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searidings · 3 years

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this is what happens when @ekingston and i get our hands on the prompt “that's my wife!” and agree that she'll draw my idea for it and i'll write hers (aka hearing kara call it out as she watches lena being wheeled down a hospital corridor)

“Excuse me, you can't go through there!”

Kara growls. The woman blocking her path is short and gently rounded, the kind lines of her face drooping in disapproval above her nurse's scrubs. “No visitor access beyond this point, dear. Immediate family only.”

“Immediate— you're joking, right?” Kara cranes her head, peering through the closing doors to catch a last glimpse of Lena's gurney as it rounds the corner at the end of the hall. “That's my wife!”

The nurse gapes at her. “Your—?”

Kara growls again, louder. It's a good thing she'd blown out her powers twenty minutes ago, or she would not be held responsible for the Kryptonian-shaped hole in NC Memorial Hospital's expensive surgery doors. “Yes, my wi—”

Her snarl is cut off by a hand clamping down firmly over her mouth from behind. Kara's first instinct is to bite it. She resists, narrowly, as the familiar scent of shea butter moisturiser registers in her adrenaline-fogged brain.

“You sure about that?” Alex squeaks around a nervous laugh, voice pitched a half-octave too high. She removes her hand from Kara's mouth, wiping her damp palm on her pants with a wrinkled nose. “Get hit on the head during that fight, did you?”

Kara whirls on her sister, eyes blazing. “Am I sure?” she parrots incredulously. Alex cowers a little beneath the force of her stare. “Unless you're trying to tell me I hallucinated my entire wedding—”

“Supergirl isn't married,” Alex stage-whispers loud enough to be heard in Florida, glancing pointedly down at Kara's ash-caked body and oh yeah, she's still wearing her supersuit.

Right, right.

The nurse – Rosemary, her badge reads – finally picks her jaw up off the floor long enough to speak. Her eyes are wide, sparkling with sudden glee. “So Lena Luthor and Su—”

Kara's hackles rise at the suggestion in her tone. “Lena Luthor and Kara Danvers are happily married,” she interrupts sternly. “You might have seen the wedding photos in last month's Vogue.”

The nurse smirks. At her elbow, Alex drops her head into her hands.

“Kara Danvers, hm? Amazing what a pair of glasses do for you, dear.” Rosemary's brow quirks with impish satisfaction and, oh. Whoops. It would appear that in her haste to quash any potential rumours of Lena's infidelity behind the back of her very recent, very publicly human wife, she'd forgotten about the other delicate matter at hand.

Alex sighs so long and so heavy Kara legitimately marvels that she doesn't pass out from the strain. “I knew keeping a spare NDA in my back pocket would pay off,” her sister groans, thrusting an official-looking, if crumpled, contract beneath the nurse's nose.

“Sorry,” Kara murmurs sheepishly as Rosemary signs away page after page of her right to ever disclose Supergirl's identity in any capacity. “I wasn't thinking, I can't— Alex, it's Lena.”

“I know, I know,” her sister soothes, frustration dissipating as she reaches out to pull Kara into her side, ignoring the soot and grit that smear across her jacket at the contact. “She's gonna be okay.”

“But what if she's not?” Kara asks and the sobs arrive then, the last remnants of the fight or flight response that had propelled her this far dissipating beneath the weight of her terror. “She stepped right in front of that bullet, Alex! Of all the stupid, reckless—”

“If I recall, she was pushing you back after you shoved her out of the way in the first place,” Alex hums thoughtfully. Kara's tear-filled eyes snap to her face, incredulous, and her sister grimaces. “Right, right. Not the time.”

“She has to be okay,” she gasps, clutching hard at her sister's jacket as her knees threaten to give out beneath her. “She has to, I can't— I feel like I can't breathe. Like my heart's been ripped out.”

Alex clicks her tongue in sympathy, wrapping a firm arm round Kara's waist and guiding her to a nearby row of chairs. Rosemary deposits the signed NDA wordlessly on the hard plastic beside them, reaching into her scrubs to produce a pack of tissues.

Alex accepts, extracting one to dab at Kara's snotty, tear-stained face with her free hand. “Welcome to married life, kid,” she chuckles, pressing a kiss to Kara's matted hair. “It can be a real bitch.”

It's a long night.

It's a long night, a night of anxious waiting and barely-restrained nausea and vending machine coffee so bad even Nia won't drink it. Her family, their family, crowd the waiting room, dozing across the rows of seats as the hours drag on and on.

Alex tries her best, at varying intervals, to force her back to the Tower for a stint under the sun lamps. Every time without fail, Kara sets her jaw, then sets her feet in the middle of the surgical wing waiting room and refuses to budge.

This leads to several arguments, and a lot of impassioned shoving.

“What if she needs me?” Kara laments tearily, pout activated and puppy dog eyes firmly in place. Alex, mid-football tackle with her arms and right shoulder braced against Kara's torso as she attempts to use her entire bodyweight to force her sister toward the exit, only grunts with exertion. Behind them, J’onn dozes in the corner. Brainy and Kelly and Nia continue their conversation without batting an eyelid.

“No, scratch that, she does need me,” Kara corrects, unaffected by her sister's NFL-worthy body slam. “She's been shot. I'm not going anywhere.”

Alex, perhaps finally sensing defeat after her fourth unsuccessful attempt, gives one final shove with all her strength. Kara doesn't so much as wobble, and her sister releases her with a huff. “Fine. But for the love of God, change your clothes before you start shouting about your wife again,” she pants, red-faced and sweating as she collapses into a nearby chair. “That was my last NDA.”

That's a compromise she can make. Kara accepts the bundle of clothes Nia presents her with, stripping out of her dirt-caked suit and re-donning her glasses. Thankfully, the only person around to witness Kara entering the bathroom as a superhero and re-emerging as a Catco reporter is Rosemary.

The updates on Lena's condition are sporadic at best. By the time the first surgeon emerges to say the bullet has been removed from Lena's chest cavity Kara's accidentally cracked three plastic chairs, advanced all the way to Lollipop Land on Alex's Candy Crush, and worn a groove into the waiting room linoleum with her nervous pacing.

When another doctor emerges three hours later to tell them Lena had developed a tension pneumothorax and needs additional treatment, Kara's made it to Rainbow Reef and chewed her bottom lip bloody.

When, at five in the morning, yet another doctor appears to inform them that Lena is being placed on anti-radiation medication to counter the Kryptonite that had coated the bullet, Kara's finished all nine thousand nine hundred and thirty-five levels of the damn game. The doctor leaves, promising to be back with more news soon, and Kara squeezes her sister's hand so hard poor Nurse Rosemary has to be called to administer an ice pack for the bruising, solar flare be damned.

Dawn breaks to find Kara scratchy-eyed and grumpy, worn ragged with worry. The waiting room begins to fill up around them, new patients and their relatives coming and going, and still there's nothing new on Lena. Every time another scrub-clad surgeon pushes through the doors Kara's heart skips a beat, all of them sitting up straighter in their seats, but every time the doctor passes them by.

Kara's just wolfed down six cold breakfast sandwiches procured by Brainy on his sojourn to the hospital cafeteria and is debating the relative merits of starting Candy Crush over from scratch when another young doctor appears. Her scrub cap has avocados on it. Kara likes her already.

“Family of Ms Luthor?” she calls, looking around, and Kara pushes up hard from her chair to the resounding snap of cracking plastic. Whoops.

“It's Luthor-Danvers,” she gabbles as she bounds over to the surgeon, palms sweating. No matter how many times she hears it, it never loses its thrill. “I'm, I'm her wife.”

The young doctor's features soften. “Of course. I've come to let you know that it looks like Ms Luthor-Danvers is out of the woods. She's sedated and still on an anti-radiation drip, but she's through the worst of it.” She appraises Kara, gaze lingering on her chewed-raw lips and clenching fingers, then leans closer conspiratorially. “It's not general visiting hours yet, but you can see her, if you'd like.”

“Yes!” Kara's shouting almost before the surgeon has finished speaking. “Yes, please, yes.”

She hugs them all, Alex and Brainy and Nia and Kelly and J’onn, and leaves them in the waiting room as she follows the doctor's sunshine-yellow crocs down the hall.

They round corner after corner, an interminable maze. Powerless as she is, she can't hear Lena’s heartbeat, and the absence of the steady beat that has become the soundtrack to her existence sets her even more on edge.

But at last they turn a corner, and there she is. She's pale and bandaged and her eyes are closed, creamy skin streaked with dirt and bruises, but she's there, she's alive, she's Lena.

The surgeon holds the door open for her with a smile and Kara's across the room in a heartbeat, smoothing a hand over Lena's warm cheek and pressing kiss after kiss to her forehead and hair.

“I love you, I love you,” she whisper-cries against Lena's temple, tucking her matted curls behind her ears. The smell of blood and dirt and antiseptic is almost overwhelming, but beneath the dust and debris caught up in her hair Lena's scalp smells the same as always. Kara presses her face to the crown of her head and inhales deeply, soaking it in.

“Why'd you have to be so damn brave?” she whispers, nuzzling her cheek against silky softness. “I love you so much. Please don't step in front of any more bullets. Please learn to be a coward, occasionally.”

The singular relief of having Lena living and breathing and in her arms again is so complete, so compounded by the fear and the adrenaline and the sleepless night and the solar flare, that she feels suddenly that she may crumple to the ground from the force of it all.

Unwilling to relinquish her hold for even a second she appraises the bandages covering Lena's right side, then crawls onto the hospital bed on her left, careful to avoid her many wires and monitors. She tucks herself in beside her on the wide mattress, chin hooked over Lena's shoulder and face pressed to the side of her neck, and lets the tears that haven't really stopped falling since that bullet had left its chamber fall for just a little longer.

Nothing matters outside of the two of them, outside of the warmth of Lena's body and the softness of her skin beneath Kara's lips and the steady thud of her heart beneath Kara's palm. Nothing else in the world exists, so when an unfamiliar male voice sounds from the doorway it takes her a moment to register the intrusion.

“Excuse me, ma’am, you really can't be on the bed with her,” the strange, disembodied voice calls from behind her and Kara frowns tiredly, unable and unwilling to acknowledge anything outside of the woman in her arms.

But before she's even managed to raise her head another voice sounds, the soft tones of a young surgeon in an avocado scrub cap.

“Oh, honestly, Peter,” the kindly doctor says with gentle reproach, a quiet calm washing over the room as the door is pulled closed and she and Lena are left alone. “Leave them be. That's her wife.”

#check out easter's incredible art! as usual she absolutely nailed it #in my humble opinion you can simply never have too many 'that's my wife!' concepts in the world #it just never gets old #ridings writes #supercorp #supercorp fanfic #kara danvers #lena luthor #supergirl

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thefanficmonster · 3 years

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Innocent Life

Ethan Winters (Resident Evil Biohazard) & Child!Reader (Gender Neutral)

Warnings: Angst, Mentions of Death, Grief, Spoilers for RE8:Village, Swearing

Genre: Angst

Summary: As Ethan stands outside the ruins of Luiza’s house, looking the aftermath of the death he barely escaped in the eye, he cannot get the wails and cries of a child out of his head. Takes him a bit to realize they’re not a product of his trauma.

Requested by Anon. Hi dear! Thank you so much for the wonderful request, I had a blast writing it - what can I say, angst is my specialty hehe. Hope you enjoy the read! Love, Vy ❤

How the hell is this happening? Why is this happening? Why to me? Why my family? Why were we the ones chosen for this suffering to be thrown upon? What did my daughter do to deserve this, for fuck’s sake?!

Why does everyone around me die? Why do I always loose everyone?

I’m the problem....

His knees are weak, his head’s spinning. His lungs have filled with smoke and ash so much he can barely breathe. His eyes sting, reddened around the edges, his vision blurry. However, what bothers him most is the mess that is currently his mind - swimming with the feeling of betrayal, sorrow and dread.

He lost so much so suddenly and in such a short amount of time. He lost Chris - someone he thought of as a friend but has now been replaced by a coldblooded killer and backstabber. He refuses to believe that’s still the Chris who saved him and Mia from Louisiana, he has to be dead.

Mia....

He lost Mia. He’s lost her before countless times - he lost her when he though she was dead, he kept losing her and getting her back at the Bakers’ residence as she switched between her monstrous form and being herself. He lost her again when they made it back, when her mind was clouded and darkened, when all she needed was solitude and when he wasn’t allowed anywhere near her as doctors upon doctors used her as a research object. And now he’s lost her again, this time for good. It’s just him and Rose now.

Or it would be if she too wasn’t taken from him, leaving him in the pit of grief and loss, both emotions at an intensity he’s never experienced before. Like a drill going through his heart, or a sledgehammer breaking it down to shards. Or as though his heart’s completely vanished, unable to take the anguish Ethan’s existence has become. The anguish that will live on for as long as he will.

Those three years of Mia being gone.

That nightmarish night back in Louisiana.

The horrific sight of dozens of bullets entering his wife’s body in front of his very eyes as he remained helpless.

The sound of Rose’s wailing cries.

God, he can still hear them. And oh so vividly. Like a cursed, haunting loop in his brain. If he closes his eyes he can almost imagine her being a few feet from him, near him, giving him the opportunity to soothe her, calm her down, tell her it’s all gonna be ok even if it seems like hell at the moment. Promising he’d make it all alright and make the right people pay for what’s happened.

But then finally, he picks up on it - the oddity in the cries he’s hearing.

They’re too realistic for a mind to be able to produce. They’re too loud and too close and are external. And, most importantly, they sound like the cries of an older child.

Ethan quickly snaps himself back to reality, coming to terms with the knowledge that the sounds he’s hearing are a part of it and not some dark corner of his mind. Despite the horror he feels and creep up, taking over his whole body in the form of cold sweat, he still takes a step towards the source of the ear-splitting and heart-sinking noise. It’s instinctively human to feel a sickening feeling of sympathy combined with the need to shield something so powerless from any harm.

To save an innocent life.

Heading towards the side of what used to be Luiza’s house he spots it - a crib on top of which there’s a pile of rubble and wooden planks. The thing seems to barely be standing and yet it’s harboring the child whose cries have now grown louder. Ethan’s frozen for a few moments, frozen with fear. Frozen with the overwhelming thought that there’s no way he can save that child. Frozen and powerless, just like he was on the floor of his own home as life left Mia’s body.

You didn’t do anything for her....

The sound of a crack in the already weak wood, seemingly coming from the child’s crib, sends all his senses on edge, his adrenaline once again starting to rush through his veins.

But you can do something for that child, Ethan! Do something before it’s too late!

Within the blink of an eye, Ethan finds himself standing above the unsteady wooden structure, putting all his strength into removing the rubble that has thankfully piled atop the wooden planks, preventing anything from landing on the baby and harming it. Hell, it’s a miracle it didn’t suffocate from the smoke in the first place. Its cries are put to a halt when its wide eyes land on Ethan, who’s looking back at the toddler with the same amount of distress.

“Hi there. It’s ok, you’re safe now.“ He finds himself breathing out shakily as his trembling hands reach down, picking up the now silent toddler. “It’s ok, little one. You’re a literal miracle, you know that?“ His gaze travels over the ruin the house has become, the house that was this child’s home. Its family’s home. This toddler knows loss much like Ethan does, or it will when it grows up. But as of now, it’s secured in the bubble of blissful ignorance due to infancy.

And Ethan has come across yet another bump in the road: making his way in the castle was already gonna be a difficult and possibly lethal venture, but doing it with a child in his arms, that’s a death sentence for both him and the kid.

“You and I have a thing for surviving hell, but not even I am willing to take the risk of taking you with me, kid.“ He gently caresses the toddlers head as its big awed eyes blink up at him with curiosity.

One one hand, a castle with horrors he’s yet to be familiar with; on the other, a village which’s horrors he’s already seen and experienced and would rather die right in this very spot than subject this innocent kid to them.

Ethan’s once again stranded.

“What do I do with you, kid? Being with me won’t bring you any good. I’m like a death sentence to everyone around me.“ His heart breaks as he says that because - in his mind and by his logic - it’s the truth. It’s the only thing that makes sense in such a nonsensical situation.

Then suddenly, an idea sparks, fueling what little hope and courage he has left and getting his legs to move from the spot they’ve been stuck in for the past God knows how long. That’s not important right now. What matters is that, for the first time since this nightmare started, Ethan Winters has a clue of what he’s doing. He’s got a plan.

* * *

“I see you have returned!“ The Duke greets him with his signature lazy smile before his gaze lands on the child in Ethan’s arms, his eyes widening in surprise, “Oh, and you’ve got company!“

“Actually...“ Ethan stops in front of the shop, adjusting his grip on the kid, “They’ll be keeping you company from now until....well, until I come back.“

“And where is it you’re planning on going?“ The Duke asks, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion and concern, “Perhaps you don’t suppose I know how to take care of a child.“

Ethan grows irritated, “Perhaps you don’t suppose I’m gonna take a kid into that castle you called me insane for wanting to go in myself. Trust me, I wouldn’t be leaving them with you if it wasn’t my only choice.” When he doesn’t receive a verbal response from the Duke, more of an expression change that suggested he’s accepting of this, Ethan grow relieved, turning to the toddler that hasn’t taken its eyes off him even for a second. “Hey, you’re gonna be just alright with the big guy, ok? He’s gonna keep you safe until I come back.” His initial intention was to say ‘even if I don’t come back’ but he just couldn’t bring himself to say it, not to the kid at least, “Until then...” He pauses when a name automatically pops up in his head, “Until then, Y/N, you’ll stay here with the Duke.”

After that heavy-hearted goodbye, Ethan reluctantly hands the kid - Y/N - over to the Duke, a shift they are not very happy about seeing as how they start wailing immediately.

“You owe me plenty, Mr. Winters.“ The Duke says with a frown on his face, displeased and already developing a headache from the child’s cries.

“I owe you nothing. What you’re doing is basic human decency.“ Ethan glares at him before turning his attention to Y/N, “Hey, it’s alright. I know you two aren’t big fans of one another, but I promise I won’t take long. I’ll be back before you know it.“ Planting a quick reassuring kiss on top of the child’s head, he steps away, relieved to find they don’t break out in a crying fit again.

