#he pushes his way through the crowd with a singular stare and a wicked smile on his face

[tsuchinokoroyale]

Happy new years… let’s stay hydrated together ✨

[lvmosity]

my only valentine | draco malfoy [1]

pairing: draco malfoy x slytherin!reader

genre: fluff bc it’s a valentines day special ooh la la

summary: you and draco have been enemies since the start of hogwarts despite being in the same houses, but everyone knows you two secretly like each other. valentines day has arrived and you hope to receive a love confession from one boy only; your arch-enemy nevertheless. however, a minor incident occurs caused by draco and hurts you deeply. will your valentines day be rescued?

word count: 2.5k

warnings: my bad writing + minor swearing

a/n: aahh i know it’s late !!! this was meant to be posted on valentines day but i got caught up in a heavy load of schoolwork so i didn’t have the time to post it until a few days later oof apologies! 

read part two → here 

“They’re at it again.”

“What, again?”

“I don’t know why you’re surprised, it’s practically their daily routine.”

You know exactly who it is they’re talking about, those two can never cross paths without hurling an insult at each other. On a good day, those insults can turn from one-worded to a full-blown essay and the audience likes to tune in and rate it with their reactions.

However, that only lasted for a week as it started happening every second, minute, and hour of the day. At first, everyone found it amusing but by the second week, it was starting to irritate them as it clashed with their studies since the bickering would be enough to stop a class in session. Adding onto to some of the student’s annoyance, they were also the core reason for the many points being deducted from the Slytherin house. It was immoral for students of the same house to hate each other but these two didn’t seem to care.

The only time where their classmates would finally be able to enjoy peace was when they had Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall. They saw the two as their saviours knowing the two wouldn’t dare cause a scene in their lessons; they’d be asking for a deathwish if they tried.

But it continued and continued to the point their classmates grew tired and got used to the commotion whenever it occurred, usually letting it escalate and unbothered to stop it. They’d leave it to the prefects or one of the professors to arrive and tell them off. After all, being in the sixth year of Hogwarts, they have little to no time to sit around and listen to silly arguments.

The reason why you knew all of it? Why you were one of the main stars of course, as well as the infamous pureblood blondie himself; Draco Malfoy.

Ah yes, you two are what the group of students were gossiping about. You and Draco were always the centre of attention and it wasn’t a surprise to you when you hear your name slip out of someone’s mouth, Draco’s name following a few seconds after.

You found yourself in the usual scene. You and Draco stood in front in each other, your arms crossed whilst his hands were shoved in his pockets, both staring down at each other as students from all years (mostly second years and a few from your year) circled around. Draco’s goons stood behind him attempting to act as intimidating but it always failed due to how funny it looked. Your two friends stood behind you as well looking slightly frustrated that it was happening again for the fourth time today.

You’d already be on your way to Potions Class, if not for Malfoy sniggering once you three walked past him. You instantly stopped in your tracks and turned around to respond, “Think something’s funny Malfoy?” Your reaction was what Draco was wanted to see since the moment you turned back, he had already made his way over to you.

“Yes actually, I find it hilarious that you’re still choosing to attend Potions when all you ever do is make mistakes,” Draco smirked.

You scoff and roll your eyes. “If you really want to know about mistakes, you should ask your parents.”

The older students drew in a sharp intake of breath once they heard your joke. Some tried to hold back their laughs whilst the younger students glanced at each other in a confused matter; they couldn’t quite catch onto the meaning. 

"You insolent little–”

Before Draco could finish his insult, your friends dragged you by the arms and pushed their way through the crowd. Once you were out of sight, one of your friends drops her grip on your arm and groaned.

“Jeez Y/N! You really��couldn’t wait to have another moment with him, could you?” Your friend sighed in annoyance. You knot your eyebrows in confusion, but the blush appearing across your face was telling otherwise.

“If you’re implying that I only fight back for an opportunity to talk to him then you must be mistaken.”

Your other friend giggled “Please, everyone knows you have a thing for Malfoy,” she nudged you playfully. “and I’m pretty sure the feeling is mutual.” She winked and giggled once more.

The blush on your face grew even redder. “Sh-shut it!” you huff and take off, leaving your friends behind so they couldn’t see how flustered you were.

It was almost like every love story out there; a girl finds herself crushing on the bad boy when she knows she shouldn’t, and you definitely shouldn’t have a crush on Draco. You kept that as your top priority to survive through school, you swore to yourself to never fall for that wicked guy with his pompous attitude that always tempted you to punch him. Yet, one day, your heart decided to beat furiously at the touch of Draco’s hands when he tried to grab his quill from you as you stole it for a bit of fun. 

You didn’t know why your heart decided it was time for a bit of change in your life, specifically your love life. Maybe it was to do with Draco maturing body-wise or how you noticed that his looks started to appear attractive to you and you couldn’t help but observe the way he talks, the way he laughs, the way he gives you that smirk. Yeah, you were really crushing on him hard.

From that moment onwards, you found yourself more willing to respond to his insults and backtalk, sometimes slightly saying it in a flirty tone but Draco would be too heated up in the argument to notice. 

Your classmates gradually noticed how you’d react to Draco’s comments, you were awfully bad at hiding your small blushes as he passes by you in the hallways. Or in classes, after your argument was put on hold, you would give a nasty look at Draco before turning away to smile to yourself. 

No one could ignore your frequent stares at the boy and they found that to be quite shocking. However, it didn’t shock them as much when they started noticing that Draco started staring back.

●●●

Valentines Day arrived the next morning and everyone could be seen chatting joyfully, groups of girls could be seen standing by the side of the hallways shrieking at the sight of one of their friends receiving flowers from their admirer whilst a few couples were holding hands and walked down, exchanging sweet words as they smiled and laughed.

In the past, you didn’t care much for the event due to the fact you barely receive any chocolates, cards or flowers. You suppose this was because most guys and girls felt intimidated by you and saw you as someone who liked causing trouble and had a cheeky personality with the backtalk and all. Not that you cared.

In fact, up until now, you were glad you didn’t receive any love confessions from anyone as you were waiting for a specific boy to do it. For a while now you secretly hoped that there was a sign that Draco, too, liked you back because why else would Draco continue picking fights with another Slytherin? He could just really hate you, but you didn’t believe that nonsense.

Your first class of the day came to be Transfiguration. You and your friends arrived at the classroom a few minutes before the late bell, you three somehow managed to push through the many lovesick couples as well as holding your breath in with the overwhelming love potion aroma. Once you thought you were in the clear, you could see a small crowd had blocked the entrance to the room but Professor McGonagall had cleared them out by the time you got to the door.

“What’s happening here?” You asked Professor McGonagall.

Many heads perked up at the sound of your voice to which you noticed that most of your classmates had surrounded your desk. You raised an eyebrow in confusion but you were starting to feel nervous as you felt the many stares of your classmates.

“Oh Y/N! You’ve got something special waiting for you on your desk!” Professor McGonagall cooed, she pointed over and your classmates had moved out of the way for you to see what it was.

Your heart skipped a beat when you realised it was a medium-sized, pink box of chocolates shaped like a heart with a red ribbon wrapped around. Next to it was a bouquet of a singular red rose with a card placed on top. Everyone was grinning and giggling out of excitement.

“You’re such a lucky girl Y/N!” A girl cried out.

“Never thought I’d be jealous of you, I wish I was gifted one!” Another girl sniffled, wiping a fake tear away.

“Ugh, girls these days.” One of the guys in your class said before you hear a girly squeal, “You pinched me!” 

“Shut it Ronald.” You heard a girl say as a small mutter of ‘sorry’ followed after.

The situation was so embarrassing. You walked towards the gift and you could feel your face getting warmer. You couldn’t bring yourself to meet the eyes of your classmates because you felt so flustered that you could literally melt any second now. Your classmates had stepped a few metres away from your desk as they watch you examine the gifts. To think that someone had gifted you chocolates and flowers was something beyond your imagination, you didn’t think anyone would like you and that got you giddy. Your friends stood by your side and looked at you with anticipation, 

“Well? What are you waiting for? Aren’t you gonna read who it’s from?”

Everyone nods in agreement and eagerly waits for you to do so. They couldn’t help but gossip among themselves trying to guess who it was.

“I bet it’s that guy in Ravenclaw, I saw him staring at Y/N once during dinner.”

“Nah, It’s obviously Rowan. Heard him talk about her in the hallways a few days ago.”

“Or it could be Harry! They’ve talked a few times out of class.”

Gulping, you nervously grab the card and slowly flip it over. Your classmates, your friends and even Professor McGonagall were all leaning over to see who your admirer was. You haven’t a clue as to who gifted you these and you didn’t know how to react once you discover who it is.

“From your only valentine.”

Everyone groaned out of disappointment, some frowning while others whined out an “aww, that sucks.” They make their way back to their seats, leaving you to stand there alone with a blank face. Professor McGonagall gives you a small but sweet smile, rubbing your back as she, too, walks back to her desk. 

You felt disappointed, upset and frustrated. You had secretly wished for a name to be written so you could thank whoever it was after class, whether it’d be someone in your class or someone from another year or house. As thankful as you are to them, you secretly hoped it to be a specific name, you hoped to see Draco’s name.

A loud scoff filled the room as everyone’s heads whip towards the sound. You also turn to see who the perpetrator was and it was none other than Draco himself. You forgot that he was in the room, in fact, you didn’t notice him already seated in his chair when you entered the room. You were too distracted by the commotion to know that Draco was witnessing the whole scene. 

Draco leans back and shoves his hands in the pockets of his school pants. “I can’t believe someone thinks you’re special enough to be their valentines, they must be mental!” He laughs, his two goons joining in. 

You rolled your eyes. “Jealous Malfoy?”

“Ha! Me, jealous? Please, I received my very own valentines gift this morning.”

“You know your mother doesn’t count.”

Several of your classmates snicker at your joke. Draco scowls at you and crosses his arms, now sitting upright.

