Osamuβs head swivels towards the sound, and he spots you right away even though you weren't the one who called for him.
Youβre a few metres down the road, sitting on a bench in front of a bustling restaurant, slumped over onto the shoulder of your junior who seems to be doing everything he can to keep your head tipped up against his arm. Kimura, the name Osamu had once been introduced to him as at one of the events your company held, has blushy cheeks when the older man approachesβhe seems flushed due both to being flustered and a little tipsy, and the knot of his tie is loosened at the base of his throat.
βKimura-kun,β Osamu greets him with a dip of his head as he approaches, his eyes scanning your seemingly sleeping face. βShe asleep?β
βNo,β you slur in reply, but your eyes stay closed. Osamuβs not certain itβs the truth, and even less certain you realize heβs the one who said it.
βI-itβs all my fault,β Kimura squeaks, looking increasingly like he might burst into tears. βThey were trying to make me drink more, but Senpai kept switching out our glasses when the other section leads werenβt looking.β
βYeah, that sounds like somethinβ sheβd do,β Osamu replies with a fond but exasperated sigh.
βIβm sorry for contacting you so late,β Kimura says, flinching as you slump away from him unexpectedly in your drunken stupor. Osamu is quicker to react than the younger man, stepping in and catching you in the crook of his elbow before you can go toppling off the bench onto the sidewalk. He keeps you steady.
βDonβt apologize, I appreciate ya callinβ me to come get herβand thanks fer lookinβ after her,β he says down to the younger man, who seems relieved now not to be responsible for keeping you upright. βTell her to bring ya by the shop for a meal sometime as payback. She owes ya one.β
Kimuraβs eyes widen and he shakes his head like he couldnβt possibly accept, but before he can decline the offer Osamu turns his attention back to you. With an arm wrapped around your waist, he gently pries you from your seat.
βUp ya go,β he mutters encouragingly as he eases you onto your feet.
Your eyes flutter slowly open, looking around blearily for a moment as you take in your surroundings.
βSamu?β you ask, his name slurred on your alcohol loosened tongue. You perk up noticeably in his arms once you realize just whoβs holding you. βWhat are you doing here?β
βIβm here to take ya home, Cinderella,β he says with a light laugh as your fingers twist into the material of his sweatshirt against his chest. He looks to Kimura again, whoβs also risen to his feet now. βWeβll be off, then.β
βThank you, Miya-san!β Kimura bows deeply forward, a nearly perfect 45 degree angle at his waist.
Heβs a sweet kid, Osamu canβt help but think, even if does follow you around like a puppy.
Osamu helps you down the sidewalk towards his waiting truck, then up into your seat on the passengerβs side. He makes quick work of buckling you into your seatbelt even as you squirm counterproductively, then he jogs swiftly around to his own side of the truck and climbs in behind the wheel.
Kimura waves from outside the restaurant as the truck pulls away.
βSeems like ya had fun tonight,β Osamu remarks as he drives in the direction of your home. You hadn't even wanted to attend this work gathering, but had been forced to by your director. Now look where it had gotten you.
Youβre fiddling with the controls of the radio, stations crackling in and out as you switch rapidly through the channels.Β
βDrank too much,β you complain, settling on a talk radio station (of all things) that seems to be midway through discussing prefectural bylaws.
βDonβt I know it,β Osamu quips in reply and you swat at him harmlessly over the centre console with a laugh.
Youβre turned in your seat, your body facing in his direction, watching him as he keeps his eyes on the road. He can feel your gaze tracing over him, but doesnβt glance back.
βHey,β you whisper, something conspiratorial in your tone. βWanna know a secret?β
βSure thing,β he plays along with your antics, fighting back a grin.
Itβs silent for a momentβonly the voices on the radio discussing trash collection to be heard. Osamu pulls up to a red light, and finally looks over to meet your gaze.
Your eyes are glassy and a bit unfocused, but theyβre bright with affection.
βI have a crush on you,β you tell him with a giggle.
Osamuβs chest pangs.
The light turns green.
βWell,β he remarks, returning his gaze to the road ahead and proceeding through the intersection. βThatβs good.β
From the corner of his eye, he sees your shoulders slump dejectedly.Β
βIβm being rejected,β your next words are positively morose. You turn away from him and lean your body over to the side. He hears a loud thump as your forehead head hits window on your right.
βHey!β Osamu chides you in concern, reaching out and grabbing the collar of your blouse to tug you up a little straighter. Itβs not the most elegant motion by any means, but heβs fairly limited with his other hand on the wheel and his eyes still on the road.
βOwww,β you complain, rubbing your forehead weakly. You bat the hand he has clutching the collar of your shirt away. βYouβre so mean.β
βHowβm I mean?β Osamu guffaws beside you.
βI just confessed my love for you, and all you had to say is βthatβs goodβ!β You turn your body in your seat to waggle an unsteady but judgemental finger at him. βA womanβs heart is a precious, fragile thing, yβknow!β
βThereβs nothinβ fragile about ya,β Osamu mutters under his breath, thinking about how much you had to drink that night as a prime example of this fact. βYer tough as a brick wall.β
βMean!β you jeer at him again, your mouth agape in the wake of his words.
Osamu flicks his turn indicator on before he pulls his truck over to the curb, putting it into park. Youβve stopped outside a convenience store, and when he turns to look at you, the fluorescents from inside the shop bathe you in a backlit halo where you sit in the passenger seat.
He grabs your hand. The one you still have lifted to point at him.
βDβya see this?β he asks, holding your hand up in front of your face. The ring on your fourth finger catches in the glow of the convenience store lights.
Your eyes widen.
Osamu holds up his left hand where thereβs a ring that matches your own.
βI said itβs good yβgot a crush on me βcause weβre married, dummy.β
Your lips form a surprised little βoβ as your eyes flicker rapidly from the band on your finger to his own and back again.Β
After a moment you grin, your eyes squeezing shut with how high your cheeks lift. βWhat a relief!β
Osamu is quick inside the store, just popping in to buy a vitamin drink for you and a pack of cigarettes for himself. He doesnβt smoke as much these daysβyouβd nag him incessantly if he didβbut every so often he gets a craving, and tonight is one of those instances.Β
The two of you sit side by side on the curb in front of the shop, the truck parked a little ways down the road.Β
Osamu takes a drag of his cigarette, sighing in contentment with wispy plumes of smoke slipping from his lips. He peeks over at you from the corner of his eye.Β
βYa feelinβ better?β he asks.
Youβve got the little bottle of vitamin drink cradled in your hands, working your way through it slowly. You hate the taste of them, he knows that, but youβd regret it more tomorrow morning if you didnβt force it down tonight. You nod a bit, and seem to have sobered up in the time since Osamu arrived to take you home.
βThis reminds me of when we first started datinββ Osamu laughs to himself. And he means it. Everything about it. Being out so late. The taste of the tobacco on his tongue. The way you keep creeping a little bit closer to him unconsciously, as though his space isnβt already yours to freely take. βI canβt believe ya forgot weβre married.β
You groan in embarrassment. βIβm sorry.β
He bites back a grin, trying not to revel too much in your misery.
βAnd Iβm sorry I made you come pick me up,β you mumble after a moment, taking another sip from the little bottle in your hand and wincing against the bitterness. βI planned to just take a cab.β
βIt was that little junior of yours who contacted me,β Osamu laughs, lifting the cigarette to his lips and holding it there while he rifles in his pocket for his phone. He holds the device out so you can see the conversation where your subordinate had commandeered your phone, remorsefully messaging Osamu asking him to come and collect you from the bar. Heβd even used a funny little sticker of a bunny with tears in his eyes bowing apologeticallyβit bears a striking resemblance to Kimura himself.Β
βThat kid,β you sigh, shaking your head lightly as you rub your temple. Your eyes suddenly widen and your face snaps towards your husband. βWhββ
βTsumuβs there watchinβ βem,β Osamu laughs, reaching up and plopping a hand down atop your head. βNot that thereβs much to watch since theyβre in bed. He was still at the house when Kimura-kun messaged me.β
You lean into Osamu's touch as you think of your twins at home, tucked up in the little bed they share, and it makes your heart ache a little bit. You wonder if youβll be able to creep in and give them a kiss goodnight when you get home without waking them.Β
You go terribly quiet for a moment, and Osamu finishes his cigarette. He stamps it out on the curb beside him and then slips the extinguished stub back into the pack to throw into an ashtray later.
βSamu?β you call to him, your voice quiet.
He glances over at you, and sees the way youβve wrapped your arms around your knees. The anxious posture worries him.
βI didnβt forget you, I promise,β you whisper. βItβs justβ¦ sometimes I think this is all too good to be true.β
Your husband watches as you admire the ring on your finger that reflects the streetlight overhead.
Osamu smiles to himself, scooting closer to you on the curb.
βI know,β he reassures you, wrapping an arm around your waist and tucking you into his side. Your head naturally falls to his shoulder. Familiar and instinctive. βI was just teasinβ ya.β
You smell like alcohol. Heβs sure he smells like cigarettes. You're in rumpled business casual, and he's dressed in the sweats he planned to wear to sleep. He reaches over and takes your left hand in his ownβyour wedding rings overlapping. And for a moment, in spite of all the ways the two of you have changed over the years and all the ways that life is different now, everything is exactly how itβs always been.
He tilts his face and presses a lingering kiss to your temple.
SUMMARY: You learn just what kind of ancient bond Shouto has invoked to protect you, and come to terms with what that means for your future.
TAGS/WARNINGS: modern supernatural au, aged up characters, demons, bonding bites/bonding fever, fem pronouns + afab reader, demon courting behavior, no nsft stuff in this one but discussion of nsft topics, 18+ mdni please!
"What the hell was that?" you demand, rounding on Shouto.
You think you catch the flash of slitted pupils before the demon prince blinks, the snarl fading from his mouth. He looks down at you, eyes flickering over the torn collar of your shirt, your blood already drying into the frayed edges. There's some at the corner of his mouth, and he runs a thumb over it, swiping it off.
You try very hard not to notice that he presses the pad to his mouth, tongue flickering out to catch the droplets.
"Touya," he says by way of explanation. Like that was at all what you were asking about.
"Obviously that was Touya!" You frown up at him. "I mean the biting, Shouto! What the fuck?"
Shouto's gaze flicks to the bite mark marring the space where your throat meets your shoulder. He blinks slowly, like a cat surveying a roll of toilet paper it's shredded, pleased.
"He wanted to take you in punishment," he says, his fingers lifting to linger over the bite. "But he couldn't take you if you were mine."
"Is that what this is?" you demand. "Your nameplate? 'Property of demon prince number three, do not touch'?"
Like a kid who had to have their name scrawled onto the tags of all their clothing, the cover pages of their books! Un-fucking-believable.
"It is...a bonding bite, yes," Shouto admits as his fingers finally touch it. A hot stinging sensation rises to meet them and you wince.
You do not quite love the sound of that.
"A what?"
"A bonding bite," Shouto repeats, his voice hitching into a strange, almost-purr that you've never heard from him before. His fingers brush the mark gently again this time, and there is some whisper of feeling at the corner of your mind.
"Why are you saying it like that?" you ask, a weird feeling rising in your chest. It shivers through your limbs, leaving you feeling hot and thready and a little bit weak.
