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lavenderwhore444 · 3 years

Note

WAIT DO U WRITE FOR SUB SHIGARAKI??

YES YES I DO I LOVE HIM SM

I would die for him 😐

Every kink ever has started out with “only for Shiggy though, ” and then “only for him and Dabi, ” and lastly “god damn it why do I like this shit, ”

Like I would never eat ass....however if he (or dabi 😳) asked....how could I say no? (spoiler I wouldn't say no)

I fully support #pegshiggy2021

First of all I've had more than one person try to fight me on Shiggy’s mommy kink so it's time to put an end to the argument once and for all.....

but first

If you want to use interactive fics, it's easy and makes reading fics SO much better. First, you download the Google Chrome extension. You'll see it in the top right corner of your screen. Next, you enter your name in the first box. If you want to change something other than y/n, please click on the text that says “want to change something other than y/n?” here, you can change any word you want to a different word. When I talk about your quirk I will use y/q

InteractiveFics

Master List

here's the song guys :)

youtube

TOMURA SHIGARAKI HAS A MOMMY KINK OK WHEN HE NUTS HES WHINING FOR MOMMY TO CUM WITH HIM AND ILL DIE ON THIS HILL

But let's dive into this a little. In the manga, Tomura obviously has a good relationship with his mom, hugging her, allowing her to care for his skin condition, etc. when AFO came into his life (This is an AFO hate club. He's a mfing bitch and a groomer), he took place as Tomura’s father figure. You could argue that Kurogiri is a mother figure, but he's not really the caring “come here baby, it's ok to cry.” type.

Incel Shigaraki thinks his gf is obligated to take care of him, and normal Shig wants someone tender to take care of him, but he feels like he's not good enough and lashes out but feels really bad. Please love him. Incel shiggy just calls you mommy on the regular no shame, don't talk back to him. He expects you to cook and clean for him and doesn't want to lift a finger during sex.

Normal Tomura treasures you. You're precious (even if he doesn’t show it. or acts like he feels the opposite way abt you). You take care of him willingly, so when the first sleepy “thank you mommy” comes out, it just gets lewder from there. Shigaraki isn't an angel (morally. Other than that, he is an angel). He knows it's one of the weirder kinks, but he doesn't care. Not when you're into it too. THIS IS NOT AN INCEST KINK SHIGGY DOESNT THINK OF HIS ACTUAL MOM DURING SEX EEEWWWWW. It just feels right; it's more of a title like sir or ma’am but loving, caring, not the harsh dominance that's usually associated with those titles. And he loves being your baby mommy’s baby. He's so used to being big and scary. But he's sooooo happy that when he comes home, mommy will be there waiting with some snacks, willing to listen to him vent, cuddle, etc.,

And then he yells it while he's filling you to the brim 😌 now, you're mommy all the time, even in bed.

Ok, enough of that, let's have some smut.

“Shhh, honey, just lay down on the bed for me, ”

Body worshipping wasn't something Tomura was accustomed to. He was stiff and visibly nervous. You warmed up the lotion in your hand and began to rub his back. He had picked out the lotion himself, choosing it because “it reminded me of you, mommy.” God, he's fucking precious.

After the lotion was mostly rubbed in, you began to massage his tense shoulders, watching them relax.

“That's my good boy, ” you cooed, “my pretty boy, ”

His cheeks were bright pink, and he pressed his head into the pillow to hide it.

“Ah ah ah, ” you chided, “let me see your pretty face, ”

He shook his head as best he could while still hiding in the pillow.

You sighed, “let mommy see your face, honey. Show me how pretty my sweet boy is, ”

He looked up at you from where he was lying, a timid smile playing on his face. Despite constantly putting himself down, he did love when you complimented him. When mommy complimented him.

You pressed a kiss to his forehead, rubbing his back again. He was still lying on his stomach, naked except for the boxers he was wearing, but those would come off. If he was good for you.

He had a habit of lashing out, especially when he was vulnerable like this, and you worked to correct him. He knows that you'll only make him feel good if he's a good boy. Mommy’s good boy

You added more lotion, straddling his lower back and applying the lotion down the backs of his arms.

“You look so pretty, sweetie. Such a good boy, you're behaving so well today, Tomu. Tell mommy what's making you so happy, ” you praised.

“I'm happy because you agreed to try the...y’know...thing. I didn't think you'd want to, ” Shigaraki admitted, “but you do! And I'm a little nervous; I've never played this level before, ”

“We’ll go nice and slow. Don't worry, ” you said.

You let your hands trail down to his lower back, rubbing right above the band of his underwear.

“I'm gonna take these off, m’kay sweetie?” you said.

His voice was a little shaky, “ok mommy, ”

You got off and knelt down next to where his head was lying on the pillow.

“We don't have to do this, baby. You can always say no or change your mind, ” you said.

“N-no, I want to. It's just...” he trailed off.

“You can tell me, honey, ” you urged.

“I want to be closer to you. I want to be in your lap, ” he whispered.

“Why were you so nervous to tell me that, sweetie? Of course, you can be in my lap, ” you cooed, “sit up for me, Shiggy, ”

He obliged. You handed him the strap on.

“Get a feel for it and let me know if it's too big. I got a smaller one just in case, ” you said.

He nodded and stroked it experimentally. His cock twitched the more he rubbed the toy.

“Is someone excited, baby?” you whispered in his ear.

He nodded, looking up at you. He was just so pretty. When you google ‘pretty,’ your screen should be filled with him. You loved him. You loved him so much. You loved him when he was soft and quiet for you and when he was stressed and loud. You loved him unconditionally.

You took the toy from his hands and placed it aside.

“Can you lay on your back and spread your legs, honey?” you asked.

He nodded, doing so. You kneeled in front of him on the bed and pulled his boxers down with minimal wiggling. Then you began to place kisses up and down his thighs. You had made the room nice and cozy with candles and pillows. You wanted him to be as comfortable as possible.

You left little kisses up and down his shaft, causing him to whine quietly. You slowly got lower and lower before pressing a kiss to his hole. He tensed immediately. You rubbed his thighs again and gave an experimental lick, causing him to gasp softly. You kept licking, and he began to moan and squirm.

“That feels really good, mommy. Th-thank you, ” he said.

You smiled to yourself, beginning to try and press into him. He tensed again, so you swirled your tongue and rubbed his thighs, causing him to moan and relax. You could prep him pretty well with just your mouth but pretty well wasn't good enough.

You put a generous amount of lube on your fingers and rubbed around him for a minute before slowly beginning to press a finger into him. This took a while. A constant cycle of push in, he tenses, you stop and wiggle your finger, he relaxes, you push in, repeat.

You were still kneeling between his legs but closer to his face, pressing small kisses to his neck and cheeks occasionally.

“How's that feel, sweetie?” you asked.

“Feels funny, ” he said, moving his hips a little, “but good, ”

You kissed his cheek before starting to ease in another one. This really got Tomura going as he graduated from slow thrusts to you curling your fingers. He was panting and whimpering now, mouth slightly open and eyes closed.

You made scissoring motions to stretch him a little more before pulling out your fingers.

“N-no, ” he whined.

“Shh baby, ” you soothed, fastening the toy to your hips, “I'm gonna sit against the headboard, and you can come over here whenever you're ready, ”

He nodded and crawled across the bed to where you were sitting almost immediately. You had used nearly half a bottle of lube by now, but it didn't matter (you hadn't paid for it anyway). You wanted this to be nice and easy for him.

He straddled your lap and kissed you. You wrapped your arms around his neck and took control of the kiss, even though it wasn't hard to. He had made a lot of decisions tonight. You felt bad. You were supposed to take charge, let him relax.

Your nails raked over his scalp, pulling away and lining him up.

“Relax for me, baby. It's gonna feel so good, Shiggy. I promise just relax for mommy, ” you said, rubbing his back.

He sunk down slowly onto the toy. His face scrunched up. You kept rubbing his back until it was all the way in.

“You did such a good job, ” your praise, “so pretty when you're all filled up, ”

He was panting with his head in the crook of your neck. You sat there for maybe five minutes, rubbing his back and kissing his hair. You told him how brave he was for trying something new. How he was such a good boy.

He raised his hips experimentally before lowering himself down. He grunted a little and repeated the action. He started to get into a slow, shallow rhythm.

‘This isn't right. He's doing too much work,’ you thought.

You flipped him under you.

“Let mommy take care of you, baby boy, ” you whispered in his ear, “mommy's gonna fuck you real good, ”

He nodded. You kept the same slow, shallow rhythm but gradually sped up. Your thrust became deeper, and his back began to arch as his sweet noises got louder and louder. He raked his nails down your back.

“Mommy go harder, please!” he cried.

You snapped your hips faster. Tears of pleasure rolled down his face as he moaned for you. He got louder and louder as you sped up, pounding into him relentlessly.

“Look at you, sweetie. You're taking me so well, sweetie. My good boy, ” you said.

You left butterfly kisses all over his face. Tomura had the biggest smile as he buried his face in your neck. You changed your angle only slightly, but he began to jerk around and gasp. His moans became more desperate, closer to screams of pleasure.

“Mommy, ” he sobbed, “mommy right there. Please, please don't stop, mommy!”

“I won't stop, baby, don't worry, ” you cooed, “I'm gonna make you cum so hard, baby boy,”

You kept hitting that spot. That spot. The spot that was making him scream, making pre-cum dribble out of his cock and onto his stomach. The spot that was making his cock twitch and throb every time you hit it. He was blabbering nonsense, writhing and scratching your back to the point that it would probably bleed as he was gasping for air.

“Mommy 'm gonna, mommy I-im gonna, fuck, ” he whimpered, “i-im gonna, ”

He threw his head back, trying to meet your thrusts.

“I-im gonna, I'm gonna, ” he scrunched his eyes up, fresh tears rolling down his cheeks.

“I'm gonna, ” he mumbled.

Tomura gripped your hips, trying to make you thrust harder. His face scrunched up, and his mouth opened in a silent scream.

“cum!” he cried.

Hot cum shot out of his cock, coating his stomach as his body twitched. He was shaking while his eyes rolled back in his head. Drool dripped down the side of his mouth.

“Mommy, ” he whimpered as he came down.

You made quick work of pulling out of Tomura, causing him to groan.

“Aw, baby, look at the mess you made, ” you gestured to the cum coating his stomach.

You gathered some of it on your finger and brought it to his mouth. He sucked it clean eagerly. You coated two more of your fingers. They were pristine in a matter of seconds. He looked up at you for more.

You tutted quietly, “good boys share with mommy, Tomu, ”

You brought your face down to his stomach and dragged your tongue through the mess, showing him your cum-coated tongue before swallowing the creamy white liquid. After he was all cleaned up, you pulled him into your chest. You rubbed his back, soothing him.

“B-but mommy, I need to make you feel good too, ” he whispered.

“No, no, honey. Just relax, ” you said, pulling him closer, “you did so well for me today, ”

“Thank you, mommy, ” he whispered.

You tucked his head under your chin and tangled your legs together, pulling the blanket up.

“There we go, sweetie. Did you feel good?” you asked.

He nodded, “you made me feel good, mommy, ”

You hummed softly, kissing the top of his head. You rubbed his back until he fell asleep, admiring the way he slept so peacefully. Your heartbeat lulled him to sleep almost immediately. You loved the way he snuggled into your chest. You heard him whisper out a sleepy, “thank you, mommy, ” that made your heart melt.

#shigaraki fluff #shigaraki smut #tomura smut #tenko smut #mha shigaraki #shigaraki x reader #shigaraki tenko #tomura shiragaki #shigaraki tomura #tomura fluff #tomura x reader #mha tomura

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rose7420 · 3 years

Text

Art Games

Request from @laurenandloki

When Y/n is an admirer of Loki's and falls ill. It's up to him to save her.

Y/n was dying. She was used to it.

Living with an incurable disease and standing at two and a half inches tall meant that you were practically screwed in healthcare. Her life wasn’t miserable though as you might think. Her momma was her best friend and took care of her to the best of her ability. She was there on the good days where they could scavenge the walls and explore to their heart’s content. But she was also there for the bad days where her heart couldn’t pump enough blood leaving her weak and stranded in her bed.

Today was a good day for Y/n as she crept through the pathways of her walls to reach a hole. She climbed out of the wall and walked silently onto the desk. Sitting there was none other than Loki. His black hair hung down from his face, blue-green eyes scrunched in focus as he stared down at the game he played.

Y/n had found the activity odd as she had watched him time and time again. Now, she was intrigued. Each little piece connected to the others to form a masterpiece of art. Each time he finished one of these ‘art games’ he would hang them on his wall using magic. Her eyes had bugged out of her head the first time she’d watched him. Green enveloped the finished piece of art and kept itself together as it plastered itself to the wall. She always loved to see the accomplished look on Loki’s face, like he was proud of himself.

He tucked a strand of dark hair behind his ear as he fiddled with a piece of the art game between his fingertips. Y/n sat quietly down behind the cup of pencils, effectively blocking herself from Loki’s view. She squinted to see what piece Loki held and then tried to figure out where it went on his board. Her eyes roamed the already set pieces before finding the correct spot. She had to stop herself from standing and going to help Loki out.

Momma forbid her from ever revealing herself to him. She knew of her whereabouts when she ventured off these nights; only allowing her to go as long as she promised to keep hidden. And Y/n did just that. Loki rubbed his eyes wearily before she watched him rise to his great, intimidating height. Just the sight of him standing so tall reminded Y/n of why borrowers kept to themselves and never approached humans.

After stretching his long arms and legs he walked away and settled himself into his bed. A click turned the lights out and left Y/n in darkness. Y/n stood and made to climb back into her hole but a sudden urge stopped her. A burst of courage surged through her and she turned and sprinted to the piece Loki had given up on. She gathered the unique shape in her arms and walked to the spot she knew it went. Kneeling, she set the place to the right spot and relished the satisfying feeling as it slid into place. Her heart was bursting with accomplishment and happiness as she walked away.

However, when she got home and pulled back the curtain they used as a door her body began to feel weak. Her heart felt fast and slow all at the same time. Her lungs demanded more oxygen that she couldn't supply and blood that her heart couldn't deliver. She didn’t make it another step as she crumpled to her knees.

“Honey?” She faintly heard Momma call. Footsteps rushed towards her and her vision blurred as she tried to peer up at Momma's knelt figure and worried face. The last thing she felt was the shaking hand upon her clammy forehead.

Loki looked down at his puzzle in confusion. He swore that piece wasn’t there yesterday. He could only chuckle as he realized his little admirer had helped him out. He plucked another piece up and set to work. Minutes later his sensitive hearing picked up on hurried footsteps and rapid breathing. One set of footsteps and two sets of breathing. One fast and the other slow. His eyes slid to the hole he knew was in his wall and stared in confusion and awe as a positively tiny lady emerged breathless carrying an even smaller unmoving girl.

He squinted to see them better. He didn’t recognize the woman but the girl…

It was his little friend.

The mother; he presumed, took tired and cautious steps towards him. He straightened in his seat, unintentionally making his shadow swallow both little forms whole.

“Please… you must help me. She’s sick… and dying.” The woman sobbed.

Loki nodded and held out a hand. The mom approached and laid her daughter down on the row of fingers. Before the mother could step on he raised the tiny girl to his eyes.

Her complexion was pale with sickness, and he felt the clamminess of her skin upon his own. And her breathing… it was so shallow and infrequent that he prayed the little one wasn’t too far gone.

“W-wait! What are you doing to my baby girl?” The mother cried from below. Loki broke from his trance to offer her a comforting look, he lowered his face so that it was somewhat level to the mother. He could see the dark circles of her eyes, and the paleness of her own face.

“I assure you, miss, that I only want to help. Can you tell me what’s wrong with her?” She did, making sure that Loki knew she had a heart condition.

“She will die? Even if I can save her now?” He said with a shaky voice looking down at her in his palm. How small and fragile she looked there. `

Her mother nodded.

“She admires you, you know?” The mother says.

Loki looks up confused. “Why on earth would she admire someone like me?” He asks.

“She’s interested in those puzzles you do… see’s that you’re smart. Her dad left us when she was only a babe. I’m glad she has a male figure to look up to in her life.”

Loki couldn't accept that this little one had just barely started her life and soon it was about to end. He thought hard, back to the spells his mother had taught him as a child. She was an achieved healer and knew much about the properties of mending wounds and fixing illnesses. Perhaps he could do the same for the dying life in his palm. His mother’s magic had always been a buttery yellow, kind and generous to anyone who needed it.

Loki’s was cunning and sharp. Meant to inflict harm rather than stop it. He gathered all those lessons in healing he could remember and set to fixing her heart.

Y/n awoke slowly. Her eyes blinked open trying to clear the blurriness away. And when they did she screamed.

She found two blue-green eyes staring right down at her.

“Momma!” She cried frantically looking for her mother. She had been caught by Loki, a giant. The gigantic fingers around her curled in effectively trapping her. Her heart was rapid and she feared she’d pass out from the exertion. But before she started freaking out too much the giant had laid his hand down onto the table and flattened his palm.

Without thinking she scrambled off, tripping from the height. She fell into a pair of sturdy, soft arms.

“Momma!” She said relieved.

Momma wrapped her arms around her and kissed the top of her head, then her cheeks. She hugged her so tightly that Y/n couldn't breathe anymore.

A gust of air tossed her hair.

Y/n turned around to face the giant...Loki again. His chin rested on the desk, closer than ever before. She buried herself into Momma’s side.

“It’s okay...He’s a nice giant. He helped you feel better. He saved you.”

Y/n looked at the giant man again, questioning.

“You saved me?” She asked.

He nodded and offered a warm smile.

“Tell him thank you Y/n,” Momma said firmly and gently at the same time. A tone only mothers could master. Since Momma trusted Loki, it made Y/n a little less nervous.

“Thank you, mister.” She said shyly and walked to his face watching him go cross-eyed to see her better. She giggled and hugged his nose.

“It was my pleasure Little Miss,” Loki said softly.

Loki grinned from the sudden embrace. He kept his voice low, afraid of hurting these tiny people’s ears. After learning that Y/n admired him and didn’t have a father he had unwittingly adapted to being sort of a father figure to her. Perhaps he could show her there was good in this world. He watched as Y/n retreated and latched herself to her mother’s side again.

“You can come out you know,” Loki said with a grin on his face. He had spied Y/n lurking in her usual spot behind the pencil container. He had always kept it filled for her, making sure she felt comfortable enough even if she didn’t want to reveal herself.

He watched as she stepped out and looked up at him, a red tinge on her cheeks.

“I’m having trouble figuring out where this piece goes… I need your help.” He held out the tiny puzzle piece to her. She hesitantly approached his fingers and he nodded to encourage her. She took it in both arms, heaving it up. In a matter of seconds, she had ambled over to where the piece belonged and set to place it properly.

“It seems having a different perspective helps.” Loki admired it out loud. He imagined that up here, the puzzle was just well… a puzzle. But to her, it must’ve been an entire landscape, a world of its own. No wonder why she was so skilled.

“So you like puzzles?” Loki asked.

She looked up at him confused.

“Whats a puzzle?”

Loki quirked an eyebrow and leaned in closer.

“What we’re doing… what do you call it?”

“An art game.” She said crossing her small arms.

He laughed and threw his hands in the air, surrendering before they could get into an argument.

“So you like art-games?” He corrected.

She smiled and nodded.

