#this story has always been so utterly warm for me. just the warmest place I can imagine | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

moonflowerlesbians · 3 years

Note

6. with dani and jamie would be so cute 🥺 like a lil vermont winter fic

for you, anon! I altered the wording ever so slightly, but the concept is identical. I hope you enjoy :)

you can also read on AO3

~~~

Their flat is located a few streets off from the center of town, close enough to walk but far enough to provide a sense of distance from the bustle of the main drag. Tonight, they set out just after sundown to ensure good seats to what Dani has affectionately dubbed, “the greatest holiday spectacular to ever grace the streets of Bennington,” and what Jamie has deemed, “an entirely American embarrassment.”

It’s their third winter in Vermont, and this year, The Leafling has generously sponsored half of Bennington High School’s Marching Seahorses’ winter uniforms in exchange for a full page ad in their concert programmes for a year and a sign carried at the front of the annual holiday parade. Or, rather, the kids had come to the shop with instruments, a flyer, and an unrehearsed elevator pitch, and Dani had been utterly charmed.

“It’s good to see them so passionate about something,” Dani had said.

Jamie had hummed and had continued tending to her sprouts.

“It would be good publicity,” Dani’d argued.

“Most expensive advertisement of my life.”

“Come on, they’re cute.”

“‘Cute’ doesn’t keep the lights on, Poppins.”

Unfortunately for Jamie, Dani has an irritating way of getting what she wants. And that’s how their small business ended up shelling out an ungodly amount of cash for an extracurricular named after the least fearsome sea creature Jamie can think of.

They don’t even have legs for Christsake.

But, the sheer delight on Dani’s face upon Jamie’s concession softened her heart. In any case, Dani made certain to thank her thoroughly and, ah, enthusiastically, that evening.

Jamie begins to regret her decision, now, as she’s dragged from her cozy flat into the absolutely frigid night air. She’s bundled in her warmest coat, a toque tucked over her ears to stave off the cold, but she swears she’s still going to catch frostbite.

Dani, meanwhile, wears a fleece-lined denim jacket over top one of her many cable-knit jumpers and insists she’s overheating. She carries a blanket under her arm, the other linked with Jamie’s, as she all but skips down the street.

“The English couldn’t handle a Midwestern winter. This is nothing,” she had said.

She’s always loved Christmastime, Jamie has come to learn. Dani has regaled her with seemingly endless stories about stringing popcorn and cranberry garlands, baking biscuits with Judy O’Mara, and breaking the occasional ornament decorating the tree. She’d felt awful about that last one, terrified to tell Mrs. O’Mara. She went on to explain in touching detail how Mrs. O’Mara had taken her hand and reminded her that it was just a bauble.

It made Jamie wonder how often Dani got into trouble for accidents in her home. A question for a later date.

As they near Main Street, the sound of jovial chatter and the unmistakable carolers grows louder. The shops they pass have festive window displays, elves in stockings of red and green reading storybooks or sledding down white fabric hills. Dani blows right past, determined to reach her carefully preselected place on the sidewalk. In what Jamie is convinced must be sub-zero temperatures, she can’t imagine the winter festival will be a popular destination.

She soon finds she is mistaken, however, when they round the corner and encounter a throng of people. The road has been blocked off at either end, and families drift in and out of the shops. Some skate on the temporary ice rink set up to the side. The lights lining the trees reflect prettily off the storefronts, the branches arching up and over the street. It would be like something out of a fairytale had the weather not been turning Jamie’s hands to icicles.

Dani is very proudly pointing to a square on the sidewalk out in front of the coffeehouse, and before Jamie is entirely sure what’s happened, she’s sitting on their too-small tartan picnic blanket over pavement that is far too cold on her arse. Dani is warm at her side, and they’re pressed close, using the size of their blanket as an excuse to disregard social acceptability.

“How long until this thing starts?”

Dani checks her wristwatch. “Thirty minutes, I think?”

“Fuckin’ freezing.”

The apparent mother of three standing nearby shoots them a glare.

“Jamie…” Dani gives an apologetic look, but the woman is already herding her children off in the direction of an arts and crafts booth.

“You know, if we were home, I’d wager we’d find a proper way to warm up.” She gets a sharp elbow to the ribs for that one and lets out a muffled oomph, though she wryly notes the new flush to Dani’s cheeks.

“Hot chocolate? I’ll go find us hot chocolate. I’m pretty sure there was a table supporting the junior high theatre department.”

“S’long as you’re not making it.” But Dani is already halfway down the block.

Then, Jamie is alone, freezing her arse off while waiting to see a mediocre high school marching band play in ungodly weather to make her partner happy. It’s the kind of domesticity she could never quite envision for herself. She’s come to find she’s, somewhat begrudgingly, fond of it.

Bells jingle, the sound echoing off of low brick buildings. Red ribbon bows hang from lamp posts and doorknobs and rubbish bins, with tails that swing in the breeze. The air is crisp; it blows down from the mountains and feels like a fresh start.

Dani returns with two styrofoam cups, passing one off to Jamie, and sits with her knees to her chest.

Jamie eyes the pale brown liquid skeptically before taking a cautious sip.

“Dani,” she says, “why have you handed me cocoa-flavoured water?”

Dani grins sheepishly. “The kids may have made it.”

“I should applaud you, really. You’ve managed to find the one demographic worse at brewing than you.”

“Rude.”

Jamie receives another jab to the side, nearly sending her drink sloshing onto her lap.

“Hey, now, keep that up, and we’ll end the night in the emergency ward.”

“Oh, please, you’ve got enough layers on to stop a bullet.”

“You laugh now, but just wait ‘till we’ve been sitting here for hours.”

“Shh,” Dani interrupts, “it’s starting!”

A dozen or so children in leotards and tight buns dance down the street, followed by a horse-drawn vehicle painted cherry red, in which a larger man dressed as Saint Nicholas stands, waving at the assembled crowds.

Dani’s excited grip on Jamie’s bicep silences any snide remarks she might have made about the quality of performance. Dani’s eyes shine with glee, and it’s so lovely, the few silver strands of her hair capturing the twinkling holiday lights, that the words die in Jamie’s throat. She allows herself to fall into the spirit of the thing, content to sit beside Dani in the corner of life they’ve carved out for themselves. Even if that means listening to a rather shoddy trombone rendition of “Jingle Bells.”

Sure enough, though, heading off the band, a handful of students bear a banner proclaiming the high school’s name and the season’s sponsors. There, listed below the bakery, is The Leafling. Jamie feels a flash of pride. Somehow, seeing their little shop represented for the town to see feels real, grounding, in a way she can’t explain. They’ve found a place, a rhythm, to settle. They’ve left their mark on this town tradition and become a part of something. It feels like home.

So, perhaps she cheers a bit louder when the musicians pass them. This earns her an amused smile from Dani, at which she rolls her eyes.

It’s a relatively short parade. There are only so many volunteer organizations, churches, and youth groups in the town, after all. Jamie’s legs are stiff when she finally stands and offers a hand to help Dani up. Her arms are wrapped around herself.

“Cold?”

“No,” Dani says, “Come on, we should look at booths before we head home. Support the other local businesses.”

They wander the various tables, some offering wares, some business cards, some consultations, dipping in and out of shops until a sniffling noise catches Jamie’s attention. Dani not-so-subtly swipes at her nose.

“You alright?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Just-- fine.”

Jamie raises an eyebrow, trying to catch Dani’s eye, but she seems determined to look everywhere except Jamie. “You want my jacket?”

“I told you I’m not cold.”

“Right, ‘course not. Just positively shivering from excitement, then, are you?”

“Mhm.”

“No need to be brave on my account, Poppins, I won’t tell the world your secret.”

