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starshipsofstarlord · 3 years

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God is With You, Even as You’re Sinning

Pairing | Sam Winchester x reader

Summary | it was your first time not killing a monster, and in its place, taking the life of one of your own. Guilt entraps you, and it is up to Sam to break you out of your pitiful hypnosis.

Warnings | mentions of death, blood, angst, guilt, some smut, oral sex (fem receiving), penetrative unprotected sex, fingering, swearing, mentions of murder

Requested ✖️

Quick link to my masterlist, if you’re interested in reading more of my crap 😬

Fuck God. This was all his fault, everything was to be fair. He had left the world to continue on its own accord, the apocalypse threatening to spill over the planet and destroy it and all beauty that was lingering through the existence of humans.

They killed each other, and the creator of all could care less. It was his smallest problem, he didn’t mind that the murderer was succumbed to guilt, or how many restless nights that he or she endured. God was cruel, even if he held up a facade of being your ally, and trying his hardest as he supposed, to be your friend.

Your hands shook as you remembered the entailment of your mistake. It was a slip up, a vast and surreal experience that people usually learned from. But what were you supposed to do, not kill a human again? Yeah you had gotten that, after all, the initial deed had not at all been intentional.

There was the victim’s blood dried upon the outer layer of your skin, casting you in the perfect image of murderous intent. However, you had no thirst to kill, instead, your hunting of monsters, alike to many others partaking in a similar lifestyle, executed the mythical beasts to protect the human population.

It pained you truly, to know that you had killed a person. You hadn’t even spared the familiar body a second glance, and out of panic, you fled the scene, leaving the body of the city cleaner in the gutter, laying in the remnants of his friends’ and family’s waste, burying him in their crude excrement.

The thought alone, and the sight that was engrained in the peripheral of your mind had you feeling sick. Slowly, you plodded down the steps of the bunker’s entrance, surely leaving footprints trademarked in all kinds of grotesque evidence.

Without much care for what lay heavily inside, you dropped your duffel from your shoulder, allowing it to fall on the ground with a disgruntled clatter. Nothing meant anything anymore, not if you were indeed a real killer. Whilst some monsters had weaselled their way into society, ending their pathetic attempts at normality was different than taking away the life of an innocent and mortal bystander.

Often, with the darker and crueler species, there were reasons as to why they pretended to be of human birth. Mostly, it was so that they could feed from the naive flock, or kill for their own amusement. Either way, none of their reasons were good.

But now, you thought of yourself as no different than them. A creature that needed to be put down for their crimes. Filing, you breathed in, only inhaling the various moulds of putridity that was weaved into your hair, and stuck to your skin like a face mask.

“Should I call you Cassie now?” At the joke, a laugh from the speaker was triggered. He was quite amused with the sight of you, and thus, you sneered at the tall man, hating him a little bit more than usual.

“Your pop culture references aren’t appreciated Winchester, it’s more Dean’s street.” Shoving past him, his high shoulder floundered back at the harsh and ignorant impact, an expression of offence covering his stupid face. Like a fawn, he tumbled after you, watching as you walked sullenly into the kitchen, yanking the door to the fridge open, and extracting one of his brother’s store bought beers.

“I’m going to guess the hunt went bad.” Sam speculated, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets, and staring expectedly down at where you popped the cap off the bottle recklessly with your teeth. He almost winced at the sight, but he wished to keep this arrogant demeanour up with you, it was a natural desire to piss you off, and he’d be pissed at himself if he let it slip out of simple pity.

“Guess correct. Well done, you’ve won a trip to Hawaii.” You waved your free hand mockingly in the air, as the other raised the liquor to your mouth, allowing you to wilfully gulp the bitter liquid down. At his presence that remained nursing over you, you cocked a brow, leaning forwards as you expectedly looked back at the moose. “Just leave me alone Sam, I’m not in the mood for putting up with your bullshit.”

He, however, seemed not to be phased by you wanting to be left alone, and instead, quickly snatched the poison out of your hand, leaving you throughly prepared to keep him right in the balls. “What the fuck?” You all but screamed at the not so jolly giant. In turn, he crossed his arms across his chest, placing the bottle down on the island.

“I could ask you the same y/n.” His tone was dominantly serious, causing you to cower back into your shroud of guilty conscience. “Tell me what happened on that hunt, of which i told you that you shouldn’t have went on alone, since you wouldn’t have been able to handle it solo.”

You felt demeaned by his words, they sparked an anger out from the firm pit of your stomach. But you knew deep down, he was getting through to you, which was something that you had not managed to even do by yourself. Air heavily passed through and out of your nostrils, as acidic tears pooled in your eyes; a crack was falling down your walls, and out of all people, it was Sam Winchester whom had caused it.

“You’re right, I shouldn’t have gone alone, but you know what, I thought of what a Winchester would do. And then I remembered, I am sure as hell not a Winchester and I don’t have a brother anymore! Not now, he didn’t even know who I was earlier, didn’t even recognise a single genetically identical hair on my head as he watched me parade through the town, the very one that I ran away from when he was a baby and I was seven, wanting to hunt a monster. Yet, i didn’t kill a damn monster Sam, I murdered my brother because you’ve been right all along, I’m not fit for this job. I am a mess, so congratulations, you finally have got me to admit the one thing that you keep reminding me of.”

“Y/n...” Sam wasn’t sure how to respond, he felt the waves of shock ripple through his body. Never so freely had you been vulnerable around him, and here you were now, with very visible tears cascading down your utterly torn face. He understood it was an accident, and the times that he and Dean had tried to kill each other under supernatural circumstances had him wondering what if.

Shaking your grime tethered head at the sound of his cracked voice, you stormed past him, and immediately raced towards the shower room, finding to your luck, which had been non existent during the rest of the day, the halls were barren of life. Walking through the door, you tore your ruined clothes off, chucking them upon the floor without much acknowledgement, before you went under the warm spray of the shower head, trying to calm yourself.

To rid your skin of its evidential accessories, you had to scrub your skin until it was immediately raw. Everything within you ached, as you flicked back to the memory of the clueless expression that had been worn by your blood brother. It was probably a good thing that he didn’t know who you were, or else, he’d have known that his own sister murdered him due to her incompetence to listen to others.

Now, you were not even sure what were your tears, and what droplets of water belonged to the shower itself. For over an hour, you basked int eh warmth that seemed unable to cure your cold blooded system, turning the spritz off, and covering your body in a fluffy towel, that you were sure belonged to someone else, but right now, you could care less about who owned what.

As you reached the door to your bedroom, you found it to be preached slightly open, and as you pushed it the rest of the way, you saw Sam sat on the corner of your bed. You held your arms around yourself, insecure on the fact that beneath the stolen towel, you were nothing more than you. A wolf in sheep’s skin.

“Can I help you?” You bitterly asked, your eyes still burning from your own faulted loss. Sam breathed in, his eyes trailing up to your face, that was naked from any gruesome cosmetics or make up. The bareness to your completion illustrated an aura of innocence, and evidence that you were the same as him - human.

“That’s my towel.” The male hunter laughed, in hopes of changing the previous and well wounded subjected to ensure that you felt better. But what was he kidding, nothing could fill the void that you had dug in your own heart, nothing was closer than the bond between siblings, even if you were considered as strangers.

“Take it back then.” Too exhausted from your gruelling day, you dropped the material, your confident action making his eyes go wide, as he tried to look away from your exposed skin to respect your boundaries. It was impossible though not to allow his hazel hues to slip up the trunks of your thighs, up to- no, that was wrong, very wrong.

You had just lost your brother, not to mention, by your own hand, and he was prone to checking out your freelancing body, taking in every curve and twisted scar that was prominent to his speculating eyes. His eyes dropped to the discarded towel, which he had purposely left on the heating rail for later use, and then, they switched back towards you.

He stood, walking behind you as you looked through comfort clothes within your dresser. A light touch of his hand brushed your hair away from your neck, as he breathed a sweet hoax of hot air upon your scare. Sam was relieved that you didn’t reject the contact, and instead, pressed his lips upon the flesh, finding succession whence you hummed deliriously to yourself.

This interaction had been inevitable for a long time, but now no longer were the suspected intentions for such an exchange to be to release well endorsed frustrations. No, he was going to clear your mind for some sensual moments, and make your pretty little head forget for a moment that you had pained yourself in the worst of ways.

Turning, you laced your hands through his chocolate locks, massaging his scalp as you pulled him closer so that your lips could endure a rougher clasp against his. There was no passion, behind each contribution there was a spur of hunger, he grasped your ass cheeks, pulling you up to be sat upon the top of your heavy dresser.

Obliging his command, you spread your legs so that he could stand between their partition, his hands now running up the windows of your thighs. For a while, the pair of you did nothing more than make out, and cup a feel here and there, but soon after, Sam dropped to his lanky knees, leaving kisses in the wake of his descent.

His thumb and forefinger spread your fluttering folds, watching as your slit squirmed for attention. Sam licked his lips at the sight, running his middle finger up the expanse, until he came to your yearning entrance. Slowly, after making sure you were wet enough, Sam slipped his digit inside, you wiggling your hips to adjust to the thrust of his one finger.

To add to the sensations that were overriding your body, he moved his mouth to closer proximity, smelling the divine aroma that pulsed out of you. It was far too addictive to not get a taste, and thus,he pulled his finger out, sucking off your juices contently.

But that small sample just wasn’t enough, which encouraged him to dive face first into your pussy - literally. His long tongue teased your folds, slurping at the lips, and then switching to your clit to heighten the stimulation. He kept up a rhythm, using it as a pattern to push you closer to that edge, and he was surely certain that you were enjoying his oral work as you ground your face against him, moaning at his succulent administrations.

“Sam.” Oh god, was it pleasant to hear his own name fall out your mouth in such an erotic manner. It was far different from the way that you usually used it to snide at him, though, the thought of your regular treatment of him aided only to spur his lustful actions on. He wanted you to cum, for your juices to run down his face in waterfalls, looking as though someone had tried to drown him.

His work would not be complete until you found it difficult to even pronounce his short name. Digging his tongue in the hood of your clit, tracing around the protective area, his fingers returned to their earlier placement, and he quickened their pace until he could hear a satisfying squelch in the air.

Rapid sounds of parted moans raked from your mouth, your chest sticking out as you breasts heaved with your heavy breathing. It was noticeable that you were close, not just from that, but you were squeezing the circulation out of his fingers. “Fuck.” Left you in the form of a squeal, as you pussy wept its juices.

Sam was quick to lap everything that left you up, once more, tasting those that clung to his fingers. He went back in for another taste, but you tightly grouped his hair, pulling him away from your sopping cunt. “Need you to fuck me Sam, now.”

In an instant, the hunter stood, working precariously on undoing the buckle of his belt, and pushing all material that covered his lower half to the bottom of his thighs. He read already hard, and oozing precum. You swept your finger across the tip of his dick, bringing it to your lips to taste his foreshadowing seed.

Sam huffed at the sight,picking his prick up in one hand, and jerking himself a couple of times. And then, he aligned himself with you, rubbing his cock around your wet crevice a couple of times, slapping his tip teasingly against your puffy clit.

“Want my cock baby?” He asked, smirking as he watched you nod your head repeatedly. With that being all the confirmation that he needed, he pushed into you,feeling even more turned on as he heard you mewl, and watched the ecstatic expression cross your face as his dick fit inside of you all the way.

He grasped your hips, pulling out once before pushing in again. He repeated the action, his own eyes rolling to the back of his head at how tight you were. This would make you forget the cruel method of god, his story was not as epic as he though, for his characters were screwing against his will, basking in a distraction rather than the regretful pain that seethed in your trodden heart.

Another thrust had your nails clasping onto Sam’s covered back, biting onto his shoulder through the plaid, as you held back the tears that were trying to creep out of your blissful eyes. A few grunts left Sam, as his pace increased, and with every thrust, which only served to fuel him further, the dresser smashed into the wall behind it, most likely leaving a decent dent within the historical architecture.

“Gonna cum.” You told him, dragging him in for another tongue filled kiss as your cunt pooled around him, coating his cock in the honey from your delicious pot. He soon followed after, and for a moment, he remained against you, allowing you to bask in the comfort of his strange presence.

And then he pulled out, watching as his distraction dripped from your entrance, trailing down your thigh in a white streak. An orgasm smile was pulled onto your face, but it was certain to not last long for when you returned to the reality that laid waiting for you to return.

Sam stepped closer again, moving his fingers towards your cunt, and pushed his seed back inside of you, watching as your puffy pussy lips swallows any part of him that it could get. He would distract you for as long as he could, and then, deal with the inevitable.

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queerbrujas · 3 years

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then it vanished away from my hands (part three)

pairing: nate sewell x eva navarro rating: T word count: 4k (10.1k total so far) warnings: angst (with no happy ending, though there’s a lot of comfort in this chapter). discussions about mortality and loss of agency. murphy trauma and flashbacks.

After discovering the reason why she can't turn, Eva tries (and fails) to come to terms with it.

part one | part two | read on ao3

this fic was originally meant to have three parts, but uh, that didn’t happen. current plan is to have it be four or five, depending on how the writing goes.

—

part three: my sense of self I lost somewhere

Eva’s eyes squeeze shut.

She’s all out of tears.

How long has she been sitting here?

This is—this is not working.

She can't be alone right now.

She can't be here right now, in this place that was once home to her and where there is nothing left that is familiar or comforting. Nothing but void, a shell filled with what’s left of the covered furniture she couldn’t get rid of.

The only thing here is—

is—

fuck.

The only thing here that seems alive and vivid is the image playing behind her eyelids of the apartment flooded with bright red smoke, the sounds of crashing and breaking, of Rebecca telling her to run, of Nate—

And a cold, cold voice that rings in her head, louder than every other sound.

She’s back outside in the rain. It soaks her to the bone, makes her shiver.

You are rather special, after all, Detective Navarro.

Why, why the hell did she think of coming here, of all places?

I do so prefer the quiet ones.

There isn’t enough air, she’s not getting enough air. She tries to gasp for it, to take deep breaths, but it’s not enough. When she opens her eyes the white walls of the apartment are closing in and her vision is blurred, hazy (not smoke, it’s not smoke, it’s not). A trapped scream tries to fight its way up her throat.

She wants to let it out. Scream. Thrash.

Tear her skin apart and climb out of her body.

This is not working.

This is not working—this won’t work.

She’s not going to be able to make it out of here on her own. Not out of the apartment, not off of the goddamn floor.

The sudden moment of clarity, tenuous and brittle as it is, spurs her into action.

Her phone. She pulls her phone out of the pocket of her jacket: her hands are still shaking, and it takes her at least three attempts to get hold of it. Once she has it, it slips between her fingers and clatters to the floor.

She flinches at the noise. She’s going to start sobbing again.

She flexes her fingers. Breathe. Breathe.

Eventually, she manages it.

For just a split second, she considers calling, then decides against it. That won’t do. She doesn’t trust herself to speak without bursting into tears again.

I'm at my old apartment. Can you come over?, she writes, hits send. Then a second text: Please.

The reply comes before she’s had time to lock her phone again: there in 2 seconds.

She loses track of time again after that, closes her eyes and would not be able to say, later, how long she spent like this. What is left of her rational brain tells her not more than a few minutes can have passed before Farah is already there in a whirlwind.

Alarm is evident in the way her eyes shoot wide open as soon as she sees her, in the way she's kneeling down by Eva's side faster than her (human, human) eyes can register.

“Hey, hey.” The words tumble out of her quickly, blurring together. “Eva, what happened?”

Farah has seen her cry before, she’s seen her desperate and distressed and upset, but she’s never seen her like this.

She examines her, the way she’s sitting on the floor with her knees held to her chest, the sorry state of her—clearly looking for signs of physical injury. When she seems satisfied she’s found none, she takes a breath: the alarm fades, but the concern deepens.

“What’s wrong? Did something—” Farah interrupts herself, purses her lips and waits for Eva to answer.

Eva’s throat feels raw; her thoughts scrambled, paper-thin. Connecting them, stringing them into something so complicated as language seems a monumental, almost impossible task. Just the thought of it makes her throat start to close up again.

She shakes her head. “Don't want to talk about it.” Speaking hurts, physically—even more than she thought it would.

Farah nods, as though having been expecting it.

She knows her well, after all.

They all do.

Farah reaches out, slowly, and lets her hand hover just over Eva’s knee. She doesn't touch her, knows better than to touch her, but it's close enough that Eva feels the warmth through her clothes.

“Do you want me to just sit here with you for a while? We don't have to go back home yet.”

Eva barely manages to choke back a dry sob at the mention of home, but unexpected relief washes over her all the same. Relief and gratefulness to Farah for putting into words what she certainly wouldn't have been able to think of. Not now.

She gives a quick nod. “Please,” she croaks.

Farah attempts a smile that manages to be warm despite the evident strain in it. She moves then, with a grace that Eva has envied before and which makes something in her chest constrict now, to settle more comfortably on the floor, legs crossed under her, facing Eva.

“Then we’re not going anywhere until you say so,” she says.

Soothing. Calming. Farah always knows how to be comforting.

“Thank you,” Eva sighs. Farah hums her assent.

With her here, real and solid in front of Eva, the red smoke and the crashing sounds and the voices seem to fade little by little into what they are: a distant memory, years old by now. Not real. Not something that can hurt her now.

(Except it lives under her skin, the consequence of it, the result of it, she’ll never be free of it—

Stop.

Stop, stop, stop.

Stop that thought dead in its tracks.)

A while later, Eva’s breathing still hasn’t gone back to normal. It’s still quick and ragged, shallow.

“Hey,” Farah speaks quietly, a low whisper that barely breaks the silence.

She waits for Eva to open her eyes—when had she closed them? How long has it been?—before speaking again.

“Give me your hands?” She says it as one would a question, extending her own, palms facing up.

Eva hesitates for a second—but only for a second.

The hesitation is instinctive, but the action is conscious. She places her hands in Farah’s, and Farah smiles at her.

With the warmth of the touch she’s reminded of the few times she’s done this before, in other circumstances.

Farah taking her hands and teaching her to dance, despite her initial, half-hearted protests.

Farah dragging her to celebrate her birthday because it was on the same day as hers and of course they needed a celebration; no, sneaking away with Nate to the library did not count, what part of it’s our birthday and we should have a party did she not understand?

Farah helping her stand up after a bad injury she’d sustained during a mission, the fear in her eyes eclipsed by the quick resolve to get her away.

She’s reminded of this, of all this. Of Farah’s liveliness and warmth but also of the way she always seems to understand how she feels, long before words are spoken.

Eva doesn’t quite manage to return Farah’s smile, but her lips twitch a little.

“Good,” Farah says. Her thumbs rub circles on the palms of Eva’s hands, and something soft in her eyes seems to make them glow golden, brighter than their usual amber. Something soft and sad and old, because as young as Farah seems, Eva is all too acutely aware (especially now, especially here, with a sting that doesn’t seem to go away) that she is still close to three times her age.

“Breathe with me?” Farah asks, before Eva’s thoughts can spiral too far in that direction.

Eva nods.

Farah breathes. Eva breathes.

It’s a deeper breath than any she’s taken since she got here.

They spend a while like this, until exhaustion finally settles in, weary and bone-deep. Until she’s staying here out of pure stubbornness, and when Farah quietly asks “home?” Eva does nothing but squeeze her hand and nod.

—

She tries then, she tries to adjust to the new information.

To move forward.

It’s what she’s always done. It’s the only thing that can be done.

She lets the rest of Unit Bravo know about the results (thinks for half a second about not saying anything, but she could never hide anything like this from them) and then refuses to discuss them at all.

It is what it is. If there is nothing that can be done to change it—and it has been made very clear to her that there is nothing that can be done, not about this—then there is no point in wasting time and energy thinking about it.

Because if she starts thinking about it, she’s not sure what she will do.

If she starts thinking about it, it’ll be back to the apartment, back to the rain, back to that other warehouse.

And if she starts thinking about it, she’s going to have to think about how all the reasons she had for wanting to turn in the first place are still there. They have not gone anywhere, except that now she has no way to deal with them.

She’s not sure if she feels numb or if she only wishes she did.

She thinks about it, anyway, whenever her gaze falls on the faint, jagged marks on her wrist, paler than the light brown of her skin.

For years she’d almost forget the scar was there, the memories associated with it pushed back to the deep corners of her mind. Now it seems to exert a gravitational pull of its own, drawing her sight to it without her permission.

She thinks about it whenever she remembers—and she remembers it often these days, can’t seem to pull the thought from her mind—that the blood in her veins is not her own. The whole of her body has been made into a foreign object; unrecognizable, enactor of violence upon itself.

The nightmares are worse than they’ve ever been.

—

It takes three days for Nate to bring it up: he’d been waiting for her to do it first.

He does it as gently as ever, as softly as ever. With a kiss to her forehead and hands seeking her skin, brushing down her arms. Perhaps hoping his touch would soothe the sting.

He seems almost apologetic, as though she could break at any moment.

Who’s to say she won’t?

“Joonam,” he whispers. “Will you tell me what’s on your mind?”

(Joonam, he calls her.

He calls her many things in many different languages, but this is the one he always, always comes back to.

Mi vida, she calls him.

Not as often as he does—she was never one for pet names—but often enough.

The thought forms before she can crush it: it seems almost cruel, now, that they’ve dug so deep to call each other my life when he will outlive her by an infinite amount.)

And the look in his eyes makes her want to cry all over again. He’s pleading with her, keeping the emotion from his voice but it’s clear in the way he looks at her.

Fuck, this won’t work.

She can’t keep doing this. She can’t do what she always does, not with this.

Because being with Nate has never been easy.

It has been many things—it has been love and passion and comfort and truth, but it has never been easy or painless. It has never been natural or effortless or uncomplicated.

They don’t fit together like that.

What it has been is a choice, constant and conscious. A choice to go against her instincts—her instincts that tell her to hide, to never stop moving, to raze what’s left and never look back—and open herself up in ways that leave her raw and exposed but so vibrantly, painfully alive.

(A choice that she’d been willing to make for the rest of eternity, even if it never got easier.

A choice that he makes for her, too.)

Poke around in the wound to dig the bullet out.

Her instincts tell her to pull back, and there are words on the tip of her tongue that she swallows down.

Slowly, she takes one of his hands in hers, brings it to her mouth to brush a delicate kiss against his knuckles.

“I will,” she says, eyes closed. If she opens them the words might not come out. “We’ll talk about it, I promise. Just—give me a little time, please. Just a little time.”

Nate breathes out a sigh that sounds like relief drowned in concern.

“Of course,” he says. “Anything you need.”

—

The water in the bathtub has cooled around them; the steam dissipated long ago.

Even in the cooling air, they have not moved in a while: Eva leans back against Nate’s chest with her eyes closed, his arms wrapped loosely around her as he presses sweet, barely-there kisses to the birthmarks on her shoulders. He follows paths he has mapped and memorized countless times before, ones that feel familiar on her skin.

Ones that should be soothing.

As slowly as ever, Nate lets his kisses trail up the side of her neck. They are soft, featherlight; his lips ghost over the multiple marks that have accumulated there before lavishing her with an attention that makes her shiver.

For the longest time, this was something he would not allow himself.

For the longest time, he would shy away from Eva’s neck as though burnt, and the first time he let her see the fear in his eyes as his fingertips traced the line of her throat is a moment that remains imprinted on her mind.

(She took his hand and pressed it more firmly against the side of her neck, against the beating pulse there. Gentle, almost as gentle as he always was with her—and always offering him the choice to draw back. He almost stopped breathing, but his eyes never left hers, and that single instant stretched out into moments, into something she still struggles to name.)

A lifetime seems to have passed since then.

He does not shy away from it now. Not now.

“I wish we could stay like this,” Eva murmurs.

Just this, right here.

A single moment, endless. One where nothing else matters or even exists. One where the thoughts that have been plaguing her have no power or importance.

“We can,” Nate whispers in return. His breath is warm, still close to her skin, and he follows it with another kiss directly over her pulse. “As long as you want to.”

She lets out a sigh. It would be so easy.

God, so easy.

So easy it’s terrifying.

The temptation to never talk about it again hasn’t gone away.

