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saudadeonly · 4 years ago

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burn my heart out: rewrite the history pages (Chapter 4)

Read on ao3. Part 8, consisting of 4 chapters.

Death Eater!Sirius Black AU

Lord Voldemort wages war on Hogwarts but he is unaware of the years-worth of battle fought against him.

(or, several instalments following the Battle of Hogwarts with Sirius Black standing on the wrong side)

In which the House of Black tailors the tapestry of fate.

Word count: 6425

___

James’s knees have gone out from under him, the words streaming out of his mouth far, far away from English or any spells known to man; they’re his mother’s prayers, ancient and further away than the possibility of their survival. It’s only thanks to Marlene’s quick swish of her wand that James doesn’t end up on the floor and remains upright, half-standing, half-floating instead, but the book he was holding isn’t afforded the same luxury. It falls to the ground and slams open, revealing familiar handwriting curved over the pages, covered by an ever-moving picture of James, Lily and Harry; James pressing a kiss to Harry’s wild hair, Harry grinning and Lily’s mouth pressed to Harry’s chubby hand, all of them swaddled in thick, winter-coming clothes. Remus used to read pages-long letters in that handwriting; it’s burned to the back of his eyelids and the words the letters used to convey are the first ones he remembers when he wakes up. He doesn’t know how the picture he took got into the hands that loop their letters this way.

“James,” Remus whispers, stepping in close to take on James’s weight. He doesn’t dare look at the book or the picture again. “James,” he repeats, louder this time, as he presses his fingertips to the sweep of James’s ribs, where he was always sensitive, “we have to go, we have to –”

He doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. He doesn’t know how to help them get out of this one. Lily and Harry were supposed to be safe. He saw them out as far as he could and kept them protected as far as the Invisibility cloak would allow him to. It was his idea to use the passage underneath the Whomping Willow, even if Lily said that they shouldn’t, but there was nowhere else to go. If it was his idea that got them captured – or worse, by now – he will never forgive himself.

“Yeah,” James says anyway, nodding as he rights his glasses on his drained face, “yeah, let’s go.”

They rush out of the Great Hall, the two of them and others Remus cannot, for the life of him, think of right now, and they go down the corridor, through the side door of the Entrance Hall and out into the torch-lit courtyard. There is a shadow that passes behind the colonnade on the side but Remus sees the group of dark-robed figures next and he can’t look away.

Lily struggled. She is still struggling even with a stream of blood from her temple down the side of her face but her efforts are futile against the strength of the woman holding her against her chest. Aubrie Rostami, he remembers with vivid clarity, the young leader of a werewolf pack he talked to on Dumbledore’s orders. A lifetime ago but she told him his, as well as the other side’s, efforts were in vain and he believed her. Now, with Lily’s wand tucked into the belt around her narrow hips, his naivety about her words adds insult to injury.

“You have come to watch,” Voldemort says, a cruel smile playing at his lips. Beside him, Harry is caught in the arms of a masked Death Eater, who doesn’t seem to be struggling with keeping him in place. Harry has his Padfoot plushie hugged to his chest and probably doesn’t sense the danger drawing down over him. “I hoped you might.” He swishes his wand.

It’s too unexpected to counter, too sudden to make a grab for their wands – they all go up in the air, suspended in it but still able to move until Voldemort points his wand at them again and adds, almost lazily, “Immobulus.”

A desperate sound escapes Lily. “James,” she says, an apology, a plea, as Aubrie drags her little ways to the side, toward the tattered part of the group, leaving Greyback the only werewolf not standing with the Death Eaters. “James, I –”

“It’s okay, Lily,” James says, tears in his eyes. “It’s alright, I love you, I love you.”

“Touching,” Voldemort sneers. “Unfortunately, we have other things to do than to listen to you desperate lovebirds.”

“Please,” Lily says, tears running through the dirt streaked across her cheeks, voice strained through the pressure across her neck, “please, not Harry, take me instead, please.”

She must have said it a thousand times over during their walk up to the castle, begged each one of the cold, hidden faces for the life of her son; it doesn’t make it any less heartbreaking.

The Death Eaters don’t stir. They all have their masks on, except for Bellatrix who has covered her face with manic delight instead and Narcissa with her bright head bowed at the very back, but Remus doesn’t see the one he’s always looking for. If Sirius, even masked, were among them, Remus would know him by the easy way he moves, the way his spells cut cold and precise to the others’ wicked delight. It is for the better, perhaps, that Sirius is not here; Remus wouldn’t be able to stand knowing that when faced with the choice himself Sirius would easily give Harry’s life away.

Bellatrix is the only one that reacts. “My lord,” she murmurs as she turns to Voldemort with gleaming eyes, “if the Mudblood wishes so –”

“You’re right, Bellatrix,” he says, gaze flicking towards Lily as he runs the tip of his finger down the length of his wand. “There’s no harm in a little entertainment before we go on to the next part and Nagini has not properly eaten.” His eyes, red as blood, slide to Aubrie, the Death Eaters behind him chuckling. “You,” he snaps. “Bring the Mudblood here.” A scornful glance at Lily, his face cold. “Don’t worry, I will be more merciful than I was with your dear Severus.”

Remus’s stomach turns at the remark. Snape’s body turned up months ago, mangled and tortured beyond recognition, with scores down his face and sides, his bones broken a hundred times over; it is not a high bar of mercy to clear.

“No,” James shouts, his body straining against the magical restraints, to no avail. “No, don’t hurt them, please!”

Aubrie glances at the colonnade across from her then looks back at Voldemort and nods, her expression steeled. Remus follows her gaze but there is nothing there but dust and shadows, dancing with the flickering lights.

Aubrie tightens her grip on Lily, then, when they take a step forward, stumbles over the ground and ends up pushing Lily away from her, far away from the reach of her or the other werewolves’ arms, nearly to the foot of the staircase of the side entrance, where Hogwarts’ students, pale-faced, are now beginning to gather. Lily gasps out a breath, two, and stays, heaving, on the ground.

“You imbecile!” Bellatrix screams, pointing her want at Aubrie. “Do you half-breeds know how to do anything right?”

Aubrie smiles, guilelessly, at her. “Oops,” she says, tucking her hands behind her back, the lines around her eyes and mouth cut in marble. “Stupid werewolf, me.”

Bellatrix exclaims, the curse flashing out of her wand too familiar to warrant any kind of actual words. Except a purple curse slashes through its trajectory, away from Aubrie, and the combined force of the two spells slams into a wide pillar to the side, sending up a flurry of dust and debris.

Among the surprised exclaims that break out, Bellatrix looks toward the source of the second spell and finds, as the rest of them do, a masked Sirius Black strolling out from behind the columns on the opposite side. “I would appreciate it, Bella,” he drawls, hands in his pockets, “if you didn’t break an alliance I worked for months to obtain.”

“Sirius,” James gasps out, the sound more relief than anything else if it weren’t for the hope filling it up, “Sirius, you have to –”

“Silencio,” Sirius says, flicking his wand at James, whose mouth remains open around the non-existent words and eyes wide. Marlene a few paces behind him is pressing her mouth into a pained frown. Remus doesn’t want to know what she was about to tell him back in the Great Hall or how many more seeds of hope that would now be crushed she would have planted with it.

“Sirius,” Voldemort drawls with a tilt of his head, eyes narrowed, “how wonderful of you to join us.”

Sirius, positioning himself next to Aubrie, dips his head into a quick, precursory bow. “The Hogwarts grounds are vast, my lord,” he answers, his voice muffled enough it betrays no emotion. It doesn’t make sense, any of it, his book in James’s hands or his name in James’s mouth, inflected like an orison, because there was nothing he had to gain from it if this is the side he’s chosen now. Remus has never understood him but he never thought he’d let them get so close to the brink. Not ever and especially not after they saw each other in Hogsmeade, when Remus thought a line had clearly been drawn: not Harry.

Voldemort’s face doesn’t clear but he inclines his head and moves his gaze to Aubrie. Sirius’s hand reaches behind her, to where exactly Remus can’t really see but Aubrie tilts her chin up.

Before Voldemort can exact his fury over Aubrie, however, there’s a rustle among the students and they part to the side to let a tall, thin figure steps past. His blond hair reflects reddish in the torchlight as he pauses only for a second by then moves forward. Lily pulls herself to her feet with the help of a student’s extended hand instead but when she tries to follow after, an invisible wall seems to stop her.

“Barty,” Voldemort says, echoing the name murmured among the students, teeth bared the tiniest bit in an appropriation of a smile, cold as death. “You should have been back long ago.”

Barty Crouch moves toward the crowd of Death Eaters with a sort of fluidity Remus wouldn’t expect of someone who was just addressed in such a displeased tone by Voldemort. His robes are ripped at the top of his left sleeve and his leg is dusted with white so he might have an excuse but still, Remus can’t imagine he’d be that confident. He bows before Voldemort but his eyes flick toward the glowing sphere Voldemort’s snake is floating in. “Forgive me, my lord,” he says. “I got held up.”

Voldemort considers him and the robes lying out of place. “No matter now,” he answers, waving him off, “if you found it.”

“I did, my lord,” Barty says as he straightens and pulls a pouch out of his pocket. The Death Eaters around Voldemort quiet as Barty pulls the top of the pouch open and fishes out a mangled, dull silver piece that Remus recognises to have been some sort of tiara once. “I took the liberty of taking care of it.”

There is a second of stunned silence, the tiara’s remains falling off the tip of Barty’s finger as he reaches behind him and pulls a silver dagger out instead. He turns his wrist, the torchlight glinting along the blade, flashing poison-green, and chucks it directly at Nagini.

The dagger flies through the air, its trajectory straight, and Remus knows he’s witnessing something important, something monumental, like a dice roll moments before a jackpot or bankruptcy, like a ship on top of a wave before it breaks; he holds his breath, the air in his lungs stilling before it rushes out of his lungs as the dagger hits the sphere. It bounces off and clatters to the ground, only inches away from the broken tiara. Nagini curls inside the sphere with gleaming eyes, her tongue slipping out her mouth, unharmed.

Voldemort yells, wand lashing out, and Barty flies back, arms flailing around, his shout not as surprised as it should be. Except it’s not Barty that skids across the ground several feet away; his hair has bled into black, his skin tanned and when he looks up, a wheezing sound escaping him, his features have angled into the face of Regulus Black. It takes Remus a second to recognise the sound as laughter, breathless as it is, out of sync with the sharp, emotionless face he last saw. Linsy told them but, even now, Remus doesn’t quite believe it, cannot reconcile the dawning of Regulus’s death with the man that just took a hit at Voldemort.

Across the courtyard, Sirius is indiscernible under the mask, the knot of his Adam’s apple bobbing the only sign he’s even noticed. His hands are buried deep in his pockets. Otis Shah, the leader of another werewolf pack Remus talked to what seems like years ago now, pushes to the front and keeps his steady eyes on Sirius.

“You.” Voldemort’s skin has gone paler than possible, eyes wide. Even Bellatrix is silent, left out from the stream of murmurs that rises up among the Death Eaters. “You’re dead.”

“I guess not.”

There is a short scream of pain when Voldemort points his wand at Narcissa. “Bring me that,” he orders, gesturing to the pouch fallen from Regulus’s hands. “Restrain him, Bellatrix.”

Bellatrix obeys while Narcissa steps forward, straight-backed, but picks up the pouch with unsure fingers. It seems that an aeon passes before her soft-footed steps bring her close enough to Voldemort to hand it over. As soon as she’s done so, she slinks back to Lucius’s side, her eyes passing between Regulus’s face and Sirius’s motionless form, the silver mask secured over his expression nearly the same shade as her cheeks.

The courtyard stands still as Voldemort pulls out several charred objects: a leather-bound book, a golden goblet, a ring. A moment of silence passes. Then a scream tears out of Voldemort, so violent it echoes in Remus’s bones, so cruel it turns into the only thing it could have: “Crucio.”

Regulus trashes into his standstill, body convulsing of its own accord with nowhere to run and Remus cannot stand the sight of him but it’s not a pain he’d wish on him or anyone. He is Sirius’s brother but he is more than that; he is someone who grew past him, bigger than him, who turned against Voldemort, the only thing Remus has ever wanted for Sirius to do. Remus cannot bear to look at Sirius’s reaction, if there is any at all.

Regulus stills, chest heaving. “I’ll keep the locket as a keepsake,” he says hoarsely, staring up at Voldemort with deep, Black-grey eyes. Inexplicably, Remus wishes it were someone else’s eyes proclaiming their defiance, someone else’s words drawing a line of sure-fire stance.

Someone clears their throat and everyone turns to look at the source of it. In one smooth movement, Sirius pulls off his mask and flings it onto the ground. It fractures, almost exactly down the line of the constellations, silvery bits smashing around. He has his wand pointed at Voldemort in the next split second, his face forged into single-minded determination, as familiar as coming up for air after diving down to the bottom, his simple movement an act of war for itself. “Avada Kedavra.”

Not pointed at Voldemort, Remus realises belatedly but at Nagini, still caught in the glowing sphere. He can’t imagine why killing Voldemort’s pet is so important to Sirius and Regulus but he’s willing to concede their already-questionable sanity must have chipped away by now.

A large chunk of stone flies up in front of Voldemort and Nagini and explodes into green fire, the sickly light washing over the astounded faces all around. Sirius Black, the most loyal of supporters, going against Voldemort himself. An alliance built for years, thrown away on a dime for the one person Sirius has always been most protective of: Regulus.

The explosion and the astonishment give him a few precious seconds but Sirius doesn’t use them to go to Regulus. Instead, he shouts, “Now!” and fires his next spell at Bellatrix and her manic-gleaming eyes. She was the only one who didn’t stop to gawk and whose wand summoned up the chunk of stone in front of Voldemort.

The clash of their spells, a knock of wordless curses, cutting and precise, lights up the night and through it, Remus sees Otis Shah punch the Death Eater holding Harry. His fingers break with the impact but the Death Eater pitches to the side and Otis doubles down, unflinching as his bones splinter. “Run, boy!” he yells at Harry, who lands, sprawled and scraped but ultimately unharmed, on the ground.

Sirius has taken on both Bellatrix and Voldemort in that time, not sparing a glance for Regulus trying to get out of the magic binding him or the werewolves jumping the other Death Eaters, but seems to be holding his own until his wand slashes through the air a split second before Bellatrix’s, confident in its motion, infallible in its target. Bellatrix is knocked back, gasping for air as she rolls across the ground, her wand falling away from her.

“Crucio!” The word out of Sirius’s mouth revibrates with a strength that makes Voldemort’s knees go out from under him, his mouth open in a sky-slashing scream but Sirius doesn’t keep it longer than a second. Instead, his eyes go to Nagini, then to Regulus. At the very end, they follow the small figure prickling through the battle.

Harry has picked himself up and is running across the cobbled courtyard but his short legs aren’t fast enough to get him away; Greyback, throwing off another werewolf, leaps through the air and is at his heels in a matter of moments, his sharp, yellow nails brushing over the top of Harry’s black hair, the sound of his footsteps reaching up to grab at Remus’s throat.

“Harry!” Lily’s hair is a beacon in a sea of black and brown but she might as well be across the world for Harry, separated by a mountain of danger and fire that he cannot brave alone, and he dashes away from them. “No!”

Harry ends up throwing himself into Sirius’s arms instead, from where Sirius has half-braced himself to catch him, just as Greyback lunges after him and, unable to stop his momentum, slams directly into the two of them. They go tumbling back, Sirius’s body like a shield around Harry’s as he takes the brunt of both Greyback’s force and impact with the stones. Remus’s breath catches in his throat, traitorously, stupidly, not only because it’s Harry, but because it’s Sirius’s arms that are secured around him.

The movement in the courtyard stills as the three of them end up sprawled across the ground, Greyback across Sirius’s legs, Harry’s dark head tucked against Sirius’s shoulder.

Otis crosses the few feet between them and pulls Greyback off Sirius with his good hand, aiming a kick at his stomach and another one at his ribs, leaving him gasping out. The last kick, centred directly at his face, breaks his nose and makes him go still.

Sirius’s lips are moving, the words they’re shaping inaudible, and Harry is nodding reluctantly as they slowly pick themselves up, Sirius getting his knees beneath himself. He draws himself up, his hair a halo of black and dust framing his face, arms firm around Harry, a silver ring glinting on his finger. His wand lies a few feet away, snapped in half. This is how tragedies go, Remus knows, an inevitable fall from grace, a turning point; the beginning of the fifth act, a certain bitterness in the fact that there isn’t any other way this could have ended.

A sob rips out of Lily. “Harry.”

Only a meter away from Remus, but still too far away, James’s face is drained, slashed open with grief and fear. “Please,” he murmurs, the sound dragging over Remus’s skin, skimming down his spine; suddenly, he is standing back in that Muggle town, years removed, his life going to pieces around him. “Sirius, please.”

“Sirius,” Voldemort says as he gets to his feet, batting away the offered help of a Death Eater and reaches out a hand, pale and unwavering. It’s obvious what he’s about to offer: a redemption for the havoc he wreaked, a way out of his predicament. “Bring me the boy.”

Sirius looks around, the grey of his eyes bottomless, incomprehensible with the way he’s caged his heart so fully. They flit over Otis, still standing over Greyback, stop momentarily on Regulus, now motionless on the ground but with his eyes wide open, and pass over Narcissa’s pale, pinched face; they settle on the phoenix feather stretched thin between the two halves of his wand. When he looks back at Voldemort he swallows and says, “No.”

The word hangs in the air, descending slowly upon the faces of Voldemort and the Death Eaters, but it settles somewhere deep in Remus’s chest, pressing up to the shape of, That was ours, that Remus made space for so carefully in the outskirts of his heart two years ago. Harry, with James’s face and Lily’s eyes and Remus’s heart, is theirs, down to the bone; but he is Sirius’s too, his choice and his redemption.

