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ktheist · 3 years

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in another life (i would be your man)

muses. hero!yoongi / assassin!yoongi / father!yoongi / lawyer!yoongi

word. 2.5k

genre. reincarnation au

time and time again, you find yourselves in the other’s absolute mercy.

mercy, which both of you know, the other will not grant.

“have you any last words, hero?” the grass shrivels up around yoongi all because hot air wilts the greenest of life.

a single bead of sweat trickles down the side of yoongi’s face as he looks at you without a shred of fear in the face of death.

“all the gold you’re hoarding... does it bring you happiness?” he says, as though already finding serendipity before you can even drive your talon into his chest.

“happiness!” you roar, mockery dripping off your word, “such humanly sentiments. you forgot who you’re speaking to, hero.”

“yoongi... yoongi’s my name” he sighs softly, eyelids fluttering shut, “say it.”

it is you who fall silent this time.

to say the name of the soul who’s bound to you not for love but for destruction... have you the right?

in your last life, a good few hundred years ago, he’s the one that drove the cross into your chest.

in the one before that, you burn him at the stakes for the wretched powers he held.

in this lifetime, even the armor made of the silver cannot withstand the weight of your paw, talon digging into his chest as he lays underneath you, ready to accept the heroic death.

“very well, if not in this lifetime, then perhaps the next...”

you live for three human lifetimes as the great dragon who brought the continent together. the humans, without their hero, are mere mortals. they learned better than to put their faith in one man.

in the next lifetime, you find yourself kneeling in front of a silver haired man - what a striking hair color for someone who’s supposed to be on the low.

“my hand’s gonna slip,” that gravelly voice still sends shivers down your spine.

“what-” you breathe out, eyebrows knitting together.

he takes his aim.

but there’s something wrong.

the angle he’s pointing at will graze your cheek and ear at most.

then he shoots.

when the bullet bounces against the cement somewhere a few inches away behind you, your body moves on its own. your leg sweep out to send him tumbling down onto the ground. your thighs pin his hips down so he can’t get up and you push the gun farther beyond his reach.

“why are you doing this?” you hiss, knife against his throat.

“don’t you think we owe it to ourselves to be happy?” yoongi says simply, too complacent for a man who’s about to lose yet another life to his enemy.

“that’s not how it works,” teeth gritted together, you press the dulled side of the knife harder against his snow-kissed flesh.

“then, how does it work?” he asks.

for a moment, you’re frozen in place. then you’re taken back to where it all begins.

you were a queen who poisoned her king before proceeding to ruin the kingdom until it remains but a memory to those who’ve lived through your tyrannical era. yoongi was the crown prince from a small country who enticed you into his chambers and kept you locked in a tower like a caged bird while he went to war with the neighboring kingdom with your kingdom’s army.

“i- i hated you for seducing me and locking me up in that tower,” you murmur, breath shaky, “a- and you hated me because i-i couldn’t be killed... because i was...”

“a blood sucker.” he finishes for you.

a flash of anger crosses your eyes and paint your vision red. you press the knife harder - no doubt there would be a bruise, “no matter how immortal i was... i died because of a broken heart. you killed me!”

“i was breaking my own heart for having to keep you locked in that tower but if i let you go...” he trails off, his hand coming to settle on yours.

it’s the first time you hear him choke up.

“so many died because of our love,” yoongi’s voice comes out barely above whisper.

“your sin is mistaking hate for love,” you flick your wrist, switching the side of the blade pressed against his neck to one that could cut through clean and swift.

but before you can seal yet another lifetime of your surviving, a sharp pain cuts into your arm, forcing you to release the blade, your free hand cupping the familiar circular wound that’s gushing with blood.

you push yourself off him, going over the ledge and jumping off to your safety. and yoongi’s left in the cold, night air, the coms in his ear buzzing back to life.

it’s six months later that he finds you, dressed in deep red, smiling seductively as you cling on a man twice your age. all of a sudden, he finds himself ignoring whatever his partner’s saying in the coms and approaching you and the man.

yoongi can barely remember what he said but he remembers the overwhelming feeling of relief when the man pushes you off and march out of the room, shouting russian vulgarities.

“planting a bullet hole in my arm isn’t enough, you just had to sabotage my mission, don’t you?” you’re on top of him once again but the ground isn’t cold and hard as he’s always remembered in the series of you pinning him down in differing lifetimes.

“have you thought about what i said?” he doesn’t look like he minds it anymore.

being pinned down by you, that is.

rather, yoongi quite likes the view of your cleavage when you lean down close enough to whisper into his hears, “i reflected on my past mistakes... and truly, i wish nothing more than to have you gone from my sight once and for all.”

then his index finger ghosts over the softest protrusion of the healed up scar on your arm. and you feel goosebumps on your skin.]

you leave in the morning, slipping out of the hotel room in that skin tight maroon dress, noticing the woman in the lobby, looking like what you would’ve looked like if you were waiting for your partner who went against orders and checked into a room in the very same hotel he was supposed to eliminate his target at.

sloppy. fucking sloppy.

yoongi never sees you after that. he got reprimanded and almost got eliminated by his own agency if it hadn’t been his father, the head of the extermination department who pulled some strings and buried the matter.

it’s a surprise he’s still alive at the age of of thirty-one, owning a lawfirm of his own and living the life he’s never thought he’d have.

a normal one.

then, he spots you, walking down the sidewalk holding a toddler’s hand and smiling down at him like he’s the most precious thing you’ve ever hold dear to.

“stop the car,” yoongi orders.

“s-sir?” the driver, surprised by the sudden request, hesitates.

“pull over!” it’s the first time the young man has ever hear his boss raise his voice.

so he does just that, but a block away from where yoongi last saw you.

he runs as fast as his legs could carry him. but the sidewalk is empty of a woman holding a child’s hand.

it takes another year of him searching records of faces and names. for you have many and unlike yoongi, he’s sure you have no one to pull the strings and make one blunder disappear.

then he finds you, under a pseudonym, of a certain kim hana whose child is named kim youngsoo.

“it’s me,” he announces, stepping into the light that pours past the window and over not even half of the room.

“mommy, can we order pizza?” youngsoo’s lively voice rings from outside of the room.

“yeah, why don’t you decide what toppings you want and i’ll be out there in a sec, sweetie,” your voice sounds heavenly - none of the guarded strain that he usually hears. but your eyes, they look like the eyes of a woman who would give everything to protect her most precious possession.

“so it was you... one year ago,” you say, ambling to the dresser where yoongi easily finds out your motive.

“the gun’s not there anymore, you really think i’d break into the house of an ex-assassin and not think to look for weapons tacked up somewhere out of sight?” he hears the frustrated sigh you make before you stand with your feet apart.

looks like you believe his words.

looks like you’ve got no problems taking him on with bare hands.

“he’s mine, isn’t he?”

a scoff.

“you’re pretty dumb if you think one night’s all it takes to get pregnant with your bastard child.”

“who’s the father, then? why isn’t he around?” he presses on.

and his questions have always been intrusive but you notice the weight of his every inquiry. as if he’d drop dead right this instant if you don’t answer them.

“he walked away, couldn’t accept that we had to always be on the move just because he had a baby with a wanted woman.”

and it’s not the police that wants you.

“his social security number?” yoongi shoots you another question.

“i don’t know. i don’t remember,” you say simply, a shrug accompanying your answer.

“number one rule of being an assassin: never forget anything,” yoongi recites easily, even after five years, he still recalls the drilling his mentor forced him through, “so that leaves us with one possibility: he doesn’t exist, this ex of yours.”

“mooooom.” youngsoo calls out, sounding too close for comfort.

“just a minute, sweetie. why don’t you take my phone out of my bag and get ready to dial up the number to the pizza place?” there’s a lightness in your tone.

envy wraps around yoongi’s heart before he even realizes it. how he wished you’d speak to him in that delicate, loving tone as well.

“look, i’m tired, i’m done playing games, i’ve been done since that night. i know i fucked up and i know some day i’ll pay for it but not tonight... tonight... at least let me have one last night with my kid.”

it’s the way the word ‘my’ and ‘kid’ fall naturally off your mouth that makes yoongi realize that he’s the one stuck in the beginning all along. that he’s the one who couldn’t move on from the past even though he sought to change the present and threw your world upside down when he decided not to take the shot.

before he can say anything, you’re already out of the door but he senses no rush in your footsteps.

“do you have the pizza place’s number down?” there it is again, the soft, tender tilt in your voice.

it’s a little faint but he hears it clearly.

and it may very well just be a trick to make him sympathize but what is he to sympathize with when he’s only here to ask for confirmation?

why do you treat him like death who’s finally come to take back your borrowed time?

well, the answer was simple.

“i paid off the bounty,” yoongi meets you at a cafe where he knows you’ll feel safer.

no assassin will make a move in broad daylight, in public, with his face out for the cameras to record.

“how much?” you sound like you just got another loan tying you down.

“enough that they can’t resist,” he states.

and before you can even say anything, he goes on, “i want to see him.”

“no.” you say curtly.

“he’s my child too.” he slides the white envelope he pulls out of his pocket to you.

it contains the dna results from the hair on the comb youngsoo complained he lost and yoongi’s own hair.

“he’s doesn’t need a father,” you don’t even give the envelope a second glance, “if that’s all-”

“that’s not for you to decide on your own,” he cuts you off.

it’s the firmness in his tone that makes your eyebrows rise. min yoongi has always been a gentle soul. even when he was driving a cross into your heart, he’d done it with the heaviest heart.

and for him to place his foot down like this - how very unlike him.

which is why, when he pulls, you pull harder.

“if you so much as appear in front of youngsoo, we will disappear and i’ll make sure you’ll never us again.”

and with that, you take out the blank check from your purse and slip it over to him. the check and the envelop laying side by side.

money isn’t the issue, you’ve managed to wire every single penny you have to different bank accounts before the agency could even freeze the one in seoul. it took several trips to japan, hong kong and china but you eventually got enough to start a new life with your new life.

and that new life of yours is being shaken by the presence of an entity of the past.

you begin noticing the men and women dressed in plain clothing standing a few feet away from where you and youngsoo go. they’re there, acting absolutely normal which makes it unnormal. always watching, always being on guard as if their lives depend on you and youngsoo’s security.

it goes on for another three months before you finally get tired of it and approach one of them, “call your boss over.”

youngsoo’s blowing bubbles at the park when a sleek black car pulls up at the curb and a familiar face steps out.

“you can see him every week on saturdays, one no-show and you’re out. also- i decide when he finds out,” you set the rules and yoongi looks like he a little kid who’s about to perform at his school’s talent show, “do we have a deal?”

“absolutely,” he nods readily.

yoongi’s hand moves on its own and he almost hooks his index finger around your pinky finger as if asking for some kind of emotional support. but he stops himself.

he walks beside you, watching as you walk out from under the shades of the tree, your expression instantaneously brightening when the sunlight hits, “youngsoo-ah,” you wave the toddler over.

his little legs comes running towards you, curious, bright eyes staring at yoongi and right through his soul. he’s never felt so bare and defenseless.

the only thing that keeps him from running away is the fondness in your voice. and the smile on your face that he’s never seen before, “youngsoo-ah, this is uncle yoongi, he’s mommy’s friend...”

yoongi musters the best smile he can - he never needed to try. it’s the people around him that force smiles to please him. never the other way around. never him having to smile so he wouldn’t scare off his son.

he crouches in front of the child that’s partially hiding behind you, “youngsoo-ah, it’s nice to finally meet you.”

#bts fic #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #yoongi fic #yoongi fanfiction #yoongi fanfic #yoongi smut #bts smut #yoongi imagines #bts imagines #bts scenarios #yoongi scenarios #bts au #yoongi au

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pomegranates-and-blood · 3 years

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νοσταλγία (Chapter 16)

(Gif credit HERE)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Summary: This is a retelling/romantization of the Greek myth of Persephone’s abduction with Ivar as Hades and you as Persephone. The Reader character is a Byzantine woman, follower of the Greek Pantheon/Religion, and a devoted follower of Persephone. This takes place after 5A, but the universe of this is a little changed in relation with the series, of course. Thank you for giving it a chance, hope you enjoy!

Word Count: 4.2k

Warnings: The usual

A/N: I’m sorry I uploaded a bit later than usual today, I’m just idk, I think I’m nearing a burnout on this. But anyways, I’m sorry, you’re not here to hear me whine lol. Today as promised there’s a second chapter (17), and schedule will stay as is for now. Thank you, and hope you like it.

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @heavenly1927 @toe-vind-ek-jou @xbellaxcarolinax @pieces-by-me @angelofthorr

You can certainly say the people of Kattegat have surprised you. A few days since the King’s announcement that you are to be his wife, their queen, and yet the whispers, the curious eyes; they don’t seem to be any louder or more insistent than before they knew of who you’ll become once their King returns.

You are grateful, you cannot pretend otherwise. To be normal, or as normal as can be in these strange times, it is a luxury you do not take for granted.

So, as it is your new normal, you help the women at the apothecary every day, learning more and more, and yet also having opportunities to teach them better ways. The Gods made you smart, and they also made you arrogant, you are not one to deny it, which is why you and a warrior-like woman have been arguing on how to treat a simple but deep wound for quite a while now.

“We have always done it this way.” The blonde woman argues, but you shake your head.

“That doesn’t mean it is the best way,” You stir the boiling water, pour it over the wine mixed with vinegar and offer it to the woman. “Trust me, I was a healer all over the Mediterranean and the Silk Roads. I know what works best.”

“Arrogant little witch, aren’t you?”

You cock your head to the side and curve your mouth downwards, doubtful, “Is it truly arrogance if it’s founded on actual skill?”

She blinks but then softens her expression, and with a rueful smile on her lips she says, “If your tongue is just as wicked when you face the King, I pity the poor fool.”

“Are any of you going to clean this or sho-…” The warrior sitting in the ground grumbles, but the blonde woman silences him with a hit to the top of his head.

“Shush,” Her eyes remain on you and after a breath she extends a hand, “Fine, give me that water.”

“Careful, it’s hot.”

“He’s Viking, he can take it.” She offers with a sly smile, that quickly falls at your mocking glare when the man squirms and groans as the hot mixture is used to clean the wound on his shoulder.

When the man leaves with a dressed wound that will remain clean thanks to your help, the woman brings the big bowl of fresh water so you can both wash your hands.

As you do, she concedes, “Your ways are proving to be useful, witch.”

“I have a name.” You quip quietly, your voice a grumble. The Viking woman chuckles.

“I know. But ‘witch’ is not an insult, at least to us. It’s a title. You wage war, you sit next to the King, you are welcomed in any hearth.”

“I am no Völva.” You argue calmly, recognizing the traits and benefits she lists as those of a traveling Viking Völva.

“What would you be, back in your home?”

“Dead.” You reply dryly, to which the woman laughs. Clasping a heavy hand on your shoulder, she says,

“I’m Valdís, witch.”

You roll your eyes, but accept the title and her offered seat on the table near the hearth. She passes you an apple and a knife, and you start quietly cutting little sticks for you to eat.

Lifting your gaze to her and watching her toy with a pear and a knife in her own hands, you ask, “Fine, I’m a witch. What are you?”

“A mother. I used to be a shieldmaiden, but…”

“You got married?” You supply when her words die, but the blonde shakes her head with another low, raspy laugh.

“As if a cock could keep a Viking woman from her shield,” She boasts crudely, strikingly reminding you of Sieghild for a moment. The doors to the shop open again, and Freydis walks in, empty basket on one arm and coin pouches on the other. You greet her with a smile, and she returns it as she shrugs off the cloak and takes a seat by your side. Valdís continues her explanation quietly, “No, I did not lay down my shield for marriage. I was…captured during a raid in Wessex. They injured my sword arm badly, and I cannot fight anymore.”

“And your child…” You start, but the words die out, like saying it out loud would make her pain real, like you need to let her decide if she voices this.

Valdís squares her shoulders, strong and unmoving as she says, “He is mine, he is Viking. But…yes, he was…the Saxons forced themselves upon me.”

“I’m sorry.” You whisper.

“I don’t need your sympathy.”

“You Varangians are so strange. It’s not an insult to be offered compassion.” You tell her. She narrows her eyes, chewing in silence.

“What about you? You weren’t here last winter.” Valdís asks instead of answering, turning sharp focus to Freydis.

The blond girl shuffles in her seat before giving her answer. You eye her with concern and curiosity.

“I’m-…I used to be a thrall. I was freed by a son of Ragnar.”

Why doesn’t she say it was Ivar?

“Surprising he didn’t ask you to marry him,” Valdís huffs, and at your look shrugs and explains, “Those brothers have always had a thing for blonde thralls.”

“Slaves don’t get their hands asked for, Valdís.” Freydis quips, and you catch sight of her fingers playing with one another nervously where they rest on her lap.

“My personal thrall has a husband I have met, and children of her own. What are you on about, girl?”

Even if Valdís sounds gruff, you catch a genuine silver of concern, of care, in the woman’s eyes when she regards the frail girl that seems unbreakable and fragile at the same time.

You remain silent, and wait for Freydis to speak again. She does so, quietly, cautiously.

“We are not-…Slaves don’t fall in love, we just get husbands, slaves don’t have…families, we just birth children. Like animals.”

You do not try to stop your hand from finding hers, stopping the maddening twisting of her fingers and bringing her blue eyes to you. With certainty, you say, “First of all, you are not a slave anymore. And you were never, and never will be, an animal, Freydis.”

But she shakes her head, resolute like that day she tried convincing you the Gods marked you favorites for having endured a world of pain, “You don’t understand, witch. Slaves are not people, you cannot love them, you cannot trust them.”

“Says who? Men in power?” Valdís spits out, bitter chuckle on her lips, “Just because of the Gods we follow we are not people if you ask the Christians. Will you let them say if you are a person or not?”

“No.” The blonde girl bites out, voice wavering even in such a short vocalization. You squeeze her hand, but don’t know what to say.

“Then don’t let others, even our own, tell you that because of capture or birth you are not a woman like any other,” She sounds so motherly you have to bite back a smile. With certainty, the woman continues, “We are all children of the Gods, you are a child of Freyja. Don’t forget that.”

“I’m-…If Freyja looks over me, why…why did I suffer like I did?”

“Because suffering is what makes us human, and who we are,” You supply without hesitation, offering her a sad smile at the truth you had a hard time accepting as well, “How else would you be able to stand tall today and heal your own wounds, fight for what you want, enjoy what you have; without knowing what it’s like to hurt without remedy, to want and be left wanting, to lack and have nothing?”

The mangy black cat that belongs to the shop by now jumps swiftly into Freydis’ lap, and she absent-mindedly starts petting it as she talks,

“So the Gods mark us for pain? You said-…”

You interrupt her words, not wanting to argue this again even if you know now that the deluded notion of pain being a badge of pride is not so certain in her mind.

With another squeeze of her hand, you offer, “Suffering is not preordained, no. Pain, scars, misfortune, they are not proof of the favor of the Gods.”

“Then why-…You were born under the sigil of your Goddess, and you told me you almost burned alive,” You flinch slightly at the reminder, the soft touch of the linens of your dress against the scars burning like the Christian’s fire for a moment. You steal a nervous glance to Valdís, who watches you with wide eyes, and return shameful eyes to Freydis. The blonde girl continues, “You should have died then, but your Gods kept you alive, gave you their favor, their love.”

“The scars I bear are not proof of my Goddess’ love.”

“Your Goddess’ love carried you here!” The girl insists, eyes wide, “You stood in chains in front of Ivar the Boneless and had him release you. You stand at his side, you whisper in his ear, you have power.”

Her words make you pause for a moment, feeling you are witness to the darker side of the blonde girl for the first time since you arrived. She talked with you about lying to get your freedom, she asked about you seducing Ivar in exchange for what he gave you, and now she boasts about you being by his side like a conquest, as if nothing but a crown and power make up the Viking King.

You decide not to dwell on it, but you still release her hand and straighten in your seat. She notices, you know she does, but says nothing.

“No one’s love carried me here, Freydis,” Your voice may sound colder than before, and on the edge of your vision you catch Valdis raising her eyebrows and looking away. Still, you continue, “Sometimes pain is just pain. I don’t know about your Gods, but mine are-…In my home wise men said it takes strength greater than that of believing the Gods guide our every step to accept the Gods sometimes look away from their creations.”

“So they let us suffer?” Freydis asks, frowning.

A loud groan interrupts you, and you both turn to see Valdís throwing her head back where she sits, dragging rough hands over her face.

“Enough with this. Leave it to old and boring men to discuss the wills of the Gods.” She grumbles, earning a small laugh from you.

The days moves on slowly, though you notice the elders in the apothecary start ordering all of you to work more and more on healing salves and presses, making you wonder what the aftermath of a raid or a battle is like for the healers of Kattegat.

After a few days since meeting the former shieldmaiden, you are invited to join the women of the apothecary on the baths, and curiosity as to how similar these could be to roman public baths wins over your modesty, and you accept.

As you walk there, hearing Freydis hum a strange tune behind you, you catch Valdís, the dark-haired shieldmaiden stretching her stride to walk at your side as the group approaches the baths.

“So, witch.”

“So, shieldmaiden.” You reply, to which she offers a small smile as she meets your eyes.

“King Ivar said Sieghild Vorsdottir is the woman who raised you, who claims you as her daughter,” You nod slowly, not sure where she is going with this, “But she isn’t here, and you are to be a new bride soon.”

Your eyes narrow, and you steal a glance to Freydis as she moves closer to your side, very obviously wanting to hear this conversation.

“What are you on about?”

“You have no one to help you…shed the title of maiden,” Valdís explains, smirk devilish, “To prepare you to be a wife.”

“Not that any of us can prepare her to be the wife of Ivar the Boneless.” A woman quips from behind you, earning a chuckle from a few others in the group.

“My point is, we could use this time to teach you.”

“Teach me.” You repeat, and her smile only turns much more mischievous.

“Of course!” She turns to one of the elders, gesturing with a muscular arm, “Isn’t that tradition? Aren’t we to share our wisdom?”

The woman considers her in silence, though you could swear there’s a small smile betraying at her lips.

“I’m too old for this.” She mutters in response, but Valdís only laughs.

The baths are warm, warmer than any room you’ve been in, and though your hair hates the humidity, you sigh in pleasure at the almost-suffocating warmth.

You undress with ease, and it is only when you are readying to enter the bath turning your back to them that you realize what they may have seen.

The scars. Burn scars, not as bad as they could have been but still there, still present and marring.

They run over the outside of your right thigh, climbing over your hip into part of your back, almost up to your ribs. A gift from the Byzantines, so that you remember what happens to pagans.

“Are those burn scars, witch?” One of the women asks, and you turn around with gritted teeth.

Offering only a nod in response, but you cannot bring yourself to say anything more.

“Burnt alive for refusing to worship the Christian God, or so they say.” Valdís offers in your place, no hesitation in her voice, and no shame either, you notice, as she sheds her clothing as well and bares her strong yet scarred and marked body for everyone to see as she approaches the large stone tub as well.