“I could get a shit ton of girls to go out with me if I wanted to.”

“Language Mr Malfoy!” Professor McGonagall scolds him.

“Any girl who’d want to go out with you would be called desperate.”

Everyone in the room was listening intently now, indulging themselves in the argument anticipating each comeback. Professor McGonagall couldn’t even find the right time to butt in and cut the argument off as you both kept bickering back and forth. 

“Whatever, someone must’ve slipped the poor git a love potion,” Draco said. “There’s no way he would find you good looking without one.”

A collection of gasps and low ‘ooh’s filled the room. You stood there speechless, Draco just called you ugly. Those words stung you and you could feel a slight twinge of pain in your heart.

“W-what?” You choked out.

“Did you really think you could get guys with a face like yours? You’re so clueless it hurts Y/L/N.”

At this moment, no one dared to talk let alone make a slight noise. The tension was so strong you could barely cut it with a sharp knife. Everyone was shocked whilst most of the girls felt offended at his unnecessary comment, shooting daggers at Draco. Your eyes began to water, clouding your vision as you force your mouth shut to hold back a sob but before you knew it, tears start to roll furiously down your cheek.

You make a run towards the door and rush off to god-knows-where but anywhere away from that room, from him. Professor McGonagall tries calling out your name and rushes after you but stopped at the door as she realised she couldn’t see you anymore. She, as well as most of your classmates, shoot a disappointed yet disgusted look at Draco who sits there in silence. Even his two goons fell silent. 

“Well done Malfoy, you’re one step closer to earning ‘dickhead of the century’ gold badge,” Ron said sarcastically. 

Draco shoots back a nasty look. “Want me to sell it to you when I win it, Weasley? Since it’s worth more than your family’s house; you could be doing your parents a favour and they’d finally see something useful in you.”

Ron shoots up with his fists balled up out of anger, ready to lunge at him but Hermione and Harry pull him back down. Hermione whispers to him in an attempt to calm him down, ‘It’s not worth it Ron.”

Draco didn’t flinch. Instead, he continues sitting there in silence, leaning over his desk as he bows his head. Draco couldn’t believe he made you cry, he immediately felt guilty. Surely witnessing your enemy finally cry because of you was an achievement, especially since it was Draco’s goal from the start. But why didn’t it make him happy? Why did it pain him instead? He wished he never said those words; it wasn’t even true and he knows that.

You were the opposite of what he said but he feared at the thought of you knowing his true feelings about you.

i had to cut it here because i feared it would become too long so i posted the other as a part two. also don’t hesitate to send in requests! + let me know what you think about this c:

[crescent-quill-writings]

Swaddled in a Midnight Sun

Fandom: Hamilton - Miranda

Words: 2785

Relationship: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens/ Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette

Additional Tags: Canon Era, Alternate Universe: Angels, Angel!Lafeyette, fluff, snowstorms, near-death experiences, horses

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The wicked winds blowing in from the north had frozen the earth, frost-bitten the air, and brought the world to a standstill. Those who could took shelter within their homes around the hearth, waiting for the seasonal celebrations to bring relief from the permeating dark and cold of winter. The world was peaceful in its icy, permeating silence, almost beautiful, too.

Still, there was a war that needed to be fought and won.

There was an elephant among the ice and snow of the Patriot’s camp. The conversations were hushed, threatened by the violent weather whipping around them and tension so thick it could be sliced through with a bayonet.

“Do you think the war will be over in time for Christmas?”

“Doubt it. If we’re lucky the redcoats will get us before we freeze to death.”

“I just hope we don’t run out of rum before then…”

“Ay, I’ll drink to that.”

John Laurens had had enough of the morbid, idle chatter the soldiers distracted themselves with. The war could be won before Christmas, and the British wouldn’t even know what hit them. Even though the chance to turn the tides in their favour was just within reach, apparently no one had the balls to brave the elements and bring a message to Washington. It was only a little blizzard, after all. What’s the worst it could do?

With a sharp whistle that pierced through even the howling northern winds, John’s trusted steed came trotting over to him in an instant. He mounted the spotted chestnut in one swift motion, and barely a moment later they were galloping off into the dark December night.

“If you want something done right, you do it yourself.”

 *~*~*~*~*~*

 Though he was gripping the reins with all his might, John could no longer feel his fingers. His cheeks were stinging and reddened from the frost-bitten whips of wind lashing at his skin as he rode onwards. Even the forest path offered little relief from the relentless blizzard, and his steed’s heavy breaths were like a smoking gun in the sub-zero air.

“Just a little longer, girl, we’re halfway there.”

In truth, John didn’t actually know how far they had gone. With the frost on that was threatening to freeze his eyes shut and the heavy cloak of snow and darkness he could barely see ten feet ahead of him.

Despite the deep-set chill in his bones, he fought off another shiver and forced himself to focus on the way forwards. His efforts didn’t work as well as the soldier wished. Though it was just for a moment, his vision faded and his senses dulled.

In that little sliver of time, John missed the splintering of frost-bitten wood as a great fir succumbed to the season’s savagery.

John swore with a shout as his steed reared up with a shrill cry of a whinny, “Sunny- Steady, girl!”

It was no use. There was no calming the mare’s frayed nerves against the shock of adrenaline the near-death experience caused. John barely had enough in him to stay awake, nevertheless, fight for control of his horse. His frozen fingers released the reins and with a swift kick from his steed he was sent crashing into the snow.

Winded from the impact with the frozen ground, John gasped for a breath of icy air as he pushed himself onto his knees. He could only just make out the sound of the mare’s swift hooves clambering through the snow before she too was lost to the darkness.

He never realized that the cold could burn worse than the brightest of blazes. His military coat was useless against the winds that rocked him to his very core and sapped whatever was left of his strength.

“Gotta stay awake,” John whispered through chattering teeth as another shiver wracked his body, “There’s a war we need to win, people we can’t disappoint.”

But John was fighting a losing battle.

The frost of numbness that had taken away feeling from his extremities begun to permeate his whole body and mind. He tried to fight against it, and though his will to survive was strong, the winter was stronger.

For a moment, John no longer felt so cold, only tired. So tired that he could sleep forever should the opportunity ever present itself. His body ached for something to rest upon, somewhere to lay his head, and through bleary eyes, the snow beneath him looked to be a good bed for until the storm passed.

He let himself relax, slowly unravelling as he began to fall into his deathbed. He expected to feel the soft diamonds of the blizzard’s wake to meet with cheek. He expected to slip into an eternal sleep as heavy frost froze his eyes shut. That moment never came.

 *~*~*~*~*~*

 John wasn’t sure when the frost finally released his thoughts, but he didn’t care either. In his moment of lucidity, he focused on the secure, welcoming embrace of another. He shifted closer to them with an unintelligible sound, squeezing his eyes shut as he pressed himself into their chest for every bit of warmth they had.

He whined when he felt them shift, crowding more into their space to keep them from slipping away. He felt their chest vibrate with a quiet laugh before a pair of soft lips graced his forehead.

John finally peered up at the one holding him so dearly, only to gasp at who he saw, “Gil!”

“You gave me a good scare there, mon etoile,” Lafayette spoke, and though his tone was sweet he couldn’t hide the crystalline tears pricking the corners of his eyes. “Sil tu plait, for both our sakes, never do something like that again.”

John couldn’t help but laugh at the request, though it seemed his smile brought more relief to the Frenchman than he could’ve imagined. He laced their fingers together and cuddled closer, enjoying the company of his foreign companion.

“I am just happy I managed to find you in time,” Lafayette continued with a small sigh, brushing a few of John’s curls from his face. “You do not always make my job easy.”

“Gil, what are you on about?” He frowned, unable to make sense of the Frenchman’s words.

For a moment John wondered if Lafayette was real or just a trick of his mind to turn his final moments into a pleasant dream. This realization terrified him and sent his rational thought spiralling down a rabbit hole of paranoid panic. He didn’t want to go like this, he didn’t want to be another casualty to the warring weather. He wanted to survive. He needed to survive.

“Deep breaths, mon etoile, what is the matter?”

“This… This can’t be real. You can’t really be here.” I’m dying!

John pushed himself out of Lafayette’s grasp, stumbling back into the snow before managing to get himself on his feet again. He teetered under the force of the whipping winds, a deep chill seeping into his core as he tried to make sense of his reality. It was dark, it was cold, he was lost and he was alone. I should be alone…

Unable to make sense of his situation both John’s body and mind began to crash. He lost his balance, falling into the snow as he once again gave in to a wintery grave. In an instant, he was in Lafayette’s arms, held so tight he felt like the singular reason for the Frenchman to be on this earth.

“John, you mustn’t move so suddenly!” He admonishes, though his tone was undercut with sorrow as he began to cry, “If I could not bring you home safe… Mon Dieu, I would not know what to do with myself.”

There was a distinct pang of guilt in John’s chest as he stared dumbly up at the Frenchman, watching him cry. He swallowed thickly, reaching up with a shivering hand to cup Lafayette’s cheek in an attempt to calm his grief.

“Hey, it’s okay, I’m okay,” He whispered, making Lafayette focus back on him and not on what could have been, “I just don’t really know what’s going on right now…”

A silent question hung in the air, one John was sure would break both his and Lafayette’s heart if he ever put to words. Thankfully, the Frenchman seemed to understand as he gave a solemn nod and a sigh before he next spoke.

“Be not afraid, mon etoile, you are well and alive,” He began to explain, placing his larger palm over John’s hand as he pressed a kiss to his tender, frozen skin, “And I am real, though I have not been entirely honest with you…”

“Whatever it is, Gil, you can tell me,” John reassured, though he could not stop the shine of fear in his eyes. It was hard not to worry about what Lafayette would say next when he still couldn’t make sense of what had already happened.

“I am not supposed to do this, but…” The Frenchman hesitated only to shake his head and find his resolve again. “It is best if I showed you.”

