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annie-arizona · 13 days

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Warm Water, Winter Winds | Prologue

Summary: What happens when love isn't enough anymore?

Warnings: swearing

Length: 2k words

Pairing: Zach Hannah x Annie Williams (Female OC)

Prologue

December 15, 2022

4:32 a.m.

That was the time on her phone when she heard the sound of Zach’s key in the lock. The numbers glared at her, cold and accusing, from the screen resting on the dining table. The room was dim, save for the weak light spilling in from the street outside. Her eyes remained focused on her long-cold mug of tea, its steam having vanished hours ago, much like the warmth and peace she used to feel in this space. She listened, fuming silently as she heard Zach lean down to pull his boots off with a grunt. The faint sound of them hitting the floor echoed through the house, followed by the unmistakable shuffle of his worn-out steps as he moved further inside.

He still hadn’t noticed her sitting there. She had been waiting since just after 11 p.m., ever since Dave called, asking if Zach was with her. Her hands gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white, as each passing minute since then had only fueled her simmering anger.

Annie sat stalk-still in her chair at their dining table, every muscle in her body tense, her pulse quickening as she prepared for what felt like an inevitable confrontation. Zach’s footsteps moved into the kitchen, and the sound of him rummaging through the cupboards grated on her already frayed nerves. She remained completely silent as he turned on the kitchen light, the sudden brightness illuminating the space and casting long shadows. His hand fumbled for a glass.

When he finally turned and saw her, he flinched.

“Fuckin’ hell, Annie!” His voice was groggy and surprised, his hazel eyes wide with shock. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Annie didn’t move. She kept her gaze steady on him, her expression a calm mask hiding the storm inside her.

The question was simple, her voice firm but quiet as she lifted her head to watch him. “Who is she?”

Zach froze, his hand holding the glass hovering near the bottle of bourbon he’d retrieved from the counter. His brow furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line as if her words hadn’t quite registered. “What’re you talkin’ about?” he finally asked, his back still turned toward her as he began pouring a drink.

Annie’s heart pounded in her chest, her anger flaring even hotter at his dismissive tone. “Who’re you fucking?” she repeated, her voice betraying a slight tremble as she struggled to control the fury bubbling just beneath the surface. “It’s 4 a.m., Z. Where the hell’ve you been all night?”

Zach sighed, as if her question was the most exhausting thing in the world to him. He finished pouring his drink, then turned to face her, leaning back against the counter with his glass in hand. His eyes met hers, but there was no apology in them, no hint of the love she used to see so easily. Just irritation.

“I’m not fucking anyone but you,” he replied, the words simple and matter-of-fact. He took a sip, staring her down over the rim of his glass. “And you know where I’ve been. At the studio, workin’, trying to get this fuckin’ record finished.”

“Skitsnack,” Annie spat in Swedish, her mother's tongue, leaning back in her chair as she crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “Dave called hours ago looking for you. Said everyone left at 10.”

They had been working late nights, putting the finishing touches on their third album before its release, but this was the first time he had come home this late. Combined with the decline in his mental health that she had noticed over the past few weeks and the fact that he refused to discuss it with her, she was at the end of her rope.

Zach drained his glass with another sigh, set it down heavily on the counter, and reached for the bottle to pour more. “Yeah, and I went back after I got something to eat. There’s fuckin’ cameras at the studio, you don’t believe me?”

“I don’t know what to believe anymore!” Annie’s voice was sharp, cutting through the silence that had settled between them. She stared daggers at him, hating how he didn’t seem to understand why she was upset, why this—his late nights, his distance, his evasiveness—was breaking her. “You don’t talk to me,” she continued, her voice rising. “You promised you wouldn’t shut me out again, but that’s exactly what you’re doing!”

Zach threw his head back, exasperated, and stared at the ceiling for a long moment before his gaze dropped back to hers. “I’m busy and fuckin’ exhausted. Sorry I don’t always wanna talk.”

Annie’s heart clenched painfully at his words. She had heard this before, so many times, always the same excuse. And every time, she forgave him. But not this time. This time, she wasn’t going to let him brush her off.

She stood up abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor as she crossed the room, setting her cold mug in the sink beside where Zach was standing. She didn’t flinch as she met his eyes again, her green ones burning with emotion. “What do you want from me, Hannah?”

Zach pushed off the counter, standing to his full height, his broad frame tense as he squared his shoulders. “Patience,” he replied, his voice quieter now, more controlled, but there was an edge of frustration to it. “You know how I get better than anyone. But more than anything, I just want you.”

Annie’s breath caught in her throat. His words were always the same, always hollow and distant, and yet, every time he said them, part of her wanted to believe him. But not this time. This time, it felt different. This time, it felt like they were standing on the edge of something they couldn’t come back from.

“No, you don’t,” Annie said, her voice thick with anger and hurt. She shook her head, her blonde hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders. “You want a warm body. Every time something gets hard, you bail.”

Zach’s eyes flared with anger, the mask of indifference he had been wearing cracking ever so slightly. “That’s not fuckin’ fair,” he muttered, his jaw tight. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Physically, maybe,” Annie shot back, her voice rising again. “But you’ve been checked out for months, Zach. You’re always at the studio, or with the guys, or buried in some project. You don’t even see me anymore.”

“I see you,” he snapped, his voice sharp now, defensive. He took a step toward her, his hazel eyes flashing. “You’re my girl, Annie. You know that.”

Annie’s heart twisted painfully at his words. My girl. It was the same thing he always said when he wanted to smooth things over, to avoid having a real conversation. But she was tired of being his girl when he wasn’t her Zach anymore.

“No, I don’t know that,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Not anymore.”

Zach stared at her for a long moment, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he just stood there, holding his glass, the distance between them feeling like a chasm too wide to cross.

Annie bit her lip, fighting the tears that threatened to spill. She had spent so long loving this man, standing by his side through every high and low, every success and failure. She had given him everything, but it was never enough. It was never enough for him to let her in, to trust her, to lean on her the way she had always leaned on him.

“I can’t keep doing this,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Zach’s eyes snapped to hers, panic flickering across his face for the first time. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Annie swallowed hard, her throat tight, “I can’t keep being in a relationship where I’m constantly waiting for you to show up. I need more than this. I need more than late nights and half-hearted promises.”

Zach’s face hardened. “So what, you’re leaving?”

Annie felt her heart crack, the pieces of it splintering into a thousand shards. “I don’t want to, Zach,” she said, her voice breaking. “But I can’t keep feeling like I’m the only one fighting for this.”

Zach’s hand tightened around his glass, his knuckles white. He took a step closer to her, his voice low and dangerous. “You think I’m not fighting?”

“No. I think you’ve already given up,” Annie whispered, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Zach stared at her, his expression unreadable. For a moment, she thought he might say something, anything to make her stay, to convince her that he still cared. But instead, he just turned away, downing the rest of his drink in one gulp before slamming the glass down on the counter. “Fine,” he muttered, his voice cold and distant. “Go.”

Annie’s breath hitched in her throat. She had hoped, desperately, that he would fight for her, that he would tell her that she was wrong, that he still loved her. But instead, he was letting her walk away.

She turned on her heel, her vision blurred by tears as she moved toward the door. Her heart ached with every step, her hands shaking as she reached for the handle. But just as she was about to pull it open, Zach’s voice stopped her.

“You’re not the only one who’s been hurting, Annie.”

Annie froze, her hand still on the doorknob. She turned slowly, her eyes meeting Zach’s across the room. He was leaning against the counter, his head bowed, his shoulders slumped. He looked defeated, broken in a way she had never seen before.

“You think I don’t know what I’ve been doing?” Zach’s voice was raw, filled with pain and frustration. “I know I’ve fucked up. I know I’ve been shutting you out. But you’re the only thing that keeps me going. You’re the only thing that makes any of this shit worth it.”

Annie’s heart clenched, her tears flowing freely now as she listened to his words. She had waited so long to hear him say something like this, to acknowledge how much he had been hurting her, how much he had been hurting himself. But now that he was finally saying it out loud, it felt too late.

“Then why didn’t you say that?” she asked, her voice trembling.

Zach shook his head, his eyes filled with a sadness that mirrored her own. “Because I didn’t know how.”

Annie took a step toward him, her anger melting away, replaced by a deep, aching sadness. She had loved this man with everything she had, and for so long, she had believed that love was enough to fix them. But now, standing here in the wreckage of their relationship, she realized that love wasn’t always enough.

“I love you, Zach,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

Zach’s eyes met hers, and for the first time in months, she saw the man she had fallen in love with, the man who had once made her feel like the center of his world. His face softened, his hazel eyes filled with regret and longing.

“I love you too, Annie,” he said, his voice hoarse.

But even as the words hung in the air between them, Annie knew now that love alone couldn’t fix what was broken. They were too far gone, too lost in their own pain and struggles to find their way back to each other.

Annie wiped her tears, her heart heavy as she took one last look at the man she had loved for so long. “Goodbye, Zach,” she whispered.

Zach didn’t respond. He just stood there, watching her leave, the sound of the door closing behind her echoing through the house.

Annie stepped out into the cold night, the weight of the world pressing down on her shoulders. She had walked away from the love of her life, and in doing so, she had left a part of herself behind. But as she climbed into her car and drove away, she knew that this was the only way to save herself.

And maybe, just maybe, it was the only way to save him too.

#A R I Z O N A #rpf #fanfic

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jackrrabbit · 4 years

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Sleepless /// Tanjiro x f!reader (18+)

Request: Hi!! I'm not entirely sure on how to request since this is my first time EVER requesting something here on tumblr 😳😳 so im not sure if im doing this right,,,but um,,,,could you do a soft dom! tanjiro kamado x reader nsfw??? (he's aged up of course)

A/N: Y’all I’ve been working on this practically since I made this gd blog…idk why it took so long since I LOVE the concept. Reader is a traumatized bby who just needs her kitty licked ✊😔 and honestly same

Tags/warnings: soft dom, daddy vibes but without the ‘daddy’ (onii-chan vibes?), brief mentions of past demon violence & PTSD, fluff?, historical inaccuracies probably, reader is implied to be inexperienced, mild overstimulation, lowkey yandere lowkey romantic who knows, all characters are adults

It starts out with little things. Harmless things. Tanjiro sees you barely ate anything at dinner, and later that night he comes to your bedroom with a plate of food for you. “You should eat,” he tells you.

“I’m not hungry,” you say, almost a little petulantly. The food looks good and you know he’s trying to be nice, but you’re not a child. You can take care of yourself, and even when you can’t it’s not his job to do it for you.

“Eat,” he says again softly. It’s not a command. It’s like he already knows you’re going to eat, and he’s just patiently waiting for you to give in.

You pick up the chopsticks and eat the food he prepared for you. All of it. Tanjiro sits there and watches and then when you’re done, he smiles at you and pats your head and takes the plate away. You think it’s weird, but the next morning you don’t question it. He’s a big brother to everyone—doesn’t it make sense that he would want to make sure you’re eating enough?

He probably can’t help it.

You decide you’re going to let it slide, until a few days later after breakfast with him and the others when Tanjiro pulls you aside and holds your face in his hands and tells you you’re looking a little tired lately—are you getting enough sleep?

The truth is that you aren’t. You want to deny it, but somehow you have a hard time lying to him. “I used to sleep with my siblings in our bed, so it’s hard to fall asleep since…” since the demon who made you an orphan murdered them. “And, you know. Nightmares.”

Tanjiro understands. Of course he understands! He used to have five younger siblings, did you know that? Now Nezuko has her own room and the rest…well, you’ve heard the story. It’s hard to fall asleep when you’re by yourself, isn’t it? He’s been there.

“How many hours are you sleeping every night? On average?”

You’re trying too hard to ignore the brush of his callused fingertips over your cheekbones, so you tell him the truth without meaning to. “Um, like four hours? On a good day?”

His eyes go wide and suddenly both of his hands are wrapped around one of yours and squeezing, maybe a little too tight. “Is that the truth, (Y/N)? Four hours is too little. Sleep deprivation isn’t good for you.”

“I know, but—”

“No. The next time you have trouble getting to sleep, I want you to come to my room.” You open your mouth to mount a denial, but he frowns and cuts you off. “Promise me. Okay? It’s really bad for your health, so promise.”

And once again, you say yes even though you don’t want to.

It’s fine. It’ll be fine, you think. You’ll just pretend you’re sleeping better. Tonight you’ll lay in bed with your eyes open and stare at the ceiling and try to listen to your own breathing, in and out and in and out, and hope it drowns out the memories that stick fast in your head whenever you’re by yourself. Then when you’ve been laying in the dark for a few hours, you’ll finally fall asleep and all your nightmares will play out in technicolor and you’ll do your best to be quiet so you don’t wake anyone else up and in the morning you’ll splash cold water on your face to make your eyes less puffy and pinch your cheeks to get some color in them and it’ll be fine.

You can take care of yourself. You have to, since everyone else is gone. So you’re not sure why, when the sun goes down and you’re looking into the face of another sleepless night, you find yourself knocking on the door of Tanjiro’s bedroom.

Maybe it’s just that he made you promise. You hate breaking your promises.

He lets you in, the half-asleep affect mixing with the same caring, serene look as always (and it’s a little insulting that he’s not surprised at all). Tanjiro sits on the bed first and you can’t help staring at him in the flickering orange lamplight. He’s more muscular than you remembered, and taller than when you first met. He can play the role of a big brother all he likes, but he’s still an adult. A man. And he’s not family.

“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” you say, fidgeting with the sleeve of your shirt.

“It’s okay, (Y/N),” Tanjiro murmurs as he lies down, his voice still scratchy with sleep. Somehow it relaxes you. He just has that way about him—when he says it’s okay, it feels okay.

Tanjiro pats the spot on the bed next to him. It looks really warm, and there’s a winter chill in the air even though it’s only September. It’s a bed made for one person, but Tanjiro—ever considerate—has moved over to one side to make space for you.

“Come on. Come sleep,” he instructs in that soft, non-demanding way of his. So you sit down on the edge of the bed and (carefully, carefully, like you’re making your way into a hot bath) fold your legs and pull the covers over you so you’re lying next to him. The bed is even warmer than you thought it’d be. Tanjiro radiates heat—he’s so warm, you think, how fitting—and then before you know it you’re drifting into the first dreamless sleep you’ve been afforded in a very long time.

That first night, you sleep with a good six inches of space between the two of you. You don’t want to touch him, don’t want to cross that invisible boundary—at first. But it doesn’t matter, because every time you wake up next to him, you’re curled up to his side like a puppy seeking warmth. It’s not like he minds. Judging from the gentle smile on his face when he wakes you up in the morning (and tells you that you should go back to your room before anyone notices you’re not there) he likes it.

Never again, you think. No way. But you haven’t had a good night’s sleep in so long, and it’s nice to be well-rested for once, and the next evening you only lie in your bed for fifteen minutes before you’re knocking on Tanjiro’s door again, silently asking if you can take advantage of his kind nature for just one more night.

He says yes. Of course he does. So you sleep next to Tanjiro again, you keep half a foot of space between you again, and you wake up hugging him. Again. And then you do it the next night, and the next night, sleeping beside Tanjiro over and over until you no longer bother trying to leave room between your body and his.

Is this okay? you wonder sometime around the two-week mark. It’s the longest you’ve gone without having nightmares since the demon came. Sometimes you think you’re betraying your loved ones by trying not to think about their deaths; letting yourself off easy while they suffered. You tell this to Tanjiro while the two of you are lying back to back under his blanket, quietly enough that (you hope) if he’s already sleeping you won’t wake him.

He hears you, and he turns around and lays his arm around your waist. “Don’t be silly…of course they wouldn’t want you to be unhappy.”

“But how do you know?”

“I know.” Tanjiro’s voice is half muffled by your hair, but it’s steady. “You believe me, don’t you.”

You do.

“Don’t think about that anymore.” His hold on your waist gets a little bit tighter, arms a little bit less forgiving.

“I won’t,” you say, hoping that the promise will be enough. The two of you fall asleep like that, and when you wake up in the morning it’s the first time ever that you haven’t moved in the night.

As if it wasn’t enough to be spending every night together, at some point you start to dream about him too. Usually it’ll just be a flash or a snippet that you barely remember once you wake—the reassuring tone of his voice, a smell like a campfire, or a few notes of laughter—but tonight you’re watching him train in the courtyard. In the dream, he moves through his forms with inhuman grace, position to position to position, balanced with perfect agility like he’s a dancer and not a swordsman. With how beautiful it is, you can almost forget the raw power behind his movement, the strength that has subjugated more demons than you care to know.

He pauses to stretch, rolling his shoulders back, and you notice that he’s shirtless (which is how you know it’s a dream). Tanjiro’s arms flex as he raises the blade into position, and the sun shimmers over the thin sheen of sweat on his chest. He looks ethereal like this, and as you sit on the porch and watch him, you feel heat stir inside of you that has nothing to do with the sunlight.

Tanjiro, you call out softly. He looks around to you, deep red eyes resting on yours, and whips the blade down to replace it in its sheath.

Can I come closer? The grass is cool and wet under your bare feet as you pad lightly into the courtyard toward him. You can taste the humid summer air in your mouth. Fingers tangle themselves in your hair, tilting your head up to meet his.

Tanjiro…

“(Y/N)?”

Tanjiro’s voice cuts through the dream and you scrunch your eyes shut, reluctant to leave the dream world where he wants to touch you, not out of pity or because he thinks it’s his duty to take care of you but because he wants to. But it’s too late—his hand is on your shoulder, gently shaking you out of your slumber. “(Y/N)? You said my name.”

“Sorry, I…sorry.”

“What were you dreaming about?”

He kissed you, in your dream. Now that you’re looking at the real version, your cheeks feel warm…and so does that same spot below your belly. Suddenly the room feels uncomfortably hot, and you wish you weren’t trapped under the covers with Tanjiro. You shift your legs to try and get a little more air between the two of you, but the heat persists.

“I think I should go back to my room.” You must be sweating—you feel damp for some reason. He’s too close.

Tanjiro ignores you. “Can you tell me what you were dreaming about?”

“I—you,” you admit. “You were training.”

“And?”

“And…I don’t know. It’s kind of warm in here, isn’t it? I think I’ll just…” You push the cover aside and sit up, but before you can get yourself off the bed, Tanjiro is tugging you back down, holding to the mattress so he can hover over you in that way he likes.

“Tell me,” he says to you, voice as firm as it is gentle. Sleep-mussed locks of red hair flop over his forehead but his face is serious, and you can’t look away.

“You kissed me,” you whisper.

That takes him by surprise. You can tell by the way his eyes widen, but his hold on you doesn’t ease up. You want to die. Why did you say that? He’ll think you’re disgusting, sleeping next to him in his bed and having perverted dreams about him. Why couldn’t you have just lied? Why can’t you ever lie to him?

“I’m going back to my bedroom.” You try to project more confidence than you actually feel, but there’s no use. Tanjiro doesn’t seem like he’s going to let you get away from him any time soon.

He’s straddling your body carefully, one elbow folded next to your head while his other hand comes up to stroke your cheek. “Your face is all red.”

“You’re…you’re too close.”

“I don’t think I’m close enough. You have goosebumps, look...” Tanjiro folds up the sleeve of your sleep shirt, exposing your arms to view. “…here…and here, too…”

His hands are wandering further down to the hem of the shirt, pushing it up so slowly and gently that you’re not even sure it’s happening until you feel him stroking over your belly. It’s true, you do have goosebumps. It feels like every hair on your body is standing on end. “Tanjiro…?”

“I guess you haven’t been able to touch yourself, since we’ve been sleeping together. That kind of repression is bad for your health. Even I’ve been a little…frustrated.”

Your mind has to work overtime to understand what he’s telling you as he strokes over your stomach and onto the sensitive skin of your sides, and then up to the flesh covering your ribs. His thumb teases over the underside of one of your breasts for a second, but the shock must have shown on your face because he retreats immediately.

“I’m not. I’m not frustrated,” you say, knowing he won’t believe you.

Tanjiro shakes his head in dismissal. “I don’t think that’s true, (Y/N).”

What are you supposed to say? Of course it’s not true. But admitting that you’ve been feeling heated around him lately would ruin everything, so refuse to say it. “I…I don’t know what to say…”

“You don’t have to say it. Can I prove it to you?”

What does he mean? Your head jerks up and down in acquiescence. You barely have to wait a moment before Tanjiro’s hands are slipping down your sides to the waistband of your pants and tugging them down over your hips. A tap on your hipbones prompts you to lift your hips and let him remove the clothing, not that you know why you’re complying so blindly.

Just like you always do.

Is he still trying to take care of you? Putting himself in a caretaker’s role because he thinks you need him? This is going a little far, too far maybe, but you can’t deny you want this. The heat of his body is no longer stifling—instead, it feels like it’s pulling you into him.

When your pants are out of the way, Tanjiro reaches into your underwear and dabs against your slit. It’s not until you feel his finger sliding between the puffy lips of your cunt that you realize how wet you are…and of course he can feel it too. Your knees jerk together to try and push him away from you but he’s unfazed, his touch steadily becoming more intrusive as he seeks out the syrupy dampness from your pussy.

“What am I feeling right now? I want you to tell me.”

“You’re—you’re touching me?” you gasp out.

“And you’re all wet. You can’t tell me you haven’t been frustrated when you’re getting this wet with just my fingers.” At this, you feel him prodding deeper into your pussy and stretching you open.

“Nn—okay, fine! Fine!” The words come out of you in a rapid burst, and you finally muster up the resolve to push Tanjiro away from you by his shoulders. “I’ll go back to my room and deal with it, okay? You don’t have to do it for me.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think I can trust you to take care of this problem by yourself. You’ve been lying to me about your needs.”

You wish he wasn’t able to be so calm while you feel like your entire face is on fire. He pulls his hand out of your panties and backs up on the bed so his torso is framed between your legs. “Can you let me help you, (Y/N)? Let me take care of you.”

You lick your lips without realizing you’re doing it, and Tanjiro’s eyes follow the motion. You can barely comprehend what he’s asking. You want it. You want his hands on you; you want to be taken care of in the way he’s offering. But whether or not you can actually ask for it is another story. “Tanjiro…”

“You need this. I know you do.” He skims his palm over your bare thigh in a soothing motion that, oddly enough, puts your barbed nerves a fraction at ease. “I want you to be honest with me about what you need.”

It’s too much. The warmth of his body so tantalizingly close to yours, his shadowed eyes searching yours for a response you don’t know how to give him…and the sticky mess in your panties. Tanjiro’s giving you a free pass to get something you’ve wanted for longer than you can comfortably admit to yourself, and you’re not sure you could deny him if you tried. What can you tell him except the truth? “I want you. I need you.”

“Good girl. See how good it feels to be honest?” Tanjiro bows down and mouths over your pussy through the wet spot on your panties.

It’s not the honesty that feels good, you think as his tongue pads at you through the fabric.

Too impatient to wait another second to taste you, Tanjiro nudges your rear up and slides your panties down your legs. As soon as you kick the undergarment off your feet, he’s pulling your thighs back apart and curling his thickly-muscled arms around them to hold you securely as his head dips back down to your bare pussy. He wastes no time in laving his tongue over your slit and up to the button at the top.

