#this is why i am developing a heart tremor right here

[livingprophecy]

the way that the vikings can beat the bills in overtime against nearly impossible odds but then lose to the lions despite being the favored victors is why i’m gonna have heart problems before i turn 30

[your-highnessmarvel]

From Bleak to Bright Part Four

All other parts on on my masterlist, link provided below.

AN: OOOOH the development of this story makes me so excited for the rest!!! Loki is def in this part babies;)

Warnings: angst, language

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MASTERLIST

PART FOUR

The evening sun bore down onto the horizon, coloring the sky a myriad of blue and yellow and pink. Like vagabond brushstrokes upon the canvas of the sky. A few, wandering birds called from a distance, lazily gliding in the wind. 

The door behind you opened and closed. You turned away from the darkening horizon and saw your brother offering two cups of steaming chamomile tea. 

“Steve says they might have a point of entry for you,” he said, but his tone wasn’t into it, as if the week’s dealings bore on his shoulders alone. 

When Tony had announced your role as the bait, Bruce had thrown himself at your side. No one would hurt his baby sister, he’d said.

“I don’t think he’s going to fall for it,” you said halfhearted. 

Bruce sighed, handing you the cup. You wrapped your hands around the burning warmth. “I think you still don’t fully understand the soulmate bond,” your brother said.

“Huh?”

He sipped on his tea, clearing his throat. “At least for men, it’s not really about how you feel towards that person, albeit that yes, there’s passion.” He scratched the back of his neck, awkwardly coughing. “It’s more the protection you want to have on this person. Their wellbeing is of utmost importance. It’s hard, sometimes, to differentiate between protection and possession.”

A lump formed in your throat. Possession?

“And knowing Loki,” Bruce went on. “Knowing his nature of envy and greed, he’s for sure feeling the effects of the bond as just that - possession. He feels like you belong to him.”

Astonished, you turned away from your brother, both to hide your flaming cheeks and the awkwardness forming between you. 

“Has he made anymore...” you hesitated, “demands?”

Bruce shook his head. “No.” Then he looked at the horizon. “But he’s looking for you. He went to your apartment. Your daytime job. Even the school you used to go to part-time in the summer.”

That seemed like so far behind. Like someone else. Not you. That life you’d had barely more than two weeks ago, when you’d accepted to help Bruce. That girl, living alone in a somewhat nice apartment, going to work on public transport, and studying in the summer - that girl seemed like a stranger now. The girl who used to see in black and white.

“So what happens when he finds me?” you asked tentatively. 

“We swoop in,” Bruce answered. “We get him. We hand him over to Thor, and he brings him back to Asgard and makes sure he never comes back.”

That word. Never. It rung like a Cong inside your brain. The prospect of never seeing Loki ever again, never talking to him, stroke a cord in you that you wished you could ignore. 

During this whole week of scheming, no one had asked you how you felt about all this. He was your soulmate after all. And the idea that, after all this time, you’d finally found him and he was bound for eternal life in prison made you want to scream.

Bruce put his hand on your upper back, as if sensing your discomfort. “Let’s go to bed,” he said soothingly. “Tomorrow is a big day.”

Yes, tomorrow was a big day.

***

You strolled through downtown New York, trying your hardest not to look over your shoulder. It had been a week since you’d been in a huge crowd, and returning to the crammed streets of the city made your belly buzz.

Nat sounded in your ear. “Make it look authentic,” she said. 

Right. Because luring a thousand-year-old demi-God into a quiet corner to trap him was the easiest thing in the world. Nat had tried to teach you a few things when they’d all cooped up at Tony’s secret forest getaway, but now, living it, you couldn’t remember how to act benign. 

You tried to pretend to be listening to music, the airpods in your ears actually being comms with the Quinjet hidden overhead. You stopped at Starbucks. You pretended to look through the windows of clothing stores. You stepped into a bookstore and bought a novel. 

It had been an hour that you were “baiting” and nothing. 

Not even a glimpse.

You sighed in defeat, pushing your hair behind your ears. The day’s heat was boring down on you, and you knew your nose was burnt. Your tank top was soaked, your jeans sticking to your legs. Totally uncomfortable would be an understatement.

You saw a glimpse of something gold in the Macy’s window and looked over your shoulder. 

“Y/N,” Bruce sounded in your ear. “Come in.”

You remained silent. The crowd before you changed, people walking past you in a hurry. You turned back to the window, muttering to your brother, “I’m fine.” 

“Get away from Macy’s, you have enough clothes,” your brother muttered back.

You couldn’t help but chuckle.

“What’s funny?”

You jumped, yelping, staring up into Loki’s green gaze. Heart hammering, blood roaring in your ears, you tried to focus on calming yourself. Your hands were sweaty as you reached up to take out one airpod.

He smirked. Under the sun, he was glorious in an all-black ensemble, his raven locks freshly cut beneath his chin, pushed back behind his ears. 

“Fancy a stroll?”

You gulped, looking at the elbow he offered. Something shimmered there, around the edges of his forearm. As if he glowed.

He’s not really here. 

You remembered from your briefing on Loki, that Thor had said the jester loved his illusion tricks.

“I presume I have to pretend to hold your arm?” you answered, feeling the knot of anxiety dissolve in your belly at the sight of his grin.

“Clever.” He retreated his arm, looked around at the crowd swiftly moving past him. “May we talk somewhere private?” he asked. 

Nat had told you he’d say that, and your job was to not look too eager. He’d smell a trap before you’d even agree.

You forced yourself to frown. “You want to get me alone?”

He huffed, his lips pulling into a dashing smirk. God, he really was beautiful. The sun, so warm and overbearing to you, seemed to grace his entire being as if he’d been crafted by the hands of the gods themselves. 

“If I wanted to get you alone,” he said, dropping his voice to a lower octave, stepping closer to you, “I would have gotten you out of Tony’s little wayward cabin much sooner.”

He stood close, not close enough to smell him, but close enough that you had to tilt your head to keep eye contact. 

There was a quiet turmoil building inside you at his words, someone whispering “Shit” in your airpod. A slight tremor began at your core, echoing out into your limbs. He’d known where you were. He knew what you were doing.

At the sight of your face - you, who could barely hide your emotions - he grinned wildly. 

“I am the God of Mischief, or did you forget?” He tilted his head, squinted his eyes. 

Your mouth was dry when you answered. “That’s why you’re casting yourself as an illusion?”

“Clever,” he said, again. Then he licked his lips, erasing the comical expression on his features and replacing it with something akin to stone. “You’re mad if you think you can fool me.”

“Takes one to know one.”

He would have laid hands on you if he wasn’t incorporeal. His eyes darkened, chin dipping so that he stared at you along the length of his nose. 

“You’re a chipper little thing,” he said, voice laced with venom. The tone, his expression, the way his illusion made the edges of him tremble instead of glow, made your heart speed with fear. “I’m sure the Avengers trained you well. I’m sure your brother thinks he can save you.”

Bruce whispered in your ear, “Son of a bitch.”

Loki’s unmoving expression slipped enough for him to smirk maniacally. “In fact,” he said, “tell him right now that I’ll win. I’ll win this battle of wits. This fucking planet. And I’ll win his sister.”

And then he vanished, leaving you to hear nothing but your drumming heartbeat, like a sea of swarming insects. The only thing that lingered behind was the smell of pinewood.

I PROMISE PART FIVE WILL BE LONGER!!!!!!!!!!

Tags:  @subtlemalice @yallgotkik @buckyandlokirunmylife @kaz11283 @legolas-bromance @shylittlemountain @tofeartheunknown @feelmyfckngsoul @kind-of-crazy-butthatsokay @caffiend-queen @tomhollandsslilslut @lady-loki-ren @nathan-no @rosaline-black @abundanceofcarolines @my-own-oracle @it-was-all-a-beautiful-dream @marvelouslovely @drbaureid @bored-as-hell-666 @youhavemyfantasticbeasts @theinfinitenerd @toe-vind-ek-jou @ink-and-starlight @blank-bakabane @sunshineonloki your tag doesn’t work bb

[nessinborderland]

Be Mine (08)

Pairing: Niragi x Reader / Chishiya x Reader

Genre: Smut, Angst, Fluff, Omegaverse

Word Count: 2.8k

Summary: You were able to stay unbounded throughout your life. You didn’t want an Alpha; you didn’t need one. You would rather die than to give yourself to some random male. But the man that saved your life thinks differently.

Warnings: Alpha/Omega, Dubious Consent, Vaginal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Finger fucking, Rough Sex, Rough Kissing, Unprotected Sex, Creampie, Breeding, Pregnancy Kink, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Drama, Developing Relationship, Past Abuse, Scars, Death, Blood and Gore, Animal Death, Trauma, Bath Sex, Blood and Injury, Oral Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Feelings

Notes: Here I am, back with chapter 8!! Be aware that there's a lot going on in this chapter involving abuse and trauma, so please proceed with caution. Hope you enjoy it! <3

AO3 Link        Masterlist

He can’t believe his eyes.

The moment the bag was taken off to show the man’s face, he wondered if he was having one of his nightmares again. He barely has those anymore, but what else can this be? He refuses to believe he is here. It can’t be real; it makes no sense.

But it is real. It’s him, without a shadow of a doubt. He’s visibly older, once black hair now with streaks of gray, and deep-set tired eyes. But he could never forget that face; the face that has been haunting his dreams for years. He almost feels sick at the realization. Why is he here? What does he want? How? When? So many questions.

Then fear.

Is he here to hurt him? To hurt you? No, he can’t let that happen; he won’t let that happen. Memories come flushing in, and it’s like he’s a young boy again, with no means of escaping or protecting himself. He feels powerless, and it’s terrifying. After so many years trying to gain control of his life, making others fear him...he comes and ruins everything.

Then anger.

How dare he even be alive? In his mind, he killed him long ago. He was supposed to be dead, locked away in some shithole, away from him. But he’s alive and he’s here. The man looks at him with fear in his eyes, but they’re also eyes that don’t recognize him. It makes a fire run in his chest. After everything he has done to him, after all the trauma and scars he left on him? How dare he not remember? 

And then he feels you, on the back of his mind, surprised and wanting to approach him.

No. He has to get you out of that room.

“Y/N,” he says. He barely recognizes his own voice. His eyes are still locked on the man in front of him; he can’t let him out of his sight. His body shakes with the effort to keep himself under control, but he still lets his claws out. He needs to protect you. “Get out.”

“Ni–”

“All of you, out!” he shouts, a growl forming in his chest. The man on the chair is shaking, looking more terrified by the second. Still not recognizing him. That angers him more than he would like to admit.

He hears everyone leave the room; everyone except for you. He glances over his shoulder, opening his mouth to order you out.

“I am not leaving,” you say before he can talk. Your voice trembles, but he can feel your determination. You know how he’s feeling, after all. It makes him hate this connection even more; you’re not supposed to see him like this. You’re not supposed to know about this.

“Y/N, I’m not repeating myself,” he takes a deep breath, “Leave… now.”

“But Niragi, you–”

“Niragi?... Niragi Suguru?” those words freeze him in place. That voice, saying his name, makes shivers of terror run down his spine. He looks down at the man, his wide eyes now filled with recognition.

That man knows who he is. He almost wishes he didn’t.

“Do you know who I am?” Niragi forces himself to ask, in a whisper so low you can barely hear it. He can feel you in the back of his mind, as tense and frightened as he is. But he can’t focus on you right now; not when the monster from his past just said his name.

The old man stays quiet for a beat, looking him up and down. Niragi knows what he must be thinking. When they last saw each other, he was nothing more than a shy and scrawny fourteen-year-old boy; now he’s over a decade older and taller, piercings all over his face. 

And he’s an Alpha. That is the most important change. One that the old man definitely notices.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” the man gulps, “Keiko’s boy?”

Niragi has to control his basic instinct to flee as he crouches before the older man, close enough that he can smell the pungent odor of sweat and cigarette smoke. It’s so disgusting and so familiar that he almost gets sick. He swallows the lump in his throat before talking.

“What if I am?” he says, in the most leveled tone he can. He can’t let him know he’s scared. He can’t let him get inside his head. “Why does it matter?”

“I– I just never thought I would see you again after all these years, I–” the man stutters, clearly nervous, “Is nice to finally see my nephew, though. You’ve...changed.”

“Nephew?” you ask. He can feel your surprise, followed by something close to realization. You’re starting to connect the dots. Niragi hates it.

“I’m not your fucking nephew,” he spits in the man’s direction. He can feel his blood starting to boil, claws tingling to dig into the man’s throat. “And you...you should be rotting in some prison cell, not here.”

The man laughs, a low and raspy sound that makes a shiver run down Niragi’s spine. He used to hate that sound. He finds out he still does.

“I’ve been out for years, son,” he says with a strained smile. Niragi knows he’s faking this sudden streak of confidence, but it makes him extremely uncomfortable. He knows that the man is trying to manipulate him. “And now that you’re touching the subject, it’s okay, I forgive you for your betrayal.” Niragi’s eyes go wide at that, “You didn’t know any better–”

“You forgive me?” he can’t believe his ears. But he knows something for certain; the man that calls himself his uncle is dead. “You forgive me…”

“Well, of course, I–”

It’s an exhilarating sensation, having the blood of someone he hates on his hands, claws digging through flesh like butter. But he can’t focus on the physical sensations for long; he’s too mad to see or feel anything but rage and pain. He can hear you calling for him, trying to stop him, but he’s too far gone.

“You forgive me?!” he screams as he keeps punching the man, now on the ground. “You forgive me for what, you motherfucker?! Do you forgive me for telling everyone what you did to me?! Do you forgive me for letting you touch me?! For letting you beat the shit out of me?! For leaving me with these fucking scars?!” He can hear you calling his name, begging him to stop, but all he can focus on is the man underneath him, bleeding and begging him to stop.

He doesn’t give a fuck; he used to beg too. To him, to his mom, even to God. He was never heard. No one came to save him.

So why should he stop?

“Niragi, Niragi, please stop!” he can feel your arms around his neck, trying to pull him back, your mouth close to his ear. His wolf would stop in any other circumstances, but not in this one. “Please, please, you don't want to do this, you’re going to kill him!”

“Get off!” he tries to shake you off his back, never stopping his assault. He can’t stop; if he stops he wins. He can’t let that happen. You keep your arms around his neck, telling him to stop, how this isn’t the way, how they can solve this together. He doesn’t want to hear it. “Shut up!” he marks his words with another punch to the old man’s face, “You don’t know shit!”. He doesn’t notice when you get off him.

But then you cry out in pain.

That makes him freeze, fist in mid-air. He glances at you, cradling your cheek as you lay on the ground by his feet, so close to the man he hates. The scent of your blood hits him like a truck.

No. No, no, no.

He gets on his knees in a second, totally ignoring the half-dead man behind you. You’re all he can think about, now. “Y/N I– I– I’m sorry– I– Let me see…”. You move your hand, showing the claws that mark your cheek. His claws. He did this. He hurt you; how could he hurt you? “I– I– I didn’t mean to, I–”

“I–It’s okay,” you say with a small smile in his direction. But he notices your shaking body, sees the tears running down your face, mixing with your blood on the wound he opened. More than that; he can feel how you’re feeling. He never felt like he wanted to die more than now. He can’t breathe. “Niragi? Niragi, look at me.”

He can’t see. He can’t think. He can’t speak. He can’t hear.

His whole body is shaking, violent tremors going through him as he tries to make it stop. He can’t see you, he can’t see anything but pure black. But he can smell the blood, sweat, and cigarettes, and he’s back to the house where it all happened. Back to the beatings and the abuse and everything else he didn’t remember it happened until now; but in place of his fourteen-year-old self, there’s you. He tries to scream; for help, for you, but he can’t hear his voice. It’s only himself and the dark.

Then it’s like everything explodes.

You stayed in that room for almost ten hours.

Just you, a giant wolf, and a mauled body.

Ten hours.

You’re still in shock as you lay next to Niragi’s unconscious body. He has been like this for almost two days, and part of you fears he won’t wake up. You press your palm against his chest, wanting to feel his heartbeat. His body is covered in fresh wounds, skin so pale he almost looks dead. You can’t feel him in your mind anymore, but you know he has constant nightmares; so do you. What are you going to do if he doesn’t wake up?

What are you going to do if he does?

It had been terrifying. The screams, the blood, the emotions. Emotions you have never felt before; emotions you don’t want to experience ever again. That overpowering fear and anger and sadness almost made you want to tear your heart out. You know he is broken, but you never imagined it to be on such a scale.

And when he turned and you stopped feeling him... that was the most terrifying thing of all. Because that beast wasn’t Niragi; it was just an animal. A wrathful, terrified, damaged giant wolf. The human was locked inside, and you couldn’t reach him anymore.

The first time you truly feared Niragi was when he looked at you with those amber eyes; eyes that were not his own. 

You thought that that was it, the animal in him was about to kill you. But he acted like you weren’t there as he finished killing his abuser, tearing his body apart like a ravishing beast. You couldn’t stop yourself from watching the gruesome scene; you had to look. It was like you owned him that.

So you stared, sitting on the floor, tears streaming down your face as you cradled your bleeding cheek. Not even when the blood from the body reached your knees did you look away; not even when the wolf ripped apart the man’s head did you look away; not even when the wolf turned to you, muzzle dripping blood, did you look away.

You couldn’t.

After that, you just stayed there on the floor, covered in blood and so terrified you couldn’t move. The wolf had approached you, sniffed you, and licked your wound before laying down in front of you, unmoving. His eyes never left yours.

Until someone had tried to enter the room, time when he had growled, jumping towards the door to undoubtedly kill whoever dared to cross the threshold.

No one died, but after that, you could hear a commotion outside as people tried to decide on what to do next. You had heard Ann call your name, but you couldn't force any words out. Discussions on whether to kill him had made you scream at them to go away. And then it was silent.

When you tried to get up an hour or so later, legs cramping and giving up on you, the wolf hadn't moved; not until you tried to get to the door. He had grabbed you by your clothes then, pulling you to a corner like you were nothing but a rag doll, before laying in front of you, blocking your way out.

Hours passed until you heard a knock on the door. By that time you were starving, throat dry as the desert and skin itching from the dry blood. The wolf immediately started growling, raised hackles as he stared at the door; he knew who it was as well as you did.

A knock on the door startles you, interrupting your thoughts. You check on Niragi before standing up to open the door, limping from the now infected wound on your ankle; you don’t heal as fast as Alphas do, after all. Just like before in that room of nightmares, you know who it is even before you open the door. His scent is even stronger than usual, and you know why.

“What are you doing here?” you ask with a sigh as Chishiya stands in front of you. You look him up and down. His injuries from his fight with Niragi are almost healed by now, pink skin replacing what was open wounds not even two days ago. His expression is the same as always, but you see him glance over your shoulder at Niragi, a look in his eyes that you can’t quite place.

“He’s still unconscious, uh?” he asks, ignoring your question, “Do you think he will wake up?”

“What are you doing here, Chishiya?” you ask again in a raised tone. His eyes flash, but his expression doesn’t change.

“Just checking up on you,” he says with a shrug, “How is your cheek?”

“Do you think that I’m some kind of an idiot?” you snap. “Do you think that I don’t know exactly why you’re here?” you can feel your anger rising, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “You selfish son of a bitch! Just say you’re here because you can smell that my heat is approaching!” you practically scream in his face. You don’t care who might be listening, you’re exhausted. “Don’t just use some fucking excuse like you care about me.” You move to close the door, but his hand snaps to grip your wrist.

“He’s dangerous,” he says, pulling you to him when you try to get him to release you. “He’s reckless, he’s uncontrollable. Just look at what he did to you.” you notice immediately when his eyes change colors, and you have to control yourself not to let his scent fog your mind.

“Let go of me,” you say in a faint tone.

“I would never do that to you,” he says. 

And then he’s kissing you. 

The sound of your slap echoes through the hallway, and your palm stings like it’s on fire.

“Do you have any idea of the state he was in, down there?” you don’t control your tears now, too mad and tired to care. “The pain and suffering he went through? His trauma almost made me insane!” Chishiya just stares, lips in a tight line as he cradles his red cheek. “I don’t blame him for what happened. I know how he felt when he hurt me. He didn’t mean any of it.” you take a deep breath, cleaning the tears from your face. “If you show up here again and try to take me against my will, I’ll kill you.”

“You know you’re just trying to prevent the inevitable, right?” he says, tone cold as ice. He’s smirking; it makes you want to slap him again. “I don’t like to lose, Y/N.”

“Fuck you.”

He doesn’t try to stop you from closing the door, this time.

You immediately go back to bed, nuzzling against Niragi’s unconscious body as you cry. You don’t know what to do, how to feel, what to think. Your head hurts, your body hurts, your soul hurts. You just want him to wake up. 

“Please wake up,” you whisper in his ear as you sob, hoping for a miracle, something. “Please wake up. I– I don’t know if I’ll be able to resist him when he comes back for me. Please...I– I need you to wake up.”

Your body is like a ticking time bomb, and you can practically hear the clock as your heat approaches. It’s only a matter of hours. 

