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teencopandthesourwolf · 6 months ago

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WOLF BOY

when ao3 goes down, we write tumblr fic (edited version now on ao3 HERE lol)

i used the 15/11/24 @sterekdrabbles challenge for this. the prompt words were GREEN, REACH and SCATTER. i'm also tagging @sterekdrabblesgonelong as it's around 1K words and therefore definitely a drabble gone long lol.

it's a spark!stiles slash derek whump sort of affair, just so you know what you're reading xp

The dagger is almost within his reach—so very nearly grabbable.

Other than being eight years old in a hospital room with the smell of rotting flowers clinging to the back of his throat, Stiles doesn't think he's ever wanted anything more than this.

Again, Derek hacks out, “Just run, Stiles!”

Again, Stiles answers no—only this time, it's not with his voice but a yellow-green vine of pure light that extends from his fingertips as he pleads with each beat of his heart for the universe to help him, the tendrils stretching, stretching, then victoriously winding themselves around the handle of the blade.

“Oh, shit,” he mutters, now with his actual voice, and then the vine of his will is pulling the knife flush into his grip.

He looks up at the hunter, their face a billboard of surprise, before a shriek rips itself from her belly at the very same time Derek roars from where he's tethered and bound, the wolfsbane-laced chains melting further into his flesh as he tries in vain to once again break free.

Then the evil bastard is flinging herself at Stiles—and straight into the dagger aimed at her solar plexus that his light sends sailing across the cave, plunging it deep into her breast.

It might not be bullseye, but it does the trick.

As she drops to the dusty ground like a discarded ragdoll, the other two hunters' heads snap like whiplash to where Stiles is sprawled, a look of pure terror marring their faces.

The cowardly fuckers drop their weapons and scatter, leaving Stiles and Derek alone—other than the dead woman at their feet—in the large cave they'd dragged Derek into a few hours ago.

Derek's wrung out, and beaten down, but alive.

At once, Stiles scrambles to his feet to get over to where the ʼwolf is chained up, almost falling back down again when his probably sprained ankle gives way beneath him.

“Stop fucking hurting yourself,” Derek hisses, and for once in Stiles's insane life he wishes he could gnash his teeth and roar in response, and it have an effect that would be anything other than ridiculous.

“Oh my god,” he protests instead. “I've just saved your offensively pretty ass with my new spark's apparently awesome Gio-Ju-ju, a-hole, so how ʼbout we be a little less sourwolf and a lot more gratefulwolf to ol’Stilesy boy here, hmm?” he sasses, finding the key to the padlock that's bolted to Derek's chains on the flat rock where his flashlight got dropped when confiscated by one of the hunters.

Stiles feels petulant, and justified in that petulance as he discards the now unlocked padlock. Then he feels a little wrong-footed when Derek quietly mumbles, “Thank you,” because the guy sounds both in a considerable amount of pain and genuinely grateful to Stiles.

Stiles sighs and kneels down to start prizing the chains away from Derek's red-raw, still-smoking skin, the ʼwolf's forever-stoic face giving away nothing of the hurt he's obviously suffering at the cruel hands of the aconite still desperately trying to seep its way into his body.

“You don't have to do that for me, you know,” Stiles says carefully, hinting at Derek's display of endurance.

Derek's eyes flicker from mid-space to Stiles's face, and Stiles suddenly notices that their heads are actually dizzyingly close.

He swallows, and the sound of it echoes around the cave as if mocking him.

The second he peels away the last link in the chain attached to Derek's skin, and before Derek can push him away, Stiles brings a hand to Derek's throat to feel for his pulse.

When determined fingers find it, Derek's face does a thing that Stiles hasn't seen it do before; it's this combination of incredulous and vulnerable, and is so unprecedented, and so beautiful, that Stiles sort of wants to cry about it.

“You can hear mine,” he superfluously reminds Derek, before saying what he really wants to. “It's not fair I don't get to know—that you're alive, I mean. Like, I know I can see it but… The tactile reassurance? That's, uh, you know, kind of nice, too.”

Man, he spends way too much time with werewolves.

Then, when he licks at his dry lips and Derek's pulse quickens under his fingertips, Stiles is so much more than simply placated.

Taking a steadying breath, he feels a million trillion miles away from anything even remotely resembling steady.

He studies Derek's face some more for confirmation of his suspicion, and finds something akin to bashful swimming amid the swirls of those gorgeous seafoam eyes.

Derek likes him back?

Stiles sinks his teeth into his bottom lip; Derek's pulse starts to race.

Amazingly, it seems Stiles isn't alone in the want he feels deep in his gut, and as it grows and spreads to his extremities, his fingers and toes now tingling with it, he reckons he's maybe beaten-up and bleeding out and half-braindead enough to have the balls to actually do something about it.

It must be biological, he thinks as he licks at his lips again, that his body somehow knows exactly what to do to hopefully get Derek to do exactly what Stiles wants him to—lick Stiles' lips for him, that is—without him making an actual fully-formed decision on the matter.

Although as soon as he's thinking that, the decision to kiss Derek is unequivocally made—even if it's going to get him shoved into the dirt for trying.

He's about to lean in when one of Derek's already beginning-to-heal hands stops him by bracing his shoulder.

“I can smell your pain, Stiles,” he says. “Let me help.”

Stiles tries not to smile as he lies through his teeth. “Hurts here, the most,” he murmurs, touching two fingers from the hand not at Derek's pulse to his bruised, bloody lips. He then curls the other hand further around the werewolf's neck, to hold on.

Derek starts to pant, and Stiles has to hold in a whine.

The werewolf sounds absolutely wrecked when he asks, “Do you have any idea what you're doing to me by wrapping your hand around my throat?”

Stiles's smile then brakes free and is wry as his wit as he answers, “I've been working hard to find out how to woo you for months now, big guy. What do you think?”

And when Derek lunges to crush Stiles's mouth with his own, teasing Stiles' lips apart with his hot, hot tongue and nipping at them with blunted canines, Stiles reckons he knows what it must feel like to howl.

edited version now on ao3 HERE if you'd like to drop me a comment xp

#sterek #sterek fic #stiles stilinski #derek hale #teen wolf #wolf boy #spark!stiles #derek whump #teen wolf fic #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #queer fic #queer writer #tcats writes #teencopandthesourwolf

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werecreature-addicted · 6 months ago

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Angsty priest werewolf thought

He was adopted by a strict catholic family. He never knew his biological family and felt lost because of it. He kept his wolf side secret for so long and thought himself a sinner for being how he was born.

He always saw himself as “wrong”.

He keeps a silver crucifix around his neck and hold it when he prays. Believing the silver the burns into his hands when also burn away the “demon” in him. He put wolfsbane in his coffee or tea. Thinking it will poison and drown the beast.

He himself is a very big man. Tall and beefy. Shave himself almost everyday though. If you were to look into his trash you would find wax with hair, used razor blades and nail clippings. Keeps his hair short and slick back.

But when he meets that sweet keeps that comes to the church. He punishes himself even further.

Tying a silver rope around his neck when he prayed in private. Thinking she was sent to him as a test. To see if he can keep his wolf locked away.

After their night of passion and lust. he leaves her before the sun rises.

In his office on his knees. The silver rope around his neck and the silver crucifix in his hands. Praying and begging for forgiveness.

His little mate walks in on him in horror. Watching him punish himself for no reason. Of course she rips off all the silver and yells at him for hurting himself. Holding him close to her and begging to stop doing this. That he’s not evil or wrong.

And he sees now that she’s not a test from god that he failed.

She’s a gift.

wahhhhh

Imagine walking in on the priest you just banged (and who is apparently a werewolf) on his knees holding a silver cross to his chest and searing his skin with it. For a second you don't realize what he's saying his choked sounds of pain just sound like sobs. Then you realize he's praying- not even that. He's begging God for forgiveness for failing his test, for unleashing his wickedness on you and tainting you.

You can't listen to this and interrupt him, pulling the cross from his hands to stop him from hurting himself. He didn't do anything wrong, didn't do anything you didn't want him to do, he didn't deserve punishment.