It makes you feel much more at ease, even if it wasn’t her intention, seeing she has scars too, she has marks too. Not that the women that traveled with you are without their marks and badges of honor, but…the mark of war on a woman is something to be ashamed of, at least where you come from.

“No different than a scar from a sword or an axe,” She states confidently, bowing her head in recognition with a small smile on her face, “Glory to you, Greek.”

You offer her a small smile of your own, and get into the hot water.

“Thank you.” You offer sincerely, and go under the water to get your hair wet, silently pleading with them that the conversation finds an end. It does.

Conversation diffuses between the women soon enough, and the loud laugh of the shieldmaiden echoes in the walls, but you find yourself…comfortable, safe, even if the weight of what kind of failure this comfort, this ease you feel in this land means sets on your chest and almost keeps you from breathing if you think about it too much.

“So, about what we ought to teach you.” Valdís presses, drawing a groan from you.

“Would you leave the poor girl be?” Someone quips, but she dismisses them with a gesture.

“Witch,” Valdís -who you are noticing more and more has no qualms about keeping her mouth shut, reminding you strikingly of Sieghild- asks, moving closer to you in the large tub, “Do you know how to please a man?”

Oh, Gods.

“Yes.” You bite out, resisting the urge to close your eyes in mortification and hoping to everything there is on this earth, let it be Persephone or Freyja, that she doesn’t push this.

“But do you know how to please a Viking?”

“No matter what I say, you will talk anyways, won’t you?”

She only gives you a look that says you should know the answer already, before laughing. You groan, and lower your face further into the waters, igniting a laugh out of the other women.

_____

The routines of spending the days at the apothecary, exchanging secrets and tales with Freydis and loud laughs with Valdís, sharing short conversations with the other women, watching and learning and teaching; they quickly become a source of warmth and familiarity in this cold and strange land.

Even more now that Ivar is gone. You have no shame in admitting you have…grown used to him. Maybe that’s what hurts the most, what feels the most like failure; the fact that you have grown to enjoy his company, to hope for something more than resentment, to see him not quite as you did in Aneridge, but differently all the same. And the Gods made you too arrogant and proud to admit it to anyone but yourself, but you do miss him while he is gone. His curious eyes, his endless questions, his taunts and his infuriating stubbornness.

Prince Hvitserk has kept you company, and you offer murmured greetings each time you cross paths and maybe exchange a few words during dinner. It is more than you could ask for, and you think is all you should want. You have always had a soft heart, and not even Kattegat’s cold or its cruel King could harden it; and…a soft heart brings forth familiarity, care, affection. You have no use for neither, for you cannot forget the chains set upon you.

If you forget the chains, it will feel like a choice to remain here. And this is not a choice you can make.

You keep reminding yourself not to forget what brought you here, not to forget the chains set upon you, not to forget that you do not belong here; even as you occupy your day with a foolish and sentimental project.

You run into Hvitserk as you are carrying an armful of wooden planks -that you may or may not have exchanged a necklace for- to your rooms.

“What are you doing, woman?” He asks, and when he offers you, not demands, to take the heavy wood and carry it for you, you accept with a smile.

“I’m…making planters in my rooms,” The Prince still looks at you like you grew a second head, so you add, “I like plants. Herbs and flowers.” You offer as your sole answer, shrugging your shoulders.

When you reach the doors to your rooms, you hesitate, and the Prince offers you a smile.

“I can help you make them.”

“Is that…proper? For a man to be in a woman’s rooms?” You ask lowly, but the laugh you startle out of the young man takes away any secrecy you expected to get.

He pushes open the door with his shoulder and walks in, you trailing behind him.

“‘Proper’. You spent too much time with Christians, witch,” He chuckles, and drops the planks where you point him to. Crossing his legs underneath him as he sits on your floor, he motions for you to do the same. “If it’s my brother you are worried about, I’ll handle him.”

You thank him with a smile, tremulous as it is, and help him as you both work in amicable company, exchanging snippets of stories, quiet laughs and easy smiles.

“The King,” You start cautiously, and the Prince nods, giving you permission to talk, “Has he always been so…?”

“Usually worse,” He bites out when your words die, hitting particularly harder than needed at a nail as he does so. “You keep him preoccupied.”

“Should I be worried?” You say with a smile, scooting as you reach your favorite window and measuring for the perfect length of a planter to set there.

“He listens to you more than me, witch, I wouldn’t worry if I were you.”

“You don’t get along?” You ask even if you already know the answer, readying a few nails to start forming an angle for a planter.

“My brother and I…we are bound to kill each other, I think.” He says, and you lift your gaze in surprise as your hand already moves the hammer down.

The hammer falls down on your finger with all your strength.

“No! Why would you say that!?” You say, sticking the hurt digit into your mouth as you frown at the Prince.

He laughs in response to your clumsiness, but there’s a burden in his eyes. Hvitserk shrugs,

“I risked it all to stand by his side when Ubbe almost turned his back on him, Odin knows if there’s a reason why our brother is not with Lagertha wherever she has run off to now is because of me,” He mutters, and you stay silent, thinking to yourself it seems like it has been too long since someone sat to hear him speak, “Ivar wouldn’t have held on to Kattegat for this long if it wasn’t for me.”

“But you do not want to take Kattegat from him.” You offer quietly, not even a question. Hvitserk presses his lips into a line, seemingly overwhelmed.

“I never wanted to be King. Neither does Ubbe, the throne…Even if you don’t agree and he doesn’t believe I think so, I know Ivar is the best choice to be King of Kattegat,” The young man shakes his head, and he looks much more fragile than you ever thought he could look. You get closer and lay a hand on his arm, as comforting you can be without feeling like you are being ‘too touchy’ like Sieghild used to chastise you for. Hvitserk furrows his lips with no little anger, and continues, “Ivar is my brother and I will always stand with him, I just want the arrogant little fuck to acknowledge what I have done and continue to do for him.”

You have no idea what happened between the three brothers, you assume whatever it was caused the breach and struggle for dominance that permeates the air every time Ubbe and Ivar discuss battle or matters of the city; but you listen to Hvitserk with a compassionate smile on your lips and offer the best you can.

“If you want to talk, my Prince, I am always here.”

Surprisingly enough, he does.

He tells you of their allegiance with Bjorn Ironside and others to avenge the death of Ragnar Lothbrok. You needn’t be told of the Great Heathen Army and the fear and awe it inspired in its enemies and allies, for the words reached all the way to Carthage when the Vikings moved against Aelle. But Hvitserk tells you, and he tells you of the struggles of the men at the helm of the forces and how as the eldest son of Ragnar sailed South, their brother Sigurd married to warrant a degree of peace, and King Harald moved back to Norway with a new Queen; the three sons of Aslaug where left to be the leaders.

He tells you of Ivar pushing to take control from his brothers, of Ubbe being at the brink of breaking away from Ivar and turn against him if needed. He tells you of facing both of his brothers and reminding them of their blood shared, even if vows made, if ambitions clashing, if old pain and rancor, threatened to pull them apart.

He tells you of the marches for York, of many cities raided and pillaged. He tells you of the land granted for a settlement, of the funding of Dublin and the struggles for power that took place there. He tells you of the battles and blood that got Ivar to be King of Kattegat, and he confides that even if he appreciates and sees the change in his younger brother and how he is trying to appease him with by making both his and Ubbe’s voices heard when it comes to matters of war and the Kingdom; Ivar still treats him like nothing more than a dog, always mistrusting and always cold towards him.

“I’m sure he loves you.” You offer quietly, but the Prince does not look at you, instead toying with a piece of wood between his fingers.

“Ivar loves nothing.” He corrects quickly.

You shake your head, the hand on his arm squeezing to call for his attention. When he looks up at you he looks young and open, but his expression speaks of tiredness and resentment.

“You don’t believe that.” You promise quietly, to which he answers with a chuckle and a shake of his head.

Soon enough you both finish the planters, and you both bring the earth and branches needed to make the layers. Whispering prayers you carry in your heart alongside the secrets of the Thesmophoria, you water the earth and promise it care and seeds for growth.

The seeds will have to wait until you can get some, but the knowledge that fertile earth surrounds you fills you with a certain degree of peace. Even if this cold city kills you, you will force life and spring upon it. If you have to feed the flowers with your blood then so be it.

Hvitserk calls for your attention telling you he thinks he knows a little bit of Greek, and as you start getting horrified by his attempts at your language while he butchers it unwillingly, you both walk outside side by side.

Conversation starts on other topics soon after, and he tells you of the strange people he has met while handling Kattegat’s commerce influx and trade deals, which, paired with the way he recalls the stories with gestures and voices and expressions, makes your laugh louder than you have released it in so long.

Your giggles die down as you take a sip from your tea, and the Prince leans forward on the balcony railing, sighing.

“For all your strange ways, you seem…honest, witch.” He says, eyes on the horizon. You join him quietly, overlooking the cold city.

“If you were to ask the woman who raised me, she would say it is due to my arrogance that keeps me from being able to shut up,” You offer with a smile, “But thank you, my Prince.”

___

I know this chapter was kinda filler and kinda boring, I’m sorry. I promise the next one is hopefully more exciting. As I said last saturday, I’ll be uploading two chapters instead of one today. Chapter 17 will be up shortly after this one. :)

Thank you for reading <3

#ivar the boneless x reader #ivar x reader #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar the boneless #vikings #νοσταλγία masterlist

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hoodwinkd1 · 3 years

Text

the stars that shine - Ch 3

Ch 2 here.

Chapter 3: I was sixteen when suddenly

“Excuse me, esteemed guests,” the herald called out. “A toast, from Queen Mother Georgina.”

The room silenced quickly, people putting down their dessert forks and picking up their flutes.

Hollin watched his mother rise, fixing her skirts and simpering at the crowd. “My dearest friends, thank you all so much for joining us for such a wonderful evening to celebrate Adarlan’s future.”

They couldn’t all be her dearest friends, could they? Considering Hollin didn’t recognize over half the faces, he highly doubted it.

“The fall harvest has produced more bounty than anyone predicted, so tonight is to celebrate the hard work of our farmers and all those who financially support them.” She paused for a moment, allowing light applause to flutter through the room.

He caught Dorian’s eye. Although the King looked engaged and supportive externally, Hollin could read the boredom oozing from him. They shared a look, both thinking that this dinner couldn’t celebrate farmers if none had been invited.

“And of course,” Georgina continued. “Tonight is celebrating my son as well. Happy birthday, Hollin. May this year provide even more success for you and the kingdom.”

She raised her glass against his, then sat down.

“Thank you,” he muttered, taking a large sip of champagne. “The dinner is...lovely.”

His mother preened. “Oh, of course my dear. Anything for your sixteenth.” She sighed and drank half her glass. “I cannot believe how grown up the two of you are. I remember, oh it feels like yesterday, when you first rode a horse--”

Her closest courtiers leaned in to hear the story, right as Hollin tuned her voice out. Only one glass, and he could sneak off while pretending to “work the room.”

Luckily, Dorian jumped in as soon as the story ended with him falling on a stable boy. “Hollin, would you join me? I spotted some people I should greet.”

His brother had been more supportive than usual in the past two year. After Hollin had begun his training, with a mortifying first lesson, Dorian had quietly stepped in to help. Although the two of them lacked the easy conversation between many siblings, they had come to some sort of arrangement. Hollin could find Dorian whenever he felt overwhelmed, without fearing judgment or scorn.

“Do you think she’s ever met a farmer?” Hollin wondered, as they navigated past tables. “Actually spoken to one before?”

Dorian chuckled. “I always forget how sheltered she’s been as Queen. Even during the damn war, Mother was too far away to interact with any soldiers or common people.”

“So was I.” The words flew out of Hollin’s mouth before he could think.

Dorian stopped walking. “What? You were a child.” He turned his head sharply. “Hollin, you can’t possibly feel guilty for-”

“Your Highnesses!” A family approached them. Hollin recognized the parents as Ladies Bernice and Nerissa Finnick, who oversaw much of the sea commerce in Rifthold, leading three of their children towards the princes.

Nerissa reached out a deep bronze hand. “Excuse the interruption. If you have a moment, Your Majesty, I would like to request a meeting for next week.”

Dorian took her hand and smiled warmly. “Of course. Hollin, have you met the Finnicks yet?”

Maybe his brother didn’t have his back all the time.

“Yes, Anya and I have had some classes together.” He nodded at the middle daughter.

Anya stepped forward as the adults began some boring conversation. “These are my brothers, Galen and Sebastian.”

“Nice to meet you,” Hollin responded, shaking both of their hands. He hated the formality these parties required, since most of his peers treated him quite casually in other settings. “Are you enjoying the evening?”

Galen smiled. “The food was excellent, so I can’t complain.” Hollin had to glance up to look at him, the whole family annoying tall, tan, and beautiful.

“Have you heard any news from Terrasen?” Anya asked. “From Evangeline?”

He wasn’t sure how to answer her question, whether she simply meant to further the conversation or if she wanted a certain piece of information. “Nothing...particular, but the royal family seems to be doing well.”

“Ah, well. I’ve written to her a few times, but she hadn’t mentioned any plans to return. We all miss her so much,” Anya sighed.

Oh. Apparently everyone on this damn planet loved Evangeline and expected them to be best friends.

“I’m sure she knows she’s welcome here anytime.” Hollin took a step back. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a few more guests to greet.”

He was lying, of course. Hollin snuck into the kitchens as soon as he maneuvered past prying eyes, content to finish the evening with another round of dessert and absolutely no more niceties.

---

Thick snow layered Orynth, as it always did in late winter, but the dining room inside the palace was downright toasty. Evangeline’s gaze kept catching on the massive window across from her, the white powder falling down in countless patterns and twists.

“Excuse me, Queen speaking!” Aelin called out, tapping a knife against her champagne flute to command everyone’s attention. “I’d like to make a toast.”

Evangeline started at the interruption, turning away from the snowfall, as Lysandra rolled her eyes from the seat next to her. “Just keep it brief, Galanthynius. Today isn’t about you.”

Aelin pouted for a moment, garnering laughs from the table, then shrugged her shoulders. “Fair point.” The two women shared a grin before she turned to face the larger group.

“Today is about two of my favorite people,” she began. “Lysandra and Evangeline, I am incredibly happy that we all came together to celebrate such happy news.”

Aedion leaned across the table and caught Rowan’s eye. “‘Two of my favorite people’ and we aren’t even included? Pure misandry,” he muttered. The silver-haired Fae chuckled lightly.

“Exactly,” Aelin shot back. “Now hush, male. Eva, even with the most chaotic group of parental figures, has managed to grow into one of the kindest, wisest, and most genuine young women I have ever met. I hope this year brings you joy and fancy jewelry, both of which you deserve plenty of. Happy sixteenth birthday, my darling.”

Evangeline blew her aunt a kiss. She couldn’t put into words what this entire evening meant to her, how unbelievable it was that the Queen and King of Terrasen hosted her birthday dinner. She glanced down the table, smiling at all of the family and friends that looked at her with such love in their eyes.

“Lys,” Aelin continued. “My best friend. You took care of me, and so many other people in this room, when we needed it most, giving you more than enough practice for this next chapter in your life. I think I might actually be more excited than Aedion for this baby.”

Aedion leaned back in his chair. “Not possibly, cousin.”

“Didn’t I already hush you?” Aelin scrunched her nose. Evangeline held back a giggle at their dynamic. “Anyway, I can’t wait to force Adara to befriend your child, just so we all have another excuse to spend time together. Cheers to these two beautiful women.”

“Cheers!” The whole table cried out, glasses clinking and liquid sloshing.

Lysandra tapped her glass of sparkling juice against Evangeline’s. “I’m a bit sad that you get to drink alcohol while I can't. I always imagined sneaking you liquor on a ladies’ night.��

Aedion put down his juice as well. The couple had agreed that if Lys couldn’t drink, neither of them could. “I always wanted to take her to one of the taverns in Rifthold. Watch little Eva drink her first ale while taking men for all their worth in cards.”

“I’m not that good,” Evangeline laughed. “And anyway, this is a very classy way to have my first, proper glass of alcohol.”

“Proper?” Rowan interjected, bouncing the crown princess on his leg. “Does that mean you’ve had an improper drink before?”

Aelin gasped. “My devious little angel”

“No!” Evangeline scrunched her nose. “I just meant, first drink beyond accidental sips and tasting it from your glasses. You’re all horrible.”

Aedion shrugged. “My first drink was when I was fourteen. Stepped off the battlefield and took a very large sip of something disgusting.”

Lysandra patted his knee affectionately. “That’s a terrible story. We probably all had bad experiences during our first time.”

“First time? Lys, you make it sound like something dirty,” Aelin teased. “My first time was quite romantic-”

“Really? Bringing him up at a nice dinner?” Rowan drawled. “In front of our child?”

Evangeline finally stopped trying to hold back her laughter and huge smile. She would miss this family, miss the ease and joy that came with every conversation during her next round of travels.

----

Evangeline all but threw herself onto the lavish bed, too exhausted to even consider taking a bath, though she most definitely needed one. Banjali might be the loveliest city she had ever seen, if not remarkably warm in the early springtime.

She had a week left in Eyllwe, with most of that time spent travelling. Aelin had pulled her aside before her visit, and asked her if she would be prepared for a visit to Calaculla to demonstrate Terrasen’s grief for the horrors committed there. Evangeline, of course, agreed to the detour.

As if to make up for the depressing finish to her stay, the Ytgers’ had ensured her time in the capital city was as happy as possible. The younger crown prince in particular put in the most time and effort to show her around the city. Evangeline didn’t mind, not when Deji was nice enough to look at.

She sat up at the sound of a sharp knock. “Time for dinner,” Fenrys announced from the other side.

“I haven’t had any time to change!” Evangeline protested, scrambling towards the vanity, eyes widening in shock at the state of her hair. “I thought we had an hour!”

She didn’t love that this trip was chaperoned, but Lysandra and Aedion had insisted. The ship would travel past Skulls Bay, a place where Aelin had apparently made more enemies than friends.

“We would have had an hour, if you didn’t stop for cake on the walk back.” Fenrys opened the door carefully. “Can I come into the sitting room?”

“Ugh!” Evangeline huffed, pulling her hair out of its braids. She walked over to the entrance of her bedchamber and slammed the door between them shut. “I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes.”

She could hear him pacing around. “If we get any snide remarks for being late, I’m tattling on you to Aedion.”

Evangeline stuck her tongue out, although he couldn’t see her. She didn’t have time for a proper reply.

Seventeen minutes later, the two of them walked down to one of the smaller dining rooms. The Queen stood at the entrance, looking impeccable as always. Evangeline looked...passable, clothed in a fresh, crimson dress and golden hair somewhat brushed.

“Hello, Your Majesty,” she greeted. “I hope we aren’t late.”

The Queen waved her off. “Tonight is a rather small affair, do not fret. Lord Fenrys, I hope you don’t mind that we planned on separating the children from the adults tonight? The boys have a couple friends with them and they do hate it when we eavesdrop.”

Fenrys puffed his chest a bit at the use of his title. “Perfectly fine by me. Assuming you can handle yourself, Lady Evangeline?”

“Of course,” she responded, her polite tone at odds with the elbow she shoved into his side when the Queen turned to lead them in.

Kharis, the elder prince, walked up to them. “Good evening. May I escort you in?” He offered up his arm, which Evangeline took with one last wave to the adults.

He steered her towards another door that he opened to reveal a room with a much smaller table. She was met with four pairs of eyes, only one of which she recognized.

“This is Lady Evangeline, from Terrasen,” Kharis announced.

“Oh please, just Eva,” she insisted. “Pleased to meet you.”

One of the girls stepped forward. “I’m Athaliah, and these are my siblings, Jethro and Phebe.”

They all took their seats then, and luckily, conversation flowed easily. The three of them were not nobility, but their grandmother had served with the Queen’s father. Evangeline didn’t quite understand how he had managed to get his daughter on the throne after an alleged rebellion against the former King, but she didn’t think it polite to ask.

Phebe and Deji seemed to have some special connection, joking on a level that suggested intimacy. Evangeline forced herself to feel any sort of disappointment at their banter. Even if she thought he had flirted with her, nothing actually happened.

“Would you like a drink?” The boy of her thoughts interrupted the conversation Evangeline was currently having with Athaliah. “We nicked some spiced wine.”

“That sounds lovely,” she replied. Deji handed her a glass, seating himself next to her on the couch.

“Where will you go next?” Athaliah asked, continuing on. “Back to Terrasen?”

Evangeline nodded. “My ward, Lord Darrow, is expecting me back in a few weeks. We have some additional time, but quite honestly, I’m excited to sleep in a familiar bed again.”

“Our accommodations aren’t good enough for you?” Deji teased.

Evangeline scrunched her nose at him. “Of course not! But I am unaccustomed to this heat so early in the year.”

Jethro called for his sister, the others beginning to play a card game of sorts. She left them alone on the couches, Evangeline scrambling for something to keep the conversation going.

“Can I show you something?” he asked.

Perfect. “How far is this ‘something’?” Evangeline brought the glass to her lips, enjoying the slow buzz of the wine.

Deji stood, holding out his free hand. “Not far. I wouldn’t dare make you walk for too long in this heat.”

She followed him out of the room, down the hall, and towards a large balcony that she hadn’t noticed before. He held open the opaque doors, gesturing for her to step out first.

Evangeline let out a small gasp at the view. From this angle, the ocean seemed endless, and the moon looked close enough to touch. Large, swaying trees framed the water’s edge. The entire scene glittered with starlight, more real than a painting, yet more beautiful than real life.

“This is...unbelievable.”

Deji leaned against the stone railing. “It’s my favorite view, especially at night. I don’t know what I would do if I couldn’t see and hear the ocean most days.”

Evangeline joined him on the railing. “You might have ruined me as well. I’ll miss this dearly back home.”

They glanced over each other at the same time, bringing a heated blush to her face. His skin was too dark to show it, but she prayed she wasn’t alone in this feeling.

“Can I kiss you?” she blurted out, then immediately covered her mouth with her free hand. Oh gods, she might as well fling herself from the balcony now. Evangeline wanted to blame the wine, but truthfully, one drink hadn’t clouded her judgement at all. “I’m so sorry, that was--”

Deji cut her off, grabbing her hand gently and holding it in his own. “I was afraid you were going to make me ask you.”

He leaned in then, pressing his lips against hers. Evangeline’s eyes fluttered shut, experimentally deepening the kiss and moving her mouth against his.

It was sweet, if not a bit clumsy and filled with nervous giggling. Everything a first kiss should be.

----

Dorian found him in the training ring, one morning. Hollin wanted to get reacquainted with walking up earlier, now that spring had arrived and the afternoons would soon be too warm for exercise.

"Do you need something?" he huffed, talking a second to chug some water. The endurance circuit was quite honestly kicking his ass.

His brother shrugged. "I feel bad that I didn't warn you last time, so I'm telling you in advance now. Evangeline and Fenrys Moonbeam will be staying in the palace for a few days on their way back from Eyllwe, arriving in one week."

