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averylostsoul · 4 years ago

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name: avery weaver

nicknames: avee, weaver

age: twenty-nine

gender identity: cis-female.

pronouns: she/her

sexuality: demisexual

birthday: february 19, 1992

star sign: pisces

occupation: unemployed, past manager at animal shelter & assistant manager at nursey/flower shop

place of birth: peggy’s cove, nova scotia

height: 5′9″

+nurturing, personable, honest

-naive, insecure, anxious

tldr;

Avery was visiting Cornith Bay as a solo backpacker when she fell victim to a bite and run!! She has a very sweet and empathetic soul, so the idea of feeding is quite monstrous to her. She’s been wondering through the city on her good days, and hiding away in the country side on her bad days, leaving a tiny trail of victims of her own...She would love to get back home but she’s terrified of spending hours in a giant flying metal tube surrounded by hundreds of snack paks.

She’s been pretty distant and has tried not to talk to too many strangers but as time goes on, she’s more curious about finding the vampire who turned her. And also finding someone to help her control her cravings. Above all, she’s just terrified of hurting more people. Who would have thought her Eat Pray Love Mama Mia fantasy would turn out like this?

History (tw: blood, mild graphic violence)

Avery was usually the loudest person in the room, although surprisingly no always the most obnoxious. She had a way of attracting attention with her bright smile and overly positive personality. She was the loyal support group to many of her friends and often went out of her way to please those she cared about. She grew up in a small town in Nova Scotia; often the caretaker of her friends, plastering band-aids on scraped knees or mixing hangover concoctions. She always seemed to be surrounded by a bubble of cheerfulness and pure luck. Avery was a hard worker but there had to be something else in play. Every project, job, or measly goal she worked towards ended in happy success. Sometimes even her friends doubted the reality of it all. How can one person expel so much glee and succeed at everything they did? Avery chalked it up to the belief that if you put positivity into the universe, it gives it back.

Or the universe was just waiting to tip the scales back in its favor, and she was none the wiser.

Avery was an emotional child. She always felt too much. Ear shattering sobbing over a simple scraped knee or hyperactive wandering out of her mothers sight, leading to quite an ear tugging lecture. But, she was coddled, she was allowed to feel anything and everything. She was never shushed in a forbidding tone, always loved and quite frankly spoiled.

In Avery’s reality, her family was a fairytale but as with most tiny imaginative brains, she was missing the full picture. She was seven when she last saw her father, and didn’t quite understand why she, her mother, and her brother needed to move into a tiny studio apartment. Nothing but a dirty old mattress on the floor, taken off the street for the three of them. Of course she didn't complain, after all, now there was no way monsters could hide under her bed and she got to sleep next to her mother every night. Every meal was Easy Mac or Chef Boyardee and Avery thrived. It was only after a few years that she was old enough to notice the tension between her mother and brother. After all, it was her brother who watched her as their mother worked doubles and night shifts. He didn’t get to play with other children the way she did. Does the eldest of a single mother ever really get a childhood? Avery was always quick to step out of the way when the two began arguing. Oblivious to her role in their relationship, and far too much the golden child to dare get involved. So aloof to the ordeal, she didn’t quite understand why her brother left their home on his eighteenth birthday and she never heard from him again.

By the time she turned fourteen, her mother had a better financial footing and inherited a small animal rescue from her long time boss. The poor woman was a saint and 92 years old at the time of her passing. As somewhat of a surrogate grandmother for Avery, she taught her the fundamentals of empathy. Caring for the souls of those who could no longer care for themselves, and nursing animals back to a healthy and happy state. She had volunteered at the shelter for many years, but under her mother, began taking on greater responsibilities. By the time she was eighteen, she had become a manager and ran the shelter on a daily basis. She was saving for college, but not entirely sure what she would focus on. Veterinary school seemed the obvious choice, but she didn’t cope well with the tougher calls inside the shelter.

While her friends partied in university, Avery began feeling a bit left out but she had an attachment to her current routine that couldn’t be severed. Instead, frequent weekend gatherings were planned and she filled her free time with hobbies. One of which quickly became gardening which may have been slightly influenced by the owner of a quaint little nursery shop in town. She began working there part-time as a second income to save for her eventual attempt at university.

She was, however, quite stubborn financially and very wrapped into her routines. Why change a perfectly good thing? She wanted to save every last penny she made, refusing to take out loans or attend university until she had the entirety of tuition in her accounts. Someone a bit more perceptive could have guessed that in reality, Avery was simply very much afraid of change and discomfort.

As Avery grew older the pressures of a societal expectation of an appropriate timeline for a woman her age began weighing on her. Her friend’s graduations and careers, and even engagements began to make her feel menial. She was stagnant while everyone else moved forward. The sudden engagement of the aforementioned nursery owner and closure of their shop was the last push Avery needed. In quite a frantic fashion, she decided on a solo backpacking venture through Europe.

Corinth Bay was the second destination on her list, but she had a full week to spend lazily by the water. She never doubted her safety, at least not in that moment. Her naivety, the catalyst. She found the maze of cobblestone streets and sun setting behind olde world houses beautiful at dusk. So mesmerized she barely felt the hand around her waist and lips on her throat before the pain of tearing flesh seared throughout her nerves. Barely a scream before she laid on those cobblestones gasping for the smallest breath. Her vision blurred, fueled with fear of what would come next as whatever it was pressed against her lips, the metallic taste of blood coating her throat. Was it her own? Or someone else’s?

She didn’t dream, at least not that she could remember, but light fluttered through closed eyelids. Street lamps, warm windows. For a moment, she thought she was back home. Tucked under her covers as the sun peaked through sheer curtains. The cold, hard stone beneath her body tethered her back to reality. The slick, wet, sludge, slimy under her hands confirming the tingling on her throat was not a phantom pain. It was the sharp cramp in the pit of her stomach that sent her sitting up. It felt hollow, and suddenly the metal left on her tongue tasted like honey. Sweet and an aching craving only demanded more. She lapped at her fingers, covered by the crime, but it tasted sour and rotted. She knew immediately it was to be fresh.

