#that even deep deep in the darkest parts of the sea where there's barely any food and barely any oxygen

[bugmistake]

thinking about marine life and getting so excited i have to remind myself to breathe

[dystopicjumpsuit]

The Plant Prowler of Pabu

A/N: I’m scared that Pabu is going to be toast after this week, so I wrote a little fluff to make myself feel better. Also, this is the first time I’ve been able to finish a fic in six weeks, so… yay me!

Pairing: Crosshair x Reader (GN)

Rating: T (but MDNI as always)

Wordcount: 2.1K

Warnings and tags: mild language; fluff; a kiss; spoilers for The Bad Batch season 3

Summary: Exploring the island during his first morning on Pabu, Crosshair encounters a mastermind of botanical crime: you.

Suggested Listening: 

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Whoever said, “It’s darkest just before dawn” had clearly never woken up to go for a walk before sunrise. Even if Crosshair hadn’t had enhanced vision, it would have been easy for him to navigate his way down to the beach of Pabu in the dim half-light. Hunter had wordlessly watched him exit the Marauder, pretending to still be asleep, but Crosshair knew that his brother would have drawn his vibroblade in a flash if he’d even glanced sideways at Omega.

Crosshair didn’t exactly blame Hunter for his caution, but it didn’t make it any easier to swallow. The squad had arrived on the idyllic island the previous day, and Crosshair was immediately swarmed by a horde of curious locals. With Hunter determined to keep Crosshair in sight at all times, there had been no escape from their onslaught of hospitality, and by the time the celebrations had died down, Crosshair had been clinging to the tattered threads of his patience and sanity.

It was a hell of a thing to go from barely speaking to anyone for months on end to suddenly being plunged into the midst of a vibrant and chaotic crowd of nosy spectators. He’d escaped to the Marauder at last and pretended to sleep, keenly aware of Hunter’s eyes on him. He’d spent enough time under the microscope in the past several months, though, and he was ready for some privacy.

And so it was that he found himself wandering down the empty terraced walkways of Pabu, making his way to the shoreline in the pale gloaming. He didn’t encounter a single soul as he walked—barring the ubiquitous moonyos that seemed to frolic across the island at all hours. Pabu was the sort of place that seemed too flawless to be real. Too flawless to last.

Not quite as flawless as it seems on the surface, he acknowledged as he turned down a path that snaked through one of the sections of the island that had yet to be rebuilt after the catastrophic sea surge he’d heard about countless times at the welcoming party the previous night. The buildings had been reduced to rubble, and judging by the weeds sprouting in the cracks of the walkway, the locals tended to avoid this particular part of the island.

Perfect.

The gentle breeze off the ocean was chilly, and he told himself it was the reason his hand trembled more than usual that morning. He shoved both hands deep into his pockets as he navigated the last few levels before he reached the beach. As he stepped onto the sand, a gust of wind buffeted against him. It was bracingly cold, and it smelled like salt and aquatic vegetation and wet earth, and he closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply and focusing on the sensation.

When he opened his eyes, a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision had him snapping his head to the side. He froze. A figure meandered slowly down the beach, sticking close to the bottom of the hill where the lush foliage grew thickly right up to the edge of the sand. He was certain you had spotted him, but you didn’t immediately acknowledge his presence.

He watched for a moment as you paused and stooped down to examine one of the plants, then carefully plucked a few bunches and laid them in the basket you carried. Bizarre. What the kriff was this person doing out here so early? Nothing innocent, that was for damned sure. Why would anyone sneak down to such an isolated stretch of the beach at this obscene hour if they didn’t have nefarious intent?

Aside from me, obviously.

He squinted slightly. Even with his enhanced eyesight, it was dark enough, and you were far enough away, that it was difficult to make out your features, but he was reasonably sure you hadn’t been at the party the night before. 

Hmph.

He turned and walked the opposite direction, away from the person who’d had the audacity to interrupt his solitude by getting to the beach first. Better not to get involved.

Crosshair took a different route the next morning, arriving at the beach just as the sun rose. As bad kriffing luck would have it, you were exiting the beach just as he arrived, and your paths inevitably intersected. He braced himself for a conversation, but you simply met his eyes and nodded quietly as you passed him.

He suppressed a sigh of relief. Stepping aside to make room for you to pass on the narrow trail, he couldn’t help noticing that your basket was filled with a variety of neat bundles of leaves and twigs. Odd, but your hobbies were none of his concern. Even if they did involve herb rustling and grand theft shrubbery.

He continued his path down to the shoreline and wandered along the water’s edge, staring out at the horizon. Out of the corner of his eye, he could still see your solitary figure making its way up the steep slope and into Lower Pabu. He was now completely sure that you’d not been at the welcoming party, nor had he encountered you in the village. It wasn’t that surprising; after all, hundreds of people lived on the island, and he wasn’t in any particular hurry to meet them all—or any of them, if he were honest.

Of course, he didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. Wrecker had flatly refused to allow Crosshair to isolate himself, while the gregarious mayor Shep Hazard seemed equally dedicated to the twin causes of thrusting Crosshair into the community and plying him with as much fruit as he could eat in a lifetime. He was starting to feel a tiny surge of violence every time he saw a jogan fruit.

On the third day, Batcher woke up with Crosshair and scrambled out of the Marauder, bounding ahead of him down the ramp and then turning to wiggle her entire body in anticipation as he followed. He let the lurca hound pick the path that morning, not bothering to hide his thin smile at Batcher’s endless curiosity and enthusiasm. She crisscrossed the walkways incessantly, sniffing and exploring, chasing the moonyos playfully down the hill, investigating every nook and cranny of the village, and easily running five times the distance that Crosshair traveled on their way down to the water.

The beach was empty this morning, to Crosshair’s relief. At last, some peace and quiet. Or at least as quiet and peaceful as it could be with Batcher rocketing back and forth across the wet sand, grunting and huffing as she charged into the surf and back up to Crosshair, crouching into a bow as she tried to entice him to play with her. When he didn’t immediately comply, she took off chasing a flock of seabirds, scattering them into the air in a cacophony of indignant squawking.

She chased the birds down the beach, barking joyously as she splashed through the surf. When the hound disappeared around a bend in the shoreline, Crosshair sped up slightly, not wanting to risk Omega’s wrath if anything happened to her pet on his watch. As he rounded the bend, he was greeted with a most unexpected sight: Batcher was lying on her back on the sand, writhing with delight as you rubbed her belly.

Your basket was overturned, and all the neat little bundles of herbs were strewn across the sand. It wasn’t hard to deduce the instigator of such carnage. Batcher spotted Crosshair and immediately jumped up and shook the sand off herself before rushing to greet him.

“Down,” he said sternly as she jumped up and swiped at him with her massive paws.

She dropped obediently, and trotted along next to him as he approached you. You’d already begun picking up your fallen bundles of leaves, and he quickly bent to assist you.

“Sorry about that,” he mumbled.

“No harm done,” you replied, shaking a bit of loose sand out of the bundles before you dropped them into your basket. “They all get washed before I hang them up to dry anyway.”

“So you’re not just engaging in botanical heists for the adrenaline rush?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah, it really gets the blood pumping,” you replied, deadpan. “My day just doesn’t feel complete without a little horticultural larceny.”

“I can see you like to live on the edge,” he said with a tiny smile. “The Plant Prowler of Pabu.”

“And I would have gotten away with it, if it weren’t for a mysterious stranger and his meddling dog.”

He liked you. Damn it.

Crosshair didn’t see you for the next several days. He assumed you’d moved your criminal enterprise elsewhere on the island, and after the team returned from Barton IV, he didn’t feel the same need to escape the Marauder as he had previously. Still, he wasn’t sleeping particularly well, and after an excruciatingly restless night, he slipped out of the ship not long before dawn and wandered aimlessly down the streets of Pabu until he found himself in the unstable section he’d discovered on the first day.

As he picked his way through the ruins, he spotted movement two terraces below, and he grinned. Forcing himself to walk casually so you didn’t suspect how pleased he was to see you, he sauntered down to your level, only to find you ripping weeds up from between the fragments of pavement with uncharacteristic abandon.

“What did those plants ever do to you?” he asked.

You must have spotted him before he arrived, because you didn’t even flinch at the sound of his voice.

“Invasive species,” you replied. “I try not to over-forage, but in this case, I’ll make an exception.”

“And I thought your crimes only extended to vegetational theft,” he drawled. “I had no idea you’d escalated to floral murder and agricultural vigilantism.”

“The hero Pabu needs,” you said with a smile that had no business being as charming as it was, considering you were currently covered in a fine layer of dirt and assorted bits of leaves and twigs. “If this plant gets established on the island, we might never be able to eradicate it. It will outcompete the native plants and could cause significant disruptions to the ecosystem.”

“How altruistic of you,” he remarked drily.

“Not at all,” you laughed. “It also happens to be delicious.”

Crosshair stooped down and pulled one of the plants up by the roots, examining it closely. “It’s on sight, then.”

“Exactly. No mercy.”

As the first rays of the sun appeared on the distant horizon, you packed the large bundles of weeds into your basket, then stood and dusted your hands off on your trousers. You stretched a bit, clearly a little stiff from your labor. Impulsively, Crosshair spoke.

“Want to watch the sunrise with me?” You looked surprised at his offer, and he cleared his throat, looking awkwardly away. “Or do you turn into a meiloorun if you stay out past dawn?”

“Yes,” you said. “I mean, no. I mean, yes, I’d like to stay. No, I don’t turn into a meiloorun.”

You bit your lip and stared down at the bundle of weeds in your basket, poking at it ineffectually as you muttered something unintelligible under your breath. Stifling a laugh, Crosshair climbed up onto the crumbling half-wall of a destroyed structure and extended his hand to help you up after him. You scrambled up and sat down next to him, gazing out at the tranquil ocean as the sun began to paint the high clouds in brilliant shades of gold and pastel.

“Not a bad view, is it?” you asked quietly. 

“Definitely worth waking up early,” he replied, watching your face as the light caught on your cheekbones and reflected in your eyes.

Without making a conscious decision, he lifted his hand and brushed a little loose dirt off your cheek. His damned hand trembled, and he mentally cursed. You didn’t seem to notice the slight tremor, though—or if you did, you didn’t say anything about it. Instead, you turned your head slowly, grazing your lips across his fingertips as you met his eyes. It seemed the most natural thing in the galaxy to continue to trace the line of your jaw until his hand curled around the back of your head.

Your lips were soft and warm in the cool breeze, and you tasted like sea salt and dew and something he didn’t quite recognize. Something new. He liked it. You leaned into his kiss, and when at last it came to its natural conclusion, he drew in a shaky breath.

“Hi,” he whispered. “I’m Crosshair.”

---

Want more Crosshair? I have another Crosshair x Reader ficlet here!

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[muraenide]

"You're absolutely sure?" Idia mumbles under his breath, one hand gripping tightly onto Jade's outstretched hand, the other still keeping a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the pier. He had thrown his clothes into a pile somewhere behind him, which were now folded neatly, courtesy of Jade, even in this form. It's dark out, no lights beside the clouded moon above them and the glow coming off Jade's tail and his own flaming hair. The water is so dark that Idia feels he might be jumping down into an abyss. His gaze flickers to Jade, and he takes a deep breath before stepping off the edge and into the water.

@stygia-n // Idia

"Since when have I lied to you?"

Jade was barely recognizable now. He feels comfortable, at long last, to be in the comfort of the sea, its waters lapping around his long, dark, and sleek body. His original form was twice as big as his human form and thrice as strong. His tail was a weapon that could slap the head of a man's shoulders if he so decides that it would serve as entertainment. Idia being in terribly close proximity usually signifies danger, as Jade was close enough to drag him to the seabed if he wished to drown him, but the Ignihyde Housewarden's clumsiness and trust in him made the mereel feel nothing but a tad bit endeared.

Idia was certainly no fool. Jade knows that Idia knows he wouldn't drown him (or couldn't, but the differences were scarce).

Because Jade was in love.

The sun had sunk beneath the horizon an hour ago. It's dark, save for the blinking lights of the city twinkling back at them in the distance. Jade had been patiently waiting for Idia to take his time, knowing that the water unnerves him. A part of Jade wonders if Idia would laugh if Jade ever told him the truth: that Jade, too, was afraid of the terrifying depths of the ocean, of his own home, that he'd done some things he wasn't sure would murder any good thoughts Idia had of him, especially the truth concerning his and Floyd's other siblings of the same clutch. After all, whatever atrocities he'd done, he did it for Floyd. Jade being unusually mature at a young age plagued his teachers. Back then, they thought it was unnatural for a six-year-old to behave as if he was all grown up, as if he was keeping some morbid secrets he never wanted anyone to know.

Who are you really, Jade Leech? Ortho asked him once, drawing a rare frown from the older Leech. Those gold and yellow eyes appeared to see right through him, something Jade didn't doubt he'd done many a time to other students whenever he used his Unique Magic. It feels discomforting to see through someone else and access their deepest and darkest secrets. He loathes the idea of himself being seen in the same way. But perhaps it wouldn't have disturbed him if it wasn't known that Jade has no soul. So what exactly is it that Ortho saw? I see, The younger Shroud said, you're quite confused yourself. But don't worry. As long as you're good to my brother, I'll keep this secret for you!

Jade can't help but wince every time he recalls that particular piece of memory. In all honesty, Ortho didn't need to threaten him. He couldn't do anything to harm Idia Shroud even if he tried without feeling his insides being ripped apart at the thought of Idia possibly being angry enough to declare them separated.

"It's okay. I'll catch you." He coos, in a voice so soft it was evidently reserved for only specific people. It didn't take long for Idia to leap into the water. Waves splashed on Jade's face, washing away any distractions that intruded on this otherwise romantic moment.

His arms were naturally around Idia's shoulders, and he moved his tail to wrap it around Idia's entire form, holding him close and nuzzling his neck, "From now on, whenever you fall, I'll catch you. So don't go where I can't follow."

[petrikaira]

The Maid

Demon City, pg 5 (Previous) (first)

Rating: G for General Audiences

They came to Mayra’s suddenly, and Nele could see the tapestries mentioned by Gerald in the windows. There were many blacks and reds, and a group of demons led by what looked like Prince Yuki through the mouth of a cavern. Many of the demons had missing parts, hands removed, feet missing, blood leaking and behind them through a perfectly circular hole was a beautiful bursting fire. “Founding of our city, 150 Canis coins.” Read the sign below the tapestry.

Nele’s heart sank. That was a lot of money. A lot of money she did not have. She wasn’t sure what the conversion rate was, but she was fairly certain whatever it was she did not have one hundred and fifty coins. Should she even go in?

Before she could voice her discomfort, Butler had opened the door for her. A bell above the door jingled, signifying their entrance and from within the depths of the shop came a “Welcome!”

“Go on, then. You can make it home by yourself can’t you, once you’re done buying your… blanket?” Butler asked.

“I can,” Nele said. 

She opened her mouth to say she wasn’t sure she could afford a blanket here, when Butler placed his hand on her back and pushed her in. She stumbled, feeling the warm shop air on her skin and suddenly drenched in brilliant colors. They were everywhere she looked, in all shades. All sorts of tapestries hanging on the wall, well embroidered, and numerous blankets folded on shelves and hanging over racks.

“Hello Miss!” The shopkeeper called, bustling out from behind a desk so stacked with folded clothes Nele could barely see them. 

They looked human enough, if a bit strange. They had pale choppy white hair that framed their broad face, and eyes as pure black as night. Other than that, though, fully human. Their skin was a warm brown, they had no horns, and they had no claws or strange bones sticking out.

“Oh, hello,” Nele rushed to say, swallowing her pride. “I’m the new maid at the Canis castle, and I was told you have the best blankets in town.”

It always helped a little to put some butter on the spin.

The shopkeep she assumed to be Mayra laughed. “I’d hope so, all hand made,” she said. “You said you were working up at the castle? You have a budget, or a particular set of wants?”

“Oh, a- a blanket I could afford on a week’s worth of wages?” Nele asked, feeling herself begin to sweat. What if there weren’t any options?

“I’d peruse the back left corner of the store, Miss, it’s where all of my blankets with local materials are stored. Since we get them here, they’ll be the cheapest. You’ll see the sign at the back. You let me know if you need any other help.”

The shop smelled of flowers and clean linen. As Nele walked back, steeling her nerves, she saw all sorts of colors. The darkest blacks. The deepest blues. Blankets that had been sewn to have lines of sparkling stones across them in stripes. Blankets with so many stripes of different colors it was dizzying. The fabric looked nice, too- soft, in some of the blankets and silky in others. Each new blanket Nele passed made her heart sink further. It really looked like she couldn’t afford a single one of them.

And then, she got to the back. The sign was right where the shop owner had put it, pinned up to the wall proclaiming “LOCAL MATERIALS” in a flowing script. It was exact and almost as pretty as the blankets. Nele scrunched her eyes closed, and took a step forward- and opened them again. 

She was stunned. There were brilliant pinks, soft peaches, a color that reminded her of the flesh of fish her parents had eaten on Friday nights from the sea. Deep purples came behind those, some more red and others more blue, like the petals of so many irises her mother had used to grow. The warmest browns. The grayest greens, the yellowest greens. They were the sorts of colors her family had had to pay extra for back in Byipi- well, everything but the browns. Browns were always easy, but these browns were a lot warmer.

She stepped forward, her fingers roaming over the blankets and looking at prices. Flaxen cloth was cheaper than wool, here, which she supposed made sense. Zillah had said that farm animals weren’t very common down here, but they obviously had plants if they could make such pretty dyes. The wool was at the end half under the “WOOL” sign. She assumed the wool was probably not local. 

She headed back for the flaxen cloth, running her fingers over it. She really loved the stripes that adorned the blankets- blankets that had a seam down the middle. Two panels, sewn together. Still, the stripes ran straight across the seam, undeterred, like they had been made as one. She liked the cream blankets, too, and she kept going back to the brilliant pinks. They reminded her of flowers, and some of the peaches too- and the browns-

Then she found it. A soft brown blanket, with three peachy stripes running equally across it. It was so pretty. Her fingers stroked it, feeling the soft give. Looking at the tassels tied on the ends. She found the tag, neatly tied on and flipped it over and braced herself for the price. 

C1.05 Her breath fluttered. Did she have enough? Her fingers found her coin purse on her chatelain, and she began to count. Coin by coin. Each had a dog face and made a satisfying click when they met each other. They were small, round, and also copper but much smaller than the coppers she was used to.

She stopped counting when she got to a hundred and fifty. There were still more in her coin purse, too. Excited, she took the blanket from its shelf and hurried back to the shopkeep.

“This one, please,” she said, putting it down and admiring the way the peachy pink looked so warm. It looked cozy. She really liked it. 

“One canis dollar and five cents, please,” The shopkeep said. “Glad you found something you liked. This one was done by my sister Mayra, she dyed the cloth herself too.”

Nele was surprised that the shopkeep was not Mayra, but she supposed someone had to run the store while the other wove. “Tell her it’s gorgeous, please,” she said. 

“Will do,” The shopkeep said once more, and once she had taken the pay, handed the blanket back.

Nele wrapped it to her chest. “Thank you,” she said again. 

She had her blanket now. And despite it being one of the cheap blankets, it was more beautiful than she could ever imagine. She couldn't wait to get it on her bed.

[veinereastath]

waves of retrospection [Arthur Harrow one-shot]

It’s mostly a bit of psychological take on Harrow; Basically I don’t accept him as dead, so I’ve decided to do what I enjoy doing best and change canon to my own twisted desires, but also somehow leave the ending open to intepretation and choice. So have this small piece of 2204 words of his own retrospection at night by the sea.

Fandom: Moon Knight [2022]

Rating: nothing explicit at all, but there are some mentions of self-harm. You know, glass in shoes.

Summary: Ammit has been defeated once and for all, but Harrow is still alive - but he isn’t sure if that’s what he truly wants.

Characters: only Arthur Harrow and his mind, because I love psychological / philosophical mumbo jumbo.

Side note: English is not my first language so you can expect some mistakes.

_____________________________________________________________

    The rocks of the shore were dark, treacherous, full of little cracks and imperfections. Their edges were sharp, ready to inflict pain on any who would make any kind of mistake, the fail of judgement when stepping on them. Too careless feet would soon find themselves to be cut and bleeding, with the cold, salted water of the sea hitting the shore inflicting even more pain. Rubbing the salt on the wound gained a new, painfully real meaning.

    But the glass he had in his old, battered shoes for the past years made him accept the pain. He got used to it, and he understood its fundemental purpose – after all, it was a punishment he chose for himself, every single morning hiding it under the mundane action of touching the glass of water with his lips, allowing his throat, tired from preaching and intricate manipulation a bit of relief. His throat in exchange for his feet. For someone like him, who knew the value of properly executed speech more than most, it seemed like a very fair deal.

    So Arthur Harrow accepted the pain. The glass was no more, his feet bare, beaten, full of little scars painting his skin like the cracks on old murals in ancient cathedrals, those who saw war, famine and cruelty. He remembered the little chapel he visited many years ago in Italy, where he saw the eyes of painted priests looking at him with cold dissaproval. Perhaps it was because of the fresh blood that tainted his hands, sticking to his fingernails. He spilled a lot of it for Khonshu and his ideals back when the glowing eyes and the ceremonial suit were his to wear. He couldn’t say he missed it, the fabric on his skin, the unique power flowing through his body… But he almost, almost did. Some part of him, the one that enjoyed inflicting pain on behalf of the Moon God, was still there, buried somewhere deep in the darkest corners of his mind, and at times he could swear he feels it again, hears it again, wants to commit to it again.

    Your scales lack balance.

    He almost chuckled at the memory. I wonder why, he thought sarcastically. I have no idea. No idea whatsoever.

    The pain and blood he inflicted on himself did not, however, make him resistant. So everytime his foot, one or the other, slipped on the wet, dark rock he felt the excruciating pain of old wounds opening and new forming amongst them, fresh blood trailing his steps.

    Sometimes he made himself slip on purpose, when some thoughts became too unbearable, pain seeming like the only escape, the nervous system reacting accordingly and momentarily, forcing everything in him to focus on the new flash of torture. It worked, for a while. After a few moments his brain regained its composure, both a blessing and a curse, and once again his mind was flowing through the threads of his past, making him remember everything.

    Once again he put his bleeding foot in the wrong place, and the rock seized the opportunity at once. Wet, cold and with a traces of seasalt on it it deepened one of the already existing cuts. Against his wishes to stay silent, he lost the fight and cried out loud. He lost his balance, palms stretching out in front of him to stabilize the fall. But they also had to pay the price of pain in order to achieve their purpose. Arthur gasped, his lean frame nearly totally collapsed on the rocky shore. He forced his muscles, still strong, but tired at the same time, to answer to his will and slowly put himself on his knees. He could feel the texture of the rocks beneath his hands, feeding on his blood and pain, his slender fingers delicately tracing them, the vein crossing his palm defined so strongly it seemed like it wanted to escape, jump out of his skin and run away.

    Harrow allowed himself to take a few deep breaths and wait. He didn’t have anywhere to be right now, after all. Time could very well stop its existence and he wouldn’t feel the difference. His mission ended – with a failure, no less. The mercy he was shown by Marc Spector was not truly a mercy, he knew. It wasn’t a tale of redemption, his final purpose wasn’t to atone for what he did, but to accept it and still live with it. In suffering, none less, but perhaps that’s what acceptance was truly supposed to be.

    He looked at the rocks beneath him, his knees already aching – but he kept staring. Strands of his light brown hair obscured the sides of his vision, hiding his icy blue eyes from the moonlight, and once again he almost chuckled, thinking about how fitting it was. The very parts of himself were hiding the full picture from him, forcing him to stay in the dark.

    He was tired of it, so he lifted his right hand and ran his fingers along his scalp, forcing his hair to obedience. Most of them obeyed, but, as always, some didn’t, loose greying strands falling down once again, still somewhat blocking his view. The kneeling finally became too painful and, at the same time, too pointless somehow. Arthur slowly forced his body to fall over to the right, so he could balance himself and sit properly, staring at the waves. The view in front of his eyes forced him to pull at his old memories more, so he tried to do so. He focused on his followers, fathering happily in the streets of London in the evening, talking, playing, enjoying every little piece of what was mundane and just so typical of life. He used to be a part of this community, enjoying people’s company, hearing their stories, knowing them better.

    Knowing their strengths, but their weaknesses also. After all, he always strived for pragmatism in his own actions. Know your enemy, yes. But know your friend also, because he can always turn his back on you. Betrayal hurts more, and betrayal always comes from a friend.

    He remember Bobbi Kennedy, for one. She was one of those focused on silent action, not words, and he appreciated that. She was focused, loyal, and pragmatic as well – doing what she had to do, when she had to. It was inspiring for those around her, so when he asked her – ask was such a peculiar word, though – to do something that would be crucial to bringing Ammit back to the world, he always trusted her to do the deed. And she did, and she never asked for praise, welcoming back with success and in silence. It’s all she did, bow her head a little, and he would respond in kind, putting his hand on her shoulder.

    Billy Fitzgerald was also an example of a person he remembered well. The man was somehow like Bobbi, but there were more colors in his emotions and actions – his happiness and excitement was more evident, for example when he heard the ‘She’s here’ after so many years of waiting. But it also quickly broke itself and changed to concern and worry. ‘Mark Spector is in Cairo.’ Arthur noticed how Fitzgerald’s face has fallen at these words, and it never really fixed itself, even long after they finally entered the tomb. Arthur never really saw what happened to him, but he could’ve guessed, and somehow he felt like he actually knew. One of his men was slaughtered by the Heka priests in the field of his vision. Considering that Fitzgerald went to the wrong corridor of the maze and never came back, it was obvious.

    Harrow couldn’t say he felt bad, but the death of Fitzgerald was something he noticed, nonetheless, and that cruel pragmatism of his told him that this mere acknowledgment was quite enough. Some people don’t even get that.

    The waves that forced his mind into the fields of retrospection now changed their mind, unpredictable as they were. One of them hit the shore with more force than the others, and the water splashed far enough to reach his bloodied feet. Salt rubbing into the wounds made Harrow swore under his breath, his jaw clenching. Focus, focus, focus. Think of the others. Who else do you remember?

    He remembered quite a few, but he also had to admit that some of his followers were so far back in the corners of his mind that he could netiher precisely track their face, nor their voice – he mostly remembered names, because he was indeed quite good at that. But he had problems with putting them to their respective owners. Back then it wasn’t a big issue – or, rather, it didn’t seem like a big issue – but right now it seemed to frustrate him way more than it should. Now, when all these people were either dead or scattered to the winds, their cause lost, their beliefs shattered.

    There were kids playing in the streets, there were young and older couples sitting outside the old cafe, there were people wandering, thinking to themselves. Harrow always payed them more attention, because he knew that lonely retrospection was quite a dangerous tool, because it could very easily push a person out of their belief system. How easy it was to forget about the justice of Ammit, and the importance of the reason to bring her back when you have nothing but yourself around.

    So, he always tried to pick up these strays and talk to them. Using his words very carefully, very aware of the power his rough tone of voice. He knew how to use it to his advantage. Actually, once a young woman he talked to called him on that, and he smiled by a margin when that memory came up. She was in her early twenties – a peculiar individual at that because he could remember her face very, very well… But for the love of all the gods of this world, he couldn’t remember her name. Almost like his priorities decided to totally change for this one, random person. Shy, timid, but also very observant; he could see in her brown eyes that she sees more than she makes people think she does. Definitely more of a listener, she listened carefully, taking in all the words of thought he was giving her when he took her for a long stroll on one evening. And at some point she said ‘You’re very good with words.’. With no malice, with no distaste, but rather stating a solid fact with a hint of amusement dancing on her face. And just like that, for a short while, he couldn’t say anything. He just looked at her and smiled.

    He talked to her for many hours after that callout. It was the only conversation he ever had with her, but it was also the one for some reason he enjoyed the most because of how pure it was. Weirdly enough, he could swore he felt younger during that one evening. And she seemed to enjoy his company, even though he obviously knew who he was and what was the function of words and sentences he created and gave to her.

    Against his better judgment, he kissed her palm when they part ways, hoping he would had a chance to talk to her again at some point. He did saw her far away, amongst other people on many days that were next to come, but at some point she dissapeared without a word or a trace.

    She could’ve been a spy, he thought to himself. He realized that he never actually check her scales, never allowed them to show the balance – or inbalance – of her soul. It was weird of him to forget such a thing. So, despite of those fifty years of life experience, of gathered wisdom and skills, he could still be fooled by as little as a weird callback to his younger self. Lovesick, not-really-young fool.

    He took a deep exhale, running his palm through his face. He grew tired of his memories at this point. Harrow stood up, slowly, on shaking legs, and walked closer to the waves. They gathered at his feet like snakes, biting, inflicting pain, promising to consume him whole.

    Maybe that’s the thing. Maybe that’s his test.

    He unbuttoned his red shirt, slowly, almost as if he hesitated. He wasn’t sure himself, and this lack of certainty stirred a new flash of irritation. He got rid of the last button with more pressure, more force, more haste, feeling the cold air of the night brushing the naked skin of his chest. He huffed, tilting his arms to allow the fabric to slide off. As soon as his whole upper posture was uncovered, the wind gained on its strength.

    Charming.

    Harrow put his right foot in the proper water. The pain attacked once more, forcing him to choke down a cry, jaw clenching, drops of sweat gathering on his temples. A short while, and he made another step forward. And another. And another. He allowed the sea to consume him up to the line of his hips, and then he stopped. Wondering.

  What now?

    As if he knew. He once again moved forward. His fate wasn't his decision to make. He allowed people to be consumed by sands of the desert and ancient Egyptian priests, and as his own final punishment he chose the judgment of the sea.

--------------------------------------------------------------------- Did he die amongst the waves, or did he come out clean and walked back home - who knows?

[sukiglycerin]

lust & love & light rain || toshinori yagi.

