imaginingmyforest

[imaginingmyforest]

Safe For Cinderella

Fandom:  Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them

Character:  Credence Barebone

Notes:  Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Character Death (Not Reader or Credence), Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Murder, Blasphemy, Religious Guilt, Religious Conflict, Panic Attacks, Vomiting (mentioned), Guilt, Running Away (mentioned), Dissociation

It's not safe to be out on one's own on the streets of New York.  Of course you carried a weapon.  Of course you would use it to defend the man you loved.  It wasn’t intentional.  You hadn’t planned it beforehand.

Can they really still call it murder, just because she hadn't touched YOU?  Just because it’d taken so long to fight back after everything she’d done to HIM?

Isn't it just another part of the Cinderella story?  Blood and ashes, ashes and blood …

It’s quick.  The realization that this argument is over, pointless.  The knowledge that nothing will ever change, and it’s time.  Your stomach plummets, your guts threaten to choke you, but it’s as though a switch has been thrown; it’s time, it’s time, so it must be done.  Your body moves because the decision was made long before, and it has to be done now.  It’s time.

Closing the distance and just--It’s done.  Just like that. (It already was, after all; hadn’t you just thought so?)

(The movements hadn’t changed that, not really.)

Everything is tight, heavy in the air, frozen in a moment that seems to linger impossibly as you take it in.  Your fingers flex, muscles mimic them, and you gasp. (It occurs to you that those fingers you’re looking at are your fingers, oddly.)

It’s instantaneous.  Everything drops, relaxes, your whole body coming down from this intensity that just melts away like being doused in water.  Fuck, it feels good.

Tears stream down.  Why, from where, you don’t know.  You feel so … relieved.  Like this is it, it’s over.  Done.  Finished.  Complete. Accomplished.

She’s staring at you, eyes wide and angry but more shocked, stunned, still trying to figure it all out, comprehend just what has happened.  Her mouth is open, slack, and sound gurgles within.

“I’m sorry,” you tell her, something between a laugh and a sob following up the words.  You blink the tears away rapidly, do your best to smile, and try to tighten your grip again.  It’s difficult.  Your fingers are slick, the wetness warm.  (Are those really your fingers?  They must be.)  “I really, really am, that it had to come to this.  That you just wouldn’t listen.”

Your whole body shakes with the word, the handle twists, and her head snaps to the side, as though belatedly trying to stop what has happened.  It makes the rivers run faster, color glisten on her pale skin.  (Hadn’t even been a river there a moment ago.  Things are moving so fast, despite the fact that they don’t feel like they’re moving at all.)

You hold your chin up high.  

“But you will never--” It jerks, so does she.  “--hurt Credence again.  And for that, I am not sorry.”

You bring up your free hand to cup her face (a sick resemblance of all the times you’ve held him in much the same way), wiping away tears, soothing down sobs.  And you twist (it feels like the thing to do, next), just like that, and she sucks in a breath that doesn’t make it down her throat, comes back up and sprays you in the face.  

It’s warm.  You blink it away, brow furrowed.  Your chest heaves a bit, breathing is getting a bit difficult.  Burns.

For good measure, you tug towards yourself with one hand, grip on her face with the other holding her in place, dragging through skin and muscle and whatever else is in there.  You think the tip catches on something.  The momentum stops even though your entire shoulder still wants to move.  

It doesn’t matter.  This is enough, isn’t it?

You pull the knife out.  It just … slides free, easy as it went in. (You aren’t actually sure it went in easy; it was so fast, you used so much force ...) Your heart pounds so loud you can’t even hear the sounds she’s making.  She just … crumples.  Forward, into you, your chest, grabbing, grabbing.

She’s heavy.  Slick, growing more and more slick.  Eyes wide, staring up at you desperate but angry but desperate again.  (Disgusting gross wrong wrong why can’t you breathe?) You swallow, take one step back.  Another.

She can’t hold herself.  She loses her grip on you.  Slides down.  Hits the floor.

A few twitches, mostly in the chest, as her body fights to live and only pumps more and more blood from the gash you’ve left in her neck.  It’s so large.  Almost back to front.  God, it’s ugly. Disgusting.  The light bounces off the jagged strips of meat that are visible amid the waves.  (Your chest heaves with effort; God you should feel something why can’t you feel something?)

She’s so quickly laying in a pool that it’s mesmerizing to watch.  The red grows, spreads, reflects the derelict room around you.  She twitches in it, spreading it like thin paint.

The smell is overpowering.  You take a long drag of it, sputter a laugh. (Breathe, breathe, breathe--)

At least she’s not loud.  No one has come to check on you from upstairs, despite how heated your argument had been.  They know better by now, surely.  Better than to interrupt her.

The twitching slows.  A small jerk here or there.  A bubble pops from her lips, tiny, and the rest just dribbles out, no fight left.  Her eyes are wide, on you, but you don’t think they see you.  Not anymore.  

Is she gone yet?  (Does it matter?) Best not to wait.  Something must be done with the body, before the others see.

They’ve been through enough.  They don’t need to see this.

God, no, they can’t see this.  It’s dirty.  Too ugly.  Not for them. Not Credence, who’s seen enough already in this wretched world. Not Modesty, who still has hope, can still move on.  Not even Chastity, who’s clung to a lifeline of obedience behind masked fear.

Children. Children.

You wipe your knife clean on the hem of her dress, then peel the clothes off her as inspiration strikes.  (Your hands are shaking; breathing is more like sobbing, but sobbing is something you do with emotion so that can’t be right, can it?  Your face is making the right expressions for it, though, so maybe it knows something you don’t.) You do your best to use it to soak up some of the blood, tear off a bit to wrap around her neck so she doesn’t drip as much while you drag her to the back door.  You scour the kitchen for accelerants, grab dirty towels for the rest of the puddle, and have the fire roaring in a trash bin behind the church and the floor scrubbed before the sound of footsteps on the stairs has you looking up.

Your heart hasn’t settled down yet.  Nothing feels real.  You’re walking in a dream.

A wet, crimson dream, but your beautiful, glorious Credence is descending the stairs like Cinderella arriving at the Royal Ball, fearful glances being shot around for his wicked mother, head dipped and shoulders hunched but for the first time, free. Safe.

He doesn’t know it yet.  Your heart leaps for him.

Everything hurts and you’re gonna be sick (oh, that’s what that is) but it’s worth it, so fucking worth it because she’ll never fucking touch him again, never.

Your head is swimming.  Credence turns his eyes to you, slowly, after sweeping the room, and his nose wrinkles.

“I came to check if she... are you alright?”  He’s so quiet.  Such a pretty, deep voice, hidden behind fear.  “Where is she?”

You can’t take your eyes off of him.

She’s burning, you want to laugh.  She’ll burn forever in the Hell she preached now,if it exists.  Like she deserves.

Your throat is tight.  You can’t breathe again.  Instead, you turn and force yourself to look away.  To look at the doors that stand between you and the fire.

The blazes lick around the bundle there like hundreds of tiny, fiery hands grabbing, grabbing.  Like the hands of the children who’d come to her, begging food.  Like she grabbed at you. Drag her down.  Drag her to Hell.  Make her suffer, please.  Suffer for every mark on his skin, every time he’s ever flinched, every unkind word he’s ever heard.  Fucking burn.

The chanting sounds ... gleeful, in your head.  (But also angry?  So, so angry.)

The girls, too.  Burn for them.  Every child who has seen themselves in her hurtful words and evil pamphlets, who’s been forced to stomach her for a morsel of food on the streets, every adult who’s listened and agreed and had their hearts tainted and went on to be just as evil, as cruel--

(The glee is gone.  It’s just the anger now, but sadness feels like a small child tucked behind Anger’s heels, watching.)

But so much for him, for him, because I love him so damn much and he cries, he’s cried, he’s been hurt and he’ll never be quite who he could have been without her he’ll never know that Credence and fuck her for taking that from him, damn her for the memory of her he’ll always carry.

It’s too much.  You’re on your knees, and Credence is there, and you’re crying again, you don’t know what the fuck this is, what the hell is happening, what you even feel (but it is feeling, at least you think, and it’s so sudden it feels like an attack from no where). It’s all too much.

But it’s over.  He’ll never come to you crying again, bleeding and scared and confused and hurting inside and out.  Safe, Credence is safe and fuck the damage this has done to your soul or whatever it is that people worry about when you take a life.  It seems like such a small price to pay for this.  For him.

(It was so easy.  So quick.  And she deserved it.  Deserved death, and so much more.  Hell, maybe it was too quick.  But at least it’s over.)

Dust to dust, you sneer at the door, tucked into Credence’s arms, the floor still wet beneath the two of you from your scrubbing, from her blood.  (Where is it all coming from?  One after another, they bombard you, and you hate them all—these feelings.)

Your devil god didn’t save you, monster woman.  No god saved Credence, either, unless that salvation was in sending me, and if that’s so, what took so fucking long?

God themself better come down and apologize to Credence if that time comes, or you won’t fucking accept heaven.  And if hell awaits, well then, to hell you go--you still wouldn’t change a thing. (Except maybe, if you could do it earlier) And it’s another chance to see Mary-Lou again, isn’t it?  You won’t say no to another chance to fuck her up.

Seems like you just did whatever god exists a service, ridding the world of her. (Should have done it themself, shouldn’t they?  Did them a favor.  Slacker. Can’t be worth serving, then.)

“Breathe, Y/N.”  Credence’s voice urges you.  “Breathe.”

You suck in at his command.  It’s more difficult than it should be. Doesn’t work right, stops in the middle.  Reflex has you trying again, but there’s no making it work and you choke on whatever’s blocking the way.

Cough after cough tries to fix your throat, and you suppose it’s working since everything burns but your chest is moving with much more gusto than usual.  You’re gripping Credence much too tightly; you’ll leave marks.

The thought slaps you, and the instantaneous release of your hands throws off your balance.  An elbow slams into the floor.  Credence grabs you full around the waist to pull you back into his lap.  The wet floorboards are tinting your clean clothes pink.

She’d soiled herself in death.  You’d vomited into the bin while trying to start the fire.  (These are things you know, not things you remember.)

Your soaked clothes burn with her.  So do the rags you’d cleaned with. You need to watch the fire, make sure no one tries to sneak into the yard to use it to warm themselves.  The bones must be dealt with when the flames die down.

Someone will notice she’s gone, eventually.  You have no money.  Neither does Credence, nor the girls.  Someone will try to take Modesty and Chastity.  Mary-Lou has not equipped Credence for life on his own.

You’ll need to be gone before they come.  Long gone.  All of you, if you want to stay together.  Chastity might fight you.  She’d accepted her fate under Mary-Lou, learned to think it was a fair trade-off, a roof and clothes and food under a tyrant.  She’d adapted to it to survive, emmulated her captor. She doesn’t know any better, won’t know what to do without Mary-Lou to tell her.

Modesty will want to go home.  Her real home.  Her family, her parents and all nine siblings.  And they won’t be able to support her any better now than before, and someone will come take her again, and who knows where she’ll end up.  If she’ll be cared for; if she’ll be loved.

You won’t leave Credence.  You’d die first.

Will he want you in his life, once he knows what you’ve done?  

You’ll tell him, of course.  You have to.  You could never lie to Credence, never keep a secret from him.

Not on purpose, at least.

(That he doesn’t already know you love him baffles you.  It’s clear as day.)

(Mary-Lou had known.  She’d said you’d burn in hell for it.  Called you perverse.  Called him worse, and damned you for loving him.)

(Chastity knows.  Had glared at you, warned you off before you made his life harder than it already was, dragged him further into sin.)

(Modesty knows.  She’d smiled and giggled and whispered that when the two of you were together, it was the only time she really saw Credence smile.)

(Maybe he does know.  Maybe he pretends not to.  Maybe it has just been too dangerous to do otherwise.)

“Y/N?” His voice is still so quiet dispite being absolutely drenched in worry.  It soaks his words as he speaks, afraid for one of the few good things he’s found in this life.  (Good. He thinks you’re good.  Are you good?  What is good?  Does it matter, if there is no god?) “Where?  I’ve got some bandages hid upstairs, if she’s gone ...”

Bandages? Your wipe at your eyes roughly with a dry bit of your sleeve, desperately trying to clear your vision enough to see him, look him over.  “Why do you need bandages?  Are you hurt?  Did she do something before I got here?”

He pauses a moment, then shakes his head minutely.  “No, for you, I mean.  I was asking ... where, if you’re hurt, if she hit you or--”

His eyes flick over you in sections, checking for something Mary-Lou doesn’t usually leave to be seen so easily.  (Except on Credence. She always hated him special.)

(Hated. Not hates.  There’s a perverse glee in that thought.  Hell, it is.)

“She didn’t hit me, Credence.”  You reach up a hand to his face, and stop.  The sleeve is pink.  (His lips are pinker.)  “But I ... I hurt her.”

The hand falls and you watch his eyes, waiting for judgement.

Those pools of brown are surrounded by white that only grows wider.  He cups his hands around yours and half rises to his feet, tugging you after him.  “You should go, you have to go.  She’ll be mad, you have to get away before she--”

You wobble up, but pull him right back, not letting him guide you to the door as he half turns, trying just that.  “She won’t hurt me, Credence.  She can’t.”

His eyes dart around, searching for her in every corner, and you wonder if he even hears you through the panic.  (Will he always search for her?)

He reminds you of a rabbit.  Scared, tense, vigilent, waiting to be devoured.

“She isn’t here.  And she’s not coming back.”

(I killed her I killed her I killed her I’m a murderer Credence a murderer shouldn’t touch you with my dirty hands but oh she deserved it she fucking did so is it wrong is it really wrong it can’t be bad if it was for you I’d do it again I’d do anything to save you)

A face without expression jerks slightly, telling you, no, she always comes back.

He doesn’t understand the extent of your words.  Doesn’t believe. (He can’t.  The fear is stronger, a life of abuse leaving instincts stronger than any words.)  His hands shake—just a bit—around yours.  You wiggle a thumb free and wrap it around to rub soothingly at the base of his knuckles.

You have to say it.  He won’t understand.  He’ll never be free; without the words.  It has to be said.

“I-I killed her.”

It seems wrong to touch him so gently when you say such words.

He blinks.  Once.  Twice.  His face turns in a few successive, slow ... almost spasms.  His brows twist in confusion.  You swallow.  (It’s difficult.  You have to try twice.) Your vision swims again.

This time, it’s a whisper.

“I killed her.”

The house is so silent.  The streets outside are louder than anything in the building; you’d never know two girls were upstairs.  (They know to be quiet when Mary-Lou sends them away.)

There’re voices and feet shuffling and life carrying on, business as usual, and all you can think about is if you’re about to lose the most important person in your life.  (What’s happening, what’s happening, the pressure is building again, the feeling isn’t a feeling but you feel it--)

“I made a choice,” you tell the silence as you stare at him and touch him so slightly and he fades in and out of focus.  “God help me, I made a choice.  And it’s done.”

Help me. The words linger.  Help me.

I don’t regret. A deed doesn’t change who you are, because the person you are still got you there, was there longer than the time it took to make one act.  Nothing is, intrinsically, different.

(I don’t regret.  She deserved what she got.  I’d do it again.  Who can judge me?)

Still. You did something difficult, something emotionally taxing, devestating, even.  There’s so much inside, screaming, roilling, barely able to fathom, to cope.  It was done, and it was done by you, and now ...

Now, you live.

(Shit shit shit)

“No you didn’t.”  His eyes drift down, unfocused, like he can’t understand it, can’t fathom it.  Back, forth, back again, he searches inside, and you wonder what’s in there.  Time flew by getting rid of her; almost like it wasn’t you, you weren’t there. Now, time thrums in your head like a shove with every heartbeat in your chest.  “You couldn’t.  She c-can’t.”

(Evil can’t die.  Can’t be escaped.  Can’t be beaten.  He can’t believe.)

He blinks, blinks again, and then brings his eyes back up to yours. Seeing.

(Can’t believe he could have been saved.)

“Y-you—A-are you ok-kay?”  Oh, god damn him.  He looks so scared.  So shocked. He’s already looked you over, you know he means inside as he meets your eyes and his hands tremble as they rest timidly against your knees.  One hand raises, falls back just as quickly.  His eyes are so wide; so impossibly wide.

“I’ll deal with it later,” you tell him, smiling.  (You are smiling, right?  This is a smile?  You need to smile for him, but you can’t feel--) “You need to go.  You need to get the girls and just ... get out of here.  Find a life; a real one.”

His brow furrows.  “S-she--where--”

He looks around, like he expects to see it; as if you’d just leave it there for him or the girls to come down and find. (He doesn’t know what it is to be loved.  Not yet.)

“I took care of it.”  Looking over at the doors, you correct yourself. “I’m taking care of it.”

He follows your line of sight.  You can hear the crackling of the fire, so he must as well.

Bones don’t burn.  You wonder if he knows that.  “I’ll dump the rest in the sewers.  But there’s no telling how long before someone notices she isn’t around anymore.  A believer, or even just someone she’s pestered inquiring after the quiet.  If you don’t want the girls taken, you all have to go together.  You’ll have to convince them.”  

(You don’t know how your voice is so ... normal.  What a pleasant day. It might rain later.  Got to toss the body, you know how it is. How’s your mother?)

(That thought was almost funny.  You might scream.)

He’s staring at the doors still.  His mind must be going, working, thinking.  

He doesn’t seem bothered by his hand still on your knee, wrapped in yours.  Your closeness.  

(Your both practically sitting in her blood—no no it’s gone, you cleaned it up it’s fine--)

Everything just fucking hurts, your eyes burn, chest too, feet ache, you’re tired.  So fucking tired.

He doesn’t move when your head gently rests against his collarbone. Your eyes close.  His hand squeezes a little tighter.  You feel the brush of his chin against the top of your head as he turns back your way.

“We s-should take Modesty back to her real home,” he whispers.  “If w-we can f-find where s-she kept her money, Modesty can take it.”

He swallows.  You feel the bob of his throat pressed to your forehead. You nuzzle into it.  (He feels alive.)

“Charity ... Charity will stay.  She’ll want to.  She’ll keep the kitchen going, for the kids.  Th-the church.”

It’s what she knows.  What works, in her world.

“I’ll tell her I did it,” you whisper back.  “So no one blames you or her.  She can tell the cops, if she wants.”

One of his hands pulls away, and everything stops.  Stops existing, stops meaning, oh god, oh god oh god--

He just brings it around, tentatively, and makes the unofficial embrace the two of you have created into the real thing.  He’s actively holding you close now, and damn it all, it rises up your throat from deep inside and just keens out, a sob like the world’s quietest scream, and you can Feel.

You feel All.  (Whatever it all is, whatever All means.  You feel it. It’s unpleasant, for certain.  But Credence is holding you, and that is everything Good, so what does All matter, in comparison?)

“We should ... take a train, m-maybe,” he says.  (The “we” echoes in your mind like a church choir) “St-stow away, like they say vagrants do.  Ride.  F-far.”

You hiccup, and nod against his chest.  “A train s-sound nice.”

(Anything sounds nice, if it’s still “we.”)

“You don’t have t-to go with me.”  (You have to say it, make it clear. He has to know he doesn’t have to do this.  You did it.  Just you) “You’re free, Credence.”

His fingers spread out across your back, start rubbing haltingly, like he knows the motion is supposed to soothe, but he’s never done it before, never had it done to him, doesn’t know if he’s doing it right.  (An angel, your angel.)

“You didn’t have to hate her.”  (You’ve had this conversation with him before.  He knows why you stayed around, even if he doesn’t know.)  “It was about me.”

When he says this, the fact that his head has shifted just a bit, that his lips are pressing into your hair as he speaks, drags a stuttering breath out of you.  You feel trembly, weak.

“I made a choice.  I’ll live with that.  You--”

“I don’t want to be without you.”

His whisper cracks, just a little bit.

And that’s everything

#mine #fanfiction #imagines #fantastic beasts and where to find them #credence barebone #mary lou barebone #murder

[imaginingmyforest]

Edited a few lines, fixed a few things, etc.

Healing

[imaginingmyforest]

Your General

Fandom:  Elder Scrolls V Skyrim, The

Character:  Tullius

Notes:  Lots of drinking

The war is over, Ulfric is dead.  You’re exhausted and proud, but also tired and relieved and ready to go to bed and wake up to a peaceful country.  It feels good, you think, having had a part in this, having defended what is now your home, stopping the bloodshed.  The cost was high, the guilt will probably never fade, but you fall asleep with a smile on your face, because all you can see in your mind's eye is the image of General Tullius, standing before his men, delivering a speech he just wants over with, looking as blank-faced as ever, but his back is straight and tall.  Victory.