But thoughts become corrosive. They seep into every last piece of her sanity that she’s tried to keep safe. Into every dream and every waking moment until nothing, nothing remains untainted.

The way she flinches when she sees the scar, when she barely paid attention to it before. The way she looks at herself in the mirror and finds flaws she hadn’t noticed, the way she sometimes wants nothing more than to open her skin and drain out the blood to get it all out. Maybe that would help.

No, it would not be that easy.

“Not that long,” she forces herself to say. The words are always stuck in her throat, and they will not come out on their own. “Not forever.”

Nate’s kisses stop, and the briefest moment of tension tightens his embrace—something Eva might not have noticed if she didn’t know him like she does. But he speaks into the crook of her neck, tenderness the only thing in the softness of his voice. “Do you want to talk about it now?”

It has only been a few days since he’d mentioned it.

“I don’t think I’ll ever want to talk about it,” Eva admits. “But I have to stop acting like it’s something we don’t have to talk about.”

She sighs again, sinking further against him. Her own hands come to rest on his arms, wrapping them more tightly around her. “I just don’t know what to do. Where do we go from here?”

Nate hums, a soft sound she’s come to recognize as a contradictory mix of subtle exasperation and patience, tempered by love and concern. She’s been on the receiving end of it more than a few times. “We’ll get to that part. Let’s take it one thing at a time.”

Unspoken: For now, just tell me how you feel.

Also unspoken (because it has been spoken too many times): You don’t have to solve everything by yourself. You don’t have to solve everything right away.

He knows her too well.

It makes her want to cry, that he knows her this well.

“I just never thought about this.” Didn’t think it wouldn’t work. “I didn’t even consider it.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. Small. So fucking defeated.

Because if she can’t do anything—

“None of us did,” Nate says, and that cuts deep, too.

He does not have defeat in his voice like she does, but the barely concealed pain is enough to make her eyes sting.

The fact that he’s trying to conceal it at all.

For her sake.

Dammit, Nate.

Because if she can’t do anything, then what’s left?

(“Nate, I don't get to have a normal life.” She’d been trying not to raise her voice, to rein in the tremor in her words. Trying, and failing. “Not with this blood, not with these scars. Not with everything that's happened to me already. Do you think anyone can be normal after that?”

One of the many times they’d argued about this. He had tried, wanted to show her value in humanity that she could never see.

He’d turn back, he’d choose to be human, to be mortal, if only he could.

“Even if I could have that,” she’d added, more quietly. “I don’t want it. If this all went away, what do you think would be left of me?”)

She shifts in his arms, turns around until she can face him.

“I wanted this, Nate.” She lifts a hand to close her fingers around the pendant that hangs from her neck, the one she never takes off, the one he gave her. She closes them so tightly her nails dig into her palm. “I wanted us, like this, forever. I wanted it so much I don’t know how to be anything else anymore. Nothing else makes sense even if I try.”

Nate covers her hand with his own, both closed around the pendant. He hesitates before speaking, examining her with eyes that betray the depth of feeling in them, but eventually, he does. “I know nothing can dull the pain of having the choice taken from you,” he says, careful, too careful. He’s been through this. “I know that. I would give everything I have to spare you that hurt.”

“But I’m—” A soft breath escapes his lips, something that is not intentional, something that is far less controlled. “I’m not going anywhere. I will make that promise a thousand times over. It will still be… it can still be forever, for you. You still have us. You still have me.”

“And you’ll just watch? You’ll watch me get older, weaker, god knows what else? You’ll be okay with that? With watching me die?”

The questions leave her mouth like bullets, one after the other.

Harsh. Too raw. The things neither of them wants to hear.

She’s the one panicking, now.

She’s said this before.

And Nate flinches, flinches at the bluntness of it—she wants to take it back at that, even when she knows it has to be said—but it does not make his voice waver when he speaks. “I love you,” he says, as though that answers all her questions. “Nothing can change that. Every second you’ve chosen to give me has been something precious, something I have treasured, and it will continue to be, no matter what.”

One of his hands moves to tangle in the wet locks of her hair. To hold her in place, staring into the depth of his brown eyes, eyes that reflect back the same hurt she feels even if he will not say it.

“Before we talked about this, before you decided to turn, I—I knew I might not have you forever. I didn’t dare to hope I would, didn’t dare to think of it. But loving you is worth any pain that might come from it.”

Her throat constricts, and the emotion in Nate’s voice dulls the edge she’d imparted to her words. Of course Nate would say this. Of course he would think this, would feel this.

He would break himself to keep her.

He would break himself for her, without even a hint of hesitation.

(I won’t do that to you. She’d said that.)

She looks away, blinking to get rid of the tears that prickle at her eyes. She fixes her stare on the edge of the bathtub: gleaming, burnished copper misted over with condensation.

Instead of following that line of thought—she doesn’t trust herself to—she grasps at something else. Something that stabs with equal force at her chest.

It sounds like someone else speaking when she says, “I don’t want to be less than you.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the way he frowns.

“Being human doesn't make you less, Eva.” Nate is resolute, his voice firm even in its warmth, echoes of a recurring argument neither of them had ever won.

“But it does,” she counters, voice cracking and desperate, turning her face back to meet his eyes. “Don’t you see it? It does, and it will always feel that way. I already have to try so hard just to keep up. What happens when I can’t anymore? What happens when my body gives up, when I'm too slow, too weak to go on missions?”

Why won’t he see it?

She has tried. Tried to make up for her lack of abilities, for her humanity. She has tried to attenuate it, to make sure it does not become a burden.

She has learned combat from Morgan and Adam, spent hours upon hours in the training room with them until she can barely stand, until Adam smiles at her after a well-placed hit, until Morgan throws a towel for her to catch and there’s nothing but pride in the look she gives her.

She has studied the supernatural world in every way she can; submerged herself in it, let it coat every cell of her body and every neuron in her brain.

It is what she breathes.

And she’s been forced out of it.

“That still wouldn’t make you less, nothing could.” The affection, the love in his voice burns. “There is so much more to you than what you can do.”

She shakes her head.

“I swore I wouldn’t be a burden to this team. And you know how I am, Nate, I couldn’t bear—I don’t want to get left behind. And I will. You’ll keep on being who you are and I… won’t.”

The tears aren’t pricking at her eyes anymore. They are falling.

The words aren’t stuck in her throat anymore.

“Everything I told you I didn’t want, all of it, that’s going to happen and there’s nothing I can do about it. And I have this thing inside me that’s making it all happen and my body isn’t mine anymore. I don’t get a say in any of it.”

She leans forward to rest her head on his shoulder, seeking the comfort of his touch even when it won’t, it can’t be enough. Not for this.

She is instantly enveloped in his arms, drawing her closer against him.

“I’m sorry, mi vida,” she whispers against his skin. “I just don’t know what to do.”

“I’m sorry, too,” he answers, quiet, almost too quiet, into her hair.

And there is a thought.

Because if there is nothing she can do—

But this is one she refuses to even entertain. To acknowledge.

I won’t do that to you.

She’d said that.

#the wayhaven chronicles #nate sewell #oc: eva #qbwrites #qbwritestwc

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alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer · 3 years

Text

i am not a hero pt 2: all will be well

Part 1 | Fanfiction Masterlist | AO3

A/N: Sorry this took so long! Warnings: descriptions of racism, mentions of alcoholism

"Thank the angel you're all here," Cordelia exhaled as she arrived in the room about the Devil's Tavern. "Have you heard? Alastair was-" She stopped herself as she surveyed the room, registering the looks the Merry Thieves were giving her. "Oh, no. No, no, no." She turned to James. "Tell me you didn't have anything to do with this."

"Daisy-"

"Tell me!"

"I can't lie to you."

She stumbled backwards, her heart shattered. James reached for her, but she protested. "No! Don't touch me! You can’t lie to me? All you have done is lie, apparently. You didn't... You didn't even tell me... I thought we were doing this together... I was such a fool.”

"Cordelia, you know we had to keep it from you," Matthew explained. "You're rather... overprotective."

She laughed. "Overprotective? I care for him, Matthew, because he's my brother. I know him as well as I know myself, though I understand if that's confusing for you, seeing as you've never had a brother worth caring for."

"Cordelia," James said sternly, a warning. "We understand that you're upset-"

"Upset? You have betrayed me! You could have told me the truth, and I would have helped you. I would have shown you alibi, I would proven to you with evidence that it was not him-"

"If there is evidence, it will be presented before the courts, and all will be well."

"You don't get it! You don't. You- I thought all this time that it was me. That I didn't understand the world or society or friendship or... marriage because I was raised isolated from the Clave by an inattentive, narcissistic drunkard." She enunciated each other her final words with all of the vitriol she'd been suppressing since her father arrived in London. "But I was wrong. It was you. You all... You live in a fantasy world, one that your parents created for you. And that's fine. that's good for you, I'm glad that the people in your life were capable and willing to do that for you. But the world does not work the same for all of us."

"Really, Cordelia? You wish to speak of the world and how it works for -- and against -- each of us?" Matthew challenged.

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Whatever do you mean, Matthew?”

“You, what? Don’t believe we know what it’s like to be prejudiced against? Would you have said the same while Alastair himself was ridiculing James for his parentage or me for my… presumed sexual proclivities?”

Cordelia gawked. "That was over four years ago, Matthew! He said foolish things and he regrets them, yet you continue to live in the past. Not only do you hold mistakes you all made as children over his head, but you dare compare your experience to his? You can go anywhere, do anything, without anyone knowing what you do with your nights. Perhaps you wear that carnation, but you can take it off, Matthew. So, James’ eyes are golden. Tell me, James, when you were eight years old, were you kicked out of the general store because the townspeople believed you to be stealing for no reason other than your golden eyes?”

James was silent.

“So, please, tell me again how you understand what it’s like to walk in my brother’s shoes.” She turned back to Matthew. “You were given everything, Matthew. You have all the money you could ever dream of. Your parents love you unconditionally. You choose to live your life openly. Perhaps you should not need to choose, but you do, and it is a privilege to be able to make such a choice so freely, knowing that you will continue to be safe and cared for. Not everyone has such luxuries. My brother no longer even has a choice; you have taken it from him."

Silence had fallen over the room. The boys had always understood that they were very lucky in life, just as they had understood, on some level, the ways that their parents had been unlucky. However, it was easy to live a lucky life and forget to consider how those around oneself may not afford the same privileges. James looked to her finally. "What... What do you mean by that? What choice?”

She turned to him with a blank expression, then sighed. "I suppose the whole Clave will know soon, anyways. As you know, with the memory magic being used, the Clave needs alibis. Alastair has only got one, and I can’t imagine it will end well for him." She turned to Matthew and sighed, "You and your brother have been given everything. I have no doubt in my mind that Charles will not be held at all responsible for the realities of their affair. He will continue with his life unscathed, to marry whomever he chooses, to obtain any position he chooses, to live whatever life he chooses, just as James would have even if he had not married me. Because that is how the world works. Alastair will be seen as the one who persuaded him into such proclivities.” She paused before muttering under her breath, “Not to mention that I haven't the slightest idea of what will happen when my father learns the truth.” She took a breath and continued, “So, to make a long story short, James, no, I do not believe all will be well.”

“Cordelia,” he started, “you must believe that we had no intention of exposing anyone’s personal affairs. It was not personal at all; we are only trying to put an end to this mess.”

“Well, congratulations, James. An innocent man has been arrested, your killer still walks free, and my family is in ruins. I believe you have accomplished quite a lot.” Her eyes scanned the room. Matthew looked to be in a state of shock, Christopher in confusion, but her eyes settled on Thomas, his head hung low, his face turned away. “I… I may not have expected this, but I can believe it well enough. But, you, Thomas? How could you?”

He looked up at her, tears on his flushed cheeks. “Cordelia, I-”

“Tell me, was any of it real? Did you ever truly intend to be my brother’s friend, or was it all just ploy for your little detective game?”

He shook his head. “Sort of, at first, but-”

“I trusted you!” She yelled before restraining her anger. “He trusted you. After everything, after Charles and- I thought that finally, finally my brother had someone in his life who was kind and gentle and caring. Someone honest and trustworthy, but it was all a lie. You used him, too.”

“Cordelia, I- I’m so sorry.”

“You are not who I thought you were." Her words echoing ones that Thomas had once spoken. Unlike Thomas,’ however, her realization held no trace of anger or upset. No, her words were spoken only in true fear.

Seemingly finished with the boys’ stunned silence, she took a breath. “If you will excuse me, I must take my leave. James, my mother and I shall be staying at the Institute for the time being, so it would be in your best interest to avoid it as much as possible. There’s not much of a point in continuing this sham of a marriage, seeing as I haven’t got a reputation to save, so I will write to the Consul first thing tomorrow morning requesting a divorce. Then, you shall have what you always dreamed: you will be rid of my family and I forever.”

“Wait-” James cried, his voice breaking.

“You are dead to me, James Herondale.”

Without waiting for a reply, she darted out of the room.

The four boys were left, staring at one another. Thomas unsuccessfully attempted to stifle his tears while James looked to be on the verge of a complete breakdown, his torso trembling.

“What, are you two bloody heartbroken now?” Matthew mused.

Thomas slammed his fist on the table loud enough to alert the whole establishment. “Fuck, Matthew! Shut up!”

“Thomas, you found the bloodied dagger and Ms. Highsmith’s necklace in his bedroom yourself. We saw him walking around downtown the nights of the Gladstone and Beauvale murders. Whatever Cordelia claims, I truly don’t think we’re wrong about this.”

“And what if we are?” Thomas challenged.

“It could have been planted,” Christopher offered. “And there could be many reasons that he was out those nights. After all, we were, too.”

“Which reasons, Christopher? Have you ever seen him in a bar? He doesn’t even drink. He’s hardly more than a lowly shut-in.”

“His father does,” James said quietly.

Matthew glared. “What?”

“His father drinks. I don’t… I don’t know a lot about it all, but it would follow that if Elias were out drinking again and did not come home, Alastair would be the one to go out looking for him.”

Matthew groaned. “Fine, if we are truly pursuing this, then what? We’ve got maybe half a day if we’re lucky before Alastair is to go before the Mortal Sword.”

“Then we have half a day to find the true culprit,” Thomas announced, regaining his resolve.

“If Alastair is our only lead at the moment, we must pursue it,” Kit offered. “Who could have planted it on him? What motive would they have to frame him? Who would have had access to his bedroom?”

“Well, I can answer one of your questions,” Matthew said nonchalantly. “Who wouldn’t want to frame Alastair Carstairs for murder?”

“Matthew, if you’re not going to be helpful, please be quiet,” Thomas said in his usual gentle but stern manner, though the complete opposite of the last time he’d asked his friend to be quiet. “Sona is nearly always home; it would be very difficult for someone to enter the house uninvited and not be seen. As Matthew put it, Alastair is a bit of a shut-in, but he’s clearly been going out more, especially at night, since his father has returned. Sona’s been having trouble sleeping as of late, though, so even getting access to his bedroom at night would be difficult. They’ve only one servant, Risa, so there’s truly not many folks moving about the house regularly.”

“Since when are you on a first-name basis with Mrs. Carstairs?” Christopher commented in confusion, and Thomas blushed.

“What do you recommend, then?” Matthew asked.

“Kit is correct, it’s our only lead. We must return to Cornwall Gardens. If we’re lucky, they may have left something behind, or perhaps there’s some sort of record of visitors to the house.”

James looked uneasy. “This seems wrong. Maybe we can still go after Cordelia-”

“There’s no time, James,” Thomas admitted. “She’s too angry with us. I’m no happier about it than you are, but if there is any way that we could possibly fix this, we must do it.”

He nodded. “Let’s go, then.”

“Won’t there be people at the house?” Christopher asked. “The sun has not even set yet.”

Thomas sighed. “Cordelia is taking Sona to the Institute, and I’d imagine Risa is accompanying them, at least for the initial journey until she is settled. Elias is just a risk we’ll have to take.”

As they ventured out, however, they were not even out the doors of the tavern before Thomas stopped in his tracks. If looks could kill, Matthew would have murdered Thomas several times over by now. “Elias is here,” he whispered.

“What?” James narrowed his eyes.

“One of us should stay here and keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn’t return to Cornwall Gardens until it’s been cleared. Besides, I don’t want him interfering with Cordelia’s plans, either.”

“Are you volunteering, then?” Matthew asked.

Thomas thought for a moment. “I suppose so. I’ve done my searching already; it’s better to have some fresh eyes. You and James know the layout of the house well enough.”

“Very well,” Christopher declared. “Thomas, I shall send you a magical letter when we are finished at the Carstairs residence.”

Thomas narrowed his eyes with worry. “Please don’t. I’m rather weary of fire.”

“Nonsense. The fire’s not important; it’s a magical letter.”

“It’s a magical letter that you send by lighting it on fire! It should be called a fire letter!”

“Fire letter,” Christopher hummed. “No, that’s not quite right. No, fire message! I shall send you a fire message, Thomas!”

“Alright,” Thomas whined. “You all should go, we haven’t got much time.”

“Thomas, are you sure you want to stay here?” James asked.

“I’ll be fine. He’s a drunk; I’d be surprised if he even stood up before you lot were finished. I just want to make sure.”

James gave him a short nod, and they took their leave. Thomas settled down at a corner table, pulling out a notebook from his pocket and pretending to be fixated on it while he kept his eye on Elias at the bar.

Just his luck, and much to his surprise, Elias stood to leave not long after the rest of the Merry Thieves had departed. Thomas waited for a moment after he left, and then went out after him. He stepped out onto the street, looking for a sign of where Elias had gone, but he quickly saw only darkness as a cloth was wrapped around his eyes and nose and he was subdued, quickly losing consciousness.

A/N: I also just wanted to clarify a couple of things, I believe that the Clave will come to certain conclusions and Charles will not refute them, not that he would create the lies himself. These conclusions make sense to me, not only because Charles is a white boy who is seen as an “insider” (which they would try to rationalize), but because orientalist beliefs have hypersexualized the Middle East for centuries, associating MENA with “deviant” male homosexuality. This is believed to be one of the (many) reasons queerness is rejected so thoroughly in the MENA today, and I think it’s important to consider how ideas like orientalism impacted lives in historical fiction, although the concept had not been coined or studied yet.

taglist (lmk to be added!): @littlx-songbxrd

#cw alcoholism #cw racism #cordelia carstairs #alastair carstairs #thomas lightwood #james herondale #fanfiction #fanfic #anti charles fairchild #anti elias carstairs #carstairs sibling supremacy

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midnightseonghwa · 4 years

Text

𝐌𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐤.𝐡𝐣

𝐖𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐀𝐮 - 𝟏

✕𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Witch!Hongjoong x Heart broken!Reader ft. Cat Shiter Familiar!San

✕𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: Magic, Halloween, Witch Au

✕𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.0k+

✕𝐏𝐥𝐨𝐭: Hongjoong finds himself lonely, working day in day out to make human money. But what happens when someone comes into his workplace and asks for a temporary fix? Only Hongjoong knows how to make it permanent. Alternatively: “To taste a poison as sweet as love and the mist that clouds your sense.”

✕𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Mentions of physical abuse (not from Hongjoong though). Hongjoong is a little softie at first. Love at first sight and ‘I love you’s are exchanged quite fast. Slight obsessive themes towards the end, he takes a advantage of your broken heart and mentions of magic...because it is a witch au.

✕𝐄𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬: Unedited

✕𝐀/𝐍: This took me three days to write and a reupload but I’m finally here. Okay, welcome to the first installation of the Wonderland Halloween Au series! I’m so excited so please don’t let this flop :(... Do remember that this fiction and I don’t actually see Ateez in this way. I know this is different from my conventional tooth-rotting fluff but I’ve always wanted to dabble in a bit of fantasy au-s. I hope you like it as much as I do!

✕𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @pancakes-for-teddy

✕𝐀𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜: Here

As Hongjoong fake smiled at the customer and turned around to make yet another damned pumpkin spice latte, he found himself hating this part of the year more than any other.

It was a curse in all its worth to live in the human world, having to make mortal money. But no matter how much Hongjoong cursed his existence, he took slight comfort in the fact that at least he wasn't on the street starving and dying.

"Here you go, miss," he smiled and handed the paper cup to the lady and moved onto the next customer. It had been the same routine for the last few years Hongjoong had been cursed to the mortal world by his witch coven and it was getting boring, to say the least.

"Next customer, please," he said and tapped the register before looking up at you standing in front of him.

"What can I get for you today?" He asked after you didn't utter a word and just stared at the menu while fiddling with your hands. Your face was covered with a grey hood, and all Hongjoong wanted to do was yank it down and hex you for taking so long.

"Why don't you wait on the side while I take the rest of the orders?" He suggested, and a chorus of agreements for you to step out of the line was heard from the back.

"When you're done deciding, I'll help you out."

With that, he saw you move out the line and get cursed by the obnoxious and uptight people behind you, who were probably running late for their "important" meetings.

After shuffling about and preparing drinks behind the counter, he finally saw you stand in front of the register and right the little bell that was kept there to attract his attention.

"Are you finally ready to order?" He asked and you muttered a low 'yes' in response.

"What will you be having today?" He said and watched in annoyance as you brought your hands up to your hood and lowered it down to reveal your face.

"Just a black coffee, please. As strong as possible." Your voice was small and almost came out as a whisper. All the ill-will that Hongjoong had harboured against you vanished the moment he saw your blotchy face with dried tear streaks and small cuts.

"I'll get right on it," he said and mustered up a genuine smile, with his teeth showing.

You took out a crumpled note from your hoodie pocket and thrust it into Hongjoong's hand who just smiled at you again and put it in the tip jar, claiming your coffee was on the house.

When he stepped behind to attend to your drink, he made sure to provide extra attention to it. It looked like you had been through a rough day and all Hongjoong wanted at that moment was to make you feel better with his coffee. His coffee, crafted by his hands, made only for you.

An odd feeling churned at the bottom of his stomach as he lidded the paper cup and carrying it towards the end of the counter.

"Here you go. Strongest black coffee I could prepare," he said and you gave him a thankful nod.

You turned to leave, pulling your hood back over your head before Hongjoong called you out.

"Listen!"

You stopped in your tracks and shifted to face him. His red hair was falling into his wide eyes as he called out to you.

You approached him slowly and looked up to meet his eyes. They were a burnt umber colour, almost a warm reddish-brown and you found yourself getting slightly lost in them.

"If you don't mind," he started and you backed away a little, knowing how this would go. He was surely going to ask you for your number and you had no intention of giving it.

"What exactly happened? Who made you so sad that you couldn't sleep?"

The question startled you. You thought you had washed your face enough times to get rid of any lasting evidence but it seemed as if you were wrong.

"I-" you mulled over your words. Was it really alright to dump your problems on the barista of your local cafe?

"I stayed up all night fighting with my boyfriend," you admitted sadly and looked down at your hands that were clutching the coffee cup.

"Oh," Hongjoong frowned and felt that odd churning at the bottom of his stomach. Only this time, it was more fierce.

"It's not a problem, really. He just tends to get angry really quickly," you said and shrugged your shoulders as if it was no big deal.

Hongjoong didn't say anything but he had a small inkling as to what you were going through. While he may not have an immediate fix for it, he thought of something that would help.

"Hey, San!" He shouted and you watched as a lanky black-haired boy trudged out from the kitchen area.

"Can you please pack two cookies from the display case," he said and the boy meekly nodded before going off to do his task.

"I'm not sure of how much it will help..." Hongjoong trailed off and gave you a small knowing smile.

"But, I assure you, for as long as I have been living in the mortal world, I have never found any other cookie better than this."

You furrowed your eyebrows at his comment.

'Mortal world'?

Deciding to ignore it nonetheless, you lowly thanked the red-haired man in front of you before taking the paper bag out of San's hand, exiting the cafe.

As you soon as you exited, San clutched Hongjoong's hand and dragged him back to the kitchen area.

"I know what you're thinking," he said and Hongjoong watched the lanky boy turn back into his cat form and jump into his witch's arms.

"And what exactly am I thinking?" Hongjoong mused and raised one of his eyebrows, petting San's black fur and scratching behind his ears.

