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speaknow-sw · 28 days ago

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THE POET AND THE ROSE

Content : mdni, smut, pussy eating, PiV.

A/N : erm…8.2k words guys ??? Is this too long ? Idk but this chapter is very Shakespearean I reckon…anyway here’s your smut @anisangeldust try not to cheer too loud, you’re gonna wake the kids up.

꧁ Chapter 4 : Letters in the Dark ꧂

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

The ink whispers secrets the tongue cannot bare,

A fragile bridge between despair and care.

In shadows, hearts awaken to yearn,

Letters ignite what words cannot discern.

The mist clung to the rolling hills, softening the edges of the battlefield that had been marked by blood and valor. Anakin Skywalker stood at the crest of a hill, his dark cloak brushing against his boots, a sharp contrast to the pale light of dawn. The air was still, thick with the aftermath of war and the unspoken tension of what was to come. He waited, hands resting loosely on his belt, his sharp gaze scanning the horizon.

A lone figure emerged from the fog, his steps deliberate and his broad frame unmistakable. William Wallace, the Guardian of Scotland, approached with the bearing of a man who carried the weight of his people’s dreams on his shoulders. He wore no armor, only a simple cloak, the fabric frayed but dignified. His weathered face bore the scars of countless battles, his blue eyes sharp and unyielding.

When they met, there were no guards, no banners, no intermediaries—only two men who had come to speak plainly in the fragile quiet of dawn.

"You came alone," Wallace said, his voice rough but not unfriendly.

"As did you," Anakin replied. "It’s the least we could do, given the blood that’s already been spilled."

Wallace nodded, his gaze sweeping the hills. "Aye, too much blood. And for what? Kings with greed in their hearts and chains for their people."

Anakin’s jaw tightened. "I didn’t come here to defend my king, nor to apologize for the crown I serve. But I agree—wars are seldom fought for noble reasons, even when noble men die in them."

Wallace turned to face him fully, his towering presence unyielding but calm. "Then why do you fight, Skywalker? You’re no tyrant’s lapdog—I can see that much. So why march under his banner?"

Anakin hesitated, the weight of the question settling on him. His hand brushed against the hilt of his sword, not out of threat but as if seeking an anchor. "I fight for the men who follow me. For the farmers turned soldiers who trust me to bring them home. For the people who want nothing more than to live without fear."

"And yet, you march into Scotland, where those same people bleed for their land," Wallace countered, his voice steady but laced with quiet fury. "Do you see the irony in that, General?"

Anakin met his gaze, unflinching. "I do. But if I laid down my sword, another would take my place—one who cares nothing for mercy or reason. At least I can temper the madness."

Wallace studied him for a long moment, the silence between them heavy with understanding. "You’re a good man caught in a bad war," he said finally. "But no amount of tempering will change the truth—Scotland will never bow to England. We’ll fight until there’s nothing left of us, because freedom is worth more than our lives."

Anakin’s voice softened, a trace of respect in his tone. "You fight for freedom. I fight for peace. And yet, here we are, enemies on the same field."

"A cruel jest by the gods," Wallace said with a bitter chuckle.

They stood in silence for a moment, two warriors bound by the same honor, the same burden of leading men into battle.

"Do you ever wonder," Anakin said quietly, "if all of this will be remembered? If the men who die for us, the families torn apart—if any of it will matter in the end?"

Wallace’s expression hardened, but his voice was tinged with sorrow. "Aye, I wonder. But I’d rather die fighting for something than live on my knees for nothing."

Anakin nodded slowly, his respect for the man before him deepening. "I wish we’d met under different circumstances, Wallace. Perhaps in another life, we’d have fought side by side instead of against each other."

Wallace smiled faintly, the expression fleeting but genuine. "Aye, perhaps. But in this life, we fight. And if I fall, I’ll fall knowing I stood for what mattered."

The sun began to rise, its light breaking through the mist and casting long shadows across the hills. The moment of fragile peace between them passed, the inevitability of their roles pulling them back into their separate paths.

"Until the next battle," Wallace said, turning to leave.

"Until then," Anakin replied, watching as the Scottish leader disappeared into the mist.

As the first rays of sunlight warmed the earth, Anakin stood alone on the hill, the words of their conversation echoing in his mind. A good man caught in a bad war. And for the first time in years, he felt the weight of those words press against his soul.

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

Chains may bind the flesh, but not the fire,

A dream that climbs, relentless, higher.

Through blood and stone, through ash and pain,

Freedom is the breath we fight to regain.

Anakin sat at a rough-hewn table in his tent, the candle’s weak flame flickering against the soft night breeze that crept through the seams of the fabric. The clamor of the camp had begun to fade, soldiers retreating to their bedrolls after another day of skirmishes and hard marches. Yet for Anakin, rest remained elusive.

His armor lay discarded in the corner, the dented metal a testament to the brutality of recent battles. Dirt and blood clung to his hands, faint smudges smearing across the blank parchment before him. He hadn’t written a letter in years—not since his mother passed. Words weren’t his craft; they never had been.

And yet, here he sat, quill in hand, staring down at the blank page as though it were an adversary.

The faintest image of you surfaced in his mind—the way your fingers had moved over your canvas as if weaving life into color, the soft arch of your brow as you’d stolen glances at him when you thought he wasn’t looking. He shook his head, willing the memory away. But it clung stubbornly to him, just as your presence had lingered in the halls of the castle long after he’d left.

With a sigh, he pressed the quill to the page. The first words came haltingly, their formality feeling both a shield and a chain.

“My rose, I trust this letter reaches you swiftly and in good health.”

He stared at the words, his jaw tightening. Too cold, too distant. But wasn’t that safer? Still, something inside him rebelled against leaving it there.

“The days here are long and unforgiving, but it is the nights that weigh heaviest. When the fires die and silence falls over the camp, my thoughts stray to the castle—to you. It is a strange thing, for I have spent my life carving paths through stone and steel, yet now I find myself wondering what might lie beyond them.”

Anakin paused, his brow furrowing. He had always been a man of action, not introspection. But the words seemed to pour from a place within him he didn’t fully understand.

“I am no poet, nor a man given to sentiment. Yet, as the days pass, I find myself curious. You are not what I expected. Your quiet strength is a balm I did not know I needed, though I lacked the grace to see it before I left.”

The quill hovered over the page, its tip trembling as he fought against the vulnerability clawing its way into his chest. He thought of the way your eyes had flickered with defiance during the wedding reception when Count Aulbry had dared to slight him. The memory stirred something deep within him—a flicker of admiration and something else he dared not name.

“Perhaps you see me as a hard man. I would not blame you for it. The battlefield has no room for softness, and I have worn that truth like armor for many years. But in the quiet moments, I begin to wonder—what might a life beyond war look like? What might it be to know peace? To know you?”

Anakin leaned back, running a hand through his disheveled hair. The words felt foreign, almost too raw, but there was no taking them back now.

“When the fires die and silence falls over the camp, my thoughts stray to the castle—to you. It is a strange thing, for I have spent my life carving paths through stone and steel, yet now I find myself wondering what might lie beyond them.”

He glanced at the folded leather notebook lying on the edge of the table, the same one he had taken to scribbling in after long days of battle. It was filled with fragments—half-formed thoughts, lines of poetry he would never dare to share. He briefly considered copying a verse into the letter but shook his head. That would be too much.

Instead, he signed the letter with practiced precision.

“Yours sincerely, General Anakin Skywalker”

He folded the parchment carefully, sealing it with his family’s insignia. As he handed it to his most trusted messenger, his voice was low and firm. “This is for Lady Skywalker. Ensure it reaches her swiftly and safely. Do not linger.”

The messenger saluted and disappeared into the darkness. Anakin stood alone in the dim glow of the tent, staring at the candle’s flame as it danced and sputtered.

Why had he written to you? He wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was guilt for the way he’d left, or perhaps it was the way your painting had lingered in his mind’s eye, haunting him with its quiet beauty. Whatever the reason, the act of putting his thoughts to paper felt like loosening a knot in his chest.

He reached for the notebook and opened it to the last page, where a half-finished poem lay scrawled in his uneven hand. The words seemed to taunt him, unfinished and raw, but they felt truer than anything he had spoken aloud.

“Beneath the armor, beneath the steel, Lies a yearning I dare not reveal. For peace, for light, for a hand to hold, In her gaze, I find my soul.”

Anakin snapped the notebook shut, tossing it onto the table. His gaze lingered on the shadows dancing across the walls, his thoughts torn between the battlefield before him and the woman he had left behind.

The letter arrived two days later, just as the sun was setting, its light spilling through the tall, narrow windows of your chamber. You sat at your desk, your brush poised above the unfinished painting of Anakin, the colors of his armor muted and incomplete. The messenger bowed as he handed you the parchment, sealed with the unmistakable insignia of House Skywalker.

Your heart stumbled. Anakin had never written to you before.

The wax seal broke easily under your trembling fingers. You unfolded the letter, your eyes scanning the elegant but reserved handwriting. The first words were formal, distant even, but as you read on, the tone shifted. Subtle hints of longing emerged between the lines, soft admissions cloaked in restraint.

A breath caught in your throat. You reread the words, each line piercing through the defenses you had built around your heart. There was something unspoken here—something fragile.

The letter ended simply: “Yours sincerely, General Anakin Skywalker.”

The parchment fluttered slightly in your hands as you set it down, the weight of his words pressing against the knowledge you carried. Your father’s betrayal.

The intercepted letter was still hidden in the bottom of a chest in the corner of your room. Its contents had unraveled the delicate threads of trust you had begun to weave with Anakin. Your father had plotted to manipulate both sides, using your marriage as a pawn in his schemes. If Anakin knew, would he believe you complicit?

You rose from the desk and began to pace, your gown brushing softly against the stone floor. The walls of your chamber seemed to close in around you as the dilemma clawed at your mind.

Anakin’s words lingered. “I begin to wonder—what might a life beyond war look like? What might it be to know peace? To know you?”

Could you risk breaking this fragile connection by telling him the truth? Would he see you as a spy for your father, as another piece in a game of politics and power? The thought of losing whatever tenuous bond was forming between you left a hollow ache in your chest.

But silence, too, was its own betrayal.

You moved back to your desk, reaching for a fresh sheet of parchment. The candlelight flickered, casting dancing shadows across the room as you dipped your quill into the inkwell.

“Dear Husband,” you began, the words coming slowly, each one weighed with care.

“Your letter reached me as the sun was setting, casting the castle in hues of gold and crimson. I find it fitting, for your words carried a similar light—unexpected and strangely warming.”

You hesitated, your quill hovering above the page. How much could you reveal without unraveling everything? How much of your heart could you show?

“You speak of carving paths through stone and steel, of wondering what might lie beyond them. I, too, have wondered. Perhaps we are not so different in this—both searching for something that feels just out of reach.”

The quill paused again. You closed your eyes, picturing Anakin as you had last seen him: the determined set of his jaw, the shadows under his eyes, the unspoken weight he carried.

“I hope this letter brings you some measure of comfort, as yours has brought me. Though we are apart, know that my thoughts are with you. May the stars guide you safely home.”

You signed the letter with a simple “Yours,” leaving the rest unspoken.

As you sealed the parchment, the weight of the intercepted letter still loomed in the back of your mind. The decision to remain silent gnawed at your conscience, but for now, you pushed it aside.

The messenger was summoned again, his footsteps echoing through the corridor as he carried your words back to the man who haunted your thoughts.

You returned to your desk, your gaze falling on the unfinished painting. The armor was only half-complete, the strokes hesitant, as if you feared finishing it would solidify the distance between you. You reached for your brush, but your hands trembled too much to paint.

Instead, you turned to the window, staring out into the growing darkness. Somewhere out there, Anakin was reading your words, just as you had read his. And somewhere within that exchange, a fragile thread of connection began to form, even as shadows of doubt lingered on the edges.

The first letter had been cautious, a measured exchange of pleasantries cloaked in formality. But as weeks turned into months, and the battles stretched endlessly across the rugged Scottish terrain, the tone of the letters began to change.

“Lady Skywalker,

The campaign against Wallace progresses steadily. Though victory is within reach, the cost has been high. I trust the castle remains secure and that you are well.

Yours,

Anakin Skywalker”

The letter had been brief, almost impersonal, yet it was the first time he had reached out since departing. It stirred something in you, a faint flicker of hope. You responded in kind, careful not to reveal too much of yourself.

“General,

The castle remains quiet, though I must admit its halls feel emptier in your absence. I hope the tides of battle turn in your favor soon. Yours, Your Wife”

The next letter came weeks later, its tone slightly warmer. His words hinted at exhaustion but carried a thread of something more personal.

