#Last Longer In Bed Natura

[lunewell]

The Lunewell Saga - Natura: Ch 3

Chapter 1 here

Chapter 2 here

Can also be read on ao3 (:

Book Sumary:

Zarifa Birch, an antique shop worker with an unusual past, has made a home for herself in the sleepy town of Lunewell. Though the shop she works at is not exactly ordinary, with cryptid items and odd occurrences, she has managed to carve the normal life she always desperately wished for out of it.

However, all that comes crumbling down, as a woman from Zarifa’s past throws everything into chaos. Faced with unimaginable horrors, seemingly unsolvable mysteries, and returning repressed feelings and memories, Zarifa along with her coworkers, must find a way to return the balance- and escape the cruel hands of death in this eldritch horror mystery

As always, he had not been himself in the night. He had been an old man, holding a rather nice-smelling bag, walking through the forest towards… something. Something he cared about.

His thoughts were not quite his own, but not the man's either; more a drowsy sort of mish-mash of voices, a bit like falling asleep in the middle of a bustling city. However, none of it really mattered, as he very much felt, smelled, and lived in the forest, above the crunchy leaves and around the warm scent. So hard to place. It was familiar, and yet, the exact detail of it had faded out.

He could hear his own voice, humming. It did not sound like his voice, not really, but it felt like his own, and that was enough for it to be his own. The vibrations travelled through his chest as he burst out in melodic sounds. He was humming a workers’ song, one that someone in his family had sung. Again, the details were blurry, like there was a block in his brain.

The forest was calm, basking in a sunny glow. Autumn leaves decked the ground, and the trees looked familiar. There was a comfort in this place, a home in the scent of mud and moss, and one that he cherished happily.

The trees, though originally quiet to his senses, rustled softly in a pleasant way. The wind must’ve been extra strong, he must’ve just not noticed it through the thick shield of stems.

The trees rustled once more, and felt a beat against the soles of his feet. It was slight, barely noticeable, but it got him to tilt his stiff, aged, neck downwards, if even just for a second.

It was then that it truly happened.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the trees curving, but he didn’t have any time to process as he was slammed down to the ground by a vine sprouting from the ground. A crack wrecked through his body, not unlike the sound a carrot makes when snapping, and he, in what simultaneously was and wasn’t his voice, howled in pain. His leg, already weak to begin with, felt as though it had been ripped in two, and he could clearly see red blood leaking from where the knee was bent at an unnatural angle. Fire coursed through his nerves, burning from his leg to his spine. The pain was so mind-numbing that he didn’t notice the much pointier vine heading right for him until it was too late.

As though it was sentient, a throned vine plunged at him, and punctured right into his stomach. It sliced all the way through him, as though his body was not but soft butter, before pulling out in an equally swift motion and landing him limp on the ground.

There was no pain, even as thorns began to wrap around and puncture every millimeter of skin, only numbness. Numbness from pain that could not be described in the English language. Numbness that no one alive had ever felt. Numbness that acted as a relenting defeat against his continuous fight for any hope of life.

And as he lay there, hands bloodstained, stomach gaping, and so incredibly empty, he feared. Feared for his wife, feared for his unachieved goals, feared for what was coming next. Even this fear, however, held a tragic sort of air to it, as it was dulled down by unrelenting numbness.

The numbness faded, along with all thoughts, as white, hot, pain came crashing down like a hammer. He let out one last pitiful, agony filled screech - for a scream was much too human to cover the sound - muffled by the thorns that had stuck themselves into his lips, before everything went black in what was truly the kindest mercy. ————————————————

Bruin awoke with a gasp, clutching his stomach. His eyes darted around his barren room, pulse racing at an olympic level under his skin. With a weak breath - still clutching his stomach with an iron grip - he closed his eyes, and repeated his mantra; You’re Bruin Becker, you’re not them, you’re safe.

The phrase played over and over again in his mind as his vision slowly morphed from a blur of panic, to the usual, groggy morning one. Taking a more stable breath, he slowly let go of his stomach. He couldn’t resist scanning his hands for blood, though he knew there was none.

Once he was sure his hands were clean, he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and watched the world come to life. The white desk and closet popped from the midnight blue walls, the sheets on his bed clear as glass. He glanced at his face in the mirror, and was not surprised at what he saw; deep, dark bags under his slender eyes, porcupine-like hair, and a thin sheet of sweat that lined his forehead.

He collapsed back into his bed with a tired sigh, wanting nothing more than to ignore the clock that was taunting him with the ridiculous hour he had awoken. He would probably do that. Go back to blissful sleep, that is. He doubted he even had gotten an ounce of it because of his stupid… nightmares? Visions? Whatever they were.

He closed his eyes, relaxing back into his bed, mind so far gone and forgetting one quintessentially, very, important thing. A thing he was oh-so-kindly reminded of by what could have only been described as the sound of every single plate in the house shattering at once.

With an almost inhuman speed, Bruin threw the cover from his bed, and darted to the room next door. He adjusted his hair along the way in a frantic motion, pulse having quickened yet again at the commotion. He braked as he reached the kitchen doorway, looking at the source of the sound.

On the grey tiles sat a dazed Grant, covered head to toe in flour, shards of ceramic plates scattered around him like a bomb had just gone off. Grant looked sheepishly at Bruin, blue eyes just as bagged as his own. “Uhh… good morning?”

Bruin couldn’t help the look of absolute disappointment that rolled over his face. “How did you manage to - never mind. I don’t want to know,” he said, exasperated, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Well, if you must know,” Grant began, ignoring Bruin’s statement, “I was trying to make pancakes. Keyword there being trying.” He got up and tried dusting off the flour powdered on him like snow, but gave up almost immediately. “It was a shame really. I make lovely pancakes. It’s the only good thing about living with me, according to my dearest exes.”

“I’m surprised they listed any good things about living with you,” Bruin mumbled, before joining Grant to pick up the last pieces of the plates.

Though he would never admit it, Grant had been a blessing in disguise. When he first rented the little cottage in Lunewell, he had accepted that his co-worker would be an annoying, messy, music-box obsessed pest in the house that he would hopefully have to deal with as little as humanly possible.

Yet, almost like a mold, he had to admit that Grant had grown on him. Sure, he still couldn’t stand the messiness, and he swore that every time he turned a corner he saw another damn music-box, but those were things he had learned to forgive over the years.

“What possessed you to make pancakes?” Bruin questioned as they threw the last pieces in the trash.

Grant quieted, biting his lip.“They’re great comfort food,” he said slowly, as if testing out the words.

Bruin tensed, suddenly hyper aware of the rumbling in his stomach. “Oh,” he said quietly, after minutes of silence, “did you have a bad night’s sleep?” The question was pointless, but Bruin felt the need to ask it anyway. If only to take away from the barking that had begun playing in his ears.

“Yeah,” Grant responded, eyeing him, “I was up working on fixing an antique box, planning to go to bed, but I think someone was begging for their life outside, which wasn’t a very nice sound to fall asleep too.”

It was an invitation, one which he pondered for a while, before finally giving his response; “I wouldn't imagine so, no.”

He looked away as Grant's ocean blue eyes filled with pity, something that hurt him as much as any gun wound. “Hey, I… uh,” Grant began, no longer looking at him, “don’t feel obligated to answer this, but, are they getting worse?”

“You should probably go and get changed. I’ll make some breakfast for us. We still have a while before work.”

Grant, bless his heart, didn’t push. Instead, he simply nodded, vanishing the sad look from his eyes. He was halfway out the door, when he turned around with a snap; “that’s what I was forgetting to tell you!” he said, “Zarifa called earlier, she wants us to come in early.”

“Really? That’s unusual.”

“My thoughts exactly. I didn’t ever find out why though, she remained all vague. Sounded a bit panicked, if I’m honest.”

Bruin nodded. “We’ll head out after you and I get changed then. I’m not really in the mood for breakfast anyway.”

“Aye aye, Bruiny,” Grant said with a mock salute, before slipping out the door and presumably into his bedroom. Bruin did the same, taking one last glance around the rustic kitchen before walking towards his own room with a newfound haste. Zarifa had always been more than lenient with the times they showed and left work, especially once she realised both Grant and Bruin had abysmal sleep quality and patterns, so something like this was not only highly unusual, but equally concerning.

He just hoped nothing too terrible had happened. ——————————————

The walk to the Office was a beautiful one, especially this time of year. They were both bundled in hats and scarves that Grant had insisted on, as golden yellows and flaming hues passed and fell around them. For all the flack they could both give Lunewell - a lack of internet service, isolation from almost everything, and navigational systems that were seemingly built by a sadist - neither could deny that living there on mornings like this was truly a magical experience.

Or would be, were it not for the unfortunate scenario.

“Oh I hope she’s alright,” Grant panted out, slightly out of breath from the speedwalking that bordered on jogging. Working in antiques was unfortunately not a field that kept one in great physical condition, and in moments like this it truly showed.

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Bruin reassured, “thinking logically, we know nothing serious has happened,” probably, “so it’s most likely something mundane, slightly ominous at best.”

Grant looked unsure at that, but didn’t say anything. Under the glasses, Bruin could practically see the well-oiled cogs turning in his head, eyes glaze as though lost in the mechanical world. It was his typical zoning out look, which was for once highly appreciated, as Bruin himself was in no mood to talk.

They walked up the path, letting the old, wooden store come into view. It seemed no different than yesterday, albeit much darker, except for, alarmingly enough, a room in the upstairs flat. They shared a questioning look, panic visible on both their faces, before speeding up and half-sprinting to the door.

With a lead ball in his stomach, Bruin realised that the door was not only unlocked, but stood slightly ajar. He shoved it further open, with an urgency but still lightly, as not to break any antiques.

Even the golden rays of autumn sun couldn’t hide the ruins of the shop. The furniture was at a slight angle, as though a lash had come whipping at the legs, the fragile glass and ceramics that had been close to shattering finally lay dead and dismembered on the floor, and most concerningly, there was an unidentifiable black liquid smelling vaguely of ozone.

“Zarifa?” Grant began calling, stepping over the mess with all the grace of a drunk octopus, “Zari? Boss? Are you in there?” Bruin followed his shouting companion, straightening the furniture as he went. They made it to the counter, still no sight of her, though that was changed as they heard a thunderclap of a sound emitting from the backroom.

They were in the employees’ lounge within seconds of the sound, greeted by the sight of an unusually casually dressed Zarifa surrounded by long walls of antiques, stacked in an organised manner. “Oh good,” she said, upon seeing them, giving them a warm smile that reached her tired eyes, “you made it.”

Bruin wasn’t so much looking at her, as staring at the large pile of antiques behind her. Some of them he recognised, like the ‘Girl in Field’ painting, or that odd statue of an old man made of clay, 200 years old, but painted in a cornflower blue pigment that could be no more than 100, though there were also surprisingly a lot of pieces he had no recollection of seeing. Zarifa, noticing his staring, looked at him apologetically; “Sorry I had to dismantle your system. I tried to keep the organisation, and I promise I’ll help sort it afterwards.”

“It’s fine. I’ll sort it myself,” he assured, not quite sure he truly trusted anyone to touch what he had sorted. Grant was a disaster on legs, and for as much as Zarifa was good at keeping schedule, she lacked the sheer efficient sorting instinct he had had since childhood. “Why is it all up here? Was there water in the basement again?”

Zarifa shook her head, before pulling a slightly splintered, old, wooden box with a golden, dust-painted leaf-engraving on top from behind one of the piles. Bruin’s eyes widened as he remembered where it had previously been, involuntarily glancing upstairs, and then back down to Zarifa. She hadn’t really… had she? No one had ever been in Valours flat, hell, no one even had the key to it.

She opened the lid cautiously, the box creaking as ancient and rusted hinges pulled back. She pulled out aged, folded paper, and slowly laid it down in Bruins hands. Though he would of course properly examine it later, he could tell it was far older than anything he was comfortable holding with his bare, gloveless hands. “It’s more sturdy than it looks,” comforted Zarifa, upon seeing his panicky stature, “go ahead, open it up.”

With a force comparable to a feather, he opened it in precise, calculated movements. He winced as he saw the handwriting, the fine, thin squiggles dating the paper to 300 years old at least, letting go of the note to the point it was barely still in his hands. He felt Grant peeking over his shoulder, and down onto the note curiously, mumbling the words as he read down the torn page.

It wasn’t a very long read, but it added tenfold to the confusion. “What seal?” Grant eventually asked, looking up at Zarifa, “this is the page blonde-pink-girl wanted, right? Why would anyone want this?”

Zaria sighed, looking at the paper with a darkness in her eyes. She looked contemplative, opening her mouth a few times to begin a sentence, before shaking her head and going back to thought. Finally, after tracing the golden part of the box a few rounds, silence echoing the room, she spoke; “We’ve all had encounters with Them before, right?”

Even with that single word, everyone in the room instantly Knew what she was talking about. It was Them that had drawn the entire group to the shop, Them that had left that hollowness that lived in all their eyes, Them that left all of them flinching at sounds and throwing hurried glances over shoulders, and most importantly, Them that created the bond they all shared.

Zarifa signed; “Take a seat, boys. This might require a bit of an explanation.”

—————- After a long, long conversation, involving the raiding of Valour’s alcohol stash for some well earned drinking, along with expensive chocolates for an alcohol-abstaining Bruin, all had finally been explained. There was a silence in the air, tinged in cheap wine and dread, as they all looked intently at the ornate box. “So,” Grant said, clasping his hands ripping away the silence like a band-aid, “we’re dealing with a big orb, monster thingy, which intentions are unknown, who kidnapped our intruder who was reading text that made vines sprout around her and smoke fill her eyes.”

“Yeah, that sums up what I experienced this morning nicely.”

Grant blinked, Bruin hurrying his mouth which had been firmly hidden deeper in his palm. “Fucking hell, I need another drink,” Grant exclaimed with a groan, reaching his hand out with his designated office mug towards Bruin.

“You guys are all out,” Bruin said with a tired voice, “besides, I don’t think alcohol is the wisest right now. I think we should try to figure out what actually happened.”

“Good idea,” Zarifa said with a nod, “we can begin with the note. Funnily enough, it’s the easiest thing here to deconstruct.” She took the box and gave it one last glance over, before rotating it away from herself and giving Grant and Bruin the opportunity to see it; “Obviously the seal is referring to the monster. I think it’s just a matter of gathering the ingredients, and whatever happened, will be reversed.”

Bruin, more than prepared, had already pulled out his black notebook and found an empty page. He looked once again at the section of the note containing the ingredients:

A key is forged by fragments of Touched sanity eating a sight of one that Sees, dipped in water oh-so divine. Once the key has begun, the fragments must sew themselves between the fabric, letting all webbed light shine on them. As they are blessed by the minute, and after the final step of-

And out of the nonsense, quickly jotted down the list of ideas that had been proposed by a slightly tipsy Grant, and an unusually frantic Zarifa;

Fragmented Touched sanity (Magic mind? Pieces of brain?) Sight of one that Sees (Some creature’s eyes obviously, maybe cow eye cult? (Most likely, Grant’s paranoia over cow eye cult, and not actually cow eye cult)) Water divine (Holy water?) Webbed light (Interconnected grids of light? Light systems?)

Jotting them down like that, was sadly, not very revealing. Partly because all their minds were still reeling, and what they had brainstormed was mostly a series of disjointed thoughts rather than a narrative, and partly because there was still so much hidden at the bottom of the riddle ocean. Bruin could still hardly find himself believing Zarifa’s situation, and had it not been for the black liquid stains he saw himself, the cryptic note, and the wobbly tone of her words as she recounted the events, he probably would have dismissed her as being driven a bit mad by paranoia.

Even now, fully aware of the fact that it was real, he was incredibly tempted to just storm out the shop, notebook in hand. Though he encountered the unearthly almost every time he was in deep slumber, he had never actually had a fully conscious encounter. And those… nightmares, visions - whatever they could be called - had left him gluing the pieces of his mind with only the instinct of survival. A real encounter would break him.

And yet, he couldn’t run. He had nowhere to go. Thorns Antique wasn’t so much a place he had chosen to stay, as a shelter he had desperately thrown himself into. Physically, yes of course he could travel or move. Marcus had been asking him if they could move in together for months, and would be more than elated to take him in. And he was sure he could put that business degree to good use.

But, though he was physically free as a dove, his mental wings were clipped. What was he supposed to do when he inevitably woke up one night in Marcus’s bed, screaming about the knife that he was convinced was lodged in his brain? How would he explain the countless of cryptic, weird, objects littered between pages upon pages of ripped-out death notices? Markus would see him as insane, and any future job he would have wouldn’t tolerate his hazy, obsessive, jumpy, and sleep-deprived state.

Though he did not personally know what their stories really were, he suspected Zarifa and Grant were stranded on the same boat of forbidden knowledge. Zarifa had no interest in history, having a passion for literature instead, and a people-pleasing nature and work ethic that could get her far, and Grant, though a bit of a clumsy idiot, was also incredibly academically bright, and a true cityguy at heart. They were an odd group, but a strongly connected one.

Or, at least somewhat connected.

“I propose we figure out what to do now,” Bruin muttered, after reading the bullet points a couple of times, “I don’t think there’s a standard protocol for situations such as these.”

Zarifa hummed in agreement, leaning against the table with a pensive look, sipping on some more wine. “I think we should prioritise figuring out what the riddle is actually saying,” she said, “and I think most of the answers lay here. There must be some connections between all this supernatural weirdness, and I’m pretty sure it lies in the antiques.”

Bruin and Grant nodded, both pulling the wildly uncomfortable chairs close to the table in a loud, squeaking drag. “As for the stuff that we can’t find the answer to,” Zarifa continued, once everyone was seated, “we can always ask for that.” She turned to Grant; “You’ve called Valour, right?”

Grant blinked, the words taking a few seconds to register, before grimacing sheepishly. “I’ll go do that afterwards, promise.” Bruin sighed, but Zarifa simply nodded. She’d always been a lot more forgiving of his scatterbrain than Bruin.

“I’ll do the same with Lottie. Assuming she’s, well, alive. She probably won’t answer, but it's worth a shot.”

“Thought Lottie didn’t give us her number?” Grant said, Bruin mirroring his confusion. Zarifa stiffened, smile dropping by a minuscule amount.

“She didn’t, but I know how to get in contact with her,” she stated, in her best assertive tone. Before Bruin could ask what she meant by that, she powered on, bulldozing in a purposeful manner. “What about you, Bruin?”

Bruin racked his mind for a good answer, recalling what needed to be done, and all the archival systems they had buried in the husk of a computer. “Every item has a corresponding ID, and a short descriptor. I wouldn’t mind taking a look at both the system and the antiques . However, we’re all out of gloves, and our magnifying glass has been broken for two months, so I’ll head to the shop first.”

While this was completely true, Bruin did leave out the little detail that it was also beyond time to see Marcus again. Through a mix of nightly hauntings, and antique mishaps, the days had somehow slipped by without them having a proper chat. He didn’t so much mind the lack of interaction, as the guilt that came with it.

“Thank you,” Zarifa said with a smile, “and, if it isn’t too much of a bother, please keep an eye out for any… unusual sights.” He nodded, her shoulders slumping down visibly, even under the thick cream turtleneck. Grant then promptly slipped out of the room to give Valour a ring with his smashed phone, and Zarifa headed out the front door and into the shop to tidy what was left of the mess, leaving him all alone.

He buried his hands into his neatly combed hair, tension deflating like a balloon as he exhaled heavily. His head was being squeezed by a thick rubber band, though whether it was the usual sleep deprivation or stress was anyone’s guess, and his eyes were droopy and heavy, as if magnets were attempting to pull them closed.

Nevertheless, he got up, pulling his winter coat and messenger bag off the chair. He left the scarf and hat where they lay, feeling they were a bit over the top considering it was only October. Slipping the black notebook into the black and purple bag, he headed out the door, and towards the outside world, heading in a general life direction he was not fully comfortable with.