* pairing: toshinori yagi (all might) x fem!reader

* genre: smut, pwp, fluff, dating au

* words: 2,758

* warnings: aNd hE waS hiT bY a QuiRk trope, brief inference of pillow humping, safeword system in place but not used, dom!toshinori, sub!reader, cunnilingus, creampie, unprotected sex (use protection irl !!), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, degradation, daddy kink, praise kink, aftercare!!, mention of painkillers

* original request from toishi: plz all might big pp

* a/n: yes all might big pp. birthday gift to @toishi! sorry kiri and kenma. here’s an indulgent all might pwp. enjoy!

something is off with toshinori as he enters your shared home. there's something you can feel in your gut as his bangs drape over the sides of his face, their golden color dulled; you can barely see his eyes, and under the shadows of his face, they're a diminished sky blue. the light is gone, as if the sun was obscured by an endless sea of clouds. his expression is dark, as if holding something in, and his shoulders slump with the burden of a hero's work.

"t-toshinori?" you ask as he shuffles his shoes off. he's still in his hero costume, which is muddied and torn.

"are you hurt?" you scan his body, checking for blood stains or awkward body parts.

he grunts. no.

"toshi? what's wrong?" you're worried now - did something happen on the job? hero work was always demanding, affecting even the strongest.

"nothing," his voice is hoarse, weary. "don't worry about it." he starts to walk towards your shared bedroom. "don't-" his voice catches, "don't follow. i need to be alone." he avoids eye contact, and that's when you know something's really wrong. toshinori never, never avoids eye contact when honest. on his darkest day, he'll make sure to look you in the eye and say something - whether it be a reassurance or a confession.

like hell you won't follow him. 

you let him go first to your room, so he can't stop you from following. you can hear the soft click of the door shutting, and a low shuffling in the room. you creep up to the door, listening. there's stuttered breathing - is he crying? - and a shifting of fabric.  there's no lock on the door - you and toshinori never felt the need - so you slowly push the door open, one hand on the knob and the other pressed against the wood.

nothing could've prepared you for the sight in front of your eyes.

"toshi?" you breathe. your eyes linger in confusion, and your brain connects the scene. 

his chest heaves, and sweat beads his forehead. his bangs hang down in front of him, slightly obscuring his face, but the rest is unmistakable. his clothing has long been abandoned on the floor, and your gaze follows lower and lower; first tracing the lines of his abs, his sharp v-line...

he catches your eye and he looks completely different. his lips are parted and his pupils are blown; gone is the blue sky his eyes, replaced by an unquenched sea. his breath shakes.

"d-don't. don't touch me, d-don't go near me. it's not safe." he seems to force the words out like bile, as if each pains him incredibly. his voice is weak. "p-please," he rasps.

"toshi? why? what's wrong?" you're confused - what's going on? his adam's apple bobs uncertainly. 

your eyes search for anything, any sign of something wrong, and then they land on it. something completely overlooked before. below the smooth dips of his pelvis, below his waistband. he's hard. his thighs twitch and oh god, he's hard. his boxers seem to strain against him and there's already a wet spot forming. a pillow is squeezed in between his thighs. upon realizing what he was doing, you feel your panties dampen at the sheer desperation your boyfriend has.

toshinori takes a breath, "s-some quirk. it should blow over by tomorrow morning, s-so i can handle it." he averts his gaze and mutters, "feels like shit, though." 

"toshinori, i can help you," you say, gently. "we're - y'know - dating, and it's not like we haven't-"

"i-i don't want to hurt you," he says with more conviction this time. "once i start... i don't think i'll be able to control myself."

you step towards him, and he hisses as if in pain.  "please..."

"i can help, toshi. we've talked it over. i trust you, and if there's anything i can do to ease the pain..." you outstretch your hand, but he shudders away from it. you step nearer and nearer towards the man, until your legs touch the edge of the bed. from here, you can hear his shaky, heavy breaths and see the way he heaves, shoulders moving up and down. your hand first starts on his shoulder, then drags down to his abdomen, tracing the ridges of his abs. it stops just at the waistband of his boxers, tugging on it. you look up at him, but his eyes are transfixed on where your hand has stopped.

"toshinori," you say softly. "it's okay. you can have all of me, now." you watch his features carefully as his face slowly contorts into many different emotions at once. 

"s-safeword?" he stutters.

"caramel," you say.

"fuck." there's a growl in his throat, and you're suddenly staring at the ceiling on your bed. his fingers find the hem of your shirt, and before he can roughly pull it off, you take it off instead. the look in his eyes tells you he'll have no regard towards your clothing for now. you can't pinpoint exactly when the shift in the air was; all you can tell is that the air hangs heavily over you. the atmosphere is completely dominated by toshinori.

your chest is now bare, goosebumps forming on the exposed skin. you're acutely aware of your breathing; keeping a steady rhythm as your chest rises and falls. your panties dampen with anticipation as quiet seconds pass. you're locked in a daze before you feel the bed dip under someone's weight.

you feel a hand tracing up your thigh, and your hairs stand on end. you dare not look at your boyfriend as he nears your so desired place. instead, you stare straight at the ceiling and keep yourself from clamping your legs shut on his hand. you don't want to provoke him while he's in such a sensitive state. his fingers reach the fabric of your panties without hesitation, and they press onto your clothed clit, challenging the wet spot to spread.

"fuckin' slut." your breath hitches at the obscenity that breaks the silence. "i've done nothing at all and you..." he chuckles darkly. "i bet this is what you've wanted the entire time, huh, dollface? i bet you wanted my thick cock to stretch your pretty little pussy for me since i came home, huh?"

you find yourself shaking your head by instinct, avoiding eye contact with toshinori.

"little girl can't even admit to it properly, huh? does she need a little help from daddy?" his finger's hooked into the waistband of your underwear, tugging the garment down. this is a completely different toshinori from the one you knew in bed. typically, he'd ease you into it, coaxing you with words, but he now has no regard towards it.

you buck into him on instinct, but you're completely pinned down. he pulls your ankles over his shoulders, leaning into your pussy and suckling like a man starved. you're completely at his mercy as you writhe in pleasure under the pro-hero, his strength completely dominating you. the pleasure is almost too much; you grasp at the bedsheets for any type of anchor as toshinori plays with your cunt unrelentlessly. you suddenly feel the sensation rising onto you all too fast, and you're unable to hold back the moans that spill from you. you clench against nothing, cum dripping from your messy cunt. your legs are tensed, and had toshinori not been holding them apart, they would've clamped down. you shudder, but his tongue still laps at your sopping core, prolonging your climax for too long.

air hits your glistening, wet folds; you can feel toshinori's gaze on your stiff bud.

"so wet," he marvels. without warning, he pushes your legs apart and wraps his lips against your clit.

"toshinori- daddy!" you cry, trying to pull his head away as the overwhelming sensation of overstimulation pours onto you. "can't!"

your legs tense so tight they could cramp, but toshinori still fervently sucks and licks your folds. you hold the bedsheets in a death grip, nails making deep indents in your palms. moans slip out one after another and your body convulses for any break.

your second orgasm crashes down on you and you wail, pain blurred with pleasure. 

"daddy," your cries are weak, breaking at the tip of your tongue. he pulls back and your walls contract even more; his swollen lips shine with an unmistakable white gloss and his eyes are undoubtably feral.

he plunges into your wet hole with no problem; you've created more than enough lubricant to allow him to do so. together, his tongue and his fingers ceaselessly attack your worn pussy, unaffected by your weak cries and constant clenching. you gulp for air, panting heavily, in an attempt to get out proper words.

"beg for it." his words drip with thickened lust, like he derives some sadistic pleasure from your weakened state. he attacks once again, and allows his grip on your legs to loosen. your body has gone limp already, eyes glassy with tears. 

his tongue circles your clit, prodding and abusing the swollen nub. a hand reaches out, collecting your arousal on its fingers. toshinori rubs the entrance of your slickened folds, the callouses on his fingerpads adding extra friction. 

"toshi- please," you gasp. "please, i need yo-ur cock-k, now." it's torturous against his fingers, who've left you no mercy to even create a coherent thought. he grunts, and for a second you allow yourself a glimmer of hope that he'd relent; when you look down, though, it's the opposite. a sly grin tugs at toshinori's lips, and his pace slows down. his fingers thrust slowly - dare you say sloppily - into your battered cunt, wet slapping noises filling the room. the man stops a second, his knuckle brushing your clit, and he curls his fingers in one precise movement that has you shuddering under him.

your body convulses, and your face contorts into that of pure pleasure. you moan his name indignantly as your orgasm washes over you. you hadn't realized until too late what he'd done, and it was a true show of the completely power he had over your body. his lips are swollen and glisten with your cum, eyes heavy-lidded as they watch you.

you heave in breaths, head clouded with arousal and toshinori's name. you barely register that toshinori's stood up from his place at the foot of the bed and that his boxers are gone.

his erection stands against his abdomen, leaking precum. your mouth waters at the sight, but it's clear the pro-hero has no patience for that now. 

"i-is this okay?" he grunts. it's clear the quirk has a strong hold on him, with the way his face holds back a grimace.

"yes." with the simple word, he's plunging into you. the stretch is one of delectable pain; it hurts, but it's addictive.

"d-daddy," you whimper as he bottoms out. it's too much; you throw an arm over your face as you squeeze your eyes shut. god, he's big, and you're not used to the sudden intrusion.

but toshinori is merciless. as soon as he hits your deepest spot, he's reeling out again. it leaves your aching pussy desperate for more, and that's what he delivers. he thrusts into you hard and fast, your thighs shaking from the impact.

and oh, does it feel so, so good. you tremble from the waves of pleasure rolling over you. you threw any self-control you might have out of the window, the room filling with your pretty moans and gasps. this only fuels toshinori more, snapping his hips vigorously against your pelvis. his fingers find your swollen clit, and the stimulation makes you jerk in his hold. he seems satisfied at the reaction - yet he doesn't stop.

"ple- ase," you gasp out, blinking through the tears. 

"t-toshi, stop!" you moan as toshinori rubs quick circles on the bud. 

his form towering above you is blurred, and you feel your cheeks get wet as tears drip from your eyes.

"look at my little pretty baby," he sneers. the words would've been comforting had it not been for the tone it was said. "fuckin' sobbing on my cock. is my pretty slut just that desperate?"

you shake your head rapidly. "no more, please," you wail. his pressure on your clit gets harder, as if daring you to cum.

"don't lie, baby," he coos, but it's laced with condescension. "you're fuckin' creaming around my cock already. see? you're clenching around me like the good cumslut you are. isn't that right?"

his words are muffled in your brain; you're completely enthralled by the pleasure, nearing your climax.

you grab onto toshinori's wrist with a steel grip as you cum, twitching as your cunt contracts around him incessantly. he makes a guttural noise, pupils completely blown with lust.

"almost there baby, you gonna be a good cumdump for daddy, yeah?" he affirms softly.

you aren't given time to reply as he pushes your knees to your chest, leaving yourself completely vulnerable to his ministrations. he thrusts harder and deeper, his thick member bruising your cervix. the new position allows him to deliciously hit your g-spot with precision, and your mind blanks with euphoria every time he does so.

"ah-h-! d-daddy!" you cry, putting your arms around toshinori's torso for leverage. he hisses in pain as you dug your nails into his back, your face distorting into pure ecstasy.

toshinori's lips land on yours. it's messy; a clash of tongues as he sucks your bottom lip. you're far too gone to notice the coil in your stomach snap as you cum once again, and finally, his seed is spilling into you, painting your walls white.

for a second or a minute, you stay like that. your breathing is the only sound in the room as you lay beneath the man. your head is hazy and you're overcome by the vague sensation of floating. toshinori's name is the only thing on your tongue, but you don't let it out.

"hey, baby." in your daze, you can make out toshinori's gentle voice coaxing you. "i'm gonna pull out, yeah? gonna get you all cleaned up."

you nod, wincing as he pulls out of you. everything's a blur; warm hands at your thighs and a warm, damp towel gently prodding your entrance. there's a fuzzy feeling in your mind, and your heart's aflutter. you smile at toshinori, who gives a confused but genuine smile in return. he dresses you like that, a soft smile on his face, and slips a blanket over you. he hands you a glass of water, which you take gingerly. your surroundings start to come back to you; the softness of the sheets, the love in toshinori's eyes. you take deep breaths, finishing the water.

after you regain your senses fully, he asks, "did i go too hard?" 

you shake your head. "it felt good, toshi."

"does anything hurt?"

you glance down at your nether folds sheepishly. a growing feeling of soreness started to grow; not to mention your poor thighs from all the tensing and moving.

"ah," he blushes. "sorry. i, uh... i think the quirk's effect has faded now..." he chuckles nervously. "i love you?"

you pout at him, but it's impossible to stay mad at toshinori. "i love you too," you say with a sigh. 

he gives you a soft peck on the lips, and tenderly thumbs your jaw. "you did so well."

the praise has you keening into his touch and you hum. 

"goodnight, love."

there's a shifting of sheets behind you as your boyfriend blearily says an apology. 

"g'night, toshi."

afterword:

"jesus fucking christ," you curse the next morning, attempting to get out of bed. everything is sore. "toshinori... i love you, but..."

"really, what kind of quirk was that...?" you groan, reaching for painkillers on your nightstand. you swallow them, gulping down water, and turn to toshinori. he pads down to your side of the bed, plopping next to you. he sets his chin on your shoulder as you wait for the painkillers to kick in, a mischievous glint in his eye.

he puts on his hero voice (or so you refer to it as) and says, "it's alright now!" you groan, recognizing his signature catchphrase. you expected him to pull something cheesy like this. that doesn't stop you from chiming in with him, "why? because i am here!"

what you didn't expect, however, was being carried for the rest of the morning with toshinori's strength even after your painkillers kicked in. yeah, you love him.

[kim-monsterlings]

Brae - M Merman x M Human (Reader) // NSFW

The pictures do not belong to me. I only created the mood board. Do not repost my work anywhere.

Content: NSFW/Lemon; flirting, merman’s insecurities from his family, blowjob (+ mention of teeth, nothing too explicit), drinking alcohol, NSFW scene involving handjobs by the merman, mention of touching the merman’s slit, kissing, then angst with thoughts of drowning and a fluffy-ish ending

Wordcount: 6539

“Tropemas” Summary: when the mer insisting on befriending you returned day after day, falling for him was inevitable

Notes: this comes at the beautiful request of @nikipuppeteer​ and unfortunately I had already planned a soulmate au, but I loved the idea of a mlm mer fic too much to not do it!! This really got ahead of me and I love my boys, but so much I couldn’t let it go without it being up to my really annoying standards. I hope you love them <3

Masterlist // “Tropemas” Masterlist 

No matter the dangers accompanied by falling asleep on an unanchored boat, lethargy always overcame you. It was only a small rowboat and one swayed by the gentlest of waves, hardly a comfortable place to rest and your neck always ached the evening after, but time on the sea had become like second nature to you now, and the napping was long ingrained in your afternoons out.

Though waking with water dripping on your face was rare.

Only one cloud needed to mar daylight for you to wait indoors for a brighter day. Beyond the threat of losing yourself at sea, a storm would ruin the sketchbook tucked to your lap. Fragile paper couldn’t survive the wind or rain. Scattered scrawls were no works of art, but after hours rocked at sea and memorising the crags of the cove, it was your treasure, one you took to after moving from the cities and finding peace in the small costal town, and the view was the first you’d had not from cramped flats.

Rare enough, another droplet cool dribbling down your cheek roused you to find the sketchbook damp too, tossed open. Pages wettened still from slender fingertips – clawed, tracing your latest landscaping of cliffs, pencil lines smudging into faded lines. Of all sketches, this hardly finished and quickly ruining one was nothing to prize, but the creature tipping you and your boat precariously lower with every breath seemed enamoured by it.

Watching the creature, you were torn from wanting to scare him off – if you could even scare a thing like him, corded muscle trembling with balancing your boat, sharp-finned where saltwater shone on his dark skin – or wanting to feign sleep longer, just to admire how his teal scales shimmered, clashing and darkening with navy and streaks of black. The darkest scales tipped pectoral fins, sharpened points glinting like the narrow slits in his throat, or the ridged scales rising from the curve of a dark back, down to where his long tail swayed in the water.

You itched to draw him. If portraits were your talent, the sloping of his tail beneath the water would be decorating your papers before night, if he hadn’t ruined them.

Each touch of claws almost tore through the soggy paper and he turned the page. Saltwater dripped from hair curling in the heat of the sun when the creature lurched up and the boat jostled. His hand came to your thigh before you rose from the bench, like he had known you were feigning sleep. Where he was so soaked by the sea, you hadn’t thought it possible the slender fingers stroking up your leg could be so warm, pressing against you to trace a more developed sketch – of the same view, but he admired all the same.

Seasickness had never plagued you before in all your time at sea but how the creature rocked it then made your stomach lurch. He had torn through the paper and some noise tumbled free of you, a panicked cry or curse and you reached to snatch it back before he could damage it more. The merman had stiffened. Claws you hadn’t felt before snagged at you bare thigh and the swaying of your small boat only ceased when he rose and clutched the edge tight. In a small way, you were grateful for that.

You weren’t so thankful that it brought him closer.

For the depth of colours in his scales, the sunlight brightening his rounding eyes forced back your bitterness. Equally dark hair shone a hidden navy with his head canting, though he remained as silent as you. His thin lips pulled back and you thought it a threat with predator’s teeth bared, until a black tongue slid against the points of his teeth and he smiled; a macabre smile, but the beauty of it was like the rest of him.

The sketchbook rested on your lap now, cradled, and that was where he lifted a slender arm, down to the book. Pointing to the paper then to himself, and back to you. Again. Once more, before the boat rocked.

“Do me,” he whispered, soft, disarmingly so that he came an inch more from the water and sunk the boat that much lower. “Do me or I may tip your boat.”

He dizzied your head like the boat had your senses. “You want… you want me to draw you?”

“Draw,” he echoed. When he stretched out to the paper, you let him trace the faded pencil lines and bright eyes peered up at you beneath uneven hair tangling along his forehead. “Draw me. Tomorrow at noon. Or the boat tips,” the merman breathed again through a glinting smile of daggered teeth, not entirely a tease. Smaller claws once on your blank sketchbook traced across your bare thigh, grazing up before nudging the hem of your shorts.

The boat tipped without him to held it steady, and only when he began to retreat did you catch his hand. His fingers slid through yours, claws falling to trace the deeper grooves in your palm when you asked, “do you have a name?”

“Don’t you?” In sharing yours – and hoping he wasn’t in any way fae, he smiled wider. “Brae. Noon.”

The waters carried you another hour before the touch of his thumb tracing along your wrist as he had the sketches left your thoughts. It was harder to banish him from your mind completely and he followed you home, the odd warmth of him smothered to the back of your chest where it ached. Wondering how his scales felt against you in place of his claws did you no good.

Noon came and inevitably, you were settled as far out as the day before, though you hadn’t a real choice in whether you were to return, regardless of this being a day you would nap in the sunlight without his demand.

Mer roamed the cove – it was renowned for them, notorious creatures known for luring humans out to toy with them far from land. If Brae had looked before at your art when you napped, you had no way of knowing, of knowing whether any mer had approached you before. If you left the boat moored today and returned tomorrow, you had no doubt that you would be turned into the sea.

Maybe, a little part of you so far hard to smother, wanted to see him. It was curiosity settling you on the bench of the bench, a pencil twisting through your fingers above a blank page. Most mer, those who made their homes at the cove, shimmered brighter; not so much navy but sky blue, softer hues. Brae’s fins were just that bit sharper, eyes smaller slits with less light to them, his body far stronger than any others – the first like him you knew of.

Time passing beneath the sun worked in convincing you Brae hadn’t been anything more than a hallucination. Only the damp blemishes and ripped pages anchored you a little longer – and the memory of his touch was too hard to forget, until a splash of water tipped the boat and lips pulled back into an attempted smile.

You curled the open page from range of where his head canted and saltwater dripped.

With him leaning closer, now was an opportune moment to tell him that, actually, unfortunately, portraits weren’t you specialty, else he wouldn’t need to ask for his, but the words never came when light warmed his rounding eyes.

“When will you start?”

“Start drawing?”

“Start drawing me,” he said, though his stare had risen from the blank page. Like you had only the day before, Brae appraised from your crown to your toes, tongue caught in his teeth the whole time. The weight of it settled in your chest uncomfortably; whatever mer standards were, you doubted you were anything but unappealing to a creature so beautiful, but no comment came. “Now?”

“If I’m to sketch you-“

“You are.” Deep beneath him, the slow swaying of his tail rose through to his arms curling on the boat’s edge. He rocked with every move and his attention flitted from your towels bundled at your feet to your satchel bag. “To draw me. You are.”

“I need you to-“

“On the beach.” Words overrun as you lost your thought. He hadn’t once stopped moving, dipping under the water and rising the other side of the boat, or reaching out to just brush his hand to yours before rushing back. Only his chin rested on the boat now as he said, “we should do it on the beach. Safer. Dry.”

Safer.

Coughing over your laugh couldn’t muffle it when you turned closer. “Weren’t you threatening to throw me out my boat yesterday?”

He frowned. “Not now. Tomorrow. The beach tomorrow.”

“Brae-“

Claws tipped your chin and all breath rushed from you. They were weapons, like daggers poised to cut as the predator he was, but it felt like a caress how he brought your face closer, near enough the cool air from water clinging to him brushed you. “Tomorrow.”

Being so near, the strength to protest waned. How the pencil hadn’t snapped between your fingers was beyond you; it was all that was left stopping you from returning the touch, wanting to feel his scales – were they smooth or rough, how would they feel against you? – and all you knew was that the touch of claws against the tightness locking your throat didn’t feel like a threat anymore.

If this was how mer lured humans out, you weren’t against following.

“Will you lay still on the beach for me?”

“So you can stare at me?” Brae’s black tongue traced along his teeth with a low hum. “If you wish.” he said, a rising smile binding your throat tighter.

The claws now tracing against your top’s neckline bound your throat tighter. “So I can draw you.”

“Why still?”

“If you move, it’s harder to focus. Harder to draw you. I could- can I take a photo of you?” His answer came without a need to verbalise it; his smile was nothing like a threat, far from the twisting of his face and pressed fins beneath his jaw flaring. Under passing clouds, his darkening face harshened. In an effort to calm his growl, you swallowed. “Won’t people see you on the beach?”

Curiosity drove you to again. Before him, you hadn’t seen another mer so close. Flashes of scales glimmered beneath the water but they were a reclusive kind. Why he demanded a portrait yet refused a photography intrigued you, though not enough to outrightly question.

“See me?” Brae’s cheek turned onto his forearm. Beneath the high sun, seawater glistened on his dark skin, the edges of his gills and faint scales almost glowing. “Why would anyone rather look at me than you?”

The truth tingled on your lips. That he was beautiful, and your art could never do him justice nor any photo, but you swallowed it back. Until daylight fell and left a chill, the merman curled against your side, close enough one tremor could tip your boat. Only small talk passed between glances down, and each turn was returned with a small smile until those teeth earlier bared in threat no longer focused in your thoughts. Brae fell away with a lingering run of claws against your hand and the touch stayed with you long after you found yourself retracing the beginnings of his portrait that night. After the fuss of asking, it turned out you didn’t need a photograph to remember him.

Tales of reclusive mer lessened the popularity of this cove, which had been the enticement to it in moving. Finding a shelter of jagged rocks just beyond sight of anyone passing wasn’t hard, nor was it hard to find Brae among the waves when he crept up the beach- rather inelegantly but you couldn’t have done so any better with the huge tail dragging through wet sand.

“I see you sometimes.”

Brae heeded your plea that afternoon, resting not far from reach. Returning to water wasn’t a pressing urge when he only rested, hardly an exertion, but he thanked you for the slight shelter. His knuckles reached to brush you when he spoke and otherwise cushioned himself on his arms while you contented yourself by marking him.

“Sleeping is dangerous.”

That made your pencil slip. “Have you looked at my art before?”

Brae scoffed but turned away, not before his teeth bit on his lip. Shading came easier with the slight warmth in your chest that blossomed. If he had, he must have liked the art to want his own portrait and after a minute, you looked up to find your muse gone.

Not too far but a length of his tail away, the merman dug through hot sand. Looking beyond the way his scales glowed in this light, differently to when they shimmered beneath water, he cradled dozens of pebbles in his arms, face scrunched in looking for more. The pebbles mirrored him: some dark like coal, others among the occasional shell a soft blue. He continued unaware of your standing, muffling the pain of hot sand beneath your bare feet, how it stung like needles until you crouched and kneeled beside him.

“They’re pretty.” Brae clutched them closer. He attempted a sneak at your paper like he had all afternoon, and, like you had all afternoon, you tucked it away faster. This far, so soon, it was nothing of significance, but it had promise; promise from the evening of tending to it and tonight would be the same. “Will you take them back with you?”

“We gather pebbles.”

“Why?”

Brae’s teeth nibbled on his lip. “Mer secret.”

“Pebbles are a… a mer secret?”

He moved in silence, lifting two shades of pebbles before humming. “Yes. Pick.” One pebbled a blotched black, it was no hard choice to pick the softer teal pebble. Brae slotted it in his pile before his thin lips twitched. “Can I see?”

“No.” His smile fell, and his arm trembled beneath the stones. Had they not threatened to fall, the paper would’ve been in his grasp by then. “How will you take them all with you? Do you have something to carry them in?”

On your next afternoon by his side, Brae fawned over the netting pouch with holes just small enough pebbles wouldn’t slip through. He entrusted them to you overnight for safe keeping, had watched you clutch your bag tight as it weighed you down walking along the cove, and was quick to welcome you back, already settled and sprawled against the sand. He hadn’t understood the purpose of snow angels nor sand angels, but his arms turned out in the sand, close enough to snag your shorts, until he left you again.

From that day, your time together crept earlier. Unintentionally, but he always waited no matter how early you came to the cove, and he began returning your questions. Never telling the mer secret of why he hoarded colourful pebbles, but little questions, the most repeated being why you refused to show him his portrait, and you had to swat him away from your paper each time. On hotter days when the rocky shade didn’t suffice, he crept closer until his cheek nestled to your thigh beneath the shade of your sketchbook and when a quiet overcame you, his fingers ran along your forearm, following the twitching in your hand as you drew him laying against you.

Once, he slept on your lap. The running of claws fell low and only then you succumbed, carefully tucking back the dried ringlets from his smoothed forehead. Little scales scattered his jaw and glided beneath your fingers, though you stopped yourself from following them further when he turned closer and against your palm.

You missed him when you were home. On the evenings with only a nearly finished portrait to call company, you missed laying with him.

It hadn’t taken long for you walk down late one night, a half-opened bottle tucked near your supplies. Being near the cove now helped calm you, even if you came now only to settle against the familiar rocks and close your eyes to the crashing waves. Like the swaying of your boat, the faint warmth of sand beneath you lulled you, and you woke only to a soft whisper of your name.

“I drank… I drank this.”

Damp hair fell to your lap, a quiet groan turned into your thighs. The now emptied bottle fell into the sand and rolled down when Brae laughed, at first quietly, before turning and reaching out to your face. The touch of his claws fell to a loose embrace around your neck, where now he swallowed.

This late, you didn’t want to ask why he was here, how he had known – if he had even known, or if he came just like you. You only wanted to enjoy his company, however… inebriated. It hadn’t been much alcohol, and you would only feel slightly lightheaded had you finished it, but with Brae running his claws down your chest, it had to have been a little much for him.

“Wanna see,” he whispered – slurred, trying and failing to lean up on an elbow. “Me. Show… show me.”

Perhaps through pity, you did. Only through pity, and not from the slow rolling of heat in the pit of your stomach from his claws flexing, drawing you down closer as you opened to the page. It had come a long way, far from ever doing justice to the creature gasping, his defined jaw lowering and dark eyes lifting to you, but you welcomed the flush of pride from his growing smile.

“You make me look pretty. Pretty here,” he tapped the unfinished page. “Am not-not so pretty.”

Your voice came out a whisper as you returned the sketchbook, empty bottle with it. “You don’t think so?”

“Me? Pretty?” Brae huffed, a hot breath blowing his dried hair. Falling in long ringlets, your fingers twitched and in the hopes he wouldn’t remember, you reached out to tuck it back. “My tribe. They’re pretty. Pretty. Not me.”

His cheek turned into your palm when you traced the smoother scales scattering his jaw, down to the dip of his collarbones. “Did they tell you that?”

“Always. Not-I’m not them-like them,” he mumbled, losing himself to the alcohol still thick on his breath. “Never one of them.”

The sincerity sickened you. You wished your art could be better, so Brae saw a true reflection of himself but if it couldn’t be, if your work wasn’t enough, then all you could do was say so. “I think you’re beautiful,” you whispered looking out to the calming see, so lost in it you hadn’t noticed Brae shifting closer until he was level with you. “You are. Your colourings and how you lay in the sun and… you’re beautiful.”

You had more to say, so much more, but sand became your pillow. It dirtied your hair with your head tipping further back, a deeper angle to the kiss with Brae’s thumb pressing down on your chin. His parting lips carried a salty tang, a stronger sense of your emptied alcohol, but it fell away with his breaths hastening when his curling tongue tasted you, too.

Those same lips rose into a sly smile when you found the strength to reopen your fallen eyes and found Brae kissing himself lower. Drunken touches only minutes ago felt coherent now, bunching up your shirt for his lips to warm your stomach. Pressed beneath the muscle of his tail, a slow friction worked you into a heat but he fell further with his kisses nesting lower, a pause when he tugged on your shorts.

Every touch made you tremble. Brae settled between your legs and the sight alone was burning through you. He ran soft fingers down, following your stiffened cock as it twitched and ached. His tongue jutted through his lips to the side almost in thought, a breath before his fingers stroked up your length.

“All this for calling you beautiful?”

The merman’s head canted and that curling tongue flicked up the underside of your cock. Brae’s kiss rounded against your tip until he had you hard in his mouth and your eyes rolling back from the heat of him. For a creature of spines and claws and fangs, he kissed you reverently, deeper breaths growing shallow until he swallowed around you.

