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slashersins-abandoned · 5 years ago

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build-a-bear date

jason voorhees

this boy will dead ass put on his best clothes , his gloves , a hat , a face mask , sunglasses , and come to build a bear with you . he may not speak but fuck he is so excited to do this with you , and you look so fucking happy and excited . he will without a doubt do everything with such dedication and seriousness during the heart ceremony that the bear builder is a bit nervous . he gets his build a bear soft , barely stuffed so that it falls over when it’s sitting . he picks out an outfit similar to his , a bit sad there is no mask or little machete . he’s having so much fun and you can tell . and oh god , there’s little kids who can’t quite reach things and he is helping them , and somehow there are now two kids sitting on either side of him helping him make his birth certificate for his new stuffed animal and jason is just so happy and enjoying himself despite the fact that the children’s mothers look slightly terrified . he ends up naming his bear mr fluffington due to the help of the children who decided jason was their new best friend . the cashier takes a picture of you on the polaroid and jason is very happy with it . he may or may not make a small machete for mr fluffington so he can gaurd the cabin .

michael myers

somehow you got michael maskless and dressed in normal people clothes and inside of a mall . he’s intimidating , hair pulled back into a messy bun , face full of stubble , blue eyes cutting into everything and everyone . he doesn’t seem to care , picking his build a bear after staring at them . his bear is completely over stuffed and hard as a rock . he doesn’t move . doesn’t sing . barely holds the heart before dropping it onto the back instead of stuffing it in and watching it fall to the floor . the bear builder tries to pick it up , but michael steps on it , basically telling them to sew the bear up without it . after wards he takes the heart and pockets it . he doesn’t care what the bear wears . the bear has a black shirt and some jeans and that’s it , the clothes barely fit , and it is almost impossible to put them on . when he names it , he just sits at the computer and stares . he names it “no” . later that night , you find “no” stabbed , half of it’s stuffing on the floor leaving a trail to his body . michael is on the floor sewing the heart back inside of it .

brahms heelshire

you have to get one of those do it at home yourself build a bear maker kits shipped to you , but you try and give brahms the full experience . it actually scratches an itch of indulge on a childish activity that he didn’t know he had . and the fact that the bear that comes in the kit is rather small , makes him happy . he gives his bear to doll brahms . making it was fun , you taking on the role of peppy bear builder . he thought it was cute . his bear is medium full , and he wanted it dressed in a suit . his name is bearington the third . when you asked if he wanted to help you make your bear he lit up , using his adult voice and treating you like a child . he made you do a million and one things during your heart ceremony and you couldn’t help but laugh at how silly he was . all in all it was a super cute fun time and now bearington and doll brahms are never apart .

thomas hewit

you can’t really bring him to build a bear as i don’t think they existed in the time period he lives in , buuuuut you can make him one . you have him pick out a fabric he likes , not giving him any clue as to why . you ask him how soft he likes things . he tells you like his pillow . a little on the firm side . you make a little heart and you have him do a little ceremony with it to put his love in it . he humors you but looks at you with a raised brow as if you’re the silliest person he’s ever met . you ask him what his favorite outfit is and make him pick out more fabrics to get a clothes set out . when you present him with the bear he is shocked . he tries not to tear up . tries not to cry , but he’s so so so happy . he keeps it on his dresser and when he gets out of bed before you , he will put it in your arms so you won’t miss him .

jesse cromeans

jesse walks in like he owns the place . the prettiest most expensive bear is his . only the most fancy suit ( he will later order a suit from some fancy designer for his bear ) . he does the heart ceremony , smiling at you the entire time and bumping your hip with his . he promises that he’ll get a chrome heart to put inside of the bear later . and you best bet that jesse gets everything . sun glasses , boots , socks , underwear , roller skates , back pack . his bear is spoiled to shit . you’re is too , and you almost wanna laugh at the look on the other customer’s faces when the price rings up . jesse was being so showoffy that he forgot to get a birth certificate or name his bear .

bubba saywer

much like with tommy you can’t really bring bubba to build a bear . but unlike tommy , you already know all of bubba’s favorites . you know he loves textures , so the body , each limb , the head , and the tail are all different fabrics . different sensations so he can have those little stimming moments . you know he likes things extra soft , so that’s how you fill it up . during the heart ceremony you have bubba do so many cute little things and he is more than happy to bounce around and babble . then you have him close his eyes and sew the heart in . when he opens them his eyes light up . and when he feels over the bear he is in utter heaven . it becomes his stress reliever and cuddle buddy . and you’re so happy he finds so much comfort in it . bubba will be giving you so many kisses as a thank you .

billy loomis & stu matcher

it’s pure chaos . they’re messing with the kids , putting things out of their reach , debating on what animal or bear to get . but they are the most creative . billy gets a bear , stu gets a bunny . billy gets his stuffed medium full , stu barely makes his stuffed at all . stu over exaggerates every fucking heart thing , billy just smirks and makes everything filthy despite the gasps of mothers around you . billy dresses his bear up like a bad ass punk , stu give it a dress and tries to make a thong for it . billy names his bich fuker and stu names his fuking bich . you don’t know how you made it out of the store without being kicked out but somehow you do . later , at lunch , both of them disapear only to suddenly see the stuffed animals pop over the table as they give you a weird stuffed animal porno scene that you try not to die laughing over .

vincet sinclair

surprisingly , vincent will go into town with you for this venture . and even more surprising , he will go maskless . his long locks will cover the damaged half of his face , and he might look just a bit annoyed with how crowded it is in the store and how loud it is . he’s used to peace and quiet and metal music . he spends a long time deciding on a stuffed animal , even if he doesn’t think that he’ll put it up anywhere . he tries and does convince you to only get one to share . you’ll both build it together . he choses two and lets you get the choice in which one to get . he does the heart ceremony with you , giving a soft look to you , amused at how much fun you’re having , memorizing the way you look so he can sketch it later . you both decide to try and dress up in cozy clothes , a sweater and pants and socks . you name the bear vincent jr and vincent shakes his head , looking at you amused and presses a kiss to your temple .

bo sinclair

bo is annoyed as fuck to be there and is glaring at the kids , calling them brats and ankle bitters . he doesn’t act like he cares , and much like vincent just wants to get one . he isn’t made of fucking money . though he does get pissy when you don’t pick the bear with golden curl fur and you end up changing it with hitting his chest with a limp bear hand . he talks down to the bear builder because at first it’s too soft , then it’s too fucking hard , and then there’s too much stuffing taken out . you end up tipping the poor girl when his back is turned . he almost fucking faints when he sees how expensive everything is for clothes so you only get one white shirt . you then convince him to get a pair of socks because that’s what bo wears when he’s being lazy . he names it ankle bitter . a few days after you get the bear you can’t find it and you think it might have been thrown away , and then you see it in bo’s garage on a top shelf holding a wrench .

lester sinclair

lester has a lot of fun . once he makes it inside he gets pumped and asks if he can give his to jonesy . you both decide that your gonna get on each for her . lester gets her a bunny because of how much jonesy loves them . its absolutely adorable . the bear builder has and issue understanding lester’s slurred country talk , and it makes you want to laugh so hard because it’s obvious they’re from out of state . you end up just doing your best to translate and only laugh harder when lester starts laying it on thicker for a laugh . the bear ends up between limp and medium , a good fluff for a cuddle and chew toy . he dresses the bunny up as you , saying that it’s good for jonesy to have a little version of her daddy’s love . and you can’t help but think lester is fucking cute . he doesn’t name the bunny . later , after you decide to eat in the mall , lester says he’ll be back and goes to the bathroom . when he comes back he hands you a little bear that is dressed up like him and tells you that he wanted to make you something to hug on to when you missed him too much .

jacob goodnight

jacob is nervous , overwhelmed . you go during a school day in the morning so no one is really around . he doesn’t what to do or what to chose , but decides on one that has eyes that can be removed , you understand that he has a bit of an issue so you promise that you’ll put pretty patches over the eyes when you get home , he’s very relieved by this . now , your boy is usually pouty or neutral looking , but watch him light up and smile during the heart ceremony . he takes everything to heart and is so happy . his bear is medium fluff with most of the fluff in his tummy . he takes his time cleaning it , and picks out a very basic outfit . just a plain shirt and shorts . he names it jacob , after himself and wants you to hold it , thinking that you look so cute with two soft stuffed animals in your arms . later , he’ll try to make matching cross necklaces for both your bears . he also wants to come back and make a bear each for all his dogs .

martin ( 1977 )

this shy boy is extremely excited and nervous at the same time . he’ll be quiet , glancing towards you and back at his bear , one that is pure white . he does the heart ceremony , shy as hell about it , whispering the words and such . but the further into the store the more he comes out of his shell . he smiles and stands close , looking at clothes and wanting your bears to match . they both end up looking cute and fancy , his a girl he names angel , and he tells you it reminds him of you . he keeps it in his room , often looking at it when he thinks and misses you .

carrie white

this girl is excited , eyes bright and smile wide and sweet . she picks out something soft and pink and colorful . she doesn’t want her bear to be plain , no she wants her to be beautiful and stand out . you can’t help it . you put your own bear away so you can spend all the money spoiling this happy girl you have . she does everything with gusto , even doing it with some shy kids . she’s so lost in the moment that it’s wonderful , she really needed this . her bear is so soft , nearly limp , and dressed in a pretty yellow sundress with ribbons on her ears . she names it sunshine .

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slashersins · 5 years ago

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Ok so, one of the best dates (in my opinion) is going to build a bear and each getting a bear! Like picking em out together n doing the little heart ceremony (and also putting scents in I love the scentss) putting the hearts in each others bears bc love~ picking out their clothes together, naming em, then afterwards grabbing something to eat! (Taking a picture together n setting it as your lockscreen) its wonderful and you get a bear to remind you of your partner!! 10/10!! -Scooby

jason voorhees

michael myers

brahms heelshire

thomas hewit

jesse cromeans

bubba saywer

billy loomis & stu matcher

vincet sinclair

bo sinclair

lester sinclair

jacob goodnight

martin ( 1977 )

carrie white

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peachyteabuck · 6 years ago

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cold-blooded & perfect

summary: In a move less orthodox than your father, Lagertha invades a country expecting to raid it, but instead merely takes its princess – you. While you’re surprised, you’re not necessarily unhappy with her sudden change of heart.

pairing: Lagertha x Reader

words: 2,896

trigger warnings: kidnapping, taking of virginity, vaginal fingering, poor family ties

notes/other: Breaking into the Vikings fandom hell YEAH. feels good.

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

The Vikings invade your homeland with fire in their eyes and bloodlust on their tongues. The small, untrained army assigned to protect your country is defeated in a matter of minutes, those left with heartbeats either taken captive for later use or killed when they drop their swords. Your father, still in his most lavish robes from the festivities the night before, is forced out to the capital’s center with his hands up and his spine perpendicular to the sharp blade of one of their savage warriors.

From your place in your unscathed room, far up in the vast castle, you anxiously watch the exchange between the leaders. It’s there, as your eyes follow your father’s footsteps, that you notice the rest of the army fathering round him like flies swarm an almost-deceased rabbit; nearly vibrating with excitement, unable to stop their twitchy movements as they circle his shaking form.

While your country is small, its position lining the ocean shore makes it a necessary siege on the pathway to the more inwards parts of the continent. You’ve known this all your life, you know your father has known this for all of his, and you know the foreigners’ leader knows this now.

You can’t quite understand how this woman, this woman decked in the same armor as her underlings, has climbed her way to the top of whatever hierarchy they’ve formed. You can tell she’s powerful though, can tell she isn’t afraid to grasp whole worlds in her hands. As she speaks to your father, the small smirk her lips have twisted themselves into manipulates your insides in a way you cannot describe, and do not try to begin to.

“So,” she asks him, words choppy and accented and curious. “You are king here?”

