering sound. “Oh? What a brave man you are.” Her tail came out of the water, the pale scales shimmered bleakly in the cave as she wagged it, seeming amused. She came closer to the edge of the water and dragged her upper body out of it. Her elbows planted themselves on the rough rock surface as she rested her face in her hands.

The siren’s tail curled so she could show off her almost translucent fin. “Tell me, sailor, if you do not fear me, do you desire me?”

A slight blush spread on Kirishima’s cheeks at her obvious seducing. “I do neither!”

A look of annoyance sprung across her face, disappearing as quickly as it appeared. “Then what have you sought out our cave for?”

Kirishima stilled, knowing the answer but not wanting to admit it. He had wanted to be equal to his peers his whole life, at least like this he could have given himself a sailor’s death and been equal in death. His eyes averted from the Siren’s glistening ones to the salty water behind her. “I seek death.”

The smirk on her face grew into a wide grin. “In that case, me and my sisters will be more than happy to oblige.”

His gaze fell on her sharp maulers as she talked, wondering if it really would be a painless death like it was rumored to be.

The Siren noticed the hesitation in the human before her as she observed him closely. Her tail slowly lowered back into the water as her pupils turned into small slits. She had her eyes on her prey and she had no intention of letting him go that easily.

“Ever since I crashed at sea.

I feel like I can never leave.”

“Even though I stay on land.                                                                              Still salty water in my ears.”

The Siren’s singing echoed through the cave as Kirishima let himself fall to his knees. His eyes closed as he leaned forward, hearing the water splash as she slit herself back in it.

“Ever since I crashed at sea.                                                                                       No one came to rescue me.”

Her hands moved to gently cup his face in them which caused his eyes to jolt open. Kirishima stared intently into the creature’s eyes as he felt her cold touch against his skin. As she slowly dragged him towards the water all he thought of was her touch.

“So I sit here on the rock.

Singing out my siren song.”

Hot tears streamed down his face. He had not felt another’s touch in years and his heart over spilled with joy as her fingers caressed his cheeks. In what would be his last moments he was finally happy.

The Siren froze as the human’s crimson eyes bore into hers as he cried. She felt that which was so recognizable to her, brewing deep beneath the surface. Loneliness, betrayal, hate, and anguish.

She could hear her sisters cry out from under the waves as she pushed the human away, further onto the rocks. This was a human she could not kill.

Kirishima stared at her in confusion, had his skin hardened and scared the Siren? Slowly, he crept closer again on his knees. “Why did you spare me?” He asked, his voice shook with emotion.

She delved herself under the water until he could only see her eyes, but her voice was just as clear. “We do not kill our own.”

He felt shock rock his body at her words. Without thought his hands had darted forward into the water, grabbing onto the creature’s shoulders. “Because I’m cursed?! Is that it?!” She hissed as he shook her form, voice echoing loudly as he screamed.

The Siren delved up from the water, her face only inches from his. Anger darkened her features as her voice boomed through the cave. “You fool! Humans are the only creatures who make blessings a curse!” The words were spat out like venom.

“Your so-called curse, however, has nothing to do with it.” Her chest heaved heavily as she spoke. “We sing the songs of the lost, we are the abandoned.” She told him before she shrugged off his hands.

Kirishima’s hands had stayed still in the warm water, eyes filled yet again with tears. He should feel happy that the Siren spared him, but all he felt was confusion and even sorrow as he looked into her eyes. “What happened to you?” He whispered.

The Siren had opened her mouth but closed it again as it seemed the words got stuck in her throat. She stuck her head under the water and talked in a language Kirishima could not understand. The high-pitched tones reminded him of the dolphins that would swim by the town every few moons.

She looked without joy when she resurfaced, wails sounding from beneath the water as she joined her sisters in a song.

“Every sailor knows.

As long a woman roams.”

“The storms will swallow the ship.                                                                               As thunder cracks its whip.”

It sounded like more than thirty intoxicating voices were filling the cave as they sang. The Siren’s expression cold, brows locked together.

“The curse will follow all.                                                                                 Until she takes her fall.”

“Give her to the sea.                                                                                Only then shall you be free.”

As they finished Kirishima understood what the story behind their song was. Centuries back the superstitions about women on ships had started. Many had suffered the fate of drowning when the voyages were met with misfortune before being banned onboard all together.

He had frowned as the Siren in front of him and her sisters stayed silent. “I’m sorry.” He had told her remorsefully.

She nodded her head at him. “I’m sorry too.”

“Leave now human, you still have a choice.” She had suddenly hissed out and turned her back to Kirishima before diving away.

He stared at the water for minutes, but no lights nor movements could be spotted anymore.

His boots felt heavy as he left the cave reluctantly, the puffy sleeves of his blouse drenched in saltwater.

As Kirishima laid awake that night the silence in his cabin felt deafening. His thoughts were filled with the Siren’s voice and her fiery eyes.

He had been given another shot at life, but he was unsure what to do with it.

His eyes had flung open as a voice, carried by the wind, entered through his window. It was her; he was certain of it.

As he listened to her, he felt his heart rapidly thump in his chest. Even as she only harmonized, he felt the emotion in the sound. She was lonely, calling out for what he hoped was him.

She must have succeeded after all, he thought as he rolled onto his side to face the window. She had taken his soul.

Kirishima returned to the cave every day for weeks, but she would not show.

Finally, during a full moon, he had seen her again. As he walked the beach with his burning torch in hand, he saw her form peeking out of the waves. He had eagerly waved his free hand at her before retreating a shell from his tattered bag.

The Siren curiously had moved closer to the shore as he approached the water. Kirishima’s arm reached forward as he offered her the Angulate wentletrap shell.

An amused expression showed on her face. “You give me a shell?”

Kirishima felt flustered as she gently took it out of his hand. “I-I realize you must see them every day, nonetheless I wanted to give this one to you.” He smiled down at her, witnessing her pupils become so round that they were almost human-like as he spoke. “I have had that one for years, kept it on my shelve and all. But ever since I’ve met you it’s beauty only reminds me of you.”

She froze, wide eyes stared up at him. Kirishima shook his head and scratched the back of it in embarrassment. “O-of course your beauty is far greater.”

The Siren cupped the shell in one hand and stroked it with the other absentmindedly. “You flatter me, human.”

“Kirishima!” He blurted out in response. She blinked in confusion and tilted her head slightly. “Gesundheit.”

They stared at each other before Kirishima burst out in laughter. “Thank you but uh that’s my name. Eijiro Kirishima.”

The Siren looked flustered as she scoffed. “Oh, well, humans names change a lot over centuries.” She turned her back, brazing to swim away but he quickly called out. “What is your name?”

She looked back over her shoulder and her eyes shone brilliantly in the light of the moon. “Y/N.”

After the day of the full moon Kirishima would visit her cave daily, and this time around his calls would be answered.

They talked from midday till sundown almost daily, after which she would disappear under the waves. She talked a lot less than him, but even so, she shared her stories. What she remembered of her life as a human, which was not much, stories of life underwater and the many sailors that she had torn apart.

He could not help but feel a bit uneasy when her eyes would sparkle as she described the taste differences between man. He wondered if that hint of danger is what made people distance themselves from his as well.

After another two moon cycles, Kirishima felt completely bewitched by his Siren.

Finally, after all these years, he felt like there had been a change. He had someone who did not flinch away from his touch, who looked at him like an equal and did not treat him differently.

One day she had asked to bring her a piece of string and to meet her at the Devil’s rocks.

Kirishima was familiar with the spot, there was nothing odd about it, only having earned its name because the ships would break on the sharp rocks that stuck out of the water there.

 He gripped the black string in his hand tightly as he approached, heart beating fast as he saw her sitting on one of the rocks. The scales on her tail looked like pearls as the sun directly shone upon them, her long hair dried up slightly as it covered her chest, only the tips of her fin lazily hanging in the water.

Kirishima had no trouble imagining why many men crashed their ships upon witnessing a Siren as he took in her form. The hot air blew from behind and puffed up his blouse as well as ruffling through his long raven locks. He saw her eyes dart towards him as his scent carried to her on the wind.

She flashed her enchanting smile at him. “Ahoy Sailor, nice weather seems to have been bestowed upon us.” She said teasingly as he returned her smile.

“You look beautiful in the sunlight.” Kirishima told her and had made his way the shoreline.

She laughed and arched her back, leaning back to have more of the sun caress her skin. “Your sweet words do my ego no good.”

He snickered and put his hand in the water to feel the temperature. The hot days of lately had warmed the waters up nicely. “I simply speak the truth.” He told her. His eyes went from the water back to her face, and he could have sworn a slight blush adorned it.

She looked at him as well after moments had passed. “Come swim with me.” She told him before diving into the water.

Kirishima entered the water cautiously as he kept his eyes on her swimming form. When he was deep enough that he could not stand anymore, she approached him swiftly.

Her lips had pressed against his with an unexpected force, almost knocking him underwater before she had wrapped her arms around him to steady him. He desperately kissed her back as emotions flooded his being. He could barely believe it as he got what he had wanted.

She slowly pulled away from him and a gentle smile showed on her face as she looked at him. “I have something for you. It will do you well after you receive your gift.” She told him, leaving him confused.

Kirishima wanted to ask her what she was talking about, but he was silenced as she showed him the string he had brought her. She must have taken it when she was holding him, he thought.

On the string, a sharp tooth had been attached. “What is this?” He asked, even more confused than before.

She opened her mouth, pointing at the back upper row, where indeed one of her teeth were missing. “It’s a Siren’s tooth, mine to be more specific, to protect you on your journeys.” She told him.

Kirishima shook his head and looked at her as if she were mad as she hung the necklace around his neck. “What journeys? Y/N you know I can step foot on a ship just as little as you.”

She rolled her eyes at him and cupped his face in her cold hands. “Patience, it will be clear soon.”

Her eyes slowly traced over his face as she burned the image of him into her mind. She thought he looked handsome even with that silly look on his face. His tan skin, those intense eyes, that always tangled hair and the rough stubbles under her hands being things she never wanted to forget.

Her lips pressed against his for she presumed to be the final time before she spoke. “Your life will finally be one you deserve, Eijiro. I will bestow on you a gift, and then I will not see you again.”

Kirishima looked at her with wide eyes. He wanted to protest, but it felt as if he was paralyzed.

“A kiss for you sailor.                                                                              May fortune now tailor to you.”

“I will watch over you.                                                                               Attach will my soul.”

“I’ll gleam beneath the surface.     Even when it may not seem so.”

“Live now my sailor.                                                                             Remember what I give.”

“I will be yours to keep.                                                                             And so I will sleep.”

Kirishima felt warmth fill his body as he watched her whole body gleam. She smiled at him sweetly before she fell slack. He had caught her just in time before she disappeared under the waves, tears falling as he brought her the shoreline.