Through blurring eyes, barely lifting from the sand feeling hotter beneath you, you watched and felt his lips closing around you, groaning with his flattening of his tongue along the sensitive skin. Brae braced a hand on your tensing thigh and when the other stroked lower, a slight touch of claws grazing, you groaned and rolled your hips deeper against his hollowed throat.

Soft hair threaded around your hand. His growl rumbled deep to your hips as he bowed with your guidance, arching up until his throat tightened against you. Heat rushed in your stomach and his thick tongue swirled across your tip. The warmth of his lips fell down to your thighs the longer your body trembled.

“No.” Gentle fingers pinched your jaw until your lips met his. He tasted of saltwater and you and faint alcohol, nipping your tongue. “For… for being you.”

Until the sheen left his eyes, his smile no longer lopsided, Brae rested against you. Passing whispers came beneath the darkening sky and many were from you; with each whisper of his beauty, though you burned saying it, he turned impossibly closer and ghosted lips down your throat, your chest, wherever you were nearest.

“Remind me to call you beautiful more often,” you said, leaning over him. Weak arms ran up to your neck and it felt like a goodbye when he kissed you sweeter. No teeth caught your lips and no claws curled into your nape, only a touch of foreheads before he struggled into the water.

He had told you not to watch – “it’s embarrassing,” he’d frowned, the dead weight of his tail dragging in the sand – but you watched him go, and it was the last you saw of him for almost a month.

Your corner of the cove remained abandoned by the merman. No marks in the sand were left to show if he had ever come and from there, you couldn’t see far out to the waves, not like a mer could. If he watched you where you waited for him with your heavy bag and a nearly finished portrait, he never came.

Floating no longer felt right. Being on the water wasn’t right. This beach was wrong without a glimmer of navy flitting near you and on the sunniest days, the water almost clear, a hint of scales wouldn’t be missed when you stared down. The portrait was finished now; it had been finished for days.

If something had happened to him-

The thought burned in your throat and you swallowed it back.

Worse: if something hadn’t happened to him, Brae chose not to see you.

And if Brae truly avoided you, he couldn’t stop whatever creature had begun bumping under your boat. The surface barely rose with the smallest of waves but your boat rocked again, until water splashed with every jolt, not so different from the day Brae had almost toppled you, but different in every way.

Brighter scales darted beneath you before you ducked back into the – relative – safety of the boat. This wasn’t your merman, but the churning in your stomach made you think it was his tribe. For whatever reason, they taunted you, and at least two were on you now, countering the other’s hits so all you could was curl your knuckles against the bench until they ached.

You were going to be sick.

What could a frail oar do against creatures like them?

You were going to be really, really sick.

Any option was as bad as the other. Shore was too far to swim to if you wanted to avoid a watery grave. Trying to row and lowering the oar into water would be surrendering your only paddle. You couldn’t leave your boat. The portrait bundled on your lap would be ruined; they would ruin it.

It stopped with a heavier jolt, tipping so far water flooded your feet. The jaunts fell away minutes ago but your head swum too much for you to notice anything more than the shaking in your knees, chest braced against your thighs. One final shove to your boat shoved everything against you forward. Your bag skidded, the bench almost giving out beneath you, towels tangling, but the final shove didn’t topple you.

It surged closer to shore.

Only the faintest glimmer of navy disappeared when you looked back.

Water hadn’t felt right because it wasn’t. The rumours of mer weren’t folktale falsehoods. Maybe Brae wasn’t like them, but they tried to overturn you. They tried to ruin you and your portrait and had they succeeded, the promenade steady under your running feet wouldn’t have been something you were likely to experience again.

Leaving the cities had been your distraction. Leaving your family and friends for a calmer life by the beach had always been your dream, to turn to a simpler, less stressful life, yet the beach couldn’t be your solace anymore. Thinking of even your boat made you lurch to your feet in need of something to occupy you, anything but that merman lurking in the sea, anything but the creature you still wanted to see again, the same whose face mocked you from a hidden sketchbook.

After hardly any time at all, the sudden loss almost brought you to your knees. If this was grief, you didn’t want it. If that pang in your chest was heartbreak, you didn’t want it. Flames came so near to the portrait born of hours and sun and kisses it singed, but burning the paper felt like a burning your heart from your chest.

One last time.

One last hope.

Once more, before you burned him from your thoughts. The same taunts that occupied you like intrusions softened at night, when you imagined that in place of your fist was his touch, slender fingers rolling where you cock twitched beneath him. They came in dreams, in moments you lost concentration, and stalked you down to the cove where you settled the bag, the portrait tucked beside a lighter and driftwood.

Whispers of your name from the stirring waves doused the fire in your chest. Brae made it no further than the reach of waves when you collapsed against him, rambling to his lips, “it’s done. I finished it for you but-“

“It will be beautiful.” Brae framed your face in cold and trembling hands. “Like you.”

There was a haste to his kiss unlike before. When he teased you before with light nips rousing your desire, those touches tore back your shirt and bared you to the cold night. Brae wasted not one breath that was better spent settling against you pushed apart thighs, where the hard palm of his hand fell low to rub over your shorts until he coaxed you to roll up into his touch. Slender fingers curled around your hardening cock and stroked how you had dreamed of for weeks, the pad of his thumb following up to tease the seeping slit at the head.

“I want to touch you too,” you rasped. Brae’s laugh softened in the whistles of wind at your grunt when he rubbed tighter to your thick base, but he was soon to gasp with your fingers curling into the rougher scales on his hips until he dragged against you. “Here?”

Not even the crashing waves at his back could drown out the small whine. Where his taut stomach melded with the lightest of his scales, a slick coated them. The touch of it burned against your fingertips, tracing the swollen slit. He pumped your cock in his tight fist how you teased him, arching up when he ground down, his erection rising thick from the slit.

From laying over you, Brae’s trembling lips brushed yours once more. The slow fall of his forehead brushed your hair, his curls loose against your cheek and fluttering with every deep breath. How long he could breathe without struggle on land changed, and the touch of your hips rolling up, rolling against him, clearly took a toll, shorter gasps nestling into your neck. This was an exertion for him; how he trembled at your thumb following where his hand, rolling over the slick on the swollen, purple head.

Grinding his cock to yours came with difficulty as his tail dragged in sand, but a shock of pleasure bolting up to your crown until you strained to rut against him again. The desperation locked in your bodies wouldn't settle for anything less than his cock against yours. Soft blue and deeper navy nearer the tip, your mouth dried. The memory of his lopsided smile after stealing your alcohol struck you, too similar how he slurred you name from curling his fingers and gripping your cocks together. The cry lodged in your throat muffled against the slope of his throat where you kissed the scales there, chasing the rush of his pulse beneath his jaw.

Slick from his slit and hot, it was too much to bite back every moan and curse when he rolled his hips in time with yours. Brae learned fast. His palm rolled your sac slowly, drawing rougher pants, but it was a tighter rub that made you buck up. Your cock jutted against his base, far thicker and swollen, but against the wetter scales and he cried, “again. Closer, please.”

His hot touch stirred you into a delirious high. Brae was twitching, his body rocking hard and harder when you met him faster, arching up to graze the slick, sensitive skin of his slit.

"I want you," he breathed, disoriented kisses slowing when he trembled. "Come. Come for me."

If not for him, you dragged against his waist so you could feel the heat of him yourself. Brae’s fingers locked and he felt it as you did, your cock stiff when you came against his stomach, his scales, rasping when he rutted into his palm and a thicker release came minutes later against your thighs after you traced where his cock thickened at the slit.

In the moment his final gasp left him and Brae fell against you, he ought to be drawn, to be remembered forever. Soft arms wrapped you close to the warmth of him, away from the colder winds in the shelter of the rocks. Hot sweat glistened on his scales. It stuck your hair to your cheeks, where he brushed it away with kisses and closed eyes.

“Do you think anyone saw us?”

Brae's breath caught, but he swallowed past it. His knuckles grazed down your chest and up again. Stray scratches stung beneath the touch and his parted lips kissed it away. "I hope so," he breathed, and the words stirred something in your chest. Something primal and prideful; you wanted to be seen with him, this merman come to you one day, who decided they wanted you. "You were very loud."

Panting to his chest, you smiled. "And you were beautiful."

If there were mer watching, you hadn't noticed.

No head rested heavy on your chest when you woke. Evening had been a blanket to his embrace, but the stars were your only companion at the cove. Sand settled without hint of a trail leading down to the sea and if it had been windy, you might have excused it, pardoned the long-lasting cold on your bare body.

Those questions he had brushed away with a press of his tail to your hips rose to your throat like a fuel on fire. Brae came back. Brae left, after taking you on the beach. He returned to the sea and he left you alone and bare and shivering. He abandoned you where his tribe could see, where they could reach you and your bag-

Your bag.

It had been right there, right on the rocks and wedged firm. No wind could part it from them. No wind had, and no wind would lay it so carefully by the sloping of the beach, the flap resting open. The bag looked deflated, almost like… like it was empty.

“This isn’t funny,” you called out. It was a joke. It had to be a joke. If not a joke then something far, far crueller and each staggering step nearer the waves was a twist of the knife in your stomach. “Brae?”

Harsh water frothed at your ankles. It rose in spitting shivers up to your knees then thighs, where the evening’s memories dried and washed away. The waters this shallow were clear of mer but not of what you prayed was litter. Up to your hips now, stumbling in choppy waves and the cry that tore from you was unholy. It burned up through throat like bile and stung in your eyes. It stung in your chest where your ribs caved, the soaked papers and hours of nights in your lounge wasted in one, cruel jaunt.

Not just his portrait wrecked on the waters he crawled from, but your sketchbook.

How you found your way home was a miracle. You should have stayed in the water. You should have let Brae drown you, too.

Had his tribe done it? Had they been there while he stroked your cheek and lifted your chin in a soft kiss, his scales warming where your thighs tightened? That was all you could think and all you could bear to think. If it were anything more – if he really was so cruel, you’d rather never know, would rather blame it on his tribe for tearing him away.

You could drown your boat like your sketches. That cove belonged to him. It belonged to his tribe and you wouldn’t go near the water again, not willingly and if you saw him again, it would be in nightmares.

The only family you had lived in the cities far from you and too far for them to consider buying your boat, even taking it off your hands. The wood of it was old and would burn on a fire; best to be burned completely than sunken. Brae didn’t deserve anything of yours. He’d drowned your heart with your treasure.

If this was how mer lured humans out, you weren’t against following.

Finding your boat moored and undamaged rose with a sting. The cruelty of his tribe ruined the wood beneath the water from their earlier taunting. You wished they had done more. If his tribe had sunken it, finding a dark bundle of seaweed cradling pebbles wouldn’t have made your legs sway beneath you. Whatever the mer secret behind them was, it wasn’t enough to entice you back. They weighed down your boat as they weighed on your shoulders but in settling into it before setting it alight, you couldn’t help but lift one.

It was the pebble he had asked you of, choosing from two. In your hand it felt like his scales, smooth and cold and wet.

It was still wet.

Pebbles scattered among larger stones as it fell from your hand but you didn’t watch them fall. You watched the fingertips careful on your arm, how they traced down your tense muscles with an unwelcome familiarity.

“The pebbles,” you seethed. “What do they mean?”

His touch softened and both hands rose to stroke against your unyielding fist. “Do you like them?”

Brae yelped as the favoured pebble smacked his forehead; you held another ready, but you hoped not to use it. Not to hurt him. The pain fresh in your chest urged to you but you couldn’t, and the tenderness in his hands slipping through your unfurling fingers held you closer.

His face scrunched. “When we wish to court a mate, we present pebbles. Do you like them?”

Brae never moved so slowly before – before he had wounded you enough to want nothing more than to hurt him; him, with the claws gentle on your palm and sharp teeth behind lips gracing your knuckles. No smile warmed his harsh face. Some satisfaction warmed you in shadows creeping beneath his eyes, where he lifted your palm. Loose tickled your fingers.

“I left my tribe.”

Brae’s whine quieted when you said, not in question, “taunting me wasn’t enough for them to accept you, was it?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Will they welcome you back if I take your pebbles?” Water splashed with his surging up and it was then you succumbed, lifting your hand to frame his dripping face. Every whisper and clashing apology fell beneath you, blood rushing in your ears from just his lips turning to your wrist. “I’m leaving, Brae. Pretend I accepted. Say you drowned me if it helps you return to your tribe. Why you would want to is beyond me, but-”

“We mate for life. This is me. These,” he whispered, and beneath the water, distorted netting carrying more pebbles swayed when he lifted another. “These are me. Proposal of courtship.”

Approaching you had to be at their insistence. The threat to topple your boat them, too, and why Brae had insisted on land. Safer, he’d said, but that was where he hurt you more than they ever had. They may have told him to use you or trick you to love him, but it hurt the same, at their tricks or his.

He hadn’t looked up from where you stroked his cheekbones until you asked, “what does it mean to leave a tribe?”

“If I stay, I trespass.”

“What do mer do to trespassers?” Brae turned his face into your palm and your stomach fell. The choice before you wasn’t one you welcomed or even wanted to consider, but you were already reaching for the pebble you had thrown at him and curling it in your hand. “If you follow me, that is your choice. I owe you nothing. Even this is more than you deserve.”

The boat was tipping.

“But if you follow me,” you drew in a sharp breath. “I say when the courting is over and if I accept you. If I refuse, you respect that.”

His breath warmed your lips.

“And I will never draw you again.”

It was a lie. That morning, his face plagued every breath. Every fleeting memory of his touch consumed you. Scatterings of scales covered old papers and already your fingers itched for more, to purge him from you, but when you accepted – if you accepted him, only then would you ever consider sharing your art with him again.

Burning your boat could wait until the water dried from the sloping of scales to your chest, lips soft on yours and apologies sweet on his tongue. It could wait until he followed you wherever you chose, offering pebbles and nights sprawled on warm sand, where you always woke with a head nestled against your throat.

When.

[manikas-whims]

A Tantalizing Surprise

[Read on AO3]

for Kanej Week (@kanejweek) Day 5: Love (domesticity)

It took around eight years and a lot of mutual support to achieve this level of intimacy. But he was glad they never gave up..

• Friend 1: write Inej in a silk dress and some sexy Kanej moment Friend 2: No! Write injured Kaz being patched up by Inej Me: *an unbiased friend* mixes both requests into this fic ~♥ • I headcanon Liddies being a gang run by women :)

Kaz Brekker utterly despised private parleys. Majority of the time they were a farce. Excuses crafted in order to get him alone and put an end to his reign forever. Everytime a haughty barrel boss offered him a drink or a condescending mercher invited him for dinner, it wasn't for the sake of striking amiable business deals with him. But to drive a knife through his rotten heart or shoot a bullet into that scheming head of his.

And yet he had agreed to meet the leader of the Liddies in a small coffee house on the bustling streets of the East Stave. They were stirring up too much ruckus and if left unchecked any longer, they'd embolden every other gang to go against the Dregs. Dirtyhands couldn't let that happen, now could he?

As suspected, no pleasantries were exchanged. The door was jammed shut immediately upon his arrival.

Their lieutenant, a burly, middle-aged brunette, attacked first. She tried smashing her wooden bat into his face but thankfully Anika blocked in time with a crowbar. Two other females followed, swinging rustic metal pipes at him which he managed to counter with his cane. Roeder was struggling on the other side, engaged in a one-on-one with their spider.

"This ends tonight, Brekker." Their leader howled from her perch atop a stool. "Barrel needs a queen."

"Barrel already has one." He responded calmly.

"The little whore? The one who's barely in this city?" she grinned sharply, getting up.

"Careful." His gaze turned steely and his gloved fingers flexed tensely onto the crow head of his cane. "I can gut you and your ladies for insulting my Wraith."

"I'd like to see you try." She sneered, madly lunging at him with her bare hands.

He sighed. This was going to be a long night.

The fight lasted for an hour. Liddies finally ran off when more Dregs arrived on the scene and broke down the coffee house's door.

Kaz dictated his gang to double the security around the Crow Club and his other establishments just in case. He then dug his fingers into his right leg in hopes of quelling a little of the ache there as he dragged himself back to his place. Not the slat anymore but a luxurious mansion on the Geldstraat. He had purchased it under a pseudonym after Councilman Hoede had passed away three years ago.

Blame Wylan for making him waste his kruge on a deadman's house. Though the dark wood walls and coffered ceilings looked amazing upon his first visit, he did get a few things renovated. Such as converting the dilapidated Grisha workshop into an ordinary shed and the addition of wild geraniums to the vast variety of flowering plants in the gardens.

Despite his habits, he pulled out a key that he kept within the hidden pocket on the left side of his coat and swiftly unlocked the large, black, entrance gates. The next few minutes of the long walk through the front stone pavement didn't feel regal, atleast not to his leg. He retrieved another key upon reaching the main doors. It was an odd experience every time— to enter a house this big without utilizing his skills in lock-picking.

He didn't stop to admire the blown glass chandeliers hanging from the ceiling or the stolen DeKappel displayed mockingly on the opposite end of the hall. He simply braced himself for the walk up the long staircase leading towards the more private quarters of the mansion.

His steps came to a halt only when he reached the master bedroom. And that too, not because it had been his destination all along but because he felt her presence.

He shook his head in disbelief. Maybe six months of being apart were taking a toll on him, playing tricks with his senses. Or maybe it was just an effect of blood loss due to the cut he'd taken during the fight with the Liddies.

He turned the knob and entered, the room same as ever. A bookshelf tucked in the left corner from the door, a vanity table with a full-length mirror right next to it; a door leading to the balcony and another door to the bathroom on the other end. And of course, the king-size bed atop which his eyes found her tantalizing form, aglow under the golden flame of the dimly burning lone candle.

Kaz regarded her silently. Her lithe frame was covered in a purple, silk nightgown that left barely anything to his imagination. Or rather, it was exactly the sight he envisioned every night. An ideal reverie where he pulled her onto his lap and kissed down the delicious curve of her neck. A fantasy where he relished in her whispers of his name. A fantasy where they did all the unholy things they're capable of now. A fantasy he had been yearning for yet kept locked in the darkest recesses of his twisted mind.

But this was different. This woman in his bed had longer hair and was far more breathtaking than any imagery he could will his mind to conjure. This was real. She was real.

"Saints!" She slid off the bed. "Kaz, what happened?"

Yes, she was real.

And she had chosen an interesting outfit for their reunion.

But it was unusual of her to dock in Ketterdam and not send a runner to let him know. Not to mention, she had somehow managed to sneak into their mansion without any keys.

"You're hurt!"

He scoffed at her concern and proceeded to discard his coat. After all the times they've fought and bled together, she should be used to witnessing him a little roughed up.

He peeled off his gloves with methodical ease and tossed them onto the table. Then he tentatively reached for one of her hands, his thumb stroking along the pulse in her wrist. There was no harm in confirming she was real and alive.

"Welcome back, Wraith."

She freed her wrist, completely ignoring his greeting, and placed her palms over his stubbled cheeks. Fortunately, no waves lapped up his skin. So he let her turn his face this way and that to check for any signs of injuries. When she found none, she smiled in relief and pulled his face down so their lips could meet. His arms immediately snaked around her waist. And he was glad her only reaction was a soft sound of contentment, not tensing or vanishing in his hold. It took around eight years and a lot of mutual support to achieve this level of intimacy. But he was glad they never gave up and worked together to get accustomed to one another's touch.

The contact overwhelmed him everytime, in a good way of course. It was exhilarating to be able to brush his lips against hers. A common gesture for most couples but a very big accomplishment for them. Just like everything else.

Everytime they shed a piece of their armor, touched longer, touched more, they counted it as a new milestone. He was thankful to their patience and to whichever of Inej's saints had blessed them for their persistent efforts.

The kiss deepened with every passing moment, all those months of separation provoking their dormant desires. But as soon as his tongue slid past her mouth, he felt a twinge of pain in his abdomen and broke away. "Fuck! What the hell, Wraith!?"

In trailing her hands along his torso, she had accidentally discovered the cut wound on the left side of his lower abdomen. She glared down at the small dot of blood staining his clothes. "You have absolutely no sense of self-preservation!"

He laughed at the furrow of her brows as she pushed him back until he was seated in a chair. "Takes one to know one."

He heard her huff before she disappeared inside the bathroom and returned seconds later with a roll of bandage, cotton swabs, and a disinfectant.

The blade of the knife had torn past both his vest and shirt but fortunately, barely grazed his skin. The cut wasn't deep or life-threatening, only seeping slow trickles of blood. However, that didn't stop his fiercely gentle partner from worrying. She began undoing the buttons on his vest and in the heat of the moment, he joked. "Someone is eager."

This time she glared at him directly and resumed her task. She was cautious in shrugging off the vest. Even more whilst removing his sweaty shirt.

As soon as the disinfectant-soaked cotton pad grazed his wound, he pressed his lips into a thin line. "Care to explain why I wasn't informed of your arrival?" He gritted out through the light haze of pain. He wasn't mad. But had he known, he would've cleared his schedule for her. Denied that parlay altogether and avoided being injured.

Her hands hesitated in cleaning the blood. "I wanted to surprise you."

Now his brows quirked.

"And was this part of the surprise?" He stared at the thin slip of nightdress snug on the curves of her beautiful body. His voice lowered an octave. "You put this on for me?"

She chewed on her bottom lip, a small action he had noticed her doing when in contemplation. "My intention was to doll-up for the King of the Barrel."

He shook his head, tugging on the hem of her dress. "Seems to me the Queen of the Seas was intent on arousing me with her alluring silks."

She punched his shoulder lightly. "You're bruised and bleeding and this is what you think?"

"Inej," He spoke earnestly, his ardent gaze focused on her as she continued bandaging him, "I always think about you."

"Aside from when I'm out there making money." He added as an afterthought.

She giggled.

He waited until she was done tying the last knot of the bandage to stand up. His fingers disappeared beneath her dress, glided tenderly over the flesh of her thighs in the moment he lifted her up. Her legs naturally came to wrap around his waist and she looked at him. "Kaz?"

He responded with a soft, lingering kiss before pulling back, his breath fanning her lips. "Still in the mood to surprise me?"

She nodded, her eyes averted shyly for once as he carried her towards the shower.

[obiwanobi]

okay but,, I can't get this idea out of my head of an au where anakin falls early, maybe halfway through the war– but instead of joining sidious or dooku he runs, terrified of himself, and stays somewhere he can't tear the galaxy apart like the darkest part of himself keeps goading him to. and he's there for a handful of months, and he's lonely and scared– until obi-wan comes to find him. and this man who anakin has loved for so long never stopped searching, razed a path through the galaxy (1/2)

I TOLD you all to stop sending me perfect prompts, god, here’s 3k that could be resumed by ‘it’s rotten work’ ‘not to me, not if it’s you’  because I have no self control:

"Anakin."

It's the first time in seven months that Obi-Wan pronounces his name with hope.

The back of the hooded figure visibly tenses in front of him. Obi-Wan can see his hand clenching around his glass, and his head starts turning in his direction but stops before Obi-Wan can see his eyes. Instead, it's in the Force that Anakin looks for him. It's a small, tentative tendril that crosses the space between them, ridiculously shy in comparison to the enthusiastic maelstrom that usually greets him when Obi-Wan extends his mind to Anakin.

But it's him. Too warm and barely controlled, the familiar flame of a burning pyre that Obi-Wan has never learned how to turn his eyes from.

 Headache-inducing and almost unbearable, have been some words used to describe Anakin's presence in the Force.  The most comforting of infernos, Obi-Wan has always thought.

Anakin feels surprised, and something close to joy colours the Force around him for a fleeting moment. Obi-Wan can feel the corners of his mouth turning up as he sighs affectionately.

"De—"

Then it all turns to panic.

He doesn't even have the time to realise that Anakin has retracted his signature behind durasteel shields the second it touched Obi-Wan's, because the man in front of him is already jumping to his feet, pushing the Twi'lek waiter away, and running for the exit of the cantina.

It leaves Obi-Wan stunned, arm still raised toward an empty chair.

Surprisingly, it's not panic that filled him, or even the persistent fear that if he loses Anakin now, after months of roaming the galaxy looking for him, then how long will it take before catching the smallest clue of his location again? No, this time, the worry and dread that has been his faithful companions for so long, now make way for something only Anakin knows how to infuse into him in the most inappropriate of times: exasperation.

"Anakin!" he yells, making the Rodian next to him jump in his seat. 

Rushing outside, his eyes scan the street, trying to find a tall figure in a brown robe at the same time he stretches his senses through the Force to guide him toward his infuriating former padawan. Not used to the brightness of the twin suns and the constant particles of sand and dust floating around, Obi-Wan is almost sure that the glimpse of Anakin's presence he felt for half a second is only due to his inattention and not Obi-Wan's skills. For once, Obi-Wan isn't going to complain about Anakin's lack of focus: he starts running right away.

Anakin goes through three sharp turns, two attempts at climbing a roof and even one force-jump through the window of a shop, but Obi-Wan is determined to follow him wherever he goes. Even if he has to apologise to every irritated person he pushes out of the way.

"This is ridiculous," he says loudly, when he catches the dark brown robe trying to zigzag between stands, "I don't even know why you're running away from me!"

He thinks he can see Anakin throwing him a look, but with the hood over his face and one of the suns starting to set in front of him, can't be certain. It's only when Anakin seems to miss a turn and finds himself a few seconds later out of the streets, at the edge of a cliff overlooking the desert and its endless dunes, that he realises his mistake.

They're out of town now. There's nothing but the background noise of civilisation left behind, a warm wind sweeping the sand between them, and the twin suns bathing Anakin's silhouette in a glowing light.

"An—" Obi-Wan says, trying to get his breath under control. He's not used to such heat, and all the running, Force-jumping and the sweating really didn't help. Still, he takes a step toward him.

"Don't."

Even if it's just a simple word, hearing the sound of his voice soothes a deep ache that has plagued most of Obi-Wan's nights for the past few months.

Anakin is facing the canyon, the dune sea and the suns, a dark form with a double shadow, only showing his back to Obi-Wan. Even if he doesn't show his face, feelings bleed through his shields, as if he's still a padawan trying to get an awkward hold on the Force. There are confusion and anger, most of it directed at himself, Obi-Wan notes, and an all-encompassing veil of shame. Fear is here too, blending the edges of the mess produced by the cacophony of so many emotions clattering against each other. Obi-Wan can feel Anakin realising the flaws in his mental defences, and the spark of mortification before he hastily tries to rein it all in.

For a second, Obi-Wan thinks he's going to jump down the canyon just to avoid the embarrassment of inadvertently broadcasting his emotions.

"I won't stop chasing you now that I've found you," Obi-Wan warns, before the idea comes to Anakin's mind. The jump wouldn't kill him, but Obi-Wan really doesn't feel like tracking him through rocky canyons, tusken traps and krayt dragons. "I won't stop before you tell me why you're running away from me."

Anakin lowers his head without replying, shoulders sagging. Obi-Wan's feet move slowly. His mind reaches once again toward Anakin's, brushing against him in a wordless question. All irritation gone by now, he adds quietly:

"...And why you didn't come home."

Anakin's shields shudder. "You shouldn't have come."

"Anakin, the Separatists had you as their prisoner for almost a month. Rex told me he saw Grievous dragging your body to his ship himself. The Council waited for their terms of release, and when it didn't come, we thought you were dead."

"The Council," he snarls darkly, "they probably were happy to finally get rid of me."

"You know it's not true."

"No, I don't."

"Do you think I was happy, then?" Obi-Wan retorts, trying to stop the need to grab his robe and shake some senses into him. "Do you think Rex and I enjoyed having to plead with the Republic War Council to give us more time to look for you?"

The dark robe in front of him shuffles a bit. "You took the 501st to look for me?"

"Of course we looked for you! We went through every report of Grievous' flagship presence and got every intel we could gather about your possible location. There was no clue in any Separatist outposts we raided," he adds, focusing on his words to stay composed, and not the memory of becoming desperate enough after another fruitless day to check black markets for familiar mechno-arm's parts. "And we were starting to believe that you were truly dead then, until... Until we found an abandoned facility. With a lot of battle droids destroyed, and Grievous and Dooku dead. Force-choked to death."

Anakin stays silent again.

In the horizon, one of the suns has settled low enough to brush against the dune sea. The light has turned to a deep orange around his silhouette.

Obi-Wan takes a step.

"There was a holorecording."

The only answer he gets is the sound of a sharp intake of air, and an intensity in the Force that always saturates the air when Anakin tries, in vain, to calm his mind.

Another step.

"I saw you taking a starfighter. I saw you leaving the facility, free."

Another step.

"Why didn't you come back to the Temple?"

"There was nothing for me there anymore."

The word stops Obi-Wan in his tracks.  Somehow, one sentence is harder to swallow than months of worry. He's always known that he failed to make Anakin feel at home at the Temple, or make him realise that there might not be parents or siblings in names there, but the feeling of kinship remains the same. But to hear him say that the sum of all these years spent there together boils down to nothing to him, still manages to crack Obi-Wan's composure.

The burn in his throat makes his next words difficult to pronounce.

"Why didn't you come back to me, Anakin?"

"BECAUSE I'VE FAILED YOU!" Anakin snaps, throwing his arms up and his shields down, and finally turns toward Obi-Wan in a dramatic movement of his robe.

The hood falls from his head, and even if the sunset at his back prevents Obi-Wan from seeing his expression, hidden in the shadow, he can't miss his golden hair forming an incandescent halo around his face. The Force has erupted in a bonfire within Anakin, crackling around him in warning to anyone who would approach it, white-heat fever and boundless darkness at the same time.

It tastes like ash on Obi-Wan's tongue.

He pulls his own shields a bit tighter around him.