Like those loyal to her, she circles him. Unlike the rest of them, though, she is not waiting for the creature to give up. Oh, never would she miss the chance to take down anyone who stood in her pathway to victory, to gold, to whatever it is she craves. Her bright teeth remind you of a she-wolf, and your father’s trembling body reminds you of an injured goat.

“Yes,” he answers truthfully. His works shake worse than his limbs as she replies to his numerous questions.

“And do you value the protection of your people?”

Your father gulps but stands a little straighter. “Of course. God gave me the crown to serve Him as well as my people.”

The woman shrugs and leans on her sword, with its sharped point in the ground and the handle covered by her hands. “You know, I’ve heard a lot about your god, you single, individual god,” the women and men behind her chuckle, but she remains stoic. “Does this god accept sacrifices?”

“He sacrificed his Son for us, and in turn we sacrifice for Him, to show our love and appreciation,” your father speaks lowly, words more confident and steadier. The rehearsed string of sentences flowing easily from his lips, and you roll your eyes and pull away from the window. The king, your father, the ruler of your country, the father of your motherland, is no holy man. The mistresses he’s had out-number the maggots in a deer’s corpse, he couldn’t identify the Holy Bible from a child’s drawings made in pools of mud, the cross he supposedly wears has become tarnished from lack of human touch.

Whatever. If he gets beheaded in the town’s square the man you’ve been betrothed to since the very second the doctor turned his nose up at your absence of a penis. You know very little about the Viking culture, their religion, their gods, but you assume they’re smart enough to know killing a princess gains them nothing but a martyr for the opposite side.

The sound of your name pulls you from your disgusted internal monologue.

“And how old is this daughter?” The woman asks. Your father is now on the ground – not injured, just a coward.

“Old enough to wed,” he replies. He doesn’t seem scared anymore. You, though, tremble in fear.

“Then a truce,” the woman smiles brighter than the sun and her eyes gleam. “I will take the woman and we will leave your land. If you promise no contact, my people and I will not invade as long as I am ruler.”

“Okay,” your father agrees immediately. “I will allow my daughter to go with you for my country’s safety.”

Your eyes bulge as you realize what just happened.

What the fuck.

You have mere heartbeats to process the chaos your future has been thrown into before several men are storming into your room. To your surprise, the men don’t grab at you – they simply stand by the door to prevent you from leaving. You’re their captor, but at least they’re passive about it.

From behind them, the blonde woman from the square emerges. She smirks as her eyes trail your body from your bare feet to your sleep-mused hair.

“Congratulations, princess,” she tells you, playful tone floating through the air like fae. “You’ve saved your nation from the savage beasts that are the Vikings.”

You’re allowed to pack one trunk – the woman, who introduces herself as Lagertha as you shove your mother’s locket deep into the pocket of your favorite winter coat - already knows your name, and soon her routine questions and vies for attention turn personal, intimate.

Nevertheless, your answers remain curt through the entire time you’re with her in your chambers.

“I heard your mother died when you were young. I’m terribly sorry for your loss,” she whispers in the darkness of night as you both lay in her temporary bed, a straw thing a few feet from your own plush amenities.

You don’t say anything back, forcing through the uncomfortable silence with purse lips.

A beat. You can hear Lagertha turn to face you as she speaks. “Do you miss her?”

You sigh, then nod. “Sometimes. I don’t really remember her. She died when I was pretty young, and she had a lot of kingdom-y stuff to attend to when she was alive.”

Another beat. Your breaths come out shaky, your attempts not to shed tears

“Do you have any siblings?” she tries to change the subject as she notices the tears welling up in your eyes and reflecting the bright half-moon.

“Six older sisters,” you tell her honestly. “All married off and living in foreign lands, like I was supposed to…”

The silence between you two is heavy, blanketing you heavier than the furs keeping the cold night air from your skin. Neither of you speak for a long time, unsure of how to proceed. It’s awkward, painfully so, when you’re shoved into a small ship and told to sit with a woman who had injured her ankle hunting a few hours prior to boarding the small boat.

You and her are silent most of the journey, the conversations you manage to get yourself to engage with short, choppy, impersonal. Similar situations happen with Lagertha each time she offers food, water, an extra fur, someone else to sit next to.

The first full sentence you speak is when you’re brought to Lagertha’s bed, the trunk carried by two of the most muscular women you’ve ever seen in your life.

It’s once they exit that the words leave your lips. “Are the women here warriors as well as the men?”

Lagertha laughs a little as she drinks from a gauntlet you don’t remember seeing before now. “Of course. They’re women, not frail babies.”

You don’t respond, simply looking around the room. Lagertha leaves you alone after that, allowing you to unpack your things and learn the map of the house of which you’ll be living.

The two of you don’t speak until dinner, an affair she keeps small for, it seems, your benefit. It’s just one of her sons – Bjorn, and his wife. This isn’t the first time you’ve seen the Vikings eat, nor is it the first time you’ve heard them speak in their native tongue, a language foreign to your ears. But, it is the first time you haven’t been able to hide yourself from such savagery.

They bite into their meats like bears tasting the first taste of flesh in months and their unintelligible babble rakes in your ears like rusty knives through hardened wood. All of their words seem angry, biting, even when they laugh or smile.

For the entirety of the meal Lagertha keeps her hand on your lower back, a gesture you believe (hope) is meant to comfort you.

The verbal exchanges between you two are scarce, especially since you’d insisted of sleeping in a different bed as your captor.

It’s about a week in this new, still-strange place when Lagertha approaches you as you hunt through your things for something, anything to do. She can tell you’re bored, mind-numbingly so as you spend your days pacing her keep. It reminds her of a dog locked in a pen without straw or bones or rocks and far enough away from society they and their masters do not breathe the same breaths.

She seems to understand what you’re looking for, sitting on the bed. You’re kneeling on the floor, and you can feel her feet bump at your hip as she speaks.

“What did you back in your home country?” Lagertha asks you.

“Not much,” you admit. “Back home for me is…it’s quite different from here…” Even as you speak your native tongue, you struggle to find the right words. “Women don’t do much. They, they all, they all think that we’re weaker somehow, that we can’t do much. As a royal all I was permitted to do was learn to sew, cook. A servant once taught me some medicinal skills – so I studied those old books sometimes.”

Lagertha sees you struggling, and as she speaks she attempts to comfort you with a hand on your shoulder. “Would you like to continue those things?”

You inhale deeply, considering the question. Lagertha’s not a malicious woman – at least not to you. So far she’s been kind, welcoming; doesn’t seem like the type to deny you such basic commodities as the ones you would ask for. In hopes of not feeling the sharp pain of rejection, you respond with the polite passivity you’d had quite aggressively drilled into your vernacular. “It’d be a nice pastime, yes.”

Lagertha smiles, your eyes locking together. Hers are bright, playful, while yours remain stilled with fear. “You are quite small in your speech, princess. I hope you in time learn to be more upfront with yourself, your wants, your needs.”

You swallow at the thick knot in your throat, one that isn’t quite terrified but still shakes when she pushes a small strand of hair behind your hear. “It is improper for a lady to be so forceful.”

Lagertha simply laughs. Big, chesty, head thrown back laughs. “Is that what they taught you? To be some meek little doll?” You nod meekly with small movements. “Then I hope you learn life is much different here.”

It’s the day after that you find some crude crafting supplies laid out onto your bed – some thick, blunt needles and furs and rough fabric and thread. It’s sweet, despite not being what you’re used to, despite not being the finer things the servants taught you with. No more brightly-colored silken thread and soft, thin fabric. Nonetheless, it is still a gift – and one you treasure.

Winter in this region comes much sooner, and much harsher, than you had expected. Of course, the locals giggled each time you shivered at a mere featherlight kiss of the wind, but even the seer couldn’t predict how poorly the fragile skin wrapping your body was able to withstand such cold.

It’s a few night falls into the deep season when you find yourself on the small bed just outside the kitchen, shaking so hard your teeth clack together and your very bones feel as if they are freezing. In the dead of this night is when Lagertha appears to take pity on you, calling for you across the homestead for you to join her in her bed.

You reluctantly you do, body shivering violently at the raw exposure to air.

Under the furs Lagertha’s body is warm, almost painfully so against your frigid flesh. If the queen notices you shaking against her, she doesn’t say anything about it.

Wordlessly, she curls herself around you, pulling you two together. It’s not an action that’s unwelcome, but it’s still one that makes a specific type of shive run up your spine. This sort of intimacy, especially between two women, was forbidden back home. To think of a maiden or one of your father’s servant bursting in to find you – little, unmarried you - in the muscular arms of some woman who fights like a man, your heart quickens at the scandal it would bring. Just imagining the villagers, the people your father rules over, having such ammunition would plunge your country, your nation, your people, into despair.

The woman wrapped around you senses your distress. “Are you okay, love?” she asks, voice low like she’s talking to your father’s dog – a small white thing that shakes every time it rains.

Your words barely reach above a whisper. “Just thinking of home.”

She mmms in a way that makes you think she knows you’re hiding something. “Good memories or bad?”

You pull away from her a little bit, trying to find purchase on the slick furs. “They’re not memories at all.”

Lagertha pulls you back to her, resting her chin on the top of your hair. “Let me help, love,” she whispers just over the shell of your ear. “Let me help you.”

Her rough fingertips, her scarred hands, they run over your skin with featherlight touches over your many skin blemishes inherited from your mother.

Still, you lay passively, not sure what to do. Your headmistresses over the years had described sex not just as an act between man and wife, but also something that will hurt, that will be quick, that will simply be to solidify an heir, then to strengthen the diplomatic capabilities of the family you’d be married off to. No matter your education, you can still feel the heat between your legs pool slightly faster than your trembling heart can convince you to stop.

Lagertha daintily pushes the two sides of the slit in your address apart, just enough to give her access to the side of your hip and upper thigh. Lightly, as if not to scare you, she places her calloused, scarred, battle-torn hand there. It’s nice, surprisingly enough, it’s nice to see her warmth there. “Have you ever been with a woman?” She asks. It’s not accusatory, rather inquisitive. A genuine question stemming from genuine interest.

You think of the time you kissed one of your lady’s maids when you were twelve and she was thirteen, of the time you snuck away under a table in the kitchen and palmed at the breasts of a kitchen maid when you were both sixteen. Each experience more intimidating than this one – most likely due to the lack of dread from the idea of your father or headmistress or anyone finding you in such a state of sin.

Lagertha’s teeth bite into the tender flesh of your neck, leaving marks there. You’re happy your thick hair covers such an intimate spot, but something inside you whispers to expose such skin to the murderous winter as to alert the fellow Kattegat residents of your newfound status as lover rather than captive.

Her fingers dip into your virgin heat with patience, the woman watching your face’s every movement as she works each digit into you. “Do you like that, princess?” she asks, voice deep and low. “Do you like the way I feel inside of you?”

You nod, unable to speak anything but high-pitched whines.

“Good,” she purrs. Soon she has three fingers working in and out of you, crooking them so that all you see is hot white with her thumb rubbing at the crest of your center so behind all that is stars. It’s not long before the hot coil in your lower intestine becomes too tight, too tight to bear and you’re screaming for her to keep going don’t stop please my queen do not stop for anything in the world and she’s smiling into the base of your neck and nipping at your collarbones and telling you she wouldn’t let go of you for promise of Valhalla and suddenly-

Suddenly you’re both gasping and unable to breath, squeezing your eyes shut and keeping them locked on Lagertha’s form now over you with her hand driving into you, body relaxed and tense.

You collapse (when did you sit up?) onto the furs with your chest expanding painfully. “Oh, God,” you moan with the world still spinning around you.

“That’s not me,” Lagertha says with a smirk. “But I’ll happily take the compliment.”

You almost, almost have the energy to laugh at her stupid joke, but instead you merely throw her a small smile and curl back into the warmth of her body. Part of you thinks that maybe, just maybe this is the start of a love you don’t have to fear.