Feral, like the strays her mother took in, she moved without thinking. It felt parasitic, the way her brain commanded her body to attain sustenance. The first soul she crossed, she’d never forget how her screams faded as life drained from her veins. It was only then that she could feign some form of control. The realization of her monstrous actions, and fear of that fleeting moment of happiness when the blood slid down her throat. She once was a girl who sobbed when her father killed so much as a simple fly, now she held the corpse of a woman in her arms. Resisting the urge to lick the blood from her skin.

A nightmare in its truest form. She escaped the inner city, towards the countryside, hiding away from the need to satisfy her craving. Avery learned quickly that she could not drink from animals. The sickness only exacerbated her need for human blood. She dared not to enter the sun, stories of myths and legends were cautionary. As the hollowness in her stomach grew, so did her madness. The further she tried to stay away, the easier it was for her to lose control. The slaughters she left in her wake haunted her dreams. An innocent turned into a monstrosity.

#it me #history

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corinthbayrpg · 4 years ago

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NAME. Avery Weaver AGE & BIRTH DATE. 29 & February 19th, 1992 GENDER & PRONOUNS. She/Her SPECIES. Vampire OCCUPATION. Unemployed FACE CLAIM. Davika Hoorne

BIOGRAPHY

( tw: blood, and violence ) Avery was usually the loudest person in the room, although surprisingly no always the most obnoxious. She had a way of attracting attention with her bright smile and overly positive personality. She was the loyal support group to many of her friends and often went out of her way to please those she cared about. She grew up in a small town in Nova Scotia; often the caretaker of her friends, plastering band-aids on scraped knees or mixing hangover concoctions. She always seemed to be surrounded by a bubble of cheerfulness and pure luck. Avery was a hard worker but there had to be something else in play. Every project, job, or measly goal she worked towards ended in happy success. Sometimes even her friends doubted the reality of it all. How can one person expel so much glee and succeed at everything they did? Avery chalked it up to the belief that if you put positivity into the universe, it gives it back.

Or the universe was just waiting to tip the scales back in its favor, and she was none the wiser.

PERSONALITY

+ nurturing, personable, honest - naïve, insecure, anxious

PLAYED BY KJ. EST. She/Her.

#kj

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totentanz · 7 years ago

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As I Am Bahamut, You Are Iskander: Interlude

This is a continuation of my Imperial!Prompto arranged marriage fic, which can be found here. I wasn’t really expecting to have any Prompto POV in this fic, but here we are.

Prompto was in Skadi’s stall when Aranea found him. He’d never been the sort of rider to just hand his mount over to the grooms as soon he jumped off of her back - he liked taking the time brush his bird’s cream-colored feathers until they were silky smooth, clean the dirt from her claws, and polish her beak until it shone. The rhythm of the work was soothing to him. Something about Skadi’s sweet, faintly musty scent, the way she crooned softly and turned to nuzzle at his hair, and the gentle rhythm of her heartbeat beneath his palms never failed to set his mind at ease; and right now, he was in desperate need of peace.

Noctis Lucis Caelum. All throughout Prompto’s childhood, Lucis had been an ominous, unstoppable force that spread through Niflheim like a cancer, eating away at its strength and lands until the throne itself finally collapsed. Lucis was the reason his father had grown thinner, his hair grayer, and his eyes more haunted every Prompto saw him. Lucis had destroyed his family, and now Prompto had been given to its king as the spoils of war.

He closed his eyes and pressed his face against the warm feathers covering Skadi’s neck. Noctis’ stern, handsome face floated behind his eyelids. He could still feel the ghost of the king’s lips on the back of his hand, a shivery sensation that made his stomach tighten. He wasn’t entirely sure if it was repulsion or anticipation.

“Prompto.”

Prompto opened his eyes. Aranea was standing in the aisle outside of Skadi’s stall. The chocobo kweh-ed softly at her and eyed her silver hair with obvious interest.

Prompto managed to summon up a smile. “He’s gone?”

“He’s gone.” Aranea flicked a stray wisp of hair away from her eyes and made a face at Skadi. “What did he say to you?”

Prompto shrugged. “Platitudes about how he wants to make me happy.” He rubbed at his hand. “Nothing that really matters.”

“And what did you think of him?”

“Does it matter?” Prompto turned back to Skadi and ran his fingers mindlessly through her feathers. His beautiful, faithful bird. “It doesn’t seem to.”

“Self-pity doesn’t suit you.” Aranea slid the stall door open. “Come with me.”

Prompto gave Skadi one last pat and stepped reluctantly out of her stall. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

Days were short in Niflheim during the winter months, and when they emerged from the stables the shadows were already starting to lengthen. But Aranea didn’t take the path leading back up the hill toward the manor house. Instead, she set off on the path that wandered past the outdoor chocobo pen and into the woods Prompto had been riding in earlier.

“I was just out here,” objected Prompto as he hurried to keep up with Aranea’s longer strides. “And besides, I’m getting cold.”

“Getting cold?” echoed Aranea. She looked back at him with raised eyebrows. “You’re a child of the northern wilds. There’s no way this is too cold for you.” Her lips curved up in a mischievous smile. “You know who really can’t stand the cold, though? That Lucian king of yours.”

Prompto couldn’t suppress a snort of laughter. “Did you see how many clothes he was wearing? I’m surprised he could even walk!”

“And he was trying so hard to look like it didn’t bother him!” Aranea was laughing too, a bright, clear sound that carried on the crisp winter air like chimes. She stepped toward Prompto and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Come on. You’re made of stronger stuff.”

They didn’t stay on the path for long. They’d scarcely entered the forest proper before Aranea turned off on a trail formed by the hooves of passing leukorns. It was so narrow they were forced to walk in single file, their footsteps crunching softly in the snow blanketing the forest floor. A few brave birds darted through the pine branches that rose over their heads, but otherwise they might as well have been the only living creatures in the world.

They’d been walking for about ten minutes when they reached a rocky outcrop jutting up from the ground. Aranea went first, carefully checking for any icy patches lurking beneath the snow, and Prompto scrambled up after her. It wasn’t a difficult climb. He wasn’t even out of breath when he reached the top and pulled himself up next to Aranea.

The landscape that stretched out before them, however...that was enough to leave him breathless.