He doesn't believe you, if anything it makes him feel worse for taking advantage for someone so naive- but your hands feel good on his skin and it's hard to think about anything else. You press kisses to his cheeks and whisper sweet nothings to soothe him and it's easy to forget a cold god in the warm embrace of his mate.

#asks

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vrzylla · 11 days ago

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✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

remus lupin x reader ! one shot ⏾

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loml, taylor swift inspired

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still alive, killing time at the cemetery

ᵎ!ᵎ graphic depiction of torture, major character death, emotional manipulation, suicidal ideation, body horror, self-harm tendencies, war trauma, betrayal by authority figures, child endangerment, werewolf abuse, grief-induced magical outbursts, last kiss trope, right person wrong time, no happy ending, prolonged suffering, violent death, psychological horror, survivor's guilt, toxic guilt dynamics, unhealed trauma, romanticized tragedy, destroyed keepsakes, blood/injury detail, abandonment issues, morally grey dumbledore, graphic descriptions of grief, unresolved romantic tension, emotional devastation with no catharsis

word count [ 3,200 ]

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the rain hadn't stopped since you arrived in london.

it was the kind of rain that clung to your skin, cold and unrelenting, the sort that made the city feel like it was weeping. you hated london like this—all damp cobblestones and foggy alleyways, the air thick with the ghosts of choices you couldn't take back. but orders were orders, and when moody called, you came. even when you knew what it meant. even when you knew why they were sending you.

the safehouse door creaked as you pushed inside, shaking water from your coat. the familiar scent of old wood and burnt coffee wrapped around you, undercut by something sharper—wolfsbane. your fingers tightened around your wand. you hadn't expected him to be here. not really. not after everything.

but then—

"you're late."

his voice. god, his voice. rough at the edges like he hadn't slept, the way it always got before the full moon. you turned slowly, and there he was: remus lupin, leaning against the kitchen doorway like a man braced for impact. he looked older. the war had carved new lines around his mouth, shadows beneath his eyes. his sweater was fraying at the cuffs. you'd always hated that sweater.

"traffic," you said, forcing lightness into your tone. "death eaters love a good bottleneck."

his lips twitched. not quite a smile, but close. then his gaze dropped to your left hand—to the fresh scar curling around your wrist. a cursed blade in prague. you watched his throat work as he swallowed. "you've been busy."

"you know how it is." you shrugged, tucking your hand behind your back. "dumbledore's errand girl."

"don't." the word cracked between you. he looked away first, scrubbing a hand over his face. "just—don't do that."

the silence stretched, thick with everything you weren't saying. you could hear the others in the next room—sirius' loud laugh, moody's growl, the clink of glasses. a normal meeting. just another mission briefing. except—

"it's lyon, isn't it?" you said quietly.

remus went very still.

"i heard the rumors." you kept your voice steady, even as your pulse thundered in your ears. "werewolf cub chained up as bait. classic death eater trap."

"you're not going." "i am."

" (y/n)— "

"don't." you met his eyes, holding his gaze even as yours burned. "we both know why they're sending me. we both know +who they'll have guarding that kid."

his breath hitched. you saw the moment he understood—the moment he realized you knew exactly what you were walking into. his hands flexed at his sides, like he wanted to reach for you. like he still thought he could stop you.

"you could say no," he whispered.

you smiled, bitter and fond all at once. "since when have i ever been able to do that?"

the door to the meeting room swung open. "ah, there you are!" moody's voice boomed. "we're starting. lupin, stop lurking and get in here."

remus didn't move. his eyes never left yours. you could see the plea in them—the desperate, furious don't do this that he wouldn't let himself say aloud.

you stepped around him, your shoulder brushing his as you passed. close enough to smell the tea and parchment scent of him. close enough to feel the warmth of his skin through his threadbare sweater.

"welcome back," he murmured, so soft you almost missed it. you didn't look back. you couldn't.

the war room smelled like firewhiskey and burnt parchment.

you took your usual seat between emmeline and sturgis, ignoring the way the wood creaked beneath you. the map of lyon sprawled across the table, dotted with red pins that made your stomach twist. too many. far too many.

"finally decided to join us, then?" moody grunted, his magical eye whirling to fix on you. "good. you'll need the details."

sirius kicked his feet up on the table, but his usual smirk was absent. "lovely weather for a suicide mission."

"black." dumbledore's voice was mild, but the warning was clear.

remus hadn't sat down. he stood against the far wall, arms crossed, jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle twitching. his eyes burned into you—dark and furious and terrified all at once.

you focused on moody. "how fresh's the intel?"

"three hours old." moody stabbed a finger at the map. "safehouse here. two guards, maybe three. kid's in the cellar."

"what condition?" "alive. barely." your nails bit into your palms.

"extraction team?"

"you." a sharp inhale from the corner.

remus' voice cut through the room like a blade. "that's it? just her? "

"objections, lupin?" moody growled.

"yes, actually." remus shoved off the wall, his chair screeching back. "it's a trap. they're expecting us. expecting her. "

"all the more reason to move fast—"

"bullshit." the word cracked like a whip. you'd never heard remus swear in a meeting before. "you're sending her in alone because you know they won't kill her on sight. because they'll want to make it hurt."

the room went still.

sirius slowly lowered his feet from the table. "moony—"

"no." remus' hands were shaking. "no, this is insane. even for you." his gaze locked onto dumbledore. "you know what they'll do to her."

dumbledore steepled his fingers. "we all must make sacrifices—"

"don't." remus' voice dropped to something low and dangerous. "don't you dare give me that noble shit while you send her to die."

your chest ached. you'd never seen him like this—raw and unraveling, his control shattered. the wolf in his eyes.

"remus." you said his name softly, but he flinched like you'd struck him.

"you're agreeing to this?" he demanded, turning on you. "you know what's waiting there—"

"i do." "then why? "

the room held its breath. you met his gaze, steady. "because it's not just any werewolf." his breath hitched. "it's a child," you continued quietly. "and we both know who they'll send to guard him." the realization dawned on his face—horror, then fury, then something shattered. "greyback."

you didn't nod. you didn't have to.

remus made a sound like a wounded animal. "no. no. you don't—you can't possibly—"

"it's done," moody interrupted. "mission's a go. dawn tomorrow."

remus looked at dumbledore, desperate. "albus, please— "

"the decision is made."

for one terrible moment, you thought remus might actually attack him. his magic crackled in the air, books trembling on the shelves. then—

"fine." he spat the word like poison. "but i'm going with her."

"no." dumbledore's voice was final. "your condition makes you a liability for this."

"my condition is exactly why—"

"enough." you stood abruptly, cutting him off. "we're done here."

remus stared at you, betrayal and fury warring in his eyes. you forced yourself to turn away, to gather your things. you couldn't look at him. not now. not when—

a hand grabbed your wrist. "look at me," remus demanded, low and rough. you turned. his eyes were wild, his breath coming too fast. "tell me you're not doing this," he whispered, just for you. "tell me you'll run. please. " your throat closed. you could lie. you should lie. instead, you gently pulled free.

"i'll see you after," you lied anyway.

his fingers slipped from yours.

the hallway was too quiet after the meeting.

you stood by the front door, your bag slung over one shoulder—lighter than it should be. you’d left most of your things behind. no point in dragging them through the mud of a french battlefield.

remus found you there. of course he did.

he didn’t speak at first. just stared at you, his chest rising and falling too fast, his hands clenched at his sides like he was physically holding himself together. the dim light caught the silver in his hair, the new lines around his mouth. he looked older. he looked broken.

"you’re really going." his voice was scraped raw. you didn’t answer. you didn’t have to.

a muscle jumped in his jaw. "say something. anything. "

what could you say? that you were sorry? that you wished things were different? that every fucking cell in your body screamed to stay, to curl into him and never let go? you said none of it.

his control snapped.

