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cdroloisms · 3 years

Note

Do you consider a possibility that c!Punz never betrayed c!Dream in the first place and whole "I'm sorry, Dream -- but you should have paid me more" thing was a facade and undercover for Punz? Like Dream said that Punz should not associated with him, so it was intentional-

staged disc finale theory my beloved !!! :D it’s definitely one of my favorite theories, though i’m still holding out (for now) as for believing super firmly in one direction or another (tho the staged finale is definitely the one i prefer for Many reasons, haha.) c!punz is so so fun no matter if the betrayal was intentional or not, but oh boyyyy if it was something planned ,,, man .

*c!dream voice, after quackity starts visiting*: the risk i took was calculated, but man am i bad at math.

anyway c!punz and c!dream interactions make me soft as heck so have this !!

tw: implied torture, abuse, violence, blood, injuries, emotional distress, panicking, dehumanization, unhealthy coping mechanisms, unhealthy mindsets, illness, trauma, flashbacks, starvation mention, suicide mention, death mentions, dark content, dark imagery, prison arc/pandora’s vault themes, c!quackity critical/dark portrayal of c!quackity

Dream comes to in vague moments and flashes.

There’s a hand brushing over his forehead, too gentle to be Quackity or the Warden, not Techno because Techno is Gone and he has Left and won’t come again, running through the sweat-soaked locks and pulling them back out of his forehead. He’s unbearably hot, shifting around on the ground, only barely registering it moving beneath him. Water, cool and clear, is tipped in between his lips, quenching his thirst and easing the dryness of his mouth. Someone speaks, voice low and rumbling, and even though he’s unable to make out the words, there’s something about the cadence of them and the specific rhythm in which they move and rise and dip that is bone-achingly familiar, enough to lull him into a fitful sleep. Through it all, there is always something, someone, lingering in the edges of his vision, a shadow standing near and watching over him; part of him remembers Quackity, remembers the Warden, and recoils in fright; another part of him remembers Techno, remembers the barest flashes of a life before obsidian and lava and pain and hell, and wants nothing more than to get closer.

When the fog in his head finally clears away enough to think, the first coherent thought he has is oh fuck, I need to piss.

Which, out of all possible things to think, is probably up there as one of the worst, and he’s sure that when his head feels a little less like it’s trying to actively kill him (ha, let it- it’s far from the first to try) the panic will settle in as it always does. As it is, he’s exhausted, and hungry, and he really really needs to pee- so he forces his eyes open to move away from where he’s probably still stuck in a puddle of dried blood in the middle of his cell.

The second coherent thought he has is this: this isn’t Pandora.

The realization has him thoroughly awake, eyes snapping open out of his previous fatigue to take in his surroundings, feet kicking out to the weight on top of them that he hadn’t even noticed was there, panicking against his restraints that end up not being restraints at all, giving way easily under his thrashing and resolving to what appears to be a thick blanket when he has the mind to look. With the covers gone off of whatever he’s lying on (a bed?) he’s suddenly, unbearably cold - the prison has always been hot, the lava baking into him and leaving his skin sticky with sweat, and he thinks that the room he’s in is probably not meant to feel like a fucking freezer, but after months of being one wrong step away from heatstroke, anything cooler than the goddamn Nether feels like literal ice against his skin. The room is wooden and cozy and oddly familiar, an open door leading to what appears to be a bathroom and a closed one going who knows where, window panes built into the opposite wall to let the sunlight in. It’s a nice room, all things considered, and Dream fucking hates it.

He pulls himself to his feet, cursing at the wobbly edge to his stance when he finally manages to stand, his vision wavering dangerously in time to the spinning of his head. His eyes flick between the two doors - he still needs to go to the bathroom, and using it now will lessen the amount of things to get in the way of his escape in the future - but at the same time, there's no knowing when people will come to (hurt him, beat him, starve him, punish him, leaving him bruised and bleeding and half-dead on the floor just as he deserves) him and he needs all the time he can get to get the hell away. In the end, he slinks into the bathroom, ignoring the thudding in his chest as he does so - at the very least, the cabinets in the thing might provide him with some manner of a weapon.

He’s only just past the door on the way out - a fucking broomstick in his hand because it’s all he could find - when his ears catch on the sound of metal clicking against each other and his eyes fall on the knob of the other door shaking as someone makes their way in. All at once, panic slams into him - goddammit, he should’ve just run when he had the chance - and he directs quick, desperate glances at the window. Maybe, if he’s fast enough, he can book it out of there and disappear into the trees; it’ll hurt, but it’ll be better than getting caught. Anything would be better than getting caught-

“Dream?”

Dream blinks. All at once, the same feeling of getting the air punched out of him returns, but combined with something warm and floaty wrapping around his chest, something almost a little like relief - and hell, if that isn’t something he’s not felt for a while.

“Punz?”

Punz is standing in the doorway, hoodie rumpled, expression more than a little frazzled; Dream’s breath hitches at the sight of the sword strapped to his side, but their face holds none of the harsh edges and cold-dark-hard hatred that had characterized the Warden and Quackity’s visits, mouth slightly parted and eyes shining with nothing but what appears to be shock and concern. The sight of them, again, nearly has Dream dizzy, a swell of tangled, unexplainable emotion rising to the back of his throat as he sways on his feet. He hadn’t thought that he would see Punz again, he realizes, had never thought he’d see his stupid gold chain and his stupid outfit he never bothered changing, ever, or that same lopsided smirk and pale blue eyes- the last time he’d seen them, it was in that vault, their mouth twisted up in the act the two of them had decided on and eyes shimmering with unease and regret; as far as goodbyes went, it wasn’t the worst, not when Punz was one of the few to never leave him, not really, not when something ached in their expression other than the hatred that had colored all of the other expressionless faces watching him die. Months later, alone in Pandora, he must’ve grown resigned, or something, the repeated reminders that he would die alone and afraid and it would be nothing more than he deserved settling into his skin and against his bones; Punz’s expression twists, visible even across the room, and- oh.

They must’ve thought the same thing, too.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Punz asks, finally, and Dream decides not to point out the way his voice cracks harshly in the middle, especially when the other man strides forward and starts to awkwardly herd him back in the direction of the bed - covers still thrown to the floor - in the middle of the room. Dream lets them, not replying because he doesn’t really know where to even begin describing the tangled knot of panic and shock that had strung his muscles tense when he woke up in a room he didn’t recognize, not knowing if he can really describe it all at all, trying his best not to flinch at the hands flitting in the corners of his vision as he falls back into a sitting position onto the bed. His fingers settle into the mattress, pressing into the bedsheets cautiously and marveling when they fall away under the pressure. Punz watches him, expression odd, gathers the blankets from the ground and presses them over and around him in a way that’s entirely awkward but does leave him warmer than he’d been before, before walking back on his heels with an odd expression that makes Dream’s insides twist.

“You,” Punz says after a long second, voice wavering, “are a fucking idiot,” and it’s all the warning Dream gets before a white-and-black blur is rushing towards him, arms wrapping around his chest and his vision whites out in alarm and panic. When the pain doesn’t come, he comes back to his senses enough to realize that Punz’s arms are still wrapped around him, shoulders shaking as he holds him close but not painfully, careful not to pull too much against the places on his ribs and back that leave him gasping with small shocks of pain, head pressed against the crook of Dream’s neck and hair tickling his face. Dream can feel his heart hammering in his chest, but as the panic dies something warm and long-neglected stirs in the middle of his chest, and he melts forward with a quiet hum. This is- nice. Really, really nice.

“What were you thinking?” Punz mutters, too quiet to really be directed at him, hands curling tighter into the folds of the hoodie - oh, he’s wearing one of those, not the same stiff, bloodstained material of the prison uniform that had chafed against his skin, another constant source of pain and discomfort of thousands in the hell that had been Pandora’s Vault - on him, and Dream doesn’t really know what to do except sit there and blink dumbly, listening to the heartbeat of the person leaning against him rumbling against his ears. It’s oddly calming, has the pressure on his chest lightening enough to take a full breath, and then another, the warmth of someone leaning against him almost too much but not enough at the same time - his eyes burn, and he ignores them.

“I-” he doesn’t really think that Punz was really asking a question, but just ignoring his question seems rude, too, and even despite the fuzzy warmth settling into his skin and into his bones from the pressure of Punz’s arms around his body and their head against his shoulder, he’s still unable to shake the anxiety of leaving a query unanswered, a constant murmur to listen obey do as you’re told or you’re going to regret it put on a damn good show or suffer the consequences remaining no matter how hard he tries to push it away. He wets his lips when his mouth feels too dry to keep speaking, eyes fluttering closed as he leans forward further, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You-” Punz cuts themselves off with a wet, incredulous-sounding laugh that has Dream jerking back despite himself, meeting their ice-cold eyes when they pull themselves back to look at him. He doesn’t really recognize the expression he wears, Dream realizes with a jolt, the way his lips are pressed together and the churning in his eyes, and his lungs seize in his chest.

“Sir-”

If anything, Punz’s expression only seems to harden, and the warmth disappears as Dream looks into their eyes - cold, two polished shards of ice, frosted over pools of water in the middle of the tundra, flinty and sharp and brilliant blue. His hands shake as he pulls them back to his chest, trembling from the chill that’s made its home in his muscles and frozen them in place - sir sorry sir please don’t hurt me im sorry please I didn’t mean to

“Fuck, Dream,” he shakes his head, and only then does Dream see the slight wobble to their bottom lip, the waver to their words like they’re struggling to keep themselves together, “why didn’t you say anything?”

What?

You almost died, you know,” he keeps going, not meeting his eyes as they direct their gaze out the window, “Several times, honestly. Fucking hell- when Techno brought you out- I didn’t think you would survive. I didn’t think anyone could survive that.”

Dream swallows. He doesn’t remember getting out, doesn’t really remember much at all if he’s being honest; there was the black of the cell, the heat of the lava, Techno promising to get him out before disappearing in a flash of purple, Quackity throwing him against the wall (Where the fuck did Techno go? You better have a fuckin’ answer, pal, if you want your death to be anything resemblin’ quick-) then nothing. Everything. His heart hammering in his chest and blood slick against his skin and the press of metal against his windpipe and pain, the only constant within it all, the only thing that made any goddamn sense when the room seemed to flip and turn and twist and his feelings knotted and frayed between anger-betrayal-distress-sadness-fear-grief, when reality swirled into a dizzying blur of colors and feelings and sounds carving themselves into the inside of his skull- then here. Dream flexes his hand experimentally, marveling at the feeling - the pain is almost gone.

He’d forgotten how it felt, really, to live and not hurt.

“Dream,” Punz calls again, voice low and worried, and Dream can’t help the way his head snaps up to meet their eyes and can’t help the flinch that twists his neck back when their frown deepens. It’d been a show, at least he tells himself, because Quackity would stop earlier if he screamed more, but- his hands tremble at his sides, twisted into the sheets of the bed, a near-constant litany of reminders and rules beating like they have a heart of their own in the back of his head. It was a show- he feels himself almost buckle, give in under the force of the stare leveled at him, and hates himself for how weak he feels, pinned under the eyes trained on his own. He’s not sure how much of a show it is anymore.

“Dream,” Punz repeats, words even softer, and the ugly feeling of shame and anger twists inside Dream’s chest again. Punz- ever unflappable, deadly with almost any weapon and never letting anyone see him as anything but deliberately apathetic - is watching him with an expression so uncharacteristically and unbearably gentle that it makes his breath catch in his throat. “You could’ve died,” he says once again, and the look that paints his face is so terribly vulnerable, feelings pouring over like a cup overfilled, bubbling forward and bleeding from every corner, and Dream- can’t. He doesn’t know what to do in the face of such stark emotion, doesn’t know how how to handle the way his eyes burn and his heart throbs like an exposed nerve, the way everything yawns wide in the middle of his chest into void and emptiness and pain so deeply carved in the space within his ribs that he half-thinks he’s been hollowed out entirely.

“But I didn’t.”

Punz pulls back, but Dream isn’t looking at him, is staring at the scarred surfaces of the backs of his hands and the knobs of his knuckles sticking out against the thinned-out skin and the yellowed nails he’s pushing against the blanket, the fourth and fifth ones of his right hand missing. They shake, no matter how long he looks at them and how hard he tries to make them stay still, and he can feel a voice whispering in the back of his mind, tone too familiar to ignore. Weak.

“I didn’t die,” he says when Punz doesn’t reply, looking at his scarred hands, weak hands, broken hands. “So it’s okay. We can keep- we can keep going.”

“Dream-” their voice is a blade scraping against an anvil, nails scraping over his ribs, his hands clamping over his ears before he’s realized he’s moved and his brain screaming at him for doing so once he realizes that he has, “-what the fuck are you talking about?”

Still, he hadn’t survived months of Quackity’s visits by bending over the second he was pushed, so he forces his tongue to move from where it’s fallen to the bottom of his mouth like lead, feels his eyes go steely even from under the way his vision has already begun to wobble.

“It’s not over yet,” he continues, trying to keep his words even, “‘cause I didn’t die, so we’re not done. I gotta- we have to reevaluate, of course,” he can’t stop, because the second he stops talking is the second he falls apart, so he ignores the way that Punz stiffens and stills and doesn’t let anything stop the flow of words spilling out of his mouth, “because the vault and the prison- um, obviously didn’t go as planned, but it’s fine. Just a minor- um, minor inconvenience. A setback- but it’s not- it’s not unsalvageable- we just have to-”

“Are you kidding me?” Punz cuts him off with a sharp laugh, disbelieving and just on the wrong side of desperate, and the air in Dream’s lungs freezes into a solid block of ice in the middle of his chest, “you- you’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Punz?”

Dream’s voice comes out small, himself shrinking back into the bed, keenly aware, suddenly, of how there is nowhere he can go to run - Punz doesn’t seem to notice that he’s spoken at all, one of his hands moving up to tug through his hair, which is - now that Dream is looking - fluffier and messier than he remembers, sticking up in all directions like they didn’t bother to smooth it down.

“You think this is fine? You think that because you didn’t fucking die, that this is all okay?” Punz’s voice rises in volume slowly, not loud enough to be a shout but enough to go hard and unyielding like a threat, and with each word every remnant of the vault comes crawling, clawing back up to the front of his head, a pounding reminder to play his role, put on a show, behave behave behave-

“Goddammit, Dream,” Punz startles him out of his own thoughts, looking straight into his eyes with their ice-blue ones, “have you seen yourself?”

Have you seen yourself? Lying down in your own goddamn filth like a fucking mutt- prime, you disgust me.

“Your ribs were basically shattered. Your legs had fractures on both sides, and your back was so fucking torn up that it looked like more blood than skin. You’ve been starved- enough for me to see every goddamn bone in your body, it feels like. Your throat was bruised to hell- I wasn’t sure if you were gonna be able to speak again, fuck, and like a day after we got here you got fucking pneumonia.” Punz’s breath hitches, “Your skin was a literal fucking oven- I thought you’d bake yourself from the inside out. You could’ve died- you should’ve died.”

You should’ve died a hell of a long time ago, pal- should’ve saved us all the fucking trouble and offed yourself like Wilbur fucking Soot.

He flinches, and this, Punz seems to notice, eyes widening a fraction before they pitch their voce lower, clearly taking a few breaths to calm down and reaching forward to take one of Dream’s hands loosely in his own, thumb smoothing over the bumps of his knuckles.

“You’re not fine,” he says after a long while, shaking his head. “Hell- I’m not fine. But we’re not doing anything like- like the vault or the prison again, dude. I told you they were shit ideas- fuck. We never should’ve done that.”

“It was worth it,” Dream butts in, because he can’t imagine a world where it wasn’t, can’t imagine a world where all of that was for nothing, “it was worth it-”

“No it fucking wasn’t, are you out of your mind?” Punz replies immediately, voice overlapping over Dream’s own, “have you listened to a single thing I’ve said? You- look at you! How was that worth it?”

Dream shakes his head stubbornly, already feeling the way his jaw is trembling around the words he forces himself to speak. “The server- it was all for the server-”

“Fuck the server!”

Punz seems startled by their own shout, drawing back at the same time Dream does, breathing ragged. He takes a few seconds to compose himself, bringing his hand to his face as Dream sits stock still, not daring to move, hardly daring to breathe.

“Fuck the fucking server, okay?” Punz says, finally, voice cracking in the middle, “You lost two damn lives for this server. You got fucking tortured for fucking months for this shitstain of a server. Just- fuck them. I’m not watching you tear yourself to fucking shreds for this- not again. I can’t sit around and watch you fucking die again, Dream, I can’t drag you out bleeding out in my fucking arms again- fuck-” Punz shakes their head, and oh. They’re crying.

“No more. Fuck the server. I’m done, Dream- we’re done with them.”

Dream blinks, so thoroughly surprised that he thinks the shock knocked him straight out of the building panic attack, leaving nothing but a slight thrumming of anxiety still simmering beneath his skin. Almost instinctually, in a motion he doesn’t really remember but still has the muscle memory for, he opens his arms- and in a similar, near-unconscious response, Punz tumbles into his arms.

He blinks, not moving his arms to curl around the other, feeling the weight of another person against his again and the sound of their breathing and relearning them both. This is- new, for both of them. Dream was never emotional, not before the prison, not that he wanted to be after it either- but Quackity always had a particular affinity for tearing him apart, shard by shard. And Punz- he’d never been like this, even back in the day, when things were easier and they didn’t bear the constant burden of netherite against their backs. They’d always been stoic, sharp, sarcastic, cool and dry in a way that chafed against Sapnap’s fire and always led to Dream laughing at them sooner or later. He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, feeling the heat behind his eyes finally sear too hot and boil over, tears squeezing through his closed eyes and falling down his face.

“Okay,” he says, finally, and there’s nothing easy about the acquiescence, not when he had poured blood and sweat and the better half of himself into this place, salted the earth with his tears until no more would come and nothing else would grow. He thinks that he will have more to think and more to say and more to protest come the next days, that the binds between him and his goals have been weaved too deep with the fibers of his soul for him to tear them free without sacrificing what broken pieces of himself he has left, but all he can think right now is how fucking tired he is. He remembers Techno’s voice, going through myth after myth to pass time in the prison, and thinks with something like humor and something like grief - let someone else be Atlas for a day. The sky is too heavy right now. Punz’s arms tighten around his body, enough to remind him that they’re there but not enough to press at his still-healing ribs, and he thinks that they might understand. “Okay.”

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helliontherapscallion · 4 years

Text

Magnum Opus (Adrenaline Junkie Part 7)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17

Spotify Playlist (collaborative)

Warnings: swearing

Word count: 2,451

(A/N): our dear little (y/n) needed a break from the angst, so I gave them one : )

You were finally done with the prototype for your prosthetic. It took blood, sweat, and tears and hours upon hours to get the measurements precisely right, but you were finally done. You were one step closer to freedom and you were ecstatic. You were practically vibrating with excitement.

Sprinting up the stairs with your pride and joy closed and wrapped in a sheet, you made a beeline for the front door passing Philza in the process. You heard him ask you something, but you were already darting past him through the door and outside. Before long, you were at the top of the cliff you designated as your test site.

The cliff was perfect for gliding. It towered over the ground at a perfect height for you to gain air resistance in time and overlooked a vast, empty field that stretched as far as the eye could see. A few herds of chickens and cows were scattered here and there, but if you were careful you could probably steer away. Probably. If you hit a cow, it wouldn’t hurt that much, right?

Sliding on the prosthetic was a little bit of a struggle. You had to awkwardly twist your body around and uncomfortably reach for your upper back to fasten the leather belts securely around your nub, but you would get faster at it once you put it on more. Smiling in satisfaction when it was on, you tested out the abduction and adduction capabilities of the iron joints by pulling on the string you attached to the ends of each joint. The wing opened and closed with ease.

Now, the only thing you had to test out was if it worked or not. You backed up to the point of the cliff where it started to slope down and took a few deep breaths. Here goes nothing.

You broke into a sprint towards the edge of the cliff. The precipice was coming nearer and nearer, there’s no backing out now, you had to follow through if you wanted a successful flight. If you killed yourself in the name of innovation, then so be it.

When you bunched up the muscles in your legs to jump out as far as you could, you pulled the rope that extends your wing and firmly pulled it taut. You wobbled in the air slightly before you stabilized yourself. The air was flowing freely past you as you glide through the warm summer air.

You started to laugh loudly in triumph as you soared through the air. For the first time in almost one and a half years, you felt truly free. You felt infinite even like nothing could drag you down. Time around you seemed to slow down as you relished the feeling of freedom and being emancipated from your life on the ground. The warm air rustling through the base of your feathers on your left wing felt like heaven.

Unfortunately, what goes up must come down. You were getting closer and closer to the ground, so you had to land. You extended your legs under you and your feet made contact with the grass below you. Your momentum made you take a few swift steps forward, but overall, you landed safely.

Cackling, you jumped up and down in place and repeatedly punched the air. Your wing fluttered happily rustling the strands of grass around you with strong gusts of air.

“YES YES YES YES I FUCKING DID IT!”

“I’M BRILLIANT!”

“HOLY SHIT!”

The nearby herds of animals scurried away from you, their peaceful grazing interrupted by your excited shouting. Normally you would’ve felt bad for them, but you didn’t care; your invention worked! You had to show your family, they had to see this.

Philza was startled by the front door bursting open and banging against the wall. Your loud voice booming through the silence of the house. There goes his quiet day.

“DAADDDDD, WILBUR, TECHNO, TOMMY COME HERE I FUCKING DID IT! I! FUCKING! FIGURED! IT! OUUUUTTTT!”

You heard footsteps running towards you as Philza ran down the hallways and into your field of vision. His startled wide eyes scanned your form. Your face was split in a wide grin and your eyes were impossibly wide as they regarded him. Your entire body was practically vibrating like you were barely keeping your excitement and elation at bay. Your wing was flittering rapidly behind you.

But what caught his eye was the leather attached to your back where your other wing was supposed to be. It was the exact same size as your left wing.

“I-Is that…?”

You giggled uncontrollably in glee. “Yes! Oh, I need to show you how it works!”

You grabbed his hand and drug him to the couch with a surprising amount of strength. Plopping him down, you began spewing and gesturing wildly towards your newest invention.

“Ok ok ok, so this is just a prototype of course, but I was inspired by a bat’s wings with the leather and the general structure. I made the joints and the structural support rods out of thin iron so that it doesn’t weigh it down or make any drag. I can open and close it with this,” you pulled the rope and the wing opened, “and I have a hole for my wing to go into and it’s secured by belts and it even lets me glide and ohmygoddadisntitamazing?”

Philza looked at you with disbelief as you rattled on about how your invention works. How exactly did you make this without him noticing that you were making it? Where did you learn how to work with leather? When you were done, he looked at you with a smile.

“It’s fantastic hun. But how do you know that it lets you glide?”

You paused and gave him a sheepish smile. “About that… I may have, kinda… sorta, jumpedoffacliff.”

“You what? Do you understand how dangerous that was?”

You felt a burning anger flare up from deep inside of you. You just found out that you could somewhat fly again and he has the audacity to not care. “Yes, but how was I supposed to know if it worked or not? It’s not like I have anyone with the same sized wing as I do. The measurements had to be exact. One wrong measurement would make you crash! But that’s not the important part, I can fly again! Don’t you care about that?”

His eyes softened. “Of course I do, (y/n). It’s amazing that you can fly again but I’m just worried about how you tested it out. What if it didn’t work? You could’ve died again, (y/n).”

You felt your eye twitch. “Dad, life is all about risk. If you don’t take a risk every now and then, you’re just… standing still! What kind of life is that?”

He held your heated glare with sad, desperate eyes. “I… I just can’t lose you again, (y/n). Promise me that I won’t lose you again. That you won’t do reckless things like this anymore.”

Oh.

You let your stance relax and your left wing tucked itself back in. Walking over to him, you sat next to him, wrapping your left wing around him in an awkward kind of side hug. Fiddling with your thumbs, you replied softly. “You aren’t going to lose me again anytime soon, that I can promise you, but I can’t promise that I won’t do reckless things. Like I said, life is all about risks. You have to take them if you wanna move on. I wanna move on with my life, I’m sick of being stuck in one place.”

He rubbed at his eyes tiredly as he sighed. There was no convincing you when you were like this. He’s learned that trying to steer you in another direction is like Sisyphus finally reaching the top of the mountain only to have the massive stone roll back down again. Getting you to agree was something that went against your motives just wasn’t going to happen.

“...Do you want to move out?”

“What? Nonononono, I don’t want to move out yet. I just meant that I was tired of not moving on with life after that thing took my wing.”

He gave a watery chuckle. “Good, I wouldn’t have anybody to make me breakfast in the mornings or split wood with me if you moved out.”

He twisted his upper body towards you and pulled you into a warm hug. “I’m not leaving anytime soon. You don’t need to worry about me anymore.”

You two stayed like that for a while before he pulled back and gestured for you to turn around. You obliged and he got a closer look at your prosthetic, opening and closing it with the rope.

“...This is just a prototype. I’m still trying to figure out a way to automatically move the wing without having to pull the rope.”

He hummed in thought. “Have you thought about using redstone?”

“Yeah, but everything’s just too… bulky. I might have to make a tiny sensor so that it receives impulses from my muscles and moves when I want it to. That’s gonna take me a long time.”

“I’m sure that you’ll figure it out soon, you’re creative. Probably the most innovative of your generation… I’m proud of you, ya know. You’ve grown up and overcome so much in such a short amount of time.” He said genuinely.

You felt your face heat up and a small smile shaped your lips. You loved it when people praised you for your achievements, especially your dad. It warmed your heart to hear that he’s still proud of you, even if you’re almost an adult now.

He clapped a hand on your shoulder and started to walk to the door.

“...Where are you going?”

He looked over his shoulder with a smirk. “We are gonna go find your brothers so we can show them how amazing you are.”

Your eyes lit up and your previous excitement returned tenfold. Laughing boisterously, you grabbed his hand and started sprinting, dragging him behind you. He laughed with you as he kept up with you with ease.

You two ran until you hit the forest where Tommy was with Tubbo at the goat hybrid’s bee farm. They looked at you with alarm as you both almost crashed into one of the hives. Bees buzzed around peacefully, completely contradicting the energy you and Philza had.

“Tommy, Tubbo, you have to follow us!”

They glanced at each other. “Why-”

You shushed them. “No questions! I have something to show you!”

You turned on your heel and started to sprint towards the woods where you can hear the soft strumming of a guitar.

“WIILLBURRRRR”

His head poked out from behind a large tree trunk. “What could you possibly want? I’m practicing.”

“No time to explain, follow me.”

You once again ran away towards the shooting range Techno was in. Currently, he was working on his aim with a crossbow.

“Techno!”

He jumped and accidentally pressed the trigger, making the arrow completely miss the target by several feet. He lightly glared at you. “(Y/n), don’t do that. I could’ve sho-”

“Sorry Tech, but you’re coming with me. I have something to show you.”

Like you did with Tommy and Wilbur, you darted off without letting him respond. In no time, you and your family reached the cliff. At the top, you turned towards them with a slightly crazed grin and sparkling eyes. They looked extremely confused as to why they were up there.

“I bet you’re all wondering why I’ve brought you here today. Well boys, I present to you,” you paused for dramatic effect, “my magnum opus!”

You yanked the rope and your leather wing extended with a glorious fwoosh. You watched as their jaws dropped and they looked at you with differing expressions. Philza looked at you with beaming pride, Techno and Wilbur looked at you with complete surprise, Tubbo smiled widely at you, and Tommy was speechless.

Grinning wider, you pointed out all the intricacies of your invention. They all listened attentively, absorbing every single detail you explained. They were fascinated with the idea of using prosthetics.

You smirked. “Now, I’m sure you all would like a live demonstration. Step aside.”

You turned around and started walking towards where you started your take off earlier. You steeled your nerves and broke into a sprint. Once again jumping off the cliff and pulling your wing open, you heard your family gasp as you wobbled in the air slightly before you steadied yourself and began gliding. Their horrified gasps and shouts quickly turned into cheering as you glided away from them.

As you were midair, you heard the flutter of feathers behind you as Philza appeared in your peripheral vision. He was grinning widely at you as his giant wings flapped to keep him next to you. You grinned back and in that moment, everything felt right. You would always have your family to support you.

You landed safely on the ground with a few steps and Philza followed suit, pulling you into a soft winged hug. You squeezed him back with vigor.

“(Y/n),” he whispered. “I am so, so proud of you, my little inventor.”

You felt tears sting your eyes as you hugged him tighter. You could hear your brothers and Tubbo (whom you considered your pseudo brother at this point with how often he hangs around the house) running towards you two. It would be a minute or two until they reached you. Until then, you just wanted to stay in your dad’s loving embrace.

“OI DAD DON’T HOG THEM!”

You were ripped away from Philza’s comforting embrace and pulled into Tommy’s chest. He squeezed you in a bone crushing hug and started to spin you around.

“(Y/N) THAT WAS SO FUCKING COOL! THE WAY YOU FLEW WITHOUT BOTH WINGS HOLY SHIT THAT WAS POG!”

He let you go and you were given a congratulatory pat on the back and wide smile from Tubbo, who wasn’t quite accustomed to you yet. Techno smiled at you with pride and rustled your hair and Wilbur swung his arm around your shoulders, leading you back towards the house. “Well, I say this calls for a celebration.”

The feathers on your wing fluffed up proudly at the praise. “I’m down, but first could one of you help me take this off? It hurts after a while of wearing it.”

The rest of the night was illuminated with laughter and joy, the house booming with life. This was another moment where you felt infinite in the universe, surrounded by the people you hold dearest.

Taglist (comment if you want to be added):

@acecarddraws @goldenstarofthunderclan @ravennightingaleandavatempus @dirtydiavolo @yeiras-world @immadatmostthings @hee-hee-haw @jackalopedoodles @m1lkmandan @vanhakirja @im-a-depressed-gay @coolleviauchihadreamerlove @questioning-sanity @camisascam

@bongwaterflavoredgatorade @kakamiissad @jayistrash4 @lifestylesleep @speedymaximoff @sun-shark-tooth @appetiteofapeoplepleaser @lestrangenymph @kinismanditory @dragons-lurk-here @rinzyx05 @the-wandering-pan-ace @sparkling-gayyyy @angelic-scent @shinipii @dont-hug-me-im-a-fander @izzydimensional @used-avocado

#sbi x reader #sleepy bois x reader #sleepy bois inc x reader #mcyt x reader #sbi #sleepy bois inc #philza x reader #technoblade x reader #wilbur soot x reader #tommyinnit x reader #tubbo x reader #sibling reader #platonic #fluff #light angst #very very light angst #tw: swearing

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ivarisms · 3 years

Text

A SCAR THAT LOOKS JUST LIKE YOU

Title: A SCAR THAT LOOKS JUST LIKE YOU

Summary: You and your work colleague have travelled to Norway to to write a piece for an online article about the history of Vikings, and your travels have led you to a town where the locals talk about an abandoned castle deep in the mountains where Ivar the Boneless still lives as a thousand-year-old vampire. You don’t believe such nonsense, but are curious to see what artifacts this mysterious castle holds within its walls.

Paring: Vampire!Ivar x Female OC

Warnings: Blood, violence, death, non-con aspects, NSFW for sexual content.

“Baby, you’re cruel to me but you see I love it when you make me bleed. I want a scar that looks just like you, till then I gotta learn to be a wiser fool. ” ---- Vampire Smile, Kyla La Grange

CHAPTER ONE

The treacherous winding path that spiralled up into the deepest and most isolated parts of the mountains was endless, or so it seemed after hours of non-stop walking. You were exhausted, and to make things worse the first droplets of snow began to trickle down from the sky above. “You said we would reach this castle an hour ago, and yet I still see no sign of it.”

“Patience, sweet cheeks.” Your work partner and terrible tour-guide Lawrence teased, a wrinkled map in his gloved hands as he turned to grin at you. “Always complaining, it’s not always about the destination but about the journey too. I find hiking in these mountains therapeutic…”

You rolled your eyes at that one, there was nothing therapeutic about this and you really wished you would have said no to this adventure. You weren’t even convinced that there was a castle, especially one that harboured a thousand-year-old vampire inside. “That’s bullshit and you know it.” You pressed on, frowning at the feel of wet inside your ‘waterproof’ boots. Great, you thought. All I need when hiking up a goddamn mountain. “I’m starting to think the locals swindled us here, I bet they’re all down in their local pub laughing about how stupid the latest tourists are in falling for this ridiculous ghost story.”

“It’s not a ghost story, it’s a vampire story – like Dracula.” Lawrence countered, a few steps ahead of you on the trail that became much steeper. “And yeah, it’s probably a crock of shit but hey, we’ll have the castle to ourselves and you know what that means.” Turning to waggle his brow at you, he winked and chuckled to himself.

“Yeah, shelter – and hopefully some firewood.” You grumbled, not even entertaining his attempts at flirting with you. He had tried time and time again to get into your pants, but just couldn’t get the hint.

