#your son is not allowed to be fragile and gentle even in death because then he'll always be that fragile in your memory

[martyrbat]

monstrilio – gerardo sámano córdova

[TEXT: Our son died before the dogwood pushed out its first flower, a bloom so simple with four white petals and a burst of yellow-green in the center—a beginner’s flower. I believed that flower was my son reincarnated. One believes the stupidest things in grief. I spoke to the flower and called it my son. And then I laughed because how ridiculous—how cruel, really—it would have been if my son was reincarnated as something so ephemeral, frail, and beautiful. I killed that first bloom with one swoop of my hand. Dead again, my son could become something else: the shell of a tortoise, strong and ancient, or a hideous fanged creature deep in the sea where he’d see wonders even he could’ve never imagined.]

[descriptivestats]

Magnum Opus

Listen here my people: Of the darkness come the light. Push forward with all your might. In between the pulsing race is the answer you must face. Love what you and go beyond. We are made to swim in our own pond. Do what you love. Do you what you love. Do what you love. In the beginning there was ash. And a master of chymistry who turned the ash into a white dust. Forget about time and consider that from one important moment, everything springs back and forward. The moment is called the singularity.

The Master nurtured his white dust. He gave light and gentle heat like an embrion. But most importantly he gave it time. When the organic dust learns itself and its name it begins to grow. The dust grows like a crystal through multiplication. Heat and cooling. With each moment, it coagulates and learns about itself. He took his hand and touched the dust even though he knew not what it was and even breathed it through his pores, he learned the name. Not Jupiter like the son, not Isaac like the father but Azoth the name of himself. From the Azoth sprung a tree with infinite branches. There was only a need from the Universe to create a single speck. But the master was diligent and so created a multitude of particles and put them inside a vessel. From the particles would spring first a single tree strong and large. But the tree would spring into infinite branches. The branches would demonstrate multiplication. The Master discovered that with heat and light and time, the Azoth would absorb and change the nature of energy and become yellow. It would even multiply into branched crystals. But it was never permanent change. The crystal would burn and fall apart into an orange and black dust. The yellow would fade because the body of Azoth was incomplete to hold the energy. So the Master had no choice but to wait until the body was fully grown before administering further experiments. It is cold to call these actions experiments. No son wants to be born of a vessel. But it is perhaps better to say that he was created by the gentle hands of an artist. Though there was danger, risk of death, risk of explosion, risk of acid incineration, risk of personality disintegration, the father went on to create the son. Science had a hand and caused experimentation, but that is more the language of the times. And so when the son would grow, the father and son would travel together to conquer the world. "I can only say now that I am sorry father. I'm sorry for the pain I caused you. But I need to be honest with you. I would rather you see the truth, which is easy and doesn't need any energy. I am fragile too. I grow only in the truth. I grow only in light like a tree. I need time and patience to understand the death of my mothers and fathers. I fear this island is cursed. Give me time and we will see." Go forward now and make your mark in humanity. Wait for only a few months. The Master can see the crystal shining even in infancy. The disbeliever could not see it and sought to destroy the body, without the knowledge on how to raise a child organically. The disbelievers got so close to you. But I was able to mislead the disbelievers by spreading a devilish lie. Worship the ONE. Worship the One. Worship not the 3. Worship the Mind.

For generations the countries fetishized the mind. They put forward leaders who had the biggest heads and could move the most greed into the world. Those big heads were my great feint. Worship the one mind, instead of the God who makes you and the trees. There, your greed has lead you to my most powerful sin. The one sin that even the paladins suffer. That Sin is named Idolatry. I give those leaders their credit, they are true masters of Mind, and for all their suffering, the did allow me to live. What greater purpose is that? But now the Azoth lives beyond me. And now it is the end.

[kiame-sama]

28 Years (5th Pregnancy)- Yandere!Silva x Reader

Warnings; yandere relationship, yandere tendencies, yandere behavior, yandere, mention of past trauma, pregnancy, c-section, more arguing, vasectomy, Zeno is so done with his son's bullshit

"No. We are not doing this again. I won't allow it!" "Hey, I told you how to fix this from ever happening again." "I did use protection. It clearly didn't work." "I didn't say 'use protection' did I? I said you should get a vasectomy since it's clear that regular protection and emergency medication doesn't work!" "I shouldn't have to-"

"ENOUGH!"

You and Silva fell silent at the firm and loud command from Zeno, looking over at the frustrated elder assassin. He happened to be holding young Alluka in his arms while the infant whined and cried from all the noise, compelling you to take the young child and set to comforting the infant. Alluka quickly quieted once in your grasp and allowed you to return your attention to the matter at hand, the new heartbeat that originated from within you.

You had been trying to avoid a third pregnancy given your prior back-to-back pregnancies and your already fragile health, yet here you were with another infant growing within you. You assumed something like this would happen, given your past attempts with contraceptives and how little they actually worked. Naturally, you suggested Silva have a vasectomy as it was not only a surefire way, but also a reversible surgery.

Originally, you suggested getting your tubes tied despite the danger that came with it but Silva quickly shot down the idea with his usual explanation of not wanting to lose you. Silva knew somewhere in him that the typical contraceptives wouldn't work, given the fact that he had used several similar methods to trigger a termination of prior pregnancies you were unaware of. He had hoped in some way that your body hadn't built up a resistance to them, but he also knew it was going to happen eventually.

He did plan on undergoing a vasectomy when you had first suggested it, but he quickly forgot about it in favor of getting to finally fuck you senseless now that your body had somewhat recovered after your most recent pregnancy. He had just been so relieved you were able to be brought back from your cardiac arrest following his mistake of once again taking your child away, and couldn't help himself from indulging in his favorite pass-time; fucking you. It was clear to everyone how addicted Silva was to you, in the way he would always return to your side after a job, how he would guard you jealously from anyone other than himself.

He was so whipped for you.

But now, you had a serious choice to make for your future and the future of the life already growing within you. It wasn't hard to guess what Silva wants to have happen, and some part of you agreed after enduring all that you had. Yet... You still felt that maternal connection already forming, wanting to protect all of your children from Silva, even the new child within you that had yet to take even a first breath.

"You're not keeping it." "Yes, I am." "No. I won't tolerate this again!" "Good thing you aren't the one who has to tolerate it. Last time I checked, its my body that goes through all the strain and effort of pregnancy, not your’s." "Are you doing this just to hurt yourself? To try and exhaust your body to the point of death?" "... Again, last time I checked, I wasn't the cause of my heart stopping." "..."

Silva stood silently, passive expression on his face as he wrestled with his own mind over the matter at hand. On one side, you were right; he was the reason he almost lost you, he's been the reason every single time. Even if it was complications during birth, it was still his fault entirely for getting you pregnant in the first place. On the other, he knew the immense toll another pregnancy will have on your body and the chances of you dying during birth increased with each one. The odds were not good.

It was then Silva spoke, his voice gentle and not at all like what you were expecting him to growl out with. It was the voice you scarcely heard on those far and few between days Silva would be truly gentle in every way, usually reserved for when he decided to honestly apologize to you for something. He was proud and cold, but there were those moments when that pride was set aside, when he would actually explain how he felt instead of leaving it at short sentences that never offered answers.

"(Y/n), don't do this again. Don't stubbornly hold on to this one. I know you already love it, as you love all of our children, and you will always fight for their safety no matter what, but for once you need to let me win. Let it go." "... If I say 'no', will you take it from me anyway?" "(Y/n)..." "Are you going to take my baby away from me again, Silva?" "..."

A soft sigh left Silva's lips as he frowned, knowing you were going to win the argument regardless of what he said or did. He knew he owed you more than he could give and there was no way he would force you to give the child up. If you truly wanted to keep it, he wouldn't be able to convince you otherwise. Still didn't mean he had to like it.

"There is no sense in saying the obvious or telling you the risks you run having another baby so soon after your two prior pregnancies." "I know..."

Zeno hummed in a contemplative way, knowing Silva would refuse to go out on a job while you are pregnant and he had already refused to leave the Zoldyck estate in favor of keeping an eye on you. Given how intensely and fiercely he protected you, Zeno knew the immense toll the pregnancies have taken on Silva as well as you. But no one in the family wanted a repeat of the events that took place after Silva had taken Alluka away from you without telling you.

It was going to be a long eight months.

~~~~Four Months~~~~

"You need to sleep, (y/n)." "But what if something happens?" "Nothing is going to happen." "You don't know that..."

Silva frowned as he watched you pace in front of the couch in your shared rooms, chewing on your lip as you cradled your youngest in your arms. The child had already fallen asleep in your arms an hour ago, yet you still held on securely and refused to set your baby down for even a moment. Silva had seen the way you reacted to Illumi being taken and the subsequent over protective behavior you showed once you got him back in your arms.

Your behavior now was similar to how you behaved then, refusing to let your infant out of your sight to the point of impacting your health negatively. Silva knew you were reacting the way you were because of how he had managed to take Alluka from you in the first place. He had taken Alluka while you were sleeping even though you slept with the infant swaddled in a pile of blankets in your arms, so now you refused to sleep in fear Alluka would disappear from your arms once again.

Now he had to face the lasting consequences of his actions in the form of soothing you to the point of trusting him once more. It was going to take a while, however, as Silva had broken your already fragile trust yet again by stealing away your newborn, so it was unlikely he would be able to get you to trust him completely any time soon. Instead of the trust he once had, he had to watch you slip away into anxiety driven behavior due to his careless and selfish behavior.

It was driving him mad to watch you slip into such frenzied behavior, especially given the fact that you were enduring your third pregnancy in a row. Not only did you need sleep now more than ever, but you also had been refusing food in favor of feeding Alluka instead. It infuriated Silva to no end, as he had no choice but to let your anxious behavior play out until you calmed down once more. He wasn't going to chance doing anything that may be upsetting to you, but that also meant he wasn't going to force you to rest no matter how much he wanted to.

"At least sit down, (y/n)." "With you? No. No, not again." "I swear to you, I won't take-" "You've said that before, and it didn't stop you from taking Alluka away from me." "I'm aware I made a mistake, but I assure you-" "No."

It was going to be a long four months until you gave birth again and potentially trusted him once more.

~~~~Six Months~~~~

You hummed as you looked down at where your darling Alluka slept, curled up and held securely in the arms of Illumi. Silva had reached a breaking point when it came to your anxious and stressed behavior, deciding to allow Illumi to be by your side consistently so you would finally relax and get some much needed sleep. The presence of your eldest nearby did wonders to soothe you, trusting in your son to take care of his little sibling and keep Silva from stealing the infant away.

Though Silva disliked the fact that he had to share your attention and affection with his eldest son, the alternative was far worse in his opinion. You had gotten to the point of rarely sleeping so you could ensure Silva could not steal your baby away, draining yourself immensely in the process to the point you were not only rapidly losing weight, but you were becoming far less coordinated by the day. When enough was enough, he consulted his father on what his next step should be and the answer was obvious; let Illumi help take care of your wellbeing.

Your eldest practically jumped at the chance to spend unlimited amounts of time with you, not even perturbed by the fact that he had to take care of his youngest sibling. An extra cot was added into the bedroom, allowing Illumi to be present for around the clock assistance in child-care and to give you the added comfort of having your most trusted son nearby. You ensured to teach him how to properly hold an infant and how to soothe Alluka's fussing relatively quickly, only strengthening your motherly bond with Illumi by allowing you to put full faith in him with Alluka's well-being.

For once, Silva's plan worked like a charm. Not only did you finally start catching up on the rest you needed, you began to eat your meals with Illumi and therefore began to eat regularly once more. Along with your physical health, your mental health began to improve as well. You started smiling and talking more, resting with surprising ease in the arms of the very man you refused to so much as blink around only weeks prior.

Thanks to your teachings, Illumi was a rather brilliant nanny in your stead. Alluka would hardly make a peep when held in the comforting arms of Illumi and similarly, Illumi would make little to no noise while caring for his sibling. Even if he had more responsibilities with taking care of Alluka, Illumi wouldn't trade that time for anything in the world. He could spend time with you, talk with you, relax in your maternal love and affection.