“My Lady,

The battles are fierce, and the Scots fight with the desperation of men who have nothing left to lose. There is an honesty to their resistance that I cannot help but respect, though it makes victory no less bitter. In the quiet moments, I think of the castle—of its stillness and the sanctuary it must offer. I hope you find peace within its walls, even as I find none here.”

His words lingered in your mind long after you read them. You wrote back that night, pouring a small piece of yourself into the ink.

“My Dear Husband,

The castle is peaceful, though it is a hollow peace. The roses have begun to bloom again, their petals bright against the gray walls. They remind me of you—unyielding, even amidst hardship. I hope you return soon to see them for yourself.”

The letters became a lifeline, weaving an intimacy neither of you had anticipated. Anakin began writing more frequently, his words shedding their rigid armor. Each letter revealed a man wrestling with the weight of his role, his responsibilities, and the yearning for something he could not name.

“My Rose,

The days are long, the nights longer still. In the quiet hours, I find myself thinking not of the battles but of the life I might have had—one without swords or blood. It is foolish, perhaps, but I wonder what such a life would have looked like, and whether you might have been part of it.”

You read his letters with trembling hands, your heart caught between longing and fear. His vulnerability was disarming, his words a window into the man hidden beneath the hardened general.

Your responses grew bolder, though you still held back the secret of your father’s betrayal. That knowledge weighed heavily on you, a dark cloud over your growing bond with Anakin. Yet in your letters, you allowed yourself to dream, to share pieces of a future you knew might never come.

“Anakin,

Your words are not foolish. I, too, wonder what our lives might have been if the world were kinder. I see glimpses of that life in your letters—in the tenderness you try to hide, in the dreams you dare to share. Perhaps there is a part of us that can still claim it, even amidst the chaos.”

In the heart of the Scottish highlands, Anakin read your letter beneath the dim light of a lantern in his tent. He traced your words with calloused fingers, his chest tightening. For years, he had buried his softer inclinations beneath layers of duty and discipline. Yet your letters stirred something he had thought long dead: hope.

One evening, his letter arrived with a small addition—a fragment of poetry hastily scrawled at the bottom of the page.

“I do not know if these words are worthy of your eyes, But they carry the echoes of nights I cannot sleep. In their frailty, they whisper of the stars, And of a face I see in every dream.”

You read those lines over and over, your heart pounding. His words were unpolished but raw, a glimpse into a side of him he had kept hidden even from himself.

Anakin’s words grew softer, more unguarded, like sunlight breaking through heavy clouds. Each letter carried with it the weight of exhaustion and longing, but also a vulnerability he hadn’t shown before.

"The days blur into one another—steel clashing, men falling, the air thick with smoke. Yet amidst it all, your image anchors me. Your words remind me there is a world beyond this chaos, a reason to hope."

You read his letters in the quiet of your chambers, clutching the parchment like it was a lifeline. Each line drew you closer to the man you had once seen only as a distant, stoic general. In his words, you found a soul searching for meaning amidst the violence, a man yearning for something gentler, even if he didn’t know how to name it.

Your own responses began to mirror his, shedding the formality that had first marked them. Where his letters spoke of the horrors of war, you offered solace, painting images of the castle’s gardens in bloom, of the birds nesting in the eaves outside your window, of the peaceful moments you dreamed of sharing with him.

“I wish you could see the roses this spring—they climb higher than ever, their petals like drops of blood against the gray stone. I think of you when I walk among them, wondering if you are safe, if you feel the warmth of the sun through the armor you wear.”

Anakin's next letter arrived on a rain-soaked evening, its ink slightly smudged but his words unmistakably clear.

"You write of roses, and I think of the ones that grow wild near the fields we fight on. They are stubborn things, surviving against all odds. I wonder if that is why I thought of you, unyielding in your strength, even in a place where others might falter."

You traced the words with your fingers, your heart tightening at his unexpected tenderness. Each exchange stripped away another layer of distance between you, revealing the raw humanity beneath.

As the weeks wore on, the letters grew bolder. Anakin began sharing fragments of the poetry he wrote in his leather notebook, words he had once kept hidden from everyone, even himself.

"I do not know if these words are worthy of your eyes, but they have been my solace on nights when sleep refuses to come. Perhaps you will find in them some small measure of the man I wish to be, rather than the one I am."

His poetry spoke of the stars, of fleeting dreams, of longing that burned like a fire too fierce to contain.

"You haunt me in sleep—your eyes in a thousand forms, your voice a melody that slips through my grasp. I am a fool to cling to such visions, yet they are the only peace I know."

Your letters in return began to echo his vulnerability, though always with a touch of guardedness. You had not yet told him of your father’s betrayal, the weight of that knowledge still pressing against your chest.

One evening, you sat by the fire, Anakin’s latest letter spread before you. The castle was quiet, the servants retired for the night. You dipped your quill into ink and wrote with a courage you hadn’t known you possessed.

“There is a line in your last letter that has stayed with me: ‘Perhaps you will find in them some small measure of the man I wish to be.’ I want you to know that I do. In your words, I see someone who yearns for more than war and bloodshed, someone who carries the weight of others' burdens yet still dreams of a gentler world. That man is already worthy, though he may not yet believe it.”

You hesitated, then added a final line: “I, too, dream of that world, though I am not sure I will ever know it.”

As you sealed the letter, you felt the sting of unshed tears. For the first time, you wondered if you and Anakin might have been different people, had the world been kinder.

The letters continued, carrying your words back and forth like a bridge over an unspoken chasm. Though you remained separated by miles, the distance between your hearts began to shrink. In the ink-stained pages, you found something you had both longed for, though neither dared to name it yet: connection.

The castle was bathed in the faint hues of dawn when the sound of hooves echoed through the courtyard. The guards rushed to the gates, startled by the unannounced arrival of riders cloaked in frost and exhaustion. At their head was Anakin Skywalker, his armor dulled by battle and travel, his features shadowed by fatigue.

The news of his return spread quickly through the castle. You were still in your chamber, seated at your easel, a brush poised over the canvas. The unfinished painting of Anakin stood before you, a labor of longing and frustration. You had been adding the slightest details to his eyes, trying to capture the sharpness and sorrow you remembered, when the knock came at your door.

"My lady," a servant announced, "the general has returned."

The brush slipped from your fingers, leaving a streak of paint across the edge of the canvas. Your heart leapt and then sank. You hadn’t expected him back—not yet, not like this. A thousand emotions surged through you: relief, excitement, fear. How would he look at you after all these months? Would the intimacy of your letters translate into the flesh, or would the distance you had felt before his departure return?

You stood, smoothing your gown and composing yourself as best you could. When you descended to the great hall, Anakin was already there, speaking in low tones with his second-in-command. His presence was magnetic, as always, drawing every eye in the room.

For a moment, you hesitated at the edge of the hall, watching him. His face was sharper, leaner than when he had left, and there was a new weight in his gaze. Yet when his eyes found yours across the room, something shifted. His stern expression softened, just for an instant, before he turned back to his conversation.

When he finally approached you, he gave a slight bow. “My lady,” he said, his voice formal but warm.

“General,” you replied, feeling the strange distance of titles again.

“I trust you have been well?” he asked, searching your face.

You nodded, unsure what to say. His presence was overwhelming, and you couldn’t reconcile the man standing before you with the one whose tender words had filled your letters.

"I must speak with the king," he said after a pause, his tone turning serious. "There are matters of unrest in the kingdom. Whispers among the courtiers, rumors spreading like fire. I sense that something is brewing in the shadows. It is not just the threat of external enemies; it's the court itself that is beginning to fracture."

His words sent a chill through you, and the weight of them lingered. Anakin’s sharp instincts had always been his strength. He was never one to ignore the subtle stirrings of danger.

“I will find out what is happening, my lady,” he continued, his gaze hardening. “But for now, I must meet with the king. I trust you will be well while I’m away?”

You nodded again, though your mind was already swirling with thoughts. What did this unrest mean? Could your father’s machinations already be coming to a head?

Anakin hesitated, then stepped closer. “Later, we will talk,” he said quietly. “I’ve missed you.”

He turned and walked briskly toward the king’s chambers, leaving you standing in the hall, torn between the need to understand his sudden tension and the fear that you might already be too late to prevent the kingdom’s ruin.

Later that evening, after he had met with the king and addressed the court, Anakin wandered through the castle, finding himself drawn to the tower where your chambers were. He had meant to wait, to give you time to adjust to his return, but something pulled him forward.

The door to your chamber was slightly ajar, and he hesitated before stepping inside. What he saw stopped him in his tracks.

The room was filled with paintings—of landscapes, of still lifes—but most prominently, of him. There were sketches of his profile, studies of his hands, and in the center of it all, the large, unfinished portrait.

It was him as you remembered him, clad in his armor, his expression resolute yet touched by something softer. The details were painstaking: the curve of his jaw, the strands of his hair, the sharp focus in his eyes. But it wasn’t complete. His gauntlets were left as rough outlines, and the background faded into blank canvas.

Anakin moved closer, his breath caught in his chest. He reached out, his fingers hovering over the painted surface as if afraid to disturb it.

Behind him, you entered the room quietly, startled to find him there. “Anakin?” you said softly.

He turned, his eyes meeting yours. “You painted these,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, stepping closer. “I... I wanted to keep you close, even when you were far away.”

He looked back at the painting, his expression unreadable. “You see me differently than I see myself,” he said after a long pause. “In your eyes, I am... more than I feel I am.”

“You are more,” you replied without hesitation. “You’ve carried so much, fought so hard. I see it in every line of you.”

His gaze flickered to you, and for a moment, the stoic mask he wore fell away. “Your letters kept me alive,” he admitted, his voice breaking slightly. “And now this... I don’t know if I deserve it.”

You stepped closer, placing a hand lightly on his arm. “You do.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then, as if breaking from a trance, Anakin straightened. “I should let you rest,” he said, his voice once again guarded. “Thank you, my lady.”

He left before you could stop him, his footsteps echoing down the corridor. Yet as he walked away, you saw him glance back, his eyes lingering on the painting one last time.

The weight of the day’s events hung heavily between you, the silence stretching longer than either of you was comfortable with. Anakin had returned to the castle, but the shadow of the kingdom’s unrest still loomed over him, and the tension in the air was palpable. He had been gone for so long, and now, with the sharp edges of his absence still fresh, it was difficult to reconcile the man before you with the man who had filled the pages of your letters.

You watched him from across the room, his back to you as he examined a map of the kingdom, his fingers tracing the contours of the land, drawing lines of strategy and war. There was a distance between you now—one that you both seemed to carry, unspoken but undeniable.

You couldn't bear it anymore. Not the cold, not the distance, not the gnawing feeling in your chest that kept you awake at night. You couldn’t stand to watch him walk out again, leaving your heart behind. Without thinking, you pushed yourself off the chair and crossed the room, stopping just behind him. Your breath caught in your throat, but you forced yourself to speak.

“Anakin,” you said softly, the name slipping from your lips like a plea. His head turned slightly, eyes narrowing as he saw the resolve in your face. It was as if he had already known what was coming, and yet he was unwilling to acknowledge it.

“I cannot let you leave again,” you continued, voice trembling with something you could not name. “Not like this. I… I have missed you. Every day, every moment you were gone, I felt it.”

He took a step closer to you, his eyes searching your face, his expression unreadable. “I know you have, my lady. But there is much that must be done—there is unrest in the kingdom, and there are threats that must be confronted.”

“I understand that,” you whispered, “But I—” You hesitated, unable to say what you truly felt. Your heart felt torn between the loyalty to your father, who you still feared, and the love that had slowly, painfully, bloomed in the cracks of your isolation. You had learned so much during his absence, and yet you felt as though your trust was slipping through your fingers like sand.

He reached for your hand, his touch sending a jolt of warmth through you. “You don’t have to explain,” he murmured. “I know. It’s never easy, being torn between duty and love.”

“I can’t,” you said quickly, almost pleading with him. “I can’t lose you, Anakin. Not now, not after everything that has happened. But I—I don’t know if I can trust anyone anymore. Not even my own blood.” You let out a shaky breath, the confession more difficult than you had imagined.

Anakin stepped closer, his hand lifting to gently cradle your cheek. “Trust is fragile,” he said softly, his thumb brushing against your skin. “But love… love is built on it. And I want you to know, whatever happens, I am here. I will stand by you. But you must be honest with me, Aurelia. All of it. No more hiding.”

A single tear slipped down your cheek, and you closed your eyes, unable to hold it back. “I don’t know how to tell you,” you whispered, “What if you look at me like I’m just another pawn in this cruel game? What if you—”

He placed his fingers against your lips, silencing your fears. His voice was low, filled with a raw tenderness that cut through the tension. “You’re not a pawn. You’re the woman I’ve come to love. And nothing will change that.”

