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#the sky is a dull grey every night
ajokeformur-ray · 4 months
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The breeze seems to whisper 'I love you' // Astarion x gn!reader / Tav
This is my first Astarion fic so I really hope I bring him justice; he deserves that and everything else which is good in life. It took me three days in total to fall head over heels for him, and this piece is dedicated to @ace-tarion for being such a sweetheart in this, as in everything. I love you, dude!❤️
I haven't played BG3, I know maybe 80% of the plot (tadpoles in brain = bad = travel to Baldur's Gate), I've watched a ton of Astarion clips, so apologies for any inaccuracies or inconsistencies. I'm just here for Astarion (though I'd love to play BG3, I don't have any technology capable of running it💔).
Content: You/Tav x Astarion (established relationship), canonical past for Astarion is hinted at and laced within narrative, cuddles, animals referred to as 'snacks' within mentions of Astarion (only a mention; no actual description of animal-feeding/mentions of anything pertaining to animals being fed on).
Summary: Night-time falls, your heart sinks into your stomach as surely as your body sinks into your bedroll, and you want cuddles from Astarion.
Word count: 1, 624.
I am accepting requests for Astarion ❤️ no smut and no pregnancy/birth/kids!!
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You lay on the cold, hard ground. The earth is unforgiving, soaking up the day's sweat without offering any kind of reprieve. Stones and hard clumps of dirt dig into your back through the bedroll, the wind is slightly too cold and it penetrates your thin blanket, haphazardly thrown over you in an attempt to ward off the elements.
Everyone has a tent, except you, and you make it a point to lay as close to the fire as you can on the nights Astarion is out hunting; it wouldn't do to help yourself to his tent. He keeps his tent away from the others, though still adhering to the semi-circle layout chosen by the others around the campfire. He would not mind you letting yourself in to his tent, he would likely welcome returning to you there, and yet you cannot justify it even to yourself.
After two hundred years of shit, pure shit, he deserves every ounce of privacy and the security of knowing his tent is his own.
You sit up just enough to shuffle yourself closer to the fire, curling inwards as a shiver wracks your body. It isn't cold, necessarily, but your temperature is not conducive to a restful sleep. You lay on your back, gazing up at the stars which punctuate the sky, breaking up the inky black and blues with pinpricks of white, yellow, and some dull spots of grey from the stars which died many eons ago and are now fading from the sky.
You promise yourself you'll try to remember their placement in the sky.
Despite the best of intentions, you know that you won't.
Your vision goes blurry at the edges as you continue staring up at the night sky, looking for any constellations you recognise by way of finding yourself a bedtime story to recount as you try to fall asleep. The leaves on the trees sway gently in the breeze, and your mind wanders, as it so often does, to Astarion. Your sweet vampire, who simultaneously breaks your heart and put it back together in the same moment every time you uncover more of who he is, more of his past.
Oh, but you love him.
Of its own accord does your body take a long, deep breath in, your heart sinking into your stomach as surely as your body melts into the bedroll. All of your thoughts of Astarion and all of your feelings for him are safe inside yourself, and they serve you now in warming you from the inside out.
Your eyes slide closed, and if you press your forehead closer into your blanket, you can almost tell yourself that you can feel Astarion lying down beside you, you can smell bergamot and feel his silver hair tickle your cheeks, you can feel his fingers intertwined with yours, your legs tangled together, his crimson eyes upon your face so intently fixed like he's scared to blink in case you disappear before his eyes, leaving him clutching only the cold night air, his equally cold body pressed against every line of yours...
You smile to yourself and burrow deeper into your blanket, feeling sleepier, warmer and closer to your rest by the second. Thoughts of Astarion flood your mind and you curl up tighter, as if to keep all these thoughts right where they are. You know if you open your eyes that you'll be alone; you know not where Astarion is this night, but you know he is trying to sate his hunger with the snacks which live in the forest.
So you keep your eyes shut.
As you allow yourself to slip further into your threshold consciousness, you wonder what Astarion would say to you if he returned at this very moment...
"Hello, sweet. Gods, you are beautiful."
You smile again and squeeze your blanket ever tighter to you. Yes, he would probably say something like -
Wait.
Wait.
Was that - ?
With great caution do you open your eyes, ready to slam them shut again once you see that Astarion isn't there, that he didn't just speak to you. But instead of the cold hard truth slamming into you, flowers bloom in your heart because Astarion is here, looming over you, his silver curls seeming to be glowing in the soft moonlight. His crimson eyes seem black, his charming smirk soft at the edges as he gazes down at you with obvious fondness, vulnerable such as it is.
Of all the stars above me, this one's the prettiest, you think to yourself, and you open your eyes wider to better enjoy the view.
Astarion's smirk melts until it becomes a smile as he kneels down beside you, one of his arms reaching out to brush a leaf away from your face. His fingers ghost across your skin, and you shiver. "Thank you, darling. I know I'm beautiful. Not enough people mention it." His joke fades into vulnerability, as it so often does around you.
But it is no matter. You always meet him where he is, and right now it is no exception.
You smile at Astarion, all of the love for him shining in your eyes until they look like molten galaxies, and he swears he feels his heart, which stopped working centuries ago, skip a beat. You are unguarded where you lay in your threshold consciousness, not embarrassed to have spoke aloud your thoughts, and Astarion wonders if the old saying, that love makes fools of people, is true. You lay at the foot of a vampire, at the foot of a predator, smiling at him, physically and emotionally vulnerable, completely unguarded. Most others at the camp are asleep, Astarion can hear, and yet here you are...
Wait. Why are you awake?
"Darling," Astarion's voice is a hush and you strain your ears to be able to hear him. He bends closer to you to accommodate, anticipating your needs before you fully register them yourself, "Why aren't you sleeping? No harm shall befall you when I'm here." Long ago, he had sought your protection, but now he wanted you both to be safe. If this is how the mighty fall, then Astarion must admit that he is happy he lost his balance. He quite likes the view from down here.
You shake your head and shuffle closer still, unable to get close enough to your most beloved vampire. "Can't sleep without you." I just want to be held.
Oh, help him, but this is devastating in its simplicity. His undead heart bleeds and words have brought Astarion to the point where they run dry. Instead, he stands, and reaches a hand out to you. The message is clear - he wants you to accompany him to his tent, he wants to carve a piece of heaven out with you amongst all the chaos unleashed, he wants to hold and to be held.
Astarion just wants you, and who are you to deny him?
One of your hands slips into his while the other pulls the blanket away from you and Astarion's smile widens as he effortlessly pulls you up to stand beside him. You bend to scoop up your bedroll, and follow Astarion into your tent. The door flap flutters in the wind as Astarion releases it, and it settles in place like a butterfly finding a flower.
You find yourselves easily, your bedroll dumped next to Astarion's, pushed up close until his bedroll becomes a double. It's a well established routine for the two of you, with you spending more nights here than you don't. You never enter his tent if he isn't here, and you certainly never come in without his permission. One day, Astarion will find the words to convey his appreciation for your concern, but until then, he will remind you at every chance he finds that you are always welcome. He finds it greatly ironic that you seek permission to enter space and he, a vampire, does not. He knows he is welcome, wanted, cherished, loved.
It took some work for the both of you to get here, but his months with you are the counterweight to the hell he escaped from.
He'll never be able to thank you enough, he has no idea what he is doing, but perhaps this is a start.
Somehow, through the fuzziness of denied sleep, you end up back in bed, your blanket around you and Astarion's still chest under your head. He lays beneath you like he is patiently waiting for you to make yourself comfortable, and you take the opportunity to wind both of your arms around his waist and squeeze, pulling yourself up just enough to be able to bury your face in his neck. One of your legs slips between his, anchoring the two of you together.
Slowly, like he's afraid to move too quickly in case you disappear within his grasp and leave Astarion holding nothing but the cold empty night air, his hands settle upon your back and a sigh which seems to come from deep within him spells peace for the both of you. "This is nice," Astarion's voice rumbles through your ear and you press yourself ever closer to him, unable to get close enough. Your arms constrict around him again and you feel yourself smile as all those sleepy dreams you were having earlier are now here, beneath you, wrapped around you. As you hold on tighter, so too does Astarion, until the two of you are so completely intertwined that the elements cannot reach you. He has no body temperature and yet you are the comfiest and the warmest you have ever been.
Safe.
This time, Astarion doesn't tell you that you accidentally spoke your thoughts aloud.
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tteokdoroki · 10 months
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i’m sure i’ve said this before but my favourite personal headcanon is that bakugou kisses the insides of your wrists.
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it’s the first thing he does every morning, brushing his lips over the softness of your skin— your warm hand delicately laying in his and he only stills once he feels your slow and steady pulse against the seams of his mouth.
he’ll let out a short exhale, eyes closed in relief and squeeze your hand tight. you always wake up shortly after, your fingers cascading through his mussed up morning hair and a smile as bright as the rising sun twitching up on your sleepy face. “good morning, lover boy,” you’ll say, voice gravelly but full of adoration.
you’re alive, katsuki thinks, you’re alive and you’re okay. “mornin’, beautiful,” he’ll whisper back and lean into your touch— his mismatched red and grey eyes falling to your chest to check the way that it rises and falls. “y’sleep good?”
the sheets shift as you move to sit up, holding balugou’s face between your hands as if you’re holding the entire world. “good. you had a nightmare though,” you press your forehead against his, concern flickering in your eyes. katsuki has seen both sides of life and death— he knows that if he’s not careful, he won’t be able to evade it any longer than he has. he knows that he’d be leaving you behind with the pieces of his mistakes and he can’t do that to you.
but sometimes it’s you who’s died in his dreams and not him. sometimes it’s him cradling your lifeless body, it’s your pulse that’s fading out and thready. it scares bakugou shitless. to know that he could lose you as easily as he’s lost himself in the past.
bakugou closes his eyes to ground himself, listens out for your steady breathing intertwining with his own — kissing your wrist again just to make sure that your heart is still strong and beating.
“it was nothin’, don’t worry your pretty head about it, sweetness.”
he doesn’t see you frown, but can feel your gaze on him. “it’s not nothing, katsuki. you were screaming my name in your sleep. you were scared.” you sit up this time, taking sharp edges of his face into your cushioned palms, the edges of your features softening out from frustration to worry as he looks up at you. “you don’t have to hide things from me when you’re scared.”
you sense when his breathing turns shaky and katsuki’s anxiety takes the reins on him — so you wrap your arms around his bulkier frame and pull his head to rest on your chest. “i get nightmares where i lose you,” he explains quietly. “‘m scared that one day i’ll just wake up ‘n you’ll be gone.”
you don’t like to think of katsuki bakugou’s death. you can’t imagine what thinking of yours would do to him.
“i’m right here,” you say barely above a whisper. “i’m alive, i’m breathing. i’m not going anywhere without you.”
with his ear pressed to your body, katsuki can hear the dull thump of your heart against your chest wall. it’s steady, rhythmic, like horse hooves on cobblestone. you’re alive and you’re strong. he needs to give you more credit, he thinks, tucking himself into you even more to hide from the world.
but you don’t let him, taking his large hand in yours and bringing his wrist up to your lips to feel his life essence pulse just beneath them.
“and you’re right here too.”
the gesture is so small and intimate, but it shows that you understand bakugou on levels that nobody else does. you love him, you live for him — in moments like this when the sun has just made its way into the sky and right down to the first star that twinkles at night.
bakugou shifts to brush his nose against yours, humming.
“and ‘m never goin’ anywhere without you, either.”
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dustymeadows-if · 2 months
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Dust particles flow in the air, shimmering with golden light of the sun. They rise to the sky, equally golden and hazy. Your mind is empty. There is no single memory in your head. Only one thought is ringing in your brain.
You must walk forward. Walk until your feet begin to bleed. Walk until your shoes fall apart.
And for some reason you can't oppose this thought.
This is your road to Damascus.
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Dusty Meadows is a short interactive story set in post-WW1 world. It's a small psychological adventure that will take you through the scarred European fields. Wander the abandoned trenches, scorched forests, poisonous valleys and silent, deadly no man's land.
You don't remember anything. The feelings, however, still linger. Feelings like pain, grief and bitter longing. Your body is mutilated, but you feel no physical pain. It's your soul that aches. It's as if an important piece of it was heartlessly ripped off. This pain urges you to go forward. The answers might lie just behind the next hill or river. Your life depends on returning. Returning your soul. Returning your memories. Returning your life. Returning home.
That is, if there's anything left for you to return to at all.
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Customizable MC: choose your gender, appearance, personality and name (if you can remember it, of course).
Meet the cast of various charachters: you're not the only one wandering and seeking these desolate lands. Talk to other wayfaring souls, listen to their stories. Maybe even share the same road and experience strangely deep bond with some of them...
Return your memories: remove the shroud from your past. Remember how you got here. Remember what hides behind the scars on your body. But be wary: some memories are forgotten for a reason.
Explore different locations: travel through the remains of war, learn what happened there and remember what binds you to these places.
Maintain your sanity: nobody said that battlefields are safe even after the war. Your mind is as scarred as your body, and sometimes memories crash like tidal waves. Whether you'll hold the line or succumb to the dark depths - is up to you and you only.
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Tired Infantryman - Basile (M)
This man could be a definition of word "apathy". Everything about him is grey: both literally and figuratively. Dressed in grey-bluish trenchcoat, covered in grey dust, he looks at you with dull grey eyes. Even in his dark brown hair you can see grey strands, although he's still pretty young. He doesn't seem to be interested in anything around him, except for his cigarettes. His left arm is missing, and you can't help but wonder what's the story behind this.
