#leylines-on-ao3

[boundinparchment]

Reprieve

In which Dottore helps you deal with the cyclical pain of having a uterus. As gender-neutral as possible but reader has a uterus, so this references to everything that involves. Pure indulgent fluff. I don't know what else to say. On AO3 here.

You rolled over and curled up on your side, sleep ruptured by the dull ache blossoming into searing pain that seemed to radiate through your entire being.  Beneath you, the sheets felt damp.  Not now.  Why now?  

Next to you, the bed was cold.  Dottore had long since gotten up.  He slept so rarely, and although he didn’t necessarily need it, he deserved to rest more.  The last few weeks had been rough in finalizing the Tsaritsa’s most recent plans.

You willed yourself out of bed and into the washroom to clean up.  The tiles were warm beneath your feet and the pain ran down your legs and seemed to sit in your very hip bones, gnawing at you like a rift hound’s claws tearing at a leyline root.  

Every damn month.

After washing up and chucking the wrapper into the garbage, you sank to the floor, doubled over.  Just a few minutes, you reasoned.  At least the floor wasn’t as cold as the land outside, the Palace wrapped in what felt like an eternal blizzard.  

Getting up a second time felt impossible.

Exactly what you didn’t need today.  Your schedule was packed, one diplomatic meeting after another, a day full of smiles and watching your words like a hawk over its prey.  

You weren’t sure how long you laid there, absorbing the radiating heat once you found the best position that took the edge off of the pain.  You knew you didn’t have to endure this.  Your lover had already worked through several viable options for precisely this reason; some permanent, others not.  Some months were better than others, though.  Not all of them were this bad.

“What are you doing down there?”

You didn’t have to pull your head up to know Dottore was standing in the doorway of the washroom, looking down at you.  This scene was nothing new.  The question was redundant, although teasing, and its answer was one you didn’t need to give.

Warm hands helped you up and supported you as you bit back a whine, your legs protesting.

“How long were you laying there?” Dottore asked, breath tickling your forehead.

“Not sure,” you replied.  “Hurts too much.”

“We’ll take care of that.”

“Dottore, I’m fine, I just need some time to—”

He kissed your forehead, silencing you as a hand pressed against your lower abdomen.  For someone with such a cold demeanor, he had the warmest hands.  Your muscles eased ever so slightly and you felt yourself slump a little.

“One of my Segments can take your schedule.  There’s no reason you need to bother yourself with the inane whining of the nobles that can’t solve their own problems.”

You relented, knowing full well that it was easier to just let him help than push back.  You didn’t have the energy, anyway.  He led you back down the hall to bed, pulling the covers back on his side and ushering you back under the protective warmth of the blankets with a kiss before leaving the room.

He returned with a small sampling of your favorite breakfast options before retreating into the other rooms of your shared quarters.  Within a few minutes, you heard the sound of running water and caught the scent of your favorite bath oil, too.  A scent that was no longer in circulation, one he’d developed himself when you lamented you’d been unable to find a suitable replacement some years prior.  

A bath did sound nice, you admitted.  Much nicer than a day full of meetings and grinning through your organs revolting against you.

You finished the small plate of food, savoring the last of the tiny and flaky peach-filled pastry that you still never learned the name of.  You heard the water stop and Dottore’s footsteps, the Harbinger returning again, this time with a vial containing a pearlescent liquid.  It was familiar, a usual anti-inflammatory compound that he kept on hand for these exact occasions, and therefore by now needed no instructions.  Or so you thought.

You held out your hand to take it but Dottore shook his head, his free hand gently holding your chin to keep your head steady.

“It’s not the usual dosage, darling.  A little will go a long way.  Open, please.”

You obeyed, opening your lips as the cold glass met your bottom lip and you felt the cool liquid across your tongue and down your throat.  It tasted sweet, like sunsettia.  Dottore capped the vial and placed it on the bedside table; he’d given you about half, you gathered, based on what was left.

Before you could ask anything further, Dottore pulled the covers back and slipped his arms beneath you, lifting you from the bed with ease.

“I can walk, Dottore.”

He silenced your protests with another kiss to the forehead.  “No one said you couldn’t, darling.”

You found yourself back in the washroom, heated tiles beneath your feet as Dottore lowered you back to the ground.  You spotted fresh clothes, a cup of herbal tea, and your favorite book; a new publication you hadn’t gotten around to reading yet.

“But what about the—” you gestured to the other room, where the sheets were stained, more appropriate for his lab than your bedroom.

“It’s nothing that needs your attention,” Dottore replied.  “For now, relax.”

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical.  His unmasked face was close to yours, mouth upturned in a playful smile.  Your lips met his once, twice, soft and eager kisses that you hoped conveyed your appreciation for the gesture and care.  His tongue brushed yours, all of once, before the Harbinger pulled away and helped you out of your pajamas.  

Out of habit, you bundled them to hide the blood, as though the man next to you had sensibilities too fragile for such things.  You saw him covered in viscera, elbows deep in a specimen you had no name for, among other things; he was quite literally the last person to be bothered by the presence of blood.

Dottore helped you into the tub, the heat from the water enveloping you.

“Thank you, Zandik,” you murmured.

At the mention of his given name, the one long forgotten, you watched as the tips of his ears turned pink.  

“Take your time.  I’ll come back and check on you in a bit.”

The warm water didn’t rid you of the pain entirely but the edge was already disappearing.  The medication, and maybe a nap together, would do the rest.

#tw: menstruation #menstruation #not sure how i want to tag this tbh #dottore/gn reader #dottore/gender neutral reader #gender neutral reader #il dottore #dottore #idfk what to tag this but it's literally what it says on the label so feel free to ignore

[gg-selvish]

i don't think my perspective on this really matters right now but as i said on twitter i've had the username selvish since 2012 and as i'm active in a main fandom that's what i post on, and when i'm done i move the fics to a pseud. today i moved my mcyt but i hope this isn't goodbye, it just made me feel a little better to put some distance.

big love to anyone affected <3 i know fic isn't important right now, but i'm not really gonna talk about this because i feel it's not my place and didn't want anyone who looked at selvish on ao3 to think anything had been deleted without notice. take care.

sfw mcyt (leylines) | nsfw mcyt (yoursselfishly)

#txt

[towards-toramunda]

A short lil fic that I wanted to exist:

The desert waste surrounding the malleus key was quiet and violently red.

Tomorrow Bell’s Hells planned to break in, use the key, and, hopefully, fearfully, arrive on the ruddy surface of Ruidus. They didn’t know when their next true rest would come, not really. Now, however, all was still. The only sound a dull thrum emanating from the inner workings of the key, and all was shaded a deep red. The shifting rainbow of the leylines still in their continuous dance, unchanged from their emergence weeks ago.

It was the second watch of the night, Orym and Ashton. Orym may not have dark vision, but the malleus key’s red vibrancy colored every visible surface around for miles, and it was the clearest he could view the world at night since… ever. It was disquieting. If he could see others in the shifting sand, surely they could see the hells too.

He moved his focus to his friends. They were all clumped together, FCG and Fearne surrounding Chetney, Imogen back to back with Fearne and holding onto Laudna with so much gentleness it hurt his heart. He shifted his focus back out. He needed to protect them. No matter the cost.

“Hey” Ashton broke the silence.

“Yeah?” Orym looked up at Ashton, they had a scarf wrapped around their head to hide the flickering lights of their injury, and Ashton’s sight was locked in place on the malleus key.

“After all of this is over… lets all go back to Zephrah for a bit. Rest up.” Their voice was hard and steely, their gaze never shifting from the key ahead.

“Ash…” Orym’s looked to the ground at his feet “I don’t want to pl-“

“No. We’re gonna go in, do what we fucking came to do, and then we’re gonna go to Zephrah. We’re gonna see your mom.” Their hands were tense, picking at their cuticles, their left leg bouncing. “Shes gonna make us muffins. We’ll bring them to the roof and look at the sunset. All of us. Together.”

Orym could feel the pressure of tears beginning to form behind his eyes as he began staring at the malleus key with the same determination. He didn’t want to get his hopes up, but…

“I’ll bring a bottle of mead” he grabbed Ashton’s hands with one of his to still them “theres a bee keeper in my neighborhood who makes the best elderberry mead in all of Tal’Dore.”

Both of them had their gaze locked on the bloody bridge ahead of them. Ashton squeezed Orym’s hand like a lifeline.

“That must be the guy your mom got the honey from” the wind was howling and stirring sand up around them.

“Yeah thats him.” The steady crackle of energy coming from the key added an electric feeling to the air.

“We’re gonna sit on the roof, and eat your mom’s muffins with honey, and drink mead, and do a round of what the fuck is up with that.” They could see the scattered skeleton of their former airship, now coated in dust, and scavenged for parts. What was meant to be destructive instead made useful.

“Yeah. Yeah, we’re gonna go to Zephrah together. We’re all gonna-“ tears began to fall down Orym’s cheeks.

Ashton bowed his neck and raised Orym’s hand up to meet their lips, placing a soft, dry kiss to the back of his hand.

“We’re gonna go to Zephrah.” Ashton’s gaze never once moved away from the malleus key. “We’re gonna go back to Zephrah.”

Link on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52884496

#critical role #ashton greymoore #orym of the air ashari #kinda: #ashrym #but also mostly platonic #bells hells #cr3 #cr fic

[blorbologist]

Architect of our demise: Chapter 5

Scheduling, chores, and discussions of religious desecration over black coffee. Such is the routine aboard a skyship.

The Grey Huntress sighs, as if in awe of the proceedings. The floor tilts beneath their feet as she rocks in the wind.

Percival knots his fingers together. He would like to think about this. He probably does not have nearly as much time to think as much as he would like. Not just yet, with Vex’ahlia watching him in the low light. Despite how still she stands her chest trembles and heaves in turn - trying desperately to keep a lid on her emotions. 

He gives himself until she’s evened out her breathing. Perilous little time, but enough to get to the heart of the issue:

“So,” he says. Her ears twitch. “This is… a lot.”

Vex’ahlia croaks a laugh. “You’re telling me.”

There are so many questions to ask. But Percival has enough tact to know he can only offer a few before she walls up this wound again. Best avoid the painful bits and stick to business.

(Why? Did the ritual go wrong? Why? So she’s over a hundred years old? Why? Is her bond to death strengthened by their relationship? Why? Why achieve godhood only to want to revoke it?)

“If I am, ah, understanding you correctly: you stuck close to me in the hopes I would know how you could undo the Reaper - your brother’s godhood?” She nods. “Without… wiping him from reality, as the ritual did to his predecessor?” Another nod. “And, hm. Putting him in an aeormaton?”

This time she shrugs. “I mean? Not necessarily,” she says. Her voice is weaker than she’d like; it comes out stronger as she continues: “I just want him back. And - well, his body is… a whole thing. So that makes more sense.

“And I understand,” she’s quick to add, “if - you said it can’t be done. Couldn’t, with your family.”

But the god of death is not dead. 

But the god of death is not a nobody, a soul like no other. 

Her optimism is sensible. But Percival keeps himself from flinching nonetheless. 

And yet - and yet! Sore as he may be, he is wired, humming with energy so vicious he might shock himself. Without a spark of magic he carved enchantment into being, leylines writ small. He, a mortal man, is creator of thousands, made not by messy biology or unknowable divinity but his own hand. Five names, a list of people too powerful to touch, and he had killed four and ensured no mage would ever feel so untouchable again.

What would the world look like, without a deity to mind death? Unshackled from fate? What if the Reaper Prince’s iron grip on his loom, cutting frayed threads, was not there to deny his family’s return? 

There is the one snag of his entire laboratory having gone up in smoke. And that he failed, before. But science is a ladder; perhaps this was the one wrung missing to reach his family’s hands and pull them out of the heavens.

They’ve been in the ship’s hold for a time, now. The thought of leaving the wheel unattended unsettles him; Percival stands, brushing dust and metal shavings from his coat. Some sticks. Ugh, he’d forgotten about the blood.

“... I can’t give you an answer just yet.” It comes out more gently than expected. “However, it’s - frankly, this is too tantalizing a prospect to not consider. Will he - the Warden of Ravens - try to stop you? Stop this?”

“I don’t know. But I know him - I know him,” she insists. “He won’t help, because he’s - such a dutiful shit about things. But I have to try.”

He understands that perfectly well.

Prologue | Keep reading on AO3!

#While I'm actually online for once in a lil reprieve before I get back to coding behavior: lookie new chapter <3 #critical role #perc'ahlia #percahlia #cr fanfic #age of arcanum AU #my writing

[alexanderlightweight]

hi! I love your writing <3 your dark malec is my favorite and i like how much detailed they are (i'm obsessed with notes to this eldritch delight)

thank you for your works!

prompt for writing wensday: what happens if alec got into alternative universe were he isn't exist yet, so magnus not know him. but magnus know that alec his when sees him and didn't want to give him back to his magnus.

(I sorry for if there is mistake, english not my first language)

you're great anon! and it was a delight to write this and i can't wait to share the notes that i'm going to have when i post to ao3 cause it brought up a lot of notes on how different the two worlds are because they are very different ones. your prompt is absolutely fine! i hope you enjoy

-

Anonymous:

hi! I love your writing <3 your dark malec is my favorite and i like how much detailed they are (i'm obsessed with notes to this eldritch delight)

thank you for your works!

prompt for writing wensday: what happens if alec got into alternative universe where he isn't exist yet, so magnus not know him. but magnus know that alec his when sees him and didn't want to give him back to his magnus.

(I sorry for if there is mistake, english not my first language)

—

“Magnus!”

His name breaks through the pain, the haze, the horror that is engulfing him.

Magnus wonders who it is that has found him, has managed to come to his aid and he hisses, flinching away when he cracks open his eyes and sees a broad figure covered with runes.

Nephilim.

Magnus is about to use the last of his strength to attack but it’s too late and then warm, calloused hands are cupping his face and the icy rain stops hitting him.

Magnus thinks he’s dying.

That the nephilim has already stabbed their blade through his chest. For what else could explain the gorgeous eyes brimming with concern and fear for him, rather than of him.  Magnus knows his glamor is down but there is nothing like disgust in the shadowhunters eyes and then a flash of lightning and Magnus realizes that what he thought were a part of the sky are actually dark, spread-out wings.

The nephilim is covering Magnus, shielding them both from the storm and Magnus marvels at such a defense behind shared with him, even if it is in death.

“Magnus no, Magnus you can’t do this too me.” And those strong hands are pulling him up and chapped, lips are pressing urgently to his own. Magnus doesn’t mind, he’ll take the end with a kiss, he’s greedy enough for it but then he taste hoarfrost and a sliver of chill and he finds himself kissing back greedily, strength ftastesg to him with every touch of lips and tongue.

His arms come up, intending to chase and demand more but the nephilim is pliant and unresisting and folds to Magnus’ touch.

Magnus curls his fingers in feathers he’s only ever touched on a corpse, his skin sparking with magic the longer they kiss, and he wonders what kind of a dream this is.