“I don’t think there’s many trees up this high for firewood, but you never know… might be able to find a couple of ‘em and make a stake out of a branch as a weapon.” He joked. “They said this Ivar is terrifying, I hope I get to kill him. Imagine that on the front of the newspaper, I can see it now. ‘Handsome muscly man kills a thousand-year-old vampire Viking with ease… or Viking vampire’ which one sounds better?”

“None of them.” You smirked. “If he’s a vampire and a Viking, you really think you stand a chance?”

“Hey, I got some moves – I can show you them if you like.” He teased.

“No thanks…”

Walking up the steepest part of the isolated trail, you winced and tugged at the hood of your thick yellow coat as harsh icy winds hurtled towards you. They were powerful, nearly knocking you from your feet as you struggled to maintain your balance.

“There it is.” Lawrence pointed in front of him, and you stumbled forward a few steps to join him to see what he was looking at.

“Oh, wow.” You whispered, seeing for the first time the huge black winding castle in the near distance. It was hidden between two mountain peaks, so no wonder it took so long to find. The locals weren’t lying about one thing, but there was no way in hell a vampire lived within its walls. “The snow is getting heavier, let’s go as quick as we can.”

“Yes, lady boss.” Lawrence scoffed, his tone laced with sarcasm as he led the way.

Half an hour of struggling through near enough knee-deep snow led you and your colleague to the castle grounds. The great heaving stone structure was more than impressive to gaze up at, though the many windows that were draped in darkness made you feel uneasy. Its black towers and stone battlements were still very much intact, withstanding the test of time and the test of such harsh elements in the isolated area of Norway. It had clearly been abandoned centuries before now, yet still radiated a millennium of history you would never get to experience. You wondered what it would have been like back then, when Vikings were in their prime of greatness. Terrifying, you assumed.

Ivar the Boneless was known especially to be cruel and inhumane, the history books wrote him to be a tyrant and monster who killed all that apposed him. It was that wicked reputation that kept his memory alive a thousand years later, proven by how scared the local men and women were to even mention his name. You were intelligent enough to know that vampires didn’t exist, but if by chance they did, then you decided that Ivar would be the worst kind of vampire to bump into.

“Wanna go inside?” Lawrence broke through your train of thought and you looked at him as he pulled free his camera from the pocket of his padded blue jacket.

“Absolutely.” You agreed, deciding it was for the best to push fairy-tales aside and explore further.

Following Lawrence through the first set of steel gates, you were now in the courtyard. This area would have been used to make speeches to the people, used as entertainment and no doubt used for training how to fight. You could almost picture the Vikings now, swinging swords and axes at each other without a care in the world. Reaching into your own pocket to pull free your phone, you swiped at the screen.

No signal, low battery. Fantastic.

Your phone wouldn’t have enough power to last the night, but you had enough to snap a few pictures.

“I’m gonna explore the barracks, are you coming with or doing your own thing?” Lawrence asked.

“I’m…” You breathed, your eyes drawn towards the main doors that would no doubt lead into the very heart of the castle. “I’m going inside, I want to get a few photos before this thing dies on me.”

“Alright, I’ll come find you in a bit.”

Please take your time, you thought. “Okay.”

And with that you both went your separate ways.

Pushing on the great wooden door that was stiff as a board, you clinched your jaw and rammed your weight into your shoulder with a grunt to try and budge it. One, two, three attempts before the frozen wood gave way. Shoving it open with a deep squeal that echoed loudly throughout the innards of the castle, you peered inside curiously. An icy breeze from within hit your face, and as you swept your gaze around the darkness you realised you were staring down into a great long hall that seemed to travel endlessly into the abyss.

Shrugging your backpack from your shoulders, you delved your hand inside and fiddled around until you grabbed hold of the flashlight you had brought along with you. Flicking the switch, a faint yellow glow lit the way as you moved forward. The old wooden floors creaked beneath the weight of your snow laden boots as you took your first few steps inside, allowing the heavy door to swing back shut with a loud thud. Wincing at the sound, you felt your heart thump nervously and felt a sudden pang of regret wash over you, almost as if you felt like you were trespassing. You can still leave.

“Stop overthinking.” You chastised yourself, knowing you were being irrational now. Ghosts did not exist and neither did vampires, it was all in your head.

Treading carefully, you made your way down the hall that had great long wooden tables lining each side with wax candles sat atop them, the table tops themselves had markings engraved within them and as you dragged your fingers along the symbols, you decided they were probably Old Norse. A language that had been dead for many years. Lifting your had, you rubbed at the thick layer of dust that had settled upon your fingertips. This place definitely hadn’t been touched in a long time, and for a moment you wondered if you and Lawrence were the first tourists to investigate in years. It seemed like it.

Unlocking your phone, you decided to take a few pictures of the beautiful furniture for your records before moving on. This would make for a good article on your blog – frozen in time, a look inside the world of Vikings. You wondered if you could steal something small and tuck it into your bag as a souvenir of sorts. Looking ahead, you noticed a stone fireplace in the centre at the back of the hall and as you strolled over towards it with your phone in hand to take another picture, something else caught your attention from the corner of your eye. Turning, you audibly gasped.

Two beautiful wooden thrones sat untouched at the furthest point of the great hall, sat atop a wooden platform. They looked over the entire hall, above the rest of the tables and you knew then that this was once where the King and Queen probably dined with their people.

“Wow.” You whispered, approaching the rare find. The floorboards creaked with each slow step and as you got closer, your eyes widened and twinkled in the dark as you absorbed the intricate detail of both beautiful chairs.

You walked up onto the platform and reached out to touch the main throne, the one you could only assume belonged to a line of great Kings starting with Ragnar Lothbrok. Dragging your fingers along the twisted branches and steel that bound them together, you smiled and took the opportunity to sit in the throne.

It wasn’t the most comfortable seat, but you definitely felt like royalty as you leaned back and closed your eyes. Just for a moment you pretended it was a different time, that you were a Queen of a Viking army. Breathing in a slow breath, you opened your eyes again and gazed down the hallway you had walked up.

Your eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness as the flashlight rested in your lap, and as you blinked you were certain there was a shape of a figure standing by the main door you had entered through. Lawrence?

“You took your time, come see what I’ve found.” You called out, crossing one leg over the other casually with a coy smile. “I can’t be sure, but I think this throne once belonged to Ragnar Lothbrok and his sons. It’s beautiful…” You drummed your fingers against the arm rest.

No response. The silence was deafening, and you felt a deep fluttering within your belly as you snatched your flashlight and shone it down where the figure stood. But the light didn’t reach that far, and so you leaped from the throne anxiously.

“Lawrence?” You called nervously this time, your eyes narrowing as you kept them on the figure who stood in the shadows, unmoving. “This is not funny; I’m not playing your stupid games idiot.”

Once again there was nothing and you panicked, the stories that had been told to you from the locals playing in the forefront of your mind.

‘Ivar the Boneless died in battle, yes – but he was revived and cursed with immortality. The stories say his brother Hvitserk accompanied him back to the castle where he lives till this very day, surviving on the blood of those who dare enter his lair.’

‘Hvitserk too?’

‘Perhaps, though there have been no witnesses to survive that could tell us what they have seen. All we know is that those who travel up the mountains don’t travel back down, so in all probability they have been killed.’

“Ivar?” You breathed, the flashlight in your hand trembling.

“Hello, Y/N.”

The voice echoed through the hall and your breath caught in your throat, fear bleeding into every fibre of your being as you jumped from the throne platform and sprinted towards a side-door that led into the bowels of the castle. The last thing you wanted was to travel deeper inside, but you had no other choice. Gasping for breaths in the darkness, you tried to hold the flashlight steady and peered down at your phone in the other hand.

No signal.

1% battery life.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You hissed, not having a clue what door led to which room or if there was any other exit that you could escape from. You just ran forward with no sense of direction, and eventually came face to face with a staircase. You couldn’t go back now, what if he was right behind you?

The thought alone made you squeal as you scrambled up the stone steps, tripping over your boot at one point and dropping your useless phone that tumbled all the way back down to the bottom. You wouldn’t be going back for it now. Reaching the upper floors of the bitterly cold castle, your flickering flashlight was threatening to give up on you as you desperately searched for a hiding spot. Bolting to the end of the corridor, you ran into one of the rooms and as quietly as you could, closed the door behind you.

Backing up until your thighs hit the wooden frame of a bed in the centre of the room, you felt tears well in your eyes. You were terrified.

“Y/N, it was a joke!” Lawrence shouted out from outside in the corridor. “It’s me, I was only teasing.”

Anger. You saw red and felt humiliated as your colleague shoved the bedroom door open and grinned back at you, holding his camera in your face and your phone in his other hand. You couldn’t believe it.

“HA!” He laughed loudly when he saw the look on your face, pointing at you as he filmed your reaction. “You ran like a shot, Jesus…”

“Get out.” You growled, storming forward to shove his chest. “It’s not fucking funny, stop filming me.”

“Hey, c’mon – it’s hilarious!” He laughed. “Ivar?” Mocking the way you had called out the Viking’s name, he shook his head and bent forward to slap his knee with amusement. “I thought you didn’t believe in vampires!”

“I said get out!” Slapping the camera from his hands, you scowled up at him as it tumbled and crashed to the floor with a thud.

“Hey, what the fuck!” He glared back at you and snatched the front of your jacket, clinching his jaw as if he was debating on whether to hit you or not. But he decided against it, shoving you instead and watching you fall to the bed as he leaned down to pick up his prized possession. “It was a damn joke, get over yourself.”

“No, you’re trying to use me for your stupid videos and it’s not happening. Whatever footage you’ve got of me on there, delete it.” You warned him.

“Hell no, this is going up on my blog first thing when we get back to town. You’ll see how funny it is when you’ve calmed down. Pretty girl gets spooked by Ivar the Boneless, idiots on the internet eat that shit up.”

That was enough. Lunging forward, you snatched the camera from his grasp and turned around, throwing it as hard as you could against the stone wall opposite the bed. You watched as it smashed, bits of plastic bursting out into shards across the floor and instant regret flooded you.

Not about smashing it, because he deserved that to happen – but because you knew the fact he wouldn’t get views online from his snot-nosed followers would infuriate him.

“Y/N!” He shouted, his voice echoing through the halls as he grabbed the back of your hood and yanked you back towards him. “What the fuck is wrong with you, that’s my life’s work you dumb bitch!”

Wincing as he flung you against the wall by the door, you kicked your boot at his shin and threw a punch that connected with his shoulder.

“Let me go!” You growled, struggling against him as he swung his arm back and swung it forward again, slapping you against the face. A sharp sting radiated through your cheek, and you closed your eyes and lifted your hands to defend yourself from the assault you thought was about to come your way.

But nothing happened.

Instead, you heard gargling.

Snapping your eyes open again, you felt your entire body weaken in terror as Lawrence stood in front of you grasping at his throat. Blood spurted from his mouth and nose as he stumbled back, staring back at you with fear and desperation. You were speechless, frozen stiff in place as he collapsed to his knees and bled out at your feet. Behind him had been standing a tall, broad man with the bluest eyes you think you had ever seen. His hand was coated in blood, and he brought his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean as he gazed back at you in the dark.

“I heard a struggle; it seems you needed some help from this boy.” He mumbled in a deep Nordic accent and stepped over Lawrence’s dying body, towering over you in the confined space. “Are you hurt?”

You stood perfectly still and parted your lips, trying to speak but the sounds of Lawrence’s gargled breaths distracted you. Never had you witnessed someone dying before and as much as you hated him, you felt sick and faint.

“You called my name earlier; it woke me from a deep sleep…” He continued, his blood-stained lips curling into a smirk as he reached his clean hand up to stroke your reddened cheek that would soon bruise from the slap.

A breath hitched in your throat at how cold he was, the gentle stroke of his fingers sending a shiver to ripple up the length of your spine.

“You… you are Ivar the Boneless.” You whispered fearfully, glancing down to the floor to see blood pooling around your boots.

“Yes.” He affirmed. “And you are?”

“Y/N.”

“Mm, and what are you and this…” He peered down at the body that had stopped struggling and sighed. “…moron doing creeping around my home, huh?”

“I’m sorry, we came here to see…”

“Go on.” Ivar pressed you impatiently.

“To see if you were real, to see if this place really existed.” You told him. “I’m sorry, I’ll leave. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” You took a step forward and slid past him, your body grazing against his as you tried to head for the door but he grabbed your hand.

“Ah, ah.” He tutted, shaking his head of dark braids. “That is not how it works, you see – as soon as you stepped through that door you became mine.”

You felt your belly flutter and shrank into yourself as he took a step in towards you again, leaning forward to breathe in your hair.

“Yours?” You whispered in confusion.

“Yes, mine.” He told you. “Everything in this castle is my property, that now includes you and this sack of shit on my floor.” Pointing to Lawrence’s body, Ivar sucked in a breath. “Unfortunately, my anger got the best of me when it came to him, I should have kept him alive for his blood. I haven’t fed in a long time.”

He looked you over when he said that, his blue eyes darkening with a hunger that made you want to run. “Please don’t hurt me.”

“I don’t want to.” He explained and ran his hands up over your shoulders, pulling you against him and holding you tight. “But I am hungry, and your blood sings to me my sweet girl. This won’t hurt for long, I promise.”

“No, no!” You gasped, your struggling useless as he dragged his soft lips down the column of your neck. Licking his tongue out against the beating vein that called to him, a deep growl rose from his throat and he sank his teeth into you with a savage bite that made you scream. “Ivar, please!”

Your legs gave way but it didn’t matter, he was unnaturally strong – clutching you to him like a bear would with its prey. Warmth spilled down your collarbone and you whimpered as he drank you, low groans escaping him. Digging your fingernails into his black armour, your eyes rolled as you became weaker in his arms.

Thump. Thump.

Thump…… Thump.

Thump.

Your heartbeat slowed and you huffed out a weak breath when he suddenly pulled his head back, snarling out an animalistic growl. His white teeth and long fangs were coated in blood, a trickle of it spilling down his chiselled chin as you sank against his chest.

“Fuck.” He groaned, eyes almost translucent they were that blue as he gazed down at your pretty face. “Good girl. Come, let’s get you settled.”

Lifting you up into his arms with ease, Ivar carried you from the room in what seemed like a blur as your eyes rolled shut.

“Are you going to kill me?” You whispered.

“Not yet.” He told you, his voice a low seductive growl. “I’m going to drink you and I’m going to fuck you and then I’m going to make you like me and the rest of my family who live in the shadows.”

The rest? You thought, slipping into unconsciousness as Ivar the Vampire stole you away deep into the confines of his castle.

Starting awake, you sat up in the darkness and reached your hands out to feel soft silk sheets surrounding you. Looking around and down at yourself, you frowned as you noticed your boots, winter trousers and jacket had been removed, replaced with a white cotton dress that barely covered your thighs.

“You are beautiful, y/n.” Ivar mumbled from the shadows, approaching you slowly as you crawled up towards the headboard and away from him.

“What is this place?” You asked, looking around the large room that had been lit with candles. “What did you do to me?”

Turning your gaze back onto him, you felt something flutter deep within you as he stood shirtless. Viking tribal tattoos littered his strong defined chest, and as you dragged your eyes lower you noted his defined abs.

“These are my private quarters, the part of the castle you didn’t get the chance to intrude on.” He raised a brow at you, a dangerous glint within his eye. “But now, here you are with me. I fully intend on creating a bond with you, one where you will be my progeny and I your master.”

You felt your stomach leap as he crawled up onto the bed after you, his piercing eyes never leaving your face as he reached out and grabbed your ankles. Yanking you down the mattress, he smirked sadistically as you yelped in surprise.

“Are you afraid of me?”

“Of course, I am.” You whispered, though it was not only fear that you felt as you looked into his eyes but a strange lust. Something was terribly wrong with you to be attracted to this creature but he was so beautiful, almost god-like that it seemed impossible not to.

“It’s good to be afraid, fear makes you more aware of what’s happening.” He leaned forward and kissed your thigh, his cool lips lingering against your skin. “I want you to know that I have waited for you for a long time, and now that I have you, I cannot let you go.”

He spread your thighs then and nuzzled his nose between them, eliciting a gasp from your throat and forcing you to arch your back. Reaching down to twist your fingers into his dark braids, your legs trembled as he breathed in your scent.

“Oh.” You sank your teeth into your bottom lip when he finally pressed a kiss against your mound, a jolt of pleasure radiating through you at the feeling.

You wondered if this was all a dream, a terrifyingly beautiful dream that you soon would wake from. Using his palms to pin you down, Ivar lapped at your tender wet cunt until he had you crying out his name.

You came.

Then you came again. Hard.

Feeling spasms ripple through your entire body, you moaned and spread your legs further as he dragged himself up and over you. Strong arms settled at either side of your head and he dipped his hips between your thighs, the feeling of his hard cock brushing against your soaked centre making you buck your hips in response.

“Do you want to be mine?” He asked, grabbing your throat and grazing his thumb against the bite mark he had left in your throat. “Will you give yourself to me completely, my love?”

You felt compelled to say “Yes.”

It was if he was inside your head, making you say and feel these things for him and yet you gladly accepted your fate.

“Good girl.” He growled and thrust inside of you in one hard stroke, splitting you open with a delicious burn that forced a cry from your lips.

You snatched your arms around his broad defined shoulders, digging your nails into his smooth skin as he began an unrelenting rhythm. You moaned and screamed and shuddered beneath him as he fucked you deep, his controlled movements driving you insane with lust.

“Ivar!” You cried as his girth stretched you painfully, the feeling of being unbelievably full of him almost too much. But he held you down, you weren’t getting away from him as he possessed you. “Oh my god!”

He grunted, a low growl rumbling deep within his chest as he took what belonged to him. Pressing kisses against your collarbone and then down to your breasts, your eyes rolled as he sucked one nipple into his mouth and then the other, paying them equal attention.

Your grip on his braids tightened and he licked a trail up your chest, kissing up your throat and chin until his lips found yours. The Viking vampire’s mouth was soft as he licked his tongue into your mouth when you gasped from one particularly deep thrust of his hips, and you could taste a mix of him and you that made you moan into him.

Sliding one calloused hand down to grab your knee, he lifted your leg and forced it up to rest over his shoulder. Arching against him, you whined at the change of position that dug deeper still and brushed against that spongey piece of heaven tucked up inside of you.

“Ah!” You whimpered, feeling yourself tighten around him.

“That’s it, y/n.” He growled lowly, smirking against your mouth as he stared into the depths of your eyes. Knocking his forehead against yours gently, he watched you as he fucked you hard. Skin smacked against skin, the wet sounds of him taking you filling the room and you stiffened.

Hissing, Ivar snatched a handful of your hair and tugged your head to one side as you came around him. Your pussy spasmed, clutching onto his cock tightly, milking him for everything he had and as he was on the verge of his own release he knew it was time.

Burying his face into the crook of your neck, he sank his fangs into the artery he had torn open earlier and began to drink. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head with so much arousal that you weren’t aware of his deadly love bite. He continued to fuck you, his pace slowing just a little as he drank your hot blood down in large greedy gulps.

Soon, you realised that something was wrong. You felt it. Whimpering in a mixture of pleasure and pain now, you pushed at his arms to try and get him to stop but he didn’t plan on it. He drank you deeply, the addicting taste of your life blood filling the void within him.

“Ivar…” You moaned, frowning in discomfort.

He used his free hand to stroke your face gently as if he were reassuring you all would be okay. Blood spilled into the sheets of the mattress and into your hair in a pool and your heart began to stutter, its strong beat fading.

You gasped for a breath and just before you fell into a fatal sleep, Ivar pulled back with a sputtered growl and sank his fangs into his wrist, tearing open his own flesh before pressing the bleeding wound to your lips.

“Drink!” He demanded of you, and with weak gulps you did.

As his cold blood spilled down your throat, he howled out and came inside you in a deep thrust. He grunted and growled at the pleasure of you.

“That’s it.” He hissed, blood spilling from the corner of his mouth as you slurped at him until you fell asleep.

Your head rolled back against the mattress and you were dead to the world, the human version of yourself dying with laboured breaths as Ivar’s blood worked its way through your body keeping you from slipping away completely.

Pulling out of you, he slid an arm under your neck and lifted your frail frame up into his embrace. The sheets were stained red, it looked like a murder scene and he supposed it was for he had killed you and birthed you a new life that soon would come to be.

“There we go, my sweet girl.” He whispered, kissing the side of your face as he stood from the bed and carried you from the bedroom. “No more pain.”

Strolling through the castle, he smirked a bloody smile when he caught sight of his brothers Hvitserk and Ubbe exiting a room down the corridor.

“We heard everything, you know.” Hvitserk eyed the girl in his brother’s arms curiously, a hunger darkening in his features at the sight of you.

“She’s beautiful.” Ubbe murmured.

“I wanted you to hear.” Ivar muttered arrogantly, kissing the corner of your lips as he said so. “She will soon be one of us, I still need to bury her and by tomorrow she will rise.”

“I want one.” Hvitserk grumbled.

“Me too.” Ubbe glanced at his brother and then back to Ivar. “I think we need to venture into town and find more girls, take them back here and turn them.”

“I think that would be good.” Ivar nodded. “Now, I need one of you to bury us.”

“I’ll do it.” Hvitserk volunteered.

“I’ll watch.” Ubbe smirked.

Heading down the staircase with you safely tucked into his arms, Ivar moved with a blur that no ordinary human would be able to see and took you out into the snowy courtyard.

Setting you down on the snow, he dug a grave big enough for two and set you down inside before he turned to glare at his brothers who watched on curiously.

“Okay…” He nodded and lowered himself down to join you, spooning you from behind and tucking his face into your hair.

Hvitserk grabbed a shovel and scooped a large amount of snow and piled it inside the grave. It wasn’t long before the both of you were buried six feet below the earth.

Soon you would rise with your master by your side, forever bonded by blood and death.

tag list: @punkrocknpearls @youbloodymadgenius @strayrockette @tgrrose @ISTORKYOU @ivarhoegh @adrille88 @jadelynlace @readsalot73

#;ivarisms #;vampire!ivar #ivar the boneless #vikings #ivar x you

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minor-solemnity · 3 years

Text

Curiosity pt.6

“Are you implying that I’m not good enough to blackmail?” Which well, that maybe isn’t what you should be annoyed by.

A month passes. You don’t talk in class, just keep your head bowed low, eyes fixed firmly on the ground. You ignore Tom in the hallways and in the lessons you share. You suppose that you should probably revert to calling him Riddle, but referring to a man you’ve had sex with by their last name, even in the comfort of your own head, makes you feel dirty.

He tries to talk to you twice. He doesn’t try a third time.

You don’t tell Marie or Stephanie what’s transpired between you and Tom and eventually, they stop asking. You’re content to let them believe that whatever courtship or relationship they thought had been budding between the two of you had died. It’s easier to pretend that you’re just sad that you’ve missed your chance with Hogwarts’ most sought after bachelor. The truth is so much more complicated.

The last of the bitter Scottish winter gives way into Spring and with it comes blue skies, crisp winds, and luscious greenery. Stephanie’s attention is fixed firmly on the final quidditch matches of the school year and Marie begins her yearly fretting over exams. You’re left in blessed peace to ruminate on and stew in your own misery.

It’s far too early on a Saturday for you to be up, but the Great Hall is always empty until at least nine on the weekends and you’ve taken to avoiding large crowds lest you accidentally run into him. As expected, you’re alone save for the ghosts this morning. You’re stirring honey into your tea when a shadow falls over you. You don’t look up. The shadow coughs politely. You glower at your tea. The shadow sighs and there are footsteps and the sound of someone taking a seat opposite you. When you finally look up, Tom is watching you intently. Merlin, it’s so frustratingly easy to get distracted looking at him. The first thing you notice (and you hate that you do) is that he looks somewhat tense. His expression is a mask of polite indifference and his hands rest casually on the table in front of him but there is a tautness to his posture, as though he’s steeling himself for a fight.

You think that that should please you. At one point, it definitely would have done, but right now you’re still too raw from the events of a month ago to feel anything other than resigned fatigue at his appearance. “You’ve been ignoring me.” He says, and though his tone is placid you can detect a hint of something hard lacing his consonants.

“What good observational skills you have. Though that’s hardly a surprise, seeing as I’ve been on the receiving end of your interest for months at this point.” The anger at your own stupidity and his manipulation rears its head once more and you’re somewhat taken aback by how much venom has crept into your voice.

“Perhaps, if you’d let me explain-”

“No.” You cut him off, gathering your things and shoving them into your bag with more force than is strictly necessary. “No, I will not let you explain. I think you made yourself perfectly clear the last time. You have what you want, your curiosity is sated. You have your own blackmail material on me, should you ever feel the need to use it, and all it took was-” You can’t finish the sentence. All it took was a little flattery and his clever tongue touching and playing with you until you’d… Really, it had taken nothing at all. “I don’t know what else you could possibly need to explain to me. I understand what I am to you and what this entire thing was about. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it if you just leave me alone.” You don’t hang around to see understanding dawn on Tom’s face, nor do you hang around to see resolve settle firmly on his shoulders.

Fifteen minutes later you’re sat with your arms wrapped tightly around your knees underneath a yew tree by the lake, your bag thrown haphazardly a few feet away. You stare at the lake and determinedly blink back the tears that are threatening to spill down your cheeks. A horrible mix of embarrassment and anger is bubbling in your stomach and your hands shake as you reach down and tug blindly at strands of grass as if they are what your ire is directed at. Merlin, you’ve been stupid. Incredibly, horrendously stupid. You’d known that Riddle was bad news. You hadn’t trusted him from the moment he’d smiled down at you that evening in the dining hall. Almost every meeting between the both of you since had been a constant push and pull, neither of you willing to back down or give way… And now…

Now he has the information that he wanted and the game is up. You’ve lost. And all because somewhere along the line you had forgotten exactly why it was that he’d been interested in you in the first place. You’d let your imagination get the best of you and for a moment you’d let yourself believe that it wasn’t about Mr Larkins anymore. That he was there because of you. Just you and not the secrets that you had tried so hard to keep.

Merlin, what was he going to do with you now that he knew. Blackmailing a teacher (and you have to admit to yourself now that that was exactly what you had been doing) was a serious offence. Enough to get you expelled for sure. Muggles went to prison for blackmail, didn’t they? Would you be sent the Wizengamot? Or would Tom just hold it over your head for eternity? Surely not. He had no use for you now, after all; you can’t keep kidding yourself that he liked or wanted you. You can’t keep kidding yourself that that was part of why this was so painful.

Beyond the fear you feel for your future, rejection is a bitter pill lodged in the back of your throat.

“You might appreciate it if I left you alone, but I’d appreciate it if you stopped running away from me.” Tom’s voice is conversational, cheerful almost. You let out a strangled scream of annoyance. He hums a soft little laugh in response. He settles himself down beside you, long legs stretching out in from him, crossed over at the ankle. You notice he’s holding the folder. “You honestly think I’d blackmail you?” He asks, still in that conversational toned and you feel your hackles rise.

“Are you implying that I’m not good enough to blackmail?” Which well, that maybe isn’t what you should be annoyed by.

“You seem intent on misunderstanding everything I have to say, I see.” He says and, at last, something approaching annoyance enters his voice. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see that he’s frowning slightly. As in the Great Hall, his posture suggests he’s at ease, he’s taken his tie off and the top two buttons of his shirt are undone. But something is lurking beneath his relaxed exterior that suggests he’s nervous. “I have no intention of blackmailing you. At first, perhaps, but not any longer. And…” You drop the pretence of not looking at him entirely and turn full to face him. He doesn’t look at you and you get the impression that whatever he’s trying to say does not come easily. “I apologise if that’s the impression I gave you.”

Your eyes widen in surprise at the apology, which whilst stilted, appears genuine. Then, almost immediately after narrow in suspicion and indignation. “What other impression could you possibly have given me? Apart from, maybe, toying with me for your own amusement.” You ask acidly.

His jaw clenches and you notice dimly that he’s making hardly any effort to hide his emotions. He’s almost an open book. Which is… strange. You’re reminded of all the times that Tom’s treatment of you has left you feeling confused. Confused because he doesn’t act the same way around you as he does with the rest of your peers. He’ll put on a facade of politeness, sometimes, but it usually unravels within minutes. You’ve watched him charm and flatter the worst of your professors, that small careful smile never faltering until they’re putty in his hands.

He’s tried to intimidate, taunt, and seduce you but he’s never tried to charm you. The realisation hits you harder than you’d like. But so what that Tom doesn’t seem to think you’re worth the effort? Does it matter that he drops his perfect little persona around you? Yes, the quiet, treacherously hopeful voice in your mind whispers, yes it matters. Of course, it matters.

“That we were having fun, perhaps?” He says at last and he looks pained just saying it. As though telling you that some part of him had enjoyed your company and had assumed that you enjoyed his is physically uncomfortable to admit. Maybe it is. “That I believed you and I had some level of understanding regarding our relationship?”

You ask incredulously, “Has this been your way of flirting with me, Tom?” At the sound of his name on your lips, he turns to face you and you can practically see him come undone. His throat constricts around a swallow and you can’t stop yourself from tracing the column of his neck to where his collarbones, surprisingly delicate and sharp protrude from the collar of his open shirt with your eyes. He follows your gaze intently. “You never tried to charm me.” You murmur, finally bring your gaze to meet his.

“I’ve only ever been honest with you,” He replies, his voice equally soft. An admission that his persona is mostly a lie, used to trick and manipulate everyone else. Maybe that should put you off, make you turn away from him for good. It doesn’t. “You can’t blame me for wanting to know you when the few things I did know were so interesting. You can’t blame me for liking you more when I found out the rest.” It’s strange, knowing that the parts of you that usually stop people from liking or trusting you are what draws him to you. Then again, maybe it isn’t strange at all. You’re remarkably similar in so many ways, after all. “I thought, perhaps, that you regretted it.” Regretted me, is what he means. Is what he won’t say. Is what you hear nonetheless.

You’ll need to talk more later; you need to know what he intends to do with the knowledge of your blackmailing schemes but later. Right now… You lick your lower lip and you don’t miss the way he tracks the movement. “I don’t. Regret it.” He nods once, a short decisive shake of his head. You’ve made up your mind. “You should kiss me now.” And he does. He shifts and suddenly you’re being dragged to his side, one large hand curving around your waist and another cupping your jaw, his fingers tangling in your hair.

You feel like maybe, you’ve just won the best kind of game there is.

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5) (part 6)

#tom riddle #tom marvolo riddle #tom riddle x oc #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle x you #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle imagines #tom riddle imagine #tom riddle fanfic #tom riddle fanfiction #minific

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sinnamonrasinslut · 4 years

Text

The Ease With Which We Hurt [I] ICorpse Husband x Fem!ReaderI

A/N: You guys. I have never simultaneously loved AND hated a piece that I wrote. I really don’t know how I feel about this, but I promised myself last year that I wouldn’t overthink my writing, so here we are. This is part one of most likely four, but we’ll see about that. Thank you to everyone in my inbox who gave me ideas to turn this into a multi chapter fic! They’re all coming, I promise :)

SYNOPSIS: Corpse loves her, she loves Corpse. But both of them are too dumb to realize it, and too afraid to admit it.

It started, like most good things in his life, out of the blue.

He met her three years ago. Well, not met, but befriended her three years ago when her podcast was just taking off. He remembers sending her a DM about how great her work was, remembers her being gracious in her praise of his own narrations after and he remembers talking to her well into the night until she fell asleep. The rest, to Corpse, is history.

And yet, all he knows of her is a voice, a name, and the prettiest eyes he’s ever seen. she chooses to wear a mask every time they FaceTime, just for the formality of the entire ‘faceless’ situation. She’s told him she thinks it’s ironic, how she feels like he knows her inside out, and she’s still afraid to show him her face. It’s not like corpse can blame her. She doesn’t even know his name, let alone what he looks like, and it’s a miracle she hasn’t filed him away as some no face creep by this point.

But she hasn’t. She’s still here, after three years of being her friend, and almost a year of seeing her eyes and convincing himself that she’s his friend, damnit, she’s still here. It’s already a lot more than he can ask for.

He’s been holding himself back from falling in love. Or rather, he’s been in love for as long as he can remember, but he's been adamant on denying it; because he knows how this goes. It’s never gone well for him in the past. And he’s not ashamed to admit that he’s afraid. But sometimes, she tells him things that make his heart break, just out of the realization of how absolutely fucking stupid he's being, holding back from her.

He’s convinced that when he dies, she’s going to be the light at the end of his tunnel. That heaven means nothing more to him than a place in her world, however small, however insignificant, as long as he gets to see her eyes for the rest of eternity.

Every part of corpse tells him that it's love. But he tries to push it away, suppress his own feelings till he's nothing but a walking contradiction, overflowing with voices that only say her name.

But he’s tired. And he's scared. Because he’s been down that road before, opened himself up to people who haven’t liked what they saw and left with pieces of him he’s not sure how to tape back. He’s unsure if he's willing to let her try.

So, he settles for a small corner of her world, a little piece of her existence that gives him life, and every time he talks to her, hands flailing as she animatedly tells another story, he pushes the yearning to the back of his head till it crawls down and clings to his windpipe, unsure and immeasurable, and he can’t speak anymore without choking. But then she says things that make his heart jump into his throat, and then he’s choking but for entirely different reasons.