“And what secret is that?” Dani’s hands are tucked into her sides.

“That Dani Clayton, certified Midwesterner, can’t hash a brisk Vermont evening.” Her voice drops to a whisper, “Isn’t even snowing.”

“Hey,” Dani protests.

“Just take my jacket.”

“I’m fine.”

“Poppins.” Her tone is playful, a warning disguised as a tease.

Dani’s sighs. “Fine.”

“Ah, that’s a girl.” Jamie shrugs out of her top layer, draping it delicately over Dani’s shoulders. “Come on, then, can’t have you turning to ice on my watch.”

“You said something earlier about the proper way to warm up at home…”

“Was talking ‘bout a good cuppa,” Jamie smirks, “Why? D’you think of something else?”

Dani grumbles. “Tease.”

“Mhm,” Jamie murmurs, pressing her cold nose to Dani’s neck the instant they were out of sight, causing a squeal. “You like it.”

“Shut up.”

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wordsablaze · 4 years

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2/13 - temperature compass

A Dozen Denials Soulmate-identifiers exist to make things easier unless you’re Jaskier, who’s equally as deep in love as he is in denial. But there’s only so many excuses you can make to avoid the truth… (aka jaskier’s soulmate is definitely a witcher, just not the one he first assumes)

previous chapter

Jaskier travelled a lot.

He had to, he was a bard and travelling was simply part of the job description.

But travelling meant getting used to the uncertainty of whether or not he’d find a receptive audience or an inn that provided baths or even a town to stay in before a storm arrived. Most importantly, travelling meant figuring out where his soulmate was.

It’d been other bards that had told him of how soulmates are meant to find warmth within each other and they’d sung tales of how people would end up shivering even on the warmest summer days if they were too far apart.

And Jaskier? Well, Jaskier tried to keep track of how warm or how cold he was.

At first he assumed his soulmate was in one place like most people's so he kept a note of which towns were warmer to him and which were colder. But he’d find the same town being both freezing and pleasantly warm during revisits and he soon lost hope in that strategy.

He knew from the very beginning that it couldn’t have been anyone in his hometown because he’d never felt warm there, so he had a good excuse never to return thanks to his soulmate.

Not that eliminating one place was much use when travelling the continent resulted in a strange, undecipherable pattern of hot and cold - it was always awkward when he’d spend the night with someone and have to leave before they woke up because he couldn’t stop shivering.

It started to hurt eventually, singing ballads of romance and destiny and warmth when he could never truly shake the chills that practically lived in his spine.

Only once had Jaskier truly felt his heart heat up and he hates himself for barely being able to remember anything about it.

It’d been nearing winter and he’d been making camp in a forest, which one he couldn’t tell you. It’d been dark and the dull crackle of thunder had settled overhead as he’d pulled a second blanket around his shoulders.

Just when it had started to rain and Jaskier had been regretting his life choices again, he’d felt the ghost of sunshine rush through him. And it was everything the stories promised.

He’d so badly wanted to stay awake and bask in the newfound feeling of being content but the only reason he was outside in the first place was because he’d been in a stupid tavern brawl. Which meant that he was slightly drunk and utterly exhausted and totally unable to stay awake more than a few hours.

When he’d woken up, the warmth had faded.

Jaskier had searched the whole forest for days but he’d only made himself colder by doing so, and he’d quickly reverted to his usual lifestyle of travelling and hoping for the best.

He got used to being cold again and having to wear several layers of clothing to try and make up for it. Somehow, the lack of warmth felt worse once he knew what finding it could feel like.

And then he comes across Geralt.

Geralt, who never seems to be particularly warm to touch but sparks something inside Jaskier that makes up for it. And Jaskier begins to think that there must be different meanings of warmth because nobody had ever inspired him the way Geralt does.

Singing about Geralt rekindles his urge to create music and surely there can’t be anything better for a bard than finding a constant, undying muse.

Curling up with Geralt during bad weather and pretending they only have one bedroll makes him feel safe and warm and happy and isn’t that exactly what all the stories mean anyway?

Reuniting with Geralt every spring is usually what gets him through winter and Jaskier decides that the renewal of his passion is all the heat he needs.

“Geralt, did you ever feel warmth before we met?” Jaskier asks randomly one night as they settle into the only bed the inn had been able to offer.

Geralt looks at him with an eyebrow raised. “Is that a trick question?”

Huffing, Jaskier shakes his head and tries again. “No. I mean… Did you ever make camp in a forest during a storm?”

There’s a moment of silence before Geralt nods. “Of course. You know most towns didn’t welcome me before you started singing.”

Jaskier grins and allows himself to bask in the praise for just a moment. “And did you ever feel like you were, you know, close to your soulmate?”

“Never bothered to think about it,” Geralt answers honestly, “so can we get some sleep now?”

But that isn’t a no.

And of course Geralt hadn’t paid much attention to it, he’d never even imagined himself capable of having a soulmate, unlike Jaskier, who’d been actively searching for his all the time.

So even as he nods and curls closer to Geralt, Jaskier finds himself smiling at the thought of having once been so close to him before they’d officially met.

It feels oddly romantic to have glimpsed his future and he’s content with how his destiny had played out, even if he’d had to go through far too many cold, soulmate-less storms along the way.

It’s not even remotely a warm night but Geralt’s arm around his middle feels more than warm enough and Jaskier knows that, unlike so many times before, he won’t be woken in the middle of the night by rogue shivers.

He knows that he’ll sleep well because he can’t be disturbed by his own teeth chattering when Geralt is there to ensure they’re both warm, and it feels amazing to finally have that guarantee.

And although Geralt’s mutations mean that being together is more for Jaskier’s benefit, it feels nice to know he’s also helping someone else get a good night’s rest without being interrupted by too low of a temperature. Even better than it’s a witcher he’s helping because heaven knows they deserve it after all their struggles.

It’s not like Jaskier can simply erase decades of cold words, cold nights, and cold attitudes, but helping even one witcher feels like he’s doing something to change things for the better and that feels right to him.

And if that means he has a legitimate reason to fall asleep in his soulmate’s comfortable arms every night other than simply wanting to, well, you won’t hear him complaining because he's perfectly happy with that.

(little did he know he’d never even seen his soulmate’s arms.)

let’s just pretend that jumping back and forth in time for each chapter isn’t messy, okay? ^.^

thanks for reading! masterlist | witcher blog: @itsjaskier | next chapter

#jaskier #the witcher #fanfic #jaskel #geralt of rivia #eskel #geraskier #endgame jaskel #hurt jaskier #jaskier the bard #witcher eskel #fanfiction #angst #soulmate au #soulmates gone wrong #angst with a happy ending #multichaptered #my writing #add

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imagineclaireandjamie · 5 years

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Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.), Part XXVI (Baile na Coille)

This is the penultimate chapter of HRH, guys. Much love to everyone who has supported me along the way with writing this story. Your support means a ton, and this would not have happened without @notevenjokingfic, @smashing-teacups, and @desperationandgin. xx. K

Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.) Part XXVI: Baile na Coille

For the sake of appearances alone, Fraser’s belongings were mainly situated in Baile na Coille. He had not slept a single night under the gabled roof of the two-storyed cottage. In reality, Colonel James Fraser (“the Queen’s Lover” as all of the nation’s newspapers - from veritable rag to legitimate press - had started to call him) had made his summer home within the same four walls as the commonwealth’s oft-maligned royal matriarch.

Beneath her duvet, his long body and his hand drawing one of her thighs between his (“ye canna be close enough as ye sleep”) before resting along the curve of her waist.

At the breakfast table, the serrated edge of his grapefruit spoon slicing through thick-skinned citrus fruits, the spritz of fruity acid hanging in the air as she read letter after letter as her fingers toyed with her earlobe.

