#my skin is wrinkled beyond recognition

[foolexby]

I keep finding you in almost.

Notes: James Potter x Female Reader. Lily my beloved. More angst. More existential crisis. Not use of Y/N. English is not my first language. Use of Google translate.

Cw: Existentialism. Existential crisis. Broke of reality.

WC: 5.5k

Navigation| Your name

Part I | Part II | Part III

“Hey! Wake up! Come on, we’re already super late, and McGonagall’s going to have our heads if we’re late again. Move it!”

A voice. Female. Firm, but not aggressive. Almost affectionate. Like a gentle tug on reality, as if someone were trying to pull you out from the other side of a dream.

Your mind took a few seconds to figure out what was happening. Between the confusion of broken dreams and the weight of waking up, it felt like you’d been submerged in a consciousness that wasn’t entirely your own. As if you’d been dragged from very far away. A whisper of doubt settled in the center of your chest, vibrating with an unease you didn’t yet know how to name.

You blinked a few times, your eyes sticky with sleep, the morning light timidly filtering through one of the high windows. The first thing you saw was the thick red canopy above you, embroidered with golden thread, wrapping you in a warmth that didn’t feel like yours—as if someone else had chosen that space for you.

Then, the hurried movement of a figure beside your bed: a red-haired girl, her bright green eyes shining with impatience, already halfway into a black robe. On her chest, embroidered in gold, the crest of a rampant lion gleamed with pride: Gryffindor.

“Why are you looking at me like that? Like you don’t know me,” she asked, half-laughing as she tied the laces of her shoes. She had an infectious energy, a presence that filled the room with ease. But to you, she was a complete stranger.

You swallowed hard. Slowly, you sat up, feeling the rough touch of the sheets, the creak of the wood beneath your feet as you moved. Everything felt strange. Even your own body felt like an ill-fitting costume. Your thoughts drifted like leaves in the wind, and no answer seemed right.

Where am I?

The question wasn’t a clear, direct thought, but more of a confused whisper rising from some deep corner of your mind. A feeling that enveloped you entirely, beyond language, beyond logic. As if you’d been ripped from a dream and thrown into a reality that didn’t belong to you. You looked around, your eyes still clouded by sleep, and nothing made sense… but it wasn’t completely unfamiliar either. It was a disturbing feeling: familiarity without memories. Like everything was slightly off, like a painting hanging crooked on a silent wall.

“What are you still doing in bed?” the girl insisted, now with a smile somewhere between amused and exasperated. She moved with the ease of someone repeating a well-known scene. “I swear, one day you’re going to fall asleep in the middle of a Quidditch match.”

There was something comforting in her voice, though you didn’t know why. A warm tone, full of life, of routine, of shared history. But you didn’t remember that history. You didn’t know how to respond, so you didn’t. You stayed silent, staring at her as if waiting for something—anything—to suddenly make sense. But it didn’t.

You said nothing. Because you didn’t know what to say. Because any word would feel like a lie, an imitation of something you were supposed to know but didn’t. You felt like an impostor in your own skin. As if the body you inhabited held memories, but you didn’t. And for a moment, your silence wasn’t just confusion—it was an attempt to protect the only thing that felt like it was yours: doubt.

The room was strange… but not completely unknown. You looked at it with a mix of distance and recognition, like a place you might have visited in a dream, in a book, or in someone else’s memory. There were five beds with tall canopies, thick dark red fabric, heavy curtains that fell like stage drapes. On the floor, open trunks, wrinkled robes spilling out as if someone had changed in a hurry. The desks were cluttered with parchment, uncapped quills, books left open to pages marked with ink. An owl dozed behind the glass of one of the windows, oblivious to it all. And the air was warm, filled with the scent of old parchment, fireplace smoke, and a sweet undertone… like cinnamon and wood.

The walls, built from reddish stone, seemed to hold centuries of stories, laughter, arguments, secrets. A fireplace crackled in one corner, casting flickers of light that danced across the vaulted ceiling. It was a place full of life, full of identity… but not yours. And yet, something inside you responded to that space. Not with understanding, but with an ancient kind of instinct, as if your body knew something your mind didn’t.

And then you understood. Or at least, you sensed it. It wasn’t a logical conclusion, nor a sudden revelation, but a quiet and terrifying certainty that slipped inside you without permission. You were in one of the Gryffindor tower rooms. You recognized it, though you didn’t know how. You knew it, without knowing why. Every corner seemed to belong to a narrative that included you… but you had never read that story. You were just living in it.

But that couldn’t be. It didn’t make sense. You didn’t remember arriving here, or being a part of this. You didn’t know your name, your year, your place among these beds. And yet, everything around you treated you as if you belonged. As if you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

Your body tense immediately, as if a cold current ran down your spine. Your breathing quickened beyond your control, and a slight tremble shook your hands as you pressed them to the sheets. Something inside you screamed that none of this was right. That room, that bed, that voice. It all felt real—too real… but it wasn’t yours. None of it was. You were caught in a scene that didn’t belong to you, trapped in a script you’d never read.

That wasn’t your bed. Those weren’t your things. And most of all, that girl standing in front of you wasn’t anyone to you. And yet, she spoke to you like she was everything. As if you had shared years of confidence, inside jokes, and whispered secrets in the halls. Her tone was that of someone who knew your habits, your slow mornings, your constant distractions. But you… you had never seen her in your life. And that mismatch, that brutal dissonance, buzzed in your ears.

She kept talking, still with a light smile, until something in your face made her pause. Maybe it was the way you pulled away, the sudden brightness in your eyes, or the way you looked at everything like you were seeing the world for the first time.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her tone lower now, genuinely concerned. “You look… weird.”

The word dropped like a cold bead of water. Weird. Yes. That’s what you were. You felt it in your bones. As if you had woken up in someone else’s body. As if your name had been written on a stranger’s piece of paper.

"Who are you?" you finally asked, and your voice came out rougher than expected—hoarse, dry, as though you hadn’t spoken in days. As though your vocal cords, too, had forgotten how to be used.

The girl froze. Her green eyes locked onto yours, surprised, puzzled. She raised an eyebrow with almost theatrical slowness, but the confusion on her face was real, raw, tangible.

"What? Are you joking?" she said with a tense, half-nervous laugh. Her smile was no longer amused, but rather a mask slowly cracking. “Come on... Don’t do this to me. Not this early in the morning.”

But you didn’t smile. You said nothing more. You just stared at her.

She looked at you for several seconds in silence, as if trying to read some sign on your face that might tell her what was really going on. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion, but not hostility. It was more the look of someone unsure whether you were joking, had lost your memory, or were simply messing with her in one of those strange moods people sometimes get when craving attention. And while she searched for answers in you, you were doing exactly the same with her. You studied her carefully, as if trying to recognize a face in the fog, in a crowd of shadows where all the outlines blur together. She felt vaguely familiar, like an image seen in a dream or an old photograph, but without the real weight of memory.

"I'm Lily," she said at last, her voice slow, careful, like she was speaking from very far away, like each word could shatter as it left her mouth. "Lily Evans. Your roommate for the past six years. Did you hit your head last night or something?"

She stood still after speaking, waiting for some reaction—any sign that you were beginning to understand, that her name sparked something, even if just a flicker.

Lily Evans.

The name floated in your mind like a stone dropped in a lake. It made no ripples. It didn’t spread in soft waves reaching other memories. No. It just sank. Heavy. Silent. With a strange, dark certainty. It didn’t awaken anything you could call your own—not an image, not a voice, not a sensation. Just a weight, a presence, like something larger sleeping beneath the surface that you weren’t meant to touch.

You didn’t know if it was the name itself that unsettled you, or the way she said it—with such confidence. As if it were a self-evident answer. As if that alone should be enough to reconstruct everything you clearly couldn’t remember.

You had to look away. Not because she scared you, not because you couldn’t bear her confusion or the way her gaze bore into you—but because something deep inside you, in a place you hadn’t known existed until now, cracked at the sound of that name. Or maybe it wasn’t a crack at all. Maybe it was the opposite: a fracture that had long been open, finally starting to close. As if those two words, Lily Evans, were the key to fitting a piece you'd been searching for all your life without knowing it.

Gryffindor. Hogwarts. Lily Evans.

And then, as if carried on a whisper from another room, another memory, another heart… James Potter?

The name lodged itself in your mind with the precision of a needle and the force of a lightning strike. You didn’t know where it came from, or why it held such power, but the moment you thought it, something flared in your chest. A warm spark, unexpected, and slightly painful. Like the echo of an old emotion—too strong to be forgotten. James Potter. You didn’t need context. Just the sound of it was enough to know there was weight, history—something that mattered.

And then you knew. Not by logic. Not by deduction. You just knew, with a silent, instinctive, almost physical certainty. Like when you realize you're dreaming and still choose not to wake up.

You didn’t know how you got here.

You didn’t know what brought you to this place, or what rules you'd broken to exist in a world that felt like books and legends come alive.

You didn’t know if you were dreaming, if you’d lost your mind, or if you had simply crossed a threshold you could never return from.

But you did know one thing, the only thing that mattered.

This wasn’t your world.

And yet… this was exactly the world you had been searching for.

As if you'd spent your whole life staring at the sky without knowing why—

And now, at last, the stars were staring back.

You stood in silence, moving slowly, as if each gesture might shatter the delicate illusion surrounding you. The floor was cold beneath your feet. Your steps made no sound on the worn carpet between the beds. Everything in the room felt oddly intimate: the empty mug on your nightstand, the small mirror with rusting edges, the Charms book left open halfway through. Objects that were supposedly yours… but meant nothing to you.

Behind you, Lily was rummaging through her bag with ease, muttering something about a missing quill and how great she was going to do in Transfiguration. Her voice was a constant, an anchor in the midst of the unfamiliar. She spoke with affection, with the confidence of someone who knows you, who’s shared secrets beneath blankets and long exam nights—and yet… you knew nothing about her. Nothing. Not even her name until five minutes ago.

And still, her words didn’t feel entirely foreign. There was something in her tone—in the way she called to you without needing to speak your name—that made you want to follow her. To trust, even if you don’t understand why.

In front of the wardrobe, you hesitated. It was filled with neatly arranged robes, scarves in red and gold, socks folded with precision. Your hands moved instinctively, as if they knew better than you what they were looking for. You choose one of the robes and slid it over your shoulders. The fabric was familiar. Heavy at the edges. Comfortable. Like you had worn it a thousand times.

And then, while you fastened the first buttons in front of the oval mirror in the corner, something took your breath away.

You recognized yourself.

It wasn’t just your reflection. It was her. The girl you had felt in the dreams. The one who spoke with James in whispers and promises. The one who laughed in hallways with moving staircases. The one who drank tea with a touch of honey, and who sat by the lake with bare feet and a closed book in her hands.

You looked closer. The same mouth. The same eyes. But there was something different. A light behind the gaze.

