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iliveiloveiwrite · 4 years

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freedom, books, flowers, and the moon.

A/N: Here is my entry in @approved-by-dentists ‘s follower celebration! Congrats again on 400, lovely! My prompt was Bookstore AU - so here we go! I’m worried that it doesn't entirely fit the prompt but there is a bookstore! So I'm halfway there! The book I mention is The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern (I always recommend this book - read it, love it) and I had to use Yorkshire because Yorkshire is home to the Brontes and I live in Bronte country so I had to do it. Nevertheless I hope you all enjoy! As always, I love you all!

Summary: “With freedom, books, flowers and the moon, who could not be happy?” - Oscar Wilde.

Pairing: Harry Potter x Fem!Reader

Warnings: mentions of war, mentions of grief, mentions of book hangovers.

Word count: 4.1k

For many, the second wizarding war had been less than a year long. They had experienced less than a year of the insecurity, the anxiety and the dread that goes through everyone’s mind in time of war.

For Harry, the second wizarding war had been a lot longer. He had been battling the Dark Lord mind to mind for years, and after his defeat, he felt exhausted. He was not only drained physically – the final duel taking its toll on him. But he was drained mentally, for all of a sudden, the space in his mind that he had shared with the darkest wizard in a century, was free. Harry could no longer feel his presence within him; the dark part of him that festered like an open wound.

It was a good thing, that he could no longer feel him. Harry knew that. But still, a part of him lingered too long on the idea that this was all a sense of false security. He had been living on the adrenaline of the chase for too long, and now that it was leaving his body, Harry had no clue what he needed to do. What he wanted to do.

He had the option of becoming an auror, and his teachers had supported him with that career choice. But a small part of him wondered whether he would be damaging himself further by throwing himself back into the fray to round up the last remaining Death Eaters.

It’s Hermione who plants this idea of him going away in his head. She has watched him battle internally with the different possible paths of his future; she had watch him argue and argue with his mind until he still had no answer.

Hermione tells him one night, over tea at the Burrow, “Harry, why don’t you get away for a while?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean go somewhere. Take some time away to heal; to come to terms with the last few years of your life. We’ve spent so long on the move, always having to be aware, that you haven’t had the time to process your emotions for everything.”

“Where would I go?” He whispers, fear creeping into his voice.

“I’m not sure,” Hermione says softly, “Let’s look at a map.” With a flick of her wand, a map of the British Isles lays itself out in front of them. “Where would you fancy?”

“I’m not sure,” Harry confesses, eyes pouring over the details of the maps – taking in the numerous counties.

“Okay. Close your eyes and point on the count of three.” Hermione states, “Are you ready?”

Harry closes his eyes, shuffling forward on the chair, “I’m ready.”

“3…2…1.” Hermione counts, and Harry’s finger circles the map once before landing.

Harry refuses to open his eyes. He’s in disbelief that he’s let himself decide his future on a three, two, one countdown. He’s been impulsive before but now he’s wary.

He doesn’t want to look. “Where am I going then?”

He can hear Hermione shuffle to look at where his finger has landed; her silence giving nothing away.

“Hermione?” He asks, slight panic setting in.

“Harry, take a look.”

Harry opens his eyes, blinking quickly before focusing on the map and his finger.

His finger points to a small village in Yorkshire. A place he had never been to.

Harry falls back into the chair with a sigh, “I guess that’s where I’m going.”

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

Spring:

Harry moves in the spring.

He spends the final weeks of winter with the Weasleys being stopped at all times of the day to be told why he shouldn’t be doing this; that he could heal just as well in the wizarding world.

He loves their attempts to get him to stay, but they don’t entirely understand why he needs to go.

He arrives in the small Yorkshire village on a bright day in March; blossoms have started to bloom on the trees and in a week, they would be covered, filling their air with their sweet and floral scent. His misses everyone strongly; feeling it keenly within his chest, but he knows how desperately needed to get away.

A month into his arrival at the small village in the moors, Harry feels he has settled very well into country life. He’s found his routine and he feels as if he’s beginning to heal from the trauma of the war and before. The clean, country air clears his lungs and his daily walks through the village has mind numb enough and his body tired enough that he can sleep through most of the night without waking once from a nightmare.

He still struggles; his still has those moments where he can’t be certain the war has finished and he’s safe but the longer he spends in the village, the less they happen.

A month into his arrival at the small village, Harry realises that he needs to thank Hermione for what she did for him that night at the Burrow. She saw his suffering and gave him a solution.

Walking through the green, he spies the small bookshop nestled on the corner of a small side street. If there was anything on this planet that Hermione loved more than Ron, it was a book.

Harry pauses for an instant outside the door to take in the window display. Both windows, and even the door window, have been painted with a cherry blossom display to mark the true entrance into spring. The blossoms fall from the tree in swirls of pinks and red, falling over the books perched on the windowsill inside – the personal recommendations for the season.

The bell above the door chimes as Harry enters the shop and he is immediately overwhelmed with the smell of old books, worn leather, and what he think is lavender. It is comforting though. He had never been much of a reader other than Quidditch strategy manuals, but something about this little shop has him feeling at home among the countless shelves piled high with books. He takes a few steps further into the shop, eyes running over title after title on multiple paperbacks and hardbacks.

Harry runs his fingers over the spines of the leather-bound volumes but stops when he realises that he hasn’t any idea of the type of book Hermione enjoys to read. She had textbooks in her hands so often at Hogwarts, but Harry can’t recall the last time he had seen her with a fiction book open in her lap.

He frowns, glaring at the books.

“Can I help you?” A lilting voice sounds from behind the stacks, “You look to be in a bad mood with my books, and that can’t possibly be right.”

“This is your shop?”

“For the last year it has been, before that I used to just work weekends.”

“It’s very homely.” Harry compliments.

You chuckle, “It’s overstocked but it adds charm and character, plus the more books there are, the stronger the old book smell and who can resist that! So stranger, how can I help you?”

Harry blushes slightly, “My name is Harry, you can call me Harry. I can’t decide what to buy for a friend.”

You come out from behind the shelves, and Harry’s eyes rake over you – taking in the nose piercing and the small tattoos peeking out of the sleeves of your thin sweater.

“Well Harry, I’m (Y/N). What does your friend like to read?”

“I don’t really know; I only ever saw her read textbooks at school to keep her grades up.”

You smile understandingly; indecision was something you encountered often in your shop, “Alright, let’s see what I can drum up. Would you like to follow me?”

Harry nods in answer but you don’t see. You’ve already turned away from him making your way through the complicated maze of shelves. Harry follows blindly, keeping his eyes on the back of your head.

You stop by a shelf that isn’t as occupied as the others. In fact, compared to the other shelves, this one is empty of books. Only a few books stand on the shelf, wide gaps between them.

Your eyes run over their spines; head tilted slightly; you think before pulling a book from its space. “I think this one will do,” you murmur, holding the book out for Harry to take.

“Agnes Grey?” He reads from the front cover.

“You’re in Bronte country, you have to know that right?”

“I’ve never heard of them,” He admits to which you gasp, holding a hand to your chest.

“I am hurt, good sir. You’ll have to buy this book for your friend now.”

Harry smiles, “I think I might. If she has read anything by the Bronte’s, I’m not to know.”

“It’s a rare edition as well. There’s only around a fifty or so copies left so I’m making sure it’s going to good home.”

“It definitely is. My friend worships books.”

You lead Harry to the till where the book is rang through and paid for. “Let me know what she thinks? She must be very special for you to buy this.”

Harry takes the book with a smile, “I’ll be back to let you know.”

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

Summer:

Spring bleeds into summer, and the floral scent from spring has turned into something headier – pulling Harry out bed earlier, keeping him outside for longer. Each day he walks past your shop, waving back at you as you wave to him from your seat by the till. Harry returns to your shop when he received Hermione’s owl thanking him for his gift and asking where he found such a rare edition.

Harry was more than happy to pass on Hermione’s compliments to you, enjoying the way you light up at his friend’s words.

“What about you? Do you read?” You ask him.

Harry shakes his head. At the look on your face, Harry suddenly wishes he had read every single book available to him and Hogwarts. “You’ll have to recommend something to me.” He suggests.

You disappear between the stacks at his words, reading title after title before finding one you think he would like.

You give a shout of success when you find the book you were looking for. You refuse to show Harry the title as you place it gently into a paper bag.

“I know you’ll like this, but you have to promise me one thing.”

“Which is?” Harry replies, curiosity lacing his tone.

“You have to promise me to come back and tell me if you enjoyed it.”

“I promise.” Harry replies, too fast… much too fast, but it doesn’t seem like you mind.

You smile at him, “I’ll see you soon, hopefully.”

Harry reaches for his wallet, having every intention on paying you but your hand on his arm has him freezing, “No payment needed,” You state firmly, “Just come back and tell me what you think.”

Harry thanks you, which you wave away, before leaving. He hightails it back to his home where he makes himself a pot of coffee and sits down at his kitchen table with your brown paper bag in front of him. He feels nervous as he opens the bag, hands wrapping around a thick paperback.

The book cover is predominantly black, but there are two white figures on the front surrounded by objects found in a circus. Harry take a sip of his coffee before opening to the first page: ‘The circus arrives without warning.’

He doesn’t move for the rest of the day; he remains sat at his kitchen table in awe of the book in front of him. He finishes the coffee but doesn’t get up to make another post for fear of being pulled away from the story so soon. Harry feels as if the author herself has been in contact with magic and understands the base wonder that comes with it. His eyes pour over the pages, committing to memory the love story and the saga of The Night Circus.

He closes the book hours later, feeling both bereft and satisfied at the end.

For a long time, Harry stares at the book wondering how a collection of pages bound in black and white could hold him so tightly to the fictional world.

He goes to bed filled with happiness but also empty from the fact that he had finished it so soon. Thoughts of the books have him falling into a sleep wherein he doesn’t wake screaming from nightmares, but rather dreams of striped monochromatic circus tents and caramel popcorn.

Harry paces his living room until it’s a suitable time to run to your bookshop. The moment the clock strikes nine, he’s out the door, putting on his jacket as he runs. He holds the book in his hands as if it’s made of glass; as if one wrong move, and the dream world he entered from the first page, will be shattered.

The relief Harry feels when he sees your shop light on spurs him faster. He bustles in through the door, giving you a fright. “Harry!”

“What is this book?” He practically shouts, holding the cover up for you to see.

You grin widely, “So you finished it?”

“I didn’t move until I had!” He cries.

“So you enjoyed it then?”

“I loved it. I’ve never read a book like this before.”

“I knew you would. The minute I saw the cover I knew you would enjoy the book.”

“I just couldn’t put it down.”

You nod, knowing that exact feeling so well it was second nature, “Have I brought you to the dark side then, Harry?”

Harry grins toothily, “I don’t know. What else do you have?”

He visits your shop every day after that, bringing you lunch and a takeaway cup of tea. You admitted to him early on in your friendship that you got so caught up in the stacks of books that you often forgot to eat until it was closing time and you were ravenous, so Harry makes it his mission to bring you lunch.

He had never been much of a cook; had never needed to with the house-elves at Hogwarts but for you, he could scrape together a couple of sandwiches and a flask of tea.

Your bookshop gets more traffic through summer due to the tourist season – people come from far and wide to walk the moors and step where the Bronte sisters once did, each imagining their own Heathcliff or Mr. Rochester. Harry hasn’t seen you happier than when you recommend a book to a customer knowing that it is the right fit. You greet every customer with a smile and give them personalised recommendations if they’re struggling with their choice.

The window display changes too. A summer scene now covers the windows and door; bright colours depict a summer sunset at the beach whilst the books recommended this season are lovingly placed on the windowsill.

Summer also brings with it the change in your relationship. A close friendship develops between the two of you; you even going so far to invite Harry over to your flat above the bookshop. Harry’s nervous as he enters your home, but soon falls in love with it.

Pressed, dried flowers decorate the walls in frames. They litter the walls in their varying sizes. Harry finds himself wandering over to them, checking if his seven years of Herbology was to fail him. Irises, rose petals, lavender – he can identify those easily. However, there are some that he feels certain that Professor Sprout or Neville Longbottom wouldn’t be able to identify.

You notice him studying your walls, “It’s a hobby of mine along with the books.”

“It’s wonderful.”

“Thank you,” You murmur, shyly, “My grandmother taught me; she loved the quote by Oscar Wilde.”

“I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a disadvantage.”

“’With freedom, books, flowers and the moon, who could not be happy?’ She lived by this quote. It’s their bookshop below us, you see, and she taught me how to press flowers and she would always find something romantic to say about the moon. My grandmother was a free spirit that even my grandfather could not tame, but why would you want to?”

“She sounds like an incredible woman.”

“She was, I miss her.”

“She’d be proud of how you’re running the shop.”

“Thank you, Harry. Now would you like a drink? I have coffee, tea, hot chocolate…”

“I’ll have a coffee please.” Harry says, sitting down on the aged couch. Your flat is a collision of personalities; he can clearly see your grandparents influence among your own decoration and it creates something entirely unique.

You come back into living room with two mugs of coffee in either hand. You give one to harry before sitting next to him. He smiles at you in thanks before asking, “What are you reading currently?”

From the way your eyes light up as you talk about your current read along with your love for your shop, Harry begins to feel himself slowly fall in love with you.

He can feel the change in the air after that night. His feelings for you are well established within him. You help him feel hope for the future; for a better world – and he wants to share that world with you. but he feels the pressure of his secret weighing down on him.

He hasn’t told you out of fear; he can’t gauge your reaction to finding out he’s a wizard and classed as a war-hero. He’s worried to tell you for the panic that it could potentially ruin the budding relationship between you.

Harry confesses under candlelight. A summer storm knocked out the power, so he helps you light your large collection of candles before lying on the floor of your flat next to you.

There’s something pure about the atmosphere, with being surrounded by tens of candles that Harry feels he needs absolution from keeping this from you for so long. He whispers his confession; tells you everything. From his birth until now. He hopes and hopes for repentance among the flickering flames of the candles.

You’re silent through the exchange; letting Harry say his piece. Giving him the chance to unload the weight of the world upon his shoulders as if he were mighty Atlas.

In the end, what Harry says makes no difference to you. You had fallen in love with him over the short time you had known him, and what he confesses doesn’t affect your feelings in any shape of form. If anything, they make them stronger for it shows how much Harry must trust you to tell you something so deep and personal.

You turn onto your side once Harry has fallen silent and is waiting for your reply. You brush a hand across his forehead, pushing his hair back, looking at the faded pink scar in the shape of a lightning bolt. “You have been through a lot, haven’t you?”

Harry closes his eyes at the feel of your hand running through his hair. He hasn’t felt like this for so long; he cannot remember the last time he had felt this relaxed and safe at the same time. He whispers this to you, “I haven’t felt this safe in a long time.”

“I’m glad I make you feel safe.”

Harry turns onto his side, running a finger down the length of your face. He doesn’t miss how you shiver at his touch. He leans in slightly, intoxicated by your very presence but he pulls away at the last possible moment to ask, “Can I kiss you?”

Your free hand pulls him in by his shirt collar, “I’d thought you’d never ask,” You laugh before pressing your lips to his.

In the few months that he has known you, he has fallen head over heels for you. You help to calm the figurative storm that rages within him. In the little flat above the bookshop he has come to adore, he whispers that he loves you.

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

Autumn:

Summer gives way to autumn and the leaves begin to fall from the trees in earnest. The world returns to orange brown. Your relationship with Harry goes from strength to strength; you’re there to help with the nightmares and the panic that paralyses him now and then. It starts slow, using the bookshop as common ground to get to know each other better.

You decorate the display windows of the bookshop, bringing in Harry to help, though he would have helped you whether you had asked him or not. “Tell me again why we’re painting the windows?” he asks.

You flick a clean paintbrush at him, “Because Harry, it is autumn and autumn means one thing: Halloween. I do it every season; spring, summer, autumn and winter.”

Harry frowns, focusing his attention on painting the outline of a pumpkin, “I’ve never celebrated Halloween.”

“You haven’t? Why?”

“My parents were killed on Halloween, and my aunt and uncle never took me trick or treating anyway.”

You step down from the ladder, placing the paint pot to one side and wiping your hands on your apron. Your hand pulls his away from the window, focusing his attention on you. “I didn’t know, Harry, I’m sorry.” You murmur, wrapping him in a hug.

“You weren’t to know,” He sighs, hugging you tightly back.

You draw back slightly, still not letting him go, “How about this: we spend the day of Halloween mourning your parents, and we spend the evening eating ourselves sick on chocolate and sweets?”

“You’d spend the day with me?”

“I wouldn’t want to do anything else.”

So Harry spends his Halloween with you.

He spends his morning with you in the bookshop, stocking the shelves and reminiscing. You asked him if it would be too painful for him to talk about his parents, but he reassured you that his memories are few and far between so all he truly knows is what he has been told. For the rest of the day, he wanders between the bookshelves, telling you the stories of the Marauders.

“It would make a good book,” You gasp, breathless from laughter as Harry finishes his latest story.

“Do you think?”

“I think that if it was a book, I would definitely read it.”

Harry thinks over your words for a while. He wouldn’t ever write the book; his memories of his family are too precious for him to share with the world but he’s happy to share them all with you. As he dawdles in the shop, inhaling the comforting smell of worn leather and lavender, he thinks that he has never been more grateful for a bookshop in all his life. He feels almost whole again; your shop and you are helping to heal the ever-shrinking hole in his heart.

In the evening, he presses chocolatey kisses to your lips, interrupting you reading the same book that had started this all those months ago. You laugh into his mouth, the book falling to the side as you adjust your positions. You taste like Halloween sweets and he’s entirely addicted to it.

Harry wakes on the first of November with a clearer sense of the path he wants his life to travel down. As he watches you sleep, he knows that it involves books and you – the freedom you offer. Harry watches the sun rise across your face with a new found sense of purpose; he wants to stay here, and he wants to stay with you. He’s lived in this Yorkshire village for months, but he knows now where he wants to plant his roots.

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

Winter:

Winter brings with it ice and snow, but it also brings with the year anniversary of his decision to move to the sleepy Yorkshire village.

Hermione and Ron begin to visit often; having not done so earlier to give Harry the chance to heal on his own. Harry introduces them to you on their second visit; you were full of nerves, but they quickly welcomed you into their group.

Hermione and Ron visit more now; Hermione having set up a book exchange with you.

The display windows have been painted to depict a winter scene; a log cabin with smoke, evergreen trees covered in lights. It looks like a perfect piece of heaven. Little did those who admired the window scene know, that his little piece of heaven involved this small corner bookshop opened each morning with love.

The time he spends in your bookshop has only increased; he tries to spend every waking moment with you, choosing to spend the nights with you in your flat above the shop.

Harry watches you as you help customers or as you dawdle aimlessly through the aisles in a moment of quiet. Your feet pad quietly on the carpeted floor and Harry can hear you hum the tune of a song so often played on the radio.

Harry has never really been a fan of books, but he is a fan of you. And he could watch you in your bookshop all day long.

***************

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cherienymphe · 4 years

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Claimed (Alpha!Steve x Omega!Reader)

WARNINGS: NON-CON! {IF THIS OFFENDS YOU PLEASE DNI! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED}, Jealous!Steve, hints of college!Peter x Reader

Summary: A mission goes awry and Steve loses control.

“Alright, Tony. We’re heading back, now.”

Steve released a tired sigh while Peter raked his hand through his hair, and even you fought to hide your own annoyance. Another bust, another waste of a mission. You didn’t know how, but Tony had gotten intel on a terrorist group, possibly HYDRA related, that was plotting an attack.

The three of you were practically in the middle of nowhere, Sam and Nat waiting back on the ship, ready to jump in if needed. The only thing you’d found was an abandoned rundown cabin full of weapons but was otherwise empty. This wasn’t your first mission that turned out to be a waste of time, but this was the first time you’d been annoyed by it.

You were antsy. On edge.

“Let’s go. Tony’s on his way to clear out the cabin,” Steve commanded.

You blinked, squirming a bit at the authoritative tone in his voice. Peter noticed and tilted his head at you with a frown.

“Are you okay?” he asked, falling into step beside you as the both of you followed Steve.

You swallowed, unsure if you should be honest or not.

“Yeah…yeah, I’m fine.”

“(Y/N)…,” he trailed off when he placed his hand on your arm, frown deepening.

You noticed the look on his face, and you frowned too, eyes wide.

“What? What is it?”

The two of you had stopped walking, now, and Steve had yet to notice. Either that or he was unconcerned. Peter took a deep breath, lips trembling as his eyes flickered from you to Steve and back.

“Peter…”

He was worrying you, and the familiar ache that was beginning to bloom in your stomach started to worry you too.

“I can smell you,” he whispered.

You stumbled back, eyes comically wide now as you registered his words. That couldn’t be possible. Had your suppressants worn off? Was something triggering this unexpected heat?

“A-are you sure?”

Peter nodded, pulling you close as the two of you resumed your trek.

“I don’t think he can smell it yet, but my senses are going crazy,” he whispered.

You forced your heart to slow, blinking away tears as a fear like no other began to fester. Peter, Tony, and Nat were the only ones to know that you were an Omega. Tony somehow knew everything, and Peter and Nat were your best friends. You told them everything, and in Peter’s case, he sometimes even “helped” you through your heats. To be honest, there was no reason for anyone else to know. It’s not like you lived at the compound and you were always more than careful on missions.

“I thought…I thought they helped you sense danger?”

Peter didn’t respond, allowing you to put the pieces together, and you sharply inhaled.

“Hey.”

The two of you looked up, slowing to a stop as you realized that Steve had done so. He was frowning slightly, looking between the two of you, lingering on your close proximity for a brief moment.

“Everything okay? We need to hurry back.”

“Yes sir,” Peter chirped, almost too quickly, and you threw him a look. “(Y/N)’s just feeling a little sick.”

Steve’s frown deepened and took a few steps towards the two of you. Peter mirrored his steps, taking you with him, and Steve tilted his head, obviously confused.