If Niragi doesn’t regain his consciousness by the next morning, Chishiya will take you; and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Next Chapter

[moonbeamwritings]

train station kisses

a sequel to one missed call

Summary: After receiving a phone call from Jotaro after ten years of no contact, you attempt to navigate both your feelings and his. Will a reunion around the holidays be just what you both needed?

Author’s Note: I just wanted to say thank you for all of the positive reactions to one missed call! It really means a lot 🥺💕I hope you guys enjoy the sequel just as much!!

With a shaking hand, you reached out to dial his number, taking each digit slowly as a way to delay the inevitable. The line began to ring and you could almost feel your mouth running dry, the thudding of your heart threatening to burst your chest open. You bit your lip in a futile attempt to keep the water in your eyes from spilling over.

After four rings, you could hear Jotaro answer, “Hello?”

The ringing in your ears, the pounding in your heart, they didn’t stop with the sound of his voice.

“Uh hi, Jotaro? It’s me.”

A relieved exhale could be heard through the phone, followed by a brief moment of silence, “Hi.” If his breath had sounded relieved, then his voice sounded even more so. “I thought you wouldn’t call.”

You brought the phone with you as you traveled across the living room, resting back against the couch. “If I’m being honest, I almost didn’t.”

As much as he had convinced himself that he didn’t deserve a call back, Jotaro’s heart sunk into his stomach with the thought that you very nearly didn’t return his message, keeping him nothing but a distant, painful memory.

“Well,” he finally spoke, fidgeting with the pen resting on his desk, “I’m glad you did.”

You let out a nervous huff, quiet and short, “Yeah, me too.”

Silence overtook the conversation once again, entirely too awkward for your liking. Where were you even supposed to start? The man on the other end had confessed his love to you, through a long, emotional message on your answering machine no less, and now you were confronting him after not hearing from him in literal years. What were you supposed to do?

“Jotaro I-”

“Listen-”

You chuckled as you both attempted to speak at the same time.

“You go-”

“You first-”

You could hear his deep, quiet laugh through the phone.

“We’re off to a great start.” You told him, running a hand through your hair.

“We certainly are.”

“Look, Jotaro,” you struggle to find the right words, “I’m not going to lie to you and tell you that I wasn’t hurt that I didn’t hear from you, from anyone.”

A low “mhm” sounded through the phone as you collected yourself.

“But, Christ, is it nice to hear your voice.”

“It’s nice to hear yours too.”

“What were you going to say before?” You asked, pressing the phone between your shoulder and cheek so you could pick at your nails.

“I just wanted to tell you that I meant everything I said. All of it.”

The familiar, erratic beat of your heart returned in an instant as his confession replayed in your head.

The words spilled from your mouth before you can even think to stop them, “You love me?” 

You nearly smacked a hand against your forehead with how stupid, how desperate you sounded. Were you really hearing this right now?

“I do. I figured it was better late than never to tell you, even if it was over the phone. The old man was very convincing.” His voice was dripping with sarcasm as he spoke of his grandfather, clearly not thrilled with his relative’s persistence.

“I-” A shaky breath left your mouth, “I love you too. I always have.”

Jotaro didn’t respond right away. How could he? You’d just told him you love him, even after all of this time, even after he’d left you alone, in the dark. After all of it.

“I miss you.” He knew he sounded pathetic, heart on display for you to hear, but he didn’t care. Jotaro also knew he wasn’t anywhere near as openly emotional as he thought you deserved, but he wanted to be selfish, if only this once, wanted to sink his hands into your heart and never let go. He wouldn’t let you be alone again, not if he could help it.

At his confession, tears pricked at the back of your eyes, stinging as they threatened to fall.

“I miss you too, Jotaro.”

The words hung heavily in the air, years of pent up emotions all laid out for you both to see. You had no idea where to go from here. The previous phone call played through your mind as you searched for the right words. One statement came to the forefront: “You reminded me of everything I felt like I couldn’t have, what I can’t have.”

“Jotaro? Can I ask you something?”

“If you want.”

“Before, you said something about me being something you couldn’t have. What exactly did you mean?”

You heard him sigh into the receiver, sounding dejected as he spoke, “Everyone in my life either leaves or gets hurt, or both. I push people away to keep them out of my bullshit, so they don’t get hurt. I’m not easy to love. You don’t deserve to get wrapped up in the mess I always leave behind.”

Your heart broke.

“Jotaro, you…” A laugh, involuntary and riddled with disbelief, left your throat. “You really are something else, you know that? I’ve already been to Egypt with you, for God’s sake, risked my life for your mom, to defeat DIO. I think you’re kinda stuck with me now. Messes or not.”

His voice was uncharacteristically small as he responded, “You mean that?”

You scoffed. “Of course I do. God, you are such an idiot sometimes. You’re lucky I love you.”

He allowed a tiny smile to work its way onto his face, “Yeah, I am.”

“Ohhh, Jotaro,” you teased, getting a real kick out of Jotaro revealing what was going on in that steel-trap he calls a brain, “I didn’t take you for the cheesy type.”

A groan.

“Good freakin’ grief. I take it back, I don’t miss you anymore.”

“Oh come on. You do. You can admit it.”

The moment of humor was a welcomed break from the downpour of emotions that threatened to flood your mind, a calming reminder of what once was.

“Okay,” Jotaro acquiesced, for once not having the strength to win this fight, “you’re right.”

You ached to see the look on his face on the other side of the phone. You had no doubt his eyebrows were creased in annoyance, a smile reluctantly beginning to form on his lips. What you wouldn’t give to be able to reach over, to poke and prod at his cheeks, to tease and annoy him.

“Ugh, you’re so cute,” you tell him, “What am I ever gonna do with you?”

Cute, Jotaro thought, I’ve never heard that one before.

“Look, enough already I-” Why did you have to make his words catch in his throat so much? It was infuriating. “I wanted to ask if you wanted to meet up. I know it’s the holidays and everything but-”

You cut his rambling off with an immediate answer, “I would love to.”

“Wha- You would?” He hadn’t expected you to agree so quickly, or even at all.

The surprised lilt to his voice is not lost on you. You don’t push it. “Of course, I would.”

“In that case,” he spoke, absently tapping the pen against his desk, “I’ll have the Speedwagon Foundation pay for your travel expenses and you can come visit with my family and I for a few days.”

“Jotaro,” You admonished, “I don’t want to intrude! If you’re spending time with family, we can always wait.”

“I’ve kept you waiting long enough and besides,” you can hear the smile in his voice, “mom would love to cook for someone new.”

“Well, when you put it that way, how could I say no?”

The conversation continued from there, Jotaro telling you he would pass along the information from the Speedwagon Foundation. You spent some time getting caught up, passing information back and forth until Jotaro let out a long, drawn out yawn.

“It’s getting late. I should go.” Jotaro stated, sounding reluctant.

“That’s okay. Goodnight, Jotaro. I’ll see you soon.”

“Night, see you.”

With one final click, the line went dead, sending you reeling back into the quiet hum of your living room. You nearly laughed out loud at the events unfolding before you. The last thing you had expected this holiday season was to go visit Jotaro, all expenses paid.

Before you knew it, you were switching over from the plane to the train that would take you to the station near Jotaro’s childhood home. Even given the time you took to attempt to process all of these new developments, your mind still raced, endlessly whirling and wondering. Jotaro loved you and you were visiting him. He loved you and you were going to get to see him again. It was all relentlessly surreal.

As you boarded the train for the remainder of your journey, you couldn’t help but reflect on that fateful trip to Egypt. Memories flashed behind your eyes, coming and going with the scenery passing you by. Kakyoin’s goofy laugh, Polnareff’s friendly disposition, Avdol’s kind words. Your heart clenched at the thought.

Perhaps your reunion, love confessions aside, could help you process what you’d been dealing with for so long. Maybe it could help you move on, move away from reliving the trauma of those weeks abroad. Just maybe.

Pushing the thoughts from your mind, the voice over the loudspeaker alerted you that you had arrived at the station where you would meet Jotaro. Your heart thudded nervously in your chest, seemingly stealing the air from your lungs.

You grabbed your belongings and stepped out onto the platform, eyes scanning the crowd for Jotaro. He was always so tall, you thought, this should be easy.

At the same time, Jotaro entered the station, hands tucked into his pockets to disguise their slight tremor. He had never felt so nervous in his life, this situation being such uncharted territory that he almost wished he could have Star Platinum fight the feelings off for him. He pulled his hat down to cover the rosiness traveling up his neck.

His eyes scanned the crowd, landing on you across the station. You caught his gaze almost immediately, a small smile overtaking the concerned downturn of your lips. You were here, finally.

You weaved through the crowd as you locked eyes with Jotaro, carefully dragging your suitcase behind you as you moved among the throngs of people. As you reached the other side of the station, you stopped dead in your tracks, staring up at Jotaro.

It was as if a massive weight was lifted from your shoulders, like you had finally let out a sigh of relief after a long day. You wanted to live with this feeling forever.

“Hi.” You finally let out, moving to close the gap between the two of you at long last.

Without even responding, Jotaro bent down to wrap his arms around your waist, lifting your feet off the ground and clutching you against his chest. You smiled as you felt him bury his nose against your neck.

You wrapped your own arms around his neck, one hand resting against the back of his head.

“You’re here.” His voice was muffled by your shirt, but you could hear him clear as day.

“I’m here.”

You remained like that for who knows how long, embracing one another like touch-starved fools, so lost in each other that you didn’t even register the stares from passersby.

After some time, Jotaro took his face away from your neck, returning your feet to the ground. Both hands were quick to cradle your cheeks, looking you over carefully with a cute upturn of his lips.

It was all so uncharacteristically soft that you almost felt as though he was a different person.

He hunched down, bringing his lips to yours in an emotional kiss. His lips moved against yours like a man starved, hand moving to feel your hair between his fingers. As he broke away to catch his breath, he pressed his forehead against your own.

“I love you, he spoke like it was a secret, something so important it was for your ears only, “so much.”

“I love you too, Jotaro.”

He kissed you again, a brief peck to your lips as if to seal your quiet promise, to legitimize it.

Before you could even stop them, tears began flowing down your cheeks only to be swiped away by Jotaro’s thumb.

“Oh, good grief,” he said, but it was nowhere near as biting as it could’ve been, “don’t cry.”

You chuckled at his assertion. This was the Jotaro you knew and loved. “Sorry.”

He pressed a sweet kiss to the crown of your head, hand reaching up to ruffle the hair there.

“Come on, mom’s making dinner.”

He grabbed your suitcase and turned to head towards the door, leaving you in the dust. Typical.

When you fell into step beside him, you laced your fingers with his, running your thumb along the back of his hand.

God, you could get used to this.

[angst-fairygodmother]

“Are you planning to stay glued to my side this whole evening?” with diego alsooooo i love youuuuu

A/N: Thank you for choosing Fic Flash Pass (happy much-belated birthday). I would like to express through the following series of emojis how excited I am to finally write a fic for you: 😁💙💙🎉🎈😁 Word Count: 2517

Being close friends with Diego Hargreeves meant putting up with a lot of weird shit over the years. It meant late nights where he showed up injured or exhausted and needing your help. It meant occasional knives flying past your head when you startled him. It meant his paranoia and lectures about how it wasn’t safe to walk home alone at night, even though he had taken the time to teach you self-defense early on in your friendship. For a while it meant repeated “just for one night” instances of his strung-out brother sleeping on your couch (because he was refusing treatment, and even though he wouldn’t admit it Diego cared enough about him to want to make sure he’d be okay). And you put up with all of it, without complaint, because Diego was worth it. 

You thought at this point that nothing he asked of you could surprise you anymore. And then he asked you to attend his sister’s wedding. Or really, practically begged you to be his date.

You were pulling a bullet out of his shoulder, lecturing him about how he was taking too many unnecessary risks, and if he was going to keep going after bad guys then he needed to start wearing better protective gear and he was damn lucky that his knife-harness was there to mitigate the wound. 

“Allison’s getting married,” he blurted out, cutting you off before you could start in on the second, familiar branch of your lecture (that he should really be getting his wounds treated by someone with actual medical expertise, not just a little first aid training). 

“Oh,” you said, not quite a question but also not quite not. You weren’t sure what he wanted you to do with that information.

“I have to go to the wedding,” he continued stiffly. 

“That makes sense. She is your sister.” You raised an eyebrow. “You aren’t asking me to muck up this bullet removal so you have an excuse not to, are you?”

You were loath to admit that if that was indeed what he was asking, you might just do it. There wasn’t a lot you wouldn’t do if he asked, and after all this time you knew how to do it in a way that wouldn’t actually cause him worse harm. 

“I can’t go alone!” His eyes were wide and frightened, as if attending Allison’s wedding was a fate less than death that he had been asked to undertake. You couldn’t help but laugh at the expression. 

“I’m sure you can find a date, handsome guy like you. And Patch is still a friend, so she’d go. If only out of pity.” You smiled teasingly. 

“Will you…” he mumbled. “W-w-will you go with me?”

Your breath caught in your throat. Part of you questioned if you heard him correctly. But if anything, his stutter made it more sure than less. He only stuttered when something was really emotional for him, when his mind was fighting itself. But you didn’t understand why (or maybe you did and just didn’t want to admit it). 

“If you still want me to after the next five minutes,” you said, trying to calm your racing heart by collecting the supplies for the next part of his care. “Then I would be happy to go to your sister’s wedding with you, Diego. What else are friends for?”

“Why wouldn’t I--” his question was cut off with a shout of pain as you pressed a cloth soaked in antiseptic to the wound.

“Because of that,” you smirked, quickly cleaning the area and covering it over with gauze and binding.

~

The ballroom where the reception was held was beyond opulent: towering flower arrangements, crystal chandeliers and gleaming golden candelabras, and every spare inch draped in ivory silk. You could practically see yourself reflected in the polished surface of the floors. 

“Wow,” you breathed. “Your sister really spared no expense…”

Diego shrugged uncomfortably. “Allison’s always been a little dramatic,” he mumbled.

“It’s pretty,” you turned to smile at him. “Anyway, you should go mingle and at least say hello to her. I’m going to find our table.”

Diego followed you as you wandered off into the dining portion of the reception hall. When you raised a questioning eyebrow, he mumbled something about it making sense for him to know where the table was too, so he didn’t have to hunt later. You shrugged. 

After setting down your purse and shawl, you decided to mingle, maybe pick at a few of the hors d'oeuvres laid out on long, extravagant table displays. Once again, Diego trailed just behind you. You tried to ignore the oddity of the behavior as you picked up a shrimp puff and set it on one of the heavy little china plates. The fact that he wasn’t saying anything as he hovered annoyed you most of all. 

After the third conversation that you tried to have with other guests that ended in an awkward glance over your shoulder at a glowering Diego and a hasty retreat with a half-assed excuse, you decided you’d had enough. He hadn’t gone to offer his congratulations to Allison and Patrick. He hadn’t so much as looked around for his other siblings or anyone else he might know. He hadn’t eaten anything. He just...followed you. It was very odd behavior and it was getting on your last nerve.

Setting your empty dish down heavily on an empty table space, not even caring whose it was, you turned to him, arms folded over your chest.

“Alright, that’s it,” you snapped, not caring who might overhear. “What is going on with you?”

He frowned, puzzled and tried to deny that there was anything going on. 

“Oh, don’t give me that bullshit. You have been looming and lurking and following me around like a lost puppy since we got here. Are you planning to stay glued to my side this whole evening?”

His frown deepened, and he opened his mouth to speak, only to snap it shut again with an audible click. 

“Because if you are, the least you can do is dance with me.” You held out a hand. “It is a wedding after all.”

Hesitantly, he took your hand and let you lead him out onto the dance floor. He pulled you close to him, one hand in yours and the other wrapped around his waist. You placed your free one on his shoulder, his suit jacket soft and warm beneath your palm. You felt your face heat under his gaze, now focused down on you and you tried not to let it faze you, focusing on a slight crease in his lapel as if that would let you escape it. 

The two of you twirled across the floor, falling into easy step together, each surprised at the other’s dancing abilities. 

You licked your lips nervously. Something about being here like this with him was making you think about things you had pushed aside (namely the crush on him that you had developed and decided early on in your friendship wasn’t worth the risk of losing him in your life, fearing that you could never compare to his detective) and you wanted it to stop. But at the same time, for a moment everything was perfect, and you didn’t want to ruin it. 

“So…” you said eventually as the two of you slowed and the song changed. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

His hand shifted slightly, tugging you a little closer to him, your face practically pressed to his chest, as the next song began. As you danced and he avoided answering your question, you decided to find the answer on your own. You knew him well enough. 

There was a slight tremor in his hand which gripped yours a little tighter than necessary. His jaw is set tightly, twitching just enough for you to suspect he’s grinding his teeth together. His breath is a little short. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was...afraid?

“Seriously, Diego, are you alright?” you murmured, trying to catch his eye. 

He startled at the sound of your voice. “What?”

“You’re acting really strangely and you seem...upset. You haven’t spoken to your sister at all even though it’s her wedding.”

“I’m not upset. And I’ll talk to Allison later, she’s busy with all her other guests,” he argued, eyebrows knitting in a frown. 

“You’re not upset? Okay, then explain to me why you’re holding my hand so tightly you’ll be getting a bill from my physical therapist on Monday.”

He dropped your hand like it had burned him and stuttered out an apology. 

“Relax, it was a joke.” You frowned. “Let’s go out to the balcony. I feel like we both could use some air.” 

Without waiting for an answer you grabbed his arm and dragged him in the direction of the double doors and the candle-lit, if slightly chilly, night. As soon as you passed out of the crowded room, you could feel the tension pour off of Diego and you breathed a sigh of relief. The pair of you moved to lean on the rail, shoulders just barely brushing. 

“I...don’t belong here,” he sighed. “I’m just going to screw something up.”

“What are you talking about Diego?”

He shook his head. “Allison has this grand life. Big movie star L.A. life, and if I talk to her I’ll...what would we even talk about? We haven’t seen each other in years. I haven’t seen any of them in years.”

“That’s not true, you saw Klaus six months ago,” you joked, not sure how else to comfort him. 

You knew what he was trying to say. He felt like Allison had moved on, and built a new life where her siblings were unwelcome, the invitation to her wedding a mere formality that for some reason all of them, save, thankfully, their father, had accepted. And on some level, you thought, he was probably right. 

“Is that why you were nervous to ask me to be your date? Not that I’m a date-date, but I can imagine why having a real date would make things weirder and that’s really not the point, anyway...Because you don’t think you should have come at all?” you asked.

He shrugged. 

“No,” you said, turning to face him and taking one of his hands in both of yours. “Please talk to me Diego. Maybe I can help?”

“How could you possibly help, Y/N?” he snapped, running his free hand through his short-cropped hair. 

“I don’t know! You’ve got me playing damn guessing games when I came to this wedding where all I know is you and the junkie in the corner talking to the air,” you gestured back through the doors at Klaus who was doing exactly that, “for you. Because I care about you, and I thought maybe you needed, maybe you wanted me here. So you tell me Diego. Or maybe I should just leave.”

“No!” his eyes widened at the threat. “Please don’t leave.”

You pressed your lips together, feeling tears well up in your eyes and praying that no one thought to glance outside to where the two of you were arguing. If there was a way to ruin a wedding it was the bride’s brother and his date having a screaming match. You had said your piece, so now you watched him expectantly, waiting for him. 

He sighed deeply and turned away from you, eyes seeming to focus on a point off in the gardens below somewhere. 

“I knew this whole thing was going to be uncomfortable,” he explained very slowly, and you instinctively reached over again to cover one of his hands with yours where it gripped the bannister tightly. 

“But I thought it would be worse not to come at all.”

You nodded in understanding, leaning closer to hear him better over the wind and the din from inside. 

“And everything’s easier when...with you So I thought...”

Your heart skipped a beat. In all the years of your friendship, he had never said anything like that before. You knew that you counted him among your best friends, and that he didn’t have very many friends in general, making you one of a rare and exclusive caliber, but to hear him come this close to admitting it was strange and new and oddly thrilling.

“But,” he glanced back at you before returning to his vigil, “you looked so beautiful tonight that,” he shook his head, “instead it reminded me of how incredible you are, and how it’s just one more thing for me to ruin.”

“Diego,” you frowned. “I don’t understand. What’s one more thing for you to ruin? My outfit? I would be pretty pissed if I was dressed like this and you pulled your usual superhero nonsense and bled all over me or something but I don’t think that’s going to be a problem here.”

“Don’t joke, Y/N. Not when I’m trying to be serious.”

“I’m not joking Diego. Okay maybe I am a bit, but only because I’m not following you. What don’t you want to ruin?”

“You!” he cried, throwing himself back around to face you. “I don’t want to ruin you!”

You resisted the urge to call attention to the innuendo there, especially since doing so would probably include admitting that you would not mind it a wink. Instead you bit your lip, thinking fast and trying to piece together what he was saying to you, about you.

“How could you possibly ruin me Diego?” you blurted out. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“I’ve already started you know,” he mused softly. “You don’t even flinch anymore when I show up injured and need you to stitch a wound or dig out shrapnel or glass. You have such a good heart and care so much, I don’t want you to end up...like me.” 

“There is nothing in the world that could get me to dress in leather and fight bad guys and get punched a lot. And the rest of you, I don’t see how it would be a bad thing to be like.”