Frozen Operator - Johann (M)
He is... a weird man. Tall and muscular like someone working in the fields all day long. But at the same time his skin is the palest and the coldest you've ever seen, and his eyes are sunken as if he was spending many sleepless nights doing paperwork. He's also the only one without any visible wounds, which is very unusual to see in this place. Johann seems like a kind and outgoing man, but he hides something deep in his heart.
Blind Journalist - Gelsomina (F)
Upper half of her face is covered with bandages, but even so you can tell she's a very beautiful woman. Dark blood stains over the place where her eyes were never seem to fully dry. She is much alike that blood: restless almost to despair. This woman will either find peace or die, and the least seems to be most likely. Losing her eyes was a hard hit: she can't see, she can't write, she can't do her job which had always meant life for her. She lost every reason to live, but the fire of her stubbornness is blazing hard, keeping her alive and eating her from inside at the same time.
Wayward Nun - Jolan (F)
She is a strange sight. Dressed in nun robes which covers her whole body, she also wears a gas mask which she refuses to ever take off. This woman is like a walking fortress of her own, cutting off every direct contact with the outer world. She barely speaks, preferring simple gestures, or rather, not communicating at all. You don't know what she looks like, what she sounds like, but here's one thing you know for sure: guilt is seeping through every crack of her thick defense.
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Demo - TBA
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beatrix-quinn · 3 months
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hi @blongus64! thank you for your question. and no apologies necessary; Very Long Posts are kind of my specialty. :B
i really appreciated the comparison you drew between making visual art and making music, and i want to bring your attention first to that piece, because you gave some very interesting examples:
"i want a harsh… almost parasitic implication, so i'll use lurid, sickly colors and haphazard lines." "i'll use soft, dull blues, because that's what winter looks like."
the question i want you to ask yourself is this: "where did i learn the idea that This emotion looks That way?"
your art comparison reminded me of a conversation i recently had with someone dear to me who illustrates. they brought up an idea they've picked up from various art instructors over the years, which i'll paraphrase to the best of my recollection:
when you try to draw an apple, you're not just thinking about the object that's right in front of you. you're thinking about the idea of An Apple. that idea is shaped by every apple you've ever seen or eaten—the places and people and feelings attached to those experiences. so when you're drawing from a reference, you have to set all those associations aside and learn how to look at what's in front of you so you can recreate it accurately.
as you mention drawing still life in your ask, no doubt you've practiced this skill already. but what about when you draw a scene from your imagination, or paint something wholly abstract? when it comes to representing certain ideas in your art, the reality is that how you depict them is a choice formed by association. you choose soft, dull blues for a melancholy winter, because those are the colors you see when you look with your mind's eye.
but for me, i associate melancholy winter most with dark greys, and rusty pinks from light pollution in the night sky. someone else might picture the dizzying white reflection of sunlight on snow. these can all be "correct" ways of evoking this feeling you've given as an example, so long as it's true to the artist's subjective experience.
my point is this: just as you can choose to represent one idea visually in a myriad of ways depending on how you look, you can choose to represent an emotion through music in a myriad of ways as well. and that means this:
if representing an image requires learning how to look, then representing a sound requires learning how to listen.
the simplest and most immediate way you can start doing this is to critically listen to the music that evokes the feelings you are trying to capture.
say you have a favorite song that really captures the feeling of melancholy for you. listen to it very carefully. what choices does it make musically? consider this an incomplete list of questions you might explore while listening:
what are the tempo and rhythm like? how do they contribute to the song's feel?
is the arrangement sparse or layered, bombastic or subtle?
what kinds of instruments are being played, and when? which ones take the lead and which ones stay in the background?
how would you describe the music's texture and atmosphere? dark, bright? spacious, intimate? electric, acoustic, synthetic? what elements contribute to that?
how does this song relate back to music history and tradition? can you identify any of its musical and cultural influences? does it fit firmly into a genre, or does it blend different genre elements? does it attempt to defy convention altogether? (does it succeed?)
what is notably absent? how does excluding certain elements serve the song's intended feeling? (after all, landslide would be a very different song if it had drums and bass.)
you might notice these questions are generally not rooted in music theory. make no mistake: music theory analysis is useful, and if you wish to build your musical vocabulary, it's worth practicing it when you can. but that kind of practice only gives you colors for your palette. it will not teach you how to paint what you feel.
if you want to learn how to use those colors, first you must really think about the music that embodies the feeling you want your music to embody. what about This song makes you feel That emotion? think about the sounds around you in everyday life. what sounds make you smile? what sounds evoke boredom, fear, anger, sorrow?
idiophones sound tender to me, so i might reach for a kalimba or music box when scoring an emotionally intimate scene. a I major chord followed by a bVII dominant is dripping with wistfulness to me, so i like using it for bittersweet moments. jagged synths and metallic noises make me uneasy, so i employ them liberally when i want to elicit dread or panic.
these are just a few colors from my own palette. just like my idea of An Apple, they are informed by my experiences, my culture, and all the music i've ever heard. these are the associations that the body forms over a lifetime; you've lived a different life, so you may have different associations for these sounds. and that's okay! what matters is that you pay attention to what sounds make you feel, and stay true in your attempts to represent those feelings.
i should also mention that i didn't figure out how to use my palette overnight. i rarely get it right on the first try. music, like any creative endeavor, is equal parts work and play, and it's the lessons learned from play that serve the work later on. with exploration and practice, you will get better.
so listen carefully. figure out which sounds correspond to different emotional responses for you. this will become your palette. as you experiment, you will learn which sounds are your melancholy blues and which are your haphazard lines. it simply takes mindfulness, a careful ear, and time.
i realize this is only a first step, but i hope you find it helpful. if it isn't, let me know, and maybe i'll do better next time. i'm still learning too. :)
with care, bee 🐦
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puddingyun · 2 months
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lighthouse . ݁₊ ⊹ j.wy
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wooyo x reader
: 1k words, roadtrip, "runaways", fluff, homesickness, getting together, alcohol :
requests open ♡
From where you sat on the pier you could see one star twinkling among the grey-blue clouds, far away in the navy blue blanket of the night sky. As a breeze blew against your face, smelling of sea water and coconutty suntan lotion, you kept your eyes on that one star; a lighthouse shining at the other end of the sky, signalling so that you wouldn't get lost in its vast expanse. 
"Here you go."
Wooyoung's voice startled you, drawing your attention away from the star keeping your feet on the ground. In one hand he held a bottle of cheap flavoured vodka (Vanilla, the label read in swoopy, curly letters) and in the other he held two glass bottles of Pepsi, clinking against each other as he set them down on the pier before sitting down next to you. You smiled at him, his dangling feet brushing against yours, and picked up a Pepsi. 
"Thanks, Woo."
The smell of cigarettes wafted off of Wooyoung from where he sat beside you, the way it had for months now. Specifically, the smell was that of L&M lights, which Wooyoung insisted didn't linger as much as other kinds. Your nose wasn't skilled enough to tell the difference though, and so the smell of Wooyoung merged with the vague smell of tobacco and burning.
"You think we'll be here long?" you asked, the fizz of Pepsi still fresh on your tongue. 
Wooyoung glanced at you with a little turn of the head that you nearly didn't notice, and then looked out back to the sea with his bottle of Pepsi between his thighs while he screwed off the cap on the vodka.
"I don't know. I like the ocean," he paused to take a swig from the bottle and grimaced. He let out a sharp, hot hiss of breath. "We could stay for years or leave tomorrow. Whatever you want. Nobody even knows our names here."
You smiled, putting some Pepsi into your mouth before you took the bottle of vodka from his hands and poured it in alongside the sticky soda. You gulped the mixture down, pretending it didn't taste foul. 
"I'm getting kind of tired of nobody knowing our names," you admitted quietly. You looked out into the sky and saw that one star gleaming in the sky still. "Even the stars have names."
"I never thought of it that way," Wooyoung sighed. He turned to look at you properly this time, a small smile appearing on his lips the longer he stared.  "You know... We can stay a while if you want."
"Really?" you asked, meeting his eyes. He nodded, keeping eye contact with you while you swallowed a mouthful of vodka straight. 
"We could find a room to rent instead of staying at the motel. I could get a job, and we'd meet on the beach every afternoon. Buy some swimsuits or swim in our underwear," he mused. You could picture him in his boxers, holding onto your hand and squealing as you both ran into the cold ocean. You pictured both of you drying beneath the sun, sand in your hair and between your toes. It looked a lot like a dream come true. 
"I could buy herbs to grow on the windowsill, and we could eat ice cream everyday until we got sick of it," you said, giggling after. 
"That'd take a while... You know what I've always wanted to try? Root beer floats," he said, voice trailing off into a wistful mumble. You could tell by the look on his face that he was thinking of the life you'd both left behind, full of dull but comforting constants. When you'd set off on this roadtrip you hadn't anticipated what it would be like not having anything to rely on except for each other. When Wooyoung's eyes turned soft and worried like they did now, you were the only one who could reassure him he hadn't made a mistake. 
You reached over and laid a hand on top of his, stroking your thumb back and forth against his skin. Slowly, his eyes focused more, staring out at that lone star just like you had been while you waited for him. 
"We could learn the names of all of the streets. Make friends with the neighbours," he murmured. "Rent movies and fall asleep watching them."
He glanced over at you, looking for your smile of approval. When he found it, he grinned. 
"It's not what we planned but... I'd be happy if I could build a little life with you," he said, his shy expression illuminated by blue moonlight and the orange glow that came from the street that seemed so far away from the end of the pier. "Anywhere you want would be fine with me."
You felt your stomach squeeze anxiously and took a sip of your Pepsi to quell your nerves. Tentatively, you leaned your forehead against Wooyoung's shoulder. He smelled like cheap detergent from the last motel you'd stayed at, ocean spray and cigarettes. Beneath those things, though, he smelled like himself: a little sweat, cologne that had worn off throughout the day, and the soft smell of his bedroom that lingered no matter how much time had passed since you'd been on the road. You inhaled deeply. He smelled like home.
You lifted your head and admired his profile. He was your home. 
"We could stay here a while," you whispered softly. He turned his face, your noses bumping together as he did so. You both giggled, soda and vodka breath in each other's faces. He was so close, you felt you could breathe him in if you inhaled deeply enough. Instead you leaned forward and sealed the space between you both with a kiss. He made a small noise of surprise but made no move to pull away.
He laced his fingers with yours and leaned into the kiss, deepening it so you could taste his last mouthful of vanilla vodka. Even miles away from where you'd grown up, you finally felt as though you were coming home, your heart slotting into place in your chest. Wooyoung's lips turned upward into a smile against  yours, excited for the life you were going to build.
In the sky, that lone star continued to twinkle its lighthouse glow, guiding you to where you belonged.
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abiiors · 5 months
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hot chocolate ☕ // matty healy x reader
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promptober '23 - day 19
a/n: for all my girlies with the big sad, the cold months approach :/ cw: discussions of mental health, mentions of depression wc: 1.1k
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matty has a pit of worry in his stomach. he’s had it for about two days now, for as long as the house has been unusually quiet. he’s alone in their dimly lit kitchen, barely any sunlight streaming in. whatever manages to sneak in through the parting of the clouds, gets diluted by the sheets of rain falling from the sky. 
it’s dull and grey. exactly the kind of weather she hates. 
matty gives the brewing pot of coffee another look and decides on abandoning it. 
he knows what he will see when he walks into the bedroom—she will be in bed, in the same three day old pyjamas, messy and unbrushed hair, “taking a nap”. not that he cares about how she looks. it’s just the niggling pit that doesn’t let him sit still. 
“darling?” he calls from the door, watching for any signs of movement under the duvet. “you awake yet?”
she should be, he thinks to himself. it’s nearly noon. he wants to make them some lunch but she doesn’t move, doesn’t reply to his question. matty gnaws on his bottom lip and walks in. 
“i’m making something for lunch…” he says again, sitting by her side of the bed and resting a hand on her back. matty knows she’s not asleep. her breaths are nowhere near deep and even. 
“i know you’re awake,” he says softly, moving his hand to her forehead, checking for any signs of an illness just in case. but deep down he knows the illness is not physical. 
when matty threads his fingers through her hair, it’s not the usual soft and smooth strands he’s met with. his fingers get caught up in the greasy knots, accidently pulling on some hair. she winces.  
“go away, matty, ‘m not hungry,” she mumbles into the pillow, voice feeble and barely audible. “‘m sleepy.”
he tuts. it’s a lie—if he’s right, and he suspects he is, she hasn’t properly slept in days, tossing and turning at night. and yet she has left the bed only a handful of times in the last few days. 
he’s tried giving her space, to let her sort things out on her own because that’s usually what she prefers. but he draws the line at skipping meals. 
“sleep after lunch,” he counters, and goes to draw the duvet off her. 
it’s not even a moment later that matty fliches, appalled when she slaps away his hand. 
“i said i’m not hungry!” she snaps, turning away from him, cocooning herself further, shut off from him, from the world. 
he stills and for a moment the only sound in the room is that of the rain hammering against the window. it’s haphazard, nowhere near a soothing beat. this rain sounds more like an anxious heartbeat—loud, odd and out of sync. 
then he hears the sniffle and his heart breaks. 
“baby…” he approaches again, trying to at least slide the duvet off her face. “hey, look at me please.” 
he doesn’t care that she snapped at him or slapped his hand away. right now, he cares that something is deeply wrong, and he’s ready to beg if that means she’d tell him. 
“g-go away, matty,” she tries again, tries so hard not to let her voice waver or crack and yet he hears it. 
matty decides enough is enough, and pulls the duvet off her entirely. 
her pyjama top is wrinkled and bunched up around her waist, and if he’s being honest, she smells a little bit but he can take care of that later. showers and perfumes and oils can wait. everything else in the world can wait. 