“Can you walk? Maybe it would be quicker if I just-.”

He’d approached you again, reaching out when he suddenly cut himself off. He reared back, slowly inhaling as his eyes fell closed. Peter had already began pulling you back before Steve even opened his eyes again. When he did, they were focused entirely on you. At least they were at first. Then they moved to Peter.

“Steve…,” you called.

His eyes were icy, hard and imposing with something you didn’t want to name. They settled on you again when you spoke, and you felt your body heat up.

“You’re omega,” he said, and he almost sounded angry that the information had been hidden from him.

“Cap, we have to get her back. We need to get her home-.”

“Get her home,” he repeated. “So you can help her?”

Neither one of you responded, not missing the edge in his voice, almost accusatory as he glared at Peter. Peter slowly let go of you before taking a cautious step in front of you.

“(Y/N)…run.”

You barely heard Peter, but when the words and the danger you were in finally registered, you turned and ran. You gasped when you heard commotion behind you, pausing briefly to look over your shoulder. Peter had one of Steve’s hand webbed to a tree, but Steve’s other hand was wrapped around Peter’s throat. You hesitated, reaching for your gun when Peter noticed you.

“(Y/N), run! Run!” he repeated. “Mr. Stark is on his way!”

You did as he said, reaching up to your ear.

“Nat?”

“(Y/N), what’s going on? Why aren’t you guys here yet?”

She sounded worried, and you were sure she could hear the fear in your voice.

“I don’t know what happened. My suppressants- something’s wrong! Steve, he-! Peter’s holding him off, but I don’t know how much longer-!”

“We’re coming,” was all she said, and relief immediately filled you.

That relief was short lived when you were knocked to the ground. You rolled, a weight rolling with you as you landed in a heap at the bottom of a small incline. You grunted, immediately pushing yourself to your feet, only to be knocked back down. You reached down, but Steve was faster, grabbing your gun and tossing it away.

His arm swung around your neck, forcing a gasp out of you as you struggled to breathe. A panic was building inside of you when he leaned down to bury his nose in the crook of your neck. You heard a low rumble come from within his chest, and you could feel a thin layer of sweat forming under your suit. At this point, you were positive that if he were a mile away, he could still smell you.

“Does Tony know?” he suddenly scoffed. “Of course, he does.”

“Steve-!”

You struggled beneath him, whimpering when he pressed himself more firmly against you.

“You smell…divine,” he groaned, lips brushing against your neck.

“Steve, you don’t-.”

“I knew there was something about you, you know. There was always a scent, so subtle, but I could always smell it,” he murmured.

You slid your hand beneath you, trembling.

“Steve, please…”

You tried again to push yourself up, but it was useless.

“You’re burning up. I can help you much better than Queens can-.”

You cut him off when you slid the pocket knife out of your belt, slicing his arm in the process. He hissed, loosening his hold and allowing you to bring the blade behind you and into his side. He grunted, and you slid from underneath him, taking off.

You suddenly gasped, keeling over as you clutched your stomach. You could hear Steve’s footsteps behind you as you struggled to even walk. Where was Nat and Sam? Tony? You took another step forward, and your knees buckled, forcing you to collapse. The closer he got, the more you felt yourself wanting to submit. You were full on shaking, now, fingers digging into the dirt.

You suddenly felt him at your back, and you whined when he grazed his teeth against the skin of your neck. Before you could register it, he flipped you onto your back, hands tearing at your suit. The cool air hit your feverish skin, and you cried out. Another rumbled escaped his chest, and he pressed his nose against your skin, licking patterns into the exposed flesh.

You blinked, reaching up to push against his arms when he pinned both of your wrists down beside your head. He pressed himself against you, and you arched your back into his chest.

“Steve, where’s Peter?”

He harshly nipped at your chest, and you yelped.

“Steve!”

You didn’t know whether to sigh in relief or groan in annoyance as Nat’s voice reached your ears.

“Let her go, Steve,” Sam yelled, and you could hear him landing near wherever Nat’s voice came from.

The ground shook as something heavy landed above your head, and Steve lifted his head, eyes venomous and threatening.

“Cap, don’t make me hurt you. Get off of her,” he commanded, and you could feel him stepping towards the two of you.

“She’s mine, Tony,” Steve’s voice was low, a warning there.

“Tony-.”

The rest of what you were going to say was lost in a scream as Steve suddenly tangled his fingers in your hair before sinking his teeth into your neck. Peter had never bitten you, ever, and even if he had you were sure it would never be like this. When Peter helped you through your heats, he was sweet and protective in a way that you liked. Everything was about you. Steve wasn’t biting you for you. You don’t even think he was biting you for his benefit, but to show everyone else that you were his and there was nothing they could do about it.

Your vision began to swim as you fought to stay conscious. There was a lot of commotion, and suddenly the weight was gone. You saw red, and then Nat was there, taking you in her arms.

“It’s going to be okay…”

Her sincere words were the last thing you heard.

The next time you woke up, you were drenched in sweat. You were in a room that you didn’t recognize, sheets thrown haphazardly on the floor as you squirmed on the drenched mattress. You didn’t know how long you’d been out, but it had to have been at least hours, because it was dark outside through the window. You tried to drag yourself along the bed but whined at the effort it took.

As soon as you had indicated that you were awake, there was yelling outside of the door, followed by a thud that shook the walls. Your thighs rubbed together, smearing your slick along your skin, and you gasped at the sensation. There was more yelling, the words unintelligible, before the room door swung open. You could hear more yelling down the hall, like someone protesting, but all you could focus on was the broad shape of Steve standing in the doorway.

“Steve,” you murmured in confusion.

The door was slammed shut and locked with a resounding click, and he was suddenly there. Your thighs parted, welcoming him as he settled against you, mouth finding the mark on your neck. He worked to rid himself of his clothes.

“I’m going to take care of you from now on,” he instructed. “Not Peter, not anyone else.”

He didn’t give you time to voice your opinions about that before he was sliding into you to the hilt. You gasped at the intrusion, tears springing forth as he stretched you. He didn’t give you time to adjust, thrusting into you with vigor, thighs slapping against yours as you cried out.

The commotion outside was growing, several people yelling now, but you could only focus on the way Steve’s cock dragged against your walls. His teeth were everywhere, one hand gripping your waist hard enough to bruise while the other hand your hands pinned above your head.

“S-Steve,” you stuttered.

“Alpha,” he corrected with a growl. “You’re mine, now. Say it.”

His voice left no room for discussion, but you could only moan as he slammed into you. Your mind was all over the place. You knew this was wrong, but you couldn’t argue with the pleasure that he was bringing you. You also found it hard to ignore the arguing that was still going on outside, and you briefly wondered where Peter was and if he was okay.

Before you knew it, your orgasm had washed over you, leaving you a whining and panting mess beneath Steve, but he wasn’t done. He continued to slide into you, hips rolling against your own as he fucked you through your high.

“Yours, yours. I’m yours,” you mumbled, the words sounding slurred.

He rested one forearm beside your head, your hip aching from his previous grip. His teeth dragged along your neck again, a shudder passing through you.

“I’m going to fuck the memory of Peter Parker out of you,” he growled.

Tags: @mcudarklibrary @darkficreposter @xoxabs88xox @sebabestianstan101 @sherrybaby14

#dark!steve x reader #steve rogers x reader #dark!steve rogers #Dark Fic #marvel #marvel fanfiction #steve rogers imagine #Steve Rogers

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schrijverr · 3 years

Text

Lay Your Burdens Down

An introspection of Boromir’s mind during the quest. How he was fulfilling a role that was not written for him and how it became his downfall.

On AO3.