The sensation of this hot, wet muscle pressing up against your most private area is…weird, to say the least. You’ve never felt anything like this—to be honest, you don’t even know exactly what Tanjiro’s doing. When you think about what’s actually happening on this bed—your (friend? partner? bedmate? crush?) ally has his mouth angled between your legs and is licking your pussy—you think you might spontaneously combust. You’ve never felt anything like this before, and however strange the feeling is, you’re more than aware of your hips grinding up toward Tanjiro just so you can feel more of it.

“Here, let me help…” Tanjiro effortlessly lifts you to place a pillow under your lower back, and then moves back down to continue his relentless licking, this time at a new angle that allows him full access to every millimeter of your raw cunt. He’s eating you out like your pussy is the last meal he’ll ever have.

And how can he help it? You taste so good, so sweet on his lips and over his tongue. You must have been in so much pain lying next to him every night with your desire leaking out between your thighs. Just thinking about is making heat rise low in his groin, and his grip on you is getting tighter by the second. How awful that you tried to keep this to yourself…it was remiss of him not to realize before tonight that you needed him so badly.

But it’s going to be alright, because judging from the muffled noises you’re making, every swipe of his tongue licking up your slit is more than making it up to you.

You probably don’t realize how much your hips are wiggling under his minstrations. He barely has to exert any effort to keep you still, but the way you keep trying you push yourself closer to him is enticing, not to mention the way you’re trying (and failing) to keep your voice down through your moans.

“Tanjiro…T-Tanjiro,” you whimper. It’s like you can’t think of anything except for his name. All of your attention is focused on the pressure building up deep in your core, each stroke of his tongue over your clit taking you higher and higher. You feel tense…wound up so tightly that you have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from letting the shallow puffs of air turn into full-fledged cries.

Just like that, please, please… You think the words rather than saying them, even though you want to. It’s too humiliating to be begging Tanjiro for more while he’s already giving you more than you deserve, but it’s almost like he heard you anyway, because his tongue writhes down across your clit again and your back arches up off the bedspread.

Your thighs twitch around his head, trying involuntarily to hold him down. He just chuckles and keeps you firmly in place, and his voice hums out over your pussy making feel even more wild. “Please, I’m—I’m cumming…” Your voice trails off and you crush the heels of your palms into your face to cover up your expression while the wave of pleasure hits you so hard you think you might faint.

Tanjiro doesn’t stop. You’re crying out in whimpers so high-pitched he can barely hear them, but he doesn’t stop. The delicate muscles in your pussy are throbbing under his tongue, but he doesn’t stop licking until you’re almost crying, panting out “it’s too much it’s too much, please Tanjiro” and pushing his head away with your hand.

When he finally pulls away, his hair is tangled and disarrayed from where you’ve been running your hands through it, and his mouth and jaw are shining wet. Tanjiro licks his lips and if you didn’t feel shaky before…you do now.

It takes a second for the power of thought to return to you, but when it does you just sigh weakly and flop back down onto the bed. Tanjiro’s next to you before you hit the pillow, and he grips your jaw with one hand to angle your head to meet his, and—

He’s kissing you. He’s actually kissing you. His lips are surprisingly soft over yours, but as usual there’s an unnecessary degree of pressure attached to the contact that has you sinking deeper into your blankets under his force. You can detect the lush, slightly bitter taste of your arousal coating the inside of his mouth as his tongue (skillful as ever) traces over yours. Tanjiro is kissing you, and it’s a hundred times better than any dream you could come up with on your own, so you kiss back.

It takes him a long moment to break the kiss, long enough that your lungs are pleading for air by the end of it. When his lips leave yours, a thin trail of saliva connects the two of you until it breaks and drips down your chin.

“Tanjiro…” You search for the right words, but what are you supposed to say at a time like this? “I…what did we just do?”

“Shh, don’t worry.” Tanjiro leans in again, this time just to press a chaste kiss to your forehead. “I’m going to take good care of you, okay?”

You take a moment and then duck your head into a nod. It doesn’t make any sense—how does he do that?—but once he says it’s okay it always is.

8K notes · View notes

vdlest · 3 years

Text

My Works:

2am knock on my door

Posted: May 17, 2021

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Anger!Reader

Summary: After Tony's death, Cap's disappearance, and end of Thanos, everybody go on separate ways to continue their lives. You became alone. But one rainy night, you heard a knock on your door, only to find Bucky Barnes soaking wet outside your apartment. You soon realized that you're not the only person who feels that kind of sadness and loneliness. That makes the two of you.

Warning: None

His I Love You

Posted: May 17, 2021

Characters: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: You and Bucky are in temporary LDR due to his mission and just by hearing those three magical words, you felt okay.

Warning: None

You Saved Me

Posted: May 18, 2021

Characters: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: You kept him from being insane by loving him for who he was, who he is, and who will he be.

Warning: None

Costumes

Posted: May 18, 2021

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You and the avengers are having a Halloween party, and someone came with a familiar costume, making your heart skip a beat.

Warning: None

As Long As We Both Shall Live

Sequel to "2am Knock On My Door"

Posted: May 19, 2021

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky didn't like the idea of you avoiding him. So during the mini-reunion party, he confronted you.

Warning: None

Turning Point

Posted: May 19, 2021

Characters: Bucky Barnes x BestFriend!Reader

Summary: You were out with your girl friends, Nat and Wanda, but when you got home, your boy best friend, Bucky, isn't so happy about you coming home late.

Warning: None

Good Morning, Husband

Posted: May 20, 2021

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You woke up and see Bucky Barnes beside you, realizing that it's your first morning as husband and wife.

Warning: None

My Lady

Posted: May 20, 2021

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: It is Tony's birthday party and everyone's required to wear their best formal attire, and when you did, you caught the attention of James Buchanan Barnes.

Warning: None

He Won't Allow It

Posted: May 22, 2021

Characters: TFATWS!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Just when Zemo is about to use you as a pawn to your next plan for your mission in Prague, Bucky decided to remind him that he won't allow anyone to use you. An unexpected confession came after.

Warning: Swearing

Dreamcatcher

Posted: May 22, 2021

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky continues to have his nightmares night by night. You advised him to follow what his therapist told him to do — to have a friend. It turns out, you also needed one. Will the two of you take this chance to help each other?

Warning: None aside from swearing

You Left Something

Posted: May 23, 2021

Characters: Bucky Barnes x ExAvenger!Reader

Summary: It has been a year since you left the life of being an Avenger. But after a year, someone showed up in your house, telling you that you left something when you left your old life. What could it be?

Warning: Swearing, mention of sex/one-night stand

You Matter

Posted: May 23, 2021

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Girlfriend!Reader

Summary: You and Bucky together with the other Avengers went to Florida for a mission. When your ex-suitor was also in the same area, your boyfriend, Bucky Barnes, is triggered by your ex's words. How can you make him feel better?

Warning: Jealousy, A little bit of smut, Swearing

I'll Come Home To You

Posted: May 24, 2021

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Summary: All the men avengers are compromised in a big mission that has to do with an organization trying to revive and continue HYDRA's works. Seeing your fiance, Bucky, leave months before your wedding makes you worried.

Warning: None

His Muse

Posted: May 25, 2021

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Tony and Pepper are finally tying the knot. And your date for their wedding is none other than James Buchanan Barnes, your best friend.

Warning: None

Still His

Posted: May 25, 2021

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader, Winter Soldier x Reader

Summary: You lost him five years ago, but what happens when the new fist of HYDRA turns out to be the man you thought was a ghost already.

Warning: Swearing, Alternate Universe, Poorly Written

Lost & Found

Posted: May 26, 2021

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Nearly three years ago, the Avengers lost in a battle for humanity. They lost because of Thanos. Half of the planet vanished in thin air and only God knows what happened to them. Surprisingly, you received a call from Nat telling you that Tony Stark is safely back in the compound with the help of Captain Marvel. But you get another surprise when Nat tells you that Bucky did not vanish three years ago, he was with Tony this whole time.

Warning: None

No One, But You

Posted: May 26, 2021

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You, Sam, and Bucky went to Prague for a mission that has something to do with what they call the Flash Smashers, but Bucky is not his usual "game on" mode and you found out why. He's still grieving over Steve's disappearance and for not being able to apologize to Tony.

Warning: Swearing

Onto It

Posted: May 27, 2021

Characters: TFATWS!Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky and Sam are both in New York to finish their mission with the power broker, which turns out to be Sharon Carter. The latter is not just the villain in this story, but you once got jealous of her as well when she tried to seduce your man.

Warning: Swearing, Jealousy, Mention of Smut

Nice To Meet You

Posted: May 28, 2021

Characters: TFATWS!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: The restaurant where Bucky always takes Yori to eat with him is where you actually work. You've been watching and staring at him for quite some time now but didn't have the courage to introduce yourself to him. But what happens when Yori asked Bucky to take you out?

Warning: None

No Goodbyes

Posted: May 29, 2021

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader, CivilWar!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You fought for team Captain America during the Civil War. You were one of the people who believed that Bucky Barnes can gain his redemption. Fighting alongside Bucky, the two of you did not have a hard time getting along and eventually fell for each other. But after the fight in the airport, he decided to freeze himself again until a solution for his condition comes.

Warning: None

Always Beside You

Posted: May 30, 2021

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You and Bucky have been living together for a year now. Ever since you came into his life, he stopped having nightmares, not until Sam gave up the shield and the country have a new Captain America.

Warning: None

It's Her

Posted: May 31, 2021

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Summary: It was supposed to be a night of fun with the whole team, but your ex-boyfriend shows up and tries to ruin your night.

Warning: Swearing, AU, Mention of a little SMUT

Scarred & Bruised

Posted: June 1, 2021

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Each time you find yourself falling in love, you'd tell them about your dark past, and they'll always end up leaving you. So you tried not to fall in love with anyone since then, and it has been years since you felt love in your life. But then you met Bucky, and it's not hard to fall in love with him so you ran away from him. After a year of hiding and running from the man you thought was just like anyone else, he found you, and no chance that he'll let you go again.

Warning: Swearing, Mention of rape, Violence

You Made Me Live Again

Posted: June 2, 2021

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader, Steve Rogers x Avenger!Reader

Summary: You used to date Steve Rogers, but you knew that he has always been in love with Peggy, so you two stopped dating. Two years later, you met Bucky and slowly fell for each other, but you two decided to keep your relationship a secret since both of you doesn't want to shock everyone, especially Steve, who happens to be Bucky's best friend. But until when can both of you hold back?

Warning: Open-ended, Sappy Ending

Midnight Talks

Posted: June 7,2021

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Summary: After Bucky and Sam's mission in Brooklyn, they came back to the compound and you noticed that something is not right with Bucky. One midnight, you can't sleep and found Bucky in the mini-bar in the compound and you finally found out why he's been acting differently.

Warning: fluff, a little smut, drinking

More than anything

Posted: June 8, 2021

Characters: Bucky Barnes x BestFriend!Reader

Summary: You and Bucky have been best friends since high school. He always asked you for advice whenever he's dating someone, when you say no, he'd say no as well. But one night, you found each other in your room, having sex. Waking up the next day, he's gone. No text, no call, nothing.

Warning: mention of smut

Build a life together

Posted: June 9, 2021

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Girlfriend!Reader

Summary: You and Bucky joined Sam to help him restore their family boat. But a life-changing event took place. An event of a lifetime for you and Bucky.

Warning: none

Of all the things

Posted: June 10, 2021

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Stark!Reader

Summary: Even before the civil war took place, you sided with Captain America about his point of view of Bucky Barnes — that he could gain his redemption. Bucky has never shown you anything bad ever since you met him. The next thing you knew, he caught your heart too. You took their side up to the civil war, and you knew your brother, Tony, would be hurt by your decision.

After the civil war, Tony told you about the truth of the death of your parents, the Winter Soldier killed them. You were hurt too, for all along you knew they got into an accident but it turns out, they were murdered.

Seeing how devastated Tony is for feeling betrayed by Steve Rogers and feeling hurt upon learning what really happened to your parents, you decided to go back with him in New York, without even saying goodbye to Bucky, the man you secretly loved.

A year later, you & Tony received a call from Wakanda, you are needed in a war. But little did you know, you're about to cross paths again with the man you've always loved from afar and secretly.

Warning: none

Only yours forever

Posted: June 11, 2021

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Summary: You and the rest of the remaining avengers decided to team up with the Eternals, but seems like your boyfriend, Bucky Barnes, isn't a fan of Ikaris and the way he stares at you.

Warning: Jealousy, Fluff, Implied Smut

I'm home in your arms

Posted: June 14, 2021

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Girlfriend!Reader

Summary: Bucky always comes to visit you, but he asked you to come over to his place this time. Upon your arrival at his apartment, you found him sad and emotional.

Warning: Fluff

Definition of heaven

Posted: June 16, 2021

Characters: Boyfriend!Bucky Barnes x Girlfriend!Reader

Summary: You found out you were pregnant with Bucky's baby when the blip took place. You keep the baby and raised him by yourself and with the help of a few friends. You have always believed that Bucky will come back to you and your son, Gabriel. Five years later, the Avengers won, Bucky came home to you and Gabriel.

Warning: Fluff

Sergeant Barnes' last letter

Posted: June 18, 2021

Characters: InfinityWar!Bucky Barnes x Fiance!Reader

Summary: You woke up in your bed without Bucky by your side. The only thing you found on his trace is his letter for you, saying his temporary farewell as he leaves for Wakanda to fight with his pal, Steve against Thanos.

Warning: Fluff

Let me take care of you

Posted: June 21, 2021

Characters: TFATWS!Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Joining forces with John Walker is the last thing you, Sam, and Bucky want to consider, but after seeing the powerful force of the Flag Smashers, the three of you left with no other choice.

Warning: Jealousy, Swearing, Fluff

The Barnes & Rogers talk

Posted: June 23, 2021

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Girlfriend!Reader

Summary: Bucky can't stop talking about you to his best friend, Steve Rogers.

Warning: Fluff

Could we?

Posted: June 26, 2021

Characters: ExBF!Bucky Barnes x ExGF!Reader

Summary: A normal day turns out to be different when you bumped into your ex, Bucky Barnes.

Warning: Fluff

Get her

Posted: July 2, 2021

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Summary: When Bucky found out that you were taken by the subgroup of HYDRA called "The Atonement," he will do everything just to bring you back safely.

Warning: Fluff, Expect an open ending, Heartbreak

Convincing Mr. Barnes

Posted: July 5, 2021

Characters: Bucky Barnes x GF!Reader

Summary: Instead of going out of town with you, you convinced Bucky to help Sam in restoring their family boat.

Warning: Fluff, A little bit of SMUT

Just stay

Posted: July 7, 2021

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Neighbor!Reader

Summary: Clogged sink, carrying heavy furniture, fixing your broken headboard - these are just some of the times you called your neighbor, Bucky, for help, and he'll be happy to help you without anything in exchange. Until you finally offered something he can't resist, your body.

Warning: Mention of SMUT (18+), Fluff, Bucky being rough and soft at the same time

A little too late

Posted: July 9, 2021

Characters: ExBF!Bucky Barnes x ExGF!Reader

Summary: Bucky broke up with you and left you when he thought you were cheating on him with Steve. He left without any God damn word, and you weren't able to tell him that you never cheated on him, not even a thought of it.

3 years later, Bucky received a letter from Steve, making Bucky feel guilty for what he did to you.

Warning: Angst, Mention of miscarriage, Expect a heartbreak

Love than lose

Posted: July 11, 2021

Characters: TFAWTS!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: The day Bucky confessed to you that he likes you, you told him that you can't be with someone whose life is always in the line of death. So you two decided not to do anything. But when you saw him in the news regarding his mission to end Flag Smashers alongside the new Captain America, Sam, you rushed towards the scene to tell him that you regret your decision.

Warning: Fluff

Each other's home

Posted: July 14, 2021

Characters: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Wife!Reader

Summary: You just got home from your shopping and spa day with Wanda and Nat, and you found your loving husband cooking dinner for both of you. Just a normal sweet night with the love of your life.

Warning: Fluff

Always you

Posted: July 19, 2021

Characters: Bucky Barnes x GF!Reader

Summary: Thea team is out for a celebratory dinner, but it turns out your ex-boyfriend was also in the same restaurant. Your boyfriend, Bucky Barnes, can't help but feel a "little" jealous.

Warning: Fluff, Jealousy, Mention of SMUT

Morning star

Posted: July 23, 2021

Characters: TFATWS!Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Summary: When Zemo asked Bucky to play the role of the Winter Soldier once more for the mission in Madripoor, you can't help but feel anxious about it.

Warning: Fluff

Says who

Posted: July 29, 2021

Characters: TFAWTS!Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Summary: You think Bucky hates you because he is too professional when you two are working on a mission, he doesn't do small talks, and he doesn't talk to you about any other thing aside from the mission itself. So when you had enough of his professionalism, you decided to confront him.

Warning: Fluff

Cap's divulgence

Posted: July 31, 2021

Characters: Steve Rogers x GF!Reader

Summary: After six months of putting your relationship with Steve Rogers in much secrecy, the star-spangled man boyfriend of yours finally broke the news to everyone in a celebratory dinner.

Warning: Fluff

For a lifetime

Posted: August 2, 2021

Characters: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Wife!Reader // Groom!Bucky Barnes x Bride!Reader

Summary: You just got married to the man you love, and on the reception, you are asked to give a message to your husband.

Warning: Fluff

The only family he got

Posted: August 7, 2021

Characters: PostEndgame!Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky is still haunted by sadness after his pal, Steve Rogers, decided to live the life he never had with Peggy. He's very afraid that he'll choose the family he only got left, you.

Warning: Fluff

#bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes masterlist #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n

243 notes · View notes

restlessfandoming · 4 years

Text

“family holiday” (pt. 1) (chilumi fic)

[SPOILERS FROM 1.1 STORY QUESTS]

Lumine finally arrives in Snezhnaya and takes Childe’s offer of visiting his home (mansion).

(some domestic fluff uwu)

lots of ppl have been asking for more and i love that! tysm for the encouragement and support <3 sorry this took so long to upload, i am trying very hard for all you lovelies ;__;

also this is being split into two parts bc it is a bit longer than my other fics...but i swear im writing part 2 as fast as i can!! i just wanted to post this now so i wouldn’t keep you lovelies waiting <3

[Fic Masterlist]

“family holiday” (pt 1)

“Lumineeeeee!” Teucer shouted as she walked through the door of Childe’s home. He tackled her into a hug.

“Well hello to you too, Teucer,” Lumine greeted back. Just as energetic as I remembered…

“Hey! Paimon’s here too!” Paimon crossed her arms.

Teucer broke his hug and waved energetically at Paimon. “Hi, Lumine’s toy!”

Paimon’s jaw dropped, ready to go on a rant, but Teucer already turned his attention away.

“Big brother!” he cheered, tackling Childe into a hug as well.

“Teucer!” Childe said enthusiastically, picking him up and slinging the little boy over his shoulder before swinging him around. Teucer erupted into gleeful giggles.

“Big brother? Is that you?” a soft voice called. Coming down the grand stairs was a little girl who looked exactly like Childe and Teucer, her long brown hair tied in a half-up crown braid, her large blue eyes like innocent doe eyes. She looked about eight. Behind her, another sibling came trudging down the stairs, scowling, his hair appearing more ginger than the rest of the family; his face had a splattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks, more prominent than Teucer’s. He was a bit older, around 11.

Childe set Teucer down, and smiled. “Tonia,” he greeted her, gentler. He got down on one knee, and Tonia ran down the steps—her white dress flowing behind her—and jumped into his open arms.

“It’s been too long!” she said, her voice muffled by Childe’s shoulder.

He laughed. “It certainly has, princess.” He looked to the last sibling still standing by the stairs. “Come on, Anthon. Come here.”

Anthon let out an exasperate huff, but still made his way to his older brother, and joined Tonia in their embrace. “We don’t have to make such a big deal out of this,” he grumbled, though his arms tightening around his brother betrayed his attitude.

“Looks like we’ve been sidelined,” Paimon muttered.

Lumine tilted her head. “It’s kind of nice to see though…”

Anthon’s eyes flickered to her. “Who are you?”

Tonia broke from the hug, ducking under Childe’s arms to look at Lumine, while still gripping tightly to his jacket.

Teucer bounced over to the traveler, and placed his hands proudly on his hips. “Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Lumine!”

Tonia gasped and skipped over to her, her eyes bright. “Lumine?! Like from the letters?” Teucer nodded enthusiastically.

Childe stood and rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Yup, the one and only. This is her first time in Snezhnaya, so everyone be on your best behavior.” He gave Anthon a look, to which Anthon crossed his arms.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Tonia and Anthon,” Lumine said. “Your brothers have told me a lot about you two.”

Tonia smiled shyly and peered at Lumine’s face. “Woooow,” she whispered in wonderment. “You really are just as pretty as he said!”

Lumine felt a shock to her system. Childe told them I was pretty?

Childe let out a nervous laugh, quickly scooping Tonia off the ground and ruffling her hair. “Very funny, Tonia! Why don’t we decide on dinner plans, hmm?”

Paimon, after grumbling in the corner about being ignored, perked straight up. “Food?”

“Let’s celebrate brother and Lumine coming home! We should go to the bestest restaurant in the city!” Teucer suggested.

“You don’t want to eat brother’s cooking?” Tonia asked, a bit of sadness tinged in her voice.

“I think that’s a great idea, Teucer,” Childe said. He patted Tonia’s head. “How about we eat dinner at the restaurant, then we can come home and I’ll make you your favorite cake?”

“Yay!” Tonia cheered, jumping from Childe’s arms, and joining Teucer in celebration.

“Anthon? What would you like to do?” Childe asked.

He shrugged. “Whatever sounds good to me.”

“Then it’s settled! Let’s all go get ready then, okay?” Childe said. The children all ran up the stairs, and soon the foyer was quiet once more. The Harbinger let out a heavy sigh.

“Whew! They’re a handful!” Paimon said.

Lumine nodded. “How do they even survive while you’re away?”

Childe chuckled. “Year round I have a dedicated staff of servants and maids to look after them and the house.” (Mansion, Lumine thought.) “I gave them the weekend off while I’m back.”

“You can handle all three of them?” Lumine asked.

“Oh? You don’t think I’m capable?”

“I just can’t imagine you as a child raising type,” she said, recalling their various battles together. How bloodthirsty he could get.

“The battlefield is different,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. He glanced at the stairs. “I’ve been raising my siblings since we were little.”

No parents? She thought of her and Aether. On their own for as long as she could remember, having to explore and learn alone. Except she and Aether were twins; she never had to look after a younger sibling—let alone three.

“Ready!” Teucer announced, bouncing down the stairs.

Childe crossed his arms. “Just your hat? Where are your gloves? Coat? Boots?”

Teucer giggled. “Oops! I forgot!” He raced back up the stairs.

“And you?” he asked, turning to Lumine. “You don’t look ready either.”

“I was okay on the journey here,” she answered. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

He shook his head. “It’s almost dark now. Snezhnayan nights are freezing, even more so during this time.”

“Ahh...well...we didn’t really pack...anything…,” Paimon said sheepishly.

“Paimon I expected, but you, Lumine?”

The traveler crossed her arms. “I’ve been a bit busy.”

He scoffed. “Right, right. Well, we can’t have you freezing to death in the street. I’m sure there’s extra coats around here,” he said, heading up the stairs. “Come with me.”

“Oooo, Lumine, they’re probably super expensive and fluffy! Let’s go!” Paimon said, flying after Childe. Lumine rolled her eyes and followed.