“What would you do if I was gone?”

He doesn’t mean it like that. Well, he does, a little bit, but his brain isn’t taking over every part of his body trying to convince him he’s unwanted, so he doesn’t mean it like that. He’s only curious, maybe in need of a little reassurance. And nobody does reassurance better than her.

She doesn’t say anything for a very long moment. Corpse knows the gist of her impending answer but the pause still blooms unnecessarily in his chest. But it’s not like they haven’t done this before.

“I’d write about you.”

“Huh?”

She only huffs a laugh at his confusion. She pulls a blanket closer around her and props up her phone to rest against what he assumes is a wall.

“You’re not easy to forget, Corpse,” her voice is soft, truthful without flattery, provides comfort without justification. “if you were gone, I’d write about you. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, that’s the least I’d need to cope.”

It’s not what he thought he’d hear, but it’s becoming increasingly clear to him that it’s exactly what he needed. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to her.

“Besides,” she continues, hair falling in her face as she adjusts the blanket, “there is no place for me in a world without you in it.”

And he physically feels his heart stop and clench in his chest. The thought of meaning this much to anyone, to her in particular, is more than he knows how to handle. So, he doesn’t follow that up with a quip, no teasing laughter, no suggestive, exaggerated winks that only he can see. He only lets himself bask in the warmth of her honesty, lets her smile at him in that way only she does, the way that makes him freeze and ache and crumble.

He chooses not to talk after that, settles for listening to her tell stories about her childhood. Her voice is the purest thing he’s ever heard, he’d hear her talk till the world ended if he could, and the sweet lilt of her voice lulls him to sleep hours after she’s hung up the phone.

He doesn’t get to talk to her for almost two weeks after that. He misses her a little, but he keeps that to himself, and instead, tags her under dumb twitter memes and sends her pictures of cats that he’s saved specifically for times like these, and another video of two geckos fighting on a tree captioned ‘u and me’ .

There’s no place for me in a world without you in it.

The words wrap around his ribs like a noose, tightening by the second. Some days, when his heart is fast enough to beat out of his ribcage, it grounds him just as much as it hurts. But when she’d said it to him, it passed through him like a train wreck, distorting all semblance of control he’d convinced himself he had.

He knows it’s ridiculous, but he loves her. She’s only a voice through his phone and eyes on his screen and he has no clue what the rest of her looks like, but he’d be damned if he lets himself deny it one more time. He loves her. And that’s the most terrifying thought he’s ever entertained.

It doesn’t take long after that realization takes root, for him to send her a picture. He doesn’t let himself think too much about it. Taking pictures of himself is still new to him, but he tries his best. Don't think about it too much, he reminds himself, and unsurprisingly, it's her voice in his head that does all the soothing. He captions it something stupid, more out of habit than anything else (my hair makes me look like Dora the exploraH), with his name across his forehead and ‘Dora’ in brackets beside it.

Momentarily, he wonders if he’s ever asked her if she even wants to see his face. (He has, and he distantly remembers her agreeing as long as he’s comfortable with it.)

He hits send before he has the chance to stop and think.

Then he waits.

Her response is quicker than he’s prepared for, her name flashing across the facetime request on his phone. He’s giggling before he even picks it up.

“CORPSE, WHAT THE FUCK!”

For a very long moment, they just stare, taking each other in. This is his endgame, corpse thinks, he’s never going to need to show anyone his face after this, nothing, no one will matter as much.

With a jolt, he realizes that she’s not wearing her mask. He can see her, all of her, and that on its own should be enough to take him out.

And then she smiles.

If there was any doubt in his mind before about how head over heels he is, she’s taken it out of his mind and stomped it to the ground. He’s not the poet in this friendship, but he’s assured he could write entire paragraphs about the way she smiles. And he tells her exactly that.

“I’m curious to see how that would fit with fine lass nice ass cat ears and she uwu,” she teases, eye twinkling with mirth, “but I'm sure you’ll figure it out.”

He’s both amazed and amused at how quickly they go from fawning to bantering. But perhaps that’s the thing about her that feels so familiar.

“I will write a song about you baby, don’t tempt me.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s a confession,” he shrugs, suddenly shy, unsure of where to lead with this. Thankfully, she interjects before he has to say anything else.

“That’s an awfully bold confession for a man called Corpse.”

“I’m also awfully alive for a man called Corpse, but you don’t see me complaining.” Awfully alive and not enough husband, he wants to say, but he keeps that to himself.

“You complain about being alive everyday, Mister Husband,” she counters and Corpse groans, dropping his head into his hands.

“I say that to you in confidence,” he grits out, playfully glazing at her.

“You also tell about a million people on stream, I’m not special,” she laughs.

“You are very special to me.” His voice is soft, shy, almost afraid to tell her the things he’s saying, “I did say I’d write a song about you. Pretty special if you ask me.”

She hums, taking a huge gulp of water and nodding enthusiastically.

“Correct, me, the cat girl and the e girl. What’s the next single, Corpse? Faceless Girls are ruining my life?”

“You’re a rascal,” he chides as a familiar warmth settles around his heart, and grips.

“It is one of my finer qualities, yes.”

Distantly, some part of his brain registers that this is the first time he’s seen her, but there is no sense of hesitation in his head about her. It feels just like it always has, with her on the phone saying the silliest things, and him responding with equal enthusiasm. This is the way they’ve always been.

While she talks, hands animatedly moving around, Corpse allows himself a small moment of reprieve to think. He knows he loves her, but he wonders briefly if it’s too soon to be in love with her (he concludes that probably it is, given that she remains unaware of his feelings, but he finds that it doesn’t really matter)

Because while Corpse loves her, he’s sure he doesn't know how to love her. Doesn’t know her favourite flowers even if he knows her coffee order by heart, doesn’t know her ideal date even if he’s memorized every poem she loves.

The meanest parts of his brain tell him she deserves better, and he knows they’re wrong. But a small part of him can’t help but dwell. He’d rather have her and her unnecessary hand movements in his life as his friend than not at all. So he pushes away his feelings for another day, and just listens to her talk.

Corpse is perfectly content with that.

#corpse husband x reader #corpse husband imagine #corpse husband imagines #the ease with which we hurt #coco writes #friends to lovers #we love that trope in this household #if you reblog with stuff in the tags i WILL read it and cry #also if u reblog it with ur favourite part quoted i will cry #i just will cry thats a personality trait lmao #Sometiems i feel like the continuity of his chapter feels rushed #but idk i dont have the patience to fix it so i wont

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something-tofightfor · 3 years

Text

Christmas in July #1: Aurora

Pairing: Logan Delos x Reader (Ink AU)

Word Count: 2,727

Rating: M? There’s some talk of the original trip into the park with William from Ransom, but no detail.

The first request for Christmas in July v3.0 goes out to you, @valkblue! I missed Logan - specifically this Logan, and you made it simple for me. You can read this as a standalone and just sort of be aware of the past trauma mentioned, but if you want to get the full effect - and the full scope of these two and their relationship, start here with Ink. This takes place well after the end of “Not Enough” (which I WILL finish I swear). Thank you for requesting this, Angie! <3

“Where are we going?” You were sitting next to him in the back of the car, but Logan wasn’t paying attention to you, instead typing something on his phone. “Logan, w-” “Do you trust me?” He darkened the screen and then turned his head to look at you, eyes focused on your face. “I mean, I know you do, but… do you trust me with this?” You didn’t even have to think about it. You trusted Logan implicitly - words and actions, public and private, especially after the events of the aftermath of your trip into the park’s depths with William.

“Of course.” You moved closer, laying your head against his shoulder. “You know I do, Logan, with everything. But we’re missing the Delos party, and … I didn’t know if …” You trailed off when you head him chuckle, the man’s arm winding around your shoulders. He didn’t speak until his palm was settled against the front of your body, placement deliberate. He always does that. Always over the tattoo.

It was a way to ground himself, reminding him that even before you’d had a real reason to, you’d trusted him with your health and safety - with your future. “Then lemme take care of this, alright? I’m doing something nice for you, so stop asking questions and just let me.” Before you, Logan had spent the majority of his time and effort - and money - making himself happy, doing anything and everything in his power to keep from settling too deep into his memories. But now? It’s all about me. “I know how much you look forward to that party every year, Logan. It’s the beginning of your extended vacation, and -” “I’m starting a little early this year.” You heard him clearly but felt his lips moving over the top of your head as he spoke. “We both are.” What does that mean? But instead of asking, you focused on the window and what you could see through it. “It’s a surprise.” He finally spoke again, voice low as you spied a sign for LAX through the far window. “A good one, I hope.” “All of your surprises are good, Logan.” Tilting your head up slowly, you kissed the bottom of his bearded jaw, the hair soft against your lips. “I won’t ask anymore questions.” ---

And you didn’t. You let him lead you onto one of the Delos jets, let the flight attendants explain the menu and drink options, let them bring you a blanket… and you even let Logan convince you to take Unisom an hour or two into the flight once he’d told you that you’d be in the air for a while. You woke feeling only slightly groggy, a fresh, cold glass of juice and a light breakfast on the table next to your reclined seat. Is it morning? It must be.

By the time you finished eating, you felt better, and were happy to see Logan emerging from the bathroom. The man was dressed in different clothes than he’d been when you took off, the black shift he had on making his eyes look much darker than usual. Casual, but … but still Logan. “There’s clothes waiting for you in there, too.” He pointed. “What you’re wearing now is great for LA, but not … not for where we’re going.

Rolling your eyes, you finally stood, taking the last swig of juice and walking into the bathroom, the promised clothes hanging on a small rack. Sweaters. So we’re going somewhere cold. Thumbing through them, you chose one in a dark green with a ribbed pattern, the material comfortingly soft as it slid over your undershirt and skin. Pairing it with dark jeans and boots, you washed your face and then returned to the cabin, sinking down into your chair in time to see Logan tossing back the remains of his own drink - orange juice. “I won’t ask big questions, Logan. But I have a couple of statements.”

He was amused - you could tell by the lift of one brow, the slight smirk on his lips. “Go on.”

“We’re going somewhere cold, based on what both of us are wearing right now.” He nodded. “And we’ve been flying for a long time, you wouldn’t have suggested sleeping pills otherwise.” He was holding back a grin, but you could see it in the way his eyes were glittering - and knew, without a doubt that Logan wanted to tell you where you were going. But he won’t. “So I’m guessing… Europe, somewhere?” He nodded. “How long are we staying?”

“It depends.” He tilted his head to one side, narrowing his eyes briefly. “But at least ‘til Christmas.” Before he could say anything else, the flight attendants came back into the cabin, letting you know that the descent would be starting soon, and that they needed to secure things. So we’re here for at least a week and a half? It’s got to be … London? Somewhere in France? Spain, maybe?

But you were wrong, and as soon as you stepped out onto the tarmac, both of you bundled up in coats and gloves, Logan’s hand pressed to your lower back as he rushed you to the waiting car, you knew it. There’s so much snow. It had nearly blinded you; the thick, white cover on the ground reflecting the muted rays of sunlight, but nothing had looked familiar to you. There were no tall buildings in the distance, no landmarks - nothing to tell you where Logan had whisked you off to. “It’s cold, Logan!” But you were laughing, teeth digging into the corner of your lower lip. “I hope I have the right -” “You do.” He was excited, arm going back around your shoulders to pull you to him. “I promise. The people that packed your bag knew where we were coming, so they packed the right shit.” You laughed at that, your excitement growing as you heard the trunk close, followed by a double knock on the side of the car. As it began to move, you bit back every question you had for Logan and focused instead on the fact that you had him all to yourself for weeks, something that hadn’t been true even as you’d recovered. “You excited?” “I am.” ---

It was a short drive to your destination, but as soon as the car came to a stop, you were out of it, feet planted in the snow and one hand over your mouth. He didn’t. He… but of course he did. “Logan, you… are you serious?”

He came to your side of the car and stopped next to you, following your line of sight to the front of the building and the sign above the door, the words Northern Lights Village telling you everything you needed to know about where you were. “I… is this OK?” Your heart pounding beneath the down jacket you wore, you turned toward Logan, eyes shining with tears. It’s more than OK.

“Yes. Yes, Logan, this is … I’ve never even…” Europe, you’d imagined, because you could picture Logan among all of the people in cities like Paris or London - even Amsterdam or Milan. But this? This is … there’s no one here. “I can’t believe…” “C’mon. Let’s get checked in and to the cabin, an’ then we can talk.” Yeah, that… You let him lead you inside of the building, answering questions from the friendly concierge, and within fifteen minutes, the two of you - and your bags - were safely inside your small cabin, the space cozy. There was a fire lit, along with instructions about proper use of the fixture, a small refrigerator and kitchen area, but the most striking feature of the entire cabin were the large panes of glass in the bedroom, giving you a slightly snow-covered view of the other cabins, the trees and a portion of the property, which was bathed in a gentle twilight that the concierge had explained was about as bright as it would get that day. “This is beautiful, Logan.” He agreed with you, eyes moving over the small space, and then stepped forward, his hands moving slowly up and down your arms. “There’s a book of stuff on the desk. There are a bunch of activities we can do while we’re here. Town’s only a few minutes away, we can go sledding, or use snowmobiles, or -” “Can we just stay in for a little while, Logan?” You shrugged, smiling up at him. “You said we were going to be here for a while, so why not just… relax. You haven’t, really, not since …” “That’s one of the reasons we’re here.” He squeezed your bicep and then stepped away, sitting on the edge of the bed to remove his boots while you did the same, standing with one hand against the wall. “I know this is our first official Christmas together, and I wanted to … not be in LA.” You understood - despite the fact that it had died down slightly once the trial ended, you and Logan were still higher profile than he would have liked. “The holidays haven’t ever really been a big thing for me before, not since my mom died.” He looked up. “Come, sit.”

You did, and Logan eased the two of you onto your backs and then urged you to roll toward him, on your side. “It’s cozy, Logan.” He agreed, meeting your eyes before he tilted his head to kiss you, the gesture not urgent or frenzied - just one full of affection. “There’s no tree - yet - but I’m workin’ on that, and like I said, there’s a town a few minutes away, so…” “I don’t need a tree, Logan.” You lifted your hand from his chest and spread your fingers against the side of his head, running them through his hair. “This cabin? The fireplace, the bed, the window? You? It’s perfect.” You gestured upward, still smiling. “Like we’re in a snowglobe.” “I think that’s the point.” He sighed, the warmth in his eyes bleeding into his other features and relaxing him next to you. “You’re supposed to forget everything while you’re here, and I hope you can. Hope we can, at least as much as … possible.” Every day was easier, but you knew that you’d never be fully over your ordeal in the park or the aftermath. “There’s no paparazzi here. No news. No reason to worry.”

“Just us.” He seemed surprised when you said it, but his head moved in agreement. “Then it’s perfect, Logan.” Even though you’d slept on the plane, you felt yourself growing tired again, the feeling of Logan’s arms around you just as comforting in the cabin’s small bed as they were in his large one, or in the Mesa beds, and you knew that unless you moved, you’d fall back asleep. But I don’t want to move, you realized as you closed your eyes, nestling your face between his chin and chest. I just want to stay here with him.

---

It was late when you woke up, but you didn’t know how late - only that your stomach was rumbling and the sun had fully set, the sky beyond the snowy window dark. The lack of sunrise and sunset is going to be difficult to get used to. You realized that Logan was still sleeping, and so you spent a few minutes watching him, the flickering firelight softening his features more than usual. It’s because he’s relaxed. You used the tip of one finger to trace over his cheek and then down, following the line of his jaw. “What’re you doing?”

His cheek went round beneath your hand and you groaned. “Caught me.” He laughed at that, rolling onto his back and groping for something behind him, but after only a few seconds he was back to facing you, gaze weighty, even in the darkness. “What?”

“Is this really alright?” He gestured with one hand, frowning. “Nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one to spend the holiday with?” He sighed. “It’s freezing, and there’s a sauna, but it’s not like the Mesa, not like the parks, not what I’m sure you figured a Christmas with me would be like.” “Logan, honestly?” You slid your hand under the hem of his shirt, feeling the warm skin beneath it. “This is perfect. Now we won’t have to worry about the headlines and people asking what I’m doing for my first Christmas post W-” “Don’t say his name.” His tone was clipped, and you stopped immediately. “Not here. This is supposed to be time away from all that, and I don’t want you to think about him for a single second.” He paused and you watched as his eyes darted away and up and then came back to you. “He doesn’t get to have a place in our Christmas.” You’d never forget what had happened to you, nor would you ever forget the way Logan had done exactly what you’d known he would - finding you, getting to you in time, staying with you while you healed and well after, letting himself love you and admit it even though it went against everything in him. This trip is just more of that. More of him. “Close your eyes.”

Confused, you did as he asked, your train of thought interrupted. You stated to whisper his name but were cut off by Logan’s lips pressed to yours, more insistent this time, one of his hands curled around the back of your head between it and the pillow. Oh, Logan. He wasn’t shy about telling you that he loves you; he’d done so countless times since the first time he admitted it out loud in the hospital wing of the Mesa, but Logan preferred to show you - in both lasting actions and physical displays, and you had no doubt in your mind that this was one of them.

The trip, the holiday, all of the time spent together; it’s all so opposite of the Logan that everyone else aside from Juliet and Emily know, but you wouldn’t trade it for anything. “Keep your eyes closed til I tell you.” He murmured the words with one final, quick kiss to your lips and then you felt him pull away, settling back down next to you. Alright, but … why? There was a long pause, and then Logan said your name, his fingers tangling with yours between the two of you. “Open ‘em.” The first thing you saw was that the snow and ice were gone from the panes of glass that made up the window. The second was a bright green glow beyond them, flickering and swirling through the sky in bands of varied thickness. “It’s beautiful, Logan… I’ve never seen… never thought I …” You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, mouth dropping open. “How did you … it…” You were speechless and it was rare for you, but as you watched the color pulsing through the sky, your eyes caught deep purple and pink at some of the edges. It’s incredible. “You can see the stars through it, Logan, look…” “I’m looking.” His voice was lower than it had been, and as you tore your eyes away from the window to glance at him, you saw that his eyes were locked on you, a serious expression on his face. “Believe me, I’m -” “Not at me, Logan. Look at that.” You reached for his chin with one hand, turning his head upward. “You can’t replicate that with any machine or computer. You can’t create that, Logan.” He relaxed next to you, and the two of you stared up in silence for a few minutes, fingers still entwined. “And you sure as hell can’t see that in LA… or anywhere in the United States.” He laughed, tightening his hold on your hand, but Logan agreed with you, his voice still quiet in the darkness. “Thank you… for letting me do this for you. For Christmas.” He needed the getaway just as much as you did - not just because he needed a break, but because he needed to know that the two of you could be together in an unfamiliar - and uncertain - environment. We can. We definitely can. “No, Logan. This isn’t just for me.” You turned your head, waiting until he was looking at you. “You did this for us.”

---

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reinerispretty · 4 years

Text

reminiscence. (? x f!reader) pt11, the end.

hello everyone :) i know you’ve been waiting for this, and it’s finally here!! thank you all so much for liking this dumb idea i had at 2:30 am one night. i can’t thank you enough for all of your support and patience, so i hope you enjoy!!

pt1

pt10

MASTERLIST

After their discussion, Korra led their group to the darker parts of the Spirit World. They were far from where Iroh’s cozy home sat and it was a long walk. (Y/N’s) legs, feet, and back started hurting from how long they had traveled and how heavy her pack was. She shifted it uncomfortably, adjusting the straps on her shoulders. Mako glanced at her and tugged at her pack.

“Let me,” He said, offering to take the pack from her shoulders. (Y/N) shook her head, leaning away from him.

“I’m perfectly capable of carrying my own backpack,” She said, holding her chin high. Her muscles were killing her, but she was already the weakest link among her friends. She wasn’t about to act like it. Mako chuckled, shaking his head.

“What are we looking for, exactly?” Bolin questioned, jogging to catch back up with his friends. He had never been in this section of the Spirit World before, and kept getting distracted by its flora and fauna. Korra shrugged.

“I guess I was looking for a sign.”

“So, you have no idea where we’re going?” Mako scoffed. Korra glared at him and (Y/N), desperate to ease the tension, spoke up.

“I think the way Korra is leading us is right. I mean, I have this feeling in my gut.”

“Feelings aren’t going to lead us to whatever took your memories.” It was (Y/N’s) turn to glare at Mako.

“Your negativity is what’s not going to lead us anywhere!” She inhaled a deep breath, looking back over to Bolin. He smiled kindly at her, his green eyes shining. Looking at Bolin was like being at peace. “I can feel a pull towards where we’re headed. It’s inviting but makes me want to run in the opposite direction. I’m sure that has to mean something.”

“It’s the only lead we have,” Korra agreed.

They walked over the plains and fields of the Spirit World until the sky began to darken. They had only been there a few hours, so it was not night passing above them, but rather the darkness of the forest that loomed ahead. Its trees sprouted from the ground and reached toward the sky, darkening everything around them. Their limbs held no leaves, only sharp and pointed edges of branches. Nothing could be seen within, only a darkness that seemed impenetrable.

(Y/N) swallowed. A chill traveled up her spine, settling deep in her bones. She was gripped with such a fear that made her chest tighten, and she looked between her friends with panic in her eyes. The forest was wholeheartedly not good, but perhaps the scariest thing about it was how familiar it had felt to her. Like the spirit had said, she had been here. She had set foot into its darkness and the feelings it gave her then were what she was feeling now.

She wrapped her fingers tightly around the straps of her backpack. This is where they needed to go. Korra looked back at her, raising her eyebrow as they approached the forest’s edge. “It’s in there,” (Y/N) said quietly.

“Are you sure about this?” Bolin asked.

“I was the one who didn’t even want to do this in the first place,” (Y/N) said.

“We’ve made it this far. There’s no turning back now.” Korra grabbed her hand. “Everyone should join hands so we don’t get separated in there.” (Y/N) couldn’t keep her eyes off of the forest, but she offered her hand for one of the boys. Bolin reached for it, but Mako beat his brother to it, his fingers slotting between hers. Bolin inhaled a deep breath and took his brother’s hand, and they set off into the forest.

As soon as they stepped foot inside, the darkness completely surrounded them. (Y/N’s) eyes took a while to adjust, and in that time she tripped over nearly every root she encountered, causing a chain reaction with Bolin and Mako. “Hey!” Mako called out as Bolin slammed into his back, and the younger brother groaned and rubbed his nose.

Korra formed a ball of fire in her hand, turning back to the rest of the group. “Maybe Mako should be on the end,” She suggested, “So he has a free hand.” Mako nodded, releasing both Bolin and (Y/N’s) hands to switch places.

“Wait,” (Y/N) said, shuffling her pack off of her shoulder. She reached deep inside the main pocket, pulling out a flashlight. “Korra, hold--” Her voice was lost as a powerful gust of wind blew through the trees. The forest did nothing to protect the group from the weight of the breeze, and (Y/N) was knocked to the ground. The wind was so strong that it pressed her down into the earth further. She could feel the cool dirt against her cheek and curled herself into a ball, holding the flashlight tight against her chest. She lay there until the wind had completely died down. The uncomfortable silence of the forest returned, and she sat up.

“Bolin?” She called out as she rose to her feet. She wiped the dirt from the side of her face and turned her flashlight on the point where Bolin should have been. He was nowhere to be found. “Mako?” She slowly rotated around herself. “Korra?” Her friends had disappeared, as had her pack, and (Y/N) was alone in the middle of the Spirit World forest.

Panic had started to creep in and she could feel tears welling in her eyes. She had already considered the forest to be scary, and that was with the company of her friends. Now that she was entirely alone, (Y/N) was terrified. The fear she felt was crippling, and all she could think to do was stand in place and wait for someone to come find her.

No, she couldn’t do that. Bolin, Korra, and Mako had all disappeared, and they wouldn’t do that on their own volition. As far as she knew, she was the only one with a flashlight. She had to find them.

She pointed the light ahead of her, or at least, what she believed to be ahead, and started stepping and climbing over the gnarled branches. Part of her wondered if she could call for them. What if she drew the attention of some Spirit World monster? She doubted a rough understanding of hand-to-hand combat would help her in that situation.

(Y/N) inhaled a deep breath. “I’m not scared,” She called out into the forest. It was a lie, but whatever being was out there didn’t need to know that. “I know you’re trying to scare me by separating me from my friends, but it’s not going to work!” She continued moving forward, swiping the flashlight in front of her. “At this point, you’re just making me angry, and you don’t want to see me angry!” Her voice was wavering, but it was the only thing that made her feel less alone.

---

Bolin felt a bit dazed. His body was sore, as if he had been lying down on a hard surface for hours. He clenched his fists on the dirt of the forest floor. He very well could have. “Mako?” Bolin called out, the sound of his own voice sending an ache through his head. He was having trouble remembering why he was here in the first place. He had been with Mako, that much he knew, but who else?

In his mind, he saw a flash of bright blue eyes and the colors of the Water Tribe. Korra had been with them, that’s right. But what would he, Korra, and Mako all be doing in a dark forest?

“Bolin!” He heard a familiar voice call out, and in the distance he saw a light moving back and forth. (Y/N!) That was the reason they were here, to help her get her memories back. Bolin rose to his feet.

“(Y/N)!” He shouted, scrambling over the brambles of branches and brush to reach her. They pulled at his pant legs, keeping him from moving forward at the speed he was trying to move. Bolin resorted to earthbending the plants out of the way by flipping the earth on itself. He did this over and over until he had cleared enough of a path to continue moving. “(Y/N), stay there! I’m coming to you!”

Bolin wasn’t sure if she could hear him. The light was disappearing, deeper and deeper into the forest, and he worked with haste to keep up with her. He made a mental note to tell her how fast she was.

The light was fully gone now, leaving Bolin in the dark. He didn’t have time to think about what he should do. He kept earthbending and moving forward through the trees, trying to follow the direction that he had last seen the light travel. Bolin had lost (Y/N) once, and he was not about to let it happen again.

---

While the gust of wind had pushed (Y/N) to the ground and sent Bolin in a different direction, Mako awoke tangled in the branches of one of the Spirit World trees. He was terrified when he had opened his eyes, feeling his feet dangling beneath him. He could not see how high up he was, but his backpack was caught in the limbs and there was no way Mako would be able to untangle it.

He used his bending to cast a column of fire beneath him. The trees seemed impervious to his bending, but he was able to see that he was only a few feet off the ground. Mako shimmied out of his backpack and fell to the ground, landing on this back with a heavy thump. He groaned, allowing himself a few moments to lay on the ground before standing. He lit a ball of fire in both of his palms, one to light his way and the other to throw at a potential enemy.

He wasn’t in the same place he had been, this much he was sure. The trees here were considerably shorter than the ones that had surrounded his group. Mako guessed he had been tossed back toward the edge of the forest, far away from his friends. With a heavy sigh, he pressed on toward the deepest parts of the woods.

“Bolin!” Mako shouted into the darkness, pausing every few moments to see if he could hear any shuffling. “Korra!” He repeated this process, shouting all three of his friends’ names. It was likely that them being split up hadn’t been a product of the Spirit World, but rather a conscious effort by something far more sinister. As Mako walked deeper into the forest, he felt the familiar sensation of such a fear that had only gripped him a few times during life. His thoughts drifted to a certain night with his parents, but he shook them from his head.

That was what the Spirit World did, Korra had told him, especially if you weren’t careful. You needed to keep your thoughts guarded or else they would wander and the fear that you felt on the inside would be reflected on the world surrounding you. He just hoped that Korra maintained her composure, or else everything would get very bad very quickly.

---

Korra’s eyes flew open, taking a while to adjust to the bright light surrounding her. It was such a contrast from the last thing she had seen. (Y/N) had been handing her the flashlight, since they were only lit by the light of the fire in her palm. A strong wind had knocked (Y/N) to the ground and had blown out the flame, leaving Korra and everyone else in complete darkness. But that did little to explain how Korra had ended up here.

She sat up to find where here was, exactly. To her left was the darkness of the forest. To her right was a small oasis, surrounded by lush green grass. A waterfall poured shining blue water into the small pool. The sun shined down on them, despite leaving the rest of the forest completely untouched.

A twig snapped to her side and Korra jumped to her feet, poised in her fighting stance. A man exited the forest, holding up his hands in defense. To Korra, he looked like a depiction of her Uncle Unalaq, but there was something off about him. It was as if he looked like a memory of her uncle, what she would have pictured if she had not seen him in many years.

“I apologize,” The man said, a smirk reaching his lips. “I thought this form would put you at ease.”

Korra did not hesitate to react. She kicked into the air, sending a swirling column of air toward the man. He deflected it, so she punched slabs of rock at him, which he also deflected. Korra utilized every move in her arsenal, but the man simply shot her attacks away from himself.

“Please, Korra,” He chastised. His voice was similar to Unalaq’s, but not quite. It was as if many voices were talking as he spoke. “I only want to talk to you.”

Korra paused, her chest heaving and her fists clenched at her sides. “Tell me where my friends are.”

“They’re exactly where you left them, somewhat. I do hope they do not get lost in my maze, but no matter. You’re who I’ve been eager to see.”

“Who are you?” Korra demanded. The man chuckled, taking a few steps forward. He walked atop the water without making any ripples in the pool.

“I understand that you have no connection to your past lives, is that correct? A shame, really. Aang might have been able to tell you a thing or two about my brother. Or my mother. He was quite familiar with them.”

Korra’s dark brow furrowed as she thought back to all of the history lessons she had received in her training with the White Lotus. It was hard to separate what Kyoshi had done from Aang, Kuruk from Roku, without the connection of her past lives to guide her. It only added to the rage she already felt for this man before her.

The man chuckled. “Very well, if you’re lost, I will guide you. My brother is Koh, the Face Stealer. My mother is the Mother of Faces. My brother can steal a face, while my mother can restore them. I’m sure you remember the story of Prince Zuko and Ursa. Mother had given Ursa a new face and taken away her memories to ease her pain. She also restored them, years later.”

“I’m not interested in the history lesson.” Korra cracked her knuckles.

“Quite short tempered, you are. Unalaq had told me that much. He had said you wouldn’t be any fun to work with, but I’ve had great fun toying with you. Did you like the little pet I sent to you and your friends? She’s proven to be very useful in getting you here.”

Korra blinked. “You’re the one that stole (Y/N’s) memories?” The man smiled, stretching out his arms.

“Baat the Memory Stealer, at your service.” Korra waterbended from the pool, trying to unsteady him, but it was no use. He hovered above the water, amused with Korra’s actions. “Now, Korra, there’s no need to be upset. I only needed someone to help bring you back here, to me. That was your uncle’s intended purpose, but he was so power-hungry that I always knew I needed a back-up plan.”

“You ruined her life!”

Baat shrugged. “When I met her, it had seemed as if she had ruined it herself. I have been watching you a long while, Avatar. You young adults care very little for anything else except your relationships. I saw the heartbreak on (Y/N’s) face when she had seen you and the earthbender boy on your date. And then right after, she ran into the older brother. She needed a shoulder to cry on, and he left her waiting. I approached her in the park while she waited for him to arrive and offered her a cup of tea from my shop.” Baat smiled as he reminisced on the memory. “She told me of her troubles and said, ‘I just wish I could forget everything.’” His voice mimicked (Y/N’s) perfectly. “I was simply helping her.”

“If you could travel to the mortal world, why not come to me directly? Why involve her in all of this?”

“You weren’t a fully-fledged Avatar yet. You couldn’t even airbend! What use could I have for you then?” Baat stared down his nose at her. “I needed something to tug at the heartstrings, something that would guarantee that you come to me. What better than a heartbroken girl with no memories?”

Korra set her jaw. “What do you want with me?”

---

(Y/N) hissed as a tree branch snapped at her arm and rubbed at it to make the sting go away. She had been walking for ages and was unsure if she was really getting anywhere. Her flashlight was still bright, but she wasn’t certain it would last very long. None of them had been anticipating being lost in total darkness.

A flame passed through the trees just a few inches to her right, narrowly missing her. She screamed, ducking down close to the ground, before jumping back up. Flames could mean firebenders! “Korra?” She shouted into the brush, trying to step over the branches to locate the source of the blast. “Mako!”

“(Y/N)?” Mako shouted back.

“Stay where you are, I’ll come to you!” They both said at the same time. Mako clambered over the roots to reach the sound of her voice. (Y/N) shined her flashlight all around her, growing desperate to find him, until she was pointing it directly into his eyes. Mako held up his hands to shield himself from the light and (Y/N) let out a sigh of relief.

“Thank goodness you’re okay!” She wrapped her arms around his middle, squeezing him tightly and pressing her ear to his chest to make sure that she heard a normal heartbeat and not something Spirit World-y. She pulled away quickly and both were thankful neither could really see the blush on their face.

“Are you alright?” Mako asked, analyzing her limbs for any sign of distress. (Y/N) nodded.

“A little shaken up, but I’ll be fine. Have you seen Bolin or Korra?” Mako shook his head. (Y/N’s) hopeful face fell. She took Mako’s hand in hers. “Well, at least we’re together. We can find them better if we’re both looking.”