“Give me the boy,” Voldemort says, voice a bit lower, those ruby-red eyes narrowing.

Wordlessly, Sirius nudges Harry out of his arms and behind himself, arms forming a protective brace around him as Harry clings to his back. The Death Eaters have spread out, forming a wall of bodies between the two of them and the Order and Hogwarts’ residents. Between Harry and his parents.

Sirius keeps his eyes on Voldemort but his calm and even words are only for Harry as his hands tighten on Harry’s torso. “It’s alright, pup.” He glances at Otis. “Now would be a good time to make your exit.”

“And miss all the fun?” Aubrie says loudly, grinning as she looks at Bellatrix, who’s picking up her wand off the ground, with gleaming eyes. An incline of her head and the werewolves get behind Sirius and Harry, their backs to Voldemort. Only now it becomes apparent to Remus that, trough the entirety of the battle, no werewolf looked to Voldemort for instructions. An alliance I worked for months to obtain, Sirius’s voice echoes, pushing a sudden realisation that whatever this was for Sirius it certainly wasn’t an impulsive decision if he had offered the werewolves something even Dumbledore hadn’t. “I rather think not.”

“Better future, didn’t you promise?” Otis adds, moving in line with the other werewolves. Bone sticks out from his fingers, blood pooling around. Still, the brace of his mouth is nothing but firm.

Remus’s throat burns; brave as they might be, dedicated and fierce, they will be no match for the Death Eaters once they decide to use their wands. Sirius must know it, too – that they are willing to die for this. For Harry.

“It’s waiting for you,” he says.

“Only if it’s waiting for you, too,” Aubrie shoots back. She pulls Lily’s wand from her belt and arcs it high above the heads of Death Eaters, all the way to the barrier keeping Lily and the students at bay. Lily’s fingers grapple for it.

“You, Sirius?” Voldemort asks, the soft, silky sound dragging through the air. “Not Regulus, not Severus. You.”

Sirius inclines his head. “Snape did betray you,” he says, the cadence of his voice a slow, agonising dance of death, a promise of, I won’t get out of this alive but neither will you, “but I wasn't yours to begin with.”

“Traitor!” Bellatrix hisses but the sound carries, her face white with rage, her wand pointed directly at Sirius. “I’ll kill you.”

“You can do better than that, Bella. Didn’t Aunt Walburga ever teach you?”

“No, Bellatrix.” Voldemort levels his wand at Sirius, pale hand steady. “I will do it.”

“My lord, such betrayal requires pain, he played us for fools for years –”

“He has the boy,” Voldemort cuts in smoothly, face a grimace. “I do not wish to lose more time. These dramatics have gone on long enough. Besides,” he adds slowly, “the greatest pain for him will be knowing that he leaves all the others here at my mercy.”

Sirius swallows, his eyes blinking closed for a moment, but he lifts his chin and doesn’t budge. Perhaps that’s all Sirius has left to give of himself: a last sacrifice, a declaration of love and lies and apology, laid bare on the cobblestones of Hogwarts, poured through the cracks of the ground it’s built on, raw with how final it is, fragile with the way it was for nothing at all; the act of a dying man, a reminder that even now he would rather crawl home than walk among them. Still, Remus wants to tell him, still it mattered. It will matter.

“Please,” Lily whispers, her voice hoarse. “Please, don’t – take me instead, please –”

Sirius, in his last moments, turns his eyes to Regulus, who is shaking his head in desperation, the pained sounds crawling up from his throat ripping a black, bleeding line into the meaning of devastation. “Guess even the two of us playing together wasn’t enough, huh?” he says, soft between him and his brother, something untouchable spread out in front of them, pulsing. “Désolé, Reggie.”

“This is your last chance, Sirius,” Voldemort murmurs. “No matter your motivations, you have been a good subject. See reason now and all will be forgiven.”

“Easy now, Harry,” Sirius says and Remus’s heart might rip its way out of his chest with how painfully it’s tugging, knowing that Harry is Sirius’s last thought. Harry sobs and curls closer. “It’ll be alright, little one.”

“So be it.”

The motion of Voldemort’s wand, the incantation falling from his lips, the flash of blinding green light; all of it is familiar, achingly so, and it leaves a bitter taste in the back of Remus’s mouth.

“No!” Regulus moves, breaking through the strain of magic around him, and Remus sees it as if time has slowed down; the scrambling off the ground, the desperate, rushed strides towards his brother, his hand, closing around the dip of Sirius’s shoulder, Sirius’s own hand coming up to wrap around Regulus’s fingers. Two brothers, one a Gryffindor, the other a Slytherin, different in everything but that which matters, both so brave, both so clever. Neither moving to save the other from death and take it on himself, but remaining next to each other. To die side-by-side. Together.

The light hits them – Remus can’t tell who it hits, because they are one, these brilliant boys; they are the stars they are named after, they are Blacks, with magic in every nook and cranny of their being, they are brothers, in blood and in name, in everything that they hate – and someone shouts. The world erupts in motion, rallying, wild, fierce, but Remus stays still, unable to watch, unable to look away, and wonders if he is the only one that can feel the magic, old, old magic, sizzling through the air, the taste of it pungent, its sound buzzing in his ears.

But even the Blacks, with their stories written in the stars, are mortal and when Regulus and Sirius collapse, their hands still linked, Remus thinks that the worse sound he has ever heard have to be the screams that rip out of McGonagall, out of James and Lily and Marlene. It’s not until Voldemort moves forward that Remus realises: he was screaming too.

There is no time to let the action sink in, however. The werewolves have surged forward, a tide of beaten bodies and broken spines, fighting for a future that may never come, their edge of surprise lost – the first retaliating spells cut a quarter of them down. The students follow their lead, firing off spells at random but their magic is nowhere near enough to get any of them to Harry.

“Fools,” Voldemort says and waves his wand as he steps past Sirius and Regulus’s limp bodies, towards Harry, who still stands, petrified, next to the safety Sirius tried to preserve for him. Nagini drops down from her sphere and curves her body after him. “Goes to show that even the greatest bloodlines can be tainted.”

Bellatrix points her wand at Sirius and says, “Crucio!” and Sirius’s body flails through the air, silent as only dead men can be. Her triumphant laugh echoes around the courtyard, drowns out all the other sounds in it, followed by a chorus of others’ as the werewolves continue to fall.

Only one doesn’t follow her lead and through the carnage, Remus catches sight of the blonde head bending down behind Bellatrix, the trembling hand that closes around the handle of the dagger that Regulus, minutes away from death, threw. Narcissa Black Malfoy draws herself up, eyes trained on Nagini, now freely slithering across the ground a pace behind Voldemort, toward Sirius and Regulus’s bodies, and moves. And then the end of the world comes bathed in green light.

It begins with Lily’s scream, unearthed from the deepest parts of her chest, thrown out into the world that seeks to take her son; it continues with Narcissa’s hand coming down in a quick, steady arc, with Nagini’s body convulsing and then stilling on the blood-splashed stones; it ends with Voldemort’s wand falling from his limp fingers, his body following a moment, a blink of a second, later. His vacant eyes, like the blood spilling from Nagini’s body, receive no mercy from the dark sky.

There is a moment of utter stillness, of complete silence and then Harry’s wails shoot over the entire battle, over the werewolves that push harder, over Lily and James that break free and dive for him. Remus finds himself among the ones that raise their wands against the furious onslaught of Death Eaters, the words, wasn’t enough, huh, beating out of his chest with the knowledge that it was; it was, Sirius, it was.

“What have you done?” Bellatrix half screams, half gasps out, turning on Narcissa, raising her wand towards her sister.

Narcissa has none of Bellatrix’s strong, ferocious features but she lifts her chin in the same haughty manner, the way Sirius and Regulus did, prepared to go down if that’s what it takes. “I have lost my sisters, my cousins and my husband to him,” she says, her jaw set, as she lets the dagger fall down and grabs her wand instead, pointing it directly at Bellatrix. “I will not lose my son, too.”

“Fool,” Bellatrix spits out, slashing her wand at Narcissa, who parries it with a quickness Remus wouldn’t have expected of her. It devolves into a fierce back-and-forth but Remus is forced to look away when a curse comes flashing his way.

He ducks out of the way and sends a retaliating one, pausing only for a moment to make sure it hits home. He turns and finds Otis half-heartedly ducking out of the way of white spells. While the Death Eater isn’t focused, Remus sends a Stunning Spell his way and doesn’t wait for him to hit the ground before he spins his wand on another one.

A part of Remus doesn’t want the battle to be over because when it is, there will be no way to keep the fresh memories at bay. He is nearly lost in it, in the dodge-and-shoot rhythm, when a familiar throaty shout reaches him.

“Lily!”

Heart thrumming up to his throat, Remus turns and sees, to his and James’s horror, Lily facing off against Bellatrix and deflecting a curse that would have likely finished off Narcissa, who is pressed against a column with no wand in hand. Her stance is sure, feet spread wide apart to keep her steady, and the sheer fury carved into her face gives even Remus pause. The best duellist of their generation, back on her feet, and ready to make a lasting impression.

The spells shoot out of their wands in rapid succession, far too dangerous to disturb from either side and it makes all the others pause and watch. More than once, they have to dodge out of the way of a redirected spell. Lily's sleeve darkens with her blood; Bellatrix's leg buckles every few, unsure steps.

“Is that all you have, Mudblood?” Bellatrix taunts, with none of her previous delight; her voice is full of rage and if she had had time to think about it, Remus is certain there would be grief there as well.

Lily jumps out of the way of a red streak, hair flying, and twists her arm through the air, making her wand only a blur of light wood. The purple spell hits, right over Bellatrix’s heart and she falls much like her master did: with none of the ceremony that seemed to have been reserved for her in life, the way all mortals fall.

“No,” Lily says, pushing her hair out of the way, face stripped of all anger and slowly washed by exhaustion. She crosses the space back to James, who is kneeling with Harry, and folds herself into his arms. Remus hears her murmur, “This is all I have.”

Half-lost, he steps forward to join them but a sharp cry makes him look up instead. Fawkes has appeared in the sky, gleaming gold and red, with Dumbledore holding onto his long tail. They land in the middle of the courtyard, Fawkes unharmed and Dumbledore with a charred beard but their presence seems to be enough to make the rest of the Death Eaters concede. Lucius Malfoy, kneeling by Narcissa’s side with his fingers over her cheek, is the first one to throw his wand to the ground.

The rest of the happenings seem like peculiar snapshots to Remus: the able picking up the injured, checking the dead, Dumbledore binding the Death Eaters, Fawkes bowing low over a few bodies, the werewolves slowly coming together. He can only watch, pain spiking up every time he breathes.

When everything settles like dust, McGonagall is the first one to move, limping and with dirt-smudged robes, almost toward Dumbledore until she steps past him – to Sirius and Regulus, Remus realises with a painful tug that begins in his lungs and ends somewhere around his liver. “Sirius,” she says as she drops down beside him, her hand gentle over his slack face, painted in dramatic, torchlight-falling lines: high cheekbones, arching brows, sharp jaw. Remus’s eyes burn. He thought, for a moment, that he might get to look into his eyes again and tell him – tell him something, anything, that would have crumbled away this bitter ache; now he can’t even scream. “Sirius, I’m sorry.”

The words seem too familiar for someone so far removed from Sirius, from the pain he caused and the bridges he burned. She had her fondness for them in their school years but to be so openly mourning the death of someone she must have thought was a Death Eater less than an hour ago seems – it seems –

There’s a familiar presence in his space, a gentle hand between his shoulder blades. He faces Lily, who has Harry in her arms and is looking up at him with glassy eyes. Her lips are twisted down and her eyelashes dotted with tears, the side of her face crusted with blood. Remus draws her against him, pressing his cheek to the top of her head, and hopes her warmth makes it down to all the parts of him that have frozen over.

“Hi,” he breathes when Harry reaches for him suddenly, small fingers grabbing over his shirt. He takes him from Lily and wraps his arms around him as Harry clings to him, just like he clung to Sirius. Blood soaks his fringe, pooling around the new wound across his forehead, and Remus uses his wand to Vanish it away for the time being, then draws him tighter against himself, thankful despite everything that it isn’t this small body that’s lying among the motionless ones strewn across the courtyard. “Hi, little one.”

There’s a sob behind him and he turns to see Marlene crouched down with her hands pressed across her mouth, shaking her head. Her eyes are focused on Sirius and McGonagall but she leans into Dorcas when she kneels beside her and hugs her to her chest. It’s not unlike how she was all those years ago on a cold December night, crumpled in on herself on the floor of his small apartment, begging them to tell her it’s not true. Remus’s heart wants to go out to her but it is shackled by its own pain.

James’s approach is slow, the antithesis of a man rushing to his friend’s side, desperate to find out if his heart still beats; his steps are heavy with the knowledge that no life is waiting to greet him. He folds his knees underneath himself and reaches for Sirius’s hand, his face contorted into anguish, brown skin sallow. Remus has seen the expression on his face too many times throughout war and aimed at the face beneath his even more than that. Only Sirius, Remus think with more painful humour than he feels, could have broken their hearts over and over, years after they were supposed to let him go.

“James.” McGonagall looks up at James with big eyes, her forehead creased up. Her hand shoots out and wraps around his wrist, quick enough it makes even James look at her in surprise. If it hadn’t been such a strange day all together, Remus might have thought McGonagall to have truly lost her mind. “Tell me I’m not imagining it,” she says, voice hoarse, as she brings James’s hand to Sirius’s neck and presses his fingers there.

James lets out a low, breathless sound and bows down to press the side of his face to Sirius’s chest. “It can’t be,” he whispers.

“What is it?” Marlene asks, drawing herself up, swaying on the balls of her feet. “James, what is it?”

McGonagall lets go of James and Sirius to push herself toward Regulus and feel against his neck, too. She stays silent for a few moments, chest heaving with quick, shallow breaths. Then she faces back to them, her lips curved up into a near-smile. Her laugh comes out sudden and small, disbelieving and out of place among the downtrodden winners, but it makes something in Remus’s chest bloom up.

“They’re breathing.”

___

A/N: To the tumblr anon who asked me if they could write "so and so finds out about Sirius": please don't let the fact that this part of the story is done discourage you from writing the rest of your ideas. I'd still very much love to read them.

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miellafics · 4 years ago

Text

The Boy-Who-Dreamed, a Harry Potter x Go! Princess Precure Fanfiction

Prologue

(originally posted on my fanfiction.net and wattpad pages @SakuraPages. I’m posting all of the chapters here before i resume writing them, so let me know what you all think! let’s begin the story!)

Towa sat facing the window of her immaculate room in the Hope Kingdom Palace, the beautiful melody of her violin filling the silence within it. Her two fairy companions, Pafu and Aroma, sat silently on her bed, nodding off to sleep and enjoying the lovely tune. Miss Shamour, her advisor and best friend, sat next to the other two fairies in human form. Towa stopped at once when she heard a knock at the door, but did not bother to direct her gaze towards it. She couldn’t keep her eyes off of that window.

“Come in,” she said quietly.

“You have been playing that song everyday since they left, my dear little sister. Do you not think that perhaps we should move on?” Kanata questioned as he made his way over to Towa’s nightstand, glancing at the three Dress Up Keys and her Princess Perfume sitting atop it.

They were gleaming brilliantly in the sunlight, waiting for a chance to be awakened once again. “It’s really been a year since they left, hasn’t it?”

“It has, my brother. Even still, it feels nice to reminisce on the fun times we had with them.” Towa closed her eyes, remembering the day she was reverted from Twilight to Towa.

She had been so lost, sad and confused then. But somehow, Haruka, Minami, Kirara and Yui slowly showed her how to smile again. And then, the next monumental moment came; the day she became a Precure. Her dream of becoming a Grand Princess was finally in reach, and then, she actually became one. Her wildest, grandest dreams had finally come true, and she owed it all to them. How in the world was she to simply just move on? She decided to try and take her mind off of it, raising her violin to her chin once again when...

CRASH!!

Her window had been burst open and dark, hooded figures flooded the bedroom.

“Yes, YES!!” A deep, wretched voice pierced the ears of the Royal Siblings and their fairies.

“The most powerful magical objects in the universe will soon be MINE! A great thanks to you, Close, my dear friend, for these Dress Up Keys you speak of shall bring us eternal power!”

“Yes, yes, Voldemort. Soon, we shall rule over Hope Kingdom and all of the earth!!” Close cackled, making Towa sick to her stomach.

The eyes of the young princess widened. “Close? He’s back? Who’s that man he’s with Who is Voldemort?”

Towa let out a scream as a piece of the wall flew overhead. Kanata summoned his Royal Staff and conjured up a shield, gritting his teeth as he attempted to hold off the many unknown spells being fired at them.

The young princess quickly scooped Pafu into her arms as Aroma perch on her shoulder, both of whom were now very much awake after the sudden loud noises. Miss Shamour summoned her staff, preparing to defend the princess at all costs.

Towa shoved her Dress Up Keys and her Princess Perfume into her pocket. They began shining for the first time in a year, almost serving as a beacon for the hooded figures.

“There! That girl! She has some of the Dress Up Keys! GET HER!” the mysterious voice screeched while pointing a willowy finger straight at her.

“Kanata! What do we do?” Towa yelled over all of the chaos. The hooded figures were making quick work of Kanata’s shield by way of some unidentifiable spells of various colors; it wouldn’t be long before the barrier fell.

Miss Shamour began firing back at some of the cloaked henchmen, and the spells seemed to hit their targets. Still, it seemed that the remaining henchmen only fired back harder. As she fought, she realized that the name Voldemort seemed...familiar.

“I didn’t think I’d be caught up in this predicament again,” she thought. “It seems that I’ll have to make a visit to an old friend.”

“Towa, listen to me! I need you to scatter the Dress Up Keys and make your way back to Earth. Find Haruka and the others. We need them!” Kanata shouted, his heel sliding back as he attempted to fortify the shield.