He scoffed. 

“I’m serious Diego. After all, you have the biggest, sweetest heart and soul in the city. Or you wouldn’t be out there every night saving people. It’s what I love most about you.”

Your hand came up to cup his jaw instinctively, marveling at the feel of his stubble against your palm and how perfectly fit it seemed to be to rest there. He looked beautiful in the dim lights, like an artist’s painting of a hero or a god. You breath caught in your throat as he leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut. 

“Y/N, I…” he reached blindly out for you, catching your other wrist in his hand, sliding down hesitantly to lace his fingers through yours. 

“Diego, unless I’ve read the room completely wrong, there’s nothing more that needs to be said,” you chuckled. “So just shut up and kiss me, already?”

[bytheangell]

(S3E1 inspired fic) (Read on AO3)

Meliorn stands beside the Seelie Queen, listening intently as she goes over her latest plan. He wonders if she notices the way his eyes widen for just a moment at the mention of Simon Lewis, or the way his grip tightens a little too much around his spear when he hears about his role in placing the Mark of Cain.

“Why me?” Meliorn asks. “Do you not want to do the honors yourself?”

The Queen greets his query with a small, knowing smile. “No. The honor is all yours - unless, of course, you have a problem with performing your duties?”

“I am perfectly capable of bestowing the mark, Your Highness,” Meliorn says, the words carefully crafted to avoid the actual question posed to him.

Because in truth, Meliorn does have a problem - a rather large one, which comes in the form of the feelings he’s developed for Simon.

---

It all started after Simon first came to the Seelie Realm with Jace and Clary - the day Simon learned the true nature of the Queen and her Realm. Unlike Clary, who hadn’t even noticed Simon leave after her kiss with Jace, Meliorn saw the emotions that crossed the vampire’s face. He saw the hurt of betrayal, the disappointment of misplaced trust, the heartbreak… but he also saw the way Simon looked at the Queen and her Knights with a mixture of fear and awe after such a cunning, yet cruel, display of power. Meliorn still to this day doesn’t know why he cared so much - about what Simon thought of him or how Simon felt after being humiliated - but he did.

So, after the Queen dismissed him and he was certain no one would notice his departure, Meliorn went to check in on Simon. Simon was, rightfully, wary of his intentions, but before long the vampire was rambling half his life story out to him, and Meliorn found himself increasingly drawn in by his disarming authenticity.

They met again several times, the visits made easier to arrange by Meliorn’s increasingly frequent trips to the city for Downworlder Council meetings. If he invented a few extra vampire-relation-specific trips as an excuse to go to the Dumort between meetings, well, no one questioned him on it. Talks turned into lingering glances, which turned into touches.

It started as a simple curiosity, then an interest Meliorn never planned to be anything more than casual.

The thing about Simon Lewis is that few things ever go as planned when it comes to him.

Meliorn didn’t realize how far gone he was for Simon until Simon made the deal with the Seelie Queen to free Maia.

“What were you thinking?” Meliorn demanded. He left the Seelie Realm to seek out Simon the first chance he got and found him lingering outside the portal as if waiting for him. Expecting Meliorn to come chasing after him. Had he grown so predictable?

“I didn’t have a choice,” Simon defended.

“You could have left her. You should have left her.” Meliorn knew it was cruel, that it wasn’t who Simon was and it never would be, but he didn’t care.

“No. You know I couldn’t, Mel,” Simon said. “I’m fine. It’s fine.”

“It isn’t. You have no idea what you just agreed to. I have no idea! I can protect you from a lot of things, Simon, but I cannot protect you from her.” He hated to admit it, but it was a truth he needed to make perfectly clear, now more than ever.

Meliorn knew he wasn’t angry at Simon for being so selfless, but angry at himself for not being able to do the same. And he was scared: scared for Simon, and for their relationship should the Queen ever find out about it to use as leverage against either - or both - of them. Meliorn tried to imagine what he might do if his hand was forced... if he might actually be capable of standing up to the Queen for Simon’s sake.

It was then that Meliorn realized that the feelings he held for Simon went so much deeper than he thought. The idea of anything happening to Simon made his stomach churn, and he wanted to wrap Simon up and put every bit of protection magic he knew on him to keep him safe forever.

“I love you,” Meliorn said the moment he realized it.

“I love you too,” Simon said back.

And for a little while, that was all that mattered.

--

Until now.

“Has the spear been prepared?”

The Queen knows. Meliorn can hear it in the lilt of her words, he can see it in the mischievous light dancing in her eyes. She knows about him and Simon, and this is a test.

It’s a test Meliorn is about to fail as he watches the fear cross Simon’s expression while he’s restrained and hears the panic in his voice. Simon’s addressing the Queen but his eyes dart behind her to where Meliorn stands, a silent plea for help that Meliorn can’t answer. Meliorn just barely resists the urge to cross the space between them and pull Simon from the guard’s grip to hold and comfort his lover the way he craves to… the way Simon deserves.

“It has, M’lady,” Meliorn says instead, his words cool and clipped behind barely concealed frustration.

He does all that he can to ease Simon’s mind in the moments that follow. Instead of allowing the other Knights to continue to restrain and escort Simon, Meliorn steps forward and takes Simon by the crook of his arm, following two other Knights that lead the escort to the Wander Woods with the Queen trailing behind them.

She’s close enough to hear anything he might try and whisper to Simon, so instead of reassuring him vocally, Meliorn allows his grip on Simon’s arm to loosen. It’s just enough for his fingers to trail back and forth, ever-so-slightly, in a calming pattern. I’ve got you. I’m right here. It’s going to be okay. He can’t speak the words but he tries his best to convey them with every touch and every glance.

“What are you planning on doing to me?” Simon asks again, and Meliorn wants nothing more than to simply tell him. Telling him won’t change what’s about to happen and maybe if he knows, maybe if he understands that in its own twisted way the Mark will keep him safe - that it’ll keep him protected in all the ways Meliorn always wished for (though not like this, never like this) - it might make this easier.

Instead, the Queen keeps him in the dark. Meliorn uses his own magic to wrap the vines around Simon to restrain him, hoping the familiar feel of it can serve as a small comfort. It’s the best he can do at the moment and, he’s painfully aware that his best is lacking. Simon looks to him briefly, then looks back to the Seelie Queen. Simon’s smart. He knows pleading to Meliorn won’t help him now; if there was anything Meliorn could do he would’ve done it already.

What Simon doesn’t know is that no amount of begging can change what’s already in motion and that his fate was sealed before he ever entered the Woods.

“Why are you gonna hurt me? I’ve done everything you’ve asked. I’m a good guy. I sang you a song about nature!”

Meliorn loathes this. He hates the tremor in Simon’s voice, the wide-eyed look on his face, terrified and helpless. Most of all, he hates that he’s the cause of it. Him, standing there, spear in hand, is the thing causing all of Simon’s distress. Meliorn thinks he might be sick from the guilt of it all but holds himself together.

If refusing in an act of defiance would spare Simon then Meliorn would do it with no hesitation, no matter the cost to himself. But it wouldn’t help. Meliorn needs to do this, because if he doesn’t, if he can’t, then someone else will. Someone less kind. Someone without Simon’s best interests at heart in the process.

As much as Meliorn despises the idea of causing Simon even a second of pain, he wouldn’t dare let anyone else near him with this spear. Being in control of the ceremony is the only way Meliorn can guarantee Simon is as safe as possible and that nothing will go wrong. It’s the only way he knows how to protect him now.

“Do not fret. The hurt will be over before you know it.”

“So this is it? This is the end?”

Something in Meliorn breaks at the resignation in Simon’s voice, realizing that Simon doesn’t just think they’re here to mark him. Simon’s defeated acceptance is for the fact that he believes Meliorn is standing in front of him to kill him. How? How could he think Meliorn capable of that? He loves Simon, and if that were the task set before him then Meliorn would not be standing there with a spear at the ready. How does Simon not know that?

For the first time since this process was put into motion, Meliorn hesitates.

 “Proceed.”

Meliorn flips the spear around so that the mark, red hot and burning, faces Simon now.

“What is that? What are you doing?”

There’s no time left to stall. Meliorn takes the final steps forward and touches the spear to Simon’s forehead.

Simon’s screams echo through the wood.

Meliorn wants to close his eyes against the sight of Simon’s twisted face, to retreat inward to muffle the cries of pain, but he doesn’t. He forces himself to watch, to listen, to be fully present in the agony he’s causing the man he loves. It only takes a few seconds but they feel like days, weeks, months stretching out in front of him as they pass. He wonders if it feels that way for Simon, too.

When it’s over Meliorn looks down as he steps back, unable to meet Simon’s eyes.

Only now does Meliorn allow himself to retreat inward, the conversation between Simon and the Seelie Queen growing muffled in the background of his thoughts.

Meliorn replays the chain of events over and over, trying to find a moment he could’ve done something different. He can’t think of any that wouldn’t end up with him locked away for betrayal, or maybe even killed. He’d done everything he could short of refusing to perform the ceremony. Hadn’t he?

The look of betrayal on Simon’s face as he walked toward him with the brand said otherwise. It’s a look Meliorn only ever saw on Simon’s face once, and one he never intended to have aimed at him. This is everything Meliorn had feared when he warned Simon that he wouldn’t be able to protect him from the Queen. Did Simon expect him to risk both of their lives by trying to flee with him?

...should he have?

The chances of them escaping the Queen indefinitely are practically zero, but there is a chance however slight, so should he have taken it?

No.

Does he wish the Queen had gone about it a different way? Or that he could’ve warned Simon ahead of time, or gotten his consent? Yes. Of course. But Simon was never in any actual danger. The Mark wouldn’t kill him, it wouldn’t even hurt him longer than those few seconds now that it’s in place. He just needs to explain that to Simon, to reassure him that he’d never been in any danger, that Meliorn would never willingly allow him to be.

“Anyone but you would be dead, dead, dead. Only a Daylighter can survive the ceremony.”

Those words bring Meliorn back into the moment because with them the Queen turns and begins to walk back to Court. This time Meliorn hesitates to follow.

“Allow me to escort the Daylighter out,” Meliorn suggests. If he can just talk to Simon, if he can explain, then maybe-

“No thanks,” Simon says before the Queen can answer. “I think I’m good on my own.”

The weight of that statement hangs heavy between them. Meliorn’s throat feels tight.

“Are you certain? The Wander Woods-”

“Then I’ll take one of the other guards as an escort,” Simon says, his voice flat.

Meliorn swallows thickly and nods. “As you wish.”

He can fix this, he knows he can, but first he has to convince Simon that he deserves the chance to. For now, all Meliorn can do is watch Simon leave: hoping that all he needs is a little time and praying that his last interaction with Simon isn’t one of pain and broken trust.

[imnotwolverine]

The Monster’s Lair - A Scarlet Wedding

Vampire!Henry x Belle - multi-chapter

< Chap 7 | Chapter 8 - A Scarlet Wedding | Chap 9 >

Disclaimer: Dark adult fairytale - angst, man hunting, violence and mention of death

Author’s note: *cries in angst* Honestly though, bring tissues for this chapter 😭

Word count: 3.004

Reading music: Teho Teardo & Blixa Bargeld - The Empty Boat 

(Link to my Masterlist)

--

‘Come.’

Her father’s voice had been laced with worry as he too noticed the wide-eyed expression of the vampire, his monstrous eyes staring back at Belle. Was he going to force her to stay? Was he going to hurt them?

No.

With large, blue blinking eyes the monstrous man had remained, feet nailed to the ground as he watched her and Arthur leave. It was near disappointing to Belle, a terrible pang felt in her heart. Why? She wasn’t so sure. She had barely talked to the man. Come on Belle, get a hold of yourself! Like. He was quiet, weird, logy. Handsome, sure, but that was hardly a basis for sympathy and care, right?

With unsteady feet she followed her father out of the forest, the daylight strengthening as the new day had begun.

Where hours earlier she had wished nothing more than to leave that gloomy castle, her every fibre now suddenly ached to get back.

‘I have an idea.’ Her father slowed his pace so he could whisper in low volume - careful not to make himself heard by the monster if he so happened to listen in on them. Belle stiffly nodded, worried brown eyes meeting Arthur’s gaze. But he didn’t seem to interpret her worries quite correctly; ‘We can leave at once! Take two horses, go for Brimwood town. With luck we get there by evening fall. We can..’ - ‘Right now?’ Belle breathed, halting her steps, shoes sinking slightly into the damp, soft earth.

‘Yes! Now, Belle! Do you not see? If we are to return to that…’ Arthur gestured in the direction of the well they came from. ‘..thing.. We may not leave alive at all. He is a monster, Belle. Be as it may. This is our only true option.’

Belle’s heart sank.

Wasn’t this what she wanted? What hurt could a fresh start do anyways? Perhaps there were people there who understood her? Maybe she could get a job so she could buy more books..and find a ..h-husband..and..UGH..

No.

But just as she wished to voice her distaste for the idea, she eyed her father. The poor old man was courageously pacing ahead, old legs stiffly jumbling over a few fallen branches. He had come to save her. Despite his evident fear for the forest and the..the..beast? Heavy heartedly Belle came to the realisation that it would be selfish to deny her father this. This chance. If her father said this was a good idea, who was she to deny him? To refuse his proposal merely for the fact that she had developed this strange desire for the decadence of that castle, for the blue eyes of that strange Master. It was wrong of her to even think like this. He was a good father..and she would be a good daughter.

‘O-okay.’ She mumbled, following her father onwards, back to the stables, their cottage not far now.

--

As they walked down the muddy country road, the wind cold and harsh now the trees were no longer there, an even greater cold walked up Belle’s spine. As morning had come, many people were afoot, glowering stares burning at her and her father.

Had the Master been right? Did they know of what had transpired this morning? Already? Belle knew news tended to travel fast, but this fast? It had been mere…

Arthur gasped softly before her, a visual tremor running through her father’s old bones.

‘What is..’ Belle joined his side and noticed it too; large red marks, claw-like in shape, had been crudely painted on their front door. There for all to see. Holy… Belle swallowed and eyed her father, his head starting to shake “no”.

‘Come papa.’ She ushered, eyes watchful of the towns folk that still burned their eyes at them, chests puffed and mouths curled in mean scowls.

Shit shit shit.

The next exchange of glances between her and her father was silent, but clear; ‘Yes, we need to leave at once.’

--

It had been but moments, Belle’s possessions gathered quickly as it were no more than a few pots, spoons and a second chemise. Meanwhile Arthur had walked out the back to instruct the stable boy to continue as usual, the boy unsure of what to do when Arthur started saddling two of the horses.

‘Don’t ask.’ Arthur had grumbled, defeat in his voice.

This was not what Arthur truly wanted. He had built his life here. Born and raised. Grown into the young man that managed to capture his wife’s heart, his… His eyes flew towards the cemetery, not far off.

Could he abandon her, just like that? The thought made him choke up with more despair, memories flooding him so bitter sweetly.

--

‘Papa..?’

‘Yes dear.’ Arthur smiled, watching as his daughter placed her little straw-doll on the table, curious brown eyes blinking at him as he was cutting up some vegetables for the stew. Belle wiggled a little, then sat down on the stool at the opposite side of the table, her little hands folding over the edge as she watched Arthur’s hands work on a carrot. She watched his knife move, the sharp blade easily scraping off the skins, bright oranges and purples appearing from below the leftover dirt.

‘So. I was wondering.’ ‘Mmm..’ Arthur raised an eyebrow as if listening, his eyes moving back to the carrot in his hands.

‘What does it feel like? Love?’

Arthur near choked on the air in his lungs, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he quickly chuffed. ‘Love? Ha..eh..’

‘How’d you know you loved mama?’ Belle leaned into the table, her watchful face resting onto an arm she had planted on the table. Arthur hummed. Ever curious his daughter was!

‘Tis a fine tale actually.’ Arthur smiled, dropping the cleaned and cut carrot into the cooking pot, his fingers continuing with the peeling of a potato. ‘I was young then. And strong! And handsome too, mmm.’

‘PAa..’ Belle shook her head in bemusement, making Arthur snicker. ‘No, but, oh..your mother! Your mother was the fairest of the land, I’m sure. All boys were crazy for her! She had as beautiful a brown mane as you do, equal brown eyes to match. And she was clever. So clever! Mmm..’ He chopped the potato in large pieces before throwing it in the pot as well, his eyes now moving back to Belle, her eyes studiously watching him.

‘And then?’ ‘Then. Oh, I can remember it quite well. There were more suitors for your mother you see. So she set a challenge! She said “Bring me the most beautiful gesture of your love! Than I shall decide whom to marry.” And so we went our ways. The baker’s boy baked the finest bread. The priest’s son wrote a most wondrous speech, poetic and well-read he was. And Master Le Comte - the Grandmaster now - gifted her a jewel. A large ruby ring, so beautiful...Now..that’s some stiff competition..’ Arthur laughed.

‘And you?’

‘I? I went into the haunted forest - I beg you Belle, never go there - but I did! And I brought back a most magnificent scarlet rose.’

‘And that is what convinced her..?’

‘Haha..oh I doubt it Belle. But I have indeed asked her long after our wedding, and all she did was point at my heart and say; “Don’t be silly”. So! Here we are! I am your silly dad and there’s that!’

‘Mmm..I want that too.’ Belle said with a decided nod of the head.

‘The rose?’ Arthur chimed.

‘No papa! You silly... Love!’

--

Arthur smiled at the memory, the horses packed and saddled now, Belle raising an expecting eyebrow at him. So much she had grown since then. But so little she had truly changed. She would still tease and test him, just like her mother.

Oh. How he wished he could stay here. How he wished none of this had ever happened. Could he even provide a good future for Belle? Could he?!

‘Let’s go.’ Belle whispered softly, her hand prying one of the reigns from Arthur’s tight grip. He nodded and followed suit, their horses soon making way down the path that ran straight through the village’s centre; the only way to get to Brimwood. And as they went, horses in gentle gallop as not to attract suspicion, it became clear that it was too late for that; more searing eyes awaited them, and as the village square came into view, a whole horde of villagers appeared.

‘Papa..’ Belle whispered tightly, worried eyelashes fluttering in the cold winter wind.

‘Stay calm Belle. Show no fear.’ Arthur muttered, his hand pulling back his hood as he greeted a frowning land worker who leaned onto his pitchfork, cold air fuming from his nostrils. ‘Cursed.’ The man said quietly before turning back to his work, setting the tone for what was awaiting them in the village centre.

And indeed. They couldn’t make it much further, the people halting their horses and taking control of their reigns, shocked bodies pulled from the saddle.

‘NO!’ Belle exclaimed in terror, tears starting to well in her eyes. ‘Leave us be! We are innocent! PLEASE!’

‘Then why run, hmm, sugar?’ The large man who was holding her said, thick voice rasping in the shell of her ear.

‘Please.’ Belle cried, Arthur now joining in; ‘Leave her be! Take me if you will. But leave her be!’ His bony arms tried to tug himself free to get to Belle, but Belle was the first to actually manage, her good foot stomping harshly on the man’s boot, his yelp echoing through the onlooking crowd.

Within a blink she had retrieved the small knife from her pocket, fingers clasping the handle as she held it out before her, threatening to harm any who got nearer, the crowd was shocked for just long enough for Arthur to free himself as well.

Arthur stepped back to Belle, the people starting to swarm, circling them, except for this one side; the people not daring to turn their backs on the forest, dark and looming..and far too close for comfort. The late winter sun was rising above the thatched roofs, its rays just strong enough to cast long shadows from the treetops, casting long shadows that licked at their heels.

Reaching out a hand for Belle’s, Arthur squeezed with affirmation, eyes darting around to keep an eye on the glaring crowd, their fingers starting to wring around evil looking farm tools.

‘You have cursed us!’ One voice spoke, the crowd quickly erupting in more wails and accusations, emotions running high as pitchforks were rising in the air.

Fuck.

Without thinking, Belle clasped her father’s hand more tightly and pulled him back, back to the forest whence they came from, it’s darkness embracing them ever so willingly. But as they made it to the first trees, Arthur started grasping for his chest, his feet stumbling and lungs gasping.

‘A-AH.’ He groaned, thick brows furrowing over his pained eyes.

‘Papa…’ Belle tried to pull him ahead, the crowd now hesitantly stepping closer and closer to the trees, voices starting to chant more concerning things: ‘SEE! They are with him!’ - ‘Get them! NOW!’

‘Papa please..’ Belle’s tearful eyes watched as her father’s body started to crumple to the ground, the strength in his hand waning, face twisted with pain. What was going on with him? Why was he grasping his chest so? It were questions that remained unanswered as the hesitant town folk were now creeping closer and closer, leaving but a few meters between Arthur and them. ‘Papaaaaa...No come on. You must..Please.’ Belle tried to pull him up, her skinny arms managing to only half get him off the ground before she felt his fist clutch around her skirts, his lip trembling. Wide-eyed with terror he spoke; ‘Go now Belle. Go…’ He swallowed harshly, blinking with pain. ‘RUN!’

