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poptod · 3 years

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In the Heart of Atlas (Rami Malek x Reader)

Description: He doesn’t fear you––who thought such a simple thing would win your affections?

Notes: this is my first time writing for Rami himself! anyway, this is for the rami week. happy birthday rami!!! this is a bit of a strange story but i hope yall like it anyway. WC: 5.6k

His body twitched slightly before his eyes opened, slow and dry across his grey irises. A deep dehydration had seized his bones, as though his blood was drudging through his veins and muscles, losing water by the second. Still, he sat up, his head a weight upon his shoulders.

To his surprise, he found himself in the middle of an empty parking lot, the highway beside him mostly vacant. He looked around, finding a large but abandoned mall to his right, the lights long shattered and broken. Tension welled in his brow as he tried to piece together just how he got here.

"Most people don't get knocked out after they get ejected from their bodies," said a voice from behind him. He whirled around, scratching his pants on the rough pavement.

"Who are you?" He asked, scanning you.

For the most part, you looked normal. The only thing that stuck out was the massive katana strapped to your back and the darkness swarming around your eyes. He could barely see your face beneath the hood of your black sweatshirt, but that didn't matter all too much to him––there were more pressing, more important questions that required answers.

"Demons and angels call me (Y/N), but people call me the Reaper," you said as you offered him your hand.

He gingerly raised his hand to accept your help, faltering when your sleeve pulled back to reveal prominent bones and veins in the back of your hand. The bones poked out of the skin, glowing a faint white, while your veins remained a simple shade darker than your skin. Looking back up to you, he found no malice in what little expression he could see. With that he accepted your aid, pulling himself to his feet.

"The Reaper?"

"I go by a good many names. In the north alone I am called Gwyn ap Nudd, Cù Sith, the banshee, the Ankou, and more simply... death. Most of the time I have others collect souls, but.. you're an interesting case."

You reached forward, and though he instinctively flinched back, he soon regained control of himself and allowed you to cup his cheek. Even with that allowance, however, there was a decent amount of discomfort within him.

"I'm dead?"

"Not quite yet. That's where the interesting part comes in. Come––let's find a place away from the sun," you said, drifting past him and heading towards the abandoned mall.

Looking upwards, he found a blistering sun. He hadn't felt the heat, and looking back at the black pavement, he realized he hadn't felt that astonishing heat because he was, as you said, dead. No longer in his body. With that realization, he jogged back over to walk at your side.

"I'm a little confused, here. How did I die?" He asked.

"Again, not dead yet. Just out of your body. It's quite interesting, really," you said, opening the creaking door.

He entered gingerly, turning and waiting for you before wandering in any further. When he turned back to scan the building, he found instead a drawing room with a Victorian rug spread out across a hardwood floor, and red velvet couches filled to the brim with pillows and blankets. Paintings from all cultures covered the walls, nailed into place alongside maps of different eras. He hardly noticed his gaping mouth till you passed by and closed his jaw.

"Well... what happened to me?"

"Take a seat, Malek. I need to ask you some questions," you deflected, herding him to sit on one of the chaise lounges.

A clipboard materialized in your hands, a pen following as you sat down opposite of him.

"Now, what's your name?"

"You just said my name."

"And?" You said, quirking your brow.

He let out an exasperated sigh before answering with, "Rami Malek."

"What do you spend most of your time doing?"

"Work, mostly. I'm an actor."

"I'm aware. Most of your alternate reality personas look exactly like you. That usually only happens with actors," you said, scribbling down words with a harsh pressure on your pen. "You are given one million dollars. What do you do with it?"

"Um... I'd put it into my savings, let it collect interest until I die, and then donate it," he said after a moment's contemplation.

"Calculated. Nice. Significant others?"

"Not right now."

"Family members?"

"I've got a twin brother and an older sister. And my parents, of course."

"Are you religious?"

"Yes, sort of. My parents raised me Coptic Orthodox but I don't really interact with it much in my life."

"Is there a heaven and a hell?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" He asked.

"Answer the question, Malek."

"I don't think there's a heaven or hell."

"Good choice. Alright," you said, straightening your back after hunching over your clipboard. In a quick flash both the clipboard and pen were gone, and you were back on your feet. "Do you have any questions for me before we try to fix this dilemma?"

"Yes, lots," he chuckled humorlessly, watching you circle over to a liquor cabinet. "How did I die? Or – how did I get 'ejected' from my body?"

"Remember the movie you were just working on?"

"Yeah, James Bond."

"You tried to do your own stunts since your double was missing. You missed the catching net, landed on the ground, and your essence was accidentally absorbed by the earth. The earth decided you would be safer here––in Thailand."

"Thailand?? I have to finish filming. I can't be in Thailand," he said, jumping to his feet.

"Calm down, pretty boy. I'll take you to your body in due time, and from there we can decide how to move next. This is a rare opportunity for you," you said as you poured two glasses of sherry. "People don't usually get to see me. If they do, it's pretty much assured they won't interact with me. You're very lucky. I could also just reap you and get rid of the problem, but you're not supposed to die. Not yet."

"What, do I have something to do on earth yet?"

"Yes," you said, handing him the glass in your left hand. You sat back down, sipping from your own cup.

"Then what happens if people accidentally die?"

"The world goes on. We correct our calculations and figure out the fate of the earth again. It happens very rarely, thank everything. Our I.T. would be in hell if it happened a lot."

"What affect do I have on the world?"

"I'm not really allowed to tell you that," you said, eyeing him.

"Oh, sorry."

"I'm just kidding. I rule this universe. You're going to have a fan at one point who is very suicidal. They meet you on the street, get the will to live again, and their daughter will write a mystery novel that both furthers space-travel technology and surgical technology. Happy?" You took another sip from your cup.

"... I guess."

It was certainly, if anything, an interesting time to find out your entire existence was being protected by the embodiment of death just so a woman you didn't know could further technology just slightly. He didn't feel fantastic about it.

"It's not your only purpose, if you're worried about that," you said, noticing his fallen expression. "You inspire a lot of art and a lot of stories. Everything you do and inspire adds to the color of the world. Humans are one big organism and they can't seem to see that––I hope you, and others, will realize that soon."

"I hope we do as well," he said with a sigh, leaning back into the velvet. "I'm quite sick of people getting angry at each other all the time for useless shit."

"Yes, well..." you swirled the mixture in your cup, "the human condition, and all that."

"Were you ever once human?" He asked quietly.

"No. I am not truly a being. I am what you imagine me to be, a mirage of what you expect from death," you said in a low voice. "I will be here to kill God, and in the end of time I will be all that remains. The representation of all that ever existed, and its' inevitable demise."

"... comforting."

"Isn't it?" You said with a sardonic smile. "Are you ready to see your body yet?"

"I think so," he said. "What kinda state am I in?"

"I don't know. The state of destruction your physical form is in will dictate whether or not I can return you to yourself or take you into the unknown."

"Okay," he said, taking a deep breath in hopes of calming himself. "Take me to myself."

"Very well," you said as you stood, setting your cup aside and offering him your hand once more. He took it and rose to his feet.

In a single blink, and without warning, he was in a hospital––an American one, or at least one where the signs were all in English, and the nurses were speaking that same language. Fluorescent white light filled the room, mixed with the dreary daylight of a bright but cloudy day. The shades were open to the city outside, but what first caught his eye was the centerpiece of the room––him.

Gauze, linen, and casts covered more than half his body, cradling his leg, chest, head, and both arms. His eyes remained blissfully shut, not even fluttering from the bruises and cleaned scars circling his face.

"You look good," you said, unable to tear your eyes away from the body.

"Wow, thanks," he said sarcastically.

"I'm serious. You fell, like, 35 feet. Not a lot of people survive that, much less still have one of their legs."

"So does that mean I can go back to living?" He asked, sudden excitement filling his words.

"I suppose so. You've been out for a while, though, so be careful when you get back in. Listen to your doctors. Keep safe, and let professionals do stunts," you said.

He chuckled, turning to you before saying, "I thought Death would want me to die, not live."

"It doesn't matter. I will reap all. For now I can let society grow, let lives multiply to greater heights, as in the end you will all join my kingdom. I'm old as the universe. I can wait."

"Your kingdom?"

"Me. I carry the souls of the dead in my memory. They all live within me."

"And that's what happens when we die?"

"When you die, you become one with the universe. I become part of you just as much as you become part of me. Is that a comfort to you?"

"... yes, actually," he said softly, looking back to his body. "I think I'm ready to go back to living now."

"Very well, Malek. Take my hand," you said as you offered your see-through hand.

The moment he touched you, he noticed that he, too, became see through, and he wondered if that had always been happening and he simply hadn't noticed it. He had little time to think about it before you were leading him forward, taking him to the side of his hospital bed. From there you helped him into the bed, lining his soul up with his physical body, and telling him in a soft murmur to close his eyes.

The very next moment he remembered was opening his eyes to blistering hospital lights shining down on him. His memory of you was vague and blurred, but nonetheless present in a way that tested his image of the world, questioning if he was truly living his life.

Doctors, nurses, and friends rushed to his side once they noticed his consciousness, hurriedly asking questions and preparing tests on him. His bruised eye was swollen shut, but the other one could see alright, and it was a blessing to be able to see his mother above him. It took a good deal of time, but he returned to health and was luckily not disabled by the fall.

Years later the incident came to him in a dream, in a perfect clarity that he hadn't ever had as a waking person. He bolted awake, heavy breaths emphasizing the thin sheen of sweat that now covered his chest. You had explained to him the way the world worked––his purpose in life, the inevitability of humans and of the universe, and the beauty in that. The happy ending in that unavoidable death.

Never in any other time had he desired to see you again more than he did at that moment, stuck awake in the middle of a night plagued by rain and thunder. Wide eyes stared straight ahead, to the twisted sheets covering him, to the closet on the other side of his bedroom.

Shaken to his core, he slowly moved to his feet, the cold floor shocking him awake further. As he walked towards the kitchen, he attempted at calming himself with slow breaths. Once there he grabbed a glass of water, chugging the entire glass, and slamming it back down on the counter as though he'd done a shot, which it might as well have been this late at night.

Would it be possible to summon death? he thought hypothetically, before realizing the incredible stupidity of that statement. Who would want to summon death? Also, summoning death would probably involve putting himself in a dangerous situation, which you had specifically advised him against.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered to himself, leaning against the counter as he rubbed his face.

"His name is Yeshua, and he can't help you right now."

He jumped, spinning around in his kitchen to find you sitting on the counter across from him.

"Death!"

"People aren't usually that excited to see me, but yes," you said, looking down to scan your fingernails before looking back up at him with a smile.

"How did you know I was thinking about you?"

"You had one of my true forms in your thoughts. I remembered you from a little bit ago. How long has it been again?"

"11... maybe 12 years? I haven't thought all that much about the incident, but... I had a dream tonight. I remembered –"

"I know. You're not supposed to remember me while you're still living, so I had to come back and fix that," you said, jumping off the counter and approaching him with determined resolve.

"Wait, no!" He tried to back up, but he was already pressed against the kitchen island.

"We will meet again, quite shortly, you'll see," you said with a smile, a weak attempt to calm him as you raised your hand to his forehead.

"I don't want to forget you," he pleaded, fingers dug into his palm.

"That's awfully unfair to all the other people whose memory I had to fix. Makes their sacrifice a little silly if I allow you to go and tell the world how it'll all end just because you're pretty."

"I won't tell anyone. They'll think I'm crazy."

"You're a celebrity. Someone is going to believe you."

You pressed your thumb to his forehead, and in that moment he lost all control, leading him to make the first action he could think of, the one thing that might deter your work. He grabbed you by your sweatshirt, balling the material in his fists and pulling you till your chests met. With that he smashed his lips into yours, feeling your hand slip away as you weakened, shocked into stillness.

He wasn't quite sure whether you were actually enjoying yourself or if you were just shellshocked, but he continued to kiss and move against you for a moment before releasing you. When he let go of you and drew away, he watched your unmoving expression, staring at him with parted lips and wide eyes.

"What the fuck was that?"

"... a kiss?" He answered meekly.

"What does it do?"

"You don't know what a kiss is?"

"Malek, I have two trillion different planets that I reap from, all with multiple different societies and beliefs. I'm not going to memorize each of your customs."

"Oh," he said. He would have to devote some time, later on, to let the fact that there were aliens (and a lot of them) truly sink in. "It's a show of affection. It's kind of personal."

"So it is a gift," you said with deep concentration.

"Yeah, I guess you could say that."

"What for?"

"I like you. You're knowledgeable, and kind, and... I think you're pretty," he admitted, almost sheepishly in his low, rough voice.

Flirting with what could essentially be labelled as an eldritch monstrosity was a tad difficult, especially since you were millions of years older than him. From that point of view, he felt more like a child speaking with you, admitting to some silly, meaningless crush.

"You think I'm pretty?" You asked, your voice high pitched and coming out in almost a squeak. He nearly gawked at your reaction.

"Of course I do. Do people not tell you that?"

"I don't really talk to consciousnesses much, Malek. And most people don't find my bipedal form very nice to look at," you said quietly, looking down to the floor with fidgeting fingers.

He reached forward, pulling off your sweatshirt's hood, and allowing the warm light of his kitchen to finally show him the whole of your face. The skin around your eyes still retained that mystical darkness, like the ink of space, surrounding the cosmos of your eyes. It was quite clear now that you were not human, which explained the reasoning of hiding the whole of your whole form. 'Bi-pedal,' you called it––you had to fit in with alien worlds as well as his human world, and thus hiding many parts of yourself was required.

Now he would be the first person, the first creature, the first consciousness, the first life, to see your entirety. No one else had thought to flirt with death, but apparently that was how to avoid it. Ironic, considering the earth phrase 'flirting with death'.

You had gone into such a fluster by his words and actions that you stuttered out instructions for him to stay safe, and promptly disappeared in a cloud of smoke. He wouldn't see you again for three years, which saddened him greatly, but he made sure to remind himself that ten years for him was the blink of an eye for you. 2 trillion planets with life on them needed your attention.

In 3 years he found himself victim of yet another incident. He had been sitting in a donut shop for a little while, enjoying himself on his phone, before another customer entered and began to make a fuss. The man started yelling and he rose to the occasion, stepping over and attempting to take some of the stress off the poor teenager working on the till. Before he knew what was happening, he had a gun in his face, staring down a dark barrel of metal.

"You move and I'll slit your fucking throat," you said, appearing in a flash with your katana pressed against the stranger's throat. "Your gun's on safety mode. It'll take more than one move for you to kill this guy. Want to take that chance?"

The man faltered, and with that you nodded to the cashier, who quickly dialed up the police.

"Put it down, Michael," you said. The man, apparently Michael, slowly looked to you with wide, horrified eyes.

Rami could almost laugh at the incident, but his heart was far too full of fearful adrenaline for him to smile, much less laugh. It all happened so fast. The little bout was won the moment Michael met your eyes. He set the gun on the floor, turning to you with contempt and raised hands.

You waited until the police arrived for the sake of the cashier, but before anyone could question you, you were off again with Rami on your tail. Disappearing in a puff in front of mortals would do you no well, thus you had to start off with walking––something he could certainly follow. 3 years since he'd last seen you––grey had pervaded his hair more and more, skin more freckled and imperfect. You remained as you always were, even 15 years ago.

"Met anyone interesting lately?" He asked when he caught up with you.

Ideas of what creatures you were meeting, the types of things you got yourself into had been a decent source of inspiration for his daydreams. Such was his interest in what you wouldn't tell him that he wrote a screenplay, directed it, and shown it to the world. People often commented on the creativity of his imagination, but he always believed you to be the true source of actual creativity.

Of course, he hadn't ever actually heard about anything that you did. It was purely what he hypothesized.

"I met creatures that reproduced by stringing together DNA by hand. They are new consciousnesses in the cosmos, only recently earned souls... or what you would call, self-awareness," you said, staring ahead to the empty streets lined with cars.

"That's what gives something a soul? Self-awareness?"

"Not quite that simple, but for the most part, yes."

"How long ago did humans earn souls, then?"

"Longer back than you'd imagine. Remember, it's represented as more than self-awareness. It's societies, too, and ants have societies. I can't quite remember, but it was back when you were living in the trees," you said, taking moments to pause and correctly recall the facts.

He continued to walk alongside you for a moment more, pondering upon that information.

"Anyway. That's enough questions from you. What the hell were you doing?!" You said once you were out of sight from the cops, balling his shirt in your fists and forcing him up against a wall. Rami spluttered.

"What the hell were you doing? Aren't you not supposed to interfere with that kind of shit?" He asked, rattled from the sudden movement, and feeling bruises already building in his back. His skin and muscles had become more prone to injury over the years.

"I can do whatever I want. I don't have to worry about losing my mortal body. You're still tethered to this plane!"

"Who cares if I die? Everyone has to at some point, and helping others seems like a good way to die," he said, trying to ignore the aching in his body.

"Don't you have a wife? Kids? Family or friends? You're really ready to leave that all behind at the drop of a hat?" You scanned him.

"I was helping others," he hissed. "And I don't have a wife. Or kids. I've had more important things on my mind."

You watched him for a little while, trying to gauge his thoughts from his eyes. Eventually you released him, letting him drop to the ground, and watching carefully as he brushed off his clothes.

"Why do you want me alive now if I'm going to die soon anyway?"

"You're not going to die soon –"

"Relative to your sense of time, I'm going to die very soon," he interrupted, satisfied when you had no rebuttal. "Why do this? It's not even helping me. I know I won't really disappear when I die."

"Yes, you will. Gods, I shouldn't have told you about anything," you sighed, rubbing your face tiredly. "You misunderstand the concept of death. You, as you are, will not survive. You will disappear. I will carry your memories, but I will not be you. You will not be inside me, your memories will. I'm like a library, not some sort of vacation resort. Are you getting this?"

The blank look on his face told you everything you needed to know.

"There is no heaven or hell and I am not a substitute for their nonexistence! When you die, that's it. You're gone. Forever."

"I became a soul on earth. What about that?"

"Because you weren't fully dead, just separated from your body, like astral projecting. You either return to your body or you really die within a year. And if you try to astral project for that long, even if you do return to your body, you'll lose more and more control of it because you can't remember what it's like to have a physical form. It’s complicated, just – just stop getting in dangerous situations!" You practically yelled, clasping his head in your hands and talking quite loudly right in his face.

"There are a lot of technicalities to death," he said, putting his hands over yours and gently leading them down.

"There are a lot of technicalities to life. Why would I be any different?"

"I know, I just – I guess I don't know. Death, I... is it.. you're the only... consciousness I've ever.. loved," he admitted with a broken voice, unsure of his every word.

Your eyes widened, and you almost stumbled backwards with your own surprise. He kept you from doing so by keeping his grip on your hands.

"You want to know if you can stay with me," you said in an instant, soft realization.

He nodded.

"I don't understand," you murmured, suddenly shy. "I've tried to erase your memory so many times. Why do I keep failing?"

"You said none of your other victims ever spoke with you. I remember you because you're unforgettable, Death. I couldn't let go of you."

No one had ever thought of wooing you. You'd met creatures who tried to seduce you, yes, or to pay you off, but never romantically seek after. This would be the first time in your 14 billion years of being alive that someone did this––spoke sweet words and used your name without fear. Without shame. As though you were something to be honored.

Living things fought you so valiantly, and you loved them for that. Their desire to stay alive, to continue existing even when existing was more painful than simply facing you, to thrive in environments you yourself would've given up in. People were terrified of you. They hated you. Rightfully so––you were an easy scapegoat, something to pin blame on, like the actions of Kings weren't what actually killed them, but were the fault of the one who had to clean up the mess of souls left in an army's wake.

