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elriel-oblivion · 3 years

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So I started this in the last week of 2020, and I'm ready to post it 😊 I've still got a couple other wips I'd started before this one but I haven't been bothered to finish those lol so I'm putting this one out first. Anyway, this'll be 6 parts long; I'll prob put up the next part in three or four days.

I'll put word counts so you can gauge how long each part is and if you wanna read it 😅 Also lemme know if you'd like to be tagged

Word count: 2.2K

AO3

Ashes from the Deep

Part I

The shadows were colder than usual tonight. On better days, their chill wrapped Azriel's bones in an icy embrace, a comforting freeze numbing any semblance of feeling in his wasted heart.

But this miserable night, they were searing cold, the kind of cold piercing the highest of mountain peaks; the kind of cold that penetrated the brain itself. He shivered as he travelled through those shadows, dark mists and wisps coiling like vines about his head.

Maybe he was deliberately searching for the coldest areas. Maybe he wanted a complete absence of feeling: physical, emotional, spiritual. It would certainly be easier to feel nothing than trying to quell the frigid rage inside. How could an avalanche be stopped once it started?

Further and further he moved through his shadows, dawn chasing him from a few hours away. Mountains and villages surged past through those charcoal mists, making way to depthless forests and ravines. He clenched his jaw tight against the cold, memory guiding him home.

But the fresh blood he'd seen earlier, and the mutilated remains of that little girl, one wing torn off and lying bent at the edge of the dirt path ... Her unseeing eyes were glazed, that shine as bright and true on his mind as the glint of moonlight on the blade of Death. And her scream. Cauldron, it curdled his own blood.

He'd been but a minute late. A matter of seconds were all that stood between him and the sadistic bastard who'd brutalised that child. Barely a heartbeat in his lifetime.

He blinked once to rid himself of her stare. Twice.

The image remained, muddying with his path home. His hands clenched and unclenched, nails biting into his skin, but the girl's hazel eyes and her ashen skin and the fingers outstretched for that severed wing remained an imprint on his vision.

Why was this affecting him so much? It wasn't the first time he'd seen horrors like this. But if Azriel wanted to be honest with himself, some days were harder than others simply because they were. Some days, the despair rattled his core and tossed him far out - because he was a person and emotions, feelings, these things were too abstract to be boxed in.

Everything had a limit. Had Azriel ever truly reached his?

Sometimes Azriel himself didn't understand how he kept it all in. How he didn't react or display any sign of having seen or heard the things he did. Sometimes he was repulsed by himself because of it. At least Cassian and his rare vomiting showed some of the humanity inside.

Azriel gave away nothing. Was there even humanity in himself? Everyone but his family looked at him like he was an unhinged monster imprisoned by his Illyrian skin. Like he was moments from escape and they would be his first victims.

Or - not just his family. Her. Elain. Did he consider he family? Perhaps it was too early, or even too inappropriate to do so.

Either way, how could he stain the sudden image of her with himself, with the horrors he'd just seen, had always had the displeasure of seeing? She was lovely and warm and beautiful and he was dark and cold and hideous.

Elain. Something inexplicable stirred in him at the thought of her.

He tried to calm it, this heat, this single star in his midnight sky. But it remained. And it grew.

And he was disgusted. Ashamed. He was not worthy of her.

And it ached. Another unrequited love.

That word snapped something in him. Mocked him.

Love.

A choking sound ripped from his throat and he welcomed it, let it mount into a scream, let it tear through his body and soul. Like that monster was finally breaking free. It was invigorating yet scorching. It burned him from the inside out but the cold of those shadows permeated his mind so heavily, he forgot the essence of corporeality and only his soul seemed to drift.

His ragged breathing sounded, throat parched. Where was he? Through the shadows, all around him, there seemed only darkness. Was he flying? No, the shadows sang their usual baritone thrum as opposed to the high harmony of the wind.

Above, no stars glistened. His eyes strained but nothing peeked through. It wasn't often that his shadows became this thick; usually thin and wispy, they now shrouded his being, coalescing over, in him. He became the cold, a shadow, darkness itself, floating through the ether, higher and higher like ashes on the wind.

But even ashes settled down at some point.

Unless his soul truly were ascending, unless this truly were death. It almost seemed too easy. All the battles, those two great wars, the poison that shot through his veins and stole his breath as per Hybern's whim. Poison that sometimes woke him up in cold sweats, a phantom memory of its iciness picking through his body as though he were being cut up by the sharpest blade ...

Sometimes it even felt like his own blade.

No, this couldn't be death. A mere scream, the image of lives lost, a bloody fight - he hated to admit that these were commonplace among his memories, his life. But in doing so, he knew death was too easy an aftermath for what had happened tonight.