You find yourself gripping Shouto's bicep in an effort to stay upright, the feeling under your skin growing even hotter when it dawns on you how large and solid it is under your palm.
Shouto adjusts you against him, and you realize you're still caged in the circle of his arms. The demon prince is so very warm against you, hard all over with pale, lean muscle, and there is a look on his handsome face that you've never seen before.
"We will need to complete the bond," he says, his voice dipping even lower, softer. Those mismatched eyes flicker back to your bite, and his fingers smooth over it again, petting gently. "I will wait until you are ready."
You squint at him, trying to pay attention to the shape of his words through the sudden fog in your brain. "What bond? What completion is there?"
Shouto's eyes darken, and the hand at your back tightens on you just the tiniest bit. "The marriage bond. It will be completed with our coupling."
It's only his grip on you that stops you from meeting the floor when your knees give out from underneath you.
"Marriage bond?" you echo, a thousand feelings flashing through you all at once with the force of a firebomb. "Marriage bond? You just demon married me?"
This time, Shouto does purr. You can very much feel the thrum of his chest under your hand.
"Yes," he says, his thumb smoothing across your back. "It is a little different than human customβand far more serious. There are points of connection you cannot sever."
You feel like you hear the echo of his words again, in the back of your own mind, and you realize all at once that that wasn't just you hallucinating. You could hear him, in your mind, his voice as soft and low and perfectly clear as if he'd spoken out loud.
Demon married. You had just gotten fucking shotgun wedding demon married with some sort of telepathic connection to the Third Prince of Hell.
It was even more of a fever dream than when you'd learned what Shouto truly was, and even more unbelievable than when he decided to stick around, picking out all your shows on Hulu and eating through your shrimp chips.
He was super weird, but strangely sweet, and toe-curlingly, brain-meltingly, jaw-droppingly handsome. You could not deny you'd enjoyed your time spent with him, these past couple of months. You thought of him as a close friend and a treasured roommate, weirdly enough. But to get married? Just like that? To a literal demon prince born in the fires of hell itself?
"Why...? What could possibly mean that we have to...?" you garble out, still woozy.
Shouto takes this as his cue to hitch you higher in his grip, carrying you over to the couch you'd abandoned when Touya had first stepped through the portal into your living room. He arranges you over him, still pressed chest-to-chest, so that you're half-sprawled on top of him, his expression still that of a pleased tomcat.
"He wanted to take you," Shouto says, the hint of a growl in his normally even, deadpan tone. "But if you are mine he cannot touch you, as it would be equivalent to touching me. It would open up a succession war."
His hands smooth over you, down your back, down the skin of your waist where your sweater has ridden up, his touch sweet but possessive.
You suppress a shiver.
"He wanted me to claim you, I know that much," Shouto continues. "I want to figure out why. But we will need to complete the bonding before I can leave you to talk to Natsuo and Fuyumi."
Complete the bonding. The words clatter around in your brain, their implication clear. The coupling he mentioned.
He wants toβShouto wants toβwith you?
"Shouto, are you sure you want this? I'm sure you really don't have to protect me, like this," you insist, trying to push yourself up off his chest. "We could try thinking of another wayβ"
It only has the effect of settling you more firmly over his hips, however, and Shouto hisses, his grip on you tightening.
"You have been mine since I decided to stay," Shouto says. "In all but name. Humans require time, and courting, mother says. So I have given you time, and I have been courting."
It suddenly dawns on you what he's been doing with all those horribly cooked meals, the weird trinkets that occasionally pop up around your apartment.
Courting.
Shouto's been courting.
"But you are mine. And you always have been," he says matter-of-factly. Like it's any other fact about the world. The sky is blue, the grass is green, and you have always been mine.
Another wave of something hot flashes through you, and you're immediately embarrassed by the way your thighs reflexively clench together around his hips. But Shouto's eyelashes flutter, and his normally sweet two-toned gaze grows even heavier with intent.
"I will wait until you say you are ready," he tells you, his voice thick. "Humans always require time. But the bonding fever is settling in, you will not want to wait too long."
Bonding feverβis that what has you feeling like a drippy, melting puddle of foggy confusion against him?
Dear god you have gotten yourself in way above your head, you don't know how to make sense of things.
But Shouto is so strong and sure against you, so sweetly, angelically beautiful, so luxuriously and sinfully warm. Another wave of heat sweeps through you, and you grip onto him for dear life, suddenly sure of only a few things.
You'll have time to figure this all out when your head is back on straight. But for now, you know Shouto would never hurt you, and you know Shouto wants you. And you, even in the thick of the weirdest situation a human being has ever found themselves inβyou want him too.
You let youself grow slack in Shouto's hold, blinking up at him.
"Okay, let's do it," you say, embarrassed when your voice comes out so eager and high. "I don't know what's going on but I know I trust you. So Shouto, let's complete the bond. And we can figure everything out after."
Shouto smiles then, not just the amused, fond little quirk of his mouth he usually does.
It's a blindingly beautiful thing, clever and sweet and so devastatingly handsome. There's just a flash of his sharp canines, longer than any human's, the very teeth he's given you the bonding bite with. He is otherworldly, and for just a moment you can do nothing but gaze up at him, lost in the fever, lost in the look of him, lost in the power of the situation you've found yourself in.
And then he's gathering you up into his arms, stalking towards your bedroom.
The door closes behind you with a final, resounding click.
atsumu miya who was always naughty growing up, staying out late and getting pulled over and getting detention and getting letters sent home and taking in class but ALWAYS came home to give momma miya a kiss on the cheek and tell her he loves her
It has been hard for me to talk about how what is going on with Israel and Palestine is affecting me personally, but I grew up in Gaza and most of my family still lives there. My father did not survive the bombings last week and I have not been able to contact my younger sister in days. I am try to being understanding that most people do not have personal connections to what is happening and therefore are justifying their silence, but is heartbreaking to see this misinformation being spread. Whatβs happening there is a genocide, not a war. It is not antisemitic to support Palestine, itβs not even antiemetic to criticise Israel. There is no grey area or neutrality regarding this, and it is so easy to find resources that will educate you on the subject. It is my people and my home being destroyed so I will never be silent about this, but I please urge everyone to get informed and start speaking up and finding ways they can help.
decolonizepalestine has tons of information on Palestineβs history/propaganda that has been spread throughout the years
UK citizens can email their MP asking for a ceasefire
US citizens can call/email their local government officials asking for a ceasefire
Jewish Voice for Peace also has many resources for ways for US citizens to get involved, including protests
βtheyβre not for you,β nanami says flatly. βyou can buy your own.β
shoko squints down at the man lying on her exam table, arm held up and behind his head. βiβm quite literally stitching you back together, you know.β
the blond thinks bitterly on what had landed him in her infirmary in the first place, injured and likely having to reschedule dinner tonight. itβs already well past the time heβd planned on picking you up, and the table heβd reserved at the new restaurant in roppongi has likely been given away.
heβs dreading calling to tell you, his heart already twinging at the idea of letting you down.
shoko stitches him up neatly, cleaning and covering it up with a layer of bandages. she offers him a hand to help him sit up, but he bypasses it to plant his palm against the cot, pushing himself up with a groan.
she rolls her eyes, peeling her gloves off and pulling her mask down, tossing them both into the trash. βclean and dress it at least twice a day. no sudden movements of strenuous activity for at least a week. if you ruin my work, iβll put you on bedrest.β
she digs through her cabinets as he awkwardly pulls his shirt back on. his mind drifts to you as he does so. heβd lost his phone in the fight, so he hadnβt been able to tell you about cancelling.
he wonders if the pout on your lips is painted your lips that shade of red youβd been wearing when heβd first met you. wonders if youβre waiting wearing the dress heβd gifted you last week.
heβd really wanted to see you in that dress.
nanami sighs heavily as he does up the buttons, prompting shoko to glance over her shoulder at him.
βwhatβs wrong with you?β she asks, setting a small bottle of painkillers on the tray table next to him.
βiβm missing an important dinner,β he grumbles, wondering if just a bundle sunflowers or peonies from the small stall outside is enough. he should order you a proper bouquet from a shop. perhaps he can also book you a massage orβ
a knock at the door interrupts his spiralling.
βoh!β shoko suddenly gasps. she reaches up, brushing a few stray hairs from his forehead and fixing it as best she can.
βwhat are you doing?β he asks, genuinely confused in this moment.
βyouβll see,β she simply grins, sending him a wink. then, βcome in!β
the door to the infirmary opens to revealβ¦you.
βkento,β you breathe, the quiet click of your heels echoing through the empty room as you quickly walk towards him.
heβs shocked, but lets you carefully wrap your arms around him, cradling his head against your chest.
but before he knows it heβs holding onto you too, breathing in the deep, sweet scent of your perfume and focusing on the steady beat of your heart.
βwhat are you doing here?β he asks once you finally release him, taking your hands in his.
βshoko called me,β you tell him. βapparentlyβ¦apparently iβm your emergency contact.β
his face is suddenly hot with embarrassment. heβd honestly forgotten about that. he hadnβt even realized heβd done it when yaga had asked him to update his information with the school. your name had been the first and only name to pop into his mind.
βsorry,β he apologizes quickly, dropping your hands. he jumped the gun, didnβt he? youβve only been dating for six monthsβ¦ βi should have asked you first butββ
but no one knows me better than you.
a soft sigh slips from your lips as you sit next to him, with a gaze so reverent that it strips him to the bone. βi love you, kento. i will be your emergency contact as long as you want me to be.β
he whispers the words back to you, suddenly shy.
sometimes nanami lets himself slip a little too far into his own head, overthinking and a little insecure. but youβre always there, ready to coax him back into the light.
βyou look beautiful,β he murmurs, taking your hand and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. heβs seen you in a lot of dresses, each one making him weak in the knees. but this dressβ¦this one makes it a little hard for him to breathe.
βwell, you still owe me a date,β you tell him, helping him up off the cot. βwe could go to the ramen place across from my apartment.β
he wraps an arm around your shoulders, and you reach up to intertwine your fingers with his. βiβd go anywhere with you.β
nanami finally getting the club fic he deserves
cw: suggestive
whenever gojo drags nanami out to the club, itβs not unusual for him to slip into a secluded corner. after a long week of work, the last place he wants to be is on a loud dance floor or sitting at a crowded bar. heβd only agreed to come because gojo was picking up the tab for tonight.Β
itβs when heβs waiting for the bartender to pour him his fourth drink that he sees you slide up to the other end of the bar.Β
the loud bass is suddenly replaced with the drum of his heartbeat.Β
the black silk of your dress shimmers. not in an overly gaudy way, but in a way that was utterly tantalizing, drawing his attention to every shift of your hips and turn of your torso.Β
heβs not aware that heβs staring. not until you turn to meet his gaze.
you quickly down the contents of your glass before raising it in his direction. itβs a sight thatβll surely be burned into the back of his mind; an alluring smile on lips painted deep red.Β
youβre hypnotizing in every sense of the word. he watches, utterly unashamed as you slink back onto the dancefloor. you glance over your shoulder at him, a question shining in your eyes.Β
are you coming?Β
nanami quickly finishes his drink and follows you without a second thought.
bodies pressed around him, some lost in the unadulterated pleasure of the night, some clearly trying to gain his attention. theyβre all easy to ignore, because his sights are set solely on you.Β
soon (but not soon enough), heβs standing in front of you. close enough for you to grab him by the tie, pulling him in. close enough for him to let his hands wander to your hips, sliding over the silk of the dress thatβd caught his eye. close enough that he could feel your warm breaths on the shell of his ear as you told him your name.
heβs about to tell you his name when someone tells it behind him.
