#me: LET THEM DO THEIR INTRICATE RITUALS AND HUSH

[i-am-not-a-who-i-am-a-what]

there was a moment from yesterday’s episode that set off so many alarm bells in my head and i haven’t seen anyone talking about it yet so i’m going to get my thoughts out there. i’m putting the majority of this post under a readmore bc it got very long thanks to all the transcript quotes i pulled but i really want to know what everyone else thinks about the Implications™

BASIRA

Okay. So… what do we know about Hill Top Road?

ARCHIVIST

Not much.

BASIRA

Another blind spot?

ARCHIVIST

No, it’s – I could look at it, but it… it was… it was like a… a hole. You know that feeling you get when you look down from a, a great height, like you’re being pulled into the abyss?

BASIRA

Kind of?

ARCHIVIST

[Getting lost in thought] Well it was… was like that. Normally I can see it, see the… webs, and feel the power of The Spider emanating from it, but… as I would look… it’s like my mind…. follows the paths of The Web,

[STATIC RISES]

the strands going down and… out… [Catching self] It’s quite disorientating.

[STATIC FADES]

my first thought after hearing this exchange was “huh, that sounds eerily similar to the description of the table the not-them was trapped in.” here it is from mag 3 - across the street:

I’d become enraptured by the table on which he’d placed my tea. It was an ornate wooden thing, with a snaking pattern of lines weaving their way around towards the centre. The pattern was hypnotic and shifted as I watched it, like an optical illusion. I found my eyes following the lines towards the middle of the table, where there was nothing but a small square hole.

my first instinct was that this was some foreshadowing for jon meeting some kind of horrible fate, because well... remember what happened the last time someone got mesmerized by the table?

SASHA

Oh, hey. I’ve found… I’ve found that table you were talking about. Don’t really see what all the fuss is about. Just a… basic… optical illusion. Nothing special… just… just a… wait…

[Hushed and panicked] Jon! Jon, I think there’s someone here. Hello? I see you. Show yourself!

but then i started thinking more about why the table specifically would be referenced, and i remembered the earliest we see it used as artifact of the web, and where: with raymond fielding in hill top road in mag 59 - recluse:

On Sunday evenings, however, we’d all gather for the evening meal, and before we sat down to eat, he would remove the bright white tablecloth that covered it, and we’d gather around the dark wood. I remember it was carved in all sorts of strange swirling designs and patterns. It felt like if you picked a line, any line, you could follow it through to the center, to some deep truth, if only your eye could keep track of the strands that had caught it.

it was while i was checking the transcripts to find the above quote that i also remembered the hole in center of the table that the web pattern leads towards wasn’t always empty - it used to contain a box, and that box contained an apple.

again from again from mag 59:

The center of the table looked, at first, like it was simply part of the wooden top, but if you looked closely, as I did so often, you could see an outline marking the very middle as a small, square box, carved with patterns just like the ones that laced their way over the rest of the table. I don’t remember how long we sat around the table those evenings, nor do I have any memory of what we might have eaten.

...

I reached over and pulled the wooden square from the center of the table. On its own, it appeared to be a small wooden box, and the lid opened smoothly, as my hands moved in a practiced motion. Inside was an apple, green and fresh and still wet with morning dew.

I knew I was going to eat it. I could feel tears desperately trying to push themselves out of my eyes, but I instead decided not to cry. I placed the box down on the table, reached over, and picked up the apple.

the box from the center of the table makes its first appearance in the very first hill top road statement, mag 8 - burned out, where we learn that apparently the apple was full of spiders. 

considering the web’s predilection for filling it’s victim’s bodies with spiders (carlos vittery, annabell cane, the spider husks trevor encountered, the victim of the chelicerae website, the old woman in annabell’s statement, francis, etc.) i think this goes a ways to explain what happened to raymond’s other victims, and what would have happened to mag 59′s statement giver if he’d bitten into the apple:

They lay still now, wrapped in their sticky cocoons. Their bodies seemed warped and bloated in a way I didn’t recognize. But that’s only because at that point in my life, I had never before seen a spider egg sac.

more importantly though, we also learn that the box was buried under the burnt up tree in hill top road’s garden, the one whose uprooting was implied to be linked to agnes’s death: 

STATEMENT

At that moment I made my decision. It was easy, like destroying this tree was the only thing to do, the only path to follow ... When the tree lay on its side, uprooted and powerless, I gazed into the hole where it had sat and noticed something lying there in the dirt.

Climbing down, I retrieved what turned out to be a small wooden box, about six inches square, with an intricate pattern carved along the outside. Engraved lines covered it, warping and weaving together, making it hard to look away.

...

ARCHIVIST

Except… We cannot prove any connection, but Martin unearthed a report on an Agnes Montague, who was found dead in her Sheffield flat on the evening of November 23rd 2006, the same day Mr. Lensik claims to have uprooted the tree.

and keep in mind that the only reason the statement giver in mag 59 didn’t eat the apple, didn’t succumb to the web... was agnes’s kiss:

As the man in the suit told me to follow him in a clipped BBC accent, Agnes walked over, and gestured for me to lean down and listen to her. I did so, but instead of a conspiratorial whisper, she just gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, then ran off down the hall.

...

All at once, my cheek erupted in pain. It was like someone had pressed a hot branding iron into my face, and I could swear that I heard the flesh sizzle as I let out a scream and fell to my knees. I raised my hands to my face and realized in that moment two very important things. The first is that my face seemed to be untouched; I could feel no injury or burn. The second was that raising my hand had been a truly voluntary act. I had willed it myself, and whatever power had been gripping me, tugging me into its web, I was free of it.

at this point you’re probably wondering why i think all this is relevant in terms of what might happen with hill top road, and i have two potential ideas: 

my first idea has to do with the theory that agnes is lingering on as a ghost. this theory isn’t mine, i first encountered it shortly after mag 167 - curiosity aired through this post’s attempt to fix what bits of the timeline were thrown out of wack by the new info. if anyone has any other posts or general thoughts about this theory feel free to share them, i’d love to read them!

this theory is relevant to my speculation that agnes might finally make an appearance because she might have been the ghost seen by one of the statement givers in mag 100 - i guess you had to be there:

MARTIN

Right. Right.

[THROAT CLEARING]

Statement of Lynne Hammond, er, recorded 2nd of May 2017, regarding…

Uh, what, what’s this one about?

LYNNE

I saw a ghost.

MARTIN

O-kay.. Regarding a… a ghost. Statement begins.

who appeared as one of the cultists in mag 190 - scavengers: 

MARTIN

[Puzzled] Celia?

CELIA

Probably. The, um… place I was trapped in, they took my name. I never got it back. But I like Celia, so… yeah! Celia it is.

MARTIN

Uh… H-Hello… Celia.

and was recognized and directly confirmed to be the same person by martin in mag 191 - what we lose:

MARTIN

…

Hey, I meant to ask. Do you recognise that woman, Celia?

ARCHIVIST

Um… no, I, I don’t think so. Why?

MARTIN

I’d swear she gave a statement once.

having her only pop up in mag 190 would have just been a fun easter egg, but having martin directly call out her presence the next episode sounds to me like jonny telling the audience to pay attention, to remember that her statement had to do with the ghost of a young woman on fire who might have been agnes. 

my second idea involves web lighter.

over various statements throughout the previous four seasons we’ve been shown that the web and the desolation have been at war, and hill top road has been their battlefield. the best examples of this come from mag 139 - chosen and mag 149 - infectious doubts respectively. 

on the one hand we have agnes being planted in hill top road by the cult of the lightless flame in an effort to both control her powers and derail the web’s plans, which seems to begin the conflict:

The compromise we came to was Hill Top Road. We knew it was a stronghold of the Web, full of other children Agnes’ age. We would supervise from a distance, but were confident she would be in no danger. The Mother of Puppets has always suffered at our hand; all the manipulation and subtle venom in the world means nothing against a pure and unrestrained force of destruction and ruin.

and on the other we have the web binding gertrude to agnes, thus thwarting the desolation’s ritual, which also involved hill top road:

ARTHUR

Alright. Agnes. How’d you do it? Never did understand it, not really.

GERTRUDE

Ah. That’s a fair enough question. It was the Web. I didn’t know it at the time, of course, and I would call it an accident, but it never is, with them. It’s only after the fact that you can see all the subtle manipulations

... 

So, I began researching what I thought was a counter-ritual of sorts. Like I said, I was young, naive. I somehow found just the right books, made just the right connections, and even got what I thought was a piece of blind good luck when I found a tin box in the ashes of Hill Top Road, containing some perfectly preserved cuttings of her hair.

wouldn’t it seem symbolic, fitting with the dream logic we’ve been working with all season (and that the fears have always tended to work with), if what ended the metaphysical war was an artifact touched by both the web and the desolation? 

say perhaps... a device that creates fire while being marked by a symbol of the spider? one that just so happened to be delivered to the institute at the same time as a certain table?

TIM

Er, what is it?

ARCHIVIST

A lighter. An old Zippo.

TIM

You smoke?

ARCHIVIST

No. And I don’t allow ignition sources in my archive!

TIM

Okay. Is there anything unusual about it?

ARCHIVIST

Not really. Just a sort of spider web design on the front. Doesn’t mean anything to me. You?

TIM

Ah no. No.

ARCHIVIST

Well… show it to the others, see what they think. You said there was something else as well?

TIM

Oh, ah yes, yeah, it was sent straight to the Artefact Storage, a table of some sort. Ah, looks old. Quite pretty, though. Fascinating design on it.

all signs point to the best hope of escaping whatever plans the web has for jon lying with the desolation, or at least with fire, and who should be waiting in hill top road than someone who’s been known to burn statements in the past... and someone who, as of mag 162 - a cozy cabin, was the last person to mention the lighter: 

MARTIN

So, should we destroy it? Before we go?

[THE CABIN CREAKS VERY LOUDLY.]

ARCHIVIST

I honestly don’t know if we can.

[HE SIGHS.]

MARTIN

Mm.

ARCHIVIST

Besides, there’s – far worse out there. Better to try and avoid it, I think.

MARTIN

We’re not even gonna try? Look, we’ve got your lighter; maybe if we just –

i haven’t even begun to touch on the multiple instances of spiral marked individuals interacting with hill top road, or the potential role of the rift leading from the world without the institute to the reality with the institute from mag 114 - cracked foundations, or the foreshadowing we’ve gotten throughout this season that the archive might be destroyed by fire and how it’s looking more and more like that means jon might die, or the significance of the tapes and what power might be behind them...

but it’s nearing five in the morning where i am and i’ve been working on this frankly gargantuan post since about midnight, so i’m going to let more meta-inclined minds take it from here. tell me what you think! where do you agree with me, where do you think i’ve gone astray? hell, tell me if you think i’m just spinning my wheels, this is the first real theory post i’ve ever made so i might be completely off base, at least i tried lol.

tl;dr: 

the call back to the imagery surrounding the web table and its long history with hill top road and the desolation is leading me to believe that whatever plans the web has in hill top road for jon, fire is going to have a significant role in whether or not the web gets what it wants; either agnes herself might finally make an appearance or the web lighter might finally come into play.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma spoilers #mag 195 spoilers #sorry if this is incoherent i had it all typed up and formatted nicely and then this hellsite just deleted the whole thing #i'm not usually one to theory craft (tho i have utmost respect for those who are) so i have no idea if i'm just reading too deeply #this is the most pepe silvia ass post i've ever written

[unnameablethings]

sunlight and allegiance

The bone-king, tall and shadowed, comes to the knight and asks, “Will you aid me?”

The answer is no, of course, will always be no, should always be no. Sunflor is the last shining bastion of what came before the god-king, and she will not bow her head. Her sun-king is dead, and the bone-king killed him, and only his seat on the throne and her oaths prevent her from taking his head off. She stands in the doorway of her quarters (inside the bone-king’s castle, inside the home that has been conquered,) and she knows that “no” is not an answer she can give, so instead she says nothing. Her face, however, betrays her. 

The bone-king winces, just the slightest twitch of his sharp-angled face. 

“Please. Lady Knight. They will listen to you, if they listen to none other, and I am so weary of bloodshed. Are you not weary?”

“There would be no bloodshed,” she says, very carefully, “If you had never come here.” 

The bone-king’s expression is… tired. Old, and drawn. She doesn’t know how old he is - he seems ageless, ancient and young all at once. “Of course there would be. Why else did you exist? A king doesn’t keep a land-blessed knight of sunlight and death unless he intends to use her for the slaughter. Are you telling me you had never killed before I came from the west?”

Sunflor says nothing, again, stubbornly silent. It’s not the same, she wants to say. That was keeping the peace, not war. I only slaughtered things like you. Threats. Monsters. Instead she drops her gaze to the floor, avoiding his old, dark eyes. 

“Need I make this an order?” the bone-king asks, very gently. Sunflor’s jaw clenches, works in a convulsive scowl. She is sworn to the throne, not the man who sits on it. It was meant to make her a peerless, unbiased warrior, but it feels, now, like a weakness. She wants to throttle him, wants to reach down his throat and tear out the way things used to be, as though he had swallowed it whole and unharmed. But she cannot disobey an order from her king, however little he has earned the title. 

“No. What do you need?”

“Thank you,” the bone-king says. He sounds relieved. She does not look at him, though the oath-bond pings with the righteous satisfaction of her fealty. It used to be one of her favorite feelings - it makes her sick, now. “Some parts of my land are still restless under my touch, and the kingdom loves you so much it burns. Come and help me coax it? Let us settle this gently, and with peace. I dislike the thought of having to stamp it down into fearful submission.”

“As you wish, my lord,” says Sunflor, because she is bound, and because she recognizes, through the haze of her rage and her grief, that it is better this way. Her king is dead, and a part of her is dead along with him, but no one else need die unnecessarily. 

He brings her first of all down into the labyrinths of the castle, where Sunflor would follow her sun-king when he did his rituals and his prayers. She knelt by his side, gave him her strength when he faltered, let him pull draughts of power from her like blood. She is almost nostalgic for the dizzy, giddy emptiness of being drained, of being filled instead with sunlight and the slow earth-love of a country. Not enough to want the bone-king to do it, though. She has no choice. 

The bone-king exhales, when they’re down in the wide, circular ritual-room, with the map of the kingdom stretched over the floor. There’s sunlight shining into the room from a window in the ceiling, though they’re dozens of feet below ground. The bone-king looks up at the sunlit window, inquisitive.

“A lovely working. Do you know the spell?” he murmurs, and stretches his fingers out to let the sun shine on them. Sunflor wishes for it to burn him, but it doesn’t. Just filters through his scarred fingers, making the webs between them glow faintly red, beams of light in the gaps. His flesh is slightly translucent, only the bones and the scars solid and pale.  

“It is a place of the sun,” Sunflor says, shortly, and kneels in the place where she always kneels, where generations before her have knelt. Had they ever knelt here and hated like she hates the bone-king? Stupid question. Of course they have. The kingdom is nothing if not ever besieged by conflict. They hardly go three or four generations without an upset - her own sun-king was only a second-generation dynastic king, and she knows the knight before the knight before her had ended up falling on her own blade, distraught by the loss of her queen. There is a strange comfort in the solidarity of a generational anguish.

Deep breaths. In. Out. The sunlight is warm, golden. The room is ritually hushed, and the scent of old blood and incense and dust fills her nose. It’s familiar, reassuring, down to the faint grooves in the stone from where thousands of years of knights before her have knelt in the same place. She has a duty to her country, not only to her king, and she will fulfill it until she can no longer. The kingdom cradles her in its stone, and she draws strength from it. 

The bone-king, watching, turns at last to stand over the map, closes his eyes, holding his hands out like he’s feeling along the top of a table. His hands are not callused in the way of one who wields a weapon, but blackened in forking patterns like lightning, from magic overuse. His fingertips are all scorched to a charcoal black. Those are recent - when she had battled the bone-king merely months ago, he had had much less prominent scarring. They are scars likely acquired in the battle against the sun-king, then. At least they managed to scar him.

“Here,” he murmurs, finally, hands poised above a part of the map like invisible strings tug his fingers down, and he crouches to touch a particular region on the map. He opens his eyes, and studies the landscape painted intricately beneath him. The knight watches him, looking from his face to the map and back. It does not surprise her that that particular demesne is giving him trouble - not when the forest loves its lady so much.

“What are your thoughts, lady knight?” the bone-king asks. 

“That is the demesne of Lady Lily-greenery,” the knight says. “Her sister, Violet, was slain at your hand.”

“I see.”

“She was one of the sorceresses in the king’s guard, and they were very close,” the knight says. “Not as close as some-” close as he and I- “but. Close.”

“I see,” the bone-king says again, quieter. “Well. There’s not much I can do about that, now. I’ll play bloodgold to the lady, if you think it will help?”

“She’ll consider it an insult. The gold you bought with her sister’s death? No.” 

“Mm. A wise consideration, Sunflor.”

“Do not use my name,” Sunflor snaps, and hears her voice break. “You haven’t earned it. Don’t you dare.”

There’s a long, fraught pause. “Apologies, Lady Knight,” the bone-king breathes, almost a whisper. It’s a concession she hadn’t expected from him, and she breathes in deep, breathes out the anger and sorrow. 

“If you want her to support you, then you need to show her respect, and show her forest respect,” she says, as though nothing particularly interesting had happened. “She lost a lot, in the war effort. A lot of her forest’s vitality was drained to shore up the borders and strengthen the soldiers.”

“I’ll send her some of that power back, then. Weakens the remaining military resources that are undoubtedly brewing dissent, and strengthens a possible ally. And helps me fix the absolute mess my predecessor has made of this beautiful thing,” the bone-king says, and runs a gentle hand along the map. 

“He didn’t,” Sunflor says, but it sounds like a lie to her own ears, a childish protest. It is not as though she hasn’t lain awake at night for years, hearing the kingdom in discomfort and weakness, knowing that it was stretched too far. She shifts in her kneeling, feeling herself sore to the bone though the kneeling hasn’t bothered her since she was knighted. “He did his best,” she amends.

“His best wasn’t very good,” the bone-king says, and looks steadily at her, eyes dark. His expression is opaque, unreadable. “He sought conquest and glory and didn’t have the means to manage it. I would never have bothered coming if he had not tried to conquer me in the first place, and I never would have succeeded against a kingdom as powerful as this if he had not already overextended it and strained its power and its patience.”

“The kingdom loves him,” Sunflor says. Her throat feels swollen and thick, and her hands fist in her lap. “It gave all it could for him because it loved him.”

“The kingdom loves you.” The bone-king’s stare is nameless, uncomfortably tender. “You gave all you could for him.”

“Not enough, clearly.”

“His weakness is not your fault.”

“His death is yours.”

The bone-king acknowledges this with a tilt of his head. “I am sorry.”

She laughs, ugly and shattered. It sounds wrong in the peaceful stillness of the ritual room, like a crow’s broken cackle. “Are you, my lord?” 

He stands from the map, shrugs off his cloak and holds his hand out over the ugly seething of the forest’s magic. The trees sprout up from the map, the flat surface rising to give way to infinitely small trees, a mass of greenery. The sunlight in the room goes strange, and she feels magic brewing, simultaneously familiar and repellant. It is the comforting kingdom-magic at the same time as it is the cold, dark grave-magic of an enemy she has been fighting for years, now, and it itches at her like a scabbing wound. 

It curls from the god-king’s fingertips, twining into the forest’s magic and settling in it. She feels it resist, struggle, but he does not fight back, even as it reaches for him in violence and fury. She watches his hands - he flinches, barely, when the magic sinks thorns into him, but he does not pull away. He merely offers the gift in open palms until the forest finally swallows it, and settles down. 

“My condolences for your loss,” he speaks, into the whispering of the forest. “And my utmost respect and honor for your sister’s battle prowess. She fought well. I regret her death. I hope this goes some small way towards amends.”

The forest takes the message, and subsides back into the map, smoothing out. A discordant note in the kingdom’s magic quiets, turns a little further toward the main body of it. 

“I regret that I caused you pain, lady knight,” the bone-king says, without looking at her. “I do not regret the sun-king’s death.” 

“What could I possibly matter to you?” 

“I underestimated the effect the kingdom’s power would have on me,” the bone-king says, instead of answering. 

Perhaps, however, it is an answer after all. 

The bone-king’s face is creased, sweat beading on his forehead. There are new pinpricks of red scars on his hands, and this is the point at which Sunflor would usually lend her power and her aid, let her king brace himself against her as the sturdy anchor-point of might and magic. She does not offer. The bone-king does not ask. 

“May I go?” Sunflor asks, at last.

“...You may. I will need you again, though.”

“I am aware.” 

Though her fealty-bond keens when she turns her back on the bone-king, alerting her he is in need of aid/strength/his knight, she does not listen. She climbs the stairs away from him, and does not look back. 

(I FORGOT I HAVE AN @ LIST... it’s from 2018 so it’s very probably outdated rip. sorry if you get mentioned when you did not want to be! @trishaloach @toastyglow @acefruitloop @skye07 @m1sosazai @yoyoendlessstring @blue-tomatoes @catsfeminismandatla @lady-redshield-writes @alhena09 @emanonnosrep, @je11yfish-queen @gingerly-writing @dramaticvoiceover @writingmyselfintoanearlygrave @authorisada @reciclingbin @lushprocrastinatrix @timeenoughforamasterpiece @tedrakitty @haphazardlyparked @kiwisoap @silver56 @pacifiedperoxide @kooncat @severe-fangirl-syndrome @startledserpent  @50-shaeds-of-fae @stritte @dorianelle @dhawandyke @churchyardgrim)

#my writing #original fiction #technically like stage 1 of enemies-to-lovers #fealty #hieros gamos #magic #fantasy #TURNS OUT WHEN U SOULBOND TO A CONQUERED KINGDOM IN LOVE WITH ITS LADY KNIGHT #THAT IS SOMETIMES CONTAGIOUS

[neighborhoodmoonchild]

ᾰ̓γᾰ́πη

Pairing(s): Cursed!Seokjin x Reader

Genre(s): Fantasy Au, Fluff, Soulmate Au

Summary: “There’s a story whispered around here. One surrounding the beautifully carved statue of a man at the center of the town. Legend says that when the hand of his true love graces his palm, he shall wake from his cursed marbled slumber. It’s always been a silly old wives tale, until you give in to a friend’s dare.” (prompt idea from writing-prompt-s)

Warning(s): mild language

Word Count: 1.8K

Part I, Part 2, Part 3, ...

taglist: @best-space-boy @maryelixabeth @mochimaw @yeontanismypresident @hannahantonette17 @ign-is @fanfuckingfic @koala-wonderland @suchgayaesthetic​ @dulcaet​

~ if you want to be added to the tag list for this fic, feel free to send me an ask! thank you💜

The statue was no doubt beautiful. At times, it looked as if it truly was just an incredibly pale living man standing still, transfixed by something the naked eye could not see. Stories, old wives tales, the likes, manifested around it, creeping their way into the homes of every person ‘lucky’ enough to dwell within the town. They graced the tongues of parents at each late night bedtime story to their children, snuck into the early morning gossip of elderly women topping off tea cups, and laid dreamily in the back of every young girl’s mind, each one hoping to be the key to end the curse.

Growing up in this small town, it was hard to ignore the incessant buzz surrounding the terrifyingly detailed slab of marble. However, the challenge intrigued you, spurring you on at a young age to scorn those of ‘childish’-enough mind to ever believe in such nonsense as the ‘Story of the Statue.’ How ridiculous could one be to believe that the statue was once a man, and that the only way to return him to his ‘true form’ was the hand of his ‘one true love?’

If one should believe in such a thing as a living hunk of rock, it would make just as much sense to one day find half the townspeople deep in conversation with their hairbrushes.

Insane is a good way to describe it.

Completely and utterly bonkers another.

Much to your dismay, however, the entire town seemed to believe the exact opposite. Placing your hand upon the statue’s at midday became a reveled ritual for the townspeople. Men and women alike took their chance to entertain the mystery; to indulge in their deepest fantasy of being a part of the magic.

It was this 180 of belief from yours that ended in your own scrutiny. Instead of the ‘magical statue’ being the center of ridicule, it most often times was you. You couldn’t count on your fingers and toes combined the number of times you’d heard your name amongst the petty laughter of your neighbors, or caught the wicked smirks of the other girls your age as they hushed their voices as to be ‘undetected.’

It was painfully obvious that your reluctance to accept what has always been a town tradition made you an outcast amongst them all. The only friend you’d had to stick around being the quiet girl in the house neighboring yours.

In all honesty, she was quite drab at times, most of her vocabulary consisting of the words ‘soulmate,’ ‘statue,’ and ‘magic.’ Yes, she was just as deep into the mess of it all as everyone else, it seemed. As much as it pained you to sit through her lengthy airs on how romantic the whole situation was, that she’d do anything to be the soulmate the man was waiting for, she was the only one that had stuck around to entertain your rants.

Maybe her head was so far in the clouds your negative words never truly reached past the tips of her ears, but you were nonetheless grateful to have someone to at least pretend to listen, and she never made you feel any less-than for having differing opinions. Though, it didn’t stop her from picking fun every now and then, claiming that there must be a small part of you that was even slightly curious.

Her efforts to bring forth the inner-believer in you is what led to the present moment you find yourself in.

The face of utter disgust mixed with slight terror must have looked quite an odd combination for someone about to do the most mundane of things one could do in this particular town. It was as normal as walking your dog, or fetching the mail, yet this was a spectacle most could agree on as being anything but.

The nervousness could not be helped, no matter how desperately you tried to remind yourself that this was nonsense.

An intense burning sensation was the only thing your tingling form could truly comprehend, the eyes of nosy day-goers relishing in the sight of the known town hypocrite about to suddenly go against her beliefs. If anything, you seemed to attract an entire crowd, as if you were the main act in a thrilling road show that would come and go so quickly, the people rushed to witness it before it was gone.

A shooting star, a comet across the night sky, or an eclipse perhaps.