For a moment, you stood there in the silence, the weight of his words settling over you like a blanket, warm and secure. And then, as if the storm inside your chest had finally subsided, you closed the distance between you. Your hands reached up to pull him close, your lips finding his in a kiss that was both desperate and tender.

Anakin's eyes widened in surprise for a moment before he melted into the kiss, his arms wrapping around your waist to pull you flush against him. He held you tightly, his fingers splaying across your back as he deepened the kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth to claim you with a hunger that stole your breath away.

You clung to him, your nails digging into his shoulders as you lost yourself in the sensation of his lips on yours, his body pressed against your own. The world fell away, the weight of the day's revelations and fears momentarily forgotten as you lost yourself in the taste and feel of him.

Anakin's hands roamed over your back, tracing the curve of your spine before settling on the swell of your hips. He pulled you impossibly closer, his hips rocking against your own in a slow, sensual rhythm that sent molten heat coursing through your veins.

When he finally broke the kiss, you were both breathless, your chests heaving as you struggled to catch your breath. Anakin's eyes were dark, filled with a desire that made your heart race and your skin flush with heat.

"My rose…" he murmured, his voice rough with want.

He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that clung to your cheeks. "I know the path ahead will not be an easy one. But I swear to you, here and now, that I will stand by your side. Through whatever trials and tribulations may come, I will be your constant companion and your fiercest protector."

His gaze bored into yours, intense and unwavering. "And I need you to trust me, my love. To be honest with me, always. Hold nothing back, no matter how painful or frightening it may be. We can withstand anything - but only if we face it together."

You nodded, your voice thick with emotion as you spoke. "I trust you, Anakin. With my life, with my heart... with everything I have. I know the road ahead is uncertain and fraught with peril, but I choose to walk it with you. Always."

Anakin's hands roamed your curves, his fingers slipping beneath the fabric of your gown to caress the smooth skin beneath. He tugged at the fastenings of his armor, impatiently loosening the straps and buckles until the heavy plates fell away, clattering to the floor.

His lips trailed down the column of your throat, his teeth grazing your pulse point as he nipped and sucked at the sensitive flesh. You arched into him, your head falling back to grant him better access as a breathy moan escaped your lips.

Anakin's hands slid lower, his fingers splaying across your lower back before gripping the globes of your rear. He lifted you effortlessly, his strength evident in the way he positioned you on the edge of the strategy table, the maps and parchment crinkling beneath you.

He stepped between your parted thighs, his hips nestling against your core as he claimed your mouth in a searing kiss. His tongue delved deep, tangling with your own in a dance of passion and desperation.

Your husband’s hands roamed your body with reverent fervor, his touch a balm to your weary soul. He traced the delicate lines of your face, marveling at the beauty he found there. "My rose," he whispered, "a bloom of purest grace, your beauty far outshines the fairest flower's face."

His fingers trailed down your neck, skimming over the delicate curve of your collarbone. "These hands, once stained with battle's crimson hue, now tremble to unbind the silken threads that cloak your tender form. A sacred trust, a privilege I've earned by love's own code."

Anakin's gaze smoldered with adoration and unspoken promises as he slowly peeled away the layers of your gown, revealing the creamy skin beneath. "As I lay bare your flesh, I swear to lay bare my heart, to open wide the chamber where it beats for you alone."

He leaned in to press fervent kisses along your shoulder, his lips a brand of branding love upon your skin. "Behold, I am the thorn entwined within your stem, the guard and shield that shall defend you evermore. My life, my honor, my eternal troth, I pledge in this moment to love's eternal shore."

Anakin's hands cupped your breasts, his thumbs brushing over the hardened peaks. "These buds of beauty, tender and unrivaled, shall be my constant stars, my north and south in life's vast sea. I'll cherish them, as I shall cherish you, until the end of days, our hearts entwined as one eternity."

As he lowered his head to worship at the altar of your flesh, his voice rumbled with solemn vows. "Fair lady, my sweet rose, I am your loyal knight, your champion, your eternal friend. With every breath, with every beat of this heart that beats for you, I vow to love you, honor you, and stand by you, forevermore. Let no foe, no fate, no force on heaven or earth sunder the bond that joins us now and evermore."

His hand pressed gently on your stomach lowering you on the table as he send sweeping all his strategy papers off. “Wait…your plans…” you whispered trying to stop him.

Anakin paused, his hands stilling on your waist as he sensed your gentle protest. He looked up at you, his gaze intense and filled with a fierce, burning love. A slow, sensual smile curved his lips as he took in your flushed cheeks and heaving chest.

"My rose," he murmured, his voice low and rough with emotion, "No strategy, no plan, no matter how carefully crafted or vital to the kingdom's fate, could ever be as precious or as worth the sight of my beloved wife laid out before me like a feast for the senses."

Anakin's hands slid up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing away the last remnants of your tears. "I would gladly burn my maps and scatter my plans to the wind, if it meant I could hold you like this for eternity. You are my everything, my reason for living, my love."

He leaned in to capture your lips in a searing kiss, pouring all his ardor and desire into the caress. "Let the world wait, let the kingdoms crumble, let the wars rage on," he declared fervently. "For in this moment, with your sweet body beneath me and your loving heart entwined with my own, I have found paradise. And I will cherish it, and you, above all else."

Anakin knelt between your parted thighs, his gaze locked onto your glistening sex. The flickering candlelight cast a dance of shadows across your curves, illuminating the way your chest heaved with each ragged breath.

"Beautiful," he murmured, his voice rough with desire. "I could spend a lifetime exploring every inch of you."

Slowly, reverently, he leaned forward, his breath ghosting over your sensitive flesh. The first touch of his tongue was electric, a bolt of lightning that shot straight through you.

"Anakin!" you gasped, your fingers fisting in his hair.

He hummed against you, the vibrations adding to the pleasure that already threatened to overwhelm you. His tongue delved deeper, stroking along your slit, teasing your entrance.

"What do you want, my rose?" he asked, his voice low and intimate. "Tell me what you need."

His fingers teased your thighs, his thumbs brushing against the tender skin of your inner thighs. He could feel your muscles quivering, your body coiled tight with anticipation.

"Please," you whimpered, your hips rocking slightly as you sought more of his touch. "Please, Anakin..."

He smiled against your flesh, the action sending a new wave of sensation crashing over you. "Please what, my love? I need you to tell me."

His fingers slid higher, brushing against your sensitive clit. The touch was fleeting, a promise of more to come.

"I want...I want you to make me come," you gasped out, your cheeks flushing hotly at your own boldness. "I want to feel your mouth on me, your tongue inside me, your fingers filling me...please, Anakin, make me come."

Anakin licked a long, slow stripe up your dripping slit, savoring your essence on his tongue. At the top, he found your sensitive clit, swollen and throbbing with need. He flicked his tongue over the tender bud, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips.

"Anakin!" you cried out, your fingers tightening in his hair as pleasure sparked through you.

Emboldened by your response, Anakin sucked your clit between his lips, his tongue swirling around the sensitive flesh. He could feel you trembling beneath him, your body winding tighter and tighter.

As he pleasured you with his mouth, Anakin tugged down his trousers, freeing his aching cock. It sprang forth, long and hard, the thick length pulsing with each beat of his heart. The sight of his manhood, so powerful and ready, sent a fresh surge of arousal coursing through your veins.

Anakin's hand wrapped around his shaft, stroking himself as he continued his ministrations between your thighs. His tongue delved deeper, thrusting into your entrance, fucking you with his mouth.

The dual sensations of his lips and tongue on your most sensitive spots, combined with the erotic sight of him pleasuring himself, pushed you closer and closer to the edge of ecstasy.

"Anakin, I'm...I'm going to..." you panted, your body tensing as your climax approached.

He could feel your walls fluttering around his invading tongue, your body desperate for release. With a low groan, he suckled your clit harder, determined to bring you to your peak.

"Come for me, my love," he growled against your sex. "Let me feel you come undone."

He thrust two fingers deep inside you, pumping in and out, as his tongue and lips worked in tandem to drive you wild. The combined stimulation was too much, and with a scream of his name, you shattered in his arms.

Anakin held you close as you rode out the waves of your intense climax, your body trembling and quaking against his. He gentled you through it, his strong arms wrapped around you like a protective cocoon.

"Shh, I have you," he murmured, his voice a soothing rumble in your ear. "You're safe with me."

As your trembling subsided, Anakin pressed soft kisses along your neck and collarbone, his touch reverent and tender. He could feel the pounding of your heart, the way your skin glistened with a sheen of sweat.

"Beautiful," he breathed, his eyes shining with admiration and desire. "You're exquisite when you let go."

His hand slid up your side, cupping the curve of your breast. He could feel the soft weight of it in his palm, the way your nipple pebbled beneath his touch.

"Tell me, my rose," he asked softly, his thumb brushing over the sensitive peak. "Did that feel good?"

He knew the answer, of course. He could feel the way your body had responded, the way you'd cried out his name in ecstasy. But he wanted to hear it from your own lips, wanted to cement the connection that had begun to blossom between you.

Anakin's own need was a throbbing ache, his cock hard and heavy against your thigh. But he held himself back, determined to focus on your pleasure first. This moment was about you, about the trust and intimacy you were building.

He waited, his heart pounding in his chest, for your response. Whatever you said, whatever you chose, Anakin knew he would follow. This was your journey now, as much as his own.

“Anakin….please…take me…”You whispered, clinging to his strong back. You probably left crescent marks in his shoulder but he didn’t care. He wanted you to brand him with every single part of your body.

“Anakin, ”you cried out his name, your voice resembling a divine plea in his ears “Don’t stop…” you gasped.

Anakin's heart swelled at the desperate, needy sound of his name falling from your lips. With a primal growl, he redoubled his efforts, his hips slamming against yours with increasing force and speed.

"Never, my love," he rasped, his voice strained with exertion and desire. "I'll never stop. I'll take you again and again until you're fully satisfied."

His fingers continued their relentless assault on your clit, rubbing the sensitive bud in tight, rapid circles. The combination of his thick cock driving into you and his fingers stroking your most sensitive spot pushed you closer and closer to the brink of another shattering climax.

Anakin could feel your walls starting to flutter around his plunging length, your body tensing as your peak approached. He leaned down to capture your nipple between his teeth, biting and sucking the hardened peak as he fucked you with abandon.

"That's it, my rose," he urged, his hot breath washing over your skin. "Come for me. Scream my name as you shatter. Let all the world hear who you belong to."

His words, rough and raw with passion, sent a fresh surge of arousal coursing through you. You could feel your orgasm building, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in your core.

"Anakin!" you cried out, your voice echoing off the stone walls of the chamber. "Oh God, Anakin!"

Your body convulsed beneath his, your inner muscles clenching and rippling around his pistoning cock. The sensation was exquisite, your silken heat gripping him like a velvet vise.

"Yes, my love!" Anakin roared, his own release fast approaching. "Milk my cock. Take every last drop of my seed."

With a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside you. His cock jerked and throbbed as he spilled his hot, thick essence deep within your spasming channel. He continued to grind against you, working you through the aftershocks of your shared climax.

Anakin collapsed against you, his weight pressing you into the table as he struggled to catch his breath. His heart pounded in his chest, his skin slick with sweat from the exertion of their lovemaking.

He could feel your nails raking down his back, the slight pain only heightening his pleasure. The marks you left on his skin would be a badge of honor, a reminder of your passion and desire.

"My love," he murmured, his voice rough and sated. "That was...transcendent."

He propped himself up on his elbows, looking down at you with a satisfied smile. Your cheeks were flushed, your eyes glazed with post-coital bliss. The sight of you, disheveled and glowing, filled him with a profound sense of masculine pride.

Anakin leaned down, capturing your lips in a tender kiss. It was a kiss of thanks, of gratitude, of deepening affection. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, seeking entrance, and you granted it willingly.

As they kissed, Anakin's hand slid down your side, tracing the curve of your hip, the flare of your waist. He marveled at the softness of your skin, the way you yielded beneath his touch.

"You're exquisite," he whispered against your lips. "A goddess, made of flesh."

He knew he was being overly sentimental, but he couldn't help himself. In your arms, he felt a sense of peace, of belonging, that he had never known before. It was a feeling he wanted to hold onto, to nurture, to let grow.

Anakin's hand slid lower, cupping the rounded globe of your buttock. He squeezed gently, pulling your hip forward to grind against his own. Even in the aftermath of their lovemaking, he could feel his spent cock beginning to stir, to harden once more.

"Again?" you asked, your voice breathless with surprise and a hint of trepidation.

Anakin smiled, a wicked glint in his eye. "Is that a challenge, my rose?" he teased, his voice low and intimate. "Because I assure you, I'm up for it."

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

In your eyes, the heavens rest,

A goddess clothed in love’s caress.

