#yes I named her after beta from horizon

[messrmoonyy]

Sometimes I forget how tall he is. Bros a giant

[mynamesaplant]

Calm Before the Storm

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Summary: The night before her final trial against a berserk Lord Avalugg, Dawn is spending her time with Ingo, and requires a little bit of a distraction.

Content Warning: Drowning

Notes: Don't want to read it on Tumblr? Read it on AO3! I've been feeling creatively stifled lately, so if it feels like two fics smashed together... I plead the fifth. Thanks to monsoon-of-art for beta reading and all their inspiration for PLA and their Mer AU. Please enjoy!

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“You are never going to build up your muscles by hitching a ride on my cab.”

Ingo tried to point out, cutting through the glassy surface of the water and feeling the tip of Dawn’s tail brush against his left ear. Even without seeing her, he sensed that it was a happy sort of tail flap, each movement rhythmic and languid. She was at ease.

“But this is so much easier,” Dawn chirped, watching the sea bird serenely glide overhead.

She was trying to name them in her head, trying to, in some way, make a learning experience out of this strange situation. She recognized the luminescent orange bill and thin, forked tail of a tern. A few gulls, too high up to be clearly identified, were coasting on air currents, the distinctive W-shape to their wings offering a picturesque feel to the azure horizon. 

Ingo sank a little lower into the water, his eyes almost parallel with the water, a quiet threat to his passenger to vacate. She was a little too distracted with her observations to notice her ride was slowly vanishing into the sea. Dawn tumbled into the water with an objectionable squawk when the chilly water hit her back and, when she surfaced, her pin straight hair clinging to her face. A few meters away, she saw Ingo’s shadow beneath the ripples, and Dawn sighed; she closed her eyes, straightened her back like Palina had suggested, and felt her lungs expand to their fullest before following after the warden.

Beside her, Ingo was chuckling, slowing his movement to a light flick of his tail so she didn’t strain herself.

“Proper maintenance includes running the engines to check for faults.”

“Ugh,” his young companion huffed, and this just earned her a heartier laugh.

Ingo pointed to the ice floes jutting into the water like so many stalactites, indicating to Dawn that if she could swim that far without his assistance then he would permit her to catch a ride.

“You have to admit, I’ve gotten a lot better since I first started out.”

“Yes, that is true.” Ingo hummed, leveling out her back with his hand as it began to bow. “Keep your back straight. No scrunching. It only leads to sinking.”

She straightened, still astounded by just how powerful her tail was as it propelled her forward. Truth be told, she could be very good at swimming, but it was usually under extreme duress – like when Gaeric somehow ended up chasing her. It had taken a lot of practice to get there, with many covert lessons in shallow waters which Dawn knew hadn’t been the most comfortable for Ingo.

All of her swimming experience could be chalked up to Ingo’s interventions and/or patience. 

Dawn’s first trip into the water, the completely accidental tumble that introduced her to Ingo, even if she hadn’t known it at the time, had been nearly fatal. Neither of them liked to think about it. Ingo quite nearly let her drown, frozen with indecision, and petrified of such a small creature when it burst into an abrupt and violent coughing fit on the rocks below him. He used his large body to shield her from the rain pelting down, its whole frame shaking violently and as pale as glacier ice. The air smelt like petrichor and iron, it stung Ingo’s nose with its unpleasant mix, and he grimaced as the human fell unconscious again.

Ingo could still feel shame of the white-hot fear that had filled him when he abandoned Dawn there.

How could he anticipate that a few short weeks later that he would see that human again, but she looked remarkably less human than before. Ingo had stuck closer to the shore – he wanted to tell himself that he was doing it in the name of his warden’s duties, but in truth, he was anxious to see that human that spent so much of its time down in the tidal pools. After a week of absence, Ingo was starting to lose hope that the young human had survived, despite his efforts to save her.

He remembered the day everything changed.

-----

Ingo remembered just how heavy his heart felt as he prepared to leave and resume his duties. That’s when he heard music above him. The eerie resonance of a flute seemed to strike something deep within his bones, even if he couldn’t quite put a finger on what. A splash. A small and all too familiar form was in the water before him, about as graceful as all the previous times he had seen it in the surf.

“Whoa!” Dawn floundered in the water, her clothes weighing down her torso as the fabric took on water. She was too busy trying to get her bearings to notice the massive mer only a few meters from her. “Okay. So, if I…?”

Ingo watched, utterly dumbstruck as this… this was a human, wasn’t it? He could not believe his eyes. Turning and twisting like an orbiting planet, the human was able to right itself… with the pearly white tail of a harp seal pup.

-----

“HA! Now you have to carry me!”

The warden returned to the present, finding his young friend excitedly spinning around in front of him.

“A deal’s a deal.” Ingo agreed, gingerly scooping her up and holding Dawn against his chest. “I was just reminiscing about when our tracks first intersected. You’ve made a vast improvement since then.”

“Thanks! All the lessons helped.”

Dawn agreed, her own thoughts straying to the warden’s initial shock after her transformation. Admittedly, Dawn had been shocked too. When she first played the flute in her quarters, the sensation had been… odd, the surveyor would even argue that it was painful if it hadn’t happened in the space of a heartbeat.

Her whole body had broken out into a cold sweat, but Dawn was anything but cold. She felt like she was on fire. Bones snapping and re-fusing. Flesh tearing and smoothing over. The milliseconds of pain had been enough to force her into unconsciousness, but the absence of her legs almost sent her right back into the dark. Dawn had swallowed and focused on the tail sprouting from her torso, trying to admire it rather than being frightened.

Those first couple of days had been… stressful would have been an understatement. Ingo, who Dawn found to be pretty lax in most scenarios, became increasingly anxious about her and her complete inability to swim. Especially when the clans become involved.

“Please, use the handrail.” Ingo had groaned, scooping her up from the tidal pool when she lost her grip on the edge, and setting her down on the rocks, watching her cough and gasp. Were pups always this delicate and awkward? Dawn was just so small and her muscles so weak, her lack of confidence was making the process of learning to swim all the more difficult. “You must get used to the motions.”

He was trying with all his might to be a good, patient teacher, but that, coupled with his anxieties about her true nature, all but solidified Ingo’s reluctance to take Dawn any further than the shore. Which made the day that Mai stumbled upon her all the more panic-inducing as Ingo quickly had to claim her and keep her as enshrouded in mystery as possible. All his cohorts were extremely curious and protective – both instincts brought about in the vicinity to pups.

Sure, they all had questions and concerns and misgivings, but Ingo had proved himself worthy enough to watch over “his” pup. Irida did not assert her dominance and override Ingo’s and Dawn’s wish to remain coupled, for which both were eternally grateful. The warden was also under the impression that his clan mates thought that caring for a pup was doing wonders for his mental health - and it was - but it was also exhausting and nerve-wracking work.

She was one of the best things that had happened to him in his time with Pearl Clan.

“Uh, Ingo?” Dawn murmured, fiddling with the hem of her tunic. A lump in her throat was preventing her from saying the words that were coming from the heart. Something she had been meaning to say for a while now. Ingo hummed his acknowledgement. “Th-… Thank you for taking such good care of me.”

The warden physically had to prevent his grip from getting too tight as he was stung with an unidentifiable emotion that just made him want to hold the surveyor even closer to him. He had not realized until that moment just how much he cherished his time with her.

“Of course, Dawn.”

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The settlement was relatively quiet due to the lateness of the hour. Dawn had already informed her superiors that she would be out in the field for a few days, so no one on land would grow anxious with her absence. Tomorrow Dawn would face off against Lord Avalugg and Ingo knew she was looking for any distractions so she wouldn’t back out. Not that the other nobles were easy, but Lord Avalugg’s sheer size was the most daunting thing about the trial.

A good meal and a good night of sleep would be better than attempting to coordinate and strategize with the frantic teen. So, Ingo did not even attempt. His sole task was to keep her mind preoccupied and to tucker her out so she could fall asleep, and he took that job very seriously.

A pool leads straight to his chambers from the surrounding water – the clan had taken the time to specifically carve it out for him since the tunnels through most of the settlement were not large enough for him. Ingo boosted Dawn up and told her to clear the way so he could haul himself out, hoisting himself from the chilly sea. A fire on the opposite side of the chamber was toasty against their backs, both mers shaking themselves out to shed any excess water, with Dawn quick to swath herself into a bear fur located next to said fire.

With her help, the fish that Ingo had specifically caught for the two of them to enjoy was roasting over the flame, filling the space with a heavenly aroma.

“I brought you a little something.”

Dawn admitted, revealing the fruit that she had snuck along with her. Ingo had thought her bag had been oddly lumpy, but he had assumed that it had been filled with supplies to craft balms.

“You should not take from your team’s stock.”

Although he was attempting to adopt a chiding tone, Ingo felt a swell of warmth radiating through his chest. Fruits and vegetables were such a rare treat for him; Dawn had remembered that.

“They’ll never notice.”

Dawn said airily, motioning for Ingo to give her his hand and he received a few apples, the fruits feeling cool and refreshing against his palm when they had been submerged for their journey. She leaned against his flank, her presence and touch welcomed more than Ingo would have anticipated as he worked with the fish over the open flame.

The goal was to keep her mind occupied, which meant that he needed to get Dawn to talk - which was a relatively easy task when he was able to target a source of interest. Tonight, he was settling on her most recent, and favorite, topic of research: penguins.

Dawn was currently studying the Emperor penguin when she wasn’t saving the world from its inevitable destruction. Her dedication to her work took her to the coldest parts of the region, sitting for hours in temperatures averaging in the teens with a windchill that made those same conditions dip into negative integers. She would do this for days on end, taking down detailed notes about penguin behaviors and drawing the most exquisite illustrations in her little waterproof field book, which she presented to Ingo now with a glimmer of pride in her eyes as he congratulated her for meticulousness.

She was content to talk all about her studies, about her chats with the man called Laventon about their diet and habits, she told Ingo about the fluffy gray chicks that made her swoon and coo as they tottered around.

“I chucked rocks at the petrels… Even though I’m not supposed to interfere with the colony. Captain Cyllene tells me that I do that because I have a soft heart, but Professor Laventon told me to interpret that as the Captain saying I care a lot about my work.”

“I would have to agree with this professor of yours.”

Ingo replied, balancing Dawn on his tail and, with the control and precision that would demand for such a maneuver, launched her into the air before outstretching his hands to catch her. This game always left her giggling and euphoric, grinning broadly which never failed to make him return her smile with one of his own. This was usually something they did over the water – just in case Ingo missed – but he needed to offer some distractions… and wanted to see that brilliant smile on her face if only for a moment.

This escalated to play fighting something that was less usual for Dawn, but very usual for other pups; Dawn was repeatedly offering him chirps and growls, flashing her small teeth in threat displays that would have frightened a sardine, but not Ingo.

“So scary,” Ingo chortled, allowing for his hand to get pinned which made Dawn erupt into triumphant cheers. He was quick to flip his hand and pin her back, which made the surveyor snarl. “You must be faster than that, Dawn.”

Unbeknownst to either Ingo or Dawn, a pair of eyes was watching from the mouth of the cavern, crinkling fondly while watching the two playfight. Palina’s beatific smile was almost instantly wiped from her face when she heard Gaeric hollering her name down the corridor, she must have been gone longer than she thought.

“Shhh!”

She hissed at his approach, smacking his arm when he failed to conceal an eye roll. He opened his mouth to ask more questions, but she shushed him again. Gaeric frowned, mouth twitching in frustration at the command, and he was about to ignore her when she hissed at him to shut up.

“I will not – where’s Ingo?”

“They’re playing!”

“Who’s playing?”

Palina’s excitement was practically radiating off her in waves, infectious to the point of Gaeric’s brow softened from its agitated slant over his eyes.

“Ingo! With Dawn!”

No way.

He cautiously peered around the corner to the duo obliviously initiating a playfight that Ingo could win in a heartbeat, but that wasn’t the point of a playfight between adults and pups. Ingo didn’t usually play with pups, he had nervously confided in Gaeric that he was afraid of squashing them – which made sense, orca mer pups were probably much bigger than many of the pups of Pearl Clan. However, Ingo seemed perfectly capable of playfighting (Gaeric couldn’t even being to imagine just how much restraint Ingo was exhibiting to make sure there were zero injuries).

“Huh...” That was the only sound that came out of his mouth. He was only struck dumb for a moment, “Hey, wait a minute. She’ll play with Ingo, but not with me?”

It was Palina’s turn to roll her eyes.

“Get over yourself.”

She could feel Gaeric pressed against her back, could practically hear him grinding his teeth in envy with each passing second. She shrugged him off, trying to focus on the nice moment that Ingo and Dawn were sharing… Palina was almost able to forget about Gaeric breathing down her next, almost able to ignore his indignant grumbles about being great at playing.

“Lian loves it when we playfight.”

“Sinnoh above, Gaeric. If you can’t be happy for them, then get out of here.”

That got him to shut up with a grunt, turning to head back to the feast hall to leave Palina to watch the scene in silence.

Yank.

“Let’s go, Lina. Don’t want Ingo to think we're voyeurs.

That was a fair point, but Gaeric didn’t have to drag her by the tail! She stifled her yelp and whisper-yelled at him down the length of the corridor.

In the chamber, Dawn’s face was red with the laughter she was trying to hold in. Ingo was suppressing his own smile, his embarrassment overriding amusement for the time being.

“I can’t believe they didn’t think we could hear them!”

Ingo could only shake his head in disbelief.

With only that minor disturbance, they managed to get to sleep with the embers of the fire providing the only ambient light. Warm and comfortable, Dawn did not worry for the rest of the evening about the looming trial ahead of her.

[apomaro-mellow]

Runaway Royalty 5

Part 4

They got to the town just as the sun was dipping below the horizon. Some were closing up shop while it looked like others were just waking up. Rick led them to a tavern and they took a table towards the back, squeezed into a corner. Rick sat down first, letting out a sigh as he got off his feet. Steve sat across from him and Eddie hesitated before sitting next to him.

He reasoned that he didn’t really know Rick’s contact and Steve was so green. He couldn’t let just anyone sit next to him.

“So this guy of your’s….”, Eddie started. “You think he’s got the info that’ll help us? The royals juuuuust went missing.”

“That’s true”, Steve said. He hadn’t told anyone his plans to run, never let on, even on his last day in the castle. He was sure Robin was just as secretive about her figuring out and following him. He couldn’t speak for the other prince, but the idea that some random man in some random town had any idea was laughable.

“Trust me”, Rick said, grinning. “This guy knows.”

Eddie looked to Steve and Steve didn’t even realize they were sharing a look until another man came and sat down next to Rick.

“Evening, gentlemen”, a balding beta got comfortable in his seat. 

“And what a lovely evening it is!”, Rick exclaimed. “Murray, I assume my associates need no introduction.”

“They most certainly do. I’m a good informant, I’m not omniscient.” Then Murray looked at Eddie, then at Steve, then a very long look at Eddie. 

“This is Eddie, he’s taken after his father, you know, Aldis and um, sorry kid, what was your name again?”, Rick asked Steve.

“Wait, his father is Aldis?”, Murray questioned. Then he whispered, “As in the Bandit King Aldis?”

Eddie nodded. “That’s my old man.”

“Interesting…”, Murray rubbed his chin. “And you are?”, he pointed the question to Steve.

“I’m…just Steve. I’m new.”

Murray nodded. “So it would seem…Well, you all came for what I know, so here it is. The first thing I know, Prince Edwin has been missing.”

Steve crossed his arms. “Yes, we know that.”

“I thought you said you were good”, Eddie said.

“Well did you know that he hasn’t been seen in months?”, Murray asked, leaning in a little. “And it seems, he may have had an accomplice.”

Now that got Steve interested. “An accomplice?”

“Word on the street is, the prince’s valet has also not been seen in quite some time. Now, there’s some rumors that before the prince disappeared he had gone to visit home, and then got sick. But now?” Murray made a gesture that said it was anyone’s guess but most people would guess the same thing.

That this valet had something to do with Prince Edwin’s absence. But something else was now on Steve’s mind. His betrothed had been missing for months? He could understand keeping subjects in the dark, but why was he not told? 

“How do you know all this?”, Eddie asked. “How can we trust this guy, Rick?”

“How dare you!?”, Murray shouted. 

“Now calm down, ‘Ray”, Rick held his hands up. “Eddsy here is a young buck. You know how alphas are at that age.”

Murray hmphed. “I keep my ear to the ground”, he explained. “Nobles are pretty loose with their lips in taverns, brothels, any time they’re around lower folk.”

“So we should be looking for a prince and their royal servant”, Rick rubbed his chin. “What’re the odds that the two princes eloped and the princess and valet went along as their witnesses?”

Steve’s nose scrunched and Eddie winced a little but only Murray seemed to notice as he replied. “That’s one theory. One of many right now. One thing’s for sure, neither prince is at his own castle.”

Rick traded the information for some money and then Murray was gone. Night had fallen and it wouldn’t have been smart to try and take the roads back until morning. So they decided to take up rooms at an inn. The innkeeper was a woman behind the counter, a sling around her front.

Steve realized it held a pup when he caught a glance at their little foot peeking out from the swaddling.

“Ohhh”, Steve cooed quietly while Rick negotiated rooms for them. “Look at their little toesies. They’re so tiny!”

Eddie saw what he saw and smiled. “You like pups, huh?”

“How can you not?” Steve’s eyes were filled with adoration just at the small glimpse of a pup.

His eyes missed the way that Eddie’s own gaze was melting at the sight of him. They were both so focused on other things, they didn’t notice that Rick had only acquired two keys until they were already up the stairs. 

“I’ll go ahead and take this room”, Rick said. “And you two can take the other, eh?”, he nudged Eddie with a smirk.

“What?”, Steve and Eddie said in unison. Steve looked confused while Eddie looked like he knew all too well what his cohort was insinuating. 

“You know-”

“Nope, no, absolutely not”, Eddie took one of the keys and handed it to Steve. “Rick and I will share a room. Anything else would be improper. Indecent, even.” Before the other man could really protest, Eddie pushed him into the room, and then bid Steve good night, closing the door behind him.

“...Good night”, Steve said, going into his own room. He was glad to be in a real bed. It wasn’t that long ago that he had set out from his royal life and yet he already missed the luxurious bedding he’d been brought up with.

When morning came, they ate breakfast and then set off to return to the camp. Robin was the first to notice them, having been watching the road. She ran up to Steve and grabbed his hands.

“Are you alright? You were gone all night. Is your virtue intact?”

Steve blushed at how bold his sister was, but knew he should be used to it by now. “I’m fine, I promise. I haven’t been ruined for marriage”, he said with a roll of his eyes. Then he watched as Eddie reunited with his friends. “....He was the perfect gentleman.”

“Him?”, Robin jabbed a thumb in Eddie’s direction.

Steve nodded, hearing how his sister groaned. She knew the look in her brother’s eyes all too well.

Part 7 coming soon

[casualghostfan]

Poison, chapter 4

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

A/N: Reyna, half ghoul and half human, has always stuck out like a sore thumb. But not to cardinal Terzo. But what changes when the cardinal is to become Papa? (Largely inspired by Poison by Alice Cooper)

Warnings: friends to enemies to lovers, fuff, angst, hurt/comfort, not beta-read (this is my first fic so feel free to suggest other warnings)

Terzo sighed as he silently dragged his finger along the curves of the sister of sin lying naked in his bed. Her skin had a pink flush to it and a thin coat of sweat - a reminder of their activities. She was pretty, yes. But he couldn't help but imagine someone else beneath him, as he reached his climax.

“What are you thinking about, Terzo?” she asked with a flirtatious smile. Her brown eyes were half-closed as she was slowly losing her battle with sleep. 

Terzo tutted. “Sorella, you do not address your Papa by his first name. That is a privilege only a few have.” The sister immediately turned red.

“Papa, I didn't mean to be rude. I'm very sorry.”

“It's alright, sorella. Mistakes can happen. But I think it would be best if you go now.”

Terzo could see her hesitation. Many siblings of sin that paid visit to his chambers, especially his bed, tried to spend the night there. It was more comfortable there, of course. And the gossip after being seen leaving his chambers in the morning surely would be a motivation of itself. Terzo never let anyone spend the night and never took his paint off while engaging in carnal activities with them. He had the reputation of the most seductive Papa, but also the loneliest when it came to long term partners. 

The sister of sin inhaled and opened her mouth to say something, but he was quicker. He got out of the bed and grabbed the robe draped over his chair. Then he collected the sister’s habit from the floor where it was discarded earlier and with an insistent face he handed it to her. She seemed upset by his actions, though she tried to hide it. Not very well, he thought.

“Thank you for tonight, sorella,” he said as the woman began walking to the exit. She turned to him and nodded and with a quick goodbye she was gone. He was alone again.

The room seemed too quiet all of a sudden. He could see the bed in its dishevelled state and his mind started to wander. He always thought he would be her first. Does she have a lover? Maybe multiple lovers? Do they treat her well? He always thought he would be her first, but that was way past his horizon. He knew she had had a few partners and he was not naive. But did they treat her with proper respect? Did they make her feel good? Did they care about her as he did?

Terzo shook his head. His thoughts were getting so loud the room began to spin and his chest was getting tighter every second. He thought he could unwind while having some good time with the sister, but since his evening took another turn, he suddenly wished he hadn't sent her away so quickly. Now he had to think about another way to loosen up his nerves. But luckily, he knew just the right way to do so. 

The hallways were quiet, only the pitter-patter of rain against the windows disturbed the silence. That and his swift steps as he approached the abbey’s infirmary. It was fortunate that his older brother Primo, who was running the place, also had a green thumb. In his garden, one could find various medicinal herbs, including those easing anxiety and stress. And Terzo happened to know that his secret stash was located in a locked box in the infirmary. Of course, the weak lock was no match for Terzo’s nimble fingers. His brother surely wouldn't mind. At the end of the day, this wasn't the first or the last time he had raided the place in search of a joint.

The keys jingled as he put one in the lock and turned. He stepped into the room, smelling disinfectant and herbs. Closing the door, a sigh of relief left his lips. Finally, some peace. But as the silence settled, he could hear rapid breaths coming from the corner of the room hidden behind a curtain. The door was locked, how could anyone get in here? Terzo’s eyes shot up to the windows. One of them was broken and he could see something that looked like blood on some of the shards.

He carefully approached the curtain, trying to step as quietly as possible. His hand wrapped around the cloth and slowly pulled it aside. He saw the back of a silver ghoulette mask glistening in the dim light and red hair sticking out of it in messy strands. Her black uniform jacket was discarded on the floor, dirty and stained with something dark. Terzo could smell the iron sting of blood. Her shirt had the same dark stains as the jacket. The ghoulette was violently shivering, her heaving breaths impossibly loud. Terzo reached out with his hand to touch the distraught woman, but just as he was about to touch her, she turned, a bandage she was using flying out of her hand to the floor.

Everything flashed at once. Bared teeth threatening to tear his throat apart. Black claws slashing at him so fast he barely evaded them. Yellow eyes shining with raw fear, pupils blown wide. Terzo immediately recognized the person in front of him.

His hands shot up as he took a few steps back.. “Reyna, it's me, Terzo!” he yelped, startled by her reaction. He wasn't sure she even heard him. She stood in a defensive position, teeth bared at him. Her clawed fists were closing and opening. She was ready to strike if he tried to take a step towards her. But she still shivered hard. If she had a tail, it would be bristled and swishing from side to side.

Terzo’s heart was beating out of his chest. She was hurt and scared. And he was feeling scared, too. Not because she lashed out at him, but because there was a lot of blood. He needed to see the extent of her injuries. He needed to help her. 

He carefully put one leg in front of him - a half-step. “Cara, I'm not here to hurt you,” he cooed in a soft voice. Another half-step. She hissed. “You're injured. I want to help you.” A half-step.

“Don't come any closer,” Reyna growled. Her voice almost didn't resemble anything human, but he could hear it breaking. She felt cornered.

Terzo didn't listen to her as he took a step again. “You need help, cara. Let papa take care of you.”

“Please don't come closer,” she pleaded, her voice broken. In her eyes behind the mask, Terzo could see the glint of fresh tears appearing. Her whole body still shook from the fear.

Terzo’s heart was breaking at the sight. He took a final step towards her, so close he could touch her. His hand hovered above her injured shoulder, waiting for her reaction. She closed her eyes, waiting for the impact that never came. His gloved fingers just gently brushed the soaked fabric, trying to assess the damage, but he couldn't get a good look at her wound.

“Mia coraggiosa cara, we need to take the shirt off, so I can see better. We can do that together, sì?” She nodded hesitantly, eyes still closed. Terzo’s finger began slowly unbuttoning the shirt and with every button that popped open he scanned Reyna’s eyes, waiting for some reaction, but they remained closed shut so hard that wrinkles formed around them. He could see tears spilling from them and disappearing behind the mask as they rolled down to her cheeks. After he was done with the last button, he carefully slipped the piece of clothing from her shoulders. The blood on the shirt stuck to her wound and she whimpered in pain as it came loose. Terzo dropped it on the floor and turned his attention back to her injured shoulder. Now that he had a clear view, he could see five pretty deep puncture wounds. Luckily, it looked like most of the bleeding had already stopped.

“I think I should call some of my ghouls. They could help you better than I can and-” 

Her eyes shot up to him, wide open. She grabbed his hand, stopping him mid-sentence. “No. No ghouls. Please.”

He stayed silent. Something clicked in his brain as he looked on the puncture wounds looking suspiciously a lot like claw marks. He nodded slowly. “Okay. Okay. Bene. No ghouls. Just you and me.”

She nodded in response, her mask glistening. “Cara, I think we should take that off. Help you breathe a little. Can I do that for you?” A small nod again. Terzo carefully took the edges of the mask into his hand and slowly slipped it off of her head. It revealed her fear-stricken pale face with streaks of tears on her cheeks. Her hair was stuck to her forehead with sweat. Terzo couldn't help himself as he brushed it back and behind her ears.

“There. All better, sì?” he said with a reassuring smile, although he really wanted to hold her in his arms so tight she would forget the events that led to her injuries. But a smile is all he allowed himself. 

He guided her to sit on a chair and then started cleaning the shoulder wounds with antiseptic. Reyna winced with pain every time the solution touched her, leaving a stinging sensation. Terzo’s mind wandered. How could this happen? He knew that after he pushed her away, she completely banished her human side and part of him knew it was because of how hurt she felt by his words and actions. But he had to do it. It was the only way he could keep her safe, to sever all ties between them. But it seemed like it was not enough. The clergy might have left her be, but without his protection she was in much more danger than he thought. He left her in danger. Guilt overcame him as he bandaged her shoulder, his vision suddenly going blurry. He would not cry. No. He couldn't cry. He has to keep this charade up, otherwise the watchful eyes of the older clergy members would turn on Reyna again and this time it would be much harder to evade them. Maybe even impossible.

With her shoulder all cleaned and bandaged up, Terzo scanned her torso for other injuries. There were some nasty scratches on her forearm, maybe from the broken window, and there were some bruises forming already, but otherwise he didn't see anything major. A sigh of relief left his lips. She would be okay. He couldn't help himself but to discard his bloodstained gloves and stroke her cheek. Her gaze shot up and met his eyes. She wasn't shivering anymore, but a dull pang of fear still resided within her tearful eyes. Terzo’s mind went blank, all arguments thrown out of the window as he slowly lowered himself to eye level with her and wrapped his arms carefully around her, his hold so featherlight like he was holding a butterfly.. She was stiff at first and Terzo thought she would for sure try to break away, but then, to his surprise, she leaned into his touch. She slumped against him and buried her face into his black shirt. Quiet sobs left her body as she finally allowed her tired body to relax. 