The three passed by the children’s rooms, all clothes being thrown around and excited chatter, before coming to a large door at the end of the hall. Childe’s room. He opened the door and they entered.

It was a grand room—octangular in shape with huge windows and a tall ceiling—large, spacious, and empty save for a large bed, standing wardrobe, and side tables. There was a fine film of dusting covering all the surfaces, and the bed looked like it hadn’t been slept in for a long time. The colors were sparse, only grays, whites, blacks, and the occasional red accent.

Childe opened the doors to the wardrobe, revealing an assortment of heavy winter coats. He pulled one out and held it out for Lumine. “I think this coat is a little older—probably the smallest one I have.”

She put it on, the sleeves running a bit long to her fingertips, the feathered hood obscuring her face up to her nose. Childe laughed, and she stuck her tongue out at him after pulling the hood down. Despite it being old, she could still pick up a faint scent of Childe: a smell remnant of ocean waves and sandy beaches. Unexpectedly pleasant...

“If that’s too big, she can have one of my coats!” Tonia said from the doorway.

“That is very nice of you to offer, Tonia,” Childe said. “But I think your coats might be too small.”

“Oh,” she said. “Well, we’re all ready now, brother!”

The family—plus Lumine and Paimon—gathered back in the foyer with everyone bundled in their coats, hats, and gloves. And then they were on the way to the restaurant.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“Lumine, look!” Teucer said, pointing at a large pond. “There are so many fishes!”

They were waiting to be seated in the restaurant lobby. A large, grandiose building, with marbled floors, vaulted ceilings, and gold furniture. There was a large pond in the middle—a miniature waterfall flowed into it.

Too extravagant, Lumine thought. And I thought Liyue was expensive...

“Do you think we could take some fish home to eat?” Paimon asked, peering into the pond.

Lumine gave her a deadpan expression. “Go ahead. I’ve always wanted to see how Snezhnayans deal out punishment.”

“On second thought, nevermind…”

Tonia pulled on Childe’s jacket. “Can we go to the toy store after this?”

“Toy store! Toy store! Toy store!” Teucer chanted.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Childe said. The two children cheered.

“They’re always so loud,” Anthon grumbled from his seat next to Lumine.

“They’re just excited your brother is back,” Lumine said. “Aren’t you excited also?”

“I guess…” He looked at her. “Why are you here anyways?”

How do I explain that I’m on a quest to find my brother after we were banished from our journeys by an unknown god? “I want to meet all the gods of Teyvat.”

He scoffed. “Yeah, right. That’s impossible.”

“Actually I’ve been quite successful,” she told him. “I’ve already met a few.”

“Really?” His brows were furrowed. “What’re they like?”

Venti: drunk. Zhongli: broke. “They’re...interesting. Very powerful.”

Childe walked over to them. “Is he bothering you?” he asked Lumine.

“She was just telling me she’s met some of the gods of Teyvat. Is that true?” he asked, scrutinizing.

“Very much so. She’s quite strong, so don’t get on her bad side.” He gave Anthon a wink.

“Strong enough to beat you, brother?”

“Of course,” Lumine said, standing up. “I’ve beat your brother before.”

“Paimon can confirm that! We kicked his butt!”

For the first time, Anthon’s eyes seemed to light up. “You did? How?”

Childe chuckled through gritted teeth, disguised as a strained smile. “Now, now, Anthon; you seem like you want me to be beaten.”

Anthon frowned. “No, I didn’t mean that.”

“Sir? Your table is ready,” a waiter said, approaching the family.

As Childe went to wrangle up the younger kids, Lumine stayed behind and tapped on Anthon’s shoulder.

“Hey,” she whispered. “Why do you want to beat your brother so bad?”

Anthon shook his head. “You guys have it wrong. I don’t want to beat my brother…” His pale face flushed a bit red. “I just...I want to be stronger than him. So he doesn’t have to work so hard to protect us…” He stopped and watched his siblings sit around the table in the distance. “He shouldn’t be the only one protecting us. I can see it’s really hard work for just him. I want to be strong enough to protect him, Tonia, and Teucer also.”

Lumine’s heart warmed at Anthon’s love for his family. She missed Aether a little more. “I’ll help you.” She put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I know what it’s like, wanting to protect a sibling.” She then gave him a teasing smile. “Plus, I’ve already beaten your brother, right?”

“Right!” He had a little smile as well. “And he’s the strongest person I know! Well...I guess that person would be you now, right?”

Tonia came marching up to the two. “Come onnnnn, let’s go eat!” She grabbed both Lumine and Anthon’s hands and dragged them to the table.

Afterwards, the family enjoyed an exquisite meal, and were all stuffed full of expensive foods and cheerful laughter. (The children were amazed at how much both Lumine and Paimon could scarf down.)

The children, very quickly after finishing their meal, practically teleported to the toy store. As the children ran through the store, Lumine and Childe took the moment of rest, silently watching over them. (Paimon had retreated back into her world to recover from the feast.)

“I don’t know how you do it,” Lumine said. “I had a hard enough time with just Teucer in Liyue.”

“It’s not easy,” Childe confessed. He looked at his siblings softly. “But when I see them smiling and happy...despite everything bad in the world? I think it’s all worth it.”

How nice… His love for his family definitely matched her love for Aether. Something we have in common. She found herself enjoying this time with Childe, and his family, more enjoyable than any time she had been adventuring. It was almost like...she was...back home…

Soon enough, everyone was lined up, toys all selected and ready for purchase. Teucer tiredly tugged on Lumine’s coat, then silently held his hands up. At first, Lumine blinked, not understanding.

“Teucer, just ask her to pick you up,” Anthon said.

“That’s okay,” she said, pulling Teucer up off the ground—now understanding—and placing him on her hip. I think this is how you carry a kid? She didn’t have much experience with kids, save for the few she had met while in Teyvat. And those kids are far from normal... She let out a little sigh of relief when Teucer relaxed, laying his head on her shoulder.

“Are you tired too, Tonia?” Childe asked. She shook her head, tightening her grip on his hand, clutching a doll in the other. Teucer was hugging a hilichurl stuffed animal, and Anthon held an action figure of a Lawachurl.

Upon reaching the toy seller, the old woman at the counter smiled at Childe and Lumine. “You two have such beautiful children,” she said.

Lumine almost dropped Teucer. What?!

“Though I have to say, they do take after their father quite a bit,” she remarked. “A shame, seeing as the mother is so beautiful.”

Before Lumine could explain, Childe spoke. “Yes, what a shame indeed—I completely agree,” he said while smiling.

...WHAT?!

[part two]

#genshin impact #genshin lumine #genshin childe #genshin tartaglia #lumine #childe #tartaglia #chilumi #lumichilde #childe x lumine #lumine x childe #fanfic #me

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dreamingsnowflake2013 · 3 years

Photo

Seungho and Nakyum are like two puzzle pieces that complete each other. A lot is still left unsaid but their feelings for each other are reciprocated equally but it's something they can only show in the dark when the other isn't watching so the next step is for them to communicate those feelings.

Seungho watching Nakym sleeping while he, the noble lord, lies on the cold hard floor truly shows how much Seungho adores Nakyum, worshipping him like something sacred. Moreover, Nakyum is his anchor, his light in the darkness that keeps his nightmares at bay.

Seungho keeps placing Nakyum on pedestal, looking at him in supplication, because somewhere along the way SH's started to consider himself unworthy of Nakyum - too damaged, dark and twisted inside - fearing he might taint and break Nakyum. He's become so afraid he'd ruin him, he keeps him behind glass like some breakable object, determined to protect him and whatever innocence remains (because while his innocence was destroyed completel a long time ago y he wants to save NK from the same fate) from everyone (those who kidnapped him - that's another reason why he accompanies him outside beside wanting to spend time with him and enjoy his company, acting as his personal bodyguard) from everyone including HIMSELF.

The ongoing theme of Seungho putting himself in a lower position with Nakyum symbolizes his feeling of unworthiness, the shifting power dynamic of their relationship, his 'unrequited' love and his quest to treat NK as his equal; and it's been prevalent throughout S2.

Nakyum is going to get hurt (the last panel & Min's plan confirm it) and Seungho is going to blame himself for it, for failing for protect him and for being the cause of his pain. Moreover, he realizes that he's been the one who's been hurting the man he fell in love the whole time.

Seungho keeps taking away Nakyum's pain, healing him and rewriting his bad memories. Just like Nakyum does to him.

Nakyum never smiling at him has been gnawing at Seungho but despite it & the fact he thinks his love isn't reciprocated, he gives Nakyum his own smiles, openly showing his love without asking anything in return, because Nakyum 's mere presence brings him so much happiness & he can't hide it any longer.

Instead of just spending his nights with Nakyum, Seungho now shares with him his days, as well, and thus his whole life. He seeks him during the nights when seeing him during the day is not enough.

Seungho takes Nakyum out on dates, buys him beautiful clothes, watches him while he sleeps, steals feather-like kisses,... - it's the sort of romantic courtship full of attention, devotion, adoration and tenderness every noblewoman dreams of but rarely gets because noble marriages have very little to do with love. Thusly, Seungho keeps giving Nakyum something extraordinary, priceless and unique. He's been unwittingly courting Nakyum for a long time, but now, it's deliberate and very obvious.

If this were a kdrama everyone would gush about Nakyum and Seungho sharing an indirect kiss. Though, judging from Seungho's smile perhaps he actually knows exactly what's he's doing, secretly enjoying the pleasure of their indirect kiss while the innocent Nakyum remains oblivious.

Seungho's been making the whole time sure that Nakyum doesn't overexert himself, that he sleeps well and eats well and that he is happy and content so he doesn't fall ill after fainting on him again during their latest night together.

In the beginning, Seungho only wanted & asked Nakyum to paint for him. Now, the only thing he asks of him is not to push him away. Not because he doesn't want more - in fact, he wants all of him, mind, body ,heart and soul - but because he doesn't dare to ask for more after causing NK so much pain.

While the Nambawi cap used to be worn by both sexes, Seungho deliberately chooses for Nakyum one with tassels and ornaments designed for women. It signifies that SH considers him as someone beautiful, fragile, gentle who he's chosen to be his lover, his bride and a worthy life partner. Someone he wants to cherish, pamper and protect. Someone who deserves silk, jewels and the most expensive white fur, i.e, only the best. Because in the society they live in one's status is determined by their clothes,

With each piece of clothing he's given him Seungho's been transforming Nakyum into his equal, a person with status and privileges the society would except of his bride and lawful spouse.

Regarding Seungho’s nightmare, it's an echo-like dream reflecting Seungho's past trauma. It's clear he'd been abused in more than one way. It reveals the torment, his personal hell, SH's been experiencing this whole time and trying to escape and dull through opium, sex and cold cynicism.

Seungho had been imprisoned, ABANDONED & betrayed by those he loved. No one came to help him, save him & protect him. No wonder he reacted so violently when he thought NK, the person he loved, betrayed and left him. No wonder it's Nakyum he seeks now to comfort him.

ON A SIDE NOTE:

"It's you. Only you."

Seungho's "plump my little lover up" mission has turned out to be a smashing success (little wonder with all their shared meals and plying him with treats).

Yeah, I'm afraid that ship had sailed a long time ago.

He's been dating you, babie... He's been dating you like an iconic kdrama male lead.

Forget assassins, protecting Nakyum and poison, Seungho's most likely cause of death is going to be contracting pnemonia after spending one too many nights sleeping underdressed in front of an open window in the middle of winter.

Prince Seungho and his prince(ss) bride Nakyum

Nakyum is wearing the same hat, the same scarf and outfit and Seungho the same blue hanbok. Now, Seungho only needs to don that winter hat of his own and go on fulfilling that fantasy happy #couplehats moment we were promised!

#painter of the night #analysis #potn #yahwacheop #byeonduck

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contemplativepancakes · 4 years

Text

enough to drive a man mad

~7k geraskier fake dating, because that is what this fandom needs. read on ao3 here!

Jaskier smells anxious. He reeked of apprehension all of yesterday, not to mention the fact that he hasn’t been able to sit still or stop tapping his foot on the wooden floorboards this morning.

It’s grating on Geralt’s last nerve.

“What, Jaskier?” he finally growls.

Jaskier jumps, almost falling out of his chair from where he sits tapping his quill idly in his notebook.

“What?”

“What has you so worked up?”

Jaskier looks Geralt in the eyes before glancing away again. He clears his throat. “Nothing.”

Geralt grunts.

“Oh, don’t sound so unconvinced,” Jaskier complains.

Geralt rolls his eyes, turning his back to Jaskier to finish settling all of his things into his pack. He wraps the glass jars carefully and tucks them between Jaskier’s shirts, so they don’t break. “If nothing is wrong, you’re ready to go then, right?”

Jaskier grumbles, but he tucks his notebook away and gets to his feet.

They make it about three hours before Jaskier finally broaches the subject.

“So, Geralt,” he starts. “Dear friend of mine.”

Geralt doesn’t even bother to look back at him. Nothing good can come with this as a conversation starter.

“Have I ever told you about my parents?”

“No.”

Jaskier sighs. “I suppose not. Well, they’ve written to me. They want me to visit.”

Geralt thinks back to the letter an innkeeper had handed to Jaskier a few weeks ago, the one that made him eerily quiet the rest of the night and that he had clammed up about when Geralt questioned him. Jaskier was perky and practically completely back to normal the next morning, so Geralt had almost forgotten about it. Apparently, Jaskier had not done the same.

“Hmm.”

“Yes, yes, I know. Dreadfully inconvenient for you. What will you do without your loyal companion?”

Geralt frowns. He hadn’t even thought about that, just registered the smell of unhappiness coming off of Jaskier at the thought of his parents. Jaskier is rather helpful, though. He’s never afraid to step in the middle of pay negotiations, inevitably getting Geralt more coin, and he’s certain Jaskier has stopped them from getting kicked out of at least three towns after Geralt had stumbled back to the inn covered in viscera.

“Do you want to visit them?”

Jaskier trips over his feet, and Geralt dutifully looks away, pretending not to have noticed. “Not particularly. But I have to.”

Geralt won’t pretend to understand how a typical human family works, so he just accepts Jaskier’s words at face value. He’s never felt obliged to return to Kaer Morhen every winter; it’s something he looks forward to—to seeing his patchwork family. But Jaskier deliberately never speaks of his family, and gets twitchy every time anyone brings them up, so Geralt had accepted it as one of Jaskier’s many quirks and moved on.

“Hmm. Well, I can travel with you there, at least. I’m sure there will be contracts in the area somewhere.”

Jaskier flushes red. “I was...I was actually hoping you would come with me.”

“What? I’m sure that’s not what your parents had in mind when they wanted you to visit. They wouldn’t want to meet me .”

“Well, they said it’s unbecoming for someone of my age to be a bachelor. And, so I. I, um.” Jaskier scratches the back of his neck. “I told them I wasn’t. And I maybe sort of perhaps insinuated we were together.”

Geralt can feel a stress headache brewing.

Marilla looks down at the letter in shock.

Dear Mother,

I fear I am not quite as much of a bachelor as you suppose. Have you heard any of my songs? I have gone and fallen head first into my muse. Typical, foolish me, but I’ve never been happier. We’ll visit soon.

Julian

She doesn’t like to think about Julian’s songs, about how he couldn’t even keep the name she had given him. She thrusts the letter to her husband. “He’s coming to visit,” she says in disbelief. “When’s the last time we saw him?”

Ethbert considers this as he reads the letter. “At least five years.”

“And I can’t believe he hasn’t spoken of this ‘muse’ any sooner. I’m not sure I believe him.”

Ethbert gave Marilla a placating smile. “He’s probably just ashamed he hasn’t found himself a wife yet. We’ll find out when he comes, doubtless with an excuse about where his beloved is.”

Marilla sniffs. “You’re right.”

Nell looks down at the scene in the kitchen with wide eyes from her spot crouched down between the banisters at the top of the stairs. Her brother? With a wife? She could scarcely imagine it. She thinks back to the last time Julian was here, the way he had boasted to her about his conquests for hours, away from the prying ears of their parents.

Well, surely if he had someone, he’d have talked about her in his songs. She resolves to get her hands on some of his music. She’ll solve this mystery before Julian even gets here.

“The first thing to know is that they’re awful,” Jaskier says, ticking down one of his fingers as he walks along beside Roach, seemingly uncaring of the dust that’s drifting up from her hooves and onto his doublet. “Well, except for my sister. Be nice to my sister, please, Geralt.”

“I’m nice to everyone.”

Jaskier stifles a laugh. “Mm. Be extra nice to her, then.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“You need to loosen up, too. They’re never going to think we’re together when you look all...constipated like that.”

Geralt huffs.

“You’re lucky opposites attract,” Jaskier says, before dragging a hand down his face. “This is never going to work, is it?”

Nell squints at the lyrics spread out before her. This doesn’t sound very romantic to her at all. Maybe a breakup song? She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss , Nell hums. She can’t help but notice there’s three different people the song is talking about, though. Odd. She shakes her head and moves onto the next song.

This one is just a ditty, so Nell turns the page to see a song about the witcher Jaskier travels with. And then another, and another. Is he all Julian writes about? She expected to see love songs, not this nonsense. She goes through more of his catalogue, briefly regretting spending her allowance on the songbook, but she supposes it supports her brother, after all.

She’ll just have to see what she can wheedle out of him while he’s here.

Finally, after flipping through no less than four more songs about the witcher, she lands on one titled “The Eternal Flame.”

Interesting.

Around your house, now white from frost

Sparkles ice on pond and marsh

Your longing eyes grieve what is lost

But naught can change this parting harsh

Spring will return, on the road the rain will fall

Hearts will be warmed by the heat of the sun

It must be thus, for fire still smolders in us all

An eternal fire, hope for each one

There, Nell can read some romance in. She rubs the ends of her hair together in thought. This one song certainly isn’t enough proof that Julian has actually found a wife. More like he’s still pining over some old flame. It doesn’t seem like he’s written very many good love songs at all.

Nell rolls her eyes, thinking back to all the raunchy songs in his catalogue. Typical.

There’s the squeak of the door opening downstairs, and Nell hastily slams the book shut and hides it under her mattress. She doesn’t want Julian seeing and getting a bigger head, after all.

She straightens her dress and runs down the steps, eager to see if Julian’s by himself, which is her guess. She comes to a skidding halt when she sees who is with him.

Oh.

She supposes he does write love songs, after all.

Geralt shifts uncomfortably from the scrutiny Jaskier’s family is giving him. He wraps an arm around Jaskier’s shoulder, hoping he doesn’t look as awkward as he feels. He looks over to Jaskier for help, and Jaskier shrugs off his arm and takes Geralt by the hand, leading him forward to meet them.

“Mother, Father, this is Geralt. Nell, this is a very large, scary witcher who will eat you up if you don’t behave.”

Geralt frowns. He thought Jaskier told him to be extra nice to his sister?

Nell laughs, a delightful, tinkling thing that reminds him of Jaskier’s. “He’s going to like me better than you by the time he leaves.”

Geralt looks back to Jaskier, only to see him sticking his tongue out at her. Right. Their relationship is definitely more antagonistic than Jaskier had prepared him for, so Geralt is glad he had Lambert to prepare him for these things.

He’s not sure his interactions with Lambert would be appropriate to apply to Jaskier’s sister, though, so Geralt will let Jaskier handle the ribbing.

“Nice to meet you,” Geralt finally says. “Jaskier’s told me a lot about you.”

Which, of course, is a lie, but Geralt knows that’s the polite thing to say.

“He’s never even mentioned me, has he?”

When Geralt waffles, Nell sniffs dramatically and casts Jaskier a betrayed look.

Jaskier shoots that look right back to Geralt, and Geralt is so impossibly out of his depth right now. “Hmm.”

“Now look what you’ve done, you’ve made him regret agreeing to meet you in the first place!” Jaskier cries.

“That’s quite enough, Julian,” Jaskier’s mother cuts in, and—Julian?

He shoots Jaskier a puzzled look. Obviously, there was a little more he should have told Geralt before they came here.

“Well, I’m afraid we are absolutely knackered; we’ve been riding all day. I’m going to head upstairs…”

Geralt shoots him a look.

“I mean, we are going to head out to the stables and make sure that Geralt’s very polite mare is taken care of.”

“We have someone—”

“No, no, Geralt is very picky about who cares for his horse.”

With that, Jaskier drags Geralt out of the house and to the barn. “I thought the goal was for them to like me?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier snorts. “Gods, no. The goal is to have them believe that we’re in a relationship, and they would never believe I would choose anyone they actually liked .”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Honestly, Geralt. It’ll be fine. Just stop acting like you’re terrified of me every time I touch you. Maybe we should practice.”

Jaskier gets a gleam in his eye as he darts a glance back to the house, and then his very warm mouth is on Geralt’s. Geralt’s surprised for a second before he relaxes and kisses Jaskier back. He’ll show Jaskier he’s not terrified of him. Geralt would scoff if his mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied.

Geralt brings one hand up to rest on Jaskier’s jaw and one to wind through his soft hair. Geralt strokes his thumb over Jaskier’s cheekbone, and Jaskier melts against him, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s waist and tugging him closer.

“What was that for?” Geralt says, trying to keep his breathing even after they pull away.

Jaskier peers around him and looks back up at the house. “Well, they were watching through the window. Figured we’d give them a show. Alas.”

Jaskier turns and heads to the stables. Geralt trails behind him, surreptitiously bringing a hand up to his medallion to make sure it’s not vibrating.

He is in way over his head.

Nell stares at them with wide eyes from her bedroom window. She had...not exactly doubted them when Julian showed up with his witcher in tow, but she hadn’t exactly believed them, either. Who could let Julian trail around after them for years and not get sick of him?

If she hadn’t witnessed them kissing with her own two eyes, she never would have believed it. She pulls the book out from under the mattress and looks at the songs again, this time with a more critical eye. She can’t believe she didn’t see it before. Especially “Her Sweet Kiss.” She’d never admit it to Julian, but she’s glad he won over whoever this her is. He looks happy, in a way that he never did while he was here.

Her mother calls for her, so Nell sighs and puts away the book. She runs down the stairs. “Yes?”

“I need help with supper.”

Nell sets the table, noting they’re using the fancy silverware, which is a surprise, because her mother has never taken a particular interest of what Julian thinks of her before this, so this is an interesting time to start. She’s sure their meal is going to be a very uncomfortable affair. Well, not for her, unless it starts to become painful to hold her laughter in.

She can’t wait.

She’s just finishing arranging the cutlery when her mother turns back to her. “Can you believe Julian? I knew witchers were for hire, but I didn’t think their services extended to...this.”

Nell barely holds back a snort.

Jaskier looks over to Geralt and suppresses a sigh. He had just planted a hand on Geralt’s thigh, and he’s sure his parents think that he just stabbed Geralt, from his reaction. He scoots his chair closer over to Geralt and drapes an arm over his shoulders. “Relax,” he whispers into Geralt’s ear.

Geralt does, marginally, but Jaskier can still see the doubt on his parent’s faces.

Jaskier’s father clears his throat. “So, Geralt, um. I suppose we know what you do, but, um. Um.”

“Honestly, haven’t you heard any of my songs? They are all the very true accounts of what Geralt gets up to,” Jaskier butts in.

Geralt takes a gulp of wine from his goblet to avoid commenting.