[cali-holland]

Favors- Shawn Mendes One Shot

Pairing: Shawn Mendes X Reader

Prompt: Your cousin’s wedding means you’ll have to see your ex again. After hearing he’s got himself a new girl, you’re desperate to get revenge.

Word Count: 3000

Tag List:   @cutefluffy89  @ria132love   @peterparkyourassonme​

Masterlist    Shawn Mendes Masterlist

*Gif is not mine*

~~~

“Are you serious right now?” You asked your sister as she talked to you over the phone.

“Yes, Luke’s got a new girlfriend, so you have to bring a date.” She said, “And mom already said that you were bringing a plus one.”

“I don’t have any time to find a date!” You exclaimed, “The wedding’s a week away.”

“So that’s still a few days to find someone. Look, find a hot guy on the street and use him, or even use your boss.” She teased.

“For the last time, I am most certainly not doing that.” You said. You let out a sigh as you saw your boss coming down the hall towards you, it was as if she spoke him into being, “Look, I have to go. Bye.”

“Why the long face?” Shawn asked with a kind smile on his face.

“Can I get next weekend off? My cousin is getting married, and apparently my mom already rsvped me.” You explained, almost sheepishly.

“Of course, you know that we’re done in a few days, right? I don’t really need an assistant tour manager when I’m not on tour.” He joked, casually sitting down on the couch beside you, “But why are you really looking so glum?”

“Well, if you must know, my cousin happens to be marrying my ex’s brother, so he’s going to be at the wedding with my replacement and I just really don’t want to see him.” You stated simply, “Besides, my mom even signed me up to have a plus one and I have no one to go with me. I’ll be showing up alone, and my ex gets to rub it in.”

“What if you didn’t go alone?” Shawn suggested, placing his arm on the back of the couch so that his hand was near your head. “What if I went with you?”

“You’d be my date?” You questioned, raising your eyebrows at him.

“Yeah, I bet me as your date would definitely beat whoever he has.”

“Wow, way to be so self-centered.” You teased, playfully rolling your eyes at him.

“It’ll be fun, plus I’ve got nothing better to do next weekend.” He said, scooting a bit closer to you, “What do you think?”

“I think you’re absolutely crazy,” You laughed, “But I am desperate for a date, so you’ll have to do.”

“So, where is this wedding?”

~~~

“My sister’s not going to believe this.” You told Shawn as you two walked through the airport with your luggage.

“Why? Doesn’t she know you work for me?” He asked.

“Yes, but she told me I should take you as my date, as a joke, so I’m just waiting for her reaction when she actually realizes I brought you.”

“Didn’t you tell anyone that I’d be coming?”

“I told my family that I was bringing a date home with me. They just don’t know who.”

“I bet they think you’re lying about it.” Shawn teased you as you stepped through the exit door.

“Oh, absolutely they think that.” You laughed. Your eyes landed on the familiar faces of your sister, and your cousin.

“Oh my god, you did not.” Your sister exclaimed as she gave you a hug.

“I told you I had a date.” You replied. You stepped back from her embrace to introduce Shawn, “This is my sister and my cousin.”

“Hi, I’m Shawn, Y/N’s boyfriend. Nice to meet you.” He smiled, shaking their hands politely. He acted so nonchalant about the whole thing and you tried to wrap your head around what he’d said.

“I didn’t know about a boyfriend.” Your cousin looked at you skeptically.

“We just don’t want the press knowing. We can’t be too handsy in public.” Shawn said. You two had barely talked about your family, let alone how he would be perceived by everyone. You thought his intentions were to make you look better than your ex, not for him to parade around as your boyfriend for the weekend.

“About time she moved on.” Your sister teased, helping you grab your luggage to put in the car.

When you sat in the back of the car beside Shawn, you leaned over to talk to him while your family was distracted.

“What was that about?” You asked quietly.

“Well, you want to one-up your ex, yeah? Why don’t you show him what a great rebound you got, since apparently you haven’t moved on?” He smirked, referring back to your sister’s words.

“I’m sorry I’m slow.” You replied and he let out a laugh.

The rest of the car ride was filled with your sister asking you and Shawn questions about your relationship. Shawn answered most of the questions, even going as far as physically holding your hand in his. It was nice to feel special because of him, but something didn’t sit right with you. He was your boss essentially, and he was someone that you completely admired, but it felt strange to be having him act as your boyfriend- of one month, according to Shawn.

Arriving at your parents’ house, you and Shawn unloaded your bags and headed inside, to where your parents greeted you.

“You did really bring a date.” Your mom smiled over at Shawn.

“He’s actually her boyfriend.” Your sister told her, fully falling for his story.

“Now I’m really surprised.” She joked and then introduced herself to Shawn.

“Mom, can we go put our stuff down?” You asked, before she could pull him away to another conversation.

“Oh, yes, of course.”

“Is it okay for Shawn to stay in the guest room?” You added and she let out a surprised laugh.

“Did you forget that it’s an office now?” She replied, “Shawn can stay in your room with you, we don’t mind.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Y/L/N.” Shawn said kindly as your mind couldn’t think of any words to speak. Wordlessly, you went upstairs to your room and Shawn followed behind you.

“I swear it was a guest bedroom a month ago.” You stated, setting your bags down by your dresser.

“It’s fine, Y/N.” He laughed, placing his bags beside yours.

“I can sleep on the floor so we don’t have to share a bed.” You suggested.

“It’s literally a queen size, we can share it. Besides, what if I get cold at night and need a snuggle buddy?” Shawn gave you a cheeky smile.

“Well, damn, guess you need to get a pillow.” You said. He playfully grabbed your waist and pulled you into him.

“I think you’ll make a good snuggle buddy.” He winked at you, making you blush.

“Y/N, mom made dinner.” Your sister said, stopping in your doorway. She glanced down to where Shawn’s hands rested on your hips and pulled away from him.

“Okay, we’ll be down in a second.” You stated as she walked away.

“Gotta get used to this, babe. We’re dating now, remember?” Shawn teased you and you let out a small sigh. You were in for a long weekend.

~~~

That night, you found yourself awkwardly laying to the far left side of your bed, wanting to give Shawn his own personal space. He finished up in the bathroom and walked into your room wearing loose sweatpants and a t-shirt.

“Is it alright if I ditch the shirt?” He asked you and you turned to face him. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“I don’t mind.” You said. You tried not to make it obvious as you watched him remove the t-shirt, but you couldn’t help it- he was just so perfectly sculpted. Sure, you had seen him briefly shirtless before because of the tour, but it was never so intimate like this.

“Like what you see?” He joked, settling into the right side of the bed.

“Maybe.” You replied, switching back to your original position where you weren’t facing him.

“Good night, Y/N.” Shawn said softly.

“Good night.” You answered, hearing him shuffle a bit under the blankets before settling on a position. After a moment of silence, you felt him shift closer to you.

“I’m cold.” He stated and you rolled back over to look at him. He stared at you with his best puppy dog eyes. You sighed before snuggling closer to him under the blankets. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you even closer to him.

“Much better.” You could practically hear the triumphant grin in his voice as he spoke- he had won this time.

~~~

You woke up the next morning to your alarm going off. You blindly reached for your phone when you found yourself stuck in the bed. You then remembered the position you had let yourself get into last night as your back was pulled against Shawn’s bare chest and his arms were wrapped tightly around you.

“What time is it?” Shawn mumbled as you removed his arms from around you, trying to completely ignore how you ended up being his actual snuggle buddy.

“Time to get up. We’ve got a wedding to get to.” You said, turning off your alarm and climbing out of your bed. You looked over at Shawn while he yawned. His curly hair was a mess and his legs were sprawled out on the bed. The blankets were all over the place, and now you regretted having to make your bed in the future.

“You wanna shower first or should I?” He asked. He sat up and stretched as the blankets fell from him, completely exposing his toned, bare chest.

“I’ll go first- I take longer.” You stated. You gathered your things and left for the bathroom.

After that, you hadn’t seen Shawn much. He was off eating breakfast when you went back to your room, and then he immediately went to shower.

“Y/N? Can I come in?” Shawn asked you as he knocked on your door. You overlooked your makeup in your vanity one last time before responding.

“Yeah, it’s unlocked.” You answered, standing up from the chair.

When Shawn entered the room, his jaw dropped from seeing you. You let out a small laugh.

“You’ll catch flies.” You joked, and then took a moment to check him out in his black suit, “You don’t look too bad either.”

“You- you look- wow.” He was at a loss for words, which made you blush.

“I’ve got to one up my cousin, right?” You said, smoothing out your red dress, “I call this my revenge dress.”

“Revenge looks beautiful on you.” He finally managed to squeak out, his voice sounding nervous as he spoke.

“Thank you.” You smiled, “Are you almost ready to go?”

~~~

You never thought you’d be the type of girl to steal the bride’s spotlight on the big day, but, honestly, she wasn’t your favorite cousin and she knew exactly what she was doing when she invited you and your ex. Naturally then, walking into her reception hand-in-hand with the Shawn Mendes was the ultimate power move for you.

“You look stunning, did I tell you that?” Shawn whispered in your ear as he pulled out a chair for you.

“You’ve said that a lot recently, yes.” You replied. He gave you a quick kiss on the cheek before sitting down right next to you.

“So, where is this Luke?” Shawn asked, looking around the room as guests filled in. Everyone was still waiting for the bride and groom’s big entrance into the reception.

“That’s him. The blond with the blue tie.” You said, glancing over at him. He stood with his new girlfriend, talking to some of his family members.

“Eh, I can take him.” He teased with a shrug.

“Shawn, no.” You replied, shaking your head at him.

“Y/N, I wasn’t expecting to see you here.” Luke said, making his way over to you.

“And why wouldn’t I be at my cousin’s wedding?” You asked with a fake smile on your face.

“I thought you were too busy with work.” He replied, before turning to his girlfriend, “This Lily, my girlfriend.”

“Nice to meet you, Lily.” You answered, “This is Shawn, my boyfriend, but I think you already knew who he was.” As Luke looked over at Shawn, you saw the color drain from his face.

“Hi,” Shawn said, shaking your ex’s hand politely. Bringing his hand back down, he casually placed it on your thigh.

“Well, we should get going. They’re about to come in.” Luke stated, taking Lily’s hand and pulling her away.

“I think you won.” Shawn smiled at you.

“Yes, thank you for that.” You replied. You glanced down to where his hand rested, and he quickly moved it, blushing slightly from the mistake.

The next hour or so was making small conversation with Shawn and the few other guests at your table as the wedding party arrived and food was served. As they announced the first dance, you watched your cousin in pure happiness. A few other couples, including Luke and his new girl, stood up to dance as well. You felt a hand fall on yours and you looked over to see Shawn already staring at you.

“Want to dance? Give them something to talk about?” He asked.

“I’d love to.” You smiled at him as he stood up and led you out to the dance floor. The beginning to Tenerife Sea by Ed Sheeran began to play and Shawn pulled you close to him. His hand rested on your back as his other arm stretched, holding your hand in his. You placed your other hand on his shoulder, completely allowing yourself to lean into him during the song. Singing the lyrics softly in your ear, Shawn swayed the two of you to the beat.

“He’s watching us.” He whispered down to you during the bridge. He casually turned so that you could see Luke in the corner- his girlfriend was long gone from sight and he watched you move with Shawn.

“I haven’t seen him this jealous in a while.” You let out a small laugh.

“Shall we make him even more jealous then?” Shawn asked you quietly. Your eyes trailed up to him, confused by the question. The hand that held yours dropped and moved to cup your cheek, as Shawn pulled you in for a kiss. Every part was telling you this was wrong, but you just didn’t want it to stop. It was delicate, yet passionate, and everything you had wanted since you first met him a year ago. He pulled away from you after a moment and smiled at you. You blushed as you felt his heart racing under his shirt.

“I don’t know if that worked.” You said with a smirk.

“We better try again.” His barely finished his reply before he was back kissing you, as if you two were the only ones in the room. This time, you pulled back first- your mind finally settling on the fact that you really shouldn’t be going this far with Shawn. Your eyes darted over to see Luke now gone from the room.

“It worked.” You stated as the song ended and a peppier song began.

“Will you still dance with me anyway?” He asked while Can’t Take My Eyes Off You by Frankie Valli played.

“How can I say no?” You smiled. Though your ex had left, you and Shawn continued to dance to the songs that played, and you were completely unable to stop yourself from falling even harder for Shawn as you did so.

~~~

“Well, that was fun.” You said, settling down into your beside Shawn. He smiled over at you.

“If only you had caught the bouquet.” He teased and you playfully rolled your eyes at him.

“You’re unbelievable.” You sighed.

“What happened between you and Luke?” His words were quiet, as if he was unsure if it was okay to ask the question. You were close enough to him that you could feel his nervous breathing, making you feel anxious about the conversation ahead.

“We just didn’t work out.” You said, just as quietly.

“What really happened? Why did he break up with you?”

“He didn’t.” You corrected him and his face fell, “I broke up with him. I told him I was too busy with work to have a boyfriend.” You explained, “We were together for over a year and it just hurt us too much to try to make it work long distance.”

“You broke up with him because of me?” Shawn’s voice trailed off, feeling guilty.

“Not directly because of you, but I guess so.” You shrugged lightly. “Don’t feel guilty about it. Luke’s perfect, but he’s too perfect for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“He wanted to make sure everything was perfect- he never allowed himself to make a mistake. It was difficult for me to move on because I was so used to the perfectionist attitude he had- I never realized just how wonderful imperfections are.”

“Well,” He let out a shaky breath, “Have you found someone with those imperfections?”

“I think so.” You replied with a small smile on your lips.

“You know, I think that you owe me a favor after this weekend.” Shawn said, leaning even closer to you.

“And what would you like me to do?” You asked, a smile starting to form on your face.

“Let me take you out on a proper date.”

“A date, huh? That hardly sounds like a fair trade. After all, you had to come all this way out here, you had to pretend to be my boyfriend, you had to sleep in the same bed as me, and you had to kiss me.” You stated, emphasizing each ‘had’. “A date could hardly make up for what I put you through.”

“Okay then,” Shawn replied, placing a hand on the opposite side of you as he pushed himself up to hover over you. “A date, a kiss, and a snuggle buddy. Is that a good enough exchange?”

“I don’t know, why don’t you kiss me and find out?”

“Oh, I plan to.” He leaned down and kissed you. His hands kept himself up, and your hands went to his hair, tugging on the curls to bring him into you.

[taylorroger-s]

𝔢𝔵 𝔫𝔦𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔬 // a six underground story

----- ｐｒｏｌｏｇｕｅ -----

a/n i don’t want to preface this too much but this isn’t really a fanfic? there’s no pairing at the focus, and it’s really just a story in the 6u world because there is no way i’m letting micheal bay waste the potential of 6u. I worked extremely hard on this and the later missions and i’m really proud of it! so i hope you enjoy, there is much more to come! so here’s my masterlist, and no warnings except for swearing. enjoy :)

‎

𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚖 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚞𝚖, 𝙽𝚈𝙲 ----------

‎

“nine, you have to get out of there.” one hisses into his headset, drawing the attention of the waiting driver. she rolls her eyes, anxiously scanning the block for any law enforcement or her team. 

“you think i don’t fucking know that? but y’all better get your asses over here. feds are swarming even on the other side of the park.” nine gritts her teeth at every police cruiser slithering by, their flashing lights only adding to her growing anxiety. 

“my hands are kinda full right now!” four shouts, breathing heavily into his microphone. things went south fast, and even their planned escape had been shaky at best. the mission failed and they need to get out of the city fast. 

“get over here, and i’ll get you out. remember, i’m on columbus and west 92nd in front of the party city. ten minutes. now make like ghosts and disappear.”

‎

𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚑 & 𝚏𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛, 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚗 𝚗𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚊 

‎

tires squealed against the beat-up asphalt as two early model corvettes shot down an empty stretch of highway 75. bitter cold nebraska winter winds cut through to the bone as the pair curved around a rough bend of road surrounded on both sides by sprawling fields. the sun hung low on the horizon, struggling to light up the endless farmland. the only sound within ten miles was the roar of combustion engines mingling with crickets chirping as they passed by. 

“cmon,” a woman muttered to her car, eyes narrowed as she scanned the makeshift racetrack. she couldn’t make out the taunt called out to her from the other driver, responding only with a raised middle finger and a sharp push on the accelerator. her car’s heavily modified engine purred under her touch, advancing on her opponent’s ride. 

a window of opportunity finally appeared before her. she was no more than a foot behind him, another bend visible in her peripheral vision. exhaling slowly, she brought her left foot from hovering over the clutch to the brake. the turn came closer, wrapping around a hill. she could just about hear the squeal of her opponent’s brakes, pressing on her brake at the same time. they hurtled around the bend at dangerous speeds. coming out of the turn, her opponent switched his right foot from the brake to the gas pedal to accelerate out of the turn. but her foot was already there, giving her just a fraction of a second edge over his car. her ride edged up on his, a devilish grin spreading across her lips. 

just as her dark red car was about to overtake his, the flash of distant headlights made them both freeze. she wanted to scream in frustration, but there was no time to think, lest she wanted to risk a head on collision. she very reluctantly pulled in behind his car, various scenarios for vengeance cycling through her head. their race was over. she had lost. 

the semi truck passed them by without a second look, and after a few minutes the pair pulled into a decades old rest stop. the woman ran her fingers across the smooth dashboard of her car, thumb brushing over a small mark right by the unused radio. they made it fifteen miles before their race was rudely interrupted. a sudden knock on the windshield stirred her from her thoughts. 

“too slow once again darling.” the man cooed, poisonous edge to his words. that was the third race she’d lost to him in six weeks. it was starting to damage her reputation as a notorious street racer in an innocuous corner of small-town america. the mechanics shop she worked for was the not-so-clever front of their racing circle - essentially the only friends she had - wherein she was the best. at least until that start up showed his face in gretna, nebraska- of all places. 

“oh fuck off.” she grumbled, keeping her eyes trained on the last rays of the sun sinking below the horizon, plunging the rest stop into a chilling darkness. the sky was just beginning to show the shimmer of distant stars, rolling across the countryside in a thick blanket of night. constellations blinked into existence against the dark. a saying from her latin classes in college came to mind: natura non constristatur. nature doesn’t give a shit about you.  

“as you wish. same time next week?” her rival called, already waltzing back to his car, hood shimmering silver in the burgeoning moonlight, a small rosary and fuzzy dice hanging from his rear view mirror. it was about ten years newer than hers, but not nearly as slick. at least in her opinion. 

“one week and i’m gonna destroy your ass.” she responded, words almost drowned out by the subsequent start of his decades old engine. he loudly revved it a few times, overtaking any words she could possibly try to curse him with. there were a few choice latin phrases she had stored up.

“in your dreams!” he shouted, pulling onto the road and heading north, back to her hometown. and so she was left alone with her thoughts, only finding company in the infinite sky and hum of wildlife. the cold winter night started to pick away at her fading adrenaline, causing her teeth to quietly chatter as her eyes stayed focused on the heavens. what was she doing? she would never get out of nebraska, and her life would all be for nothing. but before she could fully spiral into existentialism, the allure of her bed came to mind; an area much more comfortable than the freezing drivers seat of her 1986 corvette. 

she tore her eyes away from the nighttime sky with a huff, hand drifting to the gearshift. she started the engine, slowly moving the car into reverse. she didn’t think to check in the rearview mirror until a shout rang out over the hum. she slammed her foot on the brake, just before hitting whoever decided to fucking walk behind a moving car. the anger slowly simmering below the skin after her loss decided to boil over. she hopped out of the car before she even turned off the engine to tell off the prick who decided to ruin her moping. 

"what the fuck man?” she was fuming so much the mystery figure could probably see the smoke pouring from her ears. she couldn’t quite make out their face since the only lamp within five miles lit them from behind. crossing her arms over her chest, she leaned against the trunk of the car, glaring at the intruder while she waited for an answer. 

“wasn’t expecting that reaction. hello-” okay so definitely a guy, she thought, squinting harder to try and make out his face. he brushed off his pants before looking up at her, face obscured by shadow and sunglasses. at night. the tone of his voice irked her; infuriatingly playful even in the weird circumstances. 