" look at me! " he grabbed your shoulders, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "look at me and tell me this isn’t just some—some punishment for leaving you! tell me you’re not doing this just to make me watch you die! "

your breath hitched. his eyes were wild, desperate, his tears catching the light as they fell. you’d barely seen him cry before. not even that last night in the common room.

gently, you reached up and brushed a tear from his cheek. he flinched like your touch burned.

"it’s not about you," you whispered. "it never was."

he made a wounded noise, his forehead dropping to yours. his breath was warm against your lips, his whole body shaking. "please. please. i’ll—i’ll go with you. i’ll beg greyback myself. i’ll—"

"no." you fisted your hands in his sweater— that sweater, the one you’d always pretended to hate—and held on tight. "you’re going to live. you’re going to survive this war. and you’re going to be happy. "

"don’t." his voice broke. "don’t say goodbye. not like this."

you kissed him instead.

it was nothing like your last kiss—no firewhiskey and desperation, no whispered i love yous. this was soft. slow. a promise you’d never get to keep. his lips trembled against yours, his hands clutching at you like he could memorize you by touch alone.

when you pulled away, his eyes were still closed.

"look at me," you murmured. he did.

you memorized the exact shade of his eyes in this light—gold and green and brown, all at once. the way his lashes stuck together with tears. the freckle just below his left eyebrow. every detail. every breath. then you let go.

"i’ll see you after," you lied again, and the door clicked shut behind you.

remus didn’t follow.

the owl arrived at 3:17 a.m.

remus knew the exact time because he'd been staring at the clock for seven hours straight, watching the minute hand crawl through the dark. he'd memorized the cracks in the ceiling above his bed, the way the streetlamp outside painted stripes of gold across the floor. he'd counted them. thirteen stripes. always thirteen.

the tapping came again—insistent, sharp. like it had been waiting for him.

he didn't move.

the owl dropped the letter through the gap in the window, its wings beating once, twice, before vanishing into the night. the envelope skidded across the floorboards, coming to rest against the toe of his boot.

order of the phoenix seal. no bloodstains.

that was the first betrayal.

his hands didn't shake as he picked it up. they should have. they wouldn't. the parchment was crisp under his fingers, the wax seal unbroken. he could still send it back. he could burn it. he could—

it opened too easily.

mission failure.

operative deceased.

body unrecovered.

three lines. that's all you got. three fucking lines after a lifetime of—

remus didn't realize he was screaming until his throat burned. the mirror above the dresser shattered. the lightbulb in the ceiling exploded. somewhere deep in his chest, the wolf howled.

he didn't stop.

he tore the letter in half. then quarters. then eighths. he kept tearing until the pieces were too small to hold, until they fluttered to the floor like snow. like ashes. like the last bits of your purple cloak drifting through that french cellar.

the silence afterwards was worse.

he sat there for hours, maybe days, the shredded parchment clinging to his sweat-damp skin. at some point, the sun rose. at some point, his tea went cold.

when sirius finally kicked down the door, he found remus exactly where the owl had left him—back against the bedframe, knees pulled to his chest, your name on his lips like a prayer. like a curse.

"moony—"

remus looked up. his eyes were dry.

"she lied," he said, very calmly. "she said she'd see me after."

sirius didn't answer. he just sank to the floor and pulled remus into his arms, holding him tight as his body finally, finally remembered how to break.

the fire in dumbledore’s office crackled too cheerfully for the storm brewing inside remus lupin.

he didn’t sit. didn’t speak. just stood there, your old journal clutched in his hands like a weapon, his knuckles white around the worn leather. harry had found it tucked away in a box of lily’s things—just a small, unassuming thing, filled with your messy handwriting and secrets dumbledore had sworn didn’t exist.

"he’s sending me to lyon. alone. of course. because remus can’t know. because if he knew, he’d stop me. or worse—he’d come with me. and dumbledore can’t have that, can he? not when the mission requires a body left behind."

your words. your voice. right there in ink, dated three days before you died.

remus’ blood roared in his ears.

"you knew." his voice was low. dangerous. not a question. never a question.

dumbledore didn’t look up from his tea. "i had my suspicions."

" bullshit. " the word tore from him, raw and furious. the journal hit the desk with a thud , pages splayed open to your final entry. " she knew. she fucking knew it was a suicide mission. and you sent her anyway. "

for the first time, dumbledore met his gaze. his eyes were tired. old. but not sorry. never sorry. "she was the only one who could get close enough."

" close enough to what? " remus’ hands shook. " to die? to burn alive in some fucking cellar so you could—what? prove a point? "

"to save the child."

" you could have sent me! " the words ripped out of him, magic crackling at his fingertips, rattling the portraits on the walls. " i could have gotten them both out! "

"no." dumbledore’s voice was calm. infuriatingly calm. "you would have tried to save her first. and the boy would have died."

the truth of it hit like a curse to the chest.

remus staggered back, his breath coming too fast, too sharp. " you don’t get to decide that. "

"i did." dumbledore set his tea down. "and i would do it again."

for a single, blinding moment, remus wanted to kill him. wanted to wrap his hands around the old man’s throat and squeeze until the light left those too-knowing eyes. wanted to scream until the castle crumbled around them.

instead, he laughed.

it was a hollow, broken sound. " of course you would. " he dragged a hand through his hair, his voice dropping to something venomous. " you always knew how to weigh a life, didn’t you? her death was just another calculation. another fucking sacrifice. "

dumbledore didn’t deny it.

remus turned away before the rage could consume him entirely. he couldn’t look at him. couldn’t stand the weight of that silence, the acceptance in it.

"you should have told me," he said finally, his voice scraped raw. " i deserved to know. "

"would it have changed anything?" the question hung between them, cruel and inevitable.

no.

no, it wouldn’t have.

because you would have gone anyway.

and he would have let you.

remus didn’t answer. he just picked up your journal, holding it to his chest like it could somehow fill the hole you’d left behind. then he walked out.

a folded piece of parchment, delivered by a tawny owl at midnight, months later after the end of the school year— back in his apartment.

dearest remus,

i find myself compelled, after all these years, to offer you the truth you so desperately crave. i suggest you read no further—but we both know you will. she did not burn. that was a kindness i allowed you in the beginning, one i see now was misguided. the truth, as always, is far uglier. they caught her just outside the cellar door. she’d freed the boy—did you know that? he was halfway to the apparition point when they dragged her back. greyback himself held her down while they worked. cruciatus first, of course. she laughed at them. you know how she got when angry, that wild defiance that made even bellatrix hesitate. it only made them angrier.

they used muggle tools. knives, mostly. the kind that leave jagged edges. they started with her hands—the left first, the one with your ring. she screamed then, but only once. after that, she just gritted her teeth and took it. i’m told she never stopped trying to crawl toward the door, even when her fingers were gone. even when her knees were shattered. she was still whispering instructions to the boy when they—

no. i’ll spare you that particular detail. some things, even now, are too cruel to put to paper.

she lasted forty-three minutes. longer than most would have. longer than i expected. the healer who examined the scene afterward said there were grooves in the floorboards where her nails had dug in. she’d tried to claw her way out, even at the end. even when there was no hope left.

the boy survived. he carries your ring to this day. i thought you might find some comfort in that.

you were right, of course. i could have sent you. but we both know what would have happened. you’d have chosen her over the mission. over the war. over the greater good. and so i chose for you.

i do not expect your forgiveness. i ask only that you understand—some losses are necessary. some loves must be sacrificed. hers was one.

yours,

a.d.

the letter falls from remus’ hands.

for a moment, there’s nothing. no sound. no breath. just the parchment lying there on the floor, dumbledore’s elegant script screaming up at him in the dim light of his shitty apartment.

then—

his wand is in his hand before he realizes he’s reached for it. the spell tears from his throat raw and ragged, magic cracking through the air like a gunshot.

“ expecto patronum. ”

the silver wolf bursts forth in a blaze of light—not the gentle glow of happier memories, but something feral , all bared teeth and hackles raised. when it opens its mouth, it’s his voice that comes out, broken and furious:

“ she knew. she fucking knew. all this time—she knew she was walking into that cellar to die and dumbledore—fucking dumbledore — ”

his voice shatters. the wolf flickers, its edges fraying with the force of his rage.

