#stark sibs | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

shibaraki · 2 years

Text

MASTERLIST | PART I | PART II | PART III

CHAPTER SYNOPSIS: He was bestowed the name Katsuki. Where your people feared and cursed him, spoke of him as if he were all but a beast, Varene revered him as the symbol of victory. Tales of a gold crowned son who entered the world with the roar of a dragon. The gaping chasm between the two of you predated your marriage. Everything had been determined the moment you were born a woman.

TAGS: AFAB FEM reader (a half sib todoroki; she/her pronouns used; ‘princess’ ‘your grace’ ‘your majesty’), dragon king bakugo, sheltered reader, worldbuilding, miscommunication, oc dragons and draconic language, canon typical abuse (todoroki family), magic and bloodline abilities, marriages of convenience, kidnapping (reader kept in a small space), descriptions of blood and injury, pirate aizawa shouta (+ crew), bounty hunter shinsou hitoshi

WC: 15k

You are dipped in twilight. Swaddled in the late night chill and a silk robe, the soft hair on your arms rears. The candlelight had long been extinguished after you had retired to bed, but sleep escaped you. It was too quiet, too cold in a bed so large and so empty.

Months have passed since you were wedded to the renowned dragon king, Bakugo Katsuki, and there is yet for any sense of belonging to take root between the two of you. Or so it feels.

The sky is clear, a vast black canvas dotted with distant stars. You are alone again and Varene still does not feel like home.

You supposed that this solitude was far better than being back in Yiryn. Though you missed your mother and siblings desperately, it was difficult not to favour a country that did not scorn you. Born to King Enji’s paramour in a final, desperate effort for a suitable heir, your mother had been sought out due to Rei’s presumed inability to carry any more Todoroki children. One too frail, one a woman, one without fire. Stress and fear proved unfavourable conditions for carrying a babe. It’s that hostility which forced her first child, your eldest brother Touya, to arrive prematurely.

And just as Rei had been wedded to him for her abilities with ice, your mother had been chosen due to the blood that ran thick in her veins. Drachian's blood. Had luck been on your side you’d have been born with a natural affinity for communing with dragons, Draconic language engraved into your marrow, and your sire’s rather useful resistance to high heat. Put together, they were appealing traits to the Todoroki clan, who passed on the ability to wield fire through generations, and were seeking a connection to the ancient beasts after having lost their own a century ago.

Following your conception, it had not been known that the Queen, Rei, too was pregnant. Five months into your mothers gestation, the court became aware of another son growing handsomely beneath Rei’s many layers of skirt and trim. The Queen never begrudged your existence, only pleased to know her own youngest wouldn’t be alone. You were told the two women would often stand side by side, if only to press the swell of their bellies together, to keep you both close. You were raised alongside Shouto, and often nested together in the same crib during infancy. Given the choice, you might’ve remained inseparable.

While the same could not be said for your father, the siblings never treated you unequally. Touya had been particularly fond of you and frequently sought your company, a stark contrast to the obvious distaste for his youngest brother. You still think of him often. It became clear that Touya found comfort in the parts of you that reflected him. Unwanted. Unskilled. Born into failure. Draconic never shaped on your tongue, no matter how hard you tried. Another spurned child to bond with.

Like mother like daughter, you were fated to be another last resort. Gruelling tests and training throughout childhood proved you were unable to strengthen the Todoroki line, and so King Enji declared your only use to Yiryn was as a means of rebuilding an old, long weathered bridge with Varene.

The two countries once shared a rich history and culture, strained by war, famine and gold. The divide had worsened with every generation that passed. Even in the true Kingdom of Dragons, natural born Draconic speakers were far and few. Which is why Enji’s offer to them was most generous — suspiciously so. Marriage to a Todoroki princess, a Drachian carrier, that may produce Draconic speaking heirs.

The agreements passed without fanfare, and your illegitimacy proved to be of no consequence, as bastards are not recognised in Varene. All children were equally deserving. You found the sentiment incredibly loving. While it worked in his favour, your father had still privately branded them savages.

Being betrothed to the Dragon King had not been of your choosing, but you endeavoured to make the best of it. A chance to truly be connected to your ancestors, to know your culture outside of altered textbooks and poorly kept archives. In many ways you thought you’d been freed from your fathers clutches.

The celebrations went ahead in the tender green of spring, and at the beginning you had no complaints. You found your husband undoubtedly handsome — otherworldly, even. A broad chest painted in striking patterns of black, highlighting the thick scars he had won during the war. His shoulders were thick, like his arms, and covered by a grand red cape lined in fur that settled in the earth beneath his feet. His expression had been piercing, and you recall just how insecure you felt under his scrutiny. Eyes alight. The longer you looked the more you saw the flames dancing in his irises.

He was bestowed the name Katsuki. Where your peoples feared and cursed him, spoke of him as if he were all but a beast, Varene revered him as the symbol of victory. Tales of a gold crowned son who entered the world with the roar of a dragon. The gaping chasm between the two of you predated your marriage. Everything had been determined the moment you were born a woman.

You were taught to expect aggression from him the night of your wedding, and to practice submission from the moment you came of age. Sex was duty. Yet on that night he had touched you in ways you could not have imagined. Even now, in his absence, you can feel the hot impression of those fingers at your waist. Amidst the bliss you’d forgotten that his hands could conjure fire, too.

Katsuki had shaped your flesh around him, burrowed into you as if he was made to find home there. Like he belonged there. Lay aside — the kissing is what bewitched you. The careful manner in which he cradled your face, plucking his titles from your mouth. It felt like taking claim.

“My name,” he’d said. “Don’t fuckin’ call me ‘your highness’ or ‘my king’ in our marriage bed”.

When coiled so tightly beneath him, it was as if his weight was the only thing holding your seams together. You felt your body fall apart under his touch three times that night; three times more than you’d expected.

For all that, the next morning his side of the bed had been cold. And it remained cold every morning that followed.

Katsuki confused you like no other. He deigned to show you any other part of his life, and so you never asked. Presumably, You were not invited to sit in on his councils, you were not given permission to see his dragons, you were not to be without consort. The weeks he is absent — seemingly for no reason other than to avoid you — are spent in the gardens, or the stables, or ambling the winding corridors of a castle you might never truly be familiar with. You were a wife of convenience to be kept in the far wing of the castle, safe and ignorant.

Yet you remained well treated and feted. There are drapes of satin and silk lining your wardrobes, sheer fabrics and trains spilling out into the room. Jewels, chains and hairpins decorate the large vanity tucked against the corner of the room, ready for your ladies in waiting to pluck up each morning. Flowers are often left, as the season is ripe for bloom, and they imbue your quarters with the scent of summer's end.

Whenever your paths crossed he would address you warmly, in his own way, and he handled you gently if ever he joined you in bed. Katsuki likes to kiss you. Caught in the tender, rose petal press. To your lips, the curve of your shoulder, your breasts, your sex. Like clockwork, as the day breaks, it's as if he becomes indifferent to you. The linens on his side of the bed will be smooth, corners perfectly tucked, and so you’ll temper the hurt with humourless jokes that perhaps your husband really was like a beast from a storybook; commonly told to you as a child, the man who answered the moons call and transformed into a wolf. He was known across the realms as a dragon — perhaps the moon spoke riddles to him, too.

Love. Did you even know what it looked like? Could this unending, sombre ache have been it all along?

His political ambassador and closest confidant, Midoriya Izuku, has attempted to assuage you only once. It must’ve shown on your face. “Kacchan is just difficult,” the smile he gave you had been sincere, but a little sad. “He might not’ve been born with a Draconic tongue, but sometimes it can feel like his words and actions are speaking different languages”.

You paid heed, but in the weeks that passed your efforts were fruitless. Every day saw new people of different ilk pass through the grounds. The sights and sounds toiled away at your envy until it spread through your chest like flame to dry crop. You could understand the shackles placed upon you if you were not in a country that prided itself on freedom.

Sinking further over the balcony ledge, your body deflates with a sigh. Chatty cicadas and distant eldritch rumblings echo across the castle grounds, drawing your attention to the colossal structure built at the precipice of the castle grounds. Despite only ever seeing them from afar, the dragon's calls are but another bird’s song to you now. It draws an enigmatic, bone-deep instinct to the surface of your being that you cannot place.

Another screech. To anyone elses ear it would not sound any different, but you feel it prickling at the back of your neck. Words you’ve never heard and yet you understand. A zip along the length of your spine as you straighten, breath held in an effort to listen more closely. The moment of concentration is broken by the door to your quarters opening, wooden panels groaning in complaint. Startled, you turn on your heel.

Beneath the doorway, Katsuki stands bathed in a muted glow. The torches lining the corridors flicker dimly by the hour, their wicks burnt down to wax and casting a subtle, blonde halo around his head. You stare back at him, a solid silhouette, the lines and curves of your body visible beneath your gown as the moon shines through its fabric.

The tension breaks when he asks, “Why’re you still up?”

You refuse the urge to pull your robe close to your chest, knowing there was not much left to the imagination beneath the sheer cloth. Fingers wrung, your wedding ring is cool between your knuckles. “Couldn’t sleep. My thoughts are a little too loud tonight”.

