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clouds-rambles · 3 years

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Im not even gonna go anonymous anymore. Arghh asking for another request makes me feel guilty knowing you have an essay due so i'll just present you a little prompt!

Being immortal and outliving people you love, you know the drill. It must be sad and lonely. But you know what i feel like would be devastating? Just imagine Teyvat in a time loop. Meeting your friends for the first time, getting know them, hearing their plans and ambitions, sticking with them through dark times, falling in love... Reader just happens to be the one to witness all of it over and over and over again.

Don’t worry about it! I’m horrifically avoiding it right now. I’ll probably have some lunch and do some more of it after lunch. I’m talking about things I enjoy so hopefully it wont take up too much of my brain and we’re going to ignore the graphic novel I have to create in 2 weeks too lmao I’m a professional procrastinator

I have a bit of an idea with this so I hope you don’t mind it being platonic and with the Mondstat guys either. I’m going to reference a previous set of headcanons where you’re the leader of the winds. The two writings aren’t related relationship wise though.

Pairings; (Platonic) people of Mondstat x reader

Warning(s); angst

Keep reading under the cut!

You had done this cycle millions of times before. Before you even became the leader of the winds, when you were just a small spirit. Much like your friend Barbatos.

And while the archon of this land could sleep for thousands of years at a time you had elected to protect his people from the dangers that the god of freedom was too asleep to do anything about. And in fairness you can understand why Barbatos has been asleep many a time to avoid his brain contaminating with similar ideals to Decrabain. You can’t blame him really...

But you’re so horrifically lonely. And it’s not like you’re surrounded by an absence of people. In reality you often find yourself over compensating for your loneliness. Nights are often spent in the tavern conversing with mortals that you can’t quite understand.

You half wish you could ascend to Celestia, at least there you can be merry with fellow immortals and not have the constant threat of losing a friend dear.

You have known the Ragnvindr family for many generations. It’s not like they are hard to notice. Bright red hair and, more often than not, a sweet, bubbly personality. Not many of the Ragnvindr’s have been blessed with visions, but they all make their way through life the best way possible. And while they seem to show similar thought processes to the previous anemo archon, especially considering the fact they basically own the alcohol industry in Mondstat, and more recently Teyvat in her entirety. But when you see the family treating their employee’s so well and with a great wage you can’t help but think maybe humanity can move past the age of dictators. Or at least the humans of Mondstat.

The newest Ragnvindr, Diluc had always caught your eye. You had helped babysit both him and his brother while you weren’t busy reminiscing in memories of old mondstat and slaying monsters of your home. The air of change hangs heavy on the air when you’re around them, it seems like the winds you lead are trying to tell you something that you can’t yet decipher.

Until the day comes when you can. Seeing a broken, sobbing Diluc shut you out of his home not only made you sad. But, it infact reminded you that you shouldn’t get too close to mortals. For, like your friend Crepus’, mortal life is fleeting.

You’ve seen many stories over the years, but there’s only so many times you can hear the same story before they all meld together.

Take Amber for instance, decided to become an Outrider because of her Grandfather. How many times had you heard that story? Someones grandfather joined the knights and inspired them? Too many to count. And as much as you want to remember Ambers story, you already know, like all the others, her memory will meld with the others.

Kaeya’s story isn’t one you’ll forget quickly, especially when the deeds of Khaenri'ah weigh heavy on your mind. Though you have seen a small handful of changing of alliance stories in your lifetime his is probably the one that’ll stick the most. Especially when the memory of him crying in your arms after the man he considered a father died.

There’s this one young girl you remember from centuries ago. She reminds you of Barbara a lot. Carefree, loves the people she works for. Just this girl was born a few millennia too early. She was apart of the Windblume resistance alongside the bard Barbatos fashioned himself after. You had attempted to smuggle the girl out the fortress many a time yet she always wanted to help.

Sometimes when you watch Barbara sing you can’t help but cry over a girl you considered your first friend after becoming leader of the winds. Barbara is under the impression that you hate her because of how you avoid the girl. But being constantly reminded of someone you couldn’t save in the end makes you so sad. You’re not sure how Barbatos copes with donning the face of a friend when you can barely look at the face of someone who reminds you of a lost friend.

Razor sits fondly on your mind. He reminds you of the people you did actually save in old Mondstat. You remember checking in on a handful of refugees that you had to hide in old caves and how easily they had climatized to foraging for food. Whenever you see Razor you’re reminded of another young boy who went missing millennia ago who was later found to have been raised by bears.

Through the centuries you’ve become good at pairing up couples. You seem to be able to point out people who will later enter a marriage. You’re not sure if soulmates and reincarnation exists, but that’s your only explanation being able to point to couples so easily.

You wonder for an immortal like yourself would be blessed with a soulmate. Especially considering you weren’t originally in a humanoid form. Maybe there’s some thousand wind out there for you that you’ll never be able to meet and fall for because of this form.

Your mind stretches to Barbatos whenever you think this but you never let yourself linger on it for too long. Lord Barbatos doesn’t like commitment, and you’re very much content with that, yes sir.

Your eyes often linger on Rosaria as you often ponder if she thinks she’s the only nun to have strayed from typical nun doings. You remember telling a small Rosaria tales of Decrabains nuns and how they helped with the resistance against the tyrant. You wonder if that’s what gave her the idea to stray from typical nunnery.

You smile upon Lisa fondly, a bright young woman with aspirations as high as the stars. Much like Rosaria you remember telling a young Lisa about alchemy and sorcery. She had such a knack for it, and seeing the woman return after only two years of study was a little disheartening. But you’re sure there will be people after her who will have similar aspirations with better outcomes. It’s not unlike you’ve seen people scurry their lives away in the pursuit of knowledge. You can understand her want for a different life.

As much as it hurts you in the end most, if not all, the people of Mondstat have buried themselves in your heart. And like you have done countless times before you’ll have to move on from them once you’re dead, no matter how much it hurts. Your mind ponders to Adeptus Xiao of Liyue. He’s under a similar curse to you. The curse of being alone while being surrounded by people. You wonder if that’s why Xiao has distanced himself from mortals.

And as much as you feel like you should take a page out of his book, you find yourself falling in love with Mondstat’s citizens over and over again.

#genshin impact #plationic #genshin impact x reader #diluc x reader #kaeya x reader #amber x reader #razor x reader #venti x reader #rosaria x reader #lisa x reader #genshin diluc #genshin kaeya #genshin amber #genshin razor #genshin venti #genshin rosaria #genshin lisa

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dwellordream · 3 years

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“Perhaps the most degrading aspect of woman's subjection in the early modern period was a husband's right to strike his wife. A proverb recorded in 1475 allowed: ther be iii thyngs take gret betyng: a stockfish, a milston, a fedirbed, a woman. A century later, a jest tried to make the most of this mundane and unpromising subject: A certayne lytle boy seeing his father beating his mother every daye, and hearing him saye one night when he was abed, that he had forgotten to do one thing: I know what it is quoth the chyld, what sayd the father: Mary (sayd he) to beate my mother. While the merry books labored to wring humor from the thud of fist against flesh, church courts adjudicated horrific cases of male violence against women, whether maid, wife, or widow.

English law allowed husbands to beat their wives as much as they liked so long as severe injury or death did not result. On this issue the law was more conservative than church doctrine, which was firmly, though not consistently, set against wife beating. Many preacher-pamphleteers cited the Pauline precept that husband and wife were one flesh, arguing that it was wrong to seek to harm oneself. Henry Smith held that "these mad men which beat themselves should be sent to Bedlam till their madness be gone." Although the one-flesh argument erases the individual woman on the receiving end, at least it could be invoked to stay men's hands. Popular literature did not fail to register the doctrine's attractiveness to wives.

In an early Tudor example of gossips' literature, The gospelles of dystaves, women secretly gather to hear the following "gospel" preached by a wise shrew: "He that beteth his wyfe shall never have grace of our lady tyl he have pardon of his wyfe .... Mary faith it is great synne as he wolde despaire himself / for after that whiche I have herde our vicar saye it is but one body man and woman togather." Some conduct-book authors managed to find a loophole even here. William Whately's A Bride-Bush (1623) called wife beating permissible after all else failed because it could serve as a healing "corosive" to a husband's "owne flesh." In this perverse bit of sophistry, wife abuse becomes pious self-flagellation. Other godly pamphleteers urged husbands to be proactive.

Robert Snawsel's A looking glass for maried folkes (1610) told husbands they had every right to control their wives by firm discipline, "including beating and deliberate changes of mood." One extremist even offered his readers lessons in wife beating, showing how husbands could measure and justify their blows. Certainly, the church did not fully or logically enforce its own strictures. In 1618, for example, an episcopal court judge chastised a Lincolnshire vicar for beating his wife in the churchyard. The offense lay not in his beating her but in doing so on holy ground. Faced with such acts of Christian instruction, wives were told to endure with patience and thank their husbands for the correction.

Henry Bentley's The Monument of Matrones (1589) contained this prayer "to be used by the wife that hath a froward and bitter husband": O most wise and provident GOD ... if it be thy good pleasure with frowardness, bitternes, and unkindnesse, yea, the hatred and disdaine of my husband, thus to correct me for my fault, I most hartilie thanke thee for it ... and that I for my part may quietlie beare the frailtie, infirmitie, and faults of my husband, with more patience, mildnesse and modestie, than hitherto I have, so that mine example may be to the comfort and commoditie of other to doo the like. Many women refused to serve as comforting examples of patience, fighting back when attacked and crying out for help. Neighbors were their first line of defense because local authorities could not be counted on to prevent severe or mortal injury.

Gowing has shown that women under attack turned to women neighbors first and there is evidence that all members of the community expected women to risk their own safety for the well-being of other women. Some beaten women filed complaints against their husbands in church courts or (more rarely) in civil courts. Not surprisingly, women who sued men for violence usually brought other women to court as witnesses. Though many husbands bitterly resented the women neighbors who intervened, neighbors continued to act as a vigilant and moderating force. Because of the wider social conflicts wife beating engendered, the extent of a husband's right to correct his wife was a live issue in the courts and in neighborhoods.

Ballads show irate husbands grousing that their hands are tied, although they itch to pound their wives, because their wives' friends will criticize and slander them. Neighbors upbraid the harshest wife beaters with terms leveled at their sense of honor and rationality: vicious or repeated beatings could raise the cry that a man was "bedlam" or "unmanly." Being known as a wife beater could shame some men, but others ignored such pressure until either a wife's death or the law stopped them.Faced with intransigent offenders, neighbors sometimes escalated countermeasures. In a case from Bristol in 1667, a group of neighbors surrounded a notorious wife beater and threw dirt at him, creating "a loud mocking demonstration" that strongly resembled charivari.

Another example of neighborhood discipline concerns a child beater rather than a wife beater-making it a rare case because parents' right to administer beatings was seldom questioned-but it does shed light on the verbal arsenal that communities could deploy against transgressors. In 1622, neighbors of a prominent Essex citizen named Richard Turner wrote rhymes to mock him for brutally beating his daughter Anne. Among its many verses: Hye thee home Anne, Hye thee home Anne, Whippe her arse Dicke, Will have thee anon. All those that love puddinge, Come unto Parke Street, And learne the songe, Whip Her Arse Dick. As if that weren't enough, the song goes on to compare Turner to a child murderer who had just been hanged.

Written by artisans and tradespeople, the song spread from town to town through the posting of copies and constant singing so that even children came to know the song and torment Turner with it. For a time he was forced to stay indoors, hoping the "balleting" would abate. Visual culture bears evidence of the social pressures that functioned to limit male violence and to succor the abused. "Patience Baited," an emblem by George Wither, spells out collective limits on patriarchal privilege, warning that even the meekest wife will finally turn and fight.

The image shows a sheep attacking its tormentor, a young boy. The poem informs readers that anyone who mistreats a friend or spouse runs the risk of social ostracism: Thus, many times, a foolish man doth lose His faithfull friends, and justly makes them foes .... And by abusing of a patient Mate Turne dearest Love, into deadliest Hate: For any wrong may better bee excused, Than, Kindnesse, long, and willfully abused.

Male drunkenness was a leading cause of "kindnesse long and willfully abused," and jests involving domestic violence are generally alcohol-sodden. Many merry tales strongly criticize alcoholic husbands who ruin their health and pauperize their families. Pasquils Palinodia (1619) blames husbands for driving wives to other men's arms because of their own alehouse haunting and violent drunkenness, while Thomas Heywood's Philoconothista, or the Drunkard, Opened, Dissected, and Anatomized (1635) shows brawling, puking asses and goats served by an alewife who looks on with a touch of scorn. In some jests, wives seize the position of agency in the narrative, in a brief but significant moment of linguistic mastery.”

- Pamela Allen Brown, ““O such a rogue would be hang’d!” Shrews versus Wife Beaters.” in Better a Shrew than a Sheep: Women, Drama, and the Culture of Jest in Early Modern England

#pamela allen brown #history #renaissance #cw: domestic violence #tudor #elizabethan #jacobean #better a shrew than a sheep

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jewish-privilege · 3 years

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(...)

I was a 12 years old when I was attacked by a mob of children and called "Christ killer" — the same age Jesus was, according to the Gospel of Luke, when he lingered in the Temple of Jerusalem and impressed the elders with his intellect — so this issue is undeniably personal. That wasn't the first or last time I was bullied for being Jewish, but it was the only time I nearly died because of it: Those kids held my head underwater, chanting, "Drown the Jew!"

This incident sprang back to mind this month as Republicans tried to figure out what to do about Greene, a particularly obnoxious Christian right-winger who has suggested that a "space laser" affiliated with Jewish banking families caused the 2018 Camp Fire in California, expressed sympathy for the anti-Semitic QAnon fantasies, promoted a video that claimed Jews are trying to destroy Europe, posed for a picture with a Ku Klux Klan leader and liked a tweet linking Israel to the assassination of John F. Kennedy.

(...)

None of this is surprising for anyone who is familiar with the history of American anti-Semitism. Greene is not an aberration, some inexplicable pimple of hatred that blemishes the American right's otherwise Jew-friendly visage. The American right has long had an anti-Semitism problem, and she's just the latest symptom.

This history of hatred "tells us much more about the anti-Semite than it tells us about Jews," Dr. Jonathan Sarna, a professor of American Jewish history at Brandeis University, told Salon. After citing an Israeli historian who refers to anti-Semitism as a "cultural code," Sarna explained that beliefs that vilify Jews as malevolent plotters who secretly control the world have a long history in American political life. "These ideas, which I think many on the left frankly had thought were done and over with, we suddenly see them full blown," he said

Before the 19th century, Sarna explained Jews were stereotypically depicted as being cursed: They were "wandering Jews" for their supposed role in killing Jesus Christ. In the modern era, however, the stereotype emerged that Jews secretly controlled the world and were responsible for everything that a given anti-Semite might regard as sinister. During the Civil War, Gen. Ulysses S. Grant blamed the Jews for cotton smuggling and expelled the entire Jewish community from areas he controlled in Kentucky, Tennessee and Mississippi. When the populist movement arose to address agrarian economic concerns in the 1890s, Jewish bankers like the Rothschilds were a frequent target among ideological leaders like William Hope "Coin" Harvey.

(...)

There's a direct line between those conspiratorial fantasies ideas from previous decades and the anti-Semitic attacks of the 21st century. "Conspiratorial thinking, by its nature, argues that everything is connected," Sarna explained. "There are no coincidences and it eschews complexity. It believes there are simple explanations based on sinister individuals who are manipulating the universe. Unsurprisingly, in a Christian setting, those are Jews."

Those ideas can evolve — Sarna pointed out that the QAnon belief in a giant child abuse ring run by Jews is analogous to the "blood libel," the medieval myth that Jews used the blood of Christian children for rituals — but the underlying assumptions have been consistent. It just so happens that, in the modern right-wing incarnation, Donald Trump's cult-like following believes that "all the enemies of Mr. Trump are now child molesters."

(...)

[Jewish comedian Larry Charles] brought up community organizer and political theorist Saul Alinsky, a favorite target of the right. "He is almost like the devil in a way," Charles observed. "He's like this radical leftist Jew, he fits all the categories. He checks all the boxes."

"Shooting some of these movies, we would see reasonable people who have this blind spot," Charles said. "They have this crazy belief, and there were all different applications and manifestations of it, that the Jews control everything. That is like a mantra amongst a certain segment of the population."

(...)

With the election of Trump in 2016, those ingrained belief systems — which for many years had been kept outside the American political mainstream — became more prominent, and their adherents more emboldened. David Weissman, a military veteran and former conservative Republican who stopped being a self-described "Trump troll" after a 2018 conversation with comedian Sarah Silverman, told Salon about his encounters with anti-Semitism on the right.

Back when he still supported Trump, Weissman recalled, he got into a "little spat" with an alt-right commentator who calls himself Baked Alaska, who was recently arrested after the Jan. 6 Capitol riot. Ultimately they moved past it, Weissman said: "We both realized we were Trump supporters" who believed "Democrats were the bad guys." Once he left MAGA world, however, Weissman said "the anti-Semitism definitely escalated" in interactions with his former allies.

"When I became a Democrat, I was called 'the k-word'" and targeted by "anti-Semitic slurs and tropes," Weissman said. Trump supporters sent "memes of me being Jewish in the oven," and "put my name in parentheses," a common tactic used by the far right to target someone for being Jewish.

(...)

"Anti-Semitism certainly did not start with Marjorie Taylor Greene, nor did it start with Donald Trump, but we have seen an exponential increase in violent anti-Semitic incidents during Donald Trump's presidency," Halie Soifer, CEO of the Jewish Democratic Council of America, told Salon. "That is no doubt related to the fact that he emboldened and aligned himself with white nationalism." She mentioned Trump equating the neo-Nazis in Charlottesville with the peaceful protesters by "commenting that there were very fine people on both sides," refusing to denounce white nationalism and telling the right-wing Proud Boys during one of the campaign debates to "stand back and stand by."

"White nationalism had existed in our country prior to that, and anti-Semitism as an element of it, but white nationalists had never had an ally in the White House until Donald Trump," Soifer said.

(...)

Donald Trump's supposed pro-Israel policies were closely aligned with those of Benjamin Netanyahu, and did nothing to correct for Trump's history of anti-Semitic words and actions. He accused Jewish Democrats of "great disloyalty" toward Israel (feeding into the stereotype that Jews have dual loyalties), removed any specific reference to Jews from a 2017 State Department statement on Holocaust Remembrance Day and has frequently used anti-Semitic dogwhistle terms by opposing "globalists" and describing himself as a "nationalist." When I interviewed Charlotte Pence, the daughter of former Vice President Mike Pence, she talked about her family's love of Israel but refused to answer a question about whether she believes Jews are going to hell — or discuss the creepy messianic theories underpinning the Christian right's support for Israel.

When I asked Larry Charles whether, based on his experiences, there's an opportunity to build bridges with anti-Semites, he was skeptical. "I have not seen a lot of opportunities for bridge building in the situations that I've been in," Charles explained. "The people that I've met through Sacha [Baron Cohen] were very rigid and dogmatic in their prejudices. There was no crossing that gulf with them. There might be tolerance, temporarily. There might be patience, temporarily. But there's no changing that belief."

I hope that Charles is wrong but suspect he is right, which raises the question of how American Jews should react to the Marjorie Taylor Greenes of the world. For want of a better alternative, I think the only solution is to be intolerant toward intolerance. House Democrats were right to strip Greene of her committee assignments, but that is not nearly enough. Social media platforms like Facebook and Twitter need to do more to limit hate speech, even if conservatives cry foul in bad faith (the First Amendment only protects people from government censorship, not consequences from private corporations). Right-wing politicians who attack prominent Jews in ways that can be plausibly construed as anti-Semitic, or by denouncing "globalists," need to lose their funding. People who oppose anti-Semitism must lead boycotts against right-wing media figures who cover for people like Greene, such as Fox News' Sean Hannity.