"Ready?" Lily asked, peeking her head around the curtain with a crooked smile.

You nodded, though you weren’t sure for what.

You took your wand—because yes, you had a wand, and your fingers recognized it without having to think—and tucked it away with a natural gesture that startled you. Something was wrong. Or maybe very right. You no longer knew what the difference was.

As you followed Lily down the stairs, you felt that each step you took not only moved you farther from the bedroom... but brought you closer to something inevitable.

The common room was lit by the fire, with a few students still lounging before the first classes. A couple of boys were arguing next to the magical chessboard, others were leafing through books with furrowed brows, and the warmth of the fireplace bathed everything in an amber glow.

And you... you felt like a spectator of your own life.

You walked behind Lily, carefully descending the last steps, as if the floor might collapse beneath you. She waved at a couple of girls with a quick gesture, then turned back to you with that same radiant energy that seemed to emanate from her skin.

"Come on, if we don’t hurry, we’ll miss the pumpkin juice," she said with a soft laugh.

You nodded, wordlessly, not really knowing how to navigate a place that felt built from your memories... but without permission. You crossed the stone corridors together, the portraits murmuring to each other as they watched you pass. Some even looked at you with something that seemed... recognition?

The castle vibrated with life. The distant sound of footsteps, of laughter, of doors opening and closing. Everything was so alive, so tangible, and you, wrapped in this world as if you had been born for it... and yet, every detail sparked a pang of doubt.

When you crossed the Great Hall doors, a rush of warm aromas enveloped you immediately: freshly baked bread, spiced pumpkin, black tea. The enchanted ceiling showed a light gray sky, with clouds drifting lazily. The tables were full, and life at Hogwarts pulsed strongly and chaotically, like a heart at the break of dawn.

Lily guided you naturally to the Gryffindor table, amidst animated chatter, laughter, and plates serving themselves. She greeted a group of boys already seated near the center, and you recognized them immediately, even though your mind couldn’t explain why.

Remus was leaning over a book, elbows resting on the table. He held a piece of toast in midair, halfway between the plate and his mouth, forgotten in his hand as his eyes scanned the lines of text with absolute focus. There was something meticulous about him, a quiet stillness, as if the chaos of the world couldn’t touch him while he was reading.

Beside him, Peter spoke enthusiastically. The words came out in a rush between bites and crumbs, and his hands exaggerated every sentence, nearly spilling his juice. He laughed with his mouth full, unconcerned about propriety, oblivious to the stares. He seemed to live in a world where everything had a fun twist, even the simplest things.

And then there was Sirius. He wasn’t doing anything particularly extraordinary. He didn’t need to. His very presence was magnetic, carefree, as if the air around him moved differently. He wore his robe half-open, his tie loose, and his dark hair fell over his shoulders with an elegance that didn’t seek attention. He laughed at something he had just said, the sound both deep and light at the same time, like a soft bell. His eyes were shining. He was the kind of person who filled a space just by being there.

And then your body reacted before your mind did.

It was subtle, but immediate. A current ran down your spine, forcing you to straighten up. Your shoulders tensed, as if they were expecting something. Your breath stopped, frozen between surprise and anticipation. Something inside you knew there was a missing piece. Something you couldn’t see yet but were already looking for. Your eyes moved instinctively, with silent urgency. One, two, three...

One was missing.

You knew it should be there. You felt it. As if your whole body had tuned itself to a silent frequency, waiting for a specific presence. One that had yet to reveal itself.

James.

The name came back to you unbidden. It wasn’t a thought. It was an echo. A name that filled the void your eyes couldn’t reach.

You walked over to them. You didn’t think too much about it. Your feet moved on their own, as if something else was guiding them. You didn’t know what exactly you expected to find, only that you couldn’t stay where you were, standing still, watching from afar. So you approached, crossed that brief stretch of stone and carved wooden tables, and sat next to Remus, as if that was your natural place.

And it was like activating a carefully rehearsed scene. The three of them looked up when they saw you arrive. They greeted you without thinking, with automatic smiles, with those quick glances that old friends exchange. As if your presence wasn’t a surprise, but an inevitable part of the morning. As if you were someone who had always been there, fitting in among them like another piece of the group.

But you just watched them in silence, your eyes wide open, trapped between awe and confusion. It was so strange. So precise. Everything was fine. Everything was exactly as it should be… and yet, deeply wrong. Like a song that sounds perfect but is out of tune in a way that only you can hear.

There was a gap.

Invisible. Silent. But impossible to ignore.

An empty space between them, not physical, but emotional. An incomplete rhythm. An energy that was missing. Like an essential string hadn’t been plucked, and the melody was incomplete.

A laugh that didn’t sound.

A voice that should have been there, filling everything, overflowing with sarcasm and warmth, with confidence and chaos. And you waited for it without wanting to, without ever hearing it… but knowing exactly how it should sound.

Sirius passed you a tray of toast without looking at you, as if it were part of his daily routine with you. "Did you sleep this time or were you talking to the ghosts again last night?" he asked, with a half-smile, as if making a joke you’d shared before many times.

"What?" you said, distracted, the words coming out as if they were from another place. You didn’t even know if you had said it aloud or just in your mind.

Peter immediately jumped in, in a light and messy tone, speaking with his mouth full. "You had that face," he said. "Like you just came down from the Astronomy Tower or something. You always come down with that ‘I saw the universe and it answered me with riddles’ expression."

There was a brief, low laugh, and you barely heard it. Because it wasn’t the laugh you had been expecting.

Remus, however, didn’t joke. He carefully closed the book, turning it with one hand, and looked at you with a more serious expression. More attentive. As if something about you didn’t quite fit. "Did you have another strange dream?" he asked, in a lower voice, almost soft.

And there you stayed. Watching them. Listening to them. Feeling the warmth of the fire in the room, the hum of hundreds of conversations, the clinking of cups and plates. Everything was so real, so intensely real, that it hurt.

But you didn’t know how to answer them.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to speak. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust them or that you felt entirely out of place. But there was something inside you, a subtle and stubborn force, that kept you on pause. Not because you couldn’t respond, but because you were still waiting. Waiting for someone else to sit down. To appear amidst the murmur of voices, coming down the stairs with that untamable and luminous energy that seemed to drag everything behind it. Waiting for a half-smile, a sarcastic phrase thrown into the air as a greeting, as a habit, as a promise that the day truly started now.

Someone who, in some way, should have been there.

Because he had always been there.

You had that certainty without knowing where it came from. It was an intuition, a need rooted deep in your chest. You couldn’t name it. You couldn’t justify it. You only felt it, insistent, clear, like the pulse of a memory that refuses to die.

But the space in front of you remained empty.

The bench, the table, the air... everything was the same. Just as it should be. As if nothing was missing.

And no one noticed.

No one asked about him.

No glance was cast at the empty seat.

No gesture of waiting, no "Has anyone seen James?"

Nothing.

As if that space had never been occupied by anyone.

As if the universe was perfectly aligned, perfectly ordered… without him.

And that was what hurt the most.

A quick, sharp pang pierced your chest. For what should be there but wasn’t. For the absence that no one seemed to notice, except you. Because you still didn’t know what exactly was wrong.

You still didn’t have the words, or the proof, or the courage to break the logic of that perfect world. You only knew one thing. Something was missing. And without that something, everything else, no matter how beautiful or familiar it seemed... was incomplete.

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You clung to Lily as if she were a rope holding you from falling into the abyss. You didn’t do it consciously. At first, you did it out of necessity. Because you didn’t know where to go after breakfast. Because every hallway split into stairs that moved on their own will, because the portraits talked to you, and you didn’t know whether you should respond. Because the names of the subjects, the spells, the rules... they were part of a language that your body seemed to speak, but your mind couldn’t quite grasp. She, on the other hand, seemed to know everything: which class they had to go to, where to turn in the hallways, which stairs to avoid because they changed direction without warning, even the tone to use when greeting professors to avoid raising suspicion.

And you could only follow her.

The first class was Charms. You entered the classroom with your eyes wide open, trying to hide your confusion, but every detail seemed to amplify your disconnect. The quills wrote by themselves. The chairs aligned by themselves. A student at the back cast small bursts of light from the tip of his wand without the professor batting an eye. And you... you held your wand as if it were a borrowed object, foreign, something you should remember how to use, but couldn’t.

“Everything okay?” Lily murmured when she noticed you glancing at her from the corner of your eye.

You nodded. You didn’t want to alarm her. You didn’t want to seem even more out of place.

During the class, you copied everything Lily wrote. You tried to imitate how she held her wand, how she moved her wrist with each spell. Some students managed to levitate quills with a simple “Wingardium Leviosa,” while you could barely make yours tremble. Still, no one made fun of you. It was as if everyone was used to you being... you. And for some reason, that unsettled you even more.

Next came Defense Against the Dark Arts, History of Magic, and a break for lunch in the Great Hall, where you sat next to Lily without straying from her side. You ate in silence, watching as others laughed, joked, greeted each other by name. They sounded vaguely familiar, but you didn’t know why. And the worst part was that everyone seemed to know you. As if you were playing a part in a play that had already started years ago... and you were just now reading the script for the first time.

Every corner of the castle seemed to be tinted with a faint déjà vu, like a melody you had heard as a child and forgotten almost entirely. The moving stairs, the portraits that greeted you, the suits of armor sneezing dust when you passed. Nothing truly felt strange... but nothing felt like it was yours.

In the afternoon, during Potions, Lily gave you a concerned look when you mistook a bezoar for a valerian root and nearly blew up your cauldron. She didn’t say anything, but she moved closer to you, as if sensing that something was out of place, even if she didn’t know what. You just thanked her silently. And clung to her even more.

You spent the rest of the day as if walking on an invisible tightrope, not daring to separate from Lily for even a second. Wherever she went, you went. She talked to professors, to classmates, to prefects. You nodded, pretended to understand, repeated phrases like borrowed echoes. As if you memory didn’t belong to you.

But the most unsettling thing wasn’t not knowing who you were here.

The truly unbearable thing was knowing that someone was missing.

You felt their absence in every corner.

In the hallways.

In the benches of the Great Hall.

In the study table at the library.

It was as if a space beside you was reserved for someone who hadn’t arrived. Or worse... that no one remembered.

When classes were over, you walked together down the seventh-floor corridor toward the Gryffindor tower. The castle began to transform under the light of the setting sun: the gray walls took on orange, almost golden hues, and the shadows stretched out as if trying to touch the ground gently. The display cases, the portraits, even the suits of armor... everything seemed calmer, slower. As if time were stretching just a little to let you breathe.

And for the first time all day, you felt something like peace.

A silent truce between you and this universe you still didn’t fully understand.

“Do you want to go to the library for a while, or would you rather stay in the common room?” Lily suddenly asked, stretching her arms above her head with a lazy motion that made her shoulders crack.