What had she done?

He laid her down on the damp sand, small waves rolling over them both as he sobbed.

She had blessed him. He would now have a life full of gold, happiness, and adventure waiting on him.  A being that was supposed to only be capable of bringing curses upon men had given him the ultimate blessing.

Kirishima shook his head, hands shaking as he did not let go of her limp body. His eyes cast up to the sky as a snarl showed on his face. “You granted her blessing. Now return my fortune!” He had screamed.

He knew that something always had to be taken for something to be given, but he refused this with all his soul.

The small white clouds that decorated the sky here and there drew closer to him. He heard a loud hiss from the waves, filled with spite.

Then a loud gasp filled his ears and he looked down at his lover with tear-filled eyes.

She was there, eyes open wide as she screamed out. As she scrambled away from him Kirishima noticed in shock that her tail was gone, two legs resting on the sand.

Y/N covered herself in embarrassment as he reached a hand out towards her. “Who are you?! Where am I?!”

He felt his heart crack at her words. Of course, it had taken something yet again.

Kirishima braced himself against the tears that were threatening to fall. He had her back and that was all that mattered at that moment.

She looked around in shock, not recognizing anything she saw. The last thing she remembered was a ship and a terrible storm.

Kirishima took off his shirt and quickly offered It to her. She nod her head gratefully before she put it on, eyes still looking at him with suspicion.

“I know you are scared, but I promise you everything will be fine. I will explain everything, and it will sound crazy, but it’s the truth.” He told her and slowly helped her up and out of the water.

“Because you simply speak the truth.” She said, both looking at the other in shock.

“Y-yes that’s right!” Kirishima could then not hold back the tears that fell, hope swelling in his chest.

It would take time, but he was certain that every piece of her memory would return. His family, peers, and job offers had returned to him, after all. And when it did, he had everything he could have ever wished for.

[wandering-night19]

The first time Tony saw him was at the funeral. It was sinful for Peter to look like he did when his husband had just died. St. John’s Cathedral was filled with over 2,000 people and there Peter sat in the front row, swathed in black lace, lips painted a brilliant red. He dabbed at his eyes with a black lace handkerchief, but his mascara never ran.

The next time Tony saw him he was dressed in considerably less. Steve was frozen in place next to him as they watched him descend the staircase. The sheer pink robe lined with the same color fur billowed behind him. A pale pink nightgown felt to mid thigh, showing off just the barest hint of smooth, pale skin with every step. Glinting on his left ring finger was the largest pink diamond Tony had ever seen, cut in the shape of a heart. His cheeks were dusted with something shimmery, but he didn’t seem as made up as he had been at the funeral. Lips a pale pink, skin soft and pale. But Tony didn’t see any red rimmed eyes or ugly black bags. He looked flawless. Perfect. Mesmerizing.

“Hello gentlemen,” he greeted, voice soft. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Steve was the first to find his voice while Tony continued to gape. “I’m Detective Rogers and this is my partner, Detective Stark. We have a few questions about your husband’s death.”

Peter’s eyes widened slightly with surprise, but he nodded. “Of course. Follow me. Would you care for some tea or coffee?”

“Coffee,” Tony answers, finally getting his tongue to work again.

“Coffee for the detectives please, James. And tea for me.”

The man that had answered the door and let them in gives a small nod. Tony makes note of the way the light reflects off a small sliver of the man’s left arm that’s exposed between the cuff of his shirt and black glove.

Peter leads them into the parlor. “You’ll have to excuse James,” he says as he sits primly in one of the white, wing backed chairs. He arranges his robe around his legs, which he crosses at the ankle. He’s the epitome of grace. “He’s not much of a talker, but he’s a wonderful butler. He came highly recommended.”

Tony and Steve sit next to one another on a floral love seat. Their large frames dwarf the already small furniture. Tony feels completely out of place. He has to stop himself from checking to see if he tracked in mud on his boots. In the next second the door is swinging open and James enters with a silver tray and sets it quietly on the table before exiting. Peter takes to pouring them each their coffee and offering cream and sugar before pouring his own tea. He drops in a slice of lemon and the barest splash of milk.

“You said you had some questions for me, detective?” he asks after a sip of his tea. “I was informed it was a heart attack and he wasn’t at home when it happened, so I don’t know how much use I might be.”

“That’s okay,” Steve tells him with an easy smile. “It’s just a formality really.”

“Can you tell us where you were Monday night?” Tony asks. He doesn’t smile or reassure like Steve did. They’re here after all because Tony is the one with doubts about Peter Parker’s third husband turning up dead. Each husband richer and more powerful than the last. Norman Osborne had owned a tech company worth billions. The husband before him, Justin Hammer, had been a weapons manufacturer with government contracts. And before him, Peter’s first husband, Dr. Stephen Strange, had been the world’s most renowned neurosurgeon.

“I was here at home, detective.”

“Is there anyone that was here with you?” Steve asks, soft smile still in place.

“James is always with me.”

“You and Mr. Osborne had only been married a few months. Is that correct?” Tony ignores the nudge Steve gives him with his foot.

“Almost a year,” Peter corrects.

“Barely 25 and already down three husbands,” Tony comments.

Peter’s eyes go wide and shiny with unshed tears. “I don’t know what you mean by that.” His voice wavers, but he doesn’t cry.

“What I mean, Mr. Parker, is that you seem to be quite the unlucky husband. Life expectancy drops dramatically around you.”

“I don’t know what you’re insinuating, Detective Stark, but I think it’s time for you to leave.” Peter stands and walks stiffly towards the door, but Tony grabs him by the bicep, halting him. Tony doesn’t let the way his large hand curls around the smaller man’s arm distract him. Or the way Peter’s chest is heaving as he stares murderously up into Tony’s eyes. “James!” Peter shouts without hesitation.

“I’m on to you,” Tony whispers harshly. “I don’t care how pretty or innocent you look. It won’t stop me from getting to the bottom of this and sending you away for life.”

“Tony, let him go.” Steve’s hand grips his shoulder in warning. He let’s go just as the library door bangs open to reveal James. His cold, blue eyes take in Tony’s proximity to Peter and he can feel the temperature in the room drop.

Peter calmly walks to James’ side and takes a breath to compose himself. “They were just leaving. Please, show them out.”

As he leaves the room in a swirl of pink, Tony thinks he might have gotten this all wrong. Maybe Peter didn’t kill his husbands.

He locks eyes with James again and feels a shiver run down his spine.

[stanakin96]

CHAPTER 5 The High Crown - Obikin Royalty AU

Preparations for a royal, romantic ball take place in Skywalker castle to welcome the guests from Naboo. Obi-Wan forms a special connection with one of Anakin’s military guards, and has to remind himself, Princes don’t dance with Knights.

Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25884949/chapters/70574739

Beautiful tapestries, all ranging from gold to rose to white were being hung about the castle while Obi-Wan made his way to the military chambers to meet Qui-Gon Jinn. A ball was taking place later that evening, one to welcome the guests from Naboo, and he and the General were to meet to discuss the security of the castle.

While he enjoyed following Anakin around from meeting to meeting, his utmost priority was keeping the young prince safe.

After all, an attack had been made on his life not but a few days ago. Though the attacker had since been “taken care of” according to Qui-Gon, (Obi-Wan trusted this man with such duties), he couldn’t help but remain in a place of constant anxiety concerning Anakin’s safety. He and the prince had become closer, far deeper, since the attack. Obi-Wan felt his stomach churn at the thought of any more than a person shaking the prince’s hand tonight at the ball, nonetheless, dancing with him.

“General Kenobi,” called Qui-Gon, a voice that commanded nothing but the utmost, immediate attention. He was, perhaps, the tallest man Obi-Wan had ever met and made everyone in the room feel aware of this fact. Qui-Gon spoke quietly because he did not need to speak loudly for others to listen quite closely.

“I assume the preparations for tonight’s security are up to your standards,” he put a giant hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. Obi-Wan couldn’t help but feel a jolt of intensity at the touch.

“What should that imply, General?” Obi-Wan asked, walking into the foyer with Qui-Gon, where tablecloths were being draped over marble and the such. The ballroom was beginning to look like a vision from a dream.

“I have heard of your reputation, you’ve made quite a name for yourself,” Qui-Gon started, stopping at a table of white roses in the center of what would soon be a fountain display, the same color of the base of Obi-Wan’s armor.

Qui-Gon softly touched the edges of the rose petals, Obi-Wan swallowed. The sight of such large, strong fingers touching something so delicate seemed entirely too intimate and delicate to witness in broad daylight. Though, a part of him felt privy to something special, as his skin began to warm.

“A shame they’ll have to be discarded, the roses,” Obi-Wan remarked, quite aware of the ways in which men communicated with other men. He’d learned his lessons well and right in his training days, where Privates and Sergeants alike couldn’t seem to keep hands eyes off him. “Prince Skywalker has informed me that the flower of the night are to be lilies, not roses.”

“You ought to take a rose if you’d like,” Qui-Gon said, a sense of finality following the bass of his voice like the end of ink on sheet music, the General smiled at him. Obi-Wan hadn’t been smiled at like that in quite some time. It was a change from the constant confusion of whether or not the prince was flirting with him – here with Qui-Gon, there was nothing to be confused about.

“You have such permissions, General.”

-

Obi-Wan couldn’t help but think about dancing with the prince as they heard chamber music echo down the empty hallway on their way to the ball.

He imagined how strong Anakin's waist might feel, how his rings might feel in the palm of his hands. If the prince was a pleasure to dance with or if his height and strength permitted any partner in pure awestruck of him. If Obi-Wan would melt into a pile at his feet.

“I’ve never done this before-“ said Anakin, quietly.

Obi-Wan quickly turned to him, the prince turned away before Obi-Wan could get a full look at him. “Something like this, been to a ball where someone was waiting for me, my lord.”

“You will enter after Padmé. She will wear an ornate gown, likely designed by the finest of Naboo seamstresses. Everyone will look at her because she will be the most beautiful one in the room, and everyone will look at you because you will be by her side.”

“How do you know so much? Surely, they do not teach this in military training,” Anakin remarked, looking at Obi-Wan, who smiled back at him.

“They surely do not, my prince,” Obi-Wan replied, smiling, feeling his face go warm and turning away from Anakin. They stopped at a pair of double doors as Obi-Wan raced to open them for the prince, though Anakin stood firm in waiting to enter the ballroom at the very same moment as the general.

Though, as Obi-Wan and Anakin entered the room, the truth could not have been further from what Obi-Wan had assumed.

