#I did watch Venom 1 and I vaguely remember her | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

renaerys · 3 years

Note

22. for reds 🤡

This is 100% not what you asked for (yet...👀), but I give you part 1 of what we're calling the Weird King AU. I'm turning this into a proper multi-chapter High School fic because I love you and I'd jump on any bandwagon for you.

xxx

Like most young, conventionally attractive Supervillains, Brick had made a bit of a habit of failing upwards. It was pretty easy in a town full of simpering morons content to project their own narrative assumptions onto him, and who was he to crush their dreams when they made his life a little easier?

For example, dating.

“You can tell me, you know.” His cute date, Tracy, sipped her milkshake across from him.

“Tell you what?”

She softened and reached her hand across the table. “Your tragic backstory. I’ll listen without judgment, I promise.”

Brick tried to think of something tragic, but it all seemed pretty underwhelming as far as Supervillain origin stories went. “You mean like how I was born in a toilet?”

She made an oh shape with her lips. “We all have those days where we feel like we were born in a toilet, Brick.”

He’d dated Tracy for three months before she broke up with him out of the blue in tears: sorry she couldn’t fix his baggage, she just wasn’t strong enough to handle all that tortured darkness, but she wished him nothing but health and happiness. Brick deleted her number from his phone and spent twenty whole minutes staring at the toilet in his bathroom, wondering what the lesson here was.

But everything changed when Mojo got out of prison and moved Brick and his brothers back to Townsville, where he enrolled them in the local high school alongside their former arch nemeses, the Powerpuff Girls.

Suddenly, everything Brick did pre-supposed ill intent. These people remembered him as the pest who had graffitied their local monuments and blown up their cars and endangered their children. They held no love for him, and at best they feared him. This was not Citiesville, where he’d been a tall, cold glass of Voss water in a sea of recycled Dasani.

He found himself thinking about his birthing toilet again as he stepped into the cafeteria alone and the conversation quieted down as his new classmates watched him from the safety of their tables. His next moves here were critical. He was no longer at the top of the food chain, but fear and mystery surrounding his origins and character gave him a certain power over his peers.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of social suicide, I will fear no cringe,” he said to himself.

The jocks were out. Capable though he may be, Brick was not much of a team player unless there was a blood contract involved requiring his participation on pain of satanic torture. The drama kids were also a hard pass, not because he thought drama was lame, but because they had barely noticed him walk in, and Brick did not have the energy to deal with people more self-involved than himself. Some of the unaffiliated tables could be safe, but without a good understanding of the nuanced social dynamics in the high school, he could be heading toward irreversible doom, and that was a risk he was not willing to take.

He saw his salvation just ahead. It was the only option, all else being equal. In an environment where he couldn’t be certain of his baseline status and potential for upward mobility, there was greatness to be had only by association and certainty only in the devil he knew.

Brick helped himself to the empty seat directly across from Blossom Utonium to a chorus of gasps and staring.

Blossom did not startle like her table mates had. She watched him critically behind a head full of bangs as she balanced her soup spoon in her hand. “Really.”

Brick unwrapped the burrito he’d purchased in the lunch line and brandished it before him. “Really.”

He took a bite of the burrito. It was not hot enough. The two girls to Blossom’s left whispered to each other about that bad boy and he’s hot, though.

Blossom daintily spooned soup into her mouth without spilling a single drop as she continued to watch Brick for signs of his imminent dark side transformation.

The guy next to Brick was brave enough to ask him what his next class was. Brick had a mouth full of disappointing burrito, so he passed the guy the printout of his class schedule in lieu of answering.

“Wow, all APs, huh? Hey, we’re in U.S. History together next period, nice. I’m Mike Believe, by the way. Brick Jojo, right?”

Brick didn’t answer him immediately on account of the burrito currently occupying his mouth hole, and Mike took it the wrong way.

“Oh, yeah, we all know who you are. Blossom sort of filled us in.” He winced like he’d inadvertently revealed a terrible secret.

Brick swallowed his food and washed it down with a gulp of water. “Saves me some time.”

Mike looked super relieved. “For sure! Hey, I could lend you my notes if you want to catch up. Gershwin’s giving a quiz on the Progressive Era on Friday, and she’s a hard-ass who definitely won’t care that you just transferred…”

Brick chewed on his lunch as Mike continued to talk at him about classes and other vaguely helpful, albeit uninteresting, information. But Mike seemed normal enough, a little chatty but not in an overeager sort of way. Blossom was no longer clocking his every move and seemed to be absorbed in her friend’s latest swim team cheating scandal, until Brick reached for his water bottle and she suddenly laser-focused on his wandering hand.

Her keen attention to him was honestly flattering, if expected. It was in his nature to be noticed, and in this narrow respect she was no different from anyone else whose head he turned. If she chose to feed her interest with the flames of suspicion, then it was no difference to him.

But if she was anything like him—and on a chemical level she was probably the closest to him that a person could get—he suspected it took tremendous effort to hold her full and sustained attention. The world they inhabited was as vapid and mundane as the humans that surrounded them, and even the most gracious of gods grew bored of worship. Which explained all the smiting and fucking and generational curses upon entire households in everything from Greek mythology to the Old Testament.

Brick was pretty deep into a fantasy of Blossom going full Ixion and the Wheel on the swim team when Mike tapped his shoulder. “You ready to go?”

It took him a moment to realize the bell had rung and he had a class to get to—AP U.S. History with Mike, apparently. Brick gathered his tray and his bag and followed Mike. When he looked back at the table, Blossom was already gone.

xxx

That whole first week was painfully boring. No one bullied him, or pranked him, or picked a fight with him, of course. But no one really approached him, either. His brothers were more determined to make an effort. Boomer announced he was trying out for the soccer team because there was no rule saying a Super with extremely well documented ties to active criminals and the forces of Hell couldn’t kick a ball around a field. Butch had gotten himself invited to a midnight screening of Snakes on a Plane in some rich kid’s home movie theater, but only after that same kid had accidentally spilled milk on Butch and burst into tears in front of a cafeteria full of Juniors and Seniors. Brick declined the invitation Butch extended to him. He had that AP U.S. History exam to study for on Friday, anyway.

He shared all of his classes with Blossom. Even in the classes where her assigned seat was behind his and he couldn’t see her, he could feel her lobotomizing stare at the back of his head whenever she glanced up from her notebook. And while Mike’s notes were perfectly adequate and the friendly gesture counted for more than the content (a gesture Brick would not soon forget), there was a far more efficient way to accomplish his goal of murdering the class averages while also taking the edge off his loner doldrums.

“Can I borrow your class notes?”

Blossom rose from her seat and pulled her hair tie out to re-do her extremely long ponytail. She held the elastic between her teeth as she worked. Her teeth were very straight, he noticed. Some pretty nice girl-teeth, generally speaking.

“Which class?”

“All of them.”

He watched her wind the elastic around her hair with quick, adroit fingers. “That’s a lot of notes.”

“You’re the top of every class. No point in asking anyone else.”

She moved toward the hall. He followed her out. “Why would I help you?”

A legitimate question delivered without venom. Unlike her sister Buttercup, who’d “run into” Brick after school on Monday and told him to watch his back, Blossom didn’t have to do anything but maintain a general proximity to make her superiority complex known. Which was the kind of flex he could fuck with.

“Isn’t helping people sort of your mandate?”

They had arrived at her locker, which she opened with enough force to rattle the hinges. “I help the helpless. Are you helpless, Brick?”

Brick smiled at her baiting. Had she ever actually said his name at a normal volume before? It sounded good even in her baseline bitch timbre. “Critically helpless. I’m the new student who transferred in the middle of the semester, and you’re the only person who knows me.”

A couple other students clearly trying to get to the lockers Brick was blocking hovered just out of reach. They whispered to each other, but neither of them actually worked up the courage to ask Brick to move. He ignored them.

Blossom rummaged in her locker for the binder she would need for the next class. “Make friends.”

“Working on it.”

The locker door slammed and she faced him. There was something confrontational in the way she held herself before him that kicked him in the nuts back in time thirteen years to their more uncouth days when all he wanted to do was destroy her so he’d be the only one. Now they were older and wiser and he actually did need her notes to study, so destroying her was not high on his list of priorities.

“You want to be my friend.”

“We have so much in common.”

“So do lions and hyenas.”

“Both are apex predators, so.”

She took a step closer and peered up at him. Brick did not move, although he wondered what was so interesting about his face. She probably just thought he was hot. She was probably as bored as he was. She probably—

“You have lettuce in your teeth.”

Brick pulled back and covered his mouth on instinct. God fucking damnit.

Blossom was already walking away from him by the time he’d picked the food from his teeth. “I’ll expect my notes back in mint condition before first period tomorrow morning.”

Brick pressed a fist against the lockers and quietly fumed. “Dumbass…”

“Um, sorry, but do you mind…?”

The student who’d been waiting for her locker space to clear up had her palms up as if to assuage a feral stray. Brick pushed off the lockers, but his fist left a dent where he’d unleashed some of his impotent self-pity. He looked back at the girl, and she shook her head.

“It’s fine! It, uh, it happens sometimes.” She pointed a couple lockers down to Blossom’s, which was dinged up worse than the others.

Brick stared at Blossom’s locker, and then back at the girl. Her narrow, dark eyes were wide, but not out of fear. She was waiting for something, and like an idiot it took him a moment to catch up. “You’re trying to make me feel better about fucking up your locker.”

She laughed nervously. “I mean, it’s really fine! You just looked so miserable for a second there, and I just thought…”

Great, he was moping so hard he had an audience.

The five minute warning bell rang, and a flood of students rushed past them on their way to fourth period. Brick stepped aside so the girl could get to her locker.

“Hey, you’re the new guy, right?”

The new guy, yeah. How quaint. Except, she was waiting for a response, which wasn’t the absolute worst thing that had happened to him all week.

“Brick,” he said. But of course, she already knew that, and she was just being nice.

“I’m Kim. Kim Chan.”

“Okay.” He didn’t have anything else to say to her, so he decided to get his shit and get to his next class.

“Welcome back to Townsville, Brick.”

Brick shoved his hands in his pockets and stalked off. It didn’t occur to him until later that Kim was the first and only person who had properly welcomed him back home.

#powerpuff girls #powerpuff girls fanfic #blossick #ppg reds #ppg blossom #ppg brick #september fic prompts #weird king au #i have no idea what i will call this yet #but it'll make its way to AO3 and it'll be a Thing #i have to think of themes and shit now #i came here to shit post and here we are with another full on Reds fic

70 notes · View notes

my-unmanageable-mischief · 3 years

Text

Arranged Marriage Part 1

For the Anon who requested : Hey! Can I request something where Draco's parents arrange a marriage for him, and at first he's pissed, but then he meets her and she's pretty and his type and he winds up really enjoying her? Thank you so much!!

Part 2, Part 3

Draco Malfoy x Reader

Draco slammed the door to his bedroom, he was seething. He’d just gotten home from Hogwarts for Christmas holiday when he was bombarded by his mother, who was in the middle of planning their Christmas ball. However, she had other news as well. He was, against his wishes, engaged. He was absolutely livid with his parents, he hadn’t even been consulted. Not to mention the fact that he was only in his sixth year. He was sixteen years old for Merlin’s sake! And on top of it all, he still had his duties to carry out this year, he didn’t need more stress. And that’s all girls were; stress.

Apparently he would be meeting her, and they’d be announcing their engagement at the ball this year, he kicked his desk chair out of frustration and it skidded across the room, toppling over.

“Fuck me,” He muttered to himself, thinking about the few details his mother had given him. Her name was Y/N L/N, a fellow 6th year at Hogwarts in Ravenclaw. Her father worked for the Dark Lord as well, along with his own parents. Pure-blooded and pretty according to his mother. Any girl his mother thought was pretty was probably a troll. He cursed again and tossed himself onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. He tried to rack his brain, thinking of her name, and going through the 6th year Ravenclaw girls he could remember, seeing if he could match a face to the name.

“Y/N,” He spoke and the name sounded foreign on his lips. He could vaguely remember a girl in his potions class that went by that name with Y/Color/Hair. She wasn’t a troll but she wasn’t anything special either. A quiet bird who mostly kept to herself and sat towards the front of the classroom, typical Ravenclaw he scoffed to himself. This was ridiculous. Marriage! What next? Babies?! He hadn’t even graduated yet!

He wound up falling asleep on his bed, above the covers and shoes still on. His nap was plagued with visions of frilly white dresses and senseless dancing. When he woke up it was dark, and his family’s house elf had left him a dinner plate on his nightstand, but he wasn’t hungry. How could he eat at a time like this?

The week passed by agonizingly slow, and he spent most of his time being forced to help get the manor ready for their ball. His mother took him to Diagon Alley to purchase new dress robes. They were nice, black with all black accents. He looked at himself in his bedroom mirror, listening to the music and chatter from below. He was supposed to be downstairs an hour ago but he couldn’t bring himself to leave his room. He looked handsome, he knew, his pale skin and white hair popping elegantly with the all black ensemble. Yet he didn’t want to go downstairs where he knew his new fiance was waiting for him.

His house elf popped into his room and he looked away from the mirror with a glare.

“Missus said it’s time Mister Malfoy made his way downstairs. Guests are waiting.” Draco turned on his heel and walked towards the door taking a deep breath. He wasn’t nervous, Draco Malfoy did not get nervous. He was pissed and put out, still thinking this entire thing was ridiculous. He walked down the grand staircase, seeing his mother at the base, glaring at him.

“You’re late.”

“Sorry, mother.” She nodded her head in response and attempted to fix his collar but he jerked away from her, doing it himself. Suddenly the french doors leading from the ballroom to the foyer swung open and a girl stormed through like a winter storm. She was wearing a brilliant emerald green dress that hugged her curves and went down to the floor, there was some light beading on the bodice but nothing over the top. Her Y/C/H was up in a fancy array of braids and her Y/C/Eyes were red and slightly swollen.

“I’m not getting MARRIED! Are you daft!” She cried, the man following her looked just like her, same eyes, same hair, much different demeanor.

“Watch your tongue!” He bit out, grabbing her wrist and yanking her towards him with a snarl, “Is that any way to talk to your father?” He looked over at Narcissa and Draco and smirked slightly down at his daughter, “Is that any way to speak in front of your future husband?” Her head snapped around to look where he was looking and she openly glared at him. She was pretty, Y/height, and Draco found himself smirking at the display.

“My sincerest apologies,” She gritted out between clenched teeth, “Malfoy,”

“Call me Draco,” He responded easily. Her father released her and she gripped her wrist with her other hand, holding it to her chest. She stood awkwardly between her father and the two present Malfoys. Narcissa cleared her throat and smiled, greeting the man by his first name.

“Why don’t we rejoin the party, I’d love to speak with your wife about wedding arrangements, and Lucius has some business to discuss with you.” He knew his mother wanted to let them be alone, and while he didn’t particularly want to marry the girl, maybe he could score a sneaky snog out of this. The man nodded curtly and took Narcissa’s arm as they went back through the doors, shutting them behind them. The girl continued to just stand there, glaring in Draco’s general direction.

“Did he just tell you?” He asked, trying to start a conversation. You winced slightly and nodded your head.

“Yes. He didn't think I’d come if I knew. He was right.” Draco laughed and you mustered up a half smile.

“My mother told me when I got home for Christmas.”

“Good for you.” you muttered, looking down. When you looked back up again your face was blank, “I don't want to marry you.” You stated bluntly. He sized you up, mildly surprised by your brashness.

“Listen princess, I don’t exactly want to marry you either, but your father seems pretty deadset.”

“And your parents aren’t?” You questioned, raising a delicate eyebrow at him, arms crossing over your chest. He shrugged.

“They are, I assume. Or they wouldn’t be going through all this trouble. We haven’t really talked about it, I’ve just been told the gist. We-” He gestured between the two of you, “Are to be married, don’t know when, don’t know why.”

“Probably at Voldemort’s request.” You replied and he flinched slightly.

“Don’t say his name.” You smirked.

“Why? Afraid he might come swooping in at any moment?” Draco didn’t want to comment on the amount of times the dark lord had been in his house, and he definitely didn’t want to admit that yes, that was his first thought.

“Call him by his title, the dark lord.”

“Are you a death eater?” You asked, curiously. He shook his head no, unconsciously glancing down at his arm where his soon to be mark would reside.

“Not yet.” You nodded then shook your head.

“Better you than I, I’d never be.” You spat the words out. Merlin, who did his parents want him to marry?

“Well you’ll be married to one.” You shrugged.

“Or maybe I’ll just run away.” You mused aloud, glancing around the foyer, eyes lingering on the door. He looked towards the large front door with you and laughed.

“Run away? With what money? Where would you even go?”

“Paris.” You answered easily, “I’ll make money. I’d be fine.”

“They’d hunt you down, Y/N,” He spoke your name for the first time to you and it felt odd coming from his lips, but not bad. You simply shrugged again.

“It would be worth it,” You whispered. They stood in silence for a few more moments. He wanted to say something but he had no idea what he wanted to say. Again, the french doors opened and Lucius stood in the doorway.

“Draco. Come.” He ordered and he felt his feet moving towards his father on their own accord. He stopped next to you, glancing down. “Bring her. This ball is for you. I will not have you two insulting your mother by spending the entirety of it in the corridor. You will dance, eat, and socialize. That’s an order.”

“Yes father.” And with a swish of his cloak the man was gone again, back into the bustling crowd of pure-blooded wizards and their children. Draco offered his arm to you and you took it with a small sigh.

“He’s charming.” He shushed you, not wanting his father to overhear you. Together you entered the ballroom, Draco leading you towards the bar area.

“Can I get you a drink?” He asked and you nodded with a soft hum, “What do you want,”

“I’ll have a Witch’s Heart.” You spoke, keeping your arm linked with his but making sure there was as much distance between your bodies as you could manage. Did you dislike him that much? He ordered your cocktail and a Firewhiskey on the rocks for himself, thanking the bartender when he handed the drinks over. Draco led you over to a table of familiar faces and pulled your chair out for you before sitting beside you, both hands wrapped around his glass.

“Alright, Malfoy?” Blaise Zabini greeted, clasping the man on the back raising his glass towards him and then you, it was obvious he had already had a few. “Congratulations to the happy couple.” Draco laughed, knocking his glass against the other boy’s.

“Thank you, thank you.” He responded, placing his arm loosely around the back of your chair, you leaned away from him slightly and he frowned, shrugging. Pansy Parkinson glared at you openly and venomously from across the table.

“Y/N, right?” She asked, you nodded your head.

“Hello Pansy.” Her glare deepened. She said nothing more to you, crossing her arms over her dress. It was a similar color to yours, Draco noted, not surprised Pansy had opted for a Slytherin green dress. As much as he was proud of his house, sometimes she had too much house pride. It did surprise him however, that you were wearing the color. He had a feeling your parents had something to do with it. Draco and Blaise talked, Pansy occasionally saything something snippy here and there.

“Draco,” She batted her eyelashes at him from across the table, leaning over so her cleavage popped. Slag, you thought to yourself.

“Yes?”

“Care to dance?” Draco looked at you, and you gave a small shrug. You didn’t care what he did. He wasn’t your husband, and would never be if you got your way, which you were beginning to doubt you would.

“No.” He answered simply. Her face fell and you couldn’t help but smirk, she turned her eyes to you and glared darkly.

“Don’t think you’ve got him, Y/N.” She spat.

“Pardon?” You asked bored.

“He’ll never love you, hell, he’ll never even like you.” She hissed and Draco frowned, about to step in when you laughed loudly.

“Doesn’t matter if he does or doesn’t, love. I’m marrying him, not you.” Pansy was livid. She stood up, hand twitching.

“Hag!” She cried.

“Oh Pans,” You replied, falsely sweet, “Don’t talk down on yourself like that, you’re barely even a hag.” Draco thought she might punch you, Blaise laughed, slapping a hand against Draco’s back.

“Feisty! I love it, you’re lucky mate, you should meet the boring bird my parents want me to marry.” Blaise glanced past Draco and sent you a wink, “Unless you care to switch.”

“I’m alright.” Draco smiled slightly, “Go cool down Parkinson.” Pansy was bright red with anger, she looked at Draco, then to you, then to Draco again, her face softening. She turned with a huff and stalked off to go Merlin knows where.

“She’s a delight,” You commented. Blaise laughed again, standing up.

“Can I get you lot another round?”

“Sure,” You smiled, handing him your glass, Draco followed suit. Once they were alone again Draco turned to you, smiling slightly.

“Sorry about her,” You shrugged and shook your head.

“It’s alright, I’ve dealt with worse, I deal with my mother daily.”

“You don’t get on with your parents?” He questioned and she raised her eyebrows.

“Do you?”

“Enough.”

“I don’t, not much. Probably why they’re trying to shove me off on your family.” He chuckled and nodded, arm still around the back of your chair. He was quiet for a moment, making eye contact with someone from across the room. You followed his gaze and saw his father glaring at the two of you, ah, yes. Your new darling father-in-law. Draco withdrew his arm and offered you his hand.

“Care to dance?” He asked, watching as you sighed and frowned before nodding your head.

“Alright, but I have two left feet as a warning.” He chuckled again and nodded his head.

“It’s alright, I’ve got you.” You felt something in your stomach flutter when he looked at you like that and spoke so tenderly, and Draco honestly couldn’t believe the words had come out of his mouth. He watched as you gathered your dress and took his hand allowing him to lead you out to the dance floor. He placed a hand on your waist and took your hand in his other one, and you snaked your free arm around his neck, keeping a comfortable distance. You began to sway to the music, Draco leading you in the traditional dance the rest of the crowd was partaking in.

“How’s your school year going?” He asked suddenly, needing to break the silence.

“Alright I suppose. Can’t believe they’ve got us preparing for NEWTs already.” Draco nodded with a small laugh.

“Don’t worry too much about it, it’s not like it matters.”