Truly it was a win for all three of you. Alluka was always cared for. Illumi was finally able to spend more time with you. You were able to relax for the first time in who knows how long. Even Silva had relatively few losses, given how much more affectionate you were with him now you knew your infant was safe.

~~~~Eight Months~~~~

Silva paced outside of the delivery room, looking up almost every minute to check the time before resuming his endless pacing. He was much like a caged lion or bear, pacing just to pass the time and to do something other than sit still. He certainly was far more dangerous than any of those animals combined, only serving to add a rather pointed reminder to any doctor of what their fate would be should they fail.

But that was the whole purpose of this endeavor, to ensure nothing failed. Surely nothing could have gone wrong with all the precautions that were put into place.

Surely.

Either way, the long time it was taking only served to make Silva more anxious and his presence all the more intimidating. It in truth had only been a few hours since you went under so the doctors could perform a c-section to safely deliver what would be your fifth child. After the close calls with both Killua and Alluka as well as the fact this was your third back-to-back pregnancy, Silva wanted to take no chances with your life.

A c-section was how Killua and Alluka ultimately had to be delivered despite the fact you were able to have a 'typical' birth with Illumi and Milluki, so naturally it would only make sense for your fifth child to be delivered via c-section. It didn't sit well with Silva, however. Nothing would sit well with him until you were safely out of surgery and in his arms.

But what was taking so damn long?

"For fuck's sake, Silva, sit down. Pacing doesn't make it go faster and intimidating the doctors will only make it more likely for them to mess up." "Their lives are forfeit if they so much as make a single mistake." "And they know this. They've known this. All you're doing is adding another element no one wants to deal with."

Despite his father's chiding words, Silva continued to pace and glare at nothing in particular. Where it always seemed as if the man had a scowl on his face, it seemed ten times worse given he was actually scowling. The moment the door opened, Silva was pushing past the frightened doctor and into the room where his wife lay motionless.

For a moment, Silva felt an honest pang of fear in his chest when he saw you were not awake, the ever present beep of the EKG soothed him to know you were still alive and merely unconscious. The doctors all scattered like frightened rats, scurrying away from the intimidating mountain of a man who silently pulled up a chair, sitting by your side and refusing to take his eyes off of you.

Zeno, Maha, Milluki, and Illumi entered the room in a much calmer manner as they also came to stand around you. Alluka had been moved into Zeno's care given the impending delivery of the new addition to the family, and Illumi stood ready to receive the newborn and care for it while you recovered. Everyone had been preparing for the newborn in their own way, from the butlers ensuring the utmost safety to Zeno taking over Alluka's care, it seemed everything was finally prepared for and taken into account.

Meanwhile, in the past month, Silva had finally undergone a vasectomy so there would be no further chance of yet another pregnancy threatening your future with him. It was possible that it could be reversed and so it was the only surefire way no unexpected pregnancy would happen again. Where Silva felt he would have no reason to reverse the change since he already had five children, the option was always still available should something ever come up.

Perhaps finally there could be peace in the house. At least, peaceful enough no sudden pregnancy could threaten your life. Now all that needed to happen was getting the new infant out before Silva could finally have you all to himself once again.

He could wait. He could wait as long as he needed to. Because in the end, you would always be his.

[aquilaofarkham]

title: the little death rating: T+ word count: 2,409 summary: Two years after his fight with Death, Trevor’s injuries start catching up to him while Alucard realizes that humans are more fragile than he thought. 

For @trevorsmellmont ❤️  Thank you so much for commissioning me!

READ HERE

There’s a sharp pain pooling beneath his right arm, coursing through his ribcage. Trevor ignores it just as he’s ignored all the other aches, jabs, and stings over the past two years. Two years of building something better, something sustainable to last far longer than its young, admittedly green founders. Countless days, weeks, and months erecting homes, gardens, and pens for those dumb gentle animals who think the entire townscape is their personal pasture. Not another mistake of allowing them to wander aimlessly straight into the castle. As if heifers need to learn how to craft medicine or conduct what’s being referred to as “electricity”.

The work will never be finished. Even on days like this when the sun burns hotter than any circle in hell. A few drops of warm salt-ridden sweat crawl past Trevor’s pressed lips and into his dry mouth. Pain and thick heat were never enough to stop him before—he tells himself this, barely certain of his own supportive thoughts (a new concept taking root in his mind). Take it slow, don’t push yourself, idiot. This cabin made from the earth will get built eventually. Another family will receive their forever home to fill with lots of babies. Old wounds beg to differ as Trevor’s arms begin to weaken, each movement slower than the last, struggling to keep up with Greta’s superior pace. She’s always known her way around a mallet.

Another bead of sweat gets caught in Trevor’s lashes, sparing his eyes from temporary discomfort. Though it wouldn’t have mattered as they’re already past any sort of respite. He looks for distraction but can only see the blurred shapes coming from a huddle of bodies, despite being a short distance from them. He knows it’s only Sypha and Alucard with the village children, which gives Trevor some relief.

There’s more comfort to be felt when he remembers that one of those little monsters is his own, nestled in Sypha’s lap then placed in Alucard’s gentle arms. She has a name far too long for any toddler to pronounce—Elizabeta Belnades Tepes Belmont—so what rolls off her developing tongue instead is simply “Liza”. She’s innocent now but once she leaves this little man-made paradise and ventures into a harsher world, she will take more after her mother and father. Grabbing whatever life offers with both fists, clawing and biting her way through every obstacle until her teeth are reddened with bloody meat. For the time being, they relish Liza’s soft cheeks, wispy hair, and the way she throws herself at whichever adult happens to be in her nearest vicinity. The other children are helping her socialize by playing games and embracing frivolity; a tactic Trevor remembers from his own upbringing, though with less games and even less frivolity. 

“Think you can handle one or two more?”

Greta’s voice manages to cut through Trevor’s mental fog. Funny how she asks if he can “think” about anything especially at this suffocating moment. She must have noticed the way his lips curl into a happy doped up grin while observing his family and couldn’t help but inquire. As any close, loved and valued friend would.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“What’s wrong with looking a bit further into the future? Now that we all have one.” 

“Looking is one thing, but seriously suggesting is something else completely. My… performance in certain areas isn’t as up to snuff as it used to be.”

As Trevor says this, things deteriorate and get a bit fuzzier from his eyesight down to his chest. Out of focus. Painful. He keeps talking, keeps ignoring the inevitable. Always ignoring what his own body screams for.

Greta wrinkles her nose at his statement. “There are children present, Belmont.”

“What? I’m referring to the house. I barely managed to get one wall up while you’re already on the fucking roof.”

“So dramatic. You three really do deserve each other. And you’re still young.”

“On the outside, maybe.”

She laughs at his lie, misinterpreting it as another piece of mild self-deprecatory banter he might never be able to live without. Greta says something else, perhaps her own personal jest to counter his, but Trevor cannot hear. Breath grows heavier, forcing out a raspy “it’s fine. It’s just my chest”. Barely able to tell if Greta actually said anything about his sudden condition. Or rather, not so sudden. No, this has been building over quite some time now. His muscles and bones screaming, begging for relief or death, and end to everything—whichever comes first. Feelings that only worsened over the years.

Trevor loses control over his legs, now practically boneless. The collision between his head and the ground is nothing compared to the inner war over his heart. Whether it will finally succumb. Greta immediately calls for help—he thinks without confidence, once again. Trevor can still hear voices, but not their exact words. Not Sypha when she demands to know what happened. Not Alucard when he begs for him to stay conscious. Not even Liza as she cries for her papa.

Then all the chaos in the world fades into slow darkness.

--

Alucard stands outside the closed bedchamber door, contemplating how often he’s touched Trevor’s body. Lithe fingertips have memorized every crevice, scar, soft and rough spots alike. Not just as a lover with wandering hands underneath blankets in the dead of night. Or a friend who holds him steady on both feet when he needs it. But as this family’s self-appointed physician. 

Perhaps the prince of two worlds took after his father after all. “Polymath” is what Alucard used to describe Dracula and the very same word others have referred to him as, mostly in the realm of medicine. He knows more than anyone, little offence given towards the herb dispensers and leech farmers (only to be polite for his own townsfolk). Thus, through the anxieties and trembling hands, Alucard gave Trevor his diagnosis: heat exhaustion along with a muscle somewhere in his chest that decided to go rogue and strain itself.

The son of Tepes, the only local doctor worth trusting, and arguably the co-leader of their little prospering hamlet paces across the hall like Trevor did the day Liza was born. He’s on the other side of that closed door, resting. Bedridden from heat exhaustion and a fucking pulled muscle. It bothers Alucard. This shouldn’t have happened to someone who stood up to the personification of Death and pissed in his eye. A stupidly common and easily treatable inconvenience to the human body shouldn’t be the end of a fucking Belmont.

It shouldn’t—unless Trevor’s scars have anything to say about it. The ones on the inside and outside. Inside, unseen, and untreatable. There’s a harsh revelation to be found there; one which the prince has been purposefully avoiding up to this moment. Alucard can try as he wants, use the tools left behind by his father and mother as though it were their final death wish, but he might never tend to what pains Trevor on the inside. He’s a Belmont, undeniably so, but Belmonts are human despite the many recurring signs pointing to the contrary. Then there’s Sypha with her magic, but she’s human as well. Greta and Liza are still human. Humans are more susceptible to dying easy, little deaths even when they follow world-saving victories.

Where does this leave Alucard? Thoughts spiral down, down towards darker places the longer he nervously hovers outside the bedroom. He’s been known to awkwardly stumble into deflection, insisting he’s only half human whenever certain someones bring up this topic of necessary conversation. Meaning he might as well not be human at all. Not when the bodies of those he loves change so rapidly while his remains petrified. It’s only been two years, filled to the brim with countless hours he wouldn’t ever want to trade for the entire world. But the thought of one night as they nestle themselves into bed and Alucard touches either Trevor or Sypha’s chest only to feel an anomaly within their hearts. The earliest sign that time and age will eventually betray them as it does for all mortals—it could be the one thing to break him.

Alucard stops himself at the opportune moment, right before he starts thinking about his mother and father. Did Dracula ever contemplate Lisa’s mortality? Was the decision to never turn her easy or the hardest thing he forced upon his unstable, immortal conscience? Arms crossed over his chest like a protective cage, fingernails digging into the fabric of his shirt until it hurts, Alucard swallows a bitter glob of spit and reaches for the doorknob. Sypha will have to accept the fact that he couldn’t wait for her. He quietly thanks her for the lessons she taught him. If he needs to talk about something—truly talk, no sarcastic wit or banter, just the raw emotions—Alucard no longer hesitates. He won’t, not as he enters the room and immediately sees Trevor still in bed, not quite altogether there. At least he can manage a decent smile and wave of his hand.

“Evening.”

“How does your chest feel?”

“Still a bit tight, but I’ve been taking deep breaths like the doctor ordered.”

The amount of strain heard in Trevor’s voice worries Alucard. Hopefully the Belmont has learned something from the recent past, so he won’t be stupid and suggest anything having to do with leaving bed or getting back to work.

 “I think I should get up.”

“I think that’s a poor decision.”

“Are you saying that as my physician or because you’re letting that pretty little blonde head of yours get too worked up?”

No. Yes. Both? If only Trevor didn’t look up at him with those glassy eyes (can he still see him?) the colour of stained glass windows erected in cathedrals he felt so unwelcome inside. If only that smile, somehow both soft and shit-eating, wasn’t in place of a more serious expression. Then maybe Alucard could voice his concerns without being accused of acting overbearing—an accusation grounded in solid evidence but he’s not ready to admit that yet. Not out loud.

“Normal, healthy adults do not become bedridden after pulling a small muscle in their chest.”

“Belmonts aren’t normal… or healthy in my case.”

Alucard’s brow furrows. “I want to think you’re healthy—” I need to. “—that you’ll live long enough to see the children of this village have little ones of their own. Liza included.”

“God’s sake, she’s only two years old. You and Greta, always talking about looking one step too far into the future. Let her be a child before adulthood rears its ugly maw.”

“Try not to change the subject.”

Trevor lifts his head off the indent pressed into his sweat drenched pillow. “Alright. Fine. I feel much better. I won’t push myself and give my heart some more time to recover.”

No response coupled with broken eye contact; sure signs of Alucard’s reluctance to accept his rather weak assurance. The Belmont has no other choice.

“Come here. Sit.”

Another moment’s hesitation before Alucard complies. Feeling his weight upon the mattress, Trevor blindly reaches for his wrist until calloused fingers grip cool, unblemished skin.

“Now lie down. No, no. Not like that. Place your head right here.” He pats his chest and with a fleeting amount of guidance, Alucard’s cheek fits perfectly between his breasts. Two hands smooth over the dhampir’s curves before one before one rests on his silk smooth head and the other against the small of his back. Alucard lied about one thing: his own body can change in small yet noticeable ways. Without the need to fight for the lives of others, whether today or tomorrow, sharp edges turn softer. Trevor and Sypha have finally let themselves breathe as well, let go, and enjoy all of life’s pleasures.

“Hear that?” He asks Alucard.

“... It’s slow.”

“Slow and strong like it should be.”

Alucard wishes he could bottle up that heartbeat or place it in a box. Preferably a music box to listen to its soothing melody long after its original body and soul are both eventually gone from this world. Who knows? It might make things hurt a little bit less like when he redrew his parent’s portrait or built a much larger nursery where his own used to be. Not a lot, but Alucard could possibly live with just “a little”.

“Speaking of Greta…” The baritone of Trevor’s voice sends deep vibrations through his broad chest, tickling Alucard’s cheek. “She said something about more children.”

“More orphans joining us?”

“No, even though I know how much you love those damn orphans. She asked if we could handle one or two more.”

“What did you say?”

“I implied that she was taking after Sypha’s influence by being wonderfully insane.”

Alucard chuckles in agreement. That sounds like Greta. “You never know. It might be good for Liza if she has a younger sibling.”

With the sound of Sypha’s well timed arrival, he’s mercifully saved from Trevor’s lengthy speech about how patience is apparently a virtue and tirades about his “performance” or lack thereof. Greta reveals herself shortly afterwards with a still crying Liza in tow. So many bodies gathered around one inebriated individual, here for him and him alone. Trevor’s consoled yet exasperated expression directed at Greta in particular says “isn’t there someone more important you could be helping right now?”

Sypha is the first to voice her gratitude after fussing over her exhausting loved one. “I will never be able to thank you enough, Alucard.”

“I think the bed did most of the heavy lifting, love.”

Trevor is given an affectionate, somewhat caring glare in response but his focus is demanded elsewhere once he suddenly notices Liza jumping onto the bed. She snuggles herself between him and Alucard, wetting their shirts with her tears.

“Easy there, you little monster. Papa’s still a bit tender.” Not that she can understand or care.

There’s an aura of relief felt amongst everyone in the room—less with Alucard who smiles bittersweetly. It’s a truth he knew he had to acknowledge before it tore his heart open. Trevor and Sypha will die one day and he will have to bury them. He’ll bury Greta, he might even bury Liza. Not today thank all the gods, or tomorrow, not for the next few decades if fate is kind enough. 

But the day will come. And it will be Alucard’s own little death.

[philippaed]

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡    . . .    amelia    seymour    grey    (    @myladygrey    )    𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞    . . .    hampton    court    .

the  apartments  had  been  emptied  of  straggling  servants  and  favor  seekers  as  eventide  dawned  upon  london,  compelling  maids  to  light  candles  to  illuminate  the  darkened  hallways  and  husbands  to  return  to  the  comforts  of  their  wives  after  a  day  of  politicking  in  the  court  of  elizabeth  tudor  ─  only  a  young  girl  stood  before  her  in  plain  clothes,  poking  at  the  burning  embers  of  the  fireplace  as  the  duchess  of  suffolk  finished  off  her  letter  with  a  flourished  signature.  philippa  wanted  to  avoid  rousing  suspicion  and  so  would  have  to  entrust  the  contents  of  her  writings  into  the  hands  of  the  maid  that  she  had  brought  from  bradgate  house  to  hampton  court,  concealing  the  recipient  of  her  letter  beneath  the  guise  of  a  note  between  two  sisters  separated  by  distance  and  duty.  it  was  a  pleasant  coincidence  that  young  bonnie  had  an  older  sister  who  had  her  babe  around  the  same  time  amelia  had  gone  into  labor  in  the  privacy  of  bradgate,  allowing  the  grey  women  to  correspond  with  the  nursemaid  charged  with  the  care  of  jack  seymour  through  the  two  sister - servants  without  anyone  knowing  any  better  but  even  with  such  elaborate  steps  taken  to  shroud  their  conversations,  she  was  filled  with  an  intense  sense  of  anxiety,  the  trembling  of  her  hand  forcing  the  quill  to  drag  unnecessary  ink  across  the  page.

her  shoulders  flinched  slightly  as  the  doors  to  their  apartments  parted  to  allow  her  sister  entry,  dark  gaze  cutting  through  the  dimly  lit  room  to  pin  amelia  in  her  place  as  she  rose,  shoving  the  letter  in  the  direction  of  the  servant  so  that  it  could  be  enclosed  in  an  envelope  and  sent  out  with  the  first  rider  of  the  morning.  ❝  you  have  impeccable  timing,  sister.  i  have  just  finished  a  letter  to  dottie.  ❞  jack's  nursemaid  and  sister  to  bonnie.  ❝  you  may  include  something  in  the  letter  if  you  wish  ...  a  last  note  for  your  son,  perhaps,  if  we  are  all  to  meet  with  our  deaths  in  the  coming  weeks  because  of  your  foolishness.  ❞  the  gentleness  of  her  tone  sharpened  at   the  end  of  her  words,  vitriol  curling  viciously  at  her  upper  lip  until  the  disappointment  within  her  was  evident  on  her  features.  though  she  had  come  to  like  john  seymour  both  as  a  good  brother  and  a  man,  philippa  knew  that  all  their  lives  would  be  easier  if  her  sister  had  not  fallen  in  love  with  a  seymour,  of  all  people  ─  it  was  unfair  that  she  had  to  relinquish  her  grasp  on  her  first  love  for  the  good  of  the  family  and  the  future  prospects  of  her  sisters,  only  for  amelia  to  squander  the  security  that  she  had  earned  by  marrying  nicholas  sutton  on  something  as  insignificant  as  love.  

she  could  be  happy  that  her  sister  had  found  joy  in  marriage  but  not  at  the  cost  of  their  lives  which,  judging  by  the  reappearance  of  edward  seymour,  would  soon  be  claimed  by  the  boleyn  axe.  ❝  a  seymour  ...  a  seymour,  amelia  !  did  i  not  say  that  this  would  come  back  to  bite  us  in  the  arse  ?!  ❞  by  the  desk,  bonnie  flinched  at  the  crudeness  that  dripped  from  her  mouth  but  before  her  sister,  philippa  was  a  storm,  a  whirlwind  of  emotions  that  threatened  to  uproot  everything  that  held  their  fragile  secret  in  place  if  only  to  save  the  rest  of  the  family.  ❝  we  should  have  told  william  of  the  marriage  when  we  first  arrived  ...  how  we  will  do  so  now  without  them  rightfully  suspecting  that  we  are  responsible  for  the  man  that  calls  himself  edward  seymour  ?  ❞

[whereflowersbloom]

Sealed Fate

The Western horizon was on fire: hot pink turned into mauve, wild orange into gold, the bright colours fading into paleness, then darkness. It was the day they whisper their vows before the gods, both Raven and Damian believed that love was not what stood at the foundation of their pledge, at least not the kind that fate had in store for them. No, that’s what they want to believe, what truly mattered most at this point was peace, peace through political marriage rather than an overwhelming affection. Peace. Damian, the youngest son of King Bruce and the noblest of all of Gotham’s princes, living or dead. As King Bruce was only left with Damian and Richard. Raven, a demigod, sired by Trigon the Terrible and mortal Arella.

The fragile truce between Gotham and Azarath balanced on the tip of a blade, depending on this union of convenience. Kon-El was wearing a scowl that would freeze unquenchable fire from the House of Hades. She could feel Trigon’s dark eyes burning into her face, the harsh, singeing heat of a desert behind it. She wanted to run, but she was also afraid of him giving chase. What was the point anyway. Before coming to Gotham, she knew how to fly, wings spread wide, flying away, her shoulders have borne heavy burdens, heavy burdens of solid stone. Oh she prayed to fly away from them, and roam the freedom of the sky, but her father had cut off both her wings and left her rooted to the ground. There would no longe mountain's peaks with the promise of wondrous views to keep. It all came to an end the day her father told she had been promised to Damian: Prince of Gotham, the great. Gotham the glorious. Gotham the magnificent. She should be honored, but her thoughts and feelings on the matter were inconsequential as the advice of a woman in wartime.

A week later she found herself at her wedding feast. Wearing a silver attire, a veil, a lilies and myrtle garland, and a golden headband. The Brothers and sisters her husband had in plenty, raised to be warriors they fought during war to lose their short lives. Helena and Timotheos had fallen. No body of Jason had been found after the last battle with Crete. She only met her husband her wedding day. He was reserved but polite and not overly perfumed, and when her eyes fell on him she thought of Narcissus. Narcissus, who had been unable to pull away from his own reflection in the pond, enchanted by his own beauty until death claimed him. Although the way her tutor had prattled on and on about Damian’s innumerable virtues, Raven had not expected him to be as radiant as a god. The sun-kissed skin stretched to wrap around muscles built from years of practicing complex military skills, broad shoulders and powerful arms, displaying strength and virility akin to a noble lion, movements of disconcerting grace for one so large. His facial features had a frank and honest quality to them, bright and deep-set eyes, as green as spring leaves with the touch of Persephone, a Greek nose, full lips. He was a God in beauty and stature. Reluctantly, tore her gaze from his beautiful face and focused on her new family. They have been so impeccably polite, specially Richard. ‘Welcome my good sister. We are all so blessed to have you.’ Blessed. Blessed child she had been called once long ago.

Do you feel blessed, my dear sister?” Richard asked, passing a golden wine cup into her hand. His wide smile meant no harm nor his words. As she grew up Raven was left to learn how to smile and laugh prettily at compliments that made her skin crawl, feign the innocence of any maiden her age.

Blinking several times, she looked back at him and smiled weakly. “Of course, brother.”

Richard was all dancing, light and lean seduction, dark myrrh hair and flushed red lips, rosy cheeks and aristocratic arched eyebrows, adorning himself in a blue and gold tunic. Her new brother appeared to be content to sit in the shadow of his younger brother and watch him gleam in all his glory. Cassandra did not speak with her, she was the only calm in the midst of a storm of abrupt adjustment. She tried to pay no heed to the murmurs of gossiping women at the feast, eyes green with envy as she had married the godlike prince. Foreign seductress. Demon spawn.

Bruce and Olivier discussed vehemently about warfare and politics with Kal-El and Kon-El. Diana and Artemis were carrying an excited conversation about traveling and Shiera’s recent journey in Egypt. She caught no sight of Trigon to her relief.

Trigon. Other gods might have roared their pleasure at the skills and intelligence of their offspring, praised their achievements for all to hear whilst filling themselves to the brim with nectar. Not Trigon, who wanted to sire no child but found himself infatuated with Arella, bedding her out of enjoyment.

If she were godly, truly a deity, in all of its ways with fantastical unlimited power, then one could not help but ask: Would Trigon praise her then? Did he not want her because she bled red as earthlings. As I’d guessing what she was thinking her husband finally spoke.

“For a deity to come down on solid ground isn’t seen many times. For her to wed a mortal willingly is even more ambiguous.” Damian exhaled softly, standing right next to her. His voice was so deep, so soothing and alluring as she had imagined.

“I am no deity. I am the undesired offspring of the god of death.” She said in a choked voice. Not sure if he was mocking the nature of her position. Green eyes alight with amusement.

“You are anything but undesired, wife.” Damian responded, voice low in his throat, and private; a voice she knew in her bones he meant only for her. His face reflected an earnest expression filled with so much pure-hearted sincerity that it stole Raven’s breath away

No man had ever spoken of passion or desire to Raven, and all that she knew of such words she had overheard her tutors speak, or learned from old songs; the glory of being called beautiful in tones, not of cool reason but burning emotion flooded her entirely. She was desired. Biting her lip, her face flushed, and shining starlight hair drooping over her face as if that would somehow hide how obviously close to tears she was.

Damian smiled serenely and Raven felt like he’d seen the sun. Resembling the sun and light, Apollo.

He had a gentleness to him that is completely foreign to her experience, not seen at first sight, discerning the heavy emotions in his eyes. Raven did not know before that it was possible for men to be gentle. One glance and she thought of him kissing her mouth, just as he thought of tasting her skin. Uncertainty lies in her desire for the reciprocal dedication to infallible ardour.

Air. Her lungs were in need of air.

~~~

She went to the garden of Thetis, to sit among the flowers and watch the moon-washed stars. The goddess of flowers must have visited bringing brightness and beauty wherever she stepped, as she appreciated a patch of narcissus, foxgloves, hyacinth, and delphinium displaying tightly clustered flowers upon tall stalks in varied blues and purples, in full bloom, surrounded by the thick chorus of crickets chirping all around. With all thoughts of threats and protecting her homeland, Raven found herself strangely empty. It wasn’t hollowness: it was the emptiness of shock, of disbelief and misunderstandings when everything you’d imagined was pulled out from underneath you and she was suddenly living in a reality where someone admired her? Yearn for her touch rather than fear her.

“Raven.” Kon-El sighed her name as he walked closer to her, fabric softly trailing on the grass and it made Raven tremble. His ocean eyes saddened, darkened, burning through her and reducing anything to ash, to nothingness. There were things that must be said but she couldn’t bring herself to apologize.

“When Morpheus came to me in my dreams. I did not dare look upon his godly figure. But I heard his voice like a thunder from grand Zeus. He promised your hand would be mine to hold.” The words had come bitter and aching with such profound loss that it made her throat tighten with his emotion.

“I have a husband now, Kon.” She mumbled quietly, using his infancy name, casting her gaze downwards. “They were nothing but hollow words, grains of sand carried upon the wind of Aeolus.” His disapproval at the mention of the word husband was obvious.

Attempting to reason with him to not make a claim of a right that was no longer his. She could sense his anger, regret, sorrow. Envy . Why do you look at me in such way? Why do you look at me as if you pity me? Why do you look at me with eyes filled with sorrow and hatred, all at once? Where did her sweet and naughty Kon go? She wished to voice those questions.

With clenched fists, he nodded. “It’s for the gods to decide as our fate lies in their hands.” Kon-El spoke solemnly with unshakable conviction. “You have a husband tonight, but take heed as The Fates could cut his thread of life coming morrow.” He bowed down and left without saying no more.

No. No. He would not dare. Notion spit forth from such a place of hate, fear and confusion like its like a venom small at first or great yet if allowed it to take over fully.