Hollin spun on his heel, pretending to grab a towel to keep his face hidden. "It's a bit last minute for royal guests, isn't it?"

Dorian sighed. "They're dear friends, not courtiers. Perhaps we could do a more casual dinner, allow you the chance to get to know both of them better. I'm sure Fenrys would offer to train you a bit as well."

"Is that the purpose behind their visit? Give me training with a feared Fae warrior?" Hollin didn't cover the sarcasm in his tone.

"No, I believe Eva wanted to see her friends here, something she doesn't regularly get a chance to do. Are you done with the questions?"

"Yes. Fine. Whatever." He pushed himself up, abandoning the towel. A bath would do nicely for his aching muscles. "Add the required events to my schedule."

Dorian mumbled something under his breath, but thankfully turned to leave. Right before he re-entered the main hallway, he called out: "It wouldn't hurt you to have friends!"

"I have two!" Hollin called back. "Who needs more than that?"

#tog #throne of glass #fanfic #hollin havilliard #evangeline tog #dorian #eyllwe #sjm #sarah j maas #fic

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alirhi · 3 years

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writing sample, I guess?

So, there’s this series of books I’ve been trying (and mostly failing lol) to get done for...gods, going on 20 years, now. fuck, I’m old. Anyway, I still haven’t finished a single book, ever, in my life, but I’ve got a lot of random snippets of widely varying quality lol and I’m bored so I figured... fuck it. I’ll share some stuff and see if anyone likes it. I’m starting with a scene that was scrapped from the second book in the series. sorry if it’s a little confusing, and I’d be happy to provide context if anyone asks. I just don’t have a lot of good stuff that’s not getting kept if I ever actually finish and publish any of this crap lol and I don’t want to start off with something that’s actually being kept, if that makes sense? Anyway, here:

oh first... TRIGGER WARNING! death, blood, violence, mentions some other traumatic things like torture and rape.

and despite other characters calling her a child, main girl is NOT. she’s in her 20s. just to clarify XD

"Dad!" Choking back sobs, Rachel stumbled just inside the door and skidded the rest of the way on her knees, coming to rest beside the man she'd truly come to think of as her father. "Dad... dad... Daddy!" Tears blurred her vision as she pulled the bleeding and barely-conscious warrior's head into her lap; she tried to blink them away, but only made them roll in steady rivers down her cheeks.

Voice wavering, she stroked his unnaturally pale face and whimpered, "Daddy, please wake up!"

He stirred, ever so slightly, and the one eye that remained in his skull fluttered halfway open. It seemed at first that he couldn't see anything around him, but then that cold blue orb came to rest on the most welcome features he could possibly hope to see in his final moments, beautiful even twisted in grief as they now were.

"Rachel..." Amadeus rasped. With a wince, he swallowed past the dry lump in his throat and tried again: "Little Lady... You cannot be here..." Feebly, he tried to bring one hand up to cup her cheek, but couldn't muster the strength. His arm sort of twitched uselessly by his side and then dropped, limp and weak in the steadily growing pool of blood beneath him. The shattered stumps where his wings had once sat twitched as she pulled him closer, but they, too, would never be of use to him again.

For one desperate, foolish moment, the young queen felt relief wash through her. He was alive! Resolved to keep it that way, she squared her shoulders and gently shushed him. "Let me concentrate. I'll get you healed up and then-"

"No."

Startled, she nearly dropped him. "What?"

Throat still dry and choked, Amadeus had to fight to push every word out. "I'll not... see another dawn. You must... lead our people... home."

"You're my people!" she protested, fresh tears stinging her eyes. "Don't be so dramatic, daddy, I'll get you heal-"

"Rachel." Her mouth snapped shut as he turned his head to press his pasty face into her hand. Blind hope aside, they both knew he could never be healed; severed wings were the one injury no angel could recover from, no matter how much energy she wasted trying. He closed his eye for a moment, and when it opened again, he put all the strength and dignity he could into his gaze; it pierced through his sobbing Queen, and she shivered. With the last of his waning strength, he insisted in a soft growl, "Be my daughter."

The blonde hated that she knew exactly what he meant. Cringing, but unable to look away or deny him the one thing she could actually do for him, she lifted her stolen dagger and took a deep breath.

"I love you, Daddy." Hardening her heart, she closed her eyes and plunged the shining golden blade through his.

As his lungs deflated for the last time, Rachel filled hers and let out the longest, loudest scream she could manage. A surge of power shot out of her at the same time, slamming into the walls hard enough to cause spiderweb cracks in all four sheer rock faces, and causing the glass to explode out of the tiny window near the ceiling. Vibrant sky blue eyes turned a faintly glowing silver as she set Amadeus' body on the floor and stood. Her lap and hands were soaked in his blood, but she paid no attention. Her tears dried and her grief retreated behind blind, ice-cold fury.

The cracks followed her through the halls, and only grew when the stones around her began to shake as she conjured music through their atoms. This was no low-volume hum to entertain herself; this was her war cry, and it reverberated through the dimly lit halls, announcing her approach to every living thing left in the castle. She was hardly even aware of what song she'd conjured until she heard Jonathan Davis' voice tear through the building screaming "ARE YOU READY?!"

Experience during their invasion of her home world had taught her one thing: The Fallen hated her taste in music, and the driving beat that spurred her on well past the point of exhaustion and kept her focused disoriented the enemy. It was perfect.

"I'm sure I don't need to tell you that this is a very stupid idea." The blonde didn't even so much as twitch when Lazereth appeared out of the gloom and fell into step beside her. "You're letting everyone know exactly where you are."

"Do I look like I'm hiding?" she snarled, swirling silver irises flashing.

"Why aren't you on that transport, you foolish girl?"

In any other situation, her normally cool and collected friend's venom would have made Rachel pause, possibly reconsider her actions, but she was too far gone. Nothing penetrated the static that clouded her mind. No thought was given even the tiniest voice except one: Kill them all. Vengeance drove her forward, and as her rage built, the music grew louder and the cracks in the walls wider and deeper.

Lazereth blinked, taking note of the damage for the first time. "You're expending an awful lot of power, little one."

"I don't even feel it."

That was almost more concerning than the fiery hatred that radiated off of her tiny body. "Killian, child-"

"They killed my father." Rachel stopped dead in her tracks, finally turning to face her friend as she drew her borrowed sword with one hand; the other still kept a white-knuckle grip on the knife she'd driven into Amadeus' heart. The final strike had been hers, true, but that was mercy. He'd have died either way.

Lazereth growled, gripping both of the little blonde's shoulders and giving her a violent shake. "And your children need you! Your people need you!" At the young Queen's startled expression, she rolled her eyes. "Oh, don't look at me like that! Of course I know who you are. And now Matthias will, as well!"

"I don't CARE!" She shook the older woman off, not wanting to find out the hard way if her strange nullifying power worked on her. "Imprison me, enslave me, torture me, rape me... Whatever. I'll live. But no one fucks with my family!"

Tears stung the noblewoman's eyes, blurring her vision with an icy gray haze as she whispered, "You still have family, my dear."

"And Emil's taking care of the last members of it still trapped on this rock," Rachel snapped, breaking into a run as the song switched from Korn's Blind to Led Zeppelin's Immigrant Song.

She didn't notice, and was too wrapped up in her bloodlust to care, when Lazereth stood where she was, one hand hovering by her throat and tiny pink lips forming one nearly-silent word. "'Emil'?"

It was surprisingly easy to make her way through the palace to the throne room. Rachel met with some resistance, but it was minimal; by the time she reached the closed and barred doors, it finally dawned on her that most of the King's forces were out looking for her in the city. Good. She wanted her next fight to be one-on-one.

"MATTHIAS!" The heavy doors slammed open, the broken timber that had been bracing them shut launched to two separate corners of the room from the force of her rage. Finding her prey there, huge eyes narrowed in feigned anger to cover the very real fear behind them, she smirked. "Let's dance, you ugly fucker."

The room trembled and her ears ached from the volume as the song she conjured changed again and grew louder. Pantera's 5 Minutes Alone brought Matthias's two remaining guards to their knees, clutching their heads in pain. Matthias himself had too much pride to be seen flinching, much less cowering, and that was fine with her. If he shrank and cowered, she could simply lop his head off and walk away. She didn't want that; she wanted him to suffer.

"You wanted the Pallandre Queen," she bellowed over the music as she slowly closed the distance between them. He took an involuntary step back before he caught himself, and her smirk spread into an insidious, almost manic grin. "Well, here I am, Matty. Come and get me."

Never breaking eye contact with her, the newly crowned King called out to his guards. He tried to sound commanding, even a trifle impatient; Rachel only heard the tremor of unease that made his voice waver and crack. She smiled again. "They're busy. Anyway, this fight is all yours, Matt. You invaded my home, you enslaved my people, you killed my father... and now? Now is your moment of fucking reckoning. You're gonna learn today, boy; don't start a fight you don't have the balls to finish!"

Finally she was mere inches from him. It was too close for her sword to be of any use to her, but that was fine; she still had the knife coated in Amadeus's drying blood in her other hand. Staring up at the lanky monstrosity before her, she cut the music at last and grinned as she pulled her glamour back in around her. She delighted in watching those comically large eyes get even bigger with shock as her golden locks and bright sky blue eyes both faded to a deep brown and her pale pink skin turned a beautiful light caramel color. "You should have killed me when you had the chance."

"You!"

The illusion dropped in an instant and she backed up a step, nodding. "Been here all along, baby." Quick as a striking snake, she pressed the flat of the knife blade against his bare arm and then danced back, cackling as he shrank away from her and howled in pain. "Not my fault you were too stupid to see it."

#my writing #fiction #fantasy #battle #snippet #original fiction #critiques welcome #i know i'm bad at death scenes #rough draft #scrapped

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ships-for-you · 4 years

Note

Hello^^ May I request a two black butler ship one romantically and one platonically? I’m average height and I’m my early twenties. I had long curly brown hair, but I cropped it short on a whim and I’m loving it! I’ve got green eyes that tend to change color depending on what I wear. I’m a rather soft spoken individual and I’ve been told my voice is soothing to listen too.(1)

Romantically, I ship you with: Joker!

Now this may seem like a weird matchup but hear me out!

You’ve mentioned that you don’t mind befriending people as long as it’s technically in a forced situation.

Naturally, I perceived this as a perfect way to apply this idea; what if you were working for the Phantomhive manor?

Not only that, but what if you were tasked to be a private eye before they decided to infiltrate the circus?

As someone who is generally soft-spoken, I think Ciel would appreciate it if you were to speak less, so not speaking unless spoken to.

Ciel thought you were both a valuable but disposable asset to his array of pawns on his chessboard so although he appreciates your loyalty, if you were to fail? It would hardly matter to him.

Don’t get me wrong, he appreciates the fact that you’re caring towards him.

And that you’re probably the closest to a motherly figure he’ll ever have. But to an extent.

He assigns you the task of observing the variety of acts that Noah’s Ark Circus offers as soon as he recieved a letter from Her Majesty.

Through this, he expressed the intention of you getting recruited before he watches the show so he knows what to expect while leaving Sebastian to investigate the pattern of disappearance of the children.

Speaking of Sebastian, he’s the one who provided you with the blouse and trousers to make you blend in.

Apparently men are more welcome to be recruited, as they’ve read in an article. Luckily they managed to make you simply look like a charming young lad.

You bought a ticket to the presumably 2 hour show and had decided to keep a keen eye on anything there was to observe.

Too bad, as you made your way to the tent, you bumped into a performer and fell flat on your behind.

That would’ve been alright, had he left you there but instead reached out their “hand” to help you up.

That hand was that of a skinned man’s, naturally you backed away.

“Aw, there ain’t no need to worry! It be only a prosthetic, E'ee needn’t be scared!” The performer tried to console you and chuckled as he watched you try to scramble away clumsily.

You’re not really good with talking if not required to and so you panicked. If you don’t need to talk to him, don’t. Is what you thought.

Turns out he was the ringleader.

Great. Way. To make. An. Impression.

You kept up a facade to make sure you looked over the top interested so as to attract attention from the performers.

He recognized in the crowd halfway through the show and asked you as his volunteer for a, “Dagger’s” performance.

“How about the wee lad in the centre?! E'ee seem to be in good spirits!”

They told you to stay put infornt of the target but right as the blonde boy had thrown his knife, you saw something shiny and thought it was something suspicious.

Needless to say, you turned your head and moved a bit so the knife sliced your nose a bit. The crowd gasped as the boy’s mouth dropped.

“AM INCREDIBLY SORRY MISS!”

They took you to the back after the show to take a look at the cut with their doctor, chatted about, and you brought up your request to join as you expressed your interest in the circus.

“So are ee’ a young lad or lady?”

Form there, they’d be skeptical however would recruit you by the end.

You can’t be a tightrope walker, not with your clumsiness.

Certainly not a trapeze artist either.

That left you with knife throwing, juggler, or beast tamer. Any guesses what you’re best at?

Juggler it is!

From there, you spend a lot of time with Joker when training however not too much time.

You’re usually on cooking duty first thing in the morning ever since you cooked once and they wondered what you did.

You just said it was secret and the younger members and Dagger called it magic lmao.

He likes your reaction to things that amaze you. The childish light in your eyes that he tried so hard to keep in the performers’ eyes.

He likes to bring you small gifts like small bundles of flowers or tricks that he’d like to use in their next show.

He appreciates your devotion to your friends, the rest of the first and second stringers, and your family. He knows that you write every night to your family to ensure them that you're fine and happy at the circus.

Or at least you told him you were writing to your parents.

Little compliments that seem almost flirtatious, much to Beast’s charging.

You try not to be charmed by his efforts however he just seems so genuine.

But you cannot continue. You have a task and you are falling for a criminal. Is what you tell yourself everytime he does these things.

You constantly writing every night to the Earl Phantomhive of your progress, purposely leaving out your domestic interactions with the ringleader.

The plan continues as you feign ignorance to seeing your master and colleague be recruited. Now, they serve as a constant reminder why you cannot continue as you please.

Of course, you can’t help but seem more at ease with “Black” by your side since you usually work closely together anyway.

Guess who’s jealous but laughs it off anyway? This little Pierrot.

I mean, he has no right to be. It’s not like you have an established relationship with him. He doesn’t ask how you’re close either.

He’s suspicious but he can’t suspect you since he thinks you have nothing to gain. So what if you’re chummy with a butler you’re supposed to have no way of connecting with?

He also, of course, understand that whatever he feels for you, he cannot fulfill for he also has a duty and obligation to the Baron.

It’s a fruitless romance you share with him and so you’ve merely chosen to enjoy whatever you have in the present with him.

You’ve already come to a conclusion what would happen to him in the end.

Platonically, I ship you with Sebastian!

As seen from the earlier situation proposed, you’d be colleagues meaning you’d pass by each other a lot.

I feel like you’d get along with most of the servants and occasionally Elizabeth when she visits but your dynamic with Sebastian is the most interesting and the most intimate amongst all of them.

He appreciates that you care for his master and that you don’t leave too much for him to clean up after, if not at all.

You help him clean after the other servants too and keep them in check.

He likes anyone who’s responsible enough so you’re pretty good in his book.

He’s not really the type to, “enjoy the company of others” since he’s usually too busy taking care of his bratty master’s orders however he does seem to prefer time with you than the other servants.

He appreciates how soft spoken you are therefore he finds the rare times wherein you do speak to him casually somehow precious(?) For lack of a better term.

You find yourself spending time in the young master’s library to read and he occasionally assists you when finding new and interesting material.

When you find something you like, he notices it’s always unavailable in the library.

“(Insert story lmao) again? It seems that you’re quite taken with that book, miss (y/n).”

He finds you to be the complete opposite of the humans he’s served in the past and so he’s naturally interested in your mannerisms.

He likes to observe you and you make him smile uncharacteristically for it simply finds a way to his face.

You like observing him as well as he’s unlike any “human” you’ve ever met. As perfect as a butler and as a man could ever be.

There was one time he caught you late at night outside chasing around fireflies that seemed to illuminate the silver sterlings in the garden.

He didn’t know whether to scold you for acting like a child or laugh at you for acting like a child.

Honestly, what if you tripped?

And then you tripped. Nearly fell sideways had he not done anything.

“Miss (y/n), this is hardly an appropriate time for a lady to be out and about. One could get the flu.” He’d coo but you can see that he’s slightly annoyed.

You’d apologize but would definitely do it again.

You like to be outside so you get along with Finnian as well in that regard.

Speaking of Finnian, he really likes your love for the outdoors and how caring you are for all of the servants.

“Miss (y/n), look what I’ve found near the creek! It’s a pretty narcissus flower!”

Bard appreciates how you’re very patient with him and help him when cooking meals. He’s stubborn since he can’t really let go of his flamethrower but at least he knows to be a little more patient with food now.

“That’s a pretty cool technique but I think we could speed this process up with m-” “Bard, please no.”

Mey-rin and you ofcourse share same clumsiness although hers is more related to her eyesight. She laughs along with you when you accidentally bump your hip along the servants’ tables when setting up.

You’re probably roomed with her as well and end up having nice conversations with her.

She likes your hair a lot and thinks it’s pretty and unique for the era.

“My hair just straight up looks like swine blood, yes it does! How do I have pretty hair as you, miss?”

Your “friendship” with Sebastian is quite odd and may be misplaced but as long as you don’t necessarily get in each other’s way, it’s all good.

Something I noticed very late, your eyes are literally a compliment each other’s.

~|~~|~~~~|~~~~~~|~~~~~~~|~~~~~~~|

Thank you for being patient and I hope you enjoyed your matchup! Requests are open lovelies.

#black butler x reader #black butler #black butler ship #joker #sebastian michaelis #kuroshitsuji #kuroshitsuji x reader

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rayveewrites · 3 years

Text

So as a simultaneous end of the year/ completion of Golden Echoes/ launch of Buried Gold celebration, I thought it would be neat to go through every chapter and post my favourite line/phrase/sentence/paragraph/etc from each. Why? Is this a genuine celebration? Do I think I’m funny and laugh at my own jokes? Am I actually just procrastinating? Yes. (Very obviously spoilers for the entire fic.)

Prologue: Lost Darkness, pierced by the faint glow of sunlight through the holes in the ceiling. The sound of dripping water, pooling in the centre of the room.

Prologue: Found It remembered a time of life and colour, when it danced and played and sang, when children flocked around him and fed off its happiness and energy and gave him their own. Would it ever experience that again?

Prologue: Name Old, brittle bones grinded. Rusted metal sounded against the tiled floor. Colourless eyes softly glowed silver.

Returned ...whoever thought it was a good idea to create a horror attraction out of the actual murders of actual children needed to have their heads readjusted. Forcefully. With a mask full of crossbeams and wires.

Exploration ...servos and circuits, they had been at this location for an hour and Freddy was already having a terrible day. Also it was 10 AM. The location operated at night. Why.

Darkness So young, and left without a voice. I ask you now to make your choice. Clean the tiles of blood and tears? Or let them suffer with their fears?

Void He called up a memory, of turquoise eyes and golden fur, of whispers in the night that meant nothing and everything, of a feeling of happiness, that nothing would ever change, because the world was already perfect.

Balloons Of course this place has wonky physics.

JJ “So let me get this straight. A potentially dangerous supernatural rabbit wants me to take a cryptic message to a potentially dangerous animatronic rabbit, and then somehow convince the other potentially dangerous animatronic rabbit and his potentially dangerous animatronic friends that the first potentially dangerous animatronic rabbit is not, in fact, the definitely dangerous child-murdering serial killer who’s...somewhere else. Have I got all that?”

Rabbit Part of his mouth twitched, as if he was trying to make a facial expression, but couldn't.

Arcade The Void was not cooperating.

Parts Things had always seemed much brighter when they were two.

Guard Whatever came to one or the other's mind, in the breaks between people coming through and Sam playing creepy sounds over the speakers because 'a couple of teenagers are smooching on cam six, do they you realize I can see you, jesus christ, why are you even snogging in a horror attraction anyway, I really don't get the appeal, I swear to god-' or something along those lines, anyway.

Adventure Peace wasn't a feeling the ghost had had for a very long time.

Notes ...it had been a handful of wild yellow daisies a little girl had found, and he’d woven them into a ‘flower crown’ (actually more of a flower bracelet- the girl had picked as many as she could hold, but children had small hands) and put it on Fredbear’s hat when his partner wasn’t looking. Fredbear had promptly worn it all that night and the next day, daisies and all. Spring hadn’t been sure if he’d noticed or not, but either way, it had been very cute.

Cupcakes If the kid wanted a dinosaur, the kid should get a dinosaur, as far as he was concerned. Clothes were clothes. Why did people kick up such a stink about it sometimes?

Tapes “Uh, hello? Hello, hello! Uh, there’s been a slight change of company policy concerning use of the suits. Um, don’t.” “Oh gee,” JJ muttered, “imagine. It’s almost as if they were giant metal deathtraps.”

Talk ...she didn’t need to understand every aspect of Springtrap's life. That was Springtrap’s job, and he was apparently terrible at it.

Performance “It smells like something crawled in there and died.”

Gold Fredbear had been Springtrap’s heart and soul; as much as he loved the children and gave each performance his all, his real reason for living was in the bear who sang beside him. Springtrap remembered singing on stage, a guitar in his hands and love in his soul. He remembered stolen kisses in the night, waltzing on cool tiles with music nobody else could hear. He remembered stealing Fredbear’s hat dozens of times, running off wearing it and giggling like a small child himself. He remembered quiet nights, when the only sounds were his guitar and Fred’s soft humming, sometimes the same tune, sometimes not, but neither of them ever cared. He remembered curling up together, watching stars twinkle in the night sky beyond the walls of the little diner, and truly believing that the time they had together was infinite.

Stage He was holding something. He looked down, opened his hand and saw a gleaming purple microphone, accented with gold. It had been years, decades, since he had last seen it, but he recognized it. He knew what it meant. "Even after everything, I’m still with you."

[Note: this is also the chapter that contained Springtrap’s poem. I’m quite proud of that one, despite how much of a pain it was to write. So, honourable mention]

Notes [Note: wait, crud, there’s two chapters named Notes? I’m gonna have to change one of those later.]

Maybe she just needed to hit something.

Knife [Note: I forgot to actually title this one in AO3. Welp. Better fix that later]

It was slightly strange, a Freddy’s-related crime that was just… basic burglary. It was always the unusual crimes that happened- murder, manslaughter, OSHA violations (so many OSHA violations). But theft? That was new.

Shadows

They lapsed back into silence for a moment. “So, this place… is it real?” In a fashion. It was created from your memories of what is gone. “So… if Fredbear isn’t here…” He is unreachable. “Where?” I cannot tell you. “You don’t know, do you.” The Shadow-Bear was silent, telling Springtrap all he needed to know.

Puppet RWQ… Yes? Stop tormenting the rabbit. You’re no fun. Puppet? She hissed at the purple bear. Stop tormenting the rabbit. “And why would I listen to you?” Because, Shadow Freddy said as the Puppet was slowly levitated up into the air, all four limbs flailing, he’s needed. And also, you are being, as Springtrap so eloquently called RWQ earlier, an asshole.