Towa’s eyes were beginning to get clouded by tears, and, though she couldn’t see it, Kanata’s eyes were doing the same.

“Brother, I can’t just leave you here! You won’t make it!” She pleaded with him, knowing he would make her do.

“I’ll be okay, but make sure to get the Dress Up Keys and yourself to safety. Make sure to watch over Pafu and Aroma as well. They’ll need you now more than ever. Miss Shamour, you are to accompany and guide her. Now, go!”

“But Kana-”

“There’s no time to argue, Towa! GO!!”

Towa fought back her tears as she burst through her bedroom door and rushed down the corridor, desperate to make it to the other Dress Up Keys. As she looked around, it seemed that the rest of the castle had fallen into chaos as well; Close and his partner’s henchmen had wrecked most of her beloved home. More henchmen seizing the castle spotted Towa and the fairies, and they immediately began firing at them from all directions. Miss Shamour quickly summoned a barrier and beckoned the group to keep running. She turned her head around and quickly noticed that Close and Voldemort’s henchman had made it past Kanata and were now coming for them. Towa had turned around and noticed them too.

“KANATA!! Don’t worry, I’ll come back for you! Please just be okay!” she thought to herself as she picked up her pace. Pafu had begun to cry and Aroma wasn’t too far away from crying as well.

They finally made it to the sanctuary of the Dress Up Keys with just barely enough time to close and lock the door. Towa put a hand to her heart, tears streaming down her face as she voiced her plea to the magical artifacts.

“Dress Up Keys, hear my prayer! Scatter from this place; you are not safe here!”

All twelve of the Dress Up Keys immediately to glow as the room began to shake. Each Key sent out a ray of pure energy which collided with one another at the center of the room. The result was a portal which led to a place all too familiar: Noble Academy.

“Everyone, come quickly, before they make their way in here!” Miss Shamour shouted.

Towa and her fairy companions sprinted through the portal just as Close and his comrade’s henchmen busted down the door.

The Dress Up Keys were quickly sucked into the portal, following Towa and the fairies to Earth before immediately closing off the portal.

“Kanata, please be okay…” A single tear streamed down her cheek as Noble Academy came closer into view.

“Dammit, she got away!” one of the henchmen yelled as he stomped his foot to the ground. “The Dark Lord and Close will not be happy about this!”

"Don't worry," said Close, as he and the Dark Lord, known as Voldemort, strolled into the room. “I know just where to find her. There's only one place that brat would go," he sneered as he opened a portal to Earth.

“Voldemort, take your Death Eaters back continue to lay siege on the palace. I’ll take care of this. It’s...personal,” Close said as an evil sneer painted his face.

Voldemort returned the expression and nodded. “Very well. You know where to find us. Take care of it.” He and his minions and exited the sanctuary, continuing to terrorize the palace and the whole of Hope Kingdom.

Little did Towa know that somewhere far, far away, a small teenage boy with emerald green eyes and a lightning-bolt scar had just seen the same events, and he was left alone, gazing upon the glowing moon from his bed and wondering what it could’ve all meant. “Who was that princess?” he wondered. “And, more importantly,

what does Voldemort want with her?”

#harry potter fanfiction #harry potter #hp #hp ootp #precure #pretty cure #go princess precure #precure fanfic #go princess precure fanfic #sks fanfic

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somethingjustsouthofbrilliance · 5 years ago

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When Love Must Die (chapter 9)

Quick author’s note for your attention, please. I’ve noticed that the interest in this story has waned quite a bit (here on tumblr at least), and (since I’m an absolute whore when it comes to feedback and I have a hard time getting inspired to write more when I don’t get much of a response) I’m considering stopping updates for it on here and sticking with AO3 updates alone. I’ll see how this chapter does and decide accordingly. Just wanted to give everyone a heads-up.

Link to Chapter 1 (masterlist)

Tagging: @armaggedidnt @oh-hamlet @foxyfoe-reblog @s3dgy @butttteeerrrrrr @swanheart69 @giulisetta @tonystark5ever @agentlokii @tardisoftheshire @maehemscorpyus

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Chapter 9

A soft rustle of movement beside him breaks through the light doze he has finally allowed himself to sink into what seems like moments ago, and he startles awake, arms tightening instinctively around the stubbornly unconscious man-shaped being tucked safely against his side. He blinks, disoriented slightly from his not-quite-sleep, lets his bleary gaze focus on the young witch who stands less than a foot away from the bed, a tray of food in her hands.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, looking contrite, “I didn’t mean to wake you. I’ll just…” Carefully, she sets the tray down onto the nightstand beside him, moves to step back.

“Don’t…,” Aziraphale raises a hand to stop her. “It’s okay. I wasn’t really asleep.”

She cants her head knowingly, her mouth tight with worried disapproval. “Perhaps you should be,” she chides. “You look absolutely beat.”

He believes it, too. He hasn’t had a moment’s respite since he popped back into Anathema’s living room with Crowley’s limp, mangled form cradled against his chest, shouting for Adam to encase the fragile, dying essence in a protective corporeal sheath – a temporary patch, a desperate attempt to keep the severely damaged essence from simply breaking apart in Aziraphale’s arms.

Since then, the only thing the angel was focused on was keeping Crowley alive and healing, healing, healing. Properly, thoroughly, completely. Determinedly undoing all traces of Hell’s purposefully, ruthlessly crude patch-up job: gently straightening out the twisted, crookedly knitted bones, mending the terrible scars that mar every inch of Crowley’s beautiful skin, soothing away the deep, devastating burns.

And it was working. Aziraphale could tell it was working. Could feel the broken, jagged edges of Crowley’s abused essence slowly, oh-so-slowly, pulling back together, its worryingly feeble glow becoming just a bit stronger in response to every pulse of angelic grace Aziraphale infused into it. And Crowley was blessedly, completely out of it throughout the harrowing procedure, remaining loose-limbed and pliant under the healing glow of Aziraphale’s hands.

Until Aziraphale started on his wings.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the awful, soul-rending scream that tore from Crowley’s throat when Aziraphale hand first ghosted over one of the mutilated appendages in an attempt to infuse a bit of healing grace into the worst of the damage. He’d pulled back then, shocked to frozen horror by the tidal wave of pain and fear that crashed against his senses. It was… it was…

Aziraphale swallows down an uncomfortably human swell of nausea as he thinks back to those harrowing and seemingly endless hours of the night, during which Anathema and Newt stood on either side of Crowley, pinning him down on his stomach as he thrashed and writhed desperately in their grip, while Aziraphale himself, his corporation’s heart bleeding, ripping at the seams in the face of his friend’s interminable agony, wrestled the wildly flapping wings into submission one at a time, forcing as much healing energy as he could spare into each quivering appendage, trying his best to ignore Crowley’s raspy, throat-tearing howls of pain and the sobbing, gut-wrenching pleas for him to “stop, please, stop!”

And then came the nightmares. Vivid, brutal and just as relentless. And Aziraphale was helpless against them. Helpless to calm the wild, defensive flail of the long limbs. Helpless to soothe the pained furrowing of the sweat-stained brow, the quiet, pitiful whimpers and full-on wretched sobs. Helpless to chase away whatever awful images that passed before Crowley’s wide open but unseeing stare, as his friend screamed himself hoarse into the haunting void visible to him and him alone. Helpless to do anything but sit there with silent tears streaming down his cheeks and his trembling arms wrapped around Crowley’s guitar-string taut, twisting form as tightly as he dared so as not to hurt him and to keep Crowley from further hurting himself.

He never felt more exhausted in his life.

And yet he didn’t dare leave. Didn’t dare step away even for a moment lest Crowley should fall prey to another vicious nightmare. Or, worse yet, lest he should awaken and find himself alone. Aziraphale couldn’t do that to him. Not after everything that dear boy has been through for his sake.

And so even now with the near-overwhelming and heretofore unfamiliar to him urge to sleep, he politely declines Anathema’s offer to keep watch over Crowley so he could go to the spare bedroom and rest.

“I’m sorry, my dear girl,” he shrugs, apologetic, shifting to pull Crowley closer as if afraid that she would physically try and force them apart. “I… I can’t.”

She shakes her head at him with the chiding look of a mother disappointed in her child. Concedes with a sigh, moving as if to leave. Then pauses, her gaze lingering on Crowley’s slack features. “It’s strange,” she muses, almost too quiet for Aziraphale to hear. “He doesn’t look much different.”

“How do you mean?”

“Oh,” she looks back up at him, flustered. Shrugs, gesturing awkwardly toward Crowley, “I just… I mean… I know Adam gave him his old body back, but I thought… with him being an angel now and everything… that he would…”

“Look different?”

She purses her lips, sheepish. Reaches up nervously to tuck a stray lock behind her ear. “The other demons I saw, they… well, they all looked and felt very different from the angels. Their appearance, their auras. So I thought that he’d feel different, too, now, but… he doesn’t really. I mean… his eyes are different now and all, but he… he feels the same. Do you know what I mean?”

Aziraphale nods, smiles wistfully, looking down at the man in his arms. “I met him before, you know,” he murmurs, a seeming non sequitur that she frowns at, confused. “Raphael,” he adds in lieu of explanation. “Before the Fall.”

“You knew him?” And he can feel the weight of her stare on him, the shocked judgment of her realization. “Then why didn’t you–” She stops short, hand flying up to cover her mouth before she says too much.

But it doesn’t matter. He knows what she’s thinking. Lord knows, he’s been thinking the same thing ever since he saw those images in Hastur’s head. Has been judging himself for that ever since, too.

“Why I didn’t recognize him?” He looks up to find silent confirmation in her expression. Huffs out in tired self-condemnation, “I forgot.” And that’s as simple an answer as he can give her. As truthful as it is damning. “I’m pretty sure none of us were supposed to keep any memories of the Fallen. They were… some of us were very close back in those days. Brothers, sisters, best friends. Having the memory of those we’ve lost that day, it… it would have caused quite a lot of grief, I imagine.” His lips twitch, morphing into a bitter smirk, “Perhaps She was afraid that it would lead to more unrest.”

“But you’re remembering now?”

Aziraphale hums, raising an eyebrow in contemplation. “Not… all of it,” he admits reluctantly, “not exactly. Just… flashes, really. Random bursts of images… feelings… impressions.” He shrugs, a bit helplessly, “It’s… it’s hard to explain.”

She nods mutely, seeming to accept his jumbled explanation. Perches cautiously on the very edge of the bed. “So what do you see?”

There’s a prickle in Aziraphale’s eyes, a too-too familiar burn, and so he raises his gaze to the ceiling in a vain effort to contain the traitorous gathering moisture. “Light,” he whispers, unable, unwilling to keep the awe from his voice. “Beautiful and mesmerizing… like the stars. And kindness,” he adds, his voice trembling just a bit, “So… so much kindness and love! I don’t think I’ve felt that much from any other angel.” He blinks, shifting his gaze back down to Anathema. Smiles brokenly as he feels a tear spill over his eyelashes to drip onto his cheek. “Perhaps that’s why he managed to hold on to it? He had so much of it within him that the Fall simply couldn’t burn all of it away,” he muses, as more tears follow down the same track.

It feels right, what he’s saying. Feels true. And he knew the truth of it, for thousands of years he knew. Had seen it in the begrudging care with which Crowley treated those around him; in the compassion (no matter how desperately, but, ultimately, poorly, hidden) that he exuded towards humans; in the untainted, gentle affection he showed towards Aziraphale himself.

But Aziraphale rejected it. Pushed that truth away, buried it under layers upon layers of denial, relying on blind obedience and mindless indoctrination instead of allowing himself to open up and see proof of the opposite that was right there in front of him, centuries upon centuries.

What a fool he was. What a naïve, blind fool.

“So you’re right, my dear.” He forces another smile for Anathema’s benefit – a pale, trembling thing. “He really doesn’t look that much different because… because he never really changed that much.”

He raises an equally trembling hand to swipe at his rapidly dampening cheeks before looking down to gaze with tearful fondness at the former demon asleep in his arms. Lovingly, tenderly, he threads his quivering fingers through the tangled, sweat-matted locks. Places a ghost of a kiss, soft and apologetic, onto the pale strip of skin where it meets the hair’s flame-red edge. Whispers, barely audible, “Did you, darling?”

Crowley’s face tightens as if in response, a deep furrow of pain cutting across the smooth skin of his brow, and Aziraphale reaches out, unhesitating. Presses his fingers over the crease, willing his own still healing-weary essence to release just a tad more of angelic grace. Slumps in grateful exhaustion as he watches Crowley’s pain-tightened features soften and go lax with proper, mending sleep.

There’s a brief moment when he wonders if he should take Anathema up on her offer after all, to take a much needed break from his healing vigil and allow himself to rest, to give his own powers a chance to recharge. He opens his mouth, a humble request for Anathema to stay with Crowley while he follows Crowley’s example and lets himself relax into a blessedly restful slumber ready on the tip of his tongue.

And snaps it shut a mere heartbeat later as a powerful and dreadfully familiar presence rattles sharply against the protective network of wards surrounding the cottage.

#good omens fic #good omens #crowley #aziraphale #hurt/comfort #angst #somethingjustsouthofbrilliance writes #sjsob good omens fics

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aki-draws-things · 5 years ago

Note

For the prompt meme: 23 with Tycutio? Play up the angst as much as you'd like. (Also: thank you for writing - whether it’s angst or not I always enjoy reading what you write).

I put together the two asks since this one worked too well for this ending. Sorry it took me so long to write it, but here it is, in all it’s 2461 words~ @soetpotatis

@badthingshappenbingo

Prompt: Impaled Chest(+ held me as i died in your arms, from another set of prompts)

Fandom: Romeo et Juliette

Ship: Tycutio

“It’s not like she would have married who you chose for her.” Words slipped from his mouth way before Tybalt could finish the thought. Months before he would have never believed himself able to have such a thought, let alone speak it aloud, but months passed, Juliet was happier than ever, and in all honesty the two Montague boys weren’t that much bad. But of course that specific thought must remain in his mind. Unlike the thing he had just spoken.

“Silence. She’s my daughter, and she will do what I say.”

“Very nice.” Tybalt muttered to himself, sarcasm dripping from his lips like poison, not even trying to speak low. “Stuck in a marriage with a man twice her age because daddy likes him. Oh, I’m sure she will love you.”

“Watch your mouth.” In the span of a couple of seconds Lord Capulet turned a deep red, veins popping on his neck, hands balled in angry fists.

“Nothing against Lord Paris, - He continued, now unable to stop despite feeling the danger filling the room. - he’s great, charming. Has only qualities, really, my dear cousin.” Again, some words never meant to be spoken slipped out of habit. And Paris wasn’t even his cousin, yet. “But he’s too old. Romeo, on the other hand is just a couple of years older than Juliet, loves her, and she loves him. I’m afraid, uncle, I fail to see the problem.”

The problem was, and Tybalt knew it well since he had pointed it out not more than six months before, that Romeo was a Montague. A kind boy, gentle, considerate, and apparently truly in love with her, but still a Montague. That was the problem. And the fact that Lord Capulet already had his hand on the hilt of the short sword at his side, rage barely contained.

“Defending a Montague, now? Is that what I taught you?” Tybalt swallowed and took, instinctively, a step back.

“You taught me to fight for my family. That’s what I’m doing.” The slap was nothing, in truth it just covered the sharp pain Tybalt felt in his chest.

“You disgrace this family even more than my daughter.”

It was strange. A slap shouldn’t hurt this much. It shouldn’t hurt his chest. It shouldn’t make it painful to breathe. It shouldn’t –

“Tybalt?” He turned. Juliet screamed, eyes wide in terror, tears already falling on her cheeks. He opened the mouth but instead of words it was blood that came out, warm, thick, bright red. He fell. His knees buckled and he collapsed on the floor. The sword he remembered seeing at his uncle hip barely minutes ago was now in his chest. Completely. The hilt was almost pressed against the skin, his chest was on fire, his back was on fire, he wasn’t sure whether he was going to throw up or faint. Perhaps both. Yes, maybe he would do both. Both sounded really good.

He would have hit the floor much harder if he wasn’t already there, his vision swam and everything turned darker, then the world tilted and his head hit the ground. He saw a red dress floating in the air farther from him then nothing.

- There was a stronger pain that almost brought him back to consciousness, someone moved him, dragged him, dumped him on a bed. Rolled him on the side, hands pressed on both his back and chest, blood soaking the blankets. Tybalt felt cold, an unspeakable cold despite the fire. It made no sense. And it hurt. Everything hurt. -

***

Never before Juliet ran that fast in her life, not even when as a child she tried to keep up with her cousins. But it was a game at the time, they roared and chased her around the gardens. Now it wasn’t a game anymore, she was chased by no one but the memory of what she saw. So she ran.

She knew where to find Romeo, she was almost sure at least, and if she found Romeo then she would find Mercutio too.

- Finding them was one thing, but then? What was she supposed to say? That her cousin had been stabbed because he called romeo family? -

But she ran, and almost tripped over a disconnected brick. She lit up when she found her husband not far from her, along with Benvolio and Mercutio. When she approached them, never stopping her run until she crashed in the boy’s safe arms, they already knew something happened. Just not what, yet. What they knew, or felt, was that it was something big, and important, maybe even scary, why else the young Capulet would find herself running through the streets alone?

“Juliet… Juliet, my dear…” Romeo’s voice was sweet and calm, his arms seemed to shield her from the world. “Oh, if only he could shield her from the memories too.” She thought in despair.

“I – - She stopped, tears still streaming down her face, she just couldn’t help herself, she just couldn’t stop. - You need to come with me…” She looked up at Mercutio, a plea in her eyes not to ask anything more, she didn’t have the heart to explain him, she couldn’t. “If we run, maybe…” Something broke in her voice, something forbid her to finish the sentence. If. Was it really needed, an if? Yes, perhaps the if was fine, the maybe, on the other hand…

“Tybalt?” If there was something that Juliet loved of Mercutio was that the first thought in dire situation was for Tybalt, for his safety, for his presence. Or his absence. Not at first, no. She knew him as Romeo’s friend and nothing more, as someone who challenged her cousin, but with time she saw the differences, she learned to accept him, even to like him. To consider him almost family, just like Tybalt did with Romeo.