He approaches you slowly, taking the time to observe you. With each step forward there is a resounding thud, wearing only his dark, loose fitted trousers and heavy leather boots. On his journey he begins to remove the various bracelets and rings from his person, reaching to unclasp the reformed dragon tooth from his earlobe and discarding them all atop your vanity.

The heat emanating from his body is stark amidst the cold night. You don’t move when he enters your space, a rough hand cupping your cheek. His tongue clicks in displeasure as the pad of his thumb strokes across your cheek, “Fuck. You’ll catch your death if you stay out here. Get in bed”.

“I can hardly feel it,” your muttering goes unheard and he unceremoniously pulls you into the room, crowding you against his front as both arms reach behind to lock the doors. Smoke fills your throat, a sweet tang of explosive magic sticking to the roof of your mouth. He remains still for a long moment, chin dipping to rest atop your crown.

“I’ll get in bed if you join me”.

You watch the exaggerated rise and fall of his chest as he huffs. “Just rest. I’m going to bathe first, s’gonna take a while”.

The smell lingers on your robe even after he steps away. Too strong to be from something innocent. Only now do you realise what you are tasting is mixed with blood. Glancing to his forearms, you see the skin there is darker. Dry streaks of brown, like he had tried to wipe most of it off before coming here.

“Are you okay? Did something happen—?!”

Katsuki turns away from you, rubbing at his inner wrist. Flecks of blood break off and litter the floor. He hums, “S’fine. Endraen’s nestlings hatched tonight and she wouldn’t let anyone near her”.

You can hear the unfettered pride in his voice. Like a true brother. To your knowledge, Endraen had been awaiting offspring for a while now. Many of her previous clutches were infertile, and their numbers had dwindled from six or seven to only four. It must be why she’s so vocal tonight. You wondered if she was speaking to her young ones, or warding off the others in the pit.

“That’s amazing, Katsuki,” in your excitement you grasp his bicep, sinking into his side with a grin. “How many, can I ask? Are they all well? Is she ?”

The corner of his mouth lifts amidst your rambling. “She’s doing good with ‘em so far. Got three outta four, two males and one female,” he breathes, in following his line of sight you see the blood has flaked away to make obvious numerous small bites lining his forearm. He clenches his hand as if to make sure he could still feel it, and the corded muscles shift, “Feisty little fuckers”.

You allay the urge to touch him and trace the weeping circle of baby teeth embedded into his skin. A wave of nervousness washes through you, hesitating before you ask, “Would I be able to go meet them?”

His nose wrinkles like your question left a bad taste on his tongue. “You’re my wife,” he answers plainly, “so you’re welcome to come and go as you please”.

You're uncertain whether it is his offhanded tone or the answer itself that irritates you. It was blatantly untrue. “Am I?” you mutter.

The regret is immediate and you feel him tense in your grip, his skin heated. You peer up at him, anticipation prickling. The specks of moonlight filling the bedroom refract in his eyes, smouldering. “Fuck is that supposed to mean?”

You think of all the days spent watching the grounds. Finding the highest window just to better the view. People of all ilk, loud and cheery, gesticulating as they speak. Simply coming and going, as they please, as he had said. Lacking was the stiff lip and rigidity you’d grown up with. So unlike the traditional rules of your own home, you’d been told that anyone could be anything in Varene if they so wished.

“What I mean is I feel as if I am the only one in this kingdom that is shackled,” you quietly argued. “Even your dragons are able to roam freely while I am hidden away in my quarters”.

A litany of emotions pass over Katsuki’s face as you speak. Disbelief, anger, confusion, regret. He replies through gritted teeth, “I have never told you to squirrel yourself away in our bedchambers”.

“No one has told me otherwise, either!”

“I am not your bastard of a father—!” you regain your balance as he abruptly tears away from you, and instinctively cower. A sharp inhale. The air in the room is hotter, ballooning in your lungs. Through the dark, his palms are emitting a golden glow.

“Oi,” he murmurs with a low, soothing cadence. Similar to the way you’ve witnessed him comfort Endraen’s. Still, it’s awkward in his mouth, lacking confidence. “You’re a grown adult. You don’t need my permission to do anything here. If that’s the reason you’ve been actin’ all skittish then you can quit it”.

Your eyes have adjusted, and you can see his jaw clench as he scowls. An intense sense of dejection emerges. He doesn’t understand. “But you’re my king—“

“I’m your husband ,” his voice raises again in momentary frustration, but as quick as it came, the anger dissipates. Shoulders sagged, he suddenly looks as tired as you feel.

“Just… fuck. We can talk about this tomorrow. It’s late”.

And then he’s slipping into the bathroom, careful to shut the door. It clicks quietly, leaving you in silence once more. He doesn’t understand.

You walk backwards towards the edge of the mattress with a heavy gait. There is blood drying on your fingers, cinching tightly like a second skin. Leaning against the bedpost, the pressure that had been building steadily behind your eyes finally bursts, and you let yourself cry.

Echoes of water as it ripples against the basin, distant yet loud in your ears as you suppress a sob. The chasm between you and Katsuki only grows more apparent as the days pass. Drilled into you from infancy — a king, a father, a husband. They are all the same thing.

He doesn’t understand.

Another's distorted cry spikes through your chest. Again, a voice not your own is clear in your mind. You startle to your feet, casting a hesitant glance back and forth from the balcony to the bathroom. “I am… permitted to come and go as I please,” you whisper resolutely, the material of your gown gathered into your fists.

It felt like a call for help. Virlym. Thief.

The fall from the balcony had not been too far, though you felt the impact still aching in your heels. Your skin frissons in the tepid air, thin robe pulled close to your chest. To be seen so scantily clad by anyone other than your husband would be more than inappropriate, but you close your ears to the anxiety before it can dissuade you.

Desperate, the voice in your head becomes louder as the distance lessens.

Getting lost in your search is an impossibility. The pit is a grand structure beside the castle, almost rivalling it in size and width. The entrance itself is a colossal, gaping opening, like the mouth of a cave. It dwarfs you.

What you know of the pit is from storybook and myth. It is a naturally occurring abyss, a wide, deep fissure in the earth that never ends. Dragons have migrated to Varene for millennia to mate, breed and nest, or simply to rest in their final years as they become too large, too old to fly. Their journeys would begin and end here; in the pit there are an untold number of caves dug into the cliff face, uneven rock and minerals providing perches and shelves. Dark and unreachable by human hand.

When the first chosen King discovered its existence he sought to protect it, and in return was gifted the opportunity to learn their ancient language. As the relationship between man and beast bloomed, only then was it discovered that people in a specific bloodline could be born with a Draconic tongue. They knew the language from birth, like a newborn fawn that instinctively knows how to walk.

You felt akin to a fawn yourself as you entered the maw, tiptoeing down the throat into the belly, seemingly larger on the inside than it is on the out. It is oddly bereft of guards, and not a keeper in sight. Nervous, you twist the wedding ring on your finger. There’s a foreign sense of magic present — the air is heavy, carrying a distinct metallic taste that itches as you inhale. You can feel it sink into your stomach.

The gravel crunches beneath your feet, uncomfortably sharp. Every step taken is louder than the other. You keep your breathing shallow, straining your ears to hear for any sign of life. Deeper and deeper, the smog of magic grows thick. There is no light, your vision obstructed by a sage tinted mist.

“Fuck! They’re heavy, why do I have to carry them all?” you freeze at the sharp voice, three shadowy silhouettes skulking towards you, the middle figure notably bulkier than the others. “I thought— Ah! I thought you said they were babies ”.

Someone hisses with anger, “They are. Now shut the fuck up! We don’t know when they’ll be coming back…”

The realisation slowly dawns. Advancing towards you are three men, cloaked and hooded. On the right is responsible for the metallic taste; he is the caster, outstretched and radiating, viridian runes etched into the palms of his hands. On the left another wields a long, well-worn mageblade, swinging lazily at his side without a care.

Amber eyes meet your own, wide and unblinking. A tremor wracks your body, breathes coming uncontrollably quick. The man in the middle. Wrapped around his torso in cloth and leather are two newborn dragons. All limp, limbs hung and bodies contorted, having been stuffed into the makeshift carrier.

“Oh? Looky here,” before you can react, the tip of the mageblade is tucked firmly against your jugular. “This is rather unexpected, Princess”.

At the back of your mind, you’d known the second you saw the blade. The design originated in Yiryn centuries ago, imbued with rare magic nullifying abilities that were eagerly sought after by neighbouring countries. Pinned to the collar of the man’s hood is a small brooch in the shape of a gourd canteen. You were sure, if given the opportunity to look closer, you’d find intricate flaming feathers engraved into the metal.

An organisation separate from his king's guard and bannermen. Unknown to the public and created to carry out his lawless and immoral whims — three of your fathers one hundred firebirds.

“What— what is your business here?”

Despite the effort, your voice shakes as you speak, the steel pressing closer until it breaks the surface of your skin. He laughs, ungainly on his feet.

“I could ask that of you. If memory serves me right, you used to be a good girl. But here you are—“ his eyes drag over your thinly clothed body, features twisting into a sneer, “—barely dressed and roaming around at night. That beastly king has rubbed off on you”.