You walk the earth with light divine,

And in your heart, the stars align.

#hayden christensen #anakin skywalker #anakin skywalker smut #anakin skywalker x female reader #anakin skywalker x you #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin smut #anakin x reader #evie writes

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vxlkirayaxo · 6 months ago

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Thinking about hoyoverse men who meet your parent(s) for the first time

•They don't know if they should take their shoes off or not and if they do where to put them

•They practically clingy to you in fear of touching or bumping something and offending your guardian

•at supper time they sit next to you immediately and copy all your movements so he knows if he has to pray or not

•after dinner when the baby photos come out they can almost feel the embarrassment coming off of you and don't look unless someone points

•when your guardian wants to talk to them alone silent pleas of mercy come out of his mouth even if he isn't religious

•The sigh of relief they let out is almost loud enough to be heard in a different country once you two go into the car after saying goodbyes

ART BLOCK AND WRITERS BLOCK HIT ME AHHHGUIAHHAH

#fanfic #fanfiction #genshin fanfic #hoyoverse #wanderer x reader #childe x reader #dan heng x reader #boothill x reader #itto x reader #your favorite character #hoyoverse fanfic

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palestinegenocide · 11 months ago

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The flour massacre...

families lost their beloved members.

people killed with no mercy

Some put the death toll around 112

280

injured

This is what the iof said when confronted:

The Israeli version of events changed over the course of the day. The first account given by the Israeli military was that the victims had died in a stampede in which people had been “killed and injured from pushing, trampling and being run over by the trucks”. Later, Israeli military officials briefed the Guardian and other news outlets to say that their forces had only opened fire on a crowd that threatened them after the aid convoy had moved on, and that most of the casualties were caused earlier by the stampede or people being knocked down. Israeli officials also questioned the death toll from Palestinian authorities.

We all know by now that the only thing israel knows how to do is lie

THEY OPEN FIRED ON A HUNGRY CROWD.

They have been purposely starving all the people stuck, and as soon as aid arrives, they kill all of them with no mercy.

I swear this is some dystopian hunger games kinda shit.

MEN WHO SAID GOODBYE TO THEIR FAMILIES PROMISING TO COME BACK WITH FOOD WILL COME BACK NO MORE 💔

We will never forgive you israel, we hope your downfall will be as painful as the pain you have caused every single Palestinian.

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gingernut1314 · 1 year ago

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Little Game Pt. 2

Dracule Mihawk x F!Reader

Summary: Mihawk has found you once more after a month of hunting after you--a month of playing your little games. Found you in yet another poor excuse for a bar, except it seems you have forgotten all about your game. Forgotten and were dulling your usually sharp sense away with drink after drink. But Mihawk hasn't forgotten. Your game is still on and he plans on winning.

Tags: angst, fluff

Word Count: 4.9K

Setlist:

Emotions

I Wanted to Leave

A/N: I'm soooo sorry it's been such a long time! I'm in my last year of college and it's absolute hell on earth and the work is insane. I hope you all enjoy! 🩷

↞ to One Piece Masterlist | Request Rules | Blog Navigation ↠ Part 1 | Part 3

Mihawk had traveled thousands of miles from his Marine-ravaged home. Had smuggled himself onto cargo ships and luxury vessels to get to island after island. Had begged to join the first pirate crew he could find so he might learn to sail and build his strength. Had begged on his knees, forehead bowed so low it had touched the ground with anger-fueled tears in his eyes to the first swordsman he could find to teach him the delicate art of the blade.

Had begged on hand and knee to every swords master he came across to teach him. To help him draw closer and closer to that end goal he would do anything to achieve.

He would become strong. Become the greatest swordsman the world had ever known and then he would lay waste to the Marines. He would spare them no mercy, just as they had spared his home no mercy. Just as they had spared his mother no mercy.

It was a goal--no, a vow bound by blood and death herself that led him here to this small island. An island covered in ancient, towering trees. An island home to a secluded and unknown people. Home to the greatest swordsman of a long-ago era. A swordsmen who had lived 180 years and had never lost a fight.

His yellow eyes scanned the dark wood he had been warned was full of monsters--devils waiting to tear any traveler brave enough to enter its thick, fog-filled brush. His last master had warned him many men had gone in looking for the great swordsman to learn from him, just as Mihawk, but they never reached his log cabin at its center. They had hardly stepped foot into the wood before its guardian attacked.

Mihawk calmly stated he would be the first to make it. Would face this Guardian of the Wood and all its devilish monsters and win. He would find the great swordsman and prove to him he was worth his teachings.

The forest hardly looked dangerous. Especially when he spotted the yellow-gold petals of marigolds that he could see littered the leaf-covered floor.

No monster in sight. No devil. No Guardian.

Mihawk placed his hand over the hilt of his sword at his side and started into the dark forest. Had just passed a rather large bunch of marigolds when someone landed on the ground before him, having hopped down from their spot amongst the treetops.

Mihawk scolded himself for not having spotted the figure, knowing he would have seen them had he not been so preoccupied thinking about devils. The tip of a naginata pressed into his chest.

“Are you a pirate?” The voice that came from the figure was silky and calm, yet held dark danger within its melody. It was a voice unlike any other Mihawk had heard and its wielder was just as rare. You looked like some wood nymph. Like the mystical yet deadly creatures Mihawk had heard sung on the lips of pirates and sailors alike come to life.

“I am here for Rivers Achilles.” You frowned deeply, that sharp blade never leaving Mihawk's chest. He looked you over carefully. Looked over your well-trained stance, one only gained from practice and patience Mihawk knew all too well. Took in the fact you must be around Mihawk’s own age of fourteen. No. He could tell you were older. A year--maybe two.

“Do all you pirates have a monthly meeting to discuss such originality?” Mihawk narrowed his eyes the slightest bit. Watched your eyes spark like you enjoyed his small reaction.

“I do not have time to waste on some dirt-smug girl.” Mihawk saw you were hardly dirt smugged. You were pertinently clean as if you had washed before climbing up into that tree. He said it to snuff out that spark of enjoyment you had gotten from baiting his temper. An anger he was slowly training himself to wrangle away. “Now. Move before I move you.”

You laughed. A small thing that grew into an all-out bellow. It was a laugh that matched your darkness. Your rareness. It had Mihawk blinking, as if stunned at its sound.

“You step another inch in my wood, pirate, and I will break your nose.” You threatened, that dangerous tone laying in the background of your voice pooling thick like venom to its forefront. It was--intoxicating to hear. A sound Mihawk wanted to drag from you again and again.

“Are you the Guardian of the Wood?” Your shoulders rose and pride swelled in your eyes.

“If you have heard of me then you have heard of what I have done to many a pirate such as yourself. I make them disappear--vanish them from the face of the earth.” Mihawk watched you slowly. A slowness that sparked anger in your eyes.

It was an anger that Mihawk knew too well. An anger that matched his own in intensity and fury like some twin flame. Someone had hurt you--had taken someone from you, just as those Marines had taken his mother. Had left you feeling so weak and empty it left that anger to fester and grow out of control in you, just as it had in him. It was an anger he wanted to lash out at. One he wanted to direct his own anger at.

“I thought you would be--” He paused, letting his eyes roam over your body again in a bored manner. “--more.” That fiery anger flared brightly. Had your knuckles going white wrapped as tightly as they were around the staff of your naginata. “How disappointing to find you are just some feral, dirt-covered girl.” Oh yes--yes there it was. Such anger. Anger to match his own. Anger that would rival him like none other ever could.

Mihawk had hardly seen you move before you were bringing the staff of our naginata to ram into his nose. A sickening crunch sounded in Mihawk's ears as pain flared in his face, nearly blinding him.

A pain that blinded him from seeing you move to kick him hard in the chest, sending him flying out of the woods and back onto the black sand of the beach he had just landed on near minutes ago.

His anger flared then, but he could only blame himself. He had been distracted by your own anger. By your dangerous voice and your rare beauty. Stupid, idiotic distractions on his part.

“A runt such as yourself should know his place.” You hissed as Mihawk shoved himself to his knees, wiping the blood from under his broken nose as he laid his yellow eyes on you once more. Found you had left the darkness of your wood and stopped before him looking like some vengeful goddess fallen straight from the heavens. “My father does not wish to waste his time training the likes of pirates. Weak pirates such as yourself, runt.”

Your father was Rivers Achilles--yes, it made sense now. Your rarity made sense. Your strength and skill. Your father was no ordinary man, therefor his offspring would be just as inordinary--spectacular.

“I am no runt and I am not weak. I will pass you. I will bow before Achilles and he will train me.” Mihawk declared, cold sea water spraying at his dark leather boot-covered feet. “Your little game will do nothing to stop me from becoming the greatest swordsman this world has ever seen.”

That excited spark flashed in your icy eyes again. A spark that flickered and twirled with your anger. A wicked, cat-like grin crossed your face--a grin that was so stunning it nearly stole Mihawk's breath away--did steal it.

“Game on.”

Mihawk had been tracking you for a month now. A month longer than he liked, but you never gave up the chase. Never slowed or stopped long enough for Mihawk to grab hold of you. All he ever saw of you was the trail of perfect chaos you left behind.

He had followed you through the North, South, East, and West Blues. Had followed you into the Grand Line, full of all its dangers, and back, only to follow you right back into its mysterious waters. And just when he thought he had caught up to you, would have you within his grasp, you had disappeared like smoke between his fingers.

Despite how long his pursuit of you had taken, he found it excited him. Had him looking forward to the coming dawn, something he had long ago started to dread.

He assumed it was because you excited him--had always kept him on his toes. You were a rare woman. One that had always challenged him in skill and wit--that matched him as perfectly as one could match another.

Part of him wished you would just give in. Come with him back to Kuraigana Island and let him indulge you in every luxury he had ever wanted to give you. It was a foolish wish, but one he held regardless. One he knew would never come true unless he won this little game of yours.

A game you seemed to have forgotten for the night, because here you were, in another run-down, dirty, overcrowded bar on some backwater island in the Grand Line, drunk out of your mind. It was unlike you, to be this careless. Not when it came to your games--when Mihawk was playing them just as you had wanted.

But there you were, downing the last of your beer, hardly grimacing at the taste as he knew you usually would, too drunk to even taste it. There you were, looking so--exhausted. It was an exhaustion Mihawk knew too well--that weight heavy on his shoulders as it seemed to do you. An exhaustion that had Mihawk pausing. Almost had him leaving this too-small bar and all its too-drunk inhabitants.

Almost.

A drunk man bumped into Mihawk with a slurred apology, but he hardly heard it. Hardly even felt the pathetic man running into him. Not when he was so close to you. Not when he was so close to winning the game you had started.

“Why is it you continue to frequent such nightmarish establishments?” Mihawk's voice should have had you sobering up. Should have had you scrambling to escape back out to sea and leave him and this island far behind. But his voice--so smooth and calm and utterly bored had you tingling in excitement.

You had missed his all-too-calm dementor. Had missed him, his face, and his stupid hat.

On a small hiccup, you turned to look up into those piercing yellow-gold eyes you had missed the most. Eyes you wished you could look into forever.

With your thoughts fogged nicely thanks to the copious amounts of alcohol you had consumed, you had no embarrassment or strength for good decision-making when you placed your palm over top of his hard-earned abs. The warmth of his skin seeped into your freezing fingers as you ran them over his skin.

“Mi-hic-hawk.” You purred up at the unamused man, all but fighting against your hiccups. You flashed him a sly grin. “How’d you find me?” You slurred horribly.

“You are being sloppy.” You hummed as you brought your other hand to run along his skin, taking in his warmth and power that all but radiated off of him in dangerous waves.

“You always know just how to--hic-- sweet talk a girl.” You said, running your hands around his waist, where they disappeared under his dark jacket. Where they felt the equally as strong muscles lining his lower back. “Say something mean to me again, Mihawk. Pretty--hic--please.”

Mihawk blinked down at you for a single moment before swiftly removing your hands from his body. You pouted, going to grab for him again, but he brushed you off once more. “Stop.” You whined pathetically, “You’re being mean.”

“You asked me to mean,” Mihawk said the fact simply in that overly bored manner he hid behind. With a huff, you stopped your attempts at touching him and crossed your arms over your chest.

“I didn’t say sh-hic-oo me away.”

“You are drunk, Y/N.” You rolled your eyes dramatically, turning back around on the bar stool you sat on to find the bartender again.

“And you’re not. It’s --hic-- boring.” You hissed as the bartender came over. “I will have your finest beer and my --hic-- best friend will have your oldest wine.” The woman’s eyes darted to Mihawk making you fix her with an icy glare. Her eyes looked a little too long in Mihawk's direction. Had looked over his face and body for too long. “Don’t look at him. I can only look at him.” She was quick to snap her eyes away, her face going pale in utter fear.