Padmé had entered. She looked beautiful, yes. There were pale lilies with purple centers in the middle of delicate fountains, surrounded by gossiping royals sipping pink wine. The scene was painted, clear like a prophecy, though the roles were reversed. Obi-Wan fancied himself foolish for not considering that they wouldn’t be. Tall as the castle, precious as gold-

The most beautiful one in the room was Anakin Skywalker.

His hair had grown out just long enough for two strands to be braided and pulled back into a crown while the rest fell in waves. He wore a blood-red coat that dug into his shoulders, wide and muscular, making him look like a prince and a boxer all at once. He smelled like oil and perfume and he looked like diamonds. He wore a ring on every finger. He was stunning, mesmerizing. Intoxicating by the highest standard.

And he had not entered with his assumed betrothed. Anakin quickly looked down at Obi-Wan and smiled, delicately.

He’d walked into the ball with Obi-Wan at his side.

The monarchs in the floor-length gowns began to whisper to each other, their painted nails clasping hard to their glasses and spouses. Anakin leaned over and whispered into Obi-Wan’s ear.

“What shall you have me do next, my lord?” He asked, playfully. As though the entire royal circuit was not reading his lips. Obi-Wan rocked up to his toes to be closer to him, it was possibly the closest his breath had ever been to the prince’s neck, it made his entire body go warm to the touch.

“Soon you will find Princess Amidala and ask her to dance with you. After which, you will share a few dances with other members of the royal cabinet, duchesses, and such to maintain appearances since you are not yet officially betrothed, your grace.”

The pair walked forward as the clamor of the party began to grow louder. Though, the noise around them did not fool Obi-Wan. Every eye, every ear was glued to him and Anakin. After all, the two could not help how they looked together. How they walked completely in sync. The way the shine of Anakin’s coat designs reflected the gold of Obi-Wan’s formal armor, how they stood so close together their fingers could brush at any given moment.

There was no doubting the connection that tethered the two men together – the golden rope that seemed to keep them infinitely at each other’s side.

“Do you know what I wished you’d say, my lord?” Anakin asked, turning to Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan turned to face Anakin, immediately met with the panic that he’d hurt the prince in any possible way. Anakin’s eyes looked hurt, filled to the brim with something that pained him to say out loud.

“It appears as though only in my wildest dreams that you might be persuaded to ask me to dance with y- “

“My prince” chirped Padmé before Anakin could continue. Obi-Wan thought, perhaps, he couldn’t feel much of his limbs anymore. She looked beautiful, her dress mirroring the pale purple accents that glittered the ballroom as though the entire night had been planned around her presence.

Had the prince wished to dance with him?

“Should it be so rude of me to ask for a dance your grace?” She asked, so friendly that Obi-Wan wondered if she and Anakin might have had been meeting outside of his knowledge. Anakin looked at him, serious, hardened. Not softly like he had before.

“It should be my honor, princess,” he said, taking Padmé’s little hand in his and walking away without a moment’s notice, and leaving Obi-Wan in the ashes of what he did not understand. What he could not comprehend.

Princes don’t dance with Knights, Obi-Wan reminded himself in the glow of the party.

The crystal chandeliers bounced off the jewels of the people in the room – the women in gold-crested dresses and the men in morning coats. A dance area appeared, seemingly, just for Anakin, as the young and beautiful prince took his steps to the stage.

The orchestra changed speeds to a song Obi-Wan had heard many times in his life. Slow at first but built over time. Soon would come the violas to add depth, then the bass to instill conflict. After what felt like an almost impossibly long time, the violins would slow in and take the melody like a raging, unstoppable fire.

Couples poured into the stage, but as he usually seemed to have, Obi-Wan maintained a perfect view of young Skywalker. Anakin’s eyes, crystal clear as always, dug into Obi-Wan’s like fingernails into bedsheets.

Anakin began to dance with Padmé and Obi-Wan expected to lose him, drip into the mess of missing the prince that he so often felt. Though, as the music began to build, the more intently the prince seemed to stare at the general. After allowing himself what felt like the punishable offense of staring back, Obi-Wan noticed a glimmer of golden shadow underneath Anakin’s brow identical to the color of his armor.

And he found himself wondering, from the beginning of the ball to the end, why the prince would do such a thing. And why the prince continued to stare. And lastly, ceaselessly, if everyone in the room could hear the pounding of his heart under the prince’s burning attention.

-

Obi-Wan left the ball the moment he got clearance from Qui-Gon.

Half of the guests had not even left and the party was far from over, but he couldn’t stand to be in the glow of it all anymore. The fire of Anakin’s gaze had burned him, singed him to his bone. He’d left in a storm, down what seemed like an empty hallway. Though he’d walked what appeared like most of the castle with the prince during the day, he struggled to find a corner alone and in complete darkness at night.

After walking for what felt like hours, Obi-Wan found himself in the worker’s quarters, and at last, alone.

“Did you not think there was anywhere in this castle that I could not find you, general?” Asked Anakin, angrily, and only feet away from him. Obi-Wan did all but groan out loud.

“You ought to return to your guests, prince,” said Obi-Wan, turning to Anakin, who melted his heart the moment he faced him. A few strands of hair had fallen in front of his face and he was flushed from chasing Obi-Wan, though, in the barely-lit hallway of the worker’s chambers, Obi-Wan still found the prince impossibly gorgeous.

“Had you not the audacity to stare at me the entire night perhaps I would not have left in such a hurry, general.”

“Had I not the audacity, prince?” Obi-Wan started, feeling the heat of anger rise from his stomach to his chest. “If it were not for your staring perhaps I may have-“

“May have what, general?” Anakin asked, angrily, stepping closer to Obi-Wan but lowering his voice. “Met someone? Danced with somebody? Perhaps you would have had a chat with Qui-Gon Jinn.”

“Perhaps I should have done anything but watch you and the princess, your grace. And what on earth should Qui-Gon have to do with this?” Obi-Wan replied, now only inches away from the prince. He thought, even in anger, perhaps he should say a prayer of gratitude for his closeness to Anakin.

“I saw you two, today, in the ballroom,” said Anakin, his voice cutting like a sword.

“And should I be not permitted to speak to anybody except for you, your grace?” Asked Obi-Wan, using his words as a shield, instead.

“For God’s sake-“ Anakin pushed Obi-Wan against a wall, his other hand nearly touching his neck, his breath the closest to his face that it had ever been.

“You saved my life. We spend every moment together. Say my given name, my lord. Just once.” He whispered. All anger between the two had dissipated the moment Anakin decided to touch him.

Obi-Wan wished that he could reach out and touch Anakin, the prince he’d known for nearly no time, the prince that haunted his dreams. He’d take him by his shirt, lightly, as to not wrinkle the fabric and pull him close to his body, close enough to touch the prince’s skin. Anakin moved in closer, lowering his tall frame over Obi-Wan’s, who could now feel his breath on his lips.

“Anakin-“ Obi-Wan started, caught off guard by the closeness of the prince. One moment and he could have his fingers caught in the prince’s golden hair and his hand hugging the nape of his neck.

I remember everything from that morning. There is much you cannot know.

“You are to be married to the princess in just months-“ Obi-Wan started, finding himself out of breath with every second that Anakin drew closer. The prince rolled his hand onto the general’s neck, tight with muscle and heat. Obi-Wan felt his heart stop beating the moment Anakin’s hand touched his skin.

“And once I am married, I shall never be able to touch you,” Anakin said, curling his fingers up closer to Obi-Wan’s face and pulling him in, closer and closer.

“Will you touch me now, just once, my lord?” Anakin asked, as though Obi-Wan was dreaming and he was the prince, and Anakin the knight.

Obi-Wan lightly ran his hands up the fabric of the prince’s shirt, enough to brush the skin of his collarbones and make him wish for more.

You have such permissions, General.

Hearing Anakin’s breath go heavy, Obi-Wan moved his fingers upward and traced the outline of the prince’s jaw. Obi-Wan quickly realized that the closer he moved to the areas where the prince allowed nobody to touch him, the nearer Anakin became to him.

After thumbing circles at the base of his temple for a few moments, Obi-Wan slowly ran his fingers through Anakin’s hair.

The prince met him in response by hovering his lips over his, the closest the two had ever been, a place Obi-Wan had only imagined in his dreams. One more move and their lips would be touching. He’d tangle himself into Anakin, dig his nails deep into him. Just once. Obi-Wan could practically hear a light moan peppering off of Anakin’s breath as he drew the prince in. They’d still only touched, not even dared to kiss.

Just once.

“Pardon me-“ called a low, friendly voice.

In the dark of the hallway, Obi-Wan could identify a worker, Poe Dameron. With dark, black hair and a torch in his hands. He and Anakin immediately separated upon the realization of his presence. Obi-Wan couldn’t help but miss the feeling of the prince’s skin, his heat. But as Poe approached, though his face appeared kind, Obi-Wan realized Anakin’s skin was something he might never feel again.

“General Kenobi, may I have a word with the prince?”

link if you liked it :): https://archiveofourown.org/works/25884949/chapters/70574739

[quillomens]

Crowley stands on the edge of a cliff over the Aegean Sea and opens his wings, blacker than the night sky, blotting out the stars.

They were always black.  My wings. 

He turns, holds out a hand. Aziraphale feels nervous but can’t resist the mischief in that smile; never has, though he played otherwise.  He steps forward on bare feet, palm touching reaching fingertips.

A lot of us had black wings, then.  You weren’t made yet, not for eons.

“Trust me?” the demon asks, and there’s six thousand years and hundreds of denials: I don’t know him, he’s not my friend, you go too fast for me, humming under the words.  He isn’t certain.

“Of course, my dear,” the angel answers, and he means it.  His choice is made, and he is nothing if not loyal and resolute.

It was the color of space, and the open, and everything She told us to fill it with light and life.  There was no other color, in the Beginning.

Aziraphale has only a bark of a laugh as warning before Crowley grabs his other hand and twists, a pull of incredible power and then-

He throws the angel, white wings fluttering, into the warm night air.

The Archangels made the materials but we made the stars, the nebulae, the shapes of planets.  We mixed this material and that gas and made something new, and we found blue and purple and pink and yellow.  And some angels changed their wings then, when we knew something other than the reach of Space.

But I like it.  Beautiful color, black.  Every color, all at once, ready to be born.

Aziraphale lets out a yelp of surprise, but his wings are strong and Crowley read the currents.

His laugh is boyishly delighted as he dances upward on a burst of wind.  

He remembers, in the early days of Eden, leaping from the walls with the guardians of the other gates, a tumble of youth and energy and discovery.  The older angels stayed away, avoiding the earth Principalities were made for, fearing the corruption of the Fallen.

I made a color.  I found it first.  Mixed a bit of this, and a bit of that, and there it was.  Something new.  Something never seen before.

