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pieces-by-me · 4 years ago

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Dying to Breath

This is my part to @geekandbooknerd 2k writing challenge! Again CONGRATULATIONS!! This I such huge thing and I’m so happy for you, because it is truly well deserved and I can’t wait to see where you'll go from here 🌼

Words: 2467

Warnings: Feelings of drowning? Giving up. Hopelessness, but also fluff I swear.

Summary: Ivar knew he would meet his end. Drowning while bound to a mast. But the sea had other plans for him.

Prompt:

“I’m oxygen and he’s dying to breath” (I used slightly a slightly different version of this but it’s still in here.)

Waves crashing, rain beating on skin, wind ripping one apart.

For an instant Ivar wished he listened to his mothers words. Because at this moment he sees his own death playing out right before him. Tied up to the mast of the boat he can look past his father to the gigantic waves that build up before them. Bigger and bigger they take up the sky. And he screams.

Pain, fear, anger, hopelessness and misery all in one deafening scream that threatens to rip his throat apart. He can do nothing but watch. Nothing but wait for his death. Nothing but let the gods see him drown and laugh at him, because why should he get to go to Valhalla with a miserable death like this.

Ragnar turns around and sees the desperation in his sons eyes. He will be responsible for his death. The gods are finally done with him and they are going to take his son with him. The one he needs the most, the one that was the most important for his mission. His youngest son that didn't see the world yet.

Walking towards him Ragnar put his hand over Ivar's mouth, silencing the scream.

“Don't be afraid.” He doesn't say the words but Ivar can read them in his fathers eyes.

And so he doesn't scream. He just looks at the wave that will crash all of them and ignores the tear that slowly falls down his face. The rain from the storm masks it perfectly so he can pretend to be brave. If for one moment in his life he needs to be it, this is it. Maybe the gods will open their golden hall for him then.

So he does nothing and the wave crashed over them. Turning the boat with a power that challenges every force in Midgard. People fall overboard. Screaming for their life. They know it will do them nothing to help. Planks breaking apart as if the mighty ship was just a stick. And finally the mast breaks, the mast Ivar is so helplessly tied to. Curse Ragnar for this. This was not the way it was supposed to be. But then his mother warned him, so maybe it was.

Water pressed inside his ears. Making him hear a ringing that wasn't there. The salt burnt his eyes but he tried his best to keep them open. His hand desperately trying to undo his fathers knots but it was no use. They were to tight.

Through the haze of the water Ivar could see his father swim down and towards him. He was sinking. The measly metal constructions on his legs and the mast soaking up with water brought him closer and closer to the bottom of the ocean.

His ears getting worse by the second and he knew that Ragnar would feel the same, but still he did not give up on Ivar's bondage. But the air would run out sooner or later and the knot would not budge.

Ivar tried to show his father to save himself, but how can you do that when you can't speak or move. He had to see his father struggle all the while neither had much air in their lungs left. His father never looked so miserable and that brought Ivar a strange sense of pride. He did not do a lot in his life. How could he. But at least he brought Ragnar Lothbrok, the greatest of all the Vikings, misery beyond belief. At least that was something Ivar the Boneless could live with.

Ragnar, being older, ran out of air before his son. And even though he truly didn't want to leave him in this wet grave he had to get air. His body forced him to push away and up. With his movements he desperately tried to carry Ivar and the mast with him, yet it was no use. It was all to heavy for his broken body. And after a heavy tug Ivar slipped out of his fingers and deeper into the water.

Ivar didn't quite see when it happened but suddenly his father was gone and he knew we would be soon too. If his body was not surrounded by water he would have screamed and cursed every living thing in this world. But his air run out slowly and even if his body did not want to give up he saw the edges of his eyes turn dark. His legs, funnily enough, where the things that brought him the least amount of pain in this moment. No it was his chest.

A pressure so big he felt his body would break into two and crumble in on itself all the same time was all he could feel. It was maddening. Feeling like a caged animal, tapped inside the tiniest cage, even though nothing but the wide ocean held him back. He felt himself slipping. Giving up. And the worst part, he lost all sense of caring for it.

Even his eyes played tricks on him. How else should he explain to himself that water moving in irregular shapes right before him. It was as if smaller waves were twirling before him. Almost dancing. As if something was there. Someone. Ivar heard about Selkies. Merfolk that looked like seals but could shed their fur and become human if they wanted. But there was no seal in front of him. No it was just water dancing.

Slowly the moving water took shape of a arm. And then a hand. Stomach, shoulder, neck and head. Legs that went longer then human, until it reached feet and soon a person was floating before him. Hair that would glide through the currents as if it was guided by wind. A person made out of water. A women clearly there yet translucent to the eye. Eyes so cold they looked like molten silver. Hel must be close to taking him if his eyes played such tricks with him.

But then he not only saw but also heard something. A voice. Clear as the echos on the mountains. It sounded like nothing he heard before. A language that was not meant to be heard by humans. It sounded like birds flying though the air singing their songs. Nothing not even his air deprived brain could come up with something like that. And with the singing came another figure right before his eyes. This time a man.

Blackness made itself known around Ivar's eyes more and more and he knew he would be out of air soon. The water people circled around him. Looking at him as if they never have seen something like him. The women came closer while the men vanished into nothing but droplets and foam. Stretching her hands out towards his face. And even though he knew that he could not go anywhere he flinched away from this mysterious touch.

That did not discourage her though, as she just did it again. This time with success. She was warmer then the water around him and it brought Ivar a sense of peace. He could die here and the warm hands of this entity would sooth him on the way there. Maybe she was a helper of Hel, here to take him. But all of that vanished as he felt her lips on his and with that air entering his lungs again. Gasping into her and deepening as far as his bound body could go like his life depended on it, because it did, he stretched closer to her.

He had air again. His chest did not threaten to burst. His ears did not ring anymore. He felt weightless. Almost free. If he were on land there would be tears running down his face again. This time not out of agony but euphoria.

She still held his face in between her hands. Never letting go as her lips left his. He called for her to come back but nothing but bubbles left his mouth. So instantly he closed them again. All this must have amused her, for she laughed. A sound so magnificent he was transfixed. She looked at him as if she found an animal in the wild and was trying to decide if she should keep it. She must have found an answer because after seconds her hands left his face and she vanished just like the man.

Panic made itself known inside Ivar. But as soon as she vanished she appeared behind him again. He could feel her hands on his arms. Or more the warmth that spread there. He could not see what she did but after a while his arms were free. She freed him.

Ivar felt her arms encircle his torso and, with a strength he did not see coming, she made her way to the surface. All the while still holding him. His hands found her arm and it was strange. He could see only water that was faintly outlined by foam and light. But he felt it resisting at his touch. He could see through but not feel though her body. It was a miracle, he was sure of it.

The first breath of real air he felt as they broke through the surface was the best feeling he ever felt. Maybe close behind to the kiss he got from the being he was still in the arms of. Nevertheless it was like getting his life back with every breath he took. Clutching on the being he realized that she was now in front of him again. Looking at him as if he was the weirdest thing in the world. A smile adorned her face and it was so beautiful he knew the gods made it. She let him hug her for awhile all the while she looked at him and held him back. He felt save for the first time on the ocean.

She swam with ease. The waves that still rolled over the ocean, even if they were not so big now, did not matter to her. She found a piece of Ragnar's boat and brought Ivar to it.

'Ragnar. What happened to father.'

��My father! Where is he!” His voice was scratching and he needed three tries to get all the words out. But it didn't matter. He needed his father.

The woman looked at him and then behind him. Pointed with a tender movement behind him and Ivar turned around.

Land. He saw land. Nothing made him feel more contend. Maybe the sight of his father alive and well could make it even better. And it became better. With every stoke she took he got closer to land and closer to tiny specs of rubble. Like ants laying in the sand he could see pieces of their boat and people lying about. Ivar turned his face back to the women.

He could look at this land all he wanted but he knew she would leave soon. She was beauty personified. Flawless and pure and so enigmatic in what she even was that Ivar did truly not know. Never had he heard or seen of a being like her and the man.

The sun rose slowly over the horizon and the beams reflected inside of her as if she was made out of pure light, instead of water. And they were closer to the shore. SO close that Ivar could see his father lying in the sand. Eyes turned to the lightening sky.

He could feel that she slowed down and was about to push away from the makeshift boat when he took her hand in his. Startling her for a second before their eyes met again. A smile replaces her panicked look and she waited for him to make the next move.

But what was his next move? He just didn't want her to go yet. With a voice so small as if it came form a small boy he finally found words to say. But even though the words sounded small they held unimaginable amounts of gratitude in them

“You saved me.”

She did not answer. Ivar didn't even know if she understood a word he said. Maybe she only spoke in her voice that sounded of strange singing birds. But still he had to try.

“Why?”

A long pause followed. Still she did not utter a single word. But she did also not look away and in her eyes Ivar could see understanding. After anther pause that felt to him endless she spoke to him.

“I am air and you were dying to breath. You have something in your eyes that I did not want to see go out.”

Her hand found his left cheek again and with a push she was closer to his eyes, placing her lips on his right cheek. Letting a simple, small kiss linger on his skin and went back to the water so that only her head was out of the water.

“Farewell”

And with that she pushed him closer to the shore and dove back into the deep see. Gone just as simple as she came. His hand lingered on his right cheek, the warmth of her lips were still tingling on his skin. He was so fixated on the ocean waves that he didn't realize that the plank was now stranding the beach. The only thing that brought him out of his trance was the scratching voice of his father.

“IVAR” Distress but also the utter most relief was heard in Ragnar's voice.

“Oh my son.” He threw his arms around the boy and kissed his hair. Never was he so happy to have someone else back in his arms. “I thought you were lost in the sea. I dove back under but I could not find you and the stream would not let me away, as if I was carried by something that wasn't there to land.”

'The man. The one that vanished.' Ivar thought,

“How did you get free? How did you survive.?”

Ragnar's eyes searched Ivar's with so much emotion, tears sprung in them. A pure display of joy and relieve.

Ivar's gaze left the one of his father's and he looked back out to the sea. The sun now being higher then before and the glistening waves seemed to be waving at him goodby.

“The sea saved me.”

It was all he could say. Because she did.

Ragnar did not know what he should do with that but he didn't care. He had his son back and he didn't let him go for a while. Still holding him in his arms kissing his hair and thanking the gods that they brought him back his youngest.

He could still fulfill his plan.

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Let me know what you guys thought by leaving me a comment! And I hope you have a lovely night✨

Tag: @youbloodymadgenius @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie

#hayleys2k #history vikings #vikings #vikings ivar #vikings imagine #ivar the boneless #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar ragnarsson #ivar lothbrok #ivar x reader #ivar the boneless x reader #ivar imagine #ivar fanfic

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x--daughters-of-darkness--x · 3 years ago

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HALESTORM: Behind-The-Scenes Footage From Making Of 'Back From The Dead' Video

HALESTORM has shared behind-the-scenes footage from the making of the official video for the band's new single, "Back From The Dead". The track is taken from the group's upcoming fifth full-length album, due in 2022. Directed by Dustin Haney (Noah Cyrus, Luke Combs) and produced by Revolution Pictures, the clip features frontwoman Lzzy Hale and the rest of the band in a morgue and cemetery somewhere between life and death.

Lzzy says: "'Back From The Dead' is about survival, not in a physical sense, even though I know we all have been touched by death especially these last few years. This song is personal and written from a mental health perspective. I wanted to give myself and the world a hard rock song we could shout out loud as the gates opened again. I was on the edge of this world getting completely lost in oblivion, but even though it was the harder of two choices, I didn't just let the darkness and depression in my mind dig me an early grave. I didn't just sit and let it take me. I've erased my name from my headstone, so save your prayers, I'm back! I hope this song, as I pass it on to you, reminds YOU of your strength individually and that you are not alone."

She continues: "The video was so much fun to film! Dustin Haney is an amazing director. Dustin and his team really helped bring my words to life and the video is one of the most cinematic pieces we've done in years! I hope this song, as I pass it on…reminds YOU of YOUR individual strength and that you are not Alone. Raise your horns!"

By breaking rules, bucking trends, and busting down doors, HALESTORM has surged through rock 'n' roll on a singular path without compromise or apology. Along the way, the Pennsylvania-bred and Nashville-based quartet — Lzzy Hale (vocals, guitar), Arejay Hale (drums), Joe Hottinger (guitar) and Josh Smith (bass) — has collected a Grammy Award, scored successive number ones at radio, garnered multiple gold and platinum certifications, and performed to sold out crowds on five continents.

Going against the grain again in 2021, the band weathered the flames of chaos in 2020 and returned stronger than ever with their most empowering and undeniable anthems to date.

"Throughout the pandemic, I was writing a lot of melancholic and hopeless songs about the ups and downs of the world," admits Lzzy. "I've been in this group longer than I haven't been in it. We've always had shows. Even when I was 13 years old, we had a couple of bowling alley gigs once a month. This was the first time I didn't know if we would ever play again. However, I started to use music in the same way I did as a teenager—to get myself through this situation that was plaguing us all. I sidestepped and said, 'Let's keep our heads up, get our attitude back, be a light in the dark for a second, and celebrate the fact we're surviving and there's hope for the future.' So, we started to write songs that were a reminder to ourselves of who we are and what we're capable of. That became the mission statement."

In a way, it's always been the mission statement…

Since roaring to life in 1998, HALESTORM has uplifted audiences with a combination of sonic ass-kicking, provocative songwriting, and unshakable hooks. The four-piece received a Grammy Award in the category of "Best Hard Rock/Metal Performance" for "Love Bites (So Do I)". The song also minted them as the first female-fronted band to hit #1 on the Active Rock radio charts. Thus far, their discography spans two gold albums "Halestorm" and "The Strange Case Of..." , a platinum single "I Miss The Misery", and two gold singles "Here's To Us" and "I Get Off". Between surpassing one billion cumulative streams worldwide, they've notched two consecutive Top 10 debuts on the Billboard Top 200 with "Into The Wild Life" (2015) and "Vicious" (2018). The latter represented a critical high watermark with Rolling Stone citing it as "a muscular, adventurous, and especially relevant rock record." In its wake, "Uncomfortable" emerged as their fourth #1 at rock radio and earned their second Grammy Award nomination, while Loudwire christened HALESTORM "Rock Artist Of The Decade" in 2019. Not to mention, they have supported everyone from HEAVEN & HELL and Alice Cooper to Joan Jett on the road.

Even as the world went dormant during 2020, Lzzy remained prolific. She lent her voice to collaborations with everyone from Dee Snider of TWISTED SISTER, IN THIS MOMENT, APOCALYPTICA, and Mark Morton of LAMB OF GOD to EVANESCENCE, Cory Marks, and Mongolian phenomenon THE HU. Additionally, she joined forces with a trio of legends — Corey Taylor of SLIPKNOT, Scott Ian of ANTHRAX and original SLAYER drummer Dave Lombardo — for the theme song to Netflix's "Thunder Force". Plus, the group contributed a cover of THE WHO's "Long Live Rock" to the documentary of the same name. Expanding her presence across television, she hosted the AXS TV "A Year In Music" series, joined the cast of Hit Parader's "No Cover" as a judge, provided the singing voice for Bella Thorne in the Prime Video hit "Paradise City" and launched her own show "Raise Your Horns" on Rolling Live. On the channel, she appeared in Mike Garson's David Bowie tribute with a performance of "Moonage Daydream" alongside Broadway star Lena Hall. She also participated in the platform's Ronnie James Dio tribute, supporting the Stand Up And Shout Cancer Fund.

At the same time, she remained a huge proponent of encouraging the dialogue around mental health. She participated in a Grammy Mental Health panel and empowered the next generation of rock musicians as the keynote speaker at the Little Kids Rock Modern Band Summit. She also made history as Gibson Guitars' first-ever female ambassador.

"I've learned a lot about myself through all of these different projects," she admits. "I said 'yes' to various adventures, and it made me a better artist."

Working out of her home studio in Nashville, Lzzy and the band channeled this renewed spirit into the music at the onset of 2021. Collaborating with Scott Stevens of THE EXIES, the musicians hit their stride and cooked up the single 'Back From The Dead'. Dramatic distortion and drums rumble as she screams, "I'm back from the dead!" HALESTORM come out swinging as punchy verses give way to a call-and-response chorus shocked to life with a searing solo and thunderous groove.

"We needed a reintroduction," she exclaims. "We needed something that simply said, 'Hey, we're back'. The live show is the time we feel as truly alive as we can be. When you walk out on stage with your guitar strapped on, your guys are next to you, and you have an audience looking at you, it's everything. We're celebrating the fact we're all back together again. Whatever it is that was trying to destroy that part of myself and my bandmates that our fans need couldn't do it. It failed miserably. We're fucking back."

From the moment the band graced the stage at a secret Nashville gig, they were indeed "back," albeit louder, heavier, and emboldened by an unbelievable year. Amped up to jump back in, their tour schedule took shape with festival dates followed by a co-headline run with EVANESCENCE in the fall.

Readying their fifth full-length album, they're delivering the soundtrack for a world ready to roar again.

"We've lost a lot of people, but we can start healing again," she leaves off. "I appreciate the little things even more. I don't only feel this confidence in myself, but also in every one of my band members. We're not the same people, none of us could ever be. HALESTORM is my source of my joy. It's my connection. It's the closest thing to my religion. We're moving forward. With this next album, I hope we're able to create a greater sense of community. We have a beautiful opportunity. When you listen to it, I want you to feel like you can walk through any fire."

youtube

#lzzy hale #Halestorm #Back From The Dead

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slutsofren · 4 years ago

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I’m begging you to please give us more Kylo & Mistress AU!! Whatever you want to show us, first time ever together (sex)? Or more details on the honeymoon?

I have been thinking a lot about Mistress and CEO Kylo’s first meeting and subsequent affair, I really do love them,,, so much,,, so fucking much,,,, the attitude,,, the power shifts,,,, the playful air that engulfs them,,, ugh swoon,,, Anywho, once I got started on this, I couldn’t stop. This monster is big for a blurb lol

You can read it on AO3 here

** CEO Kylo & Mistress AU: the meet-cute, first date sex, Bazine calls when y’all are fuckin’ and you let her listen, kind of vanilla since this is the first date and all, more in-depth into CEO Kylo’s background. I hope you enjoy this shenanigan as much as I did, Anon!

First Time Meeting and Second Missed Calls

Your phone had buzzed for the second time that night, yet another missed call from the filth of a man you were to be meeting tonight. You gave absolutely no second chances for potential business associates, especially if they’re late to the very first meeting. You rose from your seat nearby the window, asking the server to redirect your bill to the bar as you planned on drinking a couple glasses of wine to soothe your irritation.

Tonight was one of those nights where you bothered to wear heels, something you once learned from a mentor in college about appearing powerful and showing you would never bow to a man in this industry. That you could easily poke an eye out with the length of the heel. It always worked.

It had taken you some time to grow accustomed to loving your body, each and every inch of it was yours and you’d be damned if you let some man make you feel like you were less than because of your gender and curves. You loved yourself and that was that. You’d claw out the eyes of the next man who would belittle your business practices based on your gender, you would always come out on top.

You caved in and ordered whatever sweet dessert wine they offered, something few knew about you was your sweet tooth and how you’d love to sneak a delectable treat in once in a while. You drummed your fingers against the countertop, your other hand began fingering your wine glass. You took these few quiet moments to watch people, trying to silently guess why people were in Momofuku Ko on this particular evening during this very hour. A small game you enjoyed playing to pass the time.

Next to you, a woman stumbled to the bar nearly dropping her martini all over your silver dress but breaking the drink in her hand. A quick glance at her and you knew she was plastered, her loud and obnoxious voice scratching your ears. She looked relatively hopeless as she looked at the shards of glass and dripping liquid from the counter, the mess she made matching the mess her presence had.

You rolled your eyes as you checked your dress and purse quickly, making sure this miserable woman didn’t ruin your items.