“Good. Because I have plenty more. Perhaps you would like to help me?”

And he swore that in his many years, he had never seen the sun shine brighter than that giddy, joyful smile he received.

#giant loki #male giant #gentle giant #female tiny #loki x borrower #giant loki x tiny reader #shrunken reader #loki oneshot #loki x reader #mom borrower #sick reader

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ragingbookdragon · 3 years

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Please do an enemy’s to lovers with one of the green lanterns or batboys! I love your writing so much and it’s my favourite trope

Okay, so it's not exactly enemies to lovers, it's more of...enemies to frenemies??? But soon frenemies to lovers!

Enjoy! -Thorne

**********************************************************************

“You are not going to stop me,” she muttered as she walked past the struggling man, fingers dancing across the railings of the staircase. “This event has been foretold long before you were a thought, Green Lantern.”

“This isn’t the way!” he shouted, shimmying vigorously to get out of the bonds of magic she’d wrapped around his body. “Let me help you!”

“I do not need your help.” She spat, fire dancing in her eyes as she turned the corner of the staircase and shot him a glare before disappearing up the next flight of steps.

He grunted and clenched his fist, willing constructed poles to slither in between his body and the bonds; he concentrated, forcing the poles out until there was enough slack that he could slip out from underneath. Once free, he scrambled to his feet and sprinted around the corner, hopping up the steps she’d ascended moments before.

And when he got to the top floor, his stomach flipped at the sight of the blood smeared along the walls, the victim’s head smashed to fragments of skull and mushed brain matter next to its body that had been broken into horrid angles.

“Oh my God,” he gagged, turning to empty the contents of his stomach, and then he heard her voice, calm and collected, almost soothing.

“There, there, young one. He will not harm you anymore.” He wiped the back of his mouth and cocked his head up, gaping as he saw her pick up a young girl, no older than six, and cradle her to her chest, hiding her in the giant cape. “Let us leave here.”

She walked past him, and he tried to stop her, but she shot him a glower that had his spine going ram rod straight. “Leave us alone.”

“You killed him.” he muttered, the hand he’d raised suddenly lurching back to his side as if it had a mind of its own.

“I did.” She agreed. “I killed a man who was abusing his own child.” Stepping down the stairs, she added, “I will take the child somewhere she will be safe and protected. Somewhere she doesn’t have to fear for her life.”

She disappeared in a hail of smoke and sparks, leaving the Green Lantern to leave on unsteady legs and a deep pit in his stomach.

***

Surprisingly, it hadn’t taken a long time to find her; she’d taken a position on the top of a skyscraper, watching the young girl be embraced by an older woman, a firm look on her face. He didn’t get up beside her, not wanting her to run or fight him again, but he was close enough that she could sense him.

“What do you want.” It wasn’t a question, more of an annoyed greeting, and he looked down at the young girl, then to the woman.

“Who’d you leave her with?”

“Someone who helps children heal from the horrors their families inflict upon them.” Her eyes narrowed and she turned, walking in the air as if she were walking on a flat surface. “The child will blossom under her care.”

He followed her. “I always thought you…”

“What?” she scoffed. “Killed them because I killed their abusers? Do not be ridiculous. There is a good reasoning to my actions.”

“Killing people isn’t exactly good reasoning.” He gazed at her. “Why do you do what you do?”

“None of your business,” she griped. “Piss off.”

“You know I can arrest you for what you’re doing?” he crossed his arms over his chest. “As a Green Lantern, I—”

“Oh, go preach your sermon to someone who cares!” she growled. “I do not care what that stupid ring on your finger allows you to do.” Spinning on him, she thrust a stilettoed finger into his chest. “I have been alive for far too long to be antagonized by a man-child who cannot stand to pull his head out of his ass long enough to see reasoning of why slaughtering abusers is the right thing to do.”

“It’s not.”

“Why? Because there is possible redemption?” she huffed a mirthless laugh. “Abusers cannot be redeemed. They will taint and taint and taint. Over and over and over again.” Searching his eyes, she hissed, “And you cannot stop me from delivering the hell that I have been ordained to do.”

His expression eased and he reached up, gently curling a hand around the one poking his chest. “Let me help you, Nocturn.”

Her gaze hardened and she yanked her hand back. “You wish to help me?” She gathered a handful of dark magic and slung it out away from them, and to his shock, the world shifted before his eyes, the skyline fading to a muted scenery that looked like it’d been pulled from a historic drama.

“I was the wife of a landowner in the sixteen hundreds. My husband died from illness, and I inherited our land and wealth.” She watched the scene of her past play out. “Do you know what historical event occurred during the years of sixteen-ninety-two and sixteen-ninety-three?”

He swallowed thickly. “The Salem Witch Trials.”

A cruel smile came across her lips. “A witch hunt run by the town leaders to weed out witches. At least that’s what history teaches you. In reality, the leaders were killing women who were widowed and had land enough to threaten their control and power.”

She waved a hand, showing a picture of herself being dragged from her home by men with guns and swords. “My uncle claimed that because I didn’t die of the same sickness as Jacoby did, that I was obviously a witch who had made a deal with the Devil in order to survive.” She glanced at him. “My own family sold me out.”

Another scene appeared before them and she merely gazed at him as his eyes went wide, jaw dropping in shock. “For a whole year I was kept in a dingy cell. I was beaten. I was raped. Most nights I begged God to take me in my sleep. But I awoke each morning and suffered the same treatment. Again and again and again.”

He started to look away and her hand shot out, grasping his chin; she forced him to stare at her past. “Do not look away from what I suffered. You wanted to help me, and you will be witness to my pain.”

He swallowed thickly, jaw tightening as she waved her free hand and he stared as the men led her out along a dark foot path to a river, where they tied ropes around her, weighted them with stones, and shoved her into the water.

“I drowned in water that came to my ankles.” She said. “With water invading my lungs, I swore revenge on those who did this to me. Who put me in this position.” She waved again. “They buried me in a shallow grave and for six nights and six days, my body was recovered by dark magic and a voice commanded me to rise and bring hell upon the leaders of my town.”

He could feel his breathing labor when the sight of her, shoving her nailed fingers into a man’s eye sockets appeared before him. “I gave them quick deaths. Just as painful as my treatment, but quick nonetheless, and when they laid dead at my feet, the voice came back and told me that I was destined to bring justice to innocents like me.”

Inhaling deeply, she murmured, “I have walked this earth for centuries and a simple man who uses his heart like you will not sway me from my objective.” Letting him go, the scene faded, and he turned, looking at her. “The only way you will ever help me is to bring me those who commit the crimes I suffered of so I may slay them. Until your plan is that, there is no helping me.”

She turned and stalked off again, only stopping when she heard his voice. “I’m sorry, Nocturn.”

There wasn’t even a spared glance over her shoulder as she replied darkly, “Spare me your apologies. I have no use for them. I have had no use for them since I was a young woman begging for death in a cage.” And with that, she disappeared in a cloud of black smoke, leaving him with heavy sorrow in his chest.

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tessiete · 3 years

Note

"You’re burning up” for Obitine BUT ONLY IF YOU WANT TO! <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

FOR YOU? ANYTHING!!! But only if you like it. If you don’t like it, please immediately erase this from your memory so we can still be friends. Anyway, there’s meant to be some stuff in here about the fever of first love, and like passion and fire and stuff, but it’s also just them bitching at each other so....I TRIED.

I love you!

IT CANNOT HAPPEN TWICE

“You’re burning up.”

“Remove your hand from my face before I remove it from your person.”

“I only meant to say that we can rest,” he explains, watching as Master Jinn forges on ahead, clearing a path through thick brush. “If you need to.”

It is safer here, out in the wilds, than on the road, the stretch between Mircine and Kar’Marev known for kidnappings, hunters, and corpses, but Satine will not be bowed.

“We may if you need to,” she spits. “I am perfectly capable of continuing without breaking, though I would not begrudge any weakness of yours.”

He grits his teeth, and she holds his gaze, steady and fever bright, the heat of her presence grinding him into deference out of respect for her position, for his master, and for the basic tenets of the Code - a Code which he seems to remind himself of continuously these days. Certainly, he has become more familiar with the first precept than ever before. He is intimate friends with it, having meditated on it for hours with no great success. There is no emotion.

“Of course, your Grace,” he says. His bow is shallow and poorly done, the curve of his lips equally false, but she says nothing. “I was only trying to help.”

“Thank you, padawan,” she says, then turns and marches on.

He catches up with her at sundown, hours later, and her condition is not improved. She stumbles along behind Qui-Gon, head bent, eyes on every next step. Her breathing comes in ragged gasps, and Obi-Wan can’t help the worried glances he keeps throwing at Qui-Gon’s broad back. He frets at the strand of shared consciousness between them, like he frets at the hem of his sleeve, and when it’s finally gone dark, he approaches his master where she cannot hear them.

“She’s ill,” he says, with no attempt at a conciliatory preamble.

“I know,” says his master. “I had hoped we might reach Kar’Marev tonight, but it is later than I thought. And I dare not brave the open plains past dusk. Not like this.”

“Then we’ll rest for the night?”

“We will,” Qui-Gon says. “Though I fear it will not help us much.”

“Master?” He shuffles nearer, and Qui-Gon speaks even lower to be certain of their confidence.

“The duchess is ill,” he says. “And if her fever persists she shall not be able to continue tomorrow. If it breaks, she shall be too exhausted to proceed. Either way, our efforts will be in vain, and worse - foolish. We gain nothing by gaining ground on foot only to lose it in body.”

Obi-Wan glances behind him as the duchess stokes the embers of their fire, banked low so as not to draw attention. She coughs, and it sounds as though it catches on every ribs, rattling and severe.

“Is it so serious?” he asks. “We are at least a day’s walk from help in any direction. What if she gets worse?”

Qui-Gon huddles close, scratching at the edge of his beard. “There is a plant,” he says. “A weed, really, and so it should be in no short supply. If I can find it, we may make a tea of its leaves.”

“A local remedy,” says Obi-Wan, looking skeptical. “Will it cure her?”

“It might alleviate the worst of her symptoms.”

Obi-Wan sighs. “Show it to me, master,” he says, closing his eyes to search out the gossamer impression of light and colour in the Force. But his master frowns, and holds him at arm’s length.

“No, Obi-Wan,” he says. “I shall search. You must stay here, and care for Satine.”

“What? But master, surely it is better that I go!”

“I know what I’m looking for, where to find it, and how much we need.”

“There are hunters on the prowl -”

“- And the only company worse than yours, should one find her here. Stay, padawan, and watch over her.”

She coughs again, and he throws a doubtful glance over his shoulder before applying to Qui-Gon once more.

“Master -?”

“Be kind,” he says. “And patient. Trust in the Force, and I shall be back soon.”

But Qui-Gon is not back soon, and the night grows cold and dark around them. The creakers in the grass go to bed, and the home world Mandalore hangs heavy in the sky until the clouds come in and shroud it from view. Obi-Wan smothers the fire with sand, the red heat of it glowing bright in the absence of planetlight. He worries it might draw the eye of any unsavory observers, and trusts that Qui-Gon will be able to navigate without it. He can feel him, far afield, illuminating the shadows like starlight falling softly over leaves, and moving father still.

“Do you think Master Jinn will return before dawn?”

Satine sounds miserable, her voice crackling in place of tinder. She clears her throat, and clutches her thin cloak more closely about her.

“I hope so,” he replies. “Maybe sooner.”

“I had not thought reconnaissance something so eagerly done at night.”

They had decided between them it would be best to keep Qui-Gon’s purpose from the duchess. Qui-Gon had said that she was already struggling under the weight of so many expectations of infallibility that one breach might be enough to topple her. Obi-Wan had simply desired an evening free of insufferable debate. If Satine suspected either reason, she would be offended, so Obi-Wan shrugs, and unrolls his bedkit.

“Master Jinn felt it would be better if he used the cover of night to clear our path than simply hope we don’t stumble across some hive of villainy in the daylight.”

“And you agreed with him?” she says.

“I trust him,” he says, unflinching. “Master Jinn is very experienced in matters of this nature, and I trust him to lead us safely.”

“So long as the Force wills it,” she mutters. It is not his imagination that some bitterness sours the air, then, and he feels it twist against his spine, drawing him stiffly upright to counter her.

“Yes,” he says. “But you seem to be labouring under the presumption that trust in the Force is tantamount to resignation to our fate.”

“Isn’t it?” she demands. Her eyes are bright, and her cheeks flushed pink and raw.

“Isn’t pacifism?” he retorts. “Or would you contend that laying down arms in the face of violence and oppression a brave choice?”

A twig snaps in the distance, but Obi-Wan feels no danger stir in the Force. Foolish - for she scowls at him, baring her teeth like a feral strill on the hunt.

“What do you know of bravery, padawan? You have always been at heel, always in the shelter of your Order, and your Temple, and your Master Jinn. You know nothing of fear.”

“And you know nothing of me,” he snaps. “But I would fight. I would sacrifice everything for what I believe is right. I would die for it.”

“And so would I.”

“I would kill for it,” he says, and she is silent. He feels his victory at hand, and her silence. his reward. Finally. “Don’t speak to me of bravery. You have fine ideals, and beautiful dreams, but I have seen the galaxy, and I know what it is to face villains who would destroy everything you love simply for the sake of seeing you suffer. I would not wish that on you, but your pacifism will not save you from it. I’m sorry, but I cannot see peace for your warrior kind.”

Satine sniffs. She coughs. He feels a sharp tug in his chest, looking at her already so weak and downtrodden by illness, and now battered by his own unruly emotions. But then she throws back her head. Her hair is lank, the lily-white gold of its strands turned dusty with neglect, but she is somehow regal still.

“We are not violent by nature,” she declares. “Our cultures, our traditions - there is more to Mandalore than bloodshed. And there is bravery in standing bared and open with nothing but peace, our shield between life and death. A blossom is just as noble as a blaster. More, for it thrives in harmony and gentleness. It lives, it grows, it seeds, and grows again. A blaster can only destroy. Would you have me wish that for my people?”

“I do not know your people.”

“Then do not speak for us,” she says. “I may not have seen the galaxy as you have, but I know Mandalore. Pacifism is not passivity. It is still the warrior’s way.”

Obi-Wan kicks out the end of his coarse bushcover, straightening the edges, and smoothing away bumps that rise up beneath the narrow mat. He says nothing as she coughs, not even when the next fit lasts for more than a minute. He only folds his rucksack so that his spare stockings and pants may act as a pillow, and cushion the edges of rations and various other instruments of use. He sits. He pulls off his boots, and aligns them neatly beside his bed. His stockings are next, and he lays them flat to dry in the open air of the forest. At last, the choking and sputtering behind him fade, and he lies down with his back to Satine.

“Aren’t you going to wait for Master Jinn?”

“No,” he says, closing his eyes. “And I wouldn’t advise you to, either, though I know nothing I say has any weight with you.”

“But what if he needs help?”

“Then I don’t suppose your being awake will have particular value there, seeing as you won’t lift a finger to defend him.”

He can hear as she surges to her feet, and kicks at the little rise of buried fire. Bits of sand and ash scatter at his back, but it is only a bluff.

“You’re insufferable,” she says.

“The feeling’s mutual,” he assures her, pulling his coverlet up high, and nuzzling against his pack until it cradles his head just so. It is a warm night, and the earth still holds the heat of the day. The insects of Harswee have been until now a mannerly bunch, and Obi-Wan hopes that this resolution will last the night. He has already suffered enough.

He waits until he hears Satine unroll her own kit, kick off her shoes, and lie down before he releases a deep breath, and relaxes into the Force.

When he wakes, it is still dark. The air has turned cold, and Qui-Gon has not returned. Instinctively, as though still a child in the creche, he reaches out to his master, first, worried that it is some disturbance there which has stirred him from his rest. But no. Qui-Gon still burns, an effulgent flicker of light somewhere out on the plains, and Obi-Wan feels a sense of comfort and reassurance pass over him like a zephyr of thought. The problem does not lie there.

Instead, he finds it lying six feet away on the other side of the smothered campfire.

Satine’s fever has gotten worse. She shivers on the ground so loudly her teeth chatter, and her shoulders shake. Her arms are wrapped tightly around her, the thin coverlet strained with the desperate desire to provide some heat. Obi-Wan kneels to press his hand to her brow, only to find her skin slick with sweat.

“Oh, Force, Satine,” he says, shaking her awake. She looks at him with glazed eyes, but her frown seems instinctive, for it falls into place immediately upon recognition.

“I thought I said don’t touch me,” she says. There may be fire in her, but it is raging through her blood and her skin, and her words come out as thin as smoke.

“Your fever is worse,” he says.

“I know,” she replies.

“You should have said.”

He hurries back to his kit, throwing aside the cover and tripping over his boots in his haste to reach his rucksack. The careful work of folding and primping forgotten as he pulls it apart to find a small canteen of water and a packet of electrolytes. He tears the packet with his teeth, and dumps its contents into the liquid, shaking it, before returning to Satine’s side. With all the gentleness of newborn things, he slips his hand beneath her neck and raises her to rest against his chest. She protests feebly, but she cannot fight him, and when he brings the water to her lips she drinks as bidden.

“Small sips,” he says, one arm wrapped around her back to brace her, the other steadying her hand on the canteen. “You must stay hydrated.”

She nods, but pushes the drink away.

“Satine -”

“I can’t,” she whispers. She wilts against him, her head tucking itself into the crook of his neck beneath his chin. Her breath is hot against his throat, her body hotter still where he can feel the warmth of her fever radiating through the thin layer of her clothes where they touch. He puts the canister on the ground, propped up in the dirt but still within reach.

“Obi-Wan,” she murmurs. “I’m so cold.”

“Alright,” he says, and he reaches forward to drag her coverlet from where it lies crumpled at her feet. “You’re alright.”

He pulls the blanket up over her shoulders, and wraps her in his arms. She responds to his touch in a manner so differently than usual he can feel his heart stutter and stop in confusion. Burrowing deeper, she nuzzles her cheek against his chest, and folds her arms between them.

“Hush,” he says, rubbing wide circles over her back, the friction of his palm against the cover doing little to soothe her tremors, but doing much to calm his own uncertainty.

“Is Master Jinn returned yet?”

“He will soon,” he says, though Master Jinn is still distant and cool.

“Do you promise?” she asks. She has never asked for his word before, never solicited his opinion, or sought his comfort. He pulls back to look at her face, certain he is being mocked somehow. But her eyes are closed, and her face slack with exhaustion. She tilts her chin, until her throat is bared, and she waits for him to speak.

“I promise,” he says.

“Thank you,” she whispers. “I trust you. Will you wake me when he does?”

“I promise,” he repeats, staggered by this turn she so easily concedes to.

“And will you stay with me til then?”

He tightens his arms around her, cradling her head, and holding her close so that she might be warmed by the heat of his own body.

“I promise,” he vows.

And in the dark, he waits, and he watches, and he holds her until the sun comes up.

#obitine #obi-wan kenobi #satine kryze #qui-gon jinn #year on the run #my fic #please #nobody look at how many of my fics end with someone promising to stay until someone else wakes up #i don't know what's wrong with me #i swear i sleep alone just fine #and i don't think i ever made anyone promise this when i was a kid #idk #NO JUDGING #star wars #prompt fill

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thealexchen · 3 years

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One Year On: Life is Strange 2 Critique

December 3rd, 2020 marks a year since Life is Strange 2 ended. I was inspired by @smitethepatriarchy‘s text posts (here, but there are several other answered asks worth reading) and @suhaplays’s text post (here) criticizing Life is Strange 2 to write a critique about how Life is Strange 2 handled certain themes and social issues.