Voice Specifically, it was more a mixture of blood, rotting flesh, and whatever other bodily fluids lingered in William Afton’s partially mummified decomposing head and was accessible via Springtrap’s mouth, without opening said mouth to the point where someone would notice said partially mummified decomposing head. [Or] Springtrap was displaying remarkable self-restraint. First, he hadn’t punched the Puppet in the face for threatening his friend’s life. Then, he hadn’t punched the Puppet in the face for implying he had a problem with the golden bear. Now, he wasn’t squeezing the life out of JJ in a hug.

Ghosts “No. The thing is, I’ve never had a name I felt truly fit before it. I can’t be Bonnie any more; the Classic model has taken that name, and he is welcome to have it. Spring Bonnie was the name the Man Behind the Slaughter used; I never truly referred to myself with it. Some employees called me Golden Bonnie, to fit with the whispers of a Golden Freddy, but that was never truly a name either, although I suppose I could have gotten used to it eventually. But Springtrap? It lets me keep my past, and it lets me have a future. Sure, it’s a little odd, but I don’t mind. I kind of like it. It’s unique.”

Humans Oh, Spring has a key. That explains where the spare went! When did he get that? Jake’s been looking for it for ages. Not that it’s my business. He says he technically works here, so it’s not stealing. Cheeky. He’s right though.

Henry “I’m not sure whether I should be pissed about the weird way he’s been constructed, or impressed he hasn’t collapsed yet. What the hell is holding him togeth- wait what the hell is that.” Springtrap winced. He knew he should’ve warned them beforehand, but he still tended to hide the rotting corpse. It was instinctive, a sort of habit- born from the fear he would be scrapped is the workers found out, and increased by the fact he was being blamed for murder.

Sound No matter how bad Springtrap’s eyesight could get, no matter how often his joints locked up, Springtrap had always had his rabbit hearing. It had saved his life several times, back when the Classics were hunting him. He had figured out a basic method of echolocation for when his eyes were useless. He relied on his ears, and now they were letting him down for the first time in his life. It scared him.

Doors “Freddy! We have a problem!”

Attack He did. He needed a hand. God, it hurt. Where was his arm? Was that his arm? No, it couldn’t be. He was gold. Not green. Or maybe it was. It was hard to think. Thinking. What a strange concept. The Greeks had invented thinking, hadn't they? Why would they do that?

Rest There were voices. Voices. His voicebox had lungs. His lungs were in his spine. His spine was being held together by lungs. His spine attached to his legs. He had no legs. He heard voices. He couldn’t hear. The grass was nice. Cool. Soft. Green. Like his eyes. Not like his eyes. Like his fur. He had no fur. Like his plush. His plush was green. Or gold. Or red. Or brown. He couldn’t remember which. Maybe it was all of them There was a breeze. It was nice. Warm. Hot. It was sunny. The sun was a star. He liked stars. Stars meant Fredbear. And dancing. Where were his legs? He wanted to dance with the stars. Or with Fredbear. Fredbear. His Fredbear. He missed Fredbear.

Epilogue: Box Smeared down the plaster, it started about six feet up, and grew thicker toward the ground. It looked like Springtrap, or the Purple Guy, had slid down the wall until they were sitting. The tile beneath was stained heavily, and Freddy marvelled at how much blood was in a human body.

Epilogue: Opening ... no killing. That was the new rule. It was a strange one, for Master, but he supposed Master knew what he was talking about. He had changed, too; he had scratched behind his ears a couple days ago and it had felt so good.

Epilogue: Spark He remembered a time of life and colour, when he danced and played and sang, when children flocked around him and fed off his happiness and energy and gave him their own. He would experience that again.

#Golden Echoes

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alltheworldsinmyhead · 5 years

Photo

SOON YOU’LL GET BETTER

time's running out for Riza. and they can do nothing else, but face this truth.

ao3

{AN: This is easily the most personal story that I have ever written. My mom died of cancer almost two months ago and I needed to cope with that, hence this fic. Tbh, I don't even think it can strictly be called fanfiction - I simply used those characters to channel my personal trauma. Sorry not sorry for that. It feels very weird to post it publicly, but I decided to do it, cause the fact that this doc was somewhere on the hard drive of my laptop was driving me mad. Also... I feel like the topic of death and dying is not discussed often enough nor openly enough. I certainly hope that this story will maybe help someone who's going through something similar to what I'm going through. Or maybe will help someone to understand how it feels to say goodbye. How heavy this grief is.

The title comes from Taylor Swift's Soon You'll Get Better, cause this song is by far the most accurate description of what's going on in the head of some who has a sick parent that I have ever seen.}

__________________________________________________________

When you're feeling lost I'll leave my love

Hidden in the sun

For when the darkness comes

- Colbie Caillat

RIZA

The house’s so quiet and feels so inviting that she could cry from the sheer relief of coming inside. There are no flames dancing in the fireplace but she still feels warmth worming underneath her skin, replacing the bone-chilling coldness of the rain outside. With a sigh, she kicks off her shoes before putting them neatly in the corner and stepping on the white plush carpet in the corridor. She wiggles her toes in it, enjoying the texture against her battered feet.

Soft material makes her steps almost soundless as she makes her way through the first floor and climbs up the stairs. Even Koya doesn’t lift his little ginger head from where he’s sleeping, in his wicker basket by the doors of her younger daughter.

Riza gently pushes the door, letting them open slightly. The light from the corridor spills inside the room, framing Sara’s bed in silver; her little face so pale in the poor lighting, dark hair messy and thumb inside her mouth.

It’s been a few years since she last did it, since she last came back to the childish comfort of this coping mechanism. Riza was sure that she has it well behind her, those moths of coating Sara’s hand in foul-smelling ointments or wrapping it with ribbons.

Despite her best wishes, she can do nothing but take a few steps closer and then another few and then suddenly she’s on her knees right next to the bed. Carpet in her little daughter’s room is blue, Amestrian royal blue, deep and soft. Her girl loves this color. Wears it in her hair and on her clothes and all her pet animals are blue too. But as Riza watches her sleeping face, she thinks pink would be a shade much better suited for Sara, with her rosy cheeks and flowery innocence of a child shielded from any possible harm, any dangerous blow.

That’s what they have been doing all this time, her and Roy. Spreading an umbrella above their girls’ heads, building glass castles on the clouds for them and keeping them safe at all cost.

Riza gently touches Sara’s still-chubby hand and contemplates pulling her thumb from in between her lips, but ultimately decides against it.

Her daughter will need all the comfort she can get soon.

Sometimes she feels like she has spent most of her life waiting.

When she was six years old and her mom went into labor, nobody suspected that it won’t be a quick thing, devoid of complications. Tereza Hawkeye was a strong woman, used to hard work on the farm and running the house for her absent-minded husband. Riza remembers her red, calloused hands and freckles that would appear on the bridge of her nose during summer months; remembers her smile and the smell of her hair. There wasn’t a soul that would look at her and guess that Tereza was born in the aristocratic circles of Central City, with an army of servants ready to attend to her every whim and silk dresses in her closet, that she could rise very, very high if she didn’t decide to so-called ‘’follow her heart’’, run away with the young alchemist and settle down with him in the village on the countryside, forgotten by god and men alike.

To be honest, Riza never thought much about her mother until she became a mother herself. Trying to put together fragments of Tereza in her head the way one could play with a jigsaw puzzle, she looked through few faded photographs she had left and recollected even more faded pictures in her memory. And the more she thought about it and the more she watched Roy and Grumman playing chess together, the more she pondered of how much of a hopeless romantic really was in her mother. Because it seemed to her Tereza could be as well a perfectly pragmatic young woman who just plainly decided she preferred to be barefoot and pregnant at the edge of the world than to be pushed on the board according to the whims of her father – even as a queen.

No matter her motives, Tereza married Berthold Hawkeye and gave him a daughter before dying in childbirth along with their son.

And Riza remembers that waiting all too well; small blonde girl sitting forgotten and omitted on an armchair in the corridor, clutching her teddy bear close to her chest, her face pressed to the faded material. She remembers screams behind the wall, remembers how her father stormed inside, remembers the sound of the door shutting close. Remembers long hours of pressing her fingers to her closed eyelids just to see stars exploding. Sometimes she feels like maybe she never left this armchair, never hoped off to kiss her mother’s soft, cold cheek goodbye.

And then years and years of silence, of wind blowing inside the house and playing with endless pages of her fathers’ notes laying discarded on every surface. Of silence in which they both were trapped, like flies in a jar full of honey, which they shared for so long she thought she will never speak again. Until a pretty boy from Central City appeared on their creaking doorstep, with his laughing dark eyes and a suitcase. He bowed in front of her politely and asked about her name.

And she said ‘’Riza’’, even though only her mother ever called her that, even though she was ‘’Tereza’’ in her birth certificate.

And he smiled widely.

‘’What a beautiful name.’’

Forget fire alchemy; the warmth she felt in that moment was incomparable with any other before and after.

At least her daughters won’t be left to her own devices after she’s gone. At least she has given them a better father than hers. At least this, at least that, all bitter, all making her choke.

They tell them first thing in the morning.

Time for deception and avoiding this topic is over. They wasted it on constructing elaborate lies instead of trying to find the right words and it’s so, so hard now. Riza grips Roy’s hand tightly under the table during the breakfast and opens her mouth before he has a chance to.

“I’m sick, girls.”

The harsh, ugly truth. Cruel military honesty.

Sara whips her head up to stare at her in shock, her eyes round like coins and confused. She drops her fork; it slips from in-between her fingers and lands with a clatter on the porcelain plate, spraying her blouse with yellow of scrambled eggs. But, as Riza takes a look at her older daughter, she thinks Eli as well could’ve, on the contrary, turned into a stone. She doesn’t even blink. She just sits perfectly still, her hand suspended in the air, reaching for a bread roll.

A heartbeat passes, maybe two.

“Girls-“

Eli’s hand slaps down on the table.

“How sick?”

Sara’s bottom lip starts to tremble. Dear god, please don’t let her cry. – thinks Riza desperately, feeling something welling up in her chest. She feels like a grenade about to burst and kill everyone in the room. Maybe that’s truer than she suspected.

She tries to answer and, horrified, finds that she cannot seem to find any words.

“Very sick, Eli.” – says Roy instead; quietly, gently, he reaches out to caress Sara’s cheek and here they are, rolling down her perfect, pink skin. Tears, one after another.

Riza cannot breathe, cannot think even.

Eli slowly lowers her eyes, until they stay stuck on her plate; she is so, so beautiful like that, lost in thought. Forget blonde hair and sun-kissed complexion of Hawkeye’s, forget her blooming breasts and round face – she has never looked more like Roy right now, when Riza can almost see the gears in her head turning, her brilliant mind putting facts in order.

“I knew it. I knew it and yet… I didn’t want to know it.” – Eli’s voice is very quiet, barely above whisper, but she commands the attention of everyone. Even Sara stops biting on her lip to look at her. – “You stopped working and god, all those trips. The trip all the way to Xing, that you didn’t take us – you were visiting Al and Mai, right? To ask if they can do anything.”

Riza suddenly has an urge to laugh. To cry also, but mostly to laugh. Her eyes find Roy and there it is, their common understanding how could we thought we can ever keep anything a secret from them?

Even if they don’t know, they do. Sara’s finger stuck in her mouth, how big of a crybaby she became lately, her ever-brave and ever-bold firecracker of a girl. The stare of Eli’s watchful eyes analyzing every action and change in their daily routine.

“You are too smart for us, darling.” The corners’ of Roy’s lips twitch as if he was about to smile. “We never give you enough credit.”

Eli takes a shaky breath and barks a sad, little laugh before burying her face in her hands for a moment. When she raises her head up, her amber eyes are shiny.

“I don’t think I am, honestly. If I was, I would know what to tell you –“

“Are you going to die, mommy?”

Silence falls like a knife, cutting Eli’s sentence in half and freezing Riza’s brain. Sara is standing now, hands planted flat on the table and she leans towards her; tears still rolling down her cheeks and nose already red, she asked her question with the dead seriousness, crashing violently with the high, birdy pitch of her voice.

Ishbal was one, never-ending bloodbath that she will never manage to atone for. Working under Bradley was a constant, day by day struggle, when her body felt like a taunt bow-string, never relaxing, always on alert. During five minutes when she thought Lust had killed Roy she barely felt alive at all. Promised Day was a nightmare. Her first miscarriage sent her into the very depths of despair. Sitting with Roy in that room and hearing the results of the tests, seeing his face and the light gone from his eyes, she was sure there will be nothing more harder than that. But having lived through it all, Riza realizes has never felt more broken, more helpless and devastated, than now; when she has to gently cradle her youngest daughter’s face in her hands, look her in the eyes and say, without any turn-backs or bullshit excuses:

“Yes.”

There are more than a few things that she loves about her life. She loves their house in Central; cozy, bright and without fancy high ceilings and big windows that would put her bodyguard instincts into overdrive. She loves her dogs; their simplicity and loyalty, how they always come over to greet her home, how they appreciate a good scratch between their ears and how they all remind her of dear Hayate somehow. There are days that she even loves Central City, its hustle and bustle, and all the memories – good and bad alike – that she made here.

But above all, she loves her family and each and every person that form it. She suspects she will never stop marveling at the miracle that happened to her at some point; that the lonely, sad little girl growing up as alone as a child can possibly be, ended up surrounded by so many people loving her and caring for her. So many people to say goodbye to.

She considers herself lucky. More than lucky – the luckiest.

It doesn’t think any of this makes is easy. On the contrary - she thinks it would be easier if she was not so generously gifted by fate. The biggest struggle, as she learns in time, is to not say I’m fine all the time, not repeating it as a foolish parrot round the clock. She respects Roy and girls too much to maim them with this fool’s gold phrase, but it’s so difficult. She finds herself biting on her tongue more often than not, several times a day, until there are scars on the soft tissue that refuse to heal.

Cause she is not fine.

Where it hurts most, asks her Roy one time, desperately, in the dead of the night; his arms around her, holding her upright from behind and his lips on the back of her neck as she sags above the toilet. At this point, she can’t remember how much time has passed since she started vomiting, the room is spinning in front of her eyes and she too bone-deep tired to even try faking anything, and so maybe that��s why she actually answers him.

She slowly wills her arms to raise up, until her hands are up in the air, high enough so he can see.

“This.” She says, voice small and throat scraped raw, but she knows he would understand anyway.

This never-ending shaking, twitching, trembling, as if somebody was electrocuting her limbs all the damn time. Her treacherous hands that used to be so sure and reliable holding a gun, finger concrete-still on the trigger, and which now did not even allow her to braid her daughters’ hair. She misses their sureness and, even more than that, the sign of them simply makes her scared. Everything is more real, more tangible, seeing this tremble.

And then she starts to vomit again, with blood this time, and she doesn’t want to remember anything else from what followed, but she recalls how it ended; the blissful, cool sheets, the wet rag on her forehead. Roy on his knees by the bed, kissing her every finger and knuckle and line on her palms.

They go to Dalisay in June, just four of them. The road is longer and harder than Riza hoped it would be, with pain running up and down her spine like an electric current, her hands struggling to turn the pages of the book - but it’s nice anyway, so nice.

She cannot read and is too tired to talk really, so she just sits with legs resting on the opposite sofa and head nested on Roy’s shoulder, listening to Sara’s baby-bird-twitting. Her girl spends the whole journey standing up with her palms pressed to the glass, looking out of the window and asking about everything – what is this station, what is this city, how many hours ahead of us, are these sheep, mommy look, mommy look. And Riza obliges, slowly turning her head in the direction of the outside and nobody has to know that she doesn’t look at the sheep, or horses, or little farms, but she just watches Sara; her eyes gleaming, her cheeks cherry pink, dark hair curling around her face.

Eli has an alchemy book on her lap, opened right at the middle, but it’s more for the show as she’s not reading either. From time to time, she scratches Mochi’s head or pets Koya gently, but most of the time she just stays silent. Riza feels her eyes on her, as her skin tingles from the intensity of this state, with the familiar desperation, love, and longing. How to burn someone’s face in your memory, in your heart? If you stare long enough, can you remember for forever?

So, the only voices in their compartment – a nice one, really, with comfortable sofas and wooden floors and curtains, private, for what she’s more than thankful – are Sara’s questions and Roy’s answers. He knows everything about the landscape outside and Riza wonders how weird it must feel for him, going down this old memory lane with them, taking the same train that he used to take as a little boy and then teenager, but many years later, with his family and his dear, dying wife. She doesn’t know what kind of feelings it must evoke – she was always the one waiting on the train station after all, static and longing.

He tells Sara – this is river Enola, do you know where it starts? This village is called Priam, they have a sunflower festival every summer, yes, we can go see it. Yes, this blue thing is a lake, lake Moore. It’s very big. Like, hm, from your school to the park? No honey, I don’t think whales live there. Dolphins neither. But there are many other fish.

Riza skids closer to him, feeling his arm gently wrapping around her, his fingers rubbing circles on her hip. He must take comfort in knowing at least this, answering at least those questions. For Roy’s action-driven nature it must be torture to drift with her like that, time slipping from in between their fingers like water. But he slows down to stay by her side as long as they have left, wills his blood and heart to match the rhythms of hers. He is no longer her wildfire, but a rock, solemn and still.

Unflinching.

Dalisay’s somehow just like in her memory and completely different at once, and it makes her head spin. The streets are busier, livelier – with the opening of new train lines and the discovery of rare elements in the area nearby, her sleepy little village has never been so awake. But the air still smells like honeysuckle and strawberries, the grass is so shockingly green compared to the one in Central.

It’s a new world, altogether. It’s almost like they crossed some barrier and entered a foreign land.

And her daughters explore it eagerly, even Eli losing that worried expression from the train in order to curiously peek around the corners and listen to people talking with a melodic, longish intonation that Riza has abandoned long ago, somewhere between the first and second year of the Academy. Sara basically vibrates with energy as she runs from one stall to another on the farmer’s market, begging Roy for sugared almonds or a pack of mint candies.

As the girls lead the way, the two of them slowly stroll, step by step. Riza holds onto Roy’s arm, but she feels so light that it surprises even herself. The pains more bearable like that. She can almost convince herself that the girls are a little smaller, that they are still a First Family, that it’s just a regular Saturday like thousands before and thousands after. The sun’s so warm and honeysuckle so sweet, and they take a break here and hide in the shade for a second.

“I have dreamed of taking you on that damn market, you know.” – Roy whispers into her ear and she just has to laugh at the irritation at his voice. –“ But I never had enough money or guts to do it.”

“To be honest, I think guts were the bigger issue.” – she waves her hand at the crowd and the stalls. – “ The only thing you could’ve bought me here back then were carrots probably.”

He chuckles lightly, gently sneaking one arm around her waist to stabilize her, as the smooth street turns into a cobblestone path. She wonders briefly if he even notices those small acts of care that he performs or if they are something completely instinctual. Her heart swells at the thought and she turns her head slightly and presses a kiss just below his jawline.

“What was that for?” he asks softly, caressing her cheek with a free hand in return.

“Everything.” She simply states and rests her head on his shoulder as they continue to stroll at snail’s pace, in silence this time. She is sure he understands. They never really needed many words between them anyway.

Bathed in the warm light of the setting sun, they make their way forward.

There were snakes in Ishbal. Or, she supposes, there are snakes in Ishbal, since they have proven to be far more resilient than Ishbalans.

Upon entering the front, the first thing higher-ups did, was presenting her with a pair of military boots and forbidding her to ever take them off. They were monstrous things, made from tough, boiled leather, with an extra protective layer around the ankle; they weighted a ton and made her feet cook inside, turned her skin white, slimy and wrinkly. But she and everyone else would dutifully wear them every day, even in their sleep, mindful of the alternative.

Sand vipers like dark and cool places, just like humans in the desert. They are small and sleek, their bodies fashioned for zig-zaging through the golden dunes and escaping from sunlight. If they bite you, you don’t even feel it at first; you go on with your life, resume your duties. But after two hours or so, you start to shiver violently. Then, in mere minutes, you lose your balance. Then your sight, your hearing. And then you die, just like that. It takes maybe an hour from the first tremble. You don’t have any time to say goodbye, to write a letter to your loved ones. You are gone before you can feel yourself slipping away.

More Amestrians died from this goddamn venom than from any Ishabalan resistance, that’s for sure.

Riza’s sickness is kinda like that.

It takes time to unravel, gives her a room to breathe, gives Roy and the girls and even herself some hope against all reason, because how can she die if she still can walk and talk and smile? If she cooked a dinner yesterday and tended to the flowers in the garden in the afternoon?

Yes, she can.

Yes, she does.

One morning, she doesn’t get up.

I still have time to say goodbye, I still have some time, I still do. - she keeps on thinking right until it runs out.

ROY

In the end, after Havoc and Catalina take sobbing Sara away to their flat, it’s only Roy and Eli, alone. Her, curled on the bed by Riza’s right side. Him, kneeling on the floor next to the bed by Riza’s left side. Each holding her hand.

It’s very late and very quiet, no sound besides Riza’s heavy breathing. She has lost consciousness days ago and ever since then, Roy has been staring into her unseeing eyes and trying to spot just a spark of awareness in them, just a little bit of brightness. It’s all for naught, of course. Her eyes are still brown, but they are no longer hers. He doesn’t know where his wife went to, but she’s not here. He told that Eli a thousand times and more and she would always nod in understanding and then lay back down on the folded sheets and resume tracing gentle circles on Riza’s limp hand.

So he gave up trying to talk her out of staying. Besides, her presence gives him comfort, he cannot deny it; she’s the other set of heartbeat in the room that is not going to go silent any time soon. And she’s the only one who can possibly come close to understanding what he feels, no matter how different was Riza’s role in her life compared to the one in his.

Riza, Riza, Riza. Slipping through their fingers so damn quickly. He keeps on begging for just one more smile from her, just one more word that means anything; not the delirious babbling that she sometimes lets out, not those screams full of fury when they try to move her. She just went under so quickly and violently that it makes his head spin.

‘’Life is no more than a candle burning in the darkness, about to get blown away at any moment.’’ – Eli whispers, breaking the silence.

Roy almost smiles at that. They’ve been playing this game of quotes ever since she was six, but recently, she started to win more than lose. His bright girl.

“I don’t know.’’ – he admits, his eyes trained on Riza’s face. God, she is still so beautiful. Her skin is clammy from sweat, lips half-opened and cheeks hollow and she remains the only woman he has ever had eyes for. – ‘’Who wrote it?’’

‘’Mom said it.’’

Eli’s voice is heavy and, when he takes a look at her, he realizes she’s on the verge of tears.

“She did?’’

‘’Yeah. She also said I should cherish the light as soon as it lasts. But - papa, this is - so hard.’’ – his daughter lowers her head, her hair falling down and obscuring her face from him, but he can still hear her choked sobs. Her shoulders are shaking. She hasn’t called him ‘’papa’ since Sara was born.