“Magnus what happened?” He’s being asked when he finally lets the nephilim pull away, Magnus’ head is tucked to a neck that he knows is lined with a rune and then protective — softer than Magnus could have imagined — wings are wrapped around him. “One minute you were almost done sealing the rift and then something exploded. I thought maybe the leylines ruptured again but this isn’t where we were. I don’t recognize anything.” There’s a moment and then a grumble of, “I can’t believe you changed your outfit before you tried to heal yourself. We’re having a talk about priorities again, okay? Because you can’t say you have better survival skills than I do and then care more about your outfit than your health.” And then there is a little sniffle and Magnus realizes the little drops on his head aren’t rain slipping through, they’re tears.

Tears being shared out of worry, out of agony and out of love for him and Magnus marvels.

“I think it was an accident.” Magnus says slowly, trying to work out how to keep the man in his arms pliable until he figures out this mess — until he figures out how to keep him, where he’s from — because Magnus has never felt trust and adoration directed to him like he did when he was drinking pure energy from the nephilim holding him. “I don’t really remember what happened, darling.”

The pet name is a risk but Magnus doesn’t know his name and he wants a claim and from the way he’s held tighter and there is a little hitch of breathe, it’s not a misstep.

“You’ll need to portal us out of here.” He’s told and Magnus wants even more because he’d placed Charles Branwell under a geas that would never let the shadowhunter admit Magnus had worked with him. Then Magnus had admitted a shameful defeat and failure, sent Branwell off and completed the portal with the nephilim and the rest of the downworld none the wiser. Only Magnus’ closest companions, the Council of Elders and a few trusted warlocks were allowed to even know if it.

“I don’t have the energy.” Magnus admits and it’s a bitter admittance.

“I know, babe.” He’s soothed and a kiss is brushed against his forehead, “I’m just waiting to catch my breath. I know you hate doing it, but you’ll need to take more.”

Magnus is shocked and he can’t help saying “if I take anymore, you’ll faint.”

“I know.” He’s assured, like that helps make sense instead of making even less sense. “I know you hate making me that vulnerable but it’s fine. I know you’ll have me, kay? And you know I can’t get us both somewhere safe in this kind of weather. Especially when I don’t know where we are.”

“No, you’re right.” Magnus says because he is, but Magnus marvels at such a display of unhesitant faith and affection. “And I will, have you.”

He’s smiled out, Magnus can’t see it but he can feel it against his hair and then there is a soft content, sigh, “you always do.”

Magnus finds his nephilim leaving and then he’s being kissed again but this time it’s with passion, with the surrendering of a storm bowing to a crumbling mountain rather than tearing it apart. His — because how could Magnus give him up after tasting his love — nephilim gives himself to Magnus, the very soul of him offering itself up to be devoured.

Magnus takes more than he needs but his nephilim trusts him, his mouth getting softer as Magnus presses closer and then he’s slumping onto Magnus, unconscious and vulnerable and his.

Magnus opens a portal to the strongest and most protected of all his lairs, picking his nephilim up and marveling at how the wings have disappeared, as if to make it easier for him.

Magnus steps through and vows that he’ll find a way to keep this, to keep him.

#writing wednesdays #writing wednesday #lumine writes #magnus bane #alec lightwood #malec #shadowhunters #shadowhunters au #my fics #my fanfics #my ficlets

[tanis-fics]

Intermission

When Ash Jr. is trapped in a building shift incident and begins to freak out about his imminent death, the person who aids him is the least one he expects. The least helpful, too, but at the end of the day, Ash could really use a break. (A musical break, even)

Pairings: Theodore Ash Jr. & Ahti, Theodore Ash Jr. & Ahti & Oldest House ♦ Words: 1117 ♦ Notes: For the @februaryficletchallenge, prompt Trapped In An Elevator

[on ao3] ♦ [on squidgeworld] ♦ [read on site]

 When Dr. Theodore Ash Jr. first felt the elevator shake under his feet, and then stop menacingly, he immediately assumed he was going to die. Of course he was going to die after making the discovery of a lifetime, the cruel irony of it almost made him crack a smile; the fact that he could at least see the twisted beauty of the Oldest House in all its glory unlike his father before him almost brought him peace of mind, in those grim final moments.

 He took it in stride at first. Face it proudly like the bearer of his name should.

 Seeing the concrete surrounding him ad infinitum outside his fancy metal cage ever so slowly closing in, however, eventually panic began dawning on him.

 He couldn't die. Not now, of all times. He still had so many things to research, so many caves down in the Foundation to find and study. His friends, the Id, he couldn't just leave them all alone while the rest of his team (or, God forbid, Director Northmoor) probed the place without a care in the world.

 Breath began coming shallow as death started breathing on his neck. Trapped like an animal. No. Trapped like so many members of the Bureau by the shifting chimera of the building. Ash had been researching the energy leylines from the pillar, coming up with ways to stabilize it's uneasy entrails to avoid these senseless deaths, but maybe he had been far too late.

 As his windpipe closed in panic, Ash would have wanted to say that he hoped someone else took his investigations and finished his work for the Bureau. But he was just a coward, and his mind screamed for someone, anyone, to realize where he was and came help him.

"...Yksin sankar yöhön syvemmälle matkaa pois,

Se taakka hänen harteillaan kuin lupaus aina ois,"

 Jerking his head up, Ash recognized that faint melody before recognizing the accompanying voice. He couldn't see anything past the concrete, but the song came from a point somewhere above him. Swallowing, his throat hurt horrors, but he still croaked.

 "J, Janitor, is that you?" He cursed at himself for not remembering his name, despite his appreciation to the mysterious man. The singing stopped, and he felt panic rising again. "Are you there? Can you hear me?"

 Silence followed his many questions, until he heard his voice again, closer this time.

 "Doctor?" His thick accent brought a smile to his face, relief washing over him for a second. "Were you running with your head as your third leg, and got stuck in the walls?"

 He had no idea what that meant.

 "More or less, I suppose." He yelled back, voice breaking a bit at the end, and was met with a candid laugh. If it were anyone else, Ash would be enraged and humiliated, but the Fin's idiosyncrasies put his mind at ease, or as much as it could in that situation. The man had a surprisingly vast knowledge of the building, either inherent or learned, and if he could laugh in the jaws of danger maybe it wasn't as bad as he originally thought it was.

 Still, he was no God either.

 "Friend," he tried again, grabbing the metal curtain and facing the darkness from where the voice came from, "there was a shift in the building and I happened to get caught in the middle! I'll need you to call Security to get me out of here."

 "Yes, yes, do not worry, an emergency does not look like this. Ahti will make sure you get out of there, loose like a grandma's tooth." He sounded very sure of himself regardless of the wording, and Ash thanked him for that. Regardless, time started passing, with only the sound of the mop against the floor and the whistling of the man to fill it. Had... had he even called for help? He couldn't help but wonder, anxiously. Did he misjudge the strange man, misjudge Ahti? Or was he testing him? Could that be a test? "Eh. So nosy." The man called again, sounding... annoyed? Offended? "Don't wait as if waiting for the raising moon. You will not die. Not in an elevator, at least."

 Ash froze, but then sighed. Fine. If the Janitor said he wasn't going to die there, he couldn't possibly die there, he guessed, bittersweet.

 The walls stopped closing in, though.

 "That's right, perkele." He heard him say, proudly, yet probably to himself, before stating louder, in a way that seemed less and less like a suggestion. "Take a rest. It will do you good."

 Odd. What an odd fellow.

 Two peas in a pod, he supposed. The Janitor and the House.

 The Janitor and him, too.

 Resting his back on the opposite wall and sliding to the floor, Ash could swear he felt a rumbling on the elevator, and despite every logic and every alarm ringing on his mind he actually felt his fear slowly melting away, as his breath eventually slowed down too. The Fin's words ticked him, but he was tired, he couldn't remember the last time he took a break. The last time he allowed himself to take a break.

 Maybe he was safe. Call it good luck, or affinity, maybe the house wasn't going to swallow him alive. Not that day, at least.

 "Ahti." He called eventually.

 "Yes?"

 "Could I ask one thing of you, at least?" Since you're clearly not calling anyone.

 "What is it?"

 "Could you sing to me that song you're always singing to yourself?" He heard a surprised noise.

 "Sankarin Tango! You like it?"

 "As a matter of fact, I do!" And then, to himself, somewhat feeling like the compliment will reach his ears regardless. "I've always found it quite lovely, actually."

 "Ah..."

 Ahti sounded extremely pleased, speaking to himself in Finnish with an audible smile on his lips, and Ash couldn't help but smile too as the last traces of fear left his mind and body. As music filled the air around him his worry was replaced instead with the low rumbling that now enveloped him, louder. Did it came from the elevator? From the Oldest House itself? Was it, and could even be a reaction, let alone a positive one? Was it a response to Ahti's singing? First drafts of theories rose and fell like his calmed down breathing, like the melody carried by the air, as he waited to be rescued. Or, as it eventually will come to happen, for the walls to open and for him to meet his janitor friend, standing alone on a recently cleaned room.

 For now, Theodore Ash Jr. simply sat there, enjoying the choir in peace.

#control remedy #control game #theodore ash jr #ahti the janitor #february ficlet challenge #control fanfic #control

[holewithinahole]

Tiptoeing the leyline | Otto Octavius x reader

Summary: Back to your universe, Otto captures you while you're distracted. He notices the marks a certain Dr. Olivia Octavius left on you.

Ao3 Link

Warnings: shameless smut, no genitalia specified (reader), no pronouns specified (reader), orgasm denial, overstimulation, unsafe sex, rough sex, creampie, non-native writer

And yes, I wrote a somewhat sequel to my Olivia fic, after several months. The fixation on Octaviuses is never over, my guy. Again, not beta, I'm not native so very sorry for any weird sentences or mistakes. I'm not 100% happy with it but I'll never be so, enjoy! (I just have to embrace the fact that I'm a slut for them.)

You should have seen it coming. From a mile away, honestly.

It’s easier to convince yourself that you’ve simply been tired. Even someone with super strength and freaky spider powers had to draw the line at multi-dimensional travel and two days of non-stop fighting. Especially when it involved someone as ruthless as Dr. Olivia Octavius. Your imaginary audience could laugh all they want, but you dared anyone to try putting their entire focus on swinging webs and punches to a woman who had, mere hours ago, rocked your world so hard you saw stars. And see stars you certainly did when that bus hit you square in the chest during the battle inside the collider.

Ergo, you blame Olivia.

Your body is sore as fuck, and you're littered with bruises and a nasty bite mark on the nape of your neck. What’s the point of having rapid recovery if you don’t even have time for it? You also blame your inner sense of justice (you were aware of the irony of fucking a supervillain and then talking about justice). Disappearing from your universe for a few days didn’t stop the villains of the week from robbing the poor corner-of-the-street shopkeepers, and the super ones from plotting their evil schemes. No rest for the wicked? What about the brave, the awesome, the work-devoted?

“Am I boring you or something?”

You glance back at Otto. He looks appalled behind his small sunglasses. It’s almost funny.

“Oh no, please keep talking,” you say evenly, “‘gives me more time to come up with an attack plan.”

What’s more difficult to admit to yourself is how totally out of it you are when it comes to anything Octavius-related. You’ve been happy living in your little world of delusion before the mind-altering and deliciously traumatizing altercation with Olivia. But now? Every taunt, every tilt of the head looks like an invitation. Knowing there were alternate universes was pretty mind-altering as well, come to think of it. 

“I’m curious to see how you plan to attack me in your current situation.”

Right. You push against the vibranium shackles holding you hostage in a chair. It was more for show if you were being honest; you doubted you could break free even with hundred-percent strength. Instead, you stare at the dirty walls of Otto’s new lair, trying not to focus too much on the flow of images his shiny actuators brought to the surface.

“Do not bother.” He lets out a bark of a laugh. “You’re completely at my mercy.”

You’ll give it to him though, he has been swift and efficient when he cornered you in a back alley and knocked you unconscious. In your defense, you did fight back against the actuator pinning you against the wall, but he said something and the next second, everything had faded to black. It was something insubstantial, something stupid and stereotypically evil like he’s famous for. Totally not something that made your heart skip a beat.

“I have to say,” he says conversationally, “I’m disappointed by how easy it was to catch you.” With two mechanical arms digging into the ground, he looms over you, the pans of his coat flapping against his naked skin. “You’re usually not that compliant.”

Don’t you fucking dare blush.

You tear your eyes away from his chest. “I was just bored out of my mind. Your tricks are getting old, Otto.”

He chuckles. “It worked in the end, didn’t it? Even if it wasn’t the desired effect.”

“If it wasn’t, why pull the same shit over and over again?”

“For fun.”

It leaves your mouth open dumbly. You scoff. “Failing is not what I’d call fun.”

Otto stares before lowering himself to the ground, soles tapping against the wooden floorboard. You’re trying your damn best not to meet his gaze, even protected behind your mask.

“What’s gotten into you?” He asks. “You’re never this… serious.”

It gives you a whiplash. “Uh?”

“Did I break something?” He muses to himself.

You certainly didn’t expect him to notice you were out of it, or care about it for that matter. Perhaps you’ve underestimated the man’s perception.

“All fine and dandy. Thanks for asking, Doc’.” Your tone is way too even to your liking.

You’ve always been a terrible actor and he sees right through your bluff. Which is saying something since he can’t even see your face. You make another attempt at breaking free but it only makes your suit rub against all of your bruises and cuts. Your wince makes the good Doctor raise a questioning eyebrow.

“So, I did hurt you,” he says, disbelieving.

“You kidding, right? You punch like a little girl.” That’s a big lie and also misogynistic.

Fuck, maybe Olivia was right.

You’re suddenly assaulted by a strong smell of damp leather as two fat digits slip underneath the edge of your mask and pull. “Hey! The fuck you think you doing—“

Does anyone grasp the concept of anonymity ‘round here? “Fuck, Doc’, I thought you were a bit more chivalrous than that.”

Otto doesn’t answer, inspecting your face. It’s making you uncomfortable how much he’s staring. Did he expect a model or something?

“I wasn’t expecting this kind of hurting,” he says. You frown, confused, but when he uses one finger on your chin to slowly turn your face away, you realize with horror he’s looking at the beautiful purple claim Olivia left on your neck.

“What—“ you sputter, withdrawing as much as you can. “That’s not what you’re thinking.”

“And what am I thinking, exactly?” Otto asks, evenly.

What is he thinking exactly? He barely reacted to your naked face, not even to gloat at exposing your biggest secret. And what do you want him to be thinking? That you have no game at all? What would be the point? If anything, you should be proud to show him you get any action.

He interrupts your inner monologue: “I wasn’t expecting the reason for your scattered brain to be sex.” You blush bright red. “I thought you had more self-control than that.”

His lips stretches, deliberately slow, displaying rows of straight incisors and sharp canines. “Unless you’ve been fighting an oversized bat.”

It would have been preferable at the moment. “Yes. You guessed it. How smart.”

Otto chuckles. “It probably wasn’t any good if you look this tense.”