On a broader level, critics of anti-Semitism must recognize that this form of bigotry is part of America's long history of hate — a history which holds that only white, straight Christian "manly" men have a right to rule — and recognize our responsibility to be allies to African Americans and the Latinx community, Muslims and the LGBT community, women suffering under the patriarchy and the poor struggling to make ends meet. If we limit our empathy merely to other Jews, the implicit message is not that systemic oppression is wrong, but only that we happen to dislike it when our group is targeted. The Jewish tradition at its best instills a moral responsibility to see all the layers of oppression, and align ourselves with its victims.

[Read Matthew Rozsa’s full piece in Salon]

#marjorie taylor greene #antisemitism #american antisemitism

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ibijau · 3 years

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Counterfeit AU pt6 / On AO3

Meng Yao makes himself useful after losing his job, and discovers something unexpected

Names are funny things, Meng Yao thinks as he stares at the sheet of paper in his hand.

Funny things indeed.

After everything that went down in the Hanshi, it's Beastie that saves Meng Yao from himself.

Left to his own devices, he would have either wallowed in misery, or waste time proving to himself that everything that happened wasn't his fault, the way he knows he's done in other lives. But when he comes home after having his past lives thrown into his face and losing a job he loves, Beastie’s mother corners him just as he puts his key into his lock. Her daughter is on school holiday, she explains, and was supposed to be looked after by a friend with children of a similar age. But one of the children came down with something contagious, so the whole plan fell through, and the poor woman now desperately needs help finding someone to look after her daughter.

She’s not asking for Meng Yao to play the babysitter, but he knows so many people, he has so many connections, maybe he could pull a favour somewhere, help her out again.

“I can take care of her for a few days,” Meng Yao offers without thinking. “I’m jobless as of today.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry! What happened?”

“My employer died,” Meng Yao replies, which is close enough to the truth. He doesn’t think Nie Huaisang will continue using his Shanzi alias after this, and they’ll never meet again. He might as well be dead. “I don’t plan on looking for a new job right away, so I can babysit for a while, it’s no big deal.”

She tries to insist that he doesn’t need to be doing that, but quickly agrees after some reassurance that Meng Yao doesn’t mind. She looks so relieved she could cry as she says she’ll drop Beastie in the morning. Meng Yao smiles, certain that his mother would be proud of him for doing what’s right.

Having Beastie around is definitely the best choice he could have made. She’s a good kid, but she’s also high energy and needs to be entertained, which means he doesn’t get to think too much about how much he misses Nie Huaisang and Lan Xichen.

They watch movies together, as they’ve always done when he picked her up after school. They go for walks to a nearby park, and once to a museum to look at old armours and swords. He buys Beastie a fake sword, though they agree to keep it at his place, since her mother already despairs that she so strongly favours boy’s toys. In fact, Meng Yao ends up just spoiling that little girl, the way he would have loved someone to do for him when he was her age. He even has Nie Huaisang’s console repaired so she can play on it, instead of selling it as he’d intended.

The video games are a big hit with her. She’s particularly in love with the same game Nie Huaisang spent too many hours on, that weird little terraforming thing which Meng Yao can’t see the appeal of. He liked that it made Nie Huaisang happy. He likes that it also makes Beastie happy, and that she’s very careful not to ruin the work previously put into it, focused instead on maintaining it and planting flowers

“It looks like home,” she explains when Meng Yao asks about that, and lifts the console for him to see.

It doesn’t look like a homely place, he thinks, and more like a military fortress right out of a wuxia drama. But Meng Yao doesn’t get to make that remark, because his phone vibrates, demanding his attention. Beastie, sitting crossed legs on some cushion on the floor, goes back to watering virtual flowers, while Meng Yao checks some news from his bank account. A lump sum has been sent to him, a good deal more than his usual salary, coming from an account registered under a name he doesn’t recognise.

It has been a week since he was fired.

Nie Huaisang kept his promise.

It really is over.

Not that Meng Yao really doubted it. Nie Huaisang has many faults but indecision has never been one, though he’s always been good at pretending otherwise. Once his choice is made he toys with expectations but rarely ever changes his mind.

Rarely, of course, isn’t never. Meng Yao, foolishly, hoped to be one of those few exceptions.

Those new zeroes on his bank account feel like a divorce, and he never even got a honeymoon.

That night, Meng Yao allows himself a few hours to wallow in misery, after Beastie went back to her mother. He is only human, and it does feel good to eat take-away in front of a cheesy romance. The film's hero doesn't get the girl, who was dead all along. Meng Yao cries, even though he's seen that movie before.

By morning, he's in control again, and takes Beastie to the park so she can run around in the sun, and scare pigeons with her sword.

Those holidays are all great fun, until Beastie’s mother reminds them that she has homework to do.

Beastie is a clever kid, there’s no doubt about it, but she doesn’t much like doing her homework, least of all when she feels she could be playing. It takes all of Meng Yao’s negotiation skills to get her to even look at her school books, and he almost resorts to bribery to make her pick up a pencil. But she works hard once she starts, and Meng Yao, wanting to encourage her, sits with her at the kitchen table to update his resume. Beastie will go back to class soon, and inactivity just isn’t in his temper.

When Beastie is done with her work, she gets permission to put on whatever movie she likes while Meng Yao checks what she’s done in case it needs correcting.

But when he picks up the sheet of simple maths she’s expected to give her teacher on monday, all Meng Yao sees is her name.

It’s really funny. He knows her name of course, though he hasn’t heard it in a while. Even her mother took up to calling her Beastie after he nicknamed her that. It just fits her so well, that active little girl who prefers trousers over dresses because they're easier to move in and always wants to play at fighting. She’s a real little monster, and Meng Yao loves her like that. She’s just Beastie.

But according to the homework she’s spent the afternoon on, she’s also Nie Mingjue.

It could just be a coincidence. Names are funny like that, they pop up in unexpected places, they get forgotten and reused. Perhaps in another life, Meng Yao would have just dismissed it as a random incident.

In another life, he wouldn’t have been called Meng Yao.

It’s the first time this happens since that first life they all shared. He’s Meng Yao again, Lan Xichen bears his old name too, and now he’s found a Nie Mingjue, hiding right under his nose. A Nie Mingjue who likes fighting, and claims that her toy sword is actually a sabre, and who always insists a lot on things being fair, even when Meng Yao tries to give her the biggest share of a food she likes.

It can’t be a coincidence.

Meng Yao needs to tell someone.

He needs to tell Nie Huaisang.

He tries, of course, and without surprise his former employer’s number has been terminated. He has the same luck trying to send an email. Nie Huaisang might as well never have existed. Meng Yao feels helpless, torn between tears and laughter. After spending centuries looking for his brother, Nie Huaisang just might have lost his chance due to being so damn dramatic. Serves him right, Meng Yao thinks, still bitter about being discarded so easily, and never getting a chance to see if things might work better in this life.

Bitterness doesn’t last. Meng Yao cares about Nie Huaisang, more than he should if he were a little smarter, and he knows how important finding his brother again would be for him. And if Nie Huaisang can’t be directly contacted, there’s always indirect ways.

It’s not that Meng Yao misses Lan Xichen, he tells himself that night, when Beastie is back with his mother and he starts writing a long text message on his phone. Well, it’s not just that, anyway. He does miss Lan Xichen, sweet and funny and so eager when talking about art. But more importantly, Lan Xichen probably has access to Lan Wangji, who clearly must know how to contact Nie Huaisang.

Texting Lan Xichen is a strategic choice.

The way Meng Yao's heart jumps inside his chest when Lan Xichen immediately replies is… it's strategic too. He's just glad that his plan is working.

How have you been? :)

I could have been worse. I've just realised something and I think it concerns you. I've told you about that kid I babysit, haven't I?

Little Beastie? Is she okay? D:

She's Nie Mingjue.

This time, the answer isn't immediate. Meng Yao stares nervously at his phone, wondering if Lan Xichen thinks he's lying, or planning something. Considering their first life, who could blame him?

But after a few minutes, his phone vibrates again.

Sorry, I dropped my phone and couldn't get it back from under the couch. Are you sure?? (⊙ˍ⊙)

It all fits. You could come meet her if you want. But it's him, I'm sure.

Did you tell Nie Huaisang???

I can't contact him. Are you in touch with Lan Wangji? Maybe he can warn him.

I have his number, I just texted him! I'll keep you updated! It's so wonderful if it's da-ge!! Can I really meet him? ╰(*°▽°*)╯

Her*?

I'll send you my address. If you can come tomorrow, she'll be there.

Are you sure? I don't think da-ge would still want me around. (≧﹏ ≦)

Meng Yao gives that question the consideration it deserves. It's not an unfair worry to have, and he'd be wondering the same if he hadn't known Beastie for so long.

I literally killed him, and he killed me. If she had to hate anyone it'd be me, but we get along great. We're no longer the same people we used to be. It's the same for her.

If you're sure, then I'll come! (❁´w`❁)

Meng Yao is very sure indeed.

So Lan Xichen comes.

It's odd to invite someone to his flat. It's a small place, a bit messy, full of trinkets and DVDs that Meng Yao would never admit to owning, not with the image he wants to create. He's always avoided guests. But having Lan Xichen over is as rewarding as it is terrifying. Lan Xichen brought some charming little cakes, as if he's visiting someone important, and he smiles at the sight of a movie poster on the wall, confessing he watched it so often as a teenager that the tape broke one day.

"It's my favourite too!" Beastie exclaims. "Meng-ge has it, you know! Can we watch it now?"

Normally, Meng Yao would point out that it's a little rude to ask that when they have a guest. But he can see that Lan Xichen is nervous and unsure how to act around Nie Mingjue, and maybe a movie will let them all relax.

In the end, they spend a pleasant afternoon, the three of them. Once Lan Xichen stops worrying that the Nie Mingjue of old will appear and shout at him for getting him killed, he starts chatting with Beastie about her favourite movies, what she's learning in school, what she wants to be when she grows up. She's very happy to answer, and very impressed when he explains he's a teacher, even though she's finding it hard to accept that most of his students are fully adult.

And when Beastie is back with her mother, Lan Xichen lingers for a while, tempted by the offer of Meng Yao's favourite takeaway.

“It’s amazing how much like him she is,” Lan Xichen says as they sit on the sofa to wait for the food to arrive. “It’s the first time he reincarnates, you know. At least, Wangji told me they’d never found any trace of him before.”

Guilt shoots through Meng Yao. It’s his fault if Nie Mingjue’s soul was so fractured it took him this long to be reborn. Or at least, it’s the fault of someone he was, once, which is nearly the same, and yet completely different. Meng Yao has learned from living and dying several times, and he’s lucky enough to live in a kinder world than Jin Guangyao did. It helps.

“She’s also different from him, though,” Lan Xichen continues, moving just a little closer, until they’re almost touching.

“We’ll, for starters she’s a kid,” Meng Yao points out, wondering if he should take the other man’s hand. If this had happened before the Hanshi, he would have, but he’s not sure where they stand now.

“It’s not just that. In that first life, I knew da-ge as a child too and he was…” Lan Xichen sighs and makes a vague hand gesture. “He was a lot. Way too serious sometimes. We all were, I suppose, but him most of all. The Nie tended to grow fast, to compensate for dying young. I’m… I’m glad that he gets to properly be a child this time. That she gets to be a child.”

“The world has changed,” Meng Yao says, finding the courage at last to brush his fingers against Lan Xichen’s. “Things aren’t always easy but they’re… easier, I suppose.”

Lan Xichen’s returns that touch, gentle and careful as always. This, too, is easier now than it was back then. It’s not easy, but there’s less pressure to conform, less demands to be good dutiful sons, and just a little more space to be their own people, to make their own choices.

Maybe in their next life they’ll meet again and it’ll be even easier to be like this. But even now, Meng Yao is ready to take the chances that his past self wouldn’t have dared to dream of. He leans toward Lan Xichen, hoping to kiss him, but a knock on the door interrupts them and he jumps to his feet to go get their food. The delivery man looks at him a little funny, but makes no comment. If Meng Yao is half as red as Lan Xichen, he deserves those odd looks.

Nothing happens again that night. The moment has passed, and after eating, Lan Xichen has to go home because he has engagements the day after that he can’t cancel.

It's not a date that night, no more than any of their previous encounters were.

It's not a date then, but next time, when Lan Xichen invites him to a restaurant, Meng Yao is informed in no unclear terms that this is, in fact, a date. They go see a movie after, and Meng Yao gets to kiss one of the two most handsome men in the world.

Life is good.

Life is really good, and yet Meng Yao wants more.

In spite of their efforts, Lan Xichen and him can't get in touch with Nie Huaisang to inform him that his brother has finally reincarnated. Even Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian are getting worried. From what they told Lan Xichen they haven't had any contact with him since the day they picked him up at the Hanshi.

"They say he's done that before," Lan Xichen tells him. "They think he'll return in a decade or two, maybe a little longer. Time is hard for immortals, they lose track easily."

That's all very well for them, but Meng Yao doesn't have a few decades to waste, and neither does Nie Mingjue. They're not immortals. One bad illness, a reckless driver, just tripping in the stairs, and it's all over until they reincarnate again, and Meng Yao is done with missed chances.

If he can't directly get in touch with Nie Huaisang, Meng Yao can make a few discreet calls to former buyers, and advise them to get their purchase asserted again, just in case. He makes sure to only contact people who bought legitimate artworks of course. He wants to make a wave, not get in trouble. If Meng Yao knows Nie Huaisang even half as well as he thinks he does, then even in hiding Nie Huaisang will be checking what’s happening in the world of art collectors, and he’ll hear about some of his buyers suddenly becoming fearful of fakes.

It’s a little mean perhaps, when Nie Huaisang is so proud of his counterfeits, but kindness has never been Meng Yao’s greatest quality.

Besides, it works.

One afternoon, when Meng Yao is alone at home, checking a job offer that he’s probably going to reject because he deserves better, there’s a knock on the door. Meng Yao considers ignoring it, but some of his elderly neighbours have been coming to ask for help with their phones or whatever new fancy blender their kids got them to make life easier. Usually, five minutes of easy work means free homemade food for his next meal, which is always a great deal.

When he opens the door, there’s a very old man waiting in the corridor alright, but free food is probably out of the question.

“Well, I’m here,” Nie Huaisang says. “Whatever is going on, it’d better be important.”

#xisangyao #xiyao #sangyao #xisang #counterfeit au #lan xichen #jin guangyao #nie mingjue #nie huaisang #mo dao zu shi #mdzs #jau writes

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melodypond-thewomanwhomarriedme · 3 years

Note

"Please believe me" for 11/river with lots of angst but a happy ending pleaseeeee :( I miss them so much :(

someone reminded me of the fact that 11 didn't tell cl*ra that river was his wife, or that he was married at all and it made me angry

The first thing she did when she regained consciousness was slap him.

It was instantaneous; one sharp slap as her expression contorted with rage and heartache as their eyes met. Her breathing grew heavy as she struck him, and though he expected it he still cried out in pain and stumbled a few paces back.

"How dare you," she hissed, and when he looked back up at her again, his hand covering his reddening cheek, he saw that she was quivering and her eyes were filled with tears. "How dare you, Doctor."

"River," he gasped, as she advanced on him dangerously again, getting out of the bed and striding calmly towards him. "River, I-"

"How could you trap me in that hell," she started, her voice quiet with fury, "and never return? No visits, no messages - I was in that computer for over a thousand years and you couldn't take a second away from your joyrides to even check if I was still there."

He gulped as she glared at him through her tears, still wearing that ridiculous garb she wore in Trenzalore, her hair like a majestic lion's mane against the bright lights of the medbay.

"I thought you would come back," she said, shutting her eyes. She seemed angry - but not at him this time. At herself. "I thought you would have the decency to just erase me if you couldn't find a way to save me. But you just went off gallivanting with your women. Did you even spare a thought for me at all? Or was I really just Professor Song to you?"

"Don't be - I - River - of course -" the Doctor stammered, but as she watched him, his cheek bright red from the force of her slap, she seemed to lose all the fight in her.

She turned back to the bed and leant on it, her shoulders hunched as she cried.

"I thought you would come back," she repeated, but instead of the fury with which she spat the words out before, now it was with a choked sob as tears poured out of her. "I waited for you. Every day I waited for you, until I realised that you wouldn't come. I was on my own. And then, after Trenzalore, it dawned on me - I was always on my own."

She turned and perched on the edge of the bed, looking at her husband with gaunt eyes and a wry smile.

"You never intended to save me, did you, my love?" she asked softly. "You trapped me there when we met but by the time we married you must have realised just how much I would have hated being in that data core - and yet you never had the decency to even see me there."

The Doctor shut his eyes and looked down. He didn't know what to say - she was right, about all of it. She didn't deserve him; she deserved a husband who loved her selflessly and he - he was the most selfish man in the universe.

"I'm sorry," he whispered brokenly, but it didn't sound enough.

"Did you even grieve for me?" she asked him, but she wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer. "Or did you find some other young, pretty thing to impress? What was her name - Clara, was it? I hope you treated her well, my love." she laughed harshly. " Better than you treated me, anyway."

"Of course I grieved for you," the Doctor answered softly, his eyes still shut tight. He couldn't look at her. "I never stopped grieving for you."

But she shook her head. "You didn't even tell anyone about me. Like I never existed at all." she pointed out to him. "Clara didn't even know you were married - what did you tell her I was?"

He didn't answer for a moment. And then he mumbled, "An ex."

She nodded once. "Is that what you want me to be? An ex? Was that what it took for her to fuck you?"

The Doctor's eyes widened. "No, River -"

"I'm leaving," she interrupted. "If you want me to be an ex, then I'll be one. I've spent too much of my life trying to be someone you can love, Doctor. I'm not about to squander my second chance at living on someone who never wanted me in their life."

"Stop," he whispered.

"Why?" she challenged, eyes blazing. "You know it's true. I gave everything up for you. I gave my lives to you - every single time, I was there for you. And you couldn't even-" she closed her eyes and swallowed as more tears escaped. "You couldn't even get over yourself to visit me. Just admit that it's over, Doctor. Because I am so tired of hurting over this - over you."

"It's not over," he said softly, staggering towards her. His eyes were blinded with tears as he dropped to his knees and held her hands. "It's not over, River. You're right - you deserve better than me. You've given me so much that I don't deserve - and I couldn't - I'm not -" more tears escaped and he took in a shaky breath as he continued. "You asked if I grieved for you. I couldn't - after our last night, I didn't leave the Tardis for over a century. I held your pillow to sleep because it smelled like you. I drove myself crazy because I missed you so much it felt like my hearts were being ripped apart."

He looked up at her and kissed the back of her hands. She was watching him and crying silently, red rimmed eyes cautious but hopeful. But he could still see how betrayed and heartbroken she felt, and he wished that he was a better man.

"I'm sorry." he repeated again. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. You deserve a billion apologies after what I've done to you and it still wouldn't be enough." He pressed another shaky kiss to her skin and she felt his lips quivering against her. "When I found out you escaped, I - I couldn't get there fast enough. I was so - so unbearably happy, River. Happier than I'd ever been. It was like my hearts stopped ripping themselves apart."

He sighed, heavy and remorseful, as he looked down and shook his head. "But I don't deserve you. You're right, River. I didn't tell anyone about you. But only because - because every time I thought about you, all the pain would come flooding back. It reminded me that I could never be with you again. So I didn't tell anyone - it wasn't because - I didn't do it so I could -"

"Are you sure?" she asked, her voice gentler than it had been since she woke up. "She liked you, you know. I could see it. And my love, you are not as innocent as you like to pretend. If she's who you're with now and I've showed up and complicated things, just tell me."

His head shot up and he held tightly onto her hands as he answered with a firm, "No. It's not like that, River. I - not since - I couldn't. Please believe me. Please, River."

"But she-" River frowned. "So you didn't fuck her?"

The Doctor flinched at her curse, but shook his head. "There was never any chance of it."

River looked doubtful but didn't say anything. The Doctor sighed and stood, sitting next to her. She didn't move away but she didn't turn towards him either.

"I didn't forget you. You were everywhere, River. I could hear your voice in my head, telling me that I left the brakes on or scolding me for being so slow." he said. She remained motionless, looking down at her lap. "I know I haven't given you any reason to believe me, but I do love you, River. You're my wife. And I - I'm so happy to see you. I'm so happy that you're alive and breathing and - and free. And if you want to remain free, I won't stop you."