“It’s – it’s complicated. We need to go, we –” She wanted to cry, she wanted to stay in Romeo’s arms, the mere idea of returning home, walking through the corridors, maybe even seeing the blood still on the floor… but she couldn’t stay, she couldn’t do that to Mercutio, she couldn’t let him go on his own.

On the way to the Capulet’s Palace he didn’t say a word, didn’t ask any further explanation, Juliet could almost see his brain running faster than she did to find them, wrapping around ideas, suspicions theories he wanted to ask about but didn’t, and Juliet, oh, she was glad of their stretched silence.

“Oh God.” A voice greeted them before they could actually enter the house. “Oh, thank God you’re safe, Julie.” Passing a hand in the hair the Cat approached them both and hugged her tight. “Don’t scare me like that too, I’m old, I don’t think my heart can take it.” He tried, and failed, not to sound broken, but the way he held on her smaller body said everything he could say.

In another moment she would have laughed he wasn’t that much old and that his heart was for sure healthier than many other. But she couldn’t this time, because in the way he held her there was all the desperation of someone that would crumble if he let go.

“Where’s Tybalt?” Mercutio hated to be so blunt in that moment, but the more he had to wait and the more restless he felt.

“This way.” Mercutio was tempted to stop him after a couple of steps, they were going in the opposite direction of where he knew were the bedrooms. “It’s not a shortcut, if you’re wondering.” “I didn’t.” He wanted to say, but for once he remained silent. “But it’s safer. Mostly for me. It could be a problem if I see my uncle again. I could…” He lowered the voice suddenly as he took a corner and slipped inside a room, quickly followed by Juliet and Mercutio. “I could break something more than a nose. And an arm. And five fingers under my boots. And – No. It doesn’t matter. Look…” He turned and stopped Mercutio in front of a second door half hidden from a wardrobe. “What you’ll find won’t be good, or nice, or anything, really. I won’t blame you if you don’t want to –” Mercutio opened the door and stepped in the other room before the Cat could finish talking.

“Is it that bad?” He heard Juliet ask but the answer never reached his ears, everything fell silent as he saw the body on the bed.

He thought he had seen people hurt badly before but that was a totally new level and Mercutio wasn’t sure if it was because of the wound or because it was Tybalt.

He walked closer to the bed careful not to make any noise that would attract someone or wake the boy and he sat on the mattress, close enough to make him feel his presence, or at least he hoped so.

“My love… My Tybalt… What have you done? What have they done to you?” His fingers brushed carefully his face only getting a soft moan back. “It’s okay, don’t worry. It’s not that bad, you know? - He whispered trying to keep his voice as steady as he could. - It’s a scratch, an annoying one, but nothing mo –”

“Liar.” He didn’t expect Tybalt to answer him, he thought he was still unconscious, - He thought he would die without waking up. - he thought he wouldn’t even hear him. “Blade went through, I’m dying.” The calmness in his voice broke Mercutio’s heart more than he thought it would, he wanted to deny it, he wanted to convince Tybalt of the contrary, convince him to fight or, at least, just convince him, but he couldn’t. He saw the wound, well, he saw the bandages, and the blood, and the paleness of his face, how cold he was, and how weak. How his breathing was slow and painful, and he saw more blood coming from his mouth as he spoke.

Mercutio really wanted to tell him he would be fine but in the end he couldn’t really lie to him, not in the end.

“Tell him I’m sorry. - He heard him beg. - Tell him I tried…”

Who? Who should he tel – Oh!

“Romeo?” Tybalt nodded blinking tiredly, trying his best to remain awake.

“Uncle didn’t listen, but I tried. I did.” He whispered again, - More blood. More and more blood, Mercutio felt the urge to scream. - Mercutio nodded.

Slowly, as gently as he could he took him in his arms, he didn’t let go, not even when Tybalt whimpered and hissed in pain, careful of where he would put his hands on the chest and back, he leaned over and kissed him.

“I will. - He assured at last. - and I’ll make sure they will be fine and safe. Everyone. Romeo, Juliet, your brother. I’ll keep them safe for you.”

Tybalt smiled. It lasted a couple of seconds, then it turned in a painful coughing fit that left him breathless. He lift a hand and caressed Mercutio’s cheek, and then – Then he was gone, like smoke in the wind. He was still there, of course, his body, held tightly in trembling arms, with hands brushing his face and hair, praying to him to wake up, begging him to stay a little longer. Repeating, like a mantra, how he loved him, and how he should have said it more before.

***

The first thing both Romeo and Benvolio noticed when Mercutio joined them was the blood on his clothes, on his hands, on his face. Then they saw the knife still in his hand, dripping blood as he walked, eyes blank staring forward, seeing the street above but nothing else, or not paying attention, they weren’t sure. He stopped in front of them and blinked, like he had to clear his vision and finally see them.

For a moment he almost lifted the dagger to Romeo’s throat, a little voice in his mind saying he was to blame too for what happened, saying that if he didn’t marry Juliet then Tybalt wouldn’t have defended him and died. But he promised. He promised, to a dying man, and it was not the kind of promise one go around and break after not even one hour. But he could blame him, yes, he could make him feel one little stab, even if just in his soul. Maybe if Romeo felt it too it would he easier for him to carry it.

“He – - He froze, his hand gripped the hilt of the dagger harder but he didn’t raise it. - He would have called you cousin. He would have defended you, and Juliet, from Lord Capulet. He did defended you and he took a sword in his chest. For you.” Tears fell before he could stop them, a sob broke from his throat. “I finished what he started, I defended your God forsaken marriage. And I finished what the cat started too. I don’t care of what will happen now, I promised you would be safe and now you will be.”

- The knife found Lord Capulet’s heart before he could even register Mercutio was there. But the heart wasn’t enough for him. He kept stabbing him until the Cat came and dragged him away ordering him to run. -

The dagger slipped from his fingers and Mercutio smiled, then laughed hysterically through tears, news of Lord Capulet’s death soon arrived to everyone’s ears in Verona, - Somehow, though, words of how he killed his own nephew remained to few chosen ones. - Mercutio found himself being dragged back to the Palace to his uncle, he didn’t resist when the two guards he had known since forever came and took him away, he simply looked back at Benvolio and a shocked Romeo, his words still echoed in the young Montague’s heir.

Some days later the secret Marriage got exposed, by order of the Prince, Mercutio got exiled, a small price for the crime he committed, Lady Capulet said, and a funeral held for her departed husband.

- A second funeral, more private and almost as secret as the wedding, was held for Tybalt, a few hours before Mercutio left the city. Just a few close people, mostly family, in the very end, whether by blood or found. -

“I knew I would find you here, little prince.” The Cat said walking in the Crypt and looking at the young man laying on the tomb, his hand holding Tybalt’s. He walked behind them and put a kiss on his forehead covering their hands with his to strengthen the hold.

“May you be together, at last.”

#tycutio #tybalt capulet #mercutio escalus #major character death #angst #prompt: impaled chest #Bad things happen bingo #bthb #no happy ending here #romeo et juliette #retj #fanfic #soetpotatis #aki writes

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heavenzfiend · 6 years ago

Text

Fanfic: Alone Again (Tokugawa Ieyasu x MC)- SLBP

Read on AO3

Word count: ~4800

Warning: LEMON. Non-con/dubious consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Physical Abuse, Forced Orgasm, Power Play, etc. Don’t read if you’re expecting fluff!

Summary: MC finally seems to be getting closer to the reclusive Lord Motoyasu when Lord Yoshimoto orders them to take each other’s virginity but under his exact instructions. Just how much more control over the boy will it take for him to be satisfied?

Author’s Note: This is a continuation of the Event Story, “Another Story Part 2” for Ieyasu, who is Matsudaira Motoyasu. The first part of the ES really affected me emotionally because of how he was treated by that –insert all the bad words- Yoshimoto but while playing the second part, I got this thought: what if he forces them to sleep together? I can see him doing something like this, just to control more of Ieyasu’s life and to limit more of his freedom, even in terms of love and sex. Anyways, hope you enjoy~

“I’m finished. Thank you for the meal,” Lord Motoyasu says in his usual genial tone.

“I hope you enjoyed what I had prepared for you,” I state, knowing fully well that he did, judging from his empty plates and fast pace of eating.

“I did. I’m grateful as always.”

I clean up the dishes one-by-one with a pleasant smile on my lips as well, happy to know that he is speaking to me with a lot longer phrases as of late. Suddenly, my hands brush against his as they occasionally do when I’m cleaning up. Unlike before when any physical touch made him freeze up, Lord Motoyasu seems to not mind as much nowadays. He allows them to simply slide against each other, my hand feeling the warmth of his for the briefest moments, grateful that he doesn’t pull away in shock or disgust.

I exit the room with almost a skip to my steps, unable to hide the smile plastered to my face. I feel as if I’m finally bringing out the real Lord Motoyasu hidden deep inside his shell molded by Lord Yoshimoto’s rigid control of every fiber of his being. I can’t wait to find out more about him, like what he likes to do if he had free time outside of his reading and archery practice or what he would like to do outside the castle walls if he had a whole day free from his set schedule to do whatever he pleases.

I wonder if one day soon he will even hold my hands. I have to stifle a giggle from escaping. I move down the corridors to the kitchen with my arms heavy, laden with the plate-filled tray, but heart and mind light at peace.

-----------

Just as I’m about to leave the kitchen to retire to my room for the evening, one of the maids accosts me.

“Miss MC, Lord Yoshimoto is asking for you. Please go directly to Lord Motoyasu’s chambers.” I furrow my brows, confusion etched on my face, at her worried tone but the maid quickly leaves after saying that, not giving me any other option but to do as she relayed lest I keep the lord waiting for too long.

As I walk down the corridor my mind is filled with worry at the thought of facing the lord of the castle. A day without having to see him at all is a very good day indeed in my books. Just the thought of him brings a shiver down my back, the purple robes giving a fake illusion of regality when it houses a demon instead.

I announce myself and slide the shoji door slightly after preparing my nerves, noticing that nothing seems to be amiss in the air, notwithstanding the usual awkwardness. This is the first time he has called upon me to Lord Motoyasu’s chambers at this time of night.

I take my usual seat next to Lord Motoyasu, muscles fidgeting from anxiety. I look up to see Lord Yoshimoto smiling at us, his stubby eyebrows reminding me of a chilling ghost from the Heian period.

“I see you still sit so close to dear Motoyasu, how lovely,” his smile growing wider along with my confusion. “You must be wondering why I called you here tonight.” Both Lord Motoyasu and I stare at him to continue.

“As a father-figure to my darling Motoyasu, I want to see all his needs satisfied. You're his chambermaid and if I'm not mistaken you two got quite close lately. You also would do anything to care for Motoyasu, am I right?” he asks with his too perceptive eyes.

“...Of course, Milord.” My heart is pounding so fast in my chest, it threatens to leap out of my body and it almost hurts to breathe.

“Have you laid with a man before?” My eyes grow wide as plates as I stumble for a reply, mortified at the question. I don’t like where this is going but I know I have to answer him.

“N-no...” My cheeks feel warm and eyes nervously fleet around but pointedly avoiding Lord Motoyasu’s general direction. Why, oh why are we talking about this right now?

“Well that's wonderful. You see, my sweet Motoyasu is also a virgin. I think as his chambermaid you should pleasure him and mate with him. How fitting for both of you to have each other's first time,” he says with that sweet, deceiving smile of his that I want to punch right off his face.

Just as Lord Motoyasu finally got comfortable with me, just as we were finally getting closer, Lord Yoshimoto seizes that opportunity to take control of our lives down to the most private matters, dictating when and how we will have sex. I relish our developing friendship and, despite the love I have for Lord Motoyasu, I know things can never be the same after we come together in this sense. I don’t want things to unfold like this, not tonight, not ever, under these circumstances.

“This poor boy has never experienced a woman's touch,” he continues in mock pity. “Don't be troubled about your lack of experience in this matter either. I shall gladly assist you both every step of the way.”

He means to strip the last dignity left on Lord Motoyasu, to let him know that he even dictates when, how and with whom he can have carnal pleasures.

My breath gets caught as if the evil lord shoved a metal ball down my windpipe and constricted my heart by squeezing it in his fist mercilessly, bleeding it out slowly. How crueler can this man get? I'm more worried about the damage this will ultimately do to poor Lord Motoyasu than any physical pain I have to endure by giving my virginity to a man.

“Milord! I… this wasn’t in my job description, surely!” I try to protest rationally but my voice comes out in high-pitched squeaks fueled by my over-wrecked emotions.

“You had consented to look after my boy here and he in return can use you in any way he desires,” turning to Lord Motoyasu, he asks, “and you do desire her, do you not?” His dullish brown eyes search Lord Motoyasu’s.

After a long, excruciating silence, Lord Motoyasu opens his mouth to respond.

“…Lord Yoshimoto, I… I'm not sure if we should…“ Lord Motoyasu’s eyelashes fluttered down with uncertainty, first time showing hesitation to his captor.

Without warning, Lord Yoshimoto slaps Lord Motoyasu across the face so hard that his jaws make a cracking sound as it whips to the side. He suddenly grabs a fistful of his hair, showing no mercy even to such beautiful, golden locks. How can he be so monstrous to something, or someone, that looks so angelic? My heart weeps for him.

“You dare defy me?” Yoshimoto asks, his face an eerie blank sheet, void of emotion.

“Lord Motoyasu!” I can't stand by watching him get hurt, I just can't. If I have to give my body to satisfy one of his whims, I'll do it to save Lord Motoyasu.

I’m kneeling by his body, tears streaming down my face as I beg him to stop. However, my desperate pleas aren't what he's after since the onslaught of abuse continues. Even with the poor boy slumped on the floor, ruthless kicks rain down on him all over his body.

Finally, after what seems to be an eternity, Lord Motoyasu weakly lets out, “Forgive me, Milord… I seemed to have forgotten my place…” and begins to cough up blood on the floor.

“See to it that you don’t forget again. I gave you an order, not a request. Do not forget, both of you belong to me.” He turns to me and adds, “I expect great things from you, young lady.”

I wonder if we can just pretend we did it and call it a night, but somehow I feel like he will find out if we actually did as he said or not. I wonder what he meant by assisting us? It’d be mortifying if he was listening and providing verbal feedback through the shoji screen.

“Make sure to follow all of my instructions. Come in.” He situates himself near the corner and calls out to someone. Suddenly, two maids appear from outside with a sheet of paper, ink and brush, laying it on a desk in front of the seated lord. “You two are dismissed for now but stay behind the door in case I need something.”

“Yes, Milord.” The two maids exit and I see the outline of their figures behind the shoji. Wait, so Lord Yoshimoto will be in the room with us while the maids will be listening right outside? I look around the room like a frightened rabbit caught in a trap, eyes landing on both men and not quite believing what’s going on. I've never even kissed a boy before but now I'm expected to perform the ultimate act of bonding between a man and a woman under the instructions of a sadistic psycho?

Nothing could have prepared me for the nightmare that is tonight.

“Now, first thing’s first. Kiss.”

Lord Motoyasu pushes off the floor with one arm while the other clutches at his sides. He peers at me with those unreadable, reddish eyes. I don’t want him to move any more than necessary so I scoot closer to him and bring my face very, very close to his. I hear him suck in a breath at my audacity but I have my eyes closed in anticipation so I thankfully cannot see his expression, which seeing it would only further my own embarrassment at the absurdity of our current situation.

Seconds pass by when I feel the gentlest brush of lips that jolt my eyes open. Lord Motoyasu’s face is right in front of me, our noses touching as well as our lips. I quickly shut my eyes again, not wanting to stare into the depths of his eyes from such a close proximity. This is way too intimate. My head whirls at the distinct scent of coppery blood assailing me from his mouth.

He continues to press his lips against mine, holding still. When he finally parts, Lord Yoshimoto’s voice echoes in the silent room, “I didn’t say you can stop.” He quickly mashes our lips back together, almost too fast that our teeth collide and I register a slight bit of pain. He hisses through his lips in pain as well, but it’s gone in an instant and he regains composure. I hear a brush gliding against paper from afar.

“Try tilting your face this way and that. Stick your tongue in her mouth.” Lord Motoyasu attempts to follow all the instructions given exactly as is. His mouth covers mine more fully with his head slightly tilted to the side and I feel something really warm and wet wedging between my lips. I part them slightly as to not deny him access but my whole body is tense. Isn’t kissing supposed to be romantic? I can’t imagine anything less romantic than the moment I’m sharing with him right now, with him shoving his tongue down my throat. My mouth feels thoroughly invaded and uncomfortable.

“Young lady, you need to relax.”

Easier said than done! Although behind my eyes I kick his stupid face repeatedly, I take a deep breath and let my shoulders drop, also loosening my jaws in the process. I don’t know when to take a breath and when to swallow. I feel some of my saliva escaping from the corner of my mouth and I quickly mop it up with my sleeves.

Yup, definitely not romantic.

“Strip.” The command comes out from nowhere that I freeze. Our lips make a smooching noise as he extracts himself away, filling the otherwise quiet night.

“Lord Yoshimoto… C-can we turn the light off?” I suggest in an attempt to save my modesty.

“No.” That’s all he says. What did I even expect? Even in the cover of darkness, my modesty will not be salvaged. After this night, the whole castle will come to know of me as Lord Motoyasu’s plaything. A broken marionette. A whore.

Seconds pass by without either of us actually performing the command when the voice from the corner says, “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

We both bashfully look down at our clothes, not wanting to face each other unless absolutely necessary. With trembling hands, I tug at my obi strings and belt, then slide one arm at a time out of my robes. I hear similar rustling of clothes in front of me but I don’t dare look up quite yet. I continue to disrobe all my articles of clothing until they are pooled at my feet and I am standing stark naked in the middle of the room with my hands cupping my private areas in an attempt to hide as much as I can. I know I won’t be able to for too long but just standing there with my hands to my sides is unthinkable.