Shiva’s Mirror was the deepest, coldest lake in all of Niflheim. Legend said that when Ifrit was courting Shiva, She demanded a mirror as a courting gift. Only it could not be a simple mirror made of silver that any craftsman would be able to duplicate - it needed to be something that no mortal hands could possibly create, a divine looking glass that was worthy of a goddess. The Infernian, delirious with love, accepted Her challenge. He caused one of His most magnificent volcanoes to erupt in a fiery cascade of molten lava, and when the peak collapsed back into itself, He went to Ramuh and begged the Fulgarian to summon a storm that would fill the new caldera with water. The Fulgarian, amused by the entire affair, complied. His torrential rains filled the hollowed out mountain and created a lake whose deep, clear waters formed an immense mirror that could never be replicated by mortal hands. And with that offering, the Infernian won the heart of the Glacian.

As Prompto stared out at the Mirror, he found it easy to believe in ancient legends about divine love and impossible tasks.The snow-capped mountains, the harsh and rugged gray cliffs, the rich blue of an early evening winter sky - every detail was reflected on the lake’s glassy surface, creating a mirror world perfect in every way. It made Prompto feel small and insignificant, nothing more than the tiniest thread in untamed Nature’s immense tapestry. He bent his head in reverence and offered a wordless prayer to the powerful forces that had created a scene of such awesome, boundless beauty.

He and Aranea stood in silence and let the immensity of the place wash over them, reluctant to disrupt the sense of sacrality with their voices. It was so cold that their breath formed tiny clouds in front of their faces, but Prompto didn’t mind. He thought he would be content to stand here forever, safe in the mountains of his homeland, and let the world move slowly around him.

But the moment couldn’t last. Aranea sighed and began to speak, her voice scarcely louder than a whisper. “Your father was not a particularly wise Emperor,” she said. “He spent too much time in Gralea. He believed that the heart of Niflheim was its technology, and its armies, and building new factories every year. Your half-brother had a similar mind.”

Prompto hunched his shoulders and nodded. Even though he’d spent most of time in the relative isolation of Silberberg, it was impossible not to know that his father was not especially beloved by the people. He’d seen the news reports about the ever-stricter rationing and how people were going hungry, how they resented the conscription of young men and women to feed the Imperial armies. He’d heard the constant barrage of messages condemning the stubborn pride of the Emperor and the Crown Prince, asking why they didn’t surrender and end the war for the sake of their people. And beneath all of it were the insidious whispers that the Aldercapt line had grown weak and corrupt, and it would be better for all of Niflheim if it was ousted from power.

Prompto tried to push all of that out of his mind and do the best he could with his own small duchy. As soon as he reached his majority at age seventeen, he opened the manor house on the four great yearly festivals and provided his people with feasts supplied from his own stores. He let the local children visit his chocobos, made sure that annual sacrifices were offered at the shrine of Shiva located just north of the town, and gave his blessing to any couples who. He tried to be the sort of ruler the ancient Emperors had been, wise and just, and this past solstice an older woman put her hand on his arm and told him that he should have been the heir.

Prompto hadn’t been able to come up with a response. For all their flaws, Iedolas and Loqi were his family, and he loved them. He had never wanted them to lose the throne.

“They were both wrong.” Aranea extended her hand toward the unspoiled wilderness. “This is Niflheim. You understand, don’t you?”

Prompto did. How many times had he stared out at the mountains’ distant peaks and felt his spirit rise within his chest, almost as if it wanted to fly up and join the griffons that nested in their heights? Or sought the dappled shadows beneath the pine trees when his thoughts grew troubled and restless? He loved the northern wilds with an untamed ferocity. As long as the land endured, so would he.

“I understand.”

“Good.” Aranea rested her hand directly over Prompto’s heart. “You carry the soul of Niflheim within you. Never forget that, not even when you go to Lucis.”

Prompto felt tears rising in his eyes and tried to blink them away. He didn’t want to be a child crying at the thought of leaving his home. But he was with Aranea, and Aranea would never look at him with scorn. “I don’t want to go.”

“I know. But Prompto, you have to.” Aranea grabbed his hands and squeezed them tight. “Listen to me. Aldercapt, Caelum - it doesn’t really matter which bloodline sits on the throne as long as long as they love the country. Your father lost it, and Noctis is an unknown. But you...you can guide him. You can show him what Niflheim can be. Make him love it the way that you do, and the truest part of Niflheim will survive.”

It seemed like an impossible task. “What if I can’t?”

“Oh, you can.” Aranea laughed shortly. “I’ve seen his face when he talks about you.”

Prompto thought of Noctis’ midnight blue eyes, the way he’d pulled the riding glove off of Prompto’s hand, the low cadence of his voice as he said, I will await you in Insomnia, and his stomach tightened.

“Just remember this, Prompto,” said Aranea. She looked back out over the lake. It had taken on the deep purple-blue hue of the evening sky, and a few early stars were reflected on its surface. “Don’t give him all of yourself. Always keep something just for you, so that you can remember who you are and where you came from. Don’t let him turn you into something you’re not.”

Prompto took a deep breath. His lungs were filled with the clean air of Niflheim: crisp and cold, and full of sharp sweetness of pine sap. This was his home. Noctis could give him all of Lucis, its lush greenery and black chocobos and gorgeous seaside sunsets, but it would never be his home. Home would always be here, in the mountains of Nilflheim.

“I won’t,” he said, and gave his vow not only to the Glacian, but to all of the small gods of Niflheim that lived in the stone and in the trees. “I promise.”