“I have a good reason to be tense at the moment,” you hiss.

“I make you feel that way? My, I’m flattered.”

“You wish, Doc’.”

His hand glides on your neck, wrapping his fingers around your throat. A large digit presses down on the mark. “Perhaps, I do.”

Your bruised skin burns at the pressure but your mind burns even brighter processing what Otto just admitted; what he could be imagining as he traces the uneven blood crusts left by the sharp teeth of his counterpart. And your silence is even more telling; somehow even more than the quickening of your breathing, your pulse confessing everything to his touch.

“What do you want?” you struggle to say, mouth heavy.

He smiles, almost gently, but his eyes are predatory. You’re not unfamiliar with the look on his face and isn’t that a thrill. With Olivia, you could have used her actuators as an excuse for your actions; not that you had any intention to though. With Otto, however, the shackles are quickly removed and the raised eyebrow he offers looks like an opportunity for flight.

You don’t take it.

There he stands, the reason for sleepless nights, the unhealthy obsession you can’t wrap your mind around. He looks down and it feels intimate, almost natural if you could ignore your surroundings, the sensation of your suit, and the four red eyes watching you closely.

His fingers are back on the bruise, ignoring your question. “Who gave you this?”

You’re about to lie through your teeth when he adds: “No one important, I’m sure?”

Your spit is thick when you swallow. “Self-centered much?”

He laughs. “You don’t have to answer. You’ll forget them soon enough.”

Doubtful, you think. At the very least, you’ll be haunted forever by the juxtaposition of two universes. “Keep telling yourself that.”

You’re still frozen in the chair, free but still bound by the desire running rampant under your skin and his long fingers around your neck. He’s not even bothered by your comment; Otto has always been radiating confidence, and you know that if one person could erase Olivia from your mind, even for a moment, it’d be him. Fittingly. Her alternate self with whom you share a deeper bond, a long-term rivalry, a never-ending attraction…

He straightens up, hand leaving your neck and you feel a lot colder. In a smooth movement, he takes off his glasses, and you’re assaulted by the gentleness of his brown eyes. The same eyes you kept seeing alongside Olivia’s green ones.

“I want to erase all of this tension.” You realize he finally answered you when he says: “Now tell me, little spider, what do you want?”

There’s no way around it, is it? You can’t just admit you’ve been chilling in an alternate dimension with his alternate self and that you’ve been thinking about him every single minute spent running away and fighting. You can’t just admit you had the best sex of your life with a women-him who confronted you to the extent of the absurd and frankly unethical feelings you distil for your archenemy. You can’t tell him you’ve been fantasizing about the weight of his body, the strength of his hands, the thrill hidden behind each actuator… The thoughts are too much to bear or explain.

“You.”

The grin he gives you is enough of an acknowledgement.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Broad palms stretch across your back, feeling the dryness of your skin, dipping fingers in the tender joints of your muscles as you sigh. His silence almost feels reverent; a stark contrast with Olivia’s rough handling. She spent her time hovering over you, close but never touching, wallowing in the superiority induced by the distance between you. Otto however seems intent on pressing as much skin as possible to yours, enveloping you completely.

“Your back is surprisingly devoid of scars,” he comments.

Your haughty chuckle dies in your throat, distracted by the warmth of his hand snaking to your abdomen to pull you closer. “I always face my enemies,” you answer after a second or two.

His petting stops. “How brave.” The press of clammy skin and well-worn leather melt away the chill raised by his exploring hands. Not entirely because his breath bounces off the crook of your neck, and it’s so easy to get lost in the clash between warmth and cool. “What does that say about me?”

You understand belatedly the insinuation of your previous statement. “Is it trust?” He taunts, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Hell no,” you fire back, “you’re the last person I could trust.”

It’s a lie; you’ve met far shadier and far more morally reprehensible enemies than Dr. Otto Octavius. “I’m offended.” His fingers are running higher on your torso, leaving chills behind like a powder trail ready to combust. You’re not certain you’ll be able to survive this wildfire. “Killing you would be a waste,” he adds as an afterthought.  

“Yeah, your life would be so boring without me.” You smile, stretching your numb arms.

“Indubitably.” The actuator holding your arms up loosens and your heart tightens at the admission. “Although—“

One fat finger from a hand you’ve, regrettably, forgotten press forcefully on your sex; its outline peaking scandalously through your suit. Your gasp is silent but your whole body tenses up against his chest. “—the same could be said about you.”

You swallow a snarky remark. Anything you say could incriminate you further, and your body already does an amazing job on its own. Thankfully, the Doctor is happy to keep the conversation alive: “Could we call this a truce then?”

You wouldn’t call a quick dirty fuck a truce. It’s a distraction, a wonderfully effective one. “As if!” You scoff. “You’re going to prison after this.”

Another finger joins its lonely mate, rubbing in tandem with the spandex against your pelvis. The suit is designed for comfort and to avoid chaffing despite being skin-tight (which you’ve never been more thankful for at the moment), but it’s not an efficient protection against the softness of his caress. You’ll soon want to rip the offending fabric off to press more forcefully on teasing fingers, but for now, you’ll hang on to the last thread of reason the suit provides you. Who knows if you’re not actually dreaming?

“You’re in no position to promise such things, I’m afraid.” He’s right and there’s nowhere else you’d like to be at the moment.

Otto retrieves his hand. “Hey! Don’t—” Your mouth snaps shut but it’s already too late.

You feel him straightening up, leaving your sweaty back to the cold air of the room. You can’t see him but you hear his chuckle and his actuators rattling.

“I see,” he says, “you’re just desperate.”

“Desperate for what? You?” Better dedicating yourself completely to the monkey business. “I’ve had the best fuck of my life two days ago, I’m not desperate.”

The claw holding your arms up retracts and despite the physical retrieve it offers you, you can’t help but wonder if you’ve played a role a bit too well. The shining eye of the actuator stares directly at your face, and you watch it stretch with dubious eyes— “Such a clever mouth.” – until it pushes you against naked skin, squeezing you back tight against Otto’s body…

“I’ve always thought a good fuck could humble you greatly.”

…and his unmistakable excitement. The remaining slivers of coherence leave you at the vulgarity of his sentence and the tantalizing, unique snap of his hips.

“Always?” Your voice is lost in a whisper.

His breath hitches, you’re almost certain of it. His nose brushes against your shoulder, and a hand snakes back over your abdomen as the actuator retracts, holding you even closer. It’s funny how you already are near losing your mind. Your eyes are open but you barely see, only the dark blur of the metallic beam on which you hold on. You’re completely helpless, bent almost in half by the weight of his body, trembling legs and shaking from anticipation; heady from his admission.

Otto hums and the sound vibrates through you. “Fuck, look at you.”

Desperate for the touch of a madman, two seconds away from panting like a dog from how fast your heart is beating, shameful…

“How could I not desire this?” His digits wander in the ridges of your muscles, the dips of your skin. His breath is hot and moist against your shoulder. “You entice me. I can’t wait to make you beg.”

The actuator fixated on your face moves closer, rotating his head in agreement.

“You’ll never hear me be—“

You startle. Another mechanical arm has taken hold of your suit, tugging before tearing it apart like a sheet of paper. A still coherent voice at the back of your mind fustigates you for ruining two perfectly good suits in less than seventy-two hours; the remaining ninety percent short-circuits. You realize, with no amount of dignity left, that your skin is dripping wet. “Shit.”

“Would you look at that?” You can’t look. You don’t want to look. “How flattering.”

The glide of his hand is disgustingly arousing, and you moan unabashedly when he finally – finally – relents and touches your neglected sex. It’s too good to be normal. Lost in your breathy whines, you think about Olivia and her sweet torture session. Even she hasn’t been able to tease such a strong reaction out of you this quickly. How fucked up are you?

Twice you left your body in the hands of an Octavius for experimentation, and you’re afraid this time will be the one that’ll leave you crawling back for more.

“So close so soon?” Otto tuts. “Disappointing.”

His touch stops altogether. You groan. “As lovely as it sounds to make you come more than once, I do intend on experimenting a little more with you.”

Damned Octavius-es! Loving to hear themselves talk, loving to drag things torturously slow…

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” you pant, closing your eyes to gather your thoughts.

“You’re a degenerate, aren’t you?”

He steps away, and you hear the squeaking of leather falling to the ground. You yearn to turn around and watch him in all his half-naked glory. Instead, a metallic arm wraps around your ankle, pushing your legs apart. You feel exposed, the cold air of the warehouse striking your wet skin in an overwhelming contrast. It gets worse when Otto puts a wide palm on the curve of your ass, spreading you and observing the way you part in an embarrassing, squelching noise.

You have no time for a witty comeback: he presses one thick finger into you. You gasp. The intrusion is more surprising than hurting, it distracts you enough from your upending orgasm. His fingers curl inside you, so warm, spreading you open with ease.

He hums pensively. “You feel tight. You’re certain you’re not lying when bragging about your last date?”

A date. You manage not to scoff. “There are other ways to have sex. You’re just old-school.”

Otto chuckles. “More fun for me.”

His mouth is back to your ear, and his affected state is unmistakable. “Let’s see how long you can last before you beg me to fuck your pretty hole.”

The next minutes are excruciating. You lose your voice and all sense of coherency. He fucks you harshly, curling, twisting, scissoring his fingers as you pant hot, condensed air. You could have ignored it (you could have) if he hadn’t been alternating between making sure you were loose for him, and stroking you ‘til you’re leaking enough to use your precum for his mistreatment. And all this time, you were being watched closely by the red eye of his actuator, held tight by two others.

Two delayed orgasms later, and three fingers deep in you, you are near your breaking point. You’ve lost track of time, lost control over your vocal chords and you’re secretly glad you’re not in an apartment right now. The neighbors might have complained.

“Nothing to say?” Otto asks. You can hear his shit-eating grin.

“F-Fuck. No.”

“As you wish.”

He spits directly on your fluttering opening before stuffing four fingers in. You definitely scream this time.

“Otto!” You don’t even recognize the sound of your own voice.

He hums in fake interest. “What is it, love?”

Your heart beats even faster. You hate him for that. He thrusts against your walls. “Oh, fuck!”

“Not even close, darling.”

Your moan sounds devastated. His other hand snakes to your front, stroking you with clever fingers and you feel yourself overflowing. You know you could come from this alone, but your half-delirious brain somehow craves more. You want the press of his soft body on your back again, and his bruising mouth on your neck. Perhaps even his teeth right where Olivia marked you. You want his warm hands on your aching skin, on the map of scars he left on you.

“Now,” he sighs, “what do we—“

“Please.”

His stillness attests to his surprise. You share the sentiment but you’re this close to losing your goddamn mind; you don’t really care anymore except for the chance of feeling him inside you.

“What do you want?” he hisses, stroking you impossibly harder.

“You,” you cry out. Otto disengages with an irritated sound. “Wait!”

He grabs your chin, almost choking you in the process. You realize your cheeks are wet. “I’ll leave you like this, you hear me?” His voice is harsh, raspy. “Now, be very specific, pet.”

“Fuck me!” What a pathetic display you make. “I can’t take this anymore.”

You look directly into the actuator’s eye. It gives you a thrill. “Please, Doctor.”

You register distantly his labored breathing, the slight tremor in his fingers when he releases you to get rid of his trousers. Despite having been thoroughly prepared, the filthy glide of his cock stretches you wider, reaching deeper parts of yourself. Your legs tremble and the only reason you’re not collapsing on the ground is the tight hold his actuators have on you. His arms wrap around your torso, and the furnace of his skin turns you to embers.

“Come on, just give it to me!” Even in your tormenting need, you somehow find it in you to be bossy. “Otto—“

He grabs your face forcefully, turning it towards him. His strong nose is pressed in your right cheek, and the encompassing heat of his breath tickles the corner of your mouth. You want to kiss his plump lips so badly.

“From now on, it’s Doctor Octavius for you.”

The stretch burns from lack of lubrication, but he plunges into you without any concerns. The snap of his hips is so strong you topple forward in a pitiful cry. Otto fucks you harshly, frantically while holding your mouth close to his. He pants through his nose and you respond in kind by moaning loudly. If you had more time, you’d have wished for Olivia to wreck you like this, to have you feel her skin as she fucks you. Her fingers, her actuators, anything to make you feel this full.

“Doc’,” you choke, twisting your neck to partially meet his chapped lips, “harder.”

“You greedy little thing.”

The actuators at your legs disentangle themselves, planting in the ground in a loud crack. The combined strength of Otto’s hips and his mechanical allies pushes you completely against the metal beam. You’re glad, unable to hold yourself upright as you’re assaulted by this indescribable force.  Your screams speak volumes:

“Ah! Ah, shit!”

He’s now groaning against your cheek, sweat gathering on his forehead and running on your skin. The whole ordeal is disgusting and you want more. You need more.

Greedy. You’re so greedy.

In an unconscious movement, your numb hand releases the beam to bury itself in his damp bangs. It elicits a downright animalistic snarl from Otto, so you tug. Hard.

“Fuck,” he hisses. It sounds like pain but his hips shake, losing his rhythm.

The embers he created coil in your abdomen. Your limited movements don’t stop you from pushing against him, chasing the spark that’ll finally ignite you. You mutter disjointed sentences – ‘come on’s, ‘so good’s, and debauched iterations of his name – which he answers with more groans and moans of his own. You cling to him, breathing in the strong essence of leather and sweat, twisting your neck, even more, to meet his lips in an almost kiss, anchoring him closer and deeper until—

“Break down, sweetheart.”

He bites the scream you let out. It’s his words, this final act of stimulation, this echo of another universe, that lights you up. He catches your tears with his lips and you come, powerless against the intensity of the sensation. Otto follows you, pumping his spend inside you for what seems like forever. Your own clings to your trembling skin. You try to regulate your senses, still focused on the twitching of your muscles, on the throbbing length of his cock and his ragged breathing.

The actuators retract and you expect him to do the same but he stays anchored to you. The nuzzling of his nose against your cheek somehow manages to freak you out more than the aftermath of this whole conundrum. Your fingers in his hair relax, scratching his scalp in response to his caresses. Your neck hurts from the unusual position you force it into, but it’s the least of your worries when his mouth is right there.

Sadly, he steps away, slipping out from you in a deafeningly wet noise. Your legs fail you but you hold onto the metal beam, now warm under your touch. The contraction of your muscles has the unfortunate effect of letting his hot cum leek out of you, cascading along your thighs. Otto lets out a contemplative hum.

“You paint a pretty picture, I must say.”

His thumb dips into your flesh, spreading your sensitive entrance as more of him comes out of you.

You huff, straightening up. “Hands off.”

Your suit is in shambles on the ground; you look at it dejectedly. Olivia had the intelligence of divesting you of it, not ripping it to shreds. Men.

“Hard to take me to prison in this state, right?”

You turn to glare at him but you end up gaping at the two actuators throwing Otto’s leather coat on your shoulders.