With that peace of mind, he takes off on the path that’ll lead him to the castle. A part of him has found some peace, knowing that one innocent life has been saved. However, there’s still one awaiting rescue. And he’ll be damned if he’s not the rescuer.

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the-insomniac-emporium · 3 years

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Crimson Ties (Bela Dimitrescu/Reader, Soulmate AU) Pt. 4

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T for language Warnings: None for this chap Genre: Hurt + comfort Summary: Sure, your soulmate may be a vampire (of sorts), but there's nothing that love can't conquer, right?... Maybe it's time you learn a little more about the odd circumstances of your soulmate's existence- and the fear that lies beneath the surface. Notes: If the last chapter was "hurt" followed by comfort, this is "comfort" followed by hurt, also known as the part where the story's central conflict comes into play. Features an appearance from Daniela, who reminds us that Cassandra's not the only one with a sharp tongue around here. Previous Chapters: 1: Stem the Flow, 2: Tangled Strands, 3: Rumbling Thunder

4: That Which Burns

“Of all the stars, the fairest,” Bela murmurs in your ear, keeping her arms wrapped loosely around your waist, before giving you a gentle kiss on the cheek. If you hadn’t already been blushing, you certainly would have now done so. You’re leaning into her touch, face flushed as can be, loving every moment of this. For a while now you’ve been curled up with her, while she reads excerpts from her favorite works. Although both of you would have preferred to do this outside, enjoying the view of the stars, you figured it would be best not to push your health too much. After all, you had lost a huge percentage of your blood. Well, temporarily, but it was still better to be safe than sorry.

“That’s probably my favorite line from Sappho,” you chimed, fondly remembering some of your schooling. “Though the one about being remembered always stands out to me. I’m not sure I remember it correctly, and I’m sure it’s been translated a few different ways over the years… but I think it’s ‘someone, I tell you, will remember us in another time’. Might have gotten that backwards, actually.” Giving an awkward little smile, you sheepishly rub the back of your head with one hand. “Either way it feels so romantic. To think of a love so strong that it echoes throughout time, fondly remembered for generations… it warms the heart.”

“Mhmm, most definitely, my dear. Many aren’t as lucky, however,” Bela laments, an odd expression crawling onto her face. There’s the slightest waver to her lower lip as she speaks. Concerned, you turn in place to get a better look, gently reaching out to caress her cheek. Is there something I’m missing? You think, wondering what you should say. “I’m alright, I promise. Merely distracted by a fleeting thought. Let’s read another, yes?” Before you can protest, she’s already turned to another page, starting to read as if she already knew which one was next (which would not, at all, surprise you).

Love shook my heart, Like the wind on the mountain, Troubling the oak-trees

“Oh, if only I could speak Aeolic Greek, so that I could serenade you with tender prose, all the days of your life… just as it was originally written. Wouldn’t that be lovely?” Bela offers, once again smiling wide, as if nothing in the world was wrong, at least not when you were by her side. Though you are not keen to ignore her earlier stroke of misery, you are equally reluctant to put a damper on her current upswing. Now what were you to do? Little comes to mind, other than the simplicity of human warmth, and so you lean once more into her embrace, head held aloft on the strength of her shoulder.

“Here, as I am now, is more than lovely enough. Your voice is soothing in any language, sweet as sugar, relaxing as can be,” you reassure her in your softest tone. Heart fluttering, she finds herself easing back into the comfort of the moment, forgetting all about her earlier woes. “Shall we read another?” Nodding, Bela again turns the page and begins to read:

He’s equal with the gods, that man Who sits across from you, Face to face, close enough to sip Your voice’s sweetness

And what excites my mind, Your laughter, glittering. So, When I see you, for a moment, My voice goes,

My tongue freezes. Fire, Delicate fire, in the flesh. Blind, stunned, the sound Of thunder, in my ears.

Shivering with sweat, cold Tremors over the skin, I turn the colour of dead grass, And I’m an inch from dying.

“Does that make me equal to the gods, then?” You ask, as soon as the last line is given its moment to shine. A small hum comes from your soulmate, who seems equal parts intrigued and confused. “I look in your eyes and my lungs light on fire, my heart ricochets around my chest, and I hear the chorus of angels singing your holy praises. The fact that I can manage to speak at all is confounding. Maybe the muses have seen fit to lend me their artistry, so that I might make conversation worthy of your existence, my dear.” With that said, you find yourself being squeezed gently, Bela placing another kiss against the top of your head. Now, it seems she is the one without the ability to speak. “The divine witnessing the divine, yes?... Let me read the next one, and we’ll see if my voice could ever compare to your own.”

It’s innocent enough, your choice. A turn of the page, just another poem, selected for nothing more than respect for chronology. Yet something drains from the space around you as you begin to read, so subtly slow that you hardly notice.

Girls, you be ardent for the fragrant-blossomed Muses’ lovely gifts, for the clear melodious lyre: But now old age has seized my tender body, Now my hair is white, and no longer dark

How were you to realize that the great shadow of fear loomed over your soulmate, when she had refused to name it mere minutes ago? How were you to know to halt your reciting, when the aching of her heart rendered her throat dry, and she could not bring herself to call out to you? Words poured like poisoned wine from your lips… your soulmate having no choice but to drink up every last drop.

My heart’s heavy, my legs won’t support me, That once were fleet as fawns, in the dance I grieve often for my state; what can I do? Being human, there’s no way not to grow old

A shaky breath from age-old lungs, exhaled into tense air, forced out past a trembling jaw. Say something, Bela tells herself, any poem but this. For a split second you pause, and she wonders if her thoughts have found new light in your own mind. But you break the momentary silence without much care, simply having been unsure of your pending pronunciation of an old name, perfectly unaware of your partner’s panic.

Rosy-armed Dawn, they say, love-smitten Once carried Tithonus off to the world’s end: Handsome and young he was then, yet at last Grey age caught that spouse of an immortal wife

At last her ordeal was over. The final words hang heavy in the air, weighing down her shoulders, but they are done. Her fears had been dragged out from the pit in her stomach, now waving about like dirty laundry. There was only one way for her to avoid this happening another time: Tell you the truth. By now her silence had earned your attention, with you turning in her lap again, concerned gaze meeting her hollow one. Gently, she gives you a reassuring squeeze.

“I… am not one to balk at the nature of things, however painful the truth. Yet I hesitate now, with the very person I am bound to with crimson ties… How cowardly of me,” Bela all but snarls, anger clearly not directed at you. It’s clear in the way that she holds herself that she has more to say. There’s not much you can do other than wait, though you do tuck an arm around her waist, beginning to rub soft circles against her back. “Allow me to drop the pretenses. You are not immortal, but I am. We’ve only been together for a day and a half, and already I’m worrying about your lifespan. It’s safe to say that this particular poem was an unfriendly reminder of our situation.”

Oh. How exactly were you supposed to respond to that?... Your girlfriend- your soulmate- was immortal. Hmph, as if her essentially being a vampire hadn’t already been enough to freak you out. Now this? Well, maybe it wasn’t too much farther of a stretch from the last revelation, even if you were still recovering from that one. Even then, something told you that this was equally hard for Bela- both to say, and to simply feel. As if she needed more stress surrounding her partnership with you…

“Of all the ways for us to mimic legends… I don’t even know what to say, my dear. I… I suppose that I can only reassure you that we will make the most of every moment we have. However much time we are destined to get, we’ll make sure it is filled with bliss,” you reply, slowly, making it up as you go. An ache builds in the center of your chest as you talk, an internal yearning for greater confidence. Although words were your “weapon” of choice, you were not always a master in your use of them, too human to be infallible. “Maybe we should set aside the poetry for now, shift our focus to something, ah, less meaningful?”

“That would be for the best,” Bela agrees, already shifting like she was going to stand up, before you even had a chance to get off of her lap. Something strange had fallen over her expression, an invisible veil, putting an uncomfortable distance between the two of you. Inside your chest, a thundering heart threatens to go still. Had you done something wrong? Did you commit some unspoken sin? Together the two of you rise, in sync yet more separate than before, a thousand questions and anxieties rendering both of you silent...

—————————

Across the room from you, a pair of bright eyes watch your every movement, peering out from over an open book. If you didn’t know better, you might have thought that the “ruse” was intentionally poor. But for all the five hours you had known her, Daniela Dimitrescu had done nothing other than prove herself odd, clumsy, and quite possibly… overconfident. Admittedly, that still made her undeniably more pleasant than Cassandra. If you had to be stuck alongside someone other than your soulmate, well, ‘twas best that it was this strange redheaded gremlin. Even if she had expressed an unfortunate interest in eating you.

Gods, what is wrong with this family? You think, frowning a tad, unable to stop yourself from making eye contact with Daniela. Instantly she’s looking away, pretending to be engrossed within her book. The very same book that had remained open to the same page for half an hour now. I do hope Bela is having more fun right now, with whatever “business” called her away so unexpectedly. She hadn’t seemed happy to have to leave your side, earlier tension notwithstanding. Coming here to the library had been her suggestion, though you doubted she knew that Daniela was there, or at least hadn’t anticipated her sister’s unnerving behavior. Already the redhead was looking back at you, even less subtly than before.

Sighing, you decided that you could only put up with so much of this tomfoolery.

“Are you in need of something? Or is there something on my face?” You ask, setting your own book aside as you do. There’s a few moments of silence, as Daniela glances around the room, as if you might actually be speaking to someone else. When no scapegoats teleport to her rescue, she very awkwardly clears her throat, then moves to sit at your table. Though you are loath to admit it, your heart starts beating faster as she approaches. Not out of attraction, hell no, rather fear. Perhaps getting her attention hadn’t been the wisest choice after all…

“I just think it’s funny,” Daniela chimes, trailing off just long enough to run a finger down the length of your arm, “that Bela abandoned you so quickly. You’re so… fragile. Cassandra told me about the fun little introduction you had to our family- the blood loss, being chained up, the fear you felt when you got caught in our territory.” Suddenly she’s devolving into a fit of giggles, hand resting not-so-gently on your wrist. When you try to pull away, her nails dig in, and her gaze snaps back to your own. “But you don’t remember that part, do you? If you did… oh, we’d have to lock you up, like the little pet you are, to keep you from running away. I’m sure Bela wouldn’t mind seeing you in chains.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” You snap, uncharacteristically furious. While it was true that you couldn’t recall exactly how you made it into the castle’s dungeons, you refuse to accept Daniela’s implications about your soulmate, or her assessment of your dedication. A brief second passes where you think she’s about to lunge towards you. Instead, she withdraws her hand, moving it to prop up her chin instead. Then, her lips slowly drag upwards into a wicked grin, wide eyes filled with dangerous amusement.

“So you’re more than a wannabe Shakespeare, after all? A bit more teeth, a touch more vulgarity, maybe a twinge of bloodlust, and you might actually fit in around here. Not enough to get our family’s ‘gift’- our secret to a long, happy life- but enough that Bela won’t grow bored of your sappy poems,” she teases with another string of laughter. Before you can question her about this ‘gift’, she’s all but jumping to her feet, stretching out her arms as she does. “I can’t wait to update Cassandra about you. We’ll be betting on how entertaining you’ll end up being. Try to keep from bailing on my dear sister too soon, alright?”

Just like that she’s disappearing into a swarm of flies, leaving you more confused (and angry) than ever. Taking a deep breath, you try to focus on what you need to do next: Find Bela. Talk to her. Get some goddamn answers.

#bela dimitrescu x reader #bela dimitrescu #resident evil: village #re8 village #got some fluff got some angst #casual reminder that daniela is capable of being just as cruel as cassandra #just normally a different kind

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laurenandloki · 3 years

Note

Oooo idea time guys and gals,

Giant boy Loki babysitting a tiny child :0

Requested by @just-more-gt-trash !! I’m sorry it took me a while to write this for you! I ended up writing the whole story today just so you didn’t have to wait any longer lol😊

Hope you like it!

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~Teasing Brings Tears~

“Goodness, how did I get myself into this mess?”, said Loki aloud to himself as you clung to his finger. Loki had decided to introduce you to a couple of movies he had found in his closet because he thought that you’d enjoy them. You’ve always shown an immense amount of curiosity for someone who’s only 8 years old and Loki loved that about you. In a way, you reminded him of his younger self. Always curious, but very reserved and shy. He figured the movies would perk your interest and get you to come out of your shell.

Most importantly, he hoped that it would get you to relax more around him. You always stuttered whenever you were with Loki and he hoped to one day stop that from happening. It wasn’t because you were afraid of him. It was just because of how big he was.

Loki didn’t realize that the movies he found were all horror films. So, at the expense of his carelessness for not checking the content of the films, he was forced to let you cling onto his finger. He didn’t have the heart to tear you off of him, so he dealt with the slow loss of circulation.

“Child, can you let go of Uncle Loki?”, he said. You immediately shook your head no, shoving your face into the huge digit you had your arms wrapped around.

“I am not going anywhere, small one. I promised your mother that I would watch over you for the night and I am going to do just that”, said Loki. He had promised your mother that he’d babysit you for the night so that she can spend a few hours relaxing. He has been friends with your mother now for a few years. She lived her whole life in the Avengers Tower in secret, but once Loki moved in, he discovered her within 4 days.

Her friendship with Loki blossomed, but her relationship she had with the man she thought she’d spend the rest of her life with came to an end once he found out that he was going to be a father. Your mother was devastated. It was hard enough getting certain supplies. She never would have been able to do it all on her own if she hadn’t met Loki.

Loki was furious when he found out what happened, but soon became ecstatic when your mother told him about her pregnancy. He was over the moon! Your mother had never seen Loki so thrilled before. He vowed that he’d protect your mother and, without question, you once you were born.

The same question would be thrown at her day in and day out, “Can the little one call me ‘Uncle Loki’ once they’re brought into this world?” Your mother would always laugh and agree to let him have the title of being your uncle.

He loved playing with you. Casting illusion of different animals seemed to be your favorite thing when you were around 3 years old. Loki didn’t mind your requests. He loved seeing you play with whatever animal you wished him to make. Your mother watched from the side lines. The tight knit friendship you and Loki had was all she could have hoped for.

Anyways, Loki was sitting in his bed with blankets and pillows all around him. You sat cupped in his hands, hugging his thumb close to your body. It was the only thing keeping the tears in your eyes from escaping. You didn’t want Loki to think you were a baby.

“My dear, if you let go, I will cast illusions of your favorite animals”, said Loki. He was going to bribe you in anyway he can. Loki didn’t want to see you scared anymore, especially in his presence.

You surprisingly ignored his offer. You thought that he was just going to leave you be, but after a few seconds passed, there was suddenly a weight on your waist that was pulling you away from Loki’s thumb. You held on with all the strength you could muster up, but it just wasn’t enough. Your hands lost their hold on the thumb and you were soon being lifted up to meet the gaze of two green orbs, Loki’s eyes.

“I win”, said Loki with a smirk on his face. If anything, Loki lived up to being your uncle pretty well. Mainly due to the fact that he loved to tease you.

You didn’t say a word to him. “Oh come now, you honestly don’t think that the monster in the film is real, do you?” He paused for a brief moment so you could think that over. “Well, actually now that I mentioned it, I’m fairly sure those types of beasts live in New York-...” He felt you grip on tighter to his finger that was pinching your waist. Loki smiled mischievously.

He decided to keep on poking you with his remarks. “I have actually seen pictures of those creatures in a book back on Asgard. I do recall one of the chapters stated that they feast on children-...mortal children to be exact.”

Loki expected you to laugh, even spare him a little smile, as he joked with you. He obviously wasn’t being serious. Those monsters in the film were a complete disgrace to the ones that could be found throughout the nine realms. However, none of them ate mortal children as Loki had told you. So in the end, you honestly had nothing to be afraid of.

All he got in return were tears covering your cheeks. You started whimpering; your body visibly shaking. It was hard to keep it together when Loki told you that there really are monsters out there. You just couldn’t hold back the tears anymore.

Through your whimpers, which were getting louder, you heard Loki gasp in front of you. As quickly as you started crying, you were gently pressed against a soft, but firm, warm surface. Your eyes shot open and saw that Loki had pressed you close to his cheek, giving you a makeshift hug.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Loki’s other hand approaching. His pointer finger extended outwards and you watched as the tip of it rested on your head and tenderly moved back and forth, stroking your soft hair.

You let it all out at this point. More tears streamed down your cheeks. You stretched out your arms as far as they could and hugged Loki back. The comfort that you were getting from Loki helped a lot.

Loki did his best to calm your nerves. He wasn’t exactly a pro when it came to empathizing with others, but when you, and even your mother, were the ones who needed a shoulder to cry on, Loki would do whatever it takes to get your mind out of its miserable state.

He slowly started to pull you away from his face. A dagger of guilt punctured his chest when he felt you try and grasp onto the skin of his cheek.

You didn’t want the hug to end yet. Facing Loki with the amount of tears that had just left your eyes wasn’t exactly how you wanted Loki to see you. You wanted to be brave for him, but right now it was hard.

Loki held you in front of his face again, gently using the pad of his finger to wipe away your tears. You sniffled as he did this, which made Loki think you were going to start balling again.

“Shh, shh, it’s alright Y/n. I was just joking, my little dove. There are no such creatures like the ones in the movie that even exist”, said Loki.

“B-But you said-...”

“Shh, shh. Forget what I said. What I said were lies. I was just teasing you.”

He pulled his finger away from your face, allowing you to wipe away the excess tears.

Silence filled the space between you and Loki. You had your hands laying in your lap as you sat cupped in Loki’s massive ones.

Loki noticed that he couldn’t feel your tiny form shaking in his hands anymore, so he asked, “Are you alright now, darling?”

You let out a shaky breath. “Y-Yes.”

Loki smiled to himself. “Oh thank the norns”, he said in a funny tone.

You giggled. Loki always knew how to make you laugh. His sarcasm was your number one favorite thing to belly laugh to. You couldn’t even think about the times Loki and your mother had thrown sarcastic replies at each other. You laughed for more than an hour that day.