At that, she turned to look at him, her eyes slightly widened in shock. He continued, smiling reassuringly at her.

"You choose what you want, dear. I won't stop you. I can be in your life as your husband, or a friend, or," he paused, as though even thinking the words were hard. "Or I can not be in your life at all. I won't blame you if you choose that. But I wouldn't be a selfish old man if I didn't at least try to convince you to stay."

"Doctor," she whispered, but she didn't seem to know what to say.

"I will be better," he whispered, fresh tears springing into his eyes as he gazed at her. His expression was one of hopeful desperation - she recognised it from when they fought together and were on the brink of losing. She never realised she was something he wanted to fight for. "If it's for you, I know I can be better. Please let me try. You don't owe me anything - God knows I don't deserve this at all - but I swear, River, I'll do everything I can for you."

He reached out to touch her cheek lightly, wiping her tears away. "I've missed you so much. I love you so, so much, River."

He leaned towards her but before he could blink she threw herself into him, sobbing into his chest as she clutched tightly at him. His arms wound themselves around her automatically and he found himself holding her, stroking her hair and shushing her.

"Whatever you choose, dear," he whispered soothingly to her, rubbing her back as she shook in his embrace. "Just remember that I love you. Please, don't forget that."

She cried and cried and cried until she couldn't anymore, until tears refused to fill her eyes again. She felt so conflicted but she knew herself - she knew that there was never any choice to begin with. It was only ever him, the Doctor. Her stupid husband.

'You don't have to choose now," he told her softly, as she stopped shaking and simply rested her head against the wet spot on his chest where she cried. "Think about it for a while."

"I don't have to. I know what to choose," she mumbled against his chest. She pushed herself up and looked into his eyes, her hand reaching up to brush his hair out of his eyes. "Just please, don't make me regret it."

His eyes burned with more tears at the realisation that she was choosing him. He sniffed and dropped his forehead onto hers, hugging her tightly to him.

"I don't deserve you," he whispered again. "River, my wife, my partner - my equal. How could I ever fall in love with anyone after spending centuries loving you?"

She smiled against him. "Don't be an idiot, sweetie."

Their lips met for the first time in centuries.

#drfic #river song #eleventh doctor #eleven x river #river x eleven #doctor x river #river x doctor #doctor/river #eleven/river #11 x river #river x 11 #dwfic #the name of the doctor #tnotd #river/eleven #river/doctor #doctorriver #nat's tumblr fics #anonymous

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haloshornsinkstains · 4 years

Text

Demons in My Head [Obey Me]

This is purely self indulgent comfort, I’m not remotely sorry. Featuring mainly Belphegor because apparently my comfort characters also like to try kill my MC. Also featuring my MC Kore.

CW: Mentions of Depression, Self Harm & ED behaviours. Nothing in depth really but be safe. Female OC. Lucifer is a bit of an ass in this, sorry Luci stans?

Belphie woke from his nap to find a second body under the covers with him, pressed up against the warmth of his own. It’s not the first time this has happened. It’s usually Kore, but sometimes Beel finds him in the attic and curls up under the covers with him, clearly not quite over the months they spent separated when he was kept up here against his will. It’s Kore this time, her shorter figure pressed against his chest, and really the fact he’d woken with a little spoon had given it away before he opened his eyes. But she seems smaller than usual somehow, curled up into herself in a way she isn’t usually. It worries him, and as he shifts up onto one elbow (carefully, so as not to wake her) he spots faded tear tracks on her cheeks. It sends a pang of anger through him, ugly and dark, wanting to lash out at whoever hurt her. Her face shifts, brows pulling together to form small wrinkles above her nose. She huffs and he sees her eyes cracking open ever so slightly before apparently she thinks better of it, burying her face in a pillow. Belphie sighed, gently wrapping an arm around her waist and tugging her into him, away from the pillows. “You’ve been crying.” Kore, eyes still firmly shut, shook her head. “You’re a terrible liar Kore. Unless you’re wearing eyeliner on your cheeks too now.” He grumbled, swatting her with his tail until she cracked her eyes open to look at him. “Who upset you?” She just shook her head again, burying her face in his chest. “Just sad.” Belphegor sighed, holding her tight against him as they started to drift off again, promising himself he would find whoever upset her and deal with them.

The Demon Brothers (New) (7) Belphegor: Alright, which one of you upset Kore? Asmodeus: Mammon? Mammon: What? Why’d you always blame me? Mammon: I was out all day. Can’t have been me. Asmodeus: You didn’t forget you had plans with her again did you? Mammon: Hey! Mammon: [angry demon emoji] Belphegor: So, not Mammon. Mammon: That’s what I said! Asmodeus: I’m fairly certain only you, Kore and Levi are in the house right now. Leviathan: I haven’t left my room all day.

Well shit, that was bad. It meant whatever had upset her wasn’t something external, which meant this wasn’t a problem he could easily fix.

Belphegor: And no one forgot a date or anything? Satan: Kore was supposed to attend the new cat cafe in town with me, but she told me she wasn’t feeling well and wanted to stay home. I presume that wasn’t entirely true? Belphegor: She doesn’t seem unwell. Just sad. Belphegor: I woke up from a nap and she was next to me with tear tracks down her face. She wouldn’t tell me who or what upset her though.Just that she was sad. Satan: Are you sure she didn’t just watch something sad? She was crying with Levi and Mammon over one of Levi’s animated films last week. Belphegor: She would have told me. Asmodeus: Come to think of it she has been acting strange lately. Asmodeus: I went down to the kitchen last night to get one of my face masks out of the fridge and she was just stood there eating Mammon: That’s not weird? Asmodeus: No. She was eating like Beel Mammon: Huh? Mammon: [confused demon emoji] Asmodeus: She was inhaling food like she couldn’t taste it. Leviathan: Wait. Was that the night I heard someone throwing up? Beelzebub: I smelled blood on her the other day. Lucifer: Then it sounds like we have a problem.

Belphie swore under his breath. Saying they had a problem was a massive understatement, but then again none of them could see the way she was curled in on herself, or the dark circles and running makeup under her eyes. She looked like hell, and his worrying increased tenfold. She shifted restlessly in her sleep and sighing he pulled her closer again, gently pressing kisses against her head until she relaxed in his grip. Belphie hummed, resting his face against her shoulder and dozing off again.

He didn’t wake up again until Beel came to get them for dinner, the way his twins expression drooped on seeing the state of their human didn’t go unnoticed, though he managed to school it back into a smile as Kore opened her eyes and the corners of her lips quirked upwards in response. “Was I asleep long?” Her hand scrubs along her cheek as if trying to rub away some of the mascara tracked there, and her lethargy along with it. “Doesn’t really matter.” Belphie huffs in reply, looping an arm through hers and tugging her up. “We should get down there before Luci complains.” Normally she would make a joke, or protest about leaving the comfort of their small nest, but instead she nods slowly and follows him. Her footsteps are sluggish, slow in a way that suggests she’s dragging her feet though she doesn’t seem to be doing anything of the sort. She winces when she accidentally bumps a thigh against the door, a sharp hiss of breath through her teeth that she tries to pretend didn’t happen. He wants to ask, but the expression on her face makes him snap his mouth shut. There’s something empty in her eyes that gnaws at his insides horribly, and for the first time since they reconciled he almost regrets allowing himself to care so deeply for this little human. It was easier when he hated the lot of them, when he didn’t need to worry. He spent so long worrying about Lillith and Beel, he doesn’t need another worry to add to the pile. Yet here he was, worried about his human and the way she moved too slow, the way she hissed at anything coming into contact with her thighs, the tear tracks down her face and apparent late night snacking habit. Softly he guides her to her seat, watching like a hawk as she starts to eat, only glancing up to register the worried expressions on the faces of his family. Even Mammon, dense though he usually is, can see something is terribly wrong with their human, and they are all kicking themselves for not seeing it sooner. “Kore, sweetie, did you see Mammon made the cover of Devil Style again?” Asmo asks gently, clearly hoping to spark some excitement in her. Kore nods, blank and quiet. The silence is deafening, the absence of excitement feels so very wrong. Last time Mammon had a modelling gig she had sprinted through the house, locking herself in her room with a copy of the magazine and Mammon shouting through her door. The lack of reaction is somehow worse than the tears earlier, as if something had slipped out of her while she cried in her sleep, though her soul is still there burning brightly beneath her skin. He’d checked, of course, that nothing had managed to steal her soul away. “Kore. We need to talk.” Her head snapped up at that, eyes wide and panicked as she stared down the table at Lucifer. Belphegor felt a growl rise in his throat. “You need to snap out of whatever this is. You are disrupting the house.” Kore dropped her head as the table erupted in noise, tears burning in the corners of her eyes. Within seconds Belphie had an arm wrapped around her, scooping her out of her chair and guiding her towards the room he shared with Beel. And if he threw a rude gesture in Lucifer’s direction as he left, well everyone was too busy shouting to notice.

Before long they are in the twins room, Kore wrapped tightly in Belphie’s blankets. He considers it a small mercy that she manages to hold herself together until he closes the door. The sound of her sobs is so loud and so pained it hurts him to hear and he knows the chaos in the dining room would only increase tenfold if the rest of them had caught wind of this. In hindsight maybe he should have brought Beel with him, his twin was much better at comfort and Beel’s hugs were undisputedly the best in the house. But his twin wasn’t here and she looked so small and broken huddled in his blanket and sobbing. Sighing he pulled her against his chest, resting his chin on top of her head and gently rubbing her back. “Kore.... you have to tell us what’s wrong so we can help. You know that right?” Under him he hears her sniffle, shifting slightly to wipe the tears from her cheeks. “I don’t know. I’m just so sad. And… and…” she takes a long shuddering breath, desperately trying to hold back tears as Belphie squeezes her a little tighter “...he’s right isn’t he? I just… I-I- I cause trouble for you. I d-don’t deserve you guys.” A small growl rumbled in his chest, pressing her so tightly into him he could feel her heartbeat. “Lucifer is an idiot. We don’t deserve you, not the other way around.” “B-but, I get like this and I don’t know why and I-I…” “Shh.” Belphie clamped a hand over her mouth. “Lucifer is an idiot and I’m going to spike all of his food with hellfire chillies for a week. No, a month.” He felt her chuckle against his hand at that, it was half-hearted at best but at least it was better than the lifelessness and the tears. “Now listen, I don’t want to have to say this again. We don’t deserve you, you’ve done more for us in a year than we managed to do for each other in centuries… you control Mammon better than Lucifer ever has, you get Levi to leave his room voluntarily, you calmed down Satan of all demons, and you never gave up on me even when I… Look, it doesn’t matter if you don’t know why you’re sad. Just tell us. We can help.” ‘I can’t lose you, we can’t lose you. Not like Lilith.’ Kore doesn’t say anything at first, but she leans back into his body properly and closes her eyes. Finally she whispers a sorry. Belphie huffs, pressing a kiss into her shoulder. The shouting from the dining room bleeds through the walls and he feels her flinch, growling into her skin. “Let’s go to the attic.”

Leviathan (1) Belphegor: Grab Mammon and one of your shows that makes Kore laugh and meet me in the Attic. Leviathan: But, what show should I pick? Leviathan: I have loads that make her laugh Belphegor: I don’t know, whatever you were watching the other week when she laughed so hard she choked? Leviathan: Do I have to bring Mammon? Belphegor: I’d rather not but yes. The idiot cheers her up.

By the time Levi and Mammon arrive Belphie has Kore bundled up in blankets in the middle of a pile of pillows, her body cradled against his. Mammon, ever the dramatic one, practically flung himself across the room to hug her, littering her face with kisses. If it wasn’t for the fond look in her eyes Belphie might have complained. “I was worried about ya! Can’t have my human being sad, it just aint right!” He whined, flopping down in her lap. Kore yelped, flinching away from the contact. Frowning Mammon tugged the blanket away, staring wide-eyed at the fresh bandage on her leg. His face dropped, and Belphie could swear he saw tears forming in his eyes as Kore tugged the blanket back over her lap. “You can still lie there, just be careful.” She hummed, patting her other thigh. Slowly, as if she’d suddenly turned into thin ice, Mamon settled himself on the ground, propping his head on her un-bandaged thigh and humming contentedly as she ran her fingers through his hair. “I brought something for us to watch.” Levi hummed quietly, setting up the show on the small TV up there. “What are we watching senpai?” For all that Levi went bright red, her attempt at teasing sounded hollow and he whirled on her glaring. “S-stop pretending to be okay w-when you're not!” Kore blinked at him a few times before nodding. “Sorry.” “I brought the Devilball show. Um, “We’re Going To Defeat Everyone in Devilball and Maybe Learn Teamwork Along The Way”, that one.” This time Kore’s smile was wider, more genuine. “Oh! Thank you!” “A-and, I promise not to get too jealous when- when you drool over the characters this time.” Kore went a shade of red even Levi barely reached as the two demons on either side of her snickered. But despite the gentle hint of mockery their smiles and their warmth was genuine, Levi rolled his eyes (her one real companion in understanding the love for 2-Dimensional fictional characters) and settled down with them as soon as the show started, the three demons caging their human between them and their warmth. For the first time in a while Kore felt like she could breathe again, she felt safe.

#my writing #Kore's Adventures in Devildom #Obey Me #Belphegor #Leviathan #Mammon #F!OC #Belphegor x F!OC #comfort writing #vent fic #pure self indulgence I am not even a little sorry #halo.writes

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kyber-kisses · 4 years

Text

Forgiveness Is Warm

Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: character death, MoC!Dean, cursing, blood, ANGST, based on 10x22, hella violent, (THIS IS A PRETTY DARK FIC FOLKS.)

Summary: Dean is slowly losing his hold on the mark, but can he reign it in before anyone else gets hurt?

A/n: I think I’m hardwired to write angst so once again I apologize to all my readers for dragging you through this . . . Again. And it definitely won’t be the last time, full warning. (GIF not mine. Credit to owner.)

It wouldn’t come off.

It wouldn’t fucking come off.

Dean had been scrubbing his hands raw for the last five minutes, desperate to get the blood off, clear it from under his nails and his knuckles and palms, but they still looked like they had been dip dyed in crimson.

Why wouldn’t it just fucking come off?

The scrubbing became more vicious with each passing second, all the anger and hate he had for himself was turning into a roiling boil inside his chest.

He never should have taken the mark. He should have listened to Cain. He could have found another way of getting rid of Abaddon. Maybe chopped her up into pieces and encased her in cement? Locked her in a shipping crate and tossed her into the ocean?

Anything would have been better than this outcome. The mark had turned him into something he didn’t want to be, and it had cost him everything.

When he momentarily looked up from his reddened hands he almost didn’t recognize the face staring back at him. There were still speck of blood on his face, and he had dark bags under his eyes, the rest of his features pale and dull. Even his eyes looked off, like they were empty and cold.

Sam and Cas were probably already tracking him down, but he couldn’t let them catch up, and he definitely couldn’t go back. . . Not after what he had done.

*. *. *. *. *.

Charlie’s death was the straw that broke the camels back. It was simple. Ever since the Styne family stepped onto the Winchesters playing field and butchered the innocent red head, Dean was a tightly wound coil of anger and bloodlust that could not be loosened.

After being temporarily caught, he proceeded to slaughter every Styne within the household before heading back to the bunker to finish the the job. The same level of anger hung over him the entire way.

The Bunker was quiet when he entered through the garage, casually taking about the remaining Stynes as he maneuvered the hallways, which were cluttered with belongings that were no longer resting in their rightful places. Your shirts and journal were thrown about, along with Sams lore books, and as he passed his own room he saw the place completely ransacked.

It no longer looked like home.

And before he knew it, he was emptying the last bullet in his gun into the head of the youngest Styne, his body dropping to the library floor like a sack of bricks.

“Dean, what did you do?”

Your voice came out of nowhere, making Dean turn slowly on his heel, lowering his weapon. You shouldn't be here. You were supposed to be with Cas and Sam.

“You shouldn’t be here.” He spoke slow, his voice calm and stern at the same time.

“What. Did. You. Do?” This time your tone more forceful as you stepped up into the library, your blade gripped tightly at your side.

“I took down a monster. It’s what I do.” He explained, tucking his gun back into his waistband. “And I will continue to do that, until-“ he shrugged.

“Until you become one yourself.” You finished, eyes taking in his blood splattered clothes and eerily relaxed posture.

“You can leave now, y/n.”

Your jaw clenched as you took bold steps forward, stepping over the bodies dividing you, “No. I’m not leaving. I care about you-“

Dean cut you off before you could finish, stalking forward, the mark on his arm fueling his anger tenfold.

“Really? Let me ask you something: if you really cared about me, then why did you screw me over just like Sam and Cas did?” His voice growing ever sharper as he bore down on you, but you stood your ground. You weren’t afraid of him.

Your Dean was still somewhere in there. You just had to find him.

“We were trying to help cure you! We still are!”

“Like hell.”

Your face fell at his words, his gaze on you felt foreign, nothing like what you were used to. “I thought you trusted me.”

“There was a time in which I did. I don’t think that’s the case anymore.” He explained, turning on his heel once more, clearly moving to leave. You halted his movements when you brought a hand down on his shoulder, gripping him tightly. His faded green eyes looking down at your hand before moving to your face. “The price to get this thing off my arm is going to be paid in blood, you know that. I would rather pass on that option.”

Your grip tightened even more, but Dean didn’t flinch, “Maybe you could fight the mark, maybe for centuries like Cain did, but you cannot fight it forever. And when you finally turn- and you will, Sam and I will be long dead. Cas will have to watch you murder the world. If there’s even a chance of saving you, I will not let you walk out of this room.”

“Oh you think you have a choice?”

“I think the mark is changing you.”

“You’re insane.”

Your eyes blazed as you stood toe to toe with him, feeling your own anger bubbling through your veins, mixing with the sadness that was ever lingering. “Am I? Because the Dean Winchester I know and love would never have murdered that child.”

Dean glanced over his shoulder, eyeing the fresh corpse behind him, “Yeah, well I always thought that Dean was kind of a dick.” He shrugged, trying to push past you once more, but you held him back yet again.

“I don’t want to have to hurt you.”

“I don’t think that’s gonna be a problem.”

And then you did the last thing you ever expected yourself to do. Your brought your hand back quickly, and then listened to the loud crack of the back of your palm connecting with his cheek.

You didn’t see the next thing coming either. Once again you were completely caught off guard.

Because all of a sudden Deans hand wrapped around your raised wrist, quickly twisting it and letting the snap of bone echo through the room. The movement making you dip lower, right into the path of Deans fist, there was another sicken crack as it met your nose. You stumbled back, quickly wiping the blood running from your nostril before advancing again.

You got in two good punches before he gained the upper ground, grabbing you by the collar and slamming you against the nearest surface. You let out a yell as you threw your head back, successfully connecting it with his chin and making his hold on you loosen. He certainly wasn’t holding back with force. Not. At. All.

And then his arms wrapped around you, and he was throwing you full force across the mostly cleared floor of the library, your body slamming into the pile of books behind you.

“Now stay out of my way.” Dean warned, giving you one last glare before stalking towards the bunker steps.

“That’s not gonna happen.”

Slowly you rose to your feet, using the back of your hand to wipe away the blood seeping out of your newly busted lip. You weren’t gonna let him leave that easily.

No way.

Dean was so deeply under the spell of the mark that he wasn’t processing what he had done, or what he was doing because he halted, spun, stalked back towards you, and threw his fist forward again, your head whipping back from the immense force that was his knuckles. His hand found your throat, and like a python constricting it’s prey, he began to squeeze. You clawed desperately at his wrists, silently begging for him to let go.

He only released when your eyes began to roll back into your skull, making you fall to the floor as you tried sucking in the much needed air you had just been lacking.

But Dean wasn’t finished.

Because he grabbed your shoulders, pinning your weakened and battered body to the ground, “I told you to stay out of my way.”

Beneath him, your body felt like it was in a cage, your back digging into the wooden floors, trapping you between his heaving body and the ground.

