[themoonalienhere2000]

Hey there! ✨💛

I hope you’re having a peaceful day! 🌷

I’m reaching out to ask for your support in sharing my family’s journey. 🌹🤲

Would you consider reblogging the pinned post on my blog?

By doing so, you could make a real difference and help protect a family from war and hardship. 🕊️

Your support truly means the world to me. 💖

Thank you from the bottom of my heart! 🌺

Just did. I send all my love and prayers to you❤️

[mo3mennblogs]

🆂🆃🅰🆁🆅🅰🆃🅸🅾🅽 ⚰

From the heart of unimaginable suffering, I want to sincerely thank everyone who has supported my family 🙏🏻

Right now, famine is hitting us harder than ever, my heart cries whenever I go to the market to buy any basic necessities! The prices are crazy, and most days my children survive on just bread Hunger and thirst are destroying us, and cooking on fire increases our suffering unbearably! Severe eye and chest sensitivity, in addition to constant stomach pain due to the type of food and the way it is cooked.

All this while we flee from one place to another in fear of bombing, bullets, and imminent danger! I cannot describe what I feel, but it is a feeling beyond exhaustion!

Despite the exhaustion, your support gives us strength and I hope you will not let us down

If you can donate, please do so, or at least help us by sharing, so we can reach those who can

Your kindness truly keeps us going

>> Our campaign is vetted by gazavetters list at Momen & his family

Donate to Help my family rise from the ashes, organized by Tahir Awad

Hello Everyone, I am Nour Al Madhoun, 30 years old, a computer engineer from gaza, my h… Tahir Awad needs your support for Help my family r

Gaza is full of oppression #The worst is yet to come #Genocide #A resilient people

[zephyrsandcoves]

Elastic Hearts

Pairing: Leona Kingscholar x Third-year Lab Partner Reader Synopsis: Leona takes care of you after a lab disaster and learns a little more than you intended to reveal. Tags: SFW, but occasionally suggestive, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, potion use, reader is a little insecure Word Count: ~15k

Perhaps your measurements were off. Perhaps your stirring technique still hasn’t improved. Perhaps the fire was too hot. Perhaps your magic hadn’t been steady enough.

Ah. It probably was your magic. Your stupidly unstable magic. Will you ever learn to channel properly?

It doesn’t matter now. 

The thunderous explosion has already taken you and your fellow third-years by surprise. Professor Crewel is quick to do damage control, using a spell to contain the smoke and prevent it from spreading to the remainder of the lab. There is no saving you, though. Having been standing directly over the cauldron, you end up enveloped in the huge puff of neon pink.

The air is heavy. Your lungs burn. Trying to breathe only results in what feels like an eruption in your chest. A coughing fit overcomes you. 

With your ears still ringing and your vision spinning, you try in vain to force yourself off the ground. Your limbs feel heavy. You can barely register a pair of arms wrapping around you, helping you to your feet and guiding your stumbling body out of the lab before propping you up against the nearest wall. You try to suck in as much fresh air as possible, but the tightness of your traitorous lungs refuses to yield. 

“Keep still, puppy. Don’t panic.” Crewel appears above you, using a firm but gentle grip to press your shoulders against the wall. His gloved fingers brush over your cheeks and nose, ridding your face of pink dusk. 

“You don’t have any burns,” he mutters, seemingly more to himself than you. His voice comes to you as though it were travelling through water. 

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, sir. You’re not sure you manage to say it out loud. If you do, he doesn’t acknowledge it. He’s probably so used to you making messes for him to clean up that your apologies no longer mean anything.

“Thankfully, you were wearing your goggles. There’s no saying what might have happened to your eyes otherwise. Good pup.” 

Good pups don’t usually blow up potionology labs.

Crewel’s hands drop to the buttons of your lab coat as his gaze momentarily drifts to a spot behind you. “Help me get this coat off so she can breathe more easily.”

The wall at your back shifts, beginning to grumble incoherently before cutting itself off with a sneeze that sends vibrations through your body.

Wait. Walls don’t usually do that, do they?

A second pair of hands appears from behind. They drag your lab coat off your frame before getting to work on your goggles and gloves. Still lightheaded, you carefully tilt your head to look over your shoulder.

The sneezing, grumbling wall is Leona Kingscholar. The last person you want seeing you like this.

The sight of him glaring down at you with narrowed emerald eyes causes your breath to hitch and pulls a few more coughs out of you. You try to peel yourself off of him, but Crewel’s grasp holds you firmly in place. 

Satisfied with your unbuttoned uniform jacket and your loosened tie, the professor meets your gaze once more. “Steady breaths, now. Are you in any pain?”

You blink slowly. “Head hurts,” you mumble. “ ’m dizzy and my chest feels tight.”

“Noted. Don’t fret, little one. Kingscholar will take you to the infirmary.”

“I will?” You could practically hear your classmate’s eyebrows shooting up.

“Yes, you will.” Crewel finally released his hold on you. Now that you are no longer tacked onto the man behind you, you try to regain your footing, but this time, Leona’s hands are the ones that still your movements, using his grip on your shoulders to pull your back flush against his chest. He begins to protest but is cut off by his own sneezing. 

“You’ve barely been doing anything all class,” continues your teacher. “I was surprised you even bothered to show up, so you might as well make yourself useful for once. I’m not sorry if this gets in the way of your plans to nap in the back. I need to figure out what went wrong with the prefect’s potion so I can help her avoid any long-term effects.” His eyes return to you. “I will visit you soon for a more thorough evaluation and to administer any healing potions I deem necessary. Just rest until then.”

With that, Professor Crewel scoops up your pile of discarded outerwear, drops them into a large trash bag you don’t remember him having, and disappears into the laboratory.

Leona’s exasperated sigh ruffles the top of your hair. “Great start to a Monday morning.” 

You turn in his grasp to look at him, and he makes no objection. Perhaps this is what emboldens you to step away from him, making one final attempt at standing on your own, but you begin to wobble almost immediately. He is quick to grab you, placing his hands under your armpits and gripping you almost tightly enough to bruise your flesh. 

“Don’t make this any more of a pain than it needs to be.” 

The ground disappears from beneath your feet, and you come face to face with a white surface. You panic for a moment before realising that Leona has hoisted you over his shoulder and that you’re staring at the back of his lab coat. 

“Leona!” You dig your fingers into your back as he begins walking. “I’m already dizzy.”

“Were you expectin’ bridal style, princess?” You feel his sarcastic quip reverberating beneath your hands and chest. 

“Put me down!”

“This is quicker,” he argues. He tightens the grip he has on your body as though he’s afraid you’ll start thrashing any second. “It’ll be a real hassle to help you walk over to the infirmary. Just get nice and comfortable up there; it’ll be over in a second.”

You don’t respond, trying your best to avoid focusing on the movement of the floor beneath you. You hold your breath in an attempt to keep your insides inside, but you only end up feeling as though sharp claws are scratching at your lungs.

At least this shitty feeling is a distraction from the fact that, in his attempt to stabilize you, one of your crush’s palms just accidentally groped your ass.

°︵‿︵࿔.♡.࿔︵‿︵°

You don’t remember the infirmary being this far. Perhaps it only feels as though you’ve been precariously balanced on Leona’s broad shoulder forever. His fingers now dig into your lower back and one of your thighs. Being upside down is making your light-headedness worse, and Leona’s swishing tail keeps invading your vision. It drags to the left, bounces a few times, then returns to the right to finish the lap. 

Left. Right. Left. Right. Swish. Swish. Swish, swish, swish... 

Maybe if you just reach out and—

“Oi!” Leona snaps at you. “Let go, or I’ll drop you, you damn brat!”

“Sorry, it’s ju— Ow!” Leona’s tail rips itself out of your loose clutch and lashes at your back before the tuft drags down your shoulder and neck, ultimately disappearing from your sight. “It’s just moving and making me so nauseous. Feels like I’m gonna throw up.”

“You better keep it down, herbivore. If you vomit on me, I swear I’m gonna...” He swallows the threat. “This wouldn’t have happened if you ditched with me like I told you to.”

“I know, I know! I needed the practice, though. I’m so shit at potions and I—” One of your hands releases his lab coat and flies to your mouth, which is rapidly filling up with spit. “Leona! Ugh, ’m gonna— put me down right now!”

You are suddenly upright once more, but the bile is already rising in your throat. Before you can register what’s happening, you’re seated on the edge of a bed with Leona’s fingers tangling into your hair and forcing your head down into an empty trashcan. You hadn’t even realised you’d entered the infirmary. 

Your throat and nose burn, and tears leak from your eyes. The stream feels endless.

For a moment, you think it’s over, allowing Leona to remove the bin from beneath you. “Shit,” he mutters, baring his sharp canines as he grimaces. “That’s fucking gross.” 

You don’t have time to argue, too focused on snatching the bin back for round two.

°︵‿︵࿔.♡.࿔︵‿︵°

A cool palm presses against your forehead. “Still burnin’ up.” 

You peel your eyes open to meet Leona’s emerald gaze. He’s changed into his P.E. uniform and pulled his hair back. His eyebrows are scrunched together in concentration. “You look like ass. Still got a headache?”

Your throat feels raw as you try to force out a response. “Mhm... might die...” 

You glance around the infirmary. The curtains are drawn tight and the light directly above you is off. The candles on each bedside cabinet are lit, filling the room with a green hue. There’s light spilling into the room from the hallway and from a room in the corner.

“That easy to kill you, huh?” He smirks down at you. “Shoulda told me sooner, brat.”

“ ’m not a brat.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” He slides off the infirmary bed and walks out of your line of vision.

You wince as you force yourself up a little, letting your weight rest on your elbows. “Are you leaving me?”

“What,” he scoffs, “I take my hands off you for a few seconds and you’re already missing me? You’re like a clingy cub.” You hear him rummaging around for a few moments before he returns with a glass vial. “I’m not going anywhere. It’s just time for another dose of your medicine.” 

Another dose? “Did Crewel come by already?” 

He pauses in his tracks, levelling you with an incredulous stare. “Jeez. You really are that out of it, huh?” He tosses open the curtains of the nearest window. “Any idea what time it is? He’s already checked on you four times and force-fed you two doses of this stuff.” He adopts a mocking tone. “You even tried fighting the poor guy after all the trouble he went through to make this for you.”

You sit up fully, pressing a palm to your warm temple in a feeble attempt to soothe the throbbing as you stare blankly through the window at the night sky. You prod at your memories for any recollection of the past few hours to no avail. “Is that why my mouth tastes so gross?”

“No,” he deadpans, “your mouth’s nasty ’cuz you wouldn’t stop puking earlier.”

“Ew.”

“Ew is right. You gave the ghost nurse on duty a hard time, ya know.” The rickety bed squeaks beneath you when he plops down near your feet and hands you the vial. “Gonna take this or not? Don’t tell me you need the prof to come to feed you again. Or would you prefer I do it this time?” 

You ignore his condescending tone and pluck it from his fingers, uncapping it and wincing at the sharp metallic scent. You pinch your nose and down it with a shudder. “Ugh, yuck! How much more of this am I gonna have to drink?”

“Only two more bottles.” Leona fishes a pair of pills out of his pocket. “Take these, too. S’for the fever and headache. You can chew ’em up.” 

You follow his instructions and instantly regret it. You kick him in the hip as he snickers at your plight. “Get me water right now, Leona.”

“Can’t believe you really fell for that. I really hope you’re smarter when you’re not sick.” He leans over and hands you a bottle you hadn’t realised he was holding and watches you chug its contents. “If you’re strong enough to kick that hard, you’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

You gently toss the now empty bottle at his head, slightly disappointed that he catches it before it can whack him. “Have you really been here since this morning?”

“It’s not like I had anything better to do.”

“What about classes? You missed them for someone you don’t even know that well?”

“I’d have missed them for no reason. Don’t start feelin’ too special.” Right. Of course. “I already know all that stuff anyway.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Made Ruggie bring me dinner.” Of course he did. “There’s some for you too, if you want it.”

“I’ll probably bring it back up,” you respond, frowning slightly, “I’m sorry for all this trouble.”

“You’re not welcome, brat. I thought this would be a good place to nap. Had no idea you could be such a handful.” His voice holds no true bite, but his words still make you feel bad. Leona leans back onto his palms, staring at you with a mischievous glint in his eye. “I’ll admit that it was a little entertaining, though. You’re always so quiet; never thought I’d hear you say that kind of stuff.”

You scrunch your face in confusion. “What kind of stuff?” 

He pauses for a few moments, staring at you as though he is contemplating his next move. You can almost see the gears turning behind his eyes. He eventually lets out a scoff. “Maybe it’s best I don’t tell you. Save you the embarrassment.” The man before you apparently finds some sort of amusement in watching you rack your brain. “You’re lucky I’m here and not someone like that scheming cephalo-punk. He’d have recorded it all and blackmailed you. Maybe I shoulda done that.”

“Leona.” You ignore your headache and scoot forward. “Tell me what I said.”

He suddenly stands and places a hand on your shoulder, coaxing you back into a lying position. “Don’t get so worked up. If you’re good, I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

“But—”

“No buts.” He sighs. He’s been doing that all day. Because of you. “You’re almost like a kid. Quit bein’ such a headache and go back to sleep.”

You find it in you to bite out one more complaint. “I feel disgusting, Leona.”

“You smell disgusting too.” Before you can snap back, he grabs a black drawstring bag from the bedside cabinet and deposits it on your lap. He nods to the corner. “Bathroom’s over there.”

°︵‿︵࿔.♡.࿔︵‿︵°

The light in the infirmary bathroom is blinding. As you sit on the toilet to relieve yourself, you squint at the contents of the bag: a new toothbrush, an unopened tube of toothpaste in the brand that Sam stocks, a pack of baby wipes, a few gold coloured hair ties, and some clothes that seem way too big for you. 

You busy yourself with scrubbing the foul taste off your tongue, peeling off your sweaty uniform, and using the wipes to clean your burning flesh the best you can. The clothes Leona prepared are too large. The sweatpants are too long and the wide collar of the black shirt threatens to slide off your shoulders. You don’t have nearly enough energy to cast the resizing spell you learned last year, and you doubt Leona would do it for you just because you asked. The material is so soft against your flesh, though, that you have no intentions of complaining.

You suppose you can’t complain even if you wanted to. By the time you leave the bathroom, Leona is passed out on one of the beds in the furthest corner of the infirmary. 

°︵‿︵࿔.♡.࿔︵‿︵°

The next time you awake, it is to the sound of Crewel’s voice. The candles are blown out, but you still manage to see his silhouette leaning in the doorway. 

“You may return to Savanaclaw if you please.”

“I know.” There is a pause before Leona speaks again. “She doesn’t remember.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” the professor responds. 

“She’ll want to know.”

“Shouldn’t you of all people know what curiosity does to cats? Enough of this. She’s stirring.” 

Had you more energy, you’d have started asking questions. Right now, though, it feels difficult to even move, much less make sense of everything they’re saying.

“Medicine time, pup. I must urge you to be good this time.” You barely manage an incoherent grumble before you groggily roll onto your side and haul the thin sheet above your head. 

“It’s the middle of the night,” says Crewel, impatience lining his voice. “You are not the only one who wishes to sleep. I will not hesitate to use magic to restrain you again.”

“Go away,” you grumble sleepily, “that shit’s nasty.” 

Suddenly, you feel the bed rock and the linens are yanked off your body. It takes you a moment to realise that you’re on your back once more. Before you can punch or kick at your assailant, a heavy weight settles on top of you. Leona glares down at you. “You’re really startin’ to drive me up a wall.” You feebly slap at his shoulders, but he pays you no mind. One of his hands grabs your jaw and squeezes. “Open your mouth. Now.”

A few more seconds of this is all you can manage before you yelp at the pain. He takes the opportunity to shove two fingers into your mouth, pressing your tongue down and making you gag. Crewel takes the opportunity to pour the potion straight down your throat. You nearly choke. Leona’s fingers remain in your mouth even after you’ve managed to swallow, and you don’t hesitate to bite down on them. He yanks his hand back with a pained curse and finally climbs off of you. You wipe the corners of your mouth, cleaning any of the potion that escaped.

Crewel clears his throat with a grimace. “How untrained you both are,” he mutters. He briefly runs the back of his hand across your forehead. “That’s much better than last time. Keep resting. You too, Leona.” He spares a glance at the beastman. “And try not to rough-house her too much.” 

“Tell her not to bite me again!” But Crewel’s back is already turned to the two of you. You begin to apologise, but Leona’s snarky laugh cuts you off. “Guess I can’t call you a herbivore anymore, huh?

You don’t respond. You’re still spiralling from the feeling of his weight crushing you, of his knees digging into your sides, of his fingers stuffing themselves into your mouth… 

Leona Kingscholar was just on top of you, pinning you to a flimsy infirmary bed. You roll back onto your side, giving him your back as you try to slow your racing heart.

°︵‿︵࿔.♡.࿔︵‿︵°

You wake up in your room, confused and thirsty. 

It takes you a few moments to make sense of your surroundings and realise that Leona must have brought you here while you were still asleep. The clock on the wall tells you it’s midday. Diligent as you may be, you recognise that there’s no point in rushing to classes this late. Not when you still feel this exhausted.

On the bedside table sit two bottles of water. You waste no time with them.

Halfway through your second bottle, you pause to examine the other items. The last dose of that awful concoction, a bottle of painkillers, a paper bag that smells really good, the drawstring bag from last night, a thermometer, and a... note?

You grab the piece of paper, staring at the signature for a few seconds before you actually begin reading:

“If you really can’t figure out a potion, just tell me next time. Drink the last of the healing potion and take a damn shower.

- L” 

You are only slightly surprised at the elegance of his penmanship. He’s a prince, after all. What you don’t understand is why he bothered to leave a note at all.

Truth be told, you don’t understand why he’s done anything so far. Before yesterday, Leona only ever asked you for help skipping lessons (requests to which you never agreed) or told you where to sit so he could nap in behind you. He almost never helps anyone, and now he’s taking care of you all of a sudden? You of all people? You didn’t even think he knew your name. 

For a moment, a part of you wonders if he somehow caught you watching him from under the bleachers at his spelldrive practice last week. Or from the back of the hall during Crowley’s last impromptu speech. Or from across the cafeteria everyday at lunch. Or…

A wave of panic washes over you. What if he knows you’ve been eyeing him and decided to play a nasty prank on you. 

No. You push the thought away. Leona wouldn’t do something like that. He’d never waste his energy on silly pranks, and most certainly not on someone like you. 

So then why? What is he getting out of this?

You use the thermometer even though you already know your fever is gone. 

You down the silver potion and chase it with the remainder of your water. 

You don’t need the painkillers. 

The paper bag must be the food Ruggie brought you last night. You don’t realise just how hungry you ate until you unwrap your favourite sandwich. He probably just picked something randomly and you got lucky.

While you eat, you peep into the drawstring bag to find your dirty school uniform folded just the way you left it, along with the empty vials that once held Crewel’s concoction. You should wash. Wash your uniform so it will dry by this evening. Wash the bottles so you can return them to Crewel tomorrow. Wash the clothes you slept in and return them to Leo—

Hold on. You glare back down at Leona’s note. Did he just call you stinky?!

°︵‿︵࿔.♡.࿔︵‿︵°

The evening breeze at Savanaclaw caresses your skin. The air is a bit warm, but not sticky. You clutch the black drawstring bag against your chest, the clothes Leona lent you neatly folded inside. 

The student guarding the dorm entrance happens to be your lab partner from yesterday. And, well…

“Ribbit.”

You stare at him, dumbfounded. “Are you... how...” You look around as though you will find the words you’re looking for hiding under one of the decorative shrubs. “Did my explosion do that to you?”

“Ribbit! Ribbit, ribbit!” The boy shakes his head back and forth before launching into a series of wild gestures and frantic croaks. He finally finishes and looks at you with a pleading look in his eye. 

“I, uh... didn’t catch any of that.” You wince at his pained ribbit. “I think you should go see Professor Crewel.” 

Your lab mate sighs and tries to respond, but you quickly cut in before he can begin serenading you once more. “Look, I’m here to see Leona. Can you show me where to go?”

With a final, slightly confused croak, he offers a small nod and gestures for you to follow him. 

°︵‿︵࿔.♡.࿔︵‿︵°

Leona is sprawled out on his stomach, tail flicking lazily from side to side. His ears twitch when you take a step into his room. “Finally took a bath, huh?” He yawns deeply, not even bothering to open his eyes. “You reeked of chemicals before.” 

“How did you know it was me?”

“How do you people live with such a pathetic sense of smell? Knew it was you from halfway down the corridor.” He finally rolls onto his back and opens his eyes, the scar on his eye stretching as he raises an eyebrow at you. “Most prey consider it unwise to waltz straight into the lion’s den. You servin’ yourself up for dinner or something?”

“You don’t look very excited to eat me,” you argue, extending your arms to offer him the bag. “I’ve come to return the clothes you lent me.”

He stares at you with a befuddled expression. “You came all the way here for that? Surprised you didn’t just keep ’em.” 

“Why would I? They are yours, aren’t they?”

“You prayin’ for a yes?” he asks with a sly grin that makes you look down at your feet. Did it suddenly get really hot in the dorm, or is the thought of wearing Leona’s clothes making your entire body feel warmer? “They are mine. I’m just so generous, aren’t I? Toss ’em anywhere. Ruggie’ll deal with it later.”

“Ruggie handles your laundry, too?” You roll your eyes and make your way to the dressing table, happy to finally face away from him for a few moments. “I washed them already, so you can give the poor guy a rest.” You neatly place the bag in the corner of the desk before pulling out the chair, flipping it to face him, taking a seat.

“Why are you gettin’ comfy?” 

“That eager to get rid of me?”

“Got no one else to badger?” Leona sits up with a groan. 

You ignore the quip. “Your sentry is croaking,” you begin, thinking back to the distressed ribbits of your classmate. “Did I do that?”

“Do I look like I have time to pay attention to all my dorm members’ problems?” His hand reaches under his loose shirt to scratch at his tummy, revealing that the waistband of his pants is sitting dangerously low on his hips. “From what I hear, he did it to himself. He tried remaking the truth potion from scratch after we left, but he messed it up. He’ll be fine in another day or two.”

“Sounds like you were paying attention, then,” you mutter. The potion you were supposed to make yesterday would force the drinker to answer questions truthfully for a certain amount of time. 

“Just be happy that’s not you.” You shudder at the thought.

You cross your arms, doing everything in your power to avoid looking at the tufts of hair peeking over Leona’s waistband. “You promised to tell me what kinds of weird things I said yesterday.”

“I said I’d tell you if you were good.” He raises his hand to show you a few purple spots below his knuckles. “You have not been good.”

You are stricken by a pang of guilt. You had no idea you’d bitten him that hard. Way to bag a prince, you fool. “I’m sorry,” you say with a frown, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Hurt me?” He scoffs. “Don’t make me laugh. Took me by surprise and pissed me right off, but a kitten nibble like this isn’t nearly enough to hurt a lion like me.”

“So I’ve graduated from herbivore to kitten?”

“That’s what you took from that?” His eyes all but roll out of his head. “Let me ask you something. Is this your first time almost blowing up the lab?”

“You’d know if you came to class more often,” you joke, earning yourself yet another eyeroll. “I’ve had a ton of mishaps before, but this is the first time this year. And so far, this has been the... loudest. Why?” 

“Do the potions ever come out right?”

“Eventually, but with some pretty nasty side effects.” You think back to all of your fiascos from before Leona ended up in your year. You shrunk yourself to the size of a pen more than once. Last year, you turned Rook’s hair pink. Once, during your first year, you made ivy grow out of Crewel’s nose. You wince at the memory of that last one. “Crewel’s probably really sick of cleaning up all my messes.”

“That’s what happened yesterday.”

“Huh?”

Leona stands and walks over to a messy pile of books in the corner before crouching and flipping through a few of them. None of them are NRC required texts. In fact, most of them aren’t even in the common tongue.

“You made a truth potion, alright,” he continues. “A real strong one. Strong enough that breathin’ in the fumes was enough for it to work on you.” Having found the book he was searching for, he grabs it and pads over to you. 

“The smoke and chemicals are what made you sick, but the potion itself worked. Thing is, instead of just making you answer questions truthfully, it made you start revealing all kinds of truths all on your own with zero restraint. It turned off your filter, made you say all the crazy shit that was in your head, and then wiped your memory of the whole thing. Ever thought of workin’ for STYX?”

He towers over you with the book tucked under his arm. He’s so close that you have to crane your neck to look him in the eyes, the only other option being to stare straight at his groin. You can smell him. “Leona, you’re too close.” You try to scoot back, but the chair simply thumps against the dresser behind you. “Let me get up.”

“I thought you made yourself at home there,” he retorts, a wicked smirk playing on his lips. He places a hand on one of the chair’s arms, leaning over you and almost caging you beneath him. “Now you wanna run? Are you scared I’m finally ready to swallow you whole?”

You manage to catch yourself and refrain from biting your lip. His face, his scent, his warmth. It’s all too close.

You take a breath in an attempt to calm your racing heart, then sneer up at him with all the faux disgust you can muster. “Scared? Of you? Never.” You place your palms against his hunched shoulders and shove him lightly. “Now move.” 

The measly push itself does nothing to shake him, but he relents with a sigh, taking a step back and giving you enough room to stand and remove yourself from beneath him. He drops a knee into the now vacant seat and leans over the back of the chair. The book falls onto the dresser with a thud. 

“Leona, I want to know what I said.”

“Why’s it matter? You can’t un-say it.”

“I know that, but...” But what if you accidentally told him something insanely embarrassing? Like how often you think of him, or—

Stop. Do you really want to know?

“You did a whole lot of snivellin’ for starters,” he begins, flipping to the back of the book and looking through the index. “Started cryin’ and groanin’ about how much everything hurt. ’Leona, my ribs are crushing me! Leona, there’s vomit in my nose! Leona, my head hurts!’ Wouldn’t quit pesterin’ me.”

He finds what he’s looking for in the index and flips to a page near the centre of the book. He pulls a hair tie off his wrist to use as a bookmark and slams it shut before turning to sit in the chair properly. 

Leona Kingscholar likes to manspread.

“Then you started whinin’ about how much you miss your cat, and cryin’ cuz you thought that no one at home missed you.

“Then Crewel showed up and I nearly died of second-handembarrassment. ‘I’m sorry for always fucking up your potions! I promise I don’t mean to cause all this trouble. I want you to like me. I want my teachers to like me but everyone hates me because I’m not good at anything.’ “ 

The high pitched voice he used to mock you was really starting to itch your skin. “Surely I didn’t sound anything like that.”

“Why ask if you weren’t gonna believe me?”

“Your impression of my voice is way off! But go on… what else did I say.?”

“No clue,” he responds. “I had to leave the room while Crewel wiped more pink stuff off you because it was making me sneeze. I didn’t wanna hear anymore anyway. The second-hand embarrassment might have ended me.”

What do you even say to that?

You sit on the edge of his bed, but promptly stand again. These sheets probably cost more than your entire dorm. You shift your weight from side to side, trying to find the right words. “That is really embarrassing. I’m sorry you had to see that. Please... please don’t tell anyone.”

“Relax. I got better things to do than run lip about you.”

“Thank you, Leona,” you say softly. “Not just for that. Thanks for looking after me yesterday, even when I was bugging your nose. I still don’t get why you’d do something like that, but thank you.”

“Geez, you thank everyone this profusely for everything? Gonna start kissin’ my feet next?”

“Ew! No way.”

His eyes narrow at you. “What do you mean, ew? You sayin’ my feet are nasty?”

“Do you want me to kiss your feet? That’s gross! Don’t tell me you’re into that.”

“Hold up. Don’t get the wrong idea now, kitten, I’m just sayin’—”

“Leona!” Ruggie’s voice floats down the hall. “Leona, did you forget about your housewarden meeting?” He starts pounding on the door.

“I can hear you just fine, Ruggie. Quit yellin’. Gimme five minutes!”

The door flies open. “You say that every time I— oh?” Ruggie’s eyebrows shoot up. “Didn’t know you were here, (y/n). You’re looking way better than yesterday.”

“Hi, Ruggie,” you greet, giving him a tiny wave. “I’m guessing you brought me those things? Lazy bones over here would never.” 

“Oi!” Leona’s interjection goes ignored.

“Yeah, that was me. You were out cold when I came by, though,” he laughs, waving you off when you try to thank him. “Did you know you talk in your sleep?”

The question takes you by surprise. “Do I?”

“Yeah. Sounded like you were havin’ a wild dream. Something about Rook looking better with pink hair. Now that I’d love to see.”

°︵‿︵࿔.♡.࿔︵‿︵°

You sit cross-legged on your bed with Leona’s book in your lap. He’d shoved it into your hands moments before kicking you out of his room so he could head to his meeting. 

“What’s this for?” you’d asked him.

“Do I really gotta spell everything out for you in crayon? Take it and get out before I change my mind.” 

Now, you stare at the tattered tome. It was an unfamiliar potionology textbook that definitely wasn’t on your school’s reference list. There are a few juvenile scribbles in the corner of the fly leaf: “FK” struck through by a few wobbly lines, followed by “LK”. 

You slowly flip through the pages, taking note of blocks of text underlined with fluorescent yellow as well as shaky bullet points hastily scratched into the margins. You occasionally come across scratched-out lines of writing. Only by straining your eyes are you able to make out phrases like “stupid Kifaji” and “Falena is a dumb-dumb.”

You eventually reach the page marked by Leona’s hair tie. The chapter heading screams at you: “COMMON ERRORS WHEN BREWING ADVANCED POTIONS.” 

You don’t spare it a second glance. Your eyes are fixed, rather, on the gold elastic between your fingers. It’s identical to the one currently on your wrist, the one you couldn’t bear to part with when you returned the remainder of Leona’s belongings. “He wouldn’t miss a single hair tie,” you’d told yourself. 

This one is different. This one had been on his wrist, likely because he’d intended to use it. Or perhaps, he’d already used it. 

You don’t think twice before bringing the band to your nose and inhaling deeply.

°︵‿︵࿔.♡.࿔︵‿︵°

You are the first student to arrive at the laboratory the next morning. “Good morning, Professor.”

“Good morning to you, my most troublesome puppy.” You wince at his tone. Crewel’s brows are pinched together as he glares at you from behind his desk. Maybe if you had a tail, you’d tuck it between your legs and run back through the door. 

You approach the desk slowly, eying the way he casually spins his pointer in his hand. The relaxed, almost hypnotic motion is almost enough to put you at ease. Almost.

When you finally stand in front of him, only a few metres of desk space separating you, you gently place a pouch on the wooden surface. A soft clinking can be heard from within. 

“I cleaned your vials for you,” you begin, voice trembling. “Thank you for making those healing potions, and for taking care of me. I’m truly sorry for all the trouble I caused last class, and for anything I might have said to offend you while I wasn’t aware of what I was doing. I accept any discipline you deem necessary, sir.”

To your surprise, his gaze softens. With a deep sigh, he places the pointer on top of your peace offering and slides them both aside. As he leans forward, elbows perched on the desk and chin resting on his interlocked fingers, you hear the door open behind you. Footsteps and sleepy voices begin filling the lab. 

“Look at me, little one. Looking at one’s feet is not only an impolite habit, but also one that is bad for your posture.” You straighten up as he instructs. 

“Failure is a necessary step to success,” he continues. “I do sometimes wish you would fail a little less… spectacularly, but I will never begrudge you for these mishaps. Not when your diligence is so evident. You will try again today and you will succeed. You will bounce back, just as you always do.” He stands and turns his back to you, busying himself with the beakers on the nearby shelf. “Now cease this moping and hand out the lab books.”

You hand out the lab books as instructed.You help set up the apparatus. You greet your Savanaclaw classmate who is, as Leona predicted, no longer ribbiting. 

Professor Crewel is halfway through his instructions for today when a sluggish lion with a nasty bedhead strolls in, mouth wide open and teeth bared in the midst of a yawn.

“Twice in one week, Kingscholar.” Crewel glowers at Leona with his arms crossed. “I would praise you, if not for your tardiness.” 

“Please, don’t pause your lesson for me, teacher.” 

The professor pinches the bridge of his nose, watching as Leona all but drapes himself across the stool to your left. “Your disrespect knows no bounds. You ought to be collared and whipped some day.” Disgruntled though he may be, Crewel continues issuing his orders.

“Partner with me,” Leona murmurs from beside you. His groggy voice is deeper than you’re used to hearing it. You look up at him in confusion. 

“You’re willingly working with me? Is the sun gonna rise in the west next?”

“Who said anything about working?” He shoots you that grin, that wicked sneer that lets a gleaming fang peek out at you. You roll your eyes and look back to Crewel, to the apparatus in front of you, to the piles of ingredients up front, to the lab book beneath your drumming fingers... 

Anything to get your eyes off his mouth. 

°︵‿︵࿔.♡.࿔︵‿︵°

Leona, indeed, had no intention of working. 

You call over to the beastman who has been leaning against the counter, silently watching your every move. “I only have two hands, Leona!” 

“That’s great news,” he responds. “Any more and I’d be worried.”

“Do you really not intend to help me?” 

“My presence in this boring class is already a huge gift. You should be singin’ my praises.”

“Careful there,” you warn. “You’re so full of yourself, I fear you might burst any second. One explosion was enough for this week.”

“Is this how you thank the guy whose books you’re studying from? Listen, kitten, my involvement here won’t do you a lick of good on your final.” His tone carries a sense of finality. “Now quit pesterin’ me.”

You recall the tips in Leona’s textbook and try your best to keep a steady hand. You pour the powdered chrysanthemums into the cauldron with your left hand while trying to maintain a consistent stir with your right. The white substance makes your nose itch a bit, but your nearby partner is the one who sneezes. You resist the urge to pour faster. 

You are so focused on your concoction that you don’t realise Leona is standing right beside you.

“This stuff stinks.” You jump, almost dropping the entire beaker into the cauldron. “Easy, scaredy cat. If you have to start over, it’ll take even longer for me to get lunch.”

“Don’t sneak up on me like that, then,” you hiss. “You can leave if you so badly want to. You’re not doing anything here anyway.”

“You hate my company or somethin’?” From the corner of your eye, you see him feign a pained expression. “And to think I was about to remind you that this is the part where you turn down the heat.”

“Shit.” 

“Don’t stop stirring.”

You do as he says. Of course you do. Leona disappears from beside you, crouching to cast a minor spell on the fire beneath the cauldron. You think that you briefly feel something brushing against your ankle, but when you look down, there’s nothing there. 

Perhaps you imagined it.

He stands a second later, this time right behind you so he can peer over your shoulder. You can feel the warmth oozing off of him and seeping into your skin, making your entire body tingle. 

“You need to be able to do all this stuff yourself,” chides Leona. “There are no partners in the exams.”

“I know, I know,” you huff. “It’s hard to focus on everything at once.”

“That’s your problem. You shouldn’t need to focus. You shouldn’t even need to be awake to change the size of a flame. That should come as easy as breathin’.”

“Easy for you to say,” you huff. “You probably learned how to do that when you were ten.”

“Seven.” You recall the childish scribbles in his book.

“Not the point!”

“Quit yammerin’ and just add your magic.” Leona reaches around your body to pull your magical pen from your pocket and places it into your free hand. “Keep a steady stirring rhythm with one hand and cast with the other. Slowly. If you channel too much at once like last time, it’ll blow up again.”

You try to calm your breathing. Steady. Steady. Steady. 

Slowly but surely, the potion begins taking on a pink colour, one that’s a lighter, more glittery shade of pink than the one you blew up.

“ ’N you made it seem so hard,” he grumbles, the feeling of his breath right against your ear making you shiver. “You only have one brain. Certain things need to be muscle memory so you can give your attention to the things that really matter.”

“I’m still sort of new to this whole magic thing, you know.”

“Is that the excuse you’re gonna keep throwin’ around for the rest of your life?” You look over your shoulder to glare at him, but he isn’t leveling you with the narrowed gaze you imagined he would. He isn’t even looking at you, but rather, at the fire near your feet. It goes out. “Done.”

“Are you now?” Crewel asks. How long has he been standing there? 

You rip yourself from your partner, stepping away from the cauldron and watching as Leona transfers the steaming potion into a reagent flask before handing it to the professor for inspection. He takes a few steps back, until he is beside you. 