When you wake, the awareness that there are no more true battles to fight has you staring at your ceiling, a relaxed stupor taking over.  What will you do now?  You don't know.  The Legion has been your life.  Even now, you feel the pull of the training yard, the briefing room, the low lights above the parchment map, and the drone of the voices of your commanding officers.

You don't have to go.  You go anyway.

The General's greeting is as terse as ever, his eyes flicking to you once before returning to his work.  "Legate."

"General."  You wonder what he's doing, staring down at that drawing of Skyrim.  It's covered in red flags, nothing more.

"I've got no orders for you, Legate.  See Rikke, she might have some backwater camp somewhere for you to take out."

You let a moment pass in silence, debating.  Action sounds wonderful.  Peace is wonderful, too, but you’ve confused yourself, trying to understand your place in a world that isn't fighting itself anymore.  You'd been important before; what are you now?

Does he feel the same, staring down at that map like he sees it, eyes still and unfocused like he doesn't?

"What now, sir?"  You ask finally, quietly.

He glances up.  "Clean up, mostly.  Leftover camps, like I said."

"For us?"

He stares for an instant, and you wonder what gives him pause, thinking about your words.  But before you’ve sorted it out, he's already moving on, 'us' being the Legion.  "New assignments, mostly guard duties till the transitions can be made from Stormcloak loyals to Imperial supporters.  Peaceful days."

The last part trails off, like he finds it boring.  A half smile finds its way onto your face.

"And you, sir?"

"Me?"

"Heading ... home?"  You'd meant that sentence to be longer, but can't get the words out.  He seems satisfied, but your mind races, wondering what has gotten into you, what is going on inside.

"I fear Skyrim will be my home for many more years to come."  He sighs, obviously displeased, but then he stands, and he's as tall as you remembered, not in stature, but in presence.  "I suppose the idea isn't as unappealing as it once was.  I could use a decent bed, though.  Everything in this castle is as cold as the stone it’s made from."

You smile for real then, and his expression tells you he caught the relief in it, the relief you yourself weren't expecting, don't know what to do with.  Instead, you ask, "Drinks tonight at the Winking Skeever?  To celebrate?  On me."

"I don't celebrate."

You laugh.  "I don't doubt it.  But we just ended a war, General.  Take a night off.  You need the down time, even if only for one evening."

"I have to agree with Y/N on this one, sir."  Both look to the door, finding Rikke has joined them.  The two of you nod to each other, polite smiles in greeting.

Tullius scowls, peering back over his map for no real reason.  "Anything to report, Legate?"

"Which Legate?"  You smirk, and Rikke stifles the tiniest of laughs.

Tullius groans.  "Don't make me reassign you somewhere, Y/N.  Winterhold's sounding very tempting right now."

"Then you wouldn't have any friends, sir," Rikke comments lightly.

"I'll have the darn drink, alright?"  He finally growls.  "Stop ganging up on."

Rikke nods, satisfied, and you pat her on the shoulder in thanks.  You lean over to the room's other silent occupant, the ever present watchdog.  "You too, Adventus."

He grins, nodding.  "If I can escape this hole, I'll be there."

"Think we should invite Aldis?"

"And pull him from his beloved training exercises?  Curse the thought."

Rolling his eyes at their companionship, Tullius resumes his earlier thread of conversation.  "Now, do you have anything to report, Legate Rikke?"

Rikke nods, growing serious.  "Camp along the mountain ridges in Eastmarch.  Rumors out near Dawnstar, nothing solid."

"Clear out Eastmarch and check Dawnstar.  I want these Stormcloaks rounded up as quickly as possible."

"Sir."

"Take the Legate-"

"Y/N."

"Take the smart-alek with you.  They apparently don't have enough work to do."

"Then we'll leave in the morning."  Rikke replies easily.

You are just as smooth.  "Since we'll being having those drinks tonight."

Tullius only shakes his head.  "Leave me in peace."

You exit together, as ordered.  And later that evening when he finally brings himself to enter the Winking Skeever, you are seated together at a table near the back, drinks already waiting.  You laugh at the look on his face, pulling out the seat beside you.

"It's not that bad," you reassures him.  "We sat away from other people and everything."

Your argument is almost convincing until Lisette pulls out her lute and a particularly appreciative drunk gives a riotous cheer.  Tullius looks pained, then grabs the nearest drink and downs it.  Rikke chuckles with you.

"I hate both of you."

"Relax, General."  Rikke tips her mug to him, as cool as ever.  "Enjoy the mead."

He shots his drink a dark look.  "Is that what this is?"

You’re laughing, and you get the feeling you'll never stop.  Tullius is so obviously out of his element, you can't help but enjoy the ludicrous situation.  "You're just as surly drunk as you are sober, aren't you?"

He only grunts in response, lowering his head like the physical act will somehow make the room quieter, dimmer, and less populated.  You can almost see the headache beginning in his temples.

You look to Rikke, head shaking.  "Do either of you ever wear anything except your armor?"

"When I'm off duty."  She gives a small smile.  "Which is practically never.  I don't know about him."

Tullius is studiously ignoring you.

"Somehow, I can't picture you in anything but your armor," you comment, but are again met with silence.

You give his arm a playful shove.  "You call this celebrating?"

"No, I call this a waste of time at best, torture at worst."

"You exaggerate.  Why are you so grumpy?  I bought you alcohol."

"Am I getting some of that?"

All three look up to find Adventus has joined you.  Tullius is nonplussed, but Rikke stands to greet their new addition.  You smile up at him from the table.  "You bet, soldier."

Rikke calls to the innkeeper over the space of the room.  "Corpulus, more mead!"

Your grin spreads across your face, colored by beverage intake, as you look to each of your companions.  "So, three Legates and a General step into a bar-"

"Oh, don't start."  Rikke laughs, making room at the small table for the incoming drinks.

You scoop up the nearest Honningbrew and a tall bottle of Argonian Bloodwine, which Adventus had his hand halfway towards.  He opts for the Spiced Wine instead, toasting you good-naturedly.  "Just to warn you, I might have went ahead and mentioned to Aldis there was a party going on and he was invited.  Drinks on you."

He smirks, and you groan while Rikke chuckles.  "You trying to spend all my gold?"

"You did say drinks on you."

"I said the General's drinks were on me," you correct.  "To coax him out of his hiding hole.  You guys are on your own from here on out."

"You still owe Aldis a round when he gets here."

"You're the one who promised him free drinks; you supply."

"You're the one with all the money, so-called 'Adventurer.'  Half the time no one can even find you for assignments because you're out plundering some crypt or something."

"Plundering?  Hardly!  I exterminate Draugr sometimes.  I happen to be a bounty hunter-"

"And whatever else any stranger passing in the streets asks you to be," Rikke adds from over the top of her drink.

You lean back, pouting.  "I like to help people."

Adventus shakes his head.  "You like to get in trouble.  Ever think about getting yourself a someone and settling down?"

Now you’re grinning again, motioning with your drink around the table.  "What're you talking about?  I've got three men, a woman, and a bottle of wine.  I'm perfectly settled."

Adventus is laughing, but Rikke glances around curiously.  "Three?"

And there is Aldis, pulling up a chair between Tullius and Adventus, forcing the two to make more room.  Tullius brushes up beside you, so you smack him on the back.  "Go on and say hi, General.  You're being awful quiet."

"Just trying to enjoy my drink."  His voice says he doesn't think it's possible.  "Can hardly stand this Nord Mead."

"There was wine, but Y/N took it all," Adventus comments, conspicuously pushing his empty bottle to your side of the table.  "Have them get you some when they get Aldis his drinks."

Even Tullius manages to look amused by your scowl, but the expression slips away quickly.  "Still, I'm not used to the Skyrim brands.  I enjoyed a good bottle of Surilie Brothers back in Cyrodiil every now and again."

"They don't sell that in here," you join in, piking up.  "But I've got some back at the house, picked up from around.  You want a bottle?"

He's pushing away from the table and standing as quickly as you’ve ever seen him move outside of battle.  "Gods, yes."

You stand up too, following his retreat.  "Hey!  I meant later!  Come back here-"

You’re after him with an apologetic look to your company, tossing down a bag of septims before racing from the tavern.  He's marching down the street with his usual strides, stiff and tired, silver hair glinting in the glow of the evening moon.  You catch up, fall in naturally beside him, miffed but aware that the night feels good and the sky is beautiful up above and that you like the musk coming off him in the cool air that the stuffy bar had masked.  Your indignation is all but gone by the time you start your argument.

"That was a friendly offer for some other day, not an excuse for you to pick up and leave."

"Can't stand it in there."

"So you can handle a bloody battlefield but not a night drinking with friends?"

He's slowing, glances at you and sighs.  "Exactly.  I'm a warrior, Legate, not a politician."

"This isn't political, it's friendly."

"Don't see a difference."

"You're impossible."

"Then go drinking with someone else.  I doubt you're lacking for friends."

"Hm."  You sidle up close for a second, laying your head against his arm.  "Maybe I like you better."

"Hmph."

He doesn't seem to care you’re there, and you continue to walk like that, staring up at him with a smile that says you know you’re being annoying, and his face as blank as ever.

He always looks tired, you think.  From living too long, through too much.  You wonder what his smile would look like, then find yourself laughing because you just can't imagine it.  It's too awkward, too surreal; it's not him, not your General.  Perpetually annoyed, surly and exhausted and funny without meaning to be, a stone wall standing against age and change and anything against the Empire that is his to protect, to defend.  Complete stability in the chaotic life you live, running around from task to task, cave to cave, battle to battle.  A pillar to return to.  Your commander, the only reason you keep returning, the only reason you make Solitude your home, grace the doors of Proudspire when you could be anywhere and everywhere.  He, more than the looming tower they are approaching, is home.

The thought's an odd one, and you slip from his arm, lost in the jumble of your mind.  He waits patiently, appearing mildly curious, as you stand in silence in front of your door.  Eventually, his voice breaks in.

"Legate?"

"Y/N," is your immediate response, a reflex.  As proud as you are of having earned that title in his eyes, Rikke is still the one who comes to mind when you hear "Legate."  And up till now, you realize, your title has defined you to him.  He doesn't use your name, and now that both you and Rikke are at his side so often, both Legates, you finally have an excuse to make him call you by name.  You like hearing him say it, acknowledge you and not just your skills, your accomplishments.

When did I start thinking of him so much?  You groan, stepping forward to open the door.  You’re confusing yourself, hurting your own head with all this thinking.  You’re not used to analyzing yourself, your actions.  You just do, act however comes naturally; a creature of impulse, something that got you in trouble a few times while you were making your way up in the Legion.  You have enjoyed working under Tullius, however, and that admiration of him has kept you in line and following orders even when the whim of adventure would have scattered you across the region.  

You realize you’re doing it again, thinking too much.  It's the alcohol, you know, remembering too late why you shouldn’t drink that often.  

You move inside, and wave him over to the kitchen table while you head downstairs to fetch the wine.  You retrieve your oldest bottle of Surilie Brothers Vintage, slightly dusty and chilled to perfection in the small stone room.  Your brain starts to whir again, telling yourself you were saving this bottle, but the cold is starting to sober you and you shake off the thinking you detest and go with the feeling that you want to use this bottle, and that's good enough.  

Back upstairs, Tullius seems to have settled himself in the seat closest to the fire.  

"Why," he asks gruffly, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, "are these darn chairs so low to the ground?"

You’re laughing again; he makes you laugh without trying.  "No clue, honestly.  Got your wine."

You dangle the bottle in front of him before unstopping the cork.  On another whim, you set out two silver goblets and pour, sitting beside him and sliding the drink his way.  They are picked up together, and you tap his cup in a small toast.  "To home."

He watches you, eyes a bit softer than usual, expression relaxing.  "To home."

He's thinking of Cyrodiil.  You’re not thinking a single thing; only watching him as you sip, enjoying the wine, enjoying the quiet, enjoying the company.  

Tullius sinks back into his chair, no longer concerned with how short it is, goblet still in hand.  "That's better."

You smile, pleased with pleasing him.  "How about something to eat while you're here, General?"

"Sounds good."  His voice is drowsy, but this time is different from his usual dreary tone.  He's content almost, you'd say, a sight you doubt many have ever seen, a tone few have heard.

You down the rest of your drink and rise, heading for your storage of cooking ingredients.  You decide on your recipe and retrieves some salt, potatoes, leeks, and venison.  Cooking is something you’ve learned to do a lot of while traveling alone, bending over the firepots in eradicated bandit camps and desecrated ruins.  Why spend your hard earned septims on tavern food when cheap ingredients abound and it only took a little practise to have your own taste better than what's sold in the inns?  Being friends with Castle Dour's own talented chef helps.

You make conversation while beginning the soup base.  "So, what do you normally do with your free time?"

"What free time?"  He swigs another drink, shaking his head.  "I was sent to Skyrim to do a job, so I do it.  Nothing else."

"Really?  You never have any down time?"

"There was a war going on, Leg-"

"Y/N."

"Y/N, which didn't put itself on hold while I took naps.  Free time went to the war."

"And now?"

"What about now?"

"There's no war now, Tullius.  What will you do with your new free time?"

He sighs, and you let your stirring stop so you can turn to him, watch him mull it over with his wine.  "Apparently, be forced to visit inns and drink."

You laugh, resuming your cooking.  "Nobody's forcing you to do anything.  You don't like inns, fine.  But you're always welcome over here for a drink and a meal."

He glances your way, cool gaze watching, then nods slowly, thanking you in a way he won't with words.  Instead, he eyes the cooking pot.  "... Smells good."

"Venison stew," you reply proudly.  "Something that transcends borders, thankfully."

"Sounds good, Y/N."

The unprompted, causal use of your name, as though it's normal and common and something he does all the time, gives your mind a stutter, and your hands slow again as your head works to catch up.  You’re all smiles, warm inside and becoming aware that this night is important to you, though you can't pin down why.  But the two of you, holed up in your house, talking over drinks, about to share a hot meal and calling each other by name; it feels as foreign as the snowy mountains did when you left the Gold Coast for adventure and as comfortable as the Legion steel that has become your second skin.  You feel like you’re home, really living, more than any of those blood-pumping caverns, adrenalin-inducing dragon attacks, or life-threatening battles.

It's a little scary, and a lot exciting.

And it's only this man who's made you feel like this.  On his orders you’ve traversed a strange and new wasteland of perpetual autumn and snow; you’ve faced down a rebel army with a righteous but misguided cause, friends on the opposing side; you’ve trained yourself, worked to be better, fought to impress and rose in the ranks for his praise.  You still remember facing the executioner's block, seeing him stare down Ulfric Stormcloak, that tall back you’ve grown to admire so much turned to you, ignorant of your plight, your very existence.  It hadn't mattered then; he was a stranger.  

It matters now, just a bit; it's painful.  Standing by his side, the feel of his rough hand in yours for only a moment as he passed you his sword to deliver the final blow to his enemy, is a treasure that makes it painful for you.  Gods, why do you think like this?

And you freeze, caught in the web your thoughts have woven, hit by the abrupt realization that has revealed itself to you.  "By the Nine."

Tullius gives an exasperated scowl (just how many of his subordinates invoke the name of the Nine illegally?).  "Legate-"

"I'm in love with you."  You stare at him, and both are momentarily stunned into silence.  Your gaze trails off, looking at nothing, eyes wide.  Abruptly, you drop your ladle and snatch up your bottle.  It shakes in your hand, but doesn't slosh; empty.  "I need more alcohol."

You make for the stairs.  Behind you, Tullius recovers stutteringly, hand to his head in confusion.  When you return, bottle to your lips, he's back to his surly frown.  "Legate, I don't know if I should be offended or not that the idea of being in love with me makes you want to get drunk."

"S'not that, sir," you reply, shaking your head, and slump down into the chair beside him.  You still look in shock, disbelief and wonder on your features.  "Alcohol helps me think."

"Then you'd be one of the lucky few, and the only one I've ever had the pleasure of meeting."  He shakes his head, refilling his goblet.  "Frankly, I just think you've had one too many."

"I won't argue."  But you take another swig, swallowing roughly.  "Thinking too much.  Thinking too much about you, Mara help me."

"Do us both a favor and think more about the stew."

You laugh, but it comes out more like a bark than anything, and you set down your drink to stand and circle the table to the cooking pot.  The stew sticks a bit as you begin to stir, but it hasn't burned.  

You sit in silence for several minutes, the bubbling of dinner the only sound between you, before Tullius finally sighs again.  "Should I even ask what in Oblivion caused that little outburst?"

"Told you," you reply, eyes on the boiling broth and thus studiously not on him.  "Thinkin' too much.  I do that when I drink."

He can obviously tell you don't want to talk about this anymore, but he can't let it go just yet.  "And what were you thinking that made you think you were in love with me?"

You sigh, cringing, and reach for the alcohol again.  He sits patiently while you chug, not satisfied with one gulp, needing the liquid that gives others courage and only seems to confuse you.  You hope this time'll be different as you drop the bottle from your lips and take a deep, steadying breath.  "I like the way you say my name."

You glance at him, and he seems nonplussed.  Somehow his lack of shock, his non-judgment, gives you the courage the wine failed to.  "I think of you when I think of home.  I fought more for your approval during the war than because I cared about the cause.  Your sword is my most treasured possession.  When I think of the Legion's victory, of how you've grown since coming here, accepting and respecting the Nords, I'm more proud of you than I am of myself, and I'm the Dragonborn.  I worry about how you seem tired all the time.  I'm always trying to get you to talk with me.  Now that the war's over I'm scared you'll go back to Cyrodiil, because I have no idea what I'd do with myself if you were gone.  Divines, I'd probably follow you."

You take another drink, more because you’re ashamed of yourself than because you want it.  You swallow too much, choke, and holds your wrist to your mouth while you cough.  "Can I stop embarrassing myself now?"

He picks up his own drink, raises it to his mouth.  " ... soup's burning."

"Stendarr's mercy!"  You half drop the bottle as you whirl around to the cooking pot and begin to stir the boiling contents again.  It looks done and, thankfully, not burnt, so you remove it from the fire and set it to cool on the stone floor, heading to the cabinets for bowls and silverware.  And, somehow, you manage to get dinner on the table within the next few minutes, and find yourself sitting beside him again, both eating silently.  It's awkward, but not strained, and you still finds that you enjoy his company, are glad that it's just the two of you, together.  You wouldn't mind more nights like this; maybe a lifetime.

Are you thinking about marriage?  You take another bite of the venison, chewing slowly.  By Skyrim's standards, you’re not moving too fast, but he's not from Skyrim.  Would he even know what you were trying to say if you went upstairs at that moment and came back down with an Amulet of Mara on?  You doubt it.  But if he did ... the idea is appealing, a life together with him.

If he's interested in you.

You’re off to a good start, you suppose.  Legate of the Legion, fought at his side during the war, a breadwinner, adventurer, the famed Dragonborn, and a good cook to boot.  Staring at your reflection in the dark stew, you note with a bit of pride that you’re not bad looking.  You’re much younger than he is, but as a consenting adult, that's hardly an issue.  

Aware you’re bordering on vanity, you note you’re more than just a good prospect; anyone in Skyrim would be lucky to have you.  But none of that matters if the one man you want doesn't want you.

The soup is finished.  As you take up the bowls you debate on your earlier thought, of going up to get your Amulet.  You'll start wearing it in the morning, you decide.  No need to rush.  Besides, he might decide to draw a line between Superior and Subordinate before he leaves, and it'll be a moot point.  Or maybe he just doesn't like you; you know you annoy him, you do it on purpose because he's fun to aggravate.  

You’re suddenly aware that that's how you flirt with him.

You’ve put up the dishes, and he hasn't risen from the table, so you sit back down and take another drink.  Drinking too much, thinking too much, you chide yourself, but you take another sip.

Tullius sets his goblet down after awhile of the silent companionship and turns his eyes to you.  "How well do you hold your drink?"

You meet his gaze over the top of yet another bottle (you’re going to have to restock while you and Rikke are out).  "Except the thinking too much, I can usually handle my alcohol.  I'll be okay to head out in the morning, if that's what you're worried about."

"Just wondering if you're going to remember any of this."

You smile, setting the bottle down.  "Yes, sir.  You?"

"Yeah."

"Can't escape me, then."