Jaskier notices, and elbows him in the ribs. “Geralt loves my songs, right?”

Jaskier’s parents are staring right at him, and it’s more than a little unnerving. “Right. They’re...very romantic.”

Jaskier’s grip around Geralt’s shoulders tightens. “Thank you, darling.”

Geralt is sure Vesemir once told him witchers can’t blush, but his face feels hot all of a sudden, and everyone is looking at him expectantly.

Geralt takes another drink.

Jaskier shakes his head. “Geralt’s been so nervous about meeting all of you. The poor dear is overwhelmed.”

Geralt shoots him a glare, before softening the look into something more akin to convincing Jaskier’s parents that they’re very happily together. Jaskier hastily bolts down the rest of his dinner before he drags Geralt up the stairs and to his room.

He shuts the door behind them, leaning against and tugging at his hair. “There’s no way they’re buying this,” he moans.

“I thought I was being rather convincing.”

The corner of Geralt’s lips twitch, so Jaskier hits him with a pillow. “You did not, you brute! Geralt if you’re doing this on purpose—”

“Hey, hey,” Geralt soothes. “I’m not. It’s just. Acting is not exactly on my list of talents.”

Jaskier crosses his arms and huffs. Geralt tugs him over to the bed and makes him sit down, plopping beside him. “What can I do?”

Jaskier throws his arm over his eyes and lays back, rather over dramatically, if you ask Geralt. “Nothi—Well, actually.”

Geralt does not like the sound of that. He was offering more to be nice than anything.

“We have to have sex.”

Geralt’s mouth goes dry. “What?”

Jaskier scoffs. “This is no time to act the blushing virgin, Geralt,” he says, before his hands are on Geralt’s clothes, tugging them and unbuttoning.

Geralt jerks back, but Jaskier is already done. “There. Nice and dishevelled.”

Geralt gapes at him for a moment, giving Jaskier the opportunity to muss his hair. Geralt growls.

“I know, I know. That took you hours to accomplish.”

Geralt catches his wrist. “Just, hold on a second. What are we doing?”

“We have to consummate my childhood bed, Geralt,” Jaskier says, completely seriously. “Or at least make my parents think we did.”

Jaskier starts moving his hips on the bed, making the headboard brush up against the wall with every gyration. “Mmm, fuck, Geralt, right there!” he cries.

“ Jaskier!” Geralt hisses, but Jaskier pays him no mind.

“You feel so good, darling!” He throws Geralt a wink, and Geralt tries not to combust.

Jaskier undoes three of the buttons of his doublet, revealing a thicket of chest hair. Geralt casts his eyes to the ceiling. Gods help him. “You know, you don’t have to be so stoic all the time, dear heart. You can let me hear you,” Jaskier says, pointedly prodding at Geralt.

Geralt shakes his head furiously. This is not what he agreed to.

Jaskier gives Geralt a put on sigh before clearing his throat quietly. “Oh, Jaskier,” he says in a deep voice.

“That doesn’t even sound like me,” Geralt whispers furiously.

Jaskier just arches an eyebrow, and Geralt knows that’s a challenge. He swings his leg over Jaskier, straddling him and trying to ignore both of their pounding hearts. It’s the heat of carrying out their plan, Geralt is sure, and not at all Jaskier’s proximity.

Geralt rocks the bed back and forth, making the headboard slam against the wall now.

Gearlt gives a half hearted moan, and Jaskier gives him a glare. “You’re making me sound like a terrible lover who’s left you horribly unfulfilled!” he hisses.

Geralt rolls his eyes and gives a more enthusiastic moan this time. Geralt begrudgingly keeps this up for a few more minutes before he grunts and clambers off of Jaskier. “A little quick to the finish line?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt shoots him a rude hand gesture.

Jaskier gasps in mock offense. “Why don’t you go get me a wash rag?” he suggests.

Geralt glares at him; this is taking the charade much too far, if you ask Geralt, but he follows Jaskier’s direction to the bathroom—where Jaskier’s mother is standing. Geralt suddenly becomes conscious of what a mess he must look like right now, thanks to Jaskier. “Hello again,” Marilla says.

Geralt grunts and nods to her, before remembering he should probably say something, anything. “Hi.”

Geralt grabs a washcloth and flees.

When he gets back to Jaskier, Jaskier is sitting on the bed with his knees drawn up to his chest, scribbling away in his notebook, the inkwell balancing precariously on the mattress. He still has his buttons undone, and Geralt curses himself for even noticing.

“Did you run into anyone?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt’s disgruntled expression must be answer enough, because Jaskier rubs his hands together in delight. “Excellent.”

Marilla scurries back to her room, completely scandalized. She can’t believe they would...defile her home like this. It’s bad enough that Julian couldn’t choose anyone they suggested for himself, and now he brings home a witcher ? He’s trying to make her gray even faster.

She shuts the bedroom door behind her and looks to Ethbert. Her expression must linger on her face, because he asks her, “What?”

“They—” She makes a floppy hand gesture.

“Are you sure? What would a witcher want with Julian? There’s something not right about this.”

Marilla fans herself. “I know. They’re not even wed. It’s impropriety, is what it is.”

Ethbert squints doubtfully.

Geralt is not a morning person. When Jaskier first discovered this, he was puzzled. Geralt is the only person who dictates his schedule, so no one would yell at him if he chose to sleep until midday.

The more Jaskier thinks about it, though, the more it makes sense. Of course Geralt would wake up at the asscrack of dawn; he probably thinks of it as a punishment or some other such self loathing nonsense.

It’s certainly more of a punishment for Jaskier, because he’s the one that has to put up with Geralt’s bearish attitude every morning.

Geralt blinks awake and squints at the rising sun like it’s personally offended him, and Jaskier closes his eyes, not wanting to be caught staring.

“Morning,” Geralt grates out.

Jaskier’s lips twist into a wry smile. “Good morning.”

“I know you weren’t asleep,” Geralt says, sounding annoyed. “You could have woken me up.”

“Mm. And deal with a grumpy witcher first thing in the morning? I don’t think so.”

Geralt scoffs. “I’m not grumpy.”

“Right.”

Geralt swings his legs out of the bed and begins getting dressed. Jaskier stretches into the warmth Geralt left behind, tugging the blankets up over him.

What? He never said he was a morning person, either. “Where are you going?”

“Into town.”

“For what? Do you need things for potions? I’ll go with you.”

“No, no, I’m just going to see if there’s any contracts; you stay here.”

Jaskier gives a sly grin. “Does my family make you nervous?”

“ No .”

“Hmm,” Jaskier says.

“Shut up.”

“Well, don’t go gallivanting off without telling me where. You know I worry.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “No need.”

Jaskier adopts a high pitched voice. “Why, thank you, Jaskier, my dearest friend. I’m so touched to know someone is looking out for me.”

“It’s pretty sad if you have to imagine someone to be your friend.”

Jaskier splutters as Geralt walks out of the room, a smile tugging at his lips.

Jaskier sighs as the door shuts behind him, wanting to bundle himself back in the blankets and Geralt’s scent, but he resists the urge and stumbles out of bed to pull on his clothes.

He makes it down the stairs and to the kitchen, picking up a bowl of eggs and whisking them, the need to be helpful overriding his desire to collapse in a chair and go back to sleep.

“Good morning, Julian,” his mother says stiffly. “Where’s your beau?”

Jaskier lets himself smile at the image of Geralt’s reaction to being heard of himself referred to as Jaskier’s beau .

“He’s out looking for a contract. He’ll be back for lunch, I’m sure.”

He gives his mother a bright grin. He thinks he should have made Geralt suck a hickey on his neck, but, to be honest, he’s not sure if he could have beared that. Geralt had already been so unbearably close to Jaskier when he straddled him. Jaskier’s not sure what had possessed Geralt to do that, all the while expecting Jaskier to keep his hands to himself.

He’s not sure Geralt’s looked in a mirror anytime in the past fifty years because of the whole monster-staring-back-at-him thing (complete horse shit, in Jaskier’s humble opinion, not that Geralt cares to listen to it), but Jaskier is forced to look at him every day, and he suffers.

He suffers every time he trails behind Geralt atop Roach, watching the subtle shift of his back muscles as he rides, and he’s devastated when Geralt deems Roach too tired to carry him and leads her in his tight leather pants. If Geralt hadn’t been wearing just such a thing when Jaskier met him, Jaskier would be convinced Geralt does it just to personally spite Jaskier.

To doom him to look but not touch for the rest of his life. As such, he had never expected Geralt to actually agree to this whole charade. But, he did, and now here they are. Here they are, with Jaskier knowing exactly what Geralt tastes like (less onion than one would expect), but still having to not just kiss the blank looks Geralt likes to give him right off his face.

It’s enough to drive a man mad.

Geralt looks at the pitiful notice board and sighs. He tugs down the one prospect to examine it more closely. Something is stealing a farmer’s sheep. There’s a few possibilities for what it could be, ranging from minor nuisances to things that he shouldn’t even mention to Jaskier because he’ll nag at Geralt until he lets him tag along, and those are always the kind of jobs that Jaskier should be nowhere near.

Geralt’s not sure how someone with the survival instinct of a fly larva is still alive, especially when he insists on following Geralt around, but Geralt’s not going to let Jaskier get hurt on his watch.

Geralt pockets the notice and goes to talk to the farmer who set the contract, but he has very little useful information to tell Geralt. All he offers is that the sheep have been disappearing without a trace. Geralt walks the edges of the property and a bit into the woods, doing a cursory inspection for the carcasses, but he doesn’t find them, either.

Hmm.

Geralt turns and heads back to Jaskier.

Geralt’s acting out of sorts when he returns from town, so Jaskier tugs him aside. “What’s wrong?”

Geralt just grunts and shakes his head.

Jaskier sighs. Typical. “Weren’t there any contracts?”

“There were, just—I don’t know what it is. But I’m sure it will be fine.”

Geralt even tries to give him a bracing smile, and even though it looks more like a grimace, Jaskier knows it’s not good if Geralt has stooped to trying to comfort him.

Jaskier hums at him and leads him to the table where his family are waiting on them for lunch. Jaskier keeps a hand on Geralt’s knee, because he’s allowed to, at the moment.

He delights in watching Geralt make awkward conversation with Nell, but it seems like they’re quickly warming up to each other. Jaskier’s mouth goes dry at the thought of them teaming up on him. They would truly be a menace.

Jaskier’s mood is quickly soured when they finish eating and Geralt insists on heading back out.

“Shouldn’t you wait until the morning? You know, be well rested?”

Geralt shrugs. “It’s been taking the animals at night. Better chance of finding it if I go now.”

“Geralt, we’re not exactly short on coin right now. Why even go?”

“If I don’t take care of this, who will?” Geralt huffs. “This farmer’s livelihood is at risk.”

Jaskier grins. “Geralt, you unbearable softie. You make me look callous.”

Jaskier darts a glance over to his family, who are pretending not to watch them. He takes that as license to tug Geralt in for a chaste kiss. Geralt stiffens against him, and Jaskier is just about ready to pull away, before Geralt starts kissing him back. He makes it decidedly less chaste, and Jaskier puts a hand on his chest. He lets himself savor it for one, two, three seconds before he takes a step back.

“Geralt, there are children present!” he says in a scandalized tone, grinning at Nell.

She glares, and he shoots her a wink.

Geralt clears his throat, and Jaskier jerks his attention back to him. “Right. Well, if I’m not going to talk you out of it, be safe.”

“I always am.”

Ethbert watches as Julian paces back and forth as he waits for the witcher to return. “Sit down,” he says gruffly.

Julian looks at the clock, then out the window, completely ignoring him. Ethbert snorts. Good to know nothing’s changed, then.

“Surely it can’t take this long to murder one measly little thing,” Julian mutters.

“He’s fine,” Ethbert says. “It’d take a lot to overpower a witcher, right?”

Jaskier sits down in a huff, and Ethbert starts to wonder if maybe their relationship is less of a farce than he thought. It’s certainly an odd one, and he’s still clueless as to what they could possibly have in common, but Julian is painting a convincing picture right now, especially as he tugs his cloak off the hook and settles it around his shoulders.

“Where are you going?”

“To find him!”

Ethbert jerks out of his seat with a splutter. “You can’t be serious. You think you’re going to be able to handle whatever a witcher couldn’t?”

Julian pauses. “Well, no. He’s probably lying in a ditch somewhere, slowly bleeding to death. Oh gods, what if he’s out there bleeding to death?”

Julian becomes even more frantic and rushes out the door and to the stables.

Ethbert resigns himself to a long night.

Jaskier clambers onto one of the smaller mares. He doesn’t have the patience to go through the whole process of putting all the tack on, so he clings to the horse’s neck and prays he doesn’t fall off. He digs into her with his knees, and away they go.

Jaskier has no idea which way Geralt went, but there’s some fairly fresh hoof tracks in the wet dirt of the road, so he follows them and hopes they’re Roach’s. Eventually, they go off the road, and Jaskier is left to squint at trampled grass. He wonders if Geralt would be proud of his tracking abilities, and he smiles thinking about the inevitable jab. Jaskier would respond with something about how Geralt was no better than a dog sniffing the air, and all would be well.

But first, he has to find him. Jaskier slows the horse to a walk as the trail becomes fainter, squinting as he looks at the ground. He comes to an outcrop of rocks with an opening just big enough to go inside, and he dismounts his horse cautiously. He certainly doesn’t want to deal with whatever calls this place its home.

Jaskier notices blood, and his heart kicks up a notch. It’s a rust red color, so it’s not very recent. Jaskier follows the splatters, and as he goes, they get brighter and brighter, until Jaskier’s heart threatens to burst out of his chest with the panicked tap dance it’s doing.

It certainly doesn’t help matters when he finds Roach wandering through the woods by herself. “Where’s Geralt?” he asks, and she snorts at him helpfully.

Jaskier casts a look at the blood glistening under the leaves underfoot and knows Geralt has to be close. Roach gives an agitated whinny before she turns and trots off, and Jaskier rushes after her.

In the end, Geralt’s not all that far away. Jaskier sees his hair before he sees anything else, and then he’s sprinting over to him with little thought for anything else. Jaskier drops to his knees beside Geralt. He looks paler than normal, even though Jaskier hadn’t known that was possible

There’s so much blood, and he’s not moving. Jaskier sucks in a breath. “Geralt? Geralt?” he asks, his voice getting louder and more panicked. “Geralt?”

Jaskier resists the urge to shake him and jostle whatever injuries he has, but there’s bile rising in his throat, and he doesn’t know what he’s going to do—

His eyes latch on to the infinitesimal rise of Geralt’s chest, and the pressure on his own suddenly lifts. He shuts his eyes for a moment. Geralt isn’t dead, and he can work with that.

Jaskier takes a closer look at Geralt and finds there’s a chunk missing from his side. It’s still bleeding freely, and Jaskier tries to resist the urge to be sick. He works Geralt free of his armor with shaky hands, so he can take a closer look.

Geralt moans and starts to stir, and Jaskier plants his hands on Geralt’s chest. “Just stay still; you’re going to be fine.”

“Jask?” Geralt slurs.

“Yes, yes, it’s me, and you know I’m far too stubborn to let you die.”

“My pack—”

Jaskier could slap himself for not thinking of that. “Right. Um, your potions.”

He whistles for Roach, and she approaches skittishly. Jaskier glances back down at Geralt, and his eyes are slipping shut. Jaskier tightens his grip on Geralt’s shoulder. “Geralt! You have to stay awake. Do you hear me?”

Geralt murmurs something Jaskier doesn’t quite catch, but his eyes open wider. Geralt’s pupils are so dilated, there’s barely a ring of yellow left around the outsides. Jaskier clambers up to look through Roach’s saddlebags, and his heart clenches when Geralt’s hand comes up to clutch at him as he moves away. “I’m not going anywhere,” he soothes.

He rustles through the saddlebag. “Fuck, Geralt, do you really need so many tiny bottles?”

Geralt gives him a weak chuckle before he hisses in pain.

“Which one do you need?” Jaskier asks, hoping Geralt is coherent enough that he’s not about to poison himself.

Jaskier pulls the pouch out of the saddle bag to show him the options. Geralt points to a few, and Jaskier eyes them doubtfully. He uncorks them anyway, sitting back down and settling Geralt’s head into his lap, helping him get the elixirs down, even when Geralt tries to bat his hands away.

“Save your energy for something useful, would you?” Jaskier tuts.

Jaskier prods at the wound in Geralt’s side, jerking his hand back when Geralt winces. “I forgot just how delicate you were, my apologies.”

Geralt barely manages a huff at that, and Jaskier furrows his brows in worry. He pulls Geralt’s shirt away from the wound, biting his lip as it pulls skin away. The wound looks a sickly green underneath all the blood, and Jaskier gasps a little. This is much worse than he thought.

“Geralt, it’s—Geralt?”

Geralt’s eyes have slipped shut, and Jaskier scrabbles at him, trying to make him wake up again, but he stays stubbornly still. The only thing giving Jaskier even a tiny glimmer of peace is that his chest is still rising and falling.

Tears are threatening to burst to Jaskier’s eyes, but he pushes them down and takes a deep breath. Somehow, he manages to heave Geralt across Roach. Roach snorts, disgruntled, and Jaskier runs a hand over her flank, trying to soothe her.

He looks around, but he has no idea where the mare he rode out here went. Oops. Hopefully it will wander back to his parent’s estate, but if not, well, will they even miss it?

Jaskier gathers Roach’s reins in his hand and leads her back towards town at a steady trot.

When Geralt comes to, he’s sweltering. He seems to be in a tomb of blankets, and the fire is roaring in the corner of the room. The room? He’s not quite sure how he got here; he would have expected to be lying on the cold ground instead of a soft and yielding bed. There’s even less lumps than he’s accustomed to.

He groans when he tries to move, and there’s a rustling from beside him. Geralt looks over to see Jaskier jerking from his chair to fuss over him. Jaskier’s eyes are red when he finally looks up.

“You promised me you were going to be safe, you terror,” Jaskier sniffs.

Geralt doesn’t have his wits about him enough yet to be dealing with crying bards. “Hmm.”

“Geralt, you—What was it?”

“A cockatrice. It got me with its tail; spit a little poison at me just for fun.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “You wouldn’t know fun if it bit you in the ass.”

This makes Geralt look even grumpier, if possible. Jaskier’s glad; he much prefers that to the slack expression Geralt had had while he was sleeping, and Jaskier was terrified he wouldn’t wake up.

Jaskier looks back at him, and Geralt can’t help himself when he reaches out to swipe away Jaskier’s tears with his thumb. “I’m fine,” he murmurs.

Geralt tosses the covers off himself so he can see his wound. It’s wrapped rather nicely, and when Geralt pokes at it, it feels like there’s some kind of poultice under the bandages. He raises his eyebrows at Jaskier, waiting for an explanation.

“A healer.”

Geralt’s surprised Jaskier found someone who would treat him; most people aren’t too keen on helping witchers.

“I yelled at him until he helped you,” Jaskier admits.

Geralt huffs a laugh. “I’m sure he was terrified.”

Jaskier finally cracks a grin. “Hey, you’re not the only scary one around here.”

Jaskier’s eyes drop to his hand, the one that was just on his face, and fuck, what was Geralt even thinking, but Jaskier reaches out and puts his hand over Geralt’s.

“I was worried,” he says softly. And then, sharper, “Don’t you dare say hmm .”

“Hmm.”

Geralt laughs, and there’s a warmth that settles in his chest when Jaskier does the same.

“You’re incorrigible,” Jaskier finally says.

There’s a lengthy silence, and when Geralt looks up, Jaskier is staring back at him.

“You got the trophy, right?”

“Geralt, my ears must be deceiving me. You cannot possibly be worried about that right now.”

“How else am I going to get paid? Last time I checked, you liked to eat. It needs done before something else drags the carcass away.”

Jaskier sighs and huffs and does everything short of stomping his feet before he gathers his cloak from the back of his chair. He glares at Geralt before he slams the door shut behind him.

Geralt rubs a shaky hand down his face.

He’s an idiot.

Jaskier grumbles to himself as he makes his way back out into the chilly night. His advances are obviously unwelcome, if this is the kind of punishment Geralt is doling out to him. Well, that’s fine. Jaskier will just let him bleed out next time.

Okay, he won’t, but that doesn’t mean he won’t consider it for a few seconds.

Stupid emotionally repressed witchers. He can’t say he wasn’t hoping something would happen with Geralt while they were here, but he should have known better.

Jaskier trudges all the way back to near where he found Geralt, pointedly not looking at the blood stain on the grass. He’s fine , he reminds himself. Jaskier pokes around for a little bit until he remembers the cave he had seen earlier and some vague knowledge that cockatrices prefer them.

He’s half expecting another to show up as he plucks some feathers and cuts off the head, for good measure. He almost gags as his knife goes roughly through the bone and sinew, but he manages to keep his supper. He looks around for any last creatures that are just waiting to murder him, but none appear.

He sighs and makes the trek back.

When he arrives, Geralt is sitting at the table, talking to his family, and Jaskier wonders for a moment if he should be concerned about a doppler. Nell is eating up every word Geralt says, and Jaskier hopes she has pried some good stories out of him that Jaskier can repurpose as songs later.

For now, he swings the cockatrice head up onto the table, and silence falls. “There you go, love,” he says cheerfully.

Geralt is looking back at him with a peculiar expression, and he rises from his chair stiffly. Jaskier rushes over to him to help, and Geralt reluctantly drapes an arm over his shoulder. Geralt leads him to the bathroom, and Jaskier makes sure to say loudly enough for the rest of his family to hear, “Well, if you needed help holding it you only had to ask.”

Geralt huffs in exasperation and shuts the door behind him. Jaskier raises his eyebrows in question. “Did you actually need help, or…” Jaskier trails off, and then Geralt’s lips are on his, warm and hungry, and anymore of Jaskier’s thoughts fly out of his brain.

His arms automatically come up to wrap around Geralt’s waist, until he registers that this is Geralt , and he puts a hand on his chest. “Um. Do you need your head checked out, as well? I thought it was your side, but I can go get the healer again.”

“I’m fine,” Geralt growls.

Jaskier’s not convinced Geralt hasn’t sustained a lasting brain injury, but then Geralt is saying, “I should have done this a long time ago,” and kissing him again.

What is Jaskier to do but kiss him back? It’d be terribly impolite not to, after all. When Geralt finally pulls away, Jaskier asks breathlessly, “What was that for?”

Geralt shrugs, considering. “You looked kind of hot carrying that cockatrice head. The trachea hanging down really got me going.”

Jaskier stares at him in disbelief for a beat before they both dissolve into laughter.

“You’re an idiot,” Jaskier says. “You’re my idiot.”

Ethbert looks across the table, where what his son is doing can only be called terrorizing his witcher, and harrumphs to himself. This is not exactly who he pictured Julian ending up with, to say the least.

He wonders the etiquette for having a son in law older than he is. He supposes he’s going to have to find out.

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geraskier #fanfiction #contemplative writing

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insomniac-dot-ink · 3 years

Text

Is it wrong to lie to children?

A personal essay on reconciling with a shitty childhood and the question: is it wrong to lie to children?