“i won't,” he declares firmly. “now you can either keep fighting me or you can tell me what’s wrong. either way, i’m staying right here.”
she looks at him through dull eyes that widen slightly with every word, jaw clenched to keep her chin from wobbling even as her eyes turn pink first, then watery until the tears fall one by one. matty doesn’t shush her, he just quietly pulls her into his chest, letting her cry it out. 
“i’m so cold…” she says after a few minutes. her voice is already hoarse, a whispery shadow of what it’s like on the good days. today it’s barely more than a squeak. “so cold. all the time. i just…i’m just so tired, i can’t. i don’t know what to do. and whatever i do, i can’t g-get, can’t get warm.”
she breaks into another round of tears by the time she’s done—loud, gut-wrenching sobs that break his heart but he lets her be. his only job is to be there and hold her. he just needs to be the sun.
“i know what will help,” matty mumbles into her hair, pressing a small kiss to her head. “give me two minutes?”
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and he does return two minutes later as promised. matty practically makes a mad dash to and from the kitchen, balancing the mugs in his hands and his socks sliding on the wooden floors around the corner. but the liquid in them stays unscathed. 
“there we go,” he announces as soon as he’s back in the bedroom. a tiny pang goes through his chest when he sees her sitting up in bed, arms hugging her middle. she looks small, smaller than he’s ever seen her. but there’s a miniscule spark of curiosity in her eyes. 
he’ll take that spark. he’ll nurture and rekindle it. 
“chef matty’s hot chocolate,” he presents it with a flourish smiling at her raised eyebrow. 
“i know you said you weren’t hungry and you were cold. so i thought this would be a good compromise?”
for a moment she doesn’t say anything, only takes the mug from him and cradles it close, lets the steam waft over her face. hot chocolate won’t do anything for a cold that goes bone-deep. but it’s a start. he can do the rest of the work. 
“take a sip?” he nudges, sitting back in the same spot as before. he brings his own mug up to his mouth, nudging her to mimic him. together they drink their first sip. 
instant sweetness floods his mouth, comforting warmth creeping down his throat and settling into his stomach. he can only hope it does the same for her. 
and he will be there for the rest of it. for all the cold days that come after this. 
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captainpriceslover · 1 year
Text
in between dreams
captain john price x wife!reader
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masterlist
a/n: fluff. just fluff. no major warning that I can think of and please let me know if you want anything added. this is NOT proofread, tenses are all over the place so be warned :)
word count: 1.1k
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He was swimming in a boundless, black ocean; the obsidian sky stretched from end to end overhead, horizon to horizon, dotted with stars like someone had spilt precious gemstones from up above; arms thrusting in the dark, murky water, trying to keep him afloat. His own hands and feet bled into the darkness around him and the hypothermia that has been steadily seeping into layers of his tissues has finally reached the marrow. His muscles were worked to the point of fatigue, worn and acidic, lungs screaming for a reprieve, and when the slimy phalanges pulled him beneath, he went without a fight, his last breath waning into bursts of bubbles, swallowed whole by the Stygian night until all he could do was blink into the white ceiling of his bedroom. Their bedroom.   
Lingering sleep on the canthi stretched like a thin veil and finally gave away, as easily as a hand swinging through cobwebs, his dream disappearing into the abyss like a pebble thrown in the ocean, never to be found again.   
He had been mired in this inquietitude for so long that he could almost always guess the time correctly without looking at the digital numbers, red and livid, staring back at him.
2.30 AM.  
Crickets chirped outside, and it sounded like they were banding together to see how loud they could get in the dead of the night. His personal cacophony.  
The only reprieve tonight was, his dream didn't bleed into the troubled insomnia he was used to: a dull pain throbbing at a distant spot between his eyes, heart pounding from outside his thorax, fingers itching for a nicotine drag or a quick pour—always both—his brain on a rendezvous with the insignificant affairs that had no business keeping him up at this dark hour, a prisoner of the limbo between wakefulness and REM.  
No.  
This is a new sort of sleeplessness, the kinder one, a very recent acquaintance, where his chest overflowed with ardent tenderness, blooming like a lush spring field through the gaps between his ribs, suffocating and invigorating all at once, comforted by the knowledge that he will, eventually, drift back to sleep—a rarity he never had before. 
(The plant you bought on the way home from dinner the other night sat on the windowsill, gently swaying in the breeze from the open window, casting shadows on the wooden floor that danced in the moonbeams to the tunes of this witching hour.)  
His head rolled to his side, sapphire eyes, so tender, swept over your profile like a fervent artist committing every brushstroke to memory, remembering how the scar above your eyebrow felt under his fingertips or how the curve of your nose tasted on his lips, wandering eyes halted by a gentle smile playing over your lips. You were dreaming.  
His chest felt heavy and light all at once; heavy because he wanted to wake you and confess a million little things—how he finds the gentle whistle in your breath during particularly cold nights endearing or how he fears his father's failures will make him an inept father or how you got the words wrong for a song you were humming on the ride home that he didn't have the heart to correct—and light because he knew that whenever he came home, trailing the war behind him like mud prints on the carpet you always chided him about, you'd be there, beside him, in your kitchen, in the living room couch, in bed, willing to listen.   
(There was a gentle rustle by the windowsill. Was it the linen curtains that you had picked, or did the wilted leaf finally fall? A stretch of ink-blue sky sprawled over your shoulder, outside the open window, sprinkled with specks of stars. His hand, grey under the moonlight, reached forward to tuck an unruly strand behind your ear.  
Maybe it was the mango tree in their garden. He'll check it in the morning.)  
You had missed a smidge of mascara when you got ready for bed earlier. He wanted to wipe it off. He could, but he left it off. It reminded him of the day he'd had. You glowed in that sage-green dress you wore to your coworker's wedding. You looked so pretty under the fairy lights they had in their backyard, and when you looked up at him, wine drunk and slowdancing to a classic tune, he wanted to kiss you mad. He did.  
(You stopped so suddenly that you pulled him a bit back when he kept walking forward. They've got marigolds, John. He wanted to kiss you mad outside of that plant nursery too. And he did.)   
John had never planned on marrying. With the kind of life he led—transient and lonely, riddled with war and terror—he always assumed fleeting romances that came one night and vanished the next morning were all he'd get in this lifetime.   
And whenever he dared to dream about his future, it had always ended with him. No wife. No kids. Just him, retired and old, bones weary from the years of war, piling up meds with no one to sort them out. Or dead in a dirt road to be brought back home in a bag. Atonement. That was what life after retirement looked like for him if he had been lucky enough to lead one. Seeking absolution for the things he did, good, bad, and ugly, in the name of war, within the confines of his four walls. And he was content with that until you came along.
He never wanted to get more out of life until he met you. It was dangerous, allowing him the luxury of coming home to someone.   
(He married you two months before the planned wedding date. In a register office with two strangers as witnesses. Duty called, and he went. And you sent him away with a kiss on the lips and a ring on his finger. He called me Mrs. Price, and that was the goal anyway, you had joked.
His chest felt heavy and light then too—heavy because he loved you so much, and light because he knew you loved him back. We'll save that money for our honeymoon, and maybe we'll finally get to see that beach you always talk about)  
John put his strength down the day he knew he loved you. He told it to you the same day. Just let me love you, John, you had whispered, gentle and reverent, and who was he to deny you?
He would fall asleep if he closed his eyes now—his dreams, always sepia toned.   
Maybe he will dream of swimming again. The water will be clear and blue this time, like the beach they went to on their honeymoon. He'll look down and see his feet floating above the corals, little swarms of fish tickling his soles. You'll be there too, he was sure, laughing under the sun like it was an extension of you. He'll reach out to you, his hands strong and pruned from how long they have been in the water, and you'll swim to him, into his arms.   
And he won't drown this time.
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williamvapespeare · 6 months
Text
torturing myself with Astarion/durge heartbreak 2k23 (some comfort immediately after that scene)
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“Anyway it’s a brand new day, I’m sure we’ll find lots of people for you to kill.” 
He means it as a joke, he really does, the sort of thinly veiled thing he pulls out when a conversation gets too close to the endless darkness of a tomb or the trusting eyes of yet another victim, pain dragged down each of his limbs, screams caught in his throat, or, well - he figures he’s owed a bad joke or two for all of that. 
And Tav humors him with a small huff of something that might have been laughter, only it catches on a sharp sounding inhale and all of a sudden he’s clapping a hand over his mouth and curling into himself and Astarion has done quite enough sitting back and watching that night already.
When he pushes himself closer, Tav turns away, his eyes squeezed shut, shoulders heaving. Astarion reaches out, slowly, with all same the caution he uses as he feels his way through the mechanisms of a trap, fits his fingers under a spring, eases it open. He’s good at this, Astarion knows, and now he gets his hand around Tav’s wrist, pries it gently away from his mouth. Tav’s skin is still raw, dried blood flaked around the wound. Astarion does his best to be gentle as he pulls Tav’s hand towards him, holding his fingers loosely in both of his own hands. 
It reminds him of a night weeks ago, when Tav accepted Astarion’s terrified words with the most grace he’s ever known, warm arms around his waist, a soft smile on Tav’s face, gentle fingers curled around his own. I care about you. 
“I’m sorry,” Tav says now, voice choked and raw. Like he’s been screaming all night. “You shouldn’t. I tried to, I fucking tried…” 
“I’m here,” Astarion cuts him off. Tav’s hand tries to clench in his own, twisting into a fist where Astarion can see the bloody imprints of nails already etched into his palm. He tightens his grip. “Someone already beat you to the whole killing me thing, love, and look how that turned out. I’m still here, whole and beautiful.” 
Tav’s shoulders hitch again, but he blinks his eyes open, and while Astarion doesn’t like what he sees there - dark circles like bruises above his cheekbones, fear still radiating from him like a pheromone - he sees Tav there in his eyes, nothing more, nothing less.  
“That’s it,” he soothes, calming and utterly nonsensical. “I’ve got you.” 
“I’m sorry,” Tav says again, but his voice is steadier this time. 
Astarion reaches out, touches Tav’s cheek in what he hopes is a delicate caress, like he too is something gentle to be taken care of, even when his body and his brain are fighting it with everything they have. 
The fire is long since dead, and Astarion lets his gaze wander up from the blackened logs to the dull grey sky, it looks this way just before sunrise, he’s learned. Sometimes, the subtle hints of pink blink into view on the edge of the horizon without warning, and he’s struck with awe at the sight of it, the light, the freedom, every useless cliche it’s come to represent. 
He isn’t sure how long they sit there, but by the time he hears the first rustling of their companions around them - it’s Gale who always appears first, he knows, the man wakes ridiculously early for a human - the sun is high enough in the sky that it’s beginning to peek through the early morning clouds. 
“I should probably, uh,” Tav motions vaguely to his hand where it still rests loosely in Astarion’s, “deal with this before anyone else freaks out.” 
As much as Astarion agrees, he can’t quite bring himself to let Tav go yet. 
“Of course,” he says, instead of any of the disgustingly possessive thoughts on the tip of his tongue. “Get yourself cleaned up, darling.” 
He helps Tav to his feet, watches as Tav rubs his face on his sleeve, skims his own fingers over his bloody wrists, taking stock of the damage. Astarion recognizes the motions. 
“Will you,” Tav starts to say something that tapers off into a tired sort of silence, but Astarion is already nodding. 
“I’ll be right here,” he says. “Whenever you need me.” 
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wandurrlust · 4 months
Text
each time you fall in love
pairing : osamu x y/n, suna x y/n
genre : angst
cw : established relationship, implied (emotional) cheating (?), mentions of cigarettes
words : 1.8k
a/n : i really hate the way tumblr drafts glitch
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When you're in love, you see it everywhere — on the coffee stains engraved within your favourite mug and on the rain soaked windows in the middle of the night. You see it in your reflection through your tear soaked eyes and you see it in the text from Osamu that says can we talk about this tomorrow?
You blame love when you're unable to sleep, because it hurts — it feels like your heart is being ripped right out of your ribcage and your lungs are being set on fire. Love is war, they say. Love is war, you know.
You love Osamu — you love him like the rain loves the ocean, like summer loves pink and like roses love sunshine. You love Osamu when the days are bleak and blend together with the night, you love him when the stars grow dull and the sky gets grey.
You love Osamu, except for when you don't. Except for when he's loud — when it's a crisp October evening outside but ice cold inside his apartment. When you're walking away, tears on your skin with his scarf around your neck — a promise of you'll never see him again.
You love Osamu. But you hate him when Suna welcomes you home, when you catch a whiff of coffee beans that almost put out the lingering scent of half lit cigarettes.
And when the credits of your favourite movie start rolling past Rin's laptop, you stifle a groan. Debating if telling him all about everything that went down today was worth it.
Did you fight again?
And there it is, you're telling him everything there is to tell. Because the softness in Rin's voice lets you know he cares and you know he cares far more than he'll ever admit.
Suna listens. He listens as your fingernails begin to press against your palm and he listens through the tremble that falls past your lips. He doesn't comfort you, not once.
He doesn't pull you close or rake his fingers through your hair. He doesn't whisper sweet nothings till you fall asleep in his arms. Because that's a line he'd rather not cross.
And that's okay, because that's how it's always been.
Suna is the home you retire to every night after work, one you'd built all by yourself. Suna is your best friend. But sometimes you wonder if you're his.
Osamu doesn't like Suna.
When you hear him say this for the first time, you laugh it off.
Are you jealous, Samu?
It's asked between breathy kisses and conjoined limbs, with his nose nuzzling the skin under your neck. And truth to be told, you don't want to know the answer.
Me jealous? Of Suna?