“How about I choose a movie that isn’t scary? Would you like that, my dear?”, Loki asked as he lowered you down to his chest. You nodded your head yes.

“Alright. Let’s get you comfy then, shall we?” Loki tilted his hand and watched in amusement as you slid down his long fingers. You landed on his chest and almost immediately covered yourself with Loki’s shirt.

He laughed at this. “Y/n, I found the most soft blankets in the tower and yet you cover up with my shirt?”, asked Loki.

“I-It just makes me feel closer t-to you. I feel safe and protected”, you simply stated. You couldn’t see it from your position, but tears had sprung into Loki’s eyes. For Loki to know that you, the smallest being he had ever conversed with, felt safe with him, was the one thing he was most proud of. Many beings that were his size feared him, yet here you were.

“That means more to me than you know, little Y/n. Thank you”, said Loki. You smiled up at the giant god and curled up in a ball. The warmth that radiated off of Loki was much better than any blanket that you covered up with.

“O-Oh! Loki?”, you shyly said. He looked away from the television across the room and down at you with a questioning look.

“Can you c-cup your hand over me?”, you asked.

“Of course I can, sweetheart”, he said. Loki gently rested his hand over you. His hand was so big, he could cover your entire body and no one would be able to tell if there was a little borrower underneath it. He loved how tiny you were.

You could hear the movie that Loki decided to play begin, but sleep decided to take over instead.

Loki smiled from above you. “Good night, my little, brave Y/n. Your Uncle Loki will be here when you wake up. Sleep well.”

#tom hiddleston #loki fandom #marvel #mcu loki #loki laufeyson #loki #loki g/t #loki odinson #marvel g/t #dailymarvel

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what-big-teeth · 4 years

Text

Heal (Male Fae ; Fic Raffle)

And done! @serenitydusk requested a story with the female reader being a witch who encounters a male fae. Like I said before, my muse grabbed hold to her wonderful ideas and refused to let go until there was story that incorporated those elements (all 11 eleven pages worth). So I hope you all enjoy this fic!

tw: blood ; injury ; attempted break in Female Reader (POV) x Male Monster The forest is alive in more ways than one.

The verdant green of the trees and underbrush is near blinding. The shade of the rich soil almost appears jet black. And the scent of the fresh blooms is short of addictive; almost mouthwatering.

All signs of the Fae.

You’ve known this fact ever since you moved to the outskirts of your picaresque, rural town. The power ebbing and flowing from the surrounding land told you as much. You haven’t pinpoint the exact source, and you’re fine with not knowing.

Some stones are better left unturned.

You know the land you live on is not your own. So you leave offerings near the thickening edge of the forest, where the old trail has been reclaimed by nature. Today, you offer a small jar of honey, freshly gathered from a nearby hive; untouched, chilled milk in a glass bottle; and healing salves neatly packed and tied in dense cloth. The latter is always gone when you return to give more offerings the next day.

Since you’ve begun paying your respects, in return, your decrepit cottage has slowly recovered from the damage caused by time and the elements. The musty scent covered up by the herbal bundles hanging from the ceiling has turned naturally sweet. The molded cracks and leaks in the walls and roof no longer exist. And most importantly, your meager foraging has grown bountiful, leaving you with an excess of ingredients to use. Most of it for your famed healing salves and ointments. You can’t help but smile knowing your work is just as popular among the Good Neighbors as it is among the townsfolk.

Which is why today, you’re able to head into town to answer a house call.

You tuck away another container of pain-relieving ointment then slide the top of your leather satchel in place. After a final glimpse at your cold hearth and sun-filled workshop, you set off.

The main path into town leads eastward, past two, towering rows of conifers. Their citrus, piney scent engulfs you with every step.

By the time you reach the town’s entrance, the sun is almost high in the sky. The townsfolk are up and about with many greeting you cordially. You do the same, but keep pace towards your destination. A few fallen leaves and pine needles cling to your light cloak; you know the fabric is suffused with the forest’s scent. Your patient won’t mind, but her caretaker may be offended.

Once your feet carry you down a narrow, cobbled street and to a bold, blue door, you lift your hand and give the barrier three solid knocks. There isn’t enough time to pluck away every needle and dust off every leaf before the door wrenches opens.

Roderick regards you with a critical eye, as if the piercing stare will send you scuttling back to your cottage. You stand your ground instead, and give him a pleasant, practiced smile.

“Good morning, Mr. Tate. I’m here for Mrs. Hale‘s weekly house call.”

You quickly learned to never call Edith anything but Mrs. Hale in his presence. The first time you did, your affront nearly left you without the gold coin and tip she promised you. So you adapted and now tread carefully, letting Roderick hear what he’d prefer. But great god and goddess if he didn’t make your attempts at pleasantries difficult.

Roderick hums low then steps away from the threshold. You swiftly enter in case he decides to change his mind.

“Mother is near the hearth. She insisted on preparing some tea,” he says, voice tightening. “‘For our guest’”, she said.

Roderick can barely think of you as such thanks to how you’ve proclaimed yourself a witch. You hope, with time, he’ll slowly come around. Just as many of the other townsfolk have.

You thank him and follow him the short distance to the kitchen. Edith sits at their small dining table, her wizened, deep brown hands clutching the steaming mug before her. Her wide nose flares as she inhales the vapors as the fresh scent of peppermint prickles your nose. One of your favorites.

“Roddy, is that the healer?” Her dark, rheumy eyes squint in your direction and her wrinkled face lifts with a smile. “It’s so good to see you, my dear.”

“Likewise, ma’am.”

As much as you wish to greet her properly with a hug or a pat to the back of her hand, you ignore the urge. Roderick could easily kick you out for not treating his mother-in-law with the “proper respect”. Instead, you remove your satchel and take the empty seat across from her.

“Roddy,” she says, “be a dear and pour our guest some tea, will you?”

You glance at Roderick; he looks as if he’s swallowed a bitter draught. But he does as his mother-in-law asks then stands at the kitchen entrance, like a sentinel. No matter. You’re here for Edith and her alone.

As you both chat about summer’s approach and her change in hairstyle, you examine her hands. You carefully bend each finger, checking her expression for any signs of pain. None. You then move on to her wrists and see her twinge at the slight movement.

“It’s better than it was before,” she says.

“That’s good, but I’d still like you to keep using the compress and herbal infusion. Warm the infusion and apply it three times a day, as before.”

“Yes, yes. Roddy will help me, won’t you dear?”

As you place some lengths of cotton wool and dried herbs for the infusion on the table, the crinkle of Roderick’s lips and nose lessens.

“Of course, Mother. You only need to ask.”

Edith smiles beatifically before her mouth falls open.

“Oh, you haven’t finished your tea.”

With the way Roderick’s nostrils flare, you know you’ve overstayed your welcome.

“What I managed to have was delicious,” you say, patting the back of her free hand. “I should get going.”

“Won’t you stay for dinner? Roddy can walk you back to your cottage afterwards.”

His gritted jaw says otherwise. You kindly decline Edith’s invitation and gather your satchel.

Roderick leads you to the front door, holding it open as you pass through. A harsh jingling from his person draws your attention.

“Here,” he says, thrusting a leather pouch your way. “Your coin.”

You carefully take it from his tense, outstretched hand.

“Thank—”

The door slams shut.

“...you.”

The bustle from the town’s main square drifts through the air. With a sigh, you turn back the way you came. There are a few items you need to purchase before returning home.

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Like many times before, your offering of healing salves has vanished from where you’ve left it. But surprisingly, so has the fresh honey and milk. That hasn’t happened before. Believing this to be a good sign, you smile and walk back in the direction of your cottage.

You arrive just as the sun has nearly vanished beneath the horizon, before the more natural denizens of the forest have fully awakened. You slide the wooden security bar in front of the door and light your hearth, as you do every night. Your mouth stretches open in a wide yawn, but you ignore the temptation to bathe and curl up in your bed. There are some herbs that need to be hung for drying and your recent tincture needs to be strained. So first—

You hear a knock at the door.

Your brows knit together; you’re not expecting any company. The townsfolk know better than to venture into the forest so close to nighttime.One knock becomes two. Then three, four, five. Silence. You only hear the chirping and buzzing of the usual nocturnal insects. The tight grip on your cloak loosens. Perhaps the person has—

A dull “thwack” sounds against the door. It’s followed by a creaking wrench and a deep grunt of effort. Then again and again. You know the sounds intimately. You’ve passed by men from the town felling trees for firewood in the fall.

The person outside is breaking in.

You nearly lose your footing backing away from the source of the sound. Your gaze darts around your workshop. The knives you own aren’t meant for injuring or self-defense. They pale in comparison to a sharpened axe.

The axe bites into the door with more force. The wood groans. Splinters. The blade hits true again. You see a hint of it through the door. Your stomach roils.

But you manage to swallow your scream. You refuse to give the intruder any pleasure from the palpable fear gripping your chest. Even as your lungs struggle to draw in air, you whip around and grab one of your paring knives. You aim it towards the door and brace yourself for what’s to come next.

There’s a pained yell, mingled with a sharp curse. A growl then an animalistic scream, aimed away from your door. Grunts and groans, which you recognize as signs of struggling. They’re cut off by a weighty ‘thud’ and a lighter one that swiftly follows. The sounds of the forest are muted and you stand unharmed in one piece. But how?

With slow careful steps, you edge towards the damaged door. You place your paring knife on the floor and slide the security bar away, swiftly picking up your knife once the plank is secured.

The would-be intruder lays on the ground in a crumpled heap, their face pressed into the grass. An arrow pierces their flesh just beneath their shoulder, its fletching of hawk feathers ruffling in the night’s breeze. You can’t help but wince; for the shot to have fractured bone, the strength behind such an attack had to be enormous.

Looking up, you see the source of that strength.

Your savior stands half a stone’s throw away, cloaked in shadows. What little light remains from the sinking sun acts as a backlight, revealing his silhouette. You’re able to see the outline of their quiver and longbow. They’re of humanoid shape, but something about his head makes you uncertain.It’s then you realize the odd shapes framing his head are large, curled horns. And see the glowing, green pinpoints staring at you. Not human. But fae.

Neither of you move from where you stand. Part of you wants to, however, not wishing to incur the wrath of this Kindly Neighbor. But you’re frozen where you stand. Perhaps by his power.

“You are unharmed?”

The masculine voice would be soothing if not for the rasping edges surrounding it. He sounds injured, but you have no way of confirming your suspicions. You swallow against the nervous lump in your throat.

“Yes, I am. I…appreciate your aid and concern.”

The fae scoffs.

“Your thanks is misplaced,” he says. “I’m merely reinforcing the laws of the forest established by its ruler. Nothing more.”

A groan interrupts your thoughts on how to continue the conversation. The bulky, would-be intruder shifts his head against the ground, turning their tanned face away from the dirt. You’re able to make out his features thanks to your lit hearth, and find them familiar.Roderick isn’t the only one in town who is wary of you. But he is the most forward with his actions and words. The man lying near your home is one of his friends.

You stifle the curse building behind your tongue. The fae have never condoned vulgarity and you don’t wish to make things worse in this delicate situation.

“You should return indoors,” the fae says suddenly. “And find a way to deafen your hearing.”

A sharp chill rushes down your spine.

“May I ask why?”

You think you hear his grip clench tighter around his bow.

“This man’s actions have assured his death.”

Your stomach plummets as your mouth opens before you’re able to stop it.

“Please don’t!”

The unnatural silence amplifies the pounding in your head. The fae hisses, his body shifting in a stilted manner as he hunches forward to guard his middle. So he is injured.

“And why should I show him mercy?” he rasps out.

“This man has family and friends,” you say. “If they came to search for him, they could disrupt the peace of the town and the forest in general. I don’t wish for any innocents to accidentally bring the forest’s wrath onto their heads because of him.”

Because not even you, who many of the townsfolk believe to be powerful, wish to incur the wrath of the forest itself.

The fae says nothing in return and you fear he’ll deny your request. After a strong heartbeat, you speak again.

“Please do this and I’ll tend to your wounds until you fully heal.”

Your sense of logic catches up to you and decries your words as dangerous. You know what the Kindly Ones do for anyone must be repaid in kind by their own terms. But you don’t take them back. Because avoiding any harm befalling the townsfolk is better than having it seep into the town or fall upon it like sudden deluge. This thought alone keeps your gaze stalwart as the night settles around you.

“Done.”

The weight of your agreement settles beneath your skin and latches onto your bones. It’s a warning; if you don’t uphold your end of the bargain, the oath will find another way. One that’s more grievous.

The fae stalks over to the fallen man. His ram skull mask and long, inky, black hair coming into view. He slowly hefts Roderick’s friend up onto his feet with a claw-tipped hand. If it weren’t for the bloodied slash interrupting the pale white skin of his torso, you believe he could do so without effort. Surprisingly, Roderick’s friend groans then startles, crying out as he agitates his injury.

“Listen to me.”

An otherworldly reverberation bolster’s the fae voice. Roderick’s friend goes ramrod straight.

“You will run back home like the cur you are. You will tell the one who sent you how displeased I am. And if he should step foot in this forest, my hounds will hunt him down and rend him apart. Then come for you.”

The man screams as if facing death incarnate. And in a way, he is. The fae releases him and he runs down the path into town. The fae snorts at the sight, swaying unsteadily.

“One last thing,” he says, his gaze finding yours. “Do not remove my mask.”

He then falls over in a heap.

The forest comes to life again moments later, as if the last few occurrences never happened. You curse freely, the reality of your situation becoming apparent. Clenching your jaw so as not to hear your teeth chatter, you rush over towards the fae. The rhythmic rise and fall of his bloodstained chest makes you sigh with relief.

It takes a great deal of strength and energy—neither which you barely have due to the long day—to drag him inside. It’s only after securing your home again that you keep hauling him towards the rug before the hearth. Sweat beads your brow once you finish. One obstacle done. Checking over his injury reveals some stemming thanks to the clumpings of dried blood. That gives you enough time to create a makeshift bed and gather what you need. Warm water, pieces of cotton cloth, ointment and healing salve…

The blood that once stained his skin now clings to your hands. But thanks to your attentiveness, the injury is concealed beneath a generous amount of medicine and two layers of cotton cloth. Your patient shifts against the thick quilt and pillows beneath him. A good sign.

“You’ll need to remain here for a few days for the wound to heal properly.” You rub your clean forearm against your clammy brow. “Is that alright?”

“Whatever it takes to hide my moment of weakness,” he rumbles curtly.

You resist the urge to curl your lip. He’ll be just fine.

“Shall I leave the hearth lit for you?”

“No need. I can sleep without it.”

With an accepting hum, you place a blanket onto his brown breeches, ensuring it doesn’t touch his wound.

“If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to call. Pleasant dreams.”

A sense of wrongness almost overcomes you with him inside your home. Luckily, you’re able to stave it off. You know you’ve done the right thing. You’ve saved an innocent family from the attention of the fae. You’ve saved a guilty if foolish man from a pain worse than death. These realizations bolster you, becoming a calming mantra.As you finish straining your tincture and hanging your herbal bundles to dry, you feel as if you’re being watched. You refuse to turn and confirm this, your shoulders hunching.

“Conall,” he says.

You nearly drop the damp, clean sieve in your hand.

“Pardon?”

“You may call me Conall. It should help make my temporary stay easier.”

He falls silent immediately after. It’s only after ensuring the green pinpoints have vanished that you heat up your bathing water, douse the hearth, and retreat to your room.You hope he heals and leaves soon; time cannot pass fast enough. But you know it won’t.

Slumber pricks at your mind and it coaxes you into unawareness.

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The awkward tension between you and Conall rears its head the next day. He accepts the food, drink, and aid you provide without a word. Which you are more than satisfied with. The only thing that stirs your annoyance is his staring.

Perhaps Conall hasn’t seen a human up close going through their usual routine. Or he hasn’t been inside of a human home. Either way, you feel the vivid pinpoints that are his eyes follow you when your back is turned. The strain comes to a head two days later, when Conall’s injury has begun scaring.

“What is it?” you snap.

If Conall is surprised by your tense words, you can’t tell due to his mask. It only serves to infuriate you more.

“You’ve stared at me as if trying to look right through me, even though I’m doing what I can to ensure your health. Yes, this is part of our original bargain. But I will not be made into some object in my own home! Why is it that you stare so much?”

Hints of frigid fear attempt to douse your building irritation. You stifle them easily, expecting a snide response.

“You are worth looking at,” he says. “Especially in my eyes.”

A new heat replaces your searing temper. One that floods your cheeks and heats your blood. Your mouth snaps shut and you swiftly finish wrapping cotton cloth around his torso.

“Y-Your injury is nearly healed,” you say, standing up and hurrying towards your filled basin. Thrusting your hands into the chilly water does nothing to help. “You should be able to move easily now. Perhaps leave in a few more days.”

“That is good to know, healer.” You hear something akin to mirth in his tone. “Perhaps I will get to see more of that fire you have hidden before then.”

You flee moments later, as much as you’re later loathed to admit. Even worse, his words stay lodged in your thoughts even into the next day. But that isn’t the only change you notice.

Conall begins to compliment your cooking, sincerely stating how comforting it is. He even aids you while you wrap his torso with fresh cotton cloth by holding it in place. During one long day after a promised house call, you find him asleep before the lit hearth. As expected. But the bundle of vivid, wildflowers awaiting you at the table is new.

So is the smile it brings to your lips and how you welcome it.

Soon enough, Conall begins to ask you about your house calls. About seeing Edith weekly. About Lucas, the little boy with golden-brown skin whose illness you’re monitoring. It isn’t surprising when the talks veer into more personal territory. He asks about your favored places in the forest and in town. What sweets you prefer. How you gather the offerings you leave near the forest’s edge.

“But how did you…”

Your voice trails off as his gaze darts away from yours. You smile and place your spoon into your cooling stew.

“I take it my healing salve is of the greatest use to you?”

Conall hums, lifting another bite of dinner underneath the pointed edge of his mask.