Your response was automatic, without filters or reflection: “Wherever you go.”

Lily slowly turned her head, looking at you over her shoulder. There was a playful spark in her green eyes, a mix of surprise and amusement that softened her features. “You’re clingy today, huh?”

You shrugged, trying to make the smile you offered her not seem as exhausted as you felt. You didn’t say anything else. Because you didn’t know how to explain it to her. You didn’t know how to tell her that, in the middle of this beautiful and foreign world, she was your anchor. Your reference. The only constant. That her voice, her gestures, her laughter made you feel — even if just for moments — like you weren’t completely alone.

Because no matter how everyone treated you as if you were part of this world... you knew you weren’t.

Because you didn’t know the hallways. Or the secret shortcuts, or the key words to open portraits everyone whispered with ease. You didn’t know the exact schedules, or the unwritten rules that seemed to float in the air, shared by all like a language you still didn’t speak. You didn’t know the answers they gave naturally in class, or the inside jokes, or the codes they exchanged with a glance.

But you knew something more important.

You knew you could trust Lily Evans.

You didn’t know why, or how you knew. But there was something in the way she spoke to you, in how she didn’t judge your silence, in how she treated you with familiarity that wasn’t heavy. It was as if, without knowing it, she was protecting you. Holding you. Offering an invisible rope so you wouldn’t get completely lost in this world that wasn’t yours... yet it enveloped you with the strength of an un-lived memory.

That day, you didn’t stray from her for even a second.

In the library, you shared a wooden table by a tall window. Outside, the rain began to softly drum against the glass, and Lily wrote quickly, her quill gliding confidently over the parchment. You pretended to read, your eyes fixed on an open book that you didn’t register, simply enjoying the sound of her quill, the rustling of the pages, the comfortable silence between you.

At dinner, sitting among other students in the bustle of the Great Hall, you talked about simple things. Pending assignments, upcoming exams, casual comments about the last Quidditch practice, which, according to Lily, had been a disaster. You nodded, smiled, laughed when others laughed. And for a moment, for several moments, you felt like you belonged. Like the unfamiliar rhythm had adopted you, like your steps didn’t sound so out of place anymore.

And later, in the common room, when the fire crackled in the heart and the sofas filled with tired bodies, you huddled next to each other, sharing a blanket and a bit of that warm silence that only comes at the end of the day. The flames cast shadows that danced on the stone walls, and you thought you could stay like that forever. Right there, in that frozen moment. If it meant you didn’t have to search anymore. If that was enough to fill the gap.

But it wasn’t enough.

Because deep down — where certainties live, even when you deny them — you know.

That emptiness was still there.

Invisible, insistent.

That subtle space in the group, in the routine, in the very air.

That name no one mentioned.

That seat that was never occupied.

That laugh your body kept waiting to hear, even though your mind didn’t know how to remember it.

James.

The world could be complete for everyone else.

It could spin smoothly, as if nothing were missing.

But for you, something — someone — still wasn’t where they should be.

And although you didn’t know how, when, or why... you felt it with a painful clarity:

You were going to find him.

Or he was going to find you.

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There are absences that don’t come from forgetting, but from other timelines.

Presences that should be there, filling their exact place in the story, but that the universe—in its strange, unshakable wisdom—chooses to hold back a little longer.

They’re not ghosts. Not shadows.

They’re heartbeats that haven’t arrived yet. Laughter that hasn’t quite learned how to echo in this world, but that your soul recognizes with an aching kind of certainty.

Because some connections defy logic. They don’t care for calendars or memory.

They’re threads spun from the pulse of the universe itself.

And you knew it. You felt it, buried deep in your chest:

That absence wasn’t a loss.

It was a promise.

An invisible thread stretched between stars. A name waiting to be spoken. A call that had not yet been answered.

And even if the world spun on without him, even if no one else noticed the space that remained unfilled—you did.

Because some meetings don’t depend on time.

They are bound to the rhythm of what must be.

[vertekel]

I have not talked about Herma Mora in a while and now is the time at 4am in the morning

My favorite little pass-time headcanon is that Apocrypha is an Abyssal Stomach. The place where all knowledge goes once consumed by an ever hungry monstrosity. If Hermaeus is a knowledge-eater, his library is his stomach. To me this fits perfectly with how Apocrypha erodes everything.

Your humanity is eroded, changed beyond recognition, the Hushed look like they have been digested and kept in water for far too long. Pale wrinkled and blotchy skin where you could even dare to say the skin has slipped off their bodies due to the exposure. Yet they are in no water at all, simply in the realm itself.

The realm is scattered with fossilized remains, as if you're walking through a graveyard, a place with no exit for these creatures where they were slowly eroded and consumed by the realm itself until they are nothing but bones. Having no glorious fight for their lives, no honor, simply to wait to be digested. The realm is littered with black waters which can be perceived as a stomach acid and a bile. In Skyrim, the waters quickly begin to kill you when stepping into it, sapping your resources rapidly, other beings are able to turn themselves into "ink", dissolving to travel through it. The digestion when exposed to the water rapidly erodes your mind and body. If you are not killed, it changes you, mangles you and disfigures you in every possible way. As if you're in acid. If this comparison to a stomach is true... it could explain why depictions of Herma-Mora's maw is littered across his realm. Divinity in consumption. Displaying the reverence of eating and by extension digestion.

Oh to be a naive arcanist in your study, one day you truly look around yourself and see the many corpses, never once thinking as to why they are there. Such a realization has come far too late.

The revelation of your own slow, eroding death within the stomach of an unfathomable monstrosity.

[nexstage]

Sugarggedon

What could’ve…

“Aaaghhhh!” He screamed. In seconds, his head hit a hard, cold surface making him curse, gritted teeth. Opening his eyes again, the dread and terror he felt moments ago was replaced by the deepest level of confusion for he found himself in his room. His old childhood room. “What the—?” His hands went to his face. His skin felt smooth, a bit oily, a few pimples from acne in the chin.

What happened to all the back pain, the arthritis, the scars, the wrinkles, the cataracts, the—? Wait a second, since when his future looked so old? And why was that by the way?

He flexed his fingers and hands. They were young. He was young.

“Stan, are you ok?” Broken out of his stunned thoughts, he glanced at his brother.

Lively and healthy. Uh, why was he thinking about a future with wrinkles and health issues again?

“Stan, what happened? Was it a nightmare?” Ford gently placed a hand on his forehead. “You have no fever. What about your stomach? Did you eat something before going to sleep?”

“Uh… No no. Just… Just a dream. I mean, I had a dream, but I thought it was real.”

“By the look of your face, it seems that this dream went to the extreme in making you feel that was the reality.”

“Eh… You could say so.” He murmured an ouch as he rubbed the bruised part of his forehead. He hoped that didn’t leave a mark. “You can’t believe how crazy it was, you know, in my head.”

“Tell me then, we have some time before the clock goes off.”

“You won’t believe it! It was insane!”

Stan went into a long ramble describing a town called Gravity Falls in Oregon, invaded by all kinds of aliens and monsters, a colossal pyramid floating above the forest surrounding the town, the sky painted in all the colors ever known by man, fire and destruction everywhere, and they were there in the middle of it running from something. When he described their appearances, Ford’s eyes gleamed at his own description as some kind of adventurous researcher fighting alongside Stan who was wearing a businessman/mafia boss suit and even glasses.

“You weren’t kidding. That’s unbelievable!”

“Yeah and—“ Stan’s breath hitched as he saw part of the room where Ford’s trophies usually were. Correction, where Ford’s AND HIS trophies usually were.

He stood up and scanned all of them. His twin’s prizes were outstanding for obvious reasons. He was a genius beyond anyone’s league. Stanley, on the other hand, was just there. Pure brawn and troublemaking, struggling in academics.

Except that he was good at sports. Basketball, football, boxing, the medals and trophies said it all.

There were even photos where he had invited Ford to be part of it, both smiled so big their cheeks hurt.

“Amazing, right? In the end, your bet with Pa worked out.”

A bet? A bet with Pa of all people? What was Six—? Oh. Oh yeah! He remembered now.

Pa with his typical lack of faith in him and stoicism simply said that it would be a miracle if he managed to graduate without dragging Ford down in the journey until graduation.

Stan had always wanted to impress his father, to get that gesture of approval and recognition he only gave Ford. Being average and the extra Stan were the bane of his existence, however, for his twin excelled in every class while he got Cs, or in the best of scenarios, a B. And Pa hardly went to his boxing matches, expecting Ford to report him about his progress and barely saying “Mhm” before focusing on the newspaper.

Then when he said he would win all the matches in boxing and get all medals his father scoffed, “I bet my fedora that you couldn’t even be this disciplined with boxing or any other sport.” Stanley took that personally and organized himself. He became part of many sports clubs, attended all the classes, and impressed the coachers.

Suddenly, the few medals he obtained for boxing multiplied in tenfold just like the others from football, basketball, wrestling, etc.

As his mind processed the information, the clock rang incessantly taking him by surprise.

“Welp, time to go to school.”

A wave of anxiety washed over him due to Ford’s words but why? It was just school. It’s not that something life-changing would happen, right?

**************

“Mr. Pines, Mrs. Pines, let me be frank with you if I may.”

Stan couldn’t stop drumming his fingers into his knees despite his best efforts. This better not be a problem he accidentally or willingly dragged Ford into but as far as he remembered, they hadn’t gotten into more conflicts with Crampelter and his goons, and the rest of their classmates minded their own businesses.

What else could it be then?

He wished he had his notebook with him. For some reason, his wacky dream had clung to the darkest corners of his mind, pushing him to draw every detail. Doodling instead of keeping up with the lesson of the day was something he was known for like any other student but his gut seemed to be desperate to keep sketching those apocalyptic scenarios, and the pyramid, what was with that pyramid that—?

“Being frank is the only way I speak.” Filbrick’s voice cut through the haze of his restlessness. Stanley slightly gulped, wanting the whole deal to be over.

“You have two sons here,” the principal pointed at him and Stanford. “One excels in sports and the other in academics.”

“What are you trying to say?” Caryn asked. Stanley mentally did the same. What was he getting at?

“I’m saying that your sons are soon-to-be stars, Mrs. Pines!” Uh… What? “Stanley here has gotten the attention of the best football coachers of the country. Many teams are fighting over him to get him on their side. The scholarships are raining! Ohio, Alabama, Michigan, Southern California, North Dakota, Montana, even Harvard!” Harvard?! “And let’s not forget Stanford. He’s an unparalleled genius! All his teachers are going bananas over his science project! Have you ever heard of West Coast Tech? Best college in the country? All his students have turned science fiction into science facts! This guy could change the whole world! Your sons might be famous millionaires, Mr. Pines!”

“I’m impressed,” Stanley was this close to fainting. Pa said he was impressed. He even smiled! Pa never smiles. He has never been impressed of him! And now he was!