“Hey! Can I get another mart-,” she tried to yell at the man behind the counter before a man cut her off, placing his hand on her shoulders from behind her. He shot you an apologetic look and faced the bartender.

“My apologies, sir, would you mind calling a cab for this woman, she seems to be out of her mind,” he stressed the last few words in her ear. The bartender raised a brow and nodded, motioning for some help from a nearby server.

“Hey you,” she threw her comments at you, “why are you dressed like a slut in front of my-” the man pulled her away from you.

She protested, throwing her hands which way and that trying to stop herself from being promptly escorted from the premises by some security. Once she was gone, the mystery man looked at you once more, fixing his tie and suit.

A small smile left your lips as you raised your glass to him, “Wild night?”

He let out a huff, “It would seem to be.” He took long strides and sat on the opposite side of you, avoiding the broken glass and dropped alcohol.

“Your wife,” you pressed on. Curiosity nipping at your heels.

The man let out a grimace, “That obvious?”

This time you let that smile you’d be holding in appear across your plush lips. “My apologies, Mister-?”

“Ren, Kylo Ren. May I buy you another glass of wine for the inconvenience of having to see that woman’s unpleasant side, Miss?”

You paused a moment pretending to think, even taking the extra long couple seconds to suck in your bottom lip and bite it oh, so gently. “You may.” You reached your hand to his, introducing yourself to him. That meeting that brought you here was far away from your mind now that your phone hadn’t rang for what seemed like hours, maybe that fool got a clear picture that you did not offer second chances.

Before long, you two had moved to a quiet section of the restaurant. You both talked and drank the wine you prefered. Kylo said it was a new adventure since he mostly kept to whiskey but you could tell he was charmed by you and you with him.

Slowly yet surely, you found yourselves inching closer and closer to each other over the course of your conversation, his warm arm pressed around your shoulders as you both talked from everything from business pet peeves, to stock prices, and fashion.

You looked into his eyes and for the briefest moment, you felt guilty. This was a married man, you clearly saw his wife earlier. Kylo held your chin between his thumb and forefinger, looking straight into your eyes and you felt as if he was looking into your soul as well.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he whispered your name.

“You’re married.”

“I am.”

“Then why-”

He leaned back in his seat and tore his eyes from you. He looked at the plate of food in front of him, to your hand that was still on his knee, then to the wall ahead of him. “We didn’t marry for love, if that’s what you’re wondering. I am a terrible man, I’ve burned people, I’ve caused deaths of some, I’m fire and brimstone to others. One thing I am not, is a liar.”

He took a pause, letting you absorb his words. “Bazine is my wife but it’s more of a title than an actual relationship. She owned a wonderful portion of a business I wanted to acquire and merge with my own and the condition for me to take full ownership was to be married to that dreadful woman for five years. Afterwards, I could divorce her and leave it all behind and do whatever I wanted with that company. At the time,” he finally admits, “it didn’t seem like I was sacrificing much, instead I would be gaining that much of a stronger footing over those who kept me down for so many years.”

“Delayed gratification,” you prompted.

He let out a chuckle, “Yeah, something like that. That was almost three years ago. Three years of dealing with Bazine- her drunkenness and mishandling of the company. It’s been a long three years and will be an even longer two more.”

Kylo looked at you once more and grabbed your hand, raising it to his lips giving your cold fingers a warm kiss, “Come, let me take you to your hotel.” You conceded and followed him. After all he expressed about the complications of his arranged marriage, you felt for this man. In all his struggles he just looked worn and tired and you could tell he hid it well.

You both shuffled into the cab after Kylo insisted to settle your bill with his, his warm wool coat was draped over your shoulders, covering the sparkling silver satin your dress shone like tiny starlights.

The fifteen minute or so taxi drive from Momofuku to where you stayed at the WestHouse Hotel was cozy. Kylo didn’t press on your thoughts and you admired the comfortable silence that came with being in his presence. You let yourself lean on his body, trying to absorb some of his warmth that he radiated since you met him.

Upon your arrival to the hotel, Kylo once again insisted on paying for the taxi as he did at the restaurant, “Spending this evening with you was the first time in years where I wasn’t expected to be a certain person or act in a particular manner. Being with you tonight was truly a breath of fresh air.”

Kylo fiddled with a small piece of your hair, lacing it around his fingers before letting it go. The artificial lights from the hotel illuminated his face, much more than the intimate lighting at the restaurant did. Now you took notice of each and every freckle that littered his sharp features and his eyes, how they bore into yours. Anticipating.

“Bazine,” you left your unspoken question lingering in the air between you both.

“She has had her fair share of affairs during our,” he struggles to find the right word, “situation.” You were surprised at his confession, afterall you were fairly certain she attempted to call you a slut for making eye contact with Kylo just before the two of you properly met.

“As I said before, I am many things but a liar I am not.”

Kylo cupped your face and his eye contact never faltered from your gaze. “I will never force you to do anything,” he licked his lips, “uncouth.”

Fuck it.

You grabbed his hand and led him inside WestHouse, interlacing your fingers with his. Behind you, you could hear Kylo give a low chuckle, admiring you from behind as his coat engulfed you. It didn’t matter if you were tall or short, larger or smaller in size, this man made everybody look small in comparison, not to mention how obscenely wide his chest was. He was too damn sexy for his own good and you were daring to drink from that chalice of forbidden wine at any moment now.

In the elevator, you admired how your interlocked fingers appeared together so naturally, how his large hand encompassed yours. Your white glitter painted fingernails seemed to radiate what you were feeling within you, a rush of passion and fervor. If this were to be a one night stand, so be it. It would be a night you wouldn’t forget for a lifetime.

Once the two of you walked past the threshold to your hotel room, Kylo pinned you, throwing your purse to the side. Your back against the plain door shutting it in its place, locking you two away from the outside world. His large hands cupped your face as he did moments before down below at the entrance but this time, this time he kissed you as deeply as he could. You granted his tongue access as your kisses grew heated. Wanting nothing between you if you possibly could.

Kylo dropped his hands from your face to his coat, slipping it from your shoulders and letting it fall to the ground. You took this moment to reach for his belt, slipping it from the loops of his pants, your mouth practically watering at the sound of the leather and metal falling to the floor.

He took your hand in his and led you deeper into the room, watching you like prey as you sauntered and gracefully stepped out of your d’orsay heels without having to touch them. Kylo moved your hair to the side as he began to pull on the zipper that kept you in the confines of the tight dress you wore for the evening, the sounds of the zipper being forced open on your back filled the room and you began to unbutton his shirt, the jacket he wore was thrown about somewhere else. Wherever it landed didn’t matter, only that you both got what you came for.

Each button stripped away revealing the broad chest you envisioned he had, your fingers expertly undid them as if you had been doing this dance with him since the beginning of time.

You both did not make a further move to kiss, only to gaze into each others’ eyes, as if you were engraving this moment in your minds forever. With his shirt unbuttoned and your dress just daring to fall, he raised an eyebrow at you and you let out a laugh before practically jumping into his arms. He kissed you, and kissed you, and kissed you more, trailing each one further down as he stripped the gown from your body.

Kylo was completely enthralled by you, enchanted by your confidence and ability to not shy away from the reality of who he was, a man who dominated every aspect of his life. He showed it, he showed you and promised himself to show you just how wild you make his heart beat if you’d allow him the pleasure, just as he bound himself to give you an insurmountable level of new highs tonight.

Reaching the top of the panties you donned for the evening, Kylo paused and looked up at you, “Is this okay?”

You placed one of your hands in his hair, feeling the strands tangle around your fingers as if trapping you and never letting go. “Yes, Kylo.” He leaned forward, laying his forehead at your stomach as if silently praying, thanking whatever it was out there that led you to him. Fate intervening.

A part of him wanted to hurry and bury himself deep in you but his skin screamed to stop and take it slow, to let these moments last and treasure your body- admiring each and every curve and dip. He inched your panties lower and lower until they fell and he took this moment to kiss that beautiful spot where your thighs met your sweet spot. After a few moments of soft languid kisses Kylo lifted your leg to straddle his shoulders as he began to kiss, bite, and suck at you.

You tried to keep your composure for just a little while longer, you really did try but once he began his magic, you fervently began to release breathy moans which only encouraged him on. His large hands grasped your ass, your thighs, anywhere those long fingers could grab. His tongue worked between your folds and it threw you overboard into cascading waves of pleasure.

Two orgasms later, Kylo released you from his hold, letting you stand on your own. As he rose, he kissed his way back up to your lips and you tasted yourself on his tongue. You began to strip his clothes off him, as he did for you. Down to his boxers you led him to the bed and laid yourself down gently, a modest queen size bed for a queen afterall.

You hesitated for just a moment and asked, “Are you sure you want to do this, Kylo?”

Hearing his name drip like golden ichor from your plush lips was a true taste of ambrosia that made his mind spin. Not once has anybody spoken his name as you have, it was always spoken laced in fear, anxiety, or greed but you, you spoke his name with adoration. You looked at him from the bed, turned to face him, anxiously waiting for his reply.

Kylo kneeled on the bed, hovering over you, encasing your body under his as he laid another chaste kiss to your lips, “More than anything.”

You raised your knees and opened yourself up to him. Mind, body, soul. Everything. Your fingers brushed past the elastic in his waistband and pulled the cloth down to reveal his large cock at your core. Grasping his hardened length he let out a breathy gasp and you could see between you both how red his cock was, desperately begging for attention.

“Fuck me,” you whined as you stroked him, “Please Kylo, I want you.”

“I want you too,” he said as he began to thrust into your hand, enjoying how your fingers felt around him. You lifted your feet to rest on his hips as you led his length to your core. He began to kiss all around your face as you let him sink into you, splitting you wide open.

He let out a quiet, “Oh fuck,” as he reached his hilt, burying himself so far into you. His large fingers came up and got tangled in your hair as he began slow ministrations of pulling almost all the way out before thrusting deep into you and beginning that cycle of pure toture and pleasure in one.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered against your neck, eyeing your expressions how your face controrts with each thrust he makes.

“Don’t stop, Kylo, please, don’t stop,” you cried. Your heart opened at his words but you forced those feelings away, unsure of what his intentions are.

Kylo sat up and kneeled once again, taking this moment to watch as his cock disappeared in your pussy. Watching how when he pulls back, his cock is glistening with physical evidence of your arousal. He became mesmerised at how your tits bounced and your face lit up with the same waves of absolute pleasure he felt. He didn’t want any of this to stop.

From the foot of the bed, a phone began to ring and Kylo let out a groan. He ignored it and continued his slow thrusts, fucking you nice and deeply. His phone stopped ringing for the briefest moment then rang again. “Fuck,” he growled. He wasn’t going to stop, no way was he going to stop one of the nicest nights of his life. The phone stopped and resumed ringing one more time, whatever it was seemed to be urgent.

He eyed you and you nodded your head, letting him leave you to get it. “Are you fucking kidding me,” he groaned.

“What is it, Kylo?”

“Bazine.”

Without giving it a second thought, you demanded, “Answer it.”

He turned and cocked his face into a smirk and placed the phone against his ear, “What do you want, Bazine.” He stepped forward back to the bed, you could now begin to hear her slurred whines and cries on the line, screaming at him.”

You reached for his phone and put it on speaker, tossing it to the side of you as you guided Kylo back to where you were before she interrupted.

“Where are you Kylo, how could you embarrass me like that,” Bazine cried.

“You embarrassed yourself, as for where I am, well,” he kissed you. “I’m currently inside one of the most beautiful women I have ever met in my life, fucking her nice pussy,” he groaned as you tightened around him at his compliment, “and wanting you to fuck off so we can keep going.”

Bazine let out a harsh gasp, appalled at what he was saying, “You- you’re lying.”

“Say hello,” he motioned to you.

After a moment, you cleared your voice, “I would greatly appreciate it if you’d leave Kylo alone for the night, he is a bit busy fucking me.”

“Stop fucking lying,” she yelled.

Kylo brushed his hair back as she penetrated you, “Fine, if you don’t want to believe it then listen to us fuck and deal with it. Leave me alone, Bazine.”

He began to fuck you once more, letting loose all the lewd noises your pussy could make from how sweetly he rocked into you, deeply caressing each part of you.

You arched your back and he bent down to take one of your nipples into his mouth and sucked bruises on the skin there. Wanting to leave a small part of him on you just as you left scratches on his back. Wonderful scars for a wonderful woman, he thought.

“Oh, Kylo, just like that, don’t stop,” you cried, Bazine already leaving your mind. Kylo reached over to hang up the phone and he threw it against the wall, not giving a shit if it broke. Right now all that mattered was you.

You reached up for him and placed a gentle hand at the base of his skull, pulling him to the side so you could be on top, not once disconnecting your bodies. Kylo gripped your ass as you began to bounce on his large cock, throwing your head back. “Fuck- Kylo!”

He tried, just as you did, to keep his composure but you felt far too good around him and he began to let out just as many moans.

He moaned your name and gripped your ass so hard you hoped there would be bruises there to keep as a temporary memory of this affair. Your neck was exposed to him and he reached a hand up to caress the skin there, sending shivers upon shivers down your spine. “You’re doing such a good job, bouncing like that on my cock,” he praised, “You look so beautiful.”

“Come here, little one,” he reached around you to hold you close to him as he laid you down on the bed. Not once letting you take a moment to think about that little nickname.

Kylo hoovered over you as you began to cry, he had you feeling so good that you couldn’t stop the hot tears that welled in your eyes, “Please, Kylo, go faster, I’m so close!” He took that command and did as you told him, pumping his cock so fast and so hard into you, it was earth shattering. Kylo reached his long slender fingers and began to violate your clit, aiding your desire.

Your back arched as you came around his cock, feeling overstimulated and well-fucked but he still kept going, chasing his own orgasm. Finally, he let out a deep guttural moan as he came inside of you as a sigh left your lips. Your pussy fluttered aftershocks around him, milking him. Kylo kissed you deeply once again, wanting to etch this memory deep into his mind, trying to remember the taste of wine on your lips. When he pulled away he brushed a piece of your hair away from your eyes and your gaze met his. You lifted one of your hands to brush his clean shaven face with the back of your hand. “I don’t want you to leave,” you admitted.

Kylo pulled out, and stepped off the bed. For a moment your heart broke into tiny pieces believing he was going to leave until he pulled the white duvet covers down and motioned you to slip underneath them. He returned to you, covering both your bodies while he reached his fingers down between your folds, pushing the evidence of both your orgasms back inside of you. He kissed your forehead and entwined your limbs together under the warm sheets, “Neither do I.”

#posted on ao3 #ceo kylo x mistress au #requests are open #kylo ren reader insert #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren x you #kylo ren x oc #kylo ren/reader #star wars reader insert #star wars smut #kylo ren smut #kylo ren fanfiction #modern kylo #modern kylo reader insert #anon ask #asher talks #kylo ren x y/n #kylo ren/you #asher’s writing

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scrumptiousalpacadeer · 4 years ago

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A Note on the ‘F’ Word - (Forgiveness is Willy Wonka)

I’ve come to think that forgiveness is a bit like the scene in the original Charlie and the Chocolate Factory film where Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory is opened to the public after years of secrecy. In this classic scene, the crowds are gathered at the entrance of this most magical of places - a place that grandparents told their grandchildren of at bedtime in hushed tones; a place of flowing nectar-chocolate and sweets that burns like heaven in our hero Charlie’s imagination; a place they had never truly dared to believe in but dreamed of many times; a place run apparently run by some weirdo eccentric that the cynical masses had given up on long ago.

That is until five Golden Tickets are sent out into the world...Willy Wonka is opening his factory again.

In the scene, Gene Wilder approaches the eager crowd, leaning and limping heavily with his cane along a red carpet; a look of grim severity on his face. The whole falls silent; all that is heard are the regular steps of Wonka and the taps of his cane. What the hell? This is not what anyone is expecting; this God-like man of mystery and invention a miserable invalid? The opening of the Chocolate Factory is meant to be an epic event; the whole world is watching..

Wilder suddenly stops walking right next to his baffled fans and the world stops, holds its breath; locked in Wonka’s charismatic spell. Then something very weird happens; he begins to topple forward away from his cane - as if he’s had a stroke, or has suddenly died or fainted.... the crowd gasp, utterly horrified. Its the end of everything and it was meant to be the beginning.

And then....well, Willy Wonka does a perfect forward roll and springs up beaming from ear to ear: it was all a façade of ill-health; a silly joke. The crowd goes wild with relief and joy and the factory’s golden gates open for the day, signalling a new era.

The other day I had a phone call out of the blue from an old friend; a friend I hadn’t seen or heard from for eight years. Rahul; my party hard philosopher; he who introduced me to the basics of meditation in my student digs 1996, whom I’d shared hundreds of fags with and laughed and danced hard with at house/techno nights ‘down the Student Union in my final year at London University, 1997. Rahul who I’d watched Sideways with and had half a lager with when I was seven months pregnant. Rahul who often got so insanely drunk and gobby at a party that no-one knew what to do with him. Rahul, wild man of peace; loose canon. Rahul who years became a Maths teacher as I became an English teacher.

I very nearly didn’t answer the phone because I didn’t recognise the number, but I was in a care-free mood, listening to Radio 3 in the kitchen (how times have changed since 1997), so I picked up.

One of the first words I said to him was ‘sorry’. ‘Sorry, Rahul!’ - It was weird because I’d been thinking of getting in touch with him for a while to ask his forgiveness. I hoped for an opportunity to say sorry to him for being such a crap friend; for taking him for granted; for being a selfish shit-bag; for not answering his calls, for the years of silence; for draining his resources then abandoning him when I found new pastures. I needed to say thankyou to him for being there for me at times in need; times I’d been hollow in spirit and he’d stepped in, but I hadn’t grasped it at the time.

“What do you mean? You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, “ he said. “this is how it works with you. Years go by.” That's the thing with forgiveness; it hurts. It pained me that he forgave me without a second’s thought when I knew full well I hadn’t played fair. One time, in our mid-twenties, Rahul had bought me a ticket to go and join him in Atlanta America where he was working in I.T. His generosity was always off the scale.

Since our last meeting Rahul had lost half of his family and was now an orphan. His younger sister had died from a ‘cancer thing’ he told me; his mother crossed the threshold in April this year after contracting Covid in hospital. Her death was a relief, he said. “She was so happy to get the virus; all she wanted was to join her two children.” Apparently there had been a cot death. Rahul was the only one left alive now. He was talking to me from his flat in Hounslow, looking out over the town.

I had to steady myself on the windowsill as he told me how his world had imploded. I felt the disappearance of his world in my stomach; and a sudden revelation of the nature of our connection. I hadn’t realised it before, but Rahul and I were conjoined by our exiled status. He, more visibly - a boy of high Indian descent inhabiting a West London life of hedonism, doing the drugs and the booze but also somehow accepting an arranged marriage foretold in his stars - a marriage that ended in disaster...Me; a girl from a house of shame and smutty lies and buried criminality, trying to climb the ladder and be so gleaming white and impressive... We both knew how hard it was to play the game in this world; feeling all the time we could only exist outside it. Perhaps that's why, back in the 1990s, filled with the possibilities of our lives - born out of joint as we were - , we could feel the beat so keenly and dance so crazily together. Rahul and I knew the art of getting wasted and causing trouble.

I enforced the point that I’d been a real bitch and I told him how and why and that he deserved better. I told him of my stark memory of his mother singing sweetly to my baby daughter in Summer 2012, distracting her, so that we could sit and chat in his garden. I told him I lived in the country now; that so much had changed. “Are you comforted?” he asked. “Are you still Chrissy Woo?” It was always his nick-name for me - a nick-name I didn’t mind. “I don’t think I am,” I said. “I couldn’t go on like that.”

Did he know that my father had died...that I was an orphan too? Rahul and my father had met many times so I didn’t inform him of my father’s subtly racist jibe after he’d come over for fish and chips one time. I didn’t tell Rahul about my revelation that my father was, on one level, arguably, as far as I was concerned, often, a ball-less sack of shit (that’s a W.O.P.E. Whole Other Post Entirely - very much related to the ‘F’ word) Out mutual disappointment of our hopeless fathers was the subject of a much longer conversation.