"Doesn't mean you won't regret this.  Doesn't mean you'll still feel the way you think you feel."

"I'm not drunk, General.  The only thing that'll be different tomorrow is I'll have a headache and probably be a lot more blunt."

"That last part should scare me, shouldn't it?"

You grin.  "I find you attractive; I'm not shy."

He cocks his eyebrow, and you laugh.  

"You just think about that while I'm gone, alright?"

"I doubt I'll be able to think about much else."

You shoot him a sly smile.  "Why, General."

He groans, leaning back in his chair.  After a moment his rolls his shoulder, appearing uncomfortable, and takes hold of it, stretching and flexing.

Eyeing him, you raise up.  "Muscle ache?"

"Feels tight, knotted."

"Here, let me."  You round behind him, and his hand falls away as yours settle into place and begin a slow, deep kneading into his skin, between the cloth of his shirt and his stiff armor.  It's hard to work in such a confined space, and after a few moments you give him a nudge.  "Any chance I can get you out of your clothes?"

"Legate."

"I guarantee the best massage you've ever had."  You tempt him, twisting your hand as best you can to loosen a tight spot in his muscle, as though to give him a taste of what you could do with more room.  "Just your armor, General, and no funny business, I promise."

He grunts his displeasure, but starts to unfasten the torso piece.  You revel in a double triumph; seeing Tullius out of his armor, and being able to touch him as you please.  You help him pull it off, set it aside, then he relaxes under your hands, your soothing motions untying every knot beneath his skin through the thick red fabric that keeps you from him.  You rub his shoulders, pushes your palms into his back, work out every kink in the chiseled mass of his body (or at least the part you are allowed near).  And you are rewarded for your efforts when a pleasured groan is pulled from him, unintentional and rough.  A thrill runs through you, hitching your breath, and you make it your goal to gain more, continuing with fervor, using every technique you know (which, sadly, isn't much, as what little you do know came from an alchemist who insisted her special potions were the perfect match for such rubdowns).  After a few minutes of hard work, you think you’ve finally found a spot he especially appreciates.

Which is about the same moment your housecarl enters the room.

All movement ceases as the two of you stare at each other, surprised and speechless.

"Gods."  You finally exclaim.  "Jordis!  I forgot you lived here."

"Hm?"  Tullius looks up, seemingly unconcerned with the interruption, and nods to the new arrival.  "You look familiar.  Don't you work at the Palace?"

"I was awarded to Y/N when they were made Thane."  The blond regains her composure slightly, and turns to her master.  "How could you forget I live here?"

You shrug, growing annoyed.  "You sleep in the basement.  And I don't stay here much."

"You've been getting wine bottles out of my room all night."

"Didn't see you."

"I was laying on the floor."

"Where you should apparently still be.  I have company."

"I'm hungry.  I had assumed ... from the noises I'd heard," the woman falters, glancing at the decorated officer sitting at the kitchen table, "that you and your company had moved upstairs."

Tullius' response is immediate.  "I should go."

He slides out from under your hands and reaches for his armor, and you curse the loss of him, his body and his company, and curse your housecarl, who you wonder if you can fire or somehow return to Elisef without offending her.  But neither will undo the damage done, and Tullius is redressed and thanking you for dinner and drinks in moments, heading out the door soon after.  You’re left standing in her kitchen, a dull ache in your chest, and the most despised housecarl waiting for the reprimand she knows is coming.

"Jordis."

"Yes, my Thane?"

"I hear the Blades are recruiting.  Doesn't that sound nice?"

The next morning is spent much like the last; you wake slowly, staring at the ceiling, feeling lost and alone.  You suit up, pulling on your Imperial Light Armor, strapping on your sword, the treasure he gave you, and slipping an Amulet of Mara over your head, letting it rest on your chest where your Amulet of Stendarr normally sits.  You don't feel like cooking, settle for grabbing a loaf of bread and slice of cheese on your way out the door.  

You enter Castle Dour as you always have, with the confidence of knowing you belong, and join the ever-present group gathered around the table, even this early in the morning.

"Y/N."  Rikke greets you, and you two are as casual as ever, natural friends and easy comrades.  

"Rikke." You return, smiling.  "Hope you guys didn't stay up to late."

You shoot Adventus a grin as well, and he smiles back, in his semi-permanent spot against the wall.  "Without you to pay for drinks?  We all had to go home early."

"I wouldn't call midnight early," Rikke shakes her head.

Pleased, you pat Rikke on the shoulder.  "Glad you guys had fun."

"What about you?  General kill the party?"

You finally bring yourself to look at the man in question, who's studiously ignoring you in favor of that map, which he probably knows by heart already.  You feel laughter bubbling up, and perch yourself on the edge of the table.  "General."

He pretends not to hear you at first, but everyone is now staring at him, and he must eventually give in.  He sighs, and looks up at you, grumpy as ever.  "Legate."

"Y/N."

"Y/N."

It’s all back to business, Rikke briefing you on the schedules, plans, and you’re half listening, half reliving the night before, the things you said.  And as Rikke says her quick goodbyes and heads out the door, you linger on the edge of that table, conscious of Adventus' presence but too aware you need to do this before you leave.

You smile slyly, meeting the General's waiting gaze.  "Sober and still in love with you."

He grunts.  "Was afraid of that."

Adventus cocks his brows, watching you silently, lip twitching in a slow smile.

"Just ... think about it while I'm gone, alright?"  You wink, hop down, and make your exit, knowing it'll do no good to look back now.

The jobs are easy, routine.  You set up a small camp, Rikke sends you out tromping through the wilderness, looking for Stormcloaks in hidey-holes, and sending a small band in to take out an already confirmed group (which you not only head, but practically leave behind in your thirst for adventure, battle, and adrenaline).  The mission takes little over a week, and then new information has them detouring south for a few more days.  You’re caught up in it, in a constant state of euphoria, adoring the work and all that comes with it.  

When you fall asleep at night, it's still his face you see, and when Solitude is finally in sight again, job done, you feel the pride of coming home, the skip in your pulse at the thought of him.

Rikke had asked, while you were out, about the necklace.  She'd noticed the absence of Stendarr's horn at your chest, the odd sight of Mara's light taking its place.  Your reply hadn't been specific, but then, Rikke wasn't overly prying.  You'd talk about it, maybe, once things are settled and there;s something to talk about; as it is, there’s only the wait.

"Legates," is the usual terse greeting as you step into the Dour, Tullius and Aventus gathered around the center table, as always.  At least, this time, the blue dots are back, marking possible hideouts.

You pull the gifts you’d prepared from your bag and plant the bottle of Sirilie Brothers right in the middle of that map of his.  "We have names, Tullius."

He raises his eyebrows.  "Y/N."

"I will never tire of hearing you say that."

"And I will never tire of this beauty."  He picks up the bottle, eyeing the year, smiling that tiny smile that barely passes for happiness, but is about as good as it gets with him.

You tsk, crossing your arms and nudging Rikke.  "We rid three Holds of Stormcloak stragglers, and he compliments the bottle."

He sets the bottle back down, as calm as ever.  "You making dinner to go with this?"

You’re thrown for a moment, then quickly bring yourself back to the conversation, delighted.  "Yes, sir.  Venison again, or something else?  Beef or Horker maybe?"

"Do you cook anything without hunks of meat?"

"For you?  Darling, whatever you like."

"Wasn't a complaint, Y/N."

"Offer still stands."  You’re grinning ear to ear, tickled pink by how easy the conversation is, how the thoughts you’d left him with don't seem to be hurting your banter.  He's too professional to have let it interfere with their working relationship, yes, but this is casual.

He's thinking about it, and you’re thrilled.  "Horker.  Never had it before ..."

"Horker it is."

"Report?"  

And just like that, it's back to business; you’d expected no less.  Rikke rattles off the details, only shooting you one curious look during her monologue.  Adventus is less subtle, smiling away and avoiding Tullius' periodic glares.  There's something there, you don't miss that, and though you’re not sure what the two have talked about in your absence, you’re amused by it.

You spend the day running errands, something the Hold is accustomed to when you don't have a specific mission to trek out upon.  Just keeping busy, helping out, but staying close, and when dusk rolls around you’re back at Proudspire, Horker stew on the fire, wine poured, and fresh fruit set out.  It's late when Tullius knocks, but everything's ready.  When you open the door to reveal him, you find yourself struck dumb.

The General shifts in discomfort, glaring down as though to dare you to comment.  You can't look away from him, his clothes.  

He's not wearing his armor.

"Y/N."

You pull your eyes away from the rough cotton, simple and casual, and try your best to form words.  "General of the Imperial Army, representative of the Empire's presence in Skyrim, war hero–and you walk around wearing that?"

All of two seconds click past before he turns to leave, and you reach out to grab him, laughing.  "No no no, I'm kidding, come back here."

"I don't like all the Nord clothing," he sighs, rubbing his neck.  "This was the simplest thing I could find."

You practically push him into the house, then shut the door behind him, cutting off retreat.  "Somehow it doesn't surprise me you'd take the old, frayed worker's clothes over anything nicer.  Let me guess; you didn't like all the layers?"

He pulls out the same chair as last time at the head of the table and settles in, giving a meager grunt.

You circle around to sit beside him.  "You'd be warmer."

"Putting on my armor is effort enough.  If I'm going to wear something else, it can't be more work than pulling it on."

"Then why wear something different?"

It's a simple question, but it hangs in the air, and you juggle probable answers in your head that turn themselves into romanticized ones; your comment about never seeing him wear anything else, taking off his armor to rub his shoulders.  You try to wave them off before your hopes rise too high.  

He sighs, staring down, and finally reaches for his glass.  As he downs his first gulp, you pass him a loaf of bread.

"Enjoy the stew."  

Dinner begins; so does a new tradition.  This dinner becomes one of many, as most nights after find the General seated at your table, dressed informally, sipping wine and sampling your newest recipe.  Even long work days spent over paperwork and battle strategies end in the Legate's cooking, as you become known for busting into the Castle Dour carrying your culinary creations should your dinner guest not show.  

The High Queen herself has a food invasion in her castle for keeping Tullius too long in a meeting one evening.  Tullius, obviously used to your behavior, merely shakes his head and sighs while Jarl Elisef peers curiously at the Legate currently laying out a spread at the small table where her court is convening.  Everyone is staring; you don't to care.

You give up your personal time with the man you love for no one.  

You’re more than willing to share, however, and have made plenty to go around.  The court continues its discussions between savory bites of thick potato stew and tender roasted rabbit haunches.  You sit, quietly and proudly, beside your General.

You are courting.  It is never discussed, never made official, but after a while it becomes a widely acknowledged fact and even Tullius himself doesn't dispute it.  You are each other's home, the refuge returned to at the end of the day, constant.  

You get into the habit of calling him pet names and pecking him on the cheek when you feel like it (neither of which even phase him anymore) wearing casual clothes instead of armor (especially outfits that show off your muscles.  Sometimes you think you catch him staring), and coming back to visit after every adventure, no matter how far away your restlessness takes you or how out of the way seeing him may be between tasks.  When you’re gone longer than usual, he has this way of looking at you when you walk in, and you know you were missed even if he won't say so.  It always makes you smile.

Still, the weight of the necklace sits heavy against your heart.  Every day you wear it, and every day it goes unnoticed–or ignored.  You’re happy, you really are, but unease grows at the lack of true claim you have over him.  He could up and return to Cyrodiil any day, and what could you do?  You aren't his spouse, he hasn't asked you to be with him with any permanence.  

You’re half afraid of losing him if you try to press the issue; half afraid of wasting your life chasing him if this is never going anywhere.  

It’s with this thought distracting you that you lean over the table like you do, hoping maybe someday he might act on what you’re offering, as you spread the food.  Your heart almost stops when his hand reaches out.  

He takes your amulet in his hand, letting both continue to dangle in the air between you, and runs a rough finger of the carved surface.  

"Isn't this Mara's?"  Tullius grunts.  

"Yes."  You’re practically holding your breath.  “Of course it is.”

"I thought you wore an amulet of Stendarr?"

After all this time, he hadn't noticed the amulet switch?  Mara help you.

"I did."  You reply easily, though still unmoving.

"Never took you for a Mara devotee."  He eyes the metal disapprovingly.  "Why the switch?"

You stare at him.  "You don't know?"

His eyes flick to yours, then narrow in confusion.  "Know what?"

"It's a Nord tradition here in Skyrim."  You smile, trying to hold down a laugh.  You'd wondered if he knew, but always been afraid to ask.  What if he had known, and was just not interested?  But he didn't.  He just didn't.  "An amulet of Mara is basically a declaration that you're looking for marriage."

Tullius' fingers stop their absentminded rubbing.  It's several silent seconds later before you can see him make himself consciously move.  He lets the necklace slip from his hand.  "How long have you been wearing this?"

You answers softly, pointedly, holding his gaze.  "Since the day after you had dinner with me that first night."

He runs his hand through his hair and curses, cringing.  "Y/N, I ... "

You’ve stopped breathing again.  He looks so tired when he looks at you.

"I owe you a great apology."  

Did you make a mistake?  You couldn't have misunderstood, not this, you couldn't have-

"I've made you wait a long time."

You feel the first relieved tear fall as he lays his hand on yours.  They become streams when you break into a smile, and he cups your cheek while your sobbing laughter shakes through your whole body.  

You think you’ve finally got control of yourself after a few deep breathes, but you fall to pieces all over again when he comes around the table and takes you in his arms.

#imagine #elder scrolls skyrim #tullius #fanfiction

[imaginingmyforest]

What Peace Brings

Fandom:  Elder Scrolls V Skyrim, The

Character:  Erandur

TW:  Mentions of nightmares, low self esteem, guilt

While you both suffer from the nightmares, neither of you mention it.  You pretend everything's normal, go about your days as though the two of you aren't exhausted, that your nights aren't spent in the thralls of Vearmina's revenge.  The Daedra is toying with you both, torturing you, and Erandur will speak nothing of it, you know, because his past still haunts him, because he believes this is his penance.  And you don't mention your own suffering because you know his is much, much worse.  The knowledge would only be a further burden on him, and his soul is burdened enough.

It's another sleepless night, and as you sit, fighting the fatigue that weighs your body down and slumps your shoulders as though in defeat, you watch the sky.  You watch the sky so that you don't watch him, as you’ve done too often at times, but instead of watching him you’re thinking of him, which probably isn't much better.  At least he won't catch you like this, but you still sigh, staring determinedly at the stars.  

The dark sky is beautiful over the expanse of crystal white snow.  You’ve been traveling together for some time and, though you won't admit it to him, with no real purpose in mind.  He'd offered his companionship and you'd accepted it.  You don't need a companion, though you miss company often on your lonely journeys, and you've gone through more than one traveling partner; it’s because you can't leave him there alone in that place, where the dead bodies of his betrayed friends lay just beyond a door, with only a cold altar to his goddess to keep him company.  His story, his quest for redemption, his sad eyes and solemn voice, they break your heart.

And you have the uncomfortable feeling that it will be broken all over again someday.  In trying to pull one man tied down by demons from his darkness, you had gotten so much more than you'd bargained for.  In your time together, you've felt it growing, more and more, these feelings of protectiveness towards him, compassion and even, at times, annoyance.  You want him to heal, to move on, to accept himself and love himself and maybe someday love you.  

So far, loving him has only caused you more pain.  If it isn't Vaermina's nightmares, it’s his own self-induced punishments, his denial of his own happiness and his indentured servitude to the goddess of, ironically, love.  By Mara, you hadn't meant to fall in love with him.  It’s frustrating and infuriating and a fine line to walk, being so emotionally invested in someone who trusts you so much, who looks at you with those tired eyes and barely notices your flirtings.

Behind you, curled up on his mat and tucked under the warmth of furs, he stirs.  You tense, knowing what little bit of peace he'd had till now has ended.  His breathing becomes labored, groans fill the air, and you cringe away in shared agony as his first cries begin.  

You have to think of something else, have to distract yourself, block him out.  You have to keep on pretending you hear nothing, that you don't know.  But even if you weren't plagued by nightmares of your own, you still wouldn't sleep at night, not with this.  Your heart aches for him, burns your eyes and clenches your throat, digs your nails into your palms and gnaws your lip till it bleeds.  If you try to open your mouth, you'll choke.  You growl instead, trying to be frustrated instead of helpless.

Slowly, you bring your shaking fingers to your gear and hunt out your blade and whetstone.  After dropping it several times to the sound of the Dunmer's pain, you finally are able to hold it steady and run the stone down the length.  The deliberate, lengthy motions dull your mind, pulling it away, setting you into a monotonous rhythm that requires all your attention to keep from slipping and cutting yourself.  The sound of it is searing, and you pretend his cries are only the sound of the metal beneath stone.

The process can only last so long, however, and soon enough you’ve sharpened all your weapons and his own, as well.  Still, he sleeps, caught in the nightmares, and you grow worried.  He's never been trapped this long, not without waking up and spending his own lonely hours trying to stave off slumber before being recaptured by the curse.  You’ve lain there almost every night, pretending to sleep, knowing he was doing his best not to wake you despite his turmoil.  This feels wrong.

You give up your fight and settles down at his bed side.  He's on his back, arched up against some invisible force, his eyes tight closed and his face gnarled under the strain of heaving fits.  Sweat drenches him, and his hood has slid back behind his neck, pulling, almost forming a noose.  The idea scares you, and you move to take it off him.  He looks smaller without it, thinner and frailer, his robes loose from his struggles and draping his skeletal frame.  

You take a moment, a guilty look, to admire his bare collarbone, the line and shape of his neck and shoulder that the falling fabric has revealed.  Then you’re chastising yourself, a roll of your eyes and a click of your teeth, and reaching out to grab that shoulder with purpose.  You shake him, just a bit.

"Erandur?"

He makes no response, not to your touch or call.  You bite your lip, then try again.  

"Erandur?"

He cries out, voice rasping in breathless suffering, but it isn't because of your efforts.  It's like he's so deep in the thralls, he's out of reach, and the idea is scaring you.  You shake him more roughly this time, panic threatening.  You’re being ridiculous, you know.  He's always awoken before, he will now, but you'll just feel better once he opens his eyes so you allow your fear to guide you.  You call his name again.  And again.

It's not working.  Frantic, you search around, then comes back with a small bucket of water from a nearby stream.  It's freezing, and you feel bad doing this, so you try your best not to soak him.  You trickle the liquid over his face, his eyes, and it runs down his cheeks, mingles with the sweat and dirt and facial hair.  Your hands shake as the water splashes on your fingers, but your companion gives no sign the cold has penetrated his terrors.

Desperate, you start trying healing spells and potions, but you’re no expert, and none of them make any difference.  You give his face a good slap, and are rewarded with further guilt and his continued thrashings, nothing else.  

"Oh, come on!"  You cry, feeling helpless and useless and terrified that he'll never open his eyes.  Trapped forever in Vaermina's realm, dead to all but the nightmares.  "Wake up!  Please, Erandur, wake up!"

You recall that Erandur isn't his real name and wonder if maybe his subconscious doesn't recognize it, still goes by his birth name.  Or maybe it’ll just reach his guilt.  Grasping at straws, you’re willing to try it.  "Casimir?"

His body seizes, as though trying to hold itself, and you know he heard.  He gasps again, and you lean over his chest, calling out.  "Casimir!  Casimir, wake up!  I need you to wake up!  Come on, please, Erandur, Casimir, whatever, just come back!"

His arm jerks towards you, grasping your hand tightly, holding it to him like a lifeline.  His chest is heaving, but he rolls, curling up around you, and you have hope again, pounding in your ribcage.  "Casimir!  Fight the nightmares!  Curse you, Vaermina, release him!  Open your eyes, Casimir!"

With a final convulsion, the tension releases, leaving him in a heap around your body.  His eyes are open, fluttering beneath his soggy locks, so you immediately move your fingers into his hair, pushing it back and out of his face.  He's still struggling for air, hand limp on you lap, eyes clouded with lingering fear.  You keep up the soothing rhythm across his forehead, relief flooding you with all your tenderest feelings, feelings you’re not used to expressing.  

It takes several minutes, but he eventually calms, and moves to sit up.  Your hand slips away, and you mourn the loss of contact with him instantly.  He looks to you, eyes finally free of fear but still lost in pain and grief.  "I'm sorry."

You shake your head, dismissing the words, having known him long enough to realize he thought his very existence merited apology.  Instead, you fix him with your worried gaze.  "Are you alright?"