#promptis #prompto x noctis #ffxv fic #imperial! prompto

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hunterkillahdrone-blog · 7 years ago

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Painting Pictures

A sunset of peach and cherry fell into the saddle of blue mountains in the west. A late blooming fruit dropped from the branches of heavens orchards to be laid ever so gracefully, places to nestle gently in a basket wove and scented with fans of white firs. Spiders silk threaded through the eye holes of Ponderosa Pine needles hold it in place before it is wrapped in a shield of bark from the old growth in an effort to contain this burning hot delicacy of fire we assume shall be feasted upon come morning. I watched this gathering of gold by mountains peak, in awe of calloused hands that carry the weight of these spoils. The handle held in fingers made of stone, knuckles white with snow strain to hold on in bitter cold, ignoring whipping winds that slither down frozen rivers gorge, an icy serpent flipping its tongue to send a wicked whisper, chilling the spine of jagged volcanic rock, with moss growing like goose pimples raising on rough skin. It listens through canals of caverns chiseled into cliff faces towering above, home of birds clever and well travelled. They can hear thunder before it crashes, and warn the range to prepare for approaching winters storms, and to ignore the lies of cold blooded gales howling promises of failure to withstand the pressing load of longing nights. As the October sky takes the hands of these mountains to trade the sun's heavy glory in exchange for a miracle to be cast upon the canvas of the world, painted by the finest brushes, dipped in paints made from dust of angels wings, ground and mixed with dyes hand selected by gods from across the cosmos. Peeking over your shoulder is a waning moon, still height from its totality in Blood a night prior listening to my thoughts in silent patience, a gaze that had uncharacteristically looked upon the back of my neck unnoticed while I was weakened by a mural on Earth's ceiling. When I finally turned to realize her miraculous beauty looking beyond, melting bars of pure silver, blowing the liquid into southeastern skies into cloudy bubbles that pop to dust the twilights darkest edges with sparkling stars. I stare into her eye, a pupil of white gold surrounded by the darkest shades of grey, the color of mystery. A light adrenaline rushing through my veins earls my skin with a desire to explore every inch of the vastness that is her mind, to adventure with eyes closed to feel the soft edges of her skin upon my lips... I break my stare and realize that these are your eyes. I have forgotten how they match the soft glow of full moons behind evening clouds. Like candlelight flickering through the silhouette or juniper branches, twisting with knots and tangles, like the hair of Vikings at war, marching up high desert hillsides in the cloak of dusk. Eyes that I do not want to run from, seducing me into dreams I feel i could trade my soul to live in for eternities, here in this moment, around this fire whose blaze highlights the smile that lingers on your face. As the stars speckle the night sky, I am reminded of the scars, freckles, and marks on your skin, as if you were the time where sunsets and moon rises meet. Tonight I have seen every color known to man reflect through clouds, drifting smoke, and heat from coals that warps the air around. I have seen them with you, and think of how many colors we could create, if we were to join like mountains and skies to share burdens and strengths, summers and winters, autumn's and springs. I have seen every shade of color connect in perfect harmony, like music exploding through space above me, Still, you are the color I would pick if I could will paint upon fate's bristles, and guide the hands of gods, moving the brush across space to gift what would be forever known as beauty in its truest form.

#my words #spilled thoughts #spilled ink #sunset #stars #moon

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snowbellewells · 8 years ago

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“More than Cards and Flowers”

By: snowbellewells (TutorGirlml on ff.net)

Tagging a few who may enjoy: @whimsicallyenchantedrose @bromfieldhall @drowned-dreamer @kmomof4 @flslp87 @athenascarlet @dramawiie @midnightswans @laschatzi @enchanted-keys @nothingimpossibleonlyimprobable @mossandmushroom

Happy Valentine’s to everyone reading this – even if it’s a day late! I just wanted to write a bit of festive fluff and feels, and beyond that, this one shot was also borne of my desire to have Killian and Snow White share some bonding time, and to develop for them the sort of friendship and understanding he and David seem to have found. This may not have the amount of steamy CS interaction one might generally see in a Valentine’s one shot, but it’s definitely still very much CS.

Please enjoy! I don’t own them, but I would love to hear what you think…

“So, Killian, if you don’t mind me asking,” Snow spoke up curiously from the bowl of forming meringue that she had been carefully whipping into peaks for the last few minutes. “Why was I the one you called?”

At her question, Killian Jones chanced a brief, darting glance up to meet Emma’s royal mother’s eyes. The apples of his cheeks and tips of his slightly pointed ears are flushed red – he can feel the heat of them – but there is no going back now. “You seemed the best candidate to approach for advice on modern cooking and appliances, Milady,” he offered mildly. Truth, to be sure, but he sensed she could read him nearly as well as Emma would in that moment and could tell it wasn’t the whole reason.

Shaking her head, Snow pressed mischievously, “Oh really? Me? With the soft spot that Granny seems to have for you?”

He snorted here, humored in spite of himself. “Aye, well, though the Lady Lucas does have her charms,” he shrugged with a rapscallion’s smirk, “I was hoping for something a bit fancier than meatloaf or grilled cheese.” He scratched behind his ear sheepishly and added, “Not to mention that, this surprise being for Emma, I felt you would be the one motivated as I was to make the holiday wonderful for her, your Majesty.”

Snow White’s lovely features sobered and gentled immediately at his words; her heart melting as she reached over to lay her soft hand on his forearm. She didn’t speak for several moments, merely waiting patiently, kindly, for him to lift his eyes to hers once more. When her daughter’s True Love finally did just that, the emotion in their blue depths nearly stole her breath. “I’m happy to help you,” she responded hoarsely, blinking back tears at the obvious devotion this man held for her daughter, at the knowledge that her lost little girl was finally cherished as she should always have been.

Killian nodded, graciously ignoring the mistiness in the Princess’ eyes and going back to the lemon filling she had instructed him on; pouring it into the pie crust they had already completed without spilling.

Snow regained her composure quickly and moved to his side, encouraging as he smoothed the filling just so and then ladled the meringue on top of the dessert. She gave him her own sheepish smile as they stepped back to admire their handiwork. “That looks beautiful,” she pronounced, nudging him in the ribs conspiratorially in a way that both surprised him and reminded him pleasantly of her daughter.

“We did manage quite well, didn’t we?” he acknowledged, his own playful grin back in place at her return to lightheartedness. The whole meal he had planned out was nearly ready – the roast with seasoned potatoes and carrots was keeping warm in the oven, as was the loaf of buttery French bread. A salad was ready in the refrigerator, and the dining room table that they rarely used was set with the fine china Snow had brought two settings of upon his request. Not that there was anything wrong with the hodgepodge of everyday flatware in the drawers of he and Emma’s cupboard, but he had wanted to set a more elegant mood, if just this once. Yet another reason he had thought of Emma’s mother – if anyone in this madcap town would have the sort of china fit for royalty, it should be its rightful sovereign, whether or not the petite brunette at his side made a habit of putting on such airs.