“ he sent her there to die, pads. he let them carve her apart and she— ” a ragged gasp. “ she still tried to crawl. she was still trying — ”

the patronus wavers, its light guttering like a candle in a storm. remus’ knees hit the floor.

“ i need you, ” he whispers.

the wolf dissolves into silver mist.

and somewhere across london, sirius runs faster than he's ever run in his life—because the patronus didn't just carry words. it carried the image of remus' wand pressed to his own temple, the incantation 'obliviate' already half-formed on his lips, your name the last coherent thought in his shattered mind as silver light bled into the cracks of his broken apartment.

#remus #remus lupin #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x fem!reader #angst #remus lupin angst #marauders #marauders angst #one shot #marauders one shot #remus lupin oneshot #remus lupin fanfiction #angst fanfic #marauders era #marauders x reader

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sunnyhopeworld · 1 month ago

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Werewolf bonding/mating/wedding (headcanon for the Teen Wolf universe)

Just for research: Are there any werewolf wedding traditions or mate bond ceremonies? Or do you have any headcanons? Because I have.

We all know the fairly popular one where a mate bite is given and then a bond forms, but I love the idea of having a ceremony similar to a wedding day. I first started thinking about it after having a Petopher fanfic idea where they have a secret bonding ceremony that is held by a druid.

It takes place on a full moon in the woods, and both of them haven't seen each other the whole day. Both bring a gift, a sacrifice, to the ceremony as an offering to the partner to be able to provide for them. I know it sounds a little primal, but werewolf are partly animals, after all. After the sacrifice is accepted, the ritual begins. The first step is scenting each other. Then, the druid will speak a few ancient words (almost like a ritual) before binding the hands of the spouses with a band where silver is woven into the fabric to symbolically show the union that is about to happen (silver can kill supernaturals, so it my idea is that the silver indicates that the bond can only be parted by death). I also find the symbolism of "sharing" blood really cool, so maybe the bottom lip is cut with a small blade laced with a small amount of wolfsbane to keep the wound open until the blood gets mixed by a kiss on the mouth. The kiss seals the ritual, so before that happens, there is the chance for the spouses to say their vows.

It's up to the couple if this is done alone or in the presence of the pack. After the ceremony, the brought sacrifices from earlier are eaten. Everything else involving the celebration can be individually designed/planned to the spouses liking.

Now for the bite. The bite is given at the wedding night that takes place under the moon. The partners will separate for a set time in the woods before the "hunt" begins. Again, more of a primal thing that can be seen as foreplay.

Those are all my thoughts regarding this topic, but maybe you have other ideas and headcanons. If so, I would really like to know them, so feel free to share^^

#teen wolf #peter hale #chris argent #petopher #bonding #fated mates #mates

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fionajames · 10 months ago

Note

Lemme request something Void! related. Preferably Sterek. No x reader please. Even just Sterek friendship!

Devoid of All Emotion

A/N: OML TYSM FOR THIS REQUEST!!! I AM SO GRATEFUL, YOU HAVE NO IDEA. Now to explain, I would ship Sterek but the thing is, yk, the age gap, so unless it's an au or a few years into the future when it's more natural, I view Stiles and Derek as platonic soulmates. I really hope you enjoy and PLEASE, TEEN WOLF PEOPLE, SEND REQUESTS.

(divider by @saradika-graphics)

Three seconds breath in, three seconds hold, three seconds breath out.

Three in, three hold, three out.

In, hold, out.

Three, three, three.

The rhythmic breathing was beginning to ache in his chest as the man exhaled steadily, attempting to steel himself as he stared at the orange hues of sunset. Inside the apartment, beyond the door, he could hear the Sheriff’s attempt at resurfacing whatever remained of his son.

In, hold, out.

Derek glanced to his side, where Allison was gnawing on the ends of her fingernails, glancing to her dad every few moments. He could smell the anxiety rolling off of her, grief twisting with it as she sighed loudly. Emotional pain drifted in the air, stronger and heavier than anything else.

“You’re not my son,” the words floated into Derek’s ears as the tiny flickering spark of hope in his stomach was quenched with the snapping sound of metal being broken. Stiles was gone. He blinked languidly, his own grief growing inside of him.

Argent was the calmest one present, as predicted, and waves of chilling cool rolled off of him. It was relieving to Derek’s overwhelmed senses, and he focused on that instead of Allison’s frantic panic as they entered the loft.

He followed Argent with monotonous steps, watching out of the corner of his eye as Allison sucked in a breath, positioning herself diagonally from Stiles.

No, a voice in his head rasped, and Derek scanned the boy’s face hopelessly. That’s not Stiles.

Abruptly the weight of the situation came crashing down on him. That wasn’t Stiles in front of him, that was the Nogitsune, controlling the boy he once knew. Stiles was smart and mischievous, witty and quick-thinking, but he had this bubbly energy that had originally annoyed Derek to all ends.

But now, he would give anything for a cheerful humorous quip to come from Stiles’ lips, instead, the Nogitsune watched contently, as though everything he’d planned was slotting into place. It was using Stiles’ body like a puppet, and Derek could practically picture the red strings tied to the boy’s every limb, controlling his every move.

Allison attempted to tase the Nogitsune, but it raised its fists effortlessly and caught the electricity. Sure, Derek hadn’t thought the taser would affect the monster, but he hadn’t expected it to catch it. He pushed down the fear rising in his stomach, trying desperately to picture something other than Stiles in front of him.

And then the Nogitsune yanked the electricity, and Allison’s eyes grew wide with horror as the taser was ripped from her grip with careless ease, thrown to the side of the room.

Rage washed over Derek as he stared at the monster in front of him, controlling Stiles’ body and taunting him without even realising. It was as though someone had taken a blade dripping with wolfsbane and plunged it through his heart, twisting constantly.

He’d been too afraid to admit it, even to himself, but Derek was aware his anchor had changed. The moment he’d met Stiles’ teary eyed gaze in this very same place, nearly two months before, he’d known. It had taken him a mere matter of seconds to believe the words that came from Stiles’ mouth, and with that Scott’s. He’d nearly killed Jen– the Darach right then and there.

Stiles was a cheerful boy, even if he had darkness inside of him that he rarely talked about. Derek was aware of how soulmates worked, whether they were platonic or romantic, it took a werewolf - or were creature of some sort - to feel the bond. He hadn’t recognised it at first, but Stiles was in fact his other half, and even though there were no romantic connections tying them together, Derek loathed the idea of hurting him.

But this wasn’t Stiles, this was the Nogitsune.

Derek snarled and lunged forward, aiming to grab the back of the boy’s head, only for the Nogitsune to grab him by the arm and twist. A cry of pain escaped his lips as he heard and felt his arm break as his shirt was grabbed and his head was slammed into the table. In one swift motion he was thrown into the pillar, and he groaned when pain erupted from his ribs as his back hit the plaster and he fell to the floor.

Not Stiles, he told himself. Nogitsune.

A click ran through the room, and Derek lifted his head to stare at Argent through the haze of pain glazing over his eyes. The sound of safety being switched off on a gun. Said gun was pointed directly at Stiles’ head. It didn’t matter if it was the Nogitsune, because that was Stiles’ body it was controlling, and a bullet to the head would kill him.

“Argent, listen to me,” the Sheriff began, reaching out a hand as though to calm a frightened animal. “Don’t do this.” Derek rose to his feet, because even though he was sure he’d broken a few ribs and it hurt like hell - even though it would heal - he wasn’t going to just watch Argent shoot his anchor.

Not just his anchor, his other half.

“Why not?” Argent mused calmly, but Derek could smell the tinge of guilt amongst the collected calm. “I’ve done it before; werewolves, berserkers, I can easily add a Nogitsune to the list.” The Sheriff responded immediately, raising his gun and clicking off the safety smoothly, pointing it at Argent’s head.