People also romanticized you. Thought of you as something to beat. Something to find beauty in, bliss in that nonexistence. People who hated being alive, who found their worlds too dull, or their minds too plagued with thoughts they couldn't help. It was not a true love––it was a desire to escape what they believed to be an inescapable life.

But people did not honor you. You were not a thing to give gifts to. You were not some sort of god of death––you were death. The essence of it. The misery and grief left in the wake of a taken friend.

Tears welled in your eyes, burning a bright white that trailed down your face like melted silver. The streaks were clear against the shadowed skin of your eyes. Instantly Rami thought he had done something wrong, said something to upset you, but he had no chance to apologize before you disappeared in a puff of smoke. In your wake you had left two tiny little puddles of silver teardrops on the pavement, reflecting sunlight like a mirror.

Years later, when he died, he expected to see you. He crawled out of his body, leaving behind the prolonged ringing of the heart monitor, and drifting away from his family. Long had he expected this, awaited this almost eagerly. But when he died, he was met by a man named Jynq, who went on a long spiel about death and the true meaning of the universe.

"Where is Death?" He asked once Jynq gave him a moment to speak.

"I am Death," he said with a confused frown.

"No, you're one of it's workers. I want to see the real Death," Rami stated firmly.

Jynq's expression fell into seriousness, the polite exterior of a worker making way for his true personality.

"It's on the other side of the universe right now. Several planets have been having a war for a while now, and the deathcount has kept them there for many years now," Jynq answered truthfully.

"Can you take me to them?"

"How do you remember Death?" He rebutted instead.

"They spoke to me. On several occassions. They tried to wipe my memory but it didn't work," he explained.

"You spoke to Death on several occasions?" Jynq asked, his mouth falling open.

"... yes?"

"Alright. I'll take you to it, but the journey will take a while. I hope your soul is resilient," the reaper said.

"Doesn't it take a year for a soul outside the body to die out?"

"Hm. You really did talk to it. But yes," he offered his hand, which Rami took, and they began to ascend towards the heavens, "it takes a year for the average soul to die. This journey will take several years. Are you ready for that kind of commitment?"

"Yes."

There was no spaceship in which to find a home, nor any set spot for rest or food. Neither he nor Jynq required any food or water, and certainly not any sleep, so the method of travel was a long, straight line towards the edge of the universe, unbreaking and unmoving.

Cosmos passed him by, and he became a part of them, leaving behind parts of his essence in the form of star dust that trailed after him. The further and faster he travelled, the more of himself he left behind, till he became a translucent outline of who he used to be. Jynq remained the same, just as you did. He couldn't calculate just how much time had passed, but as more of it did, he got a sense that he was experiencing time at a much faster rate than he imagined. Still, he remained oblivious to how much time was left in the journey.

At times he would go through solar systems, beside stars with planets that certainly carried life. Worlds made of diamonds, suns bigger than the whole of his home solar system, clusters of stardust reforming into young stars. Each of these worlds was one you had met––one you had left your mark on, no matter how young or old.

Life on earth didn't seem quite real when he reached the warring planets. There was so much going on in the universe––things humans would never know about. Worlds full of people that would never be found.

Jynq stopped Rami on the moon of a green planet, keeping him there while he went to go find you. He took the opportunity to sit, to rest after years of drifting through space, and to wonder which thought of his many collected thoughts he should first tell you.

"How in all the fucking WORLDS alive do you keep managing to endanger yourself, even after you die?!" You screamed, appearing in front of him in a millisecond and grasping his face tight again. "Are you insane or something?! Like clinically insane??"

"You've clearly never met someone who's in love with you," he chuckled, taking your hands and, again, gently pulling them away from their tight clutch on his face.

"Ohh, Malek," you said, anger falling away to the aching sorrow in your tone. "Look at you. You're so thin... does it hurt?"

"I feel weak, but I also feel light. I am okay," he assured you. "I left a trail of myself all across the universe. I've given myself back to the stars. Now I want to give what remains of me to you, but I had to talk to you again. Just once more."

"You speak like you’re old," you said with a weak laugh.

"I am old."

"How old do humans live to be?"

"The oldest was around 120 years, I think."

"Oh. Well, then I guess you're a little old. Not to me though," you said, flipping his sheer hands and taking them in yours.

"I'm old enough that I have accepted my own fate. I'm ready for you, Death," he said, his smile only visible in the bits of glittering stardust that made up the frame of his face.

Your smile fell.

"No," you said.

"... no?"

"No. I'm not going to do it," you stated.

"Can you do that? Like, legally?" He asked, quirking a brow.

"Who's going to stop me? I'm Death."

"Good point."

"I just wish I could heal you," you murmured, reaching up to stroke his cheek only to have your thumb fall through his face.

"I don't mind it," he said softly.

"Hmm," you said, taking a moment to think critically. "I think I know how to help you."

You found him a home in the heart of a star––Atlas, a part of the Pleiades that shone bright beside its' sister, Pleione. The intense pressure was lost on both of you as you entered, making your way to the heart, where the elements of matter and life were formed in overbearing heat. As was the nature of space, the center of Atlas was dead silent, leaving you and Rami in a white, detail-less expanse.

Slowly, over the years, parts of his body returned to him, building off the star-lit frame of his soul. As you suspected, the workers of the dead and afterlife were extremely dissatisfied with you, but could do nothing. You were older than all of them, and you decided you could allow yourself this one indulgence––this one moment of straying from the rules that Gods had so often broken.

They allowed you this one comfort: a home in the heart of Atlas, in the arms of a man who had given himself to the world, and then to the universe. The one Death who had taken so much from the universe, who would eventually take everything in the universe, wrapped in the embrace of the one who had given every part of himself to the world he lived in.

#rami malek x reader #rami malek #rami malek x male reader #rami malek x female reader #rami40

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sparklingchan · 3 years

Text

Waldosia || Na Jaemin (NCT Dream)

Pairing : Reader (fem.) x Jaemin

Word count : 1.5k+

Warnings : Cuss words(?), pure angst.

Genre : EXTREME ANGST, fluff (negligible).

Description : Every good thing has a beginning and an end, your seemingly perfect relationship with Jaemin is no exception to that fact.

A/N: Yes, this may or may not be inspired from personal trauma. Writing this made me sad tho ngl :((

Enjoy!

Waldosia (n.) : A condition characterized by scanning faces in a crowd looking for a specific person.

A romantic relationship between two teenagers can only ever end in two ways - either one of them loses feelings and ends it all or someone's cheats. High school relationships had a rare chance of ending in marriages , and you were mature enough to know that. Yet when you met Na Jaemin in 9th grade, you were hell bent to prove the world that they were wrong to make such horrendous assumptions.

"Do you think we can make it ?" You had asked him one night as he took you home after your movie date. You'd never forget the way his hand had clutched yours ever so tightly, as if he never intended to let go , and he pressed a kiss to your temple, "If we try , we definitely will. We're different, y/n. We always have been."

You believed him.

The next spring when he left the town to finish his schooling from a city school , you didn't want to let him go. You wanted him to stay. You had fears that you'd rather never say out loud.

"Please don't leave me, Minnie." you had hugged him tighter than you'd ever done before. His strong arms only reciprocating your desires.

"I really wish I could stay, y/n. I really do. But I'm here now and I'll always be there. Believe me." he whispered in your ears with the sweetest possible voice, "I love you, baby."

You loved him so much more.

He had changed a great deal over the next few months, you noticed, more emotionally than physically. Your phone didn't buzz with notifications as it used to before and he seemed very busy...almost as if on purpose.

"So when are you coming home?" You asked him over phone a few nights later. You missed him so much that you could hardly wait to tell him all about your day and how everything's been at school but his dull replies had made your stomach churn with anxiousness.

"I don't know. And honestly speaking, I don't even want to." You wanted to pester him more , ask him why he wouldn't want to come home and see you , why was he giving you a cold shoulder but you kept quiet , ending the conversation with a non reciprocated confession of love.

You convinced yourself that he just needed some space.

On your three year anniversary, you had cried the night away as you could physically feel the end of your relationship coming closer with every passing second. He had called you at midnight and wished you , alright but that was all that it was. The excitement that the 16 year old Jaemin had was somewhere lost to the beauty and glamour of the city and its people, gone with the wind like sand in a desert, despite all the promises made under cloudless night skies and secret phone calls. Somewhere down the line, you'd lost your place in his heart and you knew it.

All you had to do now was accept it.

Jaemin would soon be moving out to yet another city for college and it is only a matter of time till he leaves behind this town again - probably for a long ,long time.

It has become so normal for you to wake up to no texts or calls that it feels rather peculiar when you do receive some. Though it's rare.

Jaemin❤ : Hey, are you free right now?

Me : hey yeah I am. What’s up?

Jaemin❤: Can I call?

Me: Yeah sure.

Your heart had almost jumped out of the chest in anticipation of his phone call , but you knew better than that. The only reason Jaemin would ever want to voluntarily talk to you is because he wants something from you. You were quite familiar with the pattern now.

"Hey, y/n." he speaks into the phone as you sigh in silent relief , his voice having the same affect on you as it always had from the past three years. You miss him even though he's so close by you.

"I got into the college I was wanting to go." He says, a hint of cheerfulness in his usually disinterested voice.

"Congratulations, babe! I'm so happy for you!" You smile. You really are happy for him, "What subject are you majoring in ?"

He chuckles from the other side, "Liberal arts."

You hum in agreement although you barely know what it means.

After a long pause, he begins again, "I will be shifting next week."

"Okay."

"Y/n."

"What?"

"Can we just go back to being friends?"

Your heart shatters into billions and billions of pieces. You'd seen this coming really. But nothing, I repeat, nothing ever prepares you for this.

Until a few days ago, you'd sometimes just lay back in bed and wonder where had it all gone wrong. Was it your lack of patience and understanding or was it just the fact that you weren't as alluring as those girls in the big cities? Maybe it was both. Though no one had said the word first ,you knew your time together was up a long ago. Jaemin was just doing the formalities.

"Okay." You reply. Your voice sounds choked, like someone had wrapped their hands around your throat. You feel suffocated.

"Y/n." He whines upon not receiving a proper response. Had he thought you really had the strength to fight for this already dead relationship anymore?

"What?" You groan.

"Can we see each other for one last time?"

Reluctantly, you agree.

The sun is just starting to set down the horizon, the sky changing colors from blue to pink to orange and then red. You see birds fly away in flocks, and insects buzz in the air, as free as the wind.

"I'm sorry." Jaemin whispers from beside you, his head low and his eyes focused on the soft waves of the lake beneath you.

You shift uncomfortably, the wooden boat dock creaking softly under your weight, "It's okay. I kind of expected it."

Jaemin sighs. His fingers play with the hem of his shirt. He wishes you hadn't been so calm about the whole situation. He wanted you to scream at him and force him to not break up so at least he could justify his reasons for the break up but you never do. Instead, you just sit beside him like none of this makes any difference to you.

"Would you come to my city for college too? I'd love if that could happen."Jaemin tries his best to continue the conversation because he feels like this would be the last time he'll ever have you all to himself. The moment you walk back home and he boards his flight to the city, everything will all change. A one eighty degree flip. And though his ego won't let him admit it, he'll miss you. So much.

"I'm not sure, Minnie. I have one more year to figure out." His stomach does a backflip at the sound of his nickname from your mouth. It sounded so perfect, so fitting.

The distant voices of children playing in the park and dogs barking and adults gossiping fills the silence between the two of you. You were never one to be so quiet with Jaemin; you would never shut up when you were with him. You could talk about practically everything and anything and maybe you still could, it's just that you didn't know if he cared to listen anymore.

"Jaemin," you say ,your eyes fixed on the reddish purple horizon, "Do you still love me?"

Jaemin is genuinely taken aback for a moment. What kind of question is that! You cannot ask that to your ex boyfriend, no, never! "Y/n, its not about love. Our relationship has become so...toxic. " he tries to argue with you, his slender fingers slowly finding their way to your hand. Your hand is still as firm and warm as the first time he'd held them.

"My question is if you still love me or not." You repeat , "I am not questioning your reasons to end our relationship."

Jaemin sighs for the umpteenth time today, "I don't know, y/n. I really wish I did but I don't understand my own feelings anymore."

And sadly enough, even in that moment, you loved him a little bit more.

That night he insists on walking you home - out of habit or out of said compulsion, you don't really know. But you try to sketch that moment forever in the pages of your mind.

Your first love, your boyfriend, your first kiss, your first everything. It won't be easy to forget the last few years.

"This is it then." Jaemin announces as you both stand in front of your house's gate.

You force yourself to nod.

"Hug?" He opens his arms in front of you and after contemplating about it for exactly two seconds, you let yourself fall into them.

"We'll stay in contact, okay?" He whispers against your hair, "We are not like other couples, y/n, we never have been. We'll remain the best of friends."

You want to say something but all you do is snuggle further into the embrace. Your very last one with him and you didn't want to ruin it by debating with him.

"Okay." you whisper with a soft smile ghosting on your lips.

"I am there, I always will. Believe me." He whispers back.

No, you idiot , you smile , you won't.

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sasorikigai · 2 years

Note

❛ keep me in your mind till i come back to love you. ❜ ( for any of fire hubby's modern verses )

❀ ／ SCORPIONS LYRIC STARTERS || @sonxflight || accepting

💥 || Haven’t they moved like unstoppable, ever-flowing rivers - like glory, like light - over the bone-seeped exhaustion and excruciating pain and despair? The atlas of bone, fields of muscle, tenaciously enduring day and night as carving trigger of their traumas become fuel to their vigor and authentic intensity. Hanzo Hasashi’s memory may weigh down hard upon his shoulder, herculean against his burdened responsibilities, but he knows, he will never rest in peace, lest he somehow ends up in a paradise after his inevitable death. The world is blood on the concrete floor; so daring, so bold, so warm against the cold.

Once inextinguishable red rage and anger towards his world full of instability and anomaly, had immolated towards his own incapability and limitations which had long transpired to become the cancerous cell dominating his mind. Perhaps he was meant to be a spill, an accident, a shameful mistake. Now, he lays in their bed, fallen and scattered to his very core, recuperating from a grazed gunshot wound over his shoulder.

His courage and strength fuels exponentially solely from the fact that Hanzo Hasashi is deeply and fiercely loved, and he also loves in wholly reciprocated sentiments. He has long learned to treat everything like it was the last time, for his greatest regret was how much he used to believe in the future. Now, in this tremendous world filled with both trials and triumphs, jovial happiness and haunting tribulations, Hanzo Hasashi knows he no longer have to tear himself to a thousand pieces than to be buried with this world within him.

“You speak as if my volition to simply erase you out of my entire being would be an entirely possible task,” such disapproval etches in the grunting gravel of his timbre, feverously thickened by the cresting waves of pain emanating from his long-healed scar tissue, reopened back up as a monstrous red pain has been spearing deeper into his forehead. His face being the color of tombstone phase may be long and over with, but it didn’t mean that his chronic condition returned to bite him, as turbulent seas of his pain holds him tight, and somehow keeps him afloat amidst the sinking reality. He will always brush it off, Commander Hasashi always has, even against the embedded harshness that will surround him in discomfort and disquietude that will threaten to shatter his stubborn resolve. “Now, be on your merry way. Otherwise, you will miss your flight, along with an opportunity to catch up with some of our shared colleagues,” beneath the torturous weight of his encumbrance, Hanzo’s obvious dismay to his own incapacitated state expels a lengthy sigh. He should have been one to board the flight and join his husband, along with numerous friends in the law for such conference and social gatherings.

“I do not doubt nor question what you will desire and yearn once the trip is over, but be a fucking darling and facetime me when all the professional endeavors are done and taken care of,” a wistful smile bleeds, as the sinking twilight hues become his bittersweet lullaby. Unless he was given a sedative, being admitted at the hospital robbed him of precious tranquil repose, thus heavy exhaustion was soaking through his entirety. “I will see you in a few days, Ryou, please do have fun. It’s all about fucking work-life balance nowadays.” 💥 ||

#✗ the ineffable testimony of spawned hellfire (scorpion)#✗ ugly syllables of conjured vindictive crimson (modern au)#✗ epitome of sunlight (ryou sakai || sonxflight)#(obviously he's highkey salty that he's not able to join)#sonxflight

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followahlulbayt · 4 years

Photo

[They All Still Lie Broken]

They all still lie broken… and which hand will fix them? Within them the bodies… of Mohammed’s children O’ sword of Ali… O’ Imam Mehdi Rise in with this time… And rebuild Baqee

Every tear cries out for your time to appear… In your hand justice And yet hope, Master, is dying with each tear… With it our patience The cries within these graves how often you hear… O’ last abundance And we call for its rebuilding every year… Toward its brilliance

This is Heaven’s garden… it’s glory unspoken And toward the whole world… its beauty is hidden Why is truth hidden.. What a tragedy Rise up with this time.. And rebuild Baqee

All its beauty left within Mohammed’s word… Now but history In ignorance terrorists this truth concurred… Concurred its beauty Much like the innocent blood their hands have poured… And without mercy This garden of roses in hatred they burned… And every body

Their own evil they wished… ignored what they were blessed In spite of Ali’s cries… Baqee they demolished By it stood wailing… Your father Ali Rise up with this time.. And rebuild Baqee

O’ what a belief that preaches such hatred… Through shed blood they wade Upon us this oppression has been weighted… Waiting to be saved To visit this garden your house encouraged… Yet it lies in shade O’ light that removes darkness O’ awaited… From us our hope fades

How can hope be living… injustice its breeding It feeds upon our cries… and how much we’re crying! Demolished are graves.. Lives taken away Rise up with this time.. And rebuild Baqee

Do they not understand the weight and the worth… Of this once graveyard It signified these saints’ lives from death till birth… For them an award Yet like shattered glass to us it was brought forth… With blood on each shard We were born into oppression and with growth… This truth made life hard

We grew in a shadow… from our wounds our blood flows Raised with this torn graveyard… we were raised in sorrow We grew in darkness.. And fate let it be Rise up with this time.. And rebuild Baqee

They wish to erase your memory from time… Of Haider’s children Because in essence, truth, your household define… They keep you hidden And how they call our calling for you a crime… What an oppression “O’ Shia you have invented this bloodline… An innovation O’ Shia you are cursed… with the dead you converse Your saviour is a myth…. and your views we shall nurse” To them we answer.. He will set us free Rise up with this time.. And rebuild Baqee Do we have such innocence that we cry out… Cry for your return When within our hearts sits our sin and our doubt… Our goodness it burns And yet so thirsty as if living in draught… To quench it we yearn Every tear that flows down our cheeks for you shouts… Where else would we turn? Under light of the moon… lie broken do these tombs And yet the moon cries out… “Shia he will come soon!” And beneath its light… Sits alone Baqee Rise up with this time.. And rebuild Baqee (at Al-Baqi’) https://www.instagram.com/p/CA2yTzTDrj7/?igshid=118039hqoa1wa

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grim-faux · 3 years

Text

20 - Shepherd’s Apostle

The world faded into a thick haze, like a memory I wanted to recall but the further I reached for it the harder it was to grasp. The hard carpet dug into my cheek, it was soothing to lie down like this and just put everything out of thought, out of mind. It was impossible to describe how tired I was. But I had to press on.

I couldn’t open my eyes. Everything had turned dark in an instant and I was alone, in silence. But for a dull throbbing. My heart, I decided. I felt my steady breath, about the most of my movement that I could manage. Okay, just for a while I’ll lay here, then I’ll be ready. I couldn’t recall where I was headed initially, but I was standing on the ground floor watching the lobby.