“So, why lemon meringue pie?” Snow asked, carrying the dirty dishes, mixing bowls, and measuring cups to the sink to begin clean-up as he started to put away the scattered ingredients from all their concoctions. She was soon elbow deep in the sudsy warm water, and though he had yet to answer her question, moving here and there behind her in the kitchen, opening and closing drawers and wiping down the countertop, the quiet wasn’t awkward, and she waited patiently, sensing that he was gathering his thoughts, not refusing her or hiding.

When she felt him at her side again, Snow paused raising her hands from the dish water and wiping them dry. The pirate’s voice rasped huskily when he spoke now. “Though we didn’t have anything like this white fluff you call ‘meringue’, me mum would make custard flavored with lemons from our garden for my brother Liam and I on special occasions. This reminds me of it a bit, and … after all these ages…there’s not so very much I do remember of her. If that makes any sense.”

In that moment, though she had felt pleased and honored that he called her all day as they worked together, talked and laughed and became better acquainted like they should have long before, Snow White realized just how much she and Captain Hook truly had in common. This particular pain he was laying bare was one more of those things. “I know what you mean,” she offered softly. “I lost my mother very young as well. I’m fond of anything she loved as well.”

He shrugged, the smile he offered then a lopsided, tremulous thing, though clearly he appreciated her commiseration, even if he aimed for levity once more. “And besides, what better treat for Emma than something much like her? A bit tart at first, but sweet in the end,” he asked with a look in his eyes which told Snow the man her daughter loved was thinking of their first meeting, how far they had come, and all their meetings since then.

After only a few hours in his company, Snow began to see just why Charming had stopped antagonizing the man and come to like him so much. She laughed in surprise at his words, struck by the spark of truth in them, even as a jest. Putting the last dish in the drainer, she toweled off her hands and moved to begin gathering her jacket, purse, and other belongings, still shaking her head at his apt way with words. “I think you have things well in hand now Captain,” she stated with a little nod of approval and affectionate grin.

Killian followed her solicitously as she made her way to the door, but as she was about to leave, the Princess turned sober once more, reaching out to clasp the pirate’s one hand in both of hers intently. “Killian, she’s going to love this,” Snow assured, patting his hand sweetly. “I – I may not have been quick enough to see… may not have understood at first… but you are exactly the person Emma needs… exactly the Truest Love I would have wished for my daughter to have. She opened her heart to love – a home, her family – at last and you’ve had a bigger part in her allowing us in than I’ve ever acknowledged. Thank you.”

He swallowed a monumental lump in his throat at her heartfelt sentiment. For a few moments, his throat worked as he tried to swallow well enough to respond, to thank her and let her know just how much her words meant to him, but nothing came. For the barest flash, Snow was tempted to joke about actually making him speechless, as in truth her daughter probably would, but she couldn’t bring herself to break the moment between them.

In the next instant, one genuinely emotional pirate was enveloping her in a tight hug that lasted for several healing moments. It came completely natural to her to wrap maternal hands around him as well and to rub his back soothingly until they both at last pulled away, much comforted.

Not long after, she was leaving, headed down the walk and letting herself out through the gate in their white picket fence. She looked back with a little wave to find him watching after her from the doorway, returning the gesture. And her mother’s heart was at peace.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ <3

Half an hour later, when Emma returned from her shift at the station where she had been comforting a worried Archie over noise complaints against Pongo from his neighbor – a crabby widow, Ms. Hubbard, who had somehow put eight kids through college with no discernible income. Now she seemed bored with them all out of the nest and spent her days searching the town over looking for someone new to get into it with. Shaking her head as she hung her coat on the rack in the entryway, Emma wondered briefly how the people in this town managed all of their odd, petty grievances before she came along. Graham had possessed the patience and kind nature of a saint in the short time she had served as his deputy, but some days their nonsense bordered on the absurd.

It was only when she turned to move further into the house that Emma realized how oddly quiet it was, how dim the lights, and that her pirate had yet to greet her at the door with a kiss, as had become their custom. Immediately going on high alert – having been through enough and separated from him enough times – Emma narrowed her eyes and stepped forward quietly, magic sparking between her palms. “Killian?” she called out softly, “Are you here?”

He didn’t answer, but at her next step, her foot came down on something that crinkled like paper packaging. Training her gaze on the floor in the murky evening light, Emma saw an unopened packet of instant hot chocolate. Glancing ahead, she saw several more packs placed every few feet in a path down the hall and around the corner into the dining room. Then she registered the flicker of candlelight in that direction as well, and she was finally greeted by Killian’s warm, sonorous voice, a hint of affectionate glee in his tone. “I’m here, Love, just follow the trail.”

Though Emma had certainly caught on that her pirate had something up his sleeve, when she entered the room the scene he had set still stunned her for several speechless moments, disbelief that he would have gone to all this trouble flummoxing her, though when it came to her romantically old-fashioned gentleman, she really should have long stopped being surprised. The room was dim, but tall taper candles stood on the table and around the room on every available surface, lending a romantic glow. He had gotten ahold of some lovely, delicate crystal dishes that definitely didn’t belong to them, and there was an entire, heavenly-smelling banquet laid out before her ready to eat.

Most enticing of all was the breathtaking man standing at the head of the table, his gaze locked on her from across the room with love in his limitless blue eyes. Emma found herself running a tempted tongue over her lips, and though her stomach might have been rumbling when she came in the door, she was suddenly hungry for something more than food as she took him in from head to toe. That wild shock of soft, thick black hair that she loved to run her fingers through had been mostly tamed and tempted her to touch once more. He wore a charcoal grey button-up – only partially buttoned, her mind corrected salaciously – and dark wash blue jeans that clung in all the right places all the way down his lean, toned legs to his bare feet. It struck her briefly that she was in so deep there might be no saving her if she found even this man’s toes sexy, but a thrill ran through her all the same as the blood heated right in her veins.

There was a twinkle in his eye as her gaze returned to Killian’s face, and she also caught sight of the bunch of bright yellow buttercups in his hand. They had spoken once, some months ago of her wrist tattoo and the reasons she had chosen such a simple little flower, but of course he would remember that detail about her which no one else knew.