Derek saw Stiles’ mouth form an ‘o’, eyes widening and brows shooting up, as though he wasn’t surprised, just amused. It made him feel sick.

Argent glanced at the Sheriff. “You’re not gonna shoot my son,” the man told him firmly, and the stench of fear spilling off of him was acidic to Derek’s senses.

“You said it yourself, Sheriff,” Argent told him, turning back to look at the Nogitsune. “That’s not your son.” The Nogitsune tilted Stiles’ head mockingly, taunting Argent silently, teasing him. Derek wanted to scream.

“Put it down,” the Sheriff firmly ordered, yet Argent didn’t flinch. “Put it down.”

“Dad, he’s gonna shoot me,” the Nogitsune whispered, fear seeping through its words. But the fear was fake, an attempt to guilt trip the Sheriff into listening. Derek reminded himself yet again; this was the Nogitsune, not Stiles. Not his Stiles. “He’s gonna kill me, Dad.”

“Put the gun down,” the Sheriff repeated, glancing at the body of his son again.

“Don’t listen,” Argent told him.

“Put it down!” The Sheriff’s voice grew louder and stronger. “Now! Do it! Put it down!”

The Nogitsune turned Stiles’ head, staring Argent in the eyes. And yet, as it spoke, something inside of Derek tinged, and he knew that the words were Stiles’, not the spirit’s. “Pull the trigger, come on.” The Nogitsune was playing it off as a taunt, but Derek could feel the heavy presence of Stiles in the words, begging Argent to kill him so the spirit would leave.

Horror was swimming in Derek’s stomach, getting harder and harder to push down. He wanted to grab Stiles and drag him away, but this wasn’t Stiles. Yet, it had Stiles’ body, and if any harm came to the boy’s body, it wasn’t just affecting the Nogitsune. It was doing well, and he knew that, it was pulling on everyone’s heartstrings and taunting them into doing exactly what it wanted.

Derek hated it.

“Listen to me, you put the gun down now!” The Sheriff shouted, and Derek watched the horror melt Argent’s features, as though he realised exactly what was happening.

“Dad!” Allison pleaded, and Derek wanted to join her in begging them to stop, but he couldn’t drag his eyes from Stiles’ face. Devoid of all emotion, completely void.

“Shoot me!” Stiles screamed, and yet again, it was Stiles. The Nogitsune couldn’t completely control the boy, but it was manipulating his body language and tone, but the words themselves were all Stiles. Derek despised it. This was Stiles, his anchor, his other half, begging for Argent to put a bullet through his head to save his friends, to save everyone. Stiles begging for his own death. It filled Derek with a new kind of emotion, one he couldn’t quite decipher, but it was strong.

“Put the gun down!”

“Shoot me!”

“Argent, you put it down!”

“Strife,” came Allison’s whisper, and Derek’s gaze broke from Stiles’ face, realisation hitting him. The colours of sunset were fading to darkness, and his heart ached. The Onii were on their way, on their way to kill the Nogitsune, and in the process, Stiles. His Stiles.

“Put it down! Put it down!”

“Stop!” Allison screeched. “Stop it! This is what he wants! This is exactly what he wants!”

“Not exactly,” the Nogitsune intervened, and a rush of sharp coldness like an icy river shot through Derek’s soul, engulfing him in frigid iciness. “I was kinda hoping Scott would be here. But I’m glad you all have your guns out, because you aren’t here to kill me. You’re here to protect me.”

The Nogitsune turned and stepped backwards, between the Sheriff and Argent as four dark figures materialised out of nowhere. The Onii slashed the swords ominously, and Derek hated to admit that the Nogitsune was right. He wasn’t going to let the shadowy figures even brush against Stiles. Never.

And then the two men opened fire on the shadows, and Derek slipped round to meet Allison on the other side, encircling Stiles.

The fight was a blur, literally, because the Onii seemed to be pure shadow. At some point, one of their swords sliced Derek’s shoulder, and he cried out in pain. They eventually dissipated, and when he turned around, Stiles was gone, nowhere to be seen. The others left shortly after.

A sigh escaped his lips as he splashed his face with water as the ache in his chest grew, licking up inside his throat and burning. His other half was out there somewhere, trapped inside his own body with no control as the Nogitsune continued to puppet him.

The idea sent more rage rocketing through Derek’s body and he leaned his forehead against the wall. Nothing was ever simple in Beacon Hills, and now they had to somehow yank a spirit from a human boy’s body.

But they would, Derek knew that. Because he wasn’t going to give up until Stiles was back and the Nogitsune was gone. Whatever it took.

A/N: tysm for reading!!! i hope you enjoyed!!!! please send requests, im actually begging you.

(taglist: @skellymom, @techs-goggles9902, dm me if you wish to be added or removed)

#teen wolf #teen wolf writing #teen wolf one shots #stiles stilinski #mieczyslaw stilinski #allison argent #derek hale #chris argent #noah stilinski #sheriff stilinski #tw #void #void stiles #sterek #stiles and derek #platonic soulmates #teen wolf fanfiction #teen wolf season 3 #nogitsune

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katkrisis · 3 days ago

Text

Beneath Bonds and Blades

Chapter Nine: Professionals

“Lucanis!” Rook snapped. “Both of you need to knock it off. I won't tolerate you two bickering like children. You're both professionals and I expect you to act like it. Got it?”

“I hear you, Rook,” Davrin agreed stiffly, though he kept glowering at Lucanis. “But as a professional, it's my duty to keep an eye on him and Spite.” “And with Darkspawn blood running through your veins, I'll be watching you. Professionally,” Lucanis shot back.

Summary:

After plans to stop the Dread Wolf from tearing down the Veil go sideways, Antivan Crow Rook De Riva meets Lucanis Dellamorte, the Demon of Vyrantium, for the first time and requests his help to fight the gods that threaten to destroy their world. Rook quickly learns that underneath the stories of the contracts and assassinations is something else entirely.

“Beneath Bonds and Blades” is an expanded retelling of Rook and Lucanis’s romance from the game Dragon Age: The Veilguard.

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Read on AO3

Content Warning: Thoughts of death and suicide.

Author Note: Taash is included in this chapter and I’ll still be using she/her for their pronouns. Taash does come out to Rook after Weisshaupt, but this chapter takes place only a couple of days after.

This chapter also contains datamined content.

Rook held the vial in her hand up to eye level and watched the light from the aquarium shine through the purple liquid inside. She titled the small bottle, causing the thick solution to slide from the bottom to the top; only stopping once it had hit the cork that kept it sealed.

“A Kiss Goodbye,” she murmured with a satisfied smile, pressing a label she had made earlier to the side of the glass and running her thumb overtop to adhere it. If there was one thing Rook prided herself on, it was her poisons. Teia often teased Viago that perhaps he had trained her too well and that she may surpass him one day. He never took too kindly to the jest and would usually leave the room in a huff.

Aconite. Monkshood. Wolfsbane. All common names for the same vibrant indigo flower that contained a poisonous alkaloid. Contact to the skin would cause numbness, tingling, and cardiac irregularities. When ingested it could disable nerves, lower blood pressure, and even stop the heart. With a few added ingredients, her marks would be dead within minutes using no more than a drop or two.

Her smile faded as a feeling of melancholy washed over her and she lowered the small vial to her lap. “A Kiss Goodbye” was almost too fitting of a name, she thought, since she was prepared to use it herself if the time came. There was much she was willing to endure but the thought of becoming one of the god’s blighted puppets haunted her. Death had been a constant companion of hers throughout her life and she would rather welcome it with open arms on her own terms than fall to the gods. That had been part of the reason she’d offered herself up as a distraction at Weisshaupt. Dying on the job, and in the place of others, seemed like a good way to go. If something unthinkable happened, she always kept a few poisons tucked away on her belt. She could take one and be granted a quick death. Luckily it hadn’t come to that.