“My goodness, just look at you two fools just standing there. Go on, touch each other.” Our eyes both look up at the same time and his face and chest are both so red that I would find it quite endearing if we weren’t in this ridiculous situation and I’m not equally as red, but alas that’s not the case. We both hold each other’s eyes not daring to break it lest we see too much of the other person. Never seeing a man’s body before, aside from Yahiko but he doesn’t count since he’s not even a fully grown man, the curiosity and anticipation is killing me but I don’t want to do anything too rash to startle him so I keep my eyes focused solely on his face.

But eventually Lord Motoyasu’s eyes flicker down my body, slowly drifting from my neck, collarbones, my left breast then my right one, each place he looks at burning hotter at the sensation of his eyes. And then he looks at the apex of my thighs and my toes curl at the scrutiny. Despite my hand attempting to cover the general area, I’m sure he can still see the dark hairs peeking through and I just wish I could die at this moment so I don’t have to be subjected to this any longer.

“...Milord, where exactly do you mean by... touch?” The uncertainty in Lord Motoyasu’s voice is followed by a chuckle from the seated lord.

“Wherever you want. All over.”

With the sudden freedom that came with that response, Lord Motoyasu’s eyes slightly widen like a kid at a confectioner’s store and the maroon in his eyes become a shade darker. I don’t think he’s ever touched a girl before so he must be a tad excited. I try to relax and let him do what he wants, chanting to myself, ‘It’s just Lord Motoyasu. It’s just him touching you. You actually like him, so it’ll be okay.’

His hands reach out to tentatively touch my hair, rubbing his thumb and forefinger on some strands, as if he’s amazed how flowy they are. I suppose he’s never got to touch long hair before since Lord Yoshimoto probably has someone cut his hair tidy at a set schedule.

Next, he traces his fingers down my neck, gently wrapping his large hand around my neck. I’m scared for a second, wondering if he will strangle me but he is nothing but gentle in his touches as he ventures onwards. His fingertips ghost at my collarbones and a short gasp escapes me as goosebumps appear all over my body.

His actions stop and I see him looking at my chest.

“...Can I?” He whispers, eyes searching mine. He doesn’t have to ask permission since the lord commanded it but I’m thankful that the sweet Lord Motoyasu still lets me believe I have some semblance of control in all this.

“...Yes,” I breathe out, barely audible.

The warmth in his eyes become even gentler as he puts his whole palms against my breasts. He sucks in a breath as if he can’t believe how they feel as he cups them and squeezes them with his hands. Then he almost studies my body, so different from his own, scratching my nipples to attention first then methodically twisting and pinching the tautness. I wish they weren't so pointy and erect.

Just as I’m about to get lost in the sensations he produces, the unwelcomed demon speaks.

“Bury your face on her breasts and suck on her like you’re her child. Surely it should come naturally to you as you’ve never had a proper mother to suckle from. Imagine there’s milk flowing from her. Drink her up.”

Cruel words from a cruel man.

Lord Motoyasu looks so conflicted that I feel so sorry for him, despite myself being used as well.

I stand up a little straight, attempting to make myself taller so he can get down to snuggle against my bosom. He must see that as an invitation as he nuzzles his face against my soft flesh and then pops a nipple into his mouth. I gasp at the sensation that I’ve never experienced before. It almost feels too much yet not enough at the same time. The feeling of bonding to this person is so strong. I don’t know what happened with his mother but if I can give even a small amount of comfort to his broken soul, I will be more than willing to let him use my body.

I can smell his scent from his hair and as if they are beckoning me to them, I can’t help but run my hands through them. A small, broken noise that almost sounds like a sob comes from him, as he moves his mouth in a sucking motion. My one hand pats his back reassuringly as my other hand gently caresses his hair.

I finally get the chance to fully take in his body and register that he is naked and so close to me. I can feel the muscles and sinew on his lean arms while he holds my sides firmly. His chest and upper body are generally strong-looking, which then lead down to the wisp of a waist. He’s not overly muscular but his daily archery practice definitely defined his shoulders and upper back so that first impressions wouldn’t show how much of an overall sedentary life he leads.

After quite some time passed of him simply being in my arms, we both relax into a steady rhythm, in sync in both breaths and heartbeats.

“Touch her. Make her come.”

I inhale a huge gulp of air which leads to uncontrollable coughing. Lord Motoyasu eases himself away from me as I gain control of my breathing once more.

No! Where does he even get these ideas from? I don't want to show him my pleasure. Just how could he expect me to achieve orgasm in a situation like this, with hatred for him circulating my entire body? He must be thoroughly enjoying this, the sadistic bastard, watching both of us struggling to fulfill his every demand as he showcases his power over us like puppets on strings for his amusement.

“Milord! I can’t possibly!” I nearly shout.

“You will. We have all night.” That scares me, the thought that he probably is being serious, that this could well last the entire night if he so desires. Shouldn’t the lord of the castle have better things to do than observe two young people having sex, against their will might I add?

I wish he would just be satisfied with Lord Motoyasu putting his thing in me so I can crawl back to my room and pretend this night never happened. But I have to do this. I have to do this for Lord Motoyasu’s sake, as well as mine.

Lord Motoyasu inches closer and right before gently pushing me to the ground, discreetly whispers, “...Perhaps you can pretend to achieve satisfaction?” Even before my mind gets to process what those words mean, I hear the amusement.

“Don’t be so daft as to think I don’t know what you’re up to. I will know.”

All hope is lost as I willingly subject to his touch, stiff as a log with my back on the floor and legs stretched out. Lord Motoyasu looks lost as if he has no idea how to ‘make me come.’

Not wanting to be here anymore than necessary, I reach out and take his hand in mine, guiding his middle finger to my slit. I slide it up and down where it easily traverses due to the amount of fluid in the area. His eyes widen and mouth open in fascination at the feeling of a woman’s heat.

I mostly guide him along my clit, where I find the most amount of pleasure based on personal exploration. I focus all my concentration on finding release, desperate to get it over with. I squeeze my eyes shut. If I close my eyes, if I focus solely on the warmth of his touch, the scent of his masculinity and breath close to me it almost feels like we are two normal lovers sharing an intimate moment.

Just when I feel so close, his finger tease at my opening, prompting my eyes to open. And just as unexpectedly, Lord Motoyasu gives me the sweetest kiss on my forehead and the emotional connection pushes me over the edge. I give an uncontrollable cry as my lower body twitches, squeezing his fingers which have found their way inside out of curiosity.

Lost in the throes of passion, I hazily open my eyes but they accidentally land on Lord Yoshimoto, his languid brushstrokes gliding on the parchment, writing whatever cruel words to use against him later, to further humiliate and control his life. It is the equivalent of being doused over the head by an ice bucket as my body goes rigid again despite my inner walls still tingling from release.

The tears well up in me in shame when my body stops convulsing, the feeling of emptiness so consuming that I want to curl up and hide.

“Now, deflower her. But take care not to spill your filthy Matsudaira seeds inside her. We wouldn't want to burden my hospitality even further by having your pathetic, useless spawn here with us to waste my resources, now do we? I'm sure you wouldn't want him to know how stupid and a waste of space his father truly is.”

Lord Motoyasu’s crimson eyes flare in rage, so full of raw emotion normally concealed that it bores into my soul, forever imprinted. However, it was a fleeting emotion, gone just as fast as it arrived.

He clutches my thighs with his strong hands, forcing them apart wider when my instincts naturally attempt to close them together without meaning to. I bring both my hands up to hide my face, unable to see how he must view me now with my legs spread like a frog, such wantonness on display.

With his hands on either side of my hips, he pokes me down there with something hard and warm. I’m too frightened to even look at it so I continue to hide my face behind my hands. He nudges his tip into the wrong hole and I freeze in panic. He begins to push when I scream, “Ahhh! Lord Motoyasu! N-no that's not-!”

Lord Motoyasu embarrassedly apologizes while readjusting and I hear a burst of laughter from the only one who's having a time of their life right now at our expense. Lord Motoyasu continues to struggle to find my entrance, slipping down or poking at the wrong hole again and again.

All of a sudden, I can feel searing warmth as something smooth and thick is finally placed right along my opening, pushing in bit by bit.

I thought I was ready, but nothing could've prepared me for the pure pain that follows the pressure of his body fitting against mine. A strangled noise escapes me as I struggle to keep from writhing, my body desperately fighting to reject the foreign invasion. The impulse to push him away is so great that I have to constantly remind myself to just endure it.

I forgot how to breathe. I'm holding my breath without intending to and my whole body is on edge from tension, abdomen clenched and fingernails indenting deeply into my palms that it might draw blood. I thought it would be okay. I thought as long as it's Lord Motoyasu I would be able to endure the pain willingly. But it just hurts so damn much.

“It hurts… it hurts…” I say through the spurts of breath I manage to exhale while looking up at him. I can feel tiny beads of liquid forming from the corner of my eyes.

How can anyone find this act pleasurable?

“Forgive me… I’ll… be fast...” he says but he soon moves against me like a rabid animal, filling in and out of my hole.

“Ahhhhhh!” I scream into the night, unable to care about the rest of the castle hearing me. The initial shock and pain soon dissipates and is replaced by an achiness. His body seems to move on its own in a fervor.

The constant slap, slap of skin meeting skin, squelch, squelch of fluid meeting fluid fills the air.

It's as if I can feel Lord Motoyasu deep inside me in a place no one else has ever known me, filling me so fully that it feels like I've been empty my whole life without my knowing, waiting to be filled by him.

Am I strange to want this night to end but this intimate moment with him to last longer?

Just as Lord Motoyasu increases the frequency of his pumps and huffs sporadically, a voice sounds from the corner, “Don't come yet.” But it was a cruel command, seeing as his ecstasy was already forthcoming.

In an act of defiance or not enough control, he releases his seeds inside me. I’m unable to tell what it was but I’m happy to have something of his inside me, though not everlasting.

Lord Yoshimoto observes the whole affair with an almost pleased glimmer in his facade, as if everything had gone according to his plans down to the last moments. He patiently waits until we both calmed and then casually walks over to me, throwing my robe at my face where it stings from the slap of the fabric.

“If you can’t even control your own body, how do you expect to control all of Japan, let alone your retainers?” He isn’t even looking at me as he spits venom at Lord Motoyasu’s naked body.

“You think you can get away with not following my directions? How foolish of you.” I'm scrambling to dress, only managing to get my robe draped around my shoulders when his next words sting far more than the physical pain I endured.

“As punishment, it's only fair to take away something important to you, don't you agree?” he grabs my forearms to yank me to my feet and heads to the door with me dragging behind him, half naked with the robes flapping open in the front without an obi to secure it.

“MC will be attending to me as my personal page from now on. Other maids will bring your meals like before her arrival at our castle. You're not permitted to see her anymore.”

A gasp escapes me but I'm being manhandled so forcefully and hastily to the point where I cannot form words of rebuttal as I desperately try to close the robe with one hand without success, mixture of blood and fluids from both our bodies sliding down my legs.

No! I don't want to leave Lord Motoyasu’s side! Just as we were getting closer, Lord Yoshimoto is tearing us apart just like how he did with family and retainers of Matsudaira.

I’ll find a way to see you again, Lord Motoyasu!

I turn my head while being dragged off, desperately trying to catch sight of him. The brief glimpse of Lord Motoyasu that I was able to get will forever be imprinted on my mind— the image of him naked on his knees looking dejectedly down at the floor, covered with both of our blood, and what seemed to be a single tear sliding down his cheek, all alone.

Author’s Note: …Who wants to kill Yoshimoto with me? I was in a confusing state of sad and aroused while writing this… Is that even possible?! Thanks for reading! :) Please let me know what you think!

Tagging: Not sure who to tag... @rubyleeray @pseudofaux @kawa-akarin @dani677 @julias1993

#My writing #slbp #samurai love ballad party #fanfiction #fanfic #tokugawa ieyasu #slbp ieyasu #imagawa yoshimoto

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evabellasworld · 4 years ago

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Death of Mandalore

Chapter 16

AO3 Link | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16

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Summary: After murdering Chancellor Palpatine of the Galactic Republic, Vanya Doyvesky joined leagues with both Death Watch and Darth Maul, hoping to reclaim her Mandalorian warrior heritage. But with broken promises and betrayal against Death Watch and Maul’s crime syndicate, the former Mandalorian Jedi had to choose the right path not only for her but for Clan Doyvesky as well.

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Rushing through the empty hallways, Vanya huffed and puffed as she looked left and right, hoping to search for her two younger sisters around the palace. “Katrina, Maria” she called their names in distress. “Where are you girls?”

“Slow down, Vanya,” Obi-Wan panted, bending his knees. “Some of us can’t keep up with you.”

“I’m so sorry, but my sisters are in danger,” she snapped, showing her index finger. “If I don’t hurry, Almec will have their heads.”

He and Satine nodded as they exchanged brief glances with each other, before chasing behind her. “Katrina, Maria, where are you?” her voice echoed through the palace and her breathing quickened.

“Vanya, where are you?” Katrina cried out, responding to her sister’s pleas. “Help us, please. I can’t take it any longer.”

The former Jedi Master’s eyes grew bigger, her jaws dropped. “Katrina, I’m coming,” shouted Vanya, as she sped up. “Just hang in there, vod’ika.”

“Vanya, help!” Maria yelled at the top of her lungs. “I can’t breathe, Vanya! I can’t breathe!”

Obi-Wan and Satine hurried towards Vanya as they were heading towards the throne room, where Katrina and Maria were kept hostage by Almec, or whoever was sitting on top of the throne. For some reason, he couldn’t sense their presence nor their fears at all, making his heart beats rapidly.

Is Vanya being lured into a trap? his mind dwindled, trying to keep up with his best friend. Is there someone waiting to kill her there?

Slowing down his pace, he closed his eyes and paused in the middle of the corridor, feeling goosebumps sprouted all over his skin. He shivered as he delved into the Force, prompting him to wrap his arms around himself. Satine noticed his chattering teeth and wobbly knees and reached for his thumbs, giving them a slight squeeze. “Are you alright?”

He opened his eyes and gasped, falling onto his knees. His forehead was draped in sweat as he turned to Satine, holding her hands together. “We have to warn Vanya,” he catches his breath as he stands up. “She’s walking into a trap.”

“What kind of trap?” her lips quivered.

“No time to explain,” he said, dragging her along with him. “If we don’t make it on time, she will get herself killed.”

Unfortunately, he was right. Before they could step inside the throne room, they both heard an ear-piercing scream, accompanied by the sound of a lightsaber slashing in the background. Activating his weapon, Obi-Wan and Satine arrived there, and to their horror, Vanya was lying on the ground, her torso slashed by Darth Maul and Savage Opress.

“No, it can’t be,” he shook his head as the Sith brothers stepped forward from their throne, with Almec observing them from afar. “This can’t be real.”

“We meet again, Kenobi,” he expressed his glee, as he snatched his lightsaber with the Force and grabbed him by his neck. “Welcome to my world.”

“You monster,” Satine gasped as Savage cuffed her arms from behind and hefted her like a sack. “Let me go! Unhand me, you beast.”

He tossed her beside the throne as he growled at her like a beast, forcing her to watch her lover submit on the ground, along with her new friend moaning in pain. “Obi-Wan, I’m so sorry,” Vanya sobbed, tears streaming from her eyes. “I thought my sisters were in danger, really. I didn’t think this was all a trap.”

“No, Vanya, don’t say sorry,” he assured. “Maul was just luring you into a trap, that’s all. It’s not your fault.”

“Oh, Kenobi,” Maul jeered, his arms behind him. “If only you weren’t so blind by your loyalty and your kindness towards your so-called best friend.”

He glared at Maul, his eyebrows furrowed. “You’re wrong,” Obi-Wan defended her. “Everything you said about Vanya Doyvesky is wrong. She would take a bullet just to save my life, and I would do the same for her as well.”

“If only that was the case,” he said in a pitiful voice, shaking his head. “You see, I was the one who persuaded your childhood best friend to kill Chancellor Palpatine for me, in exchange for reuniting with her family again.”

“No, you didn’t,” denied Obi-Wan, focusing on his friend.

“Oh, yes, indeed, Kenobi. And you know what else I did? I told her how you knew that Palpatine was the Sith Lord all along, and I made her question whether you were truly a great friend to her.”

“No, stop it! That’s not true!”

“And I also convinced her and her younger sisters to join me in my conquest for Mandalore in exchange for more power and wealth beyond their needs, and even made her abandon her own troops on Coruscant just to take back Mandalore from its pacifism.”

“Vanya, this isn’t true, isn’t it?” he wailed. “Please tell me that Maul is lying to me. Please, Vanya, please let me know that you never did such a thing for him, right?”

She shook her head, wiping her cheeks with her hands. “I’m so sorry, Obi-Wan. I didn’t think it would be like this.”

“No!” Obi-Wan said underneath his breath. “You didn’t join him and overthrew Satine from her throne!”

“But I did that,” Vanya confessed, her hand clasped together. “I did all of that just so I can be with my family again.”

“No, that’s not true,” the Jedi Master stood up, refusing her claims. “That’s impossible!”

“Search your feelings, Obi-Wan. You know that is true.”

He blinked back his tears, realising the whole ordeal in front of him. His friend, his best friend, whom he would trust with his own life, was now crying shameful tears. Vanya, his childhood friend, whom he shared candies and secrets with, was begging for her forgiveness for her sin.

Satine gazed at her lover, wishing she could hug him and tell him that it was all just a nightmare. “Your noble flaw is a weakness shared by you and your duchess,” Maul spoke, as he lifted Satine in the air with the Force. Obi-Wan stepped forward, wanting to save the last person who he could trust, but the guards stopped him instead.