#lagertha #lagertha x reader #vikings #vikings imagine #vikings fanfic #lagertha smut #this is so self indulgant ngl #lukis writes stuff

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patricianandclerk · 6 years ago

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Choices

My Ask | My Ko-Fi | My Ao3 | Dragon Age Discord | Requests always welcome!

Cole felt… bad.

They had made camp on the road back toward Skyhold, having made their way up and out of the Hinterlands, and he was sitting on a folded mat beside the fire, which was crackling quietly, the warmth reaching out and gently licking his skin. Around the camp, he could feel the lulling ease of people dreaming, the soft susurrations of the rippling Veil as people dipped their toes into the Fade.

Varric and Solas were both still awake. Cole could hear them talking quietly on the other side of camp, although he couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying – he would have been able to tell, before, exactly what they were saying, exactly…

He felt bad. His shoulders ached, and his wrists, too, and his chest hurt, and his eyes hurt. It was a funny, sticky hurt, not one that he really remembered feeling in the longest time – he was used to his body getting a little bit tired, or a little pain in his body, or injuries, but this was a weird, sticky pain, it weighed him down.

There was something in his throat, and he didn’t like it. It felt heavy and thick at the very base of his neck, and he wanted it to crawl out and go away somewhere else, but it wouldn’t, no matter how much he wished at it, even when he opened his mouth and moved his jaw around, trying to coax it free.

Across the fire, he saw a scout yawn, and his body acted of his own accord: his jaw widened a little further, and he felt a weird rustling in his ears and his cheeks and his throat, and the yawn came through, some of the pressure going away.

Not all of it, though.

“Hey, kid,” Varric murmured, and Cole looked up at him. He and Solas stood together, looking down at him, and he looked between their expressions, both quietly… concerned, he thought. Expressions were hard. He had to get better at them, Varric and the Iron Bull said, but it got easier, the more you looked at them.

Varric felt satisfied, but concerned, and Cole reached out for his feelings: looks so small and still so thin but I don’t know if he’ll ever put on a little weight reminds me of Daisy sometimes all wide-eyed and too trusting but we can make him feel at home we can help he just needs a fa—

Cole looked to Solas.

His pain was bigger, but quieter than anyone else’s, always: his pain was buried underneath the barrier he kept it under, like he kept all his spirit underneath his funny clothes and the way he talked, sometimes. He could be like Dorian and Vivienne, Cole thought, all shine and wonder and easy nobility, but he chose not to, and Cole didn’t understand…

He understood more than Solas wished he did, Cole thought.

Solas reached out, and because Cole’s hat was in his lap, it was Cole’s hair that he touched, gently drawing his fingers through the lank, white locks. Cole let his eyes close shut, and it felt better, to close his eyes, somehow, it didn’t feel as heavy or sticky, but he didn’t want to open them again.

Needs to sleep. He’s made his choice, must be more human now, must sleep and touch the Fade in the way that he now can, but how to teach him? And how will he learn to die, when…?

Cole opened his eyes, giving Solas a doleful look, and Solas drew his hand away. He looked regretful, but Cole knew it was over what he would do, and not what Cole had done.

“It doesn’t have to happen,” Cole said. “Not every wall has to come down. Sometimes—”

“You’re tired, Cole,” Solas said quietly. “You need to sleep.”

“I don’t sleep,” Cole mumbled, reaching up and rubbing his eye, but while rubbing his palm against his eyelid soothed it a little, it didn’t make all of the sticky tiredness go away. It felt worse, somehow, than it had before he’d closed his eyes. Was this what it felt like, to go to sleep? But it was awful, and it was so heavy and achy and uncomfortable, why…?

“Coulda fooled me, kid,” Varric murmured. “Come on, pick your mat up. There’s space in the tent.”

He got up reluctantly when Varric nudged his shoulder, and he followed them to the tent he and Solas shared – they didn’t mind sharing, Varric and Solas. Solas didn’t mind sharing a tent with anybody, except that Vivienne wouldn’t share a tent with anyone, and Sera wouldn’t share a tent with him; everyone shared with Varric and didn’t mind. Cassandra would share with Sera but not with a man; Sera would share with Dorian but not with the Bull or Blackwall, because they were too big and they got in the way; Lavellan—

It was all very complicated.

Where would he fit in? How would it work, if he had to share tents, now, if he had to lie down on a bed roll for too many hours in the dark and the quiet and do nothing at all? When everyone else was sleeping, before, he would go and listen to rivers babble or trees whisper, or watch people’s dreams, or look over someone’s shoulder as they were reading, and everyone slept for nearly a third of the day, it all took so long.

He laid his mat down between Varric and Solas’ bedrolls. Solas’ was the way the elves made, like Lavellan had: it was made with furs sewn onto a lining of neatly layered leaves, and Cole had watched Lavellan make the bedroll for Solas, had watched him carefully pin the fabric into place on each segment and then sew it perfectly in place.

It had hurt Solas, when Lavellan had brought it to his office, and Cole had asked him, afterwards, why.

“But he did it to be kind, and thoughtful,” Cole had said, sitting on the scaffold that Solas sat on to paint and staring down at him, and Solas had sighed quietly, had looked up at him. “Why would it hurt you? He likes you, and you like him.” A moment had passed, and Cole had said, “He’d like for you to like him more. Noble, proud, like the People should be, stronger than he looks, wish he’d smile more often, he looks so sad when no one is watching him—”

“Is that you narrating my thoughts of him, or his of me?” Solas had asked.

“He made you a soft bed, and it makes you sad that he thought of it. It makes him too real.”

“Yes,” Solas had said.

Varric’s bedroll was expensive. Hawke had brought it for him even though he had come from far away, had brought it with sweet words of how he knew Varric missed feather beds and a hairy chest to lie on when he was in the field, and Bianca’s name had hung between their hands like an anchor as he’d handed it over.

“No,” Cole said when Varric laid a third bedroll down, between the two of them. “That isn’t mine. That’s Mahanon’s.”

“Yeah, he’s sleeping in a hammock tonight,” Varric said, waving a hand. “He’s already out of it, Cole – you know our Inquisitor likes to sleep up in the trees, if he can swing it.”

Would have been made for the crystal palaces of Arlathan, would have slept on the beds of glass and—

Cole turned away from Solas’ sadness, and he laid down on the bed roll. It was soft. He felt the leaves, neatly packed inside, rustle quietly but not crinkle, he looked at Varric in the darkness as he lay down on his back. Varric slept like that, on his back; Solas slept on his belly, one arm wrapped around his pillow, but now his pillow was laid gently under Cole’s head, and Solas’ cheek was rested on his own arm.

“You don’t have to,” Cole said.

“No,” Solas agreed.

“My eyes hurt.”

“You’re fatigued. It’s your body’s way of telling you it’s time to sleep.”

“It doesn’t need to tell me like this,” Cole muttered, pressing his cheek into Solas’ pillow an crossing his arms over his chest. The pillow smelled like Solas did, like pencil sharpenings and parchment pages and the Fade, and he felt himself relax a little as Solas laid a blanket over Cole’s shoulder. He was lying under his own cloak, and Cole wanted to feel guilty, but he liked the weight of the blanket on his body, liked that it was heavy on his shoulders, on his hip. He liked… heavy.

“S’gotta tell you somehow, kid,” Varric said quietly. “How else would it make you listen?”

“How do I make it happen?” Cole demanded, feeling irritable – churlish, he felt the word from Solas’ mind, but affectionately, still tinted with that funny sadness he had when he thought of Cole, now, he didn’t think of him so sadly before, but now, because he’d chosen…

“Well, close your eyes, for starters,” Varric murmured, and Cole obeyed, his eyes closing. He laid there, for a moment, his mouth shut, his eyes shut, his face pressed into the pillow, his body underneath the blanket. “Kid,” Varric said, and Cole felt the so funny it’s cute really he just doesn’t know the first thing about, “are you still wearing your boots?”

Going to sleep was the same as being under the blanket. It slipped over him, warm and heavy, and weighed him under.

When he woke up, it was still dark, but he could feel that someone had taken his boots off, because his feet were light and only wrapped by his socks, which the Iron Bull had bought for him, because Cole had gone without them before, and the Iron Bull had said it would hurt him, if he did that, and then Blackwall had sat with him and told him how to put them on, and told him he had to change them every day, and that he had to keep them dry if he could, and make sure that they came up to his ankle so that they protected his ankle from the rub of his boot, and make sure the heel and the toe didn’t rub, and Cole had said it was too much to remember, and Blackwall had said, low and wry, “Well, tough.”

He sat up. His mouth felt… Scratchy. Dry, nasty, parched, like desert sands without rain, the old Cole had felt like this, for so long, thirsty—

He grabbed at the water skein on the other side of Varric’s waist, drinking from it, swallowing down too much water and making himself cough wetly, but over the sound of Solas’ quiet, rhythmic breathing, and Varric’s low, rumbling snoring, the other two men didn’t snore.

Cole, in the middle of them, was framed by their hands, because Solas had stretched out his arm above Cole’s pillow while he slept, and Varric’s had reached out to meet it, interlinking their fingers, his thumb pressed loosely to the centre of Solas’ palm.

Sera laid on top of people, when she shared a tent with them. Sera got cold at night, and she’d wrap around anyon warm – it was why she wouldn’t share with Solas, because she didn’t like to touch him, didn’t want to get too close to him. Dorian liked it when the Iron Bull let him be on top, and lie on his chest, his face pressed against the Iron Bull’s warmth, and Cole wondered if that’s what Solas and Varric would do, if he wasn’t here, between them.

It was complicated, when Varric…

Bianca set his heart on fire, but it burned too hot, so hot it hurt him, sometimes, and left him charred and gasping. Hawke was just warm, a warm body and a warm smile and a warm friendship. Was Solas warm, like Hawke was, when Varric thought of him? Was he simple, like Hawke was? But then, what was Hawke?

It used to be easy, to reach for the feelings when people were sleeping, but it felt harder now, like it was a river churning too fast, and there was too much pressure if he tried to put his fingers in it. When you dip into people’s heads, and take a drink…

“Cole,” Solas said in a low voice, and Cole looked at him. Solas eyes were still closed, and he didn’t draw his hand away from Varric’s. “It is hours yet until dawn. You need more sleep than you’ve yet had.”

“He’s holding your hand.”

Solas flinched suddenly, wrenching his hand back from Varric’s, sitting up, and he Cole watched Varric stir, his snoring stuttering, one eye opening. “Maker’s breath, what is it?”

Embarrassment reached for him and I shouldn’t have of course he reached back when he was asleep I didn’t mean to didn’t expect him to—

“Why are you embarrassed?” Cole asked, yawning without meaning to. “It’s not a bad thing, is it?”

“Go to sleep, Cole,” Solas said softly. Shame radiated from him like heat.

“I’m cold,” Cole said. It was true, somewhat. He was cold – it was a cold night.

“My cloak, then,” Solas said, reaching for the cloak at his hip, but before Cole could argue, Varric grumbled wordlessly and shoved his bedroll closer to Cole’s, pulling Solas’ closer with one sudden drag of his hand, and Varric put one arm around Cole, over the blanket.

“Just get closer, Chuckles, can’t let the kid freeze.”

Knows exactly what he’s doing fenhedis the little shi—

“I’m not little,” Cole complained, and Solas curled in toward him, not actually reaching to hold Cole, like Varric did, but curling his body in toward Cole’s, bracketing him in between himself and Varric. Cole felt Solas sigh, felt his breath touch through his hair. Important, to be touched. Important, not to go without. Hard to ask for, but you must, Cole, you must, don’t reply out loud. “It’s not easy,” Cole mumbled.

“Haminas, da’len,” Solas murmured. “Haminas dia, melava somniar.”

Cole slept – slept well, as instructed – and his dreams were strange and wandering things.