Death, an ascent. But he was sure when his time came, his stained soul would descend like the demon he was.

So he grounded, drifting down weightlessly until the solidity of rock steadied him. He would not go to that darkest of places yet. But he was still exhausted. So damn tired of everything. He feared that if he dropped into a slumber right now, he'd not get up for a lifetime. As it was, his legs almost gave out, but he forced some remaining strength back into them. All he had to do was get home now.

He stepped out of his shadows; Devlon's camp was quiet around him. A fire to his far right sputtered in the harsh winds and Azriel swept himself back into his shadows.

This time he travelled faster, composing himself, locking his muscles and bones up, clenching his jaw. He let that familiar cool comfort drain his rage, cleaning it through his veins before it settled in the frozen lake of his heart where the rest of his darkness lay, inescapable through the impenetrable foot of icy wrath and sorrow. He savoured his shadows, a confidant in their own right, thanked them for their understanding and the escape he found within them.

But they were growing warmer now. Azriel squinted through them as they shifted him across land and water - the scape of Velaris and its brilliant lights greeted him. Closer to home now, he could breathe with a looser chest but this was still unusual; his shadows shouldn't be warmer, they should be cool and refreshing, like the autumn night breeze beyond.

His wings rustled, body reacting to his shadows' autonomy before his thawing mind caught up. 'Where are you taking me?' he murmured.

Mist swirled about him and the shadows deposited him at the far edge of the dimly lit back garden at his High Lord and Lady's riverfront estate. Why would they bring him here? Rhysand and Feyre were at the mountain cabin, Cassian and Nesta were together in Illyria and Mor was at the Winter Court. As far as he knew, Amren was at her own apartment so the only person left was -

'Azriel!' came Elain's voice. It was distant in a way it shouldn't be.

Azriel leaned against a tree, pretending to fiddle with the Siphon atop his left hand. Breathing was difficult but he swallowed and exhaled in a shudder.

He needed to fully compose himself before anyone saw him like this. If only his damn shadows hadn't taken control for those last few moments, he'd be in his own home and lying in that swirling darkness in peace. Though, he supposed, it was his own fatigue that had yielded that control.

'Azriel!' Elain cried, stopping in front of him. Her face was caught between a frown and a wince and her arm was raised slightly. 'You don't look okay.'

As always, he was momentarily stunned by how unafraid this small female was of him. Here he was in his full armour, every bit the monstrous warrior that sent his people scurrying into their homes and locking their doors, and yet Elain stood strong before him. Like she saw not a killing machine but a person.

She never even commented on how his shadows made to disappear around her. Perhaps she hadn't noticed.

He swallowed before he let out what he thought was a light laugh. 'I'm fine, don't worry.' But he could hear the hoarseness of his voice, now facing the consequences of that scathing scream. And his limbs felt even heavier than before, like someone had injected liquid lead into them.

'You don't have to pretend with me, Azriel,' she whispered, lowering both her gaze and arm.

He paused, trying to catch her gaze. The constant light in her eyes whenever she looked at him was a balm to his soul. He could use some of that right now.

He reached out an arm, so impossibly leaden right now - if he could just get to sit down -

'Can I wash your hair, please?'

He started. 'You want to wash my hair?'

Elain's eyes flicked back up to skirt over his, up to his hair, where they stayed pinned. 'I'm positive that's mud and you shouldn't sleep with that in your hair. It'll only take a few minutes.'

Shit. He hadn't even thought of his appearance after that bloody fight earlier. How that had slipped his mind? He ran a hand through his hair, and surely enough, crumbs of dirt rained down.

Although, he really hadn't expected to turn up here of all places. In the privacy of his own home, he wouldn't have cared if he were missing a whole damn limb, if only it meant he could sleep like the dead.

Not to mention that sleeping with a little mud was the least an Illyrian warrior's problems. But Elain's care was something of a punch to his gut. When was the last time someone had truly tended to him for reasons that weren't battle or holiday related?

'You've managed to get some on your face, too,' she said, brow furrowed as she stared at his cheek.

Her eyes were so deep and focused, he wished they would just meet his once. But of course, that level of scrutiny he'd come to learn from Elain meant shyness. Just shyness. She was so endearing, he could've laughed with such fondness if he weren't so damn tired. He wished this whole damn night would be over already.

His leg faltered slightly and he stumbled forward.

'I'm washing your hair. It'll help relax you into falling asleep.'

He raised his brows at her, but she simply took his arm and began leading him towards the house. She looked so small before him but didn't slow despite dragging his bulk behind her.

Halfway across the garden, he pulled her to him with his free arm, his shadows saving the both of them the energy of walking through that mansion of a home.