The cat hissed and bared its teeth at the witch who just laughed and ushered the cat back onto the floor.

"Sometimes San," he started and untied his apron, hanging up on one of the hooks, "You're too smart for your own good."

Hongjoong inhaled the scent of burning sage as he opened the door to his apartment with a small opening incantation. You could never really be too sure with these pesky humans. All pesky...except you.

Ever since Hongjoong's interaction with you at the cafe, he had set his heart on making you feel better, even if it does create a small dent in his supplies.

"San!" He called out once again and the cat made its appearance in front of him at once.

"Come on," Hongjoong said and stood in front of his bedroom door, muttering a quick spell before turning the handle and walking in.

The room was lined with wooden shelves from top to bottom with all types of witchy paraphernalia.

"Really? You're going to make that pesky human a potion?"

The cat turned boy was now leaning against the back wall, watching his owner word about his brewing room with a certain determination he had never seen before.

"Why not?" He said and dropped strawberry leaves along with a few dried jasmine flowers in a pot that was situated in the middle.

Hongjoong stood on one of the stools searching the higher shelves before he turned to San.

"We're out of willow barks," he said and San rolled his eyes before pushing himself off the wall and exiting the room through the window in cat form.

Hongjoong bustled about the room, adding different elements to the pot which had now turned an ugly black mixture.

Throwing in some dried butterfly wings and yarrow flowers, he sat down in the corner and waited for San to come back with his bark.

The night wind whistled through the room and Hongjoong's idle thoughts floated back to you. Even in your miserable state, he thought you mesmerising and while he wouldn't call it love at first sight, it was definitely love at first sight.

Everything about you set Hongjoong's nerves on fire with some kind of aphrodisiac. The poison of love slowly making its way through his system, flushing out all negative thoughts and replacing them with happy ones instead.

San meowed as he made an appearance in front of Hongjoong and dropped the willow bark into the pot. The potion turned a sweet dark pink and Hongjoong tipped the entire thing into a vial before shifting back to his room with a snap of his fingers.

When Hongjoong saw you next, he was more than prepared. But what he wasn't prepared for was for you to be in a worse situation than you were previously. The tear streaks had turned into cuts and the puffy eyes had turned into black-purple bruises that peeked out from under your makeup.

"What happened?" Hongjoong whispered and ghosted his fingers over a particularly nasty bruise. You flinched back and closed your eyes, thinking he was going to do exactly what your boyfriend did to you. Instead, he lightly caressed your cuts with his fingers, almost butterfly-like touches that you made you want to press your face into his hands.

"Was it him again?" He asked from behind the counter, leaning forward a bit to make sure that no one heard him.

You didn't say anything, the words getting horribly stuck in your throat. But your silence was answer enough for him.

"What's your name?" He asked and your eyes widened.

"(Y/n)," you whispered and looked down at your fiddling hands.

"Well, (y/n). My name is Hongjoong," he said and pointed to the small enamel plate pinned on his apron.

You nodded and gave him the most genuine smile you could muster in your state.

"Now, I'll make you some coffee and we're going to sit at that table over there and talk. Is that alright with you?" He asked and you nodded once again, hair covering your eyes a little.

He painted fingernails brushed the hair out of your face and shooed you out of the line with a sweet grin before turning around to make your coffee.

Slipping the small vile out of his apron pocket, he tipped in a capful of the potion he had concocted and watched as it slowly fizzled pink inside the blackish-brown liquid before settling down.

He set a small cookie on the saucer of your cup and set it down in front of you while seating himself in the opposite chair.

"How long has it been going on?" He said and you choked a little on the hot liquid, not expecting him to cut right through the chase.

"This is the second time," you responded, nibbling on your cookie.

Hongjoong didn't say a word. Except, he motioned for you to continue with your coffee while he just sat opposite you, admiring the way you looked so perfect. Save for the injuries here and there.

Slowly sipping the caffeinated liquid, you felt it soothe your oesophagus as it gushed down and settled in the pit of your stomach. The feeling was warm and it was almost as if it was temporarily fixing all your problems.

Oh, if only you knew.

"Do you like it?" Hongjoong asked and you nodded enthusiastically, the bitterness of it still stinging your tastebuds.

"There's something very flowery about it," you said and Hongjoong just gave you another one his innocent smiles before letting out a sheepish laugh.

"It's a special type of bean we get imported," he said and you completely believed it.

The conversation stopped there as Hongjoong had to go back to work. Picking up your now empty cup, he greeted you with a soft goodbye which you returned as you exited the cafe and walked down the street. It was a puzzling revelation to you but you found yourself feeling much better; half a heartbreak almost cured.

"You're falling in love with her, aren't you," San hissed from his corner in the room as Hongjoong grabbed the butterfly wings from his shelf and placed them on his work station.

"Absolutely... yes," Hongjoong said and smiled at his table that was scattered with handwritten notes for you. All declaring his love like some Romeo lost in time and oh, how jealous Juliette would be.

San sighed and turned back into his cat form, jumping up onto his witch's tables and scratching through some of the letters Hongjoong had written.

"Hey!" Hongjoong yelled and threw his body over the paper to shield them from San's claws.

"Mind your paws," he said and San just trudged off the table with an indecent flick of his black tail.

Over the past few weeks, Hongjoong and you had gotten close. It was finally yesterday when the last straw of his healing potion had worked and you broke out the courage to dump your stupid boyfriend and report him for abuse.

With him rotting in prison, you had a lot of time on your hand and what better way to spend it than with your precious Joongie.

"Why are you even making her another healing potion? Didn't (Y/n) dump the guy already?" San asked as he slinked over one of the chairs, his legs jutting over the arms.

"Silly kitty," Hongjoong started and San hissed in reply, baring his teeth.

"This," he gestured to the pot and then smiled, "Is not a healing potion anymore. It's a love potion."

At Hongjoog's words, San jerked straight up and looked at him with wide eyes.

"Are you serious?"

Hongjoong scoffed as he neatly folded his handwritten letters and placed them under one of the jars.

"Yes, very. I am very serious about my love for (Y/n). Now hand me the scissors."

San rolled his eyes and passed the scissors which Hongjoong used to cut up the rosed into small fragments of petals.

Flinging the roses into the boiling potion in the pot along with some bay leaves and lavender, his heart bubbled with excitement at the deep red colour it took on.

Taking all of his handwritten letters, he shredded them to pieces before adding them to the pot as well.

San and Hongjoong both moved away from the pot as it bubbled furiously and then shot out a bloody red mist in the air.

Hongjoong inhaled deeply while San hacked a cough here and there, changing into his cat form to hide from the poisonous mist.

Tipping the final step of his plan into a vile, he stored it safely in his jacket pocket for tomorrow before stepping out of the room.

"Good morning Joongie," you piped as you smiled at the red-haired boy in front of you.

"(Y/n)," he acknowledges and taps the screen of the register before clapping excitedly.

"Oh! We just got some new tea that I would love for you to try," he said and ushered you to one of the tables before getting behind the counter to prepare your tea.

Setting the prepared drink under your nose, you marvelled at the gorgeous colour. The way the sun hit just right to make the red seem almost pink and the way the steam from the cup had taken on a misty red hue.

"What is this called?" You asked and Hongjoong laughed, setting himself down in the opposite chair.

"It's a love potion," he said and you laughed, thinking he was joking.

"Well, let's hope it's my lucky day and I fall in love with the one I'm looking for," you joked back but Hongjoong just frowned and fiddled with his hands nervously.

Did you like someone else?

"Drink up," he said and you pushed the cup to your lips, drinking in all of the liquid at once.

Hongjoong almost squealed in excitement but he contained it and reached out to stroke your hand with his thumb instead.

"You know, (y/n). There's something I've been meaning to tell you," he started and watched with bubbling ecstasy as he saw your pupils dilate with a reddish tint before returning to normal.

"Go on," you smiled and clutched his hand. The rings felt cool against your skin and a slight buzz between both your hands caused your skin to tingle.

It was a refreshing feeling; the feeling of cliche love.

"I... I really like you (Y/n) and I was kind of hoping I could take you out?"

There, he had said it. Hongjoong had confessed the smallest part of his undying love for you.

"Oh..." you trailed off and Hongjoong furrowed his eyebrows.

Did the potion not work?

"Just think about it and let me know. You have my number," he said and got up to continue his work.

You, on the other hand, were at war with your inner self. There was a coworker that you had been crushing on for the last week or so and were planning to ask him out but why a clouding sense of Hongjoong had left you occupied with thoughts of him instead.

The walk back to your apartment was spent in a perplexing self argument. Every time you forced the thought of your coworker in your head, a repulsive feeling washed over you and only Hongjoong's face brought you to ease.

Instead of walking back to your apartment, you circled the playground near it the entire day before a ringing from your pocket interrupted your thoughts.

"I was wondering," you heard Hongjoong's smooth voice over the line and instantly found yourself smiling.

"If you had made up your mind?" He said and you sighed at the fantasy of him whispering 'I love you' to you in that voice. A rosy feeling poured out of your heart and rubbed the part over your chest to ease the excitement that was thrumming under it.

You looked around the playground and watched little children run and play with their parents. Suddenly, the world seemed to take on a rosy mist as if you were viewing it through red-tinted glasses.

"Hongjoong, I-" you spoke but your fingers tingled a little when you heard him laugh over the phone.

"Okay, alright. Take your time. Good night, (Y/n)," he said and hung up. You stood in the middle of the street, blinking as the shit-stained world was revealed to you once again.

Where did all the wonder go?

Your breath hitched as you started taking steps to the cafe, breaking out into a full-on sprint midway.

All the lights of the cafe were closed except for the spotlight on top of the counter. You saw Hongjoong clearing some things and quickly tried to push the glass door, only for it to not budge.

Frantically, you hit your palm against the glass causing Hongjoong to get startled and look up at the source of the noise. You locked eyes with him and it was as if at that moment, it was la vie en rose again.

Hongjoong hurried over from behind the counter, unlocking the door and pulling it open as you pushed from the other side.

Barrelling through the door, you locked your arms around his neck and buried your face into the crook of his neck. You exhaled shakily and Hongjoong almost fainted due to your warm breath that was hitting his neck.

"(Y/n), what happen?" He said and stroked your back with almost the same affection that a mother would give to her sobbing child.

Hongjoong tried to pull back but you only hugged him tighter, winding your arms tighter around his neck and pressing your body into his.

"I-I...I wanted to see you," you exhaled and Hongjoong's heart leapt at your words.

You wanted to see him!

"I'm right here," he said and led you to the back of the cafe where you saw San lazily sipping on a cup of milk.

"Hey (Y/n)- oh," he said and gazed at yours and Hongjoong's intertwined hands.

Hongjoong leaned against the counter next to San who had now shifted back into his cat form, nuzzling into Hongjoong's side.

"Is this your way of saying yes?" He asked and you just giggled. Hongjoong seemed ethereal to you under the rosy mist and his red hair complemented the flowers of love perfectly.

"No, Joongie...let's just skip all the initial formalities. I want it to be just you and me forever," you confessed with absolute determination in your voice and Hongjoong pulled you closer to him at your words.

"(Y/n), I love you," he whispered and San made a gagging noise at the side as Hongjoong yanked on his tail lightly, causing San to yowl and then scatter away.

"Joongie, I love you too."

For the people who said that the honeymoon phase never lasts, you and Hongjoong proved them horribly wrong.

Now, a year and a half into your relationship, you had shifted into Hongjoong's apartment with rosy dreams of marriage, little children or even more cats. You had quite your job, believing Hongjoong's claim about his job being more than enough to support the two of you. You spend your days lazing around the house with San who mostly stayed in his cat form unless he needed to stretch. During those times, instead of San the cat, you would hang out with San, Hongjoong's coworker and friend from the cafe who had decided to pay a visit.

Hongjoong never let you leave the house unless it was with him or unless he had given you an extra-strong cup of tea in the morning. You were perfectly content with being left to your own devices at home, dreaming of Hongjoong and bathing in the love you had for him.

"Here you go, love," Hongjoong said as he handed you the familiar red tea he had deemed a love potion. Over the months, the red tea had become your one source of liquid courage, comfort and support, completely oblivious to its side-effects.

Hongjoong watched you with a lovestruck smile as you sipped the tea he had concocted. Your pupils dilated with a red tint like every other time he had given you the tea, the rosy mist clouding your senses and mind.

An overwhelming amount of love spread through your body like fire as you leaned up to kiss Hongjoong on the lips. The sweet residue of his tea lingering between the two of you before you settled on the sofa to take a small nap.

"(Y/n)," Hongjoong called as he appeared in the doorway all dressed.

"I'm going to the cafe for a bit. Some stock has come in that the boss needs me to run it through."

You sighed dreamily before your eyes opened in panic and shock.

Hongjoong was leaving?

"Joongie, it's your day off. You said you would stay."

The male laughed and walked over to where you were lying down, stroking your cheeks and hair affectionately.

"I promise I'll be back as soon as I can," he said and brought your hand up to place a sugary kiss to it.

He picked up his things and moved to the front door as you launched yourself from the sofa and grabbed onto the back of his shirt.

"No, Joongie, please. I get so lonely and I just- you said you wouldn't go. Today's your day off," you begged and fisted his shirt in both your hands, preventing him from leaving.

Hongjoong felt slightly alarmed but he would be lying if he said he didn't like it. He had never seen you act this way but it was something he wanted to keep.

"Alright (Y/n). I won't go," Hongjoong said and ushered you back into the house, brushing a few stray tears from your face.

"Thank you, Joongie. Can I please have some more tea please?" You asked and pouted, trying to woo the male in front of you.

Needless to say that he was already very whipped for you.

"Of course, my love," he said and moved to kitchen as you attached yourself to him like a koala.

"I love you, Joongie," you said and hugged him tighter, "Promise you won't ever leave me?"

"I love you too, (Y/n) and yes, I promise I'll never leave you."

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bestillmyslashyheart · 4 years

Note

Propmt: Century has passed and the team reunites with Booker... I need some angst and more fics about Booker.

Booker knows there’s someone in his apartment the second he opens the door. There are no obvious signs, no evidence to point to someone having broken in despite the fact that Booker had the only key, but Booker knew. He knew it in his gut, in the way his skin hummed at the other man’s presence. You couldn’t spend hundreds of years in someone’s pocket without gaining some intrinsic awareness of them. So Booker knew there was someone there and he knew who it was before he even got the door closed.

He dropped his keys on the table and put his bags down, kicked off his shoes and hung up his coat and scarf. When he got to the kitchen the other man was exactly where he expected him to be, in the most comfortable chair, drinking Booker’s very expensive coffee.

“Joe,” Booker greeted.

“Booker.”

It had been ten years since they last saw each other, ten years since the situation with Quynh was resolved, ten years since Joe looked him in the eye and said, “Ninety-nine more.”

“You’re early.” Booker fussed with the coffee maker as he made himself a cup. If he was staring at the coffee maker he didn’t have to look at Joe.

“So I am,” Joe remarked idly. He sounded like a stranger. Booker had had decades to familiarize himself with Joe’s behavior and he thought he’d known him as well as anyone other than Nicky could know the man but the person sitting at his table was an unknown.

Joe was silent until Booker sat down. “I have questions.”

Booker exhaled roughly and nodded. “Ask them.” He braced himself for an outburst.

It didn’t come. Joe sipped his coffee calmly and stared him down across the table. “Why did you not say anything?” Booker cocked his head in confusion, caught off guard by the question. “You made a deal with Copley, with Merrick, to turn us over to science. Why didn’t you tell us? Why the scheming and theatrics?”

Booker rubbed at his forehead, his eyes searching the counter tops for the alcohol he’d left there this morning. But the counter was bare and Joe was waiting for an answer. He sipped his coffee. “I didn’t know what the three of you would say,” he confessed. It was a terrible answer, he knew, but it was the truth.

“Something you could have found out by talking to us,” Joe pointed out. “Instead you sold us out, set up and ambush, arranged for Nicky and I to be kidnapped, and for Andy and yourself to be locked up with us.” He tilted his head slightly, like he was trying to view Booker in a different light to see if it revealed any more answers. “Why go to all that trouble if you were planning to reveal yourself as the traitor anyway?”

Booker laughed harshly. “I’m a coward, Joe. I was a coward in my first life and I’ve been a coward in every life since. I wanted to die, I want to die, and that was the first real shot I thought I could have and I didn’t want to bring it to you and have you shut me down.”

Joe shrugged. “You could have gone yourself, handed yourself over to Merrick and his scientists. You didn’t need us. If you wanted to be a lab rat so bad, they would have taken you.”

Booker stared at the table. “They wanted all of us.”

“Only because you told them about us.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Copley already knew?” Booker shrugged. “He got Merrick on board by mentioning a team of unkillable soldiers so Merrick wanted all of us.”

“So it was Copley, not you.” It wasn’t a question and Booker hated Joe for it. He wanted Booker to cast the blame on someone else, to prove that he was still a coward.

“I told Copley,” Booker admitted quietly. “He found me and I told him it was all of us.”

Joe hummed and took a long sip of his coffee. It was apparently the last of it because he stood up and started making another. “Why did you work with Copley in the first place?”

“I told you. I wanted to die.”

“But how could help you? Merrick’s involvement, I understand. He had the resources to perform the science necessary to maybe find answers. But Copley doesn’t. So why Copley?” He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, as his coffee brewed. Booker ached to fidget under his careful but held himself still.

“He came to me,” Booker told him. “Said he wanted to help people and he thought I could help him do it.” He paused to take a sip of his coffee. It had cooled a little, no longer hot enough to burn his mouth, and he briefly considered heating it up again. “That’s what we do right? Try to help people?”

Joe made a considering noise as he sat back down with his full cup. “So Copley reaches out to you, tells you he wants your help helping people, and you sign on without a word to any of us. Then he teams up with a man with too much money and too many scientists and tells you that he could try to find the secret to our immortality and therefore a way to rid us of it and you don’t say a word to any of us. You take this information and you agree to do it but they won’t take you alone so you arrange for us to walk into a trap that Copley records for proof of our gifts, you sell out the location of our safe house and permit them to attack us and kidnap me and Nicky, and you walk Andy straight into the hands of Merrick. All without talking to us.” Joe pauses, giving Booker a chance to contradict him but there was nothing to argue so Booker stayed quiet. “All because you wanted to die.”

“Yes.” Joe shook his head, a breath of a scoff on his lips, and Booker started to get angry. “I made a mistake!” He yelled. “I screwed up. I know this, Joe, I know I did, alright? And I can’t fix it, it’s done and in the past. Now, you had questions so I answered them. I’m sorry they weren’t the answers you were looking for but they’re the only ones I have.”

Joe watched him evenly as he spoke, not reacting in any way. Booker wanted to rage against it, wanted to scream and lash out until Joe responded in kind, but the longer they sat there the more he felt himself calming. When his breaths were even again, when his heart rate had settled, Joe stood up, drained his coffee and placed the cup in the sink. He rinsed it out and set it aside to dry, failing to actually clean it like he always did. Booker almost smiled at the familiarity. But when Nicky failed to appear beside him to wash the cup for him with a huff of annoyed fondness, his heart fell.

Lost in his thoughts, he missed Joe crossing the room. Two hands grabbed the sides of his face and tilted him up to meet Joe’s eyes. “We are not made to be alone,” he said softly but firmly. “You especially.” Booker’s eyes burned. Joe pressed his forehead to Booker’s for a brief moment before pulling back to press a quick kiss to his hairline and stepping back. “We are at the monastery.”

The monastery was Nicky’s favorite safe house, half an hour outside of Genoa. Booker had never asked if it had once been Nicky’s home, before he went to war, but he thought it might be. Even if it wasn’t, it was the closest thing any of them had left of their homes before.

“It hasn’t been 100 years.”

“No,” Joe laughed. “It hasn’t.” He slipped on his jacket and wrapped a handmade scarf around his neck. Booker had never seen the scarf before but he recognized the craftsmanship easily; Andy had never really gotten the hang of knitting not matter how hard she tried. “But you are missed. So it’s time to come home.”

Booker lost the battle against his tears and felt them spill over onto his cheeks. Joe waited a moment to let him wipe them away then came back over. He said nothing until Booker looked up and met his eyes.

“If you ever betray us again, if Nicky ever spends a single second under someone’s knife or in chains because of you, I will make you wish for Quynh’s fate.” Joe spoke slowly and calmly, but there was a fire and a steel in his eyes that told Booker he was serious. More than that, if it ever came to it, Joe wouldn’t hesitate, not for a second.

“Understood.”

“Good.” Joe nodded once. “Take your time. We are not planning to leave any time soon.”

Booker didn’t manage to say anything else before Joe was gone.

---

Booker took three days to gather his things and shutter his life in Paris before heading to Genoa.

He hadn’t had a home in a long time but the familiar steps from the airport to the gates of the rundown monastery settled an inch inside him that he’d grown accustomed to over the last decade. If he had a place to call home in this day and age, it was here, with the people that were inside.

Booker hesitated outside the door. He knew Joe had been the primary factor in his hundred year sentence, knew that Nile had forgiven him that day, knew that Nicky couldn’t stay mad for long, knew that Andy was more forgiving in her mortality, knew that Quynh probably didn’t care one way or another, and yet he hesitated.

He sucked in a shuddering breath and let out a steady exhale, letting his anxiety leave him, his shoulders and back releasing their tension, and opened the door. The steps from the entrance to the rooms they’d converted for their own use was familiar, the walkway worn under his feet.

Halfway there he started to hear voices. First, it was Nile’s laugh, crisp and ringing through the air. It was followed by shouts in three different languages and then more laughter. Booker followed the sound like he was being summoned, his feet no longer fully under his control.

The door was open but he stopped just outside and looked in. Nicky was the only one facing him and he caught sight of him immediately. There was a brief look of surprise before a genuine smile pulled at his lips. He nodded to Booker in greeting. Joe was sitting next to him, arguing something with Nile, and Nicky took his hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles without interrupting the conversation. A moment later, Andy stopped talking to Quynh mid-word and stood, spinning to face the door, her hand on her gun. She froze and lowered the gun. “Book?”

The other conversations ceased immediately, the sudden silence ringing in the air.

“Joe said you were here,” Booker explained. Andy and Nile turned on Joe, disbelief on their faces. Joe shrugged but didn’t offer any explanation. Nicky hadn’t yet let of his hand and squeezed it gently. “I can g-”

“No,” Andy cut him off. “You’re here. Stay.” She started towards him and Booker met her in the middle, their arms going around each other for a hug. “Welcome home, Booker.”

#so this is...not what you asked for...sorry #the old guard #tog fic #booker #sebastien le livre #joe #yusuf al kaysani #idk how to tag them lol #my fic #Anonymous

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soulventure91 · 3 years

Note

has anyone asked for 2 for Diric because i feel like that would be fun, also 26 and 28 owo // TOR: 39 and 63 pls

100 warmup dnd queries!!! [all the OPEN NUMBERS]

Diric

Who in the party would your character trust the most with their life? HNGH okay so technically Diric trusts the entire party with his life - a lot of that is from being in his unit, if you can't trust everyone around you you're more likely to get yourself killed. Diric is also aware due to his mental health issues and the constant waves of stress from being in an adventuring party he doesn't come across as very trustworthy himself (he just. May not be able to clearly voice that at the current time because. Stress.).

All that said, however, his top 3 "if anything happens to me where I am in mortal danger I have a greater than 95% chance confidence they would try to get me out of it (despite the likelihood of other terrible things happening at the same time)" are Zinnan, Lazslo, and Mio. The first two being the heart and soul of the party and trying to protect the others they've collected along the way, not to mention Diric and Zin are both on a similar wavelength when it comes to self-esteem issues. With Mio, Diric's aware that while he might trust Mio a situation could arise where Mio simply can't provide help - especially if Diric is having a mental spell and he just needs to say things but if Mio is hearing it and feels like he has to do something but there's nothing to be done.