Ships: none

Warnings: Boromir's relation with the Ring

~~~~~~~~~

Boromir carried burdens he was not meant to carry.

He had traveled far, aching bones and dirty hands to ask for counsel that might not be enough to save Gondor. His beautiful Gondor for which he would give his life, if it meant that the White City should prevail.

It was a feeble hope, but it was the only hope he had. For all other hope had long forsaken Minas Tirith as it lay in the Mountain’s shadow under ever growing darkness.

His father could not hold out for long. Soon the people of Gondor’s doubt, their questions if he knew what he was doing, if he was doing enough to save their land, would lead to discontent that showed in actions, rather than whispered murmurs.

Still, Boromir tried to fight both that darkness growing in the East and amongst his people. He fought bravely out on the field, commanded his men with compassion and took to the streets to help where it was needed.

The Son of Gondor was there, the people knew.

And now the Son of Gondor was away. He had been traveling for a hundred and ten days when he finally arrived and he would have to make the return journey as well.

He felt every day, every minute, heavily in his soul. He knew that this was time he could not waste, because who would pick up his role while he was gone? Who would keep the darkness at bay and that little flicker of hope burning bright?

His soul knew that Faramir would try in his stead, but the people whispered that he was a Wizard’s pupil. That he did not care for his City and carried out rituals in the dark.

Naturally his own soldiers knew this not to be true and no one dared to say a word when Boromir was there to protect his little brother’s honor, but Boromir couldn't always be there and the longer he was gone, the more distrust would fester.

He shouldn’t be here, shouldn't be riding to an Elven city when there was so much he had to do at home, so much to defend.

They had only just reclaimed Osgiliath and he was certain the Dark Lord wished to retake the Gondor city that controlled the Anduin. It was only a matter of time and he should be there to talk strategy so that it wouldn’t come to pass.

It was all too much for one person to bear. Fighting on too many fronts, in both a physical war as well as a war of trust. He was not build for this, he wasn’t the one who could fight both and win, yet he had to try.

He did not know anything else.

His life had always been this war, ever since he was a child and first held Faramir and his mother made his swear to protect his little brother, ever since he remembered that first oath he ever took while they had to hide as their father fought of a group of Orcswhile they had been out riding in the forest.

So, he kept on going. For while it might be too much, might completely hopeless, might be foolish to try and might not even be his destiny, he had to do it. Because who else would step up in his stead if he ever fell down?

Thus he found himself in Rivendell asking for counsel, surrounded by people who seemed much surer of themselves and more comfortable with the danger that lay far from their borders.

The counsel revealed much to him. Not only was the riddle that had plagued both his dreams as those of Faramir explained, but there was hope again. There was a weapon, a thing to turn the tide of this hopeless war and an heir. Someone to ease Boromir’s burden and help to rally the troops and take up arms against the might of Mordor.

Though he could not convince the counsel that Gondor needed the weapon, he was able to convince them to tie his own faith to that of the Ring and take a place on the Fellowship.

He knew there were people wiser than him, many people were and he had long learned that. He was a warrior, not a philosopher. So, he was content to follow both the words of the wise as well as his King. To do what they deemed to be the best course of action to save Middle Earth and with that Gondor.

However, as the journey processed a dark voice started to prod at the hope that had finally managed to bloom.

It spoke to him of the fall of Gondor while he was gone, urging him to return before it was too late, even though it already was. Telling him how he would come back to the White City being overrun and no strength he had in him could turn the tide. It offered him a solution to the problems that had plagued his mind since his youth and grew as he did.

Still, he tried to tell himself that the voice was his darkest fears and that, while they were founded in reality, were not true and merely an extreme. He looked to Aragorn and chided himself for not believing in the prophesied return, for doubting his King.

But it was hard to trust in his King when it seemed his King did not want to be what he was destined to be. When he clung to being a Ranger, keeping close to the Elf that he treated as if he were his kin. When he did not want to listen to Boromir when the soldier attempted to talk about Minas Tirith and the struggles of Gondor.

The burdens that he had carried around all his life made the journey with him towards Mordor, staying in his heart, lowering his shoulders, while no one ever looked his way to ease them, for it was the burdens of his home and no one seemed to care about them.

And so the voice crept back into his mind, its words sounding more tempting and reasonable every time.

A small part of his mind told him that it was the Ring, but a bigger part argued that it did not matter how the thought first came to be, for it was the only viable answer.

He would have to go back to Gondor, he couldn't linger here. He couldn't waste his time on this quest, which was not only folly, but would prove to be their doom, no matter the outcome. They did not know if destroying the Ring would destroy Sauron’s forces and Minas Tirith could still be overrun by his army. But, the voice whispered, they do no care for Minas Tirith, so why would consider that outcome?

It was eating at him and he saw the others look at him with suspicion. He knew they did not trust him and he resented them for their distrust, for they were safe in their countries and his people were the ones dying, yet still they did not see why he wanted the Ring to go to Gondor.

The more their gazes hardened when the passed him, the harder it came to fight with the reasoning of his mind that seemed like his own, until he wondered why he was arguing it.

Then Mithrandir fell. The Wizard was plunged into the deep where no one returned from and the small chance they had of success died with him. It disappearedover the ridge and while they pushed on, it was not the same.

Boromir watched with resentment as Aragorn stood up as leader, his mind wondering why he was willing to lead this Fellowship, while abandoning his people. The resentment grew when he lead to them Lothlórien, an Elven city once more.

Aragorn did not care for the men of Gondor, he was faithful to the Elves and did not want to take the crown. He did not want to fight for Gondor and Boromir was alone as always, but this time he was far removed from home and he could not fight from here.

He had abandoned his home, his people. The realization hit him as a voice spoke in his mind about the fall of Gondor, confirming it had not just been his own fears, but even the Elves knew of the impending doom, hanging over the White City.

She also told him to have hope, but hope had long since perished in Minas Tirith. He’dhad hope, a long while ago and he thought he could have hope when he met Aragorn, but he now saw that the hope was misplaced. The Elves didn’t understand what he had to do. They thought themselves so wise, but they were not. They were blind.

He knew what he had to do.

The solution seemed so easy. He had already said that the hands of a Halfling were not safe and he could prove it by reaching out his hand. The others would have to understand. It was the only choice he had.

It was only after he had attempted to find his salvation that he realized that it had been him, who had been folly to think he could wield it, that it was his own mind that made him think that this was the answer.

But it was too late now and he could not take back what he had done. He could not undo the confirmation of proving that their mistrust in him was just. He had failed them all and he had been too blind to see.

Still, he tried to prove himself worthy of the burden of the protecting the Ring that had been placed on his shoulders by the Counsel.

He tried to protect the little ones, tried to follow the ordersof his King and see it through to the end, no matter if it would mean that his own life would be forfeit. He had risked his life plenty of times before and he would not see two people as joyful as Merry ad Pippin succumb to the horrors of war that had been his reality from birth.

When he fell, he knew he had failed once more. Merry and Pippin were being carried away and he did not know what had become of the others, if Frodo was safe.

And when Aragorn comforted him, he scarcely believed his King when he told him he did enough, that he had kept his honor. He tried in his final moments to live up what his King thought of him, he confessed what he had done and made sure that Aragorn knew that he would have followed him if had been able.

Boromir carriedburdenshe was not meant to carry for his entire life and as he finally closed his eyes, that burden eased from his shoulders and wrapped around Aragorns shoulders like a heavymantle.

The King had to return and take up the burdens meant for him.

A/N:

I love everyone in the Fellowship and anything negative in here abt them is Boromir’s mind under the influence of the Ring

Also this was a mix between book and movie verse

#RR writing #LOTR #the lord of the rings #lord of the rings #boromir #lotr boromir #boromir of gondor #the ring

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targaryenimagines · 4 years

Text

Fractured: Part One

Daenerys Targaryen x Fem!Lannister!Reader

Word Count: 3,874

Summary: You have known for quite some time that Westeros was in dire need of help. You just didn't know how soon that need for help would arrive. Or how catastrophic the circumstances would be to cause it.

Warnings: None that I can think of.

Note: I have shifted some things in canon to better compensate with this story. I hope that's alright with all of you, and everything regarding that will be explained throughout the series.

Tagged: @schroedingershund

Oh how the mighty have fallen, your mind scoffs as you stare at the decrepit wooden surface in front of you. You could see every minute imperfection as if it was laid bare for your eyes only. That every fissure and crack was specifically put there so you would be able to gaze upon them. To keep your mind from the numbing spiral it had been begging to go in since you went into the carriage.

You could hear your uncle and Varys whispered conversation. Their words are a soft croon against the buzzing of your static filled mind. However even the softest of noise could become an insistent bother the longer you were exposed to it. A fact that you only became more aware of the longer you were exposed. Closing your eyes you try to ignore the throbbing of your head and the desolate beat of your heart.

You tried to ignore the memories that were surfacing the further away you got from Westeros.

Away from your home.

Nothing could stop the memories from festering however. Nothing could stop them from worming their way through your mind. Trapping you in an endless loop without any hope to escape. You could still remember the safety you felt in your mother’s arms and how quickly that had been ripped away. The betrayal on her face as you stood in front of your uncle, protecting him from Joffrey’s tyrannical rule. You remember the way her green eyes glazed over with grief as she stared at you. Her eyes dimmed to an almost jade color, so different from the emerald they normally were. The stark contrast had caused a shiver to run down your spine, because in that moment you weren’t mother and daughter staring at one another. You were two enemies finally revealing themselves to each other.

You could still remember the sight of your siblings staring at you with tear stricken faces. Tommen moved to approach you before he was stopped by Jaime. Myrcella simply sobbing as you were pulled away from her. Her hands reaching out to clasp yours before they too were ripped away. You could still remember the cold fury that had worked its way onto Joffrey’s face. His thirst for death and destruction had destroyed the very foundations of the Lannister family.

You could still remember the moment you knew your life was going to change. The feel of the wind on your body as you watched Ned Stark get beheaded. The pain in your chest at the sight, and sound, of his daughter's pain. A daughter that, you must admit, had become a great friend. You can still remember her painfilled sobs as her father’s body was tossed to the side. Little regard being shown to the greatest man you had ever met. The sight of Joffrey smirking cruelly at her and your mother doing nothing to stop him. It was a sight that had set everything into motion. It was a sight that had finally caused you to detach yourself from your family. From the horror that was Westeros. From the pain that the land constantly seemed to cause.

It was the sight that had caused you to denounce your claim to the throne.

For you know that you would never be able to do what you have been planning to do if you were the ruler. There would be too many eyes on you at all times to be able to get away with it, but if you stayed the princess? You would be able to come and go as you please while all eyes were on Joffrey. Even your mother didn’t notice that you were gone for the majority of the day. For if she did you know that you would have been in trouble long before now. A fact that filled you with a cold sense of dread, but you quickly shook it off. She was miles and miles away from you and you would probably never see her again. At least not for quite some time anyway.

Your plan was underway and nothing would stop you from completing it.

You were going to bring the Targaryen’s back to Westeros.

Even if it killed you in the process.

A thought that would normally cause fear to run down your spine, but only brought with it a grim determination. You refused to have the land, well the people, you love get destroyed by the ones that were supposed to be protecting them. You refused to stand aside as your family destroyed everything that Westeros used to stand for. You refused to be the good little princess that you had been expected to be for your entire life.

It was time to be like your namesake.

You wouldn’t be the sheep any longer. The lost little lamb searching for warmth and affection.

You were going to be the lioness that so many believed you could never be. It was time to bring Fire and Blood back to Westeros.

Even if you had to hear the lion roar in pain because of it.

-------

The heat of the sun on your back is stifling as you sit in the slow moving boat. Your body wedged against that of your uncles with your hands bound in front of you. The glare of the sun off the water almost making it impossible to see the man that sat before you. The man that had taken you captive in the first place. A man that held a name of some importance to you for it stirred the faint feeling of recollection. As if the man had made some impact in someone else's life, but you had only felt the ripples of said effects.

Jorah Mormont was an enigma to you in every single way. You know that he was a “spy” for Robert, and that he had defected after learning new things about his target. That same target now being yours, but you had no plans of ever deceiving her in any way. You need her on your side if your plan is going to work, and it’s only for the betterment of your country. For your people. They need a Targaryen to lead them because no one else can.

They need Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen as their queen, and you were going to make sure that it happened.

Your thoughts only cause your head to start aching more. A fact that doesn’t surprise you in the slightest.

Closing your eyes, to dull the pain, causes your other senses to compensate for the sudden loss. You could hear the soft whisper of the water against the hull. Feeling the give and take the water has with the vessel. Wanting to slow it down but the boat being too resistant to be hindered by the effort. You could smell the hint of ash in the air that still lingered from the ruins of Valyria around you. It was like incense with how powerful the scent became the longer you were in the confines of the once great nation. Even after the worst of it went away it still lingered all the same. Reminding you of its presence no matter where you were.

Opening your eyes you turn your gaze towards your uncle. His dual colored orbs meeting your emerald with unwavering devotion. He was the only family that you had left, at least the only family that wanted you. You can only muster up half a smile for him, and even then you’re sure that it’s a pitiful attempt, but the way his smile only grows causes your heart to warm. As long as you had him by your side you know that you would be okay, and that nothing would come to harm you.

You were about to speak when you heard the sounds of the air being disturbed above you. Without a second thought your gaze is turned towards the sky where a sight you would have never thought to see flies before you. A dragon, with scales the color of obsidian and blood, passes overhead with little regard to the humans below. Your breath catching as it passes underneath the sun and its scale glow ethereally.

When you were younger you always loved the stories that Tyrion would tell you about dragons, and the mighty power that was Valyria. How Aegon the Conqueror was able to do all that he did because of Balerion. The sheer might that the great behemoth had to impose on all those that stood between his rider and the throne. Now seeing what you were sure would be a great dragon once grown reminds you of all those stories. Of Aegon and his sister wives taking over the once divided country, and it gives you a new wave of hope. Because, there was no doubt in your mind on who that dragons rider was. You had no doubt that Daenerys Targaryen would do her ancestors proud, and do things they would never be able to do.

You had no doubt that she was what Westeros needed.

------

Your muscles groan under the strain you were putting onto them. An ache beginning in the very bone as you continued moving, but you refused to stop. Refused to meet your uncle's concerned gaze as you continued to move down the dirt path. Even though your entire body was begging you to stop and rest, you refused. You were too close to your goal to stop now.

You know that if it were any other time then you would be admiring the architecture that surrounded you. You had always wanted to visit Essos and see first hand the beautiful architecture that had influenced Westeros.

But, it wasn’t any other time and you weren’t a wide eyed child anymore.

You feel your body tense at the hand that suddenly appears on your forearm. Fighting every instinct to throw it off and protect yourself. You know that it was only your uncle and that he was simply concerned, but you couldn’t get those things out of your mind. You weren’t sure you could even call them human. Not with the way they had been behaving with an almost psychotic frenzy. You could still feel the way the body had canted towards you. Its eyes a frenzied brown amid the gray that had taken over. So stark against the expanse of rotten skin that it had caused you to freeze. Your mind trying to connect the being that had been charging towards you with a human being. If it wasn’t for Jorah the beast would have grabbed you, touched you, and, with a shudder, you remember what happens to all those that are touched by a being with grayscale. Your only hope is that Jorah is all right, because you wouldn’t know what you would do if he got the disease because of you.

A soft voice breaks you out of your reverie, its tone filled with concern. “Maybe you should rest, little one.” You didn’t have to turn to know that your uncle was staring at you with a worried filled gaze. You know that he had every right to be worried, but you needed to keep going. Your people and your homeland depended on it.

“I’ll be fine, uncle, don’t worry about me,” you respond, after a beat of silence, hoping that your voice came out with the cool nonchalance you had been striving for.

You can tell that your uncle is about to speak once more, but you’re saved by Jorah’s gruff voice. “We should be arriving soon. You both remember the plan, right?”

Closing your eyes, you nod, and hold out your hands for the shackles. Your body is already stiff at the thought of being bound again. Remembering exactly what happened after the last time, but you don’t voice your fears. You know this needed to happen because you couldn’t appear to be a threat. You couldn’t seem like you were just waltzing into her territory, her domain. You had to be offered, like chattel, to show that your intentions were pure. You just hope that it wouldn’t end with your head on a spike.

“For what its worth, I’m sorry,” Jorah says, softly, as he chains you. The cool embrace of metal meeting your skin in a familiar hold. You can only muster up a strained smile in response, but it seemed to be enough to satisfy him. And, you have to remind yourself that he was in the same boat you were in. That he was trying to prove himself to Daenerys again, and this was one of the ways he can do so. You shouldn’t judge him too harshly on his actions because you aren’t sure you wouldn’t do the same.

He also saved your life. Don’t forget that, your mind whispers, and you internally scoff. Like you would forget the fact that he saved you. Saved you from a fate worse than death in some regards. You watch as the man moves to your uncle’s side. Both of them speaking in low voices that you couldn’t quite understand. You know that you should feel annoyed that you’re being left out of the loop but you couldn’t bring yourself to be. Whether it was because you were too tired or because you just didn’t care alludes to you, but you do know that you would be getting your answers soon.

You follow, without a word, as Jorah brings you to a tunnel that seems to have had its fair share of use. You could tell by the way the stone had weathered away by both the elements and footsteps. Unfortunately there was no escaping the odor that seemed to exude from it. Your nose wrinkles of its own accord when hit by the full presence of it. The smell of body odor and blood causes your stomach to churn. Bile making its way up your throat before you’re able to constrict it. Closing your eyes you try to reign in the nausea that the place invoked in you. You would have to get used to these smells. Even though you wanted nothing more than to scrub your skin raw as you felt them leaking into your pores. You didn’t want to even imagine how horrible you may smell.

Feeling a gentle tug on the chains binding your arms you open your eyes. Meeting Jorah’s gaze you can see the compassion he has for you, but you can also see the intent within the light blue too. Offering a small smile in return you begin to move down the hall. Your eyes watering slightly as the stench only grows worse, but you persevere because you were so close to your goal. You weren’t about to give up now because you couldn’t handle the scent of your surroundings.

From where you were standing you could hear the distant clangs of metal. The muffled sounds of men’s grunts and cries as metal met flesh. They were sounds that you were used to, but they were different all the same. Where in Westeros it was controlled, cordial, here the cries were barbaric. They were taunting, their intent clear.

Turning your head you could see the way your uncle was trying to process your new surroundings. His eyes travelling the length of the corridor and towards the sunlight you could see faintly streaming through the opening. The opening was where the sounds were spilling out from. Along with the barred window on the side of the corridor that allowed you to see what was happening.

The sounds didn’t prepare you for the sight of what you saw.

Men, of all shapes and sizes, were clashing together. Their bodies throwing themselves at each other with their blades brandished. Deep set snarls curling their mouths as they fought relentlessly. Bodies falling haphazardly on the ground, their blood getting lost amid the mud. You could see that a crowd of people were watching, cheering. Their eyes filled with a primal desire to see more bloodshed. Scanning the crowd you’re finally able to see the dais where the most important person in the crowd must sit.

Daenerys.

Even though you couldn’t see her you were well aware of her presence. She was like a beacon of light amid the crowd, and you were the moth. Drawn to the flame that only she could provide. To the comfort and warmth that she could give to Westeros. You just hope that by the end of this meeting you’re not one of the many bodies lying in the mud.

Feeling Jorah move beside you, you watch as she attaches your chains to the wall. The restriction causes your body to move towards the bench that lined the wall. Feeling the rough stone digging into you causes you to shift, but you make no sound of protest. You only watch as Jorah does the same to your uncle, and then he simply stares through the opening. Watching as man after man falls to the ground. Clearly waiting for the time that he would be able to approach his Khaleesi.

However, what you weren’t expecting was for Jorah to suddenly stiffen. His gaze sharpens as he watches the final match. A younger boy trying to crawl away from the lumbering man behind him. The desperation in his movement is a clear indicator for his want for survival. You barely have time to react before Jorah grabs the helmet that was resting beside your thigh and rushes out. Your uncle standing with clear outrage and panic, which you could understand. If Jorah were to die you were sitting ducks. There would be no one there to vouch for you, and you know that Daenerys would sooner kill you then hear you out. Especially when you were the child of the very man that had started a rebellion that killed her entire family. Meeting his gaze you know that you had to break the chains that were binding you both to the wall. You couldn’t just be led to your execution like prized chattel, if you were going to die you were going to go out with dignity. You were going to face your executioner head on. Better Daenerys than your mother.

Trying with all your might you search for something that could file down the chains. Your eyes search desperately around your surroundings. Hearing the sound of metal being shaved behind you causes your head to snap towards your uncle. Seeing a dagger in his hand causes a brief flash of amusement to dance through your eyes. Of course, your uncle would have a secret weapon just in case things went south. Hearing the sounds of the fight escalating causes your body to tense. You didn’t know how well Jorah was doing, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care that much. Not when your uncle's life was on the line. You watch silently as he tries to file through your chains, but without any luck. It would take days at the rate the metal was chipping away. A feeling of despair was slowly working its way through your body. Your mind flashing through everything that has brought you here. Every trial and tribulation that you had gone through to reach this goal.

Only to fail when you’re barely a few meters away from her, your mind taunts, and you can’t help but squeeze your eyes shut. Trying to stop the tears from forming, because now was not the time to cry. Hearing footsteps moving towards you causes your eyes to snap open. Your head whipping towards the source of the noise. You could feel the way your eyes widen at the sight of the man that stands before you. The way that your uncle stiffens behind you, and the way the chains tighten when he tries to move in front of you. The horror that fills your body as the man raises his sword above his head.

You brace yourself for the incoming attack, but are only met with the sound of shattering metal. The feeling of weightlessness on your wrists as the chains were cut free. Meeting the man’s gaze you could do nothing but nod in thanks. Something that you were sure your uncle mirrored, and without another thought you made your way towards the opening.

Reaching it you could hear the faint sounds of a conversation taking place. Before a fiery voice breaks through. “Get him out of my sight.”

You watch as men move to grab Jorah, and he desperately tries to shake them off. His eyes and words pleading with Daenerys to see reason. “Khaleesi, please, I just need a moment of your time. I brought you a gift. Two in fact.”

You could tell that things were about the head south if you and your uncle didn’t act fast. Moving out of the safety of the opening you make your forward. Acutely aware of your bound wrists and your uncle’s presence at your side. Your uncle speaking to break the stifling silence of the arena.

“It’s true. He has.”

Finally, you were standing in front of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen. You could feel your heart pounding against your chest. The stories of her beauty didn’t do her justice. The white of her dress contrasted perfectly with her fair skin. Causing it to glow under the Essos sun. Her silvery-gold hair seemed to shine with an ethereal light. Framing her beautiful face and causing her cheekbones to stand out. Her violet eyes were cool and assessing as she stared at both you and your uncle. With bated breath you watch as she seems to deliberate on your sudden appearance.