“It’s my future,” You replied confused. Draco nodded his head towards the large grand room around them.

“This is your future. You won’t have to work a day in your pretty little life.”

“And if I want to?” You asked him and he faltered slightly. Wasn’t it every woman's dream to be rich enough to sit on her arse all day?

“What would you do?” He asked, genuinely curious as to what could be better.

“I want to be a healer,” You admitted, stepping on his foot, “Sorry, told you, can’t dance.” He adjusted your position and pulled you slightly closer so he could better lead you in the dance, these shoes were expensive.

“Noble.” He commented. You shrugged.

“I’m good at it, and I like it.” You stated simply and he didn’t press the topic. If you wanted to be a healer, he wasn’t going to argue. At least until you had children. Children!? He shook the thought from his head, Merlin, he didn’t even want to meet you a few hours ago and now he was entertaining the thought of having children with you? He must be mad. Or ill. Mad and ill. The song came to an end and he released you, taking your hand again.

“Shall we find our parents? I’m sure they’d like to see us getting along.” He decided.

“Are we?” You asked him, “Getting along?”

“I’d think so, you haven’t hexed me yet.” You chuckled and he found he liked the sound of your laugh.

“The night is young.” He held your hand as you walked towards your parents who were chatting with several other wizards. You passed Pansy as you went and you couldn’t help but to throw her a smug look, knowing she had been watching you two dance. You might not be thrilled to be marrying the bloke, but you couldn’t deny he was handsome, and you seemed to be getting along, at least for now. And if you could rub it into the snotty little girls face, you would. For fun. She glared in return and you chuckled, causing Draco to look at you, then to the direction of Pansy, smirking himself and tugging you slightly closer to him.

“Jealous?” He asked and you snorted.

“You wish,” As you got closer to your parents you took a deep steadying breath, the hand in Draco’s becoming clammy. He squeezed the hand, noticing your sudden nervousness. Together you would face your parents, he decided, he would make sure you were safe. Afterall, that’s what a husband is for.

#Harry Potter #draco Malfoy #draco Malfoy x reader #draco malfoy x y/n #draco malfoy x you #draco malfoy x ravenclaw!reader #draco malfoy arranged marriage #draco malfoy fanfiction #draco malfoy imagine

244 notes · View notes

baoshan-sanren · 4 years

Text

Chapter 15 Part 2

of the wwx emperor au that’s now more like the terrible horrible time the Lan Sect is having ugh

The wait goes on forever. Nearly two hours pass before the commotion announces the Emperor’s approach.

Gone is every trace of the boy who had carried a child on his hip. Wei WuXian’s robe is liquid black, gold dragons climbing over his shoulders and twisting down the arms. Above this unforgiving color, his cheeks appear hollow, each line of his face sharp enough to cut.

Nie HuaiSang is walking by his side, light of step next to Wei WuXian’s heavy stride, flowing green robes next to Wei WuXian’s stark lines. The Emperor is leading him, Nie HuaiSang’s hand lightly resting on the Emperor’s embroidered sleeve, and WangJi thinks that the Royal Companion has never more looked an equal partner in power, as if his rightful place is by the Emperor’s side.

It is a bitter, pointless realization, one that WangJi does not have time to analyze.

Behind the Emperor, there is a flash of red robes and dark hair. WangJi recognizes Wen Qing, the granddaughter of the Head Healer. Behind her, two servants follow. One of them carries a tray. Inexplicably, the tray holds a tea pot, and three cups.

The Emperor leads Nie HuaiSang to the dais. He sits down, his eyes passing over the kneeling forms before giving them the permission to rise. Nie HuaiSang settles by his feet. Wen Qing and the two servants remain at the bottom of the dais.

“High Councilor,” the Emperor says, without looking at Jiang FengMian, “the rumors in the palace halls are running rampant. I hope you have a more coherent narrative to present.”

“Your Majesty,” Jiang FengMian says, “the HeJian Fan Sect Leader has been poisoned.”

“I am aware,” the Emperor says, “as I come from his bedside. The correct antidote has been provided by the Head Healer, and will see him back to full health in a matter of days.”

“Ah, this is very good news. Excellent news,” Jiang FengMian says, “Ah-- yes. The Young Master of the Lan Sect has been accused of giving the Fan Sect Leader the poison.”

“Who has accused him?”

Two men step out from the sea of people. They both kneel, and the Emperor impatiently gestures that they should rise.

One of them wears the uniform of TingShan He Sect, the other, a uniform of the LanLing Jin. WangJi vaguely remembers seeing the youth wearing the Jin Sect uniform, but the other is unfamiliar.

The man in the TingShan He colors steps forward, “Your Majesty, I was seated at the HeJian Fan Sect table. The Fan Sect Leader did not consume any food or drink prior to joining the Lan Sect Leader. I remember it clearly, because Fan XiaoHu had complained that her father does not eat enough, and that she must always place food in front of him. I--“ he shifts, appearing nervous, “It is not my intention to make an accusation, but to stand as a witness to the fact that no poison could have been consumed at the Fan Sect table.”

“I will accuse him,” the youth in the Jin Sect uniform arrogantly steps forward, “I saw, with my own eyes, Lan XiChen pour tea for the Fan Sect Leader. Less than an hour later, the Fan Sect Leader was bleeding from his nose and mouth.”

“Did Young Master Lan only pour tea for the Fan Sect Leader?” Wen Qing asks.

The Jin disciple seems offended that she had chosen to speak to him, but after one look at the Emperor’s face, he swallows whatever complaints he may have offered.

“He did not. He poured for both Sect Leaders, and himself. But he could have easily slipped the poison in Fan Sect Leader’s cup.”

“He could have,” Jiang FengMian says, “but you did not see it.”

“No, I--“ the Jin disciple is beginning to turn red, “I saw him pour the tea.”

“You saw some tea being poured?” a small Nie Sect disciple pipes up scornfully from the other side of the hall, “How is that a crime?”

Nie MingJue shoots a murderous look in kid’s direction. The boy scrunches up his face, and decides to study the floor instead.

The Jin Sect disciple’s face is very red now, “If both Lan QiRen and Lan XiChen drank the tea, and only the Fan Sect Leader was poisoned, then Lan XiChen must have put the poison into the cup.”

“But you did not see him put the poison into the cup,” Jiang FengMian says kindly.

“No, I--“

He looks at if he wants repeat the fact that he had seen Lan XiChen pour the tea, but then thinks better of it, and shuts his mouth with a click.

Throughout all this, XiChen is still kneeling, perfectly still, head bowed. There is no fear or tension in his posture. WangJi cannot see his brother’s face, but he can picture the forced calm, the acceptance of whatever may come. It is infuriating.

WangJi will not accept this. Anyone who thinks that they can lay a hand on his brother, for a crime he did not commit, will lose that hand by WangJi’s blade.

“Jin ZiXun is half-correct,” the Emperor says coldly, “the poison was in the cup. Wen Qing?”

The girl picks up the cup, “The poison in question is the venom extracted from the black ring snake. It is known as the poor man’s poison; it can be easily obtained in any region of the Empire. It is extremely bitter to taste. In heavily spiced foods, the taste can be hidden, but it would have definitely been noticeable in the mild tea that was served this morning. The common practice is to mix the poison with beeswax, which neutralizes the bitter taste. You can see, by the shine on the porcelain, that the inside of the cup is still coated. The application of this beeswax is time-consuming and takes an infinite amount of care; any direct contact with skin could have introduced the venom to the bloodstream. In other words,” she places the cup back on to the tray, “the inside of the cup had to have been coated ahead of time. As Young Master Lan had been so closely watched,” she nods to Jin ZiXun, “it would have been impossible for him to apply this poison to the cup without being seen.”

“So, he did not put the poison in at the picnic,” Jin ZiXun says, “he could have done it ahead of time.”

“Are you stupid?” the little Nie Sect disciple explodes again, “The cups were placed on the tables by the Imperial servants. Does Young Master Lan look like a servant to you?”

WangJi expects the Nie Sect Leader to scold the boy again, but no such thing occurs. Nie MingJue is staring at Jin ZiXun, the scorn on his face mirroring that of his disciple.

“General,” Jin GuangShan smiles, “will you allow your disciple to display such poor manners in front of the Emperor?”

A clamor from the back of the hall saves Nie MingJue from having to answer the accusation.

“Move!” a furious voice snaps from the middle of the crowd.

They part to show Jiang WangYin striding forward, two of the Emperor’s guards behind him. For the first time, the Emperor’s face shows something other than cool indifference. He leans forward slightly, his lips parted in anticipation.

“We found them,” Jiang WanYin says without preamble, “The two servants who had set the tables and set out the cups are both dead. Their throats were slit, and their bodies stuffed in the stairway of the old north-west watchtower. Gr-- the Head Healer estimates that they could not have been dead for long. Four hours at most. Their rooms are being searched as we speak.”

The Emperor leans back, his face growing cold again.

“Where was Young Master Lan at that time?” Jin GuangShan says, “I seem to remember him being absent when the Fan Sect Leader fell ill.”

“He was with me,” Nie MingJue says coldly.

“The Jin Sect seems determined that the Lan Sect is at fault,” a soft voice comes from the back.

WangJi recognizes the voice immediately. He does not have to turn around and look to be sure.

“Such a curious thing to keep insisting,” Jiang YanLi says gently, “in the face of all the evidence to the contrary. Perhaps I should mention that the Second Young Master was with me, before someone thinks to accuse him as well.”

“Lady Jiang,” Jin GunagShan says, “I am only trying to be helpful.”

Nie HuaiSang snorts, and Jin GuangShan whips his head around as if someone had pinched him.

“You--“ he bursts out.

No other words come. He has belatedly realized who, exactly, he is speaking to, and in what tone of voice.

Nie HuaiSang, casually leaning against the Emperor’s seat, now slowly and deliberately closes his fan. He is staring at Jin GuangShan with a singular focus, as if challenging him to continue.

Jin GuangShan’s mouth opens and closes. His face begins to turn purple.

“A-Sang,” the Emperor says, “Do you have something to add?”

“The Lan Sect is clearly the victim here,” Nie HuaiSang says, tapping his fan against the Emperor’s leg, “the cup was placed at the Lan Sect table. The Fan Sect Leader ended up at the table by chance. The poison was not intended for him, it was intended for the person whose seat he was occupying.”

It seems to take everyone a few moments to make the connection.

“But this--” Jiang FengMian says, looking lost, “Why would someone try to poison Lan WangJi?”

A hush falls over the hall.

WangJi has no interest in the details of the attempted poisoning.

Why would anyone be so quick to accuse XiChen of committing a crime, after seeing him do nothing more dangerous than pour a cup of tea? Those who despised them had never seemed to need a logical reason.

For the first time since leaving the South Lakes courtyard, he feels no fear at all, but a deep, bone-crushing relief. He is so stupidly grateful that someone had tried to kill him. Unless they mean to accuse XiChen of trying to poison his own brother, they must recognize that he is innocent in this matter.

As if hearing his thoughts, Wei WuXian stands up, “Please rise, Young Master Lan. You are no longer under suspicion.”

WangJi does not know how long his brother has knelt on the hard floors, but he knows that XiChen would not want the others to see him stumble. He steps forward to offer assistance, but the Nie Sect Leader is already by his brother’s side, lifting him up.

“High Councilor,” Wei WuXian says, “You will investigate this throughly. Please inform all our guests that the competition will be postponed. No one is to leave the Immortal Mountain City until the persons responsible for this incident are discovered and brought to justice.”

Only after the Emperor has departed the hall, does WangJi realize that the entire time, Wei WuXian had had not looked at him at all.

#the untamed #cql #mdzs #ficlet #m #wwx emperor au #half-way through chapter 20 now #i still hope i can fit this story in 30 chapters but #did you know we're only on the day 2 of the emperor's 7 day celebration?#day 2 #let that sink in #i think i have made a terrible mistake #ily guys #thank you all the nice messages and comments and tags

257 notes · View notes

vampire--dad · 3 years

Text

Can’t Win A Battle For A Lost Cause - Part 1

Part 2

I don’t think I’ve ever written something so quickly, wow

I just love writing Lambert. I love exploring his character and breaking it down. And of course, as with any of my favourite characters, I love hurting him :DD

——————

Fucking vampires.

Monsters are so much easier to deal with when they’re stupid, like nekkers. Nekkers are idiots that would probably walk into a sword on their own if you gave them the chance. Vampires are smart, which is half the reason Lambert hates taking contracts on them. They know how to hide, or even worse, they know when they don’t need to. The whole damn duchy knows the duke’s new wife is a vampire, but none can get close enough to kill her. So what do they do? They hire a witcher, someone who can add more fuel to this political bonfire and walk away unscathed, right? Yeah, sure, that’s what we’ll go with.

From this spot in the lower gardens of the duke’s mansion, Lambert can see the vampire on the balcony. The guards are well aware that he’s there, they’re the ones that hired him, but they couldn’t let him inside in case a servant alerted the duke of an unwanted visitor. So here he sits, hidden among the bushes, watching. She’s ballsy, this vampire, sinking her teeth into his neck under the moonlight. The power she has over the duchy must have gone to her head, or the blood, but he knows he can’t underestimate her. Blood is almost like alcohol for a higher vampire, but that doesn’t mean she’ll be weak, if anything, this is going to be even more of a pain in the ass.

The duke stumbles back into their bedroom and the creature turns her face to the moon, her skin a ghostly white and nearly shimmering under the pale light. It seems to pass right through her, as she casts no shadow. Lambert shifts his weight under him and stays low as he creeps along the wall. The ivy that clings to the bricks is strong enough for him to haul himself up to the balcony. As quiet as he can try to be, he’d be an idiot to think she didn’t notice him.

“Tell me, witcher,” she says, opening her icy blue eyes but not turning away from the sky. “How much did they offer you for my head? I’d like to know how much they thought I’d be worth.”

“Looking to buy your way out of this?” Lambert replies. “I’ll warn you, it won’t be cheap.”

“Please, witcher. Killing you will be easier… and more fun.”

Lambert barely has time to roll his eyes before the vampire launches herself at him and they tumble over the edge of the balcony. He was really hoping she wouldn’t say that. He hits the ground with a grunt, barely holding the snarling duchess back. He mumbles something under his breath and suddenly she is launched across the garden, hitting the far wall and slumping against it for a moment. Lambert draws his sword and rolls his neck, considering what he might do with his reward for killing her. Well, not that he can really kill her. Hopefully her body being burned will teach her a lesson while she spends a few decades regenerating.

Her head lolls for a moment, but then she becomes very still. Her neatly manicured nails grow into long, razor sharp claws. The delicate features of her face are drawn back into a hideous, animalistic form. She lifts her head with a disgusting grin. Lambert centres himself and raises his sword as she launches herself at him once again. The duke’s blood has her all riled up. She’s crazed, swiping her claws at him and screeching, only to be met with his blade, at the very least redirecting her attacks away from his body. The witcher can’t risk taking his eyes off her for a second, lest he lose an arm to her talons. She’s lightning fast, but she is at a disadvantage. If she slips up, his sword will tear through her like paper.

His blade catches against her arm. She roars, more out of indignation than pain, but her pause gives him an opening. He surges forwards and his blade plunges through her lithe figure, lodged just beneath her ribcage. A crimson stain blooms across her abdomen and her breath leaves her lungs suddenly. Her claws recede, followed by the rough features of her face. She assumes the gentle beauty she used to get herself into this mess in the first place. Lambert smirks cruelly and cocks his head.

“Fucking vampires. You’re all the same,” he says. “You all think you’re the biggest and baddest thing out there. It’s pathetic, really, how cocky you all are. I’ve faced far worse things than you, sweetheart. You really think your kind is the worst on the Continent?”

His words light a cold fire in her dying eyes. She grins, baring her fangs.

“See for yourself.”

She grips the hilt of his sword and pulls herself into it, the blade sliding through her body with an obscene sound. With the last of her strength she throws her weight forward, opens her mouth and latches onto Lambert’s neck. He groans out a curse, expecting to feel a drag against his skin. He’s been bitten before, but those before her quickly learned that witcher blood tastes vile. But he feels no such drag from his veins, rather he feels a burning sensation spreading across his skin. Suddenly he feels dizzy and short of breath. He feels her smile wickedly against his throat. His knees buckle beneath him. The last thing he hears is a cruel laugh, a sputtering cough, and the sound of his own body hitting the ground.

Lambert wakes with a yelp in an unfamiliar room. He grips the sheets and feels something sharp pressing into his palm through the linen. As he recoils, he notices the pointed nails on his fingers and frowns. Then his memory comes flooding back.

The vampire. His hand finds a bandage wrapped loosely around his neck. She bit him, but didn’t feed. No, he felt something going in instead. It burned like hellfire through his veins. He vaguely remembers being picked up by the guards… then everything ached… he vomited a few times, he thinks. It wasn’t unlike the trials that made him a witcher. With wide eyes he stumbles out of the bed and, in the soft light from the window, looks for a shadow. Nothing. He looks up at the window now, expecting to see his reflection, but yet again, there is nothing.

Shit.

He runs his tongue over his teeth and tastes blood. His canines have grown long and sharp.

Fuck.

She turned him. He’s a vampire.

He runs a hand through his hair. What the fuck is he meant to do now? He was made to hunt monsters, it’s all he knows, and now… he is one. Destiny really can’t give him a fucking break, huh? He sighs and sits back down on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. What are his brothers going to think? They wouldn’t try to hurt him… would they? He’s their brother…

He stops that train of thought the moment tears threaten to well up in his eyes. Now isn’t the time. He needs to figure out what to do. Perhaps there’s someone who can help him… His mind wanders back to his brother’s, but instead of getting emotional, he latches onto a vague memory. Geralt’s friend, what was his name…? Regis. That was it. A higher vampire that Geralt had befriended on his search for Ciri all those years ago. He mentioned he had taken up residence in Nilfgaard. Lambert can think of no better person to go to than another vampire.

Well, he can. He wants to go to his brothers. He wants to find them and just hear them say that they still love him. That’s all he wants and all he fears he won’t get. How could anyone love him like this?

Lambert shakes his head and stands, finding his things in the corner of the room. His medallion rests atop his jacket. He puts it on and clutches it to his chest, ignoring the feeling that he shouldn’t wear it at all. He dresses quickly, collects his things, and emerges from the room into a shop he recognises. The healer’s. He bought a few herbs from the woman who now stands at her workbench across the room. She looks up at him with a friendly smile.

“You’re up,” she states. “Good. How do you feel?”

“I’m fine,” he lies quickly. “I should be on my way.”

“A moment, witcher. I assure you I won’t breathe a word of it, but… can witchers be turned if they’re bitten by a vampire?”

“No,” he lies once again. “Our bodies reject their… venom, I guess you could call it. We can’t be turned.”

He notices her glance at the floor behind him as he makes for the door.

“Very well,” she says carefully. “I wish you the best in your travels.”

Nilfgaard, to Regis’ surprise, is quite peaceful. Winneburg is a big enough place for him to fade into the background, but small enough that he doesn’t run the risk of getting involved in any silly political games again. His home is humble, but thankfully filled with books and things to keep the endless days passing by quicker.

It came as a relief to him to live a normal life again, or at least the mirage of one. He is generally regarded as one of the more reliable surgeons in town, as he had studied enough to know that blood-letting and leeches never work and opts for the use of medicinal herbs and salves for wounds. After all, he’d had almost 400 years to perfect his trade.

He knows he has a visitor well before the knock at the door sounds through the small house. He hears footsteps, hurried and nervous. Regis closes his book and sets it aside, expecting someone in need of his care. Instead, on the other side of the door stands a witcher. He has dark brown hair, a scar across his right eye, and he wears the same medallion that he saw around the neck of an old friend.

There’s a look in the man’s yellow eyes he’s never seen in a witcher before. Fear. Geralt was good at hiding his emotions, brilliant at it. Over the years he saw many things in his friends’ eyes; joy, despair, anger, content, but never fear. That was the one thing he never showed. But this one seems unable to hide it.

“Regis?” he asks.

“Yes, witcher?”

Given a moment to analyse the man before him, Regis quickly realises why he is here. Small details give him away. The bluish tint to his skin that makes him look far paler than he should be. The small cuts around his lips. The pointed nails that he digs into his palms as he looks around nervously.

“I need your help,” he pleads.

“I know. Come in, we have much to discuss.”

He stands aside and lets the man in, noticing the tension in his shoulders and the bags under his eyes. It’s not uncommon to see such things when someone is turned, but he’s never seen a witcher turned. He can’t imagine what this must be like for him.

“What is your name, witcher?” he asks as he closes the door.

“Lambert,” he says. “I’m one of Geralt’s brothers.”

Regis can’t help a small smile as he says, “Yes, I do remember him mentioning you. He spoke of his little brother quite fondly.”

Lambert seems to grow even more nervous at the mention of his brother. Regis drops the subject and gets to the point.

“How long ago were you bitten?”

“A week or so.”

“Where? Show me, it’s not uncommon for bites to get infected.”

Lambert sheds his leather jacket and rubs his neck before tilting his head to bare the scar. He had spent what little coin he could spare on a new jacket with a higher collar. Regis notes his lack of eye contact. Anxiety isn’t a good look on a witcher.

“That healed quite nicely, actually. Of course. Now, where was this?”

“A duchy in Maecht. The duke’s new wife was a higher vampire. She was slowly draining him of—”

Lambert pauses and curses under his breath. His fingers come away from his lips bloody.

“Pull your fangs back a little,” Regis says. “It should feel like tensing the roof of your mouth, and it might hurt a bit, but try it.”

Lambert finally looks up at him with a look of surprise, like he didn’t expect to be met with compassion. He makes an odd face as he tries, then clamps a hand over his mouth and squeezes his eyes shut. Regis chuckles slightly.

“I told you it would hurt.”

“Yeah, a bit…” Lambert grumbles

“You’ll get used to it. Now, a higher vampire in Maecht? What has become of her?” Regis asks.