He nods, and you place your hand on his.  You don’t believe him, but you also understand.  "You wouldn't wake up.  No matter what I did, you just … "

"I fear Vaermina's curse grows stronger, and so does her hold upon my sleeping consciousness.  She can no longer feed off our memories, but the world of dreams is still her domain, and we are at her mercy there.  Falling prey to brutality that the mind believes is real is just as dangerous as true torture."

You move your hand up again, brushing his hair away, and settle it there against his cheek.  You're lost in his red eyes, that haze of sadness that seems to symbolize his entirety.  Slowly, you ask again, searching that gaze.  "Are you alright?"

He's watching you in return, face much older than you know him to be, careful with his words.  "I'm alright.  Thank you, Y/N."

Nodding, you let your hand drop.  And suddenly you notice his robe again; skewed, revealing lengths of blue-gray skin down his legs, open at his chest.  You take a selfish moment to reward yourself and stare, admiring.

"You called me Casimir."

"What?"  His words barely register, your mind is so intent upon his body.

"I could hear your voice, in my dreams," he continued, unaware of your distraction.  "You called me Casimir."

"Right," you nod, smile, try to bring yourself back to the moment.  "You weren't answering to Erandur.  Casimir seemed to work, though.  I figured, subconsciously, you’d probably recognize it, if you didn’t Erandur."

Now would be a bad time to mention your feelings, you think, even though you'd been dying to for weeks.  You’re terrible at this, timing and such.  Erandur, however, has proven oblivious to most of your expressions of interest, and you’re beginning to think this will take something more blunt.

"I like it," you add thoughtfully.  "I know you're trying to start over, redefine yourself, all that.  But I like your name.  It’s not something terrible."

"It was … strange … to hear it again, and from someone who's never called me by it before.  I suppose you are the bridge between my old and new lives, the only one left that knows both Erandur and Casimir."  He says this as though it isn't a good thing.

"It makes me feel special," you perk up, raising your hands to straighten his open robes, even though you just want to stare at him more, even touch.  "Like I'm the only one who knows all of you.  The past, the present–and I'll be around to see the future.  The lessons you'll learned, how you'll grow and change.  No matter who you are, I get to know you."

"And you accept them all."

"Of course."

"It doesn't bother you to travel around with a former Daedra worshipper, a coward who abandoned his friends?"

You grin.  "Doesn't it bother you to travel around with an escaped war criminal, the Dragonborn running from their responsibilities while dragons fly overhead, killing?"

"Daedra worship and betrayal are hardly comparable to fighting for a noble cause such as one's freedom."

"You're right.  A lot more people die on my account."

He can't argue with it, and you know it.  Your smile is smug despite the somber topic and he knows it hurts you.  "I'm sorry."

"Stoppit."  You stick your tongue out playfully, then move to stand, picking up his hood and handing it to him just for something to do.  He pulls it on, and you decide you rather likes it.  His face, framed in the fabric, is a familiar sight, comfortable.  "Well, I don't think either one of us is gonna get any more sleep tonight.  Shall we head out?"

"If that is what you wish."

You roll your eyes and slap him on the shoulder, where it lingers momentarily before sliding off as you move forward.  "Come on, then.  Our destination is south-east!"

"And where exactly, might I ask, is our destination?"

You both gather up your things as he speaks, and you take a second to pause, watching him.  "Does it matter?"

"I suppose it doesn't."

Because he'll follow you anywhere, you know.

It has been another few sleepless nights, and both your tempers fluctuate with the winds.  Silence has kept the peace in your company, and you know weariness is bearing down on you both, crushing your spirits.  You wonder how much longer either of you can take this.  You worry your relationship may not survive it, even if you both do.

The trees have grown more colorful with the trek south, the scenery a painting of reds, yellows, browns, and gold-orange, a rain of the gilded leaves pouring down around them.  The weather is warmer, the air drier, and the ground beneath crunches, not from the crushing of snow-powder, but from the mixture of dirt, stone, and flora.  The change in the land around you, if nothing else, gives rise to renewed feelings of hope, and you feel a smile creep back into place as you near the destination you’ve been keeping from your companion.

"Riften."

His voice is gruff, curious, and pleased, you can tell.  The hold is in sight, and you feel excitement growing as they approach.  You turn around, continuing with your back pointed towards the city, and grin as you walk.  "Riften."

His eyes are brighter than you’ve ever seen them, filled with awe and hope and affection, all of which he tries to hide.  He knows what's here, though he doesn't know that's exactly why you’ve come.  "I hear it's a bad place.  Do you have business there?"

"Some friends of mine I haven't visited in awhile.  Nothing sketchy, if that's what you're thinking."

He nods, unable to pry his eyes from the city walls.  You laugh, whirl around, and there's a bit of a skip in your step as you make your way around to the front gates.

Inside, you’re instantly aware that, war ended or not, Riften hasn't changed at all.  Shady deals seem to be going down in every corner, low-lives fill the streets, and guards seem to be lost as to how to do their jobs.  Shaking your head, you take Erandur's hand and pull him along, keeping to the edge of the city, circling around the ring with purpose.  You take him straight up the steps and through the door without giving him a chance to gather his bearings, and once you’re both inside and you finally stand still, he freezes in dawning wonder.  

He seems overcome by it, struck through the heart at the sight of his Lady's statue, unable to look away.  You find yourself struck similarly, eyes locked on his enraptured face.

"The Temple of Mara … "  He almost gasps, a breathless whisper escaping him.  He's still bowed from being half-dragged inside, but he rises now, slowly, taking everything in, from the rows of pews to the simple wood walls and floors, he's caught up in experiencing this holy place.

You’re tickled with yourself, heart thundering in your chest as you watch his amazement.  You had been hoping to cheer him with this, to surprise him and please him, lift his spirits after the torturous nights and tiring days.  This is so much more than that.  Just watching him, you feel like you’re falling in love all over again.

"Y/N!"  Dinya has spotted you at the door, and the Dunmer priestess comes to greet you, a smile and a warm clasping of hands for her friend.  "It's so good to see you.  It's been some time."

"Yes, it has," you reply, doing your best to keep your eyes off your companion by glancing around fondly at the surroundings.  "How's the business been, hm?  Any more missions from Our Lady I could help with?"

Erandur finally looks to you again, his bliss mingling with surprise to know you’re so familiar with this place, these people, their work.  You grin, pleased.

"Not at the moment.  Though we've had a few weddings in the past months, which has been wonderful.  Lady Mara's influence is as alive as ever."

"Don't I know it," you smile softly, then blink the tenderness away and pull Erandur into the conversation.  "Dinya, this is Erandur.  He's my traveling buddy, keeps me company and makes sure I don't rush into something I can't handle.  And he's a priest of Mara."

"Really?"  Dinya smiles her elegant smile, delighted at the news.  "Wonderful to meet you, Brother.  Welcome to the Temple of Mara."

"Thank you, Sister.  I've always wished to make the pilgrimage here … it's an honor, truly."  His gaze drifts back to you, and the look in his eyes has you beaming before he finishes his words.  "I cannot express how happy this has made me, Y/N.  Thank you."

You’re elated, glowing inside, and you know if you don't do something quick, you'll embarrass yourself; you want to kiss him.  Instead, you wave him off and make your way down the aisle to the altar, where you kneel and motion for Erandur to join.  "Come pray with me."

He nods to Dinya to excuse himself and settles in beside you.  Together, you bow your heads, and in silence, send petitions up to their goddess.

You don't know what Erandur prays about, but your thoughts are centered on him.  You wish Mara's blessing upon him, her strength, her healing, her protection.  You wish his guilt alleviated, his heart lightened, a world of happiness in his life.  

You wish he'll love you.  It's the only wish you make for yourself.

When your prayer is done, you place your hand on the altar, heart heavy with your thoughts.  You want your own relief from Vaermina's retaliation, yes, but you care about him more; most.  

You’ve prayed for him before, you'll continue to do so even after things are set right.  But in this prayer, just in case, you call him Casimir.

You both settle into Honeyside for the night, thankful for a soft bed to share and a roof over your heads.  Neither of you is eager for the usual attempt at rest, however, and much time is wasted to put off the task.  Dinner is you’re favorite, as Erandur will eat anything and be grateful, to your annoyance.  You stay up with books you've already read, practicing small spells on each other, discussing your next adventure, avoiding the large double bed that calls to your exhausted minds.  Eventually, however, the dark of night gets to you both and you migrate quietly under the thick covers, backs pressed together in comforting camaraderie.  

You wake up rolled over, tucked tightly into Erandur's arms.  This situation would probably illicit apologies from him and flirtatious jokes from you normally, but you only stare quietly at each other, slow smiles conveying a shared message; it's been a good night, the first in a long time.  No tossing and turning, no waking and struggling back to sleep, no cold sweats and hot muscles, no nightmares.  No Vaermina.

You snuggle yourself back in closer, resting your head against his chest, feeling the pulse of his blood and beat of his heart and steady breathing.  His arm drapes over you, not holding, but not letting go.  You stay like that for hours more, sleeping the day away.  Noon passes and the two of you are still together, catching up on weeks of missed sleep, slumbering silently, soothingly. 

Dark has rolled around again by the time both your eyes are open, but neither of you stir.  You would sooner fight a camp of giants than leave your piece of Sovengarde here in Erandur's arms.  He is as careful as ever; the slight twitch in his hand took over half an hour to turn into the slow stroking of his fingers in your hair.  

You are the first to break the silence, not because you need to or are uncomfortable or have something important to say.  You only desire to improve upon perfection (just slightly) by adding his voice in the air, the deep, gravelly tones and thick accent, and the feel of his throat thrumming with his words.  You don't even know what you say, but soon enough you are conversing in the quiet of evening Riften, low and slow and with no purpose, just talking about whatever comes to mind, whatever keeps it going.

The moons are high in the sky by the time you finally get his favorite food out of him, and, with both eagerness and reluctance, raise up out of the bed and go to fix it.  You eat the midnight breakfast together with more smiles and soft words, barely able to keep the joy and relief off your faces, barely able to keep their eyes off one another.  you have suffered together, now triumphed together, and each holds that your salvation is the other, and Mara.  

You spend the night along the water, watching the stars flickering across the dark surface as Masser makes its journey across the sky.  You are at peace, like neither has been in weeks, and you continue long into the morning perched there, feet hanging off the wooden walkway, talking and laughing and praising the goddess.  You wander the marketplace at noon, buying things you don't need and anything Erandur shows even the slightest interest in, no matter how he protests.  Lunch is at the Bee and Barb, the afternoon spent with Maramal preaching in the streets, smiles on all your faces, enjoying another homemade meal together as the sun sinks away, and then seeking out the reassurance of each other's bodies as you slip into bed and wait to see if the night before was a fluke, if you are truly free.

He's still asleep when you open your eyes, and you simply bury your head back in his hair, unwilling to wake him.  You smile to yourself at the irony that, after all the nights they you've slept together, in the same place, without sleeping together, lying awake in the dark, and never slept together, you've finally slept together two nights in a row while sleeping together, and yet you still haven't slept together.  You mark it down as next on your list of things to accomplish–right after you marry the darn man.

You want more nights and days like these, side by side.  You're not sure if you'll be able to go back to sleeping alone after these nights together.

You don't want to let him go.

When his eyes open, you’re watching.  You wait, and the look in his eyes tell you what you need to know; he's had another good night, just as you have, and you melt into each other with relief.  He watches you closely, realizing something is up, something is happening here, and you meet his gaze with resolve.  You let your palms trail down the folds of his hood until they reach his robe, which you take hold of.  Lightly, you tug him closer, and the look you share leaves no room for misinterpretation.  This is it.

Slowly, he lets you pull him in.  You lift his chin and softly presses your lips to his.  

You want so much more.  Instead, you leave it at that and lay back, letting it settle between you both.  You sit in silence for many long minutes, and wonder if you’ve messed things up now.

"Y/N."

You bite your lip before smirking, batting your eyes at him with a playfulness you don't feel.  "Casimir."

He visibly starts at the name, and you make a note to keep using it when you're alone.  You like the effect it has on him, how special it makes you feel--that he’s okay with you using it, being the only one allowed to call him that.  His face softens, and he just continues to stare at you curiously, and you wonder what he's thinking, watching you so tenderly like that.  It's a bit too much on your heart, and you can't help but kiss him again, whether he's ready for it or not.

It takes several seconds, but he slowly kisses back.  You revel in the triumph, cuddling closer as your lips move together.

His arms hold you tighter and your hands slip under his robes.  You’re trying to control yourself, trying to move slowly for him, but you’re dying in the exaltation of the moment, drowning in his returned affection, and even he seems to be finding control difficult.  When his own hands begin to roam he abruptly pulls free, clearing his throat in a visible effort to contain himself.

"I apologize."

It's always the first thing he says, a reflex, and you laugh.

"Never apologize to me."

"Still-"

"No 'still.'"  You smile, perching yourself on your arm.

"We should speak about this, Y/N."

"Isn't that what we're doing?"  

He sighs.  "We should consult Lady Mara."

It's a step in the right direction, as far as you are concerned.  "Then let's do that."

A simple prayer with your amulets is not enough for Erandur, nor is finding a small alter.  You arrive at the temple after a few minutes of debate, standing before the statue of the goddess in silent prayer for the second time in three days.  You pray, again, for his love.  For approval.  

He prays much longer than you do, and no matter how restless you feel standing beside him doing nothing, you remain still, waiting.  When he finally unclasps his hands, you’ve been holding yourself in check for too long and launch immediately into what you want; something you’ve wanted to say for some time, and are excited to finally have out in the open.

"I want to marry you."

He gazes at you.  "Y/N … "

"Not much would change considering we already do everything together.  It only gets better."  You wiggle your eyebrows suggestively.

"There are certain emotional obligations-"

"I already love you."

His eyes flash up to yours, which are solid and clear.  You smile sincerely.

"I love you.  Our goddess would never be against it if you feel the same."

"No, she wouldn't."  You feel his fingers touch yours and look down as he takes your hand in his.  "And I do feel the same, Y/N."

He gives you a small smile, and you return it two-fold.  His slips away after a moment.

"I am, however, hesitant.  I don't-"

"If you say 'deserve happiness' I will slap you with a Horker."  You hold his gaze and he doesn't continue.  "If karma decides to come back around and punish you for past crimes then I'll be right there with you to fight it.  I will be even if we don't marry.  I promise you, Casimir, you will never be alone again, by choice or otherwise.  Whether you deserve it or not, I want to make you happy.  For as long as you want me."

His glossy eyes convey his gratitude far better than his terse nod.  You nod back.

"I want to marry you."

He smiles again.  A real one this time.

"Then we're in the right place."

#imagine #fanfiction #elder scrolls skyrim #erandur

[imaginingmyforest]

Loving Duality

Fandom:  Elder Scrolls V Skyrim, The

Character:  Cicero

Trigger Warnings:  Ableism, themes of death and murder

Notes:  I tried to be as thoughtful and tactful and respectful as I could in this one, so let me know if I messed up.  The theme of the story is the acceptance of Cicero’s neuroatypicality, and I hope it comes across.

You’re angry and disillusioned, a runaway lost in Skyrim and now a survivor of a dragon attack.  The Empire that you always depended on to protect you tried to execute you; the promise of a new life, free from judgment, has proved nothing but a child's dream as you wander the road from Whiterun, weak with hunger, carrying no money, and having no idea where you are or where you should go.  And you have only yourself to blame.

Some would say getting caught up in that Stormcloak camp had been the start of your fate; others, escaping Helgen with your life; only you yourself knows the truth of it all, however.  Your fate started on that lonely road, with the threat of rain overhead and despair clouding your heart.  For you hear him first, the loud cries of anger and frustration up ahead, then see the broken down wagon.

You’re down on your luck, as well, and sympathize.  He's got a funny face and a funny way of speaking, acting.  For the first time in a long time you’re smiling, genuinely, and can't understand how or why anyone would turn away from such childish joy.  You are determined to help and, even though you calm the local farmer's fears, you can't convince him to help, but a compromise brings you running back to the stranded jester and his poor dead mother with the tools they need, and two silly minds somehow waste away the afternoon and eventually fix his wagon wheel.

You don't know where you’re going, anyway, so Dawnstar up north with such good company (minus the coffin) sounds like the best offer you’ve had since arriving in Skyrim, and you climb aboard.  They are all smiles and chatter, even when the rains finally come pouring down on them, and the trip is filled with laughter and humor that turns a tad twisted at times, and you love it.  Sitting in that rickety wagon with a dead woman and a madman on a freezing cold evening in the drench of rain, you’ve never felt more at home.

When it's time to part ways, you’re grasping for some excuse, anything to stay with him, but he doesn't seem to notice and you realize whatever he has to do now is very personal, and back off.  Stranded in Dawnstar, you fight the panic of knowing you’re alone again and try to recover that feeling of home.  

It doesn't come.

It's been over a month since then, and the memory of that strange jester on the road is faded but fond.  You waited, hoping he'd come back, hoping to see him again, but he never did and you had to move on.  Your first friend, the only comfort in this strange place, you try to forget.  You work in the mines, long days in the cold, hard labor and little reward, and live out of the local inn.  You aren’t miserable, however, not like before, and enjoy the feel of ever growing muscles, the pain and strain that tell you your life means something.  But you know you can't keep living like this, so you moves south-east.

In Windhelm, you hear rumors of a boy.

You’re half tempted to turn your weapon on the woman in dark armor perched on the shelf.  You don't like being kidnapped in the night and manipulated like this.  Killing isn't a problem.  In Tamriel, life came cheap, you'd learned that early on, and just being able to walk down a road usually meant you had to have to steel to defend yourself.  Maybe murdering a cruel old woman is different than protecting yourself from bandits, but you don't really see it that way.  Being told by your kidnapper you have to kill one of these three bound, gagged strangers in cold blood, however, doesn't sit right at all.

But your mind was reeling, connecting tiny threads of memories that shouldn't mean anything, but do.  The reason you had taken up Aventus Aretino's cause in the first place, the words he'd said and the book you'd taken from him that had struck a chord.

“Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother, send your child unto me ...”

“I was transporting my dear, sweet mother ...”

Sweet Mother.

You read Aventus' book.  You looked, and found more.  You’re well versed now, well read on the subject that is now a part of your life.

The Dark Brotherhood.

Could that jester, that crazy man with the sweet smile and deceptive eyes, really be a part of this organization?  You want to know.  You've got nothing to lose.  You decide that killing one more angry old woman won't bother you that much.

At first you are disappointed.  After your first contract, however, you find your decision right, and dear Cicero joins the family.

You suppose it should bother you that the person you feel closest to, closer than you’ve ever been to another person, is a murderer and a madman.  But you note idly to yourself that you’re now a murderer, too, and despite this not being the free life you'd always dreamed of, you do feel at home again.  You awake at night in cold sweats sometimes still, nightmares haunting you, your actions, your kills.  Sometimes you feel guilty, sometimes you think you regret it all, but then you see his smiling face, hear his rapturous cries, and all of that melts away.  You’re happy.  You'll never regret this, not the time you can spend with him.

Most think him utterly nonsensical, but you knows there is more to him than that.  Astrid sees it too, and somehow it has the opposite affect on her that it has on you.  The Nord grows more and more suspicious, while you grow more curious.  Those moments of lucidity, when his eyes are alight, calculating, fierce, you feel a flood of fascination.  You see a man underneath the child you know, and you want to know this side of him, too.

It is with this in mind that you follow your orders.  Astrid's paranoia has you hiding inside the Night Mother's coffin, an act you know would infuriate him if he knew.  Your fear overlap with your excitement; you want to see that gleam in his eyes, want to see the anger of a man surge through him, towards you.  It's exhilarating.  It dampens your feelings of betrayal, your guilt at spying on him.

When he finds you, you see it.  In all his glory, he attacks, rampages, roars.  He pulls you from your hiding place, throws you to the floor, holds a knife to your throat as he straddles you, and you’re terrified, but there's more.  More than the terror, more than the feel of cold steel on your neck, there's the awareness of him, not foolish, childish, giggling, innocent Cicero.  He's all male, all muscle, all fury and power and the Night Mother's guardian, glorious.

And as you murmur the words his mother wants him to hear, you’re aware that the Matron means nothing to you.  The Night Mother you serve, the Brotherhood you support, the crimes you commit, they are all for him.  As he pulls you up in joy, singing and dancing and ecstasy, innocent again, you realizes you'll never be able to draw the line between the two Cicero's you thought you knew again.  Your hands burn where he holds you, your heart leaps with his happiness, and you'll do whatever the Night Mother asks you for his sake.  Listener?  You can do that.  If it keeps him this happy.