“Who are you?”

The question was asked innocently enough, but the answers held the weight of a thousand suns. You watch as your uncle steps forward, making sure that he was in front of you, before answering.

“I am one of the gifts. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace. My name is Tyrion Lannister, and the beautiful lass behind me is my niece. The crown princess of Westeros.”

Utter silence falls after your uncle’s words, and you simply stand straighter because of it. While it may not be necessarily true anymore you would be damned if you would embarrass your uncle. You can see the way that Daenerys had stiffened at the news, and reveal of your birthright. Clearly seeing you as an adversary, and you know you didn’t want that. At all.

Stepping forward you begin to speak, lowering your head while doing so. Making sure that she was being shown the respect that she deserved. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace. I mean no harm to you or your claim on the Iron Throne. In fact I have come here to help you achieve that goal. The only question I have is will you let me?”

Looking up you’re met with steely violet, and a ball of dread forming in your gut. You know that you were putting your life into the hands of a wild card, but if it was for the betterment of Westeros? You would do it over and over again.

No matter what.

#daenerys targaryen imagine #daenerys au #daenerys imagine #daenerys targaryen #daenerys stormborn #daenerys targaryen x reader #daenerys x reader #queen daenerys #fractured part one

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welkynars · 4 years

Text

Morrowind was not a pleasant place. Seyrena had known that even before the prison ship had docked in the waters of Seyda Neen. Even the other Dunmer in Cyrodiil spoke of the ashy air, unpleasant patrons, and the lingering scent of tar that followed wherever one went. The province was disagreeable even at its best, and on nights like tonight she longed for rolling hills and sweet-smelling lavender fields of Cyrodiil.

Because… well, Cyrodiil was her home, was it not? It was the only place she ever remembered being. Cyrodiil was where she grew up, where she learned her trade and fell in love for the first time and where she’d made her mistakes. Mistakes that had landed her here. In Morrowind. A hot, unfamiliar, wretched land.

It should be unfamiliar, at least. Recently it had felt more and more like home. She did not want Morrowind to feel like home. She never asked for any of this. She never asked to be the savior of an ancestral land she’d never even been to. She never asked to be the incarnate of a man who’d died so long ago his existence was unfathomable. Never asked to be forced to bring the downfall of three fervently worshipped gods, one of whom had given her a welcome she did not deserve. Never asked to have to stand over the corpses of two mer who she apparently once called friends in a life she didn’t remember. Never asked to feel like she’d killed her own friends.

Seyrena sighed deeply and took another swig of the unknown drink. It tasted like guar piss but it got her intoxicated and that was all she cared about. That, and the fact that the patrons of the small tavern in Pelagiad hadn’t a clue who she was. If she had to hear the title ‘Nerevarine’ one more time she would certainly slice the fingers off of whatever poor soul it was who’d said it.

No, to the Dunmer of the Halfway Tavern she was just any old Empire-assimilated Dunmer. An outlander; a term she’d hated when she first arrived in Morrowind but longed to be called again. She was an outlander. Her own personal feelings of the Empire aside, she was of the Empire. Raised in Cyrodiil. There was nothing else she knew and nothing else she wanted to know.

A year ago that was how it had been. The alcohol in her hand let her pretend that’s how it still was.

“If you’re not careful there, elf, you’ll drink yourself to death with that,” A voice mumbled from a few feet beside her. She looked up from the corner she was sitting in. A grizzly-looking Nord man sat on the bench to the right of her, watching the bard sing and swing with harsh eyes. His clothes were splattered with dirt and grime and his hand gripped a large wooden mug. The stench of alcohol filled her nose even with his distance from her and she wondered how he was one to talk.

“I can handle my drinks just fine, Nord,” She replied coolly, also averting her eyes to the bard. A pretty young Breton woman playing the lute and singing tales of dragons. Seyrena was glad there were no songs written about her feats just yet.

The man laughed a hearty but mocking laugh and she scowled at him. She hadn’t said anything funny.

“You Dark Elves wouldn’t know drink if it slapped you in the arse,” He was looking at her now with a dangerously mocking smile.

“Well, I grew up in Cyrodiil so I’d wager I know more than you think I do,” She took another sip of her drink as if to prove a point. “And whatever this is, it's certainly better than that poor excuse for alcohol you call mead.”

He laughed again, and again she did not know what she said that was so funny.

“Imperials are even worse!” He managed to breathe out between howling laughs. He was obviously very drunk if he found a conversation about beverages so hilarious. Seyrena turned away from him and went back to festering in her own misery and regret and longing for a life that no longer existed. She’d rather that than any sort of conversation with a drunken man.

Apparently the gods were again, not on her side and Nords were unable to take obvious hints, because he continued speaking to her. Spoke to her about his homeland(“If this were Skyrim I’d teach you a thing or two about mead, lass”), about how he was grateful the Empire was reigning in the uncivilized Dunmer(“Imperials are good for something, at least”), and finally, about the pretty little Breton girl dancing along to her tunes.

“They don’t make them like that in Skyrim,” He grunted, watching the bard with a look that made Seyrena’s stomach twist. “We Nords are beasts of men, good for fighting and drinking. But it makes for unflattering women at the very least.”

Her anger was only growing at this point, fingertips clenching into her own fists. The young woman was simply trying to make coin, perform, and have fun. She didn’t need some malodorous man twice her age commenting on her appearance. If Skyrim was so much better then maybe he should return.

“Is that why you’re here instead of Skyrim? Because of the unflattering women?” Her tone was cold but the man was too drunk to notice.

“Ha! No, despite her flaws I’d return in a heartbeat, if I could. I’ve been exiled for one reason or another.”

Well, wasn’t that poetic.

The Nord stood, steadying himself on a wooden post and slamming his mug on the table. Seyrena narrowed her eyes.

“Well, I’d best be off. Better if I talk to the bard before some other skeever can get his hands on- hey! W-What’re ‘ya doin’?”

Perhaps it was the alcohol, or her desire to protect the Breton girl, or maybe it was just because she’d had the worst year of her life. But Seyrena found herself with her longsword drawn and pointed to the Nord’s throat, his eyes wide with fear and hands up in surrender. So much for the mighty warrior.

She was also, suddenly, very aware of the people in the room with her; as they’d all turned to stare at the quiet Dunmer in the corner with her sword to a man. Pelagiad was a quiet and no-nonsense settlement. They weren’t quite sure what to make of the scene. And then, her voice rang out from the crowd.

“Rena? What on Nirn-“

Mehra pushed her way to the front of the forming crowd. She looked as beautiful as ever, dressed in a quaint traveler's garb with her hickory-colored hair let loose to fall over her shoulders. She looked quite different from the Temple-apprentice Seyrena had met what felt like so long ago; older, only by a year, but her eyes held the same burden Seyrena’s did. Seyrena swallowed. Mehra didn’t deserve to be weighed down by her troubles.

Mehra pulled her ash-cover down from over her face, looking incredulously at the scene Seyrena had created. Seyrena couldn’t fully tell if the look on her face was one of disappointment or defeat.

Before her lover could even get a word out, Drelasa came marching over, huffing something about outlanders. Seyrena rolled her eyes.

“Mehra, I am fond of you but if your friend is going to cause scenes in my tavern you’ll never see the inside of it again!” Drelasa wagged her finger in Mehra’s face and Seyrena had the impulse to swing her sword and cut it off.

“I know, Publican, I-“ Mehra turned to Seyrena, her eyes pleading. “Rena, please. It’s a day long trip back to Seyda Neen.”

Seyrena scoffed and looked back to the Nord who was now backed up against the wall. “You leave that girl alone or I’ll cut off your hands and stitch your lips shut.”

The Nord nodded, and she lowered her sword. He scurried off like a mouse out of the Inn to the border of the Ascadian Isles and the Bitter Coast.

She defeatedly let Mehra take her sword from her and place it back in its sheath on her back. The Publican was still watching them, arms crossed and tapping her foot.

“It won’t happen again, Drelasa. I apologize on behalf of both of us.” Mehra sounded sincerely sorry and Seyrena felt a pang of guilt.

“You’re damn right it won’t happen again. B’vehk, it’s every other night with you two.”

Mehra took Seyrena’s hand and led her to their room. The latter Dunmer’s head was held low, not out of shame but in an effort to keep any patron from doing a double-take on her. “Hey, aren’t you that…”

When the two reached privacy, Mehra’s fist promptly collided with Seyrena’s shoulder. Much harder than she’d expected the mage would’ve been capable of.

“Ow,” She muttered, rubbing the raw skin. Mehra’s gaze was as fiery as her palms in battle, and Seyrena found herself unable to meet it.

“Why do you do these things to us? Do you want to have to walk miles in ash to find a new place to stay again?”

“He was being a s’wit,” She silently cursed herself for using the Dunmeris term. This was not her home.

“So was the Imperial Guardsman in Suran, and the Telvanni Noble in Sadrith Mora, oh! And, of course, the poor fellow who simply wanted your autograph in-“

“Alright! Alright, I get it. I ruin everything I touch. I’m sorry.”

Seyrena took a seat on the bed and pulled Mehra to stand in front of her. Apologies weren’t her strong suit. It was hard to apologize to someone else for your actions when you couldn’t forgive yourself for them. So, she intertwined their hands and looked up at her with the most apologetic eyes she could muster, her actions speaking the words that got lost in her throat.

Mehra sighed. “You don’t ruin everything.”

“I do.”

“You don’t. In fact, you make many things quite grand,” She smiled and Seyrena, who smiled back despite herself. “You saved me, for instance. You saved Morrowind. Twice.”

Seyrena’s smile dropped and she moved away from the other woman, laying down on the bed and turning the other way. She wished Morrowind just did not exist at this moment.

“I doomed it, more like,” She said. “Doomed to it to a future of political discourse and perhaps even religious wars.”

“That is inevitable for this country.”

Seyrena made a sound of exasperation and sat up again. “You don’t understand, Mehra. I know what is good for Morrowind. I don’t know how and I truly wish I didn’t, but I do. And this was not. Yes, Dagoth Ur had to die. The Blight had to end. But how can you diminish everything a country believes in, how can you kill-“ Her voice caught and tears threatened to spill from her eyes, which she absolutely would not allow. “How can you kill a goddess who has spent thousands of years keeping a country and it’s people afloat and expect everything to be the same, or better?”

“Almalexia went mad. It wasn’t your fault.”

“But she wouldn’t have!” Seyrena cried, frustrated that Mehra couldn’t understand what she was saying. “She wouldn’t have if it wasn’t for my existence! Everyone keeps telling me I am a blessing, that this prophecy Azura created is a blessing; it’s a curse, Mehra. It’s a curse of vengeance and I don’t want to be a part of it. I never did. I don’t want this,” The Moon-And-Star ring slipped off her finger and was thrown across the room. The tears were now falling freely from Seyrena’s face. “I’d rather have been executed for my crimes in Cyrodiil. It would’ve been merciful.”

Mehra was quiet, and now she was the one who couldn’t look at Seyrena. It was silent for what could’ve been hours.

“There’s so much blood on my hands and no matter how often I wash them it won’t go away. Please, just make it go away.”

Still not speaking, Mehra pulled the Nerevarine into her arms and held her as she sobbed. There were no words that could be spoken to comfort her at that moment, she knew that. But it broke her heart to watch the woman who she viewed as a hero come undone before her.

Eventually Seyrena pulled away from her, dried tears stuck to her face. Her eyes were wide and bright and Mehra wanted to latch onto her before she realized the vulnerability she’d showed and promptly went to bed.

“I want to go east,” She said, surprising Mehra.

“East? Like, back to Azura’s Coast? I suppose-“

The Nerevarine shook her head. “No. Farther. I want to leave Tamriel. I want to see something else, anything else.”

Mehra’s mouth opened and closed a few times. “But-“ She’d heard stories of other continents on Nirn, and none of them were good.

For a moment she believed her beloved had lost her mind right there and then. That the stress was too much to handle. But Seyrena’s eyes were dead serious and her composure was eerily calm.

“Will you join me?”

#for a friend #seyrena almost beats up a gross old nord #tw alcohol #ok goodnight #oc seyrena #nerevarine #morrowind #tes 3 #morrowind fanfiction #elder scrolls fanfiction #nerevar #dunmer #almsivi #the tribunal #fanfiction #the elder scrolls morrowind #dark elves

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wordsandshawn · 4 years

Text

Spiral

Requested: Angst where Shawn teases the reader about her weight as a joke, but she takes it really personally and gets super insecure about it

A/N: Not quite as a joke because I don't think “joking” about someone’s weight is ever okay, but Shawn says something and y/n definitely interprets it in a certain way that kind of spirals into a mess.

Warnings: talk about weight, descriptions of negative thoughts, negative body image, angst.

With the amount of stress you’ve been experiencing lately, a lot of your normal self-care routines have been thrown out the window, partially because you don’t have the time and partially because you don’t have the energy. Self-care for you looks like going for runs, meal prepping so you can eat healthily, and taking nights off where you take long bubble baths, deep condition your hair, and just be really lazy without letting yourself focus on the stresses in your life.

Since all of those things take time, you haven’t been able to do them. Truthfully, you haven’t been prioritizing them like you should. It becomes a cycle that all just spirals downhill. You get busy so you stop taking the time to care for your mental health, but then your mental health goes downhill, and then you’re not in the right mind to realize how much you need self-care, and it continues to get worse.

When weeks or months go by without you remembering to take care of yourself in the little ways, it really affects your mental health. You’ve really started to notice it over the past week. It feels like you’re drowning, but you don’t quite know how to get yourself back on solid land.

Talking to Shawn normally helps you feel more grounded when things like this happen, and truthfully, he’s the one who normally pulls you out of these feelings when you get like this. But he’s been in Australia, and you’ve both been pretty busy. Even when you finally get a chance to facetime him or talk to him, he’s too far away to do much.

Your phone is propped up against a pile of laundry on your bed, and you’re Facetiming Shawn while folding the laundry. You had just finished telling him about how stressed you’ve been lately, and you how much you hate it. You explain that it seems like everything is nnever-endingand no matter how much you do, there’s always more for you to do, which is discouraging and disheartening and difficult to deal with. Lately, just the buildup of it all has led to you constantly feeling stressed and overwhelmed.

When you finish telling him all of this, you continue folding your laundry and Shawn is silent for a few moments. You don’t think much of it, assuming he’s just thinking too. When he finally speaks, he says, “Have you been running lately?” This question catches you completely off-guard and makes you feel immediately self-conscious of your body.

Your phone had been propped up in a way that showed your whole body since you were busy folding laundry, but you grab it, no longer wanting your body to be on the screen or in his view. “No, I’ve been busy.” You respond, feeling defensive.

“I know, but maybe you should start again.” Shawn suggests.

“Yeah, maybe.” You respond before quickly changing the subject. You got the message loud and clear, and you definitely don’t want to talk to Shawn about this anymore, fearing that you’ll feel even more insecure and unworthy than you already do.

If you were in a better mental state, you might have brushed off the statement and not pondered over it. But with where you are right now, you can’t help but read into the statement. You know that you haven’t been running lately, not for the last few weeks, at least. And you haven’t been eating well either. It’s been so difficult to find the time and energy to run after a long day or to wake up early to get in a run before work. Once you fell out of the routine of running several times a week, it’s been nearly impossible to get back into it. And as for eating, meal prep and getting to the grocery store have been hard. It’s been easier to pick up something on your way home from wherever you were or to drive thru somewhere on your way to your next destination.

Apparently, Shawn’s noticed the results of this in your body. You were somewhat aware that you had been gaining a bit of weight, but you didn’t realize it was that noticeable.

You end the conversation rather quickly after that and find yourself making up excuses as to why you can’t facetime Shawn over the next week while he’s away.

When Shawn returns home a week later because he has a twenty-day break between shows, you can’t avoid him any longer. You’ve talked to Shawn less than normal over the last week, not being able to bear the negative thoughts that tend to overtake you whenever you talk to him and start to wonder what he may be thinking of you. It’s taken nearly a whole week of struggle, but you’re starting to finally feel some sense of control again.

You’ve begun making your workouts a priority, and you’ve started eating healthy. Even though it’s only been a week, you’ve noticed a change in your body. Although running used to bring you mental release, it doesn’t anymore. Now you’re so focused on running farther and faster, focused on burning more calories and growing thinner, that it only causes more anxiety.

You’re more irritable lately, and on top of the worries and pressures of work and school, you find yourself worried that you’re not enough for Shawn. You’re terrified he’s starting to think twice about wanting to be with you.

When he shows up at your apartment, you’re worried he’s judging your body. He pulls you close in his arms. It’s been nearly a month since you saw him last, so of course, he misses you. You missed him too, but you can’t help but pull away from his embrace, much quicker than he would have liked. His hands linger on your waist, but only for a second before you brush him off completely and distract him by suggesting you watch a movie.

Shawn pushes back on the suggestion at first, saying he wants to have dinner, maybe go out to a restaurant or order in, but you lie and tell him you already ate, even though you hadn’t eaten anything since the morning. You tell him he can order food if he’d like, but he decides not to. He’s disappointed that you ate without him, knowing he was coming, and you always eat together. This is true, but you couldn’t stand the thought of eating in front of him after you’d been scrutinizing over the words he said to you over facetime for the past week.

After a little bit, he finally drops the subject of food and agrees to watch a movie. He can tell there’s something off about you, but you insist you’re just tired, and you want to relax. As the movie begins playing, you stay mostly on your side of the couch, and Shawn clearly gets the message and respects your space.

Finally, after about an hour, Shawn can’t take it anymore. He pauses the movie and turns toward you, “Are you mad at me?” He questions, clearly, he’s been searching through his mind to try to figure out what could have possibly gone wrong between the two of you.

“No,” You respond. You’re not intending to be short with him, but there’s too much going on in your head that you’re not able to speak out loud.

“What are you upset about?” He questions further.

“Nothing.” Everything. “I’m just tired.” The most common lie.

He studies you for a moment. He sees right through that lie, and you’re not surprised that he does. “Y/n, you can talk to me. You know that right?” He says in a softer voice this time, and you nod, but you still don’t talk.

After a couple more seconds, you can’t take it anymore, and you reach to turn the movie back on. Shawn asks you questions throughout the rest of the movie to try to understand your change in demeanor, but you refuse to give anything away.

When the movie ends, Shawn turns off the tv before you can even suggest putting on another. He looks at you and you look anywhere but back at him.

“What’s wrong?” He questions, finally. His voice is soft like he’s hesitant and unsure but he genuinely cannot figure out what has happened to you or why you’re acting this way.

“Nothing.” You mumble, but you refuse to make eye-contact. You’ve never been good at keeping things from Shawn.

“Seriously, y/n.” Shawn says, scooting closer, “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” You respond, slightly more forcefully this time.

“Okay,” he pauses. “What’s on your mind?”

“I don’t want to talk about it, okay?” You snap, something you rarely ever do.

Shawn is clearly surprised, but he doesn’t get angry like you expect him to. It’s like he knows there’s something off with you, and he’s patient enough to try to figure it out instead of getting angry at you for snapping at him when he’s only trying to help.

“Look, y/n. If I did something that upset you, please tell me because I have no idea what’s wrong or what I did or how I’m supposed to fix it.” He’s running his fingers through his hair like he’s stressed. The way you’ve been acting has been freaking him out, and he can’t figure out what to do to make things better. All he wants is to be able to make things better.

You finally sigh. You know you should have just talked to Shawn about your feelings from the beginning, but instead, you chose to keep them inside where they festered and grew and led you to where you are now.

“Am I too fat for you?”

The words come out nearly inaudible and Shawn leans closer to you, asking, “What?”

You swallow past the lump in your throat. “Do you think I’m fat?” You say, this time loud enough for him to hear. His eyebrows immediately knit together in confusion, but before he can respond, you blurt, “Do you not like me anymore because I’ve gained weight.”

“What are you talking about? Of course not, y/n.” He responds forcefully.

“It’s just that last week you made a comment that you thought I needed to work out more.” You respond, your heart is beating fast and the anxiety within you is building just talking about this topic.

“Y/n, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t say that you needed to lose weight. I think you’re perfect the way you are, and I would never say something like that.” He responds, still baffled.

“But you did, Shawn!” You respond, feeling suddenly emotional.

“Okay, okay, let me think about it.” He responds, reaching out to take your hand in an attempt to calm you down without moving too close because he senses that you’ve been wanting distance and he wouldn’t want to push past your boundaries. He takes a deep breath, no doubt trying to regulate himself and pull his thoughts together so that he can hold you together and keep you from falling apart. “What else were we talking about? Maybe you just heard wrong or something?”

“We were facetiming, and I was folding laundry and telling you about my week and you said I needed to run more.” You explain, that exact moment was already seared in your mind, you don’t know how he could possibly have forgotten it.

Realization floods his face as that moment comes rushing back to him. “Y/n, I promise I didn’t mean it like that at all. The only reason—the only reason I asked was because I know that it helps you feel better when you run. And I know that it helps you get out of your head and you feel so much less stressed after. I remember, you were telling me about how stressed you were, and I just thought that was something that could help you mentally. It didn’t have anything to do with your body or your weight. Fuck. I’m sorry. I should’ve been thinking, but I just wasn’t thinking about that at all and I didn’t realize how it might affect you.” He pauses, and you let those words sink in for a moment. “I’m sorry.” He apologizes, genuinely looking sorry.

You realize how much you’ve over-reacted, and you believe that Shawn loves you and that he would not say something like “You need to work out,” without having your best interest at heart. “I’m sorry, I overreacted.” You respond, but even as the words leave your mouth, you’re not quite sure they’re completely true.

The doubts have still been planted in your mind. You’ve been self-conscious about your body and your weight for as long as you can remember. It doesn’t matter that people always say nice things to you if the topic of weight ever comes up in conversation, you still feel the way you do. Sometimes all of your insecurities flare up and leave you having negative thoughts for a while until you’re able to appreciate your body for the things it lets you do, for being a safe home for you to live in, and for the healing and breathing and walking and running and laughing.

“Hey,” Shawn whispers to get your attention. He noticed you get lost in your mind, and he tugs gently on your hand like a whispered come back to me. You look at him, and he says, “I love you, always.” You just nod, not even having the words or energy to respond verbally. He scoots closer to you on the couch, and this time you don’t back away. He wraps his arms around you, and you lean into his embrace.

“Do you want to know what I thought when I walked in the door earlier tonight to see you?” He asks, breaking the silence that had fallen between the two of you.

“What?” You question, preparing yourself to hear Shawn say something completely sappy and far too romantic for your liking.

“How lucky I am that the most beautiful girl in the world actually chose me.” He responds, keeping a straight face and sounding genuine.

You look at him, his face only a few inches from yours, and crinkle your nose in mock disgust. “Shawn, do you even hear yourself?” You question, but a small smile spreads across your face, and it only gets bigger when he breaks into a smile too.

“Yes. And it got you to smile, so that’s all that matters.”

You shake your head at him, but you don’t stop smiling. “I love you,” You say before tilting your chin up, your silent way of asking for a kiss. Shawn immediately obliges and closes the distance.

After a few seconds, your stomach growls, giving away your earlier lie about having already eaten. By the look in Shawn’s eyes when you make eye contact with him, he heard it too and knows exactly what it means. For a second, you’re afraid he’ll call you out or be upset, but he just reaches for his phone, “So… Chinese or Italian?” He questions naming your two favorite types of food, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding.

“Chinese.” You respond without having to think twice this time. “And I want to get an extra side of the orange chicken sauce because they never give enough.” You add.

“There’s my girl,” Shawn says with a smile as he searches your favorite Chinese restaurant in his postmates app. And he’s right, you’re feeling a lot more like yourself since having that conversation with Shawn.

You may not just forget about the self-doubt and the feelings of insecurity that have recently been stirred up in you, but there’s one thing that you don’t doubt, it’s that Shawn genuinely loves you and supports you. He loves you for who you are. He considers himself lucky to be loved by you, and that makes you feel so loved, treasured, and valued at the end of the day.

#Shawn Mendes #Shawn Mendes imagine #Shawn Peter Raul Mendes #Shawn Peter Raul Mendes imagine #blurb

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cela-astral-projection · 4 years

Text

Once again she steals away. Then she reaches out to kiss me. And how she takes my breath away. Pretending that she won't miss me. Oh, I would bleed to love her.

"He busted his fucking head in..."