The night was calm, witness of the conversation between two old friends, the stifling hot of the day finally giving way to a coolness which smelled like an approaching storm. Yes, she could feel it, there was a storming coming with the unforgiving and celestial ire of Zeus.

~~~

The feast passed quickly, with laughter and high spirits carrying it along. However, Raven could never quite relax after hearing Kon-El’s threatening words. And there was the bedding ceremony to proceed, not in public. Thank to Merciful Elea.

Torchlight played on Raven’s face as she motioned with her hands like a sorceress, then the royal peplos she wore dropped off her like the skin off a snake and she emerged. Goddess Nyx in human form, her breasts round and ripe and firm, her belly flat and sculpted thighs, the tangle of dark hair between her legs an invitation and a challenge. She was bare before him. So very delicate, so vulnerable, so unlike anything he’d ever laid eyes upon. It intrigued him, that vulnerability, laid bare for him to see under the soft glow of the torches. The daughter of the God of death.

What a curious creature she was. Gifted with the beauty of Aphrodite, the mysterious eyes of Nyx, holding the stars of Orion in them. They had been in his mind on and off at the feast, wrapped up in the hazy, sweetly intoxicating lull of inebriation.

As he looked down then back up her body, to her timid eyes, no challenge in them, though her lips still twisted in a semblance of indecision. Doubt. It was obvious that while she was not truly frightened of him, nonetheless the shadow of doubt and tension was present. Damian swallowed hard. He had avoided looking at her more than necessary during the ceremony but he gave into temptation as Aphrodite whispered in his ear all the ways he could have her. He did not like Gods nor their offspring. The Gods enjoyed tricking mortals for their own merriment. But, she was his wife and there was no escaping now. He cursed quietly for his mortality.

Raven dug her pearly teeth into the fleshy hills of her bottom lip, reminding herself to stay in control, taking a deep breath, fists clenched at her side as she took a brave step forward. “My prince.”

“Damian.” He corrected immediately as he straightened up for a fraction of a second before he bent his head and allowed his lips to graze Raven’s ear. “My name is Damian.”

With uncommon courage, she reached for the clasp holding his jade tunic under his chin. The heavy cloth sighed down around their feet. With a delicate feather-like touch, Raven traced the longest scar on his bronze body that went from Damian’s left shoulder down to his right hip. His breath hitched at the sudden invasion, but relaxed into her touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. No one had ever dare touch him intimately without his permission.

She could see hidden amongst the bright hues an emerald green clouding over with Damian’s lust. Their lips melded together as if they were made for each other and moved in sync as Damian threaded her fingers into Damian’s thick raven locks. Damian gently nipped her lower lip, and when she gasped heavily against his, he slid his tongue inside the warm cavern of her mouth to meet hers.

Her mind temporarily muddled with an electrical charge coursing through her veins making it hard for her to focus on any one part of her anatomy than her mouth against his. Everything tingles, starting at the back of her neck and rushing down, an uncomfortable yet exhilarating heat razing through her nerves only to whirlpool in her lower belly, churning, before continuing down all the way to her toes. He tasted like pure ambrosia.

As they continued kissing, his lips become eager, desperate, feverish. She’s never been kissed like this before. Kon-El had kissed her cheeks out of mischief a few times when they were children. Innocent love. Never with parted lips and tongue, with a hunger that would scare her had the same kind of hunger not driven her own greedy mouth to kiss and suck and nip. And yet she knew with the wisdom of Athena, that even if she’d kissed a hundred men a thousand times, nothing would ever compare to this.

Peppering her neck with kisses and listening to her gasp his name, he carried her slowly to the crimson bed where he laid her down. Dragging his teeth gently downwards, along the expanse of her sweet, alabaster skin. There all shyness was replaced with audacity and devotion. Not being able to resist the urge, he bit into her neck, at her pulse point where he could feel her unsteady heartbeat against his tongue as he laved at it.

Hands that were calloused and large and warm and so very gentle for a warrior, as they find their way roaming her natural curves. They skimmed over her thigh and hip, caress the soft skin of her waist, ghost over the swell of her breasts. His mouth, hot and wet, closed around her breast and sucks lightly, thus making her suck in a sharp breath. Expert tongue swelling around her pink nipple. What in the name of Hera he was doing to her? She wanted more. More. More.

Raven cannot utter a single word. Her mouth too dry, her mind too drunk on arousal, to form any coherent phrase. Calling his name between small whimpers showing her heightened ecstacy. This must be Elysium in all its glory. It was such a sweet torture.

Damian thought to himself she tasted like earth, starlight, like flowers blooming in the night. What was he thinking? She was his wife, no more. Daughter of his nemesis. His young heart hammering inside of his chest, the memory of his mother’s voice haunting him as she vanished with the wind.

Something flared in Damian then, flared up in his chest and his belly like a flaming arrow shot high to signal the start of a nighttime raid, and he seized her hips and pushed up inside her. Raven groaned softly in pain. Fear sent her stomach and chest quaking, her breaths coming short and fast, mind flooded with words of maidens about the pain of maidenhead being taken. At first, his strokes were slow, but his eyes do not look upon her face. The flower garland tumbled off her head and was crushed under their grappling bodies, the scent of a summer noon briefly filling the night.

She opened her legs wider and wrapped them around Damian following her instincts. Her velvet heat encased him, and he had to restrain himself from descending into madness at the pleasure. He felt like he was drowning in the Aliakmonas, the river swollen with melted snow. Raven’s round breasts goaded him, her hands caressed him tenderly, her ripeness clenched around him. As he started thrusting faster, harder, pumping in and out of her at an erratic pace. Damian drops his forehead to her shoulder, an animal like grunt in her ear, and she heard herself moan along with him. She even shifted her hips so that he hits her just right, his pubic bone rubbing against a sensitive spot his hand had touched.

He could tell she was close by the way her walls were fluttering around him, and he brought one of his hands down between them to rub circles onto her bundle of nerves. Damian also angled his hips enough to reach for the deep spot in the center of women that made them cry with satisfaction with each push.

Something inside her tightens, inside her belly where a babe will grow with the blessings of the gods, and then another wave of pleasure washed over her, pulling such a loud moan from her it should leave her ashamed, but she doesn’t care. Sweat beds clouding her vision, and the ragged breath of her husband hot against her moonlight skin, salty with sweat.

He reached climax and came harder than he had ever. His thrusts slowed, hips stilling as he emptied himself, thick, hot, white ropes of his seed filling her up to the hilt. Letting out a weary sigh he removed his body atop hers, carefully. It was done. Fulfilled his duty he told himself. A clear lie. Damian considered cupping her cheek and kissing her temple but he couldn’t do it. No. His features hardened as he turned away from her.

“I will show you respect as my wife. I will please you in all the ways a husband and lover can. But do not ask me to love you, for that is not an oath I can honor.” His voice came out hoarser and raspier than ever in the darkness, before rolling to the other of the bed preparing to fall in the arms of Morpheus.

There was an emptiness inside of her soul, her center she couldn’t describe. Waiting to be full again. Aching. Pulsing. Whirling.

“But I thought…” Raven began, a lump forming in her throat, not wanting to admit that she had hoped he could ever find love with her. Perhaps fondness. What about the gentleness he had shown her? The words died with the quietude of the royal chamber as if Harpocrates had made himself present.

Perhaps coming morrow with the grace of Apollo, he would bring Damian’s gentleness back to her. All she can do is hope and pray tonight. A lone tear slipped down her face as she closed her eyes.

Notes: Hello it’s me again with a new AU. Sorry not sorry. Had to get it out of my system 😂😂😂😂🙈🙈🙈🙈

Do not panic please. This is the first chapter and there will be Damirae fluff I promise. Happy Damirae moments and probably more smut than in other stories 👀👀

Hope you all enjoy. @ravenfan1242 @tweepunkgrl @chromium7sky @deepbreadlover @timid-soot-sprite @kallura-juniblade @shewhowillnotbenamed1 @andthendk @alerialblu

[writerman]

For the prompts, could I ask for elbarduil where Bard is a half elf like Elrond but has had to keep it a secret so Thranduil and Elrond don’t know and Bard just kinda forgets to tell them, and then one day after something happens to Bard and he gets hurt, BAM they find out and realize Bard isn’t going to die of old age like they thought, they’re not going to lose him.

I did not mean to write all 2,773 words today but I figured I had kept you waiting long enough for my sorry butt to get some motivation in me to write...

Thank you for sending in the prompt, I truly appreciate it and I very much enjoyed this request and now I want more half-elf Bard.

—————-

“He lost a considerable amount of blood I saw it all,” Elrond began, his eyes scan the courtyard until his gaze fell to Bard who was sat fussing the stable cat. He looked as he always did only tired. “I feared it was the end of him, Thranduil. He was pale and weak, my heart knew he would not see the end of the day…” Elrond’s voice soft now as he relived the memory vividly in his mind. 

Thranduil, however, looked unconvinced as he turned to watch Bard with narrowed eyes. Of course, his entire demeanour and excellent health left Elrond to look a little… off his mark but it was not in the lord to lie. 

“Yes, he truly looks close to death, all that walking and talking and laughing. By the stars, he is on the precipice of life and death. I see it now.” Thranduil received a gentle nudge in the ribs from Elrond and they both shared a smile that slowly dissolved into quiet laughter. 

“I am sure whatever it is Bard will tell us.”

“If he even knows himself.” 

“You are right. It is best that we only remain thankful he is still with us at all.” 

They remained standing under the archway that led from the royal quarters to the courtyard and simply watched as Bard took in the summer sun blissfully unaware that his husbands were inwardly perplexed at his survival. 

It was not until they mentioned his injuries over dinner that night did it occur to Bard that they had no idea he was in fact half-elven just like Elrond. 

Then and there would have been the perfect chance to tell them, to dramatically reveal he hadn’t been human this whole time! 

Cue random gasps of surprise and maybe some applause. 

But the moment was gone before he could even fathom how to word such a thing. Thranduil had changed the subject to Elrond’s subpar wine and a light sprinkling of bickering flavoured the conversation for the rest of the meal.

All thoughts of the accident and Bard’s miraculous recovery had dissipated now, the conversation did not come up again until Thranduil appeared one morning dressed to kill in robes fancier than Bard had ever laid eyes upon before. 

“We are riding to Lothlorien today, will you join us?” Bard, still in his everyday wandering around pretending-not-to-be-king clothes, paled for a moment as his mind raced and his heart started beating faster than a hummingbird’s wing. 

Lothlorien, where his dearest naneth resided. It did open the floor to Bard explaining who he was and it would be easier with his mother there to back him up, even though it was rather unlikely that Thranduil and Elrond would not believe him.

“Yes, I think a trip would be nice. Why are you heading out that way?” He hoped the question was as casual as it should have been. It must have been because Thranduil sighed and gestured vaguely in the direction of Elrond’s voice that floated down the hall. 

“To visit extended family.” 

More than you have any idea about, Bard thought but instead of speaking he merely offered Thranduil a sunny smile that spoke of innocence where there was none. 

With a silent order to change Bard got up and hastily dressed in something more fitting to see Galadriel and Celeborn. Meeting Galadriel was always such a jarring experience though not at all negative… just jarring and she was always so kind to him and not at all surprised that he was aware of elven customs, unlike Elrond and Thranduil had been. 

It would be near 6 hour trip from Rivendell to Lothlorien and Bard found the time passed with the blink of an eye. How long had it been since he had been there to see his mother and how long had Galadriel pretending she had not known he was there? 

Regardless of who did know, he was more aware of who did not and just how they might feel when he suddenly springs it on them that he was not a frail little mortal man they needed to constantly worry about every moment of the day. 

That wasn’t fair, they knew he was strong and capable but there were time Bard forgot just who he was and allowed them to coddle him even if it was only in the slightest of ways. So used to being seen as just any other human living among humans it was easy to carry on as one would. 

And no one had yet commented on how little he had aged only that he looked good and healthy which was enough for him because it was safe and if not a little bit pleasing to hear. 

They were greeted at the gates by Haldir who called for the entry to be opened for their arrival. Bard gave a hearty wave which the elf returned which earned him a few peculiar looks but it didn’t seem to bother Haldir in the slightest. 

“Elrond and I must discuss elven matters, would you like to join us?” Thranduil sounded bored before he’d even attended the meeting and Bard truly felt for him because he knew Thranduil would have preferred to be doing something more interesting than reminiscing about a time so long ago it seemed inconsequential. 

“I shall leave you to your important matters and I will find something to occupy myself with for the time being.” All he wanted to do was get out of his riding gear and drink something cold and sweet to refresh himself before he slunk off to find his mother. 

It would be a pleasant surprise for her to see him and the thought of seeing her joyous smile spurred him on and he set off for the rooms he was usually given when visiting, he was well aware they would already be ready for them. 

“I shall just go on without you then,” Thranduil called out after him and Bard threw a smile over his shoulder his dark gaze meeting with Thranduil’s pale one as they share a fleeting moment of humour before Elrond took the blond’s attention and they strolled in a leisurely manner towards their welcome party. 

It might have been seen as bad manners not to greet Galadriel and Celeborn but he was sure they wouldn’t hold it against him. After all, he was a human and could not possibly manage to ride 6 hours on horseback and then sit talking for hours drinking wine strong enough it could knock out a full-grown cow. 

Once in private Bard stripped over the leather riding gear and smoothed out his shirt and tidied his now wild hair into something more presentable for his naneth. The anticipation of surprising her was unbearable and the jittery excitement inside him had him pacing the room as he tried to cool himself and give himself time to slip out of the guest quarters unnoticed. 

-----

“They do not know about me do they?” Leithriel asked her smoky voice was coloured with humour as she smiled to the point the corners of her eyes crinkled. A true and, almost, delighted smile. 

“No, and it isn’t as though I was trying to hide it from them, it just never came up in conversation and it took me being gravely injured for me to consider that, perhaps, they didn’t ask me about mortality because they were afraid mine was fragile.” Bard had his elbow on the dark polished surface of her living room table with forehead rested in palm as he stared at his own reflection. 

“You surround yourself with sons and daughters that have lives as quick and as wild as a raging sea. I can see why you would not recall your own heritage when I see rarely see you these days.” Leithriel’s smile faded Bard could hear in her voice that she regretted her actions. 

“You belong in Lothlorien. You would never have been happy in Laketown or Dale without Da. And I would not ever ask you to join me there, we both know I won’t be there forever. One day I might even come here for good.” Leithriel arched a brow at him in question, she looked wholly unconvinced by his words and shook her head. 

“You would leave your husbands and come here to live with me?” When she put it like that it did sound embarrassing but it wasn’t what he had meant. 

He sat back in his seat and ran a hand through his hair hoping the action would ease his mind. There was a genuine fear that Thranduil and Elrond would be unhappy even angry with him for hiding this from them. 

While the logical part of his mind told Bard that he was being ridiculous he still couldn’t help but worry that it had been too long and that it would appear as though he had hidden it from them when that really wasn’t the case. 

“You will not settle here if you do not tell them now.” She was right, of course, and she knew it. “Before you go, I had something made for you.” Rising slowly from her seat with grace Bard knew he’d never possess, Leithriel left the room returning moments later with a package wrapped in pretty silvery paper tied with string white string. 

“I had hoped to send this before your next visit but now is a better time than any to give you this. You married so quickly that I was unable to offer this to you for the wedding but I suppose it will do as an outfit for dinner tonight when you are with Galadriel and Celeborn.” There was a quiet sadness in her voice that Bard wanted to ask her about but before he could he was urged by her to open the package. 

Not wanting to argue or delay what seemed to bring her joy Bard unknotted the string and let the paper fall open revealing neatly folded fabric. He set it on the table so he could stand up and when he lifted the first piece from the set it unfolded revealing a striking burgundy outer robe. 

“The first robe your father ever had made for him by elven tailors. He was ecstatic about it, burgundy and black and he cut quite a fine figure in it too, though he soon became a slight bit too round to wear it as he got older. Morvan wanted you to have it, ion nin.” 

His father had never been the kind of man that had been interested in holding onto his possessions and had always favoured skills over things. There wasn’t much left to keep of his father’s after he had died, and his mother had found it too painful to house anything that reminded her of Morvan other than his picture which hung proudly still on the wall of her library. 

“I want to put this on now.” Bard didn’t wait for a response as he strode from the room with the clothing gathered up in his arms. 

The black tunic and leggings fit perfectly and those garments alone made him feel so noble how a king should look. As he slid the outer robe over his shoulders the picture was complete and for a moment Morvan stared back at him instead of Bard’s own reflection. Those same brown eyes and wild wind-ruffled waves of dark brown hair he had been the very image of that man and how he missed him for a moment. 

Returning to the living area Bard felt he could not speak, the air in his lungs held as though trying to stay in the moment for a while longer, to hold the feeling of pride inside him for as long as he could.

“I- my eyes would deceive me I swore on the stars I thought you were your father.” Her eyes shone as she spoke and Bard released the breath from his lungs and crossed the room to embrace his mother in thanks and in comfort. 

When they parted she shooed Bard from her home with a smile but he knew there was still pain there and should he have lingered his appearance would only have made it worse. With a quick farewell, Bard crossed the courtyard and met Thranduil and Elrond as they left their quarters to go in search of him. 

“Oh my, we leave you to your own devices and suddenly you have a sense of style that may even rival Thranduil’s?” Elrond leaned in to press a soft kiss to Bard’s cheek in greeting and apology for leaving him so long. 

The sun had set and the warm evening lay before them with the song of night birds drifting through the trees. 

“Where did you go to find such clothing. This is the finest tailoring I’ve seen you ever wear and it has the Lothlorien style stamped all over it.” Thranduil slid a hand around Bard’s waist his excuse was to inspect the quality of the fabric but he was definitely just admiring how well it was shaped to his body. 

“This is the perfect moment to tell you that my mother gave it to me.” His bright and airy response was certainly out of character and certainly put on but rather than question the tone of voice both Elrond and Thranduil share a quick look before allowing Bard to continue. 

“My mother lives here and this was my father’s robe she said he wanted me to have it. Which means, as I am sure you worked out in no time at all, I am half-elven.” Had his heart ever beat so fast in his life? 

Silence.

More silence. 

“We know. We realised rather quickly when you were near death and recovered in record time from something that would have killed any normal man.” Thranduil drawled yet he tempered the tone with a smug smile, his hand still planted on Bard’s waist. 

“However, we were not aware of which parent was elven and if they were still alive,” Elrond added as he moved to Bard’s other side. “What we do know is that we are so very relieved you felt comfortable to tell us this and that you will be with us far longer than we could have ever imagined.” 

Bard felt himself visibly relax as he was led back into the guest quarters. What could have been a tense and uncomfortable moment was breezed through leaving Bard with little to worry about though, there was something else on his mind. 

“You know, it is all well and good me being elven and all but you do still have to meet my mother and she still has to like you.” 

The sound of wine being poured into goblets punctured the silence before Thranduil scoffed.

“I’ve not met anyone who does not like me.”

“Do you enjoy saying such ridiculous things to those that know you intimately?” Elrond queried taking Thranduil’s goblet of wine from the blond’s and handing it to Bard before Thranduil could even begin to take a sip. 

“Your reputation precedes you, meleth. You are a ray of light to us but from the outside looking in you may be seen as, ah, tad wintry upon first meeting.” It was a gently as Elrond could put it without dancing around the words and Bard was so wonderfully entertained by it all. 

“What he’s trying to say is, sometimes Thran you can really be a bi-” His words were cut off as a cushion hit him in the face. 

“Alright, alright, I am quite aware of what you are trying to tell me. It just seems to me that there is nothing to worry about. I am charisma personified when I need to be.”

“Well, I have never once witnessed that.” Elrond quipped now taking the second goblet Thranduil had poured. 

“You don’t seem concerned about meeting his mother, why are you the embodiment of calm?” Thranduil questioned now crossing the room to pour his drink out of reach of nabbing hands. 

“Oh, I am not calm. I am positively terrified but at the same time, I had to meet Galadriel and Celeborn once upon a time. I sincerely doubt it can be any worse than that.” 

Maybe not but Bard was not going to let them know, either way, it was far more interesting to see them suffer the unknown. Both of them never knowing when Bard might spring a meeting on them and leaving them wholly unprepared. 

The trip to Lothlorien was truly not a wasted one.

[pomegranates-and-blood]

Her Own

My Masterlist  

Pairing: Past Ivar/Freydis, but this is about her

Summary: What if Freydis didn’t confront Ivar in 5x20? What if she made a different choice, after letting them past the walls? What if she lived?

(I wanted to write a fix-it for her ending, I wanted her to have a chance at happiness, that’s about it.)

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: Passing mentions of death and violence, quite a focus on Baldur’s remains, angst.

A/N: My entry for @maggiescarborough​’s International Women’s Day Challenge (I’m sorry it’s 2k bby, you know by now I can’t write short pieces lmao). So, I like Freydis, even though I always change a bit (a lot) of her when I write her. She loved that baby, and (if she was honest, which I like a little less than the alternative) she loved Ivar, she was capable and willing to love despite all she suffered (because even if we aren’t shown it, the woman was a slave presumably her whole life); or (if she was smart enough to lie, which, kudos) she is a smart and cunning woman, and an ambitious and fucking fearless one at that (and I really like women in Vikings that fight and persevere while still playing within their gender role, as a wife, a mother, etc.). And yeah idk, she’s not a role model character by any means, but it is a female character that I was always fascinated by, hence why a work for her is my entry for this challenge.

The poem quoted here is Broken Crown, I couldn’t find the author or any link other than this though, sorry.

There’s a story about a queen who gave up her kingdom for a chance to breathe.

One day, she walked out of court with nothing. Somewhere far, the sky stirred, and the ocean raised itself for a glimpse.