#as defined by dictionary #solas #varric tethras #cole #dragon age #fanfic

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honestsycrets · 7 years ago

Text

Wolf Slayer || 5CW

❛ request | You and hvitty get into this huge fight case he’s pissed over everything in Kattegat, you try to comfort him but he snaps at you, so you snap back, it go back and forth, insecurities are fueling it all. He thinks you deserve someone better (more fame, etc), you think he deserves someone prettier/thinner. He storms out, you’re both hurt, he comes back later to you in bed and starts kissing you like that thora scene, there’s apologies and cuddles + labour

❛ word count | 2091

❛ genre | fluff and angst

❛ summary | hvitserk and reader fight over silly things. he decides to walk out on her at the worst of times

❛ warnings | fighting, angry!hvitty

There were a few things not to tell a pregnant woman. The first was… no. The second was to disown her. For Hvitserk, he had done both earlier that evening. Not his brightest moment but in his defense, you had asked something of him that he could not refuse. So he took off without another word. He brews over the statue that was brought up in the name of his definitely mortal brother and drank of a rich mead that he definitely could not afford to be drinking right now. It helps wash away all the events from earlier that day.

“He’s telling me to leave! Can you believe it?” It had been a long day. One of those days that even his Buddha and the sweetness of meditation could not take the edge off of. Ivar went on about his Freyja like wife, insinuating that his wife was less than.

Maybe that was what had been such a fight for him with Ivar. The deadpan mark of seriousness was not only because his beautiful, pregnant wife was not also once Ivar’s, but because he knew how sensitive you were about your body. You were thicker than she, sure, but god you were gorgeous. The way your breasts swelled during the pregnancy timed along with Freydis’s? Divine. Your hips were fuller than before, something he enjoyed when men looked at you with longing from behind.

Freydis had her beauty and you yours. But what she did not have was loyalty. He knew that the child was not his brother’s as did you.

“Do what he wants. If I learned anything with Ivar, he comes and goes on his passions.” You were sewing at the large loom of this new, small home that Ivar allowed him. It was beginning to get cramped-- sign of Hvitserk’s failure to provide to the level he would have liked.

While Freydis had a large house and a name that was sung beside Bjorn, Ubbe and Ivar’s, his was not. No one knew the name Hvitserk as one of the Ragnarssons. That was largely information he failed to impart upon strangers. Now as you came to your side with a belly full of his child, slipping behind his back, he knew he had failed. You stroked his cheek and rran your lips over his neck as if to calm him.

“Leave all of Kattegat to him!? Do you see what he is doing?” He hisses in the heat of the moment. Shoving himself up, he brings his hands in the air behind his head. You blink rapidly-- unsure of what exactly he was attempting to get at.

“You are overreacting.” You smooth your hands over his son in your stomach. “What is hidden always comes to light, Hvitserk. They will find out that he is not a god and that the child is not his son. What do you get by fighting with him?”

Satisfaction in knocking him down and of getting something over him for what he had done. You were a gorgeous woman but as of late, Kattegat held Freydis up to the standard of beauty. No matter that her face was not as gorgeous as yours.

“You don’t know how he compares the two of you.” Hvitserk sets his hand on top of his belt. Oh-- you knew. You knew more than anyone what was going on. Your smile picks up in depth, biting back the hurt of this statement.

“Well, he did fall out of love with me for her, Hvitserk… it… its natural that he would want someone prettier. Just like you should.”

Your voice was pained. Almost as if you missed being Ivar’s little lover before Freydis came along. You could have. He was a king after all. Women loved kings. The women and men that admired his father was insatiable. He hones in on the statement, swiping up the mead that was saved for a special occasion between man and his wife.

“She’s not prettier than you. She’s just spoiled.” He says. “Since he is king.”

The words are with a hateful sneer behind them. You never thought he wanted to be king, but, he expected more out of himself. If not for him— but for his family. You set your hand to your stomach, stroking your round belly.

“He loves her.” You respond. It’s the last thing he could take. After all, after all this time all he wanted to do was show how much he loved you. How beautiful and bright you were to him compared to someone like her. Then you would negate his words of beauty and agree with him in the fact that she was well off?

Or that Ivar somehow loved her more than Hvitserk loved you?

“If you like him so much,” He swigs a drink. “Go try and be his bed slave. See if he wants you back.”

Why did he have to say that?

Why didn’t he just sweep up this bottle and leave the room? By now, he was pretty well plastered. It was just… he didn’t understand. How could you just not care about the way that Kattegat was being treated?

This was his home. This was your home. This would have been little Askold’s home too. Right, his son. His son was due soon. For him, he had to be more of a man like his father and less of a man that would roll over! He was a Ragnarsson-- it was time to act like it. Maybe that was the booze talking early into the next morning though.

Before long night had become morning. He watches the sunrise over the buildings and Kattegat’s square yet again populate with the commoners, merchants and farmers coming to sell their stock. Now that his booze had died down, he took himself to the door of his home. It was undisturbed.

“(Y/N)?” He presses into the home. Not even a peep from you, a lump inside your sheets. He thought that perhaps you might have gone to do laundry or gotten up to make him a hot porridge with pears on top like he so liked. The reality of the situation was that you were still bundled up in blankets and his fur in his bed.

With no response, Hvitserk assumes you must have bawled yourself into an early bedtime last night. He never knew you to be an overly emotional woman, but hell, being honest with himself meant knowing that sometimes you cried when he made you. So he cautions on the safe side of approaching you.

A gentle kiss to your ankles.

You shift, but don’t kick him off. It’s a start. He glides across your body, peppering up your side in the gentlest of kisses. Over the round of your hips, round with the time coming to birth his son fast in its approach. A woman was never as beautiful as when she was with child. His peppering kisses lead him up over your arms to your shoulder, carefully easing himself over your neck.

“I know you’re awake.” He cooes in your ear, pressing his body flush against your back. “I wanted to say I’m sorry. I should not have said those things… but it angers me when he speaks of you.”

You shift your shoulder up, knocking him away from the side of your neck. Hvitserk settles behind you and settles his hand upon your stomach. Your breathing deepens. Ha! He knew you were awake.

“I’d never reject you, (Y/N). You know that.” Hvitserk strikes nothing yet again. This time his patience doesn’t last. “Babe, I’m trying to be sincere here and it’d be nice if you would answer me.”

Oh you answered him alright, grabbing his hair and yanking him back off your neck with purpose. A choked out cry slips from his lips when you snarl out. “Would you shut up?” You finally hiss in a breathy little cry. Your eyes screw shut hard. “I’m trying to breathe.”

“Breathe?” He chirps.

“Breathe, you ass!” You hiss. It was abusive but in your state, he grew used to it. “And you keep distracting me with kisses.”

Yeah, naturally that was what he was here for.

“What is so hard about breathing?” He asks. It hasn’t clicked yet but a pained set of grunts that bounce off your lips later, it all comes together. Your short lived cries and the pain that is evident by your tense… really tense body.

Oh shit.

“You’re… going to give birth?” Hvitserk asks. “Why didn’t you get me?!” ”

It probably had to do with the fact that your body felt like it was ripping itself open and you had no idea what labour felt like. Hvitserk shifts off of the bed, coming around the side to crouch in front of you.

“You were mad.” You say. “So I figured I should have gotten Ivar instead.”

“I didn’t mean that!” You’re still visibly pouting when Hvitserk tugs you in, kissing along your delicate neckline in some mock apology. Usually you love those sweet, angelic little kisses that made your tummy flutter. I’m sorry, he whispers a hundred times over.

“Go get a midwife.” You command.

Hvitserk in all his wit decides that’s the best time to tilt his head at you. His skin is adorably lit up by the fire you barely had the drive to stoke with your child tearing within your body. You look at his soft green eyes, the softness of his cheeks and honey brown fuzz.

“How can I leave you alone? What if you tear something?” He says innocently, almost a whisper. It’s a pure tease and you know it. On top of saying such things earlier, now he thinks it is the time to mess with you? You don’t even believe it!

“If you do not go get my midwife, I will tear you like Fenrir will tear apart the sun!” You lurch up, standing up so quickly that you shake in pure agony as another contraction rips towards you. Your ever knowledgeable-- or perhaps not so much-- husband cringes as you squeak along the furs over the ground.

“(Y/N)! (Y/N) wait!” Hvitserk bobs off the bed, braids slapping his back. “I was not serious.”

“Well I am!” You breach the open door way cradling your belly in your hands. “You’re a man, you cannot even come to understand the pain of birth. But I thought my husband would be at least supportive during this!”

Another contraction and again you doubt over, grasping the nearest wooden siding of a house. Hvitserk grasps your arm to tug you back, slipping his arms under your leg and back to pluck you back up.

“I will handle it!”

Hvitserk walks in to the home, placing you on the middle of the bed. Then calling the midwives-- the real pushing began. Apparently you were ripe for pushing… which, as a man, made him feel even more worthless. Your words should have carried on his ear more carefully.

“And pusssh…” The midwife’s sweet, silken voice urges you on. Hvitserk stands some feet away while you lay upon the bed stripped clean of any sheets. Just the wooden board and you, shoving for all your life to press his son out.

Oh god, his son.

His daughter.

His child!

“Good.” The midwife says, looking to Hvitserk who warms a pitcher of ale. He glances, up, swallowing hard and keeps himself as quiet as a mouse. That fiery mood stills itself after another few contractions when he hears the soft cries of a child breaching through the cabin once empty of children.

“Prince Hvitserk.” She says. “Your son is here.”

He exhales air abandoning his drink to come closer. Hvitserk watches carefully as the midwife cleans his child, the cord still connected to him for some time longer before that too is snapped. She goes to delivering the afterbirth while you hold your child on your chest, caressing his soft cheek. Hvitserk is almost shy to come touch his first born at first.

“Should we still call him Askold?” You ask.

“Víðarr.” Hvitserk doesn’t lose beat. He scans his eye over your bump. “He conquered your mood. He is the reason I’m alive!”

Although its nothing more but a little tease that has you laughing, even as the midwife shoves her palm on your sore womb, you agree. Hvitserk comes beside you, kneeling so that he can run his knuckle against the little boy’s button nose.

“Welcome to Midgard, little wolf-slayer.”

@igetcarriedawaywithyou, @kylobien, @titty-teetee, @breathlessouls, @nejijjeoroo, @bcat1291, @readsalot73, @mslothbrok, @romanchronicles, @captstefanbrandt, @ailucascen, @michaeliskindahot, @cbouvier23, @naaladareia, @cbouvier23, @the-geeky-engineer, @dorned, @lisinfleur, @funmadnessandbadassvikings, @tephi101, @akamaiden, @ethereallysimple, @venusloviing, @happylittlepuppydog, @beyond-the-ashes, @slutforrpg, @hipsternoionlylikeunicorns, @mixedwiththemoon, @sparklemichele, @alicedopey, @lif3snotouttogetyou, @rubyquartzshades, @noregretsandyeteveryregret, @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol, @deathbyarabbit, @unacceptabletatertots, @beyond-the-ashes (no sig), @babypink224221, @ivarandersen, @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla, @moose-squirrel-asstiel, @icarus-fell-in-spring, @end-of-night, @gruffle1, @lol-haha-joke@arses21434, @smileyparrots, @Moosemittens13, @miss-artemis-wild, @two-unbeatable-beaters, @wonderwoman292, @wish-i-was-a-mermaid, @fangirls94, @mcuimxgine, @killerb00sdeath, @heartbeats-wildly, @boo20017, @acacheofstrange, @shaelyn102, @astoryoffireandlight, @smokealone, @shaelyn102 @laketaj24

#vikings imagines #hvitserk imagines #hvitserk x reader #hvitty imagines #hvitty/reader #hvitserk's heathen feast #5cw: Hvitserk #vikings/reader #hvitserk imagine

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bubblesthemonsterartist · 6 years ago

Note

Congrats on 300! Obiyuki, “Are you mad at me?”