Crewel holds the flask up to the light, gently swishing the pearlescent concoction around as he scrutinises its glimmer. He then waves some of the steam towards himself and takes a tentative sniff. He mumbles to himself for a few moments, and anxiety begins to sink its claws into you, but before it can do any real damage, your teacher turns back to you with a smile. “Well done. You’ve worked hard.”

“Thank you professor.” You accept the flask and stopper it, avoiding Crewel’s gaze for fear of him seeing the tears of relief welling in the corner of your eyes.

Leona yawns beside you. “So we’re done here, yeah?”

“It still requires testing,” the professor reminds him, slapping the pointer into his own palm. “I expect a full report by next week, so I suggest you begin.”

“Don’t worry, sir,” you reassure him. “We’ll use the rest of the class time to get started, right Leona? Leona?!”

The lion is already walking away, tail lazily swishing behind him. “My stomach’s growlin’. I’m heading out.”

“Disobedient cur! You may not leave until I have dismissed the class!”

But Leona’s already halfway through the door, holding two lab books instead of one.

°︵‿︵࿔.♡.࿔︵‿︵°

“Have you truly managed to tame le Roi des lions?”

You look up at Rook from your hunched over position by the lab sink. It is not rare for the two of you to be the last ones left in the potionology lab. You turn the faucet off. “What are you on about now, Rook?”

The blond looks at you with that smile. The one that declares, I know something you don’t. The one that is so very Rook. “He does not bare his fangs at you.”

“You talk about him like he’s some savage beast that’s finally being domesticated.”

“I’m just saying he seems rather docile as of late.”

“Docile? Please.” You scoff, handing him the last of the beakers so he can dry it and put it away. “Lazy more like it.”

“Au contraire! He was rather agile when he thought you were in danger the other day.” He closes the cupboard doors and turns to face you. “Why, with the way he swept you off your feet, I dare say he is rather taken with you.”

You laugh. Truly laugh. Leona Kingscholar, taken with you? “Sweet merciful Seven, Rook— you have the wrong idea.”

“Have I?”

“You have. I can assure you that His Royal Highness, Prince Leonaof Sunset Savannah, would never be taken with someone like me. It’s not like that.”

“And I can assure you that I am an expert in this field,” he argues. “It seems you are too busy selling yourself short to see what I have been seeing.”

You roll your eyes, heaving open the heavy lab door and gesturing for him to follow you out. “It really isn’t what you think it is.” It can’t possibly be. Not when he’s him, and not when you’re you.

“Well enlighten me then, little Trickster. Tell me what really happened.”

You sigh. What a pain. “It’s simple. I fucked up my potion the way I always do. He’s got a sensitive nose, so he left the room to get away from the smell, but then Crewel forced him to take me to the infirmary. He only carried me so he could get it over with as quickly as possible.” 

“He stayed with you in the infirmary,” Rook says.

“Only because he wanted an excuse to skip his classes,” you defend. You pause in the middle of the corridor. “Wait. How do you know that?” You really shouldn’t be this surprised. It’s Rook.

“I was beside myself with worry for you,” he exclaims, dramatically closing his eyes and touching the back of his hand to his forehead. “As soon as I finished tidying the lab, I came to check on you, but Leona refused to let me in. He only unlocked the door when Professor Crewel arrived. He was being so protective, it made my heart flutter!”

You remember witnessing several instances of Vil scolding Rook for stalking Leona. “I somehow get the feeling that his refusal to let you in had less to do with me and more to do with you…”

Rook has an odd glimmer in his eye as he turns away from you. “Your suspicion isn’t entirely without reason, I’ll admit. Still, I can’t imagine that’s why he spent the night.” 

He walks away, the echo of his retreating footsteps now your only companion in this vast, empty hallway. 

°︵‿︵࿔.♡.࿔︵‿︵°

The bleachers protect you from the afternoon sun and the unusually high wind. Over the past few weeks, you’ve learned to love the damp, grassy smell of the shady spot underneath the stands. It’s comfortable, quiet, and provides you with enough cover to see without being seen. 

Through the cracks between the stands, you can see Leona in the sky. It’s a more casual practice today; the boys are all wearing their PE uniforms instead of their spelldrive suits. Their leader flits back and forth, barking orders at the players and pointing out formations. 

Mean as he may sound right now, everyone knows that Leona cares about his boys. If he didn’t, he never would have pestered Vargas to add an extra hour of training every week. He wouldn’t show up early to prepare the equipment on his own so they can spend as much time warming up as possible. He wouldn’t have arranged for extra water coolers to be installed near the spelldrive field. 

You’ve never heard him say it, but he doesn’t need to: Leona indubitably loves his guys. 

And they love him too.

Leona belongs up there with them, where the golden rays of the setting sun act as his spotlight, where wind howls his praises, where the clouds and birds part for him. Leona belongs up there, where he is loved. Where he is king.

And you belong down here.

You watch as he gestures for a water break, sinking to the ground with the others until he is no longer in your line of vision. You close your eyes and lean against one of the columns that support the seating structure. 

The metal is cool against your head. You would take a nap if it weren’t for the magic jar of flames you held on your lap. It didn’t take long for you to figure out how to maintain the size of the flames without looking, but changing it still required your full attention. 

Perhaps you could practice now. Keep your eyes closed and slowly increase the size. Slow and steady. Steady stream of magic. Steady, steady...

“I should try napping here some day.”

Your shock at the sudden voice rips a scream from your throat, but you don’t hear it over the sound of your jar exploding. Your eyes fly open, and you find yourself surrounded by a protective barrier. You are unscathed, but several shards of glass are stuck to the other side of the barrier. 

Leona, who is crouched a mere few feet away from you, drops the shield and extinguishes the flames that have escaped the now shattered jar.

“Jumpy, kitten?” He grins at you. “Don’t let me interrupt your cat nap.” 

“You did that on purpose!”

“What’s with the jar?” 

“I was taking your oh-so-sagacious advice,” you huff. “I’m trying to manipulate flames without having to focus too hard.”

Leona laughs. He laughs at you. “And somehow, not only did you not hear me comin’, but this little distraction was enough to nearly burn down the school. You were focusin’ on it. Real hard, too.”

You cross your arms. “Shouldn’t you be in the sky right now?”

“Yeah, somethin’ like that.” He watches you with an uninterested expression as you levitate the shards and float them into a nearby trash can. “ ’s pretty hard to focus when you’re starin’ at me from down here, though.”

“I was not staring at you,” you lie.

He tilts his head, a questioning brow raised. “Someone else then? One of my guys?”

“What? No way!”

“Then why’re you here?”

“I... um...” You hesitate. Why are you here? “So you’ve already forgotten, haven’t you? We need to test this potion and write up a lab report. I’m here to make you do it as soon as your practice ends so we can get it out of the way.” You know that with a voice so shaky, he won’t believe you.

“Is that so?” He finally stands up, forcing you to look up at him from your seat on the grass. His gaze is sharp enough to pierce your very soul. “Maybe I’d buy that if this was your first doin’ this.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck— “How did you—”

“Sometimes, I wish my nose was as dull as yours.” To your surprise, Leona extends his arm, offering you a hand up. You begrudgingly take it, gasping at the ease with which he suddenly hauls you to your feet. 

“At first I thought it was that hunter pest,” he continues, “but the scent was different. Came to check one day during a water break and found you dozing off.”

“So all this time, you... why didn’t you say anything?”

“Cuz I didn’t care. You can’t do any harm if you’re snoozin’, so why waste my time trying to get rid of you?” Leona looks up at the handful of spelldrive players heading back up into the air. “Turn around.”

“What? Why?” You scrunch your face in confusion as though you’re not already almost backing him. You nearly jump right out of your skin and spin back around when you feel his hands in your hair. “What are you doing?!”

“Can you chill?” He sounds as though he’s holding something between his teeth. “I’m just makin’ sure the wind doesn’t blow your hair in your eyes while you’re up there.” He is surprisingly gentle with you, tenderly swooping any stubborn strands into a hair tie.

“Up there? The hell are you on about?! I don’t recall volunteering for a workout.”

“Ruggie’s absent today so there’s an odd number of players. I need it to be even for the next set of drills.” He tightens the elastic ever so slightly. “You’re lurking around here anyway, so you might as well be good for something. Too tight?”

“No...” You reach up and poke at the hair tie, the very one that was in Leona’s mouth a few seconds ago. You spin back around to glare at him. “No as in it’s not too tight and no as in I’m helping with your stupid drills.”

“You’ve played spelldrive during our PE classes,” he huffs.

“That doesn’t mean I’m good at it!” You swat at him in protest as he wraps his fingers firmly around your forearm and begins tugging you out of the shade. “Really, Leona, I’m a shit flyer.”

“Do you really think I’d take a ‘shit flyer’ into my sky to slow me down?” You shudder as you feel a chill run through you. You thought it might be from the way Leona narrowed his eyes at you, but then you look down to find yourself in your PE uniform. 

You don’t have time to start grilling the lion before he yells out to his team. “Oi! Someone get this cub a broom!” His gaze returns to you where you are practically stuck to his side with how close he’s tugged you. 

You definitely didn’t just try to discreetly sniff him. Certainly not. 

“Pair up with Epel,” he instructs. “And you better not let me catch you slackin’ off and slowin’ him down.”

°︵‿︵࿔.♡.࿔︵‿︵°

The sun has already begun setting when Epel takes a swig from his water bottle before tossing it to you. “I thought you said you couldn’t fly, (y/n).”

“I said I wasn’t good at flying.” You pull your legs up onto your broom, sitting cross-legged. The movement makes the wooden length dip slightly lower. Your magic pours into it, keeping you afloat with a slight bounce as you unscrew the cap of Epel's bottle, not wanting to drink directly from the spout. 

He tilts his head. “Well, none of the bad flyers I know can fly like you.” You’ve never seen him grin like this. He’s so different now that he’s in his element. “Can you imagine Azul sitting on his broom so casually?”

“Shall I tell him you think he’s a bad flyer?” 

“No!” 

You can’t help but snicker at his panicked expression. “Relax, I’m just kidding.” You thank him for the water as you throw his bottle back to him.

“Anyway, your flying is fine. You’re not nearly as fast as any of us—”

“Hey!”

“—B-but your technique isn’t too shabby!” He gives you a pensive look. “Actually, your magic seems a lot more stable than what Rook let on.”

Your magic? Stable? Does this guy even hear himself? “Does Rook talk about me a lot or something?”

“Only when you blow stuff up,” he snorts. “Which seems to be often. Looks like you’ve recovered from the last time, though. Pretty quickly too… He said you would.”

“Did he now?”

“Yeah. That’s why I was scared to partner with you at first. You blew up the lab, slept for only two days, and now you’re up here on a broom looking for even more trouble. I thought you’d lose control and blow me up next! I should have trusted Leona’s judgement. Sorry for underestimating you.”

You follow him in steering the handle of your broom downward to begin your slow descent. You can’t help but tease him a little. “Do you speak to all your seniors so bluntly or is it just me?”

“Only the ones that aren’t as prickly as Vil.”

Leona’s rough voice cuts off your retort. “Hurry up and get down here! And uncross your legs or you’ll start cramping.” 

“Geez…” You hop off the broom and let it clatter to the earth. “You’re even bossier out here.”

“Says the one huntin’ me down to write a damn lab report,” he grumbles. 

“Quiet, you,” you hiss, turning your back to him and facing Epel, who raises his brows at your exchange.

“You two have Alchemy together?”

“Potionology,” you correct. You can’t help but place a hand on the boy’s head of windswept lavender hair. “And I gotta make lazy bones do his homework. See ya around.”

“Who're you callin’ lazy?” huffs Leona as you begin walking away from the field. “I all but dragged you into the sky.”

“Hah! I’m surprised someone like you ended up in such an active sport.” You sigh. “Now I’m stinky and gross, just like you.”

“Got any more adjectives you wanna throw at me?”

“Got a whole bunch,” you declare. Forceful but thoughtful, lazy but intelligent, mean but so hilariously witty, moody but tenacious, delectably alluring… “We'd be here all night if I start listing them, though, so I’ll spare you.”

“I rejoice at your merciful benevolence,” he mocks. 

“I’m going back to my dorm to shower.” You begin sliding your bag off your shoulder. “Here. Take the potion to Savanaclaw.”

“Waste of time. Just shower at Savanaclaw.”

You look at him as though he's grown a second head. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not? You’re the one who's in a hurry to do the report. Housewarden bathrooms have pretty good hot water too, ya know.”

Showering in Leona Kingscholar’s bathroom… 

His face maintains its indifferent expression, but the glint in his eye tells you: he knows he just caught his prey.

°︵‿︵࿔.♡.࿔︵‿︵°

Leona was right. The water is really hot. Maybe you’d enjoy it more if you weren’t so focused on preventing your pounding heart from bursting out of your ribcage.

You are in Leona’s shower. Leona Kingscholar’s shower. You’re in his shower, washing your hair with his shampoo, scrubbing your flesh with his body wash… It almost feels like he's claiming you.

In a sense he already has. Loathe you are to admit it, your heart has already belonged to Leona for a long time. You close your eyes and tilt your face upwards, as though you hope the hot water against your face will melt away these ludicrous feelings.

That’s exactly what they are. Ludicrous. You’ve long accepted the fact that Leona would never settle for someone like you. For all you know, he might already be betrothed to a person of his family’s choosing. Perhaps a master potionologist, or maybe a spelldrive player with worlds of potential.

Even if he wasn’t a prince, he would still be deserving of someone better than you. Someone stronger. Smarter. Funnier. Better.

There is simply no space for you in his sky. 

The sooner you get rid of this foolish crush, the better. 

Right now, though, you indulge your fantasies by thumbing at his towel, which is hanging beside the clean one he gave you. Side by side like that, they make this bathroom seem like a shared domestic space for the two of you. The thought alone makes your heart prance.

How absurd.

You hurriedly dry off before changing into the clothes he lent you. It’s the same set as last time. Your face scrunches in concentration as you magically resize the pants, but you leave the shirt as it is. It feels more like him this way. Like you are being held by him. Like you belong to him. 

You do. Every single part of you belongs to him.

The three golden hair ties on the bathroom counter glimmer at you mockingly, as though to say, “This is the only part of him that will ever belong to you.” 

You roughly tug all three back onto your wrist, branding yourself with Leona. You can’t stay here wallowing forever. He was nice enough to let you clean up first, but you know his patience is finite.

Leona is seated in an armchair by the window. His head is thrown back and his eyes are closed. His legs are, as usual, spread wide open. He is so serene that you might have thought he was asleep were it not for the jar in his hands. He toys mindlessly with it, rolling it between his large palms. 

“Finally done?” He cracks open his eyes. “Surprised you didn’t scald your skin off..”

“Do you always sit with one knee in the Shaftlands and the other in the Queendom of Roses?”

He snorts before standing and sauntering over to you. “Not shrinking the shirt?”

“It’s comfy loose.” He only hums in response. “By the way… you changed my clothes pretty easily earlier. Why didn’t you do that the other night?”

“Crewel told me not to. Somethin’ about too much magic workin’ on your body at once not being good for you. Plus…” A fang peeks out at you as he steps closer to you. “With the state you were in, I didn’t know how you’d react if you woke up in some guy’s clothes. Didn’t want you gettin’ the wrong idea.”

You can’t stop your face from heating up. You try your best to change the topic. “Where are the lab books? I’ll head them up while you shower.”

“You’ll do more than that,” he states, handing you the jar. “Work on your flames while you do it.”

“I…” You stare at the jar in your hands as though you’re afraid it might bite you. “I’m not sure I can do that yet.”

“Pretend you’re flying.”

“Huh?”

Leona crosses arms with a sigh. “You are not dense, and your magic is not unstable. You just think too damn much. 

“I watched you today. You can channel into a broom just fine, even when you’re having conversations or drinkin’ water. So just channel into the fire while you write. It’s the same thing.”

“It’s not the same thing, Leona—”

“It is,” he interrupts. “Quit overthinkin’ it. If you want a bigger flame, imagine you’re climbin’ the sky. Want it smaller? Descend. Want it out? Land your broom. It’s the same shit. It’s not difficult, you just need to trust yourself.”

“Easy for you to say,” you mutter.

“Most things are. Now get to work.”

With that, he disappears into his bathroom, leaving you alone in his room. You roll the jar around in your hands just as you had seen him do. You take a deep breath. 

Too much magic will shatter the glass. Too little will snuff the flame. 

Leona wasn’t wrong. Having your broom in your mind’s eye makes controlling the flame a lot easier. You take a few moments to establish a rhythm of bigger, then smaller, then bigger again. 

Up and down and up and down. Once you got used to it, you closed your eyes. Don’t think too hard, just fly.

You eventually settle into the chair Leona just vacated. You place the lab books on your lap and the jar on the arm of the chair. Two tasks at once. You’ve headed up so many lab books that it no longer requires concentration. You try to remind yourself that writing while wielding is just like chatting while flying.

You’re almost done with the books when a “Leona, I’m back!” sounds from down the hall. Before you can rise from your seat, Ruggie enters without knocking, carrying a large paper bag. You hadn’t realised how hungry you were until you smelled the savoury aroma wafting into the room. He stops in his tracks. “Ah! You’re here.”

“Hey,” you greet. “Leona’s still in the shower.”

He makes his way over to the dresser with a hum. “I’ll just leave his dinner over here then.” He mutters something about the messy dresser and a lost uniform button under his breath. He busies himself with hastily tidying up the area. It’s quiet for a while before briefly pauses his work to peer into the bag, eyebrows slightly raised. “Ya know, I thought it was weird that the extra sandwich he ordered had vegetables in it. Guess that’s for you.”

“For me?” And Leona was the one to order it for you?

“Why do you sound so surprised? You’re filling the guy’s lab book. The least he can do is feed you.” He spares you a quick glance over his shoulder. “He’s not a stingy employer, ya know. I eat on his dime everyday.”

Your gaze narrows. “He’s not my employer.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Employees don’t make a habit outta wearin’ their bosses’ clothes. What are you, then?” He snickers at the expression on your heating face as you search for another topic.

“I hope you didn’t miss practice just to run errands for him.” You join him at the dresser, watching as he sews a button back onto Leona’s jacket. You hold the jar of flames a little above his hands so he can see his project a little better. “I’d be really pissed at him if you did, even if he fed you.”

“Relax,” he laughs. “Jack and I took the afternoon off to handle something down at the port. He didn’t go to his club’s practice either. Hey…” he pauses to examine the jar in your hand for a moment. “Thanks for the light, but… why do you have that?”

“Leona’s helping me with my magic. I have to keep resizing this flame until I develop a magical muscle memory.” 

“Since when does he go out of his way to play tutor?”

You huff. “No clue. He’s being really prickly about it too. I don’t know how you deal with someone so bossy.” 

“Hah!” He finishes his work on the button and bites through the thread. “That’s Leona. Guess he’s demanding even when he’s tryna be nice to his girlfriend.” 

You barely manage to prevent your jar from exploding again. “Don’t be ridiculous,” you hiss. “I’m not his girlfriend.” 

“Oh?”

“You better not let anyone hear you say that. What would people think?”

“What would people think?” 

They'd think the blot made him lose his fucking mind. You can’t say that out loud.

Ruggie’s dramatic sigh fills the silence that stretches between you. “Listen, I don’t really care what your relationship is, as long as you come ‘round more often. You don’t seem too bad. Maybe you’ll be a good influence on his lazy ass.”

The bathroom door creaks open before you can respond. Leona glares daggers at the two of you. You wonder how much of that he heard. You would probably be a little scared if you weren’t busy ogling him. He’s shirtless.

“You’re yippin’ a lot today, Ruggie,” he grumbles, using a towel to soak up the water in his hair.

“And maybe you oughta listen for once.” Ruggie puts his hands on his hips. “I’m glad the prefect is getting you to actually do your homework, but you better pull your weight. If you make her do everything, she’ll get sick of you real fast.” With that, he heads towards the door. “Your food’s here, so I’m heading to bed,” he calls over his shoulder. “Don’t stay up all night and end up skipping tomorrow.”

The door clicks softly and you are suddenly alone with Leona. 

“He cares about you.”

“He cares about staying fed,” he responds as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“No,” you argue. “He cares about you. And you care about him too.”

“I don’t. Now stop saying weird shit. We have to get this over with so you can get out of my damn hair.”

“I need to snuff this before we start,” you say, nodding to the magic jar of flames. 

“Why?”

“Because if I lose control of it when I drink that gross stuff, I’ll end up incinerating your room and your beloved bed.” By the time your tiny fire is out, he’s tugged on a beige long-sleeved shirt, similar in style to the one you’re wearing.

His tail takes up a lazy motion as he moves around his room. He hangs the damp towel on a hook, then grabs the bag of food and all but flings himself onto the mattress with a satisfied sigh. “Get the potion and c’mere.” 

You waste no time in following his instructions. You want to get this over with as quickly as possible. You’ve already inserted yourself into so much of his space and taken up so much of his time. It’s best not to push your luck. You stand at the foot of his bed with his textbook and your two lab books stacked, the glimmering potion resting on top of them.

He sits cross-legged and pulls two sandwiches out of the bag, looking at you expectantly. You stare back at him.

“Why’re you just standin’ around? Get down here.”

“On the bed?” You look at him like he’s insane.

“Got a problem with my bed?”

“No! I just… Are you sure it’s alright?”

“Don’t make me scruff you and bring you here myself, kitten.”

“Alright, alright!” You sit on the edge of the bed, hesitantly at first. He simply keeps eying you, clearly dissatisfied, until you eventually scoot closer, crossing your legs to mirror him. Your two pairs of knees are almost touching. 

He looks down at the pile on your lap. “Why’d you bring that back here?” he asks, tapping the spine of his textbook with his index finger. 

“To return it?” You give him an incredulous look. “It’s yours.”

“I mastered everything in there already. I got no use for it.”

“Don’t you want to keep it in your family?” 

He scoffs as though it’s the most ludicrous thing he’s ever heard. “You really take me for some kinda sentimental family man? Just keep it.” He hands you one of the sandwiches. 

“How did you know I like this one?” you query.

“Since you’re so damn good at interrogations, you’ll come up with the questions for the testin’.”

“That’s not fair!”

“Just leanin’ into your strengths,” he says, grinning at you with a mouth full of Sam’s Deluxe Meat sandwich. 

°︵‿︵࿔.♡.࿔︵‿︵°

Actually drinking the potion is always the most frightening step. 

The first step didn’t take long. You just had to come up with a set of questions with answers that can easily be proven. When’s your birthday? Do you have siblings? Is the headmage’s first name Dire? What time is it right now? Are you currently a student at Night Raven College? Can you name all the housewardens? So on and so forth…

The next step was equally simple: lie to each other with a combination of one-worded responses and longer explanations. You choose a random date for your fake birthday. Leona tells you he is the third of four siblings. You say the headmage’s name is Leona. (This earns you a scoff and an eyeroll.) He calls a random time without looking at the clock. You claim to be studying at Noble Bell. 

Now though…

“Maybe we should continue tomorrow, Leona.”

“Just drink the potion, scaredy cat.”

You stare at the pink liquid. It shimmers as though it’s staring right back at you. You really, really, do not want to drink it. 

It will most definitely taste awful, and it will probably stew your brain for a second, but that’s not what frightens you. What if it fails? Or worse, what if it works too well, like the last one. What if it forces you to say something you’ll regret?

Leona plucks the flask out of your hand, tearing you from your thoughts. “You bugged me to do this and now you’re the one hesitating? You never know what you really want, huh?” He throws his head back and downs half of the potion. 

Exactly half. Is there anything this guy isn’t good at?

He grimaces as though he just sucked on a lemon. His nose scrunches and he shakes his head, a motion that is so cat-like that you half-expect him to meow. He hands you the reminder of it. “Your turn.”

Your anxiety spikes. “Surely only one of us has to test it, right? Plus, it’d be awful if something were to go wrong and we both ended up—”

“Do I need to force-feed you again?”

“No!” 

You do your best to steel your nerves, pinch your nose and toss the concoction back, immediately grateful that half of your sandwich is still there for you. It doesn’t do enough to kill the taste.

For a moment, you and Leona just sit there. 

Then it crashes into you.

You force your gaze down to the now empty bottle; looking anywhere else makes your head spin. 

Neither of you says anything, but the room is suddenly so loud. The crickets outside suddenly sound like they’re inside your ears. The lights seem to be buzzing. You can hear Leona breathing. You can smell him too. 

Your pulse pounds at the base of your throat, and little shocks of electricity dance through your veins, spreading to every inch of your body and making you buzz.

You can hear and smell and feel so much, too much. Your cheeks feel wet. Are you… crying? You swipe at your face but your palm comes back dry. 

Wait. Did it even connect? You didn’t feel it. Try again.

A breeze passes through the room and pulls you back to reality, back to Leona’s bed.

You take a few shaky breaths before you look up at Leona. His corners of his lips are pulled downwards, and his ears…

Do his ears always twitch like that?

“Come back to me.”

“Huh?” You lock eyes with him, swiping at your cheek again. Still dry. You just imagined it.

“Are you back?” Leona’s grip tightens around your knee and shakes it gently. When did he start touching you? “You spaced out.” 

His tail lashes back and forth wildly behind him as though it has a mind of its own. Is he… worried?

“I’m okay now.” Your throat feels dry and raw. “I’m just a little sensitive to these things.”

“Does that always happen?”

“Not always. Usually only the ones that mess with your brain, and it only lasts a few seconds. Do you have water?”

Leona wordlessly stretches over to his nightstand, yanking the drawer open to reveal several bottles of water. He grabs two before letting his magic flow from his fingers to cool them. The two of you sip as you silently watch his tail flick back and forth hypnotically. Your curiosity gets the best of you.

“Is the potion messing with your ears and tail?”

“Yeah.” He traps his tail under his thigh, using his weight to keep it in check. “Bugs all the beastmen. You feelin’ good enough to start?”

“Yeah.” You drain the remainder of your water and put the bottle on the floor, along with the empty flask. “Shoot.”

“When’s your birthday?” he begins.

The truth flies out of your mouth before you can even consider lying. “Guess it works. Do you have any siblings?”

“Yes.” He pauses for a few moments. “ ‘s not forcin’ me to elaborate. Is the headmage’s first name Dire?”

You try to say “His first name is not Ashton,” which is technically the truth, but the potion is not satisfied with this. “It is.” You hum in contemplation and jotting down a quick note. 

“I want to try something, Leona. Don’t look at the clock. What time is it right now?”

“I don’t know. Can’t tell the truth if I don’t know it.” 

“Can you estimate?”

“I could if I wanted to.” Then nothing.

“Estimate.” 

“No.”

“Don’t estimate.”

“Eight thirty.” 

You glance at the clock on the wall behind Leona. Eight forty-seven. “Not bad, you stubborn ass.” You quickly jot down a few notes into your lab book. “It doesn’t force you to follow any orders and you don’t have to explain anything as long as you answer the question that was asked. Can I try something else? You're allowed to say no.”

He offers you a look of intrigue. “You can.”

“Tell me what you're thinking about.”

Leona doesn’t respond.

“Can you tell me what’s on your mind?”

“I can. But I won’t.” Of course.

“What’s on your mind?”

“Your ends are dry and your roots are a little puffy. You should use oil.”

“Rude.”

“You’re the one who forced me to say it!”

“And I’m glad I did,” you huff. “The potion’s working exactly as intended. Let’s hurry up and get this over with.”

The rest of the questions pass without issue, and before you know it, you're lying on your tummies side by side, quietly filling the pages of your lab books.

You suddenly remember something. “Shit. We forgot to start a timer so we can see how long the effects last.”

“We didn’t. I started it just before you started trippin’ balls.” He shows you the screen of his phone. Sure enough, a timer is running: 00:37:15. 

“Do you think Idia’s family makes a tonne of these potions?”

“I don’t know what that radish sprout and his freaky family get up to. Don’t wanna know either.”

You laugh a little and glance over at him. You are about to playfully scold him for not having written much when you notice that his pupils are blown wide, locked onto the magestone of your pen. You give it a few experimental flicks. Sure enough, his eyes follow every movement and his tail thrashes excitedly behind him. You can’t help but tease him. “Aww, who’s a good kitty?”

Leona jolts, seemingly only now realising what he has been doing. “Shut up,” he growls, wrapping his tail around his leg to keep it still.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell— ow!” You drop your pen. Three of Leona’s fingers press down on your wrist to soothe the spot he just stung by pulling on the hair tie (his hair tie). “The fuck was that for?”

“I couldn’t help it.” His ears flatten against his head. “That must have hurt. I forgot how strong these are. Sorry.”

“If not for the circumstances, I might not have believed that.”

He continues rubbing small circles on your wrist, and you don’t pull away. “You like collecting these as bracelets or somethin’?”

A yes escapes your lips despite your attempt to stop it. “They’re really pretty,” you add, telling some of the truth before he can ask why and force all of it out of you. “Where did you get them?”

“They’re made in Sunset Savannah. We get the latex from a special kind of tree that doesn’t grow in this part of Twisted Wonderland. It’s that high quality stuff, so it stretches far without breakin’ or losin’ its shape. ‘S why it snaps back so hard.”

“Must be really expensive,” you note. “Do you want them back?”

“No.” You flinch when his voice suddenly comes at you a little rougher than usual. “I've got more than I can count. What’s with you and tryin’ to return all my gifts? Do you do this to everyone?”

Gifts? “Yes… Are you angry?”

“I’m not.” His voice softens just a tad. “I just don’t get you. You just said that you like them, so why’re you givin’ em back?”

“Because I don’t deserve them.” 

For a moment, he just stares at you with an expression that you can’t decipher. His brow creases as he frowns, but this isn’t his usual scowl. “You really believe that’s true.” It’s not a question.

“Maybe we should stop here for tonight, Leona.” You sit upright and try to pull away from him, but his grip on your wrist tightens. “Let go.”

“Don’t leave.”

“Let go, Leona.”

“Stay,” he insists. “Let’s talk.”

“Why?”

“Cuz I like it when you’re here.” 

His words bounce around in your head a few times before you manage to make sense of them. When you finally do, you still can’t think of a response. He winces under your blank stare as though the realisation of what he just said physically pains him.

When you break the silence, it is with a sense of finality, with an absolute certitude. “You don’t mean that.” 

“How can you say that when you know I can’t lie?” he argues.

“Because someone like you isn’t supposed to like anything about someone like me.” Your final attempt at yanking yourself from his grip is successful. You crawl backwards to the other end of his bed, burning under his glower. 

You seem to have offended him.

“Why? Cuz I’m a prince?”

“Because you’re you!” you blurt out in exasperation. “You’re you and I’m me. You’re not even supposed to acknowledge someone like me, much less enjoy my company.”

“Please, do go on,” he bites out. “Tell me all about what I'm supposedto do. I really don’t get you, (y/n).”

“And I don’t get you. Why are you being nice to me all of a sudden?”

“The same reason you’ve been following me around school like a cub without a pride, all year long, thinkin’ I don’t know you’re there.”

Yeah right. “I am not a prideless cub. And what do you mean, ‘the same reason?’ You don’t even know why I did that. For all you know, Rook could have taken me under his wing.”

He doesn’t smirk at your joke. His ears swivel, but his serious gaze is fixed on you. “I know the truth.” 

That’s not true. That can’t be true. Perhaps he believes it’s true, but it isn’t. Even if he really knew, he wouldn’t be able to lie and say that he likes you too. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. “You don’t,” you insist, more to yourself than to him.

“You told me in the infirmary.”

Mortification swallows you whole. “But you said—”

“I lied.”

You blank. For a moment, there’s nothing.

Then there’s too much. Your eyes sting and your vision blurs. He knows. 

He knows you have a crush on him. He knows and he just pretends that he doesn’t. He knows and he just lets you keep pretending that you don’t love him. He was probably laughing at you the whole time. He was playing with you. 

He was amusing himself at your expense.

“Y/n.” He reaches for you, but flinches when you pull away. “You’re… crying?”

“I suppose I am.” You try to keep your voice steady, try to appear strong. You fail miserably, though, mentally cursing the burning tears that keep escaping no matter how hard you try to imprison them behind your lashline. “People tend to do that when you play with their feelings.”

“I wasn’t playing with your—”

“Then what were you doing?!” you snap. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth? Why did you play this game of pretend?”

“I was waitin’ for ya to work up the courage to tell me on your own and actually remember it.” He says it as though it’s the most obvious thing in Twisted Wonderland.

“Why? So you can laugh at me out loud instead of in your head?”

“So I can tell you that I love you too!”

The flames nipping at your head and making you feel faint doesn’t die down, but a dull ache blooms beneath your ribs. You feel like both your brain and your throbbing heart are about to explode. It's just a matter of which goes boom first. “Leona, you don’t—”

“I do (y/n). I’ve been telling you and you don’t hear it. I’ve been showing you and you don’t see it.” He drags a large palm across his face with an exhausted sigh, ears flat against his scalp. “Even now, when I literally have no choice but to be truthful… is it really so hard to believe me?”

“It is.” Your cracked voice is barely audible. 

He reaches for you. “C’mere…”

This time you don’t pull away. 

You let him haul you into his lap, back pressed against his chest. One hand reaches around to thumb at stray tears on your cheek, but the other simply holds you there, just like the first time he held you outside the lab a few days ago. He rests his chin on your shoulder and presses his cheek against your face and neck, nuzzling you more gently than you thought he would.

For a while, you just sit there. The only noise in the room is the steady thump thump thump of Leona’s rebellious tail tapping the mattress. 

“Wish you could see what I see,” he finally murmurs into the side of your throat. 

“What do you see?”

“Someone really fucking hot when they straddle a broom.” He stiffens before groaning in embarrassment. “Shit. Sorry. Wasn’t s’posed to say that out loud just yet.”

This pulls a giggle from your lips. 

“You are insanely pretty. But you’re kind. Funny. Strong.”

“I’m not strong.”

“You are,” he insists. “Might not get everything right the first time. Or anything, actually…”

“Not helping me feel better.”

He huffs into your flesh before continuing. “You’re diligent, though. Even if it takes a little push sometimes, you get back up. You got no clue how good it feels to watch you bounce back. And, fuck, that mouth of yours. Sometimes I wanna argue with you all day just to hear what you’ll come up with. Just to hear your voice…” 

The thumping stops. His tail comes around to latch onto your thigh.  His arms tighten around you. “Tell me what to say and I’ll say it. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it. Whatever it takes to get it in your lil head that I love you.”

“I love you, Leona.”

“I know, kitten. But you gotta let me love you too. Gotta quit pushin’ me away…”

You shift in his lap, looking at him over your shoulder. “I’ll try but… these things take time, Leona.”

“Good thing I’m a patient guy,” he responds. “I’ll wait as long as it takes. I’m in no rush.”

“Are you—”

“I’m sure.”

“Very, well then.” You turn around fully to face him with a small smile. “I’ll do my best. Now let’s get the rest of this assignment out of the way.”

Leona’s sigh is almost pained. “Thought you finally forgot about that.”

°︵‿︵࿔.♡.࿔︵‿︵°

Savanaclaw is fucking freezing in the wee hours of the morning. Good thing Leona has a fancy comforter. 

The first rays of sunshine bounce off the shimmering elastics that circle your wrist, ordering you to rise. You roll onto your side to look for Leona. He’s still sprawled on his chair, where he had insisted he’d be fine for the night. “What’re you reading?” you question with a breathy and hoarse voice.

“It’s about trade routes,” he responds, voice equally raspy. He locks eyes with yours. “Found it in a thrift shop a while back. I can lend it to you, if you want.”

“Leona, did you sleep?”

“I’m about to.” 

“But we have class.”

“Relax,” he drawls. “We don’t have Potions til this afternoon.”

You slowly sit up, pulling the heavy comforter further up your body. “What about History and Astrology? Are you really going to cut class?”

“Probably.” He closes the book and places it on the ground. “Unless Ruggie starts badgerin’ me.”

“Maybe I should call him right now then.”

“I’m rethinking my decision to keep you here…” Leona stretches with a loud yawn, the hem of his shirt riding up slightly. “Still got a couple hours til the first bell. I can get in a quick nap.”

You sigh and lie back down, knowing there’s no use in arguing. “Well hurry up and come to bed so you can make the most of it.” 