She does not deserve this, crosses his mind. Maybe it’s my punishment for all the things I did, but she’s innocent. She’s good. She does not deserve this.

He wonders what he can say to her to make it easier for her and finds himself empty-handed and terrified. So he settles for the only thing he can say.

‘’I know, baby. I know.’’

He holds out his free hand and she takes it. Her grip is strong and sure, and he thinks, once again when did she grow up, when did it happen? Five minutes ago she used to have two long braids and missing front teeth. Ten minutes ago she used to be a sleeping babe by Riza’s breast, cheeks pink and brows constantly furrowed, as if she was pondering about the universe’s biggest questions. And now she’s here, they’re both here, holding hands in a circle and waiting in silence for the candle to burn out.

‘’She wanted to say goodbye so badly. We had so much time and wasted it all.’’

‘’We did not waste any time, dad. I don’t think you can ever really say goodbye to someone like that.’’

Riza dies before the morning comes, choking on the blood flooding in her lungs and flashing the whites of her eyes in desperate attempt to catch yet another breath. Roy does not cry; instead, he stays solemn and still as a stone, his voice loud and clear, telling her how he remembers when they first met.

“What a life we had, my love. You can go now, rest.”

He can feel his heart beating in his throat.

Eli sobs helplessly, clutching Riza’s hand to her chest.

“I love you mom, I love you, I love you.”

Maybe Eli is right. What more can you say than that? I love you, I will miss you. And Riza already knows all of that, wherever she is.

“You don’t have to be brave anymore, Riza.” - He tells her, every word dipped in honey of years well-lived.

And then there is only silence, uninterrupted, ringing in his ears like a gunshot.

He can swear that his wife last breath was a sigh of relief.

ELIZABETH

Dawn finds Elizabeth curled on the swings in the garden.

She has laid down here after mom died, hours ago; slipped out of the house just when the lights of uncle Jean’s car appeared on the driveway. In part, she wanted to give them all the space to say their goodbyes and didn’t feel like she was needed inside. In another part, she just wanted to be somewhere else for a while.

Nobody told her that death had its own smell.

And nobody told her that her mom’s corpse will still be soft and warm after she passes away. That, if one would not look for it, you could even not notice she wasn’t breathing.

Elizabeth sat on the bed and felt as mom’s hand in hers was growing colder and all she could think of is that it’s still her mom.

And so she fled, her feet wet from the morning dew and sobs still tearing through her body.

She’s not crying now; it feels like she has run out of tears, to be honest.

Somewhere, at the back of her mind, she’s thinking: there are mom’s clothes hanging in the closet. Her shoes put neatly on the shelves by the door. Her favorite mug, the one with chipped rim, on her bedside table. Her favorite perfume, the one in a blue glass bottle, in the bathroom.

What we’re supposed to do with all of that?

What am I supposed to do, when she’s gone?

Now it’s only her and sunrise, light caressing her face like her mom sometimes used to do, when she was tucking her in. She closes her eyes and she can almost see that; moonlight coloring mom’s hair silver and her soft, low voice wishing her goodnight. The smell of her shampoo. The quiet rhythm of her steps on the carpet as she was leaving, the sound of the door shutting close because Elizabeth never wanted the ajar.

Mom used to sing to her when she was sick. Soon you’ll get better. Soon it’ll get better.

Elizabeth pulls her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around them. Maybe she can pretend it’s not real, if only for now. Maybe she can forget that their time has run out.

Maybe she can just – close her eyes and think about her mom, about her face and her voice.

Ooo-ah, you’ll get better soon.

Despite the morning chill, for a moment, all she feels is warmth.

#royai #royai fanfiction #royai au #royai fic #fma #fma:b fanfiction

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enkelimagnus · 4 years

Text

Bewitched

Lilith/Isabelle, Rated E, 2767 words

Witch AU - Witch!Lilith and WitchHunter!Isabelle

Warning: Hate Sex

This is for the "Beware of the Witch" prompt from week 2 of the Shadowhunters Sapphic Ficathon by @shsapphicfics on twitter

Read on AO3

The Witch has been escaping Isabelle for the last five years. She’s seen her only twice, immortal, immovable beauty unchanged from the pictures Isabelle’s journal holds. Isabelle hates her, deeply and irrevocably.

The hem of her skirt gets even muddier than it was before as she dismounts her horse and leads it into the stables of the inn she’s elected to stay at. It’s a village over from the one holding the Witch’s lair, a high tower Isabelle will have to climb in the next couple of days.

She takes care of her horse, grabs her things and walks into the inn. The place is quiet, almost empty, and the man behind the counter eyes Isabelle suspiciously. He had thick brows and dark eyes, and he seems uncomfortable with her appearance.

Isabelle has had to deal with similar reactions before. She wears her skirts pulled up at the front with sturdy buckles, showing her fabric-covered legs up to the knee. Her corset is not as tight as it should be, her shirts often stained, her hair only half-up. She’s also a woman travelling alone.

“Do you have a room?” She asks, barely saying hello. She guesses any sort of politeness won’t be appreciated anyway.

The man grabs a key and slides it over. “7 silvers a night. 10 for food, dinner and breakfast.”

“Stable included?” She asks, and the man nods reluctantly.

Isabelle grabs her purse pouch from her belt and takes 10 silver coins out of it, sliding it over to him, in exchange for the key.

“I’ll have dinner in my room, Sir,” she adds. The man nods.

She carries her bags up the narrow staircase and into the upstairs corridor, stopping at the red door, the same color as the fabric tag on the key. She slides it in, unlocks it and walks into the room she’s rented for the night.

The bed is narrow, covered with a beige-colored fabric and with a knitted blanket at the foot. There are no pillows, nothing much as far as added comforts go. A white basin and a white pitcher with a light blue pattern on the rim and a couple of chips in the edge sit in the stool next to the window.

Isabelle puts her bags down and lights the half-melted candle on the bedside table.

She opens the light curtain and peers outside. A young-looking man is running out of the inn and jumping on the back of a horse, starting immediately at a gallop as they disappear into the night outside of the paved yard of the inn.

Isabelle sighs and turns away from the window. She sits on the bed, the tiredness of her travels suddenly weighing on her. She’s been on the road for the past five years, leaving her home and her family behind, in the pursuit of killing the Witch.

Her older brother Alexander has probably married and fathered a child by now. He’s taken over the affairs of their father, probably. With hope, the parents are dead, and their youngest sibling Maxwell is studying well. Isabelle misses them.

She knows what she gave up when she left. She was betrothed to a man she didn’t actually hate, and who was almost her age. She had her siblings, her friends, her life. But the Witch didn’t give her a choice. The Witch came in the night of Alexander’s birth day, taking the life of Isabelle’s uncle, aunt and cousins, as well as the life of Aline, Isabelle’s best friend and sister of heart.

It was punishment, of course. When she started hunting the witches around their home, Isabelle knew that she would maybe suffer from one of the creatures avenging their dead. It’s now her turn to get revenge, and she’s not going to stop until the witch lays dead in front of her.

She can imagine that the witch herself holds similar thoughts towards her.

Isabelle slides out of her muddy overskirt, and changes it for one that she’s only worn inside, and that does not have visible blood stains. It’s dark red, a bit heavier than the travel overskirt she wears on horseback, and the leather buckles that hold the front of it up are replaced by ribbons. She ties the ribbons up, revealing the thick stockings she wears up to her thighs for travel. She should get a new pair, she thinks.

She looks at herself in the reflection of the window. Her hair is dark and messier than appropriate, her eyes are dark and have circles of tiredness around their sockets, and her skin is a little paler than usual.

Her stomach rumbles but she doesn’t pay it any mind. She takes her journal, the one given to her as heirloom from her uncle, and she flips through the pages quietly, reading the descriptions of the creatures he met throughout his hunting life.

Eventually, she falls asleep on her bed, the journal open on her lap.

She might have slept through the night, but a knock at the door wakes her up later. She doesn’t know how much time has passed. She’s hungry, for sure. She stands up and opens the door.

A woman holds the tray of food and walks into her room, careful and quiet. She’s desirable. Isabelle has known women on the road, and this one makes her want to ask her to stay and eat with her, and then spend the night, warming each other and the bed.

Her face is beautiful, her hair dark like a raven’s feathers, a skin pale, her lips red. Her eyes are a bit wide set, her nose somewhat aquiline, and the night’s darkness wraps around her like a shroud. Isabelle realizes who she is when the tray is set on the bedside table.

She slides a knife tempered in the water of a witch hazel out of her sleeve and lunges forward. The Witch is too fast. She turns, dodges her attack and pushes her backwards.

The witch’s hand wraps around Isabelle’s throat as her back hits the wall.

“I know who you are,” Isabelle hisses, struggling against the woman’s grip. She didn’t think a witch was this strong, but there is no kind of power that escapes them. She probably put a spell on herself to make her body stronger.

“Are you sure?” The witch replies. “You came into my country, looking so unusual that my people knew to alert me.”

The young man with the horse, Isabelle remembers. He’d gone to warn the witch of her arrival.

“You’re young and reckless,” the witch continues, lips red like blood and eyes dark in anger. “And a killer.”

“I ask that you take the spells off of the good people of this town,” Isabelle exclaims in reply, struggling still against the woman who holds her against the wall. “Release their innocent souls!”

The witch freezes for a moment, looking at her. “Naive girl,” she replies. “None of these people are bewitched. They obey me because I keep them safe from the harsh winters, keep their crops thriving and their women from dying from childbirth.”

Isabelle struggles more, her nails digging into the witch’s arm. “Lies!”

The witch is a monster, a creature of darkness. She killed Aline and Maxwell, Isabelle’s uncle and she has been terrorizing the country for centuries, killing and sacrificing to dark forces. These people cannot follow her in thankfulness. They must be enslaved.

Isabelle knows why it’s easy for the witch to enslave commonfolk. The witch is gorgeous, like a goddess. Her eyes make Isabelle melt, in a way she hates. She hates her even more now that the witch holds her by the neck, chokes her and makes heat pull in her gut.

The witch’s corset doesn’t seem tight but the curve of her breasts press against it. It’s black, like a widow’s dress, like the woman’s hair, and like her eyes. It makes her breasts look even whiter in the low light.

“You will not bewitch me, dark creature!” Isabelle hisses again, taking her attention away from the woman’s breasts, and back to her face.

The witch smirks. “I’m not trying.” She seems to be inching closer and closer.

“I will kill you,” Isabelle promises, but her voice is weaker. The witch is watching her, closing in on her.

“I won’t let you,” the witch replies, and she’s so close now that Isabelle can feel her breath against her lips.

Isabelle opens her mouth to reply but the witch kisses her. It’s a hard, deep kiss with her tongue thrust into Isabelle’s mouth without asking for any sort of permission. The witch’s hand is still around her throat, and it tightens as she kisses her, until Isabelle feels dizzy, and hot. She can feel wetness in her groin as the witch loves back, loosens her hand and watches her.

“What is your name?” Isabelle sputters, voice hoarser than she expects. “I only know you as the Witch.”

The witch smirks. “Lilith.”

Isabelle nods. “You will not enslave me, Lilith.”

Lilith rolls her eyes obviously. Her hand slip from Isabelle’s throat to the back of her neck, into her messy dark curls, and she kisses her again. Isabelle kisses back, wanton.

Isabelle tries to push her, either away or to the bed, indiscriminately, but fails. The witch kisses like the men in Isabelle’s fantasies and in the books she’s read, smuggled in by other friends desiring the arousing tales of erotic novels.

Lilith switches them over and pushes her back slightly towards the bed. Isabelle takes a few steps back and tumbles back, her back hitting the mattress. The witch kneels onto the bed, over her, Isabelle’s legs falling wide open for the woman to settle in between them.

She stops kissing her, mouth travelling down to Isabelle’s cleavage, teeth sinking lightly into flesh. It stings, in the best possible way, and Isabelle’s nails dig into Lilith’s arms again. She’s still going to kill her, and she still hates her, but she hasn’t slept with anyone in weeks, and she’s not going to stop this now with a dagger to the witch’s chest. She’ll do that when she’s come.

Lilith pushes her skirts up until she can see the flesh of her upper thighs and the white of her underpants. She rips at the clothing eagerly. Something that isn’t a hand pushes Isabelle down. It’s a great force that takes over and keeps her upper body against the mattress as Lilith’s tongue suddenly licks a trail of pleasure over her labia.

Isabelle moans. She can’t see anything but her skirts, she can’t move except for moaning, and Lilith is fast and skilled. She sucks at Isabelle’s clit, licks in circles at her folds and Isabelle feels like losing her mind.

She tries to grind into Lilith’s mouth but the witch’s magic - or at least Isabelle thinks it’s her magic - is keeping her down and immobile. It’s good, great even. Her tongue thrusts inside Isabelle’s vagina over and over, and she’s positively tongue-fucking her, nosing and nibbling at her clit from time to time.

“I’m…” Isabelle has no time to tell her anything more.

Lilith moves away, stopping all touch in Isabelle’s folds and she feels like she’s losing her mind. The witch sits up and she is smirking as Isabelle tries her best to writhe and get herself off.

“You… fucking…”

Lilith laughs. It’s half happy and half cruel and Isabelle groans in frustration. Her legs are wide open, she knows she’s wet and glistening, her skirts are pushed up over her torso in an obscene tableau. She wants more. No. She needs more.

“Please,” Isabelle groans, and Lilith’s smirk becomes victorious.

She shifts, looks at Isabelle’s spread out and aroused body and hums. “Have you been penetrated before?” She asks.

Isabelle nods. She’s not the proudest of her deliances with men. Women are alright, but men… Her strict lady-like education stills holds onto her, when it comes to men.

Lilith smiles and pushes two fingers firmly inside of Isabelle. Isabelle moans, but it’s short-lived. The witch takes the fingers away as soon as they are in completely. She shifts again and reaches up. She pushes her wet fingers to Isabelle’s lips.

“Open,” she orders. Isabelle complies.

She doesn’t know how to describe the taste of her own juices. She feels dirty, with those two fingers into her mouth, her tongue lapping at them and the moan that’s coming out from her throat.

Lilith settles between her legs, and pushes her hips towards her. Isabelle feels something that is not a finger nudge between her legs.

“What-” She starts, panicking.

Lilith shakes her head. “Sssh. It’s a fake organ,” she explains. “Shaped and made to replicate a man’s anatomy.”

Isabelle swallows. She’s never been taken by a woman that way, with something that wasn’t a tongue or fingers. She relaxes. She feels the magic that kept her from moving alleviate, and she spreads her legs as far as she can, to allow for the fake penis.

Lilith looks down at her as she guides her tool into her. It’s big and hard, sliding into her and opening her. The woman is slow, careful, and Isabelle’s breath is fast and shallow. She moans despite herself, reaching to hold the witch closer as she gets deeper and deeper in.

She stills when she reaches the hilt, and Isabelle quivers. The dark hair of the woman falls around her face, and she looks down at Isabelle with a smile. The skirts are bunched up and Lilith guides one of Isabelle’s legs to close over her hip, pressing her toy deeper in.

She starts moving then. The thrusts are slow but rhythmic, seemingly burying the toy deeper in with every thrust.

“Lilith!” Isabelle calls out, and the woman takes it as an invitation to do more.

She picks up the pace, the cock pistoning in and out of Isabelle. Isabelle’s moans dissolve in an almost constant cry, her nails digging into the beautiful pale flesh of the witch as her pussy quiver around the toy. It’s incredibly alike her experiences with men before, and the woman has no mercy.

Lilith’s breasts bounce into her corset and Isabelle stares too much, drool forming from her open lips and her release building under her skin. The witch is ruthless in her thrusting, her eyes dark with pleasure and lust and Isabelle can’t help the overwhelming pleasure that stumbles into her.

“I- I hate you,” she forces out of her mouth in between pleasurable thrusts and Lilith’s smirk is so satisfied that Isabelle almost orgams right there.

Lilith looks down at her. “I know you do, hunter. But you’re loving every moment of this,” she taunts.

Isabelle groans loudly, pleasure and frustrating and hatred mixing up. She’s so close to orgasm she can feel her pussy tighten around the toy penetrating her, over and over.

“I will kill you,” she promises again.

“I will take you again before you even think of stabbing me with your dagger,” Lilith replies. “You will always remember the witch who pleasured you like no being ever could. You will find a husband you love and you will think of me when he tries to make you pregnant,” she whispers and kisses Isabelle again.

Isabelle orgasms as Lilith bites down on her lower lip. Her scream of pleasure is muffled by Lilith’s lips on hers. It’s the best release she’s ever had and she feels her body seize, her back arch, and her pussy tighten.

Lilith groans her release not long after. The mechanics of her getting off are unknown to Isabelle. All she knows is that the cock inside of her stills, buried deep, and the woman looks overcome with pleasure.

She slides out of her a few minutes later. When she moves back, the toy has disappeared.

Isabelle stumbles for the dagger, and the witch gets away from the bed. It’s like Isabelle is clumsy, boneless, unable to properly get the knife and kill the person she needs to kill. It’s infuriating.

The witch is fast and graceful on her feet, and it’s as if nothing happened and she didn’t orgasm a few minutes before. Isabelle’s feet still shake. The door slams shut behind the witch before she can get off of the bed.

Isabelle gives up. She closes her legs again, slowly. Her groin is sensitive and she is exhausted.

She manages to eat some of the now cold food and take off her clothes before falling into bed, and falling in a deep sleep.

The witch escapes.

#lilith x isabelle #lilith x izzy #isabelle lightwood #lilith #lilizzy #fic #shadowhunters #tmi #shsapphicficathon

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hiddleloki · 6 years

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Masterpost of Dadneto and Quickson fics

Because let’s be real, we all need them. They fill my heart with warmth and joy while the movies continue to tear it apart. UPDATED AS OF 19TH JULY (the newest/latest included fanfics are at the bottom of the post)

Somewhere Like Bolivia by iberiandoctor (jehane), Words: 8175 (COMPLETE) After Cairo, after the school is rebuilt, Erik has every reason to leave. Charles and Peter think about giving him a reason to stay.

To Boldly Dress (Like Those Who Might Have Gone Before) by iberiandoctor (jehane) (COMPLETE) Erik doesn’t do Halloween costumes. Peter and Charles try to change his mind.

Humanity by palmtreedragons, Words: 3676 (COMPLETE) Peter and his father were as different as two people could possibly be. But, heck, they're still family, and family sticks together, or whatever. Spans pre-FC to post-XMA

Immediate Family by Glass Shoe, Words: 175534 (COMPLETE) This is the story of how Peter Maximoff loses his mother, reconnects with his father, and finds something that he didn't know he'd lost in the first place.

That’s My Boy by oneiromancer242, Words: 1113 (COMPLETE) Erik is terribly proud of his son - as Charles and Raven are about to find out.

Peter Maximoff: a Loving Son Who Couldn’t Have Brought Up That Fact Sooner by Blueci1234, Words: 4848 (COMPLETE) Peter was a tiny bit angry that he was going to die before telling Magneto that the all powerful ex-horseman-of-the-Apocalypse-and-a-giant-frienemy-slash-love-interest-of-Charles-Xavier named Erik Lehnsherr contributed as a sperm donor (not really) to the birth of the great-not-so-great Quicksilver circa 1960 c.e., the time of mutants.

Erik Lehnsherr and His Rotten Luck with His Children by Blueci1234, Words: 2208 (COMPLETE) - SEQUEL TO PETER MAXIMOFF: A LOVING SON WHO COULDN’T HAVE BROUGHT UP THAT FACT SOONER What do you do when your children die?

Vati by naasad, Words: 254 (COMPLETE) Erik Lehnsherr is a man of many names.

A Million And One by Sam the Wise, Words: 1186 (COMPLETE) Peter tells Erik the truth, and that changes things.

Best - Laid Plans by rebecca-in-blue, Words: 2046 (COMPLETE) "Erik recognizes him immediately: the silver-haired mutant boy who broke him out of prison." My take on Erik, Mystique, and Peter post-Days of Future Past.

Peter, I Am Your Father by Queen_Valkyrie, Words: 5576 (COMPLETE) Peter Maximoff knows he should tell Magneto, big-bad-but-not-that-bad-all-the-time-I-can-sense-there-is-good-in-him-Charles-always-insists-terrorist-guy, that he's Peter's father. But it's painfully difficult to bring himself to do so.

A Knife In The Gut by Queen_Valkyrie, Words: 3081 (COMPLETE) - sequel to Peter, I Am Your Father "Every smile Peter warily offered him, every joke made at his expense, every midnight conversation pained him like a knife twisting in his gut." After Erik finds out the truth about the young man who once helped break him out of the Pentagon, he tries to connect with his son. Things don't exactly go according to plan.

That Whole Father/Son Thing by mysterytour, Words: 3054 (COMPLETE) Part of Erik doesn’t wasn’t to climb out of the well of depression and live in the world without Nina and Magda. How can he smile or laugh again when they can never smile or laugh ever again? He feels like ash caught in the chimney stacks. Everything is exhausting. Peter and Erik bond over food. Erik and Jean bond over tomato plants. Jean and Peter bond over prog rock.

Bad With Names by Cyane, Words:1469 (COMPLETE) Erik sighed. "Pietro-"He froze. Jesus Christ, did he just call him Pietro?!

The Day will Dawn by Cyane, Words: 11227 (COMPLETE) Four times someone else was there for Peter, and the one time Erik was.

We Live in a Beautiful World by Cyane, Words: 8405 (COMPLETE) His heart was screaming at him, telling him that he couldn't save all those people. He couldn't save his precious Nina, he couldn't save his lovely wife. He couldn't save any of them- he didn't. He lost that chance. What remained of his family was dead. Everyone. But he had the chance to save Peter.

The Five Times Peter Called Him Dad, And The One Time He Meant It by thecattydddy, Words: 5183 (COMPLETE) Peter Maximoff has known that Erik is his dad for a while now, but knowing something and admitting something are two very different thing.Classic Exactly What It Says on the Tin.

Silver by thecattydddy, Words: 1609 (COMPLETE) Peter's about to die and as he stares up into the face of death, he can't help but wish they had been wrong about his father. That they had just misunderstood, but it was becoming apparent by every second ticking by that they had been right. Erik Lehnsherr - Magneto - was nothing more than a monster.

Woodstock 83 by blarfkey, Words: 7373 (COMPLETE) Peter's mouth runs just about as fast as his legs. No secret is safe from him! Except his own, apparently. The Universe hands him opportunities to confess on a silver platter and Peter just cannot freaking spit it out.

The Sun Will Shine When Morning Comes by blarfkey, Words: 5352 (COMPLETE) - SEQUEL TO WOODSTOCK 83 If Erik and Peter were a Venn diagram, their circles would not intersect. Erik thanks God every day for it. Peter has no temper. He has no rage, no tragedy. He is light where Erik is a shadow. Right now he is moaning piteously on the couch because his medicine has worn off and his headache has returned. “I’m dying,” Peter croaks. “Dad, I’m dying. I’m not gonna make it. I’m going to the spirit in the sky.” Erik rolls his eyes. There is a certain twisting in his gut, both thrilling and painful every time Peter calls him “dad.” It snags like a hook.