It’s perplexing to have a shitty “unorthodox” childhood because initially I tried to throw out everything about It. Toss out the plumping and the rafters and the roofing, dispense of every single part of my upbringing I could get my hands on and not look back. Naturally, this approach didn’t work. It wasn’t even a real possibility. You’re still haunted by it, a ghost in the bones of a house, a foundation that remains long after the builders have left. That’s part of recovery too, to look at that ghost, to look at those bones, and keep saying: I see you, I see. I let you in. You sit with it and accept, accept, accept.

The really terrible part of this, the part where I don’t throw away the baby with the bathwater, is that you then have to raise the thing, deal with it. You have to do the hard work of parsing through the endless bits of self and placing them in “keep” piles and “discard” piles. I want to keep my mother’s kindness. I want to keep my father’s sense of humor. I want to discard the isolation. I want to discard the delusions.

But then there are these weird . . . “I don’t know” things. The things I am unsure if they helped me or hurt me. As I’ve gotten older I’ve gotten more and more of those “I don’t know” categories piling up. I’ve worked my way through most of the more obvious ones and now it’s all grey and mushy and as cloudy as a London winter. Recently, more than anything, I’ve been grappling with the fact my mother believed it was wrong to lie to children. She believed, in her flower-child way, that it was unethical in all forms.

I never believed in Santa Claus. I’m sorry to say I was a pretty obnoxious kid too because I would preach on the playground about how there was no Santa and there had never been any Santa. Which was a bit harsh, but in my defense I was under the impression these people were suffering from some sort of collective mass delusion. They were being lied to. And lying was wrong.

Is it wrong to lie to children?

I’ve known about sex since I was around 5 years old. I don’t remember why I asked, but it was something about where babies come from and so on. Most parents talk about a stork or love or some other abstract side-step. My mother described the anatomy to me and showed me a scientific diagram of the process. She told me that a sperm meets an egg and fertilizes it so the baby can grow. I learned most of this in scientific terms and was surprised when none of my middle school friends knew how a penis worked.

Is it wrong to lie to children?

When I was 9 or so our cat was eaten by a coyote. I asked my mom where he went and she said that he accidently got out the night before. She said they looked for him all morning, but it was too late. She didn’t use the word “gone” or “passed on” or “he’s in a better place now.”

She said he was dead. I said oh. She asked if I wanted to see him. I said yes. For the record, I am not actually sure if 9 year-olds should see corpses. That is neither here nor there. It was something that stuck with me though, the body of my cat with his tummy ripped out. I had never seen intestines before. His eyes were open.

But there was something cathartic about digging the grave. About helping pick up his little stiff body by the feet and placing him inside. There was something about piling on the red dirt as the sun set and letting the tears fall.

People on sitcoms hate talking about death. It’s understandable, it’s not funny, it makes for good dramatic irony when the kid asks “Where’s Socks?” and the parents go “Uuuuuh. He ran away.” I’ve never felt more alienated at those points. My cat died. He was eaten. I saw his body, and I buried it. Sometimes I think I wouldn’t want to be told he ran away-- that he had a choice in whether or not he left me.

Is it wrong to lie to children?

For a long time I thought the entirety of my childhood was wrong and bad, because I was miserable and broken at the end of it. I will assure you, my parents fucked up time and time again. But sometimes I have to stop and keep asking: Was this the wrong part? Was this the part where they fucked up? Was any part of this valuable? It’s a hard process to comb through an entire life and decide which bits are worth keeping, and if there are any silver linings.

So here is one: I am an honest person. I am a crooked person too, unsure of where to place my feet in social situations, picking my way through others normalcy. I do not readily share information, I am not forthcoming, and it’s a slow burn for me to open up about anything.

However, I notice time and time again that strangers will share personal things with me. I don’t mean for it to happen, but there’s just this pattern in my life. I once went on a car ride with a girl I barely know from my debate team. She described how she wanted to lose her virginity, she wanted it, but was scared God would be angry. That she’d be dirty afterwards. I told her that that was impossible, sex was just an act, it had no eyes, it had no priestly robes, or bearing on her soul. She cried. She said she hadn’t told me anyone this before.

I had a friend in high school who was struggling with an eating disorder, people had tried to get her to talk about it before, but I was the first person she admitted it to. In the hallway, sitting, just discussing nothing, and out it comes: I’m scared to eat sometimes. I was on a city bus and an old woman struck up a conversation with me. Over an hour or so, and she ended up telling me her fears for her own daughter going away to college. Her fear of growing old and passing on. Her problems with sleeping as she lay awake and dreaded it.

People have told me about their problems with substance abuse, their struggles with sexuality, and childhood trauma. People spill to me and I sit there thinking: Why? Sometimes I think it’s my gender or just how people are, but it always feels like I’m missing some part of the picture. Why do people open up to me, unprompted, all at once? Why me?

Is it wrong to lie to children?

Recently, I was reading a memoir set in 2001 where two young kids ask the narrator, their mother, about 9/11. They asked what happened to the people on television who were jumping off the building. Where did they go? The mother says this: They were caught. There are people-catchers that flew and saved them. Everyone is okay.

This story was meant to be heartfelt and lyrical, relatable. It ended like this: It is the job of mothers to offer gentle lies.

I had to stop reading because I was suddenly lost in a white-hot rage, unexpected, knee-jerk. How could she do that? I found myself frothing. They trusted her with answers and she lied. How could she? I knew it was irrational. It was silly even. This was a sweet story. It was meant to be heart-warming and framed in a way that suggested this is what all mothers do. This was what they needed to do.

I felt my own mother, pumping through my veins, furious that these elementary school students were being betrayed. I stopped myself of course, I knew it wasn’t reasonable. I wasn’t raised “correctly.” I had no legs to stand on.

But still, is it alright to lie to children?

I am once again faced with that unending dilemma: how to throw-out those parts of myself that don’t work and keep the ones that do. It’s difficult to say, because in some ways I agree with my mom. How can I not? But death is cruel. Sex is weird. Santa Claus is a beautiful lie.

And what’s wrong with lying? I still don’t know. What’s wrong with letting them never hurt? Never knowing the pain or gross parts of the world? What’s the harm in letting them make-believe?

But sometimes I think about all those people who have cried to me. All these unprompted confessions come with an unspoken plea: I hurt. I am afraid. I am so scared. It’s all so heavy, these painful truths.

And some part of me stands there, the part my mother raised and says: there is nothing in this life that is too shameful. There is nothing in this world that is unnatural. There is nothing in this life to lie about, even to children.

Is death too painful? Is sex too gross? Would you tell an adult that a man lives in the North Pole and watches them?

I asked my mom, years later, when I was less furious and able to talk with her again without screaming, about why she believed all this. She had told me about it since I was very young, but I never asked why. She shrugged. She said: children are people, aren’t they?

I still don’t know what to do with this.

Children are people, but they are not adults. They shouldn’t be exposed to “adult” things, right? But is that line so concrete? Is the word “adult” just a mask for the greater word, the one we really mean? We all agree: honesty is good. Lying hurts. But it’s alright to lie to kids, because in many ways they aren’t people yet, they aren’t people yet, they don’t count.

I am admittedly an argumentative person. I was on the debate team, mock trial, United Nations, I studied political science in college and fought with every single one of my professors I thought was wrong. And I stood in that playground, age 6, and told every single one of my classmates Santa wasn’t real and I wouldn’t stop. The truth was important. And my mother, no matter what, thought I disserved it.

I often felt tiny and powerless as a kid. Terrified and holding myself together by shoestrings. I often felt there would be nothing better in the world than to be grown up. Not for the money or the dating or the job, I just wanted to feel like the hurricane would end. That one day I could stand on solid ground again. My friend often says: I wish I could be a kid again, ya know? No responsibilities. Just bliss. I want to be a kid again.

I can’t relate. I never have. I’ve been busy weeding through the pipes and lighting and the carpentry of my upbringing and asking myself: is any of this worth keeping? Is any part of me built correctly? There are no right answers.

But still, I am haunted. I sit and ask myself in circles: is it alright to lie to children?

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My book 🌟 Ko-fi 🌟 Patreon

#personal essay #nonfiction #creative nonfiction #writers on tumblr #story time

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keouil · 3 years

Text

how you forget to be human

“so is she like,” scott hesitates. “cap’s first lady or something?” rated t. 2k+. steve/nat. also on ao3 / twitter / cc

Scott hasn’t been with the team for a long time, but he thinks he at least has enough working knowledge of how everyone operates.

The Winter Soldier—Bucky to Steve, James to anyone who dared—quite frankly still scares the living shit out of him, and that’s Magneto on a good day. It didn’t take much to deduce he seemed wholly uncomfortable in his own skin, his jaw coiled perpetually tight and the rigid set of his shoulders always in alert. It was uneasy just being around him, his discomfort bleeding over others and charging the air around his space with its own brand of disquieting; but always, without fail, Steve cushioned whatever apprehension anyone aimed toward his bestfriend.

Most of it came from Sam, and almost always in good nature as if to ease the brainwashed supersoldier into some semblance of normality; and Scott would fear for Sam’s life every time he opened his mouth, were it not for the also very obvious fact the Falcon held his own and didn’t appreciate handouts and the three of them seemed to be getting along uniquely (if not a little oddly) well enough.

The witch was a small problem, however. Simply for the fact she was a witch and Scott is wary because history taught him they burned all of them down in Salem.

He sees her wiggling those voodoo fingers around sometimes, almost unconsciously, and feels the hairs on his arms rise with every flick of her wrist. The energy around her isn’t suffocating the same way Bucky’s is. It was more a subtle nervous tingling; like she herself was afraid of the gravity of her own powers she had yet to have complete reigns on. Scott is oddly humbled by the fact and even empathises with her a little.

Steve keeps an eye on her and doesn’t bother hiding it, but it’s the archer who gets past her when it really counts. Clint Barton, who, surprisingly is the one he’s on the most similar wavelength with out of all of them: family man and all.

Clint Barton whose also friends with Natasha Romanoff.

Hawkeye who has simultaneously the most complex and impossibly simple relationship with Black Widow.

“I swear to god if you ring me up next time you’re out of goddamn Fruit Loops,” Natasha warns, digging through one of the five grocery bags on the kitchen island. She fishes for a few more seconds, before popping a colourful cartoon box out from under the bag and tossing it to Barton. “I’m bringing you in for real.”

Clint scoffs, placing the carton on the top shelf. “How many times have I heard that before?”

“Apparently not enough,” Natasha glares at him from her peripheral, scooping out Nutella and a pack of store-bought pryanik to lay on the table. Russian biscuits. For Wanda. “If I’m still stopping by an abandoned boarding house in the slums of Siberia every other week. Y’all grown men can’t do grocery shopping by yourselves?”

Scott blinks from his spot by one of the stools.

Of all the things he expected to wake up to in hiding from 117 countries from possible charges of aiding and abetting a war criminal, Black Widow casually arranging and organising their weekly rationale was nowhere near the top of the list. She did this all the while supposedly fighting for the other team.

This one needs no introduction.

Scott knows who Black Widow is. Scott knows Captain America, after all.

You don’t grow up in the land of the free without knowing his legacy even in minute passing. The man has been plastered on nearly every surface of the continent since the dawn of America. Scott has seen the news footages, read the official accounts, willingly devoured every single documentary or biopic helmed in honour of their nation’s greatest hero: he knows, down to the bone, the star-spangled man with a plan.

A forgotten and revered and rebirthed war hero.

How he came to know of her, however, is an entirely different story: because come the news footages, zoom in close enough you’ll see the infamous shield covering a much smaller and daintier figure; go over the accounts with a fine-toothed comb, they speak of a levelled dynamic between a commanding officer and a shadow leader; and, lest history not forget, the documentaries: Peggy, because behind every great man is a woman, Natasha.

“Now why would we do that if we got you?” Sam. He comes up from behind the hallway to playfully grin at Natasha before enveloping her in a small hug. She returns it easily.

Scott braces himself for what’s to come, because they came in a pair, and so: “Nat,” Steven Grant Rogers, in the flesh himself, pokes his head in not a moment later with a barely indisputable frown on his face. “You came here again?”

Natasha clicks her tongue at him. “Someone had to make sure you boys were fed.”

“That’s not— We can—” Steve stutters as he strides in, and Scott has to very carefully school his features into nonchalance because Captain America does not stammer. He sighs deeply before settling next to her, nudging her with his hip. “Tony atleast know you're here?”

Natasha gives him a pointed look. “Who do you think paid for all this?”

Scott watches their silhouettes grow smaller and smaller by the distance.

Even from afar, he can make out Steve’s absolute hulk of a frame: back impossibly straight in a way that bespoke authenticity, years of rigid military training drilled into his bones; only he seemed to mellow, somehow and very slightly, the fine lines of his shoulders angled in the direction of her voice. And Natasha: brave and lithe, nearly a head shorter and so much more smaller, facing forward in full confidence and a leisurely stride in her steps.

Siberia has a biting night air that seeps deep into the bone. But it’s also comforting somehow; all of them knowing, in one way or another, what it was like to be iced out from society.

They were all huddled by the makeshift campfire Barton fashioned out of some wooden logs and a matchstick. Sam, in charge of roasting marshmallows, was gently coaxing Bucky into eating one and promising him it’s not poisoned. Wanda was handing out steaming cups of hot chocolate brewed from the pack Natasha brought in a few hours ago, a staple in her weekly grocery runs because apparently the kid witch liked sweets.

Scott gingerly takes a sip from his mug, some of the warmth seeping into liquid courage he was building up for weeks now. He takes a deep breath before plunging himself into the waves.

“I can’t be the only one worried that the enemy has infiltrated our territory, right?”

To their credit, neither of them kill him on sight.

Wanda pauses in levitating one of the wooden logs above the hearth, a single bark of kindling hovering uncertainly over the air. Bucky has an unreadable expression on his face when he regards him. A look passes between Sam and Clint, betraying nothing of their inner thoughts at his outburst.

The fire is nice and toasty, but the air is stifling now and Scott has never felt more the outsider than at that very moment.

Until Sam breaks into a hearty laugh. “Widow?” he shakes his head amusedly. “No, man, Steve and Nat are tight. They’re past stuff like that.”

Scott furrows his eyebrows in concern. “But isn’t she—”

“On Tony’s side?” Clint quips, poking at one of the planks. Wanda finally drops the floating bark, and Scott doesn’t miss the flash of something in her eyes when she glances at him from the other side of the fire. He thinks he saw a spark of red for a second. “Sure, I guess. Technically she’s Team Iron Man or whatever that means. But Natasha is also fiercely loyal, especially when it comes to Steve.”

“What does that mean?” Scott asks in genuine confusion.

Sam opens his mouth to elaborate, words already forming on his mouth; before he seems to come to a belated realisation, blinks, and manages a nonchalant shrug. "Damn if I know,” he admits, turning over a puffy mallow and watching the crackles of fire burn its edges. “But she’s good for him. That’s all I care about.”

“And he’s good for her,” Clint returns easily, not an ounce of hesitation in his voice. “Maybe sometimes it’s just that easy.”

They hear the crunching of footsteps on snow creeping up behind them, and Scott takes this as his cue to stash the conversation for another time.

He watches them stroll in together carefully.

Steve holds the gate open for her and places a small hand on her back as they advance in the small patch of woods by the backyard. Natasha settles next to Wanda, hands going up and down her arms to warm the younger girl despite being the one having only just gone out for a walk in the middle of Russian winter: because, and at this Scott is now confident, the jacket resting on her shoulders three times her size was keeping her warm enough.

The quinjet doesn’t start up right away.

Scott is slowly panicking, because the realisation that he was truly out of his depth at fighting in the next greatest civil war of the century notches above his pay grade only viscerally begins to take hold.

He has a family back home, pets to feed, a little life saving every now and then; but never this colossal of a scale, never with the stakes stacked up so high against them, that it really could only ever be toppled down by the likes of fucking Iron Man and Captain America.

But Steve is still confident.

It’s so bloody obvious he was always going to keep at it, gunned down the concrete walls of the airport and clawed his way out of it brick by brick if need be. He was really and truly the good man underneath it all, and at the back of his mind, Scott still finds himself awed at the fact.

But he doesn’t know how on earth the man came out of that airport not visibly rattled, not at all unlike how Scott was currently feeling; and, as he processes the rest of their wayward expressions, he knew he wasn’t alone in thinking so.

“Cap,” Sam wheezes by the floor, fighting to labor his breathing with a hand clutched on his dislocated shoulder. “I still got the jeep parked outside. It’s not too late. We can hike the rest of the way.”

“No,” Steve replies, an edge of conviction in his voice. There is not a single tremor in his stubborn hands gripping the wheel. “That’s gonna hold us back days. We just need to be up in the air for now. We need—”

“A woman to come to your rescue again?”

This time, it’s Scott who sighs in deep relief at her voice. This time, Scott doesn’t fight the churn in his stomach at the prospect of having someone who nearly nicked him lifeless not even hours ago this close a range with them again. This time, she is not Black Widow, but simply Natasha Romanoff; Steve Rogers’ friend.

This time, Scott thinks, he will let them be easy just like that.

There was no more a sign of tremble in his voice or hands the entire battle, but at the lilt of her voice, he just crumbles.

“Nat,” Steve breathes out when he turns to her, hands fisting at his sides in an attempt to regain control. Just like that, he unravels; so easily and without preamble in the face of her steeled strength. “I can’t get it to turn on— And I— We have to get Bucky—”

“Work through it, Steve,” she cooes in probably the most placating voice he’s heard of her, but she doesn’t move to touch him when she comes close. Her hands are going a mile a minute over the control panel, pushing buttons and lifting levers. Steve is hovering by her side like it's the only thing holding him together. “You know how to fly this thing, right?”

Steve is visibly taken aback and angles his body to face her. “You’re not coming with us?”

The question hangs in the air.

It charges the silence around them and quells any of their growing uncertainty, because, clear as it was of Steve’s well-founded and undeniable leadership skills: they also knew, intimately, she anchored him through it all.

Sam was putting pressure around Bucky’s human arm as he looked back and forth at them tensely. He could feel Wanda hitch her breath behind him.

Natasha’s fingers keep flying away at the keyboard, until they feel the telling signs of an engine rumbling underneath and the overhead lights spurting back to light. The whole jet roars to life in the next second, heating fans whizzing and technical sounds beeping. She shifts some gears around and locks in a destination with the GPS navigation.

When she turns to look at Steve, it is then Scott forces himself to pry his eyes away and not bear witness to this part of his already over documented life. In that single moment of uncertainty, the what does that mean is meant like this: an intimate baring of a soul, heart, trust: in a way no words could ever begin describing or should even attempt to put to paper.

It is friendship at the most intimate level, it is soulmates on the most soul-crushing departure, and it is the everything else that comes after.

“Not this time, Rogers,” he hears her say, and Scott doesn’t have to imagine the slight fracturing of his iron-clad footing in the world swaying ever so slightly, when he replies with: “Then I guess I’ll see you around, Romanoff.” .

“So is she like,” Scott hesitates. “Cap’s first lady or something?”

They’re some seventy feet off the air above the Pacific Ocean, the moisture from the ocean drifting up to the open barracks and making the air glisten around them. Bucky is fast asleep somewhere down the lower levels with Wanda keeping watch over him, upon the fervent insistence of Steve arguing he needed rest. It came as no surprise that he also self-assigned himself the first watch of the night.

Sam is sharpening his knives, the grating sound of sandpaper slicing over iron piercing through the silent hum and drum of the night.

“Please,” he scoffs, looking over at him. “If anything, Steve is her first lady.”

#romanogers #stevenat #fic #natasha romanoff #steve rogers #romanogers fi #stevenat fic #marvel fic

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agentrouka-blog · 4 years

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House Stark redemption arc.

Re-reading the books for the timeline questions makes me really appreciate how GRRM is working the biggest redemption arc of them all: House Stark.

Like a sword, it has to be remade.

Its origins? Shrouded in a murky magical fight that never resolved the issue and necessitated a giant ice Wall and the foundation of a border patrol that forgot its purpose and devolved into a runty penal colony occupied with waging war on the neighbors.

Its rise to power? Good old-fashioned conquest.

Some past strategies for dealing with the winters? Raiding in the South.

Shining light of honor? The Rape of the Sisters.

Attitude toward their neighbors? “Even their gods are wrong.” (AGOT, Catelyn XI)

Their Grand Heir in the last generation? Brandon Stark, smirking manwhore (Convince me otherwise.) and so politically astute and responsible that his first response to his sister’s disappearance was to go yell at the mad king and help escalate the situation beyond repair.

Sure, they are beloved by the people. But, you know, there were smallfolk praising Aerys Targaryen in that warehouse concentration camp Arya stayed at. Clearly, that’s not your only measure of decency.

But you see my point. They are legends but they are actually not THAT especially good.

That’s why now - in the advent of “Long Night - The Sequel” - House Stark is undergoing a redemption arc to make them worthy of their own hype.

Narrative punishment all around: Ned is crap at communication, denies the historical purpose of the Watch and keeps a child hostage to kill in case his dad acts out? Watch your House and its power crumble, your seat - tied to that historical purpose - stolen and burned, your children scattered and abused, your heir betrayed and murdered - after your own betrayal and murder, of course.

Robb manages to rally the North and reforge the Kingdom again - but the cracks of fealty sworm under duress (House Bolton, House Greyjoy) rear their head immediately and Robb wages war on the smallfolk like Tywin - narrative punishment: Red Wedding.

They will need to reforge the Kingdom organically: like Jon advises Stannis to do, house by house, paying respect, convincing them of the actual need to unite, doing their duty first, not talking about rights. To do that, they need to become worthy.

That’s why everyone has been brought so low: to learn the hard way, to earn their happy ending.

Jon needed to learn hands-on how to respect diversity: different cultures, sexual autonomy, sexual diversity, respect for women in particular and soft power in general, serving before ruling, weighing priorities, understanding the crucial role of the boring administrative details, making peace after strife. He is struggling the worst when it comes to weighing means against ends, and when it comes to allowing others the responsibility to make their own choices. He needs to overcome Ned’s biggest failing: silence. He needs to explain himself, make himself fully accountable to those around him. Not in sullen, explosive anger, but in a respectful recognition that not all choices must flow from him alone, lest he get tangled up in all the strings like Ned.

Sansa needed to understand that her duty as a highborn Lady is not obedience to her lord but to use the actual power she can access. To recognize and ameliorate injustice, to induce compassion into situations that lack it, to be the ideal she wants to see in the world and force it into existence in herself in spite of how everyone else wants to champion cynicism and opportunism. Obedience to tyrants is complicity, and the more her agency grows, the more pertinent this lesson becomes for herself. Sansa will need to harness power, to be a Lady who does her duty to her people as a leader, not to her Lord as a follower. She will Need to stand up, and speak up, they way she could not at the Trident.

Arya needed to learn that the freedom she wanted is empty without duty. Waving a deadly weapon around and rejecting the duties of a Lady without understanding the fundamental privileges attached to both of those things is idle vanity. Yelling orders is not leadership, attacking others in anger is not justice. She has one of the most painful arcs because to want to wield a sword is one of the most ambitious desires. A sword has no purpose but to hurt and kill. You have to understand justice and duty to earn that privilege justly.

And Bran. He already starts out so well. He climbs all the way high up and looks at Winterfell and all he feels when looking down like its Lord is love for all the people. But to rule in the highest position, he needed to understand that there is no society without cooperation and value for the most helpless. Not from high up but from way down low. He needed to understand that human beings can and must depend on each other’s better angels, on loyalty not from Duty but from respect and friendship. He needs to learn how to reject the vastest of powers, how to let go of his deepest personal dreams if it is necessary for the good of everyone. Only by knowing how to let go of power can he be ready to accept it in the first place.