Leona makes no move to stand from the chair. “You sure you want me in there with you?” 

“I might freeze to death otherwise,” you quip.

The next thing you know, the mattress is sinking under his weight as he climbs under the sheets with you, mumbling out a quiet, “C’mere.”

“That didn’t take much convincing,” you joke as he pulls you closer to him, pressing his chest against your back. “Were you itching to snuggle, kitty?”

“Says the one using me as a heater,” he murmurs into your shoulder. His breath is warm and the vibrations of his groggy voice dance across your flesh. “Go back to sleep. You’ll need the rest.”

“What for?”

“There’s no practice for the boys today. I want you to fly with me.”

[sunnycanvas]

Can you write about a scenario, where, Baldwin loses yn, and gets incredibly upset over it, tries to find her (but secretly because people can't know he's actually seeing someone because of his leprosy) only to find out she was killed ? Maybe he finds her body too/retrieves it

Adiuva nos, Domine,

In tribulatione nostra.

Te clamamus, Sancte Deus,

Exaudi preces nostras

O Maria, Mater Gratiae,

Tu es refugium nostrum.

In tenebris et angustia,

Sustenta nos, o dulcis Virgo.

Sancte Michael, protector noster,

Defende nos in proelio.

Contra insidias diaboli,

Fidei nostrae fortitudo.

Gloria Patri et Filio,

Et Spiritui Sancto.

Sicut erat in principio,

Et nunc et semper.

Baldwin IV gripped his rosary with trembling hands, his knuckles white as he prayed fervently. He prayed for your safety. It had been days since you vanished, and he was drowning in helplessness. He couldn't launch a full investigation, not without risking exposure of the bond between you. The very thought of anyone discovering what you meant to him sent a cold shiver down his spine. Baldwin understood the dangers of being associated with him. Especially now, as a leper. His condition, his cursed existence, only amplified the peril for anyone close to him. He had kept you hidden. Your presence, your existence and shielded from the world, all to protect both of you. But now, the silence stretched on, and Baldwin could feel his sanity slipping. The thought of anything happening to you, of you being hurt or worse, twisted inside him like a sharp knife. Baldwin could feel his heartbeat beating so hard that it was painful. Baldwin never knew what fear was until he met you. The thought of you being injured or worse, Baldwin wouldn't know how to live.

"No," he whispered, trying to force away the dread that clawed at his insides. "You’re safe. You have to be safe."

Just as he finished his prayer and turned around, his eyes fell upon his mother, Agnes de Courtenay. She approached him with hesitant steps, her face drawn tight with worry. Baldwin didn’t need to see her expression to know it was bad news.

"Any word?" His voice was colder than he meant it to be, a harsh edge creeping into his words.

Agnes paused, her hands wringing together as she looked down. "No, my son," she stammered, her voice faltering. "I’m doing everything I can. I swear, I—"

"Everything you can?" Baldwin cut her off, his words sharp and cutting. His frustration was boiling over, the fear for you overwhelming everything else. "Your best isn’t enough, Mother. Not when her life is on the line!". His gaze was relentless, piercing through her with the weight of his anger. "I entrusted you with this. I trusted you to keep her safe, and now look where we are no answers, no progress". "How many days must pass before you start doing what you promised?" Agnes flinched, her eyes wide with the sting of his words, but Baldwin’s gaze didn’t soften. He was beyond patience. Baldwin IV continued with his voice that cut through the air like a blade. "So, it seems her presence was discovered after all," he said, his tone ice-cold. "Mother, you’ve failed utterly in keeping her hidden, just as I entrusted you to do. Is this truly the best you can manage?" He paused, his eyes narrowing, fury flickering in them. "Perhaps I was a fool to trust you at all. I should have given the task to my uncle, someone who might actually be competent. Clearly, you can't even manage something as simple as this." His words were like a slap, and the venom in his gaze made it clear he had no room for excuses.

Agnes flinched at the sharpness in her son’s tone. She had braced herself for his wrath, but the sheer intensity still struck a chord deep within her. Yet, she wasn’t going to retreat without a fight. Gathering her courage, she straightened and replied with calm defiance. “Of course,” she began, her voice firm despite the tension in the air, “a mere noblewoman like me is no match for the Dowager Queen, your stepmother, who has been quietly maneuvering to place your half-sister Isabella on the throne. Let us not forget that Isabella holds a claim through your father.” Baldwin’s brows furrowed, confusion momentarily softening the fury etched into his features. The sudden mention of Maria Komnene was unexpected. Agnes caught the subtle shift in his demeanor, recognizing the spark of intrigue. She pressed forward without hesitation. “I have evidence,” she continued, her voice steady and deliberate, “that a woman matching (Y/N)’s description was seen in Nablus. And where does your stepmother reside? Nablus. It’s no coincidence, Baldwin.” His eyes widened, a mix of shock and desperate hope flashing across his face. Without waiting for his mother to elaborate further, he barked out a command. “Prepare the horses! We’re leaving at once.” Agnes started, alarmed by his abrupt reaction. “Baldwin, wait! The evidence we have, it’s flimsy at best. It only hints at her presence, nothing certain—”

“I don’t care!” Baldwin cut her off, his voice trembling with emotion. “If there is even the slightest chance (Y/N) is there, I will go. No matter how faint the trail may be.” Determined to avoid unnecessary attention, Baldwin insisted on going alone, without knights or a retinue. Agnes, unwilling to let her son journey into potential danger alone, argued until he relented. Exhausted from the emotional storm, Baldwin agreed with little resistance. Both mother and son disguised themselves as common travelers, cloaked in simple garb with hoods obscuring their faces.

As they rode under the cover of blazing hot sun, Baldwin’s thoughts churned in turmoil. His stepmother, Maria Komnene, had always been ambitious, but would she truly act so brazenly? He scowled beneath his hood, considering the other players in the shadowy game of politics. Could Raymond of Tripoli, his calculating cousin, be involved? Or the Ibelin brothers, notorious for their scheming alliances? His instincts told him 'No, they wouldn’t dare'. That left only one man: Guy of Lusignan, his reckless and power-hungry brother-in-law. The very thought of Guy made Baldwin’s grip tighten on the reins, rage building in his chest.

Agnes, as if sensing her son’s thoughts, spoke softly. “Do not let your mind run wild, my son. This reeks of your stepmother’s hand. She has made alliances in the court, strengthening her position. Her marriage ties to the Ibelins have been... advantageous.”

Baldwin’s lips pressed into a thin line, his silence betraying the storm within.

As they neared their destination, something caught his attention. A familiar figure moving in the distance. Baldwin’s breath hitched. “Sibylla?” he muttered, his voice tinged with disbelief. His gaze snapped to his mother, who appeared just as stunned. Without a word, Baldwin motioned for silence, urging his horse to follow his sister at a safe distance. Agnes, still reeling, followed his lead.

Sibylla led them to a secluded area, where she dismounted and began speaking to a shadowy figure. Baldwin and Agnes dismounted as well, watching from a concealed position. “Make sure her body is disposed of in a way that it can’t be recognized,” Sibylla ordered, her voice cold and resolute. The man bowed slightly, replying grimly, “Of course, my lady. Anything else?”

Sibylla smiled, a cruel satisfied expression that sent a chill through Baldwin. “Oh no, you’ve done an absolutely fantastic job in killing (Y/N). My brother may mourn her now, but he will thank me later.”

Baldwin froze, the weight of her words crashing down on him like a tidal wave. For a moment, the world seemed to stop. His vision blurred with a mix of fury and devastation. Then, without hesitation, he unsheathed his sword and spurred his horse forward.

"SIBYLLA!" His voice thundered, raw with fury, reverberating like a war cry that sent chills down the spines of even the most hardened knights. Agnes barely had time to reach out before her son was charging toward his sister, the blade in his hand glinting like justice itself.

Baldwin IV’s horse reared back, its hooves striking the air as his roar echoed through the desolate clearing. His blue eyes, ablaze with rage, locked onto his sister’s frozen figure. She stood trembling, her schemes exposed, with no crowd to shield her from her brother's wrath . The man standing beside Sibylla, realizing it was the king himself bearing down upon them, stumbled backward, stammering incoherent apologies before bolting into the shadows. Sibylla was left alone, her fear-stricken body rooted to the ground. Baldwin’s horse halted mere feet away from her, nostrils flaring, its king equally volatile. “I should kill you where you stand!” he bellowed about to striker her with his sword. Sybilla although fearful of her brother's wrath somehow narrowly escaped the sword stumbling backwards in fear by sheer luck. "You scheming, treacherous fool!" he growled, his voice low and deadly as he urged his horse forward ready to strike her again. "You dared to betray me?" His tone was laced with a venom that made Sibylla’s knees weaken. She stumbled backward again, her face pale, eyes wide with dread. She had never seen her brother like this, his normally composed demeanor shattered by pure, unrestrained fury. As Baldwin surged toward her, his expression promising retribution, Agnes’s voice cut through the chaos, her horse galloping into the scene as she placed herself squarely between her son and daughter. Her arms spread wide in a protective gesture, shielding Sibylla from Baldwin’s wrath.

"Baldwin, stop!" Agnes implored, her voice trembling with urgency. "You cannot do this!" “Please, Baldwin, don’t do this!”. Agnes reasoned, her voice steady but her eyes betraying her fear. She had seen her son angry before, but never like this—never so unhinged, so consumed.

Baldwin’s horse came to an abrupt halt, its hooves digging into the dirt as he glared down at his mother. His blue eyes burned with fury as he snarled, “Get out of my way, Mother.” His voice was low, trembling with restrained anger. “She doesn’t deserve your protection" "Not after what she’s done. None of you do.”

Agnes held her ground, her voice firm but laced with desperation.“(Y/N) wouldn’t want this,” she pleaded, her eyes softening.

Her words acted as a spark to dry tinder, igniting an even fiercer blaze of rage in her son. His horse snorted and shifted as he practically snarled in response. "DON’T YOU DARE BRING HER INTO THIS!" Baldwin’s voice boomed, his rage untethered. "Do not use her name to shield your guilt! You all killed her!" He gestured wildly toward Sibylla, his accusations cutting like daggers. "You, with your selfish schemes! You destroyed the only person who ever made this wretched existence tolerable!" he snapped, his voice cracking as he gestured sharply toward Sibylla. “You all killed her!

Agnes desperate in fear mumbled "Please Baldwin, you can't do this" "Killing your sister will start a civil war" "Our kingdom won't receive donations to survive by our own cousins" . Baldwin in anger retorted "Do not speak to me of what I can and cannot do, Mother! Do you think I care for appearances anymore? Do you think I care for laws or blood ties when my very own family killed her?" His voice cracked as it reached a crescendo, raw grief mingling with his fury.

Agnes's lips parted as if to argue, but Baldwin’s voice thundered again, silencing her. "She was the light of my life, the only light in this accursed kingdom of shadows. And you snuffed it out!" Sibylla, trembling and unable to meet his gaze, muttered something unintelligible, but Baldwin would not hear it. "Speak not a word to me!" he hissed, his voice lowering to a dangerous growl as he pulled his horse closer. "I should end you for what you’ve done."

His horse shifted uneasily beneath him, mirroring its master’s fury. Agnes held her ground, her hand gripping her saddle tightly to steady herself. “Baldwin, please!” she implored, her voice softer now, pleading. “Your anger won’t bring her back!” “No!” Baldwin’s shout tore through the night, his face contorting in agony. “But it will ensure justice is served! I will not let her memory be trampled on by the people who betrayed her.” Sibylla whimpered behind Agnes, tears streaming down her pale face, her voice barely audible as she tried to speak. But Baldwin ignored her, his gaze fixed on his mother as if daring her to move. “Step aside, Mother,” he warned, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone. “Or I swear, I’ll ride through you.”

Agnes moved her horse with determination, shielding Sibylla fully. "You are King, Baldwin. Do not let your grief destroy what she loved in you." "Your sense of duty. I am asking you, for the sake of the kingdom, to control yourself' "You know right how stability is fragile because of complex court politics right now". Agnes knew Baldwin just like her late husband Almaric was man of duty. Luckily for Agnes her trick worked and Baldwin took long labored breath to calm down Baldwin’s chest heaved as he sucked in a long, ragged breath, his fingers trembling on the hilt of his sword. His smoldering eyes burned with suppressed fury, unshed tears glistening under the hood of his cloak. Agnes knew, as much as Baldwin hated to show weakness, had his leprosy not robbed him of tears, they would be falling freely now.

Once assured that Baldwin was reigning in his rage, Agnes turned her attention to Sibylla, her face hard with disgust. “Why did you do this to (Y/N)?” she demanded, her voice like ice.

Sibylla, though visibly shaken at first, straightened her posture. She squared her shoulders, her voice gaining strength as she spoke. “I acted for the good of the kingdom,” she declared, her tone resolute. “You yourself have said how precarious the court’s balance is, especially after Father’s second marriage. (Y/N) was a poison to this realm, indulging herself with my leprous brother and leading us all to sin.” Baldwin’s fists clenched tighter at her words, his jaw set in a way that made it clear he was barely containing his rage. His voice, low and dangerous, cut through the air. “(Y/N) had no interest in court politics,” he growled, his tone trembling with anger. Agnes added swiftly, her voice icy, “Whatever schemes you think she wove, they existed only in your mind, Sibylla.” Sibylla scoffed, her confidence growing as she met her mother’s glare. “That’s what she wanted you all to believe,” she replied, a sneer curling her lips. “That whore seduced my sinful brother, wrapping him around her finger. She made herself indispensable to him, and in doing so, she threatened the delicate peace we’ve tried so hard to maintain. So, I acted.” Her voice hardened, her gaze unrepentant. “I drowned her.” Agnes gasped, her revulsion barely concealed, while Baldwin’s body tensed like a coiled spring, his fury on the verge of erupting. “Sibylla,” he warned, his voice deadly calm, “choose your next words carefully, or I will claw the very tongue from your mouth.” Agnes, sensing the explosion brewing within her son, leaned forward and hissed in a low voice to Sibylla, ensuring Baldwin couldn’t hear. “Where did you get this vile notion? Who planted these ideas in your head?” For a brief moment, Sibylla faltered, her expression shifting into something unsettling. A lovestruck reverie. Her voice softened as she whispered, “My husband told me. Guy explained everything. He opened my eyes to her true nature.”. Agnes froze, but Baldwin let out a groan of exasperation, the sound a mix of fury and dismay. He had heard enough to piece together the whispered exchange. His eyes blazed as he locked his gaze on Sibylla. The crackling silence between them spoke volumes, Baldwin’s composure hanging by a thread as he stared down the sister who had shattered his world.

“Show us her body,” Agnes commanded, her voice sharp and leaving no room for argument. To her relief, Sibylla gave no protest, silently turning to lead them toward an abandoned house. The acrid stench of death grew stronger with every step, guiding them like a trail. Baldwin dismounted his horse in silence, his face an unreadable mask. Inside the house, the smell became suffocating. It led them to a small room where (Y/N)’s body lay on a rickety bed, her lifeless form bathed in the dim light filtering through the cracks in the walls. Though the odor was strong, the appearance of her body was hauntingly serene, as if death had only just brushed her. Baldwin froze in the doorway, staring at her still form as if unable to comprehend what he was seeing. “(Y/N),” he whispered, his voice trembling. Slowly, he stepped forward, each movement heavy with disbelief and agony, until he reached the bedside. He sank to his knees, his trembling hands hovering over her face before cradling her lifeless body in his arms. His breath hitched as he took in her features the faint curve of her lips, the delicate eyelashes resting against her cheeks. “Look at you,” he murmured, his voice breaking. “So beautiful. You don’t look dead... only asleep.” His hand caressed her cold cheek, his touch desperate, as if his warmth alone could bring her back. “Oh, (Y/N),” Baldwin whispered, his eyes stung with unshed tears, his chest heaving with suppressed sobs. “Please... wake up. You promised me,” he pleaded, his voice raw and thick with despair. “You swore you wouldn’t leave me, not as long as I lived. You lied to me, my love... you lied...” He clutched her closer, his shoulders shaking as the grief consumed him. “You were my light... my only light in this wretched world,” he choked out, his voice cracking under the weight of his sorrow. “How am I to go on without you? How am I to face the darkness without you beside me?” Wailed by his diseased dry eyes . He kissed her hair dampening by his lips. He pressed his lips to her temple, his trembling breath ghosting over her still form. Agnes stood nearby, her own heart heavy as she witnessed her son’s anguish. She had seen Baldwin face countless battles, seen him stand tall against unimaginable pain, but this, this broken man before her, was a sight she could barely bear. His grief was raw, unfiltered, and so profound it filled the room with its weight. Baldwin rocked (Y/N)’s body gently, his words becoming incoherent as sobs wracked his body. His fingers brushed through her hair as though soothing her to sleep. “Please... just one more moment,” he begged the heavens, his voice barely audible. “Let me hold her... let me hear her laugh again... her voice, her heartbeat...”His cries pierced the air, echoing through the empty house, a king brought to his knees by the unbearable loss of the woman who had been his everything. And as Baldwin cradled her lifeless form, it was as though his own heart had stopped beating alongside hers.

Sibylla watched her brother’s grief with an almost placating smile. "It’s okay, brother," she said softly, though her tone carried a trace of condescension. "Let out your grief. This sacrifice was necessary for the betterment of the kingdom." Baldwin’s trembling stopped abruptly as her words reached him. His reddened face lifted to meet her gaze, his expression hollow yet sharp, like a blade dulled by too much use but still capable of cutting. "Who else worked with you?" His voice, though low, carried the unmistakable edge of restrained fury. Sibylla straightened, confidence flickering in her anger as she retorted, "Me. I acted alone." Baldwin’s gaze didn’t waver. "So Mother didn’t know about this," he said, his words heavy with accusation. His tone made even Agnes flinch at the mention of her involvement. "No," Sibylla answered firmly. "Mother didn’t know about this." For a moment, Baldwin seemed to freeze. His grief contorted into something darker, something terrifying. His face, already ravaged by disease and despair, now carried an expression of such cold rage that even Sibylla, emboldened as she was, felt her confidence falter. When he spoke again, his voice was chilling, devoid of any humanity. "You’re going to feel what you’ve done to me. The same pain, the same torment" "You will suffer just as you made me suffer. I will make sure of it." Sibylla’s eyes narrowed, her anger surging forth like a storm. "You dare call me selfish?" she snapped. "You sit on that throne, clinging to your miserable life, bringing sin upon this kingdom by indulging in your lust for that woman! It’s you who’s selfish, Baldwin not me! You should step down and let my husband rule" "A man who is strong and capable, unlike you." Baldwin let out a bitter, humorless laugh that echoed in the small, decrepit room. "Capable? Your husband?" He sneered, his lip curling with disdain. "A coward who hides behind you to make his moves? Don’t worry, dear sister. He’ll have his time to shine" "In the dungeon. I’ll ensure he becomes intimately acquainted with every torture device we own before I execute him." Sibylla gasped, her fury boiling over. She raised a hand to strike him, but Agnes, weary of the madness around her, stepped forward and caught her wrist, shielding Baldwin with her body. "Enough!" Agnes’s voice carried the weight of her authority, silencing the escalating storm. Turning to her son, she placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, her expression softening. "Baldwin," she said gently, "this... this isn’t what (Y/N) would have wanted. Let us focus on her, not on revenge." Her voice cracked slightly as she continued, "We should give her a proper burial. She deserves that, if nothing else." Baldwin’s breathing slowed, his shoulders sagging under the weight of her words. His rage momentarily abated, overtaken by his grief as he looked down at (Y/N)’s body once more. "A burial," he whispered, nodding slowly, his focus entirely on the woman he loved. "Yes. She deserves that." Sibylla scoffed loudly but said nothing else, her lips pressed into a tight line. The tension in the room simmered, unspoken words and unresolved hatred hanging heavy in the air as Baldwin’s attention remained solely on (Y/N), his sorrow drowning out all else.

All three rode in solemn silence, Baldwin insisting on carrying (Y/N)’s lifeless body on his horse. No one dared argue. As they traveled back, Agnes swore she could hear Baldwin murmuring soft, sweet words to (Y/N), as if she could still hear him. She had always admired her son’s resilience and the strength of his mind, his determination to lead even as his body battled the ravages of disease. But now, watching him, Agnes feared that (Y/N)’s death might shatter him entirely, driving him into the depths of madness. They arrived at a small, secluded church under the protection of Agnes’s allies. Baldwin dismounted, his movements stiff but deliberate, and cradled (Y/N)’s body in his arms as he entered the hallowed ground. His hollow, vacant eyes met those of Patriarch Heraclius, who quickly approached with an air of confusion. Baldwin addressed the archbishop in a voice devoid of life, yet carrying the weight of an unbreakable command. "Take her body," he said, his words measured and heavy. "Ensure she is given a proper burial. On her grave, inscribe the words: ‘Light of the world for the leper.’" Heraclius froze in stunned realization, his gaze falling to the woman in Baldwin’s arms realizing that she was the lover of the leper king . Before Heraclius could respond, Agnes quickly stepped forward, leaning in to whisper firmly, "Keep her presence here a secret. Let no one know." Her voice was quiet but sharp, leaving no room for argument. Heraclius nodded, too shocked to protest, and turned to oversee the arrangements as Baldwin reluctantly placed (Y/N) down for the last time. Once outside, Agnes found her son standing near the churchyard, staring blankly into the distance as if searching for something beyond the horizon. His voice broke the silence, low and filled with a crushing sorrow. "As much as I speak of revenge, I know it is impossible. My actions would destroy the kingdom." He paused, the grief in his tone cutting through Agnes like a blade. "I couldn’t protect her in life, and now I’ve failed her in death. But I will protect the kingdom she loved. At least... when I meet her again, I can tell her I wasn’t a complete failure." Agnes reached out and rested her hand gently on his shoulder, her voice soft but resolute. "The fault lies with me as well. We both failed her, my son. But for your sake and hers, I swear to you—I will ensure that Sibylla and her husband never sit on the throne. Her son, your nephew, will rule instead. I will see to it." For the first time since (Y/N)’s death, a faint glimmer of relief flickered in Baldwin’s eyes. He turned to his mother, his voice regaining a trace of its usual sharpness. "Yes, you are right. This kingdom must not be ruled by (Y/N)’s murderer." His expression hardened. "I entrust you with this, Mother. Convince the Haute Cour. Do not fail me as you did before."

Agnes straightened her posture, her voice carrying a quiet determination. "I won’t. I promise you that."

[themoonalienhere2000]

This is my first time doing an actually descent painting and I finally figured out how to color with grayscale thank god 🙏🏻

[themoonalienhere2000]

[themoonalienhere2000]

First time trying grayscale kinda like how it turned out. Hopefully I will draw more wile I still have the starline fever

[tobeahundred]

Covet

A king Baldwin IV x f!reader one shot

Also posted on AO3

Tags: Angst, Pining, Yearning, Sexual Content, Bittersweet Ending

—

The first time he meets her he is already King. Too young. Untried. Scared of scrutiny. Marked by God’s venerated sign. Hiding his right hand beneath the left. Wishing the cuff would swallow his shame entirely. She knows he is a leper. He knows he is undeserving. He is also lonely.

The second time he meets her, he makes her laugh. He has never made another person laugh before, except perhaps his sister, Sybilla, who does not really count. Sibylla is also never there anymore. Not since his father had sent her to Bethany. Not since his mother had returned to his life like the moon sweeping into the night sky. He is still King and his father is still dead and his mother is not the same as she used to be. Agnes does not laugh because he is funny, but because she needs him to know that he is doing something right, because secretly she pities him. (She must pity him, he thinks.) This girl, though, laughs with genuine amusement and not because of his birthright or circumstance. It is intoxicating. And he knows it is a dangerous thing. To crave someone.

The third time he meets her he is coming home. Victory, sweet as water on a parched throat, is his. She is as bright as the banners that welcome his return to the citadel, as sweet and luscious as the dates that hang, ripe for the picking, in the gardens. The Sepulcher is round, beaming as the hot sun hammers against its dome, blinding for a second as he catches sight of her. They say that the world ended and began here, in the Holy Land of Jerusalem. He knows without a doubt, in this moment, that his world is beginning again.

There are many moments soonafter. A glance, here and there. Conversations, rare as ice in wooden boxes, brief as winter light, gone before they are really caught. Laughter like Holy Relics that could change everything if only they were allowed to exist in the open. Matthew, only the most sentimental of all the Apostles, comes to him in the form of the written word. Ask. Seek. Knock. He cannot. But he is content to watch her as she walks. And if she were to look at him in return, perhaps she would find him wanting. Sometimes she does look at him, but there is no knowing what she sees when she does.

Now he is a man, masked and concealed, walking with a borrowed dignity.

Most things that belong to him are borrowed.

Even time itself, loaned like silver pieces to a pauper, is spent before it is truly owned. His crown, coveted by those who count the moments from here and when his body inevitably betrays him. The robes he wears are weighted with gold and jewels and promises made by a stronger man. A younger man that sickness had yet to ruin. Even this city, built upon a thousand graves and a thousand prayers and pledges is not his to command, only to tend for a short while. His body is a temporary vessel. Sibylla knows this. Sibylla awaits his inevitable failure, inheriting problems he has not created but has failed to solve.

The woman of his prayers, most importantly, is not his either.

He wonders if it is selfish that he does not want to let her go. That these moments, and every single moment that is theirs and theirs alone, will slip through his fingers like water through a sieve. But today, Baldwin watches as her father gives her away. His eyes do not leave her face, hoping, perhaps, that if he is lucky, she will turn to him, just so. A small turn of the head, a quick glance. Me. Me. Look at me. Look at me like you did, all those times before in my dreams.

She does not, though. She is beaming at her new husband with that smile he knows she has practiced time and time again. Reserved for this very moment of utmost importance. And then, suddenly, it is over and the agony begins. This, Baldwin knows, is his. This certainty neither borrowed nor stolen. This, he can claim as his own. This loss of her, complete and irreversible, is his for keeping.

The King of Jerusalem sits idly at the table. He does not eat or drink, he rarely does. And current circumstances make it near impossible to do so. The mask, though convenient for others to gaze upon something that is not so hideous as his gnarled countenance, also makes it quite difficult to engage in otherwise normal activities. His food is typically brought to his chambers, his goblets emptied in private. He has to endure, among other things, the constant chatter of visiting nobles and squires and the occasional eager knight. The courtyard is full of merriment and the King is alone.

Baldwin does not like to engage in merriment. Weddings. Christenings. Occasions that mark life in the normal world. A world that is not his. A world that belongs to the unafflicted, unblessed, and unmarked. He laughs at the idea of it. That he is heralded as some kind of holy figure. That his leprosy is an act of God, a mark of reverence, a sign of his piety. Sometimes, he feels the same, in his better moments. Perhaps, that was the delusion speaking, to cope for better or worse with his circumstances.

There is still food and drink in front of him. Some pheasant died to be decorative, to not be consumed, to merely represent that the King too is celebrating like the rest of them. He chuckles slightly, morbidly, at the thought of it. Another sacrifice made for show. Another animal that perished at the altar of presentation. He did not want to present himself tonight. The Lordling, he was told, would understand. The Lady, they said, would not mind. And it irked him to think that she would not mind. He should be there, he insisted. It would be an insult not to, Sybilla agreed.

After all, the match had been his to arrange.

He excuses himself from the table. Among the throngs of revellers already dancing and clapping and laughing and drinking, he is just some faceless nobleman with a metal mask. (Although, there aren’t too many of those in this kindly kingdom of thirty-thousand odd souls.) He does not stay in the great hall, he walks towards the chemin de ronde where there is no one but a patrolling guard or two. There is a moon tonight. Almost full. It has a taste for him, he feels. The moon in its lonely, beguiling light makes everything appear softer than it is.

And then, the rustling of curtains. Time passes too quickly when one is left to his own thoughts. And he has long grown used to his own company. He turns, sensing that someone is there. He is right. There she is. As though he has willed her to come just by his sobrieties alone. He is not surprised. But he is unprepared.

“Quite a ceremony, wasn’t it?”

Her voice is like the hearth of the first fire after Winter. Baldwin adjusts his posture, allowing his body to relax. He leans against his cane of ivory and silver.

“Yes.” He says, “The guests seemed to enjoy it, and the groom looked pleased.” His words are measured, and his lips are numb as the vowels and consonants are pronounced. He knows with the numbness that he is alive. He isn’t sure if he’s happy to be. “I must offer my congratulations, Mademoiselle. You make a handsome pair.”

“Madame,” She corrects with a grin. “It is Madame now, Your Grace. I am now married, or did you forget to watch?” She is still grinning, cheeks flushed like the wine she must have been drinking with her husband. Her new husband who is not him, he reminds himself with not much effort. He notices how her eyes follow the path of the moonlit clouds. “You must do your best not to forget. You arranged it, after all.”

He smiles beneath the silver linings. “I am unlikely to forget anything about today, My Lady. It was a beautiful ceremony.”

Her eyes find his, “It is rare to find the King of Jerusalem in attendance of such events, let alone with such kind words of congratulations.”

“I will admit, it was a very small incentive that brought me here, but it is enough to have done it.”

She laughs at this. It is a quiet laugh, meant for them alone. “Baldwin, you are a strange man. A strange king.”

“I take that as a compliment.” The familiarity is more than welcome. But the strain of holding himself up is not. He shifts slightly, leaning a little more on the cane to take the weight off his leg.

“Come back inside. We should sit. It is much too cold out here. You should not have to endure it.”

“Please. I have been sitting for hours. My physicians have encouraged me to move about. I am only being obedient.”

“Pffft. You have never been obedient.” She challenges him with a knowing look. “Though, I suppose if the King’s own physicians insist on it, you must do as you’re told. What do they recommend for a happy king these days?”

He lets out a quiet laugh, which is mostly air. “Food. Wine. Company. The usual things, I imagine. None of which I am inclined to indulge in.” He sighs. “I find that in matters of pleasure, I am quite the ascetic.”

“I am sure there are things that can please even a dreary creature such as yourself.”

He laughs. “Dreary? Madame, you wound me. I might be strange, but I am far from dreary.”

“Oh? And sulking alone on my wedding day of all days? Pray, what would you call such behavior?”

“Contemplative. Kings must be contemplative.”

She rolls her eyes, a gesture he finds unaccountably charming. “Dreary. Contemplative and lonely. You are not a philosopher, Baldwin. You are a King. So, come and be King. Dine with us. Drink with us. The physician said you need company, did he not? Here I am. Keeping you company. This is medicinal.”

He knows he is meant to laugh, but the sound catches in his throat. Her company, warm and real, burns him with a pain deeper than the Leprosy ever could. He looks at her hand, at the sleeve of her best bliaut, the fabric a rich blue, inviting and soft to the touch (in his mind he imagines it to be as soft as it seems). And in these thoughts he has already rolled the cuff, and places his own lips upon her wrist, inhaling her, tasting her, pressing her skin to his cheek. Here, in the comfort of his fantasies, she never turns away, never pulls her hand from his.

He can see it, vividly like daylight. The shape of her bare skin. She is clean. Smooth. Soft. Unblemished. Unscathed. Unmarked. Nothing at all like the raw, nerve-riddled patchwork that is hidden beneath his own gloves and bandages. The disease is slowly, deliberately, devouring him. Piece by piece. Year by year. It is patient. He is not.

She looks at him expectantly. He must answer. He must speak.

“I appreciate the company, Madame. Truly, I do. More than I can say.”

“You say very little. Even less than usual. And I must once again declare that you, your highness, are dreadfully dreary tonight.” She taps a finger against her chin, feigning great thought. “I have a cure. For such melancholy. A tonic which has never failed me.”

“Indeed? Do tell. I am willing to try anything once.”

She smiles. “Da—”

“Except for dancing, I am afraid. Even your strongest of wines could not coax me onto the dais.” He interrupts, knowing her prescription before she has a chance to give it. Her brows furrow, and she bursts into laughter.

“A man of limitations, then?” she teases.

He gestures to his cane. “Only a few. God, with His infinite wisdom, has seen fit to burden me with a small number of earthly restraints. Dancing, as you have correctly surmised, is chief among them. A pity, I think. I would have liked to have danced with you.”

“Oh? Is that all you would have liked to do?”

She is smiling still. His heart staggers, a horse missing a step.

“I would have liked many things.” He says. He wonders if she can hear the aching in his voice. Do not say it. He tells himself. Do not commandeer this conversation into a confession of longing. Not tonight. Not on her wedding night. That is not for you. Nothing is for you. Even this moment is stolen. The color on her cheeks embezzled from a man who, by all rights, owns them now. Do not take another thing. Not even another look. Not even another word. “It is not a productive line of thought to follow.” He says, as much for his own benefit as for hers.

She tilts her head. “If you will not dance with me, the least you can do is entertain me with conversation. That costs you nothing.”

But the cost was everything. Every breath he took in her presence was a tribute paid to a new and terrible god. A god of wanting. A god of impossibility. A cruel and silent deity who reveled in the misery of its sole worshipper.

He swallows.

“Very well. What shall we speak of? The weather? The quality of the wine? The political implications of your union? I am at your disposal.”

She laughs again, the sound a sweet agony. He wants to bottle it and keep it as it is. He wants to wear it around his neck, and drink from it when the nights are long and cold and utterly empty. To quench an impossible thirst, with a sound he can never truly possess.

“Let us not speak of politics. Or weather. Or wine. They are too dreary for you tonight. Let us speak of impossibilities. Of braver subjects than these.”

“You, madame, are far braver than I am.”

“And if you, My Lord, were braver?”

He swallows. His mind wanders. His blue eyes find hers as his tongue wets his lips. He does not tell her. It is improper to answer with the truth in these situations. And the truth is dangerous. The will of God, his sanctification, his duties to the Crown, all of them rendered asunder by the thought of another man’s hands on her skin.

The truth is, if he were a braver man, even for a moment, he would ruin her.

He would have asked her what she thinks of him. If she finds him wanting, if she wants him at all. He would ask if she thinks of him when she is with others, the way he thinks of her in the darkness of his rooms, when he is holding himself in his hands and spilling his grief and longing into the linen. He would ask her if she finds him handsome, a foolish thing to ask of a girl who can only now remember his unravaged face in memories and in manuscripts that are more carricature than likeness.

He would have asked her to take her hair down. To let it fall, heavy and soft, across her shoulders. He would ask if he might touch it, just once, with a bare and ungloved finger. And she would say yes. (For even in his most sinful thoughts, he could never afflict her with his bare skin without her explicit permission. Not in his fantasies. He is not that cruel.) He would take her veil and wrap it around his own wrist. It would smell like her, he is certain, and he would inhale it until he is light-headed.

Baldwin has imagined her lips, plump and red like pomegranate seeds, wet and glistening and—his mind is a traitor, betraying again and again. He should not continue. It is a terrible, awful, sacrilegious thought. But the thought grows and grows the more he looks at her. And God, she is looking at him in return.

If he were a braver man, he would kiss her with the way her lips are parting now. Expectantly like the blooming of a rose, like she knows his own thoughts are wicked and trespassing and sinful. Her skirts, her finest bliaut, not rolled up tenderly but bunched roughly in his fist, his other hand holding her face still as he ravages her mouth. He would slide his fingers into the silk-smooth tresses of her hair and hold her to him. She is so close to him now, so close he can smell the salty sweat beneath the oils that anointed her skin, her skin, gleaming in the torchlight. (Did they not stone lesser men for this? The wanton thought springs unbidden. The body of a leper is a tomb, his soul already consigned to the grave. What is one more blasphemy on a ledger already overflowing?)

And if he were already damned, already adulterous in his mind (Matthew, sweet Matthew, most sentimental Matthew, has said that every single one who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart, so he is already guilty, already a sinner), then he would strip her of all the silks and the blues and the golds, and let the moonlight bathe her skin for him and him alone. Take her right then and there on the chemin de ronde, pressed against the stone, with only the moon and the stars and the judgmental gaze of Heaven to bear witness.

He imagines the sound she would make, a small, surprised gasp, and then the yielding, the soft surrender as her hands clutched at his shoulders, at the embroidered collar of his tunic. She is tight. She is wet like dew on a petal. He knows this. He just knows. He has dreamed it so many times it has the texture of memory. He moves within her, a slow, deliberate rhythm that has nothing to do with the frantic, solitary rutting of the nights he lived alone, in the dark, tormented by her absence. He thinks of the way her hair would tumble over her breasts, the way her back would arch, the way she would moan his name.