‘Get ahold of yourself,’ you thought, wiping your increasingly sweaty palms across the denim of your jeans.

‘It’s just a silly story, all you have to do is touch it,’ your mind reminded you. The more stares you garnered, the whispers becoming a loud buzz in your ears fighting above the rush of blood pounding through, the more your confidence seemed to crumble.

A tiny speck of a part of you wormed its way up through the depths of your being to call out to the reasonable part of your brain ‘what if it’s true?’

In the unbelievable off-chance that you were wrong, could you deal with the backlash of standing so firmly against it?

As you felt the warm push from the instigator of this whole affair, her face adorned with a slightly amused smirk, you realized that even if this whole story is true, there was no way in the universe that you would ever be the soulmate the story talks about.

Your experience with men is virtually nonexistent. The last time you’d indulged in the whirlwind of possible ‘romance’ had been when your middle school crush had kissed you quickly on the lips after school on a dare, promptly gagging afterwards and swearing to the high heavens that ‘girls are gross.’

Maybe you were traumatized from the whole experience, never mind the fact that the men of your town just weren’t vying for the attention of the town laughingstock, but romantic relationships just weren’t a part of your story.

It didn’t really matter much to you anyways, considering all the eligible men are, have been, and always will be, meager farm boys living off what their ancestors have laid down for them. Not that there was anything innately wrong with that way of life, it just wasn’t what you wanted for yourself and your future.

You have big plans, ones that include getting as far away from this place as possible, and no man was going to get in the way of that.

You’d rather die a painful, lengthy death than be a little hometown wife the rest of your life, reduced to nothing more than mindless cleaning, cooking, and birthing children. To be the ‘property’ of some man that could never understand your true potential; your true worth.

So, despite the twinge of fear lacing the edges of your mind, creating a rigidness in your limbs as you crossed the dirt path to the statue, you rose to the occasion, in a sense.

Maybe this would lay to rest the constant chatter of snobby folk, let them believe that, even for a moment, they’d found a way to manipulate you into their way of thinking. Maybe they’d finally stop whispering petty words when you passed, even begin to accept you into their society, not that you were desperate for that.

Or perhaps, it would give you a little more piece of mind, at least. Quell an unadmitted thirst to understand the hype so you could be completely unattached from this silly thing and hopefully move on with your life.

Those things would not change over the few seconds it would take to finish the deed, but as your mind raced through the possible aftermaths of what you were about to do, a change of sorts had definitely begun.

It was like all of time and space slowed around you. The closer the statue came into your field of vision, it was like entering a tunnel, or vortex, that sucked you in further and blurred reality around you.

And then everything stopped.

There, mere centimeters from you, lie the statue. It’s intricate detail and craftsmanship a new level of divine when admired closely. This was the closest you’d ever been to it and it stole the breath right from your lungs.

It was a strange feeling, mixed with the stares, the heat of the summer day, the nervousness in your belly, and the charge floating through the air. An unnerving mix that, shockingly, calmed the thoughts waging war within you. Like everything was numb, quiet, peaceful almost.

“Just do it already!” A shrill voice called out, followed by the sound of agreement flowing through the crowd. It snapped you from your state, reminding you of the task at hand.

With a little less reluctance than you’d expected, your hand reached out in the direction of the statue’s. Fingers shakily outstretching, all at once, your palm slid into the cool marble one.

It was smooth, yet you could feel every ridge and line like that of a human hand. The cool feeling of the marble against your clammy flesh was surprising considering the temperature the day had suffered through.

You hadn’t even realized your eyes were closed, breath held, until you opened your eyes upon the exhale, coming face-to-face with...

A statue.

You couldn’t help the anxious giggle that slipped from your lips like a mad woman.

You were right, well, at least that was one possibility. You’d touched the damn thing and nothing happened, just like you’d expected.

So why, among the rush of relief, was there an aftertaste of disappointment on your tongue?

The crowd, mildly satisfied and admittedly bored, had begun to disperse as you stood there, hand still placed in the statue’s.

Even though you’d bit the bullet, gotten it over with, you weren’t sure what to do now that it was done. For some reason, you couldn’t seem to pull yourself away, tell your friend ‘I told you so,’ and get on with your life, finally free of the unknown.

That same familiar warmth that pushed you here found its way back to your shoulder.

“Alright, you’ve proven your point...for now. Let’s go.”

Without turning your head to acknowledge her, you looked up into the face of the hunk of rock. For a fleeting moment, you felt as if you were staring into the eyes of another human being.

Without a word, you slowly turned to retreat back to your home, emotions a frenzy you couldn’t quite understand, let alone share with another soul.

As you began to take that first step away from the thing, your hand slipping carefully out of its grasp, you felt the smallest bit of movement behind you.

Before you could turn around on your own, something warm wrapped around your wrist, spinning you back to face the creation that plagued your mind.

Only, you weren’t met the the stark white of the marble, but the ivory tone of skin. Stiffly sculpted hair now flowing freely, dark, with the wind. Empty, pale eyes now filled with a deep rich brown, struck wide as emotion after emotion swirled within them.

Shouts and gasps echoed throughout the square, eyes of every villager as wide as their gaped mouths, returning to their prior posts, the show ending with a twist no one could have predicted.

Mind and body going into an immediate state of shock, there was no time to process anything at all before the weight of the now-man collapsed down from his pedestal onto you.

So the stories held some truth after all...

To Be Continued...

#bts #bts x reader #bts au #bts angst #bts scenarios #bts fluff #bts imagines #bts fantasy au #bts drabble #bts fanfic #bts fantasy #bts prompts #bts kim seokjin #kim seokjin #seokjin x reader #cursed!seokjin #fantasy au #bts short stories #bts short story #kpop au #kpop drabbles #jin x reader #bts jin #jin au #seokjin fluff #seokjin angst #seokjin drabble #seokjin imagine #bts fic #seokjin fic

[greennightspider]

Unspoken (Hvitty Oneshot)

Author’s Note: I have a thing for cabins, can you tell?

Summary: You and Hvitserk are childhood friends and warrior allies. But as you grow older, things change. As a blacksmith’s daughter you don’t have time for romance. But what happens when an unknown admirer takes a very serious step? (R18+) SMUT 

Reader x Hvitserk

There is a custom, in Kattegat.

Not really a formal ritual, per se. But an unspoken tradition in Kattegat among men and women who were coming of age, one that had surfaced in recent years.

That is, if a boy wanted to make an honest woman of a girl, or if someone wanted to profess their love, they would take them to a cabin in the woods. It was a chance for someone to confess, a chance for someone to show that they were serious. And while there was no magic or superstition in the ritual, it was believed that people left that cabin changed.

Not that it mattered much to you, of course.

“Y/N! Did you hear that Brenna got asked to a cabin?”

You were busy placing all the new swords in your father’s workshop when Hanna had burst in with the news. “Just a minute!”

“I can’t believe she got asked before me!” Hanna complained.

You were on your tiptoes trying to hang a scabbard on one of the higher hooks, the morning sun slipping through the cracks in the word making it hard to see. Then all of a sudden you felt a presence behind you grab the scabbard and reach up with ease.

You swivelled and glared at your helper, who had one hand propped up against the wall, one hand on his hip as sported a devilish grin.

“Morning little troll.”

Hvisterk’s smile quickly turned into a grimace as you gave him a quick jab to the stomach.

“A thank you would be nice.” He groaned as you walked past.

“That’s what you get.” You humphed, not looking back. Hvitserk knew you couldn’t handle it when he mentioned your height. As kids when you had first started to grow into adults, you almost pummelled him when you realized he was taller than you. It was a reminder that you were changing, that strength you so craved came more naturally to him than to you.

“Naw Y/N, you’re always so mean to Hvitserk.” Hanna drawled.

“And yet, he always comes running back to me, doesn’t he?” You smirked.

You felt a heavy arm curve around your neck. “Well that is what best friends do, isn’t that right?”

Looking up at Hvitserk’s face you couldn’t help but laugh. You two had been best friends since you had squared up with him the first time your family had come to Kattegat. Squabbling, bickering, the teasing and the fighting were all part and parcel of what you two were.

“Well, as I was sayiiiiiiiiing,” Hanna drawled out dramatically. “Brenna has been asked to a cabin!” She squealed excitedly, gripping your arm with such intensity that it even made Hvitserk retreat a tad.

You furrowed your brow as you all walked through town. “Brenna… baking bread Brenna? By who?”

“I bet its Arvid.” Hvitserk scoffed. “The boy finds any excuse to visit their stall, he has more buns than he knows what to do with.”

You and Hanna burst out laughing. “Well its about time he asked her.” You scoffed. “The poor girl can’t read hints to save her life.”

Hanna nodded in agreement, while Hvitserk only looked to the side.

“Have you ever thought about these things, dear Y/N?” Hanna looked up inquisitively, her the sudden intimacy of the question leaving you flustered.

“I uh, I-I haven’t had the time,” you chuckled nervously, the blush from your face painfully clear to both of your closest friends. “It’s not like I have much appeal.”

But of course you had thought about it. While you were more of a lover than a fighter, that didn’t mean you didn’t want to be desired. It was true, most of your time was devoted to helping your father and his forges, as well as training with the very tools you helped craft. Romantic endeavours were few and far between. Emphasis on the few.

“Oh hush, you shouldn’t think ill of yourself.” Hanna waving her hand back and forth. “I know for a fact that there are many young men who would jump at the chance to court you.” Hanna said loudly, sparing a side-eye at Hvitserk behind your back, smiling at the obvious clench in his jaw. “I’m surprised someone hasn’t tossed you over their shoulder already.”

“Oh.. really?” You tucked your hair behind your ear unconsciously.

Hvitserk then whipped his head towards you at the unmistakeable curiosity in your voice, the noticeable blush in your cheeks.

“I think we better get to training, right Y/N?” Hvitserk interrupted, with a grin that was more toothy than normal. Not waiting for you to answer he grabbed your hand, almost dragging you behind.

“Bye Hanna!” You struggled to wave back, as Hanna just watched with a smug grin.

—————————————————————————————–

The training grounds were where you were most at peace. You and Hvitserk were already known to be ferocious training partners, already proving that your bark was worse than your bite. Which is why many gave you two a wide berth as soon as you arrived.

Looking back at Hvitserk amongst the other men, you sharpened your sword far more than was needed. Hvitserk was always popular, known for his wit and cheek and a few daring pranks.  You on the other hand were respected for your knowledge and training prowess. Often you were approached for advice on weapons and wielding, almost as much as your father was. You and Hvitserk were known as the pride of your generation.

Practicing a few swings, you tried to get what Hanna had said out of your mind, not noticing the way Hvitserk watched you concentrate. Without a second thought he made his way to you, unsheathing his own sword, his demeanor instantly turning serious. “Are you ready?”

As you prepared your stance you tried to quiet your mind. Neither of you wasted any time, with metal clashing against metal, letting your moves be guided by instinct. When Hvitserk managed to corner you against a tree you bared your teeth and grunted at him, the prince returning a low growl of his own.

With a grunt you kicked against the trunk, the prince stumbling yet grinning at your ferocity. You whipped the braids out of your eyes, and reminded yourself that in the heat of battle, there was no time for boys or silly crushes. As Hvitserk spun away from your lunges, and your sweat crowned your brow you let your practice remind you that you were a warrior. You wanted to lose yourself in the adrenaline of the fight. To keep telling yourself not to hope.

Until one fateful day when Hanna crashed through your door. Again.

“Y/N!!! I HAVE NEEEEEWS!”

The force of your friend’s arrival caused you to fall off the bed in a heap of furs, face down on the floor.

“Is Odin in town?” You groaned as you tried to steady yourself, but Hanna was already at your side shaking your shoulders into oblivion.

“Guesswhohasaninvitationtoacabinguessguessguess!”

“Um, you?”

“No. YOU.”

Her two words instantly sobered you and you snapped your head up. “….What?”

“Yes! A cabin, two nights from now when the moon is half full.”

Still on the floor of your bedroom, your brain reached for the most probable answer. “You’re kidding.”

Hanna’s face fell a tad. “No, I am not kidding you’ve been courted by an admirer Y/N! Isn’t this exciting?!” Hanna hugged you to her chest.

“Uh well, it would be if I could breathe.” You answered, muffled by your friend’s bosom.

“I tooooold you that you were a catch! Don’t worry, I’ll help you get ready just leave it to me!” Hanna grinned, already running to your wardrobe and pulling out everything that her fingers touched. “That bastard won’t know what hit him.”

“You know who it is?” Your head whipped around.

You saw Hanna freeze. “Yes, but he has requested that it be a secret until the day and you know the rules.” Hanna said matter-of-factly, holding up a dress to your collarbone, purposely not meeting your eyes.

“Hanna.” You gripped your friend’s hand firmly. “Do you think…are they right for me?” you bit your lip, shy of asking what was really in your mind.

Hanna looked into your worried eyes, softening. “Oh Y/N. I know that he would go to the ends of the earth for you. And I wouldn’t have even agreed to pass it on if I didn’t think they were good for you. Remember you can always refuse them if you want. But if he messes this up, I will personally drown him in the fjord.”

“Maybe Hvitserk will help you out.” You said jokingly.

“Oh I’m sure he’ll have his work cut out.” Hanna drawled as she started to comb your hair. “That boy won’t know what hit him.”

————————————————————————————————–

You rose and poked the fire for the fifth time in a row.

You sat down again, smoothing your skirt for the hundredth time that hour.

Nervous was an understatement. Not even your last summer raid had you as jittery as you were now. You didn’t even have an inkling of who it could be, only that your closest friends wouldn’t tell you a thing. 

And even though you had seen Hanna every day, you had seen neither hair nor hide of Hvitserk. To which you assumed that it had to be one of this brothers or close friends, and as such was sulking because he would lose his training partner. “What a brat.” You muttered.

Your eyes travelled around the cabin. It was modest, with a fireplace in the middle of the room, a half screen shielding the bed from the door when it opened, and on the opposite side a simple table by a latched window that looked out onto the path and the fields below. But the intricate carvings on the walls, the quality of furs, and the ample stock of food by the table hinted to you that this person was at the very least well off. Lost in your own thoughts you paced as the sun died down, the faint pitter patter of rain thrumming in the countryside.

When you heard the door open you almost jumped, the closing creak sounding more final than ever. You heard boots clack on the floor, the unfurling of a long woollen cloak.

You turned slowly to greet your secret admirer. This unknown devotee who wished to pledge themselves to you. The person had their back to you, removing their dampened shirt. Your eyes followed the shadows from the flames, curling around the etchings on his back which climbed over his shoulders. And when Hivtserk turned around to meet you, your heart dropped from your stomach to the floor.

“Hvitserk?”

The prince walked decisively across the room, hanging his shirt by the fireplace. “Did you wait long?”

“No.” Your voice a meagre whisper.

You saw his shoulders tighten as he chuckled ominously. “Why so timid? The great Y/N not afraid of anything.”

His laugh did nothing to put you at ease. “Hvitserk… if.. if this is a cruel joke then it is in poor taste.”

In an instant he closed the distance between you, grabbing your wrist and holding your chin between his thumb and forefinger. And in his you saw intensity you had only witnessed on the battlefield. “You think I would joke about this?”

“I don’t know what to think,” you said breathlessly, not being able to ignore the way his eyes drifted to your berry stained lips or the way his eyes raked the dress that clung lusciously against your figure. “We’re friends.”

Hvitserk then backed you up until your rear hit the table, cornering you. “You know we’re more than that.”

Like a skittish prey you tried to brush off the bait he laid bare. “I’m friends with many guys.”

Hvitserk’s knuckles grew white gripping the table. “And do you think I would have let any of them touch you?”

The huskiness in his voice was pulling emotions out of your depths. Emotions you thought you had drowned in insecurities and loyalties and denial.

“I made it very clear to them that you were mine.”

The flames from the fireplace illuminated Hvitserk’s silhouette, while his features were shaded in the dark hue of the night as his shadow eclipsed you. “I want you, Y/N. You are my equal. We were made for each other.”

“But why?” Your voice growing stronger with the need to know. “Why now, why me?”

His voice became softer, almost bringing the lighter Hvitserk back to the surface as he caressed your fearful face. “You’ve always been by my side, never afraid to tell me when I’m wrong, never fearing to challenge me, a prince of Kattegat.” He snuck a quick breath in your hair that was intricately laden with red blooms and moaned. “It turns me on so much.”

With Hvitserk so close all you could smell is him. The scent of his skin, his voice so close to you, so possessive, you couldn’t even think straight. You were thankful he had pushed you against the table, your legs feeling like a newborn fawn’s.

“I saw the look in your eyes when Hanna asked you about the cabin. So now you’re here.” Hvitserk’s fingers brushed against your own. “Tell me you don’t feel the same.”

You swallowed thickly before you answered. “Hvitserk, you are a prince, a son of Ragnar. I-I-I am just a blacksmith’s daughter! Your mother would never allow this, they would say you should be with someone el-“

“Then push me away.” He all but commands. “We both know you could overpower me. Easily.” The goading in his voice almost sounding like he wanted you to do it.

He gave no heed to your conflicted gaze, whispering into your ear as he slowly drew himself even closer to you, gently pushing you so now you were sitting on the table with him in between your legs.

“I couldn’t give a damn what anyone thinks of us. But I want you to admit… that you want me.” The dark prince drew his toned arm up to draw faint lines up and down your dress sleeve with his fingers, feeling you shiver.

“I, Hvitserk-“

“Yes?” He drawled out slowly, pressing the lightest of kisses on your skin, trailing down your neck and to your shoulder. He spared a gaze, pleased to see your flustered face, the blush in your cheeks, your soft lips drawn apart with small breaths. Your body betraying what he already knew.

“Dammit Hvitserk.” You cursed him. You cursed his name. You cursed the boy who’s smile lit up your world. You cursed the friend you had fallen in love with. And when your eyes met, you were undone. 

“Damn you.”

You almost whimpered as you gave in, bringing Hvitserk’s face to collide with yours. You surrendered to your desire, devouring each other’s lips with heady passion. Your fingertips gripping the sides of his face while his hand clawed through your hair and pulled, the kiss only ending as you gasped for air.

“Fuck you.” You panted, but Hvitserk’s lustful grin only widened.

“If you insist.”

He pulled his forehead to yours, holding your face in his hands before kissing you again, but this time the kiss was tender, as if he was savouring the very moment savouring you. His kisses started to trail down your neck once again, his hands tracing the back of your dress as your fingers caressed his shoulder blades. “Hvitserk.” You moaned, each kiss becoming more and more drawn out.

The Kattegat prince growled at his name on your lips. “So, do I take that as a yes?”

“What do you think.” You bit your lip, pushing yourself into his arms once again, walking him backwards until you both toppled onto the bed.

“I never knew you saw me this way.” Your voice a heady whisper.

“How could I not.” Hvitserk growled, his hand drawing up your thigh. “I had to hide my arousal every time you wanted to wrestle.”

Hvitserk licked his lips at the sight of you underneath him. He knew Hanna had donned you in the one dress that had him dreaming about you since last Yule; a luscious red dress with a skirt split and slits in both sleeves, his eyes not ignoring the way it so teasingly tied at the front, giving him a glimpse of what was underneath. He had almost spat out his mead when he saw you walk into the hall, and so did half his brothers.

“I never knew you were so dirty, my prince.” You chuckled shifted so that his hand grabbed your ass, squeezing and kneading the soft plump flesh there. He moaned and buried his head in your chest, the prince then proceeding to untie the cords with his teeth.

“When you would pin me down I would almost hope you would ravish me right then and there.”

Your eyes then flickered open, a sudden idea popping into your head. “Like this?”

At once you locked his leg with yours and thrust your hips so that you had him flat on his back on the furs. You felt him grind himself against you and grip his hands on the headboard. “Just like that.” He growled as his member cock throbbed in approval.

“Good to know.” You licked your lips you watched Hvitserk writhe underneath you as you found his hard member and grinded against him slowly. You reminisced at how Hvitserk had grown into a man, and you had tried everything to not see it. Now your hands traced the faint lines across his hardened torso and toward his tattoos, his hands now moving under your skirt to your thighs. “What else have you been dreaming about I wonder?” You smirked.

At once you felt him grip the edges of your dress and bring them up around your head, instantly leaving you bare. He threw the dress to the side and kissed you, drawing his hands up the sides of your body.

You shuffled so that you could undo the laces of his trousers, Hvitserk moving swiftly to undress himself and to have you in his arms once again. When you felt him press against your already wet sex you shivered, Hvitserk cooing and caressing you as he tried to steady himself at your entrance.

Hvitserk swore as he entered you, kissing you as he engorged himself in your folds. You gasped as you looked down to where you were joined, Hvitserk’s eyes already dark with lust. You steadied yourself on his torso as you moved here and there, getting comfortable with the sensation. But it soon turned to bouncing, your gasps turning into heavy moans as you rode him.

“That’s it,” He growled. “Take me, fuck take all of me Y/N.” Hvitserk’s hands held your thighs as you thrusted yourself on his cock, your pillowed lips bringing him closer and closer to the edge.

“Hvitserk I’m close!” You yelped, as you grinded your pussy hard on his folds, taking as much of him as you could. The sensation had you reeling, not able to think of anything other than having more. More. More.

Hvitserk slammed your ass on his hips as he spilled his release into you, thrusting unabatedly until you were full of his cum. Eventually you both collapsed, you not being able to move from Hvitserk’s chest. “You cum a lot.” You sighed, to which Hvitserk burst out laughing.

“Our first time together and that’s all you have to say?”

You traced the ink on his chest. “Well, would it be weird to say that I love you.”

“No, not weird at all.” He said, kissing your forehead. “I love you too my little troll.”

You proceeded to then try and punch him in the ribs, but when Hvitserk felt you shiver, he grabbed what furs he could to cover you both. You smiled at his very best attempts not to move you from his chest and once they were on, he dove his hand under the covers, leaving his hand to rest on your back.

“This may be a strange question.” You murmured. “But…. you wouldn’t know anything about the time Kade came back with a broken nose last Yule, would you?”

Instantly you felt Hvitserk’s hand tense up, and you lifted your head. “You didn’t.”

Hvitserk averted his eyes with nothing short of a pout. “He made out with you before I could.”

“You jerk! He was nice and I was unbound!” You laughed and playfully punched him on his chest before he caught both hands.

“Well, now you’re not and that’s that.” He huffed.

You tried to wiggle free but couldn’t, glaring at him with a grin you couldn’t hold back. “I guess I am.” You smiled, as you dipped to kiss your new lover once more.

—————————————————————————————————–

Taglist: @therealcalicali​ @themusingofagothicsoul​ @draconicuchiha​ @destroyther00f @queentearra @selina122​ @chocolatemetalprincess​ @tomarisela​ @mbaku-babygirl​ @laketaj24​ @myboyfriendgiriboy​ 

Feel free to let me know if you want to be added, comments always appreciated :)

#hvitserk #hvitserk fanfiction #greennightspider #vikings hvitserk #vikings fanfiction #viking fanfiction #hvitserk x reader #hvitserk oneshot #vikings fanfic #hvitserk fanfic #hvitty

[blkgojo]

Two Bros | Carol Danvers x Reader

In which oblivious gays construct intricate rituals to touch each other.

Request: Anonymous

“How long do you think they’ve been sparring?”

Valkyrie and Bruce sat in front of a glass panel as they often did on Thursdays. Valkyrie didn’t know what it was about this particular day. Fridays were spent recovering from Tuesdays. Saturdays and Sundays were what she, and many other Midgaurdian women, liked to call ‘self-care’ days. Mondays she- nevermind that. Tuesdays were filled with meetings between herself and the Midguardian world leaders. ‘Do you have any weapons or hidden knowledge?’ ‘Where’s Thor?’ ‘Who will attack our planet next?’ Always with the questions. Thursdays were the gem of the week. It was what the spider boy called ‘intricate rituals’. 

To put it simply, Carol and Y/N wanted to fuck. Neither of them would admit it. Carol would chase. Y/N would run. Throw in a few awkward fumbling sessions and it made for a very entertaining day.

Bruce shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s amazing how long Y/N can last.”

“I bet Carol’s thinking the same thing.”

She could hear Bruce chuckle, but it was cut short by the sound of Carol’s head slamming into the mat. You had her pinned under you. You were breathing heavily. Sweat rolled down your forehead from the past hour you’d been training. If you were paying attention you would’ve heard Bruce let out a gasp or the sound of Valkyrie snicker, but Carol was under you in nothing but a sports bra. Her hands were held under your grip. The game was one of you had to pin the other to the mat.

“Guess I win,” you smirked. “Look at that.”

Carol blew a strand of hair out of her face. A split second of frustration came before shifting to a shit-eating grin. While holding your gaze she peeled your fingers off of each wrist and gripped your wrists with one, pulling you closer. “You won because I let you.”

“Fuck you. You didn't let me do shit.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Y/L/N.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Y/L/N,” you mocked. “You’re annoying.”

Valkyrie and Bruce shared a knowing glance. Valkyrie held up three fingers.

One. 

Carol rolled her eyes and sighed. “If I’m so annoying, why are you on top of me?”

You blinked. Sputtered. 

Carol cocked an eyebrow. “What was that? I can’t hear you.”

Two. 

You collected your breathes, composed yourself. “You’re not letting me off. You’re holding my hands.”

Carol scoffed. “I’m not even gripping that hard. You could get off anytime you wanted to.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I can’t.”

“You really can.” Carol smirked and thrust her hips up. “You don’t want to.”

You let out a squeak of surprise.

Three.

Valkyrie folded down her last finger, making a fist.

“Oh fuck, that’s disgusting,” Valkyrie whispered. She turned towards Bruce. Automatically, without thinking, he shook his head.

“You shouldn’t.”

“I should.”

“Val,” he pleaded.

“Watch this.”

It was the perfect moment. You; inches from Carol’s face. Carol leaning forward just the slightest. Valkyrie banged her fist on the glass separating her and Bruce from you two. Her fist punched through the surface, shattering it and the glass around it.