“I assume the duke’s guards burned her body like I told them to. It’ll at least put her out of action for a few decades.”

“Good. I assume you know there is nothing I can do for you in terms of curing you—”

“Yes, I know,” Lambert snaps. “I just… I needed someone to… I needed…”

Now that he thinks of it, he can’t explain exactly why he came here. He just thought seeking out someone who knew better than he did what was happening to him would be a good idea.

“Guidance,” Regis finishes for him, his tone comforting and soft. “That is what you’re looking for. Guidance and reassurance. Would I be right in thinking so?”

Lambert nods meekly. Regis offers him a comforting smile.

“Fret not, dear witcher,” he says. “You can stay with me while you find your footing. I may not have been turned myself, but I can understand what this must be like for you.”

Lambert resembles a puppy more closely than a wolf. He looks far more vulnerable than Regis had ever pictured him. Geralt had described a man with biting humour, a tendency for sharp remarks, and more often than not, a cruel smirk. But the man Regis sees before him is, for lack of a better word, broken.

“Thank you, Regis,” he mumbles, rubbing his neck again.

“Come, Lambert. Let’s get you settled in. I have a spare room, you can stay as long as you like.”

——————

Tags: @elliestormfound @jaskierswolf @lovelyeskel @feral-jaskier @patchwork-doublet

Please let me know if you’d like to be added to my taglist!!

#the witcher #lambert #emiel regis #vampires #i love them so much #fanfiction

60 notes · View notes

fuzzyporcupine · 3 years

Text

lead me with your hands tied | chapter 7

chapters:

FULL - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7

rating: explicit

word count: 15,443

summary:

In the midst of a crumbling kingdom at war, Levi Ackerman is commissioned by King Jaeger to paint a portrait of his overzealous son.

chapter 7:

Eren entered the studio with more than enough time to spare. Not in any way dressed for a portrait, but on time nonetheless. Thankfully, Levi only needed to accomplish a sketch today. The attire could be forgiven for now.

Eren leaned against the doorframe, a tight golden waistcoat highlighting the man’s frame.

“I see your illness has faded, Your Highness.” Levi continued to clear his workstation as the prince sighed dramatically.

“As you commanded, artist.” Levi’s fingers stilled over the brushes. He thought about the venom he’d spewed at the prince in the bedroom. Thought about how angry he had been as he marched out of the room. The guards hadn’t paid him any mind as he shuffled back to the studio with tight fists and a furrowed brow, well-warned by Petra. The time alone had allowed him to decompress, to curb his thinking from wrapping his hands around the prince’s neck to that of a brush instead.

“Quite,” Levi muttered, returning to shuffling through his supplies. The sound of advancing footsteps bounced off the stone as Eren approached him from behind. He felt a headache beginning to swell deep beneath his eyes. One that would surely only add fuel to this infuriating fire. Bringing thin fingers between his brow, Levi pressed gently against the soft skin. Usually, he could simply will the pain away. Could push the ache into the dark abscesses of his mind to be reignited on another day. However, now with Eren’s gaze demanding attention, he was finding it hard to ignore the subtle throbbing.

“Are you alright?” The prince’s breath fluttered delicately over the back of his neck, twisting heat around the bones of his spine. And he hated it, almost as much as he despised the goddamn royal family. Hated the way Eren was able to pick and probe these reactions out of him as if he were some young girl vying to lose her maidenhead. It was unequivocally, irrevocably insane. To be nearing his thirtieth year and still acting like a young boy going through puberty. Levi could curse himself - curse the dreadful prince, as well.

He turned around slowly, cautious of the ever-growing pounding ricocheting inside of his skull. Levi expected to see a smug grin, a look of enjoyment over his suffering. He figured that Eren would be all the more pleased to find that his own drunken aliment had seemingly shifted its host over to Levi. The irony was indeed thick, Levi supposed. However, instead of a gleeful smirk and self-righteous glare, Levi found a wrinkled brow. Eyes that were normally so wide and full of pride were now narrowed and searching, darting quickly across Levi’s face. Thin lips pressed tight as Levi’s fingers dropped to fiddle with the sleeve of his linen shirt.

“It’s just a headache,” he mumbled wearily, watching the way Eren’s brows pulled a little tighter. “I’m fine.” There was a short pause, and then the prince was nodding, feet shuffling backward against the hard grey stone. The whole scene was baffling. More so than when Eren stormed into the dining room in nothing but nightclothes. The thought had his palms going sweaty against the white fabric still being fussed about between dexterous fingers.

Eren stared at him, looking one half bewildered and the other half perturbed. Finally, the man cleared his throat. “Petra knows a great remedy for those. Tastes like shit but does its job,” Eren laughed awkwardly. The sound had his toes curling uncomfortably in his boots. The prince looked away then, sparkling eyes roving over the blank open canvas. “Where do you want me?”

“The fireplace,” he said without hesitation. Levi remembered how the location had called so loudly to him. The elegant lines, the stone etched to perfection. His only hope would be that the backdrop would not upstage the prince himself. It would be a far cry, though, as loathe as Levi was to admit it.

Eren was a handsome man, a strong jaw and high cheekbones. Thick dark brows hovering over fierce wide eyes that almost verged on too large. An artist’s muse in all aesthetic senses.

The aching in his skull had thankfully drizzled off into a manageable thud by the time Eren found a spot in front of the fireplace. The man hovered there, hands gracelessly hanging off to the side. It was slightly satisfying to see Eren looking so out of place especially after being so often on the receiving end of the prince’s brash humor.

“I believe that I’m at a bit of a loss here, artist,” Eren admitted, sagging broad shoulders with a heavy sigh.

Levi looked boredly over the edge of the canvas. “Haven’t you done this before?” Eren bristled marginally at that, and Levi had to fight back a devilish grin.

“When I was twelve!” The prince’s voice cracked hilariously and a fabulous flush crept up onto the man’s cheeks as Levi watched Eren sway anxiously back and forth. He took pity on the poor soul, scoffing as he placed the pencil down on the table next to the empty canvas. Standing, Levi gave Eren an assessing look, analyzing the man’s position as he stepped closer.

“Act natural.” Eren huffed crudely at the comment, spine stiffening beneath Levi’s stare. The stance was similar to a toy soldier Levi once owned as a child, wooden limbs ramrod straight at the sides. While appealing to a figurine young boys and girls could play with, the posture was thoroughly horrid for a portrait. An artist’s muse in all aesthetic senses, Levi reminded himself. “Now you look like you need to take a royal shit,” he chided, crossing his arms against a sturdy chest.

The blush on Eren’s cheeks deepened brilliantly. “You’re being far too vague,” the prince muttered quietly, pride effectively wounded. A small part of Levi wanted to reassure the man that the art of posing for a portrait did not come as natural as one would expect. However, a much larger part enjoyed seeing Eren’s tail tucked between his legs like a kicked dog.

“Relax your shoulders,” Levi said. Eren did as much, rolling them back into what appeared to be a much more comfortable position. “Now turn your body to the left.” He watched as Eren turned on his heels, eyes now facing the Jaeger family crest posted to the wall. Levi stepped forward. “Bring your chest towards me. For fuck’s sake, not your entire bloody body.”

Eren scowled, frustration clearly nearing the end of its rope. “This is damn near impossible.” That was a rather final word for it, Levi thought. The game had seemingly run its course, and despite his gratification over watching Eren squirm, he did not want to risk having the prince storm off in a snit like before.

“I suppose it can’t be helped,” he surmised, thumb stroking the underside of a pointed chin. Confidence supporting his gait, Levi strode forward until he was within arm’s reach of the prince. “Face the wall again.” He watched the prince eye him up and down warily. “Before the sun falls, Your Highness.” Eren sighed irritably as the wide gaze was once again fashioned to the vibrant green tapestry.

“Absolutely impossible,” he heard Eren mutter quietly into the air. The breath was sucked straight back into the man’s lungs, however, when Levi wrapped tentative fingers around either side of the thin waist. Time seemed to still for a quiet moment, and the prince stiffened. The skin felt red hot beneath his touch, warmth seeping through the fabric and onto the pads of his fingertips. Could feel the way the muscles moved and flexed beneath the flesh as he twisted Eren’s upper half marginally to the right. Levi dropped the clutch, satisfied when the prince held the position without being corrected. Next, he grasped Eren’s right arm, bending it at the elbow before trailing his palm down to the man’s wrist.

“Take hold of your belt,” Levi requested.

“Rather uncouth of you to assume my innocence is so easily won, artist,” Eren jested, mouth pulling maddeningly at the corners. To hear the prince describe himself as innocent almost yanked a chuckle from his throat. Almost. Instead, he gifted the infuriating bastard with a deadly glower as he dropped his hand.

“Grab the damn belt.” With the instructions delivered, Levi turned and shuffled back over to the canvas, hoping that the grit of his teeth wasn’t too audible. The expectation that the pose would be held was minimal at best, nonexistent at worst. However, when Levi looked back over his shoulder he saw to his surprise that the stance was exactly as he’d envisioned - give or take the shit-eating grin.

Moving behind the blank linen, Levi selected a pencil from the complied lot of tools to begin the sketch. It was a soft, smooth grey. Perfect for capturing lines and easily covered with the drag of a brush. For now, he only needed to reproduce the simple shapes that would eventually be reconstructed into the prince’s form.

Hooded eyes only barely reached above the edge of the canvas, his short stature dwarfed by the coarse cloth. Levi typically didn’t work on portraits so large, and if he were capturing anyone other than the shitting smiling bastard before him, Levi might be apt to ask for a stool. As it was, he would rather face the entire Shiganshina army with only his paintbrushes as a means of defense.

He worked in relative silence, save for the scratching of the pencil across the linen. His gaze flitted quickly between the man and the canvas. Rough lines began to appear, boxy shapes symbolizing hands and shoulders.

“I beg your pardon if I’ve caused offense.” The statement caused a line to go astray. Levi swore quietly beneath his breath, rubbing away the error with the side of his hand. The prince would truly be the death of him. Perhaps literally.

To be quite honest, he was wholly surprised that Eren even had the ability to utter words that weren’t a vulgar insinuation or an infuriating quip. An apology was definitely not considered to be a part of the man’s vocabulary.

Levi's voice failed him as he tried to conjure up a worthy response. One that would likely tell Eren which unspeakable place the man could shove the pleas of forgiveness. Instead, Levi was left to hide shamefully behind the canvas as he attempted to avoid Eren’s pointed stare.

“You simply intrigue me.” Levi’s breath caught painfully in his throat. Intrigued? He had no idea how to respond to such a claim. One was intrigued by the leaves morphing colors on the trees or the way the stars glittered brightly at night. But Levi? Intriguing? He should perish the thought.

When Levi looked up, an unyielding stare immediately sought out his eyes. “I can assure you,” he finally said, voice not quite as steely as he’d hoped, “that this curiosity is misplaced.” Levi watched as the man’s posture slipped. “As is your right arm.” The prince quickly righted himself back into position.

“How self-loathing,” Eren muttered.

Levi ignored the quip, returning to the sketch. To anyone else, the scribbles would be puzzling. A scattered mess of unconnected dots and lines. However, Levi recognized the sketch for what it was - the beginning of a potential masterpiece. The majority of the prince’s outline lined the canvas. Hands, legs, arms, and torso all sketched to represent an estimated length and width. Levi had saved the face for last. It was, without question, the most crucial element of the portrait. Oftentimes, he had been asked to substitute hands that were thought to look too old or bellies that appeared to be too fat. But the face was always that of the owner’s. He gazed at Eren’s now, noticing how the intensity behind the man’s eyes had not diminished even with Levi’s blunt rebuttal. He tried to read them, to find something within the swirling depths. Though it was unclear to Levi what he was even looking for. Sarcasm? Ridicule?

Curiosity?

He scoffed softly to himself, eyes falling away from Eren’s commanding stare.

The face would have to wait until the morrow when his head was sat correctly on his shoulders. Regardless, the fireplace still needed to be outlined into the background, something that would not require Eren’s presence.

“We are finished for today, Your Highness,” Levi said, bowing slightly. The rumblings of the headache reawakening began to whistle between his ears. Unlike the others, Levi couldn’t help but feel as if this one was well-deserved. Thinking so deeply about how Eren perceived him or what the man’s intentions were would do nothing but drive him utterly mad.

The prince relaxed, falling out of the chosen position. “Thank the gods.” Levi did feel at least a modicum of sympathy for the man. Despite his chiding, Eren had remained steady for the majority of the session. It was more than he could say for most clients. “Will you require me again tomorrow?” Levi nodded, pencil going back to work as he etched out the beginnings of the fireplace. “Good. I shall require you, as well.”

The line crooked to the side as his hand twitched.

Eren’s boots clicked against the floor as he approached the canvas. “Meet me in the courtyard after breakfast is served.” Levi looked up at the man as if he had grown two heads. In actuality, that feat might have been more realistic than the thought of Levi Ackerman campaigning with a member of the Jaeger family after breakfast. The very idea had his gut twisting in a feeling that he couldn’t quite describe. “Until tomorrow, artist.”

And with that, Eren took his exit, leaving behind a very befuddled - if not slightly captivated (though he would wholly deny it) - Levi to wonder what glorious plan the prince had in store.

#ereri fanfic #ereri #riren #fic: lead me with your hands tied #another day another chapter

18 notes · View notes

tacitwhisky · 3 years

Text

Jon of Dorne, pt 1

Dornish Jon. Or, the story of how Jon was raised in the water gardens of Dorne beside Arianne Martell and the sand snakes. When Oberyn journeys to Kingslanding Jon goes with him. There he meets Sansa and secrets her back to Dorne / AO3 Link

---

Jon is eight when first he’s brought to the water gardens.

His mother had held him tight in the shadow of Starfall’s high tower the day he left. As around them bannermen tightened saddlebags and gathered their horse’s reins in hand, she’d pressed her mouth pressed to the crown of his head. “Never forget you’re mine, Jon,” she’d whispered into his hair, “mine and only mine.”

Jon had nodded into the soft linen of her dress. His eyes had stung, but he’d known he was too old to cry, and so instead he’d willed his voice strong as he imagined his uncle ser Arthur Dayne’s had been. One day you will be the Sword of the Morning just as he was, his mother has promised, and he clings to that knowledge now.

“Don’t worry, mother. I’ll be back soon. Won’t I?”

In place of answering his mother gathered Jon’s face in her hands. Any other mother would lie, would soothe his worries by telling him he would be, but his own mother’s violet eyes had flashed as only Ashara Dayne the Lady of Starfall’s could, and for that Jon had loved her desperately. “Doran will keep you at the Water Gardens as he will. He knows more than he should, but there is nothing to be done for that now. Keep your eyes open, Jon. Watch and wait. And always remember, come what may or what you’re told, you are my child. Remember I love you. Remember you are of Dorne.”

They are the last words she ever speaks to him.

---

Areo Hotah waits for them at the dock at Sunspear, a bearded giant tall and powerful, the curved blade of his polax gleaming under the Dornish sun, a pair of guardsmen in copper scales standing to either side of him.

Beside Jon, Sansa tenses, her fingers tightening on the ship’s railing. “Is that…?”

“Areo Hotah.” Of course Oberyn sent word ahead of us. He should’ve known the Red Viper of Dorne could somehow find a way to outpace a ship fleeing Kingslanding. Or perhaps it is one of Doran’s many eyes. “He’s the captain of prince Doran’s guard.”

Sansa nods faintly, the sea breeze playing with the stray of her hair. Her eyes dart to Jon, then away. “Will he send me back?”

“Hotah?” Jon shakes his head. “He only does as he’s tasked to and no more.”

Sansa nods shakily and brushes back the strays of her hair, the faintest tremor to her fingers. “And prince Doran?”

Jon pauses, less sure how to answer. A week at sea they’ve followed the coast southward from Kingslanding to Sunspear, but in most ways Sansa is still a stranger to Jon, cousin in name alone. He does not know how how much truth to answer this strange and shy pale creature so unlike the brash and bold women he was raised beside all his life: Obara who was like to answer any offer of help with a bruise, Tyene whose every courtesy was laced with venom sweet as syrup, Nym who laughed and mocked with little mercy, Arianne…

Arianne who is fierce and wild and as impossible to grasp as the desert wind.

“Doran is a good prince,” Jon says slowly, “fair and just. He has no love for the Lannisters , but above all else cares for Dorne. If I can make him see that keeping you here in Sunspear and not returning you to the Lannisters is for the good of Dorne then he will give you his protection.”

“And if you can’t?” Sansa fingers whiten as she tightens her grip on the ship’s railing. “If he sends me back to Kingslanding?”

Something strange wells in Jon’s chest, painful and sore, something he does not understand, something that urges him to take her hand and swear to protect her from whatever will come.

“Sansa.” Jon catches her gaze in a long, steady look. “I swore I would protect you from the Lannisters. If Doran sends you back I’ll go too."

“Why?” Sansa swallows. “I know I’m a stranger to you, Jon, even if we are cousins by blood. You don’t owe me anything. You don’t have to-”

“But I will.”

Sansa’s lips part as she searches Jon’s eyes. “Why?”

Jon shakes his head, unable to answer. A moment later the ship shudders as it pulls into its berth, and he wordlessly offers his hand to Sansa. Her eyes search his for another moment before she takes his hand, fingers slim against his palm.

Hotah stands imobile as they descend the lowered gangplank, black eyes watching impassively, the red silk threaded through the spikes of his helm playing faintly in the breeze.

“Ser Areo Hotah,” Sansa dips in a curtsy when she reaches the end of the gangplank, her voice so light and sweet that if it were not only moments before Jon would never remember the tremble of her fingers. “My cousin tells me you serve prince Doran.”

“I have that honor.” Areo Hotah’s voice is a rumble. He regards Sansa a moment before turning to Jon, face distant and impassive as though it were carved from stone. “Prince Doran has summoned you.” He gestures and one of the other bannermen behind him brings forward a trio of horses. “He would see you at once.”

After a week at sea there is nothing Jon would like more than to collapse into a bed, but he knows better than to protest. Still, when he glances at Sansa and the dark rings under her eyes he nearly does all the same, the same pang as before rising in his chest. But...

You will be doing her no favor making Doran wait. Prince’s dislike that. And we need all his good will.

The horses' Areo has brought with him are of the prince’s own stables, a pair of sand seeds swift and lithe. Jon helps Sansa onto hers before vaulting on the other. The sun’s gaze has turned the saddle’s leather scorching, and Jon unwinds the loose weave cloth from around his neck and offers it to Sansa whose pale skin is already pricked with sweat. It smells of the sea’s salt, he knows, but...

“It will shield you from our Dornish sun,” he tells her, “a little, at least.”

Sasna accepts it with a shaky nod. She wraps it in a half hood over her hair and gives Jon a questioning look. He smiles in answer, an expression that belies the unease filling his gut, and turns his horse away from the sea and towards the desert and water gardens where prince Doran Martell waits to pass judgement.

---

Jon is eight when first he’s brought to the water gardens.

They gleam pink under the desert sun, a palace of cool marble and palm fronds and lapping blue pools. Children Jon’s own age shriek and splash in the pools, and though after the long dusty ride through the desert Jon wants nothing more than to jump into the cool water beside them, the guard he trails behind leads him away from and above the pools to a balcony shaded with orange trees. At the entrance to the balcony stands the tallest man Jon has ever seen, a silent and bearded giant with a polax tall as he in one hand, coal black eyes regarding Jon impassively.

“Come closer,” calls a voice beyond the bearded giant. A man sits at the edge of the balcony in a chair with wheels, watching the children below. A richly embroidered blanket drapes the man’s legs, but beneath the tasseled hem Jon catches a glimpse of red and angry lumps round as fruit bubbling from his ankles and toes like blood oranges ripe enough to burst. The man doesn’t turn from the pools, only waves an absent minded hand at Jon. “I would meet the bastard of Starfall.”

Jon glances at the bearded giant, but the man’s eyes do no more than watch him impassively. Warily, Jon steps around him to stand before the man in the wheeled chair, and raises his chin. “Your grace.”

Prince Doran Martell’s eyes rise from the pool and settle on Jon. Kind eyes, gentle creases at the edges, but somehow distant as they study Jon. “You don’t have the look of your mother.” Doran’s lips purse in a faint smile. “Or perhaps you do. I never did gaze upon the girl myself.”

There’s some jest in Doran’s words, some hidden thing that Jon does not understand, and he has heard enough whispers and giggling from the other children of Starfall to mistrust jests of any kind. He lifts his chin higher, meets Doran’s gaze squarely like a man should, like he knows his uncle Ser Arthur Dayne the Sword of the Morning would’ve. “They say I have the face of a Stark, but I am Dayne too-”

“Not Dayne,” Doran interrupts mildly. “Bastard. But bastard Sand or bastard Snow?”

“Bastards are named for where in the seven kingdoms they’re born, your grace.”

“That is so, but which is your blood? Sand or snow? The sun of Dorne or the cold of the north?” Doran’s eyes drift away, seeming to harden as they settle once again on the children splashing in the pool below. “They say prince Rhaegar dishonored my sister Elia with a Stark girl. That after he stole her your… father… Brandon Stark rode into the Red Keep baying for Rhaegar’s blood. Perhaps he thought the ice in his blood could protect him from Aerys’ flame, but he should’ve known better. When fire and ice touch only one remains, and ice has no place north of the Neck, not for the thousand years since the Long Night.”

Jon’s shuffles his feet. Sand, snow, fire, ice: none of it makes any sense. Always keep your eyes open, his mother had told him before he left Starfall. And so Jon does, watches and waits as Doran gazes at the pool below despite the urge to fidget and say anything to break the silence. Finally, the prince looks up again. “Your lady mother tells me you are fond of stories of your uncle. A Stark slew him too, did he not? Ser Arthur Dayne the Sword of the Morning murdered by Ned Stark, the Usurper’s right hand.”