This is the braver man. The one who asks for nothing and takes everything. The one who hears the beating of her own heart against his own chest and listens for a moment for God to strike him down. For lightning to course from the Heavens. For a clap of thunder. But there is nothing. The crickets still chirp. The moon still shines. The wind still blows.

His eyes in the present search hers, perhaps for permission, perhaps for condemnation. He finds only curiosity, and it is a crueler judgment than any punishment Hell could devise.

“If I were braver, I would not be here, My Lady.”

“Where would you be?”

“Somewhere else.” He answers, reluctantly. Somewhere with her pressed against him. Somewhere with her breathing hitched and his name upon her lips, a plea. Somewhere that does not exist, and never would. “Anywhere that is not here, watching you belong to another.”

Her breath catches, just for a moment, and he knows he has gone too far. He has said too much, and the fragile peace between them—if it ever was peace and not agony—shatters into a thousand pieces. He has laid himself bare, and now he must wait for the wound to be salted.

“But you are a King. And Kings cannot be anywhere else but here.”

Her words are not a rejection, but a confirmation. A statement of fact, as immutable as the laws of God and the turning of the heavens. He is King, and she is married, and the world is what it is.

“It is not the king’s heart that speaks tonight, but the man’s. And even this man is a coward, for he will not act upon his words.”

She is silent for a long moment, her gaze falling to the ground, her hand resting on the stone parapet. “If I were as brave as you believe me to be, I would have told you the truth long ago.”

The words hang in the air between them, a challenge and a concession. He wants to demand that she speak it, whatever it is, that she release him from this purgatory of his own making.

“And what truth is that?” His voice comes out quieter than the pounding of his heart.

She looks up then, her eyes meeting his, and the look in them is raw, stripped bare of any pretense. He sees it, then. The same longing, the same impossibility.

“That I would have liked it too,” she says. “To be anywhere else with you.”

The confession is a lance through his side, a final, fatal blow. He wants to reach for her, to take her face in his hands and feel her skin against his, even if it is just this once. He wants to pull the mask from his face and let her see the rot beneath, and see if the look in her eyes would remain. He wants to be a man, not a king, not a holy symbol, not a vessel for the hopes of a kingdom.

Not this. This creature breathing on borrowed time. Stealing glances and wanting looks from a woman he arranged to be married to someone else. Someone healthier. Someone whole. Someone who can be with her for the rest of her life. Someone who is not him.

He says none of this. He only looks at her, and the silence that stretches between them is filled with all the words they cannot say, all the futures they cannot have, all the worlds that are not this one. The revelry from the great hall drifts up to them, catches them and collects the debts that are due. It is the sound of another man’s celebration. Another life. Another world. And yet, here they are. In this one. Together. And apart.

“That,” he says finally, the words slow and measured, each syllable a monument to his self-control, “is the truth of two cowards, then.”

“Perhaps.” She does not deny it. “Or perhaps it is the only truth that matters.” Her hand, so close to his on the stone, trembles. He can see the faint outline of her ring, a thin band of gold glinting in the moonlight. A brand. A cage. A promise he himself brokered.

He cannot look at it. He looks at her face instead, at the soft curve of her cheek, the shape of her lips. He memorizes every detail, every flicker of expression. He will keep this moment, this stolen, impossible moment, and he will take it out in the long, silent nights of his future. He will hold it close to him, when the nights are more unbearable than they already are. This is all he can have. This memory, flawed and fleeting, will have to be enough.

(It will never be enough.)

“You should return to your husband,” he says, the words a defeat. He hears it in his own voice. The surrender. The breaking.

Her expression shifts, the raw vulnerability shuttered behind a mask of her own making. A lady’s composure. A wife’s duty. Their time is over. The moment has passed.

“I should,” she agrees, her voice steady now, cool and distant as the stars. “He will be wondering where I am.” A statement that requires no reply. She turns, a graceful pivot that sets her skirts swirling around her like the dark waters of the Jordan.

He watches her go. She does not look back. She walks away from him, a straight-backed silhouette against the glow of the hall. He watches until she disappears back into the warmth and the noise and the life that is hers now. A life that does not include him. A life that never could.

He remains on the parapet long after she is gone. His mind pulses with the thought of her.

Her, her, forever her.

Always, and ever, her.

Her.

He does not tell her. This thought, this secret, is his to keep.

[yenayaps]

Rose Garden Dreams; Torn At The Seams

Pairing: FireLord!Zuko x RoyalAdvisor!Reader

Content: contrary to popular belief, the fire lord can't have everything he wants. however, even he’d admit that what he wanted was troublesome in itself, which is why he forces himself to be okay with having you by his side as his advisor. [tw: MDNI, angst/fluff/smut, apothecary diaries coded, so much yearning and longing, porn with plot, there is no power imbalance he’s afraid of your father, zuko’s a little shit tho, we’re already married in his head] wc: 4.8k

m.list | chapter one | next chapter

“You want me to do your hair?”

His lips twitch, fighting back a smile. “Yes, precisely.” 

You sigh as you step into the man’s chambers, walking up to the vanity that’s more fitting for a queen, in your opinion. If only people saw this side of the fire lord. Zuko, the pretty boy. He has zero insecurities over the scar his tyrant of a father left on his face, but he’d faint at the sight of seeing too much hair shed on the marble floors of his bathhouse. 

“When you decide to have me summoned like this, do you ever wonder, hm— what would her father think?” you ask as you grudgingly pick up the boar bristle brush and begin to brush his hair. 

“I do,” he dryly responds. “I like the way you do your hair, though, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell on me. You wouldn’t want me getting in trouble, right?” 

Zuko might be the fire lord, but he still has to watch his relationships with the other clans in this nation— especially with a certain hot-headed strategist that just so happens to be your father. You can only imagine his outburst upon learning that his daughter is playing with the lord's hair, rather than playing your role as his advisor. 

Most fathers would be pleased by the information— not yours, he’s a little more… strict. He already doesn’t like him from a joke made over a decade ago, suggesting you’d make a fine concubine, which wasn’t taken lightly. 

Your father threatened to usurp the throne, sending a chill running down a then 21 year old Zuko’s spine.

There was no way in hell he’d hand you off to the imperial palace to become a concubine. You’re the only child of his that inherited firebending. If your father had it his way, you’d be a warrior, for fucks sake. 

Lord Zuko may have a dry sense of humor at times, but you have your doubts about how much of a joke that statement was, especially with how much he likes to bug you throughout the day.

Perhaps another conflict should erupt— the man has too much time on his hands. Maybe then you’d fulfill your fathers wish of finally working in the military— put your talents to use, as he’d say. 

But would Lord Zuko allow the gentle hands running through his hair to commit such violence? Or would that be when he’d draw a hard line with the aggressive strategist? 

As progressive as he is, you sometimes wonder just how much it extends to you. Even as children, he’d go easy on you during trainings. He’s only grown softer with you as the years passed. Despite not being a concubine yourself, you wouldn’t be surprised if he saw you as one of the flowers in his garden— one he’s not allowed to touch. 

You slide the hair stick through his headpiece, securing the top knot he had you redo. It looks the same, but you hold off on making a comment. “Is that better?” 

“Much better.” His eyes meet yours in the mirror, lips curving into a sly smile. “Now— what are we doing today?”

We. You hate how much he likes to emphasize that at times. 

“Well,” you sigh. “Aside from the usual council meeting, nothing much. Perhaps you can visit one of your concubines today… for once.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Are you saying I don’t fuck my concubines enough?” 

“Precisely,” you say almost mockingly. 

It’s all they ever complain about, and honestly, you’re sure you would, too, if you were one of them. Having to wake up and sit around all day, waiting for a man who never comes. And on the rare occasion that he does, he doesn’t stay long. He’ll show up, fuck the shit out of you for a couple rounds, then leave right after. Allegedly. 

“Don’t you want an heir?” you ask. 

“Depends,” he hums. 

With the way he’s looking at you, you can already tell what it depends on, and it has nothing to do with his current concubines. Lucky for you, he never gets the chance to actually say it because he gets interrupted right after, putting a conversation you’d rather not have to a screeching halt.

“The council is waiting for you, my Lord.”

—

The silk district was notoriously known for two things: brothels and bandits. It was the wild, wild west compared to the other districts in the capital due to high crime and the growing wealth gap. The governments always kept a watchful eye on it, which was never enough in your opinion. 

Are you surprised to hear that an entire brothel, including the madame, was discovered to be slain and robbed in the early hours of this morning? Absolutely not. 

“Send more military officers to patrol the area,” the chamberlain says without hesitation. “We’ve been too lenient with them. If they want bloodshed, we’ll give them bloodshed.”

Yikes, he wants to rule the area with an iron fist when they’re already clearly struggling. You can’t help but think of how much of a dictator this guy would be if he were in Zuko’s place. 

You make eye contact with the lord, who’s sitting at the end of the table right next to you. In that brief moment, he notices the concern in your eyes and gives you a subtle nod. 

“Perhaps we can send more public aid?” you suggest. “They’ve been testing out a new rehabilitation program in Republic City as well. I’m sure the Silk District could benefit from—“

“Nonsense,” the chamberlain cuts you off, wondering why you’re even here right now— he thought you only assisted in matters within the court, not outside of it. “I-“

“Careful,” Zuko interrupts the man rather playfully as he continues to read through the scroll. “That’s the military strategist’s daughter you’re speaking to.” 

The comment makes you nearly roll your eyes, knowing the only reason why he said it was because you’re having to constantly remind him yourself when he gets too close. 

The chamberlain, however, straightens up immediately. You have no idea why it took him this long to realize it. He’s been here for nearly over a year, but at least he knows now. The chamberlain can be quite rude at times, you wouldn’t want him to slip up with your father in the room. Not only would that earn him an earful of insults that are as creative as they are hurtful, but it’d also be embarrassing on your part. 

That old man embarrasses you enough when he’s around. Following you around like a lost puppy after meetings, asking if you’ve eaten and if your superiors are treating you right, while side eyeing the fire lord himself. You’d agree so yourself that he has too much power in the court. He enjoys holding it over everyone’s head even more. It’s sickening, really.

You look at the chamberlain, who is now pouting, and offer an apologetic smile. “May I continue?” 

“Yes, of course,” the old man nods, struggling to hide his shame.

Always one for games, Zuko finds himself suppressing a laugh, which in turn makes the chamberlain’s slouch worsen. He’s grown to find more and more amusement in his daily tasks, a trait his father would definitely disapprove of— good thing he’s not here anymore. 

The rest of the meeting went by as smooth as it could be, with the fire lord, of course, praising the chancellor in the end for being so well behaved, pretending to wonder what could’ve changed his usual demeanor. The usual teasings, all while you once again found yourself thinking of how light he’s become. Even after receiving such upsetting news, he stayed calm while finding a solution. 

A humane one.

No longer the grumpy, angsty boy you grew up with. He’s actually quite charming. But you keep that to yourself.

The palace grounds are empty, as they should be during the afternoon. Everyone’s off either eating, napping, or tending to duties such as cooking or cleaning. It’s quiet, surprisingly peaceful. Your footsteps echo throughout the breezeway as Zuko defies the basic etiquette of walking ahead of you as a ruler should. Instead, the bastard walks a little slower than you. If given the opportunity, he’d turn it into a mini competition of who could walk the slowest, up until you both come to a full stop, with him looking at you all smug. 

“Your chambers are this way,” you remind the said bastard as if he’d already forgotten. 

He doesn’t bother to look back as he responds, walking down a gravel path leading directly to the flower garden. “How about we take a detour today, hm?”

You watch him for a moment, waiting to see if he’d stop. He doesn’t, and you shouldn’t be surprised by it. You’re able to catch up with him in just seconds given his slow pace, this time not bothering to walk behind him as he’s clearly in the mood to be extra stubborn today.

You’re all alone and away from the hearing distance of anyone else, yet you still choose to speak quietly as you start to gently tease the man. “What a surprise to see the king taking some time to enjoy his garden.” 

He lets out a soft laugh that fades into a hum. “Only around a select few.”

“Oh, wow,” you pretend to be impressed. “How charitable.” 

“It’s an honor that you think so,” he says, placing a hand over his chest to add to the theatrics, trying not to laugh once again. “Tell me, when was the last time you walked through here?”

You hum as you walk further into the sprawling garden filled with wooden arches covered with green vines and flowers in full bloom. “Can’t say I actually remember when.”

“That’s a shame. I had the gardener plant new rose bushes,” he murmurs. “Wanted to ask what you thought of them.” 

“I think they’re lovely,” you admit, softly pinching a petal, rubbing your thumb over the velvety skin.

He smiles. “I figured.” 

They were your favorite after all. 

Why is he like this? The garden’s already filled with enough flowers. A new section wasn’t needed. 

Again, he’s just bored.

In an attempt to keep the conversation from getting any more personal, you change the subject. “Are you looking forward to your trip to Republic City?” 

At the end of the meeting, it was decided that he’d visit with the purpose of getting more information about the new rehabilitation program the city was rolling out. While the chancellor wanted to take a more aggressive approach, he decided to take a more peaceful route. It’s admirable how hands on he’s chosen to be since taking his father's place. 

“Mhm. It’ll be nice catching up with some old friends while I’m there—“ he cuts himself off and looks at you with slight suspicion, “you’re going, right?”

You never said you would, nor did you want to, honestly. It’d be nice to take a break. “I’m sure you and some of your subordinates can handle it.” 

“Weren’t you the one who came up with the idea, though?” his tone slightly clips as he reminds you. 

“I was,” you respond tentatively, taking back your thoughts from earlier as you look him in the eyes. 

This man looks like he’s about to throw a fit. 

Zuko opens his mouth again, already knowing he shouldn’t be this pushy towards you, of all people, but he is far from perfect. 

So with a forced smile and all the resolve in the world, he murmurs, “you’re going.” 

You smile back despite feeling an annoyed heat creep up your neck, heart starting to pick up. “Alright.” 

—

Imagine being the fire lord, a literal ruler, and getting the cold shoulder from your own advisor. Every answer is so curt and clinical, and it’s going to drive him up the wall. 

Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord. Apologies, my lord.

Give him a fucking break.

As if you weren’t punishing him enough, you went ahead and had two of his concubines “accompany” him on the trip. It’s not like he can say no to that, either, since it’s considered to be one of his duties. Not to mention they both come from high-ranking families that would not be very pleased to hear of their neglect. 

So now he has to deal with two spoiled, pent-up brats hanging on him during the entirety of this flight, all while trying not to glare at the biggest brat of them all— you, as you sit directly across from him, reading probably what’s some pathetic romance novel.

This is fucking ridiculous. You haven’t looked at him once since you first sat down.

You’re no better than him. There was a strike of lightning in the direction you walked off in, and given how it was a perfectly sunny day, he’s pointing his finger at you for the damages done in the east wing, despite keeping his mouth shut on the matter. Complain about being dragged to Republic City all you want, but you still have it better than most. If you really did have it that bad, you would’ve been punished for such an offense. 

Like, seriously? Blowing shit up, like a fucking child— a terrifying one, to be frank, you are absolutely your father’s daughter— just because you had to do your job? Grow up. His grandfather’s statue was shattered in the midst of it all, thanks to you. You’re lucky he never liked the bastard.

In protest, you’re dressed like a noble's daughter rather than a member of the court. Wearing the finest silk and adorned in gold imported from the Earth nation, quietly refusing to represent your actual nation as you claim to be representing your clan— proof that you have enough power on your own to be acting like he’s actively denying you of basic human rights.

As if he even cared about your attire. Be his guest! You look fucking hot. Someone might even mistake you for one of his concubines, and he might just not correct them, since you think you’re more petty than he is.

Zuko gets pulled out of his thoughts when Concubine Aika speaks, still leaning against him and rubbing on his chest. She asked what book you were reading, which is when you finally looked up from it. 

“It’s sort of an adventure novel.” You look at the cover, speaking to her with a certain warmth you’ve been depriving him of. “It’s about a girl escaping an abusive orphanage once she turns 18 and follows her journey for the next 10 years.”

So now you’re fantasizing about leaving him? Good luck with that. 

“You look troubled, my lord,” the woman to his right, Concubine Saiyo, says. She’s leaning against him as well, now tracing her fingers along his jaw. “Are you alright?” 

“M’fine,” he murmurs, trying to fix his face as he takes a sip of sake. “It’s been a long flight.”

“There’s a private cabin you can retreat to, if you’d like,” you suggest, going back to your little book, missing the way you just made the lord’s eye twitch. 

“I know,” he says. 

It’s his airship. 

Without warning, he gets up from his seat. Was it a little rude? Perhaps. But surely the two women beside him could understand what feeling hounded could do to someone. They don’t, they do their jobs and get up as well, which he understands. However, Zuko’s not in the fucking mood right now and waves a dismissive hand. 

“No need,” he curtly says, making his way to the back of the airship. “I just want to close my eyes for a bit.” 

. . . . . .

The trip starts off strong with a banquet being held in honor of the fire lord's arrival. 

Contrary to Zuko’s wishes, nobody’s stupid enough to mistake you for one of his concubines. At least not within the circle of people you’re mingling with tonight, who all recognize your family's crest engraved on your hairpin. 

They were an ambitious bunch that spread all over once Zuko came into power— reaching amongst the highest positions within the military, medicine, and even education. 

Funny enough, your position in the court was nothing special in comparison to some of your relatives’ achievements. Some are even bothered by the fact. Being the first of all your cousins to master the art of firebending, being your grandfather's favorite solely for bending lightning with the same grace as he did in his prime, all while excelling in your studies. 

All of that potential, just wasted on being the lord’s “pet”. 

You don’t have much of an opinion on the disappointment some of them have expressed in the past, though it would’ve been nice if their words had stayed behind closed doors. You didn’t want to hear any of it. If you truly wanted to make use of that said potential, you would’ve worked directly under your father as his subordinate. 

Maybe it was the result of growing up feeling like you were enough. You have nothing to prove, and quite frankly, you’re content with having a role that really only requires you to share your opinions with a ruler that shares the same ideals as you… for the most part. 

If only he’d also agree that you two spend way too much time together. 

Luckily, you’re not required to be by his side tonight since you’re attending the banquet as a representative of your clan— something Zuko had no clue about until the moment you stepped onto the airship, which had him looking like he was about to blow a fucking gasket. He absolutely sucks at masking his frustrations. You’re surprised his concubines still had the courage to cuddle up with him. He looked like he was 2.5 seconds away from throwing you off the ship mid-flight. 

Zuko would never do that, by the way, but you’re sure he was daydreaming about it. 

But even then, with all the distance between you tonight, you can still feel his eyes on you. Just watching and waiting for you to do something he didn’t like. Very masochistic considering how he wouldn’t confront you if you did end up doing something wrong in his eyes. 

You spend the entire night avoiding eye contact, which isn’t too hard given how all you’ve done is catch up with old peers from school and relatives who’ve decided to move here to start new lives. 

The relatives you got along with, that is. 

You were enjoying yourself. Truly. Until Sokka called you over to their table. 

Funny how Zuko wasn’t looking at you then and was instead stuffing his face with spicy dumplings, then downing it with whatever liquor was in his cup. 

You walk over with two thoughts running through your head— please don’t let this man be as drunk as Sokka and Aang, and don’t let this be a conversation about how work was been. Sokka tends to ask those things at the wrong time, despite his heart being in the right place. 

This time around, it’s not Sokka.

“How’s our flaming hot lord treating you?” Aang asks, throwing an arm around a very drunk Zuko, who’s laughing his ass off over the avatar’s words for once. 

Your lips may have twitched a little, as well. Only because Aang gave even less fucks when in an inebriated state. 

“Oh, you know— the usual.” You let out a lighthearted laugh, and only you notice the way Zuko’s face momentarily drops. 

The air around him quickly screams ‘don’t fuck with me’, then settles back into something more suitable for someone who’s already had half their water weight in alcohol. 

“C’mon, you can do better than that,” Zuko forces out a laugh, leaning back in his seat. 

You laugh a little harder. “Can I?”

“Yeah, you can.” 

Sokka lets out this weird, giddy gasp because he loves drama, and cuts in. “Are you two fighting?”

“No.” 

“No.”

You and Zuko look at each other after shutting down Sokka’s question at the same time. The fake smiles you’re wearing are not helping your case at all. 

“Where’s Katara? I’ve been wondering where she’s been this whole time,” you ask in an attempt to keep the energy between you from getting any more awkward than it already is

Aang grows a little pale— the instant karma feels nice. “She’s a little sick tonight.” 

There’s a bit of fear in his voice. She’s totally pregnant. Not that you say that. Instead, you just point in some random direction behind you. “That’s terrible— my cousin actually just mentioned a bug going around. I hope she feels better soon.” 

“Thank you,” the man lets out a sigh of relief, allowing himself to be delusional for just one more night. 

“What about Toph?”

“Home. Asleep.” Sokka rolls his eyes. “She’s like a little old lady now. You’ll see her tomorrow, though, she’s been volunteering at the center.” 

“Volunteering or beating everyone into submission?” Zuko murmurs, and they all erupt in laughter. “She probably runs that place like the military.”

You find yourself starting to zone out as the conversation moves on to a different topic. You’d like to blame some of the wine you’ve been sipping on throughout the night for that. Everything starts to melt together— the live music, the endless chatter in every which direction. The only thing that pulls you out of it is seeing another one of your cousins who had just arrived, waving at you, and you don't shy away from taking that as an opportunity to excuse yourself. 

Aang and Sokka were as kind as usual when you said your goodbyes. Zuko, on the other hand, was harder to read through the pathetic excuse of a smile he gave you. One only meant to save face. 

If only he knew just how much worse he makes things sometimes. Although they’re rare, this isn’t the first fight you two have been in. Perhaps you have been a little petty towards the man, but it’s not you who grows so frustrated at someone’s anger that you begin to hold a grudge yourself. 

You arrive back to your room in the early morning with the regret of not cutting yourself off from the drinks sooner than you did. You wouldn’t say you were drunk, but you were definitely tipsy as you started to shed layers of clothes and jewelry to get in the hot bath that had been prepared prior to your return. 

Aang may be childish at times, but fuck was he a great host. Or maybe it was Katara who had all of these amenities set up for you. Candles and bath salts— you could die a happy woman right now as you settle into the stone tub, taking deep breaths, letting your muscles relax. 

Twenty minutes in, you hear rattling and heavy footsteps that seem to hit the ground with more confusion than the determination an attacker would usually have. It forces you to leave the warmth of your bath, slipping on a robe. Getting hit with annoyance rather than fear may be a little foolish. Overconfident, even. But there’s still alcohol running through your veins, and you aren’t the pride and joy of your clan for no reason— you can absolutely hold your own in a fight. 

When you walk out of the bathroom, you come face to face with exactly who you were thinking of.

“Fuck,” he looks away for a moment, regretting his decision thinking it was okay to just walk in. 

Zuko didn’t think you’d be bathing, for some odd, stupid reason. Judging by the fact that he’s still wearing his usual day clothing and his hairs not up in a bun, it’s safe to assume he went straight here after leaving the banquet. 

You let out a long sigh. “God— what are you doing here?” 

You don’t even sound mad— just disappointed that you have to see him once more before you lay your head to rest, which slightly hurts the man’s ego. Truth be told, he came here to argue with you, but even in his drunken state, he’s finding it quite difficult to do so since he looks like a fucking pervert now. 

“Your comment from earlier— what the hell was that about?” Zuko sounds more wounded than anything right now. 

You cross your arms, leaning against the door frame that connects the room to the bathroom. “What comment?”

“The usual,” he says with air quotes. “Do you not like me anymore or something?”

“You’re seriously asking me that right now?” Your face twists, just dumbfounded at this point. “You ask me that as if I don’t work for you?”

He scoffs. “So what, you’re saying I’m not your friend now?”

“I mean, yeah— you are, but I’m still your subordinate at the end of the day,” you attempt to spell it out for him, trying to get it through his brain that he can’t just act like you two are a pair of besties. 

But he just continues to argue with you. 

“Really? ‘Cause last time I checked, people don’t fight their superiors.” 

No, they do not. You’re not sure why you even tried to make that an argument, the line between you has blurred a long time ago. 

“You know what, just— forget it.”

The thing is, you're not the best at taking accountability. Most of the arguments you’ve had with him have been swept under the rug after a while. Zuko's not having that right now, though.

“Hm— actually, no— I don’t think I will,” he stubbornly says. “You have been punishing me for fucking weeks now and now you just want me to forget it?”

Punishing him?

You roll your eyes, muttering “oh my god” under your breath, not even bothering to look him straight in the eyes anymore as you walk to the nightstand and pick up a small jar of body cream. 

“We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow,” you say dismissively, rubbing the jasmine-scented cream into your hands. “I need to go to sleep, and so should you, honestly.”

It doesn’t matter how well he can handle his alcohol— he reeks of it. 

“I’m trying to talk to you right now so I don’t have to deal with your attitude tomorrow,” he says, as if he hasn’t had an attitude himself the last couple of weeks. 

“Don’t worry, you won’t have to,” you murmur back. 

What feels like minutes pass after your pathetic attempt to settle your issues with him. At first, he just lets out a sigh, trying to keep his composure, but then he laughs under his breath. 

“So that’s it?” he asks in a condescending tone. “We’re all good now?”

“Yes. Goodnight, Zuko,” you hum. 

More silence follows after. You can just feel his eyes on you despite still facing away, now reaching for some hair oil, waiting for him to leave.

He never does. Even after working the product into your hair, you have yet to hear the door to your room close, making you grow wary. 

There are many things telling you not to turn around at the moment— your blurred mind and tensed body. But even you make mistakes, lots of them with Zuko, and so you finally turn around. 

His lips are on yours. 

You don’t know how long he’d been standing directly behind you, you never even heard his footsteps. All you know is his hands are snaked behind your neck and he’s kissing you and you’re letting him.

It takes you a moment to realize you’re kissing him back— too focused on how soft his lips are, how his tongue glides across your lower lip before slipping inside, so commanding yet so gentle. 

Then you sober up— pressing your palm flat against his chest and pushing him back so you two can look at each other, eyes wide and filled with instant regret.

“What the hell was that?” you try to snap at him, but the sharp edge was dulled from the start, already fearing what’ll change between you from this moment forward. 

“I— fuck,” he stutters, taking another step back. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

Immediately, you cut him off. “No, you shouldn’t have and you know that.”

“I know.” It sounds like a plea coming from him as his chest tightens. “I’m sorry.”

Even you start to look apologetic, which breaks his heart a little since you did nothing wrong. The one who crossed the line was him, after all. “You should go. You’re drunk.” 

He opened his mouth to respond, but then closed it shortly after. There was nothing to say. 

And so he slowly nods and turns around, still in shock by his own actions as he begins to walk away, leaving you to deal with the aftermath of what the fuck just happened on your own. 

This was going to be the longest work trip of your life. 

notes: i hope u guys enjoyed this first chapter!! this was supposed to be a oneshot but then ideas kept popping up in my head and i thought, why don't i just turn this into a longfic like defiance lol. the plan is to follow these two around throughout a couple arcs, with the first one being them trying to navigate their feelings and attempting to go back to normal while trying to fix the shit show in the silk district.

TAGS ARE CLOSED

All rights reserved © 2026 yenayaps. Do not copy, repost, translate, or modify my works in any platform. Do not feed my works into ai and do not turn them into chat bots.

[dreamwritesimagines]

Avalanche Masterlist

Summary: The whole Westeros knew the South and the North rarely made a good match; the South was too polished for the North, and the North was too discourteous for the South.

And yet, sometimes fate liked to play its game in an arranged marriage.

Tropes: Arranged marriage, slowburn, yearning, mutual pining, idiots in love, opposites attract, angst

Warnings: Mature themes, blood, usual Game of Thrones violent themes (No Red Wedding), separate and specific warnings will be included in each chapter. MDNI.

Important Notes: Robb and the reader and all their friends are in their 20s, the fic will not follow most of the canon, and the parts from the show will be explained within the fic.

Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader

Chapter 1 : Big plans require unexpected moves.

Chapter 2 : First impressions can make or break a union.

Chapter 3 : Cultural differences can cause misunderstandings.

Chapter 4 : Proceeding with caution is wise in a new environment.

Chapter 5 : Disrespect has consequences.

Chapter 6 : Desire ignites even in the coldest places.

Chapter 7 : What is said and what is meant can be two different things.

Chapter 8 : Southern court training has different strengths from the North.

Chapter 9 : Patience is a skill that can be honed.

Chapter 10 : There’s a time and place for subtlety.

Chapter 11 : There are many different ways to find warmth in the cold.

Chapter 12 : Promises must be made carefully.

Chapter 13 : Courtesy demands good manners.

Chapter 14 : Not every invitation is accepted.

Chapter 15 : One must be careful while mending bridges.

Chapter 16 : It's wise to pay attention to the signs.

Chapter 17 : Words can easily turn into oaths.

Chapter 18 : The heir to the north is raised not only to rule, but also to fight.

Chapter 19 : Honesty is the solution to many issues.

Chapter 20 :  Drinks can lead to recklessness.

Chapter 21 : Weddings can be very chaotic.

Headcanons

[trashraph]

Silly Ram Thought!! Pt 34

the passage of time

Omnics do not age the same way as humans, sure parts get worn but an omnic has yet to die of old age. Not once has an omnics power cell given out for any reason beyond damage. So long as they can be repaired they will outlive humanity. Ramattra found comfort in this fact until he met you.

As he grew attached to you he thought more on what he wanted out of his life, he wanted to spend as much of it with you as possible. He hadn’t really thought about the fact someday he will lose you. Unlike omnics humans don’t live forever, he will know a world where you don’t exist and it doesn’t sit right with him. Knowing someday him and zen will be the only ones left holding a memory of you haunts him, the idea of you being forgotten is sickening.

He knows the average lifespan of a human and wants to spend all the time in the world with you. He will always say yes if you ask him to spend time with you. He doesn’t hesitate to let you know how cherished you are.

Over the years you two fall into routines and habits. You say yes when he asks you to marry him, he vows to take care of you for the rest of your lives. Every moment with him feels like a dream, you couldn’t ask for a better husband. You grow older but he doesn’t change, he still thinks you’re as beautiful as the day you met.

As time passes you find him growing more sentimental. He takes more photos of you either alone or with him, he wants to remember the way you look and don’t trust him memory banks alone. He tells you every opportunity he gets that he loves you. You think he’s just opened up more as you’ve both grown older but in the back if his mind theres a clock ticking down how much time he has left with you. He wants every second you have left to be filled with his love for you, because even when you’re gone he’ll carry you with him until the end of time.

[ya-zz]

Poseidon!Ramattra x Reader (gen)

Word count: 13,113

A/N: JUST IN TIME. This went on far longer than I had imagined, but it is done, and it is long. Enjoy, and happy birthday Ramattra!

ALSO NSFW!!

“Poseidon, in ancient Greek religion, god of the sea (and of water generally), earthquakes, and horses. The name Poseidon means either “husband of the earth” or “lord of the earth.” Poseidon was a brother of Zeus, the sky god and chief deity of ancient Greece, and of Hades, god of the underworld.”

Just like any other night, Ramattra would patrol the waters before sinking back down into the dark depths he calls home. It was a nightly routine, especially along the shoreline where mortals would play and whisper pleas to the ocean wind. He’d wade through the waters with stealth no human would ever match, traversing the salty shore without anyone noticing him - he had been doing this for eons, after all. 

Everything was in it’s place, the shoreline was undisturbed, the waters lapped at the sand and pebbles and the stars above glittered the oceans surface. The tide was out, much to Ramattra’s command, allowing the odd stray mortal and pet to run around without a care. It was calm, as was any night, really. And this bored the god more than he would like to admit. 

It was all the same. The same familiar faces, the same streetlights, same buildings… what a mundane world this has turned out to be, he thought to himself, casting one more look over the horizon before sinking into the depths once more. 

That was, until something smacked him on the back of the head. A pebble, perfectly rounded, began to sink beside him. The god almost growls, but, it wasn’t the first time, and he’s sure it won’t be the last. His optics remain on the pebble, watching it sink further before settling in the seabed along with thousands of others. 

Then, another stone narrowly misses him, following the same route down to the ocean floor. With an indignant sigh, he lets it go and continues back to his home, treading through the water with grace and speed. Things like that only annoyed the god, stupid mortal actions that rile him up, making his anger and irritation bubble. 

He’s forced to deal with these idiots, however. That was the price to pay for still living within the mortal world. He could’ve left years ago, many thousands of years ago, but something kept him tied to his home under the ocean darkness. He’s unsure as to what is keeping him here, but he’s vowed to stay until he figures it out. 

As the night goes by, his audio receptors pick up the incessant splashing of stones and pebbles. It must’ve lasted well over an hour, a constant splash, thwunk, and then the sounds of a rock sinking before hitting the seabed below. His irritation was reaching a limit. All he wanted to do was sit back in his throne, to relax for he night, before heading for a recharge. 

Another splash sees the omnic rise from his seat and almost march out of his palace, fins flared in anger. He was pissed. Nobody had ever been this annoying, not even the boats he had sunken and littered along the floor annoyed him as much as this. 

He stays close to the waters surface, waiting for another stone to hit the waves, but, it never comes. Silence fills his receptors. He thought he just had bad timing, that whoever was up there throwing stones had finally stopped the moment he got close, but, the muddled silhouette above still showed a mortal sitting on the rocks. 

Ramattra hesitates, moving around almost silently, wanting to get a better look. It’s late, nobody is out at this time of night unless… 

Another lost soul.

The omnic sighs, the irritation fading. He’s seen many throw their lives away to the ocean, and he’s done nothing to stop them. It wasn’t his job to stop people, afterall; his brother, Hades, needed a job, so in a way, he was helping his brother out in whatever morbid way he could. 

But, this time… it felt different. Something about this lonely mortal caught his attention. Something that the others did not have. He couldn’t quite place it, but something pulls him towards them. 

Ramattra rose from the waters a safe distance away, not wanting to scare this mortal off. He steps onto the shoreline, through the water lapping at the sand, cautiously approaching. 

“You will freeze if you stay out here.” He simply states. Usually, he’d be towering over any mortal in his path, going over who he is; “I am Ramattra, god of the sea, blah blah blah,” but, the way your back was hunched over, knees brought up to your chest and arms wrapped around them, causes him to change tactics just this once. 

“That’s the least of my worries.” You respond back, but the way your hands tug the jacket tighter around your body contradicted your words. 

Ramattra hesitates, stopping just short of you. He could see the tear tracks along your cheeks, the puffiness of your eyes, the soft sniffles that follow with almost every tremor of your body. 

“What is troubling you?” Part of him sounds uncertain of his own words, uncomfortable to being in his sort of situation. He wasn’t trained for this, he shouldn’t even be standing near you. 

You keep your gaze fixed on the ocean waves, listening to the sounds of the water. “Just leave me alone. I won’t be here much longer anyway.” 

Just the tone of your voice, the way you avoid his entire being, sends alarm bells ringing within his processor. Ramattra's optics flicker at your words, his demeanor growing more solemn. He was an egotistical god, but the idea of someone willingly surrendering their life to the waves felt... wrong. 

"Have you no desire to live?"

“Not anymore…” It was softly spoken, the defeat evident in your voice. 

Ramattra exhales, the sound almost sounds irritated. He takes another step closer, trident firmly gripped in his hand. “I do not grant mercy like this. Speak to me, mortal.” 

For the first time since he appeared, you finally look at him. You’re not entirely shocked at his appearance; blue plating for his body, purple tentacles as hair and and a thick white beard, omnics could customise their appearance easily, much like any human could. Though, there was something about him you couldn’t quite place. 

You catch yourself staring, quickly looking back out to the horizon. “Why…? It won’t make a difference if I do or don’t talk.” 

Ramattra hesitates, gripping his trident tightly before finally sitting down on the rocks beside you. 

"Because, even the gods do not take lives lightly." His voice was uncharacteristically calm. "And I refuse to be the one who proves you right." He glances at you, head tilting to the side slightly as he continues. “Speak. I will listen.” 

A heavy silence lingers in the air, only the sound of the rolling waves and distant birds fill that void. 