He whispers through your hair, not quite liking the sour aftertaste that lingers in his mouth at having uttered Suna. You find it bemusing, how Osamu refers to Rin by his last name despite having played on the same team as him all throughout highschool. Aren't they supposed to be the best of friends?
Not a chance sweetheart.
The second time he tells you this, it's bitter. Venom drips through his heavy voice and almost spills onto his vanilla skin — his words feel like thorns against your bare stomach, you think you're about to cough up blood.
Why is it always him over me?
Osamu knows that you probably think he's gone mad. But he can't help himself, not when it comes to Suna.
Samu, are you being serious?
He has to brace himself before he can face you again, do you seriously think he's making all of this up?
No sweetheart, of course not.
It's accompanied by a humourless chuckle, and Osamu feels his feet buckling beneath his weight. He should calm down. But fuck.
You don't understand what he's trying to get at. And quite frankly, you think he's being fucking unreasonable.
Samu what the fuck. Rin is my best friend.
And you can't imagine a life without Rin in it. Because for as long as you can recall, he's been there — looking over you from the stands.
But Osamu can't stand him — he's never been able to. Because Suna has always been sweeter, calmer, better. He's everything Samu could never be.
Rin is your best friend, but Samu doesn't like how the two of you stay up and night, talking to eachother. He doesn't like how you're looking for Suna after a long day. He doesn't like how good the two of you look together.
Right now, Osamu wants to push you away. But he can tell there's a lump in your throat and isn't going to die out any time soon. Because when you're angry, you cry.
Rin is your best friend, but when you're falling apart that night, it's in Osamu's arms.
Samu is there for you in ways Rin isn't. He pulls you close and kisses your hair before lacing his fingers with yours. You pull them to your lips. You don't want to let go.
I'm sorry, he whispers against you. It's fine, you say. Because with Osamu, it's always fine.
Rin is there for you when Samu isn't, when he hasn't been answering your calls for a week and when you're losing your fucking brain.
You're sat beside him on his apartment balcony, the tiles shoot chills through your body it stings against your skin.
You scrunch your nose up in order to keep up with the grey puffs of smoke above your head. You watch Suna inhale one, two, three drags of the cigarette held between his fingers.
The air between the two of you is silent. Neither one makes an attempt to break it down, you think it's better this way. And you think that's why you like being by Suna so much — he doesn't talk too much.
You extend your hand towards him, and he lets you grab the cigar from within his fingertips. His eyes flick to your mouth as you bring the cigarette to your lips and for a moment, his world comes to a halt.
You take a long breath, allowing the nicotine to take over your body, it tightens your chest and you let out a cough — cold and deliberate. Still Suna makes no attempt to make you feel at ease.
I thought you didn't smoke anymore.
Your voice is hoarse, it's the first thing you've said in six hours. There's no answer and honestly, you don't expect one. You let your eyes wander to the city lights underneath you, it reminds you of home — of Osamu. Of how he would wrap his arms around you and promise you the world every time he could.
Oh, I don't.
Fuck, you miss Osamu. You hate how you've been trying to reach out to him for days at an end now, only to be met by silence. Is he okay?
When the chill wind hits your scalp, your stomach sinks in. What if Samu decided he was finally done with you. Your vision begins to blur and your head hurts. Love is hell.
Bullshit Rin, you're a liar.
It's said through your teeth and pierces him like a dagger. He takes a breath to steady himself because it feels like he's about to fall.
Sometimes you wonder if Osamu sees you everywhere, if he loves you as much as you love him — if he loves you at all. But when you weave your fingers through his hair to lull him to sleep, you know it's futile worrying about useless stuff like that.
You know Osamu loves you.
Suna watches as your phone lights up, he watches as your eyes graze over the screen and your lips curl upwards. You let out a breath of relief and put out the cigarette on one of the tiles sitting on his balcony.
It's going to leave a stain, but Rin knows he isn't going to have the heart to scrub it off, it's a piece of you after all. One that he hopes he'll get to keep with himself for a long, long time.
He says he got caught up in some family stuff.
The words startle Suna, because he'd almost forgotten that there were people in this world besides the two of you. That there was Osamu, someone he could never win against. He'd forgotten that you weren't his, that no matter how little the gap between the two of you was, you'd never be his.
You aren't going to give him hell?
And you wonder why you aren't. You wonder why you'll always let Osamu walk over your heart and crush it into a hundred pieces, why you'll always hold your arms wide open for him to bury himself into, why you'll forever mutter an I understand despite wanting to rip the hair off your head.
He's probably already going through hell, Rin.
Suna’s chest constricts as he watches you bid goodbye to him. He doesn't know why but something about you leaving tonight makes it all seem so permanent, like he'd never get a chance to witness your presence beside him ever again.
He thinks he might pass out as he watches you finally step into the elevator, because even though he'd made you promise to not get into any trouble on the way to Osamu’s apartment, he knows it's nearly impossible for you.
Suna is your best friend but you forget all about him when you're watching it pour outside through the windows of Osamu's apartment.
You're sitting on the couch, lost in the haze like lovers on a Sunday morning. With Osamu, it's coffee breath and starlit nights, it's listening to Matty healy curse through the speakers and dancing around the living room with your lips drawn together.
Osamu is a promise, you believe; one that you'd made to yourself when you were seven, one that you hope you'll never end up breaking. He's a poem you'd written on your seventeenth birthday, he's the fire that lights up your lungs on a cold winter evening.
When you're in love, it feels like you're about to die. It's too good, too much. It feels like you're falling but you let yourself slip — because you know you'll have your lover waiting for you on the other side.
You love Osamu, you love him like he's your last breath and you love him like a silent prayer.
But when you're wishing Rin a happy birthday, he goes dizzy. Because he thinks he'll love you forever.
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watercolorfreckles · 1 year
Text
All in Jest (princess x court jester)
The princess watched her jester the way one might watch the stars in the night sky. He struck her with the same wonder as the smear of a bleeding sunset, or the crest of a wave.
His eyes twinkled with mischief, two white diamonds painted on his cheeks. Doing a cartwheel, he straightened just in front of the princess's seat at the head of the table.
She sucked in a soft breath, silverware forgotten with a clatter against her plate.
The jester smiled, holding her gaze. With a twist of his hand, he snapped and revealed a white rose, missing from the table's centerpiece.
The dinner guests murmured their awe, sipping from glittering goblets of wine.
The jester deftly held the flower out to the princess, balancing its stem on the tip of one finger. "Your Highness."
The princess swallowed. She hoped there was no flush to her cheeks as she accepted the rose. When her fingers closed around it, the previously white petals bloomed into a blood red.
The crowd gasped in delight, some displaying their pleasure with dainty claps.
The princess studied the flower, turning it over in her hands, before looking at the jester again.
He tossed her a wink, so brief and privately for her, she could have convinced herself she'd imagined it. He spun away, continuing on with his act.
The jester moved with unmatched fluidity and ease, even as he feigned clumsiness here and there to coax laughs from his willing audience. The princess's eyes never left him for a moment, tracking his every twirl and flip; his every jest, and trick. He was silver-tongued and graceful. Drawing her eye with all the spectacle of a natural phenomenon.
The prince at her side rested a hand over hers, startling her attention away from the jester. The soon-to-be king of a kingdom neighboring her own looked down at her with a slated expression. "I grow bored of these antics, my dear, might we spend a quiet moment alone before retiring to our chambers for the night?"
The princess's excitement wilted, looking at her husband-to-be. She stole a last glance at her jester. Was it her mind playing tricks, or was he watching her even now, through the edge of his gaze, even as his performance carried on?
"Certainly," she answered finally.
The prince rose from his seat, offering her a hand. The princess's fingers closed around his palm as she stood, keeping hold of her rose in her other hand.
He led her away from the tumbling laughs and cheers of the dining hall and down the corridor. The quiet swept the night bare like a creeping tide.
Her heart ached to return to that dining table, to watch her jester dance and jest and tease. So much of her future was decided for her, and even now, the evening did not belong to her.
The two royals stepped out onto the dais, cool air rushing their skin in a velvet caress. The princess had always liked the cold more than most. The air smelled sharp with the promise of snow.
"I know that you are not satisfied with our arrangement," the future king spoke. His voice was different now than it was when he spoke in front of their subjects. It leveled into something a little less diplomatic; less cushion to the blunt teeth of him. "I am to be king and you will be my queen. My father and I have been more than gracious to offer you my hand. For your own kingdom's sake: you would be wise to drag your head down from the clouds and back to the earth where it is... best suited. Under my direction; by my side. You understand, don't you, dearest?"
The princess looked out over the kingdom that was not her own. The rolling hills and valleys twinkled with the village lights beneath a sleeping sky.
"I understand."
"Good. I trust that with time, you will grow to be content here with me." His voice sounded like the color grey. Steely and dull.
"I hope for the same," the princess said in answer.
The king-to-be nodded in her periphery, his fingers slipping from hers. "I bid you goodnight, my dear. Don't stay out too long. You'll catch a chill."
She listened to his footsteps fade.
She stayed on the balcony until the air numbed her face and fingertips. She watched the lazy clouds part, the moon slashing silver light over the world below.
Using its glow, she examined her white-turned-red rose once more.
"Aren't you cold, princess?"
The princess paused, lifting her head. The familiar voice, warm and lilting, seemed to fill the very cracks of her.
"I like the cold," she answered, turning around to face the speaker.
The jester shifted with leisure movements to lean against the rail beside her.
Something sparked in the pit of her belly, to have him so close. If anyone saw... their mere proximity could be considered scandalous.
Still, the princess turned back around, facing the same direction as her jester.
"How did you turn my rose red?" she asked, glancing at him.
The light of the moon highlighted the white diamonds painted over his cheeks as his mouth lifted into a smirk. "You know what they say about magicians and their secrets."
"You are a court jester," she reminded him, "not a magician. Though your tricks are... impressive."
"I impress you, princess?" His smile widened, sly and teasing.
Heat flooded her cheeks and she turned her head to hide it. "I believe that is what I said, yes."
"You didn't see the end of my performance."
Her gaze flicked back to him, eagerness betraying her. His eyes glittered beneath the dance of moonbeams, knowing and patient as he awaited her reply.
The princess's mouth felt slightly dry. "Alright, then."
"Alright?"
"You may... repeat the end of your performance for me."
He clasped his hands in front of him, attention still affixed to her. The amusement was clear on his face. "I may?"
The princess's cheeks burned further. "I only mean- If you should like to. I would... I wouldn't deny you."
The jester took a single step closer, and the princess felt as if all the air had vanished from her lungs. "Would you like to see it?" he pressed gently.
She swallowed. "I... Yes. Please."
"I could do more than that," he spoke softly. "I could get you out of here--for a little while, or for good."
The princess turned away. "Don't be foolish."
He reached out, brazen and delicate all at once, to catch her wrist, spinning her back around. His other hand raised to just barely brush a finger down the line of her jaw.
The world around them flickered in a kaleidoscope of color, then vanished all at once. The princess blinked and they were in her own kingdom's village, her castle towering within sight.
The princess spluttered, trembling, and looked at the jester, her jester. She was gripping his hand. "What-"
He grinned, something else--magic--sparking behind his eyes. "I am afraid being the fool is precisely my job, Princess. Now. Your Highness. Anywhere you'd like to go?"
Everywhere, her heart whispered.
The princess stepped close, looking up at the court jester. A million thoughts wanted to flee the confines of her mouth. She looked around at her kingdom; her home.
"Thank you."
This is unedited bc it's 2:49 am, but I'll probably (maybe) edit it tomorrow :) Yay for pushing through writer's block, are ya proud?
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humanpurposes · 7 months
Text
From Eden
Chapter 2: Some part of me came alive
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Danes attack Wincombe Abbey and a young novice crosses paths with a group of mercenaries and their Baby Monk // Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist
Osferth x Original Female Character
Warnings: 18+, suggestive themes, religious guilt, pathetic yearning
Words: 3400
A/n: I did not spellcheck the names. Also available to read on AO3.
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Since joining Lord Uhtred, Osferth had seen enough of the back of his horse’s head to make him sick. They moved constantly, never settling anywhere for long. So he savoured each stop, and every night he spent in a bed rather than a forest floor or a field, he made sure to express his gratitude in his prayers.
Only the ride from Wincombe was anything but dull. The girl from the abbey, Bridget, was rather impossible to ignore, pressed tightly against his back and shrouding his cloak around his shoulders to keep them both warm.
He slowed the horse once they had caught up with the rest of the group. She settled then, holding her hands on his shoulders, turning her head and resting her temple at the base of his neck through the thick material of his tunic. A thrill ran down his spine, one he hardly allowed himself to feel. 
The snow was starting to settle now, crunching under the hooves of the horses. The sky was overcast with grey clouds, yet the world seemed so bright. Bridget marvelled at the sight of the land beyond the abbey, letting out breathless little gasps at hills and woodlands.
“When was the last time you were this far from the abbey?” Osferth asked, turning over his shoulder a little.
Her wide eyes glanced up at him before she lifted her head. He suddenly felt cold with the absence.
“I haven’t been beyond the woods in over a decade,” she said, her voice was light, finding its place between wonder and sadness. 
He had much been the same, hardly venturing from the walls of the minster in Winchester, until he decided to seek out Lord Uhtred.
“Is that how long you have been at the abbey?” he asked.
“Yes,” is all she said. He had half expected a tale of her life, of her mother and father, but she simply sighed and looked ahead, peering over his shoulder to the others riding in front of them.
He told her of their company, of Lord Uhtred, a man born to a Northumbrian Lord and raised by Danes, hoping to reclaim his home. He told her how he had found himself tied to other matters. He was a warrior, a loyal servant and friend of King Alfred, but most recently he had become intent on his pursuit of the seer, Skade.