I think the thing that’s so frickin’ scary about forgiveness as I am just as the very beginnings of understanding it, is the sheer unknowability of the space that comes after it. For my part, all the resentments, angers, prejudices, judgements, pulsing hatreds at times, these were very loyal friends that I woke up with each day without even having the faintest idea I was doing so. Sure, they were ugly and they caused merry hell enough, but, well, at least I knew where I was. At least I was livin, and sometimes that's really hard to do. They were the furniture I manoeuvred around; the reliable chairs I sat in for comfort when I was never good enough; when I just couldn’t keep my head above water. What happens if I let that all go? What will I hold onto? If I know longer want to stab my father with a screw-driver in the manner I meant to stab the lawn today as a form of irrigation for my new grass seed (see previous post and the WOPE I referred to earlier is coming soon) what the fuck happens then? I will have absolutely no idea who I am. Everything has the potential to start looking like Wonka’s Oompa Loompa Land with giant toadstools and chocolate rivers and that’s just too much happiness for anyone, surely, to stomach. I will know that I don’t know anything, and I’ve spent my whole life pretending to know everything. Surely the space will swallow me up, won’t it? How on earth do you start something entirely new?

There’s that terrifying moment of suspension before something new comes in - like Willy Wonka topping over his cane. There’s those seconds when, learning a new guitar chord, our fingers hover in space over the fret; the new contortions our fingers must make to strike a new sound feels so awkward; so wrong; the muscles tearing into a new shape.. There’s that burning second that we leap out in the dark, blind, towards the possibility of a new tune, we take a mad punt and see where our clumsy fingers land, risk making a new sound... Chances are first few times around we’re gonna fuck it up. It’s agony. Forgiveness feels to me, when it comes in, like a hard grounding grief, a thunderstorm of reluctantly received understanding that wipes out the old and invites me to the chocolate factory. And some days it leaves me entirely and I feel like I’m back in the dumb days again.

But, and I’m riffing here, I think the answer partly has to do with a belief in change and a steady embracing of transformation; or at least a basic faint belief that it might just be possible. Cynics and miseries say ‘people don’t change,’ ‘things don’t change’, but this is of course undiluted horse-shit. People transform utterly on a daily basis, all the time...One of the tricks, I’ve learnt, is to spend as large a proportion of time as possible with people who also believe in change and progress - a bit like stocking up on sunlight for those dark hours that must be spent with angel eaters - ( translation: rampant materialists/misery guts who refuse to believe in magic of any sort).

But oh the rewards; oh the sheer mad silly fun of Wonka’s gates opening and guzzling on that chocolate.. The ecstasy of hearing a G major chord sung from your own fair hand.

I hope to meet up with Rahul this Summer - to see him in the flesh. No doubt it will be somewhat awkward; he’s forgiven me - in fact; he doesn’t see what the problem is. I’m a different person; I’ve had some chunks taken out and they’ve been filled in with wholly different colours. He’s a different person too; I made him promise me on the phone that he would look after himself - so he’ll be made of different colours too. How will we talk to each other? What words will we use? How will we navigate such unknown waters? How do you build something new with someone who looks the same, but is wholly other?..

I have no idea. I think we might just have to chuffing well make it up as we go along; trying to forgive ourselves for all the mistakes we make along the way.

* * * * *

As a random and seemingly unrelated end-note - I went out for a walk down the lane to catch some air mid-blog. What with it being a Saturday night and me being a party fiend, I thought I would ‘pick up some litter’ for fun. I picked up a can of cider and a paper plate. Two cars zoomed past. It struck me that had the drivers of these vehicles happened to take a passing interest in the woman in a camel coat walking alone along the side of the road with an unsteady gate (wellington boots rub my right heel real bad!) and an empty can of cider in her hand they would surely been able to draw only one conclusion: PISS-HEAD!.. OLD SOAK! lonely Saturday night Sussex forty something alcoholic staggering along the lanes with empty cans of cider for company...

Ah the deception of appearance...

And so, dear reader; Happy Saturday and judgeth not a lady who walketh with a can of cider down a country lane. She might just be a blogger on a break.

I hope you enter the chocolate factory of your choosing some time soon or are already there sampling the delights....

Love from Christine x

#gene wilder #post covid impact #friendship #transformation #post covid freedom #exile #grief/mourning #personal freedom #making mistakes #love again #chocolate #charlie and the chocolate factory

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theclintbartonbraindump · 5 years ago

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Clint Barton x Reader - N(ice) Doggies Ch. 1

Pairing - Clint Barton (Hawkeye) x Reader (that’s you)

Word count - 1772

Warnings - Language I guess, but what did you expect.

This is my first fic that I am actually posting! There will be at least one more chapter, possibly two depending on where it goes and how wordy I get. Just something nice and fluffy. Please feel free to leave comments and suggestions, I’m always looking to improve! Enjoy!

__________

“Did you see that?” The words came from Clint’s mouth as a stuttered hiss as another gust of icy wind whipped around him. The small valley the two of you had chosen to settle down in for the night was offering about as much protection from the Russian winter as a wet blanket. Even with the tent blocking you from the majority of the wind you could still feel wave after wave of what felt like liquid ice traveling under your chin and down the front of your coat. That whole experience was nothing short of miserable.

You and Clint had been told this was the tamest January this part of Siberia had seen in over a decade. “Thank God for that global warming,” the hotel manager had quipped, earning a look from you that was so cold it probably would’ve seen the global crisis reversed. If this was mother nature’s idea of tame you hated to think what she might throw at you if you ever showed up at her door unannounced, interrupting her favorite soap opera.

You shivered aimlessly as the hand Clint had been using to gesture towards whatever he’d apparently seen quickly retreated back to his coat pocket. Despite the violent protest from your neck, which had grown painfully stiff from the cold and your hopeless shivering, you lifted your gaze to match his own. You knew it was probably nothing, just shapes in the snow as is swirled through the trees, but you also knew that he’d keep pestering you about it if you didn’t make some attempt to ease his paranoia. As you suspected your eye met nothing but the endless sea of conifers, painted white by the blasting snow. You tried looking beyond the tree line, hoping to give Clint the benefit of the doubt that he wasn’t just seeing things, but again there was nothing. You saw only the same thing you’d seen for the past three days, trees and snow. The most interesting thing you’d seen on your little Russian excursion was an owl, landing talons first on an unsuspecting field mouse. You looked back to Clint with sarcastic concern.

“I wasn’t aware that hypothermia also caused hallucinations. Or is that the sleep deprivation acting up again. I told you I could take a longer watch.”

“And I told you I am fine, I don’t need more sleep, Mom!” The emphasis he threw onto the last word made you smile as you turned back to the small fire that was now in serious danger of being blown out. It had taken the two of you nearly two hours and Clint using his body as a shield to finally get it lit. If it died now you were certain you would resign yourself to the same fate without a second thought. Damn wind! Weren’t the trees supposed to protect you from this shit?

Clint ignored your amusement at his outburst and turned his gaze towards some distant point beyond the tree. He lingered there quietly for a few more moments before continuing in his defense.

“And I’m not crazy. I definitely saw something.”

“Well Hawkeye, I’ll just have to take your word for it, I guess. You are the eyes of this duo after all.”

You didn’t even have to look up to know that a mischievous smirk had crawled its way onto his lips.

“Oh yeah, what does that make you?”

You didn’t miss a beat.

“Mom, apparently.”

Clint playfully swat at your arm, earning himself a feigned look of anguish to which he just smirked.

“I guess somebody��s gotta keep an eye on me.” He mused.

“If Natasha gave up I don’t know how SHIELD expects me to do any better.” The Russian assassin, and your personal friend, you were more than a little proud to say, had turned the walking catastrophe that was Clint Barton over to you for a couple of missions while she was “on vacation”. Knowing full well that Natasha would sooner be dead than take any well-deserved time off, you guessed that this was just her way of telling you that she was off on an extended solo mission that required her full attention. i.e. she didn’t have time to babysit the strangely easily distracted archer. Clint was the best marksman in the world, there was no doubting that, but his lack of any real formal training showed in some unusual ways. Most recently you’d noticed that it reared its head in Clint’s inability to focus on any one thing for more than exactly seven minutes. Why seven, you had no idea, but you’d clocked it more than once and each time at the seven-minute mark he’d be turning to you with some random thought, usually pertaining to food. The man really just needed someone to keep him on target, literally.

“What makes you say that? I think you’re doing a great job.”

While you wanted to be surprised that Clint hadn’t even pretended to be offended by your previous comment, you couldn’t manage it, because there it was again. You felt it every time he gave you that lopsided smile. It was like he knew the power it had over you. Like he knew it would always make you forget whatever scold or self-deprecating remark you had been planning to make. It’s like he knew just how to make your heart feel lite but turn your knees to lead at the same time. You’d known each other for years but had only really been able to get the chance to know the real Clint Barton over the past few weeks and he was still a mystery to you. You were now more confused about the archer than you had ever been and you didn’t know if his remarks were meant as mischief or if he truly meant it all to be endearing. Clint’s sense of humor, or rather his personality to be honest, always made it difficult to discern the sincere from the sarcasm.

You lowered your head a bit further to hide the blush that was forcing its way to your cheeks. True it would’ve been hidden under layers of rosy, snow-blasted skin, but you couldn’t take the chance. You smiled and went back to poking hopelessly at the fire before finally giving up. In its unattended state, the flames began to wither and eventually choked out of existence. Neither of you made a move to save it so as the fire finally flickered out the cold began to seep its way back into your bones. Not only that, but you were now very aware that night had fallen. Without the fire and with little to no moonlight reaching through the dense canopy of pine trees, you and Clint found yourselves enveloped in the near pitch black.

“Could be worse.” Clint piped up as he shifted closer to you.

“Really? Even with Bigfoot out there creeping on up.”

“I’m serious!”

“How Clint? How does this get worse? I’m sitting here freezing my ass off in the middle of bumblefuck nowhere Russia for absolutely no reason at all.”

Ok, maybe not no reason. You had been sent out here for a pretty legitimate reason actually. Something about Hydra recruiting in the area in the hopes of setting up a base. But days worth of trudging through the snow surrounding your coordinates had only proved what you’d guessed after about the eighth hour of your search. This was all a wild goose chase. Clint had radioed in to report as much only to be met with the news that you’d be forced to stay in the wilderness for at least another 24 hours due to inclement weather. Only once the storm cleared would you be evacuated. That was 36 hours ago, and the snow was showing no signs of relenting. To make matters worse your food stores were running low. You either needed to be rescued or to find the town you had started out in soon or they’d be adding you to the town folklore about people who never came out of these woods.

“There could be wolves.” You stared at him. Jesus Christ why was he like this?

“Wolves?”

“Yeah, you know, wolves. Like doggies only bigger and hungrier.” Why did he look so proud of himself?

“I know what they are, dingus.” You threw and ill-conceived snowball at him in retaliation for the lame joke that still had you chuckling despite yourself. Clint attempted to get his revenge by tackling you, only to be met with an armful of the snow you’d just been sitting in. You looked down at him amused from where you were now standing before gazing out once again past the trees. “You better not jinx us. There’s no way you and I are fighting off monster dogs in our sorry state.”

“Aw c’mon, don’t worry. If there was a pack in the area they would’ve found us by now.” He sounded so nonchalant as he picked himself up and brushed the snow from his pants and jacket. Like he hadn’t just been cracking jokes about one of the many creatures in the region that could and would definitely tear you to shreds. “Come on, let’s get inside. No use staying out here in Jack Frost’s asshole.”

“You go ahead. I’ll keep watch for a while.” You started to take your place back on the ground when Clint caught your arm.

“Of what? The pinecones? Look the fire’s blown out and there’s nothing to see out here, sweetheart. At this point, if there is anything out there you’ll hear it before you see it. Storm’s picking back up. Even I can’t see more than 10 feet ahead out here. Best to just stay in and wait it out.”

His words were all but lost on you after the utterance of the new nickname. Clint had a rep for be a pretentious flirt and you were definitely no stranger to that side of him. You’d been subject to his bad pick-up lines on so many occasions you had started keeping a tally. None of it ever really got to you, or so you had convinced yourself, but there was something in it this time that made you stop and do a mental double-take. Maybe you were overthinking this. You were definitely overthinking this. But then again, he looked more sincere than playful. You shook yourself out of your mild shock when you realized that Clint had been staring at you expectantly. You decided to blame his sudden change in demeanor on the shit circumstances you found yourselves in as you knelt down to climb into the tent.

#clint barton #hawkeye #avengers #clint barton x reader #hawkeye x reader #avengers x reader #marvel #clint deserves more love #clint barton / reader #hawkeye / reader #avengers / reader

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madam-legba · 5 years ago

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{bispeccare in bello non licet - WIP}

(Im posting this here as a follow up to my help request; if you’re interested do reach out! I’m looking for someone who can help me edit/correct my English as it is most definitely NOT my native language)

PROLOGUE

I. The escape

Another flash of light broke the darkness of the stormy night, another wave hit with utter force the rocks where the damp building sat. Tiny drops of salty water spread in the air.

The halls of each story of the building resounded with howls of desperation and madness; some cries were distinctly aimed to relatives — usually a mother, asking her how could she ever let something like that happen to her own flesh and blood, many others were mere begs for mercy.

Merlin’s name was a recurrent plea, too, but nor him nor the Dementors had ears to listen to those delusional cries.

The overall noise of the voices, mixed with the rumbles of thunders and the constant lapping of the North Sea, sounded like the worst cacophonous orchestra that ever played on Earth.

That never ending lento, that never stopped at all, forced the prisoners mind to slow dance to their madness; each mind danced alone, yet dreading for someone to save them.

Therefore, sleeping wasn’t a possibility.

With all the chaos that inhabited Azkaban, only a deaf witch or wizard would have ever been capable of a good night of sleep.

Restless were the cries, restless were the guards, restless were the prisoners.

Sleep deprivation added up to the list of reasons why whoever stepped into that living hell of a prison would soon lose their minds.

Furthermore, each cell was built so that only a weak strand of light could pass through the cramped rectangular window where, rarely, a bird would sit. The lack of an understandable difference between daytime and nighttime made it so easy to lose track of time.

A day felt like a year, a month felt like an hour; the constant darkness made it hard to eat, as the prisoners’ body were tricked into believing it was always nighttime. Yet, an enchantment prevented the prisoners from dying of starvation.

Torture was most definitely not legal nor tolerated, especially if it was by the hands of the Minister of Magic, but it could easily be masked as aid.

An excuse at saving prisoners from certain death was nothing but another way of punishing the inhabitants of Azkaban.

If it wasn’t for some kind jailer, no wizard could have said exactly for how long they’ve been chained to that miserable, rotting spot of a penitentiary. Not that it really mattered, as most of those who were imprisoned would never again get to see the light of the day as free citizens.

They were bound to rot in that hell of a place, abandoned by their families, beliefs and minds. Abandoned by a community that was supposed to educate them.

Alone.

The flashes of light - lightning of a never-ending storm - were the only quivering lamps of each cell.

At the highest floor of that boundless slimy hell that Azkaban was, a witch sat huddled up in a corner of her room.

Her hair was a messy curly ball around her head, some wild locks were hanging free from the main skein that was now harsher than ever, due to the salty drops of water that clogged the air.

Her face was so gaunt, her black tired eyes were popping out of their orbits, seemingly bigger and rounder than what they truly were. Her pale, white skin was opaque as if blood didn’t run at all below the level of that pearl-like white skin.

Her prisoner attire, that once fit her so well was now redundant on her small frame.

She was gazing at her left arm with a clinical attention, a vein pulsed in the middle of her forehead as a clear sign of her concentration.

The mark on her arm had considerably faded since the day her Lord had somehow been harmed and debilitated by the facts of Godric’s Hollow but, nevertheless, it was there.

She knew it meant he was still alive, he had explained to her –– only her, of course, her most faithful follower and pupil –– exactly how that kind of magic worked: as long as the wizard who casted the spell was alive, so was the mark. Whereas, if the warlock who casted the spell died, the mark would have been imprinted on the markeds’ skin as a scar.

The witch studied her mark with utter care, incredulously eying every detail, every turn of the snake, every shadow. It looked like that mark was the only thing able to keep her madness at bay given how silently and composedly she gazed at the magic tattoo.

Then, with a barely audible whisper, filled with hope and madness, she broke her unusual silence.

“He’s back.”

Her round eyes studied the pale drawing on her arm with deranged meticulousness for the nth time, looking for confirmation. The change in its colour was barely noticeable and to anybody else, it would have been unrecognizable.

Not to her, though, her who passed her days checking for an update on her arm, her who had patiently waiting in that hell of a prison for His return.

Not to her.

She was sure her dark mark was a grade darker than what it had been just a few seconds before.

“He’s back, he truly is.” She repeated, louder than before but, still, her tone was just above a whisper.

It was enough.

An annoyed intense grunt came from the wall to her right, she easily ignored it, engrossed as she was in the epiphany that had just struck her.

The witch leaned down on her forearm to kiss the mark with renewed spirit, a long detailed trail of kisses covered each spot of her strange tattoo.

“He’s back! He’s back, He’s back, He’s—” She quickly covered her mouth with the palm of her dirty, dry hand and wearily looked around to check her surroundings. How ungrateful of her, to speak so poorly of her Lord.

What a poor choice of words. ‘He’s back’, He’s never been gone at all. He was just waiting for the right time to come back, He must have spent some time regaining his strength.

She shook her head, ashamed of her own behaviour, her pompous mass of hair followed her movements. There was a jiff of hesitation, then she proceeded to correct her previous choice of words. “— he’s never been gone at all. My master...I knew it! I knew this day would come, I’ve never lost faith, my Lord, not even once, not even for a single teeny tiny fraction of a second. I’ve waited, faithfully, and now we’ll be tog––”

Again, an interruption.

The wall to her right spoke, not bothering to hide its disdain for the witch. “You’re delusional.” There was a shade of tiredness in his tone.

How dare he speak to her?

In the fury of the moment, the witch had tried to get up to get closer to the wall and break it down with her bare hands. Sadly, she forgot she had been handcuffed with heavy sharp metal strings and she almost tumbled face first on the floor. Almost.

“Shut up, shut up! HE’S ALIVE AND WELL!” Came the reply of the woman, she wanted everybody on that god-awful ground to know the truth.

Their loyalty was going to be rewarded, they didn’t face Azkaban for anything. She could feel her heartbeat increase as time went by, she knew they would have joined soon for a meal. “Rod, are you there?” This time, her voice was more trembling, giving away her excitement.

She didn’t know exactly where her husband had been accommodated, but she was well aware he had been restricted on her same ground.

She liked to believe only a few cells separated them, which had to be true since they had spoken – better yet, shouted to each other – on several occasions since day one of their confinement for life.

She was about to get to her feet again when a shiver of cold ran through her spine.

She brought a hand to her chest, grasping the tissue of her uniform to cover and warm the exposed skin. The temperature had dropped in just a speck of time, and it wasn’t due to the howling icy wind that blew outside.

Immediately, she looked down: the damp floor was turning quickly and way too easily into ice. That could only mean one thing.

Her first instinct was to seek shelter, but her four corners room provided none, no shield to use, her body was her only defence.

Even though her legs were telling her to move away and her throat was aching for a scream that she just couldn’t afford to let loose – she did have a reputation, for Merlin’s beard! – she stood still.

The layer of ice on the floor was getting thicker, the creature was coming for her.

Gritting her teeth, she cursed her ass for having been so naive. How could she ever forget where she was? She had let her excitement win and now she’d be punished for her misjudgement. That thing was coming to steal her only happy thought, then it would have killed her.

I’m not going quietly, she thought to herself as she collected all her strength and courage.

She had only managed to grab in each hand the chains of her handcuffs when the creature poked through the bars of the entering wall of her cell.

It looked like a giant black ghost, floating over the ground in all its sick glory. Its bony, dark fingers caressed the bars separating the two figures from physical contact.