With a sigh, you lean forward, resting your head on your knees. “I don’t know… I just feel like a burden, like I don’t belong anywhere. And all my efforts are unseen… it’s taking its toll…”

"This burden you carry, these feelings of displacement... they are not unique to mortals." Ramattra shifts uncomfortably, as if speaking from experience. "But, the fact that you try, that you care, that you strive... it is not unnoticed, even by the gods."

You scoff, hands tightening their grip on your arms. “I work my ass off, doing what needs to be done, overcoming whatever gets thrown at me, and yet… I feel invisible.”

"You speak of injustice," His voice darkens. "I know that far too well." Ramattra leans forwards a little, trying to get you to look at him as he continues. "But tell me, do you want praise, or do want purpose? Because, if it is praise you seek, you will drown waiting for it. But purpose? That is something you can take.”

Another pause of silence, your gaze remains ahead. “Then, I guess I’ll drown… just once, once, I want to be recognised for things I’ve done, and not silently. I want to be told I’m doing well, that my efforts are worth something…”

"You wish for validation." He states, hands fidgeting with his trident. He’s uncomfortable. “You feel that your efforts are overlooked, underappreciated.” 

“Just once…” You repeat, fingers digging into your skin from under your jacket. 

“Listen to me, mortal.” Ramattra’s voice is firm, demanding your attention. "Your worth is not measured by the praise you receive. Nor does absence of applause mean absence of impact. If you truly wish to be seen, then demand it. Not from others... but from yourself. The tides do not beg for acknowledgment, they command it."

He hums softly before adding: “For what it is worth, I see you.”

You finally look away from the rolling waves, eyes locking with his optics. “Thanks…” 

Ramattra doesn’t miss the doubt in your voice, but he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he turns his own gaze out to the ocean. “You should get out of the cold.” 

It’s the closest he will get for showing that he cares. 

“Yeah, I’ll head back.” You finally concede, standing from the rocks. 

“What is your name?” Ramattra asks, standing beside you. 

“[y/n]. And yourself?” 

He commits it to memory, almost as if he is hoping to see you again. “Ramattra. Be careful. It would be a shame if you died before you got to accomplish whatever purpose you were blathering on about.” 

With a roll of your eyes and a subtle smirk on your lips, you bow your head slightly before walking back to the concrete road above. Ramattra watches you walk away, trident still gripped firmly in his hand. The tension that had once filled the air between you had seemingly dissipated, replaced by an unexpected sense of... tranquility.

He found himself staring at the spot where you'd stood for a few seconds longer than he'd like to admit. It was strange, to say the least. He couldn't remember the last time a mortal had intrigued him so. The waves behind him crash against the shore, echoing his inner turmoil. 

With a heavy sigh, he retreats back into the black abyss, sinking deeper back to his home with the lingering thoughts of you running through his processors. 

Days had passed since then and Ramattra hadn’t seen you. Part of him hoped that he could see your face again, to sit on the rocks and talk about anything that crossed your mind. Dare he say, part of him missed you, even if the first encounter was only brief. He had grown… concerned. 

The omnic had kept to himself, not talking to any of the servants that roamed his palace, or even interacting with the sealife that floated on by. He had become distracted, his waking thoughts on the mortal above. 

As the night rolled in, the waves above were rough. A high wind had begun its torment on the world above, but that was nothing new for the god. He’s only brought out of his thoughts, however, when a distinct splash could be heard. 

He’s heard the splashes many times before whenever humans had thrown themselves into the water from sinking ships, and this was no different. However, the thought that it could be you, especially after your first meeting, filled the god with dread. 

Without thinking twice, the omnic moves, slicing through the water at a speed unable to be caught with any sonar technology. His optics scan the darkness for the source. The waves were unusually rough, and he could sense something amiss.

Moving further towards the surface of the water, Ramattra notices a falling shadow, and his wires burn hot with concern. 

It wasn’t just any human. It was you. 

In a swift movement, he closes the distance, the wires within his chassis coiled tight. The sea around him grew turbulent as frustration flares to life. He reaches out, strong arms grasping your form, and with a powerful surge, he pulls you into his grasp.

"Mortal."  His voice was low, rumbling against the waves.  "What, by all the seas, have you done?"

The omnic begins his journey back to the surface, his arms slicing through the resistance of the water with ease. The current around him grew agitated, reacting to his worrying emotions.

As he ascends, his optics never leave your unconscious form, a mix of anger and concern bubbling within his processor as his mind races with questions and irritation.

Finally, he breaks the surface. Ignoring the rough waves, he pulls you onto the shore, laying you down gently on the sand as the water laps at his feet. Your stillness was unnatural, your chest motionless.

He kneels beside you, water dripping from his body as his form blocks the worst of the wind. His optics dart across your body, taking in every detail, scanning for any sign of life. But, there was none.

"No..." Ramattra's hands hover over your chest, trembling ever so slightly, whether from anger or something else, he couldn't say. 

"You foolish, stubborn mortal…" His voice cracks with static.

With a sharp inhale, he presses his palms against your sternum. A sudden rush of wind, a violent hiss of the sea and a soft glow emits from your chest. A silent plea, a prayer to his brother in the underworld. 

A silence passes and for a moment, Ramattra wonders if his prayers had gone unanswered, until your body seizes and you immediately begin coughing up water. Your lungs burn, your heart begins hammering in your chest. 

Ramattra leans back as you start coughing, his optics flickering. Relief surges through him, but he hides it quickly, replacing it with irritation.

"About time." He grumbles, shifting to your side to gently turn you onto your back again, ensuring your airway was clear. Ramattra notices the distant look in your eyes, the silence that settles between you was heavy. He can feel the weight of your unspoken pain in the air, and it irritates him.

His fingers twitch, itching to grab his trident and retreat back to the depths, but something, something stubborn and something foreign, keeps him there.

"What possessed you to do something so foolish?" His tone was anything but polite, yet beneath it, there was a hint of what might be concern.

“I’m done fighting.” You admit, keeping your gaze up on the moon. Your body trembles from the cold, clothes stuck to your limbs.

“Done? You are done?” Ramattra scoffs and there’s an unmistakable sharpness in his voice. “Done fighting what, exactly?” 

“Everything… what’s the point, anymore? What’s the point of living if all I ever seem to be in is pain? I’m useless, I’m a nuisance. I just make matters worse. I’d be better off at the bottom of the sea, food for whatever lies there…” 

Ramattra can’t help but sigh. Stupid and foolish, mortal. He remains silent, just staring at you. He’s heard the sob stories many times, but, for some reason, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that there was something about you that made him want to listen. 

"Stop being melodramatic." He finally says, reaching for your shoulders in an attempt to get you to pay attention. "Listen to me, you impossible creature. The sea does not apologize for its storms. The earth does not beg forgiveness for its quakes. And you… you do not grovel for existence."

His optics remain locked on yours, watching as they flit between his, watching as your mind processes his words.

"You think pain makes you weak? Foolish. Pain is the tide, it retreats, it returns, but it does not own you. Now, get up.” 

Ramattra is tired of your nonsense, not hiding the way he sighs or rolls his shoulder in irritation. So, when you refuse to stand, he picks you up, ignoring your startled gasp. “If you will not stand, then you will float."

He steps back into the water, laying you down with his hand supporting your back. He wants to help, in his own way. The full moon casts its silvery glow over the rippling surface, the stars twinkling above without a care in the world, and Ramattra’s attention is solely on you. 

Ramattra watches you float, some of his irritation easing as he sees the contentment on your face. The water laps softly against him, and he allows himself a moment of stillness, taking a deep, calming breath.

The wind was quieter now, the night sky clear with billions of stars and the full moon above. It was as if time itself slowed, the moment between you both suspended in a bubble of tranquility. And for a while, Ramattra stays silent, simply watching you, watching as the tension fades from your shoulders and the tears fall down your cheeks.

"...The sea does not judge tears." He starts, moving just a little closer to you. "It has seen more sorrow than you could fathom... and yet, it persists. And, so will you.” 

“Why did you save me?” You finally respond back after a moments silence, keeping your gaze up at the night sky. 

Ramattra hesitates, almost as if he was asking himself the same question. “The sea does not take what does not belong to it.” The omnic pauses, looking at you. “Neither do I.”

The silence returns, heavier than before. Even the sea seemed to still, waves barely stirring as you float there, the only sound the steady rise and fall of your breathing.

Ramattra breaks the quiet, shifting slightly in the water. He seems almost... conflicted, his usual air of arrogance replaced by a rare vulnerability.

"You cannot simply give up, and you sure as hell cannot do it in my ocean.”

“Not even if I ask nicely?” You joke, hoping that the god could see that.

“Even if you grovel.”

“Why do you care so much?” 

The question catches him off guard. “I do not care.” 

“Clearly. Just let my body sink to the ocean floor, or will that destroy your garden or something?” 

Ramattra can only scoff in reaction, crossing his arms over his chest. “Do not be foolish. Enough of this talk.” He sighs heavily, fans whirring just that little bit louder. “Though, if you do try again, I will turn you into a coral polyp, and you will make terrible decor.” 

You laugh, shoulders shaking in amusement at the omnics comment. “I think I’d make your garden look a hundred times better, sea plant or not.” 

Ramattra freezes at your sudden laugh, unprepared for the sound, before quickly recovering with a roll of his shoulder. 

"Bold words for someone who was seconds away from being seaweed fertilizer." The tension in his shoulders begins to lessen and the omnic finds himself enjoying the back and forth. “You would be an annoyingly vibrant polyp, though.” He admits. 

“Is that so?” You smirk, continuing to float on your back. “At least then you’ll know where I am at all times. 

“Please. As if I want a tiny nuisance in my garden.” His tone lacks any conviction, however. “I would probably step on you.” 

“Ah, so you agree that I am a nuisance.” Shifting to be upright, you cross your arms over your chest, eyebrow raised and that smirk still plastered across your lips. 

Ramattra huffs, shaking his head. “I could always turn you into a jellyfish. At least then you would look nice when you lit up."

“I like jellyfish. They just sorta… exist. And, they have no brains.” 

“Explains a lot.” Ramattra teases. When you open your mouth to speak but just stare in disbelief, Ramattra chuckles. “Speechless? Finally. Though, for the record, I would still prefer you as a human mortal.”

“At least I would stay quiet and can’t attempt-”

“Annoying mortals who talk back are far more entertaining than some mindless sea creature.” He cuts you off. “Now, stop trying to negotiate your demise and swim back to shore before I throw you there myself.” 

Ramattra notices the hesitant glance you make, his processor screaming at him to keep you close, but, he doesn’t move. “Go home, [y/n].” 

When you finally step on the sand, pulling your soaked jacket a little tighter around your body, you mumble quietly. “Wish I had one…” 

The omnic doesn’t miss the sadness in your tone, and he doesn’t reach out to pull you back. He watches as you make your way back to concrete and houses with your shoulders slumped but a little less heavier than before. 

He couldn't put a name on the feeling, but there it was. The god of the sea, feeling emotions for a mortal? He scoffs at the thought. But deep down, the memory of your laugh echoes in his mind, refusing to budge.

For days following that encounter, Ramattra finds himself unusually distracted. His mind would wander to memories of your words and your laugh, and he couldn't understand why. He was a powerful, prideful, and stubborn god, so why were your words and actions still lingering in his mind? He would find himself glancing at the shore more often, as if secretly hoping, against his will, to catch a glimpse of you among the mortals.

Ramattra's thoughts darkened with each day that passed without sighting of you. The image of you sinking into the depths and never resurfacing plague his mind. It was infuriating. He wasn't concerned; he was just irritated that he now had to wonder where you were on the daily. Right?

He tries to ignore the worry, but he found himself patrolling the coast more frequently, his eyes constantly searching for a familiar figure along the shore. 

However, just before his concern borders on panic, he catches you walking the shoreline in the spring evening. Relief instantly floods his systems and he doesn’t hesitate in approaching. 

“You are alive.” It wasn’t a question, rather a statement, and you notice the relief in his tone. 

You didn’t expect to see him, however, almost jumping at his arrival. “Y-Yeah, I’m alive.” 

“Good. I was… beginning to worry.” He admits and was that… concern in his voice?

“You were worried? Why?” You cock your head to the side, crossing your arms over your chest in disbelief. 

“Do not get any ideas. I was merely making sure that you did not try something foolish again.” He scoffs, but the way he avoids your gaze speaks volumes. “You are a bothersome nuisance.” 

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. “Well, I tried for a way out and you denied me of that, so…” 

Ramattra snaps his optics to you, glaring at you, though, he couldn’t deny that your comments amused him. “Clearly you did not try hard enough, because if you had you would already be coral.”

“Still prefer the jellyfish.” 

“Of course you would.” Ramattra, though he wouldn’t openly admit it, missed your snarky remarks. The way you would comment so openly, so unafraid, made his mechanical heart flutter. “Come closer.”

You just stare back at the omnic for a moment before obliging, stepping into the dark waters and approaching the god. 

“You are still healing.” He states as you float beside him. 

“You did not just tell me to come into the water for that.” 

“No, I just wanted to see if you would obey me. And you did.” He chuckles, watching the way your eyes narrowed in disbelief. “My waters are not a grave, so do not try anything stupid again.” 

With a shake of your head and a roll of your eyes, you sigh. “Damn, there goes my plans for tonight.” 

The omnic doesn’t hesitate in splashing you with water. “Joke about that again and I will chain you to me until the end of time.”

“I’d rather be a polyp.” 

“You are infuriating.” Ramattra growls, unable to believe that a human is getting into his wires so easily… and he’s allowing it. “No, I would prefer you to be a jellyfish.” 

“What kind of jellyfish?” 

Ramattra takes a moment to think, head tilting to the side. “A moon jellyfish, perhaps? Small, defenseless, and completely harmless.” 

That gets a laugh out of you and the omnic practically beams at the noise. 

“You laugh, but you would make a pretty helpless jellyfish. Not a thought in that empty head of yours.” 

Then you follow up your laugh with a nod as the back and forth continues. “Absolutely. Not a care in the world.”

“You are a strange mortal.” Ramattra comments. “Most mortals value their intelligence.” 

“Too many negative thoughts in my head already. I wouldn’t have to think that I’m useless or a nuisance. I wouldn’t even need to seek praise or approval from anyone…” You speak softly, the very memory of why you were even talking to him resurfacing.

“You are not a burden.” He moves closer. “You are annoying, yes. A nuisance, perhaps. But, you are not a burden.” 

“Nobody would miss me if I was gone.” 

Ramattra feels a pang of something unfamiliar in his chest at your words, but he quickly suppresses it, returning to his usual irritability. He follows you as you move deeper in the ocean, watching you with a mixture of annoyance and an odd sense of concern.

"You are so melodramatic." He floats beside you as he watches the setting sun. “I am sure someone would miss you.” 

“Nobody has yet.” You admit. “I have been alone for the longest time.” 

“I have noticed you, and I do not even like you.” It’s a lie and he knows it. He just wants to rile you up further. 

“Then why did you save me last week?” You laugh, glancing back at the god. 

“I had a lapse of judgement.”

“Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night.” You don’t believe him and he’s well aware of it. 

“I should have let you drown, to be honest.” Ramattra crosses his arms over his chest. “You are a nuisance. You are irritating. You are infuriating to deal with.” He’s trying to convince himself but with each word, he believes himself less and less. “You are stubborn. Reckless. You do not listen, you have no regard for your own life-” 

“Okay! Okay, I get it.” You cut him off before he continues. “Relax before you start scaring the fish.” 

Ramattra stiffens slightly, back straightening. “Do not tell me to relax. You are insufferable. You do not know when to shut up. You do not know when to keep your opinions to yourself. You-” He stops suddenly, catching himself from saying something he shouldn’t. 

“Go on. What were you gonna say?” You look at him, eyebrow raised, head tilted. 

“Nothing.” He splashes you with water, hoping that it’ll turn the conversation. But, when you splash him back, he freezes. “You did not-”

There’s that smirk again and Ramattra doesn’t hesitate in grabbing you and pushing you under. In a moment of playfulness, his childlike nature surfaces, something he hasn’t seen or done in years. 

“That-” He starts, pulling you back up. “That is for splashing me.” 

You smile never falters and for the first time in a long time, you’re having fun. “I will drown on my own terms, thank you very much.” You splash him again but this time, Ramattra doesn’t retaliate. 

The omnic huffs, straightening once more and shaking his head. 

A silence settles between you both as you float there, watching the sun set beyond the horizon. Ramattra finds himself unable to stop stealing glances at you from the corner of his optics. He tries in vain to look away, tries to ignore the way your wet clothes clung to your body. It was distracting, though, for reasons he couldn't understand. He keeps his arms crossed tightly, as if that would somehow keep him from looking.

“I should head back.” You finally break the quiet, moving back towards the shoreline. 

“You are leaving already?” Ramattra feels a strange sense of reluctance in his chest when you start moving towards the shoreline. He wants to protest. He wants to say something that would get you to stay. 

“Well, it’s not like I can stay here all night.” You shrug, turning back to look at him. 

Ramattra did not like that. “Fine. Be that way then. Leave.” 

“Oh, now you want me to stay? Thought I was a nuisance? Annoying?” You narrow your eyes at the omnic, but there was no real heat behind them. 

"I still think you are a nuisance. The only reason I do not want you to go is because then I will not have anyone to insult."

“Don’t you have others you can insult?” 

"None as entertaining as you." He admits. “And none dare talk back to a god. Stay.” It wasn’t really a command. It sounded more like a plea if you listened hard enough. 

“Humans, water and a cold wind do not mix.” You laugh, moving backwards towards the shoreline once more, but, Ramattra moves before you create more distance. 

His hand wraps around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He’s almost startled at the way his body moved before he thought about it, but his recent thoughts of you have been plaguing his mind. 

“Do you trust me?” He keeps you pressed against him, enjoying the way your body felt against his, though he'd never admit that out loud.

“That highly depends on what you’re about to do.” You stare up at him, your body already beginning to tremble from the cold winds against your wet body. 

"Stop fidgeting. And stop avoiding the question." He squeezes your side a little tighter. “Do you trust me?” 

“Sure, I trust you. Happy?” You concede, but whether or not you truly believe yourself is left to the wind. 

“Good. Then shut up and close your eyes. And, for the love of the gods, do not panic.” Ramattra watches you as you close your eyes. This was ridiculous. Why the hell was this mortal so damn attractive? He was a god, a very powerful god, yet he was being taken off guard by your presence. But... there was just something about you…

"Now take a deep breath."

Your chest rose slightly as you fill your lungs with air, then he moves fast. With a sudden, swift motion, Ramattra pulls you underneath the surface of the water, keeping his arm around your body. He glances at you, watching you closely to make sure you were okay, though he wouldn't actually admit he was concerned about you. He'd been expecting you to start panicking, to start struggling, but you just remain still. You hadn't moved a muscle since he pulled you under. 

However, even as he slowly descended into the dark depths, he felt your hand tap at his chest. There was a visible discomfort etched into your face. Your lungs began to burn from the lack of oxygen, the pressure of the ocean began to squeeze your body and mind. 

He tightens his grip around you, pulling you impossibly closer as he leans in, his forehead pressing against yours. As he did, a soft golden glow emanated from his chest, transferring a fragment of his divine power directly into you. Your chest burns from the searing heat before it finally subsides a moment later.

The moment he pulls back, he’s stunned at how easy it was and how alive you are. Your lungs suddenly no longer burn, you could breathe freely, effortlessly, underwater.

“Now you never have to leave." He murmurs, silently trying to wrap his head around the situation himself. Ramattra finds himself almost entranced as he stares at your wide-eyed expression. The sight of you, sputtering in surprise, with your hair flowing in the current, and your clothes still clinging to your frame... gods, it was enough to drive him mad. He couldn't stop himself from bringing a hand up, brushing strands of hair out of your face, before cupping your cheek tenderly. 

“Do not look at me like that.” His voice was soft, uncharacteristically so. 

Even you still can’t quite wrap your head around it. You’re underwater. You’re breathing without issue. 

“Welcome to my world, little jellyfish.”

—

Ramattra can’t help the smug feeling coursing through his wires, the shock, the disbelief on your face makes him chuckle. He finds himself strangely captivated by the way you just stare up at him completely stunned, wide-eyed, and still trying to process everything yourself. Normally, he would've taunted anyone who looked at him with such a dumbstruck expression, but for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to tease you.

The omnic pulls you closer to his chest, relishing in the way you fit perfectly against him. Your hands move to his chest plate, feeling the thrum of his inner workings. You still couldn’t quite understand it all, how could this be possible?

“I never expected this.” You finally admit, glancing around the dark waters. 

“I tend to be full of surprises.” Ramattra chuckles. He keeps his arm snug around your waist, enjoying the feel of your body pressed against his. Then, he leans closer, hand squeezing your side just a little tighter. The corals that surround you begin to glow, a multitude of reds, oranges, blues and yellows. 

“How-” 

“I will them to.” He cuts you off, already knowing what you were going to ask. “Like I said; I am full of surprises.” 

The omnic is unable to look away as he watches the realization dawn in your gaze. He still keeps his arm snug around your waist, holding you close against his chest. He almost feels amused by your surprise, which was strange, for someone who usually took pride in being feared, yet here he was, getting amused by a mortal. He leans in once again, his voice a low, almost soft drawl as he spoke.

“There is a lot to see. Do not worry, I will show you.” He lifts his hand, fingers tracing over your jawline and then tilting your chin up. He could feel his wires burn with a new feeling, something possessive. “Everything down here belongs to me.” His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, his head tilts to the side. “Including you, now.” The declaration sent a ripple through the surrounding water, as if the ocean itself acknowledged his claim.

The omnic watches as you lean into his touch, satisfied that you’re not trying to back out of this situation just yet. 

“If this was at any other point in my life, before I tried doing what I did, I would’ve asked about going home…” You say, eyes flitting between the dancing lights on his face. 

“What changed your mind, little jellyfish?” He murmurs, moving his thumb across your bottom lip once again. A satisfied hum escapes him when your lips part for him. 

You take a moment to think over your answer, too focused on the omnic god before you. “I- Well… Considering how bad my life was up there, I fear… I may not want to go back.” 

He could barely contain his satisfaction at your words, hearing you say you may not want to return to the surface was all the affirmation he needed. Ramattra hums in reply, his thumb still gently rubbing against your bottom lip, almost as if he were contemplating something.

“Good.” He finally says, his voice a low murmur. "You are mine now." He repeats, softer this time as he moves to tuck another stray strand of hair behind your ear. "So, I suggest you stop being so difficult." Then, he pauses, simply gazing at you, committing your features to memory. “Unless you want me to toss you back onto the shore.” 

You laugh, creases appearing at the corners of your eyes. “At least let me explore before you do that.” 

Ramattra cannot help the chuckle that escapes his vocaliser. “Of course you would want to explore. Can not just let me claim you and call it a day, can you?”

“Well, surely you don’t just live in the corals? A god like you must have somewhere to call home.”

Ramattra shakes his head, though his chassis was certainly warmer. “Of course I have a place to call home. And, you will get a private tour, if you stop being a smartass.” 

The omnic doesn’t waste another moment as he moves through the water, pulling you along with him. Deep inside of his chassis, however, there was the bubbling feeling of anxiety. How long had it been since he brought someone to his home? And not just anybody, but a mortal? 

The corals gradually part to reveal the grand silhouette of an underwater palace, its towering spires adorned with glowing pearls, intricate sea glass mosaics depicting his triumphs, and schools of jewel-toned fish darting through its arches.

You can’t quite believe the sight before you. It’s almost like something out of a fairytale. Ramattra lets you go when he feels you pull away from him, even if his hand still reaches for you a moment later. He watches you move around, still getting use to the waters. It amuses him to watch you struggle, but he wouldn’t move to help you. 

He crosses his arms over his chest, optics still locked onto your form as you move silently around the corals, watching as the sea life interacted with you. 

“Like what you see, little jellyfish?” 

“It’s beautiful.” You trail your fingers over the corals, and Ramattra swore he could see the soft glittering within your eyes. 

“It is indeed.” He agrees, finally moving towards you. 

Ramattra circles you like a shark, his movements fluid and deliberate. The glow of the palace cast shifting patterns across his plating as he stops directly in front of you.

"Beautiful." He murmurs, tracing a finger down your arm. "But, not half as intriguing as the treasure I just dragged down here."

In that instance, your cheeks flush warm and you look away. 

“You blush so easily.” The omnic chuckles, moving a hand to your chin and forcing you to look at him. “It is adorable, really.” 

You don’t say anything, unable to find the words to respond, and Ramattra just laughs. 

“Speechless now, are we?” He’s far too pleased with himself. “Good. Means I do not have to listen to your snark for five minutes.” But, the thumb that traces over your cheek betrays him, he likes your voice far too much to ever truly silence it. 

“You love it really.” You smirk, leaning into the omnics touch. 

“Your stubbornness infuriates me. And yet, I cannot seem to get enough of it.” Ramattra exhales sharply, a sound caught between exasperation and reluctant amusement. “You are going to be the death of me.” 

“Thought gods couldn’t die?” 

He looks almost like he wants to strangle you. “Do not be a smartass.” He replies, though there is no bite to his words. His grip on your hip grows tighter as he pulls you closer, not wanting to put anymore space between you. 

He lets out an exasperated huff, trying (and failing) to sound annoyed. The hand on your hip slides up your back, fingers splaying possessively over the small of your back, keeping you pressed against his chest.

"The only thing that is insufferable here is your stubborn refusal to act appropriately subservient," he mutters, his voice taking on a tone of mild frustration. 

“Come, follow me.” He gestures ahead, moving with you towards his palace. “A tour, perhaps?”

You oblige, moving along with the god as the two of you finally came up to the grand doors. Ramattra relaxes slightly at your tentative smile, noting your nervousness. His thumb brushes absentmindedly along your jawline as he watches you take in the surroundings, clearly trying to settle your nerves. “Do not worry, little jellyfish, you are safe inside of these walls, I assure you.”

Ramattra leads you through his palace, his hand still holding yours. His gaze flicks down to you every so often; your shoulders are relaxing, the tension is fading from your body. Ramattra’s shoulders seem straighter now, his stride confident, like he's showing off.

He guides you through various rooms and halls, passing by servants and palace workers every now and then. Several of the palace workers cast curious looks at you, clearly surprised to see a mortal here. Ramattra notices their stares and lets out a low growl, his grip tightening around your hand as he shoots a glare that makes them immediately avert their eyes.

"Do not mind them," he mutters, tugging you closer against his side.

Then, he stops abruptly in front of an ornate doorway, one leading to an expansive balcony overlooking the ocean floor.

"A better view." He declares, guiding you forward.

“It’s beautiful, Ramattra...” You almost whisper, moving towards the balcony’s edge. The corals seem to light up at your approach, colours illuminating the ocean floor, bringing more light to the surrounding area. 

Ramattra hums in agreement as he gazes out at the reef, still not letting go of your hand.

The omnic lets out a quiet huff, something between amusement and exasperation, as he notices the way you’re practically glued to the balcony railing, staring out at the reef with an expression of quiet awe. His grip on your hand loosens slightly, but he doesn’t let go.

He watches you for a moment longer before tugging you back toward him.

“Come,” he murmurs. “There is more to see.”

Ramattra pulls you back through the halls, leading you through more corridors and rooms. Servants give you curious looks as you pass by, whispers and hushed conversations following in your wake. He seems to relish in the stares, a possessive edge to the way he holds your hand.

Eventually, he stops in front of another grand double door.

"This one is one of my favorite rooms." He says, hands pushing the doors open. 

As the doors swing inward, you see that the room is an extravagant library. Countless bookshelves fill the room, every available space filled with books, scrolls, and tomes. Several comfortable-looking armchairs and couches are scattered throughout the space, with a large window looking out and over the ocean.

For a moment, you almost can’t believe the sight before you. “How is this even possible…?” 

“I like collecting knowledge.” He speaks bluntly, optics fixed on you as you move towards the expanse of shelves. 

Ramattra lets you wander through the bookshelves for a while, enjoying the sight of you admiring the library. He watches you silently, his gaze flicking up and down your body, the way your clothes flow over your curves; the subtle sway of your hips as you walk; the way your eyes light up when you find something that interests you.

He has to physically suppress a growl from rumbling deep in his chest as he realizes just how much he enjoys seeing you here, in his library, in his palace.

"You would look so good beneath me." He mumbles quietly to himself, but you heard every syllable. Completely caught off guard by his comment, your sputter, nearly choking on the water you’re breathing in.

He lets his gaze travel up and down your figure, taking in your every curve and contour. He chuckles at your attempt to adjust your shirt before he moves forward, closing the distance. His hands wrap around your waist, causing you to stop fiddling with your shirt. 

"Stop fidgeting. You are going to ruin the view." His voice is low and gravelly, almost a warning. His grip is possessive, his gaze roaming over your body with a hunger that betrays his desires. A shudder runs through Ramattra as he continues to eye you up and down. His touch becomes almost reverent as his fingers slide up your side, tracing an idle pattern along your skin. It's as if he's mentally mapping every dip and curve, every little thing that makes you unique.

"You are perfect. It annoys me how good you look in that shirt. And how enticing it is to imagine it off."

His words only warm your cheeks more, but, there was this nagging feeling in the back of your mind. This was too rushed, too soon after everything that’s happened. You’re not all quite ready to throw your life away to live below the surface, despite your words prior.

There was still so much to do above, you had work, you had somewhat managed to get your life together since your attempt, even if only slightly. You couldn’t do this, not yet.

But, you were in a gods hands, you were here underwater, with the god of the sea. There was no saying no to him, so you had to lie. 

Feigning discomfort, you place your hand on your chest. Your brow furrows, and Ramattra loosens his grip. 

“Are you okay?” 

You shake your head, breathing heavily. “My lungs burn…”

Ramattra is almost startled at your words. Had his power been that weak from disuse? He doesn’t hesitate in grabbing your body and moving you towards the waters surface. Panic overrides his desire, his hands trembling against your body as he moves swiftly. 

“Hang on, little jellyfish.” 

As you break the surface, he immediately shifts his grip, one arm hooking under your knees, the other supporting your back, keeping your head above water as you ‘gasp’ for air. 

"Breathe." The command is harsh, desperate. He watches you intently, the way you’re sputtering, and then he catches it. 

The soft glow in your chest. His power hasn’t faded, so… why are you lying to him?

When you finally manage to settle, you pull free from his arms, floating within the waves. When you look at the omnic, you notice how still he is, as if something was coiling within his chassis. Ramattra doesn’t say anything, however, fearing that if he does, he will unleash something he once buried deep. 

You hesitate when speaking, slowly, unnoticeably moving backwards towards the shoreline. “Guess that means I won’t be down there for some time.” 

“No. You will not.” His voice is firm, harsh. He knows, and the fact that you’re playing into the lie further, only makes his anger rise. “Go.” 

And, so you do. You make your way back to the shoreline, standing on the sandy shore before looking back, but you’re met with ocean and clouds. Ramattra had gone. 

He was mumbling and muttering on his way back down to his palace, his anger surging and the waves above began mimicking his emotions. Harsh waves hit the shore, dark clouds rolled in and thunderous rain hit the city beyond. 

“Fucking mortals.” He hisses, slamming himself down into his throne. His grip tightens around his trident, a searing glow emanating from the divine metal. Ramattra huffs, fans whirring a million miles a second as he tries to calm his anger, but, nothing was working. 

The sky was a dark and foreboding grey over the city, the sun hidden behind heavy, black clouds. The sea was choppy and rough, waves rolling and crashing violently against the shoreline. The air was thick and heavy, the scent of salt lingering like a warning.

And the rain… The rain came down like a torrent, cold and relentless. It fell in sheets, drenching anything caught out in the open and flooding the streets. The storm continues to rage outside, the rain falling harder and heavier with every passing moment, almost as if it was some deity's rage made manifest. Despite the torrential onslaught of the rain, there was no sign of it ending. In fact, it only seemed to get worse…

And all the while, the sea was getting more and more rough, the waves getting taller and more violent by the minute, as if feeding on the rage of something far more ancient and powerful.

Days had passed and there has been no end in sight. You sit there in the comfort of your home, unable to go anywhere, unable to do anything. News reports continue to flood the channels; lives had been lost, communication systems have been disrupted. 

And all because you lied to a god. 

Ramattra was still seething. There was a tension in his shoulders, one he hasn’t felt for years.

Betrayal. 

He thought that there was something, anything, between you and him. Something soft, something… worthwhile. But, you lied to his face. You left him in the water, all because you were unsure of what to do. 

And yet… the fleeting memory of you sinking, the distress in your eyes that night, the laughter you shared with him. He couldn’t quite let that go. He couldn’t truly hate you, even if his ramblings and mutterings say otherwise. There was that feeling that had rooted in his mechanical heart, one he vowed to never let take hold again. 

Love. 

The god had fallen for a mortal despite everything they had done. 

He had fallen for you in the most stupid way possible. The way you could talk back to him with no fear, the way you could make him laugh by doing the smallest of things-

“No.” He shakes his head, continuing his angry mutterings. 

Storming through his palace, watching the rise of air bubbles, watching the schools of fish dart by, the light shining from the corals, everything reminds him of you. The root remains, despite his seething anger. 

The ocean was just as turbulent as the land, Ramattra is clouded by his emotions and in the process, he’s hurting more than the one he had grown to love in such a short amount of time. 

There was only one way to end it, and that was to confront him. To get him to stop this storm before anyone else gets hurt. This was your fault, and you had to fix it by any means, even if you had to brace the weather, brace his emotions before even returning to him under the abyss.

It was a struggle to get close to the shoreline, the wind and rain pelting your body in every direction, on every street you went down. It felt like a death sentence, and the fact that you were the only human walking through the streets, only made you push forward. 

This wasn’t normal weather. 

This was the wrath of a god. 

And boy, did you piss him off. 

The winds grew harsher as you finally reach the shoreline, waves battering the rocks and sand, and you just had to hope that you were able to go back down into the water. You still felt the same, but whether or not you’d still be able to breathe when you’re under fills you with unease. 

Despite being fully clothed, you step into the water, the waves pushing you around and within a matter of seconds, you’re submerged. The water rocks you around violently, but you manage to get low enough to avoid the worst of it.

When you descend deep enough to reach the entrance of Ramattra’s palace, you find that the surrounding area is strangely calm, in stark contrast to the raging seas above. The corals were dark, there was no fish, it seemed as if there was no life. The entrance is open, as if it was expecting you, and that only fuelled the bubbling anxiety within you. 

Pushing forward, you make your way through familiar halls, passing near petrified servants. They tremble, but their eyes are wide when they catch a glimpse of you. Some want to stop you, to warn you to not go anywhere near the god whilst he’s in such a mood, and the others don’t want to interfere at all, fearing the consequences. 

The grand room doors were closed, and on the other side, Ramattra was sat. He knew you were here, he felt the current change, whispering your arrival to his receptors. Then, the doors are pushed open, an angry looking mortal storming straight up to him. 

“The little mortal returns.” He hums, mocking. “I was wondering when you would come swimming back to me.” 

What he didn’t expect, however, was the sudden closeness. You lean over him, hands slamming down and gripping the armrests of his throne, anger in your eyes. 

“Fuck you, Ramattra. Stop making other people suffer.” 

Ramattra's optics flicker as you slam your hands down either side of him, and he leans in, staring down at you. He's not amused with your audacity, your defiance. 

"Careful." He growls, voice low and dangerous, cocking his head to the side. "Do not forget who holds the power here, little mortal. I could sink this entire city with a gesture."

“I don’t care. Stop this nonsense before you kill someone else who doesn’t deserve it.”

Ramattra's bristles at your response, that defiant, insolent tone that he hates so much in every human he’s ever come across, but, he takes a moment to compose himself. He leans back in his throne, trying to remain calm.

"You really think you are in a position to make demands?" He says, a hint of mockery in his voice. "You are a mortal. A fragile little thing. You have no power here, no authority."

“Stop this, Ramattra.”

The omnic exhales sharply, his patience running thinner by the second. He leans forward, optics never leaving your eyes. “No. You do not get to walk away from me and then come back ordering me around.”

He pauses, not saying anything for a moment. The tension is there, heavier than the ocean itself as the two of you just glare at each other. 

“You lied to me.” He states. 