*************

The night at the swings was tranquil. The soft waves barely moved the Stan O’ War and his nose inhaled as much sea air as he could. If someone had told him that one day he would make his father proud and have a future beyond scrapping the barnacles off of a taffy store -wait, where did that thought come from?- anyway, if he had been given those news, he would’ve laughed and ignored it.

Stanford was the guy with the brilliant future. He had the brains, he would go places, he could beat the odds with whatever plan he concocted. Stan was another story.

Of course, the world decided he could do better. He even made the impossible happen! He would be a famous football player, Pa was impressed of him, his parents were proud, he would leave Glass Shard Beach and meet famous sportsmen, maybe win the hearts of cute babes, who knew.

And yep, his hands were still twitching and fidgeting. Why though? No idea.

“Can you believe it, Stanley? We’re going to college!”

He chuckled. “More like you are. I have to choose from a pool of pamphlets.”

“This is the amazing thing, though! You have lots of options. It means all your hard work paid off.”

“What about, uh, West Coast Tech? Happy with only one option?”

“Having more than one college to go sounds excellent, but I’ve read the pamphlet, Stan. This college has everything. The best teachers, the most advanced equipment, the best environment. Maybe… Maybe there I could show everyone that I’m more than the freak they see. That someone like me can change the world.”

“I know you will. I bet that in a few years we’ll be living in huge mansions while Crampelter and his friends will be working as taxi drivers.”

“Now that’s a depiction of a perfect world!”

Both laughed uproariously.

The echo of their laughter travelled throughout their neighborhood but not one soul opened a window to shout a complain. As they calmed the pain in their stomachs for laughing so hard, the salted, humid air reminded Stanley of the bittersweetness ahead of him. He had a great future but in exchange he would leave behind stuff he loved like their childhood dream and the Stan O’ War.

It felt weird to be excited to go to another path that wasn’t connected or fused to Ford’s. When they were children, the “Us against the world” motto was all they knew and mattered. Did it still matter? They weren’t as close as before and their talents had pushed them to different goals but they still enjoyed each other’s company.

Things were changing but others were still the same.

“What are you drawing?” Drawing? Stan peeked at what his hands were doing. A bricky-like triangle over a bunch of houses and trees. Wait. “This looks like my dream.”

“Is it causing you trouble again?” Ford asked concernedly.

“More like it’s a song on a loop. Bit annoying.” But still his hands kept doodling different shapes reminiscent of what he’d dreamed. As if they were telling him something which was nonsense! I mean, these were his hands. Hands don’t talk, they don’t think.

“You know, this gives me a great idea!”

“What kind of idea?”

“It’s more for you than for me. What if you make a comic out of your dream? I know the details will vanish with time but if your dream is this persistent, then maybe you can make the best out of it. You may not see it, but you have talent drawing, Stanley. This could be a pet project during your breaks in college and football training. And who knows, perhaps in the future, you will also be known by your art.”

Being known by his art… “Heh, you’re putting a lot of faith in a simple project, Pointdexter.”

“Because it could be a great opportunity.” Ford watched the stars mesmerized. “The future does look promising after all.”

“Yeah… It does…”

[envihellbender]

The Unknown first appearing to five killers of your choice

Rating: Mature (horror)

Fandom: Dead by Daylight

Characters: The Unknown, the Trapper, the Trickster, the Legion, the Deathslinger, the Pig

The Trapper

“Son?” A voice creaked. “Have I finally found my boy?” Evan snorted with laughter before he turned around, a jack knife in one hand and a bundle of wire in the other.

“You’re not convincing, fella,” he said towards the dark silhouettes of the trees. “My old man wouldn’t ever sound so pleased to see me.” When the figure finally showed itself Evan’s huge figure stumbled backwards in shock. He thought he’d seen everything ever since the Entity took him, but apparently not. In front of him was… well, he didn’t know what it was. It looked like his father if someone had sucked all of the fat from his body, left the skin hanging there and twisted it up like a helter-skelter.

“Ohh… Sorry,” the creature responded, speaking as if it was drowning in its own flesh. Suddenly, it collapsed into a pile of rubbery skin, shards of bone and rotten meat onto the floor. Evan let out a fractured breath and felt his lips turn dry as he stared at it. Before he could react it … inflated. That was the best word for it really. It became something else. A beast that was just as elongated with twisted limbs and neck, but instead it wore a gas mask and filthy overalls.

“Hey there, Mister MacMillan, Sir…” It asked, twisting its head to the right and giggling underneath the mask. “So glad I found you. The mine collapse… It was awful trying down there. Did you get everybody out, Sir?” As it finished speaking its head twisted ninety degrees to the right, its grin widened and then it somehow managed to turn its head even further until it had turned a full circle, twisting its neck even more.

The Trickster

“Hey… hey … hey,” a whispering, screeching voice said appearing beside Ji-Woon as he left the Trial. He didn’t even turn around, blood still dripping from his bat and sinking into his clothes.

“Fans aren’t allowed backstage,” he said coldly with a smirk on his perfectly soft lips.

“I… Sorry… can you help me?” It repeated. Ji-Woon scoffed and turned around, swinging his well-used bat back and forth. When he saw it he swore under his breath, he tilted his head and let out a deranged giggle.

“Now what are you?” He asked as he approached the monster, as he got close he wrinkled his nose. It stank worse than a butcher. “You look like the dokkaebi every aunty back home tells stories about.”

“Don’t you recognise me?” The creature asked, its voice sounded reminiscent of an old window pane in a storm. Ji-Woon sighed a little annoyed but managed to maintain his grin.

“You’re wearing the face of the girl from my fan club. The pig nosed one. She got a private show. Her voice was nice, made a hit single out of it.”

“En…core?” It asked, its teeth splitting through its skin as it smiled.

“She got a front row seat and her singing was on my next single, she died in bliss, her screams showed her devotion to me. And now she’s in front of me asking for more?” Ji-woon cackled. He spun on his heal, he slipped his sunglasses down from his crown to over his eyes despite the dark as he walked away. “Welcome to the Entity’s world dokkaebi. Don’t speak to me again.”

The Legion

“Ex…cuse… me, I… am… lost… late for… work,” a voice said from behind them. Frank was in control of the body at present, he turned round curiously to Joey’s dismay, who bitched at him in the headspace about how he shouldn’t have checked out the source of the noise so readily. The complaining however stopped instantly when they saw what they were being confronted by. Internally they all yelled excitedly, in front of them was a twisted creature wearing the skin of the sheep they slaughtered to be saved by the Entity. Well, more or less. It was stretched almost beyond recognition, with twisted limbs and broken bones sticking out of its skin. They all recognised it instantly, there favourite urban legend was right in front of them. The Unknown.

“Holy shit,” Frank said excitedly to the Legion, he wasn’t speaking externally but the Unknown watched curiously as Frank grinned and his eyes flitted across its body in fascinating.

“Oh my god. It’s so gross. Look at that! That’s so fucking cool,” Joey enthused, he tried to will Frank to touch them with little success. “Dude come on. What do you think it feels like?”

“Joey, don’t be rude, God,” Susie chided him.

“It’s gotta be a skinwalker, right? The thing from the urban legends?” Julie asked, she was the one who was mostly pushing Frank to look at every element of The Unknown’s body analytically. “Maybe we should ask it?” The creature unknowingly interrupted them with a groan as it twisted its head to the right. Frank realised he had to actually say something.

“Hey, hey, hey, sorry, needed to chat about you with these guys,” Frank said happily bounced on his heals tapping his temples with his index and middle finger. The Unknown tried to reply, its mouth open and teeth poking out between his lips but before he could Frank interrupted him. His voice was fast and excited, a response the Unknown did not usually receive. “So, you’re the Unknown, right? We’ve read so much about you. Are you a skinwalker? That’s our theory, skinwalker. Well, that’s the only one we’ve agreed on. Susie is still pitching the idea that you’re a trans dimensional being but then Julie asks how we know skinwalkers aren’t trans dimensional beings but then that gets Susie on a whole mothman Bigfoot thing-"

“You… Are… Many?” The Unknown interrupted. Its eyes widened in wonder as it fell forward onto his hands and feet bending like a spider. Something about the Legion caused them to relax to their natural posture. Frank didn’t seem fazed by it.

“Yeah! Four of us in one body.” His voice as proud, he seemed like a brutal angry thug but the sweeter, softer teenager that the rest of Legion saw sneaked out.

“Four… in one… could I be four at once?” The Unknown’s voice was low and contemplative.

“Oh sure! They’d be amazing.” Frank began pacing in front of the Unknown, his words becoming faster as if they were powering his hyperactive joy. “Okay, so this thing you’ve got as the cleaner we kill, so great. But we hurt more than just him, you know? Maybe you can merge them? We can workshop it.”

Deathslinger

Caleb heard it stalking him ever since he left the trial. It scuttled and giggled as it approached, and Caleb had been followed enough times to know when someone thought they had the better of him. He kept walking the familiar way back to his workshop the Saviour made for him. He pretended he hadn’t a clue he was being followed. That was until he heard the beginning of a croaking, crackling syllable - it was then he spun around. He held up the Redeemer, aiming it upwards from where the noise had come from. When he saw what was in front of him, a strange twisted beast wearing the torn up skin of a man who’s face was ingrained into Caleb’s mind as clear as it had been when he first saw it and when he beat his head into a bloody stew. Henry Bayshore.

Well, it wasn’t quite Henry Bayshore. The creature was far taller, with longer more distorted limbs, and his skin sagged so intensely it flapped as it moved. His torso was twisted so much it was more like a corkscrew than a body. Caleb smirked as he looked at the strange creature, maybe it was one of the changelings his Ma told him all about. Or maybe it was a skinwalker one of the Native American boys in his gang always talked about.

“So… What’re you following me for and why shouldn’t I blow your head from your body again, Mister Bayshore?” Caleb asked, his calloused fingers over the trigger.

“You… would… miss,” a crackling, gnarled voice said. Before Caleb could respond the beast let out a screech and he collapsed into a pile of soft, weeping flesh. It was a pile of raw meat, blood, and viscera by Caleb’s feat, causing him to be more confused than anything else. Before he could full process what was happening, a twisted gnarled finger tapped on his shoulder.

The Pig

“A… man-da?” A familiar croaking voice said. At one point it would’ve been comforting and at another made her body surge with fear. On this occasion it felt as if it made her bones turn to ice and her blood became still. She slowly turned, extremely carefully with her grip on her knife… Because John was dead. John Kramer had died of cancer in front of her eyes. The cold fog was beginning to set in, and as it chilled against her skin she knew that what was in front of her face was not the Entity, it was just as uncertain as she was.

Before her was a twisted parody of John Kramer, the man who had been as good as her dad and who she’d failed just as much as her folks had failed her. He was taller for one thing, Amanda barely came up to his chest. His neck was elongated and twisted around. His face was tilted diagonally, and he smiled. Amanda wasn’t sure if it was the fact that he looked happy at all or that there were far too many teeth piercing through flesh that made him look less like the man.