The sound of beating wings brings Crowley into view, his mouth open in a grin, his yellow eyes gleaming in the moonlight.  He is long and warm and beautiful, hair dancing in the wind.  Over his shoulders, billions of stars, the splash of a galaxy, the spark of planets. 

Uriel is the one who put it in my hair.

She loved my color.  Red.  She laughed and ran her fingers along the curls and then it wasn’t white-gold anymore, but burnished copper.

She used to laugh, before the war.  Have you never heard it?

Their fingers brush then break away, and they circle each other in the sky, lazy circles, the miracle of flying, the guidance of wings. 

Aziraphale never has heard Uriel laugh, but Crowley’s is wild and thrilled and he doesn’t believe any other sound in heaven or earth could ever compare.

His heart is full to bursting, and the stars are in Crowley’s eyes, a scattering across his skin.

I miss it, Red.  I miss all of them, I guess.  The colors.  Orange and pink and purple and green.  

Snakes only see yellow, you know.  Yellow, and a bit of blue.  

But I remember what it looked like, the new universe in all its glory.  I remember every color, and every new name, the beautiful and the ugly. They couldn’t take that away from me, even in the Fall.

Crowley tucks his wings and dives, a bullet toward the twinkling waters.  Aziraphale is so shocked by the move that he forgets to beat his wings, and plummets with none of the demon’s grace.

Crowley twists at the last moment, snaps out his wings, miracles his stop.

His scaled toes touch the surface of the water and send out gentle ripples.  

I don’t remember my name, but I remember that.

Aziraphale concentrates, slows, and steps onto the delicate surface tension to stand beside him with only the faintest of wobbles.  Little waves tease the tops of their toes.  Aziraphale reaches out this time, and Crowley takes his hand.  “Not bad, Angel,” he says, and there’s sharp humor and genuine praise all tangled in his voice.

But I can always see you, Angel.  Your hair, your eyes.  

Aziraphale knows.  He always knew, and he’s lived in creams and blues and hints of yellow, and he’s left his hair golden white and his wings like pearls: a blank slate of an Angel for a Demon to see.

They glide together, hand on sharp shoulder, at soft waist, a waltz across the sea.  Small waves kick up cool spatters of water and salt and Aziraphale giggles like a new angel, soaring above a great garden.  Crowley’s eyes are ancient and wise and playful and astonished.

The reflected stars dance around their feet.  The tips of their wings brush as Crowley twirls him away and claims him back. 

The angel takes the lead. The demon steals a kiss: what an utterly human bit of thievery. The angel looks under pale lashes and invites another.

I can always see you. 

[chipper9906]

Trip Down Memory Lane

Pairing: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Rating: General Audiences

Word Count: 8376

WARNINGS: Violence, Brief Mentions of Blood

Status: Oneshot- Complete

Summary/Preview: Castiel wasnt sure if he had even wanted to see what Dean's dream life would be. He could guess, of course. Such guesses usually consisted of Dean and Sam out on the road, stuck in a constant loop of driving, investigating, and ganking the monster they'd been tracking. It was what Dean was good at, and it was clear it made him happy.

He had never expected to see Dean living the dream domestic life, white picket fence and all.

And he never, ever, in a million years, expected he'd be a part of it.

* * *

When Dean is poisoned by a Djinn during a hunt, Castiel and Sam are tasked with entering Dean's mind and searching through until they find the dream world the Djinn had placed Dean in.This task requires them to search through some of Dean's memories, and Castiel see's something he never could have expected...

Castiel had been alive for billions of years. In that span of time, he had created countless memories of his time as an Angel, a never-ending storage of moments in his existence. His time with the Winchester brothers is an insignificant amount of time compared to the rest of his life, and yet, he can barely remember a time where the two didn’t need his help in some way or another.

Which was exactly what was happening right now.

"Cas? I-I-I need your help" The youngest brother's voice echoed around his head, the shaky manner in his voice freezing Cas in his movements. "It's... It’s Dean. He's in trouble"

Castiel was by Sam's side before he had even finished the prayer.

"What happened?" Castiel asks the second he lands, startling Sam from his crouched position on the floor.

Castiel senses the dead body off to the side, and for a moment his heart seems to stutter in his chest, thinking that it may have been Dean. To his relief, this proves not to be the case, recognizing the slowly fading magical traces of a Djinn in the room.

"There were two," Sam tells him. "We thought we were only hunting one. The second took us by surprise after we killed the first and had us tied up. I managed to get free and took care of it, but Dean..."

It's then that Castiel sees the body laying on the floor that Sam had been crouched by.

"They got him, Cas. Poisoned him. Dean, he's... This has happened before and he figured it out. Got himself out, I mean. But... He's taking a while this time. I don't know if-"

"If he'll wake up," Castiel finishes grimly, crouching down to Dean's side and placing a hand on the elder Winchester's head. "He's weak. Do you have any idea how long the Djinn has been feeding off of him?"

"I have no idea," Sam answers. "I’d been out of it for a while. I don't know if they wanted to take their time feeding or just...Finish in one feeding."

"I'm inclined to believe it was the latter."

"Can you... Can you heal him?" Sam asks desperately.

"No," Castiel answers somberly, his answer deflating Sam's hope. "But... I might be able to help him out of his state."

"How?"

"I'm going to have to enter Dean's mind, to try and find the hallucinatory dream the Djinn has placed him in. With a little push from the outside... Hopefully, he'll find his own way out."

"You can do that?"

"Yes. But it might take some time, as I'll have to skim through his memories until I find his dream state. It'll be kept hidden away."

"Is there any way I can, you know... Go in there with you?"

Castiel looked slightly taken aback by the request, tilting his head to the side slightly and regarding the youngest brother with narrow eyes and furrowed brows.

"You want to go in there with me?" Castiel asks for clarification.

"Yeah, I do. So that... I don't know, maybe I can help pull him out of it? I just... I can't sit here and do nothing while Dean's trapped in his own mind."

"I can take you with me Sam, but... The experience might be painful. And I don't mean physically. There are some memories you might not want to see, and... I have no way of knowing what Dean's true 'desire' may be, and how that reflects in the dream world the Djinn has created for him."

"I don't care," Sam responds defiantly, "I have to help. I just have to."

"Okay," Castiel relents, giving Sam a respectful nod. "You may want to prepare yourself for this."

Castiel lifts a hand to place his fingers on Sam's forehead, then reaches out with his other hand to gently place it onto Dean's head.

It was as if someone had flicked a light switch. One second, they're kneeling by Dean on a dirty and damp warehouse floor. The next, they're bathed in blackness, with no clue as to where they were.

"Okay..." Sam breathes out uncertainly, spinning around to take in the emptiness around them. "So... How do we find Dean's dream?"

"With trial and error, unfortunately," Castiel tells him, also glancing around at their surroundings. Suddenly, Castiel places a hand outstretched in the air, holding it there for a moment and furrowing his face in concentration.

After a few seconds of nothing happening, Castiel clenches his fist, which begins to shake with the effort. A low rumbling fills the air, and for a moment, Sam expects for the blackness to close in around them, like a collapsing building.

It's not what happens, however. Instead, the blackness in front of them seems to shift in place, one solid color merging into a blurry moment, almost like a shimmer, moving in place and glinting at them from the darkness.

"Come," Castiel instructs Sam, already making his way over to the shimmer. Sam doesn't need to be told twice, obediently following Castiel.

They come to a stop in front of the shimmer, hesitancy coming from the both of them.

"Are you sure you're ready for this?" Castiel asks Sam once again.

"The more time we hesitate, the less time Dean has," Sam responds, swallowing nervously. "We have to do this."

Castiel nods at this, and then reaches out a hand to touch the shimmer in front of them.

Suddenly, they're both stood inside a cozy-looking hallway of a house, Castiel still with an arm outstretched, shimmer no longer to be seen.

"You think this could be it?" Sam asks Castiel, spinning around to take in their new surroundings.

Before Castiel can answer, a young boy goes speeding past them, not taking in their appearance in the slightest, rushing into a room down the hallway they were stood in with a delighted giggle.

"No. This isn't it." Castiel answers sadly, already preparing to summon the next shimmer.

Sam's about to ask him how he knows when a young blonde-haired woman walks out of the room the boy had come from, an exasperated yet fond look on her face as she chases the young boy down.

Sam's sharp intake of breath distracts Castiel from his task slightly momentarily, sympathizing with the pained look on his face.

"Mom?" Sam calls out, sounding unsure with himself as he watches her disappear into the room.

"She can't hear you," Castiel tells him apologetically. "No one will here. No one but the real Dean"

"Was that... A memory version of Dean?" Sam asks, referring to the little boy that had run past them moments before.

"Yes, it was. I think... I think this was the night that..."

"Get us out of here." Sam quickly demands, already knowing what Castiel was about to imply.

It's as Sam is forced to watch a much younger, much happier looking John Winchester round the corner and approach his family that Castiel manages to summon the next shimmer. It's the last thing he sees before everything blinks out of existence once more.

If he had known the next memory they would fall into, he wouldn't have left the last one quite so soon.

Burning. That was the first thing he noticed. The unbearable heat that surrounded them, no way of escaping from it. Everything was coated in a haze of red, and screams filled with agony echoed from every direction.

One stood out, however. A shrill, piercing scream, coming from right beside them. A woman was laid out on a table, bound down with metal chains that tore into her skin as she pulled against them, desperate to get away from the knife that sliced its way through her body.

Sam found it hard to believe this could be Dean's dream or his memories. Not when the bearer of the knife was Dean himself, cutting into the screaming woman with expert precision.

"Is this-?"

"Hell," Castiel answers for him, an unusually pale color appearing on the angels face. "This was Dean in hell."

Thunder booms from ahead, and the two of them look up the sound at the same time Dean does. The thunder fades away, and for a moment, it seems that nothing else would happen. Then, a ringing sound fills the air, and the screams get louder.

No, not louder. There were more screams.

The screams of countless demons being smited.

Flashes of bright white light appear outside the closed door to the torture room they were in, and all three remain frozen, listening intently as heavy footsteps make their way towards the door,

"This could be-"

Castiel doesn't have enough time to tell Sam what he thinks it is, as the door is flung open before he can finish his sentence.

Well, flung open isn't completely accurate. More, the entire door is blown off its hinges, the two of them ducking way from the shattered metal door whilst Dean remains stoic where he stands, knife still in hand.

Then, stood right in front of them, is Castiel.

"This is when I rescued him from Hell." Castiel finally finishes, watching his memory self stood in the doorway.

Memory Cas's eyes were alight with grace, the reddish light emitting from the room casting the shadows of his wings against the walls.

Memory Castiel strides towards Dean, and it's no surprise that Dean lashes out, striking Memory Cas across the chest with his knife. Of course, it doesn't phase him in the slightest, and Memory Cas flicks his wrist to send the blade flying across the room, regarding Dean with an almost amused expression,

"You have no need to fear me," Memory Cas declares. "I am not here to hurt you. I'm here to free you."