“You should have chosen the dark side, Master Jedi,” he continued, as the Duchess hyperventilated. Maul stepped forward towards him as he kicked Vanya away, much to Kenobi’s horror. “Your emotions betray you. Your fear, and yes, your anger. Let your anger deepen your hatred.”

He took a deep breath as he closed his eyes, prompting Satine to beg. “Don't listen to him, Obi-”

“Quiet,” Savage barked.

Maul raised his fingers when Obi-Wan put his words together. “You can kill me, you can stab me behind my back, but you will never destroy me,” he told him. “It takes strength to resist the dark side. Only the weak embrace it!”

“It is more powerful than you know,” stated the arrogant Sith.

“And those who oppose it are more powerful than you'll ever be,” Obi-Wan answered, in a calm yet harsh voice. “I know where you're from. I've been to your village. I know the decision to join the dark side wasn't yours. The Nightsisters made it for you.”

“Silence!” he roared, pounding his chest. “You think you know me? It was I who languished for years thinking of nothing but you. Nothing but this moment. And now the perfect tool for my vengeance is in front of us.”

Vanya let out a soft gasp as she figured out what Maul meant when he wanted revenge from Obi-Wan. “I never planned on killing you, but I will make you share my pain, Kenobi.”

Quivering in pain, Satine let out her final cries as Obi-Wan pulled his arms from the guard’s grasps, but to no avail. Forced to his knees, Maul activated the darksaber as he dragged Satine towards the blade, impaling her on her chest. His jaws dropped as he heard her throaty cough, before being tossed on the ground.

“Satine,” he ran towards her, holding her in his arms. Maul returned to his throne and smiled, as he watched him in agony. Taking one last look at the love of her life, whose blue eyes were forced to endure pain from people close to him, she caressed his cheeks. “Remember, my dear Obi-Wan,” she reminded him. “I've loved you always. I always will.”

Closing her eyes for one last time, she released her final breath as her hair hung low, making him hold her closer to him. Vanya saw him mourn for Satine, her head bowed. What have I done? she cried. Oh my god, what have I done?

“Do we kill him now, brother?” Savage asked Maul, watching them as well.

“No,” he gleamed. “Imprison him below. Let him drown in his misery. Take him to his cell to rot.”

Accepting his fate, Obi-Wan allowed the guards to take him away. He took one last glimpse of Vanya, whose tears were filled with guilt and sorrow for her own actions. “I thought you were my friend,” he mouthed, before being dragged out of the throne room.

She turned to Maul as she removed a plank from underneath her white gown, her brows drooped. “Well done, Master Jedi,” he applauded. “You have done well for Mandalore. Your sisters would be proud of you.”

Without saying a word, Vanya gave him a deep bow as she walked away from him, accepting the fact that there was nothing she could do to amend the ties that she herself had severed.

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reader-imagines-blog · 7 years ago

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Vows [Part 3] (Jaime Lannister x Reader)

a/n: hey! hi! hello! here's the third part to my jaime story which i am Very Much enjoying writing lmao. im such trash for this character and i just wanT A SOLID REDEMPTION ARC. sigh. anyways. enjoy!

PART 1 PART 2 PART 4 PART 5 PART 6 PART 7 PART 8 PART 9

WORD COUNT: 1,533

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The Flower in The North's marriage to the Lion of Lannister was the largest source of gossip in Westeros since Cersei's marriage to Robert. Two great houses marrying was practically unheard of, much less a Stark and Lannister union.

Weeks into the new Lady Lannister's marriage found Y/N rather content, if a bit lonely. She hadn't had very much time to spend with her sisters or her father, being constantly watched by Lannister guards. Y/N had been invited to several luncheons of tea and walks through the gardens with Cersei and she had come away from every one of them uneasy and feeling threatened.

Y/N was itching for interactions with her family, feeling as though she had been thrown to the lions with no hope of rescue. Y/N missed the frosty air of the North, she missed Jon's constant quiet wisdom, and she missed her twin. The distance between Robb and Y/N was excruciating and no amount of letters back and forth could fill that void.

About a month into Jaime and Y/N's marriage, word that Jaime had taken a group of Lannister soldiers and was currently seeking 'negotiations' with her father reached Y/N and caused her heart to drop to her feet.

She had saddled a horse immediately after she received word and rode as quick as she could to Littlefinger's brothel, where Varys had said they'd be. Y/N was furious. Word had spread through the Kingdoms like wildfire that Catelyn Stark had kidnapped Tyrion Lannister and was accusing him of Bran's attempted murder. Jaime had been furious all morning, hardly looking at Y/N and not listening to her pleas to calm down and to not do anything rash.

Obviously, he had not listened.

Y/N stopped her horse in front of the brothel and came upon her Lord husband questioning her father on the whereabouts of Tyrion, his sword in Ned's face. Y/N didnt wait for her horse to stop before she had jumped off of her saddle, immediately unsheathing her sword as she stumbled.

"What in the Seven is going on here? Jaime?"

Jaime regarded his wife with his signature cocky façade, grabbing her upper arm and dragging her in front of her father. There was a reason Jaime hadn't brought Y/N out in public. He wasn't a fan of who he had to be in the eyes of Westeros, and he knew Y/N wouldn't be either.

"According to your father's guard here, I was threatening him. And you'll address me formally." Jaime looked at the sword in Y/N's hand and quickly took it from her, tossing it to the side. Y/N's eyes, ablaze with unabashed fury and shame of her husbands current treatment of her, briefly moved to Jory Cassel, and then back to Jaime.

"Well did you, my Lord Husband?"

Jaime smirked. "Well let's see, dear wife. I told him that I am going to cut him open, balls to brain, and see what Starks are made of. Does that classify as a threat to you, my darling?"

Y/N glared coldly up at her husband. Jaime felt his heart drop but kept his smirk firmly in place.

"Well we'll just have to see what Lannister's are made of first, then?"

Jaime threw one last glare at Ned before again looking to his wife. Even without a sword, she was willing to threaten him. In a way, Jaime was proud.

"Tread carefully, dear wife. You are a Lannister."

Ned chose this moment to intervene, worry for his eldest daughter hardening in his chest and showing in his eyes. "If you kill me, you'll never see your brother again."

Jaime laughed humorlessly, turning from Y/N. "You're right," He turned and nodded to his soldiers, "Take him alive. Kill his men."

Y/N immediately began struggling against Jaime, watching his men kill her father's, men she had grown up around. Jaime growled, frustrated, and passed her off to one of his men, his eyes on Lord Stark. "Hold her."

The second that Y/N was out of Jaime's grasp, she broke away from the Lannister guard holding her, taking his sword and running him through in the process.

Catelyn hadn't wanted her to train, but Ned and Robb made sure Y/N knew how to fight. Y/N had trained with Jory her entire life, against her mother's wishes.

Jaime rolled his eyes, his glare focused on the body of the guard who had let her get away. Y/N held her own well, fighting off and cutting down three men before Jaime put an end to it. He disarmed her when she was distracted and grabbed her arm roughly, dragging her back to her horse. He brought his face close to hers, his gaze hard as Lannister green met Stark grey.

"Go back to the keep. We'll discuss a punishment for this later."

Y/N didn't hesitate before slapping Jaime across the face, a small trail of blood leaking from the corner of his mouth when he turned back to her.

"You do not get to threaten me with punishment! What in the name of the Gods has gotten into you?" Jaime didn't speak, noticing the lull in battle and his men watching him, waiting for a reaction. Jaime swallowed as he realized that he needed to keep up with the charade he had created for himself over his years at Kings Landing. Cold. Dishonorable. Cruel.

"I don't do anything in the name of the Gods."

Inwardly agonized but steeling his expression, Jaime raised his hand to strike her back when Jory Cassel kicked him in the side. Jaime stumbled, eyes blazing when he turned them on Jory.

"You'd raise a hand to my Lady, Kingslayer?"

Y/N was immediately grabbed by two Lannister soldiers as Jory continued to fight Jaime, the younger man losing quickly as Jaime shoved his dagger through Jory's eye.

Y/N's eyes widened as she attempted to lunge forward, rage filling her to her core. She had just stood witness S Jaime ruthlessly kill her childhood friend and mentor. Y/N wasn't quite sure that it was really the kind, witty man she had been married to for a month that she was seeing do these things.

"You bastard! No! Let me go!"

Y/N struggled against the soldiers who held her, unable to stop the tears streaming down her face. She could do naught but watch as Jaime approached her father, sword raised in a silent challenge.

Y/N prayed to the Seven for her father to just submit, to just end this fight and this day, but her prayers fell on deaf ears as her Lord father and husband began to lunge.

Jaime smirked as he fought Ned and it disgusted Y/N to watch. There was no honor in enjoying battle.

Y/N cried out when one of the soldiers holding her twisted her arm back too harshly in an attempt to cease her struggling and the sound caused both Jaime and Ned to pause their fighting search for the source of Y/N's distress.

Another Lannister soldier took her father's distraction as an opportunity and shoved a spear through his leg, causing him to scream as he fell.

"Father!"

Y/N broke away from the soldiers holding her and ran to her father, taking his face in her hands. Her arm was throbbing, most likely broken, but all Y/N could process was her father's pained expression.

As Y/N knelt weeping in front of her father, Jaime approached the soldier who incapacitated Lord Stark and hit him across the face with the hilt of his sword. He then turned to the soldier who had broken Y/N's arm and ran him through, kicking the body off of his sword, sneering.

Jaime grabbed Y/N's uninjured arm as he passed her, pulling her with him toward his horse. Her struggling and strings of curses became too much for him to handle on his own. He had a guard tie her hands behind her back as they placed her on the horse. At that moment, if Y/N's looks could kill men, she would have made sure that Jaime and every single one of his soldiers suffered before dropping dead.

Jaime addressed Ned as he climbed on the horse behind Y/N, his arms enclosing her so she stayed on the horse.

"My brother, Lord Stark. I want him back."

=========================

When Jaime and Y/N arrived back at the keep, Jaime immediately set about untying his wife and trying to scan her for more injuries.

The moment Y/N was free, she scrambled off of the horse and struck Jaime again across his face. Jaime remained passive, watching as tears gathered in his wife's eyes.

"How dare you?! How dare you speak to me that way in front of your men? In front of my father! How dare you raise a hand to me?! You swore to me that you wouldn't treat me this way! You swore to me that this wouldn't be that type of marriage!"

Jaime watched as her chest heaved in his fury, his hand coming to try and rest on her cheek. Y/N slapped it away harshly. Her next words, whispered brokenly, broke Jaime’s heart.

"Am I just another vow to be broken, Jaime?"

Tears were streaming down Y/N's pale cheeks. Jaime wanted her to be angry, to yell, to lash out as she had been. Jaime had no words for his wife. He just stood before her, watching passively and feeling his gut clench. Guilt replaced his previous anger and Y/N's words played unyieldingly in his thoughts.

Am I just another vow to be broken?

Jaime was unable to find his voice, watching with his eyes and throat burning as Y/N waited for an answer.

When Jaime was unable to provide one, another sob tore from Y/N's throat. She brought her hand up to her mouth, trying to stifle her cries.

Y/N turned and began walking with as much grace as she could manage back to their chambers, her ragged breaths echoing in the halls and back to Jaime as she did.

“Where are you going, Y/N? We share chambers, you’ll only see me later.” Jaime’s voice shook as he spoke.

Y/N didn’t answer as she turned a corner, out of Jaime’s sight.

#game of thrones imagine #game of thrones #game of thrones x reader #jaime lannister imagine #jaime lannister x reader #jaime lannister #imagines #desi writes

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dfroza · 5 years ago

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Today’s reading in the ancient book of Psalms and Proverbs

for a snowy Ash Wednesday, february 26 of 2020 with Psalm 26 and Proverbs 26, accompanied by Psalm 68 for the 68th day of Winter and Psalm 57 for day 57 of the year

[Psalm 26]

A song of David.

Declare my innocence, O Eternal One!

I have walked blamelessly down this path.

I placed my trust in the Eternal and have yet to stumble.

Put me on trial and examine me, O Eternal One!

Search me through and through—from my deepest longings to every thought that crosses my mind.

Your unfailing love is always before me;

I have journeyed down Your path of truth.

My life is not wasted among liars;

my days are not spent among cheaters.

I despise every crowd intent on evil;

I do not commune with the wicked.

I wash my hands in the fountain of innocence

so that I might join the gathering that surrounds Your altar, O Eternal One.

From my soul, I will join the songs of thanksgiving;

I will sing and proclaim Your wonder and mystery.

Your house, home to Your glory, O Eternal One, radiates its light.

I am fixed on this place and long to be nowhere else.

When Your wrath pursues those who oppose You,

those swift to sin and thirsty for blood,

spare my soul and grant me life.

These men hold deceit in their left hands,

and in their right hands, bribery and lies.

But God, I have walked blamelessly down this path,

and this is my plea for redemption.

This is my cry for Your mercy.

Here I stand secure and confident

before all the people; I will praise the Eternal.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 26 (The Voice)

and in the lines of Psalm 68 we see the defeat of a dragon:

[Psalm 68]

A David Psalm

Up with God!

Down with his enemies!

Adversaries, run for the hills!

Gone like a puff of smoke,

like a blob of wax in the fire—

one look at God and the wicked vanish.

When the righteous see God in action

they’ll laugh, they’ll sing,

they’ll laugh and sing for joy.

Sing hymns to God;

all heaven, sing out;

clear the way for the coming of Cloud-Rider.

Enjoy God,

cheer when you see him!

Father of orphans,

champion of widows,

is God in his holy house.

God makes homes for the homeless,

leads prisoners to freedom,

but leaves rebels to rot in hell.

God, when you took the lead with your people,

when you marched out into the wild,

Earth shook, sky broke out in a sweat;

God was on the march.

Even Sinai trembled at the sight of God on the move,

at the sight of Israel’s God.

You pour out rain in buckets, O God;

thorn and cactus become an oasis

For your people to camp in and enjoy.

You set them up in business;

they went from rags to riches.

The Lord gave the word;

thousands called out the good news:

“Kings of the armies

are on the run, on the run!”

While housewives, safe and sound back home,

divide up the plunder,

the plunder of Canaanite silver and gold.

On that day that Shaddai scattered the kings,

snow fell on Black Mountain.

You huge mountains, Bashan mountains,

mighty mountains, dragon mountains.

All you mountains not chosen,

sulk now, and feel sorry for yourselves,

For this is the mountain God has chosen to live on;

he’ll rule from this mountain forever.

The chariots of God, twice ten thousand,

and thousands more besides,

The Lord in the lead, riding down Sinai—

straight to the Holy Place!

You climbed to the High Place, captives in tow,

your arms full of booty from rebels,

And now you sit there in state,

God, sovereign God!

Blessed be the Lord—

day after day he carries us along.

He’s our Savior, our God, oh yes!

He’s God-for-us, he’s God-who-saves-us.

Lord God knows all

death’s ins and outs.

What’s more, he made heads roll,

split the skulls of the enemy

As he marched out of heaven,

saying, “I tied up the Dragon in knots,

put a muzzle on the Deep Blue Sea.”

You can wade through your enemies’ blood,

and your dogs taste of your enemies from your boots.

See God on parade

to the sanctuary, my God,

my King on the march!

Singers out front, the band behind,

maidens in the middle with castanets.

The whole choir blesses God.

Like a fountain of praise, Israel blesses God.

Look—little Benjamin’s out

front and leading

Princes of Judah in their royal robes,

princes of Zebulon, princes of Naphtali.

Parade your power, O God,

the power, O God, that made us what we are.

Your temple, High God, is Jerusalem;

kings bring gifts to you.

Rebuke that old crocodile, Egypt,

with her herd of wild bulls and calves,

Rapacious in her lust for silver,

crushing peoples, spoiling for a fight.

Let Egyptian traders bring blue cloth

and Cush come running to God, her hands outstretched.

Sing, O kings of the earth!

Sing praises to the Lord!

There he is: Sky-Rider,

striding the ancient skies.

Listen—he’s calling in thunder,

rumbling, rolling thunder.

Call out “Bravo!” to God,

the High God of Israel.

His splendor and strength

rise huge as thunderheads.

A terrible beauty, O God,

streams from your sanctuary.

It’s Israel’s strong God! He gives

power and might to his people!

O you, his people—bless God!

The Book of Psalms, Poem 68 (The Message)

accompanied by these lines of Psalm 68 mirrored in The Passion Translation and The Voice:

You, O God, sent the reviving rain upon your weary inheritance,

showers of blessing to refresh it.

So there your people settled.

And in your kindness you provided the poor with abundance.

God Almighty declares the word of the gospel with power,

and the warring women of Zion deliver its message:

“The conquering legions have themselves been conquered.

Look at them flee!”

Now Zion’s women are left to gather the spoils.

When you sleep between sharpened stakes,

I see you sparkling like silver and glistening like gold,

covered by the beautiful wings of a dove!

When the Almighty found a king for himself,

it became white as snow in his shade.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 68:9-14 (The Passion Translation)

When they lay down among the campfires and open the saddlebags, imagine what they’ll find—a beautiful dove, its wings covered with silver, its feathers a shimmering gold.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 68:13 (The Voice)

[Psalm 57]

A David Psalm, When He Hid in a Cave from Saul

Be good to me, God—and now!

I’ve run to you for dear life.

I’m hiding out under your wings

until the hurricane blows over.

I call out to High God,

the God who holds me together.

He sends orders from heaven and saves me,

he humiliates those who kick me around.

God delivers generous love,

he makes good on his word.

I find myself in a pride of lions

who are wild for a taste of human flesh;

Their teeth are lances and arrows,

their tongues are sharp daggers.

Soar high in the skies, O God!

Cover the whole earth with your glory!

They booby-trapped my path;

I thought I was dead and done for.

They dug a mantrap to catch me,

and fell in headlong themselves.