And in the griffon-toed tub that steamed the mirrors and tile floors, her careful step as she shed the skin of a silk robe to the floor and climbed into the water with curls piled atop her head. “Coming?” she asked, looking over her shoulder and letting out a slight sigh as she brought a second foot into the tub’s depths. He would nod, shedding his own robe and following her, marveling at the fact that neither had to shuffle their limbs to fit. With a toe carefully tracing the hollow lines that separated Fraser’s abdomen into pockets of muscle, Claire sank further into the bergamot-scented bath water. “Did you know that this is the only place I truly own?”

The massaging attentions of Fraser’s fingers on Claire’s calves paused for a moment. “I hadna ever really thought about what ye own or dinna own, a nighean.”

She hummed, smirking as his eyes fixated on her big toe, which was traveling the sloped line of wiry hair beneath his navel. “Do you know how Baile na Coille came to be?”

“Ye could use some help wi’ the pronunciation,” he commented as he shook his head. His brows furrowed as he added, “And I’ll ask that ye move yer wee feet from that part of my anatomy.”

Ignoring his pronunciation guidance but swiftly relocating her foot to hook behind his waist and draw him closer, she rolled her eyes. “Queen Victoria had a lover. She built the cottage for him, or so the story goes. All manner of lascivious scandal was born in that cottage and paid off before it passed those front gates.”

“So ye’re sayin’ that perhaps someday yer wee stables’ll become a thing of lore, too, then?”

With a well-worn shrug, Claire rose out of the water just enough to reach for the glass of lukewarm champagne resting on the windowsill next to the tub. “Perhaps. I think what happened in London would already have gone to print if it was going to. I trust my staff here, but it is only a matter of time before the Accidental Queen and her Not-So-Accidental Lover are front-page fodder.”

He massaged a knot out of the arch of her foot, and she moaned appreciatively, finishing the last of the fizzy liquid in her flute. “Do ye think they’ll compare me to Queen Victoria’s lovers?”

“Not sure,” she said truthfully, leaning forward as he caught the green neck of the champagne bottle to fill her glass. “It seems an apt comparison–”

“Ye have a much bonnier arse than Queen Victoria, Queen Claire.”

If she hadn’t been utterly fatigued from their day’s worth of galavanting about the property, she would have asked him to declare as much only upon further investigation.

Neither had done much thinking about what life would be like after the declaration, when the Queen’s speech ended and tellies across Britain went dark. While they had steeled themselves against an oncoming storm at the cabin, their arrival to Balmoral and the subsequent days had been quite ordinary, really.

They picnicked alongside a forested area and a stream, surrounded by a meadow of too-sweet butter-yellow flowers. He made her a posey of the flowers as they ate (bundle tied with the green string that had trapped their egg mayo sandwiches in brown paper). She made love to him on their tartan blanket with the bouquet discarded to the side. He wrapped the tartan around them afterward while their steeds grazed just until their hearts stopped pounding. She tapped his shoulder, suggested they should finish exploring the property. He was dressed first and folded their blanket as she hopped about bare-footed, attempting to coax her riding pants back up over her arse with her curly hair in a floating cloud about her. He felt like a fifteen-year-old boy with wanting her again.

They walked hand-in-hand and talked about things. He wanted children, an admission hastily given with his feet catching and his body stumbling forward. Her hand found the small of his back, steadied him. When he asked, “and you?” in his slow, easy way, her response was quick, but just as easy (“of course” she wanted children with him, fingers flexing into the marred flesh just above his beltline).

She told him that she loved Balmoral more than any other place on earth – the smell of the Highlands, the privacy, the accents of the staffers, and the way mist hung heavy even at the warmest part of the day.

“It feels like the cabin here,” she whispered when they finally exited the bath (his lips kissing each of her pruned fingers, hands smoothing the half-soaked curls at her nape before wrapping a pre-warmed robe around her frame).

The real world felt ten thousand miles away at Balmoral, and he traced a thumb across her cheek – a rounded, glowing place after the bath that topped off a day of exercise, sunshine, and sex. His Queen had the lightest smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. He stilled his thumb, kissed the dusting of pigmentation. “Yer family cabin ‘tis a wee bit grander than my family cabin.”

She smacked his arm, making a rather serious face before dissolving into a fit of giggles when he blew a raspberry against her throat.

There came a time, after a number of weeks, when summer was giving way to autumn and their return to London was imminent.

Fraser was fitted for a number of suits with Claire sitting across the room on the floor – cross-legged and chewing on the end of a pen as she responded to some letters. Her smattering of freckles had given way to what she called “a decidedly un-royal suntan.” It was unspoken, but he would go public in London. As the leaves crisped with the last gasps of the season and fell to signal an oncoming winter, the nation would see him.

The man the Queen saved. The man the Queen loved.

That night, Fraser made the offhand comment that his fitting had made him realize that her arse was fuller after weeks of decadent food. He called it her summertime arse, and vocalized no small amount of pleasure at the way she’d blushed at the declaration. “I didna realize how well ye’d filled out this summer,” he announced, making a determined, awed kind of face and approaching her to take two handfuls of her backside. “It’s as though ye’ve reached yer natural, full-arsed state, and I couldna be happier about it.”

Had he not been pressed against her (his anatomy an urgent and quite unsophisticated lie detector), she might have taken offense. All societal expectations of a slim queen aside, Jamie Fraser did like her just fine. Feeling brazen, she had lowered her nightgown beneath her breasts. Voice low, she whispered, “Show me.”

Later, when they were stretched out on the duvet, and he had shown her quite fully what he meant, she whispered something that verged on a full-throated laugh: “I love that you can appreciate me at my fattest.” Her skin puckered with goosebumps at the first touch of his hands going around her hips.

“I like ye fat. Fat and juicy as a plump wee hen.”

She purred, winding her arms around his neck. “My summertime hen arse,” she continued, holding onto the moment. “I was thinking I would marry you in the autumn; perhaps we can hang onto it for awhile since you hold it in such high regard. Let it fill out a wedding gown.”

His eyebrows rose, his lower lip migrating between his teeth. “Ye want to marry me?”

“I do, yes. In a military uniform made with today’s measurements.”

“I didna ken that today was a fitting for a wedding suit.”

“Do not be an idiot,” she mumbled, sweeping an errant curl from his forehead. His hair had been cut a little closer than was his norm, but she had made it her strictest instructions that the barber leave enough length that it would still curl. Her voice was light, high on the moment and the enchanting power they held over one another. “It was always part that, and this is a proposal, since you have not bothered to do it.”

“It sounds like an order – marrying ye.” He was joking with her, eyes glittering as his hand cupped her jaw, thumb traveling an unmannered perimeter around her lips.

“Well, do you want to marry me?” There was not even the slightest hint of concern in her voice as she asked the question. It was as if she knew the answer, like it was the one thing that lived freely on his carefully-guarded face. A single syllable.

Before he kissed her, the most elemental groan came from him. Something of ancient stock – needy and base, just truth. “Oh God, yes.”

And then he kissed her in a way he’d never kissed her before. Part of her took flight then as he hitched her thigh up over his hip and leaned into her – a part with steadily-beating gossamer wings that lived beneath her breastbone, that had been carefully hatched under his care those first nights aimlessly wandering together on horseback. A part that he had nurtured somehow despite not knowing it existed in her, but that she had tended to all along, equally unknowing. He took her firmly then, in a way that for a handful of minutes drove any tenderness of their earlier encounter in the meadow away, but was no less saturated with their love for one another.

And when they were finished, dark having fallen and the world outside the cracked window gone silent, they were left without even the grayest, shadowiest hint of amorous intention. Eyelids drooping with mutual pure exhaustion, they laid together, completely bared. It was then that they somehow wound their way around a bend in their relationship.