“Hey guys,” she jumped through the hole. “Hope we weren’t interrupting anything.”

“You did.”

“You’re fine.” You moved Carol’s hand from your wrist and rolled off, ignoring the glance Carol kept sending your way. “I’ll see you guys later.” 

You hurried out. 

Valkyrie snorted. She loved Thursdays.

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

(Unfinished Outtake)

“You did that on purpose,” said Carol.

“I’m- what’s the word that spidey kid taught me, Bruce?”

“Cockblock.”

“Yeah. Love that word,” she turned back to Carol. “I’m a cockblock.”

Carol rolled her eyes. “You’re annoying.”

“Oh. Annoying. Isn’t that the word y/n called you right before you started-” Valkyrie thrusted her hips into the air and grunted. “-and all that.”

“Val, maybe it’s best if you stopped-”

“Hush, Bruce.”

#carol danvers imagine #carol danvers x reader #captain marvel x reader #captain marvel imagine #carol danvers #my writing

[vegetacide]

Whump●tober - ”Don’t move”

Veg-notables: @gumnut-logic  Thanks for the assist. As always you are awesome :)

Obligatory whumptober stuff: @whumptober2019 @la-vie-en-whump

Blanket warning: Emotional whumping with a side of Grandma…. 

Characters: Virgil,  Grandma with a glimpse of  Squidy and Kayo.

Whumptober - TaG’verse

Previous parts can be found ->

 Part 1 Unconscious | Part 2 Shaky Hands |  Part 3 Stitches 

12. “Don’t move.”  (Part IV of Unconscious a.k.a The Void of Oblivion on ff.net... I know.. its a dramatic title but I was in a mood.. )

Enjoy…

oOo

“Don’t move.”  A mature voice that was stern but full of matriarchal love said at his back.

Being stationary didn’t seem to be Virgil’s issue at the moment but he wasn’t going to point out that correction.   His issue was that he just couldn’t move in all sense of the word. Physically and emotionally he was stuck. 

Strong, weathered hands came down on his shoulders and expertly started to knead the tight, knotted muscles. “Wow, Kiddo.  Any tighter and we could use you as a launch pad.”  

Virgil let he head sag on his neck as the surprisingly strong fingers of his Grandmother dug into the concrete that was currently calling itself his back.   Arms draped over the railing he kept one eye to the technicolour display working its magic across the sky and the other down on the pool deck below.

“Well with the way I feel at the moment,  being the launch pad for Two would be preferable.” 

His Grandmother tutted at the remark and drew a hand down the leading edge of his spine that eliciting a low moan out of him that he would rather not have his Granny hear.  

“You had another migraine.” Not a question and he didn’t need to confirm it.  His haggard appearance, five o’clock shadow and stiff posture was evidence enough to support her comment. 

A soft puff of air ruffled up over the nap of his neck in a sigh.  Part frustrations and part worry. “I’m fine, Grandma. Give me another twenty-four hours and I will be back to firing all boosters. “

“I’m sure you will be.”  She remarked and her hands dropped away. 

She stepped up the railing beside him,  her keen eyes looking over the tableau below.  

Kayo was stretching out in an intricate series of movements that though in slow motion at present, they all knew could be used to maximum, deadly force with barely an uptick in her heart rate.  

It was her little end of the day ritual and one that she preferred to do in private.  Virgil just had the added insight at the moment that she required a little extra space to recenter herself after the events of earlier so he obliged her need from a comfortable distance.

Not far from her, the steady sound of Gordon going through his paces in the pool resounded off the villa walls.  Virgil had lost track of how many laps his younger sibling had completed thus far but by the speed in which he was accomplishing them,  the prankster was trying to work some sort of problem out as well and wasn’t any closer to his own solutions. 

If Virgil didn’t have so much on his own plate, he would have probed the younger man but not today.  His plate was already overflowing and added to it would just break the crockery beyond repair and he feared what would happen to those left in the blast radius.  

“You’re brooding.” She noted,  her knowing eyes once more turning their steely gaze back on him. 

He gave a nonchalant shrug not wanted to put to voice to the conflict being waged in his head.  The one where he either broke a promise to a sibling and caused irreparable harm to a relationship or he potentially lost another to some nefarious act of violence.  Either way, he was screwed.  

Damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. 

His Grandmother sighed again and gave his hand a supporting squeeze. “Honey,”  Her tone had that inquisitive quality to it, “do you want to talk about it?” 

Virgil frowned and he gave his head a shake.  “Not particularly.”   Considering he was contemplating betraying his best friend’s probationary trust in him, it wasn’t something he wanted advertise to her of all people.

His elder turned to him,  cupped a hand to his cheek to bring his troubled gaze to hers.  A comforting thumb brushed the stubble in the hollow found there and he knew that she could see everything.  Right through him to the crux of the issue.

“Honey,” She started,  looking into his tired face,  “I know you tend to play things close to the chest but you know with us..with me.. It’s not necessary. I’ve helped raise all of you and nothing you say or do is going to change the fact that your one of my first Grandbabies and I will always love you no matter what.” 

A smile touched the corner of his lips and he turned to kiss her palm. “I know, Grandma.. I just… “  He stalled out.

“You're taking on way too much.”

His warm, brown eyes turned away.

“Virgil,  look at me.”  She insisted and waited patiently for him to do just that. Once he acquiesced her continued.  “I’m not going to act like I haven’t noticed what you’ve been doing.”

Shock had him stiffening.  “...Grandma..”

“Hush now.”  She commanded and he did. “I may be old but I see more than you think I do. You’ve been burning the oil at both ends and there is no use denying it.”

He had nothing to say to contest the observation and he just looked back to the pool deck. 

It was true,  he had been but he had his reasons.  His eyes shifted to the form sliding through the water with the ease of a fish and guilt sprung up in his chest again. If he could keep one of his own from getting hurt again he would do anything in his power to do just that.  No matter the cost to himself. 

Grandma put a knowing hand on his shoulder. “Ever since he was declared fit to return to duty you’ve been doing everything you can to keep him from it.  Why Scott hasn’t picked up on this is another matter altogether but the fact remains… you can’t do it all by yourself Virgil.” 

“I don’t want to see you run yourself into the ground and frankly I’ve sat back too long and watched you do just that.”

“Virgil,”  She took hold of his shoulders and turned him towards her. “I almost lost one of my babies,  and I sure as Hell am not going to lose another if there is something I can do about it” 

She leaned up and placed a motherly kiss on his downcast forehead.  “Whatever else is going on,  I trust you to make the right decision as hard as you might find it to do so. “ She tipped up his chin,  brushed as an exhausted, stray tear that had brimmed over his usually calm and controlled manner.  

“Thanks, Grandma.”  His voice was hoarse and it was unusual for him to feel so vulnerable.So bare and raw with his emotions completely out of check.   

Her arms wrapped around him and pulled him into a hug.  “You’re beyond exhausted right now, Sweety and I am sure that whatever all this is, it will work itself out.   I am always here for you if you need to bend an ear,  I hope you know that.

He nodded against her smaller frame and replied softly in her ear.  “I know Grandma,  I just need some time…”

A squeeze and she stepped back.  “Okay, I won’t push. I promise though it will get better, look better once you’ve had a  good rest and a few thousand calories in your belly.  After that when you ready and you can think clearly again, come find me. We’ll talk.”  

She paused, looked down at her other babies a level down. A small smile played on her pale lips, “Or if you won’t talk to me,  talk to them.” Her head inclined to indicate the pair lost in their own little worlds not so far away.  “I’m sure either one of them would welcome you coming to them.”   

She turned to head back inside and over her shoulder her loving words tried to reach into his conflict and shine a light to salvation.  “You are not alone,  please try to remember that.” 

 oOo 

Next part can be found HERE

The Master List of prompts can be found HERE

#whumptober2019 #whumptober #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds 2015 #thunderbird fanfiction #thunderbird fanfic #no.12 #don't move #Virgil Tracy #Grandma Tracy #Grandma! #the prompt made me do it #emotional conflict #love of a brother

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Mutilated Mannequin (Part 13)

After sifting through another day’s worth of school assignments, Azula stands up to stretch her arms and legs. She still feels faintly woozy. She hopes that the feeling will subside entirely by monday so that she can go back to school. She is growing tired of lazing around the house; the extra leisure time as her antsy and moody. 

Despite the stack of filled out worksheets and finished lit papers, she feels dreadfully unproductive. 

She opens her housecoat and pulls it around herself with more tightness before tying it up again. Once it is adjusted to her comfort, Azula makes her way onto the roof. It has been too long since she had looked at the stars, no wonder she is an agitated mess. 

She runs her fingers over the cool metal. The telescope is made of a lavish silver and along the edge, by the lenses, are intricate depictions of stars and planets etched in and filled with gold. Down the body of the telescope are more engravings, though unfilled with gold, they are just as striking to behold. They depict various constellations; Azula picks out Orion, Cassiopeia, Delphinius, and Aries. Her gaze lingers upon Ursa Major. 

For a moment, she wonders what her mother would have to say about the surgeries. She has a feeling that her face wouldn’t have been altered at all, not even the simple lip injections, were her mother still around. 

She wonders if her mother still works in the fashion industry. It puts an unexpected pang in her heart to recall that her mother had been the one to inspire TyLee to begin designing. Azula grasps the golden pendant that hangs around her neck and lets herself fall into the chair nearest to the telescope. 

She lets go of the pendant and the small golden tiger falls against her neck. She pulls her chair closer to the telescope. She doesn’t want to think about it; she is dreary enough without recalling the last time she’d seen her mother. The day at the airport when the woman gave her the necklace and wished her luck. 

She had been more affectionate and doting with Zuko. Her farewell much more tearful and with many more hugs. 

Azula supposes that she had always been distant with her mother anyhow. 

She gives her head a slight shake, trying to chase that train of thought away and tries to find Saturn. At last, its rings come into view. She observes the planet until her eyes water and she needs to draw back and wipe them. 

She wipes at them several times before realizing that her eyes aren’t watering because she’d been staring for too long. 

Her eyes are watery with repressed emotions. 

.oOo.

Azula doesn’t understand why she is so hesitant to look in the mirror, she knows that her face has only seen improvement. Even still, it is daunting. She shoves her hesitance to the side and inspects her face. It suddenly seems silly to have feared at all when her face comes into view. Residual swelling aside, she looks much better. Her face looks more balanced in a way, and she understands why the rhinoplasty and mentoplasy are recommended together. Somehow she feels more complete. She looks older, flatteringly so. Almost anyhow, she lightly brushes her cheek. She is one operation away from the perfection she craves and has been fighting for. 

She steps away from the mirror and finishes her morning rituals. Breakfast, shower, uniform, it is second nature. She drapes the strap of her shoulder bag across her chest and slides into the family limo. 

“Are you fucking kidding me.” Zuko throws his phone to the floor and runs his hands through his hair looking entirely exasperated. His head snaps towards Azula, “when you see Yue, tell her that she’s a real bitch…”

“I’ll be sure to deliver the message.” Azula replies. 

“She’s unbearable, she’s…” Zuko falls short. He stares at her with his mouth slightly agape. 

“What? Do you want me to make that face too?” 

“N-nothing, nevermind.” 

.oOo.

Azula pushes a strand of hair behind her ear and scribbles down a few notes. She can hear the whispers and she has a feeling that they speak of her. They are too hushed for her to gauge the opinions nestled within.

“By now you should have finished our first reading assignment. I would like someone to summarize the last chapter.” Kyoshi says. “Did anyone actually finish the reading?” Azula can see her scoping out the person who is trying harder than anyone else to meet her stern stare. 

Azula raises her hand. 

“Yes, Azula.”

To the best of her ability, Azula details the happenings of the last few chapters of the assigned reading. She has to let the woman know that her week off hasn’t set her back any. The woman’s scowl only deepens, “Azula has missed an entire week of class, why is it that she knows what we’ve talked about better than the rest of you?”

Azula’s stomach lurches at the glares sent in her direction. She looks to the only person who doesn’t seem to be angry with her. Mai stares straight ahead with her arms folded over her chest. TyLee looks as though Kyoshi has attacked her personally and Azula feels a jab of guilt. 

When the bell rings, she hustles to put away her textbook and notebooks and catch up with the two of them. 

“Tylee?”

The girl turns her head. 

“I don’t think so.” Mai hisses, she pushes TyLee along. As she sweeps the girl into the crowd, Azula catches, “she hasn’t even apologized to you, TyLee.” 

Azula props herself up against her locker, lacking the energy to actually open it. She gives a resigned sigh and stares blankly at the herd of students shuffling to their next classes. “Hey.” She jolts at the voice. Forcing herself to open her locker, she mutters, “good morning, Jet.” 

“The surgeries are going well, I see.” 

“I’m not in the mood, Jet.”

“I’m serious!” Jet declares. “I think the new look works well for you.” 

She allows herself a small smile. “Thank you, that is the goal.” 

“Did it hurt?”

“It was more uncomfortable than anything.” Azula shrugs. She motions for him to follow her to her next class. 

“How many operations do you have left?” 

“Just one.” Azula replies. “But I might go in for a couple more if I find anything else that needs...adjusting.” They reach the gym and Jet nods. “It is a little aggravating to have to sit on the sidelines though.” Jet cocks his head. “I’m not supposed to overexert myself for another week or so.” She shrugs. 

“That’s alright, you can just watch me. I’m sure that I can make the sidelines worthwhile.” He winks and flexes his biceps. 

Azula gives a humored sniff. “I’m sure that you can.” He gives her a thumbs up and retreats into the locker room. She makes her way into the gym and hands Kyoshi her doctor’s note. Weeks into the semester and it is still mind-boggling to have Kyoshi for two classes in a row. Heaven knows that she doesn’t hear enough, “if I can make it here on time, so can all of you” whenever TyLee waltzes in late. 

“Sit with the rest of your classmates for the warmup stretches. If those are also too much for you, you can sit those out as well.”

Intended or not, Azula hates how weak it makes her sound. At least she has some drive to make it through the stretches. At least she has something to do aside from sitting off to the side, wasting time.

“I know that I shouldn’t be talking to you. Chan will whine like a bitch if he catches me.” Ruon declares, plopping down next to her. “But I’m a curious man.” 

Azula quirks a brow.

“Jet said that the surgery went well.” He elaborates. 

“I would say so.” Azula agrees. 

“Come on, turn your head.”

Azula rolls her eyes and tilts her head back and to the side so that he can observe her face. Ruon rubs his chin. “Yeah, that is pretty hot.” He muses. “Shit, if Chan wasn’t gonna be such a dick about it, I’d ask you out.” 

“I’ll talk to him.” Azula replies. 

“I don’t know how he could deny a face like that.”

Azula laughs, thankful for the small confidence boost. “True.” She watches Ruon wander off to join Chan. She decides that she will approach him after she finishes her stretches. But as soon as she does, Kyoshi calls for them to begin picking teams. She makes her way to the bleachers, deciding that it will be ultimately better to approach him at lunch. She will have an hour of math to prepare dialogue and work away her nervousness.

.oOo.

Unpacking her lunch, she is well aware that the jitters have not subsided. If anything, she only feels that much more queasy. She feels the table shift and looks up. “Yue.” She greets nonchalantly.

“Tell your brother that he’s such a big ass that mine looks small in comparison.” 

Azula sniggers. “I’ll be sure to tell him…” She pauses. “I’m pretty sure that he asked me to tell you…”

“Whatever it is, just give him one of these for me.” She lifts her middle finger. 

“So…” Azula starts, “what do you think?”

“Of what?” 

Azula makes a waving gesture at her face. 

“It’s fake as hell.” Yue replies all too quickly and with a shrug. “But all of that work definitely looks nice.”

Azula rolls her eyes, she suppose that, that is as close as it gets to a compliment with Yue. 

“It suits you.” Chan says as he takes a seat. She begins to thank him, but he speaks over her, “your face is as fake as the rest of you.” 

“Everything else is natural.” 

“I’m not talking about your body. I’m talking about your personality and every friendship that you’ve ever formed.” 

“That’s not true.” 

“It isn’t?” Mai asks. “What pricy apology gift were you planning on buying for TyLee?” Azula draws in a sharp breath and peers at TyLee. The girl averts her gaze and stares glumly at her sandwich.  “You were much more pleasant before you got those surgeries…” 

“At least there was a time when I was pleasant, that’s more than you can say.” Azula mutters.

She catches a flicker of a sneer, a fleeting flash of anger in Mai’s eyes. It only lasts a second before her face goes wholly impassive once more. “It doesn’t even look that good.” 

The whole table falls silent. Conversation doesn’t resume for the rest of the hour, not with her and not with each other. She supposes that she will have to find someone else to sit with. Zuko and Ruon are her go to choices but they don’t share the same lunch hour as she. The bell rings and she watches everyone else leave. She lingers behind, even after everyone else has left. Mostly everyone; Katara and Suki finish off their conversation and then depart. 

She swears that Katara has looked at her once or twice. But then again, she might just be over-thinking things. 

“Can I talk to you?” Katara asks. 

But she isn’t in the mood to speak with anyone. Much less Sokka’s sister.

Sokka’s sister. 

Sokka.

The elections. 

Azula tenses up and hurries to her locker. She tosses her textbooks into it haphazardly--relative to her usual tidiness--and rushes to the auditorium. She takes a moment to catch her breath and run her fingers through her hairline. How the hell had she forgotten about the elections? She hasn’t even prepared a speech. She rubs her face with her hands as Sokka steps up to the podium. 

“You’re late.” Long Feng remarks. 

“I’m perfectly on time.”

“You were supposed to speak first.” Long Feng counters. “You are late.” 

Thoroughly exhausted, she concedes, “fine, I’m late. Whatever. I’m here now.” She has a sneaking suspicion that it doesn’t matter anyways. His promises of new sporting equipment and ‘actually exciting’ field trips had been winning over the student body from the start. Truth be told, she never had a clue what to promise her classmates, there has always been a disconnect between she and them. She can spin all of the pretty political jargon that she wants, they don’t respond to logos. And Sokka has her heavily beat as far as pathos goes. Even her ethos had declined rapidly.

Truth be told, deep down, she knew all along that the election was a waste of her time. 

Still, she hadn’t expected a unanimous decision. 

Not even TyLee had voted in her favor. Yue, refusing to vote for the “class dumbass”, opted to leave her ballot blank and boasted as much. Much too late, it dawns upon her that Chan had been right all along. Her social decline had, and still has, nothing to do with her face and everything to do with her mess of a personality.  

The crowd cheers and claps for their new president, but all Azula can hear is her father berating her. 

She doesn’t go home that night. 

She sits in the outdoor bleachers and watches Chan and his team toss a football around. She is a silent and unnoticed spectator. When the sky beings to blacken, she wanders across the lawn to where the astronomy club is setting up. 

“You’re here early.” Pathik remarks.

“Yeah.” Azula shrugs. 

“Is everything alright?”

“Yes. I’m fine. Just disappointed about the class elections.” She half lies. 

“You’ve missed a week of school.” He notes. “Oh, oh dear.” He fumbles with the telescope. “Can you help me with this?” 

“Maybe you should put some of that stuff down.” She replies as she helps him position the telescope. 

“Right, yes.” He sets down an armful of star maps and science books.

“I’ve been in the hospital. It isn’t a big deal.” She stares into the telescope and makes some adjustments. “There. It’s all set.” 

Pathik gives it a look for himself. “Perfect! Thanks to you we’ll have some extra time today!”

His enthusiasm is almost comforting. At least she is still good for something. She finds herself a seat in the grass, she wraps her arms around her knees and stares upwards. Katara is the second person to arrive, followed by Yue. Azula rolls her eyes, the girl is really going out of her way to pester her rival this year. 

“Yo, Principal P! When do I get to look at the moon?”

“Whenever you learn to work a telescope.” She hears Katara mutter. 

Her gaze follows Pathik as he paces about. “Now where did I put my pen…”

“Did you check your beard, that’s where it was the last time.” She recognizes his voice from the first club meeting. If she remembers right, he calls himself Sneers. 

“Ah! Yes!” Pathik digs into is absurdly fluffy beard and pulls out his pen. “First things first, I’d like to remind everyone to apply for their chance to for the trip to the NIR&Ex, it could be a once in a lifetime opportunity. And don’t forget about the Lake Laogai University scholarship opportunity. If you show promise in this club and in Agni High’s astronomy classes, you can earn a full ride.” He gives a few giddy claps. “I can think of two contenders already.” His gaze shifts between she and Katara. “Before we get to the telescopes, I’d like to announce that the town of Agni is hosting its annual comet viewing festival. If you have all been paying attention in class, you already know that you all are alive during a very special time. Would someone like to let the rest of the club know why that is?”

He scans the lot of them. “Ah, yes, Katara.” He points his pen at her. “Please explain.” 

“We have the chance to watch Sozin’s Comet as it passes.” 

“Correct!” He claps his hands once more. He turns to Azula, “it must be particularly exciting to know that you will see the comet that your great grandfather is named for.” 

Azula nods, “quite.” 

“The Kasai family has helped the astronomy community profoundly and, with luck and determination, I believe that the family will continue to make contributions. Am I correct.” He gives Azula a wink. 

“I do hope so.” She replies. 

“Yes, yes. Where was I? Oh, right, the festival. The festival will take place in mid December, instead of our regular meeting, we will be attending it. If you’d like to bring a guest, please fill out this form,” he holds up a stack of papers, “before you leave.” 

“Ugg, if I hear one more thing about this comet…” Yue rolls her eyes. “Who cares about the comet, the moon is what really matters.”

“Of course the moon is what really matters.” Katara agrees. “But don’t you realize what the comet means?”

“That Azula gets to brag about her family’s legacy more than usual?”

“Ha. Ha.” Azula folds her arms. 

“Oh! I know! It means that you get to geek out more than usual.” Yue guesses. “I guess making a fool of yourself at homecoming wasn’t enough humiliation for you.” 

Katara’s face flushes. “Y-you know what. I don’t even know why I try with you. You’re so...so…” She storms over to one of the available telescopes as Yue collapses into a round of girlish giggles. The sound is grating to Azula’s ears. 

Azula finds a telescope of her own, but for the first time she can’t seem to focus on the sky. She was going to take Chan to the festival as a first date. Or at the very least, bring Mai and TyLee along for a girl’s day. 

Now.

Now she isn’t sure that she is up for attending at all. 

It isn’t like she hasn’t wasted an opportunity before.

She helps Pathik and the rest of the club pack their equipment away for the week. “Hey.” Azula turns around. 

“Are you okay?”

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

“Because, you don’t seem happy.”

“Whether or not I am is none of your business.” 

Katara lifts her hands, “just trying to help.” She begins to walk away.

“Wait.” Azula mumbles, it is just like the first time. Katara turns around again but she doesn’t know what to say. “Nevermind.” 

Katara sighs. “Why are you doing it if it makes you miserable?”

Her brows crease, “doing what?”

“Getting the surgeries?”

“That’s not why I’m unhappy.” But it is, isn’t it? At the very least it is a critical part of it. All at once, the surgeries are the only thing keeping her uplifted. She is wholly conflicted, trapped in a sort of paradox. In some regards she feels more confident. For once, despite her utter loneliness, she feels beautiful. Like she has a chance to make friends. But the very thing that grants her this confidence, takes it away. She feels fake.

Fake and shallow. 

She realizes that Katara is waiting for her to elaborate. She doesn’t know how.

“You don’t have to keep getting them, you know.” She waits for a reaction that doesn’t come. “You look fine. You looked fine before.” 

Azula bites the inside of her cheek. 

“I tried to bleach my skin once.” Katara confesses. “I thought that Jet would leave me alone if I were lighter. I’m glad that I had Sokka and Suki and Toph...and so many people to tell me that I didn’t have to do it.” 

“Jet will find any reason to go after you.”

Katara nods, “I figured that out.” She crosses her arms. “You don’t need to have any more work done. I guess that I just wanted you to know that, even if you don’t like me very much.”

Azula opens her mouth as a car pulls up.

“That’s my ride. I’ll see you in gym class.” 

Azula wanders away from the parking lot as her family’s limo pulls up. She knows that she is only making things worse by avoiding him. All the same, she doesn’t think that she can handle her father tonight. 

She spends her night laying on the park bench, staring up at the stars.

#Avatar #Azula #Mai #TyLee #Katara #Zuko #Sokka #Toph #Suki #Aang #Fanfiction

[lynne-monstr]

something in the air (makes you do strange things)

magnus and alec through the lens of trust. a series in four parts. featuring blood freely given, magnus bane’s bow and quiver, a bit of battle couple, and the line between love and fear.

written for the malec secret santa for @codeblackglitter

ao3 link

i.

“Do you trust me, Alexander?”

Alec shut his book, marking his place with his thumb before glancing up.

Across the room, Magnus was ensconced behind his potions desk, surrounded by a veritable army of bottles in various shapes and sizes, each filled with brightly colored liquid. Large, ornate bowls simmered over magically conjured fires, letting off puffs of steam at irregular intervals.

Alec’s thoughts tripped to a halt, caught on the ripples of evening light dancing across Magnus’ exposed forearms beneath rolled-up sleeves. At the way his fingers constantly moved, even at rest. When his mind finally caught up, he set aside his book entirely.

Did Magnus really not know?

Shaking his head, Alec gave a soft smile, the kind Magnus always seemed to draw from him. “I trust you with everything.”

He could count on one hand the number of people he let see past his walls, and within forty-eight hours of their first meeting, the High Warlock of Brooklyn had become part of that group. Alec could still remember their first night together. That vivid sense of feeling stripped bare, yet conversely, more in control of his life than he’d ever felt. When he finally fell asleep—alone, exhausted, and unarmed in a strange Downworlder’s home—he never doubted he was in safe hands.

That sense of safety lived so deep in his bones it could no longer be separated from the rest of him.

Safety. Love. Sex. Trust. All the things he never thought he could have, now such an intricate part of his life he couldn’t imagine living without them. The knowledge was as unyielding as the color of a freshly applied rune or the exact angle of his bow in motion.