Mako squeezed her hand, as if to silently say that he wouldn’t be letting go this time. (Y/N) led him back from where she had come, and they started their walk. “Do you know what happened back there?”

(Y/N) shook her head. “There was the wind and then you guys were gone. I lost all of my supplies. I was worried I’d get stranded in here.” She laughed lightly to ease the mood.

“I won’t be of much help in that department. I lost my pack in a tree.”

“I don’t suppose I was a good forager when I had my memories?”

“Not unless you count digging through my pockets to look for candies.” (Y/N) pursed her lips.

Behind them, they heard the sound of an earthquake. The ground shook beneath their feet and Mako pulled (Y/N) into himself to help steady her. She shined her flashlight on the source of the movement and was grateful to see Bolin, a sigh of relief escaping her.

He paused his earthbending as he came upon them, squinting his eyes to see in the sudden bright light. (Y/N) ran over to him and flung herself around him before he even had the chance to register who she was. “Are you alright?” She questioned, analyzing his limbs the same way Mako had hers.

“I’m fine, just a little headache.” He rubbed the back of his head. “I think I got knocked out, or something.”

“We’ll get Korra to heal you once we find her,” Mako said.

“You guys haven’t found Korra yet?” (Y/N) shook her head.

“I only found Mako a few minutes ago. I’m not sure how long we’ve been in here, but staying longer doesn’t seem like a good idea. We need to find Korra and get out of here.”

“What about your memories?” Bolin set a hand on her shoulder. (Y/N) shook her head.

“It’s not worth putting you guys in danger.” She hopped down from the mound Bolin had created with his earthbending. “I mean it,” She told the two brothers. “We’re finding Korra and we’re leaving.”

---

Baat hummed, pressing his long fingers together as he thought. She had heard stories of Koh and the Mother of Faces, but she had never heard of this spirit. There were hundreds in the Spirit World, it was impossible for anyone to know them all. She wasn’t quite sure how, but she knew Baat was dangerous. He had stolen (Y/N’s) memories and could shapeshift. What else could he do?

“I have been alive for many years,” The spirit said. “I remember the days of the first Avatars. I never saw any purpose of getting involved in their lives, or the lives of mortals. You all die just as quickly as you are born. My brother, though, he loved torturing mortals. It wasn’t until your uncle arrived, that my interest was piqued. A human hadn’t been here since Avatar Wan. I could tell he had immense power, and wanted more.”

“It was only natural that he was drawn to Vaatu, but I watched. I, too, was tired of how you humans ripped the earth to shreds, and over trivial matters. You had no reverence for the spirits anymore.”

“But I opened the Spirit Portals,” Korra interjected. “I’m helping bring harmony between the two worlds.”

“Is that what you think you’re doing? You’ve interrupted life not only in your city, but in the Spirit World as well. You are too young, too rash, to usher in any sort of peace.” Baat inhaled a deep breath, shaking his head. “I knew your uncle wouldn’t be able to do it, either. He was too focused on what Vaatu could do for him. He was selfish, really. All I wanted from him was so he could bring you to me, but he failed at that. He wanted your power all to himself. What I am trying to do, Korra, is bring peace to all.”

“How are you any different from Unalaq? You want my bending to yourself. You ruined lives for it!”

Baat rolled his eyes. “Sometimes, sacrifices must be made for the greater good. You don’t think (Y/N) is better off, without her memories? I took away the pain she once had. I can take away everyone’s pain, if you would only give me what I want.”

“Why would I ever give you my power?”

“If you don’t, your friend won’t get her memories back.”

Korra wished she could talk to Tenzin, to get some guidance on what to do. There was no way that she could hand her powers over to Baat. His claim of wanting to provide peace to the world was a farce. He knew that she knew that. But they had traveled here to get (Y/N’s) memories back. How could they leave without them?

(Y/N) emerged from the darkness of the forest, with Bolin and Mako coming into view behind her. Her face lit up in relief as her eyes landed on Korra. She moved to run over to her friend, but Mako grabbed her by the elbow, his amber eyes trained on the being before them.

“Ah, (Y/N),” Baat said with a smile, extending his arms out to her. “It’s so good to see you again. I’ve enjoyed watching your journey in the mortal world.” The pool beneath him flickered, showing her laughing with Bolin over toast, diving into the river on top of Naga with Korra, practicing her hand-to-hand combat with Asami, and lastly, Mako kissing her on the balcony of the ship. (Y/N) winced, shutting her eyes tightly.

“You know him?” Bolin questioned, face looking pale from having just witnessed his brother kiss his ex-girlfriend.

“She does, she just doesn’t realize it yet.” There was nothing familiar about the spirit in front of her, but (Y/N’s) blood ran cold with icy fear. If she had been scared in the forest, she was absolutely petrified standing in front of Baat. The worst part of it all was that she couldn’t tell why she was scared. This spirit had an effect on her that terrified her. “Although she could, if Korra agrees to my terms.”

Korra’s hands clenched at her sides. She turned back to her friends. “If I don’t give him my powers, he won’t give (Y/N) back her memories.”

(Y/N) felt her stomach drop. As intimidating as the Spirit World was, she had been hopeful that somehow, they would be able to get her memories back. She would leave this place knowing who she was and knowing her place in the world.

But there was no way she could let Korra do this. She stepped out of Mako’s grip, walking down to stand beside her friend. The closer she got to Baat, the more she wanted to run, but she inhaled a deep breath and tried to pretend that her nerves were even. “Keep my memories,” She told Baat.

His smile fell immediately. “(Y/N),” Korra started, but she shook her head.

“I know what I’m doing. I know what it’s like to feel lost, Korra, and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Especially not you.” She shrugged. “I’m not the same person I was and that’s okay.” (Y/N) turned to Baat, taking Korra’s hand in hers. “So we won’t be accepting your offer.”

“I suppose if you won’t give me your powers, I’ll have to take them for myself.” His appearance as Unalaq fizzled out of existence, leaving in its place a snake-like creature that towered above them. He unhinged his jaw and a beam of bright light began forming inside, pointed directly at Korra.

(Y/N) didn’t want to wait to see what would happen. She threw her flashlight upward, knocking Baat in the side of his head with the heavy metal. He went to the side and the light hit the trees, completely wilting them.

“What an arm!” Bolin cheered, forming the same mound of earth that he had been traveling on. Mako joined him, and Korra did the same with (Y/N). They earthbended as quickly as they could into the forest, but Baat was slithering behind them, nipping at their heels.

Mako utilized every firebending move he could without losing his balance. He had to defend not only himself and Bolin, but (Y/N) and Korra as well. The Avatar could only spare a few shots at the spirit until she had to return to earthbending, or else she and (Y/N) would be thrown off. (Y/N) felt helpless, wishing there was something she could do.

Something heavy came down on top of her head, nearly knocking her over. She let out a shout before realizing what it was. In the flashes of light from Mako’s firebending, she saw his pack. Their movement must have dislodged it from the trees, causing it to fall. She reached out and grabbed it before it was lost forever and began digging around inside.

She wasn’t sure if Mako had meant to take Asami’s pack, but she was pleasantly surprised to find the inventor’s electrified glove inside. If they made it out alive, (Y/N) would be sure to let Asami know just how much she loved her.

(Y/N) had no idea how this glove was supposed to be used, but she knew she needed to wait for the right moment. Baat had paused in chasing after them, and was rearing his head back to power up his light blast. “Split up!” (Y/N) shouted to Korra and Bolin. The two crossed their earthbending mounds in front of each other, hoping to confuse the serpent. Without Mako’s fire, Korra and (Y/N) were left in the darkness.

Korra kept pressing forward and (Y/N) was too worried to make a sound in case Baat had gotten them confused. All that could be heard was the movement of earth beneath them. (Y/N) was trying hard not to berate herself for these events. She had known that she had a strange feeling about being in the Spirit World. She had anticipated that there would be danger, but she never expected it to be anything like this. And now there was a giant serpent monster spirit thing chasing them so that it could gain Korra’s powers and take over the world. Fantastic day this was shaping up to be.

And while everyone was so ready to put themselves in danger for her, (Y/N) felt horrible. She couldn’t bend. She had no way of protecting her friends like they were willing to do for her.

“Thought you could hide from me, did you?” Baat’s voice loomed in the shadows. Korra paused her earth bending, leaving them both standing on top of a mound of dirt. She shot fire, air, and summoned water from the trees to attack Baat, but he was impossible to locate. The darkness of the forest surrounded them wholeheartedly.

Korra lit fire in her palms to give them at least a bit of light. She looked over to (Y/N), and she noticed the hint of fear that was in the Avatar’s eyes. He had taken (Y/N’s) memories, what if he took hers? What if he ended up getting her powers after all? There would be no one there to stop him.

(Y/N) swallowed. Korra was the strongest person she knew, and even she was scared. That thought should have terrified her. If Korra was scared, surely there was no hope for them.

(Y/N) pressed her lips into a harsh line. No. She would not allow this to happen. Her friends had been willing to risk everything for her, and she would do the same for them.

The light formed to their right, directly behind Korra. (Y/N) pushed her to the side and turned on the electricity glove. Even if it meant risking everything, she would do her best to protect them.

She leapt off of the mound of dirt and into the blinding light.

---

Asami and Tonraq had been through so many games of Pai Sho, they had lost count. Each hour that her friends were gone, Asami grew more nervous. “Does time pass differently in there?” She asked Tonraq. He smiled at her and shook his head.

Asami gnawed on her bottom lip. It had been over twelve hours since she had watched her friends pass into the Spirit World. She knew she was being overly optimistic when she had expected it to be a sort of in-and-out situation, but three of the best benders she knew were in there. Surely if something went wrong, they would be able to handle it.

She hoped that Mako had found the glove she had placed in his pack and given it to (Y/N). While (Y/N) had done great in her training, Asami knew firsthand how easy it was to forget everything as soon as you were faced with the first inkling of danger. She would have given it to (Y/N) outright, but she was sure the girl would have refused. “You need this to protect yourself!” She could hear (Y/N) insisting. Asami smiled wryly as she moved her Pai Sho tile.

Tonraq heard them before she did. The crunch of boots against snow was barely audible, but he was so much more accustomed to the silence than Asami was. He stood and Asami scrambled up to join him, leaving the Pai Sho tiles forgotten between them. Although her jacket and pants were bulky, she ran to the best of her ability to meet her friends.

The bright smile on her face faded instantly, and she brought a hand to her mouth in horror. In Bolin’s arms lay an unnaturally limp (Y/N). Her clothes were singed, and in some areas the cloth melded with her skin in horrible burns. Her head rested against Bolin’s chest, but it bobbed back and forth as he walked.

Korra looked to her father, her bottom lip trembling. “I need your help,” She said, her voice sounding authoritative yet hollow. Asami knew that she felt the need to be the strongest among everyone, but even Korra was known to falter. “I tried my best in the Spirit World, but I couldn’t get her to wake up. I--I tried really hard, Dad, I don’t know why she isn’t waking up.” Korra’s eyes welled with tears.

“Asami,” Tonraq said, and she snapped back to reality. She tore her eyes from (Y/N’s) form to look at him. “Gather all of the blankets and place them in my tent.” She nodded and started rummaging through their packs, pulling out blankets and laying them on the floor of Tonraq’s large tent. Mako soon joined her, his face looking blank and sallow. He leaned down to the firepit in the middle of the tent and lit it.

“Mako,” Asami started, but he didn’t look at her. “What happened?”

“I didn’t see it,” Mako said, his voice breaking. He cleared his throat. “She was with Korra.”

Tonraq entered the tent with (Y/N) in his arms, Bolin and Korra only a few steps behind. He lay (Y/N) atop the blankets. “I need everyone out of the tent except Korra,” He said, giving them an order but doing so gently. “She’s the only one who can help me heal her.”

Nodding, Asami pulled the two brothers out of the tent. Bolin’s eyes were rimmed red with tears, but Mako was frozen, his head hanging as he stared down at the ground. “Can someone please tell me what happened while you guys were in there?”

Bolin told Asami the whole story starting at the very beginning, from Iroh’s house to Baat chasing them through the dark forest. “(Y/N) told us to split up,” He said, struggling to form the words as sobs clawed their way up his throat. “Mako and I weren’t anywhere near them when it happened. Korra told us that Baat had been behind her, so (Y/N) noticed him first. She pushed Korra away and jumped right in his mouth, just before he used his powers on Korra.”

“We met up with them again outside the forest,” He continued. “There was a huge explosion. Korra thinks that she used your glove inside of him. When we found Korra, she was trying to heal her.” Bolin closed his eyes, trying to block the memory of (Y/N’s) lifeless eyes staring up at the sky. “Korra managed to bring her back, but she kept fading away.”

Mako remained silent, but Asami noticed as the tears he blinked away landed in the snow. “I’m sure she’ll be okay,” Asami said, trying her best to remain positive, although their odds weren’t looking great. From what Bolin had told her, it sounded like (Y/N) had been at the very center of an explosion. The electricity of the glove was enough to incapacitate anyone, but that coupled with the energy of a spirit...Asami had no clue what that could mean. At the very least, she believed it to be a miracle that (Y/N) was still in one piece.

They waited around the fire in silence as Tonraq and Korra worked. The sun was starting to rise over the horizon before they heard anything. Korra stepped out of the tent, her cheeks puffed from the tears she had shed throughout the night. Asami ran over to her first, wrapping Korra in a hug. Korra gripped her tightly, burying her face in her neck. The sobs that she had been holding in so she could work escaped her body all at once, leaving her a heaving mess in Asami’s arms.

Tears flowed freely from Asami’s green eyes. If Korra was this upset, it could only mean the worst. Mako kicked a log from the fire pit into the snow before storming off. Bolin collapsed back into his seat, staring straight ahead. He had just gotten (Y/N) back and now he was losing her all over again.

Tonraq stepped out of the tent, waiting until the friends had gained some of their composure to speak. “She’s more stable than she was,” He told them. “But I don’t know if there’s anything I can do to wake her up. We have to get her back to Kya as soon as possible.”

He radioed for Varrick, who sent one of his commercial planes to pick them up within the hour. Tonraq remained in the Southern Water Tribe, but instructed them to keep him updated on everything that was happening. (Y/N) and Korra remained in the back of the plane so she could perform healing if necessary, and the rest of the group sat tensely as they flew back to Republic City.

The plane landed on Air Bender Island and Kya and Tenzin boarded before anyone could exit. Tenzin took (Y/N) into his arms and whisked her off into the house’s back rooms. Korra stood up to follow, but Kya pressed a hand to her chest to stop her. “It’s not your fault, but you are too out of control of your emotions. You’ll do more harm than good.” With that, she went to join her brother.

Pema stepped onto the plane then. Normally she had children running at her heels, but it was as if everyone could tell the weight of today. “Why don’t you all come inside and rest?”

---

It was an entire two weeks of hushed whispers and “adult” discussions. One by one, Asami, Bolin, and Mako returned to their homes, requesting that Korra notify them as soon as there was any news. Bolin and Mako were keen on staying on Air Temple Island, but were forced by Tenzin to go home and at least change their clothes.

So Korra sat on the island and trained, trying to do absolutely anything that would keep her mind off of the girl that lay in the back room of the house. Truly, things were not going very well for Korra. The city was angry over the Spirit World vines that had grown over its property. It was like no matter what she did to make people happy, it always backfired.

Korra was fast asleep when she heard Naga growl at the door. A knock sounded against the wood, and a groggy Korra opened the door as she wiped sleep away from her eyes. Kya stood before her, a slight smile on her face. “She’s awake.”

Korra didn’t hesitate to run down the hall, Naga barreling after her. She flew through the door, startling (Y/N). Naga bounded inside, licking a stripe up (Y/N’s) cheek. The girl laughed, wiping at the slobber with a bandaged arm. “Hey, Korra,” She croaked, her voice husky from not being used for weeks.

The Avatar flew forward, wrapping her arms around her friend. “I’m--Wow! You’re back. And you remember who I am!”

(Y/N) nodded. “I remember everything.”

“Everything?” (Y/N) nodded excitedly.

“It’s a little overwhelming, having so many memories in my head now.” She squeezed Korra’s hand.

“I’m so glad you have your memories back. Now I won’t feel as bad for doing this.” She slapped an uninjured part of (Y/N’s) arm. “What were you thinking!”

“I was thinking about how you guys risked your lives to help me! And I had to do the same for you.”

“There’s only enough room for one reckless person on this team, thank you very much.” Still, Korra couldn’t help but grin. The past few months had been the hardest of her life, but at least (Y/N) was okay.

Asami was the first to arrive. She had been up late tinkering with an idea for her company, so she had come as soon as Korra told her. Much like Korra, she too hugged (Y/N) and then promptly berated her for her actions. “I wouldn’t have given you the glove if you were planning on killing yourself!”

“It was more a spur of the moment decision than anything,” (Y/N) laughed.

Bolin came next, later in the morning. Since her legs were still badly burned and she hadn’t used them in weeks, Korra wheeled (Y/N) out into the courtyard so he could see her. With her memories back, (Y/N) was overcome with emotion at the sight of him. As he approached her, she realized he was crying, too, but the smile on his face was as wide as ever.

He kneeled down so he was eye level with her. “We have to talk,” She said immediately, and Bolin’s eyes widened.

“Are you sure? You just woke up last night, we don’t have to do anything if you’re not--” She shook her head to cut him off.

“My mother made me break up with you. She said I’d lose my job if I stayed with you and with that, my house. I didn’t want to, Bolin, but I didn’t really see myself having another choice. You and Mako already struggled so much just to take care of yourselves. I thought it would just be easier if I cut things off completely. But I realized soon after that the life my mother wanted me to have wasn’t the life I wanted to lead. So I came to find you. And that’s when I saw you on the date with Korra. I didn’t know who she was, I just thought you had moved on. I ran into Mako and he told me to wait for him at the park. That’s where Baat found me, except then he looked like a very nice old lady.”

“She, or he, rather, could tell I was upset and invited me for tea. I figured I could kill a few hours before Mako was done with practice, so I went. I poured my heart out to Baat and told him that I wished I could forget everything. The next thing I know, I woke up where all of this started. I think Baat kept me in a sort of trance-like state until I could be of use to him.” She inhaled a deep breath once she finished. “I’m really sorry for all the hurt I caused you, Bolin.”

Bolin smiled and took her hand in his. “It’s okay, (Y/N).”

“I didn’t mean it when I told you I didn’t love you.” Bolin knew her well enough to hear the “but” before it came. “I loved you so much, Bolin.”

“But if things had been different…” He trailed off. The sting was much lesser than it had been before. Bolin supposed this was only natural. It had been over a year since they had been together. If he really dove into his own feelings, he had a hard time discerning between nostalgia and the present.

“Are you mad at me?” (Y/N) asked, her voice incredibly soft. Bolin’s green eyes flashed.

“Of course I’m not mad at you,” He said. “You have to do what’s best for you. Just...promise me you won’t disappear again?”

(Y/N) grinned, wrapping her arms around Bolin’s shoulders. “I promise.”

Mako couldn’t arrive until later in the day, when the sun was already beginning to set over Republic City. He had gotten the news that (Y/N) was awake earlier in the day, but he had already been at work, and there was no way the Chief would let him off his shift after a two week vacation. He rushed to Air Temple Island as soon as he was relieved. He would have extra paperwork to do in the morning, but he figured it was worth it.

Korra directed Mako to where (Y/N) sat in the gazebo. They had moved a bench there so she could sit and get some more fresh air. He cleared his throat as he approached her from behind. (Y/N) turned to look back at him, a smile on her face.

“Nice uniform,” She quipped. “Are you gonna ticket me?” He glanced at the wheelchair to her side.

“Only if you don’t follow the speed limit,” He said back, and (Y/N) laughed. He took a seat beside her on the bench. “How are you feeling?”

“My head feels really heavy,” She told him. “I never thought memories carried so much weight, but it feels like I’ve got ten bricks on my shoulders.”

“You have your memories back?”

She nodded. “Every single one of them. I wished I could’ve let go of the embarrassing ones, but oh well.” They sat for a few moments, watching the sun crawl further and further below the horizon.

(Y/N) hadn’t anticipated how many memories she would have of Mako. She saw flashes of cheering him and Bolin on at their probending competitions. He used to bring home her own order of dumplings whenever he brought Bolin’s. Giving her his jacket when they were caught in the rain, and Mako’s lips turning up at the corners at a joke she had told. But one memory stood out above them all, so apparent that she wondered how Baat had even been able to erase it.

She remembered the memory that Mako had shared with her a few weeks back, while they sat around the fire pit before entering the Spirit World. They had sat for hours together, just talking, until Bolin had gotten home. (Y/N) had gone up to bed with him, but returned downstairs a few hours later, battling a fit of sleeplessness. She had been surprised to see Mako still sitting on the couch, listening to the low hum of the radio.

“Can’t sleep?” She had whispered, and Mako’s eyes snapped up to look at hers. He gave her a half smile before nodding. She had joined him on the couch, pulling her knees into her chest. “What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing,” Mako said dismissively, but (Y/N) had been around him enough to know when he was lying.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me,” She said. “But I’m always here for you, Mako. Contrary to popular belief, you don’t have to do everything yourself.”

“I’ve got Bolin.”

“And me, too.” Mako remained silent, so (Y/N) hadn’t pressed further. Instead, she hummed along to the music playing on the radio. “Do you know this song?” It was something slow and sweet, lacking any vocals but the instruments succeeded in carrying it.

Mako nodded. “Mom and Dad used to dance to it.”

(Y/N) stood, offering Mako a hand. “Dance with me?” He stared at her, an amused eyebrow raised. “As friends,” She had added, because for some reason she felt the need to clarify.

“I can’t dance,” Mako admitted. (Y/N) rolled her eyes, grabbing him by the hand and pulling him to his feet.

“It’s not that hard, unless you’re doing some super advanced moves.” She slotted her fingers in his and placed his other hand at the small of her back. She rested her other hand at the back of his neck. “You just move in time with the music.” She stepped back, and Mako’s foot followed her. They stepped around the living room, Mako’s eyes flickering between (Y/N’s) face and their feet the entire time. “You’re doing great!” She exclaimed quietly.

“I think I’m supposed to be leading.”

“I thought you couldn’t dance?” Mako smirked as if he was hiding a secret from her. As far as (Y/N) knew, he could have been.

At the very heart of the song, where the music was the most powerful, he spun her around with one arm. (Y/N) let out a surprised squeak before having the breath knocked out of her by Mako dipping her down. She stared up at his amber eyes, taking note of how their faces were only inches apart.

He brought her back up and (Y/N) had felt dizzy, although she wasn’t sure if that was from the spin or being so close to Mako. He gave her an amused bow. “Thanks for the dance,” He said, before retiring to his bedroom.

In the present day, (Y/N) inhaled a deep breath. She hadn’t realized it then, but she had always felt something for Mako. And it was stronger now than ever before.

Without looking at him, she inched her hand closer to his, wrapping her fingers around his gloved hand. Mako stared at her, surprised. “I thought you remembered everything about you and Bolin.”

She nodded, still refusing to look at him. If she did, she feared that she would lose her nerves. “I do. But I remember everything about you, too, and--” She sighed. “I’m doing a horrible job at this.”

“I’m having fun,” Mako told her, and she glared at him. Her heart nearly melted at the soft expression on his face. Mako rarely showed such tender emotion.

“I need to do something and I need you to be quiet while I do it,” She told him, and Mako chuckled at the callback to that night on the balcony. She leaned forward slowly, her heart beating a thousand beats a minute. Every nerve in her body felt like it was short circuiting and she paused, looking up at Mako. He smiled down at her before meeting her in the middle and pressing their lips together.

For weeks, (Y/N) had thought that the part of her that had been missing were her memories. As it turned out, it was Mako.

---

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#lok #bolin x reader #avatar #the last airbender #bolin #mako x reader #mako #asami x reader #asami #korra x reader #korra #writing #fanfiction

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rogue-durin-16 · 4 years

Text

FIREWORKS AND STREAMERS

Request: I have been insecure about my curly hair lately and was wondering if you can you write something with one of the weasley twins where the reader is insecure about her curly hair and one of the twins makes her feel better.

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Hufflepuff!Reader

Genre: fluff

Tags:

Requested by: @wildcat1434

Fred Weasley: @whiskeyn-rain @lumos-solemn

Permanent taglist: @elia-the-bibliophile @randomparanoid @karlthecat15722 @thebutchersdaughtersblog

Warnings: none

A/N: So like, incoming fluff bc this idea was cute and sometimes I do be needing fluff, that's about it, enjoy <3

Rogue-durin-16 masterlist

The relationship between me and my hair had always been... Bumpy, you could say.

There were periods in which I would find it quite lovely; during those times I would let my curls free, showing them off with a proud demeanor, knowing my hair was unique. Those times began to turn less and less usual since the middle of third year, though they were still there.

However, after the summer prior to my sixth year, those moments had banished; I only wished to hide my hair, and my friends ended up noticing. They told me surely there would be a spell or potion able to change my hair.

As if they had summoned it, the next day in Transfiguration, Professor McGonagall introduced us to what seemed like my salvation; Crinus Muto, an advanced spell that modified the caster's hair with no restrictions.

My best friend advised me against using it, claiming it wouldn't help my insecurity— if only, it would worsen it.

I really wanted to do as she had told me and completely dismiss the spell's existence, but two nights after I had a big mental breakdown about it, caused by the most stupid thing ever.

"Is Weasley staring at you or am I blind?" One of my friends whispered, her eyes trained on the Gryffindor table.

I didn't even bother to look up, not wanting to know whether it was true or not, before responding with a quiet "You're blind."

"I mean, it's hard to tell with two rows of students between us but," She nudged me, urging me to avert my gaze from my dinner and redirect it to Fred. "it kinda looks like he's... staring."

Curiosity killed the cat, I guess. My eyes finally left my plate and were, in fact, met with Fred's brown ones. As soon as they met, though, he looked away, pretending to be focused on his food, just like I had been doing seconds ago.

"Of course he's staring." Hannah Abbot, who sat right in front of my friend, commented with her mouth full. "Have you seen your hair?" She swallowed her food, looking me up and down before adding, "No offense, but it's an absolute mess." My eyes opened widely in shock at her bluntness. "You should take care of it, really."

"Has someone ever told you you're an ill-mannered bitch, Hannah?" I heard my friend talking back at the younger girl while I got up and started to make my way out of the Great Hall.

Of course, I didn't see Fred shooting up and attempting to go after me; ultimately he decided to stay in his place, since he saw my friend walking out too.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

I was very aware of all the pair of eyes that had been laid on me the very moment I entered the greenhouse where we would be doing the Herbology tasks.

When I had met my friends at the Hufflepuff common room that morning, I had received divided opinions about my straight hair. At first I had been very convinced that it looked way better than my curly hair, but seeing my friends' reaction, I wasn't that confident about it anymore.

I didn't have time to undo the spell before class, so I decided to go along with it and see how the day unfolded.

I took a deep breath, my eyes trained on the ground as I made my way to an empty seat; maybe there weren't that many people staring, maybe it was just my anxiety.

I finally gathered the courage and looked up, nervously scanning the glasshouse so I could shake off my fears.

There was only a couple of my peers staring, which would have put me at ease, if one of them wasn't Fred Weasley.

On top of it, of course, he wasn't even trying to be subtle, it was almost as if he wanted me to notice his judging eyes; I could feel his gaze on me for the entire class.

The instant Professor Sprout dismissed us, I shoved everything in my bag and left the greenhouse, thanking a couple of Gryffindors who complimented my hair on my way out.

Again, I didn't notice Fred leaving the class as soon as he could to run after me.

I threw my bag against a tree near the lake shore and, as I fell against it, I heard someone jogging in my direction.

"In a hurry to sit by the lake, Y/l/n?" I followed the tall ginger with my eyes while he circled me and sat down by me. "You alright?"

"I just needed a break from... People." I vaguely explained, focusing on the water instead of on the boy besides me.

"Understandable." He hesitated for a second before adding, "Do you want me to leave?"

"No, it's fine." I surprised myself at how calmed and collected I sounded, as if I wasn't chatting with my crush.

"What happened to your hair?" His genuinely curious inquiry took me aback, and I struggled to find something to answer.

"Why?" My heartbeat picked up, anxiety inundating me once more. "You don't like it?"

"It looks weird." Fred looked at me up and down with a grimace. "You don't... Look like yourself." I was about to enter fight or flight mode, but he seemed to notice, and panic made its way to his face. "But it doesn't matter what I think," he was quick to add, his eyes wide open as if he knew he had said something he should have not. "I mean— I think it shouldn't matter, if you like it, that's great— I mean, you don't need my opinion about that either!"

"Calm down, I understand." I tried to reassure him, before his rambling drove the both of us crazy. "Can I tell you a secret?" He nodded with pursed lips, surely afraid he would fuck up if he spoke again. "I've been very insecure about my hair lately— like, very." I sighed. "My best friend told me not to straighten it, but last night I got a not so nice comment and—"

"So that's why you left?" I nodded, tugging my sleeves. Fred went silent for a moment, and then cleared his throat and scooted closer to me. "I know this won't do much, but I really love your hair. Kinda reminds me of fireworks and streamers." He gestured around his own head, mimicking the fireworks' movement. "Dunno I think is fun and pretty awesome." I raised my brows at him in surprise. "Like you."

"Aw, that's very sweet." He offered me a sheepish smile as I felt my cheeks blushing. "It does a lot, actually." I confessed, fidgeting with my rings. "I guess I kinda needed to hear something positive about my hair."

"Well, whenever you need to hear something positive about your hair," he pointed at himself. "I'm your man." He winked at me and I let out a chuckle. "I can also tell you positive things about you in general, but that has a price."

"And what is it?"

"You'll have to let me buy you a drink at The Three Broomsticks this Saturday." I tried not to let panic slip through my recently eased demeanor; was he asking me on a date? "And give me a kiss after." He wiggled his brows at me and my face turned red. "the kiss is negotiable."

I casted my gaze down, fixing it on my shoes, not sure of what I was supposed to say at that. His foot tapping mine snapped me out of my thoughts.

"So?" My eyes traveled to him once more, only to find his studying me already. "What do you say, Y/l/n?"

"Well," I shrugged, trying in vain to play nonchalant. "Seems like an affordable price, so it's fine by me."

"I'll pick you up after lunch, yeah?" Before I could agree, he gasped, his eyes going wide. "I'm a genius."

"Come again?" I frowned, confused as his sudden frantic behavior.

"Don't mind me, love." He jumped up and jogged towards the castle, leaving me puzzled in there. I was about to grab a book from my bag when Fred rushed back, crouched down and pecked my cheek. "Your hair's amazing." He assured me. "See you!" My fingertips graced my now flushed cheek as he headed off.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

I was finishing my lunch when two towering redheads entered the Hall running; while George, slowed down, Fred made a beeline to the Hufflepuff table, his casual clothes already on.

"Ready?" He asked breathless.

"Yeah— you didn't have lunch, did you?" I pointed out, getting up to stand in front of him.

"No, but I'll eat something later—" his eyes roamed over my carefully picked outfit before stating, "You look... very pretty."

"Why, thank you." I offered him a smile and looked over my shoulder at the Gryffindor table, where his friends were very attentive to all we did. "You sure you don't wanna eat something?"

"Hundred percent." He tilted his head towards the gates. "shall we?" He prompted to walk before him, and it was then that I realized he had his hands behind his back. Once we were out in the yard, he tugged my hand and made me turn to him. "I made something for you."

"You didn't have to." Was the first thing that came to my mind when I heard his words. Then the wording dawned on me; he didn't get me something, he made me something. "What is it?"

"So, you know that I told you your hair reminded me of fireworks and streamers?" I nodded, not quite knowing where he was going with that. "Well—" he then showed me what his back was hiding; a delicate, tiny firecracker with my name written on the side. "George helped me so I could finish it on time."

"I'm—" at my loss of words, I could only let out a happy laugh. "This is so cute— am I supposed to ignite it?"

"Duh!" I gently pushed his shoulder in response to his teasing. "Do you know how to do it?"

"I've seen you do it plenty of times." I admitted, grabbing the firecracker with one hand and my wand with the other; it looked so pretty, it was a pity I'd have to ruin it.

With a brief firemaking spell, the firecracker set off. Fred pulled me back slightly before it happened, though.

I was in awe at the beautiful fireworks before us, which looked like a color-changing, expanding version of my hair.

When the colors died out, I turned to Fred, whose attention was already on me, awaiting for a reaction. Surely, he was not expecting the kiss he got, but he didn't complain either; while my hands rested on his chest, his traveled to cup my cheeks before I could pull away.

"So you liked it?" He questioned quietly against my lips.

"I loved it." I whispered back with a wide smile. "You're a sweetheart." I pecked his lips before retreating. Holding his hand in mines, I made my way back into the castle. "We're not leaving until you have lunch."

"You are a sweetheart." He responded, following my lead without offering resistance. "By the way, your hair looks gorgeous." The corners of my lips twisted into a bigger smile at the sweet words he spoke only for me to hear as we went back into the Great Hall.

Maybe my hair wasn't that bad after all.

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love-toxin · 4 years

Text

kiss of death; thanatos.

a/n: zagreus isn't the only one that's desperate to get out of the underworld.

warnings: yandere thanatos, kidnapping, death, possessiveness, post-canon, violence, blood.