'My bathroom,' she murmured. Elain didn't balk through the five seconds of that darkness, didn't even look surprised. She showed no sign of hearing the spike in his pulse either. Thank the Mother.

He set them in her bathroom, and she didn't look at him once as she flitted around the chamber, pulling a chair from her bedroom to the sink and grabbing a towel, soap and a jug from the cupboard. Standing there, his breathing began to smooth out.

The window was open, a chill breeze sweeping in. The faelights were dim and their placid light sent a dusky illumination over Elain's features. Some bottles of oils and herbs sat on the edge of the bathtub. Azriel had heard of people using oils for bathing, but herbs? Perhaps they were like flower petals, used for their scent.

Towel in hand, Elain waited at the sink, placing the soap and jug down. 'I think you'll have to collapse your armour for this.'

Azriel nodded, tapping his Siphon. Within seconds, that second skin of cold scales and gleaming wrath was safely stored away. Just his plain black trousers and tunic were left.

Elain's eyes caught every moment of the transformation. 'It's beautiful, all of it.'

He didn't even know if she was speaking of his armour or the basic clothes underneath or what, but his face warmed slightly, wings rustling.

'Please sit,' she said, gesturing to the chair. As he did, she wrapped the towel around his shoulders, fingers hovering above his forehead for a few seconds.

Those seconds felt perennial. He almost shuddered as her fingers made contact with his skin. Her hands were so gentle as they pushed his head back, and he shifted in the seat. He lowered his wings, and she stepped into the space he provided. She was still as he got comfortable, only turning the tap once he was settled. There was a slight crease between her brows, and he clenched his fists to keep from smoothing it out.

Sounding so much like his own mother that his throat tightened, she whispered, 'You can close your eyes.'

So he did.

Feedback is welcomed, thanks for reading 😊

#elain archeron #azriel #elriel #acotar #elain x azriel

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tsc-living · 5 years

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(This is my masterlist!!) (This is KitTy moving into this apartment)

Kit climbed the steps of the apartment building towards the apartment he shared with his boyfriend, his head heavy and full of white, fuzzy exhaustion. He had done the full night patrol of LA with Dru and Thais, and he was exhausted. He hadn’t even showered at the Institute, he had just sneaked into his beat-up old station wagon and driven home, covered in sweat, blood and ichor. The night hadn’t been too bad, there were minimal demon attacks, just a small squad of sea creatures that had found themselves on the shore that the three Shadowhunters had dispatched easily, and a band of rogue vampires that had been stalking some Mundanes in a local bar. The Shadowhunters had just driven them back to the clan nearby and threatened to call Lily, the head vampire of New York and ultimately the leader of all North American vampires; it helped that she was friends with the Consul.

Kit pushed the door from the stairwell open at his floor and it slammed shut behind him with a definitive noise, announcing to his neighbours that he had come home. He knew that their neighbours had been weird about the gay couple moving in, although it wasn’t the fact that they were gay that had caused their suspicions. It was the fact that, for the most part, Kit worked weird hours as an undercover assassin- although they thought he was a bartender downtown- and Ty was a scholar that had a weird uniform. It didn’t help that Kit often came home from patrols and investigations covered in blood or saltwater, sweat and other nasty substances. He and Ty had often considered Glamouring themselves to come and go from the Institute or other Shadow World responsibilities, but they had decided against it. This was their home now, and as small and old the building was, it was where they wanted to be and they wanted to be themselves there. They were just grateful they were in Los Angeles and hadn’t yet faced any severe homophobia- except for the one time in a coffee shop many years before- and even if they did, they were trained enough to handle some bigoted Mundane.

“Good morning Kit,” their first neighbour, an elderly woman who wore a nightgown and bunny slippers always, greeted him as she opened her door to let her cat out. Kit nodded sleepily at her and skirted away from the cat as it ran down the hallway to the window and clambered out onto the small ledge. It wasn’t a very nice cat, and the white monster picked fights with his own cat, although it never won. “Rough night at work darling? Do you want some tea?” Miriam offered and Kit smiled politely at her, pulling his keys out of his gear jacket.

“No, thank you though. I’ll just go and have a shower and a sleep I think,” he said, finding his key. She smiled at him, but she stayed in her doorway watching him instead of going back inside and closing the door. He sighed to himself, this was nothing new, she often stood and watched him or Ty. He fumbled with his keys and the lock wishing to be able to use his stele, but before he could jimmy it open, the locks clicked and he lowered his hands as the door swung open. Ty stood in the doorway, illuminated by the dusky morning light coming from the inside of their home and his clothes creased with sleep. He yawned before he could greet Kit, his grey eyes half-lidded and sleep lines criss-crossed his cheek. Kit smiled, his heart skipping familiarly, and he leant forward to press a soft kiss to his boyfriend’s cheek. Ty smiled and mumbled a sleepy hello through his yawn before stepping a little to the side so Kit could go inside.