“Shhh, that's alright. Let it all out. I've got you, gattina,” he cooed as he tightened his hold around her as if he could shield her from all the bad things waiting for her in the world. He knew he couldn't. But right now, in their little oasis, it was only him and Reyna. They could pretend that the world behind the infirmary door didn't exist.

So he did just that as he held her against him, mumbling sweet nothings in her ear.

[inuko-tan]

☙ Specter ❧

A request from @ravenina14, thank you for your request!

Edgar Allen Poe / Akutagawa Ryūnosuke / H.P. Lovecraft (separately) x fem!Reader who can summon ghosts

189 words each / 567 words overall It was a coincidence they all ended up at 189 words wow

No content warnings! Just fluff!

And a bonus thanks to my friend who beta read these for me.

She was his muse, his vision of love, his pièce de résistance. She was a living horror novel, and she was everything he could ever dream of. There was no moment that she looked more beautiful than when the frosted winds whipped at her hair and her skin was alight with the ethereal glow of the hallowed.

She stole his breath with her grace, with her lips against his. Night after holy night, Poe sat awake by the warm glow of candlelight to compose sprawling romances in her saintly name. Obsidian ink stained his hands, and ruby lipstick stained his neck. She would sit curled in his lap, with all the grace and allure of a pitch black cat. His fingers tangled in her hair, her lips ghosted over his sharp jawline. She whispered confessions of love, he returned them with dark prose murmured under his breath.

The spirits danced around her like fanciful gale winds, frightening and with a radiating power. He revered his graveyard queen, and in his heart of hearts, he pleaded that he would be hers until he joined the ranks of her consecrated souls.

Two forces of destruction, twins in their fearsome presence upon the battlefield. One wielded the souls of the departed at the tips of her fingers, the other cloaked in a devouring beast. One to raise, and one to destroy.

Her heart was a brilliant white, blindingly radiant. Akutagawa feared it would swallow him whole. He'd lived his life wandering in the shadows, turned from salvation as if it were a swarm of locusts to devour what was left of his soul. It left him dazed that a girl who was so closely entwined with death could harbor such hope within herself.

Akutagawa was perched upon the edge of a rooftop, carelessly smearing splattered blood across his gaunt cheeks. His gaze drifted over the picturesque horizon of the city, his lifeless eyes not reflecting the twinkling lights that glittered across the skyline. The sun dipped into the ocean, dying it hues of red and orange. Her head rested upon his shoulder, and he felt his heartbeat quicken. In moments like these, he wondered if her commune with the supernatural meant she could save his damned soul from retribution after all.

She was a fascinating creature. A woman who could control ghosts at her own whim, blurring the lines between the otherworld and our own- That was something that certainly caught Lovecraft’s attention. He watched from afar, as if she were a deer that would bolt off into the trees and be lost to the fog if he dared step too close. He met her in battle, hypnotized by the hazy forms that surrounded her like loyal knights. His head hung limply to one side, languidly tracing each movement she made.

Lovecraft sat upon a lavish couch, the cushions plump to bursting with down and crushed velvet. He did not stray from a heated staring contest with the wall. He did not flinch when Twain slapped his shoulder and jeered at him for the way he was mesmerized by the woman with the ghosts.

“Are you in love with her, you big oaf?” He belted out with a chuckle, expression full of delight.

“Love? Is that what that feeling is?” Lovecraft’s head tilted backwards, inhuman and obscene, as he contemplated his thoughts. “Yes, I suppose that is what it is.”

[princecosmosanon]

As of yet Untitled Omegaverse Zukka fic preview

This is the first scene in that Untitled Zukka fic, the one where Sokka is an Omega and Zuko is an Alpha and also they're arranged to be married. Just a soft, sad time for Sokka as he contemplates leaving home and what he'll never have again.

The sheer cliffs that overlooked the South Sea felt lonely the day the Fire Nation ship arrived. Sokka stood at the pinnacle of the cliff-face, his gaze fixed out over the gray waters, his mitten-clad hands clenched tight about the bouquet of greenery threatening to rip out of his grasp.

It seemed fitting that the day the Fire Nation once again blessed their shores the skies had deemed the sun unfit to shine. Cloudy skies stretched as far as the eye could see, and mist obscured the horizon leaving the South Pole isolated from the rest of the world. If only they could have stayed shunned, left to their own devices while the people of other nations celebrated the glorious end to the war. There was nothing to celebrate here, even eight years after the supposed “end” of the war.

Sokka breathed deep, his lungs stinging from the chill clinging to the early spring air still much too cold for anyone to be wandering out on the tundra for long, but Sokka couldn’t stay away. Not on a day like today.

He glanced down at his quivering bouquet, the handful of silver ragwort interspersed with bright pink dianthus, and clutched the precious greens all the closer to his body.

Surely, the ones who had sailed here hadn’t meant to arrive on this very day. Surely even the most boneheaded, bastardly captain of the Fire Nation navy would have known better…

Sokka’s exhale was shaky, skirting the edge of a whine as he held back tears.

Katara had it so much worse, Sokka reminded himself, his mantra beating itself to death against the tightness in his chest and the heat trying to escape through his eyes in the form of tears. I have to be strong, too, like Katara. Just like Katara.

It wasn’t a fair comparison, but as the older brother Sokka had to manage his emotions and beat back weakness. Biologically he was at a disadvantage but that had never stopped him from fighting against his nature before.

“Sokka!” His sister’s voice rang out, somewhat weakened by the gusting wind as it attempted to snatch her shout from the air.

Steeling himself, Sokka turned and forced a grin though he knew it shone more like a grimace. He cleared his throat, giving himself time to strengthen his own voice as she climbed the icy hillside to meet him. “You’re late, you know.”

Katara’s blue gaze stayed lowered as she approached even after the ground evened out and she no longer had to watch her steps, the path having been beaten down from years of dedicated trips to this very spot. She took her spot next to him, only raising her eyes ahead of her once she faced the open ocean. Sokka turned with her, giving her a moment to take in the view.

“… Dad isn’t coming, is he?” Sokka asked, though he knew the answer clear.

“You know he can’t,” was Katara’s tight reply and Sokka could just imagine her hands twisting into fists at her sides, fingers locked warmly in her sealskin mittens. “He can’t leave the village walls while they’re here.”

Katara had it worse, yes. A wound that had never healed, only festered and now was necrotic, bleeding hatred and venom. Bato had practically had to bar her inside her room when the Fire Nation ship had first appeared on the horizon the day before, and the only reason he had let her out was through begging her not to taint this day of all days with more unnecessary death. That had sobered her very quickly, though not enough to convince Katara to greet their visitors with more than looks of clear disdain.

Sokka no longer had it in him to rage like Katara clearly still could. Instead he had closed himself off for the day, remaining thoughtful as he listened to the talks between Hakoda and the captain of the ship, an older Beta by the name of Jee. After the initial meeting Sokka had went to Katara immediately and let her know all that had happened. About all that was going to happen. Then Sokka had left to prepare, giving Katara’s rage over to Bato to corral again. No one fought to keep Sokka there to help.

An arm curled around Sokka’s, Katara’s hand squeezing his bicep to offer comfort. “… You don’t have to go, you know.”

Sokka cut his eyes to the side but Katara remained facing out, seeing a completely different ship on the horizon than the one currently bobbing safely in their harbor.

“No,” Sokka said, taking a step forward, effectively sliding out of her grasp as he closed in on the edge, “I don’t. But how selfish would I be to not take them up on their offer?”

“That’s—” Katara gasped, and Sokka’s shouldered tightened, holding himself rigid against the hardness sharpening her voice. “It’s just not fair, Sokka!”

“Maybe not,” Sokka replied, stopping at the very precipice and lifting the bundle in his arms, “but life has never has cared about fairness, yeah?”

Sokka let go and the wind seemed to whip up all the harsher, tangling together with the bouquet of flowers and sending them spiraling out towards the sea. Stems, leaves and blooms untangling, scattering, then swallowed by the darkening sea.

[theseasideskies]

why are we born to suffer

(Dedicated to @opal-owl-flight in all your hubris /lh)

This isn’t my best work, and didn’t come out exactly how I wanted, but I thought it was funny and wanted to get it out before the TS actually arrives at least. Megabird bless all our candles.

(Also for context, oracles are basically my lore explanation for beta-testers/teaser images. They get prophetic dreams and stuff)

The sun begins to crest over the horizon surrounding the Home island, the ocean waves subtle movement allowing the light to refract and reflect and give the illusion of a world of crystals. A few sky children are changing out of their clothes during their night runs, preparing to return to their own homes and allow those who walk in the day to take over.

And then a lone skykid crosses the door from the Vault, stopping to a halt and catching their breath. Slowly, people take notice of this person, and whispers spread amongst the crowd. A few children walk in from the other realm doors as well, but stop at the entrance as they notice the Vault child.

They seem exhausted, their light core flickering as they heave their chest to calm down. Their hair, normally clipped under a Vault headgear, is unkempt and sticking out wildly. The skykid carries a light staff, which glows a faint purple. The child clears their voice, and speaks up to the small crowd.

“Troupe Juggler is this week’s travelling spirit,” Notos says. And he honestly wished he was joking.

A beat passes through the crowd, a silent yet powerful shockwave as the children take a moment to process this announcement. In the next moment, a cacophony of voices rises all at once. The children who finished their night shift fell to the floor; hopefully in dramatics, though Notos understands their sentiment. A couple of the newer faces in the crowd are younger skykids, who are either confused or look on in terror. A few even run back into the realm doors, probably to carry the news forward.

“And how can you be so sure?!” a random voice pipes up from the other children, and Notos sighs.

“I’m an oracle. I have seen that this will come to pass.” the voice that asked the question groans loudly, and Notos hears another thump from where they stand. Yeah, that’s fair. He hears another voice from the crowd, a faint “yes” standing out from a sea of dismayed children. The oracle looks around for the source of this misplaced joy, and freezes.

It’s a sky child wearing a bird mask, and Notos knows who they are. Their name was Opal, he thinks.

“Hey you!” Notos walks towards Opal, the crowd parting to give way. “I remember you! You were going around the realms last week to beg for Juggler to return!” the noises of despair cease, and the crowd turns to face the child in question.

They look nervous, raising their hands defensively. “Hey hey now, that was all a joke. Many people before me have asked the Megabird to have Juggler take their turn.”

Notos bonks their head with his staff. “And yet you had to ask for Juggler right after the Crab Whisperer came back. Not to mention the new outfit the Prince had us craft for 200 candles.”

At the mention of the Crab Whisperer and the Prince’s outfit, a sense of dread spreads through the gathered children. The past few weeks had been absolute hell for everyone’s candle supply, old and young children alike. Notos even remembers a gaggle of younger skykids making the trip to visit Lamed to beg for a break in the travelling spirits, and all they got was a reminder that only the Megabird would decide that.

Notos thinks that Opal wearing a bird mask has a sense of irony, so he bonks their head again. The others in the crowd seem to have found themselves again, and collectively decided to close the distance between them and this child. “Look, I’m just as screwed by this spirit as everyone else! My candle supply is also empty right now! I think we should all just take a moment to breathe and we can all work together to-”

Notos sees the first skykid to pounce on Opal, and he backs off instantly. The rest of the crowd followed, letting out their frustrations on Opal. There’s screams of “bones” and “pancakes” from all the fighting, though Notos has absolutely no idea what that means.

Notos shakes his head as he turns to the Vault door. He’s reminded of a turn of phrase he’d heard from Lamed while he was under her study.

“If you knock on enough doors asking for trouble, eventually it will answer.”

[rufousnmacska]

Only You

A manorian arranged marriage fic from an anon request -

Do you think you could write an angsty manorian drabble where political/royal pressures and such has Dorian marry someone else + Dorian being mortal has Manon encouraging him? just all that manorian heartbreak+pining. also really love your fics!

This turned into much more than a drabble, but I hope everyone enjoys it! 🤗

Many thanks to @itach-i for beta reading and helping plot things out! ❤️

*

PART ONE

*

Dorian hadn’t noticed the cold until his valet wrapped a furred robe around him. How long had he been standing out here? The sun had just broken from the horizon and his breath was pooling in front of him with each exhale. The valet, a gray-haired man named Ruben, disappeared back into the royal suite, muttering something about the foolishness of young men. Dorian smiled grimly, knowing he was indeed foolish. Worse. He was a godsdamned idiot. And he felt numb, as though his body was somewhere far from here, his mind with it. None of it was due to the winter chill. Staring off towards the hills west of Rifthold, his eyes glanced over the many red and gold banners attached to the city’s roofs, snapping in the wind. Part of him loved seeing his people so excited, so proud for the coming celebration. They’d suffered greatly during the war and had worked hard in the rebuilding effort of the last two years. But that small joy for his kingdom was overshadowed by his own despair. How many times had he stood in this spot, watching and waiting and holding his breath until he caught sight of those silvery wings and moon white hair dancing in the sky? He’d known today would be his last chance to watch for her. And since sleep was a fool’s hope, he’d come out to his balcony and stood here for hours, his gaze on the west, wondering where it had all gone wrong.

***

The rising sun shone brightly off the tops of the castle towers, giving the small group of witches their first real view of Rifthold in the distance. In the past, this sight would leave Manon breathless with anticipation, pushing Abraxos to speed up in her excitement. There had been times when her giddy desperation to reach the castle was almost humiliating, forcing her to contain her emotions before she landed. But no matter her control in those moments, Dorian would greet her on his balcony with a ferocious embrace, seeing right through her mask. He always had. Now, Manon wished that truth away, pushing it deep down, along with the nausea roiling in her gut. As they drew nearer to Rifthold, she could just barely make out the decorations hanging from the castle. It almost brought up the meager breakfast she’d eaten not long ago. With the brightening sky, she realized the entire city was decked out, covered in colorful banners and garlands. Of course, a royal wedding demanded finery. She had expected it, guarded herself against it. But her expectations were dealt a swift blow by the reality now facing her. Manon was on her way to Dorian’s wedding. Not as the bride, but as a royal guest. And she had no one but herself to blame.

*****

Six months earlier…

Manon frowned as Abraxos landed on an unusually empty balcony. Though she’d never asked for it, the space had been rebuilt to provide a large enough area to comfortably hold a wyvern. Wrapping halfway around the king’s tower, the balcony offered magnificent views of the ocean to the east and the mountains to the west. As she dismounted, Manon realized that vast western view was what gave Dorian the ability to know she was almost there. Normally, she wouldn’t notice the view because he would be there, scooping her up and taking her inside to say hello in her favorite ways. But tonight, she and Abraxos were alone.

Quietly, so as not to startle Ruben, Manon stepped through the doorway. She needn’t have bothered. The bedroom was as empty as the outside and she heard no sounds coming through the door to the other rooms. Wondering if he hadn’t received her last message telling him when to expect her, Manon sat on a sofa to wait. She lasted less than five minutes before pacing around the room, then finally deciding to go in search of Dorian.

The office was empty and as she continued through to the exterior door, Manon rolled her eyes at the messy desk. How Dorian managed to keep everything straight in the piles and stacks of papers was beyond her. She wasn’t in the corridor long before she heard angry voices echoing up the stairway. Chaol and Dorian had stopped part way up the tower.

“You can’t afford to just dismiss this threat of rebellion. Lord Frey is an ass, but he has the ear of too many other nobles to be ignored.” Chaol sounded winded. Manon didn’t think he came up here very often since his mobility was tied to his wife’s magic. That he was here now to continue this conversation was significant.

“I refuse to give into his demands,” Dorian growled. “He complains about me leaving the kingdom to Erawan, and yet he brags about how he profited from the war. Whatever gold he has in his coffers did not come from me.”

Manon inched back to the door on silent feet. She knew Dorian’s lords were causing trouble, but he’d refused to go into detail about it with her. The thought of anyone claiming Dorian had willfully abandoned Adarlan to Erawan made her blood boil. The valg king and his armies had left a path of scorched earth and devastation on his march to Terrasen. And Dorian had spent the last two years of his life dedicated to rebuilding his kingdom.

Chaol sighed. “Yes, but what he’s proposed in exchange—”

“What he’s proposed will not be considered,” Dorian interrupted. It was a voice Manon had never heard from him.

After a long pause, Chaol continued. “I know how you feel, Dorian. But we need to put emotions aside and think this through. I’m not saying we go along with it. But right now, we have to look at every option.”

“You say ‘we’ as if you would be the one marrying his daughter.”

Manon gasped, covering her mouth to remain quiet.

“It would be a political alliance,” Chaol reasoned. “You wouldn’t have to end things with—”

Again, Dorian refused to let him finish. “Stop. I’ve told you my decision. We will find some other way to placate the rebellious lords. I am not marrying her.”

Soft footsteps punctuated by the clack of a cane sounded as Chaol left his king and descended the tower. When he was gone, she heard Dorian smash his fist into the stone wall, pieces of mortar crumbling and raining down onto the floor. Manon was paralyzed, her hands balled up into tight fists, eyes wide. And that was how Dorian found her when he took the final steps up to his suite.

***

“You misunderstood. Frey doesn’t have enough clout to demand such a thing.” Dorian was frantic, spending the last two hours trying to explain away what Manon had heard. But her face had frozen into a mask, nothing he said could tease out even the slightest reaction.

“You can’t be so flippant,” she said, the stony resolve in her voice starting to scare him. “He’s offered you an out from civil war. If you care about your kingdom, you must do it.”

He was going mad. First Chaol, now Manon. Where was Yrene to talk some sense into them? He cared about his kingdom and his people. He cared so much that he had no life whatsoever beyond the endless meetings and negotiations and squabbles. His sole joy in life was standing before him now arguing that he should marry someone else.

“If I care?” he asked. “I was prepared to die for it. On many occasions. I would gladly give my life. But I won’t give my heart.”

Manon blinked slowly, and he realized she was looking past him. “You once told me you were prepared to give up your throne for Sorscha. Then the war taught you how foolish, how childish that was. And now, as if you learned nothing, sacrificed nothing, you want to do the same thing. Your life and your heart are one in the same.” Finally, her golden eyes met his. “I am immortal. You are not. You need a human queen to give you heirs and unite your kingdom. I will not play a part in disrupting that.”

Dorian searched for any sign - an unshed tear, a twitch of her lips, a clenched jaw. But there was nothing. Nothing on her face except a cold certainty that left him feeling lost, alone. He knew this was an act, a means of protecting herself. And yet, she was right. When they’d parted ways in Orynth after the war, he’d ignored the desire to ask her for some sort of commitment beyond “We’ll see.” They both had countries to rebuild and had chosen that greater responsibility over personal wishes. Dorian told himself then that they had time. Yes, he was a mortal. But he still had a plentiful well of raw magic on which to draw upon, magic that would give him a much longer life than a normal human. And only two short years later, out of nowhere, everything was falling apart.

No, he would not let his people suffer through war again. But giving in to extortion was not an acceptable alternative. He thought of Aelin, wondering how she would handle a situation like this. With the way her people adored her, he knew she’d never reach this point. Maybe Frey and his allies were right. Maybe he’d left them to fend for themselves out of cowardice instead of prudence. Suddenly, Dorian was exhausted, tired of being king, tired of giving up everything he wanted. He rubbed his eyes until they were red

“You know it has to be this way,” she said, having watched him sort out his thoughts. “No matter what they claim, you’ve never once abandoned this kingdom. Which is why you won’t do it now.”

Dorian stared at the ground, grasping for a way out, but his mind felt like aspic, soft and muddled and useless. “I won’t be a king who takes a queen and still keeps a lover.” The ultimatum was hard to voice, but it was true. Despite his rakish history, he’d never taken a new lover without breaking things off with the old one. If ever an exception was to be made, it would be with Manon. But he would never disrespect her, a queen in her own right, by reducing her to a secret paramour and source of castle gossip.

Still stoic, she replied, “I would not expect you to.”

They had always pushed and teased each other, seeing which one would break first and admit their feelings or give in to the desire. Desperately hoping that they were playing that game now, he surrendered. “I want you, Manon. No one else.”

The slightest hitch in her breathing and a tiny flutter of her eyes sent his hope soaring. But, with a firm tone that meant she would say no more, Manon said, “Marry her, Dorian. Save your throne and keep your people from more bloodshed.”

Before he could respond, she walked out the door and climbed into the saddle still strapped to her wyvern. Manon was in the air without a look back, and Dorian sank to the ground, his head in his hands.

*****

Rumors were flying through the witch city faster than the most agile wyverns. Mere months ago, the witches had expected an announcement from their queen, happy news that their kingdom would be united with Adarlan. Some were not in favor of their queen marrying a human, king or not. Others, especially those in the queen’s council, saw it as a good match. A love match, they claimed. But now, after the royal messenger from Adarlan had arrived, the gossip was spinning out of control.

Manon stared at the thick envelope sealed with red and gold wax, the wyvern stamped into it watching her with a single mocking eye. Dorian had once laughed about how significant it was for his royal crest to include a wyvern, a connection forged between their two kingdoms before they had even met. She’d brushed the thought away at the time, rolling her eyes at his insistence that fate was at work. But now, the memory of his teasing voice sank into her chest, adding to the heaviness and pain that had been choking her since she’d left him on that balcony months ago.

“You don’t have to go. No one would fault you for it. We can send Petrah as a representative,” Glennis said, her voice stiff and formal. It was a tone usually relegated for council meetings, not a conversation with her granddaughter.

She was silent for a long moment, still looking at the envelope. Instead of answering, Manon picked it up and ripped apart the seal. The invitation was written in fanciful blue ink with a border of red berries and ivy stamped into the parchment. She frowned at the flowery words that matched the design, knowing the girl must have been behind all of it. The girl. Manon knew she was likely close to Dorian’s age, but she didn’t care. The future queen of Adarlan would forever be the girl in her mind. Even so, it was impossible to miss her name in elegant calligraphy.

Your presence is requested at the royal wedding of Lady Eveline Frey and His Majesty Dorian Havilliard II, King of Adarlan

Manon stopped reading at his name and continued to flip through the remaining pages. They contained notices of the pre-wedding events that the ‘happy couple’ hoped people would attend, despite the possibility of poor weather at that time of year.

Happy. Her eyes caught on that word and didn’t move. She knew it was a lie. And yet, her old doubts and fears flooded back into her mind. She was still heartless despite her efforts to change, he deserved someone who could sufficiently return his affections. She was immortal, he was not. Manon had reasoned that she would rather lose him like this than watch up close as he aged and died. Rather lose him now, when they could both move on to full lives, than be forced to somehow carry on after his death. A magically extended life or not, she could see no other scenario if she continued with him. And if that was truly how she felt, then she wanted to be there and show him they were both better off this way.

Glennis watched her, likely reading every thought that had gone through her head. For when Manon said she was going, her grandmother’s head dipped in resignation. “Then I will accompany you.”

Manon lost count of her attempts at crafting a reply. She began with a simple list of witches who would attend with her, which morphed into a long drawn out explanation of why she wanted to be there. Then she backtracked into a brief, two sentence response. And even then, she had to make several copies until one was legible. The anguish of what she faced kept showing itself in her shaking hand.

Her eyes keep going back to their names and she found herself wondering what the girl was like. Did she like to read? Could she fight with a sword? Would she stand up to the nobility who claimed Dorian was not worthy of his throne? How would she react to him waking up screaming in the middle of the night from a nightmare in which he’d been torturing people?

That last thought made her feel sick. Not because of the dreams that still plagued him - she was well versed in helping to comfort him, just as he knew how to ease her grief and fear after a nightmare. It was the idea that they’d be sharing a bed that turned her stomach.

Gods what was she thinking? There were two months until the wedding. Was that long enough to forget everything Dorian was to her?

Manon knew the answer. And yet, when she read over their names again, she made herself remember why things had to be this way. Adarlan could not survive another war, especially one which tore it apart from the inside out. This was for the best. His and hers. This wedding would be closure, and afterwards, she could move on, search for a suitable consort. Not to become her king. She could not bear seeing anyone else beside her in that capacity. But finding an acceptable male to produce an heir would help to stabilize her kingdom. If Dorian was forced to set aside his heart to help his people, then she would do the same.

When she gave the reply to Glennis later, her grandmother frowned. “I find myself not wanting to send this.”

“It will be us and two sentinels. That’s all,” Manon said, ignoring the witch’s reluctance. “We will arrive the day before and leave immediately after the ceremony.” As Glennis nodded in agreement, Manon noticed she held a royal envelope in her other hand. “What is that?”

Again, that frown. “It’s from Prince Fennick Whitethorn of Doranelle. A cousin of Rowan’s I believe.”

“Was he in Orynth?” She didn’t recall him being there, but her memories from those early days battling Erawan’s army were foggy.

“I don’t think he was.”

Manon took it, examining front and back. The wax seal matched that of Queen Sellene Whitethorn. “What could this be?” she wondered aloud.

Glennis was already walking away, but she turned and said sharply, “I can only imagine.”

Manon was glad she waited until she was alone to read it, for by the end of it, she was sitting motionless, the letter forgotten on the floor.

Prince Fennick Whitethorn, a cousin to both Rowan and Queen Sellene, had written to express his regards and dismay at the news that the King of Adarlan would marry a noble from his own kingdom. He’d felt compelled to write her directly, offering her his support and friendship since he’d experienced something similar a few hundred years before. As Doranelle’s representative at the festivities, he hoped they could meet in Rifthold. In not so veiled terms, he suggested they might establish an alliance of their own, one that would be amenable to both their countries.

Mere hours after speculating about taking a consort and here she was, staring at a proposal. She couldn’t decide between outrage or amazement at the audacity of the fae male. It had certainly taken balls to approach her this way. And at this time. Picking up the letter, she read it over again. From the sounds of it, Fennick had been left heartbroken in his past. A past that extended even further back than her own. Had she not used her own immortality as a reason that Dorian should wed another? Here was an immortal throwing himself at her, eager for alliance. But she wondered if his interest would wane when he was told that at best, he might become her consort. There was only one man who she’d accept as her king, and he was now outside her reach.

She decided not to send a reply. If the fae prince was there, she would meet with him, see what kind of male he was and whether he might bring anything of worth to an alliance. If not, it would be one less thing to worry about.

That night, as she tried and failed to fall asleep, Manon found herself imagining how she might say goodbye to Dorian. They never used the word, choosing instead to focus only on their hellos. It made a twisted sort of sense that this goodbye, this parting that would be permanent, would be the first and last time it was spoken between them.

***

Yrene found Dorian in his office, watching the brutal winter winds send snow whipping through the air outside his window. Judging from her expression, she knew why he’d sent for her. When her eyes went to the letter on his desk, her shoulders seemed to slump, and she sat down heavily across from him.

“She will be attending,” he said, pushing the short reply across the desk in case she wanted to read it. After immediately recognizing the handwriting as Manon’s, he’d stared at it for a long time. As if there might be some sign of hesitation on her part, he’d examined the note, his eyes running over each stroke of ink, again and again. It was flawless. Just like her, he’d thought miserably.

“I didn’t think she’d actually come. It was meant as a formality between two allies.”

“Perhaps that’s why she has agreed. Formality, nothing more,” Yrene offered.

“How do you think Eveline will handle it?” Despite a wedding date only a few weeks away, Dorian barely spoke to his future queen. Yrene had been acting as a go between, keeping Dorian from having to feign pleasantries and interest in someone who he’d claimed looked and acted like an empty doll.

“She has been trained as a courtier since birth. I’m sure she will be as polite and ladylike as she always is.” Yrene rose and came around the desk, standing in front of the window to make Dorian look at her. “She may appear timid and vapid in front of her father, but she is no fool. She knows what this arrangement is and why it’s happening. Your involvement with Manon was never much of a secret. Eveline knows she is not your choice. But like you, she is doing her duty.”

Dorian didn’t reply. He knew his opinion of her was misguided, that it was based on anger at the situation, at her father. Which was why he kept his distance. If he couldn’t keep himself in check in private or with his friends, how could he expect to refrain from unleashing his rage on her with hurtful words? At least, that’s what he told himself. It was true, but some part of him knew that if he gave in and spent time with her, it would make this all the more real.