“Amanda. I … found… you-”

“What the fuck are you?” She interrupted.

“Oh… does this skin not look good … on me?”

“Whatever you are, you’re not fucking convincing okay?”

“Would you like to see my … tumour?” It asked, its neck twisting to the side until its head was completely upside down. Amanda bared her teeth and pulled her pig mask back down, it seemed it was time for a different kind of trial.

[the-empress-7]

To me it’s pretty easy to tell if a picture is AI or not.

On the real picture you can see the movement of her hair and the tiny wrinkles on her face and bags under her eyes, her skin tone is warm and matt, the lighting is natural and the people behind her also look normal.

In the AI one everything looks shiny, her hair and skin are too glossy and the light comes from everywhere at once. There’s no movement, no life.

Frankly, most AI images are still bad quality. It scares me that some people cannot tell the difference already. As a glass wearer myself 🤓 I strongly suggest people to see an optician if you cannot tell the difference between AI images and real images.

Girl, it's not about the eyesight but brain cells. I am blind as a bat without my contacts/glasses, and I can still spot a fake picture a mile away. Thanks for the side by sides! FWIW I don't like it when fans photoshop Kate either, and don't mean the cool edits that many great bloggers make. I mean the ones where folks add so much makeup and smooth out her skin beyond recognition.

[redantte]

Kill the Flame - BG3 Fanfic WIP

Corpse after corpse litters the burning hellscape, scorched and maimed beyond recognition. Adorned in crimson jewels, a horned woman stands atop the chaos, blood dripping from clawed hands. She stares beyond the bodies, beyond the flames, beyond the Blood War.

“Sceleritas,” she commands.

Blood pools from nearby corpses. It bubbles and boils as it morphs into a new diminutive form. The impish being wears a dark suit, highlighting the crimson hue of his hat’s rim and jabot. The fanciful clothing clashes with his decaying, hollowed skin. Beady eyes roll into place as Sceleritas takes in the brutal surroundings.

He relishes it.

Clawed, wrinkled hands clasp together in adoration as Sceleritas strides towards his Dark Mistress, “oh, what divine slaughter you’ve sown, milady.” He crushes a skull beneath his pointed boot with a notable crunch. “I knew this little excursion would do you well.” He bows before her with a low chuckle, “how may I be of service?”

“Scout for prey. They’ve become scarce over the years.” She strides past, ready for the next hunt. Sceleritas scurries to her side, “as you wish milady, but first,” he grins, blocking her path. She glowers. Ribs crack. Her hand pierces through Sceleritas’s chest, tightening around his heart. “You know better than to test my patience.”

Sceleritas leans into her, cradling her face in his hands. His mouth drips with blood as he smiles a joyous, sinister smile. With two simple words, he could change everything. He whispers them to her.

“He lives.”

---

So I finally got the guts to write about my Durge (pun completely intended). Please tell me what you think, but before I post more I really need to give her an actual name...

[starman-john-tracy]

If you could be a pro at any sport, what would it be?

How do you relax after a stressful day?

What does being a man mean to you?

 Would you describe yourself as more of an introvert or an extrovert?

 Do you want kids? Why or why not?

What's your biggest phobia?

If you had the day off with nothing to do, how would you spend it?

"Handball." John laughs, "Though Lady Penelope has been trying to get me down and onto her tennis court for quite a while now. We used to play during the semester I spent at Oxford."

"How do I relax...?" If John's honest; a lot of his days end up stressful. Especially when Scott decides he wants to throw himself off the nearest cliff with a malfunctioning jetpack. Two blue-clad fingers pinch hard at the bridge of his nose as if John's trying to get rid of the last tendrils of a tension headache.

"I've been in Thunderbird Five's botany lab." He confesses. He definitely isn't hiding there, and if he is, then, well, he's gotten plenty of work done to show for it. "It's good to see things growing, you know?" It's almost a guarantee that, if it's been a rough day, John will either be in there or up with his telescopic array, sitting quietly in amongst his stars.

As for 'what does being a man mean...?'

"That's uh- a weird question." John blinks at it. "It just sounds, um, very archaic, you know? It is 2067." He does take a second to think about it though.

Being a man, to John, mostly means privilege. He's well aware (and if he weren't, Kayo would have kicked his ass out of orbit by now) that his pale skin, handsome jawline and family fortune have definitely gotten him further in life than some of his more diverse peers. John's spent a lifetime trying very hard to make sure it's his ability, his smarts, not his surname, that earns him recognition. The papers call him the most elusive Tracy for reasons beyond his home in orbit.

Scott uses it the most, he thinks. His oldest brother has just always had that all-American war hero look to him: coded into his neatly slicked brown hair, summer sky eyes, and straight, Anglo-Saxon nose. Everything about Scott Tracy suggests valour and power and a good, firm handshake. It certainly gets their Father's company its share of important business deals.

John's mostly just glad that they're trying to do some good with their influence. It's down to the people in privilege to help those society is far less kind to, after all.

He thinks that's pretty noble. Then thinks Kayo would kick his ass for that too.

"I'm definitely an introvert." John laughs, when asked. He rubs his hands awkwardly up and down both arms as he considers it - like he's either cold (which is very unlikely on a finely tuned, temperature and humidity controlled space station) or physically trying to remove the sensation that the thought of people watching him has brought. "Always have been. It's probably a bit strange when my job is literally communications, but at least I get to do it from 22,400 miles away, and it doesn't involve canapes or small talk."

The wrinkle in John's nose doesn't improve at the mention of kids.

"Uh." The spaceman blinks, "I think I'd be happy enough as a weird Uncle to any children my brothers might want to have." John decides, after a long moment. It's not something he's ever really thought much about; considering the majority of the Tracy's are either too young or lacking a committed relationship. John, as an asexual, is perfectly content with his only girl being Thunderbird Five - fully dedicated as he is to his life amongst the stars. No, he's got very little time or desire for relationships or offspring, John thinks firmly. The gravity ring is the only kind he needs.

"My biggest phobia?" John bites his bottom lip. He's starting to get uncomfortable, but settles on; "Langstrom Fischler and what he tries to call inventions." Because John doesn't really have any classic phobias, per say; he’s not afraid of darkness, heights, or the endless void of space. Even being all alone so often doesn’t bother John half as much as it probably should, and he accepted the statistical probability of his own death, up in orbit, a long, long time ago. If he's actually afraid of anything; it's simply something happening to his brothers, the way it happened to their parents.

"What's a day off?" He adds, trying to re-find his grin, "Never heard of them." Though, John thinks, it would be nice to take Alan out to the space center again. To see the observatory. They've not been since... well gee, not since he finished his tour with NASA and International Rescue really began operations. That’s... an absurdly long amount of time, even if Five does have a better telescopic array. "You know," John says, "Now that I’ve got Eos to keep an eye on things up here for me, I think it's about time I owe my brothers a day out."

[diavolos-secret-blog]

So you haven't changed a bit... it's to be expected, i suppose. In that case i'm assuming if (or do you want me to say 'when'?) you get out of this loop you plan on going after Giorno for revenge and take back your position as the boss?

Why, of course. After all, one can't change, being forced to stay in-between time forever.

While your clocks tick, your calendars switch pages, your coffee gets cold and your keys become covered in rust beyond recognition, I am here. Stable, not one moment older. Not one more wrinkle on my skin, not one more scar on my flesh.

I am everchanging, attempting to adapt to every situation I am put in. Do not allow the title of a "death loop" to put wool over your eyes; all of this only strengthens me. Much like a piece of iron, I am being forged by flames that lick my skin with burning passion, by barrages of strikes that seem neverending.

I am being moulded to withstand. To survive. Be precise and flexible, thinking and knowing on the fly.

I will reclaim my empire.

[positioningmyemotions]

I just keep hoping I'll make it to the day my tattoos have faded beyond recognition. That my skin has wrinkled. That my bones ache from sun up to sundown. I wish to have lived a full, rich life. I wish to have memories that have faded, but never quite leave me. That even though my friends will have gone, I still remember the sounds of their laughter. A thousand kisses have graced my lips. I wish to stare into the trees on an old porch and close my eyes to every reason I chose to stay.

If it is not by my own hand

I wish to live

[writeraven]

GOODBYE, MY LOVE

“Saying goodbye to close ones is always the hardest.” — Edin Dzeko

TAGS: [ ravenael. » A Series of Unrelated Events ]

LINKS: [ Tumblr » Collection, Fandom | AO3 » Work, Collection, Series ]

STATUS: Complete; 1 chapter (2 parts).

FANDOM: Wizarding World » Harry Potter (Next Gen).

GENRES: Short Story, Family, Slice of Life.

COUNT: 1,154 words.

SHIPS: Arthur/Molly, Harry/Ginny (mentioned).

CAST: Arthur Weasley, Molly Weasley.

ACCOLADE ― JUDGES’ PICK: WINNING ENTRY.

HOST: [FFnet] The Houses Competition.

CATEGORY: [Y4R8] Prompt.

PROMPT: [Prompt] Saying goodbye to a loved one.

WARNING ― character death.

The Burrow had been quiet and empty ever since Molly Weasley’s youngest child, Ginny, left the house to live with her husband, Harry Potter, in London. She could still count the years since the chatters had gone with the wind; all the kids were grown up and gone, venturing out into the world towards the unlimited opportunities waiting for them out there… Just like how birds would leave the nest to spread their wings and fly towards the open, blue sky. Molly knew she should feel proud of her children, each armed with the talent, knowledge, and skills that would help them to succeed in their respective areas. However, she’d be lying if a part of her didn’t want to let them go, forever seeing them as her little tykes whom she would smother with all the motherly love she could ever give.

Now, only the enchanted family clock was left behind with her, showing the current status of her loved ones at all times… except for one. Fred’s clock-hand has been permanently stuck at ‘lost’ since his death at the Battle of Hogwarts many years ago, and she couldn’t bring herself to remove his portrait from the clock. It was a loss she could never come to terms with, even after such a long time; the hand was the only thing left in the house to remind her of Fred, that he was never really gone.

Fred’s clock-hand wasn’t the only thing that left a gaping hole in Molly’s chest. Her eyes glanced at another portrait that would shatter her fragile heart into a million pieces. People would die one day, she knew that, but logic did nothing to calm the despair eddying inside her trembling body. She wasn’t sure if she could go on like this to watch someone dying in front of her again, especially when the person was someone she loved so deeply.

Closing her eyes to fight back her tears, she finally turned her back on the clock—at the clock-hand of her husband, Arthur, pointing at ‘mortal peril’.

The high-pitched creaking echoed up the staircase as Molly made her way towards Arthur’s bedroom, balancing a tray of food cautiously with her wand. Her hands were shaking too much to carry it manually; she had to grip the handrail to steady herself, fearing that she would fall off if she took a misstep. Maybe it was the old age that made her breathless when she finally reached the door to Arthur’s room, or maybe it was her welling sadness that tired her out while trying to suppress the feeling.