“What is his interest in her?” Bridget asked.
Osferth tutted to himself. Uhtred’s obsession with Skade had brought them nothing but misfortune and death thus far. “He believes himself to be cursed.”
“And do you believe that?”
“She is of the devil,” he said, “sent to tempt the hearts of men. That is all I care to know of it.”
And yet Uhtred remained intent on finding her.
As they rode on, he told her of the other men, Finan, the Irishman, and Shitric, the Dane, the greatest and the bravest warriors he had ever known– save for his Lord, of course.
“And what of you?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
She nodded ahead. “Uhtred of Bebbanburg, Finan the Irishman and Shitric the Dane. Where do you come from?”
He frowned and suddenly his cross felt heavier around his neck. He had been left to the monastery with no name, no title, just the weight of his father’s sins. “I am simply Osferth,” he said. 
“That can’t be true,” Bridget said. “What was it Finan called you? Baby Monk?”
His body went rigid. God, he hated that name, even more so now that she had said it.
She chuckled softly. “That makes you something,” she said.
He doubted she would soon forget the topic. “I was born in Winchester,” he said with a reluctant sigh.
“And how did you come to serve Lord Uhtred?”
“My uncle said he was a great man. I sought him out, to join him.”
“So you do have a family?”
Hardly. He had few memories of Leofric, even less of his mother.
One of Bridget’s hands slipped from his shoulder, resting against his arm. “I can stay silent if you’d prefer, seeing as you’re so intent on remaining mysterious,” she said.
“No– no,” he insisted as he cleared the tight feeling in his throat. “My life is anything but mysterious, I assure you.”
“A simple man, formerly of the cloth,” she mused.
He sounded painfully dull with the way she put it, but what was the alternative? Bastard… coward… boy.
“I suppose so,” he muttered.
As the sun slipped below the hills and night crept into the sky, Lady Aethelflaed at last decided they would make camp for the night, despite Uhtred’s determination to press on to Saltwic.
They found cover under a grove of trees where they could tie the horses, gather firewood and seek some shelter from the snow.
Osferth dismounted first, swinging his leg over the horse’s head before he turned back to Bridget. She braced herself on his shoulders as he put his hands on her waist and guided her down. Perhaps the fall was further than she anticipated; her hands tightened their grip on his shoulders and she took a sharp breath before her feet touched the ground.
“Are you alright?” Osferth asked.
“Yes, of course,” she mumbled. Her eyes flittered between his face and the ground. He had an awful feeling he had done something wrong and quickly released his hands from her.
He made quick work of unloading the canvas, bedroll and furs from his horse before he went about his usual duties, building the fire, beginning on the broth to feed the men. Bridget stood restlessly, fiddling with her hands in front of her skirts, reaching for her hair to fix a habit she no longer wore. He watched her in the corner of his eye as he worked, and gestured for her to join him by the fire once the flames came alive.
She still had his cloak on her and when she moved to take it off he stopped her. She smiled in thanks and pulled it back over her shoulders.
Even then she was unsettled. Her head turned everywhere, watching Uhtred setting up a tent for himself and Lady Aethelflaed, Finan and Shitric as they sharpened their swords and poured themselves cups of ale. 
“Your first night away from the abbey,” Osferth said and bit his tongue immediately after. It was a rather obvious thing to point out.
She cautiously eyed the other men around them, setting up their own beds and fires.
“You needn’t fear them,” Osferth said. “They will not harm you.”
As she turned towards him, her eyes and skin caught the light of the fire. In that moment she was golden and radiant, the very image of the angels he praised in his prayers. Suddenly his mouth felt dry– perhaps he needed a drink of ale.
She smiled softly. “I am not afraid, Osferth.”
His eyes were drawn to her lips and her teeth as she said it. He had never known his own name to sound so pleasant.
Lord Uhtred appeared from the tent to fetch a bowl of broth for Lady Aethelflaed, before he, Finan and Shitric joined them by the fire to eat and drink.
Finan handed Bridget a cup of ale. “The more you drink the easier it is to fall asleep,” he said, “you’ll need it with the cold.”
She winced at the first sip but laughed it off with the others. “Stronger than I’m used to,” she said.
“Does she have a bed?” said Uhtred.
“She’ll have mine,” Osferth said without hesitation. 
Finan and Shitric shared an amused look. Bridget tilted her head at him. There was that strange feeling in his stomach again, like he’d done something wrong.
“I’ll just sleep on the ground,” he clarified.
The fire kept them warm enough for an hour or so, but as the night grew darker it brought heavier snow and wind, nipping at the bare bits of Osferth’s skin, his face and fingertips. Without his cloak he felt the cold seeping through to his very bones.
He was as quiet as usual, while Finan and Sihtric reminisced back on battles and nights spent in alehouses. Bridget watched them with wide eyes and wonder.
He hardly noticed Lord Uhtred’s departure and subsequent return with a bedroll, dropping it at his feet.
“Lord?”
“You’ll sleep better with it,” Uhtred said. “Now retire, all of you, we leave at first light.”
Osferth pointed Bridget towards the tent he had set up and told her to use as many furs as she needed.
Once he had taken the broth pot from the fire and gathered Lord Uhtred’s bedroll, he made towards the tent. Until a firm hand stopped him by his shoulder.
“You’re a better man than I, Baby Monk,” Finan muttered into his ear with an audible grin. “I’d have her sharing my bed.”
He brushed Finan’s hand away and clenched his jaw to stop himself smiling.
Was he truly being that obvious? He wanted to think that he wasn’t, but with every step he took towards the tent, the more he thought of her, lying on his bedroll, wrapped in his cloak and his furs to keep out the cold, the more he began to doubt himself.
She only caught his attention back at Wincombe when she approached him in the hall– the girl from the woods who had directed them towards the abbey. She seemed curious, fascinated at the prospect of him having left his order in Winchester, and when Haesten had attacked, she had acted courageously in spite of her fear. Heaven above, she had killed one of the men, which was one more than he could claim from his first battle.
He was acting by the guidance of the Lord, he told himself, in offering her his care and protection. He intended to honour his word. 
He was glad to be out of the snowfall and under the canvas. His cloak had been left on the branch of a tree, hanging within the tent, and Bridget had settled on the bedroll, huddling in a single layer of fur. He could see her shivering.
He laid out Lord Uhtred’s bedroll, in what small space he had. He fastened the cloak around himself, leaving his boots and his gloves on as he settled. It was too cold for anything less.
Bridget was on her side and facing him, fur pulled up to her chin, eyes squeezed shut, teeth chattering and lips trembling as she let out shaky, icy breaths.
Even as the snores of the other men sounded from the other tents, she was still shivering.
He whispered her name, and she responded with a short “hmm.”
“You’re cold,” he said.
She opened her eyes. “Finan’s trick with the ale didn’t work,” she grumbled.
He smiled. “Don’t trust everything Finan tells you.”
She angled her brows in a helpless expression and smiled back.
An idea crossed his mind, one that would have Finan grinning like a devil, but he couldn’t just leave her to the cold. He adjusted the fur around him and held it out. 
“May I?” he asked at the questioning frown on Bridget’s face.
She shuffled closer to him, dragging the fur with her as she settled herself under his arm and against his chest.
Osferth brought the fur around her, pulling her in a little closer, her head fitting perfectly under his chin. He felt the gentle force of her breath against the collar of his cloak, leaving his skin feeling deprived of her. 
She fell asleep quickly. A subtle feeling of pride swelled in his chest, but sleep did not come as easily to him. He could hardly rest, he had to make sure the furs were wrapped around her, that his arm wasn’t pressing in too harshly to her body, but that his hold was firm enough to keep her warm.
And then there were her little hums and heavy breaths. They were soft sounds, unobtrusive, soothing in a way, and his heart leapt at each one.
He tried to think of the last time he had been this close to someone. He and Finan and Shitric had found themselves in uncomfortably close proximity, finding sleep where they could on their travels. Having Bridget by his side, nestled against him, her face delicately fallen and a picture of peace in his embrace, was entirely different.
He let his hand trace over the curve of her waist and settle against her back. He liked the feel of her under his touch, their breaths moving together, her body pressed against his.
But what was it the holy book preached? The mind governed by the flesh is death, but the mind governed by the Spirit is life and peace.
He clenched his jaw and tucked the edge of the fur under his hand so his palm would not touch her, not directly at least.
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Bridget insisted she was used to rising early, especially after she had slept so well– a detail which had earnt Osferth a smug look from Finan, which he met with another frown.
The mind governed by the flesh is death.
He recited those words in his head over and over again, as he helped Bridget into the saddle, as she put her hands around his waist, as her hips gently rocked against him with the movement of the horse, but he kept his head high and his hands tight on the reins.
It took a matter of hours to reach Saltwic. The men were all glad to be under a roof with some more substantial food in their bellies; spit-roasted meat, bread and more than a few mouthfuls of ale. 
Though before long, Osferth found himself being dragged out of the hall by his shoulders and Finan’s insistence that they should make use of their time to train.
Bridget was already waiting for them in the courtyard. She had shed her nun’s robes now, dressed in garments she must have been given by Lady Aethelflaed; a shirt, tunic and breeches. Modest, but he doubted her sisters at the abbey would approve. She wore them well. 
By her side she held a sword, shorter and slimmer compared to the blades wielded by Lord Uhtred and his men. Osferth looked down at his own weapon, long and slight, made to match his body.
“Which would win in a fight, a Baby Monk or a Little Novice?” Finan said cherrily, striding between them.
Osferth and Bridget shared a look of confusion.
Finan held his arms out as though he were expecting an answer. “Let's find out, shall we?” Then he withdrew, leaving nothing but empty space and a few settled snowflakes between them.
Surely he did not mean for them to attack each other without even showing Bridget how to properly wield a sword. Not that Osferth was a well seasoned fighter himself. He had seen battle, but he often let himself fall into the background unless it was necessary. 
Bridget had a fighter’s instincts at least. She had hardly hesitated to slay one of the attackers at Wincombe. He might have been dead if she hadn’t. With that he felt a little less guilt about taking a single step forward as he adjusted the grip on his sword. 
She reacted sharply, like an animal to a hunter. In a heartbeat her posture had completely changed. She was poised, her eyes wide and alert, her feet in a fighting stance and her sword at her side.
It was easy to pick up on her movements, the little signs of instinct in every reaction. Finan had often told him this was a weak point of his, the inability to read his opponent, but with her, he was acutely aware of where she was putting her weight, where her eyes were looking, each little intake of breath as they stalked around each other.
When she moved first, he raised his blade to block her, then matched her again when she took a swing at his middle.
Their swords met with a ringing clash. The metal hissed as he drew his blade along hers until they fell apart.
His heart was racing and his breaths shallow. He was becoming impossibly warm under the weight of his robes and chainmail.
Bridget was poised again, a gleam in her eyes and a small smile playing in the corner of her mouth.
“The girl’s a natural,” Finan called, “she’s picking this up faster than you did, Baby Monk!”
Osferth meant to shoot his friend a glum glare until he saw a flash of movement, her hair and the wave of her sword. He looked back to Bridget in time to parry her strike, but not before she moved around him and delicately placed her blade on his shoulder, over his chainmail, close enough to his neck to affirm her victory.
She was close enough that he could feel her breath on his skin. 
She smiled, proud of herself but without cruelty. It made his chest ache, not unpleasantly.
“Where did you learn to fight?” Finan asked.
A small part of Osferth died as she turned her eyes away from him. She lowered her sword and stepped away.
“I learnt a little from my brother,” she said.
“Good man himself,” Finan said, drawing his own blade and nodding for them to follow his lead as he brought them through a few stances.
“Yes,” she said softly, “yes he was.”
Osferth hardly let himself look upon her as they trained, unless Finan asked them to spar. They became less evenly matched each time they did so. He found himself slipping further and further into his own mind. Each time she smiled at him it awakened something bright and unnerving within him. He clasped at the memory of having her waist in his hand, her breath against his neck, her body pressed into his.
He excused himself once Finan decided they were done and decided to forgo the suggestion that they replenish themselves in the hall with more meat and ale.
He went to the chapel, tucked away in the corner of the estate within Lady Aethelflaed’s private apartments. It was far from the noise of the stables, the rowdiness of the hall, the heat creeping under his skin every time his eyes met Bridget’s.
The chapel was small, cold and dark, lit only by a collection of candles at the altar. He came to his knees on the stone floor before it, clutching his cross in his hands. 
He asked for peace of mind, for clarity, for an answer.
Why her? Why had the Lord seen fit to guide them to Wincombe and urge her to join them? Why had his mind become so utterly consumed by her, not some lewd temptress of cruel intention or evil spirit, but a woman of beauty, warmth and courage? Perhaps it was a tempting of faith, a lure to sin and depravity.
“The mind governed by the flesh is death,” he whispered to himself, “but the mind governed by the Spirit is life and peace.”
A breeze blew through the chapel, ceasing when the door was quietly closed.
Osferth froze, stroking his thumb over his cross.
Soft footsteps moved against the flagstones until a figure stood at the altar. She was still in her training clothes, her hair flowing freely down her back. Most of her face was obscured in shadow, save for the edges of her cheek and her nose. He watched her hands as she lit a taper and brought it to the wick of a new candle. 
She bowed her head in a silent prayer, the flames lighting the curve of her lips. She whispered something to herself but the words eluded him. He wondered what she might be praying for, if she felt the same turmoil as he did.
The room remained silent, save for the hum of the flames. Ordinarily he found peace in silence, but now it felt unbearable.
Bridget turned around, still bathed in darkness, an intangible vision, like a ghost, untouchable. The colour of her eyes were lost to darkness but he felt them boring into his.