"Oh, yeah. Scourge is a vicious son of a bitch. But, that motherfucker sure did a number on him. I thought I saw his guts spilling out..."

"Get them out, Captain." Celeste bit out at Aedan, looking over her shoulder. Her jaw was tense, and her eyes were narrowed. He gave a curt nod and stepped out of the cell.

"Hey, clear out! Scourge needs some space," he called down the hall at the other guards. "We need hot, clean water and some cloths. Towels...something. Go get it sorted."

Celeste's visage fell back on Muriel, and it was pure compassion. He was gripping the sides of the bed, unquestionably in agony, knuckles white. She brought her hand to his cheek, and he flinched away with a roar, snapping his eyes shut.

Celeste recoiled a bit. Not out of fear, but out of respect. It also wouldn't be the first time she had been accidentally struck by an injured patient, lashing out in pain. "I'm sorry. I should have warned you. You have to let me touch you, though. It will help with the pain."

Celeste could hear the grinding of his teeth. See the way his body was tensed, slick with sweat and carnage. She wasn't sure if he could even hear her in his distress.

"Muriel, I'm going to touch your face. Stay with me, okay?" she said, her voice calm but firm.

She rested her hand gently on his cheek and closed her eyes. As the magic radiated into him, she could feel him relax. His tension ebbing away.

"There we go," she whispered, stroking her thumb over his cheekbone comfortingly. She felt his hand fall from the bed, limp. He gave a whimper, and Celeste opened her eyes. He was looking up at her, eyes heavy-lidded. She could see the confusion. "It's okay. You're going to go to sleep, and you'll feel much better when you wake up. I'm going to take care of you."

Before she could even finish, his eyes fell shut. Her hand lingered at his cheek.

Should she be afraid of him? She knew how he had become wounded. She knew what he was doing. She knew that this was not only Muriel’s blood that stained him.

That there would be no helping the other contender.

He was doing his job. Just like Aric. Just like her.

She shook her head to dismiss the thoughts that raced, reaching down to her bag. She pulled a small metal tray and a bottle of antiseptic fluid. She rinsed her hands and arms up to the elbow.

She lifted the cloth that had been stanching the bleeding. The skin was flayed, and the wound was long and deep.

"Captain, do you know if the Count has cleared out?" she called back, and Aedan stepped back into the cell.

"Why are you asking?"

"It's...a bad wound. I need to know what I should and...shouldn't do."

How much magic is too much magic?

"I don't think he's gone. He likes to come down and prod...fix what you can internally so he doesn't bleed out and stitch the rest."

She scrutinized the wound. "How long before Lucio has got him back out in the arena?"

Aedan shook his head. "We don't have anyone else in custody. It could be days or weeks. It depends on Lucio's mood."

Celeste sighed, somewhat panicked. "I can't stitch him. They won't hold. It'll be six weeks before he's healed enough. If he's lucky. It's in the muscle. He needs surgery, and I'm not set up for that."

"Then...do your thing, and we'll deal with the consequences later." Aedan countered, not sure what to do.

She shook her head, staring at the wound. There was no good answer. She couldn’t do the right thing. "Lucio knows how wounds heal. You've seen that arm. And you can't tell me nobody else ever landed a blow on him." she said, mostly to herself, running the mental acrobatics in her head.

"Should I get the Magician? What about Red?" Aedan asked.

"No...Asra wouldn't be able to keep a clear head. Muriel needs help now. It'd take Julian too long to get here." she muttered.

She bit her lip, considering when she heard voices from up the corridor.

"Incoming," Aedan whispered before going to attention.

Celeste made a quick wave over the wound, concentrating on healing the vessels and tissues that were most affected. She could feel them stitch and reassemble under her palm. It wasn't perfect, but she didn't have time for perfection. It would serve for now.

Lucio was laughing. Probably half-drunk, if not totally soused. He was flanked by Valerius and Vulgora. The Countess trailed behind with a group of diplomats.

"How is our Champ--" Lucio started, sweeping in. "Aw, fuck. Is he dead?" His face looked equal parts confused and disappointed.

Celeste looked over her shoulder, not moving from her crouched position. "Another inch or so and he might have been." She measured her tone, though she was certain her face spoke volumes. "He's drugged, for the pain."

"Can't 'cha wake him up? I brought guests! I wanna show him off."

"He took an ax to his stomach, My Lord." Aedan offered. "I think perhaps we should let him rest. He's not exactly his beautiful self right at the moment."

Lucio went up on tiptoe, catching the still mostly-opened wound and the viscera that coated him, which seemed to sober him a bit. "You sure he ain't dead? Looks pretty dead."

"My Lord..." she said, forcing the words. "He's going to need to convalesce at the Palace once I get him stable. I need him close to hand in case Quaestor Valdemar, or Doctor Devorak needs to intervene."

"No!" Vulgora bellowed, shrill and harsh, pushing forward past Lucio. "He's too hard to restrain! It's not safe to take him out of his cell! You can treat him here, or not at all."

Celeste flinched at the voice but steeled herself. "That's fine, Pontifex. Would you like me to start digging his grave? Because if we leave him here with an open wound of this size, it's going to fester. It's not safe to stitch. It's going to need to be packed and dressed so it can heal. And, more to the point, He's going to need surgery. He needs to be monitored and in a more sterile environment. He won't live if this gets infected. And it will." She gestured vaguely to the filth that surrounded them. "He's your Gladiator. He deserves better than a slow, painful death in a dank cell, rotting from the outside in. Do you know what gut wounds look like when they fester and go putrid? What they smell like?"

The Diplomats, Nadia, and Valerius, and Aedan had all gone a shade of green. Lucio was wide-eyed. Vulgora was unmoved.

Nadia, after taking a sharp inhale of breath to compose herself, stepped forward. "Darling, she has a point. A dead gladiator does not have quite the...drawing power. You've put so much work into the Coliseum. I don't think you'll find another Scourge." She offered, looking past him to Celeste, with a silent sympathetic glance.

Celeste bowed her head, thankful for the assist. Her gaze then fell back on Lucio, but her expression softened somewhat, imploring him.

Lucio looked torn. He clearly had not planned on having to make these types of decisions today.

Valerius, clearly disgusted by the whole display, and growing bored, rolled his eyes. "The fiscal implications of losing the Asset would be...notable." he volunteered, "And he is well-liked, for whatever reason. Should he pass from a flesh wound, I dare say there would be quite an upheaval." His measured tone turned wicked. "If we're going to exterminate him, we should sell tickets."

Aedan, thoroughly shocked at his sister's boldness, and the Consul's cruelty, decided to intercede, if for no other reason than to redirect some of the backlash. "If it would appease Pontifex Vulgora and satisfy his Lordship, I will personally oversee security in the interim...should he be permitted to convalesce in the palace." His gaze fixed straight ahead. But he felt Vulgora's lizard-like eyes burning holes in him, and he couldn't help but pull a face, bracing for impact.

Lucio groaned. "Fine! Fine. I don't have all day to stand around debating. Get him ready for transport. I want him on his feet before the week is out."

Celeste opened her mouth to protest, but Aedan shot her a look and mouthed, "Shut the fuck up." Aedan knew this was the best possible outcome, and it wasn't wise to push for more out of Lucio, especially flanked by the Consul and Pontifex.

Celeste pressed her lips into a firm line and stood, straightening herself. She took a deep breath and inclined her head to Lucio with all the faux gratitude she could muster. "Thank you, My Lord. Most charitable."

Lucio's eyes flashed at her tone, and Aedan's rolled back in his head.

Lucio made to step towards her, his fists, alchemical and flesh, clenched. Jaw set. But, Nadia caught his arm.

"Oh, Darling. We shouldn't keep our guests waiting any longer. And, our Champion needs to be taken into care. Let's go home. I'm sure dinner will be waiting." Nadia said, her tone pleading and loving.

Lucio turned to her, and Nadia batted her eyelashes at him. Anyone who knew their dynamic knew that it was performative. She was threatening him, like a mother redirecting her wayward child. Gentle but intimidating.

Lucio huffed, defeated. He turned his eyes back on Celeste. "One week." He repeated, his tone seething.

Celeste nodded, giving her assent. "One week."

Lucio swept out with his party, all but Vulgora, trailing.

Vulgora lingered for a moment longer, fixing Celeste with a look that made her intestines writhe. She set her jaw, trying not to let her fear creep into her features. Aedan moved to her side.

"Pontifex?" he implored cautiously, eyebrow raised, hand at the hilt of his sword.

Their eyes narrowed, and they bared their teeth.

Then, the tension was cut by a whistle. Lucio, calling out for them to follow. Vulgora growled, irritated, then whirled out, spinning on their heel, sprinting away.

The twins deflated simultaneously.

"By the Gods, Linn. When did you grow such a shiny spine?" Aedan asked. His tone was not precisely respectful. "You're lucky you have the executioner incapacitated. You might have been the last thing on his to-do list before they put you both in the ground."

"One of us has to maintain our backbone." she hissed, shaking her head. "Come on, we're burning daylight. I'm going to try to pack the wound, you get me a carriage. A fucking wagon. Anything. And enough men to move him carefully."

"How many do you think that is?" Aedan asked, genuinely curious.

"He's almost seven feet tall, and he's got to be hovering around 300 pounds of pure muscle. And it's all dead weight. Do the mental math, Brother," she said, back on her knees, digging in her bag for gauze and saline.

Aedan's eyes were darting back and forth, genuinely trying to run the numbers in his head.

"Aric Axel," Celeste spat out, "just go. I don't have time."

"Going, going." He said, jolted from his stupor.

Muriel woke in unfamiliar surroundings. It smelled...clean. Cedar and antisceptic. It was dim, but the candlelight was bright enough to burn his eyes when they flickered open, and he winced, squinting against the light.

He tried to move but felt constricted at the waist. He brought his hand down and found rough fabric binding his core.

Every movement hurt. Intense tension and a dull throbbing. His head felt foggy. He thought he heard...singing. Footsteps. Water sloshing. He let his head fall back, already exhausted. Softness below him. A pillow. He hadn't had a pillow in...years. A mattress. A blanket.

He winced a bit when he heard the thud of something being placed at the bedside.

He felt the bindings at his waist loosen as hands undid fastenings. And, the pain intensified as the restriction slackened. He gave a loud groan, his head lolling to the side, trying to catch his breath.

"Muriel?"

He cracked an eye open, though he didn't need to. He knew that voice. He knew it from the song she sang. The smell of her perfume.

Celeste.

Asra's Celeste.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," she said, her tone sweet. "How bad is the pain?"

He opened his mouth to speak, but found his tongue dry. He huffed a bit, but the expansion of his chest and abdomen from drawing a deep breath sent a wave of pain through him. And the contraction of his body only amplified it more.

Celeste grabbed his hand firmly between hers squeezing. "I've got you," she said, and he could feel tendrils of energy flowing up through his veins. The pain subsiding as it entered his chest and spilled into his stomach. Effervescent, like bubbles under his skin.

He felt like he could breathe again, and took another tentative breath.

"Be careful, it's just pain relief. You can still strain yourself and tear something. Doctor did a pretty good patch job, but...you're going to be down for a bit."

Celeste's hands were small and warm in his, but her grip was firm.

Once he had relaxed, she laid his hand back down on the mattress and reached for a cup of water. "Here, wet your lips. Little sips." She brought the cup to his lips.

He couldn't entirely open his eyes for any length of time, so he allowed her to administer the fluids. There were a few trickles that escaped him, but she was quick with a clean cloth, dabbing away the excess.

"Is that better?" she asked, laying the cup aside.

"Mm," Muriel grunted. "How long...was I asleep? Where am I?" His voice was still raspy.

"About a day. You're in the palace. In a servant's room."

"Why?" he said, his tone abrupt, but perplexed.

"I had to get you out of there. You needed surgery."

"Or what? I would have...bled out?"

Celeste raised an eyebrow. "That's one possibility."

"Delaying the inevitable."

Celeste made a noise in the back of her throat, the nursing part of her provoked by his lack of self-preservation. Muriel, for what little he allowed her to know of him, had always been a defeatist. She wasn't exactly caught off guard. "Perhaps. But, I try not to let patients and friends die on my watch. Die on someone else's time."

"Friends?" he scoffed.

"Mmhm. Like it or not." Celeste retorted. Though, it stung. They had spent many hours together. Long nights, with Asra. Occasionally on her own.

She liked Muriel. To put it mildly. Though, her feelings were anything but mild.

She wondered when she would be able to stop coaxing him like a stray cat with cream. No matter what she tried, he always seemed to be indifferent.

Celeste had never been all that concerned with who liked or disliked her. It was of little consequence. But, with Muriel...it mattered.

Of course, practically, she knew he was well within his rights to be morose. She would be, too, were she in his place.

"I have to change your dressings. That's why I was taking the binding off. Let me know if you need any more pain relief."

Muriel felt her hands, and the supremely unsettling sensation of fabric being moistened then pulled from the open wound in his stomach. He hissed, though there was no pain.

Celeste examined the removed dressings. She was satisfied with their color. A bit of blood, but nothing too concerning. The wound itself was clean. A few strategically placed internal stitches. Julian had done an excellent job. She could have healed it to near perfection if she'd been able to use her magic, but...it just wasn't safe.

"It will scar. But...scars give character." She offered as she carefully cleaned the site.

Muriel was squirming a bit, the sensation astonishingly unfamiliar. It bothered him. Even in his unease, he was able to bite out a "Fuck character."

Celeste gave a weak chuckle as she repacked the wound with dry gauze, making quick work of it. She placed some fresh cloths over the site and rebound his abdomen. Tight enough to pull the injury together to promote closure.

"When's the last time you ate?" She asked.

"I...I'm not sure," Muriel answered, searching his memory.

"What do you think you can eat? I'd like to try to load you up while I have you, but I'm afraid to force too much and make you sick."

"Don't worry about me."

Celeste patted his cheek. "Don't argue with the Nurse. You're mine for the next six days. Like it or not. There are guards all over, and you are in no condition to run."

"Six days?" he asked, skeptical, and a bit dismayed.

"Yes, Sir," she answered, with almost a lilt in her tone. "Why? Do you want to go back to the dungeon?"

Muriel sighed. "I'm not sure which is worse. Being in Lucio's dungeon or being in his palace."

"I haven't been on your side of things, fortunately. I'd say that a palace is a superior option, all told." she offered, diplomatically. "But, I get the spirit of what you're saying...and I agree. Proximity can certainly breed contempt. And he is...contemptuous, to begin with."

Celeste reached her hand up and stroked an errant hair from his face, fingers lingering at his temple. "Do you want to try to eat? You look tired, still."

"I'll...try," he said, his tone quiet.

"I'll be back in a moment." She smoothed his hair back, then stood. She had just started to move away when Muriel caught her wrist.

"Can I... have that bread? That Asra brings? He asked, eyes half open and voice unsure.

Celeste smiled down at him and nodded. "I'm sure that can be arranged."

"If it's not...too much trouble," he added.

"Don't backpedal when the wish is granted, sweetheart." She slid her hand up into his and gave it an affectionate squeeze. "In fact, you've inspired me."

Muriel had lapsed back into sleep by the time Aedan arrived, escorting the baker. He fixed Celeste with an exasperated look. "Your...' baker. '"

Celeste grinned broadly. "I trust you didn't run into any trouble, Captain? Selasi?"

Aedan closed the door as they stepped into the room, eyes narrowed. "You are pushing your luck."

Celeste rolled her eyes. "That will be all, Captain," she said, waving her hand to dismiss him.

He made a noise of annoyance as he backed out of the room, shutting the door loudly behind him. He then reopened the door and apologized before slinking back out. Muriel stirred for a moment, then stilled, the sound of his snoring echoing off the walls.

When they were alone, Selasi crossed the room to Celeste, a bundle in his hands. He laid the bread on a bedside table and drew a ragged breath. Celeste extended her arms to him, and he stepped into the circle of her embrace. Celeste stared up at him.

Purple eyes.

"Thank you for coming, Love."

Asra bent and rested his forehead against Celeste's. It felt...odd. She was significantly shorter than him, but in this body, the effect was amplified. He was broader, rounder, taller.

"Should I take the glamour off? I think It might worry Muriel...But I don't want to give myself away, either."

Celeste nodded. "It's been quiet, so far. The Captain is...aware of our situation."

"And you trust him?"

"With my life."

"I assume there's a story there."

"Long one, yeah."

"Want to share?"

"Not today."

Asra gave her an incredulous look. Getting her to open up about her past was like...pulling teeth. All the same, he knew, generally, when he was being lied to. He never got that sense from her.

Someday she would open up.

His visage shifted, and he seemed to melt, like snow flooding into water. And then, Asra was restored to her.

"How...is he?"

Celeste shrugged. "He's as well as can be expected. Resting. You can wake his cranky ass up if you'd like. I got some chicken broth and rice down him before he went to sleep."

Asra looked concerned. "Cranky because of the wound or..."

"...Because he's Muriel. I'm sure the gaping wound doesn't help."

Asra rolled his eyes but nodded. "Sounds about right. You know he's all bark and no bite, don't you?"

Celeste shook her head. "Sure feels like a bite. He still doesn't think I'm his friend. It's been...what? Two years?"

Asra sighed and looked her in the eye. "He knows you're his friend. He's just...It's always only been us. You changed our dynamic. For the better, of course. But, he's terrible at accepting changes. Truly the worst."

Celeste shrugged, feigning indifference. "I'm not everyone's cup of tea."

Asra's tone shifted. "Celeste, you got him out of the dungeon and into the palace. You probably saved his life. I'm sure he'll come around. He just needs time..." he drew a breath, and continued, exasperated "...so, so very much time."

The snoring stopped, and Celeste looked past Asra. "He's waking up."

Asra turned and parted from Celeste, crossing the room to Muriel.

"Hey," Asra said, his voice cautious and tender. He sat on the chair next to the bed,

Muriel blinked the sleep from his eyes, then lifted a hand to rub his face. "Asra?" He asked, unsure of what he was seeing in his half-sleep, magically-induced daze. "You...shouldn't be here," he mumbled.

"Celeste snuck me in. It's safe enough." Asra said, reaching his hand out to touch Muriel's forehead, stroking his hair. "I was so worried, Muriel."

"She fixed me," Muriel murmured.

"Oh, she did?" Asra said, turning his eyes on Celeste with a half-smile. "She's good like that. Did you say thank you?"

Celeste bit her lip and hung back, watching the exchange.

Muriel, coming around a bit more, shook his head. "You really shouldn't be here. Lucio...wants you."

"And as far as anyone of consequence knows, Selasi is here to deliver pumpkin bread. Selasi walked in, and Selasi will walk out." Asra said. "Don't worry. We've got that under control. I won't stay long. I just needed to see you."

Muriel sighed and then winced. "Pain...is coming back."

Asra looked at Celeste. "I can close it."

She shook her head. "Between Julian and Valdemar, someone will figure out if magic gets used to close the wound. I can't think of any scene where that ends well or doesn't get back to Lucio. Either they figure out I've done it, or they assume Muriel has some sort of healing ability...or, worst-case scenario, they link it back to you." Celeste shrugged. "You're the last piece that Lucio hasn't managed to ensnare in this disaster, yet."

Asra turned back to Muriel, shaking his head, unsure of what to say.

Celeste crossed over to them and took Muriel's hand. He could feel her magic flowing into him again, and the pain easing. He closed his eyes for a moment, then turned his face to Asra.

"I don't know how much longer I can do this." Muriel's voice was sorrowful. "I don't want to do this anymore, Asra."

Celeste winced, and Asra's face fell.

"Muriel...I need you. I don't want to lose you." He said, almost pleading.

"You are losing me...I'm losing myself, in there."

Asra looked up at Celeste, and she could see the tears welling in his eyes.

She drew a breath. "If...I may, Muriel. I didn't have the luxury of knowing you before this. But, I have known cruel men. Men with bloodlust in their hearts." She squeezed his hand. "You are not like them. You are doing a job. A monstrous, wretched job that nobody should be subjected to. I have seen you after every match...and I know the remorse you feel."

Muriel was looking up at her now, brow furrowed, but attentive.

"If you had changed, you wouldn't feel this way. We aren't losing you. You're still Muriel." She gave him a compassionate look. "I wouldn't put up with your cranky ass if I thought you were a lost cause."

Asra sniffed but gave a slight chuckle, bringing a hand up to wipe his eyes. He mouthed a "thank you," and Celeste nodded.

"I love both of you...I know what it's like to lose those closest to you. I'll do what I can to keep you together."

Muriel blinked slowly up at her, train of thought thoroughly derailed. "I'm sorry...you...love us?"

Asra's face mirrored Muriels, though he looked much more amused. "You love us?" He asked with a lilt in his voice.

Celeste rolled her eyes. "Of course, I love you. There's...many kinds of love. Don't be children."

Asra clapped Muriel's shoulder. "Our wife loves us." He teased, his words sing-songy.

Muriel's face was not quite so amused. Shocked.

Celeste shook her head, feeling her face flushing red. She made to move away, but Muriel gripped her hand, eyes imploring.

"You don't mean it," he said disbelievingly.

Asra's amusement abated, looking between the two of them. The intensity on Muriel's face, the sorrow in Celeste's eyes.

Of course, he had known. He'd known from the first night Celeste had smuggled him into the dungeons to see Muriel after Lucio had brought him in.

He never questioned the love between himself and Celeste. But she looked on Muriel with the same affection that they shared. Initially, he'd been confused by it. Not quite sure how to process.

But, as their relationship grew, even such as it was, it gave him hope. The two most influential people in his life. The three of them working as a unit. The fact that she would go to Muriel of her own volition, even when he pushed her away.

It was love.

"Of course I mean it," Celeste answered.

Muriel shook his head, "I--" he looked to Asra, who nodded enthusiastically, trying to suppress a grin. "...Thank you?"

Asra's grin fell, and he groaned loudly, dropping his head to his chest.

Celeste gave Muriel’s hand one last squeeze and a laugh. “Asra...feed the man his bread. I..need a moment.” She said, as she stepped away, laughing to herself.

Muriel looked at Asra, eyes wide. Asra fixed him with a disapproving look.

“What?” Muriel asked, bewildered.

“You are...hopeless. Completely hopeless.” Asra shook his head, and reached up to grab the wrapped loaf of bread. “You’re so lucky I love you.”

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writtingfiction · 5 years

Note

*trips into submissions* Uh hi again a mere mortal has arrived to present another idea for your brilliant writing. I was thinking: Robin dreams of chrom bc of the alternate timeline split and yadda yadda fea stuff. But what if this split had happened so many times but in each one chrom and robin end up together? What if the same pairing had been repeated so much that robin AND chrom feel familiar to one another? Maybe write about how they come together in a new timelime if they both remember?

Why, hello fellow mortal, I must apologize. I would have written this sooner but I took a hit to the head and received a concussion. :( I had fun writing this though, I hope it cheers you up. (oﾟ▽ﾟ)o

pairing: Chrom x Robin

words: 3k

The first time he saw her, there was such a sense of familiarity he was surprised that he did not recognize her. Her body movements all seemed familiar, her voice for some reason made his heart ache. His heart pounded in his chest, he was so confused, why was she so familiar when neither of them had any recollection of each other?

Despite Frederick trying to warn him, nothing could dissuade him. This familiarity seemed too strong to ignore, so keeping her by his side was something he could trust, body and soul. It felt like déjà vu, being by her side as time had passed. There was a connection between the two of them, that he knew, but it seemed deeper.

“Chrom, stare at me any longer and I’m going to think that I’m truly a Plegian.” Robin’s laughter filled the room. Chrom blinked once, twice before realizing his mistake. He let out a nervous laugh, hand scratching the back of his neck, face lighting up a light shade of pink.

“My apologies, Robin. I did not mean to stare.” Chrom said, eyes trained on the wall of the war tent. He could hear the tiny giggles escape her lips.

“You do no harm. What’s on your mind?” Robin said, her gaze softening as they land on the prince who shifts in his spot. There’s a moment of silence before Chrom opens his mouth to say how familiar she is, but a far-off shout interrupts them. A battle is about to begin. She gives Chrom a quick smile, hands grabbing her coat. “Another time, then?” Chrom can only nod as the two of them walk out, strategies falling from her lips as he listens to every word.

He doesn’t get the chance to speak about it again till much later. Chrom has his eyes trained on the stars above him, twinkling brightly as his feet stay firmly planted on the courtyard soil. He wondered if his father was watching him from the stars, along with his mother. What would they think of their children now?

“Stargazing?” A familiar voice pulls him away from the stars and towards the woman whom he has come to trust whole heartedly. It’s Robin, the white-haired tactical genius that his body aches for in a familiar way. Chrom could only chuckle, giving a shy smile.

“It would seem so, what brings you here, Robin?” He asks, what has her up this late walking around the castle?

“I was on my way to the library…” Robin says trailing off, hand pointing in the rough direction of the library. “however, you seemed a bit lost. Thought I would keep you company.”

“That’s very kind of you, Robin.” Chrom smiles, their gazes lingering before she speaks up.

“Although, is everything ok? You seemed a bit distance after our last encounter with Gangrel.” Robin said worried, brows furrowing. Chrom could feel the tension rise in his body at the mere mention of the Mad King’s name. His fists clench tightly at his side but breathed in sharply, trying to relax.

“Yes, after all, everything is alright, for the moment.” Chrom said, glaring at the ground. “A war is upon us, again.” Robin frowned, hand coming up and placing it against Chrom’s shoulder.

“Everything will work out, Chrom. You have your family, the Shepherds and me. We will be by your side till the end. You can count on us; I promise you that.” Robin said, lips pulling into a smile.

“Thank you, Robin.” He looks at her, eyes locking with hers. He couldn’t stop his own heart from swooning. Her white-hair shimmered in the moonlight, her eyes lighting up with the stars reflecting in her eyes. She is the epitome of beauty under the moonlight, although he was sure she would deny it. “You look—”

“Marth?” Confusion filled the beauty woman in front of him. He turned on his spot, spotting the other young man. He echoed Robin, feeling slightly cheated on the night but those feelings were quickly turned to ash when he found out about the night’s events. He felt his stomach drop when the familiar feeling had settled into his bones as he cut down plegian soldiers that dared to try an assassination on the Exalt.