Yrene’s eyes darkened as she said, “Lord Frey has a reputation to match Chaol’s father. With her mother gone, I suspect Eveline has not had much control over her life. This would be nothing new to her.”

Now fully ashamed of himself, Dorian only nodded. If there was anything he could understand, it was not being able to defy a bullying parent. A new sense of sympathy filled him as he wondered how desperate Eveline must be for a new life. Freedom from an abusive father would be worth the heavy responsibilities and loss of privacy that came with being a queen. Maybe it was time to make an effort. He couldn’t envision a future where he would ever develop actual feelings for Eveline. But he could at least become her friend.

“What else have you learned about her?” he asked.

Yrene shrugged. “Her education has been extensive, and she knows much about the court and how it runs. She enjoys art and music, embroidery …” She trailed off, trying to think of any other attributes worth sharing. “Horse riding. She always seems to be coming back from the stables when I see her. I’ve gotten the impression her father does not approve of that hobby, but she maintains that being a good horsewoman befits a true lady.”

“So, she does disobey him then …” Dorian smiled slightly, recalling how he used to rebel against his parents. Horse riding was much less scandalous. “Does she need any help with the wedding plans?”

The suddenness of his change in tone had Yrene blinking at him. “I don’t believe so. But I can ask her.”

Dorian stood and walked towards the door. He knew if he didn’t start now, he never would. “I will go ask. I’d like to recommend some music.”

“Wait,” Yrene cried, trailing him out into the corridor. When she caught up to him, she asked, “What are you doing?”

The fear in her eyes almost made Dorian turn around and forget his pledge of moments ago to try and accept this. Yrene had always been the biggest supporter of his relationship with Manon. Whether she was helping them arrange a short, secret escape from their duties, or using her sharp tongue to tear down any detractors of the Witch Kingdom, or giving him advice on how to help Manon recover from the loss of her coven … Yrene had always been there. And now, for the first time, it seemed to be sinking in for her that what she had dreamed for her friends – a happily ever after to rival what she had with Chaol – was impossible. It pained Dorian to see it and he pulled her into a hug.

“If there was another way, Yrene, I’d do it. You know that.”

She hugged him back fiercely, her voice shaking as she said, “I know. She is my friend too, Dorian. And I don’t want to lose her.”

Gods, Dorian thought his heart couldn’t break anymore. And here it was, cracking into even more fragments, each time becoming smaller and smaller. “I know.”

Yrene backed away and let loose a string of curses and insults about Lord Frey that left his eyes wide and mouth agape. He’d never heard her speak like that before, had never thought her capable of such filthy language.

Before she could think to apologize, he laughed. “Well said, Lady!”

Red with embarrassment, Yrene burst into laughter too. When they’d both regained their composure, she said, “Come. I’ll walk with you to Eveline’s rooms and catch you up on her wedding plans.”

“Thank you,” he said, and meant it. “She is as much a pawn in this game as anyone, and she doesn’t deserve my animosity.”

Yrene nodded. “As much as I hate to admit it, she’s a perfectly lovely young woman. It makes things worse in a way.”

When they reached her rooms, Yrene led him inside.

“Your Majesty,” Eveline said brightly. Her dark hair matched her eyes and she gave him a beaming smile. “I was not expecting you today.” She was going through a stack of replies to the invitations.

“Please, call me Dorian. I insist,” he said. “I have one more to add.” Slowly, as if not wanting to give it up, he handed her Manon’s reply. He and Yrene both watched her carefully as she read it.

With the same smile as before, Eveline said, “I’m so pleased the Witch Queen will be attending. None of your other royal friends are able to come due to the weather. Though Doranelle is sending someone.” She paused, thinking. “I can’t remember his name.”

As the two women went through the replies and spoke quietly, Dorian pretended to listen. For one terrible moment, he wondered what the word princeling might sound like from Eveline’s mouth. The thought felt blasphemous, leaving him spinning and trapped between two worlds: the reality sitting next to him, this perfectly lovely woman for whom he felt nothing, and a dream world where he’d wake up happy each morning to snow white hair and golden eyes. A dream that had slipped through his fingers, like the wind gusting wildly outside.

Perfectly lovely. Eveline was lovely, and perfect, with exquisite manners, an impeccable wardrobe, and a distinguished education. But despite that loveliness and perfection, he knew without a doubt that his feelings towards Eveline would never come close to what he felt for Manon. Manon was his mirror, his equal. If beings other than fae were able to have true mates, she would be his.

The thought struck him like a dagger, straight to whatever bits of his heart yet remained. Shaking his head, Dorian tried not to think of Manon, of how this next visit for the wedding would likely be her last. Tried not to dwell on how he would have to live the rest of his life without her, his mate in every way that counted.

Of course, he failed. And when Eveline asked him about what music he’d prefer, Dorian used every ounce of strength he had left to force a smile on his face and answer.

To be continued...

***

Thanks for reading! You can find my writing master list here or on AO3.

It’s been a while since I’ve written and I’m not sure who all is still out there. So if I missed you, or you’d like to be tagged/removed for parts two and three, let me know.

@itach-i @bookishwitchling @manontrashbeak @awesomelena555 @jimetg98 @over300books

[snackhobi]

pairing: jimin x reader / word count: 11.8k / genre: tea witch!reader, nonwitch!jimin, growing up and finding your place in the world; fluff

summary: be careful, his mother would say. witches don’t care for mundane humans. be polite, do your business, but then leave. don’t linger. it’s not safe.

park jimin feels lost and alone and he’s still looking for home. but something unspoken leads him to your door—a witch who brews tea to match the stories and sadness that spill from his lips. a witch who gives him a question that he has to repay with an answer. (after all, you always have to pay a witch their dues.)

warnings/rating: SFW - talk of negative self thoughts, but that’s it I think! (so I suppose it’s a little angsty but it clears up dw :) )

a/n: thank you to the lovely @hobi-gif​ for beta reading this, ily queen!! the majority of teas mentioned are by the company bird & blend, and where possible I’ve inserted links to the exact teas I’ve included (so I suppose you could buy them yourself if you wanted to 👀)

edit [24/09/20]: please see the end of the story for an extra author’s note. -- Jimin is wet.

Jimin is tired, and sad, and lonely, but these are all things he's intimately familiar with, monochrome burden curled around his limbs and his heart, dragging him under their relentless weight. A familiar Sisyphean torture. Struggling against gravity only to be brought hurtling down once again. Yes, he's used to it by now.

But the wetness? That's new. Rain paints him with messy strokes, laid slick and cold across his body, soaking through clothes to skin to bone, reaching and curling chilled fingers into the heat of his insides. His shivers are full-bodied, every atom of his soul dripping rainwater, and Jimin—

Jimin wants to go home.

(He just doesn't know where that is, now.)

(Doesn't know if he's ever going to find it here.)

People rush past him. A sea of lifted hoods, unfolded umbrellas, crumpled newspapers— an array of protection from the downpour, some effective, some less so, but each offering at least a modicum of shielding. Hasty armour against the heavens. 

Jimin is not so lucky. His pockets are empty and his jacket has no hood. Sodden blond hair guides tributaries down his face, the back of his neck, rainwater rivers that touch him so soft, so cold. Just more weights on the scale that are tipping him down, down, down.

(He's so tired.)

(He's so lost.)

The city becomes a different beast in the rain, grey and hazy, heaving with bodies, and Jimin has been swept up and spat out, road signs useless, phone dead, passersby more intent on their own destination than his. Too busy to spare a glance for the soaked boy who stands aside, out of the shifting tides of people, out of place.

(He's used to that, too.)

But then: a touch. Feather-light. A breath of wind, the gentlest curl of fingers as it brushes over his rain-slick cheek; a summer breeze, dappled sunlight and rose tinted warmth.

He turns into that touch, turning his head into that ephemeral hand, chasing the sensation of sun-hot air, and then, it hits him—

the smell.

(Sea salt and pale waves, a view that stretches on forever and falls into nothingness, endless skies and deep waters; cold across his skin and in his nose as he breathes in Songjeong beach, fills his lungs with the mellowed chill. The sand is a familiar soft roughness under his feet as he stares across the horizon, out to the world beyond, so close he can almost touch it.) 

(Frying pastry, sticky street food, the smell of hot oil as the vendor flips the ssiat hotteok; air sweet with brown sugar and warm yeast, round and plump and full of seeds, a delicious crunch against his teeth. Laughter fills his ears and his lungs, as sweet as the sugar on his fingers, his lips, warmth and happiness and light.)

(Fish tang, salt and wet; the bustling yell of the fish market, fat shrimp and slick squid and rough oysters, fresh from the sea; everything breathing and shuffling and so alive, air full of the brightness of it all, edged with brine, sharp. He cuts through the choppy waves of people, treading a path that’s drawn by his steady feet, guiding him through this place he knows so well.)

Here, Jimin stands in the rain of Seoul, and all he can smell is Busan, Busan, Busan.

All he can smell is—

All he can smell is home.

(Home, that place of comfort, carved out in the heart of his memories, when he was younger and smaller and burned brighter; rose tinted and past perfect, unchangeable.)

Something stirs in his stomach. Something far reaching, but light, that soft curl of salt air brushing past the cold rain that's filled him.

He follows it.

(After all, it couldn't possibly take him somewhere that's worse than where he already is.)

--

Jimin has only met two witches in his life.

For the first, he was young, all chubby cheeks and small hands—he’s lost the round cheeks but the small hands have stayed.

He can easily recall the grizzled edges of the witch’s face and the deep solemnity in his voice. He’s a cliffside of a man, unbending and awe inspiring in his earthly solidness, almost terrifying; skin with pockmarks like crags, sandstone rough and chipped, eyes flint-hard and unchanging as he squats down to look at Jimin. The only thing that keeps him from bolting is his mother’s presence at his shoulder, hand warm in his, holding him tight and safe.

The witch is a monolith, and that scares Jimin. But whatever concoction the man passes over to Jimin’s mother—after she gives him jars of their family-recipe kimchi, spice and salt and sour—finally clears up the cough that’s been lingering in his throat for weeks, squeezing his lungs and throat, so he’s happy. (Even if his lips taste like sickly sweet aniseed and something deeper, something he still can't name).

For the second, he was all pubescent awkwardness, limbs still so short and yet so ungainly and gangly, a cygnet still shedding the grey plumage of his youth—desperate to reach the signature elegance and grace of a swan, all curved neck and crystal feathers and perfection.

This witch is all hard, perfect edges, glittering diamond, beautiful, untouchable; hair a dark waterfall around her face, lashes long, lips red, perfect curves and yet still so sharp. Terrifying. She eyes Jimin with something bordering on disdain, but disdain would require him to be worth her time. (He’s not.)

But he comes with payment, bundles of samphire he picked from the coast with bare hands, fat and green and salty, and so she deigns to give him a moment of that time. The metal charm is cold in his palm, ice and fire, but it works—Jonghee finally notices him, sees him, smiles at him. (Even if their relationship only lasts two weeks, a short lived school romance, she never would have looked at him twice without the charm that’s tucked in his pocket, drawing her gaze.)

Both witches had carried power like a cloak about their shoulders. Heavy around them, magic weighty and dark, smoke and fumes. Both were so different, but cut from the same cloth; clouds in the distance, sparking with lightning and weighty with rain.

Never cross a witch, they say. Always pay your dues, they say. Never approach a witch without knowing what you want, and never approach a witch without appropriate payment, ready to strike an accord, reach an agreement. One thing for another, tit-for-tat, keeping the scales even.

Witches are dangerous, they say.

(Be careful, his mother would say. Witches don’t care for mundane humans. Be polite, do your business, but then leave. Don’t linger. It’s not safe.)

(But witches keep their word. A promise from a witch is ironclad and unbreaking, written in stone. They’re dangerous, and you should always be wary, but there are rules they cannot and will not break. 

In a way, it’s easier to trust a witch more than anyone else, because they’ll always honour an agreement. Jimin might not have spoken to a witch in years, now, but he knows this: if a witch gives you their word, it’s worth more than its weight in gold.)

--

Jimin’s feet—so skilled at treading the sea slick sands of Busan’s beaches—are unsteady on the firm concrete of Seoul’s streets. But still, he follows them. They tread a path he doesn’t know, tracing directions he cannot see, but it’s impossible to ignore and even harder to resist.

Ley lines cross. They settle here, a soft X drawn in smudged pencil on a finger-worn map, and Jimin stops. 

The sign in the window says closed. At least, Jimin thinks it does, but then he blinks, and it’s almost like the words have rearranged themselves: open. 

The building is unassuming, nestled between two others, a stunted tree surrounded by towering redwoods, but it’s this shopfront door that draws his eye—duck-egg, blue green, the colour of new life, the morning sea, the ebbing tide. The sign that hangs above is wooden, a little faded, but in a way that suggests comfort and not disrepair; like an old jumper, worn soft with age, but still warm, still loved.

Aurora. 

A spark of light catches his eye. A glint, a dazzle, pulling his gaze towards it: below the sign, windchimes, circling a piece of quartz, catching the sunlight that's swallowed by clouds. It glitters at him through the rain. Even in the harsh breeze, the chimes are almost still, gently singing, soft voices whispering under the sound of falling water.

The door seems to swing forward at the lightest touch of Jimin’s gaze, already open, opening further. Beckoning him in. 

The smell of sea fills his senses.

The quartz throws refracted light over him, lines between each colour sharp and defined despite the rough hewn edges, a rainbow that shines even brighter on the dark wetness of his clothes as he steps through; the windchimes ring out, a crystalline murmur, and then the door eases shut behind him.

It’s warm. It’s warm, and dry, and serene. Light slants in through the windows, dulled by the rain but still painting the room in white and gold. Everything is in its place, neat and quiet and cheerful, a spray of pastel crocuses in a lopsided, handmade clay vase on the counter. The counter is clear while the rest of the room is full; busy shelves and wall hangings and a garland that has the shifting phases of the moon, crescent-quarter-gibbous-full; glittering geodes, polished crystals, water smoothed pebbles; half burned candles, jars and bottles and shells, all crowding against each other.

The whole place hums with magic. But unlike the magic Jimin has felt before, sulphur sour at the back of his throat, burned tobacco in his lungs, this is gentle, all encompassing—like a kitchen warmed by a busy oven, full to the brim with bread, filling the room with its scent and heat. 

Jimin feels out of place. He’s wet and dark and sad, drip-drip-dripping dirty rainwater on the hardwood floor. Hair hangs into his eyes, and he’s small and cold, almost bowing under the wet of the weather that clings to him. He shivers, caught up in the chill.

“Jinnie? Are you back already?”

A voice calls to him, out of sight. Jimin looks away from the mug and open book that lies on the counter, ring mark caught by the sliced geode coaster, sparkling copper green and jade.

“Did you forget to bring your charms? I told you to double check your bag before you left. I’m not done yet, anyway, I—”

Blink, blink. Wide eyed, soft and slow, surprised into stillness.

You look like comfort. It’s like someone’s taken a soft winter’s evening and turned it into a person—jumper big and thick weave warm, hair a softened mess, dangling earrings that look like little cherries, bare feet, skin touching the warm wood floor, mug in hand that coils with steam. Like a fireplace that flickers warmth and light in the cold.

Your pretty mouth is a little open, poised to speak another word that fails to come as you blink at Jimin.

“You’re not Jin,” you say, instead.

Drip, drip. Shying away from that doe-eyed gaze, Jimin looks down at his feet.

“The sign said open,” he mumbles, wanting to fold in on himself, a sodden origami crane that collapses under its own weight.

“It did?” There’s a tinge of surprise in your tone, but then a drip of rainwater trails down Jimin’s nose and falls, a teardrop of crystal. Your voice turns soft. “Oh, dear. No, of course it did. You’re soaking. Come on, come in. Take your shoes and coat off, leave them by the door. You look like you need a cup of tea.”

You leave no room for argument, disappearing back the way you came. Jimin is shocked into stillness, but then you reappear with a soft cream towel, an uplift to your eyebrows that looks expectant. Jimin pulls his worn shoes off, leaving them in self-created puddles at the door, jacket hung on the curved arms of an old coat rack.

The towel is warm around his neck and in his hair, cotton soaking up wetness with unnatural ease. The warmth of his surroundings is seeping in, chasing away the chill that’s settled in his bones, and when Jimin perches on the chair you’ve pulled out for him, he feels a little better. Not much, but a little, and that’s more than he can ask for.

The tea room is cluttered, racks of glass jars, some full to the brim, others almost empty, washed-out white and green and brown, some bright with full flower buds, some muted with dried berries and fruit; strings of dried orange slices hang from the ceiling above, surrounded by scatterings of bundled flowers and leaves. And yet, somehow, under the smell of bubbling water and dried tea, that tang of salt lingers, light on Jimin’s tongue.

“You look like you’ve had a long day. Would you like to talk about it?”

(In Seoul, no one has time for Jimin. Their eyes are closed off, hard, absorbed in themselves, their own problems—Jimin understands. Life is difficult, and it can be an uphill struggle, everyone so hungry, starved. Just like him. Trying to scrabble for a foothold in a mountain that’s been worn smooth by generations of grasping hands before him.)

The look you give Jimin is soft, and warm, and open; the look a mother gives a child when they fall and scrape open their knee. No pity, no judgement, just empathy.

“No,” Jimin says. Then: “Yes.” Then, after a long, lingering silence: “I don’t know where to start.”

You let out a little hum, patient, encouraging, reaching for two mismatched cups; one, soft camellia pink, the other, dark blue, bumpy ceramic, deep ocean waves.

“How about you start with how you’re feeling?”

How he’s feeling?

(How is he feeling?)

(Lost. Lonely. Alone. Like he’s caught in a riptide, and no matter how much he swims, the shore is growing further and further away; adrift and out to sea, swallowed by merciless waves.)

(Like he should have listened to the cautious words of everyone back home. Like he’d set himself up for failure from the moment he’d set his sights on Seoul, on success.)

(Like he’s never been good enough, will never be good enough, and he should have known that.)

Jimin doesn’t—Jimin doesn’t want to show you this raw, aching part of him, fit messily between his lungs. 

He doesn’t have to tell you anything. He doesn’t have to peel back the skin of his chest and lay himself bare.

--

But for the first time since he’s stepped foot onto Seoul’s soil, Jimin feels seen.

--

His words are slow and faltering.

Jimin is out of practice, talking about himself, the things that he keeps small and folded away in quiet corners of his heart, but you listen. You hum and shift and move, opening jars, closing jars, weighing out loose leaves, eyes intent on your work.  Maybe that’s what makes it easier. 

You’re not staring at Jimin, watching as he strips himself raw. You’re watching the fire that flickers on the small burner, water bubbling and almost boiling, but not quite. Not yet. You’re watching your careful hands as you scoop the blend into a cast iron pot, burnished darkness. You’re not watching him, but you’re listening: how he’d come to Seoul to pursue his passions, his dreams, how it’s left him lonely and lost and aching. A ship on a course without map or compass, sky overcast, no stars to guide him.

“Sometimes I feel like I should have stayed in Busan,” Jimin murmurs. His head is bowed forwards, eyes caught in a knot on the wood of the table, lines coiling together. “Everyone was right. I’m never going to make it.”

The cup set in front of him is empty.  Your fingers are curved around the handle as you turn it towards Jimin, and he notices little clouds on your nails, fluffy white against pastel blues. You hum lightly at his words, lifting the iron pot from its woven mat, steady as you pour.

(This is unlike any other place he’s ever known.)

“Do you want to go back to Busan?”

The tea smells lovely, a little floral, a little sweet, mellow and warm. It flows over the sharp salt that’s coating Jimin’s senses, sweeping away the last drops of rain that cling to his bones; washed fresh and clean. It settles in the pit of his stomach, lies light against his tongue, warming him from the inside out. 

(A blanket that’s tucked over his shoulders and wrapping him tight.)

Suddenly, Jimin wants to cry.

He swallows down the tears, the rising tide that threatens to spill from his eyes. He thinks about his answer—does he want to go back to Busan? Back to the salt and the sea? Back to the world he knows so well, misses so well?

“No,” he admits. “I miss it, but… no. I want to find my place in Seoul.”

I want to be good enough. I want to find a new home.

The answering smile on your face is a small, tender thing.

The tea stays hot, no matter how long Jimin takes to drink. Rooibos, coconut, lavender, cocoa, earthy and delicate flavours mixing across his senses. His hands wrap around his cup, the shifting blue waves steady around the liquid inside, cotton towel around his neck crowding even closer as his shoulders bow inwards. 

He notices, then, that he’s dry, somehow—every inch of him, from his skin to his hair to his clothes, whisked away by some unseen, ephemeral hand. Like he’d never been in the rain at all. His hair is soft on his head, clothes unwrinkled, and he smells like citrus and light, a shimmering garden. Not like rainwater and muted sorrow.

“You’re a witch,” he realises, suddenly. 

He knows this place must be home to magic, but he’d figured you some sort of assistant, apprentice, as soft and unassuming as you are. 

But, no. The magic he feels in the air, butter rich and sugar sweet, isn’t from the building. It’s from you.

He shouldn’t have told you anything. Witches are dangerous. He owes you now, undeniably so—for the tea he’s drunk, cup empty and cooling in front of him.

No one ever denies a witch their dues. No one would dare. But he has nothing to give you.

“I don’t have anything to give you.” Jimin’s eyes are wide. “I don’t have any money.”

“Jimin.” Your voice is a murmur, but it does nothing to quell the spike of worry in his heart, the realisation that he’d never told you his name, not once. But of course you know it. Witches see the unseen. Witches read the unknown. “You don’t owe me money. Please, don’t panic.��

Jimin tries to swallow down that panic.  There’s nothing in his pockets but his phone, dead as it is, an old bus ticket stub, his keys, plain and unadorned save for the tiny puppy keyring he’s had for years, but doesn’t remember the origin of. Nothing a witch might be interested in. “Then what can I give you?”

“You’ve already spilled your heart to me,” you say. “That’s half of the payment. A confession of feelings.”

Jimin’s lashes flutter. He can’t help his eyes darting over you, reading the signs he’d missed before—you might not stink of magic like coal dust and smothered fires, but instead it rests like a garland of flowers about your head, woven into the wool of your jumper like silken thread, gossamer. Delicate and light but undeniable, a fleur-de-lis that blooms over hard marble, strong and steady.

“What’s the other half?”

“That’s up to you.” You tilt your head, little cherries in your ears swinging with the motion. “A secret. A memory. Something you’d like to share. That’s the price; a story you want to share. The final half of the transaction.”

“Do you… keep it?” He’s heard of witches stealing the memory from people, leaving them hollow shells, but you shake your head with a soft laugh.

“No. You share your story, Jimin. You don’t give it to me. Your words and history are yours, not mine. I promise you: anything you give me remains your own.”

A witch’s promise. Unbreakable truth.

(What does he have that’s worth a witch’s time?)

A memory. A good one. 

Climbing the trail of Geumjeongsan, warmed by the sun overhead, filtered by the arching trees, his brother beside him, his parents behind. He was still young, too young to climb all the way up the mountain route, bundled into the cable car that had lifted them towards the heavens, world spread at his feet, a feast for his hungry eyes. Their dinner had been roasted duck, fatty and crisp, leaking oil over his lips and cheeks as he’d eagerly bit in after a day of hard work. His family had been laughing, surrounding him with their love, liquid sunlight spilling over him. Happiness.

Your chin rests in your palm as you listen, hair a soft frame around your softer eyes, smile lingering at the edges of your lips. Jimin’s words trickle and slow, and for a second he wonders if it was enough, if this years-old memory, fuzzy around the edges, pays his dues—but as his mouth curves around the final syllable, listing the room back into warm quiet as he smiles at this remembered joy, he knows. Something in his heart knows. It is. It’s enough.

“Thank you for sharing that happiness with me, Jimin. It was lovely.” 

For the first time in a long time, Jimin’s heart feels less like a broken thing. It feels like someone’s starting to take liquid gold to the cracks in his heart, protective resin that brings his broken parts together, the soft touch of kintsugi that shows his flaws but also lets him see that his heart can work despite them. 

Broken and imperfect but still here. Still whole.

(He may have paid off his debt, but Jimin feels like he’s taking away something that’s more than just a cup of tea.)

His shoes are dry when you return to the door, and when he reaches for his jacket, it’s like he’s just peeled it off a washing line, smelling of sun and fresh laundry. His trainers fit better on his feet, not rubbing at the heel like it should. Small, little things that change so much.

“It’s still raining,” you say. “There’s an umbrella in the stand that you can have.”

The umbrella is a long, sturdy thing, plain black, but when Jimin lifts it, there’s a small charm tied to the handle. A tiny string of rose quartz beads, polished pale pink.

Witches never give things away for free. Jimin knows this. 

“The price is that you have to share it with the first person you meet who needs it.” The words fall from your smiling lips before Jimin can ask. “You’ll know who it is when you see them.”

The arms of the umbrella spread so wide above him, engulfing him in protection, keeping him dry and safe. He turns to look at you. You're leaning against the doorframe, still barefoot, fingers that bear the sky barely peeping out of the sleeves of your jumper. Untouched by the rain and grime of Seoul, a lit candle in the night, vanilla scented wax, dribbling hot and sweet. So unlike any other witch Jimin has ever heard of.

There’s no smell of sea, any more. No lingering memories of Busan. Just petrichor, rain and concrete, an undercurrent to the fresh smell of his clothes, his hair, washed clean by a magic that’s softer than anything Jimin has ever known. 

The only thing that’s softer is the smile on your face, the curl of your fingers as you wave goodbye. The door swings shut as you step back, windchimes trembling at the gentle parting, quartz throwing glitter over Jimin’s cheeks and catching in his lashes.

(The sign in the window remains untouched.

As Jimin turns away, it says closed.)

The rain has lessened, a drizzle that threatens to sweep over him, but the umbrella keeps him safe, draped over the air around him, warding away the cold that tries so desperately to claw back into his chest. Jimin doesn’t know where he’s going, just like before—but he steps onto the street and immediately stops.

The string of rose quartz pearls swings into his wrist. 

“Hello. Would you like to share my umbrella?”

Jimin has to hold it up high, shorter than the long-limbed boy who stands in front of him. His eyes are dark and almost solemn, sliding across Jimin’s face as he seems to pull himself out of some faraway, unseen place. He doesn’t seem to notice the rain that’s starting to soak through his clothes, peppering his handsome face with small, cold kisses, but then he smiles, gratitude written across his grinning teeth.

“Hello.” His voice is so deep. “Thank you.” And then, after only the briefest pause: “My horoscope said I’d be helped by a Libra today.”

Jimin startles, umbrella scattering rain with the motion. “How did you know I’m a Libra?”

--

And so—this is how Park Jimin meets Kim Taehyung. With a witch’s blessing warm in his belly and overhead, umbrella a shield against the heavens.

--

And so—this is how Park Jimin meets Jeon Jungkook. With Kim Taehyung at his side, a witch’s charm around his wrist, rose quartz a soothing calm against his skin.

--

And so—this is how Park Jimin starts to build a home in Seoul, brick by brick, larger hands working alongside his own; Taehyung’s palms large, Jungkook’s fingers steady, laying the foundations to happiness. Together.

--

His feet find their way back to Aurora again and again, a moon that pulls at his waters, caught in its gravity. Quartz to citrine, aventurine to hematite, windchimes singing like bells whenever he passes underneath them, door swinging open at the lightest of touches.

Your wide eyed surprise ebbs like the tides. The second time, and then the third, and fourth, you’d stopped in your tracks at his arrival, hands a tumble of confusion whenever he’d appeared at your door, but now you’re always ready and waiting.

(“How did you find this place the first time?”