To talk of loss and family, of longing and fate’s plans for them in a way that they never had. Stripped bare, they peeled back their naked skin to expose something deeper, rawer, redder, rarer.

Fraser told her in a clinical, detached way of his parents’ death. The loss of a son that stole the very life and light from his mother’s eyes, molded her like clay into something his mam had never been before (dry hands pouring cereal into bowls with eyes fixed on the window, like she was awaiting someone to round the bend that would never come).

The slow way his father slipped away – an undiagnosed condition that made his eye droop, his body eventually no longer cooperate in the performance of basic functions, until one day he was gone and cold in his bed in the morning (eyes open and dull-blue in their fixation on something beyond the ceiling, his fingers folded over a knit afghan in prayer).

An economy of words described the prison camp (words he learned in German so he would never have to speak aloud in English). The dampness of the cells, the length of the interrogations, the blood on the snow. The wounds that seeped from cracks in the flesh just above his forehead, the never-ending red stream that caked his eyelashes and made him wonder if one could feel an oncoming death. The smell of men shitting themselves and dried vomit on ragged clothes. The way he had slept face-down for two months after his back had been whipped into ribbons that sent red streaks of infection along his ribcage and over his shoulders. How the second time he’d been flogged was worse, each bit of scar tissue giving way so his muscles met the air, this time the odor of infection choking him when he stripped his camp-issued shirt off.

They laid silent for a long time after that, his hand charting a course over her spine again and again and her fingers tracing the scarred etchings of war in his flesh in a way they never had before.

And then he asked her.

So Claire told Fraser for the first time at any length about her parents and her sister.

Before that moment, there had been the natural snapshots of them in casual conversation (locations on the grounds of Balmoral taking on meaning with reference to them – her father’s study, her mother’s dressing room, her sister’s playroom; meals that reminded her of them – her mother’s favorite chicken, her father’s preferred tea, the buttery biscuits that Anne ate smeared in raspberry preserves; the bottle of perfume on her nightstand that had yellowed with age and no longer smelled sweet, but somehow still reminded her of Julia).

But this was the first graphic retelling of it.

The iciness in her veins – the frost and chill of it sucking the life out of her with each of her mother’s screams. The taste of copper in her mouth, the breaking of her bones and the lifeless feeling of no longer gulping for air, of just waiting with the icy water in her throat and lungs. The burning of vomiting the water again and again, her broken ribs screaming at her to just die now as she rid her body of the contents of the creek. How the burning in her lungs and throat had eventually given away to something more primal, a need to survive.

She said their names.

Henry. Julia. Anne.

Claire breathed in, looking away from Fraser as she explained that she hated herself in the back of the ambulance because she was afraid she was going to die. She did not think of them at first – of Henry, Julia, or Anne. She laid still, shivering as the navy-uniformed men tried to warm her, told her she would be okay. She had not thought of them as she willed herself to live.

Papa. Mum. Oh Christ, Anne.

In the retelling of it, Claire did not cry until Fraser reached for her, touched her forearm, whispered “I’m sae sorry, Sassenach.”

She dissolved over their loss then, feeling it new and blooming beneath her breastbone. Under his touch, she leaned into the sensation for maybe the first time in years, since well before her coronation and well before Lamb had passed. A confession: Claire loved her papa and her mum, of course, but Anne was the one she loved the most, a feeling that made her feel sick and wrong. “It was never supposed to be me, Jamie,” she confessed, closing her eyes as he touched her hair. “Anne, maybe, but never me. We played. Toilet roll sashes and our mum’s shoes. She was always Queen. You and me? We could have been free of all of this… gotten a flat in the city, you would not have to live like this–”

He quieted her, shook her head. “Dinna ever think that the tragedy ye experienced, or yer job, has made me do anything that I didna want to do. Being wi’ ye – however I can be wi’ ye – is perfect. Ye canna pull one thread and have an entire tapestry stay the same. I’m no’ sayin’ that yer parents died for a reason. It was senseless. Ye canna wish away yer position for me. It’s how I found ye, and I’d ‘ave found ye somehow, but as it is now, I’m yers, Claire. It’s as it’ll be forever. Irrevocably. In my entirety. And I intend to marry ye come autumn.”

She reached absently for the heavy, well-formed curl just above his temple and ran her fingertip around its circumference, thoughtful for a moment. “I was never really one for planning a wedding, Fraser. Autumn is beautiful, but there is something about springtime. The daffodils and the lilies. The fat bumble bees and the trees coming back to life.”

“Then springtime it is, a nighean.”

But two weeks later, the Queen would realize that she had not had her courses in two months.

The wedding would not wait until springtime after all.

#Her Royal Highness AU #HRH #jamie x claire #outlander #outlander fanfiction #Part XXVI #the penultimate chapter

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spiridakos · 4 years

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the rocks that they’ve thrown

falliam frenzy week two: “Can I hold your hand?.” // “It’s okay to cry.”

Meeting the child he had as a teenager was one of those bridges she never thought she was going to actually have to cross.

But, of course, when Laura Van Kirk was involved in the matter, she should have known better. She should have immediately thought when Liam told her about this child that his mother could have been lying about the adoption, could have paid this girl off to keep quiet, could have done a number of a thousand different things that would have ended up in her own son being the victim of her hurt.

But, she didn’t think that way in the moment, no.

Maybe for her own sanity, maybe for the sake of their relationship being tested even further than it already had been. Maybe because Liam was so truthful and honest with her and she really had no reason to doubt him.

And he didn’t lie to her - he was lied to for the past ten years of his life all the same, not knowing the truth behind his own child because his mother thought his life was a game she could just play with for her own personal gain. His daughter was never given up for adoption. She was out there in London, living and growing up for the past ten years with her biological mother, a high school crush of his that he probably didn’t even truly care for that much at the time.

But here they both were, driving back from a hotel in downtown Atlanta where they both had just met Liam’s daughter, Isabelle, for the first time.

Things are anything but comfortable as they rode back to the manor in his car; there’s this tense air surrounding the two them that they really haven’t ever experienced together before, a heaviness filling the air that she doesn’t quite know how to break.

His hand reaches across the console to try to lace their fingers together, but for some reason she pulls away when she feels his fingertips against her skin. She doesn’t even know why she pulls away from him; there’s just some sort of static that hits her when she feels him try to tug at her hand and she can’t handle it.

It’s all too much.

And she’s not even mad at him, she has no reason to be.

She’s not even mad.

She’s just…overwhelmed, she thinks.

That’s gotta be it, she reasons with herself; she’s overwhelmed.

“Can I hold your hand?”

She doesn’t even respond to his question, she just finds herself turning her body to face the passenger side window to hide herself as best she can from him right now. She pushes her forehead against the cool window, trying to calm herself and all the outcomes of this situation that are blazing through her mind at lightening speed.

It’s not everyday you meet the ten year old daughter of the man you were planning to spend the rest of your life with; it made you think, spun the wheels in your mind about where this thing was headed, what his child added to your relationship and how it was going to change things.

She’s relived when she sees her street in the distance, finding their car rolling through the gate just a mere few moments later. And when she finds them parking in the front entrance, she’s quick to exit the passenger side of his car and head straight up the staircase. She hears him shuffle behind her quickly, calling out after her but she ignores the sound of his voice calling her name. She only continues the trek to her bedroom, feeling the air in her chest constrain faster and faster by the second.

It’s the same way heavy feeling she would get when there was storms looming in the area and she knew if she didn’t gain control of her breathing she’d land herself in the middle of a panic attack.

She sits at the edge of her bed feeling utterly and completely drained. She tries to even her breathing, but it seems to only be getting worse with each breath she tries to take; exasperated and uneven.