John opened his mouth in a question, but Lafayette only hushed him with a gentle kiss before covering his eyes with his hand.

Though he could not see, John felt the shift in the world around him. It was silent, the howling winds put to an end by only Lafayette’s will. He felt a single snowflake land on the tip of his nose, tickling him with a moment of cold as others fell in slow-motion onto his golden-brown curls.

Then, Lafayette pulled his hand away to allow John to take in the newly calmed environment. It reminded them both of how beautiful a winter’s night could be, but John was still left with so many questions. He looked to the Frenchman for answers, only to be stunned into silence from what he saw.

Shining like a midnight sun with beautiful hues of blue and speckles of gold were a pair of angelic wings resting behind Lafayette in relaxed arches. They pulled close to his body as the Frenchman gave a sheepish smile and a tilt of his head in response to John’s reaction.

“Surprise?”

“Of all things, Gil… I never thought you were this,” John trailed off as he reached to trace his fingers along the edge of one of the Frenchman’s wings, quietly admiring their delicate strength. “I guess it makes sense, though, I always thought you were too perfect to be human.”

Lafayette couldn’t help the warm, bubbling laugh that escaped him as he brought John to his feet, leaving a wing draped over his shoulders like a cloak. “It makes me happy to see you are still well enough to flirt. Come, let’s get you home.”

John could only laugh along with the Frenchman as he took his arm like a lady accepting a dance at the Winter’s Ball. He wasn’t sure if they could make it back to camp by the morning, but with Lafayette by his side, John didn’t care.

Before they could begin their hike the galloping of swift hooves sounded in the distance, sending both the angel and the soldier on high alert.

They expected to see British calvary darting through the trees ready to take them out, but instead, they were familiar, always welcomed face.

“Sunny!” John beamed at the spotted chestnut’s appearance, “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes… Didn’t think I’d get to see you again so soon.”

But the mare wasn’t the only one who approached. Following close behind was another horse, a familiar-looking bay with an even more familiar rider.

Alexander barely allowed his steed to properly halt before he leapt off its back, rushing towards John and Lafayette for a desperate embrace. “You scared me half to death! Don’t you ever going riding out into a blizzard like that again, I don’t care if your life depends on it!”

“It’s good to see you too, Lex,” John replied with a weak laugh as he ruffled Alexander’s hair.

Still, as Alexander continued to ramble on John couldn’t help his mind from wandering back to Lafayette. He looked up at the angel in question, absentmindedly running his fingers through his feather down as he leaned more into the warmth of his wings.

There were so many things John wanted to ask, about Lafayette, about what this meant, about everything. He couldn’t find the words to begin, never mind the fact that the adrenaline-filled need to survived had dissolved into the calm night, leaving a sluggish fatigue in its place.

“Hush, mon petit lion… Save your sweet nothings for the morning,” Lafayette suggested with a soft smile, placing a hand on the small of each soldier’s back. “Let us get back to camp before sunrise, oui? I believe a good night’s sleep would do us all some good.”

Despite the huff that Alexander gave in response, he still couldn’t help but grin at the Frenchman’s words. He gave John and Lafayette one more squeeze before slipping out of their embrace to mount his steed once more.

Lafayette kept John under his wing as he led him over to the spotted chestnut. He let John mount first, though as the Frenchman settled behind him it was obvious he’d be taking the reins. John didn’t entirely mind, he knew that Lafayette was a good rider and frankly he was grateful to be able to spend more time swaddled in angelic feather down.

Alexander led the way home, keeping the pace at a gentle canter. Feeling safe and secure with Lafayette behind him and Alexander only a few feet away, John allowed him to slip in and out of sleep as they rode onward.

Who knew a near-death experience could be so exhausting?

“We are home, mon etoile,” Lafayette cooed quietly as he shook John awake, “As sweet as you look while asleep, I can’t imagine a saddle would make for the best mattress.”

“It’s only a little worse than the cots they give us,” John mutters with a small laugh as he slipped off of his steed’s back.

Alexander was by his side in a moment, playfully jostling John as he wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Said the guy who nearly took a nap in the snow. C’mon, we’ll push our cots together so we can cuddle up, it’s the best way to avoid hypothermia.”

“Be honest, petit lion,” Lafayette chided softly as he ruffled Alexander’s hair. “You are just jealous that John has been swaddled without you.”

“So what if I am? It’s not like everyone gets to be in love with a literal angel.”

As the two other soldiers shared a laugh, John began to space out from the conversation. Having an answer to one of his many questions made him remember the original purpose of his journey; a message for the general to tip the scales in their favour.

“Wait,” He murmured, stepping out of Alexander’s and Lafayette’s hold as he stops to think. “I gotta- I gotta see Washington, there’s information from the south he needs to know!”

“Hey, Jacky, take it easy,” Alexander spoke as he took John’s hand again. “His Excellency already knows, a courier came through as soon as the snow stopped. It’s all gonna be okay.”

John couldn’t quite describe his relief at the sound of this news. He let out a sigh, the last few tensions finally leaving his body.

“That means the only thing left on the agenda is a good night’s rest,” Lafayette concluded with a small smile. “Come, my tent is not far.”

 *~*~*~*~*~*

 John was sure it was sometime near dawn when he blinked open his eyes. He rolled over lazily and pulled the blankets closer to him, only end up sneezing as his nose was tickled by soft feather down.

He smiled, feeling Lafayette shift next to him as he fixed a few feathers that had been ruffled by sleep. The Frenchman murmured something unintelligible in sleepy gratitude as he pulled John closer.

On Lafayette’s other side, Alexander was being held the same John was; a strong arm holding him close and a wing around his scrappy frame to keep him warm.

John closed his eyes, allowing himself to relax once more in Lafayette’s care. Even in the middle of a deadly winter and a losing war, the three always found these little perfect moments when they were together. It made sense now, and knowing that he and Alexander would be safe no matter how the war went was a peace he never thought he’d know.

Who knew all it’d take was a little blizzard to feel so safe and warm.

[toosicktoocare]

Kind of a combo prompt: Jaskier starts to learn about medical stuff while traveling with Geralt, and Geralt starts to teach Jaskier how to fight. It’s a good thing Jaskier knows how to swing a sword and set bones

In hindsight, Jaskier’s not entirely sure how he’s been able to even grasp the basics of swordsmanship since Geralt’s method of teaching is rather... close. Jaskier’s initial thought had been learning through combat, the clashing of swords, one-on-one duels, but Geralt’s method is surprisingly singular, pushing Jaskier to focus more on his balance, his core, and his inner being. 

“You’re still tense,” Geralt growls into his ears, and Jaskier bites back a shudder at the hot breath that brushes against his ear. Geralt’s behind him, curved around his back, mirroring his movements as a sturdy guide. His large hand cups Jaskier’s right hand, and Jaskier grits his teeth, willing the sword to not shake in his hand. 

“Isn’t that the point?” he tries, wincing slightly at the soft burn coating his muscles from holding such a weighted sword upright for an extended time. “If I’m relaxed, I may not have the quick response if battle arises.” 

Geralt sighs behind him, warm breath coating the back of his neck. 

“It’s all about control.” Geralt drops his head to Jaskier’s shoulder with a low grunt. “We’ve been over this.”

“I know,” Jaskier starts, a slight whine to his voice, “but--”

A twig snaps behind them, and though Geralt doesn’t immediately lift his head, his hand slowly smooths around Jaskier’s until his fingers brush against the slightly warmed hilt of his sword. If Jaskier weren’t suddenly incredibly afraid of what’s behind him, he would take a moment to appreciate the controlled tension Geralt’s exhibiting. 

“Well, isn’t this cute.” 

A woman’s voice, Jaskier thinks, a woman’s voice that’s icy and dangerous, and finally, Geralt wraps large fingers fully around the hilt of the sword, lifts his head, and slowly spins around, swinging the sword with careful ease until it’s pointed at the woman. Jaskier follows his movements, looking over Geralt’s shoulder to see an older woman with a crooked smile. 

Her face is half-cloaked by a large, black hood, but her eyes, though shadowed, appear an almost glowing red that Jaskier cannot pull his gaze from. 

“Well, now, is that anyway to treat a guest?” 

“An uninvited one,” Geralt grunts out, and Jaskier shifts his gaze away from the woman to see Geralt’s eyes narrowed, his large hand gripping the hilt of the sword tightly, and a nervous pit pulls into a ball in Jaskier’s stomach. 

The situation is unsettling, and he can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong with this woman. A mage? He chases the idea for a moment, but it doesn’t click in his head. Not a mage, he decides, but who? Or, rather, what?

The woman tsks and begins walking to the left, Geralt follows her movements with the tip of his sword, keeping himself planted in front of Jaskier. 

“Well, will you invite me into your little camp?” 

“No,” Jaskier spits out, voice slightly higher than Geralt’s low growl of a “no.” 

“Such a shame,” the woman starts, shifting her gaze past the sword to Jaskier. “You’re the lovely bard I’ve been following.” Her voice starts to shift, taking a deeper tone, and Jaskier’s breath gets caught in his throat. 

In front of him, the woman’s bones are cracking, shifting, her face is pulling forward, thickening. She’s growing in height, and she grunts through clenched teeth as her form morphs into an incredibly large man staring down at them with a wicked smile. 

Sweat beads at Jaskier’s temple. His body has gone completely still. “Geralt,” he whispers, voice shaking. “What in the--”

“-fuck,” Geralt growls. 

Everything suddenly moves too fast for Jaskier to fully comprehend. Geralt shoves him back as the man leaps toward them. He hits the ground with a grunt just as Geralt swings the sword. Jaskier tries to follow their movements, but everything is too fast, the two dancing rapidly around each other, but then he hears a piercing cracking sound, and the sword slips from Geralt’s grip as his arm goes limp at his side. 

The man forces Geralt to the ground, and Jaskier watches as the man pins Geralt’s arms over his head. He can see Geralt favoring his left side, trying to use pure strength alone to free himself, but the man’s got the upper hand. 