Days had passed since that night. The attempted assassination on his older sister’s life, her kidnapping, the attempted rescue but, the results were in vain. Chrom sat at the edge of his chair, soaked to the bone with a towel draped over his head as he stared blankly at the floor. His chest ached in pain, his throat dry and eyes red. His arms resting on his knees, as his mind drew a blank. It was a void, he had cried, sobbed when he was alone. Now, here he was, a shell of a man not being able to feel a thing as he replayed the death of his sister, nevertheless, what made it all worse was that it was all a familiar pain.

He heard footsteps come towards his room, stop by the door and then he heard nothing. With how long the pause was, he thought they had left but instead there was a soft knock. He didn’t respond, he didn’t want too. To be left alone is what he wanted, alone with his painful thoughts.

“Chrom…?” Her voice was so quiet, so hesitant. He didn’t hear the door open. She came forward, boots just stepping into his view. She called out to him again, voice filling the room. “Chrom, are you alright?” He felt anger boil inside him, of course not, how could he?His hands bawled into fists.

“How couldI be alright?” Chrom seethed. “She’s gone. I’ll never get to see her again, she– she made the choice for me, Robin. I was too powerless to stop him…!” He could see Robin kneel down in front of him, gently grasping at his hands, unfurling them from his tight hold.

“Chrom, I was powerless too…” Her voice was shaky at best, hiding emotions best she could but failing. Hands gripping tighter, as she tried to reassure the both of them. “My plan didn’t save your sister, and I–“

“You had done your best,” Chrom interrupted her, lowering his head even more. “you didyour best. I only have my failures now left to haunt me, along with this-this-pain.” He hissed. Voice lowering down to barely a whisper. “It feels I’ve gone through this before, like an old festering wound.” A pained expression appears on Robin’s face. Every breath she took started to hurt, heart hammering against her ribs. An odd familiar pain had entered her heart as she heard the prince’s words. She had been getting pieces of the past, or what she would like think is the past but it’s always Chrom by her side. She’s sure she hasn’t seen him before but, why the sense of familiarity? The moment she awoke, his name came to her lips naturally, but her own did not.

There were multiple times when that sense of familiarity had appeared. It was exceptionally strong when she was with Chrom. Battling in the arena in Regna Ferox, meeting Gangrel by the border when he took Maribelle; seeing Marth’s face for the first time when she appeared to warn them about the assassination; even the embarrassing moments they shared together at camp. They all felt familiar, like a sense of déjà vu. But there was also a downside, she had wondered why the pain in her chest was familiar when Emmeryn made the choice to sacrifice herself. She felt worse, just by having that feeling of familiarity, and now to hear Chrom say he had felt that familiarity as well; what does she say now. She took a deep breath and called out to him again, but he refused to look at her.

“Look at me, Chrom.” His head barely rose, lifting just enough to see her face be lit up by the corridor light. Her own eyes were red and puffy, cheeks stained with tears. He couldn’t have looked any better. “You’re not alone in this war. I know you’re scared; everyone is. However, you can’t give up. You may not be like your sister, Gods, I don’t think anyone of us is as half as good as your sister. But, if we try, together, we can make a stand for your sister. If you fall, I’ll be right there to pick you back up. Remember, as the future comes approaching us, you don’t have to be like your sister, you can still stay true to yourself.”

“And if I can’t? What if I’m not worthy of her ideals? What if I can’t do anything to save Ylisse, Robin?” Chrom asked, painfully so. He could feel his eyes burn once again, just when he thought he had cried for long enough. Robin gave him a soft look.

“If you’re not worthy, then you shall keep going until you are. You love your home too much to let nothing be done. I’ll be right by your side, Chrom. I’ll pick you back up every time you fall, without fail.” Robin said determined. Chrom took a sharp inhale, exhaling slowly as he digested her words. His hand squeezed her own in reassurance. Eyes looking down at their hands, tears daring to escape once again.

“Thank you, Robin.” Chrom whispered, tears escaping him quickly. Robin quickly enveloped him in a hug, holding him close. They held onto each other, tightly, fearing for moments if they were to let go of one another. Hours passed them by, crying in her arms as he dropped his worries, his concerns of the future. He was a broken glass, shattered pieces on the ground, seemingly no hope in recovery. However, here she came along, delicate hands picking up those broken shards and carefully putting him back together. Like she had done it a hundred times before, this time was no different.

The next nauseating feeling of familiarity was the few moments before the final battle started, the march on Gangrel’s end which he was going to personally see to. Robin was by his side as they overlooked the area, mindless chatter as they waited for the troops to get into position.

“Do you have any plans when this is over?” Chrom asked quietly, eyes scanning the field. His hand fidgeting with a small pouch he had in his pocket. He heard her giggle. He looked at her confused. “What?”

“Haha, hmm? Oh, nothing.” Robin said, turning her gaze away from the confused look of the prince. “I just thought you would be more focused on Gangrel, is all.”

“That’s true, but I know we will win. We’re not running anymore. The Mad King may have started this war, but we’re finishing it today.” His eyes caught hers. A serious expression on his face as his gut twisted in familiarity and nerves. “Together.” Robin gave a wide smile.

“Of course, now, let’s finish this.”

The fight was exhausting, it took every last bit of strength to make it through the battlefield victorious. The cheers were almost deafening, chorus’ of cheers and song had burst out when they had won. However, the only thing on his mind after he slew Gangrel was his tactician, his best friend. He never had to look far and especially not today. He had turned to her the second there were cheers. He was able to see Robin drop her tome and run into his arms. Her arms had quickly wrapped out the prince crying out in relief that everything was finally was over. There was a relieved chuckle that left his lips as he left Falchion to stand on its own in the dirt as his own tired arms wrapped around her.

“We did it!!” Chrom cried out, pulling away to see her face light up. Large, but tired smile on her lips. “You were amazing, we made this far because of you.”

“Thank you, but we have also made it this far because of your charisma.” Her eyes sparkled in that moment; they were free.

“So, the campaign is now over, war has ended. Do you have thoughts of what you now plan to do?” Chrom asked. Robin’s smile only growing brighter. She pulled away, out and away from his arms. Taking a step back, humming as she thought about it.

“Hmm, who knows. Maybe I’ll travel, visit other countries. Maybe get hired as their tactician and then verse Ylisse as the enemy.” Robin said, watching the prince’s reaction. His eyes went wide, shock filling him.

“What!? You can’t be serious, Robin!” The clear distress in his voice had only made her laugh.

“Don’t worry, Chrom. I wouldn’t do such a thing. However, traveling does sound nice…” Robin said, her smile fading.

“You don’t have to leave. I’m sure as things calm down and Ylisse gets back on its feet, I could use an advisor.” Chrom explained, grabbing Falchion and sheathing the legendary weapon. “Among other things…” Confusion took hold of Robin.

“I’m grateful for the offer and I graciously accept but, what are you talking about?” Chrom could now feel his nerves on edge. He was nervous. His eyes locked his Robin’s, he could do this.

“Robin, there’s something I haven’t told you… something I need to tell you. So please, just listen.” Chrom paused, as the two stared heavily at each other. One in confusion and the other a bundle of nerves, but the awkward silence had gotten to them. Chrom’s face started to flush red. Hand rubbing his neck. “This is more awkward than it was supposed to be… um, so, Robin, I like spending time with you. Y’know, as you do tactics and things. I like having you by my side in battles as we slay our enemies, not that I like killing people… or at all. But like, when you do tactics and you plan– that doesn’t sound right… I mean, having your presence on the battle field as we kill the enemy. Oh Gods, I’m just making this worse.” Robin’s face flushed red as Chrom stumbled over his words. Hand covering her face as she continued to listen to him ramble. “What I mean to say, is that I hope we can keep battling– no, that’s– how about I start over? Wait, why are you laughing?”

“I don’t think, I’ve ever been confessed to in such a silly way. Pfft.” Robin giggled slightly; eyes trained on ground.

“What? Gods, maybe I was wrong to pursue in end.” Chrom covered his face with his hand, embarrassment making his cheeks flush a darker red. “Please, just forget everything I’ve said. I don’t want to make things weird for either of us. It’s probably— “

“Chrom.” Robin’s voice cuts in. Approaching him in three steps, hands cupping his face. Their eyes locking with one another. “Forgetting this moment with you would be a mistake, and I think I’ve forgotten enough things in my life.” There was a shy smile on her lips, nonetheless, Chrom was still a mess. His words slowly processing in his brain, but the conclusion of her words not coming fast enough for the tactician.

Robin leaned forward. Their lips pressing against each other, a kiss conveying the emotions they couldn’t convey into words. The poor prince went stiff, at first but soon melted in the kiss. But it wasn’t quick enough. Robin had pulled away, slowly, their lips only inches apart before she pulled back.

“R-Robin?!” Chrom cried, shock, glee, and everything in between coursing through his body. Robin’s face matched Chrom’s in colour. The red painting their faces as they spilled their hearts for each other.

“I may have been to, reserved with my feelings. But, I guess with this, I love yo-“ Robin let out a grunt as Chrom gave her a bone crushing hug. His laughter filling her ears.

“Ahaha! Robin, you’ve made me the happiest man alive! I love you so much!!” Chrom gleefully cheered. Robin smiled brightly, giggles bubbling in her throat. “It’s great having you in my arms again.” He had said so confidently that she had almost missed the word.

“Wait, again?” Robin questioned; their gleeful moment put on pause. The two untangled from each other, confusion and nervous energy surrounding them.

“Again?” Chrom echoed, realizing his choice of words was, strange.

“Why would you say again…? Unless, you’ve been hiding that we do actually know each other this entire time!” Robin said, mind a haze. Chrom immediately dissuaded her.

“No, no! I would never do that, especially to you. To be honest, a slip of the tongue. It felt natural to say it. Familiar, even.” Chrom mumbled. Hand rubbing at his neck, a habit of nerves. That’s when it seemed to have clicked for her. Familiar. She wanted to laugh, perhaps its fate, or even destiny that they were pulled together again. She doesn’t know, but she’s grateful for it. To have Chrom, as a partner and friend, there’s nothing else she could ask for.

“Hmm, I see. Well, it has done no harm.” She smiled widely as her gaze looked upon Chrom lovingly. Chrom chuckled.

“If you say so, but tonight, we celebrate for Emm.” Chrom spoke his gloved hand finding her own, as he guided the two of them back towards their troops. The largest of smiles on their faces as they continued on their ways, forging on a peaceful path.

However, for Chrom and the Shepherds, they would be fighting for this peace once again. The Marth that had gladly helped them from before now joins them once again, but not as Marth, but as Lucina. That was when it had clicked for Chrom himself, the aching familiarity that had been put to rest when he wed his wife, Robin. His daughter from another future had watched over them, but not saying a word. He knows the ache of familiarity and knowing he shouldn’t act upon it; he knew it very well. He was grateful though, the familiar feeling hasn’t led him astray just yet.

#chrom #chrom fire emblem #chrom x robin #robin #chrobin #robin fire emblem #fluff #fire emblem #fire emblem awakening #robin x chrom

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trashyslashers · 5 years

Note

Could you do some slashers (up to you which ones) that kill the abusive husband/boyfriend of the future s/o because they saw how that trash bag abused the s/o and their child? From then on the killer visits the small family regularly, at first just to check up, without them knowing and then more often because he really adores s/o and their child? Killer finally becomes part of the small family?

So… I was originally going to do Bubba and Jason, but because of how long Jason’s came out to be I decided to just do his because otherwise this would be incredibly lengthy.

Under a read more for obvious reasons. this is like unnecessarily long im sorry

Urban legend or not, anyone who had any sort of brain knew that setting foot on the grounds of the camp was a surefire way to piss Jason off. Whether it was because he sought revenge on every living being ever and he could only get it if they were close enough or because he felt the camp was his own personal stomping ground that no one else had the right to touch, Jason was never merciful in his killings and the rumors and stories about what goes on up there kept people away for the most part. So why you took yourself and your child up there made no sense and you realized was borderline suicidal, if the gossip proved to be true.

Truth be told, you had no idea where else to go. Your partner was absolutely adamant on making sure you didn’t spend time with anyone else, not even family, so your next line of action: “Camping.” They, for whatever reason, didn’t protest as you threw some clothes in a bag, a tent in the car, your child in the backseat, and sped off down the street. Things at home had been quiet, the calm before the inevitable storm, and you figured your partner probably wanted a break from you as well. Whatever their reasoning for not pitching a fit about your request, you were relieved, albeit a bit tense. It wasn’t unusual for them to change their mind not too long after letting you do something, but you hoped that not telling them which specific campsite you were going to would deter them from looking for you.

It was mid autumn and to your pleasure no one else seemed to be at the camp. Your child, your son, was making friends with some fish in one of the small creeks that ran throughout the camp - you told him not to go near the lake, as he wasn’t a good swimmer - and you sat alone, in one of the shabby cabins that was hidden further back on the grounds. Your arms ached, your partner always seeming to grab ahold of them harshly whenever they were giving you an earful, and it resulted in your current yellow-brownish bruises that littered your upper arms.

Things were alright, for the day and a half you were there for. It gave you and your son some bonding time, something that was rare to come by as you worked and he had school, but dread was festering in the back of your mind as you knew eventually you had to go back. You’d only brought a few food items, camping foods picked up from a small market which you were running low on, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t slightly unnerved by the strange noises you’d been hearing at night. You brushed it off as a deer, or maybe even a bear, wandering by and looking for scraps of food, but the footsteps you heard circling your cabin as night were making you increasingly paranoid.

You were cleaning up after dinner, which was just sausages you roasted and some miscellaneous canned foods you heat up for you and your son, when you heard it. The slam of a car door echoing through the trees, making your heart fall into the pit of your stomach. It was dark out, no other soul around for miles, and you could only pray that it was either another camper, or your partner whom you hoped was calm.

You were wrong as it wasn’t either - in a way. It was your partner, but they were the furthest thing from calm. Far from calm was an understatement, they were absolutely livid. Foul words and harsh exclamations were thrown your way - asking why you had been gone for so long, what the hell you were doing with the kid in the middle of the woods, why you didn’t tell them where you were going, names and words you’d never repeat and the like.

You, and more importantly your child, were terrified to say the least. All three of you were shut up in your cabin, your partner’s rage growing in intensity as you too argued. The arguing was mostly from their side as you were trying to diffuse the situation for the sake of your son, and it showed no sign of calming down any time soon. You tried to defend yourself, explaining you were only planning on staying away for a few days, you wanted to spend time with your son, and so on but they weren’t having it and things were escalating. The calm had ended long ago, the eye of the hurricane passed, and this was the storm.

You’d ushered your child into the small bathroom in the back of the cabin so he didn’t have to be around the fight, and you thanked your lucky stars for that. You rose your hands in attempt to get them to back up which proved to be a huge mistake as they lunged forward, taking hold of your left write in a vice like grip before yanking you forward, their palm making contact with your cheek, a sharp sting spreading throughout your face as you found your voice in time to just shout “Stop!”

The shove to the floor shook you, but not as much as the sudden kicking in of the cabin’s rotting door. You nearly wet yourself when getting a look at who did it - a hulking man donning a discolored hockey mask, but your eyes were fixated on the rusting machete held in his right hand. Your partner, who was just as confused and flabbergasted as you were, approached the man, their voice raising in volume as they asked who the hell they were, what they were doing, and demanded that they leave because it was family time, the hiss in their voice and their choice of words making you sick to your stomach.

Your voice croaked, a plea for help directed towards the strange man, but your partner was having none of it as he reached down to yank you up by your wrist, telling you to shut it and stop talking, a threat beginning to fall from his mouth but a sound - a wet splitting sound - interrupting him. You were about to ask what happened, but before you could even open your mouth, the body of your partner lurched forward, crumpling on the ground with a sick groan. Wedged in the back of their head was a machete, lodged right in the middle, splitting it down the middle.

Of course, you screamed. You screamed and cried until your voice was hoarse and your face was hot. Not even out of sadness for your partner, but of fear, confusion, loss. You just saw someone - the person you had a child with - killed right in front of your eyes, the same person who had spent the last 7 or so years tormenting, neglecting, and abusing you. Not only that, but the person who killed them was, to put it lightly, petrifying. 6’6 at least, covered in blood, clutching a machete half the length of your body. You didn’t even watch where he went as you got up and sprinted to the bathroom your son was in, slamming the door shut and locking it, shoving any shelf or box you could up against it.

You had no idea how long you sat huddled in the tub with your son. You were trapped, there were no windows in the bathroom, and your only hope was the man had left. It felt like hours, agonizing hours of fear and anxiety, had passed before you had the courage to even stand up. You told your son to stay put as you crept from the tub towards the door, pushing aside anything you blocked it with. The door creaked as you opened it, the sound almost making you jump out of your skin. You braced yourself for the worst.

The man was gone. The body was gone. The only sign anything had even happened was the shattered door and a light trail of blood streaked right across the splintery floor, but besides that, nothing. You wiped up the blood, dumping the towel in the fire, swept the door bits away, and called it a night with your son.

The next few days were a wreck. Your son was either in shock or incredibly apathetic to the death of a parent, but he seemed like he was doing alright. You had no idea where to go from there. You both felt safe and unsafe staying there - the man never came back. You drove you and your son home and back, getting more belongings from home before settling back in a cabin - a different cabin.

A few days progressed and you caught glimpses here and there of the man who killed your partner. Lingering in the bushes, just out of sight, a shadow passing by the window at night… you no longer felt afraid. The closest he got to you or your son was when your son had wandered close by to the lake, the man was standing in the bushes as if he were just keeping a watchful eye on him. Over time, you felt safe with him.

He approached you one day, more specifically you and your son. You arm found its way around your son, a bit unsure of what the man’s intentions were, your eyes fixated on his hand - the hand that was holding the machete before was now holding… was that a teddy bear? It was dwarfed by the size of his hand, but it was undoubtedly a teddy bear. He tentatively extended his arm towards your son, offering the toy to him. He absolutely towered over you. Your son found the bear in his hands, the man still looming over the two of you. Then it clicked. This was Jason Voorhees - the boy stuck in a man’s body, the boy who drowned in the lake as a child, the man who slaughtered anyone who came into his land - the man who killed your partner to save you and your son.

You three grew closer over time. You did have to go home on occasion - you were questioned by the police briefly about the disappearance of your partner - but your past abuse wasn’t completely a secret so they took your word when you said they just ran off one day. You borderline lived at the camp now, Jason seemed fine with it. He’d linger around the cabin, on occasion you’d wake up to him just… watching you and your son sleep. Your son seemed fond of him, often trying to talk to him about children’s stuff to which Jason seemed to enjoy as he’d sit next to him and nod his head along as your son rambled on about whatever.

You felt safe with Jason. You knew he wouldn’t hurt you. You couldn’t help but wonder why he helped you in the way he did - maybe it was solely because of your son, maybe he was more empathetic than the rumors said, maybe it was just random. Regardless of his reason, you were incredibly grateful.

#tw: abuse #request #slasher imagines #slasher headcanons #slasher x reader #jason voorhees #tried to keep this gender neutral

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mssjynx · 5 years

Text

a melody

my fourth contribution to the discord bingo event

terrormoo drabble prompt: “you hired me to tune your great grandmother’s grand piano” idea: brian wasn’t expecting to be hired by his highschool sweetheart to tune a piano; his highschool sweetheart who he hasn’t seen since their horrible break up and who now has a little daughter 3854 words

The house was quaint. To the right side of the front door, pale yellow bricks were half hidden behind green vines that grasped the edge of the gutter. A wreath hung on the front door, pretty flowers wound around an old wooden wheel.

It was a pleasant little house and Brian was eager to see if it was just as pretty and quaint inside as it was outside. He pulled his box out of the back of his car, locking it up before leading himself down the little stone path. The little silver knocker glimmered; recently polished, Brian noticed as he lightly tapped it against the wooden door.

“I’ll get it!” The voice of a young girl rung back as an instant response, a door slamming shut within the house as heavy footsteps were heard on predictably wooden floorboards.

Another door opened, a deeper voice muffled as it called, “Simone, I’ll open the-’

Before Brian could hear the rest of the sentence, there was a quiet click and the door was hauled open to reveal a girl of about six or seven years old, big brown eyes the first thing to catch his attention. “Who are you?” she asked and Brian’s brows raised, attention lingering on the question of familiarity those brilliant eyes offered him.

With a small smile, he crouched down to her height, setting down his box so she could see the tools inside. “I’m here t’ tune yer piano,” he explained, watching her face light up in excitement. “My name’s Brian, what’s yours?” he greeted, holding out his hand as she bounced up and down on the balls of her feet.

She grinned brightly. “My name’s Simone!” she exclaimed, grabbing his hand with her very small one and shaking vigorously.

A man appeared behind her, pulling the door open a little wider and dropping a hand to the girl’s shoulder. His attention flicked up to the man at his door, polite smile already in place for an automatic greeting. Yet when he opened his mouth, no words were spoken. It took Brian another two seconds to understand why, realisation hitting the Irishman like a bullet and pushing him back a step.

“Brocky?” He didn’t know if his senses were playing tricks on him, or if he’d found himself in an incredibly vivid, sadistic dream.

“B- Brian? How- You-” A voice he knew; deeper with age but just as warm as it had been so many years ago.

The little girl between them snapped her head back and forth. “Dad,” She tugged on her father’s shirt, “how do you know the piano man?” It took Brock another few seconds to blink himself out of his daze, dropping his eyes to the ground and tugging his daughter out of the doorway.

“Come- Come in, Brian.” Brian numbly stepped inside, almost tripping over his box before he remembered to pick it up. Brock met his daughter’s gaze, smiling gently at her. “Brian and I were… friends in school,” he explained, not looking to the Irishman as he shut the door. “Would you go put the kettle on for us please?”

Brian watched as he held his daughter’s eye contact, giving her his entire attention as he spoke. When she nodded and skipped off down the hall, he took a deep breath of courage before returning his attention to Brian. The second time Brock landed his eyes on the man he hadn’t seen in twelve years, he looked almost suspicious, as if unconvinced the man in front of him was completely real.

Their eyes only locked for a brief moment before Brock’s warm, dark gaze lowered to dance down Brian’s body. It had been years; over a decade at least, since Brian had seen those kind eyes, but from just a glance he was hit with nostalgia, memories and emotions from their past. He had to fight back the fond smile that tempted his lips at how age had changed his… friend. Those chubby cheeks from his teenage years had sharpened just a little and he’d grown up from the short, curly-haired teen he used to be. The mess of locks Brock used to helplessly try to flatten at school had been cut back to a manageable style, kept in place by whatever hair products he had finally figured out. Brian felt a pang of pain, the urge to card his fingers through that hair, mess it up, see if Brock was just as cute with his hair sticking up in all sorts of directions.

No matter how long he stared and studied, Brock’s eyes had stayed exactly the same.

“It’s been so long,” Brock murmured, an awkward start into an inherently awkward conversation. Brian was glad he wasn’t the one to begin. “You’re in with music now?” he inquired, motioning the man further into his house.

Brian blinked, nodding slowly and forcing a simple, kind smile onto his face. “Yeah, a li’l. Just here and t’ere when instruments need fixin’.” He had to force himself not to openly stare at the new man before him. “I don’t play big time, jus’ for meself. I work in a game design company most days,” he explained, eyes drifting along the wall to examine photos of Simone, of Brock. Their smiles were the same, all cheeks, all teeth, squinted eyes. There was only one image halfway down the hall with a face completely new to Brian; a woman with the same pretty curls as Simone and a sweet, shy smile. Although he hesitated, he didn’t mention her. “What do you do? What’ve I missed out on all these years?” The humoured tone was almost sad and he didn’t miss the pang of guilt that flashed in those pretty brown eyes.

Seeing that look, that same look… Brian couldn’t help the jolt of his heart.

“I work as a teacher at Sim’s primary school.” His answer fell to the ground Brian walked over, turning the corner and leading him through the doorway to an aged piano sitting to the side of the cozy living room.

Brian couldn’t help his grin. “Just like you wanted, right?” Gentle, but happy; happy for the man in front of him, with a family, a home, a job. Brock nodded, not quite meeting Brian’s eyes as he thoughtlessly straightened the blanket over the back of one of the couches.