It was worse than you thought. So much worse. And as you lay there, weakly struggling against your hold, your mind fed you one terrifying thought. You might not be walking out of this bunker.

As Dean reached over across the floor, fingers wrapping around the handle of your blade, he kept his eyes trained on you. They never shifted, never wavered. They were cold and callous, and nothing like the bright jade ones you had looked into so many times before.

But he was still in there. You felt it in your gut.

You let out a shaky breath when you felt the blade break through the fabric of your shirt, the tip pressed lightly into your chest.

And for the first time that night, Dean Winchester hesitated. His eyes locking into your s like he was trying to search for something. For what, you didn’t know.

His fingers flexed around the blade again before he pushed down a bit harder, earning a strangled cry from you. The mark was winning.

You accepted your fate right then and there as you looked up at him. You hoped beyond anything that Cas and Sam could find a way to save him.

Your muscles aches as you raised a shaky hand to his cheek, pressing your palm gently against his face, the scruff beneath slightly tickling your skin. Dean stilled, jaw clenching as he looked down at you. Your lip was busted open, and blood was still running freely from your right nostril, your face scattered with slowly forming bruises.

You blinked through tear filled eyes, your thumb slightly dancing across the soft skin of his cheek as you tried to search for any trace of your Dean. The Dean you loved. He was still in there. He had to be. This was the marks doing, not his.

“It’s okay, Dean. I forgive you.”

You need him to know that. Dean was still in there, and when Sam and Cas save him, you needed him to know that you didn’t blame him for this. It was the mark using him as a puppet.

There was a band of intense band of three second silence, and then Dean pulled back and sank the blade into your chest, burying it up to the hilt.

You gave one last shuddered breath, and your hand dropped from his face.

And then Dean Winchester was well a truly alone.

It took another five seconds for the marks grip on him to loosen, and then almost like a blindfold being ripped from his eyes, Dean was back. His eyes brows drew together, not fully processing what his eyes were seeing, and then he was scrambling back, pulling his hand away from the handle of the blade as if it were fire.

“No,no,no,no,no-“ Deans voice cracking as he scrambled to his knees, hands hovering over the hole in your chest, the blood steadily flowing from it and making a growing stain of crimson. The blade was still sheathed firmly in your chest. His own hands covered in the sticky, red substance.

This was just a nightmare. Just another mark endured nightmare, all he had to do was wake up. He would wake up in his own bed, in the quiet of the bunker, where you were safe and alive. . . And breathing.

Dean ran his hands through his hair, slightly pulling on it in hopes of yanking himself back into reality, “just wake up, just wake up. Y/ns fine. She’s just down the hall, peacefully asleep. She’s fine, all you gotta do is wake up.” He whispered, eyes squeezing shut as he prayed for a way out.

But when he opened them again, you were still there, your body still and a deep red flower blooming out across your shirt.

You were still lifeless in front of him, and you would be staying that way, because this wasn’t in his head. This was his worst nightmare playing out in reality, and nothing could change that.

*. *. *. *. *. *.

The horrific memory played in a constant loop inside his head, trapping Dean in those moments. Ever since he left the bunker, what he had done to you under the marks influence had been coming back in chunks, just quick flashes in his head until he finally had every piece laid out.

He had lost his control over the mark.

You had been trying to help him.

He attacked you.

He-

Dean closed his eyes again, continuing to viciously scrub at his hands. It was at the point in which it was beginning to hurt, but he didn’t care. He deserved it. He deserved every ounce of pain inflicted upon him after what he had done to you.

The image of your battered face caused him to tense, his jaw clenching as he quickly shut off the water and gripped the sides of the sink.

“Fuck.” He breathed out, head hanging low as he felt his heart slam into his rib cage. It almost felt like the damn thing was trying to escape.

It was probably for the best if it did, because then maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much.

It’s okay, Dean. I forgive you.

I forgive you.

And then Dean Winchester cracked.

Or more like shattered. He was like a heavily cracked pane of glass, all you had to do was apply the tiniest bit of pressure and the whole thing breaks into a million pieces.

His knees buckled and before he could register it he was sliding down the wall next to the sink, head falling into his hands as sobs racked his body, seemly coming out of nowhere.

He had loved you. He had loved you more than he thought humanly possible to love another person. . . And he had ended your life.

And yet for some reason, you had forgiven him. You knew he was going to push that blade in, and yet, you forgave him.

You forgave him.

With his knees tucked firmly against him, Dean allowed himself to break down, right there on the bathroom floor of the dingy motel room.

And there he stayed.

The End.

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canumoveurseatup-no · 5 years

Text

i’m leaving soon

summary: sometimes there’s only one way to handle things, it may suck but you feel it in your gut that it has to be this way.

word count: 2.7k

pairing: thor x black!asgardian!reader

warnings: endgame spoilers if you still haven’t seen it, death, sacrifice

—————

You were all Thor had left. You were his last smudge of sanity, his voice of reason. You always had been, from kids to centuries later.

So you made sure to stay up with him to hold him, comfort him, talk to him the night before the time heist went down.

“You deserve to see everyone, my love,” you pet his long beard, loving it’s volume and how some areas are darker than the other, “They will not care how you look for they are your loved ones. They will understand,”

He knew you had a point, but he felt disgusting with how he let himself go, he felt disgusting with how you were still utterly in love with him looking like this. But that let him know you were probably more in love with him than he could compare to, though he felt that was impossible, Thor would do anything for you.

“Are you sure you can’t come with me instead of the rabbit?,” he sighed. He’d feel a lot better if you were with him than another desolate planet. You deserved to see your kingdom once again too.

You kissed his lips and gave an airy laugh “Take pictures for me,”

“We can show them to our heirs one day,” he smiled hopefully. You and Thor always wanted children but everytime you guys thought you were ready, something came up.

“When this is over,” you place his hand on your belly and he runs his hand over it, hoping one day you swell with your children, “Maybe we can finally settle down and try,”

Thor always kissed you with an insurmountable amount of love and each time it still surprised you than the last.

“I love the sound of that,”

————

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t feeling uneasy. You suffered from a restless sleep and the dreams that occurred were unsettling to say the least. All that showed over and over was a hooded figure and a huge cliff but you shook it off as it happening due to you eating before bed, doing so always causes weird dreams for you.

“All right, lets suit up!,” you heard Steve across the way. Thor was stalking around chugging beers from a six back.

“My love,” you called out to him with a little smile, “If you wanna see me, better hurry, I’m leaving soon,”

You always said that to him before going into a battle. He always always busy doing something else and it never failed to get his attention.

His knees buckled at your smile. He threw the beers to the side and rushed over to you, hands fast to be placed on your cheeks to pull you into a searing kiss.

“Tell me love is endless,” he muttered.

“My love for you will never have an end,”

He hated that you had to go with Clint and Natasha. His eyes welled at the thoughts of not only going back home but going back home with out you. You two always had the plan of doing a better job at ruling than his father and his mother loved you as if you came from her loins. She knew for long that you would one day be Thor’s wife and when she found out he proposed, she was over the moon and guided your footsteps to be a better queen than she.

You tasted the salty tears on his cheek and gave a small smile.

“That’s what a year long headache does to you,” he whispered. It’s clearly been longer than that, but you knew he would try to dumb down his emotions until everyone was almost ready, “I’m not okay, I feel so scattered,”

“As anyone else would feel, my love. But this is our final fight. Avenge everyone- for he will pay for what he’s done, again,”

He didn’t want to go without you, he wanted you by his side for one last walk around your kingdom before it fell to ashes. One last walk on the bridge... one last talk to his mom.

“It’s go time,” Tony clapped and you felt Thor’s grip tighten on you.

“Come back to me, my lady,” he whispered hastily, “Don’t leave me, can’t handle another bout of déjà vu “

You gave one last kiss before you two walked to the platform, “I will always find my way back to you,” you stood by Natasha and Clint, while he stood by Rocket.

“See ya in a minute,” Natasha smiled. But you didn’t miss the looks of uncertainty on the faces of Nebula and Tony. Before you could acknowledge it, Bruce had already hit the button and sent you to your respective time lines.

————

“What the hell is this place,” Clint muttered.

You never understood mortals and their rhetorical questions.

“What you seek lies in front of you, as do what you fear,”

You all turn around and step away from the voice that came from the shadows. Out stepped the hooded person and suddenly your choppy dreams made sense.

“Welcome, Natasha, daughter of Ivan, Clint, son of Edith. and Y/N... daughter of Heimdall,”

It hurt to hear his name but you’d be damned if you let that impact you right now.

Natasha was ready to fight but took it upon herself to ask the questions, “Who are you?”

The figure lifted his head and you all frowned at him but this was too important to assess his looks.

“Consider me a guide. To you, and to all who seek the soul stone,”

This should be easy enough right? It’s just a stone... but you of all people should know things are never just.. ‘easy enough’. There was always an ultimatum.

“Oh, good. Tell us where it is, then we'll be on our way,”

You turned around and walked the the cliff, “Ah, liebchen . If only it were that easy,” you spoke for the stone keeper. You recalled those words in your dreams. You miss the look everyone gave you as you just continued to look down.

It was a long way down.

“What you seek lies in front of you. As does that which you fear,” he repeats. He leads Nat and Clint to he edge with you and you could feel the tears welling.

“The stones down there,” it finally clicked for Natasha. Clint’s jaw clenched and he cursed under his breath.

“For two of you. For the other, in order to take the stone, you must lose that which you love. An everlasting exchange. A soul for a soul,”

It hits you all like a ton of bricks.

You and Natasha take a seat before her and Clint go at it.

“Whatever it takes, remember?,”

They make a fool of themselves fighting and crying until you had enough and waved your hand to fling them back from the edge before standing up.

“Enough!,” you’d had enough of the theatrics. Things had to get done and no one had time for a game of ping pong.

This was your task.

“Sorry there’s no way out, my love,” you whispered to the wind, knowing it would get to Thor in no time.

“Y/N! what are you doing?,” Clint tried to grab your arm but you simply pin him to the ground of the huge stone you all stood on without even touching him.

“I- I’m doing what’s right,” you turn to look the two. being held back by your power so they can’t stop you. It has to be this way, it only makes sense for it to be this way, it appeared in your dreams.

“I-it won’t work for you! You’re not mortal,” he tried to reason.

“Rules of mortality or immortality do not apply here,” the stone keeper grumbled.

“You can’t leave Thor like this. You’re all he has,” Natasha pleaded. But it fell on deaf ears.

You choked at the mention of his name, if only there were some other way but this was the way. This was the one chance to win that Tony talked about.

“It’s our only way to win,”

—————

Thor and Rocket got the stone when he heard your whisper in his ear.

“Sorry there’s no way out, my love”

“If you need me, wanna see me... you better hurry,” your voice was broken, scared, “Because I’m leaving soon.

He stopped in his tracks and looked around for you but you were nowhere to be seen, not until he was seeing things through your eyes.

“Listen before I go, for I don’t have much time,”

Rocket looked at Thor to see his eyes were no longer their lightening blue... they were the color of the golden setting sun one would watch on a beach...much like yours, he had no idea what was going on but the way Thor was breathing heavily was indication that things were not okay.

“None... of what happened is your fault, my love,”

“Y/N, no,” he whimpered.

“I know you feel that these things wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t around but that’s not true. You don’t have some curse where everything that you come in contact with crumbles,”

His eyes were moving fast. All he could see was a sky of heavy purples, blues and pinks. He could hear Natasha and Clint shouting out you from behind to not do this... to let one of them do it and he hated to be selfish and admit that they were right.

It shouldn’t be you.

“You are a ray of sunshine, even on the greyest of days. You are allowed to grieve but do not blame yourself for a series of unfortunate events that were destined to happen millenniums before you were born,”

Rocket stepped back when Thor shouted in tears, all it was was a bunch of “no no no” and “please”

“I can’t lose you too,”

“You will never lose me... I am eternally within you... our love is endless,” he could hear your cries, the sniffles, he practically heard your heart breaking.

“I’m sorry our heirs never saw their kingdom,”

He was brought back to reality when he could no longer see things from your eyes and was standing in front of the team again. Stones in their hand. He was fast to fall on his knees and turned red with a shout of your name. So loud it shook the compound and the ground beneath them.

“It should have been one of you!,”

Clint and Natasha knew he was hurting but that didn’t mean his words didn’t have an impact. They wished they did more, but their combat was no match for your goddess essence.

“Where’s Y/N?,” Steve asked. He looked at Thor’s red face, bolts of electricity glinting in his eyes.

“On Vormir,” Nebula began, “The only way to get the soul stone is with a sacrifice... and that sacrifice is a soul, one willing to do what is right,”

—————

Surrounded by orange and lying in shallow water, you wake up with a gasp.

You sit up and scan the area. Only thing in sight was a pavilion and a figure standing under it.

“Father,” you croaked out, “Father, what is this place?,”

You run to him and smile when he turned to you. Oh how you’ve missed him.

“The place where our souls come to rest when all is said and done,”

He pulls you in his arms and you take in his scent of saffron and sandalwood.

“Which leads me to question... what has lead you here,”

He saw you coming... he just didn’t know how.

“I did what was right,” you swallowed your tears, “I did what I had to do to help defeat Thanos but I left my love in the process... I added to his pain,”

You felt guilty for having to leave him in such a way. You told him you’d come back, you broke your promise.

“Neither of you is without the other. Come,” he held your hand tight in his, “Time to be with everyone,”

————————

Thor was blood thirsty during the final battle. He barely held it together at the funeral they had for you.

The last remaining piece of him was gone and he was going to do everything in his power to avenge every broken piece that Thanos took from him.

For his people, for Loki, Heimdall. He lost them on his journey here. For Bucky, Sam, T’Challa and his people, Peter, Wanda... all because he didn’t go for the head. It was all his fault, in his mind that is. He was a ticking time bomb and Tony wouldn’t even give him the chance to try the gauntlet.

Portals appeared everywhere and the fallen had risen, ready to fight. He stood there waiting to hear your voice, to see your smile, to see your golden armor, hair braided back, with your father’s staff in hand.

But you weren’t there... so he fought for the both of you.

“M-Mr. Thor, sir,” Peter said quickly, “Sh-she.. Y/N wanted you to know she never meant to leave on such terms. She loves you and never wants you to doubt that,”

He knows you, you probably think he hates but he could never hate you. He’s lost everyone in a tragic way so he can only expect so much, he wasn’t nat at you. He was mad at the world, the universe... himself. He wishes he told you ‘I love you more’, he wishes he held your hand more, done more of everything no amount of ‘more’ could heal this.

He kept fighting. He’d never stop fighting for you. Though it wouldn’t bring you back, it wouldn’t make your death in vain, just for some mortals you barely know. He had your favorite barrette, in the shape of a sun, in his breast plate under his armor.

So you’d be fighting with him.

He had Steve and Tony by his side, not letting up, even with deep gashes and blurry vision.

The end was getting close and he had made up his mind long ago. He looked to Valkyrie and she knew what he was planning to do. She knew there was no changing his mind, the attempts to stop him would be futile.

“The people will love their new king. You will be the leader they need,”

She tried not to shed tears. She’d grown close to the God and his wife. Now both were leaving her behind, but she wouldn’t let you two down.

The gauntlet fell at his feet after it was taken off Thanos’ hand. Thor didn’t need to question, there was no second guessing and no turning back. He didn’t have time to beg anyone to let him be the martyr and he sure as hell didn’t have time for the answer ‘no’.

“You’ve taken enough from me,” he growled. Thor was feeling so much at once. He was scared to die, afraid of being in pain, but he was tired, tired of constantly fighting, relieved that this would be it, he could rest and be with his loved ones. Excited because he’d get to be with you soon, to hold you, love you endlessly.

“Thor, no!,” Tony shouted, but Strange held up his finger... this was the one.

Thor envisioned your smile, your laugh, you kicking his ass in training from kids to grown. He was hurting, he was terrified. But if he did this, he could be with you again.

He practically felt your arms wrap around him in a welcoming hug and that was it.

“I won’t let you take anything else,”

————

He was scorned by the snap. He was beginning to lose all feeling and he knew, the fight was over. What once was the compound covered in bright green grass, surrounded by pretty trees was now covered in soot and rubble, smoke clouds sat high above them... was hard to tell they were still even on Earth.

“N-no, c’mon buddy, don’t do this,” Bruce shook Thor, trying to keep him awake. He can’t let his friend die like this, he can’t let his friend die. The one who fought for him to be saved from a foreign planet, a friend who believed in him no matter what form he was in.

“Let him rest,” Valkyrie set her hand in the shoulder of the green man, “He deserves to be home,”

Thor was on his last leg when he saw you.

Everyone saw you in his eyes.. They saw the way his eyes glinted gold before dimming dull. You were wearing a yellow dress that flowed in the wind, a bright glow behind you, hand stretched out for him.

“Time to go home, my love,”

————————

that shit hurted 🥴

COMMENTS AND REBLOGS ARE HIGHLY ENCOURAGED AND APPRECIATED!

tags: @blackreaders-assemble @mbaku-babygirl @dumbchick @warmchick @vozit @veryhellshdia @spideys-wife @here-for-your-bullshit @valkyriesnymph @persephones24 @alyssaj23 @mokacoconut @xye-weirdo @chonisberonica @eratotalles @micki-smiles @disaster-rose @valentinevirgo @retroxvailles @crawlingnightmares @hisxblackxqueen

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myulalie · 3 years

Note

The prompt I thought of is technically a songfic, so I don't know if it's something you're comfortable with...but I recently listened to Tom Odell's 'Another Love' again and it kinda made me think of Magnus

Hi! Thank you for this prompt! It was very exciting to work with and I love this song, so I had A LOT of ideas and eventually settled for one: the hanahaki disease. You can read on AO3 here. Hope you’ll like it!

How to wield hearts

I wanna take you somewhere so you know I care Magnus wears his heart on his sleeve, a weak pulse hidden in frilly fabric. It’s not like he has anything to lose anymore. It doesn’t matter, not that Alec cares anyway. Magnus left his aching heart in the eighteenth century and there is no breezing through the years to get it back. He wouldn’t walk in his past self’s steps anyway, because Magnus so desperately wishes he had kept his heart someplace safe, in Alec’s calloused hands perhaps. Shadowhunters know how to wield hearts, their most precious possession, the only weapon they possess and that could turn against them.

But it's so cold and I don't know where Magnus’ withered heart remains somewhere in his chest, dark and frozen in the winter night that saw it break. It drifts away in a sea of regrets, and sharp memories like shards stab at the emptiness, as if Magnus would ever forget. There is nothing more consuming than absence, and Magnus desperately looks into himself for a sliver of golden light, even a tinge of that love he used to carry. He finds nothing, but the inkling that Alec should have been it.

I brought you daffodils in a pretty string It came in gold nuggets, flower petals he drowns in once again. Magnus never knew what to make of the daffodils, spent too long admiring them, longing and wistful. An immortal’s life is long indeed, and he didn’t believe he’d live to meet his soulmate. Now that he’s come face to face with Alec, he cannot believe he pulled the daffodils out centuries ago. He weaved the stems into flower crowns and gifted them to his lover, and now Magnus has nothing to show, can only hope that Alec believes him when he says he cares. He wants to, so much.

But they won't flower like they did last spring The flowers don’t bloom. Magnus’ spring has come and gone, like his first love, and he can’t be it for Alec. He would turn lead into gold for Alec, but Magnus’ gold is splattered with blood, ancient, and ever so cold. He hides shirt sleeves splattered with blood like skeletons, and fears the lie shows in the distant shine of jewelry. For all his glitter, Magnus is nothing but the shadow of gold now. Magnus is not it.

And I wanna kiss you, make you feel alright Magnus yearns to be. He craves the taste of Alec’s lips and wishes he could breathe the shadowhunter in and soak up the light that shines through the cracks of Alec’s armor. Alec is hurting too, Magnus knows, and the shadowhunter feels like a tin soldier, setting himself on fire to keep Magnus warm. Magnus burns out for him too, yet there is nothing for Alec to find, but his petals torn loose, drained of life.