Jaskier meets Geralt’s eyes for a breath of a moment, and he can hear Geralt’s voice in his head. Assess, he hears, and he does. The sword is too close to the man to grab, but a quick, closer inspection of the man’s bare back shows little to no wounds despite the amount of hits Geralt got in before... 

His eyes flick over to Roach and the silver sword close to her. He can’t remember exactly, but he thinks he needs the silver since the iron doesn’t appear to be doing much. He’s quick and quiet on his feet, surprising even himself, and carefully, he tip-toes over to the silver sword. He goes unnoticed, another surprise considering his heart feels it’s about to burst past his ribs and right out of his chest, and snags the sword. It’s weight distribution feels different compared to the iron sword he’s grown accustomed to working with, but it doesn’t feel wrong. It actually feels... perfect, he thinks. 

Geralt’s low growl of a curse pulls Jaskier back into reality. He blinks a few times, shaking his head to clear his thoughts, and turns toward the borderline one-sided battle behind him. Geralt doesn’t look panicked, but there’s pain pulling at his face, and it’s enough to have Jaskier walking back toward the mess of a fight. He stops right behind the man and clears his throat to get the man’s attention, an uncharacteristically strong wave of confidence washing over him. 

For a moment, he’s not raising a silver sword over his head with practiced grace. For just a breath of a moment, he’s back at a tavern, strumming away at his lute, riling up a crowd of drunks as he sings songs of adventures. But then he swings the sword down, bringing himself back to the woods. He doesn’t aim like Geralt does, but the sword still finds its way to the man’s neck, slicing clean through it until the man’s head is rolling to the ground with a low thump. 

He wasn’t aware that he screamed with the swing of the sword until his faint echo is the only sound to follow the lifeless head hitting the ground. He’s panting, his stomach is in knots, and he can feel Geralt’s eyes burning a hole in him. 

He feels suddenly far too hot, and his stomach lurches. He lets the sword slip from his shaking grip and clamps a hand over his mouth, whipping around and making it close to a bush before dropping to his hand and knees and gagging.

He can’t shake the frighteningly clear image of the sword piercing clean through the man’s neck from his mind, or the wide-eyed look of pure terror. He heaves, throwing up the small breakfast he and Geralt split before training. He’s barely keeping himself up on shaking arms, and he wants to give into the ill-stricken fear clinging to his bones, but his mind, moving as fast as his heart, catches back up to the situation as a whole, and quickly, he scrambles to his feet, swaying slightly. 

Geralt’s managed to sit up, but he’s gripping at his shoulder with a deep frown, and it doesn’t take a doctor or mage to see it’s dislocated. There’s bright red, angry swelling poking out through the tear in Geralt’s shirt, and Jaskier stumbles to him, dropping to his knees beside the Witcher. 

“Are you alright?”

“That’s dislocated,” Jaskier mutters under his breath, not hearing Geralt’s question over the roar in his ears. He’s studied this, has been studying this and similar injuries for a few weeks now. He’s not much of a fighter, but he wants to help Geralt, to prove he’s a worthy companion, so he’s taken to books, learning about medicinal remedies, stitching, and dislocated bones. 

“I can set it--”

“--Are you alright?” Geralt repeats, voice taking a low demand, but Jaskier’s already working through what he remembers from his reading. 

His hands are shaking, but the discomfort pulling at Geralt’s face keeps him moving. “This is going to hurt--”

“--Jaskier--”

Jaskier grabs Geralt’s injured arm and tugs it forward, wincing at the soft pop.

“Fuck!” Geralt’s face is twisted into a sharp grimace, and he’s panting, chest heaving in quick, long waves that’s got Jaskier frowning deeply. 

“Sorry--”

“--are you alright?” 

Jaskier sucks in a sharp breath, taken back by the severity of Geralt’s tone, and he moves to nod, a habit, but he pauses, considering a previous argument. 

“-- you lack the mere capability to assess your physical health...”

Slowly, he shakes his head. “No,” he admits. He feels weak, a result of fleeting adrenaline, and without meaning to, he drops his head against Geralt’s good shoulder with a deep sigh. “But I will be. You?”

“My shoulder tingles a little,” Geralt grunts out, good hand finding Jaskier’s waist. “But, it feels much better.” 

Jaskier moves one hand to cup Geralt’s, and he chases the swelling wave of relief washing over him. “I’ll need to make a sling for your arm until it’s fully healed.” Yet, he makes no notion of moving, not when Geralt’s hand is a warm, steady weight at his waist. 

“The first kill isn’t easy,” Geralt whispers. “But you did well. You knew that only silver can kill a doppler.”

Kill. Jaskier shudders at the word, and his hand tightens around Geralt’s. “Not exactly what I had in mind for this Tuesday, but,” he lifts his head to meet Geralt’s studying gaze, “I have a good instructor.” He smiles weakly, still slightly shaken at the core, but Geralt smiles back at him, a warm, encouraging smile, and just for a moment, Jaskier knows that they are okay.

[y-not-loki]

Pain With and Without Love | Loki L.

A/N: YA KID CAT IS BACK WITH A PIECE THAT WILL HOPEFULLY TEAR OUT YOUR HEART AND STOMP ON IT TWO MILLION TIMES. Anyway, this is for the wonderful @writingsoftheloser‘s 1k writing challenge, and first of all, YOU AREN’T BOTHERING ME BY TAGGING ME IN A WRITING CHALLENGE, and second of all, YOU’RE HECKING AWESOME, OF COURSE YOU’D GET TO 1K FOLLOWERS AND YOUR WRITING IS HECKING FABULOUS OKAY?? I LOVE YOU SO MUCH. (please pretend that the gif is actually Loki) (also, I found out that the italics and formatting doesn’t work on mobile, so it’d be better to read it on the computer)

Warnings: Probably some swear words, some PTSD hidden through description of words, fighting, blood, battles, shooting people.

Word Count: 4 667

Blurb: (Y/N) dresses up as a man to enlist in the army, and there she meets an attractive Lieutenant who goes by the mysterious name Loki. He doesn’t seem to sleep, his eyes appear to glow and everyone has an irrational fear of him. Something is not right about him and (Y/N) wants to know what. When an attack from the opposition ends badly, she finds out how different Loki truly is. And she finds out that love during war is not always the best idea.

Prompt: World War 1

*DISCLAIMER: I DON’T OWN ANYTHING IN THIS BUT THE PLOT*

Heart thudding and breaths short, (Y/N) (Y/L/N) ran across No Man’s Land, praying that the cover of darkness that the night provided was enough to hide her small form. She had been teased relentlessly about her size and higher voice, because the illusion that she was male was still believed. “Lieutenant Loki, are you alright?” Her voice was deceptively steady, hiding shaking hands and tears threatening to spill. “Lieutenant Loki I need to get you out of here alive.” There was no answer. 

Handing over fake forms filled out with new information (Y/N) was now ‘Adam Wilson’ a factory worker of 18 years old. The grime underneath her fingernails and the dirt on her cheeks helped add to the illusion, but in reality, she was a young girl who lived in poverty, hoping for better pay. Dying on the battlefield for her country was a much better end than dying on the streets of starvation. And at least she now had a steady income to feed her family. Of course, they didn’t know she was doing this. They didn’t need to know. What they don’t know can’t hurt them. The man sitting at the desk stamped the papers and added them to a pile, which was promptly picked up by a young mail-boy and taken off to a big canvas tent. 

“Okay, kiddo, you’ll be training under Lieutenant Loki. Good luck.” He snickered cruelly, shoving a ticket into her hands, before gesturing for her (now him) to move along. Who was Lieutenant Loki? Why did she somehow felt a shiver up her spine at his very name? And why did the name ‘Loki’ sound familiar? Shrugging, she shoved her hands in her pockets, the ticket getting buried in her one good pocket, before walking away to the train station.

She’d be on her way with the next few soldiers, or that’s how she heard it’d be. She didn’t have any clothes or material possessions of importance, except a ratty old copy of her favourite book, tucked deep inside her coat and invisible to the naked eye. The hairs on the back of her neck raised as she glanced around and caught bright emerald eyes that seemed to glow. Her breathing stuttered as they stayed trained on her, but when she blinked, they were lost to the crowd.

Her hands flew over the clasps of her Lieutenant’s coat, taking away the layers and she gasped, choking on air as she saw the bullet holes, still bleeding meaning he was still alive. Hopefully. He had been shot, that much was obvious, but he had been shot on his left shoulder and right thigh. 

“Loki....” She whispered, ripping the cloth of his coat up and applying pressure to his thigh’s wound. “You shouldn’t have done that.” Her voice broke at the end, betraying her emotions. Loki took a rattling breath, surprising (Y/N), who jerked backwards, having already wrapped his wound. His glowing green eyes were slits and he hissed as she moved him to tend to his shoulder wound and apply pressure. 

“Get down soldier.” He growled through clenched teeth, and she heard the unmistakeable bang of a gun.

“At ease.” Lieutenant Loki said at last, after taking a close look at the soldiers lined up in front of him.

They had met aboard the train, and whilst the men mingled and cheered at the ‘certain glory’ that the battles they would fight would bring. She hadn’t bothered to introduce herself, being the smallest and ‘weakest’ she’d been immediately dismissed as the first to die so no one wanted to be her companion. Except one persistent man with bright green eyes hiding a cunning mind and the sharp facial features of a hunter. He later introduced himself as the infamous Lieutenant Loki, whose name caused her heart to spike instantly, although she wasn’t sure if it was in fear or apprehension. The men however, pales instantly and even the most berate seems scared. Of course, they hadn’t been all that brave in the first place. Just plain arrogance. They were the ones who would get killed first. He cocked his head to the side, eyes narrowed as the men smirked seemingly proud of the way that Loki was analysing them. (Y/N), however felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up straight as his gaze fell on her. It lingered long enough for her to straighten her spine and stare back, before breaking the stare to stare forward as trained of her.