--

‘PFF!’ The young Master huffed, eyes glaring at Morgana at the other end of the breakfast table. It was just one day ago that she had laid out those cards, speaking of his past, his now and his future. And what future he would have! Oh! He was going to live a glorious life indeed! And if she were true, all he needed now, was a wife. A sweet, pretty..young...hmmm.

With a quirk of the eyebrow the beautiful raven haired woman challenged him to continue. ‘So? Have you thought about what I said last night?’ She asked, lips sipping at her cup of herby broth - she tended to drink strange potions indeed.

‘Are you indicating I should be worried?’ His blue eyes rolled in their sockets, an indignant laugh escaping his lips. ‘I bet you that it will take me no more than a MONTH, to find true love.’ He exclaimed, a smirk digging little dimples in his handsome face.

And all Morgana did? She smiled.

--

‘Father.’

‘Hmm?’ The Grandmaster watched his son pace before the fire, Morgana long left for bed as the hour had grown late.

‘I must seek your advice. You see. I have indeed found myself a perfect wife. That is..I’m not quite sure how to…’ He bit his lip, thinking, then rolled his hand in the air.. ‘..proceed.’

The old Grandmaster huffed. ‘BWA. Ha! Oh son. You are a Le Comte! You can get anything you want, son! I’m sure you’ll find a way.’

A way.

Well, the way to this woman’s heart proved difficult. Days passed by that the pretty brown-maned girl wouldn’t even cast a glance in the young lord’s direction. She would hide away whenever he knew she was at the market. She would stiffly thank him when he’d bring her gifts. And he didn’t dare admit; but he was running out of options.

The pretty girl just didn’t seem pleased with his attention, albeit strange since she was by far not an interesting match. A simple farm girl, though pretty and smart. Why NOT would she like him? Was he so hideous and unsuitable a match?

With a vile aftertaste in the back of his throat, he decided to take a different route.

As of that year he had become responsible for leading the tax retrieval. And, with a few smartly placed changes in the yearly contracts, he found a perfect way to get just what he wanted; it’d only take a few raises in taxes for her father’s business and ..voila! Money would be tight enough for them to consider marrying off their daughter to their esteemed lord.

Simple? Right?!

--

That? That had been simple. Too simple, perhaps.

Before he could see through the vileness of his actions - his father telling him he was a prime example of the Le Comtes steadfastness and willpower - it became clear that this was no way to love. He saw it as his newly wed wife lay there shaking in bed, the sheets soiled with her blood.

This was love, right? It was how his father had done it. His uncle. All men in this family. You’d choose a fine woman and marry her, bring her gifts, charm her with your knowledge and strength, lay with her at night. And then she’d fall in love with you and there was that.

With an awkward touch to her arm he begged her attention, the poor woman shaking like a leaf.

‘Do you not love me, wife?’ He asked, her eyes appearing from beneath the shield of her arms, tear stained eyes looking up at him. ‘W-what?!’ She looked at him in bafflement, true horror striking her pretty features. Those doe brown eyes, that slightly sharp nose, a dusting of freckles coating her cheeks and those sweet.. rosy pink lips.

This..this was not a woman in love. Oh no. Oh no...This was not how it was supposed to be. But..but he did exactly as he was told. He provided for her in any way she needed. He’d bring the moon! The stars! The…

She spat at him.

‘You’re despicable!’ And with that she scrambled, her naked flesh wrapped in the bloody sheets as she fled from their newly shared bedroom.

--

Loud his cold heart thundered in his chest, fingers gripping around the bark of a tree as he wistfully watched the scene before him unfold. The way Arthur sank through his knees, the Master hearing quite well how disturbed the rhythm of the old man’s heart was. And Belle. OH Belle. Again, for just a moment, the Master could swear he felt his heart ache for her, the tears on her pale face etching despair and sorrow as the villager’s were slowly picking up the courage to proceed into the forest.

He couldn’t let them hurt her.

Pulling his hood back over his head he rushed out to her, branches whistling softly like the tears on her cheek.

Poor Belle.

He wasn’t even sure if she could see him through the lace of her tears, her eyes blinking up at him, lip trembling.

‘Please...pleaseeee.’ She bawled hands tugging at his cape, his arms instinctively stretching to pull her up to her feet - how unpractical it was that he didn’t hold his beastly strength right now. ‘My father..’ Her voice broke as she wrapped her arms tightly around him, the warmth of her small frame oozing into his chest.

‘Please!!’ His wife had cried, bloody her nightgown and frightened her eyes. Just like Belle’s. The same shade of brown, wide-eyed and crazed as she grasped at him. ‘PLEASE!’

A shiver ran down the Master’s spine, regret spinning his head as he barely noticed the people of the village who were now suddenly so very close.

‘WHO ARE YOU?!’ They belted, pointing at him, his cloak only just managing to hide his features from them, now daylight seeped through the trees.

He needed to get away from here. He needed to get THEM away from here. Him..and Belle. And as his ears whirled with panic, the villagers walking into the forest, he scooped her up, slow but steady boot falls leading back the long road to the castle.

‘I’ll bring him back, Belle. I will.’

--

Chap 9 >

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[gingerhulksmash]

The sketchbook.

Hazel has gotten used to throwing away little scrap bits of paper bearing any marks of her boredom during senate meetings, but she’s beginning to regret it now, as she’s bundling old meeting notes into a recycling bag. They never contained anything vital to the meetings, just stickmen blowing rude speech bubbles, games of hangman and tic-tac-toe, Jason’s chicken scratch scrawl asking did she want to get donuts after the meeting? She can’t remember if she’d said yes, or if she’d smiled, or if she’d told him she had drills to run.

She hopes she’d said yes. She hopes she’d scribbled yes, I would love to get donuts with you, so he had known for sure that there was nothing else she’d rather have done that day. If she’d known what was coming, she’d have asked him, after every meeting, and stretched out what should have been a longer friendship. What should have been more time with her first friend in Camp Jupiter. What should have been more time with someone she saw as a—

As a—

She’s getting distracted, and her eyes are starting to prickle. With a shuddering sigh, Hazel goes back to gutting Jason’s old desk. Purging it of all traces of it’s former occupant, though she’s fighting the urge to have it towed towards his funeral pyre. Whoever sat at it next wouldn’t be quite so deserving, not of the title, not of the office, not of the desk so covered with the imprint of his late night work and coffee spills, she begins to wonder if they couldn’t conjure Jason’s soul from out of the grainy wood itself.

But, she reminds herself, it’s just a desk. No more a part of Jason than the office, the chair, the pages and pages of work scattered around. As she plucks the sheets from the drawers, her fingers brush the soft leather spine of an old sketchbook. She gasps quietly, fingers jarring with uncertainty — as if she’d found a diary, some private relic that Jason would have forbidden her to touch if he’d been there.

He is not there, and Hazel pulls the book from it’s hidden corner of the desk drawer, glancing around to make sure she is completely alone. 

Inside is a comfortingly familiar mess of writing, and drawings. Almost every page is stained with coffee or ink — after the Giant War, Jason’s hands had developed a slight tremor, and she sees it in the unsteady lines in the details. The pages are dated, signed, almost pedantically. Habits of a boy whose life had been pulled out from under him, once, twice, thrice. An ache in her chest tells her that he was making sure he forgot nothing, that he had something to fall back on to remember himself, if no one else did. Then, as she turns the pages, loose pieces begin to fall out. The first one she picks up again knocks the wind out of her a little.

She’s looking at her own face, sketched clumsily in blue ink. He’s not the most articulate artist — the eyes are uneven, the light seems to be coming from all directions, and not a shadow or crease in the clothes visible — but the light strokes of the pen, the careful curve of her nose and every stray hair, speaks volumes. Signed, dated, and labelled with her name, he has captured a moment she can’t remember at all. More loose sheets contain faces of friends, Frank, Reyna, Gwen, Bobby, Dakota — it goes on, and on. The sketches get better the closer they get to his last visit. She makes more appearances, as do their new friends. She gets misty eyed over drawings of Leo and Piper, passages written about Festus and how to repair him, just the way Leo taught them in case he couldn’t do it himself. 

The margins are full of birthdays, important dates, minute sketches of New Rome and Camp Halfblood, flashes of scenes from quests. He has not travelled far, and the places he has been allowed were chained to danger. But to anyone who had not known Jason, it read like a How To Remember Your Friends guide. Like a memoir. He’d even kept all the little notes that they had traded in senate meetings, wedged in between loose sheets and sometimes glued to the pages. He’d kept the ridiculous drawings as if they were precious photos. It’s getting harder and harder to keep a straight face. 

The last piece she picks off the floor is an old drawing of Thalia. She’d recognise the face anywhere, even with Jason’s haphazard drawing; blue eyes overlined so vividly, the blue ink had seeped through to the other side of the page, the hair an inky splash, and freckles dotted across a rakish grin. It was not signed, or dated, but it had one sentence scratched across so messily, he must have written it in a fit of something.

She’s real, his writing reads. She’s real, her name is Thalia Grace. She’s not imaginary. I’m not the only one. My sister is real. 

Something wet splatters on the page, and the ink bleeds blue down Thalia’s face. Hazel forgets to clean the rest of the desk, forgets she is surrounded by scraps of paper, and dust, and cobwebs. She sits on Jason’s chair, rests her head on her arms, and bawls.

——————————

Waiting for Nico to appear sends her back to her first days at Camp Jupiter. Hazel doesn’t know if she’ll see him, if he’ll warn her of an absence or a visit. Today of all days, she does not blame him for hiding a little. They grieve the same loss in different ways, but she needs her brother here, too. She needs the reassurance, and the understanding, and the presence to prove to her she’s not on her own.

Just like in old times, when her stomach is in knots about Nico not showing up, it’s a Grace who approaches her with a kind hand on her shoulder. But when Hazel turns to face Thalia, her heart leaps to her throat.

Thalia looks like she’s been quietly rusting the past few days. Pale, shoulders slack, her hair dripping down her face. She is not wearing her circlet, her eyes look bloodshot and grey. If someone told her that grief could rob a soul of it’s immortality, Hazel would have believed it from just one look at Thalia.

But there she stood, with a strained smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, looking through Hazel.

‘You wanted to see me?’

Suddenly, Hazel feels like this is the worst idea she’s ever had. Jason’s sketchbook sits heavy in her bag, weighing her thoughts down until there is no room for words to form. All she can think to say is how are you, but it is the silliest question in the world right now. 

‘I did,’ she sits as she speaks, gently prompting Thalia to do the same. 

Thalia remains standing for an awkward minute, wondering perhaps if Hazel has worse news for her. She seems to decide it isn’t possible, and sits, avoiding eye contact all the while.

‘Will you be leaving soon?’  ‘Don’t know. We have some business to attend to while we’re here,’ Thalia’s voice is brittle, too. 

Hazel has seen every sign of crying except the tears, and she can’t help but wince internally at how similar that was to Jason. The closest she’d ever come to seeing Jason weep was the night he had told her about Mount Othrys, and even then, he had held his composure for her sake. He did not like to make others feel obligated to comfort him, and she understood. If Thalia was anything like that...

‘You can’t take a few days off?’  Thalia makes a noise that might have passed as a laugh. ‘Hunters don’t get sick days, Levesque.’

It’s eerie. He’d almost said the same. Praetors don’t take sick days. 

They fall into silence. Hazel wishes Nico would appear soon, so that someone who knew Thalia better could deliver the book. So someone who knew Thalia better could handle the fallout. So someone who knew Thalia better could talk about her brother, and not make Hazel feel stupid for ever thinking of Jason as her own family, when Thalia had more right to cry and scream and break down than she did.

But that didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel fair. And the anger hits Hazel as soon as she’s thought it. If rifling through that sketchbook had shown her anything, it was that Jason had been as desperate for family all his life, as she had been desperate to not feel alone when she reached camp, too. Nico and Thalia could come and go as they pleased, but Jason and Hazel — they had been the ones left behind, they had been the ones to pick each other up again. They had been the ones to reach their hands out, with every fear of rebuke and rejection, to any other lonely soul who might be in need. 

Just as she starts to think, I should keep the book myself, Thalia sighs. 

‘If I don’t do my job, someone else suffers,’ she says, after a long pause. ‘What would I do with my days off, anyway?’

To this, Hazel has no answer. 

‘Are you taking any days off?’ Thalia continues, finally turning to look at her. ‘No. I... I can’t,’ ‘Why not? He’s like a brother to you, too.’

Again, her eyes prickle. A lump in her throat makes it hard to speak for a few more seconds, and in lieu of an answer, Hazel reaches a shaking hand towards Thalia’s. Thalia squeezes her fingers back weakly, and sniffs.

Slowly, Hazel reaches into her bag, and draws the sketchbook out. It feels heavier than anything she’s ever held before, but she holds it tightly, for fear that a second of slack grip would send all the pages flying into the air, never to be seen again. Gingerly holding it in her lap, she pulls the hand holding Thalia’s to rest on the cover. 

‘What is that?’ ‘It’s Jason’s,’ immediately, as Hazel says it, Thalia stiffens. ‘We used to draw together, now and again, when he had time. He, um. He kept a lot of the things I drew for him, and — and drew some of his own,’

Thalia is looking at the book as if it’s going to bite her, but before she can pull her fingers loose, Hazel closes her hand over them, too soft to constrain, but quick enough that Thalia might understand it as a plea to hold on.

With a shaking voice, Hazel finishes. ‘I want you t — I think you should have it.’

‘What am I going to do with it?’ The rasp in her voice tells Hazel she might cry, or yell. Maybe both. Both might be good for her, for Hazel, too.  ‘Look at it. On your days off,’ Hazel offers. ‘Look at it now.’ ‘I can’t. I didn’t even know he liked to draw,’ ‘That doesn’t matter,’ 

She peels the cover open, blinking furiously to ward away any tears, and lets Thalia try. When she doesn’t move, when Hazel can hear her breathing become difficult and tight, she turns the pages for her, shows her the friends and adventures scribbled there, the notes, the reminders. Her hands shake as she shows Thalia all the drawings of her, her eyes begin to blur. 

‘He loved you so much. It doesn’t matter if you didn’t know this about him, he’d have wanted you to have it,’ her voice cracks, at long last. ‘He barely knew me at the start and he loved me, he wouldn’t have cared if — if you didn’t —’

Thalia’s hands on her face, wiping away her tears, are what alert her to the fact she’s crying. Through her hazy vision, she can make out Thalia’s stony expression, fighting valiantly to not break. How like Jason; these are the habits of someone unaccustomed to having the space and permission to feel. She was no older than Hazel, something she remembers with another swoop of pain — Thalia had died at thirteen, too. She understood the gravity of a second chance, and now the pain of having that blessing tainted by loss, by grief, by danger.

Before she knows it, Thalia has pulled her into a hug, one arm tight around her shoulders, the other hand at the back of her head. She lets Thalia hold onto her, until it feels like she is being leaned on in turn, until she hears the quiet shudder of a sob that gets louder and more heartbroken.

The book, still in Hazel’s clutches and pressed to her front, is forgotten and unimportant for the moment. But when this is over, she knows Thalia will take it. When this is over, Nico will come home to Hazel. Tyson will go home to Percy. The cohorts and cabins in both camps will close in on their loved ones, and Thalia will vanish into the wilderness with nothing but this book, and it will be all she has of him. Paper, ink, a leather back that will slowly but surely break apart over the years as it’s yanked open to bring Jason back to life, for a moment or two. 

Hazel holds Thalia until her sobs subside to a tremor, and thinks, maybe, she doesn’t have to be alone. Maybe after this, when this is all over, Thalia will visit, they’ll get donuts, and pore over the book together. Maybe she’ll teach Thalia to draw, and they’ll draw together. That would have to wait — for now, she will make do with the comfort she is being offered and has the chance to give back. She’ll hold onto Thalia, and Thalia will hold onto her, and as he should have been there in person, Jason was there between them, with his family.

[mcfanely]

Memories

A short drabble I wrote for @razzle-zazzle‘s Blinded AU, a bit of calmness in a sea of all the angst I love to write (I hope you like it, Zaz!)

Months after the events of the Sons’ of Garmadon, promptly getting thrown into the First-Realm followed by the Oni invasion, there hadn’t been much time to just... sit down and think. Think about what had happened with Ultra Violet and the last thing Cole ever saw before his vision went blank. 

And what followed.

1520 words

Cole had sat himself down, outside, just barely within the courtyard of the monastery. It was good to be back, to have so much time to just be at a place he considered home; the sunlight warm on his face as it flowed through the gap in the wall that the open gates provided and the feeling of stones and gravel under his bare palms was abrasive but tactile, calming as he carefully moved the pads of his fingers over the small ridges. 

Getting banished to a whole other realm, coming back and then getting thrown into a new problem and an entirely new battle - two in fact, Garmadon and then the Oni, it had been hard for everyone. No time for a break, not really. That was the life of a Ninja. 

Taxing in every way, but when they finally got some down time?

Time to relax without a world ending problem taking up every moment of the day. Time that Cole could use to just enjoy the light breeze as the day slowly delved into its evening state, the sun dipping below the horizon. He could feel it, the chill as shadows stretched over him inch by inch and the warm line of the dipping light.

Until his attention was drawn away. Maybe it was the shift in the air beside his head, or the slight tremors running through the ground, or even the light breathing he could hear. And he could hear it, easily. Better than he could have done a few mere months back. 

The only issue was, he wasn't the best at differentiating anything yet, even after going so long without his sight. He could sense people, sense movement and depth, but nothing much past that. Though he was learning gradually.

It seemed like years since he'd ever seen anything, when in reality it had been months.

"You've been sitting out here for most of the day." Came a croaky, soft voice. Wu.

The scrape of the bo staff on the ground confirmed his suspicions. How had he not noticed that? 

Cole smiled, and gave a short nod. "It's nice. The weather has been pretty good over the past few days, Sensei. And, you know, we don't always have time to sit and enjoy it."

It was a weird but welcomed dynamic change that they'd all experienced during their run-ins with the Sons' of Garmadon, and then the escapade through the First Realm. They had their master back, after so long. After wavering hope and doubt that he was even still alive, or even in their own present day anymore. 

But being there, raising him from the baby he had been stuck as, it... Was odd.

Cole felt like he'd learnt more about Wu from caring for the man as a child than he had with all the years training under the mysterious Sensei.

"I noticed you aren't wearing your blindfold." it was said with a questioning tone, and the crinkle of fabric and a huffed out breath followed, Wu sat down.

Cole shrugged, "It's not like I need it up here. No one to scare with my lack of eyes." He chuckled, humour. It helped him work through trauma, and it was trauma. There had been time between the initial injury and present day, but that didn't negate from what he'd experienced. The pain of the spelled blade, the heat, the burning, the smell. It made his stomach roll just thinking about it. He swallowed hard, around a sudden lump in his throat.

Sensei Wu seemed to pick up on the motion, there was movement. Cole just turned his head in the Sensei's general direction and smiled. He didn't know what the injury looked like, but he knew it wasn't good. It never had looked good really, all it had done was heal thankfully without an infection and the perpetual ache had subsided. Zane had told him one night, when they'd gotten to talking on the roof of the monastery, that it looked like raised skin. Discoloured, scarred, some areas lighter, some a lot darker. That his eyes, well, his eyelids had healed closed but he knew that there was nothing behind them. Cole knew that, he couldn't feel anything there. He couldn't see. He'd describe it as blackness, but in reality it was literally nothing at all. As much as anyone could see if they asked what they saw from their elbow.

"I remember the day you found me." Wu said plainly, abruptly. Cole felt himself pause, one eyebrow raising. "When I was a baby." He elaborated.

Cole frowned, "You remember... Being a baby?"

"You have to understand, what I was subject to was not normal development. I went from a young child to an adolescent youth in the matter of a few hours. I remember everything."

The earth ninja couldn't help but blow out a heavy breath. "So you remember..?"

Wu paused, as if thinking over how he was going to word what he was going to say. Or even if he should say it. "I remember the blood." He stated. "That covered most of the injury but I supposed it made it look worse than it was."

"I don't know Sensei, it felt pretty bad." Cole laughed lightly.

He felt a tap of the bo staff on his shoulder and huffed. If he still had eyes, he'd roll them.

"I know you remember it too. More so, in fact."

It was a prompt, an opening to speak about something that he resolutely avoided in lieu of other problems.

Cole swallowed hard , "I remember the pain. The fact that the last thing I ever saw was stone walls and Ultra Violet diving at me with the knife." He whispered, their surroundings seemed to follow suit. Birds became quiet, cicadas in the grass stopped their chirping. It was like the world took a breath. "Everything flashed white, and then nothing. I remember coming around and you were making baby noises. I... Could feel everything. The blood, the burns, I honestly…" Cole's voice fell below a whisper, "I wanted to cry but I couldn't." He ducked his head.

"And amongst all of that, you still got me and yourself to safety."

"Sensei--"

"You put everything that had happened to the back of your mind, you adapted to the situation and you found your way to safety, even without your vision."

Cole cleared his throat and shook his head. He could feel a catch in his voice, and he knew if he spoke again it would break, just as he had yet to do so over the situation

Yet he did, "Why're you mentioning this now?"

"Because you need to hear it." Wu said plainly. "You need to know that you're not alone with this. And even though I may be a crotchety old man," Cole smirked, and received a harder staff tap to the back of his head. He winced and brought his hand up to rub the knock.