Taking a deep breath, she raised her free hand to knock on the door.

“I’m coming in, Arthur.”

The door opened to the view of an old man seated in a rocking armchair, who turned his head to Molly when she entered the room with the food tray. The wrinkles on his face deepened as the corner of his cracked lips lifted up into a smile, then his lips parted to croak out a word, “Molly.”

Arthur Weasley was beyond recognition from how he used to look like. Aging had taken a serious toll on the former Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office: his signature bright red hair was gone, and only a few wisps of white strands remained on his almost bald head. His once tall, lean build was now reduced to a shrunken, bony figure; his fair complexion had lost its original luster, now merely wrinkled skin that appeared dry and brown under the setting sun that streamed through the open window.

“Merlin’s beard, Arthur!” Molly exclaimed, setting down the tray hurriedly on the bedside table and rushed towards the rocking armchair. “How many times have I told you to stay in bed? You shouldn’t be moving around so much—”

“My dear Molly,” her husband interrupted; the twinkle in his blue eyes did not falter even with his declining health condition. “What is coming will come, whether we like it or not. I know.” Molly instantly grabbed a shaky hand that poked out from under the blanket on Arthur’s lap. Before she could open her mouth, her husband stopped her with a hacking cough before he went on, “The time is near… isn’t it?”

"No, no… Arthur, please. Don’t say it.”

He shook his head slowly and continued to smile. “I’m… dying.”

Molly was finding it harder to fight back the tears in her eyes, her vision blurring as the fear of losing Arthur threatened to overwhelm her. No, she wanted to scream, but nothing came out except quiet sobs. No, you can’t do this to me!

“Look… at me, Molly.”

She wiped away her tears and complied, her brown gaze locking with Arthur’s blue ones. The very thought of losing her husband to Death terrified her, so why did he seem so peaceful, brave, with no ounce of fear in the eyes that still shone with vitality, even as his body was deteriorating with each passing day?

“Don’t look… so sad,” he wheezed, lifting his wizened hand slowly to touch Molly’s cheek. “Death is inevitable… It’s something we must accept, instead of running away from it. Fearing the unavoidable… won’t change anything.”

Molly felt his finger slipping off her jawline, and she grasped his hand in hers. “But, Arthur…”

“If anything, the Battle of Hogwarts taught us many important lessons. Harry and Ron have told me a little about… Voldemort.” There was bitterness in the last word he uttered. “He never knew, understood, and felt true love. He believed that power was everything in the world… that love was what made people weak. He thought that love would drive people to death and that it was pathetic, so he was afraid of dying. He closed his heart and committed numerous horrifying crimes… to run away from all the things he didn't want to face.”

“He was wrong.”

“Yes,” Arthur breathed, and his voice was becoming softer—weaker. “Power and love… are part of the same double-edged sword. Power can make us physically stronger… but our hearts susceptible to temptations. Love can drive us into despair when it’s lost… but it can also strengthen us beyond our imagination if we understand its meaning and value in our life.”

He turned to his sobbing wife with a small smile. “Don’t… blame yourself for Fred’s death, Molly. He may be gone from the world, but he’s forever in here.”

His hand slithered out of Molly’s grasp and pointed a trembling finger at her chest.

“And I… will always be in your heart, too.”

“A-Arthur?”

Then his hand landed with a thud beside him on the armchair seat, and his wheezing voice was barely more than a hoarse whisper.

“Goodbye… my love.”

Molly let out a sharp gasp at her husband’s last rattling breath, and the light in his blue eyes went out with the final heartbeat in his chest.

“Arthur!”

AUTHOR’S NOTE.

This story contains a few sources of inspiration:

Title based on the Chinese ballad, “Goodbye My Love”, performed by Teresa Teng.

Parts of the story loosely based on the theme song of Disney’s Tarzan, “You’ll Be In My Heart”, performed by Phil Collins.

Support me on Ko-fi — https://ko-fi.com/whyraven. Thank you very much for your continuous support☕

[alchiest]

My Mother's Love: A Portrait in Expressions

In the quiet of dawn, her face emerges—a canvas etched with love's brushstrokes. Her eyes, deep pools of tenderness, cradle a universe of hopes and dreams. Let us decipher this sacred language, the facial recognition of my mother's love. Her brow, unlined by worry, arcs like a crescent moon. It is the cradle where we find solace the soft curve that absorbs our tears and whispers, "You are safe." Her lips, like rose petals kissed by morning dew, curve upward. In that smile, she weaves magic conjuring laughter, healing wounds, and stitching broken moments into a tapestry of joy.

Her eyes, those ancient storytellers reveal secrets. When she gazes upon us, they shimmer with pride, forgiveness, and unwavering devotion. They hold galaxies of memories, each star a cherished chapter. Life's storms leave their mark. Her brow, etched with furrows, maps the battles she fought on our behalf. It crinkles when she worries, when she prays for our well-being. Each line whispers, "I carry you."

Her fingertips, weathered yet tender, trace constellations on our cheeks. They wipe away tears, brush tangled hair, and linger a silent promise that she'll never let go. Lean close, and you'll catch it the fragrance of her love. It smells of warm bread, fresh laundry, and bedtime stories. It lingers in the folds of her neck, an invisible cloak that wraps us in security.

Her jaw, set in determination, hums lullabies even when words fail. It cradles our fears, rocks them to sleep, and sings of resilience. It says, "I'll fight for you, always." Around her eyes, laughter etches delicate lines. They map the joyous moments the picnics, scraped knees, and whispered secrets. Each crease is a testament: "Life is beautiful because of you." Sometimes, her cheeks bear the weight of unshed tears. They glisten in moonlight, reflecting our pain. But they also mirror hope the promise that love endures beyond loss.

Her chin, lifted in grace, holds whispered prayers. She prays for our happiness, our safety, our dreams. Her jawline is a bridge between earth and heaven a plea for blessings. And so, in the contours of her face, we find the epic saga of my mother's love, a symphony played on skin, a masterpiece painted with wrinkles and grace.

[theriddlersunderwear]

The Library Part 4

Wan Shi Tong began to shape-shift, his neck elongating like a snake. His head stretched toward Atsushi,

“Tonight has proved to me that humans are unworthy of my knowledge. From this day forth, humans shall never again step foot in the library of Wan Shi Tong. Goodbye, young farmer. I hope you can explain to the rest of your race why their beloved library is gone.”

The Deity began to beat his wings harshly, rising to the ceiling. The ground rumbled under Atsushi, and a spectral black glow surrounded the building. Atsushi scrambled to his feet and fled for the front door, just barely leaping to safety before the entire library sank. Slowly descending into the hot sand, disappearing to the Spirit Realm with Poe’s mutilated body inside.

Atsushi was now an elderly man, lying on his deathbed. His skin was wrinkled like an elephant, and he’d long since lost his sight. His eyes were watery and dull from blindness, but they continued to stare sharply in the direction of his window. He was the only human left who remembered the library’s existence, and soon, no one would. As he stared at the sky, awaiting his final breath before entering the Great Beyond… a raven with striking blue eyes landed on his window sill.

The bird inspected the elderly man before hopping closer, “Caw.” The bird’s cry was unusually smooth, and as cocky as ever.

“Poe,” the old man croaked with recognition. “After all these years, you’ve come back to collect your dues.”

The bird simply looked on at the pitiful man, waiting expectantly for the words he’d been waiting to hear for decades.

“I’m sorry…,” Atsushi breathed, closing his eyes. And when he opened them seconds later, he could see again. He locked gazes with the bird perched on his window sill. The raven bowed its head in acceptance, seeming to appreciate the apology.

Atsushi could feel his spirit fading. He was not sure where he would end up in the Afterlife, but he would accept whichever destination he had earned himself in life. As he faded away above his physical body, he caught a glimpse of the building he never thought he would see again. And that is where his spirit resides, with Wan Shi Tong and Poe deep within the library. Forever a part of the building’s history.

The raven crowed one last time before turning and flying away, dematerializing in the air. Returning to the library below the Earth.

[scatterbrainedart]

Emperors in their princess dresses, part nine !

Previous parts linked below

Part one (Jimmy) here

Part two (Scott) here

Part three (Joel) here

Part four (Shelby) here

Part five (Sausage) here

Part six (Oli) here

Part seven (Pix) here

Part eight (Fwhip) here

[aemonds-sapphire]

Acceptance

Summary: It’s your wedding night, so why are you knocking on Aemond’s door?

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader

Warnings: NSFW. Virgin reader. Virginity loss. Friends to lovers. Consummation proof. Fingering.

A/N: You can most definitely read this as a stand-alone, but I do recommend reading part I, II, and III for some context. For those who have read each part, this is the final one. Hope you enjoy it!

Word count: 2.5k

To say you were nervous would be an understatement. You were absolutely terrified. But no amount of fear could deter you from the decision you had made.

You stood outside his bedchamber, the pit of your belly tightening in anticipation. Even thiugh there was still a tiny part of you that urged you to walk away, you didn’t.

Because you didn’t want to.

Your knuckles tapped the door twice and your heart lurched into a frantic pace as you bit your lower lip, attempting to keep your nervousness at bay.

It didn’t take long before you were met with Aemond.

He gripped the doorknob while his eye fell to your face first and then to your forearm.

“Did he hurt you?” he asked, clenching his jaw.

Realising the conclusion he had drawn from the bruise that tinted your skin, you immediately shook your head with a chuckle. “No. I… tripped on my way here…”

He wasn’t convinced.

“Aemond… he did not touch me.”

Gradually, the tension on his face faded away, but he remained unmoving.

“May I?”

He stepped to the side at once, eye still fixed on you as you walked in. Closing the door shut, he paced until he was in front of you, bringing your feet to a halt.

You swallowed hard as you glared at the beautiful man with whom you had shared so much of your life. Lines were crossed and blurred beyond recognition. The friendship you had once share had morphed into something you had craved and yearned for.

Until tonight.

Until another man took you as his wife and severed that bond.

“What are you doing here?” he asked seriously.

You stared at him dazedly, feeling a jab at your heart. “He won’t bed me. He’s too drunk to bed me,” you said in a low voice, wishing to match his level of deadpan.

Aemond stood in silence for a long while before he crossed both arms over his chest, the linen undershirt underneath wrinkling.

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” he repeated in a final tone.

Your jaw quirked angrily. “You do not know what I’m here to ask.”

Aemond heaved a deep sigh. “I already know,” he said simply. “You are not mine to take.”

“So you’d have me bed him?”

“He’s your lord husband.”

Your mouth dropped open in shock. In truth, you had considered the idea that he’d be reluctant in having you. He had done so many times before, but you had hoped this time things would go differently.