What would your character say their best trait would be? You want Diric to say something nice about himself!!!! This self-deprecating fool that will dodge complimenting himself because he doesn't wanna sound like a jerk!!!! /jk jk

Ummmm if he had to pick his best trait, it'd probably be his loyalty. Once Diric selects people to trust he doesn't let them go easy; someone would have to entirely break his heart or reveal they were the exact opposite person he believed them to be to lose any scrap of loyalty to that person. And even then Diric would probably initially doggedly believe that person could get turned around, even if a majority of evidence proves otherwise. Getting him turned against you after being your friend would require a massive personal injury to him directly.

What is currently motivating your character to stay with the party? It's a mix of that dogged loyalty above and remembering from when they first picked him up in Redscree: he asked who was taking the lead and everyone looked at him. Most of how Diric views the party and his role in it is based on that effectively-unified puppy-eyes moment - and part of why, when he's hit with a low confidence moment, Diric takes it very hard on himself that he can't keep up with the people that first looked at him needing leadership and direction for the first time in a very long time. He knows it's not their fault, or even his own. But the spellcasting bunch have stepped up their game and Diric is doing his best to still feel necessary. (even though he absolutely IS he's just a feelsy man on the verge of a double power boost, he just doesn't know that yet.)

Tor

Is there any particular weapon, item, etc. that your character longs to find? Tor won't admit it, but he's at a point in his arcane interests that he absolutely needs an actual wizard's spellbook to look at. Don't get me wrong, Tor is hella smart; like he told Arsen, Tor's been effectively trying to teach himself into becoming a wizard basically since he first went clean from the fight circuit along the Sword Coast. Despite having uncovered the Hunter's Bane and carrying it out on himself and having access to that form of magic, Tor has a slight hunger to understand it more. Maybe then he can understand why his family was murdered by a Red Wizard. Why the wizard showed up at all. Maybe magic could get rid of the last traces of his withdrawals, make him better.

Is your character willing to risk the well-being of others in order to achieve their goal? In the immediate scope of where the party's at and his private affiliations with the Harpers, no. Tor's in the Dale to help the people as best he can. His personal studies are, for the moment, just that. I'm not sure if the arc of the campaign will expose him to having to make a lesser-of-two-evils sort of choice or if he'll just coast.

#THENK U #dungeons and dragons #dnd #dnd: faelethris the talisman #dnd: rime of the frostmaiden #oc: iztoryn arkenrae #oc: diric vajon

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sazzafraz · 3 years

Text

ects snippet one

I don’t see this bit changing a lot so its spoiler freeeeeee

He thinks of acid and bile first. His tongue is on the points of his teeth searching for the stale carrot taste. Dead bodies in a lake almost make him hungry. Like soup, Kyuubi says, now, should add some salt. Naruto thinks of their families and draws from Konoha shinobi standard what he should do next. The Uchiha graves are the only ones he’s seen up close. Found and burned away by his Sasuke years ago, not yet warded against yin spirits. Those small piles had been lumped together too close to the houses at first and then reburied in a Konoha approved location when Sasuke became Konoha’s only Private Citizen. Now they’re done by matrilineal lines and decorated with Uzumaki shells and ribbons from Lightning. When Naruto was asked, allowed, to come Sasuke had him press strawberry seedlings into the ground. Sasuke had been messily eating from a different bowl and had pulp smeared across his mouth and jaw. Then, Naruto had wondered if he was allowed to sweep them away with his tongue, if people did that sort of thing in graveyards. Now Naruto knows that the dead do not appreciate love or lust.

People soup. Naruto counts twice and draws a grid on the shallow shore with his foot.

Monkey Leader is inattentive to Naruto’s actions. He sits between them and their merchants keeping his gaze on the horses. Only one of them likes Naruto. A chestnut mare with a band of white around her mouth and eyes that make her seem mean -she’s downplaying exactly how vicious she is, but she likes him, and that's more than he was expecting. Naruto pulls the body into the grid and starts with the teeth. Pulls back molars for the guys in T&I. The skin sloughs off the dead man's face, puddles down into his wet clothes. Naruto burns it off with Kyuubi’s power, excellent as always for getting rid of evidence. Molars should be enough.

He has a sort of frustrated passion about this. See, Naruto knows intellectually that this has to be done, is done regardless, because you can’t have dead bodies in waterways. They bloat and rot and make people sick. The kind of sick that people like Giri come to fix and then leverage into destabilising the entirety of the Elemental Nations. Naruto also knows that a missing tooth is a decent price for the families of these poor dead to get closure. The third, worst thing Naruto knows is that things come to see dead bodies, things like him. Ninja like him. Spirits like him. Sons of Oceans and Mountains and tall white pillars to the underworld, like him. None of them, really, should be looking at these dead bodies.

Six teeth. Naruto eyes a leaf moving out of sequence with the wind. Tanuki, an earth specialist. Tanuki nods and quiet as a mouse the bodies sink into the shore.

Sunagakure welcomes them and their trophies at dawn. They sneak in over the sand tide-line two to a row before even the most thrifty merchant has set their wares. Gaara’s office will not be officially open for another three hours, not even his Twilight Guard will accept a visitor now. So Naruto does what he does, cracks his back and makes a loud exclamation about finding a place to sleep. Monkey Leader sets them on a course through Suna’s cruisy districts and around the intelligence quarter. The Konoha away barracks are part of their recent trade deal. A cushy thing on their end and Naruto knows where his room is. After the Summit, before the War, Naruto quietly moved all the things he previously left in Gaara’s spare bedroom to a Jounin room with an ensuite. This room is at the end of the hall with no windows, nothing in or out. A dead end. Monkey Leader espys him but does not comment.

In the room Naruto turns off the radio left playing on the dresser. His old book lies with its spine cracked, a pair of pants he left to wash last time crumpled on the bed. His single pillow looks lonely. Someone has been in since he was here last, the footprints in the thick carpet aren’t his own. Following this probably-not-a-stranger he sees that his personals have been restocked in the bathroom, laid on the rim of the strange standing bathtub. The grates have been cleaned. Naruto runs a bath and dumps a satchel with Sakura’s clean, neat writing into the water. A small bag sits next to it and he recalls a short conversation at dinner some nights ago. Sasuke and Kakashi had been having one of their weird bonding moments over Naka rocks. Kakashi would run his bandaged fingers over them looking for some indefinable flaw. Sasuke would say that’s not the point and hand him another. He and Sakura watch this for a few minutes, giggling into their beers. Sakura had just shaved her hair down again and the elfin lines of her face were so perfect he’d had trouble not telling her so.

“Naruto,” Sasuke says in his low clear voice, “what are you thinking about?”

“Sakura’s pretty,” he blurts out. Sakura lowers her eyelashes for a moment, laughing.

“Yes.” Sasuke agrees. “But what are you thinking?”

“‘Bout rocks?” Naruto shifts his gaze carefully. He’s bowled over often by how much he loves looking at Sasuke. If he does it too fast the soft pink of his mouth and thin scar that meets his ear makes him drool. “Dunno, that one.” He picks one from the pile and holds it triumphant.

“Idiot,” Sakura says. She too picks a rock. “Momentos? Right?”

Sasuke flushes from his heart upwards, making the pink of his lips plush. Sakura keeps her rock, eventually Kakashi meets his proteges standards and departs with his own. Naruto pockets his but forgets it in the wash. Here it is again in Sunagakure with Sasuke’s hair ribbon around it.

In reality Naruto does not now nor has he ever had momentos. He has moments and memories aplenty. Long, too long sketches of Konoha night in the main thoroughfare in the early morning. The drift and drag of everyone's footsteps lying in the dirt, on the street, leading to the houses they share with people that want them there. Swing sets. Shrine steps. Stoops. All of them empty, at least when he’s there. A city is a lonely place in his experience.

Things are better now. He has Sasuke, when they aren’t fighting. Sakura, when she’s capable of acting without compromise. Kakashi, when he isn’t fighting a cold war alone. His other friends, when time allows. Allowance is better too. Assured at the very least.

Compromise is a word he knows now. A strange little door into the way life actually works.

See, Naruto’s first idea of how things work is formed at 4pm, 2am on weekdays and 7-11am on Saturdays. There’s a little alcove outside one of the curving windows of Konoha’s Library, high above the main hall near one of the old study nooks not even ANBU use. On rainy days the water sloshes off the side. On sunny days the heat only touches the edges. There is enough room for a boy to escape with a little apple and the free water from the front desk. The window is permanently cracked open to let out the musty air. When Konoha’s long hot days and nights were too much for even the most dogged badgering Naruto would skin himself raw heaving his body into it. A radio plays all day in the library, old records and ads for toilet paper. Like everyone else Naruto drowns out the patriot tunes and concentrates on the old radio head that chooses which stories play at the end of the school day. Hashirama and the Seven Headed Snake, Subaru and the Stolen Sword, Himawari Sunrise, Nariko Ascending. He’s heard them all at some point, drifted away to the tales of heroes and Hokages.

Naruto’s met Hashirama now and he’s a whole different deal. Tsunade makes more sense when you know that that was her first idea of a hero.

In The Seven Headed Snake Hashirama does not speak. He does wield a sword of redwood through the thick neck of a serpent so big it blots the sky. His heroism is in his quiet dutiful battle. The way the man telling the story describes his strong back and long hair. That’s your back, he says. That’s Konoha’s back. It sounds so absurd, even to a child training to be a ninja: cut through the sky, mold the earth, call forth life to do your bidding alone. The snake’s carcass, the narrator informs them, is as long as the Naka river, and buried somewhere near the big swell the Uchiha worship. On dark nights its eyes watch the village, warily, for Hashirama’s redwoods stand sentinel. Not even in death can he be escaped.

People don’t let things like Naruto in their houses. This he knows before he can speak. There is something in him people don't want on their doorsteps. Later he knows it's the Kyuubi. After that he knows that it’s the Uzamaki blood. Even later, when he came home from a war that crushed out the light he thought he could carry anywhere, he knew it was simple mortal fear. Something inside Naruto will never die, and anything more mortal than him knows that. Well, except Sasuke.

In the warm bath water he caresses his leg, not letting it go any further. Far from home he misses his love. There’s an edge in Naruto, sharp as his chipped tooth, that’s only soothed by long dark hair and a softening body. Naruto leans up to look at the scents and staples Gaara’s left in his room. Sweet aloe and greens. Salt and fresh made sand. He thinks of Sasuke’s skin and Sasuke’s soft smile and how he cuddles close to warmth. Naruto’s had grim reason to be grateful for how hot he runs, this last winter when Sasuke’s feud with their electricity provider cut their power mid cold-snap he’s had happier, hornier reasons to be joyful.

Sasuke has a vicious glee about domesticity that is deeply adorable. He loves arguing with the cashier about his coupons and going to PTA meetings and making trendy sandwiches. He does it with a soft violence that Naruto absolutely does not relate to but finds charming. Never has a man wanted for mass murder been so invested in a collect-a-coin newspaper competition. He plays music and cooks food. He goes to town halls and puts up with the mean crooked smile in their fruit vendors eyes. Naruto loves him so much when he makes noise. Naruto loves him more when it’s quiet at home. Naruto loves when Sasuke will talk to him about things he cares for: plants, dumplings, people. Here, far away from his love, Naruto loves that he doesn’t have to lie to him.

Naruto drags his hand up to his stomach and uncorks the bath. The soft slush of water is the last noise in the room.

#ects #snippet #welp #trying not to make a room a metaphor for anything

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tinalbion · 4 years

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May I humbly request some Freddy hurt/comfort? With him finally realizing that his s/o genuinely loves him and that he’s finally loved

Oh man, you guys have such fun Freddy stuff and I am NOT gonna complain! We do love a little bit of hurt and comfort, it adds to the flavor, doesn’t it? You know how I feel about this damn man, oh, so weak!

“Son of A Hundred Maniacs”

Warnings: Mentioned verbal and physical abuse

Length: 2k

Son of a hundred maniacs! Son of a hundred maniacs!”

“You freak!”

“Nutcase!”

It was always neverending for Freddy, even with Mr. Underwood, it was just unbearable sometimes when he would drink and take out everything on him, that’s why he took that pain and used it, Freddy wielded that power now and he used it to show that he would no longer be walked over and treated like he was unworthy of the life that was given to him.

He proved himself over and over again, he would walk in people’s nightmares and take them out one by one. He allowed no one and nothing to come between him and his work.

Until you came along.

He hated it, despised it so much to the point he didn’t even want to face you any longer, but he was always drawn back and would somehow find himself in your dreams, watching from afar as you imagined pathetic and innocent things. He even tried his best to scare you, to feed off your fear to give him enough gut to do what needed to be done and leave the boiler room with your soul.

But that all began to change when he appeared in another dream of yours, and before he even knew the details of it, he was about to execute his plan to pull you back into his playing grounds until he saw what it was you had been thinking about. He was there, not as the dream demon you had been so uncomfortably familiar with, but him in his human days. The tousled hair, the disturbing smoke-hued eyes that stared off into nothingness, it was definitely him back when he was only sixteen. Freddy seemed more confused than anything, but he decided as much as he wanted to put a stop to this, he needed to know why you’d be dreaming about him in such an intimate way.

He scoffed at the idea. Intimate, yeah, sure. That’s not really the way he’d describe anything about him, not now and not ever. But when he watched you approach the old him, it was almost like he was the one dreaming. You had been careful with your steps and your words, you sat next to him on the bench outside of the local park, where he had been a good couple of feet away from the rest of anyone else.

Your eyes were on him as you watched the way he reacted to your presence, which gave off the notion that he wasn’t too keen on having company. He shrugged and scooted further away from you, his eyes averted from you and kept to the ground, his shoes digging into the ground as he twitched under your questioning gaze.

“Hey, I’m Y/N,” you greeted calmly, “what’s your name?” You leaned forward slightly, your hands gripping the edge of the bench as your head was turned toward him.

The younger Fred was defensive and terrified, cursed to think that everyone would immediately lunge for him with the hurled insults of being a freak, a bastard, whatever it was the kids were calling him these days. You were gonna be no different, he was sure of it, they all ended up being harsh and cruel to him. Nothing made you special.

But that’s where he was wrong, you were so very special, you were kind and understanding, that beaming light he needed as a child when no one else wanted anything to do with him. Mr. Underwood would beat him, the kids would haunt him for the rest of his miserable mortal life. But there was some odd sense of hope as you spoke so kindly to him in your dream.

Funny thing is, you weren’t even sure why you were dreaming of him, but you were amazed just how normal he seemed in his teen years, it was almost refreshing to see. The dream demon watched you still, his mind torn in several different directions. You exhausted him in so many ways and he was more inclined to kill you to rid himself of the headache you caused, but there was something that he buried deep within himself that he never wanted to resurface for anyone to see ever again. The pain he felt. He controlled it and used it to his advantage, he wouldn’t feel it anymore, he’d never feel the way he used to, but there you were, bringing his deepest and darkest emotions out from within him. It was rather funny, he wanted to kill you slowly, to watch you suffer, but he was slowly realizing that there was so much more to it now, it was never something for Fred to second guess.

After a long and uncomfortable silence, dream Freddy tilted his head slightly to the side, your hand in his sight. “Fred,” was all he managed before avoiding eye contact once again.

You smiled, happy to just get an answer from him. It was not spoken aloud at any point, but you knew that this was him, the version of the Springwood Slasher everyone had tried to bury in the secrets of Springwood, but you wouldn’t explain to him that you knew what was to come, you knew he was already being led down a path that he wouldn’t be able to come back from, but there was always a chance to shed just a small beam of light into him, to show him that he wasn’t entirely alone. It was incredible that no one had tried to do this for him, and if they did, why hadn’t they tried harder to help him? He was only a child, innocent, and in need of help. Whatever the case, it was said and done, but you couldn’t help look at him with such affection, your eyes reflecting just how much of a love-sick puppy you had become.

The way you looked at him; had you dreamt about him before? You must have, there was no other reason to explain why you had looked at him like that, but whatever it was, Freddy was feeling confliction like he never had before. He stepped closer to you and continued to watch you carefully, his claws at the ready if he needed to dispose of you quick enough, but if you knew about all of this and you knew he was there watching you, you didn’t give him any indication that you had an idea.

Your face suddenly turned to see him standing several yards away, hiding in those familiar shadows as a predator normally did, and your face softened as he stepped out slightly from his hiding spot. The teen Fred slowly vanished from your view and the real one walked closer to you, wordless and intimidating like he always was, his eyes glaring down at you while you reached out for the teen Fred. Your hand went through mist where he sat, your face now solemn as you were faced with the real thing.

“What the hell are you doin’, huh?” Freddy snapped as he slide-stepped in front of you, forcing you to face him.

“Whatever do you mean?” you replied quickly. “You and I both know that I can’t control my dreams.” You tilted your head down and looked at your hands as you picked at the little pieces of skin that were around your nails. “This started without me prompting it, okay?”

Freddy knew you were being truthful with him, he had seen into your dreams and they were sometimes a bit obscene at times, and others they were docile and uneventful. Now though, it was different, maybe it was his fault and something that was out of his power happened, pulling you into it since you had been the most recent victim of his. Whatever the case, you were able to see into his memories, which were leaked somehow into your subconscious.

“I just want to say that I get it,” you started again as you grabbed onto his non-gloved hand and squeezed it, “you can kill me after but I want you to know that I get it, I see why you’ve felt the way you have for so long and I can only say I’m sorry.”

Freddy’s anger only bubbled and he wanted nothing more than to cut you down and enjoy taking your soul as the color from your face would drain right before him, but he couldn’t find it within him to do so. Why, he couldn’t say exactly, he only knew that you had seen his past and were here in the present, and you had apologized to him. Why would you do that? It was unnecessary and yet so very needed, he had no idea how much it would mean to him when you spoke again.

You scoffed and shook your head. “It doesn’t make up for anything, really, but it’s evident that you had no one, and I want you to know that I would have loved you even then, guess I always would.” Your revelation had surprised even you when you came to the realization, but you were at peace with it and needed him to know before he would kill you.

Freddy then realized he hadn’t snatched his hand from yours; he was enjoying the touch and the contrasting temperature your body gave off, it was such a conflicting feeling and he hated the fact that he liked it so much. But you sounded so genuine and kind, this wasn’t a ruse to try and get away from him, you stopped doing so a few visits ago, he took notice.

His eyes flickered from your hand to your face, a small smile plastered there as you stared up at him, tired and exhausted. “I have to admit that I think I love you.”

That’s when it hit him, that’s when he felt everything hit him at once and he was so terrified of this new feeling that he left soon after your confession. You understood though, it was a lot to handle and you knew he would come back when he was ready. And that’s exactly what he did a week later. A week of uninterrupted sleep and silence from the dream demon you had become accustomed to seeing.

When he did show up, he was skittish and hesitant, to say the least, but he did end up showing himself and you couldn’t have been more unsure of where your life stood. You decided that it would be completely up to him and you wanted to show him that he had that option, but what he did was more surprising than what you initially expected; he took several bold steps toward you and pulled you into one of the tightest hugs you’ve ever had. A relieved hum escaped your lips and you couldn’t have asked for a better response to your startling confession, and you returned to hug immediately.

This was the most interaction you had gotten from him and then it had gone a bit silent again, though he would visit more often than not, his anger now subdued as he stalked you, mainly out of curiosity. He would visit your dreams and allow you to do as you pleased unless you directly asked for him to show up, which he would oblige your wishes if he were having a decent day.

It was a slow process, something completely out of both of your comfort zones, but it was a curve that you both decided to try, even if it meant that there would be complications. So long as you kept that amazing open mind present, Freddy was more than willing to see where things would lead.

All he knew was that he deserved nothing less than hatred, but now, there was a spark that would gradually grow with each passing day. And just maybe there would be a day where he could return those words to you, but you both had all the time in the world.

#tinalbion writings #slashers x reader #slashers imagines #slashers headcanons #slasher requests #freddy krueger #freddy krueger imagine #freddy krueger x reader #freddy krueger headcanons #anoes #a nightmare on elm street #dream demon freddy #angst #hurt/ comfort

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deltas-writing-corner · 3 years

Text

Warmth: Prologue (3/3)

Fandom: Ikemen Sengoku

Disclaimers: Besides the prologues, I will be posting the first 1000 or so words of every new/next chapter. There will be a link to my AO3 at the end of the post, where the full chapters are at!

Warnings: none

Masterlist: (coming soon)

By the time the council for you is ready, you're retrieved from your wooden cell and escorted down the unfamiliar halls of the castle. It was night time once again. You're eventually brought to a large room, a dais on the opposite side of where you enter. On the platform sat Nobunaga, armor no longer being worn and now clad in lighter, casual clothes. The guards sent to retrieve you practically shove you into the room before sliding the doors behind you and leave you for the slaughter.

Besides Nobunaga were familiar faces. Hideyoshi and Mitsuhide sat to his right and left respectively. Next to Hideyoshi, Mitsunari and a man with blond hair and green eyes that you hadn't yet met. Masamune was the lone person next to Mitsuhide. You wonder which is the judge, the jury, and the executioner. The role of executioner is quickly assigned to Mitsuhide.

"Don't just stand there," Nobunaga broke the silence. "Approach me."

You obediently walk forward until you were a respectable distance from all 6 of them before lowering yourself on the tatami. You try not to shake under their scrutinizing gaze.

As soon as you're seated, Nobunaga speaks again. "Now that you've had time to relax and reevaluate the situation, I will ask once more. Who are you, and where do you hail from?"

You're compelled to tell him that he technically knows the answer to the first part of his question. Unfortunately, being a smartass would just make things worse for you. You did reevaluate your choices during your trip to Azuchi and in your cell. You concluded that remaining silent would no longer help you, but in fact hurt you. You doubt they would believe the truth of you hailing from the future, which could potentially make things even more worse. Even if you prove the validity of your claims, you don't have enough information about the people before you to determine whether or not they would use the fact you're from the modern age to their advantage and what that advantage would entail.

You certainly weren't going to tell them you were a god. That would no doubt put you in immediate danger. The power of healing is an attractive power and so is the power over death that your rival-turned-ally just so happens to embody. In conclusion, you couldn't tell them the truth. There were too many negatives that outweighed the few positives you could think of. You couldn't tell them, but the least you can do is explain to them why you can't.

"I'm sorry. I can't tell you." Hideyoshi makes a move to protest, but you cut him off by continuing. "Not to say that I don't want to. I want to tell you all my situation, but it would be extremely dangerous for me if I do."

The blond one rolls his eyes and scoffs, "That's a rather convenient excuse."

"It is," Hideyoshi nods, eyes never once leaving your person. "This woman is clearly untrustable and a liability no doubt. We should send her away and be done with this, my Lord."

"I'm sure our Lord would gladly send her back home. The only problem is we still don't know where her home is," Mitsuhide says. "I have my doubts about her claims of being in some sort of danger, but until we can figure out where it is we should send her, we're unfortunately at a bit of a deadlock."

Hideyoshi looks like he wants to disagree with Mitsuhide, but he reluctantly agrees with everything he said.

Nobunaga speaks your name and you sit up straighter. "Whatever threat is keeping you from speaking, you may consider yourself in safe hands. Tell us the names of those who wish to harm and you have my word that they will be dealt with."

It was relieving to hear that if some sort of third party was threatening you, they would keep you safe and even get rid of the threat. Such an offer was unfortunately unfulfillable. They were threats too.

you shake your head. "You don't understand. If I tell you my truth, there's a chance you all might turn against me. That you might string me up like a puppet and pull my strings until my limbs tear apart. You can sit there and promise me of never doing such a thing. However, the fact that chance exists is enough to make me bite my tongue."

You were on the verge of tears. Never in your life did you hate being a god as much as you do now. No matter how many lives you save, you will always be under threat by the very beings you heal. Maybe Kuro was right in wanting to mark mortals for death. Maybe you were in the wrong this whole time by wanting to reverse their ailments and give humans a second chance at life. For gods' sake, you had to spend 50 years on your lonesome just to restart your life among society, time after time because you felt, and still feel, like you cannot trust anyone with your secret.

You were never trying to play at being a god. Truly, you were trying to play at being human. You will never be one no matter how well you got along with humanity. You felt cold. Cold, alone, and scared of the mortals that sat before you and looked down on you as if you were the biggest inconvenience to them.