“The honey and milk are not unwelcomed,” he murmurs. “Perhaps that can be said about other things as well.”

This time, his eyes meet yours. And with a small thrill, you realize the sight of them no longer frightens you. Before your bravery leaves, you reach across your table and place your hand on the back of his.

“I agree.”

Your smile falters. As much as you wish to not ruin this peaceful moment, reality nudges at your mind like always.

“You’ll be leaving soon, won’t you?”

Conall pulls his hand away. Only to gently thread his fingers through yours, being careful of his claws. But he still skims your skin with them, making your shiver.

“Yes. But I will return, if you wish to wait for me.”

The breath you take is silent, but heavy. You release it as you laugh, happiness bubbling up from inside you.

“I do. For however long it takes.”

That night, before bed, Conall calls for you. As you kneel beside his makeshift bed in your nightshirt, he lifts his hand and cups your cheek. With his other hand slowly lifting his mask, he closes the distance between you. His lips press against your skin, then trail down the side of your neck before resting at your pulse. He lingers there, then gently scrapes his sharp teeth against the area. Your self-control nearly shatters then and there as he pulls away, replacing his mask.

“When the morning comes, I will be gone.” You can hear the smirk in his voice. “But when I return, I plan to continue where I left off.”

You lift your own hand to touch the back of his.

“Can I know one thing before you go?”

He nods.

“Why is it you can’t remove your mask?”

His thumb stroking the warm skin of your cheek pauses stiffly before resuming.

“This...is my punishment for my recklessness,” he says. “It’s one of many shackles binding me to the Queen who rules over these lands and lands beneath the hills. As long as she holds them, I’ll never truly be free. All of my being will solely belong to her. My thoughts, my appearance, my strength, my skill. Anyone who attempts to remove those bindings will face her wrath. But no more.

“I have something precious to fight for and see again. Even if I have to challenge every member of her Hunt; even if I have to face her head on, I promise I will prevail. So that one day, you’ll find me standing before you, utterly freed.”

Hot tears slip from your eyes and he patiently wipes them away.

“I accept your bargain,” you say. He coaxes you closer, pulling you into a warm embrace. Even with your nightshirt acting as a barrier, you commit the feeling of what skin touches yours to memory.

Morning wakes you with a slight chill in the air. You lay on Conall’s makeshift bed a bit longer, inhaling the fading scent of him: deep and heady like the forest after a strong rain. This, too, you lock away in your heart as you stand to your feet. All that’s left to do is to wait.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Days become weeks. And weeks turn into months. Soon enough, the harvesting festival is nearly here with the townsfolk preparing for the festivities. You still make your usual house calls, some to newer patients and others to familiar ones.

Little Lucas has long overcome his illness and is happy to play with the other children again. Edith always has a cup of herbal tea with honey ready for you, glad to talk to you about anything and everything. Roderick is nowhere to be found during these visits. But the few times you do glimpse him, he looks at you with muted fear. He may never change.

But at least now, he knows you aren’t to be trifled with.

That evening, after the festival, you finish creating another batch of ointment as the harvest moon illuminates the night sky. Fatigue slows your attempts at cleaning your tools, but you manage to finish the task. A series of knocks on your door startles you. Forgetfulness and drowsiness are to blame for you not securing your door.

Wary, you silently take the sharp dagger gifted to you by Edith a few weeks ago. You slowly walk towards the door and open it.

A shirtless man with vivid green pupils surrounded by black peers down at you. The scar running against the bridge of his straight, pale white nose nearly interrupts his entire face. One of the pointed tips of his ears is missing, replaced by a healing scab. But it and its twin are framed by familiar curling horns as is his head. His ragged yet long inky, black hair shifts as he sways. A wet gasp tears from your throat as he pitches forward and you break his fall.

“Conall!”

He buries his nose into the juncture of your neck and shoulder. The hot breath he releases is tempered with a soft kiss on your skin.

“How I’ve missed this scent.”

A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. You hold him close, sniffling against your tears.

“It seems I’m injured yet again,” he mutters wryly, sounding tired.

You place a hand against your beloved Conall’s cheek as he grins, being careful of the green bruising.

“I’ll take care of you,” you say. “If you’ll let me.”

The weight of your promise settles into your bones, palpable but not unpleasant. It even sends a shiver down your spine. Or is that caused by Conall’s warm smile?

You’re not sure. But at this moment, you don’t mind not knowing. Not as you close the distance between the two of you. Before the warmth of his kiss is all you know, he whispers against your skin.

“As long as I can do the same for you.”

#monster boyfriend #monster/human #monster romance #exophilia #fae boyfriend #fairy #fair folk #200 follower raffle #I hope you all enjoy!#fem reader #female reader

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authorkoushik · 3 years

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The Story of Sarama from Adi parva of Mahabharata and its essence in present context

The chapter three of adi parva of mahabharata narrates the story of the celestial feminine hound sarama. the dog of the gods. the story happens in the time of Janamejaya the son of pareekshit. ( the famous devotee of lord vishnu who listened to srimad bhagavata purana from the holy saint and realised guru shika brahma maharshi - son of vyaasa maharshi. )

Janamejaya was in a sacred sacrifice along with his brothers . One of the sons of sarama came to that place where the sacred sacrifice was happening.

Since the place was sacred and the brothers of janamejaya feared that the purity of the place may be spoiled by this dog and they hit him and drove him away. the dog cried and pain and sought refuge in his mother sarama - the celestial dog.

She asked her child in a lovely and clear tone, what has happened to you dear child, why are you crying, who has beaten you. the dog answered as he continued weeping. “ brothers of the great king janamejaya of bharata varsha have beaten me. Sarama immediately responded with a question “did you do any wrong?” she asked. He said in a sad painful “No mother!, I have committed no sin nor any fault. I did neither touched the sanctified clarified butter (ghruta - ghee) or touch any other materials. In fact I did not even look unto that direction.” disheartened by the unnecessary affliction of her son, Sarama decided have a talk with the king before making conclusions, she went to the place of sacrifice and addressed king Janamejaya directly. She said “ O king, My son has no fault, he neither licked the sacred offerings nor did he looked at them with desire. your brothers have hit him hard and shooed him away. why has he been beaten? she asked in an angry and majestic tone. There was an awkward silence in the place. the brothers could not defend themselves for their arrogant act. Their silence infuriated Sarama. she felt it was an effort to ignore her. she cursed “ as you all have beaten up an innocent blinded by your power and strength without respecting Dharma - righteousness and unbiased justice) you all would suffer from an unknown and unseen fear (danger) when it is least expected.

न किंचिदुक्तवन्तस्ते सा तानुवाच यस्मादयमभिहतोऽनपकारी तस्माददृष्टं त्वां भयमागमिष्यतीति॥ 1-3-9 (708) जनमेजय एवमुक्तो देवशुन्या सरमया भृशं संभ्रान्तो विषण्णश्चासीत्

when she uttered these words janamejaya became totally shunned and perplexed, he indulged in an effort to seek a purohita to pacify the effect of the curse with prayachittas for his sin after the sacred sacrifice was completed. later found a great sage somasrava son of sage srutasrava and requested him to be his purohita

and the story continues...

if we note carefully in the story , sarama asks if the dog has touched something or licked something sacred when she asks why he has been beaten up and also insists to the king Janamejaya that the dog is faultless as he did not do either which was mentioned above, and hence we can interpret that existence of the dog in the place is not something punishable but it is said not to have dogs inside the house , to avoid such natural canine behaviour

Hence we can understand that all beings ( dogs to priests have been granted the equal right in justice in the holy way of sanatana dharma. there there are rules quoted in some places and scriptures that dogs cannot be allowed in certain places, that does not mean that they must be not be fed or must be let down or be hurt ( by taking the name of scriptures) in vain.

the essence of sanatana dharma preaches and instructs protection of all living beings including animals and birds and its equated to sacred sacrifice. offering food and protecting the living beings are a part of gruhastas ( house holder’s duties)

of course you need not let animals inside your place of worship or your bedrooms or even inside houses but taming them and giving them a home in current contexts cannot be projected as something against sanatana dharma and if done so is a clear misrepresentation.

one can always tie their pets in their respective places on auspicious days but when generic statements are passed that may convey things otherwise in my humble opinion.

bhuta daya (kindness shown to beings is one of the primary parts of sanatana dharma.

सर्वभूतसुहृत् शान्तः ज्ञानविज्ञाननिश्चयः। पश्यन् मदात्मकं विश्वं न विपद्येत वै पुनः॥१२॥

- uddhava geetaa chapter seven verse 12

he who is calm and peaceful and a well wisher , friend to all being who has determined and unshakable wisdom , who is always seeing the world as my own form ( form of supreme godhood - param brahman) he doesn’t fall again. ( he doesn’t perish and lose himself in the cycle of mundane cycles of birth, life and death)

#dogs #indology #hinduism #hindu mythology

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i-did-not-mean-to · 3 years

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Hike-Story

So...I’ve been on a hike today with friends and I’ve been told a lovely local legend of my country and region. I’ve decided to put it into a short story with Thorin.

It’s a sort of prequel to all the amazing stories some authors write about Thorin and OCs while already under the Mountain... Please feel free to reblog and further the local saga of Oberschlinden 😊

So...here goes...

Black

Prologue

In a valley hidden within a dark forest, there were once two villages, very different from one another and yet doomed to suffer the same fate.

The first village was prosperous and industrious and its inhabitants knew much success in their bountiful endeavours, whereas the second village was merry and joyous, filled with music and celebrations all year round.

One day, a weary gleeman came this way and asked to be lodged and fed in exchange for a tune, but the upstanding villagers turned him away for they were much afeared that he had come to rob them of their wealth and goods. “We have no need for your futile, frivolous shenanigans.” They claimed and forbade him to set foot into their town.

Understanding what they were really afraid of, the man replied: “So be it, I should not have taken a single coin that had not been given to me freely. For your callous ignominy, I shall leave you something instead.”

And with these words, he turned around and headed to the other village across the valley.

Here, he was welcomed with open arms. He was fed and housed and after having regained his strength, he went on his merry way again to entertain and amuse other villages. The villagers were much aggrieved about his departure as they had greatly enjoyed his contribution to their daily merriment. They let him leave with their best wishes, nonetheless, for they were an indolent people, unable and unwilling to defend their interests with any kind of forcefulness.

A shadow fell over the valley. A dark sickness befell the first village and rapidly spread across the valley to the other one that had taken no precautions to keep the grim reaper out. Too busy had they been celebrating life and the sinking sun to pay any heed to the pestilence creeping their way.

This is how the first village learned that one who is too afraid to lose what he cannot keep, might well be given what he cannot get rid of, and the second village understood that evil spread faster than fell the night and crept, insidious, into every crack if not actively opposed. Like moss covering the immobile stone, the plague washed over the villages and left none but two women standing.

One of those women would rail and wail all day long, lamenting the loss of her glorious life and of her dear family, until madness took her and she returned to her empty house to wait for death to be her last visitor.

The other one, however, took it upon herself to do penance for the sins of her valley and all its ghostly inhabitants that were heard in the moaning of the wind and the gurgling of the brook.

This is her story.

The sun was low in the sky already when she was startled by the sound of footsteps behind her, making her look up in amazement.

“Good day, good woman, I am a blacksmith and I am looking for the prosperous village hidden in this valley. I am on my way back to my people and I am willing to work in exchange for food and lodging. May you point out the way to me, please?” A gruff voice resounded and a man stepped out of the shadow of the dense foliage.

He was short and stout, unlike any other man she had ever seen in her life, and she was so surprised by his appearance that it took a moment for her to react to his words.

“Good day, Master Dwarf,” she replied courteously, for she now saw that this was what he was, “I am sorry to confess that this village no longer exists. Neither does its sister. I am the last living soul in these parts.”

He looked much alarmed at her words.

“Moreover, there is a sickness lying over the valley. It is not advisable to traverse it.” She went on, getting up from her kneeling position at the foot of the little chapel. “Master Dwarf, I live at the other side of this cursed valley, it is a two-hour walk and the light is failing. I offer you my guidance around the affected area and my hospitality.” She spoke, bowing her head deferentially.

The dwarf seemed to ponder her words for a moment, then nodded.

“Step where I step; the path is treacherous and night shall be upon us soon.” She warned and set out.

Every day, she made her way along the rocky outcrops and the stony ledges, through the dense foliage of the underbrush and the silent desert of trees, to circle the whole valley and pray for hours at the foot of the small chapel for the souls of those who had fallen prey to sickness, stubbornness and wicked ignorance.

Along the way, she collected herbs and mushrooms to sustain herself and produce ointments and potions she sold once a month in the next village, just beyond the valley.

She led a lonely life, but she was unerring in her penance. Those two villages that had been mother and father to her for most of her adult life had done wrong and had been smitten for it by the hand of God. There was nobody left to ask for forgiveness, but her.

“Dwarves have steady steps and exceptional eyesight, even in the darkness. Worry not for me.” The man, for she could not call him anything else than that, answered.

He was well-grown, like an oak, strong and sturdy; he seemed tired though and she vowed that she would not commit the same mistake her forefathers and elders had made; she would be a gracious host. Indeed, she would salve the burns on his bare arms and give him the best parts of whatever she would find in her traps along her daily trek.

“Have you no kin, woman?” He asked after they had mounted a steep rocky ledge leading them through dense undergrowth from which she would extract berries and healing herbs to stow away in the satchels she carried on her back.

“I have no kin, Master Dwarf.” She shrugged, extending her hand to him when they came to a brook. The stones were slippery and wont to shift beneath the unfamiliar foot.

He just chuckled, a sound reminiscent of the big rockslide that had occurred a few months ago, and leapt easily enough across the narrow expanse of wet pebbles.

For a creature looking this heavy, he was surprisingly agile, she thought. She knew nothing about dwarves of course. In her nan’s tales, there had been mentions of those mysterious man-like beings who lived under mountains and in golden halls, but she had imagined them smaller and less…beautiful than what she saw in front of her.

As a matter of fact, she could not remember ever having seen a man quite as enchanting as the one following her swift steps effortlessly. There were beads in his hair that shimmered in the dying light and his eyes were the colour of the great river rushing through the valley; indeed, he was the closest she had ever come to a genuine fairy tale.

“What happened here?” He inquired, as they reached the highest ledge and looked down on the villages, already plunged in deep shadows and obviously deserted.

“A plague broke out and took every living soul. It is said that it was the refusal of hospitality by this village,” she pointed to one cluster of houses, “and the lack of zeal or backbone of that one,” she pointed to the opposite side of the valley, “that led to their doom.”

She had been there, she had seen the people who had been her friends and family die a miserable, painful death and she had waited for the blight to fall upon her as well. It had never come and now, she was the watcher of the dead valley; in a world of ghosts, there was none who felt less alive than her, walking along the deserted ruins of her existence day after day.

“Thank you for warning me.” He had a good voice, she thought, low and kind. It was a miracle to stumble upon another living being, but his voice and the empathy in his eyes felt like a caress upon her bruised soul.

“It is my duty, Master Dwarf. I shall stand in harm’s way as long as I can.”

“My name is Thorin.” He declared in an almost questioning voice. He had been reticent to divulge his name, she realised and turned around to bow deeply.

“Come along, Master Thorin. The light is fading fast now.” She urged him on, almost running along the rocky paths, her feet sending up sprays of pebbles in her wake.

They walked on tirelessly for a long time, until they reached a fallen tree stump that had not been there when she had come this way earlier in the day.

Clambering over the dead wood swiftly, Thorin extended his arms, in turn, to her. She stepped closer and uttered a small cry of astonishment when he simply lifted her over the obstacle as if she weighed nothing at all. “Thank you, Master Thorin.” She bowed again.

He smelled like the pines that grew beyond the valley, she noticed, and like life. Everything about him was painfully alive: the vivid intelligence of his eyes, the small smirk he gave her on account of her breathless incredulity, and the warmth of his hands on her ribs that left a palpable impression.

As she walked on, nearing the point where the path would dip drastically and the danger doubled, she came to accept that she would cherish this encounter until the end of her days.

Maybe God had heard her prayers and granted her the small solace of seeing another soul, of speaking to someone who actually answered and of feeling living flesh upon her own once more.

She extricated a small rabbit from the trap she had laid on the highest crest and pushed it down into her satchel as well, gesturing to the silent valley with a sense of pride.

“This is home. And there’s my hut.” She pointed to a small wooden house at the far end of the valley, nestled between two tiny hills and reflecting the last rays of sun.

The light was growing dimmer now and the way down was treacherous even in broad daylight. “Permit me, Mistress.” He gave her a mocking smile and took her hand.

It felt huge and calloused, but its roughness comforted her. She had lived in this rocky wilderness for years now and the feeling of warm stones would always be synonymous with home to her.

To her shame and despair, she tottered several times on their way down and when Thorin slung his arm around her waist and steadied her, she did not object.

Finally, they reached the little plateau she called her own.

“Give me your boots.” She asked and when he did, she set them aside to be cleaned afterwards.

Stoking the fire, she started taking the small rabbit apart and tossing the various leaves and mushrooms she had collected into the pot filled with fresh water. She would deplete her stocks for him; she would not be a bad host like the first villagers. Also, she would mend his socks, tend to his injuries and clean his boots; she would not be a slovenly scallywag like the second villagers either.

“Make yourself at home.” She invited him, giving him the best chair and a blanket she had woven herself in her youth.

“Are you really all alone?” He asked her, as she sat on the floor, grinding herbs into a paste with devoted focus. “Yes, Master Dwarf.” She smiled, taking his hand and spreading the ointment gingerly on the burns dotting his strong forearms.

“Do you like being alone?” He pressed on, wincing as the wet unguent made his wounds smart.

“It is my punishment and my expiation.” She replied while stirring the stew she was preparing.

His eyes settled heavily on her face and she could read sympathy and sadness in those dark, blue lakes shot through with silver. He looked rather like a gem hewn from precious stone himself, she had to admit, feeling drawn to the solidity of his frame and the living warmth of his gaze.