Rook wasn’t afraid to die. Or that’s what she told herself. Staring down at death in the past had caused her heart to race and fear claw its way across her skin, but isn’t that how everyone felt? She had seen it in the eyes of her marks countless times, all different shapes and colors, yet the look was always the same. A sudden realization followed by panic and terror. She had been trained to ignore their frightened pleas, some times were harder than others, but if she couldn’t take their lives, the Crows would take hers. She had come to terms with it long ago.

When she was a child, she could remember being starving and exhausted, thinking how nice it would be to close her eyes and never open them again. Years later, when she had failed to carry out her first contract efficiently, she had laid on a cot surrounded by other fledglings. Her face was pressed into her pillow to stifle her quiet sobs and her body racked with pain after each breath from the punishment she had received. She had wondered then if turning the blade on herself would be a better option than continuing to use it on others. Would she be welcomed by nothing but darkness forevermore? Or would she awaken to Andraste taking her in her arms? With the threats around her growing increasingly more volatile, Rook’s mind would begin to drift to those darker thoughts again when she was alone.

What did she have to lose anyway? She had no real family. Teia would likely mourn were she to die, and perhaps Viago would in his own way, but they knew just as well as she did the cost of the job. Rook was one of many Antivan Crows. It wouldn’t be long until another took her place. And what of her friends? Could she even consider her team “friends”? Maybe Varric would grieve. Would the others? They had all already lost so much. She was nothing in comparison. Varric would heal eventually and could take her place. And if he could not, maybe he could finally convince the Inquisitor to head north.

She pushed her thoughts of mortality from her mind and pulled the box of poisons Viago had given her when she became a full Crow. After wiping down the outside of the new poison with a clean cloth, she placed the vial aside and dropped the cloth into an open bag beside her. Then she removed her wrist length gloves, making sure to turn them inside out as she did so that she wouldn’t touch the outside leather with her bare hands, and placed those in the bag as well before pulling the drawstring closed. They would need to be washed later.

Rook placed the vial into one of the empty slots inside the box and closed the lid, listening to the click of the metal latches snapping shut. She tilted her head back, stretching her neck out over the seat of the couch, and let out a small sigh. This was the first day off she’d had to herself in what felt like years. She’d wanted to go to Lavendel and check-in with the Grey Wardens but Emmrich insisted she stay put for one more day. She was feeling restless.

She wasn’t sure how long she had been sitting on the floor of her room working on her poisons. Time moved strangely at the Lighthouse and there were no windows to the outside world in the meditation room, just the aquarium. It no longer bothered her but for the first several weeks, having the large tank just outside her window had made her anxious. She’d heard or seen no indications of weakness, like there had been at the Ossuary, only the rippling sounds of the water moving on the other side of the thick glass. Now she hardly noticed the noise.

It had been three days since Weisshaupt. Three days since the Wardens were nearly wiped out. Three days since they managed to slay Ghilan’nain’s Archdemon, but not Ghilan’nain herself. Three days since she’d been injured. She was still stiff when she moved but it was beginning to wear off. Her wound was now just a scar, dark and raised, with a bit of bruising left around the edges. Rook was sure that the bruising would be gone completely by dinnertime.

After picking up her small chest of poisons and the drawstring bag, Rook pushed herself up to her feet and made her way to the small table in front of her wardrobe in the corner of the room. It was then that her door opened and Taash peered around the corner.

“You know, Taash, there’s this new thing called ‘knocking’. You should try it sometime,” Rook sighed without looking up, placing the chest on the small table and dropping the bag to the floor beside it.

“Door’s unlocked,” Taash shrugged, jiggling the door handle as if to prove her point. “If you didn’t want anyone in here, you’d lock it.”

Rook shook her head and made her way to the door. Now that it was open, she could hear arguing coming from the library at the far end of the hall. Rook raised an eyebrow and leaned to one side to peek behind Taash. “Is everything alright?”

“Davrin and Lucanis. They’re still fighting. I thought I’d come and get you before I end up knocking their heads together.”

“Maker’s breath,” Rook swore and slipped past Taash. As she made her way down the hall, she could hear their voices echoing up from the floor below and Rook could feel the frustration building. She’d told them to put their petty arguments aside. They had bigger things to worry about.

Earlier that morning, the team had gathered in the dining hall once Rook was able to leave the infirmary. Emmrich had hovered nearby while she eased herself into her usual chair, waiting to offer his assistance if she needed it. His worry was unnecessary, she thought as she watched him settle into his own chair further down the table. He had told her himself that she was fine to move about. She was just slow and sore.

Lucanis had already been sitting to her right and was chatting quietly with Bellara about dinner for that evening. He hadn’t spoken to Rook since she had woken up in the infirmary the day before and she could tell he was upset. He refused to turn his head in her direction throughout the meeting and whenever he answered a question of hers, he kept his answers short and to the point. She did her best not to take it personally but she couldn’t help but wonder if something she had done or said the day before had angered him.

To say the meeting had been tense would have been an understatement. Luckily, the civilians who had managed to escape Weisshaupt thanks to the sacrifice of Commander Janos and his team before their arrival were now safely in Lavendel with the others. Now, more than ever, the Grey Wardens and other factions needed their assistance. The Veil Jumpers, Shadow Dragons, Lords of Fortune… They all needed help as well if Rook was to get their cooperation in taking down the gods.

Davrin and Lucanis were at each other's throats. Davrin blamed Lucanis for missing his shot, saying that Spite missed on purpose. Lucanis blamed Davrin and how Ghilan’nain may have commanded the blight in his blood. Rook knew Davrin had every right to be furious about what had happened but thought that blaming Lucanis wasn’t right. As for Lucanis, she thought he was simply looking for an outlet for his own anger toward himself. However, that was purely speculation.

When the meeting adjourned, Rook had tried to ask Lucanis if he could stay so they could speak, but he was gone before she had the chance. She sighed and slumped back in her chair instead, trying her best to ignore the disappointment bubbling inside her. Varric had placed a hand on her arm and she gently placed her hand over his, nodding as he offered her advice though not really listening. Her mind was elsewhere and her eyes stared at Lucanis’s empty chair. As she gave the hand under hers a squeeze, it wasn’t Varric’s that she pictured.

“What’s going on?” Rook called down from the top of the stairs, leaning over the banister and ignoring the dull ache at her side.

“You're the Crow!” Davrin said, continuing to argue with Lucanis. “You're supposed to have eyes and ears everywhere! Or maybe the only voice you hear is Spite’s.”

Rook huffed and began the descent down the stairs. “Hey!”

“You're the Grey Warden, the “expert” on this blight! You're supposed to have answers. Or maybe you're too busy playing with your flying cat!” Lucanis waved his hand vaguely toward Assan, who crouched next to Davrin and let out a low trill in response.

“Enough!” Rook shouted when she reached the bottom of the stairs. That finally got their attention and they both turned their heads to look at her as their angered expression relaxed into something more like surprise. “You two need to take the anger you have and use it for something productive against the gods, not each other.”

“I'd love nothing more. Just as soon as Lucanis and his Crows do their jobs and find them. The damn Crows are–” Davrin stopped when Rook crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. He cleared his throat and shifted his weight almost sheepishly. “The other Crows. Not you.”

“Right,” Rook said irritably. “Other Crows.”

Lucanis scoffed and stepped a little closer to Rook’s side. “We’re waiting for you and your Wardens to remember that your job is to… What is it again? Oh yes, destroy the blight.”

“Lucanis!” Rook snapped. “Both of you need to knock it off. I won't tolerate you two bickering like children. You're both professionals and I expect you to act like it. Got it?”

“I hear you, Rook,” Davrin agreed stiffly, though he kept glowering at Lucanis. “But as a professional, it's my duty to keep an eye on him and Spite.”

“And with Darkspawn blood running through your veins, I'll be watching you. Professionally,” Lucanis shot back.

“For fuck’s sake.” Rook closed her eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose, and took a deep breath to try and calm herself before she continued. “Look, I know the last few days have been rough on everyone. Especially you guys. I’m not asking you to be friends but I need you to get along. We can’t defeat the gods if we’re fighting amongst ourselves.”