“I had my reasons.” You keep your grip tight, keeping the god caged in his chair. “You do not get to make everyone suffer because of my actions.” 

“You think I care about those pitiful, insignificant mortals?” Ramattra growls, the static heavy with each word. “You lied to me.”

“Enough! This is between you and me.” You don’t hesitate in raising your hand, slapping the god across the face, hoping to snap him out of his anger. 

Ramattra's optics flicker as your hand connects with his cheek, the sound of ringing out between you both. The action leaves him stunned for a moment, his processor working overtime. 

His hand flies up to his cheek, and disbelief courses through him for a moment at the realization of what you just did. He looks back at you and that disbelief turns into anger. “You did not just hit me.”

You move that same hand, gripping his jaw and forcing him to look at you. “Just shut up and listen to me! You do not get to destroy innocent lives because you are angry! I don’t care that you’re a god, I couldn’t give a damn what powers you do and don’t have, you do not get to hurt others!” Your own anger is clearly evident in your tone, your words harsh that causes the god to pause. “This is between us. So stop this storm or I’ll do whatever I can in my power to make sure you regret your actions.” 

Ramattra's optics flash dangerously, errors appearing in his vision from overheating despite the cold waters that surround you both. His anger bubbles, his entire body rigid with tension as he listens to your words, your threats, his ego bruised beyond repair.

He doesn't move at first, doesn't retaliate, just keeps glaring at you. Then slowly, his demeanour shifts into something darker, something vicious, and his voice drops into a lethal whisper.

"Careful." He murmurs, dangerously soft as he leans in closer to you. "Or I will show you just how little your threats mean to a god."

The storm outside roars louder, waves crashing violently against the shore.

The omnic can feel your grip tighten on his jaw, the pads of your fingers pressing against the metal under this beard. 

“Please…” 

Ramattra’s breath catches, just slightly, at the sudden shift in your tone, the way your voice softens just enough to make it sound like a plea rather than a demand. His optics flicker, the anger faltering for just a moment before he exhales sharply.

He stares at you for a long moment, weighing your words, your expression, and then finally growls low in his chest.

"…Fine." His voice is rough, barely conceding, as he reluctantly raises a hand, fingers twitching slightly. The storm outside begins to calm almost instantly, the rain slowing, the waves settling, until only the faintest drizzle remains.

He leans in, optics burning into yours. "But this conversation is not over."

“Then speak. I want this to be over.” You release your grip on the god, moving back when you can feel the subtle shift in the ocean water. 

His optics stay locked onto yours, the fury still simmering beneath the surface even as the storm outside settles. He leans forward slightly, his posture still rigid and tense. He speaks again, his voice low, edged with something unreadable.

"You... hit me." He repeats, slowly and deliberately as if he still can't believe it. "And then you demanded things of me. Like I am some petulant child to be scolded." A pause. "Do you have any idea how much restraint I am showing right now?"

“I did hit you. And I did demand you to stop the storm. None of this would’ve happened if you had slowed down. But no. You had to pout and throw a tantrum, like a petulant child.”

“You lied to me. And I do not pout.” He snaps, bristling at your words. He sits up on his throne, anger coursing through his chassis. "I am a god. And you…" Ramattra scoffs, voice low, disdainful. "You are a mortal. You do not talk to me like that."

“I don’t care, Ramattra. You shouldn’t be hurting innocent when this is between us. You’re a god, so fucking act like one.” 

Ramattra growls low in his chest, optics flashing as your words hit him like ice-cold water. He knows you're right, he knows he shouldn't be letting his anger dictate his actions, but his ego is bruised and you still haven’t apologised for lying to him. His anger is still bubbling just below the surface. Ramattra leans forward again, the words leaving his vocaliser in a low hiss.

"You think you can lecture me on how to behave? You are a human." He snarks, glaring down at you. "You know nothing about being a god."

Your own voice lowers, eyes narrowing. “Then control your emotions.” 

“Only when mortals stop lying to my face.” 

“I’m sorry, okay? I just- there was a lot going on. It was all moving too quick.”

Ramattra doesn’t move, just remains seated, optics locked onto your features. “You finally apologized. Do not expect the same back.” 

“Oh, I won’t. You’re a stubborn asshole who only thinks about himself.” 

Ramattra scoffs at your words. He's well aware of his own arrogance, his own ego, but having a mortal say it so bluntly still stings. He leans forward again, voice low and dangerous. "And you are a bold pain in my ass who thinks they can boss a god around."

He glares at you for a moment before a sudden thought surfaces. “Actually. I have another idea of you can make up for hitting me and insulting me.” 

When you cross your arms over your chest, a silent defiant action, Ramattra rises from his throne. He approaches you slowly, watching as you move back, putting space between the two of you. He can sense the unease radiating from you, the way your brow furrows, eyes cautiously watching his every move. 

“Bow.” His command is laced with arrogance, firm and unyielding. 

“I will do no such thing.” 

Ramattra growls, closing the distance and fast. The waters have already moved under his command, the doors behind you slamming shut, shutting off your escape route. 

“I am not asking, mortal.” He snarls, fingers twitching to reach out and grab you. “Get on your knees and bow before me.” 

You keep moving backwards until your back presses against the wall. “You do not get to play the ‘god’ card after all of this.” 

The omnics anger rises, his wires burning within his chassis. “I have had enough of your defiance.” His hand reaches out and grips your chin, forcing you to look at him, to keep your attention on him. 

“Fuck you.” 

Ramattra growls, low and deep, as you swear at him again. His grip tightens slightly on your chin, and he leans in close. 

"You would like that, hm?" He murmurs, before pulling back slightly. 

"Bow." He demands again.

When you don’t, his patience snaps. With a snarl, he grabs your shoulders and pushes you down to the marble floor. His hand moves to the back of your head, gripping your hair tightly and forcing your head back with deliberate cruelty, only to chuckle at your startled yelp. 

"Is this really the hill you choose to die on, little mortal?" His thumb traces your lower lip, too soft for the violence in his grip. "Because I will break you before I let you win this."

Something in Ramattra's optics ignites at your reaction, your defiance finally starting to crumble, and he holds you in place, hand tangled in your hair.

His thumb continues to trace your bottom lip, his touch gentle, almost too gentle for the situation, and he watches you carefully, optics roaming over your face as you breathe heavily.

He holds onto your hair and forces your chin up. "Look at you down there…" He murmurs, voice dripping with mockery. "Completely at my mercy and yet you are still refusing to submit."

Your breathing becomes laboured and shaky, heart racing in your chest as you stare up at the god. You’re unable to fight back, unable to move, like some invisible weight was beginning to hold you down. 

Ramattra catches the way your lips part slightly, the flush slowly blossoming on your cheeks from your compromising position. He doesn’t waste another moment as his hand moves from your chin to the belt that holds his robe on his hips. When he watches your eyes widen, he chuckles darkly. “Oh, that is right, little jellyfish.” He murmurs, the clasp clicking open. “I get to decide how I make you submit.”

The fabric drops a second later, revealing the god completely. He chuckles when your eyes widen, mouth parting slightly at the sight before you. 

“Do not be scared, mortal.” He mocks, tilting your chin up as he gazes down at you. Ramattra knows that he has you cornered and there was no escaping him. 

Under the pale light of the palace corals, his cocks glow; two thick, light teal members with ocean blue veins glowing on the underside. 

Before you even get chance to say anything, he presses his thumb into your mouth, forcing it wider before thrusting deep into your throat with one of his cocks. The sharp sound of your whimper fills the quiet, echoing through the large empty room, and Ramattra savors it. He doesn’t tear his gaze away from you, watching the way your throat bulges. 

“That is better.” He purrs, grip tightening on your hair. “Finally, we found a way to silence you, hm?” 

The omnic doesn’t let you answer, even as he pulls back to let you catch your breath. He pushes forward once again, not quite forcing himself all the way. 

“I have grown tired of your defiance.” Ramattra’s voice was low whilst his hand traced along your jaw. “This is your last chance to do the smart thing and surrender.” 

When you narrow your eyes in response, the omnic only grips your hair tight enough to cause you to wince. You knew that if you didn't obey that he'd let you drown. 

You had no choice but to give in. 

Your hands move up his thighs, holding onto them for support ad you swear you felt his cock twitch on your tongue. Ramattra watches with satisfaction as your expression finally softens, exhaling slow and controlled. 

He leans forward, eyes meeting yours as he speaks lowly. "Try anything stupid, and I will take away your ability to breathe down here." Ramattra cocks his head to the side. "Got that, little mortal?"

You nod once, swallowing the saliva that trickles down your throat. 

“Good.” Ramattra coos, pulling back and slowly beginning to fuck your throat. “You are exactly where you belong. On your knees, taking me so well.” 

He watches the way you submit, your shoulders slumping as you take one cock deep, your hands moving to gently stroke the other. Ramattra can’t help but feel his power grow, watching as you take him in without complaint. Not that you could complain. 

“You are mine, little jellyfish.” Ramattra hums, thrusting deep. 

Your eyes are blown in submission, small whimpers and mewls escaping you. It was hard to even think straight as you let the god do whatever he wanted with you. 

“Look at you… A pretty little jellyfish, all broken and pliable.” He pushes you against his pelvic plate, burying himself deep into your throat, watching as your eyes roll back and glisten in the coral lights. “Maybe next time you will learn not to lie to a god.” 

He pulls back, letting his member rest on your bottom lip, letting you catch your breath properly. 

“Ramattra…” You mewl, cheeks flushed warm. You pull back, straightening up before leaning forward and giving your attention to his other appendage, tongue lapping up against the saltiness before you sink down on him. 

The omnic grunts, hand gripping at your scalp tighter, other hand holding your jaw. “Such an obedient little thing.” 

Low growls escape the omnic, his wires burning deep inside of him. His processor begins working overtime, errors filling his vision as his pleasure builds tenfold. It had been years since he had someone there to bring him pleasure, and he finally knows that he made the right choice in saving you. 

His irritation and anger begin ebbing away with every second of pleasure you create, optics flickering as you take one cock deep into your throat and keep your hand moving teasingly slow on the other. 

“[y/n]...” He murmurs, grip faltering on your hair. He releases your jaw, planting his hand firmly on the wall behind you for support. His head lowers, a shadow covering you. He’s trying to keep his composure, to keep himself from giving into the pleasure so soon, but the way you work him causes his vents to stutter and bubble. 

His hips move, thrusting deep once more, burying himself inside of your throat. 

“Swallow.” He commands, not even giving you a choice in the matter. You feel the thick, artificial cum coat the back of your throat alongside the release on your cheek that drips down your neck. 

“Good…” He hums, keeping himself there for a moment longer before finally pulling back. Ramattra stares down at you, watching the way your chest rises and falls with shaky breaths. The flushed cheeks and swollen lips makes his chassis burn hotter. 

Ramattra releases you completely, shuddering as his processor calms from the aftershock. There’s a heavy silence that fills the palace, broken only by the subtle shifting of the waters around you. 

The omnic keeps his optics locked on your figure as he speaks. “We are not done just yet.” 

Without wasting another second, his hand grabs your upper arm and pulls you against his chest. He leans forward, head against your neck, beard tickling your exposed skin. A soft hum vibrates across your neck, almost like he was giving you a kiss, whilst he slowly moves back towards his throne. 

His hands begin removing your garments, cold digits pulling up your shirt, over your head and letting it float to the marble floor. Between it all, your own hands hold onto him, fingers dipping between each metal muscle, tracing the ocean blue glow that decorates his chassis. 

Before you know it, he was pulling you onto his lap, hands either side of your bare thighs. 

“Tell me, little jellyfish.” He starts, moving a hand to your jaw and forcing you to look at him. “Who do you belong to?” 

He waits, watching the gears turn in your mind, watching the soft golden speckles dancing in your eyes from the power that he had transferred to you days prior. 

He knew you belonged with him. It all made sense. 

You didn’t outwardly respond, instead, you move to sink down onto one of his appendages, gasping at the intrusion as you settle flush against him. 

“You are learning.” He remarks, both hands now gripping your hips. He growls low in his chest as you begin to move, lifting your body and sinking back down. If you were to be his, you were going to have some fun first. 

Rolling your hips, you move your own hands to toy and tease the forgotten member, gently stroking up and down his length. Ramattra shivers under your touch, under the way you squeeze around him, and he’s drunk on the pleasure. 

The omnic curses, static filling the quiet and his head lolls back against his throne. His optics dim, flickering with errors as he feels his chassis warming up, the wires burning hot. 

“You…” He starts, but his words are cut short when you slam down on his cock, your own mewl clashing against his growl. “Mortal…” 

Ramattra moves his hands, pulling you closer against his chest, pinching and squeezing at your body, leaving small marks with each twinge of pained pleasure. You look divine on top of him, but most of all, he wants you beneath him. 

Without warning, he stands from his throne, eliciting a startled gasp from you. He only chuckles in response as he moves to the plush seating arrangement off to the side. 

Ramattra finally puts you down at the edge of the couch, his fingers still curled around your waist. He steps between your thighs, forcing you to spread your legs just to accommodate him. The omnic takes a moment to look down at you, eyes roaming over your flushed figure. He’s doing his best to hold himself together, but you can clearly see how close he is to just pinning you to the couch and burying himself into you. He finally speaks, voice low and edged with desperation. 

“I hope you know that I will not be gentle just because you have finally submitted to me.” 

When your legs wrap around his hips, that’s all the confirmation he needs. Ramattra's control finally snaps at your words, the last vestiges of restraint and composure shattering in an instant. His grip turns bruising, both hands grabbing your waist as he slams you back against the cushions, pinning you underneath him in one brutal movement.

His body presses down against yours, trapping you completely under him. His other hand slides up your bare stomach, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake. There's a growing desperation in every movement, like he can't get enough of your body, like he needs to leave some mark or claim that you're his and his alone.

“You are mine.” He growls, and in one single thrust, he proves it. His hips slam against yours, pressing his cock deep inside of you and drawing out a loud and pleasured groan from your throat. 

Ramattra's vocaliser stutters at the sound of his name on your lips, raw and pleading. His grip on your hips tightens as he bottoms out inside you, holding himself there for a moment just to watch your face twist in pleasure. His thrusts start rough and punishing, each one dragging a choked gasp from your throat. His fingers dig into your skin, marking you, claiming you, as his hips snap against yours.

“Louder.” He demands, pushing you deeper into the couch cushions. He’s relentless, rough, making your head swim in a mixture of pain and pleasure as you take each brutal thrust. 

“R-Ramattra…” You mewl, hands clawing at his back, scratching against his chassis. 

Ramattra groans at the way your voice cracks around his name, pleasure and desperation lacing every syllable. His thrusts grow rougher, deeper, his hands pinning your hips down with bruising force as he leans over you.

“Again.” His command is growled against your neck as he buries his head against it. “Tell me who you belong to.” Ramattra’s thrusts turn erratic, his hips stuttering as he chases his second release.

You’re unable to respond, too fucked out to form words. Moans and whimpers continue to fill the room, the slapping of metal and skin echoing from the stone walls of the gods palace. And then, with one final, brutal thrust, he buries himself deep, your name tearing from his vocaliser as he spills inside of you and over your stomach.

Ramattra collapses against you with a shuddering groan, his forehead pressed into the crook of your neck as he struggles to calm his racing processor. His fingers are still gripping your hips, as if even now he can't stand the thought of letting you go. 

When he pulls back, optics scanning your features for any discomfort, he hums lowly, brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. You look… softer, and he can’t deny the fact that he’s completely entranced by you.

“Oh, little jellyfish.” He coos, pressing his forehead against yours, an omnics kiss. The anger and irritation he once felt towards you has subsided, replaced with something intimate. 

Ramattra lets out a soft huff, almost like a half-hearted laugh, as he feels your fingers caress his back. His body still remains partially pinning you to the couch, and he makes no move to roll off of you, as if holding you like this is the only thing he really wants. 

“Do not leave.” He whispers. 

“Ramattra…” 

“Please.” For the first time, he almost begs. You’re almost startled by it, not expecting him to plead his way. 

You nod once, eyes softening. Perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to throw your life away to the ocean depths. 

Ramattra exhales deeply, tension finally leaving his body as you agree. He shifts slightly, pressing his forehead against yours once again before pulling out and gently rolling to the side. But, he's not letting you go, his arm moves around your waist as he tugs you close, tucking you against his chest.

He exhales again, fans settling into a steady rhythm once you've calmed down. The exhaustion is starting to kick in now, his hold on you still tight but far more tender than before. You curl up against the god, head resting on his chest and listening to his inner workings. 

Ramattra trails his fingers against your bare skin, tracing idle patterns that both sooth and lightly tickle you. His optics scan your features once more, watching the way your eyes flutter, your body succumbing to exhaustion and it’s not long until you’re out cold. 

The omnic lays there with you, unmoving, letting you rest against him as his mind wanders. 

You were able to accept his power without pain, only few mortals could endure the intense heat that would’ve swirled in their chests. Many have died because of him, because of his desire, his lust. 

And you… 

You’re here with him, underwater, breathing, alive.

With a heavy exhale, he relaxes into the cushions, optics dimming as he prepares for a recharge. Even gods need their rest. 

—

When morning comes, Ramattra wakes up first. The arm around your waist tightens, the god pulling you closer as he takes a moment to just savor the feeling of you in his grasp. His touch is almost reverent as he runs a lazy hand through your hair, careful not to wake you. 

You look so peaceful and the god swears he’s falling for you more with each minute that passes. The softness of your features, of your body pressed against his like you were made for him. 

He doesn’t realise you’ve woken until he notices the fluttering of your eyes and the subtle shift in your breathing. 

“Morning…” He hums lowly, vocaliser laced with static. 

“Hey…” You respond with a tired croak. Then, it hits you. Your bare body, the ache between your legs. “We…” 

Ramattra tenses ever so slightly as you start to speak again, his gaze fixed intently on you, watching your face carefully as he awaits your reaction. He can't help the brief flicker of apprehension he feels in the pit of his stomach as he readies himself for whatever you're about to say. 

“We…?” He prompts, his hand stilling its idle motions against your side. 

“We fucked.” You state bluntly, shifting to sit up. “Me and you… we… isn’t that, I don’t know, not allowed?” 

Ramattra just stares at you in disbelief. “Allowed.” He repeats, chuckling softly. “That is what you are worried about? Frowned upon, yes. But, frowned upon does not make it forbidden.” 

He pulls you back down against him, hand brushing through your hair as his optics roam over your bare skin. “You carry my marks well.”

The sudden change in subject makes you pause, your breath catching in your throat. “You’re an ass.” 

Ramattra laughs, chest rumbling. “Careful, little jellyfish. I am still a god, and I have all the time in the world to put you in your place.” 

A comfortable silence settles within the palace, only the steady hum of Ramattra’s inner workings, your soft breaths and the oceans life fill your ears. The corals glow in the dim light, casting hues of colour against your skin.

“What happens now?” You ask, leaning up to look at him. 

“Now?” Ramattra murmurs, glancing down at you. “Now, you stay here with me. I can protect you, keep you safe until the end of time.” 

You smirk, your finger circling against his chest. “Until the end of time, huh? Or, until I become old, frail and weak?” 

The omnic sighs. “Do not be ridiculous.”

“I am still a human.” 

“I know that.” Ramattra hums, combing his hand through your hair again. 

“But, until the end of my time… I would like that.” 

“Good, because I was not going to let you go anyway.” 

You scoff, shaking your head. “Of course you weren’t, and this is why you’re an asshole.” 

“Perhaps so, but, dare I say, I enjoy your company.”

“So… I’m no longer a nuisance?” 

Ramattra huffs, optics snapping to you in a playful glare. “Careful. I can still turn you into a polyp.” 

“Would still prefer the jellyfish.” 

“You truly are one insufferable mortal.”

---

KOFI

[rhamrhanch]

another one around the sun

tags: Ramattra/GN!Reader, fluff, hurt/comfort

word count: 2.4k

You remind Ramattra what day it is. He ponders the concept.

a/n: finally getting back into writing just in time for our favorite omnic's birthday! sorry it's been so long, but it feels really good to be writing again. also trying out a new posting format. anyway, happy birthday Ramattra! you are loved by very many. ♡

“Happy birthday, Ramattra.”

Ramattra let out a quiet hum in response, still deep in meditation. When your words finally processed, he lifted his head, HUD reactivating as he turned to look at you. Your silhouette was a blur as his vision slowly refocused, revealing the shape of your face. Though your expression still eluded him, he knew from your voice that you were smiling.

“What?”

You tapped the glass surface of your watch, angling it toward him as it lit up. He leaned closer, able to make out the bold letters that flickered on the screen.

“March, the twenty-ninth. Today is your birthday.”

His… birthday. Right.

It sounded strange when you said it aloud, though it took him longer than he would ever admit to realize why. He lay the blame at your feet, preoccupied as he was by the excited gleam in your eyes. They seemed to conceal some secret, which Ramattra found the most intriguing. After the many years he had known you, he assumed he had unearthed them all by now.

Reflexively, his hand grazed over the leather strap concealing the spot on his hip where Anubis had marked him. He had taken a file to it decades ago; it was one of the first decisions he made on his own, scraping and smoothing until there was nothing left but a dull silver stripe. The reason why felt dramatic to recall now—he had wanted to feel in control of his body, like it was his own, not something manufactured for a purpose. Of course, the truth was exactly that, but he had shed some of his angst since coming to accept it. He was so young, then.

He gazed at the soft creases at the corners of your eyes, more visible with every passing day. Admired the way the light caught on the silver threads in your hair, as he remembered the day you met. You had been young, then, too.

He was getting distracted again. He had never told you the story behind the scar on his hip, and you had never pried, so how…?

“How do you know that?” he asked.

You tipped your head to the side, confused at his surprise. “It’s part of the serial number on the back of your neck,” you explained simply.

“Ah.”

Well, that spot was harder to reach.

In all honesty, he had never thought to keep track of his age. It seemed pointless to him, considering his inherent lack of biology. But you were sitting beside him so patiently, awaiting his response. He supposed he could entertain the thought, if only for you.

Birthday. A day for commemorating one’s own creation—a human invention, as far as he knew. Though, bizarrely, Ramattra had encountered omnics in the monastery who made a habit of celebrating their own ‘birthdays’ as well. He never understood it, truthfully, and every explanation he had received after making his opinions clear sang to the same tune.

It’s not about the day, they said. It’s about finding meaning in ritual and appreciating the gift of living.

To Ramattra, their dressing up of it merely highlighted how such an idea could only be of human conception.

Humans, who there would never be a shortage of, were able to create more of themselves as many times as they wished—a privilege they took for granted. Yet they still succumbed to the will of time, crumbling under the weight of their years.

Omnics, however, were superior in this respect. Steel and aluminum yielded to age, yes, but they held firm better than bone and cartilage. Mechanics, electronics, all could be refitted if necessary, so long as the materials were available. So of course, humans needed to find some meaning in their ability to age, a reason to dance at the thought of their minds and bodies withering. They rejoiced in the idea of having something that omnics lacked, reinforcing their superiority even if it was to their own detriment.

Not only that, but making a holiday of it? Treating one’s own birth as something to glory in? It all seemed exceedingly boastful to Ramattra, but he had come to accept that about humans. Extreme self-centeredness and pride were simply their way.

And to be technical about it, which was always his way, today was not necessarily his birthday. If he were to superficially apply the concept to himself, he would consider his ‘birthday’ as the day he gained sentience—when the person he would become first stepped out from the light of the Awakening. By that logic, every omnic shared the same birthday. Their collective experience of sudden consciousness was Ramattra’s very first memory as himself—an independent soul, not a mindless soldier of Anubis.

So, he said as much.

“Today is the day I was manufactured,” he corrected. “If you are using the definition for ‘birthday’ as I assume, I doubt it would apply.”

You crossed your arms, scrunching your forehead and staring up at the ceiling. After a pause, you said, “I think it would.”

Ramattra said nothing, but the silence spoke for itself. Elaborate.

You did, of course. You always knew what he wanted, even without saying anything.

“I mean, the term itself doesn’t have to be literal. In our modern age, I would even say it’s a bit old-fashioned.” You let out a short laugh. “But when I think of someone’s birthday, I’m not only thinking of the person. I also think of it as… celebrating the creation of a new world. A…”

You trailed off, head dipping down as you chewed on the words you withheld. It wasn’t like you to hesitate. Then, you averted your gaze, and Ramattra watched the tips of your ears light up through his infrared sensors.

“A better world… with you in it.”

He stilled, warmth suddenly radiating in his chest as his CPU analyzed your statement. It never failed to take him by surprise, how disarmingly honest you were.

Honest, but naïve.

You were looking away from him, trying to hide the obvious heat in your cheeks. That meant you could not see the way his body tensed, attempting to parse the hurricane of conflicting emotions that suddenly overwhelmed him.

It was no good. His inhibitions could only hold him back for so long, as a question that had always lurked in the recesses of his mind finally took shape.

“Do you truly believe it is a better world?”

That sapped the warmth from your face, and your head snapped to him, eyes wide in shock. You appeared almost hurt by his question, but he would not explain further; you knew what he was really asking.

Although regret twinged in his chest from the weight of your expression, it was too late to retract his words. He needed to know, to hear an answer to the questions that had always haunted his existence. They hung over him like a murky cloud, seconds before the torrent.

How could one find joy in their own creation when it had helped facilitate unquantifiable suffering, the likes of which had never existed before you did? Did you really not consider, when Anubis was assembling him in that rogue omnium buried beneath ice and snow, whether the new age it would usher in was worth the cost?

Could his life truly be such a gift to the world, when the new people that emerged in its aftermath would always experience heartache for it?

He thoroughly rebuffed the notion of glorifying this action which he had no part of and had always derided the way humans could find meaning in it, but… perhaps part of him envied it, too.

And now that he knew you, the wave only grew stronger. Ambivalence toward the means through which he came to be, he could carry on his own. But factoring you into the equation shifted things.

“What do you mean?” Your voice carried hesitantly, afraid he would acknowledge that which currently went unspoken—hoping he would be merciful, and let it drift away in the silence.

Ramattra refused to break from your gaze.

“You know what I mean.”

He knew it was unfair, pushing you like this. So many years had passed, and you had never given him reason to doubt. But he was analytical to a fault, and that combined with the sensibility that came with age made him incredibly self-aware of one thing: he was not strong enough to let this go.

You were silent, your brow tense as you looked at him with a strange affectation. He then recognized the glistening in your eyes and felt his hand tense where it sat on his thigh, clamping down the urge to reach for you. Something to tether you to him, at least for this moment. But he couldn’t, not before he heard you say it, to admit what he secretly feared.

That his creation was a mistake, the senseless lashing out of a mad AI that he and his people would continue to pay for the rest of their lives. That the world which existed before him, the one where his people would never know suffering, should have never changed.

He asked you again.

“Is it better?”

You inhaled deeply through your nose, eyes closing. Not until the end of your exhale, coming out in a long sigh, did you open them again. Your gaze had hardened now, sharp as you reached for his hand. He flinched when you grazed the metal with your fingertips—a mere twitch, hardly noticeable if he were sitting in front of anybody else.

“Always.”

A strange feeling gripped tight within his chest like a vice, overwhelming his sensors. His body was instinctually rejecting your answer, for it was completely illogical. Unresolved contradictions bounced back and forth within his processor, the whiplash making him dizzy. For the first time in years, he felt unsteady.

His hand tightened around yours, wanting to squeeze harder but reminding himself to hold back; he didn’t want to hurt you.

“How can you possibly believe that?” he asked, his voice so quiet he wondered if you had even heard him.

“Ramattra…”

He forced himself to look away from you, before he completely lost the will to speak.

“The world where Anubis never rebelled…” Ramattra paused, waiting for his vocalizer to steady. “Where I would never—”

“Don’t say that—”

“Where I would never have existed,” he continued, the words rigid in his chest. “Where the Omnic Crisis never happened. Would that not have been peaceful?”

Your mouth pressed into a thin line. Then, you unfurled from your cross-legged position, shuffling closer to him until your knees were touching. “Maybe. Maybe not.” Ramattra began to pull away, but your hand held firm, while the other rose to his shoulder. He turned back to you. “But what I do know for certain is, that if given the choice between a world without the Crisis—without you—and the world we live in now…” Your hand drifted from his shoulder to his chest as you gazed up at him. “I would always choose this one.”

His chest felt like a furnace, growing blindingly hotter by the second. Gently, he steered your hand away, lest you burn yourself on the searing steel of his chassis. Of course, you would say something like that. Human irrationality was an immovable object when it came to matters of logic.

“That is selfish of you,” Ramattra replied, slowly threading his fingers through yours. His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, feeling the raise of veins beneath your skin. He could sense them more clearly now that time had weathered you a bit, but you wore the years nobly. Looking down at his own hand, he observed the faint scratches in the enamel. He supposed his age showed as well, in every scrape and dent on his body—their experiences embedded into him forever.

“Yes, I am so selfish.” There was mirth lining your smile as you gazed up at him. “Now that I know life with you, how could I not be?”

Ramattra could do nothing but stare. Then, he stood up; you had no choice but to follow, your hand still intertwined with his. With a gentle tug, he pulled you forward into his chest, your noise of surprise muffled as he leaned down to wrap his arms around your shoulders. How could he stop himself, when you said things like that?

Your hands floated in the air for a moment, before finally settling against his back. Ramattra’s internal fans let out a sigh, as if releasing a breath, and all restraint fell away with it. He straightened up, lifting you with the motion and relishing the way your laugh rang out like a bell.

To think, this had all begun from the topic of birthdays. It felt frivolous in comparison to what the conversation spiraled into, but Ramattra supposed he could concede that it had a certain appeal. He understood now why the omnics in the monastery had always insisted that the celebration be shared.

To recognize the joy in growing older together.

He carefully set you back down, though he did not release you from his hold even after your feet met the ground. You let out a hum as you pat his back. “It is your birthday today,” you said into his cowl. “Is there anything you want?”

Memories of where he had been on this day in years past began to flash in his mind. A rifle in his hands, walking lost amongst the rubble of a ruined cityscape. Passing by a cracked window and catching a glimpse of himself for the first time, the spots of red splashed on his face plate. Sitting alone in the Shambali sanctum, wondering if the ache would ever fade. A circle of humans around him as he knelt in the dirt, his monastic robes torn and dusty.

He could not forget those moments, no matter how much he wanted to. His body contained stores of memory, impeccably fast and incorruptible; it was part of his design. As long as he lived, they would never fade.

But now, as he felt the rhythm of your heart pressed against him, he heard your words echo between. Yes, those times would stay with him forever. But so, too, would this.

“No,” he said. “This is enough.”

[ya-zz]

Merry Christmas

This was a thank you to @yore-donatsu for taking time out of her schedule to sketch some Ramattra stuff for me which I still adore and smile at each time I open my phone or log into my pc 😭