“Well,” Magnus said, breaking Alec from his thoughts. “You may not after you hear my request.” He fiddled with his earcuff, a simple black one that matched the thick lines around his eyes.

Alec shook his head. They had variations of this conversation before, and experience taught him that the best tactic was to keep pressing his point.

“What do you need?” Alec asked. “I can’t give it to you if you don’t tell me.”

Magnus swallowed hard and left his workspace, plucking an object from his desk as he went. The setting sun glinted off the honed edge of a blade, throwing lines of yellow across the floor and furniture. The matching glow of Magnus’ eyes, however, had nothing to do with the golden hour.

Most people might be scared at the sight he made. The most powerful warlock in New York gracefully stalking across the room in fluid, unbroken movements. Wisps of magic lingered around one hand while the other gripped the knife with the ease of longtime use.

Alec’s breath caught, and he shifted in place on the couch. The only concern he felt was that despite the trappings of his power, Magnus was clearly uncomfortable.

The last few steps brought him between Alec’s legs, where he came to a halt. Without thinking, Alec spread them wider, reeling him in with hands at the back of his strong thighs.

“I need a vial of your blood,” Magnus said. His gaze was focused somewhere over Alec’s shoulder. “Not for anything untoward,” he added quickly.

Well then. That explained the knife. And the uncharacteristic hesitance.

Every young Shadowhunter was drilled about the importance of never giving such consent, even under torture. Blood freely given was a weapon. Powerful and versatile. It was a skeleton key to the vilest magics in existence. Mind control, possession, resurrection, and more curses than he could count. Not to mention its aid in getting through an institute’s wards. There were dozens of other usages, each one straight out of a nightmare.

“Hey, look at me,” Alec said, waiting until those beautiful eyes focused on him. He unhooked an arm from around Magnus’ leg, holding it out and up as if in offering. “It’s okay. Take what you need.”

Magnus’ eyes grew wide. “Don’t you want to know why?”

Alec wrapped fingers around the arm holding the knife, and slowly brought the sharp edge to rest against the skin of his forearm. The metal was cold, but he didn’t flinch.

“I’m not worried, if that’s what you’re asking,” Alec said. “You’d never hurt me, Magnus. You’d never use that power against me.”

Magnus squeezed his eyes shut. “I’d rather die.”

“I know.” The silence hung heavy between them as Alec bent to place a kiss against Magnus’ wrist, still holding the knife. “If you say you need it, then you need it.”

He’d already given Magnus his heart and his body and his love. There was nothing of him that was off limits, nothing he wouldn’t share freely with the man before him.

Magnus’ face slackened in surprise, but he recovered quickly.

“There’s a little girl,” he said, shadows in his eyes. “A young warlock with a rare disease not seen in centuries. The strength of Nephilim blood is the only thing that can give the potion I’m brewing enough of a boost to cure her. It’s a long shot but nothing else has worked.”

“Magnus.” Alec tugged at Magnus’ wrist until he lowered himself to his knees between Alec’s legs, bringing them face-to-face. “I already said yes. Go save your people.”

Magnus leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Alec’s and whispering a soft, “Thank you.”

After that, it was almost anticlimactic. Magnus wielded the knife with the dexterity of an expert, and Alec was used to far more serious injuries. It was over in an instant.

Banishing the tiny vial, Magnus threw himself back into his work. When the potion was ready several days later, he whisked them off to a large house in Queens. The warlocks embraced Magnus but gave Alec skeptical looks.

Magnus hushed their protests with a wave of his hand. “Not to worry. This is Alexander. He’s one of the good ones.”

Alec wasn’t sure he deserved that endorsement, or even to be there, but Magnus insisted with a firm, “You should be here, you had a hand in this, too.” With a smile, he patted Alec’s jacket at the precise point the knife had rested. “Or more precisely, an arm.”

The warlocks let them pass, and Alec got to witness a very sick little girl regaining her health. He watched with a careful eye, ready to jump in and offer his strength if needed.

Her smile was something he would carry in his heart for a long time. A reminder that for all the loss, there was also good in their world.

Afterwards, he didn’t quite know what to say. Everything seemed inadequate, so he settled on, “Thank you for taking me with you. For showing me that.”

Magnus took both his hands and squeezed. “You did that. Your blood, the gift you gave that little girl.”

Alec brought their joined hands to his lips, brushing a kiss against Magnus’ knuckles. “You did that,” he corrected. “I was just ingredients.”

Because it was true. Alec gave his blood, but it was Magnus who transformed it into a cure for a sick child. It was Magnus who stayed up night after night, hands shaking from fatigue, eyes bloodshot, refusing to rest until the work was done. There wasn’t a day that went by when Alec wasn’t amazed at what his boyfriend could do, at how much he cared and how he worked himself to exhaustion for anyone who needed it.

“Oh Alexander, don’t you see? Do you know how many Nephilim would willingly give their blood to a warlock to save a Downworlder? But you didn’t hesitate. You didn’t even need to think it over.”

“Anyone would have done the same,” Alec protested.

Magnus shook his head, a sad smile tugging at his lips. “No,” he said, eyes heavy with memories as he untangled their hands to cup Alec’s cheek. “They wouldn’t. They didn’t.”

Alec didn’t know how to convince him he’d always be there. Always by Magnus’ side in whatever capacity he was needed. That it would be the two of them, together, for as long as Magnus would have him.

He did the next best thing, and leaned in to seal their lips together, trying to put into actions everything that Magnus wouldn’t yet accept from him in words.

  ii.

“Trust me,” Alec said, grabbing his bow. “This will work.”

Isabelle looked like she wanted to say something but with a shake of her head, took a silent step back, willing to follow his lead.

Not for the first time, Alec’s heart swelled with the love and care she always gave him. Isabelle was a fierce woman and he was lucky to have her in his life and on his side.

Neither did Jace look convinced, but with a nod, he clasped the bow in the same spot as Alec.

Events of the past several months had tested their bond, but they were still siblings and Parabatai, two souls united against the world. The confidence Alec felt—the certainly that this would work—was unwavering, and something of that must’ve filtered into Jace as well.

The power of the Parabatai tracking ritual thickened the air around them. Held tightly between their palms, the bow Alec favored began to hum with energy.

Alec met Jace’s eyes as the tracking took hold, but his thoughts were a world away. Not that he needed to strain himself to bend his mind towards Magnus. The memories rushed over him like the familiar wash of the tide coming home.

Magnus deep in concentration, hands flowing effortlessly across tiny bottles of spell ingredients as he worked his magic. Biting at his lip when he was unsure and trying to hide it. Head thrown back in the midst of pleasure, throat bared and mouth open in a silent shout as his entire body arched off the bed. Half asleep on the couch and nuzzling his face into Alec’s neck to chase the warmth of his skin.

A location formed in the front of Alec’s mind, hazy at first and then razor sharp, as if it had always been there. Opening his eyes, he saw the same knowledge reflected in Jace’s gaze.

They unclasped their hands.

“We know where he is,” Alec announced. As if the determined look on his face wasn’t announcement enough.

“That was…intense,” Jace said, visibly shaking himself off.” His eyes studied Alec as he continued. “More than usual. You okay?”

Isabelle gave Alec a pat on the shoulder as the three of them moved towards the Institute’s main exit. “I don’t see why you’re so surprised. Alec is intense on a good day, and now that Magnus is missing, well…” she trailed off, letting the sentence hang in the air.

Alec shrugged, unwilling to get into it when he had more important matters at hand. And it’s not like she was wrong.

Magnus should’ve been home days ago. No one knew where he was, and his phone went straight to voicemail. The last Alec heard, he was helping smooth over rising tensions within the vampire community, acting as an impartial, trusted third party. According to local gossip, there was a new clan in town and frictions were high.

Alec knew Magnus could handle himself, but that didn’t stop the worry that gnawed relentlessly at his mind, working its way steadily deeper until it was all he could think about. He had thrown more of himself into the tracking spell than usual.

Activating his speed rune, he watched from the corner of his eye as his siblings followed suit. And then they were off, sprinting through the city towards Long Island City and Magnus.

“Care to explain how that tracking even worked?” Jace asked as they ran.

Despite his nerves, Alec smiled. “Remember Izzy’s trial?” he said. “Magnus agreed to act as counsel, and the payment we agreed on was my bow and quiver.”

“He what!” Isabelle nearly missed a step in her surprise. Her voice turned serious. “Alec, you never said. I know how much those weapons mean to you.”

“So did he, I bet,” Jace chimed in with a scowl.

“He had every right to ask for it.” Alec shot back, the metal of the Queensboro Bridge clanging beneath their feet with every step. Beneath them, the East River was an inky ribbon winding through the evening darkness. “He would’ve been well within his right to ask for more.”

Probably best not to mention that he’d initially asked for Alec himself. Though looking back, it was clear that was never a demand meant to be taken seriously. Regardless of his quick temper, Magnus was the kindest person Alec knew. He would never have demanded that of him as the price for saving his sister, not if Alec truly didn’t want to give it.

“But you were never without it,” Isabelle said, interrupting his thoughts. “After the trial, you were still using the same bow.”

Alec smiled, despite the bittersweet memories of that time. “He gave it right back. Told me to hold on to it for him.”

Jace bumped their shoulders together as the three of them ran in perfect unison. It was either silent support or an apology for his earlier judging words. Alec couldn’t tell but he appreciated it nonetheless.

“So your bow belongs to Magnus,” Isabelle said with a laugh. “I knew you were a hopeless romantic.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Alec said, not really meaning it. Growing up, he never in his wildest dreams thought there would come a day when his siblings would tease him about his boyfriend. It was an impossibility, right up until it wasn’t. Alec wouldn’t give it up for anything.

He wasn’t giving up Magnus either. Alec belonged to Magnus every bit as much as his bow. And Magnus belonged to him.

No matter what it took, Alec was going to bring him home.

They fell silent as they reached their destination, an abandoned glass factory that hadn’t yet been converted into high rises. The joking atmosphere between them turned serious.

It was time to get to work.

Later, after everything was settled—it turned out Magnus had been snatched by one of the vampire clans who thought the local High Warlock would be more effective as a hostage than a negotiator—Magnus turned to Alec and frowned.

“You shouldn’t have been able to find me. After that first time with the ruby, I enchanted my belongings against it. Not that I’m ungrateful to have my dashing Shadowhunter boyfriend swoop in to rescue me.”

“Not that you needed rescuing,” Alec said. He pressed a kiss to Magnus’ collarbone, the easiest place to reach from where he was laying atop his chest, both of them warm and safe in bed. “You had the whole lot of them hanging on your every word before I even showed up. You actually got them to sign a provisional peace treaty.”

Alec trailed a finger down bare skin, enjoying the feel of hard muscle under his hand. “I half expected the vampires to beg us to save them from you.”

“High Warlock,” Magnus replied, wiggling his eyebrows in a way that made him look slightly ridiculous. He captured Alec’s hand from his chest, placing a kiss on the forefinger. “Politics is part of the job. It’s not all flashy magic, you know. And you never answered my question. How did you find me?”

Alec laughed. “You didn’t enchant all your possessions. Remember my bow and quiver? Or should I say, your bow and quiver.” He pulled back, not wanting to miss the reaction his words were sure to evoke.

It was even better than expected.

Surprise etched itself across Magnus’ face and his mouth dropped into a tiny, adorable ‘oh.’ He recovered just as quickly, warmth melting away the shock like the first rays of spring.

“I forgot about that,” he said, the words as tender as his smile. He pulled Alec back down, until Alec’s head was once again tucked into the warmth of his neck.

Alec went willingly. More than willingly.

“I didn’t forget,” he replied, fitting his body to Magnus so there was no space between them.

They drifted off to sleep holding each other. It was Alec’s favorite way to end the day, and if he had anything to say about it, that wasn’t ever going to change.

  iii.

“Trust me,” Magnus said, pressing closer to Alec as they were surrounded by a small army of possessed mundanes. “Let them come closer.”

The heat of Magnus’ back against his own was a reassuring presence, the two of them circling in place even as they were herded further into the narrow alley.

One of the mundanes leaped forward, hands extended like claws. Alec swatted her away with the flat of his blade. With a hiss that wasn’t quite human, she fell back. It was only a temporary reprieve, the inhale before a piercing scream.

Alec didn’t want to fight these people, but soon he would have little choice.

“Don’t hurt them.” Magnus echoed his thoughts, voice strained as the static of his magic crackled the night air. “I’m close, I just need to—”

He cut off as a hoard of the possessed descended on them at once.

Alec exploded into motion, jerking on Magnus’ elbow and spinning him towards where the herd was thinnest. Shielding him with his body, Alec pushed the attackers back, careful to only use non-fatal slices of his seraph blade. The pain made them cautious but wouldn’t keep them back for long.

“Alec darling, save the manhandling for later, if you would.” Rolling his wrists, Magnus summoned more power to his hands.

Alec snorted despite himself. “I’ll hold you to that once we’re home.”

“Promises, promises.”

There was no time to reply. For every person he knocked down, more came forward. From the corner of his eye, he could see Magnus throwing elbows and a few kicks of his own, even as the light gathered in his palms grew brighter. A burly man got past Alec’s guard, thick fingers curling around his neck and scratching at his eyes. Alec headbutted him. But as he did, another hand ripped his blade from his grip. It clattered to the ground, out of reach.

Desperate, he threw himself after it, using the momentum to dislodge his attackers. His head hit the concrete, dazing him just enough to slow his reactions. A middle-aged woman in bright workout clothes pounced on him.

A blast of angry red magic hit her chest, knocking her back. It startled the rest, buying him a temporary reprieve.

Alec leaped to his feet, giving up the weapon as a lost cause and letting his training take over. He fought for what felt like forever, losing himself in the rhythm of kicks and punches. Occasionally, Magnus blasted the stragglers before going back to whatever miracle spell was building between his hands.

But Alec could see he was faltering. They both were.

“I can’t hold them off forever,” Alec shouted between punches.

Just as he began to despair, Magnus shouted, “Now! Close your eyes, Alec.”

Alec’s body reacted on instinct, his absolute trust in Magnus guiding his movements. It left him open. Blinded and undefended—completely vulnerable if whatever Magnus planned didn’t work.

He braced himself for it. An attack, a punch, fingernails and teeth tearing into his skin.

Nothing came. The sound of bodies hitting the ground sounded in his ears, but Alec didn’t dare look. Finally, there was silence, save for the rumble of garbage trucks along a nearby street.

“It’s over.”

Magnus sounded tired, and Alec half expected him to be on the floor when he opened his eyes.

He wasn’t. His back was straight, stance slightly wider than normal. The magic had dissipated into the air save for the remnants clinging to the edge of his form. He cut a powerful figure, one that not even the exhaustion hovering around the creases in his eyes could dim.

Standing tall and wreathed in his own power, it was hard to believe he was real.

Unfortunately, Alec had more mundane matters to take care of than staring at his boyfriend. Literally mundane, in this case. Surrounding them was a circle of collapsed men and women, and he had a job to do.

He rushed over to the fallen mundane closest to him, a young man in an expensive business suit. Two fingers placed just above the collar released the knot of tension between Alec’s shoulders. The pulse was strong and steady. He checked the rest and, when the last was done, slumped in relief.

“They’re alive,” Magnus confirmed. “I took their most recent memories in the same spell that cured them. As far as they’re concerned, they got caught up with gangs on PCP.”

Alec nodded. “I’ll call Luke and he can deal with the mundane police.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Magnus sway on his feet. Quickly, he stood, making his way over and getting his shoulder under Magnus’ arm.

“I can stand on my own.” Despite the words, Magnus made no move to extricate himself.

“Maybe I just want to feel up my boyfriend,” Alec responded with a smile, wrapping a hand snug around Magnus’ waist.

“Well, in that case, proceed.” Magnus gave an airy gesture, letting himself lean into the support Alec offered.

Alec gripped his waist tighter, relived to have the solid weight of him pressed up against his side.

He was accustomed to fighting alongside the people he loved, staying focused when they were in danger. Years of patrols with his siblings had drilled the constant threat into his mind, the knowledge that one of them could fall at any moment. It was something he tried not to think about, and was generally successful at it.

It was different with Magnus.

Alec hadn’t spent over a decade training his mind and body to accept Magnus being in danger as a mere fact of life. He wondered if that primal fear was what Magnus felt every time Alec walked out of their home towards the Institute.

Placing a kiss to Magnus’ temple, Alec closed his eyes and breathed in the familiar scent of the man he loved. Warmth curled in his chest when Magnus dropped his head to rest on his shoulder, letting Alec take more of his weight.

“Come on,” he said, gently, leading Magnus to one of the nearby storefront benches. “We can wait for Luke here.”

“I’m perfectly fine,” Magnus mumbled into his neck with a yawn. “Maybe just a little tired,” he conceded, as Alec maneuvered them into sitting.

“That was an impressive piece of magic you did.”

Magnus preened. “It wasn’t fully finished. I had to improvise a little at the end.”

Alec brushed a stray spike of hair from where it had fallen in front of his face. “Showoff.”

“It wouldn’t have worked if you didn’t keep most of them away from me. Thank you, Alexander. I know I didn’t give you much to go on.” Magnus grew visibly tired, until the words were no more than a mumble at the end.

The spell must have taken a lot of out of him because he didn’t complain when Alec coaxed him into lying across the bench, his head cradled in Alec’s lap. After a moment, Alec carded tentative fingers through the longer hair at the top of his head. Magnus could be touchy about having it messed up in public, but when he didn’t protest, Alec continued.

A little groan escaped Magnus’ lips, his eyes falling shut as Alec shifted to massaging the base of his skull. He let his fingers wander, tracing the lines of his eyebrows and trailing up and down his cheekbones. Without his usual defenses and extravagant gestures, he looked painfully young, a far cry from the centuries-old powerhouse and warlock leader he truly was.

Staring down into his relaxed face, Alec couldn’t help feeling a little floored.

Magnus was independent, often to a fault, preferring to look after himself under any and all circumstances. But here he was, practically asleep in a magically exhausted state on a New York City street. Letting Alec stand between himself and the world.

Alec would die before he let anyone touch him.

Eventually, the sound of approaching sirens reached his ears and he gently shook Magnus’ shoulder. They were both standing by the time Luke arrived on the scene with a handful of his officers.

Confident that the situation was in good hands, Magnus summoned a portal for them both. By unspoken agreement, any post-mission briefings would wait until tomorrow.

Hand-in hand, they stepped through the portal and into their home.

  iv.

“Magnus, trust me. I want this.” The words were hardly real, even to Alec’s own ears.

He had spelled out his entire plan, his research, everything. He spoke until his voice felt flat and scratchy. Now that it was done, he shifted in place, needing an outlet for the excess energy.

But Magnus only stared.

The silence stretched thin, the air between them cracked and brittle.

Alec was adept at reading the nuances in his boyfriend’s expressions but now those familiar features may as well been carved from stone. He could feel the exact moment his world dropped out beneath him. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he rocked backwards on the golden sheets of their bed.

“Please say something.” Each word felt forced from Alec’s throat.

He spent so much time preparing, so many months soul-searching and charting every possible eventuality. He hadn’t planned that Magnus might say nothing at all.

A negative answer, sure. How could he not, after that first fiasco of a move-in discussion what felt like a lifetime ago. Eventually, they’d come to an understanding about how they each viewed the passage of time, and their relationship was stronger for it. Alec was so sure he wasn’t about to repeat past mistakes.

He hated being wrong.

“I’m afraid,” is what Magnus finally said.

Alec squinted at him. “What?”

Of all the responses he expected to his declaration of wanting to spend the rest of Magnus’ long life together, this wasn’t it.

Magnus swallowed, and Alec was momentarily distracted by the jut of his Adam’s apple as he explained.

“I’m scared that one day, maybe in a century, maybe four centuries, after your family and friends have all passed, that you’ll remember I’m the reason you’re stuck here without them.”

Magnus looked down at his hands, fingers reaching to fiddle with the rings he had already taken off in preparation for sleep. He paused, grasping at nothing until he finally clasped them together and placed them in his lap. “I don’t think I could live with myself if you looked at me like that.”

Alec choked back his instinctive denial.

It wouldn’t be fair to brush aside Magnus’ very real fears, even though he knew with a certainly aimed as true as his arrows, that those fears were wrong. The thought of living without his family was a white-hot poker seared into in his gut, but so was the thought of growing old and abandoning the love of his life to nothing but memories.

Alec couldn’t do anything about the lifespan of those he loved. He could only do something about his own.

He got to his knees on the soft mattress, shuffling forward to straddle Magnus’s lap where he sat against the headboard. Carefully, he wrapped both hands around the back of Magnus’ neck, using his thumbs to tilt his chin upwards.

Magnus let out a breath and allowed himself to be maneuvered.

Alec stroked the pad of his finger along the sharp cut of Magnus’ jaw. “I’ve thought about this, Magnus. So many times, you don’t even know. I understand what I’m committing to. I’m committing to you. Forever with you.”

Magnus squeezed his eyes shut like he was in actual pain.

When he opened them, they shone gold in wonder. “I wish I knew what I did to deserve you. I would keep doing it for the rest of my life.” He paused to bite at his lip. “But Alec, this is a big decision that can’t be undone. I need you to be sure.”

Alec pressed their foreheads together, mumbling against Magnus’ lips, “I’m sure about you.”

With a muffled cry, Magnus pressed forward, closing the slim distance between them.

Alec could taste the slightest tang of salt on his face as their lips moved together. He opened his mouth into the kiss, eagerly letting Magnus in. Magnus kissed like he wanted to devour Alec’s every word with his tongue, like he could sweep them directly from Alec’s lips into his own body and keep them safe in his heart for the rest of eternity.

Like if he didn’t, Alec might take them back.

Alec let him have it all, giving himself over to the kiss and giving Magnus everything he so desperately needed. His head spun, giddy with the thought of forever. This was only the beginning. He could see his future stretched out before him, bright and wondrous in the way he used to dream about, when he let himself imagine a fantasy world where things were different.

Except this was better. Magnus was real and warm beneath his hands, and Alec loved him with such a fire in his chest that he was surprised the whole world couldn’t see him burning.

When it was over, they stayed pressed up tight, breathing each other in as their racing heartbeats settled and the urge to gasp for each drag of air had passed.

“Oh Alexander, do you know what you do to me when you say things like that.”

Alec nodded, taking Magnus’ hands into his own. “I’m going to say it every day.” Alec turned serious as he added, “Forever, if you want it.”

Magnus’ eyes shone bright. “I do.”

#shadowhunters #malec #malec fanfic #magnus bane #alec lightwood #lynne writes fic #i had so much fun writing this #and now that the reveals are done i get to share it with my name attached! #<3<3<3

[malecsecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @Codeblackglitter!

For @codeblackglitter – Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays! Thanks for giving me some really great ideas to work with. I had a lot of fun writing this, and I hope you enjoy it, too! 

Read on AO3

*****

Something in the Air (makes you do strange things)

i.

“Do you trust me, Alexander?”

Alec shut his book, marking his place with his thumb before glancing up.

Across the room, Magnus was ensconced behind his potions desk, surrounded by a veritable army of bottles in various shapes and sizes, each filled with brightly colored liquid. Large, ornate bowls simmered over magically conjured fires, letting off puffs of steam at irregular intervals.

Alec’s thoughts tripped to a halt, caught on the ripples of evening light dancing across Magnus’ exposed forearms beneath rolled-up sleeves. At the way his fingers constantly moved, even at rest. When his mind finally caught up, he set aside his book entirely.

Did Magnus really not know? 

Shaking his head, he gave a soft smile, the kind Magnus always seemed to draw from him. “I trust you with everything.” 

He could count on one hand the number of people he let see past his walls, and within forty-eight hours of their first meeting, the High Warlock of Brooklyn had become part of that group. Alec could still remember their first night together. That vivid sense of feeling stripped bare, yet conversely, more in control of his life than he’d ever felt. When he finally fell asleep—alone, exhausted, and unarmed in a strange Downworlder’s home—he never doubted he was in safe hands.

That sense of safety lived so deep in his bones it could no longer be separated from the rest of him.

Safety. Love. Sex. Trust. All the things he never thought he could have, now such an intricate part of his life he couldn’t imagine living without them. The knowledge was as unyielding as the color of a freshly applied rune or the exact angle of his bow in motion.

“Well,” Magnus said, breaking Alec from his thoughts. “You may not after you hear my request.” He fiddled with his earcuff, a simple black one that matched the thick lines around his eyes.

Alec shook his head. They had variations of this conversation before, and experience taught him that the best tactic was to keep pressing his point.

“What do you need?” Alec asked. “I can’t give it to you if you don’t tell me.”

Magnus swallowed hard and left his workspace, plucking an object from his desk as he went. The setting sun glinted off the honed edge of a blade, throwing lines of yellow across the floor and furniture. The matching glow of Magnus’ eyes, however, had nothing to do with the golden hour.

Most people might be scared at the sight he made. The most powerful warlock in New York gracefully stalking across the room in fluid, unbroken movements. Wisps of magic lingered around one hand while the other gripped the knife with the ease of longtime use.

Alec’s breath caught, and he shifted in place on the couch. The only concern he felt was that despite the trappings of his power, Magnus was clearly uncomfortable.

The last few steps brought him between Alec’s legs, where he came to a halt. Without thinking, Alec spread them wider, reeling him in with hands at the back of his strong thighs.

“I need a vial of your blood,” Magnus said. His gaze was focused somewhere over Alec’s shoulder. “Not for anything untoward,” he added quickly.

Well then. That explained the knife. And the uncharacteristic hesitance.

Every young Shadowhunter was drilled about the importance of never giving such consent, even under torture. Blood freely given was a weapon. Powerful and versatile. It was a skeleton key to the vilest magics in existence. Mind control, possession, resurrection, and more curses than he could count. Not to mention its aid in getting through an institute’s wards. There were dozens of other usages, each one straight out of a nightmare.