"I am your mentor, and I'm here to talk to. Just as your brothers are."

There was a light breeze and Cole hefted a heavy breath, nodding slowly to the words. They made sense, and he had heeded them before. If the conversation was broached, he would talk about what happened. He was doing so now. Bottling emotions wasn't exactly his forte, he was more for waiting until there was time to let them out. The only issue was free time rarely came. "I'm fine, Sensei. Really. I'm okay. And I'm sorry you remembered what happened."

"Apologies from those who are not at fault get neither party anywhere but closer to understanding each other. It is not your fault that what you experienced was traumatic. It is not your fault that I remember what happened."

"Sensei, I don't get what point you're trying to make." Cole admitted slowly as he pulled his legs up against his chest.

"What I'm saying is, eyesight or not, safety or peril, your immediate action upon getting grievously injured was to protect someone else. To protect me, whether you knew who I was or not. It's why I chose you Cole, all those years back on that mountain top."

Cole paused, listened.

"Because when all seems lost and hopeless, when you're in pain, you still put others first. You do the right thing, to the detriment of yourself." Wu stood, using his staff as support. "Whilst putting yourself in harm's way, I don't advise; your heart is always in the right place."

He felt a hand rest on his shoulder, the touch firm but gentle. Cole couldn't help but give a small smile.

"It's why you're the leader, and why you continue to be the one everyone looks to."

"Sensei--"

Sensei Wu paused, presumably looking back, not that Cole could tell easily. "Disability does not equal to inability. You are proof of that, Cole. You work with your circumstances, you are every bit the person you used to be and more.

"I am here to thank you. And to tell you that I am very proud of who you've become."

-

AO3

[ill-skillsgard]

Ma'am I need some more Valter or Faust content, please help me..

Say no more, bb doll! 

We’ve discussed Faust going down on his girl for the first time here, but that doesn’t mean we can’t revisit it and use this for some good ol’ development!

+

After the night Faust snuck into her room, Faith does a total one-eighty with him. He has her little tender heart underneath the sole of his combat boot, and he can press down whenever he wants, exciting her in all the ways he intended. 

She begs for him one night when they’re alone in his apartment, wrapped in blankets on his bed while they watch another Sam Raimi movie. Faith wants to have sex with him and still doesn’t understand why he won’t man up and take her. He’ll tease her with his fingers, let her keep his knee between her legs to brush against, make her lick her own juices off his long fingers, but he won’t let her see him with his boxers off. Faust won’t allow her to touch him back.

At first, Faith relishes the mystery. This dark, placid man is methodical in his forbearance. There’s a perfectly fit reason he won’t allow her wandering hands to slip any farther than just under the band of his boxers, but he won’t spill. He lets her excite him, allows her lips to travel along his collarbone while she strokes his chest and arms. He gets hard if she kisses his neck and whispers against his pulse about how badly she wants him inside her—and not just his fingers—but withdraws from her if she gets too spirited in her admiration.

They kiss all the time now. Faust even holds her hand while they go for walks in the West End of town, where nobody he associates with would ever set foot. Faith enjoys the beautified parks and especially loves when Faust finds a hidden place among the wooded trails to pin her against a tree, hand snaking under her skirt to prod and play while the other stifles her squeals.

But the mystery turns stale, and Faith’s patience runs out the night of their fourth sleepover. In bed, she backs into him, feeling his flaccidity pressing against the swell of her ass. Faust shuffles, readjusts his pillow, tightens his arm around her and settles in for the next hour and a half. During his rearrangement, he pulls his hips an inch away from her, only to meet with her rear again. At this point, she’s slowly chasing him backward until his spine presses against the wall and he grumbles.

Faith flips over. Her attention was never on the screen, but on the warm breath near her neck, the arm holding her close and the dick she so very much wanted to feel pressing against her with arousal.

“What are you doing?” He asks.

Her hands wander before she replies, “what do you think I’m doing?”

“I don’t know, that’s why I asked.”

“Touch me,” Faith whispers.

“I am touching you.”

“No,” she says, placing his hand on her breast. “Really touch me. Touch me everywhere, please. I want you.”

“Why don’t you just watch the movie?”

“Why don’t you just fuck me already?”

Faust scoffs as though she had told a mildly entertaining joke. He nods at the screen and beckons her to turn over, but she refuses.

“Won’t Jesus get mad at you for being such a horny little thing? Think of what God wants.”

Faith glares up at him until he laughs and apologizes.

“Listen,” Faust starts. “I’m not ready to have sex with you yet.”

“Why not? I bet you’ve fucked tonnes of girls already. Did you make them all wait as long as you’re making me?”

Then it was his turn to glare. “No. I never made any of them wait. In fact, I fucked them all on the very first night. Know why?”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t give a shit about them.”

Faith wants to contest, but what he admitted strangles her into a prolonged silence. Faust strokes her hair back, kisses her and puts another few inches between their bodies before shimmying down the bed. 

“Besides... I’m not sure you can handle what I’ve got. Not yet. So until then, why don’t you just keep your mouth shut and stop trying to pressure me into having sex before I’m ready?”

Blindsided by Faust’s revelation, Faith watches him climb between her legs, confused by his position but too excited to stop him. He opens her legs, stares up at the bare inches of thin fabric shielding her opening from view, and kisses the inside of her thigh.

“Ever had a tongue inside you before?” He whispers.

Faith shakes her head and presses her thumb knuckles to her lips, fingers curled into fists like she might plead or pray. 

“No?” Faust says, a light grin punctuating the question with delight. “Nobody has ever licked your pussy before?”

“No, Faust,” she says.

The enjoyment stays on his lips and spreads to his cheeks and eyes. Faith has never seen such boyish zeal dancing on his features. It only makes her tremble for more.

“Some girls say it’s better than sex.”

“Some girls say that to you? Or in general?”

Faust shoulders a tress of black hair out of the way and plants another kiss next to her groin. “Does it matter?”

He takes her underwear off, allows her to open her legs again before he takes hold of her thighs and pulls her closer. The first swipe of his tongue is minute, slow, and laced with warm breath. Faith twinges all over as her eyes shut, but she knows better than to look away. She cannot bring herself to watch until Faust demands she looks.

“Don’t close your eyes. Watch me,” he says, feeding her opening one finger to keep her attention.

A gasp leaves her mouth. She bites down on the tip of her thumb and watches him take another lap around her clit with the tip of his tongue. Her moans make him chuckle.

“Yeah, never thought it could feel like that, did you?”

“Faust...”

He pulls his finger out, impressed with the coating of arousal glistening in the flickering light from the TV. Faust licks it all off, before pressing her thighs apart for a better view.

Faith doesn’t understand what it is about his tongue that feels ten times better than his fingers alone. Perhaps it’s the hot, slick appendage teasing her nerves, nudging her clit, then drawing away, then coming back to swirl and suck. Maybe it’s the saliva that drips down her opening or the way he moans against her, sending vibrations through her pelvis. Whatever it is, the new sensations amaze her, wake her body, mind and soul. Never had she felt such love for one person nor lust to do whatever she could to please him.

“Tell me how it feels,” Faust says.

“It’s so good. It’s... Please don’t stop.”

Her right leg begins to shake. Try as she might halt the tremors, the tongue massaging her clit renders her free-will useless. It’s a peculiar thrill shooting through her core—like the urge to pee, but much deeper and ringed with fire. The pressure builds. Faust does not let up. He moans against her, lolls his head back and forth, dragging his tongue and lips around and around, up and down, side to side and repeating until both thighs are trembling. 

“Don’t fight that feeling,” he tells her. “Don’t you dare fight it off. Come for me instead.”

“It feels... I feel like I might—” she’s choked off by her pleasure before she can finish her thought.

“Let it fucking go. Just come all over my fucking tongue. Don’t think about anything else.”

The trills shoot outward as the pressure snaps all at once. Though her muscles release, her orgasm wipes her mind for a hot, blank moment. Before she can open her eyes again, Faust is at her side, wiping his mouth and laughing at the dumbfounded look on her face. It doesn’t stop there either. Faith’s fingers and toes grow numb, a warble of white noise pierces her ears and she clings to him like she might float away.

“Was that good?” He asks, knowing the answer but wanting to hear it spoken.

“Yeah,” she peeps. 

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

Faust holds her at half an arm’s length away, taking in her bewildered expression. “Did I ruin your life by introducing you to the fine art of cunnilingus?”

“Maybe.”

Faust understands her lack of words, nods and kisses her forehead before pulling her close. “Want me to shut up so you can process what just happened?”

 Met with no answer, he tips her chin up and looks into her eyes. “Hey... You okay?”

“I’m okay,” she nods.

“Yeah, you’re perfect, aren’t you? That’s my girl.”

[ashleyswrittenwords]

The Bitterness of Almost Making It (II)

Premise: Zelda’s carriage has been ambush and she rushes through the night to escape certain death. (TP ZeLink)

Small Note:  I wrote this on a whim because I can’t leave things sad.

Part One

Word Count: 1915

——-

Blackness.

A deepness she had never felt pulling her into a state of nothingness.

It didn’t push, it didn’t claw or spark fear in what little consciousness she had left. Rather, it enveloped her senses and cradled her being. Zelda didn’t wonder; she didn’t think; she didn’t understand the intense feeling of loss in her breast.

Sometimes the darkness shifted – like seeing the sun with closed eyes. If a chill overtook her, it didn’t last. Whispers of safety silently reached her and despite the tugging call that pricked the absence of her thoughts, that carefully woven blackness was quick to quell the worry and coax her back into the comfort of nothing.

There was a contentedness in her soul; a rightness she couldn’t place. The cognition to identify it didn’t manifest itself to her, leaving without anything to dwell on for the first time in a long time. Her mind was used to continuous churning with endless conflicts needed to be dealt with. If she wasn’t writing her thoughts in bulleted notes, her thoughts did it for her in her sleep and slowly stifled any room for personal enjoyment. There had even been a time when she preferred that state of mind.

It had taken a man dressed in an obnoxious green with a head as stubborn as hers to convince her that life wasn’t all about solutions. Some problems weren’t meant to be solved. Sometimes merely coping was enough. In doing that, at some point she saw him as one. His presence was a thrill she never knew. He pushed her in more positive ways, showing her new places and people beyond marble walls. In turn, her curiosity pushed him to travel more as she couldn’t be out for long.

Link’s adventuring didn’t quiet that curiosity either. In the dead of night, she would find him on her balcony with a rucksack of artifacts that spanned to the far reaches of her kingdom and beyond. A common excuse was how she needed to decipher a long-dead language for him or solve an elaborate riddle. That excuse later melted into simply wanting her to see the world from her room.

The man’s absence, really, was the issue. It bothered Zelda to the point of near madness. In the short silences with her advisors, a sheer remembrance of his form would leave her carefully plotted thoughts to come tumbling down. The Hyrulean queen didn’t forget. She was methodic and scientific, with all her actions having a purpose. For nearly a month, she worried she had developed an early onset of Alzheimer’s. How else was she to explain the recurring blanking of her mind?

Eventually, it dawned on her. It happened in the early hours of the morning when the sun had not yet risen. Link had gathered his belongings and was scoping out the ground from the railing – trying to decide if the guard rotations had changed. They hadn’t, she knew, despite his incessant nagging.

As she watched him take account and drum his fingers against the metal, she came to the acute realization that she didn’t want him to leave. It spread to her cheeks and further when he asked her what was wrong. Like everything she told him, she spoke the truth. Except then it was in a series of flustered words that shocked him as much as it shocked her.

“I do not know what it means,” she had said about the hole he left between visits, barely meeting his eyes. “You make me happy.”

Without attempting to hide his southern drawl, he wore a toothy grin and a slight flush.

“You make me happy, too.”

The memory was cut abruptly short as a cold stiffness crawled over her. Blindly, she shifted towards the unknown warmth.

Then, without warning, a searing pain tore through her side. With a choked gasp, Zelda’s eyes shot open only to be foiled by a blinding light. The brightness faded quickly to a dull glow and that glow revealed her surroundings. The softness under her was a twin bed and the warmth wide cobalt eyes lined with dark circles. A familiar touch gently, but with a certain sternness, pulled her back down.

“Don’t move,” his voice reached her ear. The warmth left her as he moved out from the place he held her.

Blond hair shone messy in the light that filtered in from the window. Zelda was wearing a shirt she didn’t recognize and he bunched the fabric up below her breasts. The delicate manner in which he did it hadn’t insinuated sensuality, in Link’s eyes were a calculating focus that swept down the bandages that wrapped her middle. He mumbled something under his breath and as if he forgot she was there, his gaze blinked up to hers.

The frustration in his face melted into relief and then tenderness. The man lifted himself from the ground to sit on the bed. There was a slight tremor in Zelda’s hands as she felt the smoothness of his face and he leaned down. His callous fingers lightly grasped her forearms and traced light circles on her soft skin. When their foreheads touched, words couldn’t suffice to express hushed alleviation in their hearts.

“I have been gravely injured, imprisoned against my will, and suffered grief so great I thought I would die,” Link said, opening his eyes to look into hers. “But nothing has scared me so immensely than facing a reality without you.”

His hands folded over her trembling ones and brought them to his mouth for a long kiss. Zelda watched him with knitted brows. For a long moment, she relished in the fact that he was merely existing here with her.

“Thank you,” she croaked out. The dryness of her throat made her cough, which made her wince painfully.

It made him frown, “You need water.”

He kept a light grasp on her wrist. “It’s been two days.”

Two days? That was what she wanted to ask, but she feared the pain that would come with speaking. Thankfully, he read her astonishment.

“I thought you wouldn’t wake up,” he shook his head, raking a hand through his hair and went to rummage through a bag across the room. From the distance he mused about where he had put his skein.

When he returned he helped her to a partial seat, mindful of her injury.

“Slow,” he quietly goaded her when she went to take in more water than she could reasonably bear. “Or you’ll start coughing again.”

“Have,” Zelda tested. Her throat hurt, but not as scraping as before. “Have you told anyone where I am?”

“Only a couple people in Ordon,” he mumbled, capping the water skein again. “I sent notice to the castle without including a location. Not when I don’t know why this happened.”

“I doubt there is a keenness to replace me so quickly.”

A ghost of a smile graced his hardened features. “No, I doubt there is.”

They settled into a comfortable silence as his gaze was split between her and the bandages. Then, Link somberly drew a feather-like touch over her skin, “It’s going to scar. I’m afraid I’m not used to stitching up other people.”

Zelda nodded, not remotely as worried about her appearance as he feared. If she had to guess, she was in a state of disrepair as it was. Her hair was completely free to be as unruly as it wished and the long shirt she wore wasn’t even her own. Though, she did notice Link had tried to wipe the dirt off her skin the best he could. Her fingers lazily found his, interlocking into a seamless hold. Affection bloomed in her chest when he squeezed his hand around hers.

“You told me about the council’s vote,” he said.

In truth, she thought that had been a dream. Zelda bit the inside of her lip, watching for his reaction and when he displayed none, her chest tightened.

Zelda shook her head, “Link, you don’t have to accept. I went behind your back and it was not fair of me.”

She was grasping for straws now, trying to find the right words in her lap. Link’s entire life was in the outdoors. For her to wrought him of that enjoyment…

Link breathed in and held it. “A month ago I proposed to you and you broke down.”

His eyes were critically examining her digits, turning over her hand as if it were foreign. His voice was indifferent, “You were distraught about something. I couldn’t figure out whether it was the ring or the man that was wrong. Then, I heard you say ‘the kingdom’.” He looked up at the ceiling, “And I thought ‘I can deal with being accused of treason if she let me steal her away’. But that wasn’t it because you wouldn’t abandon a lost dog, much less Hyrule.

“I like to think I’m an observant man, so when you went on about royal marriages and the rules for it I figured it was your way of letting me down. Gods, it hurt, but I could get through that if it made you happy,” he met her with a quizzical brow. “How would requesting my candidacy for marriage be considered going behind my back?”

“Because,” she faltered, “Because I don’t want to trap you into a life you don’t want. It’s not easy and I care about you more than that.”

He squeezed her hand again and searched her eyes. “Zelda, I’ve been romantically involved with the queen for years. I have read virtually every book about the constitutions of being your husband since I realized how horribly and irrevocably in love with you I am.”

Her face fell. “But Link-”

“Do you want me?” There was a desperation in his tone. His fingers twitched nervously. His words were thick, “I don’t come from much. If that’s your concern, I understand, and I’ll do everything I can to learn the right etiquette.”

“I want you more than anything,” Zelda said quickly. “I want you. Not the pleasantries and the etiquette and the manners. Your presence would be enough.”

The tension in his grip slipped and suddenly he left her side. She grew afraid that she had said something wrong until he came back with a small trinket in his hand. In the same manner as he did a month ago, he got down on one knee.

He cleared his voice and smiled, “I did this once and I’ll do it a million more times until I get an answer. Will you marry me?”

Queen Zelda had always told herself and her constituents that she didn’t need protecting. She was a master in the art of archery and could hold her own in a fair fight. For so long, she was convinced that if she could hold her own nothing could reach her. Especially not the hero she hardly knew that stuck around to rebuild after the disaster.

The petite ruby ring in his hand sparkled in the morning light, but all she saw was the hope in his eyes. It was then that she found that she wanted to wake up to that every morning, no matter the obstacles she had to overcome – because now he would by her side to help. The pain in her side subsided further with the realization.

Watery eyes clouded her vision as it did then. Her answer first came in a nod and then a weak, “Yes.”

[ianite-simp]

dark!karl pt. 1

this is the first part of this fic, the only part with a happy ending :) 

The others were always underestimating Karl. From the day he washed up on the island, his memory so foggy he could hardly recall how to complete simple tasks, the other champions constantly found little reasons to poke fun at him. While Tom was generally the one doing the teasing, Jordan, the so-called champion of justice rarely intervened. Not that Karl minded, at first. He learned to laugh along quickly; after all, friends would be friends. Still, there were the moments of frustration he felt as he struggled to catch hold of a faint memory, the knowledge of how to craft or construct a simple item, while the other two quickly developed their islands. Even worse were the times he simply couldn’t control his limbs properly. While Tom and Jordan nimbly maneuvered their way through courses and tests of agility, Karl found himself cursing and struggling to make his legs bend the proper way, legs that felt disconnected from his body, as though he were a puppeteer with no clue how to control his puppet.

But the times that were far, far worse than anything else were the brief conversations when Jordan and Tom would bring up their gods. They spoke of them with such a sense of familiarity, of understanding, that Karl found himself eagerly hanging onto every word they said. Listening to them describe the gods so close to them, Karl couldn’t help but admit a shadow of doubt in his mind. Who am I? Why am I here? The others knew where they stood, they felt secure in their alignments. Yet he felt he didn’t quite fit with any of the three, Mianite was too much of a goody-two-shoes, Dianite was downright evil, and Ianite’s actions didn’t quite make sense to him. 

In many of their stories, their memories from other dimensions, a bloke named Tucker was brought up quite a bit. He was Mianite’s champion, the “good guy” hero. It was obvious that the other two missed him, and he could understand why. Almost all of their old jokes, pranks, and stories seemed to tie back to Tucker. Sometimes, listening to the captain and the zombie chat, Karl got the sense of being an outsider, of not belonging. The strange, sidelong looks the priest would give him whenever he brought up the gods didn’t exactly make him feel comfortable, either. It was like Declan was trying to figure out just who he was, a thought that always made Karl snort in amusement. Good luck with that, mate. I don’t even know that. But a feeling of unease would always follow, washing over him in a chilly wave that raised the hair on his arms. He’d hear unfamiliar whispers in the back of his mind, whispers that seemed louder whenever he felt isolated. You’ll never replace Tucker. You’re better than them. You aren’t one of them. You’ll never be as close to them as he was. You don’t belong. 

Of course, he pushed back against the thoughts, attributing them to having a few meads too many with Tom, or not getting enough sleep, or something like that. Something that wouldn’t make him seem mad. But when they came across the prophecy that foretold the coming of the three heroes, everything changed. He was given his role, to be the new champion of Mianite. A replacement, obviously. There couldn’t be another word for it, he was stuck with god with no consideration for who he actually was. He wasn’t, he couldn’t be a golden boy, not like Tucker at least. He liked to have some fun with pranks, cause a bit of chaos. If he should’ve been assigned to any god, it should have been Dianite. A sense of frustration planted itself, heavy and irritating, in the back of his mind as he set to building a temple for Mianite. No one seemed to care about who he was, what he wanted, everyone trusted the bloody prophecy. They just want Tucker back. You’re his replacement.  But he pushed the intrusive thoughts away, throwing himself fully into building the temple. He knew he couldn’t create anything nearly as awe-inspiring as what Jordan and Tom would come up with, given his frequent lapses in memory, but he was determined to do his best. He worked tirelessly over that week, only allowing himself moments to rest when he came close to collapsing. The work absorbed him, and he was glad, because it was a barrier between himself and the rest of the world. As odd as it was, the job of creating a temple for his god was a way of forgetting the gods existed, a way of forgetting the prophecy.