I'm just so tired to share my nights Magnus spends countless nights in the company of misery, a restless presence he hates, but prefers to loneliness. He deserves it. He was greedy, and now that his soulmate comes along, there is nothing to share but grief. Magnus resents himself for his mistakes. Alec’s pain is his own, and Magnus almost regrets Alec didn’t fall in love with someone else, because he could remove the stems too then, and lose the ability to love Magnus altogether. Magnus doesn’t deserve Alec’s love anyway, and he wants to spare Alec the pain, but the shadowhunter is determined to love Magnus, to love enough for the two of them.

I wanna cry and I wanna love Magnus doesn’t feel anything, and he wants nothing more than to cry, and to love Alec. How fortunate would Magnus have been, too. Alec brings him in relentlessly and embraces him in a silver glow, the moon watching over him at night. Magnus wants the passion and the aggravation, but he can’t even hate himself anymore, because it’s so close to love.

But all my tears have been used up He has no tears left to cry. Magnus had plenty enough time to mourn, and there is nothing to grieve either when you lose the ability to feel such things. Sometimes he dreams that his tears would bring the flowers back to life, and they’ll rise and bloom, to love Alec just this once. What a privilege it would have been, to love the shadowhunter, yet Magnus can’t even shed a tear for him.

On another love, another love He loved Camille, once. He loved her again and again, until he suffocated on the daffodils, and the stems had to be surgically removed. Alec won’t even love somebody else to spare himself the pain of a partner like Magnus, loveless and unfaithful, because he couldn’t wait another year, even less another decade, to meet his soulmate. Magnus couldn’t wait, but he couldn’t even die either. He has always wanted to live, but what’s life when all he can feel is loss?

And if somebody hurts you, I wanna fight Magnus’ ire takes over when Alec is hurt, and sometimes he hopes that it’s enough. Alec must feel it, Alec must understand that there is so much Magnus feels, except for love. Yet, Alec is hurting because of him, burns himself on the magnitude of Magnus’ repressed feelings. Magnus’ will to fight flickers and dies then, because it feels like he’s lashing out at the wrong person. What is there to fight but himself anyway?

But my hand's been broken, one too many times Alec bites the hands that feed him and struggles so ruthlessly against people that it shoves them back to the depth of an ocean of feelings, resentment left untold. It also breaks what’s left of Magnus’ withered heart. He goes under, and can’t come up to breathe. How can Magnus prove that he cares, when he can barely swim?

So I'll use my voice, I'll be so fucking rude He speaks instead, and he speaks out of turn to let Alec know how he feels. If Magnus can’t convince Alec, then maybe he can push the shadowhunter away. Alec doesn’t deserve the pain, and Magnus has no qualms about sparing Alec if he can’t feel anything, can’t love Alec properly.

Words they always win, but I know I'll lose Actions speak louder than words, and Alec sees through Magnus’ ruse. Alec only heeds Magnus’ words when he speaks of fondness, or caring so much it hurts. Magnus’ broken promises and whispered pleas bring Alec closer than ever when night recedes and gives way to the first lights of dawn. Magnus blames himself for failing Alec yet again, and the night falls again.

And I'd sing a song, that'd be just ours He longs to give his withered heart to Alec. Magnus yearns for it so much, but what is there to give? Still life, and so little to share but specks of dust and crumbling leaves, the layers of the man Magnus used to be. Magnus gave up on his heart long ago, when it brought flowers to the wrong person and choked on petals like golden chips. He can’t even say the words to his soulmate now. Alec feels like everything that could have been, but Magnus feels nothing.

But I sang 'em all to another heart Magnus thought he could make his heart sing another name, Camille’s. It was another time, and another love, not the right kind of love, nor the right kind of person. Magnus’ heart can’t sing anymore. There is nothing but silence, and Magnus’ thoughts, rushing to his lips to flow in a never ending stream of repressed feelings. Alec listens, patient, and reads everything left unsaid, that flickers on Magnus’ face and echoes in everything Magnus does. Alec understands then, and Alec believes in the meaning of his silence. There is nothing to be said.

And I wanna cry, I wanna learn to love Magnus learns that caring feels a lot like loving.

#shadowhunters #malec #pearfectly fine to ask #autopromo #fanfiction #hanahaki disease #song fic #soulmate au

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maviemesregles · 4 years

Text

Once I was an Eagle

This chapter is a turning point for Claire and Jamie, an invisible equator in their relationship. And symbolically it's 10th part of this story. It took an effort to get this exactly right, to build that emotional bridge that'll help us understand their feelings. I hope I managed to capture all the feelings both of them. But please, please have faith in them.

Anne @eclecticstarlightconnoisseur, thank you for holding my hand along the way 💜

P.S. Sorry for breaking your wee hearts in previous and this chapter, my dear kind-hearted readers. Bear with me ;) ;)

A/N:

mo charaid - my friend in Scottish Gaelic

Read on AO3

Chapter I: The beginnings

Chapter II: Sassenach

Chapter III: Catharsis

Chapter IV: Lovestruck. Part I

Chapter V: Lovestruck. Part II

Chapter VI: Flecks of Sun

Chapter VII: Mince pies & baubles

Chapter VIII: Home

Chapter IX: Once upon a dream

Chapter X: Of loss and faith

For what felt like centuries-long minutes, Jamie stood with his palm on the door. His head bowed, breathing deeply, trying to find some strength from the inanimate wood surface for he had none. The only thing that drove him from Glasgow to Edinburgh in thirty minutes was guilt. And fear. He grasped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles blanched white. His gut wrenched as Geillis's voice replayed the manifesto in his head.

His wee Sassenach almost bled to death. His bonny and fierce lass was cut open and he wasna there for her.

He hadn’t cried when Geillis told him. His breath hitched with a sob learning that their child was gone. Burning, expanding heat inside his chest almost cracked it open, threatening to release his bloody insides out. His hands trembled just a bit when he’d found enough courage to ask about Claire.

“Is she alive?”

His own mother had died because of complications during labour. Jenny’s second pregnancy was a difficult one after which Ian was never the same. Jamie’s fear was rational but so overtaking that he exhaled with a wheezing sound against his throat salty with unshed tears. She was alive and he must fight for her.

Wiping damp hands over the rough denim fabric of his jeans, he gently pushed the door open. A veil of moisture burned in his eyes as Jamie crossed a dark, shadowy room stopping next to the bed. His instinct to shield her, to protect made him almost too weak. Because he failed. He failed her when she most needed him. Jamie sat down in the chair in front of Claire’s motionless body.

Christ, she looked so small and ever so fragile. She was still, covered in a thin white hospital sheet that matched her skin colour. He swallowed against dry tears that burned his throat. Jamie could not make himself look down a small bump of her stomach. It was all that was left showing where their child was once sheltered and nurtured by her body. So he kept his eyes on Claire’s face. She looked so peaceful, drifting to a faraway land where Jamie did not know the route. He wanted to gather Claire close, keep her within himself, let her crawl inside his body and remain there. Safe and guarded. Not hurt.

A Dhia, he would have given everything to be able to take her pain away.

Dr Hildegarde told him it was a placental abruption. Something that could not have been stopped so they had to perform C-section. Their baby was stillborn, one of the complications occurring in fifteen percent of cases. He could feel an aching hole inside his chest and a tight set of his jaw against oncoming wave of tears as Dr Hildegarde’s thin fingers squeezed his shoulder in sympathy. Geillis, with puffy and bloodshot eyes, told him Claire has lost a large amount of blood and received a transfusion.

Jamie kept staring at Claire’s asleep face. Gritting his teeth, he caught a thought at the back of his mind that made his blood freeze. Now that she slept, he hoped she was not in pain. She was but Jamie did not know that. Claire was given pain medication by a nurse and it helped her to drift back to soothing darkness. She did not have to face a reality where she had lost her baby. Claire’s face was smooth, only a slight furrow between her eyebrows disturbed the peacefulness. A part of Jamie wished she slept forever like this. Not hurt, without need to live with the ache and heartbreak of losing their child. He shook his head violently as if to rid himself of the awful thought that was creeping into his fevered mind. The selfish little, fragile part of himself whispered that she’ll hate him. When Claire wakes she will realise what a failure he is and she won’t want him anymore. He feared it and it made him feel sick to his stomach

Jamie hesitated, afraid that Claire could flinch away from his touch as he reached his hand to her. Oh, how much he wanted to comfort her. How he wished he could reverse time and not put his Sassenach to such misery because of himself.

He could bear just about anything but not her pain.

Tips of his fingers gently curved over her soft cheek. She did not move, only eyebrows knitted a deeper crease between them. Jamie bit his lip blood bursting, fighting against the tears rushing as the tide, copper tasting faintly in his mouth.

Even now partly covered in the night shadows, she was so, so beautiful. There was an unearthliness about her pale, pale skin like she would soon belong to the angels. Jamie could almost imagine how their wee lassie would have looked alike with her mother. He sucked in the sterile scented air and exhaled in a shallow breath. The sounds of his heart shattering filled each corner of the room.

Thumb smoothing the transparent shell of her ears Jamie jerked at the sudden sound filling the space. It was a whimper, faint and delicate as early snow but so desperate it made him cold to the marrow of his bones.

“Sassenach,” He whispered, voice hoarse with the effort. Jamie had no idea what he could say to her to make it better. There was nothing. Nothing he could do or say to make it hurt less. She leaned into his palm, face painted with visible distress and Jamie thought he would lose it.

So he did the best he could. Fingers gently curling into her hair, he whispered to her in ancient Gàidhlig as he always did when Claire had hard times. It seemed to soothe her and he had hoped it would bring the same relief to his Sorcha now.

She stilled for a while before her eyes fluttered open. They told him she had awakened before after coming out of surgery when the last lingering sensations of drugs faded away. She asked for him Geillis said. Claire needed him there, and he wasn’t.

She blinked, eyes still dull and heavy-lidded. Her lungs burned as she inhaled deeply as if a needle had punctured the skin. Her mouth was tacky. Feeling a drowsy shadowiness swim behind her dry eyelids Claire stared through Jamie. Slowly coming out from submerging oblivion all she could feel was pain. It started under her skin laying its sharp claws along the edges of her limbs, dipping inside red tissue. It ran in the bloodstream igniting each fibre like fierce lightning bolt traveling from nerve to nerve. The pain was inside burnt deep behind her eyelids, coating her throat, shredding the lungs. Claire’s body hung on the brink of giving in and falling back into the peaceful darkness. It took all the strength she had left inside to concentrate and not step back into the blackness. Her vision blurred, eyes straining with the effort. She felt dizzy. When she realised that her quiet sanctuary was disturbed by an intruder, her eyes finally focused.

Jamie’s lips quirked into a ghost of a smile. “Mo cridhe…” His warm palm cupped her cheek and she shrugged away. Pulling a sheet up to her chin she stared at Jamie as if he was a stranger.

For a long time, there was a silence and neither of them moved.

She felt so lonesome. She was all alone. Abandoned. She was so so so lonely in all of this.

Even in midnight darkness she could see the barely checked tears in Jamie’s eyes. It felt like a millennia that he was frozen. Not able to move or say anything. Jamie looked utterly broken.

Destroyed.

But she did not feel a thing about it.

Swallowing a choking lump in his throat Jamie opened his mouth. He only gasped for air as he groped for words, not able to say anything. Eyes blown wide, hands shaking by his sides, Jamie just looked back at Claire who jerked away again when he wanted to lean down to touch her.

“Don’t touch me” Claire’s voice echoed in the hollowness of her chest.

“I am so verra sorry, Sassenach” His voice was no more than a weak, strangled rasp.

She turned away as the tears spilled down his cheeks, making their way down his neck. She still could not bear seeing him cry.

Her hands slowly reached now a barren expanse of her abdomen. Covered with a thin hospital sheet her own body felt foreign and unfamiliar. Claire was as the goddess Niobe whose children were slain and unburied. She was turned to stone and brooded endlessly over the sorrows sent by Gods. Only this time Claire was the one to blame, her own traitorous body. She laid there, numb and cold as the stone herself.

Claire’s voice cracked, forced out her dry throat. “Go home, Jamie”

“No,” It sounded like a groan. Full of anger, frustration, heartbreak.

When her eyes found Jamie’s, Claire’s words were nothing but a broken whisper.

“I have lost a lifetime with my child before even be able to experience it.”

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

It was early predawn with the sun trying to breakthrough stubborn clouds floating over Scotland.

Jamie startled, awakened to the sound of shoes gliding over the linoleum. Geillis gently touched his shoulder, eyes scanning still asleep Claire.

“Ye should go home, mo charaid,” His fellow Scotswoman circled the bed, glancing at vital signs monitor. “Yer no good like that for Claire, go to sleep, have a bite.”

Standing up Jamie felt needles prickle his numb legs. Muscles cramped from a broken sleep on that tiny chair. Shaking off the remnants of his restless night he turned to Geillis, zipping the jacket up.

“Promise me, ye stay with her and willna leave for a moment?” Jamie nervously ran a hand through his hair, before tapping it on his thigh. “I’m going to use the bathroom and grab something from the car.”

Geillis nodded, smiling faintly. “I willna. But ye promise ye will eat a proper lunch and get some sleep tonight. Ye have to be strong for Claire. She will need ye.”

Jamie swallowed, shaking his head in agreement. The only thing that kept him from falling apart was Claire’s need for him, his strength that he could lend her. Even though she might reject him again, that’s the least he could do for his wee Sassenach.

He was gone no longer than twenty minutes. Jamie made a quick visit to the bathroom, splashed cold water over his face, grabbed an awful resemblance of a coffee from a vending machine. He changed his sweaty t-shirt in the car for a freshly washed gym one, dug out Claire’s favourite Jaffa cakes from the glovebox and was on his way back.

When he stepped inside the ICU room Claire was awake. And it made him somewhat jealous and guilty again that he did not catch the moment when she woke. He froze and just stood like an idiot in the doorway. Claire did not even look up, kept staring at her folded hands on her knees. Mary Hawkins hovered over her changing the bag of IV fluids, smiling shyly as she reminded Claire to eat her breakfast. She only nodded absently but did not touch the tray with tea, porridge, bread rolls and butter with raspberry jam. Claire always thought it was rather funny that NHS offered continental breakfast at hospitals. The last thing she wanted to do was eat now. Claire would gladly remain in a state of unconscious drowsiness and a dead sleep for the rest of her life.

As they were left alone Jamie moved slowly, setting aside the cakes on the bedside stand. He thought he’d seen a faint smile on Claire’s lips but wasn’t sure he did not imagine it.

“Ye mind?” Jamie exhaled, trying to keep his voice steady. Claire scooted over slightly allowing him a bit of space on the narrow bed. Jamie lowered himself carefully to sit, too aware of her fragile state. He was afraid he could break her if he is not cautious enough.

They stayed quiet for a while, both lost in the loud sounds coming from the hospital hall.

“How do ye feel?” He asked at last, eyes searching hers but she stubbornly looked away.

Jamie prayed that she would answer him, that she wouldn’t pull back. His heart was aching hoping that she would grant him the least a bit of mercy and just share her burden with him. Christ, it was his child too.

Claire shivered at the sound of Jamie’s voice. So familiar, so concerned, so him. Somewhere very deep deep inside her there was a space that was screaming for him, that needed him desperately. The ache of it was tearing her apart but it was buried under a cloak of overtaking grief. She could not get out from its cold, gripping claws. The sight of Jamie was breaking her heart, ripping it out but she kept thinking she was alone when it all happened. How scared she was.

Claire wanted to reach out to him and reassure him she’s not angry. But the turmoil was too great. There was a mix of feelings she did not understand. She was scared, angry, she felt guilty and weak. But mostly she was hurt. There was a great deal of pain and Claire had no idea how to deal with it.

She absently smoothed the crumpled fabric of white sheet over her belly.

“Empty,” Her voice cracked. “I feel empty.”

The breath choked out of him and Jamie leaned in to her wanting to cradle her close. But he stopped midway unsure and taken aback by the feeling that he had to think if he can touch her.

His hand froze in the air just inches away from soft curve of her cheek. A lonely tear rolled down Claire’s face and she whimpered against her will. Biting down her lip hard enough so it hurts, so maybe, just maybe it will distract her from the real tragedy her own life turned into. She could not bear to see that look on Jamie’s face. When his thumb gently wiped away a salty drop, the burning soreness inside her chest threatened to burst out burying them both with lava-like sorrow. Her fingers closed around Jamie’s warm palm withdrawing it from her face.

But he kept trying. The haunting feeling of losing her kept him going. He would not lose her.

“Ye should eat yer breakfast, mo ghraidh,” Jamie offered quietly “ Ye need it to keep up yer strength.”

“I failed, Jamie.” Claire’s voice was distant as she drew patterns over the white sheet. “I failed our daughter. I failed us.”

He wanted to say something, deny those ridiculous words but she shook her head dismissing him.

“You should leave, go home, there is no use for you to sit here, Jamie.”

He was losing her. He was losing it all.

Pressing a dry kiss to her forehead Jamie just sat back. If that chair would be the place he has to spend the rest of his days on to be near Claire, he would do it.

Later in the day Claire just laid, resting as much as possible. She spent her time pretending to watch TV, switching the channels just for the sake of keeping her hands busy. With no child to lay in her arms, she felt an exceptional need to do something, anything that would fill that hole. Jamie has been with her most of the time, only occasionally taking trips to the bathroom or to stretch the muscles in his legs, pacing endless circles in the hallway. They did not talk much, only business-like exchange of phrase.

Though Claire needed to remain calm, resting in order to heal quickly, they needed her to get up for walks. Nurse Olivia explained to Claire she needed to become progressively mobile in order to prevent constipation and blood clots. Jamie volunteered but Claire said she wanted Geilis with her. It was a great relief for Claire going on those painful, even though gentle walks with her best friend. It was a change from Jamie’s utterly destroyed face and she felt as she could breathe a little bit easier without seeing him looking so guilty, looking so sad. Geillis did not push, did not start the conversations Claire did not want to hold. She just talked, as usual, made filthy jokes, shared her memories from last Tinder date and filled her in all recent gossip at the hospital. Claire was grateful for that.

Later, after Jamie convinced her to take a bite of a dinner she fell into a restless sleep. Geillis on the other hand finally managed to drag Jamie out of the hospital room and laughed at him softly when he groaned at the bright hall light.

“Yer like a bloody mole.” She pushed him towards the cafeteria paying zero attention at his protests. “Ye have to eat, Claire willna thank me if I let ye starve yerself.”

Geillis only smirked when Jamie demolished two full meals with a clear look on her face “I told ye”. She was rumbling about everything and anything but Jamie barely listened. After some time, wiping the grease from his lips, Geillis moved a plate aside, reaching for Jamie’s hand.

“Dinna worry, she’ll come around,” the ginger-haired woman smiled. “She needs time, time to heal and accept.”

He nodded.

“And so do ye.”

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Claire dreamt. She was weightless. Free and peaceful, floating in serene darkness. There was no pain, no fear, no loss. Her body was a feather, not her own, inside the space of the parallel universe. She did not know her name or who she was. Everything was foreign and new. It was dark and soothingly warm. There was no existence of her, whoever she has been before. She felt at peace wrapped in the cocoon of warmth surrounding her. She was nobody, motionless and still. Perfect in its hollowness. There was no time nor space but quiet buzzing filling Claire’s senses. She just was. Swimming in the endless distant land of nothing. She did not know how long she has been there, in the space of bottomless chasm. But then there was something. Growing inside her solar plexus, spreading its roots in her bloodstream. Running under the surface of Claire’s transparent skin. Trying to break out, the pressure of it clawing at her heart. Leaving a flow of blood soaking trail. A name.

Jamie.

#once i was an eagle #maviemesregles #outlander #outlander fic #claire and jamie #the frasers #jamie fraser #claire beauchamp #angst #DINNA HATE ME #THESE BABIES #weeps quietly #ann writes

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jonogueira · 4 years

Text

“To err is human, to forgive, divine.” - Alexander Pope.

Chapter 9.

AO3.

Summary:

Alma has trouble with who she is, and Cullen comes to help.