Today’s tea is sencha, salty sea-buckthorn, bright spearmint, delicate lemon verbena, tinged blue with cornflower and butterfly pea, the ocean waves in a cup, brewed just for him.

“I followed the sea,” Jimin answers. “The salt air. Didn’t you do that?”

“No.” The same tea lies in your own cup, a shared moment in the past and present. “You called out and you were answered. This shop is older than you or me, and even Jin doesn’t know the magic that lies in its walls. We don’t control this place. We just live here.”)

The stories he pays you with change over time, memories from years past, growing closer and closer to the present, an autobiography that lays out the peaks and valleys of his life; the happy, the sad, the embarrassments, the triumphs. The tea changes every time, too, mellow greens to bright fruits, smoky blacks to delicate whites, whisked matcha and woody lapsang souchong. Matching the timbre of his voice, reflecting his words, letting him dwell on happiness, or pulling him out of sorrow.

Sometimes Jin is there. Oftentimes, he isn’t. The tea room is sacred ground when Jimin is paying his dues, stories and secrets falling from his lips, but otherwise Jin will bundle in, all energy and noise, leaving plates of flaky pastry and tiny biscuits and soft bread, brioche lined with chocolate, melting and hot. They leave Jimin warm and full, no matter how much or how little he eats. Two kitchen witches that give, and give, and give.

Jimin pays for a plate of rose shortbread with a recollection of the time he’d spilled juice over his brother’s homework, only to blame the dog, who was refused his usual after-dinner gravy bones. Jimin still lives with the guilt. Jin laughs, and you smile, flower petals soft and sweet in your mouth as you listen to him speak.

He wants to bring Taehyung and Jungkook, share the brightness with them, with you, the things that make him smile and laugh; lifting him out the deep waters of sadness and towards the sun, light dappled waters, bright coral reefs, a multicolour display of life. But Aurora doesn’t call to them the way it calls to Jimin, which means he goes alone.

Taehyung’s eyes widen when Jimin mentions his disappointment.

“Jimin-ah.” His mouth is round with shock, a sweet pomegranate, red flushed lips. “Don’t you know?”

“Know what?” 

Jungkook’s cheeks bulge with lettuce and samgyeopsal, but he swallows it down in one go, a gannet with the metabolism of a god. (Lucky.) “Finding witches in Seoul is hard,” he says. “You have to actively search them out. Do you?”

Jungkook has met more witches than any of them, a little golden spark of magic nestled deep in his chest, a magnetised needle that points him forward like a compass. But even he can’t find Aurora, no matter how much Jimin tries to guide him.

“I just… walk,” Jimin says, unsure. “I just feel it and I walk.”

“I’ve alway wanted to get a cup of tea from that shop. They say the best way to solve your problems is to share it with a witch, but I’ve never been able to find it, no matter how hard I’ve tried,” says Taehyung. An empty leaf of lettuce lays in his palm, curled up, almost sad in how small it looks. (The same would be a riverboat in the tiny cups of Jimin’s hands.) But rather than jealousy sparking in his eyes, he just seems happy for Jimin, toothy grin appearing on his face. “You’re so lucky, Jimin-ah. I bet it’s incredible.”

--

(Jimin is a nightjar, a singing bird, calling out into the darkness. The dawn bursts over the horizon, light heavy, laden with brightness, aurora shimmering rose and gold, welcoming hands.)

(Jimin sings. You listen.)

--

This time when he finds Aurora—or maybe it finds him—it’s snowing.

Seoul is blanketed in white, pavements worn smooth with a thousand busy feet, roads salt slick and slush. The wind bites at his cheeks, apple crisp and sweet, the air a soft whisper that runs its chilled fingers through his hair and turns his head.

(The rose quartz lies warm around his wrist.)

The winter sun overhead casts short shadows, pale light flushing down Jimin’s face as he leans into that fleeting touch. It’s not Busan that fills his senses this time; it’s the smell of mulled wine, hot cinnamon, melting chocolate, but more than that—dark evergreen and sweet cherry-wood fires, dusty pepper and star anise, sticky caramel.

(Homely.)

Open, the sign says.

Today, the windchimes circle a shard of snowflake obsidian. It trills out a greeting as he touches his fingers to the door, tiny bells that tinkle their hello as Jimin steps over the threshold, Aurora just as warm and inviting as it had been the last time he’d stepped foot here. As warm and inviting as it always is.

(Closed, the sign says.)

He’s warm too, today. He’s wrapped up against winter, hand knitted hat on his head—a recent project by Taehyung—and his hands are nestled in his pockets, curled around the small hand warmers that Jungkook sneaks into his coat without comment. Reminders of the love of his friends even when they’re not beside him. His cheeks are flushed pink from the cold and his eyes are sparking happiness, smile wide as he stomps snow off his feet.

But there’s no one to greet him. No candles are lit, no half-finished drink on the counter, an unintentional offering to the quiet building. It feels like a held breath, light, heavy, ephemeral, weighty.

(Every moon hanging from the garland is waning.)

Jimin’s socked feet are quiet as he steps the familiar route to the tea room, hallway beckoning him forwards; the door is shut, and he hesitates, but even as he watches, it quietly swings open, untouched. 

You’re bowed over the table. A hand rests over your eyes, your body held still, a rictus of—of deep thought, maybe? The weight of decision, indecision. Maybe. Something that hangs heavy about you, usual shimmering magic pulled down, osmium heavy; still glittering and beautiful, but sharper edged, burdensome. 

The cup in front of you is dry, empty, matte ceramic the colour of bone, muted white, brittle cream. There’s no smell of warm tea today. Just still air.

(No matter how many times Jimin has seen you laugh and smile and tilt your head, the truth is that you’re a witch, and Jimin has only just started to map your world. He’s a cartographer with nothing more than his own hands and the aching need to find the stars, to trace those celestial bodies overhead that shine out so bright.)

The floor groans under Jimin’s unmoving feet and your head snaps up.

“Jimin?” Your eyes are wide and startled. All at once the air lifts, sunlight seeping from the floorboards; an open window that’s been thrown open to pull in the summer breeze. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

(The windchimes had been as loud as always, announcing his presence.)

“I’m sorry,” apologises Jimin. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

You shift away from the table and straighten, magic coiling around your neck like a scarf, thick and warm. (Covering your mouth and muffling you.) “I just wasn’t expecting any customers,” you say. “You never have to apologise, Jimin. Come on in, take a seat. What do you want to talk about today?”

Jimin had wanted to share his happiness. He’d wanted to talk about Taehyung, and Jungkook, and the dancing job that’s turned steady, all the bright little pieces of his life, glistening opals, precious stones. But he realises, then, that’s not what he needs, really. 

(Not what he wants, really.)

“Nothing,” he says. His voice is soft and sweet, white milk bread, fluffy and light. “I just wanted to see you. How are you?”

The fire under the water flickers, a sun flare that dies as soon as it’s born, settling into its usual ring of tiny flames. The magic around your neck turns into a stole, slipping away from your mouth, settling about your shoulders. You’re silent, for a long moment, as if you’d been in some unseen place and Jimin has pulled you back.

You glance at him through the curl of your lashes. “Busy,” you say, eventually. “Distracted, I suppose. Trying to work things out.”

Why? Jimin wants to ask. Work what things out?

But he knows better than to pry for a witch’s secrets, as open armed and soft palmed as you might be. So he just says: “I hope it gets better soon. I’m sure you’ll find the answer.”

The bundles overhead shift in an unseen breeze, dusty cinnamon sticks and fat berries and handfuls of clove, stirring the spiced smell of winter. Jimin would swear he hears the windchimes singing, a tiny choir of voices that swells and breaks as quickly as a wave crashing against the shore. 

You let out a small laugh. It’s edged with something Jimin can’t put a name to. “Oh, this is the kind of answer that’s given, not found, so I have to wait, even if I think I know what it is,” you say. “And it’s… not one I was expecting. Witches don’t do well with being unable to take control of the situation, but I can’t do anything about it.”

Jimin pauses. He realises then, in a way, he’s been selfish—always speaking, never listening. But you don’t offer yourself up in the way Jimin does. A witch is a library of knowledge and secrets, locked to the outside world; Jimin wouldn’t dare to try and find the key. It would burn his hands, sear itself into his palm. The door has to be willingly opened by whoever’s inside.

He thinks about those words he’s heard you so many times, now, mouth so gentle around the syllables, the lilting question. A flickering constellation that guides his feet. One that he can trace, lines between the stars.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

The smile you offer him is one he hasn't seen before, crooked, a whispered secret. Sending the pages of all those books fluttering, stirring on their shelves. “Do you want to strike a bargain, Park Jimin? I give you a story, and you pay me in turn?” 

A tiny shiver prickles over Jimin’s skin. Your question feels like a test you both know he can't complete, but—there's something inside him that flickers bright at that challenge. 

He’s not a witch and has no magic glowing in his spirit, but a contract takes two people, mundane or not. He’s never considered himself bold, softer and gentler than he wishes he was, sometimes, but—there’s that unrelenting part in him, reckless and brave, hungry for more, that pulled him from Busan and set him in Seoul, that bruises his knees and rubs blisters on his feet from his endless dancing; the part that brings him to a witch’s door, over and over, heedless of the magic that lingers like crystallised sugar about his wrists and ankles, almost painful were it not so sweet.

(Bravery isn’t always about being bold. Sometimes bravery is trying again, and again, even if it seems hopeless.)

“If that would help you?”

The delicate hanging chains of your earrings tremble, tiny sparkling hearts of crystal, your eyes widening imperceptibly in surprise. Witches are forces of nature, relentless, but for a second—just a second—Jimin stops you in your tracks. Not as an imposing seawall built against the crashing waves, but rather, a soft hand that’s lifted, palm first, fingers spread wide.

(Bravery is this, too: being gentle and open where others might expect you to be cold and distant, worn bitter by the cold world around them.)

(Jimin has always known this, but you’d reminded him, when he’d almost forgotten.)

The air smells like mulled wine, heady and sweet, a bonfire of spice and tannin. For a moment, Jimin fears he’s misstepped, craggy cliffs crumbling underneath his feet and throwing him into the merciless waves below—but then you step back, cast your hand at the wall of jars, almost endless in width and height.

“What tea do you think I need today, then?”

Jimin smiles, all full lips and shy teeth, and says: “You have to tell me your story first. That's how the transaction goes.”

And for the first time, Jimin sees you truly laugh. You shed every piece of armour that’s girded about you; you might be quieter, and gentler, but your magic is coiled close, plate metal that shines so bright but falls so soft. Your heavy iron door opens, just a crack, the smell of leather bound books and old manuscripts curling outwards, letting Jimin catch a glimpse of the wonders inside. 

“I can’t tell you a story that hasn’t finished yet, but I have plenty of memories,” you say. “Hm. How about the day Jin and I found this place?”

Jimin doesn’t know how to blend tea. He doesn’t know how to balance flavours, top notes, heart notes, base notes, curling tastes together in a way you do so effortlessly. But he knows how to follow his heart, and as always, Aurora helps guide him.

He listens to your words the way you listen to his, with soft encouragement and gentle laughter, eyes bright as he swallows down the secrets of witchcraft that are banal to you but utterly fascinating to him. A glimpse into a world he’s barely touched. He traces unseen vibrations in the air, reaches for jar after jar, none of them labelled, but perfect each time he pulls them open and breathes in their scent. Almost jumping into his hands. He thinks of a feeling, a flavour to match each memory you lay in front of him, and the magic responds; not under his control, no, but letting him drift in its flow.

He plants a garden: fat rosebuds, yielding petals, bright lemongrass, earthy raspberry leaves, flaky cocoa shells. 

(Jimin doesn’t know these ingredients, but you do, eyes intent and sharp as you watch him move with an ease no one else has ever displayed here, moving around the room that’s entirely yours—a part of your heart nestled safe in Aurora’s walls, one that even Jin could not traverse, if he tried.)

(But here he is. With no magic in his bones, here he is, treading a delicate path through this sanctum, weaving the energy around him without knowledge or thought. Just human, but also so much more.)

The iron pot is heavier than Jimin realised, a solid weight that you always heft with ease. The scent that fills the room when he pours is delicate and light but it washes away the spicy scent of winter warmth, and instead smells like floral enchantment. 

He slips into the seat across from yours. It’s a reversal, tipping the world on its head, an entirely unfamiliar perspective; the wall behind you isn’t lined in the tools of your trade. Today, Jimin sits in the master’s seat. Today, you are silhouetted by the dried bouquets that hang from the crooked branch that coils from the ceiling, muted colours even quieter in the nimbus of your magic, dawn light and warmth, dripping honeycomb, gold and saccharine.

“Would you ever leave Aurora?”

(Even the fleeting thought sends disappointment through every part of him, an echo of loneliness for something that hasn’t happened. Jimin’s always been possessive, in a way, wanting to keep a tight hold of the things he cares about.)

(You’re one of those things, now.)

The smile you give Jimin is answer enough. “Once a witch finds their home, there’s no turning back. No matter how long I’m gone, or how far I go, I’ll always find my way back home.” And then there’s a little glitter in your warm eyes, gold dust under a sun-laden river. “Time for tea, I suppose?”

It’s rosewater sweetness, dark chocolate bitterness, a citrus undercurrent that flows around it all. Biting into Turkish delight, coated in rich chocolate, yielding to the press of your teeth, an explosion of flavour. Jimin has never tasted anything like this— rich and creamy but also fragrant and light.

Judging from your wide eyed stare, you haven’t, either.

(It’s perfect.)

(It takes that indecision that’s been settling around each of your bones, sweeps it away, Jimin’s eyes as large as the moon and just as bright. This cup is so much more than just a warm drink, a hot touch down your throat; it’s the world telling you something, showing you something, something about Jimin, something you thought you'd been wrong about.)

(Jimin has no magic of his own, but he burns so bright. A lovely, sweet, strong, talented boy, stronger than he knows, lovelier than he knows. The world fits around him so well, a backdrop to his beauty, shaping itself to his touch.)

(Your magic shapes itself around him in a way that's as easy as breathing, and it should frighten you.)

(But it doesn't.)

With any contract, the witch sets the price. Your story for this cup of tea should be enough, a parting of the curtain into a world he shouldn’t be allowed to see—but something still pulls in Jimin’s stomach. He feels a little empty. Like he’s eaten a meal and could be content to finish now, but he’s waiting for that final course, that bite of dessert. Something to satiate his lingering hunger.

You still need to pay the final part of the price.

“You need to give one more thing,” says Jimin, reciting the ancient law that he’s never been taught but sings in his bones. 

Your silence is summer lightning. Light sparks in the distance, flashing hot and bright, but without the weight of thunder, without the promise of rain.

“A secret,” you decide. “I’ll give you a secret.” 

If a witch’s word is worth more than gold, then a witch’s secret is worth more than rhodium; stronger, rarer.

“I’ve told you that Aurora answers people who call out, if they need our help?”

“Yes.” Jimin remembers this well, thinks about it every time he’s led back here, the guiding hands that helped him find the path he’s treading now. “You’ve told me that.”

“Witches can find the shop and come here often,” you say. “They come to buy things and leave again; they have to keep their magic safe. You see, a witch’s power is most potent in their own home, and weakest in another’s, so you’ll find witches won’t drink one of my teas, or eat Jin’s food, unless they’ve left the shop. It’s a sign of absolute trust to do something like that.”

You snack on Jin’s biscuits all the time, spread homemade jams over freshly-baked bread, watch Jin drizzle honey into soft camomile, slip lemon slices into hot Earl Grey. Mixing your magic and trust together like a tangle of fresh sheets.

“But humans, without magic? Even if you try, you can’t find this place unless it wants to be found. Neither Jin nor I control that, really, but the sign helps control the flow,” you continue. “If we put it on closed, the shop won’t beckon people in. But if it’s open? People come with their burdens and their sorrows, and I’ll sit, and I’ll listen. My magic isn’t what helps them. Sometimes all people need is a listening ear and that’s what I offer: a single moment of quiet in their busy lives before they leave again. You want to know what the secret is, Jimin?”

“Yes,” says Jimin, eager. Not just as a payment of something that’s owed, but for his own curiosity, digging its fingers into his stomach and lungs. “I want to know.”

The smile you deliver now is the final jolt of lightning, white hot and flooding the air with crackling energy, before the clouds part to reveal the quiet night sky, the vibrant colours of the Milky Way naked for the eyes to see. 

“My secret is this: you shouldn’t be able to keep finding this place. I didn’t realise anyone could, but here you are, again and again. You’re the only non-witch who’s ever stepped foot in here more than once.”

Clink.

“My secret is this: you are the only thing in my life that I cannot answer with magic, and it’s completely out of my control. Even if the sign says closed, you can walk in, regardless.”

Clink.

“My secret is this: I know I won’t be able to find that answer I'm looking for, because it’s not in me, or my magic, or my shop. It’s something in you.”

Clink. 

Three falling secrets that fold into one. A handful of coins tumbling over themselves into the waters of a wishing well, slipping into that liquid quiet. Throwing ripples across the glass surface.

Jimin has always thought that witches were gods of their domain, endless fonts of wisdom, magic cast over the world around them that catches knowledge in its weave, Indra’s net. “But I’m—I’m just human.”

Your eyes are soft. “There’s no just about it, Jimin,” you say. “Witch or not, we all have our place in the world, as small or large as it may be.”

“But I don’t have any magic. Jungkook does, and even Tae does, a little.” He always knows when to say bless you before someone sneezes. “But I’m just… completely mundane.”

“I know you don’t have magic, Jimin. But do you know what the word mundane originally meant? It doesn’t mean boring, or dull. It’s rooted in the world. The earth. There’s nothing more powerful. Don’t you know how brightly you shine?”

Jimin tilts his head away. The truth is that for all the happiness that’s started to grow across his heart like blooming roses, trailing wisteria, some days the river at his feet feels less like sun flecked waters and more like tar, thick and dark, ready to pull him back under. It’s not so easy to cast off sadness once it’s found you. Sometimes his chest feels like it could cave in under the weight of his own failings, each and every one of his flaws stacked up high, pressing on his lungs, his heart.

He doesn’t feel like he shines.

“Oh, Jimin. You really don’t see, do you?” The magic that curls around him is silken, light. Touching the rose quartz around his wrist with recognition. “Remember earlier, when I said the answer I wanted has to be given, not found? It’s because you need to find it. You can give it to me, once you do.”

“What if I never find it?” He looks back at you, back into your eyes, endless and deep. You’re a witch with power that drapes about you, a cascading mantle spun from silver and gold—if you don’t know the answer, how could Jimin possibly find it? “What do I do then?”

“I promise, you will,” you say. “You will. Sometimes the things we need to find appear when we’re not even looking for them. After all, you found your way here, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Jimin answers, truth settling quiet between his lungs. Easing that weight that presses down on them. “I did.”

--

He did. And he does. And he will.

--

You stand in the open door and watch Jimin go, wrapped up once more, a Christmas present of woven wool and thick socks.

“By the way,” you call, and Jimin stops, turns back. “You said that your friends wanted to come here too, right?”

“Yes,” answers Jimin. Taehyung asks him endless questions and Jungkook might pretend like he’s not interested but he’s always nearby when Jimin recounts his tales of the witch’s shop. “They really do. But we can never seem to find Aurora when we try, even though Jungkook is normally so good at finding magical places.”

“Next time, don’t focus on Jungkook.” Above your head the windchimes tremble, obsidian spiralling. “You said he was a compass, didn’t you? But he’s not the one with the map. You are. Don’t forget that, okay? Trust in yourself, Jimin. Be your own guide.”

--

The next time Jimin stands with his friends flanking him, he thinks about the moon. How its silver light is loved so dearly, even if it’s just a reflection of the unseen sun, shining with someone else’s flames. 

He might not have the strength of fire, but he can still shine.

The windchime’s call is throaty as Aurora comes into sight, brushed by a stone of lapis lazuli, door falling open at their arrival, the building filling with sunlight as Jimin steps in. Welcoming him. Jungkook and Taehyung are far more hesitant, staring at Jimin like he’s a voyager into unknown waters, here there be dragons, at risk of being swallowed whole, never to be seen again.

Jimin laughs at them. The lapis swings into the windchimes in a way that sounds like a giggle, too.

“Holy shit,” Jungkook says, once he’s inside. A candle sets alight. “Jimin, what the fuck.” Another. 

“It’s Jimin-hyung,” Jimin says, but Jungkook ignores him, staring at the candles that start to catch flame one by one as he watches them.

“It’s so nice, Jiminie.” Taehyung’s eyes are huge. “Aren’t those flowers pretty?”

On a nearby shelf, the bowl of pansies blooms brighter under Taehyung’s gaze, every plant in the room standing tall, trying to catch his attention.

But of course, the thing that’s stronger than any of the candles or plants or trinkets here—you, stepping into sight, every inch as overwhelming as always, swallowing the room with your magic. Souffle soft and sweet, with all the rich headiness of melted chocolate.

You’re barefoot, as always, cardigan overlarge and draping, nails adorned with tiny butterflies. Jimin’s never met another witch like you, but now that he knows you, it’s almost laughable how he hadn’t noticed from the instant he’d seen you; you’re a witch, through and through, magic dripping through the air like nectar, ambrosia. God touched.

“You finally made it,” you say. “Jimin's told me a lot about you both. Your timing is perfect; I’ve just put the water on to boil. Who wants to go first?”

“Holy shit,” murmurs Jungkook. 

The final candle bursts alight when you smile.

--

Jimin is always surprised at his capacity to find new happiness.

His parents had been heartbroken when he’d announced his decision to leave Busan, and pain had turned to anger, and anger had turned to arguments; he wanted too much, asked for too much, was never happy with what he was given. (All has been forgiven, now, but as always, the memory still lingers.)

Seoul had been so lonely, at first. He’d felt like the bottomless pit his parents had accused him of being, hungry, demanding ceaselessly for more, more, more—his heart had felt like a shrivelled thing, only good for holding onto sadness and bitterness. No room for happiness in any of the weeping corners of his soul.

But, now, Jimin realises that he’s sated. 

He’ll always strive higher, work harder, that little edge of hunger in his core, but life has been given to him in its fullest measure. Unconditional friendship stuffs his heart full, but it can grow and grow, more and more, shuffling around to make room. Taehyung and Jungkook, and now Hoseok, then Yoongi, then Namjoon, each one burning bright, another star in his growing galaxy.

(Things he’d needed to find without knowing, appearing when he hadn’t even been looking.)

He still doesn’t know what answer it is he’s looking for, to give to you, and really, he’s not sure what the question is. He’s been given so much, and he’s so grateful, but there’s still that tiny hollow inside him, waiting for his hands to close around the final puzzle piece. Waiting for him to slot it into place. 

But winter passes, sliding into spring, and then spring rolls into summer, and Jimin realises—he has time.

He has time. There’s no rush. He’s so used to chasing and running and aching, and that momentum will never leave him, but he’s starting to learn that it’s okay not to always sprint forwards. He sparks bright with progress, a glistening shine, but the things that shine out greater still are these: the moments of stillness. Taehyung and Jungkook sprawled around him, cheeks full of takeaway food. Hoseok in the dance studio, all the energy of his limbs brought to a quiet standstill as he sits and drinks water, staring at Jimin in the mirrors and wiggling his eyebrows. Yoongi beside him on the subway, eyes shut as he listens to the music coming from his earphones, tilting his head at Jimin’s questioning touch and taking one bud out to share. Namjoon, brows furrowed as he reads the book in front of him, large hands flipping the pages with such care, but turning his attention to Jimin the second he appears.

You, ankles hooked around the legs of your chair, cup of freshly brewed tea in front of you, letting the steam curl over your nose and cheeks. A cup of the same tea in front of Jimin, sometimes made by his own hands. Not often, but enough to find out more about you, the building blocks that have shaped you into who you are. 

Jimin learns about witchcraft, and magic, and how it’s far less complicated and somehow entirely more complex than he thought. You’ve pulled the library doors wide open and invited Jimin to browse at his leisure, through ancient tomes written in languages he doesn’t understand, vellum covered in calligraphy too faded to be read, but you’re his Rosetta stone, translating it all. He always thought that magic was a secret thing, and it is, but you’re letting him look in. You give him knowledge, and patience, and time. You give him an open door, a place that always welcomes him, no matter the time or weather. 

He doesn’t know exactly when it happened, but Jimin doesn’t have to wait for Aurora’s call any more. He doesn’t have to wait for that crest of that nascent dawn on the horizon. He follows the curvature of the earth and walks towards the sun himself, chases that luminous aureole and finds it all on his own. And there you wait for him, at the base of that shining star, your magic a halo that’s settled in your hair, the north on his compass. 

He still comes empty-handed, no answer to offer you; but you seem content to wait, so Jimin is, too.

He’ll wait.

He has time.

--

Jimin returns to Busan for the weekend. He sleeps in his childhood bed, eats food that never tastes the same when he tries to cook it himself, thinks about how tall he feels compared to his parents now, even if he hasn’t grown at all. He feels a little off kilter, like he’s pulled on an old t-shirt that used to fit him perfectly, but doesn’t anymore; too loose around the neck, too tight around the arms. Wearable, but different. Still comfortable, but not the same. He’s outgrown it now.

(Busan will always have a piece of his heart, but it’s not home anymore.)

(Home is somewhere close, he knows, but he’s still waiting to find that key, final tumbler of the lock sliding perfectly against its metallic teeth. He’s close, so close, but not there. Not yet.)

He’s walking past the fridges in the supermarket, on a quest for fresh radish for his mother, when he catches a smell that dredges up an old memory, smoke and ash. 

Jimin turns his head.

The witch looks just the same as before: ageless and perfect. Long dark hair in perfect curls, nails and lips blood red, eyebrows perfect arches, imperious ice. She’s already staring at him, and once their eyes touch, a flicker of recognition passes over her face, and then surprise, gaze darting over Jimin.

“Well, look at you. You finally grew into those cute cheeks of yours. I thought you would.” Although her words might be patronising, Jimin is shocked at her tone. It’s polite; almost friendly. Nothing like the aloofness she’d shown him all those years ago, when he’d come to her with the reckless desperation of a youth in love. “You’ve clearly done well for yourself.”

Jimin’s jeans are ripped more from wear than fashion, his shirt is from the discount rack at the Lotte mart, and his trainers are scuffed and worn. He might have grown into his face but nothing about him shouts success—and yet this witch is looking at him with something like mutual respect. “Pardon?”

“I can smell the power of the magic on you from here,” the witch says, and Jimin startles. “Like warm banana bread. Or the bark of a maple tree. It suits you.”

“That’s—that’s not mine,” Jimin admits. His heart races in his chest. He hadn’t known that he carries some brightness of your magic with him, some sweetness, motes of light swirling around him even after he’s left Seoul. He hadn’t known that other witches could smell that magic the way he can smell theirs.

(He hadn’t known that he would smell like you.)

The witch tilts her head. Her earrings are interlocking hoops, circling each other, sliding at the motion. “Oh, I know that,” she says. “It’s been given to you. It’s not yours, but it’s a part of you. It just takes a special kind of person to control that flow of power, and I’ve never met a mundane who can do that. Surely you must have realised?”

Jimin’s lashes flutter. He mixes tea, sure, but—that’s not him. It’s the shop guiding his hand. Isn’t it?

It’s been given to you. It’s not yours.

That promise you’d made Jimin, last year, the first time he’d stepped over your threshold, dripping rainwater and sorrow, so sad, so small: Anything you give me remains your own.

You just hadn’t mentioned it was the same for you, too.

(Hadn’t mentioned that you’d given him anything at all.)

(But you’ve given him so much, haven’t you?)

(It’s a part of you.)

(Jimin is changed by every person he meets, the sum of every part that’s ever been given to him by someone else. But he’s also more than those parts; he’s himself, something he’s made, is still making. Working towards being the best he can be.)