Perhaps I was nothing but a burden to my-

As if sensing the downward direction of your thoughts, Kuro does the only thing he knows will grab your attention. He bites you, the hardest he ever has. The pain was so excruciating that you had to grab hold of him by his jaw and throw him off of you.

Mitsunari is the first to break, swiftly making his way towards you despite Hideyoshi's protests. He pulls you back towards him and holds you steady. "Are you alright?" he asks you, concern engulfing his purple eyes.

At this point, a few tears had been shed and your voice was warped from the rising sadness within your throat. "Y-Yeah. His biting stopped my thoughts from spiraling."

You give a thankful nod to Kuro. He nods in return as thanks for you continuing to cover for him.

You turn back towards them, "If..If you want to get rid of me I can leave without making a fuss. I can get by just fine on my own."

No one agrees with or protests your offer. The sight of you, clearly distressed and out of your element, makes them all feel somewhat shameful for treating you as if you were some dangerous criminal up until now. You clearly meant no harm. You didn't even want to burden them with your presence. You were scared and on your own against a group of men you didn't even know.

Nobunaga calls your name once more, This time with much more gentleness than the times before. "I see now that, despite how young you are, you've been through your fair share of ordeals. You clearly cannot muster within yourself the ability to trust anyone due to circumstances. Henceforth, I will allow for you to reside in this castle in exchange for your services to me, until you feel you are ready to come forth and divulge in us the names of those who seek to do you harm."

The tension in the room begins to dissipate. You all but fall to your still scraped knees with relief. This is perfect. You would be granted sanctuary and still maintain a veil of secrecy, within reason no doubt. The others clearly have their reservations over the arrangements, but seeing you no longer on edge lightens the atmosphere significantly. Kuro, no longer presented with a reason to continue lunging at the others, relaxes his tightly wound body for the first time since coming here.

You stretch your palm out towards your companion and he crawls on you without protest, situating himself around your neck once again. Strangely enough, you've grown used to having him in your person in the past day. Now that you two have an alliance of sorts you feel a bit more trusting of him. Maybe this time traveling ordeal will result in you two coming to some sort of understanding with one another. It would honestly do you both good if you worked together than fight all the time.

"I have yet to hear your answer. Will you accept my offer?" Nobunaga asks.

You vigorously nod. "Yes! It's a definite yes. I'll gladly offer whatever services I can give in exchange for lodgings."

He smiles at your enthusiasm. "In that case, I assign you as my chatelaine."

Chatelaine. That's a caretaker of a large house. Sounds like a simple enough job.

"That is an excellent idea," Mitsunari congratulates you. "I will provide you with all the support you need!"

"I'll be counting on you," you tell him.

As you all begin to discuss further details of your arrangement, an uninvited guest sighs in relief at the turn of events from the ceiling.

________________________________________________________________

Once the meeting concludes, you're escorted by Mitsunari to what will be your new room. You didn't expect it to be so large, beautifully furnished too. You would have been fine if they gave you a wooden box for all you care, but that would likely be a dead giveaway. You're painfully reminded of the fact that you won't be living alone anymore or with some distance from other mortals.

You'll have to put in extra effort in order to blend in. That would mean you would have to start eating and sleeping again. You haven't eaten or slept in nearly 300 years. You don't even remember the difference between sweetness and spiciness or what your favorite dishes were.

"Are you alright? You've been frowning this entire time," Mitsunari, ever the angel, looks at you with concern.

"Sorry! I'm still in disbelief. I honestly thought the night would end with me being thrown out onto the streets," you sheepishly say.

"Our lord would have never treated you so harshly, even if he chose to send you away. He can be intimidating at times, I admit. Underneath his tough exterior he is a very generous, but fair, lord."

You find it hard to believe, but the switch in his demeanor from earlier is sufficient evidence to prove the truth in Mitsunari's words. He seems to be the top dog around here. If he was able to exercise leniency to you despite your mysterious origins then you can surely get by alright. You would just have to meet in the middle and become a positive addition to the people here. You've had decades of practice on blending in. You can do this!

"Hey, can I ask you something real quick?"

Mitsunari halts his search for your futon and turns to you. "Anything at all!"

"As chatelaine, what am I expected to do?"

Mitsunari thinks for a moment. "We haven't had a chatelaine before, so I unfortunately can't provide any sound examples. Most likely, you will care for the needs of the castle and residents here as the maids would."

That sounds doable. "Could you introduce me to the maids tomorrow then?"

"I would be honored to! I do have my own duties to attend to though. Hideyoshi is close with most of them, so if I'm unable to retrieve you myself I'll send him in my stead."

Hideyoshi. He's Nobunaga's right hand. He's the one Kuro lunged towards back at the camp. Despite Nobunaga giving his permission for you to stay, he clearly had his own opinions. Understandable, really. You'll have to remind yourself that any harshness towards you from him will be within reason. Hopefully he can learn to tolerate you, and you of him.

"It is late. I will leave for tonight and allow you to rest. It is an honor to have you with us. Sleep well."

Mitsunari gives you one last smile before he exits your room and you're finally left to your own devices. Before you can fall back into the plushness of your futon, you hear a shuffling above you within the ceiling.

"Don't be alarmed," a voice calls out to you. "I'm going to jump down from the ceiling. Is that alright?"

You can't pinpoint the exact source of the voice. Normally, you should be alarmed. Yet even when its muffled, that voice sounds very familiar. You look down to Kuro and he nods. If anything goes wrong, he'll handle it.

"You may," you try to keep your voice down to not draw attention but to also allow for whoever was in the ceiling to hear you.

One of the wooden panels is quietly moved from its place. A person, another man, jumps down and lands in complete silence. Impressive.

"Sorry for the intrusion. Before I begin to explain my reason for visiting at such a late hour, may I ask if you remember me?"

He lowers his mask to reveal his face in full. You do remember him. It was the same man you encountered at the monument. He wasn't wearing his lab coat anymore. His clothing was more in style to the garments everyone else wore. His attire looks as though it allows for better mobility. "I do. From the looks of it, you seem to be better adjusted. Did you perhaps arrive earlier than I did?"

He's shocked that you've deduced the situation so quickly. You were calm as well. He took this as a good sign.

"You're spot on. My name is Sasuke Sarutobi, post-graduate astrophysicist-turned-ninja."

After you introduce yourself to Sasuke. He wastes no time in explaining the circumstances of your apparent time travel. It was hard to grasp even his simplified version, but you were able to figure out that a phenomenon (the storm) is what sent you two back in time. He explained his arrival was 4 years prior to yours and that he's been on the lookout for you while still fulfilling his duties to his employer and adjusting to life here. "I apologize for dragging you into this-"

You cut off his apology with the lift of your hand. "I was at the wrong place at the wrong time. I'm sure you'll argue that, even then, there was a chance I could have ended in more dangerous situation. I didn't and that's all there is to it. You have my gratitude for worrying about my well-being for so long."

You bow to him and he accepts your thanks with a bow of his own. Before he can right himself up, he takes notice of Kuro.

Please don't freak out!

"Is that...a snake?"

You nod. "He's my...he's a friend. He won't bite if you leave him be."

"I see. I will keep that in mind. What's his name?"

"Kuro. Unoriginal, I know."

He laughs at your admittance of poor naming skills. You give Kuro a pat on the head. He seems annoyed at your touch but doesn't try to shake you off or hiss at you. You view it as a start towards a better relationship between you two.

"I have one more thing to say. Since this time period was, or rather is, ravaged with war, it's best you remain here until the next wormhole reopens in three months."

"We'll be able to return to our time then, right?"

"Yes. I've estimated the time of its appearance, but not its location. I'll try to have that information as soon as possible. Is that alright?"

"Take all the time you need. I wish you the best until then."

He smiles, "I'll be sure to stop by every now and then to check on you. Until we meet again."

He jumps up with ease and back into the ceiling. The panel is placed back in it's spot and the room is quiet once again. Finally, you're alone for real this time. You're surprised how worn out you feel for once. Deciding now would be a better time than ever to get back into the rhythm of sleep, you crawl under the covers of your already made bed. Kuro follows suit, coiling into himself on top of you.

"It's pretty chilly. Here," you get up, "I'll lend you my sweater."

Mitsunari went out of his way to keep watch over your bag. You make a note to find a way to repay his kindness before you leave in 3 months. You unzip your bag and pull out your wool cardigan, slightly creased from being folded for so long. Hopefully this will do as a bed for Kuro for a while. You make yet another note to make Kuro some sort of proper bed when you get the chance.

Even if work turns out to be boring here, I have a bunch of personal obligations to keep myself busy for a while.

Kuro finds his spot within the sleeve of your cardigan. You giggle a bit, seeing the long bump he made from underneath the fabric. You blow out the light from your lantern and situate yourself back under the covers. You close your eyes and relax each part of your body one at a time. Starting with your toes and ending at the tip of your nose.

You fall asleep within the familiar black nothingness, feeling warm once again.

________________________________________________________________

Previous chapter

Finished the prologue and want to read more? Click here!

#ikemen sengoku #ikesen #ikemen series #otome #ikemen sengoku writing #ikemen sengoku fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #writing #ikesen writing #ikesen fanfic #fanfic: warmth #reader insert #reader insert fanfiction

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theoracleparadox · 3 years

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WIP Wed-Sun-Mon-Whatever-Day-It-Is: Etro Gives Luna Her Blessing

Working through my fic, I wanted to write this drabble out so I knew what really went on between these two. It actually gives a nice background to the ask that was sent to me a couple of days ago for the “... has died” prompt. I do plan on answering that soon, but family stuff came up and there’s a ton of schoolwork and I just haven’t had energy to write. I really didn’t have time to sit down and write this out today, but I did it (it could really use some feedback).

Etro may have gone too far.

“Farewell, dear Noctis.”

He clawed at the air in an attempt to get close again, but life continued to pull him back. Luna could only offer a smile and a sylleblossom as she faded back into the dark shroud. Then there was nothing.

Her task as the Oracle was complete. She had awaken the Astrals and forged Covenants with them. Noctis had been close behind to fulfill his part; there were only two gods left for him to encounter. The Covenants sapped away Luna's life, but they would help Noctis become a great king, and bring back light to the world.

She didn't mourn now; she had already done so with Gentiana while visiting her home briefly before going to Altissia. Fenestala Manor had served as Luna's prison for thirteen years, but she could never hate her home. She had wanted to see it one last time, to gather what strength she could before Summoning Leviathan. Ravus had wanted to lock her away again, to keep her safe.

They had mourned together briefly shortly before the end, when he finally understood that Luna had to go through with the Covenants, and that Noctis was a worthy king. She had mourned that she wouldn't be able to stand beside him as she had hoped since she was young. But she would watch over him.

In the darkness, Luna could finally rest, the weight of the Covenants lifted from her. With her death, she had paid for her part and was released. There was nothing else she could do now but rest.

As she succumbed to her death, letting whatever would happen happen, there was a glimmer in the darkness. A white light appeared ahead of her. It grew in intensity and size, blinding Luna. When it finally dimmed slightly, a giant woman stood before her, shining bright.

“Lunafreya,” She greeted with a kind smile. Her eyes were gentle.

The princess became more aware of herself in this dark place. The woman before her made her apprehensive: Luna had spent her entire life learning about the Astrals and their messengers. This towering woman held the divine power of an Astral, but Luna did not recognize her. She was more than a messenger, yet there were only six Astrals.

“Don't be alarmed,” The woman said. “I mean no harm. I only wish to speak with you, and offer you another chance at life.”

Luna shook her head wearily. This must be some sort of test she had never heard about. A test from the Astrals to tempt her with life that she had been held back from, in order to test her dedication and sacrifice. “My work is done. The fate of the world rests with the Chosen King now.”

“A king is only as good as those he surrounds himself with,” The woman stated, then observed her for a moment. “Even you do not know who I am.”

“I do not.” Luna shook her head again. Gods were usually upset when not properly recognized, but not this one. She had a kindness that reminded Luna of Gentiana, but without the coldness she had grown so accustom to.

“Do you know the full details of the prophecy?”

It was another thing Luna had known her whole life, even when she was young. She had been the only one to know she would die young, and had kept that secret so it wouldn't hurt others.

“After facing the revelations and forging the Covenants, the Chosen King will restore light to the world, and rid it of darkness,” Luna had learned it by rote.

“At the cost of his life, just as it had been for you,” The woman adds.

The Oracle glanced down. She had known that as well, and the thought of her bright childhood friend dying as well had been harder to accept than her own death. “It is for the good of the world.”

“What good can you possibly do for the world when you're both dead?”

Luna looked up at her again. Wouldn't it have more sense to have Ramuh, the Judge, oversee such a test? “Who are you?”

The question pleased the shining woman. “There is much Bahamut has kept from you. The world has forgotten much of what it was before the War of the Astrals, before the Draconian gave the Lucis Caelums their Crystal and Ring, and the Oracles his Trident.”

Despite her apprehension, Luna was curious of what she had to say. This was a strange test of faith. “Were you an Astral?”

The Six would consider such a thought as heresy. It should never occur to an Oracle, who was the conduit between gods and men. The woman grinned.

“I still am. I am Etro, goddess of death, chaos, and dreams,” She explained. “I was the patron deity of the Lucis Caelums before Bahamut. While Ifrit ruled over Solheim, I lived among the people in Tenebrae. I loved humanity in a time when the Six did not, and for that, I was banished to the Kingdom of the Dead. Bahamut took my place with the Lucis Caelums and created his prophecy. The Six had me erased from the world, as if I never existed.”

Luna had never heard of such a story before. It could all be a lie. Etro made some strong arguments, though: not much was known of history before Solheim and the Astral War, much less the history of the Astrals then. It was one thing that an Astral had ruled over a people—it was even expected for the time—but it was bewildering to think an Astral would choose to live among mortals, instead of ruling over them. Hardly anything was known of the ancient rulers of Tenebrae before the first Oracles.

“It was over 2000 years before I was able to escape. Bahamut has changed the world so much. The only magic left is his, and he controls it with an iron fist.” Etro frowned at the thought. “The prophecy does not have to happen as he has dictated.”

This was the final part of the test. Luna shook her head again. “It is the only way. Mortals must pay for the darkness in the world. I am glad to have given my life to fight back the darkness.”

It had to be the right answer. Etro was not pleased, however. “You may not know me, but I know you, Lunafreya. It is not in you to succumb to fate.”

“It was for the good of the world,” The Oracle repeated. “I have fulfilled my duty.”

“You cannot fight back the darkness from the Kingdom of the Dead,” The goddess pointed out. “Your death has taken light from the world. Without you, the darkness encroaches even faster. The dark days will be long, and much of the world will die. They are coming regardless of the Covenants, and regardless of what Noctis does.”

Admittedly, Luna did not know much of what was to come to the world. She had assumed it meant the Starscourge would become even more prevalent. The scriptures had been vague about what was to come, and she had never received divine revelation of it. All she had been concerned with was her duty—her duty was what was supposed to keep such devastating dark days from occurring.

“What would you have me do?” Luna asked. “I cannot possibly return to life. The Covenants have taken all I have.”

“You were released from the Covenants upon your death,” Etro explained. She smiled. “But in forging a Covenant with me, you may be restored to life. The magic of the Oracle will be restored to you by me. The Covenant will not weigh on your life, because you have already paid with it.”

It went against what Luna had been taught about Covenants. In fact, Etro's Covenant seemed to work backwards compared to the Six. Now it wasn't so clear whether this was a test, or truly a hidden goddess trying to save the world. The Draconian had always seemed so harsh: the prophecy had to happen just so, and already so many lives were lost. Etro's compassion was already evident. She wanted to save the world because of her love for mortals; Bahamut never had such love, and required so much loss.

Luna was being offered a future, one in which she could stand beside Noctis and help him. Perhaps she might even see Ravus happy at last.

What could the Astrals possibly be testing her on now? Hadn't she paid with her life, proven her dedication to the world? And for that, they had her sacrifice herself, taking herself out of the world she needed to help. What mattered most was saving the world, not proving her faith to the gods.

Etro wasn't testing Luna, though. She truly was offering another chance at life. Luna had set out to forge Covenants with all of the Astrals in order to fight the darkness. She would never be able to do so with Ifrit. There was too much at stake not to forge a Covenant with this new, hidden goddess. Etro's domains suggested that she would want the world to fall to darkness, but her love of the world proved otherwise.

“I accept,” Luna finally agreed to the Covenant. Usually, it was the god that had to be convinced to agree to it. Already Etro's Covenant was working backwards compared to all the others Luna had made.

The goddess gave a gentle smile again. “Then I will return you back to life with my Blessing. The magic of the Oracle will be restored to you, but it will work differently from what you're used to. You will not be alone: three others already have my Blessing. I will deliver you unto them. They will look after you as you recover. The youngest of the three will be able to guide you on your Blessing. The four of you must stay together during the dark days.”

Luna nodded to it all. She hadn't expected there to be others; the gods only ever interacted with the Oracle and the Lucis Caelums. She wondered what Etro's Blessing entailed for them. It was a relief to know she would not be alone when she returned to the world—Gentiana had had to leave her side before Leviathan's Summoning. She would not return. The Six would condemn this Covenant.

“Noctis goes to forge the last Covenant with Bahamut in Niflheim,” Etro said. “Save him before the Draconian takes him.”

“I will,” Luna vowed.

With a parting smile, the light around Etro began to dim, taking her with it into the darkness. “Until we speak again, Lunafreya.”

She faded away, and there was nothing.

#drabble #my fic #wip #I'll probably fluff it up a bit before officially publishing it on ao3

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sanguinesorceress · 4 years

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Marked For Death (Part 3)

[Part 1]

[Part 2 ]

Suspicious Death of Magister Deemed Homicide

Toxicology reports have uncovered the cause of death for a Kirin Tor Magister to be a deadly toxin more commonly known by its street name of “Zanzil’s Slow Poison.” Believed to be completely incurable, the outlawed toxin is either ingested or absorbed through direct contact, triggering the gradual deterioration of multiple internal organs before resulting in what can only be described by medical experts as “an excruciating death.” Authorities are baffled as a recent interview with the medical examiner has revealed “there is no definitive way of knowing precisely when the victim came into contact with the toxin. Several factors such as body mass, diet, exercise, and the use of other medications, can alter the timeline when attempting to calculate the exact moment of poisoning. Unfortunately, we are working with an approximation of one week at best.” If anyone has any information regarding the suspicious death of Magister Jadex, authorities are encouraging them to come forward at this time.

As the ‘Tide Seer’ dispersed with a splash of salt water and collapsed into a lifeless heap of seaweed on the shore, the Sorceress appeared on a cliffside elsewhere.

"Such an intriguing cloth to wear,” remarked the watcher from the shadows as he stepped to her side, “especially when used to turn a suspicious eye toward the already disreputable Kvaldir.” She could feel his frigid stare burning into the crimson fabric of her hood, but she dared not glance his way. Not yet. For now, her eyes remained glued to the Kaldorei’s silhouette down below, watching him saddle up in preparation for his immediate departure.

As per their agreement, her co-conspirator had tailed the assassin across the continent while taking every precaution to ensure his presence went unnoticed. Looming high overhead, he observed the Sorceress’ performance from the safety of a cave through a network of scrying orbs she had organized beforehand. Already confident of the answer, she sought the opinion of her companion for the sake of making conversation. “Do you believe he will comply?”

"You understand your prey, Sorceress. You know their weaknesses and just how to exploit them,” he remarked dispassionately. “The living will throw all caution to the wind when love is concerned, whether to obtain said infatuation or to protect it, I find it quite pathetic, really.”

She glanced over her shoulder, rivaling the intensity of his gaze with that of her own. “Is that so?” she prodded, and an amused grin pulled her sable lips tighter than a garrotting wire, “Is there nothing in this world you would protect with your life?”

Her question brought a telling smirk to his face. Haunting was that subtle gesture, the look of a man who housed layer upon layer of intricacies that were nearly impossible to unravel. "Blindness" he scoffed, and although the word was little more than a whisper, his authoritative voice carried above the crashing waves, refusing to be overcome by their ceaseless roar. "Blind love. Blind actions. Blind movements in the dark. Flailing arms trying to grasp at hope, at an opportunity to free one’s self from whatever chains they have shackled themselves with.” His eyes found her target, the shaken Kaldorei, and his grin stretched into something far more sinister.

"What I cherish, dear lady, cannot —and does not— need protecting.” His eyes flared into a mixture of blue flame and shadow, as his gaze returned to the Sorceress. "You need only notice the bones under your feet, the cuts you make, and the lives you absolve from this realm. Gaze deeply into the eyes of those you claim, bask in the realization of their fate —of their untimely end—then, in those eyes, you will see what I love."

It was for this very purpose she had chosen him to carry out this important task in her overarching plan. The man’s ideals were iron-clad, armoring him against unwelcome influences, thereby distinguishing him as a powerful ally. Having served his tenure under the Lich King, the Shepherd, once awakened, vowed to never again succumb to the same ‘blindness’ as the living. Perceived to be walking abominations in the eyes of mortals, the two shared the belief that they were lucid dreamers existing alongside a comatose society.

“I would like for you to continue your surveillance on the young assassin to ensure he fulfills his task.” She handed him a satchel, and judging by the clinking sounds coming from within the leather bag, it housed several glass vials. “I have procured enough invisibility potions to conceal you from the scrying eyes in Dalaran.” A single, cautionary finger stabbed the air as she relayed a warning. “They will only hide your appearance, not your aura, therefore I advise you suppress any urges you may have to use magic over the next twelve hours.”

A trying task. The simplicity of it was presented before him, yet the request was made all the more complex in the back of his mind. For one who dwelled among the shadows, who lingered out of sight only to be seen as the last thing to be seen, he understood intimately that strategy was paramount in a situation such as this. "Hide what I am.” It was a familiarity that soon reclaimed him. Conceal yourself. Don't let them catch you. Pallid lips twisted ever so slightly as he accepted the Sorceress’ magical aid. "Be it by shadow, unholy magic, or physical inevitability… Death always collects its due.” He curled his plated fingers around the bag and held it close to his chest. "You shall have your result."

From the moment the Tide Seer dispersed, Oneth knew the clock was ticking.

12 Hours. Starting now. Think fast, you can do this.

Eliminate target number one = 4 Hours (Including travel time, cleanup, and disposal.)

12 - 4 = 8

8 Hours

Target number two would require preventative methods and careful planning. His death won’t be nearly as easy to cover up while meeting the Tide Seer’s conditions of a ‘slow and excruciating death.’

Excruciating Death = Zanzil’s Slow Poison

Acquire reagents from usual suppliers = 6 hours

Create and administer toxin = 4 hours

6 + 4 = 10

8 - 10 = Dead Wife

Not an option. Try again, Oneth.

Acquire half of the reagents locally, the other half from usual suppliers = 3.5 hours

Create and administer toxin = 4 hours

3.5 + 4 = 7.5

7.5 Hours (with 30 mins serving as a buffer for small errors)

This won’t be easy, but if it will save her life, I have to at least try. Now, to make this happen and not fuck up.

He had worked tirelessly through the night, and thus far, not only was everything going according to plan, but according to schedule. Perhaps lady luck was on his side, or maybe the Gods had finally decided to smile upon him. Whatever the reasoning, he was not one to question his good fortune.

Even with the use of portals, the majority of his time was consumed by travel. The places he was required to visit were remote, and with good reason. Herbalists were forbidden to stock the full ingredient list and alchemists were outlawed from making or carrying the deadly poison. Anyone caught with the knowledge of its procurement were obligated to report suspicious activity to the authorities, and there were few business owners willing to risk their livelihood or their reputation on an assassin regardless of how tempting the bribe may be.

Each reagent had to be purchased from a different supplier, then combined in the privacy of an undisclosed location to avoid suspicion. This was not the first time he had created Zanzil’s Slow Poison, but it was certainly the first he had done it on such short notice.

“Your tea, Sir,” trilled the waitress as she placed a steaming beverage before the Magister. “Only a half-spoon of honey; just the way you like it.”