βnanami!β gojo shouts, unsurprisingly loud enough to be heard over the music. you draw back, about to see whoβs calling for him.
without thinking, his hand catches your jaw, forcing you to keep your gaze on him.
the look on your face is priceless.Β
βignore him,β he murmurs. his thumb brushes across your bottom lip, smearing red lipstick across your mouth.Β
you draw a sharp inhale as he releases your jaw. nanami is unable to keep from smirking as his knuckles brush down the shameless plunge of your neckline, causing you to shudder.
βcome home with me,β you breathe.Β
even in the dark of the club, nanami sees the rest of his life in the glimmer of your eyes.Β
gojoβs wolf whistles as he follows you out to hail a cab.
_____
you wake to an empty bed.
your heart sinks a little, but itβs not unexpected. a one night stand is exactly thatβ one night. you donβt do it often, but that manβ¦
your face feels hot as you think back to last night. the way heβd kissed you, touched you, praised youβ¦the space between your legs throbs with the mere memory.
when you sit up, you see a glass of water and a packet of aspirin sitting on your nightstand. as youβre about to reach for them, a noise from the kitchen catches your attention.Β
you pull on a shirt (his shirt) sauntering out of your bedroom to see nanami in your kitchen. you lean in the doorway, admiring the way he looks bathed in the soft glow of sunrise.Β
last night may have been great, but you have a feeling that wherever this relationship goes is going to be so much better.
Imagine Dynamight going to a school to be interviewed by the little children there, sitting down in one of the chairs in their classroom that is far too small for his hulking form but he sits down in it without complaint as the kids sit down in front of him with crossed legs.
And he loves it, because they have no filterβ just like him, and they end up asking him the most blunt questions without hesitation. And some of the questions heβd never usually answer if they were coming from broadcasters or reporters, but he canβt lie to these kids so he keeps responding openly and honestly.
Even when one of the little girls asks βMister Dynamight, do you have a girlfriend?β
Itβs a rumour thatβs been circulating for months as the media try to work out who the mysterious woman is in his life (if there even is one!) and itβs confirmed immediately when Bakugou answers with a, βYeah, I do.β
And as his PR manager is having a meltdown in the corner, Bakugouβs grin is wide when the little boys in the room sound out a simultaneous chorus of βewwwwwwwβ
THE WITCH'S SONG - part two
knight!osamu/witch!reader
tags: fem!reader, royalty!au, supernatural!au, witchcraft, enemies to lovers, mentions of violence/illness/death, persecution and oppression, tw blood/gore, please read the tags on each chapter as updated and minors do not interact.
crossposted to ao3
MASTERLIST
For as long as you can remember, you have always risen with the sun.
Itβs a habit so deeply constitutional that you've never bothered to question that part of your own natureβthe breaking light cresting over the horizon each day, perfectly in time with the first flutter of your eyelids.
Your bedsheets are gentle against your skin as you rouse from your slumber. They're buttery soft, perfectly worn-in from the many nights of rest youβve found under their cover, and the scent of fresh air still clings to them from an afternoon spent hanging on your clothesline a few days prior. You nestle your cheek into the downy embrace of your pillow, breathing in deeply to savour those lingering notes of summer breeze. You let the breath fill every corner of your chest as you inhale, feeling the way your ribs rise to make room for it, and then you let it out again in a warm rush. You repeat the cycle a few times more, andΒ slowly take in the first moments of your day as your eyes adjust to the early morning light.
With your your arm crooked at your elbow, your hand sweeps lazily around beneath your pillow. You search blindly for a moment, unhurried but sure, and then your fingers brush against something solid and cool hidden away under the feathery mass. You wrap your fingers around the object and draw it out, holding it up above your face to appraise it.
Itβs a pair of silver scissors, with a sprig of dried lavender fastened to them beneath a thrice-knotted length of thin white twine.
Outside your window, the milky indigo sky provides very little light. The distant sun is still only a sliver of light peeking out over the eastward sea, but what little glow the new dawn provides catches in the scissors's polished silver surface. You see the distorted image of your own eye, just a glimpse reflected along the narrow blade, staring back.
Sleep does not come to you peacefully, and it hasnβt for a long time. It seems to fight you, tooth and nail, each night, but the battle is ever-changing. Sometimes sleep evades you completely, leaving you to toss and turn restlessly until the moon disappears and the day starts anew. Other nights, slumber overtakes you quickly, but its true violence strikes when youβre left at your most vulnerableβnightmares whose claws sink themselves so deep into you, you can still feel their phantom pain long after you tear yourself awake in a cold, trembling sweat.
Your fingers tighten around the scissors in your gripβstill cool to the touch, as though your body heat cannot warm them.
The scissors are a simple charm to keep away terrors that might creep in while you sleep. Just like them, the collection of carefully crafted and curated trinkets that surround your roomβdried flowers, jagged crystals, hand drawn sigils inked upon slips of silk and parchmentβare all kept in an effort to rest peacefully. To ward away anything that may prevent it.
You didnβt always have so many.
You didnβt always need them.
These items are tacked to your walls, line your windowsills, and hang from the tall posters of your bedβeach and every one a remedy originating from a carefully documented entry in your motherβs grimoire. The massive tome rests presently at the foot of your bed, tangled in your quilt. You often fall asleepβas you had the night priorβporing over the parchment pages, bound in strong leather tanned a deep midnight blue, filled with a familiar sloping script that makes your heart ache. Her lifeβs work and story, her own magic and every piece of knowledge ever shared with her, is contained within those precious pages.
Itβs one of the last parts of her that remains.
Thankfully your mother's charms served you well throughout the night, as you feel relatively well rested as you rise from your bedβpulling a housecoat on atop your poplin nightdress and stretching your arms up over your head to welcome the day. You tug your quilt up to meet your pillows, tucking it in neatly at the corners, and then you close the heavy cover of the grimoire that rests at the mattressβs edge. You let your fingers trace lightly over the embossing on the cover as you appreciate it, and then you slip it safely into the trunk at the end of your bed where it belongs.
Youβre a little surprised that your visitor from the night before hadnβt caused more of a disturbance to your sleep, already so capricious, particularly given the terrible sense of foreboding that had been hanging over your cottage in the days leading up to his arrivalβlike a heavy, briny fog rolls in from the sea. You choose not to question good fortune, at least not so early in the dayβshaking your head as if willing the unwelcome thought awayβand you set about your usual morning routine as though nothing in the width of the world is different than it has been any day prior.
You wash, prepare a light meal, and dress yourself in simple attire suitable for a dayβs labour, all before the sun has fully risen from the cradle of the horizon. You plan to work in the garden again today, tending to your plants with the meticulous care they require. You aim to start early in hopes of completing the task before the hottest part of the day makes the work less pleasantβthe air at dusk the night before had smelled so sweet, a faithful harbinger of a sunny day ahead.
The grass still glimmers with dew as you step outside your cottage, breathing in the clean, crisp air. Across your property, the sun is just about to creep up over the sea, though thereβs a lilac brume that cloaks itβa gentle shroud that lets you see her shape without straining your eyes. You keep your feet bare as you tread towards the garden, listening to distant birdsong, and the blades of dew-damp grass kiss against your soles with every step.
You pause at the break in the wall that surrounds your cottage, the threshold between your garden and your home, and take a deep breath in. The wind kisses your cheek as a breeze rushes past, and the plants rustle around you as if bidding you good morning. On your exhale, you breathe the greeting back.
The light continues to rise in the sky as you labour, soon burning off the gossamer mist that tends to linger early in the morning until the day is bright and warm and fully underway. You shuck the knitted sweater youβd worn out at dawn as the temperature climbs with the sun, and eventually cuff your trousers at the ankles too, but you pay little attention to the heat of the day as you go about making sure your plants are watered, pruned, and any that require special attention are given what they need.
You sing softly while you work.
Witches have long sung songs while they toiled, or gathered together, or just as a means to pass the time. It's a cherished tradition among your kind, and you were taught when you were very young that a witchβs song is a sacred, honoured thingβher voice a gift and a powerful tool.
You donβt sing as much as you ought to, nor as loudly. Perhaps, not least of all, because thereβs no one there for you to sing to save for your budding rows of plants. Some of yΒ our earliest memories, the ones hazy at the edges as theyβve been eaten away by time, are of your mother singing in her own garden at the house that you were born in.
Why do you sing to them, mother?
On the edge of a northern breeze, you can hear your own voiceβhigher, lighter,Β happierΒ than what it grew to be. You squint up into the midday sun as you reflect.
So they can remember us, Button.
Button.
She called you that because you were always losing yours when you were young; returning to the little cabin you called home at the end of the day with dirty knees, pockets full of shiny rocks, a handful of berries to share with her before dinner, and with one less button on your dress than youβd set off into the woods with that morning.
You remember her impossibly soft hands patting over your head, your arms, your legs, as she appraised you for any bumps or bruises. You remember her breathy laugh as you told her your scrapes and nettle stings didnβt even hurt. You remember her gentle eyes, always sparkling like she was telling you a secret.
DonβtΒ youΒ like when I sing to you? Doesnβt it make you happy?
Your little ribbon-haired head couldnβt have been quicker to nod if youβd triedβyour answer to her question came immediate and fervent.Β Your mother's voice was your most favourite thing.
Well, it makes the plants happy, tooβand that happiness will help them grow. Their roots will dig down deep into the earth, and theyβll take all our stories that I sing to them there, too.
You recall the childhood fantasy of each word of your motherβs song spelled out in sprawling, knobbly roots, hidden underground, being kept safe by the earth.
Your eyes flutter shut, blocking out the sun and trapping in the fleeting memory.
The songs she sang to you, the stories that she told, the grimoire in the truck at the end of your bed. Those are all that you have left of her now. You keep them safe just like the soil covered up the roots.
Since time immemorial, song has been used to pass tradition from one generation of witches to the nextβthe legends of your people, the same ones you recite now as you snip the reedy leaves away from your precious plants, were all taught to you in verse and chorus.
Men flock to the melody of the witchβs song like moth to flame. To hear it is to be bewitched by it. Your mother warned you of such a thing, in the same way all young witches are, and of what might happen should your song be overheard.
The history of man calls the witches temptresses, because of their own weakness to their song. Sirens. Man-eaters. Thatβs how they choose to remember it in their own egocentric folklore; the witch's song is a weapon used to ensnare them, and nothing more. They hide their own antecedent failings by laying blame, and burning any testament that remembers it otherwise.
You've known one truth as long as you've known anything: men are gluttonous, self-serving beasts. They see the world solely as it relates to themselves. They'll take anything in which they see beauty. And they'll immortalize their story, inked in your kind's blood, only as seen through their own eyes.
But the witchβs song was neverΒ meantΒ forΒ man.
You pause, your eyes still tightly closed, with your face turned up towards the sun.