Feet a shoulder-width apart, hands behind her back, shoulders back, chin up, eyes forward, and face blank.

What she didn’t see was Loki’s eyes flashing green and a wicked smile appear on his face for a split second.

The men seemed to take her actions as a cue to follow. Unsure, because she was so small and so weak, why would ‘he’ know what to do?

Because ‘he’ just knew. Because ‘he’ knew that the war wasn’t a joke.

Because ‘he’ knew that he had to stand straight and proud.

Because ‘he’ knew that Loki was a threat, and had to be treated as such, until the time was right and ‘he’ could make the right choice.

To befriend or to fight.

“Good.” Lieutenant Loki’s voice was smooth and deadly. “You seem to know how to stand. Now let’s see if you know how to do a push-up.”

Many of the men’s faces twisted up into a half-snarl of boredom and discontent. They didn’t sign up to be asked to do push-ups, they signed up for glory.

And glory they would have.

“Loki.” She sobbed his name in relief. He wasn’t dead. She hadn’t lost him. Yet.

“I don’t have much energy left, but I can make a shield, just shoot the problematic ones and get yourself to safety, (Y/N).” He grimaced as she tried to lift his head up.

Then the lights flooded, and she flopped on top of him.

Loki didn’t make a sound, but (Y/N) knew it must have hurt when she landed on his wound. She already had blood on her uniform, from the massacre of her comrades as they marched to their deaths on No Man’s Land.

He let out a shuddering breath as the sound of machine guns filled the air, waving over the spot they occupied, before the lights flashed out and the guns were silenced.

“Run, go back, please.” Loki begged. Loki didn’t beg. He ordered. This… this was a different Loki. She must have looked shocked, because he gave a weary sigh, as if he were one who had been fighting for too long.

“What are you?” She’d been dared by the guys to ask Loki a singular question that she’d always wanted to. And that was her question. To be fair, he didn’t drink water as often as they did, he didn’t appear to sleep, he ate a heck of a lot more than the beefiest of them and he had this special ability to just attract the attention of everyone in the room with the slightest movement. But the thing that unnerved (Y/N) the most was the way he seemed to see right through her disguise. She just knew that he knew she wasn’t telling the whole truth. And it scared her.

“Something that exists.” He grinned at her, tiredly, but the bags under his eyes suddenly disappeared and he seemed to liven up. “And what are you doing in a bar, hours before you are deployed?”

“I could ask you the same question, Lieutenant.” The rowdiness nearly drowned out her voice as she pulled out a chair and waved to get the attention of the bartender. “Water please.” She ordered, and the bartender rolled her eyes, before filling a cup with tap water. It was probably dirty, considering where and when they were.

Loki raised his eyebrows, looking questioning at the cup of water, before downing whatever alcoholic drink it was in his cup in one gulp and gesturing to the bartender to get him a refill.

“Well, (Y/N), I’m here drowning my sorrows out with the lovely buzz of strong alcohol. And I see you doing none of that, so again, I ask, what are you doing here?”

“Asking you a question.”

“You’ve asked your question, you’re free to go now.” Loki gave her a tight smile, and made a shooing gesture, before catching the cup that slid over to him and downing it all again, staring at the wood of the bar before him.

Something made her hesitate, maybe it was the way that he didn’t seem as bossy, or as lethal as he usually did. None of the guys were around, but she guessed she could dress the question up a little.

“Well, the guys who dared me to ask you this aren’t gonna be happy if I don’t bring them a good answer.”

“That’s not my problem.” Loki replied instantly, not even glancing her way.

“Just answer the question.”

“A mortal, just like you lot.” He glared forward, face blank, but his eyes hardened and sharp. He turned his gaze on her, and analysed every inch of her face. She refused to give in, staring back and not giving him any ground. His lips twitched upwards. “I gave you a sufficient answer, now leave.” He raised an eyebrow slightly, movement too small for anyone watching them to pick up, but with (Y/N) as close to him as she was, she picked up on it immediately.

“You said mortal.” (Y/N) told him, and the eyebrow went up further. “It implies there are immortals.”

“You’re a smart one, aren’t you?”

“And you’ve known from day one.” She raised an eyebrow, mimicking his facial expression, then he burst out into loud laughter, loud enough to startle (Y/N), who had never known him to laugh. Maybe a cynical or maniacal laugh, she could imagine, but one of pure amusement? No. That was not Loki. Or not the Loki she knew from training.

“Oh, I’ve known.” He grinned at her, a smile laced with danger, but amusement that hid it so well, she was shocked. Loki was something else. “I’ve known for a long time.” He had somehow gotten a refill, and downed it all again, wiping his mouth on a handkerchief he pulled out of his pocket, before standing up. He stumbled, and she immediately flung one of his arms around her shoulder and supported his weight, the rigorous training that Loki had put her and the men through before their deployment kept her alert and strong. From the position she was in, she could smell the alcohol on his breath as he huffed a laugh. “I’m fine, little mortal.”

“Tell that to your legs.” (Y/N) muttered under her breath. “Come on, I’ll get you back to the camp and you can guide me to your tent so that you might actually get there safely and quickly you self-destructive Lieutenant.”

“Ooohh, I love it when you get bossy.” Loki said in a sing-song manner, obviously drunk.

“Well, you’re going to love it more when I get angry.” (Y/N) muttered through clenched teeth. Then it hit her that he said he loved it when she did something. He never gave approval or showed satisfaction when someone did something impressive or perfect. He just told them to do it again.

“Hnnnnnnnnnn.” He moaned, head falling onto hers, eyes half-closed. “I love you, (Y/N), my deceptively beautiful (Y/N).” The pink on his cheeks was now on his neck, and he had a mild fever. Which was strange, because his pale skin never seemed to go above 20 degrees Celsius, and now it had sky-rocketed to 30 or 40 degrees Celsius.

“I’m going to help you take off your jacket, okay Loki? You’re getting a fever. You really shouldn’t have drank that much alcohol.” (Y/N) scolded him lightly, unbuttoning his jacket with one hand, and holding him against her side with the other.

“Yeeeeeess, get me undressed.” Loki slurred his words, but something in his eyes indicated he knew exactly what he was doing. And she read it perfectly.

Shaking her head, she grabbed his jaw and forced him to look her in the eyes.

“OOOOOOoohh, are we going to kiss now?” He asked loudly, and she shushed him.

“Look, Loki, right now you are acting drunken, too drunken. I know at least half of it is an act, but I will let you know this, I am going to take you to your tent, lay you down on your mat on your side so if you throw up, you won’t choke, and I will make sure your fever goes down. And you will cooperate. Nothing other than that is going to happen, do you hear me?” Loki stared at her in a calculating manner, there was a veil of haziness over his eyes, hiding the cunning mind behind them.

“Okay.” He said quietly, and started moving forward, before doubling over and dry-heaving then vomiting. (Y/N) quickly swept his rather long hair back and out of his face as whatever used to be his lunch came up.

It took a few moments for Loki to gasp and retch, then right himself, he glanced down at her, then finally sagged against her, legs seeming to give out.

She may have been mistaken, but she heard the softest “Thank you.” fall from his lips.

But when he didn’t mention it, she decided to ignore it. It would be for the better. She told herself.

Laying him down in his blankets, she made sure he was laying on his side, and pulled his shirt off, pulling the much softer and much more comfortable blankets over him.

“I’m going to leave a cup of water next to your bed, please get better soon, Lieutenant, we depart tomorrow.” She whispered, and kissed his forehead as if it were the most natural thing on Earth.

Only when she was leaving did she realise how inappropriate that was for their rankings, and for their situation. But that didn’t stop the blush that crept up her neck and flourished on her cheeks.

Pulling her rifle from the strap on her shoulder, she steadied it next to Loki, facing towards the enemy line. “I’m not leaving without you.” She promised, and he sighed, a rattling sound. A sound like faith leaving one’s body. A sound she knew that Loki would never make if he wasn’t giving up. And Loki never gave up.

“Fine, (Y/N), but please, don’t lose your life.”

(Y/N) snorted and glanced down at him, “I can’t make promises on a battlefield to avoid the one thing it brings; death.”

“Wise words.” Loki muttered, and then his hands flared a bright green, causing chaos to ensue on both sides of No Man’s Land. The bullets came flying in from both sides, and (Y/N) quickly positioned herself protectively over Loki, making sure he wasn’t hurt.

She waited for the impact that never came.

“Uh, excuse me, could you tell me where to find Lieutenant Loki?” A high-pitched, feminine voice called out over the din of the boys brawling playfully.

“Huh? Why’d you want to speak to him when you have us?” One of (Y/N)’s comrades came forward, facing the petite girl.

“I have a message from the head nurse.” She explained shortly, glaring as much as she dared.

“I know where he is.” (Y/N) spoke up after a murmur rippled through the crowd. No one really knew where Loki went during the day, no one but (Y/N), and that was only because she bothered to pay attention to what he did and where to find him if the need ever arose.

The young girl seemed to be relieved as (Y/N) took her elbow and guided her away from the boys. “Thank you so much.” She told her cheerily.

“No problem, Miss….” She trailed off, suddenly realising she didn’t know what the young girl’s name was.

“Miss Claire.” She answered, “And you must be the famous (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

“Famous?” She snorted. “I’m hardly even known.”

“Trust me, among nurses you are.” She winked, and (Y/N) suddenly blushed, realising what that meant. Just because she was always polite and understanding towards them didn’t mean that she was interested, but it appeared that they saw it that way. She didn’t mind that much, but she didn’t want to hurt any of them as well.

There were whoops from the boys as they walked away, cat-calling was a popular practice in the army, and teasing a fellow armsman about talking to a lady or helping one was also very popular. Especially if that armsman never seemed to talk to anyone.