“Hey, look at me,” Alec said, waiting until those beautiful eyes focused on him. He unhooked an arm from around Magnus’ leg, holding it out and up as if in offering. “It’s okay. Take what you need.”

Magnus’ eyes grew wide. “Don’t you want to know why?”

Alec wrapped fingers around the arm holding the knife, and slowly brought the sharp edge to rest against the skin of his forearm. The metal was cold, but he didn’t flinch.

“I’m not worried, if that’s what you’re asking,” Alec said. “You’d never hurt me, Magnus. You’d never use that power against me.”

Magnus squeezed his eyes shut. “I’d rather die.”

“I know.” The silence hung heavy between them as Alec bent to place a kiss against Magnus’ wrist, still holding the knife. “If you say you need it, then you need it.”

He’d already given Magnus his heart and his body and his love. There was nothing of him that was off limits, nothing he wouldn’t share freely with the man before him.

Magnus’ face slackened in surprise, but he recovered quickly.

“There’s a little girl,” he said, shadows in his eyes. “A young warlock with a rare disease not seen in centuries. The strength of Nephilim blood is the only thing that can give the potion I’m brewing enough of a boost to cure her. It’s a long shot but nothing else has worked.”

“Magnus.” Alec tugged at Magnus’ wrist until he lowered himself to his knees between Alec’s legs, bringing them face-to-face. “I already said yes. Go save your people.”

Magnus leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Alec’s and whispering a soft, “Thank you.”

After that, it was almost anticlimactic. Magnus wielded the knife with the dexterity of an expert, and Alec was used to far more serious injuries. It was over in an instant.

Banishing the tiny vial, Magnus threw himself back into his work. When the potion was ready several days later, he whisked them off to a large house in Queens. The warlocks embraced Magnus but gave Alec skeptical looks.

Magnus hushed their protests with a wave of his hand. “Not to worry. This is Alexander. He’s one of the good ones.”

Alec wasn’t sure he deserved that endorsement, or even to be there, but Magnus insisted with a firm, “You should be here, you had a hand in this, too.” With a smile, he patted Alec’s jacket at the precise point the knife had rested. “Or more precisely, an arm.”

The warlocks let them pass, and Alec got to witness a very sick little girl regaining her health. He watched with a careful eye, ready to jump in and offer his strength if needed.

Her smile was something he would carry in his heart for a long time. A reminder that for all the loss, there was also good in their world.

Afterwards, he didn’t quite know what to say. Everything seemed inadequate, so he settled on, “Thank you for taking me with you. For showing me that.”

Magnus took both his hands and squeezed. “You did that. Your blood, the gift you gave that little girl.”

Alec brought their joined hands to his lips, brushing a kiss against Magnus’ knuckles. “You did that,” he corrected. “I was just ingredients.”

Because it was true. Alec gave his blood, but it was Magnus who transformed it into a cure for a sick child. It was Magnus who stayed up night after night, hands shaking from fatigue, eyes bloodshot, refusing to rest until the work was done. There wasn’t a day that went by when Alec wasn’t amazed at what his boyfriend could do, at how much he cared and how he worked himself to exhaustion for anyone who needed it.

“Oh Alexander, don’t you see? Do you know how many Nephilim would willingly give their blood to a warlock to save a Downworlder? But you didn’t hesitate. You didn’t even need to think it over.”

“Anyone would have done the same,” Alec protested.

Magnus shook his head, a sad smile tugging at his lips. “No,” he said, eyes heavy with memories as he untangled their hands to cup Alec’s cheek. “They wouldn’t. They didn’t.”

Alec didn’t know how to convince him he’d always be there. Always by Magnus’ side in whatever capacity he was needed. That it would be the two of them, together, for as long as Magnus would have him.

He did the next best thing, and leaned in to seal their lips together, trying to put into actions everything that Magnus wouldn’t yet accept from him in words.

--

 ii.

“Trust me,” Alec said, grabbing his bow. “This will work.”

Isabelle looked like she wanted to say something but with a shake of her head, took a silent step back, willing to follow his lead.

Not for the first time, Alec’s heart swelled with the love and care she always gave him. Isabelle was a fierce woman and he was lucky to have her in his life and on his side.

Neither did Jace look convinced, but with a nod, he clasped the bow in the same spot as Alec.

Events of the past several months had tested their bond, but they were still siblings and Parabatai, two souls united against the world. The confidence Alec felt—the certainly that this would work—was unwavering, and something of that must’ve filtered into Jace as well.

The power of the Parabatai tracking ritual thickened the air around them. Held tightly between their palms, the bow Alec favored began to hum with energy.

Alec met Jace’s eyes as the tracking took hold, but his thoughts were a world away. Not that he needed to strain himself to bend his mind towards Magnus. The memories rushed over him like the familiar wash of the tide coming home.

Magnus deep in concentration, hands flowing effortlessly across tiny bottles of spell ingredients as he worked his magic. Biting at his lip when he was unsure and trying to hide it. Head thrown back in the midst of pleasure, throat bared and mouth open in a silent shout as his entire body arched off the bed. Half asleep on the couch and nuzzling his face into Alec’s neck to chase the warmth of his skin.

A location formed in the front of Alec’s mind, hazy at first and then razor sharp, as if it had always been there. Opening his eyes, he saw the same knowledge reflected in Jace’s gaze.

They unclasped their hands.

“We know where he is,” Alec announced. As if the determined look on his face wasn’t announcement enough.

“That was…intense,” Jace said, visibly shaking himself off.” His eyes studied Alec as he continued. “More than usual. You okay?”

Isabelle gave Alec a pat on the shoulder as the three of them moved towards the Institute’s main exit. “I don’t see why you’re so surprised. Alec is intense on a good day, and now that Magnus is missing, well…” she trailed off, letting the sentence hang in the air.

Alec shrugged, unwilling to get into it when he had more important matters at hand. And it’s not like she was wrong.

Magnus should’ve been home days ago. No one knew where he was, and his phone went straight to voicemail. The last Alec heard, he was helping smooth over rising tensions within the vampire community, acting as an impartial, trusted third party. According to local gossip, there was a new clan in town and frictions were high.

Alec knew Magnus could handle himself, but that didn’t stop the worry that gnawed relentlessly at his mind, working its way steadily deeper until it was all he could think about. He had thrown more of himself into the tracking spell than usual.

Activating his speed rune, he watched from the corner of his eye as his siblings followed suit. And then they were off, sprinting through the city towards Long Island City and Magnus.

“Care to explain how that tracking even worked?” Jace asked as they ran.

Despite his nerves, Alec smiled. “Remember Izzy’s trial?” he said. “Magnus agreed to act as counsel, and the payment we agreed on was my bow and quiver.”

“He what!” Isabelle nearly missed a step in her surprise. Her voice turned serious. “Alec, you never said. I know how much those weapons mean to you.”

“So did he, I bet,” Jace chimed in with a scowl.

“He had every right to ask for it.” Alec shot back, the metal of the Queensboro Bridge clanging beneath their feet with every step. Beneath them, the East River was an inky ribbon winding through the evening darkness. “He would’ve been well within his right to ask for more.”

Probably best not to mention that he’d initially asked for Alec himself. Though looking back, it was clear that was never a demand meant to be taken seriously. Regardless of his quick temper, Magnus was the kindest person Alec knew. He would never have demanded that of him as the price for saving his sister, not if Alec truly didn’t want to give it.

“But you were never without it,” Isabelle said, interrupting his thoughts. “After the trial, you were still using the same bow.”

Alec smiled, despite the bittersweet memories of that time. “He gave it right back. Told me to hold on to it for him.”

Jace bumped their shoulders together as the three of them ran in perfect unison. It was either silent support or an apology for his earlier judging words. Alec couldn’t tell but he appreciated it nonetheless.

“So your bow belongs to Magnus,” Isabelle said with a laugh. “I knew you were a hopeless romantic.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Alec said, not really meaning it. Growing up, he never in his wildest dreams thought there would come a day when his siblings would tease him about his boyfriend. It was an impossibility, right up until it wasn’t. Alec wouldn’t give it up for anything.

He wasn’t giving up Magnus either. Alec belonged to Magnus every bit as much as his bow. And Magnus belonged to him.

No matter what it took, Alec was going to bring him home.

They fell silent as they reached their destination, an abandoned glass factory that hadn’t yet been converted into high rises. The joking atmosphere between them turned serious.

It was time to get to work.

Later, after everything was settled—it turned out Magnus had been snatched by one of the vampire clans who thought the local High Warlock would be more effective as a hostage than a negotiator—Magnus turned to Alec and frowned.

“You shouldn’t have been able to find me. After that first time with the ruby, I enchanted my belongings against it. Not that I’m ungrateful to have my dashing Shadowhunter boyfriend swoop in to rescue me.”

“Not that you needed rescuing,” Alec said. He pressed a kiss to Magnus’ collarbone, the easiest place to reach from where he was laying atop his chest, both of them warm and safe in bed. “You had the whole lot of them hanging on your every word before I even showed up. You actually got them to sign a provisional peace treaty.”

Alec trailed a finger down bare skin, enjoying the feel of hard muscle under his hand. “I half expected the vampires to beg us to save them from you.”

“High Warlock,” Magnus replied, wiggling his eyebrows in a way that made him look slightly ridiculous. He captured Alec’s hand from his chest, placing a kiss on the forefinger. “Politics is part of the job. It’s not all flashy magic, you know. And you never answered my question. How did you find me?”

Alec laughed. “You didn’t enchant all your possessions. Remember my bow and quiver? Or should I say, your bow and quiver.” He pulled back, not wanting to miss the reaction his words were sure to evoke.

It was even better than expected.

Surprise etched itself across Magnus’ face and his mouth dropped into a tiny, adorable ‘oh.’ He recovered just as quickly, warmth melting away the shock like the first rays of spring.

“I forgot about that,” he said, the words as tender as his smile. He pulled Alec back down, until Alec’s head was once again tucked into the warmth of his neck.

Alec went willingly. More than willingly.

“I didn’t forget,” he replied, fitting his body to Magnus so there was no space between them.

They drifted off to sleep holding each other. It was Alec’s favorite way to end the day, and if he had anything to say about it, that wasn’t ever going to change.

--

 iii.

“Trust me,” Magnus said, pressing closer to Alec as they were surrounded by a small army of possessed mundanes. “Let them come closer.”

The heat of Magnus’ back against his own was a reassuring presence, the two of them circling in place even as they were herded further into the narrow alley.

One of the mundanes leaped forward, hands extended like claws. Alec swatted her away with the flat of his blade. With a hiss that wasn’t quite human, she fell back. It was only a temporary reprieve, the inhale before a piercing scream. 

Alec didn’t want to fight these people, but soon he would have little choice.

“Don’t hurt them.” Magnus echoed his thoughts, voice strained as the static of his magic crackled the night air. “I’m close, I just need to—”

He cut off as a hoard of the possessed descended on them at once.

Alec exploded into motion, jerking on Magnus’ elbow and spinning him towards where the herd was thinnest. Shielding him with his body, Alec pushed the attackers back, careful to only use non-fatal slices of his seraph blade. The pain made them cautious but wouldn’t keep them back for long.

“Alec darling, save the manhandling for later, if you would.” Rolling his wrists, Magnus summoned more power to his hands.

Alec snorted despite himself. “I’ll hold you to that once we’re home.”

“Promises, promises.”

There was no time to reply. For every person he knocked down, more came forward. From the corner of his eye, he could see Magnus throwing elbows and a few kicks of his own, even as the light gathered in his palms grew brighter. A burly man got past Alec’s guard, thick fingers curling around his neck and scratching at his eyes. Alec headbutted him. But as he did, another hand ripped his blade from his grip. It clattered to the ground, out of reach.

Desperate, he threw himself after it, using the momentum to dislodge his attackers. His head hit the concrete, dazing him just enough to slow his reactions. A middle-aged woman in bright workout clothes pounced on him.

A blast of angry red magic hit her chest, knocking her back. It startled the rest, buying him a temporary reprieve.

Alec leaped to his feet, giving up the weapon as a lost cause and letting his training take over. He fought for what felt like forever, losing himself in the rhythm of kicks and punches. Occasionally, Magnus blasted the stragglers before going back to whatever miracle spell was building between his hands.

But Alec could see he was faltering. They both were.

“I can’t hold them off forever,” Alec shouted between punches.

Just as he began to despair, Magnus shouted, “Now! Close your eyes, Alec.”

Alec’s body reacted on instinct, his absolute trust in Magnus guiding his movements. It left him open. Blinded and undefended—completely vulnerable if whatever Magnus planned didn’t work.

He braced himself for it. An attack, a punch, fingernails and teeth tearing into his skin.

Nothing came. The sound of bodies hitting the ground sounded in his ears, but Alec didn’t dare look. Finally, there was silence, save for the rumble of garbage trucks along a nearby street.

“It’s over.”

Magnus sounded tired, and Alec half expected him to be on the floor when he opened his eyes.

He wasn’t. His back was straight, stance slightly wider than normal. The magic had dissipated into the air save for the remnants clinging to the edge of his form. He cut a powerful figure, one that not even the exhaustion hovering around the creases in his eyes could dim.

Standing tall and wreathed in his own power, it was hard to believe he was real.

Unfortunately, Alec had more mundane matters to take care of than staring at his boyfriend. Literally mundane, in this case. Surrounding them was a circle of collapsed men and women, and he had a job to do.

He rushed over to the fallen mundane closest to him, a young man in an expensive business suit. Two fingers placed just above the collar released the knot of tension between Alec’s shoulders. The pulse was strong and steady. He checked the rest and, when the last was done, slumped in relief.

“They’re alive,” Magnus confirmed. “I took their most recent memories in the same spell that cured them. As far as they’re concerned, they got caught up with gangs on PCP.”

Alec nodded. “I’ll call Luke and he can deal with the mundane police.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Magnus sway on his feet. Quickly, he stood, making his way over and getting his shoulder under Magnus’ arm.

“I can stand on my own.” Despite the words, Magnus made no move to extricate himself.

“Maybe I just want to feel up my boyfriend,” Alec responded with a smile, wrapping a hand snug around Magnus’ waist.

“Well, in that case, proceed.” Magnus gave an airy gesture, letting himself lean into the support Alec offered.

Alec gripped his waist tighter, relived to have the solid weight of him pressed up against his side.

He was accustomed to fighting alongside the people he loved, staying focused when they were in danger. Years of patrols with his siblings had drilled the constant threat into his mind, the knowledge that one of them could fall at any moment. It was something he tried not to think about, and was generally successful at it.

It was different with Magnus.

Alec hadn’t spent over a decade training his mind and body to accept Magnus being in danger as a mere fact of life. He wondered if that primal fear was what Magnus felt every time Alec walked out of their home towards the Institute.

Placing a kiss to Magnus’ temple, Alec closed his eyes and breathed in the familiar scent of the man he loved. Warmth curled in his chest when Magnus dropped his head to rest on his shoulder, letting Alec take more of his weight.

“Come on,” he said, gently, leading Magnus to one of the nearby storefront benches. “We can wait for Luke here.”

“I’m perfectly fine,” Magnus mumbled into his neck with a yawn. “Maybe just a little tired,” he conceded, as Alec maneuvered them into sitting.

“That was an impressive piece of magic you did.”

Magnus preened. “It wasn’t fully finished. I had to improvise a little at the end.”

Alec brushed a stray spike of hair from where it had fallen in front of his face. “Showoff.”

“It wouldn’t have worked if you didn’t keep most of them away from me. Thank you, Alexander. I know I didn’t give you much to go on.” Magnus grew visibly tired, until the words were no more than a mumble at the end.

The spell must have taken a lot of out of him because he didn’t complain when Alec coaxed him into lying across the bench, his head cradled in Alec’s lap. After a moment, Alec carded tentative fingers through the longer hair at the top of his head. Magnus could be touchy about having it messed up in public, but when he didn’t protest, Alec continued.

A little groan escaped Magnus’ lips, his eyes falling shut as Alec shifted to massaging the base of his skull. He let his fingers wander, tracing the lines of his eyebrows and trailing up and down his cheekbones. Without his usual defenses and extravagant gestures, he looked painfully young, a far cry from the centuries-old powerhouse and warlock leader he truly was.

Staring down into his relaxed face, Alec couldn’t help feeling a little floored.

Magnus was independent, often to a fault, preferring to look after himself under any and all circumstances. But here he was, practically asleep in a magically exhausted state on a New York City street. Letting Alec stand between himself and the world.

Alec would die before he let anyone touch him.

Eventually, the sound of approaching sirens reached his ears and he gently shook Magnus’ shoulder. They were both standing by the time Luke arrived on the scene with a handful of his officers.

Confident that the situation was in good hands, Magnus summoned a portal for them both. By unspoken agreement, any post-mission briefings would wait until tomorrow.

Hand-in hand, they stepped through the portal and into their home.

--

 iv.

“Magnus, trust me. I want this.” The words were hardly real, even to Alec’s own ears.

He had spelled out his entire plan, his research, everything. He spoke until his voice felt flat and scratchy. Now that it was done, he shifted in place, needing an outlet for the excess energy.

But Magnus only stared.

The silence stretched thin, the air between them cracked and brittle.

Alec was adept at reading the nuances in his boyfriend’s expressions but now those familiar features may as well been carved from stone. He could feel the exact moment his world dropped out beneath him. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he rocked backwards on the golden sheets of their bed.

“Please say something.” Each word felt forced from Alec's throat.

He spent so much time preparing, so many months soul-searching and charting every possible eventuality. He hadn’t planned that Magnus might say nothing at all.

A negative answer, sure. How could he not, after that first fiasco of a move-in discussion what felt like a lifetime ago. Eventually, they’d come to an understanding about how they each viewed the passage of time, and their relationship was stronger for it. Alec was so sure he wasn’t about to repeat past mistakes.

He hated being wrong.

“I’m afraid,” is what Magnus finally said.

Alec squinted at him. “What?”

Of all the responses he expected to his declaration of wanting to spend the rest of Magnus’ long life together, this wasn’t it.

Magnus swallowed, and Alec was momentarily distracted by the jut of his Adam’s apple as he explained.

“I’m scared that one day, maybe in a century, maybe four centuries, after your family and friends have all passed, that you’ll remember I’m the reason you’re stuck here without them.”

Magnus looked down at his hands, fingers reaching to fiddle with the rings he had already taken off in preparation for sleep. He paused, grasping at nothing until he finally clasped them together and placed them in his lap. “I don’t think I could live with myself if you looked at me like that.”

Alec choked back his instinctive denial.

It wouldn’t be fair to brush aside Magnus’ very real fears, even though he knew with a certainly aimed as true as his arrows, that those fears were wrong. The thought of living without his family was a white-hot poker seared into in his gut, but so was the thought of growing old and abandoning the love of his life to nothing but memories.

Alec couldn’t do anything about the lifespan of those he loved. He could only do something about his own.

He got to his knees on the soft mattress, shuffling forward to straddle Magnus’s lap where he sat against the headboard. Carefully, he wrapped both hands around the back of Magnus’ neck, using his thumbs to tilt his chin upwards.

Magnus let out a breath and allowed himself to be maneuvered.

Alec stroked the pad of his finger along the sharp cut of Magnus’ jaw. “I’ve thought about this, Magnus. So many times, you don’t even know. I understand what I’m committing to. I’m committing to you. Forever with you.”

Magnus squeezed his eyes shut like he was in actual pain.

When he opened them, they shone gold in wonder. “I wish I knew what I did to deserve you. I would keep doing it for the rest of my life.” He paused to bite at his lip. “But Alec, this is a big decision that can’t be undone. I need you to be sure.”

Alec pressed their foreheads together, mumbling against Magnus’ lips, “I’m sure about you.”

With a muffled cry, Magnus pressed forward, closing the slim distance between them.

Alec could taste the slightest tang of salt on his face as their lips moved together. He opened his mouth into the kiss, eagerly letting Magnus in. Magnus kissed like he wanted to devour Alec’s every word with his tongue, like he could sweep them directly from Alec’s lips into his own body and keep them safe in his heart for the rest of eternity.

Like if he didn’t, Alec might take them back.

Alec let him have it all, giving himself over to the kiss and giving Magnus everything he so desperately needed. His head spun, giddy with the thought of forever. This was only the beginning. He could see his future stretched out before him, bright and wondrous in the way he used to dream about, when he let himself imagine a fantasy world where things were different.

Except this was better. Magnus was real and warm beneath his hands, and Alec loved him with such a fire in his chest that he was surprised the whole world couldn’t see him burning.

When it was over, they stayed pressed up tight, breathing each other in as their racing heartbeats settled and the urge to gasp for each drag of air had passed.

“Oh Alexander, do you know what you do to me when you say things like that.”

Alec nodded, taking Magnus’ hands into his own. “I’m going to say it every day.” Alec turned serious as he added, “Forever, if you want it.”

Magnus’ eyes shone bright. “I do.”

#Codeblackglitter #malecsanta18 #*fics18 #*gifts18

[stained-carmine]

June 21st, the summer solstice, and the date of Ivalinne Rozka’cer’s wedding. The day she is to marry Cyril of Falorre, a duke of Arden, and soon to be its first king.

With the day finally upon her, Ivalinne gazed solemnly into the large mirror that stood before her, taking in her own reflection. Adorned in lace and silk, embellished with beads and crystal, the young duchess looked dazzling in her wedding dress. Most would likely be jealous of how beautiful she looked in her gown, not to mention the decadence she was clad in. She raised a hand to gently caress the red jewel at her neck, one recovered from the central mountain of the Atalian mountain range, Sekostra. With the vastly shifting weather and unstable conditions in and around the mountain range, getting to Sekostra was no easy task. Between landslides and raging storms, the area was somewhere you would not want to venture on foot. Between erratic weather and unpredictable wildlife, making it to Sekostra proper was a highly difficult and extremely dangerous undertaking. Her parents likely paid a hefty sum to acquire this beautiful gem. It really is a shame such a lovely piece would be wasted on a wedding she never wanted.

Stepping away from the reminder that this was indeed her reality and not some nightmare she could wake from, Ivalinne sauntered over to the large windows that allowed sunlight to flood the room. Placing a hand upon the glass, she peered out at the landscape. From here, one could see the mountains of Raiynes and Catelaide clearly. Turning her head to the left, she could faintly see the duchy of Aciernha far into the distance, and to the right, she could just barely make out the city of Arden. The city that was to be her new home from today onward.

The ceremony was to be held on neutral ground, at a spire that stood between the two states. A tall tower of intricate design and mysterious origin. Built by an ancient civilization for an unknown purpose. One would think it to be some sort of watch tower considering its height, but that didn’t account for the elaborate architecture. Scholars and historians surmised that it was used as a place of worship, where grand rituals were held to honor long forgotten gods. Nowadays, the spire stood silently amidst a grassy plain, the intentions of its creators lost to time.

With a soft sigh, the young duchess turned away from the window and returned to the mirror. As she stood before her own reflection, the door opened and her mother pranced into the room, with her handmaid shuffling in behind her.

“Ivalinne, you look magnificent!” The duchess praised as she placed her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. “Truly befitting a queen!” She said with a smile. Noticing the young noble’s forlorn visage, the woman gave her daughter a careful embrace, so as to not disrupt the girl’s dress. “Do not look so sad, my dear. This is a joyous occasion! You shall become royalty! Is that not wonderful?”

Lowering her head slightly and averting her eyes from the mirror, the young duchess answered her mother softly. “You know this is not what I wished for...”

Upon hearing her daughter’s pessimism, the duchess frowned. “That is enough of that, you have been given a great honor and an even greater opportunity. You will be Queen of Arden, the first of a dynasty. You have the power to make your family proud, as you, a daughter of the Rozka’cer, becomes the mother of a new royal lineage.”

Ivalinne’s heart sank at the mention of such a thing. She struggled to hold back her disgust at the mere thought of ever having to bear that man’s children. All she could do to stop herself from shouting out her objections for all to hear, was to focus on the words Eliyah had given her three days earlier. Repeating them over and over in her mind, like a mantra—like a good luck charm to ward against the evils of the future. Ivalinne clenched her fists, trembling faintly as she pushed down the urge to scream in protest.

Madalynn, taking her daughter’s hair in her hands, began to do up Ivalinne’s long raven locks, styling them into a tight bun before motioning to her servant to bring her some pins to hold the girl’s hair in place. “...There, perfect. Agnes, bring me the veil.”

“Yes Milady.” The handmaid said with a nod of her head, walking over the to mannequin that the accessory sat upon and carefully lifting it up, before bringing it to her master.

Taking the veil from her servant, the duchess dismissed her, receiving a respectful bow before Agnes made her way to the room’s entrance in order to intercept anyone that tried to venture in. Turning her attention back to her daughter, Madalynn gently placed the veil upon the girl’s head, anchoring it in the bun with the hidden comb that was attached to the fabric. Adjusting it, the duchess smoothed out the wrinkles and spread it behind her. Dangling beads glistened as they spun and swung about with every inch of movement. The embellished end of the garment was laid over the girl’s hair, settling atop her head with its ornate edges hanging above her brow.

Pleased with her work, the duchess gave her daughter a warm smile. “Look,” Her mother said as she urged her child to gaze into the mirror. “You are exquisite. If only you would smile, your beauty would be unrivaled.”

Ivalinne slowly turned her eyes to her reflection. Cloaked in brilliant white from head to toe, she looked so pristine, so pure. So much so that it brought her pain to know that her innocence would soon after be shattered by that vile man. Lifting her head further, her gaze would be met with crimson orbs. Seeing the sadness that shone back at her—the sorrow that filled her own eyes and the apprehension that covered her own face—caused tears to well up in her eyes as she fought against the urge to cry.

Her mother, seeing the tears spring forth, quickly retrieved a handkerchief to dry her daughter’s eyes. “Do not cry, Ivalinne, you will ruin your makeup that way.”

It was then that Agnes’s voice could be heard from the other side of the room.