“Good morning sleeping beauty,” Kit whispered and kissed Ty’s cheek again now that they were standing behind the closed door and Miriam was not watching. Ty tilted his face so that Kit’s lips slid to meet his and they both smiled. Nothing touching except their smiles, bathed in the warmth of an LA morning and both hazy with sleepiness, one of those moments Kit had seen in a movie and never expected for himself.

“Go and shower then come to bed, I want to sleep more,” Ty said and Kit nodded, pulling back a bit. They walked single file to the bedroom which was darker and looked inviting for sleep and this was where Ty climbed into the bed behind Kit who pushed open the bathroom door and slipped inside. Kit stripped and showered, the water stinging small cuts and grazes on his arms that he hadn’t realised were there, but he vividly remembered the tumble down the rocks that would have given them to him. To have fought some demon and only come away with a few scrapes wasn’t too bad.

After Kit showered and changed into a pair of clean pyjama pants, he dumped his soiled gear in the wash basket and strung his weapons belt up on the hook inside their wardrobe, creeping around because Ty had fallen back to sleep. Kit felt better after his shower, but he was by no means ready to start the day feeling invigorated and he was so ready to crawl into the bed beside his boyfriend. He sat down on his side of the bed and pulled the stele out of his bedside drawer to draw a quick iratze on his arms before going to sleep. He felt Ty roll over in the bed a moment before his cold hand touched against his bare back, sending a shiver down his spine. “Do you want me to do that?” Ty asked and Kit nodded, turning to give Ty the stele and put his legs on the bed with his back against the pillows and the headboard. While he had been out on patrol, Ty had pushed some of the pillows around so that he could press his back up against them as if Kit was still there. When they had first moved in together and begun to share a bed every night, Ty had put one of Kit’s pyjama tops on a pillow when Kit had night patrol at the Institute, but he didn’t do that so much anymore. Kit had asked him about it once, but Ty had just said it was because the sheets smelt like him now and he didn’t need the t-shirt. Kit hadn’t pointed out that Ty was wearing Kit’s t-shirt at the time.

“Not too many injuries that need to be tended to,” Kit murmured as Ty leant on his shoulder and traced an iratze on his forearm.

“No, which is good,” Ty agreed, his lips against Kit’s bare skin. He reached over and put the stele on the bedside table and the two of them slid until they were lying down, Kit enveloping Ty in the process until his boyfriend was near enough lying on top of him.

“Goodnight baby…” Kit whispered, his eyes closed and breathing already evening out into sleep. Ty kissed his throat and hummed a goodnight in response, the two of them slipping into a hazy slumber.

***

Ty woke up first, efficiently and quietly disentangling himself from Kit’s embrace, pausing to his soft cheek before climbing from the bed. He turned and looked down at his boyfriend and smiled to himself. He often forgot how lucky he was to be able to love Kit and be loved by Kit in return. They had been together for five years, since they were eighteen, and it often felt like they had been together for so much longer and yet he was still so entranced by his boyfriend and he was so in love it was sometimes hard to remember that he hadn’t been in love with him all his life. Kit was sleeping peacefully, on his back only because Ty had been lying on him, his arm under his head and the other spread out across the sheet as if searching for Ty’s warmth. His lips were soft and parted slightly in sleep, his features relaxed and carefree. He looked younger when he was asleep, reminding Ty of the scrawny, scared, angry boy he had first met. The boy who pretended he was angry at the world, when he was just scared of it. The boy who thought he was stupid, good-for-nothing and lost, but who was incredibly bright and talented, brave and… well he wasn’t lost the moment Ty had found him.

Ty moved about the kitchen making a cup of tea and a piece of toast with honey, knowing he still had two hours before Kit would wake up, which meant he had some time to himself. Some people had been worried that Kit working lots of nights meant that their relationship would suffer, but Ty liked that he had time to himself. Kit didn’t leave until after dinner, sometimes even later, and he always came home by seven in the morning for a few hours of sleep with Ty. Then Ty had time to study, read, write, research or work uninterrupted until near enough midday when Kit resurfaced from his sleep. Ty opened the blinds and the window and curled up on the sofa under it, soaking up the sun and opening Sherlock to read for a little while. He hadn’t reread Sherlock Holmes in about a year and it was time enough for him to be reading it again, even though he knew it word for word by now. Ty lost himself to the familiarity and the warmth of the late morning, basking in the peace and comfort that was his reality.