“Like what you see, Swan?” he queried teasingly, waggling those eyebrows of his almost indecently in accompaniment to his words.

That was all it took. With something between a ravenous growl and a heated moan, Emma gritted out, “You know I do,” and was across the room clutching his lapels as desperately as she had the first time in Neverland’s jungle long ago, pulling him in to kiss the smirk right off of his ridiculously smoldering face. Her hands were in his hair, her thumbs stroking his cheeks, and he released a little groan himself under her onslaught.

Suffice it to say, the dinner he and Snow had prepared so lavishly – he blushed to the very tips of his “elf ears” as she playfully called them at her delight in learning that her mom had helped him – was a bit cool by the time they feasted on it instead of each other. By that time, Killian had also unwrapped Emma’s gift for him: silky, red, and right there beneath her clothes waiting for him to discover. Emma enjoyed most of her dinner perched in his lap and wearing his discarded shirt.

It was a very good Valentine’s evening.

And nearly a month later, it is Emma who calls Snow to let her know the truth of just how well things had gone with she and her soon-to-be son-in-law’s Valentine surprise. Nearly ready to burst with happiness, Emma speaks through laughter and joyous tears to announce, “Mom, you’re going to have a second grandchild.”

#cs valentines one shot #cs ff #fluff and feels #snook bonding

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ssolipsissm · 7 years ago

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2017: a summary and reflection

January; “Sometimes people let the same problem make them miserable for years when they could just say, So what. That’s one of my favorite things to say. So what.”

A month of healing, acceptance, and self-love. Focusing on myself and coming to terms with the ways of the world. Accepting that I could only do so much, and I really can’t expect anyone else to behave in any sort of way. We are each our own; try as I might, my faith in humanity can only extend so far. I may hope and I may pray, but you’ll learn your lesson in your own way, at your own pace. All I can do is sit back, allow myself to feel, and say, “So what.”

February; “Let go of everything that doesn’t want to stay.”

A month of letting go. Of letting the past be the past and moving forward. Of creating memories with people who make me feel good, loved, appreciated. Of proving my excellence to myself and everyone around me, humbly, silently shining. Of realizing that I am greater than my past, greater than those who were unequipped to understand my worth, greater than the weights that settle in my chest. Stronger than the troubles that come my way.

March; “You are everything – I know.”

A month of friendship and platonic love. My heart worn on my sleeve but never in fear. Celebrating good times with trust in my heart. Times that would make us laugh from the sheer absurdity of it. Attending a Harry Potter themed “prom,” bursting into a library conference room dressed in our most outrageous attire. Seattle and Vancouver with my best friends, late nights spent sneaking between hotel rooms, laughing until we could hardly breathe. Sharing and appreciating our love and excellence, together.

April; “You have to live through it and love it and move on and be better for it and run as far as you can in the direction of your best and happiest dreams across the bridge that was built by your own desire to heal.”

Healing is a gradual process. It’s not waking up one morning and suddenly being okay. It’s working towards a vision, even if it seems so far off into the horizon that it’s barely distinguishable. April was a month of growth, in so many directions. Growing towards adulthood, independence, maturity. Forgiving the ways you hurt me, mending the cracks in my heart and in my soul. Traveling truly on my own for the first time, forming friendships where I wandered, the type of connections that felt like everything in the moment and then ceased to be. Deciding a bit of my future. Understanding that this is just the beginning.

May; “Because the sad truth is we need to shed part of ourselves to fall out of love. And that sucks but it’s necessary.”

May was a month of goodbyes. Preparing for change, for the unknown, for the “real world,” which really isn’t all that real quite yet. A barrage of ceremonies and events celebrating us. Celebrating our past, what we have accomplished, and what is to come. Bittersweet in the truest form of its definition. We were at full bloom, radiating and beaming and bursting with joy and love and anticipation. Ready to break free, ready to become our own. Shedding parts of ourselves in exchange for growing into something greater. Letting go of the past, the weight of our losses and griefs. Floating.

June; “It is so hard to love someone so inconstant, someone who is so often fading before my eyes. But I know I will always welcome your return.”

This journey of you is never-ending. I will never stop loving you, I think, but my love will ebb and flow and change. You have ceased to be at the forefront of my mind, thank God, but you will always have a home in my heart, our memories will always reside in my thoughts; I will never truly be rid of you. But in the meantime, I became my own. Growing out of you meant growing into me, pursuing my whims and wishes and allowing myself to feel alive. Encouraging it. Indulging in it. I may not be able to escape the thoughts that plague my mind while I lay in bed trying to fall asleep at night, but during the day I will laugh and live and distract away every lurking thought of you. I’m no longer yours to keep.

July; “Actually, I just woke up one day and decided I didn’t want to feel like that anymore, or ever again. So I changed. Just like that.”

And change I did. Not in any particularly astounding way, I don’t think. Nothing any more dramatic than what hair dye and a pair of scissors and some tattoo ink could bring about. But I loved myself, I remember that. I loved the life I was living, I loved the people with which I surrounded myself, I loved the moments to which I committed my time. I was sad at times, I’m sure, when I was alone at night and wanted nothing other than you beside me. But life is filled with those moments, moments of nostalgia and wanting. They did not nullify my happiness, my growth, the sheer joy of my existence. The type of joy that I could never fully articulate. The type of joy that I wish I could capture on camera, in pictures and videos, with pen and paper. The type of joy that will only ever wholly exist in my memory.

August; “It’s that time of year, time of night, where I feel I’m in-between chapters and I can’t help reminiscing on what my life was a year ago; I can’t help thinking about what my life will be a year from now.”

This was the truest month of goodbyes, I think. Fitting in as many people as possible, friends shipping off to different cities and different states and different countries. Preparing for a change that I couldn’t even begin to truly fathom, a change that I only knew as described to me, a change that I could hardly predict with any sort of accuracy. Bittersweet, there’s that word again. Tears shed over goodbye’s and see you later’s, flying down the highway with our windows down and our music loud and our hearts so full that our tears threaten to spill over. Excitement, anticipation, ready to escape the prison that birthed me and kisses me goodnight. Nothing has ever felt so monumental and so ordinary at the same time. Nothing will ever be the same.