“Please, you must not enter Lord Falorre...!” She exclaimed in a hushed tone, trying her best to not cause a disturbance as she attempted to hold the door shut.

Cyril, with his superior strength, managed to force his way into the room with ease. Strutting into the room proudly, the man fixed his gaze on the duchess and her daughter. Making his way over to them, he gave a wide smile. “I could not contain my excitement any longer, so I have come to see my bride to ensure she has no reservations regarding our matrimony!”

Madalynn shot the stocky man a cold glare as he approached. “Do you not know that it is an ill omen for the groom to lay his eyes upon his bride before the ceremony? You would do best not to curse this union before it has even been made, Duke Falorre, lest you bring misfortune down upon us all.”

“That is nothing more than foolish superstition. There is no such thing as curses!” He said with a derisive chuckle, not slowing his pace as he strode past the woman, who scowled at his impudence.

“I care not what you bring down upon yourself. I merely ask that you do not drag our family into the muck with you.” Stepping out of his way, the woman gave the man a wide berth, as if she had no desire to be anywhere near him.

Not paying her mother any further heed, the Ardenian Duke focused gleeful eyes upon the young duchess. “My darling bride! How are you faring? Surely you are overcome with happiness on this joyous day, yes?” He said, placing his large hands upon her delicate shoulders.

The girl’s body tensed up at his touch as she felt her stomach churn. “I...” Eliyah’s words would surface in her mind, causing her to hesitate with her answer. I must try to rise above this. For Eliyah’s sake, I must! Pushing her true feelings down as she swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat, she answered him. “...I am fine. You need not worry about me.” Despite her best efforts to sound reassuring, her tone was flat and dry. She could feel her mother’s scathing eyes boring into her back, causing her to bit her lip lightly. A dull pain ached within her. She didn’t want this. Pretending to go along with it only served to make her feel worse. Everything felt wrong.

“That’s wonderful to hear, my sweet queen to be~” The large man gently took a strand of her hair in his fingers, leaning in to take in her scent, as he did when they first met. “I am indeed fortunate, to have a bride such as you. Your beauty cannot be summed up by mere words alone. When I first saw you, it took my breath away, truly...” As he spoke, his other hand began to move along her, slowly sliding down her arm.

Ivalinne shuddered at the man’s touch. It was nauseating, letting this man do as he pleased, she hated it. She glanced back at her mother, in hopes that she would perhaps step in as she did at the banquet, and demand the duke remove his hands from her and back off.

Instead what she would be met with was a callous visage that only stood and watched as the man had his way with her. A sharp pain struck at the girl’s heart as she watched her mother do nothing to stop this repulsive man from placing his hands upon her. Anger and sadness intermingled within her, as she was betrayed by her own blood. Traded off to this man like a commodity, goods to be sold for profit, like an object rather than a human being. The ever tempting urge to lash out, to fight back against this injustice only grew stronger with each passing second.

“I cannot wait for us to start our lives together. It shall be glorious! You, my Queen, at my side as I reign, the very first King of Arden! It will be marvelous, my dear Ivalinne.” As he spoke, his wandering hand would pass over her hips, before finding its way down to the girl’s thigh, caressing it gently.

Unable to contain it any longer, the floodgates which held back her emotions flung open, her feelings rushing over her like the surge of a storm. Tearing herself from Cyril’s grasp, she swiftly spun around, glaring daggers at her enemy. This man who sought to make her nothing more than a trophy for him to parade around. This man who cared not for her, but only for her status, and the power he would amass by marrying a daughter of the Rozka’cer. This man who would force her and Eliyah apart. This man...!

Cyril gave his bride an astonished look, taken aback by her sudden movement. “Ivalinne...? What is the matter, my darlin—”

“Do not call me that!” She shouted, anger rising within her as she trembled with rage, barely able to stop herself from instinctively slapping the duke across the face for daring to touch her in such an inappropriate manner.

“Ivalinne! Watch your tongue! Is that any way to speak to your future husband?!” The Duchess rebuked sternly as she gave her daughter a disapproving glare.

“I shall not watch my tongue! I cannot bear to abide by this farce any longer!” The young duchess shouted defiantly as she stood her ground, not letting her mother’s wrath scare her into submission as it had so many times in the past. I am sorry Eliyah, but I cannot allow this marriage to happen! This is not what I want! A life like this will not make me happy!

Cyril of Falorre, who had been standing there, gazing at the girl in shock at her abrupt shift in behavior, reached a hand out to her as he spoke. “That is enough, Ivalinne, cease this foolishness at once. It is quite unbecoming of my bride to act in such an undignified mann—” But when his hand came close to the girl, she slapped it away.

“No! I am not yours! Do not speak of me as if I am your possession, as if you have ownership over me!” She screamed her rejections as loud as she could, so that none could deny the feelings she had kept bottled up in her heart out of fear of admonition.

“Ivalinne! What are you thinking?! Do you intend to disgrace our family’s good name?!” Her mother shouted back as she stomped over to her daughter—heels clacking loudly against the marble floor—and took hold of her wrist.

As soon as the duchess grabbed hold of her, Ivalinne screamed out, using all the strength she had to wrench herself free of her mother’s iron grasp. “NO! I shall not be a slave to your whims any longer! You care not for my happiness! Only for what benefits you most! Do not pretend that your actions are just! That you are doing what needs to be done for the betterment of all! You wish to sacrifice me to this vulgar beast to keep hold of your status and nothing more! It is not for the continued existence of the Rozka’cer, but a desperate attempt to hold onto the power that you have grown accustomed to—that you refuse to let go of!”

Upon hearing his bride call him a beast, the duke’s demeanor suddenly changed. Donning a scowl, Cyril glared down at the young duchess with indignation. “How dare you, you accursed little wench...!” The large man hissed as he rose his hand to strike her.

“Lord Falorre!” Agnes shouted as she rushed to the duke, grabbing hold of his arm, as she struggled to keep his retribution at bay.

The man gnashed his teeth as he redirected his anger towards the handmaid who tried to stop him. “Release me at once, you filthy commoner!” Shaking himself free, the duke struck the servant hard, knocking her to the floor with a shriek of pain. “Do not lay your foul hands upon me ever again, woman.”

“Agnes!” Madalynn shouted as she rushed to her attendant with concern. Seeing that the handmaid would be all right, she turned scathing eyes towards the Ardenian duke. “Falorre, contain yourself! There is no need to resort to such violence! Ivalinne! Apologize at once!”

“I refuse!” The young duchess shouted back defiantly, trembling slightly as frenzied tears formed in the corners of her eyes. Despite the fear she felt when the burly man had raised his hand to her, she wasn’t about to let herself surrender, not after she tried so hard to fight against this fate. “I shall not degrade myself by marrying this...this vile demon!”

Cyril’s eyes widened with outrage at her words. “You ungrateful little bitch! You will do as I say! You will become my wife and I shall become king of Arden! I have not worked this hard just for an impudent little brat like you to ruin it all!” He shouted as he forsook his friendly facade entirely and laid his true intentions bare.

Ivalinne stood her ground, not giving an inch, even as the infuriated man stomped closer, raising his hand high above his head, readying to strike her with all he had. Throwing her right arm to the side, she screamed with all her might.

“I absolutely refuse to marry such a repulsive man! I hate you! I DESPISE you! You are disgusting! DESPICABLE! And I will NEVER let you defile me with those tainted hands of yours!” Eyes wide and body trembling with rage, she shouted as loud as she possibly could, not holding her feelings back any longer. She would not abide, she would not obey. She would fight. With all she had, she would fight against the cruelty of an uncaring fate, and she would never, ever, allow herself to give up. “I REFUSE TO MARRY YOU!!!”

Just as the duke’s hand was about to connect with the girl’s cheek, a loud, thunderous roar was heard as the building began to shake violently.

Cyril came to a halt as he gazed about in bewilderment. “What is this...?! An earthquake?!” He gasped as he staggered back. “I thought this tower was reinforced against such disasters!”

“What is...!” Ivalinne glanced around in a panic as she took a few steps backwards. Frozen in place by fear and confusion, the girl’s heart raced, eyes wide and mouth agape, as she looked around desperately for an answer as to what was happening.

As the shaking grew ever stronger in intensity, the spire began to crumble. Without warning, the marble floor between Ivalinne Rozka’cer and Cyril of Falorre cracked apart, splitting in two and dividing.

As the pieces began to separate from one another, Madalynn screamed out, looking to her daughter with terror in her eyes. “Ivalinne!”

Before the girl had the chance to react, to move or even think, the marble floor beneath her began to collapse.

“Ah! Mother!” She called out, reaching out her hand. By the time she realized what was going on, that she was in danger and that she needed to run to safety, it was already too late. The ground slipping out from under her, the last thing the young duchess saw was her mother—screaming and reaching for her child desperately as tears streamed down her horrified visage—before her vision went dark.

#Ivalinne #A Blooming Rose #Narrative #World Building #Drabble #tw; arranged marriage #tw; violence #Let me know if I should tag anything else

[coneygoil]

The Home We Built Together, part 4

Two young Vikings. An arranged marriage. Hiccup always wanted to win the girl of his dreams, but not like this. Now he and Astrid must learn to live together and maybe one day, learn to love…

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

The days up until the wedding blurred together in a flurry of preparations, the hype overwhelming at times. The village was in a frenzy awaiting the big day with a mix of excitement for a spectacular feast and hushed anticipation to see if the scrawny heir of Berk would screw up his own wedding in a way that only Hiccup could.

Stoick’s eyes twinkled down at him in a way that Hiccup hadn’t witnessed since he was a young boy. His father’s thick fingers fumbled with the small clasps of his fur mantle. With a gentle pat on his back, that still jarred Hiccup’s balance, he followed Stoick to the Great Hall.

***

Astrid caught the tremble of Hiccup’s hands as she drank from the union cup he held out to her. She’d been premed and prodded all morning by a sea of hands, draped in an elaborate gown and fur mantle, hair swept up in the intricate marriage braid that pulled tightly at her roots. Her fingers itched for the handle of her axe, the familiar rush of the training arena more desirable than being presented for all of Berk as a prettied-up doll being given away.

The only consolation was Hiccup seeming just as timid and unsure about the marriage as her. The ring dangled precariously on the pommel as they exchanged swords. The closer to the end of the ceremony, the more Astrid felt as if she were sinking into a hole.

The next ritual would be the sword driven into the beam to signify the success of the marriage. Astrid didn’t solely believe this sign would predict the future, but she was suddenly praying that Hiccup would at least be able to hold the heavy weight of the sword upright. As he gripped the hilt awkwardly, he glanced at her and she gave a tiny nod of encouragement.

With great effort, Hiccup plunged the sword forward, sinking the tip into the support beam. A look of shock crossed his face as he stared at the sword stabbed into the wood. His eyes were switched to her as a bright smile burst onto his face, Astrid returned the expression.

They may not have chosen each other out of love, but if there was one thing Astrid strived for, it was to be successful at everything she did.

***

With Astrid adorning her special wedding night apparel, she and her attendants waited for Hiccup and the other men to arrive. It wasn’t long after the group of men entered the room that the handsal – the final engagement negotiation - was observed.

The silence hung thickly in the room as Astrid bowed her head for Hiccup to remove the bridal crown. Satisfied that this was, indeed, the correct bride, the group of men and bridal attendants left the room. The door shutting behind echoed a finality that reverberated through the new husband and wife.

Astrid folded arms over her chest, feeling naked though she still donned a clothe barrier on her body. Her bindings had been removed revealing the peaks of her breasts. The slinky material of the nightgown clung to her curves far too lightly.

Hiccup finally worked up the courage to lay eyes upon her. A shuttering breath escaped him as he did a quick scan of her entirety. He’d never seen a woman dressed in this manner before. He figured if he’d grown up with his mother around, that he’d been exposed to more womanly habits and views that happened behind the walls of a complete family’s home.

Astrid would be his first experience with a woman in a domestic setting and the idea was currently frightening him out of his wits. His hand ache to touch her, but where? He wasn’t sure yet. Her round cheek, the curve of her hip, the creamy extent of her arm. He swallowed hard around the burn of his throat at just the mere thought of those places on her.

But Astrid’s posture was guarded, and he stayed his distance. He wouldn’t make a move until he had her permission.

“So,” Hiccup said awkwardly, his shoulders quirking up in a nervous twitch, “here we are.”

“Yep, here we are.” Astrid strode swiftly to the bedside table. Hiccup craned his neck curiously to see what she was retrieving. She planted a foot on the bed, hiking up the skirts of her nightgown. The glint of steel flashed in the candlelight.

Hiccup jumped forward with an outstretched hand. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! What is that for?”

Astrid paused at his distress, the dagger hovering close to the skin of her ankle. “My mother said when consummation happens, my maidenhead would be broken and there would be some blood that seeps out.”

“Blood?” Hiccup squeaked out.

“Just a small amount,” Astrid reassured eerie calmness. “It’s a natural occurrence.”

Blood during sex was never mentioned in anything his father told him or mixed in with the blustering snippets he heard in the Great Hall. “But what-what’s the dagger for?”

Astrid rolled her eyes. “It has to look like we consummated the marriage.”

Forgetting his askewed sex education, Hiccup’s shocked expression dropped. “You don’t want to make our marriage…real?”

His head hung low, crestfallen by the realization, as he plopped down on the bed. His disappointment was genuinely sincere. He wasn’t eager to claim her as his own through physical means – at least not yet. But this part of the marriage had been stressed with the utmost importance.

Astrid sat beside him, her heart going out to the boy. “Are you ready to do this?” she asked, her own anxiousness creeping into her voice. “Because I don’t think I am. But if you are ready, I won’t deny you.”

Hiccup knew she would give herself to him out of a responsibility to her duty as his wife. He would never take advantage of her in that way. A tiny, humorless laugh escape him as he shrugged. “Honestly, I’m not either. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

He glanced over at her, thinking she’d tease him for the embarrassing admission. She looked as he felt: nervous, scared, and a bit lost. “I’m sorry you had to be saddled with me, Astrid. I know I’m probably the farthest from your chose for a husband.”

Astrid bumped his shoulder with hers. “I wouldn’t say that.”

Hiccup looked at her through his hanging bangs, a glimmer of hope in his bright eyes. “Yeah?”

She dared to reach out and hold his hand. “You’re a sweet guy, Hiccup. You’ve been nothing but good to me since this whole marriage thing began.”

A genuine smile tugged at his lips at her unexpected touch and he grasped her hand. “You’re not as rough around the edges as I thought you were.”

The soft moment was gone as Astrid lightly punched his arm. “That’s just between you and me, okay?”

Hiccup threw her a bewildered look. “What was that for?”

Astrid laughed, a twinkle in her eye that made Hiccup’s chest flutter. Her laugh was a rare occurrence, and to hear it was a treat Hiccup didn’t know he desired until now.

They lapsed into a quiet, slightly awkward lull. Hiccup rubbed the back of his neck, swallowing hard as he stirred up the courage to say his next words.

“You-you looked beautiful today,” he stuttered out, hoping the admission wouldn’t cross any lines he wasn’t sure were there. Astrid was his wife. He should be able to speak endearments to her like that, right? “And you look beautiful right now too!” he added hastily.

Even in the dim light of the lamp, he caught the red heat staining Astrid’s cheeks. She swept a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Thank you.” Glancing up with a smile, she added, “You clean up nicely yourself.”

It was Hiccup’s turn to blush. In this moment, it felt more like a first date than it did their wedding night. They were still practically strangers, but the warmth in Hiccup’s chest stirred up hope that maybe they could make this work; maybe they could become friends and more than friends over time.

Hiccup cleared his throat, gesturing towards her lap. “Are you going to…uh, cut yourself still?”

The dagger lay forgotten besides Astrid on the bed. She stood, hiking up the skirts of her gown once more. Hiccup exhaled sharply. Tiny fireworks shot off inside him at the sight of Astrid’s bare leg in arm’s reach. The fireworks fizzled out and he cringed as she sliced the blade across her ankle. Gathering a few drops on the blade, she sprinkled them on the furs covering the bed.

“Here, let’s clean that up.” Hiccup had already grabbed a cloth to hand to her. She wiped her dagger then wrapped the cloth around her ankle to staunch the bleeding and made a mental note to dispose of it in the morning.

Astrid yawned as she tucked away her dagger. “It’s been an exhausting day. I’m going to bed.” She caught Hiccup’s gaze and asked the question that was weighing on his mind as well. “Are you…are you coming too?”

He was trying to act casual, but his anxiousness showed. “If it’s okay with you.”

“We are married now. I think it’s to be expected of us.”

“Right.”

Hiccup allowed Astrid to climb under the furs first, letting her pick which side she preferred. As she settled on the left side of the bed, he tucked into the right side. His heart pounded in his ears and he wondered if Astrid’s heart was just as deafening as his.

The dark surrounded them as the candle was blown out. Though their backs were turned to each other, both could sense the warmth of their bodies close by. Hiccup’s heart leapt into his throat at the sudden words in the darkness.

“Goodnight, Hiccup.”

“Goodnight, Astrid.”

@martabm90 @involuntarydiaphragmspasm @chiefhiccstrid @wolfie-dragon-rider  @earline-nathay

#httyd fanfiction #hiccstrid #arranged marriage au #tw: blood

[viciousheart]

the christening ritual of a new home base: a drabble.

(  rewritten !  )

a waterfall can be heard in the distance everywhere on this base. viviana doesn’t know what this building was used for before, but aside from a few exiled grounders that were… taken care of quickly, it’s completely abandoned, and  —  viviana’s favourite part  —  the farthest from azgeda territory they’ve ever been. just outside of trikru territory, but still surrounded by plenty of trees and wilderness that keep the building hidden from sight until you’re on it.

it’s finally finished being prepared, and all the dokwochakru that were able to leave their posts have come to christen a new base, and hear their queen renew her vows. 

the feast they have isn’t too bad, either.   (  she’s pretty sure most come for the feast.  )

a young girl, twelve or thirteen years old, brushes and puts viviana dark locks into intricate braids. the blood queen smiles at her in the mirror.    ❛  you’re name is alona, right?  —  i like how you left most of my hair down, but just pulled some up into braids. you’re very good.  ❜    the girl blushes, and an elderwoman  —  alona’s grandmother, if viviana remembers correctly  —  gives her a pointed look that clearly reads: thank your queen.

so, she hurries out a hushed thank you, and, through the mirror, viviana sees the elderwoman shake her head, and it makes her laugh lightly.    ❛  don’t worry, alona. i was shy when i was your age, as well.  —  do you want to be a handmaid when you get older?  ❜    

it takes her a moment, but viviana raises an eyebrow, encouraging her to speak up.    ❛  i want to be a warrior.  ❜    she announces proudly, a big smile taking over her features. 

the old woman stomps her foot, giving alona a hard stare. but viviana doesn’t mind. she’s actually quite fond of children. they’re just so… innocent. untouched by the hatred in this world. viviana wishes she could save them from ever finding out that the world is anything besides sweetness  &  innocence  &  dreams of possibilities.    ❛  alona, i look forward to the day you’re sworn in as a warrior. i hope you’ll do me the honour of being your first sword fight on that day.  ❜    viviana says, and alona smiles shyly, but nods eagerly.

once the child’s finished with her hair, the elderwoman helps her into her dress. it’s red, with a sweeping cape sown onto it.    ❛  you’re work is breathtaking. i’ve never seen such delicate and beautiful thread work.  ❜    the queen compliments the old woman as she admires the dress in a cracked mirror. the elderwoman says a polite thank you, and bows deeply to excuse herself and her granddaughter, leaving viviana to finish getting ready. 

she takes out her silver canister, now full to the top since the last attack left them with plenty of dead bodies, and plenty of blood for viviana’s warpaint. she dips a finger in before turning to the mirror so she can see to trace the blood over her azgeda scars. and then she waits a couple minutes for it to dry before tracing them over again. she repeats the process twice more, to make the colour nice and deep, as rich as the red of her dress.

this is an important day, an important ritual. once upon a time, they used to christen a new base with a simple toast. and then they added a feast because, when they abandon an old base, they clear out the gardens  &  the smoke houses. but, by the time they’re set up in a new base, the food is near rotting. so, they began cooking it all for a grand feast to celebrate dokwochakru. but, during one rebirthing ritual, as she the new clansmen swore himself to her and to the ghost people, she realized something important. 

these people, all of them have vowed their loyalty  ---  their lives  ---  to dokwochakru, and to viviana as a person, as a queen. they bow before her that day, and they look to her every day after that for leadership, for protection and dedication. but she’d never vowed anything to them. and viviana as a queen, and dokwochakru itself would not exist without them. 

she’s drawn out of her thoughts by three rasps on her door. 

viviana takes a deep breath before calling out to enter. greer, the head guard  &  viviana’s advisor,   (  and, in fact, the very first dokwochakru member. the woman who first believed in viviana as a queen, and the woman who made dokwochakru possible.  )   takes a single step through the entry way, bowing formally to her queen.    ❛  we are ready for you, jus kwin.  ❜    her voice is even, cool  &  calm as always. but there’s a question on her face. 

viviana nods at her with a smile, assuring her that she’s ready, and alright. she stands, moving toward greer and the door with her cape flowing behind her. the head guard steps out of the way, and viviana exits the room. the three guards standing in the hallway, and greer, get into formation around viviana. they make a square with their queen in the middle. in moments like this, with her flowing gown, and her own guards, viviana feels like a queen of old she’d read about in books. it fills her with confidence.   (  and some arrogance.  )

they reach the largest room in the base, where her throne sits atop a platform, and all the clansmen wait. the four guards move to their positions beside the platform  ---  two on each side  ---  and viviana stops at the bottom of its two stairs. the room is dead silent. 

greer holds out her sword in its sheath, and viviana takes it out, pressing the point into the ground. she looks around at the faces of her people, raising her chin.    ❛  today we gather here to christen this new home, to celebrate it with feast  &  drink.  ❜    she pauses, eyes sweeping the crowd again.    ❛  you are also here to hear me renew the vows i make to you, so i may swear my fealty, once again, to you, my people, my family.  ❜  

her hand wrapped around the hilt of the sword, the blood queen lowers herself onto one knee. the head guard then takes a red crown made of animal bones and places it on her head. it’s a magnificent thing that took over a year of hard work to craft to perfection. 

❛  ai laik viviona, jus kwin kom dokwochakru,  ❜    she begins, keeping her head bowed as she speaks, but making sure her voice is clear  &  strong.    ❛  and i vow to you, the people, the heart  &  soul of dokwochakru. i vow upon this crown of blood and bone you have built for me. and i vow upon this kingdom that you’ve raised from nothing for me. and i vow on these precious lives you have trusted to me that i will do everything with this power you have bestowed upon me to protect you. to provide for you. to give you the family you’ve been searching for.  ❜    she looks up now, her expression  ---  heart heart  ---  filled with pride.

❛  and, above all, i vow to fight for you, to fight beside you. and to lay down my own life for you. gratefully. honoured to have been able to serve you as your queen.  ❜

now, viviana takes her sword, and draws the sharp edge across her palm. blood blossoms, black as night, from her palm.    ❛  because you hail me your jus kwin, and you swear your life and loyalty to me,  i shall swear mine to you, while my blood stains the ground and marks this our home.  ❜    she turns her hand upside down, and blood drips onto the floor.

 after enough blood has dripped onto the floor, viviana finally stands, and says, once more, this time louder and with more passion behind it.    ❛  ai laik viviona, jus kwin kom dokwochakru!  ❜    she raises her sword high in the air, and the whole room speaks together, as one single voice.    ❛  osir laik dokwochakru. dokwochakru fou hogeda!  ❜  

the room raises two fingers in the air, in the shape of a V. viviana makes the same shape with her hand, and pounds it twice against her chest. the clansmen all do the same before they begin chanting dokwochakru fou hogeda! as their queen ascends the two steps of the platform, and takes her seat on the throne before them, laying her sword across her lap. she raises one hand into the air, and the entire room falls silent in the same second.

❛  let us feast!  ❜    she calls out with a grin, and the room is engulfed in cheers once more. their excitement is infectious, and viviana’s heart beats to the rhythm of the cheering.

meat, vegetables, and alcohol is passed around to everyone as the chatter and liveliness picks up quickly. every couple of minutes, a clansmen will come up to the foot of the platform and kneels. they all thank her for her loyalty to them, and they, once again, swear theirs to her, even though it’s unnecessary tonight.   (  but so, so heart - warming.  )

viviana looks out at her people, enjoying themselves for the first time in a long time. they sing, and dance, and reminisce, and tell each other stories of their time spent apart. and viviana thinks of how very lucky she is. this, right here, is why she decided to vow herself to them as they do to her. each and every one of them swears oaths of fealty to her. they take her brand. they follow her. they believe in her, and they look to her, and listen to her words.

they love her. and she, them. 

each of them is a branch on the tree that is dokwochakru, and viviana is the roots. 

she would be nothing, and dokwochakru wouldn’t even exist without them. 

❛  jus kwin,  ❜    greer’s voice breaks her out of her thoughts, and she turns her head to look at the woman.    (  if dokwochakru is a tree, the clansmen it’s branches, and viviana its roots, then greer is its strong, steady trunk. never wavering, holding them all up.  )    ❛  would you like me to get you something to eat, perhaps a drink?  ❜    she asks. 

the queen shakes her head, grinning.   ❛  no, greer  ---  ❜    she looks from the woman to the other three guards who stand centry at the sides of the platform.    ❛  all of you, go. eat, drink, be merry for once.  ❜    greer looks as if she’s about to protest, but viviana cuts her off.    ❛  i order you, as your queen. tonight is a night of fun. so, go. relax. this instant. i only wish for nothing more than to see all of my people enjoy themselves for tonight.  ❜

and, that night, she does. and it makes her happier than she’s been in months  &  months.

#* drabble #i had to do a rewrite because some parts irritated me. #𝒱 jusreina. ❪ about. ❫ #𝒱 v. jusreina. ❪ verse. ❫

[felgrimdarkwatch]

A Glimpse Behind

OK, so this is a short story snippet thing I wrote following two minor characters from Remnant, set around 30 years before the novel takes place. I might make this a short series to trace how they get from who they are now to who they are in Remnant, but we’ll see how it goes.