“what the hell are you doing out here?” she growled, bracing her hands on the burnished metal of her car. her nails tapped rhythmically against it, shifting her expression to appear as calm and intimidating as possible. there wasn’t another car visible in the parking lot as far as she could tell, and the man certainly didn’t appear to be a fallen angel. how and why was he there? but there was another, more concerning question picking at her mind: if he was there for her, how did he find her?

“is that how you always greet strangers?” the man quipped, still avoiding her question. a stranger was exactly what he was. general knowledge suggested to not talk to strangers, especially in an empty rest stop parking lot. in the middle of nowhere. fear crept up on her as the man smiled, whispering worries in her ear the longer he dodged her questions. 

“what do you want?” she gritted her teeth, fingers slowly curling into fists. her instincts kicked into high gear as he took a few steps closer. his hands were tucked into his back pockets, and he looked disturbingly nonchalant as he approached her. 

"heard about your racing. pretty good from what i’ve heard." now that threw her for a loop. why did he want to hear about her racing? however, logic was soon overshadowed by a wave of pride and she lifted her chin, looking straight into the man’s eyes through his sunglasses. it was too dark to glean anything from his expression, but she didn’t waver. she was better than pretty good. 

"the best. now who's asking?" she nearly spat the last words out through gritted teeth, pushing off the car and taking a step forward. the man smiled at her bravado, crossing his arms over his chest. 

"i have a job for you." she scoffed, shaking her head. it suddenly popped into her mind that he could be a criminal looking for a getaway driver or a scapegoat. but the seed of curiosity burrowing inside her brain won out. 

"so you mind going into specifics?" she questioned him with heavy doubt in her voice. 

"not here cupcake. but i need a driver.” the illegal path seemed more and more likely. ‘not here’ oh yeah, not suspicious at all. she was tempted to shut the conversation straight down and run, but there was nothing she could really lose by hearing more. worst case scenario, she gets frostbite and maybe put on a hit list. best case? there was no way of knowing.

"and why me?"

"like you said, you’re the best. and you have next to nothing tying you here. your skill is being wasted, but i can fix that. i can give you a cause to believe in. so how would you like a chance to actually change the world?" that stopped her. she hadn’t done anything worthwhile in a very, very long time. and believing in something? that was a distant memory. she didn’t believe in this man either. 

"aquila non capit muscas. i’m not here for your nonsense.” she was aware that quoting her latin professor would earn herself an eye roll from the mystery man, but she wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries nor dreamy exaggerations. she was starting to think he was insane. and yet, something in his words tugged at her heart. he sounded suddenly sincere. it was like he had read her mind. 

“okay shakespeare, there certainly is some nonsense in this offer, sure. but it’s your best shot to get out of here. i am offering you freedom from everything holding you back.” five seconds passed. ten. fifteen. thirty. she mulled over his words over and over again, quickly disregarding how horribly vague they were. there really was no reason to take him seriously, and he had provided no details into this “job” which was starting to sound more and more illegal. 

still. she turned to look at her car, scanning all its dents and imperfections. so many memories, so much history that had slowly made her jaded and cynical. so much to break free from. even though there was no evidence that this job was worth it, or that his promise of freedom rang true, she was tired of the bullshit. 

“i’m listening.” a sharp smile spread across his lips, and he nodded. 

"good. but there's one thing i need you to do before we get started. i need you to die"

-----

hey mary, and whoever else is reading. i guess this is goodbye. sorry you had to find out this way. 

it doesn’t matter what i once wanted to be. i didn’t get it. but this is what i want. i promise. i’m sorry to ghost you. but this is what’s right for me. see you on the flip side. 

faking her death was almost disturbingly simple. a burning car at the base of a ravine, suicide note found just outside the melted frame. no reason to pursue an investigation. attending her funeral was the most surreal part. until then, the weight of her decision hadn't felt real. she watched as her sister, her coworkers, and even her racing rival said their last goodbyes at what they thought was her final resting place. she couldn’t watch anymore when her sister began to sob, and the man, who had identified himself as one, dragged her away before she had a chance to break down

the night before she faked her death, she sat on her bedroom floor, chopping off locks of hair and silently contemplating what she was about to do. the rules that one gave her were simple in theory, but horribly complicated in reality. 

cities you have never been to. people you have never met. numbers instead of names. only talk to your fellow ghosts. plural. she was about to be thrown in with a band of hungry revolutionaries with similar shady pasts. at least, she assumed that's who she would find once one took her to the last home she would ever know. last home. she cycled through the pros and cons for the hundredth time, weighing them over and over.

no more taxes. no more criminal background. no crazy ex chasing her. no expectations to leave behind. pure freedom, if she followed the rules of course. the homegrown american girl she once was would die, and in her place: nine. 

cons? those were a little more iffy. her sister mary was a senior in highschool and just turned 18. mary was all she had left, and vice versa. even though mary was technically an adult and could fend for herself, she still felt guilty. more of her hair fluttered to the ground. if she was going to have a new name, she might as well get new hair. it was rough around the edges, horribly uneven, and made it look as though she had lost a fight with a weed whacker. fitting. 

not too long after, she was in a plane on her way to nowhere. she was completely alone in the cabin, one piloting from the cockpit. nine was mesmerized by the sprawling land thousands of feet below as they moved west. it was her first, but definitely not her last time on a plane. 

was it insane? yes. was it almost a certain ticket to an actual early grave? definitely. and yet, every time she finished looking through her list, there was only one outcome that came out of it all. a death with more meaning than her life would ever bring. she would miss her sister, and the few friends left behind, but for the first time in a long time, the apathy faded away. 

‎

𝚏𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚝 ----------

‎

“alright motherfuckers, i finally got our asses a driver.” one called out into the dark belly of the old aircraft, lit only by a few glowing screens. nine followed him in, holding tight to her small duffel bag full of the only possessions one let her take, the logo of her high school plastered on the side.

“wow, only took you six months.” one flipped on a light switch, turning on a few lightbulbs in the center of the room, illuminating six figures gathered around a rusted metal table. each one looked like they were from a completely different planet. 

“thank you for the attitude four, i hate it.” one cheerfully pointed to a chiseled blond man wearing a worn blue hoodie. she assumed rightly that he was four, and based on the accent, also british. she idly wondered how he ended up in the same place she was, or in the same place as the rest of one’s mismatched crew. a crew that she was now a part of. 

“six was already too fucking much. then seven. and now eight.” a slightly scary, tall blonde woman spoke, thick french accent coating her words. despite the venom, it almost looked like she had never moved her lips, an eerily blank expression stuck on her face. nine suddenly felt extraordinarily childish with her “gretna dragons” bag, the faded green fabric full of pulled strings and various stains. just the way she stood make nine feel in over her head. one took it all in stride. 

“well i don’t see you volunteering to give up your handguns and get in the driver's seat, and eventually you agreed to eight for the same reason, so shush.” nine looked between one and two, and their silent standoff. two rolled her eyes, essentially surrendering to nine’s presence. nine let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. she had a feeling it would be a shit idea to be on that woman’s bad side. 

“this is nine. nine, this is two, three, four, five, seven, and eight.” one pointed to them each in turn: the tall blonde woman, a hispanic man with a full beard, the startlingly attractive blond man, a woman with aviator sunglasses hanging from her shirt, a tall dark-skinned man who seemed much less stony than the others, and a tall girl wearing an excessive amount of leather. but there was something else that worried her more than the mismatched group one presented. a number was skipped. 

“wait, could i get a quick rundown of who does what?” nine assumed there was a reason for each person to be there.

“i’m a billionaire and…”

“i’m blaine. that’s camille, javier, billy, amelia, and sofia” seven - blaine - cut one off. nine was caught off guard; it seemed one declined to mention that ‘numbers instead of names’ were more of a formality for the rest of the team. the rules she was told must have been one’s original vision.

“seven-” one tried to silence blaine, but was stopped with a glare. apparently one was equally against the names as seven was with numbers. it was intriguing, but nine wasn’t willing to dig further into his mind, nor was she okay with sharing her name. she wanted to leave everything behind. 

“nope, she’s part of the team now. numbers are for missions. what’s your name?” she seized up, eyes moving to each person to identify names with faces, something she had never been good at. numbers just seemed so much simpler. 

“no.” nine responded flatly, crossing her arms over her chest. seven froze, but held his hands up in surrender. one nodded approvingly to nine, and continued with his explanation of everyone’s roles. 

“she knows what’s up. now, two is the spy, three is the hitman, four is the skywalker…” though one’s titles didn’t give extraordinary detail, having ‘the skywalker’ as a job description was simply puzzling.

“the hell does that mean?” she asked, eyes flicking just for a moment over to four before returning to one. 

“he does parkour, five is the doctor, seven is the sniper, eight is the scout, and you are…” one continued without missing a breath, and nine suspected he predicted that question. four caught her eye and winked. 

“the driver?” the sly smiles suddenly slipped from the ghost’s faces as they exchanged guarded looks. nine had a sinking feeling as to why. 

“that was six, our last driver. let’s hope you avoid the same fate.” his grim words carried a little-too-lighthearted tone. well that’s reassuring, she thought. not worrying at all. one rubbed his hands together, walking over to one of the walls in their airplane shell meeting room. nine pieces of paper were on the wall, eight of them with roman numerals going up from two, and one with a photo of a man who had a giant red x on his face. his face tugged at nine’s memory. he must have been on the news. this operation might just be bigger than she expected. 

“gather around the fire, cleavers, target two. corporate mogul noah kenneth carpenter,” one took down the page labeled “ii” and behind it hung a photo of the titular capitalistic businessman. nine felt like she was about to hurl. she knew that face. any guilt for leaving faded away in one fell swoop; this was the vengeance she yearned for. her sister mourned her loss, but nine could now strike back stronger than the girl she was could ever dream of. 

“been accused of fraud, sexual harassment, shady international dealings, labor abuse. textbook scumbag, yet rich enough to keep himself in the clear. and we’re going to take him down. there are three simple steps, except there’s more than three and they’re not simple.” there was a beat of silence after that, which nine used to take a closer look at her new teammates. three had his feet propped up on the table, two standing behind his chair with her hand on his shoulder. four leaned forward on his elbows, green eyes focused on one. five had her arms crossed over her chest, and seven had his attention focused on one’s presentation, posture perfectly straight. 

“what’s the first of these not-so-simple steps?” eight asked, picking at the thin blade of a small knife in her hands. she was a step behind the others, on the other side of seven. no longer the newest on the team, but still separate from what nine could tell. she couldn’t help but feel for the other girl. 

“glad you asked kiddo,” one grinned, a dangerous edge to his expression. “nine, i’m assuming you heard of the major disruption of the peace in florence eight months ago, and the subsequent coup in turgistan?” there was something bordering pride in his voice. nine could see small, sharp smiles from the ghosts as they glanced to each other. 

“vaguely, not much international shit made its way to me.” that was true. local news stations only showed things like county fairs and local robberies on the rare occasions nine would turn on the tv, and she didn’t care enough to go in search of global issues that didn’t concern her. 

“well that was us, and this is about to be on a similar scale. except for the unstable geopolitical aftermath. probably.” nine raised her eyebrows. it was difficult to wrap her head around these six underground vigilantes rocking the boat with nothing but varying, potentially deadly, specializations. it made her even more curious as to what she could do with them, and what she could do to noah carpenter. 

“anyway, the mission. the ultimate goal is to get him locked away, preferably not dead so he can rot in federal prison, but you can never tell with two and three on the squad,” two and three glared at one in unison, three miming slitting someone’s throat, but one just smiled. nine was starting to catch on to the group dynamics. 

“but before kenny can get a messy prison tat, we have to dig up some major dirt on him. something to destroy his legacy, drag his company through the mud, take away everything he took from the people.” nine could feel a dark smile spreading across her lips. a cause to believe in indeed. 

“so, there’s a big tech meeting thing in new york next month, and we are going to be there, along with mister exploitation over here,” one gestured crudely to the photo of carpenter pinned roughly to the thin wall. the sneer on the businessman’s face made nine’s blood boil. she was already on board with whatever the plan was going to be, and couldn’t wait to lend her driving skills to take him down. 

“what skyscraper am i crawling up now?” four sounded uninterested, cocking his head to the side. 

“it’s the guggenheim, and you’re not exactly crawling, more like sneaking. step one is going to be infiltrating. i have gotten intel saying that some shady deal is going down between him and a foreign mogul guy. we need to hear it all. the following missions are a little more iffy, and if we don’t find any dirt or evidence… well this is gonna take longer than anticipated.” 

“this is almost as vague as our last plan.” three quipped, idly invested in the small pistol in his palm. he aimed it at various spots around the room with disinterest, to which everyone responded by ducking and dodging his aim. 

“and that’s how i like it. no logical order means no one will expect what is coming.” nine just blinked at one in astonishment. her fantasies of justice tilted towards the farfetched with one’s confident admission of having no foolproof evidence to jump off of. 

“doesn’t that make it harder for us?” nine asked, unsettled by how calm everyone else seemed to be. her initial worries about one’s offer being vague came back to the forefront of nine’s mind. her instincts on the night she met one might have been more accurate than she realized, but she was in much too deep to change her mind.  

“you get used to it,” two admitted. nine almost flinched when she heard the slightly scary blonde woman speak. the comfort caught nine off guard more than two’s words. 

“now here is what our first mission is gonna play out…” one pulled out blueprints from a box under the table. pens and sharpies in hand, he started to draw out how their mission would go. he was about to start talking when he looked over his shoulder to see nine still standing a few feet from the group. he flashed her a winning smile and beckoned nine forward. the rest of the group was facing her, softening towards their newest ghost. here goes nothing.

nine took a deep breath in, then out, and took a step forward, officially leaving the past behind and entering her new death. 

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

yaydyfyaydfyasoudfhasode it’s posted!!! I have the first chapter underway and way too many ideas for how this is going to go. but here’s some hints for the future: a sparring scene, city traffic, hiding in a castle and much tension to come! stay tuned :)

lmk if you want to be on the taglist!

[detectivejigsawpines]

A Pinesmas Carol-part 7 (Decking in the halls)

*If you want, you can imagine the Trans-Siberian Orchestra's version of "Carol of the Bells" playing during parts of this. It feels kind of appropriate.

Clink.

It was a tiny sound, barely audible in the stillness of the night; just a small, muffled noise that was barely recognizable as glass breaking.

But it had Stan opening his eyes almost immediately... and sliding the brass knuckles he’d kept under his pillow onto one hand, while opening his knife with the other.

Slowly he slid out from under the covers, straining his ears as he got to his feet.  Was there a creak of hinges that came after, or was he just imagining it because of how wound up he was?

Sounds like that came from the back door.  Do I go there to investigate, or stay here and make sure nobody ambushes my family while they’re sleeping?

If it had been just him, then it would have been easier, he wouldn’t have needed to worry about having to protect-

Wait a minute.  Where’s Ford?!

The makeshift bed contained a distinct absence of long-limbed nerd (unless you counted Shermie, but he didn’t fit the description well enough as far as Stan was concerned).

Horrifying possibilities flitted into his head: Archer or one of his goons could’ve already broken in and seen Ford first, and thought he was Stan so they grabbed him and somehow took him without waking anyone else up; he could have gotten up to investigate on his own and got captured, and maybe even now they were-

Chill out!  You literally cannot afford to panic right now if you want your family to get out of this alive.

Then, to his relief, Shermie was awake, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

“What is it?” he whispered, looking up at Stan.

“I think I heard something,” Stan whispered back.  Then, decision made, he handed him the switchblade.  “Just in case anyone tries comin’ through the front.”

And before Shermie could answer he crept into the hallway.

****

Stan moved into the kitchen, glad that the windows were letting in a few squares of light so he could see that...the room was empty.

On the one hand, if there were intruders, they hadn’t come in here: good.

On the other hand, there was still a significant absence of Ford: bad.

Maybe he’s upstairs.

Was it worth checking?  Shermie was awake and armed now, and if they’d decided to go upstairs and found his twin-not that Ford couldn’t handle himself if push came to shove, but old instincts died hard-

A dark form was suddenly looming in the kitchen doorway, and lunging towards him; something long and metallic-looking flashed in its hand.

Stan didn’t think twice before snatching one of the chairs away from the table and bringing it down on the figure’s head.

So much for tryna be stealthy.

...Oh crap, I really hope that wasn’t Ford.

But to his relief, when he pulled the now prone figure into one of the pools of light, he saw that it was a totally different man: bulkier than Ford or Shermie, wearing a thick black turtleneck.  With a large wrench in his hand, just the right size for smashing onto someone’s head.

Stan glared, and snatched it up.

Finders keepers, loser.

And then, just as he was straightening up again, he felt something cold and metal press into the side of his skull.

****

It was only made worse by the fact that this new guy-another of Archer’s thugs, Stan was guessing-didn’t start monologuing like any self-respecting comic book villain would have done when they had someone at gunpoint, or even say something along the lines of “Archer’s been looking for you for a long time, Pinowski.”  He just stood there quietly and waited for Stan to straighten and turn to face him.

Once that was done he moved his hand, gesturing towards the hallway.

Of course.  Archer doesn’t want me dead just yet.  He’s probably either gonna try ta take me somewhere else now and finish the job like he tried to last time...or he wants ta threaten my family first, make me beg for their lives before he kills them anyway.

...Screw that.

Stan, in a move that would have had police officers (and his mother) tearing their hair out and lecturing him for a good half-hour on his recklessness, suddenly jerked to the side and grabbed the goon’s wrist, pushing it down and twisting the gun.  Something in the other man’s trigger finger cracked, and he screamed as Stan yanked the gun out of his hand, before landing a blow to his jaw that collapsed him right next to his buddy.

Once he was sure he was out for the count, Stan stepped out into the hallway, his new gun drawn-

And there was Archer.

He had a few new scars along his nose and forehead, and his hair had grown out a little; other than that he hadn’t changed much.

There was yet another generic thug standing behind him, also with a gun in hand.

Sheesh, you’d think I was the first guy ever ta stop him from selling kids.  Unless he gives this kinda treatment ta everyone who p_sses him off.

For a moment they just stood there, staring at each other...before Stan smiled crookedly and waved with his free hand.

“How’s it hangin’?”

Archer’s own smile was pretty thin and mirthless.  “I was sure you were here.”

Stan aimed at the jerk’s chest.  “Well, you found me. And now you’re gonna leave.”

Archer raised a skeptical eyebrow.  “I don’t think so.”

The generic thug lifted his gun, pointing it...over Stan’s shoulder.

He glanced behind him (even though he knew how dangerous it was to take his eyes off his target), and let out a small curse of frustration.  Because there was Shermie, standing behind him in plain sight like an idiot when he should have been hiding in the living room where he’d be safe with his family for a little longer, why had he thought this was a good idea-

He was probably coming to see if you needed help, a voice in Stan’s head whispered, and he groaned, lowering the gun in defeat and then dropping it to the ground.

Archer nodded his approval.  “Good boy. Now come here.”

Stan only had time to take one step forward-before a voice sounded from the top of the stairs.

“Don’t touch him.”

****

As you might have guessed, it was Ford.  Standing there, with a lit candle (where did he even get that?) placed on the banister next to him, a small bell in one hand, and his journal open in the other.

“What the [ CENSORED ]-” Archer began to say.

Ford just talked over him.  Or, more specifically, he began to chant, while ringing the bell.

“Mutare, mutare,

Lusus naturae,

Facti quod tu es,

Facti quod tu es,

FACTI QUOD TU ES!”

Then he slammed the journal shut, and some incredibly crazy crap happened.

****

Specifically, Archer and the thug, and, judging by the flash in the kitchen, the two other jerks, were all suddenly surrounded by an angry-looking red light.  It enveloped them entirely, and then...they began to disappear.

Or maybe shrink, since their clothes were still in place, and they just seemed to be disappearing into them, kind of like the Wicked Witch of the West.

There was some screaming, but it didn’t last very long.  Until finally, all that was left were two lumpy piles of clothes.

Ford slowly descended the stairs, carrying the candle now, and looked over at Stan.