"Yeah?" Dean responds snarkily, a sneer on his face as he looks to Memory Cas. "Well, can't exactly say I believe you."

"Please don't fight this," Memory Castiel asks of him. "It is my mission to recover your soul and place it back in your body. You will need to find your brother, Samuel Winchester-"

"Sammy?" Dean asks, the harsh tone they had heard him speaking in since they had got here reverting to a much softer, innocent-sounding voice.

"Yes, Samuel Winchester." Memory Castiel repeats, sounding somewhat confused. "I will be in contact with you shortly after. Do you understand?"

Dean glances over to the knife that had been thrown across the room, seemingly debating something. Memory Castiel watches him patiently, waiting for his next words.

Dean slowly lifts his gaze back up to Memory Castiel’s. Their eyes meet and, seeing no dishonesty in the angel's eyes, Dean gives a small nod of his head. Memory Castiel gives him a small smile, the corner of his lips barely twitching upwards before he's reaching out a hand and placing it on Dean's shoulder.

"Sam," Castiel calls out, startling Sam from what he was witnessing, looking over to the real Castiel, who had summoned yet another shimmer. "We need to move on."

The next scene they find themselves in appears much calmer. At first, that is. They appear inside an old, beat-up looking wooden barn, it's walls and roof covered in different painted symbols. In the center of it were Dean and Bobby, leaned across a table that had been laid out with various hunting weapons.

"I... Don't recognize this hunt," Sam tells Castiel "Why is Dean on a hunt with Bobby and not me?"

"This wasn't a hunt," Castiel tells him, and Sam is slightly surprised by the tender smile on Castiels face as he looks around at the barn. "Not completely, anyway..."

"You sure you did the ritual right?" Dean asks Bobby, already getting fidgety. Bobby gives him a bitch face in response to this that rivals Sam's, and Dean looks away with a roll of his eyes. "Sorry... Touchy, touchy, huh?"

Mere seconds later, the barn erupts into a cacophony of noise and movement. Loud bangs emit from the roof of the barn, slowly making its way down to the end, the sheets of metal acting as the barn's roof being pushed up and down from the unknown force, adding to the overall noise. Dean and Bobby give each other anxious looks, both of them grabbing shotguns from the table and standing ready, guns aimed down at the barn doors.

"The hell is that?" Sam asks Castiel, looking fearfully between the banging roof and the closed doors.

"I didn't exactly have the most graceful of entrances," Castiel replies sheepishly. "I, uh... Might have missed on the landing..."

The doors to the barn are pushed open, an all too familiar trench coat clad figure making his way into the barn. The second the doors begin to open, the lights above them brighten and shatter, showering Castiel in sparks as he advances towards the two.

"Holy shit..." Sam mutters in awe

The sounds of gunshots fill the air as Bobby and Dean fire their shotguns, each hitting their marks. Memory Cas's trenchcoat is torn apart from the spray of the shells, yet he continues towards them like it wasn't even happening.

It was rare for Sam to see Dean when he was frightened, and this was one of those rare times. As he rightfully should, after watching Castiel take the brunt of those shots without a flinch.

"Who are you?" Dean asks Memory Cas, unconsciously backing away from the imposing figure.

"My name is Castiel," Memory Cas dutifully answers. "I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition."

"Yeah?" Dean asks, the sarcasm in his tone eerily similar to the one he had in Hell. "Thanks for that"

Clearly not hearing the sarcasm in Dean's tone, Castiel nods in response to Dean's 'thanks', a slight smile on his face.

Dean charges forward, planting the knife into Cas's chest, clearly aiming to pierce Cas's heart. Sam startles slightly, not expecting for Dean to take action quite so soon.

Of course, Sam knows it won't do anything to Cas. After all, the real Cas was stood right next to him, alive and well. It was still shocking to see though, especially when Castiel looks down at the knife in his chest with the most amused expression he thinks he's ever seen from Cas.

"Not the best of introductions to Dean." Sam jokes to Castiel, watching Bobby attempt to knock Cas out with a crowbar, only to be knocked out himself with just the touch of Castiel’s fingers.

"Maybe but... I won't forget it." Castiel says with a fond smile, shaking his head and turning away from the scene in front of him. "We need to keep moving"

It doesn't take long for Castiel to find the next shimmer, checking over his shoulder that Sam was ready before grabbing hold, throwing the two of them into the next memory.

"Uh... Cas?" Sam calls out to Cas, the hair on the back of his neck standing upright the second they arrive in the new memory. "Where are we?"

"A place almost as bad as Hell," Castiel tells him, hating the familiar feeling that settled in his gut as he looks around at the forest that surrounded them. "This is Dean's time in Purgatory."

"Huh..." Sam breathes out, eyes shifting around their surroundings. "This is Purgatory? Dean, uh... Doesn't talk about it much."

"I don't blame him. This place, its...A place you wish you could forget."

"If this is Dean's memory, then... Where's Dean?" Sam asks, only able to see the endless stretch of trees in front of them, not a person nor monster in sight.

"On his way." Cas tells him, raising an arm to point at something in the distance.

Now that Cas had pointed it out, Sam realized they were near the edge of a river, just about able to hear the gentle rush of the river as it flows past them. And there, crouched by the side of the river, was Cas. A dirty, roughed up, bloody looking Cas, scrubbing away the dirt underneath his fingernails in the river, then trying to wash away the dirt that caked the unkempt beard growing on his face.

"Cas!"

Their attention is drawn away to the yell coming from within the forest, an equally dirty looking Dean erupting from the trees with the vampire, Benny, in tow.

"Dean?" Memory Cas seems to say mostly to himself, almost as if he was struggling to believe that he was really hearing Dean, that he had somehow managed to find him.

"Cas." Dean repeats again, elation clear on his face when it sinks in that he finally found Cas. He laughs openly in relief, not at all taking in the look of dread on Memory Cas's face as he approaches.

Dean still has a huge smile on his face as he yanks Cas towards him into a hug, slapping a hand against Cas's back.

"Damn, its good to see you!" Dean tells him, smile not leaving his face for a second as he raises a hand to brush across the hair growing on Castiels face. "Nice beach fuzz."

"Thank you."

"You should meet somebody," Dean quickly continues, realizing that Castiel had no idea who the person lingering nearby was. "This is Benny. Benny, this is Cas."

"Hola," Benny says in greeting

"How did you find me?" Castiel asks, not in the mood for introductions

"The bloody way," Dean replies, and Castiel needs no further explanation. "You feeling okay?"

"You mean-?" Castiel begins as he raises a finger to his head and making a circle.

"Yeah, if you want to be on the nose about it, sure."

"No. I'm perfectly sane. But, then, ninety-four percent of psychotics think they're perfectly sane, so I guess we'd have to ask ourselves, 'what is sane?'" 

Sam can't help but snort slightly at Cas's response.

"That's a good question," Dean says, looking slightly befuddled by the answer he got.

"Why'd you bail on Dean?" Benny questions, knowing full well that Dean wasn't going to ask himself.

"Dude-" Dean reprimands him, proving Benny right.

"The way I hear it-" Benny continues ignoring Dean. "-You two hit monster land, and hot wings here took off. I figure he owes you some backstory."

"Look, we were surrounded, okay? Some freak jumped Cas. Obviously, he kicked its ass, right?" Dean immediately jumps to Castiels defense.

"No."

Sam hadn't even been there at that time, can't even begin to imagine all the shit Dean had to go through just to get to Cas, and even then, hearing Castiels dejected, ashamed answer pained Sam as much as he knew it had pained Dean.

"What?" Dean asks, hoping he had heard Cas wrong.

"I ran away." Cas admits to him, keeping his eyes on the ground, too ashamed to meet Dean's gaze.

"You ran away?"

"I had to-"

"That's your excuse for leaving me with those gorilla-wolves?"

"Dean-"

"You bailed out and, what, went camping?" Dean interrupts with a demanding tone, nothing but disbelief etched onto his face. "I prayed to you, Cas. Every night."

"I know..."

Now, looking at the real Cas stood next to him, Sam could see the same agonized look of shame that was reflected on Memory Cas's face.

"You know and you didn't...." Dean trails off, and it hurts Sam to see the betrayal on Dean's face. "What the hell’s wrong with you?"

"I am an angel in a land of abominations. There have been things hunting me from the moment we arrived." Castiel attempts to explain himself

"Join the club!" Dean shouts in agitation

"These are not just monsters, Dean. They're Leviathan! I have a price on my head, and I've been trying to stay one step ahead of them, to-" Castiel suddenly stops in his rant, pausing briefly to swallow nervously before he continues. "-To keep them away from you"

Just like that, the rage that had been growing on Dean’s face slips away, softening into a look of realization.

"That's why I ran. Just... leave me, please."

"Sounds like a plan. Let's roll." Benny agrees, sounding happy to leave Cas as soon as possible.

"Hold on, hold on," Dean stops him, looking over to Cas, pleading. "Cas, we're getting out of here. We're going home."

"Dean, I can't-"

"You can. Benny, tell him." Dean says, looking to Benny behind him.

Benny doesn't look all too happy about where this was going, but complies anyway.

"Purgatory has an escape hatch, but I got no idea if it's angel-friendly."

"We'll figure it out," Dean insists, returning his pleading gaze back to Cas in front of him. "Cas, buddy, I need you"

"This isn't it," Real Castiel interrupts, hand already outstretched towards the next shimmer, choosing to look down at the ground in front of Sam, rather than re-live the memory in front of him. "The next ones ready."

This time, he doesn't bother to ask Sam if he's ready, wanting to get out of there as soon as possible. There's nothing Sam can say in response before the memory, and the forests of purgatory, disappears around them.

For a split second, Sam is comforted by the fact that they were now back on Earth. It doesn't last long, as he takes in the dreary, dark room they found themselves in, Memory Dean and Castiel stood in the center of the room, Dean holding what looks almost like a block of cement in his hands

"Oh no..." Castiel mutters in horror, having been dropped into a memory that was somehow even worse than the last.

Sam, meanwhile, was left feeling quite frustrated, constantly being placed into memories he is unable to recognize, at the same time feeling guilty for watching said memories, that he has no right to see.

"I can resupply the prophet, Dean." Memory Castiel insists, stepping closer to Dean.

"You know, why don't, uh, why don't Sam and I take it over to him, and you can get back to your mission?" Dean retaliates, looking slightly nervous at the way Memory Castiel advanced towards him. "Finding the other half of the Demon Tablet. That is priority, isn't it?"

"I can't let you take that, Dean." Castiel informs him sharply

"Can't, or won't?"

"Both."