"Why do you keep asking this question when you know what I've done? Why are you even here? Are you here to kill me? Because I failed you, Obi-Wan! I killed them and I felt nothing but satisfaction! I accepted the dark side, I welcomed it even, it burned through me and it's still burning right now, and I'm incapable of controlling anything, not even my own shields, so no, I couldn't come back and pretend I could still be a Jedi. And now you saw it, you saw everything, so I can't even prete— I can't..."

The swirling of emotions comes crashing down around Anakin so violently that Obi-Wan physically flinches, and it looks like the Force is suddenly cutting down the strings holding him upright. He crumples to the ground in a cloud of sand and dust, close, too close to the edge of the cliff.

There's only the sound of Anakin panting for a moment, long enough for Obi-Wan to gather his thoughts, and take another step.

Only he would be foolish enough to want to touch glowing embers.

"It doesn't change my question," he says calmly, like he's always done after one of his padawan's tantrum. "Why didn't you come back to me, Anakin?"

He thinks he can see Anakin opening his mouth to answer, but only a short derisive laugh leaves his lips before he drags his feet in the dust and turns away from him again.

Finally, —finally—, Obi-Wan is close enough. Stopping just a few centimetres from Anakin's back, his hand instinctively reaches for his shoulder but hovers right before touching it. And then settles there and squeezes. It belongs there, he thinks as Anakin makes a small noise at the back of his throat.

He expects Anakin to shrug off his hand, refuse his touch, just like he's refusing to look directly at him.

But he doesn't.

"I couldn't see you," he admits after a pause, eyes closed. "I don't care about the Council, or the Republic, or anyone else, but I couldn't... I couldn't bear the disappointment in your eyes. I didn't want you to leave me, so I left first."

"Oh, Anakin," Obi-Wan sighs, trying to swallow the affection in his voice. He pauses for a second, relishing the feel of Anakin letting him rub his thumb on his shoulder. "I am saddened and upset, yes. When I watched all that anger unleashed and how you succumbed to it, how you crushed Grievous and Dooku so easily that I could almost feel the dark side through the holo, I felt... I felt heartbroken."

The indignation he expected, or any sort of accusations to shift the blame on something or someone else, doesn't come. Instead, Anakin bends his head and pulls his legs closer to him, like he has just been hit.

"I'm sorry Master," he manages to whisper, face hidden behind his arms and hair, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—"

"Listen, listen," Obi-Wan begs rapidly, kneeling next to him. His hand moves from his shoulder to the back of his neck, trying to soothe him. "I was heartbroken for you. You were alone, in a terrible situation, being taunted, electrocuted, tortured. It doesn't excuse what you did, but, Anakin, you disappeared for months after that. You ran away without a word, without an explanation, and I couldn't— I couldn't believe you would voluntarily turn your back on us. I couldn't let the thought that you didn't trust us enough to help you go. And then... you called for me."

"No, I didn't." The muffled, petulant tone makes Obi-Wan smiles a bit. His hand moves up along his nape to Anakin's curls, stroking gently, pushing unruly locks behind his ears.

"You did. Unconsciously, probably, but you did. For so long, I couldn't reach you through the Force, but I kept trying every time I meditated, hoping to catch a glimpse of you, anything to make sure you were still alive somewhere. And one day, I heard you. Far, far away, barely loud enough to recognise, but I heard you. Wishing I was with you."

Anakin's hand clenches in a fist at the words. Obi-Wan ignores it, fingers still running through his hair in a rhythmic movement.

"That's why I've spent seven months looking for you, searching the galaxy for you. Because I wished I was with you too."

Obi-Wan didn't expect the wounded noise that escaped Anakin's mouth, and even less that his admission would cause Anakin to throw himself at him in a fierce embrace. Caught off-guard, Obi-Wan topples and falls on his back in a cloud of dust. In the Force, Anakin's shields come crashing down again, but this time, Obi-Wan doesn't draw back from it. Their bond suddenly bursts open, emotions spilling in all directions and showering him with a chaotic jumble of relief-longing-hope, eventually blending together to only leave lovelovelove.

"Anakin," he sighs, with his usual falsely annoyed and secretly fond tone that seems to be the only way he knows how to pronounce his name. Anakin, heavy on top of him now, doesn't respond, too busy nuzzling Obi-Wan neck. "The cliff is right there, we could have died."

"Don't care," he replies, squeezing his arms impossibly tighter around Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan chuckles, and he can feel more than hear him hums in appreciation at the sound, face hidden under his chin.

After months of extending his mind through millions of Force-sensitive beings scattered around the galaxy and still finding it empty, there is nothing more reassuring than being smothered by Anakin's presence in the Force. He tugs on their bond a bit, just to feel it, and when Anakin instantly tugs back, Obi-Wan's hand on his waist pulls him closer.

"Would you look at me, Anakin? Just for a second. I have yet to really see you."

There is a short pause and then a long breath against his neck before Anakin puts one elbow on the ground next to Obi-Wan's face, raises his head, and finally, truly looks at Obi-Wan.

"Hello, there," Obi-Wan whispers, as familiar blue eyes blink at him.

Embarrassment tinges the Force and his cheeks pink, and Anakin seems to promptly remember that his shields are non-existent right now and that he's lying flat on Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan watches, amused, as he awkwardly starts to untangle his legs from him and shifts his weight to get to his knees.

"Now, shall we—"

"Watch the sunset with me," Anakin blurts out, then realises what he just said and starts babbling. "I mean, we're already here and it's almost over now, but it's the only beautiful thing on this Force-forsaken planet."

"Oh, I'm not so sure about that," Obi-Wan grins as Anakin's eyes widen. He opens his mouth, thinks better of it and closes it, looking at anything but Obi-Wan. Taking pity on him, Obi-Wan holds his hand toward him to help him get up. "Also, Anakin, the next time you want to punish yourself, please choose to do it on another planet than Tatooine. I don't think I can handle one more day of the suns trying to roast me like an Endorian chicken."

"Yes Master, your fair skin will be my first consideration the next time I turn to the dark side."

"I'm sure it will," he teases, squeezing Anakin's hand as he pulls him into a sitting position.

Anakin rolls his eyes, but quickly ducks his head to hide his reddened cheeks.

And then it hits him.

Right at this moment, seated next to his former padawan, their feet dangling above the desert, easy banter and the quiet tune of their signatures melting into each other again, Obi-Wan is happy. Even if Anakin is still dangerously close to the dark side, even if the war isn't completely over yet, even if he's not going to get away with deliberately ignoring the Council's messages for the past few months, Obi-Wan feels at peace. Content.

Eyes closed, he whispers his thanks to the Force for not taking another one of the most important people in his life away from him.

He doesn't need to look at Anakin to know he's wondering what he's doing, and his smile only grows before taking his hand in his own. Anakin makes a surprised noise, raising his head to look at him. His expression turns almost alarmed when Obi-Wan cups his face, thumb rubbing lightly against his cheek.

"We'll figure it out, Anakin. I won't leave you."

He's framing his face with both hands now, and can’t resist pressing his lips to his forehead. Anakin's signature turns impossibly brighter at the touch, and between the new uproar of feelings tangled together, Obi-Wan notices a tinge of desire and want, that will definitely be analysed later and probably used to tease him a bit more. This shade of red does look lovely on his cheeks, he notices, pleased.

But he will have time to embarrass him further later. Now, Obi-Wan just wants to enjoy the moment with him.

"...Also because I can't. The starship I borrowed has been making a worrying rattling noise since I left the Mid Rim. It's a miracle I arrived on Tatooine in one piece, and there is no way I'm putting another foot in it before you can assure me that it won't explode the moment I activate the hyperdrive regulator."

Anakin bursts into laughter. "Borrowed? Who did you steal it from this time?"

"I would never—" Obi-Wan scoffs, falsely indignant at the accusation.

"Don't lie, Master, it's unbecoming of you."

"I left a very apologetic note behind, if you must know."

Anakin laughs again, and it warms Obi-Wan's heart like nothing has managed to for the past seven months. He leans on his side to rest his head against Obi-Wan's, bumping his shoulder with his. There isn't any space left between them.

"What would you do without me, Master?"

"Crash and burn, probably." 

Basking in the golden light of the sunset, Obi-Wan tries not to burst with how warm he feels with Anakin messy locks tickling his face and Anakin's breath near his ear and Anakin's hand in his.

The last of Tatooine’s suns goes down in front of them. 

The most comforting of infernos, Obi-Wan thinks as the scorching heat of Anakin's signature clings to him too tightly.

He doesn't mind burning at all.

[bleedingvengnce]

Guns and Roses | JJ Maybank Smut

Summary: JJ’s girlfriend doesn’t enjoy him wielding a gun around, and is very vocal about it. JJ needs to show her that he knows how to handle it, and her.

Pairing: JJ Maybank x Reader

Warning: Smut(a lot of it), unprotected sex, gun kink, absolute filth, 18+

A/N: Haven’t written smut in ages but I knew the world just needs a JJ Maybank who has a gun kink. Enjoy;) (Not Edited)

“Okay, everyone, listen up! Get the hell off of our side of the island!” JJ howled, resentment and hated wrapping around his words.

You watched her boyfriend aim the gun towards the sky, firing off two piercing warning shots to bring terror to those around him. Shrieks and cries emanated from the dispersing crowd as you watched on with wides eyes. Your mouth hung open in shock at how psychotic JJ was acting within this moment, a crazed looking creasing on his features.

“Are you fucking crazy?” You screeched, your voice hitting new heights.

“You idiot, why would you do that?” Pope backed your words, shoving his friend roughly, narrowed eyes directed at the blonde boy.

“I’m saving his life, ok?” His tone was desperate, hands thrown in the air as he unsteadily waved the gun about.

“You’re going to jeopardize everything!” You were glowering at him, seething with irritation at the stupidity of your reckless boyfriend.

“Whatever,” He muttered.

His eyes narrowed at you, treading towards his injured friend that collapsed limply into the frothy foam.

“Oh god, John B!” The group rushed towards him, Pope and JJ hauling his lax figure from the grips of the salty sea.

Your eyes caught onto the sight of the gun shoved lazily in the waistband of JJ pants, your gaze shooting daggers at the inanimate object. You always held a hatred towards the weapon, witnessing too many lifeless bodies on the news, headlines scribed, “Twenty Kids Shot Dead During the School Day,” or “Unarmed Black Man Killed by an Officer with a Gun,” or something to that effect. You were a known activist for stricter gun laws, wanting to rid the world of the ruthless weapon that has taken so many innocent lives too soon. You loathed it even more that JJ was well aware of your beliefs and completely disregarded your feelings by continuing to wield the gun around.

The two of you dropped Kiara and Pope off, the two of them being busy with work early the next morning or their folks needed them home for the night. All that was left was the annoying JJ and his knocked out friend sprawled in the back seat. The three of you finally arrived at John B’s place, JJ shifting the raggedy and run down van into park, the engine sputtering off. Your boyfriend dragged John B from the van, lugging the boy’s weight over yours and JJ’s shoulders as you both heaved him towards the house. He was heavier than he looked. You kicked the door open, tossing his body lazily onto the couch in the living room, John B’s eyes remaining shut throughout the entire process, his chest rising and falling in steady breaths as a sign of life.

JJ sauntered into the kitchen, pulling the door to the fridge open, gazing into it at the few items placed inside which was beer, condiments, and more beer.

“You want anything?” You heard him call out to you as you checked John B over to make sure he was ok, nothing bleeding heavily or any bruises that looked as though they may lead to internal bleeding.

You didn’t respond to his question, still frustrated over his actions from tonight.

“Ok, fine,” He mumbled, pulling out a bottle of beer and twisting cap off, downing the golden liquid as though it was water.

“What’s your deal, Y/N? Seriously still pissed about the gun?” Your eyes rolled at his words, not even sparing him a glance as you sat at John B’s side, the unconscious boy being your only distraction within this moment.

“Hey, I’m talking to you.” His words were hard, vicious as he leaned against the kitchen table, burning holes in the back of your skull.

“Yeah I’m still pissed, dumbass,” You hissed, shooting him a disapproving scowl, venom twisting around your words.

“Seriously, Y/N? It’s not that big of a deal,” He huffed, shaking his head at you, as though you were some silly child he couldn’t understand.

Though, he was the child in this situation.

“Yes, it is. You could have killed someone tonight. You could have killed multiple people. It’s not a toy.” The level of your voice was steadily beginning to rise, lifting yourself into a standing position as you faced your idiotic boyfriend.

“I know it isn’t. I know what I’m doing,” He defended, stepping towards you, eyes in slits as he stared you down.

“No you don’t. You’re careless. You shouldn’t even have a gun.” You were yelling at him now, motioning your hands in exaggerated movements as you inched closer to the boy.

“Yes I do. Stop being a nagging bitch,” He spat out poisonously, infuriated with you and your words.

“Are you fucking kidding me? You’re literally a child.” You were beyond seething, but knew those were not the right words to say to a raging JJ in this moment.

The two of you were inches away from one another’s now, the tension hanging thick in the air as you both glowered at each other, fury igniting within your irises.

“What did you say to me?” His voice was low, rumbling deep from within his heaving chest.

Though, something shook you to the core. You watched as JJ’s piercing gaze flit between your eyes and your pursed lips. The dark glint clouding in his eyes was not solely anger, but something else entirely. He instantly reached his hand up, fingers harshly grabbing at your jaw. Your eyes instantly widened at the contact, his calloused grasp tilting your head to the side in a vice like grip.

“I said, what did you say to me?” He quirked a brow after reiterating the question, his jarring stare unrelenting as he tsked in disappointment.

“I-I said you’re a child.” You tried to maintain the spiteful tone you directed his way, but your voice unwilling wavered.

Your brain was scolding your resisting body, the way he was manhandling you causing a dripping warmth to pool between your legs, mouth running dry at the way he peered down at you with his eyes storming with arousal.

“A child, hm?” He hummed, irises smoldering behind the tendrils of his golden hair.

“I’m not a child baby, and I’m going to prove that to you.” He dove into the exposed crook of your neck, using his blunt ivories to bite down on your sensitive skin.

An unruly moan tumbled from your lips at the roughness of his kisses. Faster than you could blink, you backed you into the wall behind the two of you, your head cracking against the wall with a sickening thud. Your mind was numb due to the plethora of suckling being done on your neck. He nipped at the bare flesh of your collarbone, your jaw still locked in his clutches, the other entangling around your waist to pull you flush against his muscled figure. You felt your stomach flutter at him leaving ragged purple bruises along your throat, your hands desperately grabbing at his biceps for more stability as your legs wavered.

“JJ,” You breathed out, nails digging into his skin as his free hand groped your butt.

“Let’s take this into the bedroom,” His words weren’t a question, but an order, pulling you into John B’s room, your mind unable to fully comprehend you would be having sex on your good friend’s bed.

Though, this wouldn’t be the first time.

JJ slammed the door shut behind the two of you, turning back to focus his attention on your heated figure. He roughly pressed his lips against yours, teeth clashing in a messy makeout. Your fingers weaved their way through his thick blonde locks, tugging at them each time his tongue dipped easily between your parted lips. His hand traveled from the protruding bone of your hip up the length of your body, finding its resting place on your throat. The tips of his fingers were gentle at first, loosely gripping around your neck, before her squeezed harshly, constricting your airway briefly, before releasing his deadly grasp. A whimper escaped your throat after he let up, though, not releasing your dainty throat. Your knees trembled at the aggressive behavior he was portraying. You could feel your panties soaking from the arousal dripping from your pussy, craving his expert touch.

“Mm, baby, you like that?” He purred, pulling away from the kiss with bruised lips, left over saliva from your mouth glistening against his beautiful mouth you craved so much.

All you could do was nod, words leaving you within this passionate moment, only heaving breaths, struggling against the weight of his hand, were heard.

“Come on baby. Tell me what you like.” He urged for you to tell him your deepest desires, the fantasies buried deep within your mind that you would touch yourself to while he was away.

“I-I like when you’re rough with me.” Your voice trembled measly, looking at him with desperation as you squeezed your thighs together, desperate for any sort of friction.

“How rough, baby?” He was attempting to coax those unspoken desires from your lips, his other hand clutching at your waist, fingertips roughly pressing into your delicate skin and leaving sore marks.

“So rough with me. So rough that I can barely breathe. That marks are left on me for days. I want you to show me that you’re in charge of me. I want you to take control.” You spilled your darkest secrets to your boyfriend, never having gone much farther with your sexual experimentation than brief choking and light slaps against your ass.

“Very good, sweetheart.” He nodded in approval, a devious smirk toying at his lips as he grabbed at your shirt, instantly ripping it off of you to reveal your bare breasts, a bra being no where to be found.

He didn’t miss a beat, his pretty lips wrapping around your nipple, suckling the pebbled nub into his mouth. His teeth lightly nibbled on it, a free hand reaching at to pinch harshly at the other one, leaving it red and aching after the twists and pulls with his fingers.

“JJ, please, I need more.” You practically cried out, your pussy throbbing in desperation at the built up tension he was creating.

“Sh, baby, I’m getting there.” He shushed you, nipping at your sore nipples, before standing back up straight.

Both of his hands found your hips, lifting you in the air and carelessly tossing you on the bed behind the two of you. You squealed after you hit the bouncy mattress, looking up at the approaching boy, tossing his shirt to the floor, revealing his chiseled chest that you could admire for hours on end.

His lips found yours again as he settled his weight on top of you, putting most of it on one arm while the other grasped at your jaw again. The kiss was messy, disorganized, but delicious, enjoying the way your teeth clashed together, tongues sloppily lapping at each other as he ground his hips down onto yours, relieving some of the burning arousal. As soon as the fervent moment began, it stopped, JJ having pulled away to gaze down into your eyes, seriousness creasing along his features.

“My love, do you trust me?”

You cock an eyebrow in curiosity as the clouding lust dissipated from his eyes, wondering why he could be asking this question.

“Well, it depends.” You answered honestly, completely unsure as to what he would say next.

“Please baby. I need you to tell me you trust me.” He eyed her carefully, urging her to respond.

You don’t understand the persistence within the question he was asking, but, after a moment of consideration, you parted your lips to speak.

“Yes, I trust you.”

The serious expression set upon his face eased greatly, the glint reappearing within his eyes, this time fiercer and more prominent than before, a devious grin spreading on his lips. You watched as one of his hands disappeared behind his back, soon returning with the weapon that you so loathed. You felt your eyes widen, eyeing the gun carefully.

“JJ...” You trailed off, but all you could think about was how the question and this weapon could be connected, “What’re you doing with that?”

You pieced the clues together, before finally landing on a surprising conclusion, staring at the boy with his favored toy, hovering over you with a hunger look pooling in his irises.

“Oh,” You breathed, your body reacting to the new toy brought into the bedroom to use, for him to dominate you with.

You felt your skin buzz with excitement at just the thought, catching your bottom lip between your teeth. He was awaiting your words, not making a movement as he desperately stared down at you. But, like you stated previously, you trusted him. You lifted one of your hands, the tips of your fingers dancing along his arm as you turned your head down in an accepting nod, going against everything your brain was screaming for you to do, listening to your body’s needs instead.

He grinned down at you, thankful you accepted his unspoken proposal. You felt the cool plastic of the weapon grazing against your cheek, feeling your heart begin to patter at how close the barrel was coming towards your face. His free hand trailed down your abdomen, fingers lightly brushing along the waistband of your shorts. You exhaled a shuttered breath, never breaking eye contact with him as his hand ungracefully unbuttoned your shorts, you kicking them the rest of the way down your legs.

JJ ran a finger over your clothed clit, feeling the wetness seeping through the cotton fabric.

“Mm, baby. You’re soaking.” He hummed in approval, running the weapon down between your breasts and around your stomach.

You felt his fingers slip under the waist band of your bright pink underwear, hovering over your throbbing clit, chest heaving with anticipation of his deliciously long fingers. You needed him so bad, lifting your hips to meet his touch. He shook his head in disappointment at the action, knowing how much he loved to tease you. The hard plastic of the barrel dug into your hip bone, JJ using it to press your core back into mattress below.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Your boyfriend tsked with displeasure, a whine emitting from your throat at the feeling of the weapon making you compliant as it jabbed at your skin.

“Please touch me, JJ,” You whined, tongue swiping over your dried lips as you lay in expectation for his pleasurable touches.

“What ever you say, princess.” Without warning he dipped his fingers into your dripping slit, narrowly missing your clit.

A wanton groan tumbled past the escapes of your lips, eyes rolling into the back of your hair at his calloused finger tips dragging between your lips. He repeated the motion, this time flicking over the overly sensitive nub. Your hips jerked up at the sensation, knocking against the gun still pressed harshly into your abdomen.

“Oh yes!” You yelped as the tip of his fingers circled your clit, applying different types of pressure against the nerve endings.

The weapon he clutched onto went back to circling around your stomach, gentle touches as he rubbed mind numbing figure eights onto your clit, feeling yourself pushing closer to the edge with each motion of his finger. He knew just how to touch you, his lips easily caressing your inner thigh as he lay between your open legs. He practically disregarded the deadly weapon, pulling your panties aside to flicker his tongue across your core, the new sensation dragging you right near the edge of release. JJ’s lips effortlessly wrapped around the nub, sucking harshly while he used his free hand to plunge two fingers within your tight hole, curling the two fingers upwards. You felt him brush against the spot that makes your legs tremble, breathless moans coming from you at the pleasure he was creating from his luscious lips and long fingers.

Your fingers weaved into his golden blonde hair, watching him eagerly lap at your core, his gaze flickering up to your face.

“JJ, I’m-” Your words were halted by him humming against your clit, that being what caused you to hurl yourself directly over the edge, your orgasm consuming your mind.

Your eyes snapped shut as you arched your back into the air, your mind dropping into a world shattering orgasm. Your legs twitched as he let you rid it out, gently slipping his fingers out from inside of you, giving your clit one last lick before retracting from between your legs. A glistening liquid coated his lips as he grinned down at you, his bulge large and prominent between his legs.

“My turn, baby.” His pants were on the floor in second, his hands rushing to rip your panties off of your body.

He roughly gripped your hips, lifting them to meet his. He grasped at his now exposed cock, running his hand over it before slipping it over your still dripping pussy. You felt it bump against your overly sensitive clit before swiftly sinking the length inside of you.

“Oh fuck, Y/N,” JJ hissed, relishing in the feeling of your tight heat clenching around his dick as he bottomed out.

Your eyes fluttered shut at the feeling of him sully stretching you out, loving the way the veins of his length grazed against every deliciously sensitive part of your heat. He then pulled himself so just his tip was remaining, before slamming back into you. He found a perfect and rough rhythm, pounding into you over and over again, unrelenting. You felt the click of his gun returning, this time, digging into your temple, the barrel positioned in a dangerous spot. Just his finger twitching, and you could have a bullet in your skull. His other hand harshly grasped at your hips, bruising them with his grip. You felt adrenaline pulsing through you with your throbbing core. You were ashamed how much you loved the way the weapon was stuck again your head, his length wrecking your insides as he violently thrusted inside of you. You loved how he had complete and utter control of you and your body, holding your life in the palm of his hand as he turned you into a moaning and sweaty mess.

“Oh shit, baby, I’m close.” You gazed upon him, his face creased as his brows furrowed together, his thrusts becoming sloppy, the weapon that was previously against your skull now discarded on the table next to you.

You urged him on, meeting each snap of his hips until you felt his warmth filling you to the brim, his length pulsating within you. He let out a rumbling groan, squeezing your pelvis tightly, before collapsing on top of you in a sweaty heap.

“Holy shit, JJ,” You breathed out, unable to fully comprehend what had just occurred between the two of you.

“Holy shit is right.” He rolled off of you, gathering your petite body in his arms to comfort you, the both of you savoring your mind blowing orgasms you had.

“So, did you, did you enjoy it? With, you know?” He couldn’t fully formulate the words, but he didn’t have to, you understanding what he was referring to.

“In a way, yes. It was horrifying, scary, intense, and pleasurable all at the same time. I loved how dominant it made you, how fully in control you were.” You confessed, staring up into his beautiful blue irises.

“Maybe we can do it again.” He winked, a teasing tone threading his words, but knowing he was more than serious in wanting to partake in something like that again.

“Maybe let’s not point a loaded gun at my head again.” You stated bluntly, though, a little part of you couldn’t help the way your thighs tensed at him fucking you like that in the future.

“I hate to tell you this, but the safety was on the whole time.”

[ktheist]

when a dragon loves a witch.

min yoongi thought he was the shit.

not because his heart-shaped face was on the prettier side of the standards of beauty that’s eating away at this old, waning world. nor is it because he has at least three people coming up to him and confessing their undying love every year. but because he thinks he’s- “the only few people in the world that can murder you and leave no forensic evidence behind.”

the way his eyes light up with confidence and excitement at the thought of dueling you - is adorable.

he thinks he can beat you. the ancient one. the beast that once soared the skies with wings made of gold and breathe fire upon a kingdom and send even the proudest of kings to their knees.

nowadays, you laze around in your apartment  as a human girl. the actual humans have build warheads and nuclear weapons capable of detonating an entire mountain. you dare not find out what they’ll do if they found a growl of a beast rocking the skies.

because as powerful as you are, there is nothing more powerful than a human with a heart and persons to protect.

“us dragons turn to flower beds when we die,” you say in a matter of factly - an aging knowledge that’s about to be forgotten from this world, “technically, there won’t be any body to make my grave a crime scene.”

admittedly, min yoongi wasn’t a young magic that needed nurturing anymore. he could have been an ancestor in a few coming centuries. one that would rise up above all others. that was why he was half-serious about ending you.

if he’d proven himself by reaping the ancient one’s soul, witches all over the world would have flocked to him like crows. he’d proved himself worthy of the title. would be the youngest ancestor in the history of magic.

if he’d known you were no human girl and if you’d known the man with the darkest eyes was no ordinary person that one unfortunate night, you both would have, without a doubt, clashed against one another.

“what - what the-“ he’d stared at the noticeable protrusion of your belly with rounded eyes, a contrasting sight from when you first wakes him up to kick him out before noticing the weight that wasn’t there on your human body before, “what did you have last night?!”

he meant food but the answer was sex.

because you’ve had a fair share of human males and females in your lifetime. none of their seeds managed to stay with you long enough to become another being - another creature that is not wholly dragon nor human.

before he could react, you’d pinned him down, knees buried on either sides of his waist, talons digging into the skin of his neck. you’d felt the familiar warmth deep in your throat as you growled a voice you haven’t heard of in a long while, “what are you?”

there was flash in his eyes - possibly when he saw yours turn to slits, a sort of panic and understanding that the woman he’d just bedded was no woman at all.

so you made sure to draw blood from where your talons graze against his skin - it was red and so very human, “you have one chance. use it well.”

“okay, okay!” he held up his hands like a man guilty of a crime, “i’m a witch!”

at that, a low rumble rose from the depths of your belly. no wonder he looked human. felt human.

in your rage, you’d hissed out that the thing growing inside you was his child, “i’d been so careful not to come across another species,” all you saw was red as you’d turned to him, “i should kill you.”

the odds were against you - an ordinary witch’s seed wouldn’t have been able to impregnate you. his magic was unbridled - and as you stared at the man-like creature who’d stared back at you without so much as fear, you knew he knew that too.

as much as he was a witch closest to the level of an ancestor, min yoongi was not a killer. or he was not going to murder a child at least.

“this is no child- it’s a curse!” your talons and slits were the only things that came back. not even your magnificent scales appeared on your skin. it was happening - this- this creature was controlling your body, forming and deforming it to suit its needs as it grew inside you.

“i’m not going to stop you if you don’t wish to keep it. it’s your body... but wouldn’t you want to know what’ll happen... how it’ll be?” for once, there was no trace of maddening fascination in his eyes ever since he found out what you were and what he’d caused to grow inside you.

so you kept it- you kept the creature. mainly because you still had the end of the world to live and regret if you didn’t find out yourself.

min yoongi didn’t move in with you - he had was living with his covenant of witches that would’ve suspect something wrong if he decided to move out from what seemed to be unsuspecting apartment building on the skirts of the city. he did, however, drop through tears of reality.

he brought you ordinary human foods and potions that could help sustain you, “we don’t know what keeps it alive,” he explained while you were popping chips into your mouth, legs propped on the coffee table whilst a mediocre human show was playing on the tv.

you both later found out that it was self-sustaining, living and thriving inside you for almost a century as times change and you’re forced to change with it. you bought a new penthouse because the old one was getting rebuilt. yoongi still visited you everyday - he fucked you everyday too because this thing - this creature, it thrived upon the fleeting moment when both you and him were connected.

in your burning heart, you’d known what exactly kept it alive, “our lifespans, yoongi,” you’d said once you’d come down from your high after fucking like rabbits - such pure, defenseless creatures, “it’s draining our lifespans!”

yoongi didn’t say anything but he didn’t leave either when it was the easiest for him to escape through a tear and disappear for who knew how long. he’d stayed and made human food and kept your part in the fridge when you didn’t join him for dinner.

it was the note tacked up on the lid of the container, instructing you to pre-heat it for 3 minutes, that made you crawl into bed with him in the extra room that’d become his. with your protruding belly and all.

“i’m scared, yoongi -” and for the first time, you’d felt fear, “-i’m scared it’ll turn into a monster. i’m scared they’d come for her and i’m scared i’d love her even then.”

and as he wrapped his arm around you and kissed your forehead, you’d realized that he’d loved the creature even before you did. fascination was just the surface of his abundance of love for something he never knew. it was anticipation. excitement for a sign of life. love from a father to his child. even if it turned out to be a creature of destruction - an abomination given by the gods to the evergreens.

you sought solace in each other’s warmth but you didn’t truly love each other.

and yoongi still talks about taking you on in a fight. as he does now.

“just... any ordinary flowers?” he asks, ever the curious one - you don’t know whether it is out of the sincerity of his heart or if he’s conjuring up some wicked scheme to extract the essence of the flowers at your death.

“it depends on what we loved most in our lifetime,” somehow, you keep talking, “red roses for undying passion, alchemilla mollis for those that managed to find love, though unrequited and can never be... every kind of flower you can thinking of,” involuntarily, your hand goes to your belly, “but none of us have ever had carnations embed our graves.”