Jon prickles. He’s known the story since he was old enough to sit on his mother’s lap, but there is something different in the way Doran says it. Vague unease washes over Jon, but though he is only a child, he refuses to be cowed for something he does not understand. He draws himself up, wills his voice strong and proud as his mother’s. “He did, your grace, but afterwards lord Stark rode to Starfall to return my uncle’s bones to our crypts and deliver Dawn to my lady mother.”

It is the wrong thing to say. Jon knows it immediately, a sick feeling welling in his gut as Doran blinks. “Of course. Honorable Ned Stark. Honorable enough to return a man’s bones; not enough to punish the murder of women and children.” The prince waves a hand, lumps of gout swelling white and red and angry from the joints of his fingers. “But enough talk of old dead men. You should be with others your age.”

I didn’t- Jon nearly starts, the sick feeling in his throat, but behind Doran the giant man stamps the butt of poleaxe against the floor, the toll of a bell marking the end of Jon’s audience.

Jon bows to the prince and flees.

---

The sun is dying as they reach the Water Gardens, pink marble turned to pale blood in the orange light. Jon jumps down from his horse and helps Sansa down from hers. Her fingers grip his hand tightly, though he does not know if it is from exhaustion or fear. She doesn't relinquish her grip as her feet touch the ground, and he merely squeezes her hand tightly in answer, not letting go as they turn to follow Areo Hotah.

Hotah leads them through the winding path between water pools, the murmur of lapping waves at high tide so different from the shrieking and laughing of children that filled them during the day. Familiarity hollows Jon as he walks between the pools; the long and shallow one where he’d split his lip when he tripped, the smooth bottomed one where Sylva had rode his shoulders to victory against all the other children-

-the one with the craggy edge where he’d watched the gulls circle above the day he’d learned his mother had thrown herself from the high tower of Starfall.

Doran waits for them at the same balcony from all those years before as though he never moved. Areo Hotah stamps the butt of his axe to announce their entrance, and only then does Doran stir to life. So late in the day Jon can see milk of the poppy in the slow way he blinks; the pale haze to them as they stir to life. “Should you not be in Kingslanding squiring with my brother?”

“I was, your grace. But he bid me return to Dorne.”

“This was his plan, then?”

Jon bites his lip. For a fleeting moment he is tempted to lie and say it was. But that is a coward’s path, so instead he draws himself up. “It was mine, your grace. I rescued the lady Sansa alone.”

Sansa steps forward, hands unconsciously smoothing her skirts. During their flight from Kingslanding she has worn simple linen in the way of any of the smallfolk of Kingslanding, and the day’s riding has left it wrinkled and ragged. Poor fare to present before a prince, but her curtsy is as easy and graceful as the one at the dock. “I am Sansa Stark, if it pleases you, your grace.”

“Stark?” Doran does not turn from the balcony. “I thought you Lannister now, my lady. Were you not married to Tywin’s dwarf son?”

“I was, your grace.” Sansa bites her lip. “I was their prisoner then though, and could not refuse.”

“A prisoner they will be wroth at losing.” Doran finally turns to Sansa. “You are a valuable prisoner, my lady, the last living Stark and wife to the man standing trial even now for the murder of our good king.”

“Sansa is a prisoner no more.” Jon steps beside Sansa, voice sharper than it should be when addressing a prince of Dorne. “Theirs or ours.”

Doran tilts his head to the side, eyes cooling as they study Jon. And for a moment Jon is just a boy again, lost and homesick, a bastard child with no right to kindness and no home. Y ou will never be Dornish to him. Always some Stark’s whelp, always an outsider no matter how long you live beneath the Dornish sun. Jon clenches his jaw and meets Doran’s gaze squarely, forces himself not to fill the silence.

After a moment Doran’s eyes drift to Sansa and he gives her a distant smile. “Of course you are our guest, my lady. Areo Hotah will find you a room so you can rest. You have had a long journey, no doubt.”

“Thank you, your grace.” Sansa curtsies again. She glances at Jon, and he nods, the two of them turning together to leave.

“Jon.” Doran tilts his head towards the balcony edge. “Stand with me.”

Sansa’s eyes dart to Jon again. He gives her what he hopes is a reassuring smile and nods to Hotah. “You’ll be safe with him.”

Hotah’s poleaxe thumps the ground as he leads Sansa away, and only once it’s faded does Jon move to stand beside Doran at the balcony edge. The sun is gone, the sky left a blue so dark as to be black in its wake, only the silver light of the moon tracing the pale marble of the Water Gardens. The sea breeze is a cool caress after the day’s heat, its touch turning the fronds of the palm trees between the pools into murmuring shadows. Below them servants light lamps and copper braziers, pools of gold among blue shadows.

“It’s a dangerous kind of guest you’ve brought us.” Doran’s voice is tired. “Were she anyone else I would send her back to Kingslanding tonight and you with her. When the Lannisters learn she is here they will think us responsible for Joffrey’s murder.”

“The Lannisters never need know it.” Jon leans forward. Meticulously during their week at sea he’d fitted the pieces together, the pieces to a plan salvaged from fleeing with Sansa, a plan that Doran might accept. “No one need know who she truly is. I could keep her hidden. Her hair is already dyed, and we are half a world away from the Lannisters. Only you, Oberyn, and Hotah know the truth for now. When the time comes, I could-”

“You will do nothing.” Doran’s voice is sharp. “You have done enough already. It was folly to let Oberyn take you as his squire. What you have done has endangered us all. For the love of my daughter I will not send you back to the Lannisters for them to do with you as they may, but do not doubt that I will not forget what you have done.”

Jon draws back, ears ringing as though he’d been slapped. “What I did, I did for the good of Dorne. Sansa is valuable. She is the last Stark.”

“And what would you know of the good of Dorne? It is not your place to decide what is or is not for the good of our land.”

Of course it is not my place. Bitterness knifes through Jon, keen and cruel. Do you think I don’t know that? That I would ever forget I will never truly be of Dorne in your eyes? That I will only ever be some Stark’s whelp? Born in Dorne, but never of it, not truly.

“Will that be all, your grace?” Jon cannot keep the vicious bitterness from his words. “I would take your leave.”

Doran waves a hand, dismissing him. “Tomorrow you will return to Sunspear. Keep the lady Stark hidden until I say else. Whatever your folly in taking her, she is our guest now.”

Jon bows to the prince and turns to take his leave. He has only made it a few steps though before Doran speaks. “Why did you take her?” Doran’s voice is soft, barely carrying above the murmur of the orange leaves above them. “The truth this time, Sand.”

“I could not leave her.” Jon swallows, throat dry, and knows it’s the truth, the truth he couldn’t speak to Sansa on the ship, the truth he couldn’t admit even to himself. “I had no choice. She’s my blood.”

#jon of dorne #my fic #jonsa #jonsa fic #jon snow #sansa stark #jon x sansa

38 notes · View notes

echo-bleu · 3 years

Note

Hi, hello, hey! I'd like to request #48, I'm in the mood for angst 💙 Never worry about length, I love & adore everything you write 💙💙💙

Em. I know that by “never worry about length” you meant “it can be super short”. I swear I meant to write something short. I...didn’t.

#48 “You make me want things I can’t have.”

It’s currently 22k and still growing. There will be 5 or 6 chapters, and the prompt doesn’t even come into it until late chapter 4...

It is ANGSTY. It’s a canon divergence where Magnus erases his memories of Alec in 3x19 Read at your own risk and maybe prepare tissues. But I promise a happy ending.

This was betaed by the amazing JeanBoulet. Huge thanks also to the folks at the Fandom Playhouse discord server for all the encouragement and squealing! Especially you Em: I love you and this is a slightly early Christmas present!

[Specific warnings: suicidal thoughts (mentioned), terminal illness/poisoning, internalized ableism]

Summary:

Over the ten months that follow Alec's deal with Asmodeus, Alec struggles to adapt to a world without Magnus in it, Magnus falls in love all over again and everyone just tries to make it through another day.

Alec is dying from venom poisoning and Magnus doesn't even remember him.

Read on AO3.

take me back to the start (1)

He’s in Pandemonium, staring across the room at an apparition with a bow in his hand.

He’s in his loft and standing over a pentagram, an electric jolt going through his body as he links hands with someone.

He’s kneeling in his living room, pulling energy from the hand in his, stumbling back against a lean and muscular body, exhausted.

He’s holding up his glass and toasting with a tall man, whispering words, flirting.

He’s watching the man train, shirtless, swallowing back his desire and trying to find the words to say how much he wants him.

He’s standing in a corridor, hurt and heartbroken, the man turning his back on him.

He’s storming into a wedding, and the man is striding toward him—

Wait.

Back up.

Back to the start.

There’s something bittersweet about being back at Pandemonium after all this time. They’re not here to chase a demon this time, or to offer a priceless jewel in exchange for a summoning. They were trying to get Clary’s memories back then, too, Alec remembers. He was against that plan from the beginning, but it led him to Magnus.

He thought himself in love with Jace, back then.

It’s a strange and painful turn of events that leads them back here. He’s not in love with Jace anymore. Clary isn’t the only one missing her memories. Izzy isn’t wearing that necklace today, though it’s been around her neck every day since—

Alec stops his recollection right there, before it turns into something else. He struggles inside, leaning heavily on his crutches. The music assaults his ears as soon as he’s past the door and he winces. He stays back as Jace and Izzy lose themselves into the crowd. He shouldn’t even be here. He doesn’t know why he decided to come, beside to punish himself.

He adjusts his grip on the crutches and looks around the large, dimly lit room, his height allowing him to scan the crowd easily. He can still see Jace and Izzy making progress toward the mezzanine on the other side of the room. The raised space is less crowded, reserved by the bouncers as a VIP section. Alec can distinguish the couches where a mix of Downworlders are lounging, Seelies blending in with vampires and werewolves.

And a single warlock.

Magnus looks different. He’s let his hair grow a little, and it’s not styled up but to the side, streaked with green and purple — or maybe that’s just the light playing tricks on Alec’s eyes. His outfit is flamboyant, gold brocade on a deep red velvet, the high collar opened on his chest to reveal multiple necklaces. Alec swallows hard.

Alec wonders, even now, if Magnus toned himself down for him when they were together, or if he simply didn’t feel the need to be noticed by other people as much when he was with Alec.

Jace and Izzy reach the stairs and briefly argue with the bouncer at the bottom. After a minute, Magnus makes a gesture and they’re allowed in. Alec can’t hear them, not over the deafening music. He forces himself to take his eyes off Magnus and slowly, painstakingly makes his way around the room, circumventing the crowd to avoid getting toppled over. His balance isn’t good enough anymore to risk the dance floor, and he’s in enough pain as it is without taking a fall.

Izzy and Jace are arguing with Magnus, clearly agitated, when Alec makes it to the mezzanine. The bouncer lets him through without protesting. Alec doesn’t look up until he’s made it up the stairs, and when he does, he can hear bits of shouted conversation amid the music.

“—for a bunch of Shadowhunters to come to my club—”

“Magnus, I know you’re angry, but this is about—”

“I don’t know why I’d even listen to Lightwoods of all people—”

“Magnus! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

That’s Jace. Alec wants to intervene, but he can’t bring himself to yell from across the room. He’s not sure he can speak at all.

“I know Alec broke your heart, but—” Izzy starts.

Alec braces himself. Magnus’ eyes land on him, but there’s no recognition in them, only a frown. The truth feels like a knife twisting in Alec’s gut. He was still holding on to hope but his mother was right, there’s no denying it now. Then Magnus looks at Jace and Izzy, his gaze turning angry, and back at Alec. There’s a vague curiosity on his face, a slight tilt of his head Alec knows well — but not anymore, because it’s not meant to be this way—

“Who’s Alec?” Magnus asks.

The knife twists again. Alec stumbles, hissing in pain. It feels like an actual, physical wound. His throat knots up, and he turns away from Magnus. He needs to get out of here.

He ignores the stabbing pain in his hip as he stumbles down the stairs, a mess of crutches and barely controlled steps, and it’s a miracle he doesn’t end up face down at the bottom. He runs out the backdoor as fast as he can, into a back alley smelling of piss and forgotten garbage. The contents of his stomach make it to the floor, behind a trash can.

He leans against the wall, barely avoiding stepping into a puddle of his own vomit, and stays there until breathing doesn’t feel like swallowing needles anymore. He doesn’t know how long it’s been when Jace and Izzy find him. He can’t get Magnus’ face out of his head. The way his eyes slid over Alec like he wasn’t even there. Who’s Alec?

“Alec,” Jace calls him. He must have felt Alec’s distress through the parabatai bond. Though Alec isn’t sure what Jace feels from him anymore, these days. Between the agony of leaving Magnus and his injury, Alec has tried his best to close his side of the bond.

And the last few days, he’s pretty sure Jace has tried to do the same for him. He looks rough, like he hasn’t slept in days — none of them has. Not since Clary left.

“Did he agree?” he asks.

Izzy scrunches up her face in pain. “Yeah, but—”

“He doesn’t remember us,” Alec states.

“Alec—”

“He erased his memories of me, and by extension, you. I hoped he’d remember Clary, since he knew her from before.”

“He does, that’s why he agreed to help,” Jace says. There’s hope and sorrow mixing on his face, warring with each other like he doesn’t know how to feel either. “But how could he—”

“I broke his heart,” Alec murmurs. “He has the power to erase me, so he did. At least he’s not hurting.”

“You knew?” Izzy asks, shocked.

“Yes. Mom went to see him, before the battle. She figured out what I’d done and she tried to tell him. He treated her like she was still a Circle member and he shut the door in her face. She told me once I woke up.”

“Oh, Alec,” Izzy squeezes his arm. Alec leans into her touch, even though he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want comfort. He wants...he wants the sweet relief of oblivion, too. But he’s not going to get that. Not yet.

And he wouldn’t want to forget Magnus for the world.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Jace asks.

Alec looks away, fighting back tears. It’s answer enough. He didn’t want to believe it, not really. He knew. He knew when Magnus didn’t come after the battle of Alicante. Catarina confirmed it, with a gentleness that surprised even Alec.

But everyone is gentle with him these days, like they’re walking on eggs. He’s become fragile. No, broken.

Broken beyond repair.

Magnus sighs. Having Shadowhunters in his loft makes his skin crawl. At least when he told them to bring a fifth they chose someone decent, Clary’s vampire friend Simon. It might make it harder to do the ritual, but Magnus won’t have to clean up after a fourth thoughtless Shadowhunter.

The two he’s already interacted with — Jace and Isabelle — are brash and annoying, clearly used to the spotlight. Simon seems to be dating Isabelle, though Magnus can hardly see what he sees in her beside her looks. She was downright rude the other day.

The third Shadowhunter is more interesting. He’s tall and handsome, honestly one of the most beautiful men Magnus has ever seen, though he looks sad and drawn. There’s something familiar about him that Magnus can’t place. Unlike his sister, he doesn’t particularly look like either of his parents, so it’s not that. Maybe something from one of the other Lightwoods or Truebloods Magnus has known over the years.

He’s avoiding Magnus’ gaze with a consistency that would be admirable if it wasn’t uncomfortable. Is he really so sure of his superiority that he won’t even look a Downworlder in the eyes?

No, it’s not that. Magnus is almost sure there’s something else, something he should know. Something...something to do with the box in his nightstand, the one with a carved bow and arrows on the lid.

He knows what the box is. He knows it contains memories he chose to remove from his mind, memories that must have been painful – Magnus knows himself. If the memories had been dangerous, he’d have put them somewhere safer. This is something else. This is personal. And something in his subconscious is telling him that these Shadowhunters have something to do with it.

It’s only one more reason not to trust them, as far as Magnus is concerned. If they hurt him badly enough that he had to remove his memories...that means heartbreak. Did they do something to his lover, somehow? Did they kill the one Magnus loved?

The tall Shadowhunter – Alec – talks quietly with his siblings in a corner of the room. He’s walking with difficulty, leaning on metal crutches that make a soft tap on the floor each time he takes a step. Magnus tracks him through the room that way, watching him through the corner of his eyes. Each move looks painful, and there’s something emanating from him, like an unknown sickness. Some sort of battle injury, Magnus guesses. From fighting demons in New York, or from the now infamous Battle of Alicante four months ago? He knows there were many casualties, and there must have been wounded Shadowhunters too.

“Magnus,” Isabelle calls him quietly. Magnus snaps back to the task at hand. They’re not here for a social call.

“What?” he snaps at her.

“I know you don’t remember us, but you know you’re missing memories, right?”

“Yes,” Magnus sighs. “I’m not interested in knowing more about them, especially not from you. I removed them for a reason.”

“Alright, alright,” Isabelle relents. “So, do you think you can help Clary?”

“If the Angels took away her runes and her memories, it’s not going to be the same as simply unlocking a mental block or retrieving memories,” Magnus says. “This won’t be easy, and I’m not sure it can be done.”

He sees the others, except Alec, gather around him to listen. “Once, you helped her get back her memories,” Jace said. “It didn’t work—” he glances at Alec across the room, “—but it could have.”

Magnus’ memory of that day is present, but incomplete, full of holes he knows are due to a memory spell. He doesn’t remember why it didn’t work. He hopes it won’t matter today.

“Those memories were ones I took myself,” he says. “I fed them to a memory demon. Biscuit’s current situation is a tad more complicated.”

“Then what are you going to do?” Isabelle asks.

“You said she has pure angel blood, didn’t you? And so do you,” Magnus points at Jace. “The same blood, in fact.”

“That’s right.”

“We’re going to use that. We’re going to ask for her memories back directly from the source. We’re going to summon an angel.”

“Is it safe?” Alec asks, approaching them, and Magnus realizes that this is the first time he’s spoken aloud in his presence.

“No,” Magnus answers.

“Alec, if there’s even a chance—” Jace pleads. “We have to.”

Alec closes his eyes, looking pained. “Jace—”

“No, Alec. It’s not fair. She didn’t chose this.”

Alec opens his eyes again, his whole body stiffening. Isabelle’s eyes widen as she looks between him and Jace, and even Jace seems to freeze in shock at his own words. The whole room appears to hold its breath, waiting to see Alec snap.

“You’re right,” Alec says after a moment, his shoulders slumping. He looks like he’s holding the weight of the world on his shoulders. Magnus feels a strange instinct to help him, to offer a body to lean on – but he doesn’t move. “She didn’t. We’ll do it.”

He’s clearly the leader of their group, because after that, there’s no protest, no question, not even from Simon. In fact, Simon looks at Alec with a mixture of admiration and sadness in his eyes, and his gaze is hard when he turns back toward Magnus.

Magnus doesn’t know what he’s done to provoke this kind of hostility. From cocky Shadowhunters like Jace and Isabelle, he expects it, though he’s starting to suspect that their carelessness is only a facade. From Simon, with whom he’s only had friendly, even fatherly interactions? Not so much.

Alec seems to be the only one not angry with him in some way. Instead, he steals looks at Magnus when he thinks Magnus is not looking, and his gaze in those moments is too intense, filled with emotions Magnus can’t even begin to comprehend.

Isabelle makes Alec sit down on the couch while Magnus prepares the ingredients needed for the ritual. Alec refuses at first, looking around him like he doesn’t want to touch anything in the loft, but he relents after half an hour, clearly in a lot of pain. He stays with his back ramrod straight, refusing to relax. He touches the leather of the couch almost reverently, and Isabelle just tilts her head sadly.

Magnus is being far too curious about them. He has no reason to be. They’re just Shadowhunters paying for his services, that’s all. He needs to focus on helping Clary.

The ritual involves painting the ceiling as well as the floor, so he concentrates all his magic on the intricate drawings. “Is this some kind of angelic pentagram?” Simon asks curiously.

“Not exactly,” Magnus answers. “There are similar elements, but this is an angelic Seal.” He doesn’t add that it’s the archangel seal he inherited from his father. An entrance to Heaven, right here at his doorstep, even for a Fallen angel. “It still needs five people to activate it.”

“Summoning an angel,” Simon says. “It’s gotta be dangerous, right? I mean, not for them, but for us?” he gestures to Magnus and himself, excluding the Shadowhunters.

“It could be painful, if the angel doesn’t like our demon blood. Are you ready to do that for Clary?”

“I’d go to Hell for her,” Simon says, tilting his head. “And further.”

Magnus nods. “Angels are unpredictable, but this one will be bound by the Seal. He shouldn’t be able to do true harm.”

“So we just ask him to give back Clary’s memories?” Isabelle asks.

“I’m just handling the Seal,” Magnus says. “It will take all my energy. Jace will ask the question. I suggest you think about what you want to ask.”

Jace nods from where he’s standing in parade rest by Alec. “I already know,” he says.

“Then gather up,” Magnus says. “I’m ready.”

They all stand around the circle he painted on the ground, each going inside one of the smaller circles linked by a network of white lines. Alec leaves his crutches on the floor outside of the Seal area and limps over to his spot with a grunt, standing with his full weight on his good leg.

“Link hands,” Magnus orders.

Isabelle and Jace exchange a look Magnus can’t interpret. They’re on each side of Alec, with Simon beside Isabelle and Magnus completing the circle between him and Jace. He reaches out and clasps his hands with the two men.

The pull on Magnus’ power, as soon as the circle is closed, is immense. If he hadn’t recently received an enormous boost, thanks to his father’s death and Edom’s destruction, he wouldn’t have been able to handle it. He focuses his energy on keeping the Seal stable, between the floor and the ceiling, a column of light with them on the outside.

The form of the angel starts to shimmer inside the light, wings folded back against his back. He doesn’t become fully solid, instead remaining ethereal, almost see-through.

“Who dares to summon an angel?”

His mouth doesn’t move, but the voice rings in all their heads.

Magnus grits his teeth against the pain blooming in his chest, tightening his hold on Simon and Jace’s hands. It was always going to be painful. The angels hate nothing more than demon blood, even – especially – when the blood is from a fallen angel. It hurts like hell, but Magnus has been to hell, and he’s come back. He can do this. Simon is wincing, but not as badly, his own demon blood more diluted.