There was a charge in the air. Palpable thickness as if something was happening or was to happen, I was on edge. People were presently on their rounds, dressed in clean uniforms, formal. They looked like normal people. I managed to crack an eye open and gaze blearily into the musty carpet. The House of God. That’s what I was looking for. The dull tingle worked its way through my marrow, it unnerved me. I closed my eye and returned to the fresh ground floor, just as people were running. I felt liquid trail across the bridge of my nose and soak into the carpet under my face. Blood soaked the floors, the desks. Organs twisted, bodies crumpled, skeletons splint from skin. The red droplets glistened oddly under the bright lamps. One of Murkoff’s security held a small Beretta between his hands, he turned the gun wildly on the walls and floor. The glass of the upper hall cracked but held against the bullets. I’m sure there should be a deafening clamor, but I can only make out muffled voices, sounds you’d pick up on underwater. He turns his weapon on a colleague as the individual is shredded from the inside out, muscle and lung drench the carpet below his skin. The panicked man shoots the mist as it evaporates. I open my eyes and stare at the carpet. I want to get up, but the pain in my skull refuses to relinquish its hold. If I lay here in this doorway for too long I will be discovered, and without a doubt, killed. When I shut my eyes, I’m in a white room with the mangled pieces of a body beneath me, wet blood spilling down the drain of a shower. The water left running swirls the black and reds into anemic pinks. My eyes snap open and I lay for the longest time gazing at the doorframe across from me, my heart beating fast. What the fuck did that come from? Reports, files I had read too deep into. Too deep. Therapy was going to seem like a vacation. I waited for the throbbing to subside to a tolerable degree, until I felt stable enough to get up on my feet. I couldn’t afford to lose anymore time. The sewers, filthy and diseased, the shears Trager used to tear off my fingers. I had contracted something and it would kill me, unless I got out. I needed X-rays, antibiotics, I needed some real sleep! Documents flashed through my mind — MKULTRA, the Hypnotic therapy, the Walrider legend, autopsies revealing tumors of lead. I was feeling sick all over again, but I had to push on. Take steps. I was so close, I could feel it! There was still no way through the blockade of furniture crammed throughout the hall. My hand ached as I recalled the chair that had fallen on it, I learned my lesson. It was rare when that happened, but sometimes I did. I was defeated and I admitted it, I wasn’t sure what I was admitting to, but I was done with this bullshit. I eyed the fracture in the wall on my right, metal sheeting had been torn out of the plaster and left on the floor. Looked like a path the patients used, due to the blockade. I squeezed through, first spying the patient, or disciple I should say, bent over a grungy bed and praying. His head low and hands clasped tightly in silent confession, I couldn’t make out what he was mumbling about. His lips might’ve been damaged or he had lost his teeth… or his tongue. A shiver trailed up my spine, and I held my face as the wave of pain it brought subsided. How long could I go on like this? Till I die. I wouldn’t die. I refused to. The tangible quality of my old proclamation and what it meant, hit me with such a force that it sent me stumbling back into an empty bookcase. I froze, fearing the commotion would set the man off. He made no note of my presence. I recovered, consciousness whirling. The camera was between my palms, trained on him. The room was simple, only the bed and a nightstand, chair, desk on one side, on the other, a lamp cracked on the floor. What more did he need? These rooms had originally been the residences of the staff before everything turned bad. Small but cozy, employees provided with everything they would ever need, by the ‘non-profit’ Murkoff cooperation. Now with the former occupants slaughtered and marinating the halls, the formerly suppressed rise up to take control. How poetic. I realize that not all of those affiliated with Murkoff deserved what happened, there had been good souls concerned for the cooperation’s victims. They simply didn’t want to see what was happening around them. People were like that. It was human. The disciples legs were scarred, as were his arms, I imagine that was the least of the damage done. I crept from the room, shutting the door softly behind me. I still was wary of them and what intentions they could have. Trust no one. It looked as though I went ALL the way around, from where I initially came up the stairs, just to get to this side of the hall. I scoffed, but nothing to do about it. Just keep my steady pace and try not to falter. I at least had a small break, though I couldn’t recall what I had eaten ten minutes prior. I remained famish and the humming grew worse, as though there really was a choir in this hall behind one of the doors. I stood beneath the bright lamp and swayed. If I kept my heart pumping, I would be fine. The hall reserved its featureless standard, the walls extending through the shadows that both welcomed and rejected me. To my left was another lavatory, I poked in and went through the stalls, startling flies from their nest. As I ventured from the glaring lamps, the little buggers gave up their pursuit, further reinforcement that the light remained my greater foe. One door on my left had a starved and shirtless patient, in prayer as I’d seen the two before. The room was simple as I’d come to expected, bed, a desk, sometimes chairs. The room down from his was much the same, aside from rain and thunder pouring through a shattered window. I gave each room I came upon brief audience, filming the people, before I moved on to the next. I was shocked by the number of people absorbed in this process. Was it a mass Hallucination driven by MKULTRA? I couldn’t tell anymore. It was clear they had faith in Father Martin and his preaching’s, but why? Questions buzzed through my thoughts as I tried to piece what I did understand together, but felt I was missing some vital component to the machine. That eerie trill. The sound I heard, a choir or was it a hymn? It didn’t matter, maybe they were hearing it. I was tempted to ask what it was, but I feared one might answer. I feared someone would notice me at last, and I would be trapped, lost and confused as they brought about my bloody conclusion. Aside from the room full of cold rain and thunder, I could see no way out of here. Let alone, I didn’t know what I was doing here aside from ‘witnessing’ the disciples of Father Martin lost to prayer. I revisited the rooms, in perpetual fear that the trance would break. But I had nothing to lose as far as I could see. One room I stumbled into with its withered disciple, holding his head high as he spoke, had a folder placed on the desk beside the door. It was filled with pages, most held a handwriting style I was familiar with. “I am an unworthy supplicant, who can serve our lord only by feeding our lord. Please take me, Walrider. Let my shepherd’s Apostle see it and spread it with his lies for a greater truth. Your time upon the world has come. My flesh longs for your beautiful wraith. My blood is filled with you and waiting to be set free. This is my prayer. Write your gospel in my flesh.” For some reason this absolution unsettled me. What was it he planned to do? I feared the truth behind these walls. With no other path available, I decided to risk the harsh rain in the window. The patient remained absorbed in his words, and as expected did not notice me as I climbed onto the soaked bed and stepped out onto the windowsill. A flash of light cuts the sky, I shut my eyes from the sting and saw images I didn’t want to see. Everything I wanted to forget. I placed my hand on the jagged glass and stared down, my footing uneasy. Three stories up. If I fell from this height I might not die all at once, but I’ll pray for death. The lightening flashed, brightening the courtyard and thunder clashed against the stone building. I forced my feet to move and hold my weight as I slipped along the icy wall of the Asylum. Shapes flashed at the edges of the broken garden, I risked tucking my camera away as a precaution. Light stretched from the windows at my backside, but there was not enough radiance to brave the merciless storm. My heel slipped and I stared down, water trickled over my face and damaged hands. The sky sparked and shrieked, and below, I thought the skeletal shape of a person was there staring up, waiting for my body to fall and hit the pavement, starved to behold my guts torn loose to wash like crème down the drain. I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting away my dreams. I focused on the ledge, on the dark coloration of my coat. Water splattered my pants and shoulders, but the eaves kept the torrent from soaking me to the bone. I trembled with something beyond cold and fear when I climbed into the next window. A lightly decorated room with one bookshelf, a portrait on the wall, and a bed with another of Father Martin’s disciples speaking to the Walrider. I didn’t want to think of the blessings mad men asked for. Maybe just the simple relief from living and life, maybe to think as other men do? Or maybe for the world to be as they are. The door of the room was open wide, encouraging me along. I kept caution close as I checked around the frame. God hates sickness Was scrawled in blood on the wall in large letters. Candles lit below flicker calmly, despite the draft on my backside. The wall flashed with light as another scream of fury came from the storm. My left was blocked by stacks of metal shelving and chairs, I wiped the water from my hands as I struggled to fix my grip on the camera. The only relief I could find was that my right hand didn’t seem to be swelling anymore, but the index finger and middle finger were stiff and painful to test. I considered myself fortunate, despite it all. More messages and candles awaited on my right, competing with the artificial light of the corridor that refused to diminish. A cross was drawn on the wall, the blood peeling down appeared fresh. A plate on the wall read simply Chapel. That would be a House of God. The corner bent left and I leaned over to find, yet more candles beside the wall and the message above God hates money I spun back at the door slamming shut, and the firm click of the lock splint my head. Curious, I returned to try the handle and found that indeed, I was locked on this side. Away from the ground floor and the elevator. I sighed. My luck. It was a good thing I was never one to buy into stocks. Voices drifted from the hall, and that sharp pain returned to the back of my head causing my vision to blur. I massaged my brow with my palm and continued, turning the corner and resumed the path now cut cleanly for me. The soft candle flames became an almost welcome change, compared to the harsh blaze of the NV. It made the walls and floors look soft and bearable, in spite of everything I knew that was buried in these grounds. I pause and looked to my left, upon familiar scratching in the plaster. I recognized the form and some of the words “Rest in peace” “He did not kill” Father Martin’s preaching? The camera scolded my hesitance, but I waited it out to gain a clear image. I was nearly beyond my limit, but I could hold out. I was good at holding out. God Annoys… I blinked. God always provides a way I looked from the wet message and the cross, to the scarred patient standing before me, blocking my path. Head bowed and a candle clasped between his hands, he was emaciated to the point I couldn’t believe he was standing. And the smell. This… was the first fucker to lunge at me from a wheelchair! “Am I ready?” I stepped away from him and looked over my shoulder, to where the voices echoed from in somber reverence. A chapel, candles lit and burning above a pristine tile floor, an entrance chamber that led directly into the cathedral. It didn’t appear very large, with carved beams arched under a plain white ceiling, tinged yellow from age. It was a simple structure, but ornate and charming in its own way. I closed one eye and pressed my hand to it, the sound I couldn’t escape. I had to keep my senses keen. Beside either stained glass door that opened into the main wing, stood a twin, glowering on me as I gave one a look, then the other. I straightened myself out to the best of my ability, I couldn’t appear defective to them. “You are. We will join the Walrider in just a moment.” That was Father Martin. I was staring from where I stood, and I think he was nailed to a cross. Holy crap, what was I doing here? I debated on just leaping from that window now and accept the fate meeting me beneath the rain, then I recalled the door was locked and I was trapped here with these people. Whatever was to come, I would fight until my heart was ripped from my chest. Which, given circumstances, could be very likely. I took a deep breath and proceeded into the chapel, directly between the twins as they tracked my slow movement with their hostile stare. They reserved their right to freely expose themselves, though I kept my gaze forward and my camera close to my side. My hardcore reporter instincts told me soon I would need it. The doors gave a firm CLUNKof finality as I approached the podium, and the disciples of Father Martin. They were disturbed but not aggressive, they, like those I had passed to reach this wing, were wholly oblivious to my presence, or had been requested not to acknowledge it. Their attention was set on the man nailed to the wooden cross; I don’t doubt they were upset by this revelation. They spoke and murmured, plead and mourned. It was all together and all at once, I couldn’t make out a handful of what they were saying. The crucified man gave a sharp gasp at my approach, the act so sudden I recoiled. “My job. You alone shall escape to tell them.” Father Martin paused to gather his breath, he must have been in a good deal of pain. “This is your penultimate act of witness. The promise of the prophets was always the freedom from death,” he groaned. “And here it is.” He pulled at his arms, as though trying to relieve the pain, despite there being no escape. My only response was to blink. The patients clustered about him, and the collection of timber at his toes. They pray and spoke in soft sentences, some bowed and sobbed. For the Walrider? Or for Father Martin’s Gospel? The accumulated resonance caused the hair to bristle on my neck. I moved to the side into the pews and sat down, making sure the camera was fixed on Martin. The frail patient from the hall stepped around the podium, to stand near his Prophet and gazed at him with sunken eyes. Martin whimpered, and resumed speaking, “You will watch and record my death, my resurrection. And together we will be free.” Martin let his head drop onto his shoulder and took another tight breath. “You are no longer in any danger. I’ve fixed the elevator. It will take you to freedom. We will all of us be free.” I had to set my head down on my arm. That sound….. “Now, my son.” I jerked my head up when Martin’s tormented shrieks echoed off the high ceiling and walls. The patient that was holding the candle lit the timber beneath his feet and the Priest was on fire, twisting and howling in pain as his robs burnt like dry cotton and his flesh scorched and popped. I gawked wide eyed trying to hold my camera steady, trying to keep myself from tearing out of that seat and racing away. My stomach knotted at the harsh sting of burning flesh, reminding me sharply of the scorched bodies burning in the cafeteria. I clasped my free hand over mouth, it was all I could do to keep from buckling forward. Not here, not at a time like this. His raving sobs finally died out as he succumb to smoke inhalation, or the heat cooked his brain inside his skull. He gave an oily groan before he went limp and the flames settled into his bubbling flesh. When I shifted to reach for my notepad, I realized with a start I had bitten into my palm. Not deep, but the edge of my teeth had cut into my stained flesh and blood seeped from the shallow tears. I wasn’t sure what to make of that, or the fact I hadn’t noticed before I moved. “I can’t believe Father Martin one-upped Jesus Christ himself in shitty ways to die. And I don’t believe I’m going to miss him. A way out. If he’s telling the truth, now I’ve got a way out. And a story to tell. He wants me to spread his gospel. I’ll tell the whole fucking world.” I sat a moment watching the patients mourn for their Prophet, and weep for his sacrifice. I didn’t know what they would do now without their Guide in this twisted world, but I didn’t want to hang around and find out. I gathered myself up and slid out of the pew. I took up the key gleaming gaily on the red velvet podium. The twins stood still behind the stained glass doors. From a safe distance I stopped and observed them. Would they end it now, with Father Martin gone? Was this the time they would conclude the chase? I checked the room over, finding no other windows or doors, aside from the ones they stood behind. If I could lure them back into this room, I could get around both of them. If they cornered me, that was it. I walked forward trying not to look at them, I needed to get by and find my way out before I was stabbed in the back. They pulled the double doors open simultaneously to my approach, and I dithered before continuing forward. I doubt they needed weapons to kill me. The bald one on the right clutched his head, angry or plagued by the sounds. I stepped between them quickly and got halfway down the hall before I remembered the door was locked. Or was it? I passed the final messages of Father Martin only to find the door was still locked tight. I returned to the chapel, looking to the twins for some sort of guidance but quickly gave that up when I spied the area, beyond where the wheelchair patient had been poised. A bookshelf, among other furniture pinned in the archway of the hall, encyclopedias and other tomes spilt from the shelves, clearing enough space I could wriggle through. But above was a vent in the ceiling, its panel off. I could reach it, and they couldn’t follow. I stuck the camera in its hoister and grabbed the edge and kicked at the wall until I was safe inside and felt around for my path. The piece of fabric shifted oddly in my gash, I poked around the backside of my shirt and felt only mild dampness but no excessive bleeding. I squeezed my eyes tightly and crawled along the weak metal. I was getting out. Damn Priest guy said I could go, I would not stick around. But damn, I couldn’t believe Martin was gone. In no way did I feel safer with his suicide, on contrary, it didn’t feel like anything had changed. What had he been trying to prove? The only fact I could take comfort in, was that I wasn’t the one nailed to that cross. Didn’t mean I was no longer in danger, notwithstanding what he proclaimed. I’ve heard that song and dance before. Probably why it felt like his death was so unreal, in truth nothing had changed. The whole event had meant nothing to me. The notion left a sort of emptiness inside me. I don’t know how to describe it. The next flue I had to force with my weight, as result I nearly fell through to the floor below. I managed to clamp my arms over the metal sides, before the rest of me tumbled out in a painful heap. I dropped and stumbled to my ass, god damnit. I sat letting my body settle and gave where I was a scan. The shelves and furniture I bypassed should keep Martin’s disciples from catching up to me anytime soon. For the moment, it was safe to bide time and plan my direction. I needed to find that lift and get the fuck out of here. It was in the other wing of the Asylum, outside the kitchen. I could reach it through this side, down this hall? I stepped into a patch of light from the lamps gleaming in the hall on the right, and sat down to think. If I was to reach the elevator, I needed to go through the kitchen, but I couldn’t, that door was locked. I needed another way around… I could really use a map. If my sense of direction was right— I looked up as a dark shape began from the opposite end of hall. I couldn’t make out who it was. A twin? How did he find me? But as I gawked, the figure picked up speed, upon spying me huddled in the sloping light. I knew who that was. I lunged to my feet taking the bright hall on my right, as he gave a thunderous snarl. I could feel his steps quake through the floorboards of the Asylum. His chains churning with his pace, gaining three steps with every one of mine. Needed a place to hide, needed distance! The hall was perpetual, same as those never ending roads in your dreams that extended into eternity. I glanced at the dried blood splattered at my left, staining the upper wall and floor, the hard copper hit me as I gasped. Above, the lamps flashed against my skull, doors lined the walls every few steps, many nailed with plywood and planks. He snarled and huffed gaining, his ire snapping at my neck. I couldn’t bring myself to pause and try doors, I wanted to run forever. When would the big fucker just let up! It was obvious he wasn’t one of Martin’s followers. All along, had he been against the Gospel of Sand? I couldn’t know! That was not important! He would kill me regardless my affiliation with the Church of Walrider! The hall came to an abrupt end, reluctantly I tried a plain door on my left expecting it to be locked. Trapped at long last, after I had succeeded at beating their game. I barely turned the knob before I shoved the door in, grunting against the sudden lurch in my rib. I swung the thin barrier shut after me and checked through the nightvision, but saw no worthwhile space to hide. The room was well lit, particularly on the left side where a flat screen sat on a table. I could crouch behind the two love seats set to view the screen, but three steps in and Chris would have me. The door cracked in the frame, I was amazed it held when the raw rage slammed into it. I dashed across the room as the floor and walls shook, my head spinning, bits of light flittered through the cracks in the door as it absorbed another blow. I curled up in the darkest corner behind a thick armchair and stared through the NV as the visor buzzed. A final shattering blow and Chris plowed through, tumbling to the floor before climbing to his feet. I shrank down behind the couch and watched as he scanned the room over, huffing through his teeth he began pacing to the left. It was my right, the way I was facing him— “On point.” While his back was turned, I crawled towards the gaping portal. One long step, I set my foot outside the doorframe and slipped out. I could hear the noise of the big fucker chains as he turned, to check the side of the room I had hidden. He’ll make the conclusion, I needed to buckle down and think. Where was it I needed to go? What doors were open? I had to rattle handles. The next door I tried was on my right, it opened into a small office with a desk, and the usual dead plant mandatory to Murkoff’s memory. I entered and listened as the big fucker reentered the hall, grumbling about the pain of living. I shut the door gently and sat in the dark struggling to gauge his position, as his steps grew louder and heavier. I flipped the NV off as he continued past my door, and down the hall a ways before his steps halt. I could hear my breathing, but Chris was as silent as death. I jerked back when the thuds of wood cracking vibrated through the hall. I braved pulling the door open a crack and let some light in, he was not far, just across the hall. With a final swing of his fists the pitiful door snapped apart, he kicked the pieces aside as he stepped into the small room. His backside quivers as he pants, blood leaks from deep cuts that never healed in his broken skin. As before while he’s distracted, I took the chance and slipped out of the room. He was going to hear me, he would detect my movement, smell me, something. He would turn around and grab me, and that would be it. I’ll be pulled apart, my body torn out from under my head like so many of his victims. My last moments, watching him toss my flailing torso aside. But Chris was still examining the dark cubicle of office before him, and I made it past the doorway without a creak from the floor. Overhead, before the intersecting hall hung the large, bold red words EXIT. This was the way. I was nearly there! Getting away from the patients and their mass congregation had helped to high levels. My head still throbbed but it wasn’t the twisting pain it had been an hour before. I wouldn’t be too run down once I returned to civilization, I might be able to get medical attention before I had to start answering questions. All right man, focus. Pat yourself on the back later, first things first. Find the way out. I was still so fucking lost, it was a crime. I ducked into a doorway on my left when I picked up on Chris’ chains slithering into the hall. Once I was on the elevator, I was home free. Warm heater, familiar surroundings, just all around good things. Keep thinking good, clean, healthy thoughts Miles. Keep positive. A lavatory, very little to hide in. Most the stalls were shut, blood on the tile and flies lapped at the sticky mess. Their wings hummed impossibly loud against the hard walls as I disturbed their perch, I was terrified the sound would give me away. I ducked into the stall on the far end and climbed onto the toilet. The lamps blazed down warming the edges of my coat and neck, I didn’t need the camera. Neither would the big fucker if he decided to roam through. Chains dragged across the tile clinking with each step. Images of the sewer and bloated bodies became my vision, pellets scuttling through pipes. Shadows and shapes, faces in static. I pressed my nose into my bloodied shoulder and tried not to breath. Stay calm. Stay. Calm. “Where?…fuck.” He sounded dubious. If he would just leave. You’re seeing things like the rest of us. Go look somewhere else, this place is empty. I cringed when the first stall swung open. Damn. The next door creaked open, and I situated myself to crouch on the bloody toilet. One. Two. Three— Chris pulled the door open, seeming genuinely surprised to find me there. He made a strangled snarl through his mutilated sinuses and lashed out, as I sprang at the top stall and propelled myself over the side to the far end of the bathroom. I hit the floor and tumbled, searing white pulsed through my eyes and my concern went immediately to the camera even as I shoved my feet under me and charged out the door. “Can’t let contamination reach local town…” I ducked down as I passed the doorway, barely missing his arm as he tried to swat me. His wrist struck the tile near my head, dust and brick cracked under the impact. I stumbled out the door, hands clasped over my head fearful he’d knock it off next. The broken segregation frame swept around me as I breezed through, first turning to the vent I initially dropped down before reminding myself of how bad an idea that was. I pivoted and dashed into the dark hall. The big fucker emerged from the lavatory, and snarled my way as we made eye contact. I brought up the NV as I felt myself tilt, I could see light at the halls end but I was having difficulty keeping my balance. The big fucker was somewhere behind me keeping pace. End of the hall. End of the hall. Door. A door that leads to the cafeteria. I had no idea where I would wind up. I needed another lounge, a room with space I could maneuver or hide from Chris. It could have just been me, but it felt like he was desperate to kill me at this point. The idea caused my throat to dry out, I gagged as I panted. But I felt elevated, that perhaps Father Martin had been earnest and that I was now done with this place. That I was to be free once I stepped out of those doors. Had to reach them first. When I hit the light, I took a sharp left through the last doorway entering into a room full of tables and chairs stacked everywhere, some scattered over the floor. The cafeteria! But I was still skidding in the direction towards the windows, my momentum out of control. The patient that had been here staring out the muggy glass was now absent, or dead. The rain that once furiously struck the glass had diminished to some degree, the luminous beads of water now less and thin. The door. There was a door on the left side of the room, across from where I just blazed through. Something strained in my knee as I twisted, and spun about as the big fucker came charging into the room after me. Door! Had to get to the door! I zipped around tables or chairs, struggling to maneuver anything between us, to slow him down. The big fucker bellowed, and ripped the obstacles away like weeds in the garden, I heard several crash into the darkest reaches, echoing under the high ceiling. I was only thankful he hadn’t the presence of mind to throw one my way. I had plenty of distance on him by the time I reached the door. I twisted the handle— Locked! Door was locked! How was I supposed to reach the elevator?! That was to be the least of my concerns. I cued in on the heavy breath of my pursuer as he sliced through the room, and felt his dead eyes on the back of my head. I barely whipped aside when he swung out, grazing my back, I lost consciousness for an instant as my brain sputtered out. The chains stunned my shoulder and I tumbled to my side, my vision blurred as sensation swung back into me at full force. All I could make of Chris was his shape looming over me snarling, his eyes blazing. I swore, they burned like fire in the dark. “Get up!” Fuck you! I crawled pitifully on my hands and knees across his boots to curl up under the nearest table. The big fucker took it in his hands and tipped it over, sending chairs crashing across the floor. I bit the camera strap between my teeth and ripped it off my hand, and scrambled away as fast as I could while he hurried around to intercept me. If I kept the windows in sight I could see where the table legs barred my way. He couldn’t see where I was exactly, he could only hear my panicked breath as I shuffled in the cramped dark. In response, the fucker gripped another table and hefted it up then slammed it down over my body. But the locks where the legs fit in didn’t snap away completely, I lay there for a moment believing I had died and the big fucker might’ve thought the same. He was panting hard, hissing through his exposed teeth as he wandered around the set of tables seeking to find my broken body. My mind was wracked with questions, my ears buzzed and my bones tingled with that tremendous calamity. Out? Where was out? I reached a trembling hand up slowly and took my camera strap from my teeth, I was nearly pinned on my stomach with just enough room to squeeze out. But the fucker would hear it in the dead silence that consumed the room. I coughed and tasted copper, I don’t think a lung was punctured, at least I couldn’t feel it yet. I turned my head scanning the room where the door was locked. Damn inconsistencies. A light shone from a square slot in the wall above, where a vent had snapped off. There. That was it! He can’t follow me. The big fucker moved to the other side of the table, ones he hadn’t tipped or slammed down, and began pulling them out and scoping the floor beneath. I slipped free of the broken table and pulled my body out from under the line of table legs. The big fucker must’ve seen my shape when I stood, he barked out a cry as I dashed to the fallen vending machine and clambered up. I was a little tipsy when I stood on the slick plastic cover, but managed to snag the flues edge and haul up into the tight space. A cold pain dug into my side, but I pushed the sensation away as I paused to gather myself. I was in one piece, mostly. Below, Chris snarled his contempt for my success, but I knew deep in me, this would be our last encounter. I spared him a brief glower, the closets to pity I could express for him, before I turned and crawled along the top of the vents rigged from the ceiling. The muffled growls faded in my ears, as the familiar tingle resumed residence. It wouldn’t last, I assured myself. I never thought I’d be so happy to be in a kitchen before. A revisited and empty kitchen, but it was tame territory. I carefully climbed off a cabinet and hit the floor, wincing at the pain in my ribs. It was okay, nothing a little rest and no movement wouldn’t help. That’s all the doctors ever said, there wasn’t much else that could be done. I took some slow, easy breaths to acquaint myself with the pain. I’d feel even better when I was in my jeep with the heat cranked up, and this place far-far behind me. I found the door at the other end of the kitchen and half expected the damn thing to be locked, though it was clearly open and the dark hall visible from where I stood. Across, at only a few steps, the lift waited, with nothing in sight, no psychotic patients, just the wavering shades that haunted my memories. I kept shuffling the worst case scenarios to the forefront of my mind, geared for the despair that I was now accustomed to. What could possibly go wrong now? Nothing. Unless the computers had a massive crash in the hours I’d spent lost in this hell of an Asylum, my challenge now would be hacking the security systems. I groaned when I realized, I’d never opened the main doors. I hadn’t even begun, damn Martin had to drag me off…. It was all behind me now. Get to the Security room, hack the system, and say sayonara to this fuck awful place. I dithered before entering the welcoming gleam of the lift. I had bad experiences with elevators. Bad memories. Once I was inside, I’d be trapped. But I was only riding to the ground floor. Before I could have another thought on the matter I stepped inside, and turned to the panel. I set the key in the lock and gave the panel a firm punch and let the metal gate shield me in. No insane doctors to interrupt me this time. No burning cafeterias, no deformed giants with fuck started faces, shrieking specters, or cannibalistic twins. I was out. Done. Gone. Bye bye Insane Asylum! The elevator made the short but noisy descent to the ground floor and stopped. I put the camera in its hoister and tried to pull aside the gate. It should open, shouldn’t it? Of course it would. I peered through the large gaps and saw, indeed those doors were locked. I was hyped and ready to start this, it wouldn’t be easy, but I would get it done. Sooner I started the better. The gate should open now. I poked at the panel and tried turning the key, maybe it unlocked it? Or maybe I shouldn’t have done that. The lift shifted and began descending all over again. I looked up alarmed as the exit, my doors to freedom vanished from sight. No. No-No-No-NO! What was this? The elevator was fixed, I was supposed to get out, up there! That was my floor! Stop! I tried to pull the key from the slot, but it was stuck tight. Safety precautions and such, I was locked in! Where the fuck was I going?! Darkness filled the tiny space I occupied. The basement! I could find my way out of the basement easy. I vaguely remembered the layout, and there would be light too. But I knew I was not going to stop at the basement. The lift continued to descend, and the air changed. I stepped back and crouched down resting as what seemed like hours passed, but in truth it was only minutes. I had no idea where I was now and had a feeling I would never know. It finally ground to a halt and I glanced up as the gate slid back, allowing me to exit FINALLY. I glared beyond the doors, into a near pristine white brick corridor, above lights flashed and pulsed, a glitch in the wiring. I shut my eyes against their irritating glare. My lip curled back over my teeth and I pushed myself up to stand, I set a hand to my side where my ribs warned not to push it. I was hurt, I needed to get out. What more did this place want from me? A “penultimate act of witness” as ‘Father’ Martin put it. His last words. I should have been more keen to pay attention to his speech, he had told me precisely that ‘my job’ was not done with his death. Idiot! You walked right into this! This is all on you Miles! Walked into Hells Kitchen, and now you’re eating what they’ve served! If I die—NO! No. No. And NO! I am not going there! I will get out of here because I refuse to have endured EVERYTHING these bastards fabricated, and then die at the VERY end of it! I was getting out! And I would make sure the world knew what I went through, what they’ve done to all these people, and what they tried to cover up! But I still had doubt. I stepped through the doors and gave my new surroundings an indifferent glare. It was brisk, the air slightly fresher than the upper floors, a lot of tubes and thick cables ran along the walls. Probably recycled air. But…it was there. The old decay, the stale tang of rust and death. I was not done, not by a long shot. I stumbled and brushed against the wall as I collapsed to my knees and sat there, staring at the two doors before me. The strobe light overhead flickered but held its illumination. I lowered my head and exhaled a coppery sigh. Not by a long shot. I raised my butchered hands to my face and buried my eyes in my palms, seeing only black. The cool, enveloping black that had been my ally throughout this entire nightmare. Would there be no more shadows for me to hide in?