(tw: gun violence, police brutality, animal death, incarceration, racism. In this essay, I use the word “queer” in a reclaimed sense, as a queer person myself. Of course, spoiler warning for all five episodes of Life is Strange 1 and 2).

A year on, my feelings about this game have soured... a lot. When the game was first announced, I was overjoyed that our new protagonists would be two Latino boys. Finally, we would have a culturally meaningful, groundbreaking video game with people of color and their experiences at the forefront!

Then the game was met with immediate backlash and I utterly exhausted myself defending it for weeks on Reddit and Tumblr. Throughout 2019, as the episodes came out I became increasingly disillusioned, frustrated, and disappointed with where the story was going. I couldn’t figure out why I felt so damn miserable while playing this game.

Then in the summer of 2020, when Tell Me Why began rolling out pre-release material, I noticed that they posted a Q&A about transphobia, gave content warnings, and discussed at length about their collaboration with GLAAD, Checkpoint, and the Huna Heritage Foundation to make the game with sensitivity and proper research. I cannot speak for trans and gender non-conforming people on whether Dontnod succeeded at doing so with Tell Me Why. But Life is Strange 2 did… none of that.

Essentially, I realized that the reason why I was so frustrated with LiS2 is because it focuses way too heavily on a trauma narrative. This comes off as insensitive to players of color without any content warnings or extensive research.

Sean didn’t have to get kidnapped, kicked in the face, and called a racial slur by a gas station owner. Daniel did not need to watch his puppy get mauled by a mountain lion for the sake of a “difficult choice.” Sean didn’t have to lose his eye for the sake of heightened drama. Sean didn’t need to get called a racial slur and humiliated by his native language/beaten in the desert for refusing to sing. Daniel didn’t need to get shot— twice. Hell, all of “Faith” probably could’ve been cut— how is a church cult that brainwashes Daniel and beats Sean half to death relevant at all to the story?

Even if not all of the game’s violence was racially motivated, the consistent trauma that Sean and Daniel endure does not make for positive representation— or even good characterization. There is a difference between sympathetic characters and well-written characters, and trauma does not make Sean and Daniel any more complex or likable-- just more fucking traumatized.

LiS2 is more grounded in reality, but that also makes plot holes that much harder to excuse (Daniel’s powers being spotted, most of the Parting Ways ending, Sean’s prison sentence). But most of all, it grounds all of Sean and Daniel’s pain and trauma in reality.

There is no magicking away a town-destroying storm with time travel. Sean can’t keep his dad alive by ripping up a Polaroid. After Max unlocked her powers, she was still a Blackwell student, reconnecting with Chloe, taking photos, saving lives, and uncovering a murder mystery. After Daniel unlocked his powers, the Diaz brothers lost everything.

The game never lets you forget that Sean and Daniel are homeless, wanted, constantly in danger, and that they are never getting their old lives back. It permeates the entire game, and for players of color, just reinforces a sad, miserable, grim reality about living in the United States. It is, as @smitethepatriarchy said, potentially triggering for players of color, and it is certainly not something I needed to be reminded of.

And the representation of POC? It feels shallow and ill-researched. It would only take a Google search to find out that Dia de Muertos (a holiday to honor the dead, no less) was from October 31 to November 2 in 2016, the year the game takes place, but Daniel only talks about Halloween in episode 1. Sean and Daniel never discuss any Mexican customs, foods, or holidays. Sean doesn’t speak Spanish with his immigrant father, only during a scene when he’s traumatized (again!) by two racists, and again when talking to Mexican immigrants— in jail. Daniel doesn’t speak Spanish at all. Most of their allies throughout the game are white, including Finn and Cassidy, who appropriate Black culture with their dreadlocks.

So what’s left? Sean and Daniel’s existence as people of color is, at worst, just a narrative prop to justify everything that happens to them. They are people of color on the surface only. In a meta-sense, the game only considers the color of their skin and their last names as what is narratively important… yikes.

I don’t have anything against people who genuinely loved the game and were moved by its messages and story. But I can’t help but feel bitter that white players have the luxury of only thinking of this game as a work of fiction and not feeling any personal reliability to Sean and Daniel’s racialized trauma.

I don’t regret playing LiS2, but I do regret all the time and energy I spent defending it in the beginning. I understand now that I shouldn’t let people’s opinions get to me, nor should I feel obligated to like or defend a game for its attempts at representation. But now, I think I understand how queer fans must have felt in late 2015 when Polarized released. After following the game for 10 months, to see that Chloe’s ultimate destiny was to die and Pricefield is another ship plagued by the Bury Your Gays trope (in the ending that the devs clearly put more work into) must have been just as disillusioning and infuriating. I understand why some fans were so quick to unfollow LiS or develop mixed feelings about the series, because that’s how I feel too after following LiS2’s development from September 2018 to December 2019.

Before I end, I will admit that Life is Strange 2 arrived at a time when I needed it. I still stand by my belief that DN did a great job characterizing Sean, Daniel, and Chris without toxic masculinity, which is the best thing they could’ve done for a male-focused follow-up to a game about queer women. I love that Sean is still a canonically bisexual man of color in a major video game and that DN didn’t forget their queer audience. I love the world and characters that DN built, but I still prefer AU fanfictions of their normal lives, without all that trauma.

So, I will continue to treasure Lyla and her 10 minutes of screentime (aka the only shred of Asian American representation I can get from this series). I still reblog LiS2 fanart to support the artists. I still support Dontnod, because as Tell Me Why has shown, they are capable of researching and writing stories with more sensitivity. And let’s be honest-- I’m still gonna be hella excited if Life is Strange 3 is announced.

But so many aspects of Life is Strange 2 were bungled that it came off as a remarkably average and forgettable experience. A year on, I don’t hate Life is Strange 2, but I am writing this to move on from it.

Thank you for reading.

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maeiso-trash · 3 years

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Perfection shatters like glass

Isogai is only perfect because he has to be, not because he wants to be.

A bit of character study(?) and making Isogai cry lol.

Word count: 2,925

Ao3

-----------------------------------------------

The soft glow of the sunlight filtered in through the window, casting a yellow hue inside the living room. Books lay scattered on the table, disorderly stacked. Maehara sat on one end of the couch, observing Isogai, who was positioned at the opposite end, head buried in a book. He observed how delicately Isogai handled the pages, admired how focused he was, golden eyes fixated on the story in front of him. His expressions constantly changed as he read, and Maehara could only assume he was mirroring the character’s emotions. How cute. Makes him want to call Isogai something equally adorable.

"Hey, can I call you darling?” Maehara asked, his head in the clouds, a dumb grin on his face.

"I dunno, try it out," Isogai replied, not bothering to look up from his book. He felt the couch sink next to him as Maehara sat beside him.

"Okay, darling." Maehara's gaze softened, and he felt his heart melt at the taste of the nickname on his tongue. It made him feel old-fashioned, absolutely smitten with his best friend. He stares at Isogai, taking in how his eyes dart up from the book to Maehara, only just processing his words. Maehara chuckles to himself at how cute Isogai's reaction is, albeit delayed. He's way too stupidly in love with his best friend. But he doesn't mind. He admires how the light pouring in from the window makes Isogai's eyes shine. How the curve of his lips tugged up just a little. How his eyes gaze back at him, a little surprised. How his antenna sprung up with his emotions before quickly returning to normal.

Isogai felt his heart skip a beat, and butterflies in his stomach. Blush starts to blend into his cheeks, though it's faint. He can't help but smile, giggling a little inside. He rolls his eyes affectionately, used to Maehara's flirts and sweet nothings. Why he puts up with Maehara, he doesn't know. But they've been close since childhood, and understand each other better than anyone else. He doesn't want to lose that bond. "Since when did you become such a romantic?" He half-jokingly asks, putting his book on the table.

Despite their history together, they feel like inexperienced kids, trying to figure out love for the first time. It's just a simple, sweet pet name. A name that kisses the back of one's hand, makes someone feel like they're floating on clouds. It makes one feel warm and fuzzy inside. It's a feeling akin to the aroma of fresh bread, the personal thought of a handwritten letter. It’s watching the rain pelting down gently on the pavement, staring through frosted glass windows with a warm drink in hand. It’s the sun reaching through the windows at dawn, encasing everything in a warm yellow glow when the world hasn't woken up yet.

Maehara slowly wrapped his arms around Isogai's waist, peppering featherlight kisses along his shoulder. "Ever since I fell in love with you, darling." Maehara purposefully says it again, and Isogai can practically hear his smile.

"Pff- stop," Isogai giggled softly, ticklish from the onslaught of kisses. "Th-that tickles."

"Fine, fine. Whatever you say-" Maehara relents, kissing him a final time, "-prince charming."

Ah, that old nickname.

Isogai doesn't really think it suits him.

"Prince charming, huh?" he repeats, testing how the title rolls off his tongue. It's a foreign feeling. He doesn't think he deserves such a fancy title. Maybe he's just being modest. "You of all people should know I'm really not that perfect like others say."

Maehara sighs. Having been best friends with Isogai, he knows there is more to him than his charms. He's seen him frightened, and scared. He's witnessed the forgetful and panicky side of Isogai. He's helped him through his meltdowns when the weight of the world on his shoulders was too much to handle. He's seen him angry, and tired. Although, these aren't really flaws to his character. At least that's what Maehara thinks. He ponders deeper, wondering what exactly his friend's weaknesses are.

Perhaps it's his overly self-sacrificing habits, his selfless acts and priorities. Maybe it's his perfection itself that's his flaw. His own downfall. Maybe it's the outcome of his backstory. The aftermath of the long nights and forced smiles. Taking care of others so much that he forgets to take care of himself. Thinking that he isn't good enough, downplaying his self-worth as he's used to it. He wants everyone else to be happy. He thinks his own opinions don't matter.

No. It can't be that either.

Maehara frowns a bit, and wishes Isogai can realize that he's worthy of the nickname of 'prince charming.' That he's perfect even with imperfections.

"I do know. But you're still perfect to me. I always called you that when we were kids and you never had a problem then."

"Yeah, when we were playing pretend," Isogai says, a hint of nostalgic melancholy in his voice. He misses those days, when he was happier, when everything was simpler and there wasn't much to worry about. When Maehara would make him a flower crown ‘fit for a prince’ and pretend to be his knight. He isn't too sure how the whole prince thing started, or why Maehara would think of him as one. But that was back then, and now they've grown older. Now they have responsibilities and duties to take care of. He can't live in a world of fantasies and reminisce about the past forever. He wishes he could, but he can't, no matter how much he yearns for it. "This is reality, Hiroto. We're not kids anymore."

"Don't wanna believe it," Maehara spat out with a pout. "You just grew up faster because you had to."

Ah.

That came out wrong.

But once the words left his mouth, it left a bitter taste on Maehara’s tongue. His throat goes dry and he regrets it immediately. Maehara never really cared for his responsibilities, choosing to fool around and have fun instead. Isogai didn’t have that luxury.

"Oh, I. . . I see," Isogai trails off, unsure of how to respond. He knows it's the truth, and that Maehara wasn't trying to be mean. Isogai did have to grow up faster than other kids his age. He had to be someone his family could depend on, someone others could rely on. He prioritized others' needs before his own. He still does. He pushes himself a lot and it tears him apart mentally and emotionally. He's tired. He's ‘perfect’ because he has to be. Admittedly, it hurts, not having a normal childhood. Forced into maturing and growing up from a young age. He technically still is a kid, though it doesn't feel like it with the overwhelming weight of the world on his shoulders.

"N-No, Yuuma, I didn't mean. . ." Maehara panics and hugs Isogai just a little bit tighter. He doesn't want to see his best friend cry. Especially because of his own mistake. He would never forgive himself for that. "Sorry." It sounds like a shallow, half-hearted apology, just one measly word. But he can't seem to say anything else. He falls silent and stares blankly at the floor.

Isogai doesn't break away from Maehara's hold. Maehara’s kisses linger on his skin. The feeling is bittersweet. Isogai gets a sense of deja vu, and he remembers the name he was given that day in class when everyone was given codenames. 'President poverty,' they called him. Almost mockingly, like salt being rubbed on the wound. He bites his bottom lip, remembering who gave him the codename in the first place.

Maehara Hiroto, his best friend since childhood, the one who understood him most out of everyone. The one who he shared his secrets with, the one who’s been with him through thick and thin. Thinking about it, it almost feels like a betrayal. He glares at the floor.

"President Poverty," he drawled out, venom injected into each syllable.

"Wh-what?" Maehara questions, confused at the sudden change in Isogai’s tone.

Maehara's ignorance, intentional or not, sends Isogai off the edge. "Are you fucking dumb? Wasn't it your idea to give me that codename? My personality isn't just being perfect and poor, y'know!" He practically hisses, prying himself away from Maehara. Isogai frowns at him, glaring at him through misty tinted eyes, pale golden irises losing their shine. "You’re so mean, Hiroto. It's not like I wished to be born into a poor family, for my dad to die, and for my mom to become ill. I didn't want this. I never wanted all these responsibilities. I never wanted to be perfect." He didn't want to be perfect. He wanted to be a kid again.

"Hey, hey, what's with this all of a sudden?" Because while Maehara knows Isogai well, he can't read his mind, can’t follow the trail of thoughts that lead Isogai to this point.

"You wouldn't understand. You don't have to work your life away just to make sure you survive."

What started from anger turned into tears, and Isogai isn't too sure himself of why he's crying. It just hurts, and he's tired of this life. His life. Overwhelmed with everything, his emotions bottled up only to crash in waves. All his life, other people always reminded him that he was poor. They’d point and laugh at something he couldn’t even control. His financial situation was always their go-to insult. And he’d always brush it off with a forced smile, trying to block the insults from his memory. It always hurt whenever he remembered them.

Maehara never really made fun of him for being poor. Or at least, not until the ‘president poverty’ thing. It hurts now that he’s realized it. Isogai considered Maehara his best friend, and yet, it doesn’t feel like it. But Isogai genuinely can't hate him, and he hates that.

Maehara isn't too sure how to respond, not wanting to make the situation worse, only watching Isogai cry out of supposed anger. Maehara lets Isogai cry, he probably needs it anyway, and decides to talk when he's finished. In the meantime, he reflects on Isogai’s outburst and yeah, maybe he was rather insensitive, unintentional or not.

The air around them is still, the tension thick. Time ticks by, but to them the world doesn't move. They're suffocated by a silence filled with regret. Maehara desperately wants to reach his arms out and envelop Isogai into a tight hug, but he knows him well enough to know the other will only push him away. Out of anger, out of fear, out of pain.

Fights have never happened between the two of them. They were always too understanding for that. Of course, they had their arguments, avoiding the other out of shame and guilt, before making up like friends do, learning from their mistakes, trying to better themselves. But it rarely happens, and sometimes they forget about the silly disagreements. But this argument isn't as silly as which one of them kills the spider or turns the light off before the monster gets them. They know you can't turn back time, hit rewind and start over. So they wallow in the pond of regret and guilt, distant from one another as they try to sort out their thoughts.

Isogai begins to regret saying his thoughts. Perhaps he should've just accepted the nickname of 'prince charming'. Maybe they wouldn't feel so awkward right now. Maybe he wouldn’t be bawling his eyes out, sobbing like the child he never allowed himself to be. Deep down, he knows it isn't selfish to speak out his feelings, tell the truth of his thoughts, but it feels selfish to him. Almost like he’s begging for help, for some sort of comfort when he thinks he doesn't deserve it. He wants to go back to a time where everything isn’t so complicated, when his mom isn’t ill, and his dad isn’t forever gone. He wants to go back to a time when he wasn’t working a part-time job, when smiling wasn’t such a chore that made his cheeks hurt, and when his wrists weren't sore from carrying trays and plates and cups all day. He never wanted these things to mold him into the person he became today, sculpted and shaved down and crafted into perfection.

Although right now, he isn’t so perfect, breaking down in front of his best friend. His eyes all red and puffy and his tears streaming down and into his mouth, his sleeves stained with snot. His throat is hot and sore and he almost chokes on his cries. In a way, he feels relieved, letting everything out. Allowing himself to feel something, to cry, to feel human. Breaking the carefully sculpted character he chiseled himself, the one that adapted and matured to life all too quickly, the one that hid all his flaws and imperfections behind a wall.

He cries and cries until the tears dry out, and in the end he just feels kind of pathetic. He doesn’t say anything, wiping away the last of his tears. Maehara gently rubs a hand on his back, which Isogai doesn’t bother trying to swat away. He’s just tired.

"I'm sorry, really, I am," Maehara says quietly. He feels really bad but he's mostly mad at himself and he should've just kept his mouth shut but he never learns his lesson. "I know about your situation and I didn’t really take your feelings into account. I just thought that a name like that could help you relax a bit and not worry about being perfect all the time. I was uh, very wrong on that. It's unfair that you have all these responsibilities when you never asked for it in the first place. I acted like it was your fault when it never was to begin with. I didn’t mean to hurt you and I'm. . . really sorry."

Maehara wouldn't be surprised if Isogai never forgave him. He's made a lot of mistakes in the past. Way too many, for his liking. Now that he thinks about it, he's done a lot of things he regrets. Mistakes he can't erase, no matter how hard he tries. But he never really confronted his problems, opting to move on and run away instead.

Isogai takes some time to process Maehara's apology, wiping away his tears. He gazes solemnly at Maehara, his eyes all puffy and glassy, and Maehara's heart breaks. Right, he caused that. Maehara feels really guilty, almost wanting Isogai to be mad at him rather than upset. He repeats the word 'sorry' in his head, over and over again.

"Please never call me that again." Isogai doesn’t really know whether to forgive Maehara or not. If he does, it’ll probably take a while. But the request should be a start, he decides.

"You have my word," Maehara mumbles quietly, stretching out his pinky finger.

Isogai interlocks his pinky finger with Maehara and his lips stretch into the faintest smile. “You better keep it,” he laughs weakly. He almost can't tell if it was genuine or not.

"I will. Promise." Maehara began to trace gentle patterns on the back of Isogai’s hand, something he always did when the other was in need of comfort. "Do you miss being a kid again?" It was a genuine question, no ill intentions.

"A little, yeah," Isogai admits. He almost forgot what it was like to be one. To be carefree, unaware of the harsh realities of the world in front of him. He doesn't really mind it, or at least that's what he tells himself.

Unlike him, Maehara hasn't forgotten, and he wiggles his fingers lightly against Isogai's waist in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Isogai stifles a laugh, before bursting into a fit of giggles. "Wa-wait! Stop- Hiroto stop it!"

“You’re as ticklish as ever.” Maehara says with a smirk, letting his hands fall to his sides.

“And you’re as annoying as ever.”

“Hey!” Maehara lightly punched Isogai’s shoulder. And really, he shouldn’t take offense when he insulted his best friend where it hurts most.

Isogai doubles over with a laughing fit, and Maehara is about to ask why until Isogai quickly composes himself and turns back to face him. On his face is a stupid grin as he wipes away a tear. "I love you though.”

Maehara softly glares at him, lips curving into a half-smile, half-frown. "Hmph. I love you too." He gently caressed Isogai’s cheek with his palm. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips, his expression softening as he gazed adoringly at Isogai. He truly doesn’t know what he did to deserve Isogai. “Could I. . . hug you again?”