Suddenly, it was hard to breathe. Bellatrix opened her mouth to suck frozen air in her lungs, but the air felt thicker, it just could not pass.

She tried to make a fuss out of her chains, she wanted to shake them, slam them into the walls, make any kind of noise to get that thing to move, to make it scared of her and not the other way around. However, she knew it didn’t work that way with dementors, but logic wasn’t something she could count on at that moment.

The thing lingered longer, it felt like it was staring right at her soul.

She had never felt so hopeless in her whole life, she wanted to disappear and to rot in a corner of the cell, she felt like she truly deserved to disappear.

She closed her eyes and waited for the dementor to unlock her door and take away her soul. Her ears were resounding with the erratic sound of her beating heart.

The witch peaked through her eyes, curious to know why it was taking so long and –– it was gone.

Only then she let go of a shaky breath she had been holding. She collapsed on the frozen floor, only to then crawl near the bars.

The dementor had passed over, she’d never been its prey, to begin with. A few feet away, a young wizard was screaming his lungs out as the dark ghost deprived him of his joys.

She couldn’t know for how long she had watched that disgusting show, nor how long she stayed there contemplating the renewed emptiness of her thoughts.

It must have been hours.

Only when she took her right hand over her left wrist to move the handcuff to a strip of skin that wasn’t already cut open she remembered what had happened.

She gazed at her mark in shock, then she sang her chant from the top.

“He’s… alive. I… see it. Do you, Rod?, I see it, clear as day, can you see it too? He’s alive, he’s there, he’s coming again!”

“Will you choke on your tongue already, he’s gone!”

She turned her head to her right, looking at the wall as if it was to be held responsible for such an attack on her person.

How. Dare. He. Her jaw locked, a molar tooth was cracking under the pressure of the muscle.

“SHUT UP!” Fist clenched, ready to physically fight that brat of a cousin. “Filthy blood traitor, good to nothing! What would you know?!” Crawling to the wall on all four, she hardly slammed her fists on the hard, cold bricks, the metallic chains clashed at each hit. “What would your little muggle-shagging-flea-ridden brain KNOW!”

She slammed her fists once again on the rock bricks to nail her point as a picture to the wall. “My poor lord, all alone, they all turned their backs on you. They don’t deserve you, they’re not worthy of your attention.” Her voice, previously gruff and resentful, had turned in an affectionate, pitiful whisper aimed to the mark on her left forearm.

“Guards?” The voice called jokingly, laughing to himself. They both knew nobody was going to show up, they never would. The prisoners were abandoned to themselves, abandoned to die alone. “Medical attention is needed! My dear cousin has definitely lost her fragile and already compromised sanity.”

“But I am, my faith never waved. I’ve patiently waited,, I’ve stood by your side ––”

“Ha, and look where that got you.” He spat lightly, failing to stop that nauseating litany.

“–– I’ll always stand by your side.” Bellatrix kept on as if she hadn’t even heard Sirius’s snarky comment.

“Confirmation enough for them to keep you locked up in here until a dementor will finally take pity on you and free you with a goodbye kiss.”

A corner of his lips lifted up to his cheek as “silence” had finally been restored. Cries of desperation and madness could still be heard from other cells, but at least the death eater had ceased her ridiculous chant.

“Sirius, dearie?” Bellatrix sounded quizzical, but he knew better than to keep going along her insanity. “Don’t you DARE INTERRUPT ME when I’m talking to HIM!” Her last word echoed in the aisle of the prison.

In the cell next to hers, Sirius shook his head. He was so used to her shouts and rants that he didn’t even flinch at her outburst. “Let me knock some good sense into that rotten head of yours.” His voice calm and controlled perfectly masked the angry bark that followed. “He’s DEAD!”

The wizard was expecting a shout or the muffled sound of her cousin’s hands on their common wall, but Bellatrix had other plans.

At first, there were light puffs of air, but it soon became a loud hysteric cackle. “Dead?” She repeated, almost unsure she heard correctly. “Oh, no, no-no-no. The only dead people I know are the Potters, you silly puppy, and that’s on you.”

“I’ll kill you!”

If the clinks of chains were any indication, Sirius must have raised to his feet to come after Bellatrix. “You coming to get me, Sir?”

Further laughter came from the witch, but it wasn’t loud enough to cover the repeated “I will kill you” coming from her neighbour.

“You wouldn’t even get to hex my pinky before I’ve got you laying on your back, crying for mercy.” Spat the woman, aroused by the thought alone.

“I will KILL YOU Bellatrix!” He was rabid, the only mention of his best friend was enough motivation for him to actually earn a reason to deserve that place.

“Is that a promise, pup?” She teased him, gleefully. “I’m afraid it’ll have to wait.”

She ignored the profanities from the cell on her right, ready to commit to her destiny. She glanced at the tiny rectangular window, then she checked the hallway of the ground.

A sly smirk crawled up her face, the time had come.

Bellatrix was done waiting.

She had mustered through all that time in Azkaban only because she hadn’t had proof of a real return of her Lord, but she was resolute in her revelation, now.

He was out there, somewhere, and he needed help – her help.

She closed her eyes and she collected the concentration needed for that spell. It took her a little longer than what it used to take, but eventually, she managed to turn.

The metallic chains fell heavily to the ground, she was free. With a flop of her dark wings, she hopped on the window of the cell.

She looked down and she studied the area surrounding the prison.

The land was nowhere to be seen.

She wasn’t sure she could survive the journey, food deprived as she was, but she had to try.

Curiosity had the best over her, so instead of departing immediately, she flew to the window of Sirius cell. He had never seen her animagus form and he sure couldn’t recognize her, clueless as he was, so she lingered on the windowsill.

A single screech, just to catch his attention. Their eyes met, then the blackbird was gone.

#bellamione #bellatrix black #bellatrix lestrange #sirius black #azkaban #fanfic #fic #wip #bellatrix black x hermione granger #bellatrix x hermione #help #edit #beta #harry potter fanfic #harry potter fandom #bellamione fic #bellamione fics

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lantsovnazyalenski · 6 years ago

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i don't love you but i always will

okay, so this is operating on the assumption that somewhere between Nikolai's engagement and the day of the wedding, Zoya actually realizes she loves him.... which might be a stretch but here we are

I'm also going to pretend/assume that Ehri is going to agree to the wedding on her own free will... cause yeah

Zoya’s gown was a low-cut sapphire blue, glittering as the light caught on the beads of her skirt. Her hair was styled to one side, loose black curls cascading down her shoulder, held in place by hairpins. She was radiant, if not for the hollowness she felt inside, the dullness of her eyes.

Fortunately, no one would pay attention to her eyes as long as they were staring at her plunging neckline. Practical as ever.

And maybe she wanted to outdress the bride. Just a little bit.

It was almost disappointing when Nikolai didn’t seem to notice. She knew he had other things on his mind, pacing the floor when she entered his chambers, a deep frown on his face – yet, she’d hoped to garner some sort of reaction. It was like begging for scraps that would never satisfy her, and she felt angry at herself all over again. She was above begging.

But he asked her here. And when he looked at her, his eyes just a little wild, every reminder to repress and deny that she spent so long internalizing flew out the window. She was a stupid lonely girl again, preparing to watch the man she loved marry someone else.

“Zoya,” he breathed, her name a hopeless sigh on his lips. He didn’t seem to notice her attire, only that she was here. “I don’t want to do this.”

There it was. She knew he had his reservations about a political marriage, idealistic Nikolai and his desire to marry for love, but she thought he had accepted his duty when he proposed to marry the Shu princess himself. He’d mentioned nothing of it since, donning a graciously resigned approach, a self-sacrificing king, and Zoya wondered if he truly made his peace. He made sure to be kind to his bride, taking her on walks in the palace gardens, eating with her in his chambers in the morning; a fact Zoya tried to begrudgingly accept. Nikolai didn’t want to be enemies with his wife, and she didn’t wish him an unhappy marriage. But seeing Nikolai slowly replace her in his life stung.

She hadn’t realized how much she relied on their small routines until she lost them.

Now she realized his acceptance was all an act. A king was always acting – but no part of Nikolai truly made peace with this.

And what was she supposed to say? Was she supposed to appease him? Tell him he could do it, that he had to? Tell him Ravka needed it? Nikolai already knew that. That was not what he wanted to hear from her.

She didn’t know what he wanted, in truth. He knew she would not coddle him, would not sugarcoat it for him. What then? Did he want her to give him a stern speech? Did he want her to smack him upside the head and yell at him that he could not, will not call off the wedding a mere hour before it began?

She was so, so tired of telling him he had to marry. So tired of ignoring the painful twist of her heart, denying the quickening of her pulse. It was not fair that the stability of Ravka meant never having one of the few things she wanted for herself.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she hissed, steel in her voice. Anger was familiar. Easier than entertaining thoughts that made her chest hurt. It was hard enough to watch this happen, did she really have to convince him to go through with it too? “You know you have to.”

“I have to marry a woman I don’t want, don’t love, doesn’t love me, is that what I have to do?”

“For your people and your country? Yes, you do.”

It was like he didn’t hear her. Nikolai stepped forward, gripping her arm, Zoya’s breath catching at the unexpected proximity. The anguish in his eyes hurt her more than she cared to admit; she didn’t want this for him, and not only because she loved him. She hated to see his misery.

“I need a reason,” he said, his gaze boring into hers, searching for something. The excuse he needed, perhaps. “I need – Tell me not to marry her. Tell me you don’t want me to.”

Of course, she didn’t. But it didn’t matter what she wanted. Or who she wanted. How could she put herself above Ravka, above the Grisha who needed her? Was she supposed to just take what she wanted like the Darkling? With no consideration to anything or anyone? Was that what she was supposed to do?

The ancient beast stirred inside her.

Take what you want. You’re more than capable.

Zoya shook herself out of it and pushed the dragon back inside the cage she put him in. No. She would not give in.

“You need a queen,” she said simply, neither accepting nor refusing his request.

And why would he care anyway? Was he so desperate for a reason, an excuse? If he thought she would give him an out, he was sorely mistaken – she wouldn’t validate his delusions.

“I already have one.”

She sucked in a breath and moved away on instinct. Nikolai’s hand fell from her arm limply, its absence burning.

He doesn’t mean it. He just wants to get out of this. He doesn’t mean it like that.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Nikolai,” she snapped again, sharper than before. “This isn’t a game. You’re a king, act like it.”

She knew she wounded him, but it was for the best. He drew back, nodding a couple of times, like telling himself she was right. His posture was all wrong, defeated and slouching. So uncharacteristically unsure. She may have wished to knock his ego down a couple of times during their partnership but now she hated it, wished for his easy confidence and nonchalant arrogance back. Nothing would be the same after this, would it?

“Of course,” he murmured, painfully resigned. “I understand.”

She thought she should say something but soft, reassuring words weren’t part of her vocabulary, even if it hurt to see him like this. They got stuck in her throat and cut her up inside. A bleeding mess of a girl stood in her place.

Nikolai turned away to fiddle with his jacket in the mirror, a gentle but obvious dismissal, and Zoya took her cue. She walked away with a terrible feeling in her gut that she was missing something.

The ceremony was grand as anyone would expect it. No detail out of place, no extravagance spared – no matter their financial struggles. It would be unseemly for the young king of Ravka to have anything but a pompous wedding; after all, he would only have one. By now, Zoya didn’t care about the unnecessary excesses of it all. She just wanted it over with. She watched Nikolai standing at the altar, waiting for his bride to be, none of the signs of distress from earlier displayed on his handsome face. A small mercy, at least. He couldn’t very well look miserable in front of hundreds of their guests.

Eyes of both men and women followed Zoya as she stood to the side with Genya and David, but it hadn’t felt as satisfying as she thought it would. She always looked breath-stopping, that was nothing new. It was boring. Why did she think outshining the bride mattered at all; it changed nothing. Perhaps she would have cared more if she didn’t only have eyes for Nikolai. A small wistful and childish part of her thought she would not give a damn if no one ever looked her way twice, as long as Nikolai did.

But these kinds of thoughts belonged to a blushing gentle lady, not a commander loyal to her king. Zoya did her best to dismiss them.

I’m letting you go, she thought, stubborn and willful and determined. His back was to her when Ehri walked down the aisle towards him and placed her hands in his. I’m letting you go.

You’d give him up so readily?

He isn’t mine to keep, she replied then, but maybe he was, a little bit.

Standing beside him, always a soldier at his side. Now she was standing behind him, disconnected. He was close, yet it felt like they were miles apart. I’m letting you go, she repeated once more, squeezed her fists, and tried to believe it. They never could have been anything, it wasn’t – when Nikolai called her his queen, he was desperate. Exaggerating. Anything to get out of this marriage he never wanted.

Perhaps he hadn’t even realized what he was implying.

But if – if he meant it? If he longed for her like she longed for him, if he loved her like she –

Useless thoughts, she reminded herself, but it was hard to watch this. Harder than she thought. No amount of rationalizing had prepared her for this in the end. She should have said yes, should have told him not to marry her. He’d asked her, he’d begged her. Why hadn’t she? Selflessness or fear? Both?

She couldn’t watch this.

And what? she barked at herself, angry at these thoughts. What? You’ll interrupt the ceremony now? Right here in front of everybody? Hundreds of guests gathered from everywhere, and you’ll pour your heart out and beg him to marry you, or at least not marry her? As if, she scoffed.

But wouldn’t that be a story for the ages? the dragon in her snickered.

She ignored it. Just keep your head up and hold your tongue; suffer in silence. It was almost over.

Was it? something dark echoed inside her. The ceremony will be over and then came the celebrations: the music, the dancing, the cake, the toasts, the jokes about the wedding night and the little heirs Ehri will eventually bear. You’ll go back to your chambers and he’ll go back to his bed that he shared with his wife to perform his marital duty. Then you’ll wake up and he’ll eat breakfast with his wife and dine with his wife and go to sleep with his wife, and you’ll see him during meetings and discussions and nothing more. You’ll be nothing, maybe friends, if that. And Ehri will give him children, little golden boys like Nikolai, and you’ll wonder, always pining, for what could have been. It was never going to be over.

Her chest felt tight and she couldn’t breathe. It felt a little like dying, and abruptly, she didn’t think she could do this for the rest of her life. Despise your heart. If only it was that easy.

“Nikolai,” she gasped under her breath, but no one heard her. She spoke up again, louder, and now he turned to look at her as the priest paused in his speech, glancing up from his book. “Nikolai.”

He looked at her cautiously, wondering.

What are you doing?

There was a hush in the church that was deafening, and she felt the stares of everyone on her, waiting, like the calm before a storm. Genya was stiff beside her and David shifted awkwardly on his feet. But Zoya could only see Nikolai, her eyes pleading, apologetic, desperate, a little ruined. His hand fell from Ehri’s and there was a distant gasp and murmurs from the wedding crowd.

Choose me.

She didn’t speak but he never broke their gaze, and she saw his eyes grow wide as he seemed to lean an inch towards her. In that moment, she thought he understood.

Choose me. Love me.

Ehri cleared her throat and the spell was broken. Nikolai snapped his gaze back to his bride and Zoya felt the air leave her lungs in a whoosh as her heart shattered. The room was suddenly buzzing with whispers, every pair of eyes trained on her, making her skin crawl. Stupid little girl, they seemed to say. Did you think he would choose you? She felt ridiculous. Too young, too foolish.

What the hell were you thinking? she berated herself, furious. You know better. You don’t act like this.

Why didn’t you commit to it? wondered the dragon in contrast. You limit yourself too much.

Zoya breathed in and out slowly, attempting to compose herself. Steel your heart, straighten your spine, lift your chin. Eyes cold and emotionless. Ignore the stares of everyone around you. You could do this. The show had to go on.

Then the church doors blew open and everything went to chaos.

#zoyalai #king of scars #kos spoilers #kos #my fics #i don't know if i can post ao3 links anymore #does tumblr remove them?#this site......#but anyways it IS also on ao3 and since there aren't too many fics for them yet #it won't be too hard to find

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mountainofgoats · 6 years ago

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Puzzle Pieces

Summary: Post mind wipe, Kara seeks comfort from the only place she can think of. Lena steps up. Supercorp if you squint.

///

The knock to her door is stuttered and frantic. Like the desperate beating of a trapped animal against its cage.

She grabs her gun from the bedside table before she answers.

What she does not expect is to find a trembling, teary eyed Kara Danvers practically slumped against the doorframe.

Concern immediately replaces suspicion. “Kara what-“

Kara shakes her head, all but flings herself into Lena’s arms with so much force she nearly drops the gun. She’s absolutely heaving with sobs, something like words spilling from her lips but they’re so ragged that Lena can’t make any sense of them.

“Okay, okay, it’s okay,” Lena tries, even though clearly nothing is okay. “Shh, Kara, come on.” She holds Kara as tight as she can with the gun still dangling from one hand, hauling her backwards into the apartment and kicking the door shut behind her. Kara lets herself be manhandled onto the couch, where Lena collapses with her practically on her lap. She sits there, murmuring constant and slightly panicked words of comfort while Kara just… falls apart.

There’s no other words for how Kara is cracking to pieces, absolutely fraying at the seams. She’s nearly hyperventilating, holding on to Lena for dear life, gasping and heaving like she’s drowning. And through it all, she’s rasping out words.

Or, what sounds like words.

Foreign words.

Lena had no idea Kara was bilingual.

“Kara, I can’t understand you,” she says softly, stroking Kara’s hair and rocking her as much as she can with her best friend half on top of her. “I need English. Or Irish, at least.”

Kara presses her face farther against Lena’s shoulder, clutching at her. Still crying, shattering to pieces. She gasps out a phrase in that language that Lena has never heard, but she catches one word.

Kahp sem zehdh. Kahp sem Alex.

Alex.

Alex, her sister. Her rock. Her best friend.

Kara is in pieces, sobbing out her sister’s name, clinging to Lena like she’s the only thing keeping her afloat, and Lena’s panic is only growing. Blood icy, heart thundering, Lena gently pries Kara away just enough to cup her face, swiping away tears from her cheeks. “Kara, what happened?”

God, Lena’s not even sure she wants to know.

Kara holds Lena’s hands to her face – gasping, heaving – eyes locked on Lena’s with silent desperation. Her blue eyes, usually so bright with life and light, are wild. Haunted. Like she’s in the throes of a waking nightmare.

“She’s gone,” Kara rasps. Clutching at Lena, tears rolling over her cheeks despite Lena’s constantly stroking fingers. “She wont- she can’t-“

Oh god oh god oh god. “What are you talking about?”

Kara squeezes her eyes shut in obvious agony. “She won’t remember. She won’t- she won’t know, she won’t see.” She coughs out another sob, words slurring back into that language that sounds more and more familiar with each word.

Except the only time Lena’s ever heard it… was before.

Before Lex was arrested. Before he really, truly went mad.

Before, when he was just studying Superman.

When he was trying to decipher Superman’s language. Kryptonian.

The language that is just spilling out of Kara with the ease of a native speaker.

“Jesus Christ.”

///

Lena’s brain spirals too much to be of much comfort, but Kara soaks her shirt with tears for an hour and doesn’t seem to notice.

She knows she is still missing vital pieces of the puzzle, but from what she’s been able to discern out of Kara’s anguished cries, she thinks she can build something of a picture.

And when Kara finally cries herself out and slumps, exhausted and asleep against the back of the couch, Lena eases out from underneath her and immediately plops down at her laptop at the kitchen island.

She types, taps, searches, and spirals for another hour before there’s a muffled shuffling from the couch.

“Lena?”

She looks up, and Kara is sitting up on the couch, groggily rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. And for a moment, she looks just so young and lost that Lena forgets for the briefest of seconds that the woman currently stumbling off her couch can literally catch bullets with her bare hands. Has brawled with Superman and Worldkillers and flown prisons into space.

“There’s Chinese,” Lena blurts. She gestures a little helplessly toward the cartons sitting out on the counter. “If you want.”