“Hey, what’s going on?”

She hears his voice before she sees him turn the corner to her bedroom and she looks up immediately at the sound of his voice; because as much as she doesn’t want to face him in this moment she can’t deny that she needs him to pull her out of this. The room is spinning and she’s unable to focus on any one thing but him and she can’t be more relieved when he rushes straight to her side.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says in the softest and warmest of tones. He comes up to sit by her side on the edge of her bed, pulling her in tightly to his chest and she’s happy to fall right into his embrace. “It’s alright. It’s okay. I’m right here, okay?”

She turns into him, burying her face against his flannel shirt and gripping at his sides just as tightly as he’s holding on to her. There’s an immediate relief from his touch alone, an instant calm that washes over her like a wave breaking when it meets the shore.

She’s just still stuck out in the deep end and needs someone (him) to bring her to the shallow.

“Deep breaths, alright?” His hand starts making comforting patterns against the small of her back, tiny little circles with his thumb in an attempt to calm her breathing. He pulls her back a touch, keeping her at arms length and cupping the sides of her face with both of his warm hands. “Breath in for four counts, breathe out for six.”

She keeps his eyes on his and follows his advice until after a few repetitive deep breaths, she finds herself breathing slower and regular again. She collapses against his chest and he pulls her in tightly, resting his head against the top of hers that’s buried into the crevice of his neck.

“Better?”

“I don’t know. It’s just that, that….” she trails off with her words when there’s almost no volume on the last word she speaks. “Was a lot to take in.”

He’s fast to press his lips against the top of her head that feels full of love and comfort and warmth. She relishes in the way the silence between them isn’t heavy or uncomfortable anymore, it’s comforting and calming; a different story to how things were only minutes ago in the car.

“She looks like you, you know,” she speaks up again, soft; her words barely above a whisper. “She has your eyes.”

She feels his lips move against her skin when he says, “Kind of weird, isn’t it?”

They slip back into silence once more, which frees her mind again to start running wild with the possibilities of this situation. This kid was more than just a thought now, was more than just words uttered between them and this person, this child, added a whole lot more to their relationship than just a memory he’d left behind.

“So,” she trails the vowel off at the end, letting the uncertainty linger for a moment. She reaches for his free hand, tangling their fingers together, trying to hold on to this, to him, for as long as she can. “Where does this leave us? Where does this leave me?”

“What?” There’s the tiniest bit of a giggle that comes out with his words that confuses her, because she could see so clearly what was going to happen with them now that Isabelle was in the picture; why couldn’t he? “Fal, what are you talking about?”

“I mean, I assume you’re going to want to be with your daughter. You’re going to want to be a part of her life and you’re going to want to spend time with her,” she tapers off; the next words hurt to say, choking back on a sob she refuses to let come to the forefront. She didn’t cry, she wouldn’t cry. “And watch her grow up.”

She pauses to take a breath, her voice cracking on the last syllable she was able to form. She didn’t want to cry, but it was getting harder and harder to keep everything she was feeling at bay. She feels the first salty drop of liquid fall from the corner of her eye, and his fingers are quick to move up and wipe it off her cheek. But that only stirs her more, a domino affect, allowing a few more to follow suit.

“And then you’ll start spending more time with her.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” She feels him drop their tangled fingers, holding her back at arms length and looking deep into her eyes. “Babe, I love you.”

“Sure, right now,” she reasons, more so with herself than him, she thinks; that little voice inside her head always trying to counter the. “But what if that changes?”

“It’s not going to change, Fal. I love you and I’m not going anywhere,” he says, moving his thumb softly against the skin of her cheek. “You are letting your mind go to places it does not need to go.”

She can feel the panic building in her again, despite his reassuring words, but it’s different this time; she’s not trying to catch her breath and her mind isn’t reeling anymore with thoughts of his long lost child coming into their lives - but she feels the tears building behind her blue eyes at the realization of what this whole situation boiled down to for her.

She was terrified to lose him.

Even though he was right here, always, telling her he loved her and that he was going to stick by her side through anything and he was in this for the long haul, just like she was. She hadn’t scared him off yet and he constantly told her nothing would.

But that still didn’t take away the fear, take away that anxiety of that feeling or the thought that one day he’d wake up and realize he didn’t want to be with her anymore, or that one day he’d figure out she really isn’t worth it.

“It’s okay to cry, Fal, I’m not going to judge you for that,” he mutters, threading his fingers through her long curls. “Vulnerability doesn’t make you weak the way it’s been drilled into your head over and over again.”

She feels the tears sparkle in her eyes, a stray managing to make it’s way down her cheek once again, but he catches it with his thumb before it has the chance to trail down her face completely.

“I guess it was just a lot to see that there’s a little you out there…..but it’s with someone else,” she says, softly. “I guess I kind of just thought that…that if there was a mini you out there in the world…it’d be a mini me, too.”

“Fallon.”

“It’s stupid, I know,” she interrupts him fast, shaking her head left to right in the process. “I’d be a terrible mother, anyways.”

“You’d be the best mother,” He smiles warmly at her when he responds, moving his thumb against the skin underneath her eye; she assumes a few more tears escaped her despite her not feeling them slip out of the corner. “Did you wanna have kids one day?”

“With you?” She looks up, eyes finding his against the glow of the afternoon sunlight beaming through her windows, finding the most comfort and love she’s ever found staring back at her. She smiles when she finishes with, “Yeah.”

He motions with his head to the array of pillows on her bed, tugging her hand when he pulls her back with him. They fall against each other easily, puzzle pieces fitting so snug and perfectly together, like their bodies were made for each other and each other only. She nuzzles her head into his chest, the feeling of him rubbing his fingers against the fabric of her shirt bringing her to a feeling of utter content, her eyelids feeling heavy against him.

She feels lighter, like the weight that’d been sitting on her chest the whole afternoon, the whole week leaning up to this, was finally lifted up off her. And as she lets her eyes flutter shut against him, allowing her body to succumb to the tiredness that the whole situation had caused the both of them, she realizes this: they’d get through this whole ordeal like they did anything else.

Together.

#falliamfrenzy #falliamfrenzy*#falliam #falliam fic #my writing #i did not want to contribute to the 'liam's kid' scenario but here we are i guess

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tunafishprincess · 5 years

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The Roads We Take

Chapter 1: Twenty-Five

(Art by @brothebro, writing by @tunafishprincess ) Sequel to Fallen Too Far. This is rated M for Mature. Proceed with caution.

She is twenty-five, nearly twenty-six, but she feels sixteen.

Years have passed but high school still feels like yesterday to Claire. How could it not? Ten years: it terrifies her how in such a short period of time the world she knows has disappeared.

All she has left are the remaining people who remember her for who she was, however even that has been distorted by time. They treat her like glass, as though she were some expensive piece of art that could do no wrong. Her hermano, little NotEnrique, looks at her with uncertain eyes; his entire perception of her is created by her family and friends. As if she was some paragon of goodness, a princess trapped by an evil witch; that’s how their parents explained it to him.

But wrong is the very essence of her now. Her parents try to pretend everything is okay, but the emotions that radiates off the medical staff and guards tells her another story.

They are afraid.

And so is she.

The woman in the bathroom mirror is not her, not really. Her hips are too wide, her breasts too full, her face too mature—and that isn’t even the worst of it. The rich dark brown her Papí used to brush for her has vanished, replaced with a white so bright her eyes hurt to look at it for too long.

Ugly dark veins run up her arms and out of her eyes, branding her, as if to forever remind her of the horrors she caused.

She hates it. This is not her body, her hair, her face. Morgana twisted the girl she knew into the woman she did not and she is terrified. So utterly terrified.