Miya Osamu is standing at the forestβs edge.
You know heβs there even without opening your eyes, but when you eventually do, your sight immediately catches on the glint of the polished sword hilt at his waist.
Heβs come armed today.
Itβs noon on the day following his unceremonious arrivalβthe one where you had warned him, at risk of his own life, not ever to return. You know itβs noon, or very near to it, because the sun sits at its highest point in the clear midday sky as he emerges from the thicket of the wild, towering woods at the edge of your property.
For a moment upon seeing him, you wonder if you ought to fleeβif you should seek shelter on the other side of the little rock wall you know he cannot cross. Instead, you hold your ground, still resting in the dirt of your gardenβthe knees of your twill pants stained with grass and soil, with grime caked beneath your fingernails.
You will not run from him.
He approaches you slowly, with careful steps as not to tread upon any one of your still-budding plants. You donβt bother watching him draw nearer.
βYouβve got a lot of nerve to come back.β You sink your spade into the earth at the base of a plant thatβs showing signs of rot. Its your final task in the garden for the day: you plan to cut it out at the root, take it back into the greenhouse, and try and salvage at least a few slips for propagation.
Your only hope now is that any affliction hasnβt spread beneath the soil.
βIβm not here to prove my nerve,β he says to you, pausing a few paces away between a patch of rosemary and another of oregano. His voice is clear and sure like the blue sky overhead. βIβm here to help Atsumu.β
You place the uprooted plant into a small tin pail beside you, prodding into the soft edges of the hole youβve dug to excavate it for any signs of further blight. You see none, thankfully.
But rotβs a tricky thing. Sometimes it's in plain sight, and others it hides where the light can't reach it.
βI donβt care why youβre here,β you tell him, setting aside your spade and meeting his eyes as you drag the back of your wrist against your perspiring brow. βAnd I donβt care about your brother.β
The knight looks worse than he had the day before when he showed up in your workshed, but youβre not surprised by that fact. He spent the night in the woods, that much youβre certain ofβnot least of all because the nearest village is too far for him to have travelled their and back by midday. His hair is unkempt, his clothing rumpled like itβs been slept in, and the shadows under his eyes are darker, more severe than they had been the night priorβthough perhaps their stark contrast is just more evident in the light of day.
At his waist, Osamuβs hand rests lightly upon on the hilt of his sword, but it seems more instinctive than threatening given the way his fingers are slack. Thereβs a frustrated furrow in his brow that deepens in the wake of your words, and he sucks in a sharp breath.
βYer the only one who can help him.β
βNo, Iβm the only witch your king hasnβt culled,β you parry. βThereβs a difference.β
Osamuβs lips pull into a thin line.Β βSo you admit it.β
You blink.
You suppose this is the first time youβve confirmed his accusation. The first time youβve admitted to your truth. It wasn't so much a slip of the tongue as it was an inevitability.
βIt does me little good to say anything otherwise,β you respond, unshaken by his observation. βYouΒ needΒ me to be a witch. As youβve made clear: your brotherβs fate relies on it. The help you hope for me to provide to you is all thatβs keeping that sword in its sheath.β
The knightβs fingers curl loosely around the hilt of his weapon at your mention of it, as though becoming conscious for the first time of its weight against his hip.
But itβs not strictly true, what youβve said, and you both know it.
Thereβs one other option Osamu has available to himβone other cure to heal what ails his beloved brotherβand it very much requires the use of his sword.
Witches have been driven to near extinction nowβevery coven youβve ever known to inhabit this kingdom wiped out in their entiretyβwith little more to prove they ever existed but your own fleeting memory of them.
The only pieces of them worth saving were theirΒ hearts.
Thereβs a reason why witches have forever been hunted for themβa reason why the kingβs knights would cleave them out before their bodies were burned. The hearts of your kind have long been coveted by men for the residual magic that they hold. Even when a witch dies, her heart will keep beating, though only for a short while, and to possess a witchβs heart while it still beatsβhowever faintlyβwill bring luck to the one who possesses it. It can cure any ailment, or end any drought, or even turn the tides of a battle.
Those hearts and the promises that they assured were worth more to glory hungry men than the lives of the witches they rightfully belonged to.
You feel a white hot flash of anger roll through the pit of your stomach like a violent tide at the thought of it, digging your fingers deep into the soil below you to find comfort. You stare up at the man above you, no different from any of the rest of them, and your eyes narrow resentfully. You clutch dirt by the fistful.
βAll the hearts the crown has ripped from witches over the past two hundred odd years, and to what end?β you ask him, disdain dripping thick and venomous from every word. βThe fortune of a trophied heart is fleeting, their power fades with every passing beat until eventually the pulse stops altogether. Your kingΒ knewΒ that, and he chose to pillage them regardless. That old bastard was born with the world in his hand, yet he hoarded those spoils for himselfβwastedΒ themβonly to die, like all mortal men do, and leave the rest of you behind to suffer for it.β
βHold yer tongue,β Osamu warns you sharply, his lip curling in time with his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword in a white-knuckled grip. βHow dare ya speak ill of the late king.β
βWhy defend a man who left his country in ruins?β you goad him further, twisting the knife youβve managed to wedge between the plates of his composureβs already straining armour. βA man who stripped his kingdom of its greatest resourceβof theΒ livesΒ dedicated to the keeping of this landβand left his infant son to take a throne he drove into the ground with his greed. A son Iβm sure has grown into just asΒ pitifulΒ a ruler as his father.β
The knightβs sword glints in the sunlight as itβs quickly drawn. The sound of the finely honed blade scraping against the sheath is almost pleasant; surprisingly delicate in its own way, even in its violence.
You kneel beneath Osamu in the glare of the all-seeing sun, the point of his blade held level at your throat.
βDonβt say another word against King Shinsuke,β the man hisses, and much like the first time you mentioned his brother by name, it seems youβve struck a tender nerve.
You donβt flinch, but your eyes do flicker down towards the garden beds.
A tense moment passes with his steady sword resting just beneath your chin.
βYouβre stepping on my spearmint.β
Osamuβs gaze follows yours down to his feet in surprise, to where his left boot treads upon a small mint plant. He inches his foot back slightly, almost without thinking, after you point it out. Some of the outer leaves are bruised, but youβre fairly certain the plant will still survive.
A breeze rolls in from the east, rushing through the blades of grass and rows of plants until it lifts the sleeve of your shirt as it passes like a kiss from the sea. You find it comforting. Reassuring.
Osamu speaks again.
βI could just take it, yβknow.β
You donβt need him to clarify whatΒ itΒ he speaks of.
Whatβs strange to you isn't the threat he utters, but rather that the words were spoken so quietly they were very nearly lost in the passing breeze. Part of you canβt help but wonder if he knows he uttered them aloud at all, or if they were merely one final fervent encouragement to steel his own resolve. You look up at him, and see his eyes are burning with insistenceβwild in their hopelessness.
His expression is grave, remorseful almost. βIβve got no other choice.β
Ah.
The final fraying morality of a desperate man.
βGood luck,β you say to him. You still meet his gaze without flinching. His sword is still pointed at your throat. βYouβll have to find it first.β
Confusion flashes behind those frantic grey eyes, and then creeps in the horrified realization.
At the tree line in the distance, a raven takes off from the highest bough of an old oak tree with a piercing caw.
βI donβt believe you,β he says, but his voice is tight and unconvincingβalmost like you can hear the bile creeping up his throat. You wonder if heβs saying it in hopes of persuading you orΒ himself.
You lift your shoulders in a dispassionate shrug, reaching up towards the neckline of your blouse. βWould you like to check?β
Itβs quiet for a moment as you wait for a reply you know will never come.
Behind the knightβs own rigid shoulders, the soaring raven swoops down into the treetops out of sight.
βYou cut it out yourself,β he finally breathes, your finger pausing where itβs looped underneath your collar. His expression clearly conveys the disgust he feels at the very premise.
You drop your hand, swiping your dirty fingers on the thighs of your trousers in a lazy attempt to clean them.
βI thought I ought to beat a man like you to it.β
The knight before you looks like he might be physically ill, a sallow hue overtaking his skin that wasnβt there a moment prior. Youβre not sure you entirely blame him for the revulsion, considering what he must be thinkingβconsidering theΒ vileΒ things he must be picturing in his mind. The image of you harvesting your heart from the cavern of your chest; the idea of you holding itβbeating and bloody and hot to the touchβin your own hand.
Your gaze hardens with renewed contempt.
βI watched my people be massacred for their hearts," you tell him. "I watched knights just like you drag them in front of crowds, tie them onto stakes, and burn them for a spectacle. An immolation that the kingβthe one whose precious memory you stand here and defend with that swordβpresided over like aΒ jubilee,β your voice threatens to waver, but you keep it even as you stand.Β Osamuβs blade follows you as you lift yourself up to your feetβbut his wrist is limper now than it was when he first drew it. Weakened. You swallow back the bitter taste creeping up your throat.Β βIf not for my mother, I would undoubtedly have been among those lost, and I swore to myself that if it was the last thing I didβtheΒ onlyΒ thing I ever didβI would never let my own heart suffer the same fate.β
Osamu lowers his arm to his side, his blade withdrawn.
You meet each other, eye to eye, but thereβs no doubt now who stands as victor.
βKill me if you want to,ββ you tell him, your tone indifferent to the very challenge you make on your own life.
From deep in the forest, you hear the ravenβs caw once moreβthe shrill cry of a predator catching its prey. The knightβs head turns slightly towards the sound, just the subtlest tilt of his face in the direction, but yours doesn't.
Your eyes donβt leave his.
ββWhatβs one more dead witch atop the grave of hundreds?β
He considers you for a moment in silence, and then slowly he sheaths his lowered weapon.
He turns his back to you, and your eyes trace the broad lines of his shoulders as he retreats in the direction of the forest from whence heβd appeared.
βI will not help you, no matter how many times you seek me here. If your brother's days are numbered as you say, save your efforts and return to him.β
Osamu pauses, a few furrows away from you in the lush green of your garden.
He's unnervingly still for a moment, still facing towards the forest, but then he turns to you once more.
His eyes are supplicatingβno trace of the anger or the malice theyβd held moments before. His voice is soft when he speaks again.
βIβll give ya anythinβ you ask in exchange for yer help.Β Anythinβ.β
You laugh, but the sound is acerbic like the taste clinging to your tongue. The chill in your voice stands in stark juxtaposition to the gentle warmth of the early summer day surrounding you.
βThereβs nothing on earth that you could give me that could ever make up for the things your kingdom took away.β
Osamuβs face falls, but he nods almost imperceptibly. It catches you by surprise, that seeming resignationβacceptanceβto the only answer you offer him.
Wordlessly, the knight turns and continues towards the trees.
He doesnβt tread on any of your sprouting crops as he departs.
THE WITCH'S SONG - part two
knight!osamu/witch!reader
tags: fem!reader, royalty!au, supernatural!au, witchcraft, enemies to lovers, mentions of violence/illness/death, persecution and oppression, tw blood/gore, please read the tags on each chapter as updated and minors do not interact.
crossposted to ao3
MASTERLIST
For as long as you can remember, you have always risen with the sun.
Itβs a habit so deeply constitutional that you've never bothered to question that part of your own natureβthe breaking light cresting over the horizon each day, perfectly in time with the first flutter of your eyelids.