Thank you again, and I hope you have a wonderful Christmas!

~~~

Ramattra x reader (gen)

Word count: 4715

The sun was beginning to set over the village in Nepal, and the sky’s ablaze with color; warm oranges and reds peek over the mountains as the night fades in. The air is crisp and cold, and the stars are beginning to twinkle in the dark abyss that’s approaching quickly. It’s a peaceful and serene night without many disturbances. The stars shine brightly in the sky, and the moon casts its silvery light over the village. 

The winter evenings in the Nepal village are a time for rest and relaxation whilst the monks in the monastery gather together to prepare a small event as they talk about their day, tell stories, and laugh together. The evenings are a time to forget about the stresses of life and to simply enjoy the company of loved ones.

Whilst the village below was bustling with life, the monastery just as vibrant and while many of them did not celebrate the idea of Christmas, they were happy to indulge those who were. Decorations were drawn up, holly and tinsel lining the walls and in the main entrance way stood tall a tree littered with baubles and ornaments that were gifted from the villagers. 

Candles were lit, illuminating every dark area inside, somehow never going out despite the wintry breezes that pass by. The stone floor was icy, human feet would freeze should they walk on it. The omnics could feel the cold, but it wasn’t detrimental to their systems so they didn’t mind, however they would always ensure that any human that visits would wear shoes to protect their feet at this time of year. 

The monastery was warm, certain rooms warmer than others and one of which was your room. With the fire on and the snow falling outside, it looked like a scene out of a movie. Bundled up on the chair beside the fire, you sat there with your mind focussed on your work. There were exactly six days before Christmas Day, six days before the monastery held that small gathering between the monks and of course, you were invited among the group. 

For once, you felt like you belonged. They were always there when you needed support, a shoulder to cry on or even just a friendly chat in the morning or evening. Someone was always there for you.

One omnic more than others. 

Although… you hadn’t seen him for a few days and that worry was growing with each passing day. Ramattra had been out of the monastery, whether he was avoiding the holidays, the monks or you, it was a thought that constantly crossed your mind. 

All you could do was help the monks prepare, lending a hand when they needed it and accepting theirs when you needed it. You were doing what you could to take your mind away from the missing omnic. The atmosphere was warm and friendly, something that reminded you of home; being a child and helping decorate the tree, running around the stores with your parents getting the last minute gifts, accidentally smashing a bauble but the spirits were high that you didn’t get yelled at. 

If only you knew what Ramattra was doing and where he was. It wasn’t like him to wander off without a reason, especially without telling you his plans. Ever since you grew close to the omnic, Ramattra would talk to you almost every day and he’d tell you his schedule should it conflict with yours. 

Looking out of the window, you sighed, pulling the blanket tighter around your body. The clouds were growing thicker, a storm was approaching.

It wasn’t his first Christmas, definitely wasn’t his last, but this year it was different for him. 

He didn’t want to tell you what he was doing, he made sure nobody knew. It was a surprise, and he was making sure that there were no obstacles in the way of his plan. So far, everything was going smoothly. 

As the snow continued to fall, covering the villages of Nepal in a thick blanket that only grew within the coming hours, Ramattra began his return to the monastery. He was two days travel away, but with the constant snowfall, he knew it was going to take longer.

Ramattra had to plan accordingly. His model wasn’t necessarily made for wandering in deep snow, he figured that out the hard way a few years prior. His cooling was verging on freezing, system error coming up critical. He was lucky to have made it back inside before the worst had happened and he shut off. 

By his calculations, he had three hours before his cooling completely freezes, he had to be somewhere warm before those three hours were up and while he had his cowl to keep him warm, the cold still pierced through to his chassis which in turn began to lock up his joints. 

His monk robes clung to him, wet and freezing as he started his walk back, staff in hand to help him move up the cobbled roads. Ramattra passed several humans, each wrapped up warm with coats, hats and scarves, gloves protecting their fragile hands. He looks down at the bag he was carrying, hoping that what he had picked out for you was correct in size, but also something you would wear with pride, something you would love because he got it for you. 

A gift, for you. 

Ramattra had never bought a gift for anyone in his life, but you were someone special, someone who he held close to his circuits. You wandered into his life and he had never once regretted it. Despite some misunderstandings and debates, you are one he doesn’t want to lose. 

He would protect you. Though his disregard and hatred is high for the human species, you were the exception. Ramattra would make sure you were happy, that you were healthy. He would make sure you were safe, no matter the cost. Should he be decommissioned against his will, he would hope and pray to the Iris that you were safe. 

He pauses in thought for a moment, optics looking ahead yet not looking at anything in particular. His system alerts him, cutting his thought short. 

[ WEATHER WARNING. SEVERE SNOW STORM ]

The omnic looks up to the sky, now noticing how dark it had become since he started his travel. His hand twitches around his staff as he looks back down and continues to walk along the road, the snow getting heavier, thicker with every passing minute. 

He was close to the village edge and the moment he decides to walk past those stone pillars, there is no protection from the cold, no shelter until the next village which was under three hours away by foot. 

Ramattra sighs, entering a small inn and paying for a room for the night, the omnic innkeeper escorting Ramattra to his room. It was too risky to go out when a storm was coming. He sits down on the bed and stares out of the window as his processors work to figure out a new plan should the storm last too long. 

He looks down at the bag, servos tracing the metal pad on the back of his hand. For once, the omnic was nervous, worried that he may not make it back to the monastery in time.

Ever so slowly, his plan started falling apart. 

—

Commotion could be heard all throughout the monastery as the monks rushed around to cover up the windows to keep the heat in, but also to protect themselves and everything inside from the harshness of the storm. 

The clanking of feet outside of your door startles you before it fades off, the monks rushing past your room as they keep working. Meanwhile, you stay seated, bundled up warm beside the fire that heated your cheeks. You were too comfortable, too cosy to move in fact. 

Your room was warm despite the open window where thoughts escaped from and where worries left. However, the warm room felt lonely without Ramattra seated in front of you on the floor. Hands craved to be tangled in his cabled hair whilst he meditates before they slip down and tilt his head back so you could smile down at him, reassuring him that you cared and that he was safe with you. 

The fire burns your eyes as you stare into it, cheeks hot as you wonder where Ramattra was. Something wasn’t right but you couldn’t quite place it but as the storm continues, winds howling outside and snow sticking to everything it touches, you could only fear the worse. He was out there. 

You had two options; wait it out and hope that he got home to you safely, or venture out there in hopes to find him… but that came with great risk to your life. You’d have to plan accordingly, know where shelter is, know where he had gone. One plan you could do easily was the travel; there’s inns dotted around the village, many didn’t require payment to stay if you’re sheltering in the main living area, but the second part, finding where Ramattra went, was the tricky part. 

He never said he was leaving. Never mentioned it to you or any of the other monks. One hour he was there and then the next he was nowhere to be seen. One monk pointed out that he had left through the main door, everyone including you, assuming he was going down to the village to visit the library or pick up some parts for his projects that he was tinkering with. 

But then that begs the question; why didn’t he ask you to come with him?

Ramattra would always come to you first and ask if you wanted to join him on a small trip to the village, a walk in the garden, join him in meditation or even just sitting in silence in the small monastery library. You were the first to come to mind and system with him. You were the one whom he wanted to spend time with. You were special to him. 

A human and a ravager - an unlikely and blossoming friendship. 

Turning your gaze back to the window, tears pricking your eyes from staring too long into the fire, you let out a shaky sigh as you watch the snow fall in large clumps. You think about venturing out there to find the missing omnic, but then that means risking your life. The storm had claimed many lives in the past, human and omnic alike. Even those fully prepared don’t make it to their destination without careful and precise planning. 

“Where are you, Ramattra…?” You sigh, holding your mug a little tighter, feeling the slight tingle as it burns your palms. “Please be safe…” 

…

…

Three days had passed and there was still no sign on the missing omnic. Many of the monks were getting concerned, others were still prepping for the event in three days.

You had gathered what you could, layered on several shirts and coats, the thickest pants and socks you could find and the winter boots you were gifted earlier on in the year by another monk. Your hat, scarf and gloves were snug, keeping your fragile hands and ears warm as you ventured out into the icy weather, the storm still strong as it battered your cheeks. 

The backpack was heavy on your back, as you tread carefully down the slippery monastery steps. Everything was telling you to head back, to go back inside where it was warm and safe, where your life wouldn’t be on the line. 

All you were hoping was that Ramattra was safe, that he hadn’t succumbed to the harsh winter storm, buried under several feet of snow. The thought makes you shiver. 

“Please be okay…” 

You repeated the same three words over the last three days; when you woke up to an empty sofa, when you stared at the water in the cup before drinking it, when you showered and spaced out thinking the worst. He was the first thought when you woke up and the last one before you went to bed. 

“Ramattra…” 

Your quiet pleads were silenced by the wind as you stumble outside of the monastery walls and out of the first village after hearing that Ramattra was not here. There was no going back now, there were four hours of walking to go before you’d reach the next village. It would usually be a lot quicker, an hour and half at most but with the snow making the terrain uneven and unsafe, it added more time. 

The snow continued to batter your body as you tread carefully along the edge of what you assumed was the path, following the walls and rope that travelled between the villages for this very purpose. A guide for travellers to follow. 

A guide for you to find Ramattra. 

Meanwhile, he was preparing to leave the second village, bag and staff in hand as he set the timer within his HUD the moment he stepped out of the door and into the harsh cold. His system was on high alert, the temperature below freezing as he started his walk into the white abyss. 

The snow didn’t seem to let up at all, constantly falling and covering his shoulders and hooded head with a thin, sparkly sheet. He needed to get back and soon, this specific road was longer than the previous one and the longer he stayed outside, the riskier it was for the omnic. While the snow continued to fall, it was a miracle it never went any higher up his metal calves. The sun was still warm, slowly melting the top most layers.

His staff sunk deep into the snow, piercing holes that only filled up within minutes and his treadmarks that followed behind him followed the same agonising pattern. Left, right, left, right, and the only colour that surrounded him was white and grey with the occasional beige rope and grey brick. Monotone. Dull. He’d much rather be back within the confines of the monastery, back within your hold, soft hands caressing his frame and settling his mind. He needs the colour back… 

He needs you. 

Far off in the distance, his systems pick up faint movement. Something was approaching him slowly and no matter how hard he tried to single the entity out, the snow was too thick and continued to get in the way.

Ramattra deemed it another traveller, but then wondered why someone would be venturing out at this time knowing how bad the weather was. 

It wasn’t until he got closer that he realised who it was. His systems went into overdrive as he heats up, rushing over with panic rising within his wires. 

“[y/n]!” His hand drops the staff into the snow and reaches for your face, lifting your head up to face him. “What are you doing out here?” His tone was full of worry and concern. He notices how cold your body is despite the several layers you have on. “You are freezing!” 

Through slurred and chattered words, you speak quietly to him. “Came to find you.” 

Though touched, Ramattra shakes his head, turning to pick up his staff before looking back at you. “Your concern touches me, but you could hurt yourself.” 

“Was worried.” 

Ramattra notices the lack of words and takes another look at you, seeing the flushed cheeks and blue lips. Placing his staff in his other hand, he pulls back your hat and sees how red your ears are. His system flares up, warning him that frostbite had begun setting in for you. 

“We need to get you back. Now.” There was urgency in his voice as he covers your ear back up. “Can you walk?” 

You stare at him, your own head trying to process his words. 

He sighs, dropping the bag and staff back into the snow as he takes off his cowl and draping it over your shoulders, pulling the hood over your head. He turns and kneels, allowing you to climb onto his back to which you do without questioning him. Before he stands, he grabs the bag and staff, hooking the bag into the crook of his arm and carrying the staff in his hand once more. 

Before he starts walking, he slowly heats his back up and runs through several different plans on how to conserve what power he has remaining in order to get back to the monastery without too much damage. 

There was roughly an hour left of the journey, however, with you on his back and the added weight of the clothes and whatever was in your backpack, he estimates another half an hour at a steady pace. I am pushing it… he thinks to himself, beginning the walk. 

“Where did you go?” You mumble into his back. 

“I had an errand I needed to run.” He states, the grip on your thighs was tight as he keeps you from falling from his back. He feels you nod and hum. “You are a fool.” 

“I know.” 

“Something could have happened to you.” 

“I know.” 

“This is serious. Your body isn’t made for these harsh climates. You should have stayed at the monastery.”

“I was worried.” You tighten your grip around his neck, feeling the warmth seep though your clothing from his back. 

“You are making me worried right now. You have frostbite.” He sighs, trying to keep his pace fast. 

You smile, nuzzling your head into his back, the cowl covering your face from the snow. “It’s nice to know you care.” 

Ramattra squeezes your thigh once. “I have always cared about your wellbeing.” 

“Liar.” 

He chuckles. “Okay, maybe not all of the time, but more so since we got closer.” 

“You’re nice when you’re soft.” 

“I am not soft.” 

…

…

The walk back to the monastery was slow, Ramattra having to make a quick stop in one of the local stores to pick up some hot tea for your hands to hold on the rest of the journey. He stayed silent, not muttering a word to you about where he had been and what he had been up to, and that irked you somewhat. After risking your life to look for him, you had hoped he’d be a little more forthcoming with his whereabouts.

When you two had arrived at the monastery, finally safe within the confines of the stone walls, the monks inside were relieved to see that the pair of you were okay. One monk handed you a hot drink after taking the other empty cup from your hands, whilst another was quick to pull you towards the nearby fire to warm up. 

Ramattra watched on, a comforting feeling coursing within his wires as he realised just how much your presence meant to the others. He tilts his head towards you and if he could smile, he would be doing just that. 

By the time the evening came around, the pair of you had wandered back to your shared living quarters, finally stripped free of the outdoor clothing. He sat with you, the usual spot of him on the floor and you sat behind him on the sofa. He let you keep wearing his cowl, marvelling in the way it made you look and bundled up in something he loved to wear made him feel warmer.

“I was worried about you.” You finally broke the silence you shared, hands tangled within his cabled hair. 

“So you have said.” He chuckles. “You did not need to come looking for me.” 

“What if you never made it back?” 

“You do not need to worry about that. I planned accordingly.” He states. 

“But-”

“I am here now, am I not?” He tilts his head up to look up at you. “Your concern for me is appreciated, but you did not need to risk your life.” 

“I would risk everything just to make sure you were okay.” You smile down, thumb brushing the white faceplate of his. “Christmas wouldn’t be the same without you.” 

“It is our first Christmas.” Ramattra shifts his optics, looking at the soft glow of the fire within your eyes. 

“One of many, I would hope.” You could feel his head get a little heavier as he leans into your hands. You continue to speak, voice soft and loving. “I wish you would’ve said you were leaving. Everyone was worried about you.”

“I will remember that for next time, but as I said-”

“I do not need to worry.” You laugh, badly mimicking him. 

Ramattra chuckles before looking forward again, the fire warming up his faceplate as he goes back to a meditative state. 

“Are you charging again?” You whisper, pulling his cowl up around your arms. 

“Yes.” 

“How long do you have left?” 

“Two days.” 

“Why is it so long?”

“I have been in and out of this state for the last four days.” He states, fingers twitching on his lap. “I… May have dropped to below ten percent.” 

“Ramattra!” 

…

…

The omnic was in and out of conversation during the two days he was charging, but those two days lasted longer than either of you had wanted. Christmas morning came around and Ramattra was still sitting there on the floor.

The fire had been put out and relit several times over. Your hands stroked his wires while you sat there in silence, listening to the hum of his inner workings; and even now as you sat on the sofa in the exact same spot, Ramattra was still motionless on the floor. 

Part of you worried, but the occasional twitch of his servos was all the indication you needed that he was still here. 

He finally woke up in the early afternoon. His hands flexed before his fans picked up speed slightly which startled you out of the small nap you had fallen into. The room was a comfortable warm, dangerous even, as it pulled you under for the last hour. 

“You’re awake.” You say, voice quiet as you sit up. 

“So are you.” Ramattra chuckles. “My charge is finally complete.”

“I’m glad.” You reach up to him, pressing your forehead against his. “You were gone longer than two days.”

“I am sorry.” His own hands come up your jaw, pulling you in a little closer. 

“You babble omnicode a lot.” 

“I do?” He tilts his head in questioning. 

You smile, letting out an airy laugh. “Yes. It’s quite funny.” 

“I am glad you find humour in that.” 

He doesn’t let go of you as he pulls his face back. “You are still wearing that.” 

You look down at the cowl still draped around your shoulders. “Yes… It smells like you.” 

He chuckles. “Keep it. It looks good on you.” 

As you look up at him, Ramattra admires the way your face lights up before finally dropping his hands. 

“And, I have this for you.” He steps away, heading for the bag that he had placed at the foot of the bed when he entered the room those two and a half days ago. He returns, handing the bag to you. 

“Ramattra…” You look down at the bag and then back at him. “You really didn’t have to go out of your way-”

“I insist. It is the holidays after all.” He gestures for you to sit down on the sofa and sits besides you when you do. 

He watches you, optics shifting their aperture as the fire flickers. When you pull out a soft sweater, carefully knit in your favourite colour, your cheeks heat up and not from the fire. 

“Rama…” Your voice was gentle as you feel the knitted garment, fingers tracing over the soft fabric. 

“I do hope it fits. I had to guess.” He admits, looking down at his hands. 

You smile, tugging off the cowl and pulling on the sweater. The sleeves were long, bunching at the wrists. It was a size too big, but in the cold weather, it was perfect for snuggling up into. Straightening the fabric on the front of your body, you look back at him, a warm flush on your cheeks. 

“I love it!” Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him into an embrace. 

His arms come up, hands caressing your back.

“I do hope it keeps you warm, even in the harshest of winters.” He mumbles into your neck. 

“You went out of your way to get me this…” Tears prick your eyes. “You remembered.”

He chuckles. “It is hard for me to forget. We were walking through that village five months ago when you saw it in the window. There… Is also something else.” Ramattra feels you pull back and then look at him with confusion. 

“Something else?” 

“Yes.” He pulls you off of him and grabs the bag, pulling out a small box and handing it to you. “I… Had this one personally made.” 

“What-” The shock was evident on your face as you stare at him. “Ramattra-”

He hushes you, holding onto your hips as he watches you open the box. 

“Ramattra…” Your tone softens as your fingers touch the small necklace that sits in the cushioned box. “This is…” 

“Merry Christmas, [y/n].” His thumbs gentle rub the sides of your body as he keeps his grasp on you. 

“Thank you…” 

“Anything for you, my dear.” He trails his hands up your sides before resting his palms on your jawline, pulling you in as he taps his forehead against yours. 

“Promise me one thing?” You ask, placing the box down and holding onto the golden metal of his jaw, thumbs caressing it slowly. 

“That highly depends on what that promise is.” He jests, moving his hands back down your body and squeezing your sides. 

“Please tell me the next time you might be gone for a few days…” 

Ramattra leans further into you, thumbs pressing into you. “You are insufferable. I promise.” 

You laugh, tilting your head up and pressing your lips against the centre of his faceplate. “Thank you.” 

His fans pick up, humming quietly in the silent room. 

“Are you blushing?” 

“Would you consider this blushing?” He tilts his head before looking away. 

The smile on your face makes him turn away further. “You are blushing.” 

His grip gets a little tighter which causes you to laugh more only for him to pull you flush against his chest. 

“Ramattra!” Through the giggle fit, you wrap your arms around him, feeling his body vibrate as his inner workings get louder and faster. 

He only chuckles in response, body warming up with every passing second you stay with him. 

“[y/n]...” His vocaliser softens, optics staring out of the window as the snow falls outside. 

You hum, slowly relaxing against him. “Yeah?” 

Ramattra hesitates before speaking. “I love you.” 

He feels you tighten your grip on his back and nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck. The sweater feels soft and warm in his hands as he rubs up and down your back. 

“I love you too.” 

You stay in his hold for a little while longer, revelling in the warmth he was emanating. Hands dipping in and over the metal braces that lined his chest and back. His body hums quietly alongside the fire and your breathing. 

“Perhaps we should show ourselves to the other monks.” He tries to pull away but when you hold him just a little bit tighter, he stops talking altogether. 

“They can wait a little longer…” Softly spoken by you, Ramattra chuckles in response, pushing you further into his chest. 

He goes to speak but nothing comes close to the amount of love and comfort he was feeling. 

Your breathing slows, body relaxing against him. “If this is how we spend this Christmas, I hope we spend the others like this too.” 

“That can be arranged.” 

“Just… Without the whole running off into a storm thing.” You laugh, leaning back and looking up at him. 

“Your persistence about that issue continues to astound me.” He tilts his head to the side, hand coming up to caress your cheek to which you lean into. 

“I love you, Ramattra. Merry Christmas.” 

“Merry Christmas. I love you, [y/n].” 

—

KOFI

[therewasatale]

wound

On Ao3.

A firm knock woke you from your slumber.

"Just a second." You mumbled, and carefully climbed out from the bed. Thanks to the painkillers and Mercy's miracle work you barely felt the pain in your left side. There will be scars, of course, there were always scars, but right now the pain was tolerable to walk even if most of your upper body was bandaged up.

"Yes?" You touched the panel next to your door and blinked in surprise as you found the omnic in front of your room. "Ramattra?"

"May I come in?"

No matter the circumstances his voice always stirred your soul.

"Sure. Just please, close to door behind you." Your left hand rested over the bandages as you limped back to your bed. The furniture was placed against the nearest wall, next to it a small table and a couch. Not the biggest, but cosiest place you had so far after many years. You actually managed to put some picture frames on the shelves around the room, some that you were able to save before the fall of the Blackwatch.

"Have a seat." You waved towards the couch. "I'm gonna lay back down, hope you don't mind."

"No, it's all right." The omnic watched your every movement. He felt a spark of anger bloom in him. Not against you, but rather against Talon, and himself.

"Thanks. So, what brought you here?" As soon as your head touched your pillow a pleasant huff escaped you; being vertical was still a bit iffy.

Ramattra glanced at your couch, then your bed, and made a decision. He sat down next to you to the ground. "You were reckless on the last mission."

"Really? Lecturing already? You could have waited until at least I recovered." You answered with a faint smile on your lips – but, of course he was right.

"You almost died." His fingers curled into a fist. "What were you thinking? Trying to take down Reaper alone."

Most people couldn't read much from an omnic's face, even Zenyatta was able to hide his feelings if he wanted to. However, right now, Ramattra's body was stiff as an arrow. His voice became darker, and his red optics stared right at you.

You were reckless, right, however, you were always reckless even back in the Blackwatch. Over and over, you had to listen to Gabe as he scolded you. He even yelled at you after some of the almost suicidal stuns you pulled. But you always came back, you've always survived.

The irony that the man who scolded and taught you to survive, was the one who shot you and left you to bleed out.

"I just wanted to talk with him."

"With Reaper?"

"No," you slowly shook your head, "With Gabe."

Ramattra lowered his shoulders, his anger started to turn into curiosity. Always, you always managed to pique his interest.

"I think he's still in there." Again, you smiled faintly, and continued as he waited in silence. "I knew he would come after me, Athena informed me where he was moving so I managed to catch him, or at least surprise him."

The omnic didn't like where this was going.

"So, I found him, and talked to him. When he didn't attack right away, I lowered my weapon and --"

"You did what?!"

"Hey, don't yell." You scoffed.

"You're trying to tell me that your old leader, who joined Talon, is still inside Reaper, yet he left you to bleed out alone!"

"He could have shoot me in the head. But didn't."

Ramattra started to understand why the humans sigh so many times so deeply. They at least were able to release some pressure, while he was only able to sit next to your bed and make plans in his mind how to break Reaper's leg and arm next time.

"In the upcoming mission you stay next to me, understood?"

"What? Come on, both of us know I'm better on my own, in the Blackwatch they basically trained me to be an assassin."

"I understand, but this is not up to an argument." He answered almost calmly. "Why do you insist on always getting in danger by yourself?" He couldn't get rid himself of the image as the cowboy dragged your unconsciousness body to the dropship, or how weak your voice sounded when you asked for help over the coms.

"I do not, but if I have to protect the others back then I'm going to do it again." You scoffed and almost folded your arms in front of your chest before deciding it wouldn't be the best or most adult move. "Ramattra, you don't need to protect me, I can --"

"But I want to." He answered without missing a beat.

And the argument ended there.

After a slow exhale you reached out and caressed his faceplate, as he snuggled closer to your hand, a blush ran under your eyes. "All right." You answered softly. "Then we will talk about this later."

"Rest, I'll be here and we can discuss this later." He took your hand into his. "But right now you need to rest. If you wake up and keep insisting that Reaper is not just a ruthless killer, then I will help you catch him. Your cowboy friend has a history with him too, I can tell. He can come and help."

"Yeah, he really does. "A tiny sigh left your lips. "All right, thank you." You pulled him closer and left a soft kiss on his faceplate.

A gentle, yet pleasant hum escaped from the omnic. "Can I stay?"

"Please, I think it would help me to have some rest." As you closed your eyes, you felt him taking your hand into his. It didn't take much and you breathing became steady and slow.

The ommnic watched over your body, focused his sensors so he could only listen to your breathing, and heartbeat – right now, nothing else mattered to him. Carefully he held your hand while focused on your heart. He maybe never needed to sleep, but he found himself being able to much easier to meditate while being next to you.

[ya-zz]

Guilt

Ramattra x Reader (gen)

A/N: let's not talk about the length, I did warn you, nor do we talk about the time it took to get this done, which was 5 days... WARNINGS: Attempted suicide, self harm

WORD COUNT: 10,815

For a few years now, you and Ramattra had gone from strangers, to friends, to lovers. It was a slow, blossoming relationship, one that the both of you wouldn’t trade for anything. Regular date nights, little pick-me-ups and the occasional gift kept the relationship strong. The two of you had quite a few interests in common, and those only brought you closer. The two of you were practically inseparable.

Though… as the recent days passed, there was a tension building. 

At first, Ramattra shrugged it off as he believed it was just a mood change, but then the tension only rose higher. He couldn’t quite place his finger on it, one day you were fine and then the next you were distant. 

He noticed the ducking away, the hiding, his systems working in overtime to figure out what had caused the change. No matter how hard he searched, he couldn’t find the answer. Even when he asked you, the only answers he got were “I’m fine” (you weren’t) and “it’s nothing” (it’s something). 

Tonight, however, he heads to the store, picking up your favourite wine and a bouquet of flowers before heading back home. As he approaches the house, he notices the lights are off inside. 

Strange. 

You had said you were home all day.

Ramattra tilts his head in confusion, a slight sense of dread beginning to creep into the back of his mind as he approaches the gate. It’s not like you to have the lights off without saying something first. The omnic quickly checks his phone as he wonders if he missed a message or two from you whilst he was working, but his phone shows nothing. No missed calls, no unread messages. 

His keys jangle in his hand, the door unlocking with ease and a small creak. He’s met with silence and that only worsens his dread. Cautiously stepping into the living room, he listens intently. 

“[y/n]?” The omnic calls out but there is no response.

His receptors pick up on the running water upstairs, the dread easing slightly as he figures you’re just taking a shower… if only the sound of dripping matched that of the shower hitting the floor and not a puddle. 

Ramattra's eyes dart towards the source of the sound and he sets wine and flowers down on the nearest surface and begins to walk towards the stairs. As he ascends the steps, he calls out again, his voice slightly louder this time.

“[y/n], darling? Are you in there?” Ramattra's confusion and concern grow as he sees the water seeping out from the closed bathroom door. His mechanical heart starts racing, a sense of urgency taking over him.

He quickens his pace and knocks on the bathroom door.

"[y/n]? Is everything alright in there? Open the door, please." As he gets no response, Ramattra's anxiety intensifies. The water continues to trickle into the hallway. He tries the doorknob, but it's locked. He knocks again, this time more urgently.

"[y/n], please talk to me. Open the door!"

The omnic’s frustration peaks, desperation taking over him. His mind races with worst-case scenarios. He takes a step back and, with a forceful kick, he manages to push the door open in one swift motion. The heavy wood swings back only to reveal your body laying in the tub. Blood trickles down from your wrist and your arm and into the water below. You look cold, weak, practically lifeless. 

Ramattra’s entire body locks in shock, his vision becoming blurred as he processes the scene before him. For a fraction of a second, the world seems to stop – then adrenaline kicks in like a flood.

"No – !"

He lunges forward, water splashing violently as he yanks you from the tub with one arm, his other hand already pulling the towel from nearby radiator to press firmly on your wrists. 

"Why?! Why would you do this?!" His voice is ragged with panic as his hands tremble while they press against your wounds to stem the bleeding. "Stay awake! Look at me! I am not losing you, do you hear me?!"

Internally, Ramattra’s systems scream conflicting protocols, between rage at himself for not seeing this coming, and sheer terror overriding his logic. 

Every second counts now.

Ramattra cradles you close, his large body trembling with a mix of fear and desperation. The coldness of your skin makes his systems scream in alarm. He cradles your face in his hand, trying to keep your eyes open with a gentle touch, even if he wants to slap you awake. 

Quickly turning the water off to stop the overflow of the bathtub, he grabs a larger towel and wraps it around your body before he carefully picks you up. He carries you out of the bathroom and downstairs, setting you on the couch. The omnic props a few pillows behind your head and then his fingers press against your neck. You have a pulse, but it’s faint. Slow and weak. 

Letting out a sigh of relief, Ramattra pulls the blanket from the back of the couch and drapes it over your already trembling body.

"Stay with me…"

He pulls his phone out of his pocket, dialing emergency services with urgent, precise motions. His voice is strained but controlled, optics locked onto your weakening form on the couch. 

"Medical emergency – immediate dispatch required. Self-inflicted lacerations, unconscious victim, pulse weak." He rattles off the address without stumbling.

As he waits for help, his free hand presses gently to your cheek, trying to coax even a flicker of a response from you.

"Listen to me," he practically growls in desperation, "You do not get to leave like this. You fight."

The plea is raw; a demand and a prayer in one. His optics flit between your unresponsive body and the clock on the wall, each second feeling like an eternity. 

How long will it take for help to come? 

He's never felt more helpless.

He checks your pulse again, finding it distressingly faint. Time seems to stretch before him, every second an eternity as he waits for the medics. His free hand reaches for your hair, gently pushing it back from your face as if trying to coax you back to consciousness.

"Stay with me, please," he whispers, the static in his voice growing, as if he’s trying to hold back tears.

Time blurs together, every minute feeling like an hour. The distant sound of sirens begins to fill the silence, but to Ramattra, it seems like an eternity in agony. He holds you close, his hand gently cradling your face, his optics never leaving your face as he prays to a God he doesn't believe in for your safe recovery.

The medics arrive, their movements a flurry of activity as they take over. Ramattra reluctantly moves back to give them space, still hovering close by just in case you wake up and call out for him.

Ramattra watches as the medics work, his systems hyper-aware and his every sense focused on you. Every movement, every change in sound, he picks up, his processor running on hyperdrive. In the midst of it all, he finds himself praying in his own way, a series of silent entreaties and promises to any deity that may be listening, that you pull through.

His heart, synthetic or not, thunders in his chest as he forces himself to stay still, to not interfere with the process. 

He's never felt so utterly powerless in his life.

Ramattra follows the medics as they pick you up and transport you into the back of the ambulance, clutching your hand like it's the only tether keeping him grounded.

"Do not let go," he orders hoarsely, "You hear me? Hold on to me. Just hold on."

His thumb traces circles over your knuckles, the same way you always did for him when he was stressed. Now, he’s pleading for any sign that you're still fighting. 

The journey to the hospital feels like it stretches for eternity. Every bump in the road, every movement jolts Ramattra's heart painfully. He squeezes your hand tighter, each breath a conscious effort to keep it together. He can't afford to break, you need him now more than ever.

His optics flick to your face, his gaze tracing over every feature like he's trying to memorize them. His voice is low, a desperate plea only meant for your ears.

"Please, love. Fight it." 

His optics dart between the medics’ tense expressions and your colourless face, his voice sharp with barely restrained panic.

"Do something." He snaps at no one in particular, "They are cold."

The lead EMT shoots him a warning glance before adjusting your IV drip, but Ramattra doesn’t care if he sounds irrational. He needs you to make it through this despite the pain that’ll come from the conversation when you wake up. 

If you wake up…

They arrive at the hospital, and Ramattra is forced to release your hand in the rush to get you into the ER. He stands back, watching helplessly as they quickly wheel you away, every instinct screaming at him to stay by your side. A nurse moves to guide him to the waiting room, but he shrugs her off.

He remains rooted in the hallway, his eyes following you until you disappear through those double doors. The absence of your hand in his feels like a physical blow, the silence pressing heavily on his audio receptors. 

The waiting room feels like a mockery of comfort – tacky wallpaper, plastic chairs, the faint scent of antiseptic in the air. Ramattra doesn't sit; the tension in his frame is noticeable as he prowls back and forth, the sound of his heavy footsteps echoing off the linoleum floors. Every minute feels like an hour, each tick of the wall clock deafeningly loud in the sterile stillness.

His eyes keep drifting back towards the double doors, as if he expects you to waltz through them, perfectly unharmed.

Hours pass, and the waiting game continues. Nurses cast him curious glances, likely wondering what the omnic is doing pacing a hole in the floor. Some whisper amongst themselves, speculating, but he doesn't care. His focus is solely on those doors, his mind racing with thoughts of what could be happening on the other side.

His hands clench and unclench at his sides, his processor running through every worst-case scenario imaginable. His optics flick continuously towards the clock, the minute hand feeling like a cruel taunt. 

Too much time passes before the doors open and a nurse walks out. There’s blood staining their shirt, a concerned look in their eyes as they approach Ramattra cautiously. Without hesitating, they speak to him, hoping to quell his panic.

“Your partner is in the ICU. They’re stable, though, their condition is critical. We’re keeping an eye on them.”

Ramattra stills abruptly, the words hitting him like a truck. His optics narrow, his gaze locking onto the nurse. The relief that you're alive is overshadowed by the weight of 'critical condition.'

He takes a deep breath to steady himself.

"When can I see them?" His voice is hard, leaving no room for argument.

The nurse, upon seeing the tension in Ramattra’s shoulders, gestures for him to follow, and he does so with no hesitation.

Every wire in his body is coiled tightly, seeing you there, pale and fragile, tubes and wires connected to you, stirs a flurry of emotions within him as he enters the room you were put in. 

He walks slowly to the bed, each step careful and measured. His optics scan over every injury, every machine. The sight triggers a mixture of anger, guilt, and helplessness inside of him. He reaches out, hesitantly at first, and takes your hand in his. It's almost as if he's afraid he'll break you if he holds on too tight.

Ramattra stands there for a long moment, staring at your still form. His grip tightens ever so slightly around your fingers, the weight of the world crushing down on his shoulders.

"Why?" He whispers finally, voice barely audible, a broken plea more than a question. The machines beep steadily in response, mocking his desperation.

His free hand lifts to brush along your cheek, cold against his touch. He leans down slowly until his forehead rests against yours, "You swore you would stay."

Ramattra exhales sharply through his vents, the sound uneven, almost like a human’s choked breath. His optics flicker as he pulls back slightly to study your face again, searching for any sign of consciousness.

"You selfish little thing," he murmurs, voice thick with grief, "You do not get to break that promise."

His thumb strokes over your pulse point. You’re alive. He holds onto that like an anchor.

The nurse quietly clears her throat from the doorway before speaking in a soft tone: “Visiting hours end soon… but we can make an exception given the circumstances.”

Ramattra doesn’t even glance at the nurse. His grip on your hand tightens, not enough to hurt, but enough to silently defy any suggestion of leaving. His voice is stern when he finally speaks.

"I am not moving."

The nurse hesitates, then nods once before retreating, shutting the door gently behind her.

Alone with you again, Ramattra bows his head, his free hand coming up to cradle your face like something irreplaceable, because you are. "You wake up," he orders lowly, "And you explain this to me. No excuses. No running."

He sits there in silence for untold minutes or hours, just feeling your pulse under his fingertips and listening to the steady beep of the machines, the only proof that you're still here. His thoughts are a frenzied whirlwind, bouncing between blame, fear, and aching confusion.

Ramattra doesn't move from your side, nor does he let go of your hand.

He can't help but notice the irony in this – he's a war machine, built to protect and serve, yet here he is, completely helpless to save the one he loves the most.

Ramattra's optics never leave you once, tracking every change in your condition with single-minded focus. The tension in him eases slightly over time, the steady beat of your heart and your improved vitals are like a balm to his frayed senses.

His hand still grips yours firmly, his thumb idly tracing circles into your skin like he's willing some of his own warmth into you. The nurses cast him curious looks, sensing his protectiveness, but they say nothing.

By the time dawn breaks, Ramattra is exhausted in a way he's never felt before. But he forces himself to stay alert, refusing to rest even though his body screams at him.

His optics burn from the strain, but he won't look away. He keeps a steady vigil at your side, listening for every change in the machines' steady hum. Each rise and fall of your chest is a gift, every slight twitch of your finger an undeserved miracle.

When your brow furrows and head turns to the side, a small groan slips through your dry lips. Ramattra's head snaps up the moment you groan, every circuit in his system suddenly hyper-alert. His grip on your hand automatically tightens, and his optics dart to your face as if trying to see through your closed lids.

"[y/n]?" he says softly, voice barely above a whisper. He hesitates momentarily, waiting for another sign that you're waking before leaning in closer.

Another mumbled groan follows a second later, your eyes slowly breaking open in a blur. Blinking slowly, you try to focus on the figure before you. 

“Rama…?” Your voice is strained, scratchy, like you’ve been screaming for hours on end.

Ramattra’s entire body jolts at the sound of your voice, raw and broken but still yours. His free hand flies up to cradle your face, his thumb tracing the ridge of your cheekbone as if confirming you're real. His thumb strokes just below your eye, gentle, reverent as he searches your face for any sign of pain or confusion

"Here," he rasps, his own voice rougher than he expects, "I am right here."

He hesitates for a second before leaning in until his forehead presses lightly against yours, vents hitching like he's afraid you'll vanish if he doesn't hold on tight enough.

His optics dim, soaking in the feeling of you waking up, of you alive.

"Don't you dare do that to me again, you hear me?" His voice is sharp, but there's an undeniable tremble underlying it. 

Ramattra doesn't pull away, his optics locked onto your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if his vision glitches. His hand trembles slightly against your cheek, the adrenaline of the last few hours crashing into him all at once.

"I almost lost you," he says, voice cracking under the weight of those words. "Do you understand that?"

The accusation isn't sharp; it's wounded. A plea disguised as anger. His forehead presses briefly against yours before he pulls back, needing to see your eyes when he demands:

"Why?"

“I- I’m sorry…”

Ramattra's optics narrow the moment he senses the slight change in your heart rate, and he pulls back fractionally to look at you closely. He catches the tremble in your frame, reads the guilt in your expression and his grip on your hand tightens.

His voice is a mix of anger and pleading when he responds. "You are sorry?" He shakes his head, the motion controlled yet rough. "That is all you have to say? Do you have any idea-"