Scholar’s hands, smoothed by the caress of only the finest parchment in Dalaran, wrapped around the teacup. Stolen warmth snaked its way up his arms and scalded his lips as he flashed her a heated smile. “My dear, sweet, Lady. It appears you are working late, yet again.” Despite what he would have others believe, the Magister was not as gentle natured as he feigned. His tips were overly generous, particularly when it came to pretty faces, and such generosity would grant him a night or two with a supple body to warm his bed. (Before they discovered the dark, sadistic desires he harbored behind closed doors.) This evening’s prize had been particularly elusive over the past several weeks and tonight he was certain she would succumb to his particular brand of charm. “What sort of gentleman would I be if I did not fret for your safety at such a late hour. Would you allow me the honor of escorting you home after your shift this evening?”

As the two conversed, Oneth carried on with his work, seemingly overwhelmed by the persistent duties of being a porter. Tables were cleaned, empty glasses were cleared, and bottles were retrieved from the cellar upon request. Never did he cease to move, the buzzing bee that he was, and he flitted from table to table with the enthusiasm of a young lad eager to please. Let them grow comfortable with the diligent worker so they may overlook the stinger at his back. It was menial work, but necessary in order to maintain certain appearances, and the bustle of the tavern helped to bring a semblance of normalcy to an otherwise unorthodox lifestyle. Now and again, Oneth allowed his gaze to wander in their direction, waiting for the exact moment when all of his careful planning would come to fruition.

Twenty seven minutes and counting.

After an excruciatingly painful exchange, his coworker managed to, yet again, artfully decline the polite pervert and evade his overeager hands. Evidently the Magister would be going home alone again, but tonight’s loss would do little to thwart his redoubled attempt tomorrow. Oneth had witnessed this ‘act’ on more than one occasion. He would be doing her, in addition to his employer, a favor by ridding the world of this viscid parasite.

Eighteen minutes.

Long after the tea, and his advances had gone cold. Magister Jadex commenced his nightly exiting ritual. The empty teacup was returned to its saucer, followed by the jingle of too many coins being placed upon the table in a grandiose show of ‘appreciation,’ and lastly the dabbing of his lips with a paper napkin. Only this time, the napkin would bear both the message and the means of his demise. At first, the Magister appeared not to notice the writing, but rather than make a scene, he lowered it to his lap where he could read the words discreetly.

One day I will return and you won’t be around to see me rise again.

No dilation of pupils, no widening of eyes, no frantic searching for the culprit ensued. Nothing occurred despite knowing with absolute certainty that he had received the message. Oneth found himself both perplexed and slightly intrigued. Perhaps this was not the first threat the Magister had received. Instead, the note was pocketed, and he bid his coveted prize a good evening before gracefully taking his leave.

Unfortunately for him, this was not just a threat. It was a delayed execution, and with the strange pearl already concealed within the Magister’s home, all he had to do now was wait.

[ Co-written with @lazraelbandtherion as his respective part. ]

@hmratking @loveherdekay @safrona-shadowsun @duraxxor

#Plot: Marked for Death #part three #read all three parts #you will not be disappointed #sanguine sorceress #the shepherd in wolf's clothing #The Rat King #the rat queen #so sorry this took so long #thank you for your patience #stay tuned for more to come #sorceress literature

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strayen-fx · 4 years

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My Roommate Is A Demon | Part Three

Lee Minho x (fem)reader

Genre: Angst, smut

Wordcount: 2k

Warnings: Highly suggestive, fingering, swearing, master kink, Minho being a demon

A/N: It took me three months to decide if I should write it, three hours to decide if I should post it. My first smut fic (and maybe the LAST) huhu please spare me ㅠㅠㅠㅠ I also shifted into second person pov bcs I can't handle writing this in first person I think I will hyperventilate. Don't judge kskaksksk feedbacks will be appreciated tho❣ lezzgetit

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"Are you sure you can handle this?"

Minho smirked at you, a glint of mischief evident in his eyes. "Of course, baby. Don't think your measly human party could even compare to the real deal."

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the nickname he had loved to tease you with. Sometimes -- just sometimes -- you forget that your roommate was literally thrown from hell. Of course, nothing he would see in the mortal world could shake him.

...maybe.

It has been a few weeks since Minho has permanently settled in your house. You have learned to handle the weird shenanigans the demon would usually do. He wasn't that bad -- he helps with the household chores and takes care of your cats with utmost pleasure. And he should -- he was the one who brought Dori into your house, afterall.

There were a few moments, though, when you regret taking the demon in. Especially in mornings, when he'd be walking around in your house half-naked. Or at nights when he'd opt to invade your bed and be the big spoon. Or right now, as he stood in front of you, all confidence and poise with his black button-down and skinny pants.

Lee Minho is sooo bad for your health.

You really hate the way he's making you feel things. Your heart is constantly making these tiny explosions, you wonder if you could even live until the end of the semester.

The fact that he has insisted on coming with you to the party doesn't help your case.

You haven't told your friends about him yet, although they have already started getting suspicious when you constantly kept them away from your house and bailed out of your movie nights. Don't even get started with Jisung -- the lad was very much frustrated that he can't go and play with your cats anymore. (You couldn't wait for him to see Dori, though. Imagine the stars in his eyes when he sees the kitten.)

Their growing suspicion plus your growing guilt were the reasons why you have agreed to go to the party. What you didn't expect though was Minho throwing tantrums until you allowed him to come with you.

Fine, you thought. He probably won't mess around -- you just planned to stick with him until the end of the night and make sure none of you would fuck up.

What do people usually say? Nothing really ever goes the way it's planned. Yeah.

Chan was the one holding the party that night. Nothing huge, he said, just a few of his friends and colleagues from the music department. But it seemed like you and Chan had different definitions of few.

For countless times already, you have been inside the unit Chan shared with Jisung and Changbin. It was huge and spacious for a college dorm, and you knew it could probably accommodate every student in the music department. But still, you were beyond surprised when you saw a platoon of cars parked in front of your friends' building. Couples littered the parking space, holding cups of what you assumed was booze.

You were suddenly feeling jittery and nervous. It had been months since you last went to a party. You were about to tell Minho to restart the engine and bring you home, but even before you could utter a word, Minho had already went and expertly parked your car. He threw the door open and strode confidently towards the source of the music. You groaned internally before catching up to him.

On your way in, you got distracted by how people -- men and women alike -- were looking over to check Minho out. And well, you couldnt blame them -- Minho was... Minho. Confidence naturally flows out of him. He's handsome without even trying. His perfect built was well-complimented by his shirt and jeans, which was tight around the right places. Too tight, in fact, that your imagination was running towards places you didn't want it to run to.

I'm already drunk, alright, you thought to yourself. And I haven't even drank yet.

The flow of people was much worse inside. Good music was blaring through the speakers, thank Changbin for that, and it would have made the party bearable if not for the unholy view of couples grinding on the dance floor.

A few people you knew came up to you to say hi, and soon after, you lost sight of Minho. The demon. He didn't even have the common courtesy to hang out with the person who brought him to that place. And he didn't know anyone else there, for goodness' sake...

You tried to look for him among the crowd, but he was easily absorbed into the tightly-packed, sweaty crowd going at it with the music. You weren't worried for Minho or anything, you were just worried a schoolmate of yours would suddenly erupt in a literal ball of flames.

After a few minutes, you finally found your demon -- in the arms of a brunette who was wearing too much makeup and too few clothing. She was practically attached to Minho like a koala, and the fucker seemed like he was enjoying it.

You immediately stamped out of their view before either of them could see you staring. Sure, Minho is handsome. And hot. And sexy. You knew that all too well. Still, you can't help but feel annoyed by the fact that somebody has attached herself to him like that just that easily. You have been gone for like, what, ten minutes? And he has already forgotten about your existence. He didn't even bother to offer you a drink before going off and attaching himself to a random someone.

He's a true-blue demon, through and through.

You sought refuge on the lounge, finding it lucky that no one else was occupying it. No one to comment on your sulky face. You wanted to get wasted, so you decided to down one cup of beer after another. That was the purpose of parties, afterall. To get wasted.

You were on your fourth, probably fifth cup when somebody held your wrist that clutched the beer.

"Woah there, Y/Nie, slow down."

You were about to snap at the person who interrupted your way to getting wasted. But then you were met by Chan's bright smile, and you immediately felt your heart get lifted.

"Channie..."

The boy sat beside you, taking the cup from your grip. "What's got you so frustrated, huh?"

"Nothing," you sighed. "Nothing important."

Chan smiled widely, showing off his dimples. "Yeah? We're here to enjoy the party. We're not here to sulk."

Chan inched closer, and you were suddenly hyperaware of your skirt that was riding up your thighs. Chan's eyes were dark, and you can see the way he looked at your top. Like he was imagining how he could rid of your garments right there on the couch.

Well, it wouldn't be the first time. There was a time in the past when he helped you get rid of your pent-up stress...

You pressed your thighs together, feeling the heat down south. This action didn't go unnoticed to Chan, however. He rested a warm hand on your thigh, caressing it painfully slow, stroking your inner thigh and doing things that made you whimper.

The thought of doing something filthy on the couch in the middle of a crowded party was too overwhelming for you, and the smirk on Chan's face wasn't helping.

Well fuck, you thought. If Minho is out there living his life with a random koala, nothing should stop me from enjoying the night as well.

You were already starting to get lost within the swirling feelings in your head when suddenly, a strong hand pulled you off of the couch, away from Chan's touch.

"We're going home," Minho growled.

"W-wha-"

"And who are you?" Chan said, now standing up to meet Minho's gaze.

You were standing in between the two of them, feeling the tension rise between the guys. You were frustrated, your heat was left uncared for because of Minho, who was just flirting with a girl he barely knew a few seconds ago. And now he had the nerve to cockblock?

"Y/N's boyfriend," Minho said.

You almost choked in your own saliva.

Chan's reaction was beyond shocked. "Y/N doesn't have a boyfriend."

"Oh, she has. And we are living together. So shut up and get your hands off her before I send your sorry soul to hell. Believe me, I can." You can almost see fire on Minho's eyes, and you knew he meant the threat he dropped.

Without another word, Minho pulled you away and out of the party. Chan didn't try to stop him -- either he believed Minho really was your boyfriend, or he felt fear towards the man.

Minho practically shoved you into your car before he got into the driver's seat. He revved the car back to your home without saying anything.

Minho opened the door to your apartment, and before you could even take two steps in, he slammed the door and pushed you against it, his both hands caging you.

"What the fuck did you think were you doing?"

Anger flared up in your insides. What the fuck?

"You don't own me, Lee Minho," you snapped. "You are not my master. If you can fuck whoever you want, then I can screw with whoever I want. So back off!"

Minho was taken aback, and you took this chance to get free from his grip. But Minho was fast. He got you pinned against the wall this time, with your wrists above your head.

Now you're done for.

"Not so fast, baby. Did you say I don't own you? Did you say I am not your master?"

Minho's voice was suddenly deeper and raspier, and it gave you a different feeling. You felt your legs turn into jelly. His eyes bore into yours, and the smug look in them told you that he knew what you were thinking.

"I can smell your dripping heat, baby. Your pretty lips are saying something, but your body is doing the opposite. Too eager to get fucked by your master?"

You whined at Minho's choice of words. Before you can try to deny his words, Minho's lips crashed against yours. You imagined it would be messy, but it wasn't. Anything but. It was sensual and passionate, delivering the emotions Minho couldn't say in words. And you were kissing him back, needy and deprived of attention.

Then Minho's fingers were on your heat. He pushed your underwear to the side. "Fuck, so wet. You're a pretty cumslut, you know that? Acting all high and innocent when all you wanted was a dick inside of you."

You whined. Fuck, why were you so turned on with the way he was degrading you? Without any warning, Minho inserted two fingers inside of you. You screamed in pain and pleasure, enjoying the way his fingers pushed in and out of you.

Minho trailed kisses on your jaw down to your collarbone, feeling proud of the marks he was leaving on you. He yanked your top with his free hand, massaging your breast and playing with your erect nipple. He sucked at one while playing with the other, eliciting a dirty moan from you.

Everything felt like pure bliss, and your brain was getting all haywire. The lewd sounds weren't helping with the fog in your head. All you could think of was Minho ruining you in every way possible. You can only imagine -- if his fingers already felt that good, how much more would it feel with him inside of you? The thought alone was enough to make you moan even louder, almost making you reach your high.

When Minho felt your pussy clench around his fingers, he immediately pulled out. You whined with the sudden lack of contact, but then Minho was carrying you bridal style towards your room. He threw you against the mattress then he got rid of his own clothes. You were welcomed by the sight of his well toned abs, and your mouth watered upon seeing his bare thighs. And his cock -- well fuck. You wanted to taste it.

"The first time you're cumming for me, baby, I want you to cum around your master's dick."

#there you go #my fingers kinda slipped #no turning back now #what happened #stray kids smut #stray kids au #stray kids fic #stray kids fanfic #stray kids angst #stray kids lee know au #stray kids lee know smut #lee know smut #lee know fanfic #lee know imagines #lee know x reader #stray kids lee minho au #stray kids lee minho smut

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sailorgreywolf-legacy · 4 years

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Legacy - Chapter 63

The sun was high in the sky, illuminating the sails of the ship from behind. Mexico could see every details of the stitching, which was in perfect straight lines. Though he did not know naval matters well, it seemed tidy to him.

Mexico was standing on the deck of one of his own ships, trying to ascertain how prepared he was to face a Spanish threat in the gulf. He knew that the attack was coming, since he had effectively guaranteed it with his conversation with Spain.

He had no regrets about what he had said and what he had done; there had been no other option. He could never have accepted any of Spain’s advances, even if it had made more battles a certainty. The best he could do in the moment was to prepare.

There was not much of a navy to be had, even if there were merchant vessels that could be commandeered for the good of the country.

There was a problem that Mexico could not imagine an easy solution to: If they chose to requisition merchants or privateers, then it would mean that there would be even less certainty of trade.

Trade had already ground to a halt during the war, and the threat of Spanish ships just beyond his own territorial waters meant that many were not willing to take the risk. It was apparent to him that Spain was trying to strangle any avenue for him to support himself so that he would have no choice but to return. But, dislodging the Spanish presence would end that threat.

As Mexico looked from the sail to the rigging, he continued to contemplate how to solve the puzzle. The rigging looked like a spider’s web to him, and it felt as incomprehensible to him as his present problems.

In all the years that he had gone back and forth between his own land and Madrid, he could not think of a time when he had looked up at the shape of a ship’s sails or the way that its rigging was knotted.

It had never been something that had interested him, and Spain had never taught him anything about it. He remembered that Portugal had always said that Spain was no sailor.

His own ineptitude meant that Mexico had never learned much about it. So, Mexico was not even certain what he was looking at. It could have been completely wrong, and he would have hardly known the difference.

This inspection felt like a way to busy himself with something that felt productive. But, it was having the opposite effect.

It felt like he had a very small number of ships, many of which needed to be devoted to commerce. He would have to choose one or the other, and it felt like he was choosing destruction by one means or another. He had to choose between an immediate shortfall or a slow weakening.

He drew in a long breath of sea air through his nose. He turned his eyes away from the rigging and scanned down the deck. The captain was looking at him with something like akin to carefully hidden concern.

He knew that Mexico was an officer under the emperor’s orders who was inspecting his ship. He had said nothing about how young Mexico looked, though the thought must have certainly crossed his mind. Mexico knew it was his apparent position of power that kept the sailors and the captain from saying anything to him.

Nominally, Santa Anna suggested that he should undertake an inspection as a way to establish what forces they had to fight Spain. But, Mexico felt like he had suggested it as a way to keep himself busy.

He turned to the captain, who said, “Does everything look like it is in order?” Mexico lied, “Yes, it does.”

He couldn’t have known for sure, so he had to put some faith in the idea that everything was correct. At least the deck was reflecting the overhead sunlight. That must have taken some disciplined scrubbing. The sailors also seemed ready to fight at a moment’s notice. That was reassuring enough.

He turned to the captain and asked, “Are you prepared to fight? We may need to call upon you soon.”

The man took a moment to look at his men and then over the horizon, like he was measuring the threat beyond it. Then he looked back to Mexico and said, “I am. Though I do not know if we have the numbers. You can be sure that we will fight with all we can, but there is a fleet coming.”

Mexico nodded in agreement, and said, “The emperor is aware of that and is working for a solution.”

It was half a lie. He had received a letter from Iturbide the night before, and it had hinted at making plans for rebuffing an invasion. The lack of details had been frustrating, because it felt like Iturbide was still keeping him in the dark. But, it had been clear that he was aware of the Spanish threat, and was preparing. That was all Mexico could ask for in the moment.

Mexico had also noticed that the emperor had taken an affectionate tone in the letter, which had surprised him. Iturbide had seemed eager to send him to Veracruz. However, after Mexico had been in Veracruz for a month, there seemed to be some tenderness.

He wondered if the distance had erased the memory of their last fight, and Iturbide was desiring some reconciliation. A more cynical part of his mind dismissed the possibility.

The emperor was capable of lying well, and Mexico was acutely aware that this may be a show of affection to manipulate him. He couldn’t help but wonder if Iturbide felt any real loyalty to him, or if it had been theater to win the crown.

“Sir?”, the captain brought him back to the present, as his mind had slipped to Iturbide and stayed there for a moment too long.

Mexico gave him an approving look and said, “You are doing good work, captain. Continue as you have been.” Then he took a deep breath and prepared himself to perform the same act on several more ships before he returned to Santa Anna.

He sat across the table from Santa Anna, trying to read the other’s expression. What Mexico could report to him about the state of the navy seemed to be good news. But, Santa Anna seemed to have a permanent half smirk on his face, like he knew some very amusing secret that the world did not yet knew.

Santa Anna said, “I am glad to hear it. We will need all of the ships we can get to defend ourselves. Unless the French really decimated the Spanish fleet.”

Mexico had not gotten enough news from Europe to know, since he did not have a good source of information. He had heard that the war with France had weakened Spain, but it was hard to guess what that meant. He responded, “For now, we should assume that he has the strength he had before the war.”

Mexico waited for some concern to appear in the other’s face, but it did not. Instead, he saw nothing but a sense of quiet confidence.

Santa Anna said, “How fortunate it is that you have me then. I am certain that I am a brilliant enough commander to defend you.”

Mexico raised his eyebrow and said, “Are you sure of that?”

Santa Anna smirked as he responded, “I am. Once I win, I am going to commission a portrait of myself as a hero.” Santa Anna added, “You can imagine it, can’t you? Me as your glorious protector.”

Mexico couldn’t help but chuckle. He replied, in a tone that was almost light, “That could happen. Or the emperor will remove you before that, and there will be no glory for you. That would end your plans.”

He was amused by it all, and the seemingly boundless confidence. The mortal raised one of his eyebrows suggestively and said, “Oh, do not assume that I am that easy to get rid of.”

He gave Mexico a charming smile and added, “I have decided that I am devoted to you.”

Mexico scoffed. He didn’t believe that for even a moment. It seemed to him that a man like Santa Anna would never feel true loyalty. It was beyond him, Mexico was sure. But, he could not guess who felt real loyalty if he had been wrong about Guerrero.

Mexico said, “I think you are devoted to the fame and fortune.” Santa Anna replied with the same charming smile, “I think that the two can go hand in hand. I can show you that I have the talent.”

Mexico thought that almost sounded like he was planning some glorious action. He said, “Did the emperor give you any orders?”

He had no idea what Iturbide was planning, but it seemed evident to him that it would never include Santa Anna. The mortal replied, “I received a letter today. The emperor says that I am free to act if I see an opportunity. He is giving me the latitude to act.”

Mexico thought to himself, More rope to hang yourself with. He could see the logic as clearly as if Iturbide had told him. If Santa Anna succeeded, then Iturbide could claim that he had given him the ability to act. If he failed, then Iturbide would have better grounds to dismiss him as an incompetent commander. Either way, he could take credit for the outcome.

A weariness set in as Mexico thought about it. He felt so bitterly tired of these political games and Iturbide’s willingness to engage in them.

He was frustrated that Victoria and Guerrero were willing to put him at risk for a political victory over the empire. But, it seemed that the emperor was little better. He was leaving the defense of a key port city in the hands of a man that he did not trust for the sake of proving a political point.

Mexico thought bitterly that mortals were capable of thinking of nothing else. It was strange and exhausting to see these men in power fight, when it felt like Spain was drawing closer by the day.

if anything, Santa Anna’s self centered charmed seemed refreshing. It was clear where he stood, and what could be used to sway him.

Mexico took a deep breath, and tried to think of any response. But, he felt like the days of sleepless nights were hitting him in the moment. He said, “I am tired. The inspections today were exhausting, though I would say that they were satisfactory. I can give you more details in the morning. I am going to go to retire for the night.”

He hoped that he would be able to leave with that excuse alone. Surely the man would understand that a day of looking at ships and talking to captains would be tiring, though that was not the reason Mexico felt so tired.

He felt like he needed a moment alone to think, and then to sleep until this terrible exhaustion faded. Santa Anna nodded and said, “Get your rest. I am planning an attack to show the Spanish that we will not let them dictate when and where we fight. You will need to be well rested when I choose to make my move.”

Mexico nodded, as though he agreed with the idea. But, he had his own trepidation about Santa Anna acting on his own. He would have to hope that the man was as talented as a commander as he claimed. He stood and gave his commander one last inclination of his head before leaving.

Once he was in his room, and the door was firmly closed, he let out a sigh.

Closing the door felt like momentarily shutting out the headache of politics. It was momentary, but it was a reprieve. As long as he was here, there was no pressure to solve the problem of the continuation of the empire.

If he desired, he could simply sink into the pillows and forget them all. It was incredibly tempting to do exactly that and block out the world. He could pretend that Santa Anna wasn’t only a few rooms away.

But, that felt incredibly childish, like he was running from the problem. Even if he was tired, there was still work to do.

He walked to the desk, and picked up the letter from Iturbide again. He had read it over twice quickly the night before, looking for some explanation of his plan.

He felt like he should read it over again, in case there was anything he missed. He took the letter to bed with him, laying back against the pile of pillows. As he skimmed through the letter again, he was struck again by the tone of it.

It started with “Alejandro, My dear empire.” Then it descended into flattery, about how he missed Mexico’s presence deeply. There was the ambiguous sentence, “If it comes to battle, I know that you will fight well as you always have. I know that you are singularly talented.”

It seemed to him that Iturbide was trying to frame the choice to send Mexico to Veracruz as a credit to Mexico’s skill in battle. It was the kind of flattery that he knew was empty, but it also did feel somewhat validating that Iturbide was trying.

It was a marked difference from the tense reception he had gotten when he had left. He knew it was possible that it was all just a ploy to get back in his good graces. But, he preferred it to the barely concealed tension between himself and his emperor.

The tone aside, the end of the letter was the most interesting to him. Iturbide could not have been more clear in his wording. He stated, “I am only asking you to endure Santa Anna until I can secure another commander for the position in Veracruz. If you suspect that he is disloyal to me, then send a convert letter to me and I will deal with him. We will secure the future of the empire together.”

Mexico felt strange reading the words. As far as he knew, Santa Anna had not been disloyal to the empire, though Mexico had already planted the seeds for him to be. So, there was nothing to tell Iturbide about.

The emperor had not bothered to ask about Mexico’s own loyalty. Mexico could read it as an attestation to his absolute faith in his country. But, he was not so foolish.

Iturbide had more reason to suspect him than Santa Anna, since he was the one who was invested in the insurgents already. Even if Iturbide thought that there was a rift between him and Guerrero, he had reasons to suspect Mexico would be drawn back to the side of his old commanders. Unless he was really under the impression that by making sure Mexico was invested in spying on Santa Anna he was also making him more a part of the imperial regime.

He could imagine Santa Anna receiving a similar letter that directed him to look for signs of disloyalty in Mexico’s behavior. The question was whether Santa Anna would do so, or if he had even noticed. He seemed so preoccupied with himself and his plans that Mexico doubted that he had even noticed that his country had met with Victoria.

Mexico felt like it was reasonable to assume for the moment that Iturbide did not suspect anything that he had been doing. If he could keep Santa Anna in doubt about the emperor’s intention, then he could be certain that his actions would continue to be unknown to the emperor.