“Thanks.” You try to summon your usual carefree attitude but you find yourself unable to. You’ve somehow been more easy-going with your life on the line and under the near-psychotic gaze of Olivia than you are now. You wonder what that says about you. “This doesn’t change anything. Next time, I’ll kick your ass so hard they’ll have to drag you to your cell.”

He laughs lowly. “’Sounds promising.”

He’s not insinuating—

You clear your throat, adjusting the coat around you to shield you from the cold seeping into your bones. You feel uneasy being watched so closely by three pairs of eyes. Otto hands you something: the ruffled mask he snatched off before. You take it.

“You know that the purpose of a mask is to hide your face?” you mutter, stuffing it inside one of his pockets.

He shrugs. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“…Sorry, what?”

It’s how you wear the mask that matters? Perhaps it’s better off… sometimes.

#otto octavius x reader #dr octavius x reader #olivia octavius x reader #otto octavius #spiderverse imagine #spiderman imagine

[lizardlicks]

So @ranilla-bean tagged me in the WIP game. I think I did this onnne around last year-ish and since I have not posted many of the WIPs I had then, some of these are old, but I have definitely added to the pile since lmao

Rules: Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! Then tag as many people as you have WIPs

Avatar Sokka (Learned to Cary Love on Ao3)

Cold is the Night

Zukka Festival Fuck

Leylines

Upward Over the Mountain

Grand Theft Appa

Like Theseus' Ship/Better in the Morning

Kanna and the Wolf

Turn left and left again, circling all the way down

Sokla prison thing idk

Zuko takes a shortcut

Zuko and the Wolf

Pain

Dragon Zuko: the first agni kai

EK spirit adopts a zuko

oh no I'm writing soul mark AU FUCK

Zukki thing (I thought that I knew love on Ao3)

That is. Uh. more people than I want to tag lmao. so I guess I'm just gonna say hey go for it if you see this and wanna post your WIPs!!

#wip ask game

[akumastrife]

"ghost in his house, ghost in your arms" // Roah (trc)

Rating: Mature Pairing: Roah with a heavy side of implied Ronsey/Pynch/Bluesey and really just the full bingo card Fandom: Raven Cycle Word Count: 2.3k For the "Ghost" prompt on the @monsterfucktoberbingo card =3 Sometimes you gotta grapple with your catholic guilt by hook up with your dead, horny bff bc he's connected to your other horny bff {Full Fic on AO3}

“It’s him,” Noah says softly mouth twisting tight. “Sorry. I can’t… He’s pacing. He’s… he’s thinking.”

Because they’re mirrors, Ronan remembers all at once. Tethered by that damn leyline. Gansey inhales, and Noah exhales.

“Yeah? ‘Bout what? C’mon, it’s Gansey, it can’t be that—”

“Blue,” Noah whispers, strained and tortured. Tragically serious and comical in one. Like… like…

Ronan swallows. Noah’s skin warms before his eyes. The room drops in temperature in comparison.

Gansey’s thinking about Blue. Is restless about it. Is tight in a specific way he can see reflected in Noah—has seen reflected in himself.

The wanting is a yawning hunger in Noah’s cavernous black eyes.

#the raven cycle #roah #ronan lynch #noah czerny #monsterfucktoberbingo #ghost #ghost sex #my writing #getting back into writing fic by being weird again ur welcome

[dhr-ao3]

recognition

recognition https://ift.tt/SO9CGDj by LumosLyra The earth rends and repairs as the leylines pulse beneath her feet, the castle slowly coming back to life with no more than the barest of touches. There’s a sense of peace–of recognition, in this bit of earth that, like her, saw fit to thrive despite countless attempts at oppression. Words: 1014, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: F/M Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy Additional Tags: Ancient magic, Pureblood Hermione Granger, Castles via AO3 works tagged 'Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy' https://ift.tt/qCnZapF March 11, 2024 at 09:46PM

#IFTTT #Dramione #Draco x Hermione

[bytheangell]

Unexpected Events

( @thehuntersmoondiscord​ 500 word prompt: Party) (Read on AO3)

When every warlock in the room begins to lose control of their magic, Lorenzo fears the worst. His immediate assumption is that it’s a set-up. Something so monumental happening during the time of his transition must be more than a coincidence. This is nothing short of sabotage, pure and simple, and the list of enemies he has who may be behind it is a mile long. After all, one does not reach the stature Lorenzo Rey has without stepping on a few toes along the way.

The party grinds to a halt and, without control of his own abilities, Lorenzo is forced to stand helpless on the sidelines. People call out in mixtures of concern, rising anxiety, and fear as warlock marks are exposed unwillingly and magic crackles in the air, uncontrolled. Lorenzo watches with horror as the wayward portal forms and moves toward one of the younger warlocks at the party, a little girl named Madzie.

And then Alexander Lightwood steps in.

Lorenzo will spend the rest of the night (and many days to follow) blaming Magnus Bane and his father for the tainted leylines. He’ll claim that the only way a Shadowhunter of all people would step in to protect a warlock child is because he knew he wouldn’t be harmed in the process, because obviously, Alexander was part of Bane’s set-up. Lorenzo will spread that rumor to everyone within earshot to secure his position of favor, but he doesn’t believe a word of it.

Not when Lorenzo sees the pure fear in Lightwood’s eyes.

Lorenzo watches every muscle in Lightwood’s body tense as the portal comes towards him with angry, buzzing magic. To his credit, Lightwood never flinches away from his protective stance in front of Madzie. The thought likely never crosses his mind, not while Lorenzo watches the panic in Lightwood's eyes and clocks the moment the Shadowhunter accepts that he is about to die. This isn't planned, not so far as Lightwood is concerned at least. It's just a man protecting someone in danger, someone he cares about.

For that man to be a Shadowhunter, and that someone a warlock he hasn't known longer than a few weeks? That, in Lorenzo's mind, is even more dangerous than if the entire scene had been planned.

Lorenzo can't risk any renewed sympathy for Magnus Bane and Alexander Lightwood, not when he worked so hard for this nomination in Magnus’ place. He can't chance anyone wanting to put their trust back in the warlock who has Shadowhunters on his side.

Lorenzo warily eyes Alexander and Magnus once the magical threat is over, critiquing this new threat in front of him and wondering what he's going to do about him before it's too late.

#lorenzo rey #alec lightwood #malec #shadowhunters #not quite 500 words but close. it's been a while #gotta get back into that short fic groove #elle writes a few deadbeat lines #hm500

[boundinparchment]

Dream a Little Dream of Me - XLI

Celestia had a cruel sense of humor. He knew this, even before his days as a student. But to be given a soulmate? Now, when he openly blasphemed against the cursed island in the sky? He would outlive you and the dreadful fated bond that haunted your shared dreams. There was little point in this. He could at least put a Vision to good use. People were nothing but disappointments. He had no use for you. Until you pulled the bow across your instrument and awoke a part of him long buried by self-hatred and arrogance. Soulmate AU; Il Dottore/Female reader w/ established personality and backstory. Slow burn. Lore and world speculation and interpretation within; follows canon story where possible. Rated Mature. Rating subject to change. Mind the tags. On AO3 here.

Zandik adjusted the veil one more time despite the fabric covering exactly what it needed to, his fingers lingering on the edge of the fabric.  A piece of absolute ingenuity, it did nothing to hinder your vision whatsoever, as if you were wearing tinted glasses in the sun; the fabric was entirely solid from the other side and hid your appearance.  

“The Tsaritsa will likely ask to see your face; other than myself, moya Tsaritsa is the only one entitled to such knowledge,” he said softly.  “No one else.  Not at present, at any rate.”

The passing touch slipped away, as it always did, and you found yourself longing for that stolen moment weeks ago.  He held himself back still.  Only this time, the distance felt like a chasm.  Emotional limitations reared their heads, familiar only in the vague sensation that reminded you of a darkened auditorium and a gaze across a library.

As soon as Omega’s hand fell from yours weeks prior, Zandik always seemed just out of reach.

You expected the trip to Snezhnaya to be similar to the one you made to the foot of the mountain that felt like a lifetime ago.  He’d since explained that leyline travel was the compression of time and space, using the world’s veins to connect one memory or sensation with oneself in order to do so.  You half-hoped that you would pack your things and the two of you would fall and arrive right where you needed to.

But his mind was elsewhere after he ripped a red star-like device from behind a false mask and a bundle of wires.  His gaze had lingered on the purple and green chess pieces in your hands and wordlessly, you held them out to him.  If Omega had them, and was passing them along, they had to be important.

Zandik took them from you and you saw them again only once, when the two of you were alone in the captain’s quarters and he called each one a Gnosis.  The ideas he posed to you were nothing new, merely offshoots of similar discussions you shared in the past about the stars and fate and what laid beyond them.  As the ship rocked on a particularly tumultuous night, you could only think of a diagram drawn in the dirt and discussions of pruning to perfect fate, perfect humanity .  

Everything felt like an echo of itself.

And now you stood in a parlor next to Zandik waiting for the Tsaritsa to call on you both, your hands aching from lack of stretching and the frozen air.  He played with the Gnoses idly, their inner power shimmering.  You had only ever met the Dendro Archon our of necessity and now here you were, about to meet the Archon known best for her ruthlessness and lack of heart.  It was easy to take comfort in the way he held his shoulders, the certainty and dash of arrogance that came from him in waves that made everyone else shift their weight and avert their eyes, all the while whispering about the success of Sumeru at every turn.

You wished you weren’t keenly aware of the handmaiden’s eyes on you as she finally escorted the two of you into the Tsaritsa’s private study.  Plenty of the whispers circulating around the Palace were about you and it had taken you several moments to process the title of ‘Lord Harbinger Dottore’ that accompanied them.  Mere glances turned into stares as if people were dissecting you; audiences of massive proportions were never a problem but you were one in a crowd back then, just another face.  

Not known to be the soulmate of a high-ranking Fatui Harbinger.

The Tsaritsa’s study was, structurally, like the rest of the Palace: crystalline, clean, opulent.  Bookshelves lined the pathway that opened up to a raised area with a large desk, a sparkling skylight above, and wide windows with a pristine view of the jagged mountains and swirling snow outside.  Off to one side, the room stretched a little to accompany a sitting area by a fireplace.  Despite the kind smile and warmth in the soft blue eyes watching you approach, it was difficult to imagine the woman standing before you ever taking comfort in the fire.

Platinum hair fell in waves, curling softly as it went from white to icy blue.  She wore, not a gown, but a beautifully pressed white dress uniform one might have reserved for court rather than a battlefield.  Epaulets of gold framed her shoulders and a red sash cut a clean line across her torso from her left shoulder to her right hip, a shining crystalline star pinned where one might consider her heart to be.

The Tsaritsa looked as if she might have been carved from the very permafrost of her kingdom and yet her expression seemed capable of melting even the most stubborn ice.

“It is good to finally see you in good company after all these years, Doctor,” she said.  “Two Gnoses and a soulmate?  Quite an unparalleled success.”

You bowed as Zandik had told you to, right hand over your heart.  With the large cloak around you, the gesture didn’t come off as polite as you preferred but the smile on the Archon’s face didn’t fade.  

And neither did your confusion.  The Dendro Archon had known about the connection between you and Zandik but it had been a matter of circumstance.  Not to mention said circumstances were tied deeply with Omega’s entire plan.  The Cryo Archon laughed softly as you turned your head to look between them for a moment.  It was not your turn to speak and you were not on familiar terms with the Tsaritsa; it would be impolite to interrupt.

Cold hands, the fingertips as blue as morning snow, lifted the veil over your eyes and tucked it back to keep it in place.  Her eyes scrutinized every part of your visage, drinking you in the way a shore pulled a tide but her kind smile never wavered.

“I do govern matters of the heart, my dear,” the Tsaritsa said, cupping your face for a moment.  “We Archons may not choose Vision bearers or fated bonds but we can identify their qualities.  It has been a long while since I last had the pleasure of such a union.  I hope you find my land to your liking.”

She took your hands in hers, finding your calluses with ease, your fingers stiff.

“You will have to play for me, sometime.  If you’re skilled with a piano, there is one in a salon that’s never seen much use.  It is yours should you ever wish to play it.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” you replied when she folded your hands together and let go.

“Now, Doctor, the matter of the Gnoses…”

You kept the veil lifted as you watched Zandik hand over the two chess pieces, Omega’s apology changing hands once more.

When the Segment handed them to you, forced your fingers around the powerful beacons, you wished you’d known how imperative they were then and there.  If you had understood then what you did now, after several seasick days and discussions about the divine, you would have at least had the nerve to speak.  Not that Omega deserved anything after the mess he made of your memories and your fated bond.  

Most of the conversation passed in a mix of words you understood and names you had no reference for.  Something about Fontaine, about Natlan, and two more Gnoses left.

“We shall speak of this another time, then,” the Tsaritsa concluded.  “You have…quite a workload waiting for you, according to Lord Pantalone.”

Zandik said nothing, only bowing in a similar fashion as he did upon greeting the Tsaritsa.  You followed suit, wondering all the while what kind of god the Tsaritsa was to earn the respect of a heretic like your soulmate.

The laboratories were far into the depths of the Palace.  You had known the stairs of opera houses and theatres, of grand mansions and more, but nothing quite compared to the endless flights between the heart of the Palace and the underground facilities.  More than once, you had to stop, even going so far as to return the cloak to Zandik before you grew too overheated.  He draped it over his shoulders, unbothered by the extra layer.

“Please tell me elevators travel this far down, Zandik.”

“They do.”

“Then why—”

His fingers pushed the edge of the veil up, tangled in your hair, and his other hand reached up to remove his own mask.  He wasn’t one for sleep, not consistently, something you’d known for years due to the strange schedule your dreams followed.  Whatever Omega had done, however, had taken its toll; his eyes were strained, the bruises beneath them darker than the last time you saw his face, and the usual spark behind them was dim, just like his earring.  Not unlike a candle burning the last of its wick.

Moments like this made you question the existence of the chasm you swore you felt.  He gave in, only when he was certain you were hidden from others.  For all but a few minutes, you felt closer to him again.  Another moment, stolen in the mere minutes you were given as of late.

Zandik inhaled deeply, slowly, your heart racing of its own accord at his proximity as the cloak fell around both of you.  If anyone were to see you, they might have the very wrong idea of what was transpiring, which certainly didn’t help .  You brought a hand to his cheek and rested the other on his neck, dipping a finger beneath the leather choker to pull him back ever so slightly so you could look him in the eye again.

“Zandik…”

The hand in your hair tugged a little before loosened its grip, as if he was catching himself.  Whenever he touched you, it wasn’t for long as of late.

If Omega managed to mess up your memories, you could only imagine what he must have done to Zandik’s own consciousness in his last few moments.

You blinked away a memory of Omega, face streaked with oil, struggling to close the necessary distance.

Zandik released a breath through his teeth, his eyes tracing the wall behind you before he settled his gaze on you again.

“It would be best if you took up the Tsaritsa’s offer,” he whispered, his fingers in your hair tense again before they pulled away to fix the stray pieces.  “There are several plans that need my attention; you will need to occupy yourself and I will not keep you as...”