***

Kit woke up slowly, his body clock knowing it was nearing midday and time for him to climb from the depths of sleep. He stretched and yawned, rubbing sleep from his eyes and shaking it from his arms before climbing from the bed and half-stumbling to the door; he really was one of the clumsiest Shadowhunters. He crept down the hallway, hoping not to disturb Ty if he was in the middle of an important Centurion related task, but he need not worry. His heart clenched and then swelled with love and fondness for his boyfriend as he stood in the doorway and saw him. Ty was curled up like a cat with his favourite book on his lap and the peculiar, intense and loveable look on his face as he read the words he knew. Kit had wondered if Ty liked rereading books, especially Sherlock, because he could trust that the words would never be different. He looked comfortable, relaxed, at peace and most importantly, he looked safe framed in afternoon light inside their home. Kit cleared his throat so as not to startle Ty, but he didn’t need to, Ty knew he was there; Ty always knew when he was near. Ty just finished his page and then closed his book and looked over at Kit, his grey eyes light and his face open and expectant.

“Hello you,” Kit said softly, sitting down on the sofa and pulling Ty onto his lap, nuzzling his face into his neck. Ty wrapped his arms around his neck and relaxed against him, making a humming noise of content in his throat. “Have you had a good morning?”

“Yes, I’ve been reading for a couple of hours,” Ty explained and then repositioned himself so that he could kiss Kit deeply. Kit smiled into the kiss and held onto Ty’s back gently, feeling the muscles and warmth through his boyfriend’s shirt.

“Good,” Kit mumbled against his lips and then pulled away, resting his head back and looking up at his beautiful man on his lap, “Did you want to go out for lunch? Then tonight we can watch a movie?” Kit suggested, running his hands under Ty’s shirt, up his sides. Ty smiled and nodded, his black hair falling forward into his eyes and he pushed it away impatiently, only for it to fall back again. Kit smiled affectionately and pushed it back, holding it there tenderly.

“After lunch though, can we come back here straight away? I want to read some more, and you can play video games.”

“Yeah awesome, sounds like a plan,” Kit agreed, letting go of Ty’s hair and pulling him down for another kiss. “Let’s get ready then,” he said and Ty nodded, climbing from his lap and making for the bedroom, collecting his plate and mug on the way to deposit in the kitchen.

***

They ate lunch at the small café down the road from their apartment, and on the way back Ty got distracted by a small creature on the sidewalk in front of the florist, so Kit ducked inside. He bought a bouquet of red roses with a large gold ribbon tied to it and when he returned to Ty, he was still crouched to the side watching whatever it was that he had found. "Here baby," Kit said and Ty looked up, his smile enchanting as he caught side of the flowers.

“For me?”

“No, for the lizard,” Kit replied sarcastically, and Ty looked down at it suspiciously, making Kit laugh. “Of course they are for you, my love.”

“Thank you!” He said brightly, standing up straight and taking them from Kit and linking their fingers. There was only one more block until they reached the apartment building, but they walked slowly, and Ty told Kit a few simple facts he had learnt about red roses.

Back at their apartment, Ty put the flowers in a vase of water while Kit set up the gaming console and settled against the cushions, but he didn’t press play yet. He watched Ty move around the kitchen, tall and graceful, and so sure of himself in their small home. He moved with the elegance of the Shadowhunter, but he also moved like Ty; careful and quiet. Ty must have felt him watching because he looked over with a questioning glance, but Kit just smiled at him and pressed play. Ty joined him moments later, curling up with his head on Kit’s lap and his book in his hands. A little while through the game, Ty rose and disappeared coming back to the same position, but with his headphones on so that the obnoxious game sound effects weren’t annoying him as he read, and so he could stay lying on Kit.

At about six Ty rose again, leaving his headphones and book on the coffee table, and moved into the kitchen to search through the cupboards and fridge for ingredients for dinner. Kit turned his game off and switched the channel over to the Mundane news channel so that they could hear what was happening in the real world for half an hour, then he would put some music on.

“Do you want stir fry or tacos?” Ty asked with his head half inside of their fridge.

“Stir fry? We have enough peppers for it…” he answered, peering in behind Ty. They had been to the farmer’s market earlier that week and bought too many vegetables than they knew what to do with, but since Ty had been vegetarian for four years and Kit for two, they were rapidly learning new things to do with them. Ty started pulling ingredients out, passing them back to Kit who put them down on the countertop and then gathered a knife and chopping board.

“Did you know that Australians call these ‘capsicums’?” Ty asked, holding up a red pepper. Kit pulled a face at it and then took it, putting it on the chopping board.

“Australians are weird as fuck,” Kit muttered, slicing through the bell pepper. Ty laughed and as he gathered more ingredients from the pantry, he spouted off a few more facts about Australia that he knew. They just further proved to Kit that Australians were weird, especially the fact that there were three ‘a’s in the word Australia, and all of them were pronounced differently.