She doesn’t wait for Kara to respond. Just fixes her eyes back on the screen in front of her, at the countless tabs of news articles and videos she’s spent the last hour combing through. Putting the pieces together and feeling more and more ignorant with each one that fell into place.

How could she not have seen it?

She feels rather than sees Kara approach. She keeps tapping away at the keys. Knowing the words she’s writing, but feeling oddly disconnected from them.

“Lena?” Her voice is tiny. “A-about earlier…”

“You don’t have to explain right now,” Lena says. Please don’t try to explain right now.

“But I want – you deserve – “

“Let me rephrase.” Her voice comes out harsh and cold, and Kara flinches back. “I don’t want you to try to explain why you’ve lied to me for the past three years.” Her heart twists and her eyes burn. “I don’t want to hear it, because I’ll probably say something hurtful and, to be honest, I don’t think you can take much more of that tonight. So just… don’t.”

Kara is clearly fighting tears, throat bobbing as she swallows and hands wringing together so tight her fingers are turning red. And part of Lena hates herself for it, for making Kara hurt any more than she already was.

But she feels too damn angry and betrayed to take any of it back.

“I didn’t want to,” Kara whispers. She twists at her fingers, pulls at her sleeves. “I never meant… I just wanted…” She reaches up and wipes at a tear, sniffling softly. Her shoulders drop, heavy and hopeless. “I just wanted you safe.”

And fuck, she just seems so lost.

Lena leans back in her chair, allowing herself to really see Kara.

The last daughter of Krypton. The hero who stands unyielding against those who would do Earth harm.

The girl who lost everything – her family, her people, her culture, her planet – in one fell swoop when she was only a child.

The girl who, apparently, just lost her sister.

And judging by the way she holds herself now – chin slightly tucked, shoulders curled, as if in preparation for a blow – she thinks she stands to lose more.

“We have a lot to talk about,” Lena says softly. Kara flinches again and Lena has to swallow back tears at the way her heart constricts in response. “And we will. But not right now. We’re both too emotional and I’m not going to do that to you.”

Kara shakes her head miserably, opens her mouth to protest.

“Let’s figure this thing out with your sister,” Lena cuts in. “Let’s fix that first, and then… we’ll figure us out, okay?”

And if she’s being honest with herself, she’s not too optimistic for when that conversation inevitably comes. In fact, a tendril of dread curls around her heart at the nanosecond she lets herself consider it.

But looking at Kara now, at the way it’s as if even the barest of touches would send her crumbling to her knees, she can’t bring herself to make Kara explain. Not tonight.

“Okay,” Kara whispers.

Lena gives her a decisive nod. “Okay then.” She returns her attention to the screen in front of her, clicking away at all the photos and videos.

Slowly, Kara edges her way farther into the kitchen, around the island and slips onto the barstool next to Lena. Trembling hands reach out and pull a carton of lo mien toward her. Wordlessly, halfheartedly, she twirls the noodles around a fork.

“But why would you want to help me? After… that.”

Lena glances over, and Kara is staring down at her fork, eyes glassy and bloodshot and absolutely miserable. Her heart aches again despite her best efforts to beat it into submission.

She drags her eyes away from Kara’s. “I know how it feels.”

She hears echoes of laughter, feels the ghost of Lex’s hand ruffling her hair, remnants of goofing off in the lab and playing chess.

Flashes of the witness stand, the burst of betrayal in his eyes before it was swallowed by the fanatical gleam.

The gaping hole in her life where her brother should be throbs.

“I wouldn’t wish that kind of loss on anyone.” Least of all her best friend, who she loves so much.

Maybe too much.

After a quiet moment of Kara trying and failing to eat her lo mien, of Lena trying and failing to not miss the brother she lost, Kara starts to lean over. So incredibly slowly, giving Lena every opportunity to pull away.

But she doesn’t, and the weight of Kara’s head resting on her shoulder brings more warmth and comfort into her aching heart than she wants to admit. In spite of herself, in spite of the flicker of anger and betrayal growing smaller and smaller, she lets her cheek rest against Kara’s hair. And when Kara heaves a sigh like it’s coming from the depths of her battered soul, Lena leans until their shoulders are pressed together across the barstools.

She’ll be flaming mad later, she decides. She’ll yell and probably cry and she doesn’t know if their friendship will survive, but for now…

God, do they need each other to hold on to.

Idly, she moves the curser on the screen up to a different tab, clicks on it. A journal written on memory and psychology blips onto the screen.

“So you mentioned something about a memory wipe? Tell me about it. We’ll start there.”

///

Kahp sem zehdh: I want home.

@storyiicharacter, thanks for the Kryptonian translation. It’s still ripping my heart out.

#supergirl #kara danvers #lena luthor #supercorp #I'm still upset about the mind wipe okay

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jiangsspace · 7 years ago

Text

In the Mood for Love

Youth is a journey. Here is a description of someone’s path.

Pairing: non-idol!BTS x reader

Word count: 1,9K

Genre: angst, fluff

When you turned 20 you realised the concept of the perfect partner was a lie. A complete lie. There were none and people put up a facade every day to mask the fact they were flawed and imperfect. Some even broken.

There was Namjoon, who was a charming person overall but lacked compassion. He could hold a conversation with anyone finding people’s secrets and using them to his advantage. Quite the snake at the end. It didn’t last long and you found yourself deprived of affection and manipulated.

Then there was Seokjin. A great guy who could make you laugh with just his facial expressions and endearing sense of humor. Also, a great cook. A talent he liked to show off during date night. But he seemed too obsessed with himself to ever truly give himself to you entirely. In short, slightly self-obsessed to let other people shine. It left the both of you feeling betrayed and empty at the end. It had to stop. Although the sex was great.

Yoongi gave you everything you found ideal. Good humor, great personality, the appearance, depth and seriousness. Yoongi wasn’t someone to hide his feelings. He would tell you openly when he had had enough or when he was truly enjoying himself. And you could respect that. It was something you had grown to appreciate in other people. Honesty and loyalty were crucial when maintaining a relationship. The reason you two didn’t last long, was the lack of goofiness. Yoongi was funny but he didn’t want to be perceived as the funny guy.

Hoseok was a wild ride. A big party person and very sociable. Long story short, he gave you an overdose of sunshine. He seemed to be everyone’s good friend and everyone knew him. Although he only knew a quarter of them. Hoseok had only let you in for a month and when he called it off one night at a bar, he stated you were boring and not adventurous enough. And to be honest, you two were doomed from the first day.

Hoseok’s comment left you sore and hurt for a long time, which meant you plunged yourself into trouble and bad habits such as shoplifting and graffiti art. After crying your eyes out and downing a bottle of cheap wine you grabbed your backpack and stuffed it with red and green and black and pink aerosol paint bottles and punched your arms in the old leather jacket you had absentmindedly taken from Hoseok as you stormed out the door.

The evening was fresh and you thought your fingers would fall off if you walked down this road for any longer. Your hands were tucked in the pockets of the leather jacket but it provided no warmth, just like Hoseok. You scoffed and turned your gaze to the stars. Slightly drunk you opened your mouth and watched the smoke as it passed through your teeth and dispersed in the air. Fuck you Hoseok, you screamed as loudly as you could, not caring if someone was out here to hear your curse.

I agree. Hoseok is a bitch, a dark haired boy answered. He was clearly amused at your reaction when you turned around like a whip, almost breaking your neck in the process. He had surprised you to death to say the least. He laughed when your face contorted in a poor attempt to see him against the dark night. It was just your luck to forget your glasses at home tonight. The alcohol had fogged your ability to make clear decisions. Or it was the lack of sleep and proper food.

Where are you going? His voice was soft and tempting. Different from Hoseok in so many ways. You liked the change and let him hang out with you. Taehyung talked about society and the wrongdoings of politicians and big CEOs who only thought about their stomachs and money. He had quite a lot to say about them but offered very little solutions. He was still a hopeless optimistic.

He was still amusing and used big words to impress you. Taehyung fell in love with the facade you had raised to prove to yourself and Hoseok you were capable of fun and crazy, but the lifestyle didn’t suit you and when you dropped the graffiti and alcohol, you also dropped him. No harm taken. I’ll be here if you need me, Taehyung laughed when his heart shattered.

You landed a job at Starbucks and fell in love with the cute and goofy Starbucks boy, Jungkook. He had a face so charming it left you speechless for days. But you tried to be professional. You really wanted this job and you needed the money. He was in charge of your training and adaptation to the job but your relationship turned out to be something more than that of the mentor and the tutored. Jungkook was hot and passionate, leaving you breathless and yearning for more.

He was the reason to all of your happiness during those two months. The moments of love and utter admiration. The moments of passion and affection. Jungkook was competitive and jealous. But maybe a bit more competitive. Which is why working with him became a burden and you felt pressured because he was your superior and lover. The look on his face when you handed in your resignation letter left you in a bad, bitter mood. Is it because of me, his words would haunt you for a long time.

Jimin. Your current attempt at love. You bumped into each other in a book reading club you had stumbled upon on a rainy day. You didn’t own an umbrella so when the opportunity presented itself to get cover from the pouring rain, you took it. Jimin owned the library and he was the smiling manager everyone liked and enjoyed working with.

Jimin, although, he was the life of the party when need be, he was a solid rock when it came to comforting and listening. The beacon of light in the storm. Jimin knew how to manage people, but he wasn’t manipulative. He had studied psychology and read a lot about sociology. He was someone of great taste in people and rarely let others in. He valued himself, but he wasn’t narcissistic. Sometimes it even felt like he put other people before himself.

Jimin was the stereotype of the silent, nerdy librarian, but he knew how to be vocal. And he liked to be the dominant one. His dominant side was aroused in the bedroom and it seemed to be a silent agreement between the two of you; you would be the submissive.

My business is doing well and I now have the resources to take you on a longer vacation. I was thinking about Japan, he announced one evening when he came home with takeout. The living room was filled with the sweet smell of pastries. The word vacation sent butterflies to your stomach and you couldn’t help but wonder if you were taking things too fast.

Jimin noticed your sudden reaction and read you like an open book. I haven’t booked anything yet, he sounded apologetic, the soft voice laced with love. We’ll take things slowly if that’s what you want. You gave him a soft smile and handed a baked roll as a token of your appreciation.

That night, when you lay in his arms, stomach full of Chinese takeout and soju, you thought of all the previous guys you had met during your youth. All wonderful and terrible in their own special ways.

Namjoon, you had met at the age of seventeen. The school’s class president and powerful persona in the facility. Situated in the heart of Seoul and having the reputation of best high school in Korea, you two formed a power couple. The couple everyone looked up to and whispered about in the halls. The popularity had given you a thick skin and the mental resources to deal with having your private couple life poked and dug on. But it all became too much and when you graduated, you sighed in relief when parting ways with Namjoon. He was the son of the CEO of Kim Enterprises and you knew his life was predestined from birth.

Seokjin, the humorous narcissist great with pots and pans. You met a month after your graduation and he immediately swept you off your feet. He was a soon-to-be graduate of Korea’s most known and respected cooking school. He was the one to teach you the secrets of your baked rolls baked in heaven, as he used to say.

Yoongi was the serious gentleman with a quick tongue and quirky remarks. He was an aspiring rapper and musician who always remembered your birthday and offered mixtapes as a present. He had a witty sense of humor he used to his advantage to write his lyrics. You still owned all three mixtapes he had offered. One for your birthday, one for your name day and third for your two month anniversary.

Hoseok cursed you with all that alcohol and parties and sent you in a spiral of bad habits. Although nice to everyone he had a nasty way of critiquing and talking nonsense while drunk. He was toxic, but the university life took a serious toll on him. His family was very strict and expected too much from the just turned nineteen-year-old who just wanted to get away and take a breather. But you never contacted him again.

Taehyung was the hopeless optimistic who scared the living shit out of you in the cold January night and began tagging along during your rebellious graffiti times. Taehyung had landed a job in an environmental law firm as an assistant. It turned out, his father was quite a powerful man who managed to help his son out from the night and into a normal routine. Taehyung loved what he did and updated you often about his projects with the lawyer noonas and hyungs.

Jungkook quit his job as the Starbucks manager and applied to become a taekwondo teacher. He had a black belt in taekwondo, a fact you did not know about him. Seeing him in television as the coach of Korea’s taekwondo representatives made you proud. He was doing what he loved and seeing him happy was enough. Now that you thought about your time with Jungkook more closely, you realised that Starbucks made Jungkook miserable and mentoring you had evoked the desire to teach. And so he did just that.

Watching Jimin silently snoring at your side made your heartstrings twitch. You had opted for the librarian who made you smile every day. Why are you not asleep, his honey coated voice stirred you from your thoughts. Jimin cared for you in ways you didn’t even know you wanted to be taken care of. It was a strange mixture of affection and discovery. The entire man was a discovery. Almost every day did you discover something new about him and his personality.

I was just about to, you smiled. Leaning down to kiss his lips you were caught off guard when he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and pulled you on top of him. I am wide awake now, his suddenly lustful voice coated your ears and sent a hunger inside you.

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bravegirlwrites · 7 years ago

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A time when someone helped you.

Here’s what comes to mind:

I’m 27 years old. I live at 18329 6th Avenue in the old rambler with faded yellow paint and the driveway that needs fixing. It sits farther back than all the other houses on our street, underneath trees so tall I’ve never quite caught sight of the place where they reach up to touch the sky. There’s a small creek out back that runs thin and silent, giving sound to its slow trickles only when the world stops and closes in on itself in the dead of night. I often forget it’s there until my son Cooper will leave our play in the front yard and lead me to its edge in his slow, unsteady waddle. He likes to lose himself in watching the water bubble up and run on by.

We spend a lot of time outside, Cooper and me. Ollie too when she isn’t busy sleeping. We sit on the cool cement of the front steps and watch for airplanes overhead and roll around in the grass that my husband mows in careful, straight lines each weekend when he’s home. There’s a park down the street and we make our way there most days, our stroll along the sidewalk slow and peppered with stops so Coop can pet each dandelion. We never stay long. My sweet baby girl still needs to eat every couple hours and I’m uncomfortable feeding her anywhere that isn’t my own living room. Her bottles mark the hours, Cooper’s bedtime baths, the days.

Mostly, we wait. We wait for the weekend, when Daddy leaves his work to come home and make us a family again. We wait for the relief his returned presence brings, the reminder that we are okay. We wait to grow beyond the monotony of naps and bottles and diaper changes that have drawn our world in small. We wait in the middle of a life that is my every dream fully realized, all that I’ve ever wanted, and yet I’m miserable.

I live to see the shadows that dance around the front living room when the headlights on Jerod’s truck swing into view each Thursday night. The bright yellow beams reach out to me, cutting straight through the darkening night sky. I swear I can feel their warmth. He’s back again, I’ve made it through another week all on my own, and all is well again… until he kills the engine and the golden glow of the headlights is no more. Five days a week I spend each minute longing to see him, and yet our weekends together only seem to be driving us further apart. I resolve over and over again to stop being miserable, get a grip and welcome Jerod home at each week’s end with open arms, loving and warm and happy.

Instead, I fall apart.

I’m not taking care of myself, but only because I’ve never really been taught how. And also, I’ve never found myself worth the trouble. I’m struggling to settle into my new identity as a mother, struggling even more to find the energy inside of myself to meet my babies’ needs. Starting our own family awakened something in me, a darkness I worked so hard to avoid I thought it might have disappeared all together. No dice. I am increasingly more aware of the deep wounds from my own childhood still bleeding within me and it’s absolutely unraveling me.

I spend most weekends on the couch in pieces, exhausted after offloading all my pain and misery onto Jerod. He lets himself be swallowed up by my dark world so he can keep me company. We order take out for every meal and watch episodes of FRIENDS six at a time while the kids crawl across our laps. He isn’t happy and I know it. It’s a painful reality that sends me deeper inside of myself, the only way I know to try and shore myself up and feel somewhat safe. Each weekend together feels increasingly more heavy and hopeless.

We are invited to have dinner at my parent’s house one Friday, but I’m too worn out and broken down to find the will to go. The hurt inside of me is growing wild now and somehow I sense to stay away. Jerod goes ahead without me, taking the kids along with him in their matching Graco carseats. He’s not thrilled to leave me behind, but we both know he’s desperate to take a break from my never-ending pain and despair (and subsequent bitchiness). I do not leave the couch the entire time he’s gone, not even to find the TV remote or the charger for my phone. My nest of blankets and perpetual wallowing are a far cry from the deepest desires of my heart. I want to be a good wife, a good mom. A good me. I’ve never felt the sting of failure more.

Hours later, still laying in the same spot, I hear him opening up the front door and try to steel myself strong. I know he’s sick of me. Sick of my struggle. Sick of having to move on ahead without me. Sick of watching me be eaten alive by all this pain that I have no idea how to handle. Sick of my helplessness. I expect him to walk in and voice his disappointment that instead of trying to pull myself together, I’ve spent the evening letting myself sink further. Instead, he says nothing. He moves our sleeping babies from their carseats to their cribs in silence, and then makes his way to the place right beside me. I feel so unloveable and unacceptable I can barely look him in the eye. Hot shame pulses through me so fiercely I wonder if he can feel it sitting next to me. I tell him I’m sorry and then, still quiet, he reaches under the blanket and grabs my hand. My entire world turns upside down at his touch. Sitting there with him, assured of his love despite all of my darkness, feels like fresh air in my lungs after months of struggling to breathe. Jerod keeps holding my hand, giving me a safe, soft spot to lay my weary head and truly rest, and it’s some of the sweetest help I’ve ever known.

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marshmarrowsans · 7 years ago

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can i get a fuckin uhhh UT!Sans realizing for the first time that he's in love with reader? as an imagine or as a fic is fine

(That is some Good Shit. Here ya go, anon~ -Mod Kasha)

Your laugh was the first thing Sansknew about you. He heard it from a roomaway before he ever saw your face, preceded by the sound of an electric mixerhitting the surface of a plate, interlaced with Papyrus' own NYEH-HEH-HEH!ing, and followed by a tediousclean-up of Mettaton-pink cookie dough from all over the kitchen. You were Papyrus' weird new human friendbefore that. Then he learned your laugh. Then your name. And then you became Sans' weird new humanfriend-- the one with a kind heart, a humorously unfitting resting bitch face,and exactly the same dumb pun-and-nihilism-based sense of humor that hehad. You were his sunshine.

It was hard to reconcile that imageof you with what he was seeing right now, so hard that it was painful to thinkabout your smiling face, something that usually made him happier than almostanything.

"... I'm just so sick of being me. In case you haven't noticed, I never even hadanyone before I met Papyrus and the rest of you. I've never had so much as a real friendship,and I've never known why. It's alwaysjust me. Here. Working towards nothing. Just working to do something other than sithere dying. And it's been that way mywhole life. I've been alone since mysorry, self-isolating ass was in diapers, basically. And I'm gonna be alone again. I just know it."

Your breakdown came like anearthquake: unpredictable, but inevitable, without prelude, and absolutelydevastating. This was the most miserableSans had ever seen you. He should haveknown what you never outright told him-- that you shared something a lot lessfortunate than just your sense of humor: your depression. And the worst part? Sans didn't know how to get through to you,even though he felt like he should. Hewas fluent in logic, and... still at aGoogle-translate level in emotion and sympathy a lot of the time. But the nice thing about that was that hewas, in fact, making a concerted effort to learn the language.

"i know it feels that wayright now. and it sucks, pal. believe me, i know. but look around you. you're surrounded by people who loveyou."

You made a show of looking aroundthe otherwise-empty apartment you lived in, then gave him a condescendingglare.

"... not literally right now in this veryroom. i mean, i care about you,obviously, but so does everyone else. me,paps, undyne, alphys, tori..." Hehad more names to list off, but you were just shaking your head at him. You weren't listening.

"You've all got better thingsto do than deal with me," you mumbled, as if in a self-deprecatingtrance. "You'd probably ratherleave right now and go have fun with Papyrus or Toriel if you didn't have tofeel guilty about leaving me here."

Sans was struck with white-hotindignation at your sudden and personal accusation. "excuse me?"