“As Omega did,” you finished for him.

“Precisely.  I will not deny that a part of me would prefer to keep you to myself but that would be a disservice to you.”

He leaned into your touch ever so slightly and closed his eyes.  For a moment, he looked at peace, and your chest ached at the way minute parts of him relaxed against you.  He was, genuinely, trying; there was no impression he was doing anything to the contrary, not during the ship ride over, and certainly not now.

“I sent a letter ahead of us when we docked,” Zandik said, standing straight again.  “Of all of the other Harbingers, Pantalone is…a colleague I’ve come to a mutual understanding with.  He will likely already be down in the lab or arrive soon enough.”

“Pantalone?”

The Tsaritsa mentioned someone by that name, you recalled.  Another Harbinger, from the sound of it.  

“He’s polite enough, as only a banker can be,” he continued.  “Perceptive, of course.”

Your lips pulled into a thoughtful frown.  You would, inevitably, run into people who put pieces together as easily as if they were doing a jigsaw puzzle.  After all, you were a foreigner and there were only so many purposes for someone in your position.

In the distance, you felt the rumble of a boiler kicking on, and you counted the beats between valve openings for a moment before you spoke.

“Is there a point to hiding my face, then?  Doesn’t this,” you gestured to your veil, “draw more attention to me?”

“The attention of a new presence is quick to pass.  Not hiding your face would be indicative of not being my equal, which would put you at a disadvantage; you were quite clear that, if you came with me, it would not be with the intention of being anything less than what you are to me and I have no desire to put you in such a position.  Those with public facing roles, and lesser ranks, must show their face and their identities are masks in and of themselves.  Pantalone is the head of Northland Bank in its entirety, for example, but he is also the Ninth Harbinger.  Such identities feed one another but conversely they are precisely what hold him back.”

You let your hands drift from his face and his neck to his chest, pulling them back in the heat of the cloak.

“We will deal with the hypotheticals of any problems as they become reality,” Zandik concluded.

He sounded as if he was speaking more to himself than to you but you nodded in agreement nonetheless.  He replaced his mask and you straightened the eye veil again before continuing down the stairway.

When you passed through a set of grandiose doors and stepped into the large workspace, you were greeted by the sight of a man with black hair waving away a gurney.  He looked every bit a businessman in his sleek attire (Liyue-inspired, you guessed), dressed in black with hints of purple and a set of spectacles perched on his nose.  You saw a hint of gold behind his glasses as he looked Zandik over, as if taking inventory of a shelf, but he closed them again as he smiled and folded his hands.  

“You certainly took your time,” the stranger said.  “I have other appointments to keep, Doctor.”

Zandik scoffed.  “Like what, Regrator, cutting yourself?  How do you manage to slice your hand when all you do is accounting?”

The man before you was entirely unfazed by the jab; in fact, you swore his smile grew wider.

“The same way you manage to simultaneously collapse in at least ten different places at the same time,” he replied.

You schooled your lips, reminding yourself that your mouth was still visible.  So he, too, knew about the Segmentation?  How many more knew about them?  Or was it an open secret that Zandik had kept branches of himself and used them for all sorts of purposes?

“Better than collapsing only once and dealing with it in intervals.  Get it all out of the way, you know?  Wouldn’t you call that economical , Regrator?”

Judging by the tilt of the other man’s head and his tight smile, you gathered he could think of a million things to call the phenomena and not a single one of them was economical.  

“It’s quite rude not to shed some light on your…endeavors, Doctor.  No word, no warning, reports of you collapsing everywhere and no one having a plan.  Not to mention your…intriguing companion.”

He turned his attention to you and your blood iced over as his eyes opened and focused on you.  That shade of gold was only rivaled by mora itself, you thought, but mora at least retained some sort of warmth.

“I am Pantalone, Ninth of the Eleven Fatui Harbingers.  It is rare to see our Doctor in the company of others.  Whom do I have the grace of meeting?”

You gave your name, along with the gesture of respect you gave the Tsaritsa.  When you looked up again, no smile graced Pantalone’s lips.  In fact, you speaking seemed to have his mood worse somehow.

“You are from Fontaine, mademoiselle?”

“Yes.”

“And yet the ship you were on came straight from Sumeru—”

“Are you done, Regrator?  I believe there are more important matters to address than the company I keep.”

A sharpness in the air hung high, like the guillotine that the Hydro Archon loved to make use of.  Unspoken questions that would be asked when you weren’t there.  Pantalone’s gaze shifted from you to Zandik, staring for a moment, before he spoke again.

“I was only ensuring that she was given the respect of an introduction, Doctor.  But yes, if you would allow me to explain what, precisely , has been done in your absence regarding the…prostheses.”

You made to follow Zandik (after all, why would you not go with him, after what you’d witnessed?) only to see Zandik shake his head.  His hair curled around the crystal earring, the jewel dull and lifeless, like a man at the gallows.

“I will be back shortly.  There’s little reason for you to accompany me.”

With Pantalone lingering in the background, you were in no position to barter and argue against him.  It was one thing when you were alone; it was another to have a lower rank Harbinger witness the Second bicker with who was, effectively, a stranger.  On the journey over, you were reminded that a Harbinger’s rank was not just a social one but a military one as well.  Authority could not, should not, be usurped.  The consequences were not just social embarrassment.

You gave a small nod and you watched the two men cross the threshold into another room, the chilled air spilling out and curling like a cat by a fire.  The heavy door closed behind them and you were left alone in the large space.  

The stone walls were illuminated at intervals just large enough to keep the shadows at bay but when you looked up, the ceiling was swallowed by darkness.  It was too large to be a workshop in and of itself but you caught piles of parts off to one side, organized by part and then by size, and in a corner you caught a smaller version of the machine you saw in the mountains, partially dismantled.  

The flagstones beneath your first were not without questionable stains and you tried not to think too hard about their source.  You hummed a few bars of notes quietly as you inspected the rest of the open space; down a corridor, you found a well-stocked and sizeable library, and then an office, shelves cluttered with more books, along with jars of what must have been specimens, and various trinkets and mechanical pieces.  

You picked up a mask, different than the one Zandik wore now, with only the eyes and a corner of the mouth cut out.  A black and white pattern, with the sigil of the Fatui, decorated the surface, and you tried to imagine how he might look in it, red eyes shining.  It wouldn’t have looked right on Zandik now, not with the way his hair was.  But a younger version of him, the false memory of a student of the Akademiya who shared a picnic at sunset with you, came to mind instead.

Putting it down, you continued humming, trying to commit the notes and patterns to memory to write them down later as you returned to the large open area.  Zandik and Pantalone were already finished, it appeared, and as you drew closer, you heard parts of the conversation.

“Don’t tell me you actually have a soulmate, Doctor.”

You tried not to think about the way Pantalone said the word, as if it were acid to be spit.

“You’re the last person to ever consider any kind of action by the Heavenly Principles to be worth the trouble.  How do you know she isn’t lying?”

“The prostheses weren’t the only things Omega saw fit to take matters into his own hands with, Regrator.”

The command in his voice said everything words didn’t: drop the matter at once.

You caught a flash of anger across Pantalone’s face that vanished as soon as both men saw you approach.  Pantalone closed his eyes as he smiled this time before he spoke.

“Be careful in your wanderings, mademoiselle; you never know what you’ll find in the depths of the Palace.  The Doctor has spent many a decade creating all sorts of monstrous fiends and mechanical deathtraps.”

“I’ll keep that in that mind, Lord Pantalone,” you replied evenly, bowing slightly out of deference.

You hated how easily your muscles remembered certain things; tones to use, gestures to exhibit submission and respect.  The culture was different but the ego of a man with a lot of money and power and every desire to gain more of it was universal.  Your skin crawled at the memories that swam to the surface and you swore you felt old bruises blossom across your flesh in an instant.

“I appreciate your thorough work as always, Pantalone,” Zandik said.  “I’ll take it from here.”

“Excellent.  I tire of seeing your face anyway.”

With a polite bow to you and a murmuring of titles, the large doors to the facility slammed shut and you were finally left alone with Zandik again.

“He seems…delightful,” you said after a beat.  “And he’s the only colleague of the Harbingers you get along with?”

Zandik’s jaw clenched and then unclenched as he kept his gaze on the doors for a full beat longer than necessary.

“I would consider him…not unlike those you spent your time with in your orchestra.  Tolerable at best but the options to pick from are…subpar.”

He held out a hand towards you and you closed the distance to take it, allowing yourself to be enveloped by the cloak again.  You wanted to ask about the conversation you overheard but the heavy sigh that escaped Zandik shoved that thought aside.  The room, no doubt, held something related to what had happened over the last few weeks, and only seemed to have taken a heavier toll on him.

“You would prefer to go straight to work,” you stated.

“There is too much to be done and I am without the means to delegate my workload,” Zandik replied tersely.  “I must.”

“Tomorrow.”

He scoffed and you turned to face him entirely.

“One day of rest won’t kill you.  Overworking yourself might.”

“And one day of rest won’t be enough to repair—”

You reached up and took his mask off carefully, as he had shown you how to, disregarding the door nearby.

“You can have tomorrow, Zandik.  Everything will be here tomorrow, too.”

Weary eyes looked at you.  His mouth was partially open in further protest until he exhaled and looked away.  He might work through it anyway, you knew well enough, but you wouldn’t be able to rest yourself if you didn’t try.

“As you wish.  But don’t anticipate subliminal results.  I’ve never been one to be idle.”

The sitting room looked exactly as it did in the first dream you saw it in.  Directly across from you was a series of windows nestled among stone light enough to reflect daylight when it was present.  The ceiling was still covered in geometric patterns that, if you looked at them too long, you would be lost in their designs; a mimicry of the plush area rugs in various shades of blue.  

Familiar chairs and sofas, a coffee table marked at the exact spot used to rest metal boot heels, sat in the center of the room.  Bookshelves covered the walls, an unlit fireplace sat right where you recalled it being.

The rest of the suite wasn’t much better.  Objects and furniture you expected to be in one area were in another, some rooms didn’t exist, and when you asked about direct access to the labs, Zandik chuckled.

“As if I would risk any back entry to my private rooms to be exploited,” he said.

He’d meant it teasingly.

It didn’t stop the hair on the back of your neck and arms from standing up.  Even as you picked from a tray brought up to the room, washed up, dug through your belongings, you felt off-kilter.  It was impossible to shake the sensation both that you were being watched and that you were utterly alone.

Déjà vu felt like too weak of an experience.

Not helped, of course, by Zandik picking through correspondence and moving about the rooms on autopilot.  He was no doubt trying to ground himself while trying to relax per your ask, at least to the best of his abilities.

He wasn’t one for compliance; others complied with him, not the other way around.

The bed (hardly used, Zandik admitted), was far more welcoming than you anticipated.  Smooth sheets, warm blankets, supportive without being too firm.  Falling asleep was easy; your body was exhausted and your mind only had so much bandwidth before it, too, gave in.

Staying asleep was another matter.

By the time you realized you were dreaming, it was impossible to stop.  Omega, pulling you away from your work, crowding you, invading you.  Hands on your face, your neck, as the smile above you faltered and twitched, barely choking out final words you wished you could forget.  Blue liquid ran from unsee eyes and the weight above you went slack.  

You struggled against the pressure on top of you only to feel your arms restrained and hear your name called as if you were deep underwater.  Gasp after gasp never felt like enough and when you came face to face with wide red eyes with even darker circles beneath them, you could only let out a silent scream as your vision blurred.

“You’re awake, you’re safe,” you heard, Zandik’s voice gravelly with sleep.  “Breathe.”

Your lungs didn’t want to work but you did as he said, inhaling and exhaling as he counted.  Just as you focused on the rhythm of a metronome, you let the cadence and beat of Zandik’s counting guide you until the noose around your lungs loosened.  Absently, your fingers twitched, desiring nothing more than to hear and feel the vibration of strings beneath them, through your very being.

Zandik only left long enough to retrieve a glass of water.  You suppressed a chill as the cold liquid ran down into the empty pit of your stomach.  

“Tell me what happened,” he said at last.

“The room,” you whispered when you found your voice again.  “The layout is different enough but Omega used much of it in the dreamscape.”

You took another sip, all the while feeling tired but determined eyes on you, observing everything.  On Omega, the sensation had been unsettling; on Zandik, it felt just like it did in every dream, even if you never actually saw his face.  Not unlike when he’d watched you summon energy from your Vision all those weeks ago.

“I dreamed but you weren’t there.  Omega was.  Started out as if the…experiment never stopped.  Only it turned into the Sanctuary and instead of him falling before me, he fell on top of me and—and you’re right here and instead of you, I get—”

Your words died as your throat and lungs tightened again, your mind seeing the image all too clear.

Hands pried yours off of the water glass, took it away, and then smoothed your hair out of your face.  

“It was only a nightmare,” Zandik said steadily.  “No one else is here.  Just me.”

In the waking world, your mind understood it so easily; without the dreams and in a different location, you were under the assumption your subconscious knew the difference too.

Arms reached around you, awkward in their embrace but no less well-intended.  You thought of a flower, crystalized in Cryo nestled safely in your bag.  Lips found your hairline, your forehead, your temple, each brush a promise.  

“Time is required,” he whispered.  “Such a situation cannot be handled without a great deal of research and observation first.  It is not my usual approach but I am beginning to find you are the exception in most things.  And therefore I must accommodate you accordingly.”

You leaned into him, hands reaching for the soft material of his sleep shirt as you closed your eyes and breathed in his scent.  You didn’t remember falling asleep again but the next time you opened your eyes, it was to find the room bathed in crisp morning light, the sky outside streaked with pink and orange.  

Beside you, the bed was empty, cold.

The only indication that last night’s moment wasn’t a dream in itself were the rumpled sheets and pillow, long since abandoned in favor of work.  A sentiment you could understand as you dressed, longing to put the notes in your mind to paper, to hear them properly.  A need that, if denied for too long, would rupture rather than blossom.

Perhaps you would take up the Tsaritsa’s offer after all.

#fic: dream a little dream of me #il dottore #dottore #dottore x reader #il dottore x reader #soulmate au #dottore/reader #il dottore/reader #il dottore x female reader #dottore x female reader #dottore/female reader #il dottore/female reader

[dandelion-wings]

Ragnbros and 12? :o

I love how I keep saying I'm going to keep these under 500 words and then writing like... double that. Anyway I kept thinking about circumstances in which one of them might ask the other for help, and so it was almost about Adelinde instead, but then at the barn this morning I had an even worse thought, and that's the one I ran with.

ETA: Now archived on AO3.

---

Kaeya doesn't have to wonder *why* Diluc picked the Delusion up. Their foes are innumerable, literally so; every one who falls comes climbing back to its feet, if that's the right word, within moments, or if it's too badly broken dissolves into a dark mist that reforms into more of this domain's shadowy foes. It's peril enough to have them fighting side-by-side with the Fatui who'd stumbled into it with them.