#outlast #outlast fanfiction #outlast novelized #miles upshure

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xoscarlettlox · 4 years

Text

So uhhh, I have written a lengthy and completely self edited fanfic about my take on the aftg world, I posted the very first chapter on Ao3 a couple of months ago and decided, why not post it here as well!

Neil Josten has been on the run for 10 years now, him and his companion Raven Lirette only have each other and Exy, a sport that they would undoubtedly die to play; Raven Dumott is the daughter to the Lola Malcom, the butcher of Baltimore’s right hand and one Neil and Raven’s tormentors.

••••

“Neil, we have to go.”

Raven’s voice snaps Neil back into mental awareness, they are both standing on a black sanded beach, the smell of ocean and saltwater thick in the air; mixed with the smell of putrid smoke and gasoline fumes that makes the air unbreathable, his whole body feels the weight of every breath that his body makes, every hiss of the wind on his wind chapped lips, and it makes him remember who is not here and will never be; his nails bite into his palms, breaking skin to keep him here, in the now with Raven, raven who is still here but won’t be if you don’t move now!; his mind screams at him, “I know.” Neil says, his voice coming out as a shock, a sound that reminds him of shattering glass on concrete.

He forced his gaze that was transfixed to the coal stained sands up to the 1970 Volvo that used to be a boring monotone brown that has now been turned into a blackened husk of a car, his mother’s charcoaled bones have long since been buried deep into the Californian earth near the highway just up the hill, a highway they should have been on and away from hours ago.

He looks over at Raven, her long hickory curls made almost the color of pitch in the inky midnight, he looks at her tear stained face, not from emotional attachment to his mother but from the fumes that were emitted from the destroyed car that had made Raven’s eyes water and Neil cry even more, he gazed at the crimson cut on her right eyebrow which was just as umber as the rest of her hair and tried to memorize the features of the only living person Neil knew who would kill for him and Neil would do so in kind for his longtime companion; and finally said “what do we do now?” His voice was raw, but less so then before, she didn’t reply right away instead marched her way up the sandy hill towards the highway, Neil followed her obediently in his numbed haze. Halfway to the top she says “we do what we always do, we run.”

-1 year later-

Neil and Raven were perched on the bleachers, Neil nursing the acrid smoke of a cigarette and trying not to remember the peel of a body glued to a leather car seat slathered with scarlet, and Raven silently sucking down her second cigarette in the last 10 minutes, her fingers were cool on his cheek, a show of affection that he leaned into, tonight was the Millport dingos last game of the season, to Neil it was a farewell to something that hadn’t made him feel alive in forever, Neil needed Exy like everyone needed oxygen to breathe, Neil knew Raven felt the same way, but less so. They tapped their cigarettes at the same time, the ash falling gracefully into the chilly Arizona winds, he glanced up at the blacked out sky and not for the first time- he wondered if his mother was up there- looking down on him and willing herself back to corporeal reality in order to beat the stupidity out of his entire being.

Neil and Raven jumped into high alert as a door creaked open, they both shuffled their respective duffles beneath their feet further under the bleachers stands, Raven reached for the knives stationed in her thigh sheaths, but paused as they saw who had invaded their cocoon. Coach Hernandez propped said door open to plop onto the bleacher in front of the teens.

“I didn’t see your family at the game tonight.” Hernandez said.

“they’re out of town.” Raven said lazily, she lied almost as good as Neil if not better.

Hernandez quirked a graying bushy brow at them, “Still or Again?”

Neither, but not Neil nor Raven could reveal any of this to their coach, the sorry excuse had been well expired and they’re teachers and Coach were tired of the recycled lie, but it explained why the Jostens weren’t ever in town, it also made it 10x easier to say Raven was his cousin that had moved in with Jostens due to the death of her family two years ago, it patched up any lose ends on why they were both eighteen.

Not to mention that Millport Arizona was basically where the half dead retired until they were actually dead, no one asked questions since everybody knew everybody; it made for a sublime place to hear who came in and out, which worked out for both Raven and Neil to get them the hell out of dodge in case his father decided to cash in his threats of death and torture to the both of them.

Suddenly Hernandez reached out for both of their cigarettes signally with a quick flick of his fingers to hand them over; Raven ignoring his hand, ground hers out completely but not before taking a strong drag, Neil obediently handed his over and watched as Hernandez crushed it beneath his sneaker which clanged obnoxiously on the metal bleacher before he tosses the destroyed bud aside;

“I thought they would at least make the exception tonight” He said.

“No one knew it’d be the last game,” Neil says, looking over at the court.

Raven snorted beside Neil, they both knew it was a lie. Millport’s loss was a sting but not an unexpected one, it had booted them from state championships two games away from finals, again it was not a surprise, the dingos were a terrible team; they barely kept up their winning streak because of Neil and Raven alone, but the missed possibility still clawed him raw. And now the Exy court would become the Soccer court again.

“We’ll call them later with the score,” Raven said, because Hernandez was silently waiting for an answer and Neil wasn’t going to answer anytime soon, “they didn’t miss much,” she finished off.

“Not yet, maybe,” Hernandez said.

“There’s someone here to see you two.”

Those seven words were all it took for both of their hearts to seize in their chests, and have them scrambling for the duffles beneath their feet and up off the bleachers towards the nearest exit, a scuff behind them revealed that they were indeed too late to escape. When they turned they were met with a beast of a man, adorned in a stark white wife beater and tribal tattoos encroached in flames on both biceps, one hand was concealed within his jeans pocket and the other was holding two suspicious vanilla colored folders, Neil notes that his stance was casual but his mahogany eyes had a look of intent.

Neither Neil nor Raven recognized him, not likely to be one of his fathers men then, it was unlikely that his father would send anyone else but Lola and her brother to the task. And with 900 residents in Millport, he definitely wasn’t the sort Neil or Raven would forget about. He looked over at Raven to confirm, brows furrowed, she shook her head slightly.

“We don’t know you,” Neil said.

“He’s from a university,” Hernandez said. throwing it into the tense silence. “He came to see you both play tonight.”

“Bullshit,” Raven seethes, “No one recruits from Millport. No one knows where it even is.”

“There’s this thing, y’know called a map?”

The man said, “You might have heard of it,”

Hernandez sends both Neil and Raven a reproaching look, Raven gazes back with nothing but ice in her eyes, Hernandez gets to his feet, “He’s here because I sent him your file. He put out a note saying he was short on his striker line, and I figured it was worth a shot. I didn’t tell you two because I didn’t know if anything would come of it and I didn’t want to get your hopes up.”

Neil just stared.

“You did what?” Raven asked, her voice was all ice but Neil could hear the fear and hope that she tried to smother.

“I tried contacting your parents/guardians when he asked for a face-to-face tonight, but they haven’t returned any of my messages. You two said they would try to make it tonight.”

“They did,” Neil Finally said voice even, “They couldn’t.”

“I cannot wait for them,” tribal tattoos said clomping down the steps to stand beside Hernandez, “ It’s incredibly late in the season, I know that; but I had some technical difficulties with my last striker sub and it was pure luck that I had come across you two. Your coach says you guys don’t finish till fall, works out just peachy doesn’t it? I need the both of you on my line and you need a team. All you have to do is sign here, and are mine for five years.”

Neil’s throat felt as if it had been stuffed full of cobwebs, he cleared his throat a few times, “You can’t be serious.”

“Very serious, and very out of time.” The man said dearly grave.

He tossed the folders onto the bleacher nearest to them, a lifeline dangled in front of people holding onto the thinnest of threads-a future, a promise of something besides surviving. Neil and Raven both knew they couldn’t take it, but the want and the “what if” sucker punched them both nearly in half. They both knew in 5 weeks when they graduated they’d be long gone, Raven Dumott and Neil Josten would be no more, nothing besides two slight smudges in a hopelessly messy abstract painting.

He should have gotten used to this, the bottomless pit of disappointment, and the ever present reminder that his father could still torture him without even being there to touch a blade to his skin. Raven and Neil had twenty-two past lives each to themselves, but Neil Josten felt real for the short period of time that he was him; Raven felt the same way, Neil could tell by the way her brown eyes never strayed away from the folders as if by her own sheer force of will she could be able to hold onto this fable and make it into a reality worth living.

They both knew what it would cost, being still and stable; signing this contract was essentially signing their deaths, but a voice in the back of his head that he could not silence whispered, what about mother? We ran and ran and they still got her, you know it’s death either way Abram. Neil turned to Raven, she shook her head, even though the glint in her brown eyes revealed she was thinking the same thing-had the same voice in her head. His father was in prison, but his father’s henchman weren’t, the risk was too high for Raven and Neil, they both knew they were pulling at strings that would inevitably be cut.

“Please go away.” Raven said, her voice rang out a bit pleading but hard.

“I know it’s a bit sudden, but I have to have an answer by tonight, the committees been on my ass since Janie got committed.”