After a while, she turns away, too sick with disgust to remain. The white gown they placed her in clings to her body, making her so desperately wish for her old clothes, even if they could no longer fit her. She has changed too much now to go back, and dios mío, she wishes she could go back.

Yet even still, time ticks on.

Claire wants to say she’s better (wants to be better), but she never will be, not after what Morgana has done to her.

Guilt eats at her innards, her soul, her entire being. The deaths she caused weigh heavily. Breathing takes effort, so much so that at times she wonders if she’ll suffocate under its load.

So many ‘if onlys’ pass through her mind, thousands upon thousands each day. Before, she cried, day after day, but now, all that is left is a hollow shell.

And isn’t that what she is now? Morgana destroyed her inside and out, emptied the part of her that made Claire herself in order to make way for the sorceress.

A small part of her wishes for death. She deserves it, especially after what she did to everyone, to her family and friends, to Jim—God, Jim.

If she is the drowning swimmer than he is the life raft she desperately clings onto. How could he look at her so lovingly? She didn’t deserve him, not after what she did. Yet still, he stays at her side, her protector, forever and always.

How pathetic. What a selfish being she has become.

Look at her. Her old self would be repulsed by such desperation.

Claire knows it is wrong to dependent on him so much, but now the feeling is innate. She wonders if that is why Morgana never gave up on Jim, if Claire’s feelings influenced the witch to hold onto that last bit of sanity within the darkness.

Who knows. In the end, Morgana is gone and Claire, well…Claire is here.

She isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or not.

The door opens, carefully, as if not to startle her. Claire’s hand clenches the railing she uses to walk between the bathroom and her bed, she tries to smile, even though it feels as plastic as the sheets she sleeps on.

“Toby,” she begins, clearing her throat. “You’re early.”

He approaches her cheerfully, a pip in his step that softens the fake smile on her lips. It reminds her of old times. Even though he has lost weight and aged, she can still see the excited gleam in his eye he got when he had good news. “I couldn’t wait for Jim to get here. The verdict just came back!”

Her brows furrowed.

“Verdict?” She asks.

Immediately, Toby pales. His hands freeze in the air.

The stench of secrecy is thick. Claire can feel the annoyance inside her rising, just below the surface of skin.

“Oh…Oh crap. I forgot,” he admits in a soft voice.

Claire tries to edge forward. “Forgot what?”

Unfortunately, her foot slips on the linoleum, breaking her trek towards the other. Her breath hitches as strong hands catch her. She blinks widely as her boyfriend came into view.

Her eyes flicker over to the open door.

She hadn’t even heard him come in. Another of Jim’s abilities perhaps? It is a surprising discover, especially considering his size.

“What’s going on?” Jim asks, worry in his sharp features. He examines her body like a hawk, lingering at her chest for a moment before returning to her eyes. Blood rushes to her cheeks.

“Claire, are you alright?”

“I-I’m fine,” she stammers out. As if reading her mind, Jim guides her to the bed, his hand encompassing most of her back. It is a comforting warmth. She is saddened when he removes it.

Toby’s mouth twitches. There is so much uncertainty in his stance. It reminds her of her previous question.

Fixing her gaze on her old friend once more, she reiterates, “What’s this about a verdict?”

She watches Jim this time, his expression closed off but the hairs on his neck and forearms rising almost instantaneously. Claire reaches out, settling her palm to his cheek. Softness spreads across his features. He cups her hand with his own, engulfing it in a steady, pulsing heat.

“Well, the good news is we can finally get you love-birds out of this place! I’m thinking beach, or, oh, oh! Maybe the countryside? I don’t know about you guys but I am totes ready for a vaca. Can I hear an amen?” Toby asks.

Claire frowns. “You’re avoiding the question.”

“Nothing gets past you huh?” Toby sighs.

“It doesn’t matter,” Jim asserts. “We’re safe. Everything’s going to be alright.”

“Jim.” She leans forward, so close she can see the detailed texture of his skin. It is a strange mixture of pore and rock, the uncanny but beautiful valley between the two species. “Tell me.”

Jim’s face darkens. His golden pupils dilate, his gaze clouding over with a stormy grimace. Inwardly, she knows it is her fault he is like this now. Claire wonders what it is he is looking at: her or some past memory. Perhaps both.

“You know what happened,” he states.

She nods. Her other hand fists the fabric of her blanket.

“What I did as Morgana’s champion will never be erased. To most of humanity, I’m a monster.”

“But you’re not.” She shakes her head. “Morgana controlled you, manipulated you.”

“Claire, you don’t understand. I had a choice,” Jim stresses, his other hand resting at her knee. Selfishly, she moves closer to the warmth. Out of everything and everyone in the room, Jim is the only one who is warmest.

“What was the verdict about?” She asks again.

It is Toby who speaks up first, “Whether he would continue to carry out the duty of Trollhunter or…” There is a pause, one that feels like an eternity for Claire until he answers, “whether it would get passed to someone else.

Her boyfriend pulls out of her reach, as though on autopilot. Claire wants him to stay, wants to use his warmth once more, but the second he leaves her range it is freezing again.

They were going to kill Jim? The annoyance within transfigures into a freezing tundra of fear.

No. Never. Jim is hers, just as Claire is his. Why would they try and separate them? Didn’t they see how much Claire needs him to live?

“No, no, no, no—” She chanted, her fingers burrowed into her hair. “Why didn’t you two tell me?”

“Relax, okay? Everything’s going to be fine. The verdict went fine. Jim’s still here,” Toby tries to comfort her.

But it’s not. Nothing is fine. Toby isn’t fine, Jim isn’t fine—No one is. The cracks along her hands and arms ache. It is as though a million ants were inching up her body, underneath her skin.

She resists the urge to violently scratch them like she did the first few days. It is why the Doctors make her keep her nails short now.

When she finally regains control of her emotions, Claire brushes him off. “It’s not fine. None of this is fine. You didn’t even tell me. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Her heart breaks as Jim presses himself into the corner, as if trying to make himself smaller. Is he terrified of her?

“We were afraid of how you would react,” Toby says, hands up and facing her.

“So what, you’ll just treat me like some porcelain doll the rest of my life, is that it?” Claire snaps. She can’t help it. The emotions within are boiling over.

Toby presses forward. “No, Claire, it’s just, after everything that’s happened—”

“Stop it!”

Her water glass shatters. She doesn’t see how it happens, but she knows in her heart who did it.

Morgana left more than scars on Claire after all.

In the corner of her eye, she notices a long crack has developed in the window that was not there before. Another testament to her emotional state.

To no surprise, Jim has disappeared from the room. Because of her.

“I’m sorry,” she cries, and truly she means it. Everything is her doing.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Toby says, resting a hand on her shoulder. It is warm, but not like Jim’s. It barely heats her at all. “We know you didn’t mean it.”

“I want to be alone,” she whispers.

“You sure, Claire-Bear?” He says, leaning over.

A multitude of emotions pass over her friend’s face. This Toby is more calculative and calm, holding a maturity Claire wishes she could possess. Even when facing her darkest moments, he stands tall. She envies that confidence.

“Go. Talk to Jim. He looks like he needs it more than I do right now,” she suggests.

Toby’s lips smooth into a thin line, but he nods. As he turns towards the door, he looks back.

“I’m just a call away. Anytime, anywhere. Darci too.”

Halfway outside, Claire calls out. “Wait. Toby, be honest with me, what does the verdict really mean?”

And like that, the old vestiges of Toby are gone. The man before her leans on the frame, an age-old look crossing his features.

“The world has changed a lot since you last saw it, Claire. The new world government wants order.”

“They’re going to use him, just like I—Morgana did.”

Toby nodded.

“This is my fault.” How could it not be? She wishes they would just admit it.