If he'll keep looking at you like that.

Proud.  Thrilled.  Those golden eyes that are lit like a child's and intense like a man's burn right through you.

You don't understand it.  It baffles you, completely confuses and floors you, these people.  Don't they know?  Haven't they seen?  Have they no eyes, no mind, do they not understand?  Astrid is madder than she ever believed Cicero to be if she thinks you will do this for her.  

She wants you to kill him.  Cicero.

Cicero.

As if you would.  It's almost laughable.  You stare at the Speaker, waiting for her to realize her mistake, to come to her senses.  There is no change.  The whole room is watching, waiting.

They really don't know.  They haven't realized, have no idea.  

That you joined the Brotherhood, a guild of hired assassins, pledged your life to subterfuge and murder, only on the off chance of meeting him again.  That you stayed only because he was there, because you could see him every day.  That you make your kills with growing ease, growing enthusiasm, lessening guilt, only because you knew he could only live through you.  That you return so quickly to tell him your missions, to narrate your kills, to see him tremble with restrained adrenalin as he imagines it, wishes he was there, wishing he could take lives again.  That every moment not on a contract was spent in his company, that you barely spoke to anyone else in your cave home.  

That you would never kill him.  Could never.  That you will kill them all before you’d hurt him.  That you would never let them harm him.

They don't see it.  Don't see your confusion, the absurd laughter bubbling inside you, don't know your devotion.  They are strangers to you, and you, apparently, to them.

With the practiced ease they have taught you so well, you promise to do the deed.  You lie.

You call out to him when you enter the Dawnstar Sanctuary.  You can hear his voice echoing through the halls, but his jeers are not answers.  You make your way through, make your way to him, time fading so fast in your head.  You know he's set these traps for you, that he thinks you’re here to kill him and thus he must kill you first, but all you can think is that he's injured.  It's been a long time since you’ve felt this kind of fear, so pure and unaccompanied by some other twisted emotion.  There's nothing else, no worry for your own safety, no feelings of resentment or fascination.  You’re only afraid.  You can't lose him.

You feel your heart stutter in your chest at the sight of him.  He is on the floor, curled in on himself, smiling and holding his gashing wound, speaking through a swelling of pain.  You stand before him, legs locked in place, mind halting, and he is begging you for his life as though he doesn't know, either.  That he's been as unobservant as the rest of them, that he has no idea that he's the only one that matters to you, ever has.

He hasn't even finished his plea when you finally regain control of your body and throws yourself at his side.  He flinches, probably expecting a knife, but you’re yanking his arms away, panic guiding you, mind racing, inspecting his wounds.  As an assassin, you’ve seen worse.  Is it fatal?  You can't tell.  You’re no healer, but you press your palms to his side in a heartbeat, fingers slipping through the tears in his tunic, sliding through slick blood and across tattered flesh, forcing the warmth of Restoration out of you and into him.  

When the deed is done, there is silence.  You slowly pull your hands away, loathing the loss of his skin under your touch, confused by this feeling, too concerned for his safety to take the time to inspect it.  He's staring at his side curiously, his healed skin still stained but showing through, and his eyes flicker up to meet yours, curious and surprised and more.

Your mouth is dry, you can barely speak.  But you force out the words, averting your gaze.  “I killed you.  You're dead.”

You get up.  You don't want to leave him, think, for a moment, of running away together.  But the Brotherhood will hunt you.  They've caught you before.  You'll go to them, tell them your lies.  You'll protect him, even if it means you'll be apart.  You go.

It's been awhile since that day, you’ve heard no word from him since.  As soon as you'd had the chance to sneak away, you'd gone back to Dawnstar to check on him, and he'd been gone.  Now, the entirety of the Brotherhood is dead except three, and you wish so much you could find him, tell him, bring him home–to you.  You’ve moved into the Dawnstar Sanctuary, and the lonely halls of the place remind you of him, send a strange pang through you that you can't describe.  You wonder, not for the first time since you almost lost him, if you love him.  You have no answer, not yet.

You leave your last two family members to their own devices and exits the sanctuary, unsure of where you’re going but certain you need air, need out of that place holding your most painful–and most confusing–memories.  And then he's there.

He comes from above, you feel him there, and as he leaps down onto you, you instinctively ready to fight back–until you realize it's him.  His knees hit you chest and he rides your falling body into the snow, legs locking you on the ground, settled on either side.  He has his knife to your throat again before you can even catch your breath, and you’re reminded of that moment when he pulled you from the Night Mother's coffin and had pinned you just like this.  You had been lost in the exhilaration of it, and you feel it again now, unhampered by the excess emotions of your secrecy.  

You can identify them now.  The feelings that flow through you, like cool lava in your veins.  Your relief at seeing him again, knowing he's okay.  The thrum of your pulse at the feel of his body on yours, the heat in your cheeks as you look up into his face, his triumphant, conquering smile.  Your awareness of him, your attraction.  And your absolute disinterest in fighting back, your complete lack of fear for your life at the feel of his dagger against your neck.  He's here, he's okay, he's back, he's with you.

You have your answer now.  You love him, so much.

He's threatening you, and you’re so entranced by the movement of his lips, the sound of his voice, the bob of his throat, the heave of his chest, the look in his eyes, that you barely register his meaning.  And then you’re smiling, as serene as you’ve ever been.

“Now you will die!”

“Okay.”

It's as easy as that, you think.  It's okay.  Completely okay.

He seems put off by your words, brows raising.  “Okay?”

“Okay.”

“What madness is this?”  he asks, pressure on the blade slackening.  “Cicero thought himself the only one mad, but has the Listener lost their senses too?  To welcome death so easily?  Do you wish to meet our Father so soon?”

You shake your head, body limp beneath him.  It's hard to breathe, but you don't mind.  You like the view, the position, a dark little part of you chuckles.  “It's okay because it's you, that's all.”

You can see it in your mind, imagine it.  The ecstasy on his face, the thrill of the kill that has been denied him for so long.  The motion of his hands, nimble fingers, as he plunges in the blade, pierces you with the length of it (that dark part of you is smirking, growing hot).  It's okay to be killed by him.  To be his target, the center of his attention, to fill a role in his life that is so … intimate, the relationship of a murderer and the murdered, the dance of death.

The jester's eyes are locked on you, penetrating.  You are taken in with their intensity, how they see you, watch you, evaluate.  His words are low, a growl that stirs your soul and more.  “Now that is madness.”

He didn't kill you.  He'd never intended to.  The moment is lost as quickly as it had come, and the knife is sheathed and the fool is on his feet, laughing and explaining and saying it was all a joke.  He makes himself at home, taking up his duties caring for his mother again, and the remaining brother and sister of the night shake off their confusion into reluctant acceptance.  Life takes up the semblance of normalcy, a routine forming, life continuing.  Nazir and the Night Mother both continue to provide contracts, and you accept them all, faithful Cicero at finally free to be at your side.

He is ecstatic to be allowed along, to once again take up the art of killing.  His devotion to his Listener knows no ends, and you are torn between enjoying his company and attentions and worrying that you are only the Listener to him, nothing more.  You grow angry with him at times, and lose yourself one day enough to order him to call you by name.  You hide it under the guise of covertness, keeping your titles secret in public, but you melt when your name graces his lips.

You haven't told him.  Don't know if you ever can.  You are overwhelmed, at times, with the urges of attraction.  You want him, and his madness blurs so many lines.  His sweet innocence calls to your dominance, makes you want to run a finger under his chin and stare into those wide eyes, to take him.  His bouts of swift clarity, however, evoke the desire to be held by him, taken in his arms and to be devoured by his intense gaze, a slave to him.  Does he know what he does to you?

Sometimes, you think he does.  In those moments of lucidity, when Cicero, the man, shines through, you think he knows.  You think he revels in it, laughing at you, toying.  You can't be sure.

It makes it easier to think of him as two, but you know better.  He is one, all wild.  His mind may be clearer at some times more so than others, but it's the same mind with the same thoughts, the same man.  They joy, the bloodlust, the intensity, the naivety, the loyalty.  You treasure it all, love every bit of him.  Even if he throws your whole world into confusion.

You’re having those unbidden thoughts again, the more melancholy of your musings, as they approach their target.  He's with you again, excited for the kill, the two of you sneaking into Riften, and someone's going to die.  You don't need him, not for this, and he doesn't need you either, and yet you are going in side by side.  He wants to share this with you, his wonder, his joy, his skill.  You wonder with a sinking heart if he would still be like this to you if you weren't the Listener, the one he'd been waiting for, hand chosen by his beloved mother.

You aren't paying close enough attention, and in a moment the contract is compromised.  The deed is done, but you've been seen.  You kill as you must, and run.  You’ve got his hand, are pulling–he'll kill them all if you don't.  You go over a wall, over a rail, and down into the river below and ride the flow out of the city.  A few miles out you drag yourselves, soaking, to shore, and immediately start stripping off waterlogged clothing.  You’ve got spares, just as wet, but at least they aren't your Brotherhood outfits.

You shed your hood, gloves, shoes, and are pulling out your matching jester outfits, your cover.  He's got on your old shrouded armor, and it's harder to remove, the hood stuck to his head.

You are both out of breath and laughing, amused by your escape, swim, and drenched outfits.  You use your magic to dry some towels as he finally manages to yank a boot off, the action sending him toppling over backwards.  You’re laughing even more, but he's pleased with himself, proceeding to the next boot.  By the time you’ve dried the towel he's got himself caught in his armor, the leather stuck halfway up his chest with one arm pinned to his body.  He looks at you from under the folds, helpless.

Snorting and sighing both at once, you move towards him on your knees, settling in front, and tuck your fingers under the armor, ignoring the way the skin contact sends shivers through your body.  You yank it up, he pulls himself down, and eventually the leather comes sliding over his head and the Imperial is free, to his delight.  

“Foolish Cicero.”  You both say at the same time, eyes meeting in camaraderie.  You begin toweling his hair, ruffling the fabric over his head playfully, working to dry him and tease him at the same time.  A single bright eye peeks out from under the soft cotton, and you’re lost in that honey-gold.  For an instant you’re overwhelmed by that look, by the drip of the water from his ginger hair, by the wet sheen of his bare chest and shoulders, by the curve of his lips and the ripple of smooth muscle beneath his skin and just how close their bodies are.

He can see it.  As clear as day, he can see it, he has to.  You feel like you’re sinking in it, drowning in the raw ache of your emotions.  He has to know.

His eye, that one clear, staring eye, is locked on you.  In it, you can see nothing.  You can't read him like you usually do, can't tell if his mood leans towards the coherent or the innocent.  You are blocked, frozen in fear and desire and anguish.  You’re desperate for his love.  Somehow, without knowing, without trying, you’re past your limit, past your breaking point.  

The towel slips behind his head, taking your hands with it to slide down the curve of his face.  You’re dipping, slowly, imperceptibly, head tilting only slightly as your eyes drop.  Your breathing is ragged, your body coursing with fear.  What are you doing?  What if he pulls away?  What if he doesn't?  You are terrified of the response of a single fool.

Your courage almost fails you.  You stop, frozen, inches from his upturned face, and can't go any further.  Your heart will burst.  You almost pull away.

His head twitches, leans.  Your foreheads press together softly, your hitching breath mingling between the short distance.  

You wonder if he truly knows what's happening, and then you aren't thinking at all.

Who moved first is a mystery neither of you can answer.  Your lips drag across one another, slowly, catching on each section of cracked skin, sliding along the smooth areas, moist and tantalizing.  A first kiss between two lost souls, a line finally crossed.  Your eyes flutter open, meet his gaze in a whirlwind of fear and desire.  It's the deciding moment, the grand reveal–your feelings out in the open, exposed.  Waiting.

His eyes flicker down to your lips again, and this time it's definitely him who initiates the kiss.  Your mouths are brushing, light, over and under, up and back, getting a feel for each other, testing.  The towel falls away, your fingers finding skin, delicate touches, sliding into his hair.  His hands find your hips, grabbing a bit too roughly, loosening, making their way up your sides.  

The kisses grow heavier, more confident, your mind feels like it's caught in a fog, weighed down and sluggish.  He's pulling you closer, meeting your growing hunger with sure responses, almost calm in his actions.

Your lids are heavy but you have to see him, prying your eyes open far enough for his face to come into focus.  As though he can feel your gaze, his eyes are suddenly on you, and you are shocked by the passion you see there, the heat emanating from the crisp gold steel.  

Panic surges through you, the panic that stems from the fear of finally getting what you want after so long, the irrational urge to pull away from what you want because you don't know what comes next–or, in fact, you just might know exactly what's to come.

Your head jerks away, breaking eye contact, searching for a way out.  Then you’re reaching over, studiously not looking at him, to grab his clothes and drop them in his lap.  You’re backing up, backing away, pulling your shirt quickly over your head so you can slip into your jester clothes while he's hopefully busy with his own.

The Amulet of Mara you have jangles against your chest as the fabric that was hiding it is stripped away.  The feel of the cold metal on your skin is a shock, reminding you painfully of when you would wear it openly, only around him, in the hopes he'd notice.  Now you’re afraid of the door you’ve opened.

There's no sound behind you, no movement.  The feel of his gaze on your bare back is burning through you, setting you on fire.  Your heart hammers beneath your ribcage.  

It's too much at one time, his acceptance, this overflow of emotions, of want and need and desire and passion and love, all without control.  If you don't find a way to stop it all, to stop this connection, you won't be able to stop anything, and you’re not ready for that, not ready for everything when all you’ve had up until now is nothing.  It's too physical, too fast.  

“Y/N?”  His light, questioning tone, his use of your name, is a strain on your control.  It holds no accusations, no confusion, no resentment.  He only wonders.

“We should get back.”  You reply, wishing he couldn't hear the hoarseness in your voice.  You don't know where to go from here.

His throaty laugh resounds and he's bounding in front of you, his usual crooked grin in place, eyes holding no sign of the heat they'd held moments before.  “Off we go then!  Faithful Cicero will lead the way!”

It's a return to almost-normal, and you’re overwhelmed with feelings of gratitude towards him, feeling the panic ease away with the comfort of the everyday.  “At least put on a shirt first,” you manage, dangling his tunic from your fingers with the beginnings of a smile.

“But Cicero likes being in the buff!  He thinks he shall take his pants off as well.”

“You take them off and I'm riding Shadowmere back, and you can walk in the snow to Dawnstar!”

You’ve gotten good at pretending.  A life as an assassin will do that, but so will hiding your feelings for so long.  Now that you find you may not have to hide them anymore, however, you’re guarding them closer than you ever have.  You’re pretending everything is normal, and, in a way, it is.  Cicero, certainly, acts no differently.  It's as if nothing's changed.

You’re not sure if you should be relieved or hurt.  

You’re still wearing that Amulet of Mara, hidden away beneath your clothes.  And sometimes, only sometimes, you think you feel his gaze on it.

Somehow, the strangest of conversations has come up in the den of hired killers–romance.  You shy away, still holding everything inside, but Babette brought it up and Nazir is scoffing and Cicero is surprisingly interested, soaking it all up as the initiates circle the table, wondering if there is a place for them amongst the comfort of their seniors' banter.  

“What do killers like us know about love?” Nazir demands with cynicism.

“I've been around long enough to have gone down that road a time or two, you know,”  Babette snaps back, a cool beauty, arms crossed.  A regal child, her years aging her eyes.

“You're ten years old,” he shoots back, looking disturbed.  He's the closest thing to proper in the bunch.  “And a vampire.  How in Oblivion-- you know what, never mind, I don't want to know.”

“Don't be naive,” she shakes her head, eyes narrowed.  “Or vulgar.  There's more to love than age, appearance, or physicality.”

“Some barriers aren't meant to be overcome.”  He mutters darkly.

They exchange a look, long and hard and angry and a bit too tense, an undercurrent running through that you wonder at.

“What about madness?”

The moment is broken as eyes flit to the jester, perched childishly on the stairs, leaning as far forward as he can as though to take in the information faster if he's closer.  

“Cicero wants to know,” he cocks his head, eyes bright.  “Is madness a barrier love cannot overcome?  Is Cicero unlovable?”

Nazir cringes, obviously not comfortable with this line of questioning, though it might just be Cicero who he's still not comfortable with.  He leans away like it will help his escape the man's scrutiny.  Babette, however, is more receptive, tapping her chin thoughtfully.

“I don't see why it should be a problem.”

Nazir scoffs.  “How is madness not a problem?”

“Love is love, we'll love who we love and love them how we love them, no matter their faults or differences or even our own.”  She shrugs, a tiny sage with fangs and glowing red eyes.  “Nothing is impossible.  No one is unlovable.  It's just a matter of finding someone who will love the way you are, or is willing to try to, at least.  Even love isn't perfect.”

“And if the one Cicero loves cannot love him like that, then what?”

“You love someone?”  Nazir's laugh is a snort.  “Now I've heard everything.  You'd better not be talking about the Night Mother, because that's just-”

Babette cuts in with a huff.  “What did I say about being vulgar?”

Nazir sends a glare her way, then grins darkly.  “Maybe he loves you, Babette.  Wouldn't that be perfect?  The old woman trapped in the little girl's body and the crazy kid trapped inside a grown man.”

A war looks about to break out between the two comrades.

“Cicero doesn't love the unchild,” his nose wrinkles in distaste.  

But they aren't listening anymore, and eventually the initiates manage to insert themselves into the verbal battle, serving as mediators and finding their place as part of the family.

You stay out of it, and so does Cicero, still perched idly on the staircase, listening, it seems, with sporadic attention.  You pull away from them, away from him, leaning against the fireplace and fighting the urge to run you don't know where to.  

You want it to be you.  You’re dying for it to.  You want to tell him that you already know he’s lovable, that you’re the one who loves him.  You pray he’s thinking of you, and at the same time are afraid.  You love him, but you don't know how to love him.  He's different, and that doesn't deter you, but you’re afraid of messing up, of not being what he needs.  How do you love him?  You know the feeling, but not the act.

Does it matter?  If he's talking about someone else, thinking about someone else, a thought you think is ridiculous because how could there be anyone else when his life revolves around their tiny family, if he loves someone else, you feel as though you'll die inside.  Your heart will crack, break, and you don't know how you'll handle that.

Is that answer enough?  Your mind is raging within, telling you it’s time to throw caution to the wind and just live and learn, and let life teach you the lessons you need along the way.  You love him, you want to be with him, you need to just spit it out already.

The war of the vampire and the Redguard is finally over, and the companions go their separate ways, the early dawn sending them all to rest.  Cicero is already half asleep on the steps and you tread softly around him, careful not to disturb.  You'll sort yourself out in the morning, you think.  And as you take a small glance over your shoulder at his back, the broad line of strong shoulders wrapped in cotton, trembling under dozing breathes, you wonder what your indecision has put him through up until now.

You kissed him not too long ago.  You never said anything about it again.  What did he think, he wonder?  What is it like in the mind of Cicero, Fool of Hearts?

He's told you before that he had longed for your position, to be named his mother's Listener, hear the Night Mother's voice.  You would gladly have given it to him to make him happy, but at this moment you would give anything to hear the laughter of a dead jester that so haunts his mind.  To know, to understand.  It might be the link you were missing in your love, this thought, this desire.  You feel complete now, somehow.  It doesn't make any sense really, but nothing in your life much does anymore.

You’re at the top of the stairs when you feel the presence behind you, when the tickle of breath touches your ear and his soft voice freezes you solid.

“I only love my Listener.”

Your heart hammers, heat rushes through you, and your mind grinds to a halting stop.  You can think of nothing, and you wonder if he's really as oblivious of the turmoil he springs raging inside you as his childish antics lead.  But for once since that kiss you'd shared, this turmoil isn't panic.  The rush doesn't overcome you, but instead you embrace it with a deep breath and the resignation that this is love, you'll probably never figure it out, and you’re okay with that now.

“I've told you, Cicero,” you finally whisper, voice slow and calm and reassured.  “It's Y/N.”

“Hm?  Oh!”  He nods furiously, chastising himself.  “Cicero apologizes, he won't forget again.  Y/N prefers to be called by name, yes they do.”

“Say it right this time.”

He pauses, turning his head to meet your gaze over his shoulder.  He's still smiling that smile, but his eyes are those eyes, and you see the merging of the two halves you’ve tried to divide him into.  You felt guilty, like you were taking advantage of a child, but that feeling is gone now, stifled under the blossoming realization that you love each other.