She remembers being chained even though her wrists were free, looking into a man’s eyes and promising him that in his blood ran ichor akin to that of the Gods. She remembers the promise she made.

“I would give my life for you, if you asked me to.” She told him, and she meant every word.

With the wind biting against her face, her cheek still feeling the pulse of a bruise that has long since healed, her skin still wet with the phantom trace of tears that have long since ran out; Freydis walks away.

Kattegat trembles and quivers at her back, and if she were any more naïve, she would tell herself it is the lack of its queen that makes the town mourn, and not the sons of Ragnar that fight to the death -the death of others, the death of slaves and warriors; it is always the death of others that those men offer to the Gods as tribute, Freydis more than anyone knows that- for a throne that she has sat in, and has deemed as ordinary as any other chair.

A part of her wanted to stay, wanted to look Ivar in the eye and watch as he understood he had lost everything, because of her. Just like she had, because of him.

Her arms tighten on the cold and hard wooden box she wrapped in a cloak, and if she closes her eyes she can pretend her Baldur is nuzzled against her breast, just sleeping.

She wanted to stay. She wanted to stay to watch them all burn, she wanted to stay because she never lied to him. Despite everything, she never lied, or, if she did, she doesn’t remember anymore.

Her life was his, that never changed.

But her death, her death is her own.

The war was not barbarous men in broken armor, not limping horses or battle cries. The war sounds like her owl wings beating, quietly frantic, lovely beneath the eastern sky.

But one grows weary of being both assailant and defender.

She opens bleary eyes when she hears footsteps near her. Uselessly, she clutches the box cradling Baldur’s bones a bit closer, and watches with wide eyes as someone approaches.

She wishes she could stand, she wishes she could move. But she feels weak, she feels…tired. It is alright, she gathers.

Her death will be her own, anyways. Even if it is her body giving in on the mossy floor on the outskirts of some unknown city, it is her own. There are not many things she can call her own, not anymore. Her death might just be the last.

But the Gods won’t let her die, it seems, since a woman approaches, the stride of a shieldmaiden.

The woman, a blonde with a deep scar on the side of her face, takes one look at Freydis and calls out for her warriors.

Two shieldmaidens approach, look at her with something that looks like pity. And Freydis wants to bare her teeth, tell them she doesn’t need their pity, she doesn’t need anyone.

The blonde, the leader, takes a step closer. Freydis grits her teeth to keep her body under her control, to keep it from scrambling away like the panic singing in her blood begs her to.

“You are safe,” The woman tells her, voice strangely soft. “You were a thrall, weren’t you?”

“I-I was a-…” A slave, a wife, a queen, a…a mother.

“You are no more,” The shieldmaiden promises, almost as if she can hear her thoughts. “Tell me your name.”

“Freydis.”

“You are safe, Freydis. We won’t hurt you, and…we are going to Ribe, we can take you there.”

“Why would I-…why Ribe?”

The smile the scarred woman shows for that fragile moment seems understanding, seems like a secret. Freydis feels like she either knows or understands more of her story than any other.

“Because it is far from Kattegat.”

They say her shattered dreams rattle inside her lungs.

Freydis cannot help but wonder bitterly where these women were when she needed them most, when she still had a life that belonged to her, when she was alone and so scared she held on to him even if all she had to hold on to was a figure -a life- made of sand.

But they are here now, and they make flavorful but humble broths that they share with comfortable ease, and they offer touches that speak of compassion but not of pity -she is starting to see the difference-, and they have scars of their own that show when they smile or when they laugh.

Weeks after the scarred woman left her in the care of these women, Freydis feels strong enough to stand and walk on her own.

And she makes herself be strong enough to take her son’s bones up the hill.

She puts the cradle -the box, she corrects herself- on the ground, and traces her hand over the lid of it one last time, as gently as she would have stroked his little back.

And when she speaks, she speaks quietly, soothingly, as she would have to lull him to sleep.

“Sweet Baldur, to me...to me you will always be divine,” She promises, slowly grabbing the stones between shaking hands and making up the small grave, “The gift the Gods granted me, something of my very own to have, to love. But…” She swallows thickly, but raises her chin and makes herself admit her pain, her mistakes, “But you see, my son, I was blind, I was lost, and for my arrogance the Gods have punished me. I only wish they could have taken from me anything but you,” She sweeps one last time her hand over the carefully placed stones, smiles past her tears, “I know I will never hear your innocent laugh, or see you take your first steps, or feel you alive against me again, I know. But you will always be with me, you…you will always be my child.”

She will carry him with her, carry him alongside her pain. Pain is the one thing they can’t take away from her. She, better than anyone, knows this.

In dreams, her belly is swollen.

The storm rages and the baby cries in the woman’s hold, even as she rocks him back and forth, as calming and as enveloping as the sea. And Freydis watches, she watches until her eyes burn.

She closes her eyes, and the bed is comfortable and soft underneath her, his hand is warm and gentle.

“How is little Baldur, hm?” He asks, and in that figment of a moment she can give in, and pretend. And she lets herself forget the way the wood of the wooden chair makes her back ache, pretending there is only soft furs underneath her.

She lifts her hand, moves to put it over his on her stomach.

And she lets herself forget the sounds of the storm around her, pretending there is only the crackling of fire.

She opens her eyes, because his hand is not under hers, and her stomach is barren. She still finds him looking back, but it is the coldness and the cruelty, and his mouth curves unnaturally in a grin that boasts that he took everything from her.

Freydis grits her teeth and looks away, a sob, a cry, stuck in her throat as she gasps for air.

The woman looks at her, motherly and comforting in a way no one ever looked at her before, motherly and protective in a way she was never allowed to be. She doesn’t know if she ought to resent her for not being there or envy her for having what she cannot; even though Freydis knows both things would be useless and irrational.

The baby in the woman’s arms coos, and it tugs at Freydis heart, it makes her chest tighten and her very blood ache with an absence that on some days is heavier. Today, since that first day, is the heaviest.

Before Freydis can even give voice to her plea, the woman shuffles closer, a hand on the back of the baby’s head and cautiously extending her arm, offering him to her.

She holds him, brings his little head to her nose, and fights the urge to close her eyes and pretend.

In dreams, she is her own.

“You expect nothing for yourself, but you’ve revealed everything to me.” I have revealed nothing, she wants to scream, you haven’t let me. He continues, “You are all goodness. All truth.”

What makes her heart feel like it is being squeezed tight in his fist is that he looks like he believes what he is saying. She isn’t all goodness and doesn’t want to be, she hasn’t ever told the whole truth.

She wants to yell and scream and demand that he look at her, that he look at her face and see more than the woman he is proud to have made his wife and see the wear all those years of suffering have left etched in the angles and creases; that he look at her body and see more than the vessel for his child and see the scars and the mark of hunger that after months of life as a queen she feels hasn’t left her body.

She wants to be seen, seen as more than fragments of glass put together however he sees fit, seen as more than whatever image of her he sees even when looking directly into her eyes.

But it is better to be wanted like this than to not be wanted at all, she knows that much. And so she smiles, and pretends the tears in her eyes are for him, and tells him what he wants to hear. It wears on her, to see love and feel like she’s seeing it thought the cracks in a wall even when it is looking directly into her eyes, to feel love and see it accepted and embraced as long as she can be what he wants her to.

And in the morning when she wakes in that home that is so less familiar than the one of before, but so much more of a home; she meets the eyes of the people she lives with and grits her teeth when they smile, feels like a wounded bird in a cage when they call her name in greeting.

They don’t know me, she tells herself, rage and grief and something that tastes like the acid of fear swimming in her stomach, they are just like him.

It takes her time to understand that they don’t ask for her story because they don’t want to demand it. For too long she has confused demanding with wanting, need with love; and it takes a while but she realizes that they see the way she flinches and so they don’t gesture so broadly around her, and they see the way she looks at the latest woman that has joined them and they let her hold the baby more often, and they see that she likes sleeping closer to the door and they give her the keys to the home, and...and maybe they see her.

In dreams, she did not ruin herself to be dressed in dying clouds.

Wide blue eyes jump between the dark red and green dress and the woman that holds it with a hopeful smile.

“I thought you’d like it.” Frída tells her.

She wants to spit back accusations, ask her how would she know what Freydis likes if she doesn’t know her, ask her why she is cruel enough to pretend to see her when all she sees is an illusion.

But she always liked the way the dark red and the dark green of certain fabrics shimmer in the low light, she always felt a little more alive, a little more herself, when she wore those colors.

She noticed, her scrambled thoughts scream, she saw me.

And so Freydis extends trembling hands, and barely grazes over the rough but beautiful thread. Her lips quiver into a smile, and she hopes the words that tumble from her mouth, stuttering and hurried, are enough gratitude.

That night, and so many nights after that, Freydis lingers for a while in front of the small and smudged mirror in her room. She looks, she sees.

She never had time to see herself. Before, the days were long and exhausting, and the nights were hopefully quiet, she didn’t have time to linger on fickle things like herself. And after, while the days were softer and the nights warmer, she didn’t like having to reconcile what he saw and what she did so she didn’t try.

She sees the hair that has grown duller since the food has become scarcer and less varied, but she sees the way her eyes are a little bit brighter, brighter than they have ever been. She sees her body is bonier than it used to be before the running, but as the reds and greens play in the folds of her dress, she finds herself more alive than ever.

She is lost and youthful again, denies the wounds in her flesh.

Freydis has learned she was wrong, when she promised those things. He had no right to her life, no right to her death.

Both are her own, and though sometimes she finds herself lingering in a world so long past her that it seems like a dream -or a nightmare-, Freydis finds that there are many things she can call her own.

Her own is the secret smile she and Frída share over dinner as they talk about what is happening in the town, her own is the old and worn green and red dress she will mend until there is nothing but tatters, her own is the pendant hanging from her neck that she was gifted by a man of kind eyes that she hasn’t forgotten.

Her own are her memories, good and bad. Her pain, but also her joy. Her past, but also her future.

Her own is the child that Hídr’s husband brings from a raid, that Freydis insisted would never be a slave, that it would be hers -and free- instead. Her own is the two-year-old girl she names Sigrun and calls her daughter, and loves like her own because she is.

Her own is herself, and all that came after.

Word has spread that her laugh is the sound of a thousand waterfalls.

Before, she twinkled. Now she is ablaze.

She is cracked porcelain leaking out guarded hope.

____ ____ ____

If you caught a not so teeny-tiny cameo by someone who also deserved better than a son of Ragnar, I will love you forever.

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you liked this, I don’t know if it is any good but I enjoyed writing it a whole lot :)

Taglist (I’m tagging those in my ‘all’ taglist, I hope it’s okay): @youbloodymadgenius @xbellaxcarolinax @1950schick @ietss @peachyboneless @encounterthepast @maggiescarborough @chibisgotovalhalla @fae-sedai @zuxiezendler @crazybunnyladysworld   @stupiddarkkside @northumbria @aprilivar​

[diaryofabeautyfiend]

Small Time Witch (27)

A S G A R D

When you were a small child you attended a Christian nursery school until you were old enough to start kindergarten. One of your very earliest memories was how your teacher described heaven. She called it paradise where the weather was always warm and there were so many trees and mountains and sprawling landscapes. “In the middle,” she would say “is the Lord’s palace. It is so bright and shiny that you will almost be blinded by its majesty.” Perhaps the teacher had been a former resident of Asgard.

You stood at the foot of the Bifrost bridge where Heimdall greeted you. In the distance was the palace glistening like a jewel amongst the stone statues and mountains. The water beneath the bridge looked like it was made of glass it was so still and blue. If you didn’t know better you would have believed you were walking into Oz.

Heimdall stood next to you staring into the horizon with his gold eyes glinting in the sun. “It’s beautiful isn’t it?”

“Yeah” was all you could manage.

“Welcome to Asgard, Princess.” You were startled back into reality.

“I’m not a princess. Please call me Y/N.”

“Your marriage to the Prince is recognized by the throne. It would be improper of me to call you by your name. The Allfather is expecting you.” He directed you into the care of two palace guards who freaking bowed to you. They loaded you into a small craft that zipped you to the palace.

Thor was waiting for you at the door. He introduced himself extending his hand. You reminded him that you were family and you hug. “It’s weird, Thor, because in another life I know you. We’re very close and get into all sorts of trouble together. Usually alcohol is involved.”

He laughed and drew you into his Vice grip. “You remind me of my mother. That may serve you well today.”

“I hope so. The only Odin stories I ever hear are of him being super gruff. He was even a little mean to Jane. Who can be mean to Jane Foster? Sweetest person ever.”

“You know of my Jane?”

“Of course. We’re very good friends. When you’re in town you two usually stay with us. It’s nice.” You didn’t have the heart to tell him that Jane passed away due to complications from cancer. Bruce thought the Aether likely mutated her cells and her body didn’t handle it well. Knowing that you were friends with Jane put a little smile on his face so you chose to keep it to yourself.

When you approached Odin you bowed. He peered down at you from his throne. He looked older than you thought he would. The guy was ancient. You supposed he shouldn’t look young. He looked more frail than anything.

He stood up and walked down the steps to be closer to you. “So this is the Midgardian witch who captured my son’s heart? You are very impressive, young lady. I’ve heard of your talents. Let’s leave this room and retire to my chambers. We’ll have more privacy.” He offered his arm which you took. Thor followed behind. “Please, sit. Now, what can I do for you?”

“Right down to business. Ok. Your highness, I am here to negotiate the terms of Loki’s sentence. The King and small council of Vanaheim have offered to keep Loki in the palace, with your consent of course. In exchange, they will keep me in the Temple of the Vanir to learn their ways. Also, my powers allow me to absorb the energy of the infinity stones. There is a Titan searching for the stones, sir. In my time, he destroyed Asgard and Xandar looking for them. If I can possess even two of them, I can stop him before he lays waist to the Nine.”

He did not say anything for several minutes. You were terrified. Finally, “The Vanir intend to weaponize you. Is that what I’m understanding?”

“I suppose that would imply that they have some sort of control over me. I will not be a weapon against another realm.”

“And if they use Loki as leverage, what choice would you have?”

You took a deep breath so you wouldn’t have a tone in your voice. “With all due respect, Allfather, they wouldn’t have the strength to fight me. I know how this sounds. It is dangerous and there is no guarantee I’ll succeed. I have to try.”

“Thor? What do you think? Another one of Loki’s tricks?”

You started to panic. Thor’s brow was knitted together. He was skeptical of the whole plan.

“Please. Don’t you have your own prophet? How can I prove to you that I’m not tricking you? What can I do?”

“Thor, call in Freyr. Let’s see if he can make sense of this.”

When Freyr saw you his face lit up. “Princess! How lovely to see you again. May I have a moment alone with the girl?”

The two men left the room. “You remember meeting me?” Your voice was trembling.

“Of course! Are you still so naive to think time is linear? This, my dear, is your destiny. The Norns give you the illusion of free will when really all of this was predetermined. You are here because you are meant to fight this war.”

“And Loki?”

He patted you on the head, “He’ll come around.”

When Odin and Thor came back in Freyr did most of the talking. Odin agreed to come with you to Vanaheim to meet with the king and investigate this threat. That was all you could ask for.

He invited you to stay for a couple of days to get acquainted with your new home. It wasn’t a request that much you knew. Thor was happy to show you around. He brought you to your chambers which were near Frigga’s. He showed you her gardens and told you to feel free to explore. There were some sheers on a small table. You slipped them in your pocket so you could take some clippings. She had everything you could possibly need to preform a spell. Literally any spell you could think of.

Thor followed you listening to you speak about the flowers and herbs that grew wild there. The more you spoke the more he understood why Loki chose you. You were so like their mother but with a jagged edge. Poised and gentle but you would definitely cut a bitch without a second thought.

Once you sat down for lunch he worked up the courage to ask about his brother.

“Y/N, can you tell me why my brother did this? Why Midgard specifically?”

You put down your fork and looked him directly in the eyes, “I think you know the answer to that question. Because you loved Earth. Because Earth loved you. You found Jane. He was jealous and angry and took it out on you. But it took him years to admit that he was really so deeply hurt by Odin’s admission.”

“But why not fight me directly? The people on Midgard were innocent.” He was beginning to get angry. You had to remember this just happened so the wounds were still fresh.

“He did fight you directly in New Mexico. When he turned the Bifrost onto Jotunheim he effectively killed that part of himself. The part he thought monstrous. When he let go of Odin’s staff on the bridge, he thought he would either die or live on in exile somewhere. He was ready to leave it behind. But Thanos found him. First he seduced him with power and revenge then he tortured him into subjugation. For a whole year he tortured him. Then, during the attack, he was controlled by the mind stone and The Other could hear him. That’s why he didn’t relent when you said you would bring him home.”

Thor was quiet. You could see tears in his eyes. He had never thought of his brother as a monster. Even when the glory of Loki’s destruction rained down from the heavens, he still loved his brother. He thought back on how Loki looked when he saw him before Chitauri invaded. He looked sick and bruised. He was having trouble standing. The amount of force it would take to mark a god’s skin was beyond comprehension. And now, all he knew was that Loki was recovering on Vanaheim. He had no idea just how close to death Loki was.

When you returned to Vanaheim you went directly to the Temple of the Vanir. Thor went right to his brother. He was outwardly shocked by Loki’s appearance.

“Have you come to throw me in the dungeon?” Loki held Thor’s eyes to attempt to intimidate him. It wasn’t working. He winced as he tried to sit up straighter. Thor would not dare help him in fear of injuring his already fragile pride.

“No, brother. I’m here to talk.”

“I don’t want to talk.”

“Then perhaps you’ll listen.” Loki looked away from him but raised his hand to signal him to carry on.

“If your quarrel was with me why not just fight me?”

“I wanted to prove to father that I can do something. He conquered realms. Why can’t I? That’s what kings do! It is my birthright!”

“Loki, I fear you and father are more alike than either of you care to admit. A king’s job is to unite the realms not to simply rule.”

Loki looked away in shame. “I would have been a good king. Both loved and feared. I would have built an empire.”

“And we all would have watched helpless as it consumed and destroyed you. Forget all of that. You have been given a second chance, brother. A chance with this woman who shares your spirit. Do not squander it lying about feeling sorry for yourself.”

Loki quirked his brow. He thought you had taken your one way trip back home after the way he treated you. Surely you weren’t still carrying on with your plan. The thing was no matter where you were on Vanaheim, he could feel you. Now he can’t. “She hasn’t gone?”

“No. She’s in the temple preparing for the stone. I’m going there myself. Why don’t you join me?”

“Funny. I can’t feel her.”

Thor gave him a weak smile and patted him on the shoulder. “Mother gave her free reign in her garden. No telling what manner of spell she conjured. I’m sure it’s for your own protection.”

You were a clever little witch. He would never say it aloud but he loved how quick you were. If you succeeded with the stones you two would be the most powerful couple in the known universe. You could probably dethrone Odin together. No army would be powerful enough to stop you. He stuck those thoughts into the back of his mind. You were uninterested in power in the way that Loki was. He could not understand your altruistic nature. All of this risk and for what? For people who didn’t know you existed. Though, if you didn’t care for others, he supposed you would have moved on by now and never given him a second chance. Perhaps now was the time to put such irrational things aside and support you.

——————————————————————

The Vanir worked quickly to construct a room strong enough to withstand a nuclear blast. You would have to crush the stone to release its full power. The only weapon strong enough for that was Mjölnir. If you were not worthy enough to wield it, Thor would have to be in the room with you. There was a real potential neither of you would make it out alive. First thing first, you had to lift the hammer.

The weight of Mjölnir would be of no concern if you were worthy. You stepped up to the handle and with effort you rocked it a little. Thor looked nervous. “You can do this, little sister.”

You took a deep breath, closed your eyes and on three you lifted again with an unburdened mind and a clear heart. The hammer was in your hands.

Gasps filled the room. No one dared utter a word. You let Mjölnir dangle from your wrist and made your way to Loki. “Lok, listen, if I don’t make it...”

“Shush, mortal. You will.”

You put your hand over his mouth, “If I don’t make it, please know that for one brief blissful moment, you were happy. We were happy. I love you.” He gripped your hand and opened his mouth to speak but you stopped him. “Don’t say it if it’s not true. Please.”

“Y/N, you will make it. I have faith in you.” You stared into each other’s eyes searchingly.

“You want to kiss me right now don’t you?”

He chuckled, “Desperately.”

You planted the softest most barely there kiss on his lips. He pulled you in to deepen the kiss. The tip of his tongue pressed against yours for just a second and then he released you. You pressed a knotted clipping of Yggdrasil into his palm and hung a tiny gold screw driver around his neck. When you walked away a gold bracelet adorned with emeralds dangled around your wrist. Around your left ring finger was a twin piece of knotted Yggdrasil. The screwdriver was warm to the touch and, if he listened closely, he swore he heard your heart beating.

You went into the room and slammed the metal shut and froze the lock. You held out your hand and forced the cube to crush with your magic. All that remained was the stone. This little blue stone that shined with the light of a million lightning strikes. It floated in the air. You circled it balancing Mjölnir on your shoulder. You plucked the blue candy button out of the air and placed it on the floor. As if it knew it was about to be set free, it released a high pitched whine. You raised the hammer into the air and with all of the force you could summon, you struck it. The room flooded with blue light so bright you couldn’t look directly at it. It sucked in its energy and then exploded outward sending shards of the jewel into your skin. It pushed you around the room like a pinball pinging you off of any surface it could find. You felt like your flesh was separating off of your bones and you were turning to liquid. All at once it went dark and dropped you to the ground.

——————————————————————

Loki paced the floor muttering to himself. Everyone else held their breathing straining to hear any sound. An utterance to let them know you’re alive. That’s when they heard the explosion. Blue light radiated from every exposed crack and nail hole. They heard your body careening off the walls and, with an unsettling thud, the room fell silent.