Ty turned the TV off and switched on some music as Kit turned on the stovetop to heat up the oil and start frying off the vegetables, standing in front of the flame and wok with his back to Ty. He started swaying in time to the music, humming along as he tossed the marinating vegetables and Ty boiled the noodles, but that didn’t take long and soon enough Ty slid his arms around Kit and rested his chin on his shoulder so that they were swaying together with the sun setting behind them out the window. Kit smiled and rested his cheek against Ty’s as they finished making the stir fry.

They ate sitting across from each other at the counter and Kit told him about the shift from the previous night with Dru and Thais, then Ty told him about the assignment the Scholomance had sent him to work on and Kit promised to help him out the next day with what he knew about faerie magic. After dinner they did the dishes side by side, listening to music and talking about the fact that they should really make a meal plan before they go shopping so that they stopped buying exorbitant amounts of specific vegetables. They both knew they wouldn’t though, they had the same conversation at least three times a week, they just liked feeling like they were organised and put-together adults.

***

After watching the movie curled together on the couch, and after making love in their room, they lay together in the dark grateful that Kit didn’t have to work that night. Ty pressed had his leg hooked over Kit’s and was tracing the runes and other patterns on Kit’s bare chest, his breath soft and sweet against Kit’s neck. Kit had his fingers curled in Ty’s hair and his other hand was holding onto his thigh, his lips against the top of his head. “Do we need to do anything tomorrow?” Ty asked and Kit sighed sleepily.

“Yeah, I have to take the car in for a service in the morning, and then Julian wanted the two of us to go and help out with training in the afternoon because Diana will be in New York for some reason or another,” Kit explained and Ty nodded.

“Will we have time to work on the assignment before we go to the Institute?”

“Yeah, if I take the car in early we can do some work on it for a couple of hours. Swing back and pick it up on the way home from the Institute, we can take a cab there though.”

“Okay, do you want to set an alarm?” Ty suggested, but Kit was already stretching out for his phone which was charging on the bedside table. He set the alarm for seven in the morning and then settled down to sleep, rolling Ty over and pulling him close so that his back was aligned against him. Ty sighed in contentment and cuddled Kit’s arm to him, interlacing their fingers.

“Goodnight Watson,” Ty murmured and Kit smiled and kissed his shoulder.

“Goodnight Sherlock,” he whispered back, his eyes closing to sleep.

(I HOPE YOU LIKE IT <3)

#kit herondale #ty blackthorn #kitty #kitty blackdale #tsc #tda #twp #fanfic #anon requested #requested #one shot #headcanon #i didnt proof read this #i cant remember what my tags usually are lmao

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owlswithfins · 7 years

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Flintwood with #3 please!

Thanks for the request! Want one?

Prompt #3: “Of course I’m in love with you. Why do you think I risked my life to save your sorry arse?”

Oliver Wood had always dreamt about Quidditch. He dreamt about winning, and he dreamt about the perfect strategies. Some nights he was in the match, fighting tooth and nail to protect the goal, while other nights he was merely an observer at a game, whooping and booing in the stands (those dreams were just as invigorating). Sometimes it was hard to tell if he was dreaming at all. Losing while asleep stung just as badly as it did while awake, and his moonlit wins sent a grin hurtling across his face as if they were real.

Wood had always dreamt about Quidditch–but never quite like this.

Lately, his dreams had been plagued by the Slytherin Captain’s face. Sure, he’d dreamt of Marcus Flint in the past–as was to be expected of Wood’s most challenging foe–but never in such rapid succession or in such vivid detail. Gryffindor hadn’t played Slytherin in months and likely wouldn’t again until the final match, yet Flint was all Oliver could think about. He was starting to wonder if he was losing his mind until he came to a simple conclusion: Marcus Flint was part of the thrill of the game.

Of course, Quidditch needed no extra assistance when it came to thrills; every match came with its own lifetime supply of racing hearts and pumping blood. But Marcus Flint had been his adversary for so long that Oliver had come to equate the adrenaline of Quidditch with Flint himself. It was a natural association to make, Wood rationalized, but the anticipation of their next encounter made him restless and unable to sleep. He itched for the rush of facing off against the Slytherin captain–even seeing him in the hallways made Wood’s heartbeat accelerate–and the desire to best him became nearly all-consuming.

When the Slytherin team marched onto the pitch a few minutes into Gryffindor’s practice, Oliver threw his head back with a groan. His teammates touched the ground, and he joined them after a few colorful swears. “Flint…” he said warningly.