September; “Don’t think about what can happen in a month. Don’t think about what can happen in a year. Just focus on the 24 hours in front of you, and do what you can to get closer to where you want to be.”

Relearning something you thought you already mastered is a very strange thing indeed. Making a whole new set of friends, understanding who I am in this great big world where no one knows me, where I wonder how well I really even know myself. Thoughts that I considered a fading part of my past arise again, thoughts of worth and doubt and am I enough. Becoming myself again. A different me, yet very much the same. Seeking out what makes me feel whole again. Acting on fearless impulse, two new tattoos and a half-shaved head to show for it. Growth, again. Endlessly growing.

October; “Be – don’t try to become.”

A month of being and overcoming trying to become. Falling into the swing of things, falling into closeness and love and appreciation. Falling into myself in a way that I had almost forgotten. Chasing beauty, chasing adventure, chasing anything that made me feel something. Pictures of sunsets, of dogs, of laughter-fueled smiles. Finally meeting a soulmate after five years of friendship. Memories that do not, could not compare. This is living, I think.

November; “Sometimes I wish I was anything other than what I am.”

November is like the Thursday of the calendar year, almost at peak excitement but not quite. In accordance with this, November proves to be as mundane as any given Thursday. Nights spent in beds that weren’t my own, mornings spent relishing in the empowerment of choice, shower, change, repeat. No particular excitement, and no particular sadness either. November just is. That’s all I can ask of it.

December; “Untouchable is the woman who realizes her own power.”

And just like that, the first semester of the next chapter of my life has come to a close. After four months, I come home from this new life I’ve made for myself to this old life from which I had stepped away. It feels different, weird, almost alien. Retroactive and antiquated. I’m hardly different, not having experienced any of the trials and tribulations that I fought my way through all those years ago. And yet, I’ve changed in an almost imperceptible way. Things that once threatened to shatter me feel trivial now, as if they happened lifetimes ago. I have become a version of myself that knows no limitations. I have realized my own power. I am untouchable.

#2017 mood: growth #write

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baransu33-blog · 7 years ago

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Inspiration post 12/17/2017

My inspiration comes from inside today, I’ve been inspired and working really hard to win a creative contest hosted by Riot Games! Here is my latest entry (It is about Braum and Sejuani, the League of Legends Characters) :

The Heart is the Strongest Muscle

The biting cold refused to yield as Braum strolled ever on

He shrugged it off and raised his shield, what more could one man want?

He smiled and laughed a jolly laugh, for life was good and friends were true

His dear friend Ashe had sent him here, and he was Braum, he would not lose.

The Winter’s Wrath, Sejuani marched through Freljord toward his home

Were she not stopped, then hope would break beneath the warboar that she rode.

He’d never met her, but she seemed a fearsome queen indeed

They said her flail was truest ice, just like her heart - which did not bleed.

He shook his head in disbelief, it would not, could not be the truth.

The heart is strongest muscle, yes, and hers would melt before he’s through.

From atop the highest peak he gazed upon her clan below

A fearsome sight, he thought, and bravely set his shield down in the snow.

With another laugh he leapt and landed, kneeling on his shield

Used as a sled, it gathered speed - he fairly flew down toward the field.

As a whole, the army paused and watched the laughing streak descend

Until it ‘Phoomphed” into the ground, its journey coming to an end.

As flurries cleared, a laughing man rose up with arms spread wide

“Hello my friends!” He said at last, and smiled with a touch of pride.

“This is the Frost Queen’s land,” He said. “I’m glad you’re here, we need more friends!”

“Come join us at our humble fire and feast with us ‘till winter ends!”

Then with a crash, there came a sight that Braum swore he would not forget.

A giant bore charged toward him with a spinning flail aimed at his head!

He raised the door and braced himself against the blow he knew would come

And when it came, to his surprise it knocked him smack dab on his bum!

His eyes were wide as he looked up, and saw a large and flailing form

O’er the top of his shield she fell, and landed, struggling, in his arms.

She was a large as he! He saw, with strength and beauty in her form

So strong was she, she nearly broke his grip, but he held on.

“My dear,” he said with tenderness, “’The Winter’s Wrath’ is not a name that you should bear!”

“I’ve never seen more beauty here – And I’ve been almost everywhere!”

“Let go you oaf!” She thrashed and roared, “I’m here for war not pleasantries!”

“I’ll crush the weak beneath my flail and scatter them upon the breeze!”

“The weak you say?” Braum chuckled back. “I keep them safe behind my shield.”

“You break my grip and I’ll concede – our tribe will be the first to yield.”

The Winter’s Wrath let loose a storm of rage and fury then.

She bit and kicked and thrashed and roared, and called out to her men.

“Don’t help me! I will beat this fool, and we will win the war!”

“We’ll march over his corpse and then the rest of the Freljord!”

For days, then weeks she struggled on against her jolly foe.

His grip would not relent at all, he was as merciless as the snow.

Succumbing to fatigue at last, she fell asleep against Braum’s chest.

He savored it for some time more, reluctant for this war to end.

“My dear,” he whispered down at her, “Think of the children we would bear!”

He held her close and stroked her head, feeling the smoothness of her hair.

“If beauty comes from harshest climbs, you must have come from frozen hell.”

“But I am Braum, I’ll make you mine, I’ll cause your frozen heart to melt.”

The army shuffled awkwardly, watching the scene unfold.

Finally, Braum stood and said “Come, let’s get out of the cold!”

Sejuani cradled in his arms, he strolled off into the snow.

After some time, they followed him, not sure where else to go.

And so the war was ended, with no blood spilled at all.

Sejuani learned a lesson from the man that they called Braum.

The winter purges weakness, yes, but with it comes the cold

And frozen hearts were weaker than the feeble or the old.