“Y-yes ma’am. We-we only have a red blend from a year ago.” You sighed.

“He will deal with it.”

“Y/N, we are leaving,” Mihawk said as the woman rushed off. You gave another dramatic sigh, turning back to face him. Those yellow-gold eyes had never once left you and you couldn’t help but enjoy being in their sights.

“Mihawk, we are--hic--not. I just ordered.” He continued to look unamused. Continued to fix you with his own sharp stare. One that never quite seemed to overpower your own. “Is it because I ordered you bad wine?”

“Bad wine or not we are leaving.” You narrowed your eyes up at him. Narrowed them so sharp you willed them to cut him open.

“It’s my--hic--day off. If you are going to be a party pooper then you should --hic-- leave.” It was the exact opposite of what you wanted him to do, but you had landed on this island to get drunk. So drunk you would hopefully wake up with dark spots in your memory.

“I will. With you.” He insisted. You rubbed your eyes roughly, that exhaustion you had come here to escape returning with a vengeance.

“You are such an --hic--asshole.”

“Poetic.” Mihawk monotoned. You hissed, yanking your hands away from your face and flinging them up in the air.

“I’m drunk, Mr. Smarty-Pants. Leave me be.” Your beer was placed before you and you were quick to scoop it up. The bad glass of wine went untouched by Mihawk. “Do you want to know --hic-- something?” You asked the bartender who hesitated. Hesitated and stayed after you fix her with your icy glare once more. “This--hic-- guy acts all tough but really --hic-- he wants to leave because all these people are making him--hic--itchy. He’d rather just sit on his pert little ass in the dark.” You said, a giggle leaving your lips.

The bartender’s eyes darted back to Mihawk and you slammed your fist on the countertop, making the glasses rattle and the bartender nearly jump out of her skin. “I said don’t look at him.” You watched her chest heave up and down in fear as you took a long sip from your beer. “Talking about pert little asses. Mihawk once ran naked--”

“Enough, Y/N.” Mihawk all but commanded you, making you tense. It was a command you bristled at--made your anger begin to heat in your chest rather quickly. Too quick for you to grab hold of and control, especially when you were this drunk. “We’re leaving.”

“Fuck you! Fuck you and fuck the Marines and --hic--fuck you again.” You hissed, standing from your stool only to nearly fall off it in the process. Mihawk stayed planted in his place, even when you ran into him during your oh-so-graceful fall. “You can’t tell me what to--hic--do.”

“You are stumbling around like a no-good drunkard. Collect yourself.” You stomped your foot and pushed Mihawk with another hiss like some child. The swordsman hardly seemed to even feel your attack. A fact that had you seething and going to do it again, but he grabbed your wrists in a tight hold. “Enough.” He commanded again. You yanked against his grip but it stayed strong.

“Let me go.” You hissed at him, yanking again.

“We are leaving. Whether you do so on your own two feet or I carry you out makes no difference to me.” Your anger surged in your chest. Surged in defiance at his orders. You were not one to be ordered around. Especially by him.

“You will unhand me this instant or I will--hic--break your nose.” Something flashed in Mihawk's golden eyes. Something--sad. A sad that called to your own sadness which had been welling and pooling within your chest for years now. Pooling to the point of near flooding. A flood you resorted to drinking to dam it up.

Mihawk’s grip around your wrists fell, but he made no sign of leaving. Made no sign of moving a single muscle from his spot before you. Made no sign of giving up on his declaration of leaving this bar with you in tow.

In your drunken state, you thought this was a perfect opportunity to draw your black blade, which you had left uncovered at your hip. You swung, your muscles moving on near memory, at the frustrating swordsman before you, causing the bartender and a few people around you to scream out in fear.

Mihawk sidestepped your attack and before you could blink, your sword was skillfully pulled from your grasp and you stumbled forward with a roar. “Give it--” Your words were cut off by a yelp as Mihawk grabbed you up in his strong arms, throwing you over his shoulder.

Your right shoulder hit Yoru’s hilt painfully and you had to quickly throw your hands out to stop your face from colliding with the black blade strapped to his back. Mihawk wrapped an iron-like arm around your thighs to keep you in place before starting for the exit.

Your vision blurred from the sudden movement, but it didn’t stop you from pounding on Mihawk’s powerful back and kicking your feet as best you could in your weak attempt to escape. His hold on you never lessened, only seeming to tighten in your struggle.

“Let me go, Mihawk!” You shouted, pulling yourself up enough to try to catch of glimpse of his face, only for his stupid hat to hit you in the face. You gave a frustrated little growl. “This is not fair! I’m drunk!”

“Drunk or not, you started the game. I plan on finishing it.” You huffed in frustration, punching his back once more to no avail.

The bar fell away and soon you were being carried through the night-filled streets of the backwater village you had found. You continued to fight against his hold until your stomach stirred nauseously and your vision blurred to the point you could hardly see.

With a pathetic moan, you let your body go limp against his back, your body bouncing with every graceful step he took. It only made your nausea grow, but you were too dizzy to do anything about it.

“Tire yourself out?” Mihawk asked something like amusement finally filling his smooth voice.

“I’m going to vomit all over your fancy little sword.” You murmured, making the man sigh deeply through his nose.

“Are you serious?” You moaned, feeling bile rise in your throat. Your world spun and blurred around you as Mihawk dragged you off his shoulder, a movement that only had that bile rising sharply and your mouth filling with hot spit. You were placed on your feet, but your knees gave out with little warning. Tiny rocks dug into the flesh of your palms and into your kneecaps.

You cursed, taking deep breaths of the chill night air, hoping to settle your upset stomach. Maybe you had overdone it on the drinks--but unfortunately for you, this is what you had set out to accomplish, and sober you knew she wouldn’t have to deal with all of this nastiness.

You had just opened your mouth to relieve your aching stomach when strong hands collected your hair away from your face. Hands that held your hair in a manner so soft you hardly felt it. You vomited before you could think much more on whose hands were holding your hair up.

“Why were you in that bar, Y/N?” Mihawk asked, voice low and so--gentle. As gentle as the man could make it seem. You huffed in and out deeply, catching your breath.

“Why do most people go to --hic -- bars? To get drunk.” You hissed as best you could between breaths. Bile rose in your throat and your stomach rolled once more. Gods--

“Yes,” He sighed, annoyed at your comment. “But you don’t go to bars to get drunk. Not when you are set on a task. Not ever.” You huffed a moan before throwing up once more.

“I’ve changed.” You huff out, catching your breath once more. Mihawk was quiet behind you. A quiet that ate at you more than you wished to admit. Your vision blurred again. But it was a blur that had nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the tears welling in your eyes.

You had drunk too much. Way too much if it was bring you to tears. Tears you could do nothing about to control, not in the state you were currently in. Not when the man making you cry was behind you, holding your hair like there was nothing wrong between the two of you. Like you were back on your home island, stealing alcohol from your father and sneaking off to the only bar on the whole island.

Your home. Your father. Your forest. All gone. Just like that in the blink of an eye. How had it happened? How had you let it happen? You had been your home's Guardian, just as your mother before you, and her mother before her. It had been your job, your responsibility to protect it from such dangers.

It had been your life's purpose and you had failed. Failed and lived. Lived when you should have died protecting it.

“Y/N--” Mihawk started, but you swatted his hands away as you turned your body away from your puke. You buried your face in your hands to keep the swordsman from seeing your tears. From seeing your weakened and broken state.

“Leave me be. Please.” You all but begged. Gods you were pathetic. So far from the proud and strong person you had once been in your youth. So old and angry and tired.

“I’ve seen you at your lowest. Some sick and a few drunken tears are hardly going to deter me.” He said on a sigh like you should have already known that.

You pulled your face from your hands to glare at him where he knelt behind you. To tell him to leave on a venomous hiss--to throw insults his way, but his hand disappearing into his jacket pocket caught your eye. It reappears with a golden hair clip, diamonds sparkling in the lamp lights as he showed it to you.

“That’s my--” You started in disbelief.

“You forgot it on my ship when you left.” He said, handing it to you. You took in gently in your hands and before you could even begin to process everything, his hands were in your hair once more. He gently pulled and twisted it, mimicking how you had done your hair a million and one times before without so much as a thought of his ever-watchful gaze. His free hand plucked the golden clip from your hand and nestled it securely in your hair.

He had kept it. Had not only kept it, but had kept it on his person. Kept it close and ready to use if you ever needed it once more.

When he was done, you turned to stare bug-eyed up at him, tears still refusing to halt their endless fall. Calm. He was always so calm. A calm that frustrated you and grated on your nerves to no end, but was such a familiar, comforting presence. A presence you had yearned to be around more than you yearned to hunt down every last Marine you came across.

Hesitantly, he reached for you. So hesitantly he gave you enough to slap him away, but you made no move to do so. Made no move to stop him as he brushed your tears away with his thumb.

His touch sent your eyes watering all over again. His touch and his actions were so gentle and kind and so utterly unfair. So unfair because you couldn’t give in. Not now. Not for a long, long time.

Gods how you wanted to give in.

“I can’t--I can’t go with you.” You said in a low, grave tone. Mihawk brushed his thumb over your cheek once more before pulling away, making you feel that cold aloneness you had been trying to chase away with drink. He gave the slightest of nods.

“I know.” He said just as lowly, his face seeming to harden further. You watched him grab your black blade, which he had placed on the ground beside him. He resheathed it at your side skillfully and reached for you again, grabbing you under your arms and lifting you to your feet. You swayed like a great gust of wind had blown into you, your drunkenness having yet to wear off.

Mihawk hardly made a single sound before he was lifting you off the ground once more. Made no sound as he prompted you to wrap your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist. You did so without much thought, the action having been memorized by your body.

It was something the two of you had done many times over the years, whether it be you clinging to his back or front. Whether it be because you were too drunk or injured to walk, you would cling to him and he would hold you tight. It was something he had grumbled endlessly about the first few times you’d insisted upon it, but had slowly grown used to it to the point he would pick you up as such without your prompting.

Your eyes catch his own briefly. Eyes so bright they were like the sun. A sun your soul begged to orbit one more, but your pride beat it down. Had you looking away and placing your cheek on his shoulder, taking his rose and expensive cologne scent deep into your nose so that you might hold on to it for that much longer.

Mihawk felt like a teenager again, holding you like this. It was--refreshing, though if anyone of importance saw him in such a way, there was sure to be trouble. But for now, in this small village in the middle of the Grand Line, he could get away with it. Could hold you close and keep your seemingly ever-cold body warm.

He had marked where your ship was docked before he had ever docked his own, so finding it again was hardly a chore.

Your ship was just a tab bit larger than his own, still designed for a single crew member to sail, but large enough for a much more spacious sleeping quarters and kitchen. That had been something you had complained about endlessly when having sailed with him on his own ship.

He readjusted his hold on you so he might open the door that led to the inner workings of your ship. It was neat and tidy, just as his own was, though the walls covered in numbers and markings were unlike anything on his own ship.

They were Marine branch numbers, ones you had come across during your journeys. Underneath each number were tally marks which he assumed represented how many ships you had destroyed flying those same numbered flags. The branches you had completely whipped off the face of the earth he found were crossed out.

It was impressive how many Marines you had wielded your perfect chaos against. Impressive and worrisome because he knew as the number grew, the more you would be noticed. And the more you are noticed, the more likely it was they would send another one of the Warlords to slaughter you.

Garp had warned him of this the last time they spoke. Had commanded Mihawk to get you under control or you would be spared no mercy. It was Mihawk's first and final warning to stop you before you got yourself killed.

And as much as Mihawk wanted to take you away to his new home, to keep you out of the prying eye of every last Marine and pirate that sailed the seas, he knew he needed to wait. To play your game and win it, or there would be no victory. No having you back by his side.

You had fallen asleep sometime during the walk, so you made no fuss as Mihawk placed you in bed. You merely grumbled something in your sleeping state as he pulled your boots off and took your sword from your side, propping it against the wall.

He watched you for a long moment. Watched your softened features as you slept.

So rare. You were too rare to let go. To give up on and allow to die. You were Mihawk’s twin flame. A flame he would fight and die for if given the chance. You were the only person alive he would truly bend to.

And bend he did by letting you go. By playing your little game. A game he vowed to win the right way.

Previous | Next

#mihawk #mihawk x reader #dracule mihawk x reader #mihawk x you #mihawk x Y/N #dracule mihawk x you #dracule mihawk x Y/N #one piece #opla #mihawk one piece #mihawk opla #dracule mihawk opla #dracule mihawk one piece #dracule mihawk #dracule “hawk eyes” mihawk #hawk eyes mihawk #little game #divider by saradika graphics #divider by saradika

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dualityvn · 6 months ago

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UT!Ten, I am indeed mad...ly smitten hehehehe (⁠｡⁠ﾉ⁠ω⁠＼⁠｡⁠) Of course there are still human men, but I'm very interested in you!!