Lucanis and Davrin stared hard at each other for a long, tense moment. She could hear Taash and Harding talking on the balcony above, so she shot them a glance. When Taash met her eye, Rook jerked her head to the side and the two of them disappeared in the direction of Taash’s room.

“So help me, I will make a “get-along” shirt and force the both of you in it,” Rook threatened the men in front of her. She wasn’t exactly sure what a “get-along” shirt was. Teia had used the threat before when Rook and Viago got into heated arguments. Viago wouldn’t give in but he would reluctantly back down. She assumed it was nothing more than a large shirt they had to wear at the same time, though knowing Teia, it could be worse. Part of Rook was glad she had never found out.

“Fine,” Lucanis said, finally breaking the silence.

“Fine,” Davrin echoed.

“Fine…?” Rook asked.

“Fine. We’ll get along,” Lucanis clarified. “To take down the gods.”

“Shake on it,” she said. Davrin and Lucanis turned their heads in unison to look at her apprehensively. “Go on.”

Davrin was the first to hold out his hand. When Lucanis held out his, Rook could see the bandage wrapped around his hand had been changed. It was done neatly, so she assumed that he’d gone to Emmrich to have it done. She wondered briefly why he didn’t just have Emmrich use healing magic but then remembered Lucanis was known as the “Mage Killer” for a reason. Maybe he got Bellara to do it then, or maybe Neve. If it hurt Lucanis in any way when the two men shook their hands firmly once, he didn’t show it.

“Good,” Rook sighed. “Now–”

“I’ll be in the dining hall. I need to begin meal prep for tonight,” Lucanis said, turning on his heel and swiftly making his way to the door. Rook opened her mouth to protest but decided against it. There was no point. The sight of his back walking away from her was becoming all too familiar. She thought she would be used to it by now, yet each time an unfamiliar feeling in her chest grew. It was like a hole that kept getting bigger and she couldn’t fill it.

“Come on, boy. Let’s go,” Davrin said to Assan, patting the outside of his own thigh to call the griffin to him as he began to turn to leave.

“Davrin, about Weisshaupt…” Rook said, taking a quick step toward him. She reached out, like she was going to touch his arm, but pulled back her hand at the last second. “I just want to make sure you’re okay. You know, after…”

Davrin looked at Assan before he raised his head to look at Rook. “... I wouldn’t say that, no.”

“Right…” Rook wrung her hands together loosely in front of her. It was a dumb question to ask, she knew. Of course he wasn’t okay. She just didn’t know how else to show that she’d been worried. Talking to others about their feelings wasn’t exactly something she was good at.

“We used to argue, me and the other Wardens,” Davrin began. “Things like: Who’d be the one to take an Archdemon Down? Who’d die so others could live? … Not sure any of us believed it’d actually happen.”

“When the moment came, you did the Wardens proud,” Rook said in an attempt to be supportive. From the way Davrin’s expression darkened, it was clear she had been unsuccessful.

“Did I?” He shot back. “Because I’m still here. They’re not. Rounald, Malmont, Anya… They’re all gone.”

Rook pressed her lips together and hung her head. “I know. I’m sorry, Davrin, I really am.”

“I just… I need this to make sense.”

“... Maybe you’re overthinking it?”

Davrin scoffed angrily. “Am I? A Grey Warden kills an Archdemon, they die. That’s how it works. That’s how it’s always worked.”

“Yes, but… Who knows what happened? This Blight is different from the others, right? Maybe the gods have changed things and the old rules don’t apply. Why is being alive a problem?”

“Because I didn’t expect to be here!” Davrin answered sharply and when Rook looked at him, it was like a puzzle piece had finally clicked into place. Davrin had always known that he would die at his post, he had accepted it, but when the moment came it didn’t happen. What would he do now? Everything he thought he knew was wrong. When it came to their jobs and their own mortality, perhaps she and Davrin weren’t so different.

“Grey Wardens have an expiration,” Davrin said, more level-headed than he’d been before. “It pushed me. I only had so much time to do all the things I wanted to do. To be the person I wanted to be.”

“The gods still live. There’s still a fight to be won. You still have a reason to push yourself.” Rook realized as she said the words, she wasn’t just giving advice to Davrin, but herself as well.

“And if we manage to pull this off, what then? I need a purpose, Rook. I feel like a blade sharpened all these years to combat the worst darkness in the world. My blade struck true at Weisshaupt… So now what?”

“Well…” Rook felt something nudge at her thigh and she looked down to see Assan rubbing his head against her leg. “You could raise Assan to help create a world where the light outshines the darkness. He can be one of those beacons of light, especially for you and the remaining Grey Wardens. Something to inspire hope.”

“Yeah? Well let me tell you,” Davrin began in a way that made Rook tense and lower her head in anticipation, waiting for him to begin yelling at her. Then he stopped and Rook reluctantly looked back up. His expression had softened and when continued, his voice was calmer. “That… Will require a lot more gingerwort truffles.”

Assan’s ears perked up at the mention of “gingerwort truffles” and he let out a squawk before bounding over to Davrin and rubbing up against his legs instead, reminding Rook of a cat. Davrin let out a small chuckle and knelt down to pet the griffin.

“That’s more like it,” Rook said as she relaxed. “Glad to have you back.”

“Someone has to feed his feathery butt,” Davrin said to Rook, then turned his attention back to Assan. Rook couldn’t help but smile as Davrin’s voice changed to be lighter when he spoke to the griffin. “Guess we’re stuck with each other, boy. No getting rid of me now.”

Assan squawked happily again and tucked his head under Davrin’s chin, nearly knocking the larger man over in the process.

“... Maybe now you and Lucanis can try to patch things up?” Rook suggested.

Davrin’s hands paused in Assan’s feathers. “Yeah. We can try.”

“He had a rough time of it too. He really does blame himself for what happened with Ghilan’nian,” Rook said, thinking back to how Lucanis had been the day before in the infirmary. She could still remember the mixed emotions in his eyes. Anger. Sadness. And something else when he looked at her. “Probably more than he blames you.”

Rook watched as Davrin gave one last scratch between Assan’s ears before he stood. “I know. He’s really good at what he does. It’s actually kind of amazing watching a Crow do their thing.”

“... You’ve worked with me more than you have with him. Do you keep forgetting that I’m a Crow too?”

“No.”

“Right. Well. A lifetime of training and this is what I get…” Rook muttered bitterly to herself.

“That was an incredible shot he took at Ghilan'nain, though,” Davrin continued. “I shouldn’t have blamed him for what happened.”

“Then tell him that,” Rook said motioning toward the doors. “I’m sure he admires all that you’ve done. But you won’t know that unless you talk to each other, openly and honestly.”

Davrin glanced at Rook skeptically before putting his hands on his hips and giving a reluctant nod. “You’re probably right.”

“You might want to talk to him before dinner. He might, you know…” Rook cupped one hand to make a bowl shape and pretended to pour something with the other.

Davrin groaned. “Damn Crows.”

Rook couldn’t help but laugh as she took a step back toward the stairs. She wasn’t sure if Lucanis would actually poison Davrin or not. Viago would have. Rook had lost count how many times she had annoyed or pissed off Viago, only for him to get his revenge later.

“Hey,” Davrin said to get Rook’s attention before she could head back up the stairs. “What about you? Doing okay?” He gestured to her side with one hand.

“Yeah. I’m good. Still a little sore but I’ll be good by tomorrow. I want to visit Lavendel. You up for it?”

Davrin seemed to hesitate. His dark eyes glanced down to where she had been hurt then back up to her twice, like he was trying to decide something, then nodded once. “Alright. Just come find me when you’re ready.”

Rook smiled. “I will. Thanks, Davrin.”