Your bedsheets are gentle against your skin as you rouse from your slumber. They're buttery soft, perfectly worn-in from the many nights of rest youβve found under their cover, and the scent of fresh air still clings to them from an afternoon spent hanging on your clothesline a few days prior. You nestle your cheek into the downy embrace of your pillow, breathing in deeply to savour those lingering notes of summer breeze. You let the breath fill every corner of your chest as you inhale, feeling the way your ribs rise to make room for it, and then you let it out again in a warm rush. You repeat the cycle a few times more, andΒ slowly take in the first moments of your day as your eyes adjust to the early morning light.
With your your arm crooked at your elbow, your hand sweeps lazily around beneath your pillow. You search blindly for a moment, unhurried but sure, and then your fingers brush against something solid and cool hidden away under the feathery mass. You wrap your fingers around the object and draw it out, holding it up above your face to appraise it.
Itβs a pair of silver scissors, with a sprig of dried lavender fastened to them beneath a thrice-knotted length of thin white twine.
Outside your window, the milky indigo sky provides very little light. The distant sun is still only a sliver of light peeking out over the eastward sea, but what little glow the new dawn provides catches in the scissors's polished silver surface. You see the distorted image of your own eye, just a glimpse reflected along the narrow blade, staring back.
Sleep does not come to you peacefully, and it hasnβt for a long time. It seems to fight you, tooth and nail, each night, but the battle is ever-changing. Sometimes sleep evades you completely, leaving you to toss and turn restlessly until the moon disappears and the day starts anew. Other nights, slumber overtakes you quickly, but its true violence strikes when youβre left at your most vulnerableβnightmares whose claws sink themselves so deep into you, you can still feel their phantom pain long after you tear yourself awake in a cold, trembling sweat.
Your fingers tighten around the scissors in your gripβstill cool to the touch, as though your body heat cannot warm them.
The scissors are a simple charm to keep away terrors that might creep in while you sleep. Just like them, the collection of carefully crafted and curated trinkets that surround your roomβdried flowers, jagged crystals, hand drawn sigils inked upon slips of silk and parchmentβare all kept in an effort to rest peacefully. To ward away anything that may prevent it.
You didnβt always have so many.
You didnβt always need them.
These items are tacked to your walls, line your windowsills, and hang from the tall posters of your bedβeach and every one a remedy originating from a carefully documented entry in your motherβs grimoire. The massive tome rests presently at the foot of your bed, tangled in your quilt. You often fall asleepβas you had the night priorβporing over the parchment pages, bound in strong leather tanned a deep midnight blue, filled with a familiar sloping script that makes your heart ache. Her lifeβs work and story, her own magic and every piece of knowledge ever shared with her, is contained within those precious pages.
Itβs one of the last parts of her that remains.
Thankfully your mother's charms served you well throughout the night, as you feel relatively well rested as you rise from your bedβpulling a housecoat on atop your poplin nightdress and stretching your arms up over your head to welcome the day. You tug your quilt up to meet your pillows, tucking it in neatly at the corners, and then you close the heavy cover of the grimoire that rests at the mattressβs edge. You let your fingers trace lightly over the embossing on the cover as you appreciate it, and then you slip it safely into the trunk at the end of your bed where it belongs.
Youβre a little surprised that your visitor from the night before hadnβt caused more of a disturbance to your sleep, already so capricious, particularly given the terrible sense of foreboding that had been hanging over your cottage in the days leading up to his arrivalβlike a heavy, briny fog rolls in from the sea. You choose not to question good fortune, at least not so early in the dayβshaking your head as if willing the unwelcome thought awayβand you set about your usual morning routine as though nothing in the width of the world is different than it has been any day prior.
You wash, prepare a light meal, and dress yourself in simple attire suitable for a dayβs labour, all before the sun has fully risen from the cradle of the horizon. You plan to work in the garden again today, tending to your plants with the meticulous care they require. You aim to start early in hopes of completing the task before the hottest part of the day makes the work less pleasantβthe air at dusk the night before had smelled so sweet, a faithful harbinger of a sunny day ahead.
The grass still glimmers with dew as you step outside your cottage, breathing in the clean, crisp air. Across your property, the sun is just about to creep up over the sea, though thereβs a lilac brume that cloaks itβa gentle shroud that lets you see her shape without straining your eyes. You keep your feet bare as you tread towards the garden, listening to distant birdsong, and the blades of dew-damp grass kiss against your soles with every step.
You pause at the break in the wall that surrounds your cottage, the threshold between your garden and your home, and take a deep breath in. The wind kisses your cheek as a breeze rushes past, and the plants rustle around you as if bidding you good morning. On your exhale, you breathe the greeting back.
The light continues to rise in the sky as you labour, soon burning off the gossamer mist that tends to linger early in the morning until the day is bright and warm and fully underway. You shuck the knitted sweater youβd worn out at dawn as the temperature climbs with the sun, and eventually cuff your trousers at the ankles too, but you pay little attention to the heat of the day as you go about making sure your plants are watered, pruned, and any that require special attention are given what they need.
You sing softly while you work.
Witches have long sung songs while they toiled, or gathered together, or just as a means to pass the time. It's a cherished tradition among your kind, and you were taught when you were very young that a witchβs song is a sacred, honoured thingβher voice a gift and a powerful tool.
You donβt sing as much as you ought to, nor as loudly. Perhaps, not least of all, because thereβs no one there for you to sing to save for your budding rows of plants. Some of yΒ our earliest memories, the ones hazy at the edges as theyβve been eaten away by time, are of your mother singing in her own garden at the house that you were born in.
Why do you sing to them, mother?
On the edge of a northern breeze, you can hear your own voiceβhigher, lighter,Β happierΒ than what it grew to be. You squint up into the midday sun as you reflect.
So they can remember us, Button.
Button.
She called you that because you were always losing yours when you were young; returning to the little cabin you called home at the end of the day with dirty knees, pockets full of shiny rocks, a handful of berries to share with her before dinner, and with one less button on your dress than youβd set off into the woods with that morning.
You remember her impossibly soft hands patting over your head, your arms, your legs, as she appraised you for any bumps or bruises. You remember her breathy laugh as you told her your scrapes and nettle stings didnβt even hurt. You remember her gentle eyes, always sparkling like she was telling you a secret.
DonβtΒ youΒ like when I sing to you? Doesnβt it make you happy?
Your little ribbon-haired head couldnβt have been quicker to nod if youβd triedβyour answer to her question came immediate and fervent.Β Your mother's voice was your most favourite thing.
Well, it makes the plants happy, tooβand that happiness will help them grow. Their roots will dig down deep into the earth, and theyβll take all our stories that I sing to them there, too.
You recall the childhood fantasy of each word of your motherβs song spelled out in sprawling, knobbly roots, hidden underground, being kept safe by the earth.
Your eyes flutter shut, blocking out the sun and trapping in the fleeting memory.
The songs she sang to you, the stories that she told, the grimoire in the truck at the end of your bed. Those are all that you have left of her now. You keep them safe just like the soil covered up the roots.
Since time immemorial, song has been used to pass tradition from one generation of witches to the nextβthe legends of your people, the same ones you recite now as you snip the reedy leaves away from your precious plants, were all taught to you in verse and chorus.
Men flock to the melody of the witchβs song like moth to flame. To hear it is to be bewitched by it. Your mother warned you of such a thing, in the same way all young witches are, and of what might happen should your song be overheard.
The history of man calls the witches temptresses, because of their own weakness to their song. Sirens. Man-eaters. Thatβs how they choose to remember it in their own egocentric folklore; the witch's song is a weapon used to ensnare them, and nothing more. They hide their own antecedent failings by laying blame, and burning any testament that remembers it otherwise.
You've known one truth as long as you've known anything: men are gluttonous, self-serving beasts. They see the world solely as it relates to themselves. They'll take anything in which they see beauty. And they'll immortalize their story, inked in your kind's blood, only as seen through their own eyes.
But the witchβs song was neverΒ meantΒ forΒ man.
You pause, your eyes still tightly closed, with your face turned up towards the sun.
Miya Osamu is standing at the forestβs edge.
You know heβs there even without opening your eyes, but when you eventually do, your sight immediately catches on the glint of the polished sword hilt at his waist.
Heβs come armed today.
Itβs noon on the day following his unceremonious arrivalβthe one where you had warned him, at risk of his own life, not ever to return. You know itβs noon, or very near to it, because the sun sits at its highest point in the clear midday sky as he emerges from the thicket of the wild, towering woods at the edge of your property.
For a moment upon seeing him, you wonder if you ought to fleeβif you should seek shelter on the other side of the little rock wall you know he cannot cross. Instead, you hold your ground, still resting in the dirt of your gardenβthe knees of your twill pants stained with grass and soil, with grime caked beneath your fingernails.
You will not run from him.
He approaches you slowly, with careful steps as not to tread upon any one of your still-budding plants. You donβt bother watching him draw nearer.
βYouβve got a lot of nerve to come back.β You sink your spade into the earth at the base of a plant thatβs showing signs of rot. Its your final task in the garden for the day: you plan to cut it out at the root, take it back into the greenhouse, and try and salvage at least a few slips for propagation.
Your only hope now is that any affliction hasnβt spread beneath the soil.
βIβm not here to prove my nerve,β he says to you, pausing a few paces away between a patch of rosemary and another of oregano. His voice is clear and sure like the blue sky overhead. βIβm here to help Atsumu.β
You place the uprooted plant into a small tin pail beside you, prodding into the soft edges of the hole youβve dug to excavate it for any signs of further blight. You see none, thankfully.
But rotβs a tricky thing. Sometimes it's in plain sight, and others it hides where the light can't reach it.
βI donβt care why youβre here,β you tell him, setting aside your spade and meeting his eyes as you drag the back of your wrist against your perspiring brow. βAnd I donβt care about your brother.β
The knight looks worse than he had the day before when he showed up in your workshed, but youβre not surprised by that fact. He spent the night in the woods, that much youβre certain ofβnot least of all because the nearest village is too far for him to have travelled their and back by midday. His hair is unkempt, his clothing rumpled like itβs been slept in, and the shadows under his eyes are darker, more severe than they had been the night priorβthough perhaps their stark contrast is just more evident in the light of day.
At his waist, Osamuβs hand rests lightly upon on the hilt of his sword, but it seems more instinctive than threatening given the way his fingers are slack. Thereβs a frustrated furrow in his brow that deepens in the wake of your words, and he sucks in a sharp breath.
βYer the only one who can help him.β
βNo, Iβm the only witch your king hasnβt culled,β you parry. βThereβs a difference.β
Osamuβs lips pull into a thin line.Β βSo you admit it.β
You blink.
You suppose this is the first time youβve confirmed his accusation. The first time youβve admitted to your truth. It wasn't so much a slip of the tongue as it was an inevitability.
βIt does me little good to say anything otherwise,β you respond, unshaken by his observation. βYouΒ needΒ me to be a witch. As youβve made clear: your brotherβs fate relies on it. The help you hope for me to provide to you is all thatβs keeping that sword in its sheath.β
The knightβs fingers curl loosely around the hilt of his weapon at your mention of it, as though becoming conscious for the first time of its weight against his hip.