“Anyway, he’s just through here….” She trailed off and lead the young lady through a series of tents and finally found the one he always hid away in when he wasn’t training them or they weren’t taking their shift in the trenches. The boys tended to head up to the local bar at night, but when it was bright daylight, they liked to just hang around the temporary camp.

“Thank you again, I would never have found him without you.” Miss Claire said, and (Y/N) smiled, nodding her head.

“You are very welcome, Miss Claire. I’m glad to be of service.” Miss Claire giggled as (Y/N) strode off, but when she heard Claire yelp, she turned around to see a dishevelled and angry Loki poke his head out of the tent.

“What do you want, little girl?” He asked snappily, and Miss Claire’s mood changed instantly, from amused to terrified.

“Y-you’re n-needed by the h-head nurse.” She managed to stutter out, and Loki just scowled.

“Go tell your head nurse that I have other matters to attend to.” There was some shuffling from inside the tent, and (Y/N) walked into their field of vision.

“Lieutenant Loki, would you really dismiss a summon from the head nurse, someone who could easily choose not to treat you?”

“I can treat myself.” He replied shortly, but his eyes softened slightly. Did he remember what happened last night? She sure as hell hoped not.

“Mhm, and what if she withholds bandages or other materials that you need to treat yourself?”

“Then I will make do with what I have.” He retorted, raising an eyebrow. “What are you getting at, soldier?”

“I’m trying to say, maybe it’s best to stay on the good side of the people who could literally bring you back from death.” (Y/N) told him softly, unsure of how he would react. At this point, she had managed to get between Loki and Miss Claire, so if Loki exploded in rage, he wouldn’t hurt Miss Claire.

“Very well, I will go to your head nurse.” He told Miss Claire, and his head disappeared. Seconds later, a young nurse came out of his tent, make-up obviously messed up, and hair messy. Her clothes looked like they had been hastily put on, and she was walking with the swagger of someone who had just done something that they were proud of. Or someone.

(Y/N) wasn’t sure what the emotion was exactly, but it felt like something had stabbed her right through the chest, wrapped itself around her heart and then clenched. The air left her lungs, but she kept a blank mask and didn’t move a muscle.

Loki could sleep around all he wants, he’s not his. He never would be.

But that didn’t stop the hurting.

Loki came out seconds later, dressed in his formal uniform, and he adjusted the jacket quickly, long hair slightly mussed as his slender fingers raced up the front, doing the buttons up quickly. He took a few long strides, and quickly jerked his head to the side, staring at the Miss Claire.

“Come on woman, let’s go.” He said, no emotions in his eyes, and a blank mask on his face.

(Y/N) stood by the opening flap of his tent, and watched as they disappeared through the maze of tents as the lady who had just exited his tent smirked at her and bounced off, apparently pleased with her new ‘conquest’.

She didn’t know that Loki was such a womanizer. Was that all (Y/N) was to him? His ‘deceptively beautiful (Y/N)’? She was just another conquest. She was just another mortal.

Well, they were departing that evening, so she guessed the head nurse just wanted to go over a few things with him before he left. That was it. That was most likely it.

Not at all like he could probably charm the head nurse as well.

Sighing, (Y/N) ran a hand through her now-short hair, and walked away. It was just getting too complicated; this was war, feelings were not to be dealt with in a time where anybody and everybody was probably going to die young.

This was not a time where (Y/N) could feel something. Especially love.

Loki gasped for breath as green lights sparked around them, lighting up the air as bullets pinged off them. “Wow….” (Y/N) breathed, and Loki choked a laugh back.

“Wow indeed, for a mortal that’s never seen magic before. As I said before, shoot them down quickly.”

It was because of Loki’s rigorous training that she was able to shoot down, maybe all thirty of the men on the opposing side in less than half that time (it helped that they clumped together near the big machine guns).

“Magic you say? Couldn’t you just magic your wounds away?” (Y/N) asked, getting into a crouch position and eyeing Loki’s body, trying to find the most painless way to lift him up and take him back to safety.

“Well… it’s a long story.”

“You don’t appear to have much time.”

“Agreed, but basically, I was curious about Midgard, your realm, too curious, and then the Allfather banished me here to live as a mortal until I either died or… regained my magic by falling in love with a mortal.”

“Ah, the little nurse lady.” (Y/N) nodded her head like she understood. She smiled as if she were happy for him. She pretended, for her dying crush’s sake, that she was happy for him.

“No….” Loki winced in pain, and she swore a tear rolled down his face as his eyes started to close, breaths ragged and drawn out. She could barely feel his chest moving and his heart beating, and he was nearly shirtless. “You.” He whispered. “I love you.”

Honestly, (Y/N) didn’t know how to respond, it felt like the world was breaking, and falling apart around her, like nothing was going to be right again, but it felt like everything was suddenly okay, like everything would work out even if she believed otherwise. If felt like a contradiction.

Her heart pulling one way, her mind pulling the other. HE LOVES HER, DON’T GET ATTACHED, HE’S DYING, BUT HE LOVES HER!

She couldn’t help it, she pressed her lips against his, tears running down her face without permission and heart aching with all the love she never got the change to give.

It hurt. It hurt so much, Loki was dying. He couldn’t live much longer, she knew that.

“And what happens when you find your love?”

“I… go.” Loki murmured. “I’ll never forget you. I swear I will be back for you….”

“I’ll never forget you too.” She swore something bright glinted in his eyes as he made his last promise. Something felt like it shifted in the universe, as if making it so that he could definitely come back to her. But she knew that fate wouldn’t care so much for a broken and and a broken boy, clinging onto hope that wouldn’t last.

The last thing Loki sees is (Y/N)’s teary eyed face.

(Y/N) is found, dragging herself back to their trenches, half-dead, half-asleep and completely drained of any and all energy. The war is over, she’s relieved of her duty, she reveals that she had always been a girl, and she gets rewarded.

But what has always haunted her and will always continue to haunt her was Loki.

That night, the night he had died, she had stayed with him, clutched his cooling body close, no matter how gross and sticky it got, and hoped with all her heart that he would come back to her.

She knew he would never come back to her.

The only thing she had left of him, were his dog tags, which she always wore, no matter what. If she didn’t… well, she avoided situations where she couldn’t. She went on to live as normally as possible, but every time she sees a green light, she thinks it’s Loki, and panics.

Every time she hears a ‘ping’ she thinks it’s bullets getting bounced off Loki’s magic forcefield.

Every time she sees a soldier, she is reminded of the love that could never have happened, and every time she hears a loud bang, she ends up on the brink of a panic attack because that was the sound that meant either life or death.

She couldn’t help it. She missed him, but she wished she had never joined the army and hurt herself in such a way.

She loved him, but she didn’t want to have to count her breaths every time she heard a loud noise, she didn’t want to panic every time she arrived at traffic lights, she didn’t want to hurt so freaking much all the godsdam time.

She didn’t know just how much war could teach her about pain.

About the pains that came with love, and the pains that came with war.

She wished she never learnt.

Maybe it’s her thoughts. Maybe it’s her dreams. But she swears it’s not her hallucinations that bring Loki to her room when she’s maybe two or three days away from dying of old age. Maybe even less.

She has no muscles left.

Or close to no muscles.

She can barely function without her nurse.

But Loki… he hadn’t seemed to have aged a day.

“My (Y/N)....” He murmured. “Look what time has done to you, my deceptively beautiful (Y/N)....”

She choked, “Loki….” Tears springing into eyes that hadn’t been able to cry in years. Eyes that hadn’t cried in years. “You’re alive….”

“Of course I am, my darling.” He swept towards her, kissing her forehead, and then her lands, holding them up to his lips and treating her as if she were the most delicate china in existence. “And I’ll always be there for you. By your side as you enter the halls of Valhalla.”

“But Valhalla is only for those who die fighting.”

“I… I have bargained with the Allfather, and he has agreed to let in on the condition that….”

“That what?” (Y/N) fretted over what he had bargained with. Loki, the Loki she knew, the Loki that she had fallen in love with, would have made a horrifically terrible decision.

“That I am to remain by your side until either one of our souls fades.”

Tears spring into her eyes once again, and she grips onto his hand, which was still holding hers, as hard as she could. “Thank you… thank you so much, Loki.”

“I love you, and I promised I’d be back.” Mischief sparked up in his eyes. “And think of all the things we could do together.”

“Oh, all the mischief that you’d get up to?” (Y/N) raised an eyebrow as well as she could. Loki nodded excitedly and looked down at her.

“Uh, but there is one thing that you must know about me….”

“You’re over a thousand years old?”

“How did you know that?”

(Y/N) shrugged. “The internet exists for a reason y’know.” (Y/N) tugged his hand towards her heart, where it beated feebly, but faster than it had ever beaten. “Kiss me. Please.”

And kiss her he did.

He kissed her like his life depended on it.

And when her mortal body died later that day, he led her to Valhalla, where they lived happily ever after.

The End.

Loki Taglist: @drakesfiance 

[michaelmalloryfanfic-blog]

fic update: o thou, destroyer named - chapter v

they are like two wounded animals, circling one another, waiting to see who will strike first

. millory au .

post links:

chapter i // chapter ii // chapter iii // chapter iv // chapter v // chapter vi // chapter vii // chapter viii // chapter ix //

ao3 links:

chapter i // chapter ii // chapter iii // chapter iv // chapter v // chapter vi // chapter vii // chapter viii // chapter ix //

chapter summary:

Time to call Zaddy Zatan! Also I know I said Mead would be in this chapter but it was taking too long to get through this part. Next time. It's short but I promise, it felt like fucking dying trying to write this part.

a/n:

guess which bitch knows how to use google translate! fun times. anyway latin is fucked. this ain't beta'd and super short but I had to finish grad school apps. I'll get around to beta-ing this chapter eventually. Aaaaaaallllsooooooooo. So I know that in the show, Michael calls his zaddy on the phone like...right after his interview with Mallory but just pretend that its happening now. You know I’m a dumbass who can’t remember shit right? You think I give a fuck????Also. I’ve finally got an end to this fic and lemme tell you, I can’t wait to emotionally ruin someone’s day.