(He's himself, controls himself, the world around him. When he lifts those jars from the shelves, he's following his heart. He's his own guide. He trusts himself. Oh, it's not the shop after all, is it?)

(Is it?)

“Ah.” The witch lets out a knowing hum. “Understanding will come with time. Magic can seem such a fickle thing to the mundane, but it’s not. A witch’s magic is a reflection of who they are.”

He thinks of your magic, warm and honey-sweet. Dawn light; sun bright. A reflection of you. One that adorns him with its brilliance, even when you’re miles away from each other. You’re the silver lining to every cloud in his sky, when they’re white and wispy, or heavy with rain, torrenting water, weathering every season that turns in his heart. In the bittersweet death of autumn, the cold loneliness of winter, the emerging life of spring, the buoyant joy of summer. You’re a shelter against the elements. You’re the place Jimin feels safest in. You’re his—

Oh. 

Oh.

(There it is.)

(Home isn’t a place. Home is a feeling. You carry it with you, in your heart; that comfort, that belonging. Somewhere you want to come back to, that you know is waiting for you at the end of the day, any day, every day. That knowledge of love. Your friends; your family. Familiarity. Contentment. Feeling at peace because you know no matter where you are or where you go, home will always be there with you, and waiting for you back where you started, or wherever you finish.)

(Dropping that answer into his hands, feather light, rays of the morning sun cast over his palms, weightless in his grasp.)

(The key finally fits into the lock, and turns, door bursting wide open, letting life and light into Jimin’s heart, filling something that he already thought was full.)

The dark haired witch gives him a smile that’s equal parts pleased and self-satisfied. She sweeps away, leaving Jimin lost, and found.

--

Jimin steps down in Seoul with an utter lack of grace. Like the world has been pitching beneath his feet and has only just turned steady, sea legs buckling on the solid earth.

His bag is heavy with everything he’d brought to Busan for the weekend, and he’s tired after the train journey, and it’s hot, so hot, the summer heat oppressive in its height and weight, pressing sticky hands over his sweaty skin. Even so, he’d spent almost all three hours of travel with his leg jiggling up and down, wound up, pent up, every thread of him coiled around the knowledge he holds. The answer he’s been looking for, inside him all along. 

Part of him wants to run. That hungry part of him, still scared of not being good enough, terrified that if he doesn’t grab something with both hands it’ll slip away like quicksand; that the river at his feet will pull the earth up in its rush, leaving an empty canyon in front of him, lonely and deep.

But another part of him—the part of him that’s grown so bright, watered by the love of everyone around him—quells that fear. It’s the part that gently reminds him that he has time. It’s the part that carries him gently in its current, guiding him through the swell of bodies and busyness that’s all pervasive in Seoul, guiding him north. 

(His north.)

His feet aren’t a stumbling rush. He doesn’t have to hurry, after all. No matter how long he takes, he’ll get to his destination. 

(Home is always waiting for you at the end of your journey.)

The windchimes orbit rose quartz today. The same pastel pink that circles his wrist.

“Hello,” says Jimin. “I missed you.”

The windchimes shiver and spark out a note of happiness, and Aurora’s blue-green door swings open. He’s hit with a burst of cool air that pulls the sweat away from his skin. Stepping into the shop feels like a shot of caffeine in his veins, and, besides, he’s found what he’s looking for.

He has the question, and the answer. (He’s had it all along.)

(Where is your home?)

He sheds his shoes and bag, cast carelessly on the floor, and doesn’t hesitate to step forwards. The door to the tea room swings open before he reaches it, as always, feeling his urgency and responding without being asked.

And there you are.

Your hair is bundled up out of your face, arms and legs bare in the summer heat, tiny pineapples on your nails, a sweating pitcher of tea dripping rivulets of water on the table as you pour yourself a glass, ice tumbling around slices of fresh peach. You glance up at his arrival, and when you smile, Jimin feels how the magic in the room lifts and swirls around him. 

It’s the tart sweetness of fresh-squeezed lemonade; the soft chill of vanilla ice cream; the rich cream of mango parfait. It’s all happiness and tender affection, and Jimin wonders how he’s never seen the depth of it before now.

“Hi, Jimin.” Your voice is brighter than the summer sun outside, stronger still. “Did you just get back from Busan? You must be exhausted. How was your family?”

He answers by stepping forwards and wrapping his fingers around your glass. You watch in stunned silence as he lifts it to his lips, swallowing down the mix of flavours; rooibos, apple, hibiscus, rosehip, orange peel. Peach melba, sugary and mellow against his tongue, cold biting pain against his teeth.

He wipes away a stray drop of tea from his lips. Sunlight ripples in the room as your eyes flicker over his mouth. “Ask me.”

Your eyes tear back up to his. He can feel how the magic in the air slides away from you, pooling on the floor, swirling about your ankles; it’s like the brush of sand against his skin, treading across wet beaches, sticking to the soles of his feet. “Ask you what?”

“I need to pay for the tea. Ask me for a story.”

Jimin can feel the tug in his stomach, that telltale sensation that he has to pay his dues. Still, you seem surprised. “Okay, Jimin. What story do you have to share?”

“I met a witch, once. I was sad, and lonely, but she listened to me, every time I went to see her, again and again.” Jimin can feel your magic rising with each of his words, the gentlest tide. “And one day, she let me listen to her, too. She asked me to give her an answer for an unspoken question. But she didn’t press me for it. She just let me come back, again and again. She gave me a part of her magic. She’s not like any other witch in the world.  I’ve been waiting to find that answer to give to her, but then I realised I had it all along.”

(Where is your home?)

Your mouth drops open, but Jimin speaks over your intake of breath. That tugging in his stomach is still there. That pull towards you. “Ask me for a secret,” Jimin says.

“Okay, Jimin.” Your voice is quiet, but your magic has never felt stronger, spilling out of you like morning dew, shimmering, opalescent. “What’s your secret?”

“I think I’m in love,” he says, feels how the magic in the room swells, but he knows he still has more to give. “Ask me for a confession.”

“Okay, Jimin.” A whisper. Your magic is as bright as a solar flare, glimmering crystal, spun sugar. “What’s your confession?”

“I want to kiss you,” Jimin confesses.

And then he does.

Every window and door flies open, every plant bursts into bloom, every candle catches light, windchimes singing, breeze rushing through every room, but Jimin doesn’t notice any of these things. All he can feel is the warmth of your mouth against his own, the sweet taste of peach, how your magic fizzes on his tongue like champagne, a heady rush. 

Your breath is a flicker of candlelight in his mouth, one that grows into a bonfire, one he readily fans, watches how the flames leap high. One kiss turns to two, then three, your lips fitting so perfectly against his own, parting so readily at the first press of his tongue; your mouth a sweet little curve, dripping honey and syrup, as lovely as the rest of you. The world narrows down to this, to you; your hands warm where they cup his face, run through his hair, soft touches, how perfect those feel. 

He’s breathless when he finally pulls away, resting his forehead against your own. The magic is a heat shimmer, glistening air, surrounding the two of you in its embrace—but it doesn’t shine as brightly as you, your beauty, the sheen on your lips, kiss-swollen and exquisite.

“Oh,” you breathe. “Oh, Jimin.”

You’re so warm under his hands. The summer air that fills the room is swirling motes of brightness, brushing over you both with its delicate touch, and Jimin breathes you in. Not your magic, but you; a little salt, summer sweat, a little sweet, perfume soft. You feel so perfect like this, wrapped up in his arms, a powerful witch that’s opened up for him, the yielding petals of a flower, the sweet nectar at its core. Jimin’s always hated feeling so small, almost dainty, a slip of a thing compared to Taehyung’s height or Jungkook’s strength, and yet you fit so perfectly against him. 

For all the magic that drips from you like liquid gold, divine and powerful, here you are: all comfort and tenderness and affection, open arms, calling him home.

“I’m giving you my heart.” Jimin presses his words into the lovely swell of your cheeks, the line of your jaw, your neck, lips trailing over your skin, drinking down the way you shiver. “It’s still mine, I know, but I’m giving it to you, too.”

The smile on your face is all open happiness, laughter brighter than every star in the sky. “A witch never lets a payment go unreturned,” you say. “My heart for your heart. Sound fair?”

Jimin’s answering laugh is echoed by the windchimes outside, tickling and light. “I think that settles the score.”

--

(Where is your home?)

(Wherever you are.)

--

taglist: @beyoncesdragon​

--

[24/09/20] author’s note: hi, guys. so I’ve recently been on a bit of a rereading binge, digging up old favourite fics of mine and enjoying them all over again, and I was horrified to discover a scene in a fic that’s eerily similar to something I’ve written here: namely, the scene where Jimin first comes across the shop and pays for a cup of tea with a happy memory. 

I genuinely had not read the fic in over two years and don’t recall many details at all, but I must have remembered it without realising and echoed it in my own writing. I was reading the fic and my heart genuinely stopped in my chest and I started to freak out because I would never, ever want to plagiarise someone else’s work, intentionally or unintentionally. 

however, on a reread of both the other fic and my own, the scene in question is somewhat similar but not the same. I just feel uncomfortable at the idea of benefiting from someone else’s time; writing is hard work and publishing things online takes a great deal of courage, and I know people who’ve had their work plagiarised, and how much it hurts. so I want to state for the record that when I wrote finding home it was without reference to anyone else’s story, so any similarities were coincidental. 

[tatttletale]

Roulette!AU | Steven Universe

AU: Basically, Rose is still Pink Diamond, but this time around, due to her life on Homeworld she's more skittish and soft-spoken, and because of her gentle treatment with her new Pearl, that's allowed her to become more confident, and in this AU Pearl is the leader of the rebellion and Rose is more in the role of "terrifying renegade Quartz". Garnet stays the same as a fusion, and so does Bismuth, but her love interest has changed on account of the personality changes.

Let's start at the beginning. The very beginning.

○○○

"I— I can't believe it," Pink Diamond murmured, voice soft, disbelieving. ". . . My own colony!"

        "Isn't it exciting?" Pearl agreed. "And it looks so beautiful! What should we name it?"

        Pink smiled at Pearl's boldness. If any other Pearl had suggested their owner's colony was just as much theirs, they would undoubtedly be reprimanded. It was safe to say, as well, that Pearl wasn't really hers anymore—she was her own Gem, and if anything, Pink found herself more Pearl's than the other way around.

        "What about. . . Earth?" she gave a soft laugh. "It feels good to finally say it. . . I've been saving that name for so long."

        "I love it," Pearl grinned.

        "Have you already organised the Lapis Lazuli schedules for us?"

        "Of course! The terraforming should only take a few weeks, and then we'll be making our own Gems!"

        "I can't wait," Pink sighed, wistfully.

○○○

Pearl sighed, reaching out to the control panel from her seat on Pink Diamond's lap.

        For now, the moon base was as close as they could get to their new colony, but it quickly grew dull. The Earth hung in front of them like a giant blue marble, teasing them through the communication room's full-wall window.

        "The Kindergarten was injected years ago! Shouldn't they be emerging by now?"

        Pearl squirmed a little on the restless Diamond's lap and placed a hand on the panel, electricity buzzing up through her arm and into her head. Graphs appeared before her eyes.

        "The terraforming is going as scheduled. Lapises are already terraforming the Beta Kindergarten in the northern-western hemisphere. Bismuths have constructed strategic warp panels across the Earth and Peridot technician stations are planned to be developed in the Kindergartens soon. The first—" With a gasp, she lit up, quite literally. "Pink, the first Quartz soldiers are scheduled to emerge soon!"

        "Finally, something exciting!" Pink agreed.

        In a rush, they bustled down to the viewing orb and Pearl turned it on. The walls lit up with a holographic vision of the Prime Kindergarten.

        Pink gasped, gazing around in awe, and Pearl threw an arm out, pointing. "Pink, look!"

        On the far rocky wall, what appeared to be a Gem-shaped hole was glowing pink. A beat later and a grinning Amethyst burst from the rock and landed on the floor. The gem set against her upper arm was clean-cut and pristine.

        Pink felt excitement flare up within her. "We're creating life from. . . nothing!"

        "Welcome to Earth!" Pearl cried to the hologram, and then her face fell as it walked right through her and into the arms of a pair of newly-emerged soldiers.

        Pearl sighed, face resigned. "I wish we could be there."

        Pink said nothing, dreading the inevitable.

        As she'd anticipated, Pearl's features suddenly lit up. "Wait— of course we can be there! We can warp into the Prime Kindergarten!"

        "Wh-What? Pearl, no—" Pink Diamond found herself cringing. "If we went down to the kindergarten—if we were caught—I would never hear the end of it from Yellow and Blue." She let her eyes drop. "Blue would throw me in the Tower."

        The room was silent for a moment, and then Pearl padded over and reached up, lifting her face a little. She could just reach her this way, as she was kneeling on the floor.

        "Pink. . ." Pearl's voice was soft. "You can't let them control you like this."

        Pink only shook her head. "I can't do anything about it—they're my family. If. . ." Her voice petered out. She didn't like the idea herself, but if it would make Pearl happy. . . "—If you want, you can go by yourself. I'll stay here and wait for you."

        "What? No!" Pearl sounded scandalised. "I'm not doing that! We'll both go, together."

        Pink tried to ignore the fluttering feeling her words brought about in her stomach. ". . . How?"

        "What if. . . you shapeshifted? To look like another Quartz?"

        Pink raised her head. "You think so. . .?"

        "Yes!" Suddenly, Pearl was completely onboard with the idea. Gem aglow, she projected a model of her Diamond into the air before them, saturated in a holographic blue. "If you shrink down in height, widen your build, grow out your hair. . . no one would know the difference!" The model complied, shrinking down into a soldier with tight ringlets.

        "I. . . I can try," Pink said, if only to appease her. She took a good look at the hologram and then closed her eyes, imagining the form in her mind's eye, withdrawing the excess of her light projection back into her gem.

        She heard Pearl gasp, and she opened her eyes.

        "You look amazing!" Pearl cried, and brushed a hand over her chest. She shivered. "You even remembered the Court symbol!"

        Pink smiled down at her in relief, and she could have sworn Pearl flushed before she stepped back and cleared her throat, shooting her a mischievous smile. "Are you ready to go?"

○○○

The Kindergarten warp pad chimed, shooting a beam of light into the sky. When the light cleared, it left a Pearl and a pink Quartz soldier standing together, gazing in awe around at the enormous canyon.

        "Pearl. . . look!" Pink-Diamond-as-Quartz leaned over the warp pad ledge, pointing at a band of marching Amethysts. Pearl's grin was luminous.

        "This is incredible!" Her wide eyes sparkled in excitement, and she grabbed ahold of Pink's hand. "Take us down there, quick!"

        Taking her under an arm, Pink-as-Quartz obligingly leaped from the warp pad and into the air. Even as they drifted down to the Kindergarten floor, chunks of rock burst from the walls as dozens of Amethysts emerged and jumped down.

        "Pink," Pearl breathed as they touched down. "This is. . ."

        "Out of my way!" a newly emerged Amethyst cried, and shoved them apart as she ran past. Pink-as-Quartz fell to the ground with a surprised ugh!.

        "Oh, dear!" Pearl cried, a small smile on her face, and padded over to help her up. "Are you alright?"

        "Of course," Pink returned, taking her hand. "But this is. . . so different."

        "Isn't it?" Pearl agreed with enthusiasm. "You're fitting right in! No one's saluting you now!"

        Pink-as-Quartz gasped lightly. "You're. . . You're right!"

        "This is so fun," her companion gushed. "Thank you so much for doing this for me. I couldn't have done this on my own!"

        The words warmed Pink, and she smiled before taking her hand. "What about those Amethysts?"

        "Yes!" Pearl cried, and hauled her over to the gathered soldiers nearby. When they pulled up in front of them, Pearl gave Pink a sly nudge.

        "Uh, hello. . . fellow Amethyst guards!" Pink-as-Quartz called. "What. . . are we all up to?"

        "There's two more from our unit that haven't emerged yet so we're gonna wait for 'em," one replied, eyes half-hidden beneath a neat fringe. At that moment, a section of the rock wall lit up and burst apart. The new Gem tumbled to the ground before them wth a groan. ". . . Here comes one of 'em!"

        Delighted, Pearl stepped forward. "Oh, my stars, look at you!"

        "Welcome to Earth!" Pink beamed from behind her.

        "That is the first and. . . nicest thing anyone has ever said to me," the Quartz smiled back, soft eyes flicking between them.

        "What's going on here?" Another light-haired Amethyst ran up to the group, hands on hips. "Our orders were to move out as soon as you emerged!"

        "But. . . 8XM hasn't emerged yet," a different Amethyst replied.

        "She can catch up with us later! Go! Go! Go!"

        Pink began to move after them, but was quickly stopped in her tracks by Pearl. "We can come back here later. Wouldn't you like to explore some of Earth's other features?"

        Pink-as-Quartz gasped. "Pearl! Yes, let's go!"

        They emerged unhurried from the Kindergarten, transitioning from barren dirt to lush green grass. A light chirping filled the air. "So. . . this. . . is Earth," Pink breathed.

        Vast green fields, carpeted with pink organics, and rising on the horizon, majestic purple landforms, framed by a clear blue sky.

        "Isn't it beautiful?" Pearl beamed, and took her by the hand. "We have to see it all."

○○○

The day sped by. They laid together on the grass and gazed at the clouds; they gathered flowers, throwing petals into the air where it fell as pink rain; they explored the mass of tall trees, glimpsed organics in the patches of dappled light; and at one point Pink-as-Quartz made a grab at a fluttery-looking organic, which escaped her fingers and instead flew around them in circles.

        They came across a flowing body of water, through which they watched slippery organics swim, and Pearl bent down to trail her fingers through the water. Then, across the banks, Pink noticed a set of figures. As she watched, the small one gathered water and walked back to the two taller shadows, disappearing again into the trees as Pearl stood up. She thought she could feel Pearl's elation falter.

        They made their way back to the Kindergarten in growing shadows. There was a rumbling somewhere nearby—it seemed to come from the grey sky. As soon as they crossed from green grass to brown Kindergarten dirt, Pink stopped.

        "We can't go through with this invasion," she said, voice soft.

        Pearl sighed, and took her hands into her own. "I know. I didn't realise that. . . that all this life, growing wild on Earth. . . that it's going to be destroyed."

        "We're not creating life from nothing," Pink murmured.

        Pearl's eyes mirrored her own sadness when she answered. "We're taking life, and leaving nothing behind."

        There was a flash from the sky, and water began to fall in droplets from the grey overhead, pattering onto the bare rock walls of the Kindergarten, washing the dirt away in a brown wet mess.

        A newly-realised Pearl and her Diamond stood, hand-in-hand, gazing out at the endless green, wondering how much longer it would last.

(Chapter 1/13)

Check out the rest of this story on: - Wattpad - FanFiction - Archive Of Our Own

[moonbeamsung]

Sink or Swim

You plunged deep into an ocean of love for Huang Renjun, the boy who had already fallen for the sea itself.

member: renjun

au: sailor!renjun x gn!reader

word count: 2.7k

genre: angst, fluff, slightly dystopian

warnings: character death/drowning, mentions of water (one passing mention of a typhoon and a very heavy focus on the ocean), light profanity

recommended song: when i was older by billie eilish

author’s note: Not only did the lyrics to the above song inspire this fic, but so did the general mood and sound of it :) I would recommend listening while you read, since I think it really adds to the atmosphere. My creativity took quite a while to cooperate on this one but I like how it turned out and hope you do as well, feedback is highly appreciated as always. Thanks to @astroboy-lele for her help beta-reading this (like 2 hours ago), and enjoy!

taglist: @astroboy-lele @kyuwoyo @rvse-hvvck @nakamotocore @kisshim @hunjins​

network tags: @kpopscape @neo-constellations @culture-cafe @dreamlab-nct @k-dinernet 

The sleepy little fishing village you call home seems to sigh with the tides, waves lapping at the shore in a rhythm not unlike that of steady breaths. It’s the world’s way of inhaling the salty air, sometimes laced with the pungent scent of a fresh catch.

The sport itself is a life force here, the key to any sort of contact with the rest of civilization. Without it, the hill that the small town is nestled into might just swallow up the dozens of small brick buildings, reducing them to nothing but a memory. The murky waters would carry minuscule traces of its existence far and wide, but not even a name could break the surface.

Unfortunately, the village’s dependence on exporting fish leaves little room for the personal aspirations of its residents. At some point in your life, you’ll be called to assist with a certain aspect of the product’s distribution. The elders in charge find ways for even the most unskilled of hand and mind to participate, but they always save the hardest work for those who were born into it: the sailing families.

Quite literally, a love of the sea is in Huang Renjun’s blood.

His great-grandfather was around to see the beginnings of the seaside community, and he became the most famous fisherman known to the village by returning to the docks with large nets in tow, just bursting with sharp fins and thrashing tails. Those were the glory days, and generations later, the Huangs want their young son to follow in his footsteps, to become just as well-known for legendary angling expeditions.

But... he’s not really interested.

He would much rather take to the waves in a boat and chase the horizon, not bothering with casting a net or even a rod. To him, the ocean air is beyond suffocating, like a poison meant to expel any wanderlust from his lungs, to rip it from his soul. Renjun is a fiery spirit, and not even the crashing, slate-colored waters can dampen the adventurous spark burning bright and warm inside of him. It would take more than a typhoon to do so.

You admire that about him, too. How he holds a strong but steady resistance to the traditions of the village, the limited and meager expanse of the world that you’ve both lived in—no, been confined to—all your life.

Just think of the endless possibilities that await, beyond the hazy fog obscuring the fine line between land and sea. The faint shapes that loom in the distance, perhaps a trick of the eye but perhaps another sign of life besides you, seem so close but are still just out of your reach, teasing you both with what could lie outside this languid, ashen realm. Your heart races at the mere notion of such a thing.

The waves are impossibly blue when their image is reflected in Renjun’s dark eyes; you notice this one dreary afternoon as you let your feet dangle above the gentle ripples, sitting at the edge of one of the many docks that tangle through a mess of sailboats and fishing gear. The burnt orange of his threaded sweater stands out against the rest of the scenery, so monochromatic you sometimes swear the world is black and white.

He’s a splash of color, a splash of adventure and determination among a colorless mass of villagers who wouldn’t trade the way things are right now for anything. The dull, scuffed toes of his boots drag along the wooden planks as he trudges towards you, settling down at your side with a small gust of wind. Both anticipating and dreading the impending day when his father would teach him how to take to the seas and steer the boat that’s run in his family for generations, Renjun finds himself at the humble and rickety marina often. Anticipating because that knowledge would enable him to change the course of his own life on his own terms, and dreading because he knew of the harsh disapproval those actions would receive.

But still, Renjun stays right there on the dock next to you, diving past the shallows of his conscious mind and into the darkest, deepest abyss of his own thoughts, letting them bubble and sputter up and puff into the air like sea spray. If both your hearts are oceans of their own, they collide in this moment, as his ambitions and aspirations spill over into yours and settle on the seabed below. He’s chosen you to entrust these secrets with. You, the only other resident of the village with a familiar restlessness in your eyes when the sun disappears below the distant horizon, gaze wistful and longing to do the same.

And as if they’re the precious riches of a mythical swashbuckling pirate, you keep them there, each word a golden coin or sparkling gem hidden away in a long-lost treasure chest. The twilight sky that evening is the most vivid you’ve ever seen it, and daylight is fading fast by the time Renjun finishes telling you everything.

“I never knew there was someone who felt the same way I did about all this.”

The realization sets in late, just as the weathered surface you’re both perched on sways in the wind. You fear for a second that you might slip forward into the icy water; that’s how strong the breeze whipping through the air around you feels. That, or it’s due to the sheer force from your heart as it swells at finally meeting someone you’ve admired from afar for what feels like an eternity, ever since you understood what life was like and what it meant for you here.

Sure, Renjun’s grandfather may have been well-known in the past for one reason, but to you, Renjun is creating a legacy of his own for another, one of more than just adolescent rebellion and defiance. It’s one of undoubtable self-awareness, of an adamant refusal to conform to an existence he hadn’t chosen, and he’s finding a way to alter what he’s been seemingly destined for all his life.

“Me neither,” you shake your head, still in a small fraction of euphoric disbelief. “All that’s left to do now is stow away on a ship together in the dead of night, I suppose.” The comment is joking, but he takes it more seriously than you anticipated. The cloudy sky above brightens with his eyes.

You convene in shadowy alleys when no one’s looking, wasting away the hours as you mutually yearn for just a sliver of knowledge of the unknown, enthralled by the waves in the distance and what lies below and above and beside. Renjun sometimes whisks you away to a steep overlook that provides a panoramic view of the beach, the powdery sand so far beneath your bare feet gray enough to pass for finely packed pebbles. You find yourself melting into his embrace like the sea melts into the sky, blurring the already thin lines between air and water and between friendship and love. The way his fingers encircle your wrist with a curl like that of a cresting wave is telling enough on its own. His heart belongs to two bodies now.

You can’t help but notice all the similarities he bears to the element you’ve never lived a day of your life without seeing, without hearing the undulations of, without smelling or tasting the salty tang it brings to the air. Always moving, a force to be reckoned with, and evidently a possessor of the ability to travel far and wide on even the most fleeting of whims.

He’s utterly himself around the water, too. You’re almost positive he could effortlessly duck beneath the surface, take a breath, and his lungs would drink it in as if it was air. The only place he doesn’t feel like drowning is below the waves.

“Look!” Renjun points out an unfamiliar vessel tied down at the far end of the pier one day, sails torn in jagged lines as if they had been slashed by a larger-than-life creature. Upon closer examination, you find that the wooden bow of the sailboat is splintering and the windows into the cabin are shattered. The name carved into the hull is simply too faded for you to decipher the letters.

“This boat must’ve gone through hell and back,” you comment, your response delayed like an echo. “Who do you think it belongs to, anyway?”

He’s lost within a symphony of thoughts before he answers, “No one.”

Both incredulous and doubtful, you whip around to meet Renjun’s assured gaze. “No one ever comes and no one ever goes, it’s that simple. These same boats have been docked for years. They’ve belonged to the same families one decade after another.” The boy sighs, scanning the horizon for anything that might appear the slightest bit unusual. “The real question is where it came from.”

You have no answer for him.

“Regardless,” he speaks up again, quite matter of factly, “It’s ours now.”

“Ours?”

“Yes, ours. You said you’d sail away with me, right?”

It certainly isn’t the aspiration you would have envisioned yourself pursuing. You could have chosen to quietly obey, to live and work exactly as you were told by a community so rigid that you felt frozen to the bone. Not like the pleasant chill of the ocean, rather a restrictive pair of icy shackles, ever-tightening around your limbs and subduing your mutinous thoughts. But here you are, longing for a little something more both in life and with the only person that understands your heart’s deepest desires like they’re his own. And at their core, they are.

Without fear, Renjun takes a confident stride onto the boat’s deck, turning back to you and offering his hand as you mimic the action. “What are you waiting for?” He asks, eyes twinkling.

A warm thrill courses through your veins, growing hotter with each small preparation you make towards your inevitable departure. It’s an affair of many weeks, but at last you’ve gathered all of the necessary supplies and courage to carry out your plan.

The day finally comes, the day you’ll spring into action and take hold of your futures by the ropes, no one but yourselves telling you how or where to steer.

On the most moonlit night you’ve ever been alive to witness, you and Renjun both slip out from underneath your fraying comforters, unbeknownst to the rest of your households. Save for your two restless souls, the entire village is sound asleep, the unceasing lullaby of the tides casting its steadfast spell on bodies and minds like clockwork. Wooden floors so hollow and dusty that they barely creak under your weight, you successfully glide out your respective front doors in silence like translucent spirits.