Oliver sought out his rival, walking forward with his best we-are-not-doing-this-today-and-if-you-disagree-I-will-skewer-you-with-my-broomstick-(or-maybe-a-less-precious-piece-of-equipment) expression. Wood spotted the captain at the front of the snake pack. He was wearing a malicious grin that put his crooked molars on display. Those teeth had played a prominent role in Oliver’s dreams, and the Gryffindor’s breath caught in his throat.

This was it, he realized. They were finally face-to-face. Flint’s grin faltered when Oliver’s foreboding countenance turned to wide-eyed staring. Wood was too excited by his brilliance to care.

“It’s our day to practice, Flint,” he said, forcing his previous anger into his tone.

Flint’s grin returned full force. “Professor Snape overruled the schedule. We’ve got a match on Saturday, and he wants us to be ready.”

Oliver snorted. “It’s Hufflepuff. Snape must not have much faith in you lot if he’s usurping the schedule for that.”

Flint growled, stepping forward menacingly. “Nothing wrong with being extra prepared.”

They were only an arm’s length away when Wood took a step as well. “Except when it interferes with Gryffindor’s practice.” Now they were close enough that Oliver’s entire field of vision contained the Slytherin captain–just like in his dreams.

Flint’s eyes flashed. “We have the pitch, Wood. Get your lousy team out of the way or we’ll make them move.”

Oliver tilted his head to the side. “We’re not budging. If you want to practice today, you can play us.” The rest of the Gryffindor and Slytherin teams whispered their opinions at that, but the captains were focused only on each other. Wood’s eyes glinted, daring Flint to say no. “Unless you’re afraid.”

Flint’s nostrils flared. “We can beat Gryffindor scum with our eyes cursed shut.”

Oliver smiled innocently. “Funny, since I always thought it was the other team getting cursed when you’re on the pitch.”

Flint cracked his knuckles with a sour look before extending a hand. Wood shook it, adrenaline pulsing through his veins at the touch. Flint nodded at Pucey, and the game commenced.

Oliver instantly claimed his spot as Keeper, eyes already scanning the pitch. His heart hammered in his chest as he batted the Quaffle out of the way for the first time. It was a feeling he loved almost as much as he loved seeing Flint’s angry face after the tiny victory. Wood shrugged, smiling shamelessly as Flint huffed and circled back to chase after the Quaffle.

The game continued as usual until it became clear something was wrong with the Bludger. It was only targeting Gryffindor players, and while Fred and George were battling it valiantly, the disadvantage was starting to take its toll.

“Flint!” Oliver yelled as Fred was nearly knocked off his broom. “Your Bludger’s been tampered with!”

Flint only grinned wider from his spot high above the pitch. Just as he was about to answer, the Bludger came his way. It looked to be shooting for Harry who was only a few feet above, but the Slytherin captain was in its path.

“Flint, look out!”

Wood’s warning came too late, and the Bludger hurtled into Flint’s chin with a cracking sound that sent a chill through the Gryffindor’s spine. Oliver watched, almost in a daze, as Flint’s body sailed toward the ground, limbs limply trailing through the air.

Why was no one saving him? There was a ringing in Oliver’s ears as he watched helplessly. The Slytherins weren’t diving to catch their captain’s falling form. Did they not notice? Did they not care? Without sparing a thought for the Quaffle or his vow to protect the hoops, Oliver dove.

Wind whistled past him, rustling his Quidditch robes. It had been a long time since he’d even attempted a dive like this. His course was too steep, too sharp. If he didn’t pull up soon he’d die alongside his rival. For a moment, he considered the perfect symmetry of it. But then his musings were interrupted because he had reached Flint’s rapidly descending body. He snatched the Chaser up by the torso, jerking the tip of his broom only enough to keep them from nose diving into the dirt. The maneuver couldn’t keep them airborne, however, especially with Flint’s added weight. They toppled to the ground, somersaulting in a clumsy tangle of limbs.

Blinking away the pain of the fall, Oliver retracted himself from the mess until he was leaning over Flint’s unconscious form. If it wasn’t for the blood pouring down his neck, the Slytherin would have looked like he was sleeping. He seemed softer like this, and Oliver’s thumb gently brushed his strong jawline. This felt wrong. There was no situation when Flint should be this close to Wood without fire in his eyes. Oliver’s heart wasn’t racing and his blood wasn’t pumping–or at least, not that he was aware of. He felt empty, to the point that he barely heard the celebratory whooping of the Slytherins. Apparently, they’d won in the moments since Flint’s fall. For once, Oliver didn’t care.

When the Slytherins touched down around him, Pucey took over, lifting Flint in his arms to take him to Pomfrey. Wood couldn’t help but feel like the younger player didn’t deserve to play the caring friend when he’d almost let his captain die and then finished the match afterwards. Of course, if it had been any other situation, Oliver would have done the same. If it had been any other situation, he wouldn’t have left his Keeper post for anything.