What Magnus doesn’t expect is for Alec to cry out and crumple, barely holding onto his siblings’ hands. He’s angel-blooded. He shouldn’t be in pain. Or is it just his injury acting up under the pressure of the Seal?

He looks barely conscious, his mouth half-opened in a cry of pain. Magnus swallows against his own throbbing chest and signals to Jace to get a move on.

“Raziel’s soldier, and Ithuriel’s child,” he answers. “I am of angel blood.”

The angel turns toward him. “Jonathan Herondale. Yes, we know of you. What do you want from the Angels?”

“My lover, Clarissa Fairchild. She’s one of your children, too. You took her powers and her memories.”

“She played with powers beyond her understanding,” the angel says. “She was punished.”

“I’m asking the angels for forgiveness,” Jace says. “Forgive her, and she and I will be your soldiers on Earth, for as long as you desire.”

Magnus grimaces and hopes Jace knows what he’s doing. He hasn’t had much dealings with the angels before, but this is a not promise that can be taken lightly.

The pain is getting harder to bear, and Magnus wishes Jace would hurry up. Simon is looking a little frayed around the edges, his face screwed up in pain.

Alec looks like he’s hanging on by a thread.

“It is not in my power to decide,” the angel says. “But the Angels are fair. We do not deal punishment unjustly. Her sentence is not forever.”

“She’ll be forgiven?” Jace asks, his surprise showing through his facade. “She’ll get her memories and her runes back?”

“Eventually.”

“But when?”

The angel opens his mouth, but before he can answer, Alec lets out a cry of pain and his hands slip out of his siblings as he falls to the floor. The circle breaks, and the pillar of light disappears, taking the angel with it. “No!” Jace cries out, but he doesn’t reach for the angel. He reaches for Alec instead.

He falls to his knees beside his brother. “Alec!”

“I’m fine,” Alec grunts, through he’s clearly anything but. He’s curled up on himself, his face white with agony, even now that the angel is gone and the pressure on Magnus’ chest has left. “I’m sorry, Jace.”

“It’s okay, brother,” Jace murmurs. “Why did he react like this?” he asks louder, looking up at Magnus.

Magnus shakes his head. “I don’t know. It should only have done that if he had demon blood.”

Jace and Isabelle share a look, and Simon’s breath hitches. Magnus looks between them, but none of them is forthcoming with whatever knowledge they have that Magnus doesn’t share.

Alec sits up with Jace’s help, his hand going to his right hip as he groans in pain. “Help me up,” he asks his brother. Jace seems ready to protest, but he must see something in Alec’s face, because he gets Alec’s arm around his shoulders instead. Isabelle goes to retrieve the crutches and gives them back to Alec, who takes them with trembling hands.

Magnus’ heart tightens, seeing him in such obvious pain. He doesn’t know why—

Or maybe he does. The signs are all there, and it’s time he stopped pretending not to see them.

These Shadowhunters didn’t hurt his lover or his friends. These Shadowhunters were his friends, somehow. And Alec…

Alec is the one who must have broken his heart. That’s the only explanation for what Magnus feels right now. It’s like body memory, almost, a level of compassion and love that cannot possibly come from the few interactions they’ve had that he remembers.

Magnus steels himself against the part of his brain that wants to get the memory box from his nightstand right now and open it. He removed those memories for a reason. Because living with them must have hurt too much.

He’s not going to go back on that and expose himself to that kind of suffering just because he’s curious.

“What does it mean for Clary?” Simon asks.

“I don’t know,” Jace says. “He said she’d be forgiven eventually, but—”

“Angels don’t see the passage of time like you do,” Magnus cuts in. “It could be years. Decades.”

“Is there anything we can do?” Isabelle asks. Alec remains quiet, head down, still leaning against Jace.

“Nothing I can think of,” Magnus answers. He stands up straighter. “Which means you’re no longer in need of my services. Please refrain from coming back here unless there’s a true emergency.”

He doesn’t want the reminder that he decided to erase the last — what, three years? — of his life.

Isabelle looks visibly shaken by that, and she swallows. Alec doesn’t look up at all. He turns away like he doesn’t want Magnus to see his face, and Magnus wonders what he’s trying to hide. Jace throws him a murderous look, and Simon shakes his head in sadness.

“We’ll get out of your hair, then,” Isabelle says quietly. “We won’t bother you again.”

Good riddance, Magnus thinks.

It rings wrong even in his head.

“How are you doing?”

Izzy leans against the door frame of Alec’s office. She looks tired, overworked. She’s taken on so much in the last few months.

It’s been two weeks since Alec collapsed at Magnus’. He can still feel the pain burning through his veins, eating away at his body, each day bringing him closer to the edge.

“I’m fine,” Alec says, putting down his pen. He shifts in his seat painfully, his hip seizing. He’s been sitting still for too long.

“I wish you would stop saying that,” Izzy sighs.

“I wish you would stop asking me,” Alec shrugs.

They’ve been beating around the bush, trying to ignore the elephant in the room. It’s too big to tackle during work days. They go through the motions like it all still matters, the Clave, the Downworld Cabinet, the patrols. Alec can see Jace and Izzy struggle with it, but he can’t do anything for them.

Clary’s gone back to art school, all knowledge of the Shadow World erased from her mind. Alec has made sure that she’s safe and settled, and all that’s left is watching Jace tear himself apart as he grieves. The hope that the angel brought them isn’t enough. Not when it’s so vague.

Not when everything else is falling apart, too.

It’s been just over four months since it started, since the day Alec made a deal with Asmodeus. It feels like an eternity ago, and yet also like it was yesterday. Magnus’ desperation as Alec broke up with him is seared in his mind forever, and it accompanies Alec’s every waking thought.

Magnus doesn’t remember.

It’s a comfort, these days. Losing Magnus will remain the hardest thing Alec has ever done, but he’s thankful for it, however much it hurts. Because it means that Magnus has his magic again, that he can be happy.

Because it means that Magnus doesn’t have to live through the aftermath.

It’s been four months, too, since the Battle of Alicante. Magnus missed it all. He wasn’t there when they all thought they were going to die there, trapped by the demon hordes, caught in between two forces of evil. He wasn’t there to hold Alec’s hand when he woke up in the hospital to a broken body and demon venom coursing through his veins.

He wasn’t there, when they figured out that it was a death sentence.

Catarina slowed the spread of the venom, but nothing she or the Silent Brothers tried could get it out of his system.

“You’re hurting,” Izzy says, walking in fully and closing the door behind her. “I can see it. I know you don’t like the painkillers, but you need them.”

Painfree runes have long stopped working on Alec’s abused body. The mundane pills were Catarina’s idea. She was there in the aftermath of the battle, when Magnus wasn’t, she ran triage with the Silent Brothers and saved countless Shadowhunters. She did her best to piece Alec’s shattered hip back together and she was the one who figured out what was wrong with him.

“They’re not much use anymore,” Alec admits. The pills are some of the strongest on the market, but his Nephilim body metabolizes everything faster than a mundane, and they barely take the edge off.

No, it’s better that Magnus isn’t here. That he didn’t have to sit by Alec’s bedside after the battle, praying at every new treatment, every test, that something would change. That he doesn’t have to watch the venom slowly win over Alec’s body, leaving him weak and trembling. That he won’t have to wait with them for the day it will reach his heart, and it will all be over.

Maybe a year, Catarina told him. If you stop working and rest most of the time.

Alec has done neither. He can’t. He’ll go out of his mind if he tries to rest anymore than he already does. Work takes his mind off things.

He’s still the Head of the Institute, if only because there is barely enough left of the Clave to hold Alicante together, and appointing new Heads has been the least of their problems.

“There has to be something else we can do,” Izzy says. “To relieve the pain, at least.”

“You know there isn’t,” Alec sighs.

She’s not doing well. None of them are. They’re barely holding themselves together.

They lost their father, the day of the battle. Robert Lightwood didn’t make it out of the destroyed city. They’ve lost Clary and Magnus, and now they’re losing Alec too, as his deterioration accelerates with each passing day.

Their whole family is falling apart.

“Let’s go out tonight,” Izzy says, faking lightness. “We can meet Simon and Maia at the Hunter’s Moon. It will be nice.”

Alec wants to say yes, to give her that, a moment of normalcy amid the chaos. But he’s exhausted and in pain, the ache in his hip never letting up. He’s tired of people watching what they say around him. Looking at him like he’s going to disappear any minute.

He shakes his head. “I think I’ll just go to bed early tonight. I could use the rest.”

Izzy nods wordlessly, disappointed but understanding. “I love you, big brother,” she says.

She says it a lot, these days.

“I love you too,” Alec replies, like every other time. There’s nothing else to say. No it’s gonna be okay, Izzy because it’s not, and they both know it.

Someone knock on the door. “Yes?” Alec calls.

Underhill pokes his head in. “Sir, your mother is here.”

“Let her in,” Alec nods. Maryse has been hovering, and he can’t blame her. Looking at Izzy, he can’t deny her the little bit of hope in her eyes. “Let’s make it a family thing,” he says. “Go get Jace and Max.” He can hold off his exhaustion for a few more hours, for them.

Izzy slips out with a smile on her face and Underhill comes back with Maryse in tow.

“Hey, Mom,” Alec smiles weakly, pushing himself up to greet her.

Maryse strides to his side and hugs him tightly. “Alec,” she breathes, love and pain warring in her voice. “How do you feel today?”

“Not great,” Alec murmurs.

He finds himself honest with her, these days, more than he is with his siblings. She’s been his strongest support, despite their once strained relationship, and Alec is too spent to be angry with her as he once was. All of that doesn’t matter, anymore.

Maryse doesn’t break down, at least not in his presence. But Alec is too much like her for his own good, and he can see her pain in every gesture, in the way her hugs last a little longer, the way she tightens her hand on his arm, the way her voice hitches every time she says goodbye after spending time with him.

She hands him his crutches and supports him as he gets situated. Walking is getting harder every day, as the venom lights his nerve endings on fire with every step on his already unstable hip. Maryse just squeezes his shoulder as he hobbles around his desk and hovers until he’s safely sitting on the couch.

“Tell me,” she says quietly, kicking off her shoes and curling up beside him.

They’ve become tactile in a way they never were before. Neither of them likes being touched much, but as it turns out, terminal illness has a way of making you reevaluate your priorities. Alec lets his family hug him as much as they want to now, even on the days it makes his skin crawl.

He sighs, leaning his shoulder against his mother’s. “The new Inquisitor is a homophobic dick. And he wants me removed. He says I can’t do my job anymore.”

“Jia won’t let him do it,” Maryse says.

“I don’t know. He’s not wrong.”

Maryse takes his hand in hers. “Alec, even now, you’re a much better Head than I ever was. You’re holding up admirably in the worst of circumstances.”

“I’m tired,” Alec murmurs. “I don’t know how long I can do this.”

She squeezes his hand, and he sees her swallow back her emotions. “If you feel like you should step down to rest, I’m sure Jens can handle the fort for a while. Until Izzy’s ready.”

Not until you come back. She’s the only one of all of them who faces the inevitable and doesn’t try to pretend that Alec is going to get better. If nothing else, she’s never been one to shy away from the hard truths.

“Maybe soon,” Alec says. He doesn’t want to, but he’s quickly getting to the point where he won’t be able to work anymore. “I miss him,” he adds, his voice breaking. “I can’t stop.”

Alec can’t get Magnus’ face out of his head. The way Magnus looked at him like he was nothing to him. Alec is nothing to him, now. Magnus doesn’t remember any of their time together.

It hurts more than Alec would have thought possible. He’d thought he’d already reached rock bottom, that nothing could possibly hurt worse than breaking up with Magnus. Than waking up in that hospital bed, having lost everything. But that look haunts him.

Maryse just hugs him without a word.

“Alec!” Max exclaims, rushing into the office with his usual energy. Izzy and Jace are on his heels. He jumps on the couch on Alec’s other side, missing Alec’s quick wince when it jostles his leg.

Max is old enough to understand what’s happening, and not quite old enough to know what to do with his emotions. He alternates between acting like everything is fine and randomly bursting into tears, with no in-between. Today seems to be the former, because he starts rambling about his training without a care in the world.

Alec looks up at Jace and they share an entire conversation in an eyebrow raise. Alec keeps his side of the parabatai bond firmly closed, but he knows that his pain leaks through anyway. He can feel Jace’s despair, the way he’s barely hanging on by a thread.

They say the worst pain a Shadowhunter can endure is the loss of his parabatai. Alec remembers the words. It’s one of the things they learn, in the initial parabatai testing. They’re asked if it’s worth it, risking that.

When they gave a resounding yes, their fourteen-year-old brains had no space to comprehend the pain of today.

Jace and Izzy watch Alec like he’s about to disappear, and he knows, he can see, that they can’t yet imagine what will happen after.

They don’t talk about it during the day. It’s too heavy, to much to bear for all of them.

At night, Alec finds himself more often than not sandwiched between Jace and Izzy in his bed. They come claiming they have nightmares or can’t sleep, never quite saying that they just want to feel close to someone else, close to Alec. They say the words, quietly, the words that won’t come out during the day. It was worth it.

And sometimes, where thou diest, I will die. On those days, Alec hugs Jace tight as he tries to convince himself that he doesn’t mean it, that he will go on.

“—and Kara keeps saying I need to work on my defense, but she’s not a teacher!” Max is saying when Alec tunes back into his surroundings. He’s absently drumming his fingers on his good leg, his other hand still in Maryse’s.

“You should listen to her, Max,” Izzy says. “She’s one of the best fighters of her generation. She’s a fairly new transfer,” she explains to Maryse.

“She’s not even a grown-up!” Max protests. “Besides, Aline said she needs to stop overthinking every fight. So she’s not that good.”

“I don’t think you were supposed to hear that,” Alec says, fairly sure that Aline was not referring Kara’s training but rather the frequent phone calls with her deeply transphobic father that send her crying to either of their offices. “You should spend more time training and less time eavesdropping.”

Max pouts and they all laugh, the lightness of the moment freeing them from the stifling sorrow that’s settled between the adults in the room.

Maryse makes the effort to keep the conversation going after that, though she never releases Alec’s hand. It feels good, to have a normal moment with his family. Jace still has shadows in his eyes, but he settles in a chair and even smiles. Izzy’s cheerfulness sounds a bit fake, but she tries. Alec struggles to keep the pain from showing, but he watches them and feels a deep swarm of love for all of them.

After they’re all gone, Alec painfully stumbles back to his desk and pulls up a piece of paper and a pen.

Dear Magnus, he writes. He pauses, and wishes that even Magnus’ name didn’t make him want to cry. Every minute I spent with you was worth the pain it causes me today.

He writes on, until his hand shakes too much to continue. He doesn’t cross out anything, or bother censuring himself. He puts down his pen, finally, and folds the paper carefully.

He unlocks the bottom drawer of his desk with a rune and opens it. He goes to slip the letter he’s just written inside, but he can’t help but stare at the small box there. He doesn’t open it. He knows its contents by heart. He can almost feel it under his finger, the raised edges of the Lightwood crest in smooth silver, the ring he was going to give Magnus. It will go to Izzy, now. There’s a letter for her, underneath the box.

There are other letters, too. One addressed to the next Head of the Institute, instructions on how to keep the Downworld Cabinet going. Alec’s will, freshly updated. Every Shadowhunter is required to draft a will before their first mission in the field, and rewrite it every year. They know better than any other mortal that they can die at any time.

There’s a letter for Jace. One for Maryse. One for Max, who will have to finish growing up without a father and down one brother.

The rest are for Magnus. During the endless days he spent laid up in the hospital, Alec took to writing him letters. In them, he recounted the strongest beats of their relationship, the sweet moments, the hard truths. Everything Alec can remember, since he now has to remember for them both.

He doesn’t think Magnus will ever read them, but he’s not doing this for Magnus. He’s doing this for himself. One last indulgence, since he’s no longer good for anything else.

A drop falls on the top letter, turning the paper darker. Alec jumps and realizes it’s sweat falling down from his hairline. He puts down today’s letter, carefully tucking it in to make a tidy stack, and closes the drawer, his hands trembling a little. His fever is spiking again. In a few hours, he’ll be delirious and out of his mind.

Jace says he cries out for Magnus, in the worst moments. Alec has stopped letting anyone else into his Soundless-rune proofed room. It’s getting worse. It used to happen every few days, but recently, he hardly ever goes a night without losing himself to the venom in his body.

He’s slipping away.

He doesn’t want to die, if only for the pain he knows it will cause his family. But more and more, on days like today, he thinks it might be a relief.

#shadowhunters #malec #malec fic #alec lightwood #magnus bane #isabelle lightwood #jace wayland #angst #take me back to the start #mine #echo's fanfiction #hmdiscord #malec discord server #moonlight-breeze-44 #asks

24 notes · View notes

e-of-west-glendia · 4 years

Text

Happy birthday to the wonderful @imliterallyvirgilandlogan!! You are an absolutely amazing person and I love you to death.

(Apparently I’m incapable of writing fluff without angst so um enjoy this fluffy angsty mess. To be fair Sirius Black on Mother’s Day is basically a recipe for an inevitably angsty disaster.)

Something About Mother’s Day

(I can’t come up with creative titles)

Sirius sat on the edge of his bed watching Peter, James, and Remus finalize cards and wrap up gifts. It was Mother’s Day. His absolute least favorite day of the year.

Sirius had had bad experiences with Mother’s Day in the past. At the Black residence it was never a time of sweet celebration and kindness, it was always some dull party that was really just an excuse to showcase their wealth. Alternatively it was a meeting with all the Sacred 28 members. Sirius has found that those were the worst Mother’s Days. Sitting at a table, back straight, giving small, perfunctory nods to everyone he encountered and answering awkward questions about being in Gryffindor and producing heirs (he was 16 for god sake).

It had to be around noon when he finally decided that he should leave. There was no use in bringing everyone down with his feelings about this holiday.

Hopping off the bed, Sirius made his way to the door.

“Honestly, my mum is too nice for her own good. Last Mother’s Day she sent me a gift— Sirius where are you going?” James had stopped halfway through his sentence, glasses slipping down his nose as he peered over the top of them at his friend.

Sirius shrugged. “Nowhere in particular.”

Peter cocked his head to the side curiously, while James and Remus narrowed their eyes in suspicion.

“Sirius is something—“ but Sirius was gone before Remus had even finished his question.

Peter turned to the other two boys. “Do you think it’s because…” he started.