“You all right?”

Stan nodded slowly, eyes feeling a little wide.  “Um, Poindexter...what did you just do?”

“Let’s see.”

And on that cryptic note he went over to the pile of clothes that used to be Archer, and began digging through it-until at last he lifted out...a baby.

A somewhat chubby, disoriented-looking baby, not exactly newborn but probably not more than a few weeks old, who on being exposed to the air began to kick and scream.

“...You turned them into babies?” Stan asked over the noise, staring in disbelief at what he was realizing had to be Archer regressed into an infant or whatever the term was.

“Not precisely.  The spell was to turn them into whatever they are at their basic essence.  I suppose this can be interpreted as saying that at heart, Archer-” Ford’s lip curled at the name- “was a spoiled child used to getting whatever he wanted, perhaps.”  He finally registered that he was holding a naked infant in his arms, and set him down in the pile of clothes, blushing.

Curious, Stan went to the other pile of clothes-which had begun moving on its own, and shaking, until a dark-furred puppy stuck its head out.  It looked up at him and whined.

Stan gave Ford a disbelieving stare; he looked equally nonplussed, but finally said, “A loyal dog, I guess?”

Stan snorted...but decided not to argue the point.  He guessed it made a kind of sense, at least to magic.

“Wonder what the other two mooks were.”  Stan gestured to the kitchen.

Ford peered in-and a second later pulled his head back out in a disgusted grimace.

“...They turned into a weasel and a rat, respectively.”

“That makes sense.”  Stan was disconcerted to realize that the puppy had wandered over to him and was now attempting to climb into his lap.  He made a few futile attempts to shove it off, until he admitted defeat and started petting it, deciding not to think too much about the fact that a few minutes ago this had been a person who was attempting to shoot his brother.

“And weasels are known to be occasional predators of rats.”

“Oh, eugh.”  Stan made a face similar to his twin’s as he realized what he was saying.  “How bad’s the mess?”

“The weasel’s about halfway finished with his meal.”  There was a chewing, tearing sound from inside. Stan decided he was happier not seeing it.

Then he half-turned, still with the puppy in his lap...and saw the expressions on the faces of Shermie and Rebecca and Xander, who were all standing in the living room doorway and gaping at them.

Stan gulped.

“...Um...I guess we should probably explain.”

********

...Okay, technically most of the decking took place in the kitchen. But it was close enough, okay?

This explanation should be fun for everyone.

[jiminisjamin]

Lusus Naturae Part Two

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader

A/N: I’ve decided to add in the enchanted furniture people (but only some ) :’) I hope I don’t do a bad job at it. Basically, in case it gets confusing I want to lay out who is who? Hoseok is Lumiere, Jimin is Chip (the little cup guy), obviously Jin is Gaston, LeFou is Namjoon. The rest of the characters are not in it, and neither are any of the other BTS members.

Rating: Flangst

Warnings for Chapter: Language, mild descriptions of violence, Yoongi being aggressive and rude, mild angst.

Title: West Wing

Word Count: 1,685

  The man stares at her, anger rising in his chest as his whole-body burns, his mind racing as he stumbles closer to his home. “You need to leave,” she shakes her head, stepping forward again to wrap her arms around his midsection and lift him up, trying to help support him. He growls, the joints and bones in his body cracking in protest from his struggle earlier. He grunts, shutting his eyes tightly as his breathing becomes labored again. He stumbles away from her, clinging onto the brick wall surrounding his small garden. He turns his gaze to her, glowering as she moves forward, grabbing his elbow and slinging it over her shoulders.

“And you need to get to your house…that’s yours, right?” She smiles gently at him and leads him forward slowly, stopping when he winces, his torso tensing, and leans over slightly to hold his abdomen. This happens every few seconds. The trip takes a lot longer than it should’ve because of this and he casts angry glances at her every now and then, but as the color drains from his face more, and his shirt becomes stickier and more damp, his expression turns more neutral when she opens the door. He collapses on the couch once she takes him to it and he grunts, covering his face when she kneels down by him, trying to inspect him. He mumbles weakly, waving her away and curling away from her, y/n frowns, her head tilting as she places her hand on his shoulder, rubbing gently, not expecting the low grunt that he lets out as he relaxes slightly under her touch. “You’re really tense…what the hell happened to you?” He groans, curling into more of a ball and sticking his hands in between his legs, closing his eyes.

“I said leave me alone.” His voice comes out a growl and y/n scoffs.

“Is that supposed to intimidate me? What are you gonna do, threaten me to death? You can barely even keep your eyes open.” His jaw clenches at her boldness and he peeks one eye open, turning his head over to her.

“You think I’m trying to be intimidating?” He mumbles, unable to raise his voice any louder.

“Yes,” y/n frowns as she looks down at the gashes in his shirt, “even if you are, I can’t leave you like this. You’ll die.” He laughs dryly, stretching his legs out as his hands suddenly jerk from their position and he grabs the collar of her shirt, swiftly pulling her as he stands and twisting to pin her to the couch.

“You think I couldn’t hurt you?” His voice comes out rougher, his eyes flashing as he glowers down at her, “you think I wouldn’t hurt you? You don’t fucking know me, so don’t act like you do.”

“I- I’m just trying to help you,” y/n pushes at him, surprised by his sudden bout of strength, “you’re out here all alone and I felt bad- you’re bleeding out,”

His eyes seem to turn a lighter hue of brown at this, almost flashing as he snarls, pushing her harder against the couch. “What? So, you think I’m some wounded animal, is that it? Some poor street dog in need of help? I’m. Not. An. Animal.” His voice grows deep and he leans close to her, “and I don’t want or need your help, you shouldn’t have ever come here in the first place!” His breathing grows more ragged and y/n’s eyes widen in concern when blood drips from his abdomen down onto her crisp white shirt.

“I- please, I didn’t mean that- you’re hurting yourself, you need to stop-”

“I don’t need your help!” He pushes up off her, stumbling away from the couch and leaning against the table, breathing raggedly. “You need to leave, now.” Y/n stands up, her eyebrows knitting together.

“And let you die?”

“You don’t know me.”

“I’m talking to you right now!” He’s surprised by her counter, turning around to meet her gaze as his chest rises and falls with each breath. “And you need to stop being so rude to people who are trying to help you!” She moves forward, jabbing her pointer finger into his chest. “I’m just trying to make sure you don’t bleed to death- I’m doing you a favor, and you are treating me horribly!” He shrinks back slightly at this, lowering his gaze as his eyes darken again, taking on their normal hue as a tormented look flashes across his face. Something else flashes in his eyes briefly before his face is unreadable again and he sits down on the couch.

“You really are stubborn, aren’t you?” His tone is flat, but his lips quirk up slightly as he watches he move forward.

“Do you have any bandages?” He shrugs towards one of the oak cabinets. Y/n hums slightly, moving quickly as she shakes her head. “What did you mean by you did this to yourself?” He blanches slightly, looking down as he tugs at his shirt sleeve.

“I…got into a fight.” Y/n quirks an eyebrow as she sets the supplies on the table, kneeling in front of him.

“With who?”

“Uh, well…not a fight, exactly…” He stumbles over his words, avoiding her gaze as her eyebrows furrow.

“Then what was it?”

“Why are you asking so many questions,” although his tone is harsh, his demeanor is completely different from before, his shoulders hunched slightly. He looks tired, his face almost sunken in, the dark circles under his eyes somehow looking darker. Y/n scoffs.

“I’m asking a lot of questions because first, it was you did this to yourself, now it’s a fight? Are you sure you didn’t hit your head? Do you need to see a doctor?” His gaze turns to her once again as he shakes, paling slightly and gritting his teeth, rolling his eyes. She clasps her hands, trying to compose herself as she stands in front of him. “So, bandages?” The man almost snarls, his eyes turning light brown as the light catches them when his head tilts.

“You shouldn’t worry about me. Please, I’ll be fine. Just leave. It’s late, your family is probably worried about you.” Y/n bites her lip, thinking of her father- the strange man was right, he probably was worried. But still, her heart aches slightly at the thought of leaving- although she doesn’t know why. She looks away. “Are you listening to me?” As soon as it had vanished, his temper is back, roaring to life as he stands up, any weakness or pain from earlier seeming to seep away as his arm swings out and he takes hold of her forearm, dragging her against her will to the doors they came in. “Have you been listening at all?” He shoves the large, meticulously decorated doors open and throws her forward, still moving out as she lands at the top of the long staircase, her head snapping to look up at him. “You are not welcome here.” His fists clench at his side, fire burning in his eyes as he watches her. “I don’t need help from anyone, just leave me alone. Leave and forget you ever found this place- if you come back, I swear you will regret it. I won’t be as patient as I was this time, you understand me?”

Y/n stands up, her vision slightly blurry with unwanted tears. “You know, you won’t get anywhere in life if you’re going to be this horrible to everyone!” She glares at him slightly, blinking and turning away. She takes a few steps down the stairs, her heart thudding when she hears him sigh slightly, hears his footsteps, and she turns to see him heading back in the house. “You wanna know something?” He turns, his eyes calmer now, his demeanor tired, shoulders once again hunched as he holds his abdomen, his expression twisted. “I feel sorry for you,” her voice turns soft and she looks away. “I mean, you must be lonely, there doesn’t seem to be anyone else with you.” She smiles softly. “It wouldn’t kill you to be a little more welcoming, you know?” Before he can answer, she turns and bounds down the stairs, moving quickly to get back home, guilt stinging her heart at how worried her father must be.

 He watches her, his eyes narrowing slightly as she leaves before he turns, pushing the door open and stumbling inside, shutting it behind him and quickly making his way over to the large, dark mahogany bed frame, collapsing onto the black silken sheets and curling into a ball, clutching at his stomach as he whines lowly. Light slowly appears, a strange warmth engulfing him and he peeks out, sighing as his gaze lands on the candle that stands near him.

“Yoongi?” He sits up, regarding the group that surrounds him.

“Hoseok.” Yoongi replies, clenching his jaw and looking away from him. “What are you all doing here?”

A small teacup with a chipped rim is near it, and it shifts slightly. “We were worried about you, Yoongi. That last transformation…it seemed like you got really hurt.” His gaze turns down to the cup and Yoongi sighs, laying on his back.

“Jimin, Hoseok, leave me alone. I’ll be fine. I always am.” He scoffs.

“Yoongi…you know you’re running out of time. I know you don’t like to talk about it, but th-” Yoongi sits up quickly, his gaze flicking to the candle.

“Leave now, before I douse you with water,” he turns his attention to the small chinaware that the candlestick had tilted to the side, the three cylinders holding the candles now blocking the cup from view. “Leave.” Yoongi turns, laying down and staring up at the ceiling. “And don’t ever mention that again,”

He knows they are gone without even checking, and he crosses his arms, closing his eyes at the slightly uncomfortable feeling of his wounds healing and closing over on their own accord. Of course, he couldn’t really die. Not yet.

After all, it wouldn’t be a curse if he could escape it so easily.

[colmenerodwyane96]

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[lamalefix]

Pulvis et umbra natura renovantur integra - ch. 5

read this work on ao3

[ch1; ch2; ch3; ch4]

He is awake. He is awake. Alexander, his Alexander, is awake and Magnus has lost his words. He feels like crying, he feels like laughing. And he has this uncontrollable desire to kiss him.

Alec tightens his eyelids after speaking, after greeting him, but he opens his eyes again immediately, and they are the color of the night for a single moment. He seems bewildered, and again his irises become the color of the ocean, and then this little tired grin comes out, curling his lips softly, in this tender, tender expression on the edge of the dream.

And a multitude of words crowds in Magnusʼ head, but none finds the right path for his mouth. Alec searches for his hand frantically. And Magnus intertwines their fingers, smiles and brings to his mouth that pale bandaged hand.

Alec tightens his grip on him and smiles more. He rubs the tips of his fingers on Magnusʼ lips and squeezes one eye and then the other, as if to focus it better.

He finally seems at peace, Alec, all relaxed with his back to that battered mattress. And Magnus, who had planned to fix that cell with magic in the attempt to make it less humid and vaguely more welcoming for Alecʼs awakening, seems to forget how that little bed is battered, or how effectively the floor still has signs of encrusted blood here and the. Everything is gone. Now they are together. They are finally together.

“Heyˮ Alec repeats and has this tired, yet so happy expression on his face, that suddenly Magnusʼ heart skips a beat.

Magnus feels his lips curl into a smile. “Hey,ˮ he replies, rubbing his mouth against Alecʼs fingers again. “Welcome backˮ.

And Alec seems crossed by a very slight shiver, as he squints and smiles more. He seems to be tasting Magnusʼ voice, he seems to be drinking his very presence. It is as if nothing had happened for a moment, because for that moment even Magnus cannot help but think that, despite the hair that is all plastered to his bandaged forehead, despite the gauzes that are a little everywhere and the dark circles under his eyes and his pale skin, he couldnʼt be more lovely. And he feels so alive.

Isabelle looks into the cell and stays there, motionless with her eyes wide and shiny. Magnus just smiles at her, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. She got out when Alec stopped breathing a few minutes ago. Or maybe itʼs Magnus who let her out, because he had to use magic and maybe Alecʼs would have reacted, or maybe he didnʼt want to make her stay there for her brotherʼs last breath.

“Thereʼs a lot of people who want to see you, you know?ˮ he mumbles, moving a lock of hair from his eyes, something strange seems to burn in his heart. “You made everyone worry, sunshineˮ.

Alexander snorts. He is exhausted, he canʼt say the opposite, itʼs clear: he can see how his eyelids are weighed on his eyes when he opens them again. Yet he smiles, when his pupils stop again on Magnus.

And Magnus doesnʼt feel anything anymore, he doesnʼt feel that strange grip that tightens his chest, now only Alec remains in his head. “Heyˮ the warlock repeats, cupping the young manʼs cheek with his hand and rubbing his thumb on the cheekbone. “You can sleep a little longer if you want. You look really really tiredˮ.

The Shadowhunter swallows and wrinkles his nose, shifts his head a little on his sweaty pillow, and looks at him with this slightly frowning and somewhat confused expression that obscures his eyes. “Thirstyˮ.

“Are you thirsty?ˮ Magnus repeats and starts to get up. “Iʼm going, Iʼll go get you some water, Iʼll entrust you to your sisterʼs wise handsˮ.

But Alec doesnʼt seem of the same opinion, he still holds Magnusʼ hand in his and just tightens his grip. “Stayˮ.

And the warlock opens his eyes wide, he could swear to hear the noise his pupils make when they widen a little bit more, while Alec peers at him, frowning and then snorts softly. Not that Magnus needed further signals, but that is proof that Alec is in himself and certainly doesnʼt want to let him go. “It doesnʼt take me that long to get you some water, Alexander,ˮ he says to him, and even as these words come out of his mouth, Magnus can be relieved. His tone is gentle and amused. As if that horrible terror that weighed on him in recent days has finally become just a distant memory. Still, itʼs so early, and Alec is so weak, so tired, so pale, and there is still the smell of blood in that little room.

“Stay,ˮ he repeats a bit louder, and seems to be moving slightly, until he shifts his head enough to intercept his sister, now a little closer. “Izˮ he says, with this hoarse and very tired voice.

“Yes, Iʼm going,ˮ says Isabelle and is back by the door. “And maybe I also warn others. And we leave you a couple of minutes alone, eh? ˮ.

And Alec gives her this half-smile so sweet that Magnus could swear his breath broke for a second.

As Isabelleʼs steps become farther and farther away, and disappear at the top of the ladder, Alec glances again to intertwine his look with Magnusʼ. The eyes, of that entrancing blue, are veiled and a bit shiny, he looks like someone who would sleep a little longer and certainly this wouldnʼt hurt him, but that faint tired grin still flickers on his lips. He frowns again and opens his mouth, with the clear intention of reproaching him.

Magnus again picks up a cheek with his free hand, the fingers of the other are still tied to Alecʼs, and he has no intention of leaving his grip.

“Are you okay?ˮ Alec asks suddenly.

And he curls an eyebrow. “Really Alexander?“

“You donʼt look so goodˮ he answers with a faint voice and makes a movement similar to a shrug, or maybe heʼs just trying to get a little closer to Magnus.

“Itʼs outright rude of you, Alexander,ˮ Magnus snorts, a soft smile o his lips. “And then worry about yourself a bit!ˮ.

“You have to rest,ˮ he replies, his mouth a thin line of disappointment. “You didnʼt snap your fingers,ˮ he says, wetting his chapped lips with the tip of his tongue and gasping with a pained grimace on his face when he encounters one of the deeper wounds on the edge of his lower lip. He swallows and wrinkles his nose. “You didnʼt snap your fingers to make my water appear...ˮ.

A small part of Magnus would simply like snapping his fingers and making all the pain that weighs on him disappear, if only to avoid hearing him again stifle his groans. But he just grits his teeth and smiles a little more. “Is this really your first meaningful sentence after days of agony?ˮ he grumbles, and a certain strange emotion that is condensing in a little pool inside his stomach.

Alec snorts again, squeezes his eyelids and wrinkles his nose into another grimace. “You have to restˮ he reiterates.

“Donʼt worry, Iʼm fine,ˮ he replies. “I wouldnʼt have missed your awakening for anything in the worldˮ.

Alec opens his mouth and itʼs clear he would like to say more, but he just sighs. And it is clear that this movement hurts him, even breathing hurst him, because he barely mumbles.

Magnus just shakes his head. “I only stayed awake for a couple of days, donʼt worry. Did I ever tell you about that time when I was so busy with a spell that I didnʼt sleep for ten days straight? Catarina and Ragnor kicked hard my ass as soon as I woke up ˮ.

“Expect the same treatment,ˮ he mutters under his breath, his eyes stern, though still veiled by that weariness.

“Oh, kinky!ˮ Magnus replies, and shots him a smile that Alec canʼt help but reciprocate, though he tries to mantain that stern look.

He just shakes his head. “You were badly hurt... You were─ˮ.

“You too were badly hurt,ˮ Magnus replies without giving him time to finish.

“You have to think more about yourself,ˮ he mumbles and his eyes are glossy, and liquid, and Magnus could swear he heard his voice tremble, but maybe itʼs the pain. “You could─you... you were─you...ˮ he mumbles and the words get stuck in his throat.

Magnus gets closer to him, arching his back forward, so as to reduce the distance between their faces, enough to rest his forehead against Alecʼs. “I did it for myself, Alexander. Iʼm not such a selfless person as you think. Iʼd never have allowed myself to lose you, Alecˮ he replies.

“But you...ˮ continues Alec, who lets his fingers run and touch Magnusʼ hands on his face. “You were... you were on the ground and I... I couldnʼt─ˮ.

“This is a matter we will have to face when you get better and you will be more awake and...ˮ he sighs. “I will rest tonight. Donʼt worry, I think your sister is already organizing shifts with the rest of the family to allow me to get some sleep. She also tried the last few days, but...“he shrugs.

Alec frowns again and snorts a warm sigh against Magnusʼs face. “You have to rest. I felt your magic... you used so much, too muchˮ.

“I know. Alexander. Catarina also told me the same, adding a series of nasty comments about my proverbial stupidity,ˮ he whispers under his breath.

And Alec curls a corner of his mouth into a small smile. “Wise womanˮ.

Magnus barely moves his head to place a kiss on the edge of Alecʼs forehead, on the top of the battered bandage. A sudden and reassuring wave of satisfaction and tranquility that relaxes his shoulders. He tries to impart to that kiss all the affection, all the love, all he can give him, keeping out the worries, the pain, the absence that weighed on him these days.

Alec just protests with another loud snort. “True kissˮ.

And Magnus smiles even more and moves back to rest his forehead against Alecʼs again, he lets the tip of his nose slide against the shadowhunterʼs and then moves slowly to rub his lips against a corner of his mouth. Trying not to give it too much strength, because Alec has all his lips dry and battered, and if he can, he would like to avoid that pain there at least.

Thanks. he thinks suddenly, and thanks everyone, the Angel, the Princes of Hell, any divinity that has ever crossed the cultures of the World.