“...Thought you could get away from me, did you?”

Words spoken so softly they almost fell upon deaf ears, but the chill of his voice crept up on the back of your neck as if he’d touched you, his fingertips cold as death’s embrace itself. Plumes of black smoke gathered around Thanatos’ ankles as he appeared, his eyes void of mercy while his scythe gleamed in the light of Elysium’s false sky. It could just as well have been night when his presence was so near.

A thousand answers rose in your throat and died on your lips, and you felt the heaviness of the exalted souls’ emotions around you--you felt the urge to drop to your knees and plead for your life, just as so many had done and would continue to do after you. However, your misfortune knew no bounds, and you had no need to pray to the gods to know that he would never accept your pleas for mercy.

“Answer me.”

With speed contesting even Hermes, he swung the scythe downwards and slashed through the air, as if he meant to cut the string of your life himself and send you hurtling back into the river Styx a thousand levels below. He had once threatened to drown you in it during an especially miserable argument--and though such a fate was horrific to imagine, your grip tightened on your stolen spear when you reminded yourself that giving up now would be so much worse.

“...So, what now? You’re going to kill me with that, are you?”

He didn’t even bother to gesture to your trembling hands clamped around the hilt, your body nowhere near meant for the warrior’s path you’d taken, even in death. Zagreus had carved his way through a thousand souls and clawed his way out of the Underworld to reach the glory of Olympus, and though you'd gotten a head start yourself, you were nowhere near capable of the same prowess and skill that had allowed him to escape his fate. But you'd be damned if you didn't at least try, even when it meant that Thanatos would sniff you out and hunt you down like a bloodhound once he returned and noticed your absence.

Though he exuded raw fury and ominous strength, his eyes had become empty and lifeless. Soft, fluttery sounds of lilting voices and a breeze blowing gently through trees that only appeared to be alive cut through the silence, the peace of Elysium doing little to ease your terror at having been caught by your gravekeeper. Thanatos stepped forward silently, the grass of the courtyard where he'd stopped you withering and dying around his feet...and with as careful a touch as ever, he laid his fingertip against your blade and slowly trailed it downwards, leaving a clean streak through the viscera that bloodied your weapon.

“...Give it a try, little bird. The lesson will sink in better when you struggle to put down what cannot be killed.”

As the words dripped off his lips like the venom of a spider's jaws, the pressure of his finger on the hilt of your sword suddenly grew stronger. The force was so much, in fact, that it took barely a moment for the imbalance to break your grip and your weapon to clatter to the ground, and skitter out of your reach with a firm tap of his heel. Thanatos caught your chin with the palm of his hand, your face tilted up to look at him while he undoubtedly pondered what lengths he could go to make you suffer for your betrayal.

He had once told you that it was a great personal sacrifice to let you reside in Elysium while he travelled between the surface to Tartarus, but he had done so to preserve the freedom and happiness you so craved as a mortal that had once lived and breathed. He did so for you, because he loved you, he said. Your gaze was caught in those steely eyes, your hands trembling around his wrist that flexed as he held you.

"I've loved you since your last breath, the moment that I first held you in my arms."

Strands of pearlescent hair fell into his face as he searched your expression for answers, for remorse, for anything to direct his resolution towards. The only way forwards, he decided, was in moving in so close that your noses brushed aside one another, and your resolve crumbled entirely once his lips met yours and his breath chilled you from the inside out.

Within seconds you felt the weakness overcome you, and it only grew stronger the longer Thanatos went without breaking the suffocating kiss. Your nails scrabbled for purchase on his cloak while he gripped you so roughly by the back and your exposed thigh, and the deeper he pushed his affection the more you struggled against the feeling of faint, much less try to keep your breathing steady. Your eyelids fluttered closed at long last, the end of your suffering near as your limbs slowly went limp...and you hung like a doll in his arms, completely incapacitated before your journey back to the mortal world could even truly begin.

It made little difference to Thanatos, however, as he collected your body and carried you like a corpse's bride down the path he knew so well towards the House. By the time he arrived, you would have pulled yourself from the pool of Styx and would start having your meltdown at realizing you were on Hades' doorstep, the comforting tranquility of Elysium far from your mind as you begged in such a pitiful way to be let go.

For such a lovely soul, you really could be such a miserable wretch when you were pushing away his love. What compelled him to make you his, he might never know...but surely it would be much easier to have you clinging to his arm this time, when you were weeping and wailing at his return and begging him to bring you back to where you "belonged".

“I don’t have to force you. You’re mine...you don’t have any other choice.”

#yandere thanatos #thanatos x reader #thanatos #hades #love-toxin #1k

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tothemeadow · 3 years

Text

‘the doctor’ / Midoriya x Reader

Uwu, this is the first official post that hasn’t been imported from the other blog ( ´ ω ` ) Also, this has been sitting around on my computer for the past two months, so enjoy these crumbs while I strive to finish up the semester!

warnings: NSFW, doctor/patient relationship, grinding, heavy petting, fascination for hybrids?, y’all fuck but I didn’t write the whole thing

words: 3,752

(a/n): hehehehehe add this to the list of taboo relationship works I’ve done

“The doctor will see you now.”

The secretary sitting behind the desk flashes you a smile as you pass by her. The two of you are already on a first name basis, considering that you have biweekly checkups. With a quirk like yours, it can be detrimental to your health if it goes unchecked for too long. You have enough meds in your system to possibly knock out a small child, but you’ve long since grown used to it.

Still, as you pass from the waiting room and into the hall leading to numerous checkup rooms, your palms feel impossibly clammy. Your previous doctor recently retired after spending so many years in the field, and now you were supposed to meet your new doctor. Granted, your previous one told you many great things about this new kid, about how he’ll take great care of you. You’re not too confident in the sudden change, but it can’t be helped. Unless you wanted to suffer horribly, you had to seek some type of help.

Shuffling to room number six, you silently close the door behind you and take a deep breath. Your intestines feel unusually tight, ache with an indescribable force. Despite your quirk being a relatively simple one – doggification, which essentially means you have the characteristics and properties of a dog – your body could never get quite a grasp on it. Despite looking entirely like a human, your telltale features are the ears and tail protruding from your body. Even now, you can tell your ears are flat against your head and your tail is tucked between your legs.

Gently, you sit on the table, the parchment paper crinkling under your weight. Wringing your hands, you will your breathing to ease, your mind to relax. It’s only the doctor’s office, nothing more, nothing less. You’ve been here practically all your life, so what gives? Oh, that’s right – a new doctor who you’ve never met before.

A few minutes pass; nothing happens besides the tick tock tick tock of the lone clock hanging from the wall, the slight hum from the lightbulbs. Your nerves feel raw, your heart frantic, your breathing irregular. You constantly remind yourself that you’re fine, you’re just nervous. You’re here for a reason, after all. If you want to continue living healthily, you need this treatment. There’s no point in chickening out now.

Just then, the door swings open; you jump in your place as you snap back to reality. Pulse quickening, you’re left wide-eyed as the doctor comes in. He’s nothing like you were expecting – instead of some elderly gentleman like your previous doctor, this new guy is young. He’s ridiculously cute, a mess of green curls piled on his head and a burst of freckles adorning his skin. For a doctor, he surprisingly has an athletic build, so you’re left wondering if he exercises regularly or played a sport in school. But oh, the way his scrubs cling to his meaty arms, stretch over his thick thighs. It’s almost ridiculous how baby-faced he is, especially compared to his Adonis-like body.

Without you knowing, your ears and tail stand to attention, curious about this newcomer.

The doctor flashes you a pearly smile as he reaches a hand towards you. “(y/n)? I’m Doctor Midoriya. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Doctor Midoriya.

Yeah, you like the sound of that. And the way your name rolls off your tongue? Perfection.

Hesitantly, you reach out a hand and grasp onto his for a handshake. His hand is large, fingers long and spindly, and his grip is strong. They’re actually pretty, dotted with freckles and striped with scars. Interesting, you muse, wondering just exactly what he did to get scars like that.

“So,” Doctor Midoriya starts, pulling away and planting himself on the stool stationed by the counter, “doggification, huh? You have a typical hybrid quirk, so it seems.” Pausing for a moment, he glances at his notes attached to his clipboard. “But, since you’re part Doberman pinscher, you suffer from dilated cardiomyopathy. The breed usually has problems regarding that, right?”

You nod in confirmation. “Yeah. Apparently, many owners don’t know their dogs have it until they collapse on the ground. I uh, I’ve been dealing with this my whole life, so….”

You really, really like the gentle expression Doctor Midoriya gives you. His cheeks look squishy despite his sharp jawline, lips a delicate shade of dusty rose… Shit, he’s beautiful yet he chose to become a doctor.

“Doctor Torino left his previous files, and I’ve been studying them before he retired,” he explains, drawing himself to a stand. “He was great, wasn’t he? I’m sorry if I don’t own up to your expectations.” Crossing over to the table, he unloops the stethoscope from around his neck and sticks the buds in his ears. “I need you to breathe in and out for me, nice and slow,” he tells you, pressing the cool metal to your chest.

You go through the usual routines, inhaling and exhaling deeply. Doctor Midoriya hums in which you assume is a good way; you can feel your skin heating up whenever large green eyes flick to your face, digging in right to your soul.

“It’s okay to be nervous,” he says, voice low. The deep rumble sets your nerves alight, your insides pulsing. Dare you say it, but you’re disappointed when he pulls away, looping the stethoscope back around his neck. He scribbles something onto his clipboard, his lips pursed in thought. You take the opportunity to study his side profile, the dainty curve of his nose, the angle of his jaw. How big is this guy, anyway? He’s huge for a doctor.

“I’m six-three, if that’s what you’re wondering,” he chirps, tossing down his pencil. He laughs at the startled expression playing on your face. “Sorry, sorry… A uh, a lot of people ask me that, you know? And I typically get a good read on what people are thinking, so… Yeah! Some people used to call me tree in med school! You know, because of the green hair and all…” Clearing his throat awkwardly, he walks back over to where you sit. “How have you been feeling since your last visit?”

Subconsciously rubbing at your chest, you send him a mere shrug. “I’ve been better, I’ve been worse. I’m just bummed Doctor Torino left on such short notice.”

“That makes two of us,” Doctor Midoriya admits, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand. “He’s such a great mentor and all, don’t get me wrong, but it sucks that his time is up.”

Cocking your head, your ears twitch with interest. “Mentor?”

At that, Doctor Midoriya’s face lights up. “Oh! Yeah! I had my internship with Doctor Torino, and he taught me so much!”

“Internship…? Really? I don’t remember seeing you around whenever I had appointments with him.”

“Nah, I don’t think so. I would’ve remembered seeing someone like you!” He giggles – giggles – at his own words, but then it quickly dies down as realization crosses his features. “Wait, wait!” he says frantically, waving his hands before him. “I didn’t mean to sound creepy or anything like that! It’s just that you don’t see hybrids very often, and you’re a dog, and I happen to really like dogs, and I-“ His yammering turns into an incoherent mumble, then, as he awkwardly wrings his hands together.

Heh. He’s pretty cute.

“It’s okay to be nervous,” you say, shooting his own words back at him. “You’re a newbie, right? You’re awfully young for a doctor.”

To your pleasant surprise, Doctor Midoriya blushes. Instinctively, he claps a hand over his mouth and looks away. Again, he clears his throat. “I graduated last year, actually. So yeah, I’m still new to this whole thing, but I want to help as much as I can!” Turning back to you, his flustered expression melts into a determined one. “And since you’re my first serious patient, you can rely on me. I promise to take real good care of you, mark my words.”

You smile. “I look forward to it, Doctor. I expect you to keep that promise.”

Three months. Three solid months.

Hypothetically, you should be thrilled being in Doctor Midoriya’s presence so often. Realistically, it’s pure torture.

How this guy doesn’t realize he’s easily the hottest person in the room is beyond you, plus his personality is downright adorable. It’s funny, really, how you’re the one with the dog quirk yet he’s the one who acts more like one. He gets excited over the simplest of things, and you were quick to realize that he’s a giant nerd. It’s clear that he’s got a brain in that skull of his – and, if you’re being entirely honest, it makes Doctor Midoriya that much more attractive.

His constant murmuring and chippering never fail to put a smile on your face. With every appointment you have with him, you purposefully bring up a topic he’s bound to show some interest in just to hear him talk. So yeah, you might be infatuated with your insanely hot doctor, but who can blame you? He’s kindhearted, smart, good-looking, has a good job…. Okay, and maybe he’s packing down south. It’s not your fault that his scrubs clung to his body that one time. You just happened to notice it.

You doubt he’s doing these kind of things on accident. Hell, Doctor Midoriya blatantly flirts with you, for crying out loud. Well, it’s actually more subtle than that, but the point still stands.

“(y/n)?” Doctor Midoriya calls out as he enters the room, the door sliding shut behind him. Warmth floods your chest as your tail sets off in a slow wag. He laughs at your reaction, that toothy smile of his forming on his face. Just like every other time he shows it, you fall a little bit deeper for him.

“Doctor Midoriya,” you greet. Your fingers dig into the table as you bite down on your bottom lip. He looks good, dark blue scrubs shaping his figure nicely. You, on the other hand, stick to a simple pair of gym shorts and t-shirt. It’s a hot day outside, after all.

As Doctor Midoriya scribbles something down on his handy clipboard, you slowly spread your legs further apart. It’s a slight bit, nothing more, but the movement seems to catch his attention. Setting down his pencil, you notice how his eyes linger on your bared thighs for a moment longer than what’s considered appropriate. Slipping the stethoscope from around his neck, he gets up from his stool and crosses to wear you sit.

“Any problems lately?” he asks, voice as professional as always. Sneaky bastard, trying to pretend like he wasn’t just staring at your thighs.

“Besides the weather, not really. The heat makes things a bit easier, though,” you tell him.

Doctor Midoriya hums. Pressing the end of the stethoscope to your chest, he tells you to breathe in and out, nice and deep. “I’m not hearing any abnormalities in your breathing,” he says simply, switching to your back instead. “Besides the DCM, you’re in wonderful health.”

“That’s a relief,” you mutter.

He continues to go through the regular routine of your biweekly checkup. Soon enough, he’s looking through a scope at your dog ears, checking for any signs of an incoming infection. Try as you might, but you enjoy the way he caresses your ear, leaning into his touch as your tail takes off wagging. Doctor Midoriya chuckles, indulging in your wants and giving your ears a proper scratch.

“You really are like a dog,” he points out, his tone lighthearted. “A cute little puppy.” And there he goes, blessing your ears with his giggle. As you glance at him, you see the pretty blush adorning his cheeks, the gleam of mirth in his large eyes.

Puppy.

For some ungodly reason, you really like the way it sounds coming from his mouth.

“You shouldn’t be referring to your patients with a pet name, Doctor,” you drawl.

The blush on his face darkens. In true fashion, he hastily looks away and awkwardly coughs into his fist. “My apologies,” he murmurs. “If… If it’s any consolation, your ears are really soft…”

A small smile pulls at the corners of your lips. “I’m only teasing,” you reassure.

He flinches.

Teasing.

“Besides, you said you really like dogs, right? I think puppy is cute.”

Doctor Midoriya looks back to you. “…Really?”

You nod. “I do.”

For a moment, neither one of you say anything. The look in Doctor Midoriya’s eyes is unreadable; whether that’s a good thing or not, you’re not entirely too sure. He’s usually easy to get a read on, but like this… It’s nearly impossible.

“Do you mind if we check your flexibility? It’s just touching your toes, nothing more. If your back is out, I’ll recommend some chiropractors.”

Okay, strange. You figure he wants to change the subject – you know, and do his job – so you do as he says, hopping down from the table and stepping away. As you bend over, your fingertips skimming the toes of your sneakers, large hands splay out on your back. You jolt from the contact, your breath catching in your throat. Their movements are calculated, feeling along your spine for any sort of abnormality. You can practically feel Doctor Midoriya’s eyes boring into you; the hairs on your arms and the back of your neck come a stand as you wait for him to do something, anything.

“Your spine feels fine,” he tells you. “You feel a bit tense, though. Do you bend over a lot?”

Excuse me?

You scoff. “I’m bending over right now, aren’t I?”

Doctor Midoriya makes some weird choking sound. “No, no, that’s not what I meant! I meant when you sit or something like that…!”

“I’m teasing, Doctor. Relax.” You wiggle underneath his touch. “Am I allowed to stand straight now?”

You can practically feel the tension radiating off him. “I… Not yet. I need to check one last thing, okay?” Again, he uses that low, husky pitch, the one that reverberates deep in his chest. This is only the second time you’re hearing it, but fuck does it make your insides squeeze and your breath hitch.

Before your mind can completely register it, Doctor Midoriya’s large hands are on your ass, kneading the ample flesh through your shorts. A slight groan slips from your mouth at the unexpected contact. Shit, his hands are even larger than you originally thought, his grip rough and demanding.

“Does it hurt?” he continues, his voice staying as it is, making your brain turn delirious.

“N-no,” you stutter. You immediately cuss yourself out internally. A sharp gasp breaks from your throat as one of his hands grips the base of your tail and gives it a slight tug.

“How about now?”

You wince as he does it again. “Yes, okay?” you seethe through clenched teeth. “Just don’t… Don’t tug on my tail like that.”

“So, your ears and tail are sensitive,” Doctor Midoriya mumbles to himself. “Interesting.”

“Doctor, what are you even going on about-“

At that very moment, those strong hands of his yank you backwards, your ass colliding with his pelvis. Heart leaping to your throat, you’re left scrambling for a shred of reality. Doctor Midoriya leans over you, his muscular chest pressing into your back. He’s so warm, and he oddly smells like mint, but it’s not like you’re going to complain anytime soon.

“This is such a bad idea,” he confesses into your ear, “but you’re just so cute, puppy. You like it when I call you that, right?”

“Doctor-“

“Tell me to stop,” he continues, a frantic edge to his voice now, “tell me I’m a disgusting pervert. I shouldn’t be doing this, but shit… I’ve been fantasizing about holding you this close.” Subconsciously, he rocks his hips into you, his engorged cock grinding into your ass.

Shit, shit, is this really happening? Your doctor has just fessed up to fantasizing about you, and, to be quite frank, you’re a bit too happy to hear that. It’s not like he’s the only one feeling this way; you’ve had your fair share of dreams over the months, most of them with him in between your legs in some fashion.

Straightening up, you reach back and grab him by the back of the neck, balancing yourself in his grip. A breathless noise fills your ear as you grind back against him, your nails scratching into his nape.

“O-oh,” he says, the sound delightfully raspy as it fills your ear.

“You aren’t the only one who’s been thinking of things,” you confess, your voice sounding equally as strained. Again, some unholy noise slips from his dusty lips, the grip on your hips tightening ever so slightly.

“Puppy… Don’t say things like that.”

You bark out a laugh. “Don’t tell me you’re going soft, Doctor. Acting like you’re in charge one moment and then like a scared little bunny the next. A big boy like you should choose one and stick with it.”

Now you’ve done it. Like merely flicking a switch, Doctor Midoriya moans into your ear as he spins you around and stumbles backwards, ass landing on the examination table with you in tow. You squeak in surprise as he easily drags you into his lap, lifting you up as though you weighed next to nothing. The lustful haze in his eyes is evident, the blush adorning his face making his freckles pop.

“Shit,” you curse, eyelids fluttering as his cock rubs frantically against your ass. Again, another surprised noise escapes your mouth as he bounces you in his lap, his clothed erection grinding against your ass and sex. A sliver of tongue peeks from between his teeth, the gleam in his eyes nothing short of determination.

“This is so wrong,” Doctor Midoriya murmurs, his fingertips digging harshly into your ass. “But you like it, right? Right, puppy? You want me to fuck you, right? Right?”

Goddammit-

“Yes,” you grit, fingers clutching at his broad shoulders while your tail impatiently smacks against his thighs. “Come on, Doc, treat me like the good little puppy I am.”

You should’ve expected this, really. An almost animalistic whimper bursts from the back of his throat as he surges forward, shoving his tongue into your mouth. He tastes like cherry lip balm and the lingering sweetness of a cough drop – it’s an odd mixture, but not one that you dislike. Months of built-up tension are finally breaking free from the dam, desperate movements and slurred words quickly taking over your mind. Doctor Midoriya is somewhat sloppy with his kisses, but the way he sucks on your tongue and grinds his cock into you is heavenly.

Fingers skimming over the swell of his pecs and the rigid lines of his abs, Doctor Midoriya shudders at your fluttering touch. You swallow his moan as your hands drift under the shirt of his scrubs, heated skin and a fine trail of hair greeting your fingertips.

Pulling away, Doctor Midoriya pants heavily as you continue to pet his lower abdomen, his cock twitching beneath you. “Wait, wait,” he breathes, hands inching around towards your front, “can we – Can we touch each other?”

“As long as you keep quiet,” you murmur, tongue flicking across your lower lip. “Don’t want the others to know that Doctor Midoriya is a bad boy, hmm?” At that, a high-pitched groan emits from his chest as you shove your hand under the band of his underwear, hand circling around the base of his cock.

“Fuck, puppy, that feels good…”

Quickly following your lead, he slips a hand into your undies; his strong fingers immediately seek out the sensitive spot of your sex, causing your back to arch into his touch. A low, drawn out curse seeps from your mouth as you feel your arousal starting to coat his fingers.

“I guess being a doctor has its benefits, huh?” Doctor Midoriya mutters, tone dropping into that husky pitch once more. Even more of your arousal practically gushes over his fingers, your insides tightening around nothing. Two can play at this game, dammit.

Soon, the two of you are heavily petting each other, wrists flicking and fingers digging into sensitive flesh perfectly. Both your ears and tail lay flat as you pant into his neck, your thighs beginning to quiver with want. Doctor Midoriya isn’t fairing any better, his cock weeping precum as he mumbles incoherently. Maybe it’s the enticing little pants breaking through his puffy lips, or maybe it’s the sinful schlick schlick of your hand around his fat cock, but fuck do you want him inside of you, fucking you stupid.

“Doctor,” you purr, pushing yourself up onto your knees. “Have I been a good puppy? Will you fuck me with your cock and make me yours?” You nearly smile as he twitches in your hand at your filthy words.

Feebly nodding, Doctor Midoriya reluctantly pulls his hands away from you, opting to yank down his bottoms and underwear so they’re stretched around his meaty thighs instead. Your mouth practically waters at the sight of his cock – darker than the rest of his skin and veiny like his hands, he’s just as big as you expected, maybe even bigger. Still, you hastily yank down your own offensive clothing and slip back onto his lap, hovering over his twitching cock.

Doctor Midoriya thickly swallows. “I’m… I’m clean. You don’t have to worry- Fuck, oh my god!” Slapping a hand over his mouth, he groans deeply as you sheathe yourself on him, eyes nearly rolling towards the back of your head at the stretch. Yeah, he’s definitely huge.

For a moment, you allow yourself to grow used to the feeling of him inside. This is really happening; all caution is being thrown to the wind, repercussions be damned. He’s finally in your grasp, and you don’t plan on letting him go any time soon. “You said you wanted to fuck me, Doctor,” you mutter into his ear, your hips beginning to swivel. “Do it like you mean it.”

Again, that determined expression crosses his features. “With a challenge like that, who I am to decline?” Adjusting his grip on your ass, he easily lifts you up and drops you back on his cock, eliciting a breathy moan to fall from your swollen lips. “Don’t worry, puppy – as your doctor, I’m going to take real good care of you…"

#mha #bnha #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #mha x reader #bnha x reader #midoriya x reader #deku x reader #midoriya izuku x reader #izuku midoriya x reader #midoriya izuku #izuku midoriya #mha midoriya #bnha midoriya

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you-didnt-see-that-cuming · 4 years

Text

Soft Touches | Draco Malfoy x Reader Part One

Summary: When Y/N had first met Harry and Ron on the train, she would have never thought that that interaction would have led to years of adventures and near-death experiences. Throughout their time at Hogwarts, several things had become clear. First, there will be at least one thing that tries to kill you a year. Second, Draco Malfoy was Harry’s archenemy. Third, no matter how hard she tried, Y/N still had just as big a crush on the blond as the first day they met. Harry and Ron would never let her live that one down while Hermione was at least a little understanding. Y/N knew that some of the things that Draco had done were horrible, and she would probably never forgive him for the things he had said to Hermione. And yet, she still liked him.

Warnings: No warnings yet!

Words: 1779

AO3 Link

Masterlist

A/N: Lmao I’m back and I’ve been on draco tiktok

As expected, being a fifth year student was far more stressful than anyone could have imagined. Not only did they have the O.W.L.s to study for, but ever since Umbridge had been brought on as Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, you had to practically teach yourself if you wanted a proper defense theory. At this rate, a muggle would probably know more about defense against dark magic. Either you practiced on the weekends, which almost no one aside from Hermione did, or during free periods.

It was only a few weeks from Halloween and autumn was in full swing. The grounds were painted with trees that held an array of yellow, orange, and gold leaves and there was a strong smell of bonfire, hot cider, and butterscotch that wafted across the hills during the day. On late afternoons, when the air was crisp and the sky slightly darker than what it had been during the first month of term, the courtyards and hills near the Black Lake were the perfect places for students to relax.

Y/N was sitting on the sill of one of the arches that opened into the courtyard, writing in a leatherbound journal with her green quill when one of her textbooks slipped out of the opening of her bag and smacked onto the stone floor below. She had barely registered the sound when someone had reached down and picked it up, extending their hand to her. Y/N’s eyes followed the line up the owner of the hand’s toned arm until she had reached their face.

Instead of Draco’s usual sneer, there was no wrinkle between his brow, and his features were soft. Her hand slowly extended to meet his, and their fingers brushed against one another as she grasped the book. His startling blue eyes were veiled with an unreadable expression.

She was still too shocked to say anything, but the corner of her lips turned up slightly in a silent thank you. Draco stared for a few more seconds before his hand fell back down to his side and he turned, striding down the empty corridor. Y/N stared at his retreating figure. He wasn’t wearing his robes, despite the crisp chill that hung in the air, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, displaying his forearms and the distinct veins that ran across his skin.

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It was nearly nightfall when Hermione had found her, still staring at the end of the corridor, deep in thought.

“Where have you been? It’s time for dinner, Harry and Ron have already started without us.” Hermione questioned softly. Y/N turned her head, looking a little dazed.

“I’ll tell you later tonight, in the dormitories.” Hermione tilted her head and smiled a little.

“Knowing you, you’ve probably been out here for hours. Come on, before Ron eats all the best parts.” She stretched her hand out and pulled Y/N from her seat. Together, they walked arm in arm to the Great Hall, taking in the setting sun through the tall window panes and the lingering chill that had swept over Hogwarts over the past few days.

It was getting colder, and the Winter recess was creeping closer day by day. As the two girls walked to the Great Hall, all they could smell as they walked through the open-air corridors was birch smoke coming from Hagrid’s hut and cold air. Y/N breathed deeply and sighed contentedly. She was convinced that there was absolutely nothing better than autumn at Hogwarts, and not even Professor Umbridge could spoil that.

The second they opened the door to the Great Hall, it was like being hit by a wall of warmth, light, and the wonderful smells of the banquet. Y/N finally snapped out of the haze she had been in all afternoon once she realized how hungry she truly was. Hurriedly, the two of them sat down on the bench across from Ron and Harry, both of whom were animatedly discussing the upcoming quidditch game against Slytherin. They were discussing different strategies to use, especially since the Slytherin team was notorious for cheating.

Y/N had joined the Gryffindor team as a Chaser only a year after Harry had and had experienced her fair share of Slytherin fouls to last a lifetime. Y/N caught sight of some serving platters and began serving herself along with Hermione.

“So what were you doing all day? I haven’t seen you since breakfast this morning.” Y/N asked as she filled the corner of her plate with mashed potatoes.

“Isn’t the answer obvious? She was in the library of course, where else would she be?” Ron interjected as he stole a roll of bread off of Hermione’s plate. Evidently he and Harry were done talking about quidditch, Ron had piled loads of food on his plate and Harry was stuffing chicken into his mouth. The two started to bicker until Ron shoved the entire roll into his mouth.

Y/N was watching amused as Ron tried to speak around the bread roll when a flash of blond hair caught her eye. Just over Ron’s shoulder, Draco was just beginning to sit down next to Pansy Parkinson who was absorbed in a conversation with Blaise Zabini who sat across from her. Draco and Y/N’s eyes met briefly before both of them shifted their gazes. Hermione paused for a moment, looking at Y/N and then to Draco before a subtle look of realization dawned across her face. Suddenly, she switched the conversation to their History of Magic paper that was due by the end of the week.

“What have you two chosen for your topics?” Hermione questioned, making Harry and Ron freeze. They obviously hadn’t chosen a topic yet, let alone begun writing.

“Erm, well… Here’s the thing Hermione-” Ron had begun stammering when Hermione cut him off.

“What is wrong with you? Professor Binns assigned this paper over two weeks ago!”

“I haven’t had time, I’ve had quidditch practice nearly every day and Snape hasn’t exactly eased up on Potions assignments, has he?” Harry defended himself, poking at a carrot on his plate and avoiding Hermione’s gaze.

“Harry, I’ve been at the exact same quidditch practices as you and I’m almost finished with my paper. I’m writing about Grindelwald’s rise to power. You need to find a topic and fast!” Y/N said pointedly. Ron sat up at the mention of Y/N’s topic. “And no, you cannot use that topic, pick something else!” Ron deflated once again.

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They eventually finished their dinners, filed out of the Great Hall, and began heading towards Gryffindor Tower. Once they had finally entered through the portrait hole, Hermione grabbed Y/N by the crook of her elbow and pulled her up to their shared dormitories. Once she had shut the door behind them, she whirled around to face Y/N and pointed to her bed.

“Sit. We need to talk.” Hermione walked over and sat across from her. “What was that look that you gave Draco at dinner?”

Y/N looked down at her hands, an embarrassed flush across her cheeks. She was fiddling with the hem of her skirt and refused to look Hermione in the eye.

“Well, earlier today I was by myself writing in the courtyard, and I guess I must have knocked over one of my books because the next thing I know, Draco was just standing there, handing it to me. It felt like I was in a dream, he didn’t say anything, but he looked… different. I don’t really know how to describe it. He looked… soft, almost?” Y/N groaned and threw herself backwards onto the pillows, her legs hanging off the side of the bed. Hermione shifted so that she was lying next to Y/N and facing her.

“Okay,” she said carefully, “what does that mean exactly?”

Y/N paused for a moment in thought. What did it mean? Y/N had never thought about Draco in that way before, and the spark she felt when their fingers brushed together couldn’t have just been her imagination.

“I… don’t know. I don’t really know how to explain it. Whenever I start thinking about it, I feel this squeezing in my chest, like I can’t breathe properly.” Y/N closed her eyes and pictured Draco’s face once again. Hermione also seemed to be lost in thought, but those thoughts were most likely not about how handsome Draco looked with his hair pushed back and his sleeves rolled up. Hermione stretched her hand out and grasped Y/N’s hand.

“Well, I suppose it could be worse. It could have been Goyle handing your book back to you.” The two girls looked at each other before bursting into laughter. Goyle wouldn’t touch a book, let alone read one. In fact, it was unclear of whether or not he could actually read.

Once their laughter had died down and the two were sitting in comfortable silence, a thought dawned upon Y/N.

“You won’t tell Harry or Ron about this, will you? Knowing them, they’ll make a fuss about it and then never let me live it down.”

Hermione smiled in response.

“‘A fuss’ is a bit of an understatement. ‘What do you mean you fancy Malfoy?! He’s a git!’” Hermione’s impersonation was spot on and the two girls laughed once again.

The two girls then spent the next few hours talking about their classes, Y/N and Harry’s upcoming quidditch match, and making plans for their weekend in Hogsmeade. Y/N wouldn’t have to worry about Draco until the quidditch match, and that wasn’t for another 3 days. So for 3 days, Y/N would avoid him and distract herself with studying for midterm exams and Quidditch practice.

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duskandstarlight · 4 years

Text

Embers & Light (Chapter 27, Nessian multi-chapter)

Notes: Hello lovely readers! I am so sorry for the day's delay in posting this chapter. I was really poorly last week (and I'm still recovering) so I wasn't able to keep on top of my writing in order to bring you a chapter yesterday. That is not only because I found this very difficult to write, but because this is a LONG chapter. 14k words. There was so much to pack in, and as you all know, I am not one to gloss over certain elements, especially not Nessian goodness. Thank you to everyone who has sent me will-wishes this week and last. You are all lovely people and it's very much appreciated. Let me know what you think, as always. And apologies for any typos and inconsistencies—as I said, I've not been well so my brain has not been functioning like it usually does!

Let me know if you want to be tagged/untagged!

Chapter Twenty-Seven Cassian

Frawley and Lorrian were all ready to go when Nesta came downstairs. Those ever-perceptive eyes—ice blue and brown—fell immediately to Nesta’s chest as she stepped into the hallway. But to Cassian’s relief, the witch remained relatively silent, mounting Caerleon and casting into the sky with her husband close behind her in a glow of emerald without more than a few crisp, comments.