*Angst with a pinch of smut.*

TW: death, blood, nsfw, smut, lemon.

It was a lot, just way too much. There wasn't enough air, there was never enough air.

Crying, sobbing, a silent scream. Cold fingers curling around loose hair. Pulling, tugging, trying to take the murmurs away.

Magic on fingertips. Purple wisps floating around the room. Whispering, speaking, demanding… Accusing.

Never enough, never enough!

Curse, cursed, cursing.

Please, Maker! Let it end. Let it take me once and for all.

Blood boiling. Calling, signaling, hollering.

Come, came, kill, die!

Mine mine MINE.

Deep, down, cave, tunnel. Monsters, brothers, sisters. Brethren.

Time is up, time is up, tik tok tik tok.

Goodbye.

Come come come.

Man, woman, qunari, dwarf, elf, human.

He, she, they, me. Us.

Joined by blood drank from a beautiful cold silver chalice.

Enchanter, witch, mage.

Tower spiraling upwards. Ending on the toes of the Maker.

Watching, watching. Pitting, crying.

His making, his creation. His children.

Locked up, forgotten. Mistreated.

It was a lot, just way too much. There wasn't enough air, there was never enough air.

Grunt, panting. Grabbing hand trying and failing to make it stop. Close them, close them all.

How many more? Where are they? Demons (maybe twisted spirits?) leaking from cracks in the air. Why didn't it stop?

Haven't I given enough? Haven't I been enough?

orphan, danger, mage, warden, hero, researcher, herald, Inquisitor. L.o.v.e.r.

Why me? Why me? When would it stop?

Stupid question, silly question. Simple answer, obvious answer.

Death.

Dying, trying, wanting to live.

To live, to see, to feel, to love again…

Just a second, just a minute, just a glance. Touch, finger, lips, kiss. Body, soul. Eternity.

Cullen.

Come to me, come to me!

I'm sorry.

So so sorry.

I love you.

Still do.

Always have. Always will.

Come and take me away. Take the pain away.

Come and make everything simple again.

Let's go back to you and me.

Before all that's left are memories and tears.

-----

Cullen woke up with a start.

Cleaning the sleep of his eyes, he could only remember someone crying. Calling for him in the distance.

Shifting on the bed, he threw the bedsheet over his legs and felt the coldness of the wood on his feet. He walked to the window and watched the tents in the valley below. A knot on his stomach reminded him that all those lives were in his hands. His eyes fell on his fingers and palm. Closing and opening, he saw fog escaping his mouth.

A shiver ran down his spine, and he threw a blanket over his exposed shoulders and scarred back. His arm was the support needed for his body to lean on the window sill. His eyes sought the moon, which hid behind heavy clouds barely illuminating the castle grounds. If it weren't for the torches and braziers around the place, one could easily get lost and even die from a fall.

Knowing very well he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep, he decided to roam around the place and maybe even grab some reports he had left on the war table.

The first thing he did when he opened the door was to bring his blanket closer to his body because the snow, shyly falling from the sky, decorated his surroundings with a white blanket of loneliness. The second one was to widen his eyes when they saw a strange dance of purple and green light on Alma's… the Inquisitor's quarters.

Hypnotized by the beautiful show, he found himself unable to move. His lips parted in awe, and the fog from his breath obscured his view for a split second.

He was suddenly too tired. His role as the commander weighed down on his shoulders, but it was his role as a templar that brought his soul down. All he wanted was to go back to the day a young boy met a soot-covered girl. When his dreams were pure and not tainted by darkness.

His fingers caressed the bracelet that one day he had given her. A final gift, a gift to make her remember him. He guessed it was just too much when Hawke showed up and handed him the small thing back. But could he blame her when he himself found his fingers seeking the sword knot she had given him as a way to soothe his soul?

His thoughts returned to that one day he desperately wanted to go back to. To tell her how much he loved her and that he always would. The day before she parted and everything came falling, like bricks of an already rotten place.

His dreams, his mind, his sanity, and his life. All gone on the *tip of a staff*.

A sigh escaped his mouth, and he ran his naked fingers over his unruled curls. He averted his eyes and was ready to turn around and walk as far as possible from her and the feelings she brought along with when out of the corner of his eyes he saw a silent explosion of multicolored wisps burst the doors from her quarters and disappear on the moonless sky.

Without a second to lose, he ran. He ran because she needed him… and he wouldn't let her down. Not again. Not anymore.

His blanket fell on the snow-covered floor. The winter wind enveloped his body, but even the chilliest of them on his exposed skin wouldn't avert his attention from her.

Skyhold was empty. People slept soundly in its interior while the ones outside fought the tiredness and coldness of the endless night. Cullen saw one or two soldiers here and there. Guarding the place they all called home.

Even though his armor was long forgotten in his office, and his sword rested beside it. He ran, ready to battle whoever dared to breathe in the same room as Alma… the Inquisitor. Dear Maker, she wasn't his anymore. Not like he wanted her to be. She was the Hero of Ferelden, the Herald of Andraste, The Inquisitor. Sand escaping between his open fingers.

The thought that someone dared to enter Skyhold and threaten her made Cullen beyond enraged. His hands closed into fists, and he almost ripped her door out of its hinges. He went up the steps two at a time, and his voice lingered on the stairs telling the soldiers on duty to stand ready.

Without a single word, he broke into her room and ran up the final steps only to feel all his anger fade away at the sight that made his already broken heart halt.

Alma was there alone and curled on the floor. Her cheeks stained with trails of tears. Her freckles visible through cuts in her clothing. The hair he loved so much, wild and untamed. She was just a little girl covered in soot all over again.

His chest was heavy, and it was difficult for him to breathe. His stomach churned, and his muscles tensed. There was a burning sensation on his eyes, and he felt them water. He wanted to move and take her in his arms. Clean those damned tears. Promise her that everything was going to be okay. Tell her that he was there and wasn't going anywhere. Kiss her fears away and pour his being to her. Apologize and beg for her forgiveness. To tell how much he still loved her.

He stood there, and they stared at each other for centuries.

The wind coming from the open doors flipped the open book's pages on her table and blew out the few candles that lit the place. Cullen saw her body tremble, but he wasn't sure if it was because of the cold or something else.

When a sob escaped Alma's soft lips, and her head fell, he took control of his body and closed the distance between them with cautious steps. Alma, and it was Alma, because any trace that showed who she had become was long gone. Taken by the wind.

His fingers caressed her wet cheek on their way to tuck her hair behind her ear. Her eyes searched his. Like a scared animal cornered and with no place else to go, she stared at him. In them, Cullen saw desperation and pain.

Sitting on the ground beside her, he brought her small frame to his chest and embraced her. She trembled and shivered but didn't push him away. Another sob escaped her mouth, and he felt her fingers trail his arms up to his nape and her nose bury on the crook of his neck.

One of the soldiers came to check on them, but even his interruption didn't stop whatever it was that was happening between them.

Alma never left his embrace. Her arms pulled him closer, and her lips touched the skin of his shoulder.

The room was filled with silence, but the silence was full of unspoken words and promises. There were begging, prayers, hope, fear, and mercy on their fingertips. Fingertips that traveled, caressed, made weird and unrecognizable patterns on skin. That left goosebumps in their wake.

Cullen buried his nose in her hair, and her scent stirred something inside him. A primal desire to have her for him and only him. To protect her from others, herself, and himself.

He tried to push Alma away. To stand up and leave her there. Leave her alone, just like she always asked him to do. He tried once again to do what was asked of him. To be a good templar, soldier, commander, and follow orders. But the man in him…

The man in him cupped her face in his hands and brought her lips to his. The man in him kissed her deeply and desperately. The man in him was finally free.

Cullen was afraid. He feared he had gone too far this time. That her hate would become disgust as well. That she would shun him in every possible way. That she would kill him from her soul.

Alma's head tilted, and he deepened the kiss. His teeth grazed her lips and her name rushed in whispers out of his mouth. Her fingers dove into his hair and pulled him closer. Her mouth called his name, and he got lost in surrender.

Her lips left scorching kisses on his jaw and down his neck. Her nails leaving rosy marks on his back. Her legs straddling him.

Unable to hold back any more second, Cullen lifted her off the ground and seated her on her table. With her legs wrapped around him, he started to undress her.

He followed the curve of her neck down to her breasts with his tongue, paying attention to every little sound she let escape, every reaction her body made. Her freckles once more visible for him to see and worship. He explored her skin with kisses and fingers; he savored the regained intimacy.

Alma was so beautiful, even more than he remembered. Besides the stars on her skin, he could see the passage of time. The scars telling him stories of times he wasn't there by her side. He found as many as he could, and he kissed them, a way to apologize.

His nose moved to her neck, and he nuzzled it there. Letting her scent overwhelm him. Gripping her hips, he returned to her mouth. He never tired of kissing her. Biting her. Loving her.

"Al-"

She shushed him with a kiss. Her fingers found his cheeks, and she deepened it. Cullen felt her tears mixing with the kiss.

He rested his forehead on hers. His lips kissed her eyes and then the crown of her head. His words were spoken into her hair.

"Alma-"

"Tell me that you still love me…" Her plea surprised him. "Please, Cullen… just lie if you have to. Plea-" Her loud sob interrupted her.

His ears couldn't believe her words. Lie to her? He never had and never would. He wanted to tell her, no, he wanted to show how much he loved her.

"What do I have to do to prove I will always love you? That you are everything I live for?" – His eyes looking into hers. His fingers cupping her face and his thumbs cleaning the tears away.

"Don't leave me. Kiss me. Say it and then make love-"

"I love you," He confessed. His arms lifted her, and he took her to her messy bed. Alma's body keeping his warm. Alma's kisses keeping his soul alive.

Cullen laid her gently. His eyes scanned her body with adoration. His fingers found her white underwear and curled on the band.

He took his time to take it off. Kissing and nibbling on the skin of her legs. Lingering on the spots he knew she loved him to, eliciting moans and giggles. Getting turned on with every little squirm, murmur, or plea from her.

He placed her legs over his shoulder and kissed the sides of her thighs until he felt her hand on his hair. Smirking to himself and sighing in happiness, he pressed a chaste kiss on her clit and heard a gasp in the air.

Her smell was intoxicating, but her taste was paradise. He kissed her once again. His tongue playing with her clit like a kiss. A small bite, and her moan filled the room. One more flick, and her fingers pulled his head closer.

He lapped her folds and brought a thumb to where his mouth once was. His tongue tasted, played, and delved into her. His finger caressed, massaged, and pressed murmurs out of her mouth. Cullen found himself already longing for days to come. Wishing he would never have to leave.

His other hand came to help him in his ministrations, and he pushed his middle finger slowly into her. It took him a few moments to find that sweet spot that always had her wriggling on his arms. Calling his name and begging him not to stop. Panting, moaning, and asking for more.

He would give her more. He would give her everything and anything she asked if it meant she would smile at him. Stay with him.

-----

Alma bit her lips and tried to suppress the moan threatening to escape her mouth, but Cullen knew her. Knew her every curve, every thought, every spot. He still knew how to make her come undone. Exactly where to kiss and where to press.

He remembered the places that made her shiver, the hidden spots that made her beg. He still remembered. More than ten years had passed, so much had happened, but he still knew her inside and out.

But what most impressed her, was that despite everything that had happened, all the times she pushed him away, showed him nothing more than hatred… he still loved her. He loved her as much as she loved him.

His hair curled around her fingers, his tongue playing with her, his finger searching and finding what she needed, and his confession still lingering on her ear were all too much. She came with his name on her lips. With hope in her tears.

She wanted more of him, she needed more of him. When her legs finally stopped shaking with the debilitating orgasm that hit her, she pulled him up and kissed him. He tasted of her and had memories of them. She kissed him and felt their souls entwine once more. She was finally whole again.

His fingers grabbed her knees and slid up her thighs. He sat between her legs and stopped his fingers on her hips to caress them with feather-light touch. His thumbs made circles on her skin, and his eyes worshipped her.

She sat on the bed to close the distance between them, and unable to stop the happiness feeling her being, she smiled at him. Her hand, warm with the anchor, touched his chest, and trailed down to help him out of his clothes. Their fingers bumping into each other, and Cullen bringing her knuckles to lay loving kisses on them.

Alma leaned back on her hands and watched him undress. His body was scarred, and she looked up at the scar on his lip. She regretted not being there to protect him.

When he was bare for her to see, she crawled her way to taste him. Her mouth left wet kisses on his skin. He held her head and cradled it in his hand. His thumb caressing her lips. She heard his moan when she opened her mouth and circled his finger with her tongue.

She was ready to have him in her mouth, but he interrupted her advances and pushed her down back on the mattress, his frame spreading her legs to accommodate him.

He kissed her, and she allowed him to do whatever it was he wanted with her. He marked her shoulder with a harsh kiss, sucking and biting to then soothe with his nose. A small place where only they knew. Another thing from a time when they weren't allowed to be together. When things were much simpler.

Cullen adjusted himself once more and placed his hand behind her knee. Angling her to be able to fill her. With one last look to make sure it was what she wanted, he kissed her, and then it all began.

His first thrust was slow. She knew he was holding back, letting her adjust to him. The second made her eyes roll. The third evoked a sinful moan from her mouth, and he then knew she was ready for him.

They were together. Time may have passed, but nothing had changed.

Cullen found the right pace. His hips pressing down onto hers, one breast on his hand, his tongue exploring her mouth. She paid attention, and she noticed every movement, every little sound.

She needed him deeper, to feel his hands on her, so she circled him with her legs, and he leaned back on his heels. She helped him to lift her and bring her onto him, to have her in the right position so he could penetrate her. She felt him tremble when he filled her again. His grip on her hips was sure going to leave marks on her skin, but she didn't care, she couldn't care. He was exactly where she wanted him to be.

She watched him making love to her. His eyes roaming her body, his hands gripping her, his parted lips suddenly trapped between his teeth. His grunts, moaning, and murmurs. Her name slipping between his delicious lips, and his arms bringing her up to his chest, his mouth nibbling her neck.

Alma watched him. Felt him. Fell in love with him all over again.

Her arms circled his neck for balance, and he thrust up into her. The position allowed him to press her clit, and she soon felt her climax building up. She kissed him and silently vowed to never let him go again.

-----

Cullen had her body pressed against him. She was warm, wet, and making him lose control of himself.

Her walls tightened around him, and he almost came with the sudden intense pleasure. He wouldn't last long like that. As if she read his mind, she kissed him and soon guided him to lay his back on the bed.

She straddled him and slowly sank down. One of his hands found her waist while the other disappeared between them, finding her sensitive spot and making sure she would come before him. Together they set a divine pace, and Cullen could memorize every sound she made. He prayed to hear them many more times.

She leaned on his chest with both hands, and he held her waist so he could be deeper in her. She moaned and begged him not to stop. Soon after, she called his name. Her walls spasming around him. Her legs trembling against his skin.

As much as he tried, he couldn't hold it any longer. He had waited so long to be with her again. He sat on the bed and kissed her. His hands explored her, one going up her nape, the other resting on the small of her back. He kissed her lips, her jaw, and her neck. He came with her name in a whisper. Begging her not to leave him again.

They stood there. Silence again filled the room, interrupted by their deep breaths.

Alma nuzzled her nose on his. Cullen brought her closer to him.

None of them wanted to let the other go. Afraid that what had happened was just a dream.

"Will you stay for the night?" Alma asked on his mouth. Kissing him to delay his answer. Terrified of his words would say.

"For as long as you want me to."

"Forever, then?" Her eyebrow lifted, and a playful smile made itself known on her face.

Cullen laughed.

Loudly, jovially, relieved, forgiven.

"Forever, then."

He kissed her, and they smiled on each other mouth.

They were together,… at least until her blood started to call again. Warning her that her time had come.

I hope you liked.

Likes and reblogs are super appreciated!

#to err is human to forgive divine #cullen rutherford #alma #alma amell #tw #death #blood #lemon #smut

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alonely-dreamer · 5 years

Text

The Valuable Sun | Chapter 9

Summary: Godric and his district receive Nan Flanagan’s visit after the Fellowship of the Sun fiasco.

Pairing: Eric x OC

Warnings: 18+ (terrible smut ahead)

A/N: Please, note that I am French so there might be some mistakes here and there.

Words: 7219

Schedule: Next chapter will be posted on November 4

Masterlist

The sky was a light blue and dawn wasn’t far away as they drove back to the hotel in silence. Sookie and Brooklynne couldn’t wait to get back and lay down on their bed. They had just spent the most horrible couple of days, and they were impatient to be done and go home.

Eric booked a room for Jason, and Sookie was too tired to even think of asking him to get one for himself. The vampire let Brooklynne take a shower first and she collapsed on the bed as soon as she was out, but when he got out of the bathroom, she still wasn’t sleeping.

“I thought you’d be tired,” he said as he sat on his side of the bed.

“I’m exhausted.”

“What’s keeping you up?”

“All of it… Being stuck in that cage for two days… the explosion… I still can’t believe that man hated vampires so much he was ready to die if it meant taking at least one of you with him.”

“Hate is a powerful weapon.”

“And Steve Newlin won’t even be blamed for it.”

“I doubt it.”

She sighed. She turned around to face him, looking up at him from where her head was resting on the red silk pillow. “Thank you for saving my life.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You could have died.”

“It certainly was a possibility.”

“Then why did you do it?” If you don’t care, like you keep saying, she thought.

“I don’t know,” he said, being surprisingly honest with her.

“Godric is a good man.”

“Godric isn’t a man.”

“You may be vampires but you’re still men.”

“You’re exhausted, you don’t know what you’re saying,” he said, and she laughed.

“I know what I’m saying. And I mean it.”

“Then you’re a fool, Brooklynne Stackhouse.”

“Well, that’s not nice.”

“Sleep,” he told her. “We’ll have a lot to answer for tonight.”

“What do you mean?” she frowned.

“What happened last night will be all over the news. Which means we’ve attracted the unwanted attention of the AVL.”

“The American Vampire League…”

“Yes. They’re a pain in the ass, but they work for the Authority. They have power.”

“What’s the Authority?”

“A story for another time. Sleep.”

She sighed again. She was exhausted and she did want to sleep, but she was afraid of what she’d see once she closed her eyes.

“Sleep well, Eric.”

He looked down at her, lying beside him, with her eyes closed.

“Sleep well,” he said, but she had already fallen asleep.

***

Eric had been right, which didn’t surprise Brooklynne at all. The AVL was there, and the meeting was set at midnight. Bill, Sookie and Brooklynne were expected to attend as they had a few questions to answer. Eric was in a foul mood. He knew they were going to try and blame Godric, and he didn’t want to hear it. Nan Flanagan, the official AVL spokesperson, had come all the way to Dallas and booked the biggest suite of the hotel which, according to Eric, only meant they were seriously pissed and that heads would roll.

But Eric wasn’t the only one who had been right. Sookie hadn’t lied about the effect Eric’s blood would have on Brooklynne. She was indeed thinking about him more, and even though she was glad she hadn’t had any dreams about him yet, especially since he was sleeping right next to her, she could feel the attraction, and she could hardly keep her eyes off him. She woke up late in the afternoon and had escaped her room and joined her brother in his, hoping to avoid the vampire. But now, they were going to be in the same room for the rest of the night, and she couldn’t stop looking at him.

Nan was already waiting for them in the living room when they entered. She was sitting on a white faux leather footstool, near the two couches of the same fashion. Godric and Isabel had arrived first and were seated on the couch on her right. Bill, Sookie and Brooklynne were facing them, seated on the couch on Nan’s left. Eric had chosen a footstool near Brooklynne, facing both his maker, and the spokesperson. He didn’t look happy. Neither did she.

“Do you have any idea of the PR mess you’ve made?” she told them. “And who has to fucking clean that shit up? Me. Not you. Me. I should drain every one of you bastards.”

“Stan went after the church on his own,” Eric said. “None of us knew anything about it.”

“Oh really? Because everyone who’s met Stan in the last 300 years knew that he had a kink about slaughtering humans. But you, his nest mates, his sheriff, had no clue.”