“Hachi. Roku is damn near outta juice, so stop fuckin’ playin’ around,” the middle trespasser rumbles a warning, shifting the weight of the young strapped to his chest. Endraen’s young. Your heart splinters at the sight, fury stirring gut-deep. Impulse rears and it spurs you into action as you grab the sword's edge, incognisant to the sting across your palm.

Hachi continues in fits of laughter, stepping back with the force of your shove like it were inconsequential to him. The sound ricochets hauntingly through the cave, intermingling with your strained bursts of anger.

“Take them back to their mother, you—!”

The caster, Roku, lifts his hand and aims it at your head. The runes dance across his skin with a life of their own, luminescent and bright. In their glow you finally get a glimpse of him.

“We need to go. If you want me to sedate her it’ll require my focus to shift from the pit and they’re already waking up as we speak. Make a decision!”

Rather than a monster, he was remarkably unremarkable. Plain faced, a pale man you couldn’t pick in a crowd. His invisibility frightened you in ways you couldn’t understand. And it begged the question, how long had these men truly been here?

“...Even if we kill ‘er we’ll need to take the body…”

In the thick of your thoughts, Hachi knocks the hilt of his blade to your temple, startling you backwards. Knocked off balance, a sharp pain radiates through your left ankle, and he uses the advantage to completely restrain you. You yelp, losing strength. There’s no mercy in how he handles you. Arms pulled so far back you fear they’ll displace, numbness seeps into your fingers. “Kats—!”

Cut off, a grimy hand forcibly covers your mouth. Blunt nails sink into the swell of your cheek, and your cries are muffled as you struggle away from the hot breath on your ear. “None of that. Though I doubt that bastard’ll come searchin’ for a halfbreed like you,” he rasps.

His grip is too tight, keeping your jaw locked shut. Your breaths come ragged short, fingers clawing weakly at his forearm. A cold, wet sensation trickles down the side of your face, right where you’d been struck.

At that moment, a resonant growl reverberates through the earth beneath your feet. The soft hair on your arms lift, a divorced, bone-deep rage unfurling in your soul. It hurts — so hot that it’s cold, swelling in your throat. Intuitively, you know this feeling does not belong to you.

Endraen is waking. And so are the young, snuffling uncomfortably in their slings. They croak, a fragile little sound, and the roar grows louder. Their carrier curses.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck! We’re leaving. You’ll need to haul us all to the safe house, there’s no way we’re not getting caught—”

“—You can’t be serious. Spatial magic stinks to high hell! They’ll be able to track us immediately!”

Pain courses through you as they try to yell over the noise, head hanging limp between your shoulders. Barely conscious, Hachi drags you forward. Roku, and the quiet man’s code you are yet to yet, are tucked side by side. He’s hushing the dragons, struggling with their weight.

You spare a glance further down into the pits, tears lining your eyes as they become heavy. An unassuming, small speck of light is beginning to form through the far distant fog. Desperate, you reach inwards to pluck at the fragments of your ancestors, thoughts calling out to Endraen in hopes that she’ll hear you; knuckles rubbing together to roll the wedding ring on your finger down to the tip, you let it fall into the dirt.

What was a pinprick begins to expand and glow, the air around you distorting in unrestrained heat. With a blistering roar, the light suddenly bursts forth. You’re forced between them, their arms interlocking to cage you as Roku bellows, recounting a spell in a language you cannot understand. The flames propel forwards at great speed, incandescent white. A mothers raucous fury. Closer now, your skin becomes uncomfortably tight, too small to fit around your bones, every breath a blistering sting in your oesophagus.

Please, your consciousness wanes. Don’t let Katsuki blame himself for this.

Somebody screams, and the ground is abruptly pulled from beneath your feet. Gravity escapes you. There’s a long moment of suspension and your body is in a freefall, an unnatural swoop through your stomach as your senses are thrown into alarm.

When you land the heat is ripped from your lungs and replaced with petrichor. Three men encase your body, the spells impact creating a gust of wind that disturbs the canopy of trees above, showering you in stray drops of old rain.

Your knees buckle into the damp grass. Roku stumbles away into the brush and vomits.

The safe house is five miles from the southern shoreline and surrounded by pungent scurvy grass, advantageous for disguising the smell of magic. Ninety three from the castle grounds. One hundred and fifty kilometres between you and your husband. You’re thrown into a room made of brick and mortar, tracking daylight through a single window by the ceiling barely the width of your shoulders. There’s a small cot lined up against the wall. In the corner, a lamplight and a bucket.

Your only relief is that the dragons are confined with you. During their first few days it would be normal to be kept in the pits, so the lack of light and room causes no issues in the beginning. They’re playful and rambunctious; most of the time is spent roughhousing, scenting the air or sleeping. When the sun is at its highest, their distinct colouring becomes visible. A marigold like their mother, and another the colour of ripe apricot. Nameless still, you wondered if their third sibling was alright.

In the absence of any weapon or opportunity to run, you fall back onto what has always served you most. Listening. There’s satisfaction in hearing them panic, kept on edge by this faux peace as the days pass. Bit by bit you piece the storyline together — a surreptitious ‘merchant’ by the name of Stendhal awaits the arrival of two abducted nestlings by the waters of Leilisle to transport them across to Reyath, a neighbouring continent.

Allies of King Enji would be there to receive them and train them for a number of years before returning to Yiryn, where they would be miraculously discovered, hidden away on Todoroki lands for the first time in over one hundred years — a magnificent gift from the Gods.

But King Enji knew nothing of dragons. They were not mares with gentle dispositions who could accept any rider, but hard headed creatures with a penchant for solitude. More importantly, the formative experiences that followed hatching greatly shaped their ability to bond with and trust humans. Tearing them from their mother would only hinder his plans.

You supposed it shouldn’t surprise you that your father knew nothing of nurturing, either.

Your presence is the biggest point of contention. Neither man knows what to do with you. Amidst their bickering outside your barricaded door, you learn the third man’s moniker. Shichi. He’s the one to bring you food and water — a plate stale and barebones, just enough to keep you afloat — and he’s the one to hunt beasties for the young. The wet slap of blood meeting tile. Hares and rabbits, mostly. You might never scrub the sound from your memory; but the dragons feasted and fought. Flesh stretched between pointed teeth, pulling apart til it thins like taffy and one corpse becomes two halves.

The days blur as you wait for the impending departure, blending into one long existence. You think of Katsuki. His handsome face, how his hair would splay gold across the pillow, the way his eyes always seemed brighter in the early dawn. You recall with fondness how his nose would wrinkle if you stared too long, like he’d tasted something bitter.

Maybe he prefers that you’re gone, now. Should they never find you, he’d be free to wed another of his own choosing — someone he loves. The possibility of escape seems dim, but you toy with it to pass the hours. In the event that you did get away, you distantly wonder if it’d even be worth going back.

Marigold and Apricot banish those thoughts as they come. They seem to be in tune to your emotional state, a fact that grows evermore blatant in such close quarters. Crying meant a snout shoved into your cheek, a torrid heat billowing through your dirtied robe as the infant chuffs. There is a stain trailing across the floorboards from where raw flesh has been dragged in their efforts to feed you.

“We must name you properly,” you mumble, stroking a hand down the length of their necks. Dragon scales, you discover, evolve with age. Shaped like petals, laying staggered and overlapping. A newborn’s skin is delicate like tissue paper, but already it is beginning to feel like dry leather.

They’re small, but only in comparison to how mountainous they would eventually become. The size of a lynx, if you had to guess. Though marigold is slightly bigger, her muzzle thicker and a wider arrowhead tail, as was common for female dragons.

“A dragon's name can inspire fear, valor, legends…” you push as hard as you can at her muzzle as she chomps carefully at your fingers, her powerful jaw closing with a resounding click. It’s enough to drive her back, and she trills happily. “Something that sounds regal might fit you best”.

A pitched, haunting whine builds in her brother's throat. He butts against your shoulder, and you endure the dull ache. That’ll bruise. “…Yours maybe a little more personable. Goofy”.

He snuffs unhappily.

“Gallant, then”.

Your playful bubble is burst by an unexpected slam, the door swinging open and bouncing on its hinges. The nestlings scatter, intertwining around one another where they’re hidden in the far corner of the room. Apricot gives a pitiful screech of complaint to the intruder.

Light floods in, forcing your eyes shut as you flinch. The familiar, hefty footfalls of Shichi draw them open, squinted to adjust. A plate is slid across the floor towards you. Two bread rolls. You’ve barely enough energy to lift yourself from the threadbare nest of blankets you’d created for yourself and the young, but the ache in your stomach is becoming painful.

“Make sure to finish all of it,” you pause, the crust cold against your lips as you wait. “We’re leaving for the dock tonight”.

You bite. It practically falls apart between teeth, dry and sour on your tongue. He advances, stepping further in and closing the door behind him. “We��re in the clear for now. Those giant winged rats completely missed us, and it seems he’s stopped looking for ya”.

Marigold hisses as if she understood, and Shichi stomps in her direction like a wild bull. Domineering her. He enjoys having power over such respected creatures. You’d like to see him do the same in a few months' time, when her hydrogen glands have developed.

You don’t interrupt as he speaks, knowing how he relished talking about himself. Tired as you are, it’s easier to let him be and tune it out. The bread is hard to swallow, sticking to the back of your throat, and you’re cold in the dragons’ absence as you eat.