“Probably,” James and Remus said in unison.

~~~~~~~

Sirius found himself sitting by the lake. If he was being quite honest with himself he couldn’t even remember how he’d gotten out there in the first place. His mind had been swimming with images of that past winter.

Drunken screams and broken glass. Flashes of light of every color. And pain. Excruciating pain. The faint crack of broken bones— it had taken him a while to realize that they’d been his bones broken — and the sharp metallic scent of blood. Everything had been hazy after that. Regulus’ hands on him, silently cursing and muttering about something that Sirius had been too pain weary to try and listen to. Two flashes of green light— one that smelt sickly sweet and poisonous, death laced in every syllable. The other, light and warm and smelling slightly of ash and burnt wood. Then he passed out in the Potters living room to the sounds of James screaming for his parents.

A light tap on his shoulder almost made him jump. He looked behind him and almost jumped again when he saw who it was. He quickly schooled his features into something befitting the infamous Sirius Black — Marauder and mischief maker extraordinaire.

“Ms Evans, to what do I owe the pleasure?” He asked.

Lily rolled her eyes at him. “Shut up, Black.”

Sirius laughed. Since becoming a prefect Lily and Remus had begun to hang out more. Which meant that Sirius saw more of her than he had in previous years and it also meant that she seemed to hate him significantly less. By significantly less he meant he would say hello to her in the halls and she wouldn’t completely ignore him. Unless of course James was around. Then she’d just leave.

Sirius raised an eyebrow at her. “What’s up? This has to be the longest conversation we’ve had all year.” A grin lit up his face. “What, have I finally started to grow on you?”

Lily turned slightly red and scowled at him. “No.” She said firmly. Then, “I just saw you sitting outside alone and I thought I’d make sure you didn’t get eaten by the giant squid. Actually, on second thought, I wouldn’t mind if the giant squid ate you.”

Sirius laughed again. “Isaura wouldn’t hurt me. We’re best friends.”

Lily snorted. “I’m sure that’s exactly what she thought when she threw you out of the lake last summer.”

Sirius shrugged. “Our relationship might have its ups and downs but I promise you we’ll withstand the test of time.”

“You’re an idiot,” Lily sighed. Then she peered down at Sirius. Sirius got the odd sense that she was analyzing him with that piercing green gaze.

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” she asked. He’d been correct.

Out of instinct he said. “Nope. Everything’s all good.”

Lily didn’t buy it for a second. “Uh huh sure. You’re sitting outside, by yourself, skipping stones across the lake while staring forlornly at the horizon. Not to mention it’s fucking freezing outside and you’re not even wearing a jacket. Meanwhile I just came from the common room where your friends are being idiots as usual.”

Sirius winced. She had a point.

“You don’t hide your emotions nearly as well as you think,” Lily finished.

Sirius grumbled something about meddling redheads that made Lily smile.

Lily chewed her bottom lip for a second before sighing and plopping down next to Sirius. Sirius glanced at her in confusion.

“Not going to run away screaming this time, Evans?”

“Har har.”

It was another few seconds of silence before Lily turned to Sirius.

“I heard about what...happened...over winter break,” she said cautiously.

The small smile that had been creeping onto Sirius’ face died immediately.

“I suppose Snivellous told you then.”

Lily bit her lip, fighting a retort against the nickname.

“Doesn’t matter where I heard it from. I just— what I’m trying to say is...I get it.”

Sirius snapped his head to her so quickly he almost gave himself whiplash.

“You get it,” he asked, voice nothing shot of venomous. “Oh I’m sure you ‘get it’. Because everyone understands what it’s like to be—“ he stopped short at the silencing hand the girl held up.

Sometimes the power Lily Evans commanded over people amazed him.

“Easy, Black. That’s not what I meant.”

Sirius gave her a look that clearly said well then what did you mean?

Lily sighed again, it sounded sad this time. Sirius almost felt bad for snapping at her. Almost.

“What I meant was...I know what it’s like to not have the best relationship with family members. And my situation is definitely nothing on yours,” she said quickly when she heard Sirius’ scoff. “But I know what it’s like to be the hated one— the outcast. And it sucks. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, least of all you.”

Sirius stared at her but Lily kept speaking. “You’re a good person, Sirius. Annoying? Yes. Arrogant? Totally. A bit self absorbed? Definitely. But you’re a good person. You care about your friends and they care about you. Nothing your bitch of a mother says or does will ever change that.”

Sirius snorted at that last part. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Sirius was silent again, debating on whether or not he should ask Lily the question that was now swimming in his mind.

“Hey Lil—“

“My sister,” Lily cut him off. “You were going to ask who in my family it was, right? It’s my sister Petunia. She’s hated me since I got my letter.”

Sirius winced slightly. He definitely knew a thing or two about difficult sibling relationships.

He didn’t apologize though. She wouldn’t want to hear that. Instead he said, “Yikes.”

“Much yikes,” Lily agreed.

“I meant what I said, y’know. About your friends. They really love you, Sirius. I mean you and James are basically brothers — practically joined at the hip. You and Peter are always laughing about something. And Remus,” she paused for a moment, as if debating on what her next words were going to be. “Remus, especially. He cares.”

For the millionth time that morning Sirius gaped still Lily. “What do you mean especially Re—“

“Speak of the devils,” Lily said, interrupting him and climbing to her feet. “I think I’d best be off now.”

Sirius squinted into the distance. He could vaguely make out his three friends picking their way across the wet grass towards them.

“Well Black it’s been fun. I swear I’ll kill you if you let it slip we ‘hung out’,” Lily said, framing her words in air quotes. Despite her menacing tone she was smiling.

“I don’t doubt it,” Sirius laughed.

Lily sent him one last smile before quickly setting off across the grass.

She was halfway to the greenhouses when the other three arrived at Sirius’ side.

James, in typical James fashion called out, “Hey Evans! How about you come with me to Hogsmeade this weekend?”

Sirius snorted at James as he watched Lily flip him the finger and shout something that sounded like “In your dreams, Potter,” over her shoulder before she disappeared around a corner, red hair flying around her face.

“Trying to steal James’ girlfriend?” Peter teased.

“Yeah!” James said, rounding on him. “What was that about.”

Sirius barked out a laugh. “You wound me Jamie. You really think I’d steal the future Mrs Potter from you?”

James spluttered incoherently at him. “Besides,” Sirius continued. “I’m not really into girls that psychoanalyze me.”

Remus snorted. “Yeah, she does that.”

Sirius looked up at Remus, reveling in the way the early morning sun turned his brown hair gold. He couldn't help staring at him, but could you blame him? Remus Lupin was beautiful in just about every way you could be. Inside and out. His mind flashed to what Lily had said about Remus. She couldn’t know that he was in love with Remus...could she? And she certainly hadn’t meant...had she? No, he thought firmly. She definitely hadn’t meant that. The odds of Remus liking him back were about 1 in a million and Sirius had never been high on good luck.

It seemed as though James had just remembered how far off the straight spectrum Sirius Black was because he said, “Oh...right...yeah…”

Sirius laughed at him. James’ face suddenly turned serious. “Right. Back to what we’re here for,” He said. “It’s Mother’s Day and Mumis fully expecting a card from both of her sons.”

Sirius gave him a confused look. “What do you mean both...?”

“Oh please,” James scoffed. “You heard what Mum said to Walburga on the platform back in January.”

Sirius very clearly remembered. Euphemia had looked down right murderous when she’d said, “And if you ever touch my sons again, Walburga, I won’t hesitate to kill you.” Even his mother, the unshakable Walburga Black, had taken a step back. Sirius had no doubts that Euphemia would make good on her threat. He smiled to himself. She kinda reminded him of Lily.

“And anyways you’ve been a Potter since the moment I met you.”

“He’s right,” Remus said, nudging Sirius with his foot. “You were a Potter long before you were formally adopted by them.”

“Exactly,” James said, nodding at Remus. “Now hurry up and sign the damn card. There’s going to be hell to pay if she doesn’t get a gift from both of us.”

James extended a hand to Sirius, which he accepted and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.

“Best get started on that card then,” he said.

The four of them headed back across the lawn. Remus leaned down close to Sirius, his hair tickling the side of his face.

“What’d Lily say,” he asked softly in his ear.

Sirius repressed a shudder, mentally chiding himself at his reaction. Just friends. Just friends, he thought to himself. He sent a glance in Remus direction. Curious green eyes met grey and Sirius sighed. Taking what Lily had said to heart would really just be wishful thinking.

“Nothing,” he said.

“Hmm,” Remus said, unconvinced, but he didn’t press it.

Sirius grinned at him.

Despite the answer that Sirius had given Remus, something definitely had changed between Lily and Sirius. And though neither of them would ever admit it at the time, from that day forth Lily Evans and Sirius Black were most definitely friends.

#HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!#wolfstar #wolfstar fanfiction #Harry Potter #Harry Potter fanfic #marauders era #James Potter #Lily Evans #Sirius Black #Remus Lupin #peter pettigrew #the giant squid #hogwarts #happy mothers day #birthday gifts #angst #fluff #mild wolfstar references #my writing

114 notes · View notes

noonaduck · 4 years

Text

In the eye of storm pt.2

Pairing: reader x Hoseok /OT7 Genre: Superhero &super villain AU, Smut, fluff, angst. series. Warnings: angst, gore themes Words: 4055

Summary: You lived in a world where superhuman abilities were reality. Around 15% of world population went through a mutations in their mother’s womb that scientists weren’t able to explain. These people with supernatural abilities were called meta-humans. Some of meta people decided to serve the world as superheroes whose job was to keep everyone safe. Like every coin people gaining superpowers had its down side. Because there wasn’t choosing who would born with extraordinary abilities sometimes the powers ended up manifesting in wrong people. Those people used their abilities for their own gain and the counter force for the superheroes was born. A/N: At first I’m sorry for the wait. i have been lacking the motivation to write so that’s why publishing the second part took so long. I wanna give big shout out and thanks to my new beta @s0seo . I don’t know where I would be without her patience to fix my grammar mistakes and her suggestions on how the plot should proceed.

1. < 2. > 3. coming soon.

[GIF belongs to it’s rightful owner ]

9 years ago in Scarlet City

Min Yoongi was proud to call himself super. Even though he hadn’t gained his superhuman abilities through a mutation like other super humans, he didn't mind. His father was one of the leading scientists in the field of gene research following the discovery of the first superhuman. Their home was filled with articles detailing the accomplishments and crimes of these super humans. Many of them were decorated with scribbles from both yoongi as well as his father. You could say that he was obsessed in figuring out the secrets of supernatural abilities. That was the main reason that he had spent most of his time in his laboratory focusing on his work. Yoongi's mother died in a car crash when Yoongi was only two. Although Yoongi couldn’t remember much about his mother, he could vaguely recall the comforting scent of her hair and how patient and kind she was always with him unlike his father. Following his mother’s funeral Yoongi’s father buried himself even deeper into his work than he had before, and Yoongi found himself spending most of the time with his father in his cold, desolate laboratory playing with empty test tubes and befriending the lab rats his father used for his experiments. Dr. Min looked like a real life mad scientist with his too big lab coat, messy black hair, and half moon glasses that he kept pushing up his crooked nose. He didn’t ignore his child on purpose; it was just that he was always so focused on his work that he sometimes forgot that he even had a son. The lack of other kids' presence in Yoongi's early years robbed him of any potential social skills and later caused him to become an outcast. When Yoongi was old enough he was sent to one of the strictest boarding schools in the country. He was often punished harshly for insubordination and was often misunderstood, because he struggled with expressing himself in ways that didn’t make him seem rude. He spent countless hours scrubbing dishes and mopping the halls as punishment. However, kitchen duty had its own benefits, and it was through those countless hours that he learned how to make basic meals, and was able to sustain himself and his father during school holidays when he was sent back home.During his free time Yoongi often buried his head in his comic books and closely followed the news about his favorite heroes while continuously finding himself wondering if he was one of them would his father finally notice him? Yoongi had always had mixed feelings towards his father. He wanted his father to see him as someone who was worthy of his love and attention. At the same time Yoongi found himself becoming more and more frustrated with his father. The only things he seemed to care about were the super humans he was studying and the powers that they processed.

The city was covered in a heavy blanket of snow, and Yoongi tried desperately to make his way through the buzzing city. Christmas was already knocking on the door, and panicked shoppers were running around like headless chickens hunting for their last minute Christmas presents. As he got close to the large building, he felt a shoulder ram into him from the side almost causing him to drop the plastic bag which carried a christmas gift of his own.

After glancing angrily towards the stranger only to find him already walking away with his phone glued to his ear, Yoongi let out a heavy sigh and watched a cold puff of air escape from his lips. He didn’t know what had come over him when he had decided to visit his father while he was working. When Yoongi finally reached the wide glass two story building he frowned and felt snow begin to fall from the sky. It was getting dark, and the only lights in the building were coming out from the second floor where he knew his father's laboratory was located. Yoongi knocked on the front glass doors and a few seconds later a security guard appeared from his booth to unlock the door for him.

‘’Merry Christmas Yoongi.’’ The familiar old mad man greeted him while flashing a toothy grin. ‘’Merry Christmas to you too.’’ Yoongi answered back, his lips in a straight line. He had always hated the holiday season. ‘’Is your father expecting you?’’ ‘’No. I bought him food.’’ Yoongi raised his arm holding his plastic bag to show the guard. ‘’Ah that's good. I don’t believe your father’s been eating enough. He didn’t even leave for his break.’’ ‘’I see.’’ Yoongi nodded as the guard stepped to the side. ‘’Say hi for your father from me.’’ ‘’Will do.’’ Yoongi nodded as he headed towards the main hall and ascended the stairs leading to the second floor. He walked quietly through the dimly lit hallway, stopping just outside of his father’s door. He hesitantly reached for the handle and released a deep breath before raising his arm and knocking on the locked door. After a few minutes, and a bit more knocking, his father finally appeared in the doorway looking surprised to see his son standing in front of him.

‘’What are you doing here, shouldn’t you be at school?’’ Dr. Min asked, confused, his mind already returning to his current experiment. Yoongi looked at his father and took note of his disheveled state

“He looks like a mess’’, Yoongi thought to himself. The stains on his shirt, his messy hair, and the bags under his eyes spoke volumes. Not to mention one of his lenses was missing from his glasses. ‘’Christmas is in two days.’’ He responded dully. ‘’Really? I didn’t even notice. Well, come in since you’re already here.’’ Dr. Min said, stepping away and letting his son in. Yoongi wasn’t surprised at how unorganized his father's workplace was. ‘’I bought you soup.’’ Yoongi told him reaching his arm out to hand the bag to his father. ‘’I see, thank you.’’ Mr. Min said, his mind elsewhere as he put the bag down near a metal table. ‘’Follow me I want to show you something.’’ he called over his shoulder already walking away, his face, lighting up and his hand gesturing to Yoongi to follow.

Mr. Min led Yoongi towards the tables where the cages containing the test animals were held. He saw a white rabbit with red eyes and three mice sleeping in the cage next to it. ‘’Animals. Why we are looking at your test subjects?’’ Yoongi asked his father with a raised eyebrow. I might have figured out a way to extract the DNA from one species, dissect it, and place it into another species to expand their traits. ‘’Seeing only confusion on his son’s face he continued. ‘’For example those three mice are paired with the DNA of snakes. I’m waiting for results now. I hope that I’m able to implant the ability to produce venom for these small creatures’’ ‘’Don’t you think that what you are doing is unethical. We shouldn’t mess with nature?’’ Yoongi questioned. Despite all he has been through he had high morals.

‘’Don’t you see son?! If this works we can soon create real life hybrids! Human’s with reflex like a boa and sight like a hawk! With enough time we could even create super humans of our own. just think about it, no more worrying about being too slow or too weak, we could make ourselves gods" Dr. Min’s face looked almost lunatic. ‘’Do the higher ups know what you are doing?’’ ‘’They wouldn’t understand! just think of the possibilities! I’m sure you understand after all you know how much this means to me! Before Yoongi could respond, one of the mice woke up and started coughing up blood. Soon the other two started coughing up blood as well. Yoongi saw that one of them had already begun to bleed from its eyes. ‘’The mice are rejecting the combination of the dna chains!’’ dr. Min yelled and pulled at his his hair in panic. ‘’What I did wrong!’’ Yoongi took a few steps back and turned away ,barely managing to reach a bin before emptying his stomach. Dr. Min, not even noticing his son’s distress hurried to open the cage of the now dead mice.Yoongi glanced towards the rabbit whose breathing had started to hitch, and in the spur of moment pulled the cage door open and picked up the shaking animal. The next thing he knew, he was running down the hallway holding the rabbit to his chest as he faintly heard his father yelling after him.. The only thought in his mind was saving the rabbit from the same fate that the mice had experienced at his father’s hands. However, what Yoongi didn’t know was that the bunny had already received an injection of something that would change both of their lives. ~

You knock on Yoongi’s bedroom door quietly and step in. Heavy black curtains are pulled in front of the long glass windows and only light in the room is coming from the slightly ajar door of the ensuite bathroom. You walk next to Yoongi’s double bed and look at him with worry covering your face.

Yoongi is moving restlessly in his sleep and sweating heavily. ‘’Yoongi wake up.’’ You shake Yoongi’s shoulder and he wakes up with a loud gasp, his hand reaching around your neck in reflex to defend himself. ‘’Yoongi it’s me.’’ You rasp as you feel the growing pressure on your neck. Yoongi’s gaze is wild and unfocused until his eyes finally make their way to your face. ‘’Y/N! I’m so sorry.’’ Yoongi cries out letting go of your neck, and you see a mixture of shock and guilt covering his face.

‘’It’s okay. It was just a dream.’’ You tell him as you take a seat on the bed next to him and take his still raised hands into yours. ‘’I could’ve hurt you.’’ Yoongi whispers quietly with an ashamed voice. ‘’Please,I was never in real danger. If I thought I was you would be on the floor right now suffering from literal and metaphorical shock.’’ You assure him as you rub his hands gently and ask. ‘’Do you want to talk about your dream?’’ ‘’I don’t remember it anymore.’’ Yoongi says, looking into your eyes. Even though his face doesn’t expose anything, something in his voice makes you feel that he isn’t being honest, but you won’t push it. ‘’Okay then, we need you in the meeting room. Namjoon wants to go through today's plan one more time. ‘’ ‘’I will be there in a bit. Can you give me maybe like fifteen minutes to shower?’’ Yoongi asks and pulls his hands away from yours. ‘’Sure. Come downstairs whenever you’re ready.’’ You get up from Yoongi’s bed flashing him an assuring smile and exit his room closing the door quietly. Your home was a penthouse located on the top two floors of one of the highest skyscrapers in the city. On the first floor was the kitchen, living room, one smaller bathroom, and Namjoon’s bedroom which sat next to a small home library (not by coincidence). The second floor was made of a balcony that opened over the living area granting clear view to the space. On the second floor were 4 other rooms, three of them being bedrooms in use paired with an ensuite bathroom in each and the fourth unused room had been turned into a gaming room. Even villains needed to let loose sometimes. You start walking down the stairs leading to the living room when you hear a door open behind you. ‘’Y/N wait!’’ Jimin hurries after you and stops you on the halfway point of the stairs. ‘’Yes?’’ You turn to look at him over your shoulder already prepared to hear bad news. ‘’Nothing, I just wanted to go to the meeting room with you.’’ Jimin grins and you roll your eyes in response. ‘’Let’s go then.’’ You say with a little sigh and lead Jimin towards a wall where a huge painting hangs. The painting wasn’t anything extraordinary. In fact the huge size of it was the only thing worthy of any attention. The picture was a abstract mix of red, blue and yellow lines and shapes. You touch the right side of the painting gently and a small hatch slides out of the wall next to the picture and reveals a small keypad. You type in the code, and the painting swings open like a door revealing the small hallway behind it containing three doors. On the left side of the hallway is a door that leads into the room where you keep your gear, your suits, weapons and other objects used for combat. On the right side of the hall is your practice room where you have some basic gym equipment and a large area to train your skills. You walk straight past the doors on both sides of the hallway and stop in front of the final door resting at the end of the hallway which leads to your meeting room. You push the door open and are greeted by the familiar space. The walls of the room are cluttered with multiple monitors displaying data, police reports, diagrams and other classified information.. what pulls your attention though is the big round glass table placed right in the center of it.you look across the room to find the all too familiar half moon shaped work desk thankful that it's placed right across the entrance.This table has even more monitors than the wall and is the place where Yoongi spends most of his free time. The table is faced towards the door so Yoongi can see whoever enters the room. However, this time it's not Yoongi who you spot behind the table. Namjoon is standing up and leaning over the work desk rapidly typing something into the keyboard while mumbling to himself. You sit in one of the( many chairs surrounding the round table, and Jimin takes a seat right next to you. Noticing that Namjoon is still unaware of your arrival, you raise your brows at Jimin in amusement , and he puts his finger to his lips to signal you to keep quiet. A wicked grin makes its way to his face but is quickly replaced with a focused frown and furrowed eyebrows. You watch as the half empty water glass on the spot where Namjoon usually sits at the table makes its way towards Namjoon. You can hardly keep yourself from giggling when Jimin stops the glass in the air right above Namjoon and begins to tilt it forward. Just as Jimin pours the glass of water on top of Namjoon's head Yoongi arrives, causing Namjoon to look up and instead feel the liquid pour down his face. Yoongi only smirks, quietly amused from the sight and takes his seat next to Jimin. Namjoon’s shocked face is hilarious, and a burst of giggles escapes your lips followed by Jimin’s cheerful laugh. ‘’Jimin!’’ Namjoon grunts angrily and wipes his face on his hand. ‘’Are you twelve or something?’’ Instead of answering Jimin answers between his laugh. ‘’You should have seen your face. It's usually so hard to catch you off guard with your hearing and all, but this is hilarious. The mighty RM completely misses me and Y/N entering the room and finally falls victim to a prank.’’ Jimin wipes his eyes, breathing heavily.

Namjoon sighs and shakes his head in annoyance. ‘’Well, since we’re all here, let's start our meeting.’’ He continues and comes to sit on the edge of the table across from everyone. Your giggles dry, and your faces turn serious as you all straighten your posture. You knew when it was time to focus on the situation at hand, and although Jimin liked to play around; he did too. Yoongi continues sitting quietly in his seat taps the glass table with his nails causing small clicking noises to erupt through the sudden silence. Namjoon clears his throat and the meeting begins. ‘’Thanks to Yoongi we have gained information about the whereabouts of the key. An armored convoy escorted by the Big hit’s private agents will be arriving in our city on the tomorrow night. At first Yoongi and i tried figuring out how to break into the van, but then we figured out that the van is just a decoy.’’ ‘’Are you saying that we were going after a false lead again?’’ You ask frustrated and squeeze your hand into a fist already feeling your temper rising. ‘’No, but we almost did.’’ It's the first time Yoongi speaks since his arrival. ‘’The real key will be arriving to the city on the 8:15 pm train from Sunside City escorted by three agents dressed as civilians. Isn't that the same time as the decoy?’’ Namjoon points one of the bigger screens on the wall with a remote, and a picture of a train car seating system comes into view. ‘’The problem is that we don’t know what the agents look like or where they are going to sit, but luckily we know its the fifth cart from the engine.’’ Namjoon circles the picture with a laser pointer and you arch your brows deep in thought.