“Eat, Master Thorin.” She handed him a deep bowl, containing most of the mushrooms and all of the meat she had managed to scrape off the scrawny rabbit.

“What about you?” He asked, suspicious, when she filled a goblet with the fragrant broth.

“Eat.” She encouraged him again. He had obviously known a long and tiresome road and she wanted him to feel safe and cared for; she was thankful for the chance to do right by him.

It was a small redemption of her blood to be a good host after the opposite reaction had plunged her people into extinction.

He looked relaxed now, sitting by the fire, listening to her hum to herself while she cleaned his boots and mended his clothing. “Your gifts are wasted on the dead.” He suddenly said.

“Beg your pardon?” She looked up from polishing his boots, a questioning expression in her eyes.

“You have been a good host to me, you’re a steady cook and a knowledgeable reader of nature. Come with me.”

She blinked. She knew not what he was talking about.

“I am, as I said, on my way to rejoin my kin. Come with me, there is nothing here for you but desolation and loneliness. There are people yet alive beyond this valley and they could greatly benefit from your knowledge…and your sweet nature. Come with me! Be my travel companion!” He reiterated when she didn’t reply.

“I cannot…I am here to…” - “You are here to wait for the next weary traveller and right the wrong inflicted by and upon your people. Consider it done, Mahal has heard you child, I am Thorin, and I shall be King under the Mountain one day. I might be here to deliver you and take you away from this place.” He interrupted her harshly.

A king, she thought, a future king. What prevented him from being king now?

“It is a hard life amongst my people; there will be deprivation and long, cold nights.” He warned her, but she simply motioned to the small hut they sat in while the wind howled with furious intensity outside.

“But…it is a life. I offer you a life, not an easy one, not a pretty one necessarily, but a life. Be the watcher of the living, be the minder of the sick, be the guide of the hale-bodied; leave behind your dead and let them find their peace. Come with me!”

She thought about it for a moment, then nodded. He was right; he might have been the sign she had been waiting for all these years.

Epilogue:

The last survivor of the great plague that had ravaged the valley and left it inhabited forevermore was never seen again. People say, she just vanished at some point. Some hold the belief that she has been carried away by fairies and others claim that on windy nights, one could see her walk along the stony ledges on her eternal way to the abandoned chapel.

We shall never know for sure what really happened to that sole survivor, but her name disappeared from the ledgers, never to be mentioned again in the books of men.

#thorin oakenshield #FanFiction #folklore #imagine #writing #hike #oberschlinder #blacksmith thorin #cursed village #thorin thursday #richard armitage #prologue #go on if you can

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neostriatum · 3 years

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Restoring Force

[AO3]

In physics, the restoring force is a force which acts to bring a body to its equilibrium position. The restoring force is a function only of position of the mass or particle, and it is always directed back toward the equilibrium position of the system. The restoring force is often referred to in simple harmonic motion. The force which is responsible to restore original size and shape is called restoring force.

- Wikipedia

"See also: Response amplitude operator"

He stepped out of the room, aware of the vague humming that indicated Ziggy processing- what, he didn’t know, but his gut told him it was shock. Me, too, Ziggy, he thought, still registering the Fermi suit that clung and shifted to his skin, almost abrasive with how electrified he still felt.

His heart still thudded at a rapid pace, almost concerning if not for the hyperawareness as he cast his eyes over every crevice of his surroundings. The bright white of the Waiting Room shifted to comparative darkness, and it took a moment for the cheery, almost pixelated lights of Ziggy’s interfacing platform to speak through the darkness.

The room was empty, though he guessed not for long, and he curled his fingers inward as if anticipating stiffness from his long time away. The blur of his life was slowly gaining definition, slotting into place subtly with each disoriented step. He exhaled harshly, coming to lean against the operating center.

“Ziggy,” he asked, voice hoarse as it adjusted to being used by him - and not others - again, “Could you- could you tell me the date? Please?”

The humming stopped, a brief stagger, before it resumed at a different pitch that he always associated with the careful cataloguing required of a request. “It is Wednesday, May 5th, 1993, Dr. Beckett.”

He nodded, feeling the edge of one of the command cubes digging into his ribs. Sighing, one of his hands drifted to his temple, pressing a hand there in an attempt to ward off the vertigo and headache that was fluctuating as he recovered from his many years of leaping as his life slotted back into place. “Thank you, Ziggy."

“You’re welcome, Dr. Beckett.”

Something still sounded… off, about Ziggy. He frowned, hand falling away to lever support against the brightly-colored table. “Are you alright?”

A pause. “I am a computer, Dr. Beckett.”

He huffed, amused despite the nagging unease that followed the edges of his thoughts, “I’m aware, Ziggy. But humor me, will you? Are you alright?”

The emphasis of a sigh, modulated through static, “Are you Dr. Beckett?”

He blinked, inhaling as if to answer with a reflexive ‘of course’, but then stopped. It was a fair question, and Ziggy had helped him through many tumultuous events while he was stuck Leaping.

“Where’s Al?”

It wasn’t the question he had intended to ask - in fact, he had intended to rally Ziggy into asking questions of her own, so as to confirm his identity - but his mind was still sluggish, still processing this new data of merging his mind to his own body. Al was always here - Al always reminded him he was Leaping.

If Al wasn’t here - if this wasn’t a Leap - then where was he?

This, apparently, seemed to amuse Ziggy, given the sultry chuckle that answered him. “On the other side of the door, Dr. Beckett.” He answered, “I needed to be sure it was you. … No offense.”

“None taken,” He replied in good humor. His breath still caught in his throat, and he couldn’t ascertain if it was because of nerves, or exhaustion, or both. He squeezed his hand on the console, anyway, in a bid to draw strength from Ziggy’s presence as he stood up on shaky legs.

It took a moment, to regain his breath, and he ignored the intuition that told him Ziggy was closely observing his heartbeat and respiration in order to straighten his posture into some semblance of order.

“Mind unlocking the door, Ziggy?”

“... Of course, Dr. Beckett.”

It seemed not a moment later that Al was careening into the room with all of his usual energy, swearing up a storm at Ziggy and ostensibly followed by the entirety of PQL on his heels.

The entire entourage stopped on a dime as Al caught sight of him, virulent Italian stopped mid-syllable. A breath in, one the same tenuous beat as each other, before Al shuddered, looking like he wasn’t sure if he should make another step forward.

“Are- Wha-” Al marshalled his thoughts, exhaling with a tentative, “... Sam?”

“Yes,” He responded, breathless and suddenly giddy as he cracked a grin, trembling finely with the spurt of adrenaline just seeing his friend incited, “Hi, Al.”

“Oh my god,” Al clapped a hand over his mouth, not moving despite the bustling of Verbena around him to make a beeline straight toward Sam.

“Al-” He found that he didn’t know what to say, how to respond, too busy staring at the north star that had guided him so fervently across time and space. He stood idly as Verbena lifted one of his hands, fingers pressing over his wrist to time his pulse.

“You’re shaking,” She murmured, looking concerned, “Are you alright, Dr. Beckett?”

That seemed to snap Al out of his, and Sam thought wistfully that any injury or slight of his would be enough to rouse the man into action. He glanced at Verbena, the fond smile on his face waxing assuring as he mustered up the energy to place his other hand over hers, “Just fine, Verbena. I’m just tired, is all.”

“I’ll say,” She said, amused. “You’re going to be put on strict bedrest as soon as I get the paperwork through.”

“I know you will,” He said, smile widening at the pace he knew she would take to reassure herself that it was, truly, Sam Beckett in her charge, and not other people wearing his face.

It must have been exhausting, he thought suddenly, feeling a pang of pity for the pain that must have put so many people through. Always seeing the face of Dr. Beckett, but never really the man himself.

Al was still rooted to the spot, ashen and mute, while Tina tried to rouse him, her voice pitched into concern. “Al, honey, are you okay? Do you need to sit down?”

There was no observable response, nothing clicking from the man beneath the shattered mask, and Sam took an instinctive step forward. Verbena’s grasp loosened with a gentle, trailing touch, her own concern evident by how she hovered at his elbow in case of collapse.

He found he couldn’t dredge up annoyance at the action - or anything else, at all - too concerned was he with bridging the remaining gap between him and Al. Silence enveloped them, everyone watching his progress with a critical, concerned eye.

For all that it seemed an eternity, it must have only been a few moments, and the flutter of joy and relief that he could hear Al’s stuttered breathing and smell the clinging wafts of cigar smoke from his clothes almost made him stumble. Here before him was the man who had never abandoned him, and the strain of it showed in the paleness of his face, feather-thin wrinkles he knew intrinsically were borne of stress - a match to the increased smattering of grey and white in Al’s hair.

“Al,” He said, quietly, intensely. It seemed to breathe life back into the other, for Al grabbed Tina’s arm with the strength of a man recently washed ashore. The physical reflection of his own mood felt like a mirror, casting back at him the same rigor that had chased him from Leap to Leap.

He couldn’t raise his voice above a murmur, “I’m here now, Al. It’s all right.”

“It’s all right,” Al repeated faintly. He blinked, nodded, a faint sheen to his eyes as he gazed up at Sam. “It’s all right.”

Abruptly, he grabbed for Sam, and Sam grabbed back, their forearms entangled in a dying man’s grip. He felt a sob bubble up, mixed in with a disbelieving laugh - none of it felt real, had felt real, not without confirming for himself that Al was there in flesh and blood on the same plane of reality as he was.

“Al,” He repeated, if only for the joy in saying the man’s name without needing to hide it under his breath, or pretending through a phone.

He was wrapped in a hug, and oh, he would never complain about the suffocating fugue of cigar smoke again, not if it meant he could feel the iron grip of his friend’s arms around him, fingers digging into his back as the suit was twisted in Al’s grasp. Never again, he thought he could hear, Never, ever again.

“Sam,” And there was his name, so brokenly said, and yet it slotted right into the gaps that his heart was cracking apart without. “Sam, dear God…”

He grinned, well and truly despite the tears filming over his eyes and rendering everything a staccato bluster of color, gripping back with equal strength. For Al- for Al, he would fight over the lassitude of his body, to give back even a single gram of the solidarity that the man had given to him.

The swung, for a moment, stuck in time as they catalogued each adjustment to this new reality, no mere hologram or warping of space-time making a mockery of their existence to each other. He didn’t know when he had tucked Al’s head into the crook of his shoulder, but the steady wetting of his suit made it seem like the right decision as he stood steadfast for this indescribably loyal friend.

He wouldn’t break apart, not now, not when he had the pieces of the puzzle put together despite the quicksand of physics leaching away the horrors of Leaping. He clung to Al as he clung to those memories, not wanting to leave his friend alone for either.

“Sam,” Al said, a tremble to his voice that said he wasn’t done grieving - and, Sam reflected sorrowfully, would likely not be done for many years yet. “Sam, how…? How are you back?”

He inhaled, turning the things he could say over in his mind. No one had been in the room, which indicated that no retrieval program was being run at the time of his reappearance. This return was of his own doing, and it sent a remembrance of exhaustion through him, threatening to take the both of them tumbling down to the floor.

“I suppose it was just time for me to come back home,” He murmured instead, and in the heart of it, that seemed to ring true. Al didn’t let go, and Sam didn’t make any move to shove him aside, continuing on with a voice that felt the need to deliver his speculations gently, “I think I’m needed here more, now.”

That caused a hiccupped breath to echo out from Al to the others, an unexpected unwinding of tension that must have kept them ticking away for the miles of years he was absent for. It sent a pang through his heart, the fleeting misery that he couldn’t take all of them in his arms to soothe them.

But the pain was quickly absolved with the satisfaction that he, at last, was able to help Al in the way Al had so frequently helped him. It was no encouraging word to dust himself off and work towards his release from that Samaritan purgatory, but it was exactly what he knew Al preferred - the physical reassurance that all was right in the world.

He couldn’t change the past - their lives had their own struggles reflected in the broken glass of innocent dreams - but what was here now was an ample bounty unto its own. Shifting his grip, he brought a hand up to cradle Al’s head, protective of the terrific mind housed within it.

The action broke some reticence on the other man’s end, and he slumped into Sam’s arms, heedless of the respectful quiet the others were granting them. “You can rest, now, Al,” He said, dropping the words close to the man’s ear, “I’m here, I’m not leaving.”

“Don’t do that again,” Al mumbled, taking remorseless advantage of the sanctuary Sam was offering him.

He chuckled, giving in to the temptation to drop a kiss to his friend’s temple, “I think I’ve had my fill of it.”

“You’d better!” Tina interjected, voice overlapping Gooshie’s. They glanced at each other, flustered.

No time was given for either to cede, for Ziggy smoothly interrupted, “Perhaps now Admiral Calavicci will rest properly.”

Verbena hummed in vehement agreement, “I expect the both of you to head straight to bed.”

He felt the slim smile that broke through Al’s demeanour as he laughed, “Yes, ma’am.”

They kept close, a huddle of people surrounding them as they were fairly escorted to the room the project’s doctor led them to. The chamber was small, and the bed singular, but the exhaustion that rattled through Sam’s bones made him gratefully compliant as he led Al into the room.

“Sleep well, Dr. Beckett, Admiral Calavicci.” Ziggy bid the both of them, flicking off lights until only the dim, yellow lamp kept them company. It was signal enough, and a yawn broke through Sam, rippling over to Al.

The man looked nearly sickly in the low light, its muted shade drawing shadows over the divots of his skin. He looked up at Sam, the lingering effects of shock on his face piling age into his features. It wasn’t the youthfulness that Sam had gotten to know over the course of building the array of Quantum Leap machines, and it tugged at his heart as he reached down to grasp Al’s hands.

“How are you, really?” He asked softly, thumbs brushing absently over the warm skin.

Al seemed transfixed by the sight, and Sam believed it, knowing this tangible intersection of selves would take time - so much of it, now! - to settle in. He didn’t remove his hands, despite the tug of weariness that made his eyelids slip lower in anticipation of a proper sleep.

“I am…” Al’s voice was rough, as if unused, and Sam knew that to be a lie with how often his ear was chatted off with meandering gossip and helpful advice alike. He squeezed the other’s hands in encouragement, waiting out the startled inhale at the reminder that he was really here, “I- don’t know.”

The wounded undertones made Al seem small, miniscule in comparison to the impact he’s had in Sam’s life for so long. “That’s alright,” He murmured, “I’ll be here, anyway.”

That rattled another would-be sob into existence, from deep in the pit of Al’s stomach. Sam caught sight of the tears that wavered on the edge now, and how Al dragged his hands away to brush them away. He beat him to it, though, cupping the man’s face as he thumbed away the tears as they spilled over.

Once upon a time - probably at the very beginning of this mess - Sam probably looked up at Al with the same look of lost despondency that was directed up at him now. He wondered if Al felt the same brokenheartedness as he did, the same instinctive reaction to soothe and comfort. His friend was pretty terrific, and he didn’t doubt that urge to right the world resided in the same spot as it did in his own heart.

He pressed his forehead against Al’s, abruptly wishing for the urge to be closer. Mindless shushing noises spilled forth from him, accepting the frantic grasping that let Al know this was real. God only knew that he needed his own grounding in reality, listening to the sobs shaking through both of them as he wiped away tear after tear.

“I- I thought,” Al wept, “Thought you would never come- come back.”

“You prayed for me,” He murmured, remembering his guise as a priest and the grieving Al tried so hard to fix, words tumbling forth as they did now, “I’m here, you’ve got me.”

His legs were straining with fatigue, an unpleasant after-effect of merging with his own body after so long, and Al instinctively caught him despite his own turmoil, breath stopping entirely until Sam was righted. It paralleled their lives from the Leaping so closely that he couldn’t help but press forth, reassuring Al that he was here, that he was safe, that Al didn’t fail him like he so feared to do.

They were an unstable tangle, difficult to tell who was which in this superposition of keeping each other anchored. His lips upon Al’s were like the quantization of states, a resonance of softness that lulled each other into stability, something less frenetic and more an induced calm. He swiped his lips across Al’s, gently, taking care to memorize the electrification of nerve endings that overlapped with the salt of tears.

“I’m here,” He murmured, pressing the words in the space between their lips, hands encapsulating Al’s face and providing the end points of his care as he repeated his affections, his gratitude, into the waiting gasp before him, “I’m here, I’m here.”

They slowed, eventually, an easing of momentum that rang outward from their trembling selves to the breath between them. It was difficult to tell the edges of each kiss, or who pressed back against the other, a sharing of sweetness that was their own celebration of equilibrium unto stillness.

He felt each whisper of inhale, the oxygen that must be circulating through Al’s blood, and felt, for a moment, that it trespassed back to him, a reciprocation of the lifeline they had relied on so intensely. His fingers had curled at the edges of Al’s hair, tickling at the tips where he had slipped across the edges of his jaw to cradle the man’s head to succor comfort unto his mouth.

Reluctantly, he withdrew, gladly staying within the boundaries of Al’s arms as he was held close in an embrace that held all the familiar protectiveness he had once enjoyed only in words. They did not move, nor speak, content to savor the moment.

He felt a smile pool across his face, euphoria bubbling up. Al matched it, quick as he ever was, a laugh tumbling between them. It seemed to settle the last echoes of stress between them, and a yawn cracked open from him, breaking the whispers of yearning that grief had threatened to eclipse.

In its place swept exhaustion, and though Al looked more lively than earlier, the deep bags under his eyes couldn’t be missed. He dragged his fingers from Al’s hair, down the man’s neck and across his shoulders, watching the shiver that reverberated through him, finely tuned and deeply-wrought.

“Let us sleep, Al,” He murmured.

Al nodded, pressing his fingers more firmly from where they were comfortably lodged in the shallow curve of his waist before they left with reluctance. He stayed close by, anyway, thigh touching thigh as Al unlaced and slipped off his shoes.

The sigh that echoed forth from that action was deep, already limned in sleep’s catching thrall, and they settled upon the bed side-by-side, arms thrown over each other and legs entangled as they drifted off.

Today may be done, but tomorrow was another day, and one they needn’t race to catch up to.