Thanks for not being dead. he then adds in his head and when he is reflected in Alecʼs eyes, he cannot restrain that slight vague hint of terror that shakes his heart. They have to talk, and they still have to heal. Their will be a long way.

“Itʼs not a real kiss,ˮ Alec protests, listlessly blinking twice and curling his eyebrows.

Magnus grins and moves a little to blow a constellation of small kisses under his jaw. Thatʼs a point where he feels a lot of tickling and Magnus hopes to lighten up the tension heʼs still wearing, just like Alec.

The pops make Alec laugh just a little. “Awh, awh. It hurts!ˮ he whines.

“Sorryˮ he sighs, pulling back.

“I didnʼt tell you to stop,ˮ he replies, still that tired grin on his lips, and then returns serious. “You promise to rest a while?ˮ.

And Magnus is about to answer, but he just closes his mouth and leaves Alecʼs face when Isabelleʼs steps get closer. “Your water has arrived,ˮ he tells him.

“Magsˮ the wounded Shadowhunter growls.

“Yes,ˮ says Magnus, without even looking at him, while instead inviting Isabelle to enter the cell with a small nod. “Iʼll leave you a little with her, Iʼll go and give myself a clean up and then Iʼll come back hereˮ he sighs and takes a lock of hair between his fingers. “Urgh! Nasty!ˮ he murmurs.

Alec snorts but retrieves his hand and puts it to his lips. “Get some restˮ.

“Yes,ˮ he nods. “You too must do it.“

Alec merely smiles, his eyes still very tired, but he seems so calm when he leaves his hand.

Magnus throws Isabelle a knowing look, no need to say anything else and goes towards the corridor.

Alec watches Magnus starting toward the door and shots him a last smile and blows a kiss before disappearing.

Isabelle sits on the bed next to Alec, hands him the glass with a straw and he takes a long sip, which certainly wonʼt be enough to make the thirst disappear. At least he feels a little better now.

What follows is is a pleasant silence that lasts perhaps a few minutes. Isabelle, who is always an extremely loud type when theyʼre out of work, like a good warrior knows when to be silent, and this is one of those moments.

Also because Alec now, after drinking, feels extremely tired and there is something that whispers under his skin and in his head, that usual rackous that has gripped his head when he was passed out, now it seems to become even louder. And the pain is spreading in waves in every single cell of his body.

But then Isabelle speaks, slowly. “He is fine. Catarina checked on him a few hours ago, heʼs just very tired. He said he wanted to arrange a mattress here to sleep next to you, weʼre getting organizedˮ.

Alec purses his lips and wrinkles his eyebrows. They must have a good motivation for leaving him in that cell. Maybe they think that the thing that pushed him to slip in there at first, still weighs on him.

“Heʼs just tired. He used a lot of magic... we helped him though. Heʼs just very tired.ˮ his sister repeats, smilin, in the attempt of saving him from worry.

“You are too,ˮ he replies. And perhaps it wasnʼt even so necessary to say it aloud, even if he begins to lose his lucidity, he still manages to see his sister well enough, without make-up, deep circles darken her complexion, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, a bit battered jumpsuit.

She smiles and pokes his cheek. “No, itʼs a shabby style, you donʼt know anything about fashion you canʼt understandˮ.

“Thanks,ˮ he says, looking for her hand and taking it in his. “Thank youˮ he repeats.

And she snorts. “Seriously, Alec?ˮ she asks. “Do you thank me for what, exactly? Helping was the very least. You are my brother, and he is one of the family...ˮ.

“For Magnus. For being close to him,ˮ he replies and if he had enough property of his body, he would already be shrugging his shoulders. “For helping himˮ.

“Weʼve all been here. There havenʼt been so many emergencies, typical after an eclipse...ˮ she answers intertwining her fingers with Alecʼs. “The important thing is that we are all well now. Who more bruised, who less...ˮ.

Alec rolls his eyes and snorts louder than he actually expected, a shiver of pain wobbles in his chest. Does he really have to say it out loud? “I mean there. When he was─ˮ and the words die in the back of his throat. He remembers it, in a flash before his eyes, he remembers Isabelle with her hands on Magnusʼs chest, trying to stop the blood. If Magnus is still alive it is certainly thanks to Isabelle. There are no other possibilities.

“Really? Iʼm sure you would have done the same for Simon. Or for Clary,ˮ she replies. “And then...ˮ she adds, but then stops and looks at him, her eyes vibrating on him, she seems to want to tell him something else, but she shrugs her shoulders. “Are you hungry?ˮ.

Alec frowns, and even this microscopic gesture makes him run a pang in every corner of his head. Something is consuming him now, and it is a strange pain that takes away his sight. Small black dots are erasing entire corners of his field of vision, but he has to stay awake enough to be sure that Magnus is okay. Above all, there is something in his sisterʼs behavior that makes him think. “What did you want to say?ˮ.

“I? I asked you if youʼre hungry,ˮ she replies shrugging again.

“Izzy, Alec has already risked dying enough for this week, I would say we can avoid food poisoning,ˮ says someone. Itʼs Jaceʼs voice that echoes from the cell entrance.

Something like a grip at his stomach, even just hearing his voice gives him a strange, uncontrollable warmness. His hands tingle and if he was only a little more able to move, he would throw at least two or three punches against his parabataiʼs beautiful angelic face.

Isabelle snorts loudly. “As if youʼre a better cook. We ordered Chinese last night, thereʼs something you can eatˮ.

Alec smiles and closes his eyes to find some more lucidity. When he opens them again the black spots are still there, but they have not increased at least. He is trying to keep a minimum of composure, seeing Jace has awakened that nasty bad feeling that has begun to envelop his heart again. And he feels a strange heat drumming under his eyelids, warm elettricity spreads between his fingers.

“How do you feel?ˮ Jace asks. And Isabelle takes a breath between her clenched teeth. “What?ˮ he hisses, raising his tone by half an octave, becoming decidedly more annoying.

“Those arenʼt things you should ask him,ˮ she mumbles. “Donʼt you see in which state he is? Donʼt you feel how he is feeling?!ˮ.

“I feel a lot of things from the rune, honestly,ˮ Jace replies with a shrug. “And I feel that practically everything hurts you, but I want to know how you are emotionally, Alec. I get a lot of strange perceptions and...ˮ.

Alec shouldnʼt think much about it. There are a lot of things he feels inside, both positive and negative. He feels his head weighing, something like terror is ringing in his ears, yet there is also this warm wave of joy and love, which originate from the center of his chest and seem to cross him like a hurricane. And then with surprise, he notes that there is also something else. Something like a more powerful anger, irrepressible, that seems to shake his skin and radiate in every millimeter of his body. Heʼs still angry after all.

“Heyˮ whispers that velvety and unmistakable voice. Magnus is back at the door, leaning against the doorframe and it doesnʼt seem itʼs been more than a moment since he left. Not even a moment has passed since he got out, but here he is again. Alec can see from the bed that he he seems to have come out of the shower in a hurry, little beads of water are making his wet hair all glittery, the shirt he was wearing is now upside down, completely upside down, the label sticking out and the stitching marks make the excessive thinness of his body stand out even more.

Alec then concentrates on him, and tries to assume a frown, tries to find the words to reprimand him, because he had to rest and has not had the chance to do it. And that terrible anger stops vibrating in his heart.

Magnus looks at himself and notices the shirt upside down, and when he runs his hand through his hair, he doesnʼt seem surprised at all at how much they are still wet. He then snaps his fingers and arranges one of Alecʼs shirt, a bit jagged and faded, and a loose pair of sweatpants but they seem to be doing their job. The hair is dry again and even if they arenʼt styled in the usual way, but remains soft on his head, it seems to have definitely resumed. “Didnʼt I suggest you stay out of the cell when Iʼm gone, Barbie?ˮ.

“He started to do that thing again...ˮ Jace says, weirdly beckoning to his eyes with two fingers.

Magnus doesnʼt seem impressed at all, he merely passes by and retrieves Alecʼs hand. And when their fingers are intertwined, the warlocks shots him a wonderful smile. “I told Sherwin and Bisquit to retrieve a vaguely better mattress than this, and a couple of blankets and a couple of pillows. Below here is like a morgue, and itʼs terribly wet, hereˮ he adds. “But in retrospect I can snap my fingers and fix this cell without disturbing your angelic heavy assesˮ.

“Magnus this is a prison, not the Hilton Hotel,ˮ Jace grumbles listlessly, rubbing his hand behind his neck.

“I certainly donʼt ask you to repaint,ˮ Magnus replies. “Even if you should consider it, honestly,ˮ he replies with a wink.

Isabelle snorts loudly and stands up making room for Magnus. “You are the Head of the Institute and your parabatai is in a cell, make yourself useful, if you have to make it more welcoming, make it more welcoming. You werenʼt asked to prepare a presidential suite, just bring that other mattressˮ she begins to say, when Magnus intrudes.

“And a couple of blankets,ˮ says the warlock, shifting closer to Alec. “This place is cold and wetˮ.

“Exactly,ˮ says Isabelle. “And a couple of blankets and some pillows too, Jace. He isnʼt asking that muchˮ she mutters. “We canʼt ask Magnus to use magic, heʼs tired enough already,ˮ she adds, poking violently Jaceʼs shoulder. “Walk, come onˮ.

“Weʼll take care of the cell, Magnus,ˮ Jace nods, rolling his eyes and letting Isabelle push him out.

“Remind me to send your sister one of my credit cards,ˮ says Magnus, smiling.

Alec would like to open his mouth and try to understand why he is in that cell, at least because he is still there, he remembers him because he went there in the first place: to avoid killing Jace, in his blind fury, but is it really necessary to still be there?

“Donʼt scowl like that, you will have wrinkles, Alexander...ˮ Magnus whispers, bringing his face close to Alecʼs and rubbing his forefinger between his eyebrows as if to erase the grimace that was drawn on his face.

“Whatʼs going on?ˮ he asks softly, and is surprised by the voice with which this question comes up. Raspy and sounds like a whisper.

“Nothingˮ replies by blowing a kiss on his forehead.

“Magnusˮ calls him, trying to look as stern as he can possibly be, but having Magnus right in front of him doesnʼt make this thing so easy.

“I wanted to do this when you got better,ˮ he replies, running his tongue over his teeth.

Alec feels a knot envelop him at the base of his throat. “Are you okay, right?ˮ.

Magnus smiles, and his eyes vibrate on him as if he were looking at a starry sky. “You really are something, eh?“

“You are not answering meˮ he whispers. A shiver of pain climbs his spine and radiates in the back of his head.

“Iʼm fine,ˮ says Magnus recalling his magic in his fingers and pushing a small flame on Alecʼs forehead. “Iʼm fine, but we have to make a serious talk now, Alexander. And I really wanted to do it when you felt a little better better, but... the sooner the better, right?ˮ he murmurs, curling his lips in a soft smile.

Alec swallows and looks at him. He doesnʼt know what to answer, but he merely nods.

Magnus squints, and Alec can see the tiny movements that his eyes make under his eyelids. Itʼs like heʼs looking for words, the right words. Then he heaves a tight sigh and takes his hand again. “Okay, donʼt fret, alright?ˮ.

“No. No, okay. I wonʼt fret,ˮ mumbles Alec, his eyes fixed on Magnus, on the love of his life that now seems to have a terrible weight on his shoulders.

The warlock opens his mouth once or twice and seems to draw out another heavy sigh, like the words he is looking for.

Alec sighs. “What did you do? What did you do to help me? Did you summon your father? What happened?ˮ.

And Magnus looks at him with this shocked, hurt expression, but then he smiles and shakes his head. “Itʼs not what I did, itʼs what you did. Itʼs what is happening to you”.

“To me?ˮ says Alec, confused, the noise in his head becomes even louder. “What have I done?ˮ.

“To youˮ he nods. “Youʼve killed a lot of demonsˮ.

“Thatʼs my work, Magsˮ he retorts, furrowing a brow.

“I know that, Alexanderˮ Magnus replies. “Something is happening to you... you are─ˮ.

“Iʼm fine,ˮ he murmurs, and tries to ignore the pain that continues to run down his spine, that warmth drumming beneath his skin, that noise echoing in his ears.

Magnus purses his lips, and tightens the grip on Alecʼs hand as if he fears to let him go. “You ... you are becoming a warlock, Alexanderˮ.

[ch.6]

[milieumarch]

Classroom Distractions

This is almost entirely fluff as a break from a really angsty one-shot I’ve also been working on.  I have some other stuff in the works (including a canon one-shot, AU one-shot, and multi-chap), but I thought I’d get this out.  Hope you enjoy!

FFN | AO3

Summary: Professor Killian Jones’ history lecture gets a surprise visitor. (NOT StudentxProfessor)

Everybody taking one of Professor Killian Jones’ lectures knew Mrs. Jones.  Or, if they didn’t know she was actually his wife, they knew the blonde woman who he called “Swan” and who occasionally snuck into the room and made their professor’s always excited grin grow even wider.

She first appeared in the middle of his Ancient, Medieval, and Renaissance Political Theory lecture about three lectures into the class.  About one-third of the female population was drooling over the handsome professor with the accent talking about the Spartan system of government when the blonde woman slid into the room and sat in the chair behind his desk as he lectured in front of the projector.

The students who first noticed her assumed she was an older student who was either playing a prank or trying to catch the eye of Professor Jones by doing something bold. However, when the man caught sight of her, he merely smiled and asked, “Well, Swan, since you seem so eager to learn, can you tell me who first imposed this code of laws on Sparta?”

She frowned thoughtfully and responded, “Lucretius?”

He chuckled. “Lycurgus, love.  But I can tell you’re listening.”  He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of her head before turning back to his class.  “Let’s go ahead and take our break now.  Five minutes and be back here.”

As the students stood up and stretched, the professor sat on his desk and pulled the woman to her feet between his knees.

“Is this how you treat all your students who get answers wrong?” Emma teased, kissing his cheek.

“You should see what happens when they get them right.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Where did I even get the name Lucretius?  Is that another one of your historical crushes?”

“The only person I have a crush on is you, Swan.  Well, maybe Sam Bellamy, but this class doesn’t get up to his time.  But Lucretius, Epicurean philosopher known for first particles, the void, and the swerve.  We can read some De Rerum Natura at home if you’d like.  I’ve got a copy of the original Latin.”  He grinned impishly.

“How could I pass up an offer like that?  Now, don’t you have a class to be teaching?”

“I’m sure they wouldn’t mind their break being a little longer,” he mumbled before kissing her softly.

Emma pulled back after a couple seconds.  “Professor Jones, is this for extra credit?”

He growled and rested his forehead on hers.  “Insufferable woman.”  He kissed her one more time then stepped back.  “I do have to teach now.  Are you staying or will I see you at home?”

“Oh, I’m staying. Without me here, you’ll get into some heated academic debate again and I won’t see you until midnight.”  She settled back into his chair and he signaled to his class to take their seats.

After that day, both Professor Jones’ political theory and English history lectures saw Emma at least once a week, often twice.  Sometimes she got a question tossed at her, while others he waited for the break or the end before walking over to the woman.  Tales about the handsome professor and his blonde wife were soon widespread across the history department.

One day, right before midterms, Emma walked in and practically collapsed in the chair. Usually she attentively listened and watched the professor, but this day, she crossed her arms on the table and rested her head on them.  Within minutes, she was asleep.

Killian noticed this and slid his blazer off his shoulders before crossing the front of the room and settling the jacket over her.  This earned him an ‘Awww!’ from most of the girls in the room, as they’d all long abandoned their crushes on him in favor of admiring his relationship with Emma.  He smiled sheepishly and continued with the lecture until it was time to go to break.

“Swan, wake up,” he whispered as the students relaxed.  “You’re ruining my street cred as the meanest professor.”

She smiled blearily at him.  “I heard it was hottest.”

“Either way, love, there’s already enough actual students sleeping through my War of the Roses lecture. Why are you here and not at home in a bed?”

Emma stood and leaned against him with her head on his shoulder.  “Wanted to see you.  Home is quiet when you’re not there.”

He wrapped an arm around her and kissed her temple.  “Love, you’d sleep much better.”

“Not without you.”

“Will you at least go sleep on the couch in my office?  It’s far more comfortable.  I’ll be back there in an hour or so.”

She nodded against his collarbone as he handed her his set of keys.  “I love you.”

“Love you too.  Now go get some rest.”  He kissed her forehead once more before nudging her towards the door.

It was only a couple weeks after this incident that everyone in Killian’s English history lecture got a mysterious email:

If you are receiving this email, it is because you are a member of Professor Jones’s English History: The Ancients to the Stuarts lecture.  Please be in the Hodges Lecture Hall on Tuesday at 5:30 pm.  This will be worth part of your final grade.

Jones

The students milled into the large room around the requested time only to be met, not by their professor, but by the blonde woman.

“Hi, everyone!” she said into the microphone of the podium.  “Uh, I don’t normally address you.  Also I lied about this determining your grade.  But Thursday, when you have your next history lecture is Kill—Professor Jones’ birthday.  And I owe him some embarrassment from my last birthday.  So can you help me out?”

There were murmurs of assent throughout the crowd.

“Well, I’ve got lots of noisemakers.  And these party hats.  So if you each take one of each and show up a couple of minutes early for class that day, I’ll make sure that he’s not early.  And when he walks in, just make as much noise as possible or sing happy birthday or something.  Can you do that?”

The students scrambled to grab the cone-shaped hats and noisemakers from the desk that Emma had them laid out on.  She offered them a shy smile as they passed by her and many of them nodded in return.

Two days later, Professor Jones’ lecture hall was filled with college students donning party hats with noisemakers in their hands five minutes before the class began.

Fifteen seconds before the class was supposed to begin (the latest Professor Jones has ever been), he stumbled into the room.  “Sorry for my tardiness.”

The whole room exploded with kazoo-like sounds and shouts of “Happy birthday, Professor!”  In one corner, a group of students started up some off-key singing.

Professor Jones nearly dropped his notes at all the noise then looked up with an amused grin on his lips. His eyes darted to the doorway that he had just entered through where Emma was doubled over in laughter.  He strode back over to her and wrapped his arms around her middle before spinning her.

He dragged her over to the podium and gestured for her to speak.  “He’s blushing.  Thanks, guys!” she chuckled.  “Uh, have a good class.”

She tried to make her way to the door, but the professor pulled her into his side.  “Thank you, all!  But now, if you’re done conspiring with my wife, I’d like you to put away the hats and we can get back to your educations.”

Emma kissed his cheek. “Happy birthday, Killian.”

“I love you, Swan,” he murmured back, releasing her.  With a small wave to the class, Emma walked out of the room and Killian pulled up the slideshow for the day.

“Hey, Jones!”

Killian turned from the printer to see one of the other history professors waving at him.

“Locksley!  Don’t you have young minds to be corrupting?”

Robin laughed as he walked over.  “I could say the same to you.  But I’ve been hearing some interesting whispers amongst the students.”

“Are they planning a mutiny?”

“They always are. But no, these are some of the students in your lecture.  They’re talking about some blonde who’s frequently spotted sneaking into your lecture hall?”  Robin waggled his eyebrow.

“Aye, that would be Emma. Since she’s out catching the bad guys a lot of evenings, she visits during the day.”

“She’s not disturbing you, is she?  I don’t need to call campus safety and have her escorted from the premises.”

“Sod off.  You’re just jealous because your wife won’t visit you since she’s too busy ruling the town.”

“Regina visited me just last week,” Robin replied smugly.

Killian grinned. “Emma visited yesterday.”

“We can’t all have your fairytale romance.  Just wanted to give you a heads-up that the head of the department knows about her, but says that he won’t say anything as long as she’s not disrupting anything.”

“You are the head of the department, you git.”

“Exactly.”

Emma’s entrances into the lectures brought only cute, affectionate moments until one day a few weeks before finals.

A little over half-an-hour before the end of a political theory lecture, Emma snuck in.  She looked exhausted and was clutching her arm to her chest.  Killian looked at her warmly but did a double take as he registered a cut on her arm and the way the skin below her eye was swelling and darkening.