Prompts are currently closed while I catch up. I will announce when I am open! :)

The finest tailors in three countries had spent months onthis, blinking through looking glasses as they sewed the tiniest pearls andjewels of all different hues upon her bodice. Weathered hands tapped out aceaseless rhythm, bobbins weaving in and out until patterns of lace her Babacould have only dreamed of were revealed. Goldsmiths and jewelers from Viandewere summoned. Florists from Wati spared no expense shipping still livingplants across the seas. Raj’s own personal baker arrived to construct aconfection at least one story high.

So much effort. So many years of striving to be worthy enoughfor the hand of her Prince coming to fruition.

And for what?

The mare coughs around her bridle as the reins draw up,slowing first to a canter and then to a trot. When they pass through the borderfrom field to forest, their pace has slowed enough for Shirayuki to feel thehorse’s sides heaving beneath her thighs, fur itchy with sweat against her skin.

Exhaling, for what feels like the first time in hours,her forehead rests against a broad back that neither moves nor bends when shepresses into it.

“Where are we?” she murmurs, eyes clenched tight.

His stomach tenses beneath her palms, spine somehowbecoming more rigid. “Far, Miss.”

Nausea. Regret. Bile. All of it roils in her gut, mixedwith guilt and there’s- there’s nothing more she can do. No forgiveness she canbeg for. And no turning back. The path she followed had diverged in the woodone fine spring day, one so close to a future she had laid brick by brick, soclose to completion, and the other-

Air hisses from her nose. One of these days, she’ll learn how to stoprunning.

Rolling her forehead along his back until her cheek takesits place, Shirayuki discovers that damp wool is really no better than damp horsehide. Only that it smells less offensive. Drawing back, she looks behind them –just once – just in time for the line of the forest to swallow up the glow of Clarinesscapital forever.

“I don’t think they’re following anymore,” she says, moreto herself than anyone.

“Is that so?”

The barb hit as well aimed as intended. Wincing,Shirayuki follows the line of Obi’s back up to his shoulders and then to hisneck, trying to catch his eyes, to see if they are as dull and lifeless as hisvoice, but they hesitate at his smooth jawline. The bristles at the nape of hisneck, stiff and freshly shorn.

He went to a coiffer for this. For today.

Stomach turning again, her grip on his dress uniformslowly relaxes. Then lets go.

She doesn’t need to hold on anymore, anyway.

~ ~ ~

It’s another hour before they stop, the high noon sun and fields they fled across fading to moonlight and a stream stretchingout before them. The mare’s hung head perks at the sound of rushing water, her gait picking up as she makestowards it. It’s only Obi, pulling back sharply on the reins, that keeps heraway.

She nickers, annoyed, but stills.

“So impatient,” he chides, patting her neck. “Notyet.”

Sliding off the saddle, Obi ties the horse off to thenearest tree, smoothing his hand beneath her mane and down to her breast.Shirayuki shifts, meaning to follow, to help, but it’s a battle. Yards uponyards of fabric impede her way, catching her ankle and then her knee before shefinally yanks it out from under her. Both legs successfully on one side of thesaddle, she faces a new challenge when she realizes she can’t even see thestirrup or her feet.

Sighing to herself, Shirayuki reaches with her leg helplessly, searching for something she may not find when she’s drawn up short. Obi’s hand, bare and burnt where he caught fire, appears before her. “Comeon, Miss. No need to break your neck.”

Lifting her head, her eyes search for his again, concerneating away at her reason. He’s still not looking at her and she’s tempted tojust. Push off. Land hard on the dirt and maybe on her seat. But she’s probablygiven him enough trouble for the day.

Her still gloved hand slides into his, stopping when hisfingers wrap around her wrist and guides it to his shoulder. Then it’s hisother hand, black and sleek against the lace cinched at her waist, and she letsherself fall. Slow. Controlled. Right down his chest until her feet alight uponthe ground.

When she looks up, he’s gone.

Swallowing, Shriayuki steps away, watching him unload thetack step by step. Each movement is slow, measured, and perhaps it’s for thebetter. If he wants to avoid this conversation, she won’t- she won’t stop him.

Her mouth turns down in concern, though, when the saddle andblanket is lifted off and reveals two small circles of red peeking out from darkfur.

His burns. The horses sores. The chaffing down her legsrunning from her ankles all the way to-

“What can I do?” she asks, her empty hands aching for hermedicine bag, sitting forlorn and abandoned right where she left it just lastnight. Another thing she left behind a world away.

“Just rest,” he says lightly, face in shadows. “It’sbeen a long day.”

Her mouth presses into a thin line as he opens hiscanteen, pouring what remains down the horses flank. Then goes towards thestream to fill it up again.

“Obi.”

Feet stuttering to stillness, he straightens, back toher, and waits.

“Give me your knife.”

Eyes snap to hers over his shoulder, wide and round ascoin. “Miss?”

Holding out one hand expectantly, she says, “Just one ofthem. Just for a minute.”

His gaze dropping to her hand, Obi approaches her as hesitant and wary as a stray dogbeing offered a bone by a stranger, and just as wary presses metal, handle first and bladedirected towards his heart, into her palm. Without pause, she bends at thewaist as much as she can and slices into white silk turned gray and dirty by the road.

“Miss!” Obi calls, moving to stop her as she grits herteeth, pulling the rend open more until it hits the seam. Blessedly cool airbrush up her legs.

“Here.” She stands upright, staring straight at him asshe holds out a large swath of fabric. “Dampen it and lay it across her back.She’ll be cooled down in no time.”

~ ~ ~

In retrospect, that may have been a miscalculation on herpart.

Night shrouds her in nothing but starlight and, so closeto running water, she shivers. Shifting closer to the low smokeless fire Obileft her with, Shirayuki winces at every movement. The bones of her corset digsinto her ribs, the drag of lace rubbing harsh and irritating at every placewhere it was not lined with silk.

Just this morning, when her maids had laced her into itso tight among hidden giggles and gentle words of encouragement, she had askedif there was any way to soothe the itch.

Don’t worry,Her Majesty had smiled, so faint. Thewedding is only a small part of your activities today. The larger part is inthe evening where you’ll have no need for it.

Shirayuki flushes, female tittering still loud in herhead.

Heavy wool lands on her shoulders and she starts, drawn back to the present where Obi is stepping over the fire. Gathering his jacket tight around her shoulders, her eyes follow him as he lowers himself with a groan on a fallen log. “I think we’re the only people for miles,” he sighs, eyes more on the forest than her. “If they’re hunting for us, they’re nowhere near catching up.”

The fire crackles, warming his already dark skin. Deepshadows chase the line of his cheekbones, the tension resting at the corner ofhis eyes. When she doesn’t reply, he hunches over himself, rubbing at the tension in his shoulder, andthe light flickers off of glass. His royal badge nestles next to the Olin Marisstone at his breast.

Her mouth is open before the pain even registers. “I’msorry.”

The rhythm of Obi’s palm working his shoulder breaks justfor a moment, his jaw flexing before he turns further away.

“Are you mad at me?” she presses softly.

Across the fire, gold and ember catches hers, then slidesaway.

Heart sinking like a stone, Shirayuki drops her gaze. That is answer enough, she supposes.

“I could never.”

Mouth parting, a wet, shaking breath escapes her, and she dares not hope. Not when her actions have taken away everything they’ve ever worked for in a mere afternoon. Yet still, she asks, “Obi?”

“I could never be mad at you,” he tells the forest. “Notfor doing what you felt was right in your heart.”

Her eyes water. And it- it shouldn’t matter that hisopinion of her has not changed, but it does. “But Zen…”

“Master will-” Obi’s adams apple bobs, head bowing overhis knees, “He will be fine. Eventually.”

She sniffles, lowering her head, and does not- cannot cry in relief.

“But Miss.” Obi lifts his head and finally- finally- looks at her. “Why?”

Staring at her bare knees, Shirayuki wets her lips. It would be a lie to say she doesn’t know herself,but she doesn’t- she doesn’t know howto say it. Has never given herself the permission to say it.

“I just… couldn’t do it. I saw what happened to Kikiafter she married. And Haki, too, and-” Her voice drifts off, and when shelooks at him for guidance, his brow is furrowed, and he’s just- just listeningso intently that the words are drawn from her as if from a well. “It was all I could think about, staring down that aisle. At all those guests. They used to do so much. Kiki was always at Zen’sside as his aide and Haki- I never talked to Haki while we were in Lyrias, notreally, but she was always there. Incommittee meetings and approving grants. And now both of them are just-”

“How long?”

She starts, clasped hands breaking apart in her lap. Littlehatch marks bloom where her nails left furrows. “How long, what?”

“How long have you been feeling like this?” he asks, soso quietly.

It’s her turn to look away, staring out past the treesand seeing nothing. Their horse grazes on a patch of grass, peaceful, her ears occasionallyflicking an invisible bug. Deep in the forest, night birds trill.

“A long time.”

“Why-“ A note of frustration creeps into his voice, thensmooths. Clenched fists relax flat against his thighs, and she watches as hepacks away the anger muscle by muscle until he can speak again. “Whydidn’t you tell me sooner?”

It hurts, the betrayal in his voice. It hurts even morethat he’s right to feel so. And, in the end, that’s why she tells him the truth.

“I thought if I wasn’t with Zen, I would lose you.”

He jolts, eyes snapping up to hers, and she’s neverpunched a man. Not once in the whole of her life. But she knows what it lookslike now- the surprise, the momentary disorientation, and the reflex that takesover the body as the mind decides what to do next.

“Miss,” Obi breathes, at her feet in a heartbeat. Thespace is closer now than then, but he remains the same heartbreakinglyvulnerable man she met that cold Lyrias morning. Only now, this Obi takes herhand, entwining his with hers as he lays his forehead against her bare knees.“You could never lose me. That’s why I’m here.Where you go, I follow, remember?”

Each and every word breathes against her skin, etchingthemselves there as easily as they leave their marks on her heart. Squeezing his hand so tight she can feel bone, she says, “I think I understand now.”

#bubbleswrites #obiyuki #hidetheremote #five more to go

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marvalinafangheart · 6 years ago

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Why are you?

Water droplets drip from the ceiling, the liquid ice cold. Slowly they drip, drip, drip on to Marvalina’s face. She stirs in her sleep not fully aware of where she is.

“Kassie...can you feed the baby this time?” She shifts on the ground the dirt and mud mushing under her fingernails. The rattling of the chains around her wrists and ankles slowly brining her back to reality.

Marvalina slowly opens her eyes, fluttering as she peers into the dim light of some kind of subterranean cave. Her vision blurred, her head pounding she reaches up and lightly touches the back of her head, “What the..?” Feeling around through her hair she feels dried blood. A large scab on her scalp.

She looks around trying to get a feel for her surroundings, “How long have I been down here? Where is here?” There is a groaning coming from about five feet away. Marv looks over to the sound, “Who is there?”

THe groaning grows a little louder, “Marvie? You’re awake?” Marvalina finally recognizes the voice, Nathaniel.”

“No, I am just really good at talking in my sleep.” She tries to get on her knees but a shooting pain runs through her legs and she lets out a small yelp. Looking down she can see that both her legs are severely disfigured...broken. Using just her arms she finds the wall she is chained to and leans against it. Picking up her legs she butes her lip through the pain, “How long have we been down here Nate?”

“I got no clue. He has been bringing meals at even intervals. If I had to guess ...I would say a week. Maybe two.”

“Well at least he is feeding us…”

“Yeah- just don’t ask what it is.”

“Wasn’t gonna. Not my first time being locked up.” She holds up her hands to get a better look at her chains, she focuses her energy and to make a brighter light only for runes to ignite on the shackles burning her wrist and ankle. She lets out a small scream.