Your interest piqued at the mention of entering Varene.

“—so much fuckin’ simpler entering a country than it is gettin’ out”.

You swallow thickly and interrupt him. “How… how did you get in?”

Shichi hums offhandedly, slumping back against the wall opposite. “Well. Your wedding was a pretty grand affair, wasn’it?” he meets your eyes, a quiet cruelty there. “People from all over travelled into the capital to celebrate. Us three blokes slipped across wi’ no problem”.

“You’ve… you were in Varene for six months?”

“These things take time,” a chill runs the length of your spine as he grins, kicking off the wet brick as he straightens up. “You should know that better than anyone, given the state of your marriage”.

Fuck you. If your position weren’t so precarious you might’ve spat it at him. Sensing your anger, the Apricot infant rears his head from beneath his sister's wing and screeches.

Orlit.

Shichi snarls and the sister loosens her jaw in a clear, purposeful warning that stops him in his tracks. Strings of saliva stretch and snap between her teeth, tongue flattening to reveal the swells in the back of her throat; you knew they were duds. He did not.

Amadea.

You’re led from the safehouse as the sky begins to bruise. Roku forces the nestlings into a deep sleep and throws an uncomfortable black cloak over your form, roughly pulling the hood over your head until you’re entirely shadowed. Heavy, open weave and coarse in texture like burlap, it scratches your skin tender.

At the very least, the length protects your calves from the nettled flora as Hachi drags you towards the clearing. There awaits a haggard carriage pulled by a chestnut mare, a method common for transporting goods and fruits. Unsuspecting. A dirt road spools out before you, shielded by the forest's overhang and winding onwards into the night, disappearing into solid darkness.

A rasped voice, lips moving against the shell of your ear that you try to run from, “Don’t get your hopes up. No one’s looking anymore. Not here, and certainly not on the bottom of the ocean”.

You shudder. Whether it is the late night air or the reality of what is about to happen, you can’t be sure.

There are piles of boxes stacked in the back, some full to the brim and coverless, others are locked securely. In the back is another, noticeably larger than the rest. You’ve seconds to process the implications as you’re thrown into it, back slamming against the floor of the wooden chest, breath knocked from your lungs.

Orlit and Amadea are forced into the space left, pressed up behind the crook of your knees and over your legs. There’s no room to stretch, your limbs bent even as you reach the far end of the box. Splaying your hands flat to the runes painted into the panelling, your eyes widen as panic wracks your body.

“Wait—!” Hachi shuts the lid with force, rocking the carriage on its axles. A final click. The sudden momentum slides you up, head thudding painfully against reinforced wood, and so you attempt to hunch into yourself.

There is no telling how much time passes. Perspiration clings to the nape of your neck, flinching involuntarily as everything begins to move. Ephemeral flecks of moonlight pierce through as the canopy shifts above. Your fingers curl, clawing fruitlessly and feeling the timber splinter. You bang against it until your knuckles are raw, splitting open on the surface. The dragons are entirely boneless, leaning the entirety of their weight onto you and shrinking the space even further.

You squeeze your eyes shut, finding solace in the darkness behind them. If you focus enough, you can shape the darkness until it looks like your marriage bed. No longer does it seep into your skin, gradually closing in. constricting and consuming. This is home. This is home. Lungs bloating with held breath, time and time again you reflexively gasp, struggling to allay the panic as the metallic tang dries out your tongue.

Katsuki sits on the edge — on his side of the mattress, still untouched — and leans over. A rough hand cupping your jaw. Slightly clammy, the breeze from the balcony behind him imbued with ash. You would often ball up into yourself like a pill bug as you slept, seeking comfort in a bed that always felt too big.

The memory smites your heart. He isn’t looking anymore, insecurity whispers. You cannot bring yourself to believe it. Whether it be denial or hope, in your soul you knew Katsuki to be stubborn. He mightn’t have fallen in love with you but he treated you well and respected you. You were his wife, and tucked into the nook behind your knees are his niece and nephew. You could only imagine him pursuing the abductors to the ends of the earth.

Yet Shichi’s cocksure smirk flashes through your mind, the image of him slumped back with his shoulders sagged. For the first time ever, he’d seemed truly relaxed. Assured. Because he was confident that it was true.

Recurring daylight provides little assistance in finding the runes, barely enough to cast a shadow. You need to rely on touch, seeking out the smooth texture of the paint. They sting the pads of your fingers as you trace them, vying to keep yourself grounded. There are two, each entirely different. While reading them was an impossibility — even in light; magic was a language you were never fluent with — you were willing to bet on one keeping the dragons sedated, and the other some sort of cloaking spell.

You arrive at the docks, lower abdomen bloated and stomach twisting in vivid hunger. Best guess is,two days have passed. Cursing at the men to let you out to relieve yourself and drink something had only engorged their spite. They intended to weigh your ankles and throw you overboard, so it would be naive to think they’d have any hospitable inclination toward you. The dragons, at the very least, needed to feed. Loss of nutrition at such an early stage could stunt their development, or worse, lead to death.

When the chest is opened again the moon is at its brightest, full and dancing along the ocean's surface. You hiss, flinching away from it as your eyes struggle to adjust, and are dragged unceremoniously by the collar out onto the ground, incognisant to pain.

“Get up,” and you’re lifted again by the throat like a stringless puppet. There is no sensation as your feet touch the ground, knees immediately buckling under your weight. Hachi sighs, dropping you carelessly. You choke on the dirt as it plumes around you.

“Massage your legs. Blood’ll flow back eventually,” he rocks forward into the balls of his feet, leaning to lift the hem of your skirt. You skitter, desperate to hide your naked skin, and hastily throw a handful of earth at him.

It misses with the weak, pendulous swing of your arm. “Don’t fucking touch me,” you croak.

“Oi, oi, calm down Majesty,” he releases the fabric, holding both hands out in mock surrender, “was just checkin’ if you’d turned blue”.

An incessant, pin pricking sensation crawls the length of your legs as phantom turns solid. You grip at your thighs, flesh bursting through the gaps between your fingers, and gasp through the pain. It’s as if you’re growing a new limb all together.

You take a moment to process the surroundings. The air is crisp, the smell of brine rolling in on the waves. Scanning the length of the horizons, your eyes fall onto the dock, dilapidated with sections embellished in thick barnacle build up and vacant aside from a single ship. The hull has high sides, bow and stern both fortified, left entirely unguarded. No longer in use by the common folk, it provides the perfect spot for smuggling goods in and out of Varene.

Behind you, the carriage is hidden at the edge of the treeline. The cicadas are chirping here, too. Shichi releases a strained groan as he carries a dragon over each shoulder, boots slipping along the loose gravel. Amadea’s wings stretch, a sign that she is slowly waking, and bat him in the face.

“Shit— Hurry it up!”

The chest you’d inhabited is dragged towards the shoreline. Roku mutters under his breath as he straightens up, pointedly glaring at his peer as he pulls a small knife from the breast of his coat. Glinting in the moonlight, he runs the blade diagonally across his left palm without so much as a flinch, a familiar viridian glow spiralling up towards the wound.

As you’d suspected, once he has tucked the knife away Roku gathers the blood seeping down his forearm and kneels to repaint the runes with it. “Stop fuckin’ hovering over me. Put them down over there and get the meat out to keep them occupied while we wait for Stendhal”.

Orlit is thrown down beside you, and you rush to cushion his snout in the fall. Amadea lands unsteady on her feet, stretching her wings further to keep her balance in the initial drop, before sinking against your thigh. You stroke the crown of her skull, gently plucking at the horns either side. Their scales are already duller. If it had been just you that was taken, then running might be a possibility. But you cannot leave them behind, and trying to make it back to the city on foot with three men specialising in stealth seemed useless.

You stare longingly at the treeline, but you stay. Shichi throws a skinned carcass at your knees, the wet slap of flesh echoing into the night as rot perforates the air. Neither nestling moves. Setting your own discomfort aside, you pull the viscous sinew apart piece by piece, pressing it against their muzzle to help them eat.

Day breaks with the rising tide. Your hunger is sated with more insipid bread before you’re forced back into the box, into compliance, bloodied symbols suitably dried to the wood. You do not go without a fight, digging your heels into the dirt and letting the full weight of your body sag. But if Shichi can bear the weight of two dragons, yours is inconsequential. Misshapen, bruising ovals mark your arms, tender spots of skin littering the plane of your back.

The last thing you see is Hachi heading to greet a silhouette in the far distance, veering precariously over the edge of the deck with a hand entangled in the shroud. For reasons unknown to you, the firebirds do not want Stendhal to see you until you’re far into Leilisle’s abyss. You rock back and forth as the chest is thrown haphazardly, breathing in measured seconds to quell the anxiety building in your gut so you can focus.

But there is nothing to gauge. No conversation, no mood or atmosphere. You’re plunged into a heavy silence that fills your lungs like water. Your shouts go unheard. This time, as your fist comes into contact with the runes, it sparks violently. A fleeting, excruciating pain shoots along your forearm, before the sensation numbs.

Stendhal discovers you late into the second day, as Shichi opens the box for the first time. A large, haunting man, wrapped in tattered fabrics the colour of blood. He’s all sharp edges, face gaunt and sunken, yet alight with disdain. Fear grips you at the sight of him, rabbit's heart beating right out of your ribs. You stare up at him dazedly, but only when you’re lifted into a seating position does he meet your eyes.