‘’So how are we gonna find the key? Are we just supposed to raid the whole cart?’’ Jimin asks tilting his head on the side. ‘’No, that would draw r too much attention. We have came up with a better plan. Y/N and I will board the train in our civil clothes and pretend to be young couple.’’ Namjoon says, smirking. ‘’I have few ideas in mind how to get the key without being detected but I will return to them in private with Y/N’’ ‘’Are you sure that it's safe to show our faces in front of the agents?” you ask.

You know that you are capable no matter what you do, but you’ve never committed a crime without some form of disguise. Even when you were just a teenager breaking into stores in the middle of night you used a mask that you had stolen from a Halloween store. The irony of that was it was that the mask was shaped like a bat to represent a fictional superhero. ‘’I know that you aren’t the fan of putting your face out there but it's our best option.’’ Namjoon tries to assure you. ‘’Wait, won’t the guards notice that the key is missing?’’ Jimin asks. ‘’What's the point of revealing your faces if they are going to notice anyway that the key was stolen?’’ he adds frustrated. ‘’I was getting to that, but I’m being interrupted constantly.’’ Namjoon sighs brushing his damp hair backwards. ‘’I had to pay a long penny but I got JB to forge a replica of the key for us.’’ Namjoon reaches for his pocket and pulls out a small package from his jean pocket. You had heard of JB. He was the leader of a group called GOT7. Even though none of the seven members of the group had powers, they were highly respected in the business when it came to possessing items or information you weren’t supposed to have. The group runs a blackmarket tightly connected to the spiderweb. Some people believed that their gang was the one who ran the organization on the spider web, but no one could say for sure. There was a saying that if you didn’t find what you were looking for in their hands; it probably didn’t exist. ‘’He made a copy?’’ You ask, surprised. ‘’Yes, Jackson told me once that when JB was a teen he was a forger. He was skilled with art, passports, and money. If there was something that would make money he would learn to copy.’’ Namjoon confirms. Jackson was one of the members of GOT7 as well as one of the few people Namjoon could call his friend, and in this business that was rare. ‘’So let me get this straight. We are going to sneak on to the train as civilians, somehow switch the real key with fake one, get out and pray that nothing goes wrong and leaves us exposed?’’ You repeat slowly to understand everything. ‘’That sounds wonderful, I just have one small question.’’ ‘’Which is?’’ ‘’How we are sure that the BTS won’t be disturbing our plans?’’ ‘’I’m glad that you asked.’’ Yoongi answers instead of Namjoon. ‘’Jimin and I will attack the fake convoy escorting the decoy key and cause the attention to fall on us.’’ Yoongi’s eyes flash with excitement. ‘’We are going to be a decoy?’’ Jimin smirks pleased. ‘’Indeed.they went through all the trouble just to fool us, it's only fair that we have a decoy of our we should return the favor.’’

42 notes · View notes

aenwoedbeannaa · 4 years

Text

A Curse Meant to Be Broken || Geralt x Reader || Part 4

Summary: One monster is taken care of, but the fight did not come without cost. With you injured, Geralt sets out to take care of the remaining monster. This just might be the beginning of a whole new life for you; a life where you never have to see this town ever again.

Word Count: 2,045

Warning(s): Violence, blood.

A/N: Sorry it’s taken so long for an update on this story—Hope you all enjoy! Thank you all, as always, for reading.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

If you enjoy my work and want to read more, you can check out my masterlist, and if you’d like to be added to the taglist for this story or any others, comment or send me a message and I’ll add you!

***

Geralt rushes back to the baron’s manor, clutching you against his chest as if holding you tighter will slow down the inevitable. He never should have allowed you to stay – he should have been more careful. It had been reckless of him to allow you so close during those crucial moments. He’d put you at risk, and you might very well die because of it.

He doesn’t bother to explain the situation upon barging through the door. No one in this damned manor cares enough about you to be even remotely deserving. Instead, he barks orders. “Clean bed, now!” He knows it would be nearly impossible to keep his voice down, so he doesn’t even try. Why waste the energy?

Thankfully, the staff he encounters upon entering the manor – two guards who look half bored to dead – respond nearly immediately to his frenzied yelling. One of them motioned for him to follow, which he does, cradling your limp body in his arms gently, so as not to jostle you around too much. The gashes on your back are not only deep, but filled with poison thanks to the Noonwraith’s taloned fingers, and he wants to do what he can to avoid making the pain even worse.

For you, the world seems to exist only in a murky grayness where you can neither sleep nor wake. You are reminded only of the intense fever dreams you’d had when you were a child and contracted Yellow Fever. You shiver against the nonexistent cold as heat radiates off your body, soaking the fresh sheets of an unfamiliar bed with sweat. Geralt can only watch with a grim determination as he goes about cleaning and dressing your wounds.

Images flash, causing you to toss and turn in your fitful false sleep. You see the wraith, with its spectral glow and horribly disfigured face, hands like talons. You see Geralt pressed back against the wall, the wraith descending upon him. It is like you’re watching the scene, rather than taking part in it. You watch as you pull the knife. You see the look of doubt and dread flicker on your face for a fraction of a second before you watch as you drag the sharp edge of the knife against your open palm. Your blood sizzles as it hits the stone below, which you can hear even over your own yelling.

“Mama!”

You see the wraith charge at the girl, who looks utterly terrified and utterly determined at the same time. You almost forget that the girl you are watching is you as the wraith turns and descends upon her, striking out with razor-sharp claws and tearing away cloth and flesh in one easy stroke. You watch in horror as the girl – me, you vaguely remember – flattens herself on the ground, as if hoping she might sink right into it.

Thankfully, you are only partially present as pain sears through you as the Witcher carefully cleans each wound. Though his hands are gentle, the elixir he uses to counteract the venom is not. He grimaces as he holds you down gently as he pours the elixir into your open wounds, pushing against you as you fight to throw him off, no doubt trying to escape the hissing burn of the anti-venom. He knows how the elixir feels as it burns away the venom by indiscriminately tearing through your cells.

He gave you as much as he could of a human-safe herbal mixture for the pain, but from the way you are trying to thrash about, it seems it has only lessened the pain from one level of excruciating to another, slightly lower one. He hurries to finish cleaning the wounds so that he can apply a numbing salve and wrap cloth bandages tightly around your body, brow furrowing as you finally stop trying to lurch away from him – though he is unsure if it is because the numbing salve is working or because you have simply given up fighting.

He makes no attempt to turn you onto your back, not wanting to further irritate the wounds. Though you are tightly wrapped in bandages, he worries that in moving you, he would risk tearing at the deep scratches. So, he leaves you on your stomach as he goes to brew an elixir. He knows he cannot give you any of the Witcher potions that he has tucked in his pack for fear it will kill you, so he has no choice but to start from scratch. For the first time in a long while, he is quite thankful for Vesimir’s insistence that you learn human healing potions as well, despite their general uselessness to a Witcher.

Stephic does not interrupt once; not even to check and see how his oh so valued servant is fairing. The Witcher doesn’t find this in the least bit surprising. All noblemen, be them Nilfgaardian, Temerian, Redianian... They’re all the same. They care only for themselves and their profit, no matter what they claim. If you survive this, you will be left with a horrible scar from your shoulder down your back. He supposes that, in Stephic’s eyes, that must diminish the value of his property very much. It is despicable, but it is nothing he has not seen time and time again.

At least, he thinks, that should make this all easier.

Having rushed back to care for you, he has not had the chance to speak to Stephic regarding his reward. As per usual with Barons, he had offered a tidy sum for the contract. And, truth be told, Geralt knows that he could really use the coin. Autumn will give way to winter sooner than later, and work is hard to come by in the winter. But still...

* * *

“You want the girl?” Somehow, Stephic finds the request so ridiculous that he is laughing, more like cackling, really. “I offer you four hundred Crowns to off the wraith and you want to trade it for a maimed wench?”

Geralt has to clench and unclench his fists at his sides to keep from lashing out. Perhaps it is the nonchalant way in which the Baron shakes his head in disbelief that angers him; the way that he cannot possibly imagine that your life is of any value – but he would very much like to punch the pompous asshole in the face.

He holds back for your sake, responding with a curt nod, “That is exactly what I’d like to do.”

Stephic stands for a moment, hand on his chin in thought as he considers the Witcher before him. “Intersting...” he muses.

The Witcher looks at him, eyebrows raised. He can’t help himself.

“Hardly interesting, Your Excellency.” The words drip from his lips like poisoned honey. He will have to play along if he is going to get anywhere with this man. “You know girls like her can fetch a good deal more than four hundred Crowns, if you know how to go about conducting business.” The words disgust him as he says them, but he keeps his expression neutral as ever.

“Not when they’ve gone and gotten themselves shredded apart by a wraith,” Stephac points out. Geralt left you, asleep at last thanks to the specially brewed potion, but Stephic had finally knocked on the door and set his eyes upon the horribly disfigured back of his most special servant-girl. He’d even dared to wrinkle his nose at the sight; another moment Geralt would have liked to kick his teeth in.

“So you want a raise, is that it?” asks Stephic, shaking his head.

Geralt, though, is a step ahead, as always. “Perhaps I do,” he said pointedly, with conviction. “After all that shit, I certainly deserve one.” He crosses his muscled arms over his chest, eyes flickering with satisfaction as the nobleman backs away slightly.

“Well, perhaps this could be a good deal for me,” the Baron says. Of course, in keeping with the tradition of his sort, he covers his apprehension with a false smile and the false air of confidence pretending that the whole thing was all his idea. “It’d get that unruly little brat out of my hands.”

Geralt smirks, putting up a façade of his own. “See, I knew we’d come to an understanding. I take the brat and you keep the coin.” Better to let the Baron think that he was a man with the same warped moral code as himself, than come in playing the part of a foolish White Knight. He continues speaking, even though the words taste sour on his lips, “You save yourself a lot of trouble, and I turn a profit from some... businessman in Novigrad.”

Geralt can see quite plainly that Stephic will accept the offer, he casually traces the sign of Axii in front of him, watching Stephic’s eyes glass over as he speaks again, “It’s a great deal for both of us, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes, yes,” Stephic nods vacantly, “A profitable deal for both of us.”

“Indeed,” the Witcher says, holding back a smirk. “And perhaps, even a hundred Crowns for my trouble?”

Stephic nods emphatically, still under the influence of the sign, “Of course, Master Witcher.”

Geralt watches as the man clumsily pulls a leather pouch from a pocket in his doublet. It is small, certainly not the entire reward, but Geralt takes it with a thankful smile and conspiratorial nod towards the slimy little bug-eyed noble. He could have easily asked for the whole four hundred crowns, but then the Baron might talk – say he was “hexed” and extorted by the greedy monster-slayer. He didn’t need any more of those rumors floating about.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Geralt’s lips twitch into a smirk as he takes the purse and steps past the Baron and out of the room.

***

“Drink this, it’ll help with the pain,” Geralt says as he pulls a clear vial from somewhere in his pocket. You eye it suspiciously for a moment, not thrilled with the idea of swallowing the mystery liquid, but ultimately grab the vial and toss the bitter liquid to the back of your throat and swallow before you can gag. The unpleasant burning in your throat is a small price to pay for some relief to the deep ache in your healing back.

You can hardly believe that it’s been nearly two weeks since you and Geralt had lifted the curse holding your mother to the place she’d been murdered and banished the wraith forever. Though, you suppose the fact that you’d only snapped from the seemingly endless fever dream a few days before is a huge contributing factor.

You sit behind Geralt on his mare, Roach. You must admit, you are quite fond of the horse, even if getting on and off the horse was nearly impossible thanks to the pain in your back. Thankfully, the potion works quickly. It settles over you like a warm blanket, numbing the pain in your back and pulling you toward sleep. This is how you’ve spent most of the journey – asleep against Geralt’s back. You wish you could be awake more often to take in the beautiful sights instead of watching them blur by in a half-awake stupor.

“Hm?” Geralt mumbles, turning his head back slightly to look at you. You must have let one too many frustrated sigh escape your lips.

“I just....” you begin sleepily, “I want to see everything.”

Geralt grins, yellow eyes catching yours for a moment and making your breath stop.

“You will,” he promises. He’s already turned back to the path in front of you, but those golden eyes still have you stuck, eyes fixed on the outline of his face as you breathe in the comforting scent of his long hair.

“I will show you this whole Continent, if that is what you wish, Y/N.”

You smile lightly as you let your eyes slip shut, arms wrapped tightly around him, letting the slow and steady sound of his heart beating lull you to sleep. But you swear that his heart is beating ever so slightly more quickly than it usually does.

If you’d been able to see his face, you would have seen a soft smile on his usually stone hard face.

***

Taglist: @earthtokace @divaroze @fairytale07 @geeksareunique @jesseswartzwelder @kingnaizx @they-call-me-thewildrose @bitcheswithbrokenhearts @mystriee @hi-there-x @queenie-b- @pantrashtic @ivvitm1109 @hecatemacbeth7 @whatiswrongwithpeople @ayamenimthiriel @itshaleighy07 @evyiione @comicbeginning @curlyhairedandconfused @lazilyscentedwerewolf @stretchkingblog97 @haru-ririchiyo @unnamedmaincharacter @hp-hogwartsexpress

#story: a curse meant to be broken #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #geralt x reader #series #geralt x reader fanfiction #geralt of rivia #fanfiction

155 notes · View notes

greywritesfics · 4 years

Text

Chapter Sixteen: Her Reason

The large screen showcased headshots of both of the students that would be battling in the first round, and although the crowd cheered, there were various rumors on how it could end. Either way, Minori knew it would end fairly quickly.

Minori took a seat furthest from the rest of her classmates in the designated seating area for Class 1-A. Tentatively, she watched the match between Midoriya Izuku and the lavender haired male from general studies, Shinso Hitoshi, hash it out on the field.

Under the control of Shinso's brainwashing Quirk, Midoriya makes his way to exit the ring, but surprisingly, he somehow breaks free. After a brief struggle with the general study student, the greenette throws Shinso over his shoulder and out of bounds.

Minori couldn't help but have mixed feelings at the turn of events. She had hoped for Shinso to advance, his words that he yelled at Midoriya, ringing at the back of her head: "you're blessed to be someone who's been born with their ideal Quirk! Someone who can reach their goal!"

Just like her, Shinso also grew up criminalized over a Quirk that he never chose to have. He was one of the 'unluckies' to be born villainous. As he spoke to the freckled boy, and the audience as his words were picked up by the mics, Shinso explained that his Quirk was perceived as evil. His whole life, he had been somewhat feared by those aware of his power and discriminated against solely because of the Quirk he was born with. Cursing those who wouldn't understand what it's like to have an evil Quirk like his.

Minori scowled in distaste as she gritted her teeth, causing a certain pinkette sitting beside her to throw a concerned look her way. Minori knew precisely what he felt. To be judged and deemed as evil by the mass of society just for being born.

That's why Minori wanted to be a hero. Not only did she want to create a name for herself, a name that held no relation to Tatsumaki, but also to end the discrimination against labeling Quirks as villainous. It's not the Quirk that makes someone a villain, but the person that chooses to make it evil.

Regardless of her setbacks, Minori desires to become a Pro Hero more than anything, with a deep longing to disprove those who doubt her heroic intentions. Not only does she want to refute those who shame her abilities, blame her for the tragedy, and expect her to follow her mother's footsteps, she's also aspired to usurp students who walk the path towards becoming a Pro Hero.

The next battle had been between Todoroki and Sero. Minori remembered the words the heterochromatic male had spoken about with Midoriya; how he was determined to not use his left side. The bi-color eyed male walked on stage, looking more distant and ruthless than usual. Quickly ending the match, Todoroki unleashed a pillar of ice that nearly encased the entire stadium. Poor Sero had become a human icicle leaving him only one option: to surrender.

The match was jarring, to say the least. Minori currently felt conflicted watching as her half-hot, half-cold classmate trudge his way out of the stadium after melting the ice encasing the area. To her, Todoroki was fighting, struggling all alone just like her, and she hated that. She hated that he thought he should be alone, just like her.

Standing from her seat, she quickly sent a nod in Mina's direction, a silent promise to be back as soon as possible.

"Todoroki-san?" Minori asked, hesitantly entering their waiting room. Prior to walking in, she had stood outside, her hand grasping the door's cold metal handle, contemplating if this was the right choice. Feeling very awkward that she was vehemently looking for someone instead of keeping her distance like she had promised herself to do. If it weren't for the current students catching her outside the doorway, Minori doubted she would have ever entered the room.

Todoroki swiveled around to face Minori, scrambling to sit up and appear normal. Before she walked in, Minori could only assume that he was feeling internally conflicted after his match. A silence enveloped the two as Minori looked away, fiddling with her fingers. Taking his silence as a queue to continue, she started talking again. "I was looking for you."

"Okay," the male nodded, replying curtly.

Shifting her eyes to properly look at him, she said, "you're Endeavor's son."

"And?"

"You're his son, not him," she commented, ignoring the angry expression he gave off. "My Quirk reminds everyone of my mother. I'm a reminder of her, a villain." Although Minori wore a pained expression at the mention of Tatsumaki, she was unexpectedly calm, watching as Todoroki's inharmonious eyes widen at her confession.

"I'm going to prove them wrong. If people insist on believing that my Quirk is villainous, then the only way I can contradict their statement is to use my Quirk. I need to show them that Tatsumaki and I are two different people." Minori spoke with a tone of assertiveness, urging the male sitting in front of her to listen.

Minori has always tried to convince herself that she and her mother were separate people, but was forever tainted by opinions of several different people who said otherwise. Her earnestness to distinctively differentiate the difference between her and her mother was not only for Todoroki to do the same with his father but also for herself. She's determined to believe her own words someday.

For a prolonged moment, they simply stared deep into one another's eyes. Minori hadn't moved an inch, feeling as though he was picking her apart. "You're not your mother."

"And you're not your father."

It's only been about a month since Minori enrolled in U.A., but so much has changed in such a short amount of time. Although, at first, she was met with hesitation from many students, more than enough regarded her with warmth, something Minori had never seen before. She didn't know how to feel then, but knowing that someone believed in her brought about a solace that Minori hadn't felt before. Mina and Kirishima's earnest faces flashed across Minori's mind, their eagerness to welcome and befriend the girl in their own unique ways made Minori's heart swarm. And then some that have treated her as a human being since the beginning, never once judging her for her name like Bakugo. And even Midoriya, the greenette with bright emerald green eyes, who sincerely asked for forgiveness for judging her.

At that moment, Minori realized she didn't have to walk the world alone.

"Ki-san," Todoroki started saying but hesitated as if contemplating if he should even speak.

"You don't have to say anything," Minori interrupted, nodding at the boy before walking out the door. But fate had a way of messing with her because as soon as she was out the door, someone was already walking down the hall and she knocked right into them. The force knocked her backward, and the moment she had hit the person, she felt the slightest sting of a burn. Narrowing her eyes at the individual, she stepped back.

"Endeavor."

"Ki-san!" Todoroki called out, scrambling to catch up to the elusive female. As soon as he realized his father stood in front of her with his bewitching presence, he scowled. "Father."

"Shouto," his father responded, crossing his arms as he narrowed his eyes in his own glare.

"What the hell do you want?" Shouto spat, the venom in his voice evident.

"I came to talk to you about your disgraceful behavior so far. Instead, I see you're fraternizing with the enemy," his father's glare seemed to deepen if that was even possible.

"Enemy?" Minori muttered, her jaw rigid and taut.

"Yes, enemy because you're a criminal."

Minori let out a humorless chuckle at Endeavor's words. As he continued to eye her down, her expression remained placid. It's been a well-known fact that Endeavor had a personal vendetta against the notorious villain. Other than the fact that Tatsumaki caused the tragedy in Hecate, the public has asked many times over the years about his reasoning for having her as his sworn enemy. Still, he never explained any further than a vague response towards the murders in Hecate.

But she knew the real reason. Endeavor was one of the heroes trying to capture Tatsumaki that tragic day, yet she easily defeated him with a blissful smile on her face. When he made his move to reprimand her, she simply extinguished his flames with her Quirk and let him because "he was nothing more than a fake." Before he was caught in his embarrassing state, the large male had left the city, allowing the innocence of a child to wither.

"Says you," Minori snorts under her breath.

"Is that all that you will spew out of your goddamn mouth, nonsense?"

Endeavor's turquoise eyes sharply turned to glower at his son, but that didn't deter from talking down to the towering man in front of him. "Ki Minori isn't a criminal. Of course, someone like you wouldn't understand that kind of concept--"

Todoroki's bi-colored hair shook as he hastily turned his head to follow the light touch on his arm. Minori stood by his side, her large silver-grey eyes warmly looking at the boy, a small amused smile making a way across her plump lips. "Don't worry about it, Todoroki-san, you don't need to explain anything to him. I'll just show him how wrong he is."

She shoved past the Pro Hero and walked off, ignoring the flaming bastard's yells of anger toward her. Swiveling on her feet, Minori faced Todoroki again, her words cutting deep into his soul as he narrowed his eyes: "That--" she pointed towards his left side-- "is yours." With that, she made her way back toward the stadium.

"Hey Ki-chan!" the spiky red-haired male waved, smiling as she took her seat. She gave a small wave back, making her way toward Mina, only to see her standing from her spot and walking towards the exit.

"Your turn already, huh?" Minori asked lightly, crossing her arms as she slightly smirked at the girl.

Mina giggled at the girl, "I'll make this quick, so let's have a fair fight, Minori!" she exclaimed confidently.

"Yeah. Let's." Convinced that Mina would be winning her match, Minori sat down unbothered, even as Midoriya mumbled into his notebook about who he thought would win. When he guessed that Aoyama would come out victorious, Minori told him to recheck his notes as she watched Mina land a solid uppercut against the glamorous male, pushing him out of bounds.

Minori's large grey orbs never left Mina's frame, watching as the girl bathed in the crowd's cheers.

"Yeah, Mina! The way you kicked his ass was very manly!" Kirishima commented enthusiastically. "Don't you think, Ki-chan?"

With her upcoming match, Minori stood up from her seat, garnering the attention of her classmates. "Yeah, pretty manly," she said with a slight smile. She had expected her classmates to focus back on their individual conversations or matches, but they continued to look at her wide-eyed. Even Midoriya's jaw went slack.

Confused, she was about to ask what the problem was, but a certain male with yellow eyes disrupted the silence. "Holy shit, Ki-san, you're smiling. Someone write this day down in history! Oh, and if you want, I could take you out for dinner if you lose your match; as an apology!"