No one else in the village had even acknowledged the foreign ship’s presence, but this shouldn’t surprise you, not in the slightest. The thick, colorless fog of life had long since settled around the shoulders of anyone and everyone who allowed it to, ensnaring them in a mind-numbing, monotonous routine. It blocks out the sun and the rain, the light and the darkness. It’s all so sickeningly the same. Empty eyes can’t pay any mind to their surroundings. Meanwhile, yours are full of hope, the brightest in the land.

In the distance, Renjun appears as vibrant and sprightly as ever. His form cascades down a flight of stone steps, leading from the sheer hills clustered with homes onto sea-level ground, and glides over the small dunes of sand separating you. He reaches the edge of the beach and your side a minute later, the thump of his heart keeping time with the tides. A nod, and you’re sprinting towards the docks, fingers trembling in excited anticipation.

It isn’t until after you’ve clumsily set sail that you see the ominous shadows of dark clouds laid out ahead, directly in your path. Even in the dead of night, a flash of distant lightning illuminates the world in a harshly jagged blaze for as far as the eye can see, as it strikes some unknown location out in front of the sailboat.

You’re certain the repairs you’ve spent days and nights working on with Renjun will be enough to keep the ship intact, despite the weather you’re sure to endure if you continue on this route. So you press on, missing the apprehension furrowing his eyebrows.

But because every force of nature has decided to convene against you both for reasons eternally unknown, the harsh winds weave their way in between the threads your careful hands had stitched on the canvas, meant to catch the breeze but being torn apart by it instead. Suddenly you’re struggling to hold on to your balance and you feel as flimsy as a leaf in a blustering current of cold, crisp wind.

Perhaps you should have practiced first. Renjun had not yet received a single ounce of training from his experienced father, and it was far from wise to leave the only life you’ve ever known without any knowledge of how to get to your next one. He’s trying to hide his panic now, wavering between the steering controls and warily glancing up at the gloomy midnight sky. One more flash of lightning, and all goes awry, all at once.

The water around you surges, as if physically drawn to the heavens, and more falls from above. Raindrops pelt down onto your arms and soak your hair, drenching the sails and filling the shallow hull almost instantly. Wave after towering wave crashes down, hard, and you’re no longer certain which way is up. About to lose your footing, you feel a pair of arms wrap around your middle like the snug hold of a life preserver.

Before all vitality can be lost and smothered by the raging ocean, a desperate Renjun holds fast to you, your thin clothes clinging to the damp skin of his hands. The storm is just too much, and there’s no way you’ll see the journey through like you had hoped. It’s difficult, excruciating even, to accept, and even more difficult for Renjun to let go of you like this. He’ll fight until the end, fight the fates and the invisible forces that life entails to hold you for just a few more seconds.

He won’t be able to live with himself, even in whatever afterlife may or may not come after the darkness he already sees, feels closing in on him, if he doesn’t sacrifice his last breath for a final moment of bliss, of you.

The sensation of Renjun’s wan lips pressing into yours overwhelms and surpasses all others, his palms tracing the edges of your figure like the tides trace the sandy shore. Urgently he draws you close up against him, trying his best to shield you from the inescapable terror of the sea. A lifetime’s worth of energy and emotion and passion is expended, making up for all the time in the world he wouldn’t and couldn’t have. The tang of saltwater meets your tongue, and you’re not sure if it’s the taste of him or of the ocean.

A weak tug on your palpitating heart, an internal scream in your ringing ears tells you that you should resent him for this, for propelling you forward in your apparently unachievable fantasies of living the life you wanted for yourself. But you don’t, you can’t. It’s no one’s fault, really. With this thought, a peaceful stillness washes over you amidst the chaos, and your awareness of the boy in your embrace fades steadily, slowly, then rapidly. Reality is getting paler, more black and white than ever, and you’re sinking further and further down towards the ocean floor miles below. The faint light of the moon becomes distorted from underneath the water, blurring with your failing vision. It all slips away, and then there’s nothing.

It’s a shame no one in the village takes notice of the two extra stars that blink into existence on that moonlit night, but yours and Renjun’s souls take their place among the rest, both a warning and a calling to anyone who dared attempt what you did. Two guiding lights pointing any other dreamers towards the hope of a better, brighter future.

[buckyownsmylife]

Albatross - Tom Hardy smut

The one where your bond is revealed when you become of age and present, but your mate is your father’s best friend.

Warnings: smut, p in v, oral sex (f) a/b/o dynamics, age difference, dirty talk, curse words

A/N: Here it is, folks! One of my favorite fics that I had planned for this kinktober. I love this concept so much that I think I might create a second version of it someday. For now, let me remind you that the prompts were a/b/o dynamics and age difference, but I made sure to keep the reader’s age open to interpretation so no one would feel uncomfortable. You can pretend that the presentation age in this universe is 18, 20, 21 or 25 - or whatever else! It’s really up to you.

Tom’s P.O.V.

I could feel that something was off from the second I woke up. Like the world that I’d woken up to wasn’t the same I’d left the night before. Like suddenly, everything had turned in their axis and I was left scrambling around to understand the change.

Still, I couldn’t pinpoint what it was. Call it a gut feeling. As a pack’s Alpha, I knew it was wise to trust mine. But without any clear evidence of something being out of place, all it left me with was this paranoid feeling of uncertainty.

That was, until news broke out of my Beta’s house, also known as my best friend.

“Y/N’s presenting,” he told me, a pained look on his face that I could perfectly understand. It shouldn’t be easy to lose an offspring, to see them grow up and become ready for the taking, but it was part of life, at least for us.

“What’s her status?” I asked, nodding patiently at him as I placed a firm hand over his shoulder, wanting to calm him down. He hesitated for a bit before answering.

“Omega.” I understood his hesitancy. Unmated omegas had a hard time even in packs, especially during heats, since Alphas couldn’t really control their instincts around them. At least, they needed that same connection, which could make the situation more acceptable, as it constituted at least some sort of consensual bond, but the fact of the matter was that omegas needed alphas to get through their heats, or they’d die, and a decision made in need wasn’t much of an actual decision in any sense.

Still, I was their Alpha and I knew I had to calm them down, so I did just so, the only way I could think of.

“I’m sure that when she gets over these first few days of fever, she’ll find her mate, Chris. Try not to worry too much about it. We have a lot of good, strong, eligible alphas in the pack, certainly one of them is her mate.” Of course, one of those alphas was me, but the possibility didn’t even cross my mind. She had just reached maturity, I was over forty and I’d seen her grow up. I was there the day she was born, I’d have noted if we had that sort of... special connection.

Of course, rationally, I knew it was possible. The truth was that the bond only made itself known after both parts present, but I still found it impossible to consider that a girl I had cradled in my arms right after her birth would be my mate. 

My friend nodded, thanking me for the support, and I watched him and his wife try to get through the day before they had to go back home and take care of their daughter. I commended myself for a job well done, hoping that now that the surprise had been clarified, that anxious feeling would disappear.

It didn’t. I could barely sleep that night, my senses in overdrive as I moved around in bed. It was like my body thought there was an upcoming battle and it was trying to prepare itself to deal with it. My heart was beating at a level that pumped the adrenaline coursing through my veins even faster, and by the time the sun rose up in the horizon, I had maybe taken a couple of naps. Actual rest had been absolutely impossible.

Still, until the danger that my instincts were catching onto actually appeared, there wasn’t much that I could do. There was, however, a lot that I had to do as pack leader, and so I tried to get on with my day as if nothing was wrong. I couldn’t very well leave my members worried over something that I didn’t even know what it was. So after I ate some breakfast, I left my cabin to get on with my day, starting of course with a visit to my best friend’s house. As my Beta, he would know what I should prioritize that day. 

Also, I figured it was the polite thing to do, check on Y/N and see if she was feeling better after her presentation. She was a part of my pack, after all. What I wasn’t expecting, however, was for her family to be gathered in the main hall, along with several other members, and that the moment I went through those doors, the only thing I could see was her. 

The smell of oranges and basil hit my nose, inebriating my senses, and I had to hold onto the threshold of the cabin’s door to steady myself. Of course, the lack of balance and the crackling noise the wood made as I broke some of the structure I was holding onto caught everyone’s attention, but no one seemed to understand what was going on with me.

Until Y/N whimpered, her eyes connected with mine as she visibly trembled where she stood. The second that sound escaped her lips I knew everyone had caught on to what was happening, especially her father. But at that very instant I lost every amount of self-control I had managed to gather through my years as a leader and I couldn’t care less about what Chris or anyone else was thinking. All I knew was there was my mate, she was still unmarked, and there were far too many alphas surrounding her.

I made my way over to her so fast I was almost sure I had jumped or ran. In the back of my mind I noticed that people stepped aside to let me make my way to her, but I was too far gone to actually process the information. All that mattered was her. I needed to get her out of here, and soon.

The closer I got to her, the stronger was her scent. I was growling by the time I pulled her to me and threw her over my shoulder. It was an animalistic gesture of ownership, but it was all my mind could come up with at that moment. I just needed to get her out of there. 

It was then that a particular smell hit my nose. Alpha. Turning around, I recognized her father through the haze I was currently under. It seemed like he was trying to calm me down, I could see from his lips’ motions that he was saying my name, but I couldn’t care less what he had to say to me at that moment. He was stopping me from claiming my mate. He was a threat to my bonding and I couldn’t have that.

The second I bared my teeth to him, however, he seemed to understand that there was no talking me out of what was happening. 

Y/N’s P.O.V.

I don’t know if it was Tom’s threat or my pained whimper that stopped my father from interfering, but I was glad to see his retreating form, mainly because it meant that I was one step closer to leaving this room and the god awful smells of random alphas that surrounded me.

It was so putrid that it burned, hurting my insides and making me hold my stomach in an effort to calm down the cramps that were threatening to kill me. A whimpered pain escaped my lips and suddenly Tom’s hands were around me, howling me up and throwing me over one of his shoulders.

The second his hands touched my sweaty skin, I let out a breathy sigh of relief, the close proximity to my Alpha instantly sufficing to calm me down, at least for now. I knew that for me to actually feel okay again, we’d have to complete the bonding.

A shiver went down my spine as the reality of my situation broke a bit of the fever I was currently under. I was about to be claimed by my Alpha, who also happened to be the pack’s Alpha. 

Not only that, but I was about to have sex for the first time, and with my father’s best friend, someone I’d known since I was a kid. Someone I used to consider sort of an uncle. At least that awkwardness from my part had disappeared as I approached my teenage years and started to realize just how attractive Tom was. It was no secret that the unmated Alpha was desired by many women - and some men - in the pack, including the teenage girls who’d follow him around with a love sick expression as soon as their hormones kicked in.

The only thing that stopped me from being one of those girls was the embarrassment over the fact that he was a constant presence on our family meals, always teasing me and making me laugh.

That was what I was thinking about when the world turned to its rightful place, Tom having gently lowered me to my feet again. Before I could even rationalize that I should probably snap out of it and fake a smile, his finger was under my chin, tipping my head up to look at him.

“What’s wrong?” A resigned sigh escaped my lips, knowing I would never be able to hide anything from him, not when he was my true mate and my Alpha. I guess I’d have to get used to this.

“It’s just… This is a bit weird, isn’t it?” I managed to explain, my heart pounding as I feared some sort of resentment or anger from him. Besides, I was also still wrestling with the overwhelming mix of emotions and hormones that tried to take over my body, wanting to make sure I’d never leave this cabin unmated.

But that wasn’t Tom. Even if he was scary from afar, and downright threatening and aggressive when needed, he was also gentle and caring towards his pack members, especially when they were vulnerable.

That was definitely my case now. Also, I was his mate - I had to keep reminding myself of that, it still didn’t feel real - and it was ludicrous of me to even consider that he would ever treat me as anything less than a princess. Even before, he’d always reserved that sort of treatment for me, his “little girl”, as he’d often call me.

So he mirrored my sigh, his arm reaching out to hold my hand in his, and I automatically gravitated closer to him, desperate to feel his warmth on my skin, to know that he was close to me. I knew it was biological, but it felt like something so much deeper. It felt like a calling from the soul.

“Yes, it is weird.” I don’t know why, but the second those words left his lips, I felt the tenseness from my body disappear, my muscles relaxing as he held me close to his chest in a very welcomed hug. Something about knowing that he felt the same way as I did calmed me down, made me feel like this was okay, somehow.

Neither of us knew what was going to happen, but we were going to find out together. We had each other now, and hopefully, forever.

Then, a new wave of cramps hit me, making me double over and startling Tom, who released me so I could hold my stomach, but then tried to reach out to me in whatever way he could find, desperate to know what was going on.

“The cramps…” I explained as best as I could, grabbing onto the front of his shirt in an effort to hold myself up. “... They’re starting again.” Once again, Tom’s strong hands were there to rescue me, and soon he had hoisted me up in a bridal position so he could carry me up the stairs, where his bedroom was located.

Tom’s P.O.V.

“Shhh… You’re gonna be okay, princess. You’re gonna get through this.” God, there wasn’t even a bond between us and I was already feeling her pain. I desperately wanted to help her, make it go away. I could feel the need to protect deep in my bones, trying to once again snap my control, but although I knew what was the only thing that could help her, I still needed her to be okay with this first.

“Tom… Tom, please, help me.” I pushed strands of her hair away from her sweaty face, and she whimpered underneath me, sweat already starting to make her skin glisten underneath my fingertips. I ached to lick it, taste her on the tip of my tongue, but I didn’t feel like I could do it. Not yet.

“Tell me what you need,” I pressed, cradling her face between my palms. “Tell me how I can help.”

“You,” she breathed out, and I could see the desperation in her beautiful eyes. It hurt my chest, and once again the Alpha inside of me tried to claw its way to the front of my brain. “I need you to kiss me. Please, kiss me.”

She really didn’t have to say twice. I was dying to taste her lips since I saw her that morning. So I leaned over her, bringing her to meet me halfway by my grip on her jaw, and the second that our lips touched, I was a goner.

So soft, she was just so soft. Her mouth danced with mine and it felt like velvet against my chapped lips and the way she moaned when I licked on her bottom lip, prying it open, made a deep, possessive growl escape from deep within my chest.

“You smell so good.” I barely recognized my own voice as it came raspier than usual when I forced ourselves to separate so she could catch her breath. I’d happily suffocate if it meant I could keep on kissing her, but it was my job to make sure she would be okay.

I rubbed my nose over her shoulder, looking for the scent gland on her neck and nuzzling it upon my discovery. God, even if I wasn’t on my rut yet, this felt overwhelming, in the best possible way. But I could feel the need to mate rising from within me, and I couldn’t let it take over yet.

It didn’t seem like Y/N was all that opposed to my carnal needs, however, if the way she climbed on my lap to pull me back to her lips by the back of my neck was anything to go by. I still had it in me to chuckle against her mouth, amused by her eagerness, but that was only before she started to rub herself against me, whimpering desperately as she clawed at my shirt.

“Hot… It’s so hot in here. I need to -” I was still so dumbfounded over her last actions that it didn’t strike me what she was about to do until her dress was already on the floor, and I was staring at the practically naked young woman on my lap.

Y/N’s P.O.V.

Heat, it was all I felt besides the overwhelming emptiness that made my pussy clench sporadically around nothing. By that point, I couldn’t think of anything else. The pain had been replaced by this burning desire for the man in front of me, but it was burning so brightly that it was threatening to start hurting me, too.

“Knot…” I managed to say, despite my usual embarrassment to say that word, or the next phrase that so easily fell from my lips. “I need your knot.” Tom suddenly tightened his grip on my waist, and I whimpered from the pressure, but also relished in it. I knew there’d be marks, and just the thought of them made the wetness that was already gathering in my pussy start to drip onto my panties.

“Fuck, I can fuckin’ smell you, princess. You’re fucking dripping for me, aren’t you?” I could only whine in response. Tom took me off his waist, but before I could complain, he laid me down on his bed, crawling over me. “I need to prepare you, little one. I know it’s your first time, and even if you’re in heat right now and I’m your mate, I don’t want you suffering, okay?”

Whereas normally I would have melted at his preoccupation, the idea of his preparation only registered in my brain as a delay from my goal, that was to be filled with his cock, so I wailed while he worked on taking off my bra. 

“Why is this so fucking hard?” He complained, the strap escaping from his fingers as he couldn’t seem to have the patience to actually do it properly. “Fuck this shit.” A gasp resonated around the room as he ripped the lace tissue from my chest, but then he was growling and latching himself on one of my nipples, licking and sucking and it made the burn between my legs worsen.

“Please, Alpha, please!” I don’t think he would have been able to separate himself from my breasts if I hadn’t called his presentation. Since it was the first time he was hearing it, though, his head whipped up, and he looked directly at me, seemingly astounded by that simple word.

“Please…” I whispered again, and that snapped him out of his reverie, making him deposit wet kisses all over my stomach as I thrashed around the bed, trying to force him down faster. 

“I’ll take care of you, omega.” My panties, the last piece of clothing left on me, met the same fate as my bra, and then I was naked, spread open for Tom’s eyes to explore me. He licked his lips hungrily, noting, “You’re soaked already,” right as he lowered himself to deposit a kiss over my navel.

“J-just one of the reasons w-why y-you don’t have to do this,” I tried to reason with him, knowing that he had the best of intentions, but I needed his freaking knot sooner rather than later.

“Have to? I’m dying to taste your glistening little pussy. It’s calling out to me, angel.” That was the only warning I got before his mouth descended upon me, engulfing my whole pussy like it was nothing more than an open buffet for him to satiate his primal hunger.

Tom’s P.O.V.

I’d never tasted anything like her pussy before. Immediately, I knew that I’d be spending a lot of my following evenings with my head between her gorgeous legs, licking away at her little clit, and fucking her hole with my tongue.

“You taste like fucking candy,” I growled against her cunt, appreciating the downright filthy sounds that my slurping was creating against her wetness. Pushing my tongue as far as it could reach inside of her hole, I noticed how it pulsed against me, and I couldn’t wait to feel it around my cock.

But first… “I have to prepare you,” I said it out loud, to remind both her and me that nothing else was happening before I could get through this task. Normally, I wouldn’t consider it a hazard at all, I loved making a woman cry out with pleasure underneath me - and this was my mate, not just any woman - but I knew she needed to have me inside of her soon, and quite frankly, I didn’t know how much longer I could hold myself back either.

I pushed one finger inside of her as I continued to suck on her clit, immediately pushing another as she was already really wet and her pussy stretched easily to welcome any sort of thickness inside of it, since she was on her heat. Pretty soon I was able to put a third one, and I pulled away from her pussy just enough to watch my digits going in and out of her.

“Now, that’s fucking hot.” Her thighs trembled on each side of me and her moans became more high-pitched, and I understood that she was about to cum, so I lowered myself to lick her again and that was when she tumbled over the edge, crying out my name and my presentation consecutively, her legs wrapping themselves around my head to keep me where I was.

As soon as the waves crashed down and I was able to detach myself from her, though, it became clear that it hadn’t been enough. She needed me, and now I felt like I could finally give what she needed to her.

“You ready, princess?” I made sure of it as I rushed to open my jeans and get my cock out, groaning as the feeling of my fist around it was enough to make it throb. It’d been hard and ready and pulsing ever since I saw my mate.

“Yes, please, please, Alpha!” With another animalistic growl, I slowly pushed myself inside of her, only stopping when I bottomed out. I wanted to wait until she was ready, I knew she’d be much more receptive to the penetration thanks to her state, but I guessed it would still feel uncomfortable on some level.

Apparently, I was wrong.

“Fuck me, please, Tom, MOVE!” At that last request, I fully let myself go, allowing the Alpha to take over and claim his mate like he needed it to. I slipped out of her before easily manhandling her on her stomach, barking at her to present for her Alpha, and the second her pretty little pussy was thrusted up against me again, I pushed in and started pounding her.

“Fuck, little one, look at you… Taking your first cock so well. Your mate’s cock, angel. You won’t ever get to know how another feels like, will you? Because you’re mine. I’ve waited so long for a mate, for you, and you’re here now. You’re all mine, ‘mega.”

Y/N’s P.O.V.

I cried out both at his words and at the pressure I felt as his cock’s head speared against my cervix. It hurt, but it hurt so good, there were literal tears falling from my eyes on the mattress underneath me.

“Yours, I’m all yours,” I managed to gasp, and it spurred him on. I couldn’t even identify when he thrusted out of me, I felt so full and the emptiness was fulfilled and all I wanted was to keep this high forever.

“Tell me that again,” he ordered, making me whine as his hips kept pounding against my ass, the slaps echoing around the room.

“I’m yours, Alpha. Please, don’t stop!”

“‘m not gonna stop, I’m never gonna stop fucking you.” With a howl, I felt his knot pop open inside of me, prompting my release just as he pulled me up to carve his teeth on my neck. He kept slowly grinding against me, like he couldn’t get enough, and it made me laugh but also moan in satisfaction as he started to lick over his mark on my skin.

“Mine,” he whispered afterwards, when he managed to adjust us so we were both spooning on his bed, his knot still keeping us connected and bringing me a comfortable feeling of belonging I’d never felt before.

“Yours,” I repeated, caressing the hand with which he groped one of my breasts. “All yours, Alpha. You’re not alone anymore.”

[fanficsforheartandsoul]

Let’s Do It Again |  Anakin Skywalker x Fem!Reader | Slight NSFW!

Note: Inspired by the song Do It Again by Pia Mia, Chris Brown, Tyga. I listened to the song on the bus and then wrote this quickly. It’s really just a short oneshot not really corrected either, sorry xD

Fandom: Star Wars

Warnings: Alternative Universe, A/B/O, Slight NSFW, Anakin Cheated

Summary:  His memory of the night was fuzzy, but Anakin knew three things. Firstly, he had sex with someone else than his lover Padmé. Secondly, that person was an Omega. And finally, he fucking marked the stranger.

Word Count: 1′555

If you want to be tagged in my stories send me a pm with the fandom/character name! Or comment on the fic :)

Masterlist

Anakin fucked up. That may not be pretty specific because he fucked up often, but most of the time, he was able to fix it. This time... 

He wasn't so sure. 

He breathed in slowly, the strong smell of flowers, alcohol, and blood still lingering around him. He cupped his face with his hands and sighed. 

"I messed up." 

And it was the truth. Him lying naked in a bed that wasn't his, the iron taste of blood in his mouth, he fucked up big time. He marked someone. And it wasn't Padmé. God fucking dammit. 

To be fair, he was really drunk yesterday. Wouldn't everyone be after finding out that the parents of their supposedly future wife didn't want them to mark their daughter? Well, after those devastating news were thrown at his face he got shitfaced and then met that woman. 

God, his mind was so blurry he couldn't even remember her face, much less her name. But she had breathtaking pheromones and feisty claws. He remembered her whispering into his ears that she wouldn't let herself be suppressed by him and then her dragging her fingernails across his back, drawing blood. 

He had never met such a kinky woman. Not that he often had the chance with him being part of the Jedi order and him usually not hanging out in the underworld of Coruscant. 

But damn, that enchantress, yes, he could call her that because he was literally swept away by her pheromones and the sweet words of hers in his ears.

He sighed again, guilt gnawing away at his heart. Padmé had told him she would convince her parents to change their minds. She would take care of it. So that they would be able to finally make their relationship official. But now he had gone and done it. 

He loved Padmé with his whole heart however there was a stab in his chest after this night, reminding him of the fact, that somewhere out there was another Omega who belonged to him, and he couldn't stop himself from growling lowly. He couldn't suppress his instincts. 

Right now, he hated being born as an Alpha and being so stupid. If he were a good Jedi, he would have meditated to calm himself down but instead, he had gone out of the Jedi temple to visit the lower levels of Coruscant to get drunk, meeting the potential doom of his and Padmé's relationship. But he would fix this mess. 

Let's just never meet that woman again. I can go without her, an Alpha is able to live without the one they marked. I'm sure she would not dare to search for me in the Jedi temple. The general public does not know that the order allows Alpha and Omega relationships, I should be safe. His pounding heart slowed down a little. It would be fine. 

But first, he had to get rid of the stranger's lingering scent.

-

Anakin was successful. Successful in removing the scent of the Omega he had marked and successful in hiding his mistake. At first, he wanted to tell Padmé, but he couldn't. His pride wouldn't let him. 

If he told her, it would be proof that he was unsuited for her as her parents had said. But he couldn't acknowledge that. It would break him, would remind him of the fact that he and Padmé were born into different worlds. 

He was raised as a slave and marking a stranger wasn't such a big deal on Tattooine. For Padmé who became Queen of Naboo and then a senator... Not only were the customs on Naboo different but she also held an important position. 

If it came out that her future husband had already marked another Omega... It would not only damage her reputation it could also potentially ruin her career. 

So he tried to forget that one night, tried to ignore the growing impatience he felt, the pent up desires, and the Alpha in him telling him to find his Omega to mate with her again. 

But it was hard. Really hard. 

He found himself way too often in sweaty bedsheets, in his pants the proof of a wet dream about the stranger from that night. 

The guilt ate him alive, and he drifted away from Padmé, feeling uneasy around her, always paranoid that she found out what he had done. 

And it slowly dawned on him that he couldn't save their relationship anymore, because the moment he had let the other woman kiss him that night, his and Padmé's love had already been doomed.

-

They broke up. 

In the end, Anakin couldn't deal with his guilty conscience anymore. He told Padmé everything. And he was able to see how her heart shattered. 

He expected her to be angry, to curse him but she held no contempt in her eyes. After he had explained to her what happened that night, or at least what he could remember, she was silent for a long time. 

When she opened her mouth, he flinched, expecting a scream or shout but only a whisper left her lips: 

"Leave." 

He said her name and wanted to continue but she interrupted him, again telling him to leave,  her voice slightly breaking. Her utter rejection hurt him too. 

Of course, he couldn't expect forgiveness for his actions, because he cheated, but he had hoped to... He couldn't even say what he hoped for. 

He didn't deserve any of it. 

So he stood up, looking at her sitting on the couch of her apartment. "Padmé..." He knew she would cry after he left, therefore he hesitated, uncertainly reaching out for her, but she swatted his hand away. 

"Go! Anakin, leave, and don't you dare come back!" 

He left. 

But he was sure that he had left his heart with her that day.

-

Eight months later, he stepped off the spaceship that brought him to Lothal, his former Master, and his padawan in tow. 

Ahsoka sighed contently after looking at the vast grass plains. 

"It's peaceful here, I like it." 

Obi-Wan seemingly wanted to agree but got interrupted by the landing canon boat ships, and the three Jedi turned to the arriving clones. 

"Generals." 

Captain Rex saluted, and Anakin nodded at him. 

"The 707th squad should arrive soon." 

The clone's eyebrows knitted, Anakin watched him and asked himself why Rex seemed worried. Then he remembered the rumors Ahsoka mentioned during their flight here. 

The 707th's general was supposed to be a strict Jedi who held no mercy for the enemy and whose actions were often deemed too violent to be a Jedi's by the council. 

His padawan beside him stiffened too, and Obi-Wan stroke his beard in deep thought. 

He clenched his fists. He wouldn't let anyone of his troop get hurt. They would do their jobs here and then leave immediately. 

He didn't care whether the rumors about the Jedi were true or not. He just wanted to go back home to Coruscant so that he could try to call Padmé once more. He needed to talk to her one more time, he was sure that she would listen to him no- Suddenly five canon boats appeared on the horizon. 

They were all colored completely black, giving them a slightly intimidating appearance. They flew at a dangerously high speed, and it only took a few seconds for them to reach the landing platform. 

Suddenly, Anakin's intestines churned. A fiery heat crawled up his torso and then his neck, and a raspy sound escaped his throat. His instincts rang the alarm bell, and his senses spread quickly. The force called out to him, and a strangely familiar and addictive scent entered his nostrils. 

No, no, no, don't tell me...!!