Author's Notes

In the field of ship design and design of other floating structures, a response amplitude operator (RAO) is an engineering statistic, or set of such statistics, that are used to determine the likely behavior of a ship when operating at sea. Known by the acronym of RAO, response amplitude operators are usually obtained from models of proposed ship designs tested in a model basin, or from running specialized CFD computer programs, often both. RAOs are usually calculated for all ship motions and for all wave headings.

- Wikipedia

Pertinent notes:

Original timeline in the sense of Donna Eleese not marrying Sam, nor Beth Calavicci staying married to Al

Although not canon, I kept to the idea of Sam's mind leaping rather than mind + body out of a sense of technical issues that could arise out of our current understanding of physics (i.e. the compression of matter that would deal with the details of "how would Sam fit into everyone's clothes" and the practical consideration of "how would Sam be able to recall his original positioning in the space-time field for an accurate Leap back home")

Quite a lot of the physics and narration is directly influenced by the theory of quantum entanglement

The date Ziggy tells Sam is the premier airing date of "Mirror Image"

#quantum leap #sam beckett/al calavicci #sam beckett #al calavicci #my story

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nana101fg · 3 years

Text

[Flowerverse] Dreamtale: Origins ~ Chapter 1

With every outcome, comes solutions of everything and anything.

With the consumption of the fruit came a change that not many foresaw or seen. Changes came everywhere with every second ticking faster and faster.

One such change was the very tale of Dreamtale.

Two beings changed from the Original tale to suit their own needs and desires.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dreamtale.

An AU of Undertale changed to where nobody was sealed Underground yet a tree sprouted instead.

This tree was not normal nor was it pure evil. It grew into a tree that watched over the feelings that lay bare in everyone’s soul. Negative or Positive, it grew apples that either gave you pure positivity or pure negativity. But like every tale, greed grew in the souls as many sought the Tree of Feelings. Thus, the tree was appointed guardians by beings that sought to protect the tree.

But the guardians were killed off. One by one, many have died while taking the trees location to their graves and only one remained. She could only watch on as her fellow guardians were killed for the whereabouts about the tree and she burned every location of the tree off the map herself as she watched over the tree.

Nobody knew her name nor her origins. Everyone knew her as some kind of dryad that never had a real tree to claim as her real body so the tree became her home and body. She took upon the name Nim.

So she watched over the tree while keeping watch over the other kingdoms to make sure none come and steal the apples that bloom from its limbs. She eventually made friends with fellow guardians of different trees that were over the land. Lanny and Quetzalcoatl were Nim’s friends and she adored them. They adored her in turn as the three guardians worked together to protect their trees from everyone with greed in their souls.

Years have passed when she met a skeleton with bones as black as the abyss. Nim was still young by more long lived beings but the skeleton has lived longer than she knew of. Nim was cautious at first as the skeleton was the first living being that wasn’t her friends but the skeleton proved that they didn’t care for the apples. The skeleton ignored the apples with ease while getting to know Nim so easily.

It was where she learned the name and their pronouns. Their name was Error, the God of Destruction for the Balance of this Multiverse. Nim saw the marking on his skull easily along with the flower that glowed with a brilliance of blue mixed with red and yellow dots that to Nim looked like stars.

Nim found herself at ease with the Yang aligned being as he never asked for any info of the apple nor while she was alone with only her tree for company. It’s also where she learned more everything outside her little AU.

Error got rid of corrupted data, virus’s, or even destroyed AU’s if there is too much for the Multiverse at once. He fixed and cleared any data that can bring harm for the whole of the Multiverse. He was also a Keeper of Information as he deals with codes that can change everything if Error does one small step wrong. Error knows many subjects as he has to keep several top secrets safe in his mind.

Of which when he has to destroy an AU he wraps the red soul of DETERMINATION in strings to make sure they don’t reset then he kills everyone else off so they can never fall victim to the Void. He will release the soul when there is enough space for them but they will stay wrapped in his strings so they can’t make the AU come back of which will set off a reaction if there isn’t room.

Nim found this information fascinating as it showed more sides to those considered ‘evil’ or ‘dark’ as from what Error tells her then those forces are just general. They are every day and needed, no matter how everyone tries to stamp them out. Error then showed her the darker side by showing certain AU’s and their natural cycles.

Nim found herself more in awe of the forces that not many would ever think about. Nim knew of her balance between emotions but she never imagined of how beautiful it can truly be. Nim was truly younger than her more mature friends but she was more open than them as they both were set in their ways unlike her. Error showed her how everything had a side along with a story that can be told. Nothing was ever truly white or black like everyone voices but Nim saw the grey that it was truly.

No, everyone was neutral in the beginning until influences gave way the false white and black.

Nim was truly grateful for Error as he showed her so many things. Of which lead to Nim forgiving the humans, slightly. Nim still held some hatred for humans but she now knew that not all of them were greedy in nature. Though Nim would still keep her guard up around humans until the human proves themselves to her.

Of which it didn’t shock her that she gained some feelings for Error. But she knew that Error wasn’t looking for a relationship at the time as she saw how tired he was from his counterpart going over the limit multiple times. So Nim would just put her feelings on the backburner for the time being.

Until she found herself dying.

She was bleeding out from a deep cut on her stomach from a human that found her. She killed him but the human told her why he needed the apple. His wife was dying and he thought by getting a positivity apple he could heal her. Nim didn’t know how to feel as he had cut her deep but she felt pity for the other. Nim told the human that her apples didn’t work that way and he just smiled sadly as he died along with her. Nim decided to create two other guardians for her tree, one for positivity and the other for negativity.

The human then asked something that made her pause.

“Lady, May I ask you to use my soul? I’ve wounded you to where I know you have to create other guardians but I know that you will make them both one guardian of certain emotions. Positive and Negative. I will just ask you to take my soul and split it 50/50 so your little guardians can feel both emotions than only one certain types. I want to own up for my mistake and greed that overtook me. I’m…sorry…that I…took……away…….anything.”

Nim looked at the human as they cried and she gave a solemn nod as she took his soul carefully. His soul was a mix of PERSERVANCE, JUSTICE, and DETERMINATION. She gave the now dead human a nod while burying the body under her tree. She wanted to human to have some peace. Nim huffed lightly as she carefully split the soul while cleansing the new souls. She smiled as she saw their little lights dance in her hands. She spoke softly and lovingly to her children of their new roles while her body got more transparent every passing second.

“My children, I’m your Mother but my time has come to an end I’m afraid. I’m passing on to join the Tree of Feelings, of which you shall be the new Guardians. Nightmare, you are the guardian of Negativity and thus shall keep the balance of negativity. It’s not a bad thing my dear, for the light needs darkness to shine so brightly in the first place. Dream, you are the guardian of Positivity and thus keep the balance of positivity. But remember, with every light, greed and pride lie in wait to strike. Keep each other safe and remember, I will always love you, my little lights. I just wish Error can meet you both before I pass, he will love you both no questions about it.”

So with her last remaining strength, Nim created skeleton bodies for them and put the twin souls into the empty rib cages. Her soul yearned for a day where she could see Error again but her soul merged with the tree and thus two new guardians were left under the Tree of Feelings.

Nightmare and Dream just slept peacefully under the tree while dreaming of a beautiful green woman talking to a skeleton with black bones and tear shaped markings.

Change has happened but the beginning was the same for the small differences.

While for Error?

He never knew of his friends passing until later in the years.

And by then, Dreamtale would be sealed with making anyone forgetting it even existed.

Error never found out until Nightmare showed up years later and the Universe unsealed.

By then, Dream became the one corrupted and Nightmare the only guardian left for emotions.

(I don’t own the Original Dreamtale or anything close to it. I just own the idea of a multiverse called Flowerverse with Dreamtale being apart of it. Flowerverse is an AU that is a Multiverse of where everyone has flowers growing from one of their eye sockets or places. These flowers give powers that suit you and only you. Please bear in mind that none of this is canon for the Original Universes or timelines but for this AU it is canon. I also posted pictures that feature what they all look like, you might just have to find the post.)

#undertale au #undertale fandom #dreamtale #error sans #flowers #canon divergence

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squiggle-dragon · 4 years

Text

Faded

Lightning flashed, lighting up the dark sky for but a moment as the rumble of thunder echoed through the land. It had yet to start raining, though it was only a matter of time before the storm would arrive in its full glory.

Labored breathing could be heard as a tall figure stumbled through the vegetation of the countryside, trying to escape from some threat. Pale hair could be seen, though what would normally have been the color of fresh snow was currently dirty with tinges of blood and soil.

The man's foot caught an upturned tree root and he fell forward, shutting his eyes tightly and hissing in pain upon making contact with the ground. His abnormally sharp teeth were gritted as he twisted his body to clutch at his chest, where blood stained his clothing.

Of course, it would choose to start raining at this point and the figure let out a shuddering sigh, "Figures… this is stupid. Damn gods…."

The injured fox demon stared at a particularly large blade of grass several inches away, mulling over his predicament. He was injured - and severely so. It was unlikely that he'd make it out of this alive, especially if those infernal gods were still trying to track him down.

What did he do to deserve this? Ah, right - killed a bunch of people. It's been at least a couple of centuries since the last massacre, but apparently they aren't willing to forgive and forget. At least a dozen were gods… or was it two dozen?

Hell, no wonder they were pissed.

The wind kicked up and buffeted against his fallen form, causing him to shut his eyes. ‘Crap!’ He wasn't sure if it was from the storm or one of his attackers had managed to find him. He needed to keep moving…

He needed to hide.

The demon clenched his jaw, hating the thought of having to flee like some coward. The great and powerful Soul Eater, who has taken on great entities and overcame them despite being at a major disadvantage, having to run away. Until now, they feared him….

With a quiet sigh of resignation, Soul closed his eyes again and focused. His physical form shifted and started shrinking. Where there once was a more humanoid figure now laid a small, white fox. Well, mostly white, given the dirt and blood currently staining his fur.

Soul pushed himself to stand, staggering slightly and wincing as more blood dripped from his wound. He couldn't succumb to his injuries now; he had too much to prove to those high and mighty gods. Weak and injured was not how they were going to last remember him.

Ignoring the pain the best he could, the small fox trudged through the grass. His large ears swiveled at another rumble of thunder, trying to also listen for anything unusual. Not that he could exactly present much of a challenge in his current state. Maybe give them a nasty bite on the face….

Soul paused to shake out his fur, sending both blood and water flying. He immediately regretted it, nearly losing his balance and flopping over. 'Smooth move, idiot.' Apparently, the horrid sensation of damp fur outweighed the pain from a bleeding gash in his chest. 'Ew. Ow. Ew…'

Could his situation get any worse?

It was almost as if the Universe responded with a resounding "Yes!"

The rain became a torrential downpour, which soaked him to the bone in a matter of seconds. 'Since when did I stumble into an active hurricane? At least this damn rain should wash away my blood trail. The last thing I need right now is-'

He froze, hearing movement in a nearby bush. The fox youkai slowly turned his head to see a hulking silhouette. It was obvious to him what it was and he glared skyward, as if his torturer was among the clouds. '-a bear? Seriously, who is screwing with me right now?! What kind of karmic bullshit is this?!'

Soul arched his back and bristled, red eyes flashing angrily as the bear ambled closer. Once the large beast got within ten feet of him, the white fox bared his teeth and growled lowly, 'You really want to mess with me, you thick-headed nimrod?'

The bear paused and seemed to think things over, which gave Soul an inkling of hope that his tough posturing worked. Not that some 'dumb woodland animal' could ever hope to get the better of him when he was remotely close to full strength. However, the fox youkai was about as weak as an average fox at this point.

Once again, fate was clearly not in his favor as the bear bellowed and charged at him. With a snarl, Soul ducked as massive claws barely missed grazing his head. The adrenaline was fortunately numbing the pain for now, which allowed the fox to spring upward and latch onto the bear's neck with his jaws, 'Gotcha!'

With an enraged roar, the mighty ursine thrashed about as Soul clamped down harder, holding on for dear life. Unfortunately, being tossed about burned through his already fading strength faster. With one final shake, Soul came loose and flew several feet before making contact with the ground. Due to the force, his body tumbled another foot or two before sliding to a complete stop.

Soul laid there, stunned and in even worse pain than he had been initially. Hearing heavy footsteps, he mentally screamed at his body to get moving. It obliged, albeit very slowly and not without a large amount of agony. The battered youkai pushed himself up into an awkward seated position, drawing his lips back in a defiant snarl up at his encroaching killer.

He had thought his end would come by one of those pieces of shit claiming to be gods - likely from them raiding him because they sure as hell couldn’t seem to do it on fair terms. But here he was, about to be killed by one of those ‘dumb woodland animals.’ It was so pathetic that he felt bile rise in the back of his throat - or was that a side effect of having the shit beaten out of him?

Despite his (pathetic) attempts at intimidating the bear, the large creature grunted before taking another swipe at the small fox. Adrenaline and moxie could not save Soul this time and the weakened youkai went flying again, bleeding from the side of his neck where the bear’s claws raked him. He let out a gasp of pain upon making contact with the ground, shutting his eyes tightly.

His small form laid there, curled up and shivering in pain as the threads of fear wrapped themselves around him. Soul could not remember the last time he felt like this, though he had never before been skirting so close to death. Despite being so long-lived, he really did not want to die here. Not just because of his ego and his soon-to-be-killer being a simple bear, but for whatever reason… the thought of ceasing to exist terrified him.

His ears twitched slightly upon hearing the bear’s heavy breathing getting closer, likely as it moved in for the final blow. Try as he might, Soul could not get his limbs to move at all outside of the shivering. He felt a breath ruffle the fur around the back of his neck and stiffened, holding his breath….

Suddenly, there was a loud raucous that was enough to cause him to fold his ears against his head in an attempt to muffle it. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it sounded like someone was hitting something repeatedly and shouting at the top of their lungs.

*Clang!* *Clang!* *Clang!*

“Go away! Back off!”

Soul belatedly realized that he no longer felt the bear breathing down his neck and dared to turn his head to look behind him. The bear could be seen running off, disappearing into the nearby bushes. ‘Huh.’

Faintly hearing other footsteps, the fox youkai’s eyes slowly drifted in the direction he made them out to be from. He was quite tired and was more than ready for a nap - even if that nap turned out to be permanent. He’d lost a fair amount of blood and had been in two fights almost back to back. If this new development was how he was going to leave this world, then so be it.

Instead, his eyes trailed up to the form of a human girl as she hurried over to him. He couldn’t make too much out between his fading eyesight and the darkness. There was some artificial source of light, but it only worked to further obscure her. He felt a hand rest on his side and lightly ghost across his wounds, but he found it strangely reassuring.

His ears caught whispers, mostly in regards to her assessment of his sorry state of being at the moment. Soul’s eyes once again traveled up towards her face, but couldn’t make much out aside from a strange - almost childish - hairstyle. Normally, he’d be alarmed in such a situation, but he felt strangely at ease.

There was a peculiar rustling sound and he saw her taking her outermost garment off, which seemed almost like a hooded cloak. Soul winced and squeezed his eyes shut again as he felt himself being scooped up and wrapped in the article of clothing. Everything hurt so badly that he almost wished he was killed by that stupid bear. He apparently let out a whine, because he felt her grip on him tighten before she stood with him in her arms.

“Don’t worry little fox - you’re safe. Rest now and please stay alive….”

The fox youkai was confused by the tone of her voice and picked up the faintest quiver in it. Soul also realized just how cold he was, even while being wrapped up in whatever she had been wearing. Despite his usual pride, he found himself unconsciously snuggling up against her for warmth and let out another small whine from the effort. He could feel them moving - and judging from the motion, she was running.

He struggled to stay awake and succumbed to his exhaustion shortly after - lulled to sleep by her heartbeat.

#Soul Eater #Soul Evans #Maka Albarn #SoMa #Soul Eater AU #fox youkai #fox demon

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mandymc · 3 years

Text

can't make you love me:

Dan Jones/Reader

Also on AO3 :)

Summary: You're falling for your boss, Daniel Jones, who just sees you as nothing but a release for his stress.

Notes: Dan fucks you hard but is a bad boyfriend. You're his assistant. (Just go with it.)

Warnings/Tags: Shameless Smut, Boss/Employee Relationship, Vaginal Sex, Desk Sex, Vibrators, Blowjob, Spanking, Rough Sex, a bit of edging and orgasm control, light bondage???, some angst???, you love Dan and he loves his report.

Chapter 1: Mr. Jones

Your foot is tapping and you're biting your lip, watching as the right hand on the clock above your head is inches away from the exact time he said to come to his office and bring coffee. You hope you got it right, you frantically scribbled down, in your little lined notebook what he specifically asked for.

Black. Two sugars.

Your thighs clench together, they always do when you think of him, your boss, in his deep voice, ordering you around. You hate what he's fucking doing to you, you weren't always like this, horny as hell at work, you were professional, then he came around, and you developed a stupid little crush, your skirts started getting shorter, and he noticed, and punished you for it, you remember the first time your pussy walls seized around his dick, he bent you over his desk, and spanked you, grinned to himself at the evidence of his large red handprints, and squeezed your cheeks together, slid his cock between, no one had ever fucked you like that and you were certain no one would ever again.

Naturally, you assumed him fucking you to tears every day on his desk meant that your feelings were reciprocated, and it would go somewhere, dinner, the movies, anywhere away from the office, and the stacks of paperwork.

Tick tick

But you knew it, he knew it, it was an unspoken mist in the air, he could never flat out say it to your face.

His work, his report comes first, always. And you would be fine with being second, but you're not sure you're even third. It's been weeks since he's even acknowledged your existence.

You lay the notebook on the seat beside you. No way he could see it, and you know he'd be curious too, probably mock you for writing all those dirty little thoughts, no, he wouldn't just mock you, you think, knowing your superior he would make you read it all aloud in front of him.

Tap tap.

One more second.

You shake off the nerves, not today, you think, you are better than this, and you're going to show him what he is missing.

Knock, knock.

"It's open."

You hear him say, voice all too familiar yet all too distant.