“Swan,” he cried in a strangled voice.  Then, a bit louder, voice shaking a bit and eyes not leaving his wife, “Class is dismissed. I’ll hold extra office hours sometime to make up for it.”

The students confusedly packed up their things as Killian rushed to Emma’s side.

“Emma, love,” he murmured.

“He was a bit meaner than expected,” she replied.  “But I got him.”  She gave him a weak smile.

“Come on, darling. We’re going to the hospital.”  He pulled on her uninjured arm.

“Killian, it’s fine. I just need some rest.  You didn’t have to end your class.”

“No, Swan.  That arm needs to be looked at.  And that cut probably needs some tending, too.”

“Killian,” she protested weakly.

“Swan,” he grumbled, “no arguments.”  He tilted his forehead until it was resting against hers.  “Please, love?  For me?”

She nodded.  “I’m sorry, Killian.  I should’ve been more alert.”

“No, love, this is not on you.  You’re here, love, and you’re going to be okay,” he responded, pulling her to her feet and leading her out the door.

Two days later, Professor Jones was starting his lecture for English history when a student raised her hand.

“A question!  Yes?”

“How’s Emma?”

Killian blinked. “Er, I was expecting questions about the English Civil War.”  He trailed off but the students continued to stare at him expectantly.  “Well, she’s back at home pouting with a broken arm. But she’s okay.  Going to drive me up the wall.”  The students laughed.  “But okay.” He paused.  “Wait a second, didn’t that happen in my other class?  How do you all know about it?”

The class responded with a chorus of names of students in his other lecture.

“Are you telling me that my students are gossiping with each other about my wife?”

A resounding “Yes!” from the class.

Professor Jones scoffed. “Use all that free time for studying! Now, back to Cromwell.”

He gave his lecture on the disturbances of the English government and then dismissed the class. Several of his students gathered near his podium to speak to him.

“Oh, hello. Provocative lecture,” he muttered to himself before turning to the first in line.

“I just wanted to ask you to tell Emma that we hope she’s better soon,” the young woman started.

“Ah, yes, okay. I’m sure she would agree with that sentiment.  Uh, thank you.”

“Thanks, Professor Jones. Good lecture today.”  She scampered off.

One of the young men from his class was next.  “Uh, tell Emma I hope she gets well soon.  She gave me some advice for my paper in this class a few weeks ago and it really helped.”

“When has Emma been giving advice to my students?”

“It was a while ago. You were talking to someone after class or something.”

“Oh, well, I’ll pass on the notice.  I’ll even give her your name.  You’re Henry Mills, right?”

“Yeah.  Bye, Professor Jones!”

Killian looked at the eight or so other students lined up.  “Are all of you here to send Emma your well-wishes?”

They nodded simultaneously.

Killian grinned. “I will tell her that the class was quite concerned about her health.  Will that do?”

They thanked him and left the lecture hall swiftly.

“Maybe you should teach this class, lass,” Killian teased his wife.

Emma rolled her eyes. “I don’t know anything about Machiavelli.”

“I think my students like you more than me.”

“That’s because I’m not the one grading their finals,” she retorted.  Killian was standing between her legs while she was perched on his desk before the lecture started.  “So, what’s on the syllabus for today, teach?”

“You already guessed it. Machiavelli.  Specifically, his discussion on republics, Discourses on Livy.”

“Oh, Dr. Jones, you do know how to make a girl swoon.”

“Just wait until you hear me talk about devolutions towards tyranny.”  His lips met hers for a few seconds.  “Are you sure you want to be here listening to me ramble and not in my office, maybe elevating that arm?”  He gave a pointed glare to the cast around her left arm.

“Not my first broken bone.  Plus, who will beat back all your admirers once you start talking about the falls of empires?”

“Didn’t you hear me say that they like you more than me?  I’d be more concerned about your admirers.”  He pinched her side which elicited giggles from her.

“Then I guess we’ll just have to watch each other’s backs.  I won’t take my eyes off of you.”

He winked at her. “I would despair if you did.” With a final chaste kiss (and whistles from some of the students), he called his class to order.

Killian walked into his English history lecture on the last day carrying the feared stack of papers: final exams.

“The day is finally here! Exams today and don’t forget that your research papers are due by midnight on Fri—”  He trailed off as he caught sight of the projector turned on. “Did one of you hack into the projector?”

Several students giggled and then an image flashed onto the screen.  The professor smiled widely and turned back to the students.

“Can I go grab Emma from my office and show her this?”

He got several “yes’s” and shooing motions from the class, so he bolted through the door.  He came back a minute later, exams still clutched to his chest in one hand and other hand dragging Emma through the door.

“Swan, look at what these punks did!”  He grinned and turned her to the projector.

Emma laughed at the screen and pressed into his side.  Killian quickly wrapped an arm around her shoulder and kissed her temple.

“It’s almost like they think it will get them extra credit on this exam!” he shouted in the direction of the class, eliciting several groans.  He strode over to the podium as Emma slipped out of the room. “All right, we’ve had our fun.  But now it’s exam time.  And essays on Friday!”

He passed the exams to each row and then settled into his desk chair, looking up at the screen with one last chuckle.

There was a picture obviously taken with a mediocre cell phone camera from afar of he and Emma talking during some break and underneath was the caption:

Storybrooke University’s Cutest Couple Killian and Emma Jones

[jiminisjamin]

~ Lusus Naturae Part Two~

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader

A/N: I’ve decided to add in the enchanted furniture people (but only some ) :’) I hope I don’t do a bad job at it. Basically, in case it gets confusing I want to lay out who is who? Hoseok is Lumiere, Jimin is Chip (the little cup guy), obviously Jin is Gaston, LeFou is Namjoon. The rest of the characters are not in it, and neither are any of the other BTS members.

Rating: Flangst

Warnings for Chapter: Language, mild descriptions of violence, Yoongi being aggressive and rude, mild angst.

Title: West Wing

Word Count: 1,685

  The man stares at her, anger rising in his chest as his whole-body burns, his mind racing as he stumbles closer to his home. “You need to leave,” she shakes her head, stepping forward again to wrap her arms around his midsection and lift him up, trying to help support him. He growls, the joints and bones in his body cracking in protest from his struggle earlier. He grunts, shutting his eyes tightly as his breathing becomes labored again. He stumbles away from her, clinging onto the brick wall surrounding his small garden. He turns his gaze to her, glowering as she moves forward, grabbing his elbow and slinging it over her shoulders.

“And you need to get to your house…that’s yours, right?” She smiles gently at him and leads him forward slowly, stopping when he winces, his torso tensing, and leans over slightly to hold his abdomen. This happens every few seconds. The trip takes a lot longer than it should’ve because of this and he casts angry glances at her every now and then, but as the color drains from his face more, and his shirt becomes stickier and more damp, his expression turns more neutral when she opens the door. He collapses on the couch once she takes him to it and he grunts, covering his face when she kneels down by him, trying to inspect him. He mumbles weakly, waving her away and curling away from her, y/n frowns, her head tilting as she places her hand on his shoulder, rubbing gently, not expecting the low grunt that he lets out as he relaxes slightly under her touch. “You’re really tense…what the hell happened to you?” He groans, curling into more of a ball and sticking his hands in between his legs, closing his eyes.

“I said leave me alone.” His voice comes out a growl and y/n scoffs.

“Is that supposed to intimidate me? What are you gonna do, threaten me to death? You can barely even keep your eyes open.” His jaw clenches at her boldness and he peeks one eye open, turning his head over to her.

“You think I’m trying to be intimidating?” He mumbles, unable to raise his voice any louder.

“Yes,” y/n frowns as she looks down at the gashes in his shirt, “even if you are, I can’t leave you like this. You’ll die.” He laughs dryly, stretching his legs out as his hands suddenly jerk from their position and he grabs the collar of her shirt, swiftly pulling her as he stands and twisting to pin her to the couch.

“You think I couldn’t hurt you?” His voice comes out rougher, his eyes flashing as he glowers down at her, “you think I wouldn’t hurt you? You don’t fucking know me, so don’t act like you do.”

“I- I’m just trying to help you,” y/n pushes at him, surprised by his sudden bout of strength, “you’re out here all alone and I felt bad- you’re bleeding out,”

His eyes seem to turn a lighter hue of brown at this, almost flashing as he snarls, pushing her harder against the couch. “What? So, you think I’m some wounded animal, is that it? Some poor street dog in need of help? I’m. Not. An. Animal.” His voice grows deep and he leans close to her, “and I don’t want or need your help, you shouldn’t have ever come here in the first place!” His breathing grows more ragged and y/n’s eyes widen in concern when blood drips from his abdomen down onto her crisp white shirt.

“I- please, I didn’t mean that- you’re hurting yourself, you need to stop-”

“I don’t need your help!” He pushes up off her, stumbling away from the couch and leaning against the table, breathing raggedly. “You need to leave, now.” Y/n stands up, her eyebrows knitting together.

“And let you die?”

“You don’t know me.”

“I’m talking to you right now!” He’s surprised by her counter, turning around to meet her gaze as his chest rises and falls with each breath. “And you need to stop being so rude to people who are trying to help you!” She moves forward, jabbing her pointer finger into his chest. “I’m just trying to make sure you don’t bleed to death- I’m doing you a favor, and you are treating me horribly!” He shrinks back slightly at this, lowering his gaze as his eyes darken again, taking on their normal hue as a tormented look flashes across his face. Something else flashes in his eyes briefly before his face is unreadable again and he sits down on the couch.

“You really are stubborn, aren’t you?” His tone is flat, but his lips quirk up slightly as he watches he move forward.

“Do you have any bandages?” He shrugs towards one of the oak cabinets. Y/n hums slightly, moving quickly as she shakes her head. “What did you mean by you did this to yourself?” He blanches slightly, looking down as he tugs at his shirt sleeve.

“I…got into a fight.” Y/n quirks an eyebrow as she sets the supplies on the table, kneeling in front of him.

“With who?”

“Uh, well…not a fight, exactly…” He stumbles over his words, avoiding her gaze as her eyebrows furrow.

“Then what was it?”

“Why are you asking so many questions,” although his tone is harsh, his demeanor is completely different from before, his shoulders hunched slightly. He looks tired, his face almost sunken in, the dark circles under his eyes somehow looking darker. Y/n scoffs.

“I’m asking a lot of questions because first, it was you did this to yourself, now it’s a fight? Are you sure you didn’t hit your head? Do you need to see a doctor?” His gaze turns to her once again as he shakes, paling slightly and gritting his teeth, rolling his eyes. She clasps her hands, trying to compose herself as she stands in front of him. “So, bandages?” The man almost snarls, his eyes turning light brown as the light catches them when his head tilts.

“You shouldn’t worry about me. Please, I’ll be fine. Just leave. It’s late, your family is probably worried about you.” Y/n bites her lip, thinking of her father- the strange man was right, he probably was worried. But still, her heart aches slightly at the thought of leaving- although she doesn’t know why. She looks away. “Are you listening to me?” As soon as it had vanished, his temper is back, roaring to life as he stands up, any weakness or pain from earlier seeming to seep away as his arm swings out and he takes hold of her forearm, dragging her against her will to the doors they came in. “Have you been listening at all?” He shoves the large, meticulously decorated doors open and throws her forward, still moving out as she lands at the top of the long staircase, her head snapping to look up at him. “You are not welcome here.” His fists clench at his side, fire burning in his eyes as he watches her. “I don’t need help from anyone, just leave me alone. Leave and forget you ever found this place- if you come back, I swear you will regret it. I won’t be as patient as I was this time, you understand me?”

Y/n stands up, her vision slightly blurry with unwanted tears. “You know, you won’t get anywhere in life if you’re going to be this horrible to everyone!” She glares at him slightly, blinking and turning away. She takes a few steps down the stairs, her heart thudding when she hears him sigh slightly, hears his footsteps, and she turns to see him heading back in the house. “You wanna know something?” He turns, his eyes calmer now, his demeanor tired, shoulders once again hunched as he holds his abdomen, his expression twisted. “I feel sorry for you,” her voice turns soft and she looks away. “I mean, you must be lonely, there doesn’t seem to be anyone else with you.” She smiles softly. “It wouldn’t kill you to be a little more welcoming, you know?” Before he can answer, she turns and bounds down the stairs, moving quickly to get back home, guilt stinging her heart at how worried her father must be.

 He watches her, his eyes narrowing slightly as she leaves before he turns, pushing the door open and stumbling inside, shutting it behind him and quickly making his way over to the large, dark mahogany bed frame, collapsing onto the black silken sheets and curling into a ball, clutching at his stomach as he whines lowly. Light slowly appears, a strange warmth engulfing him and he peeks out, sighing as his gaze lands on the candle that stands near him.

“Yoongi?” He sits up, regarding the group that surrounds him.

“Hoseok.” Yoongi replies, clenching his jaw and looking away from him. “What are you all doing here?”

A small teacup with a chipped rim is near it, and it shifts slightly. “We were worried about you, Yoongi. That last transformation…it seemed like you got really hurt.” His gaze turns down to the cup and Yoongi sighs, laying on his back.

“Jimin, Hoseok, leave me alone. I’ll be fine. I always am.” He scoffs.

“Yoongi…you know you’re running out of time. I know you don’t like to talk about it, but th-” Yoongi sits up quickly, his gaze flicking to the candle.

“Leave now, before I douse you with water,” he turns his attention to the small chinaware that the candlestick had tilted to the side, the three cylinders holding the candles now blocking the cup from view. “Leave.” Yoongi turns, laying down and staring up at the ceiling. “And don’t ever mention that again,”

He knows they are gone without even checking, and he crosses his arms, closing his eyes at the slightly uncomfortable feeling of his wounds healing and closing over on their own accord. Of course, he couldn’t really die. Not yet.

After all, it wouldn’t be a curse if he could escape it so easily.

[lamalefix]

Pulvis et umbra natura renovantur integra - ch. 2

read this work on ao3

[ch1]

  Magnus is more than sure he has died.

For a handful of minutes at the very least. Perhaps even more.

He remembers perfectly the uncomfortable feeling of the hoof that crossed his chest from side to side. A whole pointed and sharp palm of black mass poking out of his shirt.

He is more than sure he has died, indeed. Bleeding out, there on the ground. Suffocating in his own blood. Alec begged him, begged him, good god, to stay with him while he exhaled his last breath, which in hindsight wasn’t actually his last, since he can make these thoughts now.

But he's sure. He is sure, he clearly felt his magic vanish, his lungs deflate, the light annihilate very softly in the corners of his eyes.

Yet he is alive. And it’s a decidedly uncomfortable feeling, in all sincerity.

Apart from the way his ribs weigh in his rib cage, like his legs and arms seem to be nailed to the mattress, it's his chest and what's inside that hurts the most. Even breathing, taking air in his lungs, causes him a terrible shock of pain.

His chest rises and falls again, trembling. Even the thin layer of bandages that surrounds his chest, to cover that terrible wound, hurts him. And a hoarse sound escapes his lips, and now the air catches in the back of his throat. And he has an impossible thirst that burns his palate. On the tongue the ferrous taste of blood.

Someone rubs his forehead with a wet cloth. And even this feeling is definitely annoying, though the touch is delicate.

He forces himself to open one eye and then the other. And even the eyelids hurt, heavy as they are it’s hard to move them.

There is too much light, this is the first thing his brain can record. There is too much light and he should better close his eyes.

And when he closes them again, he feels it. Clear and glaring. A strange source of energy, unknown and incredibly close.

It's a warlock thing, and Magnus knows every single magical ability of every single child of Lilith who has met his path. The magic trace is unmistakable for each user, it’s like another mark, as a further sign of their ability. And this is exactly what convinces him to move. There is a strange energy hovering nearby. A silent, dark energy. It seems like the strength of hundreds of warlocks together, burning in one place, but not like it happens when everyone is in a meeting at the Spiral Labyrinth, it's something different. It’s as if there were dozens and dozens of warlocks who are channeling their magic, in their full power, in the same point. It’s like demonic magic and yet it’s different, it seems to have a different origin. No. It can't be. He’s having some kind of hallucination: in his plighted state he can’t have the certainty of his perceptions.

So, he decides to reopen his eyes and the ceiling, the one leaning out in his visual field, is the coffered ceiling of the Institute infirmary. The halogen light of the witchlight that illuminates the room forces him to blink a couple of times. And finally, his eyes decide to react, perhaps the glamor was deactivated even before, but now he is better able to focus on what he has around.

A slight grimace of disappointment contracts his face.

He hoped to see Alexander there, near his bedside, he hoped it was his, that touch extremely gentle with that cloth on his forehead. And instead there is Isabelle, her eyes, her big dark eyes are fixed on him. Suddenly she smiles at him, with that warm and gentle smile of hers.

“Welcome back”.

The voice is different from the usual, or rather the tone is different. She is always very energetic and cheerful, her tone is always very decisive which contrasts with her innate sweetness, of course, she is a woman of power, those traits inherited from her parents are deeply-rooted in her, but now she isn’t firm. Her voice seems weak, stunted.

It's the tone of bad news. Her brother assumes the same tone when he has to tell Magnus that he will be late, or that he must stay in Idris or that he must run away in the middle of his day off.

“I'm thirsty,” he says, and decides to postpone for now. But that tone leaves very little doubt. Something must have happened, and it certainly isn't just related to his own current physical condition. He will deepen after drinking.

“Yes, here,” she says, retrieving the jug that is clearly there near the bed, but Magnus doesn't even have the strength to turn around. “Drink slowly,” she says, bringing the glass to his mouth.

And he executes the order with no small effort, because his thirst is terrible, but it’s rather painful even just taking small sips.

“I'm so happy you're awake.” Isabelle says then, picking the glass and putting it back on the bedside table.

Magnus frowns, and decides to take the situation head-on. “Spit it out”.

And he hears her take a long breath, which breaks at the back of her throat.

Magnus swallows painfully, but at least his palate is no longer parched and sighs. Perhaps he would like to sharpen his gaze to force her to speak, but merely uses a slightly peremptory tone, the one he rarely uses to rebuke some rascal warlock. “Isabelle,” he slowly articulates her name. “Is he alive, yeah? Is Alexander alive?” and the question comes choked up his throat. He doesn't want to think about it, he never wants to think about it, not this thing, never this thing, but he must, he absolutely must know.

She opens her eyes and hurries to answer. “Yup. Yup! Yes, he is alive.” she nods, but seems to leave some other thoughts suspended, some other words. Behind those words there is something else. That tone means more.

The energy that pulsates nearby is still there. Magnus thought he had imagined it, and instead it’s now very clear and comes from inside the Institute. Is there a Warlock there? Is that possible?

Of course, it probably took some warlock, and someone powerful, to put his body back in place. But Magnus can't recognize this magic. Which, in fact, has something strange. It doesn’t seem to be something demonic, it seems something primordial, something that comes from the depths of the earth.

But he will deal with this later. His priority, as always, is Alexander.

“But?” he pursues throwing a cutting glance at her.

She tightens her lips and looks down. She frowns like his brother, makes that slight bend of her head to the left, as if to think. She's trying soften the blow.

“Isabelle” he calls her again, slowly, maybe a little more peremptory than expected and looks into her eyes for a moment. Then he starts to move and even if everything hurts, he has to pull himself up. And it's not a good idea, his legs, his arms, everything is terribly heavy, painful.

“What are you doing?” she tells him, jumping up and trying to hold him on the bed, putting her hand on his shoulder and pushing him back onto the mattress. Trying to be as much as delicate as possible, not to hurt him too much, but this is enough to make Magnus desist for just one minute. “You were in pieces... please, it took four Silent Brothers and Catarina to patch you up... they said you have to rest, you don't have to strain yourself too much... your wounds are not healed yet”.

“Take me where he is” he articulates very slowly, breathing heavily. Even talking is painful, but now he has other priorities, now there is only Alexander in his head and he has to see him, he has to go to him. “I realized that I am not at full strength, but... take me to him, please”.

“Magnus please,” she begs.  “You were really badly wounded and─Catarina said you have to rest for at least two full days”.