“I’m willingly giving myself to you,” you said, struggling to keep your voice steady. “My father will demand proof of consummation and…”

He held up a finger. “So that is why you’re here.”

“To give you my maidenhead? Yes.”

But Aemond saw deeper than that. “And proof of consummation.”

You stared at him long and hard. “This is the one thing I have control over as of right now. I was forced into a loveless marriage…” your voice faltered momentarily. “I’m married to a drunken fool who is too out of it to perform his duty.”

Duty.

The very thing that shaped Aemond’s being and one not easily broken.

“I will not take what’s not mine.”

“Please…” you said, realising how pathetic your plea sounded.

An empty silence weaved around both of you, only disrupted by the crackling flames dancing in the fireplace nearby. A warm hand touched your shoulder and you flinched away from his touch.

“I thought… you wanted this…” you said quietly.

His eye narrowed. “What I desire matters not.”

“It does,” you said, letting your robe slide off your shoulders and down your body. “You know I’m yours to take.”

You expected more resistance from him, but you could understand why he didn’t. After all, it was a feeling you knew all too well. Craving what is given to others.

He took a step towards you, eye roaming down the length of your body as you undid your nightgown. Aemond held out his hand to touch it before tugging softly until the sheer fabric came sliding down and pooling at your feet.

The exposure and cooler air had your nipples harden and you shivered as his hand traveled down your shoulder and arm.

“Please, Aemond…” you said, fighting back the urge to cry at how desperate you were. “Please…”

It was already appalling enough to be stuck in this situation, but you refused giving yourself to a man who meant nothing to you. Even if tradition called for it and had people marry each other out of pure convenience, you deserved better than that.

Especially when you had Aemond.

His hand came to rest under your breast and you felt his thumb caressed it slowly.

“You’re tempting,” he said as if talking to himself. “Too tempting.”

“Then take me,” you offered, bringing your own hands to rest on his chest, allowing yourself to feel his firm muscles heave underneath your palms. “I don’t give a fuck about my husband and I’m certain you feel the same way.”

He gritted his teeth. “Not even Vhagar’s fire would match the one flaring inside me when I saw you with him.”

Your fingers gripped the hem of his undershirt and he quickly got rid of it, exposing his torso to you.

“You should have killed him.”

Aemond’s lips turned into a smile. “A very alluring prospect, indeed.”

His hands were suddenly on your breasts and you bit back a moan as he caressed you. You couldn’t help but to have your own eyes travel down his torso, admiring how his muscles rippled under his skin.

“I’m sure Larys Strong will find a way.”

Aemond snickered. “Please do not mention him… it’s a sure way to ruin this.”

By ‘this’ he meant his restrained cock that had your nervousness turn into desire. Trembling fingers gripped the hem of his breeches, but before you could slip one hand inside he gripping your wrist.

“Tonight isn’t about me,” he whispered.

He ducked forward taking your lips in his and your eyes immediately slid shut with a soft sigh of pleasure. You could get lost in his touch for hours. A simple kiss shouldn’t be able to have wetness drip from you, but it couldn’t be helped. When you felt a nibble on your lower lip and his tongue lightly tapping it, you promptly parted your lips and deepened the kiss.

Without tearing himself from you, he took you in his arms, lifting you off your feet effortlessly as you wrapped your arms around his neck.

Aemond only broke the kiss once he reached the edge of the bed. He placed you on top of the soft bedsheets, bringing one knee to press down for support.

You suddenly felt very exposed and staring into his eye had a wave of embarrassment wash over you, breaking eye contact.

“Look at me.”

Sucking in a harsh breath, you did as you were told, pressing your thighs together to hide your desire for him.

Suddenly, he moved away from the bed and came back carrying your nightgown.

Confusion splattered across your face as dropped to his knees on the mattress and slid closer to you. He gripped both your knees and parted your legs slowly to reveal yourself fully to his gaze.

Without uttering a word be brought your nightgown to rest just below your entrance, tucking it slightly under your backside.

“You’ll need your proof of consummation.”

Oh.

Aemond then settled in between your legs, leaning into you to press a tender kiss to the corner of your lips, causing you to shift restlessly underneath him, very much aware of the weight of his body on yours.

Your back instantly arched your back as you felt his hard cock pressed flat against your folds, causing your clit to swell and throb in anticipation.

Aemond lowered his face to your neck, planting several open-mouthed kisses across your sensitive skin. Your eyes fluttered shut and a moan escaped your lips. His tongue slid over your pulse point, sending your hips to lift from the bed, further increasing the pressure his cock applied to your clit.

“Aemond… please…” you groaned, deciding you were too tired of waiting for him to finally deflower you.

But what you lacked in patience, Aemond made up for in incredible self-restraint.

With one hand he stilled your rolling hips. “You’re not ready.”

You huffed in annoyance, dragging your fingernails along his chest teasingly. But he was right. He was well-endowed and you needed all the preparation he was willing to provide — and you willing to go through.

After ensuring you remained still, he snaked his hand between your legs, raising his own hips to make room for his prying fingers.

He pressed a kiss to your lips before sliding one finger inside.

But you could take more than that.

And you were aware he knew once a second finger joined the other.

You gasped into his lips, breath shaking and wet sounds filling his bedchamber. The head of his cock would occasionally hit your clit each time he shifted on top of you, making your entire body shudder in pleasure.

He gave you one final peck. “Can you take another one?”

It was possible you could, but you didn’t want another finger. You wanted his cock to push through your maidenhead and have you be bound to him.

You immediately shook your head. “I need more than that… please…”

Instead, he curled his fingers inside while pressing your clit with his thumb, causing you to cry out, nails digging into his shoulders.

Aemond held himself above you, watching you intently as more head flooded your body and wetness spilled from you. You drew your eye open and realised his gaze was as a fire that burned down on your face

Your mind drew a blank and you felt your lower abdomen begin to twist into a familiar knot. It never failed to amaze you how easily Aemond could get your over the edge.

Knowing your body far too well by now, Aemond was quick to withdraw both fingers from inside just as your walls were starting to clench down frantically around him.

“Aemond!” you cried out in despair at the overwhelming feeling of emptiness.

He brought his fingers to your lips, smearing your wetness across them before tasting it in a searing and scorching kiss.

You moaned, rolling your hips into him once you felt him lower himself onto you once more.

He cradled your face in his hand. “Are you ready?”

You nodded right away in between gasps as he slid his cock along your slick folds.

Aemond heaved a deep sigh as he positioned himself at your entrance.

“Tell me to stop and I will.”

You nodded, your heart nearly bursting out of your chest.

With a slight roll of his hips, Aemond managed to get the head of his cock through the barrier. You gasped loudly you felt a sting of pain followed by the uncomfortable sensation of something rolling down.

Tears gathered in your eyes and you felt Aemond kiss each of the away with his lips. He wasn’t moving inside you and you were wholeheartedly thankful for his thoughtfulness.

The pain wasn’t unbearable by any means, but it was enough to have you sobbing lightly.

“We can stop here,” he said lovingly, pressing another kiss to your forehead.

You took a deep breath, mustering all the strength within you. “Keep going…”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

No.

But it didn’t matter. You had been waiting for this for far too long to back down now.

“Try your best to relax.”

Aemond kissed you again, but you understood it was mainly to muffle your cries as he sank deeper inside you. You tried to ease the grip around him, but it was proving itself to be harder than expected.

He broke the kiss with a growl, breath coming out in hot pants. “You’re too tight… I won’t… last long…”

Even through the pain, you managed to feel the weight of his words as your clit pulsed once again.

By the time he had buried himself deeply inside, you didn’t dare breathe for a few seconds, your body still trying to adjust to his size.

Your hands clawed at his back as you tried to ease some of the tension.

“Are you well?” he asked in between gritted teeth.

“Thought it would hurt more,” you breathed out, noticing he was struggling to keep himself steady. “Are you?”

He let out a breathy growl. “You’re squeezing too hard…”

It was clear that he wasn’t going to last long, so you squeezed one hand in between your bodies, applying a faint pressure to your clit.

“Move,” you urged him.

You needed to feel more of him and when the young prince slid out slowly and back inside, you felt the air in your lungs rush out rapidly. Your clit demanded attention and you didn’t mind to provide it, but Aemond would have none of that.

He pushed your hand away at once replacing it with his own, setting a slow and steady pace as your walls finally began to ease down around his cock.

The overwhelming heat and size of him filling the aching emptiness was something you never thought you needed. In no time, your muscles were clamping down around him urgently and the bedchamber whirled away into a blur as orgasm crept upon you, catapulting you straight into the middle of a storm.

“Aemond… Aemond…” you gasped repeatedly, feeling the muscles on his back flex languidly with each slow thrust.

Once more, you arched your back and your vision went dark. Spasms and contractions of pleasure washed down your body, centered around where where his body was connected to yours. Aemond had buried his face in the crook of your neck, no longer bothering to silence your cries of pleasure.

It took you a long time to realise he had pulled out of you and was coating your belly with hot streaks of cum, letting out the most alluring growls you had ever heard from him.

He slumped to the side, removing the blanket of warmth he had enveloped you in with his body.

You felt incapable of stringing words together for the longest time, merely trying to get your breathing to steady while feeling the rolls of his seed streaming down your sides.

Aemond was the first to move, gathering your nightgown in his hand, displaying a few drops of blood that had stained the fabric.

“I think I may have to kill your husband.”

[honestsycrets]

Mine, Mine, Mine | [ Ivar x Reader, Domestic Fluffs ]

❛ pairing | King!Ivar x Queen!Reader

❛ genre | drabble

❛ summary | it’s hard work, appeasing everyone. after he comes home from raid, he just has one question.

❛  warnings | needy, moody, sassy reader, jealousy (reader), he’s just trying to keep up, mention of raid and kidnapping and all that entails.

❛  sy’s notes | hello, hello. after a bit of a health scare and some high-level school stress, i’m back. request from @whenimaunicorn for hand-holding under the table except this reader wasn’t nearly as sweet as i thought she would be and ended up being a moody bitch. 😂

 Crowds filter into his great hall. They want his gold, to hear of his stories, his speeches that will be sung from the lips of a hundred skalds one day—another busy day at the crown of Kattegat’s throne. You move to the chair where you oversaw the depths of Kattegat’s problems while he was away, a timely revolt, and the outlaws you dragged into the sea.  

He smells of sweat and sea salt. He’s left you waiting out at the shore for his flag so long. Then finally, he’s home. The men after glittering pounds of gold, sprawled across the table in front of the throne. The glittering gold on the table has dwindled down to nothing but scraps of bracelets. The women-- oh, you know how they stare, longing that one cherished kiss at the end of his speeches.

It was yours tonight. Like it always should be. You trace the place his lips were, revel in his lasting kiss, and feel his eye settle on you. For just one moment in the lasting moment of this hideously long day, it was okay. Your cheeks fill with a youthful warmth, embarrassed by his eye on your pursed lips. Your hand drops, swirling around the head of a seat his mother sat on once too.