You shut, lock, the door behind you, and stand up straight, placing the cup of coffee on his desk, firstly, you notice the dark-purplish circles under his eyes, caffeine, the only thing keeping him alive, it seems.

"Just as you requested, Mr. Jones."

Eager and patient, you take in every bit of him, hanging at what he will say next, like a thread. But his face is glued to the computer and his beautiful eyes refuse to meet yours.

A mumbled, "thanks" is all you get.

You pout, sit on the edge of the wooden desk and lift your pencil skirt up just a bit, just enough so Mr. Jones could see your lack of panties.

He's typing on the keyboard, and with all the politeness he can muster, he shoos you away, like you're a fucking, fly buzzing, vexing him.

"That's all, you can go now."

You huff.

"I-I-I please, I want you...so badly-" you're interrupted.

"No, I am working."

"Mr. Jones...please, I've been so wet for you since I woke up, and you took my vib-"

He stops you again, focus still solely on the document.

"Yes, I have your vibrator, it's in the drawer here, and because you are such a horny slut, you violated HR rules, and just had to bring it to the workplace."

"You told me to."

"Yes, and I'll decide when you can use it, now go away"

You unbutton your shirt, slowly, taking your tits out of the bra cups, your tongue darts out to try and lick at your nipples, you know he likes that.

But he must not like it enough because your boss is still ignoring you.

"Dan...please, I know how stressed you are, please take it out on me..."

No response. Nothing. Silence.

You move the stacks of paper aside, and you spread your legs in front of him, lifting the skirt higher, and your hand traces down, down to your clit.

And that gets him, Dan snaps and finally, he stops you, his hand digs into your wrist. He's actually looking at you now, handsome as ever, and his cologne smells so goddamn good.

You wince, he's a lot stronger than you and he's standing up now, having enough of your antics, and taking both your wrists behind your back, he manhandles you around the other side of his desk, bending you over, pushing your head flat in the papers.

His name plate falls to the floor with a loud thud, but he doesn't give a fuck right now, not when he's tearing at your useless skirt and eyeing your bare ass that is completely healed from last time. Dan needs to hit you now, he's aching for that release, just as much as you.

"I told you to go away."

With no warning, a loud smack echoes through his office. And another, and another. He spanks you so hard, you jolt forward, nipples brushing against the cold wood.

"Mmmmore...please."

Dan nestles in your neck, breathes hot in your ear, and rubs at your labia, slicking up with every grumble he makes at you, his voice shaky from being so pent up.

"That's what you want?...so desperate for an ounce of my attention?"

He growls and with his full strength, spanks your ass again, you grab at the desk for dear life.

Tears start to form already in your eyes at the stinging, and Dan doesn't rub or soothe at the redness forming, instead, he grits his teeth, squeezes and pinches your ass cheeks, and with his other hand works his belt loose and pulls it out.

He holds your wrists back together with his one hand, and wraps his belt, ties them so tightly together, making you unable to move, and he almost grins to himself when you try to wiggle out.

Another smack.

"Stay still."

But you want to tease him, you wiggle again and try tilting your head so you can look at him.

He smacks the forming welts on your ass, you cry out. He won't tolerate that today.

"I said-" he pauses, "stay- fucking still."

He presses your legs together, wanting your pussy as tight as possible, he's quick, unzipping his fly and pulling out his hard cock, Dan wouldn't admit that he's been this hard since the second you walked in.

He gives his cock a few tight strokes, and rubs your juices around your clit, teasing you, he can't take his eyes off your cunt and how it seems impossible for him to fit, how you always struggle to fully take him. It's his favorite part, watching how you split open so wide around him, how it almost hurts you every time.

"Please..."

Your whisper is all he needs, and he pushes past your lips and watches as his cock pierces into you, and the little noise you make, he goes lightheaded, overwhelmed with the drive to fuck you silly on his desk. He groans, and adjusts his tie, lifting up his shirt and digs into your hips, thrusting with vigor.

"Oh...oh my god...that's so good, fuck"

You whine.

Dan's head tilts back, and he slams into you over and over, you hear his skin slap against you. Slap, slap. It's incredible, but he wants to go deeper. He squeezes your cheeks apart, and you sob as he pushes all the way into you, you feel his balls smack against your clit, stuffing you full, a smile starts to tick upon his face when he sees your tight little asshole almost bulge out with every thrust. He feels himself about to cum, and after a few more deep thrusts, he's growling and pulling out of you, your pussy gushes and contracts at the sudden lack of fullness.

"Come here, on your knees, suck it."

Grabbing you by the hair, Dan pulls you off the desk and sits you on your knees in front of him, he's stroking his cock in your face and pushing the head into your lips, moaning around him, you taste your own tangy juices and do what you're told, you suck.

Your boss quietly mumbles out, "yes, ah..goddamnit, such a good fucking slut." Wrapping your hair in his fingers, he's forcing your head down, and you gag. He does it again, and holds your skull, slides his cock in and out until, he's just too thick to handle and you gag again.

He pulls you off, and lifts you by the waist, sitting you back at the edge of his desk, you hiss as your ass stings at the impact, Dan's kissing into your neck and spreading your legs apart.

"You want me to get the vibe? Put it on your little bud while I stretch you?"

"Fuck, Dan, please..."

Instantly, he's at his desk, pulling out your vibrator and laying it beside the ruffled papers.

He's on you again, breathing hard in your ear. "I'm going to make you scream, let everyone hear how much of slut my assistant is."

"Dan..."

He pushes you down, lifts your legs and your ass hangs at the edge. Dan grabs at your tits, and his cock dives into you again, thrusting perfectly, upwardly, aiming for his swollen head to nudge against your G-spot, it's so good, too good, he knows exactly how to make you cum in minutes.

The noise you make is inhuman, you look up at him and you're full-on crying off your makeup, you feel the warm, knot in your lower abdomen, you're getting so close, and he knows it.

Dan reaches for the vibe, turns it on, and sets it on top of your clit.

The thrusts are brutal, he's hitting your cervix now, and doesn't slow down, not for a moment, all you can manage is a pathetic "please, please." He turns up the setting, and raises his foot up on the desk, giving him leverage to pound you even deeper.

You hear him breathless, "Cum...now.."

The vibe is at its highest setting, and he rolls his hips, balls smacking against your sore ass.

"Let me feel it, cum...cum..for me."

You close your eyes and before you can finally give in to the bliss of the most blinding orgasm, he turns off the vibe.

The build-up warmth, it all crashes down, you whine.

"I change my mind, a little longer", he grunts, you hate him, want to kill him.

"Please...please." You try begging for him, you swallow, "I'll be good, I won't" you choke out a sob, "I won't bother you again, Mr. Jones, please."

He holds back a groan, "Is that..so?"

"Yes..yes..god, please just let me cum."

"You'll stop dressing like a slut? Stop having me focus on this...perfect.. tight...pussy...instead of my work...?"

"Yes!..please!"

"Fuck."

He spreads open your cunt, and turns the vibrator back on, at it's most intense, rolls it in circles on your sensitive nub of nerves. The simulation, how stretched he's made you, his dick rubbed deep against your spot, it's too overwhelming, and once he mumbles in your neck to "cum on his cock" you convulse, legs shake and you scream, his name, over and over, squeezing him in.

Dan looks at your face as it contorts in euphoria, he coos at you, trying his best not to spill all his seed in you as you cum so unbelievably hard around him.

Your breathing comes back down, and his pace doesn't stop. You shake from the sensitivity of your clit thumping, as he keeps the vibe there working it through every second of your orgasm.

He finally shuts it off, and tosses it to the side, he holds your knees up to his chest and fucks you, deeper and deeper until he feels his balls tighten and he's close, and you can tell, the ever-present stern look on his face softens.

"Please, I want it...I want your cum, give it to me." You whisper.

He places his forehead on yours, large hands on both sides of your head and he closes his eyes. With a couple more thrusts, he's a goner, holding you in place so you take all of it, you feel the warm spurts inside you, so deep, you thank your luck you're on the pill.

Dan shudders, curses, and his lips press against yours, finally, he's never kissed you before.

Your tongue meets his, and he's biting your bottom lip, cock still twitching, busting his entire load in you, and it's a big one, you already feel it seeping down your inner thighs.

"Fuck..." He doesn't look at you, just breathes into your mouth, until his orgasm subsides.

Finally, after a long moment of staying inside you until he's soft, he pulls out, a few drops of cum fall on your thighs.

He leaves you like that, Dan pulls up his pants, adjusts his tie, and fixes his hair. As you're still shaking, his cum dripping down your thighs, he goes back to his seat, takes a deep breath, and leaves you spread out, hands tied on his desk. His attention goes back to the computer. Your tears dry, and you roll your eyes, start to wiggle out of his belt.

"No, you're going to stay like that until I'm done."

"But..." You wiggle again, but Dan smacks at your hand.

You know the number of hours, how long he works, up to 3 days straight, sometimes longer.

You huff, it's going to be a long while before your boss frees you. You roll to the side and he doesn't speak to you again, the only thing you hear is the keyboard typing.

____________________________________________________

Two weeks later, you sit beside his office again, watching the clock, waiting to see him. You're writing in your notebook, hearts, and scribbles alongside, Mr. Jones, written repeatedly. You know he neglects you, treats you as some kind of pocket pussy. But you still want more, more of him, more of anything he'll give you, the rare times he decides to give it. You glance at the clock again, your heart flutters, it's almost time.

Tick tock.

You know it. You should hate him. But you know the truth. It's written on nearly every other page.

I love him.

I love him

I love him.

#dan jones x reader #dan jones #the report #smut #chap two will also be spicy...#danny boy #i hope this is ok tho and not too bad! im still practicing writing smut and fics #dan jones x you

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lunartearrose · 4 years

Note

Timsasha pleas (you know who this is)

OH HECK YES listen the moment u said timsasha i IMMEDDIATELY knew what i wanted to do so like. prepare for incoming angst and an alt timeline!

read it on ao3 here!

it got super long but also here it is under the cut!

Squish squish squish.

Tim did his best to ignore the disgusting sounds of worm death under his feet as he ran to find a safe place. The best thing he could find for defense in case of more worm infested zombies was a flag pole with a rather sharp end - a fairly poor excuse for a weapon, but he figured it could at least leave a gross, corruption-ridden fleshbag confused enough for him to run more. And dear god, he hopes not to run into Jane again…

Before he knows it, he sees a sign dangling over a door up ahead, reading “Artifact storage.”

‘Oh that’s just great.’ Tim thought. It was the last place he’d ever want to hide in, but nonetheless he ran right in.

It seems the worms weren’t daring enough to come in, but he heard someone walking deeper in the corridors of cursed objects. Steeling his nerves, and keeping that flagpole handy, Tim walks further into the cramped darkness. He kept careful eyes on his surroundings, keeping his eyes on everything he could, while avoiding brushing up against the things that sit in this space. He wonders what made it tough to hear what was ahead… was it the echo?

“I see you!” a familiar voice echoes around him, sounding close.

He’d know her anywhere. It was Sasha. He picks up the pace, not caring what his weapon of poor choice brushes up against, just wanting to see a familiar face in this madness.

“I see you.” a… voice calls. It felt familiar. But it felt so wrong.

He rounds the corner as a struggle begins. The sight before him was nothing short of a nightmare to look at. Whatever was happening instantly caused a migraine to look at - but something deep inside him refused to let him shut his eyes. He felt like whatever this was had simply been another monster attacking, and he knew Sasha was in trouble. Between the bright, pulsing colors and hands gripping the person in front of him - no - people in front of him? There were two. But one of them was Sasha. He was so sure. They were fighting… and he had to act fast-

“SASHA!” Tim calls out for his trusted friend.

“Tim!” two voices call out, one a bit delayed. The image of both the struggling people flickers and ripples, as if reality just couldn’t handle the two existing at once.

But he saw what he needed to see. One figure’s reality seemed to twitch, spasming into elongated limbs and crooked features covered in frayed cobwebs. Tim didn’t need to think twice, and ran forward, plunging the sharp end into the figure that did the awful twitching. The sound it made was like that of plunging it both into a body and a foam square, strange but sickening all the same, as he shouldn’t have been able to just pierce it like that. The creature takes its hands off Sasha, whom he was now a hundred percent sure was her, and grips the end of that flagpole.

“A brave one, aren’t you?” the warbling voice growls at him, now unsure of who’s form it wants to take. Who’s life does it wish to steal now?

Tim gives the pole one last quick thrust before abandoning it and picking up his injured friend. With Sasha in his arms, he runs like hell as the half finished monster gives chase, howling with laughter

“C’mon! That really hurt, you know! If you drop her then I might just spare you!” it shouts at him.

“Fuck off!” Tim retaliates, and suddenly he feels like he’s losing his breath as the monster repeats his words and catches up dramatically.

“Such a coward! Always running away!” they mock, but it’s too late.

Wise to the trick, Tim doesn’t respond, forcing himself to run faster. He’s aching, feeling the scrape of sharp claws that almost caught up, but he keeps going. This isn’t just his life at stake...

Tim doesn’t dare to look back, praying to reach a door, not even bothering to note the out of place yellow of the door he busted through. He ran, and ran, and ran, his surroundings a blur, until the adrenaline finally begins to ebb. His running slowed, his legs shook, heart pounding as he does his best not to fall, placing Sasha’s unconscious body on the shifting floor. He wasn’t sure if the need to cough or vomit was worse.

The entity that so kindly let them in and let the monster lose itself watches on, wondering what Tim will notice first. The answer soon comes as he looks over the girl he was carrying, a girl the distortion knew had a name. Once. They watch as Tim swears and fusses over the scratches on her chest, trying to use whatever he had on hand to slow the bleeding, noting the especially strange wound over one of her eyes, that traveled down her cheek and into her hair, still looking as if it were a glitch in reality itself.

“Sasha! Sasha, stay with me, please…” Tim says to her.

And soon, with enough shaking and pleading, this Sasha girl opened her eyes. She struggled to sit, and Tim helps her, keeping the pressure on her chest wound.

“Tim…” she mutters softly, “I…”

“Thank god, you’re awake… how do you feel?” he asks.

“Pain…” she answers softly, “Please… get help…”

“Right, of course.” he says, finally taking a good look around him, “We’ll- ...oh.”

This gets a chuckle out of the distortion avatar. The two look back at him, and Sasha whines in fear while Tim scooches away from him as fast as possible, not letting go of his dear friend for even a moment.

“We’re fucked, aren’t we?” Tim says.

Michael humms for a moment. “Well… you dragged in a fine meal a little while ago. I suppose I can let you leave just this once…”

“Great! How do we leave?” Tim says, suddenly finding the strength to stand whilst holding Sasha.

“Just keep walking.” Michael replies, pointing in another direction, “You’ll find an exit eventually.”

“Thanks dude. Would love to stay and chat but we need a hospital.” Tim says, running off the way he was told to go.

Once again, Michael simply chuckles to himself, and walks off to find out if the Archivist was faring any better.

…

Tim and Sasha were let out at the front of the institute, where police and ambulances had arrived. Sasha had to be taken to the hospital, and Tim never left her side. Thankfully, her vitals were still intact and all she needed was some stitches and something to help the pain. As for the strange wound over her right eye, it was certainly addressed, but the doctors soon found messing with it both caused Sasha pain and caused strange, unfavorable things to happen. The best they could do is give her an eye patch, and let it rest. Only when she could stay awake would Tim allow them to treat the scratch on his back. He didn’t want to leave her side, and she really didn’t want to be left alone.

Once Tim was patched, he sat back down in the chair pulled up by Sasha’s hospital bed. “How you feeling?” he asks her.

“I’m feeling like an idiot for yelling ‘I see you’ at a monster, for one thing. Other than that, I’m at least not hurting too badly. How about you?” Sasha replies.

“I feel the very same way for not looking where I was running. I really thought we were dead in that moment…” Tim answers.

“Yeah. I thought that too… but we’re safe now, at least.” Sasha says.

She quietly reaches for Tim’s hand and holds it. Tim gives her hand a gentle squeeze in response, watching as she glances out the nearby window.

“I… really thought that was it for me, when that thing grabbed me. I’m glad you came around when you did.” She says.

“I’m glad, too. Really, I don’t know what I’d do if you ended up dead…” Tim replies.

“What was going through your head?” Sasha asks.

“A lot! It was confusing for a while, I don’t know exactly what I was looking at, but… definitely in the end, if that other guy hadn’t let you out at least, I was just afraid we’d never get to see each other again. And really couldn’t handle that thought. I think a lot of what drove me was keeping you alive.” Tim replies.

There was a bit of a pause. She squeezes his hand, and he squeezes back in turn. It was a bit difficult to have the right words to say to something like that.

“I think we both need a vacation after that mess.” Sasha says.

“I agree. I think everyone’s going to need a break after hell broke loose…” Tim replies.

“Yeah… you think we could go somewhere together?” Sasha asks.

“...Like as a group of assistants or…?”

“No. Just you and I. I could use a really long one, and like hell I’ll take it alone with the week I’ve been having.”

The idea of a vacation with Sasha really made Tim happy. He couldn’t ask for anything better than that, and he honestly didn’t want to leave Sasha’s side either. Even if they got to escape that hell dimension, there was no guarantee that the entity of bullshit squiggles didn’t let the monster out too.

“I’d be glad to join you, Sasha. Let’s hope Elias gives us a nice, long break.” Tim says.

Sasha nods. “Let’s hope.”

After that, they fell into another little moment of silence. Sasha listened to the little commercial playing on the tv, eye wandering around the room. Each time someone walked by outside the door, she couldn’t help but feel a bit tense. She tried to take her mind off that unease, focusing on the tv, and the warmth of Tim’s hand. She’s fond of how he’s always there for her, especially now.

“Hey Sasha?” Tim says.

“Yeah?” She replies.

“I… I think I want to tell you something.”

“Alright then. What is it?”

“Well… this whole experience made me think-”

Unfortunately, Tim doesn’t get to finish his sentence. A Nurse opened the door, explaining that someone was looking for Tim. Tim sighs, and tells her to send them in here. The Nurse nods, and soon after she leaves, Martin enters.