She took a step closer to where he knelt. He held his cross a little tighter as traced the shape of her slightly parted lips, and felt a restless urge rising in his gut.
“What are you praying for, Osferth,” she said.
Without thinking he flexed his hand to regain some feeling in it. He might as well have been a lifeless entity otherwise.
The mind governed by the flesh is death.
“Strength,” he uttered, desperately keeping his eyes on her face, not the curves of her body and the belt cinching in her waist. “And courage also.”
Bridget suddenly retreated into herself. She kept her hands clasped in front of her and smiled. “I pray for that too.”
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General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya @dreamsofoldvalyria
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firsttimewriter92 · 9 months
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Hello! I'd love to request a fic with the reader being Sirius's wife after they're at Hogwarts but before Lily and James' deaths, shortly after they get the news about the Longbottoms being tortured. The reader wants to have sex but Sirius initially hesitates because his wife clearly is trying to distract them from the news (doesn't have to be graphic smut!) Thanks!
Hi there, anon :) Thank you for the ask. I´ve been in a writing slump lately because I get into my own way, making everything to complicated, too detailed. But this seemed like something I could do and it was lots of fun! :D It brought me back to my lovely Sirius. Maybe now I can finally finish my series "Everything Black".
It doesn´t get too steamy but there are some dirty passages, I hope you like it. Otherwise it´s pure fluff and angst. Thanks again and I kope you all enjoy <3
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Title:
It hurts to look at you
words: 2.303
The moment the door closed behind Dumbledor´s swaying robes and a deafening silence covered the small kitchen in Godrics Hollow, two women and four men dissolved into either horrified sobs or heavy breathing, trying to control their own shock to the news.
Lilies flaming red hair covered one side of her face that was pressed into James´ neck. Little whispers of “No, no. Why them?” left her lips. James eyes were dull and unseeing as he stared at the bottle of elderflower wine on the table. One arm wrapped around his wife, his other hand covering the back of her head.
On the other side of the room, Peter sat on the table, covering his quivering lips with one hand. He was paler than usual and his knee had not stopped bobbing since Dumbledore brought the news of Franks´ and Alice´s horrific fate. He looked like the man standing behind him felt. Remus knew how to hide his emotions but this time he couldn’t quite manage. With wet eyes he held the look of one of his best friends across from him.
Holding you in his lap Sirius looked at Remus over your shoulder while you sobbed. His grey eyes reflected less sorrow than shock and all-consuming hatred. Of course he mourned the fate of his friends, the single tear that ran down his cheek proof enough. But it wasn´t enough to drown out the red hot edges that covered his vision. It wasn’t enough to stop whishing for another name, other relatives. He felt guilty. Guilty for sharing the blood with the person responsible for yet another tragedy. Yet another destroyed family, yet another two lives lost and so many more scarred.
He wrapped his arms closer around your waist and kissed your neck lovingly, trying to calm you down. You where whimpering right next to his ear, fear shaking your entire body while you clung to him like a life line. Again hate flared inside of him. How dare they!? How dare they inflict so much pain and strike terror into the one living being that made it all worth it for him?! He fought for many a reason these days. Most of them were present right now but you were his damn wife. His reason to breath and keep moving. The two of you had gotten married right after Lilly and James although you hadn’t been together for as long as they had.
Time and circumstance however made people fall in love quicker, more madly and desperately. That´s how it was for Sirius and you. You´d only gotten to know him in you last year at Hogwarts. For so long you had tried to avoid the boisterous teenager until he began noticing you. First, every time your house played Gryffindor and you hit a blutcher in his direction. He´d avoid them mostly, grinning at you wolfishly. Then he started noticing you in the hallway which you found incredibly annoying. He just couldn’t walk past you without some kind of comment. “Don´t swing at me, (y/l/n) we´re not on the pitch” “Hey,___ do you like sweets? There are some in our common room”.
One day he walked up to you, arms stretched out to the side as he proclaimed right smack in the middle of the courtyard “(Y/l/n), you are like the stars in the night sky, guiding me towards a brighter future!” You knew of course that he was fucking with you so you just turned to him and with an obvious fake smile, sweet as honey you said, “Sirius, my love. You are like the sun to me.” He looked shocked for a second, his grey eyes widening. “Hurts to look at ya.”
Sirius couldn’t remember the last time he´d laughed so hard. It was the moment he knew you were something special to him. He didn’t quite know that he´d fall arse over broomstick for you yet though. That happened later, in the order, under darker circumstances. Still, the gentle fondness he felt for you changed into a burning passion whenever he saw the bravery you showed despite your anxious demeanour. More than once he´d consoled your shaking form with a glass of fire whiskey the moment you got the message that everyone was safe at the end of the day. Seeing you battle through that and still be hilariously dry-humoured, incredibly kind and quite frankly a rock to him, his protective instincts kicked him the last bit of the way until he almost couldn’t stand not being in your presence.
And then one evening, he´d just come back from a mission that took way longer than it should have. He´d entered the Potters living room, heart beating out of his chest, worried about you. Within a second your body had slammed into his and without thinking twice about it he´d lifted your head with both palms and kissed you feverishly. And that was it. Eight months later you´d gotten married.
____________________________________
You lifted your head off of his shoulder and worriedly he looked up at you, both his hands stroking back your hair. Your eyes were bloodshot and puffy as you whispered with a raw voice. “Why?” Sirius had no answer and he hated himself for it. He shook his head slowly and stroked your cheeks. “I don’t know, my darling. I don’t know.” “They…They´re gone. Frank….Alice. Both…Oh Merlin, why like this!!??” Your forehead landed on his as fresh tears fell from your eyes and onto his skin. Sirius breathed heavily, stroking your sides slowly and soothingly.
“What…what happens to Neville now?” you heard Lilly ask. “He´s only a day older than Harry!” Again she started crying while James answered her. “I´m sure Frank´s mother has him now. He´s in good hands, Lils. Please don´t worry.”
“There´s going to be a hunt” Remus´ voice floated through the room. Everyone looked at him while trying to gather themselves again. “You´re right” Lilly said and wiped at her wet cheeks. The stoic look coming back into her eyes. “You´re right. There´s nothing…” she swallowed. “There´s nothing we can do for Frank or Alice anymore. What we can do, is go after… them.”
You admired Lilly for her rationality. She was right of course. You needed to snap out of it. There was work to be done. “But not tonight” Lilly said. “We need tonight for…” she lost her words and looked at her husband. Everyone got the hint and stood. Hugging your friends closer that usual you left the Potter´s house and stood outside for another moment. Sirius turned to Remus.
“You wanna crash on our couch again, mate? You´re welcome to” Sirius looked sternly at Remus, though he already knew what the answer would be. Remus gave a tight lipped smile, took a deep breath and shook his head. “Sorry, Pads. Not tonight. I´ll go see….my parents. I think.” Sirius nodded shortly and hugged his friend again. He whispered something you couldn’t make out to him and let go. Remus´ smile seemed more genuine this time around as he waved at you and disapparated.
“He´s not going to see his parents, is he?” you asked quietly and took Sirius´ hand. He was still staring at the spot were Remus disappeared. He sighed and shook his head. “He writes them occasionally but…it´s been ages since he saw them.” He squeezed your hand tightly. “He´s already on the hunt.”
Sirius looked down at you with a solemn look. “Let´s go home, yeah?” You nodded and braced yourself for disapparating.
Your feet hit the ground in front of your small flat. Without many words, Sirius and you got changed and ready for bed. You felt emotionally drained and yet, something inside you was boiling over. So after not being able to fall asleep, even with Sirius´ strong arms wrapped around you from behind you slightly stirred. “Sirius?” you whispered into the dark. “Hmm? What is it, my love?” he immediately answered. A small smile tucked at your lips. Huddling closer to him you kissed his forearm that was resting close to your face. “I love you more than words can say” you simply stated. You felt his chest stop moving for a second before you felt his lips on your shoulder. They moved slowly and gently over it and over your neck to your ear. Goosebumps erupted all over your body, heat creeping from your center up to your belly.
“You are my everything” Sirius´ deep voice penetrated your ear, vibrating through your every vein. “Love is not a strong enough word to describe what I feel for you, what you are to me, my darling.” Again you felt your eyes water. “I know, dove. You´re scared. I know” he whispered with a slight choked up voice. “We´re doing the right thing and it´s scary. Whatever happens, my love, please know that I´ll always be with you.”
“Please don’t talk like that” you whimpered and the tears fell silently. “It needs to be said,___. I´m sorry but please listen to me.” He kissed the shell of your ear. “Tomorrow is not promised. But as long as I have your love, I´ll fight until my last breath to return to you. Every day.”
You turned in his arms as quickly as you could and smashed your lips to his desperately. His arms pulled you in immediately. The kiss was not gentle or slow. Pure desperation guiding you in the way you grabbed at his ink black, luscious hair or how your tongue glided over his quicker than usual.
Sirius didn’t mind at all. He knew that you needed this right now and he would be damned not to give you anything you so desperately needed. He did worry a little bit though. His fingers dug into your side to try and slow you down just a little bit. That proved to be rather difficult though as you just decided to slightly bite his bottom lip. He always went feral whenever you did that and right now his head was swimming with desire. He felt your leg moving right between his and with a grunt he felt your knee slightly bump his erection.
“Want you, Sirius” you panted against his lips. “Want you so much.” Your lips descended onto his throat as you climbed on top of him. And so, with a long and strained groan Sirius grabbed your hips in a vice like grip. “Hold on. Stop, darling” he whispered desperately. You didn’t react and started to grind onto him. “Shit! Dove, please. It´s not…stop. Stop, stop, stop.” He didn’t sound angry but worried as his voice got louder until you finally registered what he´d asked of you.
Pure fire was rushing through your veins and through a thick cloud of pent up lust you tried to focus on his face. His beautiful features shone through the haze as you zeroed in on his pale grey eyes. Your chest heaving you looked at him bewildered.
“What is it?” you asked cautiously. “Little dove, you know I´d never say no to being inside you and absolutely rock your shit but…We both know…we´re not in the right headspace right now. We just lost two dear friends and we´re scared.” Your stomach dropped dangerously low and a little bit of shame overcame you quickly. Still laying on his chest you lay your head right above his heart while he stroked your back soothingly. “Just let me hold you for tonight, my love. Let me tell you how precious you are, how much you mean to me. Let my words lull you to sleep, where I want you to be at peace. Knowing that I´ll have your back always. That I´ll be here. And in the morning when you wake up, I´ll make sure my name is the only thing you´ll be able to mutter.” Nodding, sniffling but grinning into his Tshirt you got comfortable at his side again, your ear never leaving the steady rhythm of his heart.
As promised, he whispered sweet, sweet nothings into your ear until your body grew heavy.
You didn’t even make it until the first rays of sunshine before Sirius appeared above you with pure fire in his eyes. No words needed to be spoken, you knew that look way too intensely. And so he made good on his promise as he sank into your warm and wet heat and made you whimper and sigh his name as he nibbled on your neck. His hips moving sensually and powerfully. The feeling of slick skin on skin, his scent enveloping you and words of pure love being exchanged, the both of you moved in tandem, bringing you closer and closer to the sweet relief you needed.
“Cum for me, darling. Please, my perfect girl. Hggnn, I´m right there...with you” he whispered as his eyes bore into yours. As his hips sped up and his lips closed carefully around your nipple, you gripped him hard as the blinding, hot white feeling made you arch your back and cling to him for dear life. His name yelled into the darkness, he bit down on your neck hard and muffled his own grunts and sighs. Before long, Sirius was laying on top of you, breathing as heavily as you, kissing the spot he bit, licking it a little and just marvelling in the feeling of having you in this way.
“I´ll always love you, Sirius. With every fibre of my being, I am yours” you whispered. You heard his satisfied sigh as his canines scraped against the underside of your jaw. He lifted his head to look you in the eyes. Stroking your face gently he said “Wherever I am, whatever happens to me. Know that you are my saving grace. I am yours before anything.” He kissed you slowly. “I´ll be with you always.”
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I hope you all enjoyed this little fic, thank you for reading <3 As always I appreciate every like, reblog or comment. In order to get better in my writing though, I absolutely love getting comments or reblogs that let me know what you liked or disliked ;) Only this way I can make my writing better or more inclusive.
Thank you very much again and have a lovely day :)
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macaroonff · 4 days
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The boy in my dreams- Park Sunghoon
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→Park Sunghoon x gn! reader
Comfort character/ supernatural au, where Sunghoon is a manifestation in reader's dreams
Angst! A lot of angst! You have been warned (>'-'<)
W.c: 1.5 k words
↳Warning: Mentions of depression, poor mental health, let me know if there's more
~~~
The wisp of navy blue magic that you envision every night, lying on your satin pillow transports you to your subconscious. Or what you assume to be, after all these days of hiding behind your jasmine incense that burned along with your memories of a certain person as you slept. The person being the director of your dreams, the one who controlled what you saw amidst the nightly journey you partake in. 
The one who superficially catered to all your worldly desires, especially the unattainable ones. Ones you couldn’t hope for in the day.
Somewhere between the dicey border of reality and fantasy, he happened to be there to lead you to a world that was neither of those, a place that only seemed to exist without actually happening to be. A place so familiar that calling it a fantasy would appear to be a disservice to him, who brought you here. 
You called him Sunghoon. Because that was how he introduced himself to you. 
He appeared to you in flesh, his dark bangs long enough to cover his eyes, which appeared dull, yet happened to sparkle upon seeing you. His arms were outstretched, enticing you with a hug that helped most days. 