But itβs not strictly true, what youβve said, and you both know it.
Thereβs one other option Osamu has available to himβone other cure to heal what ails his beloved brotherβand it very much requires the use of his sword.
Witches have been driven to near extinction nowβevery coven youβve ever known to inhabit this kingdom wiped out in their entiretyβwith little more to prove they ever existed but your own fleeting memory of them.
The only pieces of them worth saving were theirΒ hearts.
Thereβs a reason why witches have forever been hunted for themβa reason why the kingβs knights would cleave them out before their bodies were burned. The hearts of your kind have long been coveted by men for the residual magic that they hold. Even when a witch dies, her heart will keep beating, though only for a short while, and to possess a witchβs heart while it still beatsβhowever faintlyβwill bring luck to the one who possesses it. It can cure any ailment, or end any drought, or even turn the tides of a battle.
Those hearts and the promises that they assured were worth more to glory hungry men than the lives of the witches they rightfully belonged to.
You feel a white hot flash of anger roll through the pit of your stomach like a violent tide at the thought of it, digging your fingers deep into the soil below you to find comfort. You stare up at the man above you, no different from any of the rest of them, and your eyes narrow resentfully. You clutch dirt by the fistful.
βAll the hearts the crown has ripped from witches over the past two hundred odd years, and to what end?β you ask him, disdain dripping thick and venomous from every word. βThe fortune of a trophied heart is fleeting, their power fades with every passing beat until eventually the pulse stops altogether. Your kingΒ knewΒ that, and he chose to pillage them regardless. That old bastard was born with the world in his hand, yet he hoarded those spoils for himselfβwastedΒ themβonly to die, like all mortal men do, and leave the rest of you behind to suffer for it.β
βHold yer tongue,β Osamu warns you sharply, his lip curling in time with his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword in a white-knuckled grip. βHow dare ya speak ill of the late king.β
βWhy defend a man who left his country in ruins?β you goad him further, twisting the knife youβve managed to wedge between the plates of his composureβs already straining armour. βA man who stripped his kingdom of its greatest resourceβof theΒ livesΒ dedicated to the keeping of this landβand left his infant son to take a throne he drove into the ground with his greed. A son Iβm sure has grown into just asΒ pitifulΒ a ruler as his father.β
The knightβs sword glints in the sunlight as itβs quickly drawn. The sound of the finely honed blade scraping against the sheath is almost pleasant; surprisingly delicate in its own way, even in its violence.
You kneel beneath Osamu in the glare of the all-seeing sun, the point of his blade held level at your throat.
βDonβt say another word against King Shinsuke,β the man hisses, and much like the first time you mentioned his brother by name, it seems youβve struck a tender nerve.
You donβt flinch, but your eyes do flicker down towards the garden beds.
A tense moment passes with his steady sword resting just beneath your chin.
βYouβre stepping on my spearmint.β
Osamuβs gaze follows yours down to his feet in surprise, to where his left boot treads upon a small mint plant. He inches his foot back slightly, almost without thinking, after you point it out. Some of the outer leaves are bruised, but youβre fairly certain the plant will still survive.
A breeze rolls in from the east, rushing through the blades of grass and rows of plants until it lifts the sleeve of your shirt as it passes like a kiss from the sea. You find it comforting. Reassuring.
Osamu speaks again.
βI could just take it, yβknow.β
You donβt need him to clarify whatΒ itΒ he speaks of.
Whatβs strange to you isn't the threat he utters, but rather that the words were spoken so quietly they were very nearly lost in the passing breeze. Part of you canβt help but wonder if he knows he uttered them aloud at all, or if they were merely one final fervent encouragement to steel his own resolve. You look up at him, and see his eyes are burning with insistenceβwild in their hopelessness.
His expression is grave, remorseful almost. βIβve got no other choice.β
Ah.
The final fraying morality of a desperate man.
βGood luck,β you say to him. You still meet his gaze without flinching. His sword is still pointed at your throat. βYouβll have to find it first.β
Confusion flashes behind those frantic grey eyes, and then creeps in the horrified realization.
At the tree line in the distance, a raven takes off from the highest bough of an old oak tree with a piercing caw.
βI donβt believe you,β he says, but his voice is tight and unconvincingβalmost like you can hear the bile creeping up his throat. You wonder if heβs saying it in hopes of persuading you orΒ himself.
You lift your shoulders in a dispassionate shrug, reaching up towards the neckline of your blouse. βWould you like to check?β
Itβs quiet for a moment as you wait for a reply you know will never come.
Behind the knightβs own rigid shoulders, the soaring raven swoops down into the treetops out of sight.
βYou cut it out yourself,β he finally breathes, your finger pausing where itβs looped underneath your collar. His expression clearly conveys the disgust he feels at the very premise.
You drop your hand, swiping your dirty fingers on the thighs of your trousers in a lazy attempt to clean them.
βI thought I ought to beat a man like you to it.β
The knight before you looks like he might be physically ill, a sallow hue overtaking his skin that wasnβt there a moment prior. Youβre not sure you entirely blame him for the revulsion, considering what he must be thinkingβconsidering theΒ vileΒ things he must be picturing in his mind. The image of you harvesting your heart from the cavern of your chest; the idea of you holding itβbeating and bloody and hot to the touchβin your own hand.
Your gaze hardens with renewed contempt.
βI watched my people be massacred for their hearts," you tell him. "I watched knights just like you drag them in front of crowds, tie them onto stakes, and burn them for a spectacle. An immolation that the kingβthe one whose precious memory you stand here and defend with that swordβpresided over like aΒ jubilee,β your voice threatens to waver, but you keep it even as you stand.Β Osamuβs blade follows you as you lift yourself up to your feetβbut his wrist is limper now than it was when he first drew it. Weakened. You swallow back the bitter taste creeping up your throat.Β βIf not for my mother, I would undoubtedly have been among those lost, and I swore to myself that if it was the last thing I didβtheΒ onlyΒ thing I ever didβI would never let my own heart suffer the same fate.β
Osamu lowers his arm to his side, his blade withdrawn.
You meet each other, eye to eye, but thereβs no doubt now who stands as victor.
βKill me if you want to,ββ you tell him, your tone indifferent to the very challenge you make on your own life.
From deep in the forest, you hear the ravenβs caw once moreβthe shrill cry of a predator catching its prey. The knightβs head turns slightly towards the sound, just the subtlest tilt of his face in the direction, but yours doesn't.
Your eyes donβt leave his.
ββWhatβs one more dead witch atop the grave of hundreds?β
He considers you for a moment in silence, and then slowly he sheaths his lowered weapon.
He turns his back to you, and your eyes trace the broad lines of his shoulders as he retreats in the direction of the forest from whence heβd appeared.
βI will not help you, no matter how many times you seek me here. If your brother's days are numbered as you say, save your efforts and return to him.β
Osamu pauses, a few furrows away from you in the lush green of your garden.
He's unnervingly still for a moment, still facing towards the forest, but then he turns to you once more.
His eyes are supplicatingβno trace of the anger or the malice theyβd held moments before. His voice is soft when he speaks again.
βIβll give ya anythinβ you ask in exchange for yer help.Β Anythinβ.β
You laugh, but the sound is acerbic like the taste clinging to your tongue. The chill in your voice stands in stark juxtaposition to the gentle warmth of the early summer day surrounding you.
βThereβs nothing on earth that you could give me that could ever make up for the things your kingdom took away.β
Osamuβs face falls, but he nods almost imperceptibly. It catches you by surprise, that seeming resignationβacceptanceβto the only answer you offer him.
Wordlessly, the knight turns and continues towards the trees.
He doesnβt tread on any of your sprouting crops as he departs.
dad bakugou, gender neutral reader, one mention of reader having gone to ua and been in 1b! 1.6k of fluff βΉπ₯
βyouβve gotta be fuckinβ kidding me.β
the furrow of katsukiβs brow deepens as he stares past the open door of your daughterβs classroom. curious, you follow his line of sightβgaze falling upon a young boy sitting at a small coloured table βand oh, heβs picking his nose.
your husband, who is nothing but muscles as he leans against a bulletin board in his tight black compression shirt, arms crossed and scarred face twisted in disgustβcan barely watch the scene unfold, letting out an audible scoff as he turns to you.
βi canβt believe you left our daughter in there with those snotty little shββ
βkatsuki!β
your voice is an aggressive whisper, one that does nothing but draw even more unwanted attention to the two of youβas if the other parents havenβt stared enough already.
in retrospect, they probably didnβt think theyβd be seeing dynamight while picking their kids up from the first day of preschool.
βwhat?β he mutters. βam i wrong?β
he shifts his weight from his left foot to his right and uncrosses his armsβextending one out and snaking it around your waist, whichβfor some reason, seems to ward off any lingering gazes.
βkats, heβs four,β you defendβdoing your best to keep your expression neutral as you watch the same boy dig around some more, this time in the bin of crayons sitting atop the table.
katsuki clicks his tongue before squeezing your side and mumbling, βnot an excuse for being a snotty little shit.β
you turn towards him, pressing your lips together in hopes of suppressing a laugh, and when that seems like itβs about to failβyou rest the crown of your head against his chest, and aim your smile towards the ground.
he finds your amusement cuteβendearing, the way youβre trying to be good and responsible and a parentβbut youβre still you.
after gathering yourself, you look back up at him.
βthose are things we think,β you smile again, keeping your voice low as you press a finger to his forehead. βbut donβt say,β you addβmoving your index finger to his mouth in a shushing motion.
and he has to remind himself of where he is, because if he didnβt, heβs almost certain the next words leaving your mouth would be katsuki! time and place!
but heβs trying to be good too.
βwhat, you parenting me now?β he asks, raising a brow as he wraps a hand around your wrist. you can feel the cool metal of his wedding band against your skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of his palm.
βwell, you obviously donβt know how to behave,β you mutter, biting down on the inside of your cheek as you retreat back to your own personal bubbleβstaring straight ahead as if he werenβt even there.
βhuh?β
the little noise he makes causes you to peer over through your peripherals, and the kicked puppy expression youβre met with has you desperately trying to stave off that smileβbut you just canβt.
it creeps onto your lipsβteasing, mischievous, and you give him that lookβthe same one you used to give sixteen year old him whenever youβd sneak into the class 1a dorms from the building over, and ask if he wanted to hangout with you and the rest of his classmates. but mostly you.
at the time, katsuki wasnβt a fan of anyone from 1b, so the answer was always some variation of noβuntil one day it wasnβt.
the first time he agrees is the first time you see him with that scar on his face, and the first time he sees you after not only being at deathβs doorβbut stepping inside and taking his shoes off, as if he were planning on staying a while.
now, ten years and one late night walk around the campus later, heβs twenty six and married to you, and togetherβyou have a precious daughter.
and she, along with you, are his biggest dilemma.
because sometimes he thinks heβs done it all too fastβmarried at twenty one, a father by twenty two. he spent most of his childhood wishing for adulthood to come sooner, because with that would come strength, power, and his dream of being a pro hero. now that he has those things, he finds himself entertaining the thought of trading them in for a little more youthβa little more time to turn no into yes.
but, sometimes he thinks heβs not doing it fast enough. because luck is like lightningβitβll never strike the same place twice, and heβs lucky to even be alive. so, he wants to experience all of you while he canβwhat itβs like to share a bed with you, to kiss you, come home to you, to love youβas both your husband and the father of your child.
because with this little four year old girl in the picture, thereβs even more to experience.
and as if on cue, the sound of your daughterβs voiceβshrill and filled with excitement, reels katsuki back to the present moment.