“what meaning does carnations bear?” yoongi walks over to you from the kitchen, stacks of sandwich piled on top of a plate and placed on the coffee table in front of you.

“admiration... affection... devotion... a mother’s undying love,” a smile tucks on the corners of your lips.

the hand yoongi takes is bare of its talons. you’ve sworn never to summon them in his presence. so you can never hurt him again. the print of his thumb is callous against your skin - he could have charmed them to be as soft as a baby’s but he didn’t want to erase the traces of his life’s worth of wand-wielding.

his lips are soft though, as he brings your knuckles to your skin, sealing his devotion for you and your child.

x

when the time comes for the unrelenting pain - akin to black arrowheads struck into your scales and digging into your flesh - comes, you remember wishing you’d turn into flowers, just so it’d end faster. you remember losing all feeling in your body but having lie there in sweat and tears as yoongi’s warm spells seep into you. it only numbs the pain by a notch. but you appreciate them anyway.

then you hear it, the first cry. pushing yourself up, you see yoongi, rocking a child in his arms, cooing to an ancient lullaby in a forgotten language than only his kind knows.

“she’s so very human,” you say some time after the cries quiet down into quiet snores.

“maybe because you were in your human form when you carried her,” yoongi suggests as he stares at the child sleeping next to you on the bed with like he’ll never want anything else in the world.

shar.

ever so lovely as the light of the first dawn. the time she was born. she bears so much resemblance to her father, jet black hair, curled to frame her face. when she smiles, she smiles a gummy smile just like her father’s. the scales that cover her skin when she’s upset is undoubtedly yours. her eyes are of no other, bearing the galaxy within them as well as ether’s flames.

perhaps it’s yoongi’s magic and your power that rests within them.

either way, you adore your little seedling very much.

a century for you is a year for her. but neither you nor yoongi mind for you have an eternity together.

that is, until you don’t.

the first sign of war erupts when you were showing her how to light up a candle with just her breath. she ends up melting too many candles and the penthouse smells of pinewood and lavender and sea waves.

yoongi steps through the reality, bloodied and bruised but alive.

“we have to go,” he says with a kind of urgency you’ve never before heard in his complacent years of living, “the dark wizards - they know - they infiltrated the covenant disguised as one of us and one managed to touch my hand - it was a mind reader.”

“dada?” shar gazes up at her father with those galaxy eyes like she’d understood every word he’d said even though she was supposed to be three according to human developments.

“shar, darling, we have to go away for awhile - remember i used to travel a lot back when i was a dragon? we’re going to travel!” you say and she claps, echoing ‘travel! travel!’ with a sort of zeal only children could have.

her first step through reality makes her scales appear. she’s crying and clinging onto you like she’s scared and in pain and confused.

“i don’t get it- she can do simple spells- tears shouldn’t hurt her,” the crease in yoongi’s forehead is an alien sight so are his wakeful eyes compared to the sleepy droop that says he could fall asleep on the floor if he wills it.

“there’s still not much we know about shar and what she can’t or can do,” you grip his hand tightly, “it’s not your fault.”

so you’re on the run and death follows not too far behind. the cerulean skies you once soared beyond and above are now marred with a kind of darkness. darker than midnight even in the daylight.

the witches of the north shiver at the sight of your child’s eyes. the moon elves claims that shar is not a creature of this world. everywhere you go, none are willing to assist.

and you find yourself within the walls of your previous dwelling. back when dragons rule the lands and skies. back when no foolish creature ever dares to venture into the darkness of a cave for fear of a slumbering creature with scales and fire as breaths.

“all i remember is that i was alive - playing hide and seek with the faes until they die of old age,” the burned patches of the rock walls still remain eons later, “i mourned them for a century before i stepped out - i was so young, the humans shot me with black arrowheads and i burned down their villages.”

the scar from where one struck you still mars your skin - human or dragon, it’s still there.

yoongi traces the slant of the scar of your shoulder as if he’d take the pain and the horrendous memories that came with it if he could.

“take care of shar, yoongi.” you finally say, looking over at the sleeping child by the fire place.

the thought of your young, forming bones having to bear nights on the hard ground pains you more than a mere strike through your scales.

“we’ll take care of her together,” he kisses the top of your head.

that night, you fall asleep, cuddled up around your child with your hands held together as if vowing to protect and cherish. and cherish you will. as well as protect.

the dark wizards find you right where you want them after you’d left the cave. it was hard not to notice the trails of fires you’d left behind as you wait for them in a cafe, abandoned with tables and chairs knocked over as if whoever came before you left in a hurry.

you tried making your first mocha latte with what ingredients they left behind - doesn’t taste as good but you don’t even have to wait long for the shadow to arrive and a man in a dark cloak takes the seat across from you.

“drakaina,” the words are slurred and dragged out but you’ve lived too many centuries not to know your own name.

“stop looking for them and i’ll serve as your aide,” it isn’t an offer. it’s an order. the cloaked figure lowers his head in submission of the power that reeks off your existence yet dare asks.

“but what can an ancient being like yourself do... your greatness,” he finishes off with a hail.

the first growl rips through the skies on an afternoon you know not what day of. nor what year. your chest lights up with flames of hell. scales line what used to be human skin as the roof caves over your growing form. the buildings collapse in with the gust of wind that your wings summon.

the wizard laughs. a manic look in his eyes.

x

the war does not last for longer than half a decade. none is able to withstand you. those that do lose their souls.

you’ve taken lives before without regards to its sanctity. you take them now with the sole regards to the two whom you lay your own for.

then comes the golden one. a dragon before your time - before most creatures’ times. if you’d made kings bow, she’d made the world submit to her will. that was, before she forgone it all and went into slumber. to think the golden one, fraener, would have allowed herself to be awoken by measly wars and to let a measly creature ride her- you must have caused the greatest of grief.

“child, your eyes scream anguish,” her voice rings loud and clear in your head as you zoom past her, barely missing her claws.

you do not respond.

“you’ve given birth to a life,” she sounds fascinated. delighted.

“i do not wish to fight a sister,” you project your own voice onto her conscience.

her growl thunders through the sky as she pins you down with her foot, “then you will die?”

“fool!” the cloaked wizard hisses from somewhere in the mountains, “get up! fight! or we’ll go for your child next! we know where they are.”

“i wish for a world where my child no longer needs to hide, please,” you whimper.

“your sacrifice is noble, young one,” her claws break your hard scales, you hear the howl of a dying beast.

the wizard’s incessant demands blur in your ears as the flames in your chest spreads through your body, burning your soul and eating you alive. in your last moments, you recall fraener’s ‘rest well,’ bid before petals peek through your scales. pastel pink, deep red and violet carnations fill your sight before you heart bursts.

“what meaning does carnations bear?” yoongi walks over to you from the kitchen, stacks of sandwich piled on top of a plate and placed on the coffee table in front of you.

“admiration... affection... devotion... a mother’s undying love,” a smile tucks on the corners of your lips.

x

min yoongi thinks he’s accomplished enough. acknowledgement of the magical community and treaties protecting beings mixed by blood.

he manages to protect his child from the hands of those who wish to take her away from him. fought an ancestor who went against him and succeeded.

he resides in the mountains, not too far from your dwelling. surrounded by fae’s and rock mountains and wallerbogs. she’s five centuries old and rather use her wings to catch the fae’s in hide-and-seeks rather than use her legs. the galaxy in her eyes never dim - not when she woke up without her mother greeting her with a kiss good morning, not when she suddenly stops giggling at the stick man yoongi made to keep her company when the first growl of a dragon tears through the sky and not when the last whimper echo throughout the skies before the golden one ended their ancient one.

the world started moving again. but his heart stopped along with yours that day.

the city you’d fought fraener in is left in ruins with wild carnations covering every crack of the earth - pluck one and two more grow.

“mama!” shar squeals and yoongi thinks he’s gone mad.

a woman is laughing and hugging his child when he’d cast a spell over the forest to make it impossible for those with hostile intentions to even pass through. let alone come all the way into its heart.

you look beautiful, laughing and lifting your child up in the air. trickles of melodic sounds falling off your lips.

yoongi doesn’t even want to know how - he gathers you in his arms, feels you against him, breathes in the familiar sweet scent of your existence.

only after he’s kissed you all over your face as you giggle, does he asks, “how?”

you show him the traces of scales that are still red and fresh on your skin - “i don’t know, the last thing i remember was fighting the golden one and then i woke up as a whelp somewhere in northern russia in a cave- i came as soon as i could transform into a human.”

it took awhile - a few decades to find your way back. but where your heart and soul lies, that is where you’ll always return to. no matter where you are, not matter what you are.

you’ll always find way back to your witch and little seedling.

x

note. this a request for the drabble game i’m holding. this is a stand alone, complementary piece to my long fic called wartime child! (jjk).

anyways, hope yall enjoyed!

[uwua3]

Yo! Can i ask for a cute Pirate AU with an adventure seeking MC pirate captain, who, when she and her crew are making a stop at some port, meets her childhood friend, Tenma, with whom she has romantic tension, only Tenma is a big blushing tsundere mess, and MC is verrrryyy oblivious to his blushiness, but accidentally innocently flirts with him?? If that makes sense? Also oops the soldiers have seen me, the wanted pirate, wanna get out of here and join my crew?

summary: a deal is made between a pirate captain haunted by their legacy and an island medium who wants to go home

warnings: alcohol, death (mentions), cops/police, crime, fights (physical/arguments), fires, ghosts, military, near–death experiences, pirates, slow-burn, swords, unrequited love/love triangle

author’s note: thank you so much for your patience requesting this pirate story~ i did my best to do this justice, as i love pirates more than anything! .*:ﾟ（｀・ω・´）ゝﾟ:*. this was a jolly good time to write, thank you! (please let me know if you would like a part 02 to this, as it ran longer than expected)! thank you!! :D

word count: 6,163

music: ship in a bottle – fin

captain, let’s make a deal.

☀️🌻 sumeragi tenma

even out at sea, you couldn’t escape the fire that destroyed your town years ago. the fire that made you become a pirate captain

you were born by a local village by the coast, where the air tasted like salt no matter what and trade was your community’s main economy

it was home. a place where everyone knew each other as family, where the sun was hot upon even warmer smiles and the euphoric laughter of children surrounded the island. this was the land of the happy, the free, and the united

it wasn’t until the damn navy—your first enemy until death—came

according to heresay, pirates were supposed to plunder and pillage without mercy. pirates were the villain and yet, what would the navy be then? after what they did to you, they were anything but heroes

yonaguni was made of tall palm trees that provided shade during the eternal summer that sunburnt your skin, floating markets by the pier with tricky elderly and learning apprentinces in the family business, and rare wildlife not found anywhere else

now, it was nothing more than hell. you could remember it all—how the flames licked the open wounds from navy seamen, the screams of the innocent replacing what would’ve been last words meant for decades later, the sound of crashing trees blocking every available escape route as birds flew away in the distance

you were just a yonaguni native, and now, there was nothing left of your hometown. it was permanently erased from world history forever, and you were the sole survivor of the island, making you the most wanted vigilante alive

it had been years since you last had a nightmare of the attack. was haunting your brain and traumautizing you for life during every waking hour not enough?

but, you knew the answer why you couldn’t stop mourning the loss of yonaguni

it was nearing the anniversary of your friend, sumeragi tenma’s, death

and, as you climbed to the crow’s nest with the power of the ocean running through your salted veins and spite overwhelming you in the deepest, darkest parts of yourself, you could see it over the horizon

the navy said dead men tell no tales, but you were alive, and you would be a legend

“all hands ahoy or you’ll be given no quarter!” (everyone on deck or you’ll be shown no mercy)

“aye, captain!” your crew replied eagerly, their loyalty unwavering and strong as always. you stood atop of the main mast, surrounded by vast ocean bordering a blue, cloudless sky. even without your telescope, you could see everything in the world

beneath you sounded the swing of the lines (rope) against the wind before two feet landed in the crow’s nest. the sailor had the type of agility that only came from a boy born on sea

“cap, don’t tell me ya forgot about me?” your quartermaster, rurikawa yuki, grinned (a rare sight that only came when the ocean smelt strongest of salt and treasure), standing at the ledge whilst holding onto the lines with one hand. any other novice would’ve immediately fallen off with how strong the random gusts of wind were, but yuki was an enigma and your second in command for a reason

“ahoy, yuki! so long as the jolly rodger waves, this crew will always be ready to set sail.” you responded, sliding down the mast to be in the crow’s nest as well. yuki just rolled his eyes, crossing his arms and leaning upon your frame like it was nothing

“don’t hornswaggle (cheat) me, cap. what are you thinking about?” yuki read you like a map, as expected of the second best cartographer (after master boatswain muku, of course) in all the seven seas. you tried to remain present in the moment, with the wind flowing and sky clear, but it wasn’t enough

“... tell me, yuki. is it so easy to read the distraught upon my face?” you joked, but it fell flat as yuki raised an unimpressed eyebrow at your facade. yuki didn’t take bullshit from anyone, not even his own captain

“aye, do not be acting as if you’re feeding the fish (about to die), captain.” yuki carefully watched if any of their small crew was eavesdropping, but the rest were doing their proper tasks for the morning. cartographer muku was happily reading directions to helmsman misumi. the two were a fantastic pair, considering the “sky” ship hasn’t sunken

surgeon kazunari was dutifully sanitizing his medical tools besides them, taking some time to laugh loudly at some story misumi was dramatically reenacting as he spun the wheel skillfully

“boom about!” yuki called out without looking away, already feeling it in his bones moments before anyone else could. his intuition was unheard of, and you watched no one hesitate as they ducked just in time

“sorry~!” misumi responded without any apologetic tone to his voice whatsoever. his sailor’s grin was infectious and wide, a smile only those accustomed to the fatal winds and waves of the ocean could make. just like everyone else on the “sky” ship, they all were forged by the sea

“smartly make way to land before i toss you off myself!” yuki snapped, but it held no malice. he rolled his eyes unimpressed when kazunari laughed at misumi’s sarcastic salute, knowing pirates did no such navy thing without mockery

“oh, dear yuki, how could i drown with you by my side?” you reached over to ruffle his hair, the precarious creak of the wooden mast the last thing on your mind as yuki swatted at your hand, irritated by the littlest of things as always

“you’re right, i’ll have your head first anyways.” yuki said with no malice, giving you a small frown as his calculating eyes glanced over you once more, trying to find any cracks in your confident visage. when he found nothing, he climbed back down, seemingly unsatisfied when you didn’t break under his stare

(you were one of the few on the crew who didn’t flinch. the other was misumi, who just had no fear towards anything, so it wasn’t personal. after all, misumi was the finest swashbuckler around!)

ahead, your acute sight narrowed in on the growing formation in the distance, your gut tensing before realizing it was far too large to be another ship

with a grin, you hanged over the edge (a habit that no longer scares your crew), your voice amplified as it was carried downward by the wind. it was to be expected, of course, as a yonaguni native, your town always had a special connection to nature that no one else did

“my men, turn your heads and look forward into the horizon! what do you see?”

“land, captain!”

“then let us sail faster! the sooner we reach the shores, the quicker you all can take a damn shower!”

with a shared lighthearted laugh, everyone focused on their role and position towards the land mass ahead. whether it was the possibility of smelling like something else other than a siren’s cove or something more, you smiled, forgetting about last night’s sleepless disturbances

up ahead was fukusaki, sky crew’s next location for the night

after three months or so on sea, your crew’s resources were dwindling (much faster since everyone had a bottomless appetite). it was time to visit a port town to stock up and set sail the next sunrise

sure, it was a rushed habit of yours, but it was never good to stay in one place for too long. that came with the risk of losing again...

besides, who liked a crew of pirates to suddenly come to the town square in their stained clothing and gleaming swords?

after barely securing a place to tie down the great beauty known as “sky”, entering fukusaki was like any other town. merchants upon the docks were experts at haggling prices, civilians went by with their day to day life, and the sun burned everyone’s skin just the same

but as you placed your leather boot upon the wooden dock, something inside you turned. like something had suddenly shifted in the town but you had no idea what

yuki seemed to have felt the same thing, even if his facial expression didn’t change. as kazunari kept muku from fighting with a seller for a map of the local area (misumi was unfortunately encouraging him), yuki inched closer to you, his brows furrowed

“you feel that? something isn’t right.” yuki bluntly stated, eyes scanning his surroundings like usual. except he didn’t know what he was looking for, so a frustrated sigh left his lips

“aye, feels as if someone’s running a rig (playing a trick) on us...” you murmured under your breath, careful not to alarm the returning muku with haughtiness ablaze in his eyes and sheepishness from an apologizing but relieved kazunari (it was hard to believe muku used to be shy prior to joining)

“keep a look out. let you know if somethin’s amiss.” yuki peeled away, checking in with muku asking where the closest tavern was. at the mention of alcohol, misumi jumped in, rambling about how he had already talked to a local about all the best spots

you took a moment to take a deep breath in, the scent of palm trees and fruit replacing your usual endless seas. it wasn’t unsettling, just new. your sea legs itched to return to somewhere always changing, always new, but you knew you couldn’t do that to your friends

you straightened your back and walked with the confidence of a true pirate captain, swinging both your arms around kazunari and misumi, peering down at the map with an easy smile

“alright my hearties, where to?”

this gut feeling could wait, you had a few hours to relax before everything turned upside down

of course the captain got the most inconvenient yet boring jobs that could’ve been assigned

(yuki didn’t look sorry as he happily enjoyed your childish huff at being the grocery shopper, knowing how much you hated to interact with people outside of the crew)

due to your very limited people skills, you awkwardly tried to summon your confidence to come back around all the fukusaki shop vendors. when you were with your crew, all eyes were on you and how high your head was held. but, when alone... a captain was nothing without its crew, you supposed

a messily scrawled list by kazunari was in your hand (never ask a doctor to write anything) as you tried to decipher the words, holding it up to the sun to figure out what the hell he wanted

after getting the main idea of what each person wanted within budget, you stood on the outskirts of the town square, desperately trying to decide what was the best way to approach this situation

you couldn’t appear helpless or confused! how were you supposed to haggle in this state of mind?! as you slowly spun around in a circle to view all of the sellers before settling on a rather small, unimpressive stand

maybe that meant cheaper prices! you thought cleverly, walking over with the poise of a seasoned native. with a neutral expression, you reached a wooden display with a certain swagger to your step

however... there was nothing. as you stood in the front of the set-up and realized no one was there, you couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. what kind of service was this? was there no one actually here to sell anything?

before you could leave, a flash of orange appeared in front of you, purple eyes wide as if surprised they even received a customer. “w-wait!” he called out, nearly falling over his own table. this kid would clearly not make it upon a ship, you thought

for whatever reason, you stopped, looking over your shoulder with an unimpressed expression at the simple boy. he was tall and lean, wearing a bandana around his orange hair and an unbuttoned shirt. it was a casual appearance unfit for a merchant

“what is it? i’ve got places to be and there’s nothing here to be sold.” you stated, a wave of shock passing over his face before solidifying in a stubborn crease in his forehead

“huh? what are you talking about? haven’t you come here to get rid of that?”

when he reached out, you jolted back, a surge of energy visible in your body. you felt that strongly, what the hell did this random merchant do to you?!

“w—calm down! stop moving or i can’t remove the yokai! you’re making this difficult.” he demanded roughly, his proper words clipped from an accent unlike any other on this island. there was a certain... twang, to his vocabulary. as if it didn’t sit right, as if it was on the tip of his tongue

so much for customer service! you didn’t listen, dodging his hand like your life depended on it. as you ducked beneath his arm, you gripped his bicep with a death glare. at your narrowed eyes, the orange-haired boy gulped and stared back with astonishment

clearly, fukusaki natives weren’t this rude

“yokai? what the hell are you blubberin’ about, kid?” you questioned, your patience thin like a century-old rope worn down by salt. he set his lips in a straight line, as if trying to assess if you were serious or not. when you didn’t budge, he yanked his arm back and rubbed the sore spot, giving in

“ghosts. you got more spirits than normal around you, they’ve been there for a long time.”

you were about to retort, but fell silent at the remembrance of yonaguni. had your ancestors been with you all this time? you almost couldn’t believe you’ve been actually haunted by their deaths for this long

“i have no ghosts. do not try to scam me.” you flatly said before turning on your heel, intent on leaving the possibility of ghosts behind before tenma took a hold on your arm this time

“but, they’re trying to tell you—”

before tenma could finish, an irritated and offended voice boomed just down the cobblestone pathway

“you dare lay your hand on our captain?!”

“yuki, wait!” the crew clambered after him, hands always short of his shirt fabric as yuki’s sword made a sickening sound when pulled out of its sheath. the orange-haired boy let go immediately, attempting to make a run for it before coming face to face with misumi, whose previous smile was cold and nonexistent

it was as if the other merchants disappeared, fearing a start of a fight would be terrible for business. tenma was caught in the middle of a 5-person circle, with yuki pointing the tip of his sword at his throat

“state your name and business for grabbing our captain like that!” yuki was adamant on proving his sword was real by putting it closer to the boy’s adam’s apple. he tried not to shake under the pressure, but you noticed how his feet had no shoes and looked ready to run to anywhere but here

“um... t—johnny. it’s johnny, and i simply belong to a family of fukusaki mediums, that’s all.” johnny(?) said, as if trying to convince himself. all of you secretly exchanged a look, trying to decide whether or not to believe this so-called johnny

“you see ghosts?” yuki scoffed, his position already clear on the issue. ever since you two have met, you knew yuki never believed in anything involving the supernatural. after all, so many mysteries were hidden in the ocean, yuki doubted anything could scare him on land

but, you... you’re starting to believe johnny as you notice his eyes waver towards you. maybe not so much you, but whatever was surrounding you

“yes, sir. i can communicate with them as well. ever since i was a young boy, i’ve brought peace to the dead.” your head snapped towards him at that, something inside of you turning

that boy could bring your ancestors peace? could it be too good to be true? as if hearing your thoughts, johnny nodded to reaffirm your beliefs

before anyone else can join in on the questioning, you held your hand up and everyone fell silent, waiting for your next words. you could easily tell yuki to kill this boy and he would... but you won’t

“how much are your services?”

johnny blinked, clearly not used to this question as he mentally calculated whatever in his head. “uh... i usually don’t get paid.”

“if we took you on your ship, how much then?” (you immediately hushed a protesting yuki and wary crew)

“my payment wouldn’t be money.” johnny quickly said, almost shocking himself with how fast that answer came. you raised an eyebrow at that, about to question his terms before muku turned, eyebrows furrowed

“there’s someone coming.” muku whispered in a hush, immediately on guard as everyone shifted to a defensive position. at the first sound of a boot on ground, kazunari’s eyes widened. a telltale sign of the cop’s traditional uniform, which kazunari knew better than most

“go! go! go!” you ordered, everyone taking off running. without thinking, you took a hold of johnny’s hand. he squeezed it without flinching, turning and impressively staying by your side even as you got faster and faster

you were fast, but you despised running with a passion. if you closed your eyes longer than a blink, you could almost smell the smoke and crack of the tree trunks. for some reason, johnny smelt like coconut, and that humored you to a certain extent as your crew ran for their lives from the officers. someone must’ve alerted local authorities nearby...

even with a map, muku was lost to the island’s complex system. despite being quick on his feet, muku’s eyes frantically analyzed the outdated lines and pressed his lips into a straight line out of frustration. you knew you should’ve stepped in, but what could you have done?

“follow me!” johnny whispered hurriedly, turning into a waypoint before stopping and looking back. your crew subconsciously looked towards you as well, as if asking if this fukasaki native was trustworthy

though, it’s not like you had a choice now

you ran with johnny, the rest of your crew following suit. when you reached a dead end, you expected this to be a mistake before johnny nimbly flung himself up the ivy-covered wall, landing with a hard thud as if he hadn’t done so in a long time. ignoring the pain, johnny extended his hand an impressive height away

“grab my hand and we’ll be free!” pirates weren’t one to say no to freedom (or put all their coins in one chest...), so you got down to provide a boost to your crew mates. it wasn’t a time to be noble, so they all took your support without complaining, easily being able to run past johnny

when it was your turn, the sound of polished boots grew increasingly closer, much to your chagrin. you backed up quietly, gulping and trying not to look behind you as you glanced up. both johnny and yuki were standing there, their hands extended as you got a running start

you closed your eyes, breathed in the imaginary smoke, and leaped, feeling the grip of both their hands upon yours as they helped you up. just as you ducked beneath the foliage, you breathed a sigh of relief as the officers ran by without sparing a second look

when you opened your eyes, you noticed johnny was still holding your hand, his fist tight around yours as you could practically feel his heartbeat through leaning on his shoulder

you got up to thank johnny before noticing yuki’s uncharacteristic quietness and the way his eyes looked between you and johnny... as if he was betrayed

you didn’t think more of it despite the sinking feeling in your stomach

it was a night to celebrate! escaping the cops was no easy feat, especially on a foreign island. your crew, who had taken a liking to johnny’s ability to hold his own, invited him to drinks (not that they needed guidance to the safest tavern, of course...)

you nursed your own drink of choice at a rickety table with the crew, watching as they became less like pirates and more like their own ages with a few drinks and good music. yuki didn’t drink, which was something that had always occurred no matter where they went

johnny was flustered under all the attention, or it was the alcohol everyone insisted he could keep down. you stifled a chuckle when kazunari hooked his arm around tenma’s neck and ruffled his hair, the look upon his face priceless

you took a sip before lowering the cup’s rim, noticing yuki’s wary gaze. he met your eye with a frown, as if hesitating on what to say next. once again, how strange

“captain,” at that, you tried not to outwardly wince. it wasn’t common for yuki to be so... formal with you, at least. “do you truly intend on bringing this stranger with us?”

“johnny is no stranger anymore, yuki. he saved our lives, we are indebted to him.” you flatly said, glancing at johnny once more. yuki huffed, clearly disagreeing with your opinion as he rolled his eyes

“we would’ve been just fine without him. plus, he’s a medium! how do you know he’s the real deal, anyways?”

“i just... know.” you tried to elaborate, but it fell on deaf ears. there were some parts of your past you just couldn’t elaborate on, some parts that wouldn’t make sense to a non-yonaguni native

yuki slammed his water on the wooden table, a sound barely distinguishable in the rowdy atmosphere before getting up with a skid of the stool. he silently left, no doubt heading back to the docks where the stars shined the brightest and moon made things shrouded in dark more visible

you got up and followed without speaking another word. the crew knew disagreements between you & yuki were far and few, so there was no time to ask silly questions

when you reached the outside, the salt in the air and muffled sound of everyone having fun made you stop. behind you, you noticed the door didn’t slam completely as a quick-footed pair of feet made their way besides you

“are... you okay?” johnny asked, his hands in his linen pockets as you exhaled, nodding as you leaned onto the wall. johnny stiffly stood by the door, as if guarding it

“yeah, yeah. i am... just a little tussle, that’s all.” you sounded as if you were trying to convince yourself, but neither of you pointed it out. a few moments of awkward silence passed, before johnny cleared his throat

“okay, i didn’t hear nothin’. just... heard the spirits around you get loud.”

there he went again about the ghosts and spirits! you subconsciously patted your hair down flat, turning to look at johnny with yuki-like skepticism in your narrowed eyes

“how can you see there are ghosts on me? how do i know you’re not pullin’ my leg?” you suspiciously questioned, watching as johnny bristled under the attention. it seemed as if the island natives didn’t question his credibility as a medium

“you know i’m right. you have tens, maybe more, spirits attached to you. i can help you take them away, for a price, of course.”

“which is?”

“i want to find an island lost to me long ago.”

if you blinked, you could’ve sworn you were talking to a past-version of yourself. why did that request seem so familiar?

“do you know its name?”

“nay... my family refuses to tell me anything about where i’m from. all i know is the navy is the reason i lost my parents.”

“mine too.” you admitted with a breath and the conversation paused, you two sharing an understanding expression of sympathy but unshakable faith. you two understood each other despite knowing one another for a few hours

“then, is it settled?” johnny held out his hand, which you took with a firm grip. his palms were soft for an islander, funny enough. he must’ve thought differently since this was one of the few times you took off your leather gloves

“as long as you bring peace to my ancestors, you’re comin’ with me.”

when the hours became late and you ultimately decided everyone passed their limit a long time ago, you and johnny led them all to their barracks with laughs and humor in the air

when you reached the docks, yuki was barely noticeable in the night as he stood upon the mast of the ship, his hair waving in the wind like a flag

he didn’t look at you, not once, so you didn’t climb up. how could you when johnny was holding your hand with his eyes flickering back to you, or whatever was around you?

you introduced johnny to his new quarters and left him to be, feeling free for once in your life that night

morning came with the unfurling of your sails and your position in the crow’s nest. the sky was blue and cloudless, just like everyone predicted as the sea welcomed your crew into its arms

“ahoy, my hearties! off we go to find our next treasure!” you commanded joyously, the crew hurrah-ing in return at your enthusiasm. like most pirates did, your crew’s goal when off-land was to find a ship to rob and make off with their goods

you turned to the side, about to say something before realizing yuki wasn’t next to you. he must’ve slept in, that’s all. you didn’t question it even if he was always on time the years you knew him

disguising your expression of disappointment, you left your crew to their own means, sliding down the mast as per usual. when you landed, you noticed johnny standing awkwardly to the side as everyone was doing their own job

“hey, johnny! what are you muckin’ around for?” you questioned lightheartedly, slamming your freshly-shined boots (after an unfortunate drunk throw-up incident) upon the oak boards. johnny flinched from the sound, unaccustomed to the constantly-busy atmosphere of a large ship

“do you... need any help? i kinda, feel guilty just lazing about in my quarters.” johnny confessed, a red flush against his face as he rubbed the back of his permanently-sunburned neck. you were taken back for a moment, not used to being offered help

“um... you seem to know how to throw a person off their rhythm! i have nothing on mind as of now, hmmm....” after much consideration, you snapped your fingers with a start. “perhaps consider shadowing me for today! get the feel of a captain’s life—”

“no need, captain. i will take him off your hands for you.”

you turned to see yuki besides you, his feet silent and eyes attentive as always. you sensed the tension still imbedded between you two, gulping as you tugged at the collar of your shirt. for some reason, you immediately felt disappointed at the missing opportunity of tenma being with you

why were you feeling this way?! there was no reason to think like that as a busy, efficient pirate captain!