Your forest seems equally as beautiful as it's guardian... If you'd so graciously allow it, I'd love to visit and walk around for a day. I promise to behave myself as a guest should 👉👈

- 🍀✨

*grumble* "You may wander around near the edge. If I find out you stirred trouble, I won't show mercy." - UT!Tenebris

#duality game #duality tenebris #ut au

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strqyr · 8 months ago

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when cinder said "this is what happens when you hand over your trust, your safety, your children, to men who claim to be our guardians, but are, in reality, nothing more than men." and "huntsmen and huntresses should carry themselves with honor and mercy, yet i have witnessed neither." tho........ man.

kills me every time.

#rwby #cinder fall #the hold her past has on her #understandably but STILL #anyway. can't wait for her to make herself an obsidian arm ✌

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magnoliasandarson · 6 months ago

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gods of gotham- athena

In myths and legends, Athena is an imposing figure. She is the patron of heroes, the guardian of Athens, and the goddess of war. She is beyond the judgment of mortals, beyond the hedonism of her fellows. But there is an other quality to the goddess, beyond her goodness and mercy. For Pallas Athena earned her name not through civility- but through artistic brutality.

The epics tell the tale of a goddess donned in gleaming golden armor, her voice echoing from on high, leading the worthy through their times of turmoil. Her shield was leant to those who proved themselves pure of heart and wise, for only those of Athena could wield the power of Athena. She was adored amongst heroes, for how could she not be? The leader of leaders, the beacon of morality and strategy. Let the stories remember her this way.

But Pallas Athena did not gain her name by allowing heroes to carry out her will. No, the war goddess hefted her spear and fought with the other gods, bloodying her chiton and dulling her blade in combat. She claimed her name with the lifeblood of a Giant, turned his image into her aegis. What can be said of such an act? She destroyed legions of men with strategy and spear; she shielded her own armies behind her aegis. The vengeance of Athena was strategic, but the justice of Pallas Athena was brutal. Let the stories leave her cruelty out.

In Gotham, the name Oracle was unknown to all but a select few. But those that knew of her, spoke in hushed reverence of the omniscient eyes guiding their weapons and fists. Her vision gifted to those in turmoil- leading the worthy to protect those in need and to exact her vengeance on those who earned it. Her commands were sharp and concise, ordering superhumans with the authority of a goddess. She was adored amongst heroes, for how could she not be? The leader of leaders, the guiding voice directing each act of warranted violence. Let the stories remember her this way.

But Batgirl did not gain her name by sitting back and allowing others to carry out her violence. No, the vigilante carried her own blades and fought with the other heroes, staining her suit in blood and bruising her fists in combat. She claimed her name from Batman, turned his symbol into her own, and created a name feared in its own right. She destroyed organized crime with a cutting smile and even sharper blades; she shielded the needy behind her cloak. The work of Oracle was strategic, but the justice of Batgirl was brutal. Let the stories leave her cruelty out.

Welcome back, Athena- your people have missed you.

In Greece and Gotham, when screams echoed through the air and warriors and wounded alike prayed for salvation, a voice of power echoed from on high. After the battle was won and night gave way to day, heroes would whisper of their savior. For strength must always bow to wisdom.

#dc comics #dc universe #dc #batman #batfam #barbara gordon #batgirl #oracle #oracle dc #athena #pallas athena #greek myth retellings #ancient greek mythology #greek mythology #babs gordon #did you guess right?

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kiaratheartist · 7 months ago

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I had this idea for a while now, and I wanted to draw it. So here's Magical Boy Crow.

Info -

It's a legendary skin. Possibly costs 299 gems.

When he hits an opponent, the poison effect will be butterflies attached to the brawler. (possibly eating the Brawler)

2 super 3d models.

Inspired by Star Guardian and Evori Dreamwing Bundle

May or may not be an A.U.

A.U. INFO

If I make it an A.U. He's a guardian that fights evil and looks over humans. (basic and boring, I know) But unfortunately, the humans are scared and/or hate Crow. But why? Is it because he's an anthro crow? That's sad.

If he's on duty watching over humans at day time, he is given a human disguise.

He is chosen because..... He's made for it? Does he have a purpose?..

He turns into a butterfly to be more hidden. But why give him a human disguise if he could just transform into a butterfly? Do you think all Magical Boys/Girls want to be an insect all the time? Apparently to Crow, he prefers to use human disguise.

"Why ami a butterfly instead of an actual Crow? What actually ami?". "It suits you it's for the aesthetic."

"Crow, you're weak without your wand. Take good care of it, okay?" " ... "

Voice Lines

Spawing -

"Dance with the moonbeams and win!"

"I'm THE Guardian!"

"Too pretty to die!"

"I see the stars!"

""Who said men can’t have a bit of sparkle and charm?"

"Trust me on this."

"My butterflies will lead the way!"

"My wand is not a toy."

"By the power of the stars and the magic within!"

"If only being alive wasn't such a nuisance."

"Let's show them what true magic looks like!"

In the lead -

"May the stars guide you!"

"Maybe using my wand like this is not so bad."

"I'm your leader and your guardian!"

"This is going TOO well.

"I'm gonna catch ya!"

"Don't get bitten."

" *giggles* "

Receiving damge -

"My wings!"

"Hey!"

"Ah!"

"You won't be a problem, will you?"

"You want a magical duel?"

"Fight me, parasite!"

Defeating an enemy -

"My butterflies will loooooove you!"

"May the universe have mercy on you."

"I saw your future. Not so bright."

"This is sad."

"Embarrassingggg." /ref

" *humming* "

"This won't hurt!"

"Womp womp"

Defeated -

"I was never made for this..."

"I got humbled right there."

"The universe did not chose me for this!"

"Avenge me!"

"My wand.. No.."

"I don't usually fail. I never fail!!!"

Activating a super -

"High in the universe!"

"Right above the stars!"

"Flutter Crow!"

"Fly high, like a butterfly!"

"Stellar Resonance!"

"Spirit Surge!"

Extra

#SoundCloud #brawl stars fanart #brawl stars #fanart #brawl stars crow #brawl stars concept

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miraofhearts2point0 · 1 month ago

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smth people dont talk about often is the fact Niragi literally LOST HIS EYE. and i could just mention it and never talk about the symbolism but yall know me at this point.

Now, Niragi lost his RIGHT eye. Why is this significant? Well:

Matthew 5:29: "If your right eye causes you to sin, tear it out and throw it away. It is better for you to lose one of your members than to have your whole body thrown into Gehenna."

This is super interesting to me for multiple reasons: one, I'm Roman Catholic and tend to find Catholic symbolism within everything, but also because I don't think I'm reaching this time.

During the K♧, Niragi is shown to have some kind of drive for redemption; he wanted to be liked by his teammates, even when he denied it. He wouldn't have brought it up in the first place if he hadn't thought about it to begin with.

This is also significant because, in Matthew 5:29, Jesus is speaking of sexual sin specifically. One of the main sins of Sodom was the rape and sexual assaults being committed there; the city was burned due to men attempting to rape angels of God.

Sound familiar?

Niragi also burned down the Beach with his own hand, similar to the burning of Sodom and Gomorrah. Once again, there's more symbolism to be heard here, as Niragi uses his RIGHT HAND to burn the place down; Jesus is at the Right Hand of the Father, and He judges both the living and the dead. Niragi literally takes on the role of God here, the role of the Son specifically, and uses the FIRE OF JUDGEMENT to make a final decision. Also, The Holy Spirit is often represented as a flame, especially above one's head, as The Spirit decsended onto The Virgin Mary, and the Twelve Apostles on Pentecost, granting them the ability to speak in tongues; the godhood symbolism runs incredibly deep here.

It's even more symbolic when you realize that, during the 10♡, Niragi was at the highest point he could possibly be, both physically and emotionally; he was #2 at The Beach, he got a taste of that power, that kingship Aguni held, and, at the time of the confrontation with Chishiya, he was the only militant off the ground.

Again, sound familiar?

Luke 10:18: "Jesus said, 'I have observed Satan fall like lightning from the sky.'"

Keep in mind that Chishiya is not exempt from criticism either. He was literally taking on the role of God here, which in itself, is prideful; it's a sin. Chishiya is not merciful, he is not kind, slow to anger, or patient.

Another thing to note is Borderland is, basically, purgatory. This is the offical Catholic stance on Purgatory:

1031: The Church gives the name Purgatory to this final purification of the elect, which is entirely different from the punishment of the damned. The Church formulated her doctrine of faith on Purgatory especially at the Councils of Florence and Trent. the tradition of the Church, by reference to certain texts of Scripture, speaks of a cleansing fire:

Zachariah 13:9: "I will bring the one third through fire, and I will refine them as silver is refined, and I will test them as gold is tested."

So basically, Purgatory involves a purifying fire; again, sound familar?

Niragi being lit on fire, from a spiritual view, is on-par with being purified of his sins; losing his eye was apart of being purified.

That sexual sin, attempting to rape a woman, who Arisu sees as his own guiding light (similar to a guardian angel), is exactly why Sodom was burned.

He had a short redemption arc, he did, and it's not something that should go unnoticed when it's such an important reason why Arisu's team won the K♧. But, despite all that, he chose his sin above all things.

In the end, he did the exact thing Jesus spoke against of in Matt. 5:29; Niragi would rather go to Hell, his full body and mind, than sacrifice any part of himself for anyone else's sake.

Isn't it just so neat??

#i loveee ranting about Catholicism!!!!!#straight up spewed Catholic doctrine at Christmas dinner last night and blew my Lutheran grandma's mind #like yes Mary never had any other children and yes Jesus was born in September #(but thats not symbolic and would take too long to calculate w Easter so they put it on Dec. 25th)#I ALSO LOVEEEE RANTING ABOUT NIRAGI SUGURU!#I LOVE HIS ARC #I LOVE HIM #HES SO INTERESTING TO ME #alice in borderland #ima wa no kuni no alice #imawa no kuni no alice #imawa no kuni no arisu #niragi #niragi suguru #suguru niragi #catholic #catholicism

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snootlestheangel · 1 year ago

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I wanna write but I'm tired and physically incapable of stringing together a coherent thought

But I'm feeding y'all with more Bryn x Price stuffs cause I love them

Bryn is a cat person, and there's one cat in particular I'm gonna talk about. Price met Bryn back when the cat was only a few years old, but it's now an old ass cat that refuses to die or show any signs of dying.

The cat is a very fluffy, fat orange cat named Bifford. Cause it's like Clifford the Big Red Dog except its Bifford the Fat Orange Cat

I think this is hilarious and so does Bryn. This cat is like the first cat she got as an adult. Her was her little baby, she cherished him (still does but she's of the mindset he'll be gone by morning cause of how old he is).

Price and this cat got beef.

No one's really sure why, or what happened between them that may have caused this, but the two don't get along. Bifford, a normally docile, lazy cat, will lunge at Price every time he walks by. Price doesn't even do anything! He's actually good with cats for someone who doesn't have cats of his own/never had.

But Bifford? God this cat pisses him off

It's honestly not even justified for Price to still glare at Bifford when they see each other again cause it's been literally years but no! No they take one look at each other and Bifford is all hisses and growls and airplane ears and Price is all crossed arms and huffs as he complains about a damn cat.

Meanwhile, I give also the pleasant mental image of Ghost just holding Bifford like the baby he is and the thing is just purring so loud.

I just really want Price to have beef with a fat, fluffy, lazy orange cat named Bifford.

@stuffireadandenjoy @deeptrashwitch @midnight193

#Bifford a hundred percent hates Price cause “that's my mom! >:(”#and Price just wants to be loved #captain john price #john price #cod oc bryn #bryn x price #price x oc #price x oc bryn #guardian of mercy and men

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alligade · 3 months ago

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Were-kubrow Au

welcome.... to my twisted mind!!!

What if Tenno... but werewolf.

The origin of were-kubrows can be dated back to the days of the Orokin Empire, and is directly related to one high-ranking member who's name has since been lost to history. She was a lover of the exotic and macabre, and her personal guardian Warframe was the pinnacle of her collection: Beowulf, the hunter

He was modelled after an old-Earth species that had gone extinct generations ago, and named after an ancient hero. It's said that she commissioned him from Ballas in exchange for a relic of unparalleled rarity, but rumors rarely have any sort of truth to them. How she acquired Beowulf is unimportant: what matters primarily is what she did after he fell during a particularly bold Sentient Invasion.