Shichi doesn’t even blink, much less flinch, as Stendhal tucks the edge of a blade to his jugular. “This is what you’ve got me smuggling?” he snarls, tone serrated like the weapon he wields. The wound left is no deeper than a paper cut, but it weeps all the same. “You told me it was just some rare beastie nestlings”.

A rough hand grips your jaw, nonplussed. You tear at it as your mouth is forced open, the edge of a cup pressed to your lips. The water is forced down your throat, spilling over your chin and saturating your cloak. You swallow, eyes squeezing shut as you smother the urge to choke. Shichi releases a long suffering sigh.

“Can you honestly say that if you’d known about our precious Lady here,” the grip on your jaw tightens, his strength forcing your head to the side, plainly showing your face to Stendhal, “That you wouldn’t have killed us and sold her off yourself?”

“I would have told you to go fuck yourself,” the jagged blade presses deeper with his anger, “it takes two weeks to get to Reyath! Were you just going to have her wither away in there, you oaf?”

“Wouldn’t matter either way ‘cause we’re sinking her halfway across,” Shichi replies. He visibly swallows, throat contracting as the stream of blood seeps into his collar. “She’s of no consequence to us or the King”.

Reality stings — the truth is a skin you cannot take off. His fingertips bruise your cheeks, nails bitten and dirty. Any effort to twist away from him proves futile; like a snake, his hands will continue to constrict the more you struggle. Stendhal watches on without sympathy, a flat displeasure woven into his expression. He regards you as an inconvenience, you realise. It’s a look you’ve seen many times.

“Keep her out of my sight,” he says with finality, retracting the katana. He reaches overhead, slipping it into the strap at his back. “I will not be made an accomplice in this”.

Shichi nods, “You had no knowledge of it”.

And true to their word, you do not see Stendhal again. You’re kept in the underbelly, presumably, given small glances in the days that follow. You are checked on once every morning to ensure the dragons are fed through their disorientation — a job that falls to you, observing as their wings stretch becomes your only source of relief. The ache that spreads through your hips has dulled remarkably. Contorted to fit the confines of the box, your blood struggled to reach your limbs. Numbness proceeds the pain. That, you can handle. It’s the vertigo that keeps you from sleeping.

Should your eyes fall closed, your body is struck with an alarming spinning sensation, nausea worsening when your panic grows. So you fix your gaze on the paper thin cracks in the wood, drawing slow breath and tasting the salty sea air as it seeps through. Gone are the comforts of your imagination. Katsuki’s voice distorts, asphyxiating it as you hoard your clutch of memories in tightly held fists, scared of what might happen if you let go.

How long have you been missing, now? Almost two weeks? Near enough three?

“…Fuck…They’re sailing towards…!”

The sudden urgency holds your attention. You blink away the dryness, tongue sticking heavily to the roof of your mouth. It hurts to swallow, and as you grimace the skin on your lip begins to split.

“They’re pirates?”

You hear Stendhal’s voice above you. There’s an uncomfortable grit to it, grating on your ears like his throat had been lined with rottenstone. “Technically. Though you’d best be wary, ‘cause they’re altruistic bastards,” you flinch backwards, head meeting reinforced timber as a raucous thud impacts the outside of the box. “S’pathetic. Pretending like they’re heroes,” he spits.

“Fuckin— careful with the goods, Stendhal. Don’t disrupt the enchantment or those things’ll wake up”.

A scoff. “The enchantment is the last thing you’ll have to worry about if those fakes ask for a peek. Eraser doesn’t fuck around with trafficking”.

You hadn’t a clue what they were talking about. What you could infer from the muffled exchange is that someone was coming — another ship, likely sailing the same course. And hope for escape was contingent on their curiosity.

“It doesn’t matter. The cunt can check, I’ll make sure he won’t see a damn thing in there”.

Stendhal barks an abrupt laugh, his next words too muffled for you to hear. The distance grows and the conversation steadily quietens, laden footsteps marching further away from you.

“…What kind of a name is Eraser anyway…”

The hull groans then, rolling over a strong wave. Your centre of gravity is displaced and you feel another bout of nausea. Amadea and Orlit are still sleeping deeply, but you’ve noticed their consciousness surfacing now and then as the magic wanes. You wonder what it was that Roku used as a conduit for his spells, if he used one at all.

Some hereditary types could rely on the wielder as a conduit, like Katsuki’s or your brothers’, eventually draining their own energy. Rare, but not impossible, and it would explain the inconsistency. If so, these runes were likely painted in his own blood.

You grimace, wiping your fingers against the facsimile burlap around your shoulders. Nails catch on a stray thread, and you pull so hard it makes a ladder. The only benefit in having little to no circulation is that being numb means you can no longer feel its itch.

The minutes stretch. When you hear thunderous feet rushing across the deck, stumbling down the stairwell, it comes unexpectedly. You hadn’t heard any disruption in the ocean around you, nor any indication of an approaching threat. Your captors are yelling, their curses overlapping, and you can taste the magic surrounding you as it briefly strengthens.

“Get the fuck off our…!”

Their demands suddenly rasp and thin, lost with breath. Another can be heard over all the noise. They've an oddly melodious cadence, speaking his words like they were lyrics from a song. “Hey hey! If there’s nothing to worry about then why not just let Eraser have a peek, ya dig?”

A snarl, the unmistakable sounds of a tousle. “Hachi, would ya calm down? It’s just as he said,” Roku instructs, emphasising his words as if he were speaking between the lines, “we’ve got nothin’ to worry about”.

Nervous, you reach down to pet Orlit’s scaled skin, stroking the space between his brow bone with your thumb. There is no certainty that these pirates would help you — it's entirely possible they’ll take all three of you for more heinous purposes. Dragonhide is sold abroad for barrels of gold, and you’re under no illusion about the riches your own body could procure.

The chest is yet again unlocked. Your body pulls taut and you cower, muscles clenched with bated breath as you’re drenched in sunlight. Above you is a man in a washed out white shirt, open at the collar where the laces fall loosely. There’s a sabre tucked into the belt of his trousers, the broad handguard protruding at his hip. Dark hair slips forward to curtain his face as he bends to search the box, and from behind them are irises gleaming iridescent red.

To your surprise, they meet your own, piercing right through the enchantment. The pirate's disinterested expression immediately hardens at the sight of you, jaw visibly tightening where his teeth grit. His gaze drags toward the far end of the chest, finding the nestlings unconscious. Intuitively, you know to stay quiet; there’ll be more trouble if the others are alerted. Instead you watch as he fights to maintain composure. The exposed skin of his chest, covered in dark tufts of hair, expands with a deep inhale. He rolls his shoulders loose.

“See?” Roku goads. “All good”.

Eraser straightens his back, and you realise how tall he is. Broad. The type of man you do not want to disappoint. “Yeah,” he turns, gesturing with his hand as he speaks. You feel the baritone of his voice low in your belly. “It’s just cotton linens. Looks like moleskin and velveteen”.

“Velveteen? Well shit, Stendhal. Care to spare any..?”

Stendhal fumes, “Don’t involve me in your Robin Hood bullshit, Mic. I’m paid to move the goods, not to protect it or to sell it”.

The opposite hand motions to you, a signal to wait. One last glance from the corner of his eye, he gently shuts the chest without locking it. Your heart beats in your throat, and you contort yourself to press an ear to the wood, if only to hear your own fate.

There’s barely a scuffle. You might not have realised anything happened, had the magic not abruptly receded around you, copper dissipating and the air steadily replaced with sea salt. A distorted mewl builds in Amadea’s chest, her paws spread and claws extending as she stretches. The heat of her body drastically rises with consciousness, warm like the sun against your legs.

When it next opens, there’s another boy. A man, you should say. You avert your gaze from his own bare skin, chest visible in a loose black vest buttoned only to his sternum. He’s braced over you, violet hair in disarray and lean arms in plain view and decorated in scar tissue; most prominently a slash on his bicep, raised and pink as it curves around his muscle.

Squinting, the shadows beneath his eyes deepen, along with his voice. “I can’t see through the veil yet so I don’t know where you’re at but,” cautiously, he offers his hand into the unknown, “we aren’t here to hurt you”.

Swallowing against the staccato beat of your heart in your throat, you unfurl a hand from where it is curled like a cat's paw and take his. His breath hitches, lithe fingers grazing against the naked skin where your wedding ring should be. Palms kiss, he clasps firmly, helping you up and out of the box.

You see the moment your identity registers with him. He stalls, recognising you. Eyes widening, lips parted to quietly say, “Shit. You’re…”

“The nestlings are in there too,” you interrupt, the words rasping uncomfortably in your throat after days of silence, “please. I can’t carry them on my own”.

“Shit,” he repeats. You’re barely upright, awkward on your feet with the gait of a newborn deer. He hesitates for a split second before steadying you at the hip, warmth seeping through the cloak. “Okay. Okay,” he murmurs, sparing a desperate glance over his shoulder toward the steps. “Oi! One of you get over here—”

Another descends, lankier than the rest. The daylight leaking in from above circles his head like a halo, bejewelling the beautiful blonde braid pleated over his shoulder. There are a pair of glasses on the bridge of his nose, strangely tinted. He skips the final step with a jump, landing loudly in his thick boots.