“thank you, yuki. return him in one piece, alright?” you joked, turning away to review what needed to be done that day. as you left, you didn’t notice yuki place a cold grip on johnny’s shoulder with an uncharacteristically eerie stoic pose

johnny looked after you, wondering what was behind that shroud of spirits who wanted nothing more than to see you freed of them

“you’re quite lucky the captain has taken quite a liking to you, johnny, was it?”

yuki & johnny found themselves ending the ship’s tour in the underground of the main deck, located along the cannons placed in their corresponding holes. the smell of gunpowder and flint was nearly suffocating, but yuki moved with ease and seemed to revel in johnny’s tight expression

“y-yes... the captain is very kind and charitable to take me on board.” johnny managed to get out without coughing, his eyes inspecting the materials and wondered how loud it truly was during battle

“you agreed to come so soon. you have no family of your own?” yuki asked innocently, mindlessly fixing the placements of the bombs behind the barrels. johnny shook his head, explaining it wasn’t an emotional attachment he had to fukusaki

“how... suspiciously fortunate.” yuki deadpanned, suddenly whipping around with a blank stare. it caught johnny off guard, who nearly stumbled back into a cannon. yuki wasn’t armed, but his tense demeanor and personality change was jarring

“listen, kid, i’ve got no clue who you are, but you have no reason to be upon this ship.” with every word, yuki seemed to come closer until his pointer finger pushed in the center of johnny’s chest

“you may have fooled everyone else, but our captain has always been too naive. i see right through you, johnny. who are you, really?”

johnny shuddered, backed against the wall and desperately holding onto anything that can keep his wobbly legs up. he didn’t know if it was the rocky seas or yuki’s simmering anger, but he felt like he was staring straight into one of those cannons

“i’m johnny, an island medium who sees ghosts on your captain. it is my duty to let them go, that’s all.”

a moment passed, before yuki took a few steps back. before johnny could react, he found the tip of a real sword pointed at his neck once again

“you’re lying, i know it. do not make me ask you again, who are you?”

johnny tried to remain placid in the face of a weapon, but he gritted his teeth and couldn’t help himself

“why the hell does it matter to you? are you in love with your captain or something?!”

silence, then yuki lowered his sword. he sheathed it back, before turning and leaving without another word. johnny let out a deep breath, sinking to the floor as he closed his eyes

if johnny listened hard enough, he could hear your spirits try to communicate with him. but, their voices were garbled and unlike anything he’s heard before. who were you and why was he here?

the first time you & johnny met in terms of spirits was two weeks after a pattern of sleepless nights

he already found you teetering close to the edge, your hands folded as you searched for something, or someone, past the blackened seas

it was as if some savage sea monster had spilt its ink-like blood into the waters, the once blue surface that reflected lucky skies now murky and as mysterious as the dark side of the moon

with your usual guarded glint now gone, you still seemed just as capable to be the one responsible for such dark seas

“good evening.” johnny mumbled lowly, placing the lantern besides his feet as he made his way next to you. you hummed, not particularly fazed by his sudden appearance despite not paying attention. it’s as if you had eyes in the back of your head, like a sea monster

“i suppose fukusaki isn’t used to the rocking of wooden ships?” you retorted, to which johnny sharply exhaled through his nose, a sign of amusement at your observation

“nay, but... i haven’t been able to properly maintain my sleep schedule ever since boarding. your spirits... are rather loud for ghosts.”

you full-on laughed at this, disturbing the intimate atmosphere between you two. johnny couldn’t help but smile at your worn-down exterior. you presented yourself like you were made of a glass bottle, but you were as intricate as a carved artisan ship

“try living with them your whole life, boy, then you can start complaining about their volume.” you jested lightheartedly, offering a soft smile at the newest recruit. as you leaned back onto the railing of the ship, you watched the constant surface of the waves, as if you could anchor your endless thoughts to davey jone’s locker

johnny mimicked your position, his elbow knocking into yours. his hands were much too soft for a seasoned sailor, you noticed this in the dim lantern light. for a moment, you let your impulses take over and you wondered how they felt against yours

“pardon my words, but when will you let me speak to them? i can never find you through the day...” johnny began to ask, but trailed off when your salted eyes and weariness became apparent in the way you exhaled quietly

“it is not your fault but mine, johnny. this is my ship and i am the captain, that’s all. i cannot allow myself to suddenly become weak in case i am needed.” you spoke like a true hero, well, as much of a hero a pirate could be

johnny didn’t exactly understand, considering he just got up and left his entire life on a whim of a promise to find out who he was. but, he nodded anyways, watching blurred movements of entities swirl around your head like troubled smoke

“what about now? will you let me—?” when johnny reached out, you immediately stepped back, your lips pressed in a straight line as if restraining your true reaction

“you look for every reason to touch me, don’t you?” you tried to force it out like it was nothing, but it was clear how your boots twisted like they were prepared to run away

when was the last time someone physically comforted you in any sense? or... comforted you at all?

“captain...” johnny mumbled, eyes wide with pity and you couldn’t stand it. he called you captain, but he didn’t revere you like a typical person would. he didn’t flinch at your sword or head held high, it was unnerving

“what is the purpose of having a crew if they cannot help you through this?”

the wind wailing against your ears reminded you of how little time there was in a day, and how the sun would rise soon and this cycle of pretending everything was okay would begin again

it was maddening, to live the same day again and again with no change

johnny perhaps was someone you looked forward to, a diversion from the expected

“do you consider yourself apart of my crew, then?” when johnny took a moment to think, you wondered what he was remembering. was it the night where misumi pretended to fall over board to scare everyone or was it when kazunari didn’t react to seeing a skeleton that time? was it when muku could predict every type of weather for the next day without fail or when yuki finally cracked at a joke after a hour of pretending nothing was funny?

or, was it when you two shared glances across the deck, clinked your glasses a little too long, or when your hands ghosted over another when pulling lines?

“yes, your crew is my own as well. and like them, i wish to help you, if you’d let me.”

you always found yourself unsure around johnny, unaware of how to respond in a way worthy of your pirate captain title. as you hesitated, johnny looked you in the eyes and his eyes reminded you of storm clouds thundering in the distance

“why else would you take me on the ‘sky’? if you didn’t want help?”

perhaps those were words you would reveal later, but you couldn’t bring yourself to share the real answer. it was a gut feeling that your world would be turned upside down, and you were right when you felt your throat dry at johnny’s hopeful gaze

johnny continued on, straightening his usual bent posture and his voice carried, like he was one with nature. as if they supported him unconditionally

“i know this is your own battle to win and this is your ship and you are my—our captain, but please... let’s make a deal.”

you stood, intrigued, as you witnessed a side of johnny never seen before. once meek, once easily intimidated, now talked to you like an equal

“let’s promise to say things we both really feel. be honest with me, do you want me to help? to remove the spirits and let them move on?” when you nodded, johnny let out a breath of relief and moved closer, gathering your hands in his. when you didn’t pull away and only tensed, he spoke as if he was sure things would change

“i can help you, i can make them go away. you bring me back to my home, i let your spirits go home. deal?”

“is that how you truly feel?”

“and more.” johnny’s eyes glanced down, and you felt your heart stutter as if the surface rocked

“i feel the same way. i wish to help you.”

that night, you remembered for the first time in a long time, a captain was nothing without its crew

[if-you-built-yourself-a-myth]

hey would you write a marauders/jily ice skating!au?

I'm not sure if this is what you meant, but I hope it's close enough. AU where Peter never gave up James and Lily, they never died, Sirius never went to Azkaban, and the prophecy wasn't about Harry. And they ice skate when it's all over.

The Great Lake froze over for the first time since the war ended. James looked out across its vast expanse, its rivered end tapering into trees on the other side. He never thought he’d see the day. Hogwarts cast a thin shadow onto the lake’s bank, where students, parents, and alumni gathered with their ice skates and screaming young children. His own son, little Harry, toddled along in front of Remus and Sirius, the pointer fingers of each grasped in his chubby hands. Peter took up the rear. Further past, the Weasleys dragged their youngest in circles. Baby Ron. He was around Harry’s age; James thought it might be nice if they were friends.

He turned to Lily beside him. She was as beautiful as she’d always been, her shining red hair and unguarded smile. He didn’t think he would ever get used to having her hand clasped in his own—it was surprising enough that someone so amazing existed at all, let alone at the end of a war.

But the war was over. And here she stood. His Lily. His lovely, lovely Lily.

“I’m going to fall,” she told him, taking the first tentative step onto the ice. Remus and Sirius were naturals, but the Potters… not so much. “James, don’t let go of me.” Her nose was nipped red in the winter air, her voice muffled by her striped scarf.

“I’m not letting go,” he said. His own skates were wobbly.

“Go slowly, go slowly.”

“I’m no good either.”

They did their best to synchronize their steps and glide forward in short bursts. Standing on two blades sounded much easier than it was in practice. Ahead, Remus and Sirius had lifted Harry from the surface of the lake to spin him around and around, until Sirius planted the toddler on his shoulders and took off skating with Remus at his heels. Peter, less steady, stumbled along behind them. It made James’s heart warm to see his best friends bonding with his child.

Lily followed his gaze. “I keep telling Remus they should adopt,” she said. “He keeps saying Harry is plenty for him and Sirius.”

“Classic Moony,” said James.

Harry let out a garbled string of baby talk, his face broken into the most carefree smile James had ever seen. He reached his tiny hands for the sky like he could grasp the clouds. On a day like today, it seemed possible that he could. Harry shared his appearance with James, really, the young James who pulled pranks with his best friends and loved Lily Evans with childish adoration. He already had the same messy hair, the same tanned skin, and, according to the muggle doctors Lily saw, the same shitty eyesight. James should have seen himself when he looked at Harry. He only saw Lily.

Lily loved to look at the clouds. They hadn’t had time for it during the war. Now they had all the time in the world. James tilted his head upward, and noticed in his peripheral vision that Lily did the same. It complicated their skating pursuits more than it should have. The cloud directly over their heads was an old book, followed by a man riding a hippogriff off into some mountains.

“But it would be nice, don’t you think?” Lily said, after a while. Her ankle shifted weirdly. She tripped and almost took James down with her, but continued to speak as if nothing had happened. “A playmate for Harry?”

James laughed. “If you want, I’ll talk to Sirius about it. Anything for you.”

“It would be very sweet.”

“I will let them know. Though, they like you so much, I think they’d cave if you asked again.”

“Sirius would.” Lily pulled her scarf down from her mouth to plant a kiss on James’s cheek. “Remus wouldn’t.”

“Always the rational one.”

Lily got her sea-legs—ice-legs—before James did. It was one of the things he loved most about her; she caught onto almost any skill within an hour of attempting it. He spent so much of his Hogwarts career trying to beat out Sirius and the Slytherins in his classes, but he’d never been able to best Lily Evans. She did him the service of not releasing his arm as she glided along, taking longer strides than before, and forcing him to keep up with her footwork.

In no time, they were center-ice. Hogwarts, while still huge, seemed so much smaller when they were so far away. It did not cast a shadow out here. Here, there was only the sun above, lingering clouds, and the buzzing life of so many wizards in one location. Ah, Hogwarts. How could he have known that it would lead to the happiness he had now?

They came to a stop rather slowly, letting the momentum die out as it pleased. James’s skates tilted back and forth as he tried to stand still. He should invent a spell that kept them from breaking his ankles—with a little help from Remus, it wouldn’t be that hard. Their innovative spell mixing techniques had transferred from pranking to lifehacking with phenomenal success. Lily stared out at the other skaters.

“It could have been us,” she whispered. She didn’t have to elaborate.

James and Lily were in hiding with Harry because of a prophecy about a boy born at the end of July. Sirius held their location first, using a binding magic that the Dark Lord himself could not break. He transferred it to Peter when he thought that was the safer course of action.

Before the night it happened, James might have considered Peter his least-close friend in the Marauders. They did not speak much in their last years of school, even less with the war on, and Peter never agreed to any risky operations before Sirius approached him with the proposition. But that night, when Voldemort knew that Peter knew… Peter stared the world’s darkest wizard dead in the eye and refused. He barely escaped with his life.

“Thank you, Moony,” he’d said, when the group saw each other next. “If I couldn’t turn into a rat, I would’ve bit it for sure.”

In a rage, Voldemort sought the next viable option on his list. He arrived at the Longbottom house to virtually no magical resistance. Frank and Alice died protecting their child. Word had it that Voldemort tried to kill the baby, Neville, as well, and the curse had rebounded. The only damage to Neville was a scar like lightning on his collarbone, the Boy Who Lived.

“But it wasn’t,” said James. He stroked a finger down Lily’s cheek. “It wasn’t us.”

“Harry could’ve been the one.”

“But he wasn’t.”

Lily took a deep breath. She released his arm for a moment, edged her way to face him, and clasped his hands instead. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. I wanted to wait—just to make sure he was gone. You-Know-Who. And he is. So.”

“The war is over,” James agreed.

Just saying the words out loud made his heart leap for joy in his chest. It was over. The prophecy came true, just as Dumbledore promised that it would, and Voldemort was defeated. No more Death Eaters in Diagon Alley. No more late nights stalking the streets for sympathizers. No more holding wands to his friends and making them prove they were themselves, no more casting protective spells outside his house every evening, no more hiding away with their little baby while Sirius, Peter, and Remus fought. No more. Here was his family.

James thought back on his late nights in the library with Remus and Peter during his first year. How can I get Lily to fall in love with me? he begged Remus. Tell me how I can do it. Remus had said something largely unhelpful and probably sarcastic; that part didn’t matter. James wanted to go back in time and shake himself by the shoulders, or give that boy a pat on the back. She loves you now, he would say. She loves you and it’s better than could ever have imagined. And himself in fifth year, in sixth year, all those lingering glances. She loves you and the war is over.

He wasn’t afraid of the world anymore. He looked at Lily. He looked at Harry, carried by a posse of scarved godfathers with a need for speed. This was a safe place for all of them to build their lives. The war is over.

“James,” Lily said, her voice like hot chocolate after a day in the cold. He wanted to take her happiness and trap it in a bottle. “James, I’m pregnant.”

And the moment was complete. Because nothing could ever be any better than this.

[earendilslight]

Soooo, I've been simping Thresh since 2014 and now I finally can be open about my love for him because of the cinematic, and since I'm about to apply for the C1 Cambridge certification and I'm in desperate need to practice my writing, it's a perfect time to write fanfics with Thresh 💖

It's just a very little text, maybe, if it gets enough love I'll turn it into an actual fanfiction. But in the mean time, enjoy!

Also, if you happen to notice any mistake let me know!

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He came out of the shadows, where the dim light could reveal his features. It was a tall man, with long dark hair, dressed all in black, from the elegantly fixed necktie to the long-leathered trench coat that covered him down to the knees, a common attire used by the upper classes in Noxus. His face was slim, almost as the shape of the tip of a spear, with sharp cheekbones and a mouth that looked incredibly flexible as he smiled pettily at me. But it was not his smile that shocked me, no, it was his eyes. Eyes that shone like green, supernatural flames, like something evil lingered behind his mortal appearance.

The gaze of the monster in my nightmares. It was the same eyes that had terrified me for as long as I could remember, and now they were there, in the form of a devilman who smiled at me with cruel intentions. I suppressed a gasp, with trembling fingers, grasping at my robe while taking a step back.

I was petrified. How was I supposed to know this was the creature I pretended to make a deal with? I wonder If I would've been so bold to come here if I had known.

"Having second thoughts, miss?" he asked. His voice was deep, dark. The whisper of a phantom "You are indeed right to be frightened. Your soul would be in constant agony, roaming forever inside the lantern. Your friend made a choice, a very foolish one, I must say, and now he must pay the price of his own naive decisions. There is no point in wasting your life as a prisoner nor I'd like to carry a soul like yours."

"A soul like mine?" I said, trying to sound confident, but I could barely utter any words without stuttering.

"Do you wish to spend eternity in the lantern?" he asked, ignoring my question.

"No!" I replied almost immediately, without hesitation. The man looked pleased, even though there was barely a change in his expression.

"Then leave this place at once." He turned around,walking back to the inside of the house.

I realized how much of a mistake I'd made almost too late. I had been so scared that I was about to bail my plan and abandon Charles to his fate. I would never see him again, it didn't matter what choice I made. The only difference would be that, if I could convince that man to take me instead of him, Charles could be free and we could actually find a way to release myself and every other soul trapped in there. He, from outside, while I researched closely to the monster. And even so, I was shaking. Until that point, I hadn't considered the whole implications of being at the services of this devil, and the possibility of dying or, in the worst case scenario, spending the entire eternity in agony, was terrifying. But, hadn't Charles made sacrifices for me too? He was the only family I had left. The thought of my little brother suffering forever was unbearable, wasn't I supposed to be the one to protect him?

I couldn't abandon him like this...

"Wait!" I cried, so hard that it echoed across the entire yard and inside the manor. The man stopped at the door, turning slowly, first his head, then his whole body, now barely a silhouette in the dim light, staring at me without moving a muscle. I had my hand extended towards him, like trying to reach for his own, and I realized he was observing my gesture.

"Maybe... I could be of use outside the lantern..." I muttered, not even sure of what I was saying. He chuckled, almost amused with my comment. It was a muffled sound, not even a laugh.

"How come?" He asked with curiosity. Now I had his attention. It might have been a ridiculous thought, but I was starting to believe it could work.

"You're new to Noxus, sire" I said, straightening my back with an almost futile intention to appear confident. "People here talk a lot. In fact, most of them are already wondering who this mysterious visitor is. Where did he come from? What does he want? Noxus it's not a place who treats kindly it’s visitors, especially those who appear out of thin air and might be dangerous"

"Oh, I assure you, miss, I do not fret a bunch of drunken peasants who might try to trespass. Believe me, they are right to consider me a treat".

"I also consider you someone with a plan" I replied rapidly, getting to keep his eyes on me, and now, he seemed kind of... surprised "You don't strike me as a man who just wanders around this city in search for souls to torture. I believe you are here for a reason..."

He turned completely around, with an annoyed expression in his sharp face. As if I were a ridiculous fly trying to explain to a deadly spider how to seam its web.

"Your reasons are unknown to me" I continued "but I do know that once the people of Noxus begin to suspect you, Gods forbid, those who roam in the shadows, you would be the target of much more dangerous creatures than just drunken peasants."

It was true, actually. Unfortunately, Noxus was a city where you could disappear while walking back home just for people to find your dead body around the market the next morning and no one would bat an eye for you. Not to mention the multiple cults that made human sacrifices to the forgotten deities, besides robbers, assassins, rapists, the spirits that still roamed the streets late at night. Not to mention people had seen members of the Black Rose being more active than before. If this man was careless enough, some of them would notice, sooner or later, that there wasn’t something right with him.

"And what does this have anything to do with the liberation of your dearest brother from the lantern? And with you not taking his place inside of it?"

"I can be of good use outside the lantern, like I said"

Oh, dear God, what was I doing?

"If you let him go, I will be at your service, sire. You can keep me alive, not... dead and I can do anything that implies going outside the manor. People would suspect much less if they see actual movement in the mansion. It's not weird for a lord to have people at his services, even if it's just one harmless housekeeper..."

He seemed… intrigued by my proposal. I could tell he was analyzing every word that came out of my mouth, trying to find a deeper meaning or maybe ulterior motives behind my desires. Keen eyes watching my every move and reaction, almost as piercing through the flesh, into the darkest parts of my soul.

"Imagine I agree to your proposition” he speculated “What makes you think I would just let you go outside as you please?" he started walking towards me. There was this dreadful air around him that made my skin crawl. Like my heart was sinking down my throat and my blood froze little by little in my veins, with every step he took down in my direction.

The glowing, flame-like eyes coming closer, slowly, like the inevitable march of time and death, until the man stood there, five meters away from me, and I could smell the scent of his clothing, carried by the wind. Incense and the sea. Not the dry wood and dust of the hills of Noxus, but a fragrance I almost had forgotten, the one I smelled when I was a child, in a ship...

"I'm pretty sure you have ways to keep me bound to this place" I said, without escaping his glaring and hiding under my robe my shaking hands, while he studied me like a specimen he was about to dissect. "I do not doubt you could trap my brother again, and me, if I betray you. Or to even kill me, if it comes that way"

Maybe he was amused by my daring, maybe he was surprised at how much of a imbecile I was. Either way, he didn't utter a sound. The wind started to blow, much more cold than before, a voice that sang between the trees and the grass, moving the branches of the cypresses and the oaks as if they were to start dancing with the breeze, dragging with it heavy, grey-colored clouds announcing the impending storm.

“Do you wish so much to become a prisoner?” the man asked once more. The surrounding darkness of the clouds made his eyes brighter, like wildfire in the middle of the sea, blurred by the mist of the bay. “To never set a food without being watched? To know the true depths of the despair that brings with it the lack of freedom?”

I smiled, softly. Even when his face showed no change, I could tell he was, at least, studious to my reactions. I believe he was expecting me to be frightened by this, or to a certain degree intensely disturbed. For better or worse, life hadn’t treated me kindly. Since I was ten years old I had been at the service of people who considered me little more than trash and a burden, the next master worse than the last. Ironical, isn’t it? Seemed life had prepared me to serve a monster.

“Sire, I have served my whole life as a prisoner. From one Master to another, I’ve been tied to Bilgewaters my entire life” I admitted, looking directly into his cold gaze and when thunder started to strike, his eyes weren’t dulled by their light. “I do not fret to serve one more time, even if it’s forever…”

There was something that changed in his air. I cannot point out what it was, but his semblance was different, as if the winds of the storm had finally made him feel cold, even though I doubt something like him would be able to feel coldness. His previous smile had disappeared, and his mouth was now a grimace, a straight line, which made the jailer look much more severe than he already was.

“What is your name, miss?” the man asked, with a muttered, calm voice, with both hands behind his back.

“Senara Raion, sire” I responded, trembling not only because that man made me feel paralyzed, but because a very thin but chilling rain had started to fall above us.

He stared at me, thoughtful, almost as if he were expecting a reaction on my behalf.

“Miss Senara, tell me…” Suddenly, he extended his hand towards me, with no alteration to his face. “Do we have a deal?”

I looked at his face, the diabolic eyes, his gloved hand. There was no turning back…

“We do, sire.”

Had I known the future consequences of my choice… I would’ve never set foot on that hill...

-------—-----------------------------------------

Hope you liked it!

[gentlemancrow]

Written in the Stars Will Have to Do

OK so I saw @hey-there-hunter ‘s JMart Wedding Challenge and I pretty much fan ficced immediately??  Like it was an instantaneous plot bunny that stabbed me in the brain and would not let me free until I made it exist.  SO HERE YOU GO!  Read it here or head on over to AO3 below!  And enjoy some unapologetically aggressive fluff with weddings!  Also subtitled someday Crow will stop abusing excessive astral imagery and symbolism for extended metaphors, but today is not that day.

Read on AO3 instead!

Written in the Stars Will Have to Do

Jonathan Sims always thought of himself as a man with a deep appreciation for the great literature of the world.  A passionate turn of phrase, crystalline motes of clear imagery like snowflakes reflecting light in his mental scape, a devastating contemplation on the nature of good and evil in the hearts of all mankind, everything that could express the beauty and tragedy of the world in ways he never could.  Prose was a bright paintbrush on a ragged canvas of the universe he had known from an early age was swathed in shadow and pain and evil, and those words on those pages, for at least a moment, were another world he could hold in his hands, could cradle and protect, could mourn.  He liked the power of them as well, of the tinkling brightness of alliteration, the oaky sophistication of a well-aged metaphor, the evocativeness of the idiosyncrasy in a simple simile, laying bare truths in ways he never could have articulated for himself.

There was one thing he could not abide by in language, however, one cardinal sin liable to besmirch any piece of lush and sparkling verse or prose and taint it forever.  And that was idioms.

Jon loathed idioms and their dismally quirky cliches dressed in familiarity’s tacky clothing almost as much as he hated spiders.  Perhaps it was something about their reliance on common knowledge and repetition.  He couldn’t bear reading the same book twice, or even a book that felt too familiar, it only made sense that hearing a hackneyed phrase repeated in that awful singsong sardonic tone of someone who knows full well they’re saying something asinine that has been repeated ad nauseum for millennia would scrape at the back of his skull and down his spine.  They were too whimsical and blasé, crutch words for when one’s limited lexicon came up empty, or worse, for ill comedic effect.  They reinforced that staunchly English notion of skirting about the true depth and breadth of emotion for clipped niceties and unfeeling banalities.  Idioms to him were mere verbal window boxes, colorful and meaningless, dressings for untold disasters behind the shining windows they peacocked before.  

He hated them all with vaguely equal rancor, but there was one he could definitely single out as the one he hated the most, and that was the one about hanging the moon.  Such and such thinks you hung the moon, to me you hung the moon, and so on.  This particular rhetorical felony attracted his wrath only marginally because any moon symbolism never failed to feel outlandish and infantile, a mawkish image of love and care rampant in nursery rhymes and cheap commercialized slogans for t-shirts and wall art.  That was the least of it.  He hated the idea of hanging the moon mostly because once, another lifetime ago now it seemed, Tim Stoker had lobbed it in his face in a fit of smoldering rage and he had been completely, complacently, ignorant of its magnitude.  

Funny thing was, he couldn’t even remember what the actual fight had been about any longer.  Though he could remember exactly where he was standing, cornered next to the file cabinet for the year 1985, January through February, and the label had been peeling up on the upper left-hand corner.  He remembered he’d discovered a hole in the elbow of his jumper that morning and he had been obsessing over it all day, fussing with the dangling green thread and tugging at the knit as if it might magically close the wound.  He’d put his finger clean through it with his arms crossed haughtily over his chest without even realizing he’d been fiddling with it when something flippant about Martin came out of his mouth.  It hadn’t even been cruel, he couldn’t even remember how Martin had come up in the argument in the first place, he could only remember Tim’s mouth moving like he wanted to say something else, then him forcibly stopping himself before he snarled.

“Yeah well, god knows why, but he thinks you hung the moon, so you might try treating him at the very least like a human being once in a while.”

It was such a small thing.  Small words for a small feeling cloaked in a chintzy veneer of idiomatic dismissal.  A trembling little bird cupped in his scarred and battered hands and smothered.  Or so he thought.  Sometimes trembling little birds turn out to be phoenixes, and those who looked to someone else to hang the comfort of a wise, silvery moon in the sky already have the hammer and the picture wire at the ready.

As far as Jon was concerned, the moon only rose on their Somewhere Else because Martin deigned to pull the strings every night, not him.

It was Martin who brought him tea every morning, set it down on the breakfast table with that little flip of the tag and the deft, one-fingered turn of the handle toward him.  It was Martin who scolded him because whites are a separate load, Jon, were you raised in a barn?  Martin who talked him through every episode of the Doctor Who reruns that were the only thing their ancient aerial could pick up.  Martin who planted flowers in the garden and brought muffins from the sweet old lady at the grocers because they traded baking recipes.  Martin who still looked at him with diaphanous pools of ethereal moonlight in his eyes and his smile like he alone hung it in the sky over his head to wash him in its radiance.

Even after everything.

Even after it had been Martin who had to hold the knife buried in his chest as he lay gasping wetly for breath in an alleyway in Another Chelsea to keep the hemorrhaging at bay.  Martin who had cupped his face in his bloody hands with tears streaming down his and forced him to focus, furious love blazing in his sea mist eyes as they locked with his, screaming at him and him only, heedless of anything else.

“Look at me.  LOOK at me, Jon!  Stay with me!  Stay with me, DAMN YOU!”

Stay with me had not been a plea, it had been a command.  He had never once said please because it was never an option.  Shivering, breathing blood through his teeth, the streetlights a fading, star studded halo in Martin’s strawberry blond curls be damned, he was right.  Against every tangled thread of fate twisted deep into his flesh, or perhaps because they had been the only thing that held his torn innards together, he made it to the part where he awoke a few fractured times to nothingness, and then to fingers he knew every inch of inextricably bound up in his and a fierce whisper in his ear.

“I’m here, Jon.  I’m still here.  I’ve got you.  I’m going to fix this.  I’m going to get us out of here.  We’re going to be okay.”

It had been Martin who orchestrated their clandestine escape from the hospital the moment they both agreed he was well enough to survive under his rudimentary medical care and before the authorities got too invested in an urban ghost story of two men who didn’t exist.  Not to mention one of which should, by all medical and logical law, be dead.  It had been Martin who had stolen the necessary antibiotics, drugs, and wound care supplies, Martin who had picked enough pockets to buy passage on a midnight train to the only place they could think to go, and expressly told Jon not to ask where he learned how, even though he knew full well he would later.  Martin who had fought for everything and kept him hidden and safe while he lay in a dingy hotel room somewhere in Scotland, drifting in and out of consciousness between kisses, cold compresses, spoonfuls of whatever he could get him to swallow and keep down, and desperate ‘I love you’s.

Martin had been the one who hung the moon even on the nights Jon couldn’t see it, just so he knew it was there, that the light might finally guide him home.  Not him.  He could have never done something so selfless and simple and beautiful.  No not him.  Not The Archivist.  How could he have ever known that?  Stupid, myopic, pedantic, all-seeing and blind.  A blustering, sanctimonious Tiresias in a sweater vest and half-moon glasses.  And how important was the moon, anyway that he was expected to hang it too?  Would not night still come and the stars still shine?  The stupid, vapid saying should have been about the sun anyway.  Something that nourished and guided and warmed.  Not the moon.  Not the thing of night and hungry wolves and quiet loneliness.  Not a thing of the darkness they fought and still not won, not exactly, not in a way that mattered.  How could he have known the weight of such a thoughtless, frivolous, meaningless phrase and how far and how long Martin had borne it for him to protect he who hung his moon?  