Isogai gives him a nod and Maehara practically bursts with happiness as he tackles the other in a hug, pressing their bodies close together. It’s warm. And feels like home.

“It’s okay to let loose sometimes, y'know. I know you have to work because of money issues and you have to take care of your family and all that but you should take care of yourself too. Don’t push yourself too hard, alright? I care about you a lot. Your health and happiness is just as important as everyone else's.”

Isogai is pleasantly taken aback at Maehara's words, and he can't help but smile. He returns Maehara’s hug, wrapping his arms around the other tightly. It's times like these he's glad to have put up with Maehara all these years, happy to have him in his life. “Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind."

#assassination classroom #ansatsu kyoushitsu #hiroto maehara #yuuma isogai #maeiso #my writing #this was actually supposed to be fluff #I derailed so much it turned into angst haha ;-;#this was also an excuse to make Isogai cry #me: I love Isogai he's such a comfort character :)#also me: let's make him cry :))#I also self-projected a bit with the 'he thinks his own opinions don't matter' thing #I'm not good at analysis but I can write characters crying :D

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springtimebat · 3 years

Text

Gold Dust (Short Story)

The clouds were beginning to roll in and a thousand city lights switched on.

The girl took a silver spoon from the checkerboard, twisting the handle in her fingers. It had a mer creature carved into the hilt, and she rolled its breast on her nails. Charles Newbury watched with hooded eyes. The girl watched him too, her eyes a similar pair. Her mouth twisted, distorted in the space just above her chin. Her lips are blood red, her shoulders hunched, her eyes yellowed and thirsty.

There's a long silence, then Charles cuts through it with his stupid, useless words again; a butcher cutting through an animal with their disembowelling knife.

“May I-may I hold your hands?”

The girl lowers her gaze and peers at her palms, claws with sharpened talons. She looks back up, slowly, then nods her head. Charles Newbury reached out for her.

“They’re cold.”

The girl nods.

“So terribly cold.”

The girl nods. Right again.

“Are you ever lonely?”

“Sometimes.” And it's the first word the girl has spoken to him. Her voice is small, hazy. She’s like a mouse.

“Do you have friends?”

“You’re my friend,” The girl insists. But she hesitates.

“What did you do before me? What did you do a week ago?”

“There was never a time before you. There was only me and the city and the lights. A long moment where I had to shield myself from the lights. I lived life under an umbrella.”

“First you’re mute but now I’ve got you talking you’ll never stop!” Charles laughs. The girl looks down, embarrassed.

“I can stop if it bothers you.”

“No no, not at all! Please talk! I demand it!”

“What did you do before me?” The girl cloaked in midnight hours asks, and Charles Newbury’s face falls, “Do you know anyone?”

Silencio. Silencio for a short while. Then-

“No, no there’s no one else.”

“Just me?” And the girl’s eyebrows raise, “Just me and the empty spaces?”

“Lonely,” Charles Newbury agrees, “Ever so lonely.”

“Stuck in places you don’t even understand? That you don’t ever agree on?”

“Mostly. Always.”

“Is that why I found you dying on your back?”

“Possibly.”

The girl cackles, “You always speak in uncertainties! Possibilities, instead of certainties!”

“I wish I could speak like this all the time. Speak with others the way I can speak with you. But when I do I end up lying on my back, awaiting my saviour in an alley.”

The girl says nothing, but she smiles smugly. She takes her seat at the table, a shadow in the electric lamps. Her face is a painting. Charles is a painting too, only his image is marred by a dust cloth. Both duck to catch the others’ features.

Finally, the man sighs.

“That's how I got into the gold dust you know. That’s not really a question, I’m just explaining. I feel like an explanation is in order.”

The girl nods and allows him to continue.

“I felt...old? But young somehow. I felt so out of place. The last few years have been hell. Hell on ground.”

“Xul,” The girl agrees. Charles looks down to the floorboards.

“The trees turned red, turned hollow. So I went to the city, ‘cause that’s where everyone goes don’t they? That’s where all the people are! But none of the people want me. None of the people can stand me. So I started the steps to take my pain away. I started on the dust.”

“In my country...” The girl croaks, “...The dying country... gold dust is a thing in the air. It’s something people quest after. Something people try to catch in jars. We experiment with it. Children play with it. It’s as harmless as a kitchen carpet.”

“Still,” Charles growls, “There are times when the kitchen carpet takes it upon itself to fly about the room. Oh that’s how they drag you in. The magic, the air, the mountains! And all the singing that goes with it! But no. No no no! It’s all of a different sort! It’s gold, it’s dust but it stinks to high heaven. The stink repels but it drags you kicking and screaming towards it. It catches you and you spiral down. Down down down...until you meet strange girls in alleys and they turn out to be the nicest people you’ve ever met!”

The girl giggles. Charlie lights a cigarette.

“Silencio,” And this time, the forbidden word is spoken out loud. The girl smiles again and Charles starts to join her.

“Silencio?” Charles Newbury asks

“Silencio. Appropriate as it is, sometimes people can’t stand it.”

“It sounds strange. It sounds like calm waters.”

“It is the cure for dark nights and purple eyes. Silence is the cure for all ills.”

“What’s your name?”

The girl freezes.

“Do you have a name? What’s your name?”

“You’re drunk,” The girl bristles, “You’re drunk and you don’t know what you ask of me.”

“If you’d like, you don’t have to tell me. Not just yet. Just, say anything.”

“I will not lie.” The girl frowns.

“It is not a lie. It is silencio. It is just as good. Just as needed.”

“Surely you don’t think knowing my name will make things better do you? You must have more sense than that. Mr Newbury; are you new? Did someone ever bury you?”

“You’ll never know if you refuse to ask.”

“My name,” The girl curses, “Is none of your concern. It is about as helpful to you as the golden dust that kills you.”

Charles continues to smile, “When we are confined to the lonely places, a cluster of the grotesque and the pain, what should I call you?”

The girl lifts herself from the table and glances out at the concrete roads behind the window.

“I’m a shadow. I’m shallow, flat and stupid. I have no need for a name.”

“But you have one,” Charles insists, “What is it?”

The girl turns. She grins, “You won’t let this go, will you?” Her voice is paper thin. She’s beginning to cry, “Won’t you please let this go?”

Charles Newbury is a ruthless man. He props himself on his elbows and continues to smirk at his crying friend. His only friend in the world is crying and he laughs.

“Just tell me what your name is, please?”

The girl wipes a pale cheek with a black sleeve. She takes a deep breath. Two hours ago, outside was bleak and grey and worthless. Now she’d give anything to be out there again, just a silhouette on the bricks.

“Rain,” The girl confesses, “That’s my name.”

Charles rolls onto his side, satisfied and giddy. The girl's frown deepens as she listens to Mr Newbury laugh. Her fists clench.

“Why am I with you?” She whispers, to herself more than anything else, “Why you of all people? We shall die and no one will care except us. And... maybe this empty flat. And that cigarette. That’s all that will be left of us. You won’t care but I will! Will we be lost to the sands of time, to the...to the gold dust?”

The hairs on Charles’ arms stand up.

“Yes!” The girl yells, and her voice is the voice of a snake’s bitter poison, “Yes we will melt in the rain! In our rain! We shall build our own graves! And we shall die copies, stuffed and filled with gold dust! No blood, flesh tissue. Only straw and dust. Our remains; lost to the city sights and sounds. Petrified. Petrified body bags! Is that what you want? Is that really what you want?”

She’s shaking, but Charles crosses over and holds her in his arms. Her own arms, wire lines, grab onto his shoulders.

“We won’t forget each other. We will be together, intertwined. And that’s all that matters.”

“We barely know each other.”

“And that’s why I trust it. I trust it more than the gold dust. I trust it more than Xul. Tonight you have opened me up more than years upon years of shrine worship ever could! And that is why I trust you, more than outside. I want to spend the rest of my life with you Rain. Rain, I love you.”

He says it again and again. Begging the girl to life. It works somewhat, but they spend the night lying on the kitchen floor, dreaming on a static wind, holding each other's palms. They trace their lifelines with the others fingers.

Outside, the electric lights continue to buzz.

#creative writing #my story #short story #excerpt from a larger story because I've been kinda dead lately #horror #american gothic #southern gothic #fantasy #surreal #cryptids #monsters #cryptidcore #oddcore #weirdcore #dark academia #kinda #sorta philosophical #depression

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birminghams · 4 years

Text

look after you ━━ 𝐭. 𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐛𝐲

SUMMARY: sometimes even tommy falls victim to illness.

“DO YOU FEEL as bad as you look?”

His head hurts, his throat aches, and the rest of his body is overwhelmed with the exhaustion that sweeps through his bones, numbing him to the cold that lingers in the air. Tommy doesn’t want to think about how he’s probably coming down with whatever it is he’s been fighting off for the past week, nor does he allow himself to dwell on the fact that he’s barely had three hours of sleep in the last couple of days.

“Worse,” he replies, hacking out a cough that feels too much like a hand wrapping around his throat. “I imagine this is what death would feel like.”

Because Thomas Shelby doesn’t fall victim to illnesses.

Here, though, with his eyes closed, it’s easier to focus on other things: the warmth of the small house compared to the damp chill that Birmingham exudes, the low, comfortable hush of John and Esme whispering in the kitchen, the quiet clatter of teacups and spoons. He loses himself in the soft hum of your voice as you edge closer, the sweet nothings falling from your lips like honey, gentle and soothing against the pain that flickers in his temples.

“Who would’ve thought a simple cold could’ve taken down the infamous Thomas Shelby?”

He blinks at you, a scowl drawing across his lips as he adjusts himself against the array of cushions propping him up. He doesn’t answer at first. Instead, he reaches up, wrapping his fingers around your wrist and tugs, gentle not to hurt you but harsh enough that in the next moment, your body is tumbling down into space beside him, landing directly next to his.

“I hate you,” you splutter against him, laughing leaning your head down on his shoulder. “Who would’ve thought a simple cold could’ve been such a danger to a Peaky Blinder?”

“If you keep talking, I will make you regret ever opening your mouth.”

A pause, and then he’s coughing weakly into his fist, wheezing a little, his chest tightening until it feels like he can no longer catch his breath. There’s a hefty weight settled firmly on his chest, embedding its way down through the muscle and bone, squeezing his lungs and tearing at his heart. Waves of heat course through his veins, a cold sweat sweeping across his gaunt features, eyes sunken and his skin sallow, every inch of him aching as shivers wrack through his thinning frame.

It takes a moment to pass, but when it does, all he can say is, “I’m fine.”

“Did you know that lying is a mortal sin?”

He raises an eyebrow, his gaze travelling down the length of your body, lingering on the faint bruises that stain your neck. “Lying is the least sinful thing I’ve ever done.”

Another string of harsh coughs falls from Tommy’s pale and fragile form then, weakening him further as he allows his head to rest back against the cushion you’d already placed there. Every breath after that is a struggle; his phlegm-filled lungs are desperate for oxygen, but his body won’t cooperate. His breathing is too fast and shallow to be considered normal, the heaving echoing around the room, the chilled air swallowing up the sound.

“Tommy...”

It’s only when the tears blur his eyes that he realises that the illness has taken him hostage, the sheer force of the rising fever sending him into the arms of the waiting delirium.

He stirs, shifting his weight closer to you. “I’m ⏤ ”

“If you say you’re fine one more time,” you cut him off with a harsh glare, pressing the back of your hand against his forehead. “I will kill you myself.”

He lifts his hand out to you, his fingers intertwined with yours when you take the offering as he presents it to you, the warmth of it reigniting that natural essence of home that settles itself into your gut.

“I’ll look after you.”

He smiles, even though his head is starting to throb in that way that it does when his body is too worn to carry on; slowly, crushingly, like someone is smothering him, a hand holding him underneath the waves as he struggles to catch his breath against the water. He smiles even though his ribs are straining against his chest and the rush of heat that drowns him.

He smiles despite feeling like he’s lost a fight with death itself.

“For however long you need me.”

He smiles again, but it’s the one reserved only for you; soft and natural, deep-set crinkles in the crease of his eyes as he presses a fleeting kiss to your forehead. It’s the Tommy you fell in love with. That sweetness that lingers underneath the ice that coats his figure that demands attention every time he walks into a room.

He wraps an arm around your shoulder, pulling you further into his side. “Forever then.”

Hours crawl by before Tommy even begins to stir.

When he finally wakes after a restless sleep, it’s to the slow, crackling burn of a fire in its hearth and the weight of too many blankets covering him under the intense heat that’s simmering in the air around him. His senses tell him that the room is warmer than it usually is, scorching to the point of almost being uncomfortable; but he doesn’t feel it.

Though his body protests against any sudden movements, he opens his eyes and attempts to rise from the bed he’s found himself in. He doesn’t know where he is, but Tommy knows that he needs to be somewhere, a meeting that’s slipped his mind. He has to ⏤

“Don’t you even think about it.”

His gaze flickers about the room, searching for your figure in the darkness that surrounds him. It doesn’t take him long to seek you out, your shadow projecting against the wall from the small sliver of moonlight that creeps in through the gaps of the curtains that hang limply over the window.

“How long have I been out?”

“Almost two days.”

He straightens up, eyes meeting yours. “Two days?”

“It’s felt like longer,” you tell him, but there’s a clipped edge to your words that Tommy can’t place. “I thought, just for a second, that⏤”

“What?” His voice is hoarse against the silent house, his eyes searching for any explanation that’ll clarify the situation. “What did you think?”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

There’s a beat of silence and then Tommy’s leaning towards you, his fingertips brushing against your jawline. It’s a meeting of warm skin against cold, ghosts and phantoms against silhouettes under the night sky, each reaching for the piece of happiness that lingers deep in your soul.

“When it comes to you,” Tommy answers, pressing a fleeting kiss to the palm of your hand, “it always fucking matters.”

“I think the fever is starting to pass.”

He wakes again, slowly this time, the mattress dipping as you sit down next to him, resting your hand on the back of his. He almost bolts upright at the touch, almost reaches for the gun that he always keeps near his bed, but something in his foggy mind tells him to stay. He obeys the fractured thoughts, allowing his eyes to slide open and attempts to decipher the almost broken figure sitting beside him, head bent in prayer, and something clicks inside that warped mind of his.

He’s not sure how long has passed since the last time his eyes opened.

He’s not sure, but somehow he’s aware that it feels like a lifetime.

“How close did I come?”

His voice is cracked from the infection that poisoned his bones, his skin still clammy against the morning hues drowning the room, smothering the last flickers of darkness that clings to the shadows. He closes his eyes, inhales a deep breath of the stuffy air to refill his aching chest with the oxygen he struggled to keep down the day before and then exhales again.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Tommy pauses, and then asks, “How close did I come to dying?”

He sees you flinch, and then the answer is a knife pressed against his throat. He hauls your body closer, pressing his lips to your neck, breathing you in even when his chest aches and his body shudders violently against yours, the chill seeping back into his bloodstream.

“I heard you stop breathing.”

It crashes into him, slamming hard against his ribcage until it rattles under his skin. He leans into your embrace when your arms tighten their hold on his neck, gripping him until all his broken parts start to mend, the air around you beginning to thin and making it easier to draw in a breath.

“I heard you stop breathing,” you say again, the words fracturing the silence, “and I did nothing.”

“I’m breathing now.”

It’s peaceful, and then, “Because of John.”

The memories of the past few days run through his hazy mind in nothing more than a blur of monochrome moments that he can’t unravel, each moment bleeding into the next in a seamless shade of confusion.

“What did John do exactly?”

“I don’t know,” you answer truthfully, eyes closed as the image of one lifeless Thomas Shelby buries its claws into your head, tearing at the remaining tendrils of your sanity. “I couldn’t stay in here. I couldn’t, so I left after I told John, but I didn’t come back.”

“And yet,” he says, his voice soft, “here you are.”

“He brought you back to me, and me back to you.”

He presses a kiss to your temple. “I understand.”

“How can you?” you ask, your features drawing into a frown as you pull away from him. “I left you to die alone even though I can’t imagine my life without you. I left you to die, Tommy, so don’t sit there and tell me you understand because if the situation were reversed, you wouldn’t have even contemplated leaving my side.”

“It used to happen all the time when I was a kid, all I had to do was roll over on my side, and it would have been problem solved.”

“But I didn’t know that.”

“How could you?”

“I still left you, Tommy.”

He drops a kiss on your head. “But you came back.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

The silence that follows is poisonous in its nothingness, cruelling seeping into your every pore, paralysing you until Tommy’s hands tighten around you. It’s a brief gesture, but it has you falling into step with him as he manoeuvres your body towards the window, the brief glimpse of the Birmingham cityscape settling into your gut and welcoming you home.

“I don’t believe that,” he whispers in your ear, his breath warm against the coldness of yours. “I don’t think that you do either.”

His truth spills from his mouth like a weapon, brandishing him with the ammunition he needs to fight back against the lies you keep gorging yourself on, allowing them to control every single move you make. But it’s partly your truth too; he witnesses that for himself when you become slack in his arms, his arms the only constant part of your shaky frame.

He’s the anchor you cling to.

It’s a moment before you take a breath and say, “I’m scared.”

“Don’t you think I already know?”

He thinks back to that first time you glanced at him like it meant something, smiling at him in that gentle way of yours that sparked a warmth in the pit of Tommy’s stomach, a feeling that he wished to experience over and over again. He thinks about how his head was nearly always full of images of you, all day every day, and about the way you sometimes went to bed still smelling of him, refusing to acknowledge what it meant (because he already fucking knew what it meant.)

What all of it meant.

What all of it still means.

“I’m scared every time you walk out of the door, and it’s stupid,” you explain, the weight of the words lifting from your heavy burdened shoulders. “It’s stupid because you can take care of yourself. It’s stupid because it was an illness that almost took you from me and it’s stupid because you deserve someone who isn’t constantly waiting for the moment you don’t come back home.”

“Sometimes,” Tommy starts, his words falling into the cracks of your soul, “it’s not about what we deserve.”

“Sometimes,” you answer, “maybe it should be.”

He rests his hand lightly on your shoulder, the familiarity of his touch grounding you in reality. He leans forward, his mouth finding the crevice in your neck; the same spot that weakens your knees when he kisses there, his lips branding you with more of those bruises that the other Blinders will torture you over and yet, it doesn’t make you flinch.

Instead, you lean further into his touch, welcoming all of the fractured parts of himself into you.

“Does it still hurt?”

“I think I’m a little stronger than you give me credit for.”

“Don’t do that,” you tell him, lightly pinching the skin on his hand as he evades the question that haunts your mind. “Do you still feel the effects of the fever? Does it still hurt to breathe? Are you ⏤”

His laugh sounds like salvation. “I think I’m going to be fine.”

Relief sweeps through your body before it descends into something more self-deprecatory. “Not if it was down to me.”

“I’m still here because of you,” he admits, his warm breath fanning against your neck. “Don’t you know that I can’t imagine a life without you whining at me, or shouting at me, or telling me that you prefer me on days when it’s just us locked away from the rest of the world?”

“It’s not ⏤”

“Don’t you know that I can’t imagine a life without you in it?” he continues, his questions colliding hard against your denials, stealing the air straight out of your lungs. “So don’t you know that it’s you that makes me want to fight to stay alive?”