Let me know if that is something you’d be interested in!

[trigger warning for voyueristic behaviour]

The gentle hiss and hush of the waterfall filled the glade. Thenda couldn’t help squeaking as she entered the frigid water of the Sacred Pool (hardly befitting the ­­dignity of a Dewyth), but it felt almost warm to her numb skin now. The high summer sun beat down upon her ceremonial robes, neatly folded beneath her shoes on a large, flat rock beside the pool, and the slight breeze rustling through the canopy above whispered across her skin.

She smiled to herself, humming sacred melodies absent-mindedly. Eyes closed, she lifted up her head to the warmth of the sunlight reflected in every ripple and wave. The bustle of the citadel was all well and good, but there was a peace in the Sacred Pool Thenda craved. She sometimes wondered if it was that stillness which made it Sacred, rather than the other way around, though Mother Demass would have called such thoughts sacrilege.

The ceremonial knife in her hand was heavy and intricately carved, a reassuring weight in her hands as she set to work at last. It had been a present from her Aunt Grieda, another Dewyth, proud to see the family tradition continued. Thenda ran the calloused tips of her fingers across the sharpened edge until a droplet of blood welled out. She had got the knack of it now. In her acolyte days, she had always struck too enthusiastically. It was a wonder she hadn’t bled out long before now.

The tiny nicks stung as she plunged them into the water at her waist. The blood diffused instantly, but those few drops would be enough. The fae weren’t over-hungry for blood – they just liked to see the effort was being made. They did not want to be forgotten, Thenda thought, and truly, who could blame them?

The song rose from her lips, echoing out as she whirled through the water slowly. She raised her hands high over her head and then swept them through the water, sending a spray of droplets upwards, rainbowing into the sunshine. The breeze curled through her hair as she poured herself into the song,  the water and the air clinging with icy fingers to this child of the earth.

A curl of water-weed wound itself about her ankle like the webbed hands of the fae claiming her and she jumped fiercely. She clasped her knife more firmly in her hand and started to wade towards the shore. Usually, she would linger in the Pool for as long as possible, but that surreptitious touch had unnerved her, and she suddenly felt unseen eyes resting upon her body. Her nakedness, which she had neither noticed nor minded in the Pool, suddenly seemed like a vulnerability and not a freedom. She wrestled her ceremonial dress back on as quickly as possible. It clung damply to her, but she felt better - as though a bolt of white linen would protect her from the fae-folk!

She paused. There was a noise in the forest depths.

“Mattias?”

But the guard sent to accompany her did not reply.

There was no doubt about it now, all her senses were screaming at her. She crept forward, keeping her body low and her knife out. Her prickling ears heard muffled thumps and swearing, and she slipped towards it, bent low to the undergrowth. She could barely hear it, over the thunderous pounding of her fear.

A hunting party had come through the woods earlier. She had seen them slipping through the trees in the distance, dark shadows between the trunks and bending boughs – but though she tried to convince herself it was just the raucous thrill of blood-hunger and macho pride,  the noise was not following the archers. It was whispering on the wind which curled around her, from the far-side of the forest.

Her ceremonial dress felt much less of a protection now. It was not for nothing that Crwythorne was known as a fae-forest after all. She was just wondering what she’d do if she actually came face to face with Auberon, King of the Fairies, when a shadow up ahead caught her attention. Crouching behind a trunk, Thenda peeked warily through the ferns to the chaos beyond.

There were three men. A server, standing guard a couple of feet from her, and two men in a clearing just beyond him fighting - though perhaps fighting was an over-generous word. It was a thrashing, no equal scrap. A youngish man, probably around her age, was holding another by the collar of his jerkin and was hitting him repeatedly about the face, already puffy and bloodied. It was only by his uniform and distinctive red hair that she recognised the defeated opponent as Mattias himself.

Leaping forwards, all prudence abandoned in her rage, she jumped past the startled server, sending him swearing out of his half-watchful reverie, and into the clearing. The man dropped Mattias.

“What do you think you are doing?” She thundered, brandishing her ceremonial knife. “That man was sent to guard me.”

The man looked down at Mattias, groaning and throwing up by his feet. The guard's right eye was swollen shut already, and his nose, badly broken, was bleeding. There was a long scar across his cheek, and it seemed like he was barely holding on to consciousness.

“He was not doing a good job.”

“So you beat him like a dog?”

“He had the chance to defend himself.”

“You are a Noble House son, raised from birth to warfare! He is but an apprentice guardsman, that is no fair fight!”

The man regarded her again. To her horror, she found he was attractive. His dark hair was swept back in loose and bounteous curls, tangled with the braids that all the clansfolk wore. His beard was just as dark, as were those eyes, skimming over her appraisingly, cold as iron and twice as hard. He was tall, well built and expensively dressed. His recent fight did not seem to have disarrayed him in the slightest, though his knuckles were bleeding freely. But, of course, he knew he was handsome. It was written into every inch of his proud back and the haughty tilt of that sharp jaw.

He inclined his head to her.

“You will believe as you wish.” He clicked his fingers at his server and the two men slipped out of sight, wandering through the trees away from her before she could think of a retort.

Thenda summoned all the curses she could think of, but it was no good. They would not avail poor Mattias now. Better by far to get him home to the Citadel and into the hands of a Famauoswyn who could tend to his needs. He was still conscious, at least. Thenda would not have been able to drag him home otherwise. She knelt and pulled his arm over her shoulder, heaving him to his feet, and began the slow stumble home, cursing the arrogance of Noble House bullies all the way – the arrogance that was perhaps warranted, for she knew that poor Mattias would find no justice for his ills. How could he? What could he say to a man who could take anything he wanted as if it was his right?

                                                                                                                   ******

Amarata pushed her way into the library laboriously, cursing her creaking bones.

She sat down beside Thenda, who was angrily flicking through Haggorth's compendium of Meltiths and Curses. She sighed. The girl had not ceased from her bitter fury this three-night or more and now, at last, she thought she knew why.

“I do not blame you, girl, but Meltiths are serious things,” she huffed, settling herself upon the spindly chair. Amarata was the eldest Dewyth at the Nant â Goll Dewyth Tower and reserved for herself the right of calling every other Dewyth ‘girl’ no matter what their age. “Putting that sort of hatred out into the world is only ever a sore and a canker. It will rebound upon you sevenfold in bitterness, and Mattias is too low a worm to risk that for.”

Thenda, who had been still flicking through the tome ignoring the older woman, jerked her head up sharply.

“Mattias?”

“Yes, I know what he did, but he will not find work within the citadel walls again and, if rumours are true, he was beaten within an inch of his life. There must be some solace in that.”

“Why would I find solace in some arrogant Noble House son hunting him for sport?”

“You do not know.” It was a whisper, but not a question. Amarata shook her head. “It does not matter. I do not wish to make you a victim if you do not feel one.”

“I? I, victimised?”

Amarata stared at her for a long time and then sighed. “That cur was caught lurking in the undergrowth watching your sacred rituals. The man who caught him beat him soundly and sent word to us of what happened. I questioned Mattias myself. He did not try to deny it.”

Thenda felt her face burning with shame and anger. She shook her head.

“Mattias knew that the Pool was sacred. He would not violate it. I do not believe it.” But she knew that she did not want to believe it. Had she not felt herself watched? She crossed her arms over her chest as though she could protect herself retrospectively. Amarata patted her hand.

“It has happened to us all,” she sighed, “though it is always a sorrow. After a while, one learns to hurry through the rites as deep in the water as one can get. Of course, I am an old lady now, I do not have to fear malicious gazes, but it angers me that you have lost your joy in it so soon, my child. Most perpetrators do not get the thrashing that yours received.”

“Am I to be grateful then?”

“Of course not, there is nothing but sorrow here, but we are women, Thenda. Sorrow is nothing new to us.”

Thenda tilted her head defiantly upwards. “Perhaps it is not, but I do not intend for it to become my companion either.”

She stood, her knees shaking, her face still aflame. She slammed the book closed, and for once, Amarata did not chide her to take better care of such valuable and expensive property. Nor did she ask her where she was going as she stormed off.

Thenda found the man in the training ring, as she thought she might. One did not grow to be a warrior without exertion. He was practising with the broad-staff today, holding his own against the trainer, a man twice his size above and across. Despite her boiling rage, she waited, agitating at the fence.

Her fidgeting distracted him, and he was swept off of his feet and sent tumbling hard to the floor. He had rolled away before he could be pinned, but his body was low and cautious now, covered in sawdust.

Was it her imagination, or was he a little more theatrical than necessary as he circled his opponent? He was aware of her presence, she thought, and was playing up to it. Deliberately, she looked away, but she could not help herself from sneaking a sidelong look as the battle commenced. He was adept, that much was clear. The staff in his hands thudded up as a barrier and whirled around as a weapon as easily as if it was an extension of his arm. It was as much a dance as her rites were, and seemed suffused with the same hint of magic.

The Noble House son managed to disarm and floor his opponent, holding his own staff as a javelin, ready to knock him unconscious, but he hesitated for a second too long and the trainer reached up and pulled upon his staff, before pinning him to the ground, the staff pressed against his neck until he tapped out in submission.

“I have warned you before,” the trainer panted reproachfully as he hauled the young man upwards, “There is no honour on the battle-field. End it when you have the chance.”

The man just grunted, rubbing his throat, but did not otherwise reply. He scrubbed a rag over his face as he walked over to Thenda, who was still affecting to ignore him. He was too proud to limp, she noticed, but he walked carefully, his muscles clearly aching from their recent exertions, sweat clinging to his reddened face.

“I take it you are here to see me, Mistress Dewyth?” He stopped upon the other side of the fence, and though his voice was polite enough there was no deference in it. Wood-shavings and saw-dust still clung to his clothes, and his hair was delightfully disarrayed. Thenda forced herself to stare directly into his eyes, not trusting her gaze not to wander, but that was almost worse, for his eyes were deep and sparkling, like hoar-frosted winter nights. She found, now that she had arrived, that her words had deserted her. The rages she had been reserving for him now sounded little more than childish folly. Realising that she was not going to speak, he inclined his head.

“You did not need to come here to thank me in person, Mistress Dewyth. Anybody would have done it.”

She felt her rage swell through her again in fresh waves and it loosened her tongue.

“I did not come here to thank you,” she snarled. “I do not need you to fight my battles for me. I am a Dewyth, not some Noble House Daughter for you to woo with your bullying pride. You are mighty enough when taking on some untrained whelp, but you cannot best a man who has been equally practised, I note.” She gestured towards the trainer now sparring with another Noble House son. The man’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“It would be ignoble in me to suggest I was distracted,” he murmured tightly. “And it was clearly ungallant of me to try to protect your honour. I will not be so foolish another time.”

“Good. My honour is my own for protecting. I do not need you storming in to defend it.”

He inclined his head again. His face was expressionless, but his eyes were burning.

“Was there anything else you wished to berate me for, Mistress Dewyth?”

She pressed her lips together, her breath seeping out angrily. “You will talk to me in a more respectful tone.”

He took a step towards her his voice low.

“I know that Dewyths respect no man,” he said, his voice soft and dangerous, “and I know that you seek to unleash your anger upon me because you cannot admit how much that guard has wounded your pride and comfort of mind, and I will bear that. But you will not forget that I too am worthy of respect as befits my name and heritage.”

“Everyone has a heritage,” she retorted, her voice matching his in decibel and fury, “your forefathers died just as easily as anyone else’s did. Do not ride upon their glory for too long.”

He held her gaze and then stepped back. He nodded.

“I see. I will take my leave of you then, Mistress Dewyth. Good day.”

“Mattias was dismissed from the guard,” she blurted out suddenly to his disappearing back as he walked back across the ring, not sure, even as she said it, why she did. He stopped but did not reply.

“Are you not even going to tell me your name, Noble House?” She hated the desperation in her voice and knew she was losing whatever ground she had gained in this exchange.

He held his arms wide, an open and mocking smile upon his face as he turned back to face her. When he spoke, his voice dripped with sarcasm. “I thought the whole world knew it. Your humble servant always, Mistress Dewyth, Mias Tywel.”

#trigger warning: voyuerism #snippet #30 years ago... #remnant #clanlands #my writing #short story #the history of the Tywels #Mias Tywel #Thenda

[thoughtfulfangirling]

Maybe something with Furiosa & finding a new hobby, now that she has time to pursue stuff that's not all "manly" and stuff?

Holy Words Batman! I just cannot keep something actually short. At least it’s not long! Thanks for the prompt!! (‾̀◡‾́) 

Furiosa lowered herself, cross-legged, into the small circle of women, two of whom were the remaining Vuvalini. She was spending most of her evenings with them when she could no longer work. Since recovering after the Fury Road, she’d found she didn’t like the idle moments between work, but truth was, several months later and things were running smoothly at Citadel. She liked to keep busy. She didn’t know what to do with herself if it wasn’t something productive, something to push forward. But something about that had started to feel wrong. She couldn’t place what it was.

The soft murmurs of the Vuvalini women as they told their stories and stitched their fabrics focused her back in on her surroundings. The Vuvalini were the sharpest shooters at Citadel and often took shifts as sentries, but in the evenings, they wove. They had taught Cheedo this art, and she sat among them as well, her fingers dancing with the threads as she crafted an intricate scarf. Toast had even taken up the hobby as part of a bargain with Weaver. Toast wanted to learn their aim, but Weaver insisted that nimble, agile fingers were an important step. Toast wasn’t half as good as Cheedo, but she had made much progress since beginning.

Furiosa turned her gaze away, her phantom fingers itching jealously. She hadn’t asked them to teach her, not with only half the nimble fingers that the Revolutionaries had.

“You look troubled,” Nightengale commented, as she finished her stitches, tying off a knot in the pants she was mending.

Furiosa didn’t know how to answer that. Imminently, knowing she’d never share this part of their nightly rituals troubled her greatly, but this was in large part because she found that she was, in general, discontent.

“Dag asked about you today.” Cheedo commented, looking up from her project. Her fingers didn’t stop moving. “Come with me to visit her tomorrow. She said to say so.”

-

Furiosa wondered how long it had been since she saw Dag last. The woman had made a home for herself among the Green. She’d even had a small cottage built so she never didn’t have to leave her plants. Her stomach had become swollen and even the rest of her body had finally held some weight. Her skin had tanned, more than Furiosa would have thought possible given how ivory it had been. She held her hair back in a scarf Furiosa remembered as Cheedo’s first finished project.

Dag and Cheedo embraced as they approached, and Furiosa averted her gaze. She suspected that they would become more in the future, after they’d had plenty of time to heal. It made her feel something unpleasant, and instead of linger, she looked at the place, only to feel another stab.

She’d never been given the privilege to come up her. In truth, she never tried. When she was part of the wheels that turned in Citadel, she couldn’t bear to see something that look so much like Home.

Now, knowing home was gone, she suspected it was worse.

She turned to leave, needing to get free of this place, understanding why Weaver and Nightengale also rarely came here, and came to a stop as a hand firmly grasped her wrist. She jerked around, ready to attack, but the hand was gone, and Dag was a few feet away.

“Sorry. But you can’t go yet. You’ve finally arrived.” She turned back toward her garden. “I need help up here. I was hoping you could find me someone. I need to pull up the weeds, but I can’t.”

“Is it very difficult?” Furiosa asked, not quite managing to keep her skepticism out of her voice. Another change in Dag was her arms were no longer thin. They had clearly defined muscles beneath the skin, surely from all the labor she put into this garden and the surrounding food crops that had already been started by Joe’s people.

“Yes. Not in the way you mean though. It’s against everything I am to uproot something green and beautiful, even if it’s leaves suffocate the other plants I need more.” She gave a shrug. “I can’t do it myself. I was hoping someone would come who can.” At the last, her intense blue eyes met Furiosa’s.

-

Cheedo didn’t stay long. Once Furiosa said she’d help, Dag had shooed her frequent companion off. Furiosa had wondered why at the time, but now, as the last moments of daylight creeped beyond the horizon, she understood. Furiosa couldn’t have guessed how much work would be involved in the task. She’d thought to do it real quick and be done. Instead, Dag had rattled on about which plants needed to be pulled from the ground. It hadn’t been as easy as Dag pointing to a type of plant and Furiosa just plucking those. There were various different kinds of weeds that had needed pulling, and there had been plants Furiosa would have thought were weeds but weren’t.

Her head and back ached as she left the roof of Citadel, and even though her head ached from the overload of information, she felt *good.* Her right hand was sore and her left shoulder nearly numb, but it was like learning to ride or shoot all over again in a way. And the fresh air had been surprisingly refreshing.

-

When Furiosa returned the next day, Dag gave her a long look. The weeds were gone. It would be another week at least until any would regrow enough to need the plucking. Even then it wouldn’t be the same. She’d let them grow out of control in her inability to remove them on her own.

Furiosa felt oddly dejected. Her years of self control kept her from glancing around the garden for something to do. It would have been useless. She wouldn’t even know what there would be to do. Somehow, Dag saw through her.

Several more hours of making holes in the dirt, and Furiosa was itching to understand why. When she asked, Dag had smiled softly and led her into the cottage. “I will tell you about gardening. In return for such knowledge, you will tend my garden when the time comes.” She placed a hand on her stomach.

Furiosa paled, struck by the realization that if she did so, she’d see the baby, hear it cry. She would be-

“Someone has to do it.” Dag said matter of factly. She didn’t sound like she was going to hear any arguments, and Furiosa smiled. The woman had grown in confidence. Already she had garnered an aura of mysticism, and the people of Citadel spoke of her in hushed, reverent voices. The bold asked her for prayers. Some had even asked for rituals.

-

Dag’s labor had come and gone. Furiosa spent most of her free time out among the fruits and vegetables and herbs of Dag’s garden. She even fixed Dag soothing teas from the herbs in the garden every now and then. The sight of the child still made Furiosa’s stomach churned. Capable had left her duties in Citadel to care for Dag and the babe. Furiosa could tell at times that it was too much for Dag, and she would join Furiosa in the gardens. At first, she simply offered extra instructions or talked about what she was going to do with this or that plant.

Over time, they began to speak more intimately. Dag would talk about the plants she found in books and how she wished she could see them in person. In turn, Furiosa spoke about the plants she remembered in The Green Place, the tall grasses, the small purple flowers you could eat if you wanted though didn’t really have a taste, and finally, of the peach trees.

-

More months passed, and Dag shared her excitement at how so many of Keeper’s seeds had flourished. She had expected many to die. Every few weeks, when one had survived longer than expected, Dag had been in the habit of trying to grow a new one. She still had some untried seeds, but she had decided she was done for now. She wanted to collect seeds from those growing before she risked any of the raw materials she had received from the Vuvalini.

Furiosa on the other hand, found herself impatient. She carried a treasure with her for weeks, unable to muster up the courage to ask her favor until one day, Dag asked.

“You had that with you.”

“Mm?” Furiosa leaned back from the digging she’d been doing.

“That small pouch. It was with you. On the Fury Road. I’d forgotten until I saw it hanging from your waist 38 days past.”

Furiosa fingered the pouch, her heart pounding. Was she ready? She knew Dag wouldn’t deny her. How could she?

The woman stared at her, her gaze searching. Furiosa could tell that she wanted to ask, but she had decided better of it. Finally, she sighed. She untied the pouch from her waist and spilled two seeds into her palm.

“Of the plants from the Green Place, it’s the peaches I missed the most.”

#princelydisaster #Prompts #So it's not real original or anything #but it's where my brain went #I feel like all of this in popular fandom interpretation #but it felt good to explore #Mad Max Fury Road #fanfiction #Furiosa #Dag #mmfrFanfiction #womeninfandom #thoughtfulfangirlingfanfiction #TFOC

[khaleesi-in-the-north]

In the Crosshairs 15/?

@lanasexuall , a better edited version is on Ao3.

               “Do you think they have kinky fire ritual sex?” Ygritte asks as she, Margaery and Renly squeeze past the already sitting members of the audience to reach their seats.

               They had arrived just in time for the tournament and the air already smelled strong of beer and nachos. Those seated, particularly the men, were much kinder about standing to allow Margaery and Ygritte through, but would turn back to sit as soon as they were passed, holding up Renly.

               “Can we please not talk about my brother’s sex life? He has a 12-year-old daughter you know,” Renly says, shoving past a man who decided to get up the moment Renly walked by him.

               Ygritte and Margaery sit in their seats. “They probably use candle wax. I read somewhere that dripping it down a man’s chest can be a huge turn on.” Ygritte wiggles her eyebrows.

               “Sounds too painful,” says Margaery. She can’t imagine Stannis would be the kinky sort. From everything Renly has told her about him, the wildest thing he would probably do during sex is turn on the lights. Melisandre on the other hand…

               She shudders at the thought.

               The lights dim and a hush falls over the crowd. The duelers file out as a hype song plays, a generic one that Margaery can’t remember the name of. In his gold uniform adorned with an intricate flower design, Loras waves to the crowd. A loud roar responds. For five years Loras was a national champion fencer, traveling across Westeros to compete in tourneys until he settled down permanently to be closer to Renly.

               Beside him, Jon looks stoic. His plain grey fencing uniform stood out from the rest of the fencers, who, like Loras, wore stylish uniforms. Even the fencer with the deep blue uniform looked more distinctive than him.

               At the end of the line stands reigning champion, Jaime Lannister.  Despite his nephew’s recent death, Jaime insisted he would defend his championship. His red and gold uniform has a symbol of a lion on his chest. ­­

               The next hour was a barrage of clanging blunted metal swords. The crowd cheered with every victorious poke and gasped with every swipe that narrowly missed touching the fighters. The cheers were loudest when the fencer in blue defeated Meryn Trant. The man screeched and tried to rip off the mask of the mystery fencer, only to be carelessly shoved aside and fall into the crowd, becoming covered in in nachos.

               The tournament was predictable until Jon stunned the crowd and defeated Jaime. All were silent, save for a cheer here or there in the audience, and of course Ygritte’s loud cries of “You got this baby! One more! One more!”

               There championship match was a three-way contest between Jon, Loras and the mystery fighter.

               “Fifteen dragons says Jon will win,” says Ygritte.

               “Loras has never lost match. I’ll take that bet and raise you 5 dragons,” counters Margaery. If there was one thing Loras did well, it was hit other men with sticks.

               “Done,” smiles Ygritte. “What about Ren? You want in on this?”

               “It’s Renly,” he reminds her for the fifth time today. “My wager goes on the girl in blue.”

               Margaery glares at him. “You’d betray my brother for a stranger and forty dragons? Wait til Loras finds out.”

               “That’s a man, Ren. Look at him, he practically towers over Jon and Loras. He’s slow though. That’s why my crow will win.”

               “She’s a woman,” argues Renly.

               Across the aisle, Margaery spots Jaime Lannister walking up the stairs. “I’ll be right back. Bathroom.”

               She follows him, bumping off of people to keep pace.

               “Chief Lannister!” she calls.

               Jaime turns around, perplexed. “Ms. Tyrell. To what do I owe the pleasure?” His voice betrays the irritation that she associates partially with his surprise loss.

               “I wanted to congratulate you on a good performance,” Margaery says as she comes to a stop in front of him.

               “Right, an excellent job, losing to a new runt,” Jaime sneers. “I would have beaten your brother.”

               “Of course,” Margaery smirks. Remembering what she wants to say, Margaery drops the smirk. “I also want to give my condolences for the loss of your nephew.”

               Jaime sobers at the comment. “Yes, it is quite sad. I was never close to him though. His accident is tragic and he will be missed.” He won’t look her in the eye and starts twitching his leg. There’s something he’s hiding.

               “I know you’re close with Cersei though. This must be taking a toll on her,” Margaery concedes. She rests a comforting hand against Jaime’s arm.

               “It is,” Jaime admits.

               “I’ll let you go to be with your family now. Let Cersei know that I’m willing to help her however necessary,” Margaery offers.

               Jaime smiles thankfully. “I will Ms. Tyrell. You’re very kind.”

               Without the previous frustration, he turns and walks away.

Margaery returns to find Renly with his arms crossed across his chest and Ygritte with arms crossed across her chest.

               “What happened?” she asks.

               “She said my hair looks stupid,” Renly pouts.

               “He called me a Wildling,” Ygritte says.

               Margaery takes her seat. “I’m not your mother. Renly stop acting like a spoiled brat. And Ygritte stop being mean to Renly.”

               The whistle blows and the crowd roars once more. Shouts of “Loras!” arise from one end of the crowd, “Jon”! from another, but the loudest are for the one in blue, whose name no one knows.

               Three man matchups are rare in the world of fencing. Jon and Loras look at each other and nod. They spread around the mat and approach the blue fighter from either side. Each step is measured as though they are intruders sneaking past a sleeping Lady. The crowd boos the tactic, but Margaery doesn’t mind it. Whatever it takes to win.

               The blue fighter looks between Loras and Jon. Jon lunges forward. The blue fighter catches his sword and knocks it off before swiping his own sword. Jon manages to dodge. Because points are only scored from hits to the chest, Loras tries to find an angle at which to attack the distracted fighter, but can’t.

               Once on the pursuit, nothing stop the fighter in blue. Jon struggles to block the lunges and swipes.

               “Don’t screw me over Jon! Or else the only one screwing you tonight will be the Others!” Ygritte yells.

               “Loras! Take him out Loras!” shouts Margaery. She looks down at Renly, who merely watches the spectacle in amusement.

               Loras tries to lunge forward, but the mystery fighter shoves him to the ground while blocking another swipe from Jon. With Loras out of the way, the blue fighter takes the offensive, swiping at Jon. He catches Jon off balance and lunges forward, easily putting him away.

               “No! Damn you, you twat!” shouts Ygritte.

               “It’s only a match,” says Renly.

               “Shut up. You’re still in it.” Ygritte says.