The man assesses the two of you from over the tinted lenses, lingering on your face. “What’s the problem kiddos?”

His fingers twitch impatiently as he spares you a quick glance, drawing awareness to just how close you are. “Need your help manoeuvring the nestlings. Her Maj— she can barely walk”.

You’re comforted by his efforts to conceal your identity, and amused that he’d instinctively fall back onto the use of proper titles. It revealed to you that, presumably, he’d either lived in Varene or visited often enough to be knowledgeable of you.

Hands cupped around his mouth to direct the sound of his voice towards the main deck, the blonde man bellows startlingly loud, “Yo! Shadow!”

The hand at your hip slides further at your abrupt flinch, arm wrapping around the small of your back. So different to the molten heat of your husband. His proximity plucks at your centre of gravity, a deeply cold sensation spreading throughout your chest. Vulnerability, and then an immediate feeling of shame.

“Forgive me for overstepping, Majesty,” he tells you under his breath, his face blooming a pale pink as he keeps his eyes locked firmly on his crewmate. “Use me for support and it’ll be over quickly”.

On your periphery, another appears fashioning a long black cloak not unlike your own, the train streaming down the steps like water, but you’re apathetic to their presence. You focus your energy on getting out of the box. Your tomb. Feeling returns to the tips of your toes, pleading with your mind to let them wiggle. Wires are still crossed, nerves dulled. You can bear weight on one leg but not the other, so as he’d suggested you brace against an unfamiliar chest for leverage, limbless as you try to bend the knee to slip over the open edge.

Bare feet meet damp wood. The knots and bumps scratch at your sole, and the hood hanging at your back is pulled over your head for discretion's sake. Gradually, you find yourself being led towards the upper deck. Whispers of disorientation, loss and anxiety on the edge of your consciousness.

The chambers in your heart cinch in a way you cannot ignore as the unmistakable sound of Amadea’s distress reaches your ears. Roku’s spell has worn off, and the nestlings are left confused by your absence. Frightened. Orlit croons. You whip around in the strangers embrace, gripped by a fierce protectiveness for them. “Don’t!” both men pause, one either end of the chest, but they do not lower.

Now that you’re looking, you see the newcomer draped in black is wearing a mask — unsettling eyes meet yours through two open round holes, the lower half of his face covered by what resembles a large beak.

You exhale, forcing some authority into your words. “Don’t take them from me”.

“Alright,” the slender blond concedes. He comes across warmly and easygoing, such a contrast to the venomous tone you’d heard him used upon first boarding the ship. Nodding towards ‘Shadow’, they start to shuffle the wooden chest over to where you stand at the foot of the steps.

“Let’s all go up together,” he smiles down at you, dipping to see you beneath the hood. “What’s your name by the way, kid? I’m Mic, but friends call me Yamada, and that lad behind ya is called Mimic”.

Mimic, Mic, Shadow. He knows, and yet he still asks. You aren’t sure why that makes you so happy. When you give your own name, he rolls it around his teeth, testing the syllables. Shadow bows his head in acknowledgment, beak tucking to sternum, but he doesn’t speak.

The breeze sinks its teeth into you, and you shrink into Mimic’s embrace. A cacophony floods your senses — waves lapping up the starboard, wind rushing across the surface and sending a spray of water onto the deck. Casting a great shadow is a double masted ship, wide sails billowing a ruckus, dwarfing the merchant's boat where it has sidled up on the left. Cutting across the cavern between the two is a wide, lengthy plank of wood.

Above it all, familiar, enraged voices. Tied together, back to back, you find the three firebirds struggling against rope. Looming over them is the dark haired man, the one who saw through the spell. One hand lazily swings the mageblade, his wrist twisting fluidly, while the other is fisted tightly into Roku’s scalp, head dragged up to force eye contact. You note that the runes in his arms have vanished.

“That scary guy is called Eraser,” Mic relays to you as he follows your line of sight, straining at the weight of the nestlings as he readjusts his grip, “or Aizawa, since you might be with us a while”.

Aizawa, you ponder. That name sounds incredibly familiar to you.

“Should you really be giving his name out like that?” Mimic murmurs, turning you away from your assailants and taking course toward the makeshift bridge. Mic barks a laugh, totally unrestrained. If the sudden shouting was anything to go by, you’d say Hachi had now become aware of your departure. The mission slipping like sand through their fingers.

“It’s fine. You know he doesn’t care about people knowing. The little lady isn’t gonna tattle, are ya?” Mic grins. “Just focus on getting everyone aboard. Make sure you find something clean for her to wear while the rest of the crew finishes up”.

Passing over the untamed oceans with bated breath, you feel as if you are outside of yourself. The drop is great, the depths ever greater. Overhead are wires, ropes and chains, men hanging like spiders from the shrouds and watching as you climb aboard the ship. They are all distinctly individual, yet working in synchrony. It isn’t a crew with a uniform, no memorable feature in their clothing or weaponry that might tie them to a specific band of pirates. Misfits, each and every one of them, all at home together.

You’re taken into the captain's quarters below the helm, spanning the width of the stern with a large set of windows overlooking the horizon. The first thing you see upon entering is the rounded voyage table, a clear centrepiece in the room; but more eye-catching are the shelves and bookcases draped in navy velvet curtains, storing leather bound books and rinky-dink treasures.

Mic and Shadow set the chest on the floor, lowering their heads into a subtle bow as they depart. Mimic gestures towards a bed tucked away into an alcove for more privacy as he ambles over to a set of drawers, jiggling the handle as it refuses to open. Inside are cotton shirts and dark pants, not unlike the clothing their captain wore.

He hesitates in handing them to you, instead bending to lay them across the mattress. “I’ll go find you something to eat after, so feel free to get changed into something more comfortable,” he says, an awkward demeanour about him, “I’ll… make sure to knock”.

“Okay,” you rasp, “thank you… Mimic?”

He nods, backing away in hesitance steps before retreating to the deck, closing the door soundly behind him. Amadea is the first to exit the chest in their absence, clumsily scurrying ahead to hide beneath the bed frame. Leaden with exhaustion, you collapse beside the clothing and rub the fabric between your fingers, feeling the phantom ring between your knuckles. Only then do you notice the crest embroidered into the sleeve cuff.

Aizawa. A clan originating in Yiryn that, long ago, wielded the ability to nullify all magics — the original creators of the mageblades. The last of their line were thought to have died out decades ago after attempting to flee the country over political differences, which had ended in violence. It would certainly explain why he could see through the cloaking spell.

If this was a descendant of the Aizawa’s, then did their hospitality mean you were safe, or were you perhaps a pig for them to fatten? An opportunity for vengeance?

You changed into the new clothes with haste and eyes kept firmly on the door. Dread knotted in your belly, tightening at every noise that passes, but nobody enters. The shirt is loose, sleeves hung comically over your hands, and the collar continues to slip forward bearing cleavage no matter how often you readjust it.

The pants are easier. You tighten the waist with string and roll the legs up mid calf, wincing at the bracelet of bruises swelling around your ankle that you soon cover with thick socks made to cushion leather boots. For the first time in weeks, the soles of your feet do not protest when laid flat.

These clothes hang awkwardly on your frame, so far removed from the soft silks, flowing skirts and tulle. You wring your hands together restlessly. The nakedness of your left ring finger is still stark. “Orlit,” with a short trill, his head lifts from inside the open chest once you call for him, bleary eyed as he surveys the surroundings. You push your discarded clothes across the bed and pat the space they once occupied, “come here”.

He listens. More and more, the nestlings have behaved in a way that indicates human understanding. Or rather, understanding of you . It puts to question all those years of your fathers berating, of the disappointment and abuse levied towards you because it was presumed you had inherited no affinity for Draconic.

With no concept of personal space, Orlit scrambles onto the bed and collapses into your lap. You wince at the sound of linens being torn beneath his claws, and watch as his limbs stretch. Feeling the hot huff of breath against your thigh, you can sense that he’s relieved by the extra space.

Pressure firm but careful in handling the hide you massage the leathery membrane stretched across thin bone, pleased to see they’d grown again, wings almost longer than the length of his body in just a few weeks. If he were at home with his birth mother, Orlit would very likely be nearing the age that’d see him pushed into the pit to fly. Another month or so, you estimate.

Amadea remains hidden for an unsettlingly long time. Known for being slightly more confident than her brother, you’d expected the roles to be reversed. Leaning over the edge to peer beneath the bed frame, you whisper her name and she responds with a long cry, so forlorn that your throat tightens.

L'gra. Fear.

How can I make this better? you want to ask. What can I do?

There’s regret that you did not observe how the pit keepers handled young dragons or ask your husband more prying questions. Katsuki wasn’t of Drachian blood, but it has never truly been synonymous with the royal bloodline. Kings are chosen in Varene. Yet, despite his inability to commune with his dragons the ancient way, he still deeply understood them. They were a mirror reflection of him. They enjoyed his brazen, loving nature. He was a flame you were drawn to, rather than a fire you fled from.

It makes you wonder how he would handle this situation — would he know how to soothe them?