βdaddy!β
she comes trotting out of her classroom, unruly blonde pigtails bouncing in time with her pink backpackβwhich is just a little too big for her.
he crouches down to her level, eyes trained on the small acrylic dynamight keychain she has clipped to one of the zippers on her bagβa little touch you thought he might enjoy.
βhey, sweetheart.β
she drops her backpack, immediately opening it up and taking out a yellow piece of construction paper that contains four scribbled stick figures, some other random lines and shapes, and what appears to be orange glitter glue.
she shoves it into his hands and watches him.
βthis us?β he asks, running his finger over the three stick figures that somewhat resemble the three of you. his finger stops on the fourth thoughβa green stick figure drawn slightly off to the side, as if it was an afterthought. βandβ¦?β
βuncle βzuku!β she exclaims.
katsuki sighs as he hands the paper back to her, zipping up her bag and slinging it over his own shoulder before he scoops her up into one of his arms with ease, and againβit feels like everyone is looking in your direction.
βheβs not your uncle,β katsuki grumbles.
βbut you can call him that if you want to,β you chime in, smiling sweetly at your daughter as you poke her cheek. βhe likes it when you do.β
she giggles and leans into katsukiβwhoβs giving you a less than impressed glare. thankfully, your daughter is so eager to tell you about her day, she changes the subject before that can of worms can be opened any further.
βguess what? i made free new friends today!β she says, proudly holding up three of her fingers.
βno boys, right?β katsuki asks.
her hands come up to her mouth, where she does a poor job of hiding her guilty little smile. she then looks over to you, knowing youβll back her up.
βweβre glad you made some friends. who wouldnβt wanna be friends with you?β you coo, and fuckβyouβre so sweet, so good with herβkatsuki can feel himself falling even more in love with you. βright, daddy?β
you glance over at him with that pretty smile, and he canβt help but stare for a moment, because oneβwell, youβre gorgeous, and twoβyouβre a reminder of just how important it is to say yes.
βyeah,β he says, turning back to his little girl. βletβs go home, hm? put your picture on the fridge?β
she nods her head and gives him a toothy grin, excitedly bouncing in his arms with her picture still clutched in her hands.
katsuki then turns to you, adjusting the strap of the little pink backpack on his shoulder before he holds out his free hand for you to take. you gladly accept, lacing your fingers together as the three of you begin making your way towards the main exit.
βi love you, kats,β you sayβpeering over at him as you walk, and honestly, he doesnβt know whatβs gotten into him today, because heβs heard those words countless timesβand yet thereβs a lump in his throat.
βdaddy, i love you too,β your daughter adds, pressing a little kiss to the rough, dry skin of his cheek. heβd love to tell you both the same thing, that he loves you more than anythingβbut he doesnβt quite get the words out in time. βlook! thereβs one of my friends i made!β
she points her finger, and itβs like it happens in slow motionβthe way katsukiβs gaze locks onto the little boy, the way his face twists into that same look of disgust when he realizes who it is.
and youβre doing it againβbiting down on your lower lip to keep from giggling, and shit, heβs doing it againβthinking of when you and him were sixteen and still just as blindly in love.
βhe has a stretchy quirk! have you ever seen one of those?β your daughter asks, fiddling with the corner of her drawing.
this boy, whoβs quirk is obviously a very recently developed one, waves at the three of youβwith his hand stretched all the way up to the ceiling where it flails around with zero controlβnearly taking out a ceiling panel in the process.
βjesus, kid was probably picking his damn brain earlier,β katsuki mutters.
heβs still new to this think donβt say thing, so you cut him some slack and let a little laugh slip as the three of you start to walk again.
a few moments pass, and then your daughter turns in katsukiβs arms, quietly directing her next question to you. βcan we have a playdate?β
and before you have the chance to answer with a sweet little maybe sweetheart, katsuki jumps in with a response of his own.
βtch, iβd rather send you to uncle βzukuβs.β
βI swear to god Iβm going to lock you in the bedroom.β
For whatever reason, Osamu decided that this was the night out he was going to dress down, usually sticking with jeans and a sweatshirt for most of the nights with the boys. Tonight however, he looks damn intoxicating, he looks like a bad mistake youβre more than willing to make: muscles jammed in a compression shirt that slightly cinches his waist, settled over the band of his grey sweats that cuff at his ankles. They sit low on his hips and good lord if he doesnβt hide the band of his boxers, youβre going to lose your mind.
βI look bad or somethin?β
βYou think youβre gonna leave the house looking that fine! No. You look way too good to be sitting at Bokutoβs house. What do you think this is?β
He snickers as he ties his shoes, βbaby, its just the boys-β
βI donβt trust you with that Sunarin. Donβt make me fight him off with a stick.β
He shakes his head and licks his lips, and you groan in frustration as he looks somehow even more fine looking.
He shakes his head and gently reaches up to rub his neck, βI'm so used to you being the eye candy, it's hard to think I could compete-"
βThis is not about me,β you say breathlessly, and he gives you a quiet βsorry,β before letting his shy, smiling face turn away. βYou, Miya Osamu, are a god amongst mere maggots, and I shouldnβt have the permission to gaze upon you.β
He snorts and shakes his head, βyou literally popped a black head on my nose yesterday, shut up.β
βThat doesnβt stop you from being an absolute heartthrob.β Your swooning only makes his cheeks heat up more, and he chokes out a shy βstop,β before licking his teeth to try and break the smile on his now sore cheeks.
Quickly, you toss your arms around his neck and plant more than a few kisses to his jawline, noisy and wet, and it has him snorting.
βYouβre so pretty,β you whine.
βThank you, baby.β
βLiterally going to wifey you up- youβre so handsome.β
βShut up!β He titters.
You groan and gently cup his cheeks, βjust a few more kisses, shut up and take them.β His lips are pursed out from the squishing of his cheeks as you plant a few kisses around his face, littering his nose and above his eyebrows. When you pass a kiss over his lips, he pushes out to chase the affection.
"You're so handsome." Kiss. "Truly ruining my life." Kiss. "I'd sacrifice my own left foot just to be in the same space as you." Your kiss moves up to his forehead, "literally let me be obsessed with you."
Kiss.
Kiss.
One long kiss.
You go to kiss him again, but you stop quickly as the consequences of your affection glares back at you. Instantly, your hands cover your mouth in shock, and he gives you a small chuckle as he quirks a brow at you, βwhatβre you lookinβ at?β
βIgaveyouahickey.β
βHuh?β
βIgaveyouahickey,β you repeat, your voice now pitched higher and more frantic. He chuckles again, this time a little more nervous before adjusting the tight cuff of his compression sleeve.
βVery funny, babe.β
You shake your head, βI wish I had those comedic capabilities, Osamu.β
With a gnaw of his lip, he gives you a deep inhale through his nose, βyou gave me a hickeyβ¦ on my forehead?β
βIβm so sorry-β
βhowβ¦ did you give me a hickey on my forehead?β
βWhenβ¦ when-when I was kissing you,β you begin, now trying to hide your laughter because damn, this is pretty funny- βI think I kissed you too hard.β
βI donβt think this was a kiss, I think itβs when you sucked my face,β he says in exhaustion, working up the courage to look in the camera of his phone. He tucks his lips in to fight off his own smile, and that causes you to finally break out in laughter. Your arms clutch your sides as he stares at himself; he doesnβt blink. He doesnβt flinch. Just a close-smile stare.
βAnd what exactly do you plan to do to help me with this?β He asks, full knowing you donβt have a plan. You beam up innocently, and he knows that this is not going work and heβs going to walk into Bokutoβs house with bags of food and a damned purple hickey above his eyebrow.
You stalk over to him and reach your hand up and into his hair, dragging out the not-so neat locks to have some longer chunks in the center of his forehead and just above his brow, βhere. Now no one will know!β
βReally?β
βYeah!β
βAre your pants on fire, you LIAR?β
You snicker and pull back, admiring him and the pretty purple mark on his head. "It brings out your eye color."
"Oh, thank God, I was worried."
You laugh and make your way back into his arms, and he embraces you happily. "At least I don't have to worry about anyone taking you from me tonight,β you tease.
He smiles and kisses your lips, nipping at them to make you squeak, "never have to worry about that ever, baby."
THE WITCH'S SONG - part one
knight!osamu/witch!reader
tags: fem!reader, royalty!au, supernatural!au, witchcraft, enemies to lovers, mentions of violence/illness/death, persecution and oppression, tw blood, please read the tags on each chapter as updated and minors do not interact.
The night air is sweet.Β
Itβs still early summer, where the days are warm and bright before giving way to cool evenings, and the smell spring unfurled with its budding leaves continues to linger long after the sun sets. The aroma is fresh and green, not yet turned to the heady fragrance of singed grass and warmed earth which will slowly seep in as the days grow longer and the sun ever-brighter overhead.
Thereβs something captivating about this time of year; not quite the lush, blooming spring, nor the scorching, unforgiving summer, but a deliriously pleasant in-between that keeps the best of both.
On a tall hill, overlooking the rocky coast and a quiet village in the distance, sits a small stone cottage. Ivy crawls along the rows of uneven bricks that give the home its shape, having long settled and slanted in the time since it was built, each vine curling in long stems around four-pane windows and up towards the thatched roof.Β
In front of the house sits a garden, full of every plant anyone could possibly desire to find in the given climate; vegetables, fruits and unusual herbs abound. The rich earth that surrounds the cottage is fertile and generousβwith a careful hand to till and tend it, thereβs little it can't sprout. The gardens are still not quite at their peak for the season, the plants low to the ground but flourishing as they patiently wait for a few more sun-filled days to truly blossom into their prime.Β
Along the western side of the property, nearest to the towering forestβs edge, sits a greenhouse connected to a shabby little shed that greatly resembles the cottage in its quaint, unassuming construction. Itβs there, in the dead of this cool summer night, that youβthe owner of the cottageβtoil.
Your fingers hold a glass vial over a small open flame atop the work station with a set of silver pincers. Your keen, well-trained eyes watch attentively as the fire licks up along the edges of the glass, heating the contents within. A breeze, northeasterly with a faint taste of salt air that creeps in with the nearby waves, whisks through the room and a shiver accompanies it in turn.Β
A soft sigh slips through your parted lips and your eyes, previously fixed on the tincture held over the flame, lift towards the door.Β
You arenβt startled when you see him standing there, though you barely contain the sound of annoyance that threatens to leave you; the momentary glance is the only acknowledgement you make to his (notably unwelcome) appearance as his figure darkens your doorway. You return your gaze to the solution youβre in the midst of preparingβa careful balance of valerian, mugwort, and poppy heads for a woman in the nearby village who has been unable to sleep restfully since the untimely death of her husband.
βGood eveninβ,β he says to you once he realizes that you will not be the first to speak. He punctuates the greeting with a light clearing of his throat.