Nesta flew on Sala. Despite knowing that she had trained on Caerleon enough the previous week to know what to expect, Cassian could not help the fear that wound its way into his mouth as beast and Fae left the ground. He needn’t have worried. Sala’s gait seemed as natural to Nesta as breathing; her legs tucked into the manticore’s flank just before the beast’s wings with a confident, determined grip and her fingers were secure in Sala’s ruff. Cassian had launched himself into the skies straight after her, watching Nesta as if he were a hawk. He knew the magic binding Nesta and Sala would keep Nesta seated despite the battering winds and any notion of gravity, but that didn’t stop him from flying a few feet below her for the first couple of miles, ready to throw himself into a nose dive should she fall.

But later, when he realised that Nesta was perfectly at home on top of her manticore, Cassian had risen to fly beside her. And when he had winked at her, his broad wings flapping to match her furious pace, the smile she had sent back had been genuine enough for Cassian to know that if he died that day, he would die happy. That he had seen Nesta offer him a true smile without any thought of stifling it, and it was beautiful.

A few miles from the camp, the four of them landed to leave the manticores in a thicket of pine trees. Cassian watched Nesta bury her face into the manticore’s neck and whisper in the beast’s ear before she wordlessly strode over to him.

They had decided the night prior that Frawley and Nesta would leave their manticores behind. It was an idea that had been met with great protest by Frawley, but in the end, Cassian and Lorrian had talked her round. They were both of the same opinion; bringing the manticores to the Solstice luncheon would probably push the already hostile Illyrian lords to self-combust. So the manticores would remain on stand-by, out of sight but near enough to the camp to intervene if necessary.

“Ready to go for a ride, sweetheart?” Cassian teased Nesta as she walked towards him.

Cassian had expected things to be strained between them since he had given Nesta the necklace. There was also the small matter that they would be publicly declaring themselves together today, but Nesta appeared wholly unfazed. If anything, she looked happy, despite the sexual innuendo which usually had her dropping swiftly into irritation. Her cheeks were stung pink from the cold air, giving her a healthy glow, and her eyes were impossibly bright in a way that made his own heart ache.

Her lack of reaction didn’t help Cassian to stop thinking about Nesta in a sexual capacity. And the thought of Nesta actually riding him… He had dreamt of her so many times now that their imagined actions had become a well-rehearsed dance. He knew what it felt like for her to straddle his hips. Knew what she sounded like when she sighed and sank down onto the length of him, his lips attacking the column of her neck. Of how he groaned so deeply that everything in him shook. Nesta’s phantom hands always weaved through his hair at the sound, and when she bent to kiss him, she tasted entirely right...

“I suppose I’ll have to make do with you,” Nesta struck back, pulling Cassian out of his salacious thoughts with a jolt. Her tone was playful, but there was an underlying edge of disappointment that told him she was fed up of being carried around.

Even though it hurt, Cassian understood. He wouldn’t want to be carted around the skies when he could fly through them. So, he only cast a new protective shield over them, knowing that Nesta would spit blue murder if he ruined her hair. He also knew that he should look presentable for once, rather than turning up in blood-stained armour and hair so wind-snarled that running a brush through it threatened to break it more than it promised to ease out the knots.

Cassian might be the Night Court’s general, but that didn’t mean it was beneath him to look presentable.

For a long, the two of them travelled in silence. To his surprise, Nesta had curled her fingers into his chest, an action which had been lost long ago with her fear of flying. The action was absent-minded enough to tell him her thoughts were elsewhere. Indeed, when he glanced down at her she looked far away.

Cassian was just about to ask if she was all right, when Nesta asked, “Sala will be ok in the forest?”

He bit back a smile at her concern. Somehow, he knew that would upset her.

“Yes, she’ll be fine,” Cassian replied sincerely. “She’s an alpha predator and she’s with Caer.”

Darting another glance downwards, he found Nesta chewing on her lip. The action made her appear even more beautiful. Cassian didn’t know how Nesta always managed to look so arresting. Sometimes, he thought it was because he saw her through rose-tinted lenses, but then someone else would make a comment, like Lorrian yesterday, and he’d know it wasn’t in his imagination at all.

“If you need her, she’ll come,” Cassian assured Nesta, locking his eyes with hers so his words held weight. “Sala is bound to your magic, just will her presence and she will find you.”

Slowly, Nesta nodded. When she unclenched her teeth, her bottom lip was swollen and flushed. He wondered what it would feel like to kiss her when they weren’t dying. Whether she’d let him. Sometimes—only rarely—Cassian thought she might. Like earlier, when he had given her the necklace and she had twisted to look up at him. It would have been so easy to cup her cheek and bow his head that little bit further. And for a second, he’d thought that was what she had wanted. Her eyes had darted to his lips, but rather than satisfaction Cassian had felt a stab of mutual fear. Because they both knew that if Cassian was to give in to temptation—if she let him and wanted it—they would not stop until their skin was bare and their bodies were moulded into the other.

Cassian fortified his ring of fire at the thought. Made it even tighter and more formidable. Blocked out the thought of Nesta’s endless skin and her unforgiving curves. Since the kerits attack on Windhaven, Cassian felt more of Nesta down that shared tether. It was still constricted, but it was enough to get hits of emotion more frequently than before. And even though Cassian was desperate to, he hadn’t dared to reach out and touch that twisted rope again.

It hurt to deny himself the pleasure of brushing against it. The urge pulsed beneath his skin, whispering her name over and over: Nesta, Nesta, Nesta.

“You’re ok with today’s plan?” Cassian asked Nesta, because he needed to say something that didn’t make him think about how they would be sharing a bed later. How he would be so consumed by her scent it would be hard to breathe, let alone think. Needed to focus on the fact that today could be very dangerous and that he was willingly carrying her right into it.

It would not be like last time when she had been suffering from nightmares. This time she would be lucid. He would not be able to arch a protective wing over her and ghost his body alongside hers. It was going to be necessary torture and he had no idea whether she had yet pieced together that they would not have separate sleeping arrangements. Nesta was usually so quick to put two and two together, but she had not truly snapped or refused point blank to be anywhere near him, which made him suspect that it hadn’t yet clicked.

“Aside from being promised to you?” Nesta asked, a slight crease appearing between her brows.

The words were not vicious, but Cassian still had to snicker away the hurt. “Aside from that.”

“Yes, I’m ok with the plan,” she replied. She craned her neck up to look at him. “You’re worried.”

Cassian could not help but press his lips tightly together. He thought about denying it, but somehow he knew that she could read his expression too adeptly.

“I’m always wary before I meet with the war-lords. I’m even more wary when a meeting has been brought forward,” Cassian admitted. He cast his gaze forward to the skies, to Lorrian and Frawley who were flying ahead of them. Lorrian’s natural gait had always been faster than Cassian’s. Whilst Cassian’s wings were bigger, Lorrian’s build was made for speed. “I’ve got a bad feeling about it,” he admitted. “Marsh is a notoriously harsh war-lord, but he’s been unwell in recent years. Usually, a war-lord would not think twice to rid himself of a son who would pose as a threat. Kallon has openly claimed to have Enalius’s sword and his father has not made a single move against him, even though it threatens his position.”

“You think Marsh would kill his own son?”

Cassian snorted. “It has happened before. That, or a son would be cast out of the camp and stripped of his entitlement.”

Nesta frowned. “So, what you are saying is that you do not think that Marsh has long left to live and he is allowing Kallon to rule in his stead?”

“Yes, that is exactly what I think,” Cassian replied seriously, not at all surprised at Nesta’s intelligence. “And that means Kallon could soon be in a position of great power and influence, especially if he claims to have been chosen by Enalius to unite the Illyrians.”

They flew in silence for a few minutes. Cassian could almost hear the cogs turning in Nesta’s mind, as she digested the information he had just given her. But when she finally spoke, it was not about Kallon or the rising discontent. “I won’t be subservient.”

Cassian looked down at her in surprise. Did she mean today? “I don’t want you to be,” he said carefully. Honestly.

“Aren’t you going to remind me of the Illyrian customs and how I shouldn’t behave considering I’m a female?” Nesta asked stiffly.

Cassian frowned. Maybe things weren’t fine between them, after all. There was a sudden edge to her voice that he had heard when he had first shown her the necklace. That sharp, brittle parry that had almost seemed like she was purposefully attempting to put distance between them. He had felt her panic. She hadn’t been able to stifle that emotion before it flew down their tether. Nor had she been able to disguise the beating of her heart, which pattered at such a rate that it had melded with his own terrified rhythm.

Nesta knew what the necklace was, Cassian was sure of it. Knew by now that he had dived back into the Sidra to retrieve the gift she had refused, just as she had rejected him.

Now Cassian was no longer clouded by the fierce grip of rejection, he could not entirely blame Nesta for turning him away on Solstice. She had spent the evening sitting as far away from the fire as possible during a visit against her will. And not only had she had to fight battle trauma, but she had been forced to endure how they were all moving on without her. It was what Nesta had insisted upon, but Cassian was not stupid enough to think that it hadn’t hurt, especially when he had opened Mor’s gift and laughed along with everyone, pretending everything was fine when it most certainly was not. When it had felt as if someone had already thrust a hand into his chest and thrown out his bloody, bleeding heart for everyone to see.

To see the world through a pair of dusky blue eyes rather than hazel had everything tilted sideways, but it was necessary, he knew that now.

“No,” Cassian replied shortly, and meant it. Nesta was wild and he hungered for it. To see her chained and timid went against every fibre of his being.

“Is that not what is expected of the females here?” Nesta questioned, her voice that little more pointed.

Cassian frowned again. “It is, but I like you just the way you are,” he confessed slowly. “It is not what I would ever expect of you.”

Then, he barked a laugh, missing the sudden change in Nesta’s expression. “And you’ll find your defiance is in good company. You and Frawley are going to make a formidable pair.”

A soft snort. It was as close to a laugh as Cassian was going to get, but he would settle for it, even if it was nothing on the joy that had hit him square in the stomach a few weeks prior. He had been eating breakfast in the kitchen when he had felt it: pure, radiating laughter that had somehow ghosted into his ears and wound itself around his most vital organs. He had been out of his seat and in the skies before he had a moment to catch himself, following that tether between them that was more defined than ever before. But the cold, bracing air had done him good, and Cassian had turned sharply around, suddenly understanding that it was not his moment to share. That it was something Nesta needed to experience independently from him.

So, Cassian had waited at the bungalow for Nesta to return, every second a new form of torture. And from the moment she stepped through the front door, he had known they had reached a turning point. There was a lightness to her features that he had not seen before. As if the laughter had broken through that expressionless mask and rendered her new.

Cassian had expected to have to wait for a glowing retelling from Mas the day after, but Nesta had told him herself, a ghost of a smile on her lips as he made her breakfast and a mug of chai, listening to her talk and talk and talk.

He would have sold his soul in that moment. Would have done anything for her. But he had only sat opposite with a cup of steaming coffee and watched her eat as if she hadn’t for days. And when he had asked if she wanted to come with him to oversee his camp duties, she had nodded without hesitation, telling him she had a few hours before she was due to show Feyre around the camps with Mas.

“I should warn you that they’ll be interested in you,” Cassian told Nesta after a moment.

Nesta’s body turned stiff in his arms. “What do you mean?”

“Word has spread amongst the camps about what you did,” Cassian explained.

Mas had encouraged the widows to do as much. The monthly market set deep in the mist-shrouded valley of Empyr, was the perfect opportunity for those that could fly to spread word, just as Kallon’s recruits spread vicious discourse about the Night Court. The valley was flanked by lush forest green and cascading waterfalls, and Illyrians flew from all over the mountains to stock up on essentials, from grains and spices, to weaponry and healing medicines. It was also the location of the Illyrian festival Kharon, where once a year, Illyrians congregated to sail souls to rest down the River Styx.

Cassian couldn’t wait to take Nesta there. Was waiting for the perfect moment.

“Feyre was there, too,” Nesta reminded him, but Cassian only shook his head.

“You brought Mas back to life. A lowly widow in the eyes of the average Illyrian. You gave someone worth who was deemed as having none, Nesta. You sparked an oppressed female to lead others and finally stand up against cultural traditions that have been engrained for centuries—”

“But the males don’t see it that way?” Nesta guessed, cutting him off. Her expression did not give any indication that his praise had either pleased or irritated her.

Cassian tilted his head in a shrug, but he did not stop staring into her eyes—into the smoky blue that mesmerised him even now. “Should the dissent continue to rise, we might be forced to invoke a referendum about whether Illyria should become an independent nation,” Cassian explained. “Females have the right to vote. Rhys instated the law many years ago, much to the chagrin of the Illyrian males. I think that’s why Kallon has been targeting the females who lost their husbands and sons in the war—in the hope that their support would swing the cause in his favour.”

“But if he is behind the orchestrated attacks, then we could stop a divided nation?” Nesta asked, finishing his strain of thought.

Cassian’s smile was grim. “Exactly.”

“You think he did it?”

Cassian shrugged. “I keep thinking about those bastards who have disappeared. I would not be surprised if their allegiance had been bought by the rebellion. I’m sure they have been promised a station above the lowest ranking foot soldier. You heard Devlon, they are all exceptional in the skies, but they aren’t recognised for their talents. They have nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

“What would happen if you captured them?” Nesta asked quietly.

Cassian looked into the distance—at the pine-capped mountains and the craggy mountain stone. He didn’t want to think about what would befall those males. He knew them. They were good soldiers with no sense of self-worth.

Nesta touched Cassian’s shoulder. “Maybe it won’t come to that,” she said.

“Maybe,” Cassian replied, but he knew he didn’t sound convinced.

Lord Marsh’s residence was a too-large stone building set deep into the forested mountain ledge that overhung the rest of the mountain pass. Flags bearing the Ironcrest insignia—a crested hawk eagle with its wings spread wide—rippled in the breeze, and Fae males armed with spears flanked the huge double-doors, which were made of heavy pine and punctured with black iron studs and heavy handles in the shape of Illyrian wings. The guards iron helmets were plumed with pointed black feathers tipped with white, just like the hawk that had given Ironcrest the latter part of its name.

Carefully, Cassian touched down onto the stone a careful distance from both the entrance and Lorrian and Frawley. He did not give Nesta the opportunity to step away. Instead, he tightened the arm that was still wound around her waist and curled a wing around them like a shield.

Already he felt territorial. Already he did not want to let her go.

“You stay with me tonight.”

Nesta’s head whipped up at the dead seriousness of his tone. His words were not up for debate but to his surprise, she did not hiss ‘no’ and he did not feel that silver power push against her skin. Cassian suspected that Nesta’s nerves had started to fray at the prospect of being somewhere that was not the bungalow or Lorrian and Frawley’s cottage.

He touched her hand to bring her back. Nesta stared down at the fingers that clasped hers as if she did not understand how they had got there, before she tightened her grip and turned to face him. As she met his gaze, that smoky blue latched onto him and he felt as if he was a predator who had crawled into the palm of her hand and rolled over in surrender.

“If you need to get my attention when we are inside then send me a subtle signal,” Cassian told Nesta in a quiet voice. Already there would be too many prying eyes and ears. He could already feel Fae watching him from the crown glass windows, their faces distorted by both the plain whorled glass and the stained colours of the insignia set into their middle.

Nesta frowned. “How—”

Cassian pressed his fingers gently against Nesta’s stomach. He felt the wings of her ribs and the muscles of her core. “Here,” he said softly, his heart battering against his chest. “Like you did the other day at Kanaman.”

This close up Cassian could taste the sweetness of Nesta’s breath. Could see every single one of her eyelashes and the black-blue kohl that rimmed the upper lids. Nesta was not usually one for enhancing the features she already had. She did not need to. Staring at Nesta as a human had been enough for Cassian’s breath to catch in his throat, but as Fae… she was devastating. And whilst Cassian preferred Nesta windswept in leathers and a simple braid, he could not deny that when he had found her that morning to give her the necklace, his knees had gone weak.

Yet, there was something about Nesta being dressed up which made Cassian feel as if he were at a distance from her. As if the formal garments and the tight, intricate arrangement of her braid slammed a partition between them, highlighting how he was only a lowly bastard and she was too good for him. It was why he had often kept his distance before, too fearful to speak with her in front of his friends in case she were to shoot him down publicly. And the truth of it was that Nesta made him feel like he was young again. He had played games without realising it. Ignoring her to feign indifference, hoping to hide just how affected he was by her mere presence in a room. How scared he was to let his friends see just how much his wild and vulnerable heart had been flung out before this bewitching female for the first time in centuries. Because Nesta was not like anyone else he had ever met. He had never felt like this. Not just an undeniable pull of attraction, but something deeper than lust or fancy. Something more.

It was only when Cassian spied the pyrite laying below her collarbone did he relax a little. Perhaps it was too simple for someone as arresting as Nesta, but she hadn’t rejected it. Had let him put it on her and she had not taken it off, not even when she had realised what it was. How it highlighted that painful memory that was strung between them.

She had called the necklace beautiful. Had meant it.

“What—” Nesta started, but she broke off suddenly, a flicker of recognition dawning on her face. Absent-mindedly her fingers closed around the pyrite, as if touching it allowed her to understand—to tap into his mind and read his thoughts.

For a moment, they stared at one another. Both of their hearts thumping even as their expressions remained impassive. If not for the slight stain on Nesta’s cheeks Cassian would not have known she was affected at all.

It amused him that she had thought she had gotten away with sending an emotion back without him noticing. It was the first he had felt something gentle from her, rather than a blast of emotion. And whilst the sensation had still been stifled down that constricted tether, it had touched him in a way he could not explain. That she had cared enough to soothe his torment.

In that moment, Cassian had felt wholly connected to her, but Nesta hadn't even glanced his way.

Outside of their cocoon, Cassian heard approaching voices and the clink of armour. Even still, he found himself hesitating, wanting a private moment with Nesta for a little longer before they were thrown to the vultures.

So, Cassian surprised her, raising her knuckles to his lips. Her skin tasted so intoxicating the primal part of him internally growled, but he only looked at her with dark eyes as he slowly retracted his wing — at the smoky silver that slid behind her irises, and unable to help it, breathed softly, “Pulchra.”

His lips quirked against her skin when her breath hitched. Then, slowly, he dropped her hand and offered her his arm with a smile that for once he did not have to catch and shape into something else. “After you, amore,” he said.

Nesta studied him for a moment. He watched her eyes slide past him to the stone building—to the window and the faces that he knew were staring, prying and scheming. Saw the understanding dawn on Nesta’s face that told him she had believed the kiss for show, when really it had been nothing but a perfect excuse.

And then she took his arm.

Warriors on duty armed only in fighting leathers and what Cassian suspected was a number of well-hidden knives led them to the drawing room. Stone walls lit by bobbing faelights cast dark, long shadows in the hallways and onto the faded rugs. As they turned a corner, female servants came into view laden with silver plates piled high with food. In the near distance, a wide doorframe gleamed, light spilling into the corridor and with it, the rumble of forced conversation and the clink of glasses.

One step into the bright room had Cassian on high alert and scanning for every possible exit point. As usual, the Solstice Luncheon did nothing to bring the Illyrians together. Instead, the clans remained steadfast in their own groups of lords and ladies, save for the odd stiff conversation between camps with long-formed alliances. Cassian spied Lord Condor from Forktail speaking stiffly with Devlon, and Cassian immediately thought of Lorrian. How would he fare coming face-to-face with his younger brother today? Notoriously they did not get on. Rumour had it that Lord Icor Condor had not been happy that Lorrian had been promoted from outcast to Colonel. Cassian had received a hate letter for it, not that he cared. Everyone knew Lorrian was the best equipped Illyrian to get their warriors back to a high-level of skill in the skies.

It did not take Cassian long to locate Ironcrest’s war-lord. He was sitting at a large pine table laden with Illyrian cuisine in front of the right-hand bay window. In front of him, a large silver goblet was full to the brim with red wine, as well as a plate piled high with untouched food.

Lord Anguis Marsh had always been a broad shouldered male who was unusually well-kept for a warrior. His dark hair was slicked back to feather at the nape of his neck, and he sported a hooked, crooked nose and an ugly scar which effectively splitting through his upper lip. When Marsh had been in good health, he had been known for his alarming speed on the battlefield and the vicious nature with which he gutted his opponents. Now, Cassian could not find that male in front of him.

Marsh was the eldest of the war-lords—a few millennia old, perhaps—and as Azriel had reported, his health was not what it was. The lord—or prince, as all the top ranking war-lords were referred to (with Enalius being viewed as their God and King)—had not been able to fight in the most recent war, nor had he made a point of sitting in on the War Counsel. Kallon, who was Marsh’s only princeling and son, had been denied a place on the Counsel in his stead, with Cassian arguing that it was not only because Kallon was unseasoned, but because he wasn’t intending to fight against Hybern himself. It had been a decision that Cassian knew had not been taken lightly, and he did not delude himself to think that the repercussions weren’t now stacked against him.

The prince’s declining health was far worse than when Cassian had last seen Marsh. That much was evident from where he remained seated at the thick pine table rather than standing with the majority of his guests. Although, Cassian mused, he would not put it past any Illyrian war-lord to feel so superior that they remained seated at their house table as if it were a throne.

Steering Nesta over the table to get the formalities over and done with, Cassian deliberately shortened his strides to match hers. As he did so, he tracked Marsh reaching stiffly for his goblet to take a deep drink. It did little to disguise the unmistakable tremble of his hand. Only the war-lord’s eyes remained the same as Cassian remembered; small, yellow and beady — alert and vigilant in the way that only a true Illyrian warrior was. They slid from Cassian to Nesta, before moving on to Lorrian and Frawley behind them.

“General.” A deep, drawl laced with the faintest rasp. Not as fierce as it used to be, that was for certain.

Yet, the sneer that twisted the male’s tan face as they came to a stop a few feet from the table undoubtedly belonged to Marsh. The movement highlighted the scar on Marsh’s lip, the skin crumpling as the split caused it to curl in the wrong way. “I see you brought company, bastard, when usually you do not grace us with your presence at all.”

Cassian did not let a flicker of expression taint his blank canvas. He had sent word of their intended stay well ahead of time, but Cassian knew that Marsh would feign ignorance just for the spite of it. “Yes,” he replied. “As I am sure you are already aware, Colonel Lorrian has been reappointed and is overseeing the armies aerial fleet. Neither of us would miss the Rite counsel.”

It was true, Cassian would not miss the Rite counsel that would take place later that afternoon. It was unusual that it had been moved. Usually it took place mid-January, but seeing that it was Ironcrest who was due to hold the ceremony that year, combining the Solstice luncheon and the Rite counsel made sense. It didn’t stop Cassian from being suspicious. Any deviation from the Illyrian’s deepest traditions always had Cassian’s hackles raised, not because he did not appreciate progress or the ability to adapt, but because it was not the Illyrians usual way, especially when it came from one of the oldest Illyrian war-lords.

Marsh did not acknowledge Cassian’s comment regarding the Rite. Instead, he said maliciously, “I didn’t believe there was an aerial fleet left.”

Cassian did not allow his body to stiffen. Did not allow to show how they affected him, even now. He could beat them all to a pulp if he wanted, Cassian reminded himself. He had more siphons than all of them. More Killing Power. He may be a bastard but he was a worthy warrior and better suited to lead the armies than any one of them.

So, he dropped into a voice that he saved for occasions like this. A voice which promised death and destruction and was not to be disputed. “Colonel Lorrian will oversee the training of your aerial warriors tomorrow morning,” Cassian clipped coldly, as if he had not heard the rebuttal. “And we will see how much of that rings true. I am sure Ironcrest would not have allowed their warriors to sink in standard.”

Another curl of the lip as Marsh sneered. Without looking behind him, Marsh raised his goblet with a shaking hand. A female servant rushed forward with a tall, heavy pitcher of wine. When his goblet was refilled, Marsh did not shift his yellow, beady eyes from Cassian as he lifted the goblet to his lips. His hand shook with enough effort that the contents spilled over the lip and onto his arm.

A snarl unleashed itself from Marsh’s throat, the sound not unlike a whip hitting home. The goblet thunked onto the pine table, wine sloshing over the surface. “Maya, you useless female,” Marsh chastised the female servant, whose eyes had widened with fear. “You jostled me. Get me a napkin at once or I will banish you to the widows camp and be done with you.”

The hand that was still looped through Cassian’s arm tightened slightly, and Cassian felt the threat of Nesta’s magic push beneath her skin. Training regularly with Nesta had allowed Cassian to become used to the seal of her magic. It was something which had become as naturally as breathing to him since that day at Spearhead, when they had first trained with his siphon. It was almost as if Nesta’s magic had imprinted onto his very being. When it moved, he felt it. When it blazed, he burned without fire.

As if it were the most natural gesture in the world, Cassian brought a hand to cup Nesta’s where it lay on her arm. It was a reminder to stay calm. Nesta’s job was to scout out the emotions in the room, not set it aflame.

“Father,” a male voice announced.

Cassian turned to see a male standing a few feet from them. Kallon was the imitation of his father when he had been in good health: impossibly dark hair scraped back to the nape of his neck; yellow eyes; a chiselled jaw; and sharp cheekbones. He was handsome in the way that most Fae were, and his skin betrayed his youth; the majority of brown unmarred, save for a vicious looking scar on his arm and half of a missing index finger on his left hand, which left the digit intact only to the knuckle. Kallon did not have Illyrian tattoos yet—had not seen war to earn them—and on the backs of his hands lay no siphons.

Given the steadfast rule at all gatherings for the war-lord, Cassian was not surprised to see that no sword lay either in a scabbard by Kallon’s side, or strapped down his spine, as was Illyrian custom.

“My son, Kallon,” Marsh announced with the stiff flick of a trembling hand, “who I presume you have met before.”

Cassian did not bow his head. “I don’t believe we have met in a number of years.”

Piercing yellow eyes studied Cassian. “I don’t believe I would have had cause to, considering our General does not visit Ironcrest often, and given that I was not permitted a place on your war counsel.”

An insult already and one that was not entirely true. Cassian had visited Ironcrest a fair few times over the last four months, but Kallon had never been in the training ring or with his father at the same time.

Kallon’s luminescent yellow eyes moved from Cassian’s to the female beside him. They stilled and then, painstakingly slowly, they deliberately raked a path over every inch of Nesta’s body. The movement was purposefully claiming, and Cassian suppressed the growl that came roaring to the forefront as Kallon dared to flex the claws on his wings. “And who is this bewitching female?” he asked.

Nesta had turned preternaturally still, and not one part of her body moved save for her eyes, which slid to the talons at the apex of the princeling’s wings. In fact, Cassian noted, Nesta’s posture had not changed since she had entered the house; her spine stacked tall, her chin slightly raised, those beautiful eyes lined with silver shimmering mercury blue. But there was something in her stillness that made Cassian wonder if Nesta, too, had dissected that Kallon’s good looks had a cold and unreachable quality that hinted at something far sinister. As if he used them as a way of luring in victims, much like sirens tempted sailors to the rocks at sea.

Nesta would have felt distant and otherworldly if she had not been holding his arm. If he could not feel her, ever so slightly, down that bond thanks to her lowered walls.

“This is Lady Nesta Archeron,” Cassian replied, forcing all malice from his voice.

“Oh, yes,” Kallon mused smoothly, his irises flaring as if they were an extension of his nostrils. No doubt trying to scent whether Cassian had claimed her. “I have heard of you. I can feel your power. I’ve heard others call you a witch, but I have also heard that you have taken a power that is ancient beyond reckoning. Something that is not yours.”

The princeling’s voice had dropped into a purr and a snarl roared inside of Cassian as Kallon closed the distance between them to take Nesta’s hand. His signet ring flashed in the faelight as he placed a slow, deliberate kiss to Nesta’s knuckles—the exact same spot atop Nesta’s ring finger that Cassian had kissed moments earlier.

“Such a touching story,” Kallon continued, his voice unbelievably even as he looked up at her, “about how you defended one another on the battlefield.” His gaze intensified and sharpened on Nesta as he lowered her hand from his mouth. “Rumour has it that your dedication did not last long, but who can blame you for deciding not to settle for a lowly bastard?”

The way in which Kallon straightened was slow and deliberate. He did not let go of Nesta’s hand, his yellow eyes continuing to stare pointedly at the female before him, as if he had been privy to every night she had fucked someone else and Cassian had perched outside on the rooftop.

Hot and cold washed over Cassian’s body with such ferocity it felt as if he had jumped into both ice and fire. Rage and humiliation battered against his shields, but he did not lower them. Would not allow Nesta or anyone else in the room know how much those words affected him.

But then he felt Nesta’s anger fling itself hard down their tether, the sensation not akin to a blow to the stomach. It pierced through his fire, his heart, and for a moment he felt as if he had been set aflame. He knew she had lowered her shields so she could sense others' emotions in the room, but to be reminded how much she truly felt when she let every barrier fell away was astounding.

Even so, when Nesta spoke, her voice was icy and level beyond reckoning. “Evidently that is not true, otherwise I would not be here.”

She retracted her mist-wrapped hand from Kallon with such care Cassian knew that she was considering smacking him round the face.

A low, sensual laugh that was more fitting for jovial conversation than it was here. “Do not try to convince me that you, a High Fae, has settled for the lowest born faerie? Just how poor was the offering back in Velaris? I hear there was no shortage of males in your bed…”

Cassian had stopped breathing for fear that if he did he would launch towards Kallon and use his fists to beat him bloody and blue. His shield had faltered, the fire sputtering as the words hit home like a spear to the heart.

Nesta did not rise to the bait. She only clipped, “It turns out that the only male I found to be worthy was an Illyrian bastard, so that is no longer relevant.” That chin of Nesta’s rose defiant, and with it, she grew even taller; a vengeful mighty queen looking down on her subjects with pure loathing. “And I may have been Made High Fae against my will, but I am human at heart. I believe you think them to be at the bottom of the chain, so perhaps that will help you sleep easier at night.”

Kallon blinked at Nesta, momentarily stunned. His gaze slid to her fingers, where mist was still seeping from them, curling around Cassian’s bicep. The heat was a welcoming lick rather than hot enough to burn, but the way her fire started to take form, the mist turning into a rope which blazed in coils around her forearm was enough to insinuate otherwise. And there was the fact that Nesta could will it to burn hotter if she liked. Cassian did not doubt that she could incinerate the room with a mere flick of her fingers.

The thought thrilled him. Stacked up the fire inside of his own body, his internal shields answering to hers as his flames licked higher.

Kallon did not step back, although Cassian saw the muscles in his body tense as if to fling himself out of range. He cocked his head to the side, contemplative, as if Nesta were a puzzle he wanted to figure out. And then, he slipped. For a fraction of a second his right hand fell to his hip, where a sword or knife usually hung from his weapon’s belt. But the way his fingers remained there, lingering… it was enough to tell Cassian that he was hiding something. That he was armed, even though he was not supposed to be.

And the knowledge clearly gave him courage, because he stepped towards Nesta, his eyes gleaming—

Nesta snarled, her whip uncoiling itself, the tip lashing out across the clearing with such speed Kallon recoiled.

“It’s true then,” Kallon said, his eyes bright as he took a step backwards. “Silver flames—”

But his father interjected, as if he had endured enough of his son’s games. “I do not remember inviting two witches and an Incomplete to this luncheon,” Marsh snapped.

“Scared of what we’re capable of?” Frawley asked, speaking up for the first time since they had stepped into the room. Her voice was quiet but chilling, and her ice-blue eye levelled Marsh with such a glare that Cassian found himself tensing. Frawley was not irresponsible enough to start a fight, but she had been known to provoke the war-lords when she saw fit. Usually when they insulted her husband.

“To think that you would be in the company of two females more powerful than you,” Frawley mused with the deathly sort of calm that Cassian usually harboured for himself during battle. “And that’s not to mention that one of us beheaded the King of Hybern.”

That lip twisted and contorted, but Kallon spoke before his father had the opportunity to do it himself. “I do not think that we need to thank a witch for ending a war where Illyrians were treated as disposable,” Kallon said.

A murmur went through the crowd. But that did not deter Nesta, who levelled Kallon with a gaze which had him stilling as a slow, cruel smile crept across her face. “I’m not a witch,” she vowed. “I’m something much worse.”

True silence. So quiet that Cassian could have heard a pin drop.

And that was when, without waiting to be dismissed, Cassian chose to steer Nesta away from the war-lord’s table and into the watching crowds.

Nesta moved beside him as if she were floating, as if gravity did not apply to her. Cassian challenged every stare and every curling lip they passed. When they reached the large windows farther down the room where it was less crowded, he drew them to a halt.

Begrudgingly, he dropped his arm, but then he felt couldn’t resist the temptation this partnership had granted him, so he dared to raise a hand to touch his fingers to the nape of Nesta’s neck. As well as being self-indulgent, it was also a gesture of intimacy that he thought would make Nesta least uncomfortable. It was a self-indulgent move, something that sung intimacy and was designed to stake a claim. Because he had seen the way in which Kallon had stared at Nesta. The way he had tried to scent for a bond or claim on her. The gleam in Kallon’s eyes had told Cassian he was not wholly convinced about their claim of being partners, enough for him to prod and poke about Cassian’s bastard status and Nesta’s bedding habits. To see what they said and how they behaved.