The day of the gods’ arrival came too soon for Karl. Despite being physically drained from it, the hours he spent working on his temple were some of the most peaceful he had known on the island. He barely paid attention as Ianite was summoned, hardly even noticing as she spoke to the priest and the captain. He felt faintly sick, a heavy feeling of anxiety in his stomach, as they approached his temple. Will Mianite approve of me? Or is he going to mock me just like the others? Is he just looking for a temporary replacement? Crossing his arms firmly over his chest in order to hide the faint tremors in his hands, he tried to listen to what Declan was saying. His eyes fixated expectantly on the carefully chiseled throne he had worked tirelessly to create, he felt his heart plummet as the god made no appearance. There was only the faintest echo of a confused, disembodied voice. The temple wasn’t good enough. I’ve completely messed this up. The only thing I had to do right, I botched entirely. I could’ve proved I’m good enough, that I don’t need to be someone else, that I don’t need to fill Tucker’s shoes. He couldn’t hear what Declan was saying anymore, couldn’t hear the feeble attempts at reassuring him, because his pulse was pounding in his head like a judge’s gavel. 

As the others hurried over to Dianite’s temple, Karl lingered at the base of the throne he had painstakingly made, his hand tracing the familiar austere lines of the quartz. He wasn’t as accustomed to praying as the others were, but he couldn’t help but mentally demand, What did I do wrong? Am I not good enough? Silence greeted his hopeless plea. Giving himself a small shake, he left the temple to soar to Tom’s island, doing his best to put up his usual, laid-back front. His jokes at Tom’s expense were half-hearted at best, but Tom was too occupied and Jordan too polite to say anything to him. All the better, really, considering they wouldn’t understand any of the bitterness welling up from the depths of his stomach. After sitting through what felt like an eternity of conversation with Dianite, Karl eagerly took the first opportunity he was given to fly back to his own island. His mind had been mostly occupied with ways he could improve his temple, and he was determined to get a good start on the new plans with what was left of the afternoon. He could show them that he was able to progress, become better. But as he approached his home, he nearly tumbled out of the air as he tried to stop short in the air, stunned by the sight in front of him. Doing his best to recover his spiraling flight with a few clumsy adjustments, he landed in a heap on the beach. Stumbling to his feet without pausing to shake the sand from his clothes, he broke into a run as he headed for his temple. The once pristine, carefully constructed building was reduced to devastated ruin, the walls and pillars barely supporting a crumbling roof. Heaps of smoldering rubble continued to clatter down from the ceiling onto the cracked and half obliterated floor. The throne, what he had worked the hardest on, was barely intact, broad cracks forming veins in the previously unblemished surface. Of all the days for this to happen, why did it have to be today? Why? Rubbing a hand across his eyes in a desperate attempt to hide the stinging tears forming, he let out a low string of curses. Why is it always me?

In the days before the trial, Karl found himself fighting harder and harder with each new hour to hold back the bitterness that seemed determined to hang heavy over him. He couldn’t bring himself to repair his temple, after watching hours of work get absolutely destroyed. He avoided that portion of his island entirely, focusing on his farms, his home - anything but the still smoldering ruins. He didn’t want a reminder of what Tom had done, had likely done without a moment of remorse. On the day of the trial, he tried his best to stay calm and keep his temper in check. Without being properly aware of what he was even saying, he got involved in some mindless debate with Jordan. Anything to keep his mind off what Tom had done. But as they filed into the courthouse, and each took their turn in the cell, he was overwhelmed by a sudden, strange disgust he felt for Tom and his god as the zombie stepped inside. All they do is blow stuff up, and they don’t care one fuckin’ bit. The intensity of the emotion startled him at first, but he allowed himself to wallow in it for the remainder of the trial. He had spent the past two days doing everything he could to be fair and compassionate - but Tom’s blatant disregard for truth destroyed every bit of sympathy he had. 

When Tom was declared guilty and handed his punishment, Karl was struck by a pang of dissatisfaction. After everything he did, all he had to face was some menial labour. Unable to speak up about it without sounding like some sort of sadist,, Karl kept to the side, unaware of the scowl that had stolen over his features. Destroys my temple, all he has to do is spend some time digging himself out of obsidian. They call this fairness? He forced himself to keep quiet, prepared to head back to his island, until Tom requested their attention, and quickly renounced his god in favor of Ianite. Absolute garbage, as if anyone’ll believe that. Renouncing his ways? That’s rich, after he trashed my temple. Barely giving Tom the time to finish what he was saying, Jordan immediately began voicing complaints. Karl lingered a moment longer, but seeing no sincerity in Tom’s assurances of faithfulness, he quickly took off in the direction of his island. The rising irritation made it impossible for him to stay any longer. Stretching his arms out, he took a moment to take in the soft breezes racing by him, the sun warm on his neck, the glinting water far below. While he wasn’t the best at landings, flying with the elytras over the islands never failed to calm him down. All he really had were these islands, no childhood memories or past friends to think of. Just the chain of islands in the vast ocean. The short flight gave some relief to the pent up emotions within him, but the bitterness continued to swirl inside him once he touched down, for hours after the trial had ended.

Luckily, within only a few days, there was a new event to distract him from the mess of emotions, a new chance for him to prove himself worthy of Mianite. A chance to prove yourself better than Tucker. The training grounds, if anything, would be a good distraction, and a way for him to work on regaining proper control of his limbs. As they went through the different challenges, Karl refused to let himself grow discouraged. He hadn’t expected to be the best at any of the tasks, and though they took all of his focus, he found himself starting to enjoy the competitive spirit. He felt closer to being equals with Tom and Jordan than he had in a long time, and needless to say, it was a nice change. By the time they finished messing around on the elytra course, he had almost forgotten the real reason for going through the challenges. A combination of fear and anticipation seemed to take hold of him as he waited anxiously alongside the others for Mianite to appear. With eager shouts, the others spotted him before Karl did, a figure standing just outside the door. Karl’s breath hitched in his throat as he quickly passed through the door to stand before his god. Illuminated by the late afternoon sun, Mianite stood proud and tall, his gaze confident as he surveyed the assembled heroes in front of him. 

“Good afternoon!” He exclaimed, his eyes settling onto Karl as a warm smile formed on his face. An explicable feeling of joy filled Karl’s chest as he met the clear blue eyes of the god, his god. 

“Hello sir,” he replied, adding on as a panicked afterthought, “lookin’ fresh.” He wanted to deck himself after saying that, it just seemed wrong to address a god with such informality. 

But Mianite didn’t seem to care, as he went on to say, “You’ve done so, so well. You really are amazing!” Though he knew it was said to all of them, a warm glow filled Karl as Mianite met his eyes yet again, as though directing the praise all to him. The feeling of satisfaction he got just from hearing his god’s voice, from seeing him and speaking to him, that suddenly made it clear to Karl why Jordan was so devoted to his goddess. After spending several minutes speaking to his god with the familiarity of an old friend, and shoving Tom aside whenever he tried to interrupt, Mianite’s expression grew grave. “I’m afraid I do come carrying a warning.” Snapping his fingers in the air twice, a slim book appeared in his hands, the leather binding worn and faded. “To my favourite, read this.” He held the book out to Karl, who accepted it immediately. His favourite, I’m his favourite. I’ve done something right here, for once. I’m his hero, properly. Mentally shaking off his distracting thoughts, Karl opened the book. It was relatively short, but he chose to read it aloud rather than pass it around immediately.

“Dear Friends,

Thank you for birthing me to this land within this human body. I have heard my Brother, Dianite and Sister, Ianite have come to this world already… I worry they may be sick… Something was not right in Asgard. I built this training ground to both test and build you. You are now the Chosen heroes. Work in unity and leave no-one behind.

The Darkness we all believed to be myth may be amongst you.

The true form has yet to be seen, but the stories have been told that the Darkness is not one being, but many. It inhabits bodies, uses them, then discards them when they are weakened. It is near impossible to tell when the Darkness has claimed a host. Rumours state that it chases power and seeks one who is on the cusp of greatness, hoping to claim it for their own.

Beware my friends, for this could bring us all down. I must now learn how to harness the magic of this land.

Mianite.”

“Spooky, dude,” Jordan commented in the stunned silence. Pocketing the text, Karl shrugged in response, as Tom attempted to take off using his elytras and promptly crashed, Joining the captain’s laughter, Karl brushed off the slight twinge he felt in his temples. Must be a bit of a headache forming, no wonder given all this racket. But I’ve got my god now, and I’ve done something right. I’m just as good as Tucker. The delightfully warm feeling returned to him, practically eliminating the slight ache in his head. Things were getting better for him, finally.

[seokjxnnie]

celestial (pt. 1) | kth (m)

genre: (future) smut, angst, demon au, incubus!taehyung x reader warnings: blood and violence, aloof asshole taehyung length: 5.3k

↳ her flesh and blood imparts immortality to any demon, but the incubus protecting her from the hunt requires something else of her body.

masterlist | part 2 ↠

a/n: let me know if you would like to be tagged in future updates! thanks!!

Everything was a little out of focus, but those piercingly red eyes were impossible to dismiss. Long, slender fingers unbuttoned her shirt. A heavy, aching fatigue paralyzed her, yet she still managed quiet mewls when a pair of lips cascaded tender caresses down the side of her waist. A scarce twinge of pain followed each stroke of a tongue, inspiring her to lightly squirm, but strong hands held her hips down. Eventually, with each kiss against her skin, she felt better, revitalized. Her vision gave to a slow fade.

She stirred in her sleep, rousing awake.

A dream. An inexplicable yet vivid dream. She wasn’t sure how long she napped for, but it must’ve been for too long if she felt this lightheaded. Sluggishly, her eyes opened, adjusting to the light as she stretched in silky sheets.

Her body suddenly went rigid, remembering she didn’t have silky sheets. A jolt upright and she found herself in a foreign environment. She was in a bed she didn’t know, in a room that wasn’t hers, wearing clothes that didn’t fit her. Before fear crippled her limbs, the door opened and revealed a kind face.

“Oh, Princess, you’re awake.” Soft eyes greeted her. “My name is Seokji—”

She flinched and tousled back when he approached and extended a glass of water to her. There was a throb in her head that elicited a pained exhale from her.

“Don’t move so suddenly! You’re probably still a little weak from all the blood you lost.”

An unearthly chill swamped her skin at such menacing words with inference she couldn’t grasp. Her heart thumped violently against her chest. Her throat tightened with the threat to suffocate. “Where am I? Who are you? Who changed me out of my clothes?” she assaulted him with panicked questions.

“Taehyung did. He had to heal your wounds and your clothes were soaked with blood. I’m washing them right now.”

Although he was seemingly speaking to her in an incomprehensible language, his words somehow brought on an ambiguous, fleeting series of images of her mind, bursts of what she could only hardly make out to be violence and gore. Even so, they were just passing visuals that failed to illustrate a coherent recollection.

Plagued with confusion and terror, her limbs quaked and her head pulsed. She darted her gape around the room in search of means of escape. “Please just let me go,” a frail, fractured voice pried from her quivering lips.

Seokjin swallowed, lips tautening into an apologetic frown. “Listen, I know this all might seem crazy and scary, but try to stay calm so you don’t overexert yourself.” Gingerly, he attempted to extend the glass of water to her once more, “I can explain everything.”

Her breaths fell as tremoring wisps before she contemplated whether it was idiotic or in her best interest to believe in the sincerity the stranger projected. She peered down at her foreign attire, finding herself in basketball shorts and a Spongebob t-shirt – both of which were too generously sized for her. The harmless image of the apparent pair of men’s pajamas she was in seemed to suggest something far from a hostile kidnapping. Then briefly, her gaze shifted to the drink stretched out to her, recognizing that her pounding head was begging for it.

“It’s safe, I promise. I’ll show you,” he insisted, bringing it to lightly touch his lips before he took a gulp in hopes of evaporating any of her apprehensions of it being contaminated. “See?”

Wary hands reached out to accept it. Reluctance quickly turned to eagerness when she felt how good it was to soak her dry tongue and quench the dense throb in her temples.

She’s never had a hammering headache in this magnitude before. She’s also never ‘lost of a lot of blood’ before which, according to him, was why she was feeling the way she did. All over again, she was swathed by a haunting uneasiness.

Hence, in spite of his warm smile and seemingly benevolent efforts, when his hand extended out in offer of taking away her quickly emptied glass, she instead tossed it at him. In the distraction of having him fumble to catch it, she made a hasty lunge off the bed and a beeline for the bedroom door – the alternative of the bedroom window was unhelpfully high and would’ve instead made for a slow and clumsy escape. Veering around him and his wide blinking eyes, she threw open the door and sped out, her bewilderment readying her to weave through whatever she has to in order to make it outside and scream for help. Unfortunately, it was a swift transition from the bedroom’s doorway into a face-first collision with a broad chest of another unidentified figure. Dizziness returning in an amplified form, she stammered back.

“Jesus, take it easy,” a tongue clicked before big hands claimed her shoulders and held her upright.

She peered up to find familiar eyes – the same eyes from her dream. They didn’t have the same red quality, but the matchlessly penetrative glance they delivered couldn’t be mistaken. Was her mind so inundated that it had fabricated a dream of the man now standing in front of her trailing his lips down her side?

Taehyung, she recalled Seokjin’s mentioning earlier. The visual prompt of his familiar face suddenly made for an enrichment of her memories, triggering another barraging flash of bloody imagery. Nausea settled down on her and her sights started spinning again.

He caught her when her knees submitted to a buckle. “You’re not supposed to be up and about yet,” his criticism resonated with a deep voice. Arm swinging around under her knees, he picked her up. A quick nod at Seokjin reassured the older that he can handle it from here.

She would’ve struggled if she wasn’t entirely crippled by fatigue and anxiety. However, as he began carrying her down the hall, she was suddenly confronted with a strong sense of nostalgia. The humble and rustic walls looked as if she’s been acquainted. It wasn’t until he sat her down on a couch of a living room that she then taken back to an amicable elderly face eight years ago.

“This is the town shrine,” she mumbled to herself after the fragments of reminiscence assembled to refine a certain memory.

For as long as she could remember, the girl could see supernatural beings. In childhood, they had never bothered her more than a brush of curiosity. And so, as a kid she had even called the things her imaginary friends, being that apparently no one else was able to see them and she was consistently being dismissed as having a wild imagination. Approaching adolescence, she began to recognize the eeriness in their ghastly looks, becoming increasingly concerned that she wasn’t growing out of her ‘imaginary friends’. Her developing maturity allowed her to find the fear in seeing things others couldn’t.

As a result, at 12 years old her parents took her to a shrine seeking advice from a gentle-faced elderly monk. There was a brightness behind his crinkled eyes when he smiled, and a cosiness played in his voice whenever he talked. He assured her parents that it was nothing to worry about, that all her visions were the product of a creative mind. Nonetheless, he still imparted her with a bead bracelet, assuring that as long as she kept it on it would protect her. Her parents appreciated the monk’s white fib in an attempt to help her feel better. Although it didn’t dispel the monsters, she felt an attachment to the bracelet and kept it on till present day.

Now in the same shrine eight years later, she blinked at and fingered the same beads around her wrist. Their original dark brown colour was now tinted a deep red. Before she even had the chance to add to her amassing puzzlement, she stiffened as five other strange men joined them in the room.

“Oh, the Princess is awake!”

“I thought I heard voices.”

Seokjin followed, entering and setting down her folded clothes on the table in front of her. “I managed to get the stains out,” he greeted her by her name with a lively grin, “but I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything about the rips and tears.”

Her eyes broadened, terrified, when she held up her shirt with a monstrous bite taken out of its side. She gasped and jerked back in retreat when she at last remembered the earlier pain that had thoroughly conquered her body. All too vividly was the reminder of the demonic face of the child that clamped its teeth onto her ribs. All the overwhelming emotions from the entire day suddenly barraged her, provoking her to shake uncontrollably. Stinging tears welled up in her eyes.

“How do you know my name? Who are you guys?” she whimpered through a broken and frail voice, sinking into the couch to increase her distance from everyone.

__________

The day was eerie from the start.

The walk from her dorm room to campus was darker than usual. It wasn’t due to gloomy weather of any sorts – it was actually a sunny morning, perfectly characteristic of the budding summer season. The shadows were actually casted by the blankets of monsters that spread, hardly leaving any landscape vacant. Two-headed cats hung on trees, three-eyed foxes sprawled across garden beds, double-ended snakes spiralled around stair railings, crows two feet tall enveloped benches and stone sculptures. It was routine to see them often, so much so that it was often hardly a chore to walk on through as if she didn’t see anything, to pretend as if she wasn’t stiff with anxiety and fear. But today was different. Their presence has never been so ample. While none of them flocked to her, she could feel their hungry stares searing into the back of her head, as if stalking her as prey. A chill snaked up and down her spine.

“What are you staring at?” A classmate joined her side and reeled her out of her troubled daze. Their paths often overlapped, heading to the same lecture.

She had long ago given up on talking about the things that she could see. “Oh, nothing, just thinking about the lengths I’m willing to take to get out of that argumentation assignment due tonight. If I asked you nicely, would you hold a knife to my throat?”

The classmate snorted. “Christ, relax! It’s your birthday tomorrow! You get it done tonight and won’t have to worry about it when we celebrate.” Excited pats warmed the girl’s shoulder. “You think I’d let myself forget and let you off that easily?”

With such an uncanny start to her morning, even she forgot.

She tried not to act distracted and insincere when she thanked her peer.

While eager to find distance from the horde as she entered the school, she instead found dismay in her lecture. Windows lined the side of the class, and lining the windows were an abundant layer of more demons. The students carried on as if the room wasn’t dramatically dimmed by the obstruction of the copious densities of the monsters, as if they didn’t see the multitude of brutish, ghastly faces glowering at them – at her.

She sank into her seat. Not only the horror, but the loneliness has never felt as smothering as it did now.

What’s going on? Why was today as unusual as it was? She didn’t know, and will probably never know. It’s been this way of her whole life – no one around her could ever answer her questions about her experiences with anything other than a look of concern. Nonetheless, she swallowed the fear accumulating as a swell in her throat and reminded herself that she’d just have to carry on and hope that the strange themes will curb on its own by the end of the day.

So, once she finished her classes, she found refuge in a deep, quiet corner of the library away from the windows to finish her assignment due at midnight. Hours bled into the tedious clicking and typing of her laptop, and although mind-numbing, it adequately served as a distraction from the eeriness that lurked a just a few walls away. So much so that the anxiety of the supernatural gradually dispersed to instead make room for the fatigue of her studies.

The library was completely silent – it was now late and the occupants must’ve cleared out. She, however, just had a couple more paragraphs to refine before she could leave too. Eyes strained and dry, face stretched by frequent yawns, and mind dazed from the droning of the past few hours, she remembered submitting to the droop of her heavy eyelids.

Just for a minute, she promised herself, just to rest my eyes.

Regardless of what she insisted, the brief moment of ease and tranquility was mesmeric. So much so that when she finally did bring herself to stir and scarcely open her eyes, she found the time to be 11:42pm with no accomplishment of additional work from when allowed herself the break an hour ago. The panic surged through her, bolting her upright with consciousness and playing her fingers in a hurried and tireless employ.

It was 11:59pm when she clicked on “submit” and a green checkmark responded on her screen to inform her of a successful submission. She threw herself back in a slump with a sigh of relief. Stretching in her chair, she relished in the release of tension in her body to accompany her close-call victory.

Happy birthday to me, the girl quietly tittered to herself when the time on her laptop blinked midnight.

Packing herself up, she was drawn from the excited thoughts of being engulfed by her bed when she heard a childish sobbing coming from another corner of the library.

She froze, stiff and cold. What was a child doing on a college campus at midnight? The catalog of horror movies she’s watched could provide some ideas, none of which too kindly for her. Pulse thumping so rapidly that it seemingly burned a hole in her throat, she remained unmoving, waiting to see if the cries continued. Maybe she was so worn out that she was hearing things, she tried to rationalize. She remembered a psychology article she read, outlining something along the lines of the mind tending to fabricate false stimulations to the senses amidst a backdrop of paranoia, which was easy for her to develop in the dark and isolated environment she was in now. Although she might just be desperately reaching.

A rigid breath of distress pushed past her gritted teeth when she heard the whimpering continue. She wasn’t imagining it.

Prompted by the sliver of concern that it was actually a child in the need of help, pale and clammy fingers dug for her keys before wedged them between her knuckles as a makeshift tool of defence. Then, she cautiously made her way towards the sound. An attempt to console herself came with the reminder of her phone’s function of a blaring SOS alarm. She thumbed the power button in preparation to hold it down and trigger just that if necessary.

Up ahead, she saw a little boy sitting at a table with his back turned to her, whines and sniffles produced from the face that rested down on folded arms. The child’s shoulders quivered up and down as he sobbed. Gingerly closing their distance, she didn’t see any other company.

Someone’s visiting little brother? A staff member’s wandering son?

“Hey, are you alright? Are you lost?” she asked, employing a soothing and reassuring tone before reaching out a hand to tap his shoulder.