“Say what?” he's asking innocently, like he doesn't know, but his eyes say he does.

“Say you love me.”

“Cicero loves Y/N.”  Simply, he says it.

How can a heart beat so fast when a person feels so at peace? you wonder.  It's all finally come to this, and you’re happy.

You reach forward to take the back of his collar in hand, leaning in.  Your whisper betrays your nerves, but your eyes are firm.  “Kiss me again.”

He looks, for a moment, as if he'd like nothing better and will oblige immediately, but then he straightens, setting his face into stern refusal.  “No.  Not until you say it, too.”

You smile.  “That I love you?”

He stiffens for real, his face slipping.  He tries to hold his composure, but the longer you stare at each other, the brighter his soft smile.  “Yes, that you love me.”

“I love you.”  It amazes you how easily the words come out, even after so long, even though your throat feels dry and unforgiving.  

The facade of control is finally gone, and you see one moment of rapturous joy on his face before he's whirled around to take you, snatched up your wrists in his hands and crushed his lips to yours, triumphant.

#imagine #elder scrolls skyrim #cicero #dark brotherhood #fanfiction

[imaginingmyforest]

I’m trying to find my picture after the ride but I found yours first and I cannot stop laughing at your face

Fandom:  Marvel Cinematic Universe

Character:  Bucky Barnes

Dizzy with exhilaration, riding high off the rush of adrenaline pumping through your system, you clamber out of the coaster car and stumble along the walkway towards the landing.  It was your first time on this particular roller coaster at the park, and it had been a blast!  The twists, the turns, the highs, the lows, the angles and speed and view and screams!  You're dying to know just what kind of face you'd made during the experience, and thus shamble on over to the small building with the cashier standing behind the partition, TV screens lining the wall behind her, showing off snapshot after snapshot of the cars at the most exhilarating point of the ride.

Watching the screens with anticipation, you can almost feel the thrumming run through you, and it takes all your self-control not to bounce where you stand.  Your eyes run from one screen to the next, searching for your own familiar face, when—

You catch one peculiar sight in particular, and burst out laughing in the middle of the assembled onlookers.  

It isn't even your face you've found; it's a complete stranger.  But his expression is brilliant.  He's leaned back against his seat (alone), stiff as a board, eyes wide and unblinking, and if looks could kill, everyone would be dropping dead around you.  It's hard, set, and full of shock and fear and fury, you can hardly believe anyone would react like this to a roller coaster.  His hands are out in front of him, gripping the safety bar, and you think you can actually make out cracks in the metal where he's holding too tight.  But there's no way that's possible, right?  Who knows—adrenaline's been known to help people do wicked things.

The guy's rather lengthy hair is whipping around his head, too, like free-flying tendrils, scratching away and poking like needles in the wind, or tiny hands clawing his face.  And the dude is so bulky, it makes it a hundred times funnier that he could look so out of place amongst the laughter and screams and in general joy going on around him.

Also, what’s he doing wearing a long sleeved hoodie in this weather?  That’s just ridiculous.  And wait, is he wearing gloves, too?  What is up with this guy’s wardrobe?

You hear a low growl behind you.  It's so shocking, so feral, that you can feel your hair stand on end.  Turning slowly, you find yourself staring up at the face of the man on the screen.  He looks just as out of place in real life as he does on camera.  His expression is grim, painted with obvious displeasure, and his staring up at his picture with barely contained hostility.  

"Not a big fan of roller coasters, huh?"  You ask cautiously, attempting a smile.

He glances your way, then off again, shaking his head minutely.  "Been a long time.  They'd gotten ... a lot more complex than I'd expected."

You snort.  "I can see that."

Shooting your thumb over your shoulder, you point to his picture with a grin.  He eyes you for a moment, looks up at the screen, then his lips slide into a little smile that is in no way pleasant.  Confused, you look up at the screen—and finally see your own face.

And it is so, so much worse than his that you physically flinch back, and the man beside your throws his head back in a barking laugh and has you flinching again in the other direction, almost knocking into people.  

You look wild, to say the least.  Far, far too into it, hands in the air, mouth open wide, eyes alight with exhilaration, like there isn't a lick of sense in you—only the rush.  The stranger beside you in the picture—and even the ones behind you—are shifting away, staring at you with something akin to horror and disapproval, and really, it just makes the whole picture.

Giving the guy beside you a sheepish half-smile, you say, "Alright then, never mind.  I'll just keep my mouth shut, shall I?"

He's still smiling at you, but now it seems less predatory, more honest.  He turns to the lady at the counter and orders two copies of his own picture—and two copies of yours.  After she passes them to him and he pays, he gives one of each to you.

"Take it out sometime when you need a laugh again," he tells you.

Now that's just sweet.  You smile in return.  "Back at you."

He cocks a brow, waits a few seconds, and when you don't make a move to leave, nods to the coaster and says, "Wanna go again?"

"Heck yes!"  You reply instantly.

"Then hurry up, let's get a good seat.  I'm not going to let it get to me this time!"

"I call far side!"

And you're jogging beside each other back around to the front to get in line, strangers who still don't know each others' names, shoving lightly and grinning like fools, ready to strap in beside each other for another ride.  You definitely are getting a copies of this next picture, too—funny faces or not.  And you fully intend to jot your number on the back before you give him his.

#marvel cinematic universe #bucky barnes #imagine #fanfiction

[imaginingmyforest]

Guardian of the Gate

Fandom:  Elder Scrolls IV Oblivion, The

Character:  Gaius

Notes:  Once again, an older fic rewrote to be an imagine.

You step out of the portal joining what was now your world to the one you’ve known your whole life; the place you were born, raised, and have called home all your years. The water stretches out, a glistening blanket that never ceases to fill you with wonder. You’re Tamriel born, or at least you were, and you’ll miss your homeland. But what you’ll miss most …

Gaius is seated at the bottom of the steps, the blade that is his eternal companion strapped to his hip, helmet for once discarded at his feet. You can tell from the slump in his shoulders, the weary curve of his back, and lull in his neck that he’s tired. Half exhausted, worn down, and, of course, bored. You smile and slip onto the stone beside him. He doesn’t move.

“Some guard you are,” you comment idly, staring off again out over the water.

“What’s there to guard?” he asks, his voice an echo of his weariness. “Nothing ever comes through anymore but you.”

“And here I thought you’d be grateful. I’m doing a you a favor. I don’t have to guard my side of the gate, after all. I could send more of my citizens through at any moment.”

You eyes S'fara, curled up beneath a scraggly bush a few feet away, purring softly in sweet sleep.

“At least I’d have something to do.” He sighs heavily. “This door is too dangerous to leave unguarded, but having the job of guarding it is just … ”

“You miss home.” It’s there, out in the distance, across the water; Bravil, it’s high walls and peeking rooftops. You’s been afraid to ask until now, but you swallow hard and asks anyway. “Do you have a family back there?”

He’s never mentioned anyone before, not loved ones, not friends. He’s serious, brooding, no nonsense and all chivalry. Even if it wasn’t his responsibility, he’d be out here, guarding this gate, you know. That’s probably why he was given the assignment in the first place.

“Family? Yeah.” He shakes his head, giving his short hair a rub, and he doesn’t know how your heart halts as his admission hangs in the air. “Overbearing father too stubborn to die, useless brother who thinks he knows everything. Couple of drinking buddies I’d call friends who’re more like family than either of those two, and I don’t even like those drunks.”

You laugh, relief restarting the beating in your chest. “Then what are you complaining about being out here for? Doesn’t sound like you’d be any happier back home.”

“Probably not. I miss the barracks, though. Guard duty, making rounds. I just sit here all day.” He snatches up his helmet, stares himself down in the grimy reflection, then stuffs it rather roughly back onto his head. “Anything interesting happening on your side?”

War. Death. Rebirth.

“Yeah, funny stuff.”

“What more would you expect from the land of madness?”

You laugh, and a ghost of a smile flickers across his face. “Can you believe they’re sticking me in charge of the place?”

The smile’s gone now, if it was ever there. “What?”

“Madgod took a vacation,” you shrug, burying the lie deep inside; you can’t face it, not yet. “Now I gotta fix the mess he left behind. Starting with this door.”

You tap the empty space between them, skin resting on cool stone.

“ … You’re closing the gate?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re staying on that side?”

You don’t want to. You almost scream it.

“Yes.” His face is openly stunned, and you smile that smile that hurts inside. “No more guard duty.”

He’s silent, his face unreadable. He looks away. “Good.”

A crack runs through your heart. A piece tumbles away, falls into a pit of darkness you can’t see into.

You nod towards the city, smile shifting your face away from the pain. “Go enjoy your life again. Job done.”

“And they’re just sticking you in charge over there, just like that?”

“What did you expect?” You roll your eyes playfully, willing the burning of emotion to hold back. “Land of madness, remember? Boss-man opens a door and picks a random person to hold down the fort while he’s gone, no one questions it.”

“When’s he coming back?”

You shakes your head, leaning back, letting the light from the gate settle over you. “Not for a long, long time.”

He turns, shifting in his spot to watch you, face wary, concerned. “Wait a minute. So you don’t get to come back? Ever? This isn’t just a ‘wait for him to get back and send you home’ thing, he’s leaving you in charge indefinitely?”

You keep your eyes closed, unable to look at him. “Till I’m dead.”

Dead. Gone. Same difference. In the end, he’ll be back, and you won’t exist; you understand that now.

“He can’t do that!”

You smirk. “Daedra.”

“Well, he’s already gone, right? Not much he can do about it if you just don’t go back! Stay here, Y/N.”

You want to. So much. So bad. You can’t. Can’t.

“Can’t.”

It’s crushing you.

“Why in Oblivion not!?”

“I made a friend a promise, and it’s too late to back out.” You smile at him again, so painfully. “I wanted to help. And now I have to follow through with that.”

You realize you’re shaking about the time the tears run off the edge of your cheeks and start tiny puddles on your bare shoulders. He’s staring at you, so shocked and confused you laugh a little bit, and it turns into a sob you try to hide behind a hand.

“I made a deal with a Deadra, Gaius.” You shake your head, wiping away the tears. “I didn’t know what I was getting into, but I would have done it even if I had. I saved people. I saved lives. But I had to give my own life to do it.”

You falter.

“I don’t belong to me any more. I’m his. And I’m dying.”

It’s the best you can do. And you can tell by the horror, the indignation, the despair on his face, that it isn’t enough. You get up and step towards the gate.

“Now just wait a second!”

He’s scrambling to get up, and you turn to watch him, smile back in place.

You chuckle. “Gods, I’m gonna miss this. You and me. Guard duty.”

He’s standing there, anger on his face, blocking out everything else, silhouetted against the sickly foliage and the horizon of dark water stretching out in the distance. You wonder if you should tell him before you go. But that would be bad, wouldn’t it? You really want to stop hurting him like this. You just came to say goodbye.

Gaius is shouting at you, and you only finds it endearing. “What in Oblivion do you mean, you’re dying? Y/N, what in Oblivion is going on?”

“I’m going.” You say simply. “And I’m not-”

He’s breaking you. The anger he’s using to try and mask the pain is failing, and your heart breaks for him. You can feel it. Your voice catches, your eyes start to burn, and you have to take a deep breath to get it all out.

And I’m not ever going to see you again.

“And I’m not ever coming back.”

You give a tiny wave and back up into the gate.

“Bye.”

You slip away. He slips out of sight. And you’re back in the Shivering Isles. A few more steps back and you’re leaning against Haskill’s table for support, tears finally streaming down. It isn’t just crying, it’s sobbing, and you can’t breathe, everything hurts so much.

Because that’s it. And it’s time to close the gate for good.

You raise your hand-

And Gaius tumbles through the light.

You both stand, staring in stunned silence, mere feet from each other under the twisting pink sky of a stormy plane of Oblivion. His sword and shield are ready, as though he expected confrontation at his entrance, but his eyes are locked on yours, and he slowly lowers his weapon.

He struggles for several moments with what to say before settling with, “Don’t pretend to smile at me when you’re hurting.”

“I had to,” you mumble, hand still hovering in the air between them. “I have to let you go.”

“Well,” he grumbles right back. “I’m here anyway.”

“I’m closing the door.”

“I know that.”

“I won’t open it again.”

“I know!” He snaps, taking a step towards you, then stopping uneasily.

“You should go back.”

“I’m not going anywhere! And you are going to explain everything, do you understand me?”

You stare at him, unsure. When you answer, it’s low but clear. “Sheogorath was cursed, and he used me to break his curse. He is no longer the Madgod. But there must be a Madgod. So I’m his successor. I’m turning into a Daedra. More specifically, I’m turning into Sheogorath. And I don’t know how long it will take, how long I have left as 'Y/N.’”

“The blazes?” He responds, his confusion obvious. “That’s … ”

But he trails off, watching your serious expression and knowing he can’t argue with it, can’t deny it.

“Go back, Gaius.”

“Stop telling me to go back!”

“You can’t stay here. I won’t be around long, anyway.”

“I’ll stay for as long as you have! I’m not leaving you!”

You’re crying again, and he catches himself, catches what he’s saying. He made up his mind without ever making up his mind. He’s that type.

“Close the gate. I’m not going back. Nothing there for me, anyway.”

“And what’s here for you?”

He almost growls, and you laugh, shocked and amused by it. He looks like he’s going to answer, thinks better of it, throws off his reservations, and pulls you to him. His lips are rough, dry, and chapped, and the bristles of his stubble scratch your skin. But his kiss is long and firm and desperate, conveying with actions what he can’t with words. You wrap your arms around him, just as desperate, clinging to him, to yourself, to life, even if it’s only for a little while longer. You’ll take whatever you can get if he’ll be there with you.

When you part, he doesn’t bother to pull his head up, but holds you there against him. “Close the gate.”

Slowly, you raise and lower your hand. The light of the gate brightens, flickers, and fades. He turns slightly to watch it go, then shrugs and shifts uncomfortably in place. He keeps one arm firmly around you.

“Now what?”

You’re surprised at just how embarrassed you are at what has just happened, at the continued presence of him beside you, your contact. Nervously, you reply, “I suppose I name you Consort of the realm and get you acquainted with the palace.”

“I … what?”

You wring your hands nervously. “I am the Madgod. I should also go ahead and make arrangements for if we ever decide to go our separate ways. Or if I change into Sheogorath and don’t remember you or something along those lines. I’ll show you around the two regions–Mania and Dementia–and you can pick a place.  Or stay at the Palace. Or I’ll have a house made, if you like.”

He stares at you before nodding in a resigned way. “Consort to a Daedra. Right.”

“Have I scared you off?”

“Can’t scare me off. I already had you close the gate.”  He flexes his hand around your waist as though to reassure himself of his decision.  Unease suddenly makes him frown.  "Mara’s love, I hope someone takes care of S'fara.“

#imagine #fanfiction #elder scrolls oblivion #ableism

[imaginingmyforest]

An Evening with Crowley

Fandom:  Supernatural

Character:  Crowley

Trigger Warnings:  Deliberately misleading depictions of cooking

Notes:  Rewrite of an earlier fic I did to make it an imagine.  Takes place roughly back when Crowley was just a crossroads demon and had his own house.

The sight of a blade slathered in red, dripping with the leftover life of what you’re sure was once a lovely young thing, is always something that gets Crowley's mood up. It didn't matter what kind of trash day he'd had. Knife piercing flesh, crimson cascading down, is always guaranteed to put him back on his game. You can almost see the tension slipping from his shoulders as he holds his victim in place, cutting again and again and again.

And not just the butchering. He has his rituals to perform, and habits shift the weary body into a state of contentedness, letting muscles resume tasks they are accustomed to, comfortable in, natural by now. Crowley readies his ingredients, dicing and grinding and whatnot, letting the heat build for the finale as he marks off another box in his mental checklist.

Everything's coming to a climax. He grins, taking his bloody captive across the floor. The room fills with the searing sounds of flesh on hot metal, the sizzle of blood boiling, the smoke of meat burning. And he keeps on smiling.

A hound howls from behind you in the darkness, and you curse.

Crowley cocks an eyebrow. "Ah. Company. Right on time."

He leaves his corpse to cook, wiping his bloody knife on his apron as he saunters over and opens the glass doors leading out into the dark. There isn't a moon in the sky, which is clouded over with the threat of a storm, and the blackness encompasses most the back yard, despite the lights out front. He waves out at the nothingness--at you--knife still in hand.

"I keep telling you," he calls, tsking. "You're never gonna get passed my dogs."

And with that, he disappears back into the house. Moments later, you sigh and hop down from your perch by the kitchen window, carefully eying the darkness for any signs of Crowley’s infamous hounds.  As usual, you can’t see a thing.  Not taking any chances, you move as quickly as you can to follow him inside.

"Well, when I finally figure out where you're hiding the mutts, I'll be able to sneak past them."

Crowley chuckles, reaching for his bowl of spices. He siphons them slowly into the skillet with the slices of sirloin, careful to stir it all, watchful of burns. "Wouldn't be very good security if I told you where they were, now would they?"

You perch yourself upon an empty bar-stool beside his still bloody cutting board, trying to pull off a sulk convincingly. It melts when Crowley shoots a grin over his shoulder as he reaches for his oil and lets it drizzle into the frying pan.

"Didn't tip off any of the guards, though, did I?"

"Course not." Crowley returns jovially. "But you've been doing this for long enough that I expect they don't even bat an eye at the sight of a shadow jumping over my wall."

He sets the skillet down and wipes his hands on a towel. "Bad for my safety, you are."

"Please," you pop a stray grape tomato into your mouth, which provokes an "Ah eh eh!" from the chef. "Is there seriously anyone foolish enough to mess with you? You’re like the Godfather."

Ego stroked, Crowley pulls out an open bottle from his kitchen rack and pours you both glasses.  You throw back your drink, downing the gulp with a visible tremor. He laughs out loud at your reaction, he always does.  You hate this particular drink, but every time Crowley hands you a glass, you take it.

"Food ready yet?" You try to cover the cough the alcohol has caused.

"Hold your horses, I just put the steak on, for goodness sakes." He sips his own drink, swirling the ice around. "And I'm not even gonna mention the croissants."

"What's wrong with the croissants?"

"Bloody everything!" he bellows, thrusting his arm out accusingly at the oven. "I try something new and what happens? My normally beautiful, golden, fluffy rolls of goodness just collapse!"

You drop off the stool and lean down next to the offending appliance, flipping on the tiny light so you can see inside. "Huh. I see. What happened?"

"What happened? Nothing happened! They're friggin flat-breads!" Crowley shakes his head and takes another long drink. "Mercy."

"They don't look bad."

"Don't you start defending them. Blasted things are going in the trash where they belong."

"I wanna try one."

"You aren't eating that garbage."

"Nothing you make could ever be garbage."

The bottle in his hand stops halfway to his glass. "Now you're just kissing up."

"I don't deny it."

" ...  one bite."

You stand and smile, childishly and sincerely. "You're an angel."

Crowley smiles right back. "I'm really not."

#supernatural #crowley #fanfiction #imagine

[imaginingmyforest]

Water, Stars, & Beginnings

Fandom:  Once Upon A Time

Based on:   Killian x chubby!reader fluff

Requested By:  Anon

Daily life in Storybrooke is perfectly ordinary--so long as you stay far, far away from Granny’s Dinner, Gold’s Pawnshop, and the Police Station, as well as the inhabitants of said places.  Best not to visit City Hall, either.  Heaven forbid you need the Mayor for anything.  

But Storybrooke, itself, is still a wonderful place.  It may be a small town, but that doesn’t mean you can’t avoid the terrors of life as a storybook character trapped in Maine if you play your cards right.

You live a nice, simple, enjoyable life.  It is, after all, picturesque when someone or something isn’t trying to destroy it.  You have a lovely home on the outskirts, away from most of the action, all to yourself.  It’s surrounded by woodlands on one side, the sea on the other.

You have a job that you like and pays the bills.  You have friends, you have a car, you have a library membership you’ve stopped using, and you have a night out from time to time, just to treat yourself.

There’s absolutely no need, then, for you to ruin this little slice of heaven you call home.  But you’re walking along the docks, eyeing the boats as you pass, doing just that.  Tempting fate, really.  Bad things happen at the docks, after all.  

You’re even debating on having lunch at Granny’s.  That’s practically a death wish in this town.

But what’s really going to get you killed is the why behind these new decisions you’re making.  And that why is just where you’d hoped he’d be.