Jail Break by blarfkey, Words: Words:5717 (COMPLETE) It's totally normal in Suburban America for the dad to pick up his rebellious teenager from jail, right? Even when it's the Pentagon instead of the local police station, and your dad is a Mutant Supremacist Assassin and America's Most Wanted who didn't post bail so much as murdered all the guards? Whatever. Peter will take what he can get at this point, even if it means the most painfully awkward road trip in the history of the universe.

Two Lonely Souls In A Fish Bowl by blarfkey, Words: 14033 (COMPLETE) - SEQUEL TO JAIL BREAK There are tons of fun activities in Peter’s new life at Westchester. You know, like the never ending cleaning and dusting of all four floors of that gigantic mansion, trying to arrange Charles’ old clothes into outfits that wouldn’t get Peter’s ass kicked in a theoretical high school, getting home-schooled by a genius telepath who always knows when Peter cheats, and Peter’s favorite: midnight visits from his crazy terrorist father who may not be as awful or crazy as Peter thought.

Clowns to the Left of Me, Jokers to the Right by blarfkey, Words: 15735 (COMPLETE) - SEQUEL TO JAIL BREAK & TWO LONELY SOULS IN A FISH BOWL “Look man,” Peter says, “you don’t wanna fuck with me, ‘kay? My – my dad’s gonna find me, he’s gonna kick your ass. He’ll kill everyone in the building. He’s fuckin’ nuts.” The Man smirks. “Aren’t you a little old to be depending on your old man to save you?” Before Peter can give a witty retort, The Man pats his cheek and leaves. No one is going to come for him. He is going to die here. Alone.

Shine On You Crazy Diamon by blarfkey, Words: 24335 (COMPLETE) - SEQUEL TO JAIL BREAK & TWO LONELY SOULS IN A FISH BOWL & CLOWNS TO THE LEFT OF ME, JOKERS TO THE RIGHT Five years later, Peter has gotten his college degree and settled into life as a P.E. teacher at Charles' school. He's got his whole routine mapped out: combat training with Erik and Raven in the mornings, running the Baby Mutants ragged on the field until they start planning his assassination in the afternoons, mixed in with calling Hank every variation of "nerd" American slang can provide and staring at Raven's butt when she's too busy to kick him in the throat. After all the crazy shit he's had to go through, he finds comfort in this new-found stability, even if it means he's officially a Boring Adult who shops for prunes and wheat bread. And then Wanda blows up a car.

Luke, I am your father! by PalauMaggot, Words: 2365 (COMPLETE) Okay seriously. He could have done so much better than that. Facing off with his father who gave him the best line to come clean about being related to him and he goes and says, ‘I’m here for family too.’ Yeah it’s serious and the truth and vague and everything else but come on. The guy had his wife and only child (that he knew about) killed in front of him. So he guessed that springing the whole “You have a son!” on him during the ending of the world probably would have done more harm than good. Erik might have thought they were trying to manipulate him or something. OR: How Peter tells Erik that he's sort of his long lost son.

Like Father, Like Son by leahx, Words: 4191 (COMPLETE) Peter Maximoff might not have his father's name, but evidently, he has more than enough of the infamous Lehnsherr genes, including the ones that will one day be responsible for Charles' inevitable breakdown. Or the time, after the Apocalypse, when Peter screws up and accidentally ups the population of Lehnsherr/Maximoff-ville to plus one. And Charles isn't amused.

7 Tries by krispool, Words: 741 (COMPLETE) The 7 or so tries it takes Peter to talk to his father.

And from the ashes of their world, we’ll build a better one by AryYuna, Words: 25946 (COMPLETE) “She’d never really allowed herself to think about coming back to Westchester, lest she’d end up abandoning everything in exchange for the safety of that place. The mission was too important, more than her comfort, more than everything. Safety was for the others, for the dreamers like Charles, for the kids she rescued, but someone had to live in the real world so that others could hide – her brother, Erik, Hank.” Apocalypse has destroyed everything, but they can repair it. Together.

Late Again by Bravo_48, Words: 70931 (COMPLETE) The "Apocalypse Incident" has taken its toll on Erik Lehnsherr as the aftermath of the battle has left him hollow and lost on what to do with his life. He's been from a wanted terrorist to playing the role of a henchmen to a god, but nothing felt as important to him as being a father, but even that ended with tragedy. Bless Charles' heart of gold for helping him piece himself together, but he still feels so lost........ Peter Maximoff has always lived for the thrill (and speed) of life, but that doesn't mean he can always handle it. It took him a week for his brain to register that "Magneto" was his father and a month to fully accept it. The guy didn't seem so bad. Without Erik, Peter would have never found out how to break into highly secured prisons or how great it is to be an X-Men! Too bad Erik doesn't know how much of an impact he created in Peter's life... Funny part is that even with his ludicrous speed, Peter always seems too late to tell him so. (And always picks the worst times to try.) Especially when his life decides to turn upside-down in the process.

It’s Not So Black And White by Nishloo, Words: 6913 (STILL UPDATING) Peter Maximoff is an already complicated kid - boy turned x-men, a plethora of night terrors, and the inability to look his father in the eyes. When can a guy get a break? or Peter is an angsty teen with some major PTSD who can't tell Erik he's his son.

Grace Under Pressure by IreneADonovan, Words: 604 (COMPLETE) Father- son bonding over good music and bad beer. Set at least a year after Apocalypse.(The album Peter's listening to came out in September of 1984.) Peter has finally told Erik he's his dad, and Erik has returned to the mansion to see him.

Better Men and Better Beer by IreneADonovan, Words: 451 (COMPLETE) - sequel to Grace Under Pressure Bonding, act two.

Power Windows (aka The Road Trip) by IreneADonovan, Words: 226 (COMPLETE) - Sequel to Grace Under Pressure & Better Men and Better Beer Just a little set-up scene for the road trip...

Manhattan Project by IreneADonovan, Words: 1548 (COMPLETE) - Sequel to Power Windows Erik and Peter make their first stop of the road trip in Hell's Kitchen...

Grand Designs by IreneADonovan, Words: 507 (COMPLETE) - Sequel to Power Windows & Manhattan Project Erik and Peter share a moment on the road...

Emotion Detector by IreneADonovan, Words: 566 (COMPLETE) - Sequel to Power Windows & Manhattan Project & Grand Designs A little more father/son interaction, post-XMA...

Peter is Going To Tell Erik, Really...by ChasingAfterMidnight, Words: 4702 (COMPLETE) Peter thinks the secret of his parentage is safe, until Charles announces that Erik is going to be living at the mansion from now on. How long can Peter keep Erik from knowing? Just until the time is right... He'll definitely tell him. Totally.

Glowing Embers by Magnolie, Words: 5719 (COMPLETE) How do we move on from a shattered life? How do we rebuild bonds, trust and friendship? How do we go on, carrying those we have lost with us? There is no one right answer to these questions, but returning to those we love, endowing them with small acts of kindness and finding ways to fit in again is. Picks up right after the end of X-Men: Apocalypse and follows Erik, Charles, and the rest of their new-found family as fathers and sons grow closer and feelings that have long been forgotten slowly begin to bloom again.

Bonding by ontaunt, Words: 710 (COMPLETE) Peter finally tells Erik.

Let Yourself Fall Ill by valancysnaith, Words: 23763 (COMPLETE) Narrative blank spaces/missing scenes post-XMA. Erik comes down from a metal-high, gardens. Jubilee deserved better. Raven drinks too much, spills secrets. PSYLOCKE.

Hanging in the Stars by porcelainsimplicity, Words: 49769 (COMPLETE) note: if you want a good father/son bonding moments, along with the revelation, this one’s for you As En Sabah Nur faded from existence, Erik slowly floated down until his feet hit the ground and he could finally let go.

What Would You Have Me Do? by WhatTheWentz, Words: 860 (COMPLETE)

Peter Has Daddy Issues by Forever_A_Thief, Words: 10807 (COMPLETE) X-Men Days of Future Past through Peter Maximoff's eyes. Peter doesn't know who his dad is, but when guys show up talking about a guy who can control metal, he knows he has to check it out. But Peter definitely has some issues with the guy that turns out to be his dad...

Things That Travel Faster Than the Truth by d__aia, Words: 1597 (COMPLETE) Elizabeth meets Erik’s son.

You ARE the Father by Justbrowsing, Words: 862 (COMPLETE) Erik learns that Peter is his son.

whatever you call it, whoever you are, you need one by murdershewrote, Words: 442 (COMPLETE) That day in Cairo, Peter can’t bring himself to introduce himself to his father, so instead he tells Magneto about his daughter.

Timestretch (Close Your Eyes And Count To (Mach) 5) by Marvelite5Ever, Words: 68838 (COMPLETE) Time stretches, reality alters, and Peter tries to tell Erik that they're related.

Something Rather Wonderful by GinnyGinger, Words: 2585 (COMPLETE) "So you'll rather go your whole life wondering?" Erik asked and damn if that wasn't a question Peter had asked himself enough already. Peter Maximoff has for months been trying to work up the courage to tell Erik the truth. Maybe today is the day.

Here For My Family (here for you) by PotterheadAvengerDemigod, words: 1364 (COMPLETE) “I’m your son!” Peter squeaks out. “Don’t kill me!”

I Miss You, I Miss You, I Miss You More by afrocurl, Words: 2108 (COMPLETE) It's only so awkward to divulge a big secret in the middle of other emotional trauma, but that's the only option Peter sees right now.

Peter’s ‘Terrible but Some Good Kind of Comes Out of it’ Day by SuperAwesomePandaKitty, Words: 20164 (COMPLETE) Set two weeks after X-Men Apocalypse, Peter's leg has finally healed. The Professor has a mission this evening but Hank doesn't want peter to go on any missions just yet as he still wants Peter to take it easy for at least a week so he's on babysitting duty. Wanda has no powers in this one, there's also a ten year age gap between them.

Peter’s Stepdad by nzeedee, Words: 30043 (COMPLETE) Peter takes his time to observe and learn more about Erik as he works up the courage to make a family connection. Soon he realizes that Charles is a valuable asset in Erik's life and they may come as a unified pair.

A Million Little Gods Causing Rainstorms by Inkjade, Words: 25704 (COMPLETE) Charles rolls forward for another few feet, looks back. “I wouldn’t be asking if I had better options,” he says quietly. Then he waits. He doesn’t need to say more: the weight of all that Erik owes him is pressing against the very air. “Verdammt,” Erik mutters, but follows.

Birthday Gift by still_lycoris, Words: 1109 (COMPLETE) Peter doesn't mind if Erik doesn't come to his birthday party. Honest.

Sweet Dreams (aren’t made of what you’d think) by rimle, Words: 32484 (MISSING LAST CHAPTER) Charles convinces Erik to stay and train the x-men. He soon finds himself falling for his old friend. Meanwhile, Peter is trying to spend more time with his father, struggling to tell him the truth about his lineage. Erik misunderstands the boy's attention as somethings else, and eventually turns to Charles for help.

Little Monster by Quicker Than Silver, Words: 48387 (COMPLETE) When Peter goes missing his mother contacts Charles who in turn contacts Erik in the hopes of convincing his friend to carry out a rescue. What happens however when Peter's true parentage comes to light? How will the other mutants, especially Erik, react to the news? Set after XM-DOFP

Patience by RobineBlack, Words: 1450 (COMPLETE) It was a well-known fact that Peter Maximoff didn’t do patience. Or slow. But he knew that when he would tell Erik that he had another family, patience would definitely be needed.

Holiday Dadneto by Queen_Valkyrie, Words: 4589 (COMPLETE) Through Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas, Peter and Erik get to know each other a little better and build their relationship as father and son.

Crystal Ball by oneiromancer242, Words: 1131 (COMPLETE) Magda gives Erik something very precious to take care of.

Daddy Issues by glanmire, Words: 7170, (COMPLETE) I have a son," Erik says from the rubble. He truly is the master of dramatic entrances. or, That time Erik got wasted and crashed into the side of the mansion.

Daddy Killed The President by mokonahapuuuuuu, Words: 937 (COMPLETE) It's not everyday the guy who shot the president's your dad.

Running Time by mokonahapuuuuuu, Words: 460 (COMPLETE) Time was running out. Well, more for Peter than for him...

Fathers, Sons and Brothers by thefuzzyone123, Words: 105619 (COMPLETE) Dadneto fic! Erik aka Magneto discovers he is a father. Set a year on from X-men: first class. Can Erik rescue his son from imprisonment before it's too late?

Get him! by oneiromancer242, Words: 2704 (COMPLETE) Mistakes can be very destructive when made in a houseful of superpowered kids, and sometimes, everyone finds that out the hard way. Pure silliness.

Premature Grays by monkeygirl77, Words: 4557 (COMPLETE) Having Peter as your son is no easy task. However, Erik finds that he would never trade it for anything in the world, even if the boy insists on giving him grays before the age of 40. Or, the many moments of Erik and Peter; where they are most certainly Father and Son.

Sick Day by oneiromancer242, Words: 6666 (COMPLETE) We all get sick, some of us needing a little more TLC than others. Lucky that Peter has his devoted Dadneto to look after him.

Sins of the Father by movieholic, Words: 11425 (COMPLETE) In which Erik Lehnsherr learns that he is, in fact, the father.

Strangers by oneiromancer292, Words: 24298 (STILL UPDATING) Erik isn't usually the first to figure things out - but just for once, when a boy comes to rescue him from the Pentagon, he gets there first. Slight AU from a reader prompt, plenty of Dadneto and Teen!Peter.

Tested by oneiromancer292, Words: 1645 (COMPLETE) Erik doesn't think his son is ready for combat. The only way to find out is to try out his moves in the training room himself. Short, not entirely serious Dadneto one-shot for a reader prompt.

The Beginning Of Something Familiar by HawkDramione, Words: 10705 (COMPLETE) Post Apocalypse. Quicksilver paid Magneto a quick visit before he left, struggling to save his relationship with his father and to fix his troublesome family.

Best I can by oneiromancer292, Words: 1643 (COMPLETE) There's nothing worse than being by yourself and feeling left out on a special day. Erik tries to make it right.

Protection by Neocolai, Words: 389 (COMPLETE) Thoughts on what might have been running through Erik's mind during the scene with En Sabah Nur and Quicksilver.

Broken Wing by Neocolai, Words: 1973 (COMPLETE) In the aftermath, Erik tends to the wounded and Peter almost confesses. (Part 2 in the Protection series)

Troublesome Patiens by Neocolai, Words: 894 (COMPLETE) Peter doesn't take well to lying in bed all day. Magneto accidentally helps. (Part 3 in the Protection series)

Stay by Neocolai, Words: 652 (COMPLETE) Peter doesn't want him to go. Erik doesn't have time to argue. (Part 4 in the Protection series)

Called Back by Neocolai, Words: 1640 (COMPLETE) Magneto had no intention of returning to the academy. Plans change. (Part 5 in the Protection Series)

Strike Out by Neocolai, Words: 463 (COMPLETE) Erik tries to appreciate Peter's effort. He really does. Some kids just can't take constructive criticism. (Part 6 in the Protection Series)

Oblivious by Neocolai, Words: 383 (COMPLETE) Erik still doesn't get it. (7th in the Protection Series)

Little Misfits by Neocolai, Words: 1314 (COMPLETE) Charles finally intervenes. (8th in the Protection Series)

Safe by Neocolai, Words: 1612 (COMPLETE) Erik checks up on his newest charge. (9th in the Protection Series)

Little Lost Bird by Neocolai, Words 931 (COMPLETE) Peter wants to know about his little sister. (10th in the Protection Series)

Newspapers and the Uses Thereof by Neocolai, Words: 783 (COMPLETE) Erik takes up the role of father. Peter is not happy. (11th in the Protection Series)

Differences by Neocolai, Words: 1492 (COMPLETE) Peter is impatient. So is Erik. (12th in the Protection Series)

Little Genius by Neocolai, Words: 2463 (COMPLETE) Peter does the math. Literally. (13th in the Protection Series)

Jaded by Neocolai, Words: 7414 (COMPLETE) Peter discovers the memorials for those killed in the Apocalypse, and Charles is forced to mediate between two self-righteous parents. (14th in the Protection Series)

Family DIscussions by Neocolai, Words: 1541 (COMPLETE) Erik plays catch and remains oblivious. (15th in the Protection Series)

Torn From The Nest by Neocolai, Words: 6570 (COMPLETE) Peter has a no good horrible really bad day. Good thing Magneto's looking for him. (16th in the Protection Series)

Welcome to Mutant High by Neocolai, Words: 950 (COMPLETE) Charles thinks Erik should introduce his son to the newest member of the team. Erik wants to trip up his wheelchair. (17th in the Protection Series)

You Have More Family Than You Know by Natileroxs, Words: 624 (COMPLETE) “Oh, my, god, Peter!” She hissed. “Just tell him!” X-men Apocalypse Canon Divergence because Peter should have told Erik the truth. Or at least, someone should've.

Tel Aviv by Glass_Shoe, Words: 5760 (COMPLETE) Peter leaves Cairo in shock, not because he's surprised that the incredible clusterfuck of a rescue operation cooked up by Raven and Hank and the rest of team Prevent World Destruction actually sort of worked, but because he's actually in shock, like, he's shaking and sweaty and pale. You know: shock, because you can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs and you can't save the world without someone getting their knee completely shattered by a bald blue demi-god. A prequel to Immediate Family

Sometimes It Helps To Scream by SunnyMimi, Words: 1733 (COMPLETE) Peter was tired of it. For three years in the same vicious circle. Every day these damned missions against the Brotherhood. He was fed up. So, yes, it was time to scream at Magneto.Or...An overdramatic Peter, who thinks it would be a good idea to yell at his diva father during a fight against him.

How to Spend Time With Family by RockerRema13, Words: 27265 (STILL UPDATING) Erik is having a difficult time accepting that his tragic and cursed life now includes a long lost son. Meanwhile, Peter (his son!) seems to be getting along with everyone else at the mansion.

Sweet Dreams Are Made Of... by talkativefangirl13, Words: 34493 (COMPLETE) Peter didn’t instantly jump into conclusion when he saw Erik from afar, he’s probably having a relaxing swim or a soothing ‘me time’ contemplating about life and his stupid choices while facing down on the water, literally not moving. Nope this guy’s dying. Or where Peter always saves Erik and that one time Erik tries to saves him.

Never Gonna Be Alone (I Knew I Loved You) by Redrink91, Words: 15417, (COMPLETE) In which there is hurting and healing, and many song lyrics, as Charles and Erik move forward together.

Boogie Woogie Woogie by BananasofThorns, Words: 118 (COMPLETE) "I have a song stuck in my head," Peter said, appearing beside Erik. "Wanna hear?"

hold your head up (to prevent whiplash) by zedille, Words: 18981, (COMPLETE) Peter makes it to Poland in time to save his stepmother and sister. Not that he knew they existed. This is the last place Peter expected Magneto to be. No wonder he’d never found him in all his time searching. Why isn’t Magneto out agitating for mutant rights, or trying to kill Reagan on live television, or living it up at a Renaissance Faire with his cape and armor and helmet, or shacking up with women under a false name and having children — Right. Well.

Revealed by Sophie21011995, Words: 3026; (COMPLETE) After the events of "X-Men Apocalypse" Peter finally finds the Courage to tell Erik that he's his son.

The Great Mix-Up by fairyScorpicus and kraefandoms, Words: 2255, (STILL UPDATING) Erik knows Peter is related to him. All the facts are there: they have the same type of colorblindness, they have the same blood type, Erik's got it all figured out. "Charles." Erik says, sitting up in his bed at three in the morning. "I've figured it out about Peter. I've connected the dots." Charles groans, not bothering to open his eyes as he uses his telepathy. "You haven't connected shit." "I've connected them!" Erik protests. "Peter is my nephew." "No."

From the Ground Up and the Foundations Down by cjr2, Words: 21853, (COMPLETE) While rebuilding the mansion, Erik realizes he's just starting to come to terms with the guilt of having been the one to put Charles in that chair. He's also just starting to come to terms with the fact that something about Charles in a wheelchair is the sexiest thing he's ever seen.

better off without by olivemartini, words: 1743, (COMPLETE) If Erik had thought what his long lost son would look like, he probably wouldn't have thought that they would look like this. Or that they would have a kleptomaniac streak a mile wide. Or that his son's best friend would be blue, and with a tail. But then again, children very rarely match what their parents intend them to be. Erik doesn't think that Peter is overly impressed with the dad he had been dealt, either, so maybe they're even. ~or~the one where Peter finds Erik leaving the academy and stops him by telling him that he's his son

Insult to Injury ft. Dadneto (Peter Maximoff - X-Men) by whumptasticwednesday, Words: 6299 (COMPLETE) If there’s anything Peter Maximoff knew in this moment, it was that not being able to do the one thing your body was genetically enhanced to do, sucked. A lot.

What'd Ya Do? by fairyScorpicus, words: 22688, (STILL UPDATING) Peter was a loser, but losers couldn't break into the Pentagon so if he could maybe he wasn't a loser. Erik isn't dumb. The boy was clearly his son, and looked so much like Magda it hurt. "They told me you can control metal." says the boy. "You know, my mom knew a guy who could do that." and yeah, Erik believes him. ----- Basically: what-if Erik had more than one braincell and figured out Peter was his son?

5 Times People Found Out Peter Smoked, and One Time Peter Told Someone by Isapunk, Words: 2595, (COMPLETE) Peter may seem like a chill calm and collected mutant and even though he seems alright he isn’t always. *Takes place a year after Apocalypse NO Dark Phoenix spoilers! NOW completely edited*

Five Times Quicksilver Doesn’t Tell Magneto He’s His Son and the One Time He Does by evilauthoroverlords, Words: 11855, (COMPLETE) It's not like Peter doesn't want Erik to know that he's his father. He wants to tell him, really ....Next time.

Hermes, god of...Sweet Dreams & Thieves by Webbtrinsic, Words: 10633, (COMPLETE) In which Erik is a good dad, who'd do anything to bring his brainwashed sixteen year old home. And kill Stryker and the freakish doctor who took advantage of his son along the way.

realisations. by steelatoms, Words: 1550 (COMPLETE) Dark Phoenix sort of Fix-It where I actually give these two their well-deserved storyline.

Running. by NaomiPT, Words: 2079 (COMPLETE) Peter was always running from his problems, granted most of them began with 'Erik' and ended in 'Lehnsherr'. After his encounter with Jean, Peter finds himself avoiding people more, but perhaps all he needs is the person he's been avoiding the most. Or better put: Dadneto! Dadneto! Dadneto!

don't go wasting your emotion by zedille, Words: 2894, (COMPLETE) Peter has a few things he'd like to say. (XMDP crackfic/parody/fixit where Peter shows up in New York to call out Erik & give Jean a pep talk)

Mistakes were made. by Quill18, Words: 1214, (STILL UPDATING) DARK PHOENIX SPOILERS! Kurt and Hank Mcoy bring an injured Pietro to Genosha. Magneto reflects on his son and realizes Pietro is best off staying with him. AU/Slight Fix-It Fic.