Stan had been an (un)fortunate casualty of Luke’s suicide bombing, so now, the AVL needed a scapegoat and Eric would be damned if he let the AVL put the blame on his maker.

“And how were we supposed to know that this time he meant it?” Isabel asked.

“Not my problem. Yours,” she said as her eyes fell on Godric.

“Don’t talk to him that way,” Eric threatened her.

“Don’t talk to me that way,” she calmly warned him. “Let’s get to the point. How’d they manage to abduct you?”

“They would have taken one of us sooner or later,” Godric answered. “I offered myself.”

The information was news to Eric, who not only didn’t like it, but it also made him confused and scared for his maker.

“Why?” Nan asked, obviously surprised and confused herself.

“Why not?”

“They wanted you to meet the sun and you were willing?” she raised an eyebrow, looking at him like he was stupid, or insane, or both.

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re out of your mind.”

Eric thought the same. He didn’t look angry anymore, it was as if he had just understood something, something terrible, something he didn’t want to believe, something that made him sad. It took Brooklynne everything she had in her not to take his hand. She knew he wouldn’t like it, not now, not in the company of Nan or her bodyguards. It would be seen as weakness and he wouldn’t have it.

“And then I hear about a traitor?” Nan asked.

“Irrelevant. Only a rumor,” Godric told her. I’ll take full responsibility.”

“You bet you will.”

“You cold bitch,” Eric snarled.

“Listen. This is a national vampire disaster. And nobody at the top has any sympathy for any of you,” she explained to him before she returned her attention to Godric. “Sheriff, you fucked up. You’re fired.”

“I agree,” he nodded, “of course. Isabel should take over. She had no part in my disgrace.”

“Godric,” she said, stunned and confused. “Fight back.”

“What are you saying?” Eric asked, as stunned and confused as Isabel was. “She’s a bureaucrat. You don’t have to take shit from her!”

“You wanna lose your area, Viking?”

“Oh, you don’t have that kind of power.”

“Hey, I’m on TV. Try me,” she shrugged with a smile.

“I’m to blame. I should have contained Stan the second Godric went missing.”

“Isabel,” he stopped her. “I remove myself from all positions of authority.”

Eric breathed out. He didn’t recognize his maker. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out of it, too baffled to find the words.

“Works for me,” Nan said. “Come to my suite and fill out the forms.”

“Soon,” he nodded. “First, I have something to say,” he paused for a moment. “I’m sorry. I apologize for all the harm I’ve caused, for all our lost ones, human and vampire. I will make amends. I swear it.”

Nan grimaced. “Take it easy, it’s just a few signatures,” she said as she got up, tapping his shoulder twice before she left the room, followed by her people.

Godric got up as well but he was stopped by his progeny who blocked his way to the door.

“No,” he said. He knew, he understood, even though he didn’t really. He saw the pain, he saw the problem, but he didn’t like the solution his maker had chosen.

“Look in my heart.”

“You have to listen to me.”

“There’s nothing to say.”

“There is.”

Godric sighed. “On the roof,” he said before he walked out.

Brooklynne didn’t recognize the look on Eric’s face. She never thought she’d ever get to see him like this. He looked confused and destroyed. He felt helpless, and so did she, as she had no idea how to fix it.

“Eric,” she whispered as she took a step forward, then took his hand. She didn’t know what else to say, but she wanted to be there, even though he probably didn’t need her.

He slightly squeezed her hand, acknowledging her presence without looking back at her, but then let it go and turned around, following his maker’s footsteps.

“It’s going to be dawn in a little while,” Sookie said.

“I know.”

“I’m gonna find Godric.”

“Sookie, this has nothing to do with us. You’ve done enough for Dallas,” Bill told her.

“I’ll go,” Brooklynne said.

“What can you do?” Bill asked, trying to stop her.

“I’ll just… be there.”

She gave a look to her sister, who knew she couldn’t stop her, but also didn’t want to. No one deserved to die alone, and Eric couldn’t be up there when Godric met the sun, so someone else had to.

She found them on the roof. They were arguing, and she felt uncomfortable, she didn’t want to interrupt them, so she stayed behind, at the top of the stairs, waiting for the right time.

The sky was becoming brighter as the sun was about to rise and Eric tried, he gave everything he had, to make his maker change his mind.

“Two thousand years is enough.”

“I can’t accept this. It’s insanity!”

“Our existence is insanity. We don’t belong here.”

“But we are here!”

“It’s not right. We’re not right.”

“You taught me there is no right and wrong. Only survival or death.”

“I told a lie, as it turns out.”

“I will keep you alive by force!”

“Even if you could, why would you be so cruel?”

Eric swallowed, desperation coming to replace his anger. “Godric don’t do it,” he begged in Swedish.

“There are centuries of faith and love between us.”

Eric started crying, tears of blood filling his eyes, a lump forming in his throat.

“Please, please,” he sobbed between two breaths as he fell to his knees. “Please, Godric.”

“Father. Brother. Son,” he continued. “Let me go,” he said, in English this time.

Eric tried to compose himself, taking a deep breath as he straightened up, but avoided his maker’s eyes, tears of blood making their way down his cheeks.

“I won’t let you die alone.”

“Yes, you will,” Godric said, and more tears of blood found their way on Eric’s face.

Godric put a hand on his progeny’s head and stroke his hair once, then twice, before resting it on his nape. Eric rose to finally look up at him.

“As your maker,” he said. “I command you.”

Eric stood up, like he was ordered. His maker gave him a small smile, which Eric tried to return, before he turned around and found Brooklynne standing there, at the top of the stairs. She gave him a sad look as he approached her. Eric turned to take one last look at his maker and Brooklynne took his hand, encouraging him to go back inside, as the sun was rising in the horizon.

“I’ll stay with him,” she told him. “As long as it takes.”

He nodded, avoiding her gaze, before he walked away, leaving her alone with his maker.

“It won’t take long,” Godric said as she approached him. “Not at my age.” He turned around to face her, he too had tears of blood in his eyes. “Do you believe in God?”

“I don’t. But Sookie does. My Gran did.”

“If they’re right… how do you think He’ll punish me?”

“Well… my Gran would say that God doesn’t punish. God forgives.”

“I don’t deserve it.”

“Yes, you do.”

He laughed quietly. “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough.”

He gave her a small smile. “You’ll care for him?”

She frowned, confused for a second, but then nodded. “I… I’ll try. I don’t think he’ll want anyone to care for him. You know how he is.”

“I can take the blame for that too,” Godric smiled.

“Maybe not. Eric’s pretty much… Eric.”

Godric nodded. He then turned around, to face the rising sun. Brooklynne’s heart tightened inside her chest and she tried to swallow the lump appearing in her throat.

“Aren’t you scared?”

“No,” he shook his head. “I… I’m full of joy,” he breathed out a laugh as if he were surprised.

“But… the sun… the pain…”

“I want to burn,” he assured her.

“Well,” she sniffed, “I’m scared for you.”

“A human with me at the end,” he smiled, and she wiped her wet cheeks, “and human tears… Two thousand years, and I can still be surprised. In this I see God.”

His skin was starting to burn and as the sun rose higher and brighter, he gestured for her to step back. He turned around, fully facing the light, unbuttoning his white shirt which he let fall on the ground.

“Goodbye Godric,” Brooklynne said as a tear fell down her cheek, and he opened his arms to embrace the sun.

His body turned into blue flames which consumed him so fast she didn’t even have time to gasp as he disappeared silently before her eyes.

***

The blue skirt of Brooklynne’s dress caressed her thighs as she walked through the hotel’s hallways. She tried to dry her tears before she reached her room. She didn’t know what to expect once she opened the door. Would Eric even be inside? It was daytime, so he had to be in the hotel. She hoped he wasn’t doing anything stupid.

She slowly opened the door of her room and found Eric sitting on her side of the bed, looking down at his feet. He didn’t acknowledge her as she stepped inside. She saw the trails of blood on his cheeks, the tears falling onto his chest, staining his white shirt. She silently made her way to him and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Godric is gone,” he said.

“Yes. I’m so sorry,” she replied as she slid a hand in his hair.

She couldn’t say she knew how he felt, because she had no idea what losing a maker felt like, or what it felt like to lose someone you’ve known for a thousand years, but she knew loss. She knew how it felt to lose a parent. She had lost three. There was nothing she could say that could make it better, that would make his grief go away. He had to go through it to accept it.

“Did he suffer?” he asked as he took the hand she had in his hair.

“No.”

He sniffed as he nodded. “Thank you. For staying with him.”

“Of course.”

She moved her hand from his shoulder to his face, cupping his cheek. She’d have wiped his tears away if she could, but all it would do was spread the blood on his face, making it worse. She didn’t know if it was because of his blood that was now part of her, or if she’d have done the same even without it, but she wanted to be close to him, to take care of him. She wondered if he’d let her.

“Come on,” she said as she took a step back and gently pulled him off the bed.

He frowned but allowed her to drag him to the bathroom. She took him to the sink, where she picked up a cloth. She opened the tap and wetted it with warm water, though she doubted he’d be bothered by anything cold. She turned towards him, wanting to clean the blood from his chest and face, but stopped when she realized he was too tall and that it would be more complicated than she had first thought. Understanding the problem, Eric put his hands on her waist, and made her sit on the counter with supernatural speed. She gasped, surprised by the unexpected movement.

“I told you not to do that,” she told him, and she thought she saw a smile on his face for a second.

She took a look at his chest and took the bloody top of his shirt between a finger and a thumb, tucking it down slightly to give her access to the blood that had dried on his skin. But she didn’t have to bother for long as he removed his shirt completely. She looked up at him for a quick moment before she started cleaning the blood off the top of his torso. He let her work in silence, and she could feel his eyes on her, never leaving her face. She tried to ignore it, tried not to blush too hard, but when she reached his face, it became harder to ignore his intense gaze.

Never in a million years would she have imagined being in this kind of situation, especially not with Eric. She’d always thought she’d be alone her entire life and being this close to someone had seemed like an impossibility just a week before. She never really thought about it either. Never gave too much thought about her future, or about anything. She never had the clarity of mind to do so. But now that she did, she didn’t know what to do. What was normal? What was expected of her? She’d always been different, did she really want that to change? She didn’t care about being ‘abnormal’, she just wanted to be free. Free of the voices, free of the house. Free to make her own choices. For once. And maybe Sookie wouldn’t like it, but she didn’t care. She’d make her own choices, she’d live her life, at last.

She left the bloody cloth in the sink after she was done. She placed her hands on each side of his clean face and stroked his cheeks with her thumbs. He didn’t look bothered. She could see his pain in his eyes. His eyes that were looking right at her, exploring her, like he was seeing her for the first time, getting to know her, maybe looking for something, something familiar, something that he needed. He looked like he found what he was looking for.

“Thank you,” he said as he leaned into her touch.

“What do you need?”

He raised an eyebrow, surprised, though he guessed he shouldn’t really be. She had a good soul, she’d want to help him in any way she could. He considered it for a moment. Could he ask that of her? Knowing she’d probably say yes because she wouldn’t say no to anything right now. Could he take what he wanted from her now, something he’d wanted ever since he had first met her, ever since she sat on his lap the first time, smiling back at him like he wasn’t the most dangerous person she’d ever met. She was careless, or at least she used to be, before he helped her cast the voices away, before he helped her find her own, find some lucidity in her life. But even after she found peace and quiet, she’d stayed with him, she hadn’t backed away like her sister had probably told her to. She was here, worried about him, wanting to help him, even after she’d found out about Lafayette. If he were a good person, he’d probably let her go. He wouldn’t be selfish, and he would stay as far away from her as possible. But right now, now that Godric was gone, it was he who had lost clarity. Even though he doubted that if he weren’t in pain at this moment, he’d probably still be doing what he was about to do.

“Are you ready to give me what I need?” he asked as he leaned forward, his hands moving from the counter to her waist as his eyes slowly fell on her neck.

A shaky breath escaped her. “Would it make you feel better?” she asked in a whisper.

“It’ll help.”

His answer was low but clear. She slowly brought a hand to her shoulder, brushing the hair away before she tilted her head, giving him access to her neck. He moved slowly, his nose sliding up her skin before his cold lips found her vein. She closed her eyes, waiting for the pain to come, but it never did. He moved up slightly, his cold breath reaching her ear.

“That’s not what I meant,” he murmured.

She frowned and found his eyes as he moved away from her neck, his face still inches from hers. Her mouth opened when she understood what he was saying, but no sound came out of it as she was rendered speechless. She was barely breathing, he wasn’t at all. He trapped her chin in his fingers, his eyes falling on her lips. She closed her mouth quickly and tried to swallow her nervousness away. She drew a shaky breath as he brushed his nose against hers. She waited for him without realizing it. Time had stopped and seconds turned to hours as he still wasn’t moving. She didn’t know what to do, her thoughts were colliding together in her mind, making it impossible for her to make a decision. Eventually, she moved, instinctively maybe, or because she was getting impatient, because she wanted it, needed it, but she raised her head, so slightly maybe it wasn’t even anything, but he saw it. He saw it for what it was or for what he wanted it to be: permission.

His lips found hers quickly, urgently, a bit roughly. She reacted immediately, kissing him back. He pulled her to him and her chest crashed into his, his hand resting on her lower back. Her hands left the counter to find a place on his bare chest. His fingers slid in her hair, holding her head in place as he kissed her. She didn’t know what she was doing, but he did. He slightly opened his mouth, his tongue licking her lips, pushing for access, access that she granted. She let his tongue wander on her lips, in her mouth, let him play with her own. A moan escaped her as she felt his hand move from her back to her hip, down to her thigh. He pushed the skirt away, his fingers travelling on her skin, going high, higher than she should let him.

His long and cold fingers reached the top of her thigh, his thumb stroking her skin once, before his caresses moved up. But they didn’t take the direction that she feared. His fingers returned to her waist, his thumb going up, not stopping until he reached her bra. Her breasts were surprisingly heavy for someone her size. He didn’t bother to take it off, he went over it, sliding his thumb inside the cup, making her gasp and break the kiss. But he didn’t stop. He captured her lips again as he found the pink and hard button he was looking for. Bothered by all the layers covering her, he didn’t play with it for long before he removed his hand from under her dress, surprised she had let him go so far.

He broke the kiss as both his hands found her lower back and he pulled her to him, fast and hard, taking her by surprise. She didn’t even feel him lift her. One second she was sitting on the counter, and the next she was back in the bedroom, lying on the bed. He was kneeling before her, his imposing figure towering above her. His right knee brushed against her left leg as it went up, and up, opening her legs. The skirt of her dress curled up, concealing her underwear. She felt her cheeks turn red as his eyes travelled, oh so slowly, from her bare legs to her eyes. She swallowed as he locked his gaze with hers. He leaned forward, his right hand coming to rest on the soft mattress near her head. His face approached hers unhurriedly and she tried hard not to look away. She closed her eyes, however, when she felt his fingers on her thigh once more.

“Are you ready to give me what I need?” he repeated, whispering in her ear.

Her heart had never beaten faster, she felt like it was about to leave her chest. Giving him her blood was one thing but giving him her body was another. At that moment, she wished she knew what he was thinking. Or maybe, it was better that she didn’t. She wasn’t ready for this. She hadn’t expected this. Nor did she expect to want it, and yet, despite the fear, despite the unknown, she did. She wanted to know what it would feel like to be with him. She wanted to do what it would feel like to be cared for by him.

“Yes,” she replied, so low only he could have heard her.

She had barely said the word that his lips were on hers once again. His right hand fisted the bedsheet as his left moved up her thigh. He pulled on the dress once, to warn her about what he was about to do, which she didn’t understand at all. He tore the blue dress apart, leaving her in her pink underwear. She gasped as she felt the fabric leave her body. Her right breast was already coming out of its cup thanks to Eric’s earlier exploration. His lips left hers, stopping on her chin, then on her throat, then on her upper chest before they found her cleavage. She shivered as his cold fingers slid beneath her and reached the clasp of her bra. He threw it away across the room. She immediately had the reflex to cover herself, but he stopped her, gently grabbing her wrists. He looked up at her, but when she looked away, he put her arms up above her head, pressing her wrists against the mattress. She couldn’t move when all she wanted was to cover herself.

“Don’t,” he said as she tried to free her hands.

She begged him with her eyes, a faint sob escaping her throat. He pressed a gentle kiss on her lips before he returned his attention to her breast. She looked up at the ceiling as his nose slid down her cleavage. He lowered her arms that he kept pinned against the mattress. His lips kissed her right breast, his tongue licked her nipple before he trapped it in his mouth. A shaky breath escaped her as he played with one of the most intimate parts of herself. He eventually let go of her arms but only so he could play with her left nipple. He caressed it with his thumb, over and over again, and he could feel it harden under his touch. She moaned, suddenly finding pleasure as she relaxed under him.

His right hand abandoned her left nipple and slid down her body, finding the waistband of her underwear. She instantly put a hand over his, but it didn’t stop him. He slid a finger under it, and her gasp didn’t make him stop either. He released her nipple and kissed his way back up to her face as he slid another finger under her panties. She drew a long breath as his fingers found the most intimate part of her body.

“You’re already wet for me,” he said as he looked down. Heat invaded her face and even more so when he looked back up at her. “Up,” he instructed her, and she gave him a confused look, which he found more arousing than perhaps it should have.

He tugged at her underwear to make her understand. She silently obeyed, lifting herself up slightly to allow him to remove her damp panties.

“Good girl,” he smirked, and even though she thought it wouldn’t be humanly possible for her to blush even more, she did.

His fingers returned to her wet lips and she closed her eyes at his cold touch.

“Breathe,” he told her, and she realized she was holding her breath. “Make me stop,” he said, and even though it sounded like a challenge, she knew what he meant. They could stop this at any moment, any second, if she wanted to.

She watched as he left the bed and knelt on the floor. He put a kiss on her right leg, then another, kissing his way up her inner thigh, eventually reaching the hot mess between her legs. She looked up at the ceiling, unable to meet his gaze, as she covered her face with her hands. She whimpered as his tongue licked her lips. He slowly licked up his way to the one thing he wanted right now, the button that would have her crumble completely. He pulled her closer to him, her legs resting on his shoulders. His mouth closed on her, making her moan. He licked the button, that bundle of nerves, played with it, slowly at first, then faster, and faster, and faster, faster than any human could have done. She didn’t know what to do with herself as pleasure built up inside her, taking over her muscles, her thoughts, her entire mind. She couldn’t think, unintelligible words coming out of her mouth. His name maybe was the only thing they could both understand.

She shattered completely on the bed after a few minutes. His hands keeping her trembling body still as he wouldn’t let go, as he carried her through her first orgasm. She was panting when he finally let go, kissing the inside of her thigh before he stood up. He watched as her body kept twitching, as she tried to catch her breath. When she realized he was seeing her wholly, completely, she moved up a leg, trying to conceal herself, as if he hadn’t seen all of her yet. She propped herself up on her elbows, looking back at him, waiting in confusion. His hands reached his pants, and she watched as he unbuttoned his jeans. He took everything off, exposing himself to her like she was exposed to him. Her eyes grew big as she saw his length, a shaky breath escaping her lips as she moved back a little as she looked up at him.

“Make me stop,” he repeated, offering her a way out.

She swallowed, her throat feeling dry, considering it. But she shook her head as she whispered: “I don’t wanna stop.”

“Good,” he said as he knelt on the bed, making his way back to her.

He kissed her, roughly, his lips crashing on hers. She let him push her back onto the mattress as she kissed him back, sliding her fingers into his hair. His own fingers found their way back to her wet folds and she gasped as this time, he wasn’t going to stop there. He slid a finger slowly into her, the unfamiliar touch made her feel uncomfortable. At first. But as he kissed her, as he pushed his finger in and out, she became more and more aroused and eager. She moved her hips to meet his movement, and he slid a second finger into her. The pressure only lasted a few seconds before pleasure found her. She knew what he was doing, she’d read enough books to know that she needed to be ready for a man of his size. But the books hadn’t been nearly indicative of how it all felt. She felt dazed, drowning in pleasure but also in uncertainty and nervousness. She was light-headed, her core burning at the idea of giving him what he wanted while he was giving her what she needed. That need that he had put inside of her, that his touch had created. He was a thief, stealing everything from her, her breath, her clarity, herself. Everything she was and everything she had was his. She was at his mercy as his fingers entered her, made her moan, made her forget everything else but his lips on her neck and his hands on her body.