His fists clenched. Obi-Wan suddenly turned his head around to watch him surprised, a small blush on his cheeks. 

"Anakin...", his tone warning him as he retreated from the side of his former padawan. 

Ahsoka next to him subconsciously bared her sharp Togruta teeth. 

"Master", she growled, also stepping away from him, his sudden Alpha pheromones too overbearing. 

His padawan was an Alpha herself but he had always oppressed her when it came to their pheromones. 

However, that didn't mean that she wouldn't fight him. But right now she seemed to know that something had ticked Anakin off, so she could only stand protectively in front of Obi-Wan, the only Omega in their company right now, who seemed to be disturbed from his former student's sudden pheromone release.

The clones around them were unaffected since all of them were Betas. 

Anakin only partly registered the distress of his former Master and his padawan as he was concentrating more on the newly arriving clones and the owner of the scent that had burned itself into his nose. 

"It's her", he groaned and it was partly a sigh but also a moan, proof of the arousal that flared in his chest right now. 

The woman was here. His Omega was here. 

Suddenly his Pants felt a lot tighter. 

The door of the last black canon boat ship opened, silky h/c hair danced in the winds of Lothal and black Jedi robes swayed slowly with every step their owner took. 

A smirk painted the woman's lips and although there was a 200 meters distance between them, he could somehow still understand what she said: 

"Let's do it again, Alpha."

[carpsurprise]

sorry for my absence but... i bring pirate!sam.... this is also posted on ao3, if you’d rather read there..... but yes this is gender neutral “farmer”.. not beta read bc ive been losing sleep over this... under a read more because it’s long as hell. and thank you to the discord for fueling me many late nights to write this!!

the teasing nature of the ocean, and those in tune with it:

word count: 7.8k

summary: after wishing to become one with the sea for as long as the mind had allowed it, the newest shipmate had taken longer than usual to become accustomed to the physical ailments of being at sea, soon learning that their mental state would become the worst affected. the only pirate that had given them any mind was sam, an immature yet charming pirate in the higher ranks. his closeness to them unfolds as his attempt for some type of distraction from his own loss of self at sea.

warnings: allusions to s//cide, drowning, and not beta read.

PART I, INTRODUCTION

It was only supposed to take a couple days to stop their seasickness, hearing from the few ship mates they had encountered in their bedridden, infant days onboard that the body would become acclimated in no time. Never underestimate the human body’s quickness to adapt! the captain cried out soon after allowing them their rest time before their expected labor. This was an amazing opportunity no one could pass up, no one like the newest recruit, who had dreamed of days at sea since childhood, and longed for the nights of open starscape and the wail of the wind at full speed.

Yet, even with this wonderful expectation, they lay bedridden in their hammock, deep below the wooden deck that creaked with each step. The ship would groan with each bob in the water, the sounds of horrible screeches that came from deep within the ship furthered their nausea. Even if they had a few moments of solace between sick spells, anything would be better than the quiet squeals of the wood beneath the water. Despite that notion, that repeated itself in their mind, the back of their head had allowed no movement. Their head would turn to vomit every so often, scrambling out of their bunk and to the wood pail beneath them. The only company to be had before nightfall was a woman with strange, blue hair, decorated with gold jewelry and piercings—and a bird that sat on her shoulder, he seemed to have an injured wing, but in their sickness it was hard to tell— who would bring a wet cloth to dab on their head every so often. 

In their loneliness their acceptance aboard rang through their head alongside their migraine. Excited jitters fizzled through their body as jolts of pain replaced them, making it known to the newest mariner: the sea was not one to mess with. Yet, even in sickness, this was the opportunity they had dreamed of. Perfect scenarios replaced thoughts of pain, the wondrous look of joy wrinkling the captain’s face as he had met his newest recruit etching itself deep into their mind. 

“Welcome aboard!” He grinned, shaking their hand with a firm grip. The stumbled, losing their footing with the slight movement of the ship and the strength of his hands, the sheer roughness against their palm scratching at the skin. “Gonna need to toughen up if you want to make it out here at sea!”

With a nervous laugh, they responded with his honorific, keeping their eyes off of the few gold teeth that lined his mouth. The crew had already begun their preparations to set sail. Shipmates ran to their posts as maps made their way to the captain’s quarters to begin navigation. Snapping themselves out of their dreamlike trance, they ran to their assigned post, readying for departure before their sickness had hit.

Hit, it had. The joly of the ships movement had thrown them off their feet, the nausea of first-day-anxieties and the never ending cycle of waves flooded from their stomach up straight to the back of their head. The sea had claimed another victim within an instant, but showed its mercy for the first and last time to them. They had finally regained consciousness where they lie now, eyes trained on the flimsy roped hammock above them, a leg draped over the side as they clutched their stomach between gasps. After one last sleep, they decided they would start their duties on the ship. No matter the cost of their health, their goal of becoming one with the sea would be achieved.

A full night of rocking, being woken every so often by the shipmates’ chatter in the dead of night, and the lingering pit in their stomach had made the attempt at rest useless. But, by sheer willpower, they had managed their feet to land securely on the floor by dawn. Their grip on their hammock lingered for a moment, bracing themselves for sickness. At long last, their connection to the physical land would be forgotten for a life at sea, with its eternity of waves and comforting wind. 

PART II, THE TEASING NATURE OF THE OCEAN, AND THOSE IN TUNE WITH IT:

Finally able to enjoy the asylum of the sea, the comforting kiss of its mist and the heat of the sun’s rays, they had finally made their way out onto the boat, far from the confinement of the ship. After three sickening days aboard, they could finally muster to keep their head up. Throwing themselves against the rails of the ship carefully, they gazed over the side of the ship with a frown. Their reflection was not there, not like in a river or lake. A puff of air had escaped them, uselessly searching for any ounce of their own face. Chatter had ensued behind them, pulling them from their questioning looks to a faceless being and back to the people of the ship.

They were docked at some seaside town, mates running on and off the ramp of the ship as the town’s commotion sparked up. A few pirates they had recognized, some that stayed in their rest quarters, others that had walked past their bunk in frenzied states. Almost no one had introduced themselves, a kind face far in between indifferent ones. It wasn’t too big of a matter to them, just a bit odd from their days on the coast back home. But, this wouldn’t break them, or their pursuit of one's truest connection to the sea. Walking with haste to the side of the ship, they braced themselves against the wood rails, carefully tipping themselves to see the movement of water the best they could. It had seemed so inviting; the playful lap of water seeming almost childish in a strange way, beckoning them forward to indulge in its coolness.

The talking behind them had taken them out of their thoughts, passers by noting that there were only ten minutes more until departure. Their heart beat with nervous excitement, feeling that if everything in their life were to fall into place, now would be it. Helping with mundane tasks around the ship, traveling far across the horizon, and exploration of new lands untouched by others for decades sounded like heaven, the crash of waves against the ship and harbor echoing as a sort of applause for their accomplishment. It should have been the perfect sign that the wind was picking up, and that they were due to set sail. 

The ship jolted against the waves, the wind whipping their hair from them and tearing at the skin. Without the painful headache pooling at the back of their skull, the ride of the waves would have made them feel nearly weightless. Their legs shook from the motion, a familiar feeling of unease settling in their stomach. Sea air had always calmed them as a kid, but the sudden jolts of the boat left a sharp pain of unease within them. 

“Gotta get your sea legs sometime, dear!” 

The teasing remark had come from above, unfamiliar kind eyes paired with a teasing smile from inside the crow’s nest. He grabbed at the rope blowing by the nest, sliding down and switching hands every so often in a futile attempt to avoid discomfort. The ship’s shaking hadn’t stopped, yet he had no issue. His feet planted firmly on the wood deck. His confidence radiated off of him, well accompanied by his bright smile.

Their legs had still felt as if they were going to give out, whether it be from the choppy movement or the bold quirk of his eyebrow. He had a confident air to him, mindless flipping a gold coin off of his thumb every couple seconds. “So you’re the newcomer the captain allowed onto the ship, huh? Guess I won’t say anything, if he thinks it’s the right thing to do.”

With little clue what the man had meant, and wanting to avoid any conflict with a man that had a sword tucked to his side, they had decided to ignore his last comment. Despite his words, his tone was happy and unbothered, while his expression was distant, but content. The commotion to their side had signaled that the anchors had been raised, and that they were due to set sail soon. He returned his attention to the newest shipmate in front of him, asking their name with visible interest.

Humming, he flipped his coin once more before putting it back into a bag tied to his belt. “Sam,” he introduced, “your fellow shipmate— one of the higher ranking ones, mind you.” He bowed with his words, clearly proud of his title. He readjusted the chains across his chest, flipping them inside and out before pulling his hand away. “Y’know I used to be just a cabin boy when I was younger, but my past captain told me I deserved better.”

“Oh,” they responded, “interested in becoming a captain of your own ship?”

“Not in a million years! He has no fun! He’s one of the better captains I’ve been with,  but even then, I’d never do something so serious. I don’t want the fun sucked out of me. It’s so easy to lose every bit of yourself out here.”

“It couldn’t be that bad.”

He laughed, “Ya haven’t spent more than fifteen minutes on the main deck, dear, just wait it out. I hope you don’t end up like the others, it’d be a shame.”

For the second time in their short interaction, the newcomer was at a loss for words at his cryptic nature. At the sound of a battle cry-like sound, Sam had turned himself around, pulling on the ropes of the mast to raise the ship’s flag high atop the mast. Soon enough, their departure had started, signaling the truest start of their adventure. Talk had ensued behind them, catching the tail end of a conversation about the next two weeks at sea. Perhaps, with good luck, their sea legs would come with the waves and the moon’s cycle. 

Mumbling to themselves, they returned to their post, eager to rid themselves of their headache. Their sea legs would come with time, they had hoped, but thinking that the best plan of action was to fulfill their duties, they had involved themselves in the art of a pirate’s life the best they could. A week of smooth sailing had passed, their body sore from its arduous work on deck. A few shipmates had become at the very least, acquaintances. Not many had opened up or given the newest addition the time of day— all but one pirate, who had seemed almost too elated by their presence.

There was a slight pressure at the top of their head, before the unwelcoming feeling of rope had begun against the body. The frayed cord had permeated through their clothes, sticking into the skin like thorns. Their head turned quickly, a muffled giggle giving away the culprit almost immediately. Sam stood, his knees bent and hands still gripping the edges of the fishnet, with a devilish grin decorating his face. Between the diamond shaped holes of the net, despite their vision somewhat covered, his rosy cheeks were still evident even from their distance.

His playful look persisted as he dropped the net dramatically, hopping down from his placement on the ship’s wooden cargo boxes. “Whoops, sorry, darling! Must’ve mistaken you for a mermaid. Thought I finally got my hands on one.”

With an exasperated huff, they grabbed the edge of the fishing net, pulling it back over their head and throwing it to their side. “Don’t you have anything else to do?”

Sam positioned himself near the stacks of cargo boxes, resting his chin lazily on his hand as he looked in all directions. The newest pirate mirrored his actions, met with nothing but blue, cloudless skies and a color matching ocean. With no land in sight, their eyes returned to Sam’s— interested and ready to respond, as always. 

“Not really,” he replied slowly, looking around once again in an almost mocking manner. “Not much to do at sea, you should know that by now! I know it’s only been a little bit, but come on.” 

After his reply, the ship shook, jolting itself after a clunking sound of metal echoed over the ocean. They had been thrown off their own footing once more, eliciting a loud laugh from Sam. His gaze was steady on the unsteady frame of his newest crewmate, still lazily perched against one of the many looted crates. He twirled his finger along the lining of metals up his ear, playing with the hanging chains as he allowed them to regain their composure before speaking again.

He nodded to them, then motioned lazily up to the open sky. “Just wait ‘til we hit a storm, darling. If you can’t stand on your own two feet now, just wait ‘til then,” he laughed, keeping an amused smirk stretched across his face. With a roll of their eyes they walked away, retreating back to the lower decks of the ship in pursuit of their blue-haired friend, and their friendly, injured parrot that gossiped with them.

PART III, THE STORM THAT FOLLOWED AFTER LANDING ON THE BEACH:

A quick side mission was at hand, a small island abandoned by its inhabitants and rumored to have treasure had made an attractive stop. The ship had anchored far from shore, splitting the ship’s crew into designated teams to make a quick, but successful mission before returning to sea for weeks. The captain had assigned them the simple task to forage for anything edible, afraid of running too low on rations in their extended time. They saluted him, thanking him for the opportunity before heading off. 

The trip to the island had been painful, the soreness of their arms from days of pulling and heavy lifting had led the rowing to be searing up their biceps. In little time they had hit sandbars, jolting with the bottom of the dinghy as it collided with sporadic mounds of shells and sand. The leader of this mission, a young woman with purple hair tied up with a bow, cried out from their collisions, commanding that it was time to bring the boat up by hand. Readying themselves, the group tightened their belts and prepared to jump overboard. 

“Ah, you do know how to swim, right?” Sam teased, shooting a boyish grin their way.

“Of course I know how to swim!” They cried back, jumping off the dinghy and into the water. The group had trudged through the knee deep water, cringing at the cold water filling their boots and wetting their clothes. Sam had laughed, pulling the boat up to the sand with him and a few fellow pirates, running up to meet the new pirate once they had secured it to the shore. 

“You’d be surprised,” he added, moving his head to look down at their face. They shook their head in response, focused on the group of trees and brush settled on the island. The rest of the group had dispersed along the beach with maps in hand, talking amongst themselves before splitting up. It had gone unspoken that Sam had ended up paired with them, slightly irritating, but nothing the newest recruit couldn’t handle. 

His smirk had made one of their eyes twitch, the cocky look in his eye making them bite back an annoyed sigh as he unsheathed his sword. He slashed away at the brush with a few grunts, standing back to admire his skill. His shipmate rolled their eyes at his proud smile, his demeanor annoying, but still upsettingly charming. The rest of the crew had branched off to find the rumored island treasure, while they were stuck foraging for anything edible. Their next stop, some foreign land across the Gem Sea, could take weeks or months, leaving the captain desperate to stock up.

Sam opened his mouth yet again, the newest pirate immediately tuning him out to focus their eyes on the ground. Few sights of berries, herbs, and dandelions covered in rough patches. Just as they had raised their head to tell their partner they gasped, craning their neck to follow Sam’s lithe body. He had, miraculously, climbed himself up a tree in no time and with little sound, already pawing at the hanging fruits. His reckless nature, the instability of his legs wrapped around the trunk and his shifting imbalance as he reached for fruits made them cry out in fear. 

He looked down at them, calm as can be before shooting them a teasing wink. “Can’t be that worried about me, can you, dear?”

“Well,” they stuttered, eyes still glued to the shakiness of the tree from his weight. “It’d be a shame if you splattered on the ground.”

Shaking his head, he shimmied himself up further, the top of the trunk beginning to bend with his weight as he tossed down a few fruits to his partner. “Nah, I’m not afraid of this. There’s solid ground to land on, what more could ya ask for?”

They scrunched their eyebrows, looking up to him as if there were a more obvious choice. “Water?” They questioned, watching him shake his head once again with both hands grasped onto the rough bark of the tree. 

Plucking the fruit from the top of the tree, Sam turned himself back down to throw it at his partner, watching them struggle to keep all of them in their hands. “No, no, no! I’d rather break my back than lose everything. There’s one thing I am afraid of, and it’s the ocean.”

“That makes no sense, Sam—” They interrupted themself, watching as he stood to full attention the best he could, his eyes obviously caught on something from his tree top view. Fearing it was another group of pirates, a dangerous animal, or anything else that could prove almost immediate death, they gripped the fruits closer to the chest, already repositioning them in preparation to flee. They couldn’t hear the stumped hum from Sam’s lips over the sound of the rustling leaves, but watched as he flawlessly dismounted from the tree tops with a grunt, his head still turned west.

Motioning them to follow behind him, Sam led the way deeper into the jungle, slashing away with his sword to clear the way for himself and his partner. He was mumbling on his way, a concentrated decoration of face covering his usual boyish and playful expressions. Without further words, the newcomer followed Sam’s trail, trusting his judgement and following at his heels. He did a wonderful job of clearing their walkway, looking back every few moments to make sure there were no branches in his partner’s face and warning of any roots or dips in the ground. In only a couple minutes the two had reached a clearing of sand, an odd formation of rocks and foreign symbols slashed into the surrounding trees. 

“Holy shit!” He cried, dropping his sword and dropping to his knees around the clearing, immediately digging through the sand. “There has to be something in here.”

“But,” the newest pirate interjected, still messily holding their foraged goods in their arms, “the map said it would be on the east side of the island.” Carefully shifting their fruit, they pulled their compass out of their pocket just far enough to see the point of the arrow. “We’re in the west.”

He shrugged, an excited look overcoming his face. “Maps aren’t always right! We would’ve never found this if I wasn’t up in the trees, the rest of the party is still south!” He sounded giddy, but the newest issue of lugging around a treasure chest, just the two of them, and also carrying their forages at the same time gave a slight pang of aggravation to the newest pirate. Sam had instructed them to put the fruit down and help him, causing them to groan and drop to his opposite. They had dug with him, using their weapons in between bruising their hands.

He sighed as they dug. “Man, wish there was a way to tell the rest of the group the treasure’s here so we could get some help.”

“I can go run back and try to find them if you’d like,” they offered, already feeling their hands sore.

“Hell no! You’re gonna get lost, and I’m not leavin’ ya here either. Something’s gonna come and hurt ya, I gotta be here to protect ya.” He struggled out, focusing all of his strength onto the hands full of sand and dirt he pulled from the earth. They groaned inwardly, silently continuing at half his force, but still doing a demanding worth otherwise. There was little indication that much time had passed, the sun still stood high above them and shone with unbearable heat, adding the stickiness of humidity to the ocean breeze. 

After a couple feet of sand thrown to the sides of the jungle, daylight had finally shone a glimmer of gold lining, attached to some wood corners submerged beneath the earth. Both had cried out in happiness, knowing that their efforts had not been for naught, and giving new drive to dig out the buried treasure. Once it had been taken out of the dirt, after extraneous work and gasps for strangled air, they both stood in the hole, suspending their bodies against the edge of the sand for support. They turned to each other, proud smiles upon their faces before Sam turned and broke the lock of the chest.

They let out a small gasp at his action, leading him to turn back and give them a lopsided grin. “Don’t worry ‘bout it,” he huffed, “throw the lock back in this hole, the captain won’t know it was ever locked.” Their chest still rose and fell in time with his, panting from the heat and physical work as he cracked open the chest. Both of their eyes widened at the assortments of beautiful jewels and gold coins, jewelry and rolled papers all assorted messily with traces of sand caked on them. One piece had got their eye, unknowingly bringing their shaking hand up to it before holding it between their fingers.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” they whispered in awe. Sam poked his head closer to them, eyeing up the pendant with them with a grin. The amulet held some weight to it, its bold cerulean color would knowingly attract attention from anyone who would find themselves near it. The turret shell was attached to a thin, gold chain, hanging at the bottom at gravity’s mercy. It was an odd pendant, but the beautiful blue of the shell mirrored that of the ocean in sunlight. Sam looked at the newcomer, without them knowing, grinning at their awed expression. “It’s so special,” they commented, “I mean, look at the rest of this jewelry, clearly belonging to royals or aristocrats… and it all looks the same. This is so different from the rest, looks like it came from the ocean itself.”

The wonderful aquamarine coloring mirrored the water of the island’s shore, just before hitting deep water. They had snapped themselves out of their fantasy, setting it back into the chest and closing it. “Let’s get this back to the group,” they said, placing their hands flat on their thighs before standing up. Sam followed, already beginning to drag the chest towards the direction they came. Turning their back from Sam for just a moment, they wrapped their foraged fruits and berries in a fishing net, turning back around to see Sam with a suspiciously innocent smile.

Deciding not to comment on what was likely another childish jest, they set the bag atop the chest and heaved the chest back to the beach. The treetops challenged their eyesight of the sky, but the island’s shift from bright to a darkening gray had given them all the information they needed. Sam walked backwards, as he said a gentleman like himself should, crying out in glee once they had finally hit where their dinghy was anchored, the group already together upon their arrival. They had interrupted their cries of lament while waiting for the two with an impending storm, but quickly shut themselves up to run over upon seeing the chest lugged between the two.

Upon seeing the open sky, and the choppy waters that they would soon be met with, the newest pirate’s stomach dropped. Within no time that fear was pushed over by others, too infatuated with the treasure they had nearly left. It was wildly easier to lug the chest with four others helping. They couldn’t keep their eyes off of the far, black skies and the ocean’s matching color, the white of breaking waves proving as the only contrast that could be possible. 

The sands of time were nearing their end to return to the ship, the waves becoming rough with wind against the dinghy. It was already at the ocean’s mercy, moving with the waves as spouts of water overflowed onto the boat. Each member of the captain’s crew assigned to this mission struggled past the crash of waves to the boat, slinking in legs heavy with the weight of water.  The current dragged at their clothes as if it had claws of its own, begging for company beneath the heaving waves. Their experience dealing with the ocean in their life had only proved to help little, feeling their feet yanked by watery hands as they toppled over into the boat.

Even though they had clambered onto the boat in time, their heartbeat had still rung in the center of their head. Sam had noticed, along with the rest of the crew. A friendly smile crossed his face as he rubbed their back, reassuring them that the ocean’s storms will bring calmness to both the mind and body. They scrunched their nose at his words in disgust. How each storm would become a test of survival was sickening, thinking that the inhumanness of its strength would only prove it’s danger to its inhabitants. Each war waged against would be futile. Yet, it had spared them once again. 

The crew began rowing back, the newcomer pulling their own weight through the incessant bullets of pain down their arm, and the soreness of the back of their knees. They had felt a hole in their chest from their anxieties, working nearly the strength of two in desperation to return to the ship. Land was no longer an option, and they knew that all but one pirate would have no issue with abandoning them on the island. It was their hope, more than a fact, but the resolution had saddened them nonetheless. Though they had worked together in the moment, approaching the side of the ship to board once again, there was no true personable connection on the ship. The only connections the pirates had was between them and the sea, with little room for others in between.

Dark clouds dissipated into the air within hours, teasing the ship with danger before laughing in its face with smooth seas. The soft splashes of water against the hull of the ship sounded like gentle coos, as the wind blew giggles by their ears as it took the hair from their faces. The captain had stayed on high alert still, expressing his distrust of the sea with a firm click of his jaw. His rosy cheeks stayed the same, despite the hard expression of his furrowed brow in his standoff with the sea. He hobbled back to his quarters, cabin boys disappearing below deck as the captain’s crew followed his heels. Few had been left in the open air, cleaning or reorganizing looted crates from seaside towns. 

“Oh, darling!” A voice had sung out, tapping the newest recruit on the shoulder before appearing on the opposite side of them. Sam had stepped in front of them, his back to the ship and his companion trapped just before the bowsprit’s beginning. They couldn’t dissect his expression, some odd combination of the slyness of a fox with the curiosity of a cat. “Or should I call you treasure?”

They rolled their eyes at his newest pet name, still asking him to call them by their given name with an exacerbated sigh. He mirrored the action of their eyes, joking about their mission removed from others and the time they spent foraging before coming across the wanted treasure chest. He had stepped closer to them, leading them to take a step back, their foot slipping off the edge of the bowsprit in anxious nature. Why Sam had cornered them to near death was beyond them, but no fellow pirate seemed to mind any bit of this unnerving interaction.

He cracked a smirk. “Got you this.” 

They reached out their hand to his, letting him open and release the small item into their open palm. The small weight of a seashell had little pressure to their palm, but had their head raised with a questioning look in no time. His interested expression stayed, almost as if he were playing a joke. After asking why, he shrugged and mumbled, clearly amused by their confusion and, in turn, their own lack of amusement. Their expression had stayed, only faltering when Sam had turned himself around at the beckoning of another mate, where they quickly, but safely, shoved the seashell deep into their pocket to ensure it stayed. He turned back around with a distant smile. He brought his face close to the mariner’s, heat erupting over their cheeks and nose at his quick action. 

“And I also grabbed something else for you!” He whispered, shuffling around his pockets before digging into the small cloth bag tied to his waist. Quietly crying out once he had felt it, he pulled his hand from his pouch, still concealing his gift. Expecting another seashell, or perhaps an already fired bullet at this point, his shipmate opened their hand once more. 

This weight had been more than before. The texture had also been peculiar, but the slow movement of their head had proved to be more of the mind than the body upon seeing his gift. In their hand sat the gold and aquamarine pendant from the treasure chest, it’s cone shape fitting perfectly in between the lines of their hand. A quiet gasp had escaped on instinct just before clutching it to their chest and looking around nervously.

“Sam! You can’t steal from the chests yourself! The captain gets every bit of it!”

“Don’t you think I know that? I’ve been doin’ this longer than you— and you said you liked it. Besides, I don’t think anyone noticed it but us. It won’t be an issue, just keep it hidden,” he paused, throwing a look over his shoulder before returning back and winking, “It’ll be our secret, darling.”

Releasing their death-like grip on the pendant, they pulled their hand back to hold it between them and Sam’s chests, both admiring the beautiful blue shell of the pendant and the strange glow attached to it. Sam’s hushed giggles filled their senses, mingling with the intoxicating smell of sea air. A smile had crept onto the shipmate’s face at the beautiful piece of jewelry that was now in their possession, from a pirate with a heart the size of the ocean.

PART IV, A CONVERSATION UNDER SUNSET AND WITH THE CYCLE OF WAVES:

“You never seem to be anywhere else.” 

Perhaps, it wasn’t the best greeting, but it was better than nothing. They kept their head held high as they spoke to him. Sunset had arrived the same time as always, akin to the never changing scape of water. The soft lull of the ship felt like a rocking crib fit for an infant, comforting for the mind, but hell on the body. That, paired with a fair breeze, had made the journey above the lower workings of the ship more bearable. 

Sam shrugged, turning his attention back to the infinity of blue beneath the ship. “Can’t keep myself away from it.” A smile, genuine and kind, crossed his face, eyes flitting back and forth between his companion and the ocean. “It’s the ancient art of knowing the ocean as if it were yourself.”

Their eyebrows furrowed in thought, bating themselves with a breath. “How do you do it?”

“Good question— wish I could answer it for ya, dear. That might be a question more fit for the captain than me.”

With no verbal response from them, Sam returned his eyes back to the ocean, traveling the horizon in search of nothing. His attention directed elsewhere had allowed them to get a good look at his face, the scar over his left eye, and the bits of salt collected at the roots of his windswept hair. He must have caught them staring, a quick flicker of his eyes met theirs before he erupted into laughter, turning himself to them with the usual hint of mischief in them. The newcomer moved their eyes from his, feigning an aloof look that failed miserably in his face. 

“How did you get that scar?”

He gave a short laugh, tilting his head to nearly touch their shoulder before popping back up. “I’m not the smartest,” he shrugged, resting his cheek on his palm and craning his neck to look at his newest interest at sea. Silence had ensued, leading him to point towards a real answer, rather than his usual avoidant dance around sore subjects. “Fishhook. I was a bit too close to my father when he was fishing. He was a soldier so I didn’t see him often, but anytime he was home he’d take me and my brother to the beach and fish.”

His face lit up for a moment. He straightened his back, moving his hands up to his chest where he pulled his already loose shirt further open exposing his chest and abdomen. Finding themselves flustered, the shipmate turned their head quickly, in both an attempt to hide themselves and to give Sam an ounce of respect. His laugh rang through their ears, syncing for just a moment with their quickened heartbeat. 

“You can look, you can look,” he reassured, beginning once they had turned to his bare chest and abdomen, gasping at the scar gashed across him. It was akin to someone messily attempting to  gut a fish, the scar still slightly raised over the skin, giving them a good idea of how long he had been cursed with it. “Got this in a fight in a saloon in some valley! Lots of drinkers there, might've gotten a bit too childish with one of them.”