Your thoughts drift to your mother then, your mawkish memory of her associated closely with the helplessness you feel in this moment. You wonder if she endured it too. If she cried as you wailed in fits of discomfort, turning away every comfort she offered, hating herself for it. You couldn’t tell her what you needed, not as a babe.

Not even now, as an adult.

“We’re going to be okay,” you lamented. If you closed your eyes, you could picture your younger self hiding beneath the bed with her. “I’ll do better. I’ll protect you”.

Mimic returns with a tentative knock on the door. Even after giving verbal permission to enter, he’s slow to open it. You watch, bemused, as he steps into the room with eyes kept to the floor.

“I’m clothed, Mimic. You’re fine to look”.

The muscles in his jaw clench, ears shifting beneath his unkempt violet hair, thick and trimmed shorter at the front, yet longer at the back. You notice the lobe is pierced with a silver hoop, and the shell is cuffed. Both pieces of jewellery are linked by a short, delicate chain.

“…The dragons?”

You smile nervously, glancing down to where Orlit is resting on your thigh, and Amadea atop your foot. “They’re calm. You’d know if they weren’t”.

He huffs a short laugh, more disbelief than amusement, and meets your gaze. From behind his back, he pulls out a sea biscuit. It’s colourless and round with the appearance of a sand dollar. “We have pickled vegetables and fruit, but I figured you might want to start small. S’bad to agitate your stomach”.

You take it, turning it between your fingers. You do not tell him that you’re sick of starchy food, bitterness already gathering on your tongue at the thought of tasting something so dry. When you don’t immediately devour it, his eyes narrow. “You need to eat something. I know those dickheads barely fed you,” he insists.

In silent acquiescence, you bring the biscuit to your mouth to take a performative bite. At the very least, it isn’t stale. Much softer, melting pleasantly on your palate. Amadea lifts her head at the sound of chewing, blinking expectantly at you. Swallowing the mouthful, you ask, “Is there anything for them to eat, too?”

Mimic scratches idly at the side of his cheek. “Wasn’t sure what they should be eating, since they’re nestlings. Gotta admit, I know next to nothing about dragons aside from the fact that they’re scary as all hell,” he replies. “We have fresh fish. Salted meat in the stores, too”.

“Either is fine but the fresh meat will probably be better,” you do not tell him how eventually, their stomachs will be strong enough to digest almost anything. Bone and rock, even certain metals, if they’re desperate. He nods, and as he turns to leave, “—again, thank you, Mimic”.

An abrupt halt in his step. Hand hovering on the door knob, he glances back at you. “Hitoshi,” he says. “My name’s Shinsou Hitoshi. Call me whichever you want”.

Hitoshi remains weary. You get the feeling he doesn’t know how to behave around you, but still graciously brings back what he promised. The dragons are ensnared by the pungent smell of brine as soon as it enters the room. A bag of fresh fish is thrown unceremoniously across the room, spilling out the opening of the sack onto the floor. He doesn’t stay long, driven away by the burst of violence between the two as they bicker over who gets what. You stay in place, knowing better than to pull them apart.

It wasn’t true anger. They were mostly playing, establishing a natural hierarchy. At this size, it wasn’t too much of a threat — yet. Katsuki used to recount with fondness about the bloodshed that sometimes followed a dragon feeding, especially amongst the larger females. “Endraen always wins though,” he’d told you with a grin. Sincere pride, not an inkling of arrogance. “That’s my fuckin’ girl”.

You’re left alone, for the most part. You supposed the crew were giving you privacy, or time to adjust. But it pushes you to the razor's edge of ambivalence, and impatience eventually urges you towards leaving the secluded quarters.

With the nestlings satiated, curled up in a bundle of torn up bed sheets that you hope will not be missed, you pluck up the courage to head out onto the deck. The instinct to be light footed and careful reminds you of the nights you would sneak across the palace grounds in Yiryn to see your siblings after a particularly rough meeting with Enji, skin still blistering.

Surprisingly, not one person stops you on the way. No questions as to where you were going, or what you were doing. Instead you receive numerous solemn nods, and the odd unpracticed bow in greeting. Word had spread.

Measured in steps, the distance between the door and the edge of the deck wasn’t all too great. The sea is calm, almost a cradle. She holds the ship in the depths of her palms and the wind spurs it forwards. So blue and clear, you can hardly decipher where the horizon begins.

Shouto would have loved it.

Aizawa is disturbingly quiet as he settles beside you, forearms resting against the deck and alcohol in hand. He is somehow one of the most intimidating men you’ve ever met, all the while having little to no presence. There is no immediate exchange of words, only your slow and purposeful breaths.

Dark eyes briefly flicker over your form. Aizawa pulls the bottle from his mouth with a resounding pop, leaving behind a sheen of rum, and tilts it forward. “Here,” he murmurs.

“Thanks,” you reach out, fingers wrapping around the bottle's neck and grazing his own. He’s warm, rough skinned. Neither of you comment on it, his gaze fixed pointedly on your expression as you bring the finish to your lips.

The aroma is rich, sweet like overly ripe bananas. You tip back, feeling it dry and bitter on your tongue. There are hints of vanilla and brown sugar, a sting to your throat that begs you to cough. You hear a quiet laugh.

“Too strong?”

Your expression twists, “It’s good. But it burns”.

“That’s why it’s good,” he smirks. “Seasick?”

You exhale, handing the bottle back. “Just thinking about my siblings. They only know of the ocean from picture books and maps”.

The dark hair that previously curtained his face has now been tucked away beneath the confines of a patterned cloth tied around his forehead, two loose tassels hanging by his temple. He’s pale for a seaman. It tells of his dedication to being a hermit. “They waiting for you back home?”

Your chin dips as you swallow, teeth sinking into the flesh of your inner cheek. The memory of the firebird brooch on your kidnappers' lapels flashes unbidden through your mind. Reflexively, you have begun to fiddle with the phantom ring on your finger. Aizawa cannot know that there is no home to go back to. It is a reality that wears you thin.

“No,” is your reply. Silence follows. Nervously, you glance towards him and find he is already right looking back at you. When he meets your gaze there’s an understanding there that you hadn’t expected.

“Is that why you haven’t asked where we’re taking you?”

Did it really matter?

“Could I ask you something?” — he nods, and the tassels bounce against his crown — “Do you resent me for what happened to your relatives?”

You’re shocked to hear him scoff. “Nothing happened to my clan, kid. They weren’t happy in Yiryn and they left before your—” he pauses to think, taking another swig as he does “—before your great great grandfather could imprison the last of them. Even if I did hold animosity toward the Todoroki name, you are far from at fault”.

“Our books say members were persecuted for treason and run out amidst political infighting. That’s why we have so few mageblades left…”

“There are few mageblades left because my previous relatives took most of their weaponry and fled with it,” he says, aimlessly passing his thumb over the top of his bottle, making a quiet sound with the trapped air. “King Enmei planned to use them in a surprise incursion along the East Varene border, despite having signed the peace treaty”.

Gracelessly, your only reply is “Oh”.

True, you had known not to trust most of the historical texts in the Todoroki library; but knowing that and hearing it are two different things. You recall the older blade he’d taken from Hachi. “It must be nice, then. To have a piece of your heritage back with you”.

He shrugs, though not unkindly. You feel a kinship with him that you hadn’t expected. That comfortability leads you to ask, “Do you ever feel like you don’t belong anywhere?”

A deep sigh. “Maybe at one time, yes,” Aizawa rubs idly at the scruff along his jaw and casts his eye toward the endless horizon. “Though that is fundamentally untrue”.

“Why?” you feel yourself grin, playful as you lean against the edge of the deck. “Do you belong to the oceans now?”

He huffs shortly, and it sounds suspiciously like a laugh. “No,” the hull rolls smoothly over a passing wave, sliding you into his side. Warmth seeps through the loose cotton of his shirt sleeves. Accepting the closeness, he nudges your arm to emphasise his point, “I belong to myself now”.

You think about your body being a home. About the sun rising and setting between skeletal window panes, of the child you outgrew that sleeps in an alcove carved into your sternum. How on worse nights, cowering away from the boom of Enji’s voice and embraced by Touya’s bandaged arms with Shouto curled at your side, you would retreat into yourself. For as long as you could remember, that was the only safe place you had.

At what point had that stopped being true, you wonder; at what point did the voice in your head become your fathers? The memories are diluted, and jaded, your own wants muddied by his footprints. There was a reason you stopped stepping inside of yourself.

“Oddly philosophical for a pirate,” you muse, pushing the thoughts aside. Aizawa huffs.

“Not a pirate. Now I'm just a man with a boat,” he turns at an angle, peering over his shoulder towards his crewmates' antics, “...and a soft spot for strays”.

You look alongside him to find the group of men huddled together, playing a game you couldn’t name if asked. They have two sets of dice in the bottom of a cup, shaken and thrown across the circle. On some numbers they cheer, on others they groan. Yamada, you recognise, is proudly gregarious, and off to the side Shadow and Hitoshi have paired off to watch in their own bubble of amusement.

“All I can say is, what you perceive isn’t always the whole truth,” he pulls your attention back, and you drink from the bottle as he offers it once more. This time, you swallow it smoothly, and the burn is pleasant. “Reality is often subjective. So don’t assume you aren’t wanted, or that you don’t belong, if it’s from the confines of your own head”.