So when the last Fatuus had fallen, directly at Diluc's feet, Kaeya can understand the temptation that had led him to reach down and wrench the woman's weapon from her hands before she dissolved into the shadows herself. Diluc has used a Delusion before, after all. Kaeya doesn't even worry. He doesn't have the time. And he trusts Diluc to know what he can handle.

The Delusion serves him well. Diluc manages to buy them a brief breathing space, every foe within twenty feet toppled by a massive Overload and only gradually reforming. In that space he must spot something, because he nudges Kaeya's shoulder with his own.

"That way," he says tersely, pointing, and then sets off without looking back, in full expectation that Kaeya will follow.

Which he does, of course. There's only ever been one time he hasn't.

Soon enough Diluc's instinct proves correct. (Or maybe his observation. You *can* see a bit better with two open eyes.) As he carves a path through their enemies and up a set of crumbling stairs, a ley line monument rears up at the top. It's wreathed in the same moving shadow that their foes arise from, thick with the stench of the Abyss. Diluc swings at it without hesitation, and Kaeya moves in to do the same, Melt and Superconduct and Overload together cracking smoothed stone and shattering the monument from top to base.

The shadows that had been many small monsters coalesce into one in its rubble, and they're once again fighting for their lives--but this time the battle is for keeps. At the end the thing crumples not into more shadow but into light, whatever remnants of memory it once had been draining back into the leylines until the day they gather together again. A day that will hopefully come far enough in the future that Kaeya and Diluc won't have to deal with it again.

Kaeya flicks absent blood from his blade in an unthinking motion before sheathing it with a flourish and turning to Diluc. "Now, can you lead us back out, as well, or is it my turn to-"

Diluc is doubled over on the floor, clawing at the pendant that he'd jerked from around her neck. Static sparks from it, blackening his fingers as he tries to get it loose. Chains stretch from it to wrap around his throat, dark and barbed and far too familiar. Kaeya's breath catches in his throat.

Looking up at him, Diluc's eyes are hard and shadowed and full of the same terrible memory that chokes Kaeya. *"Help me,"* he mouths.

For one frozen moment, the only thought in Kaeya's mind is: was that an echo?

Then he shakes it off and drops to his knees beside Diluc, reaching himself for the Delusion. It jolts against his hands, too, the Electro worse than any shock Lisa has ever given him, but he grits his teeth and gets a grip and tugs--and the chains only tighten. He reaches for them next, but there's no *end* to them, no clasp, the length disappearing into the Delusion's glow on either side and winding tighter and tighter around Diluc's neck. He can hear Diluc gagging as it chokes him.

His brother is sheet-white, slumped over, his hands trembling so hard he can barely fumble at the Delusion any longer. The light in his Vision gutters ominously. Kaeya tries to slip a hand between the chains and flesh and gets shocked so hard it slams him flat onto his back for the trouble. He sits up, hissing out a curse, and catches sight of Diluc's eyes again: wide now, afraid, terrified and open in the way Kaeya hasn't seen him since- well.

*"Help me,"* he mouths again, and his hand drops to the hilt of the claymore, seizing convulsively around it, though he seems drained of any strength to lift it from his sheath.

Ah.

"Sorry," Kaeya says, reaching out again and grasping the Delusion tight. "I've never been as good as you are at letting go."

He makes himself ignore how its power crackles up his arm. He pours Cryo into it in response, insulating against the Electro, pushing back just as hard. Ice flows over the metal in which that shadowy violet pendant is set, over the chains, over Diluc's skin. Flesh that had been sheet-white goes blue with cold. Kaeya's own fingers are darkening and going numb.

Not enough. He forces more Cryo through, letting it sink into the metal until he can feel the cold radiating from it. Then he draws his sword. Diluc tilts his head back the little bit he can, a look of acceptance in his eye. Kaeya doesn't roll his own. He's proud of himself for that.

Spinning it in his hand, he brings the hilt down. Not against the chain; it would be frozen brittle if it was metal, but it's not, not truly, not emerging from the Delusion like it's a living thing. No, he slams it against the metal casing around the Delusion's edge. The metal shatters, and he yanks the Delusion free.

His numb hand is still clenched around it. Kaeya drops the sword and pries it from his own fingers, then hurls it away, off down the stairs, watching with satisfaction as it skitters all the way down and then goes careening off the edge of a crumbling walkway into the shadowy haze of the Abyss far below.

Then he turns back to Diluc, watching with equal satisfaction as his brother gasps and hacks and sucks in air. He's still paler than white, greyish and almost translucent around the edges, but the glow in his Vision, while dim, has stopped guttering. Kaeya catches his shaking hand before he can lift it to rub at his neck.

"We'll need Bennett to see to that," he says, deliberately light, ignoring the chill all through him. "But first, it seems it *is* my turn to lead the way."

Diluc looks at him, that openness lingering raw in his gaze. Kaeya can see his face shift as he shutters it away. Then he nods, starts to rise, hisses when his knee gives out under him, and holds himself stiff and unyielding as Kaeya gets a grip on his arm and hauls him to his feet. Behind them, past the ley line monument, an opening has appeared in the wall.

"Come on, don't freeze up on me," he teases Diluc, taking on as much of his weight as he can and pretending not to notice how his brother is still shaking. He chuckles at Diluc's hiss of distaste for the joke. It's better to laugh than to acknowledge that he's shaking, too.

#if i was NOT trying to keep this short i feel like it wants to be like. a 5k oneshot with a lot more angst #but i compressed it as much as possible and if that hurts buildup and characterization then them's the breaks #but i do hope you enjoy it anyway! <3 #asked and answered #why not meme i guess #diluc and kaeya need so much therapy #ascended fic

[fheythfully]

past the edge of my beliefs (FFXIV)

Wordcount: 3,855 Summary: She looks up at Hyth and braces herself for the question she's wanted to ask and has been too scared to for months. “Whose bones is this city built on?” Brilliant, shining Amaurot, City of Miracles--floating high on its throne in the clouds, looking down on all lesser existence below. She has never left its massive gates; has never met anyone who has. What's down there, other than what she reads about in history books? Oceans, cities, town squares--who else occupies this world besides them? Kind, patient Hythlodaeus carefully removes his spoon and settles it against the rim of his cup. His gentle smile is full of dark things she cannot name.

[an AU where the Ascians win.]

Originally written in 2020/2021. Click the read more or visit AO3 (login required).

The woman in her bedroom mirror has a tail.

A rather spectacular oddity, as Astra herself does not have one. Last she checked she owned all the standard sets of limbs for a human, ten toes and fingers included. A tail had not been part of the package when she'd retired for bed the night prior, or even at the unholy mid-night hour she'd gotten up to shut her window against the blare of car sirens. But there in the mirror, before she'd even had her morning coffee, swayed a tail delicately behind her as if it was nothing but an innocent dandelion attached to her posterior.

For the sixth time, she peers behind her.

The mirror tail did not exist.

Yet in the mirror it twitches, pale hair silvery in the early morning light.

Astra sighs and continues with her morning routine.

She watches it sway nonchalantly behind her as she walks the length of her apartment, reflected in the many mirrors lining her walls (house of mirrors, her friends jokingly call her seventh floor condo). It lingers through the fabric of her pantsuit as if it is the most natural thing to exist, moving about her as she goes through her morning. In the kitchen she settles on one of her well worn leather stools and takes a deep pull of coffee, angling the pot to watch the tail dance around her legs in the reflective surface.

Really, she shouldn't be as surprised as she is. Strange things happen in Amaurot, the City of Miracles. She had just not pegged one of them happening to her. Out of all the possibilities--mirages of alien cities in the city Center; phantom creatures walking amongst everyday citizens; fantastical monsters towering into the sky before flickering out of existence--she had to get a tail? She lived over the nexus of the planet's leylines, attracting all sorts of other existences, and all she personally got was a tail? 

Grimacing, she pulls a dark strand of her hair out of where it had caught on the rim of her mug.

Well, at least it wasn't physically there for others to gawk at.

.

.

Nothing nearly as exciting occurs for the rest of her day. Despite passing by plenty of reflective surfaces, no one makes a remark on the appendage trailing behind her like some strange flag. Paranoia makes her wonder if everyone sees it and is just too polite to say anything, or perhaps so used to the ongoings of the city that seeing a ghost tail barely makes it on to their radar and she is the only one finding it strange.

She mulls these thoughts over her third coffee of the day on her lunch break. A cooling breeze brings with it the scent of brine (the one below the city is too far to carry; some other world’s ocean makes itself known) and she unwinds her hair and tips her head to the back of the bench to enjoy the late spring sunshine. Peacefully, she closes her eyes.

“Ah, you must be the owner of this illustrious gallery. I've been keen to meet with you.”

She opens her eyes. A man of middle age and non descriptive features stands before her, hands behind his back. A smile pulls at his lips as he watches her gather her wits.

She's always been quick on the draw. “A pleasure.” Standing, she offers her hand for a shake. The stranger’s grip is strong as he takes her hand in his and, unexpectedly, brings her knuckles to his lips.

She should pull away but doesn't. The motion is neither charming nor creepy; his mouth brushes over her skin and it somehow just is. An old greeting seen only in films between strangers and secret lovers, and he most certainly would not fall into the latter category.

His smile deepens, not unkindly. “The pleasure is all mine. You must indeed be Astraea, then?”

She nods. The skin where his lips touched tingles strangely. Her other hand is still gripping her coffee, and she waves it vaguely in the direction of the gallery behind her. Her pride and joy: owner at the tender age of 27, beautifully curated and lauded in the pages of the city’s papers. She could have done worse for her career. “Yes. Are you interested in displaying?”

The man shakes his head. His long, braided lavender hair is reminiscent of the tail she knows sways behind her and she wonders if he too can see it in the paneling bouncing off sunlight of the gallery. “No, I'm not an artist myself, although I am a great admirer. I'm more of an archivist, you could say.” He cuts himself off and laughs. “Well, I am an archivist. For the government archives. I am currently gathering the history of Amaurot’s public entertainment venues. Would you be interested in an interview?”

And so begins her professional friendship with the man named Hythlodaeus.

.

.

A week later they sit together in her office, her sipping a coffee (of course) and him enjoying a cup of white tea. The recorder at his side has been paused as they break for a light lunch. Hythlodaeus stirs in two cubes of sugar with an unhurried hand, the other cradling his chin as he stares into the far distance behind the room’s large windows.

“You bear her name,” he says suddenly. His words break the polite silence between them and she pulls away from the email she had just been finishing.

 “Excuse me?”

“You bear her name,” he repeats as if she hadn't heard him the first time. “But you are overwhelmingly much like the Other. She would have razed this city to the ground, had she known what bones it was built on.”

Astra fixes him with an unimpressed stare. It does nothing to help quell the sense of unease that rises, inexplicably, in the pit of her stomach. “I don't know which “Astraea” you speak of, but there is only me in this city.” She knows. She'd checked on a strange whim some time back. A city of thousands and only her alone. “Your friend sounds rather violent.”

Her guest’s eyes turn towards her. The smile he seems to constantly wear on his face widens, teasing. Foreboding? Her mind supplies. Astra pushes it away.

“Are you so sure?” He asks. One pale eyebrow had risen to express his doubt at her assertion. “That you are not only a woman named such, but also the only one? All the ghosts wandering our city streets, carried from unknown shores… the world outside is so very big, and we are so very small.” He brings the tea to his lips and sips. Astra remains silent, unnerved by the turn of conversation. It was a truth universally acknowledged that Amaurot sat at the Center for something greater in creation--but it was another entirely to discuss it.

The Convocation’s laws strictly ensured that no idealistic dreamer, philosopher or curious child wandered too far down that particular rabbit hole. Punishment in Amaurot was far and between, but a visit from the Thirteen’s office was never a pleasant one nevertheless.

“Is this part of the interview?” She asks after a time.

Hythlodaeus, as if caught daydreaming, blinks. “No, just the wonderings of the city’s archivist. Forgive me for the strange turn in conversation.”

Cautiously, she nods. The interview goes on. After he leaves and she is cleaning up where he'd sat, she spots some loose sheafs of paper fallen out of his briefcase.

One of them reads, in an elegant hand:

If you listen closely, do you hear her scream?

.

.

Surprisingly, the man’s oddities for rambling is not a hurdle she cannot clear and they soon transition from the professional environment to what she has tentatively begun to call friendship. There is something appealing about Hythlodaeus, from his pleasant demeanour to unexpectedly quick wit and humour. Spring’s passed and the heat of summer’s set in and she has managed to all but forget that strange afternoon in her office, sitting outside an ice cream parlour with Hythlodaeus across from her. 

She's chosen a raspberry concoction that melts in her mouth while Hyth’s poking at a coffee and vanilla dish before him. Flowers in bloom line the streets, bees dancing in and out of blossoms. Amaurot is beautiful in its lazy, buttery sunshine; a mother and child laugh across the street. A couple giggles closely together as they pass by. An elegant, towering woman with leporine ears wanders past close enough to touch and the street flickering through where her body should be.

Hyth is humming some song off key beneath his breath. Astra strains her ears to hear him.

“Honeybee, I  can't imagine how my life would be, if all your gravity did not hit me…”

The child across the street, in a fit of emotions specific to children, has begun crying. Out of the corner of her eyes Astra sees the mother lean down to comfort the hurt--a finger held out.

A bee sting. The child had stuck its hands somewhere they did not belong.

“Oh, don't you see, darling, my honeybee…” 

Her mouth tastes like honey and lavender. She takes another bite of raspberry ice cream and watches the tail behind her dance in the windows of passing cars.

.

.

She hums the words to herself before bed, brushing her hair and readying her bed. They follow her into sleep where she dreams of a quaint two bedroom home by the sea and a garden bursting with lavender. A mother with a tail like hers and cat’s ears where human ones should be sings the song to her daughter, picking vegetables and dropping them in the basket the girl dutifully carries.

Look around, we made a garden of the love we found…

The girl joins in, reedy voice carrying in the wind and ocean breeze. 

And if our world comes tumbling down, I never could forgive myself, I'll say it now…

Her dress sways around her as she swings her basket, careless of the vegetables falling out. A great red moon begins its descent in the blue skies behind her.

You're the one, you are the only one.

.

.

Hyth introduces her to a secret one August night: a rooftop garden in Convocation Square, accessible if you know the right people. Thankfully, he brags to her, you do.

She's not fond of the Square in her everyday life. The towering buildings feel too much like ugly teeth sprung from the ground and the carved Lord Zodiark idols built into the pillars bring a sour taste to her mouth, though the rest of the city's architecture is aesthetically pleasing to her eye. She finds herself thinking, as Hyth leads them confidently through the plaza, that the architects responsible for this part of the city and everywhere else probably didn't bother to check in with each other that often.

The view from the top makes it all worthwhile, though: this high up the cloud cover sweeps the city below them away, leaving only a soft, grey ocean coloured blue and silver by the light of the moon above. Amaurot’s eco-friendly city lights do not pierce it and the sky above is hers for the viewing, brilliant and all encompassing.

Would you describe it for me? Paint for me a picture with your words, a voice murmurs in her head.