“No it’s not,” Toby stresses, halfway back inside. “You’re not—”

“Go,” she commands. No more. Claire can’t stand the way he looks at her.

“But—”

“Go!”

The crack along the window spreads out like a spiderweb. A freezing wind envelops the area, blowing her hair around and pushing the door close with a sharp echoing slam.

The lights flicker, off and on, until she regains control once more.

As the magic disperses, her body loosens, tears running freely. Her arms burn from the use of magic. Everything hurts, but none approach the pain in her chest.

Morgana’s magic flows through her now. And for someone as broken as she, it is no wonder her friends are afraid both for and of her.

She wishes she could go back. She wishes she had fought harder. But wishing doesn’t turn back time. Believe her, she’s tried. Claire glances upwards, back in the bathroom mirror. She is a monster. And that’s all she ever will be.

Chapter 2: Coming soon

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a-rat-and-a-blob · 6 years

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Drabble Arch: A Chimera’s Cry - The First Day Home Alone

This is the third chapter of the story A Chimera’s Cry. If you want to read the previous chapters, go over to the fanfiction.net page! (link)

These chapters / drabbles will go every week on saturdays.

"SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH"

He's coming for me. As I run on the surface pavement, I look above to see fast shadows, dark feathers, red eyes, large talons, but all I see is 'Piltover'. Piltover, the gilded city above us whose lights still glimmered when everything turns dark in Zaun. There was nothing in sight outside of what seems to be sweet refuge. Could it be that it had the same camouflage powers like me? Or was he made of goop like ZAC? ZAC can go through cracks, pipes, walls, concre-

"SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH"

I look down. There was no time. I need to find a manhole. I need to live. I scamper around, seeing nothing but glass and loose iron from buildings destroyed by the beast. They all left cracks in the pavement, torturing me with the safety that the sewers provide. I look through the cracks in the hopes that it could provide me clues to the nearest route for escape, but all I saw was darkness with no ground to stand on. I held out my gauntlet and look into the cracks. I allowed the green orb to go inside, focusing my right hand at the direction of the cracks, and grow, grow, grow! Widen the cracks. Open the path. Widen the cracks. Open the path.

I hiss as I watch them grow bigger at the pace of a snail. I begin to bang on the pavement, begging it to obey my demands. Begging it to break.

"SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH!"

I feel wind above me. Air rushing for my head. I look up and see the 5 red eyes towering over me, focusing in on its prey. It dived. The eyes become bigger and bigger. I couldn't see their full size anymore. I look away and jumped, closing my eyes as I land, feeling the road shake and crumble beneath my feet. The infrastructure was too frail. It gave in. The gaping hole formed, dragging buildings, food-places, warden stations, the creature and me in like gravity pulling me down to what once was the only refuge I had against it.

I hit the humid floor face first. I cough out dust. I cough out blood. My mouth begins to burn just like it used to with him. I reach for it, but I never felt the comfort of my green scarf. The one that covered the scars of the past experiments. The one ZAC gave to me to cover my superhero weakness. At my touch, it begins to burn. It grows sensitive. I feel liquid.

I glance in front of me, watching the beast try to go up. I blend in with the darkness through my fur. It looks around, looking for prey with those red glowing eyes. They shine like flashlights as I tip-toe down. All was silent as it looks. I keep my ears peeled at even more destruction.

"SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH! SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH! SCREEEEEEEEEEEEECH!" It grows frustrated.

I flinch at the dreadful noise. My concentration weakened as I desperately try to keep the illusion up. I close my eyes and turn my back towards it and look away. Just look away. Look away, and he'll leave..

"Splash!"

My eyes widened. I see the red light in front of me that came from behind. I see the shadow created from the light. My shadow. I look further down and see my feet in the puddle. I'm dead.

The screeching turns to footsteps. The earth shakes as I lay frozen and exposed. I embrace for the claws at my throat. It reaches for my shoulder...

"Hey. Wake up," I hear someone say.

I jolt up, hitting ZAC's head in the process. He barely flinched; he dealt with much worse. I breath heavily, reaching for my shoulder only to feel his hand. The light that created my shadow was no longer the insidious red eyes, but the familiar, faint glow of a lantern. The crumbling ground I was once on transformed into a mere trash bag.

"It's just a dream, pal. You're ok," ZAC says, his arm stretching around my back for comfort. "I'm here buddy. No one's gonna hurt you with me around."

I sniff around, smelling the faint scent of food. Something with eggs and potatoes. His noses pointed into his body. He tried to dig himself in, but ZAC quickly got him out.

"Heh. We can hug later pal. Sorry for a pretty bad dinner, so I got you something." ZAC reach into his body to reveal 2 bags that was labeled with the name "Joe's Diner". "Best breakfast I've ever had as a kid!" ZAC says as he picks up a biscuit filled with eggs and potatoes.

I lunge at the bag, feeling my stomach urge for the food. I clawed at the opening of the bag, searching for food. I took the muffin and begin gulping it down. Crumbs begin to spill out, landing on his fur.

"Hey!" ZAC scolds. "Don't eat like that pal. We're not animals right?" ZAC takes a napkin out from his bag and wipes away the mess created on his fur. "Don't wanna be like old crazy Twitch?"

We eat our breakfast quickly, cleaning up our messes without no fail. "Well.. I'm gonna throw these away on my way to work! I'm gonna be leaving you alone for a while. I'll be back for lunch. Think you can handle being alone in here?"

I held his hand in a tight grip in response. I tugged it back. I can't be alone. Not with Twitch. Not without ZAC..

"Oh.. Don't make this hard. I wanna bring ya! I really do! You'd make a great sidekick! But I don't want ya getting hurt either," ZAC said, trying his best to give the warmest, bittersweet smile he could. "The people of Zaun needs a superhero. I need to protect them from whatever's going on up there, and I hope that you'll be there to protect me some day! But.. now's not that day. Not yet." ZAC reached over to my bed to grab my gauntlet. He presents it to me. "If a hero wants to protect others, he has to be able protect himself first." He stands up, my grip slipping on his arm. He towers before me, blocking the door of our home. "I gotta go. I'll be back soon; I promise." He walks out and drags the cracked furniture back in its place. There was nothing but me and the lantern.

"...ZAC..?" I cry out.

Time seemed to move slowly in these dark caverns. I always stood in the center of the room, comforted by the lantern's warm glow amidst a place full of monsters and sociopaths ready to murder him. The darkness around him was perfect for predators to key in on the prey. I kept my ears peeled, but everything seems to go against him. He could hear the footsteps around him. Creatures skittering and clawing at the walls to tear it all down. They may even be in here. One crack, I turn around with my lantern, and all I see are walls. One drop, the lantern swings again to reveal simply his own drawings. A roach skittering in the crack, another swing, and the gauntlet was about to fire.

The 8th bell never came yet. ZAC said he would be back at lunch. Lunch means 11 bells. It hasn't been one bell yet. Or did they not work? How could I get through this? I tried desperately to distract myself. Green crayon. The gauntlet. I tried to imagine worlds and stories. I tried to imagine the superhero tales ZAC told me every night. I tried to imagine his real-world tales of the good guys beating up the bad guys. The bad guys never win, but imagined stories of the past were nothing compared to the looming cloak of dread that surround him in the present. The monsters that came out in the night.

"HELP!" I hear someone cry out through the walls. I turn around to the direction, gauntlet ready to fire, but I only saw the drawer. "HELP!" It cries again in a shrill terrified voice. I falter. I hear this voice all the time. It was always present when I was with ZAC in his missions. It was always present when something went wrong.