Both his and Raven’s eyes snapped up to meet the man’s, his stomach dropped to his toes and pooled at his feet;

“The foxes.” Neil said incredulously, “Palmetto State University.”

Tribal tattoo’s- Coach David Wymack, looked taken aback at how quickly Neil had figured it out; it wasn’t a coincidence that he didn’t outright say he was here to recruit them to the lowest ranked team in Class I Exy, The palmetto state foxes.

“I guess you the saw the news.”

“Hmm, technical difficulties you said,” Raven said voice technically a glacier, “Funny way to say that your striker sub almost committed suicide.”

David Wymack was well known to give the chances to those form broken homes and fucked up pasts.

The Foxhole Court was known for the fractured isolationists who couldn’t move past their egotism to actually win a game, They were notorious in the NCAA for not only how small and meager the team was in numbers but the fact that they barely scraped by to hold their Class I ranking. As Wymack had said the committee was tired of his shit.

Then former national champion Kevin Day, joined the line. It was the best thing for the foxes in-ever. Which meant he and Raven were absolutely not signing with them. Raven caught and held is gaze and nodded towards the exit, they both knew now without a shadow of a doubt this was a door they absolutely did not want to open.

“You can’t be here.” Neil said.

“Yet here I stand.” Wymack said “Need a pen?”

“No,” Raven said voice all steel, “We’re not playing for you.”

“I mishear you.”

“You signed Kevin,” Neil says.

“And Kevin is signing you both-“

Raven and Neil did not wait to hear the rest.

They bolted towards the locker room, ignoring both coaches surprised sputters, and continued down towards the exit, metal clanged loudly beneath Neil’s ratty sneakers and Raven’s black boots, All that mattered was getting the hell away from the empty promises, Coach Hernandez and his hopeful and worried gaze; forget everything besides running until the disappointments and missed opportunities felt like a dull hum of background noise.

Raven was in front of him, she was halfway through the locker room when a loud curse echoed through the cement walls, someone was waiting for them, but Raven anticipated the hit right before it hit her sternum, she grabbed the hideously yellow base of the racquet and held on with a death grip, and looks down at the assailant, Neil tried to move by but she holds him in place with her other hand.

“Fuck off.” Raven grits between her teeth, just then Wymack bursted in.

“God dammit Minyard! This is why we can’t have nice things.”

“Oh Coach,” someone said in front of Raven, “If they were nice they wouldn’t be any use to us, would they?”

“They are no use if you break them,”

“Au contrair Coach, this ones feisty.” Neil had finally had enough, he stepped around Raven to reveal, her and a blonde midget in a tug-of-war match with a racquet; said blonde midget suddenly let go of the racquet entirely making Raven stumble only the slightest bit.

The midget turned towards Neil, who wore a sickeningly blinding white grin on his face that made Neil’s stomach turn; Andrew Minyard, goal keeper for the Palmetto State Foxes and a national threat to society. Neil could tell by the way Andrew bounced on the balls of feet and the way that manic gleam in his eyes never strayed from his own and Raven’s that he was high off his rocker.

Raven moves to stand next to him, silently willing him to get the hell out of here; Andrews manic smile seemed to stretch out even more,

“To be continued, I suppose.” Andrew said with an awful glint in his eyes as he regards Raven with intrigue, he then brought two fingers to his temple in a mock salute.

“Whose fucking racquet did you steal?” Raven seethe.

“Borrow.” Andrew said turning his gaze back towards Neil, “Seems as though your raven, is actually a bodyguard.”

“ Neil, Raven are you alright?” Coach Hernandez said, him catching up to them and stands next to Wymack.

“Just peachy Coach H, you try getting your sternum almost knocked out of your body and see how you like it.” Raven said sarcastically all ice, she must’ve been imagining that it was Neil who was in front of her instead. Neils skills in fighting only went so far since he was not trained as hard as Raven was before they ran, Mary had made sure to keep them in top fighting shape; but Neil knew he’d never be as good as Raven.

Wymack’s gaze darkened a bit on Andrew but he held his tongue against what he really wanted to say, “Andrew’s a bit raw on manners,” coming around to stand in between blond haired midget and and the two teens. Andrew apparently was able to read clear warnings in his drugged state of mind, he backed a way with his hands upturned and backed away to give them space.

“He break anything?” Wymack said, looking at Raven.

“Nope.” Raven said looking straight at the exit.

“We’re fine and we’re leaving, let us go.” Neil said.

“We’re not done.” Wymack said.

“We are and we don’t care.” Raven chimes in.

“Coach Wymack-“ Hernandez starts, warning evident in his voice.

“Just give us a moment, will ya?” Wymack said.

Hernandez is hesitant to leave but he does, “I’ll be out back.” Hernandez said, Looking from Neil to Raven. They both nod knowing they won’t be needing him.

They waited for the steps to recede into the night, the rattle as the door was unhinged from where it was propped, squealed shut, and then clicked.

“We already told you, we are not playing for your team, you have the answer that you needed, so now we leave.” Raven said.

“You don’t know the whole entire offer,” Wymack said “If I paid to have three people flown out to bumfuck Arizona, the least you could do is give me five minutes of your time.”

Neil’s stomach was again pooling at his feet, the blood was gone from his whole body, leaving the world cold with shock and fear, Raven clasped onto his forearm centering him here, even though she was feeling the same icy hot fear Neil was feeling. He should have put it together once he realized Andrew was here.

“You brought him here?” Neil said, numb.

Wymack stares hard at them, confused; “Is that a problem?” He said.

“We’re not good enough to play alongside a champion.” Raven lied easily, everyone who was in the room knew that they were.

A scoff was heard somewhere behind them, “Partly true, but irrelevant.”

Raven was stock still at his side, and Neil’s heart was basically beating in his throat at this point. They turned around at this same time, their bodies supposedly on autopilot.

Kevin Day was centered in the middle of the entertainment console behind them, and he was haloed by papers that were scattered haphazardly around him, apparently watching the whole debacle unfurl in front of him, judging by the cool measured look he sent Raven and Neil, he was wholly unimpressed with what he was seeing.

Neil and Raven had not seen Kevin since that brutal day at Evermore ten years ago, when they had seen his father and Lola brutally torture and slice a man into one hundred bloody ribbons, and by then both Neil and Raven were desensitized to the gore of their families occupation, but he’ll never forgot the sheer terror on Kevin’s face as he regarded him and Raven after it was over.

It was as though Kevin had not changed, as though they had just taken child Kevin and stretched out his body to be an adult, he had the same dark almost black hair, same emerald green eyes; and when Neil’s gaze snagged onto that damn tattoo, he swore he stopped breathing, he wanted to retch until he was numb.

A memory resurfaced, tiny Kevin putting a black sharpie to his small rounded face that was taken up by saucer green eyes, and traced a two on a chubby cheekbone that he retraced when the former had faded, telling Neil and Raven that they would make court someday with him and Riko, #1,#2,#3, and #4 they had recited over and over.

Kevin and Riko reached the stars; while Raven and Neil dunk into the trenches of the deepest pits of the ocean floor, fighting for any patch of air that could be found in order to avoid completely drowning.

Neil wanted to bolt, to run until he could no longer stand. He looked over at Ray and could tell she was itching to do the same, her hands twitched towards the knives at her thighs.

Neil knew Kevin could not recognize them, at this point Raven and Neil had to be unrecognizable, they both were concealed with hair dye and dark contacts; so why was the Kevin Day in a backwater retirement town in bumfuck Arizona? Had he and Raven fucked up somehow, fucked up besides playing Exy at all that is.

“What are you doing here?” Neil asked.

“Why are you leaving?” Kevin rebutted.

He asked you first.” Raven stated.

Kevin’s eyes flicked over to her impassively, but Neil saw a spark of something Neil couldn’t name, so he forced himself to pay attention to it.

“Coach already answered that question for you,” Kevin said annoyingly impatient, his eyes flicked back over to Raven’s for a second before turning back to Neil’s scrutinizing gaze, “We are waiting for you two to sign the contract, Stop wasting all of our time.”

“Nope,” Raven said with emphasis on the P, “There are a thousand other strikers in the U.S. that would love to play for the great Kevin Day.” She said mockingly.

“Why don’t you bother them?” Neil added. Kevin’s face flushed slightly, he huffed and Wymack chimed in before Kevin could undoubtedly unleash his wrath.

“We saw their files,” Wymack said “we chose you two.”

“We won’t play with Kevin.” Neil said.

“You will.” Kevin huffed.

Wymack shrugged his shoulders at Neil. “Maybe you noticed but we are not leaving until you guys say yes. Kevin says we have to have you two, and he’s right.”

“We honestly should have ripped your coach’s letter to shreds the moment we saw your statistics, they are subpar at best and not what we need on our line.” Kevin said, Neil notes that he did not look at Raven as he said his piece, “Lucky for you he sent us a tape from one your past games, you two play with skill that is unexpected and with some fine tuning and a lot of practice we could actually turn you into something acceptable to be able to play on our court. You both play like you have your lives on the line.”

Raven is stock still and silent; “So that’s why?” Neil asked.

“What else would you want in a striker?” Kevin said.

Relief hit both Neil and Raven like a freight train, this was all just a sick twisted coincidence, the universe was a cruel and demented thing. This was a sign, a sign to not stay in one place too long, an example of what could happen for the still and non runners, what would happen if it was Lola next time? Or even worse, his father himself? They couldn’t take that chance, this should be an easy choice, to listen to his instincts and his dead mothers dying wishes, but a big part of Neil wanted this so badly he ached with the need to say yes.

“This works out for the better anyways, No one besides your coach knows that we are here to recruit you guys,” Wymack explained, “That way the ERC won’t be on your guy’s ass with news spreads and interviews until the semester starts in late August.”

“We didn’t say yes.” Raven said.

“But I have feeling that your going too.” Wymack stated matter of factly.

Neil turned toward Raven fully,

“This is not a good idea.” Neil said.

Raven ignored him completely, “If we sign we will get complete anonymity until the semester? As well as housing?” Raven asked.

Wymack nods his head, “You can’t move into the dorms until June 13th when the rest of the foxes get there. But yes to both, to answer your questions.”

“Five years?” She asked again.

Wymack nods.

“We need a pen then.” Raven said, an air of finality was clear in her voice. Cutting a look to Neil that dared him to speak up, her gaze was piercing enough to get the message, we would be absolute idiots to turn this down. Neil nodded, suddenly angry with a mix of sick excitement.

Wymack gives them a wide grin, incredibly pleased; Neil nor Raven looked at Kevin again, now that their panic had subsided they didn’t care or want to have anything to do with him besides Exy.

Wymack pulls out the envelopes and gives them their respective pens; then Neil Josten and Raven Dumott are forever inscribed into a legally binding contract and are officially Palmetto Foxes.

Link to the rest of the chapters:

#aftg fic #aftg fanfic #andreil #tfc fanfic #andrew minyard #neil josten #the foxes #kevin day #matt boyd #allison reynolds #dan wilds #nicky hemmick #aaron minyard #renee walker #long post

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jpat82 · 5 years

Text

Nameless

Chapter 2

"Yep, stupid idea." Steve sighed from next you. The moon was low in the sky as the indigo color started to lighten turning the world a lighter shade. You had just reached the outskirts of the town just south of the one you had become accustomed to. Fields lined the entirety of it, leaving little places to rest till tomorrow night. Which posed the task of finding a place to hide out for the remainder of the day.

"You said that an hour ago." You replied as you stepped over a puddle on the dampened cement. A slight foul stench hung lightly in the air, just lightly enough you hadn't been sure that you had actually smelt it or not.

"I thought maybe it was worth repeating, since a.) it will be daylight soon and neither of us can handle the day. Me being a turned and you being a new to this life style. B.) no one knows where we went and our family is going to start to wonder where we are including Bucky. C.) if we run into this group, we have no idea how many people there are, what kind of weapons they have, and we don't have back up." He replied with a sigh as both of you stepped over the city limit line.

"You didn't have to come." You replied in a song song voice, trying not let on that he was marginally right.

"Hmm, I do believe Bucky tasked me with keeping an eye on you so I really didn't have a choice." He responded pointing to a sign up a head that read Brates Motel as he spoke, vacancy lit up beneath it in neon red.

"And as I told him, I don't need to be baby sat. I am perfectly fine taking take of myself." You replied, change your course toward the Motel.

The smell continued to become stronger the more you walked into the town. It was mix, somewhere between sulfur and rotten meat, souring your stomach. Even as early in the morning as it was the streets were void of people as the sky faded into a light purple with pink undertones foreshadowing the suns arrival on the town. The usual drinks and homeless most place seem to have were void in this town.

Most of the buildings looked the same, the paint was faded, often bare wood beams exposed. A couple of windows had been replaced by sheet wood, the glass shattered and had yet have been removed.

You walked up to the motel, the wood steps creaking under the combined weight of you and Steve. The deep chestnut door accented with brass that had tarnished was heavy as you pushed it open. The building was quiet, candles lit the foyer all the way to the cherry wood desk, making you wonder if like your own town if this one had been skipped when technology surfaced.

"Morning to ya both." An old man croaked out from the desk, his hair snow white and round glasses perched neatly on his rudy nose.

"Morning sir, my companion and I hoping you might have some room for us. We've been traveling all night and need a place to sleep." You asked, giving him a brief smile.

"Yes, I have one room available." He smiled, reveling yellowed crooked teeth.

"Do you have two rooms?" You asked sweetly, looking over your shoulder to Steve.

Steve looked around, taking everything in. The entry room had maple colored carpet, mahogany walls. To the left was an opening to what at some point had been a formal sitting room now converted to breakfast parlor. An eyebrow raised as he peaked inside, no doubt looking for whatever dangers could possibly be hiding in there.

"Let me see." The man turned away from you as he shambled back into a small room behind the desk leaving you with Steve.

"I don't like this." Steve stated, his eyes slowly turning back to you, red rims around the soft blues.

"I know you don't, but I have to make sure the intel Fury gave us is true. I promise we won't do anything." You replied, Steve still didn't look thrilled but he couldn't ague his way out and he knew it.

"Ahh, two rooms, yes. If I could get your names in this book." The old man responded coming out from the back. You smiled politely as you turned and picked up the pen, Steve grasping your wrist and leaned in.

"I have a bad feeling about this." He whispered in your ear, his eyes never leaving the old man as he spoke.