And whilst Illyrian males were not overly affectionate with their partners in public, Cassian never intended to take a wife who he did not openly cherish.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked softly.

To his surprise, Nesta did not flinch. Instead, she turned into his touch, lifting those smoky blue eyes to his as if this impromptu dance they were orchestrating was as natural as breathing. That she hadn’t just been called out on her promiscuous behaviour and her continual rejection of him.

She gave a short nod. “Please.”

Her expression, Cassian noted, might be carefully blank, but her eyes were readable to him. He had spent four months living with her. Had learnt to dissect every hollowed out stare and every dulled light whenever she was unguarded enough to let him. And whilst Cassian had expected Nesta to wear the mask she so habitually wore, her eyes were open enough for him to know that she was still angry.

Sweeping up four goblets of wine from the closest servant, Cassian tried not to mourn the loss of Nesta’s skin beneath his fingertips. Frawley flicked her hands casually at both Lorrian’s and Nesta’s drinks, turning the wine to juice before either of them had a moment to comment.

“I could do with some wine,” Lorrian confessed to Cassian in a low, bitter tone as Nesta turned to respond to something Frawley had just said. His friend’s face was wholly impassive to the outsider, but Cassian knew Lorrian well enough to catch the slightly mournful look in the Lorrian’s eyes as he glanced down into the depths of his goblet. “I give it five minutes until I have a war-lord upon me demanding for an update on the state of the aerial fleet.” He cast a slow, hard look around the room. It was a look that Cassian had honed himself over centuries of learning how to assert authority. “That being said,” Lorrian continued, “I think that could have gone a lot worse.”

Cassian grunted, the sensation making his chest jolt and his armour clink. “Speak for yourself.”

Lorrian shot Cassian an apologetic look. He watched Cassian take a deep sip from his goblet. At least the wine was good, Cassian thought bitterly, as if the silver lining would smooth over the battering he’d just received.

“If it’s any consolation, my brother has been sneering at me since we set foot in the room,” Lorrian admitted to Cassian, as if he knew what Cassian was thinking. “I’d sell my other arm in a wager that he’ll have strut over here by the end of this damn luncheon to give me hell.”

It was intended to be a joke but Cassian knew how sensitive Lorrian was about his missing limb. And understandably so. Illyrians were cruel at the best of times, but to have already been referred to as an Incomplete was enough to have a traumatised warrior drowning in a sense of underserved dishonour.

Like Cassian, Lorrian was resplendent today in his black scaled armour, and his right arm glowed a soft emerald from where he had used his magic to temporarily reinstate his limb. “At least we took Frawley’s poison blocker before we left,” Lorrian continued to mutter under his breath. “I bet the majority of this room would take great joy in our deaths.”

Another grunt from Cassian—this time one of agreement. He glanced down into his goblet which was now empty. It was not like him to drink so quickly in the company of the lords, but Kallon had Cassian’s anger pushing at his skin, ready to jump to the forefront with one sneering look.

He lifted his eyes to search for another servant, but the same female Marsh had snapped at earlier—Maya—appeared at his left-hand side with a silver pitcher of wine as if she had been watching him.

The first thing Cassian noticed about the widow was that she had large, almond shaped hazel eyes that were so light, they were almost amber. Her long, ebony hair was fashioned into a double bun at the nape of her neck—a style at odds with her servant status—and on the inside of her wrist, as she lifted her arm to pour him a drink, Cassian spied a tattoo of a sun and moon.

A twin.

Cassian was so distracted by the ink that he didn’t realise he had moved his goblet away until it was too late. The wine spilled over the rim of the cup and onto the flagstone floor, the red liquid splattering over his leg and onto the back of Nesta’s dress.

Maya’s eyes went as round as saucers and he saw the panic flood her expression in a way that told Cassian she was not treated well in the Marsh residence. Nesta turned around sharply, most presumably, from feeling the females terror with her magic.

“I—I am so sorry, my lord,” Maya stammered. Her eyes, which had been dutifully downcast, had snapped up in alarm to connect with his. “Please, let me clean this up. I—”

But Cassian only shook his head, wordlessly taking the handkerchief Lorrian passed to him and took a deliberate step backwards so Maya was deliberately placed in front of him. “I think you will find that it is me who should be apologising,” Cassian corrected kindly. “I moved my goblet.”

He turned to Nesta. “Are you wet?” he asked, holding out the handkerchief to her before even thinking about drying off his wine-covered hand.

“I’m fine,” Nesta replied, shaking her head. She had not made any movements to draw attention to herself like many other females would have done. It was as if she, too, had deduced that if Marsh was to catch wind of the incident, Maya would be cast out into the cold. “It’s only a little on the bottom of my skirts. It will soon dry.”

Maya’s eyes slowly fell to the floor at Nesta’s words. They widened in horror at the spatters of red that had already seeped into the light fabric.

“I am not wed to this dress,” Nesta assured Maya. Her usually clipped manner had fallen into something softer and more sincere. It was a voice she used with a fair few: Elain, Roksana and Mas. Sometimes him.

Sometimes.

Cassian pressed his lips together to stop himself from protesting. Because whilst Nesta might claim not be wedded to her dress, he certainly was. The floating material was the colour of dusky cornflower, a shade which made Nesta’s irises so light they shimmered ice blue. The effect was so startling Cassian’s heart had stopped when she’d opened her bedroom door that morning. If he hadn’t been so nervous he would have probably gone to hell with it all and bent his head to press his lips with hers. Instead, he had stared into those mesmerising eyes and, for a moment, forgotten the silver chain that was burning into his fist.

Avoiding the puddle of wine, Nesta stepped deliberately closer to Cassian, using their bodies to shield the spillage from the war-lord’s table. She touched his arm with her fingertips and looked up at him. “It’s nothing our housekeeper can’t fix. Isn’t that right, amore?”

For a moment, Cassian stared at Nesta, unable to process that she had not only spoke a word of Illyrian, but the term of endearment he had used earlier. Her voice was matter-of-fact, but there was something lacing the words that made him, for a stupid second, believe she meant it.

“Our housekeeper is very skilled,” Cassian assured Maya, allowing a rare smile to slip across his expression. “It won’t be an issue.”

But Maya was still pale. Her eyes slid past them, to the war-lord sat at the far end of the room.

“He can’t see you, Maya,” Cassian assured the servant evenly, as he finished wiping the wine away from his arm and sleeve. When he was finished, he wound an arm around Nesta’s waist, intending to pull her closer to his body, but she moved for him, moulding her curves against his hard lines, blocking Marsh completely from view. Jasmine and vanilla washed over him, the scent a relief. He rubbed a thumb over the fabric of her dress in thanks for playing along. For the blessing of having her pressed up against him.

“I can take care of it.” Frawley took a small step forward to close their circle.

She held out her goblet purposefully outwards, as if she were in need of a refill, and Maya tentatively topped up her a drink as Frawley subtly flicked her fingers. The puddle of wine and the stain on Nesta’s dress vanished.

Again, Maya’s eyes widened, but she was clever enough not to make any kind of movement to attract attention.

“Th-Thank you, my lord. My ladies,” Maya said gratefully, the clear relief in her voice enough to make Cassian angry. When would the injustices inflicted on Illyrians by Illyrians stop? Cassian had no doubt Maya had been mistreated, despite the fact that her twin status must provide her with a certain amount of protection. Illyrians were a superstitious race and would not risk the wrath of the Gods for casting a twin out into the cold.

In fact, Cassian was surprised that Marsh dared to keep her as a servant at all. Usually twins were the only low-born Illyrians that were established into civil society. And they were always low-born and always unbelievably rare. More often than not they were the product of lords unable to keep their cocks in their pants outside of their marriage bed.

Holding back a grimace, Cassian made himself nod at Maya as she bobbed a perfect curtsey to each of them, her golden eyes downcast and submissive, before she took leave.

Curiously, Cassian cocked his head at the widow as she quickly disappeared into the crowds, no doubt to find solace in the kitchens for a moments reprieve.

“Do you know who that was?”

Lorrian’s voice brought Cassian out of his thoughts, and he dragged his eyes away from Maya’s retreating figure to look at his friend. He continued to slowly rub his thumb over Nesta’s ribcage, the curve of her bone beneath the his skin a comfort, somehow.

“No,” he admitted to Lorrian, because he didn’t.

“That’s the widow of Halias Marsh.”

Cassian caught the eyebrows that wanted to disappear into his hairline just in time. “Marsh’s younger brother?”

Halias had not been alive in Cassian’s lifetime, but he knew that he had been a cruel male who had made Anguis Marsh look positively sweet in comparison. Whilst Anguis was known for his sharp, cunning intellect, Halias had been made of a brute strength which had led to an arrogance and dominance both inside and outside the sparring ring. It had been no secret that the brothers had an ongoing rivalry, with Halias believing he was best suited to the role of prince. When Halias had died in a fire, there had been rumours that Marsh had orchestrated his brother’s death, but those sorts of whisperings weren’t uncommon amongst the Illyrian camps, where everyone was out for glory at the expense of others.

“Yes,” Lorrian confirmed in a low voice.

“What happened to her twin?” Cassian asked with a frown.

As Cassian and Azriel’s self-appointed guardian, Rhys’s mother had done her best to teach them the history of the Illyrian camps and the war-lords family trees. They had been lessons which Cassian had found inanely dull at the time, usually because he had been exhausted from a rigorous day of training. But he did remember learning that the Ironcrest brothers had secured twins for brides. He also recalled that it had caused uproar amongst the clans at the time. Twins were rare in Prythian and a symbol of fertility, power and good luck. As was usual for twins, they weren’t of high status, but had been plucked from the mud and inserted into elevated society from birth—reared for the two princelings for when they came of age.

The tattoo Cassian had spied on Maya’s wrist was a part of Illyrian culture. When twins were born, they were marked with the tattoo of a sun and moon: separate yet integral to one another, forever entwined. They were said to be a gift from the Gods: fertile and harbouring power beyond reckoning which would be passed down to their offspring. Their wings were cut at birth. Twins were too precious to risk flying away when they could produce offspring with hearty Killing Power.

“Her twin died in the fire with Halias. I believe she was called Lyanne.”

It was Frawley who had spoken and Cassian looked at her with a frown on his face. “With her twin’s husband?”

“It was quite the scandal at the time,” Frawley said in low tones. “Her twin sister was married to Marsh but sleeping with his brother. I’m surprised you have not heard of it before.”

“Marsh loved his first wife.” It was Nesta who had spoken, and Cassian instinctively tightened his arm around her. “I felt his pain when he looked at Maya. It ran deep, as if he could not bare to look at her.”

That would explain why Marsh had not taken Maya as his wife, Cassian thought. To be wed to a replica but know that they were not the Fae you loved… The heartache would be too much, especially if the female you had given your heart to had bedded his brother, and whilst Marsh was cold beyond reckoning, it was interesting to know there was a side of him that was warm-blooded.

“I bet there’s a reason she’s not in the widows camp,” Lorrian said quietly, and Cassian’s eyes snapped to his friends so quickly his neck cricked.

His neck burned but he was too busy processing what Lorrian was saying. To think that Marsh had kept his wife’s sister in his residence so she could warm his bed when he willed it… the hairs on his arm stood up and something inside of him recoiled, even as he knew that it was incredibly likely. It would explain how well-kept Maya was. How, like Lorrian had said, she had not been turned out into the widows camp and into the cold.

“How long have you known that?” Cassian demanded quietly.

Beside him, Nesta had turned rigid. He didn’t have to look at her to know her skin had turned pale. And despite their constricted bond he felt an unfathomable icy rage force its way down the tether of twisted rope to meet his own.

He did not look at Nesta as he sent an emotion to soothe. A heat to lick against their anger until it had thawed.

He dragged his thumb across her rib cage in a slow, deliberate motion. He felt her let out a long, measure breath.

“I don’t know it,” Lorrian corrected Cassian smoothly, as if he were discussing the weather, not wanting to raise his voice so others could hear. His eyes burned when they connected wth Cassian’s. “But it would be interesting to find out, wouldn’t it?”

By the time Cassian and Lorrian headed into the Rite meeting, Cassian wanted to leave Ironcrest so fiercely that he had almost refused to leave Nesta behind. As usual, as the lords consumed more wine throughout the luncheon, they seemed to overcome their disdain at approaching rival clans. It result in the pursuit of a kind of hostile, verbal swordplay that reaffirmed why no-one had been permitted to enter the residence with a weapon.

Not, Cassian thought grimly, that it would stop any of them from magicking one with their siphons anyway.

Icor Condor—Lorrian’s brother—had been the first to stride over to them and interrupt their conversation to publicly sneer at his sibling

Despite being the eldest of the two, Lorrian had lost his right as princeling heir when he had left the camp for Frawley’s heart. When their late father had died, his brother Icor had inherited the status of war-lord, much to his pleasure and Lorrian’s disgust.

Icor was Lorrian’s sole sibling, and at a first glance, the two of them were almost identical in looks. It was only on closer inspection that one noticed the unrelenting hardness to Icor’s dark features—something that was due to the constant state of stark displeasure that hung across his expression. He was also slightly broader in build, the twisted cords of his muscles pushing against what Cassian suspected was too-small armour, and whilst Icor’s eyes were technically hazel, the majority of the time they were a light, unnerving jade.

To the untrained eye, it was Icor who appeared more formidable. But outcast or no outcast, Lorrian was the finest cut of Forktail princeling, made for the skies in a way his brother was not. And whilst Icor was undeniably an exceptional warrior—his primary skill was with the spear—Forktail’s ancestry boasted formidable warriors from the skies, and Icor had been loath to forget it.

To his credit, Lorrian had appeared completely unaffected as his brother barrelled insult after insult his way, but when Frawley’s ice eye had glowed brightly with threat, Icor had taken sudden leave, claiming that he couldn’t stand to breathe the air of someone who was not only Incomplete but a defector of his race, as well.

Nesta had dug her fingers so hard into Cassian’s armour at that point that Cassian had thought her fire might beat Frawley’s own magic to throwing itself across the room and hitting Icor square in the chest.

Now, Lorrian and Cassian followed the rest of the war-lords as they made their way to the war-room, which was situated in the right-hand wing of the residence.

They had barely had time to say goodbye as Frawley and Nesta were ushered into the parlour with the war-lords and Rite representatives partners. Frawley’s eyes had gleamed as she and Nesta floated from the room, and Cassian knew that the witch hoped to wheedle out some information from the females whilst their husbands weren’t by their sides.

The issue of oppressing others, Frawley had said the evening prior, when they were hashing out their plans, was that oppressors had a tendency to become over-confident and over-trusting in their tyranny; so sure of their unwavering power over others that their mouths became loose. And if the females did prefer to keep quiet due to fear of being found out by their husbands, Nesta would sense it.

It was, Frawley had insisted, a win-win situation, and Cassian would have been inclined to agree, if the Illyrians didn't harbour such a fear of outsiders, especially those that were not only powerful but looked terrifying, as well.

Lorrian, Cassian had noticed, hadn’t pointed that out to his wife. Nor had he reminded her that her independently moving eyes had a tendency to put Fae on edge rather than at ease.

Which, Cassian thought with a near huff of laughter, probably made Nesta the most approachable out of the two of them.

That knowledge grew inside of his mind until he wanted to howl, and he clamped his lips tightly together to stop a sound from escaping.

He supposed it was a good sign that he could still find humour in things, especially when he had a looming sense of dread that everything was about to go southward.

“She will be fine,” Lorrian told Cassian, frowning at his friend as they walked through the dimly lit corridors which were darkened all the more by heavy tapestries. “Nesta is more than capable of looking after herself, and she has Frawley with her. They are probably safest with the females, anyway.”

Cassian didn’t want to explain the reason for his expression, so he just nodded. It wasn’t as if he liked being separated from Nesta. The more time they spent together, the more he dreaded their time apart. It was a constant sort of worry that gnawed at his insides and made him feel as if someone had ripped a limb clean off his body. And since Nesta had nearly died healing Mas, Cassian had started to experience incandescent, sporadic flashes of panic that Nesta was dying and he did not know. That she was suffering and he was not there to ease it, even as reason told him that anything that urgent would fly down their shared tether.

“That’s what it was like with Frawley,” Lorrian added to Cassian, his hazel eyes discerning as they followed the hulking, retreating backs of the other war-lords.

“What it was like?” Cassian repeated, feigning confusion. Suddenly, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to partake in the discussion.

But Lorrian only dipped his chin. “It’s when I knew we would be chroí . After we were joined, it felt like the greatest relief, as if a spool of yarn had been pulled tight between us but now it could just… exist. Relax a little.”

Cassian thought of the constricted tether between them and the way his light was desperate to push against the inner walls, until that rope had widened into a tunnel clear of brambles.

Not once had Cassian spoken with Lorrian or Frawley about Nesta. About how he was in so deep that sometimes he thought that if she were ever to reject him again he wouldn't be able to climb out of the pit he had fallen into. Both of his friends were sharp enough to have dissected his feelings, he wasn’t naive enough to pretend otherwise. He had never introduced them to a female before, had never allowed them to get to know someone so intimately that was clearly not a friend.

Not that Cassian knew what he and Nesta were. Wouldn’t dare to ask for fear of ruining it all.

And his friends had not pressed him for more information or, to his knowledge, asked Nesta about the two of them. The latter of which he was immensely thankful for.

Yet, that didn’t mean that Cassian hadn’t felt Frawley’s ice blue eye swivel carefully between the two of them, or Lorrian’s knowing smile as Nesta joined in with his friend to torment him.

In fact, the only thing Frawley had commented on was her fondness for Nesta.

“I hope we get to keep her, Cassian,” the witch had said sternly when he had arrived at the cottage earlier that week, as if, ironically, the decision was up to him. Then, without commenting on how premature his arrival was, Frawley had waved impatiently to the back door, “She’s training with Lorrian.”

Having been thoroughly dismissed, Cassian had headed into the backyard to find the paddock to the left of the barn had been cleared of its usual horses. Instead, Nesta stood at a shooting line that Cassian suspected had been made by Lorrian dragging the toe of his boot through the mud. At the far end of the ring —20 metres or so away—stood an archery target.

His friend had not turned as Cassian drew up beside him. Instead, they had both watched in silence as Nesta pulled back the bow string with a strength that no other Illyrian female possessed before releasing it.

Together, they watched an arrow fly across the clearing and hit clean into the outer yellow ring of the target. Lorrian had still not looked at Cassian, had only kept his arms crossed firmly over his chest as they watched Nesta stride over to the target on her long legs to collect her arrows.

“You’ve met your match,” was all Lorrian eventually said, shaking his head in disbelief, before he went over to correct Nesta on her stance.

Now, Cassian glanced sideways at his friend. Lorrian’s eyes were full of a shared understanding that Cassian could not bear. So he looked away, and before he could stop the words, he admitted tightly—quietly, “It’s going to be the death of me.”

Ahead of them, the heavy double doors of the war-room came looming into view, and with it, another layer of dread. Cassian flared his siphons, breaking the sound bubble Lorrian had encased them in, and stalked into the room.

Marsh was already seated at the long, wooden table. He had left the drawing room well before the rest of them, no doubt to hide the extent of his illness, but Cassian could almost taste death on the war-lord.

The others could, too. Those sharp, beady eyes never missed a thing. And if they had not gleaned it for themselves, the way in which Kallon seated himself beside his father was enough of an indication of who was truly intending to run the meeting.

There was a growing expectancy in the air. The deafening kind that was almost like a ringing silence, even as chairs scraped against flagstones and war-lords muttered to their Rite representatives, who took a seat beside them.

It did not escape Cassian that one of Ragar’s friends was seated beside Devlon. That beside the other war-lords, Cassian recognised lordlings who had been reported to have met with Kallon all those weeks ago.

That sense of apprehension intensified, but Cassian settled his wings over his chair and waited for the first war-lord to break the silence. Even as his mind worked at a hundred miles per minute, trying to piece together what he was clearly not seeing.

Unsurprisingly, it was Icor who finally broke the silence. “A representative can’t take place in the Rite,” Lorrian’s brother sneered from where he sat opposite Cassian and Lorrian, his lip already curled as he narrowed his eyes at Kallon.

The princeling did not rise to the barb. He only settled back into his chair with an unrivalled arrogance and smoothness that made Cassian want to smack him in the face. It was an action that almost reminded Cassian of Rhys when he was playing wicked, but there was something impossibly cold and threatening beneath the movement which set Kallon apart from his brother. It made Cassian want to sit up straighter, but he did not allow himself to do it. To let others know that Kallon held his attention so fiercely.

“I am aware of that, Icor,” Kallon replied, once he had taken his time getting comfortable. “I do not intend to partake in the Rite this year.”

Not a murmur ran down the table, but the air became tight and pregnant again. Expectant. It was almost unheard of for a princeling not to partake in the Rite past a certain age, and Kallon was near twenty-five.

It meant that he would not earn siphons of his own for another year.

It was an unusual move, especially given that Kallon was trying to stake authority amongst the Illyrians. Siphons were the quickest way to earn respect amongst Cassian’s race. It was why they begrudgingly accepted Cassian.

Kallon’s birth as a princeling meant that he was born with a natural amount of Killing Power that superseded low-born foot soldiers. Azriel’s information had detailed that Kallon usually trained with three siphons in the sparring ring. That although he was green, he was better than most with the Illyrian saber. That since he had been training with the sword he claimed to be Enalius’s, he had taken to using a fourth siphon to contain the Killing Power that seemed to still be growing within him.

That, in itself, was a worry. Cassian’s Killing Power had reached its maturity at the age of twenty-five, training with seven borrowed siphons in the sparring ring until he finally earned his jewels after the Blood Rite.

The Siphon Master had not hesitated in giving Cassian siphons the colour of blood.

For the blood glory you will earn in battle, ratnik, the Siphon Master had said at the Rite ceremony, as he placed red siphons atop Cassian’s hands, on his knee caps, his upper arms… And across his heart, a flawless star ruby. Even now, Cassian remembered how the jewel had beat a deep, dark red that took on a blueish hue, as if it were kicking into life for the first time. Cassian remembered the gratification that had flickered over the Siphon Master’s face as the ruby did not shatter but became an additional heart, pulsing gently in the spring light.

“Shall we begin, Father?”

This time, every war-lord bristled as Kallon spoke. Somehow, the air became even thicker. A princeling did not order a prince. Yet, Marsh only raked his shrewd eyes over every single male in challenge, before he waved a trembling hand at his son, commanding him to start.

Kallon stood with a confidence that superseded his age; as if he were a messenger sent by the Gods and had the intention of delivering a fucking sermon. Cassian’s stomach dropped leaden to his toes at the same time that his blood began to boil beneath his skin.

Beside him, Lorrian stiffened, as if he too knew that they had been foiled, even though neither of them had yet learnt why.

“Many of you are probably wondering why my father and I have called this meeting early,” Kallon started. The princeling stood tall, his feet slightly apart, his shoulders squared, his wings held up high… A warrior’s stance. But there was something infuriatingly relaxed about his posture, as if commanding an audience was all completely natural to him.

“Tradition states that the first Rite counsel is not held until the new year, but given that Ironcrest is hosting the ceremony this year, we thought it made sense to arrange for this meeting to coincide with the Solstice luncheon.”

There was a pause in which Kallon looked around the room. His voice was too cordial for an Illyrian, especially a princeling, and if it were not for that unfathomable chill to his voice—a carved out emptiness—Cassian would have been willing to bet that he would have been sneered back into his seat. And of course, there was arrogance, too. An entitlement that came with those born into wealth.

“Since Enalius gifted our ancestors with a drop of his power and we were able to mine siphons, the Blood Rite has become the most important tradition in our culture,” Kallon continued. “Illyrians produce the best warriors Prythian has ever seen. Our bloody history shows that whilst we are perceived by High Fae and many others of our kind to be the lowest of faeries, we are triumphant in battle and far supersede not only the Night Courts forces, but the forces in every other court. We Illyrians are relied upon for our gifts, but we are treated as disposable when our talents are not required. The recent kerit attacks on our camps has highlighted what we have known for centuries; that the Night Court does not care about our race to provide sufficient protection.”

Another cessation of speech for what Cassian expected was not for Kallon to catch his breath, but to allow his words to settle. All of the war-lords and representatives remained eerily silent, and whilst they had originally sat forward as if they were waiting to jump in and protest, they were now stock still, drawn in by the words that they all already believed to be true.

“We suffered many losses in the war against Hybern,” Kallon pushed on. “Forces across all of our camps are drained and depleted. Whilst the Rite is an important part of who we are, the loss of more Illyrian lives would be the greatest sin. Enalius gifted all of our families with a drop of his blood so we could ensure that the Illyrian lines did not die out. That we could continue to perform our duty to honour and protect. My father and I have called you here today to consider a hiatus on the Blood Rite. To focus instead on strengthening our troops rather than inflicting more bloodshed upon our kind.”

Silence fell again as Kallon stopped talking. As, with a sweeping look around the table, the princeling sat back down and leant back into his chair with a superior expression on his face. No doubt a sense of achievement that he had captivated the hostile war-lords for enough time to say exactly what he intended. To plant the seeds in the minds of those who already did not look favourably towards their High Lord’s rule.

Lord Alcathoe was the first to snap. The war-lord from Swallow’s Ridge leant forward, his expression dark and openly aggressive. “The Blood Rite has been performed every year without fail. What claim do you have to suggest a hiatus?”

“We have not ceased the Rite in the aftermath of war before,” Lord Hamel added. Hamel’s voice was monotone and bored, but Cassian had learnt from his many visits to Craggs Peak that the war-lord was as vicious as any of the other males around the table—worse than some, actually. One misplaced word and the war-lord was known to explode.

Cassian thought it only a matter of time until everyone at the table witnessed it.

“I don’t think a young whelp who has not fought in a war or earned his own siphons should be leading a discussion in which he has no place.”

“Watch your mouth, Hamel,” Marsh snarled in warning. “My son is smarter than all of your offspring, both the bastards and your true heirs. If you have any true heirs, that is.”

Hamel’s answering snarl had him rising out of his seat. The war-lord’s face had turned purple with rage and his teeth were bared. Spittle flew across the wooden surface of the strategy table. “If you weren’t already on your death bed, Marsh, I’d—”

“It is true that I do not yet own my own siphons and that I have not yet fought in a war,” Kallon interrupted, standing again with a flare of his wings. The sound snapped around the room, like a nine-tail whip cracking against skin. “But I see what our race has suffered at the hands of the Night Court. We are treated as expendable and as bodies rather than being valued for who we are and what we stand for. To put a hiatus on the Blood Rite will allow us to become stronger. It will allow our warriors to become proficient in the art of battle and for our numbers to rise. We cannot afford to lose any more warriors.”

The blood in Hamel’s face was slowly draining from purple to red. Still angry, but not as if he was going to self-combust. The war-lord had sunk back down into his seat, and it was clear that an internal conflict was going on in his mind; as he decided what held greater importance, his hatred of Anguis Marsh and his son, or his opinions on Night Court affairs.

And the issue was that whilst there were statements of Kallon’s that were wrong—namely that the war was not an Illyrian cause and that Rhys saw the Illyrians as disposable— the princeling was also right. The Illyrians could not afford to lose any more warrior blood in the upcoming Rite. It was an issue Cassian had deliberated over repeatedly. One he had brought up with Rhys and Azriel. A problem they had decided not to interfere with for fear that it would set the Illyrians against them even further.

But what Kallon was doing… it was clever. It played on the Illyrians sensibilities and the ever-growing notion that they should not be ruled by Rhys’s hand. And if Kallon could get the war-lords to agree… he would be seen as a martyr, whilst the Night Court would be viewed as complacent in further deaths of the Illyrian race.

It would gain him support amongst the most influential of the Illyrians. It would strengthen the dissent. And if the war-lords made it clear that they were openly opposing Rhys’s rule, then many more Illyrians would follow their example.

As if Kallon knew he was triumphant, he pinned Cassian with a stare. “Do you not agree, General? We have suffered the death of an entire aerial legion, plus many of our strongest warriors against Hybern. Surely you cannot argue that we should go ahead with the Blood Rite rather than strengthen our forces before we allow ourselves to suffer any more losses?”

Cassian and Lorrian were rabbits caught in a hunters snare and Kallon knew it.

“The Night Court agrees that we cannot afford to lose any more males in the Blood Rite,” Cassian replied, his voice so deep and commanding that he did not recognise his true self—the part of him that was not General but Fae. “Should another war come to Illyria, we need to ensure we can protect our kind and those throughout our court. A reprieve from the Blood Rite is the best way to prevent further bloodshed.”

A growl sounded from Icor. It was an abrupt, guttural sound that sounded too much like a temper tantrum. He had no doubt been expecting Cassian to side with him. “You have not answered the question, princeling. What right do you have to suggest a hiatus?”

Across his cruel face, Icor looked briefly triumphant. A petulant child believing he’d won a game rather than contemplating the life or death of his best warriors. “So tell me, what right do we have to interfere with the will of our warrior Gods?”

“My son has been chosen by the Gods. By Enalius himself.” Marsh’s grating voice was deep and commanding. Forceful.

A dismissive snort. “I do not think—” Icor started, but Marsh dismissed Forktail’s war-lord entirely, and looked towards his son. His heir.

“Show them,” Marsh ordered Kallon with a wave of his hand.

The princeling turned his head in a way that was more automaton than Fae. He looked towards the doors, where a male steward wearing Ironcrest colours stepped out of the shadows.

In that moment, Cassian wished Nesta was in the room with them, if only to sense the emotions of every single war-lord as their lofty expressions turned carefully blank. As their eyes fell to the sword laying atop a velvet-crushed cushion the colour of mustard.

Enalius’s sword. Or at least, a sword with ancient magical properties.

Cassian could feel the hum of it in his blood—his magic—turning over inside of him, pressing against his skin as if it was trying to leap from his body and join with the steel. His siphons pulsed, his star ruby beating like a star-blessed heart. And from the look on every other males face, they could sense the magic of it, too.

The sword looked exactly as it did in the drawing printed in Heroicis. The sword Cassian had committed to memory as a youngling, as he stared at that inked drawing—the only thing he could understand as an illiterate bastard trying to make sense of a book full of words. The blade was arced, the steel etched with the Illyrian marks of glory that each of the war-lords wore on their own skin. The curved bone pommel gleamed as if it had been recently polished, even though the handle looked well-worn and cracked.

Just as Frawley had reported, the oval jewel was missing from where it should sit on the wide guard.

Cassian knew without Frawley having to confirm it—with a certainty that was completely devoid of doubt—that Kallon was presenting them with Enalius’s sword.

And worse, that the princeling would gain the begrudging respect of the males around this table for it.

Tags: @arin1030 @superspiritfestival @sayosdreams @perseusannabeth @mylittlebigplanet @biggestwingspan-az @bellsqueen @ekaterinakostrova @bookstantrash @prophecyerised @rainbowcheetah512 @awesomelena555 @wannawriteyouabook @iammissstark @lovelynesta @melphss @nestalytical @darkshadowqueensrule @laylaameer01 @a-trifling-matter @grouchycritic7794 @thalia-2-rose @champanheandluxxury @swankii-art-teacher @princessconsuela02 @lavendergoomsltd @little-diyosa @princessofmerchants-reads @jeakat @sjm-things @imwritingthesewords @nestable @inejbrekkxr @silvernesta @inyourmindeye @amelie775 @iwastoowildinthe70s @helen-the-weirdo @pizzaneverdisappoints

#embersandlightfic #embers and light #nessianfic #nessian #nesta x cassian #acotarfanfiction #acotar #acofas #acosf #cassianfic #cassian #nestaarcheron #nestafic

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cupofteaguk · 4 years

Text

i’ve seen the way you look at me when you think i don’t notice

FROM THE PETALS COLLECTION

[pairing] :: jungkook x fem!reader

[genre] :: percy jackson au + angst

[word count] :: 7.3k

[note] :: attempted a son of hades!jungkook storyline. vaguely inspired by nico di angelo’s character arc if you’ve read the books (because coughs well this use to be an unpublished nico di angelo fanfic don’t at me LMAO), but you don’t need to remember the character slash be an expert in the story to read this fic! Also this is a friends to lovers fic hidden behind my attempt to write a story of grief. pls enjoy!

When Jungkook is fifteen years old, he arrives at Camp Half Blood with pennies in his pockets, one Kim Taehyung on his back, and monsters on his tail. There are all kinds of creatures that have been following him for weeks—some with wings, some with clubs, but all with the intent of murder in their eyes as they chase Jungkook up the hill. Taehyung had warned him about this happening, that starting this journey would attract lots of unwanted attention from lots of dangerous half-breed monsters. Something to do with Jungkook’s scent, whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean.

In the beginning, Jungkook hadn’t known what to expect, hadn’t known what Taehyung meant by strange creatures and a camp just for him. Even right now, as he is running as quickly as his legs can take him with his lungs feeling like it’s about to burst—he doesn’t really understand.