Magnus continues to ignore her warnings, he knows, he knows he was badly hurt, and that perhaps he should sleep for at least two whole days, if only to recover all the magic he lost while he was there, dying. But he has to see Alec, he has this terrible feeling that hovers over him. This energy that he perceives, so dark, obscures his heart. And then Alec would never have left him in the infirmary, alone, even if entrusted to the wise hands of his sister. He must know.

He is therefore able, with an impressive effort, to acquire a seated position. His back, his chest, his legs and arms ask for mercy, beg for him to stop. The bandages that rub against him irritate his skin. “I will rest as soon as I can see him. Promised.” he answers and rubs his legs heavily on the mattress. Even just this movement makes him remember how on earth he was reduced a few hours ago, motionless on the ground, without having the opportunity to speak, to use magic, while he bled to death. Alec there, looking at him, his eyes full of tears, begged him to stay with him, to survive. The disheartening feeling that somehow Alec's heart has broken, that somehow something has broken inside him, weighs on him painfully, more than any millimetre of his body hurts. And that dark energy that pulses within the Institute seems to lose all his interest.

He must see Alec. He must reassure him because he is alive and well and nothing, nothing will take him away from his side.

“He's different, alright?” the young Shadowhunter murmurs softly, her voice trembles, “Things have happened, now Jace is dealing with him. He's trying to calm him down, okay?”.

“Isabelle...” he begins to say, his voice seems like a sigh.

But then he gets stuck, that's when something like a realization comes and slaps him in the face, with arrogance. The two rifts opened in the ground, hordes of demons that kept coming out. How many have been? Hundreds? Probably. Magnus circumscribed that area, he tried to lock up all those demons there, with a huge spell, a force field to keep them from escaping. This probably meant condemning everyone to certain death, but they would protect the Mundanes and the Downworlders, as they always did. It all happened so fast, that he didn't even have time to kiss him, to kiss Alexander and maybe say goodbye, before the hell exploded in front of them and the demons began to surround them.

That dark and dour energy, which pulsates so close to them, so different from that of a warlock and yet so powerful, perhaps it ‘ even more powerful than Magnus’ own, certainly more than his magic at this very moment, makes him think, and gives him the chills. It’s that realization that hovers in his head, which he doesn't really want to name. He needs more elements. But maybe he already knows, he already knows what's happening.

“Tell me what happened, Isabelle, please,” he mutters.

“I really don't know, Magnus,” the young Shadowhunter says, shaking her head. The thick dark hair that falls on one side of the face to partially cover the sad look, lost somewhere in her deepest memories. “I saw that you fell... I saw that Alec reached you and... and then… I don't know” she runs her hand through her hair to bring them back to their place, she looks at him, her eyes liquid. “I saw Alec stand up, shortly after. And level the daggers. I don't know how many demons he killed... but when he came back to you... he─”.

Magnus swallows a long sigh, the uncomfortable feeling of being alive is supplanted by that other terrible feeling, knowing that something in him has broken, that something in Alexander is changing. “I have to see him, Isabelle. You can't help him now”.

She looks at him, her eyes wide. “You know? Do you know what's happening to him?”.

And he shrugs. Even this hurts him, even this tiny movement. Surely it will be hard to get to where Alec is, but he has to do it, he has to go to him. And maybe he’s wrong and he’s just letting himself be influenced. There is no proof, yet, there is no certainty. “Take me to him, please. I have to see his condition before giving you a definite answer, but─”.

“Can you help him? Are you sure?” she mumbles, and decides to give him both her hands.

Magnus merely nods his head and takes Isabelle's hands and tries to concentrate on his movement, on his knees on the steps he will have to take. He hopes not to fall forward, immediately.

“If you need some energy, you tell me and I give you as much as you want, okay?” Isabelle adds, tightening her grip on his hands.

And Magnus looks up, smiles softly at her. “You've already given me enough. Indeed, I should thank you”.

“How do you─” she says, but he interrupts her by standing up.

His magic sustains him sufficiently, his body, although aching and painful, manages to support his movement, yet, a guttural groan tears his breath in the back of his throat. His chest still hurts, the area where there was that big claw running through his rib cage pulsates in a terrible way. His heart rises in his throat and he hears his ears hissing. The dizziness that comes later, however, doesn’t surprise him. He hardly spreads his legs and tries to resist the nausea that turns over his stomach, the taste of the blood sticking to the roof of his mouth.

“Magnus?” Isabelle calls him, a little worried.

“Your brother,” says Magnus, returning on the topic, not to think about the pain, about Alexander somewhere in the Institute who alone fights that dark and powerful energy. “You two have a very similar energy. Yours is more determined, more direct. I felt it permeate every millimetre of me in a short time. Alexander’s does the same, it comes to every point of my body, but gently, like a caress,” he adds with a tiny bit of fondness. “They both have the same consistency, the same warmth. Obviously it’s a trait of your being” he smiles. “And I think I felt Alec's energy first and then yours. If you hadn't been there... I would certainly have kicked the bucket”.

Isabelle takes a breath, tightens her lips in a gentle expression. “Something came out when he touched you, as if he had returned your magic to you, he kissed you and you started breathing again... it seemed like one of those cliché things you see in romantic movies you know?” perhaps it is a somewhat clumsy attempt to make him smile, an attempt that doesn’t have the desired effect. “Your heart has started beating again”.

“Thank you,” says Magnus softly, trying to direct all his attention now to his knees to be able to implement the movement of his body, trying to ignore this last information, trying to ignore the fact that Alec used magic. And that's what he feared. Magic. Alec can't use it. Or rather, he couldn't use it. Before the eclipse. Before the other night.

“Don't talk nonsense, Alec would have killed me,” she replies. “And I don't think he'd let me get away with this thing so smoothly, you know? I'm making you move around even if you're all ragged now…” she adds and then looks at him, her big dark eyes now shiny. “However, if you can help him... Magnus, please...”.

Magnus leaves her hand to caress her face. “Leave it to me”.

“I'm afraid...” she murmurs, her voice trembles “He was... he is unrecognizable, while they were trying to heal you I tried to... calm him down but─”.

He sighs and nods. “I can imagine. The important thing is that the Clave doesn't know it, okay? What happened must remain here as much as possible. Nobody needs to know besides the people in this Institute… it comes in handy that the Angel makes ascend very few of you…” he adds, very serious. “Now take me where Alexander is”.

  Now if he really has to be honest, he doesn't like to go down to the dungeons of the Institute. And not just because going down the stairs is something terribly tiring at the moment, after having had to walk all that long hallway to get to the stairs, but because it’s something that gives him some anxiety. For all those terrible things that the Downworlders remember: years of imprisonment, of torture for those like him, of pain, of anger.

But there is also that energy. Huge. Red-hot. And it gets closer and closer.

This is the confirmation he feared. It is enough for him to know that Alec is there in the dungeons, and that energy is there with him, to know what he has to do. Even if he doesn't really know where to start.

His steps become heavier, more uncertain, every muscle begs for mercy because everything hurts, and his magical energy, which permeates every single cell, seems to run away from that pulsating scar that may not yet be defined as such. And as difficult as it is painful as his body is slowing down at every step, and making it even more difficult to keep his eyes open, his goal doesn’t change, his determination doesn’t change. He must reach Alexander.

There is a smell of sulphur that stings his nose and blurs his eyes, the smell of burnt flesh and ichor, of blood and dust makes him nauseous.

That energy comes from the depths of the dungeons, from which also comes a gurgling gloom, which seems a growl, but perhaps it is more a crying. Magnus shudders, and perhaps, even before reaching the bottom of the dark corridor in the dungeons of the Institute, he has already understood.

It's already late.

Jace is facing a cell, Clary is with him, her eyes turned to the floor. Perhaps Isabelle also understood, because her breath breaks at the bottom of her throat, and the hand with which she guides Magnus into the dungeons, tightens more around his, and the one with which she wraps his hips to support him, rubs the very low quality fabric of this terrible shirt that Simon lent him.

The roars become deeper, more noisy, more chilling, and together with them, the air breaks from time to time with this terrible cry of pain. There seems to be a thick, dark fog, like the smoke of a fire coming from the cell, and escapes from the slit under the door, it also comes out of the tiny window on which Jace is leaning over.

“I'm going in, okay?” says Magnus, and actually wants to swear. He would like to admit aloud that he doesn't know where to start, that he doesn't know if he can actually do something, even just make Alec get a little bit better. He only read this thing in the books lost in the Silent City, he only heard it rumbling in the darkest recesses of the Spiral Labyrinth, he heard it among the many ancient legends that Ragnor never stopped telling when they were traveling together, but no one has never seen anything like this, he’s more than certain of this.

Isabelle continues to hold his hand, tightens her grip on his hips more. She looks more agitated than him.

And Magnus would like to tell her something, reassure her, but he knows what he'll find in there. He knows it, or at least he imagines it, he knows it and doesn't know it altogether. Because, in fact, maybe it's the first Downworlder currently living to see something like that. Not even the ancient warlocks who still walk the earth have ever seen this thing. The legends, however, are true. And this thought is like the tolling of a bell that roars in his ears.

He smiles at Isabelle then. And silently thanks her for having accompanied him there. “I'll take care of it, don't worry,” he tells her. But perhaps he wants to reassure himself. 

Magnus remains motionless for another couple of seconds. He watches silently, the thick black fog twisting around his ankles and seems to climb his pants like some kind of arachnid. Everything hurts him, yet the thing that most distresses him right now isn’t his body, but the negative emotion that comes from that cell. It seems as if the magic has become corporeal, like a dense black fog bank, only in response to this agony. And if it is so powerful that it becomes so palpable, it will be definitely unstoppable.

When he moves his hand to palpate the consistency of that fog, he undoubtedly recognizes anger, resentment and remorse. An impossible bitterness that throbs in that darkness. It’s magic dust, it seems to have the thickness of a thundercloud and when a flash of its magic lights up between Magnus’ fingers, that fog in his hand condenses into a single thick mass. Magnus rubs it between the palms of his hands and as it turns to ash, it seems to burn his skin as much as it’s powerful.

The magic that originates from bad emotions is extremely destructive, but in the end he is a powerful warlock, a High Warlock, he will manage to find a way out of it.

Another cry, strangled, torn, rises from the cell and echoes between the stone walls of that corridor. It’s so loud, that it is to be expected that it can be heard in the street.

He can't wait any longer. He must enter. Immediately. As quickly as possible.

“Magnus” Jace's voice sounds grim in that hallway “I go with you”.

Magnus looks at him. He seems summarily battered, the signs of the battle are still evident on his gear. There is a black slap of the same consistency as that dense fog that marks the centre of the chest.

“Do you want to go back?” Clary sputters , behind him. She is worried. “I don't think he wants you in there...”.

Magnus stands in silence and observes them, before moving his eyes into that little loophole on the massive door that closes the cell from which he can observe that kind of dense fog that has piled up in there. A roar, a cry. And something like fiery lightning passes through that black dust. Perhaps he managed to see the forms of something on the ground in that darkness. Someone more than something. Someone huddled. Alexander .

“I feel he needs me, though,” Jace replies. “He's suffering─a lot and... I don't know how to help him this time”.

And Magnus remains motionless. Moves his gaze back to Jace. And perhaps from his eyes shines the same bewilderment that took over his soul. Impossible. “The parabatai rune?”. No, it can't be, it's too late.

Jace moves the leather jacket he wears, raises a corner of his shirt and shows his side. The rune is still there. Dark and perfectly marked on his skin.

Magnus sucks his breath between clenched teeth. Impossible.

“What's the matter?” mumbles Clary, alarmed.

Magnus’ head is lighting up like the sky on July 4th. The lucidity of his thoughts overcomes the turmoil given by pain: it’s as if he were on top of a precipice, and looking down he can see, see the infinite world of possibilities. There is a series of ideas that appear and disappear, flicker in the depths of his mind. It’s impossible that the runes are still in place. It's impossible, or maybe it's something that could make him hope. Maybe he can save Alec, maybe he can avoid the inescapable. “How many has he killed?” Magnus asks, looking back into the cell from that loophole. The fog is even thicker, it’s impossible that the runes are still in their place, that this, all this doesn’t come from him. From Alec.

“I think…” Jace begins to say.

“No. I need the exact number,” Magnus growls. And without even looking at them, he feels that the three Shadowhunters have stiffened behind him. “Sorry but... it's important”.

“They were so many, Magnus,” Clary says , her voice is like a whisper. “The sky was full of demons and Alec took dozens of them down,” she adds pensive. “He killed six, while he passed me, to reach you...”.

Isabelle sighs. “Somehow he closed the second rift, and before doing so he killed around thirty, which had just come out and at least another couple of dozen that came out in the meantime”.

“He was like a war machine” someone else nods. It’s Simon’s voice that echoes from the top of the stairs leading down there, he has four coffees in the plastic cups and a blue paper box with him from the shop down the street. “Supplies, I got doughnuts too!” he approaches and offers coffee to the two girls first.

“You drafted the report,” says Jace, retrieving his coffee. “How many arrows were there?”.

“About sixty around the pier, but I don't know how many exploded with demons... Alec uses many special runes to enhance the arrows and as many to reuse them, why?” Simon asks, handing the coffee to Magnus who instead shakes his head and continues to look in the cell.

Maybe he didn't kill all those demons. This is what a small part of him hopes, and maybe it's just a legend and what’s happening in that cell is the effect of some demon. Maybe he is wrong, maybe his judgment is clouded by all that blood he has lost. Maybe it’s just a simple demonic possession.

“Magnus why?” Isabelle asks.

“It's a long story,” Magnus replies, swallowing noisily and running his hand over the handle of the cell. And then a flash. The report. “Don’t send that report to Idris”.

“No?” Simon asks.

“No.” says Magnus. “Absolutely not. What happened this night must remain confidential, I don't know, say that vampires and werewolves helped us along with some warlocks, maybe the whole Spiral Labyrinth if you please. Invent something. Cover it up, or just say that there was a problem with the sensors, and there weren't all those demons, no rifts… come up with something, I don’t know. I need to help him now,” he adds confusedly, something that bitterly comes back to him, that thought. That bitter thought. If I can help him. If I can save him.

“Why?” someone asks, and maybe it's Clary's voice.

This draws his attention and he shifts his gaze to her, and sucks a breath between his teeth, the pain radiating from him to every corner of his body clouds his vision. “If not, Clave will hunt him down”.

[ch3]

[lamalefix]

Pulvis et umbra natura renovantur integra - ch. 4

read this work on ao3

[ch1; ch2; ch3]

It’s a strange feeling, perceiving your own body.

Precisely perceiving, feeling every part of your body is weird, if not gross. Because normally, anyone should concentrate on identifying that exact toe, that specific point behind the neck, that very particular place at the base of the back, especially those like Alec, who have always been much more attentive to what happened around them than to what happened inside them. Yeah, he could reach the very end of his strength, he could find himself with a bloody hand and his shoulder displaced, he would have hurt himself very badly, but he certainly wouldn’t have felt every little part of his body.

It has happened at other times, to feel so tired, so utterly exhausted that every single millimetre, every small particle of his cells, could become clearly identifiable. It happened to Alec a few times, and usually this exhaustion, this complete tiredness, went hand in hand with something else. With the satisfaction of a satisfying intercourse, completely and unquestionably perfect in every single sense, in every detail.

But Alec remembers it, why his body is now so perceptible. And it should certainly not be, so perceptible. He still feels the contours of the burns left by a handful of healing runes, which certainly won’t do much except ease his pain, something they can’t even do much anymore, since their effect seems to last less and less with every single reactivation. Alec can smell burnt flesh, the annoying stench of the ichor and something else putrid that is torn away from him, right from his own body. From that wound that runs through his torso from shoulder to hip. But it’s his head, his head will drive him crazy. He could swear that he even felt the drops of sweat beading his forehead, he could say that he was able to identify which hair is more sticky than the others, in which precise point of his scalp there is this tiny but annoying abrasion that hurts so fucking much. He feels the blood in the beds of his fingernails, that is beginning to thicken and give him an additional sense of dirt. The blood on his hands, on his arms, seems to have become as thick as mud, and now that it is drying it seems to weigh on him like a flow of tar. The clothes, or what’s left of them, feel caked against him.

Everything hurts, but it’s the head that will drive him crazy.

Now that the darkness has cleared, even that dim light that invades the room, the cell ─ was it a cell in which he had slipped in to limit the damage in a moment of strange and unexpected lucidity, right? ─ weighs on his eyelids as if it was molten gold. The corners of his forehead, precisely two fingers above his eyebrows, seem to be about to explode, it seems that the skin is threatening to tear itself apart if it hasn’t already done so, or perhaps he had hurt himself and this could explain this pain.

And then there’s the noise, the voices, the clamour of people who don’t feel comfortable. It is a constant coming and going and if he were not certain that he had seen Magnus, shortly before closing his eyes, Alec wouldn’t believe his ears now that from time to time his voice, gentle but peremptory, velvety and strangely severe, tries to give orders.

And Alec would like to reopen his eyes, but he can’t do it, as busy as he is perceiving his own body. Maybe his head will give him a little peace and let him sleep a bit.

 It takes hours, the activation of a lot of healing runes and the use of almost all the energy that is left in Magnus’ body and that has been patiently supplied also by Simon and Clary , to make Alec’s blood completely clean, finally clear of any sign of poison. At the umpteenth groan, Magnus decides to stop. Tissue damage is clearly more extensive than what the warlock, in his current condition, can heal. He can hardly keep his eyes open. He catches his breath and his fingers tremble. His whole body is drained and if he has to use the little magic he still has inside him, he will have to use it to ease Alec’s pain. Alec himself cannot resist much: the runes burn away their effect faster and faster, and his body can’t hold any more magic. The next few hours are crucial, and it will be all in Alec’s own strength.

So, Magnus recovers some shreds of sheet, and begins to cover every wound by hand, without snapping his fingers, first the big one that crosses his chest and that still has those jagged edges, and then all the others. He wraps his head, Alec has an ugly sign on his forehead that reaches the left eyebrow, like a crescent moon, and another slightly smaller on the other side a few inches over his brow. Then the palms of his hands that have these big burn marks that are now drying, the scratches on the arms, on the legs. With a little bit of luck and a little more magic, maybe he can make those scars disappear.

It was clearly a furious battle, even the rest of the Lightwoods don’t seem to be properly at their best, but he, Alec, clearly struggled at the end of his strength.

With a little luck, and a little more magic, but the signs will disappear almost completely. Only if he─

“Magnus?” he hears Jace talking to him in the immediate proximity. He hasn’t spoken at all, and Magnus’s almost surprised to hear his.

He turns, his eyes a bit clouded and sees him, stretching out his hand.

“Take it, take it all. Please save him”.

A small part of him thanks that the blond Shadowhunter has remained there until now, and that, above all, he has stopped Magnus’ stream of consciousness. Those thoughts were aiming at a very dark corner of his head, the possibility that now is more palpable than ever, but he’d better ignore it.

Magnus swallows, and tries to sketch out a half smile. Jace needs him awake, because as soon as Magnus won’t be able to keep his eyes open Alec will need his parabatai to go back, to find his way back, and the rest of his family is drained of their energy and has been dismissed perhaps no more than half an hour ago. “No, not now,” he says. And he only realizes at that moment how weak his voice is. He is thirsty, a thirst that perhaps not even the most crystalline water would be able to appease. It’s the thirst of those who saw death in the face, of those who risked dying.

“Then let’s call the Silent Brothers, or... or let’s call Catarina... we have to heal him, right?” and he’s so loud, yet even his voice has something different: he looks terrified. He is terrified. “The runes no longer have much effect... because he is exhausted but─”.

Magnus sighs and shakes his head slowly: if Catarina were informed of what is happening to Alec she would try to help them, but she would also be hunted down by the Clave. As long as this thing remains between them, there won’t be too much collateral damage.