The Eagle and the Hummingbird by DigestedHuman, Words: 5851, (COMPLETE) "Let's say they get a really special delivery, not like some dirty feathers or dead worms. From a bird god. That's cool. A really cool bird with rainbow feathers with a colorful basket full of eggs, that would grow up to be another bird, any kind of bird that they couldn't have ever thought of and- maybe a big stinky surprise by a lizard, or a puny little-“ “What has that got to do with anything you want to tell me?” Erik was fully annoyed at this point. Peter was talking to him like a child having the talk about bees and butterflies for the first time, and he didn’t like it. Erik clearly wanted to get over with this quickly .---In which Peter thinks he’s prepared, but Erik is not.

More Family Than You Know by leahx, Words: 11116, (STILL UPDATING) “Hank, where are we going?” “You don’t want to know.” He didn’t mean to sound so harsh, but it was the truth. Had Peter known where Hank was headed before he had boarded the jet, he strongly doubted he would have joined him on this journey. “Why not?” Peter’s alert gaze was fixed on Hank as he waited for his response. Hank sighed, enjoying the last moments of peace. "We're going to Genosha." ...or the fic where Peter, instead of being in a coma for the entire movie, joins Hank on his revenge quest to Genosha, where he's forced to face none other than his father, who may or may not already know the truth about the cheeky speedster.

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diveronarpg · 4 years

Photo

Congratulations, KAT! You’ve been accepted for the role of PUCK. Admin Rosey: There's nothing that thrives more in Verona than chaos and Kat, that's exactly what you brought us - a character that exudes nothing but pure and utter chaos. Your para sample highlights perfectly the best and worst of our beloved Puck and his unapologetic satisfaction in being the best at being the absolute worst. Verona has endured many things but it has yet to endure Puck - and honestly I'm not entirely sure it will. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character

Alias | Kat Age | 24 Preferred Pronouns | She/her Activity Level | I think I’ll be able to get on quite a bit! At least two or three times a week, but likely more! Ya girl dropped a whole job ya YEET Timezone | EST How did you find the rp? | I originally came across it in the lsrpg tag, also I miss y’all :( Current/Past RP Accounts | These are links to inactive past accounts! https://neosy.tumblr.com/ https://grchcmisms.tumblr.com/ https://99gael.tumblr.com/ https://halogenq.tumblr.com/ https://odinbellc.tumblr.com/ ;)

In Character

Character | Puck, Pavel Lam

What drew you to this character? | beautiful chaos and twisted humor, a spring in the step of a child-like demon, all soft face and sharp features. they live life as if there are a lack of consequences, laughing in the face of harbored restrictions and societal rules. they swindle, steal, and slice, color the world with trickery and a wicked grin. they’re absolutely flavorful, chocolate cake with bitter, poison icing, long sticks of candy cane that are licked too sharply pointed.

similar to the likeness of peter pan, of trickster gods, and all devil-may-care figures. he is forever a boy, but parading as a man, selfish and big-headed. i see potential dripping from the deepest of crevices, his heart burrowed in armoured steel, tasteless victory.

what draws me to pavel lam? sweet, sweet chaos fed to me like grapes from adonis himself. let me unleash the beast of my writing in all its absolute, unruly nature. let me shatter glasses of whiskey by chucking them towards my fireplace as i express all the ways he can shred plans like priceless documents. i crave blood-stained teeth and busted knuckles, the dance of a jester as he makes away with all the kings gold. the clanking of chains and countless rings adorning fingers, gluttony and swallowed sanity. dear god, what doesn’t draw me to this character?

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

i. pride he shrugs, his silhouette not at all coy nor a picture of interest, but on the other side of a turned back there are gritted teeth and balled fists. he supposes it’s the curse of a person forced to work for their success, scramble and claw for riches. nothing tears him apart like a lack of respect, ironic and hypocritical from someone who can’t recall the definition of the word most days. he cannot stand being discounted, or ignored, more likely to smile at a drink thrown in his face than a turned back. his pride will eat him alive if he lets it, will consume him whole without mercy, and he cannot let them know how much it bothers him. he keeps secrets and lets blood pool his mouth from having his teeth sunk too harshly into his tongue. he can only clench his jaw so tight before something begins to splinter, a comment or a jest just an inch too far, just a little too close to home and something is bound to snap; an aging dam that still struggles against the weight of its burden.

tread lightly, or beware of the snakes in the long grass.

ii. greed it’s never enough, not all the riches in the world, not the most dangerous task nor highest penthouse. they can’t be sated by grandiose or any price tag, though such things are very well accepted and stolen. he will take all that is offered and more, refusing to reject any task that seems of interest, anything that feels as if others would turn it down out of fear or otherwise. these are the things that get people killed, and still he only laughs, the sight of his own blood lighting mirth and distaste. he feels no pity for himself, no self-preservation active in his mind or body. it’s only a matter of time before he finds himself in a situation that he even his wit and silver tongue cannot get him out of. danger signs do not flash so brightly to him, the dense fog filling the road in a blind search for glory and gore, his fingers grasp in the darkness and he plays it all as a game.

once and awhile, headlights cut through the mist in a warning.

iii. shame at night his muscles twitch and ache in sync with the pain in his chest, stood in his bathroom mirror with smudged glamour and horrid eyes – hurt, and disdain for his hurt. who is this person in the reflection? weak, and caked with dirt, hideous, with weighted skin under dull eyes that look pitifully vengeful? at night he stays out to avoid the man he shares his apartment with, the one who glares at him through the framed glass in his bathroom, the sleepless monster that feels everything he ignores, drunk and full of nightmares so that the pavel who works and the pavel who socializes can laugh and spit and jeer. the man who cowers under sheets and stares at blinking clocks is human, disgustingly so, and he rots and rots until he pulls his arms through decadent sleeves embroidered by gods. he does not cry, but seethes, and then he pulls himself together, all intoxicated and wild, the character, the jester, the mercenary.

he plants his hands on the cold porcelain edges of his sink, locks eyes with the reflection he sees, and laughs as if mad.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | you know me, the more pain, the more suffering, the more gain. bring it y’all.

In Depth

In-Character Para Sample:

he sits in the backseat of a parked stretch hummer with his legs spread in a dramatic fashion, leaned back in his seat with aloof expressions, careless posture. it’s not his car, but he dominates the atmosphere, the perfect center of attention, the other man’s eyes steadily on him, as it should be, as he intends for it to be. silvers drip from him, a newfound love of chains and jewelry, pretty and powerful. he looks unimpressed, perhaps playing his version of coy as he says, “okay, you have me here, now what on earth are you going to do with me?” all sharp teeth and glinting eyes, a modern day dionysus filled with lies and mirth, devilish words with a darkened tone, he leans forward, his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand. pavel smells of fortunes, far from the street rat in rags, far from desperate but perpetually greedy, his grin so sharp it practically glows in the dark, could easily be imagined floating in midair, hovering above the leather seats.

they’re only here to play games, fingers gleaming with rings and itching to touch, to sully, to disrupt.

in instances like this they feel perhaps immortal, catching the light of the car overheads, the glare and tinted windows blocking the blackness of the late night outside. yes, mother, a child not designed but merely thrown together, a sloppy collection of limbs and blood becomes something beautiful, something frightening, so very terrible. a boy who had to struggle for money now carries himself as if he has had it his whole life, so comfortable in luxury, shrugging at expensive things and putting his shoes on the interior of italian leather.

“you know what you’re here for.”

pavel’s lips pull back in a wicked smile. the knife digs into the bottom of his calf in his boot.

it’s all too easy to play a part; pursed lips, crossed arms, sunglasses perched on the end of his nose. he appears petulant, perhaps wanton, poorly postured at a gala. expensive clothes but in an under dressed manner. he caught the targets attention immediately, an old married man with a high price on his head, a chunk of gold hidden in his chest, a new rolex behind his temples, and that’s all he sees now, not blood beneath flesh or rolling veins. if he is inhuman, then so is the man, objects for objective purpose, paid for in cash and carnage, a handsome face with chilling features.

he whispers lies and gets pretty words in response.

he likes it this way, business perceived as business, no fluttering eyelashes and personal questions, just the words of ‘roll over’ and a ringing, gawky laugh in response.

this is what war looks like to him now, red tinted club lighting and soaked underfoot, sleight of hand and golden letter openers, expensive bottles of wine and chandelier shards etched into skin. he suits this as well as he did sloppy street crimes, officers never minding the homeless man on homicide scenes; now they turn their backs to boys with expensive things, petty and spoiled, they assume, not worth their time. he climbs into the other man’s seat easily, a swing of legs over hips, knees fitted and he leans forward. it’s then that the feeling inside the car changes, near imperceptible to the eye but distinguishable by the way the man suddenly squirms, feeling less in control still, suddenly trapped. pavel gets close, faces nearly touching, eyes all humor. “what’s wrong? you wanna be on top?” he laughs, and the man pushes his chest, trying to get him off but pavel tightens his grip, fingers pressed tightly to the top of the seat on either side of the man’s head. “this is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he feels the panic, the surge in energy, and it’s then, in one quick motion, that he unsheathes the knife and plunges it into ribcage.

he still does his best work with messy murder, pulling the knife out and slamming it into the man’s chest a second time, the leak of blood getting on his clothes, pants and undershirt black for good reason.

blood runs red yet appears inky in the under-lit vehicle, seeping out of wounds like tar, a monster escaping a body first in slow motion and then all too quickly. bodies get cold fast to him, his interest only spanning how long it takes for the light to leave your eyes before it’s on to the next. not a minute to waste, unopened bottles of champagne lay waiting to pop, showers of wine and new gadgets and shiny things to replace the new gaping void he feels in the cars interior. it doesn’t make him quite nauseous, but something inside him rolls. disgusting. boring.

he removes his long white over shirt now tainted with red and discards it on the floor of the vehicle carelessly, leaving a black wife beater on his person and opening the door, one leg sliding out in front of the other. he stills just a moment outside the gaudy vehicle, allowing only a moment to pass before the dull click of a lighter.

Extras:

playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6BpLUvLJ5B0AShSPXzf4sT?si=xZj_nNlVTWOQqzk3K2S_Ig hc: owns gucci slides unironically

#accepted: puck #accepted

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silvahscientiah · 5 years

Text

In-Progress/ Abandoned/ Finished FFXV Prompts / Stories

These are all mine. If you want to use one, PLEASE ASK FIRST, so that I can know who’s doing what, and CREDIT ME at @silvahscientiah on tumblr or Silverhaunter on AO3. Each UNDERLINED title is a link to a story, abandoned work, or prompt of mine. Each italic long piece is an excerpt.

ALSO PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHICH IS YOUR FAVOURITE IF YOU DO READ THEM SO I CAN MAKE MORE CONTENT LIKE IT

I was dead this morning.

“I was dead this morning.” Noctis says, and Ignis pipes up, “And I blind.”

“And you know, thirty years old!” Prompto gasps, and Gladiolus nods, crossing his arms.

“So, what the hell?” Gladiolus snaps, his temper from his youth returning in full swing.

Niflheim! Ignis:

“There’s a man that’s been running with the Empire, he deals in multiple kinds of magic, we’re not sure what his stance is yet.” Cor says, carefully, and Noctis raises an eyebrow, “He appears unassuming, but he was, according to the few survivors, there when Insomnia fell, fighting alongside the Empire.”

“He appears not to be dangerous. He,” Cor grimaces, like he’s remembering something unpleasant, “Is most certainly one of our biggest threats.

A Stop in Tenebrae.

“I’ve been having visions of the future.” Ignis sighs, “of people dying. Aside from that, I know for a fact there will be ten or more years of darkness before the Chosen returns,” he stays distinctly distant from the matter, “I am not leaving forever. Just for now. I cannot prevent what’s about to happen to Noct, but I can prevent what’s about to happen to” he stops.

Prompto’s brain clicks, “Ravus.”

Ignis nods solemnly, “Ravus.”

“I owe him my life and Noctis’, and I will not just let him die.” Ignis’ eyes close to the darkness, “not like that.”

“I will be getting off the train at Tenebrae.” He says, “It’s been decided.”

Niflheim! Ignis II

The man barely seems to move, but his wrist is at Prompto’s throat, a blade sliding from a hidden gauntlet. The daggers are a distraction, it seems, and his form crackles with electricity, likely how he moved so quickly. The blade ignites with flame, and Prompto squeaks.

“That is quite enough.” The man says, his eyes barely visible behind the dark lense.

“Goodness.” Ardyn’s voice cuts the tension, and Ignis immediately steps away, and waves at Ravus and pushes past him, shoulders brushing, and Ravus sheathes his sword.

The man stands beside Ardyn and removes his visor, unseeing eyes opening just long enough for Noctis to see the silver cloudiness.

He mouths something, and his eyes skitter over to where Noctis is.

‘Walk tall, my friends.’

Him. (Ignoct)

“I- I can’t let this go on any longer, majesty. I apologize.” Ignis gently extracts himself, and moves away, “I’m dead. I know I am dead, I gave my life so that I might save my King and his Oracle. You died, Noctis, on the altar. You and Lunafreya were dead when Ravus and I arrived, she traded her life for yours, and I traded mine for hers. The only way we interact is,” Ignis seems to hesitate, “if I project myself using the ring. The Kings were not pleased with me, Noct,”

UNFINISHED AND ABANDONED: Castlevania FFXV AU (Ignoct)

“I can save your child, but I cannot save you.” Ardyn says to Auela, “Your life for theirs, I can gift them with your humanity, and save them with the curse of vampirism. Your child will be born a dhampir. Half of it your husband, half of it the curse I will gift to you. You will not survive the birthing.”

Auela nods. “Do it.”

Noctis Lucis Caelum is born later that night, and Auela passes on silently, half-son breathing quietly in her arms.

Noctis’ heartbeat is so loud in Ardyn’s ears, and he hates him for it. For the noisy beat of his heart and the fact that he is still alive and Regis is not.

Ardyn raises his scythe, as Noctis turns around, and the blade sinks into his vertebrae. His mouth opens, but no sound leaves him, as he falls onto the castle floor, his blood hot and red and pooling onto the floor a his body shakes with shock, and his heartbeat loud and stunted and his face all too much like Regis’.

Blood sprays across the wall, and a jet of flame burns Ardyn’s hand as Ignis, wild and cat-eyed raises his polearm, he does not speak, but the flame of his dagger sinking into his flesh and ripping open his body is more excruciating than even the pain of seeing Noctis bleed out with wide eyes on the tile floor.

He has never hated anything more than he hates Noctis at that very moment.

“Fine. I’m Prompto Argentum, by the way? You’re Gladilous, Amicitia, right?” “I don’t c- Argentum? Not Leonis?”

“I’m adopted.”

“Of course you are. Not like I’d actually get to save Cor fucking Leonis’ real fucking son.”

“Hey!”

Good and Tasty Vampire Ignoct.

Ardyn Izunia approaches, puts his hand to Noctis’ throat, and Ignis can’t help but eye him wearily. His hands are cold when he pushes Ignis’ aside, almost like-

“You’re a-” Ardyn backhands him, and he’s sent reeling, his head hitting the stone. His vision swims, and he tries to focus on Ardyn’s bored expression as he tries to lift himself to his feet, but a boot lands on his chest. Ravus stands to fight, and is blown back by a blast of dark energy and flame.

Ignis’ vision swims, and like a light bulb going dark, he blacks out.

Mermaid Ignoct

The wheelchair hits his back and his breath leaves his lungs as he collides with the water.

A figure darts out to reach him, and he’s soon deposited on the bank, a young boy, only a little older than him gentle cradling him as his back inches onto the sand. The boy- no, creaute- is making whistling and clicking noises, followed by chortling.

The sound becomes more and more human, and suddenly the boy is crying, “Help! Please, someone, help!” a clicking punctuating his words, “King Regis, please!”

A tail shifts to sit him up, pressed against the creature’s chest, at an angle good for his back. The creature lays him on his back oh so gently and presses their lips together, “Breathe, please, highness.”

Noctis’ lungs filter through the sea water and he coughs while the young siren rubs his back.

Suddenly the boy has legs, and is moving to pick up and carry him. He sways a bit on new legs, and is dressed in a simple suit. “Stay alive, please. Your back has been injured by the wheelchair when it hit.”

The Ring’s Flash

The only warning they receive is the brightest flash of light they’ve ever seen. Ignis pitches the car to the side and slams on the breaks, with a yell of, “Is everyone alright?”

Gladiolus and Prompto both respond with varying shades of cursing, but Noctis does not respond at all, and when Ignis turns around, he is slumped forward, with what looks to be Regis’ sword embedded deeply into his chest.

Prompto screams, and Gladiolus pulls away Noctis’ shirt as quickly as he can to assess if the blade can be pulled free.

Ignis goes still, but not purely because of the blade lodged in his charge’s sternum. Noctis is taller, his legs tucked behind Ignis’ seat, and he’s wearing what looks to be a Royal Raiment. His hair is longer, too, styled differently, if at all, stray locks falling into his face. Beautiful in death, he reminds Ignis of the Kings of olde. He’s got a beard, which is most definitely a change from the clean shaven he’s used to, and the planes of his face are more angular with signs of adulthood. He’s paler, too, if that’s possible. Like he’s stopped going out in sunlight altogether.

Noctis would not cope well with Ignis dying.

Ardyn sits down opposite him on the train, “Should’ve killed the Oracle, I suppose.” He muses, and Noctis just looks out the window.

“Noctis, you’re disappointing me.” he bites his lip, “Stick a knife in me. Do something.”

Noctis whispers, “I just. Don’t feel like it.”

Ardyn bites his tongue and disappears.

What you wanted.

It’s immediately afterwards that Noctis plunges a blade into Regis’ stomach, his eyes glittering fire-orange, irises glassy, he pulls the blade from Regis, and looks at it cautiously. Regis falls to the ground, and presses his wound closed as quickly as possible, with his fingers, sloppy with gore, he’s too shocked to call out, his son had just called upon his armiger, there’s no way it isn’t him.

The worst part, in Regis’ mind, is not that his son just stabbed him, but is that he is now gripping the blade with both hands, and has it pointed directly at his own body, just under his ribs, angled up toward his heart.

Reverse Au? Sort of.

Ardyn sinks his blade into Noctis’ stomach, angling it high up into his ribs, and letting it sit until he violently yanks it free. Noctis lurches with the icy pull of the wound, and claws at Ardyn, pressing his fingers to the knife, gasping, his hands clambering for purchase, trying to seal his skin together. Ardyn yanks the knife from his body, cutting open the sides of Noctis’ hands, and blood gushes from the wound.

“Noct! Get away from him!” Ignis rises to his feet, summoning his daggers from the rings on his middle fingers, calling them to him from where they rest just out of sight.

“Strange world, this.” Ardyn muses, “Oracle turned King, King turned Oracle, Advisor turned messenger. Ifrit was always the most powerful.”

Noctis trembles silently on the wet stone, “Ardyn, you don’t have to keep doing this, if I can just heal you in this world-”

“You can’t.” He hisses,

“We wouldn’t have to keep-!” and Ignis presses his hands to Noctis wound, murming the familiar line of, ‘forgive me’ and calling his magic to him, and burning Noctis’ wound closed as he screams and blacks out.

“Rest now, majesty.” Ignis murmurs, and cradles his head, lying him down.

“Once again, you change his destiny.” Ardyn hums, “Powerful indeed.”

Ignis clasps his hands around Noctis’ and awaken the astrals and kings and queens of Lucis to protect Lunafreya.

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katzuyas · 6 years

Text

dazzle me with gold

from the start | ao3 | previous part

"They are leaving today," Victor reminds Yuuri after Pavel informs them that Lady Babicheva and Mila wish to say their goodbyes.

"That's today?" Yuuri asks, caught off guard. "I... What day is it today?"

They have just finished breakfast and are dressing for the day, but – Yuuri realizes with a startling twinge of fear that runs deep into his bones and settles in the most hidden cracks of his vulnerable soul – he does not know what day it is. He has lost count. So many things have happened since he first arrived at the Snowberry Estate that he has never spared a thought for the time that has been unavoidably passing.

And that, in turn, means that he has spared no thought on how close the full moon is.

Victor laughs fondly at him, unaware of Yuuri's growing dread. He steps close and rests a kiss high on Yuuri's cheek and it is only Yuuri's familiarity with Victor's easy affection that makes him withhold a flinch.

"It's Thursday, my love," Victor says. "We have spoken about this a few days ago, don't you recall?"

Yuuri strains his mind to remember, but when noting sparks in his recollection of the most recent days, he shakes his head.

"I must have forgotten," he admits. "We were faced with quite a few revelations recently, so I was a little preoccupied."

He offers Victor a small smile, but the truth is that he does not believe he could do any better than that at this moment, because it's Thursday. And Thursday means there is only a week until the night where Yuuri's body will howl in pain at the full face of the moon.

He swallows harshly and forces himself to continue with the conversation, so as not to raise any suspicions. Victor has enough on his mind without adding Yuuri's problems onto it.

"I could not have kept track of it all either way, but... They're leaving?" Yuuri looks over his shoulder at where Victor throws open a chest to pull out a silver robe threaded with sparkling sapphires. "Where are they heading?"

"Back home, I presume," Victor replies as he dons the robe.

It sits on him regally. The colours match Victor as if they were drawn from him: the threads shine silver like they are the very extension of his hair and the sapphires seem like Victor's own eyes were plucked and multiplied to be then woven into the fabric. They twinkle merrily just as Victor's eyes do when he smiles at Yuuri, as he smiles now.

Sadly, Yuuri cannot bring himself to appreciate it the way it deserves.

"They have their own estate to run, my Yuuri. They cannot be spending all their time here, however frivolous you believe us aristocracy to be," Victor teases.

Yuuri flushes before the denial makes it onto his tongue. "I never thought that."

Victor's smile, as it quirks at the corners in that special, amusedly indulgent way, says how little he believes in those words. Even further, he adds, light in his teasing:

"Of course you haven't, darling. You are far too kind for it."

If Yuuri was not blushing already, he would be now. Alas, the flush sits on his cheeks like fat apples do on their branches, red and ripe for the taking. Even if Victor does not know Yuuri's deepest thoughts, his very presence still manages to lift up Yuuri's spirits in ways that he cannot explain, but is incredibly grateful for.

"You imagine me to be far kinder than I am, my lord," Yuuri mumbles as he fastens his own robes around him. "I can assure you that I can be quite unpleasant at times. You should never judge a person's nature by their best, only by their worst."

"There is truth to that," Victor agrees with a smile, "but a kind person would not issue me a warning like that, don't you think?"

There is naught that Yuuri can speak to change Victor's mind once he has decided on something, and he does seem to be decided on Yuuri's apparent kindness, so Yuuri gives into it with a tiny smile. Little use is there in arguing semantics, he thinks.

Dazzling in his victory, Victor smiles and swoops in to rest a kiss against the tip of Yuuri's nose – a gesture that has Yuuri's blush deepening into a crimson akin to Christophe's rubies.