He read the end of the letter again and tried to decide what to do. If he could expect that Santa Anna was going to be replaced, then he wondered if it would be best to frustrate Santa Anna’s efforts to prepare for battle.

If he could succeed, then it would make him a popular commander, which would make him harder to remove. But, on the other hand, Mexico did not feel like he should aid Iturbide’s schemes.

He decided that he would do nothing to stop it.

Spain would take advantage of anything that he could, and he would certainly seize the opportunity if he thought there was disunity between Mexico’s leaders. It would be smart to take the initiative before Spain suspected that there was some reason for the delay.

Mexico knew that it was all contingent on being able to have the numbers to take that initiative. Without knowing what he would be able to muster on his side, or what kind of numbers Spain could still command, it would be difficult to plan any sort of attack.

Mexico put the letter aside and then rubbed his forehead where there was a headache blooming. He had no idea how to fix this myriad of problems, and the stress was beginning to effect him.

He knew that he should sleep, and it would make him feel better. He felt the longing to sleep next to someone. It felt desperately lonely to be by himself trying to solve these problems.

He knew who he missed, whose broad chest he wanted to cuddle against and sleep. He refused to think his name at all, because the yearning felt like weakness.

The worst, unbidden thought occurred to him. He had a way to contact Victoria, and Victoria almost certainly knew how to contact Guerrero. That thought led him to realize that he hadn’t tried to write to Guerrero at all.

After the man left, he had thought of contact as completely lost. But, given what he knew about Iturbide’s role in keeping Guerrero out of government, it seemed that he should have tried.

Guerrero had not abandoned him, it seemed. Victoria had even made it sound like Guerrero was keeping their relationship secret, even though he had reasons to be angry.

Mexico bit his lower lip and felt momentarily like he had been in the wrong. He missed Guerrero, and he knew he was missing a man who had lied to him. He felt guilty for shutting the man out so firmly, when it had all been based on his initial reaction.

He closed his eyes. The feelings were overwhelming, and he wanted them to stop. Thinking about his personal feelings in a moment when there was a political crisis was selfish, but he could not make them stop. The only thing that cut off the spiraling thoughts was sleep finally overtaking him.

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

Mexico was sitting in the small library trying to think through the same problems he had the night before. He had found a chess board and had put it on the table.

He took the chess pieces out of a velvet bag one at a time and placed them on the board like he was setting up a game. There was no one to play with, but it felt like something to do while he tried to think through his next move.

He felt like what he had on his own would not be enough to fight Spain, and most certainly not at sea.

He placed a pawn on the board, and thought about the options. He needed some kind of alliance to bolster his position and make Spain reconsider his aggression.

America had recognized him as a country, but had stopped short of offering actual aid of any sort. The thought of asking America for help did not appeal to him at all. He only had to think of the struggle of getting the blonde to leave his bed to convince himself that America should be a last resort. He did not need to spend time negotiating with America in the bedroom for support.

He placed another pawn on the board with a dull thud. There had to be another option. When he had rebelled, England had been willing to help fund him, but he didn’t think he could be certain of the same kind of support for a second time. Given the war in Europe, he wasn’t certain that England even had the money to spare. And given that England barely knew him, or had reason to continue his support, it was unlikely that he could help.

Mexico started laying down the back row of pieces, starting with the rooks. England had also not yet made any statement that indicted that he was going to recognize Mexico as a country. That made Mexico certain enough that England would not be a reliable ally.

He finished setting his own side of the board and started working on the other. In his mind, he was trying to think of Spain’s enemies, and which of them would be willing to take a chance on providing him with money or ships.

He could be certain that the rest of Spain’s former colonies could be counted as his enemies, but Mexico knew none of them liked him enough to back him. He was certain that Peru’s offer at the beginning of the wars had never been an offer of sincere solidarity. It had been a way to get Spain out of the way by giving him a better target. It had been like throwing Mexico in front of the raging bull to avoid the horns themselves.

Mexico let out a long sigh as he continued to place the pieces. He knew he couldn't count on the other former colonies. They had hated him when he was Spain’s favorite, and they would do little to protect him from Spain’s aggression.

If Cuba was in any position to aid him, then he might have been the last friend Mexico could count on. But, he was still a colony, unless there had been some push for freedom that Mexico didn't know about.

The thought that came next was that France was Spain’s greatest enemy. But, he knew that he could not turn to France.

He had already made vague promises to France that he did not intend to keep. Going to France would likely mean that France would expect him to fulfill those promises.

As Mexico finished filling the board, he realized that he couldn’t think of another enemy. He knew that Spain had never been interested in making friends with other empires, but that did not mean Mexico could solicit aid from his enemies. It felt like his options for support were running dry, and it was the moment he most needed it.

Relying on mortals was clearly not an option for him. They all seemed to have their own ideas of what needed to be done, and all of their reasons seemed selfish to him.

He felt like he should have known that his problem in time would have been his lack of friends. He turned his mind away from the problem and glanced across the table.

He wished that there was someone there to play a game of chess with. He was smart enough not to wish that Spain was his opponent, though Spain had been the one who he would usually play again. He had played a few games with Guerrero during the war, but he also knew that he couldn’t long for Guerrero.

There was an ache in his heart at how alone he really felt. All those who he may have counted on were gone, and he couldn’t even find a partner for chess.

He let out a long sigh and put a hand to his head. He was about to let himself give into despair when he heard the door open.

He looked up to see one of the couriers standing there. He expected that there was either a message from Santa Anna or another from Iturbide.

He asked, “What is it?” The courier replied, “There’s a man here to see you.”

Mexico doubted that there was anyone visiting him who could be of consequence. He asked, “Are you certain that they are not here for the commander? Did he ask for me specifically?”

He tried to think of who it could even be. Spain would not be so bold as to come to him directly. The mortal responded with a nod and said, “He said that he wanted to speak to you, and that it is an urgent matter that he would like to discuss.”

Mexico sat back in the chair and said, “What does he look like?”

The answer would let him know if the mysterious visitor was. The man replied, “He’s blonde, and very tall.”

So, America had decided to take the choice away from him and return. Mexico felt like he should have expected as much and be grateful for aid if it was offered.

He stood up and said, “Take me to him.”

He adjusted the front of his jacket and hoped that America would be suitably impressed. He had not seemed hard to charm before. Mexico was certain that he would have to do exactly that: charm America into offering whatever resources he could.

But, the figure in the foyer stopped all of those thoughts. Even from a distance, he knew that the person was too tall to be America. The blonde hair was also longer, and the uniform was wrong for the American navy.

Mexico felt the frustrating sense that he knew the tall man standing in his foyer, but he couldn't quite place him.

Then the blonde smiled at him and a memory came back to him. It was an old one of court life, when he had to be very young. He remembered a man who had once been a part of the empire, but who had left when Mexico was still small.

Mexico said, without really thinking, “Oh, it’s you!”

As soon as it left his mouth, he was certain that it was not formal in the way that it should be. It was no way to greet a delegate from another country. But the other simply said, “I was worried that you wouldn’t remember me.”

Mexico shook his head, “I do remember you.” The blonde said, “Well, I will introduce myself for the sake of formality.”

He extended his hand and said, “Johann van Dijk. The Kingdom of the Netherlands.”

Mexico took his hand firmly in his own and said, offering his own name back out of politeness, “Alejandro Garcia Hidalgo.”

The name felt brand new as it rolled off his tongue, since he had only adopted it after the independence.

The Dutchman smirked knowingly and said, "You aren’t using his surname anymore." Mexico replied, “No, I’m not. I don’t want anything to do with him.”

He saw a look in the Netherlands’ eyes like a kind of understanding. For a moment, he felt like someone understood his decision without explanation.

He said, trying to focus on the needs of the moment, “I am glad to see you, but I was told that you had something urgent to discuss with me.”

Knowing that the visitor was the Netherlands, and not America made Mexico reconsider whether he was still able to ask for aid.

He hadn’t said a word to the Netherlands since he was a child. Spain had always insisted that the Netherlands was a traitor and should be ostracized as such. He wasn’t sure if he could ask for anything at all from him, since he felt like a kind of estranged relative.

The blonde said, “I do. I also have some advice, but I would like to talk to you in private.”

It was an unsubtle reference to Santa Anna’s courier, who was still standing behind Mexico. It was easy enough to know what to do. Mexico said, “Of course. We can talk in the library.”

He knew that the room would offer relative privacy, and he was intrigued by the prospect of whatever the Netherlands had to offer.

As they walked to the library, it occurred to him that the Netherlands had come all the way from Europe personally. Whatever this urgent discussion was, it was worth making a long trip to deliver.

Mexico closed the door and turned to the other man. The Netherlands said with no preamble, “You need ships and I have them.”

Mexico blinked twice quietly out of surprise. He had thought he would have to ask earnestly for any help. But this was offered so quickly that he wasn’t sure how to react to it.

He recovered and said, “You can’t possibly be offering me your navy.”

The blonde shook his head and said, “I unfortunately cannot. But, I am a neutral country and I can transport your commercial goods. You will need that to avoid getting stifled by Antonio. He will try to starve you into giving in. I would rather not see that happen.”

Mexico knew the answer immediately. He needed to have some aid, and being able to protect his commerce would be invaluable. The Netherlands continued, “That will make your own ships more available for defense.”

Mexico was grateful for the offer, but he found himself staring at the tall European waiting for a demand. This seemed to be aid offered with no conditions, and nothing was ever so simple.

He said, trying to get some clarification, “I would be happy to accept that. But why are you offering me this?”

The man raised one eyebrow and said, “It doesn’t make sense to you, does it? You expect everyone to want to take from you the same way Antonio does?”

Mexico nodded, slightly taken aback by the blunt delivery. He replied, “Well yes, I expect you want something in exchange for your help.”

He noticed that The Netherlands had started looking around at the books like he was interested in what Mexico had been reading. He said, looking at the book shelves, “I want Antonio to not get what he wants. That is enough for me. If I can spite him, then it will be worth my effort.”

Mexico tried to remember the details of the grievances between Spain and the Netherlands, and couldn’t quite summon the details to mind. Perhaps Spain had chosen not to tell him.

He watched for a quiet moment as the Netherlands was looking through the books. He didn’t remember the man being so tall, but he had been a child when they last interacted. And things looked different through child eyes.

Then, he said, “And what was the advice you wanted to give me?” Mexico felt like he would be willing to give the Dutchman any time he wanted in exchange for what he was already being offered.

He could already imagine the way that it solved all of his issues with ships. With his own ships free to defend his ports, it improved his odds against Spain considerably.

He owed the Dutchman at least a listening ear after such a generous offer. The Netherlands turned away from the bookshelf and fixed his gaze on Mexico. Then he said, “I am the only person who has ever successfully left Antonio’s empire. I know what it is like.”

Mexico bit his inner lip as he contemplated. He felt like the answer should have been obvious to him. He asked, “And what should I do?”

The blonde sighed and said, “It’s not going to be easy, and I am sure you know that already. You will have to be prepared for a long fight. Antonio bled me dry for eighty years. You have wounded his pride, and he will do anything to force you to come back. He sees it as an issue of pride.”

Mexico had known about the long struggle Spain had to retain the Netherlands. He had not been privy to Spain’s thoughts at the time, but he had been aware that it was happening.

He hadn’t thought of how it mirrored his own situation. Spain hadn't respected the peace treaty in that case either.

He said, “I am going to fight him with whatever I have.”

It sounded hollow, since he had no other choice. But it still earned him a look of warm approval. The other responded, “I am sure you are. I was impressed that you fought him for this past decade. I am certain he will drag you through another decade at least.”

Mexico felt momentarily glad that he could make the Netherlands proud. The Dutchman paused for only a moment before saying, “And another piece of advice I would offer is to know what you want from your independence."

That caused Mexico to pause and look at him like he didn’t quite understand. He knew that he wanted independence, and that had been the reason he had endured such a long war. He asked, “What do you mean?”

He was not certain that he could be any clearer in his intentions, so the advice didn’t seem at all necessary. Mexico felt almost like it was patronizing.

But, the Netherlands replied, “While I don’t know what you are thinking, I can speak for my own experience. I wanted to escape Antonio’s control so badly that I didn't think about what I wanted to be once I was independent. I hadn’t given it a single thought since I was putting my energy into leaving the empire.”

He stepped closer and kept his gaze on Mexico and said, “This is what I wanted to tell you in confidence, since your leaders will not like what I am going to tell you. But, you must decide what kind of government you want and pursue it. Mortals will all try to push you towards their own ideals. They will have their convictions, and they will tear you in different contradictory directions.”

Mexico felt like he understood, and it was disconcerting to hear his own experience spoken by someone else. He had thought that he had encountered particularly stubborn politicians. But it seemed that it was not unique to him.

The Netherlands continued, “Monarchists and republicans turned my independence into a civil war, and I hope you are able to escape that fate.”

Mexico felt himself biting his lip again. He knew he should maintain an unaffected facade, but this also felt like an opportunity to talk to someone who might understand.

The other’s blue eyes were reassuring enough, and he knew that the feeling of trust was coming from his good memories of the Netherlands from his childhood. But the man had not felt like a threat to him when he had just arrived in Spain, and he still did not feel like a threat.

Mexico knew the feeling was not entirely rational, but decided to take the chance anyway, and he said, “It has already started. They all want something different from me.”

The blonde nodded and then walked over to one of the chairs. He put his elbows on his knees, which gave the impression that he wanted to have a very serious conversation. He said, speaking in the tone of a patient tutor, “And what do you want?”

Mexico wasn't sure how to answer. He wanted the security of an established government, which Iturbide was offering to him. But, he felt a strong pull towards Victoria and Guerrero, and the kind of government they were offering him.

He also remembered what Morelos said about not trusting that much power to one man, and in theory he agreed. They were all proving how unreliable one mortal man could be.

Mexico said, intentionally evading the question, “I want Tony to accept that I am independent.” The Netherlands heard his implication and said, “And after that?”

Mexico didn’t have a prepared answer, so he said, “I don’t know. I want whatever will keep him away.”

The other nodded like he understood. He replied, “You don't need to answer that question for me. You should answer it for yourself before men try to tell you what you want.”

He paused before adding, “I will not tell you what to do. But, for what it is worth, I think you should consider a republic. You and I both know that monarchies are flawed. The Spanish monarchs were half mad. trusting your people isn't easy, but it is worth it.”

Mexico decide to take the chair across from him. The man had certainly given him a lot to think about. He said, “I think you have given me more than I could ever repay. You must want something in return.”

The blonde leaned toward him and said, “As I said, I want nothing from you. I want you to live well away from Antonio, since I know what losing you will do to him. He’ll be ruined as an empire. I could think of nothing I want more.”

Mexico saw the shadow as his jaw clenched on the words, and heard the angry snarl in his voice. He had never imagined that such animosity existed between Spain and the Netherlands. If he had known it earlier, he would have exploited it.

But as it was, he was glad that he had someone who was willing to help him when he needed it. He said, “If you are willing to tell me, there is something else I want to ask.”

The Netherlands’ grimace turned back into a small smile and he replied, “Go ahead. I’ll tell you whatever I know."

Mexico nodded. He knew that a European would have a better idea of how badly the war had effected Spain. It was what he most needed to know. He asked, “How badly was Tony's army and navy hurt by the war with France? I need to know what he has left.”

The blonde took a moment to think, and it looked like he was contemplating thoroughly. Then he said, “Well, I am not certain. But I know that he had a hard fight with France. He was fighting him with everything he had, and trying to maintain his hold on you at the same time. So, I think that he must have very little left. But, I think that you should know that his guerrilla warfare endeared him to much of the rest of the continent. It has frustrated for me to hear many praise his bravery in the face of French occupation.”

Mexico could not imagine how Spain had shown himself to be brave when he was busy inflicting repression on his colonies. No one would be sympathetic to Spain if they had seen what he had done to Hidalgo.

He understood what the other was saying though, and it was a prudent warning. He said, “So, you think I’ll find less help from Europe?”

The blonde nodded with a regretful look on his face. He replied, “Sadly, he’s gotten sympathy, and very few people are willing to turn on him.”

Mexico sighed to himself. He wished that they all realized how much Spain was manipulating them all. One act of heroism did not absolve him of anything.

Mexico nodded to himself and noted that he was lucky for the Netherlands coming to his aid. Unprompted, the blonde said, “They act like he wasn’t saved by his brother’s relationship with England.”

Mexico looked up at him questioningly and said, “What? What did Phillip do?”

He felt an unexpected twinge at the thought of Portugal. He hadn’t thought of him in years, and he was suddenly missed the comforting, mentoring presence. He should have sent a letter to Portugal since he had become independent.

He had very little idea what the Netherlands was talking about. He had seen Portugal and England together before, but never questioned their closeness.

But, the smirk on the blonde’s face and his frank language told him it was something very different. The Netherlands smirked again and said, “He convinced his lover to help Antonio free himself from Francis. Arthur never would have been willing to do it without the promise of those sweet green eyes.”

Mexico smirked to himself. He had never thought of it, but it didn’t surprise him that Portugal had a love life. Anyone would have been lucky to have him. He said, “I had no idea that Arthur felt that way about Phillip.”

The other said with a very knowing look, “From what I heard, Antonio didn’t either. It was a shock to him.”

Mexico could imagine the look of inevitable shock and rage that must have been of Spain’s face. How it must have hurt that his brother was dating his mortal enemy. There were very few people that Spain hated more than England.

Mexico was amused at the very least. He said, “You should stay the night. It must have been a long journey.” The other replied with a smile, "I would be glad to.”

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

After a long night and a short goodbye, Mexico found himself wandering along the shore thinking about the question the Netherlands had put to him. He had thought about it through the whole of dinner and the night after that.

He had laid awake trying to figure out which of his thoughts belonged to Morelos or Hidalgo or Guerrero, and which were his own.

He looked out at the ocean and tried to make sense of what had been circling in his mind for hours. He thought about what the other country had said about trusting his people. He had said that individual people could be easily fooled, but the people on the whole would make good decisions.

it reminded him of what Morelos had said to him years ago. It had sounded convincing to him at the time, and he wasn’t sure when he had become so skeptical of the idea of democracy.

He could have no guarantee of who would be president if he did throw his effort behind a republic. When Morelos was his general, it seemed like it was a near certainty that he would become the head of state. In that case it had seemed like he could trust the president.

He glanced around at the people on the street. Could he be certain that any of them would make the right decision? Then, a nagging voice asked if he could be trusted to make that choice on his own.

He had chosen wrong so far in choosing to back Iturbide’s bid for the crown.

He contemplated as he walked, now turning back to return to the base of operations. If he could just come to a conclusion in his own mind, then he could act on it.

He turned his mind back to the question of whether anyone could be trusted to decide his leader. He had no certainty of who he would end up with after the masses decided.

If he could be certain that it would be Victoria, he would agree to it. The man was level headed enough that he would serve well as a leader, and Mexico would be willing to support him. But, there was no assurance that a vote would lead to Victoria having power.

There was an unpleasant shiver down his spine as he thought of the concept of Guerrero becoming president. He did not want to be forced to spend time with a man who had lied to him. He was no longer certain of what Guerrero had felt or meant. It was clear to him that some of it had been Iturbide’s manipulations, but that did not mean that Guerrero had been sincere either.

It was not so hard to believe that the people would choose Guerrero, since he was a war hero and was well loved. He was an easy man to love.

Mexico stopped his own train of thought there, trying not to allow it to reach its natural end.

But, on the other hand, he could be certain of who he would be dealing with if he chose the monarchy. It would be Iturbide, who he felt more and more alienated from by the day.

Then it would be his son who would take the throne. Mexico did not want to pass judgement on a boy when he was still young. But, the boy had fainted when he had heard about his father’s new position.

It didn’t seem that he had the constitution for leadership, and that the prospect scared him. His fainting seemed to indicate that he was scared of the idea on being the crown prince. Perhaps it was kind to relieve him of the burden.

Mexico sighed to himself as he saw the door again. He could see the direction that his own thoughts was going, and it seemed so obvious that he felt like he had been ridiculous for meditating on it for so long.

He knew that he was at least willing to give Victoria a chance to explain his plan for how to create a republic. He did not have to agree, not quite yet.

But, as he reached the door to the library, he had an idea for the letter he needed to write. Once that was done, it would be a simple matter of finding a boy in the market and returning a pocket dictionary with a certain letter folded in its pages.

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

Mexico came back from the market with a self satisfied smiled on his face. He felt like he was finally doing what Morelos had wanted from him, and had believed him capable of. It was nothing solid yet, but losing the weight of deliberation made him feel much better.

“You seem quite pleased about something.”

Mexico turned to see that Santa Anna had been watching the door as he came in, like he had been anxiously waiting for him to return. If Mexico thought Santa Anna had any loyalty to the emperor, he would have been worried that he had seen him.

But, he was certain that Santa Anna was not looking at him with accusation. He was especially certain of it when Santa Anna smirked at him and said, “I hope you aren’t about to tell me that the Spanish fleet has mysteriously vanished. I have the most brilliant plan to rid us of them.”

Mexico walked over to him, trying to act like he hadn’t been planning any sort of rebellion hours before. He said, “I don’t think they have. But, I don’t think I would be able to see that from here. If they were in the harbor, it would be easier to know what we are facing.”

Santa Anna replied, “No, that would be far too easy. I would be very impressed if you could see all the way to Havana.”

Mexico was surprised to hear that, though it should have been obvious to him that Cuba would be the easiest place to prepare the attack. He responded, “How do you know they are in Havana?”

He met the mortal’s eyes and momentarily felt like he believed in Santa Anna’s strange confidence. It should seem absurd, but the completely frank and certain delivery was convincing.

Santa Anna placed one hand on Mexico’s back and guided him to a table where there was a map laid out, “I have my sources. Let me show you what I am thinking."

Mexico replied, trying not to sound too cynical, though he doubted that everything would be as simple as Santa Anna was making it sound. It wouldn’t be, if Spain had any strategy at all. He said, “I don’t suppose you have any idea how many ships he has? Did your source tell you that?”

It was critical information, and he was certain that it would be essential in planning a defense. He was hoping that whatever Santa Anna was able to know would fill that gap. All that the Netherlands had been able to tell him for sure was that Spain’s ability to wage war was far less than it had been before the war with France. But, he had not known anything specific about the numbers.

The Netherlands had already given Mexico so much without asking for anything. He wouldn’t ask for more.

Santa Anna shook his head, “Unfortunately, I do not. My source only saw that they were going to Havana. It would make our lives easier if we knew.”

He turned to the map and placed a marker in Havana. He met Mexico’s eyes and said, “We know that they are massing their fleet there.”

He pointed to the map, like it was unclear when he meant. Mexico nodded anyway, because he would rather that Santa Anna got to the point.

The mortal continued, “We don't have the numbers to take the fight all the way to Cuba. But, thanks to your Dutch friend, we have the ships to have scouts to watch their position. The moment we know that they are going to attack, we will mount a defense at a bottleneck.”

He pointed to a spot in the harbor where ships would have to pass in very close. Mexico understood his reasoning, since it would be easier to make up for any disparity of numbers if they set the terms of engagement.

He said, with slight amusement, "You're planning a trap? How dishonorable of you.”

He knew that his tone was not serious. Santa Anna responded with an amused smile, “Would you rather be honorable or be victorious?”

Mexico smiled back and said, “I think you know the answer to that.”

He felt distinctly aware of Santa Anna’s hand on his back as the man replied, “I think I understand you completely.”

Mexico took another glance at the map and tried not to think about the hand on his back. It wasn’t entirely necessary and he decided not to contemplate it. Instead, he said, “You nearly have me convinced of your brilliance, commander.” Santa Anna said, almost sweetly, “You can call me Antonio.”

Though the man meant well, Mexico felt like he couldn’t get that name to roll off of his tongue without thinking of Spain. But, he didn’t want to admit to that yet. He said, “Let’s not be too familiar yet.”

He turned his gaze intentionally back to the map so he didn’t have to see how Santa Anna was looking at him. He then said, “So, all we need to do now is wait.”

The mortal replied, “Yes, and I suspect it will not be long.”