“Hey Tim! I was looking all over for- o-oh.” Martin says.

Tim gives a short wave with his free hand, and so does Sasha. He asks, “What’s the matter?”

“I didn’t realize you were visiting someone, that’s what!” Martin replies, then glances over at Sasha and says, “I’m sorry for barging in, ma’am…”

Sasha snickers. “Ma’am?”

Tim scoffs, “You don’t need to be so formal with Sasha, Martin. We’re all coworkers here.”

“Oh! Sorry, I didn’t realize. N-nice to meet you, Sasha! Um, what department do you work in?” Martin asks.

Now, it’s very apparent that something’s wrong. Both Tim and Sasha are now starting to get very worried.

“You’re joking, right?” Tim says.

“Martin we work in the same department! The three of us are Jon’s assistants!” Sasha says.

“What? Thats- no, that’s impossible!” Martin says, clearly confused, “It’s only ever been the two of us helping Jon out, just Tim and I. Elias is still searching for a third…”

“That’s not true, though! Don’t you remember Jon’s birthday? We brought him a cake, scared the hell out of him? Martin, you have to be joking…” Sasha says.

“No, I- I’m sure I’d remember if you were there… you guys arent joking, are you?” Martin says.

“Look, I have proof she works with us!” Tim says, taking his phone out of his pocket, “I’ll find a picture of the four of us, I know I took one recently.”

But try as he might, after several painful minutes of searching his phone, he came up empty. Determined to be right, because hell, maybe that monster just screwed with the memory of those in the institute, Tim marches over to the nurse and asks if she can get ahold of Sasha’s medical records. If there’s anything you can’t argue with, it’s records.

But according to their records, Sasha James didn’t exist.

The only one who ever knew she existed was Tim.

#fanfic #request #ao3 #angst #alt timeline #the magnus archives #tma #sasha james #tim stoker #angst with a happy ending (?)#timsasha #tim x sasha #good taste anon!

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thecoleopterawithana · 5 years

Note

What does your tag "Paul is a concept why which we measure our pain" mean?

Hello, Anon dear!

I applaud your sharp eye! You know, I actually thought twice about adding the tag to that particular post; even going as far as deleting it and then putting it in again. My reticence came from the fact that the reference was quite oblique (even for my standards). Nevertheless, this is a subject that I’ve been mulling over lately, so I thought, “Whatever, these tags are mostly for me, anyway!”

But you caught me! (Though I appreciate that you did.)

I first came across this brilliant phrase in a tag by none other than the ever-insightful @amoralto. I’ve since found out that Rob Sheffield has a chapter of the same title in his Dreaming the Beatles (2017), though he doesn’t go exactly where I thought he would with it; I don’t think we give it the same meaning.

It is, of course, a variation of John’s “God is a concept by which we measure our pain”, whose meaning didn’t hit me fully until I read his 1971 interview with Robin Blackburn and Tariq Ali (the post in which @amoralto used the tag). Here he describes how Janov’s Primal Scream Therapy had been for him until that point about acknowledging and facing his own pain, going to the root of it, instead of seeking refuge in the usual distractions and God-like figures absolution. I can not recommend this quote enough. It is, in my opinion, essential to understanding John Lennon.

In fact, the deeper understanding about this side of John was so important to me that I made a whole post about his patterns of disillusionment immediately after. There, I try to express, among other things, what the phrase "Paul is a concept by which we measure our pain" means to me.

In short, what all this God/Idol/Parental-figure talk boils down to is Agency and the existence or absence of a conscious exercising of it. It’s about the perception of control and how that translates to notions of power.

To reach the absurdity of quoting myself:

“I can’t say that I’m familiar with theology or the exploration of the purpose of faith, but I see John as addressing how people use God - and all the other things he claims he doesn’t believe in anymore - as coping mechanisms for the pain in their lives. The greater the pain, the more you cling to these “distractions” from reality.

Though, this is not simply about distractions, like drugs, sex and success, as a means of escapism. When the despair is overwhelming, you want someone or something you can hand it all over to, and an all-powerful entity to whom you can just turn everything in and absolve yourself of the responsibility. And this Father figure will either make it better and make the pain go away, or it will tell you that there is a grander purpose to the pain, life works in mysterious ways, and it is as it is destined to be.

But the main point here is John’s need to hand over responsibility.”

My hypothesis is that John was made to feel so unloved, his self-esteem was destroyed in such a way as a child, that he doesn’t believe himself to have agency over his life, to have the power to actually chose. Or if he does, he’d rather hand-over that power to someone else and be simply taken care of, instead of having to face the world alone and vulnerable, a possible victim of his own mistakes.

But if John’s strategy in the face of pain and fear was to give up control, Paul’s response was to seize it.

I have explored the possible origins of this coping mechanism in a post about Paul’s childhood. There I propose that the pain of suddenly losing his mother and then feeling he couldn’t count on his father in the aftermath convinced him that he couldn’t really rely on anyone but himself.

To quote myself again:

“Not only had the only reality he’d ever known been destroyed by his mother’s sudden death, his own father – who was supposed to be this strong, unshakable pillar in his life – couldn’t be relied on to hold it together.

Paul had been let down. He was on his own.

Fear steems from a feeling of powerlessness. You feel painfully vulnerable to whatever life might throw at you, at constant risk of being hurt again, and the only solution is to be on the lookout. Be prepared.

Paul was caught unawares because the people he’d counted on to always be there suddenly weren’t. And with his compassionate and reasonable nature, he probably didn’t even blame them at all. But the facts were that Paul had been left hanging, not once but twice, when he needed them the most. So he kind of lost his faith in everything.

Life is chaotic and unpredictable; and people, through no fault of their own, are just as inconstant.

And so, in order not to risk being let down again, Paul took matters into his own hands. He tried to escape the pain and dread of being powerless by seizing control of whatever he could. And that was mostly himself.

And so begins Paul McCartney’s saga of isolating independence and other control-issues.”

It’s that last bit about the “isolating independence” that I haven’t explored fully yet, though it’s something I hope to put out soon.

The thing is, Paul got really good at being self-sufficient. He was confident and had his hands firmly placed on the steering wheel of his own life. He felt he had agency; he had control; he had power.

In a world where people mostly feel afraid, lonely, and powerless, someone who presents such strength is magnetic. You can’t help but admire and love them; you want to be watched over by them and be loved in return.

And there were those who felt rejected from the start, and so grew hateful of their Idol (Yoko Ono, Allen Klein, Phil Spector, Jann Wenner).

But then there were those who felt the Grace of God shining upon them, but by then, they didn’t want to feel such an imbalance in the relationship. Anyone can be a god, after all.

So now Paul’s self-reliance didn’t just mean strength; it meant detachment. As John put it in that Blackburn interview:

“The worst pain is that of not being wanted, of realising your parents do not need you in the way you need them.”

John’s biggest fear and hurt was that of feeling like he needed Paul a lot more than Paul needed him.

That’s why we reach a point where Paul’s way of showing love (especially by trying to help and “ease the pain”) is no longer welcome because it only served to increase the perceived imbalance in the relationship. Paul was seen as always fine and unbothered, so much so that he could afford to be “charitable” with his bandmates. It made them feel inept and redundant.

And this is not just in John’s “head”. This was exactly George’s main complaint during the breakup: that even though Paul always helped him with his songs, he never took George’s own suggestions, which made George feel infantilized, unappreciated and no more than a “backing band”.

Of course, things get infinitely more interesting once we also look at them from inside Paul himself! But I’ll leave that to its own post; I feel I’ve given enough spoilers as it is.

In summary, that tag is used when I feel there is an instance of people treating Paul like God: an unknowable, generally-benevolent, omnipotent being, whose grace you seek so he may deliver you from pain and fear.

And you both adore his steadfastness, his unconditionality, and resent him for being invulnerable, unaffected by your behaviour.

And when you suddenly feel abandoned by this God, if you no longer feel his love or as if he didn’t do his job of saving you from harm, you may as well cast him and his “religion” away; accuse him of being a false idol and everyone who still loves him to be ignorant mislead fools.

(Of course, needless to say that Paul was no unshakable god. But like I said, more on that later.)

#asks me why #paul mccartney #John Lennon #yoko ono #George Harrison #paul is a concept by which we measure our pain #I've seen religion from Jesus to Paul #i just believe in me #I don't examine myself that way #the person I actually picked as my partner #macca #johnny #geo #(unexpected #meta #my stuff #(you really caught me unawares anon... I was wanting to talk about this on a post of its own. Oh well! I'll just repeat myself probably #(And dig a little deeper with actual quotes to support my theories)

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deloresisout · 4 years

Text

I wrote this story for a creative writing contest at my college - then shit hit the fan after the deadline [social distancing] so I don’t even know if I’ll hear back from faculty anytime soon. This was my first time writing in 1st Person (or rather converting a story into 1st person) and I was proud enough to show some people close to me in real life. So, I’m going to post this excerpt here.

I have found that with my increasing age, those around me expect me to be a walking contradiction. Of course, they would never say this out loud, but I have watched as young women wait with bated breath: anticipating for words of wisdom to emerge from my lips. I have also watched as some of these very same women then expressed surprise - astonishment even, that I am capable of recalling years long behind me.

The ability to recall my days spent within the walls of Julienne have brought on many gazes of wonder. But nothing brings forth an abundance of questions more than the fact that I can recall my grandfather with the same clarity.

Even as I keep to myself, the sight of menthol cigarettes neatly packaged and placed atop shelves reminds me of billowing smoke drifting through his dining room. A place I spent much of my childhood studying in.

Then, there are times when my heart swells with warmth when I see men like my husband conceal his silver locks with a flat, rounded cap. Unless Granddaddy was working in the barbershop or, if he was within the sanctity of his own home, a hat would always stay perched on his head. Yes, it was his trademark.

But, even among the woolen flat caps, the menthols, and the strong Southern twang revealing his Alabama roots, one of the things that I will always closely associate with my grandfather would be his rings. Grandaddy possessed so many rings, but I was not given permission to do anything except look on. Once, great admiration had been tied to my yearnful gazes. However, when Ms. Bedel moved in, my days of secretly caressing thick, metallic gold ended. Like granddaddy, she too, is a person I will never forget.

In our early days together, Granddaddy’s rotund lover told me that she was not my mother. In that very same breath, her eyes narrowed as she further asserted she would never be my mother. Despite this, she fulfilled the needs my seven-year-old counterpart required when it came to maternal care.

Ms. Bedel, in my eyes, was a woman who was never truly appreciated by those around her. I know that she certainly wouldn't have been by today’s standards, either. Because even in my time as a wide-eyed, meek child in 1961, there were whispers of how she was too strict. Too reflective of the period that cultivated her.

Her full name was “Lucille Tallulah Masters-Bedel.” At the time, I did not know how a person could have two last names, but later I would find that ‘Bedel’ came from her deceased husband. This was not necessary for me to know at the age of seven.

During my adolescence, a child was to stay in a child’s place. Seen, not heard. Boundaries that children manage to cross today were intolerable in my time.

Being ever obedient, I never thought of doing anything other than what I was told. Appreciation factored into my blind ignorance and how could it not? Ms. Bedel was the one who bathed me at the end of each day. De-tangled my hair. Ensured I clasped my hands together and told God of my utmost gratitude each night. I have no doubt in my mind that each day I spent with Ms. Bedel, the more she came to love me.

This belief was proven in how she provided me with the loveliest dresses. She made sure Granddaddy would use his hard-earned money so that I remained a well-groomed girl, decent for both neighbors and distant cousins to lay their eyes upon if they happened to see me. I can even remember believing that Ms. Bedel once purchased me the dress of my dreams.

It was all white, its collar delicately laced. Lilac flowers in bloom decorated the fabric gorgeously. With my anklet socks and patent leather shoes, the pious women of the community would coo over me, sweetening my self-image by calling me names such as baby doll.

There even came a point in which I had the honor of being among Ms. Bedel’s jewelry, that evening I was almost trembling in her lap. Watching intently as Ms. Bedel clutched onto a small key and inserted it into the jewelry box slot, I could feel my heart pounding. With a turn the box was open, and treasures were revealed right before my eyes.

As I had mentioned, I was an obedient child. If someone said, “don’t do that,” I would not engage in whatever was before me. If somebody said, “don’t speak,” I would never open my mouth. So being given permission to trace rings and necklaces and earrings with my little fingertips filled me with the utmost delight.

While basking in this privilege, I realized there existed differences between a man’s ring and a woman’s own.

Granddaddy’s rings were thick accessories of solid colors, more often than not the dimmest shades of silver and gold. It was almost as if they were old decorations that lost what could once make them shine. There were a few bumps and prongs, but frankly, there is nothing else I can say that compares them to the mesmerizing jewels in Ms. Bedel’s prized jewelry box.

“Where do these come from?” I couldn’t help but ask. “Child, everything you see before you has a story.” With this answer, I thought I would learn about the source of the beautiful pearls of Ms. Bedel’s necklace, or where on earth the little diamonds in her rings came from. I was too ignorant to recognize the wistfulness that hung in my elder’s voice. “During the Harlem Renaissance, I held a man named Aliki Eliopoulos in the palm of my hand. He was bronze, Greek, and we thought we could make it through the odds.” The brief huff that blew from Ms. Bedel’s nostrils was strong: “one night, he found me after the curtains closed and he presented this. This necklace is dear to me…I suppose because I never quite knew where Aliki went.” Pointing out another piece of jewelry was not needed as Ms. Bedel rose whatever called to her the most.

“This engagement ring - not a wedding ring - engagement, was given to me by my first husband. To accept it would mean I would make a vow for him. He knew of my past and knew that even if I couldn’t right my wrongs, I could try to start over with his name.”

Again, she expanded her chest with her second mighty huff. During that moment I wondered, how can this woman seem so disillusioned yet keep each belonging? Belongings that provide her with such unpleasant memories. Where did the hatred end and the sentiment begin?

“True love is a concept,” Ms. Bedel said, the resentment never leaving her tongue. “The idea of that sort of thing existing is new, too. People don’t realize that...but Delores.”

“Ma’am?” I replied. For no reason, I was stricken with fear in how she said my name. All I had known was that she said it with such sharpness that surely my own faults were on the verge of being mentioned - whatever those faults may have been.

“Do not follow in my footsteps.”

I believe Ms. Bedel was sixty-six at this time. The same age as I am now. Ironically

enough, I feel I can understand her without even having the full pieces of her story. My grandfather was a lover of women who were respectable and clean. Women who would not taint his image by being well-known throughout the city for scandalous tales.

I will never say that Ms. Bedel was not a woman who presented herself with high caliber. She sang opera long before becoming involved with my grandfather. She possessed clothes in her closet that continued bearing their tags. Perhaps it was loneliness that brought my grandfather to her, but that I do not know for certain. All I know is that at the end of the day, Granddaddy felt Ms. Bedel would be the most appropriate woman to guide me through my adolescence.

Still, to think back on the many statements - the way her eyes fixed on me, lets me know she was not a pinnacle of virtuous deeds throughout her life.

However, at that particular moment, all I knew was that I disliked the heavy silence her statement brought. It became my intention to steer away from talk of vows and purity so as I refocused on the piled riches, I noticed an emerald glistening among gold and rubies. The longer I stared into it, the more I noticed that it had lighter streaks. Appearing and disappearing depending on my movement. It was like thunder and lightning had been coursing within it. “Ms. Bedel...where did that ring come from?” I asked. “This -” Ms. Bedel lifted it, studied it. “This belonged to my mother.” “Did her husband give it to her, too?”

“My mother was never married.” With that unpleasant remark came another pause that I felt lasted forever. When Ms. Bedel spoke again: it was clear and amazingly without strain, “she hailed from a place in the South that was so unimportant that it can’t even be defined by a name.” She paused, asking me: “Do you know what slave labor is?”

Even in my discomfort, I nodded. “What is it then?” Ms. Bedel did not believe I had a wealth of knowledge. I knew it just from the strength of her gaze. Timid, my fingers slid against the hardwood of her dresser. Not knowing any better, I began recalling how at the age of five Granddaddy decided it was time I learn how Africans - not even colored people, but Africans - were chained like dogs and brought to America. After that, they were bound to pick cotton all day under the sun. That was slave labor, my young mind decided.

“What Africans had to do...” I answered, just barely connecting my gaze with her own.

“No.” My idea was correct, but wrong.

“My mother may not have been picking cotton, but she did live under those horrid conditions. After I was born, my mother bundled me up and took me with her as she journeyed North. Of course, being a colored woman, she didn’t have the luxury of driving or possessing a fortune to get her there in an instant. She worked as a maid here and there until she reached New York...and there was one woman before that.” She paused.

“We were in Kentucky…” Ms. Bedel refrained from speaking yet again, hissing: “I hate Kentucky...and I will never forget that woman as long as I live...she,” Ms. Bedel’s lips were curling, “she was downright nasty. That woman sat so high on her horse, that she had my mother feeding her baby through her teat.”

My face was surely pulling in disgust. I did not understand what was said just the right amount to be puzzled, but I understood enough to be both bewildered and uncomfortable.

“From time to time, my mother would take little things from her house. Sugar, flour. Things that wouldn’t be missed. But before we left Kentucky and never looked back, my mother thought she deserved something more in return, and this ring was it. After my mother passed on, I received it. This beauty has been with me ever since…” Suddenly Ms. Bedel took on a soft and tender tone, it was as if she placed her past behind her. “Try it on.”

Not only was I soothed by a far preferable tone, but I was also elated. Yes, it felt as though I was ascending to new heights. My high emotions would soon leave as the ring was placed on my finger, limp. “Oh…” Ms. Bedel’s lips pushed out, sympathetic. “It’s too big for you…”

“My fingers are too little…” I felt like I was an infant, helpless and insignificant.

“Maybe.” Ms. Bedel took my hand into her own, covering it in love. “One day you’ll grow into it.”

#PAST. / SHAPED BY EVERY MOMENT.#THE LITTLEJOHN FAMILY. / A LOST LEGACY.

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