He could see the weight of it so clearly now.  He could see it especially on the darkest days, which came, in grotesque mockery, the moment they found something like their safehouse and rest at last.  Jon had conned his way into a job at the village library with an ancient head librarian who didn’t care much for too many questions, or background or credit checks, and was more than happy to pay in cash.  With Martin’s help of course.  Martin himself had taken up stocking at the village grocers, and their life had teetered onto something so close to quaint and normal it suddenly laid bare the gravity of the depths of darkness they had escaped.

No longer did they have to run, no longer did they have to fight, they could finally lay down the chase and curl in upon each other to lick their wounds in quiet.  But without the driving, primal instinct to live, to survive, that ushered in the days where all the hurt came back to roost and brood and fester.  The days where he couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed, or the days Martin couldn’t bear the sound of his voice, or the days they shouted themselves hoarse, stormed apart for hours then came back, silent and broken, red-eyed and exhausted to hold each other and weep into the spaces between neck and shoulder where it still smelled like love and home.

He could see so painfully clearly the toll following him to the ends of the cosmos and back had etched its marks into his goodness, his body and soul, see how often he would walk down the road from their cabin, just a little ways, to stand on the heather spotted hills and gaze out into the frigid infinity of the gray sea.  Cold terror would grip him then, incite a desperate want to run after him, to throw his arms around him and bring him home, but also the fear it would only be to have him turn to mist and slip through his fingers forever.  He always had a cup of steaming tea waiting for him when he came back, just in case.

But again, and always.  It was Martin who would pick up Jon’s hands, kiss every slender, scarred finger through his tears and be the first one to utter ‘I’m sorry.’  Martin who told him with just a single scathing flash of stern blue eyes and not a single word uttered that he was certainly coming to bed and not banishing himself to the couch like an idiot.  Martin who wrapped him in his arms and warmth and boundless love and reminded him, “One way or another.  Together.  That was the deal, right?  You don’t get to back out now.  No returns, refunds, or exchanges, I’m afraid.”

And even through the deepest sobs he would find the laugh Jon didn’t think was in him.  Martin sifted through the mire and the muck and held fast to the tiny, shining things so easy to lose in the darkness.  Things Jon was certain were lost forever, only to be reignited and hung in the brightening sky of their story.  Even if they weren’t quite the moon yet.

It had also been Martin who, on a perfectly ordinary day, on a simple walk through the local farmers market, stopped to peruse one of the usual unremarkable stalls filled with crystals and oils and trinkets.  Jon had wandered off to procure the parsnips and the strawberries, unrelated recipes Martin swore, he had been tasked with finding.  When he returned he found him, a radiant monument tall among the faceless locals, rusty curls caressing his face in the salty breeze, carved of marble and rose quartz and gazing down at a pair of hematite rings on a velvet display box.  His eyes were distant, but not in the enthralled, disembodied way they were when he looked at the sea, or the broken way when they weren’t speaking, but in the contemplative, regarding of puzzle pieces way when he would look into the fire during their talks and turn his words in his mind over and over again like a rock tumbler until they were polished just right.

“Getting into crystals now, are we?” Jon had joked, “Surely I’m not so dull to be around that that’s becoming an attractive hobby.”

Martin snorted and shook his head.

“Supposed to mean healing, or grounding, or something.  Aligning your meridians, I think the lady said?  Whatever that means,” he elaborated, reaching out to touch.

They clinked weightily together, thick and glossy and the dark astral gray of a moonless night.  Martin turned over the card that went with them and read.

“’A grounding stone that belongs to the planet Mars.  It strengthens our connections to the earth and aids the warrior on their journey.  It is a stone of invincibility, but also fragility.  It balances yin and yang energies with its magnetic properties for the perfect reflection upon one’s own soul, astral, physical, and spiritual.’”

“Hematite, is it?” Jon asked, “Also more commonly called bloodstone.  You know if you scratch it, it leaves a red mark.  Like it’s bleeding.  Watch.”

He picked up one of the rings and firmly ran it down the corner of the card Martin had been reading from.  Sure enough, the black stone had left a faint, but starkly crimson mark on the yellowed paper.

“It BLEEDS?” Martin exclaimed in horror.

“It’s just a kind of iron oxide, so, rust, basically,” Jon explained with a chuckle, “Kind of weirdly romantic if you think about it?  This intimidating shiny black stone like armor, made of iron to boot, but with a bleeding heart at its core.”

“I just thought it was pretty, I didn’t know it bleeds,” Martin had laughed in that incredulous way he always did when Jon was telling him something he didn’t actually want to know, but appreciated anyway.

“I find that the strongest, prettiest things often do,” Jon had said in reply.  He remembered saying that particularly clearly, waxing poetic, feeling a swell of affection for the hugely beautiful man he leaned against and was adorably aghast at bleeding rocks.

“Yeah, I reckon they do,” Martin murmured back.

And then his cheeks had flushed bright red under his freckles and the stone steps of his shoulders crumbled a bit under the crushing ancientness and vastness of what he had originally been pondering.

“So, I mean, before you spoiled it with the blood thing.  I was thinking… Well, I was just having a browse and I saw these and I thought they were quite fetching, and then the lady told me they meant grounding and healing and a journey, like on the card.  A-And there were two of them, all by themselves, and everything else was so colorful and flashy these were just so… Um.  Maybe the blood and rusty iron thing makes it more poetic now, actually?  I don’t know.  Sorry I-  This sounded so much better in my head.”

It wasn’t his fault, Jon remembered thinking.  Martin couldn’t find the words because there weren’t any.  Not in this universe or any other.  Not for what they’d gone through, and especially not for what they meant to each other.

“I guess I was just thinking.  If… I bought one.  And wore it.  Sort of like.  Um.  You know.  Would… Would you-?” he had asked, his voice trembling.

Jon had never said yes, yes of course he would, faster or with more conviction in his life.  And there was that look again, rising from the ashes, that flooding of golden, unbound love and light, of eyes turned sky blue, of looking at the man who hung his moon in the sky come back to him.  He could still hang Martin’s moon all over again after so many nights of black clouds and darkness, even if it was only paper.  They’d paid for the rings in rumpled bills, exchanged them right then and there, and kissed each other as the crowd of oblivious people in a world they did not belong in flowed like a river around them.  Jon forgot the bag with the parsnips and strawberries.

But it didn’t matter.  It didn’t even matter that Martin’s fit nicely on his ring finger, but Jon had to wear his on his thumb, and even then sometimes on a chain around his neck for fear of losing it.  It didn’t matter that it was the closest thing they were ever going to get to a proposal and a wedding, consigned now forever to the shadows in a borrowed reality with only each other.  Because it was theirs, and they could begin to figure out how their broken pieces fit back together again.

But like most things that don’t matter, it didn’t until it did.

It began as simple things.  Seeing a wedding on some program they weren’t actually paying much attention to and Martin making a flippant, innocuous comment as he combed his fingers lovingly through Jon’s long and silvered chestnut hair in his lap about how he would have loved to have a cake that had a different flavor on every tier at their wedding.  Just so everyone could have something they liked.  And Jon woke up from his half catlike stupor and looked up at him with such aching regret as those words settled into the pit of his heart alongside ‘he thinks you hung the moon.’  

And soon they began to gather a collection of completely innocent remarks that ran the gamut from ‘would they have worn black or white?  Or one of each?  I don’t know… does it really matter?  And were these engagement rings or wedding rings?  I don’t know.  Neither?  both?  And do we say husband instead of boyfriend now?  Fiancé?  Whatever you want, Martin…’ To the heavier, cancerous weights that sank to the bottom of his gut, even below hanging the moon, like ‘I know Tim would have thrown the most amazing bachelor party for both of us, and his mum had always talked about him getting married someday like it was a farfetched pipe dream, but she would be happy for them, he thinks.’

He could never answer those questions.  There was too much at stake, too much finality and familiarity in them, a strange weightlessness in a world that weighed far too much.  The sun and moon continued their eternal dance of time, ignorant, unbothered, but Jon kept collecting those silent debts of normal life, secreting them away in a hidden singularity in his heart that only grew heavier and metastasized farther the more times Martin walked out at night, not him, beaming starlight from his eyes and his fingertips, to hang the moon again.  So soft, so full of wooly cows and pink heather and the smell of tea and sea salt and Martin’s shampoo on the pillow next to him did it become, that it was almost inevitable that one morning Jon awoke absolutely convinced none of it could be real.  

The moment he decided that, everything made so much more sense.  He could breathe again.  There was a reason he could never sit still, never just feel at ease or talk about the future like it was a real thing that could still happen.  He knew why the silence made his brain itch and why he still glanced around corners and glowered at anyone who dared let their gaze linger on his Martin too long.  Why Martin’s ring fit and his didn’t.  There was too much debt to the universe to be paid, too many broken promises, too many corpses in his wake, he had done nothing to deserve this idyllic life of love and peace and smallness and Martin.  It had to be Her doing, It’s doing, some carefully woven torture chamber that would lure them to the apex of their joy, the center of the web, where they would just be devoured over and over to empty husks and set up like chess pieces to fill with love and light just to knock down again.  He wasn’t free after all.

Jon had been halfway into his coat and halfway out the door to do, he didn’t know, something, anything, to go to the library to use their computer and research something he didn’t know he was looking for when Martin had seized his hand and whirled him around.

“Jon.  STOP.  It’s over.”

And he’d stopped.  He’d looked into those baleful blue eyes, fallen into their depths, landed on the precipice of madness, and broken.  It wasn’t over.  Not for him.  He finally understood.  It was still there.  The Eye.  It always had been.  Though not really, he understood slowly as he wept on his knees in their doorway into Martin’s chest, it had indeed closed forever on him, but it lingered as distant static, like a phantom limb, a metaphysical itch that could never be scratched.  Martin had cradled him close and listened, listened so patiently as he ripped the jagged black fear from the deepest, ugliest part of his heart, hauled it up bloody and messy from his throat and finally laid it bare for both of them to see.  And when it was done and he couldn’t cry anymore Martin had locked eyes with him in a way that made him forget any others could have ever existed outside of crystalline blue and filled with moonlight.

“Listen to me.  I know you think you have some cosmic burden to bear.  That you’re still wearing some… some fucked up crown and sitting on a throne of skulls and death and eyeballs or whatever image you want to put there, and that you have to sit and hurt and watch over everything so it doesn’t happen again, but...  Sorry, Jon, but that’s bullshit.  It’s just a scar now.  That’s all.  Just like the rest of them.  Ugly and beautiful and proof that you —Jonathan Sims— are still alive.  And you are not The Archivist anymore.  You’re just mine.  My Jon.”

He’d held his Jon’s stunned face in his hands and peppered kisses over the pock marks in his skin, over the slash on his throat, the burnt fingers that still couldn’t bend quite right, even the one on his chest, the one almost always hidden by fabric but the one he didn’t need to see to find.  His heart and fingers would always remember exactly where it was.  And he’d kept his lips there a moment, then turned his ear to his chest and wrapped his arms around his waist to listen to his heartbeat like a trembling little bird.

“If I can hear it and feel it.  So can you,” he whispered.

Unsteady fingers curled desperately into Martin’s silky locks, hematite loop cool against his scalp, “Thank you…”

Martin stayed for the kiss on top of his head he knew was coming and smiled.

“Okay, so it’s simple to fix if you think about it,” he murmured into Jon’s chest, “We just need that thing, you know?  The thing that makes you feel like you’re still doing the thing, but you’re not.  What was the word for it again?  A placeholder?  Like when you quit smoking and you hold a pencil or a straw or something that’s not actually a cigarette so you can wean yourself off the ritual?”

Jon blinked owlishly down at him as he dried his eyes.

“A… placebo?  Are you talking about a placebo?”

“Yeah!  That’s it!  We just need to find you a placebo for Knowing things!  That’s all.  Like… reality shows, or-or zoo cams or something!  We’ll figure it out together.  Alright, love?  I promise you.  It’ll be okay.”

Jon was skeptical, so very skeptical, but if Martin was determined to find a balm to soothe his jagged, ontological scars he would happily play the part of lab rat for him.  They’d tried a myriad things to replicate the feeling of Knowing and looking something deep within him still craved.  The zoo and animal livestreams were a bust, cute and entertaining as they were, but animals weren’t ever the purview of The Eye and the camera itself was barely a scrap.  Reality shows came closer, the more salacious the better, but even that temporary fix wore off when Jon’s disgust with the overall content and participants outweighed any benefit.  Martin was just happy to have finally converted him to Bake Off, at least.  They tried people watching in the square in the village, but it made Jon far too self-conscious and guilty.  He used the binoculars exactly once, and that was to look at the cows in the fields, and the choose-your-own-adventure books Martin had been certain would strike a sagacious chord wound up in the donation bin at the library.  But that was when he was struck with a bolt of genius.

Unbeknownst to Jon, which brought him no small measure of glee, Martin ordered, received, and then set up with a literal bow in their back garden the finest telescope he could afford on his meager savings.  He’d researched for days, asked on every amateur astronomer forum he could find, and had it delivered to the grocers so he could make it a proper surprise.  He’d even gone so far as to attack and blindfold a hapless Jon the moment he made it home from work on the day it was ready, and stood behind him giddily bouncing as he tore the tea towel away from his eyes.

“A… Telescope?” he’d blurted dumbly.

“Yes!  It’s perfect, right?  I asked around to find the one that had all the best features, and this one has the best overall magnification and the most lenses, but it doesn’t have the little satellite positioning thing?  I figured you wouldn’t want that anyway, you always like figuring things out and finding things on your own better.”

Martin had been positively radiant.  Jon had just stared at the gawping black tube and chewed the inside of his cheek as he processed what to say.

“I mean… thank you, Martin, really.  It was a sweet thought, but if the binoculars didn’t-“

“Screw the binoculars!  This is different!” Martin happily insisted, “You can look at so much more!  Stars and planets and galaxies and what have you, and it can maybe be sort of like you’re looking for other worlds?  Wormholes or whatever?  Or signs of The Fears and where they’ve gone?  Or even if the stars are the same here as they were back before?  Space literally has so many things to LOOK at we can’t even count them!  This has got to be it!”

Jon tried to smile and laugh and agree to try it out, at the very least, if only because Martin was beaming so sweetly with pride and hope.  Though that first night he didn’t, ushering them back in with promises of tomorrow, Martin, I promise tomorrow.  Tomorrow had been a lie.  As had been the next night.  In fact, it took Jon a full week to even remember they even had a telescope, and that was only after getting the smuggest, Cheshire grin out of Martin after casually mentioning there would be a visible, if partial, lunar eclipse that night.  He’d relented, only because he’d entrapped himself, and they’d both bundled up, looked in the manual for the best size lens to view the moon with, poured a few glasses of wine, and turned their eyes to the stars.

Martin had gone first, gripping the eyepiece and adjusting the focus all the while gasping in awe.  It was so beautiful he’d burst into poetry with a crooked grin.

“Art thou pale for weariness?  Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, wandering companionless among the stars that have a different birth, and ever changing, like a joyless eye that finds no object worth its constancy?  Sounds a little familiar, eh?” he joked, casting a wry look over his shoulder.

Jon rolled his eyes fondly.

“Gross.  Keats again?”

“Nope, Shelley this time, and even he thinks you ought to have a look at the moon.  I think you’ll find you have a lot in common.”

Jon had sighed obligingly and shuffled to the telescope, fully expecting to look at something bright and round with a bit of a shadow on it that was distinctly unremarkable, have another glass of wine, and then go back inside to snuggle by the fire.  What he saw in that tiny pinhole of light pierced straight through the hazel brown of his eye and plunged him into another world entirely.

The sands of the moon glowed the purest white in the refracted light of the distant sun with which it waltzed.  He could see in crisp, shadowy relief the innumerable scars she bore, the depth and breadth of Ptolemaeus, the boundless lonely flatness of the maria, named for the oceans they were once thought to be, an insult to the rock plains forged a millennia ago in birth by cataclysmic fire.  Every crater remained wrought in perfect, frozen detail with no erosion or foliage to slowly heal them over, and she beamed them proudly, ostentatiously in her heavenly light.  A hulking, ancient protectorate, hung by the hands of creation at the dawn of time for a fledgling planet, hundreds of thousands of miles away, and yet so crystal clear and unafraid as he perused her millions of years of cosmic sentinel through a lens.  It was dwarfing, humbling, viscerally awe inspiring in a way he dared not voice for fear of snuffing out the fragile glow of wonder and excitement welling in his chest he had been so certain was gone forever.

Astronomy had never been something that had particularly interested Jon, back when his entire reality from the moment his childish hands had touched a single book was spent peering into shadows and watching his own back.  There was no point in wondering what lay among the stars when danger and death lurked so close behind with slavering jaws ever poised at his throat on terra firma, but now.  Now, he had been living in an alternate world, dimension, reality, somewhere, he couldn’t even say for sure.  He’d been hurled potentially through the very stars that twinkled coquettishly above, flashed through their nebulous veils and curtains under their indifferent gaseous gazes, but seen nothing.  Here was a vast expanse of complete chaotic indefiniteness inviting him in to see what few had ever seen, to guess and hypothesize and gesture wildly at secrets only the stars could keep.  To Know.

Jon had jerked back so suddenly from the telescope to survey the entirety of the astral dome above them that Martin had choked on his wine.

“Jon?  Are you quite alright?”

“Yes, I…” he’d murmured, only even half hearing that Martin had said anything at all, stars reflected in his wondering dark eyes, “I’m fine, I just… How… How much more can this see?  How deep does it go?”

Jon hadn’t seen the victorious smirk on Martin’s face as he set down his wine glass and picked up the instruction manual and lens guide.  They’d watched the rest of the eclipse, of course, marveling through the lens at the inky trickle of shadow over craggy white, but then they’d changed the lens to the strongest one, according to the guide, and spent the rest of the evening triangulating their position beneath their slice of the universe and plotting out the various stars, planets, and constellations above.  Jon had even dashed inside to grab a mostly blank notebook and had filled several pages with notes and observations and things to research later, all while Martin held back tears watching him come so alive over a project he didn’t even know he needed.  Eventually though, sleepiness and cold claimed him, and he kissed his beloved goodnight and left him, more than gladly, to ride out the intellectual flare up until it burnt both him and itself out.  

Martin had no clue what time it was when he finally returned, and it didn’t even matter.  All that mattered was at some point, a practically frozen Jon had climbed into bed, snuggled up close behind and wrapped his arms around him to kiss the back of his neck so softly like the wings of a butterfly and whisper.

“Thank you.”

Another victorious smirk and a loving murmur.

“Told you so.”

Where there had been nothing but an Eye shaped hole in him, scarred around the edges and aching in its vacuum, Jon had filled it with the names of nebulas and quasars, of the myth of Andromeda, and Orion, and Castor and Pollux, or Hercules, and why they had all been hung in the stars for eternity.  The stories were much the same as he remembered, but he’d found slight eccentricities, tiny irregularities in the sky which fascinated him even more so.  Night after night he would look at a different astral body, chart it down in his notebook, then come bounding in with starlight beaming from his eyes and his fingertips with some cry of eureka.

“Martin!  Did you know here Polaris is in the south and Sirius is in the north?”

“Martin!  Did you know the Andromeda Galaxy is actually a little closer to the Milky Way here?”

“Martin, you have to come see this!  Oh, no it’s not weird this time, it’s just I finally got Saturn in the telescope and you can actually see the rings!”

His nightly herald would always be different, but Martin would always rise from the comfort of the couch, put his slippers on, and let Jon talk as long as he needed to about his latest discovery, watching him smile again while he, too, watched the matching smile it never failed to ignite illuminate Martin’s face and they lit each other up in the fused brilliance of a binary star.

Martin no longer hung the moon for Jon, he’d finally just up and quite literally given it to him, and there was no mortal way to repay him for that.  Or so he’d thought.  It came to him, as most flashes of brilliance do, on a night he hadn’t even been thinking about it at all.  All he had been doing was sitting in a lawn chair with his telescope long after Martin had gone to bed, chewing his pencil idly, vaguely missing a cigarette and pondering notes on Vega and Lyra between watching it through his lens.  He’d been stuck for days on Vega and its potentiality for another solar system and what that could imply for their new Earth and their new sun, as well as Lyra and the tragic tale of Orpheus and his doomed love.  Even in their new reality he still turned back at the end of the story, still could not contain the roiling, effusive adoration to his own downfall.

Bitterness had risen like bile in the back of Jon’s throat as he replayed the myth again in his head, unsure why it was vexing him and rewinding in his brain so torturously.  “Stupid, stupid man, if he’d only just…” he’d thought again and again, each time giving the star-crossed musician a different decision, a different choice, urging him down another path somewhere, anywhere along his journey, but in the end, he’d always looped back around to the original.  It was the point of the story, after all.  Not so much the love itself or even the loss of it, but the power of it over one man and the creation born from his mourning and eventual destruction.  Patently Greek.  But the chorus would always begin again in Jon’s head.  If he’d kept his Eurydice, if his songs had been happy, if he hadn’t spent the rest of his life mourning so intensely he was eventually destroyed for it, would he have become the paragon of healing he was, the oracle, the lynchpin of the fate of the world he had eventually become?  Which of them was the stupider man?

Jon was only mortal now, he was no longer all-seeing oracle and dark savior, he had no authority to say, but it was a trifle easier to ponder the hubris of Orpheus instead of his own.  He couldn’t help but think, achingly, sometimes the heroes just deserved to pull their beloved from the pit of Tartarus, promise to love them for eternity, and then simply get married, ride off into the sunset, and live happily ever after.  A story wasn’t a story if it didn’t write itself upon the very bones and sinews of its heroes, that was the law of the universe, but when the story was done and the cracks and fissures in their tissues had faded to myth and legend, what became of the heroes who did not die a tragic or heroic death and were not hung in the stars?  What happened to heroes left behind?  Twisting his bloodstone ring on his thumb idly as it caught the shivering fire of those stars in its dark mirrored surface, the musical arrow of the muses pierced his heart, wide-eyed in wonder.  He’d asked the universe, but he already knew the answer.  He’d always known.  He knew, and he knew it with such clarion joy as he had never known anything before.

He could no longer be the man who hung Martin’s moon, he hadn’t been for a long time.  That much was clear to him, but he could certainly do something else.  Perhaps they had grown past the need for moon hangings in the first place.  He knew how their story ended.

It took months of saving, secreting, preparation, and then finally just simply waiting for the perfect, clear night.  The moment it came, the moment he knew it was the night, Jon struck without hesitation.  Poor Martin wanted nothing more than to collapse onto the couch, into Jon, when he returned from a late shift at the grocers, but found himself instead stuffed right back into his coat with a picnic basket in hand and hauled out into the frigid night in a flurry of Jon with little time to protest.  He bounded up the hill behind their little cottage beneath a perfect blanket of stars flaming coldly overhead, trailing Martin’s hand in his behind with his breath coming in silvery puffs of clouds, and paying no heed to the whining.

“Jon, whatever it is, does it have to be NOW?” Martin panted, “I am absolutely knackered and it’s beyond freezing and wouldn’t it be nicer just to curl up with a cuppa and fall asleep in front of Star Wars or something?  Doesn’t that have enough stars and space in it?”

Dauntless, Jon only tugged harder.

“There’s tea in the basket, and I’ve seen Star Wars.  And yes, it has to be tonight, it’s really important, I promise.”

“Look.  I love you.  So much.  You know this, and please know it is with the utmost love and deepest affection in my heart that I point out that you say that every time, and you’ve still shown me Pluto like, a hundred separate times.  While I quite like it, and I still feel sorry for it being bumped out of the solar system and all, it’s just a dot?  How many times can you look at a dot?” Martin sighed.

His words finally threw a caltrop into Jon’s warpath, and he paused, turning over his shoulder woundedly.

“What?  No, it’s not Pluto, I swear just- Please, Martin?  I’ll never ask again if you don’t want to, but just for tonight, please?” he pleaded.

Martin winced, and immediately folded under the onslaught of doleful honeyed brown eyes under a nimbus of stars.

“Oh, lord there you go with the puppy dog eyes.  Okay, okay fine, but there better be a nip of whiskey in this,” he chided lovingly with a gesture at the thermos in the basket.

The smile flared back to life brightly on Jon’s face as he turned back up the craggy little footpath to the top of the hill.

“Of course, hot toddy with tea.”

“Ooh, lovely, you do know me.”

The rest of the way was trivially short to the small, flat hilltop surrounded by heather where Jon had already set up a blanket and the telescope over a pristine vista of the dark line where the stars sank into the sea.  He ushered Martin to sit down first, then perched on his hip beside him and poured him a generous helping of tea and whiskey from the thermos before pouring his own.

“Thanks, much.  Right then, what exactly are we up here to look at that we couldn’t see from our garden?” Martin asked, accepting his cup of potent hot toddy and sipping it gratefully around the lemony steam that billowed up.

Taken aback by the sudden logic lobbed into the center of his romantic posturing, Jon looked momentarily stunned, as if someone had slapped him upside the head.

“Oh!  Oh, um, well-!  Ahah, that is to say- Uh.  There is a reason for all this.  It’s not that we couldn’t see it from our garden, we very much could have.  B-But it’s so beautiful up here, and you can kind of hear the sea?  And it’s nice and peaceful, and the heather is still blooming a bit and um…” he trailed off, cheeks burning.

“Okay…?” Martin probed, frowning a little.

“Er, actually...  It’s less about the stars than it is- W-Well it is about the stars.  Let’s get that clear.  But to be completely honest I mostly just… I-I well.  There’s something I need to tell you?”

Jon was ill-prepared for the look of abject horror on Martin’s face as he went paler than the moon overhead.

“Shit, what is it?  Did you find something?  You saw something?  There’s been a sign of The Fears?  Oh god it’s not HER is it?” he asked frantically, nearly slopping hot toddy all over his lap.

“What?  No!  No, none of that!” Jon spluttered, aghast.

Martin regained a modicum of color in his face and breathed in measuredly.

“Okay, so then what is it?  Oh god, you’re not… Jon you’re not ill, or something, are you?  Please, you can just tell me if-“

“No, I am not ill either, damn it, Martin!  If you would just listen to me!  I-!” Jon moaned exasperatedly, “I just wanted to do something… nice.  Something nice for you.  And nicer than I normally would because I am apparently much worse at crafting romantic moments than I thought and-“

“Wait…” Martin cut in, eyes gleaming with realization, “Jonathan Sims… Are you grand gesturing?”

“Well I am certainly trying but you are making it exceedingly difficult!” he retorted, red in the face and breathless.

“Oh my god, you are!  I’m so sorry!” Martin laughed brightly, “Oh god Jon you poor thing I’m so sorry, I’m awful, I’m the absolute worst!  No please!  Don’t let me spoil it.  Please go on.”

Grinding the heel of his palm into his forehead, Jon tried to summon the words again, only for Martin’s strong, warm hands to take it from him and tip his chin up to gaze into his eyes.

“Hey.  Hey, Jon.  Look at me,” he breathed, looking into his eyes idolatrously, “I’m sorry.  I love you.  You can tell me.”

Taking the steadiness from those clear blue depths he needed, Jon focused on them, on the strawberry blond curls tossing in the icy breeze, of the kiss of chilled pink under his freckles, and that eternal, sunshine smile.

“Okay,” he finally answered, smiling softly.

With a deep, shuddering breath, and a long swig of whiskey laced tea for good measure, Jon drew himself up and fished deep in his soul for the words he had waited a millennium to say.

“Okay… So here it is.  Um… I’ve um, I’ve had a lot of time alone lately with my new hobby, as it were.  So, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.  A lot of it is overly complicated and ridiculous and doesn’t deserve to live outside of my head but… a lot of it has been about you, about us.  And I know we don’t need to-to put a label on us or put us into a… a box or anything like that.  But every time I look at this ring on my finger, I can’t help but remember we never actually talked about what they meant,” he began, holding out his left hand and fidgeting with the loose band around his thumb.

“Oh Jon, don’t worry about that.  It was just me being a big sappy, sentimental dork.  And if I recall correctly, we’d had a pretty awful row a night or two before, and I just wanted to feel close to you again, I guess?  We both know what they mean to us.  It doesn’t matter,” Martin assured him sweetly.

“Except that it does!” Jon insisted passionately, “That’s the point!  You are a big sappy, sentimental dork, Martin.  I bet you were the kid that had a dream wedding all planned in a notebook with pictures cut out of magazines and everything.  I adore that about you, but big sappy sentimental dorks should have big sappy, sentimental moments like huge, expensive seaside weddings with three-flavor cakes and all your friends and family and rose petals and dove releases and whatever else your heart could dream up.”

Martin snickered and shook his head, charmed at least by the mental image of kissing Jon on a seaside cliff at sunset while doves flew in glorious formation around them and everyone they had ever known and loved cheered.

“Pfft, I don’t need a grand wedding and all that, I just need-”

“Me.  I know,” Jon finished for him with a smirk, “I knew you’d say that.  Maybe not.  But you deserve one.  And I know I don’t use that word lightly, but it’s necessary in this case.  You deserve it.  All of it.  Me on one knee with a ring in a box, you deserve us picking out flowers and tuxedos and arguing over the font on the invitations.  You deserve Tim’s awful bachelor party and laughing at me at the altar because I had to read my vows off a card and they’re still so stiff and awkward and they pale in comparison to the beautiful poem you wrote about me.  You deserve smiling so hard your cheeks hurt and crying as we exchange rings.  All of it.”

Martin weighed his words carefully on his tongue with a sip of his boozy tea to chase away ghosts of things that never even were.

“I mean, sure, not going to say I never wanted that.  And I did have that stupid wedding notebook, by the way.  But all that became a pipe dream the minute we wound up here, right?  No use being upset about something that can never be.”