He presses you up against his chest, so close that you can feel his heart beating against your own and you melt against him.

He presses a soft kiss into the underside of your jaw.

“Don’t you know that I can’t imagine a life in which I don’t get to experience what it feels like to be loved by you?”

It’s only when the morning light finally spills out over the horizon, swallowing the smoke of Birmingham up in its warm hues, painting the buildings in shades of oranges and reds and yellows that you realise how much he means to you, and you to him.

It presents itself as a masterpiece, an ode to your past, present and future.

He holds you close, and whispers, “I love you.”

A warm smile crawls across your face at Tommy’s confession. “Don’t you think I already know?”

#peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders x reader #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby imagine #mine #peaky fics #peaky fanfics #tommy shelby one shot #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinders one shot #tommy shelby #tom shelby #tom shelby imagine #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby imagine

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nonbinary-ghost · 3 years

Text

More Hollow Knight drabbles! This one's exploring what might have happened if the Pale King was still alive when you find him in the White Palace. CW for character death and descriptions of illness - PK isn't doing too great

(Also posted to ao3 under nonbinaryGhost)

Ghost stood before the fallen kingsmould. They had stumbled across a few of the void-filled armors guarding hidden passages on their trek through the White Palace. But this one was dead – a motionless heap of pale metal leaking void into the stone around it. Ghost glanced around, spying others that were collapsed in a similar fashion. What had happened to them?

They followed the trail of bodies, their hand on their nail in case any of them were still animated and attacked. But none of the kingsmoulds so much as twitched at the vessel’s passing. The air around Ghost began to grow dark with decaying void as they moved deeper down the hallway towards a Soullift. It was the only way forward, and Ghost was unwilling to turn back, so they pressed on, their footsteps muffled by the thick shadows creeping in.

More kingsmoulds waited at the top of the lift, as broken and motionless as the others. There was almost none of the pale white light that filled the rest of the palace here. Only heavy darkness and flicking void particles. Even the white stone floor seemed duller, stained into a grey-yellow from the void. A tall dais stood ahead, and Ghost could just make out the shape of something sitting atop it, glowing ever so faintly. Reluctant to enter that familiar darkness, Ghost turned to kneel next to the nearest kingsmould, searching for any signs of damage to their armor. Had there been a fight? Something that had been here before Ghost, that had killed the kingsmoulds to get to whatever it was that sat atop the dais? But there was nothing – no scratches in the pale metal from a nail, no dents or torn joints. It looked as if the kingsmould had simply fallen where it stood, the void that formed its body losing shape to melt into the floor and evaporate into the air.

“Who passes through this forsaken dream?”

The muffled rasp jerked the vessel’s attention to the large room atop the dais. It had been some time since they’d heard a voice. The soft murmurings of the royal retainers had faded long ago as Ghost pressed deeper and deeper into the heart of the palace, until no other living dreams crossed their path. The heavy darkness that seeped into the air around them seemed to smother the sound, but after so long in silence even the soft voice felt loud. Hand resting on the hilt of their nail, Ghost crept deeper into the large room blanketed in shadow.

Ghost had been prepared to find their Father in the White Palace. But the sight of the small bug cloaked in faded white robes still made Ghost stop in their tracks. The Pale King was scarcely bigger than Ghost, cloaked in faded white robes atop a tall black throne. For a moment, Ghost wondered if this really was the Pale King of whom they’d seen so many statues. But the crown-like shape of his horns and the pale glow that surrounded his form marked him beyond any doubt as the God-King of Hallownest. The Pale King lifted his head to peer at Ghost now standing before him.

“Pure -?” The shock on the Pale King’s face faded as he squinted at Ghost. “No, another. So some of you did escape. I had hoped…but never could See…”

The King’s words dissolved into a wet, rattling cough and he buried his face in the crook of an arm as his light flickered. Ghost didn’t budge, their thoughts completely blank as they watched the Pale King regain composure. This was who they had been looking for, but now that they stood before him, Ghost could not summon the will to move. The Pale King looked down at the robe sleeve he had just coughed into with a grimace. He smoothed the sleeve and tucked it out of Ghost’s sight.

“I take it you are here for revenge?”

Ghost only stared and a rueful chuckle shook the King’s shoulders.

“You do not have to maintain the charade of emptiness, Vessel,” he said softly. “I know you are not hollow, though I cannot sense any thoughts or feelings from you as I do my subjects. The Void shields your mind from my Light. But I know that is not the same as true emptiness. If I had realized sooner…”

His voice had grown tight with some kind of emotion and he took a breath before continuing.

“You need not hide your feelings from me. I know you must despise me.”

Still Ghost did not move. Instead, they watched how the Pale King seemed to be trembling, ever so slightly, upon his throne. They noted how dim and weak the King’s light appeared, slowly smothered by the encroaching darkness. The King was being forgotten, just as the Radiance had, and he was gradually fading away. Ghost need not do anything, if they actually wanted revenge, for the King was already dying. What greater punishment could anyone hope to enact than to condemn the King to be forgotten and erased along with his kingdom and children? The King let out a shuddering sigh.

“I have done many terrible things,” he rasped. “Things that I should have never allowed to pass. And all for what? My people still died. My Kingdom still fell. My children…sacrificed for nothing. I was too late to do anything to change the course of fate, yet still I struggled to find a way and ended up causing even greater atrocities.”

Ghost didn’t move at this. They had expected many things when they found their father, but this had not been one of them. Haughtiness, pride, righteous anger, blind refusal of having done any wrong – Ghost had anticipated that. But not remorse. Not regret.

The familiar, cold emptiness that still filled Ghost’s shell smothered any anger or pity that might have been stirred at the King’s words. Ghost knew they should be furious, but they could not muster up even the phantom flicker of emotion. Factually, they understood that just because this bug knew what he’d done was wrong, that didn’t mean he deserved forgiveness. Least of all from one of the very children he’d callously cast away to die. But Ghost didn’t forgive him, just as they didn’t hate him. The Pale King just… was. He was just another pathetic being fallen from grace, and Ghost felt nothing for him. Ghost distantly wondered if the King’s remorse was less because he knew that he’d caused harm, and more because his plan hadn’t worked. Was his regret more for the fact that his plan had failed rather than for the fact that he had done it at all. If his plan had worked, if the Hollow Knight had successfully contained the Infection and killed the Radiance, would the Pale King still feel the same way? Or would he simply chalk it all up to ‘necessary sacrifices’ and never consider it again?

“I sense my words mean little to you.”

Ghost looked up at this and met the Pale King’s empty eyes. They found that there was some small flicker of rage somewhere inside of their shell – tiny and fragile as a lumifly’s wings. But it was there. Once, Ghost may have listened to the Pale King’s words without bias and could have been moved to sympathy. But Ghost had been to the Abyss, had seen the broken shells of their fallen siblings. Even if they still could not remember their own past there, the cold fury at what had been done to slaughter so many bugs still smoldered somewhere in their very soul.

“I cannot fault you for your anger,” the Pale King choked, barely smothering a cough that tried to rake through him. “We deserve neither forgiveness nor pity, and We could never ask it of you.”

He barely choked out the words before he could no longer suppress the cough. It tore through his small frame, his whole body shuddering as he clutched at his chest. Ghost watched in rising horror as thick, liquid void began to drip down the King’s chin. Ghost realized that the King wasn’t just fading from memory.

He was being killed.

Slowly and painfully.

Suddenly the heavy darkness that filled the throne room made far more sense. The Pale King’s light wasn’t just fading from being forgotten. The void was smothering the Pale King’s glow and slowly poisoning his body, the very same way the King intended for it to do to the Radiance. But unlike the Radiance, the Pale King lacked the resolve to survive. He felt remorse, now. He had regrets. And the Void latched on to those cracks in his mental barriers with a vicious tenacity that could not be burned away. The Void Sea had claimed him, and it was slowly tearing him apart bit by bit.

The Pale King’s rattling breath was loud in Ghost’s ears as the coughing fit subsided. His face was contorted in a grimace of pain, dark streaks of void staining his mask around the mouth and eyes, and all four of his arms clutched at the robes around his neck and chest. Only then did Ghost notice that the King’s hands were as void-black as their own shell. Ghost could feel something stirring within them, or, more precisely, within the void that filled their own veins. A sort of anticipation that was not their own. The strange thought that the Pale King would be returning home occurred to them and they pondered the premise briefly. The King was slowly becoming a being of void, and the Void’s song reached out to him now just as it called to Ghost. For the first time, Ghost felt an odd sort of kinship to the dying king. They got the impression that they had gone through something very similar to this, long, long ago. But even these feelings were distant and impersonal – mere phantom impressions of emotion quickly quelled by the cold darkness that filled them.

The Pale King carefully shook his head as his breathing slowed into shallow gasps.

“Why are you here, vessel,” he panted, the sound barely more than a whisper. There was nothing in that voice – just cold emptiness devoid of inflection. Ghost’s mask tilted at this. Why were they here? Then, they remembered the broken charm given to them by the White Lady. They reached into their void-soft body and retrieved the white shard, holding it out to the Pale King. It took a moment for the King to slowly lift his gaze to settle upon the broken charm. He went completely still at the sight of it.

“My Root…” he breathed, reaching out with a single hand towards the charm. He froze, black-stained claws a mere breath away from touching the white surface. Ghost nearly recoiled at the pained sound that escaped the King’s throat - an almost strangled wail that came out as a gurgling sob - and new black tears began to drip down the King’s mask. He took his had away to clutch at his horns as he began to shake, his other hands grabbing at the robes around his throat and chest.

“My Root,” he choked out in a moan. Ghost stared at this display, uncertain of what to do as the Pale King seemed to collapse in on himself, curled around his arms as he began to sob. The abject misery in the sound would have broken the heart of a normal bug. Ghost only felt cold.

“I miss Her,” the King wept, the words almost sounding like a confession. Ghost got the sense that the King wasn’t really talking to them. These words felt like the ramblings of a broken bug, spoken for the speaker alone. “I’ve no right to, and yet… I… I wish She was with me. I have been alone for so long… and now… I will never see Her again. She was so sad and angry when She left. She was right to be. And it is all my fault…Will she ever smile again? After all that I have done… have I killed her too?”

The King’s words strangled off into another coughing fit that sounded as if it was ripping the wyrm apart from the inside, and more thick void fell to the black-stained stone floor. The King followed, collapsing to the floor and curling into a tight ball as he convulsed against the stone. The Pale King was still muttering as he choked, but the only words Ghost could make out were “I killed her”.

Ghost didn’t know how to respond. The White Lady had been alive when they spoke to her. Or did the Pale King mean he killed her in a metaphorical sense? She had locked herself away in her gardens and placed herself under powerful bindings to atone for the part she played in the Pale King’s plan. She diminished her light and restrained her influence. She would eventually be forgotten. Ghost supposed that, in a way, the Pale King had condemned his wife to a slow death not all that different from his own. Her body still lived, but the Pale King had killed her heart, and broken her spirit.

Just as he’d done to himself.

Without really thinking, Ghost knelt next to where the King had fallen out of his throne and placed a small hand upon his shoulder. The Pale King clutched at their hand with the desperation of a drowning bug. After a time, the King’s breathing slowed once more. The pale glow that had clung to him was all but gone now, flickering faintly like a sputtering candle, and the Kings breath came slow and shallow, as if it took all of his will just to fill his lungs. His gaze found Ghost’s, confusion thick behind the fear that practically radiated from him.

“Why do you stay?” he whispered, each word taking a colossal effort. “You are free… this kingdom is dead…”

Ghost shifted to sit beside the King, moving their clasped hands to their lap.

The King didn’t deserve forgiveness.

But no one deserved to die alone.

Ghost resolved to stay here beside the King in his final moments.

A gift he had never given to his kingdom. Or his children.

#hollow knight #pale king #little ghost #angst #my writing

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crash-cinematic-universe · 4 years

Text

Tear Open My Chest and Steal My Lungs

pairing: peter maximoff/reader

summary/request: Peter Maximoff has the Hanahaki disease, and he’d rather die than face rejection. HANAHAKI AU

warnings: detailed descriptions of throwing up bloody flowers, angst, Peter is accepting death

notes: I wrote all of this on paper in half an hour before transferring it onto my laptop. inspiration struck. i am proud

taglist: @lokiqueenofasgard

Hanahaki disease.

Peter never thought he’d have to experience it. Yet, here he is, hunched over his bathroom sink with bloody globs of flower petals falling from his lips. His chest ached as he heaved and gasped and sobbed, his body screaming for just a second of peace. He was trembling, his knuckles white from gripping the edges of the marble sink.

It started a few weeks before this incident. Peter had spent the day with you, messing around and playing ping pong and watching cheesy old sci-fi movies. Peter’s throat had been itching the entire day. It became harder to breathe for Peter with every brush of your skin against his. The first petals fell not long after you left, leaving Peter scared and confused. It wasn’t until Peter’s mother explained to him what was happening that he realized the gravity of the situation.

Peter was horrified, rightfully so. He had fallen helplessly in love with his best friend and it was slowly killing him. He tried to ignore it, he really did, but one way or another you’d pop into his mind and Peter would be thrust into a horrible coughing fit, spewing flowers across his bedroom floor. Peter couldn’t bring himself to confess his feelings to you, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to afford the surgery. He convinced himself that his feelings were one-sided and shallow, soon deciding that the pain of losing you was much worse than that of the plant growing in his lungs.

Peter was always good at hiding his pain, and this was no exception. He would bury the burning pain in his chest that he felt whenever he was around you. His mother and sisters saw his pain, and they cried and begged for him to take a chance. They didn’t want him to die. One look in Wanda’s tear-filled eyes made Peter understand that this wasn’t just about him-- he needed to live for his little sisters.

That’s how he landed himself in his cramped bathroom, vomiting up an entire garden’s worth of petals. He tried to rehearse what he was going to say, but with every word came an onslaught of blood-covered flowers. Peter glanced at his reflection; his ghostly white skin covered in deep red blood, his eyes bloodshot and filled with tears, stray flower petals and leaves clinging to his blood-stained Nirvana t-shirt. He looked weak and hurt and broken but all he felt was an indescribable need for your warm, comforting touch. All he could do was cry as more petals forced their way up his throat and out of his mouth, blood splattering on the white marble on his bathroom floor. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t get the words out, hell, he could barely think about you without throwing up his guts. Peter resigned himself back in his room, laying defeated on his bed as he accepted his imminent death. Wanda, Lorena, and his mother weren’t home. He hated the idea of them finding his body like this, but at this point, he knew there was no other option. It was too late. Peter let his eyes flutter shut, and he did the only thing he could do at the moment; he thought of you.

He ignored the pain in his lungs as he thought of your smiling face and your glittering eyes. He disregarded his struggle to breathe as he thought about how it might feel to kiss you and how it would sound to call you his. Tears and blood and flower petals covered his bedsheets, but he didn’t care. His breathing was shallow and unsteady, but he didn’t care. All he cared about was ending his pain.

Peter’s eyes snapped open as a knock sounds at his door, your voice sounding from the other side of it.

“Peter? Are you in there?” Oh no. No, no, no, you can’t see him like this. Peter didn’t want you to see his weakness. He could hear you coughing on the other side of the door before you spoke again.

“Peter, I’m coming in. I really need to talk to you.” Your voice was hoarse and raspy. Peter couldn’t speak due to the plant in his throat, but he could move just enough to wipe the blood off his mouth. He sat in silence as you opened the basement door. Peter barely looked at you for a second before his lungs lurched, causing him to cough up a handful of petals. You were over to him in a second, gently stroking his back as he spluttered. His cheeks burned in shame. He felt pathetic. Your eyes looked pained as you gazed at him sadly.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he tried to respond, but his words were caught on vines and rosebuds. “Who, Peter?” You ask quietly, and your eyes are torn away from his as you cough up a few petals of your own. His eyes widen.

“Who are you in love with, Peter?” Here you were, sitting next to him literally asking for him to confess and he still couldn’t bring himself to admit it. He’d rather die than lose you. He didn’t stop to realize that he was losing you either way. At least now he knows he’d be rejected either way-- you’ve got hanahaki, too.

You take his tear-stained face in your hands, your eyes pouring into his. You can see it in his eyes-- he loves you. Within seconds your lungs cleared up, a fresh breath of air filling your chest. Peter’s lungs are still painfully stuffed with plants. He chokes on leaves as he desperately tries to breathe. Panic sets in as you try to cure his illness.

“Peter, I’m in love with you.” Peter doesn’t believe you. He thinks you’re lying to keep him alive. His chest tightens; the disease won’t go away unless he believes that you love him. He dying right then and there. You gently whip his bloody lips with your thumbs before you slam your lips against his. What little breath Peter had left was gone, but at the same time the bush in his lungs reseeded and shrank until it was completely gone. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Peter could breathe.

You pull away, resting your forehead on Peter’s as he gasps for breath. His eyes fill with tears as he cries quietly. You pull him close and run your hands through his silver hair, letting him sob into your shoulder. Peter looked death in the eyes and accepted it. He was so scared of rejection and abandonment that he was willing to die to avoid it. You hated that. you hated yourself for not seeing it sooner, for letting Peter’s suffering slip right under your nose. Peter slowly moved away from you, his eyes red and puffy. His breathing was hesitant and unsure as if he was waiting for the petals to return.

“Peter,” you say softy. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” He sniffled.

“For not telling you sooner, for not seeing that you were in pain, I--” he cuts you off.

“Hanahaki is scary, but love is scarier.” he says. “I hid from you, I fought back my pain so you wouldn’t see it. It’s not your fault.” His voice breaks slightly, but a small smile grows on his face.

“I guess you really... take my breath away.” He chuckles weakly, pulling you into his chest as he lays down on his bed. He glances sadly at the discarded petals on the floor. You pick on up slowly, examining it closely before crushing it in your hand. You turn to Peter and gently place a kiss on his cheek. He sighs in comfort before removing his blood soaked shirt and returning to his place next to you. Your hand gently caresses his pale chest, causing Peter to shiver slightly.

“Peter?” you whisper

“Yeah?”

“I love you.” Peter smiles before pressing a kiss to your head.

“Trust me, I know, and I love you too.”

#Evan Peters #peter maximoff #peter maximoff x reader #peter maximof x reader #xmen #xmen fanfiction #xmen imagine #hanahaki disease #quicksilver #quicksilver x reader

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lady-plantagenet · 4 years

Note

What are your thoughts on Jaime x Cersei, Jaime x Brienne, Tyrion x Tysha, George x Isabel, and Henry VIII x Anne Boleyn? (Sorry for the long list!)

Glad to see someone else feeling charitable and letting me vent my unsolicited opinions 😂. Saved the George x Isabel for the last cause I’m sure it will be the longest lmao!

Asked Via: Send me a ship and I'll give you my (brutally) honest opinion on it: https://lady-plantagenet.tumblr.com/post/627331607624302592/send-me-a-ship-and-ill-give-you-my-brutally

Jaime x Cersei: Despite it’s fundamental flaws, it is... titillating to read. The idea of people falling in love with their own other-gender counterpart is twisted yet so intriguing. I must confess that I am not as disgusted by incest as most people, so bear that in mind. The thing is, Cersei is definitely a narcissist with a lot of internalised misogyny and this ship just feels so justified to her character.