A sea of shimmering stars. Diamonds strewn across a raven gown, boundless and beautiful, another replies.

“It's beautiful,” she breathes out. She spins slowly, arms out as she takes it all in. “I've never seen the sky like this before.”

“Shepherd to the stars,” Hyth quotes some unknown thing behind her, chuckling. “A pity. Now you have.”

They stay up there for well over an hour, just watching the sky and occasionally exchanging words. Hyth draws constellations in the sky for her, ones she had never heard of before: the Bole, the Arrow. Belias and Chaos, entwined by one single star; Hashmal, far off on its own. Zalera, shining bright right above them.

The sound of the roof door stuttering open breaks their quiet reverie. Astra turns, then quickly scrambles into a polite bow. A masked man with greying temples watches them and frowns, the lines of his mouth stark and disapproving beneath the curve of his mask.

“Hythlodaeus,” he speaks. “What do you think you're doing?”

Her friend grins. “I didn't expect you to join us. I'm just showing the sky to my friend here. It's such a lovely sight, how could I not?” He turns to her and motions for the man to join them. His eyes, as pale as the moon hanging in the sky, are kind. “Astra, may I introduce Emet-Selch of the Convocation of Thirteen? He is the city’s architect, although I saw that grimace you were pulling at the Square.”

Embarrassment burns her cheeks and ears at being called out so before one of the Convocation members. She inclines her head demurely before him, hoping the fall of her hair hides her shame. “Astraea, my lord.”

There is a heavy, expectant silence. She keeps her eyes on the ground. At last, Emet-Selch speaks. “Astraea.” He says her name as if it is a foreigner’s, voice tumbling awkwardly over the syllables. “What do you do, here in Amaurot?”

She dares to look at him and takes in the heavy line of his shoulders, the signs of aging in the way he carries himself. The Amaurotine lifespan is a long one and crassly she wonders how old he is, to show his age so clearly. “I am an artist, my lord. I manage a gallery in the western side of the city.”

He takes his time examining her. “I see. What is the name of your establishment? Perhaps I've heard of it.”

“Azem’s Steps, my lord.”

Hyth speaks up before Emet-Selch can. “You've definitely heard of it, my friend. Probably a hundred times alone from me. I've been trying to convince you to go with me for months!”

The tension in the other man’s shoulders drains. “Of course,” he mutters. “It's fitting, isn't it.” When he looks at her again, there is the barest hint of a smile on his face. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Artist Astraea. If you would, I would enjoy hearing of your gallery… This Azem.”

.

.

All her life, she's dreamt of fanciful things. As a child she began drawing them and never stopped, culminating in Azem’s Steps being opened on the eve of her 25th birthday. When a guest asked--and they always did, eventually--the inspiration for the name, Astra would laugh.

“I dreamt I was a great somebody all my life. I'd sleep and she would be great, this woman, this Azem living in my dreams. She so clearly wanted her stories to be told, and as an artist, who am I to tell her no?”

.

.

She dreams of Azem burning in a great city that night, of Azem floating in the dark matter of space, of Azem sleeping in the center of a star. She wakes up and knows, inexplicably, that Azem's story is about to end.

.

.

On a grey October morning she visits Hyth for brunch. He swirls two sugar cubes in his tea and she stares at the pristine untouched surface of her coffee. She hasn't slept well--hasn't dreamt at all--coming up on two weeks now, and it shows. There are dark bags under her eyes. The tail she's seen in reflective surfaces flickers in the corners of her eyes now, dropping in exhaustion.

She looks up at Hyth and braces herself for the question she's wanted to ask and has been too scared to for months. 

“Whose bones is this city built on?”

Brilliant, shining Amaurot, City of Miracles--floating high on its throne in the clouds, looking down on all lesser existence below. She has never left its massive gates; has never met anyone who has. What's down there, other than what she reads about in history books? Oceans, cities, town squares--who else occupies this world besides them?

Kind, patient Hythlodaeus carefully removes his spoon and settles it against the rim of his cup. His gentle smile is full of dark things she cannot name.

“Yours, my dear.”

.

.

Emet-Selch has somehow obtained her number--she suspects Hyth--and will occasionally message her. The first few times come as a surprise; she opens the notifications to find articles on the art scene, announcements about the city funneling funding into public projects. Things he would assume she’d be interested in, based on their short conversation that August night. 

His texts are few and far between but they stopped being a surprise by sometime mid September. They carry short conversations, all professional, about this and that--but she never messages him first.

She doesn't know what to say to a Convocation member. How do you befriend someone who wears a mask amongst all the maskless, who makes it their life’s duty to serve the greater good? Do people like that have hobbies--have friends? What do they do in their spare time? What do they like to discuss?

She burns to ask him, curiosity a flame deep inside of her. She smothers it with images of the teeth-like buildings he and his kin surround themselves with, of the great Lord Zodiark idols featured prominently in the buildings’ exteriors. She's been to church, attends all the required sermons and the sessions around holidays, but--

But Lord Zodiark looms above her in her mind’s eye, and she is unsettled.

.

.

The woman in her bedroom mirror has a tail. Astra peers at her posterior over her shoulder and confirms that yes, she can see it outside of the mirror, too. She cannot touch it, her fingers phasing right through its existence, but she now doesn't need to track her passing in every reflective surface to see whether or not her own miracle is still with her.

The woman in her bedroom mirror is now blonde and grey eyed too, but Astra can see her own dark hair and doesn't need to confirm this follow up miracle. She examines the woman in the mirror and she, in turn, examines her.

Are you so sure? Hyth had asked her once. That you are the only Astraea? 

Yes, she decides, watching the woman smile at her from the mirror. I am. I know I am. Because her name is something else entirely.

The woman, grey eyes shining, beams.

.

.

Her name is Satella, she decides. She has replaced Azem as the star of Astra’s dreams and in cold, snowy December as she lies bundled warmly in her goose down blanket, she dreams of Satella’s life. Of a two bedroom cottage by the ocean; of a metal beast of a building crumbling in flames; of long treks across barbaric lands and across oceans and dying. So much dying, only to be brought back with miraculous magic again and again and be made to fight.

Why do you keep going? She wonders one night, watching her bleed out into the earth.

The woman stares back at her through the veil of the sky. Why do you? 

She paints faces and places and beasts and cities until her fingers are permanently stained with paint and her studio is bursting with canvases. Her new collection attracts crowd after crowd, a fervour overtaking the populace as they come to see her art. Conversation buzzes in its usually politely quiet halls--so familiar, I feel like I've seen it in a dream once, or maybe a book, the name is on the tip of my tongue.

Astra attends every night and shakes hands and laughs politely and consoles emotional outbursts a few come to experience. It's a dream I had, she demures more often than not and, more often than not, her fellow Amaurotine will gaze at her in wonder and say--

I think I had a dream of it, too.

.

.

Emet-Selch invites her for coffee the first week of January. She has her agreement ready to hit send on but the statues of Zodiark he commissioned into the city Center--city heart--tower over her like a nightmare.

She erases her reply and stops responding. 

.

.

In February she wakes up and marvels at her own body. Why is she so--big? Where are her ears? Why can’t she feel her tail?

In March she wakes up, and marvels at her own life. How long has she had this apartment? Why have her parents not come to see her for her new art launch? Where are her friends?

In April she wakes up, and marvels at the screaming that comes from beneath the city. Why does no one else hear it?

Why does no one else hurt?

.

.

Summertime in Amaurot is lazy, warm sunshine and bees on the city streets. A child cries when they are stung. She hums to herself as she walks--

“Oh, don't you see, darling, my honeybee…”

Her gallery is closed for the month, website noting vacation hours. She wanders Amaurot until her feet hurt, until night falls and she meets Hyth at Convocation Square in the blue light of the moon. He makes pleasant conversation with her as they take the elevator to the very top of a toothy building, where a secret garden awaits her. She stretches out her arms and breathes in the fresh air, watches the clouds roll slowly and silently beneath them.

An ocean of nothing. Grey mist hiding the world below--all her life, watching the world from her place in the City of Miracles, except now she is almost like a Convocation member herself staring down at those beneath her. Watching, waiting, observing the slow motions of life year after year.

She has not met the others--only Emet-Selch--but she has seen them on her TV screen: aging beings, devoted and feared. Respected? It is the same thing, after all.

She wonders once more: how old must they be, to show their age as such in their near-immortal Amaurotine life.

She turns to Hyth, who watches the stars above them. “Did you know,” he begins, “that we once were friends? In the before.” A conversation thread picked up she wasn’t quite aware they were having, as casual as a comment on the weather. (It’s always perfectly seasonal in Amaurot: warm summers but not too warm; mild autumns with just enough rain; perfectly white winters and blooming, scented springs.)

 “But then we forgot. Or rather, you forgot and I remembered. And then we both forgot again. And on it goes.” He turns to her and holds out his hand. She reaches over and grasps it in hers, squeezing it tightly.

“It’s funny how time works, isn’t it.”

They both turn to watch the stars above them. Constellations make themselves known before her: Loghrif, Mitron. Fandanial and Nabriales.

Lahabrea.

Emet-Selch, right above them.

From her place over Amaurot, they look close enough to grasp.

She reaches up and plucks them as stones into the palm of her hand.

#i finally decided to publish this instead of having it sit in google docs for literal years #not my best writing but i've grown to appreciate this piece #my writing #ffxiv #final fantasy xiv

[solarisrasa]

All I Could Bring Myself to Want is You pt 14: Final

A Malec fic canon divergent from the moment Alec hands the Family Ring back to Maryse Lightwood.

Read it here on Ao3

smut below

part thirteen

  Magnus stood perfectly alone on a platform of magic held steady over the furthest edge of Alicante.

 In front of him the city of Alicante spread, sharp towers and buildings with flowing greenery, a city touched by the angels. For all the bad that Shadowhunters had wrought in time, their city was peaceful and beautiful, even the areas he could see were still being rebuilt. It was a testament to resilience, both because it still stood after the rift had torn open its sky and because for centuries no electrical device had worked within its boundaries. He wondered how quickly the Nephilim within would be to change their methods now.

 Without the demon towers casting adamas resonant magic over the city most technology would finally function in the city of glass. He thought it was a little sad that they might lose some of their older ways but sometimes leaving things behind was okay. Somewhere in the small throng behind him, Alexander was watching him and that gave Magnus incentive to add a little extra flare.

 He conjured flaming blue trails of his power into his hands, letting it play over his fingers slowly and smiling when he heard the sound of Alec’s small, embarrassed cough.

     Got him.  

 Magnus brought his hands together letting the blue pool and then build upon itself between his cupped palms. Slowly he pushed it out over Alicante, watching it spread from his hands to create a massive net that was little more than a distant shimmer at its furthest edge. He breathed in, pulling his hands toward himself and then pushing back out, letting power roll out of him like a great tide. The net glittered with power and woven tighter, sinking around the city to create a great glowing dome of magic. With the initial ward covering the whole of Alicante and just beyond, he was ready to do the real meat of the work.

 He dug his hands into the edge that reached him and let his awareness sink into the ward. His eyes burned gold and then fluttered closed and he followed the ebb and flow of the natural energy beneath, around, within, himself and the city. It might have been minutes or hours, but eventually he came back to himself.

 The dome was fading from sight but Magnus could see the intricately laid wards, the way the net was woven tight and strong around them, pulsing with the power of the leyline that Magnus had sunk its anchor into. He let out a breath, feeling the strain of using so much magic though he purposely let himself sag more. It wouldn’t do to let on just how much power he had left after that display.

 The platform he was on slowly lowered, the Spiral council watching him carefully as he stepped off. They were undoubtedly wary. More than the Shadowhunters, they would know exactly how powerful he had to be to create the ward that now settled over Alicante. They had doubted he’d have the strength to weave a full ward base over an entire city, let alone create the impenetrable shield that he had.

 Alec separated from the watching Clave, smiling brightly and catching his hands. His hazel eyes darted over Magnus, no doubt ensuring he was alright and a knowing light came to them. Magnus fought the urge to laugh, especially when Alec quirked an impressed eyebrow. He absolutely knew that, though Magnus was tired, he could still take the Spiral council with a hand behind his back. Alec tugged him into a tight hug, “Show-off.”

 “Guilty.” Magnus bit back, pressing his face into Alec’s shoulder and hiding his grin.

 “I enjoyed the show though. Enough that you and I are going to pretend you are much, much worse off than you really are. I demand a full day in bed.” Alec whispered into his ear, pressing a kiss to his hair.

 Magnus’ eyes widened and he let his muscles go loose, by all appearances collapsing against Alec.

 “Your wish, Alexander, is my command.” He muttered back.

 Alec gathered him close and in a louder, more worried tone asked, “Magnus? Are you alright?”

 He made a show of leaning back to look at Alec with his glamour down, “I’ll be alright Alexander. I just need to rest after an expending of magic like that. I can meet you at home?”

 Alec scowled at him before his expression shifted back into contrived worry, well, Magnus amended, mostly contrived.

 “I’m not letting you portal home and you look like you’ll pass out if you walk.”

 Alec turned toward the Spiral council, who looked a little relieved (though whether it was because Magnus’ apparent exhaustion or because Alec was clearly going to demand the event be wrapped up, Magnus wasn’t sure) and the Clave.

 “The city is warded. I’m sure that our guests,” he inclined his head respectfully toward the member of the Spiral council, “can testify to the strength of the wards. If it’s alright, consul. Councilors, I would like to take Magnus home so he can rest as I’m sure you can all see how much magic he’s expended to protect us?”

 Jia definitely knew they were playing it up but she didn’t do anything to stop them, just waved them away with a nod. Most of the councilors didn’t seem to care and a few offered Magnus smiles and nods of thanks. They were planning a proper thank you and an official welcoming      thing    in the city square the next day where Magnus would be expected to light the wards for the Nephilim to      oh    and      ah    over as they pleased.

 Alec didn’t hesitate once he’d been given permission to leave, he helped (dragged) Magnus out of view of the others and let him go. They looked at one another for a long moment and then Magnus snapped a portal into place, lips twitching.

 They stepped into their living room, both laughing as the magic faded behind them. Alec was leaning against him, grinning around loud laughter.

 “Oh, that was good.” Magnus wiped under his eye.

 A warm hand cupped his cheek in a familiar motion, “You’re really alright, right?”

 He pressed a kiss to Alexander’s palm, “Right. Before that much magic would’ve left me unconscious, though it was still      technically    within my reach. Now? I’m tired but no more than I was after healing Luke when he became alpha.”

 They share a fond smile at the memory and then Alec is pulling away.

 “Jace is out for the rest of the day and probably most of the evening...would you like a bath?”

 Magnus draped his arms just      so    around himself, raising one hand to rub at his own lower lip and smiling a little at the way Alec’s gaze darted down to watch the movement, “I would like that very much Alexander. I still have one more act of great magic to do tonight, after all.”

 Alec’s cheeks colored in the way that Magnus loved, and he turned for their bathroom.