"You heard me. You can all act like you care, but I know howit always turns out. I'm just going tobe alone again. All of it's going to goaway again, somehow. Includingyou."

Sans' pupils disappeared in aninstant. It was the first time he everlooked at you like that, his snowy, friendly pupils yielding to a cold, angryvoid, like a candle had been extinguished. His voice became deeper, losing thatcalm quality that seemed an integral part of his speaking voice. "you'dbetter take that back right now." He wasn't joking. And, as bad of a place as you were in, youweren't too out of your wits to sense how upset he was with you for sayingthat. You sniffled and wiped your nose,averting your gaze from his as if it would make his disappointment goaway. Out of sight, out of mind.

"... Okay, fine. I'm sorry."

He blinked a couple times, and hispupils faded back into visibility. "alright. keep talking. just don't go telling me blatant lies,alright? i don't like being liedto."

That did it. With the one-two punch from his momentarydisappointment in you and his genuine compassion for you, you burst out sobbingall at once, forgetting any modicum of restraint. "I'm... broken, Sans! I'm surrounded by people who are trying their best for me, and I'msupposed to be happy, but all I can think about is how much it's going to hurtto lose it all."

Awh, hell. Those words hit him like a freighttrain. What you'd just described was afeeling he understood all too well, and it was a feeling he would never wish onanyone else, a feeling that could so easily take any amount of happiness andcast it in a constant shadow of doubt and hopelessness, so that you could neverbe truly happy, not until that fear went away. He whispered your name and pulled you into a hug. You accepted it needily, your fingers curlinginto the back of his jacket. His headcame to rest naturally at your chest, and the wild thrumming of your heart sentthe strangest, most tragic and most beautiful sound resonating through hisskull with each beat.

"... I don't... I don't wanna be like this! Ijust want to forget how miserable and lonely I am. Like when Alphys showed me that ridiculousanime and we couldn't stop laughing. Andwhen Papyrus tried to use that electric hand mixer on cookie dough that was ona plate. And when I met you,and-and... pretty much every secondwe've spent together, until today."

Sans didn't know what to do. Fuck, he just didn't know what to do foryou. He didn't even know how to helphimself when he got into a rut like this. He was crying, and he felt bad, because he didn't deserve to cry rightnow, you did. He thanked his lucky stars that he was aquiet and subtle crier, his few tears soaking unheeded into your shirt. "hey, i know... i know. hell, things are never gonna be perfect, and it might take a really longtime and a whole lot of trying... butthere will come a day that you cansay all this miserable shit is behind you. i promise. and you know how ifeel about promises."

"But how can you promisethat?" you demanded. "How canyou be sure? What if things never getbetter? What if I feel just like this,over and over, and it never gets any better?" You asked him again, even quieter thanbefore. "How can you be sure, Sans?" He could hear in thevulnerable waver of your voice that your question wasn't a challenge... it was a plea. You wanted to know that he was as certain ashe was making himself out to be.

"... 'cause it's happening to me.""... Huh?" Maybe you didn't hear his mumbledconfession. Maybe you couldn't believewhat you were hearing. Either way, hewasn't about to hold back from you. He'dtrusted you enough to tell you about resets months ago. He could trust you with his feelings.

"it's happening to me. for real. take it from me, buddy, feelings like that don't go away just becausethings are on the up and up for a little while. this might sound weird, but things didn't get much better for me when usmonsters first made it to the surface. forme, it took a whole lot of things going right for me, a whole lot of effort,and a whole lot of time," heemphasized. "now, i think you'vegot the first two going for you. like isaid earlier, you're surrounded by a bunch of us monsters who just adore you. and as for effort... honestly, someone who can try as hard as youdo is really rare."

A bittersweet huff of laughterescaped your lips. "I don't knowexactly what you mean by that, but thanks..."

Sans tilted his head back to smileup at you. "what i mean is, i seeyou trying. all the time, every day, ineverything you do. and if some loserwho's prone to giving up like me can beat something like this, well... you're ten times tougher than i'll everbe. it's got nothin' on you."

You smiled back down at him, and hecould hardly handle the emotion there. The pain, the tiredness, the gratitude, the hope, all of it, all atonce. He couldn't bear the sight of youin pain, and couldn't face the fear of giving you that hope, only for thingsnot to work out like he told you they would. Instead, his eyes followed the path of the heavy tears still rollingdown your cheeks as you responded to his encouragement. "Geez, Sans. I'm not squaring up and fighting mydepression and self-doubt behind the 7/11 after school. But... thanks."He let out a hearty laugh at that. God,even when you were as low as he'd ever seen you, you still cracked him up somuch. "ahhh, what am i gonna dowith you? then again, what would i dowithout you? you've helped, youknow. make things better for me. you're there for me more than you evenknow."

"Well... you were here for me today. So this makes us even." You took a deep breath, and as far as hecould tell, you were calm. Your bodyrelaxed. You melted back into hisembrace, and when he pressed his head back into that comfortable spot againstyour chest, your heart sang its one-of-a-kind tempo much slower thanbefore. It felt to him as if the two ofyou stood there hugging each other for an eternity, and yet, he felt a flash ofdisappointment when the moment came to a quiet end and you pulled away fromhim, putting yours hands on his arms instead, then letting go of himaltogether. "God, that was such ashit show. I'm really sorry."

"don't be sorry. you needed a friend. there's nothing shameful aboutthat." His eyes crinkled withsudden mirth. "you should be sorryfor that mess you and papyrus made in the kitchen, instead.""Oh my god." You covered yourface and giggled at him. "Sans thatwas months ago, are you still bitter about it?"

"pffft. please. you think i, of all people, care about a mess being made in myhouse? nah. i just love teasing you about it. and besides. if you hadn't done that, i might never have met you, right?" Sans' smile softened, from mischievous to genuine. "so i'm just joking with ya'. you've actually got absolutely nothing toapologize for."

You huffed, wiping your cheeks drywith your hands. "Sans, you know,you're making it really difficult for me to stay all dark and gloomy."He tried not to show the thrill of excitement and the rush of relief he felthearing that from you. "heheh. turns out that was my master plan allalong. now i have you right where i wantyou. is there anything you wanna doinstead of being dark and gloomy?"

You pursed your lipsthoughtfully. "... Icould go for a bacon cheeseburger... afull order of fries. And amilkshake.""damn. rough day much?"

"Shut up, I still remember youwinning that eating contest at the summer festival.""dude. you're gonna judge me forthat? after i split the prize money withyou and everything? wow. just wow.""Whatever, Mr. 52 Hotdogs."

His pupils were some of thebrightest white you'd ever seen them, bright enough to leave little spots inyour vision when you blinked. "justadmit it already, you thought i looked cool. so you want a fast food feast.""Hell yeah I do. Ooh, andmaybe..."

"some halloween movies onnetflix?" he finished your sentence.

"Okay. Sans. Are you sure your whole reading-people thing isn't actuallythinly-veiled telepathy? Or have yousecretly been one of these time travelers all along and never toldme?" You pinched his cheek. He grinned and playfully swatted your handaway.

"no offense, but you're notthat hard to read when it comes to stuff like that. i think i know my best friend well enough toknow that as soon as it's october, she wants to bust out all the skeletonmovies and show me. and you know what?" He reached up and pinched your cheek rightback. "i love the sound ofthat."

You chuckled, grabbing his hand tomove it, but then just deciding to hold on to it for a moment. He didn't pull away. "Impromptu sleepover?"

"impromptu sleepover."* * * * * * * * * * * *

You and Sans had an... interesting sleepover arrangement. You see, the problem was, you only had onebed, and it was too small to hold two people that, as you put it, 'weren'tbanging.' However, one of you couldn'ttake the bed and leave the other to sleep somewhere else without feelingguilty. You also didn't have anysleeping bags. And your couch wasn't bigenough to hold the two of you, either.

Luckily, you had the fact that youwere both capable of sleeping wherever the hell you wanted going for you, soyour procedure was to grab some blankets and pillows and settle right down onthe carpet together. Sure, it made it sothat you were watching TV from a bit of an odd angle, but it let the two of yoube close to one another, and that was the smallest and most meaningful comfortfor both of you. Sans was glad to seeyou there when he woke with a start at some odd hour of the night, withwhatever dream had roused him escaping him like sand through the gaps in hisskeletal hands. He didn't know if heshould grasp at it as it passed, didn't know if he wanted to. All he could remember was fire, and yourtear-streaked face.

No. He didn't want to know the context. It would only upset him and make him even more paranoid for your safetythan before.

His bones creaked a bit as heturned on his side to look at you, resting his cheek in his hand. You were still asleep. You looked so peaceful there. Neither happy nor sad. Just peaceful... and a little pissed off, but that was justyour face.

Boy, he hoped you wouldn't wake upright now. This would look insanely creepy,him staring at you with a big ol' grin on his face. Wasit creepy? His eyes started to feelheavy again, and he yawned. Maybe just alittle, but he knew you. You'd make somejoke about it and laugh, and it'd make him laugh, and really it'd be no bigdeal. He blinked a few times, his viewof you becoming blurry. Well, he didn'thave to watch over you all night. Hecould shut his eyes for a minute until you began to stir and his strange habitof staring at you would be considered marginally more socially acceptable.

When he opened his eyes again, youwere gone.

With his voice hoarse with sleep,he sat up and mumbled your name. Nothingbut an empty pile of pillows and blankets remained where you'd been sleepingthe last time he saw you. He stared atthat empty space for a moment. Well... you were probably making breakfast, then,right? He couldn't smell any food,but... maybe you were making something like cereal.

He couldn't lie to himself aboutwhat he was feeling. He felt sick to hisstomach on his way to the kitchen to check for you, and when he found it empty,he got an ice-cold feeling in his gut. Shit. He should never have goneback to sleep. He should've stayed awaketo check on you as soon as you woke up. He could just imagine you waking up to him next to you, splayed out andsnoring like a moron without a care in the world, after everything you'd toldhim the night before...

Ugh. Something about that made him want to curl upin a ball and disappear into the floor. He pulled out his phone and sent you a text.

dude,is my snoring that bad? where u at?

Please respond.

Please, please respond.

...

It said you were typing.

He didn't put his phone away untilyour message popped up on the screen.

Youdidn't see what I left you? I put it inthe pocket of your jacket, ignoramus! You're always sticking your hands in there so I figured you'd find it intwo seconds.

He actually laughed withrelief. Thank god. He'd been imagining all sorts of terriblethings. He wanted to scold you forscaring him like that, but... inhindsight, it seemed like a total overreaction, which was doubly embarrassingfor a guy like him, who was known for his calm attitude. He didn't want to admit what he thought mighthave happened to you. What he thoughtyou might have done.

He really, really didn't want togive you any ideas.

youcan, y'know, wake me up and give me things in person, like literally anybodyelse would. i'm not a bear. i'm not gonna eat you if you wake me up.

Sometimes,with your appetite, I'm not too sure ;3

:Dwhereare you though? seriously.

Grocerystore. Read the letter and DON'T JUDGEME. I just thought it'd be sweet.

Right, so. Apparently you put a letter, or something with a letter, in his pocket. Now that you mentioned it, he did feel someodd shifting around in there that wasn't just old snacks and receipts. After extricating some wrappers, candy bars,a few G and a whole lot of fast food receipts, he found what he was lookingfor. You'd left him a folded-up piece ofpaper with your handwriting on it, and a beautiful little box about the size ofan ashtray that he was certain he'd seen in your room before. He held it in his hands and turned it over toexamine it. It looked eitherintentionally or naturally antiquated, with golden colors making intricatepatterns and swaths of sea green paint cutting through the designs in pleasantcontrast. On the lid was a painting of abutterfly, its extended wings the same sea green color as the accents on therest of the box. Thinking back, he waspretty sure you used to use it to hold an old necklace you never wore. But now you were giving it to him...? He was eager to see what you had to say aboutall this, so, holding the box in his right hand, he unfolded your letter withhis left.

HeySans.

I'msorry for accusing you yesterday of being temporary and not really wanting tobe around me.

Of course. It was just like you to start off a letterwith an apology. He smiled down at thewords on the paper like he would if they were coming from your lips. Honestly? He'd totally forgotten about that already, so, apology accepted, yousweetheart.

Iwoke up this morning and I saw you just chilling next to me, and somethingabout you being there made this switch in my head, and... suddenly I'm asking myself, what if thisisn't all temporary? What if this is thereal deal? The thought of that makes meso happy, I'll do anything to achieve it, AKA to always be a good friend toyou, and to everybody else that's been so kind to me.

You were, though. You werealready a good friend, to everyone, and especially to him, and you didn't evenhave to try, it was just the way you were. There were so many rare and special things that he had felt with youthat he'd never quite felt with anyone else-- trust, understanding, boundlessenthusiasm, and most importantly, a sort of peace with being himself, andsometimes, being vulnerable. He alwaysfelt like it was okay to not be okayaround you. You were his best friend,like he always said, with no exaggeration. He wanted to hold you by the shoulders and tell you that.

I'mdone being stuck in my own past, telling myself that the way things used to beis the way things always will be. I wantto start moving forward in time. And when I do, I want you to come withme. I haven't forgotten what you told meabout the resets. I think about it everyday. You didn't say much about them, butI know you must be scared.

You were damn right he wasscared. He was more-nightmares-than-regular-dreamslevels of scared.

Scaredof things going back to the way they were before things got better.

You understood. You really understood him, without him havingto torture himself telling you in words.

Scaredof going backwards in time.

Jesus. A couple droplets of water distorted the inkof the words he had, luckily, already read through. It took him a moment to realize they were hisown tears.

Andso I thought this might help you. Maybethis is just dumb and sappy and it won't help you at all, but I wasthinking you could hold it and look atit and watch time go forward whenever you're worried about things being setback to how they were before. If not,then at the very least it's a gift from your friend to show that she really,really cares about you.

He crumpled the paper a little inhis hand. He was so glad you weren'tthere right now, seeing him like this. He couldn't stop crying, and even though you were the one person in theworld he would choose to cry in front of if he had to, he'd still rathernot. There was something embarrassingabout you being able to make him weep like a baby just by writing words. Damn you and your nice, beautiful words, andyour nice, beautiful soul.

"Yourfriend in time~"

You'd signed your name at thebottom with that hasty cursive of yours, like a doctor, and then thecompletely-unnecessary date. Leave it toyou to sign off with a Back to the Futurereference. Sans sighed, lowering thepaper. On the one hand, he totallytear-stained it and wanted to get rid of the evidence. But... on the other hand... he neverwanted to let go of this. He tucked itback into his pocket for safe-keeping.

Now he understood. That pretty little box you gave him wasn'tthe gift. There was something insideit. He probably should have thought ofthat on his own. Everything you'd saidin your letter fell into place when he thumbed open the lid.

It was a silver pocket watch, smalland convenient, obviously meant for him to tote around in his jacket, where itwould always be easily accessible. Thefront was engraved with stars of various sizes. Slowly, he picked it up in his hand, as if it were made of glass, as ifthe smallest perturbation would soil it. The slender chain dangled delicately over his fingers. He turned it over... instead of a design, there were wordsengraved on the back.

Timeheals all wounds.

He never would have believed thosewords when he was in the underground, or even for awhile after monsterkind madeit to the surface. But now, looking downat your letter and the watch, reading those words you had no doubt had tocustom-order on the back of it... Hefelt like he could believe it. If whathe was feeling these last few months wasn't healing, he didn't know whatwas. He was just like you, just startingto ask himself what it might mean for him if this wasn't all temporary afterall.

There was a switch on top of thepocket watch to flip it open, and he did so in a silent daze, completely lostin his thoughts. Even the face of thewatch seemed custom-made for him. It wasa tiny, tiny model of the solar system, with graceful silver hour, minute, andsecond hands. He could feel its ticking onhis fingers, now that he could match it to his view of the second hand movingfrom second to second, constant and unimpeded.Tick, tick, tick, tick...

Watching time move heedlesslyforward, second by second... he couldn'tremember the last time a moment felt so real to him. He always felt so unattached from everything,like a nomad going from home to home. Everything was temporary, everything always changed, nothing waspermanent, nothing was certain. Nothinguntil this. Nothing until... you.

Tick,tick, tick, tick...

He wasn't sure why, but thatsoothing, mechanical ticking and the periodic vibrations that coincided madehim think of your heartbeat. It made himthink of when you hugged him, last night and all the other times beforethat. It made him think of resting hishead against you, feeling you there with him, smelling that nice smell youalways had on you that he couldn't name, but could guess was some kind of bodywash or perfume. You were real, and whenhe was with you, he was real, and every little moment you had was real, in away so strong that it felt like even a reset couldn't tear it away from him.

Tick,tick, tick, tick...

No... this wasn't at all the first time he feltcomforted like this. It wasn't the watchthat made him feel, for the first time in so, so long, that things were goingto turn out alright in the end. It wasyou. Every time he was around you, heforgot that his world felt so temporary and inconsequential, forgot that he wasso unhappy. He just didn't realize ituntil now.

Tick,tick, tick, tick...

And there was something else--something he had never acknowledged before, not even to himself. Maybe he couldn't have even recognized it,not until he realized that you were one of few things that could make him feellike he was living a normal life, one that wouldn't be snatched away from himin a heartbeat. Or maybe he'd just beenin denial. Too scared to take somethingalready so simple and perfect and turn it into something complicated and new. Terrified, even, of losing you, or damagingthat special bond you had, all because he was feeling something you probablydidn't feel for him in return.

Tick,tick, tick, tick...

... He was in love with you. Oh,stars, he was so fucking in love with you.

He didn't know when it happened, hedidn't know how. He knew for sure thatit didn't happen just moments ago when he saw the pocket watch you gavehim. That was just a catalyst to hisrealization of something that was already there. Suddenly, he could look back and see all thetimes he should've realized it before. When he felt like he could tell you about the resets, when you talked tohim for an hour over the phone to calm him down from a bad dream, when he feltlike his soul was dancing in his chest every time he saw you and Papyrusgetting along, the way your laughter made his soul rush every god damn time heheard it... You were kind, and caring,and sweet, and beautiful, and even if you were depressed, he knew as long as hewas there to support you, it wouldn't be so bad, for either of you. Cheering you up took him away from his ownproblems. As long as you were both thereto support each other, you could both get through this-- you through yourloneliness, and him through his fear of resets. All at once, he knew he wantedto protect you, and cuddle you, and cheer you up, and kiss you, and all of it, and he knew he'd wanted itfor a long time. You were everything tohim.

You opened the front door just alittle too loudly and a little too suddenly. All Sans knew was that he felt like he'd been caught doing something heshouldn't. He felt as if the moment youlooked at him, the moment you saw him clasping that pocket watch like alifeline, you would know exactly what was going through his mind, and... what if you didn't like it? He knew how this could turn out. It would make things awkward, and yourrelationship would never really be the same again. You might feel sorry for him, wish that hefelt differently about you than he did in reality. That was the last thing he wanted-- youpitying him and trying to get him to move on. He'd rather act like nothing had changed and quietly crush on youforever. Apparently he'd been prettygood at that so far.

"Hey Sans. I, uh, got you some breakfast. Well, I need to cook it first..." You approached him with a grocery bag, thenslowed to a stop as you got closer to him. "... You okay?"He looked up at you. He wanted to tellyou everything, and he wanted to keep his stupid mouth shut. He wanted to kiss you, and he wanted to runaway. "'mfine. it's just really nice. this watch you gave me, and... the reasoning behind it. i really appreciate it." Everything he said fell so short of what hewanted to say. It sounded so blasécoming out of his mouth, when nothing could be further from how he felt. He clumsily tried to elaborate. "i mean, nobody's ever... given me something like this. people have given me gifts, for my birthdayand stuff, but that's more like joke books. i mean, this, it's..."

You put your hand on his shoulder,and god, he knew it didn't mean anything, but it felt like everything. "It'll help you, right? When you get anxious over it?"

"absolutely."