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eliserunsboston · 7 years ago

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Mountain Climbing

A short hike, a hut and a group of unwieldy climbers

Location: White Mountains, New Hampshire

Miles: 8 with 4,000 vertical ft

Song in my head: Take me Home, Country Road – John Denver (because that is what one hiker was singing at the summit)

Brunch food motivation: Hot Chocolate of the Hut kind

We huddled close, soaked to the skin in our shirts, pants and rain jackets. We cupped the hot chocolate a little tighter and allowed it to warm our insides. Nothing but white washed the outside windows. You couldn’t see what was north, which way was south nor anything in between. Every now and again the doors of the hut would swing open and another wide-eyed group of hikers would huddle through the doors seeking the shelter of the homemade bread, soup, and the reprieve of the hut. Long wooden benches lined one side, while the center was the hustle and bustle shift change of experienced hikers, Sunday hikers, and some families with the kitchen sitting off to the left. The mug of hot chocolate (nothing special just a packet and hot water) along with the dill soup were EVERYTHING. We had been hiking for just over 7 hours. And we had 3 miles to go.

We headed out into the hazardous conditions in our still wet clothing and new layers knowing 2 hours lay ahead of us between us and the car and mini-Twix as promised by Syed.

Not 12 hours earlier I had been boarding a Boston Express bus to meet Carolyn in New Hampshire for what would be an impromptu hike of Mount Lafayette and the Franconia Ridge Trail. We embraced as she picked me up from the station and we drove to pick up Syed. Carolyn is a tiger wrapped in sheep’s clothing. The most beautiful, docile in appearance with a beast inside, heart of gold, and a hilarious sense of humor. She had done this route before. Syed and I on the other hand, were still new to the mountains. Syed and I were her faithful warriors with 4,000 vertical feet between the two of us. This was my first time meeting Syed. He was absolutely wonderful, so warm and welcoming. “This is my first 4,000 footer,” said Syed as we entered his apartment. I breathed a sigh of relief. “Me too!” I exclaimed. We packed our bags with snacks and water and Syed drove us to the base of the White Mountains. Along the way, he recounted all of the research he had done on our trail. I thankfully knew what I was getting myself into, having heard the tales of Carolyn and her husband Eugenio’s adventures.

We pulled into the parking area at the base of the mountain. Other hikers were grabbing their packs and starting their way up the mountain. Onward we went. We took multiple, much-needed breaks. While Syed called the break directives, I was all too relieved to take in the blissful rests along the route.

We passed waterfalls, trees, and humble hikers galore. We chatted and caught up on life, made up stories and wandered on our path. One spot we were looking for was Shining Rock. Shining Rock was worth it. A little detour off of our path before reaching the summit. We all looked at each other and confirmed we still wanted to take the detour. It was a small, narrow, downward slope and at the end was a massive, white shining rock sticking out of the side of the mountain. We hit pause. We sat on the rock and looked out over the expansive view of New Hampshire, of the world. We felt small. We appreciated every part of the moment. We paused. It was absolutely gorgeous, the fall foliage greeting us with all of its red, orange, and yellow splendor. Shining Rock was in all of its glory, allowing hikers to glimpse at just a preview of the beauty the White Mountains held.

We happened upon other hikers as we emerged from our .1mile detour. They asked us if it was worth it. We replied emphatically that it was! They poo-pooed the idea, despite our best efforts to assure them of its beauty, and declared they were here for the summit. That’s what they came for. We shrugged and continued on the trail.

As we reached the first summit (there are three total connected by a ridge – one mountain for each of us), we were met with wind whipping at our clothes and white clouds and more white clouds. There were dozens of hikers at the top. Their bodies made black shapes across the ridge with the white backdrop of clouds obscuring any view as they made their way across. It was a strange feeling, feeling you were at the top, but not knowing how far up, nor how far out you could see on any other clear day.

I could not have asked for better hiking companions on our tour along Franconia Ridge. They brought jokes, laughter, positivity and snacks…lots of snacks. Author’s Note: This is not the only reason I appreciated them and their shining personalities. It was a solid team: Car Keys, Hype Girl, and Boss Lady.*

There was another group at the summit singing “Take Me Home, West Virginiaaaaa! Take Me Home.” We all laughed. It was a reminder we weren’t the only ones out there. That there really wasn’t an option to turn back. Plus, we had to make it to the hut by 3pm. That had been our original plan to beat out the potential rain. We definitely weren’t making it to the hut by 3pm. And we definitely weren’t outhiking the rain. We were only at the first peak and there was no sign of Mother Nature taking back her wrath. The wind whipped hard in its best attempt to pin us to the mountain as we crested rocks and traversed the ridge. Hype mode on for all of us.

We made it to the Greenleaf Hut, the most adorable hut where you could break from the elements, regroup at the tables, meet other hikers, grab a change of clothes before venturing back out on the trail. It was the cutest New England lodge. Just cozy enough to give you a break, but not cozy enough to overstay your welcome, because, after all, you were there to climb.

We ended the hike in the dark, led by Boss Lady’s headlamp that she had remembered to pack. Teamwork makes the dream work. We highfived at the base of the mountain and in the parking lot to our lone car as Syed produced the promised treat.

We made it to the top. The one view we got was on Shining Rock, otherwise it was white clouds with an unknowing sense of where you were. We also talked about going back for the views. I sleepily smiled in the back, knowing I got something way better than views that day. I didn’t go for the views. I went to prove something to myself. I could be this new me. Maybe it’s not about finish lines, maybe it’s about the hard work, moments, laughs and unexpected people you meet along the way that’s really important. Maybe its about embracing the detours, the breaks, the unexpected. Maybe it’s the person that you’re becoming along the way, the friendships you’re gaining, the moments you’re sharing on the journey to the top that mark the experience.

“These mountains you are carrying, you were only meant to climb.” – Najwa Zebian

I think people go to the mountains to find themselves, to be reborn, and go back to their truest form. I just finished the book Unbound: A Story of Snow and Self-Discovery. More on that later, but she talks about starting lines and how they might just sneakily be as important as the finish lines. Her goal was to ski 4,000,000 vertical feet in one year spanning mountains across continents and countries. She had set out to break a record, but what she found out about herself as a person was the most important revelation. The people she met along the way and the blue ribbons she had been chasing opened her eyes to something entirely new about her way of living and her true, authentic self.

Mt Lafayette, Franconia Ridge

*Syed was in constant reminder mode that he held the car keys and that we could not leave him behind in our travels. We would never. No man left behind. Hype girl’s rules of the trail.

Mountain Climbing was originally published on Elise Runs Boston

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