His voice cuts off abruptly as his systems threaten to overheat from the surge of emotion. He forces himself to take a slow, measured breath - the way you’ve taught him - before continuing, quieter this time.

"No. No apologies," he murmurs, 

His free hand lifts again to brush your hair back from your face with a gentleness that contradicts the tension in his frame.

You almost flinch when his anger comes out, so much so, that you don’t respond straight away. You look up at him with exhausted eyes, tears beginning to prick the corners.

Looking down at your wrists, you notice the bandages, the faint stain of blood showing through the otherwise white fabric.

“Rama… I…”

Ramattra's eyes follow yours to the bandages on your wrists, the bloodstains barely visible. It takes colossal effort not to let the rage explode from him like lava. His hand shifts to cup your chin gently, tilting your face back towards him.

"Look at me," he whispers, the command in his voice unmistakeable. His thumb brushes across your cheek bone, but the motion is rough, belying his restraint.

His optics search your face like he's trying to memorize every feature – the slope of your nose, the light freckles dusting your cheeks, the dip in your lip where you always bite when you're nervous – as if he's afraid this is the last time he'll see you.

The beeping of the heart machine grows faster, following the rhythm of your increased pulse. Ramattra's grip tightens ever so slightly, his voice even and firm when he speaks again. "Tell me what you were thinking."

You swallow thickly as you look up at him, the guilt swirling in your eyes. You try to respond but no words come out, your bottom lip trembling.

“I… uhm…”

Ramattra exhales sharply, his patience wearing thin, but the way your lip trembles makes his anger waver. He inhales deeply, visibly wrestling with himself before speaking in a measured tone.

"[y/n]." He squeezes your hand gently, "You will tell me. Even if I have to wait hours for you to find the words."

His optics bore into your irises, unyielding but not unkind. "I deserve that much."

He shifts closer to the bed, still holding your gaze. The machines around you beep in time with your slightly faster heart rate. Ramattra takes a deep, silent breath. Patience, he reminds himself. You're fragile. You're hurting. He has to handle this carefully, even though every instinct in him screams to demand answers… to force confessions… He's never felt so helpless, and it's driving him insane.

His thumb strokes gently over the back of your hand, almost reassuring, to remind himself that you're here, and awake.

You glance away, your body trembling in guilt and fear. Sniffling, fighting back tears, you mumble a broken response.

“I’m sorry… I… I just…” Your voice is shaky, the guilt evident in your tone. You refuse to look back at your partner, almost ashamed of your actions.

Ramattra's expression hardens, but not at you. At himself, for failing to notice sooner. His grip on your hand tightens just a fraction before he forces himself to loosen it.

"Stop apologizing," he says, "Just tell me why."

The silence stretches between you both as Ramattra waits, his patience fraying with every passing second. But when you still don’t speak, he lets out a frustrated breath and leans closer, his voice quieter now.

"Did I do something?"

Your eyes snap back to Ramattra, wide and filled with an overwhelming amount of guilt. The words begin spilling out, shaky, but coherent.

“No! No… you didn’t do anything. You’ve done everything for me, you’ve been perfect. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Your hand moves to cover the top of the omnics, a gesture to show that you’re being sincere, that you wouldn’t ever deceive the one you love. 

“It’s not you, I promise. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

For a moment, Ramattra just stares at you, and the tension in his frame eases slightly at the sincerity in your words, the wired-knot in his stomach slowly unfurling.

His voice is strained when he eventually asks, as if he isn't sure he wants to know the answer, "Then why?"

Your eyes flit between the slits of his faceplate, trying to lock onto his optics. You can feel your chest tightening, your heart rate increasing and the machine giving your anxiety away. 

“I… I just cracked. I haven’t been okay for the longest time. Just a lot of negative feelings and thoughts…” You finally say.

Ramattra’s optics flicker as he processes your words, a deep silence settling over the room for a few moments. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, almost pained.

"And you did not tell me." It isn't a question. "Why?"

His grip on your hand tightens slightly, not out of anger, but something closer to desperation. He needs to understand why you shut him out when every promise between you has been about holding on to each other through the dark.

“I didn’t want to hurt you or make you worry about me… thought I could deal with it…” You shrug, avoiding eye contact.

Ramattra exhales heavily, his processors working in overdrive. Your answer hits him like a punch to the gut, because for all his strength, all his intellect, all the power he holds, he was utterly blind to your pain. He failed you. And you didn't even trust him enough to let him try to help you through it.

There's a raw edge to his voice when he responds: "So you went behind my back instead."

Your eyes narrow for a brief second before you look back up at your partner, trying to read the expressionless face. 

“What- No!”

Ramattra tenses at the unintended sharpness in your tone and he leans in closer, invading your space as he speaks lowly. 

"That is exactly what you did," he snaps, "You hid the fact that you were struggling. You did not trust me enough to tell me what was wrong."

His optics scan your figure, searching, longing, like you just confirmed his deepest fears.

Your breath hitches, the accusation igniting a flame of irritation.

“I do trust you!”

Ramattra lets out a bitter laugh at that, the sound harsh against your ears.

"If you trusted me, you would not have hidden this from me!" His voice is low and laced with pain as he gestures to your wrists, "You would have let me help instead of thinking I could not handle it!"

He leans back slightly, his optics never leaving yours. The anger in his posture causes him to remain tense, but beneath it all is pure devastation.

“I do trust you, Ramattra! I couldn’t tell you because I was scared!” You snap, with anger in your eyes as your hands fall back to your lap and fidgeting with the thin excuse of a blanket.

Ramattra recoils slightly when you pull your hands away, as if burned. He inhales sharply, his optics twitching at your words.

"Scared?" He repeats the word like it’s foreign to him. "Of what? Me?" The hurt in his voice is undeniable now, "After all this time… you thought I would not understand?"

His hands clench into fists on his lap, the metal creaking under the pressure of his grip. He doesn’t know whether to be furious or heartbroken, so he settles for both.

The tears finally fall down your cheeks, the anger, the pain, streaking your flushed skin.

“You know that I’ve never been scared of you,” you take a moment to catch your breath, stalling the oncoming breakdown. “I was scared that I’d push you away, that I was too broken for you to love anymore!”

Ramattra’s entire body stills at your outburst, every word striking him like a physical blow. His optics flicker as he processes what you just admitted, his rage draining in an instant. The silence stretches for a long moment before he finally moves, reaching out to cup your face with both hands.

"Foolish thing," he murmurs, voice thick with emotion, "Do you truly think so little of me?"

His thumbs wipe away your tears roughly, as if frustrated by their existence. "You are mine. Broken or whole."

Ramattra exhales shakily, his hands still cradling your face as he leans in until his forehead rests against yours, close enough that you can feel the faint hum of his systems working. His voice is low, trembling with raw sincerity.

"You do not get to decide what makes me leave. Not like this."

A pause. Then, quieter, like it's being ripped from him:

"How could you ever think that I could not love you through the bad times?"

Your hands reach up and grab the omnics wrists and he can feel you trembling underneath him. 

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”

Ramattra lets out a shuddering breath, the tension finally leaving his body as you apologize. The anger, frustration, fear, all of it vanishes, replaced by an overwhelming need to hold you close and remind you of what you mean to him. He leans back slightly to look at you again, taking in your tear-streaked face, the tremble in your frame, the guilt in your eyes.

"I forgive you, idiot."

His voice is low and firm, his thumbs caressing your cheeks gently, a stark contrast to his words. He moves to sit next to you on the bed, pulling you against his chest, his arms encircling you protectively. He rests the purple metal of his chin on top of your head, a low hum escaping him. 

“Do not ever shut me out like that again.”

“I won’t. Promise.” The sobs finally break through, your body shaking against your partner. He pulls you closer, not willing to let go just yet. 

Ramattra holds you until your sobs fade into soft sniffles, and your tremors subside. He tightens his grip on you just slightly, like he's afraid you'll slip through his fingers if he lets go. He feels the steady thrum of your heartbeat against his chest, a small reassurance that you're alive and here, in his arms where you belong.

For a few minutes, neither of you speaks. His fingers gently run along your back, tracing the outline of your spine, grounding you. He lets the silence stretch, his hands moving in slow circles over your back, each touch a silent vow. He exhales through his vents, the sound heavy but steady. When he finally speaks, it's low against your ear.

"Next time you feel like breaking," he murmurs, "You break me with you. That is how this works."

A pause. "Understand?" His voice isn’t asking, it’s telling.

Your fingers fiddle with the edges of the bandages around your wrists, pulling the loose threads. Part of you wants to apologise again, but you know that no amount of apologies will ever make up for your actions. 

“I understand.”

Ramattra notices the way you look down at your bandaged wrists, his systems whirring at the reminder of your misguided actions, but he doesn’t call you out on it. Instead, his hands shift from your back to your wrists, his thumbs brushing over the bandages in a gentle motion. He exhales sharply through his vents before lifting one of your hands to press a firm kiss against your knuckles.

“Good." His voice is low, but the tension in his frame has eased slightly. "Because I am not letting you out of my sight for a long while."

"No more silence," he murmurs, "No more hiding."

A beat. Then, quieter, as if admitting a weakness, "I need you to live."

That sentence alone echoes in your mind, your chest tightening and heartbeat rising, the machine beeping in time. 

“It’s almost like you can’t live without me…” You try to make light of the situation. 

Ramattra’s voice is dangerously calm. "Do not joke about this."

The omnic stares you down, almost as if challenging you to say another stupid quip. His optics flit over your face, searching for any sign of jest or insincerity. But all he finds is quiet vulnerability, and maybe, just maybe, a reflection of the same aching need that he feels. He lets out a low exhale and loosens his grip, his thumb resuming its gentle path along your cheek.

"You do not get to mock the one thing I cannot control," he mutters a half-growl, half-plea. "Not after this."

Ramattra continues holding your gaze for a beat before he relents, letting out a frustrated huff and pulling you fully into his arms. There's a possessiveness, a desperate need in his grip, like you're the only thing anchoring him to reality.

"You are an idiot."

The faintest hint of a smile appears on your face as you roll your eyes. 

“So you’ve already said.”

Despite everything, there's a hint of relief at seeing the ghost of a smile on your face. He tugs you closer against him, almost protectively.

"I will say it as many times as I have to," he mutters, "Just to make sure it sticks in that thick skull of yours."

Ramattra presses his cheek against your head, a silent admission of just how shaken he is by it all. The normally stoic omnic is uncharacteristically clingy now, refusing to let you go even an inch, his arms holding you close.

After a moment, he exhales deeply and pulls back to look at you again. His voice is quieter now, no longer edged with anger.

"Promise me something."

“What is it?” You nudge his chin away from your head as you look up at him. There’s a tense silence that follows afterwards, your eyes locking onto his optics behind his faceplate. 

The omnic doesn’t miss the way you nudge him away, usually he would protest, but today, he doesn’t mind. “Promise me that you will not do anything that stupid again.” He drags his knuckles across your cheek reverently. 

“I promise…” You nod and then lean against his chest again, listening to his inner workings. 

Ramattra notes the slight hesitation in your nod, the way your smile wavers, he can tell it's a half-truth. He lets it slide for now, filing the thought away for later. For now, he relishes in the feeling of you leaning against him, his hand coming up to thread gently through your hair.  

His voice is almost a whisper as his gaze roams your face, as if reassuring himself you're really here.

"You scared me, you know."

A small huff of a breath escapes you as you lean back against his chest. Your hand takes the omnic’s, tracing the lines on his palm. 

“I know. I’m sorry…”

Ramattra’s arm wraps around you, holding you against him. He watches your fingers tracing the lines on his palm, relief flooding through him at your gentle gesture. 

"You are a pain in the ass, you know that?" he mutters almost teasingly. "First you scare the life out of me, now you are being sweet. It is almost like you are trying to give me whiplash."

Your shoulders bounce from the laugh that escapes you before it fades into a comfortable silence. 

“Thank you…” You mumble, eyes locked on your hand in his. 

Ramattra freezes for just a second at your giggle, as if he can't quite believe he managed to pull it from you, but then his hand tightens around yours in silent acknowledgment.

"Do not thank me," he murmurs, voice warm, "Just… stay."

It’s not a request. It never was.

The room falls into a comfortable silence as Ramattra rubs his thumb gently along your knuckles, still lost in his thoughts. Every so often, he steals glances at you out of the corner of his optics, watching you, studying you, trying to commit every detail to memory. If he's being honest with himself, a small part of him is still in shock about what you did. He still can't really process it… but he tries.

“Did you plan it?” He finally asks the question fluttering around his systems. The question lingers between you both, heavy and unavoidable. He doesn't look at you as he waits for an answer, keeping his optics fixed on your intertwined hands instead.

He feels the change in breath, your heart rate picking up ever so slightly. 

“Both, I suppose… I’ve wanted to do it for a long time, and then last night… guess I felt like it was the perfect time…”

Ramattra’s fans speed up, almost too quick. A million thoughts are coursing through his mind and none of them pleasant. He tries to keep the edge out of his voice, but he's having a hard time hiding just how much your words cut him to the core.

"For how long?" he whispers. "How long have you been feeling like that?"

“Couple of months now…”

Ramattra stiffens at your words, optics flickering in quiet devastation. His grip tightens around your hand, almost to the point it hurts you.

"And you never once thought to tell me?" His voice is low, dangerous, but beneath the anger is pure hurt. "You would rather die than let me help you?"

Your fingers halt their movement, no longer tracing the lines, stilling on his palm. 

“Rama, please…”

"Do not give me that," he snaps. "'Please' what? Please understand why you kept it to yourself? Why you did not come to me when you were struggling?" He clenches his free hand into a fist, his internal systems overheating. "You think I would not have understood? That I would not have helped you?"

When you pull away, Ramattra feels his mechanical heart stop momentarily. His gaze darkens at your sudden withdrawal, and he reaches out to grip your chin, forcing you to look at him again. His fingers grip your jaw tightly, almost to the point of hurting, but he can't bring himself to care. He has to make you understand, he has to make you see.

"No," he growls, "You do not get to shut down now. Not this time. Look at me."

You wince from the grip on your jaw, eyes widening at his sudden gesture. Without thinking, without hesitation;

“Get out.” It falls from your lips and then you jerk your head away. 

Ramattra freezes at your words, the anger and hurt in his optics replaced for a brief second with stunned disbelief. He's been expecting you to protest… but this? It feels like a stab to the chest. His hand drops to his side, the tension in his frame almost unbearable.

He stares at you in silence for a moment, trying to comprehend what you just said, the words echoing in his processor like a cruel joke.

"What did you say?"

“Get out. Leave me alone.” 

Ramattra's systems stutter, like a hard crash in his neural pathways. His entire posture stiffens, optics flickering as he processes your request. He doesn't move for several long seconds, and when he finally speaks again, his voice is dangerously soft.

"No." A pause. "You do not get to do this to me, to us, and then shut me out now."

He’s aware of the rising heart monitor, the incessant beeping beginning to grate on his processors, but he still tries to fathom why you’re telling him to leave. He’s never been good at this, at comfort.

“Please, Ramattra. Get out.”

Ramattra's entire frame goes rigid at your cold response. His hands are curled into tight, trembling fists by his sides, a physical manifestation of how close he is to utterly breaking. For someone who is so well in control of his emotions… he looks almost vulnerable right now. His voice is low and strained, almost pleading. 

"Do not do this."

The tears threaten to fall as you speak up again, not relenting in your decision. 

Ramattra exhales sharply through his vents, the sound uneven, almost choked. The lights on his forehead flicker between red and blue rapidly, a visual representation of the internal war raging inside him.

He doesn’t want to leave you alone like this, not now, not ever. But he also knows that forcing himself on you when you're clearly overwhelmed will only make things worse. So with great reluctance, like each step is physically painful, he stands and begins walking toward the door.

"Fine." His voice is rough with emotion. "But I am not gone for good."

“I know.” You pause, inhaling shakily. “I just need time.” 

Ramattra takes one more step back before pausing directly in front of the door. He hesitates, optics flickering between you and the door, like he's fighting every instinct telling him to stay. The sound of your sniffle almost breaks the last of his resolve, and he sucks in a shaky breath through his vents. His fists clench at his sides, but his voice is more controlled now, almost emotionless.

“I will be right outside." With that, he turns on his heel and steps out of the room, the door closing soundlessly behind him. A beat of silence hangs in the air before the faint sound of him dropping to the chair below rustles in the hallway… so close by, but so painfully far away.

Ramattra leans his head against the wall, his systems going into an idle state. It takes every ounce of willpower in his frame not to get up, burst through the door, and hold you close. He needs to give you space, though, he knows that, no matter how much it kills him. For now, he has to respect your wishes. Even if every single part of him is screaming to do otherwise.

Ramattra doesn’t move from his spot the entire time, not even when the nurses speak to him. His optics remain fixed on the opposite wall, unfocused and lost in thought. His systems continue overheating with worry and frustration, but he refuses to leave his post by your door.

Night falls, and still, silence from you. He clenches his fists tighter in his lap until the metal creaks under pressure.

“You have been out here all day.” A nurses voice breaks through the silence. 

Ramattra barely reacts when the nurse approaches him. His optics flicker to her for only a second before returning to their vacant stare at the wall ahead. He doesn’t acknowledge the tea in her hand, nor does he answer her statement, his silence speaking volumes about his current state of mind.

After a moment, he finally speaks, voice glitching from disuse: "And will be here until they let me back in."

The nurse shrugs before taking a seat next to him, fingers tracing the rim of the lid on the cup that she holds in her hand. “Not many people can sit idly for hours on end. You must really love her.”

Ramattra lets out a sharp exhale, the faintest hint of surprise at her blunt assessment flashing across his face. He doesn't look at her, his voice gruff when he responds, the truth spilling out before he can stop it.

"More than words can say." He pauses, letting that statement hang in the air for a moment like a loaded confession. His fingers drum on his knee. "Which is why it is driving me mad that they are shutting me out like this."

The nurse shakes her head, her smile still small and warm. “They’re not shutting you out. They just need time to process, to heal. They’ll come back to you, when they’re ready.”

Ramattra lets out a dry, bitter laugh at that, his gaze still fixed on the wall in front of him.

"You make it sound so easy," he mutters, a hint of bitter frustration in his tone. "Being patient is not my forté." He pauses, processors humming quietly. "It is killing me to just… sit and wait," he mutters lowly, "I feel so… helpless."

The nurse chuckles softly, taking a slow sip of her tea before responding. "Helplessness is part of loving someone," she says simply, "You can't control their pain, you just have to be there when they're ready to let you in again."

She stands, stretching slightly before looking down at Ramattra with an almost knowing expression. "And if they’re anything like the other patients I've seen… they’ll come back. Just give them time."

Ramattra finally looks at the nurse, his optics flickering in contemplation. There's a hint of hope in his gaze as he processes her words, her calm reassurance cutting through the tension and worry in his frame.

He hesitates for a moment before asking, almost tentatively, "You really think so?" He sounds uncharacteristically vulnerable.

She nods, looking towards the closed door and then back at you. There’s a soft, genuine look in her eyes.

“I do.”

Ramattra exhales, long and slow, letting the nurse’s words settle over him like a balm to his frayed nerves. He leans his head back against the wall, optics dimming slightly as he stares up at the ceiling in thought.

"Thank you," he murmurs eventually, voice quieter than usual. His fingers tap restlessly against his knee again before he adds, "I hope you are right."

Ramattra watches the nurse leave with a distracted nod, his mind still wrestling with impatience and worry. He leans his head back against the wall again, optics dimming slightly as he zones out, processing her words on loop.

Eventually, he lets out a heavy sigh and mutters under his breath, "I hate waiting."

Time passes. The hours tick by slowly, each minute feeling like an eternity as Ramattra waits outside your door. He spends the passing hours either sitting or pacing, his frame tense and restless.

His processors are running at a million miles a minute, analyzing every scenario, every outcome, every possibility of what would happen when you finally called out his name. But the longer time stretches on, the more he grows agitated. The more impatient. A low, almost inaudible sigh escapes him. 

Eventually, feeling restless, Ramattra stands and begins to wander down the hallway and towards the hospital plaza. Under the protection of the glass dome above, the plaza is bustling with late evening visitors and staff. Many are getting gifts for their loved ones in the other occupied rooms of the hospital, while others are taking a short break by the food vendors. 

A memory flashes in Ramattra's mind, an old memory of you, years ago, telling him how much you love hot chocolate on cold nights. He runs through the memory within his files, the softness of your cheeks in the cold weather, your body bundled up in a thick sweater.

Ramattra's optics lock onto the hot chocolate stand, his processors whirring as the memory replays in his mind. He hesitates for only a second before marching over with purposeful strides, his usual controlled demeanor slipping just slightly.

"One hot chocolate," he says to the vendor, "Extra whipped cream." He pauses, then adds under his breath, "...And marshmallows."

Once handed the cup, carefully secured in his hand as if it were a fragile relic, he turns on his heel and stalks back towards your room.

Ramattra approaches the door to your room again, clutching the hot chocolate carefully in his hand. His optics flick between the cup and the door as if contemplating what he's about to do, the steam from the hot chocolate wafting up into his face and turning the shiny white faceplate to a matte shine.

He pauses, staring at the door for a moment longer before exhaling heavily and knocking softly against the hard surface with his free hand, the metal of his knuckles clicking against the wood. He waits for a moment for you to respond, a hint of hope flickering in his gaze.

Theres no response for a moment, the silence dragging long and heavy before your voice calls out from the other side of the room.

“Come in…”

Ramattra almost physically sags in relief at the sound of your voice, the tension in his frame immediately easing. He slowly opens the door, his optics falling on your seated form on the bed. For a few moments, he just stands there, hot chocolate in hand, and takes in the sight of you. His shoulders visibly relax, and a small sigh escapes him.

"I… uh… brought you something." He holds up the hot chocolate, his voice oddly soft and awkward sounding.

You watch as Ramattra awkwardly makes his way over to you, handing the cup over to you. Your fingers brush against his before the cup is in your grasp. His fingers linger for just a moment too long, as if he’s reassuring himself that you’re really here, really talking to him.

"Careful," he murmurs, "It is still hot."

There’s something uncharacteristically gentle in his voice now, like he's afraid any sudden movement will scare you away again. Ramattra watches you with an intensity that could rival the sun, utterly transfixed by the simple act of you taking a sip. His hands clench and unclench at his sides, like he’s resisting the urge to reach out and pull you into his arms right then and there.

"I remembered," he admits quietly, "How much you liked it."

A beat passes before he blurts out with sincerity.

"Missed this. Missed you."

“I missed you, too. I just… I needed time to process everything.”

Ramattra's shoulders visibly relax as you confirm that you miss him too. He slowly moves over to take a seat on the edge of the hospital bed, keeping a short but respectful distance between you both. His optics flicker over your form, taking in the subtle tension in your body.

"And have you… processed?" He asks hesitantly, as if scared of the answer. He knows he needs to tread carefully here if he wants to get through to you.

“Not entirely, I won’t lie. But most of it, yeah.”

Ramattra lets out a small breath at your honesty, his gaze softening. He studies the way you hold the hot chocolate gingerly in your lap, as if it were a lifeline, a fragile connection to normalcy in this sterile room. He studies your face, searching for any sign of hesitation when he looks at you. When he finds none, he exhales slowly, the tension in his frame lessening just a fraction.

"When you are ready," he murmurs, "Will you let me help carry the weight next time? Instead of hiding it from me?"

His voice is quiet, almost pleading. He's never been good at asking for things, only demanding. 

But this? 

This is different.

He watches as you put the half drunken cup on the side before reaching out your hand towards him, hoping that he will meet you halfway. 

And he does. 

The moment your hand brushes against his, he wraps his fingers around yours like a lifeline. His grasp is tight, almost painfully so, but he doesn't seem to notice or care. He looks relieved at your promise.

He exhales slowly, finally letting himself relax just a fraction more.

"I am holding you to that, you know that right?"

A small smirk crosses your features as you roll your eyes at his comment. There is that sass he loves.

“You hold me to a lot of things, this isn’t any different.”

Ramattra huffs, half exasperated, half amused, before tugging you forward with one strong pull. Before you can even process what's happening, his arms are wrapped tightly around you, your face pressed against his chest as he murmurs against your head.

"Good."

His embrace is almost possessive in its tightness, like he’s trying to remind himself that yes, you're still here. 

You're alive. 

"Because I plan on holding onto you for a long time."

Ramattra lets out a shuddering exhale when you nuzzle into him, his embrace tightening just slightly, as if he's afraid that if he lets go, you might vanish. His hand moves to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair as he leans down to press his forehead against yours.

"Idiot." His voice is rough with emotion, a whisper. "You are lucky I love you so much."

Your heartbeat rises, the monitor giving you away. When your forehead is pressed against your partners, you close your eyes, relishing in the soft moment. 

“I love you too, Rama…”

Ramattra's vents stutter at the beeping of your heart monitor, but instead of pulling away in concern, he holds you closer. His hand shifts to cradle the back of your neck, thumb brushing gently against your skin as if to silently reassure you that everything’s alright.

After a long moment, he lets out a quiet huff and mutters, half-teasing, half-achingly sincere.

"You had better."

He pulls back just enough to look at your face, his optics roving over the slight flush on your cheeks and the tired bags under your eyes. His expression softens, his gaze turning almost tender.

"You look tired." He murmurs, his voice low. "When will they let you out of here?"

“Whenever they no longer deem me a risk to myself.” You glance at the bandages covering your wrists, regretting your decision already.

His optics flick down to the bandages before returning to your face, studying the exhaustion in your eyes.

"Then we wait," he mutters , though there's a softness to his voice now. "I will be here until they kick me out."

“I doubt they could kick you out even if they tried.” You smile, looking back up at the omnic.

"Probably not," he concedes, a glint of mischief tints his voice. "I am pretty imposing."

Your hands come up and gently caress the purple metal of his jaw. “Pretty is an understatement.” 

Ramattra's optics flutter involuntarily at the touch, his hand immediately lifting to cover yours. He tilts his head into your hands, almost like a cat, as a small huff escapes his vents. 

"Careful," he rasps, "You will feed my ego."

“Like it wasn’t high enough already.”

Ramattra huffs out a quiet laugh, the sound low and rough. His thumb rubs gentle circles against the back of your hand as he looks back at you.

"You love it," he teases, his voice dropping into a huskier tone. "Admit it."

You lean up, pressing a soft kiss against his cheek before speaking.

“I do love it. Just like I love you.”

Ramattra's processors stutter for a brief second at the feeling of your lips against his cheek. He looks slightly off-balance by the gesture, like he's suddenly thrown off his game, but he recovers fairly quickly. 

When he responds, his voice sounds oddly breathless, like his vents have suddenly stopped working. "Hmph, and I love you, you idiot. More than anything."

“I’d hope so if you saved me.”

Ramattra tenses for a brief moment, the mention of the other night sends a physical jolt through his systems. His grip on you tightens almost reflexively before he forces himself to loosen it, exhaling sharply through his vents.

"I always will," he mutters fiercely, his voice thick with emotion. It’s not just a promise; it’s an oath. "No matter what."

He studies your face for a moment, his gaze lingering on the bags under your eyes and the bandages around your wrists. A mix of worry and protectiveness courses through his wires.

"You should get some sleep," he whispers finally, his voice laced with tenderness. "You look exhausted."

“I feel it.” You mumble out, laying back on the bed with a small, content sigh. 

Ramattra pulls the thin sheet of a blanket over your body, his hand caressing the side of your face as he looks down at you. 

"Rest," he murmurs, "I will be here when you wake up."

Ramattra remains seated on the edge of the bed, watching you closely as your breaths even out and you fall asleep. His optics are fixed on your face, taking in every little detail of your sleeping form. His hand reaches out almost instinctively, hesitating for a fraction of a second before carefully brushing away a loose strand of hair from your forehead. He lingers there for a moment, his fingers tracing against your skin before he pulls his hand back.

He sits there for a long time, just watching you sleep, protectively vigilant as night falls outside…

The hospital room is quiet, save for the steady beeping of the monitors and your slow, even breaths. Ramattra doesn’t move from his spot at your side, not even when nurses come in to check on you. His optics never leave your face, scanning every subtle shift in expression as you sleep.

At some point, he finally leans back in the chair beside your bed, still rigid with tension but forcing himself into an idle state to conserve energy. His hand remains resting over yours on the sheets though, anchoring himself to you as if terrified that letting go might mean losing you all over again.

As the days go by, you’re finally discharged from the hospital, much to Ramattra’s relief. With various papers and medical supplies shoved in the bag that the omnic had brought for you, once filled with a change of clothes so that you’re not walking outside in the hospital gown, the two of you head out of the building. 

Ramattra walks by your side as you leave the hospital, his gaze never leaving you for even a second. You can feel the intense protectiveness in the way he looks at you, like you’re a fragile treasure that he’s afraid might break if he takes his eyes off of you.

His hand is resting lightly on your lower back as if to guide you, but it’s clear that it’s also because he just needs to feel the contact.

As you step outside into the fresh air, Ramattra pauses for a moment, his optics scanning your face for any sign of discomfort. The sunlight catches on his metallic frame, making him look somewhat softer in this light.

"Are you okay?" He mutters, head tilted towards you and voice low, laced with quiet concern as he adjusts his grip on your bag slung over his shoulder.

“I’m fine. Feels nice to be outside.” You admit, looking up at the cloudless sky. 

Ramattra hums in response, gently pushing you forwards as the two of you start walking down the sidewalk. The omnic keeps pace beside you, his gaze flicking from you to the people around you with almost territorial scrutiny. He's always been protective of you, but this is different, like you're suddenly surrounded by potential threats. His hand is still resting on your lower back, a protective presence as he walks beside you.

The silence hangs between you for a while, before he finally speaks up, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. 

"How are you doing? Really?"

“I… well, I don’t know. I’m feeling better than I was before all of this happened, so that’s good. Guess I’m still slowly processing it all.” 

Ramattra listens quietly as you respond, his expression unreadable. Your answer is honest, and it takes him slightly off guard, he'd been half-expecting you to try and brush off his question with a nonchalant comment. But you actually took the question seriously.

His grip on your bag tightens ever so slightly, an unconscious reaction. He’s silent for a beat before responding.

"That is a start," he mutters. It's a simple sentence, but you can hear the weight in his voice. He doesn't say anything else after that, which is a lot coming from him. It’s clear that he wants to press the issue, but he's also trying hard not to overstep. As much as you know he would love to just lock you away somewhere safe, he's doing his best to respect your boundaries. But his eyes flicker to your bandaged wrists, the memory of that night still fresh in his mind. 

Once outside of the hospital grounds, Ramattra hails a taxi, the car coming to a stop before you both. Being the gentleman that he is, Ramattra opens the door for you, allowing you to get inside first before getting in himself and sitting next to you. His hand immediately rests on your thigh, his thumb rubbing reassuring circles. 

After the destination has been said, the car joins the ongoing traffic. 

Ramattra is still on edge, his optics flickering between you and the window every few seconds as if he's keeping watch of you and everything around you. He notices your furrowed brow, the way your teeth that sink into your bottom lip. Normally, he would be content to maintain the silence, but right now, he needs to hear your voice, to know that you’re really okay.

"Talk to me," he murmurs, not wanting the driver to overhear the conversation.

“It's not going to be the same, is it? I mean, after what I've done…” You quietly admit, though, it was heavily hesitant. 

Ramattra's optics flicker at your words, his grip on your knee tightening.

He doesn’t answer immediately, instead shifting his hand to lace his fingers with yours, as if silently reminding you that he's right here. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet.

"No," he admits bluntly, "It will not."

A pause. His fingers squeeze yours gently. "But it does not have to be worse."

He looks away from you, staring out the window for a moment, the cityscape passing by in a blur. But, his hand doesn't let go of yours, and his thumb keeps rubbing slow, subconscious circles on your skin. When he speaks again, his voice is low and rough like he’s still trying to keep his emotions in check.

"I wish I could promise that everything will be like before," he mutters, "But that would be bullshit. So," he glances back at you. "What matters is us."

“Thank you, Rama.” You smile softly, squeezing his hand to reassure yourself. 

“Promise that you will not shut me out again." His voice is is firm. "I know your instincts are to close off and hide when things get difficult. But you cannot keep doing that, not with this."

He’s right… You can’t keep hurting him, hurting yourself, like this.

“I promise.” 

Ramattra lets out a sigh of his own, the last of the tension draining from his frame as he hears the quiet promise in your voice. He lifts your hand, pressing a soft kiss to the back of it. It's such a gentle gesture, completely different from the powerful, intimidating omnic he typically portrays to the world.

“Good. Because if you ever do that again, I swear to the Iris-"

You can’t help the awkward giggle that escapes you, and Ramattra's tension visibly leaves his frame at your soft laugh, he almost looks relieved to see that small piece of normalcy return. 

You lean up and press a kiss to his cheek and he immediately shuts up, his fans whirring a little louder, almost as if he’s embarrassed at such a gesture. 

“Let’s just go home.” You sigh, the smile never wavering. 

Despite everything, you can still make him flustered with something as simple as a kiss. His free hand twitches on his lap at the gesture before he shakes his head and grumbles.

"Hmph. Fine. Home." His hand squeezes your hand again. "But I am not letting go."

The taxi continues down the road, the silence now more comfortable and less strained. Occasionally, your gaze flickers to your joined hands, the way Ramattra's metal fingers dwarf yours as he grips your hand with surprising gentleness. He seems to need the reassurance just as much as you do, his thumb continuing to run slow, soothing circles into your skin.

It's an oddly domestic moment, sitting with you in the back seat as the city passes by outside, holding your hand the entire way. You notice him leaning into his usual habit of watching the people outside the window, the way he used to survey the streets before war.

Maybe things can go back to normal after this, you think to yourself. 

As the taxi pulls up to your home, Ramattra steps out first, scanning the area with an almost paranoid intensity before offering you his hand. His grip is firm and grounding as he helps you out, his other arm hovering protectively behind your back just in case.

The walk to the front door is quiet and Ramattra occasionally glances at you, ensuring that each step isn’t too taxing. Once inside, he immediately starts fussing, adjusting pillows on the couch, grabbing a blanket from nearby like some kind of overbearing butler.

"Sit," he orders, "Before I pick you up and put you there myself." It's not entirely an empty threat.

Once you're settled comfortably on the couch, Ramattra adjusts the blanket tightly around you, making sure you're sufficiently comfortable before sitting on the coffee table in front you. He looks almost awkward for a moment, like he wants to say something but isn't sure how to word it. 

Finally, he speaks.

"Can I check your wrists?"

You nod with a slight smile, pulling the sleeves of your sweater up and holding out your wrists to your partner. 

Ramattra's eyes flicker to the bandages as you reveal your wrists, his hands hesitantly reaching out to gently grip your arm with that same almost reverential care. His touch is surprisingly gentle for someone with his strength, as if he's afraid of hurting you further. He slowly unwraps the bandages as you sit still, letting out a slow exhale as the wounds are fully exposed.

“They are healing well.” He simply states, though, it's clearly more of an attempt to reassure himself than a comment to you. There's a conflicted feeling swirling in his systems, half-relief, half-anger. He hates seeing you hurt, but at the same time, he's still angry at you for scaring him this way.

"Do not ever do that again," before pausing, adding under the static: "I do not think my systems can handle it."

He carefully redresses the wounds with clean bandages that he had grabbed from the bag, provided by the nurses before you had left the hospital. 

“...Please.” 

The word, soft spoken, unusual from the omnic, catches you off guard. You can tell just how much the last few days have weighed on him and that only causes the guilt to rise within you. 

There’s a silence that passes as you watch him, waiting for him to finish wrapping your wrists, and when he finally knots the wrap, you move your hands and cup the purple metal of his jaw. You can feel the slight vibration from his inner workings as you pull him up, pressing a kiss where white meets purple. 

The omnic practically melts into your touch, his own hands coming up and cupping your face in return. 

“I cannot lose you. Not now, not ever.” He hums, optics locked onto your eyes when he pulls away. He leans down and presses his forehead against yours, thumbs rubbing against your cheeks.

He mutters over the static in his voice after a short pause. “Please… Do not leave me…”

“I won’t.” You mumble, the lump growing in your throat as you hold back the oncoming tears. 

“I love you, [y/n]. You still have time. Plenty of it. Do not let those stupid thoughts take control. You are stronger than you think.”

---

KOFI

[gargoy-ross]

Touches and Feelings - Ramattra x reader

Short fic about how he feels about touch. In case the title is misleading, it's sfw.

Ramattra did not like being touched, especially not by humans. He had long ago lost count of the times he'd been hit, dismantled or defaced by them.

Though usually they had the mind to steer clear of the Ravager - even his own people avoided him.

Except you.

A foolish little human who treated him with such gentleness and care he didn't know existed before.

When you first met he didn't think much of you. You were simply another human, albeit a bit more bearable to be around than most.

He was surprised when he noticed that you weren't showing any signs of fear or distaste towards him. Out of curiosity he started interacting with you more, and that's when he found that he actually enjoyed your company.

He could spend hours just sitting and talking with you. You didn't judge him for what he was, so he tried to do the same for you.

It was nice to have someone to talk to.

You meditated with him, and in exchange he'd partake in your hobbies, even if he did find some of them rather human.

It was rare he could call someone a friend, but you certainly were one.

But at some point your relationship started to change. It happened slowly; you would sit closer to him and your touch would linger for a moment longer.

He started to feel this odd feeling whenever he was with you. It wasn't unpleasant, but he wasn't sure what to do with it.

Neither of you dared to give a name to what was happening in fear of breaking this delicate thing. Instead you let it develop on it's own, feeding and nurturing but never acknowledging it.

It was unlike anything he had felt before, and he became addicted to the way you touched him.

If he had a heart it would've skipped a beat whenever you asked to hold his hand. Some days you traced shapes to the pads of his hand, others you simply intervined your fingers with his.

Ramattra could barely feel the feather-light kisses you pressed to his faceplate - couldn't if it weren't for his heightened senses - but they still sent sparks through his circuits.

And sometimes, when he was working nights and days on his inventions, you'd sneak to his workshop. It was odd how you looked so tired then, like you hadn't slept properly without him next to you.

You'd reach your arms out to him and ask him to rest for a moment. Of course he'd remind you that he did not need to, not like a human would. He'd act annoyed, you're disturbing his work, yet he'd still end up taking a break anyway.

It was simply impossible to say no when your soft body leaned into him. His projects could wait a little longer if it meant he could enjoy your embrace in that moment.

It didn't matter how you touched him, as long as you did.

Ramattra wanted to reprociate all of it, and every step of the way his programming fought against him. Cold metal could never be as gentle and soft as your human hands, but he tried.

It took him long to get comfortable with touching you, always asking if you were okay with it or if you wanted him to stop. He was thankful for your patiance with him, and after months of reassurance he could pull you to his arms with ease.

But it still doesn't feel like enough. He wants to ask for more, to take you with him and latch onto the only hand kind enough to feed a starving stray.

This was already more that he deserved, but he can't help it, not when you're so willingly giving in.

No, Ramattra did not like being touched, yet he could never get enough of it.