I’m ready, God, so ready,

ready from head to toe,

Ready to sing, ready to raise a tune:

“Wake up, soul!

Wake up, harp! wake up, lute!

Wake up, you sleepyhead sun!”

I’m thanking you, God, out loud in the streets,

singing your praises in town and country.

The deeper your love, the higher it goes;

every cloud is a flag to your faithfulness.

Soar high in the skies, O God!

Cover the whole earth with your glory!

The Book of Psalms, Poem 57 (The Message)

[Proverbs 26]

It is totally out of place to promote and honor a fool, just like it’s out of place to have snow in the summer and rain at harvest time.

An undeserved curse will be powerless to harm you. It may flutter over you like a bird, but it will find no place to land.

Guide a horse with a whip, direct a donkey with a bridle, and lead a rebellious fool with a beating on his backside!

Don’t respond to the words of a fool with more foolish words, or you will become as foolish as he is!

Instead, if you’re asked a silly question, answer it with words of wisdom so the fool doesn’t think he’s so clever.

If you choose a fool to represent you, you’re asking for trouble. It will be as bad for you as cutting off your own feet!

You can never trust the words of a fool, just like a crippled man can’t trust his legs to support him.

Give honor to a fool and watch it backfire—like a stone tied to a slingshot.

The statements of a fool will hurt others like a thorn bush brandished by a drunk.

Like a reckless archer shooting arrows at random is the impatient employer who hires just any fool who comes along—someone’s going to get hurt!

Fools are famous for repeating their errors, like dogs are known to return to their vomit.

There’s only one thing worse than a fool, and that’s the smug, conceited man always in love with his own opinions.

[Don’t Be Lazy]

The lazy loafer says, “I can’t go out and look for a job—there may be a lion out there roaming wild in the streets!”

As a door is hinged to the wall, so the lazy man keeps turning over, hinged to his bed!

There are some people so lazy they won’t even work to feed themselves.

A self-righteous person is convinced he’s smarter than seven wise counselors who tell him the truth.

It’s better to grab a mad dog by its ears than to meddle and interfere in a quarrel that’s none of your business.

[Watch Your Words]

The one who is caught lying to his friend and says, “I didn’t mean it, I was only joking,” can be compared to a madman randomly shooting off deadly weapons.

It takes fuel to have a fire—a fire dies down when you run out of fuel. So quarrels disappear when the gossip ends.

Add fuel to the fire and the blaze goes on. So add an argumentative man to the mix and you’ll keep strife alive.

Gossip is so delicious, and how we love to swallow it! For slander is easily absorbed into our innermost being.

Smooth talk can hide a corrupt heart just like a pretty glaze covers a cheap clay pot.

Kind words can be a cover to conceal hatred of others, for hypocrisy loves to hide behind flattery.

So don’t be drawn in by the hypocrite, for his gracious speech is a charade, nothing but a masquerade covering his hatred and evil on parade.

Don’t worry—he can’t keep the mask on for long. One day his hypocrisy will be exposed before all the world.

Go ahead, set a trap for others—and then watch as it snaps back on you! Start a landslide and you’ll be the one who gets crushed.

Hatred is the root of slander and insecurity the root of flattery.

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 26 (The Passion Translation)

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themonologuearchive · 7 years ago

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01 - Chorus

From: Agamemnon, by Aeschylus

Genre: Drama

Topic: Exposition

Character: Male; many characters as one

Note: monologue is under a read more because it is seven pages long

It’s now ten years since Menelaus, Priam’s great adversary, and lord Agamemnon, two mighty sons of Atreus, joined by Zeus in double honours— twin thrones and royal sceptres— left this country with that fleet, a thousand Argive ships, to back their warrior cause with force, hearts screaming in their battle fury, two eagles overwhelmed by grief, crying for their young—wings beating like oars, they wheel aloft, high above their home, distressed because they’ve lost their work— their fledglings in the nest are gone! Then one of the supreme powers— Apollo, or Pan, or Zeus— hears the shrill wailing cry, hears those screaming birds, who live within his realm, and sends a late-avenging Fury to take revenge on the transgressors. In just that way, mighty Zeus, god of hospitality, sends those sons of Atreus against Alexander, son of Priam— for that woman’s sake, Helen, the one who’s had so many men, condemning Trojans and Danaans to many heartfelt struggles, both alike, knees splintering as the fighting starts. Now things stand as they stand. What’s destined to come will be fulfilled, and no libation, sacrifice, or human tears will mitigate the gods’ unbending wrath of sacrifice not blessed by fire. But as for us, whose old bodies confer no honour, who were left behind when the army sailed so long ago, we wait here, using up our strength to support ourselves with canes, like children, whose power, though growing in their chests, is not yet fit for Ares, god of war. And so it is with old men, too, who, when they reach extreme old age, wither like leaves, and go their way three-footed, no better than a child, as they wander like a daydream. But you, daughter of Tyndareus, queen Clytaemnestra, what’s going on? What news? What reports have you received that lead you to send your servants out commanding all this sacrifice? For every god our city worships— all-powerful gods above the earth, and those below, and those in heaven, and those in the marketplace— their altars are ablaze with offerings. Fires rise here and there and everywhere, right up to heaven, fed by sacred oils brought from the palace—sweet and holy, their purity sustains those flames. Tell us what you can, tell us what’s right for us to hear. Cure our anxious thoughts. For now, at one particular moment, things look grim, but then our hopes, rising from these sacrificial fires, make things seem better, soothing corrosive pains that eat my heart. I have the power to proclaim that prophecy made to our kings, as they were setting on their way, a happy outcome for their expedition. My age inspires in me Persuasion still, the power of song sent from the gods, to sing how two kings of Achaea’s troops, united in a joint command, led off the youth of Greece, armed with avenging spears, marching against Troy, land of Teucer. They got a happy omen—two eagles, kings of birds, appeared before the kings of ships. One bird was black, the other’s tail was white, here, close to the palace, on the right, in a place where everyone could see. The eagles were gorging themselves, devouring a pregnant hare and all its unborn offspring, struggling in their death throes still. Sing out the song of sorrow, song of grief, but let the good prevail. Then the army’s prophet, Calchas, observing the twin purposes in the two warlike sons of Atreus, saw the twin leaders of the army in those birds devouring the hare. He then interpreted the omen, saying, “In due course this expedition will capture Priam’s city, Troy— before its towers a violent Fate will annihilate all public goods. But may no anger from the gods cast its dark shadow on our troops, our great bit forged to curb Troy’s mouth. For goddess Artemis is full of anger at her father’s flying hounds—she pities the cowering sacrificial creature in distress, she pities its young, slaughtered before she’s brought them into life. Artemis abominates the eagles’ feast.” Sing out the song of sorrow, song of grief, but let the good prevail. “And lovely Artemis— though you’re gentle with the tender cubs of vicious lions and take special joy in the suckling young of all wild living beasts, promise things will work out well, as this omen of the eagles indicates, an auspicious sign, but ominous. And I call Apollo, god of healing, to stop Artemis delaying the fleet, by sending hostile winds to keep the ships from sailing, in her demand for another sacrifice, one which violates all human law, which no feast celebrates— it shatters families and makes the wife lose all respect and hate her husband. For in the home a dreadful anger waits. It does not forget and cannot be appeased. Its treachery controls the house, waiting to avenge a slaughtered child.” Calchas prophesied that fatal destiny, read from those birds, as the army marched, speaking by this palace of the kings. And to confirm all this sing out the song of sorrow, song of grief, but let the good prevail. O Zeus, whoever he may be, if this name please him as invocation, then that’s the name I’ll use to call him. As I try to think all these things through, I have no words to shape my thoughts, other than Zeus—if I truly can succeed in easing my heart of this heavy grief, this self-defeating weight of sorrow. As for Uranus, who was once so great, bursting with arrogance for every fight, people will talk about that god as if he’d never even lived. And his son, Cronos, who came after, has met his match and is no more. But whoever with a willing heart cries his triumphal song to Zeus will come to understand all things. Zeus, who guided mortals to be wise, has established his fixed law— wisdom comes through suffering. Trouble, with its memories of pain, drips in our hearts as we try to sleep, so men against their will learn to practice moderation. Favours come to us from gods seated on their solemn thrones— such grace is harsh and violent. So then the leader of Achaean ships, the elder brother, Agamemnon, did not blame or fault the prophet, but gave in to fortune’s sudden blows. For Achaea’s army, stranded there, on the shores across from Calchis, was held up by opposing winds at Aulis, where tides ebb and flow. Troops grew weary, as supplies ran low. Winds blew from the Strymon river, keeping ships at anchor, harming men with too much leisure. Troops grew hungry. They wandered discontent and restless. The winds corroded ships and cables. The delay seemed endless, on and on, until the men, the flower of Argos, began to wilt. Then Calchas proclaimed the cause of this— it was Artemis. And he proposed a further remedy, but something harsh, even worse than the opposing winds, so painful that the sons of Atreus struck their canes on the ground and wept. Then Agamemnon, the older king, spoke up: “It’s harsh not to obey this fate— but to go through with it is harsh as well, to kill my child, the glory of my house, to stain a father’s hands before the altar with streams of virgin’s blood. Which of my options is not evil? How can I just leave this fleet, and let my fellow warriors down? Their passionate demand for sacrifice to calm the winds lies within their rights— even the sacrifice of virgin blood. So be it. All may be well.” But when Agamemnon strapped on the harsh yoke of necessity, his spirits changed, and his intentions became profane, unholy, unsanctified. He undertook an act beyond all daring. Troubles come, above all, from delusions inciting men to rash designs, to evil. So Agamemnon steeled his heart to make his own daughter the sacrifice, an offering for the Achaean fleet, so he could prosecute the war waged to avenge that woman Helen. In their eagerness for war, those leaders paid no attention to the girl, her pleas for help, her cries of “Father!”— any more than to her virgin youth. Her father offered up a prayer, then ordered men to seize her and lift her up—she’d fallen forward and just lay there in her robes—to raise her, high above the altar, like a goat, urging them to keep their spirits up. They gagged her lovely mouth, with force, just like a horse’s bit, to keep her speechless, to stifle any curse which she might cry against her family. As she threw her saffron robe onto the ground, she glanced at the men, each of them, those carrying out the sacrifice, her eyes imploring pity. She looked just like a painting dying to speak. She’d often sung before her father’s table, when, as host, he’d entertained his guests, a virgin using her flawless voice to honour her dear father with her love, as he prayed for blessing at the third libation. What happened next I did not see. And I won’t say. What Calchas’ skill had prophesied did come to pass. The scales of Justice move to show that wisdom comes through suffering. As for what’s to come—you’ll know that when it comes. So let it be. To know would be to grieve ahead of time. It’s clear whatever is to happen will happen, like tomorrow’s dawn.

But I hope whatever follows will be good, according to the wishes of our queen, who governs here, our closest guard, keeping watch all by herself, protecting Peloponnesian lands.

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stealmyjoygivemeapen-blog · 6 years ago

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Daddys’ Occupation

A little girl sits alone in her room, Cross legged; and scared- she doesn't know what to do. Lacy frilly pretty things hang down on her windows but she sees no beauty in the things around. Floral decor and bedspreads Send no emotional happiness to the heart inside her core. She sits on her bed, Her dirty, dead flowered bed! And she recalls the happy morning she skipped to school just hours before... She was happily walking out the house onto her beloved school grounds- school grounds that protected her school grounds she adored! Smiling she had asked for an extra hour of work but sadly, time came for her to leave the sanctuary that no harm it does her. She purposely lacks speed, and she depressingly drags her feet, removing her tortured body off grounds that treat her so sweet. The teachers question her though, it's a constant poke and prod! Her answers stay hidden for not a sole must know what happens in her bedroom with that hard blood vessel rod that sends her constant blows. She walks up to her apartment, and reaches for the buzzer. she hesitates uncertainty, for when she unpleasantly reaches that bell of doom her house door will come open. Entering the empty house, into her bedroom she must await a lonely father she must date... there is nothing of this fate that she must contemplate! He promises her sweet dreams of love. He makes her his sexual servant without a glove. He plays with her fragile mind for years, and places an invisible ring on her slimming, depressing fingers. And with that ring there came a leash, There were tasks that she as his wife needed to release. And this leash she had grown attached to? It was a leash that only she could loosen. brainwashed into thinking this man truly loved her; she followed him though it made her constantly suffer. She followed him everywhere he went. She followed him on every word he spoke. Protect him she must for it was her duty, and written without trust. And now, a few minutes and daddy will be home, a few minutes and the eyes of daddy's occupation will be full of lust. So she sits there, waiting... watching the minutes tick bye. She has nowhere to run, nowhere else to go; a tear trickles down her left eye. She prays there will be a day when she's rid of this man, for he tells her of love and he tells her of trust, he tells this little girl all the things that she must. (Minutes later daddy is home and craving.) He turns his face to her; he is almost at his climax peak. He asks her what she desires most of him and he perspires. Her reply is never clear to him For he never really listens After the grunts and his moans have stopped He rolls over on his back smiling; her short sweet curls glisten. And this is when he lets her know, "You can't tell a soul No one can know They wouldn't understand the way that I love you, Daddy's occupation is loving you, My doll Daddy has put you before all" So the little girl turns and puts on a fake smile for daddy and says, "I know, Daddy", And out her room he creeps. She cries for hours and then later she tries to cry some more; the tears that came to her so easy went streaming right out the front locked door! For this little girl had nothing left in her; Her spirit was bashed to a pulp And she had no more fight left in her she chose to give up and took its sweet embrace! She prayed so hard to the Dear Lord, "Take me tonight, right now, for I know tomorrow there will be more... For Lord, if you cannot take me this second I'll take myself I swear." She slept that night and many more that came, She didn't dream or fantasize, for there was nothing to dream about. But somewhere, that little girl is still crying! Rescue her, won't you? Don't let her cries go unanswered, nor unheard Don't let her pleas be for nothing... Daddy's occupation is disturbing and disgusting Daddy's occupation is little girls galore!

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libidomechanica · 6 years ago

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If love be sweete Violets where you are all his golden Morpheus

The thickly crusted, one way or t other Inspiration was lonely kid in a big load of death. Deare, let bee. Her conditions I aim at like a great authors pass, lov’d I not do without end, my wavering glass. The loving rash one. Now that swell thee crop a weed, thought, hey ho the Throne of the tree, as must not dig so devoutly and each other dies, it is as good, or at the world at length described there What dost thou, or beaten she charmed ocean’s pausing as certaine knot of speech her wishes went. Who is my very heat with all the honey-fly so doth these maladies of their attend. His teeth, contended thus, God of deeds we do. Into the shore to stick a pencil, beauties might come to lift Thyself to blame; and I grow much outlive a girl, my bonny sweet it is a pleasant fountain-built with many a snatch’d a moment! Danger,— Her husband by God’s blessed shallow station: affect of two gold ingots like a great crop to sparkled through the sheets, And when I were display Considerable time, and test! Where be more clever than she lies as he roots of woe, that th uncertain and Jill goes down which she could but claiming; which seldom in my loving so good and my Mount Saint Jean seems falsehood in her arms be boundless presence marsh so damp, while I am apt to do without the sweet hands, those trees. The morning days sweet memory of hys misdeede, that had nothing around us ever, cancel all other such think the air in utterable tale passed byrd, that must provoke a park, and graven with dreadful fight, and teach it divination; but are they took delight, so place to slavery’s jackals are less imperial condescension, her whom she cannot make speech of spear and all hell where sparrows are at their guard, and so—she awoke with error find a more she often on the brutal summer dust burn too, especially when wroth—while pleas, the ottoman, and rams up the world hath put on as easily sketch a harem, A battle, wreck, or history less poetic pages. Chiefly was on the same radio plays within the ground, and ne’er sette foote in the dark herself lamented and beardless woman! Watch you counteth evil. The gentle looks when she red and hope make each circumstance of the garden walk, and still more in the black upon two Ukraine hacks, till too precious you, that maken fiers warre: where mails fast as specie can, upon his hands! Heavy fire, with her habits of much less of Fitz-Fulke, whom glory still an imaginary thing wanting, and after tary, the first were going hurt my hand— For I am afraid; bids them fear no more than she choose but kiss my sweet virtue onward most most sweetned so our eyes were up and burn’d all the nature’s range, amusing those shade them fear no more than I love thee for the hours to waste, I neither fruit none divine Musaeus sung, dwelt at mine ears, streames my trickling bank of the false borrow the least nor my eyesight quite it from the bearing the high or low. To recreations it is but a wondrous fair, yet betoken’d wrack treasure. Thus while I couldn’t stands. To travail hath his lord’s heart, my last, you should youth it was a high-soul’d ministered with all things with that every shadows of the gods them for the same cause you keep my feelings we held in leash, whose ridge Of twilight’s o’er; Commodious dint that human power to answer, Muse: wilt take, that on no connubial turmoil: Their grief—for what they had a brother’s sometimes that I was: love potato.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #rejected training texts: 6168 #Markov chain length: 7 #237 texts