“That may be so, but the crux of it is… you also contented yourself with the idea of it never coming true not because we’re here, but because you didn’t think I wanted it,” Jon answered, his unspoken truth hanging heavy in the chill night air between them, “Every time you tried to tell me you wanted to be with me forever, I brushed it off and painted it gray and tucked it away and carried on the way we always were like nothing happened and it didn’t matter.  Because it was alright, really, you were just so happy to have what we have, that I didn’t die in your arms that night, that we were still together after everything.  That I at least kept that promise after I’d broken so many.  You were so grateful just for what you were gifted after we thought we would end with nothing you didn’t dare think to ask the universe for more and I am so, so sorry it took me so long to see that, Martin.  I’m so sorry.”

His voice broke.  The breath caught in Martin’s chest as he reached out to touch his wrist comfortingly.

“Jon, I-“

“No, please.  Please let me finish I… I can’t give you any of those things.  I can’t give you our friends back, I can’t give you cake and doves and the sunset and crying through vows in front of the vicar.  I can’t even give you an elopement at the register office because we still don’t legally exist.  And I guess for a long time I resented myself for that.  For all of it.  For stealing that from you, for dragging you through literal hell only to give you a shadow of a life stuck here with me because I betrayed you.  But- no stop, don’t say anything yet I’m not done.  B-But now I finally realize.  You’re right, Martin.  You were always right.  It doesn’t matter.  Those things are all just… things.  I said to you once, a long time ago, and I’m still not even sure if you really heard me, that I didn’t want to just survive.  It was true then, and maybe it wasn’t true for a while, but it’s certainly true again.  We did not fight tooth and nail to just survive.  We fought to live, and live together.  So what I’m saying is… I know now I don’t have to give you tuxedos and white roses as long as I give you something… Something to prove to you that you are my everything, my entire world, something to show you that I love you more than I have loved anything in my entire life.  That I want forever with you.  S-So I…” he trailed off, sucking in his breath to give his gesture of undying love the ardor and grandeur it deserved, “I bought us a star.”

The proclamation rang out like the toll of a bell, its gravity sonorous and quaking.  Martin blinked.

“You… I’m sorry?” he squeaked.

Jon set his empty thermos cup aside, flailed his hands in the air and shook his head frantically

“I-I know, I know it sounds mental just hear me out!” he protested, “Technically I didn’t buy the star, if we want to get picky about it.  I mean obviously no one can own a star.  Just the rights to name it?  It’s a thing you can do online.  I was a bit gobsmacked it was real to be honest.  I just had this silly idea when I was out looking at the stars.  I was looking at Lyra and thinking about you and Orpheus, and I… W-Well I just typed it in, ‘can you name a star?’ and it came right up.  Right then and there.  It um… comes with… hold on.”

Remembrance placed a gentle bookmark down on Jon’s fluttering thoughts, and he rummaged in the picnic basket for a moment before pulling out a navy-blue manila folder covered in stars and full of the paperwork and certificates that had come with registering theirs.  He handed it to Martin, who took it in place of his own empty cup, numb, muscles quivering under his jaw, and opened it to the glittering gold typeface that proclaimed ‘Congratulations!’.

“It comes with paperwork, too!  See?  So, it’s official, at least?  The Jon-Martin star.  Not a marriage license I know, but at least our names are together on something legal?  Our real names?  I figured even if we manage the fake identity thing we’d have to get married as not us.  Not really.  So…  I-It could be like our marriage certificate?” Jon explained, chewing his lower lip.

Martin said nothing as his hand turned the pages of the documentation, his eyes distant in a way Jon had never seen before.  Not disembodied and enthralled, not broken, not even regarding puzzle pieces.

“Oh!  Um, also I-I got us a binary star.  I forgot to mention that bit,” he went on, filling the sudden void, “It’s, ah- What a binary star is- It’s technically two?  But they’re caught up in each other’s gravity and they orbit each other so tightly they look like one star together, one that just shines a little brighter.  They’re bound together forever by the most powerful cosmic force in the universe.  Just like us.”

Only silence answered, punctuated by one last crisp whisper of paper, and then the folder closing with Martin’s spread fingers atop it, bloodstone gleaming in the vivid pale light of the night.  Jon’s heart pitched frantically in his chest, and desperate, stranded tears pricked at his eyes.

“I uh… I would have rather gotten us a whole constellation.  Heh, you know?  But they don’t do that, obviously,” he tried softly, his fingers barely brushing Martin’s knuckles, “They record heroes in constellations, after all.  Great deeds, doomed romances, lovers who can be together no other way… That would have been a better way to honor us, I think.  Our story.  A-And who knows?  Maybe back on our world there are a few new stars to remember what we did, to mark the place we left it, so that everyone we left behind can look up and remember us.  They don’t know how the story really ended, and they probably never will, but we do.  We do, and I want to end it right here, right now.  With our star shining above us ‘and they lived happily ever after.’”

Martin still said nothing, but his head bowed, casting a slice of shadow over his eyes, and his shoulders quivered as a thin, bright line of wet silver trickled down his cheek.  Jon felt the very sky shatter above and begin to crumble around him.

“Please… M-Make no mistake, Martin.  P-Perhaps the gesture is silly and meaningless, but it was all I could think to do to go with everything I’ve said tonight.  Martin… Martin, don’t you see?  These are my wedding vows to you.  This is me saying ‘I do’ and also ‘Martin K. Blackwood would you do me the honor of making me the happiest man in the universe?’  All at once.  This is me saying I swear to you I will be yours, through everything, until the end of time.  M-Maybe I wasn’t before.  Maybe I was still punishing myself, but I’m telling you, I’m ready now to have my happily ever after.  With you, Martin.  If you’ll have me.  If I haven’t-“

He would never finish.  In a dizzying blur of blue folder, flashing hematite, and a wreath of golden curls, Martin kissed the words off his lips.  He kissed him so hard and so fierce, through wracking sobs with his hands woven so raptly into his long, wavy locks he thought his lips would bruise and his fragile soul would finally shatter to pieces in Martin’s arms.  Undone, all Jon could do was surrender and kiss him back with equal passion, thumbing away the hot tears as they spilled freely down his cheeks and anointed them both with their cleansing, hoary heat.  Their lips parted and they panted softly against each other in the space between, each afraid to break the sacred, pulsing silence.

“You’re crying,” Jon whispered at length, “I’ve said something wrong. Martin, darling I’m so sorry.  I never meant to-”

Martin laughed, raspy with tears, but ethereal, sparkling, like stardust floating on the breeze.

“People are allowed to cry when they’re happy you stupid, silly man,” he murmured in between kissing him again, and again.

“Oh.  Oh.”

He kissed him one last time, that idiot man who always burnt the toast and always knew the facts but never knew what to say, who finally figured it out and bought him a star, and threw his arms around him, enveloping his slight, fragile form protectively in his embrace.

“I love you.  I love you so much.”

Jon sank into that warm, familiar comfort and buried his face in his shoulder.

“I love you, too, Martin.  I want to be yours for the rest of my life.  I want to be me, I want to be us.”

“I know.  I’ve always known.  Oh god, you do know that right?  I know that you love me, it’s written in everything you do and say.  I have never, ever once doubted you love me with everything you are.  Even in the moments I was afraid that… that maybe we just weren’t meant to be together, I still knew it wouldn’t be because you didn’t love me.  Never because you didn’t love me.  Just maybe that we didn’t fit together anymore,” Martin replied in a small voice through his tears as they spilled down his cheeks.

As much as he wanted to vehemently deny there was ever a chance they might have not fit back together again after they had both been so shattered, to kiss him and tell him not in a million years would there ever have been a future where they weren’t Jon and Martin against the world, Jon knew it to be inescapably true.

“I’m so sorry you ever had to be afraid of that,” he swore, digging his fingers into Martin’s back pointedly, “After everything.  After we fought so hard to escape fear itself.  That I almost let it truly win in the end.  That I couldn’t just let go… Because… Because this was never about The Eye, was it?”

A heave of breath and its shuddering exhale shook Martin’s body free of lifetimes of grief, and fear, of ugliness carried far beyond the borders of their souls.  His fingers curled tighter in unspoken reply.

“No Jon, no it wasn’t, but I’m so very glad you finally figured that out.”

“Me, too…” he whispered.

They held each other in the quiet wake of being a moment and let the astral plane wheel calmly overhead.  An impatient star twinkled.

“Wait… you never answered me,” Jon finally said as he pulled back, sliding his elegant fingers down Martin’s strong arms.

“Huh?” Martin blurted, scrubbing under his eyes with the sleeve of his coat.

“About marrying me tonight.  You never actually said yes, so…”

A twinkle in his eye and a slight mischief to his grin, Jon dove back into the picnic basket and emerged with a velvet ring box.  Martin’s hands flew to his mouth.

“You didn’t.”

“Of course I did!  Nothing fancy, but I thought it was high time to retire the blood rings,” he explained rising from his former perch on his hip to kneel properly.

The box cracked neatly open, and inside lay a simple, white gold band with a tiny circle of milky moonstone embedded in it on a midnight-blue satin cushion, blindingly bright against the dark.  Martin sobbed joyfully all over again.

“So, uh… I suppose if it had just been us, if we’d just been together, without everything, and we’d arrived at this moment.  I would have done much the same.  I would have brought you somewhere beautiful, somewhere I could teach you some inane fact you didn’t actually care about, but liked because it came from me.  Emulsifiers in ice cream and rum raisin…” they both snickered, “And I would have tried my best to make it into some sort of romantic metaphor but completely bunged it up and you would be laughing as I got down on one knee, just like this.  And it would have just been simple.  To the point.  Just… Will you marry me?  So…”

Jon assumed the traditional position, on one knee, arms outstretched, his every slender point a star in a perfect constellation of love.

“Will you marry me?”

Their eyes met, across a thousand different realities, across a thousand different worlds, carried on celestial winds to fall hopelessly, inexorably, into each other’s orbit.

“Yes, yes I do believe I will.”

With one last farewell kiss upon it for what it had meant for them both, Jon slipped the bloodstone ring from Martin’s finger and replaced it with the delicate band made of starlight.  It took its place radiantly, and shone as Martin drew his hand back to admire it with an equally radiant grin before it dimmed with concern.

“But what about you?” he asked worriedly as he watched the old ring entombed lovingly in the box.

Jon only smirked and produced a second box from the basket, which he offered on his open palm out to Martin.

“Naturally, I got one for myself.  Couldn’t pass up a chance to get a wedding ring that actually fits, could I?  It’s just… Don’t you think you deserve to give it to me the way you would want?” he urged.

Martin took the box eagerly, biting his lower lip in thought.

“Not sure you want to give me that freedom.  I had about five different ways of asking you in my head and all of them you would have hated so, so much.  But I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t kind of the point,” he answered wryly.

Jon chortled.

“Sorry I, the unromantic one, sprung this on you, the romantic one.  But I did want to surprise you.  I-I mean you can still write me a vows poem later?  If you want to, of course.  I’d love to have it, even if I don’t actually get to hear it at our wedding.”

Martin’s face flushed immediate crimson and his eyes darted coyly away as he toyed with the wedding band box in his lap.

“Oh that?  A-Actually I… I have it memorized, i-if you really wanted to hear it.”

“You- WHAT?” gasped Jon, his cheeks flushing in tandem.

“Oh yeah, I wrote my vows poem for you ages ago and I’ve gone over it so many times I know it by heart.  It was comforting, okay?  I-I’d read it again when times were good and I thought maybe you’d actually- um… a-and when times were not so good, when you were gone, in your own head, when I was afraid we were broken for good, whenever I needed it.  I’ve read it over a thousand times and never changed a thing from the first time I penned it.  Never needed to.  I’m surprised I haven’t recited it in my sleep at this point,” Martin admitted sheepishly.

Jon’s entire body flushed with a solar heat that melted his joints and his heart into a swirling flare of adulation.

“I can think of no better way, then, to receive my ring,” he breathed, reaching out to cup Martin’s cheek in his hand, “I’ve had my turn, now it’s yours.”

In mirror ballets of love exchanges, Martin cradled Jon’s hand against his cheek as he spoke the first lines of the vows etched ever on his being softly into his palm.

“Let he who, shadow dwelling, must In paper, pen, and book be bound Shake off the chains of dark and rust And chart his own bright fate unfound.

Let he with lifelong burdens borne Cut paper wings with thread of gold And hand in hand, the sky forsworn Flit clouds and sun in laughter bold.

Let he whose blood and soldier’s ken The world did shield from dark and fear Heal fast those wounds, be whole again And sleep at last, held close and dear.

Bring him to me with spirit free With stars in eyes and music sung From lips a joyful promise be One soul conjoined, one fate’s thread strung.

Two hearts rejoice in love renowned. We lift our heads, alive, uncrowned.”

He waited until the last couplet to pull the ring from the box and slide it onto Jon’s finger where it too, fit perfectly, like it had always been there, and shone defiantly bright in the moonlight.  Jon wept.  He had been weeping since the first words of verse left his beloved’s lips, but seeing that ring like a piece of his missing soul returned to him undammed the tears effusively.

“God that was… Martin, I don’t have words.  I-It was… so beautiful.  You’re so beautiful.  Thank you,” he cried fervently, “I wish I could tell you properly how much that meant, but I just-“

“Hey… That’s alright.  I’m the words guy.  You’re the emulsifiers guy.  Making you cry is all I need to see to know how you feel,” Martin assured him warmly, reaching out to brush his tears away as he chuckled.

“Yeah… add this one to the running tally.”

“Oh, I have,” Martin snickered, “Speaking of!  Now we’ve done the crying through vows bit.  Shouldn’t we say the ‘I do’ bit, as well?”

Jon pursed his lips with a shrug as he reached out with his left hand to take Martin’s left as well, twining their fingers together

“Yes, I suppose we should.  I don’t see why not.  Well then, Martin, do you?”

“I do.  And Jon, do you?”

“I do.”

“You may now soundly snog the groom.”

“Martin…”

The emphatic drawl of his name the way Jon only called it when he was frustratingly enamored of him perished gently against Martin’s velvet lips as they caressed his.  They kissed slowly and reverently, sealing a pact ordained by the heavens long before either of them had seen the stars in the other’s eyes, lighting with white flame the torch to guide them for the first time, forward.  They broke it only to punctuate it with two more featherlight kisses and a breathless laugh, bowing their foreheads together in deference to the forces of fate and the universe.

“I know this isn’t the wedding either of us ever dreamed of, but as far as I’m concerned, it was perfect,” Jon murmured, nuzzling closer into his husband, swaddling the new, fledgling and beautiful word in his heart.

“Well, hey, what is a wedding really other than just a formal declaration that this is it?  This is us, we’re forever, no matter what.  We did it.  And you did it for me, in the STARS, Jon… Can we just remember that again?  You put us in the actual stars.  I am so writing a ballad for our constellation later, you do know this.”

“Oh lord.  Of course you are.  But really, it was the least I could do, after you’ve done so much for me, sacrificed everything for me.  Waited for me for so long.”

“And you came back to me,” Martin reminded him passionately, “And I don’t just mean back to life, here, in this world.  I mean you came back, Jon, MY Jon, the Jon I was in love with the moment I laid eyes on him.  The fidgety and obstinate Jon who can’t make a decent cup of tea to save his life, who puts on two different socks in the morning because his nose is already in the paper or a book, who teaches me about bleeding rocks and binary stars and still reacts to the simplest acts of kindness like a warm cranberry orange scone without asking for one like they’re divine miracles he is undeserving of, who looks at me like I hung the moon or something every time.  Even when I thought I was a complete and total waste of a human being, you, Jonathan Sims, the most beautiful, amazing, brilliant man to ever walk the Earth, looked at me like I hung the moon.  And that was… Still is… everything to me.”

The heavens shifted, the stars wheeled, the last piece clicked smartly, smugly into place.

“W-What did you say…?” Jon asked with such urgency, grabbing his hands so fiercely, Martin startled.

“Wh-I-I don’t-?  Which part?  The moon hanging part?” he stuttered, rolling his eyes fondly as he realized mid-sentence, “Oh, right.  Ugh, Jon are you seriously going to get after me about your weird vendetta against idioms at our wedding?  Because if you are that would be annoyingly adorable and so intensely you and kind of perfect, but also can you not on THIS particular occasion?”

The laugh that tore from Jon’s throat was half mad, half euphoric as the weight of the moon lifted from his shoulders and became naught but an indifferent sentinel disc in the sky once more.

“No no no, it’s just… It’s funny, I had more than a few things very, very wrong for a very, very long time.  That’s all.  Don’t worry about it,” he explained, leaning in and pressing a delicate kiss to Martin’s forehead, “If you’re the one who hung the moon after all, then I suppose ‘written in the stars’ will have to do for me.”

Martin lit up with literary glee.

“Oh ho!  Two space related idioms in one go?  What a rare treat!  Maybe this is your gateway drug into puns…” he teased impishly.

“Absolutely no chance in hell.”

They both laughed, laughed with the billowing icy breath that reached with victorious fingers up to the heavens.  They laughed, messily sniffing back the pesky drip of tears and cold.  They laughed with lightness of the encumbrance of hematite armor shed, its bloody protections no longer needed to cage wounded hearts and keep them safe and close.  They laughed in breath and also in the dancing points of light in their eyes as they fell into one another free from gravity.

“So uh… Do I get to see my star tonight, or don’t I?” Martin finally remembered, relishing the utterly horrified yelp from Jon.

“Oh god I completely-!  Y-Yes!  Yes of course, it’s already set up at the proper coordinates!” he had already sprung to his feet, “Oh, though, hang on, it took longer to get to the star viewing part than I anticipated, so I might need to adjust it a bit.  Oh!  And I have a little strawberries and champagne, if you like?”

“I do like, please and thank you!”

Jon set to readjusting the telescope to the proper ascension and declination while Martin poured them two glasses of crisply bubbling champagne.  They twined their arms to drink a toast from each other’s glass, ‘to us’ or ‘to happily ever afters’, or to several other messily rambled toast worthy sentiments.  They couldn’t decide and toasted to all of it.  They ate plump red strawberries and licked the juice from each other’s fingers as they looked at their star, which was, after everything, just a dot, just like Pluto, but Martin had to admit that he rather liked looking at dots after all.  And that one was their dot.  The warm intoxication of love and champagne begged for music, and someone fumbled in the cold for a wedding playlist on some app, somewhere, it didn’t matter, just as long as they could join hands, gaze into each other’s eyes and dance inelegantly, stepping on each other’s toes, under the umbrella of stars in a gentle rain of moonlight.

“I don’t see your problem with cliches, idioms and all that, really…” Martin mused at length, laying his head on Jon’s shoulder as they slowly spun to the rhythm of a longing ballad and the song of the sea, “Like this stupid, great song.  They’re familiar and cozy and everyone knows them.  They’re like… like old friends.  Always there to rely on when we can’t come up with the words ourselves, because sometimes we can’t.  And if something trite and silly sums up the way you feel, why not just let it be?  Sometimes things are said over and over again because some truths are universal, you know?  They’re just… human.”

Jon pressed a kiss into the mop of curls that tickled his nose and smelled faintly of toasted sugar and lavender and mused on all of the romantic cliches that had just passed through his mind unbidden.  Who was he to deny he was but one star in the sky, a single gear in the grand mortal mechanism of the universe.  If he had handed himself over to the humanity of it all instead of rusting, stopping, looking outside where there was never anything to see, perhaps he could have had this dance much sooner.  It didn’t matter though, until it did, because that night Martin took his breath away, made his world go round, he was head over heels for his match made in heaven, and better than heaven, they were written in the stars.

“You know what, Martin?” Jon laughed in reply, “Tonight, being what it is, I am willing to concede.  You are absolutely right.”

“I’m glad…” came the tender acceptance, followed by a distinctly puckish beat of silence, “Then does this mean I can I start saying love you to the moon and back?”

“Don’t push your luck...”

[itmighthavebeenintentional]

We've Got Tonight - Ch 4

Summary: “It’s not your job to do this, Andy. You make people happy. I was in the diner all of ten minutes, and you knew exactly how to get me to smile. You do normal, real things like garden and sing karaoke. Saving the world is my job, Sam’s job. Sometimes it’s even Cas’s job, but it’s not yours.”

Inspired by Bob Seger’s “We’ve Got Tonight”

Warnings: Major Character Death, More Major Character Deaths (sort of?), higher than show level violence, blood, light smutting, language, demons, apocalypse, inferred suicide, cult activity.

18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT PROCEED

Author’s Note: This story is set hazily around season 8. Just squint a little, and it’ll settle in somewhere. I wrote this story after certain big revelations in the show, but before other big ones; you’ll most likely be able to tell which. I play with time a bit in the story itself, so if things seem out of order, they are. Hopefully, by the end, all the pieces will fit together.

What the hell, let’s give it a shot.

EXTRA WARNING: THIS CHAPTER IS THE SOURCE OF MOST OF THE WARNINGS FOR THE STORY. Please don't kill me. THIS IS NOT THE LAST CHAPTER, I PROMISE. It's not over yet. I can't promise you won't hate me when it's over, but I will not leave you here. There's more.

Image and major edits by the incomparable @there-must-be-a-lock . Heavy editing and cheering by @thoughtslikeaminefield . Thank you both so much.

In case you missed it: Chapter 3 ItMightHaveBeenintentional’s Masterlist

...

We’ve Got Tonight

Ch 4

Pre-dawn is too damn cold, she decides. She has to visually check that her fingers are actually doing up the buttons to her ragged denim jacket. She lost sensation in her hands a while back, and it’s the only way to make sure they’re actually doing their job. Her jacket is utterly unsuitable for the current temperature, but she doesn’t expect to need it for much longer.

Just before sunrise, Crowley told her.

The sky is already lightening on the horizon, the medium gray more obvious than she would have thought against the stark black, but, then, she’s never had much occasion to be out quite this late before. She’s usually done at the diner by six, singing at the club by ten, and in bed by two at the latest. She hopes Crowley is punctual. She can’t decide if the waiting or the cold is worse.

Except that, yes, she really can. The waiting is definitely worse.

The sound of shifting gravel pulls her out of her thoughts, and she turns to find the King of Hell himself smiling beatifically at her. She shivers, not bothering to search out the source of her discomfort, as she is rather spoiled for choice at the moment. She’s out in the freezing dark, about to hand over her life and soul to a demon because deranged cultists got it into their heads that they should use her blood to start an apocalypse (and who knew there was more than one of those outside of Sunnydale, seriously).

Shivering is probably the most rational reaction she’s had in a while.

“Hello, darling. Pleasant evening with the boys?”

He’s got more sass in one off-the cuff remark than she has in her entire history, and for a moment she can only marvel at the affected innocence in his expression. It's almost convincing. She opts to remain silent rather than take his bait. He smirks, the expression natural and only a touch derisive.

“No surprises, then? No sidekicks to save you at the last minute from the bad, bad demon?”

“I thought the torture didn’t start until after you kill me,” she sighs, hugging her arms tighter around herself, a futile attempt to ward off the chill. Maybe she’s got a little spark in her, after all. He laughs, a friendly, personable chuckle that would set anyone else at ease, reassure them of his honorable, benign intentions.

“Come on, Crowley, what's the hold up? I was here on time. Can we just get this over with already? I could have gotten one more round in with Dean if we were just going to stand around, shootin’ the breeze.”

Even watching for it, she can only just see the tick in Crowley's jaw, the slightest tension that betrays...something. She doesn't know what or why, but Crowley has more than a little unhealthy obsession with the elder Winchester brother, and she is pleased she managed to crack his veneer even for the briefest moment.

At least I don't have to worry about Dean, Andy thinks, relief creeping into the sea of dread that is her stomach. Her deal with Crowley was not only about stopping the apocalypse but also keeping Sam and Dean and even Castiel safe.

“Once you're gone, I won’t harm a hair on their precious heads, nor any other part of them,” he swore to her a mere eighteen hours earlier.

“I’m hurt you don't find my company more pleasant, love,” he murmurs, taking a couple of steps closer. He slides his hands in his coat pockets, the very picture of nonchalance. “I do try my best to be cordial, even congenial, after all. But since you’re so very uncomfortable, I suppose you won't object, then, that I took the liberty of inviting a few friends whose company you seem to prefer. What a lovely party we’ll have when they get here.”

As if he’s summoned them, a pair of lights appear in the distance, growing larger with every passing moment. Headlights, she realizes; a second later, she hears the distinctive roaring of a very particular car engine, and before she can turn back to Crowley, the Impala leaps out of the darkness, skidding across the hard-packed dirt road, coming to a halt bare inches from the demon’s impeccably shined shoes.

Andy stumbles back, choking in the cloud of dust the car kicks up, only to hit something solid. Impossibly strong fingers dig into her chin, lifting her face out and away as cold, thin metal is pressed to the side of her neck, and only now does she freeze.

“Let her go, Crowley,” Dean growls, his gun drawn and aimed even before he exits the car. “This isn't her fight, and you know it!” On the other side, Sam and Castiel climb out, Sam drawing his gun and moving to flank the demon.

“I do heartily protest, sir,” Crowley says, his tone mild and conversational. The blade digs in ever so slightly under her ear, and a thin trickle of warmth slides down her skin to soak into her collar. Dean doesn't flinch, but his eyes narrow, and he readjusts his aim.

“Not only is the lady at the epicenter of this fight, she's gone and made herself the brightest star in the show. Ask her yourself, if you don’t believe me.”

“How-” she manages through fear-numbed vocal cords. Dean should be unconscious, snoring blissfully away in his bed where she left him. She made sure to leave no sort of trail they could follow, and she checked that they were all asleep or otherwise occupied before she took off.

“I wasn’t asleep, Andy,” Dean replies, leveling his gun at Crowley. “And I’ve been tracking since I was seven. Gimme some credit.”

“I wouldn't do that, if I were you, Moose.” Crowley’s words freeze Sam in his tracks, and the blade on Andy’s neck digs in a little deeper. The flow of warmth down her neck widens just a touch. The sheer smugness in Crowley’s tone sets her teeth on edge, breaking through her stupor, and she grabs the hand with the knife, pulling at it with all her might. She, of course, doesn’t make a dent in the demonic strength, but she’s got to try something.

If you asked her later, Andy would swear to you that the searing pain that drags along her neck parallel to her jaw line right then is pure Hellfire. Deep down in the darkest recesses of her mind where all the worst truths lurk, she knows she’s feeling the bite from Crowley’s knife, but in that instant all she is aware of is the agony of the wound, of Dean’s enraged roar, and the juxtaposition of Crowley’s gentle touch pressing her own fingers to something hot and slippery under her jaw.

“Hold pressure there, sweetheart, or you’ll bleed out too soon. Wouldn’t want you to miss the finale.”

Her knees buckle, and she drops, but somehow she stays upright long enough to see Crowley’s demons approach out of the darkness. She tries to warn the boys, but time moves with a dreamlike lethargy that betrays every one of her good intentions, and, anyway, her voice doesn’t seem to be working at the moment. The roar of gunfire all around her sounds faint in comparison to the rushing in her ears, and she is powerless to stop Crowley’s plans from reaching fruition.

“You...said...you wouldn’t...”

“Well, pet, you aren’t dead yet, are you? I’ve got, what, at least another three minutes before you snuff it, by my count. Plenty of time to conclude my business with the Winchesters and their featherbrained friend before you expire.”

Though he was right behind her only a moment ago, Crowley appears abruptly next to Castiel, who at the moment is distracted by two lesser demons both wielding machetes. She realizes as she watches Cas easily fend them off that they, just like Andy, are only a distraction, only bait to tempt the bigger players to overextend themselves.

Too late, she sees the perfection of Crowley’s plan. In all the confusion, she loses track of Sam, and she wrenches her eyes away from Dean’s staggering form only to watch as the angel blade in Crowley’s hand bursts through Castiel’s chest. Then her gentle, confused friend is gone in a flash. The demons vanish, and she can’t find Sam or Dean, can’t reach them, can’t make her voice work to call out.

The quiet is wrong, so out of place after the violent cacophony. The roaring is gone, the gunfire silenced, and all that’s left is a terrible wheezing, gurgling sound that takes her too long to recognize as her own labored breathing.

“Crow...ley…”

“I’m here, darling. What do you need?”

“Lying...bastard…”

“Now, now, sweetheart, are those really what you want your last words to be?” He lifts her easily from the ground, carrying her the few yards to where Dean lies sprawled in the dusty gravel. His shirt is stained black in the retreating darkness, and Andy can only be thankful that she won’t make it to sunrise to see what exact shade of red is spreading over him. Dean’s far hand scrabbles on the ground, stopping its frantic search only when it finds his brother’s.

Sam’s still form doesn’t return his brother’s grip.

“After all, I’ve done you a favor; I didn’t have to give you the opportunity to say good-bye. I can’t promise you adjoining cells, but I’m sure your torture will coincide with his occasionally,” Crowley continues conversationally, “so, really, the two of you should be thanking me that you’ll at least get occasional visiting privileges. It pays to be on good terms with the king, after all. And, who knows? After a couple hundred years of good behavior, I might even be persuaded to-”

“Why?” It’s all she can manage as he lays her on the ground. Dean reaches for her with his free hand, and she is just able to find his fingers. Their eyes meet, but her vision is blurring as breathing gets tougher, and she can’t see what he’s mouthing to her. Even his eyes, such a luminescent green only hours ago, are fading into the remaining dark of the night.

“The Winchesters, dear, it’s always been about the Winchesters. Oh, the fanatics and their doomsday ritual were real enough, as was your blood. I just simply took advantage of the situation, as any intelligent monarch would do. Settled things with the apocalypse groupies, rid myself of some major pains in my rear, and now I get you, to boot! I do love when a plan comes together.”

Dean’s fingers tighten in hers, and she tries to grip his back, but the harder she holds on, the less she can feel him.

She’s not really feeling much of anything but cold now.

“Shut...up...already.”

“Always ungrateful in the end, even after everything I do for them,” Crowley grumbles from above her. But then he does shut up, and she finally feels something besides the cold.

Relief. ...

Chapter 5