She mourned his death as one might mourn a meal eaten too quickly. There was no care for the Warframe himself-- why should there be? At the end of the day he was only a tool. He was her muse, howling and vengeful and filled to the brim with hunger. He reminded her so pointedly of an ancient myth, told only on Naberus nights when Lua is at its highest peak and the night chill is at its most biting.

Men and women stalking the night in strange forms. Bestial, armed with claw and fang and a stomach that could never be filled. Bloody-mawed, draped in gore and fur.

How delightful! How intriguing! Surely, if she could bring this myth to life, she would not feel as bored! The silence left in Beowulf's wake would be filled with chattering teeth and inhuman growls. Yes, this was exactly what she required!

And so she visited an expert. Not Ballas-- she was not after another Warframe-- but one who specialized in the sculpting of flesh. She required a potion. One that would change the body into the shape of another for one night only. This was the most important aspect, you see. She very easily could have had another body fashioned, and then utilized kuva to bring it to life, but there would be no fun in that. The ancient were-beast of Earth were not beasts permanently. Her creations had to shift alongside Lua. This she was adamant about.

The task was difficult and the creation was lengthy but the expert was eventually successful. The Orokin Noblewoman was handed a flask, small and discrete, filled with a murky brown liquid. Only one sip would change something deep within the drinker, assured the expert. Something that would rise to howl alongside the full moon and disappeared at Sol's first light, but could never be banished completely.

And so she went-- out into the city in which she lived, giggling and skipping, drawing many curious glances from the other Orokin. Her excitement could not be contained. This would be a Naberus to remember! Now, she only had to find the perfect playmate!

Eventually, she stumbled upon the barracks of the local Dax Guard. Those in the lower ranks did not have houses of their own, and instead resided in spaces graciously handed to them by their merciful Golden Lords. Yes, they would be the perfect candidates. Loyal but strong; they wouldn't keel over at the first hint of danger. She slipped into the kitchen of said barrack, past the low-born cooks who knew better than to acknowledge what she was doing, much less even look in her direction without permission. The meals were being prepared for dinner, and after choosing a single plate at random, she tipped the flask and watched with glee as a single drop of the concoction fell.

That night, the Dax gathered and ate their food, unaware of the poison lacing one of the bowls. No one was any wiser to the fact that their food had been tampered with until--

A young Dax began to cough and sputter, clutching at the armor over his chest as his meal fell from his hands. The others were concerned, thinking he was choking and needed assistance. One of his close friends rushed to his side, asking if he needed help, but when he turned to look at her she realized something was horribly wrong.

His teeth had lengthened into fangs, and the lower half of his face jutted out unnaturally from his skull. He grabbed onto her with fingers sharpened into claws and surged forward, biting down onto her neck as the overwhelming urge to eat overcame him.

What followed was carnage; the other Dax stabbed and slashed but nothing they did stopped the beast. By the end of the hour, it was the only thing remaining.

But remain for long, it did not. It took a few stumbling steps towards the door, only to collapse, completely and utterly dead. The Orokin, who had watched all of this happen from a hidden sentry-drone, felt her heart sink. Why was her creation dead? Why had it not changed completely? This half-formed thing was not the hound she had requested!

She stormed off, knowing that she would make her displeasure known to the so-called "expert" that gave her a faulty product. What she didn't see was the crew of Warframes that had been summoned to investigate the commotion. And she most certainly did not see the child that slip from within one of them. The child knew that they would be punished severely if they were seen, but they had to get a closer look at the strange not-Dax.

They stared at the thing's bloody mouth, and reached out in order to touch one of the fangs. A sound startled them, and when they pulled their hand back, they accidentally scratched themselves on the thing's tooth. Back to their Warframe they went, curiosity only partially satisfied.

The following year, on Naberus night, the strangest thing occurred.

A Kubrow was seen stalking the halls of the most exalted Orokin cities, teeth blood-red and fur covered in tattered clothing. And it was not alone.

We wear masks and costumes on Naberus in order to hide our identities and blend in with the creatures that spend the evening seeking out their prey. It has been many years since the Orokin died, and surely that strange Kubrow couldn't have managed to survive all this time. And yet, when the clock strikes midnight, if you stand very still and strain your ears, it is said you can hear the sound of it howling, and the desperate screams of it's creator, begging to be spared her life.

This started out as a writing exercise to see if I could replicate the Naberus tales told by Grandmother and sort of spiraled from there. The story above is the story told by Tenno to explain the origins of were-kubrows, but the truth, as always, is far less straightforward.

No one is entirely sure how the curse began.

Were-kubrows spread the infliction solely through saliva. The most common method is via biting but just licking an open wound would be enough to infect someone. Anyone could theoretically become one but Tenno are the only ones that are able to both 1. complete the full transformation and 2. survive the ordeal.

They're a lot more durable than normal people and can't technically die due to their connection to the Void. This means that were-Kubrows are pretty much only Tenno.

There's no cure and most have been living with it for long enough that they either dont really care anymore or have developed ways to cope with it. It affects their daily lives very little-- they usually don't develop packs or exhibit kubrow-like traits. The only change that all were-kubrows exhibit is a heightened sense of smell. However, on full moons (not specifically Naberus) they transform into AWESOME giant kubrows.

Younger Tenno are able to hold onto their humanity more easily. They don't feel the call of the hunt as strongly, since Kubrows live in organized family structures and the young aren't expected or really capable of feeding themselves. Usually, they wait out the night alongside others close to their age.

Older Tenno (over the age of 20, usually) are consumed almost entirely by instinct and hormones. While still more intelligent than actual Kubrows, they are still animalistic and brutal. They hunt for food and gorge themselves but never feel satiated. Males fight to establish dominance, secure territory, and earn breeding rights. (Despite the fact that every Tenno is completely sterile and no actual breeding ever happens. They spend the entire night attacking each other and by the time a winner has been decided it's already morning)

Males have longer nose horns than females which they use for sparring. They also tend to have large manes of fur around their necks to protect the area from competitors while fighting. Females are not any more docile, though. They form into hunting parties that can reach numbers of over 30. While males tend to be bulkier, females are only slightly smaller in height on average.

^ Some adult were-kubrows, specifically Drifter and Delta. Adults are typically the size of a large Kubrow, though some can reach over six feet tall at the shoulder.

^ Kaz is an example of the typical adolescent were-kubrow. He has a small, dull nose-horn that indicates he is not fully mature. His ears are too big for his head and he's pissed off because he'll never get the chance to grow into them lol

erm anyways that's what I have so far feel free to scream about werewolves with me teehee

#warframe #my stuff

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asktheritochampion · 2 months ago

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So speaking of that whole duel with Link—he killed a ton of Rito, right? Why did this never come up again? Were there political ramifications to this?

You'd think that, wouldn't you?

You'd think a soldier of the Hylian royal family maiming and debilitating hundreds of Rito would reflect poorly on the Hylians.

But no. Do you know who got all the blame? Me!

The Village Elder along with the majority of the residents decided that it was all my fault for 'not training my men well enough' and 'sending them wrecklessly into battle against the great hero with the master sword.'

And people wonder why I dispise that twit.

He shows up unnanounced traveling with one of those psycotic little 'guardians' that have been attacking and killing our innocent citizens and expects me not to issue a defensive attack? He knew what he was doing - framing me as some kind of fool.

But of course, innocent little knight boy can do no wrong. It's all Revali's fault that soldiers died. He should be screamed at for half an hour and nearly have his job and rank stripped from him, and should be shunned and glared at by the entire Village for weeks like he's some kind of monster.

Some of those warriors were almost like friends to me, you know. But who cares how I feel about it? I'm just the terrible, selfish cheiftan who sent them to die for no reason. Who attacks the Royal Family's precious little blond lap dog unprovoked.

I nearly got refused the role of Champion from the Village Elder all because of that little blight and his antics. Can you imagine the state that Hyrule would have been in without me? However, I'm the one who should be 'greatful', because if the Elder and the Royal family wasn't merciful enough to let it slide and brush the deaths of my companions under the rug so that I could be named a Champion of my people, then I'd likely have been exicuted or banished or something.

All the while, golden boy gets his head pat for doing such a great job while he's washing the blood of my men from his featherless hands.

#revali #age of calamity #breath of the wild #legends of zelda #tears of the kingdom #link #rito village #rito

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anonymousewrites · 9 months ago

Text

Burden of Truth (Book 1) Chapter Thirteen

Father Figure! Marc Spector x Teen! Reader

Father Figure! Steven Grant x Teen! Reader

Mother Figure! Layla El-Faouly x Teen! Reader

Chapter Thirteen: Against Harrow and Ammit

Summary: (Y/N), Marc, Steven, and Layla face Harrow and Ammit head-on.

In the main chamber of the Great Pyramid of Giza, Ammit turned towards the exit. “Let us purify the souls of Cairo and then the world.”

Sand condensed in the path of the disciples of Ammit. They slowed warily, and their eyes widened as Khonshu and Ma’at’s figures formed out of the sand.

�� “Khonshu. Ma’at. Time has been cruel to you,” said Ammit, sneering.

“Indeed,” said Khonshu. “I cannot allow you proceed.”

“Not when you seek to harm so many.” Ma’at’s gaze went to (Y/N). “You even had the audacity to try to ask for my Avatar’s loyalty. You’ve stooped so low, Ammit.” Ma’at smiled. “Are you prepared to be the guardian of justice, harmony, and truth once more, (Y/N)?”

“Ma’at!” cried (Y/N), eyes widening in shock.

Before they could make any reply, a burst of purple light hit (Y/N), and they were thrown to the side. They hit the stone wall hard and groaned.

“Stop them from accepting Avatarhood,” said Harrow to his men, and the disciples grabbed (Y/N). “And there is someone else here who released Khonshu and Ma’at. Find them.”

“Oh, Khonshu, Ma’at, for gods, you are low on faith,” said Ammit.

“You’ll never learn,” said Khonshu. He raised his staff.

“You have betrayed the vow we took to judge souls on your scales against my feather. I cannot let you continue this,” said Ma’at, extending her arms. Feathers glinting in metal moved with her.

Ammit growled and struck. Her tailed whipped around and struck Ma’at’s wings. She hit the back wall, and Khonshu swung his staff at Ammit. She blocked it, and they struggled back and forth. She pushed him back, but Ma’at slammed her wings into Ammit’s back. The battle of the gods had begun. Khonshu darted around Ammit like smoke, and Ma’at uses the elegant movement of her wings, but Ammit had the brute force and desire to fight above that of Khonshu and Ma’at. She grabbed Khonshu by the bony neck and threw him back. She pulled several of Ma’at’s feathers out and shoved the goddess to the ground.

“Tell me to spare you, and I will,” said Ammit, approaching her former friends.

“I choose obliteration over mercy,” growled Khonshu. Then, suddenly, he tensed. “Marc?”

(Y/N)’s eyes widened, and a sudden blossom of hope came to life within them. Marc was alive? Steven was alive?

Ammit swung her tail down, but Khonshu disappeared into sand, returning to Marc’s side.

“I will take no mercy from you when you give it to no others,” said Ma’at.

Ammit raised her tail again.

“I accept Ma’at’s Avatarhood to defeat Ammit!”

(Y/N)’s voice echoed around the room. They had bitten down on their captors’ hand, pushed away, and shouted their answer.

Immediately, Ma’at’s body disappeared in a cloud of blue, and an azure light appeared in (Y/N)’s eyes. Ma’at reformed behind (Y/N), and bandages wrapped around them, forming their suit of white, blue, and gold.

“Welcome back, my Avatar,” said Ma’at. She swung her wings, and Ammit was thrown back. “Go. We cannot fight in here.”

Indeed, the minute she spoke, Ammit was upon her again, and the two gods were grappling.

“Go! Began the judgement!” ordered Harrow to his disciples.

“Stop them!” commanded Ma’at.

(Y/N) ran out after Harrow as his disciples. As Harrow climbed to the top of the pyramid, (Y/N) grabbed one of his men and threw them back into the chamber. They hit the wall and went unconscious, but there still so many, and even more numbers waited outside. (Y/N) couldn’t do this alone, and Ma’at lacked the fighting ability needed to defeat Ammit on her own.

The moment the sun dipped below the horizon, Harrow arrived at the summit of the Great Pyramid of Giza. He raised the staff and slammed it down. A bright purple light lit up the sky, brilliant and powerful and evil.

No, no, no! thought (Y/N) desperately as they fought more of Harrow’s men.

The other disciples below saw the light and moved into action, heeding his guidance. They were going to judge the people of Cairo. Even as (Y/N) knocked more of Ammit’s followers down, souls of purple light flitted into the air, ripped too soon from their bodies.

(Y/N) gasped and gripped their heart as pain lanced through them. Looking at the ground below, their eyes widened in horror. Ma’at had been thrown to the ground and was lying bleeding while Ammit absorbed the souls around her, growing larger and stronger. The mixture of their deity’s pain and the unfair judgement of the souls of Cairo sent panic and agony through (Y/N).