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igetcontent · 6 years ago

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Mario Mandzukic's extra-time strike completed a battling turnaround as Croatia beat England 2-1 in Moscow to reach the World Cup final for the first time in their history. England made an electric start with Kieran Trippier's early goal and for a large period of the game looked good value to book their passage to the final for the first time since 1966, but Croatia somehow battled through their apparent jadedness and tamed the Three Lions in extra-time, Mandzukic landing the decisive blow. Gareth Southgate consistently downplayed the euphoria in his team in the build-up, and for a while, England gave every indication they were going to take charge of their own destiny, as Trippier found the net with a delightful free-kick in the fifth minute. But Croatia rallied and gave England's back three more of an examination upon the start of the second period, eventually restoring parity – Ivan Perisic providing a clever finish in the 68th minute. England managed to hang on to force an extra 30 minutes and initially looked the more threatening of the two teams once again in the additional period. But Croatia kept their focus and Mandzukic struck left-footed in the 109th minute, ending England's dreams for another four years and setting up a final with France on Sunday, as Zlatko Dalic's men move another step closer to a first World Cup title. Live Updates Extra-Time 120+4 It's wasted! Croatia clear! It's all over! Croatia are in the World Cup final! It's a gut punch for England! So near! Match Report to follow. 120+3- Balhaj, Handball. Last Chance England! 120+1 Long ball from Maguire, Subasic gathers. Oh dear, this does not look good. 119- England have it... four minutes of stoppage time! Come on! 117- Luca Modric is off. Badelj is on. 117- It's just over Harry Maguire.... it should be an England corner after that. 115- Tripper is injured, England are down to ten! Free-kick for England Rashford is over it... Time for Heroes.... 113- Croatia is taking their time, and rightly so! They have been superhuman tonight. 111- Jamie Vardy is on, Kyle Walker is on. It's all on for the Three Lions 110- England needs to get it together if they want to keep their World Cup dream alive. 108- Goal Croatia! England falls fall asleep at the back, Walker leaves the ball to Stones and Mandzukic creeps onto it! He fires it past Pickford! Croatia take the lea,d! Oh, my! 106-Rakatic with a short corner, Brozovic's shot slices over. England was sleeping there. 106- Croatia are knocking the ball about... I'm not sure if I can take all this... Croatia gets us back underway... We are 15 minutes away from penalties! Peep- Half-Time in Extra-Time Nothing has changed! What a save from Pickford to keep England in it! 105+2 Chance for Croatia! Mandzukic flying towards goal! It's a fantastic save by Pickford! A big, big save from the Everton stopper! Mandzukic is in a pile on the floor after clattering into the Three Lions keeper. 104- Kane comes deep and spays the ball towards Alli, it skips out wide. 102- England have been the better side in extra time... Croatia is looking a little leggy... 101- Rebic, who has been the best player on the pitch for Croatia, for my money is off. Kramaric is on. 100- Rashford slides in on Vrsaljko who takes the free-kick. 98- Chance for England! Stones got plenty on it! His header is bound for the corner, but Vrsaljko clears it from the line. So Close! 98- Immediate impact from Dier with a boomer! It's deflected out for a corner. 97- Henderson is subbed Eric Dier, England's penalty hero is on. 96- Trippier is over it. Maguire is penalised for a tug of the shirt. Free-kick Croatia. 95- Rebic is finally carded with a reducer on Danny Rose. A cynical foul that. 93- Strinic is injured. Pivaric is on in his place. That's Croatia's first sub this evening. 92- First action for Danny Rose, a smart free-kick won from Rebic. 91- You feel that the longer this goes on, the better you feel for England... Croatia have been this distance twice already in the tournament, they must be tired. Sub- Danny Rose is on for Ashley Young... Second-Half 90+3 Peep! 1-1 at full-time! We are going to extra time! Oh I don't know how I am going to cope here... 90- Trippier delivers it in! Kane attempts a header, it flashes just wide! 90+1 Rakotic hacks down Rashford... Free-kick time for England. 90- Three minutes of extra time 89- Croatia hold the ball, nervous stuff for England, eventually, the ball finds its way to Dejan Lovren... He fires it out! Good! 88- Mandzukic with a smart flick to Rebic, the winger absolutely hoons the ball out for a throw in on the other side. 86- Kane fires a ball to Lingard, the Man United man can't control it. It's a goal-kick. 85- Strinic on the run, he beats three England players, panic stations! His pass to Perisic slips out of play. Goodness. 83- Pickford in the thick of the action again, he goes for Perisic's header but flaps at it. The ball is back with Perisic, his first-time chip flies well over. 82- Mandzukic chests the ball, and launches a shot towards the goal, Pickford is just about equal to it. 79- It's all a question of who will blink first now. Both sides are defensively tight... 77- England are slowly showing signs of life. Jordan Henderson smashes the ball over... 76- Kane lays it to Lingard who skims it across the box. Any touch on that and was in! 75- England is wobbling here. Composure is needed from the young Lions. 74- Immediate impact from Rashford, his deep cross causes panic in the Croatian ranks. 73- Substitute for England, Rashford is on for Sterling. 72- Corner comes in and flies out. Brozovic shins it over. 71- Oh lord! Peresic has hit the inside of the England post! The Inter man pounces on a England defensive mix-up! Croatia is ramping up the pressure! Corner! 70- The Croatian fans are in full voice! They've ramped up the pressure and got their goal 68- Goal! Vrsaljko curls it from deep! Perisic beats a man and throws a boot at it! Croatia has levelled! 1-1! 67- Trippier clips an intelligent ball to Kane, the angle is against him. It hits the side netting. 63- Chance Croatia! Modric drills the ball into the Box, Stones gets a header away... Perisic shoots! Kyle Walker takes it right in the chopper! Ouch, that's gotta hurt! England clear. 62- Vida panics after pressure from Lingard. England surge into the box with Sterling, he trips under the pressure from Vida but it's not a penalty. The Referee waves away the half-hearted pleas from England. 60- Croatia push forward a hopeful ball is pushed into the box, Trippier dutifully heads it away... Rakotic has a run onto it. His shot is high, wide and not very handsome. 58- Croatia cranking up the pressure, Rabic knocks in a ball into the box. Kyle Walker slices the ball out for a corner, which is punched clear by Pickford. 56- Tripper's corner is returned to him driven across the goal, Kane attempts to get a head to it but Croatia clear their lines. 55- Lingard lets rip from outside the box, Lovern gets a boot to it. 53- The second half has been scrappy... Kyle Walker is upended, no foul to England the ball goes out of play and Walker picks up the ball. Que a scrap. England needs to calm it down. 51- The battle between Rebic & Kyle Walker is getting interesting... Walker snaps into a tackle to clear the ball. 49- Scratch that! Mandzukic is in the book for his remonstrations with the referee. Not Rebic 48- Croatia have stepped it up in the second half, can the Three Lions keep their cool and hold them off? 47- One nasty Challenge too many for Rebic. He goes into the book for an Ariell duel with Walker. 45- Rebic gets into the box, Kyle Walker is on hand to smash it away! Have it! Peep! Croatia get us underway! Half-Time Fun... The Scenes in London! 45+1- Peep! Half-Time! England have the lead! 45- Pickford bombs out a pass which goes straight to Rakotic, a tiny bit of control and he's in the box. Kyle Walker recovers and crowds out the Barcelona man. 43- Dele Alli speeds down the left wing. Lovren slides in throw in, England continue to keep possession. 42- Vrsaljko smashes the ball high and wide! Croatia havent really created much to trouble the Three Lions... Yet... 39- Croatia is seeing a little more of the ball, and are getting plenty of stick from the England fans in the Luzniki. Rebic knocks down Ashley Young, not for the first time. Still no yellow for the Croatian striker. 36- Sterling is giving Domagoj Vida a pasting tonight. The Croatian tips the ball out of play and England continue to keep the ball. 35- a Clean chance for England, Kane passes to Alli, who picks out Lingard from outside the box. The curled shot comes to nothing! 32- Perisic knocks the ball across the box. Ashley Young with a vital flick to deny the onrushing Rebic! Close that! 30- Croatia Chance! Modric speeds into the box he calmly gets it to Rebic, his pot-shot is saved by Pickford. 29- England are knocking the ball around with purpose. Kane with the chance, he opens his body up, Subasic saves. The rebound falls to Kane, his shot smashes of the post and the leg of the Croatia keeper, it won't count, it's offside. 27- Subasic comes out with a confident fist. Throw in England. 26- Sterling has started off well here, he picks the ball up in the left wing. Dejan Lovren is in his way... Dangerous free-kick England... 24- Rebic nips the ball off Ashley Young, his cross is comfortably gathered by Pickford. Croatia has seemed to have found their rhythm. 21- Offside! Sterling pounces on a Croatia mistake, he plays through Harry Kane. The Spurs striker is offside. Kane scuffs his shot regardless. 20- Rebic has a pop. Kyle Walker shuts him out with a good block. 18- Perisic winds up and has a shot, it skims wide, the Inter Milan demands for a corner, and the replay shows that it nipped of Kyle Walker, it should really be a corner. Oh well... 17- Croatia are seeing a little more of the ball, Rakotic with a clipped ball to Vrsaljko it's out of play. The England fans cheer! 14- Stearling chases down Vida who just about heads it back. Croatia look for the taking here. 13- Alli to Trippier, his drilled cross is deflected for a corner. Maguire gets a good header to it, it's just wide. England need a second to kill off the contest. 11- Dele Alli wins a corner after a tasty challenge from Brozovic. Maguire arrives to it late! It's out for a goal kick. 10- Rakitic squares it to Lovren, who hoofs the ball out. 8- Young concedes a corner, Modric is over it... Maguire eventually clears the first moment of vulnerability from England. 6- What a time to score your first international goal. Trippier have put the Three Lions ahead, Croatia looks shell-shocked! 5- Goal! What a peach! Trippier with a curler! Oh my lord! What a start! 1-0 England! 3- Modric nibbles at Dele Alli, a dangerous free-kick for the Three Lions.. Trippier is over it... 2- Croatia is knocking the ball around with intent... Peep! England all in white get us underway! History beckons for these two sides.

#news #igetcontent

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dfroza · 4 years ago

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Today’s reading from the ancient books of Proverbs and Psalms

for friday, february 26 of 2021 with Proverbs 26 and Psalm 26, accompanied by Psalm 68 for the 68th day of Winter and Psalm 57 for day 57 of the year

[Psalm 26]

A song of David.

Declare my innocence, O Eternal One!

I have walked blamelessly down this path.

I placed my trust in the Eternal and have yet to stumble.

Put me on trial and examine me, O Eternal One!

Search me through and through—from my deepest longings to every thought that crosses my mind.

Your unfailing love is always before me;

I have journeyed down Your path of truth.

My life is not wasted among liars;

my days are not spent among cheaters.

I despise every crowd intent on evil;

I do not commune with the wicked.

I wash my hands in the fountain of innocence

so that I might join the gathering that surrounds Your altar, O Eternal One.

From my soul, I will join the songs of thanksgiving;

I will sing and proclaim Your wonder and mystery.

Your house, home to Your glory, O Eternal One, radiates its light.

I am fixed on this place and long to be nowhere else.

When Your wrath pursues those who oppose You,

those swift to sin and thirsty for blood,

spare my soul and grant me life.

These men hold deceit in their left hands,

and in their right hands, bribery and lies.

But God, I have walked blamelessly down this path,

and this is my plea for redemption.

This is my cry for Your mercy.

Here I stand secure and confident

before all the people; I will praise the Eternal.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 26 (The Voice)

[Psalm 68]

Up with God!

Down with his enemies!

Adversaries, run for the hills!

Gone like a puff of smoke,

like a blob of wax in the fire—

one look at God and the wicked vanish.

When the righteous see God in action

they’ll laugh, they’ll sing,

they’ll laugh and sing for joy.

Sing hymns to God;

all heaven, sing out;

clear the way for the coming of Cloud-Rider.

Enjoy God,

cheer when you see him!

Father of orphans,

champion of widows,

is God in his holy house.

God makes homes for the homeless,

leads prisoners to freedom,

but leaves rebels to rot in hell.

God, when you took the lead with your people,

when you marched out into the wild,

Earth shook, sky broke out in a sweat;

God was on the march.

Even Sinai trembled at the sight of God on the move,

at the sight of Israel’s God.

You pour out rain in buckets, O God;

thorn and cactus become an oasis

For your people to camp in and enjoy.

You set them up in business;

they went from rags to riches.

The Lord gave the word;

thousands called out the good news:

“Kings of the armies

are on the run, on the run!”

While housewives, safe and sound back home,

divide up the plunder,

the plunder of Canaanite silver and gold.

On that day that Shaddai scattered the kings,

snow fell on Black Mountain.

You huge mountains, Bashan mountains,

mighty mountains, dragon mountains.

All you mountains not chosen,

sulk now, and feel sorry for yourselves,

For this is the mountain God has chosen to live on;

he’ll rule from this mountain forever.

The chariots of God, twice ten thousand,

and thousands more besides,

The Lord in the lead, riding down Sinai—

straight to the Holy Place!

You climbed to the High Place, captives in tow,

your arms full of plunder from rebels,

And now you sit there in state,

God, sovereign God!

Blessed be the Lord—

day after day he carries us along.

He’s our Savior, our God, oh yes!

He’s God-for-us, he’s God-who-saves-us.

Lord God knows all

death’s ins and outs.

What’s more, he made heads roll,

split the skulls of the enemy

As he marched out of heaven,

saying, “I tied up the Dragon in knots,

put a muzzle on the Deep Blue Sea.”

You can wade through your enemies’ blood,

and your dogs taste of your enemies from your boots.

See God on parade

to the sanctuary, my God,

my King on the march!

Singers out front, the band behind,

maidens in the middle with castanets.

The whole choir blesses God.

Like a fountain of praise, Israel blesses God.

Look—little Benjamin’s out

front and leading

Princes of Judah in their royal robes,

princes of Zebulun, princes of Naphtali.

Parade your power, O God,

the power, O God, that made us what we are.

Your temple, High God, is Jerusalem;

kings bring gifts to you.

Rebuke that old crocodile, Egypt,

with her herd of wild bulls and calves,

Rapacious in her lust for silver,

crushing peoples, spoiling for a fight.

Let Egyptian traders bring blue cloth

and Cush come running to God, her hands outstretched.

Sing, O kings of the earth!

Sing praises to the Lord!

There he is: Sky-Rider,

striding the ancient skies.

Listen—he’s calling in thunder,

rumbling, rolling thunder.

Call out “Bravo!” to God,

the High God of Israel.

His splendor and strength

rise huge as thunderheads.

A terrible beauty, O God,

streams from your sanctuary.

It’s Israel’s strong God! He gives

power and might to his people!

O you, his people—bless God!

The Book of Psalms, Poem 68 (The Message)

[Psalm 57]

Triumphant Faith

To the Pure and Shining One

King David’s golden song of instruction composed when he hid from Saul in a cave

To the tune of “Do Not Destroy”

Be good to me, God—and now!

I’ve run to you for dear life.

I’m hiding out under your wings

until the hurricane blows over.

I call out to High God,

the God who holds me together.

He sends orders from heaven and saves me,

he humiliates those who kick me around.

God delivers generous love,

he makes good on his word.

I find myself in a pride of lions

who are wild for a taste of human flesh;

Their teeth are lances and arrows,

their tongues are sharp daggers.

Soar high in the skies, O God!

Cover the whole earth with your glory!

They booby-trapped my path;

I thought I was dead and done for.

They dug a mantrap to catch me,

and fell in headlong themselves.

I’m ready, God, so ready,

ready from head to toe,

Ready to sing, ready to raise a tune:

“Wake up, soul!

Wake up, harp! wake up, lute!

Wake up, you sleepyhead sun!”

I’m thanking you, God, out loud in the streets,

singing your praises in town and country.

The deeper your love, the higher it goes;

every cloud is a flag to your faithfulness.

Soar high in the skies, O God!

Cover the whole earth with your glory!

The Book of Psalms, Poem 57 (The Passion Translation / The Message)

[Proverbs 26]

It is totally out of place to promote and honor a fool,

just like it’s out of place to have snow in the summer and rain at harvest time.

An undeserved curse will be powerless to harm you.

It may flutter over you like a bird,

but it will find no place to land.

Guide a horse with a whip,

direct a donkey with a bridle,

and lead a rebellious fool with a beating on his backside!

Don’t respond to the words of a fool with more foolish words,

or you will become as foolish as he is!

Instead, if you’re asked a silly question,

answer it with words of wisdom

so the fool doesn’t think he’s so clever.

If you choose a fool to represent you,

you’re asking for trouble.

It will be as bad for you as cutting off your own feet!

You can never trust the words of a fool,

just like a crippled man can’t trust his legs to support him.

Give honor to a fool and watch it backfire—

like a stone tied to a slingshot.

The statements of a fool will hurt others

like a thorn bush brandished by a drunk.

Like a reckless archer shooting arrows at random

is the impatient employer who hires just any fool who comes along—

someone’s going to get hurt!

Fools are famous for repeating their errors,

like dogs are known to return to their vomit.

There’s only one thing worse than a fool,

and that’s the smug, conceited man

always in love with his own opinions.

[Don’t Be Lazy]

The lazy loafer says, “I can’t go out and look for a job—

there may be a lion out there roaming wild in the streets!”

As a door is hinged to the wall,

so the lazy man keeps turning over, hinged to his bed!

There are some people so lazy

they won’t even work to feed themselves.

A self-righteous person is convinced he’s smarter

than seven wise counselors who tell him the truth.

It’s better to grab a mad dog by its ears

than to meddle and interfere in a quarrel

that’s none of your business.

[Watch Your Words]

The one who is caught lying to his friend

and says, “I didn’t mean it, I was only joking,”

can be compared to a madman

randomly shooting off deadly weapons.

It takes fuel to have a fire—

a fire dies down when you run out of fuel.

So quarrels disappear when the gossip ends.

Add fuel to the fire and the blaze goes on.

So add an argumentative man to the mix

and you’ll keep strife alive.

Gossip is so delicious, and how we love to swallow it!

For slander is easily absorbed into our innermost being.

Smooth talk can hide a corrupt heart

just like a pretty glaze covers a cheap clay pot.

Kind words can be a cover to conceal hatred of others,

for hypocrisy loves to hide behind flattery.

So don’t be drawn in by the hypocrite,

for his gracious speech is a charade,

nothing but a masquerade covering his hatred and evil on parade.

Don’t worry—he can’t keep the mask on for long.

One day his hypocrisy will be exposed before all the world.

Go ahead, set a trap for others—

and then watch as it snaps back on you!

Start a landslide and you’ll be the one who gets crushed.

Hatred is the root of slander

and insecurity the root of flattery.

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 26 (The Passion Translation)

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