               Distracted by Renly and Ygritte’s bickering, Margaery misses the action as a wild cheer comes from the crowd. Loras throws his mask to the ground in frustration.

               The fencer in blue takes of their mask. A short, thin bit of blond hair flies up. The crowd collectively gasps.

               “That’s the woman from the moving company,” says Margaery. Small world.

               The crowd quiets, shocked that for the first time a woman has won the King’s Landing Fencing Championship.

               Finally Renly claps his hands quickly. “Brava Brienne. Brienne! Brienne! Brienne!”

               The rest of the crowd catches on quickly. Soon everyone in the audience chants her name.

               “How do you know her?” Margaery asks as she and Renly trail behind Ygritte on their way to the locker room. Ygritte shoves people out of the way, frustrated with her loss of not only twenty dragons for Brienne winning the contest, but also five more dragons because Brienne was a woman.

               “We were friends as children. The kids around Storm’s End used to bully her because of her appearance. She was always nice to me though, so I was nice to her,” Renly shrugs.

               Renly has always had a kind heart. Sometimes Margaery wonders how he was drawn into the cut throat, deceptive world of journalism. Except it seems obvious. Renly wanted to be the difference, the true difference. To help people and tell them things that truly mattered. Having a front-page photo didn’t hurt his ego either.

               They wait in the holding room outside the locker room. Aside from the final three, all the other fencers have come and gone. The door opens and Ygritte pops up, ready to chew out Jon. Rather than Jon, Brienne steps through.

               Nevertheless, Ygritte stomps forward. “You cost me twenty-five dragons! I can’t afford twenty-five dragons!”

               Brienne steps back. She likely wasn’t expecting to be confronted by an angry red-head northerner first thing after her fight.

               Margaery grabs Ygritte’s arm and pulls her away. “Bad Ygritte. It’s not her fault she’s better than Jon.”

               Ygritte scowls and crosses her arms over her chest.

               Meanwhile, Renly replaces Ygritte. “Congratulations, Brienne. That was a fine performance.”

               Margaery turns back to see the large gap-toothed smile on Brienne’s freckled face. “You’re too kind Renly. It’s been ages, hasn’t it?”

               Renly chuckles. “It has indeed. You haven’t changed a bit.”

               “Neither have you. What are you doing here? If I remember, you weren’t a big fan of dueling.”

               “My boyfriend was one of the fencers. The one with the gold uniform and flower design.”

               Brienne’s smile disappeared. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit him that hard.”  

               Assured that Ygritte wouldn’t pounce again, Margaery joins them. “Don’t worry about it. Loras needs a good kick in the arse sometimes.”

               “Ms. Tyrell,” says Brienne. The stern way Brienne speaks to her puts hre off.

               “Yes,” Margaery smiles. “You moved my things to Alayne Stone’s house.”

               “I remember. Tell Ms. Stone I say hello.” She turns back to Renly, much more at ease when she addresses him. “I must go now. Father and I are going to dinner.”

               Renly shakes her hand. “Very well. Tell Selwyn I send my god wishes.”

               Jon and Loras come out together in time to see Renly bid Brienne farewell.

               “You’re fraternizing with the enemy. How could you?” asks Loras, still upset over his loss.

               “She’s not the enemy, Loras. It was just a bit of friendly competition,” Renly says.

               Ygritte comes over and smacks Jon on the shoulder. “Speak for yourself. You didn’t lose twenty-five dragons.”

               “Ow! What was that for?” asks Jon. He rubs his shoulder. Ygritte rears her hand back to smack his shoulder again. Margaery catches it just in time.

               “I just said I lost twenty-five dragons because of you, you know-nothing!”

               “Wait you didn’t lose? You bet against me, didn’t you?” asks Loras.

               “She’s a brilliant fighter, Lor. She used to demolish all the boys in high school.” Renly wraps his arm around Loras. “Don’t take it personally. I can take you out to a constellation dinner now.”

               “Whatever,” mumbles Loras.

               “I believed in you, brother. I would never betray you for the guarantee of money,” Margaery teases.

               “See my sister is loy- wait. You thought she was going to win too?!” Loras’s head inches forward slightly in shock. “Marge!”

               “No… I thought it would be Jon. But that doesn’t matter. I stuck by you and supported you, unlike some people,” she successfully shifts the focus back to Renly.

               Renly shrugs off Loras’ glare. “Alright, pay up so we can have an apology dinner.”

               Margaery takes out twenty dragons from her purse. She’s about to close her purse when Ygritte leans in and whispers, “Can you spot me 15 dragons? I just paid rent and bought…things…”

               “What kind of ‘things’?” Margaery tilts her head, a little ticked off. She does this all the time. Yes, she’s good to make it up, but it’s a little annoying right now.

               “Just…things…for me and Jon…” Margaery holds her line of sight until Ygritte huffs, “Jon wanted to try some stuff with handcuffs after yours ended up in my bed.”

               “Ew. EWWW YOU KINKY PERVERTS!!” Margaery cries out, mostly to mortify Ygritte, which doesn’t work. “Why did you make the bet if you couldn’t hold your end?”

               “I thought Jon was going to win!” whines Ygritte, glaring daggers at the back of Jon’s curly head as he talks with one of the ushers. Margaery takes out another fifteen dragons and gives the money to Renly.

               As she says goodbye to Loras and Renly, she hears Jon and Ygritte bicker, which continues to the car. Somewhere along the way, Margaery isn’t sure when since she blocked them out, their bickering turned into a quick apology from Ygritte. Jon forgives her, as always.

               They make it to the car before her, so Margaery clicks the unlock button. Ygritte follows Jon into the backseat and immediately hops into his lap, kissing him roughly.

               Margaery speeds to the car. By the time she gets there Ygritte has flipped herself underneath Jon, her hand tangled in his hair.

               “No! Nope! Not while I’m driving!” With a surprising amount of strength, she yanks Jon out of the car and walks him around to the passenger seat. “Sit!” She shoves him into the seat and buckles him in, accidentally pinching his thumb in the buckle.

               She stomps around the car to the driver’s side as the sun begins to dip below the horizon. Twisting back to Ygritte she says, “If you even touch him before you are out of my car at the apartment complex I will take back my TV.”

               Ygritte slips her hands behind her, trying to look like the angel she clearly isn’t.

               The threat works until they leave the arena parking lot. That’s when Ygritte leans forward and says. “I can’t wait til we get home, babe. Do you want to be on top this time or should I?”

               In the mirror, Margaery watches Jon’s face redden.

               “Of course you want me on top. You come harder that way, even if it does take longer,” she continues. “And I love feeling those tight, hard pecs of yours. Are you getting hard now, love? Bet you are. Bet your practically straining out your tight, prissy jeans that show off your cute arse.”

               Margaery slams on the breaks, which causes Ygritte and Jon to lurch forward, smacking Ygritte’s face into the back of Jon’s seat.

               “What?” cries Ygritte.

               “Out. Both of you. Now,” Margaery turns to them. “I warned you and you didn’t believe me. The two of you can walk the rest of the way.”

               A raindrop splashes off the windshield, then another, followed by a steady stream. “I would walk fast if I were you. It’s supposed to rain hard.”

               “But I didn’t do nothin’,” says Jon.

               “Do you want me to call Alayne?” Margaery threatens. Oh gods, she just used her girlfriend as a weapon.

               Jon scurries out of the car. He opens the back door and drags Ygritte out. “Drive safe,” he says before Ygritte can protest.

               Opening the front door, Margaery braces herself for Lady to jump on her, which she does. The furry beast gets off her and wags her tail. Seeing the front door still open, she darts to the front yard and marks a couple of bushes.

               After a short sniffing spree, Lady comes back, wagging her tail harder as Margaery strokes her back while she passes. She picks the mail up off the floor just before Lady steps on it. Flipping through, she notices a letter addressed to her, forwarded from her apartment.

               As she’s about to open it her phone rings the “Rains of Castamere.” Normally she’s not one for ironic jokes, but as much as her grandmother loathes the song, Margaery couldn’t resist assigning her the tone.

               “Hello my dearest grandmother, what brings this pleasant call?” Margaery asks. She goes upstairs to her room. Tired of sitting around by herself, Lady follows.

               The speakerphone setting on her phone is the perfect volume while she changes from her tight jeans into a pair of sweatpants.

               “A friendly call for my favorite granddaughter, dearie. I assume you heard you will be an aunt soon?”

               Margaery tugs t-shirt over her head. She picks her phone off her bed and lays back against the headboard. “Was that what the letter says? Garlan and Leonette are having a baby?”

               “Took them long enough. They’ve been together how long? A millennium?” Olenna huffs impatiently.

               “They’ve been married for two years.”

               Lady hops onto the bed and curls up next to Margaery. The bed is half the size of Alayne’s bed, so it’s a tighter squeeze. The dog lays her head on Margaery’s legs.

               “Luther and I were together seven months before I brought your father into this world. Better late than never I suppose. The seven know I won’t be getting grandchildren from you or your brother.”

               “You don’t know that,” Margaery says, stroking Lady’s ear. Children had never been on her agenda. Neither had love though and…well things could still change.

               Hearing she was to be an aunt lifted Margaery’s heart. Despite her own feelings of never having children herself, she always imagined herself as an aunt. The kind that would sneak her niece or nephew out of school early for a fun day, while providing them a proper education of things they didn’t teach in school. Ygritte would be good help for that.

               Loras would be just as thrilled. He’d always wanted a little brother, and though he adored Margaery, he sometimes admitted that he wished he could switch places with Garlan in birth order. It would be like an opportunity to have a little brother, possibly.

               “I’ll believe it when I see it,” Olenna scoffs. “I heard that Lannister boy died. Did you get what you needed from him before you knocked him off?”

               “Grandmother, don’t joke about those things. It’s very sad,” Margaery scolds.

               “Yes, for some people I suppose. Many had little affection for him.”

               There was an opportunity here, if Margaery could properly angle her approach.

               “I would imagine the northerners are among them.”

               Never one to be fooled, Olenna says, “What are you getting at, girl?”

               “Just, he spoke callously of the Starks. I imagine those feelings are reciprocated. Especially of Sansa Stark.”

               “Ah, I see where this is going now. Bored of the Lannisters and looking for new playmates,” Olenna tuts.

               “I want an unbiased opinion of the Stark girls. Not one from a northerner who worshipped their father and not one from a Lannister who loathed his betrothed,” Margaery rolls on her stomach, upsetting Lady. She growls and rolls onto her side, taking up more of the bed than before. “Who better to ask than the Queen of Thorns, Senator Olenna Tyrell.”

               “I never met the Starks,” Olenna says.

               “You have a picture of yourself shaking hands with Eddard Stark on your mantle, right next to the picture of you toasting drinks with Jon Arryn if I recall correctly.”

               “I taught you the art of my deals too well, my dear. Too smart for your own god. Alright, you want to know of the Stark girls?” Olenna says. Eventually she would have given in regardless.

               “Yes. What were they like? And why are there no bloody pictures of them anywhere?” Margaery scratches Lady’s belly. Eager for more scratches, Lady scoots closer.

               “Eddard and Catelyn hated people taking pictures of their girls. They sheltered all their children. News photographers never attained a picture of Rob until he was 15. After that, they kept stricter watch on the girls and Bran and Rickon. The Starks were many things, but they loved their children fiercely. As much as your father and I love you and your brothers.”

               “Yes, grandmother.” Downstairs, the front door swings shut. Lady’s ears perk at the sound of her mother’s return. She sits up, but doesn’t leave the bed, preferring Margaery’s comforting rubs to greeting the door again.

               “The girls were opposites in every way. Arya was a tomboy. The one time I saw the family, Arya was out in the yard chasing around her little brother. Came back in muddier than a sand snake. Loud as Megga used to be. As the girl still is in fact. When she wasn’t outside she bickered with her sister the day I was there. Catelyn had to separate the girls after Arya pulled Sansa’s hair.

               “Sansa was her mother’s daughter in every way. Quiet, graceful, loved to knitting and dresses. She spoke politely and softly, meek. Until Arya came around that is. There was a fire there, but the only one who ever brought it out was Arya. ”

               Margaery could imagine the smile on Olenna’s face as she reminisced on the years gone.

               “The girl looked just like Catelyn. She had the Tully blue eyes and nose, hair that was redder than Catelyn’s. Tall for her age. Arya took after Eddard. She had his dull brown hair, brown eyes, long face. The prototypical Stark.”

               The floor creaks and Margaery looks over her shoulder as her grandmother talks. Alayne stands in her doorway, leaning against the frame. Margaery rolls onto her back and motions for Alayne to come in.

               “What about their other siblings? How did they interact with them?” She needs a firm understanding of how the girls acted if she would write a story on them. Maybe her angle would be how the murders changed them.

               “Bran and Arya liked to run around together. This was before Bran’s accident of course. Arya was about 8 I believe, which would make Sansa around 11. Robb was 14. He also took after Catelyn more, though not as much as Sansa. They got on much better than Sansa and Arya. Now, there was also a cousin who stayed with the Starks, but I can’t for the life of me remember his name. Derrin? Jayson? Doesn’t matter now I suppose.”

               Alayne shoos Lady off of the bed, but pats her head when she obeys. Then she rests her head against Margaery’s chest.

               “I’ve got to go dearie. Your brother is calling me and I’ve ignored his call twice today already. I love you my little rose,” Olenna says.

               “Love you too, grandmother. Tell Garlan I say hi. And congratulations,” Margaery hangs up.

               A loud yawn from a large wolf-dog breaks the silence in the room. The girls laugh as they both sit up. Alayne cups Margaery’s cheeks and kisses her.

               “How was work?” asks Margaery

               “Good. Signed some checks, met some customers. Routine things. How was your day?” Alayne pulls Margaery against her shoulder. The tattoo of the little yellow and red rose peeks out from the neckline of her shirt.

               Margaery sighs. “I need new friends.” There’s pang in her chest at the memory of Alayne’s words a couple weeks ago.

               Alayne chuckles and lifts Margaery’s head off her shoulder. “What did your grandmother want?”

               “I was just asking her some questions for my story. I want an unbiased view of the Starks,” Margaery explains. Her hand rests against Alayne’s knee, softly rubbing over the smooth fabric. “Oh. And guess who’s going to be an aunt?”

               Alayne bites her lip and looks up through the top of her eyes. “Uhhmmm, Allisane Thorne?”

               “No,” Margaery playfully shoves Alayne back against her pillows. Alayne hits the bed with a thud. Taking advantage of the moment, Margaery crawls on top of her. “It’s me.”

               “That’s great,” smiles Alayne. “You’ll be a wonderful aunt.”

               The response isn’t the innuendo filled prelude Margaery was expecting. She rolls on her side, flush against Alayne. “You think so?”

               Blue eyes light up at the too real concern in Margaery’s voice. “Of course, honey. I can’t imagine anyone better.”

               And Margaery can’t imagine sharing this moment with anyone else.

#in the crosshairs #sansaery

[starcourtscream]

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THE PERENNIAL SADNESS OF A GIRL 

                                                    who is both D E A T H & the MAIDEN. 

                                                                             π ∡ ∞ ∑ 

a roleplay blog for LYDIA MARTIN, a BANSHEE from TEEN WOLF ( canon compliant excluding 6b ). 

                                       independent / highly selective / private / MUTUALS ONLY / mature content.

                      cherished by STEPHANIE. 24. she/her.

                                                                                    tracking BANSHEEINTUITION.  

                                      ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

GENERAL STATS:  lydia martin. former primadonna. banshee. genius. multilingual. aspiring fields medal winner. pisces.  

APPEARANCE:  5'3". approx. 117 lbs. petite on the curvaceous side. milky pale skin. wide eucalyptus eyes. plush & full lips. hair falling in lush rose gold waves. various scars ( in chronological order ): werewolf bite scar on left side, kanima stab wound above right hip, drill hole near left temple, claw marks halfway circling throat, bullet wound behind right shoulder. naturally walks like a supermodel. shops primarily at nordstrom & macy's. 

FAMILY:  mother: natalie martin, BHHS principal. divorced. alive. father: estranged & irrelevant. divorced. alive. grandmother: lorraine martin. banshee. deceased. siblings: none.

PSYCHE:  multiple occasions of psychography. pareidolia. fugue states. sensory hallucinationspremonitions. POSTTRAUMATIC STRESS DISORDER. emotional repression. tendencies to self isolate. chronic nightmares. hears voices. history of catatonia & admission into EICHEN HOUSE. has suffered several different incidents of emotional, psychological & physical abuse.

SKILLS:  predicting terrible events, sensing impending death, finding corpses, causing neural apoptosis by screaming with fatal decibels, inducing premonitions, faking smiles, applying her own theoretical equations to the supernatural world, throwing the best parties in town, opening rifts in universes, cryptography and experience with decrypting cipher algorythms, transcending her own body, projecting herself into dreams, translating bestiaries from archaic languages, breaking down steel doors, perfect winged eyeliner, can & will kick your ass in heels, intellectually & academically brilliant.

                                     ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

A TEENAGE GIRL dreams of fashion, social prestige and academic success, but lydia never imagined her life would become laced with the cloying sense of impending death.

 death kissed, death haunted —  fate had chosen lydia before her birth; premonitions whispered into her DNA.

lydia was always somewhat ECCENTRIC, and painfully aware of it. she was closer to her mother, THOUGH PATIENCE WASN’T AMONG NATALIE’S SPECIALTIES. the only one who saw lydia for who she truly was among the chaos of the eventually divorced martins — rather than a ‘TOTAL NUCLEAR MELTDOWN’ or annoyance — was her grandmother LORRAINE, known as the family LUNATIC. perhaps this was because they shared a SUPERNATURAL IDENTITY, kept secret from the little girl in a secret code left especially for her to transcribe when she was much older.

lydia was always in her own little world aside from being OBSESSED with academicPERFECTION, AMBITIOUS from the start. it came naturally to her, but instead of taking pride in their daughter’s achievements they were more concerned with childlike idiosyncrasies. why was lydia the way she was? why did she choose to respond only to the fictional name of a mermaid, insisting on ‘ariel’ ? why was she so fixated, so WITHDRAWN, so NEUROTIC ? why was herVOICE so piercing ? why wouldn’t she stop W A I L I N G ?

in denial of the mystic convergence taking place within BEACON HILLS, the martins hadn’t considered that their daughter possessed a gift; a HARBINGER of somethingOTHERWORLDLY. they wrote lorraine off instead and committed her to an asylum, doing their best to veil the elder’s senseless ‘DELUSIONS’ from the innocent child until sheSUPPOSEDLY lived out her days. LYDIA was left as the family EMBARRASSMENT.

this created a VOID in the strawberry blonde’s SELF-ESTEEM that spiraled with age. lydia knew she was DIFFERENT, though she couldn’t find its precise root. she was highly introspective & CONSCIENTIOUS at an early age, CRAVING every single figment of S U C C E S S regardless of shape or form. her parents already chalked her up to be a fruitcakeJUST LIKE GRANDMA, and didn’t expect much from her when she displayed subtle notes of anomaly. she wanted to prove herself worthy of much more credit than she was given.

lost in textbooks, archaic languages and highly advanced scientific content through adolescence, A GRADE POINT AVERAGE WELL OVER A 5.0 was effortless. thisSURPRISED most of the teaching staff but her inattentive parents, however, hadn’t the faintest clue about her intellectual capacity ( or her aspirations already planned for the future ). in fact, most people didn’t know how SMART she was. lydia felt OUT-OF-TOUCH with socialization, disconnected from her peers and she was LONELY when she left middle school. kids didn’t like nerds, did they ? lydia didn’t want to be unpopular. she didn’t want to be cool, either. when freshman year arrived, she wanted to be THE BEST ( wasting much of her youth ).

❝ --- NO ONE LIKES A LOSER.  ❞

lydia formed ideas, cultivating an ARTIFICIAL PERSONA down to a SCIENCE. in a vain effort to ascend the spectrum of POPULARITY and gain favor of everyone around her, she swanked the hallways of beacon hills high SUPERIORITY-CROWNED & VANITY-CONSUMED. she threw the most EXTRAVAGANT HOUSE PARTIES for each birthday, making sure EVERYONE knew her name. she spent hours in front of her mirror with a modelesque makeup routine, BLENDING TEARS INTO HER FOUNDATION. she kept her INTELLIGENCE — her most powerful weapon — WELL HIDDEN.

lydia martin was essentially a HOT MESS, though more PRECOCIOUS andATTENTION-SEEKING ( even at her own expense ). she dated the captain of the lacrosse team for a while, though nothing more to him than an accessory in the name of love ( or what she liked to imagine it was ) and he made her feel WORTHLESS. with a BRUISED PSYCHE, she hushed herself during classroom conversations and took up the TRIFLINGgames of a DRAMA QUEEN to make herself feel better when her heart was crumbling.

but among all of that, she found herself among a few others who ACCEPTED her limitless source of knowledge and it was her first taste of authentic FRIENDSHIP. lydia became part of aPACK. at first, lydia didn’t know how to feel. these kids weren’t following her around for celebrity by association. they cared about her. they made sure she was okay. they included her and they would change her life forever…

…it started on a FULL MOON: a nightmarish montage of BLINDING stadium lights, an echoing HOWL, GLOWING RED EYES and the voracious pearly-white fangs of a vengefulWEREWOLF tearing into her side. blood coating her silver prom dress. this generated the beginning of her own T R A N S F O R M A T I O N. she wasn’t becoming a wolf as she lay recovering in the hospital, nor was the bite killing her — but IGNITING HERSPARK.

her first encounter was in the shower, when she experienced terrifying HALLUCINATIONS. her S C R E A M rang throughout the hospital, the town, even the deep woods. when everyone came running to check on her, she had already DISAPPEARED and fled through the window. three days later, she was found in the deep woods naked, shivering, doe-eyed and fearful.

lydia began to experience AFTEREFFECTS since. she was sensitive to GHOSTLY APPARITIONS. she entered involuntary FUGUE STATES leading her to places of supernatural significance. she had nightmares. she saw things that others could not, even falling to the phenomenon of automatic writing. complementary to being H A U N T E D were lydia’sSCREAMS. insecure and terrified, maybe she was going CRAZY after all. what was happening to her?

slow to let down her intricate walls of MARBLE around a seemingly GLACIAL HEART, lydia was petulant. SASS became her primary ART FORM, but she was never truly an ice princess. she WANTED to believe her friends weren’t going to hurt her. she WANTED to let them in, and eventually she warmed up to them well into SOPHOMORE YEAR when she realized what they would do to protect her when supernatural events took place and their world began to shift & turn upside down. they saved her life ( more than once ) and she would do the same for them in a heartbeat as the FAMILY she wasn’t exactly graced with by blood. her friends kept her bound to the supernatural.

                         ❝  --- I’M SOMETHING !!! ❞

it dawned upon lydia that FAUX SUPREMACY was fruitless, having fallen away with maturity. there was more to her world than lip plumper and the most glamorous designer stilettos just for a class lecture. lives needed to be SAVED. DEATH needed to be prevented. and LYDIA had that special power. voices, WHISPERS, ECHOES swirled around in her head and filled a frequency only she seemed tuned into. the revelation of her identity took place in a moonlit classroom during a sacrificial ritual. tied to a chair with a knife to her throat, a dark druid posing as a teacher knew.

   ❝  YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU ARE, DO YOU? THEWAILING WOMAN. A B A N S H E E, RIGHT BEFORE MY EYES. YOU’RE JUST LIKE ME, LYDIA. LOOK LIKE THE INNOCENT FLOWER, BUT BE THE SERPENT UNDER IT. ❞

somehow, a near death experience to find out what was blossoming within her didn’t surprise lydia. what she never saw coming, though, was the possession of the boy she loved by a dark trickster spirit leading to the tragic death of her first & best friend. it cast a shadow over her heart and she grieved the loss of ALLISON argent in solitude, wishing there was something she could have done to prevent it from happening. meeting ANOTHER banshee gave her hope. she was no longer the popular girl, but it didn’t matter anymore. saving her friends & others like them did, and lydia immersed herself into mythological literature and folklore in hopes of enhancing her senses and figuring out what else she could do.

     ❝  --- BUT IF I HAVE THIS THING, IT’S GOT TO WORKSOME OF THE TIME. IT’S GOTTA HELP SOMEONE. ❞

a horrific twist in events sent lydia into CATATONIA after being violently injured by an antagonist and left hypothermic and dying in an ancient oak grove. FROZEN and muted, lydia was trapped in her own mind with no way to help her friends when it was her turn for a stay in EICHEN HOUSE, beacon hills’ MENTAL HEALTH FACILITY with dark secrets and insidious intentions. the very place lorraine was quite recently MURDERED after surprisingly faking her death all those years to help & protect lydia from assassins with a generous price on her and everyone she knew. at the hands of orderlies who wanted to do more than put her under psychiatric drug treatment, she was being experimented on with frequencies. she broke out of catatonia to S C R E A M, buying time to save her friend from a death she sensed but she was still being abused and tortured to a point where the SOUNDS & VOICES in her head were too powerful upon AMPLIFICATION with the practice of trepanation sans anesthesia. HER OWN SCREAMS WERE GOING TO BLOW HER OUT and she ACCEPTED that she wasn’t going to make it. but her pack came through for her and saved her life, and after recovery she was able to catch up in time to help defeat LA BÊTE DU GÉVAUDAN ( AND PREPARE FOR SENIOR YEAR ).

                  ❝  NOT ALL MONSTERS DO MONSTROUS THINGS. ❞

BY HER FINAL HIGH SCHOOL CHAPTER, LYDIA MARTIN HAD EVOLVED FROM A CAKE FACED SHELL OF A GIRL TO AN INTUITIVE WOMAN OF A SUPREME CAPACITY TO LOVE, PROTECT & MAKE A DIFFERENCE. THE WILD HUNT FEARS HER. THE UNIVERSE BENDS TO HER AS SHE CONTINUES TO FIGHT FOR THE PRESERVATION OF INNOCENT LIFE.

                                                               ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

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