"What the hell is happening?" Sam asks, the tension in the room starting to make him feel nervous.

"One of my biggest regrets." Castiel answers bitterly, struggling to find the next shimmer to get them the hell out of there.

"How did you get out of Purgatory, Cas?" Memory Dean asks, holding the block closer to himself.

An odd sort of look crosses Memory Cas's face at the question, looking but not seeing at Dean.

"Just tell me how you got out of Purgatory-" Dean continues when Castiel doesn't answer. "-Be honest with me, for the first time since you've been back-" Dean continues, breaking eye contact with Cas to nod down at the block in his hands. "-And this is yours."

Sam wasn't too sure what he had been expecting to see next. More silence from Castiel? Some sort of bleak response?

Either way, the sight of the angel blade sliding out of Memory Cas's sleeve and into his hand is enough for Sam's heart to jump into his throat.

"Cas. Cas, I don't know what the hell is wrong with you, but if you're in there and you can hear me, you don't have to do this." Dean begs, eyes drawn to the blade in Memory Cas's hand.

His pleas go unheard by Memory Cas, who launches forward to strike down at Dean with the blade. Out of reflex, Dean shields himself with the block in his hands, and the clang of metal against the stone echoes in the thunder from outside.

"Cas!"

"Cas, the hell..." Sam mumbles in shock, watching the scene unfold in front of him in despair.

"Cas, fight this! This is not you! Fight it!" Dean yells in desperation, hoping to get through to Cas.

It doesn't work. Memory Cas attacks once again, bringing his blade down hard once more, only to be deflected by the block in Dean's hand.

It seemed almost as if the blow had affected Castiel more than Dean, who stumbled back away from Dean, a pained look crossing his face

"What have you done to me, Naomi?"

"Who's Naomi?!" Dean asks the same time as Sam, as Memory Castiel folds over on himself, panting in apparent exhaustion, fighting something that Dean and Sam can't see.

"It wasn't me..." The real Cas mutters mostly to himself, eyes scrunched closed, refusing to watch the horror he knows is about to occur.

Worried, Memory Dean cautiously approaches Memory Castiel, placing a hand on his shoulder. This proves to be a mistake, as Castiel immediately strikes Dean across the face at the touch, sending Dean sprawling backward.

Memory Castiel makes his way over to Dean, who was unsteadily getting to his feet. Dean tries to defend himself, throwing a punch towards Cas, who quite easily catches it. With a steady grip on Dean's forearm, Castiel twists it harshly, snapping the bone clean in half. Dean yelps out in pain and drops the stone, which shatters into pieces as it makes contact with the hard floor of the crypt.

"The angel tablet..." Sam realizes, not sure whether to look at the violence he was seeing, or the obviously distraught Castiel, who was still trying valiantly to find the next shimmer.

It pains Sam that there's nothing he can do. Nothing but watch as Castiel’s fist meets Dean's face again and again and again, fresh cuts and bruises appearing with every hit, skin being broken from the force of every punch.

"You want it?" Dean asks, noticing Memory Castiel’s attention had changed over to the Angel tablet next to him. "Take it! But you're gonna have to kill me first. Come on, you coward...Do it. Do it!"

Castiel’s attention is brought back to Dean, returning his fist to Dean's face once more.

"Cas... This isn't you. This isn't you." Dean's voice is broken, the intense pain beginning to overtake him. Castiel strikes again, face showing no sign of what he was doing.

"Cas...Cas..." Dean calls out Cas's name in a weak beg, shaky hand reaching out to the angel in front of him. "I know you're in there."

The limited light in the room glints off the angel blade that Memory Cas had raised above Dean, the sight of which made Sam want to look away, to pretend he had never seen what he was seeing.

"I know you can hear me, Cas," Dean's voice breaks slightly, whether from the pain or the emotion of it all, Sam doesn't know. "It's me. We're family... We need you..."

There's no emotion on Memory Cas's face as he looks down at the beaten Dean in front of him, blade hanging just above his head. A stark contrast to the pure agony on the real Castiels face.

"I need you."

"Enough," The Real Castiel declares just as Memory Cas's blade slips out of his hand, clanging against the floor. Sam tears his eyes away to see that Cas had finally found the next shimmer. "I can't..."

"It's okay," Sam comforts the pained looking angel, making his way over to his side. "Come on. Let's go find Dean"

The next place they find themselves in, it's... Well...

It's enough to raise their suspicions immediately.

They had been dropped right in the middle of a fairly ordinary-looking suburban neighbourhood. A beautiful day as far as the weather, deep blue sky with perfectly fluffy white clouds floating lazily past up ahead, no sign in the least of any rain to come.

In front of them stood a two-story house, it's wooden panels painted a light blue that blended nicely with the deeper blue backdrop of the sky. The house was placed in front of an obviously well looked after garden, neat lines mowed into the vibrant green lawn, with various flowers lined against the side, a single bee house tucked away in the corner of the lawn, a few bees buzzing around their man-made home.

And then, sat in the driveway of the home, was a car that Sam would never be able to mistake. The afternoon sun gleamed off the Impalas pristine black paint job, and laid out underneath her was Dean, sweating profusely as he worked on his baby.

"Cas... Do you remember this?" Sam asks, searching around for anything he might recognize.

"No..." Castiel answers, sounding as unsure as Sam did. "Do you?"

"Not one bit. Do you think this could be it?"

"Perhaps. Dean looks the same age he does now, so it seems unlikely that this is an event that occurred before we met... The only possibility I suppose is the time Dean spent while you were in Hell, but... This doesn't look like the house of Lisa Braeden... "

"We found it?" Sam dares to hope, relief clear in his voice.

"I think s-"

"Daddy!"

A young boy with a nest of light brown hair and crystal blue eyes rushes out of the front door of the house, running full sprint towards the Impala. Dean pushes himself out from under the Impala, a huge smile appearing on his face at the sound of the boy's voice.

"Hey, Kiddo," Dean greets him brightly, grunting as the wind is knocked out of him when the boy practically launches himself at Dean. "What'cha doing out here?"

"Can I help you?" The boy asks with puppy dog eyes that Sam swears he's seen before...

"With Baby?" Dean clarifies, looking over his shoulder to the Impala with a raised eyebrow. "Hmmm... I dunno... You think you can be careful with her? She's sensitive."

The boy giggles in delight at Dean's words, nodding his head vigorously in response.

"Come on, Dad..."

"This is... Definitely it..." Sam notes, an odd sort of feeling settling in his chest. "I... I never knew that...This is something that Dean wanted. I always thought..."

"I don't think he always wanted it..." Castiel says, watching Dean interact with his fake son, trying to figure out why seeing them almost seemed to hurt. "He got a taste for this kind of life with Lisa and Ben, and I don't think he's ever really been able to forget it..."

Then, what happens next, Castiel has no explanation or answers for.

"How did you get away when you're under such watchful eyes?" Dean asks his son, smiling at the mischievous giggle he gets in return.

"Because he takes after you just a bit too much."

Out from the open front door steps Castiel. No longer donning his suit and trench coat, now instead clothed in a comfortable pair of jeans and a simple button-down shirt, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, watching the two with a tender smile.

Castiel wasn't sure if he had even wanted to see what Dean's dream life would be. He could guess, of course. Such guesses usually consisted of Dean and Sam out on the road, stuck in a constant loop of driving, investigating, and ganking the monster they'd been tracking. It was what Dean was good at, and it was clear it made him happy.

He had never expected to see Dean living the dream domestic life, white picket fence and all.

And he never, ever, in a million years, expected he'd be a part of it.

"You're just jealous he likes me more." Dean retaliates, mischievous grin matching the one on the child sat on his lap.

"Stop trying to make our son choose favorites." Cas reprimands jokingly as Dean stands from the floor, lifting the boy in his lap up by his armpits, getting another giggle from the action.

"Because we all know who it is..." Dean whispered, which made Fake Castiel roll his eyes.

"You nearly finished up out here?" Fake Castiel asks Dean, holding out his arms for their son.

"Yep, shouldn't take too long," Dean replies, passing the boy in his arms over to Castiel, who holds him close. "You want me to cook tonight?"

"I think I got it."

"Oh really? That's what you said the last time. You know, when you nearly burnt the house down?"

"I did not nearly burn the house down. The fire alarm did its job, I was alerted to the fire, and it was dealt with."

Dean gave a sarcastic hum in response, reaching for a rag placed in a nearby toolbox to wipe the oil off his hands.

"How about we bake your dad a pie?" Fake Castiel asked the boy in his arms, who squealed in delight at the prospect.

"I wanna make pie!"

"I think that's that, then." Fake Castiel directed towards Dean, smiling smugly in victory.

"You go call your Uncle Sammy from upstairs if you smell smoke," Dean instructs his son, pointing a fake stern finger at him as he speaks. "You got that, James?"

"Can Uncle Sammy help us too?" James asks, tilting his head back to look at Fake Castiel "Please...?"

"Of course he can." Fake Castiel assures him, planting a kiss on Dean's cheek before he makes his way back inside, James still held tight in his arms.

"Go rescue your uncle from all those books!" Dean calls out after them, chuckling lightly to himself as he turns back to continue work on his car.

"Wow..." Sam exclaimed quietly, feeling like he had become winded all of a sudden. "This is...Something..."

Noticing Castiel’s silence, Sam glances worriedly over to him. Castiel’s eyes were trained on Dean, watching him live his fake life with a look of sadness and regret.

"Cas?" Sam calls for him softly, not wanting to startle him. "You alright buddy?"

"I never knew..." Castiel mumbled, shaking his head slowly "I... I had no idea..."

"I get what you mean," Sam emphasized, able to see the shadows of Fake Castiel and his son move around the inside of the house. "I can't believe that in all of this, Dean included me."

"What?" Castiel asks sharply, snapping out of his trance to look at Sam incredulously. "Sam, you were the only person I was sure I would see in Dean's dream."

"Look, me and Dean, we...We don't always see eye to eye with certain things. We don't always tell each other everything there is to know, and this? This is one of those things. I mean, I don't exactly fit into this kind of life that Dean... Wants?"

"We don't have time to talk about this right now," Castiel breaks the brewing discussion, moving his gaze back over to Dean. "We need to get Dean out of here."

Deans hunting instincts are as keen as ever, lifting his head from under the Impalas hood the second he makes out their approaching footsteps, spinning around to see the newcomers, posture relaxing once he realizes who it is.

"Hey hon," Dean greets Castiel with a warm smile, eyes shifting from Castiel to Sam. "James managed to drag you away, huh?"

"Um...." Sam began awkwardly, looking to Castiel for help. "Not exactly..."

The happy smile on Deans face faltered slightly, a more bewildered look crossing his face once he studies Castiel closer.