“Stop…Harrow…” croaked Ma’at’s voice in (Y/N)’s mind, still pinned down by Ammit as she grew stronger.

(Y/N) heeded Ma’at’s command and leapt from stone to stone, approaching Harrow as he chanted in Coptic to grow Ammit’s power further. A white form slammed into the pyramid next to them, and they jumped, fearful for a moment. Then, their eyes widened.

“Marc!” they cried in relief. “You’re here! You’re back!”

“Kid,” said Marc, abandoning his purpose for a moment to run and embrace them. “You’re alright.”

“I’m sorry, I had to read the rites, I was in pain, I tried, but I—”

“Hey, hey, you’re alright.” The suit shifted, and Steven’s voice now spoke. “We’re together again. That’s what matters.”

Purple energy fired into the stone next to them.

“Bloody hell!” said Steven, jumping.

“Harrow’s coming,” said (Y/N) in alarm.

“Then we fight,” said Marc, returning to the moment.

Harrow leapt towards them, and (Y/N) and Marc prepared themselves. On the ground, Khonshu had arrived and freed Ma’at, allowing the two gods to grow and face Ammit once more. The battle of Avatars and gods grew to new heights.

Harrow slammed his staff at Marc, but (Y/N) blocked it. It threw them from the pyramid, and Marc leapt after them, falling behind them. He caught them, and the suit shifted to Steven.

“Are you alright?” he asked worriedly.

“Look out!” said (Y/N), pushing him away as Harrow, having jumped after them, slashed his staff at them.

Marc switched in again, kicked the staff back, grabbed (Y/N), and opened his cape as a makeshift parachute. The three landed roughly in the streets of Cairo, rolling to a stop.

“You okay, kid?” said Marc, sitting them up.

They nodded. “Yeah.”

“Okay, good,” said Marc, helping them up.

A few meters away, Harrow pushed himself to his feet, his staff glowing ominously.

“Get ready,” said Marc.

(Y/N) nodded, pulling out two daggers and narrowing their eyes.

Against the pyramid, Khonshu had finally pinned Ammit with his staff. Ma’at, finally recovered and stronger as (Y/N) successfully fought, stood beside him. Ammit snapped up at them.

“There is so little difference in what we want for this world,” said Ammit, reaching up towards them. “Why do this dance for the rest of time?”

“You know the answer: we only punish those who have chosen evil,” said Khonshu.

Ammit sneered. “Oh, ‘we’ is it, now?”

“Yes,” said Ma’at. “You forsook my friendship, then you betrayed your alliance with Khonshu’s ways. We are here to prevent you from harming more people.”

“And I prevent people from committing evil. You dare to allow them to?” said Ammit. Her tail grabbed Khonshu ankle and dragged him down. His staff fell, and Ammit stood.

“Khonshu,” said Ma’at worriedly, catching him before he fell.

Ammit scoffed. “Why fight knowing you will fail?”

“Because it is our choice,” said Ma’at, slamming her wings down. Ammit braced against them, and the gods glared at one another.

“The very thing you take away,” said Khonshu.

Harrow raised his staff and fired a bolt of energy. (Y/N) and Marc dodged to the side, and each threw their own daggers at him. Harrow ducked and summoned purple energy to destroy the remaining daggers. Two more bolts of energy flashed towards (Y/N) and Marc. He leapt into the air, and (Y/N) bent backwards, handspringing away. Harrow narrowed his eyes and raised the staff again.

Wham!

A figure landed a solid hit to his side, and Harrow went flying. Layla, clad in Egyptian clothing with metallic wings, stood before Marc and (Y/N).

“Are you two alright?” she asked, smiling.

“Layla?” said Marc in surprise.

“Are you an Avatar?” said (Y/N), furrowing their brow in concern.

“Temporarily. For Taweret,” said Layla.

Harrow stood and fired energy at her. She reacted instantaneously, raising her wings and crossing them in front of her. The energy rebounded, and Harrow flew back again.

Marc instinctively stepped forward and hugged Layla. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

“You’re not made about the Avatarhood?” chuckled Layla.

“Taweret isn’t as bad as the others,” admitted Marc.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” said (Y/N), relieved.

“Come on in,” said Layla, grabbing their wrist and pulling (Y/N) into the hug, too.

(Y/N) felt themself smile as Layla and Marc hugged them. They hugged back.

“I can’t believe you’re alright,” said Layla. “I was so worried, Marc.”

“I’m here,” said Marc. He squeezed Layla and (Y/N) tightly. “I’m here.”

Steven switched in and stepped back to look at Layla. “Wow, you look amazing, Layla! What are you wearing?” Both Marc and Steven were as encouraging and caring as ever, even in their different ways.

“Harrow’s getting up,” said (Y/N), noticing before the conversation could continue. “And he’s got reinforcements.”

Indeed, Harrow had been helped up by his disciples as they crowded to his location, guns and other weapons in hand.

“Right!” said Steven. “Well, hey, I’m really jazzed about showing you guys these new skillsets we have.”

“You guys are working together,” said (Y/N), smiling.

“We’ve started to work things out,” said Steven brightly.

“Show us what you’ve got,” said Layla.

The three of them turned and ran towards Harrow and Ammit’s disciples, a team of people who cared about one another and were ready to defend the world.

Layla flew through the men, slashing them down with the swords at the ends of her wings.

(Y/N) dodged and leapt through the crowd, as agile and quick as a cat. They cut through arms and legs, gave quick stabs, and never let someone get ahold of them. They used everything they’d learned as a thief to work effectively against Ammit’s followers.

Steven slammed his fists into two men, and with his batons, he swung and knocked various disciples down before they had a chance to attack. He fought smoothly, none of the hesitation or fear or awkwardness from before. It was Steven fronting and controlling the body, but a variety of skills Marc had perfected were in the fighting style, adjusted to Steven. They truly had begun to work together.

Frustrated as his people fell to the fighting team, Harrow fired energy at Steven. He leapt and twisted in midair, avoiding the purple bolt of magic. Steven threw a baton at Harrow, btu the Avatar of Ammit hit it aside with his staff. It ricocheted back.

Marc, fronting again, caught it. It transformed into a dagger, and he cut down the nearest opponent. He and Layla nodded at each other and raced forward. They cut down opponents, and anyone that tried to stand again was handled by (Y/N), following as quickly and with as much determination as Layla and Marc.

Layla was the first to come upon Harrow, and she swung down at him. He blocked her swords with his staff, but Marc kicked at him. He was forced to pivot and block the kick instead, giving (Y/N) a moment to slide across the floor and slash at his leg. Harrow dodged, but not far enough, and a cut opened up on his calf. He turned and swung down at (Y/N). They rolled back, and Layla moved in to block it before he hit them. The four battled expertly. Every time one of the trio was attacked by Harrow, another block, and the third attack. It was a never-ending dance, all four vying to land a proper hit.

Harrow blocked another kick and slid back. Raising his staff, he swung down. Layla, Marc, and (Y/N) dodged back, but the staff hit the ground, and purple light exploded from it. The wave of energy hit the three Avatars, and they were sent flying. Layla went through a store window, Marc landed on the windshield of a car, and (Y/N) fell into café tables.

Harrow approached and swung down at them, but (Y/N) raised two daggers and, with their strength, managed to block him. Still, they were straining, and Ammit’s staff glowed with energy as Harrow forced it closer to them.

Steven slammed into him. Throwing Harrow into the wall, Steven grappled with Harrow and exchanged several blows with him. Unfortunately, Harrow’s strength was also enhanced as an Avatar, and he could attack with as much power as Steven. He grabbed Steven’s leg when he next kicked and threw him through the wall and across the street.

Marc leapt back out at him and kicked him back, delivering just as powerful a blow to Harrow. He rose, and the pair glared at one another. Harrow raised his staff, but (Y/N) jumped from a nearby roof and grabbed him. They refused to let go as Harrow tried to wrench it from their grasp. Layla flew down on his other side and shoved him back against the wall. Marc held one of his crescent daggers and swung. Harrow ducked, but the blade sliced at his staff. He kicked (Y/N), and they stumbled back. With his now free hand, he swung the staff at Layla and Marc, who dodged. Harrow darted away from the wall to open territory again.

Layla and Marc charged at him, and Harrow blocked with his staff. They each grabbed it, and the three grappled. (Y/N) ran in, and Harrow fired his staff. They dodged to the side, but Harrow took the opportunity and turned the power of the staff on a van of Egyptians trying to escape.

Layla let go of the staff and flew to help the innocents while (Y/N) leapt back to Marc’s side to fight Harrow. Ammit’s Avatar forced Marc to take a step back, but (Y/N) slammed into him from behind, making him stumble. Near the van, Layla took to protecting innocents as they escaped Ammit’s disciples, who were still prowling the streets.

That left (Y/N) and Marc against Harrow. He pivoted and swung at (Y/N), and they flipped back. A disciple nearby raised his gun and fired, distracting (Y/N) from the fight. They leapt around the man and threw several daggers to take him down.

As (Y/N) fought other disciples, Harrow and Marc fought for control of the staff once more. Harrow turned and twisted the staff, shaking Marc from it. He was thrown back and rolled to a stop.

Harrow fired a blast at Marc, and Marc blocked it. The purple energy raged, and Marc gritted his teeth, bracing against the pure, concentrated power.

“Had Ammit been allowed to rule, young Randall’s life would’ve been saved,” said Harrow. “Your family would’ve been happy. She need only remove the weed from the garden.” He grunted with effort as he forced more magical energy from the staff towards Marc. The Avatar of Khonshu was forced to his knee. “You,” spat Harrow, losing control for a moment.

Marc pulled out a crescent dagger and tried to lunge, but the purple energy hit him, and he was forced back once more. Harrow savagely directed the energy to turn the blade back towards him, and Marc fought against his own limbs.

Finishing her own fight, Layla saw Marc struggling and leapt into the air. Harrow shifted, and the beam of energy forced the dagger from Marc’s hand into Layla’s wing. She was thrown back, and the dagger pinned her to the van behind her.

Marc stumbled, trying to right himself, but Harrow was already turning the full power of the staff and his rage on him. He let out an angry yell and shot as much magic as he could summon directly at Marc’s chest.

Marc braced himself.

Thump!

Marc stumbled to the side as a body shoved into him. The figure was thrown backwards by the purple light and landed unmoving on the ground.

“(Y/N)!” shouted Marc, eyes wide.

Layla gasped in horror.

(Y/N) groaned and tried to move, but all they managed was a whimper as every nerve fired with pain as purple magic flowed through them. They had saved Marc from the blast, but now they lay defenseless, unable to move. (Y/N)’s eyes fluttered with the effort to stay awake, and their entire vision was blurred.

“Kid!” Marc surged forward but stumbled on exhausted, injured limbs.

Harrow sent a blast at him, and Marc stumbled back. Layla remained pinned to the van, no matter how she pulled. Harrow walked towards (Y/N) and stood over them. He stared down at the teenager. (Y/N)’s lungs constricted.

“What a disappointment,” said Harrow.

He slammed the staff down on the ostrich feather on (Y/N)’s chest. They screamed, and purple energy lit up the square.

“No!” shouted Layla.

Marc’s eyes widened, and pure rage swept through him.

(Y/N) was left in pure agony. Their throat burned as they screamed, and every nerve cried out with them. The scales on their arm burned, and (Y/N) sobbed as the edges of their vision went back. Their back arched in pain, and (Y/N)’s head rolled to the side, but nothing they did could escape the torture Harrow inflicted upon them.

Out of the blurry vision they retained, they watched Layla cower and try to cover herself as disciples approached with guns and fire at her, and their heart dropped.

No…No…

Everything was growing fuzzy, blurry. (Y/N) couldn’t keep track of what was going on. Their lungs felt heavy. They couldn’t get enough air.

Mom…Dad…

Was this Harrow’s staff or the crash sending metal through (Y/N)’s chest? Were they laying dying under the skies of Egypt with their Mom and Dad or with Layla and Marc and Steven?

Were they going to die this time?

Suddenly, the light disappeared. The purple glow illuminating the terrible sights (Y/N) could still see vanished, and they were plunged into darkness. Their body went limp on the ground, and phantom pain floated around them. (Y/N)’s eyes closed, and they fought to try to open them again. Everything felt so heavy.

“What are you—” Harrow cried out, but the sound was far away to (Y/N), like they were falling underwater and leaving all of this behind.

Other screams echoed in (Y/N)’s mind, and the light of flames danced blurrily in front of (Y/N) as they tried to blink, but everything was slow, lethargic.

Then silence.

(Y/N) let out a breath. Blissful silence.

Taglist:

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@the-toskaverse

@wra-1-th

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