It begins to cry out repeatedly, banging on the drawer. It hurts my ears. ZAC always told me to help others in need. To help other people, yet he needed to protect himself... What.. what would ZAC do? The cries begin to grow louder on my ears with every second, muting out all the other noises that lurk around me. I look around at the numerous stories drawn around me. All of the heroes with capes, fantastical weapons and masks. They all did their job to protect. They all used their powers willingly to help save a life. ZAC wouldn't let this happen. Any superhero would never let this happen.

I fire the green ball into the cracks of the furniture and let it widen. The drawer blew up, opening my home to even more monsters.

The whole streets was in ruins when I came. The shards of glass lay on the floor from the broken lamppost. The cold mass feeling of distress and fear attracted me to this place, yet it seemed like I missed the crime. This feeling was similar to when I destroyed those chem-thugs in a rage at my old neighborhood. Sometimes the aftermath is when all the worst feelings come out. Everyone seems to be packing their bags and leaving, but one building stands above the rest. One apartment building in Zaun had a gaping hole on what seems to be the third floor with its cracks spreading wildly like a spider's web, but where's the spider?

I approach the building more closely and saw the warden vehicles parked out back. I go into the cracks of the room and went around. I didn't feel anything in this building. It was all empty, despite the presence of light saying otherwise. All I could hear was the hum of electricity, no one else was here. I hop out of my cracks and saw a long winding tunnel filled with doors, some properly closed and some left open as if the owners were in a rush. I walk slowly. As I come closer and closer to the hole, bright, working lights turn to flickering dim lights and flickering dim lights turned cracked and utterly destroyed.

Finally, I reached the end of the corridor. The location of the hole. There was no door. Its wooden fragments were shattered to pieces. I refuse to retch at the feeling of splattered blood as it begins to stick onto my green legs. I then begin to feel solid bodies. I look down. A few of them were workers, but many of them were wardens. I think I've spotted 3 wardens in the hallway.

When I went into the room, I saw 3 more wardens laying on the ground or sticking to the walls. Black feathers were scattered around the bloodbath. I pick one up. It had the same black color as the one from last night. The same coarse texture. Where were the others? Isn't there supposed to be an investigation? Then again.. usually wardens in Zaun were stretched out too thin.. I look back at the doorway to the silent apartments, heightening my senses for anything fishy.

Across the room was a large open pipe and a large shattered mirror. Water leaked out of the pipe, spreading the blood outwards. This used to be a sink. As I go closer, I felt something leathery below my feet. I reached down and grabbed it. It was a wallet. I opened it and saw an I.D.

"Mont Grimes. Student of the Zaunite Academy of Techmaturgy"

I look around to search up the corpses. None of the faces matched the I.D.

#Drabble Arch #Drabble Arch: A Chimera's Cry #1990 words #ZAC #Scratch #Third Drabble #ic

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brednurie-blog · 6 years

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happy birthday, bren

31. You are 31 years old. I have adored you since you were 26, and to this day, I am so immensely thankful that I was able to discover you as an artist and a role model. I am still trying to figure out how I’m going to say everything that I have to say in this post. I guess I’ll start here.

2013. One rollercoaster of a year. My life was in shambles and my depressive episodes were nearly every day. There were weeks where I felt completely disconnected from my life, and it felt as if reality was a dream. You’re probably expecting me to say that one day I discovered your music and it was all sunshine and rainbows from then on, which is partially true. However, it wasn’t the music that changed my life, it was you.

Too Weird to Live, Too Rare to Die had just been released. Being the avid music fan that I am, I stumbled upon the album and listened to it because I’m always one for finding new artists. There is a multitude of words that could describe the feeling I experienced in that moment. I was speechless. Amazed. Taken aback. Interested. In awe. But most importantly, I felt so utterly grounded that it felt like I was glowing from the inside out. It was as if I had found the anchor to tie me down and keep me from floating away. Needless to say, I purchased your album on the spot as well as your other ones and received a predictable yet hefty ITunes bill.

Your music motivates me to do my best. I listen to your music while studying, going to sleep, walking down the street, or even just laying in bed on my phone. My little exploration into your music resulted in the warmest welcome into your fan base. Calling myself a sinner is as important to me as saying I am a human. Everything was a bit new for me, since I had never been as invested into a fandom before Panic! but I caught on quickly.

Panic! At The Disco was like a subject in school for me. I learned trivia questions, every single lyric, the entire array of band members, inside jokes and important moments. I wasn’t obsessive, as other people are, I was mostly just in awe of the art I had discovered. I purchased T-shirts. Way. Too. Many. T-shirt’s. I think I’m at 32 now, with a portion of them being tour shirts. Along with the shirts, I have posters, home decor, records, accessories, magazines and many other things. If Panic! is on it, I probably own it. My parents have even joined the fan base, and hype you up just as much as I do. However the material value isn’t important to me. I fell in love with the music, and that is what sparked my emo descent into all things P!ATD.

I will be seeing you for the third time in July of this year, and I am absolutely ecstatic. I already have my plan for the day all laid out. I remember crying at my first concert. It was also in July, but it 2016, and it was warm, humid, and sticky. The smell of beer and cigarettes was thick in the air, since it was at an outside venue where people snuck in a variety of alcohol and other unmentionable things. My face was slick with tears after hearing Time To Dance live. My hands were shaking and my heart was pounding as if I had just ran the entire hour long drive to see you. I had never cried while listening to music before that day. It’s not as if I didn’t feel the emotion behind music while listening to it, it was just that I never felt the need to cry. I was so overwhelmed with emotions in that moment that I just had to cry. For the entire concert. Behind the various snippets of the concert that I couldn’t help but film, audible sniffles, hoots, and “Oh My God”’s can be heard. Later that night, after you and Weezer blew my mind and the concert was over, I pressed my forehead to the window of my car and cried some more. Seeing you live was the turning point of my life. I was encouraged to battle my depression and anxiety. I was no longer suffering from those things, I was living through them. Thank you for inspiring me to muster up the strength. I am grateful for it every day.

The second time was different. Flashback to March 11th of 2017. Chicago, Illinois. This time, you were at an arena. Allstate Arena, a place that has attached itself to my list of places that affect my topophilia (in a good way!) I won’t go too length with this story, but I will say that by the end of the night, I had won second row seats in a raffle held by a local radio station. I couldn’t really process anything in that moment. As a matter of fact, I didn’t process that night until the evening of the next day when I was welcomed home by AP US History and Algebra homework. Guess what I did later that night? You guessed it! I cried like a literal NEWBORN. The next day, I put myself together and wore my concert tee to school with pride.

I know this letter is long and embarrassing, but once again, I would like to thank you for everything you have done. If I had never found P!ATD, I don’t know where I’d be. Brendon, you are a spectacular human being, inside and out. Your talent wows me every day, as if I were hearing your voice for the first time again. You stand up for beautiful things and I am so happy that I can call you my role model. You show us sinners so much love, even though the rotten side of us shows it’s face in many, scarier ways. Even though I shouldn’t have to, I’d like to apologize for them. I’m sorry they torment you for the way you create. I’m sorry they cannot seem to accept that band members leave and music evolves. I’m sorry that they force things on you and expect you to joke with them. I’m sorry they harass your kind and thoughtful wife for making you happy. I’m sorry that they cannot be happy with what they have, always wanting more. I’m sorry that you and your family had to leave your dream home behind in order to preserve your safety. I’m sorry that people screamed and assaulted you after your Kinky Boots shows. I’m sorry that people don’t respect you.

I know that you know this, but there is an amazing side to us. We do our best to outshine the darkness and support you with everything we got. Nobody deserves to be treated like you unfortunately have been. Just know that we got ya.

Okay. I think I’m gonna stop brain vomiting and wish you the happiest of birthdays and the sunniest of years. I think that 31 is gonna be your best year yet. Thank you once again, Brendon. I love ya dude.

-alaina ❤️

#brendon urie #im not even gonna proofread this #panic! at the disco #happy birthday brendon

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