“The piano is my great grandmother’s.” Swift change of subject. Brock lifted a hand, two fingers rubbing at his cheekbones. No number of years would leave him forgetting his first love’s quirks.

The way he blinked a lot when he was emotional, and how he fidgeted when he was deep in thought. How when he brushed his cheekbone with his fingers he was uncomfortable, anxious, fearful. There was a wall, a wall piled haphazardly up between them that Brock had built in a panic. It was old, aged, worn but sturdy; still standing from their last few weeks together, the fights, the anger, the heartbreak; a build-up which refused to settle until it exploded.

The memory had a stab of pain jerking into Brian’s chest and he pressed a hand to his sternum.

“We haven’t touched it for years but I thought it’d be good for Simone to start learning,” Brock continued, opening the piano and brushing his fingertips along the keys, “Except that it sounds awful and I can’t bear listening to it anymore. Either we need to have it fixed or we need a new one for her.”

Brian shook his emotions out of his head. They had gathered dust over the years but had no reason to resurface in Brock’s home. As if to prove his point, Brock rolled his his five fingers over the keys in the centre of the piano, releasing a horrible off-tune attempt at a scale. Brian flinched, unable to help but wonder how long it had been festering untouched and untreated.

His fingers twitched in an eagerness to fix it and hear it sing the way it should again.

“I can imagine why,” he murmured, running his fingers through his hair. He cast his attention to the piano, aware that the man who once knew him better than anyone else didn’t want to lengthen their conversation any longer than necessary. “I’ll get it fixed up in an hour or so and she’ll be able to play any pretty melody she pleases!” Brock smiled gratefully, turning and catching his daughter by the shoulder as she rushed in to join them by the piano.

“Come on, Sim. Let’s leave Brian to work in peace,” he said, leading the complaining girl back out to the hall. Brian waited.

His eyes drifted over the room, pretty chandelier hanging above his head. Spots of rust revealed its age and the musician admired the piece in its vintage glory. Pieces of mismatched art hung from the walls, splatters of paint and crayons signed off with “Simone Key” and different years. The room was decorated with pastels, patchy couches looking more comfortable than any expensive leather lounge. It was exactly the sort of environment he had pictured Brock building for himself.

As kids they had pondered about the houses they wished to own. Of course, at that time, they believed they wanted the same thing, the same home. For Brian, he believed Brock was going to be a part of that home, and at one point, perhaps, Brock had felt the same. Standing in that living room, he felt like a fraud; everything about it read Brock’s personality. He was the last person that deserved to stand in that home.

The piano fit in perfectly. It showed its age with its scratches, chips and stains. Finding a little silver plate, he identified that it had been made in 1965. Fortunately, the instrument didn’t look to be missing anything important and Brian made quick work of opening her up. With a quick once-over he found no bad damage of the inside of the piano. The strings were old, but not yet broken and it seemed like nothing that a little TLC couldn’t fix.

Distracting himself from his intrusive emotions, he got to work. Hitting keys and winding the strings tighter, humming to himself as he adjusted each note to the right tune. After thirty minutes of work, Brock brought in a sandwich and a glass of water for him.

“It’s sounding better already,” the father remarked, placing the plate down on the table he’d dragged to the side of the piano. His shoulders were no longer wound so tight, his eyes didn’t jump around as if looking for an escape. He was comfortable in his own home and Brian felt the tension in his own back melt as well. “Do you work on pianos often?”

His inquiry drew Brian’s attention to him, an unattractive groan of excitement leaving his mouth as he snatched up the sandwich and took a bite. Holding a hand in front of his mouth, he spoke through his food: “Sometimes,” before finishing the rest of his mouthful. He flashed an apologetic smile to the father who dropped his polite attention to the carpet. “It’s been a long time since I’ve tuned one as rusty as this ol’ girl.”

Brock let out a quiet laugh, directing his eyes to the floor as Brian leant against the back of the house.

“She’s yours?” he asked, nodding to where they could vaguely hear Simone singing in the kitchen. Brock glanced to the doorway, the awkwardness in his smile melting to match the fond, loving look that glossed over his eyes. His small nod explained why, Brian admiring the adoration that showed so clearly on his face when thinking about his daughter. “Is her Mama around?”

Yet at the mention of Simone’s mother, that fondness faded. The loving look in his eyes was overtaken by sorrow and he let his eyes fall shut to hide the heartbreak Brian recognised immediately.

A divorce? Or had she just left him with the child. Maybe she’d cheated. Or maybe he had- though the thought was too impossible to ponder.

“She passed only two years after Simone was born.”

Brian wished he hadn’t even asked. He finished the sandwich, wiping his mouth and catching Brock’s eye. “I’m sorry about t’at,” he murmured, catching Brock’s sad smile.

He shook his head, as if clearing his thoughts. “It’s okay,” he promised. “She’s a carbon copy of her mother.” He motioned towards the giggly singing, shoulders ridged and lips pursed. A moment hovered between them, thin as paper as they listened to the humming and clanging of the girl messing about in the other room. It only last a few seconds however, before Brock cleared his throat and slammed that wall back in place. “Anyway, I’ll get out of your hair so you can work.”

Before Brian could tell the single father that he didn’t mind his company, Brock was already out of the room and calling for his daughter.

The Irishman hovered for a moment, remaining still and silent in the pretty room. He was just at another job working with another piano, owned by one of the most important people that had ever come into, and walked out of, his life with an adorable little daughter he had raised on his own.

He couldn’t help the feeling of wishing to reconnect. Seeing those eyes again, he wanted to apologise. Brock hadn’t ever given him the chance, cutting Brian out and locking himself away. There had been no apology, no closure, no conversation or forgiveness. Brian hadn’t even had the chance to say goodbye before Brock had left for college.

It had been years, and the awkward air between them was still stifling.

Brian craved to get rid of it; not to run away but to fix the broken bridge between them. Guilt, long-since buried under the last decade of his life, had resurfaced, churning in his gut in a way that made him nauseous.

So busy with his working and lost in his thoughts, he didn’t notice Simone’s presence in the room with him until she was standing right beside him, pressing one of the high-pitched keys he had already tuned. He didn’t mean to jump to sharply, but couldn’t deny that her sudden appearance had startled him; yet those sparkling brown eyes had a soft smile forming on his face immediately.

The same eyes as her father.

“Is it working?” she asked, voice hushed as she glanced over her shoulder. Despite knowing her father had urged her to leave Brian to work in peace, her curiosity and interest seemed to have a stronger pull and she grinned gleefully when there was no call from Brock.

Brian nodded, stepping aside slightly and making room for Simone to crawl up onto the piano seat. “Would ye like to help me?” he asked, not even able to finish his sentence before the girl was beaming and nodding vigorously. “Okay, so ye can press t’e keys while I tune them. Make sense?”

She nodded again, smile settled on his lips as she pressed down on the key he motioned to. Lifting back, he nodded at her to press it again, found the right peg and tightened it until the sound hit the tune he was looking for.

“Next, please.”

They worked like that for about twenty minutes before Brock came in, catching Brian’s attention but not Simone’s. The Irishman faltered at the look of worry that cast over the father’s eyes; not wishing for his daughter to be a nuisance. “Next?” Simone asked, bringing Brian back to the task and away from the watching gaze of Brock.

“Yep, next one now,” he said, moving along the pegs in the inside. At no interruption, he tried to push his awareness away from Brock, focusing on the piano and the girl pressing its keys. After another few minutes and a couple more keys, he glanced back to the doorway and found it empty, smiling faintly to himself.

“Done!” Simone chirped, hitting the last key and smiling excitedly.

Brian placed the cover back over the piano’s insides and stepped back to meet her grin with one of his own. “T’ank you very much for the help.” He patted the girl’s shoulder thoughtlessly, running his fingers through his hair. “May I?” he motioned to the piano and she obliged, hopping off the seat so he could take her place. “I’ll jus’ check it’s all in tune now.”

With ease and muscle-memory, he began to play a few little tunes that spanned over the range of the piano notes. He listened closely, unaware of the two pairs of eyes on his fingers as he played, and once satisfied with the sound and pitch of the instrument, he let his fingers fall still and turned to where Simone was bouncing up and down on her feet and Brock was leaning against the wall with a distant look on his face.

“Dad!” Simone exclaimed, spinning around and running to Brock. “Can Mr Brian teach me how to play piano!? Can he? Can he? Pleaaase!” She tugged excitedly at his arm, glancing over at Brian to flash her puppy-dog eyes.

He let out a laugh, seeing Brock’s fluster spread in his rosy cheeks as he batted away his daughter’s hands. “No, Sim. Brian’s a piano tuner not a piano teacher,” Brock explained, sympathetic eyes flashing at her sad look. Brian carded his fingers through his hair again, standing.

“Well, I… I am a teacher too,” he murmured, allowing his offer to rise in the room, shy and uncertain. Simone’s excitement exploded again and Brock blinked in surprise.

“You are?” he asked, just as his daughter began pulling at his arm and swaying back and forth. Her begging of: “Pleaaaase,” carried on as he shook his head. “That’s a huge ask, Simone,” he told her. “Brian, you don’t-”

“I’d be happy to,” he emphasised. “If ye are lookin’ for a teacher, I teach kids her age and older; if you don’t mind me…”

It was impossible to miss the flash of hesitation in those dark brown eyes and Brian dropped his attention to his toolbox in defeat.

“Or I can give you a list of other teachers I’ve worked-”

“Simone, can you please go to your room while Brian and I talk?” Brock interrupted him, motioning for his whining daughter to give them privacy for a moment. There was no stopping the jump of fear in Brian’s heart, unknowing of how the following conversation would pass. Did Brock want to talk about him teaching, or about their break up? Was he going to ask him to leave? Was he going to say he never wanted to see him again? “Brian, I-”

“I’m sorry.” He couldn’t stop himself. “If ye’re going to ask me to leave, I’ll leave but- but let me-... I never got to apologise for hurtin’ you.”

The single father took a step forward. “Brian, no. You don’t have-”

Brian shook his head. “I do, Brocky.” The nickname fell from his tongue too easily. “I didn’ try hard enough t’ get to you and to say I was sorry. I was an asshole, a huge asshole, an’ even now I don’t expect you to forgive me or to be nice. I don’t nearly deserve it after how I treated you-”

“In high school, Brian.” A hand pressed to his chest, cutting his words off short and drawing his erratic attention to Brock’s calm eyes. No anger, no hatred, just a glimpse of lingering pain. “I forgive you.”

Brian stopped short, speechless.

“I forgave you when I grew up and realised we were just stupid kids that did stupid things. I know you’re not an asshole, you never were. You didn’t want to hurt me, I just didn’t want to believe that back then and it was too convenient to leave for college.”

He didn’t know how to react. “You- I-” He couldn’t form word, unsure whether to be thankful, or to encourage Brock to take his kindness back. Without thinking, his fingers lifted to snap around Brock’s wrist, not knowing if he was keeping the warm hand there or holding himself stable.

“I’m sorry for not giving you the chance.”

He gaped. Why was he apologising to Brian!? “N- no, don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t deserve the chance after sayin’ that stuff to you,” he explained, staring into the eyes he’d fallen for so many years ago. “I didn’t mean a word of it,” he said. “I’ve regretted it since the day I said it and- an’ all I’ve wanted is to be able t’ say sorry.”

Brock caught his spare hand, linking their fingers together. He looked kind, soft, warm. There was no more pain in his eyes, no more sadness, no more regret from what they used to be and what had happened.

“Okay, thank you,” he murmured, accepting his apology and watching the sigh of relief wash out of Brian’s system. The Irishman’s shoulders settled, having finally been able to mend the wound he’d caused. “Simone would really like to get learning piano soon,” he mentioned, his sharp change of subject not disturbing the air of comfort and peace between them. “And I can tell she already adores you. I don’t- You don’t- It’s only if you want-”

“I’d be more t’an happy to teach her.” Reassuring and sweet. “As long as you let me take you out for lunch one day this week. Let me do something for you to make up for my bullshit.”

Brock’s hand fell away from his chest, but their fingers remained linked and his eyes remained soft as they twinkled with amusement. “If I say you don’t have to, I know you’ll bug me until I agree.” Brian’s not-so-innocent smile gave away Brock’s words as the truth. “If you can come do a lesson with Simone on Monday, we can go out for food afterwards. Will that work?”

Brian took a step back, smile settling comfortably on his face. He picked up his toolbox, fishing a card out of the side and handing it to the father. “My number’s on here; we can get a little weekly class goin’ for her if t’at’s what she wants.”

He led himself down the hall, Brock walking in tow. “I’ll text you and we can work something out.” Brock opened the door for him, holding himself tensely as Brian stepped up to him. Before the Irishman could ask for permission, Brock stepped forward and wound his arms around him. The embrace was deliberate and tight, holding more emotion than a simple hug goodbye.

Brian didn’t waste time, curling his arms around the man and resting his chin against his temple. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, running his fingers down Brock’s spine.

The head tucked against his shoulder shook, arms tightening. “I forgive you,” he whispered back, before dropping his arms and stepping away. His smile was genuine and beautiful, a wave of nostalgia and emotion crashing over Brian’s head. He couldn’t help but smile back. “I’ll see you soon, Brian.”

“See you soon, Brocky.”

#terrormoo #fic #fanfic #bbs #banana bus squad #drabble #reunion au #exes au #jynx writes

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pestopascal · 5 years

Text

retribution spoilers, i suppose. returning to the farm. revenge. tw for blood, guns, knives. eyes.

With another kick, he flies through the doors. Hands scrabbling against the floor, trying to get away. AWAY! GET AWAY! And you thrive off the power. The screams. Heavy footsteps stalking forward, one in front of the other. No long the hunted.

You’ve never felt this strong. So sure of what it was you were about to do. There had been a moment earlier of course, of waver, when you had been outside the perimeter, looking in. You could’ve left, run away. But the walls are streaked red, and your hands do not shake. Instead you’re here, reloading the gun in your hand.

Would you be sated? Perhaps not. Never, even, until this place burned.

“Stay—stay back!”

Behind your helmet, you smile. Manic, probably, with how you watch him hit the body behind. Crippling fear, as he turns slowly, and there’s an “Evan?” So quiet, voice tight with realisation, terror. It feels so good.

Eyes flick over for a moment. You will remember the way you had dropped in for days. Scalpel in hand. Hello, doctor. The man had barely any time to react. Assistants down, no time for screams, until it was just you, and him.

He had taken your eyes the first time you had met. So you had taken his.

“Wh—what did you do to him?!”

“Just took back what was mine.”

That’s the kicker, to rip him away from Evan’s face. Empty holes where eyes should’ve been. Mouth wide open in a scream that died on his lips, and it might’ve even been your name. This memory will not pass, and you don’t care. You want it to live on, to fester in his thoughts, bury deep into his gut. The line was still not crossed, and you take a step forward.

“Who are you?”

The million dollar question. Oh, you knew that they were on to you. Perhaps from the very beginning. But that information must’ve been a well kept secret, even one that he didn’t know. How strange, to be so far on the outside. As if it had never occurred to him, to be on the other side of the glass.

You will never get another moment like this. Seals on your helmet pop, coming off with one easy movement. Gun still raised, eyes barely moving from the way he squints, trying to make out what little of your face you give away.

Until you feel the air leave him. Punch to the gut, and he’s bleeding it all out. Clambering over Evan’s body now, until just the cupboards sat behind him. Like he could never get far enough away.

“No—no! You—It can’t be you!”

Raise your brow. Still not letting go of your helmet, or the gun. Solid in your hand. Nanovores quivering in your palm, please, let them eat. So hungry. So so hungry. Just let go, just this once. Even Mortum’s work can be overwritten if you just gave in.

But you don't want to speak. Don’t want to give him that pleasure. Not yet, but soon.

“You’re dead, you absolute fucki—argh!”

Cut him off with a bang, low in the hip. Watch as he gasps, nice and deep, clutching the bleed. Closer now, so much closer. Crouching down, Evan the only barrier between the two of you. With a nudge, Evan’s face turns towards him.

“Now, now, father, don’t use poor language.”

You watch the way Logan freezes. Says something between clenched teeth, that you know was simply an insult, but it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t have much longer to live now, anyway. The bullets were laced, after all. Slow release once lodged into skin.

Logan spits out blood, with it landing between your boots. “So rude,” you sigh, and push yourself to stand once more.

“I’m not your fucking father!”

Partially true. You know what image you were made in. What memories lingered in your mind. Simulation wouldn’t bring his daughter back, and had this been any other time, any other life, he might’ve been able to be turned against the Farm, the government. After all, they had weaponised what he loved against him, and you had grown from what remained.

“You’ll pay for this, you hear me! You fucking psychopath! Always knew I should’ve killed you when I had the chance! Would’ve done it myself, you raging—”

Bang! Bang bang! Bang bang bang! Hollow click.

Damn, out of bullets. Tossing the empty gun aside, you not so gently kick Evan out of the way. Apparently you should let the dead rest. But that only ever applied to some, and these monsters deserved none of your grace. Quick flick of your hand, and the knife is solid and untarnished in the low light of the room.

Makes it look haunted, like out of those thriller movies. How appropriate, as you cut away the fabric of Logan’s shirt. Chest exposed, and you’re so careful in how you mark him. Strokes, deep enough to leave a message loud and clear. Quick, easy. As if you had practiced this before.

Another note, a paper trail for the Farm to follow. Wiping the blade clean on his pants, you affix it back against your hip, reseal your helmet and stand. Good. Good. Closer now, almost at the centre.

With your back turned, you find the camera in the corner, and you only stare. Grin. Barely in the reflection, you can see how your helmet lights up, deep red, screaming out one message out of the two you have to leave behind. (DIE DIE DIE DIE) Logan’s body contained the second.

ALIVE

#fallen hero #fallen hero rebirth #sidestep #fallen hero retribution #tw guns #tw violence #tw blood #tw knives #my fic #oc: logan walsh

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tallat-of-thralls · 5 years

Text

My deity(ies) experience

Part 1: Childhood and teenagehood story of conflict.

I may or may not type part 2; we will see

***trigger warning: talking about blood and bleeding disorders in detail***

Im going to speak on something personal and is not meant to show any kind of disrespect to any of the deities I have interacted with in the past.

This isn't a "how to" but more of a chronicled transitional life events from the time i was a child up to the present as an adult.

As a child, like most US Americans, i grew up in a (nondenominational) Christian household celebrating and paying respects to that ideal. It was hard for me to clearly connect with the Christ Lord and in fact as a juvenile (6/7 yr old) the greek and egyptian pantheons made more sense to me.

I dont know if it was that the greek gods intermingling and then the showing of great petty and occasionally destructive behavior with their own worshippers and each other or the certain charm that came with how egyptian gods had interacted with the judeo-christian islamic pantheon as described in the old testament. But it was those two pagan pantheons that i had more exposure to in my home and it was their names i learned first.

One thing i knew as a child, despite my fascination with the psycophants and the lords messengers the angels of jci books, i could not accept the Christ Lord and His Father as my Shepherd. I didn't feel His love, His love seemed to have left me as a severely chronically ill child that spent most of my time alone and in pain.

Perhaps my straying was influenced by the sheer amount of rejection i had received at school, my community church, and some family. In any regard, by 11 or 12 i had decided that i would switch Gods and honor a different pantheon.

Repeatedly, through out my feeble life, i had been told by doctors and by the authority around me that i was dying. If i dont take my medicine, dont eat correctly, limit my activity, and so forth, that i was going to die bloated, blue, and alone in the hospital.

As a tween, i became morbid and obsessed with that idea of death especially since i had been recitated a couple times before i understood the concept of an after life. (My poor mother.) As a result of my upbringing, i have been accused of being sullen and dark by those around me due this constant memento mori.

Despite my ever decimating health problems and the threat of their festering dominion it was still my fault for being macabre. I digress.

Christ Lord and i had ceased our estranged communications after one very serious hemorrhage that landed me in the hospital as an 8yrold despite my prayers to stop it or relieve me from the coil. And insult to injury, was assured by a well intentioned nurse that it was within His plan. I no longer believed i could be heard or if i was heard obviously it was within His plan that i suffered thusly. I was disciplined by my catholic grandmother for having this faltering faith once i recovered enough to leave the hospital.

Always on my death bed and with one deformed foot in the grave, using my morbidity and macabre mind i had beseeched my first pagan god and renounced my affiliation with that of christian naysaying. In return, I had been received by a very sympathetic Anubis.

At eleven or twelves years old constantly on the brink of death, i called to the egyptian underworld one evening as blood poured from my face into the porcelain bowl of my downstairs toilet, "please make it stop. I cant take it this anymore."

Slowly becoming a trickle, for the first time in a very long time, years maybe, my facial hemorrhaging did not result in an emergency hospital stay and for once fully clotted. Yes the blood clot was like a foot (12in or 36 cm) long when i pulled it from my sinus cavity but it was better than bleeding out. Clotting is better than bleeding particularly when your disorder prevents you from clotting properly.

It was the first time i had actively received an answer to my prayers in a moment of crisis and weakness. Recalling the name i invoked, the name that spun and created comfort was He, Anubis, who made death his duty and chose to pick my foot out of the early grave.

(I cannot attest my recovery to medical miracles. My doctors had struggled with figuring out why i had these and how treat me to no end. I have had very bad interactions with many specialists as a result. So, it was fairly defeating when i suffered and it was equally mysterious to them when I began to recover.)

Since invoking Anubis the first time in ire of suffering and under the derision of fear, was the last time i agonized with my facial stigmata to the brink of unconsciousness. I still struggle with it like all my illnesses but that was the final time i had to loom over a bowl to properly gauge how much blood i was losing.

I still honor and thank my old friend to this day but as i slowly crept from the edge of the grave, i eventually had to talk to my good god and inform him that i feel i no longer struggled with imminent death and it was time for me, a 15/16 year old teen girl, to seek out another god or goddess that would bring growth in my life. Though Anubis was a great and wonderful god to have worked with for years since i was a child, i was no longer as concerned with the nearness of my death bed and no longer required such intense treatment from a manager of death.

Invocation of his name became less and less until we had mutually agreed that it was time for me to move on.

Which name was next? i had wondered. Would i ever have such a connection with another god or goddess as i did with Anubis?

Though i knew of other names and they had lingered on my tongue since i was a girl, the answer was No. I could not find another deity for years.

My health regressed but it still posed no lethal threat. I was bed ridden but not with fear of dying.

Hope escaped me. And for a solid 5 or 6 years, i was a godless heathen.

Doesn't mean i had lost practice. I just no longer involved the name of a deity and instead worked with minor or lesser beings like fairfolk, angels, daemons, etc.

Alas! A name will come to you once you start craving for the chant.

That is what had happened to me in my adult life.

I was 23/24 before another name, one that i have been familiar with throughout my late childhood and teenhood, rung out over the others. However, I did not realize that they were volunteering to be my next invocation and my next ethereal guide.

Twas an ancient deity of many pantheons of many names that was demonized during a time of philosophical growth with minimal success.

Working with them has been, i would say, mostly rewarding. Since i am still working with this very ancient presence and still learning about their nature, i am still building my relationship with them even though i have known many of their aspects from the interaction within the last few years.

So, i show reluctance in talking about this deity and their nature on the prospect that they are a complicated being that is not as straightforward as my relationship with Anubis had been. Nor does my knowledge of them suffice for me to say that i can teach you about them.

But hot damn, do they know how to push progress in such a cataclysmic way and with superior power moves. Not a gentle hand but certainly a firm one.

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chaoticnootrals · 5 years

Text

Star Crossed

Pairing: Kylo Ren/Ben Solo x Reader

A/N: I’m contemplating whether or not to make this a series, like, I have other chapters and all that so tell me if you like it! If you do, below is the summary for the possible series hehehe

Summary: In Ben’s search to become someone noble, he found his light within young Jedi pupil, Y/N, both falling for the other immediately. The pair sharing a connection far more meaningful than any alliance, coupling or marriage could ever bring thanks to the force. Yet, the pair are separated the night Luke unintentionally awakens the dark side within his nephew, ending in both thinking that the other had passed. This causes them to lead destructive lives for opposite sides of the intergalactic war where the two are bound by destiny to cross paths again. Star Crossed lovers at their finest.

Word count: 2099

There are tears streaming down his face, a luxury of expression he hadn’t allowed himself to relish in for what seemed like eons gone by. The emotions running through him were blinding, so many years spent in the shrouded mask of the dark side, consumed by his own despair and loss, yet he was finally set free. All because of you.

“Y/N,” His voice quivered out your name, “Is it really you?”

“It’s me Ben, it’s really me.” You choked through strained vocal chords, smiling with a genuine warmth, no longer forced by obligation.