You inhale, the sea salt bloats your lungs. Your body rolls with the rock of the ship as the ocean's temperament begins to change. Far off in the expanse of clear sky, there are bruising cumulonimbus clouds bleeding into blue. How befitting.

Aizawa continues through your silence. “We can take you to Varene after we get to the Valcana isles, if that’s what you want. We won’t be voyaging out again for a few weeks, so you have time to think about it”.

“You aren’t going to drag me back for whatever reward they’re offering?” you blurted, the concept of choice still so foreign. A stone of guilt sinks through your stomach as his expression pinches, a little hard to decipher.

“I’m no bounty hunter. I want you to make that decision yourself,” then his brow quirks, the distaste softening into quiet amusement, “Hitoshi is, though. He’ll know more than I do”.

You’re informed it’ll take another day and a half to reach the Isles of Valcana — a cluster of mountainous jewels in the middle of Leilisle, covered in lush green. It was renowned as a rest stop amongst all seamen, sailors, merchants and pirates alike. The population is a small one; only around six thousand people inhabited the main island, while the less accessible ones were largely left to nature.

The opportunity to question Hitoshi doesn’t present itself until the following morning, when the ship is mostly bereft. Many of the motley crew are resting, strung around the upper and lower decks as they sleep through their wicked hangovers.

It’s as good a time as any to let the nestlings stretch. You’d been assured that no one on the ship had ill intent toward either of you — in fact, Aizawa even allowed you to stay overnight in his quarters. “Don’t worry about this guy,” Mic had told you, the frame of his glasses slipping haphazardly down his nose, “he can fall asleep practically anywhere”.

Still early, you see the sun rising gently above the seam of the horizon and painting the ocean's surface a glorious expanse of orange and pink. Time always moves forward. You’re reminded of how vast the world is, and how infinitesimal you are in it.

Despite their freedom, the nestlings stick to your side. Amadea rumbles, a sound made in the depths of her chest, and you push playfully against her snout when she nuzzles at your elbow. You have set up camp below the foremast, right by the ship’s edge. Reaching out over the sea is the figure of a bare chested woman, her extended hand rising and falling with the waves.

The air is tepid, almost a caress. Your fingers work clumsily on a spare piece of rope you'd cut from a spool on Aizawa’s bookshelf. Knots weren’t something you knew from memory, but you had a vague image of what a bowline should look like.

You huff, examining the twists and turns. It definitely did not look like this.

Charmingly, he starts with, “You’re kinda bad at that, huh?”

Startled, you look up to see Hitoshi approaching with slow wading steps, like his boots were full of water. His eyes are where his true feelings lie, narrowed to focus on the nestlings by your knees.

Amadea remains at your side, full from her breakfast. Orlit, however, is becoming braver with every hour that passes. The food burns through him quicker, body moving with bubbling energy as he starts forward. “Orlit,” you call out in warning. It doesn’t reach him.

You knew intuitively that it was pure curiosity. Orlit had seen Hitoshi bring the food before, and thus recognised his voice. But the bounty hunter could only exercise caution, stumbling back and steadying himself with the rig.

“ Orlit ,” you repeat authoritatively. The nestling stops.

“Don’t worry,” you try your best to show Hitoshi a reassuring smile. “He means you no harm, they just associate you with food”.

A scoff, grip briefly tightening on the shroud as if preparing to jump up. “I don’t know if that’s a good thing,” he says, choosing to come closer anyway. The male dragon stays his place, even ducking his head coyly in what you’re sure is an apology.

His earring glints in the light as Hitoshi lowers himself onto his haunches, slow to settle with his legs crossed. The apprehension can’t be blamed. Amadea watches him like a hawk the entire way. “What’re you trying to make?”

“I was just playing around. It’s supposed to be a bowline knot,” you tell him, lips thinning as he laughs under his breath. He reaches across, pausing abruptly at Amadea’s grunt, and you relinquish your grip to give it over.

As he fashions the knot himself, it’s hard to keep track of his practiced hands. “The rabbit comes out of the hole, goes around back of the tree, and then jumps back into the hole,” he mutters rhythmically, a triumphant gleam in his eye as he brandishes the perfect bowline, waving it between the two of you. “Did you never learn that song as a kid?”

“No,” your admittance has you feeling somewhat abashed. “I wasn’t allowed to listen to much music as a child”.

Hitoshi’s expression sours as he loosens the rope, “Well you’ll hear plenty from these losers to make up for it”. You smile when his anger softens at the mention of his crew, shuffling forward on your knees when you’re beckoned forward. “C’mon, I’ll show you how to do it”.

And he does, reciting the common ditty for you once more as he guides your fingers with the working end, or as you know it now, the rabbit. Then he covers your fist with his own, and you both pull together tightly, creating a bowline much like the one he’d shown you.

“Thank you Hitoshi,” you breathe, smiling down at the knot, feeling pleased with yourself. He inhales sharply and quickly retracts his hand as if you had burned him, rubbing it down the front of his vest.

Whatever thoughts had been brewing in Hitoshi’s mind are abruptly interrupted as Orlit lunges forward to take the rope between his molars. You release your grip before your arm is pulled from the socket, watching on fondly as he begins to shake it left and right like a pup.

Keeping your eyes on the young dragon while he gallivants across the deck, it’s as good a time as any to bring up what Aizawa had mentioned the day prior. “I heard that you’re a bounty hunter,” you needled, hoping it’d be leading enough.

It isn’t. “I am,” he concedes, picking at the seam of his boot.

“Then, don’t you want to hand me back over to Varene?”

The air around you changes slightly as the wind picks up. Hitoshi leans forward, almost curing into himself as he rests an elbow atop his knee, “Dunno. I heard you aren’t sure you want to go back home in the first place,” he returns, mouth quirked. “Trouble in paradise?”

It’s clear that he’s teasing, which is why you give your best effort in keeping the surge of defensiveness for your husband from showing on your face. You want to cling onto the building equilibrium for a little longer.

Habitually, you pinch the flesh on your ring finger. Weeks have passed and still you feel a vulnerable nakedness without it. Before you’re able to reply, you hear a regretful murmur of, “Sorry”.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” you tell him, leaning back as Amadea lifts her neck, arching to stretch her wings. “It’s nice having people treat me as an equal”.

Orlit trills, calling out to his sister. It echoes over the waves as they lap against the hull, the sway strumming at your centre of gravity. “How much is on my head?”

“Enough to see me through two lifetimes without struggle. Not counting the nestlings,” he replies. “Your father is offering about the same. Word has it tensions are worsening between the two, and he’s laying blame on Varene for your disappearance”.

Regardless of your growing kinship with Hitoshi, there are still things you know aren’t for his ears. King Enji feigning anger, and having orchestrated the taking of the nestlings, is one of those things. The knowledge that where you could not mend a bridge, you were now being the tool to demolish it entirely, sits like lead in your chest.

Return to Varene with the truth, and war will surely erupt; you may only be further separated from your siblings, and your mother. Return to Yiryn with the nestlings and you’ll likely never see them, or Katsuki, ever again.

Suddenly, it is hard to speak past the swell in your throat.

Sensing your discomfort, Hitoshi mercifully drops the subject. Instead he lays out their plan for the day ahead. In a few short hours you’ll be at the port. With the markets thriving past noon, it’s decided you and the nestlings will remain in Aizawa’s quarters until dark, when it’ll be much safer to move you.

While the isles have quite a laissez-faire approach in order to provide a neutral place for people from all corners of the world, it was a fact that few sailors from both Varene and Yiryn could be passing through. Hiding you was simple enough, the nestlings were a little harder to explain away.

“We have a good idea of where you can stay for a bit,” Hitoshi explains offhandedly, staring at Orlit. Throughout the conversation, the young dragon had crept closer and closer, pressing himself to the floor in a show of surrender.

You felt his intent. The word is meaningful, cloying on your tongue. Thurirl — I’m not a threat. Orlit wanted to befriend the bounty hunter. This human’s hair is bright, and he brings good food. Such is a dragon's way of thinking. It’s unbearably cute.

“I don’t have any form of payment right now,” you reply, worrying the flesh of your bottom lip between your teeth; mostly an effort to fight a smile. Remaining quiet so as not to disrupt the moment, you watch his hand reach toward Orlits snout.

Every muscle in Hitoshi’s arm is visibly tense, like a spring coiled tight and ready to leap. Feelings of anticipation and excitement thrum through your veins, strong enough for you to appreciate how much the nestling is truly restraining himself as this new friend strokes over his head.

“You won’t need to pay. Eraser will take care of it,” he continues to speak as you protest, “believe me. He’s just like that. If you leave any payment you’ll find it back in your pocket without knowing how it got there”.

You laugh, “Sounds like you’re speaking from experience”.

“Something like that—”

“Hey, hey kiddos! Up and attem’,” Mic’s distinct voice shouts across the ship, startling you both apart. “We’re almost home!”

You aren’t aware of how long this journey had been for the crew, where they’d come from or with what purpose, but their muffled cheers from below deck tell you it has been long enough.

You, too, couldn’t wait to stand on solid ground.

#bnha x reader #mha x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugo katsuki x reader

692 notes · View notes