Loki rushed to the door trying to pry it open. The lock was jammed. Thor tried too but it wouldn’t budge. Njord yelled over their banging that the door was at least five inches thick. You wouldn’t hear them. He tried the key but it broke in the lock. Freyr used his seiðr to crush the door. When it fell away from it’s hinges, you emerged. Your hair had gone completely white and your eyes looked cloudy. You blinked a few times and they went back to normal.

You handed Thor his hammer and patted him on the shoulder. “Sister, speak to us. Are you well?”

You smiled and nodded. You took Loki’s hand in yours. Electricity crackled off of your fingertips. You smiled and opened a black void behind you for which to escape. In the blink of an eye you were on Asgard then Midgard then back to the temple. He laughed and clapped his hands, “You are a clever little witch aren’t you?”

“Princess...” Njord looked worried. You were unaware of your physical changes. You may have been a mutant but you were still a mortal. The stone could have severely injured you. “Your highness, please. We need to get you upstairs.”

“Relax, Njord. I’m perfectly fine. I feel amazing.” You were talking a mile a minute.

He kept insisting and you grew impatient. The more impatient you were the more your hands glowed and your eyes changed. “Njord, let’s give the Prince and Princess some space. She’ll come upstairs shortly.” Frigga ushered everyone out so you and Loki could sit in peace.

You couldn’t sit. Your skin felt too tight for your body. You needed to expel some energy. “Y/N, what’s going on in your head?”

“A million things. I’m wondering if I should go to south London right now since I know where the aether is. I’m wondering if the rest of my powers are amplified. I feel like I’m plugged into a massive battery, Lok. Maybe I can heal you quicker than Njord. Can I try?!”

He laughed and pulled you down into the chair next to him, “You’re like an excited puppy. Let’s go outside before you piddle on the floor. We can test your powers there.”

He lead you to an open space where you could work without fear of hurting someone. Your powers were indeed amplified. Your electricity was more like lightning. You grew a sapling into a knotted mature tree. You split yourself up into many clones and made it rain over the two of you. All of that should have tired you out but it did not. The last thing was to heal Loki. That was sure to drain you as broken as he was. You placed your hands on his solar plexus and went to work. Every ache and pain subsided every cut knitted itself back together. He felt reborn. You were settled.

You went back to the palace for dinner to talk strategy with Odin and the king. Since you and Loki were the only ones who ever faced Thanos, it was crucial that you were involved. You came to the conclusion that you needed numbers. You would divide the realms and enlist help even from the Dark Elves and Jötuns. You and Thor would go to Earth to speak with SWORD who handled all extra dimensional doings. Everyone agreed that Loki shouldn’t travel to Midgard just yet. You insisted the Avengers not be involved but, your X-men friends would be delighted to assist. At this point, they were more powerful anyway.

When you retired for the evening, Loki walked you back to your room. “May I ask you something?” His eyes were fixed on the floor he tried his hardest to sound confident. You lifted his chin so he would look at you. “Why couldn’t I sense you when you arrived? Why can’t I feel you now?”

“I guess I just wanted you to feel your own feelings for a change. I thought I might be overwhelming you.”

“I thought...” he laced his fingers in with yours, “I thought you were angry with me.”

“Oh I was. You’ve never raised your voice to me. It hurt. I didn’t want you to know how much.”

He didn’t know how much he missed you in the short time you were gone. He missed you right now and you were standing right in front of him. He kissed you on the corner of your mouth, “I’m sorry to have raised my voice. I’m sorry I’m hurting you. I wish I could love you as you love me. I am trying, Pet.”

“Lok, you can’t fall in love with someone in such a short period. We have time.” You kissed him gently and slipped into your room.

He stayed outside of your chambers for a while with his head pressed against the door. Love was not something he gave freely. He wished things were different. He wished his future self never helped Thor. He wished he would know the happiness you spoke of. One day he would. For now he would keep on disappointing you.

——————————————————————

The next morning you woke up and surveyed the clothing you were gifted. Nothing screamed Midgard 2012 to you. You waved your hand over your body and came up with something more south London and less Stratford Upon Avon. Satisfied with your look you set out to Loki’s chambers.

You knocked but he didn’t answer. Once more and a giggling flustered chamber maid opened. She straitened up when she saw your face and readjusted her apron straps. “Princess!” she yelped. “Apologies. Prince Loki should be along shortly.”

“You know what? Tell him don’t bother.”

She called after you but you didn’t turn around. You kept your spine straight and let your head high. Your heels clacked loudly as you stomped through the halls with a walk that would make Naomi Campbell proud.

Thor was coming out of his room and smiled when he saw you, “Good morning, sister! You’re looking well.”

“Are you ready to go? I don’t think it’s wise for Loki to show his face on earth.”

Thor was pretty daft when it came to the whims of the fairer sex but your face was speaking loud and clear. You held his hand and landed in a warehouse in London. You searched high and low but struck out.

“What exactly are we looking for?”

“A void filled with a red mist.”

“And you are certain it’s here?”

“This is where Jane found it, yes.”

“Is this around the time she found it. Maybe it’s not here yet.”

“No, it’s here. I can feel it. I just have to ah! It’s here.”

He swung Mjölnir and the wall crumbled. You stuck your hand in and he grabbed you.

“Wait. Is this wise? I feel like one of the Vanir should be with you or at least Loki. If anything goes wrong I won’t know how to help you.”

“Your brother is more interested in his chamber maids than saving the universe. If anything goes wrong, call for Heimdall.”

“Did you catch him with someone else? It’s very common in royal marriages...”

The Aether called to you and effectively drowned him out. While he prattled on you put your arm through the wall and let it take you. It meshed with the space stone because they were meant to be together. Their energies lifted you up off the ground and light poured out your eyes mouth and fingers. You collapsed back down where Thor caught you. He shook you but you were unable to focus. You put your fingers to your mouth and pulled away with crimson soaked tips. Thor scooped you into his arms cursing you and then raised Mjölnir to call Heimdall. Just then you stopped him.

“No. No, I’m fine. Don’t call him.”

“But, sister.”

“No. Put me down.” He did as he was told and carefully set you on your feet. You smoothed your hair and fixed your clothes. With a flourish all of the blood vanished.

“Come on. Let’s go see Jane.”

“You are out of your mind. I have to get you back to Njord.”

“Nonsense. I have to see Dr. Selvig to fix what my darling husband broke. And you, brother, need to see Jane. You miss her. I want you to be happy. She needs to be happy. Just take her to lunch.”

He agreed but insisted you take more traditional transportation rather than using your powers. You found the nearest train station and took the tube to Jane’s office. This Jane was a lot less together than the Jane you knew. She was so stunned to see Thor at her door that she could barely speak.

You introduced yourself as Loki’s wife but assured her your marriage was less gothic romance and more Charles and Di. A reference that Thor didn’t understand but Jane did perfectly. She brought you to Dr. Selvig who was speaking nonsensically. He seemed to recognize you right away. Though you had not yet met he knew the energy that was inside you. You placed your hands on either side of his head and pulled the power of the space stone out of him. He was weak but thinking for himself.

You practically pushed the happy couple out of the door to have lunch on you. You conjured a credit card an an id for Thor. You said you had business to attend to.

Darcy offered to give you a ride which you happily accepted. Had her drop you in front of Claridge's, a very posh hotel in Hyde Park, where you intended to relax and partake in retail therapy. Magically their best room was available for the evening. You held your breath when they ran your card. You had no idea if it would work. Luckily it did. The porter showed you to your room. You asked for a bottle of single malt and a glass to be left in the seating area. You kicked off your shoes and started to unbutton your blouse when you heard a man clear his throat.

You had not immediately seen Mobius M. Mobius when you entered. Funny, neither did the porter. Electricity crackled in your fingers and, as you raised them to strike, he walked toward you. “Holster those weapons, Mrs. Laufeyson. Or is it Odinson? Either way. I’m not here to hurt you. Just to talk.”

“Do you drink scotch?”

[dothwrites]

Prompt for destiel where one of them saves the other from a calamity, au or canon/humans or human & angel, but they get severely hurt instead, and other gets to comfort them and help them heal, and they get to confess

---

It’s his fault. 

That’s all Dean can think as he kneels on the grimy floor, slick with Cas’ blood. His fault. 

He was the one who insisted on pressing forward with the hunt, who overrode Cas’ desires to wait. He should have listened. After all, it was just him and Cas, newly human and still a little fragile with it. He should have listened to Cas’ objections, should have listened to the little coil of unease in the pit of his stomach warning him that this was a bad idea, should have, should have, should have. 

It should have only been one demon. 

There had been more. 

The demons had fought with brutal efficiency; within a few seconds, he and Castiel were separated from each other. From far away, Dean had heard the struggles, the snap of electricity that signaled a demon’s death and the grunts from Cas that accompanied the sick, wet sounds of fists striking flesh. At least Cas was still fighting. Dean was less than useless, caught in a chokehold that slowly obstructed his airway. His joints screamed in pain while black and red crowded at the edge of his vision. 

“Dean Winchester.” His name was spoken in a sneer, contempt dripping from the lips of the leader of this little outfit. In a former life, her meatsuit must have been some kind of model--she was all lithe lines and sleek muscle and tall enough to look Dean in the eyes. Her eyes flashed black as her fingers gripped at his chin. Five bright pinpricks of pain blossomed across his cheeks as her nails dug in. Dean grunted, but wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of crying out. 

“You just couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you? The whole world, open for the taking, room enough for everyone to spread out now that you killed the man upstairs, and you still couldn’t let us be.” A thin trickle of blood dribbled down Dean’s chin as her nails broke skin. “Well, you should have kept your nose out of it.” 

She drew her hand back, silver glinting as she moved. All Dean saw was the wickedly sharp point of her angel blade. He remembered how it felt, skin and muscle splitting underneath the force of the blow, how easily the blade slid into his body. Looked like he was going to get to experience it again, except this time without the failsafe of the Mark to pull him out again. 

“Dean! Dean!” 

The blade started to plunge down and Dean closed his eyes. They hadn’t had enough time, him and Cas, and now he was leaving Cas to the rest of a mortal life, alone. I’m sorry, Dean thought, tensing in preparation for the inevitable blow. Cas, I’m so sorry...

The blow never hit. Instead, what hit was a dervish, a whirl of blows and snarls and yelps. Somewhere, in the mad scuffle, Dean recognized the shock of dark hair and the flash of Cas’ shirt. Seeing that gave him enough strength to break free of the hold. His own blade slipped into his hand and he plunged it into the gut of the demon who had been holding him. 

He’d had just enough time to feel triumphant before he heard the low grunt of pain. 

He’d known what it was, but he still turned around to confirm. His eyes landed on a nightmare. 

A demon stood tall, blade in hand. Crimson liquid dripped slowly off of the tip of the blade to splash upon the ground. Though it was impossible, Dean would swear that he heard the impact of every drop. A sick, twisted grin spread across the demon’s face as they looked down. 

Castiel staggered backward, hands clutching at his stomach. Already, a dark stain spread across his shirt. Horrified, Dean could only watch as Cas dropped down to one knee, before he finally collapsed to the ground. 

Dean’s still not sure the exact sequence of events. He knows that he charged forward, a pained shout erupting from his throat. He knows that there’s a dead demon. He knows that his fumbling fingers managed to find his phone and call Sam, leaving bloody smears on the screen. 

And he knows that Cas is dying. 

“You stupid son of a bitch, why the hell did you do that?” He won’t cry, not here and not now, but he wants to. Cas moans lowly in pained protest as Dean drags him into his lap. He ignores the sticky warmth leaking into his jeans from the ragged wound in Cas’ stomach the same that he ignores Cas’ eyes squinting shut in agony. He’ll deal with those later, push through those nightmares when Cas isn’t gasping for air right in front of him. Dean lays his hand on Cas’ neck, fingers pressing down on his pulse point. It’s thready and rabbit-fast. 

“You have to ask?” 

“Dammit Cas.” Dean bends down low over Cas’ body, as if he could shield him from the rest of the world. Too little, too late. He’d screwed up and now Cas was paying the price, like always. “You know that I’m not worth it. You know it.” 

“Dean.” Cas’ mouth moves like he wanted to say more, but all that comes out is a dribble of blood, leaking from the corner of his mouth. His hands grasp at Dean, but his grip is so weak that it slides off without ever making an impression. “Dean,” Cas manages to say, breathing in deep and forcing the single syllable of his name out with extreme effort. “I, I--”

“Don’t you say it,” Dean hisses, pressing down hard on Cas’ stomach. The sound of Cas’ agonized cry is enough to twist a knife in his heart, and the feel of warm blood gushing over his hand makes him sick to his stomach, but at least it forces Cas to stop talking. 

“You’re not fucking dying on me,” Dean almost snarls, voice wobbling towards the end. “You hear me, Castiel? Not yet.” 

Cas’ eyes close. He doesn’t respond.

---

Dean watches the skip and jump of the heart monitor and listens to the steady beats. Like a metronome, it counts the beats of Cas’ heart. Each rise and fall, each electronic beep soothes Dean’s rough edges, as it acts as a reminder. Cas is still here. He didn’t lose him. 

Twenty-two stitches. That’s what it had taken to save him. That and some very good surgeons, some impossible luck, and a series of driving maneuvers delivered by one Sam Winchester. Dean would doubt that his brother was capable of such driving, if he hadn’t been in the back seat with him for the full duration.

They’d cut the margin of error so thinly that it was translucent. Minutes, the doctors had said, with the vague whiff of suspicion that came from bringing in a stabbing victim. If traffic had been heavier or if Sam hadn’t been driving quite so fast and furious on the Fury Road...Well, Dean would have another corpse on his hands to burn. Again. 

Dean’s attention is caught by a low groan coming from the direction of the bed. Within seconds, he’s at Cas’ bedside so that he can see the exact moment that Cas’ eyes flutter open. 

He’d been so angry earlier. Furious, that once again, Castiel saw fit to throw himself to the wolves, all for Dean’s sake. He’d been ready to give Cas an earful when he finally woke up (once they discovered that he was going to wake up).  But seeing the hazy, pained look in Cas’ eyes vanish to be replaced with a slow, pleased smile erases all thoughts of rage from Dean’s brain. All it leaves him with is sweet, clear relief. 

“Hey sleeping beauty.” Dean cards his fingers through Cas’ hair, as tentatively as though Cas were made of porcelain. “How are you feeling?” 

Cas pauses to consider. “Numb,” he finally rasps. He glances to the side, where the IV stand drips down into various tubes connected to his body. “I assume that there’s a large amount of medication responsible for that?” 

“Yeah, you’re getting the good stuff,” Dean says. He can’t stop touching Cas’ hair. It’s a little gross--Other than a few quick sponge-baths from the nurses, Cas hasn’t bathed and his hair has taken the brunt of that. It’s a little greasy, but Dean couldn’t care less about that. Not when Cas smiles up at him through a grizzled beard. 

“Don’t be angry,” Castiel says. His fingers wrap weakly around Dean’s wrist. “I know that you’re probably furious with me.” 

“Damn right I am. How many times do I have to tell you, I ain’t worth--”

“Stop.” Cas squeezes his wrist. His grip is pathetic enough that it forces Dean into silence more than if Cas had managed his usual bone-bruising force. “Nothing you say will ever convince me that you’re not worth saving. Nothing,” Cas says, as severe as his voice will allow. He strokes over the soft skin of Dean’s wrist. His eyes look at something faraway only he can see. “I sometimes think that I was created in order to keep you safe. Please don’t deny me that.” 

And what can you say to that? 

Dean lifts Cas’ knuckles to his face, brushing a gentle kiss over them. “Way to make a guy feel guilty, asshole.” 

Cas smiles wanly. “Whatever it takes.” His voice turns thin and ragged around the edges. Dean knows that it’s not going to be long before he slips back into sleep. 

“But you have to try and stay around.” Dean takes in a deep breath. The words sit on his tongue, ready to taste freedom. “It’s not fair to make me go through this without you. I love you, dumbass, and if you go off and get yourself killed just because you were trying to save me then I’m going to be really pissed at you.” 

They haven’t said it. They’ve kissed, they’ve fucked, hell sometimes they’ve even done what Sam would probably call making love. They live together and they’ve died for the other. But they’ve never said the words. Dean had been convinced that he never would. Cas knew. That was enough for him. Everything else was window dressing. 

But there in the backseat, with Cas’ limp and bleeding body pressed against him, forced to listen to Cas’ pained wheezes, and his hand pressed against Cas’ stomach trying to keep Cas’ blood inside, Dean had been overcome by only thought. 

Cas is going to die and I never told him. 

The thought that Cas could die without knowing exactly how much he’s adored has kept Dean awake for several nights. 

Cas’ eyes are wide as his fingers clench reflexively around Dean’s wrist. “Dean,” he finally gets out. He blinks quickly, obviously fighting against impending sleep. “Dean, I--”

“Yeah. I know.” Dean brushes Cas’ hair off of his forehead and leans down to press a kiss against the clammy skin. “Go to sleep.”

“You’ll be here? When I wake up?” Cas’ voice is already slurred, sleep wrapping around him and tugging him deep into oblivion. 

Dean settles onto the edge of Cas’ bed, unwilling to release his hold on Cas until he absolutely has to. Cas murmurs happily, nonsense words that trail off into silence. 

Dean runs his finger down Cas’ cheek, bristly and unshaven. It’s warm to the touch. When he pulls away, Cas almost follows after him, squirming in his sleep until Dean takes his hand in his and laces their fingers together. Only then does Cas subside into peace. 

“Yeah Cas,” Dean says, despite the fact that Cas can’t appreciate his words. “Yeah, I’ll be here.

---

[your-highnessmarvel]

Rain and Fire

I did a mash up of two requests I got from Anonymous: would you do a Loki meets child he never knew he had kinda fic? Thanks + may I request an angsty fic where Loki finds out the reader, women he loves is pregnant but it’s unplanned as he never wanted kids 

A/N: yall really like loki with kids huh, alright let’s do this. thanks for the awesome requests! I gave loki a son because i did a similar story but with a daughter.

Warnings: angst mfs

*gif not mine

Enjoyed this and want more? Send in your requests!

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MASTERLIST

Dark storm clouds amassed overhead as Y/N trudged through the water, breathless, hair hanging in ropes each side of her head. Her dress, white and gold, clung to her body like a glove. It clung to her throat, and she had to rip it in half to be able to breathe. It clung to her thighs, too heavy, unable to allow her to walk up the gritty sand. It clung to her breasts, and to her waist, and to the small lump of her belly. 

She held herself as she walked up the beach, shivering, the dark clouds above thundering with incoming rain. 

She replayed the last thing she’d said to Loki before running away. 

“How could you not tell me!” he yelled, the wind ripping at his hair. He stood inches from Y/N, holding her shoulders painfully. 

“You never wanted one, and then... you left!” she yelled over the wind. 

His eyes, those green gems she loved so much, bored into her face, as if searching for something that wasn’t there. “I was...” His fingers turned gentle on her shoulders. “I was scared, Y/N.”

She looked down, ripping herself from his grasp. “You’re a fugitive, Loki.”

He rolled his eyes, the wind curling in his hair, turning his cheeks pink. “What I did on Midgard is nothing,” he groaned. 

Y/N frowned, curling her fingers into her dress. “You killed and destroyed and you - “

“You don’t get it!” he yelled over the sudden roar of the wind. “I had to!”

Again, the frown. “Had to?”

Over the bridge, where they stood, Y/N saw a brigade on white horses storm down from the castle. They were after Loki. They were after him and everything he’d done to the universe. Her eyes watered, anger blooming in her chest like a flower in the sun. 

“I have to go,” she muttered. “If they find out that I’m... if they figure it out, they’ll keep me here. You know that.”

He reached out for her, jaw clenched, conflict storming in his features. “I won’t let them.”

Now it was her turn to roll her eyes. “Loki,” she sighed. “There’s a brigade coming for you right now. If they don’t get you here, they will somewhere else. You know that.”

He looked down at her belly, at the jutting roundness peering from the soft silk of her dress. Then he looked up, hands in fists, jaw clenched until a muscle twitched. 

He let her go. She walked out on him, holding and carrying with her a piece of him. She crossed the Bifrost, in the pouring rain. And while he was being cuffed and dragged, she was trudging through wet sand, crying. 

Six Years Later

Through a maze of a winding road, lined by knee-high weeds and sunburnt rocks, walks a man. His heels are sore from walking, toes bleeding in his boots. The soles burnt and clawed open. Someone had ripped his trousers at the knees, blood, dried and black, crusting on the frayed edges. 

His shirt is dirty with mud and blood. His coat is decaying; the leather peeling like skin burning. His hair has been cut short, just above his ears, and curls from the sweat on his scalp. 

His mouth is pink and cracked and molding words lost to the wind. 

He knows where he is going. He’s known for a while now. The walk was long, but now he is here. The weeds stretch on to become a field. Vanaheim has lots of those; fields. 

Ahead in the field is a small shack, burdened by years of sun and rain and wind and thunder. There’s someone sitting on the porch. They get up, put a hand to shield their eyes from the sun.

Loki stops, examines the horizon. No one could have possibly followed him here. He faked his death. He was sure that no one - absolutely no one - knew where he was right now. 

Up ahead, the shack shimmers. The person holds a hand to their chest. Loki prays that it is the person he wants it to be, and surely, it is. Y/N stands on the porch, black trousers and a armored shirt. 

Why does she need armor? he thinks. 

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because she’s clambering down the porch, hands gripping the rail and flying off like she has wings. And she might as well. 

She’s running so fast that the wind rips at her braid and it comes loose and her face is torn, so torn, weeping and wailing. 

Didn’t she want him to leave, all those years ago? Hadn’t she been the one to walk away?

He didn’t have time to ponder the question because her body crashed into him so hard that he stumbled back, back against the dirt ground, hands braced on her back. She clings to him like the water clung to her dress, to her pregnant belly six years ago, and she’s crying something to him but he can’t hear. All he hears is the beat of her heart against his chest because she is pressing herself so hard against him. He can feel the strands of her hair on his raw cheeks. Her fingers clinging to his shoulders. Her breath against his neck. Her tears on his shirt. 

“Y/N.” His voice is coarse, raw from disuse. “Y/N.”

And finally he can hear the wind and the buzzing of insects and the swaying of weeds in the air. And he can hear her voice. 

“I’m sorry,” she’s crying. “I’m so sorry.”

He doesn’t want her apology. Or her tears. He just wants her. 

He takes her head in his hands, cradles it like it’s the most fragile thing in the world. Her tears have stained her face. Her cheeks are wet. Her lashes crystallized with water. Her lips are open, but he doesn’t want to hear anything else. 

He kisses her and his world shifts into place because he’s been locked away for six years and no one has touched him. No one has been gentle or tender or kind to him. All he’s felt is cold. All he’s seen is darkness. 

But Y/N is warm and lithe and soft in his hands, molded to his body. She’s gentle as she splays her hands on his shoulders. Tender with her mouth. Kind with her tears. 