“Marv? Are you okay?”

Marv stops focusing and drops her hands, “Yeah- yeah was just testing something out…” She rests her head on the cave wall, “How long until the next meal?”

“Twenty minutes.” Nate’s chains rattle.

Marvalina sighs and stares at the one source of light. A low flaming torch. A tear falls down her cheek, removing the dirt that covers her face, “We’re gonna die aren’t we…”

“If he was going to outright kill us he would have done it already.”

Marv closes her eyes, “If somehow you get free… get to Stormwind. There is a group they aren’t all that hard to find called the Collective Company. They will know what to do. I won’t die here. It is not my time but, I don’t want to be trapped in a cage again.”

Nate shuffles around in the darkness, “You’re gonna get out of here Marvie. I will make sure of it.” He sits there in the darkness for a long time, “So- Uh-- You mentioned kids earlier before we got knocked out ...are they-” His voice sounds awkward, “How old are they?”

Marv chuckles and smiles a little bit to herself, “Don’t worry. You are off the hook for child support.” She groans as she sits up a little straighter feeling her legs to see if she can at least temporarily fix them, “They are the product of- an asshole. Wants nothing to do with me or them.” She runs her hand through her hair, “I got two boys, Zandryl and Malaas. And three girls. Varmillia, Jaemere, Aellae.”

“You had five kids...in the few years since you have been away ...what the hell woman?” He chuckles and shakes his head.

“I got knocked up with Zan and Millie, and then their father left. Towards the end of my pregnancy I met a Draenei woman named Kasernia, who was pregnant with the other three and we uh- got married.” She stays silent for a moment, “Sorry.”

“For what?”

“Getting married. But to be fair, one I had no idea who you were. Well I mean I had forgotten. My memories were taken from me and secondly. I thought everyone from my past was you know. Dead.”

“I don’t blame you for moving on Marvie. I thought you were dead too. Although gotta say a little surprised you are into women- that way.”

Marv shrugs, “I wasn’t really. Until you know- I met her.”

“What is she like?”

“Now there is probably the hardest question I have ever been asked. She- Kassie...she is. Well she is wonderful. When we met I was just elected to a council. And there was a jackass there who- let’s say he doesn’t like my kind. Thought I wasn’t worthy to sit at the table and make decisions, because I am a Worgen and a woman. Well, when he was removed and vowed to come back and take my seat. She took my gun, followed him out the door, shot him at point blank range. All because he insulted me.” She chuckles, “She is fierce. Takes no shit. But- honestly one of the most loving people I have ever met. Just- the way she accepted Zan and Millie, with their condition and everything. And the way she lets me be free. She is the best wife and mother to our children I could have hoped for. Kassie, definitely deserves every spec of treasure, silks, and gold I can get my hands on. I do it all for her.”

Nate raises an eyebrow even though Marv can’t see, “Treasure? What is the sweet little seamstress I knew a pirate now or something?”

Marv shrugs the rattling of her chains echoing through the room, “I prefer- liberator of goods and gold.”

Nate shakes his head a small smile in his voice, “What the hell happened to you Marvalina?”

“I got sold into slavery. That’s what happened. Got everything I had ever known taken away from me by force. Now, when I want something, I take it, striking off the chains of those held against their will in the process.” She holds up her arms and wiggles, “Current situation of course being the obvious exception.”

Footsteps slowly start to approach the cavern the two are in. Nate scoots himself closer to Marv finally coming into the light. He looks worse than she does. Marvalina looks over and notices he has several large gashes along his face and is now missing one of his ears. She looks away and stares at the makeshift cell door.

The door slowly opens up and standing before them, her brother Ricgard. Dressed in a well fit Gilnean suit, his hair slicked back and whatever injuries he had sustained from Nate’s torture have completely cleared up with the exception of a small cut under his left eye. His hands rest behind his back out of sight. He steps into the dim light.

“You’re both finally awake at the same time. I got to say, torturing someone who is unresponsive isn’t as much fun as I thought it would be.”

Marvalina fights against her chains only causing the pain to intensify, “I am going to give you one warning to let me out of here, Richard.”

“Oh and what are you going to do to me huh? That already hasn’t been performed by your former lover.”

“I could think of a few things. I have gotten a lot more creative since living under your thumb.”

Richard walks up to here squatting down just out of reach. His eyes looking over her form and they land on her left hand. Her wedding ring, made of permafrost, reflecting the orange light in the room, “Oh I am sure you have.” He stands up slowly.

In a flash his hand reaches out grabbing her left wrist. She tries to fight and remove herself from his grasp but it only tightens. The bones in her wrist cracking as they are squished together. He smiles down at her his teeth gnarled and discolored. His smile and eyes showing nothing but pure evil, the glint in his eyes putting the Burning Legion to shame. His other hand slides out from its hiding place. A rusty pair or sewing shears rests in them.

Time seems to move in slow motion for Marvalina as he opens the blades, bringing them to rest above her wedding ring. Marvalina is determined to show no fear. She growls and meets his gaze, “I promise. Whatever you do to me...I will make sure you burn for it. You’ll die screaming.”

He leans down his face inches from Marvalina’s, “Not before I hear yours, Little Sister.” Without hesitation he closes the shears shut severing the phalange from the rest of her hand.

Marvalina growls and lets out a small scream, the blade not making a clean cut. The wound jagged and bleeding. He lets go of her wrist and she holds her hand with her other, “I swear on our parents' grave. When I get out of here...you will know no peace by my hand. I will show you no mercy.”

Richard picks up the finger and looks at the ring. The engraving on the side now visible to him, “To my puppydog. Love your snugglegoat, Kasernia.” He smiles and examines the finger, “So sweet. You married a Draenei. Oh how far you have fallen from being human, Marvalina. How far. I think I will send this to her, let her know you live for now.”

Marv now fights against her chains with everything she’s got, “You stay away from her you sick son of a bitch. You lay a hand on her- I’ll show you just how much of an animal I really am.” Marv can’t control it. She shifts as she fights against her chains. Copper fur sprouting from everywhere. Her teeth and bones getting longer and healing. Snarling at her brother she growls, “I’ll rip your throat out and eat it as you lay there and watch.” One of her claws now missing her feet sink into the ground pushing the dirt into small mounds.

Richard walks to the cell door, “I’ll be sure to tell her you say, hello.” closing the door with a loud slam behind him.

Marvlaina turns around pressing her foot against the wall for leverage she yanks against her chains until flesh itself is being ripped off. Blood pouring down her hands and onto the floor. A small puddle getting bigger and bigger as each minute passes.

Nate is saying something but she can’t hear it. All she can hear is the blood pumping in her ears. Her mind imagining the sounds of her wife and children screaming. She doesn’t even seem to notice her vision failing. She falls to the ground as she looses blood, “I-I can’t...I can’t die here ...I'm not supposed to die here. Fire- songs of the beautiful ...the sea. Kas...K-kas…”

As her heart slows from blood loss the last thing she hears before she passes out is Nate screaming her name.

#OC #pirate #familydrama #fiction #writing #worgen #World of Warcraft #draenei

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imaginedolanscribbles · 7 years ago

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A heart’s journey [3/10]

Parts ONE and TWO

warnings: forced marriage

words: 1.464

summary: you get to know the Dolans a little better and there’s a mysterious guest.

tagslist: @graydolan12 @sweet-dolans

a/n: this is kinda short, but next week’s chapter will be a huge twist (at least I hope so) and it needs to be set up :) If you want to be included in this series’ tagslist, just reach out to me!

THREE

The dress that’s delivered to you is as beautiful as it is scandalous. The skirt reaches all the way down to your ankles and it is made from a heavy, yet thin material that falls into silky, shimmering waves around your form. While you’re used to dresses being tight around your waist, this dress is also pretty tight around your hips, tight enough everyone can see your thighs moving beneath the material when you walk. You could’ve dealt with that strangeness,, seeing as most women your age appear to be wearing the same cut. The dress is also cut much lower than you’ve ever worn, with pearls sown into fine patterns at the seam. At least there’s a wide scarfs delivered with it, made entirely out of the same reddish-brown fur adorning the dress’ sleeves.

You would protest wearing a dress as scandalously inappropriate as this, but you don’t dare. The Duchess seems to hate you already, Grayson keeps making fun of you for blushing anytime he says something horribly inappropriate, and Ethan still behaves stoic and neutral. The only one who seems to really like you is Cameron, who keeps inviting you for tea and riding. She’s so strong headed and sure of herself, it really is a shame she won’t ever be Duchess. As much as you want to pity her for it, you can’t help but admire her. She likes to wear trousers more often than dresses or skirts, but somehow it does not subtract from her beauty or femininity at all. You envy her. She’s so free and wild, not weighed down by responsibilities and worries about propriety.

Before you put on the dress, you ask one of the maids to sew a button and hook into the fur of the scarf, so you won’t have to hold it closed at all times while wearing the dress. Without fabric covering your décolleté you feel exposed, goosebumps erupting on your bared skin. The weight of soft fur covering you up helps, though.

The Duchess barely looks up when you enter the sitting room, but Cameron smiles brightly when she sees you in the new dress.

“You look like a real northerner now”, she says as she walks around you to get a good look. She’s wearing soft, wide trousers today, so wide it almost looks like she’s wearing a skirt. Her blouse is brocaded costly, cinched at the waist and falling loosely around her shoulders revealing a hint of her upper breasts and thereby accentuating her beautiful figure even more. Your dress is cut the same way, but you doubt you look anywhere as amazing as Cameron does, no matter how extravagant your dress aims to be.

“Thank you”, you reply smiling shyly and follow her to sit beside her on the couch. “That’s very kind of you.”

Before you can actually sit down, the Duchess speaks up. “This arrived for you last night.”

She holds out a letter without looking up from the letter she is reading herself, and does not react at all when you take the letter gingerly out of her hand.

“It’s from my family”, you exhale happily and sit down to open it.

“We got one as well”, the Duchess informs you and points at the letter on her lap. “I presume they write to announce their upcoming visit. They plan to stay until the wedding.”

You nod instead of replying and open your letter. The Duchess is right, your father writes the whole family will be there for the wedding in a few weeks. They will arrive ten days before the wedding to share the Duke and Duchess’ responsibility of planning and organising the wedding. Your mother added a paragraph in which she writes of her hopes of your well-being. Your sisters wrote, too. Their sentences are short, not as elaborate and practised as your parents’, but all the more real and honest because of it. They’re thirteen and ten, and you can almost hear their voices asking you how you like your fiancé and if it’s really that cold in the north, writing of how they miss you and are looking forward to seeing you again.

“Yes, they’re telling me about their visit”, you politely agree with the Duchess and fold your letter carefully. If you write back today, maybe your letter will reach them before they start their trip.

“That’s good”, the Duchess nods, her tone neutral as always. You know you’re very set on etiquette in the Lausanne, but how Northerners can call your people stiff when the Duchess is probably the stiffest person you ever met, doesn’t make sense to you.

Howe knocks not ten minutes later and announces “Mr. Spier is here to see Your Grace.” The Duchess’ head shoots up and she dismisses you and Cameron immediately. As you follow Cameron out of the room you walk by a dark haired gentleman waiting with Howe. Despite his northern name, the stranger looks quite southern. His skin is tinged bronze and his hair is slicked back into a short ponytail, even his clothing is very much southern: a bright blue jacket lavishly embroidered with red flowers and green and brown tendrils weaving around his sleeves and collar. The white shirt underneath is crumpled and creased, though, and you wonder how he dares showing up for an audience with the Duchess looking like this.

His eyes lock onto yours and he doesn’t look away until you avert your eyes and hurry past him, your heart in your throat. Something about this man doesn’t feel quite right.

“Who is he?”, you ask Cameron as soon as you dare. She led you to the smaller sitting room and the tea she ordered just arrived.