The kid spun around to reveal a demonic face – pale blue skin, eyes beady and red, teeth jutting and serrated, far from the anticipated face of innocence and vulnerability. Gasping, the girl would’ve lurched back if the thing didn’t latch onto her shoulder with its claws, breaking skin and drawing blood. She cried in pain, only wailing louder when his jaw widened and protruded to clamp down onto the left side of her ribs. An agonizing ache thundered throughout her entire body and forced her to her knees. It felt like the monster child had started lapping at the blood he drew from the wound he created. Then, it felt like his robust set of jaws was curtly removed from her side. With her senses blurring towards a deterioration from the sudden trauma that rendered her faint and close to unconsciousness, she was losing the ability to perceive reality as anything other than indistinctive and uncertain.

Her pale face dropped to the floor when she lost control of her movements over the immense pain. Under hooding eyelids, her hazy and departing vision managed to dimly distinguish a set of legs that straddled and knelt down on the demon’s chest. Vaguely, she watched as its thrashing and resistant body abruptly drop to a limp when a fist brutally landed on the creature’s face. Puncturing through its skull, a gaping hole was left when the hand retreated.

Everything dulled to a black.

A dream. A stir awake. A jolt upright in a bed she didn’t know, in a room that wasn’t hers, wearing clothes that didn’t fit her. The door opened and Seokjin entered with a glass of water.

__________

It was just past 3am, she learned. She had been unconscious for three hours.

A man named Namjoon was seated next to her on the couch, a wary distance away in consideration of her comfort amidst a disorientation. Next to him, Seokjin. Across from her on the other sofa, they introduced themselves as Yoongi, Hoseok, Jimin, and Jungkook, who was perched on top of the backing of the couch. Taehyung remained leaning against the frame of the living room’s doorway.

Her eyes were darkened with exhaustion and dewed with distraught. Hoseok had reached out to offer her a box of tissues. Soon, fibres of the damp and crumpled napkin in her hand produced a speckled and velvety texture on her fingertips.

Although still on edge, she’s decided to submit to cooperation. She couldn’t fight back anyway, burdened by not only the physical stress and wear, but also by its allied emotional strain when complete recollection of tonight’s dreadful events returned to her. Or at least for what she was conscious enough to record.

Moreover, this group of seven men might’ve been strangers, but they were strangers who promised answers to her confusion. For the first time in her life, she just might be able to finally understand… everything. Her fear of them had grown less aggressive – if they wanted to hurt her, they would’ve done so by now, as opposed to all keeping a sympathetic distance and projecting similar looks of concern from their eyes.

“When you visited the shrine as a child, the monk knew exactly why you could see things others couldn’t. But, you were still a kid, you weren’t ready to understand yet,” Namjoon spoke softly, prudently.

Jimin, foreseeing her overwhelming plunge into a reality different from what she’s known, moved mindfully not to further rouse disturbance within her when he departed and quickly returned with a hot cup of tea to soothe. She took the mug from him with a timid thanks, deciding to trust the gentle qualities reflected in his consolatory smile. It came as a reward, the hot sips calming the sharp strikes to her temples and dissipating the bloat in her airways.

“What wasn’t I ready to understand?” her voice came out feeble and splintered by a stubborn sniffle.

He replied, “You come from what our people consider a line of royalty.”

A loaded statement. A challenge to process. She only registered the first half of it. “’Our people’...?” she tentatively repeated.

“Demons,” Yoongi uttered the word she’s been waiting to hear, “the kind you’ve been seeing since you were young.”

An indecisive gaze trailed over their faces, unsuccessful in realizing any severe differentiations. No one had colourful skin, excess limbs or features, barbaric and unearthly characterizations, none of what she was used to seeing.

“But you all look human.”

Demons come in different forms, they explained. The stronger ones were able to suppress their demon traits and resemble humans, with the trade-off of being able to be seen by them. They’ve blended in, even walking among society, undetected and only perceptible to other demons.

It all sounded like an exert straight out of a supernatural young adult novel. It only escalated from there when she questioned the latter half that addressed her relation in all of this.

Every century, a human is born with the blood that can prolong a demon’s life if consumed after the ripening of adulthood. Devoured in its entirety, the celestial flesh and blood granted immortality. That celestial being was her.

The hammering in her head resurfaced. An apprehensive throb in her chest imitated the same pattern. Denial was the overpowering emotion in this instance, however. The girl scoffed a slight laughter of disbelief that accompanied the shake of her head. “That’s ridiculous. That can’t be. It… I can’t be…”

Except it would’ve explained why a mass of monsters stalked her yesterday morning. They were waiting. And right on time, at the stroke of midnight that marked her 20th birthday, the demons that mainly left her alone her whole life suddenly wanted to make a meal of her. Most of all, it would’ve explained why she was the only person she knew that could see the supernatural element.

Tautness abruptly overcame her once again when she made the connection that the seven men in front of her were also demons, possibly with the same intentions. Had they only brought her here just to surround her and have her all for themselves? The tips of her digits drained pale by the deathly anxious grip she had on her cup.

Jungkook realized the brewing fright and unease in her silence. With wide eyes, he threw his hands up in defence. “Woah, wait! Not us though! We don’t eat humans,” he exclaimed.

“Not all demons have desires for immortality and intend to hurt humans. But, we are here to protect you from those that do, Princess,” Jimin added, a trustworthy look glossing over his irises to complement his promising words.

She grimaced, “Don’t… call me that,” she muttered under her breath.

“Most of us have been under the monk’s care since we were young,” Seokjin explained. “He knew what would happen when you turned 20, and he wanted to protect you. We all grew up knowing that. When he passed away a couple years ago, the seven of us took over the shrine as well as the responsibility of making sure you’re safe.”

Her shoulders deflated at the solemn news, reminiscing the elder’s kind eyes that had comforted her many years ago. “So,” her wilted gaze reluctantly flickered up at them, “that demon earlier… it was you guys that stopped him?”

Hoseok nodded, “Taehyung did. If he had come any later, you would’ve…” he shivered at the thought of it.

She swallowed, disturbed as well by the recollection of the grisly red eyes and the agonizing pain that came with the sinking of its jagged teeth, how she was likely seconds away from being reduced to an indistinguishable pool of blood and guts. Her eyes stuttered in their peer up to Taehyung, who had remained quiet and still by the door the entire time. He was stoic and difficult to read, but she had been deprived of the resilience necessary to look at him for longer than a blink. This was because she was uneased by the idea that he had been the one to undress her from her red-stained and tattered clothing earlier. Whatever he did though, the claw and bite marks no longer marked her skin.

Stammering fingers traveled to graze her side, acknowledging the lack of an anticipated ache upon contact. “H-How did you…?”

Namjoon gestured to her wrist. The bracelet that the monk gave her, he also gave it to Taehyung. He was apparently faster and stronger than any of them. Wearing the beads simultaneously for a long interval formed a bond between the two of them. Taehyung was her familiar, was the term Namjoon used. It was a bond that meant Taehyung’s duty protect her overpowered his instincts as a demon. It was what provided him the ability to close her wounds and prevented him from personally gaining vitality from her flesh. They had scented the beads with his blood, Namjoon continued to explain, which will come as a warning to other demons. They shouldn’t be bothering her anymore for the most part.

Dwelling in such a prolonged stage of bewilderment was exhausting. Being awake in the middle of the night after just barely recovering from a penetrative pain that spilled her blood was exhausting. Wrestling between knowing to believe and wanting to deny such outlandish fables was exhausting. She sat still, quiet, numb, tired, fingering the bracelet around her wrist, now understanding why they produced their red tint.

“Someone’s going to tell her, right?” Yoongi blurted.

She looked up. What now?

Namjoon sighed, eyes dropping as if he was about to disappoint her. “Taehyung is…” he paused, clearing his throat and shuffling a nervous hand through the hair at the back of his head, “an incubus.” The air surrounding them seemingly tightened. “Which means—”

“I know what that means,” she deadpanned, stopping him before he had to embarrass himself— embarrass her any further, and before the red tips of her ears spread to blot more of her face.

A reminiscence of the elective mythology course she took during freshman year reminded her that incubuses gained life energy through sex. Incubuses were also supposed to be nothing more than a myth, but how could she be surprised when monsters and familiars and immortality-granting blood were a factual aspect in her reality?

No longer being able to stand emotionally smothering herself, she leapt to her feet.

__________

While finally in her own bed, in her own room, wearing her own clothes, she was restless. In spite of her relentless tiredness, she couldn’t sleep. Swaddled in an uncomfortable warmth prescribed by the summer heat and a fidgety apprehension, the ensuing sticky layer of sweat that draped over her skin made for a painstakingly long journey until the state of drowsiness.

She had politely asked to leave. She had thanked them for their care and for their explanations, but she was in dire need to be alone in her state of exhaustion and disorientation. They didn’t stop her, however Hoseok and Jimin insisted on walking her back to campus residence at this time of night. She declined and asserted her request to be unaccompanied. Again, they didn’t stop her, perhaps out of sympathy and condolence.

Alone at last, the girl was lost in her thoughts and it kept her up. While her eyes idly traced the uneven patterns of her ceiling, her mind tirelessly ran several trains atop numerous winding tracks that overlapped, each one trying to make sense of her situation, trying to assess how she was going to handle the disarming truth she had still so desperately sought for. Most rails ultimately ended in collision.

The sun was already beginning to rise, peeks of radiance generously filtered in through her opened blinds and made for an unaccommodating setting for sleep. A huff of frustration sat her up and trudged her towards her window to drop close the shades. Already a crack open, her fingers first wrapped on the underside of the window’s frame to open it further in hopes of it catching a heavier breeze. She had just started to lift the glass pane when a tall, dark silhouette came into view.

She gasped and recoiled backwards, her release of the window allowing it to fall. Her hand hadn’t retreated far enough yet, she realized when her finger got caught in the panel’s drop. Pain surged up the length of her arm when the frame slammed down on her index. Yelping, she dropped to her knees before wrenching her digit free, finding a bloody trench framing her nail.

She didn’t have more than a second to grimace at her injury when the complete opening of the window required her immediate attention. Clambering back, fear seized her lungs when the shadowy figure that was suspended on the tree branch immediate to her window had climbed in. Before a scream managed to pry her throat open, their closing distances allowed her vision to sharpen the facial features of the stranger.

“Jesus, you humans scare so goddamn easily,” Taehyung huffed, sitting on the sill with one leg hovering above her bedroom floor and the other swinging five storeys above ground.

Anger surfacing, she exclaimed through gritted teeth, “Were you there this entire time?”

“Yeah,” he replied, curt and without a shred of shame or penance. “I actually followed you the entire way home, but I guess humans are inattentive too.”

She would’ve clenched her hands into fists in resentment if she wasn’t met with an immediate aching jolt from her fingernail. “I told you not to,” she instead spat an irritated murmur, which promptly transitioned into a hiss of discomfort when she wiped the blood from her finger.

Her scent flooded his senses. “Yeah, well look how easily you hurt too. How your species has survived this long completely escapes me.” After a patronizing scoff, he leapt down from the window and slumped down onto the floor next to her, legs folded in front of him. He captured her wrist with the injured finger and brought it close to his face. She resisted, face contorting into a scowl, knees withdrawing to her chest, and hand tugging back in response. He reinforced his grip. “Just relax. I’m trying to help,” his tongue clicked with impatience.

The girl swallowed, eyes locking with his unwavering, assertive gaze. The echoing reminder that the supposed ‘familiar’ had healing abilities prompted her to retire her defences, although she was unsure of how it was exactly going to unfold.

Another sharp inhale dropped open her jaw, stunned when he plunged the tip of her finger into his mouth. “What the fuck are you do—” she began to shout before wrenching herself free from his lips, only to reveal undamaged skin that made her abruptly pause in disbelief. Rotating it in view, she confirmed that her finger was no longer bleeding, the nail was no longer cracked, and the likelihood of bruising was no longer promising.

Is this how he does it? She only briefly pondered. But just as quickly, her eyes dropped closed when disrupted by the recollection of her supposed dream of him running his lips down her shoulder, down her waist, before she had woken up suddenly unscathed.

This is how he does it.

And that wasn’t a dream.

Taehyung interrupted her silent stupor, “A ‘thank you’ will do—"

“Get out,” she lowly rasped. A series of troubled and shuddering winces debilitated her upon remembering the unintended mewls and whimpers he had drawn out of her in half-consciousness. “Get out!” her snarl escalated to a roar. She reached behind her before hurling a pillow toward him off her bed.

He jumped to his feet, his tensed lips sputtering a string of frustrated profanities and curses at her apparent unexplained outburst, especially after his kind deed. “Fine!” he barked. Spotting his basketball shorts and Spongebob tee slung on her computer chair, he snatched them up. “And I’m taking these back!”

The incubus leapt out her window and disappeared, which she firmly made sure of with her own eyes. The girl threw herself back flat on the ground, flustered, burying her face in her damp palms when she couldn’t strip herself of the lingering sensations of his tongue against her skin.

[fangirlxwritesx67]

Queen Rowena a Sam Winchester x Rowena MacLeod Supernatural fantasy au love story Chapter 1: Queen Rowena Chapter 2: Comfort Chapter 3: Casting Interlude: Confidence Chapter 4: Courage

1900 words. Rating T (feelings, pining, SO MANY feels, implied secret trysts but nothing explicit)  …

Queen Rowena could command anything - except true love. Life and death were at her fingertips. She could send her Queensguard into battle with a word. She was responsible for the rule and safety of her entire kingdom.

But she couldn’t command her own heart. Her love for Sam had taken her by surprise, but at the same time, felt like the most natural thing in the world.

So far, though, their love had remained hidden. It was a secret thing they shared in nighttime visits. Her handmaid Gwen knew. Surely others had guessed, from the way she was distracted in his presence, the  way she flushed when he looked at her, and how his fingers lingered on the most casual touches. 

She was his Queen. She could command him to do anything. But she could not - did not want to - command love. She wanted him to want her all on his own. She dreamed of him coming to her, of his own free will, and not keeping it secret any longer.

She was still caught off guard when Sam finally appeared before her in court, alone, and was all protocol. Everyone else could pretend  that their nights of passion never existed. He knelt and kissed her hand.

“Are you well, my Knight?” she asked, hoping the formality of the words would cover the tremor of longing in her voice. 

“I am well,” he answered. “But I have a favor to ask of you, my Queen.”

She nodded, unable to speak.

“Will you come riding with me, before sunset tomorrow? I have something I need to show you.”

“Yes.” Her answer was quick and sure. She lowered her voice so only he could hear. “Anything for you.” 

He lifted his gaze to hers. His hazel eyes were eager and bright. His fingers laced into hers, strong and comforting. Before her entire court, he brought her hand to his lips again. But he turned his grasp, imperceptibly, so his kiss landed on her wrist. Her pulse raced under his touch. It was a surprisingly bold and intimate gesture.

Her answer caught in her throat. Finally she choked out the words, “Tomorrow, then.” 

The next day seemed one of the longest days of Rowena’s life. She found it almost impossible to concentrate on the tasks of the day. She couldn’t eat, she couldn’t write, all her thoughts were of one thing and one thing only: Sam. 

Her faithful handmaid Gwen took pity on her and suggested she retire to her chambers. There, Rowena found a plate of food, olives and cheese and bits of bread. She picked listlessly at her food, not tasting anything, until Gwen appeared, carrying a pot of steaming hot tea. Rowena drank the offered mug gratefully, distractedly. 

“My lady?” Gwen asked, less a question than an invitation to talk. Rowena did not know what to say. She had no secrets from her handmaiden, but didn’t trust herself to put words to her tangled wishes and emotions.

 “Do you doubt him?” Gwen continued, softly.

Rowena shook her head quickly.

“Do you doubt yourself?” 

Rowena was slower, but shook her head again. 

“Then what is there to lose? Let me get you ready to meet your knight.“

Gwen stepped to her wardrobe and swung open the door to reveal an outfit she had never seen. It was deep red, with a simple bodice and long skirt. Wide panels of embroidery banded the neck, sleeves, and hem. It would be too plain for a court appearance, but it was perfect for riding. 

“Will this work for your evening with Sam?” Gwen asked, a teasing gleam in her eyes. 

Rowena nodded, both pleased and surprised. “Where did you get this? Already made?” 

“I know you, my lady. I see the way he looks at you, the way you want him. He’s a thoughtful man. I knew he would have something planned.” 

“Thank you,” Rowena said to her handmaid gratefully. She submitted patiently to letting Gwen dress her, while her mind wandered. 

“What if I’ve misunderstood Sam entirely? What if he only wants to discuss matters of policy?” She paced nervously. Her fingers tangled in her skirts, crinkling the fabric. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She was a Queen. She feared nothing. So why was her heart so tremulous now? 

Words spilled from her lips in a worried tone as she stepped to the window. She leaned her face against the cool stone and took a few deep breaths. Finally she spun around. 

"What if I am wrong, about Sam, about everything?”

Gwen smiled patiently. “Do you really think that, my lady? Truly?” She lowered her voice. “You’ve had other lovers but never a man who loves you like Sam. Never one that you love the way you love him. The two of you have something more, something special. After all these years, and the nights you spent together, will you still question his heart?”

Rowena shook her head, blushing. 

“That’s what I thought,” Gwen soothed her with skilled hands in her hair.  “You know Sam, you trust him. And anyone can see the way he looks at you is something special.“ She handed Rowena a fresh mug of tea and fixed her hair, murmuring assurances all the while.

Rowena sat silently, engulfed in worry and self doubt. Then she heard Sam speak outside her door.

“My Queen?” he asked. That was all he needed to say. Just hearing his voice, she relaxed. With him, she felt safe. She knew that whatever he had planned would be wonderful.

She followed him into the courtyard, where her groom held the bridle of  two horses. One was her favorite horse, and Sam had chosen a mount. She was grateful then for the outfit Gwen had prepared. She was already an experienced rider and this outfit helped her feel both comfortable and in control.

Sam set an easy pace and she rode out behind him to the cliffs near her castle  where the land met the sea. She slipped off her horse and stood, watching the sun sink down over the bay.

Sam tethered the horses to a tree before stepping close to Rowena. He reached out towards her and she leaned against him, enjoying the way she seemed to fit perfectly against his side. He draped one arm over her, and she relaxed into his touch. His hand slipped down her arm, to her wrist, and their fingers laced together. Side by side, they stood close in the golden light of late afternoon. 

For a long time, the two of them had no words. Nothing needed to be said. Finally, Sam spoke. 

“Rowena, you have always been the light of my life. When I was a child, I grew accustomed to you. I took your beauty for granted. It wasn’t until life led me away that I realized how fortunate I had been, growing up by your side. 

He took a deep breath, his broad shoulders heaving. His neck flexed as he swallowed, hard, before he could speak again.

“When I came back to the castle, you were already Queen. As the most junior member of the Queensguard, I thought you would never notice me. Week after week, year after year, I watched you. I missed the girl I had grown up with, and I longed for the woman you had become.

“This spot wasn’t far from either the knight who trained me, or the barracks. This spot became my refuge. When everything seemed impossible, I came here. I watched the light change over the water day in and day out. 

Tears shone in his hazel eyes and he swiped the back of his hand across his handsome face.

“When I see you, my beauty, my queen, you outshine all other light.”

He sank to his knees before her. A fond smile crossed his face, and his dimples appeared. Rowena drew in a sharp breath. She always did love his dimples.

“As Queen, you have the right to choose your consort. Which is why I’ve brought you here. Away from the court, away from the burden of should and must. I know I don’t deserve to ask. But I have to try, for you.

“You want me as much as I want you, yes?” 

Rowena’s heart was too full to speak. But she did not have to think twice about what her answer would be. She slipped both hands into his. That was all he needed. 

“I’m asking you, Rowena, to marry me. Be mine. I don’t care about a title or a throne. I just want to love you. 

His eyes were locked on hers, and she could not look away. The trust and care in his gaze was overwhelming. 

“You’re my oldest friend, my most trusted partner, and the most beautiful woman that I’ve ever met. I know you deserve everything and I can’t promise to give it to you. But I will give you my all.

“Rowena, my queen, let me be yours.”

Nothing in her life had ever prepared Rowena for this. She hadn’t anticipated love, hadn’t expected to find it here, in her oldest friend.

His question caught her by surprise. On one hand, things between them had developed so quickly. On the other hand, their trust and companionship had developed over a lifetime. 

Rowena couldn’t deny her heart, the way it leapt at his voice and settled in his presence. Her body, too, responded to his touch, eagerly recalling the pleasure they discovered together. 

This wasn’t anything she had planned but everything she had ever wanted. SHe had already found the deepest desires of her heart in the man at her side.

She took a deep breath and nodded. Sam understood her wordless answer. 

He stood up, and held out his arms. Tears streaked down her cheeks as she leaned into his embrace, letting him wrap his strong arms around her. She leaned into the shelter of his body. He was warm and solid, one of the dependable constants of her life.  Somehow, he was more - Sam was hers. 

She couldn’t find words to express everything in her heart. But she could say this much. “Yes, Sam, always for you, yes.”

“Yes?” he asked, just once. 

She lifted her chin as his hands reached to cup her face. A grateful sob escaped her throat before his lips closed on hers. They had kissed, many times before, but never like this. Never had their kisses held so much promise. Never had their silence spoken so loudly. 