The issue is, and as the books go on, it becomes quickly clear that Jaime’s love is not as deep and as his appearance changes, and they no longer look identical Cersei’s own mental image, Cersei’s love also wanes and then you’re hit with how shallow it was. So I ship these two... but I also don’t because they’re toxic? Honestly, book-wise I am intrigued to see what will happen, if they end up together... or they don’t... either way I’m sure it will be quite a ride. You see, I’m not emotionally invested.

Jaime x Brienne: Oh the Sapphires... Obviously anyone who cares for Jaime’s wellbeing would want him to end up with Brienne as opposed to Cersei. I read this interesting theory recently on how these two don’t actually love each other but confuse their strong platonic feelings of affection for romance. You see, that’s also an interesting take as both characters are quite bereft off opposite gender friendships.

However, I strongly ship them romantically as well, Book!Brienne (hey show as well!) is truly admirable because based on her choice in men e.g. Renly, you can see how she had still not given up on her maidenly fantasies and I just love her for that, because true love isn’t something to which only pretty women are entitled. She in many ways represents salvation for him as she being a true knight in spite of her gender, can veer him back into the path of chivalry. He is most chivalrous around her, I mean, not only because her good conduct influences but also because he performs some of the most knightly deeds by cause of her e.g. rescuing her from the bear pit. I like this ship, it’s a good trope subversion.

Tyrion x Tysha: I find this one of the more heartbreaking ships of ASOIAF, because to me it represents Tyrion’s loss of innocence.

She is a haunting figure because of how small remnants of her memory were enough to pull Tyrion into the toxic relationship he had with Shae e.g. she too hard dark hair and there was music around when he met her. Its one of those weird (as @omgellendean put it in her brutally honest ask tag answer - a character who consists of only a name), but unlike Ashara Dayne, she is not idealised and given this over-the-top tragic story. So this elusive Tysha is an entity by what she symbolises: foregone youth and a sweetness that has no place in the ASOIAF universe.

Henry VIII x Anne Boleyn: As I said in my last ask. I cannot tolerate the romanticisation of infidelity, and that is especially when the male’s spouse is a wonderful woman fit for him and has done nothing wrong. I don’t have strong feelings against Anne Boleyn herself, as I prefer to see her as ‘Anne the Educated and Sophisticated Reformer’ as opposed to ‘Anne the Seductress’. Ugh let me just say... rule of thumb for whether it’s a good pair: Do thousands have to die for your selfish desire to be together? Yes? Then probably not meant to be. Just a thought.

I think Anne knew her own mind and I like to think her strong beliefs influenced her decision to breach this marriage (no I didn’t think she was her father’s pawn gah I’m sick of that term), but they were ultimately unsuited in everything and it was a passion brought about by Henry’s caprice. My heart breaks when I think on how Anne could have been happily married to Henry Percy. I’m also tried of this whole ‘master manipulator of men’s hearts’ reputation Anne is getting. You do realise refusing to be a mistress was not being a tease as much as it was just being a conventionally virtuous woman..? The girl knew her worth.

George x Isabel: Oh god. I promise to not start writing an essay. As weird as it is to ship dead people, they are my OTP, the main characters of my main historyfanfic, and frankly the most unsung couple of TWOTR. The fact that there are no records of letters or any particularly over-the-top romantic gestures by either of them, just intrigues me more because it was very much a relationship defined in subtle deeds. If you peruse the more academic TWOTR literature you can see all the fine but conclusive evidences of a devoted relationship: He posthumously enrolled her in a guild when he stayed there with his children (months after she died), he was buried together with her and her ancestors not his, how during 1470 he sent her to Exeter for her safekeeping while her mother and sister remained at Warwick and when a siege broke out he (and his father-in-law) immediately rode south to lift it and the amount of expenses and care he put into her funeral. Not to mention, the hassle it took for them to get married: years of trying to get a dispensation underneath the king’s nose culminating in them having to cross the channel.

The thing is, it had a lot of politics behind it and to be honest I don’t find that less romantic. It was one right for both of them: for the wealthiest heiress in England and the handsome younger brother and heir of King Edward - truly no one else would do for any of them. One of the things that grabs me is the medievalness of it all, how they were bound together by what was essentially a plan to reverse the country’s inevitable transition out of ‘bastard feudalism’. You also get a sense of how this marriage despite the ultimate failure of its purpose (to make George King) brought George the chance to establish himself as a major magnate through his wife’s lands which ultimately became his main source of power as opposed to his royal status. The relative peace that ensued after 1472 shows that his status as Warwick’s political heir (as Christine Carpenter put it) did something to placate the disapointment of not becoming king. So the way I see it, Isabel’s death took from him any of the satisfaction and peace she brought with her lands and persona as he once again reverted to his old (even more than before) reckless self. Not to mention the people he executed after her death in his grief believe in her to have been poisoned (most historians believe that’s unlikely).

Aside from that, in a society where pretty much everyone strayed (even Anthony Woodville had a bastard daughter), it is quite heart-warming how the man known for his treachery, happened to be one of the only ones loyal to his wife: no bastards or women were ever linked to his name not even in rumour. As for Isabel, she is quite a shadowy figure but you get the sense she was intelligent because of the care her father took in preparing her as his heir, because of her wealth you get this sense of majesty and significance about her. The two times we can deduce anything about her personality is a true supporter of her husband: once, when deciding to treat with the Yorks behind her father’s back to reconcile George to them, second, remaining steadfast to George when he tried to squirrel her sister Anne out of her inheritance. Based on the homage she paid to her ancestors, she seems proud of her ancestry so it’s quite intriguing to think why she made the aforementioned two choices, endangering her father and sister in favour of her husband. And oh god I’m rambling, I can say even more if you can believe it but I shall stop. Overall, one might think I’m wishful thinking but frankly Anne and Richard are touted as star-crossed lovers all the time and with even littler evidence to support it (not that I don’t ship them, I do). I might be subjective, but the story of George and Isabel’s life is just so compelling...

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mollymauk-teafleak · 3 years

Text

and when it’s hard i'll place your head into my hands

Adzri, Alec and Seregil's daughter, falls ill with a summer fever, sending both of her fathers frantic. Even as Alec tries to be strong, he realises it's stirring memories he'd thought he'd buried

Please leave a comment on Ao3 and reblog if you like this! And I’m always accepting requests!

------

Alec didn’t need the talímenios bond to read the anguish on Seregil’s face as soon as the chamber door closed behind them. It only meant he felt it too, a roiling, panicked pressure to thrash in his chest next to his own.

“Talí…” he murmured gently, moving immediately to hold him, “It’ll be alright.”

Seregil’s body moved to be held and hold in return but there was something mechanical about it, some missing part that made it clear his mind was elsewhere. Probably back behind the door they’d just closed, lost in the sickly miasma of illness that had invaded their daughter’s bedroom.

“Valerius said the poultice would help her breathing,” he mumbled, distress cracking the edges of his voice, “He said.”

“I know. And it will, given some time to work,” he put a confidence he didn’t truly feel in his voice, knowing his lover needed to hear it.

It had been harrowing, their little five year old girl crying fitfully at the dull green paste of crushed herbs applied to her chest, only able to sob weakly and croak that it was burning her nose. Seregil had turned away at one point, shoulders tight and tense as he faced the thick, dense summer night outside the window, leaving Alec to finish the job, murmuring soothingly to Adzri as best he could. Watching her cry herself back into a feverish sleep, still not understanding why he wasn’t listening to her had completed the breaking of his heart.

“She’s hurting, Alec,” Seregil whispered, voice raw, and if there had been any part left unshattered, those words did it.

“It’s just a summer fever, talí, I promise. It will break and she’ll be right as rain, back to running around and making our lives absolute chaos.”

The attempt at humour landed as thinly as it had sounded. They were both keenly aware that, for some, the old and young and vulnerable, summer fevers didn’t just fade. They burned and consumed the person from the inside out, racing their heart until it simply couldn’t hold any more. And while Adzri was hale and healthy, as robust as any child with scarecrows like Seregil and Alec for fathers could be, she was frighteningly young.

Alec had been holding himself together as much as he could since Adzri had started to flag just a few days earlier, starting to hack and cough and vomit in the night, as her skin turned a burning red, he’d told himself that Seregil needed him to be strong every bit as much as their daughter did.

But every time he closed his eyes, he felt like a boy again, watching his father waste away and not being able to do a bloody thing about it. The fear he tasted on his tongue was wretchedly familiar.

He shoved the thought roughly away and focused on Seregil, his tense shoulders and how he trembled in his embrace. He couldn’t fall apart now, not with his talímenios about to break in front of him.

“Come, love, you need to rest,” he whispered, kissing his cheek which tasted of salt.

That was terrifying in itself, a bitter counterpoint to the fear on his tongue. He could count on both hands the amount of times Seregil had shed tears in front of him. Though it was an increasing count, since the winter morning when he’d held her for the first time and promptly burst into tears in front of everyone in attendance, most of whom had known him for decades and had never once seen him cry.

“We should have stayed in Bôkthersa,” Seregil murmured, bitter guilt heavy in his voice, “She never once got sick when we were there and then as soon as we came back here…”

Alec sighed, again not needing the bond to feel what his lover was feeling. They’d been welcomed back to Bôkthersa with open arms, tears and relief so their daughter could be born where Seregil had been, in the same room no less, and they’d lived there for some time until she and Alec were strong enough to make the sea journey back. They’d managed to feel like a family, like part of the clan and that shared history. They’d even had a small ceremony, just amongst Seregil’s immediate family, finally making good on the promise held within the rings they’d been wearing, the promise to live as husbands no matter what the law said.

But the sweetness of those long, sunny years only made saying goodbye again even harder. And Seregil was acutely aware that they had to leave because of him, because of the mistakes that still haunted him even after so much hard won change. There was only so much time they could spend as Bôkthersans before other faie would take notice, before they would be reminded of the severing that had taken place. And there was no guarantee it would be a polite reminder.

“Rhíminee is our home,” Alec said gently, wishing more than anything he could pull out the knife of guilt Seregil still felt in his side, “We had to come back some time. Seregil, please, don’t think this is your fault.”

Seregil sighed, eyes far away, both of them well aware he wouldn’t make a promise to his love that he couldn’t keep, “I should stay by her...in case she wakes up…”

“You have been, talí,” Alec reminded him, “For three days straight. And Valerius was just as clear in his instructions for you as he was for Adzri.”

“He said to check her temperature regularly!” Seregil protested, even as the shadows under his eyes looked hollow in the candlelight and his eyes struggled to focus.

“I’ll do it,” Alec said firmly, “I slept last night, it’s your turn now. You promised me, Seregil.”

Beaten, Seregil wavered, though his eyes shone in the candles they’d left burning through the long hot nights as the house had stayed restless.

“I know, my love,” Alec moved up to cradle his face in his hands, “Believe me, I know. But you can’t help her by running yourself into the ground. You’ve done all you can, now we have to wait, as painful as it is. And you may as well do it by getting some sleep.”

Seregil took a shaky breath, now leaning into Alec’s warmth, letting himself take the comfort now with full awareness, “I just can’t bear it. Seeing this hurt her and knowing we can’t fix it.”

“Because we love her,” Alec nodded, resting their foreheads together, “And that’s going to get her through this.”

Seregil nodded slowly, “Very well...I’ll sleep but you’ll wake me at dawn? Or if anything changes?”

“Of course,” Alec promised, sending him off to their chamber just next door to Adzri’s with a last kiss, “I love you, talí.”

“I love you too,” Seregil murmured softly, eyes still sad and worn as he closed the door but there was a slight glimmer of hope under it all, one he’d managed to put back there.

Alec’s relief and triumph lasted all the way until their chamber door closed and he heard the sound of his husband sinking, fully clothed into bed. And then there was nothing but fear in its wake.

He was silent as he stepped back into his daughter’s bedroom, not wanting to wake her, and slid back into the chair that had been keeping an anxious vigil by her bedside since she took ill. It was dark, they’d extinguished all the candles and drew the curtains after it became clear the light was hurting her eyes, but it was only a few moments before his eyes found shapes in the shadows.

She was so beautiful. He was struck by that thought so much, even after years of being her father. Of course the first thing he always saw in her face was Seregil, just as his talímenios always claimed to see him. It was the long, thin nose and the sharp angles that he saw, the messily falling dark curls, the intelligence in her eyes. Though her eyes were closed now, her cheeks red with the fever, her breathing shallow and raspy, a hollow sound in the heavy shadows. Her little chest barely rose and fell, there was hardly movement in the blankets they’d wrapped her in as she lay in the middle of her little bed.

In the silence, pierced by that awful sound of illness that Alec dreaded hearing but dreaded not hearing even more wholly, he couldn’t keep the memories away anymore. Once again he was a much younger man and the shape in front of him wasn’t his daughter. The laboured breathing was deeper but no less sickly, whistling through a much older chest. And instead of the heavy, oppressive heat of a Rhíminee summer, it was so, so cold, a bleak Northern winter.

Once again he was sixteen and he was watching his father die.

All alone and without his husband to comfort, the creeping sense of helplessness set in. Here again was something he couldn’t shoot or snare or beat back with a sword, something invisible and malicious and omnipotent, sliding out one of the linchpins of his life and leaving him reeling. Once again he felt small and naive, an insignificant speck in the middle of a white, empty forest, tears freezing on his cheeks as he vainly tried to light a fire, unable to get so much as a spark.

And suddenly he couldn’t breathe.

Not her too, he begged silently, as tears began to slide heavily down his cheeks, please, not her too.

All the growing he’d done, the love he’d found, the battles he’d won, what did it really mean if he couldn’t save the people he cared about?

“Alec?”

He jumped, suddenly unaware of how much time had passed, how long he’d been sat in his daughter’s bedroom and in the middle of a Northern forest at the same time, as both a terrified child and a terrified father. But Seregil was in the doorway, easier to see than he should have been at night. Some pale, grey light was filtering through behind him, light that had to be dawn’s.

“Seregil,” he croaked, voice cracking with disuse.

“Oh, talí…” Seregil kept his voice soft but the emotion in it was obvious as he moved towards him, putting his hands on Alec’s shoulders, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t think once how this must be making you feel, given everything.”

Whether it was the bond or his panic attack had been that obvious on his face, it was clear Seregil knew what was going on in his mind.

“We’ve both had a lot on our minds…” he murmured, shaking his head, Seregil blaming himself the last thing he wanted, “Adzriel…”

“I should have thought,” Seregil insisted, “I should have comforted you rather than just…”

“Talí, please no,” Alec turned, needing his eyes to find his lover’s, “You could just as easily say I should have told you. And you needed me then, I’m never going to regret giving you comfort when you needed it.”

Seregil let it go but his eyes were still concerned. He did look like he had at least gotten some sleep, his hair was matted on one side and the shadows under his eyes had lessened.

“You don’t talk about your father much, talí,” he murmured, still keeping his voice low, to not wake Adzri, and his tone careful.

Alec shifted, biting his lip slightly, “I...I know I must make him sound cold but my whole childhood, he was the only constant. Some days it would feel he was the only other person in the world. He...he was my world.”

Seregil nodded slowly, hand gently stroking over his hair.

“And watching him die was...difficult,” it wasn’t a large enough word for it but he couldn’t find a right one in the moment, “And afterwards, until I met you, I felt so alone. And now, seeing her like this, it…”

His throat closed again, not in the tight, frozen panic way of before, but in the more natural way of tears being released.

“Because she’s my world too. And I don’t know what I’m going to do if I ever lose her.”

Now it was Seregil’s turn to hold him, his arms strong and safe around his shoulders as he cried quietly against his stomach. He didn’t need much, strange for years of hidden hurt, but Alec was glad the quiet shuddering had stopped so he could hear what happened next.

“Papa? Daddy?”

Both of them immediately jumped as if poked with a sword, whirling around. Adzri sat up in bed, rubbing at her eyes. Her voice was still a little raspy but she hadn’t been so alert in more than a day, her eyes so wide and aware.

“Sweetling,” Alec gasped, lurching forward to feel her forehead. Damp and clammy but perfectly cool.

“Oh, Adzriel,” Seregil moved to sit at her feet, eyes wide with relief, “Oh, look at you. How do you feel?”

“Thirsty,” she decided after some thought, her chubby little hand moving under her nightdress to her chest, where the poultice had dried and cracked, “Itchy.”

“Of course,” Seregil laughed, taking her in his arms and holding her tight, “Breakfast and a bath, then. You can have whatever you want.”

Adzri blinked, smiling hopefully, “Cake?”

“Sure,” Seregil shook with either relieved weeping or helpless laughter, even he seemed unsure, “Why not? Cake for breakfast. Aura knows we’ve earned it.”

Alec smiled, taking a moment to watch them both and let the relief course through him and chase the last of the fear away, before he moved in to share the embrace.

He hadn’t seen Amasa smile often, only on the brightest of autumn mornings or when Alec landed a shot or upon hearing the first of the starlings singing. But he could well imagine he was smiling now.

#nightrunners #alec i amasa #seregil i korit #seregil x alec #alec x seregil #stag and otter #sickfic #dads au #please comment!

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deku-leaf · 4 years

Text

virus - part 1 - “dude, is deku okay?” - tododeku fic

summary: during a villain encounter, midoriya is hit with a virus quirk that causes his body’s immune system to turn on him. he gets really sick really fast, and todoroki has no idea what to do

warnings: whump & fluff, hurt/comfort, canon level violence, implied underage drinking, detailed descriptions of illness

word count: 2,359

author’s note: this will probably end up being just two parts :)

“Take cover!”

Izuku leaps to the side of the road, covering his head with his arms and tumbling into an alleyway. The ground beneath him rumbles with the sound of something big, metal, and heavy being thrown into a building. It was probably a car or a dumpster. Either way, it sounded too close for comfort. Izuku scrambles back to his feet as a cloud of dust overtakes his vision. In addition to the creaking of metal and crumbling of bricks, there’s the unmistakable sound of heavy, thundering footsteps at the entrance of the alley. No chance in hell he was sticking around for that. Izuku leaps into the air using One For All and lands lightly on the building next to him. He peers over the edge of the roof to get a better view of his opponent below.

Based on the intel they received in class, there’s supposed to be a pair of villains - one brain, one brawn - who have been holed up with a hostage on this block. But Izuku has only made contact with the brawn so far. An unholy amount of contact. A grumbling, hulk-like groan rumbles from the alley below, and Izuku strains to see the villain through the dust. Glowing yellow eyes find his, and crinkle with a smile. Izuku feels himself smile back at the villain as the green lighting of One For All skitters over his body.

“Take cover!”

Shouto’s voice is scratchy as he yells a warning to his classmate - just in time, by the looks of it. Midoriya manages to jump out of the way seconds before the massive villain in front of them launches a pickup truck right past where he had just been standing. The truck careens into a brick building and the resulting cloud of dust and debris is near debilitating. Shouto covers his mouth with his hand to keep from breathing the stuff, and blinks furiously to clear his vision.

Based on their assignments for hero training class, he and Izuku were to neutralize the villains head-on as soon as Jirou and Kirishima secured the hostage. One of the villains has a monster-like strength quirk, and the other villain’s quirk is not yet known. Shouto runs through the intel again as he stumbles through the dust cloud and towards the alleyway. The dust clears, and Shouto’s eyes widen.

The scene before him unfolds like a slow-motion movie action sequence. The hero Deku and the colossal villain are leaping towards each other, Izuku dropping from the building above and the villain rising to meet him from below. Both men pull back their fists and grit their teeth before clashing in the middle.