And Rickon is on Skagos. With Shaggy, who is eating unicorns. I can never stop emphasizing this. For whatever purpose it will end up serving.

They will all end up doing their part in saving the people of Westeros, using their privilege to do their duty. And that will, eventually, be rewarded.

The books are all about consequences and narrative justice. It is the opposite of grimdark and no one will escape that. House Stark is currently undergoing their redemption arc, which is what will justify their happy or quasi-happy endings.

Everyone else in the books who is failing to learn the right lessons and actually atone for their wrong-doing will end up facing karmic justice. Everyone.

#asoiaf #House Stark #redemption arc #jon snow #sansa stark #arya stark #bran stark #eddard stark #robb stark #grrm #the endgame is harmony

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insufferablemonsters · 5 months

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𝔡𝔞𝔯𝔩𝔞 & 𝔟𝔲𝔣𝔣𝔶 - 𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔲𝔢𝔡 𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 @daxamight.

it would be buffy summers to wish life was more fair when darla knew that could never be. darla knew best that this life could never be exactly what you wanted it to be. it was a cruel, brutal world that only sought out to take away life's pleasures, the small things that made life worth living, but it would never stick, never be permanent. it annoyed her, to see someone else have so much hope, even if it was for her. ❛ if only wishes were horses then beggars would ride, buffy ❜ she replied, rolling her eyes. she wasn't sure she could take much more of this hopeful conversation. she scoffed lightly, ❛ you're a pest, slayer ❜ she stated, crossing her arms over her chest as she stared at buffy. she still wasn't sure why she cared so much about saving her from withering away and dying. she hadn't accepted her fate, she doesn't think she will until she's rotting on her deathbed, and she'll keep fighting until she finds some dumb, naive vampire that will turn her. she's convinced the only way she'll be able to survive is if she's turned to her former self again, but buffy apparently had different ideas. why did she care? why did angel care? why couldn't she just be left alone to take care of this on her own?

she noticed the way her words had seemed to effect her in some way. the way her gaze had fallen as their eyes continued to maintain intense eye contact. what was she feeling? sympathy? for the slayer? she wanted to feel ashamed of herself, she did, because the slayer had always been her worst enemy. she didn't want to feel bad for her but her new soul, one that seemed to be consuming these emotions that were overwhelming and new, caused her to feel things she never thought she was capable of. all this could've been avoided if buffy minded her own business. now she was forced to look at herself in the mirror and wonder why she cared about buffy's feelings. she couldn't help but shrugged in a sassy manner and smirk at buffy's words, ❛ finally, you're catching on. maybe i won't have to hold back any more ❜ she quipped back. she thought about buffy's suggestion for a cab, and she decided completely against it. close quarters? awkward silence? there's only so much human darla could handle. she begins to walk in the direction buffy had come from, ❛ i think i'll take my chances on the street ❜ she told her, waiting for buffy to begin venturing next to her, her arms still crossed over her chest. she was slightly cold, but she wasn't going to admit that. ❛ so, why are you here in the city of hell? is it because of angelus? ❜ she asked, curious. she knew they weren't together any longer. if they were, she was sure angel wouldn't be so invested in saving her from death. she looks around, avoiding eye contact with buffy.

#daxamight #daxamight: darla.#❝ everyone betrays you. that's not what eats at you in a long winter's night. | darla. / threads.#❝ you made me feel and i can't forgive that. ❞ | darla x buffy summers ft. daxamight.#out for a walk ... bitch. | queue.

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slapshot-to-the-heart · 4 years

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Gold Rush

Finally venturing into writing for Brock, and so excited to put this out there!! Very appreciative of the encouragement I’ve gotten throughout this from @brockadoodles who had (rightfully so, man deserves it) made loving Brock her BRAND. If there was any hockey who’s made to be a dad, it’s Brock Boeser, and I’ve genuinely loved getting to put this together. Love hearing feedback and what your favorite parts were, so reblog and pop into my inbox!

word count: 3.8k+

Brock had loved kids his whole life. Being around them, looking after them, the first day a kid asked him to autograph his jersey was burned into his brain alongside precious few other memories, most of the others involving you. And anyone who had ever seen him with Easton could tell that Brock Boeser loved babies. He had wanted kids since he was old enough to know what being a dad was, and knew so strongly that was a path he wanted — needed, honestly, there was too much love in his heart to not share it with everyone he could — that he wouldn’t ever have let things get serious with you if that wasn’t a life you wanted for yourself. Parenthood wasn’t for everyone, and he never held it against the women he had dated who didn’t want to be moms, but it was for Brock Boeser.

He remembered the day he brought it up with you, his voice soft and hesitant as your head rested on his shoulder, a blanket thrown haphazardly over their laps as Return of the Jedi played on the TV. “Do you want kids someday?” Brock asked. He spoke gently, not wanting to scare you off with thoughts of the future coming too fast for you to handle, wondering if maybe seven months into a relationship was too early to bring up the type of commitment that lasted a lifetime. But he had to, had to protect himself from getting more invested and one more broken heart in a relationship that wasn’t just headed down the wrong set of train tracks, it was going the opposite way entirely. But, as you spoke, it turned out that he never had anything to worry about, and Brock wasn’t sure if he’d ever been more relieved in his life.

“I do,” you said, looking up at his face, trying to read his expression. “Always have. Not sure how many, I’ve always thought two or three sounded good. But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Brock couldn’t help the way his heart absolutely swelled, the way you spoke of him in your future, with such ease and certainty as if you weren’t even entertaining a possibility that he wouldn’t be a part of it, that he wouldn’t be the one you would have children with. He twisted his neck, dropping a kiss on the top of your head. “We will.”

So Brock loved kids, and you loved kids, and it had been established over a year before he put a ring on your finger that they were something in your future. You bought a four-bedroom in Shaughnessy, the idea being that one would be a guest room and two would be reserved for the kids, whenever they came along. “We can always add on,” Brock had said as you signed the papers, the real estate agent dropping the keys into your palm with a warm smile. And you knew that he would, you knew that Brock wanted as many kids as you were willing to give him. But you’d start with one. That was the plan. That was the plan, so a few months after you got back from your honeymoon in Scotland you went off of your birth control. Kids would happen when they happened, but you both knew you’d rather them sooner than later, and thus had begun your journey towards starting a family. That was the plan, so a year and a half ago you had swapped the pill for a stock of pregnancy tests, taking one a month and whenever you were feeling even slightly off for good measure, sure that your nausea and headache wasn’t the beginnings of a flu but rather your baby making themself known.

When six months of trying came and went without a single positive test, you both started to get a little antsy, but you knew that these things took time, and you knew that it hadn’t been long enough for there to be any real cause for concern. But you still called your doctor, started exercising more and taking folic acid like she recommended, you and Brock both cutting down on your alcohol. “If you’ve got to do all this, it’s only fair I have to make some changes, too,” he had said. You loved your husband for many reasons, chief among them being the fact that no matter the circumstance, where you were or who you were with or how people were acting, he never made you feel like you were on your own. Everything was a team effort in the Boeser household.

It was six months, and you were doing okay, and Brock was genuinely winning the award for the world’s best husband with how deftly he could calm you down every time you saw the words not pregnant show up on a pregnancy test, but then it hit a year of trying without success and you started to get worried. It was July, and you knew it was common in the NHL to try and time births for the offseason — if you got pregnant in the summer, your baby would have been born in the middle of a playoff push — but you honestly would have settled for any timing. So you visited a fertility specialist at the Mayo Clinic, a quiet recommendation Brock’s mom got from a friend’s daughter. You loved your own mom, but Laurie truly had been your saving grace in everything. A quiet, steady presence who offered more love and support than you could ever ask for, giving her advice only when asked and never once betraying your trust by telling anyone. But Dr. Gonzalez got the tests back, both yours and Brock’s, and said that nothing was wrong. “Unexplained infertility,” they called it. It was nothing anybody was doing wrong, nobody’s fault, not a matter of hormonal imbalances or obvious lifestyle factors or anything that would have let you blame it on yourself. Which, on one hand, was so good and so relieving, so desperately needed. You needed to know that it wasn’t your body, and it wasn’t Brock, that was keeping the two of you from finally being able to grow your family. But on the other hand, there were few things more hopeless or frustrating than hearing that they couldn’t find a cause. That meant that there wasn’t anything you could have done differently, true, but that also meant that there wasn’t anything you could do. It was a waiting game, and you were never good with being patient.

Pregnancy scares were more common than people might know, if the experiences of you and your friends were anything to go by. There were high school boyfriends, college roommates, half of the people you knew had worried they were pregnant or had gotten someone pregnant far before they were ready. But now, when you were settled down and established and were building a life with the most amazing man you had ever had the fortune to love, and you wanted a baby, it wasn’t happening. The clinical definition of infertility was the “failure to achieve a clinical pregnancy after 12 months or more of regular unprotected sexual intercourse.” You had committed the definition to memory over the past 14 months, and whether you knew it or not, Brock had too. You had always been good at tests. Good grades, always the essay the teacher used as an example in class, graduated top of your class at UBC. But this was one test you couldn’t study for, and one you couldn’t believe you had failed time and time again.

Which brought you to December, normally one of your favorite times of the year but one that you had recently begun noticing all the doom and gloom in that others had always mentioned when speaking about the winter months. You still loved the holidays, Christmas and New Year’s and everything in between, but you thought that in your second year as a married couple, you wouldn’t still be a family of two. It was a year and a half since you and Brock had started trying for a baby, and there was still no luck. It was a year and a half, and you had started talking about options. Vancouver had some amazing fertility specialists, and adoption was something you had discussed looking into, but you had both agreed on waiting a few more months before taking that route.

---

Which brought you to almost three weeks later, two days before New Year’s Eve, your head in the toilet and your husband leaning up against the doorway. “God, I feel like shit,” you said, leaning up against the wall when your nausea had finally seemed to subside. “I bet, last time I threw up was our honeymoon,” he said, trying to make you laugh. Brock had insisted on trying haggis in Scotland, saying he needed the “full experience,” but regretted that decision as soon as he spent the better part of the second night of your honeymoon in the hotel bathroom throwing up from food poisoning. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, gratefully taking the cup of water Brock handed you as you leaned up against the bathroom counter.

You caught his eyes searching yours as you set the glass down, his face wearing an expression you had come to know well in the four years you had been together. There was something on his mind, but he wasn’t sure if he should say it. “Yeah?” you prompted, raising your eyebrows.

He gave a tiny shake of his head. “It’s nothing, seriously.”

Now it was your turn to look at him. “Brock, it’s going to eat you up if you keep it all inside. Spit it out.”

“How long has it been since you took a test?” Brock asked gently.

You should have known. God, you should have known that’s where his mind would go, and the worst part of it all, the part that made you feel even worse for getting your husband’s hopes up that maybe this was finally it, maybe it had finally worked, was that you couldn’t even blame him. You had been snappier at Brock the past few days, something both you and he had attributed to your overall weariness about the whole process, you had to practically slap his hands away from your breasts the other night while you were having sex, and this wasn’t even the first time you had thrown up this week. But it was flu season, and you worked with kids, and seemed to catch it more years than not despite taking the flu shot religiously each October. You’d be looking for a missed period, but they had always been light and you had experienced some spotting when Brock was on a road trip the week before.

You pressed the heels of your hands into your eyes, shaking your head. “I don’t know...A month? A little over? I just hate that it’s getting so clinical, that’s not what it was supposed to be about, that’s never what it was supposed to be about.”

Brock ran his hands up your arms, back and forth, the same way he had been comforting you for years. “I know, baby. And I’m so sorry if I ever made you feel that way, more stressed or disappointed in yourself, because it’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault. We’re going to have a baby one way or another, because I love you and I’ve never met anyone who’s more excited, and ready, and made to be a mom quite like you. And whether you have the baby yourself, or we adopt, or whatever path we decide is the right one for us, they’ll be ours, and they’ll be so loved.” Brock ghosted a kiss over your forehead, his eyes closing. “You don’t have to take another test if you don’t want to, the last thing I want to do is make you more anxious over all of this. But I think it might be good. I think it might help.”

You breathed out deeply through your nose, shooting your husband a weak smile. God, he was so good to you. “I’ll tell you if I do.”

Brock nodded, stepping towards you and wrapping you in his arms, whispering your name as he leaned his forehead against yours. “No matter what happens — tomorrow, next week, next year, I don’t care — nothing you do will ever make me love you any less. We’re good. We’re gonna be okay.” You could have filled a hundred books with the reasons why you loved Brock Boeser, and this was one of them. The way he loved you, so selflessly and sacrificially, without an ounce of ego and never expecting anything in return aside from your heart. You didn’t know what you had ever done in this life or any past one to deserve him, but there wasn’t a day you didn’t thank God for the privilege of letting you love this man.

---

It was finally New Year’s Eve, festivities having taken over the city — really, they hadn’t stopped since Christmas — and hardly a flat surface was left undecorated with posters or metallic tinsel, or both for good measure, including almost the entirety of yours and Brock’s house. He had volunteered your place weeks ago as the site for the team’s New Year’s Eve party. It didn’t generally draw a crowd as big as the holiday party earlier in the month, which usually had not only the players’ partners, but children and whatever family was visiting at the time, so Brock had asked if you’d be willing, and you agreed easily. You loved getting to spend time with the team, and you were even more inclined than usual to gravitate towards any kind of distraction that would take your mind off of the stress you were under. The stress that you put yourself under, to be fair. So you threw yourself into planning and preparation, pulling out the ice chest from the garage and filling it up, making sure people were bringing enough champagne, cleaning every inch of the house with Brock until it was spotless despite the fact that you both knew you’d have to do the same thing in the morning.

Some two and a half hours into the party and most everyone who was drinking was sufficiently drunk, the TV in the living room flipping back and forth between the broadcast from Times Square and Youtube karaoke that nearly everyone had been roped into at some point or another. You sipped your soda, half-sitting on one of your barstools next to Holly. “You’re not drinking?” she asked curiously.

“I had some earlier, trying to pace myself” you said, waving your hand. “Someone’s got to look after that one.” You nodded towards Brock, who was having what looked to be the time of his life in your living room while badly singing along to One Direction. Holly nodded. You knew she probably wanted to ask more, but she was too tactful to push. “It’s so nice to see them all like this, just letting loose, having fun. It’s hard to remember sometimes that these are just guys in their 20s and 30s when they’re constantly off travelling or away at games, doing things most people their age only dreamed of. They don’t get the chance to be normal hardly ever. And the season can get stressful...It’s just good to see,” you said.

“It is,” she agreed.

You checked your phone. Twelve minutes till midnight. “You want to help me get the champagne ready?”

Holly smiled. “Let’s do it.”

Nearly twenty flutes of champagne later — you had no idea where Brock had managed to find all of the glasses — you walked around the corner, your head poking into the living room. “Champagne’s in the kitchen, everybody. Five minutes till midnight!”

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Brock said, leaning in for a kiss after walking over.

You scrunched your nose. “Babe. It hasn’t even been ten minutes.” The second you had gotten back from refilling your drink earlier, Brock had dragged you into what turned out to be a very endearing but not-so-successful rendition of I’ve Had the Time of My Life in the living room, minus the lift. He wanted to go for it, and you trusted your husband with everything, but you really didn’t feel like spending your New Year’s Eve in the ER after having crashed into the Christmas tree. Dirty Dancing was one of the first movies you had ever watched together, so there was more than a little meaning behind the choice, but you doubted you were exactly making Jennifer Grey proud.

“Ten minutes away from you is ten minutes too long,” he said, nuzzling his head into your neck.

The fingers of your free hand carded through the hairs at the base of his neck; you loved it when he let his hair grow out like this. “Okay, babe, I believe you. How much have you had to drink tonight?”

Brock pulled back, rolling his eyes at you in exaggeration. “Only two beers since the night started. I’m not drunk, I’m not even tipsy, I just love my wife.”

“Could be worse,” you quipped. You squeezed his hand as the two of you walked into the kitchen, after half of the guests had already grabbed their flutes and made their way back into the living room for the countdown. Grabbing your drink from the other side of the counter, you held it in your far hand as you and Brock turned back around, taking your place by the Christmas tree. You glanced towards the TV, where the Times Square ball was slowly inching towards the ground. “Anyone else think it’s a little weird that we’re all staring at a TV waiting for something to happen that already happened 3 hours ago?”

“I don’t believe in tape delay,” Elias said.

Quinn nodded seriously in agreement, but the corner of his mouth twitched up. “It doesn’t exist. That little notice in the corner, saying ‘this is a recording of an earlier broadcast? Fake.”

You snorted into your glass as everyone’s attention turned back to the screen. Three minutes till midnight. “I was a little apprehensive at first when you said you’d put us down to host,” you said, leaning back into Brock’s chest, “but I’m glad you did. This is nice.”

“I’m glad we’ve got everyone around,” he said, looking down at you. “What are you drinking?” he asked curiously. He hadn’t noticed before, too caught up in the euphoria and exhilaration of the night, but the more he looked at it, the more he realized that your glass looked different than everyone else’s.

“Sparkling cider,” you said, your heart rate picking up. “I brought it in case any of the kids came.”

“But there was plenty of champagne left?” Brock questioned. “We’re at our own house, it’s not like you need to be playing designated driver.” You let out an airy laugh, the kind that made Brock’s eyes immediately snap to yours because he knew you so well, he could read even the slightest actions, the smallest shift in tone, and he knew what that particular laugh meant. It was your nervous laugh. “What is it?” he asked, guiding you around the corner to the darkened hallway, the residual glimmer of the lights from the Christmas tree glowing softly on the walls.

You looked up at him, the purest most radiant smile you had ever given him crossing over your face. “You’re not supposed to drink when you’re pregnant,” you whispered, your top lip trembling and letting you know that you were only moments away from tears.

Brock was speechless as he looked at you, the near-silence of the hallway a strange contrast to the growing noise in the living room as the clock ticked closer and closer to the new year. “And you’re...You’re not drinking because…” He faltered.

You gently took both of your glasses, setting them on a side table before taking his left hand in your own, running your thumb over his wedding band. “I’m not drinking because I’m pregnant, Brock,” you repeated, your voice cracking.

“Are you sure?” he asked. You felt a twinge in your heart, but you knew you really couldn’t be upset with him for not being sure. It had been a year and a half and there had been more than once where you both thought it was finally it, that it had finally taken.

You nodded, squeezing his hand. “I took a test the other day, after you had asked me if I was going to. God, I wasn’t expecting anything different, Brock. I wasn’t expecting anything,” you said. “But three minutes was up, and I turned the test over,” his hand tightened almost imperceptibly around yours, “and I saw a plus sign. I’ve never seen one before, Brock, it’s never been positive.” You didn’t realize you had started crying until Brock reached up with the hand that wasn’t holding yours, wiping away a tear that had fallen onto your cheek. “But I didn’t want to get my hopes up again. Not until I was sure. So I found a midwifery center online, called — thank God they had a cancellation — and went in yesterday. I wanted to get it confirmed, but I didn’t want to do anything without you. I didn’t even look at the ultrasound, all I had her tell me was that everything looked absolutely perfect for seven weeks along.”

It was your husband’s turn for tears now, neither of you paying any mind to the deafening countdown that was happening just steps away. “You’re really pregnant?”

You nodded again. “We have an appointment again in two days. They’re going to show us the heartbeat.”

That was what broke him, bringing Brock down to his knees in front of you, his hand slipping from yours as he brought it up to rest on your lower stomach. Where his baby was. Where your baby was. “I’m finally going to be a dad,” he said, as if the knowledge that both of your lives would be changed forever come next July was just now hitting him, as if he’d never known purpose and fulfillment quite on the same level until you spoke those words to him.

You knelt down next to him, dropping a kiss on his lips just as the clock struck midnight. It wasn’t like any kiss you had ever shared before, not overwhelmed with passion or desire or want, nor the small, steady sort of kisses you had grown to love in your years as a married couple, the kind that said you’re my best friend in not so many words. This was a kiss of adoration, of devotion, of pure reverence for your husband and the life you had finally created together. “We’re having a baby.”

#hockey fanfic #hockey writing #brock boeser #hockey imagine #nhl imagines #nhl imagine #nhl fanfic #hockey imagines #nhl writing #hockey fanfiction #nhl fanfiction #realized four hours after posting that I never added a title oops

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mymovingfingerwrites · 3 years

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courage, dear heart

When we think of Lucy, we think of her golden hair and her cheerful smile, we think of a girl walking through a wardrobe and accepting a new world without question. We think of Queen Lucy, blessed with the power to heal, the only girl on a ship full of boys searching for a hint of whence they came. We think of her at the end of the world, kind and lovely and sorrowful as a mouse rows away, and in the world beyond the end of the world, her eyes lit up with delight. Resolute Lucy, bold Lucy, perched like a bird on the back of a lion.

When we think of Narnia, we think of Lucy. How could we not? Was it not Lucy who opened a wardrobe door and found winter, was it not Lucy who refused to be minimized, was it not Lucy who infused the land with good cheer for years after her coronation, was it not Lucy who first cocked her head and said that the land was speaking to them and they must listen?

We think about Lucy, bright Lucy, glittering Lucy, and we know instinctively that Lucy was always the heroine of her own story. What we don’t consider is that in her darkest moments—for Lucy, like us all, was not always bright, no matter how the legends insisted otherwise—she felt at times captive by the winds of fate stirring her hair. Perhaps we are–though we don’t like to admit it—some of the many people in both worlds who looked at Lucy and resented her for having the audacity (the privilege) to fill the pages of her book with her own words without considering how heavy her pen may be.

(Was it really her book, though? Lucy did not deny she wrote her own narrative. She was Lucy the Valiant; she spoke the language of High Narnia, she heard when Aslan called, she commanded the long-dormant trees into existence once more. Lucy was familiar with the power of words. What she objected to was the idea that her life was her very own, that her canvas was blank except for marks of her own making. Dear Lucy, pulled uncomplainingly into heroics, a simple game of exploration leading to death and betrayal and heartbreak (and majesty, and light, and animals that could talk). No; this was not her book but if she had the (mis)fortune to open it she certainly would inscribe her legacy on it herself).

To our credit, we sense what Lucy had always known: she felt as though her role was inevitable. (In boys, we call that responsibility, or heroism). Perhaps that is what we resented. When you are a young girl with golden hair and blue eyes and the lightest smattering of freckles, when you are the baby of the family and coddled and loved dearly, when you are born with an infinite well of self-possession and three protective older siblings, when you believe in your own worth–stepping into the pages of your story and titling it as your own looks like a foregone conclusion from afar.

(Her sister, Susan, struggled with this for many years. Though she was the pretty one, or at least that was what her mother told her, Susan eyed Lucy’s waterfall of blonde hair with envy. Though she was meant to be gentle, Susan watched how animals flocked to her sister first, how even the most timid of creatures lined up to whisper their secrets into Lucy’s ears. This would take Susan a considerable amount of time to overcome, but let us not blame her too harshly. Being a girl is difficult enough; being the other girl in the story is harder still).

But what we do not see, unless we look very closely, is that nothing felt foregone for Lucy. What looks easy from afar was not from within. Lucy chose herself, over and over; she chose to follow the path Aslan lay out for her, and she chose to do so with good humor and kindness as armour against the inherent cruelty of the world, even the magic one.