Jace moves, and maybe it’s a vague attempt to get Magnus’ attention. His hand is still there, outstretched. “Take it, I’ll activate a couple of stamina runes and refresh me, don’t worry” he reiterates. “We have to heal him, if you want to do it... that’s fine, but you’re exhausted, Magnus. Alec wouldn’t let me... take it, please...”.

The warlock then reaches out to cover Jace’s hand. “We have to let him heal. In small steps, it will take a little longer but...” he says and the words die in the back of his throat. It’s difficult to explain this concept, and he is not really of the trade. “At least for the next few hours. His physique would hold no other magic, be it mine or that of a healer...” he adds. “And then we can’t call anyone now.”

“Why?” He asks again.

Magnus swallows noisily and looks back at Alec, gently stroking his face with his fingertips. “Call your family it’s time to explain...”.

There is a great ruckus. It is as indistinct as the buzz of a very crowded street, like a murmur that burns in the ears and seems to get stronger and stronger.

He could swear to hear the sound of his own blood flowing in his veins, rising and turning in the swirls of the auricles, climbing up his back and reaching the base of his skull.

Alec is not a noisy type, he has always been good at listening, drawing his conclusions and living in a heavy silence, a silence made up of bottled thoughts and hidden and denied desires. The noises around him come from afar, yet they are close. It seems the din that his brothers have always made. He has never had chaos in his head, he has always been a methodical type who proceeds with a cool mind. He could swear he never dreamed, or at least he never dreamed of anything striking, nothing to declare aloud, nothing that lingers on his skin the morning after. His head has always been full of thoughts, all bottled, capped well and hidden in a dark crevice, far away even from the eyes of the other part of his soul.

And then Magnus arrived, and everything changed. The ruckus around him took on the connotations of a calm chaos, regulated by the continuous flow of his magic, warm and gentle waves, delicate like light caresses. His thoughts are no longer bottled up in that remote corner of his mind, and every now and then he also gives voice to the most hidden desires, he usually whispers them because it’s still a bit scary to give them a voice. And he knows how to listen and holds his breath and no longer draws his conclusions in a heavy silence. Now, when he goes to bed, when in the evening he falls asleep sometimes he dreams. Because he knows how to dream. And in the dream he clenches his fists, holds his breath and stands there watching. And perhaps he has always known how to dream. But in the morning he has something on him, he has the signs of that desire that hung on his skin, out of the dream, he has the signs of kisses and love, he has the signs of Magnus’ presence and of what he was always afraid of dreaming, of asking, and now he can finally say that belongs to him.

There is a lot of noise around him. And it’s all dark. And perhaps it was a dream but he saw Magnus in that black mist that surrounded him. Magnus who dispelled the darkness. Magnus who spoke to him, in such a soft and low voice.

And maybe it’s not the end, it’s not the end of his life. Of their lives.

Or maybe Magnus is just trying to accompany Alec where he is.

Maybe in another life, in another circumstance, they will have better luck.

Or from that dust and darkness, something else could be born.

Or maybe Magnus is already there, just waiting for him to wake up.

And perhaps it is so, because in that confusion, in that great din, and his head has always been pretty good at identifying that voice, his favourite voice and excluding all the background noise, all the buzz, Alec manages to intercept it: there’s Magnus right beside him.

And Magnus speaks softly and seems to be looking for the best words to say about something that Alec isn’t able to grasp, and he seems to be holding back heavy thoughts and weighing the words, and he seems so worried.

Of course, Alec is confused, and his thoughts are not at all cohesive and coherent, outlined and concise. He is not only confused, he is tired. And maybe fatigue makes his senses benighted and what he saw before him was nothing but Magnus’ ghost who said goodbye to him, and his voice now it’s just trying to guide him. What did that ghost say?

 “Okay so you said you would explain everything...” someone mumbles, and Magnus is really careless right now. It was enough to leave him alone for a minute with Alec, and let himself go and closed his eyes for a moment. Certainly, he cannot say that he rested: that kind of half-minute nap in which everything was dark, confused him completely. More than expected.

He wrinkles his nose, sighs and tries to find the words. He swallows and attempts to keep his eyes away from Alec for a moment. Magnus loves drama, and if only he were just in a slightly different situation, he would tell this story with his usual melodramatic intonation, to give it an ancient and magical, almost fairy-tale sense, mostly because something ancient like this deserves some satisfactory performance. Now, instead, everything comes out monotonous. “It is a very antique lore,” says Magnus, his eyes fixed on Alec’s impossible pallor, on his forehead beaded with sweat, on blood-drenched bandages, which he may have to change sooner than expected.

The silence is deafening. He can only hear the choked breath, the half rattle that starts from Alec’s half-open lips, Alec who is doing his very best to stay alive, with his own strength.

Magnus closes his eyes and tries to shift his gaze again and point it at one, any of those present. “Probably, a good part of the Silent Brothers doesn’t even know the whole story... there is a book in the library, in the forbidden area, in which there are early bestiaries... and this legend, it is a short article on an illuminated manuscript, and perhaps it is included in the bestiary only because it is reputed folklore” he mumbles, and his adding words is a dancing around, it’s an attempt in every way to lengthen the broth, to gild the pill.

“Magnus” hisses someone, and maybe he’s so tired he can’t tell if it’s Isabelle or Jace the one who’s talking, of course, whoever it is, they just want him to get to the point.

Magnus swallows again, noisily. And maybe it’s because he’s very tired, because he used so much of that magic that he can’t take it anymore. Or maybe it’s because they are heavy thoughts, they are heavy words, and opening his mouth could do enormous damage. “It’s said that if you bathe in the blood of a hundred demons, in a night of eclipses in which Mars also bloods the sky... you can become more like demons”.

“No, I don’t understand,” Clary mumbles furrowed brow on her confused face.

“Was that magic Alec’s? It wasn’t yours, you said it... so...” Simon deduces, his eyes wide as the realization slaps him. Isabelle also has the same shocked expression. “Is Alec becoming a warlock?”.

“They are just legends...” Jace begins to say . “Right?”.

Clary sighs and rubs the bridge of her nose . “Well, we are immersed in legends. Legends are true”.

Magnus shrugs. “I don’t know. Probably one of the ancient warlocks really knows someone who turned like this, maybe they know the real story behind this tale... Ragnor believed that some of the very first magic-users had become such in this very same way. It’s as if the blood of a demon corrupted the existence of others, and it’s rare because it happens only with the conjunction of multiple factors... it’s like the fall of angels…” he sighs and drops his words when Alec groans louder and his breath breaks at the bottom of his throat. And Magnus looks at him and loses all his attention: Alec’s parted lips are trying to bite the air in front of his nose, just to get more oxygen. And Magnus’ heart breaks a little more.

Isabelle is talking. And a part of him thanks her mentally for pushing him. “Do you think...”.

“This would explain many things... Alec can use magic, a magic very similar to mine, because he has angelic blood.” Magnus nods without even looking up.

“But he can use the runes!” Clary objects . “It doesn’t make sense...”.

The warlock half-closes his eyes and sighs feebly. “I don’t know.” he admits softly. He was hoping this was just a legend and Alec could get better, but he’s seen the magic sparkling between Alec’s fingers so… “I would assume that, since he is not corrupted by the demonic factor, his runes still work. Maybe that’s it…”.

And he waits for any reaction, but nothing comes.

“I mean” he reiterates. “It’s extremely rare, and I don’t know if those like you can survive, I don’t really know if anyone ever survived the transformation. If this can be called transformation... we know little… I know little about it. And Alec is strong, I know he is, but I don’t know how much he can resist, he’s lost a lot of blood and I don’t know... I don’t know what will happen next...” he says again and realizes that it is a stream of consciousness, he’s simply giving air to the mouth, he’s actually spewing all this information onto them. He should stop, he should weigh his words.

Isabelle tightens the hold on his shoulder, but she doesn’t say a thing.

No one says anything, or maybe Magnus is so tired, so confused, that everything around him is beginning to lose all his interest. The only thing that interests him, frankly, is Alec who has this face all wrinkled in a contrite grimace. But somehow, he also seems to have listened to everything, and Magnus merely moves his hand to rub his cheek in a light caress.

He finally opens his eyes in a moment of dread.

Magnus is still there, hastening with his fingers sparkling in the blue flames of his magic and moving on him. Alec cannot move his head but he is sure that his situation, that of his body, is not exactly the best. But the magic moves slowly, and seems to only alleviate the pain. And that’s okay, he can’t ask for more. There is other magic that slowly approaches his body, it’s more precise and surgical, it’s Catarina’s. And she is in the limit of Alec’s field of vision, a dark blue spot that observes him curiously.

She seems to say something, but there is that continuous noise. That noise in his ears that seems to become even more pressing, more deafening. An impossible clamour. There are other people there, besides the two warlocks, and he can’t recognize where he is, but of course the bed is uncomfortable and every inch of his body hurts. From the tip of his hair to the bead of his feet.

Yet when at last Magnus looks into his eyes, the noise disappears and there is peace again. There is a tired smile that curls his lips for a moment, and Alec would like to tell him that he has to stop, that he can see from how his eyes are dull that he is tired, that he can’t do it. That he is so drained, so exhausted and he must, he must rest. Alec will make it. It will take longer, but he will make it. If Magnus is alive, he will make it. He has to do it.

And he opens his mouth and tries to say something but only a dull sound comes out, and something that scratches his throat, a lump of blood and pain, gets stuck in his trachea.

When he starts to cough, Magnus is alarmed and says something to someone who is nearby, beyond the periphery of Alec’s field of view, and even if it was in the immediate vicinity, his eyes as always are only for Magnus.

A very slight smile seems to tremble on Alec’s lips, but that thing that has climbed in his throat seems to have taken away all his words.

Alec isn’t good with words. He’s better at listening. And he is even better, a champion in this, to live in a endless series of heebie-jeebies. And right now it’s even better, even more so, to look at a situation objectively.

And he is objectively dying.

And Magnus was objectively dying. A few hours ago, or it was probably a few hours ago, and now he is there using all his magic to remedy a situation that has no remedies.

He is dying.

It’s an objective fact.

And it doesn’t matter.

It’s like dreaming in fits and starts. The light that flickers in the immediate distance. And then it disappears, and the darkness takes over his visual field.

Alec is really tired of this story, he’s tired of head that is in this continuous chaos.

He doesn’t like chaos, he prefers to bottle everything and forget about it. They will be a problem for later. He doesn’t like chaos, he doesn’t like nightmares that take possession of his sleep, that take his breath away and that always have the terrible taste of absence.

Usually it’s enough to stretch out your hand and tighten his grip on Magnus and the dream disappears and the rest of the night passes in a whisper of smoke. And in the morning, he leaves the bed reluctantly, but with a certain satisfaction on him.

Now he can’t even move his fingers, he can’t look for his hand and maybe in his head everything is confusing again, and it’s all taking on the over-defined form of an absence. If Magnus no longer exists, then it isn’t worthwhile for him to exist.

Maybe he gets lucky and reincarnates into something that will have the same duration as Magnus sooner or later. In something that Magnus will love even half of what he loves now. It must not be him, Alec who is dying, the love of his life. Because Magnus is timeless, without expiry, and will live long and love again and again and again and again─ And maybe Alec is a little jealous, and he feels like crying, but it’s not the pain that clouds his vision, but the farewell that weighs on his tongue but that lump in his throat can’t get out.

It is an objective fact. He is dying. And Magnus is in danger of dying too from using all that magic. Because he was in pieces. Alec felt his life abandoning his body. Magnus was dead.

And maybe this is a dream. And his head doesn’t allow him to die in peace, because it’s his fault that Magnus is dead. It’s his fault. It’s his fault. It’s his fault.

And perhaps the chaos has disappeared because he doesn’t hear anything afterwards.

But it hurts. It hurts like hell. Damn.

And he deserves it a little.

 It is the third day. Or maybe it’s the fourth. Magnus doesn’t really know, to be honest, he is rather exhausted to elaborate concepts and systematize them.

Alec opened his eyes a few days ago and yet, yet no sign of recovery. Of course, the wounds are healing very slowly, but they are healing. And perhaps the only thing Magnus can hold on to is that he breathes, and nothing can be worth more: Alec is still alive.

“You don’t look so well,” Isabelle tells him. Even she, to be honest, doesn’t look so good: her hair aren’t that shiny black, now opaque, her big eyes are marked by the livid tiredness of sleepless nights, in which she attempted to make Magnus leave Alec’s bedside for more than those twenty or so minutes for a quick shower and a bite, or for carrying out some physiological function.

And Magnus moves his gaze and looks at her with his usual friendly smile. “My darling Isabelle, I’ll excuse you because I know I’m not that fabulous right now… I’ll tell you the truth: one can’t be fabulous when he’s trying to prevent his love’s death and not ending up killed in the process himself”.

Isabelle never asked that question, she never asked if her brother will survive. She never even questioned it. But that question has been on Magnus’ shoulders since he saw Alec with his eyes open that time. Magnus knows, that this whole situation is all in Alec’s hands, in that internal struggle that is wearing him down very softly, but definitely. Isabelle doesn’t ask that question.

But now the question slips between her teeth, she looks low and lost, and runs a hand through her brother’s hair, damp with sweat and encrusted with blood and ichor. “Will he make it?” and her tone, the tone with which she asks that question, snatches Magnus’ breath.

He doesn’t know how to say it, he doesn’t know how to explain to all of them what’s happening and, above all, he doesn’t know how to put into words that, probably, even with all his magic, with all his good will, Alec might not make it.

He squints and then looks back at Alexander, motionless, the breath coming out of his half-open mouth sounds like a rattle. “He is strong, you know” he replies.

“Magnus,” she calls him, and maybe she is using the same tone Magnus used only a few days ago to ask her if Alec was alive.

The warlock, the High Warlock of Brooklyn, shakes his head and looks at her, his tear ducts seem to be on fire. “I don’t know, Isabelle.” And maybe Magnus has a more definite answer, but he doesn’t want to give it a voice. It’s always in that dark corner of his head, in that black and tumultuous corner of his life. There is where he encloses his worries, where he puts all the terrible thoughts concerning Alec. Alec, who is the love of his life. “It’s all in his hands,” he says, wrinkling his nose and doing his best not to cry, and brings Alec’s hand to his mouth, kissing his knuckles, one by one. “I won’t let him die, I can tell you that,” he adds and feels a new and more powerful determination burning in his eyes. “I’ll do my best to keep him with us, but now it’s all in his hands, I can only ease his pain”.

Isabelle heaves a long sigh between her teeth, and perhaps tries to hold back a sob. “Do you want to move him to the infirmary?”.

Magnus looks at her for a moment and shakes his head. “No. There are runes here that block the magical influx. It is certainly safer to keep it here. Maryse , are you coming? “

“No. She is still at the London Institute” she murmurs. “Should I send her a fire message?”.

“No.” says Magnus. “No. The less people know about this, the better”.

“Catarina said you’re reckless” she mumbles.

“I know.” he nods with a certain fondness that stretches on his face. “I really deserved her pep talk...”.

“Magnus, she can help us. She can help Alec, help you...” she replies, shaking her head.

“First: she already helped,” he starts, and maybe he’s too harsh, his voice is too severe. He tightens his lips in a thin line and gulps again his words, trying to buy time and reformulate. “When I said that the Clave would hunt Alexander, I mean that it will happen. It’s not just a possibility. If Alec survives─” he stops, and he just needs a moment to find the words, tears stings in his eyes saying it out loud makes it true. “When─When he’ll open his eyes, he will be hunted by the Clave as soon as his magic appears...”.

And Isabelle draws her breath between her teeth and sits on that ramshackle bed next to her brother, as if her legs can’t hold her anymore.

“The same thing applies to Catarina. She already knows too many things, she helped us, if they knew she tried to help us... she will risk what we all risk: a life sentence. You could be ripped off your runes and I...” he stops, squeezes Alexander’s hand and brings it to his mouth. “You know what happens to the Warlocks who break your beloved Law.”

“But we’re not breaking the law, Alec was dying... you...” she mumbles.

Magnus smiles at her calmly. “I couldn’t do otherwise. We could not do otherwise.” he replies and does his best, with all of himself, not to let his voice tremble. “But, Alexander is strong, and I’m sure he will do his best not to leave us… I don’t know if and when he can control his magic. His magic is very strong,” he adds. “It’s dangerous and the Clave will hunt him because he is dangerous, Isabelle. Because he is outside the rules, because he is against the law... because a Nephilim cannot become a warlock”.

Isabelle sighs again, her shoulders tremble, but she seems to hold the blow, she smiles at him, in her eyes there is a resolution that is clearly the Trueblood’s heritage. “Take him away, then. As soon as he wakes up, as soon as he is able to travel, take him away. You definitely have a place where you can protect him... and where you can help him control himself... and surely you know a glamour that is powerful enough not to be intercepted by our sensors...” she adds.

And Magnus is speechless for a minute, and when he tries to open his mouth she continues.

“If you can protect him, Magnus. My family and I will do our very best to support you. We’ll make up excuses, we’ll come up with fake missions and all… we will figure it out. We will make sure to take his place alternately. We will also talk about it with mother...” she adds and shakes her head slowly.

And Magnus still has his mouth open, but no sound comes out.

“If my brother lives, I’m sure, I’m sure you can help him,” Isabelle adds, even more resolution that sparkles in her eyes, and almost seems to delete all that exhaustion that lingered on her face. “And then fuck the Clave. If they strip me of my runes  for helping my brother, a warrior, a hero of the war, two heroes, my family, then that’s fine. I’ll gladly be a mundie...”.

And while a tiny smile is approaching Magnus’ lips and he is about to answer her, something attracts his attention. Alec calls his attention.

His lips are parted, but no sound comes from his throat. That rattle that was his breathing, doesn’t come anymore.

And Magnus snaps his fingers and calls his magic back to him.

Is he─

It can’t be happening.

No.

No.

No.

   The shock of magic that rubs against his lips suddenly seems to help him breathe better. And the weight he had on his chest, a weight he didn’t remember he had, or Alec doesn’t know how long  was there, seems to disappear.

The throat is now parched, the trachea asks for water, but he can’t find the words. Maybe he doesn’t even have the words. And he really wants to say something, because that’s Magnus’ magic. His magic kissed his lips and made him breathe. And now Magnus is talking, talking to someone. His voice is velvety, as always, but it is weighed down by an impressive tiredness, and fear, and worry. The words that roll up his tongue, like when he speaks but he is slipping into that satisfying slumber after a night spent together.

Alec forces himself to open his eyes. He doesn’t even remember when he closed them. And it takes all his determination, all his good will to open them.

And when the light enters, when he finally manages to open his damned eyelids, the one that appears in his field of vision is Magnus, with the terror in his eyes and the face that seems to contract into something indescribable, or at least something that Alec couldn’t describe right now. His eyes widen, his pupils dilate and the tiny tired smile that curls on his lip looks so so happy.

And if Alec has looked at him even once like that, as Magnus is looking at him now, he can be satisfied.

It seems that a heavy weight has been taken off his lean shoulders and his eyes are shiny and maybe it’s fatigue, maybe it’s something more, maybe tears. And Alec frowns, and the mere gesture of wrinkling his forehead makes a weird and unpleasant shock that climbs his spine and reaches every single point in his whole body and obscures his vision. But he can’t close his eyes, because he has to drink him, Magnus.

Magnus. All dishevelled and opaque hair, clothes that certainly aren’t amazing and flashy, they are clean  at least but certainly had seen better days, but yet Magnus is so beautiful that Alec perhaps for a single moment forgets that even breathing hurts so much.

Magnus seems to have lost his words, or maybe he can’t find them. He has his lips parted and two small tears seem to crown the corners of his eyes, his green-golden iris is just a small, small frame for the black pit of his pupils broad and dilated.

“Hey” Alec finally manages to say with a whisper. His throat is parched from an impossible thirst, and the voice seems to come right from the other world but he couldn’t feel more alive than this. Every single inch of his body doesn’t hurt anymore, he just wants to feel Magnus on him. Even just a kiss. Or ten. Or a hundred. Or a thousand.

But for now he can be satisfied even just looking at him, like this and letting its eyes warm up his heart and ease his pain.

[ch.5]