Finally they pulled apart, for a moment. Rowena stood next to Sam, letting the wind lift her skirts and tangle her hair. 

“We will have to plan a coronation and a wedding.” She turned to him again. She felt a smile cross her face, a wide true smile that pushed her cheeks up and crinkled her eyes. 

Sam chuckled before he turned and lowered his face to hers again. His mouth closed over her dark lips. The two of them were lost entirely in one another. 

Golden light sparkled over the water and shone in the air. The sun dipped into the sea, but neither of them spoke. They were too busy enjoying the moment, wrapped in one another’s arms. … A simple thanks doesn’t seem like enough for @there-must-be-a-lock and @mskathywriteswords . You both did a lot more than a beta read today. Thanks for making me dig in and really FEEL.  Thanks to @dawnie1988 my dear you will never know the extent to which you rescued this story simply by loving it. I am always grateful.  Thanks to @incorrectsamwena @ruthieconnells for letting me use their art. Follow @samwenaweek for all your Sam x Rowena needs SPN First Last and Always: @boondoctorwho @dawnie1988 @deanwanddamons @divadinag @flamencodiva @fookinghelljensensthighs @idreamofplaid @kalesrebellion @maddiepants @magssteenkamp @onethirstyunicorn   @the-chocolate-moose  @there-must-be-a-lock @tloveswriting Sam Girl For Life: @awesomesusiebstuff @lilsylvia @winchesterxfamilybusiness Rowena My Queen: @delightfullykrispypeach , @lilsylvia @marril96, @pansexualdarling @songofthecagedmoose

[jess-rewatches-prodigalson]

Episode 1: Pilot

Hey Prodigies. 

Welcome. My name is Jessica. I will be posting my weird thoughts/comments (with approximate time stamps) for every episode of Prodigal Son as I rewatch the episode. I like to be completely absorbed in the show the first time I watch an episode which is why, even for new episodes, this will always be a rewatch commentary.  

I’ve done this for some of my other hyper-fixations and I’ve had a lot of fun doing it so here I am making another one for Prodigal Son. I doubt anyone is interested in my thoughts but I’m just doing this for fun so sorry, not sorry. 

Here we go with episode 1

SPOILERS AHEAD

0:10 - Baby Malcolm is so freaking cute. 

1:00 - after 60 seconds I’m hooked. This show is incredible. Little boy watches his serial killer father become arrested? Yes. Please. What. A. Concept.

1:47 - Is Bright the only FBI agent on the premises? Maybe I’ve watched too much Criminal Minds but I thought FBI agents travelled in groups for cases?

3:34 - This scene. As a fandom, I feel like we don’t give the adorable actor who plays baby Malcolm enough props. Seriously, his facial expression combined with his delivery of the lines, “They call you a monster....are you?” Breaks my heart. Every. Time. It is the moment I fell in love with Malcolm as a character. Also side note - Michael Sheen is killing it as usual. 

5:10 - This cop shouldn’t be allowed to carry a gun. Seriously - can you say immoral?

6:24 - “Next time you call someone crazy, ask for their gun first.” He’s not wrong. In fact this line is amazing. 

7:00 - I think college!Malcolm is really interesting but that hair part is not ok. Also. The way he tries to hide his hand tremor in this scene is heart breaking. AND. The way Martin talks to Malcolm in this scene (as someone with a manipulative, abusive father who fooled family friends/teachers, etc. that he was a stand up guy) is truly haunting. He is putting up an amazing act. He is calm, kind, understanding, and concerned. He also killed people. That duality is just...upsetting.

9:04 - He sleeps in restraint with a mouthguard. Immediately I want to hug him.

10:04 - This conversation between Ainsley and Malcolm reminds me of my own brother and I (I was ten when my abusive dad left and he was 7, he doesn’t remember much but I do). My ability to connect this scene to my life is probably why I find the dynamic of Ainsley and Malcolm’s relationship so real and believable. These siblings are close, they can go from talking about real problems in their lives to teasing each other and whining about mom in an instant. 

11:00 - THIS. THIS HUG. IS. EVERYTHING. This scene is everything. This is the moment that I became curious about Gil. Who is he? Why does Malcolm (who has already been established as very emotionally wounded) trust him? And why does this guy care so much about the son of a serial killer?

12:05 - Is this the only time we see Dani chew gum?

12:10 - I love the way Bright is introduced to the team. You immediately see that Gil is Malcolm’s fake dad and that Malcolm is very socially awkward. 

13:00 - Something about this scene is reminding me just so slightly of BBC’s Sherlock. 

15:03 - Does no one else on the roof hear this conversation?!? You can see other people on the roof.

15:20 - I love how many subtle nods there are to Malcolm’s hand tremor in this episode.

16:12 - The interaction between Jessica and Malcolm is wonderful. It really showcases how extra Jessica is and how much Malcolm is suffering. Also the fact that Jessica’s pill holder is bedazzled is HILARIOUS.

18:00 - The only thing running through my head right now is how fine Tom Payne looks in that long sleeved polo. 

18:45 - Edrisa is a breath of fresh air. She is awkward and funny and she lightens up the very serious aspects of this show. 

19:00 - “He’s the killer right? We agree?” JT is honestly such an underrated character. He’s honest (a little blunt) but he also has a huge heart. Also the line about Malcolm not sleeping is heartbreaking. 

20:05 - ngl. The whole Edrisa/Malcolm dynamic (in the first few episodes) really grosses me out. It’s awkward and creepy. 

20:21 - What is JT’s facial expression here?!? That weird pout as he looks at the ground?! It’s hilarious but honestly sooo out of place in this scene. 

21:15 - Sooo the killer broke into Nico’s apartment. Why did he cover everything in plastic? I mean why? It’s so bizarre. Also - why did he hang out in the dark? He was just in the apartment. He definitely didn’t turn off the lights as he prepared to flee the scene.

22:10 - I love that Dani, the woman, is the officer to pursue the killer. Not JT who is the most physically imposing. 

23:15 - This scene always gets me. It’s just soooo crazy. I mean everything about it is just wild. 

24:40 - More of my boy and his shaky hand. <3

25:05 - As I rewatch this episode I notice all of the subtle looks that Gil gives Bright. They’re concerned looks. I love them. 

25:30 - It looks physically painful for Malcolm to swallow. :( Also the looks that Ainsley and Malcolm give each other as Jessica prattles on about Egypt are amazing. 10/10 would recommend.

26:00 - “Not with the sound on” Yikes. I like Jessica but she really needs to work on being a better mom to Ainsley.

27:27 - The lighting in the case room is suddenly flickering? Really? Well that’s convenient I guess. 

28:40 - Dani saving Malcolm is so important. She just met this guy. She clearly thinks he’s a little off. But she’s a good person. She wants to help him. She protects him from himself and the gun wielding police officers. 

28:55 - ....Malcolm put on a coat before he went to talk to Gil about his night terror? Interesting. 

29:00 - I love this scene. We find out about Jackie. We find out more about Gil. We see how much Gil cares about Malcolm. AND we can see JT and Dani in the background talking and looking over at Malcolm. It’s so good. Character development for the win. 

30:18 - Ok. So. Martin Whitly is an amazing artist. He drew those. Dang. 

31:07 - How did Martin manage to keep a medical license after killing all those people?!? 

31:10 - Martin and Malcolm’s first conversation in 10 years is so interesting. The dynamic of their conversation is complex and intriguing and honestly I could write a freaking novel about their relationship. 

34:35 - The first hint we get that Martin might care more about merely having company than having a relationship with his son.

35:40 - This scene is peak comedy. “Maybe you should draw your gun.” hahaha. 

37:48 - Malcolm has no sense of self-preservation. Honestly. He walks into a room containing an armed serial killer when he himself is unarmed. 

39:15 - This scene. Malcolm’s speech. You can see how much Malcolm hates himself. How much Malcolm hates his past. How much pain he carries. It’s haunting. 

40:48 - I love that even after finding out that Bright’s dad is a serial killer, Dani takes a minute to make sure that Malcolm is okay. She cares more about his wellbeing than his past. That’s an incredible distinction. 

41:23 - Gil’s speech. Gil’s story about Malcolm. Wonderful. Chef’s kiss. This is why I keep watching the show. The idea that the cop who arrested a serial killer became that fake dad to the serial killer’s son is such a beautiful and complex concept. I’m obsessed with the father/son dynamic between Gil and Malcolm. 

If you actually read all (or any) of this - Thanks for hanging out. I wish I could say that my thoughts for subsequent episodes will be shorter but honestly I forced myself to be brief with this one. 

Basically - I love this show. I’m someone who is, generally speaking, fascinated with character development and whump. This show is a gold mine for both. 

I’ll post again soon. Read it if you want. Or not. I’m mostly posting this for myself. Because you know, COVID-19. I’m at home. I have way too much time alone with my thoughts and doing this is fun. 

[alvaar-aldaviir]

Wondrous Tails: First “I Love You” (replacement) / Bandaging Wounds

("First "I Love You"" is a replacement for "Going on a Cruise")

Time Frame: Post Canon (years after Shadowbringers(?)), Minimal Spoilers for 5.0 end. Notes got long so they are under the cut.

Notes:

I continue to refer to Alphinaud as a Scholar instead of Academician for no reason but laziness and bad habits.

I understand the ‘time bubble’ issue of MMO’s, but for writing I subscribe to time actually passing between expansions. I don’t keep a hard and fast rule, but sort of lean toward roughly 1 year per expansion if not longer. Otherwise everyone would be mired under so much PTSD I don’t know how the Scions would get anything done, and please let my WoL breathe?

Somehow, someway, Alvaar has gotten the better of me and it’s eventual committed relationship polygamy with the Leveilleurs up in here. After actual months of telling myself no, I give up. If you hate that, pass on my stuff and have a great day.

Just for posterity, there will never be twincest. I don’t have a personal stance on people’s fiction about fictional people, but it just doesn’t make sense for the twins to me.

   The first time Alphinaud hears Alvaar utter those words, he’s seventeen. Seventeen and full of fire and determination to help right the wrongs of a thousand-year war and maybe redeem some of his own foolishness.

Seventeen and half scandalized to catch his Warrior of Light buried against Lord Haurchefant’s chest before they readied to infiltrate the Vault after Ser Aymeric.

It wasn’t as if he’d gone looking of course. Such things would have been kept a better secret behind a closed door and not front and center to whomever strolled into House Fortemps expecting an audience. But romantic subtly wasn’t... exactly Lord Haurchefant’s forte and neither was it Alvaar’s. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t known when it was the talk of Camp Dragonhead and the house servants anyway.

But it is perhaps the first time the Arcanist had seen any hint of the word “love” meaning something beyond dutifully repeated and expected phrases. Spoken as if it’s some personal secret, or more of a promise than just a response. Something alive and wild instead of the light and flippant ways he’d heard it used in Sharlayan and among nobility.

There’s a weight to those words that’s like aether humming in an incantation.

It means something when Alvaar says it and the Lord’s sharp features soften as he nuzzles into blond hair, and it means even more when Haurchefant answers in kind and some of the tension in the Bard’s shoulders ease. There’s a thousand words held in that phrase, like pages and pages of information distilled in a single line of arcane shorthand. History condensed into a lone footnote.

He never had to ask why Alvaar’s wails of pain as he’d held his dead lover mere hours later sounded like a heart breaking in two.

    The next time he hears them, it’s not quite the same.

He’s twenty (or was it twenty-one?) and farther from home than he’d ever dreamed. Fresh from facing off against Emet-Selch as they’d fought to save the First from destruction. Twenty and exhausted and content to doze quietly in the newly returned night alongside the beds two other occupants, arms draped over Alisaie and Alvaar both. He remembers feeling Alvaar’s knuckles brush his cheek, tiredly meeting the Bard’s gaze in the dark and hearing those words again.

They don’t mean the same thing, but it doesn’t overly bother him after the torture Alvaar had endured for the worlds. After the last several months Alphinaud had spent fighting sin eaters, stubborn short-term mindsets, and bitter loneliness in Kholusia.

Being called family, being called ‘home’ had only echoed what he’d felt too. The Scions, his Sister, and Alvaar, were what felt most like home. Not a large but empty feeling manor back in Sharlayan, cut off and indifferent to the world.

It’s a different kind of love but it doesn’t mean any less nor is it remotely insincere.

And even if there’s a faint disappointment in his heart he would never admit to, it’s fine. More than anything he’s simply happy that they’re still together. Still alive. Still able to fight and produce another miracle for the people of the First and the Source.

    He’s twenty-two and he knows Alvaar loves him deeply. He’s said it in every other conceivable way. Let poetry and sweet words fall from his lips or sent the meaning across in those brushes of familiar contact. Had the feeling burned into his body and mind more times than he could ever hope to keep track of...

But Alvaar hadn’t ever said it.

It’s silly and he knows it. He has no reason to doubt Alvaar and truly he knows the way the Bard feels for him isn’t anything less than his previous lover. That there was room enough in that gentle heart for all three of them. Jealousy is a terrible thing after all, so he convinces himself it doesn’t matter. Comforts himself and chides Alisaie gently when she inquires on it herself. Alvaar had been through a great deal of hardship and pain. And as they both didn’t doubt the depth nor truth of his feelings, the specific words should hardly matter.

    He’s twenty-three, and when Alvaar finally says them he barely notices. There’s too much blood, and Alvaar’s laugh is too weak and lilting from it. His mind is too busy on spells and incantations to register it as he works quickly.

Alvaar is fine. He’s always fine. He comes back beaten and bloody and smiling and laughing and visibly delights in being doted upon and taken care of. A routine scouting of the border wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near as deadly as the hopeless situations he’d been sent into before. He’s fine.

The Scholar is internally utterly terrified of course, but he knows from too much firsthand knowledge that there’s no room for panic as a healer. If he panicked, things would quickly turn into ‘not fine’ and neither of them had time for that.

So for right now, spells and aether humming in his veins, it’s fine.

        “Did you get a haircut recently?” Alvaar asks, letting Alphinaud clean, tape, and bandage his wounds. Magic had healed the critical damage and stopped the bleeding, but it would take time to heal the rest and a few more applications of white magic tomorrow. Cleaning and bandaging would ensure a smoother transition through the process, so it’s a step he takes anyway, perched on the edge of the medical bed while the Bard sits propped up against pillows.

“You should be taking this more seriously,” the Scholar returns flatly, pushing Alvaar’s hand away from his hair gently so he can keep working.

“I am. But I’m just so... very happy,” Alvaar murmured, a smile stretching across his exhausted face. “I made it back this time, I’m here, and you’re here, and it will work this time.”

It’s said with such offhanded confidence it makes the Scholar blink. “What? Alvaar you’re delirious, stay still.”

A hum of agreement rings in the Bards throat as he nods. “Okay. Let me know when you’re done and listening. He said I didn’t say it enough... That when I made it back to be sure to tell you something.”

He wants to pay more attention to Alvaar’s curious words but there would be time for it later. Though he was comfortably stabilized and would no doubt make a full recovery in a matter of days with the Warrior of Light’s sometimes obnoxious recovery speed, it’s never something he likes to leave to chance. If he overlooked something now, it could be disastrous later.

“He?” The inquiry slides off his tongue in a distracted manner, during which his moonstone carbuncle chirps with interest where it’s bedded down along Alvaar’s legs.

“Don’t worry about it,” Alvaar replies, glossing over it as his attention shifts back to the carbuncle eyeing him expectantly. “Can I have my hand back now?”

Another deft turn of the roll of bandages, a swift snip of the medical shears, and a tidy tie off had him releasing Alvaar’s arm with a nod. “Sure. Other arm if you would.”

Swapping obediently, Alvaar quickly settled his freed hand into plush white fur, grinning brightly. “Hey Carbi... I missed you too,” he cooed, chuckling at the fond chirp and purr he got in answer. “You’re the best summon ever aren’t you?”

Snorting under his breath, Alphinaud keeps at his work until he’s finished, letting his summon keep up its job of distracting Alvaar’s focus from pawing at him so he can work in peace. Alvaar was always a good patient, but woozy with blood loss he sometimes got sillier than was helpful. It made his moonstone carbuncle an utter lifesaver, and there were few helpers he would rather have working beside him. Though he had long developed more potent summons, Alvaar’s preference and the sheer number of revisions and intricacies of its design had left moonstone as one of his masterpieces. The patient bedside manner and attentive nature had made it a nursemaid second to none, and given the way it was currently cozied into Alvaar’s side and subtly keeping him quiet and still as it soaked up affection like a sponge, it remained a staple of his repertoire for good reason.

Inspecting the last of his work, he gives a satisfied nod before starting to pack things away. After almost seven years of chasing Alvaar’s shadow and tending to his wounds, his first aid is as neat and tidy as an experienced chirurgeon. A far cry from his fumbled and panicked work the Bard had coached him through with grit teeth in Coerthas. It’s only once he sets the supplies back on the shelves that he finally gives himself leave to think about anything but healing.

He’s seated back at Alvaar’s side before he realizes he’s made the steps, a bandaged hand curling warm at his jaw and pulling him closer until they bump foreheads together. It’s a movement that he’s long used to, a familiar gesture that helps to quiet the panic that had boiled over in his chest if not the emotion that threatens its place.

“I would appreciate it if you would refrain from frightening me like that again,” Alphinaud murmured softly, a faint tremor in his voice but refusing to cry. Alvaar was fine! There wasn’t any reason to overreact!

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to. Was the best I could manage,” Alvaar replied in the stilted way he picked up when he was exhausted. Given how much harder he was leaning into the Scholar, none of it surprised him.

Making a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat he leaned the faintest bit back into the Warrior of Light, soaking up the steady warmth that wicked off him and the silent reassurance he was still there. “Just... be more careful next time. For now you should focus on healing.”

“Thank you for saving me Alphi,” Alvaar whispered with a heartfelt gratitude.

It was enough to make the Scholar flush. “I... Any other healer would have done the same.”

“Maybe. But any other healer wouldn’t be worth me dragging myself back to. Sides, Alisaie was too far,” he joked fondly.

Alphinaud tutted under his breath, pulling back to grip Alvaar’s face in his hands and press a featherlight kiss to his brow before burying his nose into soft golden strands. “Jokes aside, thank you for coming back. If scaring me half to death means that you’ll pull through, then I would take that burden every time.”

There’s something about the way Alvaar relaxes into him, the faint breath of a sigh before tension eases out of his neck and jaw, that has always meant the world to him. It was too many emotions to articulate clearly, but it always made his heart feel warm. Reminded him that even if he wasn’t able to command the same fear and awe as the Warrior of Light, to be a brilliant blade that cut through the dark and evil that threatened them, the rallying cry that brought their forces to victory, what he could do was no less important.

All great hero’s needed a home to return to, else they would eventually feel they had nothing left to fight for.

“Alphi?”

“Yes Alvaar?”

Pulling back enough to regard him a moment with scrutiny, the Bard leaned in with a purposeful ease, lips brushing against his chastely for a moment before murmuring something against his skin.

This time he heard them. Felt their movement and the warmth of them against his lips and burning against his skin. Poetry and promise and providence all in one.

“I love you.”

It was no big deal. It was a sentiment he’d always known from 1,001 things Alvaar did all the time. Something he had long convinced himself didn’t matter. A phrase used over and over until it’s meaning was practically lost.

But oh.

Oh...

How those words shook him to the depths of his soul and cut him in two regardless.

    He’s twenty-one again for just a moment. Full of questions and a heart fuller still with longing, listening to Alvaar speak of love he’d known with that easy and sincere air of his. Brutally honest as ever.

Love was ruinous. Love would destroy you in ways you didn’t think were possible. Love was thirst and hunger. And all your days, when you’d known the taste of true love, of something that clutched past your heart and into your soul, you would always want for more of it.

In the present with his face buried against Alvaar’s shoulder, tears welling over and soaking into clean white bandages, he feels like a beast half starved.

“I would really like it if you stayed,” Alvaar murmurs, still running his fingers along the Scholar’s back soothingly. He’s infuriatingly casual for having just reduced his lover to tears. If he hadn’t just spent an hour healing and bandaging him up, Alphinaud would probably have swatted him.

Instead he just nods.

He’d never been very good at refusing that particular request anyway. Even when he was the one chastising Alvaar on why sharing a medical bed was in poor interest of his health.

But it’s late, and he’s tired, and nuzzling into the warm muscle of Alvaar’s shoulder he doesn’t want to leave anyway. So, he pulls himself up onto the bed fully, curling up beside him and keeping his cheek settled against the Bard’s shoulder that’s free of bruises. He knows he won’t sleep well but the situation is unfortunately familiar enough he knows that he’ll still get plenty of rest for tomorrow’s troubles.

“Alvaar?” he asks softly after they’ve both settled into the pillows, sheets, and each other accordingly.

“Yea?”

“You really need a shower.”

It has Alvaar laughing enough to make him wince, “Brat... don’t make me laugh that hurts.”

Alphinaud just smiles softly and hums an amused note as Alvaar settles further against him.

“Alvaar?” he asks again after a few minutes, getting a soft grunt of acknowledgement.

Shifting enough to study the soft and unguarded profile he’s sketched a hundred times before from memory, he presses a brief kiss to the Bard’s jaw and settles in for sleep.

“I love you too.”