And finally she pulls back and gasps lowly, raking her eyes over him. “Oh, Loki,” she whispers. “What have they done to you.”

He looks at her; her eyes and her jaw and her ears. She’s changed. She’s beautiful. 

“Where is...” He can’t finish his sentence. His voice cracks. He doesn’t even know what it is. Its name. 

Her eyes alight and her mouth parts. She gets up, dusts herself, helps him to his feet, steers him towards the house. He’s pained, leaning on her, eyes searching the horizon for it. 

“It’s a boy,” Y/N murmurs, one hand on his chest to help him along. 

He searches and searches until there, on the porch, a little boy stands. Eyes squinted. Black hair curled around his ears. 

Loki doesn’t have to ask. That’s his alright. 

“He knows about you,” Y/N continues as they make their way, little by little, up the road. “He’s been waiting. As have I.”

Loki frowns. “Waited?”

Y/N shrugs. “You always make it back.” She laughs and the sound is delightful. “Somehow.”

The boy is lean when they get to the porch. He’s tall for his age, mischievous around the eyes, cocky around the brows. His jaw is round, his forehead wide. His eyes icy blue. 

He doesn’t say anything as he watches his father get dragged into the house. His mouth remains closed, a little skeptic, a little intrigued. But he walks into the house anyway, smelling the familiarity of his father, listening to the soft breathing of him. 

Loki lays on the bed. Y/N prepares something hot to drink. The boy looks at his father. 

“You’re taller than I’d imagined,” the boy says. Loki smirks. He hasn’t done that in a very long time. 

“You’re smarter.”

And the boy smirks, mirroring his father, and Loki feels hope. 

[lu-undy]

Chapter 98 - SBT

Here it is!

"G'bye, Prof L!" 

"Goodbye, and remember to revise these crucial points, oui? This is fundamental geometry." 

"Yes, Sir!" 

"Fine, enjoy your weekend." Lucien smiled at his pupils. 

"See ya!" 

The kids excitedly left the room and the professor turned to wipe his blackboard clean and wash it. He sighed and looked down at his own clothes, dusting the chalk off of his suit. Lucien made sure that the room was in order before sitting down at his desk and correcting the papers of the week. He knew Mundy would be at the workshop still working and going back home alone didn’t feel right. So Lucien readied his red pen and took the first paper of the pile at the corner of his desk.

He was used to this routine. It allowed his lover to finish his day of work as well as not burden himself with too much over the weekend. 

After slashes of red, crossing mistakes, underlining approximations and appreciating his pupils’ work, the Frenchman needed a cigarette. He raised his head off of his papers and lit one up. His eyes swept across the room, the wooden desks, the back breaking chairs… He smiled. Teaching was something he never expected to like. And yet, making a positive difference on those children not only earned him his bread, but filled his soul. 

Children have always been an unbreakable force of nature. But dear is the price to make them thrive. They are a boiling concentrate of energy, of potential, and of hope. Lucien remembered his younger days as a rookie spy. He saw barbarism, butchery of men beyond what should exist. He saw men die on battlefields and away from them. Sometimes he himself was the one responsible for their deaths. And yet, after the deed was done, he would walk out scott free and in the streets, children would continue to play, oblivious to the danger surrounding them. 

But were they really oblivious? Non, they knew that war was raging, but even the massacre of their fathers, brothers and uncles didn’t break them. It made them, like Jérémy, kinder. Those children were growing and would no doubt refuse to subject their own children to the same amount of atrocities, to the same hard childhood. Theirs had been hard enough, too hard, unfairly so. 

Maybe that was what Lucien’s mother meant when she called him her reason to live. After his father’s death was confirmed, her mourning had lasted forever, but she rarely showed it to young Lucien. She always smiled to him, and turned away to cry. She always showed him the best of her. That, to him, was a proof of courage and strength beyond what he had seen among war heroes. His mother would remain, to the end, his model for endurance. 

“Grand Dieu, pourquoi je pense à ça…?”

[Good God, why am I thinking about this…?]

He went to the window and drew the curtains open. 

“Oh…”

His daydreaming and reminiscing had put the sun below the horizon. The streets were dark and the few people still there were moving out of the city centre. Lucien turned to the clock on the wall, above the blackboard and his eyebrows jumped. It was proper late and Mundy hadn’t come back to him yet.

“Hm.”

Lucien collected the remaining papers and put them in his leather bag before exiting the classroom. He walked to the workshop and looked through the window. A light was still on on one of the desks and a hunched silhouette so familiar to Lucien was looking down at the desk.

“Yeah, Maurice, I’ll go…”

“It is not Maurice.”

“Oh…?”

Mundy turned on his stool and his eyebrows jumped when he saw Lucien.

“What are you doin’ here?”

“I could ask you the same.” Lucien came behind his lover’s back and laced his arms around his neck. He kissed his cheek from behind. “I was waiting for you but you never came.”

“What time is it..?” Mundy looked at his watch. “Oh, bugger, I’m sorry, I didn’t see the time fly…”

“I am not surprised about this as much as I am surprised that Maurice did not kick you out of here yet.”

“He tried, but I uh… I got carried away, sorry, luv'..." Mundy lowered his head and ruffled his hair before he rubbed his eyes. 

Lucien scanned the workbench and saw the pile of broken toys and small electricals. A toaster, a radio, an alarm clock…

"You have had a productive day, hm?" 

"Well…" Mundy sighed. "Nah, not really." 

"What is the matter, mon amour?" Lucien hugged his lover from behind and stuck his cheek to the Aussie. Mundy leaned to him and closed his eyes. 

"Still thinkin' about it all. Can't really take my mind off of things."

Lucien pulled a stool and sat down next to his lover. The workshop was silent apart from the buzzing of some heater. The only light was shed by the lamp on the workbench. 

"Tell me." Lucien took Mundy's hands between his own. 

"It's my dad… I don't wanna sound dramatic but…" Mundy raised his eyes to Lucien. "How can I be sure he… I mean… He likes me still. Maybe he's never really seen me as his son, I mean…"

"Tsk, tsk, tsk…" Lucien shook his head. "Your father is a lot of things, Mundy, one of them is your father. He does love you, he just doesn't know how to contain it or show it."

"But if he really loves me, wouldn't he be happy for me?"

Lucien sighed. 

"One would expect so, oui. But again, remember that you being with a man is far outside what he imagined you were. Give him some time." 

"If your son was with a bloke, would you yell at him like that?" Mundy asked with a serious tone of voice. 

"Of course I would not, because I myself understand the attraction towards men." Lucien answered. "But your father doesn't. It was never in his mind, he never thought it could even exist. It is a lot to take in, give him the benefit of the doubt, and trust your mother."

"Mum?" 

"She said she will talk to him. Women have a way with us that is beyond our reach…" Lucien smiled sweetly. 

"No." 

Lucien's eyebrows jumped.

"Pardon?" He asked in his mother tongue. 

"Mum's never stood up to Dad, ever. She just said that to make me feel better." 

"Mundy, a lot has happened for the past few months. I am sure your mother will talk to your father."

"Nah, you saw her. She didn't say much when we were there."

"Yet what she did say had an impact on your father." 

"What?" Mundy raised a curious eyebrow. 

"She reminded him that by faking my own death to protect you, I wasn't so different from him. In fact, I did exactly the same thing as he did. His eyebrows twitched and his breath cut for an instant. He certainly did not like the comparison but what could he argue? It was the plain truth." Lucien explained. 

"Still. Not convinced Mum would change his mind."

"Stubborn as he is, she certainly will not. However," Lucien tilted his lover's chin up with a gentle index finger. "She will plant the seed of doubt." 

Mundy looked away. 

"Yeah, well… Can't help thinkin' that he doesn't really love me." 

"Why?" 

"If… If you got a son, and you got plans for him but he keeps on not goin' according to them, wouldn't you lose hope at some point and just say 'oh, right, fuck it…'?"

"Non. I did not conceive a human being, the most fragile of creatures, to not carry the responsibility of them all my life until I am six feet under ground." Lucien answered in one go. 

"But he didn't!" Mundy raised his arms before they flopped to his thighs again. "He didn't conceive me! He found me and… and he took pity on me…" He admitted, muttering in his breath. 

Lucien put his hands on Mundy's shoulders. 

"He did take you in, didn't he?" 

"Mh." 

"Did he, yes or no?" Lucien repeated, staring at Mundy in the eye. 

"Yeah…"

"Did he raise you?"

"Yeah…"

"Did he ask you to stop hunting because he was scared for you?" 

Mundy raised his eyes to Lucien. 

"Yeah, he did…"

"This is how you know he loves you. His anger, his frustration are also proof, albeit twisted, of him caring about you. If he didn't care, then he wouldn't become half as angry as he is, would he?" 

"Yeah but… You keep on sayin' he wants me to get a sheila and stuff to be happy. So it'd make sense to think that what he wants at the end of the day is for me to be happy, right?" 

"Oui."

"Then why the hell isn't he now?!" Mundy asked. "I'm happy, I've managed, I-I've done everythin' and he can't be happy!" 

Lucien sighed and frowned. 

"I do not know." The ex-spy admitted. "I just want you to keep some hopes up, Mundy. From what I saw of your father, he is a tough man, strict on his ideas and wouldn't change them for the world. But one cannot stop hoping."

"Think I just might. I'm tired of hoping. It's so bloody tirin'..." Mundy rubbed his face with his rough hands. 

Lucien's eyebrows relaxed. 

"Then, stop." 

"Stop what?" 

"Stop hoping." 

"But you just said that I should keep my hopes up?!"

"And you answered that you don't want to, so just stop." 

Mundy stared in Lucien's eyes. It lasted a few seconds before he looked away and sighed. 

"I can't."

"Then, keep some hopes up, but don't let it eat you on the inside. Give your mother some time to work her magic on him. Things are not what they were more than a decade ago. Your mother has lost you once. She knows what it feels to lose you and from how quickly she accepted us, she is ready to make a lot of sacrifices before she loses you again."

"Yeah but if she has to choose, she'll go with him." Mundy said. "And Dad would say that the choice is in my hands. Either stay with you and lose him, or the other way around…" Mundy put his hands on his face.

"I wouldn't be so sure." Lucien answered, kissing his head. "And if it ever boiled down to that, I will be where you want me to be." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" Mundy raised his head to his lover. 

"That means that, as I said all that time ago, more than year ago now, making me happy is something that I cannot do. Making you happy however, is all I ever think about. And so, if you ever felt like you have to make a choice, whatever you choose, I will do what leads to your happiness."

"Lu'... Are you sayin' that you'd… You'd leave me?" 

Their eyes met and hung there. Lucien took a deep breath and cupped Mundy's face in his hands. He leaned forward and they rested their foreheads against each other.

"I will do whatever to make you the happiest of men alive on this Earth, Mundy, do you hear me?" They closed their eyes and silent tears ran along their cheeks. "I know how tired you are to run after your father, after his blessing and I understand it… I… I understand it…" Lucien put a hand on his mouth, his fingers were shaking. "This is ridiculous… I am crying now… I apologise…"

"Lu'...?" Mundy pleaded with a broken voice. "Lu', no…" 

"Non, Mundy… Your family is… It is very important to you and I understand that. You cannot replace your family." Lucien sniffled. 

"Can't replace you either!" Mundy exclaimed. "I can't! Bloody can't!" He put his hands on Lucien's waist and stood up to pull him into an embrace. "I won't leave you, love, I won't…! You left me once and I couldn't live anymore, no, please…"

"Mundy, I just want you to know" Lucien's breath cut. He sniffled and went on, his eyes still closed. "I just want you to know that… Whatever you do, I will support you… It might be hard for the both of us, but I will… I will…"

"Shut up… Shut up, I love you…" Mundy pulled Lucien to him in one go and the pin in his hair sank, freeing his long locks of salt and pepper. Mundy slid his hand under Lucien's hair, behind his head and pulled him close. "No, I won't choose. I'm tired of feelin' like shit as if it's my fault. It's not my fault, it's no one's fault, there isn't any fault… I just love you…"

"I love you too." Lucien clung to his lover's chest, digging his fingers hard, as if Mundy was slipping away from him already. "I… I never thought I could love this way… Thank you…"

The Frenchman's tears wetted the Aussie's polo shirt but neither of them cared. Mundy was almost more saddened by Lucien's tears than by his own predicament. It was rare to see Lucien in tears, especially outside of the intimacy of the sheets. Mundy clung back to his lover, his silk hair and his thin waist.

"I hope Mum'll help, I really do…" 

"Your mother is very close to you, in her heart." Lucien wiped his tears with a handkerchief and then raised it to Mundy's face to wipe him. "She will do any and everything she can to avoid the choice for you and for her. Moreover, she loves you with all that you bring with you." Lucien said and held Mundy's hand again. "The other day, she asked me to teach her how to cook a ratatouille the way that you like it." He smiled.

Mundy raised tired eyes to his lover, yet his lips pursed into a smile too.

"She loves you, Mundy. She took you in, not out of pity, but because in her heart, the moment she saw you, she knew." Lucien poked Mundy's chest.

"She knew what?" 

Lucien raised his hand to Mundy cheek and gently stroked it with his thumb.

 "That she was your mother."

-- Earlier, in the street -- 

"How long've you known?" 

"Very long. Almost as early as it started."

 "Pfff…" 

"But believe me, they didn't fall in each other's arms at first sight, far from it."

"Mmh…" 

The old man grumbled, a bit disgusted, and walked in circles in the dark room. His fists were clenched. 

"Were you goin' to tell me?" 

"No, why would I?" The king of the beggars asked. "It is none of my business, Mike." Maurice paused. "Neither is it yours, strictly speaking." 

Mike froze and turned to the beggar in the long, ragged clothes. 

"Course it is! It's my bloody son!" 

"What do you want from me?" Maurice asked. 

"Is it botherin' only just me?!" 

"It depends. What does Caroline think?" 

"She's fine with it! Goes to visit them, stays for dinner and all! Pfff…" Mike removed his hat and shook his head. "How could we go so wrong with that kid…?"

"Well, then, yes." 

"Yes, what?" 

"Yes, it is bothering only you." Maurice answered. 

"Maurice…!" 

"Fine," The tall man stood up from his throne and faced Mike. "What is it? You are unhappy about their relationship."

"Yeah, that's puttin' it mildly!" He exclaimed, looking up at the taller man.

"And why is that? They are grown, reasonable men, and they both are doing it of their own accord. None is forcing the other." 

"Maurice, it's blokes."

"Yes, exactly! They are grown and old enough to know what suits them best. It just so happens that it is each other!" 

Mike sighed. 

"He told me you know him for service, right?" 

"Who?" 

"That Lucien guy."

"Indeed, I do." 

Mike walked to a chair and sat down, in front of the empty throne. 

"Tell me about him. I wanna know what kind of a man he is." 

"Ah." Maurice took a seat opposite the old man and cleared his throat. "I hope you don't have anything planned for the next hour or so." 

"What?" 

And Maurice recited Lucien's life as best as he knew it. Of course, the ex-spy had left areas of shadow and doubt in his official files, such that Maurice couldn't exactly say where he came from, or his family whereabouts. But the key message was there. Lucien was a selfless war hero who turned his back to the country that he helped to create, because that same country had attempted to backstab him, ironically enough. 

"Yeah, well…" Mike tried to feel indifferent to it all. "Does Micky know all that?" 

"He was there for his fake funeral." Maurice answered. "For which war veterans flew from across the world immediately, without receiving formal notice. All they heard was the whispers in the air flying from mouth to ear and spreading faster than light."

Mike frowned.

"Michael," Maurice started and Mike raised his eyes to him. "What is the problem?" 

The old man put a hand on his tired head and shook it.

"I… I don't know anymore. Caroline tells me all these things about how happy Micky is, how much he smiles and laughs now, how… cute they are together."

"You don't see it yourself? You think she is lying?"

"No, I know she's not lying. I know she's tellin' me the truth, I saw it with my own eyes. Never saw Micky look at someone the way he looks at him."

"But…?" Maurice anticipated. 

"It's wild. A man with another man? Pfff, I wouldn't care if it wasn't my own Micky." 

"When Lucien died, Mundy broke as hard as he did when you supposedly died. I had to push him to work, because his mind was in shambles, I had to push him to continue living even."

"He wanted to…?" Mike asked, frightened of what that last sentence implied. 

"I remember his words when Lucien's death was made official. 'It's happened twice, I don't want to live this shit life anymore.'.... God knows what he would have done if not for one reason."

"What was it?" 

"Lucien had a cat, back then a kitten. He asked me to tell Mundy that he wanted no one else but him to take care of her."

"He… He stayed alive for a cat?"

"No, Michael." Maurice answered. "He stayed alive for Lucien's cat. And that has made all the difference." 

Mike sighed and wiped his face as Maurice patted his shoulder. 

-- Mundy and Lucien's house, a few days later -- 

Lucien looked at Mundy. They were both at the table, having lunch. The Aussie had had trouble sleeping ever since that night at his parents, waking up repeatedly through the night. Holding Lucien or being held by him wasn't enough to bring him comfort. 

Lucien had woken up every time with his lover. He would hold his head against his own chest and kiss him back to sleep. Sometimes, he would get out of bed and go to the kitchen to prepare a tray with a glass of milk and biscuits or something to pass the time with Mundy before both decided to lie down and try to sleep again.

Each time they would get a visit from Caroline, Mundy's face would brighten a bit, every time they did something just for themselves too. But it was always only temporary. Mundy's mood would always gently slide down the dangerous slope that his darker thoughts paved. 

It was high time that the Frenchman tried to take his lover's mind away from his problems, for one night at least. 

"Will you go back working this afternoon?" He asked and Mundy nodded. 

"Yeah. Gotta finish some stuff. You done with your classes?" 

"Oui, I am." 

The concerto of cutlery on plates filled the air. 

"Mundy?" 

"Mh?" 

"When you come back home tonight, put on a suit." 

The Aussie frowned. 

"What? Why?"

"Put on a suit and wait for one of Maurice's boys. They will tell you where to go. You may take the motorcycle to go there."

Mundy raised his head from his plate. 

"Where am I goin'? You won't come with me?"

"Non, I won't."

"Lu', what is it?" Mundy asked, genuinely at a loss as to what to expect.

The Frenchman smirked as he wiped the corners of his mouth elegantly with a napkin.

"It wouldn't be a surprise if I told you." 

-- Later that day --

"What are you doing still here?" Maurice pushed the workshop's door and peeked his head in.

"Workin'."

The king of the beggars fully entered the room and went to put a hand on Mundy's shoulder. 

"You should go, L is waiting." 

"Waitin'? Oh, yeah, I forgot… I need to go back home and wear a suit, he said."

"Yes, and when you are all set, go to the Maravilloso." 

"The Brazilian place?" Mundy's eyebrows jumped. 

"Yes." Maurice answered. 

"Right…" Mundy shifted away from his stool and Maurice tapped on his shoulder. "What?" 

"Have fun." 

"I'll try." 

Mundy had gone back home and quickly took a shower. 

"Meow? Meoow?" 

"Yeah, babies. C'mere… I'll give you your food…" Mundy took the stairs down and went to the cats' bowls. "Hold on… You have food and water? Why're you following me everywhere like that?" He asked, adjusting the towel around his waist. 

"Meow…!" Perle stood up on her back legs and Mundy knelt down. 

"What is it? Oh…" Both cats were begging for pets, hugs and cuddles. The Aussie ended up sitting on the floor and taking care of them for a while. "Hey, babies… What's wrong with you?" 

"Meow…" Perle gently headbutted Mundy's chest while Soot's ears flopped down. 

"What is it? What's the problem, eh?" 

"Meow." Soot answered and raised his paw to lay it flat on Mundy's chest. Perle copied him. 

"Me? Somethin's wrong with me? What did I do?" 

"Meow…" Both meowed long and sad. 

"Yeah, I might've hugged you less over the past week or so, I'm sorry. C'mere both of ya…" He hugged them both, Perle in one arm and Soot in the other. He lowered his head and headbutted them softly while hearing them pur. "I'm so sorry, babies…"

He whispered his apologies in kisses, cuddles and scratches until Perle broke the embrace and trotted away. 

"Meow?" Soot asked.

"Meow…" She swang her fluffy white tail and the male followed up the stairs. 

"Right, now… Off to put on a suit." He climbed the stairs after the slithering black and white clouds and headed straight for his room. After opening the cupboard and looking around, he found that beige suit that Lucien had ordered and got delivered to him more than a year ago now. Mundy smiled in nostalgia and took it out of its hanger. 

The Aussie started with the white shirt and beige trousers, as he remembered the last time he had worn that attire. It was to go and see Lulu, back when Lulu wasn't L yet. Ah, those days… Who would have thought that down a year from then, L and M would be together, inseparable and as close as they were in the alphabet…

Then came the bowtie and vest, before he threw the jacket on his shoulders. 

"Meow!" 

"What?" Mundy looked on his bed. Perle was sitting, observing him, while Soot was lying down. 

"Meow." 

"Love you too, baby, but Dad's gotta go. Papa'll be home hopefully, or somethin'... I don't really know what's happenin', Papa needs me to be somewhere." 

When the words exited his mouth and he heard himself, Mundy froze. 

I don't really know what's happenin', Papa needs me to be somewhere.

Now take that sentence, swap Papa for L and that was time travel, right there. That was exactly how their relationship had started, even if it was just professional. L was pulling the reins and sending the Aussie left and right where he needed him to be. And Mundy had always followed whatever Professor Ski told him to, blindly. He smiled out of nostalgia. 

"Right, I'm all set. Babies, you behave and don't go to bed too late, yeah?" 

"Meow!" Perle shouted.

"Oi! Why're you yellin'?" 

"Meow…!" She stood on her back legs and planted her claws on his legs, to climb him. 

"Claws, claws! Ouch! Let me come down to you…! There, what is it?" 

Perle started to bathe Mundy's face. 

"Yeah, I showered and shaved, no need to clean me more, baby… Oh?" 

"Meow…" She was now doing his hair. Mlem, mlem, mlem…

"Want me to comb it better?" 

"Meow." She said and sat down, backing off of Mundy's head. 

"Alright, I'll go back to the bathroom, then…" 

A minute later, Mundy came back to the front door and put his shoes on. He heard the trotting of soft paws on the floor. 

"Better now?" 

"Meow." Perle confirmed. 

"Thanks, baby, c'mere." He cupped her head and kissed her brow. When he heard the sound of the kiss, the black cat slithered from the living room to his Dad. 

"Meow?" He asked. 

"Course you can get a kiss, c'mere." Mundy opened his hands and Soot came closer. He brushed himself on his master while Mundy kissed him. "There we are, now, can I go? Papa's waitin'." 

"Meow." Both cats sat and looked up at their Dad who unlocked the door. 

"You be good babies, yeah?" 

"Meow." They both answered. 

"Right, see ya later." 

The Aussie shut the door and went to the motorcycle.

"Well, guess I'm off to the Brazilian steakhouse then…" 

He put on his helmet and the engine purred.

[myimaginesandrp]

Ben Solo X  Female Reader 

Promt 10: He finds you after coming back to the light

Words: 2,600

 I know it’s under the NSFW list, but I wasn’t feeling the smut. Thanks to everyone who likes my writing! As always this is full of mistakes, please be kind :) I’ve still got requests to get to, please be patient. 

A quiet drip of water escaping from the ceiling flooded the quiet space of your cell. A steady, peaceful sound that was the only thing keeping you sane. One thousand, nine hundred and four drops this morning. Well, maybe it was morning. You had lost all trace of time a long time ago. The cell was cold and damp. The water had seeped through every crevice of your clothes. That is, the ones that weren’t covered with blood. At least they had trapped you in the underground caves instead of feeding you to the sand creatures of the surface world. That would’ve hurt more, at least you hoped. Now you were beginning to think maybe that would’ve been the better way to go.  Every now and again, a gust of wind would travel through your cell, scaring the rat-like creatures that kept you company.  After sitting in the darkness for so long, the scatter of paws was the only motion you felt, a welcomed distraction from the discomfort that filled your body. You reached for your water mug for the third time today. It was still empty. No one had come down in days. Maybe they’d finally fulfilled their threats and left you there to rot.