“Sunghoon,” you whisper, “take me somewhere new please”
He smiles. “Of course, I’ll take you anywhere you’d like to go.”
You hold on to his sleeves tightly, hoping he would guide you out of today’s problem. 
He does so, by leading you away from your arduous day, in through the iron door you were so used to by now. The grey bolts were cold, and every time you pushed through them, it was as though your entire life force was taken away from you, like you only existed in this weightless form.
The door looked the same everyday, but unlike it, the places you visited weren’t. 
The places you’d visit were so different from the previous that you weren’t sure what to expect today. 
Hesitantly, you take another step holding onto the handle. Immediately an invisible pressure which pushes against you makes you flinch, and it lasts for a while, until it is dispelled by a cold wind that blows against your lips.
You open your eyes and take in what’s in front of you. It was a grassland. One where the stars were clearer than the transparent waters of the pond that reflected the night sky. It was where the bright fireflies contrasted the cold winds that blew through your hair, as you took in what you could through your awestruck eyes. The koi danced in acknowledgement, although half asleep, while the crickets chirped their eager tunes, setting the backdrop for conversations to come.
“Sunghoon, how is it possible for a place like this to exist? It’s beautiful?” you ask, bewildered.
“You have no idea what enthralling spheres your mind can create, y/n.”
You hum in the enlightening of what you had already assumed, at least from what he had mentioned before, time and again. He was a magician, a person with the abilities to show you around the unexplored expanse of your mind, those of what you had never learnt of before; unravelling more secrets you half wished you had never come across. Especially the darker ones. Ones that occurred recurrently in the beginning, back when you felt destroyed, damaged, and controlled by the intensity of your thoughts. Thoughts that revealed death, mentally if not physically. The thoughts completely mislead you until you realised it had become an unconscious habit. This realisation emerged with the new figure you saw in your dreams, starting as a silent spectator but slowly opening up to your presence as the days went by. He’d take your hand and bring you to beautiful places until you were out of the shadows; the present dream being better than yesterday’s, a cycle that continued until you looked forward to tomorrow’s. 
It had been a year since you found him. The boy came out of nowhere and introduced you to newfound peace. It was almost sacred, where you were now compared to when you first saw him, surrounded by a warm aura, sitting by the window in an empty room in your head. But now the empty room was a forest that nurtured and nourished. The progress was beautiful, just like the scene you saw in front of you.
“Really, how’d you find this place?” you ask bewildered
The boy laughs at your astonishment, finding it adorable.
“Like explained before y/n, I don’t find the place, I find you in the place. It just appears within your imagination although I’m sure you drew some inspiration from your enchanted forest pins on Pinterest.”
You let out a deeper laugh, seeing how your daytime fantasies of being in a magical place didn’t lose the opportunity to feature in your dreams.
You were glad. Content that you could find company in a space like this, even if it wasn’t real. You plop down onto your back next to him, gently placing your head on his shoulder, the vastness of the sky absorbing your vision. He too intertwines your hands, welcoming the known warmth. A warmth you’d gotten used to since the earliest night. 
That night, you’d cried on his chest, soaking up his shirt as you saw the images of your cluttered soul, pent up with anger and lost in the midst of your worries. You never bothered to know where he came from, where he went when you were awake. All that mattered was that he was there when you were not, it was never important. He may as well be a figment of your imagination. 
Yet, he seemed so real, even as he lay down you could feel the warmth that he emitted. You could see his pale cheeks burn crimson as well as the tears that slowly fell on them. Tears gathered at the corner of his lips while he sobbed softly, muffled, his body trembling slightly. All the vulnerability with which you regarded him was being returned to you, for reasons you were unsure of.
“Sunghoon is everything okay?” you ask now laying on your side while you wipe his tears that continued down. 
He looks down and gives you a smile, one that was broken despite his attempt at reassurance. “I, I think it’s time for you to wake up Y/n.”
“Is that why you’re crying? You know I’ll see you later.”
To this, his sobs get louder as he cradles you in his arms, trying to hide behind the truth of tomorrow. Despite your puzzled pats and comforting embrace, he can’t seem to disclose how by the next dream, your bridge between fantasy and reality would disappear. He would disappear. A being that manifested itself and helped you through the year had finished what he had come to accomplish. From the idle times that he hated seeing you purge through the dark, he had vowed to be by your side until you could walk on your own. Y/n, his sole reason for his existence, was someone he didn’t want to lose, but he also knew he had to leave. It was contradictory in a sense, as though he was a tiny dose of medicine that was no longer useful. 
In pity for himself, the tears that betrayed his calm demeanour ran into the grass, moistening it like the dew before dawn.  
And dawn came faster than he hoped, barely time before he could tell you about his departure. “Can’t you oversleep today?” he whispers softly. 
“Is this the same person who told me to fix my sleep schedule?” A gentle smile forms on his pale lips. “I don’t want to see you go.”
He was being unreasonably clingy today, and it almost worried you. It was the first time you’d seen the boy break away from his stoic demeanour, the first time you’d seen him express an emotion other than joy. It was a moment where he felt all too human.
“We’ll meet again tonight.” you try to assure him.
“We won’t,” he whispers. “I can’t stay any longer.”
Then it dawns on you, his conditions for keeping you company, and the predicament that you hadn’t foreshadowed in the delicate moments you shared. “Must you leave?” you hold him closer, hands running down his face.
The boy’s sobs became louder as the place started to fade into darkness as it usually would, at the end of most dreams. This time, however you couldn’t bear to let go. The tears that you never thought you’d shed in front of him returned as the memories spun around mocking you of your loss. Despite the force with which you held him, you couldn’t ignore the lack of beauty in the background as you started to feel the smell of the incense that you had lit, reminding you that you were bordering reality. In a last attempt to hold you back, he pulls you into a kiss, where his soft lips  dissolve into thin air with his last words.
“This time, I’ll dream of you y/n, until we meet again.” 
You wake up after the year-long dream of bliss consumed you while the reality with which you couldn’t ground yourself welcomed you, the rising sun had peaked through the curtains, your satin pillows were wet from the tears and the incense sticks had dissipated into its remaining ashes. Just as the boy in your dreams did.
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ceruleancattail · 1 year
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Stay.
Jack Howl x reader
Hot chocolate. Mug clutched in shivering fingers, steam curling upwards. Gentle wisps of grey, caressing your cheeks, pressing into the tip of your nose. The roof tiles creaked in protest as you shifted your body. True to its name, the dorm was certainly Ramshackle.
Certainly, scaling the roof has its difficulties, and it’s definitely not the most agreeable drop. Yet, it is a pleasant hiding spot.
The view from above was immeasurable.
The night sky, a great big old blanket hugging the world tightly, tiny pinpricks of light shining through it, twinkling above your head. A million spotlights, shining on the dreams of the people.
Too high for you to ever reach.
Well, it’s nice to look at, at least. Some nights in Twisted Wonderland were harder than the rest. Home seemed nothing more but a dream some days. A memory worn and faded, the frail yellow pages of a fond childhood fable. Clutch it too tightly, it’ll break, crumple back into dust.
Blown away in the wind, as if it never existed in the first place.
You take a sip, the chocolate sliding down your throat, nestling in your gut. Warm. Comforting, in the deadly cold of the night. Perhaps coming here in your nightwear wasn’t too good of an idea, but this had been spontaneous.
Like most decisions of your life. But hey, you were still alive. No complaints there.
The sound of stone striking stone. A dull thud. A stone. Grey, with white flakes streamlined through the material. It was flung at the roof, centimetres from where you sat.
A frown, before you glared down.
A head of white and grey hair gelled back in a hairdo sharp as a knife. A pair of wolf ears stuck up at attention, ready for the hunt. He glared back at you, hands raised up in bewilderment.
A chuckle rumbled through your chest, annoyance shoved aside. Jack Howl. First year, and honestly?
One of the best people you’ve ever met.
Setting down your cup,You shimmy down, offering him a hand.
“Well? Are you going to come up here?”
A frustrated grunt, before he took your hand. Sandpaper rough, calluses hard against your palm. The hands of a hard worker, someone who put their nose to the grind every single day of their life.
You yanked him up with great difficulty, his legs scrambling for footholds alongside Ramshackle Dorm. His tail swished back and forth, nervous about the climb. With your hands trembling, you hissed instructions, trying to help him up.
After a bunch of swearing and cursing, you two lie on the roof, panting. Propping yourself up by the shoulders,you nudge the cup of hot chocolate to Jack. He wrapped his fingers around it, mouthing a soundless thank you. With one swing, he gulps it down. At least he has the decency to look sheepish afterwards.
You gesture to the sky.
“How’s the view? Worth the climb?”
Jack doesn’t even turn to the sky. His eyes stay fixed on your face, cheeks tainted a light pink.
“Yeah… really. Beautiful.”
A huff, before you elbow him in the arm, making him yelp.
“You’re not even looking, jerk.”
His ears flop down, a dejected puppy. Pouting slightly, Jack obliges, looking up at the sky. Bit by bit, his ears rose up, eyes bright. If the way his tail was beating against the roof was any indication , he liked the view.
You take the chance to lean against his arm, sighing in relief. His muscles stiffen, before relaxing again. He leans down slightly, letting your head rest on his shoulder.
“Hey, Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“Stay here with me, alright? At least until dawn?”
“Always.”
A burly arm comes to a rest on your shoulders, pulling you closer to him.
“Forever and always, Prefect.”
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sentientsky · 4 months
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a tiny little ficlet based on this lovely comment from @queer4cryptids on this post! (i accidentally made it angsty, i’m so sorry!! but there’s comfort and gay yearning in there, i swear!) when the night falls low and settles against the side of the Earth; when the the dark begins to carry a certain weight, he shifts his stance. he lets himself breathe air he doesn't really need into lungs that exist simply by virtue of his inclination to breath. it's the same pattern Crowley's watched unfold a hundred million times times over—the stretching of a thread until it frays, three women, a set of blades; a wicked inevitability carried in the lines of time-weathered hands.
and still it never changes, never lessens the welling of grief that builds and breaks in his chest, that stagnates and stratifies like layers of sand upon gravel upon so many eons since he first fell from the sky and lost the right to mourn a woman hungry only for bread and a little kindness.
he leans back against a headstone, swallowing down a familiar hollowness. the sparrows have all taken root in the knots of tree trunks. the moon blinks back at him, clouds swaying like an eyelid closing to sleep.
he turns his face away from the light, sucks in breath for which he still has no need. the rough-hewn granite is going to scuff his coat; he knows this with the certainty of having lived in a world full of serrated edges for so many years. and yet he doesn't care. Crowley can't find it in him to give a damn because finally, finally he's there. he's there and he's real and tangible and it's been eleven months, two weeks, and four days since he's last felt the warmth of angelic skin so close to his own. not that he's been keeping count, of course. and Aziraphale's got that faraway look again. the one pressed into the lines of his face in the aftermath of a flood that tilted against the sky; the same one Crowley saw in the stark daylight of a death warrant unfurled and stamped with the name of the holy Mother herself. it's the same, hollow, teeth-gritted look Crowley himself wore as he stood on a hillside reeking of freshly-cut wood, bearing witness to yet another child of the Almighty thrown to the wolves. Aziraphale turns, then, and blue eyes meet black lenses meet amber-gold. "Crowley—" Aziraphale manages, choking it out in a half-whisper, like it hurts—like it scrapes his throat with bits of barbed wire. and, just like that, something in him is breaking and the oak trees are all whispering dangerous things and still, still he can't find a version of this story in which he doesn't lean closer, doesn't press himself forward into air that smells of earl grey tea and old books and something celestial and hallowed and holy underneath it all. and as though he's drowning—as though the moon doesn't watch them with a flickering gaze and the trees can't hear the brush of skin meeting skin—Aziraphale presses his fingertips to the side of Crowley's wrist. he moves no further. the air holds still, time seeming to freeze around them. it's intentional, he realizes; it's fire and it's heat and it's utterly fucking terrifying. even now, so far above ground, Crowley can nearly feel the weight of hellish eyes on his back. a shudder runs the length of his body. and yet. in the atomic space of that hungry, desperate, throat-baring yet, he turns his hand, trembling, to the side. he finds the angel's touch like a bird bearing North—like a compass forever calibrated to a single, fixed point.
"I know—" he rasps. “Angel, I know.” he twines his fingers with Aziraphale's, and it's positively electric. every cell in his tragically, wonderfully human body has turned pure gold, conducted and galvanized and sparking. a sharp, stilted inhale; a quiet anticipation carved out in the space between their pressed hands (and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss...). the graveyard is still. the grief is there, still. the grief might always be there. but the sharp edges dull, the welling in his chest grows steady and slow and gentle. and the world becomes a little less difficult to bear with the two of them holding it up.
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the-cult-of-riley · 28 days
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Sleeping With Ghosts (Act One: Chapter Eleven)
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Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Female OC
[[Masterlist]]
A/N: This one is a short one. Technically, it should have gone at the end of the last chapter, but it felt right putting it on its own. Don’t worry, I’ll be posting the next chapter right after so you won't be waiting long lmao
I'm so excited already to get to Act Two where all the pain and angst is, where Simon is Ghost and I can torture you all with tears o3o Alas, I have more of Act One to get through lololol
Placebo - Come Home
Stuck between the do or die, I feel emaciated Hard to breathe I try and try, I'll get asphyxiated Swinging from the tallest height, with nothing left to hold on to
Every sky is blue, but not for me and you
Come home, come home, come home, come home
Glass of petrol vodka gin, it feels like breathing ethane Throw yourself from skin to skin, and still it doesn't dull the pain Vanish like a lipstick trace, it always blows me away
Every cloud is grey, with dreams of yesterday
Come home, come home, come home, come home Come home, come home, come home, come home
Always goes against the grain, and I can try and deny it Give a monkey half a brain, and still he's bound to fry it Now the happening scene is dead, I used to want to be there too
Every sky is blue, but not for me and you
Come home, come home, come home, come home Come home, come home, come home, come home
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Charlotte lay there stiffly, the sun starting to shine through the window. She hadn't slept at all, she hadn't been able to knowing Simon was being shipped off so soon. She felt a lot of things she couldn't quite make sense of, but the biggest one was sadness. Six months was a long time to not be able to see him and she was so used to his presence in her life that she knew she was going to struggle to be on her own again. 