βIs it?β you reply, removing the slender vial from the flame and swirling its contents. You closely examine the colour and viscosity of the liquid, returning it to the heat for a few moments more after some consideration.Β
βSorry to show up unannounced,β the young manβs own tone is rather tight and clipped as he speaks the wordsβobviously equally unhappy with the turn of events that had led him to your cottage this evening, though resolute to maintain some level of decorum.Β
βAnd yet,ββyou finally look up at him, meeting his gaze with a firm and unwavering stare that you have up until this point denied himββhere you are.βΒ
Finally satisfied with the tincture, you set about pressing a stopper into the tube. You reach over and pluck up a burning taper from the candleholder resting nearby on your worktop, tipping it forward over the still blisteringly-hot glass to seal the cork. A rivulet of molten wax runs from the candlestick in a slow drizzle, and you carefully turn the thin vial to coat the border where glass and cork marry evenly. A piece of blue ribbon is then carefully wound around the warm wax before it has fully hardened, sealing the small vessel shut.Β
The man watches silently as you slip the vial into a velvet pouch, tying the strings together tightly to draw it closed, and then you tuck the pouch safely away in the pocket of your flowing skirtβout of sight from where your visitor stands in the doorway to the greenhouse. Your eyes scan over the bench for a moment before you extinguish the oil burner youβd been using, turning the small knob at the base until the flame shrinks down to nothingness.Β
βI wouldnβtβve come if it werenβt important,β the young manβs tone has softened slightly into something closer to a mumble, weary from his journey and seemingly in grave need of something he could only seek from you. He looks like he hasnβt slept in days, with grim shadows under his eyes and a pallor to his skin that doesnβt suit him.
βNow that I do believe,β you remark, almost drolly, picking up your oil lamp and crossing the room towards where he stands. He stiffens a little as you approach, as though bracing himself against a threat, but you merely slip soundlessly past him, stepping out into the dark night.Β
Behind you, the man sighs.
He follows.
The two of you cross the yard, a few paces separating you throughout the silent trek, with the lamp you hold in hand the only light to lead the way. You tread carefully through the well-tended garden, careful but familiar motions deciding where each foot falls, and you sense without turning that heβs following your path as you move towards the stone cottage on the other side of the propertyβensuring his own steps follow your footprints precisely. There are candles burning inside your cottage up ahead, their warm glow visible through the windows, and smoke curls steadily from the chimney and into the brisk night air. The smoke is perfumed with herbs, and the scent only grows stronger the nearer you get to your home.
You wonder if he notices.
βThatβs far enough.β
You pause in your stride as you reach the stout stone wall that circles your cottage in a knee-high ring, resting with your feet together at the place where a gate might be were there any need for it. Behind you, the man falters to his own stop, surprised by your sudden halt and your sharp words.
βI need yer help,β he sounds confused, and frustratedβimpatience creeping into his tone again. Thereβs a sharpness to it, like heβs forced each word out from between clenched teeth. You donβt look back to verify your suspicion.Β
Another cold wind blows from the direction of the sea, and the budding leaves of the gardenβs plants around you rustle as it passes, whispering amongst themselves as they spectate your exchange.
βI care very little for what you need, Miya Osamu,ββyou glance at him over your shoulder, and see the way the distant light from your windows dances in his eyesββand it will be a cold day in hell before I help a royal knight.β
The garden seems to still in the wake of your low-spoken words, the breeze dying out like the temporary peace ahead of a stormβs rage.
Before you, Osamuβs eyes have hardened. The lines of his sharp jaw set underneath his skin.
βYa know me.β
βI know of you,β you correct him flatly. βFortunately, our paths have never crossed.β
Until now.
Osamuβs nostrils flare, then he swallows.
βHow?β he asks, his voice low and deceptively even.
βOne of the kingβs most trusted knights tearing through the outskirts of the kingdom in search of a healer is news powerful enough to reach even my ears, Miya.β Your lamplight dims slightly as you hold it aloft in your hand, the flame beneath the glass slowly shrinking. The oil is burning low. βI knew it was only a matter of time before you got desperate and I got unlucky.β
He flinches, his lashes fluttering slightly like heβs fighting back a more violent reaction. Like heβs accepting a blow he could easily return but chooses not to. The knight's gaze casts down to his feet as his fingers curl into fists at his sides.
βMy brother's ill,β he says quietly, his voice heavy with an anxiety that rolls off of him in waves. βMy twin.β
βAtsumu,β you specify, since he did not. His gaze snaps up to meet yours, and thereβs a spark of something new behind it. Something more volatile. He looks angry that youβve taken it upon yourself to speak his brotherβs name.
βI know what you are,β he says slowly, wielding his next words like a blade and aiming to kill.
βOh?β You tilt your head to the side in a show of guilelessness.Β
βYer a witch,β he continues, overlooking your feigned ignorance.Β
βThere are no witches in this kingdom,β you reply. βThe crown youβve sworn your life to saw to that.β
βOur king hββ
βYour king,β you interrupt him. The unexpected interjection seems to shock him, and his shoulders square indignantly.
βYer also a subject of this kingdom,β he counters, and your distaste is made perfectly evident in your responding sneer.Β
βIβm governed by no monarch, and certainly by no man.β
Osamuβs hands are still held in tightly-clenched fists at his side, the lines of his body as clear an indicator as any to his palpable anger. βYouβd admit to treason before a knight?βΒ
βYouβve already accused me of witchcraft,β you spit, your teeth gnashing together as you force the words out. βWhatβs another crime to be burned for?β
You know all too well the end that awaits a woman accused of such a crime.
Itβs the fate your mother met before your very eyes, after all.
Seconds stretch between you in the gardenβsticky, and uncomfortable, and polluted with the animosity you feel for each other. It takes root in distrust and blossoms into something ugly, like a weed.
Osamu takes a breath, letting his head hang forward. His shoulders slump.
Β βAn old man two towns west from here told me a young woman in this cottage once cured his ailing wife in her final hours, and she lived a decade more. That she was brought back from the brink of death thanks to the womanβs care.β He looks up at you again, and his stare is insistent. Beseeching.
You know the man he speaks of, and his gentle, lovely wife. It was half a century ago now since youβd first met them, and youβve heard the old man has gone a bit senile in his old age. You doubt he meant you any harm in his revelation, regardless of the trouble itβs come to cause.
βIβm nothing but a humble herbalist.β Your hand sweeps out in gesture to your garden, but the man before you is unmoved.
βWhoβs been a young woman for fifty years.β
Even the distant sea seems to have stilled as the tension intensifies between you, the waves falling silent to make room for the hostility that spreads with every passing moment.
Osamu swallows. βThey say witches have powerful healinβ abilities. That you can make potions thatβll revive a man half-dead.β
βItβs folklore,β you reply dismissively.
βItβs fact,β Osamu snaps. "I know it is."
βAnd what else do you claim to know of these so-called witches?β you deride, and you donβt miss the way his eyes seem to quickly trace you.
He squares his shoulders, then he meets your gaze. βThey say ya maintain yer beauty and youth by devourinβ the hearts of good men.β
βIs that so?β you muse, though you seek no sincere elaboration. You look to your left, east towards the sea, and then sweep your gaze across the expanse of your garden to the right. You meet his dark eyes again after surveying your surroundings. βWell, I see no good men nearby, so I believe you should be safe.β
In the dim light, you swear you see something throb at the corner of his tense jaw.
βThereβs not a healer in the royal court whoβs been able to cure my brother,β Osamuβs voice breaks, taking a step towards you. βIβve come here unarmed, and mean no harm to ya.β
Your upper lip curls at the lie and his proximity, baring your teeth.
No man has ever once approached a witch with pure intentions.
The seek only their beauty, their power, or their beating, bloody hearts.
Your motherβs screams ring suddenly through your ears, piercing and agonized. The memory makes gooseflesh raise along your skin. Makes the back of your tongue taste sour. You squeeze your eyes shut as though to quell it, but this only seems to trap the sound in the recesses on your brain. They grow louder, and harder to forget.Β
You see your mother on a wooden stage constructed in the town square before a crowd of horrified spectators, the gnarled boards underfoot already stained in scarlet.
The white linen shift theyβd forced her to wear, and the way the thin material flowed away from her frame in the breeze.
The glittering hilt of the jewelled knife that carved out her heart, with the sigil of the king etched into its blade.
The crackling flames that consumed her as she wailed.
A witch can live without her heart, you see, so long as itβs kept close to her. Your mother wasnβt spared a second of the misery of being burned alive. She was granted no mercy in the final terrifying moments of her life.
You open your eyes and the dark sky above you seems to hang closer overhead, as though itβs more suffocatingly near than it was before. The garden around you suddenly feels colder.
Osamuβs eyes widen, like he feels it too.
Your dying lamp burns out.
βLeave this place,β you say to him, low and warning. Your voice rings clear in the unearthly still night. βAnd if you value your life, never come back here again.β
mentions: sfw, aged-up characters (24+), fantasy au, fem healer reader, descriptions of injuries, near death experience, cultural misunderstandings, fluff, second person, part of the bnha big bang collab
summary: after getting caught out in a vicious storm, you seek refuge in a dark cave, not knowing that it is already occupied by a large dragon who really doesnβt want you there.
too bad you arenβt planning on leaving anytime soonβnot when he looks like that.
(or: in which you find a horrendously injured dragon in a cave and make it your duty to heal him, not knowing that heβs the infamous dragonshifter, bakugo katsuki, who has been cursed to remain trapped in his dragon form foreverβunless the spell is broken)
with art done by the lovely @your-fellow-passerine !!! here is a link to the original post (give it some love!!!!) <33
also on ao3 and quotev!
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four - TBA
KIRISHIMA SPINOFF - TBA
MIDORIYA SPINOFF - TBA
TODOROKI SPINOFF - TBA
brighter than ever (we'll burn, baby) - SEQUEL TBA
katsuki is sitting on the couch in the living room, holding his new little baby in his arms, and you notice that he's just been staring at him for the longest time. adjusts his little hat so his head doesn't get cold, pulls his small hands away from his face so he doesn't scratch himself.
and they're both quiet for a while, aside from the occasional squirmy baby noise, but katsuki eventually speaks up to askβ
"why's he lookin' at me like that?"
not only is the question itself funny, but the way it's voiced β tone deep and gruff, almost affronted β pulls a true laugh from you, has you shaking your head as you come around the couch to stand beside him.
and sure enough β your new little bean is frowning. even his little hairless browline is furrowed, hard.
you laugh again, sharp enough that your son wiggles in katsuki's arms. "because you're looking at him like that."
katsuki tch's, before turning to give you his son's exact same expression. "no 'm not. this is just my face."
"well, maybe that's just his face."
his frown deepens, hilariously enough. "ain't his face with you." and then he looks back down at him, like he's checking to see if he's still being glared at. he is. "looks like he's pissed."
"maybe he is."
you don't bother to correct him, to inform that your son does, in fact, give you a stink face every now and again β just like his father β and instead you watch katsuki lean down close to him, until their noses are nearly touching. watch the way little fingers squeeze around katsuki's thumb.
"the hell do you have to be pissed about, huh?" katsuki asks, voice quiet and low and small, enough for the boy in his arms. "far as i'm concerned, you're livin' the life."
you only laugh, smile while running a hand through katsuki's hair.