"Didn't even realize you still had that thing," Dean noted, raising a hand briefly to point at the trenchcoat Castiel was wearing. "And how did you get changed so fast into it anyway?"

"Dean..." Castiel began gently, dreading what was to come.

"Wait, where's James?" Dean suddenly seemed to realize his son was not with them, looking panicked and worried by the realization. "Wasn't he with you?"

"Dean, I need you to listen to me," Castiel instructed sternly, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "This is going to be difficult for you to hear, but you have to remember."

"Remember what?"

"Dean, none of this is real," Castiel decided the best approach was to 'rip the bandaid off', metaphorically speaking. "You and Sam were hunting a Djinn up in Washington. Something went wrong."

"There were two, not the one like we thought," Sam adds in, cautiously moving closer to his brother. "We had no idea. He snuck up on us after we dealt with the other. Do you... Do you remember that part?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You were captured, Dean. Both you and Sam. Sam managed to get away, but... The Djinn poisoned you, Dean. All of this, it isn't real. It's what your mind fabricated for you."

"Djinn," Dean breathes out in disbelief, glancing over to his house behind him, thinking over something in his mind before looking back to the two of them.

"What... What if it is real?" Dean stuttered out. "How do I know you're telling the truth?"

"I'm sorry," Castiel apologized genuinely, recognizing just how happy Dean had been in his dream world. "I really am, Dean."

"I hate what I'm about to say-" Sam interjects, forcing Dean to break eye contact with Castiel to look over at this younger brother. "-But think about it. When are we ever going to get to live this kind of life? C'mon Dean, escaping the hunters’ life, it... It just doesn't happen. Not for us."

"Dean, you're in a bad state. That Djinn drained you, and it might not be long before you fade completely, especially trapped here." Castiel informs him.

"But..." Dean tried to argue, unconsciously trying to move towards the house. "My... My son, I can't... I can't just leave him."

"You won't be leaving him." Castiel consoled Dean. "He was never there. Simply a vision created in your mind. You're not leaving anyone, Dean. The people who will miss you, those that are real? We're out there, Dean. If you don't get yourself out of this, it'll be us you're leaving."

Castiel could see the fight drain out of Dean, shoulders slumping, his whole posture shrinking down. Without another word, Dean slinks over to the back of the Impala, lifting up the boot.

"Dean, I-"

It's all Sam can get out before Dean pulls out his pistol from the back of the Impala, not an inch of hesitation as he lifts the gun to his head and pulling the trigger, throwing all three into a startling blackness with a loud bang.

Sam blearily opens his eyes, sluggishly turning his head to see Castiel slowly coming to himself, shaking his head in an attempt to shake out the remaining grogginess.

It felt as if they had been reliving the memories for hours, but from the looks of it, barely a minute had passed. The warehouse they had been in looked as dark and dreary as ever, and worst of all, Dean still laid unconscious on the floor.

"Dean?" Castiel calls out worriedly, sluggishly pushing himself onto his knees and leaning over Dean's form, placing a hand over his shoulder and giving him a light shake.

With dramatic timing only Dean could master, he shoots upwards with a gasp, startling Cas who quickly leans away to avoid being hit by Dean's sudden awakening.

"Oh, Thank Christ..." Sam mutters appreciatively, standing on shaky legs and stumbling over to Dean.

"You alright man?" Sam asks him as he holds out a hand to Dean.

"I've been better." Dean responds truthfully, spending a few seconds with his eyes closed, sat on the dirty floor as he waits for the spinning to stop before eventually grabbing onto Sam's hand, who yanks him up to his feet.

Castiel looks like he doesn't know what to say, and frankly, neither does Sam. Judging by the look on Dean's face, he'd much rather go with this never being mentioned for as long as he lived, but it was a discussion that was inevitable not to occur.

For now though, it wasn't what mattered.

"C'mon, bud," Sam says gently, slapping a hand on Dean's back. "Let's get you home."

* * *

Thankfully for Dean, Sam and Castiel were too busy being mother hens over his health the first few days to bring up what they had witnessed in the innermost hidden parts of his mind. A few days of bed rest were enough to get him back on his feet, and then, it became an avoiding game.

Any time he saw Castiel coming down the hallway or entering the room, he would simply do a one-eighty and escape the situation as soon as possible. He didn't even know if Cas was actually trying to speak to him about it, but Dean wasn't taking any chances. Not when it came to this.

Really, he should have known that trying to ghost an angel of the Lord wasn't going to work forever. Castiel had been respectful of his wishes the past few days, but clearly, something had snapped and he had had enough.

Which is why one early Thursday morning, as he snuck into the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee, relieved to see its only occupant was an exhausted-looking Sam, Castiel had teleported behind him, tapping his fingers against Dean's head the second he had jumped and turned, teleporting them both away before Dean can get a word in edgewise, leaving a poor, bewildered leaving Sam at the kitchen table.

Dean felt the usual sickening pull of the world around him which usually accompanied angel flight, then the ground came back into existence under his feet. Castiel didn't say a word once they landed, dropping his hand away and taking a few steps back, keeping his eyes locked on Dean at all times.

"Cas, where the hell-" Dean begins to ask, trailing off as he takes in the familiar building Cas had dropped them into. "Wait a minute, is this...?"

"Where we first met," Castiel clarifies, joining Dean in scanning the dilapidated barn. "The first time you remembered, anyway. At least, that's what I thought..."

"The first time I remembered? What are you talking about?"

Castiel sighed softly, wandering over to a table that had been pushed up against the wall, its wood rotting and weak from the torrential downpours of rain that had slipped through the panels of the barns room. Castiel gently traces a hand across its surface, pushing down firmly to check its weight before hoisting himself up and taking a seat.

"Do you know how a Djinn crafts its victim's fantasies?"

Dean immediately tenses up the question, while knowing that the conversation would eventually lead to this, was still not prepared for it.

"Not really."

"The Djinn mostly relies on its victim's memories in order to do so. It's essential that the victim believes in the dream that's been created for them, to keep them placated right up until their death. Using the victim's memories means that Djinn's poison can get every necessary detail correct. Without those memories, it's not possible."

"What are you getting at, Cas?"

"Getting you out of that world wasn't as simple as 'jumping right into your dream,'" Castiel explained, making quotation marks with his fingers as he speaks. "Sam and I had to delve through your memories in order to find you."

"Oh..."

"I had to try and find a common detail in your most active memories. That is, where there was the most activity in your brain."

"...Coz those memories are being used to make the dream, right?"

"Correct. I don’t know why it took me so long to figure out... Mostly because I... I never thought it was possible."

"Never thought what was possible?"

"The first memory was simple enough. A tragic night, yes, but that wasn't the focus of the memory. It was of a happy family, nothing more. The others though... I just didn't understand it. In all of them, you... You were in pain. You were hurt, or you were scared, I just couldn't grasp why they were the memories you chose."

"Cas, buddy, at the moment, you have a better understanding of my head than I do."

"No, I don't, Dean. If anything, I've never been more unsure. Each and every one of those memories, the link was right there, but I could never see it... Me."

"Cas..."

"Me, rescuing you from hell. A memory that, I thought had been lost to you. Me, introducing myself to you and Bobby, in this very barn. Me, running from you in purgatory. Me... Nearly beating you to an inch of your life. All of that, right there in front of me, and yet... I still did not anticipate that in your dream world, I would be there. Not just there, but..."

"Don’t say it..." Dean whispers, eyes clenched shut and shaking his head. "Please, don't..."

"You might be fine pretending this never happened Dean, but I'm not," Castiel snapped, pushing himself off the table and storming towards Dean. "I get that you're a secretive man, Dean. That you don't like talking about how you feel-"

"So then you know why-"

"Not for this. Never for this," Castiel disputed, deflecting Dean's attempt at an explanation. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Why didn't I tell you?" Dean gawfed, throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation. "Gee, I don't know, Cas? Maybe because I couldn't come to terms with it myself? Maybe because if I told you such a fucking batshit thing, you might tuck tail and run, and I'd lose my closest friend?"

"I would never leave you," Castiel asserted, taking a step closer to Dean to drive home his statement. "You know I wouldn't. Not after all we've been through."

"What would I say, Cas?" Dean asks, words dripping with sarcasm. "'Oh, hey Cas! Just thought I'd let you know that things have been different lately, and I've been thinking of you as more than a friend. As in, I can't get you out of my damn mind, and there's jack-shit I can do about it, other than sit here and think about what it would be like if my life wasn't so fucked up. You know, the kind of vision where we're just two normal fucking people, living in a normal fucking house with a kid of our own, and that above all else, we're happy.' 

But no, why should I tell you that? Why should I bother, when I know that this is the life I live, and there's nothing I can do to change that! When I know that even in the damn slim chance that you see me as anything but a friend, that I could ever settle down into a life where-"

Dean isn't able to finish his rant, as Castiel interrupts it by grabbing a fistful of Dean's flannel shirt, twisting his hands into the soft material around the collar. Dean's words trailed off into a stutter, briefly wondering whether Castiel was about to strike him in an attempt to shut him up.

Which is, perhaps why, the reason his whole body freezes up when instead, Castiel yanks him closer, coming dangerously close to clashing their teeth together in his haste to feel Dean's lips against his own. His shocked gasp is muffled by Castiels mouth on his own, and his brain seems to have stuttered to a stop, unable to comprehend what had just happened.

Castiel’s lips move against his own, an invite to actually participate in the kiss he had initiated. The movement at least helps prove to his shell shocked brain that yes, this actually was happening and that he should probably do more than just act like a dead body in this situation.

Dean decides the best course of action was to shut down his brain for the moment. No more questions, no more doubts. It was just himself and Castiel, and that's all he had to focus on right now. It does the trick, as he feels himself sink into Castiel’s hold, every wound up muscle he didn't realize he had practically melting against Cas's touch.

A deafening clap of thunder rings from outside, accompanied by a bright flash of white lightning. It doesn't take long after that for them to hear raindrops hitting hard against the beaten-up metal roof of the barn, the torrential rain pouring through the gaps and doing quick work of soaking the two.

Dean pulls away from Castiel with a weak laugh, shaking his damp hair of the rain and glancing up to Castiel with a dopey smile.

"This you?" He asks Cas, pointing up to the storm that seemed to appear from nowhere.

"I thought it would add to the atmosphere." Castiel jokes with a deadpan expression, though it quickly breaks when Dean cracks up into laughter, shaking his head fondly before pulling Castiel closer to him, burrowing his face into Castiels shoulder and wrapping his arms tight around the angels back.

"Dean, you know I would love nothing more than to give you that life," Castiel tells him as he raises his own arms up to envelop Dean in a hug. "Even if I wasn't a part of it, I want to see you live your life without hunting, without all that fear and responsibilities."