He then added, with another knowing smile, “Even if it does, I will refuse to be removed by the emperor.”

Mexico scoffed, amused by the brazen statement. He could not imagine that Santa Anna would have any choice if it came to that. Iturbide would not take no as an answer if he issued an order.

Mexico said, “And how are you going to do that?”

He was amused to see what kind of answer the man would give. Santa Anna said, as casually as he said anything else, “I have my own soldiers who are loyal to me.”

Mexico raised his eyebrow in mock surprise. He said, “That sounds like treason.”

Any man with a sense of shame would have taken the opportunity to pretend that the statement was a joke. But Santa Anna seemed to make no such retreat. Instead he said, “Well, let’s keep that between us then. You don’t tell anyone what I just said, and I won’t question where you were today. Does that sound like a deal?”

Mexico thought for a brief moment that he had the proof Iturbide wanted. He could have easily written a letter to Iturbide, and won the man’s trust and esteem.

But, as he looked at Santa Anna, he felt no desire to do it. He had nothing to gain from it, and it would only lose him a commander. He already knew that he was not going to say anything about it to the emperor. Mexico replied, “I think we do.”

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

There was a folded piece of paper on the side table by Mexico’s bed that he was sure had not been there before he left. It caught his eye as soon as he entered the room like an unbidden intruder.

It was folded neatly like a letter, and by all appearances that’s what it was. But it was strange to him that it would be left without anyone telling him.

He glanced around like he was about to see a courier leaving. But there was no one there, and he was left with the puzzling question of where the letter had come from.

Perhaps they had brought the letter when he had been delivering his letter for Victoria, and there had been no opportunity for a discussion.

He picked it up and turned the paper in his hand, looking for any clue who it was from. But there was nothing more than a scribbled name on the outside. It was Mexico’s name, in a handwriting that he felt like he knew. But it couldn’t possibly be from the person he thought it was.

He opened it, and immediately knew who had written it before he even saw the signature. Cuba’s handwriting would always be familiar to him, even if this looked like it had been composed in secret. It was rushed and the words blurred together at points.

Mexico could imagine him so clearly in his mind’s eye. He imagined Cuba standing at the harbor scribbling notes about the numbers of ships.

The idea brought unbidden tears to Mexico’s eyes. He felt so touched by the thought that his friend would be willing to take that risk for him. They were far apart, and it had been years since they had even spoken last. But, despite all of that, Cuba had chosen to send him a letter.

Mexico’s heart ached, and he could feel the sting of tears in his eyes. He was certain that if Spain had found out that Cuba was taking any notes about the ships at all there would have been swift and brutal punishment.

If he could guess from the last time he had seen Spain that the man’s temper was certainly more volatile than usual. And no one would accuse him of being a level headed man even when he was in a good mood.

Mexico knew the risk that Cuba was taking, and he wished profoundly that he was able to thank him. He read through the rest of the letter, occasionally having to stop and puzzle through the messy letters.

It was a remarkably complete description of the Spanish fleet in Havana, down to the kind of each ship and their state of repair. Based on the description, it sounded like Spain had rushed repairs on several ships that had been involved in the war with France. Those would be weak, and easy to sink if Mexico was careful.

It also seemed that Spain’s naval capacity had definitely reduced, though only a fool would think it would be an easy fight. It was all the information that Mexico had been missing, and he couldn’t quite imagine how he had such luck.

Mexico put his free hand to his chest, over his heart. This must have taken enormous effort and care to write, and Mexico felt like he didn’t deserve this from a friend who he had not been close to for years.

He could also imagine how difficult it had been to sneak it across the gulf and to him. He wished he knew what kind of subterfuge it had taken for this letter to appear in his room without a trace of who had brought it.

He reached the bottom of the letter, and his heart hurt as he read the last few lines. They said, “From what I’ve heard, it sounds like you have a week or two to prepare. I wish you luck, my friend. I could not be more proud of you. I hope we can see each other again under better circumstances.”

Mexico wished he could do anything to express his gratitude for the warning and the information. He wished he could hug Cuba like he would have when they were children.

He folded the letter carefully, certain that he would keep it until he could see Cuba again. Then he raised it his lips and placed a soft kiss on the paper. He added softly, “Thank you, Carlos.”

#aph mexico #aph spain #historical hetalia #latin hetalia

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for-ests · 4 years

Text

Lost In Your Light: Peter Parker x Reader (Part 6)

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5

[ my masterlist ] word count: 4, 319

CHAPTER 06: TOUCH

The memories of last night lingered in Y/N's mind as she shuffled through the school hallway.

It seemed that whenever she saw Spider-Man, it took days to get him out of her brain. And now, she knew what he really looked like. His boyish, yet captivating face flashed in images whenever she closed her eyes. It was a face she couldn't seem to forget.

Y/N sighed hopelessly, closing her locker and slumping against it. She couldn't even focus on the workload ahead. All she wanted to do was be with him.

Peter was his name. So common, yet so meaningful and charming to her. If every man that was named Peter was as striking and heroic as him, there would be no competition. He was so selfless and gentle.

Shaking her head, Y/N blushed. She knew it wasn’t healthy to be fantasizing over Peter like this… Something about him was just so comforting.

The girl glanced at her phone. 7:25am, there was still five minutes until class officially started. How was she going to get through a whole day of school?

Just when her thoughts were going to drift away to her heroic Spider-Man, a voice calling her name cut through the white noise.

She lifted her head to find Kenzie, the girl she met in the bathroom. Y/N had almost forgotten about the injured girl she had been drawn to almost a week ago.

"Y/N it is, right?" She asked nervously, stopping at her side and avoiding the foot traffic.

"That's me." Y/N smiled, though she could tell something was wrong.

"Can we talk?" Her eyes darted back and forth with caution. Y/N's stomach churned.

"Of course."

The two of them headed inside the nearest bathroom. Y/N looked around and made sure nobody was occupying a stall before turning to Kenzie.

Kenzie swallowed hard. Her dark skin seemed a little paler than the day they met.

"I really don't know how to say this, Y/N." She paused. "But I have Leukemia."

Y/N snapped her head over, expression itched with disbelief. "Please tell me you're kidding." She rushed the words out. There was no way, there was no fucking way.

"I'm not." Kenzie's lip quivered. The pure shock of it all seemed to slap her in the face. Each time she muttered her fatal disease, she felt a little more hopeless.

But, the curly haired girl refused to cry in school. "I went to the doctor and they confirmed it. You were right. And because you warned me of the signs, they were able to catch it at an early stage. I have a good chance of surviving this."

Y/N could see the conflict in her eyes. This girl was scared, she was hurt. She had just been diagnosed with a terminal illness that had a terrifying mortality rate.

Kenzie stood in front of Y/N. She was begging for help, begging for answers. Cancer was no laughing matter. It was deadly—and it was too strong. It rendered Y/N powerless.

"O-Oh my god, Kenzie. I'm so, so sorry." Y/N's heart broke for the girl she barely knew. "I mean—I'm glad I could help. But I wish I was wrong." Her eyes closed in anguish. "I wish I was wrong, more than anything."

"You don't need to be sorry. If anything, I should be grateful. Hell, I barely know you and you helped me in more ways than I could have imagined." Kenzie's voice was soft.

Y/N's lips upturned, halfway between a smile, and halfway between a frown. She didn't know what else to say. She was confused. It seemed her powers were stronger than she had anticipated, yet not strong enough in that way she desperately wanted them to be. If the girl was strong enough to detect undetectable illnesses, could she heal them as well?

There was a long stretch of silence as Y/N stared at herself in the mirror, her senses tingling. Being around Kenzie was like being around an open fuse.

Y/N could possibly help her. All signs were leading to it, but she couldn't expose her secret. The conflicted girl wasn't ready for the world to know about her abilities.

Y/N lifted her head and through the mirror's reflection, her eyes drifted back to Kenzie. There were distinct bags forming around her eyes. She needed help.

Kenzie breathed in, face twisting with uncertainty. Y/N was prepared to answer questions, but not the one that came out of her mouth. "How did you know? Please don't give me a bullshit answer."

Y/N was taken back by her sudden accusation. "I-I don't know what you mean."

"There's something off about you. Not in a bad way, you're just different. You know more than you're letting on." Kenzie said thoughtful, her words not intending to be an insult.

"Kenzie..." Y/N paused, eyes drifting to the door. She didn't know what to say, she couldn't even think. Her powers had to remain a secret.

"You have some sort of ability, right?" She seemed to be speaking whatever came to mind.

Y/N's expression wavered slightly. "No. I don't, it was just a lucky guess. Like I told you, my father is a doctor."

"You didn't guess. You knew, before anyone else did."

The girl crossed her arms, desperate to deflect anymore questions that she knew Kenzie wanted to ask. Who wouldn’t? Y/N knew she would if she was in Kenzie’s positions. "Even so, I couldn't tell you."

Please let it go. Please, for your sake and for mine. How could Y/N convey such a thing without coming outright to say it?

Kenzie chewed on her lip. "I was assuming."

"I'm sorry. I don't even know myself."

"It's okay. But you realize that being different... with whatever you have, isn't that far fetched. With everything that's going on..."

Y/N managed to smile. "Like the aliens?"

"Yeah. Like the aliens."

The two girls stood side by side in the bathroom. The silence wasn't awkward, it was comfortable. There was mutual respect between them, even if Y/N couldn't tell her the truth.

Y/N opened her mouth to say something, but her words were cut short by the bell.

"I guess I'll see you around then." Kenzie waved, slinging her backpack on her shoulder.

"Let me know if I can help with anything." Y/N said, following her out of the bathroom.

"No need. You've done all that you can do—"

I don't know about that. Y/N thought.

"—Whatever you can do, I would advise helping others like me. We need more good people like you in this world. People who are willing to help others just out of the goodness of their own heart."

Y/N was quiet as she watched Kenzie leave her side, disappearing into the crowd before she could even say goodbye.

✭✦✭✦

Y/N walked down the sidewalk with her hands in her pockets.

The school day had ended, and truthfully, it had been a blur. The girl was still anxious from her friend's revelation. Y/N's prediction had been right. She was able to sense an illness with just one touch. She was able to feel it.

It scared her. It scared her so much that all she could think about was a way to get rid of it.

And every time she did, her hands ached with pain. Y/N didn't even want to look at them.

That was why they were shoved deep in her pockets.

She kept her gaze forward, refusing to look at anyone she passed. Y/N was anxious to get home, anxious to be alone and isolated so she could come up with some sort of plan.

The girl pulled out her phone, side stepping a pile of melting snow. She was a few blocks away, and needed to know if her father was going to be home.

Y/N: > Dad, are you at our humble abode?

Papa: > Yes, daughter of mine. I will be until dark. Can't wait to see you.

His simple and sweet text caused a smile to spread across her face. Perhaps she could wait a few hours to stress over her powers. Perhaps she needed to spend some time with her father.

Decompressing sounded like the right thing to do.

Y/N hurried home as fast as she could, which was surprisingly under 10 minutes.

"Dad, I'm home!" She shouted and slammed the front door shut. Her backpack and shoes were laid at the foot of the staircase.

"Afternoon, honey." He called from the living room. She rounded the corner and found him in the same spot and same chair, reading the newspaper and drinking a cup of coffee. Some things never needed to change.

"How was school?" He asked almost immediately, not taking his eyes off the current article he was invested in.

"Fine." Y/N said, even though it wasn't. Fine was what people said for courtesy purposes.

He nodded, excepting she would give him a one word answer. There was a brief moment of silence as Y/N filled up a glass of water to drink.

She joined her father's side. He put the newspaper down to give her his full attention. That was one thing she appreciated about him. He may have been gone most of the time, but when she needed him, he was there.

His eyebrows furrowed as he studied her intently, "You look stressed kiddo, did anything happen?" Her father asked, evidently concerned. Thomas L/N knew his daughter well enough to realize when she was upset.

Y/N's gaze faltered. She wished more than anything that she could tell him. He deserved to know. He was her father, the one person in the world that loved her.

But not yet. So she made up an excuse, a list that seemed to keep growing and growing.

"Just some tests, dad. The usual, nothing for you to worry about."

"Since you have those stellar grades." He chuckled, seeming to buy it. Her lie wasn't so far-fetched since she was a student. "There's no reason you should be so stressed, you'll do great."

"I guess so. It's just..." Y/N trailed off, trying to muster up an excuse to have him start talking about her mother. Her mother might be the key to discovering her abilities. Even if it was not, it was a good place to start.

But, the thought of her mother broke her heart. It had been years since Y/N had felt her touch.

"Can you talk about Mom?" She blurted.

The mention of her stiffened his posture. "Is that why you're upset?"

"I'm starting to forget her, dad." Her first utterance was the truth. She couldn't remember what her mother's smile looked like, or what her hug felt like. Y/N knew her features were similar to the woman who gave birth to her, but even so, she wanted to know which ones. Just gazing at their pictures stirred up regret and sadness.

"A-And I have an English project where we need to compare our parents to the parents in the book."

"Oh." His forehead wrinkled with confusion. Y/N felt culpable, yet again.

"What do you want to know?" He took a sip of his coffee.

"I want to know about her family. Why don't we talk to them anymore? Where are they?"

"And you're trying to tell me this is part of your English project?" He could see right through her lies. Yet he didn’t seem annoyed or irritated, instead amusement wrinkled the corners of his eyes.

Y/N faltered, looking sheepish. "Y-Yes?" She grinned.

"You can ask me anything about your mother Y/N, it makes sense you'd be curious about her. If you're afraid of hurting me, it's okay. I’ve had a lot of time to cope with it.”

She smiled.

"Shoot." He encouraged. "I'll answer to the best of my ability."

To corroborate her previous statement, Y/N pulled out her phone to pretend she was actually taking down notes for her school project. "I want to brush up on the basics. What was her favorite meal to make?"

"Frikadeller." He chuckled at the memory. "Those meatballs you used to hork down. I'm surprised you even tasted them."

"They were good." Y/N grinned. "Why was it her favorite?"

"Because it was yours."

Y/N felt tears stinging her eyes. They were only talking about happy memories, but any memory of her mother was followed by the fact that she would never see her again.

"Do we still have the recipe?" Her throat was tight.

"Of course. I still have everything."

The girl nodded, wondering it was even possible to learn to cook as well as her mother had. Even if she couldn't, she needed to carry on something. Perhaps learning about her was a way of moving on, even if it hurt.

Y/N decided to change the subject.

"What about grandma... What was her name?" She wracked her brain for some sort of memory. "I feel like we haven't seen any of mom's side of the family."

"Her name is Ragnild. She lives in Denmark, that's why we never see her."

"Oh..."

"I have her number. I can give it to you if you're interested. I just didn't think you were."

"I guess I'm just feeling nostalgic. I wanna know where my roots are."

"Well" Mr. L/N chuckled. "You know where half of you is from."

"I know, I know." She smiled. "It was just odd, only hearing about your family. Was mom not close with hers?"

"Not really." He admitted. "Your grandmother is kind of crazy."

Y/N cocked an eyebrow in surprise. "How so?" She asked, even though she had a feeling she already knew the answer to it. Probably something to do with magical powers, and glowing lights.

"Why don't you call her for yourself?"

She stared at her father. "Would that even be a good idea?"

"I think so." He shrugged his shoulders. Y/N could tell he was trying very hard to hold his laughter in.

"Seriously dad, you have to tell me."

"She's very superstitious. That's all I'm gonna say." His tone was firm. "I didn't know her very well."

"What about other family members? Where are they?"

"Scattered around the earth. Her family seems to live everywhere, that's why you never see them. They move so often I couldn't keep track, so I stopped trying." Her father grew slightly annoyed. Not at her, but at the mention of a family that wouldn't settle down. "The last time I saw any of them was at the funeral. Besides that, I've heard nothing. They rarely update Facebook. It's strange."

Judging by the look on his face, he did not seem to find it that strange.

Y/N knew better than that. She knew that deep down, he did still care. When her mother passed, all that was left was a hole. And the absence of her extended family must have been tough to deal with. Because there was such a disparity, it took that much longer to heal. It had been five years and it was still heartbreaking to mention her name.

Especially since Y/N was around, as a constant reminder of the woman he used to love. She looked exactly like her.

"But if I'm being honest, I think you should call your grandmother. She would love it."

"I might just do that." Y/N cleared her thoughts, moving on to the next topic now that she had the connection she needed. She could only do so much crying over her dead mother.

The father and daughter talked well into the night until Y/N had to feign tiredness. With a goodnight kiss on the cheek, she left his side and wished him a serene shift; which they both knew was a rare occasion.

Y/N slumped down on her bed and cuddled the sheets. Sleep was tempting, but her mind was racing. She hadn't patrolled in a few days, and it was about time. The animals needed her. Perhaps being in the field may reveal some secrets she needed answered.

Her phone buzzed with a text.

The teenager rolled over in her bed and grabbed it. Her father had texted her.

Papa: > Call her tomorrow.

With a contact attachment. Ragnild Lykke.

Y/N did not know what to feel. She could be brave, and hopefully get some insight from a superstitious old woman; or she could continue to search aimlessly for someone to help. Someone who didn't know her family history.

Frustrated, she set her phone aside and waited quietly for her father to leave. That could wait for tomorrow. Right now she had to worry about the streets... and about Spider-Man.

She had to tell him what happened. But how could she even contact him?

Y/N’s eyes widened. She had his number now, she could reach him whenever she needed.

Y/N blushed, but only slightly. How could she forget? Smirking, she pulled up his contact name, almost laughing out loud when she saw the name he had entered. Web-Head.

The girl hesitated for a moment, with her finger hovering over the send button.

Y/N: > Peter, meet me by the water at midnight. It's urgent.

He replied almost immediately.

Web-Head: > Roger that.

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There was no wind tonight, and Y/N was grateful for the tranquility. She could wear her hair down without it blowing in her face.

Her usual spot on the cliff's edge felt a little more comforting. It was the same as it had always been. She came here, planned out her night, then followed through with it. Hopefully she could save some lives tonight.

Her eyes unfocused as she stared out on the water. The city lights reflected off the peaceful water, the waves were more calming at this hour, and the water was lower because of the moon.

"Hey, Y/N." Her name sounded so right on his lips. She turned with a smile to find Peter, his mask off.

"Thanks for coming." She greeted. "Sit."

He nodded, joining her side and hanging his legs off the edge. He began to study the ocean just as intently as her.

Peter could tell something was on her mind. She was agitated and timid. Yet regardless of the contrast from her usual demeanor, his senses prickled by being so close to her.

"Tell me." He whispered, not having to worry about his voice getting lost in the wind.He could hear every single occurrence now that the wind was gone. It was strange.

"My powers are getting stronger." Y/N confessed, keeping her gaze outstretched to the dark sea.

Peter did not say anything for there wasn't a need. Being there with her felt normal, it felt right. It was comfortable, the silence between them.

He waited for her to speak. He knew how much courage it took to admit such a discovery.

"I can detect diseases now. I can feel when someone has... cancer."

"Are you serious?" His eyes widened slightly.

Y/N nodded. "My hands, they ache when I get close to someone. There was this girl at school, I barely knew her. But my hands, they led me into the bathroom where she was. They didn't stop glowing until I was in talking distance of her. She told me her symptoms, and a voice in the back of my mind was screaming she had Leukemia, so I told her to check with her doctor." She paused, ashamed that she was rambling. It probably made no sense to Peter, but she had to tell someone.

"I forgot about that incident, until today. She found me, and she told me I was right. She has stage one Leukemia." Lelia felt a tear slip down her cheek. She felt guilty.

"Why are you crying?" He asked, with the most gentle voice she had ever heard. "It's not your fault."

"Yes, it is. If only I'd taken my powers seriously, I could have saved others. I just could never understand what I was feeling, and why I was drawn to certain people."

"You have a gift, Y/N. You shouldn't feel obliged to help everyone. You've been going through this alone, it's not your fault."

Y/N wiped away her tears and laughed lightly. She hadn't expected to start crying in front of him. It was embarrassing.

"I... You're right." The girl confessed.

"I struggle with it too." His voice wavered. "It hurts."

Y/N turned to him. Peter's jaw was clenched, eyebrows furrowed in thought. He meant every word he said.

"T-Thanks Peter. It feels really nice to talk to you."

He met her gaze, his eyes conveying to her that he felt it too.

The intensity of his stare caused her to avert her gaze. Y/N began to nervously play with her coat sleeves, blinking away the last of her tears.

Peter watched for a moment. He studied the way she bit her lip softly when she debated what to say. Y/N was quite reserved, and seemed to put great thought into the words she shared. So when she stuttered like he used to, he could immediately tell it was serious.

"A-Anyways. I was going to go patrolling tonight. Or whatever you want to call it." She chuckled at herself. "I'd like it if you came with me."

Peter smiled. "You mean you want me to come dog-napping with you?"

"It's not called dog-napping when they are being abused. Plus it's not just dogs." Her eyes rolled slightly, yet a faint smirk was detectable.

"Normally, I would be down for it. But not tonight."

"Why?"

Peter looked reluctant. "I got reports from Mr. Stark. The Thorns are becoming a big problem, Y/N. He's only paying attention to them now because they've gotten their hands on some pretty hefty equipment."

"Such as?"

"I'm not exactly sure, weapons made from alien debris left over from the invasion." He said.

"Well I bet you can catch them." She leaned back on her arms, swinging her feet back and forth. She was thankful for the secluded spot along the platform. Though it was dangerous and considered trespassing, it remained her place to come think. And now, she had finally revealed it to another. It had an incredible view of the bay, the lights from downtown glimmering against the water’s surface.

But now, finally becoming aware of the danger that had infested the city, the silence that filled the dimly lit streets was starting to become eerie.

Peter noticed it too.

"If you're going to bust them tonight, can I come with you?" She questioned to regain his attention.

"Uh," He shifted nervously, crossing his legs. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?" Her eyes narrowed. She wasn't angry, though her face most likely showed that.

"Cause... um." He looked away.

Seeing him so flustered was kind of refreshing. "You can be honest with me." Y/N urged.

"I-I don't want you to get hurt." He said without looking at her.

"I have powers, Peter." She said matter of factly. "Remember?"

His gaze was still focused on the abyss in front of them. The ocean was the best distraction. "But not fighting powers, if you know what I mean." He tried to say as nicely as possible.

"I do." She pondered, brushing her hair behind her shoulders. "But I'm still coming."

He snapped towards her. "I thought I just convinced you not to!"

Her laugh was lighthearted. "I already made up my mind, web-head."

"Ooohh." He tilted his head back in laughter. "I see how it is."

Y/N pushed herself up from the ground. It was time to move on and stop moping. It was time to do something important.

Peter stood up as well. He held his mask by his side, about to put it on—until Y/N snatched it from his grip.

"Hey!" He whisper-yelled, a little too lazy to try and get it back when she moved away. Peter was enjoying her teasing nature. It was normal, and reminded him of his best friend Ned.

Y/N held the mask behind her back, flashing him a cheeky grin.

"I told you I prefer you with the mask off." She stopped jogging around him. "At leash until the fight starts."

He closed the gap between them. The cold air ceased as he towered over her. "Who says there's going to be a fight?"

Peter reached for his mask, but grabbed her hand instead. He felt her delicate skin instead of the silky material he'd become so accustomed to. His heartbeat quickened at the contact. The feeling of her gentle touch was one he wanted to keep close, one that he was determined to protect.

Peter reached for her other hand. Y/N gladly obliged, breathless.

He was being so sweet, the girl could not help but freeze.

Am I crazy for wanting more? She pondered.

Peter relished in the moment for as long as he could. The sight of her reddening cheeks gave him a boost of confidence.

Y/N was gorgeous, as always. How could he say no to her?

"You can come with, but you're staying out of the fight. I won't let you get hurt." Peter held her hands in his. They were so gentle, so soft. How could these hands hold such an unexplainable power?

Y/N closed her eyes in peace. His touch, his company, was too good to be true. There was no way he felt the same.

Regardless, Y/N gathered the courage to stand on her tip-toes, and whisper in his ear—

"That better be a promise." Before pressing her lips gently on his cheek.

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#peter parker x reader #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker imagine #peter parker #tom holland x reader

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