Killian Jones sits perched on the edge of one of the docks, bare feet dangling out over the water.  Most of his gear is piled at his side.  The man himself is dressed only in his black undershirt and matching pants, soaking wet from head to toe.

You approach slowly, trying to gauge his mood.  Killian has a reputation, after all, and you’d seen it in action a time or two.

Taking the chance, you lightly ask, “Good day for a swim?”

He smiles, just a bit, and shakes his head.  “Not really.  Bloody freezing.”

“And yet.”  You stop beside him, trying to act casual by staring out at the water and not at him.  It’s difficult; he’s a beautiful man.

“So I fancied a bit of a swim despite the weather.  What business is it of yours?”

He sounds more exasperated than anything, and you take it as a sign to continue.

“Wanna talk about it?”  By “it,” you mean Emma.  Nothing gets Killian down like their little spats.  The two are famous around town, their on-again-off-again romance a thing of gossip.  Obviously, you’ve caught him on an off-again day.

He sighs.  “Not really.”

“Okay.”  Before sense can catch up with you, you take a quick step forward and leap off the edge of the dock.  You make a resounding splash when you hit the water, and the cold instantly whips through you.

You break the surface gasping.  “You weren’t kidding!  It’s cold!”

“I told you!”  Killian’s already up on one knee, leaning over and reaching out for you.  “What on earth were you thinking, jumping in like that?”

You grab hold of his hand and let him pull you in until you can reach the edge of the dock again.  “I f-fancied a s-swim.”

You shoot him a sopping wet grin before attempting to climb up.  You’re torso flops over onto the boards, but your leg doesn’t quite reach and instead flails in midair.  Killian grabs you under your arms and, rather gently, considering your size, pulls you up the rest of the way, careful to avoid scraping you across the splintered wood.  

“Thanks.”  You grin, and he just shakes his head.

“Fancied a swim, eh?”  His smile is slow to spread, but it goes right to his eyes.  “Well then, we’re just two of a kind, now aren’t we?”

Despite your chattering teeth, you couldn’t be happier.  You hands go to your arms to rub them for warmth, and you suddenly realize that your clothes are sticking to your skin in all the right places.  They hug your chubby frame, emphasizing every curve, every roll, all the roundness of your body.

You are not the only one who’s noticed.

Killian’s brows shoot up as his eyes roam you before meeting your gaze again.  The amusement remains, but they appear darker now.  The shiver that passes through you has nothing to do with the cold.

Your first instinct is to pull the wet fabric away.  The next thought you have says leave it and let him look.  You’ve wanted his attention for ages, why not enjoy it while you have it?  It certainly doesn’t seem as though he dislikes the view, a thought that sends a flush of fire right through you.

So you pretend to notice neither the clothing nor Killian’s appraisal.  

“Since you picked the swim, do I get to decide the next item on the agenda?”  You shoot him a coy look, pulling your chin in.

“We have an agenda?”  His brows raise, his smile not wavering.  He does not look opposed to this development.

“Two of a kind.”  You repeat his words, hoping to reel him in.

Hands on his hips, he dips in a slight bow.  “As you say.”

“Have you been to the planetarium?”  

“What, pray tell, is a planetarium?”

This is going better than you could ever have expected.  The delight must show on your face, because Killian smiles a crooked smile, staring curiously.  

You start walking past him.  Throwing a grin over you shoulder, you call out, “Come on, then.”

You emphasize the beckoning with a motion of your hand.  

Scooping up his discarded gear quickly, he jogs after you.

The walk, though a bit on the long side, does little to dry either of you.  The weather isn’t warm enough for that, so you both drip as you march along the road to the lesser-attacked side of town.  Despite your sopping wet state, you aren’t uncomfortable.  The company is too good for that.

The two of you chat amiably as you make your way.  It’s nice.  And Killian keeps pace with you, which you know is much slower than most.  He doesn’t mention it, not even when you need a break every now and again because you’re winded.

The planetarium is rather well taken care of, though understaffed.  Educational opportunities are not something Regina skimps on in funds when her own son attends school here.  Despite this, the planetarium isn’t used often.  The occasional field trip is about all the business they get.

So it’s a skeleton crew that greets you, shakes their heads at your wet state, and supplies you with towels, telling you not to touch anything.  You and Killian both smirk.  No one even bats an eye at the oddness of Storybrooke anymore, and certainly no one is going to tell the hook-handed pirate he can’t enter a building soaked to the bone.  You’re left to wander at your own discretion.

And wander you do, because Killian is fascinated.  The museum section displays the history of the stars, of space exploration, mythology and technology side by side, and he takes it in with wonder.  He has to stop at every display, wide-eyed like a child, little scoffs of disbelief and exclamations of surprise and pride at every caption.  

“This is amazing!  Here, look at this--”  He grabs your hand, pulling you along to a section you’ve seen a hundred times.  It doesn’t matter.  Everything is new to you through Killian’s eyes, and you let him gush about it like an over enthused tour guide.  

He never lets go of your hand.

The section on sea navigation obviously becomes his favorite.  He’s been to different worlds, seen different constellations, and loves discovering the new ones here, reading about how they shift above you with the seasons, memorizing old sailors’ tales and theories.  

You lead him into the theater last, directing him to the center of the room.  He sits, and you eye the chair next him with sudden trepidation before slowly lowering yourself into it.

The armrests on either side stop you.  Your hips are caught on top of them, butt hovering above the actual seat cushion with no way down.  Heat shoots up your neck and spreads across your face.  You try to act casual as you stand back up, but you can’t help but glance Killian’s way.

He’s eyeing the chair with distaste.  “Those who designed these seats obviously did not know that people come in much more wealthy sizes.  How very small minded.  After all, ‘variety is the spice of life.’”

He smiles a toothy grin and pats his lap.

You stare.  “You can’t be serious.”

His eyebrows rise.  “Oh, but I am.  Please.”

The lights go out.  With the motivation of “he can’t see how embarrassed I am” and “have to hurry, it’s starting” you carefully position yourself across one armrest and his lap.  It’s not uncomfortable, and Killian takes the opportunity to wrap one arm around you and take your other hand in his.

His eyes are on you until the ceiling starts to sparkle to life overhead.  His jaw drops and his hand tightens around yours.  The narration plays as the electric stars rotate slowly, and neither of you says a word as Killian soaks it all in.  It talks about things you’re certain Killian already read in the exhibits before coming in, but that doesn’t seem to dampen his wonder.  Certain sections of the ceiling dim or brighten or change colors to go along with what’s being said, about constellations or the life cycle of stars or where mankind has been.

He’s absolutely captivated.  And, you’re almost certain, he hasn’t thought of Emma the entire time you’ve been here.

When the narration stops and the lights come back on, neither of you move.  Killian seems glued to the spot, still lost in everything that has happened, all that he has experienced and learned in one afternoon.  You simply wait, watching his face sift through all the different emotions with fascination.  

He is truly a beautiful man.  You are so, so glad you could give him this.

“That was … ”  He shakes his head, still staring up.  “This has been … amazing.”  

He looks to you, and his face is alight with a smile so big it makes you suck in a breath.  

“I knew this place--this town, this world--was full of wonderful things, strange things, but … it has all seemed convenient, yes, but not … beautiful.  This has been truly extraordinary.”

He rubs his fingers against your skin, massaging your hand in his.  His eyes are locked with yours in the same way they had been on all the exhibits, on those things that had so captivated him.  You can’t even breathe under that gaze.

“Thank you, Y/N.”  He sounds as breathless as you feel, and you can’t tell if your heart is beating too fast to tell or has stopped altogether.  “Thank you for this.  You have truly turned around a day I had thought to be an utter disaster, and made it one I will never forget, and never be able to think of without a smile.  Nor, I expect, will I ever be able to think of you without one, either.”

He raises your hand up, letting his thumb slide gently across the top, leaving a trail of tingles in its wake.  Never taking his eyes from yours, he leans forward just a tiny bit, and places his lips to your fingers.

“There is no way anything I plan can compare, but I will still do my very best upon our next excursion.  Tell me of your interests, so that I may cater to you as you have to me.”

Next excursion?  Tell him about your interests?  Cater to you?  

He wants to go out with you again?  To know more about you?  Spoil you?

Maybe you’re thinking too much into this.

But he’s still watching you with those captivated eyes.  “I will make it an all day affair.  How soon are you free?  I do not wish to waste a moment without your company.”

Maybe you’re not.

#mine #once upon a time #imagine #killian jones #fanfiction

[imaginingmyforest]

Family

Fandom:  The Hobbit

Based on:  Imagine Thorin and Dwalin challenging anyone that dares to insult you

Requested By:  @averil-of-fairlea

Trigger Warnings:  Self-deprecation, insecurity, public humiliation (sort of), political and racial undertones (don’t look at me, they just happened)

Your entire body feels like it’s on fire.  Heat has taken over every pore of your skin, is bubbling the liquid in your stomach so that it twists and squirms inside you.  You want to vomit.  That will only make it worse.

The floor before your eyes swims.  Laughter has drowned out all other sounds.  You know there was a band playing a moment ago.  You know not everyone in the pub can be laughing at you.  But that’s all you can hear.  It’s mortifying.

Ale is soaking through your clothes.  You literally landed in the food you’d been carrying when you fell.  

This isn’t the first time you’ve so fabulously demonstrated your ability to mess up any situation you find yourself in.  “Clumsy” is practically your defining trait.  

You can’t help it.  Whether it’s hand-eye coordination, putting one foot in front of the other, or even stringing a sentence together, you’ve been cursed with bad fortune.  No amount of effort on your part has been able to do anything to remedy it.

And you’ve tried.  You’re traveling with a group of very talented dwarves, after all, and each has taken time to try and help you in some way or another.  

Bombur tried to teach you how to cook; you accidently set him on fire.  Bifur wanted you to help him craft small tools and toys; almost anything you touched cracked in some irreparable manner.  Bofur simply tried to teach you a song; turns out you can’t carry a tune and have a bad memory for lyrics, not to mention no rhythm to speak of.  

Lacking rhythm turns out to be a downfall in learning to swordfight, as well, you find; Fili’s lessons go south quickly, with quite a few injuries to you both that had nothing to do with actual intention.  Archery lessons with Kili go about the same, with not a single arrow hitting the target; half of them barely leave the bowstring that you can’t even pull back without assistance.

You break every one of Nori’s lockpicks during your lesson.  Ori, bless his heart, tries to be encouraging, but your handwriting is atrocious, your grammar lacking, and your ability to put thought to parchment abysmal.  Dori rants for hours about how confused he is that you managed to butcher brewing tea.

It only takes you wasting Oin’s herbs once in a failed remedy before he declares you hopeless and never allowed near his precious stores again.  Gloin claimed not to believe all this hub-bub about you being unable to do anything, and set out to prove it by having you sharpen his axe-blade; he admitted defeat graciously afterward and bought a new ax rather than attempt to salvage the damaged one.

Balin had sat down with you for quite some time, asking questions, determined to either find something he could encourage you about or help you be more confident in yourself.  The conversation had ended with you in Balin’s arms, sobbing hopelessly while he remained silent, unable offer any consolation.

Dwalin and Thorin hadn’t even bothered with you.

Of course not.  They’re important dwarves, after all--one a future king!  No time to waste trying to take pity on one insignificant person.  You were lucky the others cared so much that they had even tried.

And it all had been for nothing.  You’re practically worthless, and you have no idea why they even keep you around.  You certainly make things more difficult for them, slow down their journey at every turn, and are in general just dead weight.  Apparently, you couldn’t even bring food and drink to their table without making a scene!

Your arms tremble, your eyes burn, and you feel frozen in place, unable to move, unable to run and escape the laughter around you, closing you in.

“SILENCE!”

The commanding roar is deafening, and the entire pup goes dead quiet at once.  Your head shoots up to find Thorin up out of his seat, glowering about the room.  Despite his small stature, he cuts a powerful figure--powerfully build, shoulder thrown back, exuding the air of kingliness that comes so naturally to him.  His piercing eyes are a weapon unto themselves.

A hand touches your shoulder, and you flinch back, head darting around to find the source.  It’s Dwalin, kneeling at your side.  His hand is held out to you.

You take it without really thinking about it.  Compliance seems natural.  Dwalin’s grip is surprisingly gentle, not even fully clasping your hand.  He acts as merely a steady brace to lean against as you stand.

He nods to you once you’re on your feet.  Again, the gentleness of the gesture surprises you.  More so when it disappears as quickly as it had come, traded instead for a sweeping glare he sends across the room.

“Anyone else want to laugh?”

No one speaks at first.  Several people fidget uncomfortably.  

A man at the bar ‘tsks.’  “What are you getting all mad at us for?  No need to get your britches in a twist.  It’s not our fault your friend can’t walk without taking a spill.  It was funny!”

You flush and look away.

“Someone’s misfortune is never amusing.”  Thorin’s voice is a growl, low and dangerous.

The man visibly swallows, but doesn’t back down.  “It’s the third time they’ve fallen tonight, and they’ve been bumping into people and tables even more than that.  They shouldn’t leave their table if they aren’t prepared to get laughed at for being so hilariously inept.”

Thorin’s head slowly cocks to one side.

Dwalin moves forward.  His steps are loud and heavy, echoing in the air.

“I’m gonna need you to take that back.”

There is no request in his words.

The man scowls.  “Oh, lighten up.  You dwarves are too serious.  Ain’t no harm done.  Isn’t that right?”

He looks to you, a smile on his face.  It seems cruel to you, no matter if he really means well or not.

How many times have you been laughed at like this?  Told you should be used to it, that if you didn’t want to be laughed at, you ought to do something about your clumsiness--as though this is something you choose to be, or are just too lazy to improve yourself.  

He doesn’t know you.  Doesn’t know a thing about you, about how you’ve lived with this for as long as you can remember.  The abuse you’ve suffered because of it.  The work you’ve put into being better.  The disappointment you’ve faced at it all never making a difference.

You’re clumsy, overweight, insecure, and certainly no dwarven beauty.  But you’re a good person.  You don’t deserve this.

You wish you could say those words out loud, but you’re certain you’ll throw up if you try to speak.

Dwalin and Thorin both look at you, and your eyes dart between them before looking away, anywhere but at them or at that man.

“What’s wrong with you?  Can’t you speak up?”  Oh, why won’t he stop?  Why won’t he just go away?

“That’s enough.”  It’s Thorin again, and his words are delivered with such harshness even you shrink back.  “You are going to apologize to Y/N.”

The man slips off his barstool and stands, rising to his full, considerable, human height.  “And why don’t you just make me, dwarf?”

Thorin meets the man halfway across the room, and Dwalin is at his side, cracking his knuckles.  

The man just grins.  There’s no pretense of humor in his expression anymore, just callousness.  “Please, get as many of your little pals up with you as you can.  You’re going to need the help.”

“Not a one of us would need help against the likes of you,” Dwalin comments.  “But I stand aside for no one when it comes to defending Y/N’s honor.”

Thorin nods.  “Agreed.”

“Because the pathetic thing can’t do it themself?”  The man taunts.

Thorin and Dwalin both glare at him at once.

“They don’t have to.”  Dwalin growls.

“We take care of our own,” Thorin emphasizes.  “It doesn’t matter what Y/N can or can’t do.  Y/N is Y/N, and they’re fine as they are.  And what they are is one of us.”

Perfect you are not.  But it’s suddenly very clear that you are loved all the same.  Your faults, whatever you see them as, don’t seem to matter that much in comparison.

Not to them; not to your family.

“Oh, what?”  The man barks, clenching his fists at his side.  “I’m the bad guy now?  Can’t have a little fun and some laughs at the pub, got to throw out my sense of humor for some overly sensitive dwarves?  Go back to your rocks and dirt holes, and let some of us enjoy our time off at peace in our own bars!”

Thorin quirks a brow.  “Mahal forbid you be considerate of others’ feelings.”

“Or share a public space with those who aren’t your own kind.”  Dwalin adds.

“But you still owe Y/N and apology, and you’ll have no peace until it’s done.”

“Here’s your apology!”  The man lunges.

He rears his fist back, and throws all his weight down into the punch.  It connects with Thorin’s face.

The prince’s head moves with the impact, his leg swinging back to keep him in place.  

The man smirks as he pulls back, as though he think’s he’s made some sort of point with this display.

Thorin turns his head back, eyes narrowed.  “You should have apologized.”

“RRRRRRAAAAAAAA!!!!!”

Dwalin is on him.  The man cries out, spins, but there is no fending off Dwalin.  He is like a stone golem, throwing punch after punch, delivering kick after kick, even using his skull as a powerful weapon of pain.  

While the man is distracted, Thorin steps up.  Behind him, the whole table of dwarves--all eleven of them--are on their feet, but Thorin raises a hand and none of them move.  Thorin waits till Dwalin moves back and the man turns his way again.  He moves for Dwalin, but spots Thorin out of the corner of his eyes and doubles back.  

Thorin makes sure they have locked eyes before swinging.

So enraptured are you at the fight that the touch of a hand on your shoulder has you shrinking away in surprise and fear.  But it’s only Balin, smiling at you kindly.  

“Would you like to go get cleaned up?”

“But Thorin and Dwalin--”  You begin to exclaim, looking back to the fight.

Balin puts his hand back on your shoulder, making to turn you away.  “It will be over soon enough, don’t worry about that.”

He seems amused.  It’s easy to see why.

The human man, no matter his stature or muscle, has never stood a chance in this skirmish.  Where he once towered over the two dwarves, now he kneels before them, cowering, trying to nurse the wounds inflicted in an onslaught that is no longer coming.  

Thorin and Dwalin stand aside, unwinded.

Two other men shuffle up, doubled over as though to make themselves small, watching Thorin and Dwalin warily.  The dwarves make no moves against them.  They grab their downed friend under the arms and pull him up.  They have to half drag him away.

Thorin eyes the room again.  “Does anyone else have anything to say against our friend?”

No one so much as breathes this time.

Dwalin smirks.  “I thought not.”

“A-alright everyone!”  The barkeep calls out nervously.  “S’all over with now.  Back to your business, yeah?”

Movement begins, subdued at first, but gradually growing more animated.  The bar comes back to life and Thorin and Dwalin turn their backs to it.  They look at you.

You want to say thank you.  It doesn’t seem like enough.  Nothing could ever be enough.  Those sensations that have always been a result of your failings--the twisting in your gut, the heat in your face, the frog in your throat--you feel them all now; but it isn’t a bad feeling.

The tears are trailing down your face.  You can’t stop them, don’t know what started them.  But none of it is bad.

You aren’t bad.  You are loved.

So, so loved.

So you just smile.  It’s all you can manage.  When you can speak, you’ll say the words.  But right now, this is enough.

You know it, because Dwalin and Thorin both nod.  

Thorin then looks away.  Nowhere in particular.  Just away.  

Dwalin shoots a look at him, then smiles at you and turns his head as well.

“Come on,” Balin says softly, guiding you towards the hall.  “Let’s get you cleaned up now.”

You let him.  His touch is gentle, his smile never wavering.  He doesn’t seem to mind the muck on your clothing at all, and doesn’t shy away from you.

“It’s good to know.”  He comments lightly.  “That, when you can’t always defend yourself like you’d want to, you don’t really ever have to.”

You swallow hard, placing your hand on his.

As the chatter from the barroom starts to fade away, you hear Kili’s loud voice.

“I get to beat the next person who insults Y/N!”

A growl answers.  “You’ll have to go through us first, boy.”

#the hobbit #tolkienverse #thorin #dwalin #averil-of-fairlea

[imaginingmyforest]

Imprinted on Stone

Fandom: Twilight

Pairing: Benjamin/Reader

Warnings: Some violence, mentions of broken bones

Finding out about other shapeshifters had been life-changing for you.  You'd left the life you'd been trying to build where you were and came running to La Push, hoping to finally find the family and camaraderie you'd missed since discovering you weren't exactly human.  Things hadn't gone exactly as you'd hoped, but it's still good—better than you'd had in a long time.

Of course, you're the butt of every joke: a werecat joining a pack of wolves.  Well, it isn't your fault you aren't descended from wolf warriors.  Thankfully, your cat form—rather tiger-like, more specifically—is just as large and fierce as their wolves, and no one questions your fighting skill.

Part of you is also thankful that you aren't fully integrated into the pack yet.  You'd never had a pack before, and you aren't looking forward to this whole telepathic connection thing they have going on in wolf form.