It was stupid really, she’d known from the beginning he was military and yet she hadn't even thought about him being deployed, it hadn't even crossed her mind. The emotion weighed her down and clogged up her throat and she knew she was being dramatic and stupid. Or maybe she wasn't since they were official now. She was right to worry about her boyfriend being in a warzone, right? She wouldn't know, her last boyfriend had been a lazy twat. 
Simon was fast asleep, soft and deep steady breaths brushing the back of her neck while his arm lay heavily over her waist. He had to be up at 5am, had to leave by 6. Looking at the clock, she saw it was 4.30 and her heart dropped at what little time they had left. She was sure her eyes were red due to lack of sleep and maybe, just maybe, she'd silently cried a few times in the night. There were a lot of disjointed thoughts in her brain over this situation but it always came back to the same one. What if he doesn't make it home? 
The idea made her heart go cold and she clenched her jaw tightly as she willed her tears to stay away. She knew deep down what she felt for Simon was more intense than what she was used to. Was this real love? She thought she'd loved Ethan but it had been fleeting and barely there and really didn't take long before it was gone. This was something else. There had been a connection with him since the moment they met, some kind of tether pulling them together. She'd never really believed in soul mates and the whole red string of fate nonsense but Simon was making her rethink a lot of things. She'd never felt such an instant connection before, never felt things so deeply or so quickly.
It felt far too soon to be even thinking about such things yet, but now knowing he'd be gone for half a year, it felt like her feelings were staring plainly at her. She wouldn't tell him, not yet at least. She had no idea how he'd react and she wouldn't risk messing his head up before he left. She needed his head firmly affixed to his shoulders and working soundly when he was over there because the idea of him coming back in a coffin made her feel sick. Would she even get told? Did his family even know about her? So many thoughts and not enough energy, she felt her lower lip wobble again. 
She took a few deep and shaky inhales to steady herself, she wouldn't get upset in front of him and make him feel bad. This wasn't a guilt trip, she was just feeling far too much. As she glanced at the clock again, she figured she'd get up since the sleep ship had well and truly sailed. She could at least feed him before he was off. She wasn't sure if a full English would be too much, too heavy for the day he was going to have but you couldn't go wrong with some bacon butties. 
Carefully, she tried to extract herself from his grip and started to sit up. His hand snaked back around her though, splaying over her stomach and pulling her back against him with a tired groan. 
“Where d’you think you're goin'?” He asked. His voice was deep and raspy from sleep and she tried to relax even though she felt so tense. 
“Was gonna make some bacon butties for us before you… have to go,” she explained, clearing her throat, trying to shake the emotion that was stuck there. He hummed, the arm around her tightening as he placed a soft kiss to the back of her neck. 
“Five more minutes, yeah?” He asked, not really giving her a choice with his iron grip. She forced herself to relax in his hold, telling herself this would be the last time in six months she'd be waking up in his arms, that he'd be holding her. She wanted to soak it in, to memorize what it felt like. His thumb rubbed circles on the skin of her stomach, his nose rubbing at her neck softly. 
“Gonna miss this,” he admitted quietly. Her breathing stuttered at his honest admission and her body went rigid, blinking rapidly to stop the onslaught of tears that were threatening to break free. 
“Me too,” she replied with a strained voice. He moved then, rolling her over to face him. Those beautiful dark eyes scanned her face, taking in her tired, red eyes that shone from unshed tears. His brows pinched together a little as he let out a heavy sigh. She felt bad at being so openly sad about the situation, not wanting to make the whole thing worse. 
“You not sleep, love?” He asked knowingly. She shook her head, not trusting her voice in that moment when his warm eyes were shining with concern. 
His hand came to her face, a finger trailing across her cheek in a featherlight touch before moving back up and along her temple. It danced across her forehead before sliding down the bridge of her nose, all the way down to the tip and then back up. Her eyes fluttered shut, enjoying the feeling and how gentle his touch was. He mapped out the planes of her face for a moment longer before his fingers then trailed down her neck, down her arm until it reached her hand. He took it gently and her eyes opened once more, watching as he brought it to his mouth, placing a sweet kiss on it. He placed it between them both, his hand still enveloping hers. 
“Wanted to ask somethin'...” He murmured, sounding unsure. It always surprised her when he seemed unsure of himself for a man such as him. 
“What is it?” She asked, watching as his eyes darted across her face. 
“Wanted to know if uh… if you wanted to write to me when I'm over there,” there was something shining behind his eyes she couldn't quite place as he asked but she felt her chest warm up at his words. 
“I'd really like that,” she smiled. 
It was a stupidly romantic thought, one she'd never really considered. She'd always been a bit of a romantic deep at heart but she hadn't been able to pay much mind to it outside of indulging herself in sappy romance novels. Her life hadn't had a place for romance in the past and yet the soldier in front of her had been quite romantic in their short time together. The flowers on her nightstand were proof of that. A handsome smile tugged at his lips at her answer and he leaned in, pressing his lips against hers firmly. It was a chaste kiss, one that carried a deep longing and yearning from the separation they both knew was coming. 
“I should make breakfast,” she murmured when he pulled away. She didn't really want to get out of bed, to leave his presence, but she knew time was running out. She wanted to see him off with a full stomach, she wouldn't be selfish. He opened his mouth and she had a strong feeling he'd been going to protest, so she quickly darted out of bed. She knew it wouldn't take her much convincing to abandon her plans of feeding him to stay in bed with him instead. 
She sorted herself out in the bathroom before swiping his jumper off the floor, sliding it over her head to stave off the cold and to enjoy the deep, spicy scent she loved so much. She padded over to the drawers to get a fresh pair of knickers before moving over to the kitchen. She busied herself with making the food but her eyes kept darting to the clock. The ticking felt louder and louder with each passing second, like it was mocking her and her aching heart. 
She heard Simon rummaging around in his bag but she left him to get ready as she tried to get the bacon just how he liked it. He slid behind her, something she noticed he seemed to love to do, not that she minded, and wrapped his arms around her. One of his hands slid up inside of the jumper to lay over her bare stomach. It wasn't a sexual touch, but one of intimacy and she felt her body melt into him as she tried to continue with the food. It made her feel a little better that he seemed to want to be attached to her, like maybe she wasn't the only one bothered by the whole thing. 
“Alright, foods ready,” she murmured, putting it on the plates. He released her then, grabbing the plates for the pair of them before he went over to the couch. Nothing good was on tv at this time so she just left some cheesy infomercials on while they ate in a tense silence. His leave was like a dark cloud looming over them both. He finished before her and once she was done, he grabbed both of their plates and put them on the coffee table in front of him out of the way. 
“Come here, love,” he held his hand out to her, gesturing with his head for her to come to him and she did without thought. She was careful when she moved to straddle him that her bare thighs didn't scrape on his belt now he was decked out in his fatigues ready to go. She settled into him and he used his hand on the back of her head to guide it to his shoulder. One of her hands clutched his t-shirt, the other wrapped around him as she snuggled into him, breathing in his scent deeply. 
“Just wanna hold you for a bit, yeah?” he asked and his soft and gentle tone broke something inside of her. She felt the lump expand in her throat and she pressed her face into his neck as the waterworks started. She felt so stupid, she promised herself she’d wait until he was gone. He didn't need the drama. 
“Lottie… Don’t cry… please,” he begged, his voice cracking as he held her tighter, the hand on her head pressing her closer to him. 
“I’m sorry… just ignore me, I’m being stupid,” she sobbed pitifully, her chest stuttering as she tried to suppress them to no avail. 
”It's not stupid, love,” he chided but she didn't reply as she stayed put, crying into his neck. “Would it make you feel any better if I told you I’m gonna miss you, as well?” he asked and she scrunched her face up at the pain that lanced through her chest. His fingers massaged her scalp and she wished it would soothe her but it didn't. 
“Or that I’ll be thinkin’ of you every day I’m over there? That I have somethin’ to look forward to, comin’ back to you?” he finished and there was a weight in his tone that made her sit up, looking at him with tear stained cheeks. His eyes looked troubled at her emotional state and she wiped her eyes quickly, trying to compose herself. The idea that he’d miss her and was already looking forward to coming back to her eased the knot in her chest somewhat.
“I’m uh… I’m sorry,” she sniffled, cheeks flushing in embarrassment. She really hadn’t mean to be so emotional in front of him. He cupped her cheeks, his thumbs wiping away the residual tears that lay there.
“Don’t need to be sorry, love,” he said firmly, giving her a look that told her he meant it. She was just used to always apologizing for things, it was second nature to her. A habit he was trying to help her break. 
She lay one of her hands over his that was still on her cheek, tilting her head to lean into him, seeking out his warmth. He watched her for a long moment, those piercing brown eyes feeling like they could see down to her very soul. She wished she could know what went on in that head of his sometimes. She felt like she was so easy to read and half the time with Simon, she felt lost. 
His eyes cut from her to the clock on the wall, a deep frown pulling at his brows that told her it was time. She felt like she’d been sucker punched in the chest. He looked back at her then, his mouth opening and closing for a moment as if he couldn't figure out what to say.
“I uh… I always felt like I was livin’ life in the dark. Just goin’ through the motions, gettin’ on with it. But then… then you came along and suddenly everythin’ was bright light. Every fuckin’ dark corner of my miserable life was lit up and you chased all the shadows away…” his words were rushed as if he was just spewing his thoughts as they came to him and her heart felt like it stopped beating entirely. 
Had she really made him feel that way? Did he really like her that much? She felt like he had to be talking about someone else, she felt like she hadn’t done much to get him to feel that way. But his warm and soft gaze told her he was indeed talking about her. 
“I’m really glad I have you in my life, Simon,” she admitted, not having such poetic words as he did but hoping it got the message across. A few things flit across his face at a pace she couldn't keep up with but then he smiled and it seemed like his dark eyes were glowing amber. 
“I’m glad too, love,” he replied fondly, stroking her cheek again before he moved his hand. She knew that was her cue, knew he didn't really want to say the words that he had to leave. She didn't want to make this harder on either of them so she got up, feeling the cold already. She hovered near the door as she watched him fuss about his duffel bag for a moment before he came over to her with a handful of t-shirts. He handed them out to her and she took them, raising a brow.
“What are these?” she asked even though she knew what they were and she should have been asking why he was giving them to her. He shifted on his feet, running a hand through his short hair.
“I… I haven't washed ‘em. I know you like to sleep in ‘em so I thought…” he trailed off and she felt a blinding warmth hit her suddenly in her chest. It was so thoughtful she almost burst into tears again. She brought the pile of tops up to her face, burying her nose in them for a moment to confirm they really did smell like him. It was so overwhelmingly comforting. 
“Thank you,” she swallowed thickly, her eyes shining with unshed tears and his face told her he fully understood how much she appreciated the gesture. 
“Could I…” his mouth floundered, his cheeks turning a light pink color that she never got sick of seeing on him. It was rare he blushed but she was still shocked he blushed at all. “Could I have one of yours?” he finally spat out, unable to look at her. She wanted to make a witty quip about how it wouldn't fit him to sleep in but she could see it took a lot for him to ask her that. She wanted him to be able to talk to her or ask her for anything, no judgment. So instead, she nodded eagerly, moving to the wash basket. There was a t-shirt in there that hadn’t been washed yet and she moved over to her nightstand, spraying her perfume on it for good measure. She padded back over to him, handing him the shirt and he gratefully took it, stuffing it into his bag quickly as if he was trying to hide evidence. 
“I’m keeping this for now too,” she remarked cheekily, tugging at the soft jumper she’d commandeered from him earlier. She wanted to lighten the mood a little before he left and she didn't want him feeling so self-conscious around her. It seemed to work as his lips quirked up in that lopsided smile she was so fond of.
“Guess I’ll let you since I won’t need it,” he huffed playfully and she smiled up at him. 
His eyes danced around her face for a moment before he leaned down, capturing her lips in a kiss. It started off gentle but it was like a sudden urgency had come over him. He grasped her face, deepening the kiss as he explored every inch of her mouth. She moaned softly, clutching onto him for dear life as he tried to suck the soul out of her body. It wasn't just a kiss, it was a whole fucking experience and when he pulled away she felt like she was in another dimension. She blinked slowly up at him and a proud smirk graced his face. It didn't last too long though as the reality seemed to hit him again at the time.
“I’ll let you know the address to write once I get back to base,” he said and she nodded. She was eager to write to him, it was better than no contact at all. She quickly moved to wrap her arms around his middle, squeezing him one last time. His arms wrapped around her like snakes trying to constrict her as he pressed his nose into her hair.
“I’ll see you soon, love,” he murmured and she nodded, giving him one last squeeze before she reluctantly let him go.
“I’ll see you soon, Simon,” she replied, trying to keep her voice from wobbling and failing miserably. 
He gave her one last sad look before he turned and left through the door, jogging down the steps. She shut the door quickly, leaning against it as a sob ripped from her throat again. She knew she needed to get it all out after trying to keep herself in check in front of him. So she allowed herself to cry it out, to feel every shitty emotion she was feeling, because she’d never get through six whole months if she tried to bottle it up. 
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