"I don't think you're getting the main part of it, Cas. You said it yourself, my brain was relying on memories of you. It wouldn't be my dream life if you weren't in it, Cas."

"Dean, I... I might not be able to give you a home, or a son of your own. But... If this, if us is something you really want, then I will spend the rest of my life doing what I can to make you happy, Dean."

"I don't need all that stuff to make me happy Cas. The bunker is my home now, and as long as it’s got you and Sammy in it? I'm happy."

The rain continued to pour down on them, the flimsy roof of the barn proving next to no cover from the storm Castiel had created out of thin air. Dean pulled away from Castiel’s embrace slightly to peer up at the roof, wincing as the droplets of water fall into his eyes.

"Uh, Cas? We should probably be heading back now..."

"Right, of course, I almost forgot you can feel the cold..."

"That and, you know, Sams probably gonna think you tried to drown me in a lake once we get back..."

[starker-stories]

A Boy in a Dress

Created for @mcukinkbingo​​ Also on AO3 Square Filled: Crossdressing Ship: Peter Parker/Tony Stark, Starker Rating: T Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Word Count: 1914 Additional Tags: Crossdressing, Not Feminization Summary: “Peter… I…” He slowly blinked. “There are things you only see in fantasies. You don’t even have a frame of reference to explain them. Ideas you never let yourself think because what you want is impossible,” Tony explained. “Baby, you’re perfect.” ——————————————————

“Oh my god Tony. It’s… they’re… oh… beautiful!”

Peter rushed over to the bed and started rifling through the clothes draped on it. “You have a whole wardrobe here!” There were flowy skirts and narrow tight pencil skirts. Skirts that came to the floor and ones that looked like they’d barely cover the curve of his ass. Blouses made of soft silk. The fabric draped over his hands and flowed like water until it puddled back onto the bed. Ones of sheer fabric and lace that were more air than cloth. Shoes. High heels, cute little ballet flats, sandals that had string laces that looked long enough to tie all the way up Peter’s legs. Dresses — narrow waisted, broad shouldered. And lingerie! Every kind imaginable. Suitable for day, and especially, for night.

When his initial rush of excitement passed, he noticed that the clothes weren’t just women’s clothes from a store, like he used to sometimes sneak out and buy.

“You had all of this made?”

“Yes baby. You explained to me what you wanted. You’re very happy being a boy and don’t want to change that, never wanted to.”

“Right. But people have misunderstood before…”

“Pete, am I ‘people’?”

“No Tony.”

“So, taking you at your word, I do listen to you, you know.” Tony ticked on his fingers. “Very much a boy. Not a drag queen. Not trying to hide the fact that you’re a boy while you’re dressed. Sensuality is a big part of it. Not costume-y but not ordinary. Not done as a political statement.”

“This dress!” Peter held the dress up to his front and let it drape, looking at himself in the mirror.

“Baby, that’s going to look gorgeous on you.”

Peter quickly stripped out of his t-shirt and jeans then shimmied the golden yellow soft chiffon dress on over his head. He couldn’t take his eyes away from the mirror. He’d tried dresses before, but they never worked as well as a skirt and a blouse. The ones he could get were designed to fit the curves of a woman. There were always places that hung in un-filled-out wrinkles or pulled too tight. His arms and shoulders hardly ever fit. But this fit him perfectly.

The vintage silhouette was styled like when girls wore shoulder pads, but not the cartoonish 80s style. It was more classic, elegant. Of course Peter needed no pads on his broad shoulders. The shape of his body was one of the things he always hated when he dressed. He thought it made him look awful. Yet he liked the way he looked when he wasn’t dressed.

Tony watched as the boy turned this way and that, frowning at times, looking like he was working a puzzle. “There was very little that needed to be changed. The problem was that you needed couture. Off the rack is designed for women. Couture is designed for models. It's a less curved body.”

“Tony, how did you know all this?”

“I’ve dated a lot of models,” he said with a shrug. “Eventually you get bored enough to listen to them.”

“It’s all so beautiful. Thank you.”

“So… I have reservations for eight. There’s more things in your bathroom. I didn’t know what sort of style you wanted though. I’m afraid I picked things I like. More natural.”

“Exactly. Not drag, not obvious. Just a bit of glamour. But…” Peter’s face fell.

“What Pete? What can I fix?”

“Tony, I can’t go out like this.”

“Why?”

Peter sighed. “People get the wrong idea. You might not be people, but people are people. I got caught one day at Columbia wearing a blouse like this,” he held up a simple white linen blouse that wasn’t far off from looking like a shirt, “and I still don’t think I ever convinced them that I wasn’t trans and in denial. I kept having to tell them my pronouns were he/him and yes my name really is Peter. It’s not that I think that being trans is wrong, it’s just that…”

“You’re not.”

“Exactly.”

“Baby, what you are right now is a very beautiful boy in a very beautiful dress. I’d like to take you out to dinner so that everyone can see how beautiful you are.” Tony walked up behind Peter and wrapped his arms around his waist, looking at him through the reflection. “I think you’re stunning.”

It was wonderful that Tony thought he looked that way. When Peter looked at his reflection, he could almost believe it too.

“Baby, when you first started telling me, I mean… I’ve always liked a boy in a bit of lingerie. But the problem was the opposite as it has been with you. They were willing to wear it but it was a kink. And while that’s fun…” Tony shrugged.

“I know! It’s impossible either way.”

“It’s possible. People will see what you show them. If you act camp, they’ll see a drag queen. If you mime the way a woman behaves, then they’ll see a transvestite. If you actually behave like a woman, they’ll see a trans woman. If you’re just you, baby, they’ll see a beautiful boy in a beautiful dress.”

“I can’t.”

“Do you want to?”

“Yes!”

“Try. Get ready as if we were going. Come out into the living room with me and we’ll just be together a bit first. If you’re really not ready, then I’ll have the restaurant send dinner here.”

Peter bit his lip. It was amazing seeing their reflections standing there. Peter and Tony had very different body types. Tony was a compact, muscular, solid man. Peter was a lithe, fluid, delicate… man. And they did look beautiful together. Or would if Tony was dressed to match. Right now, in a torn t-shirt and a pair of dad-jeans that did nothing for his ass, they most certainly weren’t a match. He laughed. “You have to dress nice too.”

“Pete, I do clean up all right, you know.” He kissed the side of Peter’s neck. “Can you trust me? A little? But if I do anything that makes you uncomfortable, you let me know.” Peter looked like he was about to start going through all the reasons he couldn’t do it. “Baby, don’t overthink it. Right now just start by picking out what you want to wear and getting ready in whatever way makes you feel… like you. Don’t think about ‘people’. Just Peter and Tony, okay?”

When Tony bought Peter’s wardrobe, everything he had for himself looked wrong in comparison. He didn’t explain the particulars about the gender of his date to his tailor, he just brought several of the dresses with him and said he wanted to look ‘better than I usually do’. Apparently it took more than simply spending a lot of money on a suit. Wanting to look a match for Peter, he let the man put him through, what Tony joked was, ‘finishing school’.

Peter was beautiful to Tony no matter what he wore. But since the boy told him about this, he hadn’t been able to stop imagining what ‘a boy in a dress’ might actually look like. Every one of his imaginings was more beautiful than the last. He never thought Peter would look incongruous or awkward and certainly not camp or drag, like the boy worried about. Peter couldn’t look that way. He was graceful and light and… as he stepped into the room, perfect.

Peter’s hair wasn’t ‘done up’. There were soft, messy curls with something in them that made it look wet, but not wet. Glistening? Yeah. Glistening. Tony could tell he was wearing cosmetics, but he didn’t look like it. Not even like the ‘natural’ makeup that some of the girls he’d dated wore. There was a bit of shadow to his eyes, but just barely enough to heighten the depth of them, to bring out the honey-color. His lashes looked brighter, but Tony couldn’t tell if that was something he was wearing because Peter naturally had the most amazing long lashes. His lips though… the color was perhaps just a tiny bit pinker, but they were shiny and looked like they did when he got nervous, because he had a habit of licking them. Tony wanted to bite.

That dress. It was beautiful when he saw it on him in the mirror, but in combination with everything it was… The fit was as before, and the way the fabric draped, Tony’s fingers were itching to feel. The stockings had just a little bit of shimmer to them but weren’t ‘fetish’, not black or red, but the same color as Peter’s pale skin. Tony hadn’t been sure if Peter actually knew how to walk in heels, but the boy flowed into the room.

“Oh Peter. I…” Tony stumbled over his words. He was a man who had dated some of the most beautiful women in the world. Without a bit of exaggeration, he told Peter, “Baby, you take my breath away.” When the boy blushed? Tony’s words were literal.

“I don’t look ridiculous?”

“Peter… I…” He slowly blinked. “There are things you only see in fantasies. You don’t even have a frame of reference to explain them. Ideas you never let yourself think because what you want is impossible,” Tony explained. “Baby, you’re perfect.”

Tony rushed to Peter, wrapped his arm around the boy’s narrow — muscular, masculine — waist. He lifted him and spun him around like they were dancing. The way he felt in Tony’s arms. The lean body of a boy who took ballet lessons. Everything about him was the same. There wasn’t anything about him that wasn’t Peter. He was a stunningly handsome young man. Graceful, but the fabric, the clothes, the way he looked, went from graceful to otherworldly. Formed of beautiful renaissance paintings, old black and white movies, and stylized images of long-limbed saints.

“Please tell me you feel this,” Tony said, stopping them in the middle of the room.

Peter stepped closer until he and Tony were against each other. “I… Tony… you’re… we’re…”

“Beautiful, Peter.” He nestled Peter on his shoulder. “Shh, don’t cry. You’re a vision.”

“It’s not just a…” Peter sighed. “Like you said, a kink?”

“Baby, do I want to take you into the bedroom and fuck you senseless? Yeah. When don’t I? Do you remember the first time I took you to a gala and you put on that tux? I wanted to fuck you senseless then too. You in my old sweatshirt and jeans makes me want to fuck you senseless. You just do things to me, kid.”

Peter laughed. But then he stopped and swallowed hard. “We can’t though.”

“Go out? Why? People?”

Peter nodded. “No one will understand.”

“Peter, you don’t look like that. You’re without camp, without drag, without imitation.”

“Well there is some imitation.”

“No. None. There’s a… derivation of style, that’s all. It suits you. But why don’t I call the restaurant. I’ll put on some music, because god Peter do I ever want to dance with you. And then we’ll eat in the dining room instead of the kitchen for a change. Save going out for another time. Let you get used to everything at home first.”

“You don’t mind if we don’t go out?” Peter said hesitantly.

“Baby, that means I get you to all to myself. Saves me from having to beat the shit out of some guy who looks at you too long.”

——————————————————