For years you had both suffered through the utter bitterness and anguish that came with the pain of a shattered heart. An agony that could only be the result of the loss of one’s soulmate, it festered and ate at your reality, blinding the two of you to any kind of resolution. There was no moving on for you, nor for Ben Solo himself. With the idea ingrained in his mind by Snoke that he had lost you to the cold clutches of death’s hold, the Dark side consumed him and left nothing but the infamous Jedi killer, Kylo Ren in it’s wake. As for you, waking from a harrowingly long coma endured from the night you had lost your Ben Solo, you had become a brutal yet essential assassin for the resistance, no longer the sweet and loving Jedi pupil you had once known yourself to be. That nigh Ben Solo melted away into Kylo Ren and moulded you into the ruthless nightmare of the resistance had been intentionally blurred from both lover’s minds, all until now.

“Ben, no!” The structure collapsed and from the rubble he arose, having given into the beckoning call of the dark side that haunted him. He didn’t feel anger, nor did he feel sadness, it was the betrayal that pumped from an already damaged heart that clouded Ben’s mind, but more than anything Ben was truly scarred by the utter fear of what he had just experienced. His flesh and blood, his master, the one he had looked up to to heal the darkness he felt brewing within him, even he had lost faith in Ben, going as far as to be rid of him. Now Ben was alone, left to ponder and fear what he had done, what he could become, yet his mind only wandered to thoughts of you; his saving grace, his sunshine.

Just like magic there you were, running toward him, calling his name, trying to grip him back to reality. A lighthouse in the black sea that threatened to drown him. You didn’t know what had happened, frankly you couldn’t care less, but you could feel it as you slept, a disturbance that beckoned you out of your slumber and called out for your Ben. Even before you had officially met, you felt the connection between yourself and Ben Solo. Ever since then you had been an inseparable pair, and from then both you and the young legacy had felt an obligation to protect one another, no matter what. This night was no different.

“Ben!” You called, ignoring the chaos that surrounded him, more concerned for the well being of your love.

Your heart raced and with heavy lungs and shaking limbs you made it to a fragile Ben standing amongst the carnage of his hut, lightsaber drawn and tear welled eyes that hurt to look upon. The sight stung to witness, with each steady blink and observation an ache in your heart tinged. Your unsteady hands extended up to cup Ben’s debris sooted cheeks. He stared panicked into the distance, you could see the pain and trauma that stained his vision as he examined the chaos.

“Y’Y/N…” He muttered quietly. “Luke..He-he tried to-“

“Ben, it’s okay. Look at me, please. Tell me what happened?” For Ben’s sake you tried to stay calm, but you wavered speech only left you with transparency.

“He was going to kill me.” Ben’s eyes finally met yours, a connection so intense with sheer distress you could feel it in your stomach, twisting in knots and lurking it’s way throughout your body.

Ben then fell to his knees, his arms snaking around you as he buried his face against your body, only hoping that this was all a twisted nightmare. Hoping that if he held you tight enough, close enough that it would all go away, yet here he stayed. Surrounded by what he could only describe as the inevitable, he was becoming what most claimed he would, all except you.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, Ben.” You whispered, hugging him even closer.

As if seeing the love of your life pained and broken wasn’t enough to break your heart, the force that connected you enhanced everything. Every memory, every emotion, every painful shake, you felt it all and it snapped your heart in two.

“It’s okay, my love. I promise you-“ You said assuringly, placing a long loving kiss to Ben’s matted jet black locks.

“Get away from him, Y/N!” A voice demanded from behind you.

As you protectively turned towards them, trying to shield Ben’s much larger frame with your own. Facing them, you were confronted by your Jedi cohort, all looking at the two of you with such animosity that you could practically feel it cutting through you with a simple glare. Each pupil was armed with a saber or blaster in hand. It was a Jedi’s duty to forgo anger, to avoid the violent situations of battle, yet they weren’t Jedi, they were scared children, but so were you; both of you. As frightened as you might have been, faced against hopeless odds, you swore to protect Ben’s innocence at whatever cost.

“Stay back!” You barked a warning to the oncoming swarm.

With an outstretched hand, the other gripping Ben’s own, pieces of debris levitated before you acting as a shielding wall. It was exhausting to use the force in the state you were in, and if you were honest the wall wouldn’t do much in your defences, but protection wasn’t the point. Very few of your peers were able to use the force to the extent both you and Ben could, and the levitation of broken down pieces around you was a display to show that you were not a pair to be trifled with.

“It’s not safe, Y/N” A female voice urged you.

“He’s a monster!” Another shouted.

“He killed our master, Luke Skywalker!” Yet another argued.

And finally, “He’s only using you!”

Ben had heard it all. Disgrace, monster, pathetic, disappointment, there was nothing he was not familiar with and he refused to let them get to him, or at least show that they did, but to be accused of using you was something Ben couldn’t allow. How dare they, he thought. How dare they accuse him of using you, he would never. Ben was already a damaged soul, with the absences of both parents as a child came the ever lingering feeling of abandonment. With he heavy expectations and legacy that hung above his head came the crushing pressures that tore him down. With the forever yearning to become something other than what was expected of him came the idea of being a Jedi would fix the torment within him, but that night; that night was the last straw.

The dark side had almost taken over and Ben wasn’t doing much to deny it anymore. As he rose from his knelt position he could see a sea of blasters all pointed in his direction, some even aimed at you and it made his blood boil. He no longer felt fear, no longer regret, instead replaced by pure rage. Right and wrong had no place in Ben’s morality, all he could see, all he could feel was your energy in which he was willing to protect at all costs. You could feel the shift in his energy turn cold, but not fast enough to realise what was happening. Ben’s mind was clouded and as if upon instinct his lightsaber had been drawn with malicious intent.

What happened next was a blur in your memory, but in Ben’s it was all too vivid of a sight. It happened so fast. With his saver drawn and lifted, your concern peaked as you could sense his malevolent intent. You turned towards him, the force wall you created dropping to the earth in the process, leaving the two of you defenceless.

“Ben, no!-“ And with that you felt it. Ben was feared and with that fear elicited a fear induced reaction, without strategy or thought. Clear on your back, three blaster shots had landed. Your breath hitch, the world falling silent and darkness consuming your vision your body fell limp into Ben’s arms.

You were unsure of what had happened. You felt as though you were floating, alone and cold in a void. Sounds of chaos attempting to break through, yet only sounding in muffled spurs and echoes.

“Is this it for me?”

“What happened?”

“Where is Ben?”

“Please, I want Ben…”

“Y/N, please. Open your eyes, my love”

In the void Ben’s voice resonated with you. The only voice you had wanted to hear had been the one to pull you back to life, but only slightly. You were weak, and there was nothing you or Ben could do to fix it.

Your eyes opened softly, as if the mayhem that surrounded you didn’t exist. The features on your face were gentle and soft, free from any worry that have previously washed over them. You’d heard that death was peaceful, in some way that’s how you knew this was it; the end of your legacy. As much as you wanted to fight back, to deny this fate as thoughts of everything you had wished to do with your life, your body wouldn’t allow it. You were draining quickly, you could no longer reject it, so rather than having your last moments in sadness or mind raced back to Ben.

“Ben?” You whispered weakly.

You opened your eyes to be met with the beauty spotted features of your lover’s.

“It’s me, Sunshine.” Ben replied, his voice shaken and weary.

You were cradled in his arms, a burning sensation surging down your back as quickly as blood rushed in your veins. You exhaustedly turned your head to examine your surroundings, and through blurry eyes you saw it. The Jedi campus had been engulfed by flames, buildings and structures crumbling into nothing with no sign of your Jedi cohort besides the limp moulds of people scattered around the area, yet you were too drained to realise what had happened to them. The ground around had cracked, all except the surface beneath you and you knew it had been Ben’s doing.

Everything had collapsed into anarchy, but neither you nor Ben could care.

“Ben,” you laughed with a smiled, eyes welled with tears, “My beautiful, Ben.”

“I’m here, my love. I’m here.”

“What happened?”

“They hurt you, my dear.” He said weakly. “I’m so sorry I let you down, I should’ve stopped it-“

“You could never let me down, Ben.” You interrupted sweetly.

You could see the pain that masked Ben’s face, and with little strength you had left you could feel his heart break through you connection. His heart was in instability, ‘how could he let this happen?’ you could hear his thoughts echo in your mind. “It’s okay, there’s nothing you could’ve done.”

You knew it was coming. You both knew. You could feel your grip on reality slipping through your fingers, melting away like frost in the morning sun.

One last time, you cupped Ben’s cheek in your hand, stroking away the tears that had fallen from the earthy eyes that stole your heart, “You have a heart of gold, my love. Never forget that.”

You gently tugged your fingers on Ben’s cheek, pulling him down for one last loving embrace. Ben leant down and placed a loving chaste kiss upon your lips, taking your breathe away as he had done so many times.

“You will always be the love of my life, Sunshine.” He choked through broken words.

You smiled. “As will you, Starlight.”

“I love you, Y/N.”

“I love you, Ben.”

With one last breath you felt cold and limp. Unable to move, unable to feel and unable to see. Life had finally left you, and you felt peaceful and contempt with this being your end. Yet, fate is always one to work in mysterious ways, and to that you were no exception.

—END—

#kylo ren #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren soulmate #ben solo #ben solo x reader #ben solo soulmate #ben solo force connection #star wars #star wars x reader #adam driver #adam driver x reader #jedi reader #the last jedi #the force awakens

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carmenlire · 6 years

Text

Missed Mistakes

read on ao3

(TW for canon-compliant self-harm)

He misses it sometimes.

It’s been months, years, since he last let a wound fester, since the last time he let someone land a lucky punch, since he drove his body into the ground trying to feel something, anything besides the gnawing pain that swelled in his chest every minute of every goddamn day.

It’s been so long but he can still imagine the bite of pain, the sting of his bow string slicing his hand. He can imagine the dull ache, the burn of it all that washed everything else away, at least for a few minutes.

He’s better. He knows he is. He swore after that last time, after Magnus gently prodded at him, that he’d never do it again. And he hasn’t.

But that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t miss it sometimes.

Sometimes-- when the Institute is too much, when everything is pulling him in a thousand different directions and it’s all just too much-- he sits and he imagines it. It’s a shameful secret, a guilty pleasure if ever there was one but it brings him down. It helps.

And then there are times when nothing is wrong, when there isn’t anything that’s triggered this fucking feeling in his heart that nothing’s okay and that he’s sliding back down. When that happens he buries himself in work, tries his best to ignore the way his chest becomes a gaping chasm where his worst fears and all of his insecurities lay.

Unfortunately, it’s his day off and in preparation for it, he’d finished all of his work. Even if he wanted to go in, there wouldn’t be anything to do except twiddle his fucking thumbs in agitation.

Magnus is away for most of the day and he has the loft to himself. Alec lingers in bed far longer than he should, in that uneasy space between sleeping and awake.

When he finally climbs out of bed, he makes his way out of their bedroom, into the living room. It’s a sunny day, which seems the worst sort of irony, and he winces at the harsh light of the sun streaming through the windows.

The sharp pain in his eyes makes him feel something-- something in the dull bleariness the day is shaping up to be.

He pads over to the French doors and stares unseeing outside, watching birds play in the sky and hearing the faint hum of cars so many stories below.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, still. He feels like a statue, wishes distantly that he could be one if even for an hour-- he needs an escape. He needs to not exist for just a little while.

This feeling that he’s squashed so long ago is rising up and it’s choking him. He knows what he wants-- rationally, he knows that it isn’t what he needs but that doesn’t stop the guttural emotion from claiming him. It does nothing to mute the yearning that courses through him.

He imagines it. He thinks about going into the Institute and heading straight for the training room and target practicing for hours until he’s drained and bleeding but satisfied.

God, he wants it. He wants it so much. He feels the phantom sensation of fingers on a bow string, of a rivulet of blood trickling down his wrist.

It’s like his mind is wrapped in cotton. There are a million thoughts just out of reach and the only one he can touch, the only one out of the bunch that’s tangible, is this one.

He knows it’s fucked up. He knows that he’s passed this, that he’s supposed to be better than this.

In this moment, though, he just doesn’t have the strength or desire to care.

It’s been a long time since he was that lost boy and bitter man who carried the fear that he was doomed, that his future was an icy landscape he’d traverse alone and lonely. He has Magnus, knows now that he’s always had his family.

It’s like his flight or fight response has morphed, though, transforming until his gut instinct is always self-flagellation. He’d never tell anyone but sometimes he craves that feeling even when something good happens.

It’s much more prevalent when something bad is going on-- but most of all, when he’s pervaded by the sense that he’s empty and used and faded. That’s when it’s the worst.

He knows that he has Magnus. Hell, he has a whole support system now. He’s an adult, though, and he can handle a few negative emotions without going over the deep end.

As he stares outside, numb, he can’t help but think that it’s all conjecture. He hopes that he never falls again. Hopes to hell that he never goes back to being that angry, empty shell of a man.

It’s a while later when he finally takes a deep breath, feels his lungs expand almost painfully. He turns away and shuffles over to the couch. He sits down and thinks-- about nothing in particular. He’s bored but he’s also keyed up and it’s a terrible, horrible feeling.

He recognizes it. It’s scary just how familiar he is with this feeling even after so long.

He spends the day by turns wanting to pull his hair out and wanting to sleep. He takes a nap that leaves him feeling even worse, making it feel like dull nails are scraping up his spine, begging him to do something.

Shadows lengthen across the hardwood floors and Alec barely realizes that hours have passed since he first woke up. He hasn’t done anything today. He thinks it’s a shame. He could've gotten so much done, had planned to do so much.

On the other hand, things could have gone much worse, so he supposes he’ll take what he can get.

When a portal appears in the middle of the living room, he has a moment to wish that he’d at least taken a shower. He probably looks fucking awful, washed out and showing every numbing moment he's suffered through today.

Magnus steps into the room looking cool in his neatly pressed clothes that still look like haute couture several hours later.

His eyes scan the room, over Alec before snapping back. It’s silent and the silence has always grated on Alec’s nerves the worst when he’s like this.

“Good afternoon, my darling,” Magnus says softly.

“Hey.” Alec’s voice cracks and like a goddamn idiot, he feels tears pool. It doesn’t make sense, but he is so fucking tired, Jesus Christ.

Magnus smiles, just a quirk of his lips as his eyes trail over Alec. He can’t explain it, but Alec feels infinitely better just having his boyfriend here, in the same room. While he’d been embarrassed at first, he can’t ignore the way everything in him just wants Magnus. He wants Magnus close, so close that he can snuff out whatever ugly feeling has been building in his chest all day.

“What do you need?”

Alec inhales sharply. “You,” he says, devastatingly simple.

Without waiting another second, Magnus steps forward arms outstretched. Alec tumbles back onto the couch and Magnus doesn’t hesitate before he’s on top of him, pressing him into the cushions.

Yes. This is what he’d needed. He’d needed someone to make him feel like a person again. Magnus’s weight on top of him is a welcome sensation. It makes him feel something. He feels warmth seeping into his icy bones and shudders, exhales on a shaky breath that sounds suspiciously like a sob.

He makes more room for Magnus to settle even more firmly against him. Magnus doesn’t say anything, just tightens his arms, his steady breath against Alec’s neck helping, too.

They stay like that for ages and Alec doesn’t magically feel better, complete again. He knows that he probably just needs a shower and a hot meal and a good night’s sleep but he is immeasurably better.

They stay like that until the shadows grow long and the room plunges into twilight gloom.

Alec knows that every day is a potential struggle and that he’ll carry scars-- physical and intangible-- for the rest of his life. He knows he can be strong and that that part of his life is behind him.

Sometimes he needs the reminder, though.

Yeah, Alec misses it sometimes. Sometimes, it’s so overwhelming that he just wants to fall, craves the feelings he’s worked so hard to bury.

He’s better than that, though.

Magnus helps. Magnus helps so much and he doesn’t even know.

“I love you,” Alec whispers into the quiet, voice croaking.

Magnus’s breath is hot on his neck as he kisses his pulse. “I love you too, Alexander. Always.”

Yeah, Alec will be okay. Always.

#missed mistakes #my writing #tw self harm #malec fic rec #malec fic

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the-scavengergirl · 6 years

Text

Hot Gates: Reylo Drabble

But even in the dark I saw you were the only one alone

What would you do if you knew the person you cared for the most would die at your hands.

Would you avoid them, under the pretenses that you were keeping them safe? Only to know in the end the outcome would be exactly the same. Or would you spend every fleeting moment with them? Wrapped in a shroud of pretend, of what could have been, engraving every detail of their being into your memory, in fear one day as the days ticked away…you'd forget the way his laugh sounded.

Rey chose the latter.

She couldn't save him, he was a wanted man among them all, a traitor to both sides of the war, and the bounty upon his head was too high, and yet he'd been there for her, she'd learned to love him.

But at a very young age Rey from nowhere had learned all good things came to an end, and she was too old to lose herself in childhood fantasies. With the death of General Organa she could not protect him. And General Hux…or Supreme Leader Hux as he was being called these days, he'd been out for blood from the very beginning. And Rey knew, the only way he'd find peace was in his death.

They discussed it, like they discussed the weather, only pausing when a particularly swift kick to her ribs distorted her face in discomfort. Causing his over sized hand to rest upon her, as if trying to lull their child into being kinder to its mother. He wanted his death to be at her hands, peaceful even, an intimate moment between two lovers, two lovers with the promise of what could have been.

If he were to be fatally wounded he knew Hux would follow along his line of combat. No prisoners, except for Kylo Ren, he knew they'd always make an exception. He'd betrayed them, stripped them of their Leader, mocked them, and all for a scavenger girl with no worth…but not to him.

And while he didn't run to the Resistance, his betrayal was like salt in the festering wounds, and he would not be forgiven.

If they took him prisoner he'd never see her again, he'd never hear the last sentiments of love, and promises. And while he could face death…he couldn't face the idea of his last moments not being upon her.

And so the agreement was made, and while she wasn't keen on it by any means, she'd do it for him. It wasn't as if she hadn't taken life before, and she knew while each person and being held value, she couldn't help but find him to hold more. But it was all he'd asked of her, and unlike the time before…she would not deny him.

----------

The morning of his death was a tragically beautiful one Rey would later recall. The fog floating over the lakes water engulfed them in an almost dreamlike mist, but there was unmistakable pain in her chest she couldn't soothe.

He found her there, her fingers pressed tightly against the cage that protected the hammering muscle, her face trying to remain as neutral as possible. But he saw through her, he always did.

" I know…I feel it too."

Their morning went about as it did any other day, albeit at a bit of a slower pace, as her due date drew nearer her movements while still punctuated, had begun the steadied slower pace. He came to press a kiss to her forehead, as she stood outside the small wooden home. " Promise me….you won't hesitate. I'll see you one day again, if the galaxy deems me fitting. I'll watch over you both, I promise…know I love you, and you've been the best part, and light in my life, I knew it from the moment we touched hands."

They were his last final words, the feel of cool metal in her palms as he kissed her again, his hand falling to her waist with a nod of his head, hurrying off without another glance back. She had to ready the ship.

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

The blaster fire seemed to go on for hours, the child within her body was restless, turning over repeatedly, nearly painfully as if seeking its father's soothing touch and words.And all at once it was silent, deathly so, the only sounds were that of fleeting ships as they breached the atmosphere, and things burning around them. She grabbed the two bags, along with one item, shoving it into the pocket of his Cowl she'd chosen to wear, tilting the dark hood over head as she situated herself in the seat of her ship.

She found him easily, his body too large and mangled upon the rocks, standing out dominantly in his black robes. But even from the altitude she was at, she could see…he was too pale, and unmoving.

Rey circled the ship, landing it on the flatter part of the rocky crag where he'd been found, simply waiting for what seemed like eternity, hoping to find he'd expired, because as his request began to play out in her head, the more difficult it became to even fathom following through.

It took carefully execution on her behalf before she was able to fully make it off the precipice and down to his body, and his lack of regard for her…he must have been dead. There was nearly no color left in his body, and the metallic smell of blood filled the air around them, and she soon found out why.

But his face was peaceful. No longer did he look haunted, he looked free…as if he were sleeping, and for the first time Rey found some peace in what she knew was going to be the hardest day of her life.

She curled herself against his chest, her side only to come back drenched in his blood, her eyes flickering around in horror to take in the extent of his injuries. He'd known all along, there would be no saving him from this. A good portion of his side was missing, but she wouldn't allow her gaze to linger upon it for very long, tightening his robes around him to preserve what dignity he had left, her fingers clutching the front of his robes, if only to hold him for a moment more.

" You came for me…" His voice sounded distant and gurgled from the blood pooling undoubtably in his lungs, and despite it all, he still managed to look at her in a way that only he was capable of. A look she'd never find in another being.

The tears burned at her, blurring her sight, angering her because these would be their last moments. And she hiccuped against him as his fingers desperately tried to wipe them away. " Please Rey…we don't have much longer…it needs to be you. It's always been you, and I want it to be you in the end."

But she wasn't ready to say goodbye to him yet, to never hear his voice again, to never hear him speak her name in the throes of passion. Or the comfort only they seemed to find in their silence. They'd just found each other, and yet another person was being taken from her. But this time Rey wasn't sure she'd survive the heartbreak.

" You will, you have this little one….you'll see me in them. It won't be forever Rey. " He said with a cough.

Her form panicked, she'd promised him, and while she wasn't ready, she knew he was right. He was always right. She kneeled over him, his one hand pressing into her side where their child kicked anxiously. Her fingers slipping into the robe, placing each carefully constructed blade over the tips of her fingers. Her eyes holding his gaze as she dropped to kiss him one last time, watching as his lips turned into a genuine smile, on of the few she'd seen in her time with him. " I know you love me Rey…please just do it. And be sure to tell our child I love them, and that I've spent every day loving them, and you very much…." he cried, with a nodding of his head.

She couldn't stop the mournful cry that escaped her throat, as her fingers came to wrap around his wrists, each sheathed finger running firmly down the length of them until she felt the blood bubbling and pooling in her hands. She held him, just like that listening to him as his breathing became more shallow, leaning down as she would in their bed, her head besides his own. " Close your eyes, go to sleep…I'll be right here when you wake."

Rey watched as he gave her a final smile, and nod of his head, nuzzling his head against the side of her own, and she allowed herself the fantasy as well, her eyes falling closed, slipping into a sleep with him, her's however was not eternal.

When she awoke sometime later it was dark, and his body was still, and cold minus the spot where she'd curled into him, her fingers releasing his wrists as she threw the offending items from her fingers, allowing her gaze to fall upon his face again, weeping in the process.

He was finally free…but how would she live without him.

But I will love you constantly There's precious little else to me And though we cry, we must stay alive Let my blood only run out when my world decides There is no way out of your only life So run on, run on!

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

Reyna Organa Solo was born three days later, just in time to attend her fathers funeral. And while Rey and Ben had discussed their impending child they both had some how decided she was going to look much like Rey.

But the moment she entered the world, with a healthy set of lungs clearly intent on stating her distaste for the world she'd been brought into , there was no mistaking that temper, or anything else for that matter. With hair the color of a ravens wings, and eyes that looked far too old to be her own, Rey knew without a doubt Ben was with her…it was the last gift he'd give her, but it was all she needed.

She smoothed her lips across the tufts of her daughters hair, one of the maidens coming to straighten her dress as they lead her to the room. The room that held her beloved, her fingers gently wrapped around a solitary item, one she planned to place in his hand before they set him on the burning pyre.

A pair of dice, they'd belonged to his father, but in a selfish moment, she'd asked Poe to cut them in half, send him off with one, and one she'd keep until their daughter was old enough, along with various other items that had belonged to her father.

" Come on my love, its time to say goodbye to your father…"

#reylo drabble #reylo #star wars drabble #mumford & sons prompted #mine #tw:death #tw:assisted death #song: Hot Gates #angst #what did I do #ben solo #kylo ren #rey #han solo #Leia organa

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