With a soft tug of the hand he has in his grasp, Mallory rises to her feet. Even in her black, sensible heels she barely reaches his shoulders when standing. Her hand in his own is completely encompassed. She is such a tiny thing. He tucks her hand into the crook of his arm with a careful tenderness that she thought him incapable of. It is as though he was handling a porcelain doll.

Michael had always been fascinated with dolls. Once, when he was still small and able to be manhandled, Constance had taken him to a toy store and he had instantly gravitated towards the brightly colored figures. Their tiny smiling faces matched with their impassive, lifeless eyes, they felt somehow familiar. But it was their smallness that had enraptured him, how easily they fit in his hand. He wanted to touch every part of them, run his fingers over their smooth, blushed cheeks, feel the sleekness of their artificial hair. Something that would hold still and let him pour over it, let him devour it.

But Constance would have none of that. She had shaken the precious thing from his greedy hands. When he resisted she had delivered a swift, teeth-clattering slap to his face. It had shocked him so thoroughly that he did not even cry out. Constance espoused something about him being “goddamned queer” then she had yanked him out of the store.

They enter the darkness of Outpost 3 and Michael takes the lead. The ink blackness of the hallways are an ocean and Michael is a shark. He moves without hesitation, Mallory tries to keep up. Once or twice, she trips over her feet. Ever the part-time gentleman, Michael pauses whens he stumbles and waits patiently for her to gather herself. Everytime, she glances up at his apologetically but he never returns her glance. He is focused on the journey forward.

It takes them five more minutes of walking before a faint glow comes into view illuminating the end of the hall where it turns both left and right. The light comes from the right and when they turn the corner a door comes into view. The door they come to is like many of the doors in Outpost 3, tall, pitch black, with shiny golden door knobs. On both sides, a candle with in a simple glass fixture around it had been lit. Mallory has passed doors like these many times in the past year without much notice but this door, she is certain she’s never seen this particular door for above it there are words, carved ominously into the stone wall and painted in black.

Homo homini lupus

Mallory reads over the words over and over. The Boundary in her head burns and grows brittle at the sight so she turns away from the words above the door. It is Michael who disentangles their arms. He takes her hand in his own, again so gentle it turns her stomach and places it at her side. Then he opens the door.

The first thing that Mallory notices when they enter the room is the heat. The door leads into a short, narrow anteroom and from there it opens into a blazing circular chamber. The room is crowded with candles. They line the walls, are placed here and there on the floor along the perimeter. Besides that, the room was empty. It is so bright and warm beyond the door that it is almost unbearable at first. Mallory has only known darkness and cold for over a year now and all this heat and light makes her feel feverish. Her skin crawls and she hesitates to enter. Langdon enters at once with ease. He has no fear of the light. Michael glances back only once to smile that secret smile at her.

“So skittish of the light, Mallory darling,” he says over his shoulder. “Come here, you fickle creature. Come to me.”

And she goes to him. Not just because he calls her a creature or darling but also because she is suddenly aware of how cold she is. She feels so utterly cold and not just now or during the year she’s spent in Outpost 3. She’s been cold her entire life. Mallory isn’t stupid she knows that there is something missing in her. She thinks that something must have been taken from her and left her a Mallory is like a wind-up toy that was built missing a sprocket and though she can still walk around, sing her tune, the bulbs all light up but something just doesn’t click.

Harmatia, whispers the thing in her mind and Mallory pushes it down.

She passes through the doorway, the Latin words passing overhead. She makes quick work of the antechamber and to her surprise, she finds Langdon undressing. He stands in the center of the room with his back to her. First is his long, black coat. As he works the fine dark buttons, he speaks.

“Did you know that years before the initial bombfall, this place used to be a boy’s boarding school,” he says still facing away from her.

He observes the room as he finishes with his buttons. The chamber is about ten feet in diameter and it has a ceiling so high that it is lost in darkness even with all the light down below.

“The rooms you’ve been sleeping in, the kitchen, the lounges, they all used to be part of the school.”

“Is it normal to have a school underground?” Mallory drones, years of working for the young, rich, and vapid has made her adept at meaningless small-talk.

“Don’t ask stupid questions. You know it isn’t.”

He shrugs off his coat and it falls to the floor.

“What kind of school was it?” she replies, unperturbed by his admonishment.

She stares at his coat on the floor, crumpled and dejected. Years working as a personal assistant to wealthy socialites has given her a discerning eye. It’s obviously an expensive piece, well-made, expensive cotton but he tosses it off as though it is nothing. Mallory considers picking it up, folding it neatly over her arm and waiting patiently aside for him to continue. It’s a compulsion. Coco had been a thoughtless, messy individual but she also hated mess. She’d undress in a hurry, tossing designer and couture pieces about only to turn around and vehemently ask Mallory why her John Galliano gown was on the floor. However, Langdon gives no indication that he expects to pick up his coat or anything else.

“A finishing school of sorts,” he says as he starts on his shirt, the cuffs, which is as fine and dark as his coat. “It was very exclusive, clandestine .”

“A big, black cylinder sticking out of the ground in bumbfuck California reads as clandestine to you?”

That causes him pause and he twists his upper body just a bit to look at her fully. His mouth is a pressed, straight line and he arches one eyebrow. For a second, she thinks he’s going to admonish her again maybe even hit her. Towards the end, the Purples had become less squeamish about physical displays of displeasure. She had seen, more than once, a Grey laid out on the floor by a Purple. End of the world will do that to people. But, he is impassive only for a second then a wicked grin splits his mouth and he laughs.

“It isn’t exactly subtle is it?” he says once he done laughing at her. “But then again, I wasn’t consulted when they were drawing up the blueprints.”

Mallory is a little taken aback. For some reason, laughing just didn’t seem to be something he was even capable of doing. Her surprise must show on her face because he laughs a little harder after seeing her. He seems younger than the gruesome figure who had first arrived in Outpost 3 a few days ago. When he had first arrived, he had been singular. A grim emissary, Death riding in on his horse. But now she is watching as his eyes crinkle at the edges as he smiles at her. He looks like a boy. How old is he really? Early twenties, maybe mid. They could be the same age.

“Do you know what this particular room was used for?” He doesn’t wait for her answer. “Disciplinary action.”

He shoulders his left sleeve off and then the right. This too is dropped to the floor besides the coat.

“You saw the plaque above the door? Do you know what it means? I don’t imagine they offer high school level Latin in Nowhere. Homo homini lupus, Man is a wolf to man.”

From his pocket, he produces a knife. It fits perfectly in his hand and he opens it slowly. The blade is strange, rounded and black. Its finish is matte, like charcoal in the candlelight.

“Man is a wolf to man,” he repeats and turns to face her, knife in his right hand.

This is the point that anyone with an ounce of self preservation should know to make a run for it.

“A fancy way to say, ‘dog eat dog’.”

He’s still smiling when he plunges the knife into his left wrist and Mallory’s jaw drops. He drags the blade up until a red line splits his arm all the way up his bicep. Then the blood begins the pour from the gash. It’s so red and bright against his golden skin. It falls like water, so quickly that she thinks that this cannot be real, this cannot be right. He hardly seems to notice and gives the other arm the same treatment.

This fucked up. Mallory knows this. This. Is. Fucked. And she should be horrified. She should scream or run, do something other than gape at the sight of him, arm bathed almost entirely in red and dripping, his eyes like alight with a kind of frantic energy. And yet, she doesn’t feel or do any of these things. Her breathing is labored and her heart rate has picked up and yet, she feels somewhat at east. Something about all that blood, she’s drowning in it. She’s not anywhere near afraid. No, she's fascinated.

He begins to speak.

“O pater foedus impius, Et meas, quas fudi sanguinem meum, in gloriam.”

The air thickens as he falls to his knees.

“Corpus iacentis ad pedes.”

Spreading his arms out wide, palms to the floor, he begins to bow. His head dipping low.

“Mea est anima tua.”

With that, he is completely folded in on himself. His arms are stretched out in front of him, bloody palms laying flat against the stone floor. Though not especially muscular, Langdon is certainly on the taller side. His shoulders are wide. He cuts an imposing figure but now he is laid out before her. It is strange to see such a large man made to seem so small and humbled.

Silence falls and Mallory is vaguely aware that perhaps Langdon may be in trouble. His body is still, blood still seeping out of him. It drips onto the floor. The human body can only lose so much blood before it’s K.O. She knows she should do something. Pressure on the wound. Elevate the limbs. But then, something rumbles through the room, not a sound, not even a physical feeling. It is something in the soul and growls. Her stomach drops. He begins to speak again but this time is different. His voice is harsh, nearly cracking. He is impassioned.

“Audi me, Pater. Audi fili tuorum fidelium. Quaerite me sapientia tua et ductu peregit opus in hac hora mea. Invoco te. Invoco te.”

The air seems to go still. What was once a room crackling with energy, is suddenly drained.

“Invoco te,” he demands.

As soon as the words leave his mouth, all the flames of the candles flare. They climb up to nearly a foot tall then roll back down. His head snaps up, eyes completely dark. She gasps. His mouth drops open as if he is stunned as well. He is seeing something beyond her.

“Father?” he says like a child.

The flames flare once more, higher than before and Mallory shields her face from the heat. A gust of wind rushes past her and then she is floating in darkness.

“Langdon?”

Nothing. Every candle has been extinguished and she had been plunged into pitch darkness. Her first instinct is to turn back towards the antechamber. If she can make it to the door, there should still be light outside. She turns and reaches out, trying to find a wall, the door, anything but her hands find nothing. She steps forward and slips. She hits the floor hard and cries out. A warm, metallic taste blooms in her mouth. Her tongue teeth ache. The floor is wet, sticky beneath her hand. She knows what it is. The smell hits her and the taste is in her mouth. Mallory closes her eyes and tries to concentrate. She remembers the candles on the wall, the candles on the floor. In her mind, she reaches out.