"Steve, all will be okay." You said softly back, looking up to him.

~~~~~

Bucky paced the library, blue eyes glowing as he looked out over the forest. The sky was continuing to lighten before him and no sign of either Steve or you. It was setting the vampire on edge, it wasn't like Steve to ignore orders. The orders were simple, go see what Fury wanted and then return.

Sure, he knew sending you would be the wild card, but he trusted that you would return long before dawn started to turn. What if the two of you had run into trouble? No, the two of you would be fine. Steve was one of the best fighters he knew, and you..

Well you could be reckless, but you wouldn't actively put others in danger, just yourself. As foolish as you were you were still careful to a degree.

Bucky stopped to look out over the forest one last time, the sky lavender with hints of pink striping the sky. It was time to retire, slowly he climbed the circular stairs to the second level, eyes trained on the forest. A pull deep in his chest as he came to the snaking conclusion you would not be home before mornings light.

He left the library, walking the hall toward his shared room with you. The door slightly ajar as it always was anymore these days. He could hear the soft cooing of young Luca and the gentle whispering voice of Wanda. He paused just inside the doorway, Wanda held the young boy.

She looked up from the child's face to Bucky, her smile dropping at the sight of him. She knew in that instant that you weren't home. You would of come straight for Luca and yet here was Bucky, looking as solemn as ever.

"She will be fine, she is smart and Steve is with her." Wanda told him walking over to over to him with the sleeping child.

"Thank you Wanda." He said, holding his son close. "She will be, and Steve is with her, I sent Loki and Thor out to see if they could find them."

"That, is going to get you in trouble." She chuckled walking towards the door. "You know how she tolerates you having Steve keep her company. I can only imagine how angry she will be when she finds out you sent the hounds out.”

“It’s getting late, she should of been back hours ago.” He reminded the auburn haired woman, Wanda leaving without another word. “Yes, mommy should of been back ages ago, isn’t that right Luca.”

Bucky gentle set the boy in his crib before walking to the heavy curtain that covered the window. He peaked around the edge, the sun just barely beginning to rise over the horizon.

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norbah · 5 years

Text

Grima-centric smut (dom/sub, breeding mention, rough) F!Grima x M!Summoner

Okay, so some context might be helpful for this one. It's not meant to be a standalone piece. It was meant to be part of a larger work, but it didn't quite mesh with what I wanted. But I kinda like how it came out, and it's not bad enough to bin, you know?

Couple things to note. Y'know how I said my stuff might get NSFWish? I lied. This is pretty darn NSFW. You know the drill. Only 18 or older in here, please. It gets kinda rough under the cut, so keep that in mind as well, going in. There's also a small, not entirely subtle reference to WWII tactics near the beginning. If you don't want any of that, feel free to skip the opening section, or to skip this work entirely. There is plenty of stuff on this site much more awesome than my own, so I guarantee you're not missing anything amazing by skipping this.

Do keep in mind this is my first real foray into NSFW territory. I've shown this to someone here already, but caught several mistakes upon a reread (syntax, grammar, you name it), which I have revised to the best of my ability. If you catch any while reading, of any sort, PLEASE let me know. It's the only way I can improve.

Well, that's all I can really think of. On with the show, I suppose. I hope you guys enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

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

Dragon and Human

Grima had never seen anything quite like it, and could openly admit: she was impressed. Seeing the normally quiet and kind Summoner suddenly grow a spine was pleasant enough, but seeing the sheer hatred in his eyes as he looked upon the troops of Muspell ahead from them, hearing the edge of steel in his words as he coldly ordered the Heroes to wipe the enemy forces off the face of Zenith? It had been glorious to see.

And that wasn't even getting into his newest tactics. Few people knew it, but Grima was herself a skilled tactician. She didn't often see the need to show it (what use are tactics when you have enough raw power to shatter a mountain?), but what this man, what her lover was doing? She approved.

He had switched out his defensive turtle formations, fending off enemy attacks and countering them as they regrouped, for an incredibly aggressive style of battle, storming the enemy before they had a chance to group up, overwhelming them with sheer might, and surrounding them as they scrambled to defend themselves, utterly annihilating them in the final skirmish. Grima herself had been a cornerstone of these tactics, and had had a chance to see the look of hatred upon Surtr's face up close as Muspell was, for the first time in their history, forced to retreat.

"What was that?" Anna had asked in wonder and (to Grima's immense pleasure) fear. "Those tactics... I've never seen anything like them."

"In my world they were used once or twice," he had answered, face still cold as he looked at the retreating Muspellian forces. "We called it a Blitzkrieg."

"Whoever thought of them must have been a genius," Anna murmured, looking at the corpse-strewn battlefield.

"He was a monster, and the world was better off once he was dead." Anna winced at the bite in his words, even if it wasn't meant for her. Grima floated over to them and leaned on his shoulder, a pleasant smile on her face.

"So what now?" Anna asked, glancing nervously between the two. It disconcerted her that, for the moment, the Summoner seemed the more dangerous of the two.

"Now? We keep going. We have them on the back foot. We push our advantage, we cross into Muspell before they can regroup. These tactics only work if we keep pushing and keep our momentum going. We don't stop."

"Until what?" Anna asked.

And his answer had sent a tingle of pleasure down Grima's spine.

"Until I have Surtr's head on a spike."

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

Grima returned to her tent shortly after the battle was over. Her role in it was done, one way or the other, and besides... she was expecting a visitor.

She stretched luxuriously, working out some of the kinks in her pitifully weak and vulnerable vessel. Her true form it may not be, but this soft and pliable body, responsive and hungry, would more than serve her purposes for tonight. She shed the heavy tactician's coat from her shoulders, leaving herself in the thin tank top beneath. She stretched again, and was rewarded with the sound of popping joints and the brief bursts of pleasure that came with. With a contented sigh, she sat down on the edge of the bed, and crossed one leg over the other. All that was left was to wait.

A coy smirk grew on her face as she heard the approaching footsteps, and it blossomed into a full grin as the Summoner burst into her tent, his fists clenched, his eyes narrowed, and his breath short and harsh.

He was angry beyond measure.

Good.

His feverish gaze finally locked onto her eyes, and he stormed over to her, the white coat already falling off his shoulders and onto the ground. She simply flicked her head, tossing one of her white pigtails back and baring her shoulder to him, a move she had learned some time back drove him crazy with desire.

There were no words needed as he fell on her, one of his hands clamping onto the back of her head and pulling her in for a fiery kiss, the other already grasping the fabric of her clothes and pulling at it with no small amount of desperation. Grima's arms wrapped around his body and pulled him to her, her tongue already pushing against his, demanding entry into his mouth, as she always got. But to her surprise, he pushed back against her, and that moment of hesitation cost her, as he pushed her down against the bed, falling on top of her.

She broke the kiss, a small 'oof!' escaping from her lips (a fact she would deny till the end of her days), but he was unrelenting. Both hands grasped her top and yanked it up over her head, leaving her breasts exposed to the cold air. He stood then, just so he could crouch, grasp the waistline of her pants, and pulled them down and off of her, leaving her nearly bare to his eyes. She gasped at the sudden sensation of cold all over her body, surprised to find she didn't dislike it nearly as much as she thought she would. He stood back and looked down at her, almost leering, taking her in with a hungry gaze.

She was wearing nothing more than a pair of panties now. And he was still almost fully clothed. This was disconcerting to Grima. She was used to being the one in control, to have him bare and needy before her, worshiping her body lovingly. Now, his eyes roved over her greedily, taking in her bare breasts, her long, toned legs, her smooth stomach, her arms, her neck, her everything. He drank it in like a man dying of thirst finding an oasis; like a man aflame seeing an ocean.

Before her thoughts could continue down that lane, he pulled his own shirt over his head and fell back upon her, pushing her down on the bed with the weight of his body. Even if he wasn't as physically strong as her, he was heavier, hungrier, and had momentum on his side. He snatched her wrists in his hands, grasping them tightly even as she growled beneath him, and pinned them down over her head. Before she could protest, his mouth was over hers again, and this time he was even more aggressive than before; his teeth would find purchase on her lower lip and gnaw at it, or on her tongue when she tried to snake it past his lips. He had her on the back foot, and completely refused to give ground.

He shifted his grip after a minute of this, holding both her wrists tightly in one hand, while the second slipped downwards. It traced down her arm, ghosted over her armpit, and stroked the pale skin of her plump breast, his fingernails scraping over the soft flesh causing goosebumps to erupt in their wake. He took a moment to circle her nipple with his fingertip and to cup the breast with his palm, squeezing gently, before continuing his journey south.

His fingers rose and fell slightly as they felt her ribs, they traced her abdomen's midline all the way to her bellybutton and skipped over it, swerving suddenly to grasp her flank, just above the bony edge of her hip. He stayed there for a few seconds, caressing her skin. Grima shivered pleasantly, her eyes drifting closed. She wasn't being worshiped, but being put on the back foot like this? It almost made her believe she was mating with a fellow dragon.

Now his hand moved again, his fingers trailing over her hip, over the edge of the panties. It moved towards her mons, lingering for a few seconds over the area of her womb, and Grima felt her heart skip a beat as he pressed down there. She could imagine his thoughts. He was staking a claim.

And suddenly his hand was at the very edge of her entrance. With casual ease, his fingers pulled the panties out of the way. Then his fingers touched the edge of her pussy, and Grima knew that he could feel how wet she was, how utterly drenched, dripping shamefully from this treatment, like some common dancer enjoying being manhandled. And then he brushed against her clitoris, and flicked it with his finger. She moaned into his mouth against her will, her back arching on its own, presenting her breasts to him, her legs spreading open to give him better access as he continued to play with her achingly erect clit.

He slowed down, surprised, before his hand moved further in. His fingers spread her lower lips open, and readied for the plunge. It looked as if he had won.

But she wouldn't be the Fell Dragon if she didn't make him fight for it.

She bucked suddenly, trying to force him off of her and to regain dominance of the situation, but he held fast to her wrists. He broke this kiss with a snarl, and his hand snapped up to the back of her head, fingers curling into her white hair and tugging painfully, forcing her head back and baring her slender neck to him. Despite herself, Grima gasped at this sudden roughness. She recovered immediately and growled, readying herself to buck again, but stilled when she felt his mouth on her throat, his teeth just barely scraping the pale, delicate skin. She could feel her skin pushing against them with every beat of her heart.

Her eyes slipped downward, and were met with his own fiery gaze looking up at her, unblinking. His teeth pushed slightly against her neck, and her pulse raced a little.

The message was clear: Submit. Submit or die.

She almost wanted to laugh, not with mockery, but with surprise and joy. Whether he knew it or not, he was treating her as a dragonkin would. And she could see in his eyes that the games were over. Her heart raced as she realized what was next. Rough and merciless breeding. He was going to make her his female, force her to carry his clutch, keep her as the crown jewel of his hoard. His most valuable possession.

She could fight it, of course. She could perhaps overturn this, and take HIM by force. She could most certainly win if she tried. She was the breath of ruin and the wings of despair, after all. Worlds trembled at her might. A single human would be no match for her, any more than a worm could hope to defeat a whale.

But this wasn't just a mere human, was it? This was a creature with the inner strength to summon her. To stand before her, and to order her around like some pawn.

No, this wasn't just some human.

So instead of bucking him off and using his weight against him, she purred, let her eyes drift half-lidded, and leaned her head back, following his grip and baring her neck further to his reach. She arched her back again, this time offering her body, offering herself, freely and willingly to him.

The message was clear. And just in case he was too dense to notice...

"I'm yours."

The first words spoken in this encounter. And the only ones needed.

His eyes widened slightly in surprise, but it was a short instant, and quickly left behind. His mouth unlatched itself from her throat, and licked at it as though in apology. He licked his way up to the side, where her neck became her jaw, and then back down, kissing and licking at the sensitive skin of her throat. She groaned, tilting her head to the side to give him better access to these spots, and let her eyes drift closed once more, to better revel in these sensations. She could feel her body growing hotter now. Her nipples achingly erect, her pussy dripping wet and staining the bed beneath them, her clit just as erect as he no doubt was.

Perhaps it was just her imagination, but now, having submitted as HIS, the experience felt different. Her senses processed these sensations in an entirely new way. And she was loving it.

His hand released her head, confident that she wouldn't try anything anymore, but kept her wrists in his grip, if for no other reason that he enjoyed the sensation of keeping her pinned down. His free hand snaked down her back, tracing her spine and reminding her to arch it for him. It went downwards much faster than it had down her front, and in no time at all had reached her ass. He cupped a handful of it and pulled slightly, tilting her hips just so and allowing his hand more movement. He squeezed down hard, making her moan at the sudden sensation, before letting go and slapping it hard enough to make it jiggle a little, earning a high-pitched yelp from her at the sudden stinging pain, her crimson eyes flying open.

He grinned to himself, even as he kept up his attentions to her neck.

He squeezed her asscheek once more before letting go, finally releasing her wrists and using both his hands to lower down his pants. Grima looked down, and her eyes widened in pleasant surprise. His cock was harder than it ever had been before, and maybe it was just her new perception of him, but it seemed bigger now too than it had been the last time. The pillar of flesh positively throbbed with need. And perhaps it was vain of her, but she preened at the fact that it was that big and hard with need for her, and her alone.

She was his female, yes. But by the same token, this was her male. This cemented just how glad she was about it. This was all hers.

No time was wasted by him or by her. He positioned himself, ready to enter her, and she aided him by ripping away the panties, removing the last possible obstacle in his path as she spread her legs open. She grinned up at the Summoner, widely, cockily, as she lifted her arms up to him. His cock pressed against the entrance to her pussy, wetter now more than ever, and with a push, he entered her, eliciting a gasp from the Fell Dragon, and he fell into her arms, wrapping his own around her.

As he began to thrust, he tightened his grip on her, reaching up behind her and grasping her bare shoulders roughly, crushing her against him. She nestled her head into the point where his shoulder became his neck, and as she panted and gasped, her nails dug furrows into his back and her legs wrapped behind his back, pulling him further in. She grinned as her breath escaped from her, as she felt him fill her up like never before. In an odd sense, this was her first time. Her first time being taken so roughly, her first time being claimed... her first time not firmly on top. He was claiming her for his own, and seemed to know so, thrusting with more power behind his hips than in previous occasions. He used his grip on her further as well, pulling her into his thrusts and reaching deeper parts of her, spaces that he had never reached before, and making her gasp and hiss most pleasingly.

To his eternal pride, he heard her stifle a squeal more than once.

The room was filled with the noise of flesh slapping against flesh, the sound of his grunts, of her hisses, and of both of their gasps as pleasures never imagined were discovered and experimented with.

He bit down on her shoulder at one point, and he bit down hard. And Grima could only moan as the pain and pleasure merged there, as she felt blood trickle from her new wound into his mouth. And she came, not just from the pain and pleasure, but from the realization that he was marking her as HIS, branding her with his personal mark.

Her breath escaped her body as short and sharp little gasps now, for he was still going, fucking her into the mattress, unrelenting, and still holding onto her shoulder with his teeth, digging even further in, ensuring the mark would never fade. He still crushed her against him, holding her so tightly that it was hard for her to draw breaths in, furthering her sense of urgency. Both of their bodies were now slick with sweat, and burning so hot that Grima fancied she could see steam rising from the both of them.

He released her shoulder as he increased his tempo, his pants and grunts reaching a feverish pace. She snarled and clutched him tighter, drawing blood from his back with her fingernails. With each thrust she slid up the bed a little, but he pulled her back down to him the next instant, refusing to let her get away from him even for a second more than necessary. He was fucking her hard now, so hard that it bordered on the painful, on the abusive.

And she loved it.

Now she was actively flexing her legs, forcing him further and further in even while he pistoned in and out of her, and it was with a final loud cry from the both of them that he finally came, his seed erupting inside of her, and it made her feel fuller than she ever had before, and this final, mighty thrust was enough to push her over the edge as well. She moaned, even as he panted like a dog above her. For a few brief instants, both their minds were blissfully, wonderfully free of all thought, overloaded with the final, massive burst of pleasure.

Soon enough, it passed, and their selves settled back into their bodies. It was with care that he extracted himself from her, their genitals oversensitive after their exertion, and he collapsed onto the bed beside her. Both were breathing heavily, their hearts racing so fast and hard it felt like they might escape from their chests. Blood flowed in little rivulets from both of them. Grima's shoulder ached deliciously, and she knew she would cherish the scar that would result from this night.

Grima was surprised, yet very pleased when one of his arms snaked over her form and dragged himself close against her. His head drew close to her wounded shoulder, and he lapped at it gently, cleaning her up, and only once the flow ceased did he seem satisfied, and settled into simply holding her, his hands gently stroking various parts of her body. He fell asleep holding her like that, close to him, and not minding at all the combined heat of their bodies. His anger and frustration had been spent, unloaded onto her body. They would both be limping come the morning.

The Fell Dragon stayed awake a little longer than he did, basking in said heat. She drew in a deep breath, finding some pleasure in the smell of their sweat, now permeating the tent. When she finally drifted off, it was with a pleased grin on her face.

#feh #fire emblem #grima #f!grima #m!kiran #fire emblem heroes #i am unsure about this #hope you like it #f!grima needs more love #dom/sub #rough

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bodhimcbodeface · 5 years

Text

I wrote me some very soft Build boys, as a sort of response to @cheesethesecond‘s fic

Set after the finale.

Banjou isn’t sure at first what woke him up. The cold, maybe, or the traffic outside this crappy room they’ve been renting, or his own head; he was never all that good at sleeping through the night, even before. He stretches his toes out to the edge of the bed, giving a satisfied groan, then rolls onto his side to try again.

That’s when he hears the whimpering.

Sento is turned to the wall, knees curled tight against his chest, trembling almost imperceptibly. Almost. The idiot keeps trying to be unobtrusive, and Banjou kind of wants to roll his eyes, and kind of wants to punch him in his stupid face, but mostly just wants to hold him tight enough to squeeze all the hurt out of him.

“Hey.” He offers a whisper, trying not to startle him. “Hey. Sento.”

Sento stiffens at his name. “Go back to sleep.”

“Sento,” Banou repeats, softly but a little more insistent. He reaches out to touch his shoulder, and feels Sento flinch away from him.

“That bad, huh?”

“I said go back to sleep.”

Banjou prickles despite himself. “Yeah, maybe I don’t want to.”

“Please,” says Sento, his voice tight. “Go to sleep, Banjou.”

“You go to sleep!”

“I’m not…” Sento sighs, and, exasperated, rolls over to face him.

Banjou stares at him in shock. Even in the dim light he can see that Sento’s face is pale and tear-streaked, aching and shattered.

He blinks. His voice comes out as a whisper. “Sento. What did you dream about?”

Sento twists up his face and sobs.

Banjou catches him, pulling him into his chest effortlessly, cupping a hand around the back of his head. Even as he does so, he feels his muscles tense with anger because none of this is right. Sento should never look like this, should never feel like this. He should never have been built for the purpose of being broken, should never have been made to carry the weight of everyone he couldn’t save. He should never have taken the world onto his shoulders— but then again, he wouldn’t be Sento if he didn’t.

Tense and fierce and protective, he wraps his arms around Sento a little tighter, and lets him cry into his chest until the tears soak through shirt, until he finds himself shaking, too, shaking with grief and rage for the broken man who built them all up.

“Banjou,” says a muffled voice from his chest. “Ah--you’re hurting me.”

He takes a breath, forcing his arms to loosen. “Sorry.”

“You need to be more careful, Musclebrain,” Sento says, and the slight smile in his voice takes a load off Banjou’s chest.

“I didn’t realize you were so delicate,” he retorts.

Sento laughs weakly, lingering a moment longer in Banjou’s arms before shifting himself up so they’re lying face to face. Banjou reaches out to wipe a tear from Sento’s eye, and is relieved when Sento lets him. He runs a thumb beneath the other eye then, slowly, patiently, waiting for him to speak.

“In my dream...” he says after a moment, “In my dream I was Katsuragi. I was hurting our friends. I was hurting you.”

“That’s not real, Sento, not anymore. None of it ever happened.”

“Then how come I can still see their faces?”

Banjou can only nod, because he knows all too well what it is to be haunted by ghosts: Kasumi, fading away in his arms; children screaming in the street at the start of the war; Sento, crying out in pain for three damn days in a useless hospital; Sento beaten to a pulp again; Sento on the ground, eyes wide with the realization that he’d killed a man, and vomiting in the sink after Banjou took him home, and sitting on the edge of the bed, his only movement to shrug off the blanket Misora had laid over his shoulders...

Banjou shakes his head to stop his thoughts running wild, then takes either side of Sento’s face with increased urgency.

“So it happened,” he says. “So it’s real enough. But that’s not who you are anymore, okay? Because if that happened, then so did everything else, so did everything that makes you Sento.”

“That doesn’t make up for it.”

“Of course it does! Please, I can’t keep watching you...You undid the damage. You undid the war. Hell, you saved the world, Sento, isn’t that enough?”

“I...I don’t...”

“And you saved me.”

And maybe it’s selfish, but Banjou hopes that might mean something more to him, more than the damage undone, more even than the world.

Sento kisses him, proving him right.