Of all her siblings, Peter understood this best, though they never discussed it in so many words. Perhaps that is why Peter always trusted Lucy, or at least apologized to her without resentment when she was proven right. The bookends of the family, they were as temperamentally different as any other pair of siblings. Peter sometimes felt blinded by Lucy's incandescent optimism; Lucy at times was weighed by proximity to Peter's practicality.

But both of them understood duty, more so than Edmund, led so easily astray by pleasure, and Susan, who believed (at times to her credit) that the world owed her the same that she owed it. Neither Lucy nor Peter strayed from their tasks, not even when Lucy picked her cold and lonely way down to the shadow of a godly voice, nor when Peter first felt the undeniable weight of his gleaming sword marred by enemy blood. They chose, and they chose again, even when those choices did not feel like choices but inevitabilities.

For when one understands duty, taking one's place as hero is not self-indulgent. It is not privilege; it is a prerogative, and it is difficult. But where Peter found his duty in protection and caregiving, in oversight and the hard labor of daily majesty, Lucy found hers in vision and clarity and momentum. When Susan hesitated over the unknown and Edmund lay sniffling quietly when he thought nobody could hear, Lucy knew that her relentless confidence was as necessary as Peter's guidance.

(This was a burden, too. Who was positive for Lucy? Her siblings tried to be, of course; they loved each other dearly, more so in the following years. But this sense of need never left Lucy, this fear that if she did not smile that nobody else would ever smile again).

Cheerfulness and friendliness can be their own prisons. When you believe in yourself, others are relieved; they need not take on the responsibility of believing in you too. Lucy never allowed herself to stray (save from moments alone in a large, soft bed, save from a magic book that in its pages contained temptation, save from tears that splashed hotly in the cool Narnia wind) all the more rigidly because everyone expected that she never would.

(It takes strength to choose optimism; it takes willpower to respond to situations with cheerfulness. Lucy was valiant even at seven years old, remember. She knew that raising her head high was an act of defiance, she knew believing in her own experience was brave, she knew that daring to rescue a friend from the clutches of an unknown evil was perhaps foolhardy but nevertheless necessary. She may not wield a sword but do not mistake her empathy for weakness).

Beauty and softness can be their own prisons, too. Youth and innocence and loveliness can make you more—it can mark you as worthy to speak to a god-turned-lion, your friendship as worth the threat of eternal damnation—but it invariably means that more is all you are allowed to be. There were days when Lucy fled back to her castle, her nose red and her eyes stinging, her hair twisted into disarray, and wanted nothing more than to crawl beneath a heap of blankets and throw pillows at the door just to prove that she too could be cruel, she too could be wanting. It is no easier to smile when tasked to in Narnia than it is anywhere else.

Sometimes Lucy resented her role as the youngest, the softest, the angel (or was she meant to be the prophet?). She saw Susan notching an arrow to her bow, watched Peter and Edmund joust in the courtyard, and looked down at her glittering bottle of cordial and longed to smash it against the door and take up war instead of peace.

Father Christmas gave her that vial, after all, a children’s story speaking to a child. Her power was limited, finite. Lucy began to use it sparingly, though she would have liked to heal every small hurt that befell a member of her kingdom. Part of her always felt a frisson of fear at the thought that she may one day no longer have the power to heal. Part of her felt anger that even Father Christmas did not think her capable. None of her siblings had gifts of borrowed power.

(Edmund did not get a gift at all, but he was, surprisingly, placid about this slight. He still remembered the enchanting taste of Turkish delight, even years after it last melted on his tongue. He knew that even now he would betray his family for another taste of that wickedness, and that knowledge made him humble. His gift was that he would never be tempted again, and for that, he would trade all the gold in the world).

Let us talk about what it must have cost Lucy, more than her siblings, to return to a world of mundane happenstance. Let us think about her, forced to be seven years old, forced to plait her hair and be seen and not heard and befriend children scarred from years of war. These playmates did not want to be coaxed into the brilliant world of Lucy’s imagination. They did not want to hear of Aslan, they did not want to pretend to be anything they were not. They had survived days or months or years away from their parents, but not in the warm embrace of a magic land; they had been torn from their families by trains and cars leaving in the dead of night, they had been sent to farms where food stretched thin, to towns that covered their windows with black paint and slept six to a bed, heel to head. Magic to them was their father, home from the war, with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes but was nevertheless warm. It was their older siblings, reunited and once again casual monarchs of the family dynamic. It was their mothers chiding them to eat, their friends once again within easy access, the serenity of the night broken only by lorries and not sirens.

Lucy had experienced hardship before, of course. Everything has a balance, after all. When you feel joy deeply, sorrow cuts you to your very core. When you are easily delighted, you understand how ephemeral delight can be. Lucy carried joy with her, of course: the wild exhilaration of Bacchus and his nymphs, how right it felt when her and her siblings rushed out to the parapet to see a brilliant golden sun nestle into the cool embrace of the Narnia forest, the softness of Reepicheep's fur tinged with drops from the sea at the end of the world, how Aslan looked at her and she felt seen. Lucy never shied away from emotion. Lucy was valiant in this too.

But she never forgot the lesson of dear old Tumnus. In Narnia, he was a constant presence in her dining hall. But she never forgot that the cost of her entrance into this glittering world was an innocent creature frozen for daring to take her home for tea. She never forgot that her siblings doubted her, that her youngest brother was led astray by sparkle and glitter. She remembered the silent despair of Caspian searching for his family, Eustace wondering which poor soul he devoured in the guise of a dragon defeating another. To the end of her days, she thought of the quiet dignity and terrible sadness of Lord Rhoop gazing upon the still bodies of his very closest companions, choosing to condemn himself to an endless sleep to be by their side on only the faintest suggestion of hope. Because Lucy was Lucy, she took those feelings into her own and cared for them as she cared for their benefactors.

But in a way, Lucy had not yet experienced loneliness and fear, not like her siblings had, not like these war-torn children. The closest she had gotten were those first few days in the professor’s house where none believed her, or when she walked alone to Aslan in the middle of the night wishing desperately someone would follow. For most of her time in Narnia, however, Lucy was easily, automatically accepted, her majesty unquestioned. In Narnia, she was unique: lovely Lucy, Queen Lucy, friend of centaurs and fauns and nymphs, immortalized in ballads, welcome in badger dens and banquet halls alike. Lucy was Aslan’s favorite, of course–didn’t he speak mostly to her, didn’t he cuddle her in his great and terrible paws? Queen of peace and harbinger of joy.

When she twisted back into an unfamiliar body she expected this world to accept her, too. Yet Lucy was not celebrated in this world; at least not automatically. Susan took one look at her circumstances and tossed her head and vowed to be queen in this life too. Edmund chewed his lip and sighed a little to Lucy but bent his head to his studies, just in case Aslan was wrong and he would be forced to rely on the battles to be won in schoolhouses and universities. Peter raged, in his own way, at the loss of his kingdom, unable to cope with his duty and his purpose and his raison d'être so brutally torn from him.

Lucy tried to talk to the trees, but they ignored her, their bark cool to the touch. She tried to dance in the meadows, but the grass was sharp and covered her legs with rashes. She tried to befriend the dogs at her local shelter but they snapped at her suspiciously. She tried to talk to her peers and hear their stories and stand up for them like she stood up for her subjects but they eyed her with mistrust and laughed at the boundless optimism she tried desperately to embody. This generation of children was not prone to easy positivity, remember. Those in Narnia had been so desperate for help after their long years of winter. Humans, she found, were surprisingly not.

Lucy had never been ignored before. She had never been disliked openly, she had never struggled to make friends. She did not know how to handle girls eyeing her with jealousy or derision, how to process boys that pulled her hair not to flirt but to hurt. Her gentle heart and loving manner had always won her praise and acclaim, but in those brittle years after the war, she was playing a game where she did not know the rules.

She was not able to admit until years later that perhaps this loneliness was good for her. Heroines need strife to grow, even in all the old stories. Lucy could have turned her back on who she was in Narnia; she could have tempered the blaze of her spirit, fell obediently into the ranks of conformity. She could have stemmed the flow of her hope and turned instead to sheer practicality. Was that not what her siblings were doing?

(No, dear Lucy, stubborn to the very end. That was not what they were doing and you should have given them the benefit of the doubt).

In some sort of twist of fate, Lucy did most of her growing in this world, off the pages of the book, trying to decide what was important to her in a world where the rules were more (less) rigid, the values were more (less) prescribed. This was where she became truly valiant, in the mundane manner as well as the majestic. In this world she learned how to listen: quietly and patiently. Here the silent trees aided her, providing a calm and soothing canvas on which a friend could shyly begin to paint her troubles. She learned that being bold and brash could sometimes be selfish instead of brave.

Lucy remembered what it felt like to be seven and ignored. She remembered encountering a fawn risking death for her company, even though she was not yet a decade on this earth. She remembered her own siblings’ gentle condescension. She knew what it felt like to be dismissed. Sometimes you do not want somebody to fight for you. Sometimes you want somebody to help you as you learn how to fight for yourself.

In this world, Lucy learned what it meant to be valiant without pride. She learned how much bravery it takes to be heroine of a story with many other heroines and heroes and warriors and soldiers, that being one of many provides strength. (It reminds her of those old sunny days, playing chess in the courtyard, all her siblings casually, loosely together). In this world, when she lifted her head and smiled warmly, when she woke in the morning and greeted the sun, she did so with optimism she crafted herself, with positivity she forged out of the steel of her spine. She learned you did not have to be in the forefront of a story to blaze in it, that sometimes people did not want love and laughter but truth and honesty and justice. She met her peers’ eyes and they lifted their chins and she made them feel fierce, not protected.

When Lucy thought, years later, of the vial Father Christmas gave her, she realized he was giving her an instrument of her own power. Her ability—her great burden—was that she could not save everyone but she could save many. She had to choose. Lucy was not alone in this; a sword gives one the ability to take a life—but to trade a death for many lives. A bow allows one to even the stakes while remaining aloof, to assign death to others from a great distance. No gift at all forces one to look inside themselves and find the strength that was always there. Magic to heal, like all of these gifts, like all gifts, was meaningless unless one wielded it.

Lucy could have been afraid of indecision; she could have kept her vial locked away or pretended it had run out. She could have used it all within years, saving this generation of her subjects only to damn the next. The choice was hard, sometimes. Sometimes she left the vial behind and had to grasp the hand of a dying soldier and know in her heart that she could have saved him had she only decided to bring it. Sometimes, particularly toward the end, she had it in her pocket but knew she could not use it, that she had to be brave for those ahead as well as those now. These choices were not easy. These choices were her own. Peter, burdened with majesty, had to make choices about who to damn to combat, what was worth fighting for—but he never had to choose who to save. Susan, gentle, had to weigh the many competing demands of the land and decide which to prioritize, strategize how to best achieve her goals, knowing the weight of her kingdom was on her back—but she knew there was always a second choice, always a way to optimize a situation. Edmund, even and fair, had to devise a system of just rule, had to know when to stick to it and when to revise it, even when a friend had to be punished, even when it hurt to be the judge—but he did not have to enforce these laws, only set them.

Warrior, strategist, arbiter, healer: all four Pevensie siblings shouldered their own burdens and supported each other in the heavy task of ruling over many. When three of them returned (when six of them returned) to see their land destroyed, to see a new land created, they remembered those choices and they vowed to uphold them. Lucy had no vial in the kingdom of heaven but that had never been what gave her power. Even in the golden light at the end of the world there were jealousies and anger and injustice and strife. Even in the endless summer of forever there was the chance to be brave.

(Susan, on Earth, mourned her baby sister more than anyone else. Peter had death in the shadows of his eyes since he took a life at thirteen years old and was praised for it. Edmund too seemed to know that he was living on borrowed time. But Lucy, dear Lucy, did not deserve to be struck down so young. Susan had watched her grow into the set of her shoulders and ignite the light in her smile not once but twice. She watched Lucy forge a mortal crown out of sheer determination and optimism and she felt something like awe. She wanted her sister to wear it; she wanted her sister to join her in this brave new world, where women were beginning to display the beauty of their resilience and their wild and clever strength. She wanted to apologize, to admit she too remembered Narnia, that she had not understood the type of strength Lucy drew about her like a warm shawl.

Susan did not know for many years where that fateful train journey took her siblings. She deliberately did not consider Narnia, for why would a land full of kindness and light steal her family senselessly, randomly? (She did not know of their mission, of magic rings, of beasts lurking in the darkness. How could she, when they deliberately did not include her?)

She chose to believe that Lucy and Peter and Edmund were in a land of eternal stillness. Susan remembered those burdens, too, even if the details of Narnia were on some days blurry. It seemed more sad, somehow, to think of her siblings once again wearing their crowns on stone thrones, as if their time on Earth meant nothing.

When she opened her eyes and saw Lucy again, young and royal, she felt at first a deep pang of regret before the relief flooded in).

For Lucy, going to the world after the world of Narnia was not frightening but exhilarating, not limiting but empowering. It did not take long for her to forget what she left behind on her mortal world; they had teased Susan, once, for shutting out remembrances of talking animals and magic dancing along the stone paths. If Lucy remembered that, she might have felt shame, now that the quiet majesty of a row of silent English oaks faded into blurs, that the chatter of her peers became as dim and incomprehensible as squirrels.

But Lucy was never one to look back; she was eager to flip ahead to the new pages in her story, here in a world where the pages had no ending. There were new friends to meet and a kingdom to build and cheers to receive and challenges to fight. Susan would realize this too, one day, joining her siblings in this world beyond the world. Lucy was suited for this, as if she were chosen for this, as if she chose this over everything else she could have chosen.

She wrote her own story, yes, but we should remember that does not mean that all of her words were her own.

#this has been sitting in my drafts for months so i decided...just to post it #lucy is a hard character for me #i think i was always jealous of her as a kid #this is an attempt to think through that #anyway #lmk what you think #lucy pevensie #chronicles of narnia #the pevensies #peter pevensie #edmund pevensie #susan pevensie #my moving finger writes #the chronicles of narnia

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anothertimdrakestan · 4 years

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Damijon Christmas Present!

FOR THE DAMIJON SECRET SANTA I HAD... @nymph-patt

dear nymph:

hi love! i haven’t written in a fat minute and i’m a little rusty so bear with me hehehe. i hope you have a wonderful holiday season! all my love -elle!

I’ve got a fluff christmas fic and a lil headcanon for ya!

Merry Stress-mas

“You can’t plan Christmas like a battle strategy Dami,” Jon groaned as Damian wheeled a whiteboard into their living room. “Actually, I’ve found it to be quite similar. Pay attention Kent, I know sticking to the plan has never been your strong suit.” Damian’s foot was tapping like crazy, Jon noted his clear anxiousness- needless to say Damian wasn’t the holiday type. Makes it a million times harder when it’s your first Christmas together as a couple.

*super-couple.

Jon gasped as Damian flipped the whiteboard like a school teacher, revealing meticulously drawn out plans mapped in expo-marker. “We start with my family, we stay until Jason is ten shots in, after that Christmas always becomes a nightmare so we head out. With your super speed it’ll be only an 14 minutes 37 second trip to your family where we stay for the majority of the night. At the end you rush us back to Gotham to console Dick after Bat-Christmas fails as always. Our emergency word is tyrannosaurus should anything go wrong at the drop we flee. Any questions?” Damian was flying through the plans, pointing at bulleted lists and analyzing possible flaws.

Jon took a deep breath, a smile creeping over his face. “I didn’t think you’d care so much about our first Christmas together with our families, it’s kind of sweet.” Lazily he reached for Damian, clinging to his back while Dami shook his head, mumbling as he edited the board. “Not really our first Christmas Kent and I definitely do not care about family tt,” Jon didn’t reply, he just smiled into the crook of Damian’s neck.

“Our suits bring down our aerodynamic potential so I’ve taken the liberty of adjusting our arrival time to 15 minutes 43 seconds. Does that sound accurate?” Jon hummed in response as he straightened Damian’s tie, it was already perfect but he’d take any excuse to get closer to Dami. “Ready my love?” Jon glanced at Damian who was checking his watch. “Yes.” Damian responded, absent mindedly clasping Jon’s hand as they made their way to the mansion.

“DAMI’S HERE!” Steph’s screech announced. She was hanging off the banister as she stole popcorn pieces from the massive tree. “Wonderful- Miss Brown I must ask you don’t eat the decorations tonight, have some festivity,” Alfred shook his head as he made his way to Jon. “Magnificent of you to join us Master Kent, I assume you will also be heading to your family’s festivities as well?” Jon opened his mouth but Damian answered first. “Yes Pennyworth, we plan on just saying for hors devours,” his curt reply brought a knowing smile to Alfred’s lips. “Always planned with you Master Damian,” his accent was playful making Jon chuckle.

Dick descended the stairs, Damian groaned at his bright green and red striped suit, Jon couldn’t help but laugh either. “Hellllooo super boyfriends! Are-You-Readyyyy-For-Tonight!” Dick practically skipped towards the two, pulling them into a tight hug before Damian could slip away. “We won’t be long Grayson we must attend the Kent family Christmas too,” Damian nodded curtly, shifting closer to Jon who got the message and moved forward into the living room.

“Actually, where are all the bat-siblings? And where did Steph run off to?” Jon noticed no one was around but Alfred who was preparing something delicious in the kitchen. Dick began chuckling, a devilish smile spreading across his face. “Oh, everyone is down in the batcave. C’mon.” Damian looked taken-aback but Jon was never to shocked by batfamily-antics.

The two followed Dick to the secret door. “Now, we heard from a little super birdy [Dick winked at Jon who was now openly grinning] that you were a little nervous about having to deal with two Christmas’ this year, so we felt it’d be easier for everyone if we just-” Dick popped open the door to a winter wonderland of a batcave. A large table was put out, filled with their family members. “Merry Christmas!” A chorus of laughter broke out as Damian’s jaw dropped.

At the table were the batfam, Kents, and even a couple speedsters littered around. All were laughing and smiling at one another. It was the biggest family gathering Jon has seen ever. “No need for crazy plans my love, just enjoy tonight with everyone,” Jon whispered to Damian as he scanned the room. “I- How did you- Thank you,” Damian settled on the last words of praise for the wonderful man who made every single day better. “No need for thanks, I’d get you the world if you wanted it, but for now let’s have a very Merry Christmas!” Jon took off towards his family and Damian would help but feel the corners of his lips betray him with a smile. Heart full he made his way down to his family.

“JASON DO NOT FLIRT WITH KARA SHE’S OFF LIMITS!”

“WALLY DID YOU EAT ALL THE COOKIES ALREADY?”

“BRUCE, CLARK, STOP FIGHTING OVER WHO GOT THE OTHER THE BETTER GIFT. YOU’RE BOTH RICH!”

very merry indeed.

Okay so I haven’t absorbed much batfam content at all for weeks so hopefully my spin on the HC is still cute : )

I don’t think Jon gets enough credit for how observant he is.

Too often Jon is forgotten, the second super boy, the sidekick, the boyfriend, the man who left everyone for space.

It’s true, technically. But Jon is so keen at reading those around him, especially the un-readable Damian Wayne that I would argue it’s a super skill in of itself.

He gets it from his mother you know, Superman was always a little dense, but, though no one believes it, he always had Lois to help him out. Too often the quieter, smarter, more analytical side gets forgotten and that’s no different with Jon. His friends don’t see the way he checks up on them, taking in their facial expressions and reading them to know the right thing to say at the right time to help them out. They don’t realize he spent whole days memorizing their heart beats and their breaths to know if they’re ever in peril. And they don’t see the way he looks at them so fondly, beyond grateful they’re in his life.

Lois sees it.

She saw it when Jon met Damian.

A young boy mesmerized by the wittiness and strength in the human boy. The greatest irony, the Superboy more human than the murder weapon now called “Robin”. But the two hit it off almost instantly- though Damian may not agree to that last bit.

Lois knew Jon adored Damian, every deep red was “Robin Red” every Wayne Ent. building they walked past brought up stories of his adventures with the youngest Wayne, every Justice League trip meant begging for his dad to send him to Gotham for the weekend while he was out. He was young, but Lois knew a pair of soulmates when she saw them.

There were these nights when they were teens. Jon would burst out of bed and rush to his mother. He never needed to say anything. There was this look in his eyes, Damian needs me. “Go” she’d always whisper, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead thinking back to when Clark would do the same for her.

She remembers the frantic December weeks Jon spent toiling on Damian’s Christmas gift. “What do I give a trillionaire who has the world?” Jon would whine and mope around the house for any semblance of inspiration.

Your heart Jon, all he wants is your love. Lois always thought to herself, she was quite aware of the two boy’s growing infatuation with each other, her husband was always slower in the “feelings” department and if he was slow she imagined Bruce was a damn sloth. So, she let the boys feel safe in her presence. Damian slowly spent more time at her home when Clark was out, she grew to have a sort of friendship with Damian. He’d comment on whatever news article she recently wrote, endure a three second reply and be on his way. She was always astounded at how up to date he was on all her pieces.

Lois was always proud of the love Jon showed Damian. She’d be the first to tell Bruce he needed to hug his damn kids, but there was a special kind of caring Jon held only for Damian. A love woven only for the two of them. Like an invisible string linking them no matter where in the universe the other was at, there was a friendship, a kindness, a passion, a love.

Overtime, Jon’s analysis of Damian led him to his own feelings. And over an even longer period of time Damian discovered his own. Jon never stopped caring, he never stopped worrying, and he never stopped loving.

Those, are the parts of Superman that Damian, and the world, need most.

Merry Christmas! <3

#damijon #jondami #shoutout whelm for putting this together u rock #damian wayne #jon kent #damian wayne x jon #damian x jon #damian wayne x jon kent #batfam #batfam christmas #batboys #batboys christmas #lois lane #superboy #superboy headcanon #damijon headcanon #jon kent headcanon

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fuchsiagrasshopper · 4 years

Text

Falling Together Part III

Author’s Note: Here it is, part 3. Next part will be the last. I just wanted to thank you all for how engaged you’ve been. I’m constantly surprised when people actually like my work. This one is for you guys! As always, please let me know if you wish to be tagged in future works, and I would like to open requests if you have any, just don’t flood me with too many at once!

Part 1, Part 2 Pairing: Ivar x Reader

Word Count: 3364 Warnings: Angst, language, smut, NSFW Since you had shared a kiss, things began to shift and progress in your marriage. Ivar was rather private when it came to being sentimental, so all of your affections were shared in the privacy of your chambers late into the night. You found yourself going through the motions of the day, the tedium often making you groan as you waited to retire to bed. Not that you would ever consider shirking on your duties as Queen, but you were caught up in an exciting new stage of your relationship with your husband, and it was easy to get lost in the romance of it all.

When she was alive, your mother often told you that marriage progressed like the changing of seasons. She said to be mindful that not all was as warm and bright as a summer's day. You were hovering in a high point with the sun shining and the crops thriving, which meant a cold, blustery front was around the corner to kill everything green and alive. That winter storm came in the revelation of Freydis.

Enough time had passed that you had no longer dwelled on Ivar's previous marriage, and he seemed just as content to not mention it. Such a truth could never be ignored though, and you discovered it without meaning too. It was a conversation overheard, not meant to harm you as you sat at a stool working on your weaving. You had wanted to learn the art practiced by their women, and so you had asked a thrall to instruct you.