The ensuing reverberation is not unlike what Shouto imagines a lightning strike from 50 feet away would feel like.

Shouto slaps his hands over his ears at the thunderous sound, doubling over at the waist. He raises his head again almost immediately to see the result of the clash.

Midoriya stands victorious over the villain’s crumpled body. The bulky monster of a man looks less intimidating when soundly unconscious and half-buried in the concrete of the alleyway. Midoriya quickly cuffs the villain, checks his pulse, and turns away, jogging towards Shouto with a crooked grin on his face.

“Thanks for the heads up,” he pants as he approaches. His hair is coated in dust and sweat is dripping down his temple, but he seems completely unphased. Shouto nods in response.

“We should find the other villain,” Shouto says. “Not knowing their quirk, we’d better find them as fast as we can and neutralize them with the quirk-suppressing cuffs before they can respond.”

Midoriya nods, his smile disappearing in favor of a tight-lipped expression of determination - back to business. As the two of them turn to investigate the scene of the crime further, Shouto can’t help but feel a twinge of excitement at the thought of them successfully completing their assignment. Ever since they began actual field work for their class, his classmates have been celebrating together whenever one of them is victorious against a real villain. Midoriya in particular gets particularly...enthusiastic after a win. He typically breaks out his ‘victory juice’ (a cheap bottle of vodka he keeps hidden in the back of his closet) shortly after dinner, and the great hero Deku becomes a tipsy goofball who is surprisingly good at dancing. Shouto looks forward to basking in his friend’s celebratory antics when they return to the dorms tonight.

Shouto fights a smile as he turns to glance at his friend. On the other side of the street, Midoriya had been peering through a broken shop window for clues, but he’s now standing still and staring straight ahead down the street. Shouto tries to follow his gaze but sees nothing of interest. Something’s off. He looks back to Midoriya and notices his hands trembling, just slightly.

“Midoriya.” Shouto immediately starts walking towards his classmate. He stops in his tracks when he notices the small, pale hand squeezing Midoriya’s wrist. The hand is reaching from the other side of the broken window. The figure inside slowly rises to their feet.

“I saw what you did,” the villain says in a soft voice. She’s young - high school age. Her hair is long, dark, and tangled, pulled into a knotted up ponytail. They still don’t know her quirk, and she’s got a hand on Midoriya. If Shouto attacks now he could put his friend at risk. But if he doesn’t-

“You beat up my big guy. So annoying. I liked him.” The girl keeps talking as Shouto’s mind races. Why isn’t Midorya moving? He’s still staring straight ahead, not even at the villain, but his eyes are wide. Is it a quirk that petrifies movement? Shouto wouldn’t want to freeze her in place while she’s still got hands on Midoriya. He has to separate them somehow.

“Let him go,” Shouto says quietly. The girl’s eyes slide over to where Shouto stands. He readies his ice. As soon as she lets go of Midoriya, he’ll strike.

“Mmm, you’d like that wouldn’t you?” She says, smiling sweetly. She pouts suddenly and looks back to Midorya, whose knees are now trembling. “Just give me a couple more seconds. I know I’m caught, but I just want to make sure he pays the price for taking down my big guy.” She squeezes tighter and Midoriya’s body jerks. An impossibly small, pained whimper escapes from behind his closed mouth. That’s more than enough.

Just as Shouto sends a wall of ice towards the villain, her hands are jerked behind her back roughly. Shouto stops his ice before it reaches his target, and watches as Kirishima places quirk-suppressing cuffs on the writhing girl. Seeing that the threat has been neutralized, his eyes whirl back to his friend.

Midoriya trembles for another moment before dropping roughly to his knees.

Shouto is at his side in an instant. “Midoriya,” he says, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder and searching his face. Midoriya is still staring straight ahead at nothing, but now his lips are slightly parted. Shouto couldn’t tell from the street, but up close he can see that Midoriya’s breaths are shallow and rapid, like a frightened rabbit. He’s hyperventilating.

“Midoriya. What did she do? Did she use her quirk?” Shouto rakes his eyes down his friend’s body, searching for any sign of injury. He looks fine, aside from-

A violent shudder erupts through Midoriya’s body. His head lolls forward and Shouto has to grab him around the torso to keep his friend’s limp body from hitting the concrete.

“Midoriya.” Shouto slowly lowers him to the ground, turning him on his side. Midoriya’s breathing has slowed, but now it sounds labored. He’s more out of breath now than he was after punching out the brawny villain. What the hell was that girl’s quirk? Shouto places his hand back on Midoriya’s shoulder, the icy feeling of helplessness curling around his heart.

Midoriya wheezes out a wet cough. He blinks a couple of times, and then his eyes roll back. A lump forms in Shouto’s throat as he watches Midoriya convulse once, and then lay completely still. Unconscious.

Izuku is so thirsty he thinks he’s gonna die. There’s an ache in his left leg that’s radiating up into his knee - no, it’s his stomach that hurts. A wave of nausea racks his body. His head is throbbing, he can hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Everything is so cold, he’s shaking. His teeth hurt from grinding and chattering. His ears hurt. His throat hurts, his lungs hurt. He can barely breathe. Izuku slowly registers the feeling of his clothes on his body. He can feel every thread of fabric pin pricking his sensitive skin like tiny needles. He gasps.

He opens his eyes and immediately squints as the intensely bright light exacerbates his headache. He groans involuntarily, the noise cutting off in his throat as he coughs roughly. His lungs rattle. He attempts opening his eyes again.

“Dude, is Deku okay?”

Izuku recognizes Kirishima’s voice, but doesn’t see him. He only sees a white popcorn-coated ceiling with fluorescent lights. Then, a head of red and white hair hesitantly peers over his field of vision. With effort, Izuku shifts his gaze to meet Todoroki’s. His friend is sitting next to him and looks sad and confused. Izuku can relate. Izuku hurts, and hurts, and is so tired, and wants to sleep, and is seconds away from puking.

Izuku turns his head sharply to the side as he gags, mouth filling with saliva. He slaps a hand over his mouth, willing his body to just hold on, just calm down, don’t lose your breakfast, don’t hurl on your best friend’s lap. Nausea twirls the room in circles, walls replacing ceilings and afterimages of office furniture swimming lazily through Izuku’s vision. He’s laying on an unfamiliar floor. Izuku squeezes his eyes shut again.

“Midoriya?” That’s Todoroki’s voice now, soft and tentative. Izuku hums in response, hand still pressed against his mouth. He doesn’t dare move. He feels his body twitch involuntarily as a pain shoots up his spine. He hums again, but this time it sounded more like a desperate whine.

“Midoriya, is there-” Todoroki cuts himself off as another voice enters the room. Izuku’s ears zero in on the person speaking, trying to focus past the pain. He recognizes this person’s voice as Aizawa, and it sounds like he’s ending a phone conversation.

“Is he awake?” Aizawa asks after hanging up.

“Yes,” Todoroki says.

“Midoriya, can you hear me?”

Izuku almost nods, but thinks better of it. He hums quietly against his hand again, instead. There’s a beat of heavy silence before Aizawa speaks again, this time closer to Izuku. He’s probably crouching down like Todoroki was.

“Midoriya, I just questioned the villain that you encountered. Are you feeling ill?”

‘Feeling ill’ would be putting it lightly. Izuku feels like his entire body was thrown through a glass window 10 stories high. He feels like a gallon of crud was injected straight into his lungs. He feels like an ice pick was recently lodged into his skull, and maybe twisted around a bit. He feels like he just rode a tilt-a-whirl 50 times in a row after eating 5 chili dogs. Izuku wants to say all of this, but just hums a muffled “Mhm.”

Aizawa thankfully accepts this as a sufficient response and continues.

“Her quirk is called Virus. It’s incredibly potent because it can only be used on one person, once per day. It basically turns your body’s immune system against you.”

Izuku opens his eyes to see Aizawa kneeling next to him. He slowly lowers his hand from his mouth, the nausea subsiding in favor of overwhelming body aches. He shudders.

“How long,” Izuku manages.

“It’s hard to tell. It depends on how recently she’s used her quirk, and how long she makes direct contact with your skin. She estimated that for you, it would last at least a few days.”

Izuku closes his eyes again. “Oh god,” he says quietly. He can barely hear his voice over the sound of his heartbeat in his ears. A few days of this? His head is spinning again, and he shifts his focus back to repressing the nausea.

“I just got off the phone with Recovery Girl,” Aizawa continues. “She suggests you treat this as you would a typical illness - lots of rest and fluids. Pain medication, too. And in the meantime we’ll try to get more information out of the villain. For now, let’s get you back to the dorms so you can rest.”

Izuku opens his eyes again and watches Aizawa rise to his feet. Right. Going back to the dorms would mean moving. Izuku needed to stand up.

Against every instinct in his body, he slowly sits up. His head is throbbing. His muscles are screaming, and his heart is pounding. Sweat beads on his forehead as he slides his feet closer, preparing to stand. This was not going to end well.

Two hands - Todoroki’s hands - reach down and wrap around Izuku’s wrists to help him up. Izuku slowly, slowly rises to his feet, most of his weight being pulled by his classmate. As Izuku reaches his full height, his vision goes completely black, and everything ceases for a moment.

When the speckles of black clear from Izuku’s vision, he’s completely slumped against Todoroki’s front. His breath is stuttering out in heavy pants, and the side of his face is squished up against his friend’s chest. Todoroki’s arms have wrapped around his back, supporting him in a hug-like embrace. It would be sweet, if Izuku wasn’t on the verge of passing out again.

“Can you walk?” Todoroki asks. His voice is quiet, but Izuku can hear a slight waver. He hates making his friends worry. He hates the relentless aching in his bones almost as much. Jesus Christ, Izuku’s head hurts. Did Todoroki ask him a question? He can’t remember.

Izuku vaguely registers that he’s being lifted into the air before slipping back into unconsciousness.

part 2

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hovercraft79 · 4 years

Text

Lovesong

Chapters: 3

Word Count: 5,496

Fandom: The Worst Witch (TV 2017)

Rating: M

Warnings: general family discord, adult situations, violence, child in danger

Summary: A dangerous malady befalls one of the students and Ada doesn’t know what to do. Tensions are running high and Hecate and Ada feel the stress. Will they be able to count on each other to make it through or will the stresses tear them apart?

Notes: This is part 2 of the fic that covers the Week 8 prompt ‘magical battle couple.’

Welp, as it happens, the workshop and going back to school took quite the toll on my writing time. That and the fact that these two witches had so much going on they needed a whole extra chapter. So now this is chapter 2 of a three-chapter fic.

The title of this week’s fic is still Lovesong, by The Cure.

As ever, I’m thankful Sparky is still hanging in there and editing for me. She was so thrilled to learn this was part one of two two of three.

“I found them, I found them!” Mavis raced down the corridor, dodging the handful of girls gathered outside Penny’s room. Pushing girls out of the way, Mavis cleared a path for Hecate and Ada all the way into the bedroom. “They’re here, Miss Bat!” Mavis practically shouted. “I went to Miss Hardbroom’s room and Miss Cackle was there, too!”

Waving them in, Gwen cast a quick glance over their nightclothes but otherwise said nothing. The fact that Hecate Hardbroom was blushing from broomstick to bristle told her everything she needed to know. “The girl’s losing magic – quickly.” She lowered her voice so only Hecate and Ada could hear. “She’s pale, her breathing is shallow, and there’s a faint shimmer on her skin that’s dripping down the mattress and onto the floor. I fear it could be the Wasting.”

Ada’s eyes flew open wide. “Are you sure? How?” She took an unconscious step back. Ada had heard of the Wasting – everyone had – but she’d never seen a case herself. Few had. Officially, Cachexia magicae, but most simply called it the Wasting, if they spoke of it at all. If they did, it was always in the same hushed tone that Gwen used now.

Before Gwen could answer, Hecate swept back into the hallway. “Girls! Back to your rooms!” No one moved. “NOW!” After a stunned moment of stillness, girls scattered in all directions. Hecate slammed the door with more force than she intended. “We need to get her into the infirmary, under an isolation spell.”

“Now we can’t be certain,” Ada began, wringing her hands together. “Let’s not panic just yet. I’ll transfer her to the infirmary. Hecate, if you’ll fetch Miss Spellbody and meet us there, we’ll see if we can’t get to the bottom of this.” She turned to Gwen. “I fear someone should probably find my sister.” Ada closed her eyes and transferred herself and Penny to the infirmary.

Once they’d gone, Gwen and Hecate stared at one another. At last, Gwen spoke. “Took you two long enough. Well done.”

The blush that had finally started to recede blazed back with a vengeance. “I’m sure I don’t know what you could be talking about.”

“I’m sure you don’t, but…” Gwen reached out and tapped the top button of Hecate’s pyjamas. “You might want to try again with your top, maybe line the buttons up this time.” She grinned as Hecate’s hands flew to her collar, confirming that she had, indeed, misbuttoned her pyjamas. “And when you see Ada, tell her to turn her gown right-side out.” Gwen lifted a hand to cup Hecate’s cheek. “Love suits you both, dear. Don’t be embarrassed by it.” She transferred out, leaving Hecate standing there, dumbly touching her cheek where Gwen’s hand had been.

Hecate allowed herself a moment to feel the warmth spreading through her before she hurried to find Mavis Spellbody.

“Am I going to get it, too?” Mavis’ voice sounded very small in the corner of the infirmary. Four girls had been in Penny’s room since she fell ill. Only Mavis had actually touched her, and now she too sat inside an isolation spell in the infirmary.

Ada muttered a quiet spell and stepped through the wall of magic separating Mavis from the rest of the room. “No, dear. This is all just a precaution.” She took a seat next to Mavis and wrapped an arm around the girl’s shoulders. “It’s a bit scary, isn’t it?” Ada felt Mavis nod against her shoulder. “Don’t you worry about a thing. Miss Bismuth is taking good care of Penny; she’ll be right as rain before you know it.”

Hecate materialized outside the isolation spell holding a small bag of Mavis’ things. Her face twisted into a worried scowl. She transferred the bag to Ada. “I thought you might also wish to have your… creature.” She waggled a finger, and a fluffy yellow and pink striped toy cat appeared at the top of the bag.

Mavis snatched it out at once, hugging it to her chest. “Is Penny going to die?”

“No,” Ada insisted. “We’ll get her sorted. Why don’t you tell me who your friend is?”

“Kitty-Kit.”

“Kitty-Kit… that’s a fine name. Why don’t you and Kitty-Kit try to get some rest? I’m going to go talk to Miss Hardbroom.” She hugged Mavis tighter before leaving the confines of the isolation spell.

As soon as Ada stepped out of the spell, Hecate cast a shower spell over her. And then another. She was about to cast a third when Ada raised her hands in surrender. “Let’s let Miss Bismuth cast a disinfecting spell, shall we?”

Hecate nodded. Once that was done, Hecate filled Ada in on Penny’s prognosis. “The magical drain has slowed down, but… Miss Bismuth isn’t even certain it is the Wasting. It could be something else, perhaps a potion or spell.”

“Who would cast such a thing? On a student, no less?” Ada crossed her arms over her chest. “If Mother were here, she’d say Agatha must be involved somehow.”

Hecate didn’t respond.

“She’s not. Tell me everything the girls said they did between potions practice and Penny falling ill.” Hecate told her what the girls had said.

“And there was nothing out of the ordinary during the potions practice? All the ingredients were properly marked?”

“You know they were. You helped with the last stock-taking.”

“None of the girls went into the supply cupboard? Not even for a moment?”

“No. It was a practice like any other, save for the pizza afterwards. We weren’t even working on that difficult a spell. Do you think that I somehow caused this to happen?”

“No… of course not. I…” Ada cast about, trying to find the right words.

Hecate huffed a great gust of air. “You just think I was negligent and now one of our students may lose her magic!”

Ada pinched the bridge of her nose. “How can you say it’s not even possible? Things happen, Hecate. No one is perfect – not even you.”

“My imperfections are well established. Nevertheless, I know what went on at practice. This was not caused by me nor one of my girls.”

“It could have been!”

“It wasn’t!” Hecate could feel her temper wriggling free from her control. “I have to prepare for class.” She stalked out of the infirmary, too emotional to try and transfer straight away. Besides, she wanted to research any sort of spell that might present similarly to Cachexia magicae and she needed a clearer head.

Distracted, Hecate rounded a corner in the corridor and ran headlong into Dierdre Swoop, who was leading a train of floating boxes along behind her. “Dierdre! Forgive me… I wasn’t paying attention.” She looked down the line of boxes. “What are you doing?”

Miss Swoop’s face wrinkled in confusion. “We’re meant to be switching rooms. Did Miss Cackle not tell you?” The boxes dropped to the floor with a thunk. “She said that you were in the wrong rooms. That I had more seniority and so I should be in the larger quarters. Then she went on about you not getting any special privileges just because, well… you know.” She waved her hand vaguely in the direction of the Headmistress’s office. “You know I don’t care about that – I’m happy for you and for Miss Cackle. And I like my little set of rooms!” She clutched Hecate’s hand. “I swear I didn’t complain! I don’t even want those rooms. If I did, I would have moved into them when Mrs. Drill left. They were left empty until you came along. Where I am now has a view of the sports field, but Miss Hackle insisted. I can’t believe she didn’t tell you.”

“Which Miss Cackle?” Hecate watched as the color drained from Dierdre’s face. “Ada is in her office right now; go talk to her – make sure it’s actually Ada.”

“Busted broomsticks!” Dierdre spat as she realized she’d been played. “I’ll go right now. I’m glad I ran into you, Hecate.”

Hecate transferred Dierdre’s boxes back to her rooms once the sports witch had gone. She felt the stirrings of a headache beginning. What mischief was Agatha up to now?

Ada sat on her sofa with her head buried in her hands, sniffling. She’d made a right mess of things – with the school and with Hecate. And what was that business with Miss Swoop and Hecate switching rooms? At least that was easily sorted. Unlike Penny Pestle. What made her think she was capable of running a school? Ada felt a familiar tingle of magic. Feeling a mixture of relief and annoyance, she looked up to find her mother standing in the middle of the office.

“I’d say ‘well met,’ but the fact that you’re here tells me you know that would be a lie.” Ada dropped her head back into her hands. “It could hardly be worse.”

Alma eyed her daughter with fond amusement. “I see we’re at the ‘I’m a miserable failure’ stage of the crisis. She took a seat next to her daughter on the sofa. “Any more news on the girl?”

“Not yet. They aren’t even sure she has the Wasting.”

“The Ostium Alternis? Do you know how it came to be here yet?”

“No – and that’s a cold cauldron at this point.” Ada knew her mother suspected her sister was involved. She didn’t want to argue about it again.

“Where’s your sister?” Alma frowned when Ada didn’t answer. “Where is your Deputy Head?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since this whole bloody business began.” Ada finally lifted her head, her misery-filled eyes wet with unshed tears. “And before you ask, I don’t know where Hecate is either. I’m afraid I’ve buggered that as well.”

Alma wrapped a comforting arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “You and Hecate will sort things out. Gwen didn’t mirror me about that, though. Right now, there’s a girl in the infirmary that needs all of our attention. Have you contacted the Pestles yet?”

Ada nodded glumly. It had been a miserable experience. “They should be there before dinner. I’ve called Mona Spellbody as well. Mavis doesn’t have any symptoms yet, but…”

“Och, best to do it sooner rather than later.” Alma rubbed her chin as she thought for a moment. “Shouldn’t she be showing the first signs by now? It’s been more than twenty-four hours since exposure.”