But he had. And he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why.

x*x*X*x*x

Oliver Wood had always dreamt about Quidditch, but that night, something was different. When Flint’s face appeared in his dream, it wasn’t sneering. It was peaceful, with eyes closed like they’d been after his fall and a soft smile on his lips. They were nice lips–the kind that made you understand why people made such a fuss about kissing (Oliver had often wondered why people insisted on locking lips when they could be reading Quidditch magazines, but he’d never bothered to ask, as he was busy reading said Quidditch magazines). Oliver wished the boy would open his eyes and smile a real smile, with a mouthful of those adorable crooked teeth.

When Oliver woke from his dream in the middle of the night, his mind was reeling. It kept getting stuck on the practice match from earlier that day. His teammates had been appropriately upset about the loss, and they all seemed to notice something was off about their captain. Oliver hadn’t even tried to fake any emotion. He’d been enthused, angry, and downright jubilant enough in the past to warrant a break, just this once.

But that didn’t keep him from wondering what the hell was wrong with him. He shouldn’t have felt nothing after a loss against Slytherin. He shouldn’t have left his post. He shouldn’t have felt so much sorrow when his rival had been injured.

But he had. And he’d finally figured out why.

x*x*X*x*x

Without changing out of his pajamas or giving a thought to curfew, Wood had climbed out of bed and snuck out of his room. Now, he was standing beside Flint’s hospital bed, breathless and frazzled.

“Flint,” he whispered urgently. When the boy didn’t wake, Oliver began to feel awkward, realizing how ridiculous this was. But he’d made it this far, so there was no point in turning back now. “Flint.” This time he tugged at the Slytherin’s shoulder. A groan sounded in response. “Flint.”

“…wha?”

Wood rolled his eyes, wondering if he truly was insane. Maybe he was wrong and this wasn’t the reason for his feelings at the match. Maybe he should just go back to bed and forget this whole thing…

…except that his heart was beating like it did at a Quidditch match and his fingers tingled where they’d made contact with Flint’s shoulder.

“It’s Wood,” he tried again. “I need to talk to you.”

The Slytherin squeezed his eyes shut as if he was trying to make the intruder disappear through sheer willpower. “Go away,” he mumbled. “‘m tryin’ t’sleep.”

“Flint, wake up, you stupid git,” Oliver hissed. “I’m trying to confess my feelings for you.” The moment the words left his mouth, he decided that yes, he was in fact insane. Making his insanity known to the enemy, however, managed to snap Flint’s eyes open.

“Wood, what the hell is going on?” he growled. “If this is some sort of bloody Gryffindor scheme, I’ll bash your skull in with a Beater’s bat.”

Oliver wondered if perhaps that fate was preferable to what he was planning on doing. “It’s not a scheme,” he forced out. “Dammit, this would be so much easier if it was.”

Flint looked truly confused then, as if he’d never predicted this turn of events. If Wood was being entirely honest, he hadn’t either. “You expect me,” Flint said slowly, “to believe that you’re in love with me.”

“Of course I’m in love with you,” Oliver said, throwing his hands in the air. “Why do you think I risked my life to save your sorry arse?” He didn’t point out that he’d realized that very thing only moments ago.

Flint shrugged, wincing as the movement shifted his bandages. “You’re a bloody Gryffindor. Figured being a goddamn hero all the time came with the territory.” He narrowed his eyes. “If you think this is going to help you beat us next time to make up for your loss today–”

“If I hadn’t saved you from becoming a permanent part of the pitch, we would have won fair and square,” Oliver fired back.

Flint smiled sleepily–the kind of smile Wood had wished for in his dream. “’Fair and square’ isn’t exactly the Slytherin game, Wood.”

“Turned out bloody well for you, didn’t it?” Oliver said sarcastically, nodding at the bandages on Flint’s chin.

The Slytherin snickered for a moment before sobering. With a curious light in his eyes, he reached up to cup the back of Wood’s neck. “It hasn’t failed me yet.”

As Flint pulled him into a kiss, Oliver’s eyes widened–before quickly falling shut. Wood became wrapped up in the warm pressure of those lips against his. WIth a jolt, he realized the contact rivaled the adrenaline of a Quidditch match.

Of course, Wood would never admit that to anyone. For all they knew, his dreams about the Slytherin captain were purely strategy-based, and nothing–not even kissing the crooked-toothed boy below him–could match the thrill of a game.

As they deepened the kiss, Wood decided they didn’t know much at all.

x*x*X*x*x

Want one? (Read the fic on AO3 here.)

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