“What is it?”

It’s almost routine, the way his calloused fingers trail over your knuckles. He gingerly caresses the top of your fingers, slipping between the spaces of your knuckles, grazing over and over again until he finds the confidence to hold your hand.

“Did you miss them?” he asks.

For a moment, you stare out at the swirling bodies—a blend of muddy hues, vibrant heads of blonde and ruddy brown. You don’t answer at first, looking down at your empty plate.

“Miss what?”

As if you hadn’t just been staring at the place he kissed.

Ivar brings his horn to your lips. It tastes better when he’s home as if nature knows when to sweeten the honey and freshen the mead. He must have been in a hurry to return home-- if he came in the depths of spring rather than raid away the summer. Perhaps it is because he had been gone more than a year. Only the word of messengers alerted you that his raid in Sweden with Bjorn had gone as well as it could with two stubborn Ragnarssons side by side.

“My kisses. What else? You stare so longingly at your hand every time I come back.” he prompts without much success. The raid was longer than it should have been, you know he knows that. More than time, though, you’ve gone without the warmth of his body strewn in yours in bed. His hand feels clammy. 

“My sweet,” he says again. “Don’t ignore me.”

There’s a pretty privilege in seeing him duck his head down rather than stare directly at you, as he so often did to the men that served under him. Or above him when King Harald and Hvitserk were alive. He bobs his head in recognition that your mind was made up; you’d make him suffer, and he would sleep on one of the beds bound up by chains in the great hall. Just as he reaches for his crutch, you squeeze his sweaty hand.

“What did you bring me home from the raid?” you redirect his attention, reaching for the remnants of gold—bracelets of solid yellow gold, earrings with filigree, gentle and refined. You snatch an earring and bounce it in your palm.

“A sword.” Your Ivar chuckles. Warm, low, as if you needed anything else to warm your belly.

“A sword, he says.” He raises his hand to reach over the table toward the sword in question. You snatch his hand where it was suspended in the air. When everyone else brought home wives or thralls? Did he think you were stupid?

“Yes-- a sword. Is that so unbelievable?”

“It must be a tremendously beautiful sword to be picked among all the things in Al-Andalus.” you hum in the softest of husks. He knows the purpose; it’s a dance between you and him, a moment of love. You release his hands to loiter over him, trailing your fingers past his long fingerlike braids that tumble down his back. “Hvitserk told you all about the Mediterranean. Are the women there pretty?”

“Not particularly,” he lies.

You shoot him a wan look.

“Are you lying?”

A terrible laugh surges free from his throat. The women had to be pretty. The women there with russet or ivory skin, eyes as dark as night, or as warm as the wood that fortified your home with him. Some flirt behind their silks, even with you! You like the outgoing ones. You’ve always loved a strong woman as one yourself.

“Yes. Of course, they are. Why would I sail my men so far for ugly women?” he laughs, and you whop his shoulder, easing back into your chair.

“And all you brought home was a sword.”

“I know my wife. If I was to bring home a sunkissed beauty--” Ivar scrunches his nose up, a wealth of wrinkles bunches at the broad ridge. “You would be jealous.”

“Why would I be jealous?”

You snatch his cup from his fingers and chug it down. All in one. He watches a dribble of the liquid dabble down your chin, catching it with his thick finger in one long stroke up your throat to your jaw. You drop the horn upon the table and turn your head toward him, drawing your lips over his lips. You’ve missed the taste of his plush lips, tickled with a bit of salt and booze, despite his growing smile.

“My love, you are always jealous.”

@tephi101 @alicedopey @supernaturalvikingwhore @tootie-fruity @titty-teetee @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla @ethereallysimple @deathbyarabbit @deathbyarabbit @readsalot73 @natalie-rdr @lol-haha-joke @lisinfleur @hissouthernprincess @marvelousse @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol @vikingsmania @wish-i-was-a-mermaid @lif3snotouttogetyou @gruffle1 @cris101071 @gold-dragon-slayer @babypink224221 @wonderwoman292 @naaladareia @beyond-the-ashes @generic-fangirl @chinduda @laketaj24, @peaceisadirtyword, @ly–canthrope @cris101071 @daughterofthenight117 @unassumingviking @ladyofsoa, @inforapound @winchesterwife27 @feyrearcheron44@readsalot73 @squirrelacorngliterfarts @gold-dragon-slayer @medievalfangirl @sallydelys  @bluearchersstuff @affectionrabbitt @whatamood13 @notyouraveragegirl17 @igetcarriedawaywithyou @unacceptabletatertots @ivarandersen @stra-vage @tgrrose @cookies186 @learninglemni-blog @theleeshanotlouise @soiproclaim @msmorganforever @destynelseclipsa @soleil-dor @strangunddurm @superwolfchild-fan @punkrocknpearls @flowers-in-your-hayr

[thebadgerclan]

Grief

Pairing: Aleksander Morozova x reader

Requested by @mrs-brekker15

Summary: Through your grief, Aleksander will be there...

A/N: Moved this up a bit on my list bc I wanted to get this to you sooner and I also wanted to write it sooner.  I’m so sorry for your loss, stay strong 💙🦌

Babushka is the Russian term for grandmother

The letter was written in your mother’s handwriting, her usually tidy letters shaky, the ink smeared from tears, both yours and hers.  Y/N, We’ve just received word that your grandmother passed away last night.  It was peaceful, she felt no pain.  We’re already planning her funeral, she will be buried following Grisha traditions.  We love you, -Mama.  Tears blurred your vision and you clutched the paper to your chest, shoulders shaking.

Your feet carried you out of your rooms, through the corridors and toward the War Room, toward the only person who could console you in your grief.  You and your grandmother were very close, her having played a huge part in your upbringing and childhood.  When you were found out to be Grisha, fearful of leaving home, she was the first at your side, comforting you, telling you stories of the Little Palace.  She’d written every week, telling you what was going on at home, her letters always bringing a smile to your face.  And when you’d married Aleksander, she was the first one to embrace you and your husband, welcoming him to the family.

The oprichniki outside the War Room let you enter without question, and you shouldered the heavy door open.  Inside, Aleksander wasn’t listening to a word his councilmen were saying, focus on the dust floating in the sunbeams.  But when you entered, tears streaking your face, he straightened in his seat, attention completely on you.  You hesitated in the doorway, brows knit together, sniffling softly.  Something was clearly wrong, something had upset you, and Aleksander held up his hand, silencing the councilmen.

“Everyone out,” he said, low voice conveying the urgency of the situation.  “But sir,” one councilman protested.  “We have yet to-”  “I said everyone out.”  Shadows pooled in the corners of the room, and everyone scattered, chairs scrapping and papers fluttering as the council hurried out.  “Shall I wait outside, moi sovernnyi?” Ivan asked, and your husband nodded.  When the heartrender had shut the door behind him, Aleksander pushed his chair back, rising to his feet.

“What’s the matter, darling?” he asked, striding towards you, concern on his face.  “What has happened, are you hurt?”  You met him halfway, nearly collapsing into his arms, sobs tearing free. “Y/N, what’s wrong?  You’re worrying me, lapushka.”  You handed him your mother’s letter, hands shaking, the parchment wrinkled.  Aleksander read it, understanding and sorrow washing over him.  “Oh Y/N, darling, I’m so sorry.  I’m so, so sorry, love.”

Something in Aleksander’s recognition of your grandmother’s death broke the feeble dam holding your emotions in check, and you shattered.  Your legs gave out as you wailed, cursing the Saints for taking your beloved babushka from you.  Aleksander caught you, lowering you to the ground, pulling you into his arms once he was sitting as well.  “I know, I know,” he said, holding you tight against his chest.  “Let it out, my love, I’ve got you.  Let it out.”  With your face pressed into your husband’s chest, you cried, your tears soaking the thick material of his kefta, your hands clutching his lapels.

Aleksander’s heart broke for you, knowing that you were hurting and there was nothing he could do.  No, he told himself.  You can be here for her.  Hold her, dry her tears, comfort her.  And he hoped that would be enough.  He sat on the hard floor of the War Room for 40 minutes, no care for his own comfort, rocking you gently side to side.  And after a while, you calmed a bit, sobs reduced to weak cries, though tears still fell.  “My love, do you want to move to the bedroom?  Make you more comfortable?”

Weakly, you nodded, and Aleksander arranged you into a bridal carry, rising from the floor with you in his arms.  You kept your face buried in his chest as Aleksander opened the door, shutting it with his hip behind him.  “I will be unavailable for the rest of today and all of tomorrow.”  Ivan nodded.  “And beyond that, sir?”  “We’ll see.”  Ivan bowed, turning on his heel, and Aleksander carried you back to your shared bedroom.

He shut the door softly behind him, moving to set you down gently on the plush bed.  Aleksander entered the en suite bathroom, emerging a few minutes later with a variety of items.  He held up one of your nightgowns, draping it on the mattress.  “Let’s get you changed, darling.”  You nodded, letting Aleksander remove your clothes and pull the nightgown over your head.  The fabric was cool against your skin, and you wiped tears from your face.  Aleksander sat next to you, a damp cloth in hand.

Your face was hot and blotchy, overheated from your crying.  But your husband ran the cloth over your face, cleaning dried tears and cooling your skin.  He then brushed and braided your hair, his touch an immense comfort to you.  “Can you drink some water, love?” he asked, pouring a tall glass.  “I don’t want you to dehydrate.”  Again, you nodded, taking the offered glass and bringing it to your lips.

While you drained the glass, Aleksander changed himself, swapping his kefta for a pair of black pajama pants, slipping back into bed at your side.  You curled back into his arms as soon as you’d set your glass down, making yourself as small as possible in his embrace, face buried in his chest, Aleksander’s arms wrapped firmly around your middle.  One hand stroked your back, the other carded through your hair, his lips pressed to your temple.

“I can’t believe she’s gone,” you said, the first words you’d spoken, voice hoarse from crying.  “I saw her only a month ago.”  Aleksander hummed, the rumbling of his voice in his chest soothing to you.  “I know, my beloved, I know.  She was an incredible woman.”  You nuzzled closer to Aleksander, clinging to him as if your life depended on it.  “She has returned to the making at the heart of the world, my love.  She is at peace.”

Aleksander held you for hours, listening to stories about your grandmother, wiping your tears away when they came, wishing he could take your pain and bear it for you.  He called for a dinner tray for you, which you picked at, but Aleksander didn’t push.  And when your eyes drooped, your husband laid back in bed, draping the room in shadow.  You snuggled sleepily into his chest, humming softly.  “I love you, my Y/N,” Aleksander whispered, kissing your forehead.  “I have you.  Sleep, my love.”  “I love you too,” you mumbled, sleep dragging you under.  Through your grief, Aleksander would be there for you, for every moment.