Cameron blows carefully on her tea and watches the swirls of steam rising from her cup. She shrugs. “That’s Mr. Spier. He’s some sort of councillor of Mum’s, I guess. He’s not around a lot, I think he mostly travels and does diplomacy stuff.”

You nod and try to keep the frown off your face. What does a travelling, counselling diplomat have to do with you? Maybe his presence actually has nothing to do with you. Maybe you’re just paranoid. Maybe you’re seeing things, where there’s nothing to see. But you can’t shake the uneasiness off for the rest of the day.

It is only at dinner (which the Duchess does not attend strangely enough) that you manage to forget about the strange man. It’s just you, Cameron, and the twins and you’re still wearing the dress, which elicits an appreciative whistle from Grayson. You blush at such forwardness and pull the fur tighter around your neck, unable to look him in the eye, but at least you manage a quiet ‘thank you’ when Ethan compliments the dress. You can handle politeness and propriety, but you really don’t know how to react to the sheer, unapologetic honesty Grayson seems to radiate at all times.

He doesn’t even feel bad about it and just laughs at your red face. “You look good is all I’m saying”, he shrugs when he notices you eyeing him. “All that southern pomp isn’t really my thing, too many layers and complicated lacings and stuff. Hides away all the good parts. In this”, he nods at your dress, “at least you can show off how nice you look.”

“Gray”, Ethan says evenly, not even looking up from his soup, but his tone signals his awareness of Grayson’s continued improper behaviour.

“What? She does”, Grayson shrugs again defensively and gestures to you across the table. “She looks great and I’m just saying, I don’t see the point in hiding all that away. It’s her body and she should be proud of it, no?”

You can’t remember a time your cheeks have ever been warmer and it’s not because the soup is so hot. You want to tell Grayson that you’re not responding because you’re insulted or anything, you just don’t know how to handle straightforward compliments like this. The only reaction that comes natural is to hide and try to avoid eye-contact, but over the course of the meal somehow your eyes seem to always return to Grayson and he even catches you once or twice, smirking and winking at you, which only makes you blush harder.

It’s a lot you’re going to have to get used to, you realize, but you don’t find the prospect as daunting as expected. Quite the opposite actually, you’re looking forward to be able to joke with all of them the way they always do. With their laughter and banter flowing easily around you, you can’t wait to grow into this family and really belong with them. Maybe even Ethan’s stoic behaviour around you will someday turn to genuine friendliness.

Part FOUR: the Duchess knows and plans change.

Masterlist

#a hearts journey #a hearts journey part three #three #dolan twins imagine #dolan twins fic #my fic stuff #ethan dolan #grayson dolan #ethan dolan imagine #grayson dolan imagine #twin x reader

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whirling-fangs · 11 months ago

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[[ so i was doing some costume research for cosplay purposes. I got my dark blue fur and my shoe base, and I was wondering how to sew them together, when this little detail in the latest season left me entirely puzzled :

there's... there's no way that's how Inosuke's shoes actually work? Allow me to demonstrate :

isn't the fur supposed to be sewn into the sole around the parts circled in red? If the fur is just a sock, then how does the sole even stick to it ? or does he rip the sole off whenever he's asked to take his shoes off, and somehow sews it back again later ?

I went back to the manga to see how this specific scene was drawn. And it turns out... it's even more confusing :

he has the fur on down to his ankles, but the part that goes undernearth his foot is missing.

i've also searched everywhere for other instances where we might see him with only the "socks", and could only think of one : at the start of the entertainment district arc :

it seems it applies the same principle as in the recent example, which implies it's not an animation mistake but an intentional way to treat this... and now i'm completely lost. is there perhaps a contraption to the soles that lets him tie the soles to his fur "socks"? but if it was just some sort of button or knot in the middle of his foot sole, wouldn't the shoe soles be sort of "flappy"? would he constantly be tripping because of things getting caught between his foot and shoe soles?

but then, if we suppose that those two examples actually are "mistakes", and the soles aren't supposed to be detachable... how does he even put the shoes on and off? if the fur is permanently attached to the soles, does he slip his feet into it through the fur like high boots? can the fur distend to that point, given how slim it is around his ankles?

tl;dr: gakuen inosuke was right. it's easier to just not wear shoes. and I still don't know how to proceed for my cosplay :') ]]

#mask off / ooc post #[[i am so puzzled!!!!! inosuke what are THOOOOSE #it's honestly surprising that he wears shoes at all when his gakuen counterpart doesn't #probably just gotouge trying to harmonize the designs but still... i'm so confused lmao]]#inosuke hashibira

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mollymauk-teafleak · 8 years ago

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The Seal Lullaby: Chapter 10

On Ao3 | My ko-fi

Nearly forgot to post this entirely but no-one seemed to care so here it is finally. Many thanks to my beta reader @minky-for-short and my friends @childofdustandashes @purearcticfire @oversaturated-ocean @lookatvanessasface @brainypaperbullets @arya-durin-51 @hollywoodx4 @kilocurican

It was worse than any physical pain Alex had ever experienced in his life. Worse than the hunger that had clawed at him ceaselessly through his younger years, worse than the slice of the net that had torn him away from his mother, worse than when the storm had cracked his head off the rock with such force he’d gone blind for half a day. Worse than when he hadn’t been looking and fallen down the stairs, worse than when the mechanism of his typewriter had attacked right as he’d been reaching in to loosen a jammed barrel and his fingers had bled and the bone had showed, worse than when Eliza had broken two of his knuckles as he’d held her hand while she pushed their little girl into the world.

There was something deeper to it as well, something in the way his vision swam and his stomach rolled and his heart rampaged in his ribcage. Like every time he forced his shaking hands to close the scissors, the wickedly sharp ones Eliza used for her sewing that she kept on the highest shelf she could find so none of the little ones could reach them, he was severing more than skin and woven hair. He was splitting something deep inside him that was so otherworldly and profound that it barely had form but, by all the gods, it could hurt.

Alex had done it over the bath, knowing there would be blood and there was, it ran in ruby rivulets down the curve of his wrist and between his fingers where it speckled the clean white surface of the enamel in such a horrific way. He was glad of that choice when he needed to break away twice to retch and heave into the toilet when it became too much but hearing his own moans and screams and yelps of pain echoing back at him from the smoothly tiled walls had a hideousness all its own.

It wasn’t just that it hurt, it was the sincere, unshakeable wrongness of it. He was violating everything he knew by doing this, mutilating some part of himself that was sacred.

But Alex didn’t stop. He didn’t stop until it was done, until he was running water into the tub with an expression like he was simply cleaning up, doing his chores like any normal person would do, perfectly mundane. The blood washed away, the scissors lost their rusty sheen, the pelt- pelts –were clean and shining slickly, only the raw, crimson edges under the fringes of dark fur to show the terrible thing he’d done. They’d heal in time.

And after it all, when they were folded and left dripping slightly pink water onto the hardwood floor of his bedroom, Alex actually smiled.

Philip felt awfully woozy.

They’d given him pain medication, although the break was apparently very clean and didn’t need any surgery or setting. Getting the cast put on had been weird, getting an x-ray spooky but it all passed in something of a meaningless blur until he was back in his own bed, the room coming into focus around him.

The only thing that felt really real was the slip of paper he had in his hand, the torn off edge of the record slip stapled in the front of a library book, newly printed with a neat row of numbers and a simple handful of crosses underneath. Theo’s.

As he slowly came back to himself, as the medication released its grip enough to let him think for himself again without the pain coming back (though he knew it would be at his heels), Philip tucked that piece of paper into his notebook. And that simple action brought with it a kind of illumination, like he’d been wandering around a busy city but suddenly recognised where he was and what he was doing and where he was supposed to be, all just with something familiar seen out of the corner of his eye.

“Hey, my little man,” his mama’s voice was steady and soothing, in sharp contrast to the fear Philip could see just behind her eyes, “Feeling better?”

She’d been fetching him a glass of water, he took it and downed half of it gratefully.

“Not too bad,” he gave her a smile, feeling a little guilty for how much he’d clearly terrified her, “I mean, it’s only my leg, right? I’ve got two of them.”

Eliza could have cried then, it had been so long since she’d heard her Pip make a joke. But she had enough sense and enough strength to turn it into a roll of her eyes and a dry chuckle, “Very clever.”

“I try,” Philip was relieved, catching her hand as she reached it forward to take the now empty glass away, squeezing it.

Eliza’s lip wobbled for a fraction of a second as she leaned in and kissed his cheek, “My brave little lion cub.”

Philip wrinkled his nose in adorably childlike embarrassment, “Wasn’t even broke that badly. And Theo took care of me.”

Eliza tilted her head as she pulled away, her hand resting pensively on her bump as she regarded her eldest. She needed to press a little, find out a little more about this Theo, the girl who’d stayed dutifully by Philip the entire time he was in the hospital, making him laugh and joking on with him to take his mind off everything, who apparently, he’d only met that day. It certainly was an interesting development.

Though now wasn’t the time.

“Broken is broken, honey,” she shook her head, “You’re on bedrest for the next few days.”

“Doctor’s orders?” Philip sighed, drooping.

“Even worse,” Eliza kissed his cheek again, just because he was her sweet boy, her little Pip, and the sight of him lying there bloodied and pale on the sidewalk as she’d driven up had broken something deep inside of her, “My orders.”

Philip leaned into the kiss, making it last just a few moments longer than necessary. Maybe it was those few extra beats of warmth, of her gentle flowery perfume and milky scent of her skin that made him murmur, “I’m really sorry about what happened. With Pops I mean.”

Eliza closed her eyes, taking a deep breath and deciding to perch on the edge of Philip’s bed, trying to balance herself and not jolt his hurt leg at the same time.

“Philip, I’m sorry too. There’s so much we should have explained to you by now…” she murmured, her voice low, one hand fluttering to rest on his leg.

“No, c’mon, its fine,” Pip cut her off, not wanting to have any more of his parents apologising to him, “I get it. It’s…rough stuff, right?”

Eliza sighed softly, fondly, “It really is.”

“And I get why you and pops are upset…I just…I think I need to have a talk with him about all this,” he felt a rolling in his stomach but it felt more like taking a deep breath to squeeze through a tight space. There was another side. A deep breath of relief as soon as it was done.

Eliza loved her little boy, her big, strong grown up man, every stage in between.

“Thank you so much, Philip. I love you both,” she murmured, getting up gingerly, sighing softly as her ankles protested. To be honest, she was a little glad. Sore ankles were comparatively so easy to fix.

“I love you too, mama,” Philip watched her go, determining to be half as strong as she was as she shut his bedroom door with a soft click.

It wasn’t long before there was a much more awkward, humble sounding knock on his door, just long enough for Philip to get drowsy again though that one sound propelled him right back to fidgeting restlessly.

“Uh, yeah?” his voice broke a little already.

“Can I come in?” his father’s voice was so unusually quiet and uniform, Philip didn’t recognise it for a heartbeat.

“Course,” he bit his lower lip, not wanting to see the expression that came with that voice.

It was somehow worse that Alex was so clearly struggling to be brave for Philip’s sake, it would have hurt less if he was still openly sobbing rather than this, this rapid blinking to try and hide the tears and biting down on his lower lip to stop it shaking.

This limp attempt at cheerfulness, at pretending nothing had gone so horribly wrong, as he smiled precariously, “Hey buddy, you feel okay?”

“Thanks to the meds,” Philip returned the grin with just as much success, “Gave me the good shit.”

“Just say no,” Alex sighed, appreciating the attempt, trying to reciprocate but they both decided simultaneously that it just wasn’t going anywhere.

He sat down heavily where Eliza had perched just minutes before, running his hands through his hair like he always did when he was stressed. Philip’s fingers itched to do the same but he stopped himself at the last moment; that would have been just a little too weird. Alex saw him and laughed weakly.

There was another pause before they both simultaneously gasped out, “ I’m so sorry!”