She groaned as he slid a third finger, perhaps too early, inside of her. The pressure lasted longer as his long fingers opened her up, made her ready for what was to come. What she had promised him, what she could take away at any time if she wanted. He had given her so much power, he too was at her mercy as she could stop it all before it even started. But she wouldn’t be so cruel. She wanted to give him everything, just so he could feel a little better, even if it only lasted a second.

As she was getting lost in the building pleasure, he suddenly moved, making them lay on their side. He removed his fingers, resting his hand on her bottom. She put a hand over his but didn’t remove it. He kissed her, slowly this time, more gently than before.

“Make me stop,” he repeated as he put a kiss on her shoulder.

But she didn’t stop him. Not even when she felt him against her thigh. He was cold, she should have known, but hadn’t expected it.

Suddenly, a thought crossed her mind. She should have thought of it before, way earlier, but suddenly, she wondered if he knew. The way he was touching her, the way he was doing everything told her that he did, but she wondered, maybe he was being gentle because she was human, or because of that other reason. Maybe, he didn’t know.

“Wait,” she stopped him, putting a hand on his chest. “I…”

“What?”

She avoided his gaze, feeling embarrassed for not having told him before.

“I… I’m…”

“I know,” he said, and the revelation made her look up at him. “It’s okay. It won’t hurt, not for long,” he told her, and she nodded. “Do you want to stop?”

“No,” she shook her head.

He resumed what he had started, moving his hand from her bottom to her thigh, lifting it, slightly, but enough, to allow him to find her entrance. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder as she felt the tip of his length reached her lips. She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the pain to come.

“Hey,” he whispered so gently it didn’t sound like him. He removed her arm from his neck then cupped her cheek in his hand.

He leaned forward to kiss her, gently, slowly, for a minute, and then another one. To make her forget about the situation they were in below. When she was relaxed, he slowly pushed himself inside of her, making her gasp, then wince as she felt the uncomfortable pressure. He withdrew himself slowly, then entered her once again. He did it a few times until the pressure was gone, until she forgot about it. He went a little further every time, getting her used to his size, but he quickly reached the wall, and she felt it as he did. He never stopped kissing her, not even when she cried out when they became one. He never stopped, never slowed down, his movement only becoming faster as she relaxed in his arms.

She was a moaning mess and every little sound she made filled him with desire. He was so big and so deep inside of her. He could feel her reaching her limit, her early orgasm was to be expected. She cried out his name as she felt it too and his thrust never ceased, not even when she crumbled into his arms. He carried her through the orgasm as it travelled through her like lightning, down her spine to her legs, to her toes. She moaned loudly as she trembled, bliss taking over her quickly, as she felt like she was going to pass out. But the feeling never went away as his hips kept meeting hers, faster and faster. She heard him groan now, though he’d been doing that for a while, she was just now registering her surroundings once again.

He moved suddenly so that she was lying on her back and he was on top of her. He moved her legs up which she locked around his waist like he wanted. She felt him slowing down and even though his pace was becoming too much for her, she knew he wouldn’t find his pleasure if he held back.

“Eric,” she said but it was difficult to find the words. “Don’t… slow down.”

He slowed down, however, misunderstanding her words. He put a kiss on her shoulder before he found her face. She brought a weak hand to his cheek before she tried again.

“Don’t slow down,” she told him, and he tilted his head, silently asking her if she knew what she was asking for. “I want… to give you what you need.”

He raised an eyebrow, and she saw uncertainty in his eyes. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

She shook her head. “I want to give you what you need.”

“You’ve given enough,” he said, straightening up so he was towering over her before he thrusted into her, hard and unexpectedly.

She gasped and moaned at the sudden movement. Despite what he knew was best for her he couldn’t deny there was something deep within him that wanted to take the opportunity to fuck her hard and fast and leave her a sobbing mess until she passed out on his cock. Everything about her was confusing, he wanted to protect her, but he also wanted to destroy her, in the best of ways. She was so innocent and pure and right now his and only his. No man had ever been there before and the idea of another man touching her, making her his, enraged him. He thrusted into her again, harder this time. He was claiming her, and he wanted her forever, another companion for the next thousand years, someone who would never leave him like Godric just did. Someone who would be with him for him, like Godric had found him and chosen him to be his companion. Pam wasn’t it. He loved Pam and he’d spent the rest of forever with her, but she was no Brooklynne Stackhouse. There was something there, a light only a human could have, a light he knew she wouldn’t lose even in the darkness because it was part of her.

He wanted her.

But did she want him?

He leaned forward again and rested his forehead against hers. She took his face in her hands, confused by his sudden silence, waiting for him to move, to say something.

“Be mine.”

It took her by surprise. He didn’t move as he waited for her to answer.

“Give me what I need. Be mine,” he repeated, and it sounded like a plea. He was vulnerable now like he had been on the roof. He had lost someone he loved deeply and now he needed someone to fill that gap. Brooklynne knew she could never fill that gap, but she could be something else, something new, something he needed.

He waited patiently for her to either break his heart or save him. There wasn’t much left of his heart, he kept it hidden, but she’d seen glimpses of it before and she’d seen a lot of it tonight. She was just what his heart needed right now after it had been left vulnerable by Godric’s departure.

She didn’t know what to say. Hadn’t she already given him everything? She was lying under him, at this moment, he was buried deep within her. She had told him her secrets, given him her first kiss, her first everything. What more could she do? Wasn’t she already his?

The next words that came out of her mouth woke something in him. Something raw, something untamed. His lips mashed against her, demanding something, anything, everything. He seized her wrists and pinned them against the mattress above her head. She didn’t think he’d react that way, she didn’t know what she expected to happen, but not this. He was unleashed, free to do with her as he pleased. She was his. His.

He straightened up, towering over her once again, releasing her hands, resuming his thrusts. He was reaching deep inside of her, hard and fast, harder and faster. He growled as he lost himself within her, taking what she offered, what he needed. She moaned and cried out as the world disappeared around her, maybe it hurt or maybe it was just pure bliss, she couldn’t tell. Maybe she passed out, then came back to consciousness just to pass out again. All she knew was his hands on her thighs, his growls and groans in the air. She could only feel him, in and out, in and out, over and over again, so fast she couldn’t even tell the difference anymore. She raised her hands, just to let them fall back on the mattress. She moved her head, right, left, up and down, it didn’t matter, she couldn’t see anything. Time disappeared with her lucidity. Maybe she’d been having one long orgasm that lasted minutes after minutes or maybe she just came over and over again, but it all blended together until he found euphoria between her legs. She cried out as the thrusting stopped. She felt him empty himself inside of her, heard him growl loudly, before he thrusted into her again, once, and twice, making her cry out each time, exhausted and sore.

When he removed himself, she felt like she had just lost a part of her, something that had always been there. He laid down beside her twitching body. She was out of breath, pearls of sweat sliding down her skin. She called his name, missing his touch already, and he brought her to him. She breathed out as she rested her head on his chest, barely aware of where she was. She only knew him and that was enough.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, and she didn’t understand.

“What?” she said, half conscious.

“Did I hurt you?” he reformulated, now more in control of himself, now aware of what he had just done, of what he had been doing for the past hour.

“No.”

“I should have stopped when you passed out the first time.”

“I passed out?”

He caressed her bare shoulder with his fingers, wondering if he should be worried or amused.

“Did I give you what you needed?” she asked, and he nodded.

“Yes.”

He hesitated, wondering if he should let her fall asleep are clean her up. There was blood on the bed, among other substances. But she was already falling asleep.

“Say it again,” he asked while she was still conscious.

“What?”

“Say it again.”

She sighed, tired and content. “I’m yours, Eric.”

“Yes. You are mine.”

*********

Tags: @thepoet1975 @nerdysandwichqueen @catchmeupimgettingoutofhere @raegan-hale @colie87

#true blood #eric northman #eric x oc #sookie stackhouse #godric #fanfiction #fanfic #smut #imagine #eric x reader #reader #oc

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siribear · 4 years

Text

whisper rides the high, like the first time she took a hit with rachel and shooting stars streaked across their apartment. there’s a dull buzz still simmering in the back of her mind, probably from the electrodes shocking her into kellogg’s memory, but it’s pleasant. calming. much more than stewing in kellogg’s head, slipping into his skin and feeling the recoil each time he pulled the trigger. seeing nate alive for the last time through kellogg’s eyes -

she stumbles a half-step. deacon’s hand in hers keeps her steady. no, she isn’t thinking about it. deep breath. focus on shaun. focus on the memory of her golden blonde hair, of nate’s bright blue eyes. god, shaun - he’s not a baby anymore. a full ten years, and he already looks so much like nate she could cry.

she won’t, though. can’t. and she can stand to lose ten years only because he looked so... happy. content, even, with his comics spread across kellogg’s floor, that quiet domesticity that makes her heart ache. he was happy. and he’s alive, for certain. and she’s got a way to find him.

god. ask her to jump and she’ll fly.

the main room is still empty of customers, and even irma has taken the rest of the night off. dr. amari has since moved on, leaving nick near the entrance to sit alone on a loveseat. he barely acknowledges them coming from the back. not even a raise of his head.

he obviously doesn’t feel the same kind of elation she does. what did he see in there? did he live it like she did?

focus.

deacon draws up beside her, not letting go of her hand even now. ‘i’m gonna go put together a report for des,’ he says. ‘take it easy for a little bit. first time in the memory pod is a little - disorienting.’

disorienting? no, she feels fine. like she can take on a deathclaw with her bare hands, no power armor needed. watch out world. ‘okay,’ is what she says, though, muffled like her mouth is filled with cotton.

he takes a few steps forward, their hands still joined, and when he pulls away, her arm falls limp to her side. ‘take care of yourself, nick,’ deacon says, again to no response. with a look to her and a shrug, he leaves.

the door to the memory den opens and closes, leaving just her and nick. she takes the spot next to him on the loveseat. ‘thank you for this,’ she says, slowly forming the words in her mouth. thinking is fast, train of thought entirely derailed, but speaking - no. a freight train hit her on that one. ‘you have no idea how much it means to me - ‘

nick leans forward, rests his elbows on his thighs. ‘did you enjoy your trip down memory lane?’ his voice is like being dropped into an icy cold lake. she was just in his head, and now he sounds like he’s coming through an old radio. ‘get what you needed out of those fun memories?’

whisper leans back, rests her head on the back of the couch. she dons the sunglasses, wears them like armor, as if it’ll protect her from kellogg should he try anything here. ‘i did what i thought was necessary.’

‘so did i.’ he shifts, chuckles. ‘your friend is stronger than he seems. if it weren’t for him holding me back, i’d have strangled you by now.’

‘revenge from beyond the grave?’ it seems like a strange way to be haunted. killed by a ghost, a literal dead man. ‘sore that i killed you first?’

his sigh is a whir of gears in nick’s throat. ‘just to see if i could get away with it.’

her heart’s beating a mile a minute, but she is so calm. nothing can touch her. not even kellogg. not even kellogg in her friend’s body. ‘i want to hate you,’ she tells him, tracing the holes in the ceiling with her eyes.

‘got a soft spot for me now that you’ve seen my tragic past? yeah, save it.’

‘sure, i’m sorry about what happened to you. your life’s been rough.’ one hand finds a hole in the loveseat, and she begins picking at centuries old stuffing. ‘but you made your choices, same as i made mine. i very easily could have killed preston in concord, slaughtered the quincy survivors. i didn’t, though.’

‘ah, so you’re a saint.’

she exhales heavily, body thrumming with unspent energy. but she can’t spend it here. can’t beat kellogg to death a second time, now that he’s jumped to nick’s body for the time being. ‘a saint? no. i’ve killed, too. and it gets easier every time, too, and sometimes - ‘ it scares her.

‘this isn’t a confessional.’

‘you’re right. anyway, i’m going to tell dr. amari to scrub the rest of you out.’ she pulls herself forward to stand, but nick’s arm shoots out, bracing her against the cushions. he still isn’t looking at her.

‘why don’t you hate me, then?’

she huffs and swings nick’s arm back into his lap. it doesn’t stop her from standing again. ‘this isn’t a confessional.’

‘claire.’

that stops her, already almost halfway across the room to where the doctor waits. ‘you took care of my son. treated him as if he were your own. maybe if fate had dealt us better hands, you would have treated your daughter the same. that’s why i don’t hate you.’

kellogg falls silent, and she takes it as her cue to leave.

‘good bye, claire.’

this time, she doesn’t stop. ‘good bye, kellogg.’

deacon parks against the wall across the memory den and bums a cigarette from a drifter; first, because he’s fairly certain the guy has been tailing him every single time they’ve come to goodneighbor. second, because he’s got to have something to help him to replace the feeling of her against his lips.

des is going to kill him. one hundred percent murder him. and, frankly, he wouldn’t blame her. because fuck, he’s compromised. he’s compromised and if he screws up the tentative alliance the railroad and the minutemen have because he’s fucking compromised?

des will kill him.

his inhales wrong on the first drag, and his hacking cough draws the attention of the drifters in the area. good, stare at the idiot too busy thinking about a two second kiss to remember how to smoke a cigarette. fuck.

he stubs it out on the wall and waits for whisper. they have to talk. he’s got to draw a line, here. for his own sake.

that, and the drifter keeps staring at him out of the corner of his eye, thinking he doesn’t see. sunglasses - he has no idea.

whisper finally leaves the memory den, but, of course, she’s got her sunglasses on, so he can’t tell if she’s still riding that memory high. but she’s smiling, and his stomach does not flip over. deacon’s come a long way since his teenage hormone days.

‘how’s that report coming along, partner?’ she asks, pressing close against his side. two friends just hanging out.

and, right. the report that’s going to get him killed. ‘just swell, got it all typed and ready for the professor. think i’ll get an A?’

‘A plus, for sure. you’re a good student.’

from his vantage point, he can see her staring up at him, even with the glasses. and she’s got this grin he could stand to kiss off her. fuck. ‘partner, we need to talk about something.’

she frowns, brow furrowing. ‘yeah, sure, what’s up?’ she turns to him the moment that drifter moves, and - damn. bad timing.

‘we have rules,’ he starts, and tilts his head up just in time to see the drifter moving their way. before he can continue, whisper takes his hand and drags him around the corner, into an alley across from the third rail. ‘hey - ‘

‘i know about the rules,’ whisper says, low in her throat. she puts her hands on his chest and pushes until his back hits the brick wall. ‘desdemona told me. fraternization?’ she presses full against him, arms already winding around his neck.

‘and why’d des have to tell you?’ he asks, and finds he’s scared to know the answer.

‘she caught me staring, back in hq. thought it was important that i know.’ not good. not good, not good. her voice goes almost impossibly lower, her mouth close enough he can feel every breath, ‘i can take back that kiss, if it’ll make you feel better.’

deacon flushes. close as they are, no way she can’t feel how fast his heart is beating. just as he catches their suspicious friend passing by the alley, she seals her lips against his, and he’s gone.

he deepens the kiss, hooks his fingers around her belt loops to pull her hips to his, and relishes in the moan he pulls from her throat. she tastes like the goddamn sugar bombs she’s always eating, sweet on his tongue, and he can only imagine she tastes stale cigarettes but he doesn’t care. all he cares about is her flush against him, her nails digging into his shoulders as she drags him closer.

his hands slip under her shirt, and she gasps against him as he trails higher, under her fraying bra.

desdemona doesn’t have to know. doesn’t need to know. nothing happened here.

whisper pulls away to breathe, and it physically pains him. he dips his head, brushes his lips from her jaw to her neck. ‘poor timing on that conversation, huh, partner?’ she drags a nail down the nape of his neck, and he feels her grin at the full body shiver she elicits, but he pauses, heart hammering in his chest. ‘your guy went into KLE0′s store.’

‘my - guy?’ he drops his hands from her shirt, lets his head fall back against the wall. ‘you saw him.’

‘of course. you were eying that guy pretty hard. think he’s institute?’ she asks, still leaning into him. so, he’s going to die. and if it’s not desdemona, whisper herself will kill him.

‘we’ve had our suspicions. i’ve got a contact shadowing him, but we’ve never been able to pull any real proof.’

‘okay,’ she says, shifting slightly. he bites back a groan. ‘why haven’t you brought it up to hancock?’

‘it’s only been recently. don’t want to lose his trust on baseless rumors.’

she finally detaches herself, and he misses that warmth. ‘goodneighbor seems like a pretty close knit town. they’d know if someone was acting suspicious, right? it wouldn’t hurt to pass on a suggestion.’

she hums and he hates it. hates that he knows how that feels against his lips. hates that it didn’t mean anything. hates that he knows he shouldn’t want it to be anything.

‘the general of the minutemen wants to throw her weight around?’ he focuses on breathing, just to calm himself. he’s compromised, and he hates it.

she presses the tips of her fingers to her lips, and he wonders if hers are still tingling, too. ‘for you? absolutely. and if we’re made, that puts everyone in danger.’ she sighs. ‘hancock’s going to be so excited to see us so soon.’

‘come on, partner,’ he says, attempting to slip into their old camaraderie. nothing happened here. ‘we’re the least unsavory company he keeps.’

they leave the alley behind them, heading for the entrance to the state house. one of the goodneighbor guards gives him a thumbs up after whisper passes by. deacon returns it. for all they know, they’re just a couple that got a little hands-y in an alleyway. that’s all their cover needs to be.

as they pass by KLE0′s, he witnesses the drifter purchasing a pistol before they enter the state house.

‘you think sammy’s been replaced?’ hancock asks, suddenly sober.

‘it’s a possibility.’ whisper allows deacon to take the lead. her eyes begin to droop just standing in the doorway. ‘last i saw, he was buying a gun from KLE0.’

fareinheit grunts, kicking off the wall she was leaning against. ‘want me to take care of it?’

hancock waves a hand, smoke weaving around his fingertips. ‘not alone. take two of the watch with you. who knows what they replaced him with.’

the woman nods and leaves, tapping two of the watch outside hancock’s office on their shoulders. they follow behind her, obediently.

‘that’s it?’ whisper says around a yawn. ‘that was... surprisingly easy.’

hancock laughs and brings an inhaler of jet to his lips. whisper mimics the movement, touching her own. she feels deacon watching her. ‘sammy’s never liked guns. heard from his girl a while back. they used to fight ‘cause she wanted them to have one, but he always refused. nice guy, too.’ he sighs, bliss crossing his features once more. ‘thanks for the tip, alley cat.’

alley - ‘yeah, no problem,’ she mumbles, words slurring.

hancock laughs, soft. ‘need me to tuck you in, alley cat? you look exhausted.’

deacon is oddly quiet. maybe he’s as tired as she is. bone tired. soul tired. the kind of tired she felt after passing her bar exam and slept the entire next day.

‘we're gonna head for the rexford, actually,’ deacon answers for her. he’s not slurring his words at all. not tired, then? just quiet.

hancock places some caps in deacon’s hands. ‘for the rooms. get her to bed, would you? she’s dead on her feet.’

dead on her feet? she talked to a dead man today. walked around in his skin and killed her husband in it. saw her son. her son! and then - and then, the rest is a blur. malden, goodneighbor, kellogg’s head, she retraces her steps, and that’s as far as it goes. her brain woke up just a few minutes ago, talking to hancock, details trickling in like a stream.

deacon doesn’t take the second room, despite paying for it. ‘just in case sammy has friends,’ he says.

he spreads out blankets on the floor, even though the bed is big enough for both of them. they shared a bed before, way back in sanctuary, and there wasn’t a problem. what changed?

she doesn’t have the energy to think. it’s all she can do to remove her pip boy and mumble good night into her pillow before she’s asleep.

#oc: alice ward #siri drabbles #series: we will all go together when we go #otp: i'm in your corner #it has been so so so long since i've written anything like this #i'm rusty. i am so rusty forgive me

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