"Come now, my kind sir," Victor says, taking Yuuri's hand and sliding his fingers through Yuuri's. "We do not want to make aunt Yulia wait for us too long."

They walk through the mansion without dillydallying. Yuuri does not have the time to pay particular attention to all that happens as they do, but he takes note of the increased number of the guards patrolling the halls. Something not entirely ominous, but tense nonetheless, hangs in the air that smells sweetly of blooming rhododendrons that are spread across the manor in various compositions of purple, red and pink.

It's that last one that makes Yuuri stop to pluck one from its vase. He breaks the stem short and slips the flower into the little hole in the front of Victor's robe. The colour does not clash with the blue: in fact, it compliments it more and Victor's silky chuckle is proof of that.

"Why, thank you, my love," he says, and Yuuri can only smile at the adoring look Victor directs at him.

There are many things Victor is not yet aware of, many of which Yuuri is keeping from him to protect him, but as he lifts up to his toes to rests a kiss against Victor's cheek, Yuuri believes that maybe the future would not be as horrid as he imagines it to be if he told Victor the whole truth. And in return, maybe Victor would share his own fears with Yuuri freely...

The brilliant smile on Victor's face is returned to Yuuri twofold before they go the rest of the way and pass the front doors, which glint in the morning sun with a thousand of golden sparks dancing in the air around it. The carriage is already awaiting, loaded and prepared for the journey. As Yuuri takes it in – all the chests and goods tied securely on the back – he cannot help but wonder at the strangeness of it all.

When he agreed to live with Victor, he brought along a single bag that contained nothing more than a change of clothes, his hunting knife, the few coins he has managed to save from selling rabbit fur before winter, and a bottle of the nightshade concoction just to be safe. In comparison with his belongings, the ladies here have one each more to them on this single trip than Yuuri's family owns put together, and the contrast is stark.

"Aunt Yulia," Victor greets as they descend the stairs. He comes to the woman and kisses her cheek one after another. "You could not have waited until midday to leave? Why must you always do this to me? You know the mornings are my least favourite time of day."

"And that is exactly why I picked it," Lady Babicheva replies. "The world will not cater to you, my dear, no matter how much gold you may have. You might just as well learn it now."

Victor does not pout like a child at her words, but Yuuri can see it in his eyes that he wishes to do so badly. Yuuri hides his grin by turning away, right under the gaze of Mila, who only grins in reply to his amusement.

"Make sure he doesn't sleep his life away for us, will you?" Mila asks, holding out her hands.

"It will be my pleasure," Yuuri replies as takes both and squeezes them to reassure her.

Because there is no lie in his words. Not this time. Not when Victor's wellbeing is at stake.

#yuri on ice #victuri #victuuri #viktuuri #vikturi #my fic #dazzle me #hoooo boi #things are happening #and I'm so excite #!!!!!!!!!!!

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starswornoaths · 6 years

Text

Good does not Equal Nice

“What a tragedy.” Serella blanched, leaning back toward the bar. “Hey Uthen, put ‘Forever Lost’ on the orchestrion.”

Or:

Serella’s had it up to here with corruption and bullshit. Uthengentle tags along for the show...and the booze.

If there was one good thing Lord Archambeault could say about the newly formed Republic of Ishgard, it was that the gates being opened to the public made more...discreet meetings with unsavory characters significantly easier— and far less suspect, to boot.

Seated at one of the tables in the Forgotten Knight, dressed down to a simple coat and suit to better blend in, he brought his mulled wine closer to his chest and curled into it, as if to shield it from the other patrons. He supposed it was not so foolish a choice; if even one of the more common folk realized who he was, he was fairly certain an attempt would be made on his life. The sooner his contact got here, the sooner this whole business could be concluded— permanently.

As if summoned, an elezen woman draped in a thick traveler’s cloak, the hood obscuring her face, seemed to drift into the chair beside him. He straightened his back to draw upon his full height, looking at the woman expectantly.

“Job’s done.” She said, her low alto voice only just hovering above the low din of the establishment like smoke. “She’s been taken care of.”

“Am I to merely take your word for it?” He scoffed. “I asked for proof before payment. I am not budging.”

There was a wheeze of a sigh as she turned to rummage, presumably in a pocket or a pack of some sort, when his gaze drifted to her back. He hadn’t noticed when he hired the woman, but looking at the shape of her back, what he had thought was a hunched spine was clearly a shield hiding underneath her cloak— a kite shield, he recognized from his younger years.

Was she a wayward knight turned adventurer? Even as the thought crossed his mind he dismissed it; it didn’t matter. She righted herself on the chair and turned to face him. Even though he could hardly see her face— a blue scarf obscured much of it— he felt uncomfortably, infinitesimally insignificant when staring into the abyss of her hood. As she reached a closed fist toward him slowly, so slowly, he sucked in a breath and held it. He fought the urge to close his eyes as she slowly opened her clenched fingers, staring into the nothing of her hood as he waited for—

A faint clattering sound at the bottom of his mug drew his attention away from the void enshrouded woman. As she took her hand back, she revealed what she had dropped into his cup: a silver ring, with a single emerald at the center of it. Droplets of crimson stained the precious metal, though he was unsure of if it was blood or wine that marked it.

“...From her hand?” Lord Archambeault ventured, fishing the ring out from his cup.

Turning it over in his hand, he confirmed it was what he had thought it was: the very ring he had proposed to his own late wife with, the ring his daughter’s betrothed asked for to place upon his daughter’s finger. The one she wore even after her husband had long since died. For his daughter to part with it...she would have to be dead.

“From her hand.” The woman confirmed, nodding. “It seemed one of the more...inconspicuous things I could take as proof.”

He couldn’t help but concede the point; he’d asked for one of the fingers on his daughter’s hand at first, but given their meeting places had all been fairly public, this was far better to take as a token.

“Good, good.” He said idly, waving a server over for another drink. “And a round for my companion.” He said in his most charitable voice. When the server left, he continued, “I must admit, your cunning has impressed me. I am moved to add to your bounty.” He spoke as he stared at the ring for a moment longer before flicking it carelessly back to the woman. It clattered on its way to her, gently knocking into her forearm. “Keep it; you women like your baubles, don’t you?”

His enigmatic employee angled her head only enough to acknowledge that the ring had been given back to her but remained silent for long enough that Lord Archambeault began to feel uncomfortable.

“If you like.” She finally said, pocketing the ring once more. “But that does not replace my payment.”

“Of course, lass.” He said dismissively as he rummaged in his coat for the requisite sum of gil. Pulling out a pre-counted pouch, he set it on the table. “Here you a—”

He let out a high pitched yelp as the adventurer’s hand roughly seized his outstretched arm, pulling him nearly across the table. As he was hauled half upon the tabletop, he saw her other arm move upward— there was the glint of steel— and he let out a scream as the knife embedded—

—Into the table, catching his sleeve along the way and pinning him in place.

Once it fully registered that he had not been stabbed, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he nearly choked on, but it came out as little more than a squeaking whimper as the woman loomed over him.

“Unhand me!” He cried, struggling against the knife and her hand pressing down on his arm hard enough for it to hurt. “I have paid you! You cannot—!”

“I don’t care about the money, honestly.” The woman answered cooly, as if she was not pinning him to the table with enough force to nearly break his arm. “What I do care about—” she twisted his arm just enough that he felt his shoulder protest. “Is what makes a parent neglect and hate their child so godsdamned readily in this city.”

“Wh—” He sputtered, struggling against her in vain.

“I suppose that’s unfair. You’re hardly the first parent in Ishgard I’ve seen utterly unworthy of the title, but I’ve seen them everywhere. You’re nothing special.”

“And yet you still seek to harm me?”

“You imply you are worth more than you are.” She spat on him— him! — and it landed on his cheek. “It’s what you’ve done to your own daughter that caught my attention.”

“Do you know who you’re messing with?!” He demanded, glaring up at her with what intimidation he had left in him from his younger days.

“I’m aware of who I am dealing with— a nobody.” She snarled low in the back of her throat. “A nobody who should be very worried with who he is dealing with.”

With her free hand, she pushed the hood away from her head, shooed the abyss back beyond the veil, and revealed her face to him. Warm olive skin, deeply scarred but stark against ebony hair— and two mismatched eyes, one blue, one green.

He knew this woman.

“Shit,” he hissed. “The Warrior of Light.”

“Yeah, that’s the only good thing about that title.” She clucked her tongue. “Saves the introductions. Now, then. I was asking you a question.” Fear, cold and cloying, crept up his spine as she looked down at him. He had stared down the face of dragons and laughed in his prime but looking into the eyes of the madwoman who slew Nidhogg was like facing down another beast entirely. He flinched as she leaned down to his level. “What drives a man to let his daughter suffer for so long?”

“You don’t understand—” He began when she tightened her grip on his arm.

“I understand that your daughter is a proud Temple Knight.” Serella said, her frown deepening as she stood straight once more. “I understand that she had to watch her whole unit— her husband included— die. Didn’t she?”

“A-aye.” He nodded his head, eager for her to just let him go.

“I also understand that she never recovered— and you made sure of that.”

“I—!” He lifted his chin indignantly— or at least, as much as his current position allowed him to. “I did all I could—!”

“Tying your daughter in her own bed and gagging her to silence the screams is not,” she twisted his arm an ilm more. He felt his shoulder wind up, ready to snap, but his whimper was ignored as she continued, “how you ‘do all you can,’ for someone, my lord.” He did not know her well, but he did not have to to understand that though her tone was even and she was speaking very quietly that she was seething. “Nor is it right to have her killed just because she isn’t what you wanted her to be.”

“Please—” he begged.

“Please what?” She asked sardonically, her lip curled into a sneer. “How many times did she ask you for help? How many times did you have her in the position you’re in now, demanding that she just ‘get it together?’”

“You have no proof—”

“How. Many. Times.” She enunciated each word with an extra bit of her weight pressing down on his arm. He spared it a glance, realizing dismally that his fingers were now turning purple and beginning to tingle. If she kept this up…

“Does it matter?” He sneered at her. “You killed her! You did! So who are you to judge me?”

“Bold of you to assume I killed her.” Serella said calmly, looking at the nails of the hand that wasn’t currently resisting the urge to mangle his entire arm.

“But you said—!”

“I said she’s taken care of.” Serella cut him off. “And she is. She’s finally getting the help she needs as a Knight that valiantly served her country. The help you denied her.” She gave him a dark, sidelong glance. “You let her suffer— then demanded she die. All because it would bring shame to your household, if gossip is to be believed.”

“You don’t understand!” Lord Archambeault said again. “You can’t understand how hard it was! How unmanageable her condition is!” He tried to tug against the knife holding his coat hostage, but the blade was sunk deep into the table. “Our house has only ever produced the most stalwart of knights! No one could know my own daughter had crumbled so!”

“What a tragedy.” Serella blanched, leaning back toward the bar. “Hey Uthen, put ‘Forever Lost’ on the orchestrion.”

As soft, somber piano music floated in through the device, the trapped lord felt small under the flat, unimpressed stare of the Warrior of Light.

“This...this little spectacle of yours changes nothing.” Lord Archambeault said, nearly letting out a relieved, haughty laugh. “I’ve admitted to nothing, you can prove nothing, and you won’t kill me because you’re the vaunted Warrior of Light!”

“I should kill you.” She growled, and for a moment, the fear froze him. Because she could, and no one would be able to stop her. “Of all the abusive parents I’ve come across in this fucking city, none have lived meeting face to face with me thus far.” She pursed her lips. “And you aren’t worthy of being the first to break that streak.”

“P-please— you wouldn’t—!” He sobbed.

“You’re right, unfortunately.” She sighed, releasing his arm entirely. “I can’t kill you— and really, you aren’t being arrested for this, anyway.”

“H-hah,” the shaken lord let out a nearly hysterical laugh as she stepped away from the table. “Then I shall have you tried for assault, you shr—”

“You’re actually being arrested for felony tax evasion.” Serella cut him off.

Lord Archambeault felt the color drain from his face.

“Wha—” he stammered, his mind scrambling to make sense of the sharp turn this had taken— for the worse, arguably. “You...you cannot be—”

“So you’re going to rot in gaol regardless.” Serella said conversationally, finally taking a pull from the drink he had ordered her. “I just wanted to make you feel even an onze of what you put your daughter through before you went.”

She effortlessly ripped the dagger from the table, freeing the lord to stagger back into his chair hard enough it nearly toppled over. Before he even had the errant thought to make a run for it, the doors opened at both entrances of the Forgotten Knight, and two halves of a whole unit of Temple Knights emerged.

“This is an outrage!” Lord Archambeault cried, even as he was seized and cuffed.

“Oh, I agree.” Serella sighed, rolling her neck. “This sting operation took weeks. Do you know how much shit we’ve had to do for this investigation?” She turned to the Temple Knight clapping the irons on the corrupted lord. “Take him to await his trial.” She gave the Knights a smile filled with camaraderie as she softened her voice. “Your tabs will be paid for when you come back, so end this investigation right, eh?”

“At once, ma’am!” The Temple Knight gave her a salute before carting off Lord Archambeault to his fate.

And thus was Lord Archambeault, head of his house, removed from the establishment: with his dignity— and a part of his sleeve— behind him.

#okay honesty time #I just wanted an excuse to say 'that's so sad play despacito' but in Eorzean #so this happened #Serella Arcbane #Uthengentle Arcbane #ffxiv #mild spoilers for Heavensward #I guess?#If you didn't know they became a republic by now I mean #tagging just in case #mild violence #wanted to put that warning there too #also #mentions of PTSD #mentions of abuse #(figured that would help people with tags)

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flintsjohn · 6 years

Text

I started thinking of Silver with babies and this happened. It got out of control and is now almost 2k, what can you do. Silverflintmadi and a baby, but focused on Silver. He’s so insecure, please kill me. I’m so sorry there’s so little of Madi in this it just came out this way. There are also mentions of flinthamiltons. Ife means love in Western African/Yoruba according to this site, but feel free to correct me if that’s wrong. Silver’s mother name is María because I love the idea that he has spanish origins. This is unbeta’d, but I hope you like this!

***

“You should tell him.” Is the first thing James says when she comes to him.

“What? No. You know he will not take it well. I know he has told you before about his – fears.”

“But he needs to know.” James stresses again, making Madi frown. She’s about to retort something when they are interrupted.

“Tell me what? You two were talking about me, weren’t you?” John is standing on the last step outside of their shared hut, leaning heavily on his crutch. He studies them as they exchange nervous glances.

“What’s going on here?”

“Maybe you should sit down.” James suggests gently. John glares at him and mutters a half-hearted fuck you, but he does as he’s told.

He has barely made himself comfortable on the bed when Madi blurts out, “I’m pregnant.”

She is not one to usually speak this hurriedly, John thinks distractedly as the words register. Then he sputters, “You’re what?”

“I haven’t had my blood in over two months, John.”

“And it’s – mine?” he asks softly. Both Madi and James lift their eyebrows: who else’s could it be?

“Oh.” John hears them move around the room but doesn’t really see them. Someone has sat beside him but he feels like he is a thousand miles away, and he can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t think. A baby. His baby. No, their baby, he corrects himself. He doesn’t know how long he’s in that state, but suddenly he’s cradled in James’s arms and he’s shaking.

“I can’t do this,” he whispers, more to himself than to the other man.

“Of course you can,” James replies anyway, stroking his curls.

“Can’t we pretend it’s yours instead?” John winces as soon as the words leave his mouth. Stupid.

James snorts softly. “Everybody knows about our arrangement by now, darling.”

John frowns again – he only uses the word to humour him, they don’t use endearments for each other.

They’re silent for a few minutes. Then, softly, John asks, “What am I going to do, James?”

James stops petting his hair, looks down at him, smiles. “You’re going to be an amazing father, John.”

***

Madi is screaming in pain, and John feels like he’s going to faint. She’s gone into labour three hours ago and James is the one holding her hand and speaking reassuring words to her.

“You’re too anxious,” she’d told John when they had discussed it. In this moment, he sees what she’d meant.

He’s fretting, pacing back and forth, waiting for something – anything – to change. At one point, the healer almost pushes him out of the hut. Madi’s mother gives him some kind of tea – to calm the nerves, she says. He somehow feels like they are all going to hold this against him in the future.

He collapses on the rocking chair in the corner and is brought out of his dozing state some time later by a gentle hand – James’s, again, like the day Madi had told him of the pregnancy. He has a tiny bundle of blankets in his arms, and John gasps when James carefully passes the baby to him.

“Congratulations, love.” James smiles, and John almost breaks down crying – whether at the word (genuine, for once) or because of the tiny human in his arms, he’s not sure.

The baby is asleep, and John traces a careful finger over its upturned nose, its forehead, and mop of dark hair. He leans down to press a kiss to the top of the baby’s head, inhaling its scent with a badly repressed sob. James has sat down across from him – he looks tired but happy as he watches over them.

“How’s Madi?” John asks eventually. They had to have moved her to the healer’s hut, he thinks, when he was asleep.

“She’s resting, but she’s fine. Her mother is with her.” James pauses, biting his lower lip. “She said that you should think about a name for her.”

John looks up, bewildered, then glances down again. He hasn’t thought about names. Hell, he hasn’t even asked what the baby is. Not that it matters, as long as she is safe and well. God, he thinks. A daughter.

He’s silent for so long that James has to prompt a reply from him.

“I think – Ife. Ife María.” He looks up again, when James makes a soft sound in his throat: why?

“Madi told me once – it’s her grandmother’s name. It means love. And – and my mother’s name.”

James smiles at that. “They’re beautiful, John. Ife María Silver, then?”

John shakes his head so violently that his daughter stirs in his arms. “No. No, that’s – I can’t give her that name. It’s not, I’m not- “

“Alright.” James stops him, kneels in front of him. “Then you won’t. Do you – want to give her your real name?” he asks, hesitation clear in his voice. John shakes his head again.

“I thought, maybe…” He looks at James sheepishly, waits for him to understand. When he does, it’s beautiful. His eyes open wide and a flush colours his cheeks.

“I thought I told you that they all know already,” he mutters.

“Then they will understand. I am yours, as much as I am Madi’s, and you are ours. She is ours. And she deserves a name she can be proud of. Not an invented one, or a discarded one. Not one assigned by some slave merchant. A real one.” John’s voice is confident, determined. His mind is made up.

“McGraw?”

“McGraw.”

They smile stupidly at each other, and James’s hand moves to cup Ife’s head. His eyes are soft, full of love for the new member of their family. John watches him in wonder. A family, a real one. Something he never thought he would have. For a moment, he has to rip his eyes off of the picture James makes with his daughter.

When he talks, James startles. He’s been lost in his own thoughts, John knows.

“I’m scared, James. I can’t – I don’t want to be like him.”

A pause. Then, “Him?”

“My father.”

James rises, settles on the bed again. “I thought you didn’t have a father.”

John shrugs. Orphan, that’s the lie he’s always told. “Better to say that than that the man that should have cared for me used me as a practice target for his knife-throwing, that he blamed me for my mother’s death even if he’d never loved her, that he used me and threw me in the street like I was nothing more than some rubbish that someone would eventually collect.”

He stops. He’s out of breath. In front of him, James is staring. He’s never revealed this much about himself to him, and now it’s all out there. He can’t take it back. He doesn’t want to.

“You won’t be like him,” James say, eventually.

“You cannot know that.”

“Yes. Yes, I can.” James waits for him to lift his head again and meets his eyes before he continues, “Because you care, John. You love and you worry and you protect. It’s what you do. And if you feel like you can’t – I’m here. Madi is here. We are not leaving.”

James is careful to pronounce every word so that he is certain that John has understood their message. In the rocking chair, Ife pressed to his chest, John cries as he smiles at the man he loves.

***

Raising a child is not easy. John hadn’t thought it would be. Raising a child with two other parents – and a grandmother, and a pirate crew, and an entire village – is, admittedly, far harder than John had expected.

In the two years Ife’s been alive, John can’t count the number of heart attacks he has had because she was suddenly gone from where he had put her down, only for her to appear minutes later in the arms of anybody around the maroon camp.

Don’t get him wrong, he loves the fact that everybody adores his daughter and would instantly die for her, but he also wishes people would just tell him when they want to spend time with her. He’s her father after all.

Father. John is still bewildered sometimes to think of himself as one. In these two years, he has made mistakes. He will make more, in the years to come. And yet, he has also learned so much from his daughter. Love. Happiness. Calm.

Calm, what he’s not feeling right now. Ife is gone from their hut – again, might he add. He has already checked the village’s square and the queen’s hut, where Madi is holding council with her mother. He’s now rounding back to their own house, his breath short and laboured. He sees James on the porch.

“James! Where’s- “

“Papa!” A voice squeaks, and John sighs in relief.

“Oh, thank God,” he mutters, climbing the few steps. Ife steps into his open arms immediately, closing her chubby little hands around his curls, so similar to her own.

“What were you two doing?” he asks as he moves Ife to rest on his hip so he can see James. The man shrugs, holds up a book. He doesn’t say anything.

“Are you alright?” John prompts, sitting down next to him on the bench.

“Sure.”

“James.”

He waits in silence, letting Ife play with his hair. He winces when she pulls with too much strength.

“It’s –“ James starts, pauses at once, takes a deep breath. “She looks so much like you. Every day more. Like both of you.”

John quirks an eyebrow at him, but stays silent.

“I love her like my own, you know that. Only – sometimes I wish I could –“

“You want one?” John asks, surprise colouring his tone. James has never expressed the wish before, content to raise Ife with them, but John is sure-

“That’s not what I meant.”

John looks at him for a few seconds. Then – “Oh. With – You mean with them.”

He watches as James nods, and feels a pang of guilt in his chest. Thomas and Miranda. Of course. Their presence still lingers with them, every day, he knows. He would never ask James to let them go. He thinks it’s only fair, that they are finally discussing this.

“Did you ever…?”

“No. Miranda – She couldn’t. They had tried, I think, before – She told me she had accepted it.”

“And did you?”

John watches James swallow and close his eyes. He does that, sometimes – gets lost in his own head with memories of times long gone. John shifts Ife in his lap so he can reach to take James’s hand in his. He feels him squeeze it back after a minute.

“I think Ife helped,” James admits eventually.

John knows the pain won’t leave him. He knows James will be left wondering about what could have been for the rest of his life. What he can do, if not bring Miranda and Thomas back to him, is make him feel like he is every bit part of this family.

They don’t talk much, after James’s words. They watch Ife play at their feet, where John has left her free to roam the porch. Madi joins them some time later, free of her duties, and takes her place between them.

John watches as Madi coaxes James out of his own mind again like not even he is able to do. He watches his family laugh, and can’t believe the luck he has. He can’t believe her has ever even considered giving this up, this little world of their own.

#silverflintmadi #black sails fic #black sails #silver x flint x madi #silverflintmadi fic #kidfic #my ficlets #helo i wrote this randomly #silver is so insecure and im in pain #i love them all #im sorry there's so little of madi hhhhhh #my stuff

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