He smiles wide under Sento’s lips, relieved and proud and above all grateful for the privilege of being there for him.

Sento pulls away. “Stop smiling like that and actually kiss me back,” he says.

“Make me.”

“Tomorrow,” he says, settling his head against Banjou’s shoulder. It’s clear that exhaustion has taken him, and he himself feels drained as well; maybe they’ll both sleep till morning. “Tomorrow I’ll make sure you pay me back for it.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” says Banjou, wrapping an arm around him, glad to feel the steadying rise and fall of his chest.

“Thank you,” he says, his eyes closed, his face looking almost peaceful. “Thank you, Banjou.” It’s clear from the way he speaks that the teasing has stopped.

Banjou doesn’t think he’ll ever quite understand how he’s the one being thanked.

#the doc is titled YABEI!!! SO SOFT!!#kamen rider build #hey cheese look #sometimes i write things

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urlocalkpoptrash · 6 years

Text

Breathing Underwater.

Kim Namjoon x Reader

Genre: Angst/Fluff.

Warning: It’s hard to place a warning really, it’s just an emotional blurb.

A/N: I had a pretty bad episode last night, and I’m still trying to recover from it. Writing this really helped relieve some of the pressure I felt from last night. I hope you can enjoy this. 💕

Concept: Namjoon, normally a quiet sufferer, can’t handle everything he’s feeling. He needs support, and of course he get all the love and support from y/n.

- - - - - - - - - /

I was never any good at handling the silent treatment, especially an unintentional one. Namjoon had been sitting on the patio for two hours, watching the world around us go through out their day. The sun had began to set, hues of pink, red, and orange crafted the sky into a masterpiece. The warmth of the sun still filling my apartment, the walls painted with a golden shine. I stepped timidly towards the patio, with a cup of tea cradled in my hands. I stopped at the frame, glancing at the back of Joon’s head. I finally stepped over the threshold, bending at the waist to set his tea on the table beside him. He didn’t even flinch, or turn his head to look at me. He was lost in thought, deep in his own pain.

“Joonie,” I dared to speak to him.

Nothing. Not a sigh, a grunt, a whine, absolutely nothing. I couldn’t stand to see him like this. He came home in this state, and out of desperation I had even tried messaging the boys, but as much as they tried, they were no help. I stayed for a moment in the silence, there was no comfort in it like I was used too. The sound of the patio cried beneath the soft pitter pattern of my footsteps. I stopped in front of him, kneeling down. I placed my hands on his knees. I was hoping this would bring him back, even if just for a moment. It didn’t, it felt like it sent him further into himself.

“Oh, Namjoon.” I rested my forehead on his knee, sighing heavily.

“I’ll be inside when you’re ready.”

I place my hands on either side of the chair, using it to support my weight. I push myself up, catching his eyes for a moment. The usual light that fills them is dull, almost nonexistent. It pulls at my heart, causing a small ache to begin. With a swift kiss to his forehead I walk back inside, the carpet mushing between my toes. I waited for as long as I could, but he didn’t seem to move. I kept checking to make sure his chest was moving, because he was so still. I couldn’t bare to watch him suffer, and I knew he hated that I was there to see him like this. I headed to the bedroom, leaving the light off, making my way into the bathroom. The sun was long gone, leaving the house cold. Maybe it wasn’t the sun disappearing that made it cold, maybe it was the heavy cloud that hung over the apartment. I had to shake the thought from my mind, turning to face the shower. My hair fell from over my shoulders, the waterfall of curls bouncing and swaying with each of my motions. I turned on the water, reaching my hand out to test the temperature, it was hot, just how I liked it. It didn’t take long for me to strip down and step into the shower, the ceramic tub warm against my bare feet. I ducked under the water, leaning my head down, letting the water pour over my face for a moment.

I could hear the door open, the pressure of joons touch causing the door to give way, letting out a squeak. The sound of his belt buckle hitting the ground, indicating he was getting it. There was a cool breeze that swept through the shower as he pulled back the curtain. I lifted my head, pushing my hair back before I turned to face him. He stood before me, I gazed up at the porcelain structure that was his body, not a flaw gracing the fabric of his pillow soft skin. We finally made eye contact, I could see the normal white that hugged his coco irises were red. The ache that was in my chest only grew ten fold.

“Oh, baby...” I cooed.

I took a step foreword, bringing him into my arms. Although I was much smaller than him, he sunk into my tight embrace, hiding his pain ridden face in the curve of my neck. I turned us slowly so the water could cover his back. His arms snaked around my waist, pulling me closer as his body began to shake, no longer being able to hold onto the pressure of his sadness. A silent sob racked through his towering form, causing me to hold on tighter, trying to keep him from falling apart more.

But, you see, falling apart doesn’t happen quickly. It’s a slow and agonizing process. It’s like when a rock hits a windshield, the little dent begins to spread. It starts to make it hard to see, and then it completely consumes your focus before finally shattering. He was near the end, the crack had spread into every aspect of his life, and he could no longer focus on anything but the feeling of breaking apart.

“Talk to me, my love, please. Tell me what’s happening,” I speak into his ear, running my fingers over the bumps of his spine, the water making it easy to dance around the curves.

“I can’t do this,” his voice was small, child like.

“Do what, Joon?”

“I keep disappointing the boys. I’m a terrible leader, everyone is falling apart, and I can’t keep them together anymore. I’m failing. I’m a failure.”

I’m a failure.

The words sunk into my veins, causing ice to run through my blood. I couldn’t believe he thought such awful things about himself, when I knew for a fact, just how much the boys truly loved him. They wouldn’t be half the group they were without his guidance.

I bent back in his arms, his head hanging low as it fell from the safety of my neck. I tore my hands away from his skin and placed them on his cheeks, forcing his head up to look at me. His eyes found mine, and all I could see was desperation to find some sort of relief for his pain.

“Kim Namjoon. You are a magnificent leader. You made some mistakes, you messed up, so what? You’re HUMAN. You’re going to do things wrong, you’re going to fuck up. If you don’t, you will never learn how to be an even better leader. Those boys, your true brothers, adore you. They do not think you’re a disappointment. They need you just as much as you need them, if not more.”

Now it was my turn to be desperate. Desperate to make him see, desperate to break him free of that prison he’s locked himself in, desperate to bring him back to me, desperate to stop the lies he keeps telling himself.

I pulled him back into me, his face finding the same spot it was already in. I reached around and turned off the water, the cold from our bedroom sneaking in.

“Let’s get dressed and we can cuddle, okay?” I drew circles on his back.

“Okay...” he spoke brokenly against my skin.

That’s exactly what we did. He put on a pair of boxers, and I slipped on one of his shirts. He always mentioned how much he loved seeing me in them. We were wrapped up in each other, our legs tangled together. His arms tied around my waist, while my fingers played with his still damp hair. This was one of the very first times he’s opened up like this. He was being vulnerable, and I knew how much he hated that. He wanted everyone to think he was strong and stable, which he was, but it’s okay to lose control. It’s okay to let yourself feel the hurt, to let the hurt consume you. It’ll only get worse and nag you until you release it and give it the power. Than it’s gone, even if just for a little while till your emotional piggy bank starts to fill again.

“Y/N,” Joons voice pulled me from my own thoughts.

“Yes baby?” I pull his hair back a little, looking down at him.

“Thank you..”

“Thank you for letting me be here.”

#bts #bts reactions #bts imagine #bts imagines #bts blurb #bts rm #kim namjoon #rap monster #namjoon #kim namjoon x reader #kim namjoon x you #kim namjoon x y/n #namjoon x reader #namjoon x you #namjoon x y/n #bts angst #bts fluff

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themysteriouswriter675 · 5 years

Text

Empty Frustration

Hello world. Although I’m sure almost no one’s reading this. The handful of followers whose attention I might have captured have probably lost me in the tsunami knows as Tumblr. Today I’ll try to revive myself, bang open the nails from one of the countless coffins Tumblr’s algorithm puts its millions of inactive users in, if you may. I’m a changed person from when I previously used to write- no longer invested heavily in changing the world, but rather scrambling to hold together the broken pieces within. I guess as my younger self sought to change society, to change norms, to shatter systems, and break glass ceilings, it forgot to take a peek inside itself and see that......there was nothing. Nothing but a fiery ego fueled for years by undeserved praise, nothing but a lazy feaster who does nothing besides waiting for the food to come to the table, without moving an inch towards it. And it was possible before. One might as well have forgotten there was anything to contend on the inside to begin with. One of the biggest shams ever sold to young people, was that your life, down the road, would be guided by what happens on the outside- outside events, outside obligations, outside people- that you would drown in your surroundings so much, that you didn’t have to contend with anything in your homeland. Of course, that’s only a torn half of the full page- no one warns the innocent of the real Goliath they have to slay. The real war that no one stocks up for hits them when they least expect it. One day they wake up and look at the mirror, and see more than they ever expected to. The highlights of one’s face brings visions that cannot be penned down, but yet their mind seems to retain even the slightest detail of, the tiniest speck at the most remote corner.

I’ve clearly become a far less skilled writer. But I feel more satisfaction writing this down than I ever did writing even my most brilliant stories. I’ve learnt a lot over the years, and one of the things I’ve learnt is that a machine will rip a human off into shreds when it comes to writing the most accurate, to-the-point piece one can. The chronology of the bulletproof, immaculate paragraphs of an algorithm almost seem to have been constructed, if I may, by decimal-precise instruments whose sole job is to not miss a single detail. And if that is what people set to imitate, then these words become strings of letters- writing loses meaning. I know that now. My previous self would hate the fact that I’ve interrupted my initial musings to go on a completely unrelated tangent. But I don’t deal in paragraphs anymore. Language points and content synchronization is no longer the lens through which I view my writings. I now deal in thoughts. In emotions. In stories. In conversations with voices from the inside. This writing won’t win prizes. But I’m at least able to write messages to the second person that has grown inside me. This person listens. This person responds. This person looks at the world and guides me based on what it gathers. This person isn’t me. This person isn’t someone else either. But this person exists, and will even drive you to a gun, or a bottle of sleeping pills, if it is provoked to. As we grow, this person becomes us. And I’m writing this to pen down what this person thinks of me.

Our days slowly morph, from the daily operations of an input-output algorithm, from a series of orders, from sports discussions, from childhood tiffin politics, from fretting over results, from mischievous giggles, from escaping relatives, from trying to fit ourselves into the grilles of our balcony, into something more morbid and harrowing. It turns into panic attacks, into anxiety, into stacks of unread books, into clinging onto friends who sometimes don’t cling back as much, into periods of time when the only two things you know are that you are looking at yourself and that tears are flowing out of your eyes, into week-long spans of running out of things to pat yourself on the back for. It is primarily that. The very idea that we can think for hours about what would happen if we die without flinching at the very idea in an instant amidst an unfaltering affection for reality should not be normal, but it is.

There can only be moments of digging upwards, reaching topsoil, and devouring the trees and the air before the dirt beneath the ground slides apart like quicksand. How long those moments are depends on how hard one can whip themselves into pulling themselves up by the bootstraps. Crafting that whip takes an extraordinary amount of religious dedication towards self-positivity and optimism manufacturing. It requires us to rip the ends of our receptors into oblivion till we are blind to the suffering that pulls us back again, howling, whimpering. The heart becomes heavy, our movements become more erratic during sudden moments to voluminous regret and frustration flowing through our cursed veins. We expect texts from people who, ultimately, don’t text. We expect people to notice us, feel our absence. It is all a fairy-tale. No one cares enough. At least the people you want to do not. You feel like abandoning people. But people do not need you. You need them. It takes a moment to wrap our heads around it. But one day, we look at ourselves, and realize, that the only well that quenches our thirst is contaminated with cyanide. There is no escaping the poisoning, the pain, because the alternative is utter destruction. Sometimes, the cyanide is purely fictitious, a figment of the imagination. But it is all the same. You feel a burning rage towards your friends. You call them scum of the earth, even though all they are doing is failing to live up to the sky-high expectations that the person inside you set.

But then again, all of this is before one opens the lid and look inside. All of these are simple iron pellets, shot at your body in preparation for the missile to come. You open yourself. Skin the flesh from the bone, rip the bone in half, and inside, there’s only Calcium. No feelings, no emotions, a person without a droplet of empathy. This is the body that you’ve been living inside for years. And imagine realizing that while you are alone, one day, when your life flashes by before your eyes, and the only thing you ever remember doing is hurting others. Hurting yourself. Thinking you are the best in the world. Building the lazy feaster whose body you would occupy one day. Imagine you distinctly remember the day it happened. Imagine that you cried for 4 hours straight. Imagine that the person you spent your whole life building is one that has personality dysphoria every night. A person that has developed the instinct to sit around and wait for things to happen. A person that cannot create order from the chaos he is given, and instead bathes in it, suffering in willingness, in complete submission to his self-annihilating nature. A person, who, in order to be forced to do something, has to be given the opportunity cost of severe physical or social penalties. One can only imagine it. Only those who have gone through it sit in front of a laptop at 1 a.m. and type it for the rest of the world to see.

One would think this is saddening. It is not. There is a part inside. Like a mother that screams to her child that exams are in 10 days. That part sees the fire that is coming to burn the trees. It sees the eerie calm before the storm. But I have become numb to my sheer incompetence. It is a sort of expressionless torture. It is the stick you grab to beat yourself that you care you do not have the energy to put to use. It is the fire that you light to burn yourself to make yourself feel the weight to your wasted years that you do not even feel like jumping to. I would say I feel like a robot. But a robot is programmed to do what it is told. I don’t even do that either.

The rotting mascot of a human being I made myself was stripped naked and put up on a humiliating exhibition. I decided that I can talk, and decided to open a page of my life that I want to burn with a lighter, rip slowly with my own fingers, as if to have the illusion that I’m causing it pain, drown it in cold, unforgiving water, and throw away in a lonely, isolated trash-bag. I decided to join debating. I don’t want to talk much about this part of my life(which still continues to this day though), because I know it way too well, and I feel like talking about it does no service to this exercise of self-therapy.

I didn’t plan an end to this excerpt. This was a photograph of my journey to being the pathetic human I am. Happiness, purpose, drive, love, inclusion- I am tired of being told that these things will come to me. I am not that long-haired sweetheart with a stable relationship and a thousand-page manual on social dexterity. I am not that sweet, wholesome person that everyone ascribes a positive contribution to their lives onto. I am not a sailor with a map. I’m a warrior that does not know how to wield a sword. A “nerd” who doesn’t study. A debater who doesn’t practice. A person that has manufactured a personality that I’m forgetting how to keep up. I’m nothing. There is nothing inside. A defunct car that has been pitched as a speed beast by salesmen who do not know the inside. This isn’t a story. An excerpt. This is a diagnosis. A periscope view. Of my inside. A pathetic, void-consumed, meaningless inside. I thought I would feel better after writing this. Turns out my emptiness has just been replaced by more of it.

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angelofthenightposts · 6 years

Text

Broken Heart. // Ch.5

Bill is ready for the next stage of his life after reaching the happy life he can be with the people he loves and the successful career he has always dreamed of. Marrying his fiancé, Alida. But it all takes an unexpected turn when he asks his wedding planner friend, Y/N, to help plan their wedding.

Series Masterlist || My Masterlist.

“What are you doing here?” You glance around the dining room at the other family members and dash to the front door, as if you'd all intended to get up. Only one person has the power to make your brother so enraged all of a sudden. And you're right; Bill's tall, well-built body is enough to make your blood curdle. His palms are resting against two sides of the door trim, his gaze fixed on you. “Why don't you go back inside while I kick this jerk out?” says your brother.

You want to follow James' instructions and return to the cheery breakfast table you just left. Your legs, on the other hand, ignore his orders, and you stare at Bill, taking the entire difference in. The dark circles around his huge green eyes are the first thing you notice, indicating that Bill hasn't gotten much sleep recently, and he's also lost some weight. He appears weak and unhappy, and seeing his condition rips your heart.

Bill isn't any different; his stare never leaves you; his entire body aches to meet with you; his fingertips want to touch you, to bring you into his arms. He says, embarrassed with the glances he gets from everyone, "I just want to talk to you."

James grunts and rolls his eyes back, his entire body casting a shadow over you. “Talk to her over my dead body,”

Harry, his kid, is startled by his father's loud and angry voice; the young boy is standing between his mother's legs, trying to comprehend why his father grew so furious so quickly. He tries to conceal his small body behind Zara's; he has never seen his father angry like this before, and it is enough to make him cry. “Daddy.”

“Zara, please take him upstairs.” Zara glances at you before picking him up and carrying him upstairs and you nod. James's gaze follows them until his son has exited the scene, at which point he abandons his phony smile.

“All right, you can leave now.” Bill tries to stop him by pushing the door open with his left hand as your brother clutches the doorknob, ready to close the door in his face. You take a step forward and softly touch James' back, knowing that this might quickly develop into a battleground.

“Please return inside. I'll take care of it, James.” He pauses and searches your eyes for a clue that he shouldn't leave you alone with Bill, but instead he finds a determined and stone-cold woman. He asks his mum to join him.

"So, what do you want to talk?" Bill shifts his gaze from James' back to you, knowing you won't allow him in. Your chin is up and your arms are folded over your chest. He's well aware of your expression, it is full of sarcasm.

He inhales deeply and bites the inside of his lower lip; his words were rehearsed till he saw you after so many days. “Could we speak in a more private place?”

“Why? Are you afraid of being photographed by paparazzi?” You're one of those people that always acts as if nothing is wrong when there are several problems; you hide your unhappiness and aggravation behind a mask, and your words become snarky and your eyes sarcastic.

“I don't give a damn about the paparazzi. I just want to speak with you. And if you want to speak here, that's OK; let's do it." He dares you by resting his long torso against the door frame. Of course, he's not going to bring up your relationship at your parents' door.

“Fine,” You simply give up and go for your mother's car key in the cupboard to your right.

//xxx//

As you drive your mother's black Sedan, you have no idea where you're going; it's been more than twenty minutes and the nearest spot is a gas station. It's quiet, and your family can't disturb you with questions about what's bothering you. You realize this is the first time you haven't had to fake a smile in a long time. You stare at him out of the corner of your eye, he keeps quiet for the rest of the ride, and you are glad that he waits for the talk. You turn back to the road and clear your throat as he turns his head away from the window and looks at you. On the drive back, you'll undoubtedly require GPS guidance.

“I can say you're on the right track if you're looking for a place to kill me.” You despise him for making a joke in your situation, but you hate yourself even more for laughing at it.

You turn off the engine, but none of you exit the vehicle; instead, you stay inside, alone and away from the world all for a moment. It's almost as though you're surrounded by a protective bubble. You're in a place so secluded that even God has forgotten about it; no one can locate you, even if they wanted to. You wait for him to begin speaking; you know there is nothing he can say that will persuade you otherwise, yet you still want to hear him try. Bill, on the other hand, remains silent and sighs frequently.

“Get out of the car,” you say and get off the car before him. It's windy and chilly outside. You take a look around and see that you've driven dangerously close to a cliff. The waves can be heard crashing on the rocks. You push a lock of hair behind your hair and take a seat on the hood. “All right, Bill, this is the private space you requested; now go ahead and start talking.”

“I don't know where to begin,” Bill says as he climbs and sits next to you.

You look up at the sky and see dark clouds above you; it's going to rain later. “Wait, I can help you. Why don't you begin with your birthday? No, no. Let's go back even further. Let's talk about how you began dating Alida while seeming to be in love with me.”

"Oh, I found a better one; let's speak about what much of a liar you are," you say, interrupting him in the middle of his sentence. "You make the decision."

“I've never lied to you.” As if it were the most essential thing to him, he corrects you. You already know that honesty isn't his strongest suit.

"I almost forgot to congratulate you, Bill. How is the pregnancy going so far?”

He closes his eyes and sighs; he may be a superb actor, but he isn't always the best at concealing his emotions. You divert your gaze, assuming that the rumors are true and that she is indeed pregnant. “You're attempting to hurt me.”

“You think so?” you ask, laughing at him. “I was, no, I am still, serious and genuine about all I said. Y/N, I knew the moment I met you that you were unlike any other woman I'd ever met. You are careless about people's appearances or financial situations. Others just care about how much money you make or who you hang out with, and I'm surrounded by them. But you, no, you are the one person with whom I can be myself. You are utterly perfect.”

"Skarsgard, stop flattering me." You slam every door Bill opens in desperation, and he sighs deeply, his head bowed and his mind racing.

“When you were with that Toby guy,” you gasp, stunned. You can't believe Bill still recalls the name of the guy you dated a few months ago. “I was so envious the first time I saw you with him that I despised you for giving him a chance, for not seeing me as a slave around you. I don't know how many times Alexander told me to look away from you two snuggling and kissing.”

“What did you do then? Did you end up in Alida's arms?