Two shield maidens were patrolling through the Great Hall, acting as your guards for the day. They were speaking Norse, unaware that you had been studying the language under Ivar's behest. In return, you had agreed to teach him to read and write in English since he was already fluent in speaking it.

"Queen (Y/N) has been good for the people. She is respectful of the Gods."

"She is still squeamish about live sacrifice, but I agreed, she is a fair leader, and she has made Ivar a more tolerant King."

You smiled while you continued to work the threads. In your mind, you had to live up to your father's example as a ruler, and if you could please the people of the North, then you would continue on the path you had started.

"It has taken a lot for him to regain the trust of the people. They suffered under his brutality because of Freydis. She was never meant to be a Queen, she was of low birth, and selfish ambitions. She was only good for Ivar."

"Good for him until he killed her. Such an end must have been the work of the Gods."

Your hand slipped on the loom, causing the shuttle to tear through the thread, ruining the pattern. The thrall at your side grew alarmed, having heard the discussion as well. It wasn't that she looked surprised by the news, but rather concerned that you had heard it. Did everyone know?

You had assumed Ivar was no longer married to his first wife, even though it was common for his people to be married to more than one woman. In your head, you had come to the decision that he had divorced his first wife, another common practice that Christians wouldn't dare to dream. He had failed to mention that she, this Freydis, was dead, and once more by his hand. While your intuition told you that he had avoided telling you on purpose, you wanted to fall back into denial and believe he had forgotten.

You stood from the bench and began to pace the floor. The small tapestry you had been working on was abandoned, and you sent the thrall to fetch Hvitserk. Your first instinct was to confront Ivar, but you did not want to charge into such history when you would be likely to act out irrationally in fear or anger. Too many of your previous fights had ended because of fervent emotions, and you wanted to be tactful. Isn't that what a good Queen would do, and a wife?

"(Y/N)," Hvitserk said, poking his head in around the corner.

"Oh hello," You said, startled out of your thoughts by his arrival. "Please, come in."

Hvitserk's eyes flitted over you, and his face grew pensive. "What's wrong?"

You rubbed your hand down your neck, figuring you must have shown your worry. You never were good at lying. Might as well just come out and say it. "Did Ivar murder his first wife?"

He tried to hide the shock on his face from the question, but you had caught it. "Who told you?"

"Does it matter?"

"If someone is trying to come between you and my brother, yes," Hvitserk remarked. He appeared bothered, and the tension in his shoulders made you anxious.

"No, it's nothing like that. I overheard something, and I had to find out the truth myself," You explained, trying to calm down your brother-in-law. "It's true, isn't it?"

"Yes," Hvitserk admitted. He was watching you with concern. "Don't you want to know why?"

"Yes...no, I mean not from you. I just had to confirm for myself before I went and accused Ivar of something so horrible." You fell onto the bench by the loom and held your head in your hands. "I don't understand how he could."

"Freydis, that was her name, she wasn't a good person," said Hvitserk, coming down to kneel before you. He was gentle as he pried your hands away from your face.

"Hvitserk," You started in with a sigh.

"Just listen, please. You should talk to Ivar, but trust me when I say, I knew the woman. She used manipulation and any opportunity available to further her position. I'm not saying that she deserved what she got, or that you should just forgive Ivar, but she hurt him. My brother has always reacted out of anger when betrayed, so I guess I wasn't surprised to learn it ended the way it did."

"Am I in danger, that is, would he ever hurt me?" You barely recognized your voice with how small it had become.

"No," Hvitserk said, and his conviction eased your quivering nerves. "For one thing, you could never be so vindictive as to hurt him purposefully. I think he finds more fault in himself now, and would probably leave you before he could ever lay a hand on you."

You tried to imagine yourself in Ivar's position. A lot of what Hvitserk said made sense, especially when you considered how emotional your husband could be. He had a sharp mind, but that didn't mean he wasn't ruled by his heart, at least on some matters. When he had accused you of seeing another man, he had spoken from a place of hurt.

"I need to talk with him," You decided.

"Do you want me to go find him?" Hvitserk asked, taking a step back towards the entryway.

"No, I don't want him to feel as if I'm ambushing him with these questions. It can wait until later, the truth isn't going to change."

Hvitserk nodded, but he appeared to still have things on his mind. "What will you do?"

"What do you mean?" You frowned.

"You won't leave him because of this, will you?"

"No," You were surprised with how easy the answer came to you, but you knew it to be true. You were a daughter to a King, and you had lived through wars, disease, and famine. It would take more than a slave Queen to rattle your resolve.

Hvitserk breathed out in relief. "Good, because our people love you, and I think my brother is starting to as well."

"Hvitserk," You admonished him for causing you to flush pink to the tips of your ears. "That's not something you should be telling me."

He laughed. "I knew there was something of a shy Christian in you."

You rolled your eyes before sending him on his way. Even after you were alone, your heart continued to thunder in your chest as you considered Ivar's feelings. If his fondness for you had grown, then you hoped the discussion of his first wife wouldn't result in it halting. Hvitserk's words had excited you because you knew that your affections for Ivar had developed as well. You didn't want something else to come between you, but you knew you couldn't lie and forget the issue either.

You headed for your chambers in search of your growing hound. No longer was he the small bundle that Ivar had gifted to you. He was at a lumbering height, and he seemed to knock into everything, including your husband. You worried he would send Ivar to the ground one of these days. His name was Dáire, and you were sure he would make a better pet than a guard dog. That was what you needed right now, to calm your mind, and sink your fingers into his fur as you waited for night to come.

ooOOoo

Ivar felt uneasy as he pushed himself forward to his chambers. He was feeling more alone than he could recall in a long time. You had not joined him to eat in the Hall, and Hvitserk had disappeared early in the afternoon and had not made a reappearance. His instincts to sense when something was amiss were flaring, and his mood had darkened to pitch.

He didn't know when it had happened, but he had become dependent on your company. Whether it was your opinion on a ruling call, or just to hear you speak about something trivial, he had become entranced by your voice. You were an apparent absence when not at his side, and he would demand to know why you were avoiding him.

Some of the anger he had pent up released from him, as steam would from a geyser when he came upon your chambers. He found you lying in the center of the bed, and that menace of a dog was sprawled beside you. Ivar huffed. Not only would the furs smell like that ungainly creature now, but you were also holding the animal tight in your embrace. It should have been him, or so his callow thoughts told him anyway.

Dáire raised his head and gave Ivar a look that felt like a challenge. He regretted giving you that overgrown bovine the moment it grew into the habit of flopping down on your lap for pets. Ivar growled at the beast, and that's when he noticed you smiling with your eyes still closed.

"Stop asserting dominance over the dog," You grumbled.

"He provokes me every time I find him in my bed."

Your eyes shot open, and you gave him an incredulous look. "Alright Dáire, time to go. You've made my husband jealous."

Ivar watched as you led the dog by the neck to his corner of the room. He was relieved to find you in a teasing mood, it eased some of his earlier doubts. He moved over to the bed, slipping down slowly before getting to work on removing his braces. You came up behind him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders in a familiar gesture.

"You missed supper," Ivar commented as he held one of your hands in his. You had long fingers, but they were thin like spindles compared to his broad palms.

"I know, I'm sorry. I just had little appetite I guess."

You rested your chin on his shoulder, and Ivar inclined his head to gaze at you through his peripheral. "Are you unwell?"

You swung around until you were straddling his lap. He had never seen such fluidity come from you, and you were mindful not to rest on his legs with your whole weight. For Ivar, he felt a little dumb when his hands hesitated to touch you. He had to remind himself that you were his wife, and you did not flinch from him as he rested his grasp on a handful of your hips.

"I am well," You assured with a smile. "But I do have to ask you something, and it is of a sensitive nature."

Ivar immediately tensed, and his mind wandered to every foul thing he could conjure. "What is it?"

You had lost any cheer in your face, now a mask of uncertainty tainting you. Taking a breath, you looked him in the eye while settling your hands on his chest. "Why did you kill Freydis?"

You seemed to regret asking the moment the words left your tongue. Ivar knew he must have appeared furious, but there was no going back now that the question had been asked. His grip on you tightened, and he wanted to throw you to the side and escape. It would seem you had already thought of that first and had picked your position for just such a reaction. You collapsed the rest of your weight down, forcing him to fall flat on his back with you above.

"How do you know her name? Was it Hvitserk?" He hissed.

"No, I only confirmed what I heard with him. It was never meant for me to overhear, but it's done now," You hurried to explain.

His brother's disappearing act now had an explanation. Hvitserk never was good at keeping things from him, and his face would have tipped him off.

"She's dead, what more do you need than that?"

"She was important to you Ivar, and you're important to me now. Please, I deserve to hear the truth from you," You pleaded.

Ivar felt his eyes begin to burn with unshed tears. Whether they were for Freydis, or for your display of care, he wasn't certain.

"She pretended to love me," He said, and his voice wavered like a limp flag caught up in a breeze. "I lost Kattegat because she went to my brother Bjorn, and passed along information that ensured he was able to win back the city."

"So treason then? Any wife of a King would be sentenced to death for such an offense. You aren't the first man to have to execute a traitorous Queen."

"It was not a public execution, I strangled her while we were alone," He told you, and you shrank back in fear. It had been his intention to scare you. You were gazing at him with such understanding, and he didn't deserve your kindness. "She had a child with another man, that she tried to pass off as mine. And I would have let her, but he was born cursed like me. Punishment by the Gods for her lies. I took him into the wild, and I let him die."

At this point you had moved away from him to the head of the bed, hands clasped together as you held your knees to your chest. You had a troubled look, but your eyes returned to his face. "Why are you telling me this?"

"You deserved to hear this, and know what man your father married you to."

"I know what man I've married," You said, your body relaxing, and you began your way back over to him. "The things Freydis did would have resulted in her death by any King. I can't say whether your decision to murder her by strangling was the correct one, but that was before my time with you. I don't have to forgive you for that, you have to forgive yourself."

"Mercy is a weakness you know," He said, turning to you as you sat beside him.

"So is self-pity, but you're too clever to fall into that trap, right husband?"

Ivar's heart swelled with pride as he watched you. The things he had done had horrified you, but you had the bravery of Thor to call him out for his faults. You were foolish and lovely, and he was half in love with you then as he brought his hand to the back of your head, forcing your mouth to his. You let out a sigh, and your fingers splayed out on his chest. Ivar could feel the pressure you applied, trying to ease him back to slow down, but his need for you could not be contained.

He forced you down on the bed, allowing all of his weight to come down on you. The strain between his legs was a pain he'd never felt before, and he was rutting at your center to feel the friction.

You broke away from the violent kiss, your lips swollen and red while your hands shook at the waist of his pants. He helped you force them down to his thighs, his cock springing free, hard and pulsing with need. You threw up your white skirts, and your legs trembled on either side of his hips as he brought his member to your folds. The patch of curls was damp, and Ivar plunged into your moist heat until he was buried to the hilt. You let out a sharp cry, tears springing to your eyes at the abrupt intrusion.

"I'm sorry...I’m sorry," Ivar continued to pant into your shoulder, his arms shaking as he supported himself above you.

"Don't stop. I want this," You told him, even as he caused you pain.

He couldn't hold back anymore, and with your permission, he began to move. The pace he set was brutal, hips snapping quick and hard into you as he fucked you into the mattress. You held onto his shoulders, digging your nails into his flesh while letting out the occasional whine. Seeing his cock disappear into you over and over had him racing towards his end, and the blood that tinged your thighs gave him a sense of ownership. You were his now, in every way a husband and wife belonged to one another.

"I can't--I can't stop," He groaned, knowing his end was near.

"It's alright," You told him, your hands smoothing down his back.

Feeling every bit as virginal as you, he finished much too soon. His seed spilled inside you, and Ivar collapsed half on top of you, trying at the last moment to spare you of his weight. You both were breathing hard, and he felt himself tremble as he slowly removed his softened member from inside your cunt. Some of his seed trickled out onto your thigh, and Ivar felt embarrassed he had left you in such a mess.

"That wasn't good for you, you didn't finish," He grumbled, staring up at the ceiling.

"Ladies rarely do, the first time," You said, still short of breath, but with a look of contentment. "But I enjoyed myself, and we'll learn to please each other together."

You rose from the bed to clean yourself, and your look of discomfort did not go unnoticed by him. He tucked himself back into his trousers and sat up. "I've hurt you."

"Not intentionally. I expected a little roughness having a heathen for a husband," You teased, and Ivar was baffled by your glowing cheeks. "You act as if you've never lain with a virgin before."

Ivar's head flopped back onto the pillow as he thought of his demeaning trysts of the past. Margrethe had not been a virgin, and he never had been able to consummate his union with Freydis.

"I am your first," You remarked with realization, and you joined him in the bed, spreading out on top of his chest. "Don't I feel special."

Ivar let out a grunt as he wrapped you up in his arms. You were warm, and your heart had settled at a slower pace. He toyed with the ends of your hair, losing the time as he wandered in and out of his own thoughts. You weren't just special to him, you were everything. His future as King was secured with you at his side. It was an idea he had almost given up on until your father had given you to him the day of your wedding. You were a gift, a Queen, a wife, and a friend, and you would have his heart until he parted from this earth to Valhalla.

@peachyboneless

@didiintheblog

@soleil-dor

@zuxiezendler

@pieces-by-me

@rastakami23

@xbellaxcarolinax

@heavenly1927

@everyartistwas-firstanamateur

@youbloodymadgenius

@xceafh

@shannygoatgruff

@tgrrose

@1950schick

@castielsangelsx

#vikings #vikings ivar #ivar the boneless #ivar lothbrok #ivar ragnarsson #ivar x reader #ivar x you #ivar the boneless x reader #vikings imagine #ivar angst #ivar fic #history vikings #ivar imagine #ivar ragnarsson imagine #ivar smut

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doudecim · 4 years

Text

I want to say that 99% of the fics here are on FF.net for I have only recently discovered the wonders of AO3, and I still didn’t dig deep in there to find all the HitsuKarin goodies.

That being said, I will put the list under the cut because this will be one very long post. So, I hope you all enjoy it!

one-shots

A Constant Fascination, by back-in-a-bit. — 'Colour me blood red passionately.' Hitsugaya makes it his personal mission to get Karin to blush. Pity it's easier said than done. In fact, it might just take him a lifetime. [rated T]

A Fall in the Fall, by MeteorLeopard. — This was ridiculous! There she was, just looking at the fish, and the next thing she knows, she's up in a tree being held against her will! And it's all his fault! [rated T]

a little suffering is good for the soul, by the milliner’s rook. — Future fic. If there are stupider ways to get courted, Karin can't think of them. [rated K+]

A Woman Scorned, by Glowing Blue. — The twisted fairy tale of Karin finding her own invite to the ball, though she's hardly looking for a Prince Charming. [rated T]

but leave the soul alone, by the milliner’s rook. — AU. Death, it's catching. Or: the one where Toushirou and Karin share night shifts at the hospital. And coffee. Terrible, terrible coffee. [rated K+]

Collection, by ichilover3. — A drabble/oneshot dump. Shenanigans, silliness, and sexy-times abound. Also alliteration, apparently. [rated M]

crawl into your shadow, by the milliner’s rook. — AU. There's a witch in this sleepy little village now that goes by the name of Karin, but nothing has changed since she's arrived. Not really. [rated T]

Delirous, by carved in the sand. — Matsumoto finds her captain to be a lovestruck teenage boy. [rated T]

duckling theory, by the milliner’s rook. — The first thing Karin notices is watermelon. Looking back, maybe it should have been startling green eyes. [rated K]

For You, by Glowing Blue. — Death had never been the paradise everyone wished it to be. But then they found each other. [rated T, two-shot.]

frostbitten, by the milliner’s rook. — Set during the time skip. The winter they meet is unkind with snow. [rated K+]

Frozen Moments, by CrazyAce'n'PokerFace. — 101 drabbles/one-shots that give a glimpse into Toushirou and Karin's life together. A love story told in snapshots. [rated K+]

funny valentine, by SebonzaMitsuki27. — I'll be yours if you'll be mine. [rated K+]

humour me, by SebonzaMitsuki27. — True love's kiss. That ought to do it. [rated K+]

i’m high on believing, by the milliner's rook. — For the record, he prefers his plain black shoes to her fancy red sneakers. [rated K+]

ice breaker, by SebonzaMitsuki27. — AU. There are better ways to get found out than making out in a closet and tumbling onto the ground. [rated T]

if my heart was a compass you’d be north, by SebonzaMitsuki27. — Future fic. Give me a reason to believe. [rated K+]

In Every Season, by Adobo-chan. — A collection of HitsuKarin oneshots. [rated T]

In the Dark, by ichilover3. — It really wasn't anyone else's business. She should be allowed to fornicate with midgets if she wanted to. [rated T]

innocent guilt, by SebonzaMitsuki27. — AU. Oh, I know! You're a tramp with wings! [rated K+]

Juxtaposition, by Lady Azar de Tameran. — Something within Hitsugaya Toushirou thinks that he may have met his match. [rated T]

keep me in your pocket, by SebonzaMitsuki27. — Set during the timeskip. Don't stay out of touch, okay? [rated K+]

Kuchiki Rukia, the Glorified Courier, by MeteorLeopard. — Delivering super-top-secret messages between dimensions is tough work; believe me, I know. If it weren't such a rewarding experience I'd downright refuse to play the messenger. Honestly. [rated K+]

liliputians, by SebonzaMitsuki27. — Future fic. It's alright, kid. I'm short too. [rated K+]

Lovely Complex, by Unknown lazy ass. — She slyly grinned, “Wow, you really are head over heels for me, aren’t you Toushirou?” [rated K+]

Momo knows Best, by MeteorLeopard. — Sometimes having a meddling older sister... sucks. [rated T]

of halos and wings, by SebonzaMitsuki27. — Future fic. He had betrayed Hinamori with nothing but his heart. [rated T]

Old Haunts, by the milliner's rook. — Future fic. You were just gone, Toushirou, what was I to think? I thought—I thought you'd come back, and you did, twenty years too late. [rated T]

Peeping Tom, by Glowing Blue. — The love story of Hitsugaya and Karin, as seen from open windows and heard through thin walls. "Hisagi's eyes had a tendency to stray." AU. [rated T]

phantasmagoria, by SebonzaMitsuki27. — Flickering through black and white, they find their perfect shade of grey. [rated K+, two-shot.]

put down your sword and crown, by the milliner's rook. — AU. When her old man dies to save Ichi-nii's life, everything changes. Days after the funeral, the word Quincy is spoken for the first time, and at five years old, Karin becomes defined by it. [rated K+]

Red, The Colour of Despair, by the milliner's rook. — It was strange how much difference one colour could make. [rated K+]

Revenants, by carved in the sand. — Hitsugaya ponders the ghosts that haunt the girl he still loves. [rated T]

Sports and Sex are Universal (but never the twain should meet), by back-in-a-bit. — Toushirou gives Karin a flat look. "I'm not high-fiving you over sex," he says. [rated M]

Subtle, by nublados. — Toshiro comments on the subtlety that is Karin Kurosaki. [rated K+]

The Art of Asking, by Felix02. — He should have known that her father wouldn't be able to keep a secret, especially from one of his daughters. [rated T]

The Art Of Getting By, by the milliner's rook. — AU. There's some difficulty between juggling flirting, killing Hollows and getting to class on time with the hottest guy in high school, but Karin's certain she'll get the hang of it eventually. [rated T]

The Staircase not Taken, by MeteorLeopard. — Perhaps it was a good thing that the stairs were destroyed, her brother acting demented and a violent fight going on without her just upstairs. After all, the visitor who happened to drop by was worth the wait. [rated T]

the winter sun smiled for things to come in spring, by the milliner's rook. — What is it with you! You're either too young or too old! What the hell! [rated T, two-shots.]

Urahara's Lawn Mowing Service, by MeteorLeopard. — Incorrect phone numbers are a messy business. Even messier though is the business that happens after said incorrect phone call. "Fine, but I bet your girlfriend didn't call back because your lawn needs to be mowed." [rated T]

velocity, by SebonzaMitsuki27. — Aim for the goal, and don't look back, no matter what. [rated T]

where angels fear to tread, by SebonzaMitsuki27. — They belong in hell. [rated K]

You Taste Like Birthday, You Look Like New Year, by the milliner's rook. — Future fic. She likes his hands, Toushirou notices. Loves them, in fact. [rated M]

complete

lune, by SebonzaMitsuki27. — AU. Me and you and moonlight shivers. [[rated T] other main pairings are ByakuyaHisana, ShinjiHiyori and UlquiorraNel, so beware that HitsuKarin is not the only focus in this one.]

Waterlogged, Wind-chapped, and Sun-bleached. — They grow up together, and the slow progression of their relationship shapes their world. AU. [rated T]

Wendybird Chronicles, by the milliner's rook. — She wonders if they ever had a chance. If they might have missed it, somehow. [rated K+]

on going

Wrong Number, by Lunatasha. — Unknown (10:22): So! I just read all of the conversations I had last night while I was out drunk and thoroughly embarrassing myself and please let me apologise for bothering you (especially as I think you were working if you were in your office?) last night. I mean in hindsight I probably should have stopped messaging you as soon as it was clear you weren't who I was looking for, but drunk me apparently hates sober me so yeah, I'm sorry. That being said thank you again for helping me out even though I must have been bothering you, I appreciate it. [rated T]

Only in Dreams, by TullyBlue. — Brother, she had called him, but he spent the entire meal acting like she was a ghost. Eating with the twins, he can’t even imagine being that cold to his sisters. Yuzu’s laughter brightens his day and that admiring glint in Karin’s eye, that he only catches every once in a while, means the world to him. The so-called brother in his dreams makes Ichigo’s skin crawl. Everything else, though, he wants to see more of, to know more about, to understand. Old, wood floors, a spacious room, flowing black robes, and those swords... [[rated T] other main pairings are IchigoRukia, UryuuChad, GanjuHanatarou, so beware that HitsuKarin is not the only focus in this one.]

abandoned or on permanent hiatus, probably won’t ever post a new chapter again

Blizzard Blues, by the milliner's rook. — Future fic. I heard your brother had an eight pack, Captain Hitsugaya! That he was shredded! [rated T]

Catalyst, by Etiena. — With captain-level shinigami in her family, it is no surprise that Kurosaki Karin has potential. But it isn't family which triggers her change. Instead, a chance encounter with a young shinigami captain leads to startling revelations. [rated K+]

Go Against the Grain, by Adobo-chan. — Old law deems that only a son may become the Kurosaki House's next leader. Born from this ancient tradition, a tragic betrayal and her mother's sacrifice, Karin is brought up as Kurosaki Kazuto, the 29th head of the family. [rated T]

oh sinful rose, by the milliner's rook. — AU. Five years after the monarchy is overthrown, a noble finds a forgotten princess in chains. DISCONTINUED. [rated T]

Quandary, by Glowing Blue. — Funnily enough, meeting such a spirited single mother was actually part of his job description. AU. [rated T] (I love this one so much!)

Roommate For Sale, by SavageTrickster. — AU. There are many things in life that she didn't know, but the one thing Kurosaki Karin was certain of is that her overprotective brother is going to blow his top when he meets her new roommate.

#jesus fucking christ this is so long #hitsukarin #karin kurosaki #toshiro hitsugaya #bleach #fic rec #i have literal 0 self love

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