Please. Please.

Invoco te, whispers the thing in her head and she feels warmth seep into her.

Not from the blood. The blood has gone cold at this point, congealing beneath her hands and knees. It’s something else. Like the sun, like a fire. It is blooming in her chest like someone has breathed hotly between her breasts.

“Invoco te,” she whispers and opens her eyes to light.

Not blazing and bright like before, only a few candles have been lit but it’s enough to see the outline of the door in front of her. It is enough to see the blood on the floor. She crawls forward a little ways, she’s halfway through the antechamber when she looks back.

She could leave him. He is laid out on his side, facing away from her, completely still. There’s not much hope left for him. He’s close to being, if not already, bled out. He’s a lost cause. There’s no point.

Leave him. Let him die. Homo homini lupus.

But Mallory is no wolf. She is thinking of his eyes and how they crinkle at the sides. She is thinking of his mouth and how it smiles crooked. Of his laugh. Of his perfect face that is so boyish when unburdened by whatever grand role he is playing. She thinks of the way he said father.

Mallory slips and stumbles to her knees. She tries to stand but she quickly Her hands are covered in dark blood. Her knees and shins are even worse but she crawls forward.

“Langdon,” she hisses at him. “You have to get up.”

From where she’s standing, Mallory can’t tell if he’s still breathing.

“Michael?”

Her arms and legs wobble as she crawls forward. The potential that he’s dead is becoming more and more likely. The floor is slick beneath her but she continues forward. He’s less than a foot in front and she can see him clearly even in the dim light. His chest rises and falls and Mallory’s breath catches in her throat. Then it happens again and she bursts forward.

“Michael, can you hear me,” she takes his shoulders in her hand and after some effort turns him over into her lap. “We have to put pressu-”

The wounds are gone. There’s no trace of the long gashes he’d inflicted on himself other than the blood. The blood, it’s everywhere. On her dress, across his chest. His head is in her lap, somehow his hair, even coated in blood, is beautiful. The gold in it still shines true. They are a dark red pieta.

“Did you see?” he whispers.

Mallory is still dumbfounded that she missed his question. His hand on her arm is what shakes her out of her stupor. He is gazing up at her now. His eyes are back to their normal blue, so clear. He lifts his hand from her arm to ghost his fingers over her face streaking her red. Mallory balks. The bitter smell of blood fills her nose and turns her stomach.

“Did you see him, Mallory? My father?”

He sounds like a fevered child and even more so when he laughs at the sight of her face.

“It looks like you’re crying, tears of blood,” he murmurs as his eyes begin to flutter. “Don’t cry, Mallory.”

He sighs and his eyes roll back into his head.

“Help,” she whispers though her voice barely carries.

“Someone please help us.”

Aaaaaaand. yarp. It's fanfic writing month! so I'm gonna try to bust out as many chapters as possible for you guys. My goal is an update a week (not including this chapter). So drop me a line. I know I seem glib but honestly, your comments are the only thing keeping me going so lemme know yall are out there, yeah?

Next time:

Mead gets her say.

[spideyxchelle]

Hi! I read that you accept prompts and I decided to send you one, I hope you like it and decide to write it... Prompt: "Oh, that's what you wanted, I really thought you were going to kiss me..." Take all the time you need to write it! ☺️

okay, so i have been thinking about this prompt for a couple of months. it was originally gonna be a headcanon. but now its more in like a ficlet form. some mood music for y’all to angst at with me. noble peter is the worst kind. 

“To be a superhero isto sacrifice the man behind the mask for the masses”, Tony told Peter once. Andfor nearly a year Peter thought he could have both—Peter Parker and theSpider-Man—even after he lost half of his team in the War Against Thanos. UntilTony’s ghostly words came back to haunt him. He learned there was only room inhis life for Spider-Man when he stood at the back of the rain-soaked crowd atGwen’s funeral. Her family stood as still as statues curtained in black battle regalia,the uniform of mourners, as their only daughter was lowered into the ground.Peter felt whatever hope of a normal life get buried beneath the dirt with herthat day.

He let dreams die andfocused himself solely on what he could do for the world, not something astrivial and unimportant as Peter Parker’s future.

Until Michellehappened.

She walloped over hislife, leaving bruises tattered on his heart with every laugh and eyeroll she carelesslytossed in his direction. She was magnificent. She was brilliant. She wasutterly out of reach.

Michelle had an air ofold Hollywood about her. He was convinced she could enchant an entire nationwith her illusive, a-touch-away-from-wicked smile. She was too large for lifeas if she was made for the silver screen, if only to attempt to capture even anounce of her magic. And sometimes, when she looked at him over her shoulder andthe light caught her just right, he could hear abluesy piano. He knew the song it played— the woeful melody of the poor sap whohad fallen in love with her.

If they were a movie,she would look at him one day with purposefully executed wind whipping through herhair and her lips would part just so and she would realize that sheloved him the way he loved her. Life was not a movie, even if she reminded himof the starlets of days long gone. No, reality was much crueler. They werefriends. And he was a superhero with a mission, a duty, a promise to protectthose that did not have the power to protect themselves. There was no room forher in that story. Perhaps, he often thought, that was why fate killed Gwen. Theuniverse was keeping him lonely to keep him focused.

“Tell me somethingtrue,” she mused from his bed at the upstate facility. With Tony gone, withmost of their team gone, nobody cared much that Peter brought his friendsaround. Besides, the facility was too quiet nowadays. Michelle brought asparkle of life to the beige, sterile walls.

He chucked a web atthe box of books piled on his desk, “Some sloths die because they think theirarm is a branch so they grab it and then fall to their deaths.”

Michelle snorted androlled over on her back. He imagined she was projecting a kaleidoscope of colorson his ceiling. “No,” she said, “Something true. About you.”

He gazed at herunruly, curled hair hanging lamely off the side of his bed. If she invoked oldHollywood it was in everything but her hair. She was too unkempt, too real tobe painted-on glamorous and he adored her. “What kind of something?”

“I dunno,” she hummed,“The first thing that comes to your mind.”

He wanted to say hername because she was, at any given moment, the only thing on his mind. Hehesitated before offering her a consolation answer, “The Vision used to sleepon my ceiling at the facility.”

She choked laughterand sat up like a shot, “What?”

“What?” he teasinglyrepeated.

Michelle rolled hereyes but her nose wrinkled in delight, “He used to sleep on your ceiling?”

“Yeah,” Peter nodded.He propelled himself out of his chair and crossed to sit on the edge of hisbed. He grabbed her hand and guided it to point to the corner. The contactbetween them was enough to make him falter, but he swallowed and pushed downhis hopes and dreams. Way back to where he buried them. “There. In that corner.”Peter turned his head to look at MJ and she was staring at him with more desperateintention than he had ever seen. His heart played an entire drum line. “Em-“

She shivered at hernickname and adjusted to sit on her knees. They were close now. So close. Andhis hand was still holding herself pointed toward the corner. His traitorousthumb brushed across the back of her hand. Her sooty eyelashes fluttered as sheglanced between his eyes and lips, “Yea?”

“I-“ he attemptedwords but they only came out as breathless stutters. He cursed himself for hislack of self-control. Peter reluctantly let their hands drop and he could smellthe smoke of the projector burning the film of their epic love story. He let itblaze. There was too much at stake to fall head first into love again. And, thehorrible, self- conscious part of him, whispered that she did not feel abouthim the way he felt about her. “Nothing,” he settled on.

Her shoulders fell andthe hand he dropped wiped sweat on the leg of her jeans, “Right, of course.”

“I just,” he hastilyadded, “I just wanted to show you where Vision slept.”

She turned herpiercing, movie magic eyes on him, “Oh,that’s what you wanted?” Her sarcasm bit at his skin like frostbite. “I really thought you were going to kiss me.“ 

There was white noise ringing in his ears. “What?”

“I’d have you,” shesaid slowly, forcing his eyes to meet hers in the misty mood of midnight, “superheroor not. If that’s what this is about, Peter. I don’t…I don’t feel this way justbecause you’re a superhero.”

He could feel hischeeks flush under the distress of his deep-rooted upset. She wanted him. Forfuck’s sake. What kind of god damn cosmic joke? This was like some kind of oldmovie. And he had seen enough of them play out tragically in black and white toknow his next line. He wanted to pull her into his arms and bury his nose intoher hair, breathing her in forever. Instead, he knew he had to let her go, here’s-to-looking-at-you-kidHumphrey Boggart style. He weakly admitted, “It’s because of Spider-Man we can’t.”He repeated, broken, “We can’t.”

“What?”

“We can’t,” he saidmore firmly. “It’s not. We’re not. We can’t.”

“Bullshit,” MJ practicallybared her teeth. “That’s some bullshit, Peter Parker.”

“Shh,” he said gently,clutching at her hands hopelessly. He made himself a fleeting promise toindulge in this for one moment and then to let it go. Movies, remember? “It’sokay.”

Em yanked her handsout of the ones clasping hers, “No. Fuck you, Peter. You don’t get to just…justdecide. What about me?”

“This is for you,” hecountered. “To keep you safe. I can’t have you and be him.”

He stalled when Empressed her forehead against his, an inch from ecstasy. “Then have me,” shesaid between those ill-fated lips.

It took more couragethan any singular moment of his life to pull away. It took more strength thanany mission he had ever pulled off, more sacrifice than the entire loss ofThanos’ War, “I can’t.”  

She gazed up at himfor half a second. The longest singular unit of time to ever pass in thehistory of the universe surged between them. And then, he knew she sensed herbattle was lost, he was lost to her. There was nothing left to say, no wittyexit line written to perfectly compliment whatever weepy score some Hollywoodcomposer could whip up; no, this moment was completely and totally theirs.

And her leaving wassilent.

And heavy.

And hopeless.