They looked at each other and dissolved into embarrassed laughter, even as Alex’s ribs hurt and Philip’s leg throbbed. Some pains were worth it.

Alex found his voice first, coughing rustily, “Ah…guess I’m a much better father to little ones than I am to teenagers.”

“That why you and mama keep having so many?” Philip smirked, shoulders still shaking.

“Hey now,” Alex feigned sternness, waving a finger though the grin was back in an instant.

“I wouldn’t worry,” Pip scratched at the back of his neck as if he could physically jostle the words he needed into the right order, “I mean, you’ve got more to deal with than most parents…”

“And whose fault is that?” Alex arched an eyebrow, his smile souring a little.

“Not yours,” Philip answered firmly, without missing a beat.

Alex opened his mouth but he saw in his son’s eyes a fight he just wasn’t going to win. He’d seen that look on his wife’s face before, for the same reason. He closed his mouth.

“This whole thing,” he settled for sighing, “It’s just so much more complicated than any kid your age should have to go through. You have no idea how much I just want to take it away from you, if I could, I’d do it in a heartbeat…”

“I know, pops,” Philip’s throat tightened.

His eyes darkened and shifted to somewhere far away, it made Philip shudder.

“Maybe I should have told you more about what happened to me when I was out there, maybe I should have been more honest,” he murmured, “You’d understand why I’m being so…”

“Protective?” Philip supplied, his eyes wide and worried.

“Scared,” Alex scrunched up his face, “Scared for you. Which I guess is the same thing.”

Pip wished he could pull his knees to his chest, that’s what his body wanted to do. The sharp reminder that he couldn’t, something so simple, made his heart ache.

“It’s bad out there, isn’t it?” he mumbled.

“That’s one word for it, lion cub. Though I can’t tell you it isn’t bad up here too,” Alex sighed, the weight of memories pulling at the edges of his mouth. He managed to lift his eyes, “You know the one rule of being a parent?”

“What?” Philip lay back on the pillows.

“You want your children to be better than you. You want them to have more, be more,” Alex smiled gently at him, “I know you’re so much smarter and faster and more capable than I ever was…I just can’t convince myself that it would be enough to keep all the awful stuff I saw out there from hurting you too. That doesn’t mean I don’t have faith in you, I promise- “

“Hey pops,” Philip didn’t like the direction his dad’s expression was moving in, he caught his hand and held on tight, “I get it. I understand.”

“Yeah?” Alex bit his lip.

“I just wish you’d told us how hard it was for you,” Philip groaned softly, “We’d have helped you.”

If there was ever a time Alex was going to cry in this conversation, it was now. His voice was thick and raw as whispered, “But it’s my job to take care of you? You shouldn’t have to look after me, that’s not how it’s supposed to go.”

“Well…” Philip held his hand tighter, “That’s really dumb, Pops.”

Alex chuckled, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m starting to see that, mijo.”

They both quieted for a moment, though there was nothing awkward or uncomfortable about it now, the silence passed between them with something a lot like relief, taking hold of something they’d both been so afraid they’d lost.

“So,” Alex murmured after a while, “Are you…are you going?”

Philip opened his mouth to answer, thinking he knew what he was going to say…but then he didn’t. For some reason, his eyes drifted over to his journal on the nightstand, to where he could see the edge of the scrap of paper poking out just enough for him to read the carefully printed three and six at the end of Theo’s number.

“I’m not sure,” he sighed deeply, “I don’t…I just don’t know. I’m so confused.”

He was shocked and alarmed to hear the tears that thickened and strained his voice as that last word burst out of him but once they were there, he couldn’t stop them.

Alex’s heart jumped, moving forward urgently and wrapping an arm around his eldest son, “Hey, hey, it’s alright…”

Philip cried for a while, just so exhausted and tired of feeling like this, of searching so desperately for a way out of it and now he could see what maybe could be one, he was too scared to take it. Alex didn’t relax his grip, murmuring softly and rocking him a little, singing gently under his breath, doing everything he knew and this time it actually worked. The realisation that his son’s tears were drying and his shuddering breaths were strengthening, the sheer relief of it, was almost more than Alex could take right now.

“Buddy, I understand,” he whimpered, kissing the top of his head, “I understand how hard it must be for you but I promise, whatever you decide, whatever you need, I’ll help in any way I can…”

Philip blinked, eyelashes still heavy, salt still prickling in his eyes but now he knew exactly what to say. Or, rather, that more adult, more assured voice inside him knew what to say.

“Pops?” he pulled away from where his tears had been soaking the shoulder of his father’s sweater, an unreadable expression on his face, “How did you know mama was your mate?”

Of all the things Alex had been expecting his eldest to say…

“Huh?” he tilted his head in confusion.

Philip pressed, “When you first met mama, when you knew she was your soulmate, how could you tell? What did it feel like?”

Alex frowned, getting the sense that he was a good few steps behind where Philip’s head was at but, hey, at least he knew how to answer this question?

“Well…it felt like…” he ran a hand through his hair, making it somehow messier than it had already been, “It felt like being lost and then suddenly realising where I needed to go. It was like I hadn’t even realised I’d been so exhausted and suddenly being given a place to sleep. It was like finding home.”

Philip absorbed this, a light coming on in his eyes, “It wasn’t just because you thought she was pretty, right? It was something deeper than that?”

Alex gave a surprised little laugh, “Well, obviously, I thought she was the most beautiful person I’d ever seen in my life. But yeah. It was a little more than just that.”

Philip looked somehow more relieved and more frightened than he’d been before.

Alex steadied himself a little, his voice deepening and broadening, “Your mama gave me a reason to defy everything I’d know up until that point, to take a risk bigger than anything I’d ever taken before like it was nothing. Because I knew she was worth it. I guess I just knew I belonged with her, no matter what any law of nature said.”

Philip gave a little smile, “Yeah. Sounds about right…”

Alex was a little taken aback, his eyebrows raising and his mouth turning up into a crooked grin, “Son? What’s going on exactly?”

He thought he had his answer as his son’s face flamed bright red in such a teenage kind of way and he began to stammer and fidget with his hands. Alex’s eyes followed his and locked with the precision of a hunting animal on that half visible scrap of paper, rising clear as a proud and prominent flag from the slightly yellowed edges of the journal he’d carried so dutifully since the day he was given it for his fourteenth birthday.

Well.

How about that.

Alex leaned back, his grin widening, a knowing look entering his eyes that only made Philip squirm even more and look like he wanted to throw himself out of the nearest window, fractured tibia be damned.

He tried to control himself, coughing nonchalantly, realising there was still something he needed to do, “Well…glad I could help, mijo.”

Philip didn’t go any less red but he nodded, his coy smile returning.

“Actually, I have something for you.”

He blinked, looking up from his hands, “Oh?”

Alex’s face became more sombre, though there was even more love in his eyes, if that was at all possible. Philip realised with a start that there had always been one hand behind his father’s back, throughout this entire conversation. How had he not noticed until now?

“I want you to have this, no matter what decision you end up making,” Alex said gently, “It’s not me saying I want you to go or I want you to say or anything like that. All I’m trying to say is that I love you and I trust you, no matter what. You will always be my son, wherever you are.”

“Pops?” Philip trembled a little, his eyes widening.

Alex took a deep breath and passed Philip the seal skin he’d cut from his own, the one just for him that wouldn’t fit anyone else, would never belong to Alex again, never to anyone but Philip himself. It would work. He knew that as well as he knew his own name. He’d felt the tear himself, no exaggerating to say he’d felt a piece of his soul get ripped from him.

But his children owned his soul anyway. So, Alex could hand it over with a smile.

“Oh god, dad no…” Philip’s eyes spilled over, his hands shaking as he touched the light grey surface, felt the power and potential crackle through it like static, “No!”

“Yes,” Alex wasn’t dismayed or distressed by Philip’s reaction, he’d have been surprised if he was any different, “I’ve made my choice, Pip. It’s okay.”

“B-But I don’t…I don’t…” Philip stammered, clinging to the skin with white knuckles, reminding Alex of the way he used to cling to the cloth giraffe that stood kind of limply now, on the desk next to them.

“Philip,” Alex sighed, firmer, his smile fond, “I want to do this for you. Whether you use it or not, I needed to give you this. I think we both needed it.”

Philip knew he was right but he could see those ragged edges underneath the tight grain of the fur, how they shone with slick blood turning tacky with age. In that moment, the blood felt like both his and his father’s, a shared wound between the two of them.

“I can’t believe you did this for me,” Philip shuddered, stroking where the fur was softest just under the neck, his eyes devotedly following the ripples of the rich colour along its length, deep blues and brooding greys and speckles of black, like something painted by a talented, artistic hand. Though there was no doubt where it had come from, the colours were different from Alex’s coat, a lighter palette that they both somehow knew, despite the fact that she had no skin to speak of, came from Eliza.

It was beautiful. It was like a piece of a dream, somehow come through to reality by some mistake, something he shouldn’t have access to but here it was.

Thanks to his father.

“Philip,” Alex teased softly, his smile radiant with how much Philip was clearly enjoying his gift, pride and sacrifice and martyrdom making something hot and raw in his chest, “You should know by now that there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you.”

Philip wouldn’t ever use his skin, in the end. The exchange of it had healed what was left of the gap in between him and his family, it’s existence was a necessity but he never wore it. The most he would do would be to take it out when everything got too much, in the darkest, most difficult nights, when he felt like he was suffocating and wanted to scream and scream until something in his eyes burst, he’d grope blindly for wherever it was and hold it to his cheek, smelling the musty salt of it, feeling the wiry fur and he’d feel better again. Sometimes it would need just a little more.

He’d carefully ease himself out of bed, in later years trying not to jostle his sleeping girlfriend, then his wife, then maybe one of his children, tucked in between him and Theo after a nightmare. Sometimes she would wake despite his best efforts, Theo never slept deeply. Those amber eyes gleaming at him through the darkness, the small smile upturning her sleep heavy mouth, that would go a long way towards making him feel better but still. A kiss on the forehead, gently brushing a few curls out of her eyes and Theo would nod knowingly and cuddle back into the warm space he’d have left. He’d tiptoe around his bedroom, then in later years his college dorm, the bedroom of their first poky little flat above the local hairdressers, the bigger place of their own they got after the twins came along, the house they finally bought together when Theo fell pregnant for the third time. He’d gather up a t-shirt and shorts, no matter what time of year it was, he never really felt the cold. And then he’d quietly shut the door behind him and make his way out to the beach with his skin bundled in his arms.

There was always a beach, he and Theo made sure of that whenever they moved. There would always be a beach. Philip never minded, as long as there was night cooled sand underneath his feet and that regular crashing rhythm of the waves that never changed and never broke no matter whether he was in Oregon or Stanford or Vega Alta, where they’d gone for their honeymoon.

Philip would sit with the skin tucked around his shoulders, his eyes seeing so much farther than they ever did at any other time, right the way out to where the sea turned to ice, right down to where it turned to steam under the sheer power of the earth, where it ran into caves too deep to even comprehend, to shores no human foot had ever made an impression on. To the end of the world. To its beginning. Philip would breath deep, feeling eon’s worth of salt tickle the back of his chest, tasting like freedom and promise, he’d pull the skin close and just breath. And that would fix everything.

He’d remember who he was. He’d feel so loved.

Then he’d go back home, crawl into bed and bury his face in his Theo’s cloud of hair, run his hands along her soft skin, it’s earthy colours that made him certain he’d made the right decision. He’d return into the life he loved so much, writing poetry just like his Pops, lecturing and teaching, playing with his twin boys, his two little girls, safe and sure that this was the life he was meant to be living. The sea would always be there, the possibility would always be there.

But knowing that was all Philip ever needed.

#its shorter and shittier than usual #so #idk #the seal lullaby #selkie au #hamliza #alexander x eliza #philtheo #phildosia

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