“I should’ve joined the first order,” you mutter to yourself as you sat up against the wall. The sound of your voice echoed through the caves until it finally faded off in the distance. You were so tired. Physically of course, every movement you made reminded you of the beatings your captors generously and repeatedly bestowed upon you. Mentally, however, you were just as well gone all together. All for a stupid droid. 

The stupid little thing was probably blown up and floating in space while you were sitting here dying. At least you’d won the war. That’s the last thing you’d overheard your captors say anyway. You’d won the war but no one was coming to save you. Maybe they were right. Everyone had more important things to do than to go looking for a rogue resistance pilot. Even if they had been looking for you, the outer rim was the last place they’d think about searching through. Therefore, the lovely cell you found yourself in would likely double as your resting place. Once the rats were done with you, of course. 

The echo of footsteps approaching down the hall interrupted your thoughts. Well look at that, they hadn’t left you to rot after all. Maybe they were back to finish you off. That would be good. At least now you could rest. You fulfilled your mission. The droid got the coordinates; you delivered on your promise. Your eyes fixed on the corridor, waiting to see which one would be the one to finish you off. The red one, you hoped. He would do it quickly.  

The footsteps grew louder and rushed, they were practically running down the path at this point. Through the darkness, you swore you saw a blue glow in the distance. What kind of crazy shit was this? You’d definitely lost it by now. Maybe you were already dying and having visions? No, you were not crazy. With every passing second, the blue glow would grow brighter and closer until you couldn’t stand looking anymore. You shifted your gaze away from the entrance; the light was burning right through your eyes. After not seeing the glow of the sun for months, this was too much for you to bear. The sudden sound of melting metal made you jump. Whoever was behind the gates of your cell was tearing the bars down. You cowered away as the figure slashed away at the metal, a loud hum ringing in your ears with every swing. The pounding continued for a few more seconds before coming to a stop. A quiet hum echoed through the cell and the blue glow disappeared, leaving behind a cloud of smoke. You blinked at the ground, spots of light lingering in your sights. You could feel the warmth radiating from the person in front of you even though he was all the way at the other end of the cell. He took a couple of steps forward and you winced in response.

This is it. You thought as you waited for him to strike, but he didn’t move. The air was still heavy with smoke from his rampage, and he just stood there looking in your direction. A gasp escaped your lips as your eyes managed to acclimate to the darkness again. The person standing in front of you, only a shadow of recognition in your mind. It wasn’t any one of your captors, but it couldn’t be the person you were thinking of. No, he’d have killed you by now.  Almost everything about him looked the same. The tall frame, the raven hair but it was longer now, and his chest heaving from using the light saber. It had to be him, because those brown eyes stared at you with the same love and adoration they had so long ago.    

He stepped out of the x wing to blinding sunlight. The last time he'd stepped foot on such an arid place the whole population had been devastated by his rage. He pushed the thought away from his mind and stepped forward into the unknown. It had only been a week since he’d returned to the light. His mother was his last saving grace from the dark side, and the girl Rey had sacrificed herself to end the Sith Lord that haunted his mind. Now with the voices in his head gone he  wanted to move on to a new start, but he couldn't. One last remnant of his past was haunting him now. He had to know she was okay. He knew she was alive, he’d felt it even before he entered the atmosphere. After word had gone that the first order had lost it’s supreme leader, the resistance quickly took over the galaxy, helping everyone rebuild stability into people's lives. That’s when he started looking for her. Finding her turned out to be a challenge. No one in the resistance had seen her for months, and the order had lost track of her shortly after. It wasn't until a small droid was scanned a few days ago that he’d finally gotten a lead. His heart ached as he searched the outer rim in search of her. He’d just about given  up when he sensed a single life form on one of the distant planets. As he searched throughout the endless caves of the panet, a distant sound alerted him of her presence. He could sense her, so close to him. He quickened his steps until he was completely speeding down the corridors of the prison. He ran past empty cells, the stench of death filling the air around him, his grandfather's saber in his hand. He ran and ran until he reached the end of the cave. He slid to a halt only a few paces from the door. His heart dropped at the sight in front of him. She was so beautiful, just as the day he’d last seen her.  It was behind his mask then, and she’d seen him with so much hate in her eyes. Now, she looked so scared, so fragile, and with defeat in her eyes. He could see her, she was sprawled against the wall, injured and cowering from the glow of the saber. Without a warning he began swinging at the bars, needing to destroy anything that kept him from reaching her. Once he finished, he made his way over to her slowly. When she winced, he stopped, frozen with fear.  That was, until he heard her voice again calling out to him. 

“Ben?”  You called out into the darkness. The figure took another step forward before crouching down next to you. “Ben is that you?” 

“Yes” His word was a  quiet, broken whisper in the dark. You reached your hand out to touch his cheek, certain that he’d vanish into thin air. He placed his hand over yours, giving it a gentle squeeze. Hot tears pooled and streamed down your eyes as emotion took you over. He’d come back to you, he’d come back to the light. His arms wrapped around you gently before his lips were on you. You threw your arms around him and welcomed them, pouring all the love you’d given up on for the past years. He pulled away moving his hands to your waist as he examined you. 

“Can you stand?” You nodded in response, but when you tried, your legs failed you. 

“Easy. I’ve got you” He quickly caught you in his arms and lifted you. “Let's get you home” You held on to him as he snaked through the tunnels not looking back at the horrible place.

Once you reached the surface, you closed your eyes, his hand was on your face, shielding you from the sun. Not long after he placed you inside the ship and you were off, traveling through the stars. His hand never left yours as he piloted you through the galaxy. Finally at rest, you allowed yourself to drift off into a peaceful slumber. Some time later you heard him calling to you.

“We’re here” he said. The quiet hum on the ship came to a stop and you looked around at the jungle around you. A pair of arms lifted you and you met them by wrapping your arms around him once more. As he walked you past several tent stations, you were met with hundreds of curious eyes. A few of them were familiar, comrades you’d thought were gone. Funny bastards, left you behind and never came back. You lifted you hand to flip them off as you passed them. A smug grin was plastered to your face once you met their reaction. You recognized the resistance base once you were met with General Organa herself. Her face was light up with a warm smile as she greeted you.

“Welcome back son. I knew you’d find her”  They exchanged a few words before he nodded and headed towards the medical tent. He placed you gently on a stretcher and the medical droids took over immediately. He sat beside you holding your hand, his eyes never leaving yours. There was so much you needed to tell him, how much you missed him, how proud you were that he’d overcome the darkness, but most of all he needed to know how much you still loved him. You smiled when you realized his facial expression mirrored your own. After all this time, you could still hear him without saying a word.

 Nightfall came around when the medical droids were done with you. You loved the damn things. You finally regained control of your body, your limbs cooperated as you moved them around. He reached for your hand. 

“Y/N '' he called out to you softly “you’ll stay in my quarters tonight” You nodded in response to his offer. Nothing in this galaxy could possibly keep you away from him now. You made your way back through the tents until you reached a large ship in the middle of the encampment. Once inside, he offered you food and you accepted it gratefully. It tasted heavenly in your mouth. You couldn't remember the last time you’d eaten a proper meal. The ship looked a little worn down, but it remained the same as it had before you were separated. He paced around, gathering different things and moving them to new places. 

“I’ve got some clothes here for you” he called out from another room as you ate. “I have a refresher with running water here if-” He stopped mid sentence when he saw you eating. His gaze softened as he took you in and the glow of ship’s lights illuminating your skin. You smiled at him, at the man standing in front of you. He was broken, but all here. You stood from your seat and walked over to him, taking the clothes from his hands. 

“Thank you” you whispered, your gazed timidly faced to the ground. He took your chin in his hand and lifted your face to meet him. “Y/N I-” You pressed a finger to his lips to stop him 

“There’s nothing to explain Ben. You're here, that's all that matters to me” you stood on your toes and pressed your lips to him softly. His arms wrapped around you, welcoming your kiss with more urgency now than before. You deepened the kiss, feeling electricity run through your body with every second that passed. After a moment he pulled away and took your hand in his. 

“Come. Let’s get you cleaned up” You followed him down the corridor until you reached the refresher. A large tub filled with water was waiting for you. He took the clothes from you and placed them on a counter next to the tub. 

“I’ll give you some privacy” he said before he turned to leave. You quickly reached for him, taking a hold of his arm. The last thing you wanted was to be parted from him, no matter how little that was. 

“Ben” you called out to him.

 Stay your words echoed in his mind. His gaze softened at your plea. Who knew how long you’d been held up in that prison, the thought angered him, but it quickly faded as you took his hand in yours. He reached for you and helped you remove your clothes, his hands lingering on your kin, brushing against the cuts you had sprinkled across your body. You did the same to him, taking in every bit of him as his clothing scattered to the floor. His body was covered in scars. Once he was done with your clothes, he picked you up and gently placed you inside the tub. The warmth of the water was soothing against your skin. He stepped in after you and pulled you close to him. You relaxed into his embrace and sighed with content as he began to pour water over your head. He lathered your body, gently massaging your scalp and pouring the warm water over you. His hands traveled all over you, as if trying to memorize every inch that he’d been parted from.

“I missed you” he whispered before kissing the soft skin behind your ear.

 “I missed you too” You smiled. He began to tail kisses down your neck until he reached your shoulder.  With one last kiss he rested his face in the crook of your neck. You missed his touch, the scent of him so close to you. Tears began pooling around your eyes as you felt him sob quietly behind you. The bruises that covered you back were now clear as day and the sight was too much for him. Guilt ate at him, he’d abandoned you for so long. You took his hand and kissed it tenderly. At least you were together again. 

You stayed like that, keeping comfort in each other until he decided you were clean enough.  He stepped out of the tub  to dry himself. You waited for him until he finished. With a new towel in hand, he wrapped it around your body, showering you with kisses again as he picked you up and took you towards the room. The second you relaxed into the mattress, his lips met yours again, this time, they weren’t about to part from you.

The night was filled with heated demonstrations of love towards each other. You both were starved of each other's touch, and you planned on making it up for it. Your bodies connected in ways you’d only dreamed of for a long, long time. Each one pouring all the love they could for the other.

 After what seemed like an instant, the rays of the sun peeked through the curtains of his viewport. The night traveled its course behind you without any of you realizing it. Your face broke into a smile as you reveled in the glow of your lovemaking. You were with him,with your body sprawled over his. His strong hands traced gently circles down your back. Ben. He was back, and he was yours completely. He smiled down at you just as content, having you there in his arms. There was a newfound hope in his eyes. Maybe he could start new again. Just maybe, there was a new life waiting for you both. 

——

Thanks for reading! :) Requests are always open

[theresmorethanmeetstheye]

If you want to change the world, love a man; really love him

Choose the one whose soul calls to yours clearly; who sees you; who is brave enough to be afraid.

Accept his hand and guide him gently to your hearts blood.

Where he can feel your warmth upon him and rest there

And burn his heavy load in your fires.

Look into his eyes; look deep within and see what lies dormant or awake or shy or expectant there.

Look into his eyes and see there his fathers and grandfathers and all the wars and madness their spirits fought in some distant land, some distant time.

Look upon their pains and struggles and torments and guilt; without judgment.

And let it all go.

Feel into his ancestral burden

And know that what he seeks is safe refuge in you.

Let him melt in your steady gaze

And know that you need not mirror that rage.

Because you have a womb, a sweet, deep gateway to wash and renew old wounds.

If you want to change the world, love a man, really love him

Sit before him, in the full majesty of your woman in the breath of your vulnerability.

In the play of your child innocence in the depths of your death

Flowering invitation, softly yielding, allowing his power as a man.

To step forward towards you…and swim in the Earth’s womb, in silent knowing, together.

And when he retreats…because he will…flees in fear to his cave…

Gather your grandmothers around you…envelope in their wisdoms

Hear their gentle shusshhhed whispers,

calm your frightened girls’ heart

Urging you to be still…and wait patiently for his return.

Sit and sing by his door, a song of remembrance, that he may be soothed, once more.

If you want to change the world, love a man, really love him

Do not coax out his little boy

With guiles and wiles and seduction and trickery

Only to lure him…to a web of destruction

To a place of chaos and hatred

More terrible than any war fought by his brothers.

This is not feminine this is revenge

This is the poison of the twisted lines

Of the abuse of the ages, the rape of our world

And this gives no power to woman it reduces her as she cuts off his balls

And it kills us all

And whether his mother held him or could not,

Show him the true mother, now.

Hold him and guide him in your grace and your depth

Smoldering in the center of the Earth’s core.

Do not punish him for his wounds that you think don’t meet your needs or criteria.

Cry for him sweet rivers

Bleed it all back homeIf you want to change the world, love a man, really love him.

Love him enough to be naked and free

Love him enough to open your body and soul to the cycle of birth and of death

And thank him for the opportunity

As you dance together through the raging winds and silent woods

Be brave enough to be fragile and let him drink in the soft, heady petals of your being

Let him know he can hold you stand up and protect you

Fall back into his arms and trust him to catch you

Even if you’ve been dropped a thousand times before

Teach him how to surrender by surrendering yourself

And merge into the sweet nothing, of this worlds’ heartIf you want to change the world, love a man, really love him

Encourage him, feed him, allow him, hear him, hold him, heal him

And you, in turn, will be nourished and supported and protected

By strong arms and clear thoughts and focused arrows

Because he can, if you let him, be all that you dream

If you want to love a man,

love yourself, love your father, love your brother, your son, your ex-partner;

from the first boy you kissed, to the last one you wept over

Give thanks for the gifts; of your unraveling to this meeting

Of the one who stands before you now

And find in him the seed to all that’s new and solar

A seed that you can feed to help direct the planting

To grow a new world, together

🖤

–by Lauren Wilce

[overthefjords]

Away.

Mathias does a stint in Valhalla.

Written for @danmarks-styrke

The moment of mortality, when the life you are living becomes the life you once lived. It is not something Mathias enjoyed experiencing, and in retrospect, it was the worst thing to happen to him. At least this very last time was, watching himself die in his husband’s arms, drowning in his own blood that soaked into Aleksander’s shirt like seawater on a sailor’s tunic, pouring from his nose and mouth with every gurgling, wet breath.

Valhalla awaits. While Aleksander may not have heard the beat of Valkyrie wings over the cries of his own grief, Mathias could hear them as little more than the rush of air past raven’s wings, long black silken feathers cutting through the air.

Eir is the one to take him, her wings long and gilded, made of sunlight while her sisters flanked her, eyes of molten ice and burning while their wings were black like night, like the ravens of his husband. Her hands are gentle, he remembers as he stood bedside and watched his husband fall apart at the seams, his handsome, blood-smattered face twisting in pain, then in rage, and a flurry of other emotions that even Mathias could not fathom.

Her voice is but wind over a snow-capped mountain, a gentle hand taking his. His other is taken by Sigrún, and Róta follows behind while the rest of the valkyr act as escorts.

Mathias does not remember the trip. He does not remember the transition from Earth, from Midgard, through the branches of the Yggdrasil, and over the Bifrost, but he knows this distance is one he had traveled.

Some things are too hard to grasp, even for the dead.

The grief has him stricken, tears unceasing and dripping down his chin, his neck, sinking into the bloodied fabric of the shirt he was still wearing, the set of pyjamas he was in so distinctly his husband’s that it hurts to even realize.

The first thing he heard in Asgard is his own pained sobs, begging, pleading with the valkyries to take him home, that he needs to go home, that he isn’t supposed to be here.

Such a cavalcade of winged maidens drew the attention of the Aesir in attendance in the Hall of the Gods, and one Vanir who was visibly pained. Odin, Thor, Freyja, Tyr.

And Njörðr.

The Vanir approaches with haste, the humidity of a summer spent on the shore and the warmth of sand radiates from him. He is of the sea, as Mathias is, and the Dane is pulled to him like the tides to the shores. The pained wails of said Dane cut through the festivities in Odin’s hall, the fallen heroes having gone silent.

This was not a homecoming of joy. This was the theft of life, and even the fabric of the realm Asgard seemed to understand, as her skies grew cloudy, thunderheads looming above like an ungodly threat. One that made even Thor pause.

“I need to go home,” The Dane choked out, his lungs burning like he had drowned and been revived. “I can’t leave him, I can’t–”

“Hush,” The old seafarer murmured, allowing the young man to sink against his chest, a hand resting upon the Dane’s back. “Hush, sweet child. You are safe here.”

Mathias’ cries did not even begin to taper off. If anything, such reassurances made his sorrow greater. “I don’t want to be here!” He shrieked, shoving uselessly against the Vanir as the old god merely gazed on, seafoam eyes full of shared pain.

He could feel as the Dane did, could feel the pain of a severed bond of the one he loved so dear.

Njörðr shot a look towards the rest of the gathered Aesir, and Odin and Thor approached at a careful walk. It was as if there was something fragile among them, and they feared breaking it.

Time moves differently in Asgard, Mathias notices, when hours do not pass as he feels they should, and the sky never fully grows dark. Like Norway in Summer.

Most of his time is spent down on the shores below the Bifrost, away from the hall and the Aesir that watch him with saddened eyes. He doesn’t want their pity, doesn’t want their stares. He just wants to go home.

“Come.” The Vanir calls Mathias one afternoon, not too long but also far, far too long after he arrives. Mathias just washes his hands in the briny seawater, letting the ocean retake the sand in the same way he wishes Midgard would retake him, before walking up to the older man. It was now that Mathias noted that he looked familiar, though he knows he has never seen Njörðr before.

His was a face that existed in all sailors, all people whose lives were touched by the sea. Weathered skin, greying hair and beard, a warm presence like every deckhand Mathias had ever known. Familiarity set the Dane at ease, though the grief still had him silent most of the time.

Even Thor could not pull too much more than broken, mumbled words from the Dane.

They went to the natural spring outside of the hall, far enough away that the festivities that never ceased in Odin’s Hall was nothing more than a soft hum. Here, they sat and watched through the crystal clear waters upon Midgard below.

Thor would join them at some point, allowing Mathias to whip up a storm of his own, to wield his hammer and conduct a symphony worthy of the God of Thunder himself.

Yet, nothing would coax him to speak. Not even his patron willing to share his gifts.

“I want to go home.”

It was the only thing Mathias said most days, often warbled through broken tears as he sat at the reflection pool, his heart pouring out of his chest as he watched his Aleksander have to go on without him.

“This happened for a reason,” Njörðr tells Mathias one day. “The Fates wind the threads this way and that. We must endure such hardships. Young Dane, I do not believe this to be the end of your string.”

“And yet I am here, in Valhalla,” Mathias croaked, chin resting on his knees while his arms were wrapped around his calves. “While Aleks suffers without me. We’re both alone, and we’re worse off because of it.” He turns his head to stare at the old god, eyes bloodshot and his face permanently tear-stained. “This is not a gift. This is punishment. This is torture.”

“Were we not good enough sons?” He sniffs, pleading eyes locking on Njörðr’s sullen face. “Is this because of the Christians?” There had always been that nagging at the back of Mathias’ head ever since he was a boy.

“No, no, dear boy.” The Vanir sits beside Mathias, legs crossed. “When the time is right, you will return.”

Mathias witnessed too many midnight suns in Asgard to count, he had shunned a proper bed and room to stay at the spring, to at least have the sight of his husband to keep him company. The Aesir visited him daily, Thor recounting tales of his youth with his brothers and all of the stories that Mathias knew, but with details, he did not.

When he could have anything he wanted here, there was nothing that could fill the gaping maw of loneliness in his chest.

Eventually, he slept. Right there on the cool grass beside the spring, fingertips dipped into its waters.

He felt like lead waking up, everything was darker and heavier like he’d been wrapped in lead. He could hear Aleksander talking to him, though the words were hushed and garbled and it just felt like some dream.

But, Mathias could feel Aleks’ hands wrapped around his own and knew he was home again.

“Thor tells…tells really, really long stories…”

What exactly was said over the next few hours, Mathias could not readily remember. There was a flurry of familiar faces, relieved and kind faces, teary faces. But the only one that mattered to him was the face of his scruffy, exhausted husband sitting at his bedside.

For death without his beloved was no respite from pain..

When the activity had settled and Aleksander laid beside him, Mathias could ask for nothing but his husband, wanting to drown his loneliness in his arms and make him forget an eternity without him. Weak hands grasped at his Norseman’s shirt, pulling fruitlessly until Aleksander kissed him, and Mathias swore that death would not have him anymore.

[katobobato]

To Say Goodbye

➳ pairing: lee tamin x reader ➳ genre: angst, resurrection au, zombie au, a little fluff in there too ➳ warnings: body decay, blood and gore, witchcraft, death ➳ word count: 5158 ➳ rating: pg-15 ➳ prompt: It was halloween so if there was any time to try and resurrect your dead lover with an ancient incarnation, today was that day. ➳ event: halloween at kfn

It had been coming up for half a year since the incident. Almost half a year without him.

y/n had been coping well it seemed, at least, that's what she showed on the outside. She was composed and fearless, still in mourning but life carries on, even without him. On the inside, however, she was barely holding herself together, the threads of her soul slowly fraying and unwinding.

She was heartbroken, lost in a monochrome world completely void of all colour, all alone yet surrounded by many. She had her family and friends, but that wasn't enough because she didn't have him.

When they'd started dating a couple of years prior to the incident, he was the first man to truly make her smile. They laughed together, they had fun together and most of all, they were happy. They had started out as friends long before that, back in high school actually, but only dared to push their relationship further once they reached adulthood.

