#agentscullied

     To the passerby, Tessa looked every bit the part of a twenty-something New Yorker. Her jeans were torn at the knee, her sweater shredded at the back, but the style had been perfectly modern before she’d been attacked. Even her hair had been styled in a more modern fashion, pinned up in a loose bun, a few strands falling out of the pins to frame her face. The bracelet of pearls remained on her wrist, as did the jade pendant that hung from her neck. There was little to indicate she was anything but a college student. Well, beyond the grievous injuries. 

       She cried out as she made it to the door, her fist coming up to pound the knocker as she held herself up, shoulder pressed against the cool, rough brick. “Magnus,” she whimpered, needing him to hurry. She straightened as the door opened, relief flooding her veins for half a second before turning to steel. Ice danced up her spine. She gaped, frozen in place, as her blurry vision took in the sight of a young man near her age. His hair, the angle of his cheekbones. Tessa choked on a sob welling in her throat, her eyes too heavy, grays darkening as tears filled them. “Will,” She whispered, her hand reaching out for him. What was Will doing in New York? What had Magnus done? She didn’t understand. 

      Her limbs were so heavy. She heard Alec say something about her eyes, and a small smile tugged at her lips. “You love my eyes,” She teased despite, so certain William had made a comment about them to alleviate the tension, to ease both of their worries. Her knees buckled, and she tumbled, her wounds scraping open again as her knees connected with the cement. “Will, you have to summon him.” She pleaded breathlessly, head spinning. It would be okay now. Will was there. He’d know what to do. Thank the Angel for Magnus Bane, wherever he’d gone. 

        𝙄𝙏  𝙒𝘼𝙎𝙉’𝙏  𝙋𝘼𝙍𝙏𝙄𝘾𝙐𝙇𝘼𝙍𝙇𝙔  𝙐𝙉𝙐𝙎𝙐𝘼𝙇  𝙁𝙊𝙍  𝙋𝙀𝙊𝙋𝙇𝙀  𝙏𝙊 𝘾𝙊𝙈𝙀  𝙆𝙉𝙊𝘾𝙆𝙄𝙉𝙂  𝘼𝙏  𝙈𝘼𝙂𝙉𝙐𝙎’  𝘿𝙊𝙊𝙍  --  𝙄𝙉  𝙁𝘼𝘾𝙏,  𝙄𝙏  𝙊𝙁𝙏𝙀𝙉  𝙃𝘼𝙋𝙋𝙀𝙉𝙀𝘿  𝘼𝙏  𝙏𝙃𝙀  𝙈𝙊𝙎𝙏  𝙄𝙉𝙊𝙋𝙋𝙊𝙍𝙏𝙐𝙉𝙀  𝙊𝙁  𝙏𝙄𝙈𝙀𝙎,  𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙐𝙂𝙃  𝘼𝙇𝙀𝘾  𝙆𝙉𝙀𝙒  𝙄𝙏  𝙒𝘼𝙎  𝙋𝘼𝙍𝙏  𝙊𝙁  𝙒𝙃𝘼𝙏  𝙈𝘼𝙂𝙉𝙐𝙎  𝘿𝙄𝘿  𝘼𝙉𝘿  𝙏𝙃𝘼𝙏  𝙄𝙏  𝙒𝘼𝙎𝙉’𝙏  𝙇𝙄𝙆𝙀𝙇𝙔  𝙏𝙊  𝘾𝙃𝘼𝙉𝙂𝙀  𝙊𝙉  𝙃𝙄𝙎  𝘼𝘾𝘾𝙊𝙐𝙉𝙏.  he’d  grown  accustomed  to  strange  visitors  making  appearances,  though  they  didn’t  say  much  about  what  it  was  that  they  wanted  from  magnus  around  alec,  only  that  they  needed  his  services  and  they  were  willing  to  pay.  sometimes  he  felt  bad  about  the  fact  that  he  was  making  magnus’  life  harder  business-wise  because  his  patrons  were  worried  about  the  SHADOWHUNTER  hanging  around  the  warlock’s  residence.  alec  could  understand  where  they  came  from  in  their  hesitence,  but  alec  knew  where  to  draw  a  line  in  the  sand  and  it  wasn’t  over  any  spell  or  potion  that  magnus  was  likely  to  agree  to.

        he  was  in  gear  --  having  not  yet  changed  clothes  from  patrol  --  and  he’d  agreed  to  wait  for  magnus  to  return  from  the  shower  on  account  of  a  potion  that  had  required  hydrated  essence  of  guppy  that  had  belched  a  foul  spray  which  had  splatted  the  nearby  area,  including  over  magnus.  alec  had  to  admit,  there  was  still  a  smell  lingering  around  that  was  something  like  week-old  fish  with  the  potent  overtone  of  incense  and  rotting  wood.  it  wasn’t  the  worst  smell  that  he’d  ever  encountered  but  it  also  wasn’t  something  he  wanted  to  smell  like  when  he  inevitably  returned  to  the  institute  later.  he’d  deal  with  that  when  it  came  to  it.

        his  hand  closed  around  the  handle  of  the  door  in  time  to  hear  a  whimper  on  the  other  side  and  alec  frowned  in  response,  wrenching  the  door  open  to  find  a  brown  haired  woman  standing  on  the  doorstep,  pale  in  the  light,  and  certainly  worse  for  ware.  he  blinked  in  respose  to  her  words,  dark  brows  coming  together  in  confusion,  but  before  he  could  ask  if  she  was  okay  she  began  to  fall.  blue  eyes  widened  in  alarm  as  she  collapsed  and  alec’s  arms  reached  out  instinctively  to  prevent  her  from  hurting  herself,  catching  her  before  she  could  hit  the  hard  ground  beneath  her.  it  was  then,  with  his  arms  around  her  thin  frame  that  alec  realised  that  the  woman,  she  looked  about  his  age  in  truth,  was  bleeding  and  wounded  more  than  she  had  first  appeared.

     *looks between @sicsemper​​​ and @agentscullied​​​‘s Cullens.*

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he feels like the king’s glorified errand boy -- for henry could have easily told one of his attendants to pass along this information to the queen. charles suspects that the king can tell just how much charles dislikes anne boleyn and she him, and so he has seen fit to put the two of them together at every turn as if their shared presence will somehow draw some sort of affection between the two. 

charles exhales through his nose as he waits to be let into the queen’s rooms -- once he’s announced, he steps in and bows. “your majesty -- i have a message for you from the king.”

           it had been a month. one month, and he still couldn’t sleep through the night. at least he wasn’t waking the others up with his nightmares anymore. there were four other men in the medical ward. one had been in the stalag luft with him for the last three months, the other two had been wounded in battle. the three of them were all out for some air when she walked in. which, even if she clearly wasn’t in uniform, women were rare on RAF bases. he certainly didn’t recognize this woman, and she had the look of someone who wasn’t sure she was allowed to be there. ‘ only staff and patients are allowed in the medical ward. ‘

      “ And you made quite the mistake, commander. Wicked Grace demands subtlety from its players, not bullishness. ” Josephine didn’t wish to gloat. Not really. But in amongst all of their discussions and disagreements ---- sometimes certainly passionate in nature, though always well-meaning ---- of strategy in the path that the Inquisition should take over past months, nothing had managed to unsettle Cullen Rutherford like being beaten and shamed in a game of Wicked Grace. For a man so calm and collected, even if fears lingered from his years as a Templar, it had been a refreshing sight to witness, and even more satisfying knowing that it came from underestimating his Antivan opponent. Who would she be if she didn’t bring it up at least once?