What he does understand is that he has been alone his entire life. With a childhood filled with no father and a frightful mother, Jungkook has grown up spending time by himself in the company of his own thoughts and emotions. With such a strange (and lacking) family dynamic, it exposed him to lots of bullying and snide comments from peers, most commonly seen during school or walks home. The first half of Jungkook’s childhood is defined by this—by the teasing for being different, for failing classes, for being awkward and shy, for never knowing his place. The second half of Jungkook’s childhood is filled with sleeping on the streets, with stealing food at convenience stores, on how he’s been truly alone since he was thirteen.

That is, until Kim Taehyung corners him at the midnight strike of his fifteenth birthday—which leads the two of them to this current moment.

Jungkook doesn’t understand much right now. All he knows is that he needs to run.

As Jungkook approaches the top of the hill, he sees a group of people surrounding an archway. They’re all bundled up in gears of shields and swords, and each of them turn towards the boys as the monster thudding grows louder and Jungkook’s calls become more clear.

Half of the group near the archway break off, immediately making their way towards Jungkook and Taehyung. There are a few questions thrown here and there, before the main objective is just to make sure the boys get to safety. Taehyung’s weight gets distributed between Jungkook and another person, and together the bigger group makes their way across the hill. They cross a tall pine tree that Jungkook hardly notices, because he’s completely out of breath, wounded across his entire body, with legs that feel like jello.

Taehyung’s weight shifts entirely to the other person as Jungkook trips and falls to his knees. Quickly, Jungkook whirls around so his butt and his arms are on the ground. With his eyes directed towards the hill, his heart crawls up his throat as he sees the monsters making their way up towards him. His body moves before his mind does, his arms moving him closer towards the archway.

Someone settles themselves right behind him. “Woah, hey.” Your voice is soft, your hand between his shoulders is comforting. “You’re okay, you’re safe now.”

“B-But!” Jungkook stammers, pointing shakily towards the creatures now growing closer and closer to everyone. “Those monsters! They’re coming!”

As soon as he says that, the monsters stop in their path, right next to the pine tree from earlier. Their collection of beady eyes glare angrily down at Jungkook, their screams are hollow cries that press painfully against his ears. This conveyance of frustration continues on for a few seconds, before one by one the monsters turn around and make their way back down the mountain.

Jungkook’s breathing is frantic, along with his heart rate, as he watches the creatures disappear below the dip. “W-What the hell…?”

You angle your head toward in order for Jungkook to look at you—you wear an expression of softness, of understanding, and Jungkook momentarily sees stars.

That, however, could have also been from the excess oxygen in him, and the fact that one of those creatures had landed a swipe to his head.

You gesture to the pine tree. “You see that tree? That’s Thalia Grace’s tree—a long time ago, she and some of her friends were trying to get here, and Thalia sacrificed herself to ensure her friends could be safe. She was a daughter of Zeus, so he turned her into a tree that would protect the camp. Monsters just like those can’t get in anymore.”

Jungkook feels the adrenaline fading, along with his ability to follow conversations. Daughter of Zeus? Like, Zeus from those Greek mythologies? The camp? Had this been the place Taehyung told him about?

It’s all too much to keep up with. Jungkook faints before he can ask his question, in which the last thing he sees is your eyes, concerned and twinkling. He passes the thudding in his heart off as pure and utter exhaustion.

Jungkook wakes up on top of a white hospital bed a few hours later, head swimming and Taehyung situated at the foot. He offers a cup of something called ambrosia that immediately clears the headache. “Woah, what the fuck?” He asks, holding the cup away from him and staring at it with wide eyes. He looks over at Taehyung. “What is this? My headache went away as soon as I drank this. Also, it tastes like banana milk. Is this a dream?” Without waiting for an answer, Jungkook leans back and takes in his surroundings. He looks to be an infirmary, beds with white sheets along the walls and light shining in through the windows. There’s a few other people lingering about, hovering over occupied beds.

“Jungkook.” Taehyung’s soft voice pulls his attention back. “We’re in Camp Half Blood. You brought us here.” Taehyung’s smile is sad, but confident. “You brought me back, even though it was my mission to bring you here. Thanks.”

Jungkook stares. “So… you weren’t lying about the camp. T-This is all real?”

It is then that Taehyung explains everything to Jungkook. Explains that the Greek gods Jungkook learned about in class are real, and that sometimes they come down from Mount Olympus to mingle with mortals—which is where their demigod children come from. Demigods are part god, and therefore have enhanced physical ability as well as some level of control or skill over the realm of their godly parent. Taehyung goes over this information as slowly and as calmly as possible, but Jungkook still has trouble processing the information. In a way, it makes sense that Jungkook would be in this position. He’s always known he was different, always felt like he could never fully belong in the mortal world he spent so long occupying. He just could never label his feelings with a concrete answer.

Until now, that is.

Jungkook decides to ask Taehyung one more question. “Why couldn’t you explain any of this to me on the way over?”

Taehyung seems to be choosing his next words carefully. “As we kept going, you were attracting more monsters. That’s something that normally doesn’t happen, unless the demigod the creatures are tracking is one that’s insanely powerful. Like, a demigod that’s born from the Big Three—Zeus, Poseidon, or Hades. I read accounts of what happened to us happening to other kids that were born from any one of those three gods. I figured that the less you knew, the better. A demigod who doesn’t know they’re a demigod is a much less serious threat—your scent isn’t as strong as it could be if you know about who you are.”

Jungkook ponders this. “So my dad could be Zeus, Poseidon, or Hades?” He’s definitely heard of those gods. The ruler of all gods, and his two brothers.

Taehyung presses his lips together, leaning forward in his seat so his forearms rest on his knees. “Maybe,” He says. “It’s pretty rare, though, so I don’t want to give you an answer only for it to not be true. Only time will tell.” He must see the lost, the confused, the anxious look on Jungkook’s face, because Taehyung takes a seat on the edge of the hospital bed. “Hey, JK, cheer up.” The usage of his nickname makes the corner of Jungkook’s lips turn up. “While we wait for your dad to claim you, you can stay with me in my father’s cabin. My dad is Hermes. He’s a patron to travelers, so all campers who come here are welcomed until they’re claimed by their godly parents.”

Jungkook can only manage a nod at this. He still has many questions, still does not fully understand. With what Taehyung is telling him, Jungkook is not even sure he will belong here, or if he will be ostracized once again for being different amongst the different.

But he trusts Taehyung—so he’ll follow Taehyung.

Jungkook is at Camp Half Blood for a week before Taehyung is called for another assignment. It’s due to a prophecy given by the Oracle who lives on the campgrounds—the figure grants quests to campers to undergo a series of dangerous adventures in order to accomplish something for the long term benefit of demigods, the human race, the Greek gods themselves, anything of the sort.

In the case of Taehyung, he is chosen by fellow camper Kim Namjoon to join him in and travel west and retrieve stolen items from a museum collection. It seems like an easy quest. At least, that’s what Jungkook is told.

Kim Namjoon is a son of Athena, someone whom Jungkook met a day into his arrival at Camp Half Blood—friendly and smart and answers Jungkook’s questions about mythology with ease. It had been good when Jungkook first met the former, because he had many questions, some of which couldn’t be answered by Taehyung. Namjoon is someone that Jungkook immediately grows a fondness and admiration for—only leaving him that much more confident that the quest will go smoothly.

“You guys will be okay… right?” Jungkook asks Namjoon, as the latter is shouldering his backpack. He’s not the only person seeing Namjoon and Taehyung off on their quest, but Jungkook had been one of the first people to show up. After all, when your only friend is leaving on an adventure, it tends to bring in the worry and the anxiety. “And you’ll watch Taehyung, won’t you?”

“Of course I will,” Namjoon reassures, tight smile across his lips but he distracts Jungkook with a hand on his shoulder. “Taehyung and I have been doing quests together for a few years. We got each other’s back.”

Taehyung slides in next to Namjoon, glancing over at Jungkook with all the care in the world in his eyes. “Hey JK, just promise me you’ll do your best to be comfortable here, okay? Keep trying out those different skills we were working on, okay? Your dad will claim you, I’m sure of it.”

Jungkook looks down at his fingers, wringing the hands together. “I-I’ll try my best.”

Namjoon and Taehyung exchange glances, partaking in a silent language exchange, before Taehyung looks back at Jungkook. “I know someone who can help.”

Taehyung leaves Namjoon with his backpack before stepping away from the group, making his way down the hill back towards the camp grounds. Jungkook follows shortly behind. It’s still early in the morning, most campers are inside their cabins sleeping away the mist, but there’s a small group of campers near the archery grounds. There’s some laughter as a new person steps in to ready the bow and arrow. Jungkook watches as this new archer aims as the target, pulls back the bow, and—!

“Y/N!” Taehyung calls.

The person at the archery station flinches, sending the arrow a few centimeters away from the center of the target. You whirl around, and Jungkook’s stomach drops because it’s you—the person who helped him when he more or less crashed into Camp Half Blood.

You gape, still holding the bow in your arms as your eyes narrow into a glare as you continue to stare straight at Taehyung. “Kim Taehyung! Where are your manners!” You call out. “Aren’t you supposed to be on a quest now?”

Taehyung slings an arm around Jungkook’s shoulder. “I need to borrow you for a second, it’s important.”

You seem to be saying something to one of your friends, because you hand the bow to a friend before walking over to the two boys.

As soon as you reach your destination, you look at Jungkook and give him a bright-eyed smile of recognition—one that brings him back to the first time he met you, when he saw stars. “Hey!” You exclaim. “I remember you, you came in with Taehyung last week. You looked like you had been through a lot—are you feeling better now?”

“I-uh…” Jungkook tries to form words.

“He had some ambrosia, he’s fine,” Taehyung cuts in kindly, sending Jungkook a look he can’t decipher. Taehyung goes on a momentarily rant, explaining that Jungkook would just need someone to help him further adjust to life at camp, as well as help him figure out who his godly parent was.

Taehyung says a lot of words, but Jungkook isn’t entirely paying attention. His gaze is fixed on you, taking in your easy smile and bright eyes. He can feel his eyes widen and the flush crawl up his cheeks the longer he lets himself look at you—yet, he doesn’t understand what it means. He’s never seen someone like you before, in his years of school and in his years living on the streets.

“So, I just need you to help him out. Hopefully his dad will claim him before we get back.”

“That’s something to look forward to,” You reply, sounding genuinely excited for that. You turn your full attention to Jungkook this time and smile. “Hi, I’m Y/N. Nice to finally meet you!”

He takes your hand. Fifteen-years-old, and he wears his emotions in his eyes. “I’m Jungkook.”

Jungkook is at Camp Half Blood for three weeks when he starts getting nightmares.

Not only that, but it’s the same kind of nightmare—something horribly realistic and chaotic and messy but so painful that Jungkook finds himself waking up with tears dusting itself in his eyes.

It always starts off the same: Namjoon and Taehyung on their quest. They appear to be in a room of antiques, each boy looking cautiously at the collection around them, with their backs pressed against each other. There is a low hum in his dream, where the voices emit a low frequency and sound like static—like he’s hearing the conversations underwater. Suddenly, a burst comes from above, a shatter of something in the room, a clatter of hollow bangs and clashes, and a yell. His dream always turns blurry after the fight starts, but it always ends the same—Namjoon pulling Taehyung away from a fight. And the latter is badly wounded.

And Jungkook always wakes up at the sight of Taehyung. And it’s the same question that swirls around in his mind, over and over again. Did Taehyung die on the quest?

At first, it’s easy for Jungkook to write off the dream as a dream—nothing more, nothing less. Perhaps his subconscious playing tricks on him, playing around with his fears and turning it into videos to play in his brain. But with each passing night, a voice starts to ring in his mind.

My dear boy. It’s a deep voice, husky and low and full of pitiful sadness, like it can sense the pain that Jungkook is trying to internalize. Don’t you understand? Kim Namjoon let your best friend die.

There’s something about the voice that is familiar, like he’s heard it before.

The voice plays in Jungkook’s mind over and over again, like a record, and it shakes him to the core. The potential of what the voice is and what the voice could mean frightens him, and it shows.

It shows in when Jungkook just outright misses the target with his bow and arrow in the present day. The pair of you are out on the field today, and you’re furrowing your eyebrows together.

“Are you alright?”

Jungkook stares at his arrow, somewhere flung off to the side, before his gaze shifts to you. You’re always so sturdy, so concerned, so worried for him. Besides Taehyung, who else cares so much for his safety and wellbeing—?

He stops, lowering the bow. He wears a serious expression. “Can I tell you a secret?” He whispers.

You furrow your eyebrows at his tone. “Of course. Is something bothering you? I know your father hasn’t claimed you yet, but the gods can be really busy around this time…”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Not that.” He steals himself for speaking the words into reality. “I had a dream that Taehyung died, even though Namjoon promised me nothing would happen to him.” He doesn’t miss the way you flinch at his accusation.

You don’t reply to him at first. You stare at him, eyes conflicted. Jungkook stares back, briefly wondering whether you’ve had the experience of knowing death. He doesn’t voice the question, choosing instead to maintain steady eye contact with your nervous expression.

“Perhaps it was just a dream, Jungkook,” You say carefully. “Namjoon always keeps his promises. He and Taehyung have been working together on quests for years. And Namjoon is the smartest person I’ve ever met. If they ran into a situation Namjoon thought they wouldn’t be able to handle, he wouldn’t even think to risk the lives of the people he’s with. He won’t let you down.” You’re smiling tightly, clearly trying to keep the tension light but Jungkook suddenly finds that his heart is not in the mood.

He wants to believe you. He wants to believe in Namjoon. But he knows what his dreams are. And that voice. These are things he cannot ignore no matter how hard he tries.

But the thing is, his dreams are real—Kim Namjoon does not keep his promise. Jungkook can see this across his face the moment Namjoon returns to camp, alone.

“Not only did they know we were coming,” Namjoon explains quietly to the camp counselors, late in the night, at a meeting spot reserved for higher ups. “They had taken over the museum a few weeks before we showed up. It was an ambush. I… I couldn’t save Taehyung.”

No.

“No!” Jungkook cries out, standing up and making his position known—loitering in the background of the meeting.

Namjoon meets his gaze from across the gap that separates them. “Jungkook?”

Jungkook’s head is spinning, his breath coming out in gasps, as he backs up slowly away from the growing crowd of camp counselors. “Y-You promised me!” He accuses loudly, pointing at Namjoon. “You promised nothing would happen to Taehyung! You lied to me!”

“Jungkook, I’m sorry.” Namjoon steps out from amongst the group of counselors, a hand out in front of him as if approaching a frightened animal. “We were overwhelmed. If I could take it back and save him, I would—!”

“Shut up!” Jungkook cries louder, running his hands through his hair. He should have known, should have known that weight in his gut was a warning and not a feeling. The tears in his eyes make it blurry to see anything to understand anything—because Taehyung is dead, along with his kindness and compassion and the safety he brought. “I hate you, I hate all of you!”

Suddenly, there’s a rumble in the ground, a shake in the Earth so intense that a hushed silence falls over the crowd. At once, the ground splits open and a roar of fire explodes up from the pit, threatening to drag in anyone who gets closer. There are screams from the campers, from the counselors, but Jungkook doesn’t care. He’s so angry, so hurt, so lost. He doesn’t hear any of it.

Until he hears your voice. “Jungkook!” You scream across the gap.

Jungkook stills upon hearing you, lowering his arms and opening his eyes. Blinking away tears, he feels his heart rate slow back down to a manageable pace. The split in the ground closes before he looks up. He sees the camp counselors up ahead, equal looks of fear and horror across their eyes.

He turns just enough to see you. You, with your wide eyes, looking confused and upset by what he has just done. And Jungkook feels nothing but disappointment. He has never done anything like this before, and he doesn’t know what it means.

So he runs away. He runs away from Namjoon and this god forsaken camp that he knows will remind him of Taehyung.

He runs away from the whispers from campers, a representation to serve that Jungkook will never truly belong here.

He runs away from you, the only other person he would think to trust from now on. He can’t handle any of this anymore.

Two weeks after Jungkook runs away from Camp Half Blood, and a shadow of a figure appears to him in the midst of the evening air. It’s a ghost with a dark twisted smile, who calls himself Min Yoongi—a king in a past life, who now resides in the Underworld as a judge for all souls.

He tells Jungkook that Jungkook is a son of Hades—which explains why he knew about Taehyung’s death, why he split the ground open all those weeks ago. There’s something borderline dangerous about Yoongi’s smile.

Every fiber and nerve in Jungkook’s body is begging him not to trust this ghost. But, of course, Jungkook doesn’t listen. He stopped listening to things a long time ago.

Besides, Yoongi soon makes offers that Jungkook cannot escape from. A way to bring Taehyung back, a way to strike revenge upon Kim Namjoon, a way—!

Jungkook blinks the thoughts away. He had dozed off again, something he’s been doing a lot lately.

“You should sleep,” Yoongi advises, his voice more of a whisper than anything else. There’s a touch of eerie to him, in his paper white skin and gray eyes.

Even though Jungkook doesn’t desire sleep, far from it, he settles with listening to the ghost anyways. So he curls up on a makeshift pillow crafted from his beaten down (stolen) leather jacket, and closes his eyes.

But instead of the previous nights, where he dreams about death and destruction, dreams up different ways Taehyung could have survived, dreams up Namjoon not caring about Taehyung’s death—he dreams of you.

Dreams about you are such a rarity now, but they always make him feel warm. Content. Almost satisfied.

In the dream, the pair of you are situated underneath a big tree at the edge of the forest. You’re in the middle of teaching him about Mythomagic—a card game he had immediately developed an interest for—and he realizes he’s dreaming about a memory this time. When he steals a look at you, he sees sunlight curling around your form, lighting up your hair and your eyes. He hears your laughter and sees the crinkle in your eyes. He can feel your happiness and the innocence in the air around you. He remembers the peacefulness, the calming nature of you.

He misses it—he misses you.

A cold chill running down his spine startles Jungkook awake as he springs into a sitting position. The fire before him has long since been put out, and Min Yoongi is floating in front of him. The latter wears a sharp look. “You’re dreaming about her again, aren’t you?”

Jungkook sighs. Good things in his life could only last for so long. He runs a hand through his hair and turns to gather his jacket into his arms. “I thought I asked you to stop peeking into my mind.”

“You were smiling,” Yoongi observes quietly.

“That’s none of your business,” Jungkook snaps.

“It must have been a good dream. I couldn’t see the contents of the dream, just the subject.”

“Stay out of my head!” Jungkook hisses, standing up and sliding his arms into the jacket.

“You care deeply about her.”

“What do I have to say to get you to stop talking about her?” Jungkook retorts hotly, feeling his temper rise. It had been a good dream. The best one he’s had all week.

Yoongi looks at him passively. “Just answer one of my questions,” He settles calmly.

Jungkook grunts. “Fine. What is it?”

“Why exactly do you care so much about her? You hardly know her.”

Jungkook slides his backpack over his shoulder. He ignores the touch of passive aggressiveness in Yoongi’s tone. “She was the only one at camp who went out of their way to make me feel like they actually gave a shit.”

“She cares more about Namjoon than you,” Yoongi interjects bluntly. “She and Namjoon have been friends for longer. She only talked to you because of Namjoon, after all. And don’t you hate him?”

“Shut up.”

“You worry she doesn’t care for you the way you do. Haven’t you wondered why she hasn’t tried looking for you?”

“Shut up.”

“She was only nice to you because Namjoon asked her to be nice to you.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Jungkook explodes, turning towards Yoongi with his arm out in a striking motion. His arm cuts clean through the ghost, and he watches as the pieces wisp away into the air. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Yoongi will be back soon, probably to reprimand him, but mostly to carry on as if this hadn’t happened—to continue asking questions and continue trying to piss Jungkook off. It doesn’t matter. Jungkook could never bring Yoongi any harm. The latter is a ghost, after all.

There’s still a lot he doesn’t understand.

Jungkook calls off his deal with Yoongi shortly after the You Incident—in which a series of dreams about you sent Yoongi on an accusatory streak that sent him back to the Underworld where he rightfully belongs. It’s good because he doesn’t want a ghost meddling in his personal business, and his personal feelings.

It’s bad, however, because Jungkook no longer has an evil ghost by his side that offers up revenge.

This leaves him to do the next best thing—try and summon Taehyung.

As a son of Hades, his powers do include communicating with ghosts like Yoongi and cracking holes into the ground, but it also involves the ability to summon deceased souls. All that is required is a pit, some food, and a cantation in Ancient Greek. It’s supposed to be simple, and in a way it is.

Except when the soul he’s trying to summon doesn’t want to be found, which is exactly how it has gone with Taehyung. He’s tried to get Taehyung’s attention for weeks now, to no luck. And he’s tried everything.

Jungkook scowls to himself as he takes in the local convenience store to buy the various items he’ll need to attempt another summoning. Animal blood is one of the best tools for this type of power, but animal blood doesn’t exactly like up on shelves in aisles of grocery stores—so Jungkook has settled with fast food meals, chips, or anything cheap he can get his hands on.

He glares at the lineup of sodas in front of his gaze, trying to focus but he finds his mind wandering against through his memories, picking the ones that are most guaranteed to make him feel like shit.

His mind settles on a line Yoongi said to him countless times regarding you: She was only nice to you because Namjoon asked her to be nice to you.

His hands shake in his pockets, determined not to believe it, but finding himself pool with doubt nonetheless.

“Jungkook.”

He jumps out of his skin at the familiar voice he’s spent the past many months thinking about, as the sensation rings through his body. He experiences brief flashes of emotions he hasn’t undergone in awhile: peace, warmth, hope. He turns on his heel and can’t help the way his eyes widen at the sight of you.

The months that have passed since his disappearance really does wonders to your face. You look older. You look wary, but well prepared. Most of all, your eyes are still that bright light he remembers more often than he cares to admit. But you also look sad, like the sight of Jungkook is worse than you expected.

“Jungkook…” You say again, quieter this time.

You saying his name again brings him back to reality, brings him back to where he is and why he’s here. He doesn’t need you. Like Yoongi said, you’re friends with Namjoon—and Namjoon is the reason why Taehyung is dead. His voice sounds hollow. “What are you doing here?”

“I should be asking you the same question.”

His scowl deepens as he settles for a Mountain Dew on the rack. “That’s none of your business.” He catches the hurt that flickers in your eyes, but he turns towards the cashier before he can feel sorry for you.

You trail after him. “Please don’t shut me out,” You plead gently. You stay behind Jungkook as he pays for his food. “I came here looking for you.”

“Awfully convenient—but I don’t think you should be wasting your time,” Jungkook grumbles, bounding out of the shop and stopping along the sidewalk. “Why don’t you go back to Namjoon and keep being his best friend and just leave me alone?”

A sort of realization seems to settle in your eyes, as if you’ve just confirmed something. “I’m not leaving,” You say firmly after a moment. “I’m here by myself, Jungkook. No campers, no Namjoon, it’s just me. I know you’re mad at Namjoon, and you have every right to be upset. I know why you cracked a hole in the ground. I understand all that now. But I really think you should stop blaming Namjoon and hurting yourself. Namjoon didn’t mean to let Taehyung die—!”

Jungkook whirls around, his eyes a twin set of fire. “Don’t say his name,” He snaps roughly, but falls silent when you don’t even flinch.

How could he raise his voice at the only person who has gone out of their way to ensure his safety?

He turns away. He doesn’t apologize, and you don’t ask him to.

The pair of you don’t say anything for a long moment—Jungkook just makes his way down the sidewalk and you follow along.

He stops after a moment. He turns himself just enough so you can see his profile. “Fine,” He says, trying to ignore the flutter in his chest when you flash him an appreciative smile. “I’ll let you tag along. But only because I feel bad for snapping at you. I’ve just…” He sighs. “Been going through a lot.”

You step forward to stand by his side. “We can talk about anything you want to, Jungkook. I’m still your friend.”

He swallows thickly at your offer, hoping that you don’t notice. If you do, you remain silent. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to.”

Two days after you join Jungkook’s travels, you seem to decide he is calm enough for a sensitive question. But you’re sneaky about it. You wait until the night, when both of you are curling around a fire—you in your sleeping bag, and Jungkook with his signature leather jacket makeshift pillow underneath his head. “Why are you so afraid to talk about Taehyung’s death?”

He flinches at the mention of Taehyung’s name, knowing that snapping and causing a scene would do nothing to stop you from asking the question over and over again. You had given him a few days, but something about your tone tonight tells him that you won’t take no for an answer.

Jungkook turns his head to look at you. Your eyes are flickering against the fire. “I’ll answer your question if you answer one of mine.”

You shrug a shoulder. “Sure.”

He sighs, momentarily stumped. “I’m afraid that if I admit it, or let other people admit it in front of me, it’s true and there’s nothing I can do to bring him back.”

“I don’t think Taehyung would want you to bring him back, Jungkook. He saved Namjoon that day; he sacrificed himself for a reason—!”

“Okay, my turn,” Jungkook interrupts, refusing to hear any of it. “Why are you here? Really?”

You are quiet for a second. “I was sent on a quest to come find you,” You reply after a moment. “The oracle told me about a prophecy where you were in danger. It said you had made a deal with Min Yoongi, said you were considering a soul for a soul trade to get Taehyung back. I was scared for you, Jungkook.” You sit up in your sleeping bag, leaning across the space between the two of you. “My turn. Why don’t you want to believe that Taehyung sacrificed himself to save Namjoon?”

“Because why would he do that?” Jungkook retorts back. “Why would he leave behind everything he cared about? Why would he leave me—?” The words choke in the back of his throat as his heart rams painfully against his chest, the underlying reason for his bitterness surfacing up again. He thought he had smashed his grief down far enough where it would never have to see sunlight again. “It’s nothing. I’m not playing this game anymore.”

You are quiet, watching as Jungkook curls into himself and turns his back to you. “When are you going to start letting me in?” You whisper. “I didn’t accept that quest for no reason, Jungkook, I came because I care about you. I want to help you.”

I’ve already let you in, far more than I wanted to, Jungkook thinks to himself instead, wrapping his arms tighter around himself.

“I know that Taehyung would have never wanted to leave you. He cared about you a lot, and saw you as the little brother he never had. You guys deserved more time. You deserved more time to have the family you never got to have. You wanna know the last thing Taehyung said to me, after introducing us to each other all that time ago? He said that you guys only knew each other for a short time, but you were the strongest person Taehyung had known. I know how much Taehyung wanted to be there for you. But he also had other responsibilities.” Your fingers twitch as if you want to reach over and grab onto Jungkook. “Namjoon had been the leader of the quest, he was the main priority. Taehyung had to make the call. He would never have wanted you to take the guilt for a decision he made on his own.”

Jungkook hesitates, before rolling onto his back. “Why does Namjoon deserve my forgiveness?”

Finally, he spares a glance at you. You’re still looking at him, gaze sharp over the fire. It distracts Jungkook momentarily, as his mind thinks about how different you are from fire. Fire can be harsh, blunt, unforgiving, and relentless. Like him.

But you are like the sun—bright, warm, longing. You refuse to give up on him.

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” You whisper. “Because everyone deserves a second chance.”

He stares at you. He doesn’t know what longing dances behind his eyes, but you seem to know, because you avert your gaze and grumble something about going to sleep.

He watches you turn to your side, and he wonders.

Jungkook has tried to summon Taehyung a grand total of ten times in the weeks prior to his run in with you. Each time is met with failure, because it seems like Taehyung does not want to be summoned which is disappointing and disheartening. To be honest, it makes Jungkook less and less enthusiastic to keep attempting something he cannot guarantee.

But as you stand next to him over an empty pit the pair of you have spent the last thirty minutes digging up, you take your hand in his. You smile at him, nodding. “It’ll work this time.”

So Jungkook pours in the Mountain Dew and dumps out the bag of chips he’s acquired into the hole. As he repeats the same cantation he’s said for the past ten times, the food starts bubbling as spirits from the Underworld fight to get a taste of the offering.

“Show me Taehyung!” Jungkook calls out, although he sounds worried and unsure.

At once, a spirit with a bright light, brighter than the others around it, shines through. It slides to the front to drink from the food at the bottom of the pit. The figure morphs and forms into Kim Taehyung.

Despite everything, despite the long hours that Jungkook has committed to summoning Taehyung, the sight of his friend does not fill him with joy. It fills his eyes with tears.

You notice, you always do. You squeeze his hand, but you also let go of him. “I’ll leave you two.”

So Taehyung talks. He talks and talks, about his quest, about his sacrifice, about Namjoon, about forgiveness.

This is something Jungkook has wanted for weeks. Yet, the longer Taehyung talks, the deeper he can feel the rifts of frustration.

Frustration at Namjoon, for whom everyone is telling Jungkook to forgive.

Frustration at Taehyung, for leaving him drowning in the sorrows of his own nightmares. For leaving him, even when he wasn’t ready to be left.

Frustration at you, for always caring about him, even when he’s sure he doesn’t even care about himself anymore.

When Jungkook releases Taehyung back to the Underworld, he feels like a hollow shell. He simply stands there, in front of the pit that brought forth his best friend. His mind is whirling with questions, with a curiosity.

You approach him slowly. “Jungkook…”

“You should go back,” He mutters.

You actually look shocked at this now. “What?”

He turns on his heel to address you properly. “Go back to camp.” He doesn’t mean to sound so harsh, but the words come out like a snap. He tries to reprimand the situation when your face falls just a fraction. “Go back to camp,” He tries again, a little softer this time. He keeps his gaze on you, even when you look up to stare at him. “It’ll be okay. I just need a little bit of time.”

At this, you nod slowly. You try for a smile. “Come back home, okay?”

He thinks he knows what you mean, but you disappear before he can ask you.

He returns to Camp Half Blood after a few days, with his leather jacket and black iron sword. The campers that guard the border part for him like the Red Sea—with the exception of one camper. He’s an older camper, who even in the dark shines brighter than the moon overhead. It’s a son of Apollo quality. It belongs to Jung Hoseok, a camper Jungkook met when he first arrived at camp. Hoseok is like sunshine—he’s always bright and cheerful with a positive disposition.

Today, despite still having that glint in his eyes, the boy wears a much more solemn expression. Almost as if he’s seen everything that Jungkook has gone through. Or, at the very least, has heard about it. “Hey Jungkook…” Hoseok greets. He doesn’t leave much room for conversation, because he gestures past the archway entrance, down the hill, towards the Big House—the main meeting place for campers, the central point of Camp Half Blood. “She’s waiting for you.”

He doesn’t need a list of camp names to know who Hoseok is talking about. Jungkook just mumbles his thanks, trying not to draw too much attention to the flush against his cheeks as he follows the pathway down into camp. It’s late, so the grounds are devoid of people, making it easier for Jungkook to step onto the porch of the Big House.

You’re on the porch, pacing back and forth with your thumb in between your teeth and you look nervous. You’re mumbling something underneath your breath.

But your ears are just as good as your eyes, because as soon as Jungkook steps on the wood, you’re whirling around to face him. “Jungkook!” You exclaim, approaching him with tentative steps. “Y-You came back.”

He levels you with a look, feeling a bashfulness overcome him. “You asked me to,” He says. There’s a slight pause. “I told you I needed time to think, and I have. You were right. Everyone deserves a second chance. It wasn’t fair of me to go after Namjoon the way I did.”

You nod, giving him a small smile. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

Jungkook continues to stare at you, feeling a fondness overcoming him. “Thanks,” He finally settles with. “For, you know, finding me. For not giving up on me.” He looks down, scratching the back of his neck. “I should probably go find Namjoon and apologize.”

You wave away his concern. “Namjoon is asleep.” You angle your head towards the oceanside that surrounds the camp. “Want to take a walk with me?”

So you lead him through the camp, past the cabins of campers, past the archery set, past all that, to finally the beach located along the outskirts of the camp. It’s home to many boat races, surfing adventures, and firework displays. Currently, it’s devoid of activity. Right now there is merely a wooden pier that stretches out into the ocean, one that you and Jungkook walk down before you settle down at the edge.

You pat the spot next to you, and Jungkook sits down. Since you don’t say anything, he allows himself to stare out at the horizon, and the movement of the ocean. When you still don’t say anything, Jungkook dares himself to look at you. The moonlight is cascading across your features. You look like home. You feel like home.

You look at him suddenly, and knit your eyebrows. “Do I have something on my face?”

“Oh, uh, no…” He trails off, forcing himself to look away from you. Should he tell you? Not tell you, but… “Hey Y/N,” Jungkook speaks before he can think otherwise.

You look at him. “Yes?”

Jungkook straightens his back a little. “I-I think I should tell you… I didn’t come back just for Namjoon. Actually, I came back to tell you that I, uh, well, I missed you—I mean, hanging out with you—I wanted to be a better person because of you—I mean, not just because of you, but—!”

You start to smile at that, before you do something unexpected. You lean over and kiss his cheek.

He feels like his body has just been shocked, the sensation dancing up and down his spine. “W-What was that for?” He’s trying to sound confused, but his nerves immediately start getting the best of him.

Your smile is still present, but it’s a kind smile that touches your eyes and assures him of his choice to return. “I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice. You still wear your emotions in your eyes. That’s one that hasn’t changed over the past year.”

He scoffs, but his face feels hot and he’s sure the effect he’s trying to go for is lost anyways.

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