#rookanis #lucanis dellamorte #rook #rook de riva #crow rook #davrin #rookanis fanfic #rookanis fanfiction #dragon age #dragon age the veilguard #dragon age fanfic #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age the veilguard fanfic #dragon age the veilguard fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic #beneath bonds and blades

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lightninghikaru · 5 months ago

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The following day, Sonic is woken up in the middle of the night to the sound of his cell door opening. He isn’t given a chance to sit up as he’s pulled up to his feet. Letting out a yawn as he is dragged out of the room by his arm. “What’s going on?” He asked half asleep.

His eyes start to adjust as he sees the one pulling him along was Grey. He could only assume this had to do with their fight. “Couldn’t wait huh,” Sonic joked as he tried to wake himself up.

“Quiet,” Grey said as he opens a door Sonic doesn’t recognize. He yanks Sonic inside before shutting the door behind him.

Sonic looks around, with the amount of boxes they must have been in the cargo hold. Candles all around giving light as Grey continues to guide him through the boxes. Noticing other noises and movement. It looks like they were going to have an audience. A lot of the crew were chilling out drinking while waiting for them to arrive.

“Looks like we got a party starting.” Sonic said trying to wake himself up. He knew all of them could probably kill him with ease but maybe if he showed off a bit of his gift perhaps he could earn enough respect to not be tossed around.

“Need witnesses to prove that I beat ya.” Grey said, as Sonic chuckles.

“Already claiming victory when we haven’t even started? Rather presumptuous of you,” Sonic teased as Grey huffs. “Someone got a drink I can sip to help wake me up?” Grey hands him a flask. Sonic sniffs its contents first, it smelt like whiskey along with an earthy scent. He takes a small sip feeling the burn down his throat, the familiar warmth of aged whiskey giving him a sense of home. But there was another flavor mixed in with the whiskey he did not recognize,

“What’s in this?” Sonic asked Grey as the others were moving boxes out of the way to make room for their fight.

“Wolfsbane.” Scaro said as Sonic looks at him confused. Sonic’s heard of that before,

“Wait isn’t that poison?” He looks shocked as the others all chuckle,

“To Mobians no, but to werewolves…” Scaro said as Sonic turns towards Grey looking for the confirmation of his theory.

“Are you?” Sonic asked.

“Yep, didn’t want our fight to be too one sided with it being night time.” Grey said. Sonic was stunned, he purposefully poisoned himself to make it a fair fight.

Sonic gives him a grin before tossing him back his flask. “We fighting hand to hand or blades?” Sonic asked as he takes off his frock and rolls up his sleeves.

“I would suggest fists Grey,” Scaro said, “Cap will smell his blood if you accidently cut him.” Sonic wondered if that would be true. They were in the belly of the ship even having super sharp senses the mix of sea breeze and any other smells on the ship would get in the way.

“I’m fine with hand to hand, but I have some ground rules.” Sonic said as Grey nods, “No claws or biting.” He notices Leven who was hiding in the back of the crowed look relieved at that request.

“Goes with the no drawing blood rule.” Grey said, “The first one to yield wins.” The crowd all backs away climbing up on boxes to give them space.

“Mind giving us the go ahead?” Sonic looks at Scaro who nods.

“On your marks, Go!” He said as Grey charges at him full speed but none of them were aware that Sonic was faster. He nimbly steps out of the way giving a cocky smile before jumping into the air and kicking Grey in the back of the head. He loses his footing and crashes into one of the crates.

“Not going to make it that easy for you big guy.” Sonic grins as Gray snarls. He knew it probably wasn’t a clever idea to piss this guy off, but it was much easier for your opponent to make mistakes when they’re angry.

But now that Grey was angry Sonic quickly noticed an increase in the Wolf’s speed. It looks like he’s fueled by his emotions and egging him on probably wasn’t his best decision. Grey manages to grab Sonic by the leg and throw him across their arena. Before he could manage to get back to his feet Grey was already towering over him ready to smash down with both fists.

No, he couldn’t lose here. He needed to gain their respect if he wanted to survive. Sonic knew he’d have to use his full speed to dodge this oncoming attack. Those watching barely blink and see the Hedgehog about to be knocked out cold disappear from the spot.

Grey stops his attack looking incredibly confused starting to look around for the blue hedgehog. In another flash that none of their eyes could track, Sonic appears next to Grey and kicks him in the side with all his strength and speed. The force of the hit blasts him back into a box breaking it on impact as its contents of fruit starts to pour out all around him.

“Whoops… guess I got a little carried away. Sorry about that.” Sonic said with an awkward chuckle as the room remains silent trying to process what they just witnessed. Grey slowly gets up brushing off the fruit pieces as Sonic gets ready for another attack, but Grey just starts to laugh.

“Alright, I was not expecting that.” Grey said as the others start to let out chuckles as well. “Ya a magic user or something?” He asked relaxing a bit as Sonic didn’t know if this was a stop to their fight.

Sonic had come into contact with magic users in the past, sorcerers, or practitioners of the arcane made him weary since all they ever wanted to do was experiment on him after they discover his natural speed. He was used to people’s reaction to his gift thinking that it was some sort of magic trick.

“Nope, you’re getting all me pal.” Sonic said as they all look surprised. Before Grey could respond, they all hear the door to the cargo open. Sonic turns around as both Grey and Leven rush over and hide him behind them.

“Don’t say a word.” Grey said as Sonic stays perfectly still hearing footsteps approach.

“What’sss going on in here?” Sonic recognized that voice as the serpent who forced his hand into surrendering.

“H…hey Jorah. Leven and I were just settling some differences in opinion we had the other day by duking it out.” Grey lied as Leven looks at Grey and then back at Jorah.

“Is thisss true Leven?” Jorah asked looking the two up and down suspiciously.

Leven quickly nodded as he began to sign. ‘We were just letting out some frustration when I knocked Grey into one of the crates and it broke.’

Jorah looks past them at the broken crate and then looks at both of them. “The crate isss coming out of your cut.” He said as they both nod. “And next time you two want to fight it out you need to run it by the Captain. You know hisss rulesss.”

“Yes sir… won’t happen again.” Grey said, as Jorah turns around to leave.

“Clean up that messs and the ressst of you, get back to work.” He starts to walk out.

They all wait to hear the door close letting out a relieved sigh. “Sorry about that…” Sonic said quietly as everyone starts moving towards the broken crate to clean up. Now he felt bad that they got in trouble because of him.

“Don’t sweat it, this was my idea anyway.” Grey said as Sonic goes over to help. “But back to what ya just did… that wasn’t magic?”

“Nope,” Sonic said as all of the crew looked at him in disbelief.

“Then how were you in one place and then another so fast?” Scaro asked. Now that the cat was out of the bag Sonic didn’t feel there was any reason to deceive them. They all did just hide him from getting into trouble... Not knowing how Shadow would react to this little match.

“I’m just that fast. My uncle said I’m probably the fastest thing alive.” Sonic chuckles proudly. “I move so quickly it almost seems like magic.”

“That’s crazy,” Scaro said, “No wonder you were all over the place when we took your ship.” They finished cleaning up as Leven hands Sonic one of the oranges that wasn’t squished. He smiles before taking it from him signing a thank you.

“Yeah, it wasn’t against you Grey, but my priority was making sure my crew was alright.” Sonic said walking over and grabbing his frock. “Should probably get back to my cell before someone notices I’m gone.” He didn’t want any of them getting into any more trouble.

“I’ll take him back,” Grey said as the others all nod before they start to disperse now that the mess was cleaned. Sonic follows after Grey quietly. “Why’d he give ya the fruit?”

“Huh? Oh, I think he’s worried since I haven’t been eating.” Sonic said quietly. Grey ponders for a moment remembering what he had said to him the first day about the food looking back at him.

They enter the room as Sonic walks into his cell closing the door behind him. He lets out a yawn before sitting down. “Besides that close call, which was fun.” Sonic smiles at Grey who looks away from him. He wondered how this small Hedgehog was able to get in his head. Was this why Leven warmed up to him so quickly?

“Yeah,” Grey said locking the door, “Get some sleep.” He leaves the room in a hurry as Sonic looks at the closed door confused before shrugging it off and going back to sleep.

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