"Good." You smiled at him, and it was all he couldsee. Then, like in a dream, you weretouching his cheek. He couldn't even beginto imagine how blue his face must be right now. He wanted to stretch up and kiss you. It was all he could think about. It felt like the right moment. Why were you touching his cheek? You rubbed your thumb under his eye a couple of times. Oh... right. He'd been crying. "Oh man. Don't tell Papyrus I made you cry. I would get such an earful from him."

Sans laughed, in a soft, vulnerableway you'd never quite heard from him before. Then he wrapped his arms around your waist and hugged you. He hugged you tighter than ever before,stretching up to rest his chin on your shoulder, and you leaned down a littleto give him easier access. He mumbledyour name into your hair to get your attention, feeling like his soul wasguiding his actions more than his mind.

"Yes, Sans?"

ithink i love you.ithink i've loved you for a really long time.tellher. say it.shedeserves to know. whether she feels thesame way or not doesn't change that.just be honest with her, she's your bestfriend.she'ddo it for you if she were in your position.

it'sjust her.

everythingis gonna be alright.

"... Sans?"

"thanks. this watch is really cool and i'll, uh, besure to use it a lot, even when i'm not having some kinda episode."

coward.

"Heh. No problem, little guy." You went from wiping his tears to lightlypinching his cheek. He half-heartedlyswatted at your hand, an equally half-hearted smile on his face. He was so mad at himself. He knew he should be honest with you...

"how many times do i gottatell you not to call me that? how wouldyou like it if i started calling you big girl?"

"I would LOVE it, becauseyou're my best friend, and I would know you meant it affectionately."

... But he couldn't yet. Not if itmeant even the smallest possibility of letting you go.

#sans #sans/reader #sans x reader #mod kasha #Anonymous

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gatorsnot · 7 years ago

Photo

Did I ever post this? I don’t think I did.

Drew this maybe a month and a half ago, because I was still brainstorming from this post of mine. It’s Darktail as a kit with his mother, Smoke. I still want a Darktail super edition, Erins.

Writing bit for this piece under the cut!

"Poor Smoke," Dark had overheard one of their housefolk say in a dismayed tone, after his mother had hissed and swatted at him with a furious pale paw when he had tried to stroke her. "She's been acting so angry and restless lately. Do you think she still misses her other kittens?" The female had been just as confused. "Perhaps," she murmured. "It's unfortunate that the little specks died so soon after she had them, but it couldn't be helped where she gave birth while we had let her out, and bless our lucky stars that we found her before she could lose the last one. Besides, that was a couple of months ago. Cats can be moody sometimes, perhaps she just needs a rest from taking care of the one that did make it." "I suppose," the male companion had answered. "But is she doesn't feel better within the next few days, we might need to consider taking her to the vet. She might be coming down with something, our poor kitty." The housefolk had gone to their room long ago, leaving Dark and Smoke alone in the living room as the rain began. Now, the two of them were curled up together on the windowsill, watching the water streak down the glass like liquid worms and the garden turn muddy and slightly disarrayed. However, instead of Smoke grooming her young son with her tongue while softly telling him stories like she normally did before they retreated to their bed to sleep, the gray she-cat had her gaze locked on the garden. Dark saw no gentle compassion or longing for her lost kits on his mother's face; her blue eyes were hard and angry, her paws strained and stretched as though she wished she still had her absent claws so she could scratch something in her frustration. Dark lifted his head to look at her. Smoke was growling under her breath to herself. "Stupid, lying, untrustworthy piece of dung," she snarled. "How dare he refuse to take in not only me but his own kit, into his pathetic Clan? Unfaithful, scheming tom. I hope a dog tears him and his no-good wild cat buddies to shreds and feasts on their innards." "Mom?" Dark squeaked, trying to get her attention. "Too soft and delicate to be a warrior, he says!" Smoke continued to ramble, her paws still contorting desperately. "He's lucky that I didn't bite his throat out right then and there for saying that about his own son. Our son, Onewhisker! Our only surviving kit, and this is how you treat him? Like a hopeless scrap of fur? He could grow up to be twice the warrior you ever will be if you would let him in, rabbit-munching coward. He's got the brain of a sheep, that stupid Clan cat, the brain of a sheep." "Mom?" "I thought you really and truly loved me, Onewhisker. I thought you would love and take pride in our kittens. You're a miserable excuse for a warrior, a mate, and especially a father! I pity the next she-cat you try to lure into your claws; filling her head with lies and deceiving her when she needs you most! Evil Clan cat, your kind is a disgrace to all cats! Three of our kits are dead because you didn't care! Did you ever care at all? I hope you die in the worst way possible, destruction and pain is all your kind know! Dirty, mindless, selfish Clan cat!" "Mom!" "What, Dark, what?" Smoke flashed her teeth at her son, and Dark hid further into his mother's soft tail, horrified by her outrage. He felt her body quaking with fury, a power he had no idea she was capable of. Upon seeing her son's terror, Smoke's expression relaxed slightly. The tension her in muscles eased, and her eyes expanded from the slits they previously were. "My son," she croaked. Dark relaxed back against her flank. "Was that tom that we met earlier today really my father?" he asked, timidly. He didn't want to anger his mother again. Smoke had seemed so desperate when she talked to the tom, begging for Dark's entry into something called WindClan. Smoke had told him that he was the kit of a Clan cat who lived on the moor beyond the forest, and they had slipped out of their house that morning to meet him, the cat called Onewhisker. Smoke let out another low growl. "Unfortunately, yes," she hissed. "Worst mistake I ever made in my worthless life, mating with him. I fell for every word he told me, about what a fabulous warrior he was, brave as a tiger. Claimed he saved his Clanmates from a great hunger by hauling a mountain of rabbits and birds back to them, chasing off a whole troop of foxes on his own, fought and killed a badger on his first day of training to save some kits...all if it, lies." She was silent for several moments, and Dark stayed still and quiet. His little paws worked anxiously against the plush he and his mother were resting on. "Dark, my son," she meowed after the long moments had passed. "Y-yes, mom?" Smoke was looking down at him now, with an unknown expression in her eyes. Her tail wrapped more firmly around him. "If you do just one thing in your life for me, I'll be happy. Can you make a promise to me?" Dark nodded hesitantly. "Hate them. Hate them with everything you've got." "Who, mother?" "The forest cats," Smoke looked away from Dark, out towards the trees. Dark followed her gaze as she continued. "Learn to fight. Learn to hunt. You don't need to join that band of cowards to be fierce and strong and respected like they claim. Don't lay around and become a fat house cat like me, be feared and a fighter. Be the survivor I know you are and your father refuses to recognize. Can you, will you, do that for me?" Dark hesitated. A fighter? Feared? Respected? He was only three moons old! How could he do all that? "Well, will you?" Dark relaxed against Smoke once more. "I suppose I can. Just for you, mom." "Very good, that's a good kit," At last, Dark felt his mother's tongue rasping against his head. Smoke took him into her paws as she began to wash him all over. "Begin practicing tomorrow. Once the housefolk leave, I want you to go outside and into Rhinestone's yard. Practice fighting with her kits." "But Rhinestone doesn't want me playing with Frolic, Sweetie, and Pickle anymore," Dark protested as Smoke lapped at his warm belly. "She says I get too rough with them and cause too many arguments when we choose games, and Pickle accused me of hurting one of his ears once when it was Sweetie who did it really, mom. Not to mention, Frolic whines too much, and cries for Rhinestone whenever he doesn't get his way, and he's afraid of practically everything-" "Exactly," Smoke argued. "Rhinestone is raising a litter of weaklings. Frolic is a complainer and too easily frightened. Sweetie is spoiled and expects to be pampered every second she's awake, and Pickle is fat and slow-moving. They're going to grow up to be nothing but embarrassments. But not you, my little warrior," she purred. "They'll be perfect for your first components. A good, strong fighting cat must have good training resources." Dark said nothing, mainly because his mother was right. Rhinestone's kits weren't exactly the most competent around. They were smaller and weaker than Dark, and he felt a small twinge of smug pride when he made this realization; he'd be able to beat all three of them easily. He saw them now, squealing to their mother and cowering behind her like trembling mice. He'd fight them in front of Rhinestone, too. Dark would ensure that she was afraid of him as badly as her little crybaby pipsqueaks were! "You're right, mom," he mewed as he began drifting off. "I'll show them, I'll show them all. The pesky little fleas won't know what hit them." "That's my little lion," Smoke purred as she nestled her son closer to her. "That dumb, smelly Onewhisker will lose his mind with fear when he sees me the next time," Dark continued drowsily. "I'll be a huge, bulky, smart fighter while he's scrawny and old, and I'll claw him until his stupid pals won't be able to recognize him." Smoke said nothing, but her purrs amplified as she resumed washing Dark, so eventually drifted into dreams of glory and battles. He stood among a crowd of shaking cats, all terrified of him, all bringing him gifts of food and bones in order to please him. Dark's paws were stained with crimson blood, all from those who had tried to defy him, and he puffed out his great chest as he stood above his onlookers, as they yowled his praise and honored his powerful strength with the mighty uplifting of inspired, yet fearful, voices that reached for the reddened sky.

#Warrior Cats #darktail #smoke #super edition #dawn draws #proud of this one other than the shading

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gothika666faerie · 7 years ago

Text

Memory Serves

Life could be such a peculiar little bitch; one moment she decides you could actually end your miserable existence as an insignificant waitress in the heart of New York by becoming Queen of Cordonia with the help of bankrupt but still high status sponsors. Lo and behold, the next moment, you are shamed by a planted scandal, forcefully escorted out by armed guards and now, lolling at the bottom of the grand staircase of your sponsors’ estate that may or may not be foreclosed in the next few days.

Emilee Warren could only hunch over her knees, hugging them tightly as Maxwell Beaumont, one of her generous and extremely fun and caring sponsor, rubbed her shoulder in an awkward show of comfort. Both of them remained silent as their eyes followed the frantic pacing of Maxwell’s older and very much stressed out brother, Duke Bertrand Beaumont of Ramsford (though that title may not last past the next sunrise). With every rapid footstep he took, he blabbered on desperate fragments that contained particular words like “scandal”, “ruination” and “we were so close”. Emilee glanced at Maxwell out of the corner of her eye and her heart went out to how crumpled the young man was, unable to do anything to remedy the situation. Eventually, she watched as he got to his feet and went up to his brother. The sight was akin to that of watching an unwary puppy trying to communicate with a renegade wild stallion.

“Bertrand, please, you need to calm down…” Maxwell was cut off when Bertrand whirled on him and gripped tightly onto his forearms, shocking him.

“Calm down?! CALM DOWN?!! We were just dragged right out from the palace with the king and queen as witnesses, there is a flock of journalists outside waiting for answers like the spawns of Satan waiting for offerings and we have just lost our one chance at escaping ruination and YOU ARE ASKING ME TO CALM DOWN?!” Maxwell cringed as he could feel the droplets of saliva landing on his face as Bertrand continued his enraged ranting. He had suffered plenty of these outbursts ever since they started losing their finances but this was a whole new other level; his brother, his normally composed and elegant brother looked to be on the verge of tears. To Emilee’s shock, that was just what occurred.

“Bertrand...shush...it’s going to be fine…” Maxwell whispered, rubbing his brother’s shoulder as the man sobbed shamelessly into his black shirt. “I’m here. Emilee’s here. We’ll get through this together as we always have.”

Despite what Bertrand had told her, Emilee knew she would never truly belong to the Beaumont clan and right now, witnessing this tender moment of brotherly support and affection, she felt as though she were intruding on some sacred, untouchable space where the Duke of Ramsford was at his most vulnerable and the only person to help him was his younger brother. Getting to her feet, she murmured her purpose of getting them something to drink while they sorted themselves out. Soon, they would need to reconvene and think of strategy but for now, they needed to gather their senses.

The extravagance of the Beaumont Bash had left them, as Drake would say, “dangerously low on what really matters most in a party” and after a hopeless scuffling about in the cellars, Emilee was about to throw in the towel and consult the chamomile tea department when she bypassed Bertrand’s office and noted a small decanter of brandy on the table. It was half-full and keeping a letter in place. She sighed; it would have to do. She picked it up and to her consternation, the letter stuck to the bottom of the bottle. Peeling it off, she examined the letter and turned it over and over in her hands. There was no address but only bore the words in a fine cursive of flourishes and loops: To my Love who will Never Return.

Curiosity niggled at her like a centipede crawling up her spine and sinking its poisonous fangs where it would sting most. This was the most inappropriate time to be snooping around and yet, this letter was so completely out of place. The whiteness and delicacy of the envelope indicated that this was recently written and Emilee clenched and unclenched her right hand, debating over the ethics of tearing into the private lives of her hosts.

The humiliating debacle that transpired in the ballroom rushed forth in full force and Emilee felt her own tears rushing to her eyes. Madeleine had planted those photos and now, like the viper she was, she had won Liam against everyone’s will. The memory sent a surge of anger and strength through her and unknowingly, she had crushed the letter in her hand as she fantasized over the delectable glory of doing just that to Madeleine’s slender throat. Gasping at her mishandling of the Beaumonts’ property, she attempted to straighten out the letter. That was when she realized the enveloped had not been sealed and with a slight tilt, the content of it slipped out halfway, bearing writing in that same sophisticated penmanship. Emilee swallowed hard and she did a quick survey of the room. No footsteps, no movements and the chattering she did pick up was a good distance away. Making her decision, she slipped the letter out of its hiding place and voraciously consumed its secrets.

Emilee felt the paper slip through her fingers onto the floor as she strove to make meaning and sense of what had she had read. In a daze, she groped blindly for the nearest object to recline against and blinked wildly. Drake’s sister had been involved with Duke Bertrand Beaumont of all people in Cordonia! Bending, she fished up the letter once more and noted that the date of it was last evening but with the envelope unsealed and from the general consensus of their relationship of the letter, it was not one written with the intention of posting. She was so enraptured by the shock of what she had discovered that she did not noticed Maxwell peeking into the office.

“Emilee, there you are! I’ve been looking…” His words died off when he took note of the parchment in her hand and he advanced forth, his eyes burning into hers. There was an intensity of accusation burning aimed at her from Maxwell’s normally good natured and kind brown eyes. It discomforted her frightfully and she backed away, holding the letter out like a crude attempt at protection.

“Maxwell, please, I wasn’t…”

“Where did you get that letter?” His voice came out calm but laced with an iciness foreign to the party animal she knew who could break dance for hours on end.

“It was just on the table. I know I shouldn’t have read it but…” She squeaked as the paper was ripped away from her with such force, a savagery that was totally unlike the puppy gentleness that Maxwell exuded and observed, her heart beating rapidly as he skimmed through the passages. Soon after, he slumped against the desk and rested his forehead in his palm.

“Oh god...and I thought he finally got over her. Oh, Bertrand. Bertrand…” Emilee was at a loss for what to do. She contemplated leaving before a storm hit but that would mean having to face Bertrand and he was definitely not the nicer of the two mysterious Beaumont brothers. On the edge of choosing, she discovered she did not need to for Maxwell made the choice for her. He got off his perch and went to close the door, locking it and leaning against it for a moment, whispering prayers for strength before finally facing her. The menace had left his puppy eyes that now were sullen and regretful.

“You weren’t supposed to find that, Emilee. If Bertrand found out that we know...oh god, oh god, oh god…” He embarked on his own fitful pace about the room, holding the crumpled letter to his face before coming back to her and fixing her with a solemn glare.

“You have to promise me that what I am about to tell you, you will not tell anyone. I mean it, Emilee, don’t breathe a word to anyone! Not Hana, not Liam and dear God, not Drake. You have to keep this absolutely confidential! I know I’ve had to.” A look of sheer agony crosses Maxwell’s face and Emilee could see how it weathered him in an instant.

“I promise, Maxwell. So, Drake’s sister was involved with….your brother?”

“Heh, involved? They were inseparable. He was absolutely head over heels in love with her and she too with him.”

“Bertrand being in love kind of scares me. I can’t imagine it.” Maxwell let out a little chuckle, looking like his old self again.

“Believe me, if you saw him, he was a completely different man than the stern, frustrated and cold man that he is now. Savannah was truly someone special to him,” His face resumed its initial gravity and he glanced at the door before turning back to Emilee and squeezing her hand. “Bertrand is going to hold off the press. I need to make this quick but now that you know, you need to know the whole story. It may shock you, disgust you even but whatever your reaction, I just hope you can forgive us all for our stupid choices. Looking back, we made some really dumb ones.”

Inhaling deeply, Maxwell’s expression transformed into that of serenity and nostalgia as his eyes landed on the picture of him and Bertrand on the wall, the former holding his brother tightly and flashing a peace sign while the latter tried not to look too amused.

“I knew when they first met that it was a recipe for disaster and yet, it made me so happy too. Savannah was really a lovely girl and when she arrived that day three years ago, it was like House Beaumont came alive and along with it, so did Bertrand….”

Savannah Walker stuck her head out of the window of her older brother’s puttering pick up truck, her long chestnut brown waves swaying in the breeze. She had gotten golden highlights over the past two days so despite the sweltering spring weather, she was definitely not going to wear a hat over her crowning glory. Her green eyes took in every ornate detail of the impressive estate that she was approaching. If Cordonia had not already taken her breath away with its luxurious architecture of white brick and granite and its abundant fields of organized apple trees bearing their prized national fruit, this certainly was the kicker. Drake, her older brother who shared her brown hair sans highlights and devil may care attitude, chuckled as she attempted to lean out far enough to snatch one of a passing tree.

“Easy there, thief. I can get an entire basket for yourself, alright? Don’t get us in trouble already,” Savannah slid back into the front seat and stuck her tongue at him, her big doll eyes daring him to retaliate to her jab before she reclined against the open window, smelling the unmistakable salty freshness of the sea.

“It truly is like a fairytale here, Drake. How could you say this place is so boring? It’s like something straight out of Disney, like Rapunzel’s kingdom and…”

“You start singing and I’ll kick you out to walk, okay?” Drake broke into good-natured, brotherly chuckles as his younger but ironically stronger sister gave him a good shove that sent him nearly steering off-kilter. “Okay, okay, enough. I don’t want to have to call up Mom and tell her we got into an accident before we even reached the place you’ll be staying for your vacation.” At that, Drake’s eyebrows creased low in worry and dislike. Reaching over, he took his little sister’s sturdy yet slender wrist and gave her a meaningful look.

“I really think it would be better if you just worked with me in the palace stables. Liam’s a really nice guy and he’d be glad to put you up here for as long as you like. With these guys….you’re going to have to really earn your keep.” Savannah sighed and gave a little shake of her head, patting her brother’s hand and gently prying it off. She took down the flap overhead so she could use the car’s mirror and checked her lilac lipstick and how she looked in the white summer dress she wore, the one with the big blossoming poppies. She was one of them, those red, intoxicating flowers and Drake treated her as though she was a dandelion that could be easily blown in the wind. She reached into the glove compartment for her makeup and did a quick touch up as she replied.

“Drake, I’ve handled extremely difficult and overbearing professors all throughout my life of pursuing education and graduated with decent honours. I can handle a duke and his little brother alright? By the way, are they cute?” She burst into giggle fits as Drake whipped his head so fast at her, he near gave himself whiplash and merely stuck her tongue out at him even more when he gave her a warning glare.

“You’re here for a job while you do that research project of yours, NOT to flirt around with those aristocrats, got it? Not like they’ll want a troublemaker like you anyway...ow! Hey!” Drake rubbed at the sore spot of his arm that she had given a good swift punch and smirked, watching her now with her arms folded, hoisting her booted feet up onto the dashboard, the little puffs at the ends of the laces dangling down to her ankles. “This sort of attitude proves my point by the way.”

Savannah released a long exasperated sigh and recommenced staring out the window, the huge estate where she would be working at came into view. Past the iron wrought fence that had the letter “B” embossed at the top, there came into view a regal mansion with an outdoor porch that contained a seating area for those who wished to enjoy the Cordonian breeze with a glass of mimosa and chat with other equally pretentious friends. Her mouth was one small “o” as she stepped out with assistance from her brother, taking in the glorious arches and banisters of the elegant home. Buttons, who was scurrying and mewing about in her tiny box, emitted a few tinkles as if to add to the fairy-like quality of the place. Drake was soon at her side with her two suitcases and chuckled at her amazement.