“That’s why Miss Bismuth isn’t sure that Penny has the Wasting. It could be a spell or… she’s on the potions team for the Witchtathlon meet. She could have been exposed to something there.”

“Not bloody likely,” Alma snorted. “Hecate Hardbroom? Be careless about potions? With a student’s health and safety at stake? Only a fool—” Alma groaned as a fat tear rolled down Ada’s cheek. “You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“Ada…” Alma shook her head. “Never mind. You’ll work it out. What’s important is that little girl. What are you doing for her? You need to talk to Agatha.”

Ada moved from the sofa to her desk. She didn’t want to talk about Agatha. “Why? What would she know about it?” She opened the folder containing the monthly invoices, hoping that would signal to her mother that the conversation was over. It didn’t.

Alma followed Ada to her desk, looking down at her with a mix of sympathy and pity. “You won’t know that until you ask her. If it is a spell or a potion… well, that sort of thing wouldn’t exactly be out of character.”

Clenching her jaw, Ada kept her eyes glued to the invoice in her hand. She had no idea what it said. She flipped it to the next one.

“Burying your head in the sand does nothing to help that girl. Agatha—”

Ada slapped the folder against the desk. “It always comes back to this, doesn’t it, Mother? All our lives you’ve blamed Agatha. Every time something went wrong, your first thought was always ‘it must be Agatha.’”

“It’s not without reason.” Alma crossed to the window and stared out across the courtyard. “Time and again – chaos. Everywhere she went, chaos – and you – trailed along behind.”

“Childhood scrapes, Mother, overblown childhood scrapes.” Ada stared at the monthly invoices, seeing nothing but blurry entries.

“Breaking Grandmother’s vase is a childhood scrape, Ada. Permanently vanishing your familiar? Total obedience spells on any boy she fancied? The extraction spell? Those are not ‘scrapes.’ They are serious violations of the Code!”

“Violations she committed as a child! That extraction spell was over thirty years ago – and I was hardly dragged along unwilling. Or have you forgotten?”

Alma left the window and dropped heavily into one of the wingbacks near the fireplace. “How could I forget? I spent your entire childhood dreading whatever calamity Agatha may have tricked or manipulated you into – or Mona Spellbody.”

Ada flipped the page in her hand over with such force she nearly ripped it in half. “I don’t think I care for your assumption that I just blindly followed Agatha with no mind of my own.”

“Really? How many of those ‘scrapes’ did you get up to once Agatha was at Wormwood’s? Or since you’ve been teaching away from your sister? I’ll tell you how many. None. But here we are, Agatha not yet here a full term and already you’ve nearly lost Hecate to an Ostium Alternis Vitae cast on a mirror that no one ever saw before.” Ada opened her mouth to respond, but Alma held up a hand. “You wound up married thanks to a scroll that should never have been where you found it. And now, as we speak, you have a student whose magic is leaching out of her for no apparent reason.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love your sister, always have done, but I’m not blind to her faults. I didn’t have that luxury when you were children.” Alma tapped her fingertips against the arm of the chair, not looking at Ada – not looking anywhere. “I don’t want your sister to be involved with this. I can’t tell you how much I hope she’s nothing to do with it, but this sort of thing is right in her wheelhouse, isn’t it? Just because you throw a wobbler when I say so, doesn’t change that. I’m sorry, Ada, I can’t discount the possibility that Agatha is responsible. I hope you won’t either.” Alma pushed herself out of the chair with a groan. “I’m knackered. I’ll see you and Hecate tomorrow, and we’ll get this whole marriage scroll business sorted. That’ll be one worry vanished, at least.”

“Goodnight, Mother.” Ada watched as her mother shuffled into the corridor, carrying more years than when she’d arrived less than an hour ago. She’d never noticed it before, but somehow her mother had gotten old. She glanced at the newly hung portrait of her and Agatha. She wasn’t exactly a fresh cup of tea herself.

Even though her mother had gone, Ada still struggled to concentrate. She flipped another paper in the stack, frowning as she read the name of an unfamiliar vendor: Gloom’s Emporium of Esoterica. It wasn’t a large order, only a few things that looked like potions ingredients. One ingredient stood out from the rest – Arum maculatum. Adder’s tongue. She didn’t even think you could order it without dispensation from the Magic Council. Ada pulled the form, shutting the folder. It seemed as good an excuse as any to pay a visit to Hecate. She cast out with her magic, finally locating Hecate in the reserved section of the library.

When she materialized in the library, Ada found Hecate smiling warily up at her from the middle of a mountain of books. “Miss Hardbroom.”

“Miss Cackle.” Hecate arched a brow. “I thought I felt the brush of your magic.” She cleared a short stack of books from the chair next to her. “Join me?”

Relieved, Ada smiled despite herself. Perhaps things between them weren’t as bad as she feared. Ada sat down and let herself relax in Hecate’s company. For all her prickliness, Hecate always managed to soothe Ada’s own anxieties. Resisting the urge to touch Hecate, Ada studied the titles of the books in front of her. “Magical Maladies, Webspinner’s Herbology…” Ada squinted to read the faded title of an ancient tome. “The Grimoire of Hester Mosstone? Hecate… that’s…dark magic.” She collapsed in on herself. “You think Agatha’s responsible as well.”

“I don’t know.” Hecate reached under the table and clasped Ada’s hand. “I do know that Penny doesn’t have the Wasting. It’s too virulent. All the girls on the team would be showing the first symptoms by now – I would be showing symptoms. It must be a spell.”

“I owe you an apology,” Ada started. She hoped Hecate would let it go at that, but instead she simply arched an eyebrow and waited for Ada to continue. Sighing, she did. “I guess I would rather this was all because you made a mistake than because my sister intentionally tried to harm a child. I know that’s terribly unfair to you, but…”

“But Agatha is your sister,” Hecate finished softly. Ada shrugged. “That’s as may be, but isn’t finding the truth the most important thing? Even if it was my mistake?”

Ada brushed fingers across Hecate’s cheek. “You’re a remarkable woman, Hecate Hardbroom. And I’m a lucky one.” Hecate leaned into her touch. Ada let herself enjoy the contact for a moment before she placed the invoice on the table in front of her. “I found this today. Did you order it?”

Hecate studied the page, eyebrows disappearing into her hairline as she read the list. “Adder’s tongue? That’s… Ada, there’s no legitimate use for adder’s tongue outside of hospital and even then… there are safer alternatives. Why did you order this?”

“I’ve never seen this before. I’ve never even heard of the vendor; that’s why I noticed it. Mother was – Mother’s here, by the way. Gwen mirrored her. She thinks Agatha could be involved as well. Anyway, I was trying to avoid Mother’s rant about Agatha—”

“I fear your mother may be right,” Hecate said, her voice quiet with dread. “Adder’s tongue is a restricted ingredient. Only a Headmistress would be able to order it.” She left the implication of that hanging in the air.

Leaving Ada to work that out for herself, Hecate summoned an ancient-looking text from the other end of the table. She opened it to the back and ran her finger down the index, looking for potions that contained adder’s tongue. Her teeth worried at her lower lip as she scanned the entries. “There!” Hecate flipped through the pages until she found what she was looking for. “Ada, read this.” Hecate studied Ada’s face as she read through the potion, not once but three times. “It fits. And…” she tapped the page with a long nail, “there’s an antidote.”

“You’re bloody brilliant!” Ada leaned in and kissed Hecate on the cheek, library full of students be damned. “Get on that. I have to phone Gloom’s and see who placed that order.”

-----

Hecate stuck her head in the office. The rest of her stumbled in afterwards when Ada glanced up from her phone call and waved her inside. Ada’s hair… she’d… it… Her long auburn locks were gone. Now her hair swung in an even bob, just above her shoulders.

“I see,” Ada said, speaking into the receiver. “Yes, I would expect that to be the case… And you’re quite certain?” Ada’s face darkened, and from across the room Hecate could see how tightly she was gripping the phone. “Yes, please. Two-signature order authentication? Yes, let’s set that up… myself, of course… and Hecate Hardbroom.” Ada flicked her eyes to Hecate and gave her a quick wink. “H-E-C-A-T-E… yes… Thank you, Mr. Gloom. You have a fine day as well.” Ada hung up the phone and leaned back in her chair. “I assume you got the gist of that?”

“Let me guess, you ordered the adder’s tongue?”

“So it seems. And I’ve recently had a very interesting conversation with Miss Swoop. Apparently, I’ve been busier than I thought.” She made room as Pendle jumped into her lap.

“Does this have something to do with your new hairstyle?”

Ada ran her fingers through her hair as though she’d just realized it was shorter. “A bit of an overreaction? I suppose I should have asked your thoughts on the matter.” She focused on scratching an especially pleasurable spot behind Pendle’s ear. “I just thought I’d make it harder for Agatha to…” She couldn’t get the rest of the words out past the lump in her throat.

Hecate hurried to Ada’s side, pulling her close and cradling Ada’s head against her chest. She carded her fingers through Ada’s hair, savoring the way the strands glided through her fingers. “It’s your hair, Ada. You’re free to wear it however you like.” Hecate leaned down and kissed the aforementioned hair. “I quite like it this way, though – it’s most fetching.” She could feel Ada relaxing under her touch, and she hated to take that away, but she couldn’t ignore the reason Ada had cut her hair in the first place. “Your sister definitely can’t rely on people simply assuming she’s you anymore. I know she’s your sister, and I’m sorry, but I don’t think there’s any way around it. Agatha is up to something nefarious.”

Snaking an arm around Hecate’s hips, Ada nodded. “Tell me something good, dear. Were you able to make the antidote?”

“Handily. The cure isn’t nearly as difficult to make as the original potion. Penny responded almost at once to the antidote. Thankfully, her magic is no longer draining. I fear her recovery will be arduous, but I believe she will recover.”

“Finally, a bit of good news,” Alma said, before she’d even fully materialized.

“Mother!” Ada clutched her chest, trying to force her racing heart back into its place.

Hecate stumbled backward, nearly losing her footing. “Mrs. Cackle! For the love of…” She placed a steadying hand on Ada’s shoulder. “Well met.”

“A bit of warning would be in order, Mother.” Ada climbed to her feet. “I suppose you’re here to say ‘I told you so’ or some such?” She told her mother the rest of what they’d learned.

“It gives me no pleasure being right.” Alma fell quiet.

They each sat, alone with their thoughts, until Alma finally roused herself. “Now that you have things in hand, I thought I’d take my leave. I’ve come to undo the marriage scroll before I go. That is, if you still wish me to do so.” She looked hopefully between the two of them. “There’s no hurry if you aren’t sure.”

“We’re sure,” Ada said, quickly. Too quickly, she realized. “Aren’t we?”

Hecate didn’t know what to say. She desperately wanted to protect her connection to Ada. “Is that what you want?”

Suddenly, Ada’s certainty wavered. What if Hecate changed her mind? That’s the point, she reminded herself. She wouldn’t force Hecate into anything. But what if you’re forcing her out of something she wants?

“Ada?” Hecate knelt beside her chair. “Let me in. Whatever this conversation is that you’re having in your head… have it with me.”

Ada took Hecate’s hands in her own, admiring the way they fit together as she organized her thoughts. “I don’t want to lose you. I’ve no desire to sever my connection to you… ever.”

The relief on Hecate’s face was palpable, but so was the anxiety. “But?”

“I want you to be mine – freely given. When we marry, I don’t want it to be an accident.”

When, she thought, Ada said when. She felt something loosen in her chest. “I want the same,” Hecate whispered, squeezing Ada’s hands. “Freely given. You need this. I need you. If undoing the scroll is the key to being together, then let’s undo it.” She turned to Alma. “Yes, we’re sure.”

Nodding, Alma summoned the scroll and motioned them to come and sit on the sofa. “First things first, then. Hecate, you must give Ada her watch back.”

Hecate reluctantly lifted the chain over her head and placed the pocket watch in Ada’s hand, feeling the loss more keenly than she’d imagined. “I return this gift to thee.”

Ada passed it quickly to her mother, refusing to hold it a second longer than necessary. Alma slipped it into a pocket in her cardigan. “Make sure you aren’t touching one another.” She waited while they scooted fractionally farther apart. “Here we go.” Standing over them, Alma read the spell clearly, her voice strong despite her misgivings.

For binding broken, return the token

Make us two instead of one,

And let this marriage be undone.

Red light filled the room, riding a crack of magic. It disappeared as quickly as it came.

A chasm of emptiness opened up inside Hecate’s chest, and she reached for Ada’s hand and laced their fingers together. “Is that it? It’s done then?” Hecate looked back and forth between Ada and Alma. Dazed, Ada could barely nod.

“Aye, it’s done.” Alma turned the scroll over in her hands, disappointment etched clearly in her features. “It wouldn’t have worked in the first place if the love wasn’t there, you know.”

Ada roused herself enough to speak. “I know, but… Hecate needed the choice. We needed the choice.”

Hecate shifted closer to Ada. “And now I’m free to choose, correct?” Ada’s eyes flickered up to meet hers. She nodded once before dropping them back down, staring at her hands as she twisted her fingers together in her lap. Screwing up her courage, Hecate tucked each side of Ada’s new pageboy behind her ears before gently cradling her face in her hands and lifting her head. “I choose you, Ada Cackle. I always have done, since that first time we met.” Leaning in, she claimed Ada’s lips with her own, filling the kiss with all the love and commitment she could, determinedly ignoring the fact that Alma was sitting right there.

She kissed Ada until she felt her rise in response, until her lungs burned with the need for air. Then she kissed her some more. Finally, gasping, they had to part. Hecate held her hand out, summoning the scroll. She handed the scroll to Ada, capturing both her hands in hers. “When you’re ready, I want you to read this scroll to me again. Today, tomorrow, ten years from now… I will be here, choosing you.” As Ada stared wordlessly at their joined hands, a tear tracked down her cheek. Hecate’s bravado faltered under the weight of the silence. “Unless… you don’t…”

Ada’s head snapped up. “I do. Of course, I do. I can’t imagine anything else…” Ada pulled her hands free and turned to her mother. “May I?”

With a start, Alma realized Ada wanted the pocket watch back. She fumbled in her cardigan pocket before pulling it out and handing it over.

Ada closed her eyes and clutched it between her hands, whispering a nearly silent spell. When she finished, she opened it and presented it to Hecate.

Reverently, Hecate took the watch in shaking fingers. Inside the cover Ada had magicked an inscription.

You are the one my heart chooses, time after time.

-All my love, Ada

Hecate pressed a fist to her mouth as her eyes filled with tears.

“I hope that’s a yes,” Ada said, gently pulling the watch from Hecate’s grip. She looped the chain around Hecate’s neck, carefully working it past Hecate’s fist. “I was thinking this summer, after term. With our friends and family there, this time. If you’d like that… If you’d rather it just be us—”

She couldn’t finish because Hecate launched herself at Ada, wrapping her arms around her neck and kissing her ferociously. Ada grabbed Hecate’s hips, pulling her closer until she was in Ada’s lap.

Alma cleared her throat, but neither of them paid her any mind. “I’ll leave you two to it then,” she said as she crept out of her chair. She magicked the scroll to a safe place on the coffee table, set the strongest wards she could and just managed to transfer away as the first moan filled the room.

-----

“Drink this, it will help settle your stomach.” Hecate produced a small bottle of pale green liquid. “It’s a bit of ginger, some extract from the leaves of an artichoke,” she smiled fondly at Ada, “and far too much honey to make it sweet enough so you’ll drink it.”

Ada smiled back gratefully. She’d already been sick twice from thinking about the conversation she was about to have with her sister. Warm flannel in hand, Hecate had patiently cleaned her up each time, brushing away her apologies. “Cheers,” Ada said, grimacing before she tossed the contents of the bottle back like a shot of tequila. “You’ll stay?”

“If that’s what you want.” She leaned in, brushing her lips against Ada’s. She could taste the faint flavor of honey. “It will be all right… my love. I’ll be here if you need me.” They stepped apart as Agatha transferred into the office.

“You wished to see me, Sister?”

Lips pressed in a tight line, Ada nodded. She offered Agatha a seat on the sofa, but she declined. “We need to talk.”

Hecate moved as far out of the way as she could, hoping to fade into the background, but still be where Ada could see her.

Ada clasped her hands in front of her. She couldn’t bring herself to look her sister in the eyes. “I’m sorry, Aggie. This isn’t working out.”

“I’m quite sure I don’t know what you mean.” Agatha glanced at Hecate, then promptly dismissed her.

“Thankfully, young Miss Pestle doesn’t have the Wasting. She’s under a spell – one not so different from an extraction spell. A very old spell that calls for adder’s tongue.”

“I wonder how she managed to get her hands on that.” Agatha gave Hecate a side-long look. “I would think that dangerous potions would be stored well out of students’ reach.” She sighed. “Pity that didn’t happen. Such an unfortunate accident.”

“We don’t keep that potion here,” Ada said. “We don’t even keep the ingredients.”

Agatha tutted. “You know how a potions cupboard is, stacked to the gills with old jars and bottles of who knows what? We’re a school full of young witches eager to test their magic. Accidents are bound to happen.”

“And I suppose it was just an accident that Gloom’s Emporium of Esoterica thinks I placed an order for adder’s tongue? Or that Miss Swoop is beside herself because she thinks I’ve suddenly decided to shift her quarters about? It’s all just an accident that all these people think I’m doing something when, in reality, it’s you?”

“I’m hardly responsible for the assumptions others make, Ada. If you’ve not made enough of an impression on your staff for them to know it’s you…” Agatha’s eyes traveled over her sister’s shorter haircut. “Though emulating Uncle Alfred’s hairstyle seems a bit extreme.”

“Is everything a joke to you?” Hecate stalked to Ada’s side. “You broke the Witches Code! Rule 2, Paragraph 1 states that a witch may not take any action that causes physical or magical harm to any other witch outside the confines of a magical duel. Furthermore, Section 2, Subsection C states that senior witches have a duty of care for junior witches. Poisoning them hardly fulfills the duty of care.”

“I don’t know what business any of this is of yours. Really, Ada,” Agatha crossed her arms petulantly over her chest. “Must your latest floozy be constantly present?”

Ada bristled, calming only when Hecate’s hand came to rest on her forearm. “It’s Hecate’s student that’s lying in the infirmary, fighting for her magic. She has every right to be here. Furthermore, I want her here.”

“Again, that’s nothing to do with me!”

“No? Then you won’t mind finishing this, will you?” Hecate summoned the tray of sweets she’d confiscated from her team. “I believe you gave Penny the purple fairy cake.”

Agatha took an involuntary step backwards.

“What’s the matter, Miss Cackle? Are you afraid to sample the same sweets you provided one of our students?” Hecate took a step closer, brandishing the tray like a weapon.

“I told you, I don’t want you here!” Agatha blasted Hecate out of the office, somewhere into the woods surrounding the castle. She didn’t bother with where.

“What have you done?” Ada raced to the window, as if Hecate might be down in the courtyard.

“What I should have done months ago: keep you from running this school into the ground.” She threw a hot blast of magic at Ada, hitting her sister square in the chest before she could even get her hands up. Ada toppled to the floor sending figurines and papers flying.

To be continued…

#hackle summer trope challenge #hackle #violence #child in danger #angst

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