Despite the scars he had shown them, his face was still happy. He hummed to himself, clearly forcing a more pleasant conversation— or mood, for that matter— upon them. Each of his hums was melodic, a clear indication that he had some type of musical talent gifted to him. Yet, once again, his gaze had returned to the infinity on all sides of them, moving himself with the waves. They listened to him for a few more minutes. Their curiosity was gnawing at them, eating away at their skin with the gusts of wind.

“A musician as well?”

Sam laughed, lulling his head around before shrugging with a smug grin. “I would say so, but that might be up to opinion. But, of course, I love music. It’s one of the greatest gifts! The ocean makes its own music just like I do.” The pirate’s silence to his response had allowed him some thought time, mumbling an old shanty to himself in their comforting stillness. Rhythmic like the waves, Sam continued, tapping his fingers on the wooden side of the ship with his quiet song, shutting his eyes with deep breaths.

They pursed their lips in thought, turning to him in a moment of silence. “Never heard that one before. Though, I’ve only been at sea for a little bit, so maybe I’m not the one to talk about it.”

He shook his head. “Nah, ‘s alright— learned it on one of my old captain’s ships.”

They nodded, resting their heavy head into their hands, crouching to lean their elbows against the railing of the ship with a deep sigh. Sam noticed, opening one eye to peek at their hidden expression. His head cocked to the side as his hand slid down the rope. “What draws you out here? You’re too headstrong, and I’m afraid it’s going to get you killed.”

Their hand slammed against a wooden crate, garnering attention from the few pirates that lingered beside them. “I want— I want to become one with the sea. I’ve always wanted to travel, and the ocean is the best way for it. I’ve always wanted to see the stars, to be far from home, and to see new things. I want to know the ocean—”

“You don’t,” he interrupted, his expression blank. It was the closest to a serious expression they had seen out of him, but despite this obvious warning, they continued on.

They shook their head. “I do! You don’t understand, Sam. You always talk like you know everything, you’ve latched onto me to do nothing but aggravate me.”

Sam stayed silent, watching the slight shake of their body and the way they consistently had to reposition their feet in tune with the rocking of the ship. Despite his happy tune, the mood had remained somber. He hadn’t spoken again, clearly understanding his mate’s feelings and having, at least, the maturity to know not to continue the conversation in teasing. It nearly drove them deeper into anger, finally realizing that Sam did, in fact, have the capacity to know the sea as one would know family they so desperately chased after. They were left miserable at sea, far from the expectations of the heavens among the waves. 

PART V, THE SEA WILL BE THE DEATH OF ME:

Stuck two months at sea, the newcomer had sat out under the stars, admiring the tempting call of the murky water beneath them. What was once dreamt of had now become dread; eating away at their psyche. The ocean had never offered their reflection, only a distorted pit of nothing in return. In fact, they hadn’t seen their reflection since on land, safe in the warmth of a home and in the comfort of people. People that were smiling and warm, unlike those on the ship, who had each lost their humanity and souls to the crashing of waves and the unknown of the masses. At the very least, the rocking of the ship on safe seas had begun to lull them to sleep each night, the only action of love the ocean would give.

A friendly voice had rang out from behind them. “Mm, still not used to being at sea?” 

“No,” they answered, keeping their gaze level with the horizon. Ocean wind had whipped past them, taking their hair from their face and pulling the ropes and sails of the ship with each gust. 

“Just something you gotta live with,” he shrugged, walking up beside them and placing his hands along the wood railing. “It’s not too bad once ya get used to it, promise.”

His smile had tried its best to reassure, but left them with nothing but dread. Their eyes had lost the horizon, meeting just below the two, where the water met the side of the ship. The rough movement had made their stomach sink to their feet. Nothing was certain out at sea; nothing sacred, and nothing safe. Sam sighed, matching their gaze at the black water beneath them.

“You’ll get used to it,” he repeated.

They finally raised their gaze up to him. “How long have you been at sea?”

He shrugged, pushing himself from the rail and turning to rest his back against it. “Maybe four years or so? I don’t really know. There’s not much that goes on most of the time, so I’ve just sorta tuned everything out.” 

“How can you possibly live like this?” Shaking their head, they returned their gaze back to the sea, and the hypnotic movement of black waves crashing against the hull of the ship. Each movement of the waves splattered against the side of the ship, dissipating and falling back into the water which it had come from. The wind whipped the waves against the side of the ship, a loud smack each time it collided unnaturally with the old wood.

The ship wasn’t natural, was the conclusion they had come to. The wood of it came from far away lands, unimaginable to them, but had not come from the sea. People weren’t supposed to be at sea. Like the trees that had been sacrificed for the ship, everything at odds with the great ocean was not meant to be there. The few times they had seen fish in the sunlight water, or a pod of dolphins that rode by their side in the morning, it had become clear: they were the only ones who belonged. 

Sam had noticed their dead stare into the water, knowing what epiphany was unfolding in their psyche. With a sigh he threw his head back, looking up at the moon and surrounding stars. “Don’t think too hard about it,” he sighed again, bringing his head back down to look at their worried expression. He’d seen it with his fellow shipmates, and he had seen it in himself. “It’s going to kill you if you don’t learn to live with it.”

“I refuse. How could anyone enjoy this? We sit and look at nothing for days, weeks, on end. Then, we finally get to our destination, then we’re back on the water for another unknown amount of time?”

He nodded slowly. Before speaking, he walked over to the bottom of the mast, twirling the rope between his fingers. “This isn’t for everyone. Just hop off the ship next time we land on a beach, start a new life, do whatever.”

His words had stung them, mentally cursing themselves for thinking that he had some ounce of care for them. Perhaps it was how everyone was able to live at sea, cut all connections and ties to those that are not the ocean. How childish of them to think otherwise, and that Sam would have been any different. He could not fare against the ocean, certainly no stronger than them in a power of wits or will. They would have to stoop down to his level, full acceptance of death at any moment and that there is no true control when it comes to the great ocean.

It would only be a matter of time before they found themselves overboard, gasping for breath in their last moments once the sea decides their time abroad is over. “But there is no true safety!” They cried, turning themselves back around to see Sam’s confused expression. “Even if, even if, even if I decided to leave— which, despite your words, I don’t believe you would enjoy— I will never be safe from the sea! An earthquake that would trigger a tsunami, a hurricane, anything! I would never be able to escape it’s hauntings.”

“Of course I wouldn’t enjoy you leaving the ship. It’s sad to see anyone go,” he shrugged, clearly ignoring their last musings, “you were the only person on board that hadn’t lost their soul yet, of course it was fun to mess around with you.”

Their mouth was left open at his words and flippant attitude. “You’re speaking in the past tense,” they spoke, tone almost matching that of a warning.

He shrugged again, lulling his head from it’s transfixed gaze over the night ocean to them. “Isn’t it obvious yet?”

“I refuse,” they repeated. 

Their attitude was clearly a front of denial, knowing deep down they have already become the worst of what they had once been. The ocean had thrown them to their extremes— the true mirror of the ocean’s reflection. Sam sat, hand lazily tapping a rhythm on his thigh as he watched the newcomer unfold before him, as he had watched plenty of times before. He sighed, knowing the outcome of this would be to render themself soulless, and lose the light behind their eyes, or to simply jump overboard and let the ocean have it’s way. A win-win for the sea, as Sam knew, and the newcomer had learned, the ocean never loses a game.

That’s what it is, the newcomer thought, nothing but a game of life and death for its own enjoyment. Each member of the ship, each pirate, or mariner, or fisher, that decided to take their chance from gambling their own life would inevitably find themselves face to face with nothing of themselves. With one last hit to the crate, clattering the treasures inside of it, they raised their head again and turned to Sam fervently, grasping at his arms in desperation.

“I never thought I would lose my soul, Sam!” They cried out, finally allowing themselves to cry. His face softened, shrugging their grip off of one of his arms and pulling them close to his chest. “There’s nothing out here to look forward to,” they choked out, allowing their hands to grip at the woven fabric of his shirt. He stayed silent for a few minutes, thinking of different things to say to them; something that had never worked with the others that he held and consoled over the same thing.

He sighed again, struggling to speak. “You just have to accept it.”

They sniffed, pushing themselves from his chest to look up at him. “How are you not like this? Why is it me? I’ve dreamt of this since I’ve been able to dream, and now that I’m hearing, I’ve just become a shell of myself. How are you still alive?”

Thinking of his answer, he looked over the sea as if for any hint of what to say. No discernible answer, but he had admired how different the sea can look within a moment’s difference. “Couldn’t tell ya. I go with the flow of the water, but— as long as you stay on ship, I will always make sure you’re safe.”

The call to the bottom of the ocean was tempting. Sam’s hand had moved from their back to cup the back of their head against his chest. Even if they had decided to wait it out towards morning, Sam would always have to live in fear that at a moment’s notice, the tide would take them from the ship and pull them under in the ocean’s horrifying mixture of mercy and murder. This sort of connection was exactly what he had always spoken against, knowing that once the ocean is aware of something precious, it will be ripped from its safety and holiness. Against his better judgement, he kept them in his hold, resting his cheek against the crown of their head as he looked out over the dismal water, knowing from experience what was bound to happen to his dearest pirate. 

[duchesschameleon]

what if - chapter 2

summary: a long lost letter leads to an adventure in Italy for three people who find love and healing along the way. a letters to juliet au

pairing: Aaron Hotchner x GN!Reader words: 2336 a/n: alright chapter 2! and just as a heads up/housekeeping item - I know Carolyn isn’t an Italian name but in order to keep the plot close to the movie’s I wanted to use one of Dave’s wives from the show, she made the most sense as his first love. thanks to @qvid-pro-qvo​ and @writefasttalkevenfaster​ for the beta

You sit in the back seat of Dave and Aaron’s rental car, notebook open as you document the journey and how you got to this point. You’d left your job as a fact checker when, well when everything happened, but you’d always dreamed of being a writer. There are some pieces saved on your hard drive, but you’d never had the courage to show them to your old boss. Your partner always pushed you to, was always encouraging you to follow your dream but you never took the leap for some reason. And then they were gone, ripped from your life. So here you are, in Italy, writing.

You sigh and look out the window, watch the hills and trees pass you by. Everything looks a little blurry as tears fill your eyes. You take a deep breath and will them away. It’s been four months. And yes, you know that grief is not linear and it comes and goes in waves but you also know that you have to be here in the moment. Here in Italy, with Dave and Aaron on this crazy adventure to find Carolyn Bartolini.

You turn back towards the front of the car and catch Aaron’s eye in the rearview mirror. He looks back to the road quickly and you turn back to your notebook, ignoring the way your cheeks are heating up. Aaron’s stubborn and arrogant, he’s been nothing but a complete ass since you first met him. There’s nothing else to say on the matter and no reason for you to be embarrassed for meeting his eye.

The drive from Verona to Siena is long, so every few hours Aaron pulls over for fuel and a stretch break. You always manage to wander as you stretch your legs and get lost in your thoughts. As much as you’re fighting to stay in the present, it’s hard not to imagine what this trip would be like under ideal circumstances. How you’d have a travel partner, someone by your side and taking in the sights with you, someone’s ear to talk off about facts you’d learned while preparing for the trip. You sigh and wrap your arms around yourself, pretending they belong to someone else.

“Now that is a sigh that holds a story,” Dave says, approaching you from behind. You jump and turn to face him, face already heating up. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were so lost in thought.”

You shake your head, “No, it’s okay. I was just, admiring the view.” You nod towards the hills, the sweeping countryside that looks like it belongs on a postcard. Dave hums, looking out over the hills too. You stand in silence for a moment but you can feel his anticipation. You stubbornly stay silent, trying to ignore his presence and unasked question, but only last a minute. “My partner was supposed to be here with me. We were engaged and had this trip planned for months, a grand adventure before the wedding,” you laugh wetly, amused by the situation. “It was our compromise since we wanted different honeymoons. An adventure through Europe, exploring the cities and the countryside and doing things the whole time versus a week spent relaxing on the beach doing nothing. So we agreed on two trips, one exploring Italy before the wedding and the beach for our honeymoon,” you explained. You took a steadying breath before continuing, “But, four months ago there was an accident and my partner passed away.”

Dave whispers your name, but you just shrug and look out towards the horizon. “The trip was already booked and some of my friends from my old job convinced me to extend it. Make it longer and just, get away from everything. I took their advice, and well. Now I’m here,” you smile softly at him, his kind eyes meeting yours. You’d gone so long without having to tell people that you’d lost your partner, and now in a span of about 10 days you’d told the secretaries and Dave. The story wasn’t easier to tell, but you were surprised to feel the pain a little less each time you did.

The two of you stand in silence again for a moment. And then Aaron’s calling your names and you take a steadying breath before heading back to the car. You know even without asking him that he won’t tell Aaron. That he understands it’s your story to tell and you’ll tell it when you’re ready. Or when you have to.

The rest of the drive passes uneventfully, Dave telling stories about his summer spent in Siena and the adventures he’d had. The trouble he convinced Carolyn to get into and all the ways they found time to see each other. A smile tugs at your face hearing the nostalgia in his voice. Hearing Dave talk about Carolyn reassures you that this adventure is a good idea. Dave deserves that kind of happiness, that kind of love, again.

Before long, Aaron’s pulling into the hotel on the outskirts of Siena. Dave gets you all checked in, he’d insisted on paying for your room as a thank you for getting him here, leaving you and Aaron to wait for your keys. You can’t bring yourself to even attempt a conversation with Aaron, your brain still processing your conversation with Dave earlier. Aaron keeps shifting around, adjusting his stance and glancing over at you. Out of the corner of your eye you see him open and close his mouth a few times, but ultimately he stays quiet. You arch an eyebrow, turning your face towards him but he just shakes his head. So you settle into silence as you wait for Dave.

When he comes back towards the two of you, Aaron is quick to push off the wall and get his key from Dave before grabbing his bag and turning to say goodnight.

“Ah, Aaron,” Dave interrupts with a hand in the air, “how about you help our guest to their room? It’s across the hall from yours anyway.”

Aaron looks down and you swear you see the tips of his ears turn red. But then he’s approaching you, a hand out for your bag, “Well then?”

You hand it over and follow Aaron to the elevator. Dave’s a few floors below you, so he gives each of you a kiss on the cheek before exiting and heading to his own room. Without Dave, you and Aaron fall back into an awkward silence. Aaron looks over at you and opens his mouth before closing it with a shake of his head.

“What?” you spit out, glaring at him.

“I - just wanted to ask if you’re okay,” he stammers, “after the drive.”

You blink at him. “I’m fine,” you say slowly.

“Good. Yeah, good.” Aaron turns back to the doors and thankfully they open onto your floor. Aaron lets you exit the elevator first and you make your way down the hall to your rooms. “Well, here’s your key. Let me uh- ”

“I’ve got it. Thanks, Aaron. Goodnight.” You take your bag from him and quickly enter the room, leaving a stunned Aaron in the hallway.

Dave and Aaron are already sitting at a table the next morning when you get downstairs for breakfast. You can see Dave nudge Aaron’s leg, making him get up and pull out your seat for you. You sit down and mumble out a thanks before turning to Dave and asking for the day's plan.

“Go to where Carolyn and I used to spend our time together, the fields near the barn she worked at,” Dave explains with a shrug. “Then we find her and I tell her that I was an idiot for leaving her.”

“Sounds simple enough,” you laugh, pouring yourself a cup of coffee.

But, it would seem that you spoke too soon.

Dave easily directed Aaron to where Carolyn worked, around the fields where they spent their time together, and even some of their regular haunts. But there was nothing there. The few people you did run into didn’t seem to know Carolyn, just looking confused and shrugging their shoulders.

Dave sighs and hangs his head as you walk back to the car. Aaron walks beside you, a few steps ahead of him. His jaw is clenched, fists balled at his side. You cross your arms, knowing he’s going to blame this whole thing on you. As turns to face you, you stick your chin up and meet his flinty gaze.

“Happy? Now he’s gotten his heart broken. No Carolyn Bartolini, no long lost love, just disappointment,” Aaron hisses.

“He tried, Aaron. Isn’t that something? Isn’t it better to know and to try?” you throw back. He backs away, as if he’s been slapped, and shakes his head.

“No, sometimes it’s not.”

You stop, watch him lean against the car and see the line of tension across his shoulders. Dave comes up next to you, rests a hand on your shoulder.

“We tried, didn’t we?”

You look at him and scoff, “And what? We’re just going to give up?” Dave looks at you, a little shocked. “Dave, I used to be a fact checker. I find things. Carolyn probably just didn’t stay with this job. We can still find her.” Aaron turns around and glares at you. You meet his gaze again, refusing to be the first to look away.

“How? By knocking on every door and asking if Carolyn Bertolini is home?”

“Well, yes,” you reply matter of factly.

Aaron blinks at you for a moment before exclaiming, “A wild goose chase? That’s your big solution, a wild goose chase where we knock on strangers’ doors? No, there’s no way we’re doing that. Dave, we need to get home.”

“Aaron, this was my job for years. Trust me, we’ll find her. And this is how we do it, by going through all the possibilities.”

“It’s been nearly 50 years! How do we know she’ll remember Dave? Or he’ll remember her?” Aaron points out. “No offense Dave, but you know what I meant,” he adds on, wincing. Dave just nods in understanding, climbing into the car.

You and Aaron stare at each other, neither giving up an inch. After a minute, he sighs and opens the car door. “Let’s just get back to the hotel.”

The ride back is silent. Aaron’s hands grip the steering wheel tight, while Dave looks out the window. You just sit in the back, mind racing with what you’ll need to compile your list of Carolyns. The prospect of a search, a hunt, has your blood pumping and you bite back a smile, not wanting to get too far ahead of yourself. Aaron’s going to be hard to convince and you aren’t certain Dave is ready for it either. It’s been a while though since you had the chance to flex your skills and the challenge of finding Carolyn is exciting. And definitely has nothing to do with wanting to prove Aaron wrong. You want to do this for Dave, for his chance at true love.

And that’s what you reiterate as you sit at a table by the pool with both men. There’s a laptop in front of you, begrudgingly fetched by Aaron, and you’ve started a search for Carolyn Bartolini’s.

“I still don’t believe this can work. It’s been nearly 50 years,” Aaron protests, standing by the table in board shorts and a t-shirt.

“And I’m telling you, people’s memories are better than you give them credit for.” You take a deep breath and face him, “Besides, we’re talking about love, true love. Tell me you wouldn’t recognize your true love after any length of time.”

Something dark crosses Aaron’s face, but before you can even question it it’s gone. “It’s still looking for a needle in a haystack,” he grumbles.

“Aaron, didn’t you say you wanted to swim? Go for a swim,” Dave says, pushing the other man towards the pool.

You hide a chuckle behind your hand as Dave cajoles Aaron, leaving the two of you to talk. Your eyes follow Aaron as he turns away and takes off his white t-shirt. The muscles barely hidden by his polo shirts flex in the afternoon sunlight as he stretches, holding your attention. There’s some scars running across his torso, barely visible and you absently wonder what they might be from. But the stretch of muscles as he raises his hands to dive into the pool distracts you from that particular train of thought as you follow his form through the water.

Dave calls your name and you whip your head around to him, cheeks heating up. “You know, for someone who spends most of his day behind a desk, Aaron is obsessed with making sure he stays in shape. You know he ran a triathlon in February?”

“Huh.” You pause, seeing Aaron surface out of the corner of your eye. “I guess he would be the kind of person who has to stay in shape,” you shrug, writing it off as a vanity thing. You turn back to the computer to look at the list of Carolyn Bartolini’s that had shown up. There are…more than you expected. You sort the list by location and start marking them on a map, focusing mostly on Tuscany. Taking even that into account leaves too many. You stare at the map, tapping your marker against your lips. You see Dave fiddling with a chain across the table and sit up.

“Dave,” you catch his attention, “would Carolyn have left this area?”

He shakes his head, “No, she loved these hills and this place too much. She wouldn’t go far.”

“Can I see your chain?” He hands it to you slowly, face clearly questioning you. You meet his eyes and nod reassuringly, before taking the chain and measuring it against the map’s scale. And from Siena, you measure out a radius of that scale and draw a circle. “Those are our Carolyn Bartolini’s,” you announce.

taglist: @qvid-pro-qvo​ @averyhotchner​ @kelstark​ @hurricanejjareau​

[everyhowlmarksthedead]

Hi I would like to request creeper or hank you can choose! I would like the number 29. And 41 and can it be angst and maybe some smut please?? I was thinking where creeper or hank cheats on their old day with one of the vickis girls, and they found out because the girl that he cheated on her with brags and their old lady overhears but can it be a happy ending ??

Thanks to me lovely beta reader @chibsytelford for editing 💘

Prompt:

29. “I fucked up everything”.

41. “Who's that bitch”.

Wearing that tight black dress that drives Creeper crazy and your hair falling like a cascade on your back, you walk towards your car. The crew has been out for almost one week, and usually your boyfriend goes straight home, but seems like the shipment went better than expected. So they're having a party and, of course, you must join them as his Old Lady. Parking next to the motorbikes, you put some perfume on your collarbone. This one that he brought you from Las Vegas, when he fell in love with the smell, saying that it remind him of you.

You're desperate to see him, hug him and tell him how much you missed him every day. But there's a scene happening next to the ring that it's screwing you. Getting out of the car, you listen the talk between Creeper and one of Vicky's girl.

“Go”. He demands pointing the main metallic door with a hand, without noticing you.

“Why?” She asks crossing her arms on her chest. “'Cause your ‘reina’ doesn't know wha' happened when you get shot? I can remember that you enjoyed it pretty much, honey”.

“Who's that bitch?” Your brain is about to explode because of the fury, walking towards them with big steps.

You've never seen Creeper so pale, like he just watched a ghost. The girl is laughing loud, till you slap her on the face, making her tremble.

“'Amma fuckin' kill you!” You yell at him, pushing Creeper with your hands on his chest. The tears ruining your make up, falling down your cheeks.

“Baby, reina, listen! I can explain it!” He begs you, right before you hit his nose with your fist. You growl too, knowing that someone is happening in your knuckles after it.

Running to your car, feeling stupid for first time in your life, you start the engine watching how he tries to reach you. But he's not fast enough, and by the rear-view mirror above your head you can see the whole crew completely confused. You don't have a place to go, driving with no direction and your gaze blurred because of your crying.

And when you think you're far enough of Santo Padre, parking the car by a side of the road, you hit the steering wheel with both cuffs. Resting your forehead against it, you let go all the pain you've been carrying inside you the last hour with a noisy scream, till it rips your throat and you start coughing. You trusted him, blinded, without doubting. You didn't say anything about his nights in Vicky's house. And who knows how many time it happened?

Your phone dings. One text. Two. Three. Four more. Lying on your seat with your eyes closed, you take it. You know it's not Creeper. You know that probably Bishop took his phone to avoid more problems. And yes, it doesn't surprise you when you see Vicky's name in the notifications. With a heavy snort, hitting again the steering wheel, you're about to read it without opening the conversation.

💬: Neron was high

💬: I didn't know

💬: Bishop is furious

💬: So do I

💬: She's gonna pay for it

💬: Come to my house

💬: We have to talk

‘Neron was high’. You re-read the message thousand times, hoping that it doesn't mean what you think she's trying to tell you. Starting the car, you turn around, typing on the gps the location, 'cause you don't know where the hell you are. Desert on both sides. Desert behind your back. Desert on the horizon. Sand is everything you can see in the middle of the night. Stepping on the gas, wheel screeching leaving a black trail on the asphalt, with the radio turned off to focus on the road, going as fast as you can.

The dunes are left behind when you almost arrive to the illegal border with Mexico, next to Vicky's place. There are no motorbikes parked, and the lights of the second floor are turned off. The woman is sitting on the main stairs, smoking a cigar. Raising her eyes to your car, she gets up shaking her jeans with a hand, while she's having the last smoke before throwing it.

You stop the car, cleaning your tears with a tissue, trying to fix your make up. At least, you don't look like a dying raccoon. The older walks to you, surrounding your body with her arms in a warm hug, hoping that maybe it could help. You don't say anything, following her inside the silent house. On the main table, in the living room, there's one of those beers you usually drink. Sitting in front of her, having a sip, you keep your eyes on your reddened right hand. Vicky notices it, going to the kitchen to find some ice.

“When Neron was shot, he was there. High all the time because of the morphine. Mariela took advantage, but he can't remember it. No one saw anything”. She explains, offering you a bag of frozen beans, placing it on your knuckles. “Look, I understand you're angry, or upset, or whatever. But I know him since eight years ago. He has been shot, stabbed, hit... I want to think that even once he was run over. And I've never seen him crying. But tonight... Tonight he was collapsed and broken”.

Your inner lip is trembling, picking up the beer to drink till you need to breathe, cleaning your mouth with the back of your free hand. You can't look at her, feeling ashamed and a completely blithering idiot.

“You know what...?” Vicky takes your hand, after she pulls away the bottle, to make you raise your dark eyes. “When he met you, he came to talk me about a beautiful and smart girl he knew in a supermarket, buying tequila”.

A soft and shy smile appears on your lips, feeling a tear running down your cheek. That was very weird, 'cause you were to buy alcohol for a party and a man who looked like he had just come out of jail approached you. He talked you about the different tequilas, about the graduation, about the origin. About anything that would allow him to have a conversation with you. He was fun and, finally, he got your number. The rest is pure history.

“Then, when he proposed you, he brought us all together. Do you wanna know for what?” You nod in silence. “He was angry 'cause he had a lot of photos of you, and he didn't know which one he could use as his phone' background. At the end, he made one of... those collages with all. We were more than an hour. Taza almost shot him”.

You can't help but laugh, imagining the situation, while she narrows your hand lovingly.

“Talk with him, mi niña. He truly loves you and he truly care about you more than the club. There are no men as Neron, in a world like ours”.

Biting your inner lip, you nod again getting up of your seat. The woman cleans your tears with her fingers, before leaving a kiss on your forehead.

“Mariela will not work in Santo Padre, nor in the surrounding'. Bishop demanded. I approved. She disrespected you, and a Mayan. There's no place for people who betrays the family”.

┅┅ ┅ ┅ ┅┅

Taking a long breath enough to fill your lungs, you unlock the front door of the flat. There's light inside, finding Creeper on the sofa with a rag with some ice in. He doesn't move. He knows you well, and he knows if he gets closer you're gonna punch him again. Probably. You can see his right cheek is slightly swollen and red, and you can't help but feel guilty, putting down your eyes to your hand. When he notices it, he practically jump off of his seat, wanting to heal you in some way. So he places the ice on your knuckles.

“I fucked up everything. 'Am sorre'. I was fuckin' stoned”. He says with a broken whisper. “I can't rememba'. If it happened, it didn't mean anything fo' me, I promise”.

Clicking your tongue, you push him closer to you by a hand on his back-head, pressing your lips against his. It's been one week since the last time you've been together. For you two, is too much.

“Did you... really call the crew to show them a bunch of pics' mine?”

At first, he seems confused, till he understand what you are talking about. He takes his phone, unlocking it after type de code.

“I use it when 'am out”. He says, while he shows you the screen. “When 'am here, I use that one where you're sleeping on top of me”.

You don't know if it's better laugh than cry, with your brain failing for an instant. Leaning towards you in a slow move to give you enough time to run away, he finally kisses you again. And there's no resistance on your part. Letting the ice falls down, you surround his neck with your arms, feeling his big hands pressing your back to him.

“Forgive me, mi reina, please”.

“It's okay, Neron... It's okay”. You shake your head before giving him some careful kisses on his cheek. “Can we... just go to sleep? You look tired after the ride”.

“Will you be with me when I wake up?”

“You're like a fuckin' koala, what do you think?”