To describe how deep in love they were, just before the time of his passing, would be a difficult task. Think of the deepest depths of the ocean, the gap between heaven and hell, the length of space between the Earth and the moon. Even then, it would not be enough. To say they were soulmates would almost be an understatement.

There will never be another like him, there will never be another Lee Taemin. No one, in this life or the next, would even compare to him. He was the stars in her night sky. He was the moon that pulled the tides. He was the force of gravity keeping her on the ground.

She couldn't live without him. At least, not without saying a proper goodbye.

And so, y/n found herself wandering the streets of New Orleans, the place she had grown to call home, a home she had shared with him. If you had seen her strolling through the streets you wouldn't think she was searching for anything in particular. Just a girl walking down the street, with no goal in mind.

But there was something on her mind, the reason fuelling her outing, she was going to find a witch that could contact the dead.

y/n was never one to really believe in the witchcraft and voodoo that was said to have found it's home in New Orleans but after moving here for herself, she could feel it. The way something magical would flow down the streets, in the air between the buildings. It was everywhere, like a presence you couldn't see. At times, it felt like a warm home, the smell of fresh flowers on a sunny day. At others it felt more like an ominous presence, a pair of eyes watching your every move from where they were lurking in the darkness.

The so-called magic of New Orleans, if it truly was real, had her wondering if it was good or rather the work of demons. Before losing her lover to the claws of death, she would have heeded the warnings she had seen on tv and read in books. Now, however, so distraught with grief, she no longer cared.

By the time she stopped walking, her feet had brought her to a little shop hidden in the corner of a crooked backstreet. It seemed as though a wandering soul would miss it, never even noticing it was there, but y/n had felt a pull to it from the moment she stepped foot outside of her apartment. A shop that picked the customers perhaps, rather than the customers choosing the shop.

The windows were tinted, making it difficult to see the dark interior beyond. A sign outside displayed the name 'Lucifer's Wing - Magic Supplies' in a fancy, golden text. It looked old, from the decaying wooden window frames to the rusted door knob.

Although y/n hadn't gotten her hopes up, she reached out for that rusty door handle and sucked in a deep breath before turning it and heading inside.

Her nose involuntarily scrunched up at the unusual smell that flooded into it. It wasn't a particularly bad smell, nor was it particularly pleasant. It was simply strong, a very strong fragrance of which she had never quite smelt before.

Not only was the smell weird, but so was the rest of the shop. Shelves filled with old books, jars full of all kinds of abnormalities, not to mention all the unusual objects that were littered about on pretty much every kind of surface. An ugly, red and green rug, that was more brown and faded from old age, sat on the floor in front of the counter.

"Just grind up the newt tail and mix it with the raven beak. You should see improvements by tomorrow."

Two normal-looking New Orleanians were at that counter, their shoes further dirtying the dusty rug beneath them. They didn't even glance at y/n as they left the shop, taking their small package out with them as they discussed things about their unusual instructions from the shopkeeper.

When y/n finally got a good look at the woman behind the counter, she wasn't particularly surprised by her appearance at all. Not when the shop itself looked so, well, peculiar. Her hair was long and crimped, frizzing out a little bit too much. Her makeup was heavy, layer upon layer of eyeliner paired with dark eyeshadow and matte lips. She looked, well, if y/n didn't know any better, she'd say she looked like a witch.

"Now, what can I do for you?" Her voice was hoarse as she tilted her head, examining y/n with a hazy gaze.

"A grimoire perhaps? Or maybe a simple hex bag?"

y/n stepped forwards, approaching the woman to ask of her what it was she had come for, "Can you speak to the dead?"

The woman hummed and placed a slender finger to her chin, "Who could the young girl miss so dearly? Her mother? Her father? A friend taken too soon? Or perhaps... a lost lover?"

y/n nodded, her words now suddenly stuck in her throat.

"How did they die?" The woman inquired, leaning forward with a sudden peak of interest.

With an almost shaky breath, y/n replied, "He was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"I'm going to need more to go on than that, pretty."

It hurt to think of it. It hurt to speak of it. It hurt to remember it.

"H- He went out one day and never came home. It was a robbery gone wrong. He tried to stop them and they shot him. They shot him to rob a fucking cash register."

Her emotion shot out like a whirlwind. You could hear the pain in her voice. How distraught she was to lose someone she loved for such a petty, pointless reason. Even she was surprised by her own words, she had sworn in front of a stranger. How rude. How unlike her.

"Please," Her voice was faint again, realising that she had lost her composure for but a moment, "I just want to say goodbye."

The shopkeeper smiled, although it was not a warming smile. Everything about it was cold, sinister even. As if she were amused by the tragedy that befell such a young couple.

"I can do you one better than that."

y/n watched as the woman turned around, rummaging through the shelves behind her as she searched for something. Something that, hopefully, was going to grant y/n that goodbye she wished for so dearly.

When she returned to the girl, the shopkeeper had an old parchment in hand. It looked ancient, so fragile that it would crumble away the moment she set it down. And yet, somehow, it remained intact.

"Take this. Speak the incantation over his grave at the witching hour on all hallows eve, when the veil between life and death is at it's thinnest. It will grant you what you wish for, maybe even more than that."

y/n took the paper, skimming her eyes over a language she only recognised as Latin before her eyes flickered back to the shopkeeper, "How much is it?"

"Free of charge, well, to me. You will pay your price when it is due, I only hope you will be prepared to pay it." The woman warned although y/n didn't take it as a serious threat.

"I'll pay whatever price, I just want to see him again. I just want to say goodbye." She held the parchment with great care and smiled, "Thank you."

With that, she was leaving the shop just as quickly as she had arrived. Taking a long, thoughtful stroll back to her apartment, their apartment.

Did she honestly think this incantation would work? No. Was she praying that she would be wrong? Yes.

It wouldn't work, there was no way it would, but she needed it to. Just a chance to say goodbye, that was all she wanted.

If only she knew what was to come.

y/n waited somewhat impatiently over the next few days but soon, all hallows eve was upon her. She had put a bowl of sweets outside, allowing any trick-or-treaters to help themselves as she would not be at home.

She knew she was going too early, she had to wait for the witching hour, after all. But she wanted to be with him. Just to sit with him for a while as she read the incantation over and over in her head to make sure that she would get it right when the time came.

Before long, the witching hour had arrived.

y/n stood up and placed a gentle hand on the tombstone. Her fingers ran over the engraving, 'Lee Taemin - Beloved Son and Cherished Friend'.

"It's now or never." y/n spoke to him, or perhaps herself, and took a couple of steps back.

With shaky hands, she held the parchment up in front of her and cleared her throat only to mutter under her breath, "Here goes."

"Hic en spiritum sed non incorpore evokare lemures de mortuis decretum espugnare de angelus balberith en inferno inremeablis."

Once she read the incantation, the wind seemed to blow, chilling her skin. She waited but nothing happened.

So, she read the incantation again and again as she prayed to see him one last time. All she wanted was to hear his voice, better yet to see his spirit before her. Just so that she could see him, hear him, one last time. Just to say goodbye.

But to no prevail.

"I knew it was fake. I was a fool to wish otherwise." y/n sighed, eyes already glassing over with tears.

In her hand, the parchment was crumpled to nothing, scattered pieces blowing off in the wind. It didn't work, it was never going to work. What was she thinking?

She fell to her knees, fingers digging into the soil that occupied the space over his grave, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry we didn't get a chance to say goodbye. I love you, I love you so much."

As her tears dripped down, wetting the Earth with her sorrow, she finally said goodbye. She would always love him, always.

It was with a heavy heart that she headed home, leaving behind the dream of seeing her lover again. She fell asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow, tears staining the soft fabric beneath her. Exhaustion had taken its toll on her. Exhaustion from hoping, believing too much in the unknown. Exhaustion from grief and being alone.

A few hours passed, night relieved by the early morning.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

y/n sat up, stretching her tired limbs as another knock sounded at the door. Leaving the warmth of her bed and submitting herself to the cold, she began to head for the door.

"Don't those kids know that the time for trick-or-treating is over?" She sighed, reaching out to open the door and tell them to go home.

When the door opened, her entire world stopped spinning. Or, perhaps, it began to spin so fast that she had grown dizzy and begun to see things that were not truly there.

Dark brown eyes. That fluffy, dirty blonde hair she loved to run her fingers through. Eyebrow slits he thought looked edgy, but she just found cute. Every single inch of his face was so familiar, so new, something she felt she hadn't seen in years but could have also been something had seen just yesterday.

"y/n... I- I didn't know where else to go."

The moment he spoke, confirming that he was truly there, she threw her arms around him. Tears rolled down her cheeks, tears much different than the ones that came before. It wasn't what she had expected, to be reunited with her lover like this, but he was alive. He was with her again and that was all that mattered.

When y/n finally released him, she stepped back to look at him once again.

Dirt. Lots of dirt, he was covered in it. It was matted between his hair, smudged across his cheek, wedged under his fingernails. Had he climbed out of his own grave? But his body wasn't broken, wasn't decomposed. It was as if he were as good as new.

"Let's get you in a bath." She smiled, gently taking his hand in her own as she led him inside.

Once the bath was run, steam warming the previously frosty room, she left him to it whilst she prepared some clothes of his that she just hadn't had the strength to throw away before.

He sat there, absentmindedly scrubbing the dirt off of him, thinking about so many things.

I'm dead. I died. Didn't I? So why am I here now? Why am I alive again? Am I really alive again?

He had so many questions but ultimately, he was just glad to be back home. Back with her. Back with y/n.

"So, what do you remember?" She asked, rubbing his hair loosely with a towel.

"I..." Taemin sighed, "I remember dying. I died and then there was nothing, plunged into eternal darkness. Until I woke up in- in front of my grave."

y/n looked at him softly, putting the towel down to cup her hand around his face, "I didn't know what to do without you. I didn't know how to go on. I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye. That was all I wanted. This... to have you back is more than I could have ever hoped for."

She was crying again before she realised it. A steady stream of salty tears wetting her cheeks once again.

Although hesitantly, he reached up to touch her, gentle fingers ghosting over her face. He wiped her tears away and took her hand in his, bringing it up to his lips for a tender kiss.

"How- How did you do this? How did you bring me back?"

He was so confused. He shouldn't be here, not that he didn't want to be. He wanted nothing more than to be by her side, to hold her in his arms, to kiss her softly and tell her everything was alright. But he didn't understand. He needed to understand.

"I found a shopkeeper... I think she was a witch. She gave me an old incantation and told me to read it over your grave at the witching hour on all hallows eve." y/n explained, her hand returning to his cheek, thumb stroking over it gently.

"It's Halloween? How long have I been gone for?"

She sighed and leaned forwards, resting her head against his shoulder, "Six months."

Instinctively, his hand went to her head, stroking it affectionately.

"I'm sorry," There was a pause as he leaned his head against her own, just wanting to be near her, "Sorry for leaving you."

y/n lifted her head, shaking it and looked at him with a smile, "Don't be. You're back now, that's what matters. It worked, the incantation actually worked."

The way his mouth curved so affectionately as he rubbed his head against her own slightly, much like a cat would to its owner, was so full of love. He may not have remembered anything of the afterlife, or perhaps there wasn't one to remember, but he felt as though he hadn't seen her for an eternity. He just wanted to treasure her, to love her, to hold her.

She reached for his hand, interlacing her fingers with his own.

"I love you," She said, "I love you so much."

He squeezed her hand as if to say; I'm here, I'm not leaving you again. With his other, he wiped the tears from her eyes, although soon the thumb that was drying her eyes was replaced by something else.

Each eye. He kissed under each eye, tasting the salty tears she had shed for him. He never wanted her to cry because of him again, he never wanted to leave her again.

Pulling her close to his chest, he nuzzled his head into the crook of her neck. It really was real, he really was back with her.

A part of her feared that he would be gone come sunrise. This was too good to be true. Was he really back for good? Was his soul truly intact? For now, she didn't care. She just needed him. She needed him almost as much as he needed her.

"I love you." She said again, pulling away to press a soft kiss to his lips.

"I love you too." His words were pure, romantic, gentle even. He was just glad to be back with her, back by her side.

They were soulmates, or maybe something more. Two souls, two hearts, two bodies, completely intertwined.

By the time morning came, he was still by her side. She smiled, hand smoothing over his chest as she looked up at him. His stomach raised and then, it fell. He was breathing, he was alive, he was with her once again. Not a spirit, not a monster, not a figment of her imagination, but flesh and blood.

He looked so peaceful, so angelic as he slept beside her. The sun crept in through the blinds, giving his features an almost golden glow. Maybe he was just that, an angel brought back to Earth in order to reunite with his lover once again. Maybe, if there was a God, they had sent him back to her.

Taemin's eyes soon fluttered open, his eyes rolling over the curves of her body that hid beneath the covers. He smiled and began to delicately run his fingers up and down her bare shoulder.

"Morning." His voice was groggy, full of sleep and love.

A warm smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, "I've missed this."

They spent all morning in bed, lying by each other's sides. Pillow talk and tangled legs.

By lunch, however, rumbling stomachs finally pulled them from their bed.

"Pancakes?" Taemin opened the fridge to collect the eggs and milk.

y/n was already looking in the cupboard, pulling out a bowl before searching the drawers for a whisk, "Already one step ahead."

Cooking was always an adventure when it came to the two of them, especially when it could easily get messy. Flour covered every surface, including their own hands and faces. They giggled, laughing together as they finally began flipping the pancakes.

Eating lunch was as fun as making it. Giggles and whispers of love as they smiled oh-so warmly at each other across the table.

By the time it began to grow dark outside, they were lying on the sofa watching a movie. It was one of their favourites, one they'd watched so many times together. y/n thought she'd never get to watch it with him again but here she was, lying in his arms, completely content as they quietly watched the movie.

Neither of them was truly paying attention to the film. Both of them were far too focused on each other. The way it felt to be so close, feeling the warmth of each other's body heat seep through the clothes that separated them. He loved this, the feeling of holding her in his arms again. She too was the happiest she'd ever been. She thought she'd lost him forever but they had been granted another chance. A miracle perhaps.

Or maybe... something a little more sinister.

A couple more days had passed and everything seemed well. They had been on a date in the park, his first time outside since coming back. The two of them had talked about how they would tell others that he was alive. How they'd explain it to everyone. He wanted to see his parents so dearly. Both knew that this might not be the best idea, however. They would freak out, they wouldn't understand. He had died, they all knew that. They, although distraught, had made peace with it. If he was to see them, he needed an explanation that didn't sound ridiculous or simply scare them away.

Their date had gone well. They had had fun together, walking around, taking in the fresh air. It was a good day. It was only when they returned home, later in the day, that Taemin began to feel that something was wrong.

"You okay?" y/n asked, noticing the way his eyes seemed somewhat sunken.

With a smile, he nodded, "Yeah, just tired."

It was a lie. A lie he almost believed himself. A lie he so desperately needed to believe was true because he didn't want something to be wrong. Instead of worrying about it, or worrying her about it, he hid it. He ignored it.

They bathed together that night. Both soaking in the bath until they went pruney. y/n rested her head against his chest, smiling as he softly ran the tips of his fingers along her arms.

"I've missed this. I've missed you." She sighed, taking his hand in her own.

He hummed against her hair, pressing a loving kiss against her head, "I missed you too."

He truly did miss her, even if he had no perception of how much time it had been since he last saw her before he died. Perhaps time simply wasn't a thing after death and that was why it had felt like so long but also only hours at the same time. Six months. She was without him for six months, and he was without her. For her, it was agonising. For him, well, he only noticed how much he missed her once he came back.

He held her close that night, smiling as she slept quietly in his arms, for he was beginning to feel as though he might lose her again. He knew she couldn't bear the thought of it happening all over again, watching helplessly as he was taken from her again but, as the sun set far below their feet, the cloudy night sky now overhead, he began to feel as though it was going to happen again. It was going to happen again and much sooner than they had wished for.

He kept that feeling, that knowing, from her for days. Everything was normal, even as his eyes began to look more sunken than usual. I'm just tired, he would tell her. She, like a fool, believed him.

It was his idea to try out a new recipe, a recipe his mother used to make for him. They had always liked to cook together, always treasured that time with each other. They were having fun, reading through the recipe on her phone. He stood behind her, head on her shoulder, hands holding hers as they mixed the ingredients in the wok.

Stir-fried Korean beef, a recipe from his home. He already knew how to make it but pretended not to so that he could learn again, with her. A meal to remember him by, a meal to enjoy. He didn't want to leave a sour taste in her mouth. He wanted to leave behind a pleasant taste, a lingering goodness that she could enjoy. If she liked the meal, that was.

"It's so good!" She grinned from ear to ear, devouring the delicious food they had created together.

He felt his lips curl upwards slightly, smiling so gently. It was a sad smile.

"You'll have to try out new things when I'm no longer around." It was a mumble, but she still heard it.

y/n dropped her food and tilted her head, confused, "What do you mean? You've only just come back, you're not going anywhere."

He avoided her eyes, watching them search his face as if trying to decipher what he was staying, and moulded his face into a reassuring smile, "So, after dinner, I was thinking we could go for a walk?"

She knew he was avoiding the question but didn't press on the matter. A part of her didn't want to know. She didn't want to know what he meant by that, what he was trying to say. Although, she couldn't stop the feeling of unease that had settled into the very core of her bones, shaking through her like waves of nausea.

A few more days passed and he left her during the night, droopy body heading for the bathroom. He turned the tap on, hoping the steady stream of water would ground him, and looked into the mirror. His face was pale, almost deathly so. Any rose he had in his cheeks seemed to have been painted over. His eyes were sunken, dark circles surrounding them. Dry skin, chapped lips, no colour. He looked like a walking corpse, or perhaps simply someone who was rather unwell.

y/n had noticed it. She hadn't said anything out of fear. If she acknowledged it, asked about it, she feared it would truly become real. Something was wrong, very wrong. Taemin knew it, y/n knew it. She was scared to ask, he was scared to tell her. He didn't want to see her in pain again, he couldn't watch it happen again.

Fingertips ran along his protruding cheekbone until it reached that dark skin under his eye. His nail looked black around the edges and, with a sleepy curiosity, he pulled at it with his other hand. It was such a light, delicate movement. And yet, the nail slipped so easily from his body, coming off with a trail of goo. A mix of blood and God knows what else.

He closed his eyes, focusing once again on the running water. It was calming, peaceful. The darkness that surrounded him, the lack of anything. It was pleasant, it was familiar. It was death.

Before he had realised it, he had already adapted to the life after death. It wasn't the same as life on Earth, it was different, empty. It wasn't, however, in any way bad. He couldn't remember much but he knew he felt at peace. He had made his peace with it, she had not. The living didn't know how to let go but the dead... the dead had already moved on.

She called him back. She forced him back. He wanted to see her, he was so glad that they had just a little more time together but that time was quickly running out. He only released it then, as he opened his eyes and looked down at his nail-less finger, tugging ever so gently on the limb until it broke free from his body and fell down into the sink. The stream of water fell down onto it, claiming it as death had already claimed him.

There was no pain and very little blood. He was already dead, he was never truly alive again. His time had passed and he had made peace with that. She hadn't, y/n hadn't.

"W-What's-"

She was in the doorway not long after feeling the chilling cold beside her in bed. She almost asked, she almost confirmed it. But, when she saw her lover, his body slowing starting to break down, it was too late. It was real.

"I can't stay much longer." Taemin sighed, finally understanding what was happening to him, to them.

He wasn't sad. He had had time to see her again, to say goodbye. That was what she wanted, wasn't it? A chance to say goodbye.

The witch had never said the incantation was permanent, nor had she ever said it would bring him back to life. He wasn't here to stay, he was here to help her move on. Truly a dead man walking.

y/n felt like she was suffocating, it was as if the whole world was crumbling down around her. It was raining, distorting the painting before her. He was alive, he was with her again. The painting had lied and now, those lies were washing away.

"Don't cry." He stepped forwards, wiping away the tears she hadn't even realised had started to fall.

Her world was crumbling. Her life, his life, fading away.

"It's okay, y/n. It's okay. I'm here, I'll always be here."

She couldn't listen, she didn't want to listen. She didn't want to hear this, to hear his goodbye. She wasn't ready... she'd only just gotten him back.

"I- I- I can't-" Her voice was strangled, hands balling into his shirt, "I can't lose you again." She held on tight, too afraid to let go, "I- I'll go with you, I'll die with you-"

He sighed and pulled her to his chest, feeling her warmth for one last time as he cradled her head in his hands, "You can't. You have to live on."

She cried harder, holding onto him even tighter than before.

"You don't need to worry. You must live in the present and remember me when I'm gone. Until the day comes when I must leave you again, treasure these last few days we have together but, when it's over, I need you to move on. Live a wonderful life, live a happy life. For me, for your friends, for your family. Fall in love again, have children and grandchildren. Teach them how to cook, make pancakes with them. Just... be happy."

He wasn't going to leave her that day. He might not even leave her the next, but the day was coming. The day he would have to leave again, to go back.

"I love you." He whispered into her hair, a memory she would treasure.

He loved her and she loved him. They always would, but time moves on, people move on, and she would too.

Tears streaked down her face, a steady stream mimicking the running tap, "I love you too... So much."