“Alida was a long-time old friend of mine at the time. She had recently broken up with his ex, and she, like me, was in a depressed state. I began to speak with her about you. Every time Toby touched you, I grew angered... I was drunk one night and couldn't take him being around you." You can guess what he'll say next. It will crush you no matter how much you try to prepare. Bill pauses for a while and get off his seat to walk forward, as if he senses it as well. You watch his back when he feels ready to tell you more, "One night, I went to her apartment. It wouldn't be any different if I close my eyes and think about you, I thought. We were just trying to forget about our miserable lives in the arms of one other. I didn't have anyone else except Alida; you were so busy that I couldn't see you. Then I went to Canada to shoot another film, thousands of miles away from you; I swear to you, Y/N, that was the most difficult part of my job. Not being able to see you whenever I wanted, not being able to get together for the ridiculous movie nights.”

“Bill, I-”

“No, give me a chance to finish. I had given up hope that you might one day be mine, and then you showed me how foolish I was. You did what I should have done months ago that night. Y/N, I'll never forget that night,” he says as he approaches up to you, his body standing between your legs and reaching up to touch you. “I’ll never forget how lovingly you looked at me; I'll never forget the feel of your body in my arms. I'll never forget the way you made me feel complete.

His cold fingertips brush against your soft, warm cheek; he presses his face closer to yours, his heart pounding with anxiety of rejection. You place your forehead against his and close your eyes, inhaling his cologne. Your hand glides up to his chest and pulls him closer. His lips are only a breath from yours. You whisper, "You failed to mention how you got Alida knocked up.”

"Please don't do this to us.” He responds, his eyes searching for a clue that you still care about him. And he finds it as well, but it is hidden beneath the fury and despair.

“How can you believe there's anything left after all of this, Bill? You shattered my heart. No, you didn't stop there; you ruined my life. You gave me hope and promised to make everything right. If this is your method of problem-solving, let me tell you, you're terrible at it.” You shove him out of the way and step off the hood. "You answered to Alida's texts while watching a movie in my arms. You said you were with your brothers and that you were at your house. You were afraid to tell her you were with me because you were afraid of upsetting her. To avoid hurting her feelings, you lied to her. You didn't break up with her, making excuse after excuse. So, Bill, why were you so unconcerned about me?

“Did it ever occur to you that you were hurting me?” you ask, tears streaming down your cheeks, and you don't even bother to hide them. "Or was I just another woman you slept with when Alida wasn't around? Your biggest regret, you said, was being with her. Do you want to know what is mine?

“Tell me,” he says, this is the first time you've seen him cry.

“My biggest regret is having sex with you. Loving you, Bill, is like walking into a fire knowing you're going to get burned. I'm sorry, but I can't keep doing this to myself if I care about my life for even a second. Get out of my life, Bill, if you even care about me a little. I can’t live otherwise. We are no good together.”

Bill quickly shakes his head, holding your cheeks and pondering how to end this torment. He is well aware of the fact that he is losing you. You let him draw you into a hold and wrap your arms around his body; it is a good-bye hug.

#bill skarsgård imagine #billskarsgard #bill skarsgård x reader #bill skarsgard #angelofthenightposts #brokenheart #angst

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rosheendubh · 6 years

Link

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Waltharius

The strange paths this journey takes me on...I'd forgotten all about this gem of Medieval Saga-hood. In uniting Gwen's unique segment to my most beloved of Germanic myths, a clash of two adored heroines I've always dreamt of uniting has finally taken form. Gwen as a young woman, coming of age, educated in a 460-470s era decaying Rome, convent and hospital style, beneath the tutelage of an Alexandrian or Byzantine physician (still need to pump Arthurian Romance for an adequate prototype to borrow on that--and found it. See the Gold Boobs post...and the Lycurgius Cup), and an abbess...who happens to be the retired, incognito version of Gudrun.

A Queen Like No Other...

We’re guiessing, maybe some time frame from about 465 to 475 or 480AD...

The last surviving daughter of the Gepids, exhausted of the world, had sought her peace, retiring to a nunnery in the waning decades of Rome’s twilight, The massacre of her brothers, Gundahar and Hagano, to the combined forces of Atila and Aetius, was a tragedy instigated first by Brunhilde's vengeance, betrayed by Sigfrid, the only man Gudrun had ever loved, and who hadn’t the honor to stand up to her mother on the night Gudrun had been presented to him, and claim his love for wild Brynhilde. The closure had been all Gudrun’s though, serving her butchered sons by Atila, to their own father, lighting his hall on fire, and watching his men roast, drunken in their excess, celebrating the demise of the Burgundi, retching and choking as Gudrun regaled them the ingredients of their foul feast while they suffocated on smoke and flame. It wasn’t till some years later, when her tears left her dry, no more grief to spare. Beloved Swanhild, her only daughter by Sigfrid, convulsed, dying in her arms, trampled to death because of a weak husband’s faithlessness. Her daughter’s broken body was a sack of shattered shells. For all the sorrow Gudrun sustained, it was then her heart had turned to a hard, bitter stone.

Harsh and cynical, she’s always attuned to Old Grim, his One-Eyed Shadow following her, even into the cloisters of the convent, the retreat of the Christian God by which she sought to elude Wotan. Duty still goads though, meaningless distractions the women find to occupy themselves, like taking in the daughters of barbarian nobles. Providing some means of trade, education, or dowry to unfortunate girl-children of widows and orphans, left bereft in the tumult of a dying Empire.

Gwenafyr ferch Edern of the Cawnr. Aeternus, her father styles himself here, in these old weathered palaces where men still cling to archaic Latin, trying to dilute the jarring utterances of tribal chieftains who now retain titles of legate and prefect. The young girl put into her charge is a tribulation.. Spoiled, barbarian royalty, her people inhabit a rock sitting in gray waters at the end of the earth. She tasks Gwen with the most menial of novice chores in the convent, enforcing a lifestyle the strictest of ascetics would have found withering. And Gwen, lonely, angry, resentful of her father abandoning her to such mistreatment, lashes out. Which impresses Gudrun, who approves of the girl's spirit and determination. Her inherent recalcitrance, it seems. She'll need it one day, to face the world she will eventually inherit. For Gudrun--god's rune--can See.

The gifts her Lord of mead, madness, brilliance, and Vision endowed long ago, before she knelt in obeisance beneath a cross, a broken and sorrowing soul back then. What she sees upon this girl is the shadow of her One Eyed Keeper, a fate of darkness, and a hope so bright, of something into the future Gudrun thinks even Old Grim shies back from, just a little. Courage of mind and heart burning from young Gwenafyr's eyes. Gudrun, in her final, parting defiance to the curse Wotan holds upon her days, steals her nights in a deluge of rotten memory, intends, against all odds in this failing chaotic time, to raise this child, just on the verge of her adolescence, a few years short yet, into a queen such as the world will never forget. A woman to leave her mark upon a future. Where others have failed, she might, just might, open up something of hope, a path leading out of the thorns bleeding these dark times.

Where better, than Britannia, when she returns to her island at the edge of the world. "But first...first, girl," Gudrun explains into the furious gaze of this hoyden, "before you learn to serve a land, you must learn what it is to serve beggars."

And so commences Gwen's education in the halls of Rome's old crumbling libraries, and the stench filled corridors of the charity hospitals. Reciting Latin, Greek, the Gothic parlance of Gudrun's tongue, Gwen ministers remedies from the texts of classical physicians long turned to dust, their words and knowledge leap from scrolls crusted and protesting the sun of a world much different than the one once gracing the mirages still glimpsed amid decaying plazas, toppled pillars, and bramble thick fields.

Hours drag, roll away into months. Months turn with the seasons into years. One, then five. A decade. And finally...finally she may just be ready. To return. Claim a king. Claim a nation.

Gudrun mourns her parting--Gwen, transformed into the daughter fate cheated her when Swanhild was trampled by Eomer's men, rage wrought upon charges of adultery never born truth. Wotan has marked her. A presence Gudrun never hesitated to speak of as their affection deepened in the years. Gwenafyr never seemed bothered. Upon her island, women are goddesses, mortal embodiment of immortal dream. What has she to fear from a shade skulking at the edge of vision?

Merely curious, Gwen's irony and ruefulness have become her defense into maturity, education of reason and science shaping how her student views the foibles of humanity. There's nothing of the virgin philosopher though, Gwenafyr all too aware of the world's temptations and luxuries, and perfectly obliging to hedonism. In moderation. But she would have made a terrible nun. Because there's also nothing of fear in her. What traditions steeped her childhood in that far north country before she'd entered Gudrun's convent, they left an indelible mark, as deep cloven as Wotan's shadow upon Gwen's wyrd. A child of queens before queens--gods and men alike, heroes all of them, to be molded by the guidance of their women. Gwen knows her worth. And she will not be restrained by warlord, priest, bard. Or God. Unless the word of God, a god, rings with truth and compassion.

Gudrun's heart warms with pride, and something she has long denied. That minuscule softening deep inside, where she buried many years ago, the raging grief of so many deaths. Sorrow again, loss, as the ship leavens, creak of oar and plank, its hull buoyed by the current of the Tiber. The price of love.

Gwen approaches the rails, reaching for a final glimpse of her world these last 10 years. Sadness, inevitable at their parting, hangs heavy in Gudrun’s mind. The uncertainty breaking through the excitement animating Gwen’s clean lined face when she seeks Gudrun across the distance of the widening waters eases some of the weight of her sorrow, realizing just then, how much she has meant to her young charge. Gudrun nods to her farewell as the ship glides further from the dock. Her blessing and confidence in that bow of her head.

It's enough. Her breath catches, the shade about Gwen hovering, cast back by the brightness, not only in the sudden joy shining in the younger woman's eyes, but her spirit. Blazing. To Gudrun's Sight it's a corona that washes out the image of the ship, passengers milling around Gwen--so bright, Gudrun feels the world sway.

She catches herself, shaking her head to clear it, swallow air to still the gallop of her pulse. A small wave of her hand reassures the concerned glance of a food vendor from his stall. So bright, into the threads of the future sometimes illuminated by this curse. Gwenafyr's spirit shimmers, dew drops along spider-silk lit by the sun, her strand dancing with the warp and weft of time. And always, around her, shadow of Grim's talons trying to grasp her light. Until another ray, lancing brilliance, tangles the dark claws away. That second soul always with her, hearts vowed in every life.

Her laugh is purely internal. *Plug it, Old Man. She's never been yours, and never will be.*

His voice isn't sound so much as as sensation. The draft of heat from flame. A wash of fire in the air, heaviness like a brewing storm, pressing thick in the wind. *No. But I am hers, when she wants. And want,* the voice a sigh in the dark, *she will.* Sensuous, it wraps around her, shivering caress down her spine.

Curse the bastard. This ecstasy he commands, how longing not felt for years can awaken her dried husk of flesh, sagging breasts and wrinkled thighs warming with forgotten urge.

*Soon daughter. Soon.* Gudrun hopes whatever passes for his incorporeal eye, the one observing the world, he can see her scowl, plain across her brow.

*Easily. That's why I always favored you over Brynhilde. She worshiped until she hated. You...you hated from the first. My mead deepened your bitterness, Gudrun. But recall, you never denied my gifts. Neither will she.*

*No,* Gudrun finds herself humoring him like they're a pair of old lovers. *But she may take your gifts and turn them into something even you never anticipated, Old Man. She cast Andarvi's Horde from curse to blessing, easing the lives of our poor. And his ring, when finally melted down, became...* At this she does let her dry chuckle escape, hearing, feeling a flabbergasted god's very mortal consternation.

*...became her set of surgical instruments.* Gudrun isn't certain, but she thinks Wotan might not be a little pleased. *Walkryian.*

"She's no harvester of the dead, Old Man. Let her be." Her pointed defense rings sharp in the silence of a deserted square lying along the route she’s chosen. A reluctant fountain bubbles from an eroded sculpture of Venus cuddling Eros in her lap.

*Change, chaos, wrecker of order, I am. Even gods can be no other than what our nature dictates, Gudrun. Her line has always drawn me, at these crossroads of fate. Darkness. Light. She possesses both destruction and rebirth.*

"And she fears neither, Old Man. Nor does she believe in your wyrd."

*Enlightenment,* his utterance, a breeze stirring, sweeping the detritus of the streets in her wake.

"I believe the word she used was...*wealwian*," Gudrun counters.

Silence. So profound, for a moment, she thinks she's actually offended old One Eye. Until, faint at first, a building crescendo of laughter, thunder, waves, and wind in her mind, fills her sense with his joy.

*You’ve done well, Gudrun.* A father, proud of his daughter. She abides his praise, burying her annoyance. He accommodates the capriciousness of human nature with the ease of a child, even when his acolytes deliberately stray, denouncing him, evading his sight.

*A queen like no other. She will invite the end of an age. And seed a new dawn. Where hovers hope, her dream still waits. But it will take shape, in time.*

The air ripples, waves breaking upon the shore of mind. Ebbing, a veil thins between universes. Ghostly, coalescing from a fog. A man, lean of limb, hair like russet leaves in autumn sunset, elegant in height, dressed in foreign garb. Shirt and vest, trousers cut to the knee--strange to an eye accustomed still, to the swathes of robes donned by Latin magistrates, But the trappings of the desk at which he’s hunched, intent upon his writing, a candle burning against shadows, are recognizable luxuries, despite the span of time between Gudrun’s present, and this future she into which she peers.

His hand, furious as the speed of a river flowing from restless thought. *The tree of Liberty...* The syllables a garble of incomprehension. She recognizes their rhythm if not their sound. It’s the magic of poetry. Wotan’s gift. Gudrun has known bards in her lifetime. Gundahar crafted verse of such beauty, hearts broke, and serpents sighed in slumber. She knows well, this passion bleeding into ink, soaked into a parchment she’s never witnessed, fine white sheaves, smooth, blank medium where his vision pours from his crippled hand. His ravenous mind.

A door latch releases. Gudrun, peering into dream, sees a woman, young, slight-built, her apparel too, strange, curves of bust and waist fitted into drab gray, but the trappings accentuate feminine proportions of limb and torso, while skirts, floor-length and layered, conceal the line of leg. What odd tastes must dictate fashion in that foreign time. The woman turns from hanging her outer-wear upon a coat hook. A cloud of black waves crowns her head, tresses bound into a careless chignon. Her eyes, dark, deepened by her sharp-boned, vivid features, linger upon the man. Full of a suffering even Gudrun, in her cynicism, far removed from this moment yet to come, finds hard to bear.

The man’s hand slows in its frenzied scribbles. Stills. He leans back in his chair, stealing himself, it seems, to meet the young woman’s gaze. The look, passing between them, long in its silence, conveys what Gudrun has lived, of yearning, tenderness, and despair. And she knows, sure in her bones, certain as Sigfrid’s love once filling her lost youth, it’s the woman’s strength and courage which embody everything blooming of hope and truth, testimony from this conflicted scribe. Every bard and poet harbors some tortured secret. Even the intellectuals. That’s the only pearl which Gudrun ponders as the scene dissolves, froth of waves merging back into the vast sea. Her present, this mundane world, dusk descending upon the abandoned plaza, tucked away in its maze of streets in a city fallen into ruin. Rome. Once the Queen of the World.

And Gwenafyr ferch Edern--destined to become a queen like no other other. Whose progeny, whether they thrive or perish, will leave their mark upon dreams undiscovered.

*There once was a dream that was Rome...*

#Arthuriana #Gwenhwyfar #Roman Britain #Thomas Jefferson #Scotch doctress #Prerevolutionary Paris

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berriestart-lilacsweet · 6 years

Text

Cedfia Oneshot: rainstorm

*Just a oneshot that formed up in my mind from the mention of a rainstorm in Suiren Shinju's Pillow Talk.

Cedric watched as the rain begin to fall more heavily from the plush cushions of his bedroom's window seat. He leaned his back against the cool stone and let one leg dangle out the window, allowing it to swing freely as he lost himself in his own thoughts. He was beginning to enjoy spending time with the girl. Yes, she had been sent to him with a task and he most certainly understood what his mother wanted... but he was finding it harder and harder to maintain his composure around the charming village girl.

It seemed to him that the more time they spent in one another's company, the more interesting she became. True, the had managed a few intimate moments, but that was her duty after all. She was doing exactly what his mother had wanted from her, but yet it seemed at times like the girl wanted more from him. He felt deep within his heart that she longed for him the same way he longed for her; they both needed to move beyond the physical aspect of their relationship. He felt a passion rise up within him when she was near, a feeling he had never imagined that he would have, let alone one that might be shared.

Sofia was a passionate girl in general, putting her heart into anything and everything she did. It wasn't hard to venture that she would want a relationship to be more than just physical. Yet she had done and said everything to make him feel quite the opposite when it came down to it. The days were spent with coquettish hints, followed by a night of her fulfilling her duty to him. And every time he had the opportunity to take the situation further, transform it into something more passionate, she had somehow, reminded him of her agreement with his mother thus trampling down his desires.

If she was truly only fulfilling the physical aspect of the contract he couldn't tell. As naive and innocent as she was it wouldn't be far-fetched to assume she might be afraid of taking things further. He always felt the passion on her lips just before she shattered his heart with her words. Was it because she was afraid of his status? She had always asked permission before touching him, maybe she was afraid of the situation she found herself in, afraid there might be repercussions if she crossed a line. Perhaps he should express to her his wish to leave formalities behind them. In his mind and in his heart they were equals.

Cedric rest his head back against the cold stone and closed his eyes.

"Your Highness, is everything alright?" Her silky voice resonated through the room.

"Hmm... What?" He mumbled, dragging himself from his thoughts to look at her lazily.

"I asked if everything was alright." She pressed now beside him at the window.

"Oh, I suppose so." He muttered, turning his eyes back out the window into the dreary storm.

He felt her settle down on the cushions across from him, her lithe body leaving only a slight indentation in the fabric. Cedric looked her over from the corner of his eye. She wore a lightweight cotton dress with bell-cap sleeves today, in her favorite shade of purple; soft lilac. Her delicate hands were clasped loosely together in her lap. Her eyes stared out into the storm, watching with genuine interest. Cedric swallowed hard; he knew this was his chance.

With fluid ease he reached out to the peasant girl and wrapped his hand gently around hers. A moment passed before Sofia broke her gaze from the storm to look at him questioningly. Cedric slipped his free hand around her waist and pulled her to his chest, reclining again against the windowsill. Wordlessly, she allowed him to meld her to his form, wrapping her in his arms before he cast his gaze back out at the storm again. They sat there in silence for what seemed like an eternity before he felt the tension leave her shoulders. She shifted her weight around, rolling to her side, sliding one arm around his waist and resting the other on his chest beneath her cheek.

"I've always rather enjoyed watching storms." She almost whispered. "It's very relaxing."

"Yes, it is. That’s why I chose this room for my own; it has the best view of the incoming storms." He replied, swinging his leg casually as they reclined.

Sofia nodded "I see that, it's quite something, isn't? A storm I mean."

"So much like life..." He murmured stroking her hair absentmindedly. "A friendly spring shower brings life to all and a storm like this tries to knock everything down; two things so very different yet from the same source... And when both pass the sun shines again spreading rainbows across everything." Cedric felt Sofia shift in his arms and slowly tore his gaze from the clouds to look down on her. She was gazing up at him with her soulful blue eyes. His heart skipped a beat, feeling as if she was seeing straight through him. She opened her mouth to speak but Cedric knew if he didn't open up to her now he never would. "Sofia..." She closed her mouth and pulled back from him, drawing her legs up underneath her to face him fully.

"Yes..."

"I... Well, there's something I wish to talk to you about... I don't know exactly how to go about it, so just hear me out before you respond... please?"

"Of course." She nodded with a soft smile. Cedric drew in a deep breath before he began.

"I feel like there is a barrier between us... and it's not my doing, not intentionally anyway... What I'm trying to say, is that... I just was to us to be us... Sofia and Cedric, no titles involved."

"I don't know if that’s a wise idea..." She said biting her lower lip nervously.

"So that is what you were afraid of... why you keep shying away from me..."

"It's not that I mean to, or want to for that matter... It's just, well it's complicated."

"We already give into our desires to some degree; why should it be more complicated to give in to one's heart?" He implored her, gently taking her hands in his.

"If it were only that easy for me..."

"It can be." He whispered leaning down to steal a tender kiss from her lips. She kissed him back passionately at first; pressing herself against him, winding his hair around her fingers. He accepted her actions eagerly; leaning down over her and pressing her beneath him on the window seat. He felt her breath hitch in her throat as he pulled his lips away finally needing air to continue his endeavor. He didn't understand what was wrong; what did she want or need from him. "I- I don't understand... I can't truly believe everything you've done up till now has been only to fulfill your duty to my mother..."

"Cedric, have you ever stopped to think what will become of me when your mother deems that I have fulfilled my duty... or when you're to succeed your father?"

"I-I..." he fumbled for words but none came.

"I'm not from the same world as you... Your mother has employed me for one thing and one thing alone... and it certainly wasn't to fall in love with the future king."

"Everyone should be able to follow their hearts. Everyone deserves to feel love and be loved." He breathed huskily into her neck, sending chills down her spine.

"For some that path leads only to pain and sorrow." She whispered her voice wavering as tears formed in the corners of her eyes. She turned her head away to gaze out at the storm again.

"I'll be damned if I'd allow that to happen. Regardless of my title, I will make my own decisions. And if that includes having you in my life, my subjects will have to accept that. From this point on, I've made up my mind, I cannot face life without you by my side. You make me a better person, you make life worthwhile, and I won't live the rest of my life knowing I threw it away all because of politics..." His voice faltered as he ended his speech. "I love you, Sofia."

@suirenshinju I wrote this a while back on a whim because I was intrigued by your story Pillow Talk. This was all I got done in a sitting. I had forgotten about it up until now, so I figured I’d post it and let you see it. Hope you’re okay with it- If not I’ll remove it.

#cedfia #sofia the fandom #sofia the first fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic #onehsot #berriestart-lilacsweet #berriestart--lilacsweet

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