 -

 Naked, his back pressed to Magnus’ chest in the wide tub that had replaced their cramped New York apartment bathroom, Alec couldn’t think of a more perfect way to spend the afternoon. Magnus’ hands trailed over his chest, fingers tracing the blank spot where Catarina’s mark had been and then continued over his many runes.

 There were less of them and he had no plans to renew many of the temporary ones after he used them again. His body had definitely thanked him, both for the overall break and for no longer pushing his runic magic to its limits as often as he could manage. Magnus didn’t look quite so tormented when he caught sight of Alec naked either.

 “When you’re ready, darling, I’d like to make a Mark of my own, just here.” Magnus’ hand settled firmly over Alec’s heart and he sighed, melting into the touch further. The warm water was making him a little sleepy.

 “ ‘m always ready for you.”

 Magnus made a little sound, caught between amusement and something like surprise.

 “Always, huh?”

 Alec nodded, wiggling so he slid a little further into the water, bending his knees up to make it more comfortable. His head lolled against Magnus’ shoulder and he could turn to touch his lips to Magnus’ jaw in this position. He’d meant for the bath to be for Magnus, but his boyfriend had insisted he just wanted to hold him.

 “Yeah. I’m already all yours, but I’d like to be able to wear your Mark to show everyone that you know it too.” He brought a hand up to cover the same spot over his heart.

 Magnus laughed, a soft, happy sound against Alec’s hair, “What am I going to do with you?”

 Alec just shrugged, “How many times do I have to tell you? Just keep me. Mark me.”

 Magnus went still and quiet against him before whispering, “Tonight?”

 Alec barely needed to think about his answer, “Yes. If you’ve got the magic left for it, tonight.”

 Magnus’ arms drew tighter around him and he felt more kisses pressed to his damp hair. The humidity was making it curl everywhere and he knew that Magnus loved to play with it when it got frizzy and fluffy after a bath.

 “After-” Magnus had to clear his throat, “-after our dinner.”

 Alec nodded, “Yeah.” he sighed and sunk still further, making Magnus chuckled behind him.

 “Darling, I think we’d better get out before you decide to take a very wet nap.”

 -

 “The living room?” Magnus asked, after they’d put their dishes away, holding out his hand with a nervous look he tried to cover by smiling.

 Alec took his hand, squeezing it reassuringly, “Sure. You can sit me on your cock on the couch, since it’s just us.”

 It was worth it to watch Magnus’ reaction, eyes wide and mouth open. He gathered himself as Alec started to grin and managed to make Alec blush instead with the way he dragged his gaze down his body.

 “I can      sit you,    darling?”

 Alec swallowed hard, “Yes. You’re in control tonight, so-” he gestured toward their living room with the hand not holding his whole world.

 Magnus pulled him straight to the couch.

 “Stay here a moment.”

 Alec nodded and let him go, taking the moment alone to breath and center himself. Magnus was going to leave a Mark on him. It wouldn’t be anything like the Betrayer Mark that Catarina had left him with. It was going to be something all Magnus. He felt warm at the thought and managed to push the mild trepidation aside.

 Magnus returned in only one of his robes. It was a deep red and he’d looped the tie loosely around itself so the slightest tug would let the whole thing fall open. Alec could appreciate that and started to reach for him.

 “Ah-ah. Not yet.” Magnus stopped him with a gesture, smiling at Alec’s slight frown.

 “Where’s the fun in unwrapping me right away? I’m all about the anticipation, Alexander.”

 Alec wanted to tell him that he didn’t need to do anything for that. Alec craved Magnus endlessly, hungry for his words, his laugh, the heat of his skin. Sometimes, especially since they’d come back together, Alec felt like he was made of anticipation. He didn’t get to say anything though, as Magnus’ magic rolled over him in a wave of soft heat and desire. It left him naked, skin prickling in the sudden air until another brush of magic settled over him.

 Magnus lowered himself gracefully onto the middle cushion of their couch and with a casual drag of his hand down his own chest, opened his robe. Alec hissed at the sight of his boyfriend naked against the red silk. The lights softened, casting the perfect light over them both and Alec was helpless to the pull of Magnus’ unglamoured eyes.

 “Come here honey.”

 Alec stepped closer, letting Magnus hands settle on his upper thighs and guide him to climb over him, spreading his legs over Magnus’ warm thighs. His knees landed comfortably and with a quick shift and flex his feet were braced against the wooden support inside the couch. He pressed down, feeling Magnus cock, slicked while he wasn’t looked, slide wetly between his cheeks. He shuddered and then Magnus’ hands caught his hips and tugged him down and forward.

 Alec’s cock drug over Magnus’ stomach and he sucked in a sharp breath at the sensation of hot skin and of Magnus’ cock sliding against him again. With a harsh gasp he tried to roll his hips down, only for Magnus to stop him from moving.

 His eyes snapped to Magnus’ to find his pupils blown wide in a hungry face, “You said you wanted me to      sit you on my cock.    ”

 Alec was nodding without thought before the words were even fully finished.

 “I will if you’re good.”

 Alec closed his eyes even as his cock twitched against Magnus’ skin once more.

 “Good. You’re so perfect for me Alexander.” Magnus leaned up to press a kiss to Alec’s

 throat and rolled his hips. Alec tipped his head down for a proper kiss only to moan as Magnus kept rolling up against him, holding Alec just far enough away that the movement was a tease. He wanted to ask for more but couldn’t drag himself away from Magnus’ mouth and the way he had started gently sucking Alec’s tongue. Magnus always knew though, and he finally pulled Alec’s hips down hard and tight, fucking up against him, his cock a line of heat burning between Alec’s cheeks, wetter than ever.

 Alec finally broke the kiss to curl forward, moaning into Magnus’ ear as his hands came up to grab at Magnus shoulders and he flexed his feet against the wooden support, trying to change the angle.

 Magnus’ cockhead slipped against his hole and Alec choked on a plea.

 “Do you think you’ve been good enough?” Magnus asked, biting at his throat.

 “      Yes.    Magnus, please, I-” He lost the words to a shocked groan as Magnus’ magic spread him open. Magnus’ hands lifted his hips smoothly and before Alec could draw another breath, he dropped him back down onto his cock.

 Alec’s eyes rolled back as he arched into the feeling, throat exposed and mouth open in a broken cry. If it weren’t for the way Magnus’ hand closed around his cock, he was sure he’d have come just from the feeling, from the way Magnus had done exactly what he asked.

 “Shh, darling, you’re alright.”

 Alec looked at him, running a hand up his back and tangling it into the mess of once impeccable hair, “Better than alright.”

 “Good. You feel amazing.” Magnus punctuated his words with a filthy movement of his hips, just grinding harder into Alec.

 “Yours.” Alec mumbled, leaning in for a kiss and trying to move. Magnus let him this time and he set a firm, slow rhythm, just to listen to the way Magnus’ breathing went harsh under him.

 “Don’t want to-” Alec gasped as he slammed down and rolled his hips, barely moving off of Magnus and reveling in the fire that was replacing his ability to think at the feeling, “don’t want to let you go.”

 Magnus made a noise, nearly a snarl, and wrapped an arm around Alec’s waist, taking back control of their movements. He fucked him hard and filthy, grinding deep and biting at Alec’s shoulder while Alec did his best to meet his thrusts.

 “You’re mine.      Mine.”    Magnus slid his other hand to Alec’s chest and a pulse of magic sunk into his skin at the same time at Magnus pulled him down. The waves of power, of want, Magnus’ undying love, and the perfect pressure against his prostate overwhelmed Alec and he felt more than heard the cry that left him as he came between them with wide eyes.

 For a while everything was hazy, soft and warm. He came back to himself slowly, pressed tight against Magnus, who was still inside of him, though soft now. They were still on the couch, Magnus fully collapsed back into the cushions, his own mouth open as he sucked in breaths of air, his eyes closed and his hair a mess. Alec was slumped against him and as he gained awareness, he could tell he was trembling slightly. They both were.

 He pressed a sloppy kiss to the nearest part of Magnus to his mouth. Slowly, aware they were both hypersensitive, he sat up enough to look down at himself. It was difficult to see the mark, just that it was blue and gold and shimmering faintly. A fragile smile tugged at his mouth.

 From what he could see it looked like Magnus had taken a calligraphy brush to his skin, the ink his devotion. He hummed happily and tapped Magnus’ cheek lightly.

 “Hey, you alright?” He asked, keeping his voice gentle.

 Magnus took another, more aware breath, and sat up some, biting his lip as he slipped out of Alec.

 “Fine, just...might’ve underestimated how much my magic wanted to claim you.” Magnus smiled at him, then his eyes dropped to the mark. Something delicate and hopeful lit his face and he touched reverent fingers to the design.

 “Alexander...have you looked?”

 “The colors are gorgeous, but I can’t uh, the angle’s not right.”

 Magnus absently summoned a small mirror for him, his own eyes never leaving the Mark. Alec took the mirror immediately, curious and giddy and a little uncertain with the way that Magnus was looking at him as he tilted it until he could fully see the design. His fingers tightened around the mirror as he stared.

 “Magnus?”

 “I think, maybe, this solved our last concern.”

 “The uh-”

 “The immortality concern, yes.” Magnus was still staring, but Alec couldn’t blame him, he was too.

 “Did you mean too?”

 “I didn’t know I      could    but I’m glad...I’m glad I did. Alexander, I can      feel    how strong it is, how much power I poured into this. It’s what you, what we both, wanted, isn’t it?”

 Magnus looked at him, nerves appearing and Alec set the mirror aside to cup his face, “Absolutely.”

 He kissed Magnus hard, pouring his gratitude and his joy into the press of their lips.

 “I love you.”

 Magnus traced the double flame soulmate symbol that his magic had pressed into Alec’s skin. A looping gold forever knot tangled with the blue flames and he had to blink away tears at the radiant love he could feel echoing through his magic when he touched it. This was more than the      beloved    Mark he’d intended, this was a claim and a promise and so much more. He laughed and knew it was wet with his tears.

 “Forever, Alexa-” he couldn’t finish, overwhelmed as he pressed his face into Alec’s chest, right over the Mark.

 “Forever, Magnus.”

Fin.

#malec #Malec fanfiction #Shadowhunters #Magnus Bane #Alec Lightwood #Jace Wayland #smut #All I want fin #Fanfiction #All I want #All I want 14

[alexanderlightweight]

Hello—first, I’m so glad you’re back to writing omg I missed you!

Second, a prompt for Wednesday—something with Saeth’s dominion magic? If they’re okay with it and you would like to, of course.

Yes okay so this took a bit because @saeths decided to weigh in and utterly ruin my timeline by giving me an even more in depth view.

Uh basically Magnus is a dragon (still Asmodeus kid and has been living in Edom and enjoying traumatizing his father and Lilith and Brooklyn gs a nice pool and cache of domino magic just looking to find someone worthy).

The rest of it is on ao3 because it gets nsfw

—

Alec isn’t sure what’s worse, the part where the entirety of New York’s dominion magic just surrendered him like an horderve.

Or the part where he’s apparently, dragon catnip.

“Oh.”

The dragon that should not exist says and Alec is nearly buffeted by sheer volume of the dragon's sudden delight.

Alec backs up warily, wondering the best way to try and salvage this meeting. Especially when the dragon makes a sound like a coo and Alec is suddenly incredibly vulnerable.

It started like every other day that angel forsaken week. What with the magical leylines practically bleeding out and the natural flow of dominion magic snarling and snapping like a dammed brook.

And Alec does as the clave expects him to. When he finds a possible answer to why the magic is so off, he follows it, because the risks taken are worth the claves reward.

Or at least that’s what the clave likes to say.

And so Alec slips into darkness of the rift, wondering what it says about the magic that it clings to him like a guide, rather than a lure.

And Alec still doesn’t understand, not until he’s in a vast, empty room with invisible pressure from each side and a reverberating voice that shakes him from the inside out.

And then he introduces himself, gasping out his name from his hands and knees as carefully releases his mental and physical grips on his weapons.

“We didn’t know the magic claimed a sovereign.” Alec admits and he tries to shuffle back, demanding that his legs obey him. “I would never have intruded otherwise. I can let the Institute and shadowworld leaders know you’ve—“

And Alec stops talking when a hot, nearly sizzling gust of breath warns him to stay quiet. It’s an immediate and dignified refusal and he has to stay kneeling, thighs trembling together as his body begs him to run and he wills it to stay.

The dragon’s claws are each as thick as Alec’s own thighs and some of them are as tall as he is. And Alec closes his eyes and remembers his training as his body stiffens the closer each deadly, giant claw gets.

“Mine.”

—

Magnus hasn’t been this close to something so small and humanoid in literal centuries and he can’t contain his curiosity.

When Magnus grew bored and ripped through the rift Lilith made, he hadn’t expected the deep well of magic that had been waiting, abandoned and unclaimed.

So Magnus followed the magic and found a lair and magic that declares his authority and now this.

It’s so incredibly soft and pretty and delicate.

It’s precious.

And Magnus wants to hold it.

He’s going to keep it.

Forever.

Possibly in his mouth so he can taste it at the same time he protects it.

The magic is easing him into it, letting him know that this boy, his Alexander, is a banquet already won.

So Magnus samples when he wants to devour and when he finally gets a taste, he wants to wrap his tongue and magic around Alexander and steal down to deep beneath the earth and keep him there.

Instead Magnus lets the magic sink deep into himself and he coils around his shadowhunter.

Alexander is pure temptation.

A beacon of pure angelic energy and he’s so stunning, such a glorious and hidden gem that Magnus has found.

Magnus manages one verbal claim and then he has to tuck the unprotesting treasure into his mouth.

And now, completely pleased with himself, Magnus carries him off to be secreted away. Somewhere they can’t be bothered by the pesky mortality and needs of other sentient beings.

“Alexander.” Magnus says again, because he likes the way the name sounds, only to frown at how garbled it sounds coming from around Alexander’s body.

Slowly he lowers Alexander to the ground and licks him gently, wondering when exactly human clothes became so flimsy. However he can't exactly complain because now Magnus has miles and miles of skin to decorate.

“You’re—“ his shadowhunter starts to ask but he pauses obediently when Magnus shifts forms and leans down to grab his jaw, tilting Alexander’s head up and admiring a gemstone next to his skin.

Magnus is several inches taller than his shadowhunter, even in one of his smaller forms, and he summons a handful of gems to hold up to Alexander's skin.

“Magnus Bane, your new sovereign, treasure.” Magnus says as he throws a ruby over his shoulder when it doesn’t meet his standards. He brings up a rather nice peridot and considers it before it too is lacking and then he pounces.

He rolls them; so his shadowhunter’s undoubtedly soft skin won’t bruise, and then he pins Alexander to the cold piles of metal and rocks and kisses him eagerly.

It’s been ages upon ages since Magnus kissed and it takes them both a moment to work out where teeth go.

#shadowhunters #magnus bane #alec lightwood #malec #immortal husbands #writing wednesday #writing wednesdays #prompt fic #prompt fill #my fanfics #my fics #lumine writes #shadowhunters au