Minori was taken aback by his bold statement, considering that she had never ventured out of school with any of her classmates. She was surprised that there was someone that wasn't repulsed by her origins and willing to take her out, like on a date. Although she knew Kaminari was kidding, Minori nodded, "sure."

Kaminari, on the other hand, looked as surprised as she had been, maybe even more. Who would've thought that the most aloof person in their grade would ever accept his invitation? His grin widened at the prospect of a potential date with a girl.

"But I'm not going to lose." Minori shrugged, making her descent to the exit.

"Damn, that's cold," Kaminari jokes.

"Shut it, Dunce Face."

"And now for the sixth match of the first round, both students are from the Hero course Hagakure Toru versus Ki Minori!" Present Mic's voice echoed around the stadium, and the cheers that followed were astounding. It seemed the Pro Hero had done a pretty decent job hyping everyone up over the matches so far. Minori knew, though, that the crowds were riled up, not at the fact for the match, but that they will finally get to witness U.A.'s criminal in action.

Pointless speculation had been thrown around the arena by the audience.

"She looks exactly like her mother."

"What if she goes out of control?"

"Surely, the heroes would detain her before she goes out of hand, right?

"Eraserhead, what do you think the outcome of this match would be?" Present Mic's voice blared through the speakers once more as Minori took her place on one side of the arena.

There was a grunt from Aizawa's side as if he had just woken up. "It's hard to tell at this point, the match could go either. Both students are promising."

Minori felt her heart race. Even though Aizawa's commentary had been short, it acknowledged her as a promising student, which fueled her even more to win.

On the other side of the floor, no one stood in sight. Confused, Minori turned to look at Pro Hero, Midnight, eyebrows raised questioningly. Is my opponent late or something?

"Ladies and gentlemen! Keep your eyes peeled because one student's Quirk is... invisibility!" Present Mic boomed last minute, and the crowd cheered.

Minori hastily turned her head in front of her, eyes wide.

Invisibility?!

"Start!" Midnight yelled, the starter gun ringing.

Taglist: @sslimkim @x-bakudeku-x @angeldraw @alex-hale666 @seokookchan @somanyfandomsidek @iambashfulperson @sir-knight-slytherdor @honeybacon @fckngbored @ineedmyownname @avengershavethetardis @httpglxssy @coconutxraikage @namutheestallion @myaaa-xoxoxox @mega-bastard @succulent-momma @can-i-just-like-it @soa1eater

33 notes · View notes

melyaliz · 4 years

Text

Remember me pt 5

Master List

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x oc

Notes: This dumbass posted chapter 6 before posting chapter 5... so yeah that happened. so think of it this way. You get two chapters in one.

All Masterlists @melyalizarchive

Connect with me! AO3 / Instagram / Pinterest

DONATE or REQUEST

-0-0-0-0-0-0-- Olive --0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

It was the perfect day as they both laid out on the cool grass watching the sunset over the large open-air venue. A plate of bacon cheese fries and two beers between them.

“This has been such an amazing time” Olive sighed moving her hand over so she could get it tangled up in Eliott’s.

“Yeah, best birthday gift ever from the best wife ever,” he said turning to look at her with a smile

“You're welcome” she said, “I had to try to keep up with the amazing gift that is you being in my life.”

He scrunched up his face pulling it back so it made him look like he had a million chins in his golden beard. “I’m ok,” this earned him a soft slap on his thick stomach.

“Oh stop,” she said. They lapsed into silence again just enjoying the Heavy Mental that was playing on the stage. Knotfest had been a full day experience and they were taking a short break from rocking out to have some dinner and just relax before the main event

“So I was thinking” she started “It’s not that I don’t love my job.”

“I know,” he said, turning on his side taking a swig of his beer, his stormy eyes watching her.

“It’s just, I’m actually making pretty good money doing this smut novel thing, and... maybe I can cut back on my hours?”

“Yeah, that makes sense.” He said nodding.

“It may make a dip in our funds though.”

“Yeah but the more novels you write the more money you make. Besides, sports season is about to start up again in a month and I may have some leads on hero work.”

“Wait really?” she turned to him. Excited about the idea of him trying something new. Hero work paid good money too.

“Nothing concrete yet but I say let’s take the leap. You are happy writing and I want you to do what makes you happy.”

Olive smiled biting her lip, her heart feeling so full at the moment. “You are what makes me happy,” she said leaning forward kissing him.

“Well that’s good because I don’t know if you know this but…” he leaned forward whispering in her ear, “I kind of love you.”

“WHHHAAATTT” Olive gasped pulling back her hand over her mouth in shock. “Are you drunk or something?”

“Maybe you're just beautiful,” Eliott laughed.

“So are you.”

“I guess,” the blonde man said stroking his beard, “if you’re into that gnome look.”

“My hot gnome,” Olive said, kissing him again as the band wrapped up.

“Are you ready?” Eliott asked, pulling away. Olive raised an eyebrow confused, “To open up the fucking pitttt” he said moving his elbows around pretending to mosh pushing himself into Olive who fell into the grass giggling and laughing as she tried to push him off.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

They stood there for a few moments. His overwhelming scent and body looming over her. She didn’t feel trapped or worried. He had never given her a reason too. Even if he did have a grumpy face, he always treated her tenderly.

Or at least from the three days they had been together.

So while she didn’t feel uncomfortable she was painfully aware of his body over hers. Her breath shallow as if she couldn’t seem to catch it. It was obvious that he wanted to kiss her and was testing the waters. The way he looked at her, just close enough that if either of them moved they would touch. The pull so strong it seemed to tug at her very soul.

But for some reason, she couldn’t give in. Her body and mind at such odds with each other it was making her head spin. Her heart racing so fast in her chest she thought it might just come out of her body entirely. Pound a hole right through her

Gently she pressed her hands on his chest. His own hand warm came up clasping itself around her cold fingers as he looked down at her.

“I… it’s late,” she whispered as if breaking the spell, waking him up. For a moment, just the briefest of moments. He looked very putout. Upset.

Looking away he nodded stepping back letting her brush past him toward the bedroom. He watched her go frozen in his spot until she was out of sight. Then letting out a growl he punched the wall where she had been standing. Frustration coursing through her veins like venom burning him from the inside out.

By the time Bakugou had cooled down enough to face her again Olive was already in bed with Dolemite. The cat looked totally content his long thick tail swaying back and forth as he lay curled up next to his owner. Never in his life had Bakugou ever wanted to be a cat so bad. To have that unconditional love like he got.

“Hello” her soft voice came from the bed as she watched him go into the large closet to change coming out in some sweats, shirtless. The sight of him makes her look away for a moment and he can’t help himself, the anger still there bubbling just below the service.

“Can I sleep in these? I mean normally I’m in boxers.”

“You can do whatever you want” was her response as she studied his expression, “this is your house.”

The single comment deflated him. She was always like that. Never engaging him in his anger. Even when she remembered him she would just let him yell it out and then move on. “It’s yours too” he mumbled running his fingers through his hair looking up at her feeling completely defeated.

At his soft comment, Olive felt sick. A sadness washing over her as she looked at the blonde before her. He just looked… so lost. Like a basset hound with those sad eyes.

“Did… you want to sleep here?” she asked hesitantly. They were married, she reasoned. She had loved him once. Trusted him. There had to be a reason she had broken her vow of living the rest of her life alone. There must have been something that had made her be able to find someone who could measure up to Eliott.

He looked so surprised at her question that it reminded her of a child who was just told they could have an extra piece of candy. The look of shock frozen on his face as his eyes went from her to the bed she was nestled in. Then frowning he shoved his hands into his pockets.

“You sure?”

She nodded trying not to laugh at him. He was so grumpy all the time. However her smile seemed to encourage him because with a simple shrugged as if he didn’t care -he did- he lept into the bed almost crushing Dolemite who let out a cry of annoyance. Grabbing the cat he tossed the fluff ball onto the floor before studying Olive. She looked back at him unsure of what he wanted to say then it dawned on her.

“Am I on the wrong side?”

“It’s fine”

“It’s clearly not.” she said getting up and stepping over him, “Move”

He did, watching her intently as she cuddled up again getting comfortable. He had this intense stair that was slightly unnerving. Olive vaguely wondered if it was just reserved for her or if he looked at everyone like that.

“Katsuki,” she said looking up at him. At the sound of his name, he looked down at her. Still stiffly sitting up in the bed.

“Yeah?”

“Why did you marry me?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, studying her.

“I mean,” she said rolling onto her back looking up at the ceiling, “You are the number 1 hero, very hot, and seem like a pretty normal guy. I, on the other hand, am some weird girl who apparently now only writes smutty novels.” then sitting up something struck her.

“Wait how many have I written?”

“You just finished your fifteenth.” he studied her totally confused by her sudden shift in mood.

Her eyes went wide, a grin spreading across her face, “Do you know what this means?”

“No what?”

“I get to read my stories without remembering writing them. It’s like… every writer’s dream. I just want to be able to read my story . Well, now I can!”

He couldn’t help but smile because he wasn’t sure about other writers but he routinely came home from work to find her laying on the floor moaning about how she just wanted the story to be written.

“I just want to read my story”

“So hurry up and write it.”

“It’s not that easy ok!” letting out a groan dramatically she pushed her laptop off her stomach. Then rolled onto her stomach before fake crying, face down in the carpet. “It’s HARRRRDDDD”

Fighting back a smile he walked over gently kicking her in the side. Looking up she glared at him through messy hair. “Stop being a little bitch," he said playfully earning him a middle finger.

“You were the first” his voice was soft as he watched her giggling to herself over the excitement of finding her books and reading them tomorrow. Pausing Olive turned confused by his comment studying him.

“Huh?”

“You were the first,” Bakugou said again, his chrisom eyes so intense she couldn’t look away, “You were the first woman I had ever met who just… I liked.”

“Oh,” there was a soft flutter in her stomach as she looked up at him. “So weird but ok.”

“That’s not weird!” he snapped angrily, “You can’t just say that after I say something romantic like that!”

Biting her lip Olive leaned back into her pillows. It had just kind of slipped out. She had never understood why Eliott had loved her and when he had died she had just assumed she would never meet another man who could love her. Who could follow up an act like Eliott.

Looking at the man next to her Olive wanted to tell him she loved him too. Wanted to somehow explain that he must have been someone special. But it sounded fake and forced in her head. “It’s really sweet Katsuki” she finally said. “You have been nothing but perfect this whole time with me. Showing me all these things I like. It’s like you just know.”

“Idiot I do,” he said laying down arms folded over his stomach. His whole body dejected, frustrated trying to find the right words. “I know that mushrooms make you sick. That you liked weird movies. You have a strange obsession with ugly things.” slowly Bakugou turned to meet her gaze. “You love to watch people and have always seemed to see things no one else does.” it was like he was reading her soul. Going into her brain and pulling out who she was and laying it out in front of her. “I know that you love to get dressed up but after an hour you are back into your PJs. That you are one of the most loyal people I have ever met and even when I’m in the wrong you are on my side. You are the reason I’m number 1. You kept pushing me and finding ways to move me from being number 2. Not because you cared about my rank but because I wanted it so badly.”

“I…” Olive paused unsure how to respond to this. It was incredibly romantic. So soft and gentle. But it was coming from a stranger. It was like listening to someone talking about someone else. There was no history on her side. No context to what he was saying. As if someone had written those words about her and then had an incredibly hot guy read them too her. She felt uncomfortable with his tender words. So unsure how to react to the,.

“Don’t” he sighed rolling onto his back again, “I know you don’t remember so don’t try and make me feel better because I know you want too. I’m not some pathetic guy who needs you to make him feel better.”

“I know this isn’t what you want Katsuki but…” she took a deep breath, “I know I loved you and I know that even if I don’t get my memories back I will love you again.”

“Yeah? and how do you know that?” he asked harshly, glancing at her. Giving her major side-eye as if scared to really look at her after spilling his heart out to her like that.

“Because,” she said, reaching out gently, touching his shoulder in what she hoped was a comforting touch. “I would never commit myself to marry someone unless I knew that our love was forever. I didn’t do that with Eliott and I wouldn’t have done that with you or anyone else.”

He turned then, studying her. She had told him a week after he had proposed that if they did get married that as long as he was alive she would never marry anyone else. That when they said “I do” that she was committing herself to him for life. When she had said it then he had thought it was one of those cultural things where she was trying to make sure he knew what marriage meant to her. But now laying there with her not knowing him at all he realized what that meant.

When she had told him she loved him and that she wanted him forever, she had meant it. And even if she didn’t remember him she knew herself enough to trust that she had loved him. That she wasn’t going to leave him.

Him, not Eliott.

Not anyone else.

Him.

-GET TAGGED-

Master List

Story Tag: @0hmydeku @inumorph @it-jinxed-us @myraticm

#bakugou katsuki x oc #bakugou x you #bakugou x oc #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou katsuki long fic #bakugou katsuki fluff #bnha x oc #my hero academia #my hero academia x oc

10 notes · View notes

eightlittletalons · 4 years

Text

Prompt #4: Clinch

This prompt got a bit away from me, in the best of ways. It’s a continuation from the second prompt, Sway, though not written in a fragmented style like that one. I also threw in a reference to the fact that I’ve been very slowly leveling E’andhris as a dancer. Definition of clinch 1: clench 2: to make final or irrefutable : settle 3: to hold fast or firmly

"Dance with me, G'raha " The whispered breath ruffled against his ear, making it flick. Strong, warm hands closed around his own, twining their fingers together. The Crystal Exarch felt his heart beat a sharp staccato within his chest at the sound of his name and glanced sharply up into mismatched eyes, one a warm brown and the other crystalline blue.

While the request lacked a questioning inflection, G’raha recognized it as a request indeed by the tilt of E’andhris’ head. His chin dipped low towards him, as a soft smile graced his lips. So he followed, helpless against the main he had been prepared to give everything for.

An impromptu band had been pulled together from among those in the Crystarium who could play in the excitement of the Warrior of Darkness’ return to the city alongside their beloved leader. They struck up a fast-paced tune as exuberant as the mood among the people, one that E’andhris quickly whirled G’raha in time to. He found himself laughing brightly within the hero’s arms, ignoring the way his body ached for a soft bed in a quiet, dark room.

Even in wild, joyful form of dancing, E’andhris moved with a level of elegance that surprised G’raha. “You’re better at this than I remembered,” he exclaimed, laughingly. His dancing partner’s ears flicked forward in the strain to hear him over the din of the crowd.

“I may have picked up some lessons over the years,” E’andhris replied, giving a grin that G’raha learned long ago meant trouble. He yelped loudly and scrabbled against the taller miqo’te’s arms for purchase as E’andhris tipped him back into a steep dip.

He could only watch as the Warrior of Darkness bent low over him, and he felt his face begin to heat as he realized - oh wicked white - E’andhris was looking at his lips. They parted with a soft exhale, and Gr’aha was unsure if what he was feeling was panic or anticipation. Perhaps both. Surely he wasn’t about to-

“Might I cut in?” a familiar voice asked, breaking the spell binding them into place. The two seekers looked up sharply to see as Alisaie stood over them with crossed arms and wearing a pinched look. G’raha slipped from E’andhris’ arms, his ears going flat as he stood to his full height. Which happened to be just barely taller than the young elezen woman who glared venom at him.

“Not at all,” he replied, attempting to quell the tremor from his voice. “I can hardly steal away the Warrior of Darkness’ attention for the entire night, can I?” E’andhris gave him a heated look that told him that the mage certainly wouldn’t have had any objections if he tried. Perchance for the best not to dwell on that, he thought to himself.

Alisaie for her part linked her arm through E’andhris’ arm to pull him away from the Exarch. “Come, Andhris, you promised me a dance too. Remember?”

Sorry, the mage mouthed as they left G’raha alone. He waved them off with a vague smile, and hoped he didn’t look as frazzled as he felt. As soon as he was no longer within eyesight, he allowed himself to sag with exhaustion. Then, fighting the urge to pull his hood up or turn himself invisible, he edged his way to the outer ring of the festivities. It was slow progress, as he was stopped what felt like every third fulm or so by well-wishers. He accepted each and every one, as graciously as he could when all he wished was to sleep.

Once he was safely out of the throng, he let out a deep breath. What in the everloving Twelve had that been? He was certain that E’andhris had been about to kiss him. Rubbing at his eyes hard, he turned to look for the white mage among the crush of revelers. It wasn’t hard to find him thanks to the shock of Alisaie’s white hair.

The object of his obsession was currently twirling the girl about with a broad grin, bending low as they both ducked under their joined hands before falling away form each other, only to come chest to chest again. G’raha smiled at his inspiration’s obvious happiness, and leaned against the wall to watch them. His admired the way the man’s blue robes flared as he moved, revealing a scandalous amount of leg that combined with E’andhris’ bared arms made the Exarch’s mouth feel suddenly very dry.

He wrenched his thoughts away from that train lest his mind turn to static as it often did when presented with so much of the Warrior’s skin. It was interesting, he thought instead, that none of the tales that the Exarch had heard of the Warrior of Light had ever given any inkling that the man could dance so well. As for his own experiences with E’andhris, he could only remember drunken summer nights gallivanting about the Seventh Heaven tavern in Mor Dhona together. It made him wonder what other hidden talents the hero had developed in their time apart.

The Exarch found himself tapping his foot idly along to the beat of the music, and watched as Y’shtola intercepted E’andhris for her own turn dancing with their other miqo’te. Alisaie pouted, and G’raha wondered what the story there was. He had assumed she was merely protective of their mutual friend, but perhaps there was an undercurrent of a jealousy.

“Exarch!” A heavy arm draped around his shoulders and G’raha very nearly jumped out of his own skin, his tail puffing beneath his robes. The seeker turned wide crimson eyes on an apparently very drunk Thancred, bewildered by the hyur’s sudden appearance. Where was...? Ah, Ryne was with with E’andhris, shyly requesting her own dance from him. “If you stare any harder at him, you might succeed where the Light failed in felling him.”

“I’m quite certain I have no idea what of that which you speak,” G’raha groused, trying to school his ears into not giving him away too badly.

“Now, now, none of that,” Thancred nudged him with a playful grin. “I may have been out of the game for a few years now, but I know the look of someone utterly besotted when I see it. What I don’t know, however, is why you’re all the way over here, when he’s all the way over there?”

The Exarch considered playing dumb a moment longer but a wave of weariness overtook him and he sighed, as heavy as his eyelids. “I’m afraid I find myself in dire need of a bed,” he confessed. He pushed himself from the wall, intending to make his way up to his chambers within the Crystal Tower. Instead, he pitched forward. Thancred’s grasp on him was his only saving grace against falling face first onto the pavement.

“I suppose getting shot and spending several days as a guest of an Ascian would do that to anyone,” Thancred quipped cheerfully, hauling him back upright. “Need help getting to bed, old man?”

“I can take him.” In G’raha’s distraction, he missed E’andhris’ approach. He placed a steadying hand at the Exarch’s waist.

Thancred beamed at their friend, grasping G’raha’s arm and wrapping it around the taller miqo’te’s shoulders. “Ah, the man of the hour! We were just talking about you,” he teased. E’andhris quirked a curious eyebrow at that, and gave G’raha a wry smile. He moved his hand to fold his arm around G’raha’s waist instead. The Exarch sank heavily against the mage’s side in gratitude.

“Come, let’s find you a bed,” E’andhris said softly, dipping his head low towards G’raha. He had an affection in his eyes again that the smaller miqo’te didn’t know what to do with. So he simply nodded his acquiescence and allowed the Warrior of Darkness to guide him away, missing the wink that passed from Scion to Scion.

He did, however, relish the warmth of the man holding him up. He had more muscle to him than G’raha could recall from their time together with the Sons of Saint Coinach. More scars as well, he thought as he gazed up at the prominent one gracing the side of E’andhris’ jaw. “A gift from the Dravanian horde, before we became friends,” the mage uttered when he noticed G’raha’s stare. He brought them to a stop at the base of the stairs leading up into the Crystal Tower and cleared his throat. “So! Will we be retiring to your bed tonight or mine, my lord?”

G’raha’s mind went blank. What? His mouth opened and closed in a facsimile of a fish. “I beg your pardon?” he finally choked out.

“To sleep, G’raha,” E’andhris soothed with a patient look. His left ear twitched, betraying his nerves. “Look, you’re practically dead on your feet, and I am too. Let’s go rest.”

“You’re very...familiar tonight, my friend,” G’raha breathed. He clung more tightly to the Warrior’s robes, his ears pinned. E’andhris hoisted him closer and bent to nuzzle against his forehead.

“I lost you once, Raha, and almost did a second time. I don’t intend to again,” he whispered againt the Exarch’s ear. G’raha shuddered, looking desperately up into his odd eyes. “If it’s unwelcome, pray tell me now, but I would sleep easier with you at my side tonight.”

Tears sprang to G’raha’s eyes. “Please,” he begged. “Your room, please.”

E’andhris gave a single nod, face splitting into a broad smile. “Can you do your little invisibility trick? I’d prefer to avoid being waylaid an hour or more by our adoring public.”

“For you, I can do one better,” G’raha proclaimed as he gave a giddy little laugh. He reached for the power of the Crystal Tower and pulled. He felt the world shift beneath and around them, and then they were standing in E’andhris’ suite in the Pendants. The hero gave an impressed whistle before tugging him to bed.

His Warrior bade him sit with a gentle push against his chest, then knelt at his feet. He pulled his feet into his lap and unfastened his sandals before sliding them from his feet. “I knew, you know,” E’andhris said quietly. He kept his eyes low as he firmly kneaded G’raha’s feet in a brief massage. “Your identity - I knew it.”

G’raha felt his fight or flight response kick in them, his ears standing tall at attention. “When did you guess?” he gasped, gripping the sheets beneath him in an iron grip. E’andhris kicked off his own shoes and slowly raised to his feet, regarding G’raha with an unreadable look. He loosened the clasps at his shoulders and let his robes fall to the floor, leaving him in only a pair of black shorts. As he climbed into bed alongside G’raha, he suddenly felt very warm for a completely different reason.

“I suspected when we met at the gate,” E’andhris admitted, reaching to strip G’raha’s layers away until he was down to his black robe. Then he drew them both down to lay, pulling the blankets up over them. “But I knew it to be true when I first heard you laugh - at one of my gods awful pun, no less.”

E’andhris pulled him closer into his arms, and G’raha went willingly. He tucked himself under his Warrior’s chin and felt the man purr deep in his chest. “I apologize for my deception,” G’raha whispered. He wrapped his arms around the mage’s torso tightly and hid his face against his neck.

“I know you only did what you thought was best, my Raha. You’ve been forgiven from the moment each lie left your lips.” G’raha’s face burned both from shame and the intimacy of hearing his name on his inspiration’s lips. “We should sleep, though. We’ll have more time to discuss this tomorrow,” E’andhris whispered against his ear.

Time. Time for G’raha had ever been a finite resource, counting down to that fated day on Mt. Gulg. A fate that was averted, leaving him with what? “That we do...Andhris.” Joyful arms clinched tightly around him.

“Good night, Raha.”

#ffxivwrite2020 #Crystal Exarch #G'raha Tia #Shadowbringers #ffxiv #wolexarch #E'andhris Tia #Liv writes #I had a blast writing this one

6 notes · View notes