“Eh, you’ll get used to seeing places like this very soon. You see one grand estate, you’ve seen them all. Those are the stables,” He pointed at a long line of wooden cabins, where some prized equestrians lazed against, their heavy long faces eyeing the newcomer with lackadaisical indifference. “There’s the gardens and fruit orchard,” Savannah gasped, hand to her heart as her eyes took in the uniform rows of apple trees and bushes upon bushes boasting some of the most ravishing of roses, in all sorts of different colours. Drake smiled, approaching and placing a hand on her shoulder. “I guess the scenery will compensate for what you have to deal with once you start working.”

“Oh, Drake, it’s beautiful. Just so beautiful. There is also a grand library in there somewhere right?” Drake shrugged; what interested with most about the Beaumont estate was the extensive wine cellar but eh, he was never a book learner like his sprightly little sister. At that moment, a handsome young man in a black buttoned down shirt and dark brown pressed pants stepped out. Savannah blushed at how adorable he looked with his spiky hair, a more auburn tone compared to hers and Drake’s and upon reaching them, he gave a gallant bow and a friendly smile.

“So sorry I was tardy in greeting you. Maxwell Beaumont, younger brother to Duke Bertrand Beaumont. He’ll be coming down shortly. You must be Savannah,” She smiled as he bent over her hand, kissing the back of it before gazing up at her with his eyes so reminiscent of a puppy that wanted a treat for being good. “Welcome. Drake has told me so much about you.”

“Huh, you’d better not believe half of it.”

“Whoa there, sister. I’ve only mentioned the good stuff...and well, maybe a few escapades here and there.” Drake released a belly laugh as she gave him one more rough swing in the arm but clearly could not keep herself from smiling at his jest. Maxwell watched it all with intrigued amusement.

“Wow, Drake. She’s like pint-sized and she can give you a run for the money.” He was already laughing until he noticed Drake’s “you better shut your mouth” glare, which Savannah merely rolled her eyes at.

“Lay off him, Drake. He’s only reiterating the truth. Nice to meet you, Maxwell. And I’m really excited to be here! Thank you for giving me the opportunity.”

“Ah, it was nothing. It’s Bertrand you’re going to have to thank. He did say we needed some extra help around what with everyone deciding to up and quit since they couldn’t put up with...uh, never mind.” Savannah raised an eyebrow, confused and even more so, when Drake suddenly pulled Maxwell away by gripping a little too tightly onto his arm.

“Ow! Drake! You could have bruised me, you know!” His whimpers meant nothing but Drake was right up in his face, stern as a bulldog.

“Listen to me, Maxwell. If my sister ends up crying because of your stick up the ass brother, I’m taking her away in an instant alright? I brought her here for a good job and because Mom wants her to keep an eye on me, not so Duke Joy Killington decides to ruin her summer, got it?” Maxwell could only swallow and nod before nervously peering back at the house where Savannah was gadding about, stretching as she took in the warm sun on her shoulders and the apex of her collarbone and chest. She was indeed a sweet young thing and he was definitely going to protect her from Bertrand’s wrath if ever the poor little girl incurred it.

“I can’t promise you much, Drake but I’ll certainly make sure your sister is happy. That, I can give you.” Maxwell attempted a sheepish smile and finally, Drake sighed and backed off.

“I’m sorry...it’s just...I love her, Maxwell. I really do. She’s my only sister and she is very special to me. I mean, she’s the only girl who can outdrink me you know?” Maxwell gave an understanding pat on Drake’s back and nodded before bringing him back to his sister who had wandered into the gardens, lightly fiddling with some of the roses and their dewy petals.

“Sorry about that. Drake and I had a bit of man to man talk.” Savannah lifted her head and smiled, her two deep dimples piercing her supple round cheeks.

“It’s okay. I’m just enjoying these beauties. I love roses. There’s just something so sensual about them and their smell…” She leaned in to inhale one and purred as the euphoric scent hit her nostrils. “So delightful.”

“She can appreciate the finer things but truth be told, if I had to stare at flowers all day, I��d be dead from boredom.” Maxwell chuckled at the huge disparities between the Walker clan and was reminded too of the differences between him and Bertrand. While he was more playful, outgoing and prone to impulse, his elder brother lived a life of the straight and narrow. He enjoyed himself only at his own parties and of his own accord but refused to participate wildly in anyone else’s soirees. He was also so cold and disinclined to make jokes or overt cordiality. Perhaps it was the curse of being the first born and having to have the entire house’s reputation weighing down on one’s shoulders. Still, it would be nice to see Bertrand more relaxed and open for once. Speak of the devil, Maxwell watched as his brother exited the front door and approached them, buttoning and smoothing down his mahogany brown coat. His brother walked with the air of a royal steed striding through the courts and making other horses and nags look positively inferior. Savannah was still far too enraptured by the roses to notice the newcomer and did not even realize how her brother had stiffened up next to her.

“Well, Maxwell, where is the little commoner that we will have living off of us for the next couple of months or so?” Maxwell cringed as he saw Drake visibly quake with rage at Bertrand’s insensitive opening. It was nothing however to the duke who merely stared him down with that iciness he was so renowned for.

“That commoner has a name, your Grace. Savannah Walker. My sister.” He hissed and it was this that made Savannah stand up and touch his arm. “Drake, what’s going on?” Following her brother’s intense glare, she turned and the moment her warm green eyes met Bertrand’s cool grey ones, it was like the spring equinox had arrived and bathed the earth in its fever pitch glow. She blinked and immediately sank low, plucking her skirts up in a curtsy.

“It is an honour to meet you, your Grace,” She dared a look up at him once more through the long curtain of her streaked brown hair. He was lethal; his eyes so chilling, his profile sharp and immovable with strong jawline and firm nose. His hair too was styled to be always kept in place, slicked back and yet so very soft to the touch. Everything about him was buttoned up, contained and muted. There was a wick inside this dormant candle that needed just the right amount of ignition so that it would finally show a little spark, a little heat.

Bertrand had been merely appraising her from the back with his neutral stoicism but the moment she turned and revealed her soft, beautiful face with those doe eyes rimmed lightly with purple liner and accentuated with mascara, pert button nose, supple round cheeks and cut strawberry of a mouth that he could just sink his teeth into...all his natural reserve seemed to fail him and Maxwell too, noticed how he was starting to sweat a little and cleared his throat once more.

“Um, Bertrand. The lady just greeted you so…” He prodded at his brother lightly, snapping Bertrand out of his trance of strawberries, cream and a field of poppies surrounding a very naked Savannah and cleared his throat.

“Yes, welcome to House Beaumont. I’m Duke Bertrand, you’re gorgeous….I mean!” Savannah’s eyes widened a bit as she straightened up and Maxwell covered his eyes with his hand as Drake snickered into his palm. Bertrand took a few calming breaths and tried again. “I mean, welcome to House Beaumont. I am Duke Bertrand Beaumont, heir to the title and you’ve already met my younger brother, Maxwell.”

“Yup, Bertrand’s the heir, I’m just the spare.” Savannah released another giggle that had a bit of an unladylike snort to it and Bertrand gave his brother a silencing glare. She held out her hand and smiled up to him with those impressive eyes, both pairs too and how luscious did they look in that summer dress...wait, she held out her hand! He hurriedly bent low to take it and kissed the back of it. Savannah tried to repress a shudder.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Miss. Savannah. Please do join me in the den...I mean, join US. Yes, us….in the parlor for kinks...I MEAN drinks.” Drake was trying his absolute hardest not to completely lose his guts laughing and Maxwell could feel his cheeks aching from all the cringe that practically rolled off Bertrand today as his elder brother rushed off, leading a serene Savannah into their home.

((Bitch, I will go down with this ship. Also, totally canon that Bertrand cannot feelings worth a darn. Flustered nervous not composed Bertrand is my life. @cyara-choices @smartlillian @ladyashtonofcordonia @ohmymaxwell

#savannah walker #bertrand beaumont #i go down with this ship #bertvannah

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mostthingskenobi · 8 years ago

Text

CHAPTER 11: YODA TRIES --- The Dark Side of Obi-Wan Kenobi - Part 1

Summary: Yoda tries to have a conversation with Obi-Wan. Kenobi is not so friendly as he used to be. One might even call him cranky... Can you blame him? The exchange is not going well when things suddenly take an even more unexpected turn.

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CHAPTER 11: Yoda Tries

Coruscant – Jedi Temple

Obi-Wan was having a nightmare. Yoda sat by his side, watching as the young man hyperventilated and clutched the blankets so hard his knuckles turned white. As Kenobi twitched in the throes of his torment, the old Master could see the boy he had once known; Obi-Wan’s fiery hair was soft and feathery, sticking out at undignified angles except where plastered to his temple from sweat; his face was open and unguarded, showing all his anxiety – very unlike his usual, carefully crafted reserve. Obi-Wan seemed vulnerable, rather raw and exposed, and Yoda thought it gave him a youthful appearance despite the bruises and burns. It reminded the Grand Master of a sixteen year old Obi-Wan, still just a Padawan, desperately ill after contracting Dantari flu. The tenacious boy had refused to tell his Master, Qui-Gon Jinn, that he was unwell, and it was three days before Obi-Wan collapsed in the middle of an assignment. Qui-Gon had been beside himself with worry, haunting the temple corridors, hounding the medical droids, orbiting Obi-Wan’s bedside, until Yoda had finally required him to meditate with the Council in an attempt to quell his anxiety. It was easy to be fond of Obi-Wan, even at an early age; his smile was disarming, his manors well tailored, and his conversation effortless. Yoda understood Qui-Gon’s distraction.

However, in addition to Kenobi’s current vulnerability, Yoda could sense something even more concerning in the young man’s aura. He could tell that Obi-Wan’s thoughts were very dark. Kenobi had never exuded hopelessness or devastation until now; it radiated off him in waves. Yoda knew that in the past when the young man had been wounded or in difficult situations his devotion to the Jedi Code always helped him rationalize the regret and impossible guilt that he sometimes felt. But now Yoda could tell Obi-Wan was truly miserable, that the Code brought him no comfort, and that Kenobi was not even trying to find a way through his chaos. For the first time in his life, it seemed that Obi-Wan Kenobi had given up. Yoda knew something ruinous must have happened to the young man; he sensed that imprisonment and torture were not the only things on the Jedi Master’s mind.

Obi-Wan began to mutter incoherently. Yoda held his breath, silently trying to decipher the young man’s ramblings. Kenobi’s brow was beaded in sweat and he clenched his teeth together so tightly they squeaked. His head rolled to the side. “Satine…” The word came out breathless and desperate, almost a plea for mercy, almost a confession. Yoda’s eyes became wide and his ears perked into angled points – of course, the Duchess of Mandalore. What had become of Satine Kryze?

Obi-Wan’s eyes suddenly sprang open, burning with fear and wild with rage. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision; it took him a moment to recognize his surroundings. He swallowed thickly and lay back against his pillow, steadying his breathing.

What had he been dreaming? Someone had been screaming… he had been screaming. Four bounty hunters hovered over him; they held him on the ground while they drove a grisly Force suppressor into his forearm, twisting it through his flesh and breaking his bone. Qui-Gon ran toward him, Satine close behind, but he knew they would not get to him in time…

Obi-Wan wiped the sweat from his brow then covered his face with his hands. These visions and nightmares would drive him mad. He had to find a way to make them stop – Jedi were not supposed to have nightmares.

Yoda watched silently, unsure how to make Obi-Wan aware of his presence. He need not have worried; the younger master suddenly became still and he turned his brilliant blue eyes on the old green Jedi. Yoda smiled gently and stood up on his chair, moving closer to Kenobi.

“Master?” Obi-Wan’s voice was weak and dry. It was the first time he had spoken in days.

“What were you dreaming, Obi-Wan?” Yoda leaned forward on his gimer stick. He watched Kenobi suddenly wince and stiffen; the young man was clearly in pain, his entire body drawn with tension.

“I don’t know,” Obi-Wan said.

Yoda was quiet for a moment. Then he smiled before saying, “It is unlike you to lie, my young friend.”

Kenobi felt a guilty pang in his heart, quickly followed by uncharitable resentment; he tried to ignore his irascible inclinations and self-sympathy (not to mention his wounds’ searing pain) and forced himself to obey. “I was dreaming of Qui-Gon, of our mission on Mandalore.”

“A nightmare it was, or a memory?” Yoda asked, gently trying to encourage Kenobi to elaborate.

“Both.” Obi-Wan had been captured by four bounty hunters while protecting Satine. They had tortured the young Padawan until Qui-Gon came to his rescue. He and his Master had decided to leave the event out of their final debriefings; Qui-Gon did not want Obi-Wan to relive the ordeal, forced to describe it before the entire Council. Now, after all these years, Obi-Wan was not sure he should confess everything to Yoda.

The Grand Master waited patiently but Kenobi did not speak again. “On this mission you first met the Duchess of Mandalore?”

Obi-Wan stared up at the ceiling, his eyes dark and brooding. “Yes.”

The ancient green Jedi could feel the young man’s overwhelming grief. Yoda had always considered the Jedi Code and Obi-Wan Kenobi to be synonymous, but now he began to wonder if perhaps the pain he was sensing was rooted deeper in Obi-Wan’s past, a pain that was currently causing doubt and fear to separate the young man from his beliefs.

Yoda reached out and placed a hand on Kenobi’s wrist. He was shocked when the young Jedi flinched and pulled his hand away. Yoda proceeded cautiously, trying to keep his voice steady and reassuring. “Obi-Wan, never have you come to me for help. Always do you keep your internal conflicts to yourself. Blind to your turmoil the Council has been.”

“You’re not blind. You simply see what I am willing to share.”

Yoda was surprised by the sharpness in Kenobi’s voice. He tried again, tentatively placing a hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder. He saw the young man’s eye twitch but this time he did not pull away. Yoda could tell Kenobi was mastering his emotions; even in this moment of physical pain and emotional turmoil Obi-Wan was mindful of his own thoughts and reactions. It impressed the Grand Master. “Why did you disobey our orders? Why go to the Duchess of Mandalore when forbidden it was?”

Obi-Wan still stared at the ceiling, unable to look Yoda in the eyes. “Because I couldn’t just stand by and let her…die…” As the words came out of his mouth he realized that was exactly what he had done. His actions had made no difference at all.

Tears filled Kenobi’s eyes but he angrily blinked them away. Yoda could feel the young man’s pain and then a sudden surge of hatred. The Grand Master was startled by the realization that Kenobi was consumed with self-loathing, that he blamed himself for something terrible that had happened to the Duchess. Yoda wished to help ease his suffering but the young Jedi was well practiced and quickly blocked the older master from his thoughts.

“Obi-Wan,” Yoda said soothingly, “release your emotions into the Force. Heal you it can. Clinging to anger will only prolong your suffering.”

Kenobi knew Yoda was theoretically right but Obi-Wan was not ready to let go of the storm that surged inside his heart. Satine had been murdered because of him. As she lay dying he had not been able to squeeze out a single kind word to comfort her. He hated himself for his disastrous failures and he hated Maul for using Satine as a pawn. Kenobi squirmed when he remembered what he had said to the Sith. It takes strength to resist the Dark Side. Obi-Wan was tired of being strong. He rather wished he would simply die, but the medical droids would not allow it; instead he decided to stubbornly cling to the feelings that felt most sincere, most genuine, and that certainly was not compassion or charity.

Yoda could see his words were having little impact. He sighed heavily and sat back. “Unburden yourself; confide in your friends you must.”

“Jedi are not supposed to have friends,” Kenobi said spitefully. “Attachment is forbidden.” His voice was still coarse and strained. He wanted Yoda to leave. He was not in the mood for a lecture and he was exhausted from having to keep his consciousness shielded. The aching in his body was growing more intense, like hot blades pushing up through his flesh.

He suddenly could not focus on anything else. Pain began to build, rising exponentially to a critical level where self-control was impossible.

The Grand Master slowly moved back as Obi-Wan’s body seized in agony. The young man began to gasp and clutch at his chest, his eyes rolling back in his head. He cried out in pain, his head straining to the side, and then Yoda saw blood soaking through the white sheet that was pulled across Obi-Wan’s abdomen. The older Jedi was speechless, unable to call for help, frozen in place. Kenobi convulsed again, frantically clutching at his neck as the healing dagger wound suddenly split open, spilling blood across his throat.

Three droids and Doctor Neema appeared and hurried to Obi-Wan’s side, alerted via an alarm triggered by his spiking vital signs. The doctor leaned over the Jedi, taking him by the jaw and turning his head. She inspected the wound while muttering to herself. “Not again. In all my years I’ve never seen anything like this.” She pulled the sheets back and revealed Kenobi’s chest wounds, both reopened and bleeding.

“What is happening?” Yoda asked fearfully as he stepped back to make room for the droids.

Doctor Neema retrieved a large syringe from the medical consul while the droids surrounded Obi-Wan. “It’s the wounds made by the Dathomirian dagger,” she said. Once again she leaned over the young Jedi, turning his head to the side, exposing the gash along his neck. Obi-Wan had gone limp, his eyes drooping, and his breathing shallow.

She spoke while she worked. “The wounds heal, the bleeding stops, the cells regenerate, then they suddenly tear open as though freshly made. None of our treatments have had lasting effects. I suspect the blade was forged with some sort of Nightsister’s magic.” She held Obi-Wan’s face in a tight grip then looking up at the other droids she said, “Hold him firmly, please.”

Yoda watched as Doctor Neema inserted the syringe directly into the open wound on Obi-Wan’s neck. Sparking hot pain flashed through the young man causing him to let out a sharp yell, his body straining against his restraints. “It’s alright, Master Kenobi,” Neema soothed. “It will all be over soon.” The droids continued to hold Obi-Wan down as the doctor administered multiple bacta injections into the lacerations on Kenobi’s neck and chest. When the injections were complete, an FX-6 droid lumbered forward and carefully cauterized each wound while Neema increased Kenobi’s pain suppressors. She peered into his eyes with a bright light, watching his pupils contract. “Is that better, Master Jedi?”

Obi-Wan only managed a weak groan.

Doctor Neema turned to Yoda who looked at her expectantly. “This is the third time,” she said pulling off her bloody gloves and tossing them into a receptacle. “Fortunately he was not conscious for the previous episodes.”

“Terrible these wounds are,” Yoda said, his brow pulled tightly together with concern.

“Indeed. He suffers cruelly. I wish we could develop a cure, but it is nearly impossible without knowing what curse or magic created the weapon.” She placed her hands on her hips and looked down at Obi-Wan. “If you wouldn’t mind, Master Yoda, I must ask you to step out while we clean up Master Kenobi.”

“Of course.” Yoda moved toward the door. “For your kind care we are all grateful.”

Doctor Neema bowed respectfully. Once Yoda left the room they began pulling Obi-Wan’s bloody clothes and sheets off the bed.

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READ IT ON AO3 - Kudos and Comments Welcome!

READ CHAPTER 1 - It’s All My Fault...

READ CHAPTER 2 - Heed My Word

READ CHAPTER 3 - Brothers

READ CHAPTER 4 - A Sacred Memory

READ CHAPTER 5 - For Obi-Wan’s Sake

READ CHAPTER 6 - Our Time Has Run Short

READ CHAPTER 7 - Rescue

READ CHAPTER 8 - Everyone is a Mess

READ CHAPTER 9 - Nightmares

READ CHAPTER 10 - Opportunity

READ CHAPTER 11 - Yoda Tries

READ CHAPTER 12 - What Do You Need From Me?

READ CHAPTER 13 - Master

READ CHAPTER 14 - Into the Storm

READ CHAPTER 15 - Anakin’s Report

READ CHAPTER 16 - Sidious Manipulation

READ CHAPTER 17 - Darkness Waking

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