Everything else about being a shapeshifter, you love.  Turning into a tiger, running wild and free in nature, the instincts, the power, the perpetual immortality that comes with refusing to give up your cat form.  You thrive.  You even spend more time than the wolves think is healthy with fur and claws instead of feet and hands.

That only changes when the worrying little catch to being a shapeshifter becomes an issue.

And by an issue, you mean changes your entire life completely.  Literally.

Imprinting shifts everything in your existence into orbit around one single person.  It's instant, startling, and glorious.  You'd been worried, before, about the possibility of imprinting, of having no control over who you loved, but the way you feel now was so complete, so amazing, you don't care anymore.  You love it.  You love being in love.

Of course, there are a few more issues that occur to you as you settle into the happy, warm feeling that is coursing through your body while you watch him.  Yes, him.  The wolves are all around you, chatting away idly with the vampires about things you could care less about now.  There's a new vampire in town, visiting the Cullens, and it had been a cause for concern, you remember.  It isn't a concern now.  Now, it's the best thing that's ever happened to you.

Because he's one of them.  A vampire.

It's rather ironic that you, a creature born specifically to fight these blood sucking monsters, would imprint on one.  It has to be a sign—this one is good.  Red eyes or not, he is good.

No one has noticed the change in you, it happened so quickly.  The blessing of having no one in your head yet.  Except, of course, the one who is in everyone's head.

You shoot Edward a look filled with the wonder you feel, and he stares curiously right back, shocked and awed but not upset.  You don't know what to do about this.  Will the wolves understand?  They've all experienced the imprint, whether personally or through their bond, so they can't be opposed to it, right?  They have to know you can't help it.

You don't even want to help it.  He's beautiful in a way you've never thought vampires were beautiful.  He looks young, childish and energetic, with a strong jaw and a sweet air about him, bright eyes and short hair, darker skin and a crooked smile.  You don't even know his name. "Benjamin."  Edward calls out, and the young vampire turns to him in answer.  Edward asks him something, but you hardly care what he's saying.

So his name is Benjamin.  You find yourself smiling.  You're going to thank Edward later.

They explain, with a bit of trepidation and obvious sympathy for the new arrival, that Benjamin has come after breaking with his old coven and the vampire who had created him.  This Amun character apparently has enemies, and had hoped to shape Benjamin and his gifts into a weapon.   Benjamin had refused for the most part, but wouldn't leave his new family—until he'd lost all trust in the people he loved most. His mate, Tia, had betrayed him.  As much as he had cared for her, had loved her, she had only been with him to keep him with Amun, and when a passing nomadic vampire had entered their territory and come to stay with them a short time, it had become obvious she had found her true mate and couldn't keep up the pretext of returning Benjamin's affections.

His grief, during the clipped summation of the tragedy, is so palpable the literal elements shake around him.  The wind whistles and beats against the trees, the earth rumbles and cracks, the creek nearby roars in waves, and the very air seems to heat, flickering with sparks. You've never seen a vampire cry—they physically can't, after all—but there is no other way to describe the anguish in Benjamin's face. It causes you physical pain to see him like this.  The empathy with him so sudden, so strong, that it sends spasms of heat through your body, triggering the change within you as though you need to defend yourself from the hurt.  With a keening cry, you disappear into the woods, leaving the wolves and vampires, shocked, behind you.

It is Embry who finds, miles away, taking out your suffering on the surrounding forest.  Gouges from your claws mark up the fallen tree trunks, and only rootless clumps are left of the grass and bushes, dirt kicked up savagely in every direction.  You huge frame heaves with your gasping breathes as you try to regain some composure.  Your whimpering "meors" are so pathetic that Embry overcomes the pack's general, wolfish dislike of your feline form and comes to nuzzle you softly.  You press your head into his shoulder as thanks.

Once you've gained a semblance of control, you head back to the Cullen's.  Your departure had probably seemed rather rude to everyone but Edward.  You wonder how he'd explained it, as Embry hadn't been angry with you at all—only sympathetic.

It's well into the night when you arrive, but that hardly matters for vampires, so you head up the front steps and wait without bothering to shift back or attempt to knock, trying not to be bothered by the fact that they most certainly already know you're here and why (or, at least, Edward does; don't be upset with him and his power, you tell yourself. You owe him now—so long as he hasn't told anyone, that is).

It's Carlisle who answers the door, smiling softly.  He holds out fresh clothes about your size, and you pick them up delicately in your mouth, rubbing your cheek against his hand as you turn to convey your thanks.  He chuckles as you saunter away back to the woods.

You shift back, put on the borrowed clothes, and head right back up to find the door propped open, inviting you in.  A quick scan of the room shows Edward isn't even home, to your relief—your head is a safe place to think again.  Bella, of course, is wherever Edward is, along with Nessie; probably out at their cabin.  You don't pay much mind to anyone else, though.

Just Benjamin.  He's standing over by the glass wall, like he'd been watching out it, but he's turned to you now.  With a sheepish look, you head his way.

"Hey."  You greet him, unsure where the casualness has come from.

He smiles, though, and butterflies flutter in your gut.

"Hello.  You are Y/N, correct?"

"The one who took off screaming earlier, yeah."  You grin, shifting your weight nervously from one foot to the other.  "I'm sorry about that.  I wanted to apologize."

He shakes his head.  "There's no need.  Edward said that my . . . my story resonated strongly with you.  I'm sorry if what was said bothered you in any way."

"Nah, it's fine.  It isn't your fault.  I just—well, I'm . . . I'm sorry.  For you.  That just sounded . . . too painful."

His smile grows crookedly, expression curious.  "All that before—becoming so emotional you shifted—that was just for me?  For my pain?"

The room is quiet except the dull hum of the TV, and you're suddenly aware that the two of you haven't been alone.  The others are listening, and it makes you self conscious, but you nod.

"You were hurting.  Isn't that enough?"

His smile is so sweet, full of wonder, that your heart skips a beat and you know everyone in the room can hear it.  Ulg, you hate vampires.

"You need anything," you tell him, taking a small step back towards the door, "you let me know, alright?"

The wonder is still there.  A few more sets of eyes are on you, even, curious.  You ignore them still, nod Benjamin's way, and head back out.

Imprinting sucks when you can't be near the object of your affections at all times, you discover quickly.  Your sure the wolves all know this by now, pack minds and all, but you've never had a pack, never shared your mind with anyone who understood this feeling, and it's all you can do not to curl up into a ball and growl constantly.  It doesn't help that in human form, you can't whip your tail around; that usually always makes you feel better.

The wolves don't understand your suddenly foul mood, and you certainly aren't about to explain.  After hearing the rumors of the pack and showing up out of nowhere, hoping to be accepted by your own kind, having not even known they existed before now, you aren't about to give them a reason to kick you to the curve.  It doesn't matter if Jacob is imprinted on the half-vampire girl—she's half human, too, and doesn't eat people.  Benjamin's the only vampire around that does, and you're certain that isn't going to endear you to anyone.

You aren't part of the pack, not yet.  They don't have to accept your imprinting, as far as you know.  They probably would . . . but you can deal with them after.

First priority: will Benjamin accept your imprinting?

Just had to imprint on a vampire, you whine to yourself, already almost to the Cullens' again.  You've been by almost every day, trying to play it casual, but you don't think there's a vampire in the place that doesn't know you're here for Benjamin, including Benjamin himself. He doesn't seem to mind it so far, though.  He's taken to heading out in the woods with you, having mock-fights with your tiger form and even giving hunting animals a try.  He doesn't much like it, but he's willing to give the diet a shot for as long as the Cullens allow him to stay.

He figures he's got until Amun decides to come and try to talk him into going back home.  He admits he misses it, misses them.  He even tells you, alone one evening, out in the forest and watching the stars, that maybe he judged Tia too harshly.  Maybe there was no plot against him by Amun and Tia to play on his feelings for her.  Maybe she really thought she loved him . . . until she found her true love.

You sit beside him silently as he talks through his feelings.  You know he can tell you're crying, but he doesn't say anything about it for a long time.  Then he gently reaches out, wipes away your tears, and simply says, "Thank you."

He knows those tears are for him.  Ignoring the sickly vampire smell, you bury your face in his shoulder, and the two of you stay like that for quite a while.  And even though you know you stink to him just as much, he doesn't say anything about it.

You know what they say about vampires.  Life events either don't phase them, or they change them completely and irreparably.  It scares you, to think about what this is doing—has done, could still do—to Benjamin.  So you do whatever you can to distract him, to take his mind off it when he needs that, to listen when that's what the moment calls for, and most importantly, whatever it takes to make him smile.

He's got the greatest smile.  Crooked, childish, straight to his bright, wide eyes, full of youth and joy and hope and mischief.  And, thankfully, you have the absolute best tool to bring that smile out—the innate sense of what he needs at any moment that comes with the imprint.  Every day, you love that thing even more; if it keeps helping Benjamin, you don't even care that you didn't have a choice at first.   You'd go back and choose it yourself now if you could.

It's another day of wrestling on the agenda today.  You're trying to see how you fair—or, in Benjamin's words, how long you'll last—in human form this time, and the Cullen's, for the most part, roll their eyes affectionately and tell you not to demolish the forest.  That's all the permission the two of you need before your out in the yard in a flash, a wide, circling prowl having you at opposite ends of the yard from each other, grinning expectantly.

He's lightning fast—but you're built for this.  A normal vampire wouldn't stand a chance; Benjamin should no better than to come at you without his elemental advantage by now.  But maybe he figures, since you're in human form, you're not as much of a threat.

He might be right about that, but that doesn't mean he still isn't underestimating you.

You're across the field just as quickly to meet him.  Just the impact of your bodies sounds like thunder, and you feel a few ribs crack.

Minor fractures.  They'll heal before the fight's over.  You don't let up.

The two of you are locked in a tussle, arms around each others' shoulders, feet digging into the earth below as you shuffle, each trying to throw the other.

"No elements?"  You gasp, not letting up.

His answering chuckle is cut off quickly before he forces out an answer.  "No tiger, no elements."

"Your funeral."

You let your knees buckle.  Benjamin almost catches himself, but all the force that had been against him is now moving with you, and you give him a good toss over your shoulders.  You have to throw your upper body back forward after he goes flying, and whirl around just in time to see him land, scraping across the ground before sliding to a stop.

Even across the expanse, you can see the wide shine of his now coppery eyes, the thrill of the game.  You launch yourself after him, not even waiting.

If Benjamin needs a friend, you are a friend.  If Benjamin needs a sparring partner, suddenly the fight if your focus.  That, you are getting used to.  So when he flits away from you playfully when your almost on him, goes around your side so that you are shoving him back further into the trees with your shoulder, and a new, sudden sensation rushes through you—you falter.

It's a thrill, certainly.  A thrumming in your veins, a skipped beat in your heart.  It's wonderful, exhilarating, and has you redoubling your efforts as you give chase.

But it isn't the fight.  What is it?  There shouldn't be any distractions.  If you're feeling it, it must be something Benjamin needs from you. Whatever it is, it will come to you.  Naturally.  That's what the imprint is.  You stop worrying about it, spotting the streak of his movement between the trees.  He's trying to be sneaky now, to use speed and stealth against you instead of power.  A crack in one of your ankles is knitting from where you'd pivoted wrong while tossing him earlier.  You don't even feel it.

Everything is Benjamin.  It's intoxicating.

He's moving behind you, and you spin just in time to rush him, catching him mid stride and knocking him back into a tree, where you pin him with your body flush against his.

His face lights up with a grin.  You're chest is heaving against his, adrenaline pumping through you, and you feel so happy, so elated, you can barely see straight.  Everything is perfect, couldn't be more perfect—the thrumming is still there, the feeling, almost like the fight but more more more!

You charge forward, pressing your mouth to his, devouring him.  You don't care that he smells bad, that he tastes bad, that he's cold and not breathing and wrong in so many ways; he's moving beneath you, with you, kissing back, hands around your neck, fingers digging into your skin.

Oh.  So this is what that new feeling is; this is what Benjamin needs.  Well, you can accommodate.

You slam him harder against the tree, leaving literally no space between you, him, and the bark.  There's a crack, and the tree groans.   Benjamin laughs, short and loud and then your mouths are back together and it dissolves into a moan and you nip at his bottom lip, trying to wrap your head around kissing and breathing simultaneously.  Vampires don't have that problem, and he locks an ankle around yours to rub your legs closer and your hands go to his side to hold him flush, his sweater smooth and soft beneath your fingers, sliding across his marble skin like water.

It's about the time the arousal hits like an explosion in your gut that your brain catches up.  And then your slamming yourself back, slipping in the fallen leaves as you put distance between the two of you, still gasping, out of breath and with the taste of him in your mouth.

You stop a few feet away, and the only sound is your labored breathing as you stare at Benjamin.  He stares back, and emotions flicker across his face so quickly they're hard to catch—hurt, confusion, chagrin, pain, nervousness, sorrow.

"I'm sorry."  You blurt.

It takes a few seconds before Benjamin asks, sounding bewildered, "For what?"

You swallow.  "I didn't ask."

"Didn't . . . ask?"  Benjamin cocks a brow, looking both amused and confused.  "Did you hear me protesting?"

"Doesn't matter."  You insist.  "Shouldn't have just assumed—just because the imprint made me think it was okay—"

He cuts you off sharply.  "Imprint?"

Cringing, you nod.  "Yeah.  The first time I saw you.  Edward's the only one that knows.  He thought it was weird, at first, but he figures if a shapeshifter can imprint on a half-vampire, why not a full one?"

He looks totally confused and rather lost now.  "But I thought imprinting was like a mating thing?  To pass on the best genes or something?"

"That was one theory.  Honestly, none of us really know."  It's getting easier to breathe.  You feel nervous but not . . . well, anything else.  The imprint isn't giving you anything to go on, so you hope that's a good sign.  "I was worried about saying anything, I mean, so soon after your . . . er, breakup.  I just wanted to help you heal.   To make you happy."

He smiles slowly.  "You did that.  Thank you."

Relieved, you smile back.

"And what now?"  He asks.

"Whatever you want."  You answer immediately, not really understanding the question and letting instinct answer.

"Well, according to your imprint—"  His smile is mischievous now.  "I want to be pinned against this tree."

You growl.  It's out before you can stop it, and Benjamin looks absolutely tickled.

"What do you want, Y/N?"

"Right now, I think we are very much on the same page."

"Then why are you standing all the way over there?"

You have to take a steady breath not to be on him at those words.

"You're okay with this?"

"If you are."  He turns serious for a moment, staring your straight in the eyes.  "Only if you are.  I don't know much about how this imprinting thing works, but if you don't want to or if you are feeling somehow compelled to—"

"No."  You shake your head, and you can't help that step closer you take.  "I am more than okay with this if you are.  I mean it."

His answering smile is quick, faster than any move he's made all day.  "Thank goodness.  I was really worried I was going to make a fool of myself with the werecat—that you'd be disgusted I was even interested.   But through this, through everything, you've been—and I just—"

He's run out of words, but he's said enough.  You stop fighting the imprint and close the distance between you again.  This time, the kiss is soft, unrushed, gentle, with featherlight touches as your hands find their places against each others bodies once more.

You part the kiss just enough to whisper, "By the time we're through here, no one will be able to smell anything on either of us but the other."

Benjamin practically shudders against you.  You stop talking.

#twilight #twilight's benjamin

[imaginingmyforest]

Went and Fell in Love

Fandom: The 100

Pairing: John Murphy/Reader

Warnings: Mentions of torture, blood

Consciousness comes and goes.  The disorientation is unsettling, and the renewed bouts of pain are not something you are ever prepared for.  But it is what it is—there isn't much you can do about it.  So you endure the torture, the questioning, the pain, and you welcome unconsciousness when it comes.   You can't feel your arms anymore.  They've been tied up above your head for too long, the blood is all but gone.  You wonder if they'll rot off or something.  You'd strained against the restraints at first so hard that you'd cut your wrists, so it's probably a good thing the blood has drained out, otherwise those cuts might have been a serious problem. As it stands, you're basically just waiting to die.  The enemy hunting party that had captured you isn't going to let you go, and you have no information to offer.  You aren't exactly an important person amongst your people.  Your life isn't worth anything in trade, either, so you have no hope—not even of rescue.  Hope is gone by the time something changes. You wake up, and you aren't alone.  That isn't unusual, of course, but what is unusual is the fact that the torturer isn't focused on you.  They've got someone new fastened to the at an angle to yours. He can't be much younger than you, but he looks so unusual it baffles you—thin, pale, covered in blood, dressed in the strangest clothes.  A skyperson, perhaps?  He looks beat half to death already, and you wonder how long this has been going on.  To your immense surprise, though, he's not as bad off as his appearance suggests, as with every question the interrogator sends his way, he sasses back. You brows shoot up, watching the situation escalate.  This kid must not have much of a sense of self preservation.  It's one thing to not answer questions, and another entirely to antagonize those who are inflicting pain upon you.  But his tongue is as sharp as the torturer's blade, and he snarks back with every wound dealt him.  It's almost admirable, and at one point you even snort in amusement. Bad move.  It draws attention back to you.  Your face seers with pain as you're backhanded.  You spit blood to the floor.   The skyperson smirks.  "Bored of me already?" Your eyes shoot over to the kid.  All attention is back on him, and that isn't a good thing.  He takes a blow to the gut, coughing violently, straining against the chains holding him up.  He should have just let them wail on you, enjoyed the few moments of peace it would have earned him.  What was he thinking?   "If you've got a new toy," you find yourself saying, "then can I go?  Not that I haven't enjoyed the stay, but—" The torturer stares at you for a moment while you talk, then cuts you off with a knife to the shoulder.  You clench your teach against a scream. "That looks like it hurts." You meet the kid's eyes.  They look as dead as yours feel. The torturer is getting frustrated.  She twists the knife, and you jerk involuntarily against it, seething.  She pulls the knife free and walks towards the other prisoner.   "You want to find out?"  She holds the knife up to his face. "Is it optional?" From the way her face twists, that was the wrong thing for him to say.  Saying anything is probably wrong, to be honest.  She moves the knife to find a spot to cut, and you find yourself speaking up again.  "Hey—using the same knife on both of us?  I thought we had something special." The pain and strain in your chest is making it difficult to talk, and you don't sound nearly as confident as your words, but it works—she's distracted again.  The boy behind her stares at you.  You give him the smallest nod. He returns it. You develop a repertoire between you, using words to keep the torturer off balance, annoyed an on her toes.  A consequence of this is that her torture is less calculated, more emotional, and that probably is bad for both of you.  But the lingering seconds where she is listening and moving between you is a rewarding reprieve, and you'll take it.  Sometimes, you can't help losing consciousness.  But when you wake, you always go straight to what you realize is this stranger's defense, trying to draw his attacker away and spare him the pain you've had to deal with.  He, in turn, seems to be doing the same, trying to save you. Two people, from two different worlds, drawn together for survival.  It's the one light in the dim darkness of the inevitable death you face in this place.   You awake after a particularly bad session to find yourself alone with the boy.  He's awake, surprisingly, and shoots you a smirk on his blood-covered face. "You look terrible." Your answering smile is so painful, your answering laugh is almost a sob.  His smile slips. "Hey, don't die on me, alright?  This place would be pretty boring without you." It hurts to breathe, but you do it.  Your eyes burn, but you look up at him.  "Same to you, kid." He rolls his eyes.  The effort looks painful.  "You can't be much older than me." "Who knows." "Got a name, grounder?" You nod slowly.  "Yeah.  It's Y/N.  You?" "Murphy.  I'm John Murphy." It's so dark here, in your cell or cage or cave—you aren't sure, you can't see enough to even tell what the walls are made of.  A small amount of light, from the moon, maybe, filters through a few holes in the ceiling here and there.  They light up his face, glistening off the blood.  It's a pretty face, for a guy, even beaten and hopeless as it is.   You hate that hopeless look.  He looks sad, tired.  You recognize that look—like he's been through this before, and doesn't expect to be lucky enough to manage to live through it again.  Resigned. You hate it.  You don't want this poor kid to die, whoever he is.  Especially after, even as hopeless as he is, he's gone out of his way to draw the torturer away from you, to spare you a little bit of the pain that's inevitable for both you of.  Maybe he just doesn't want to die alone.  You don't really care why he's doing it.  You're doing the same for him.  You don't want to watch him suffer, not when you can help. So when the torturer's back, when it starts again, all focused on him, you can't stand it.  You strain forward, pulling the arms you can barely feel, tugging over and over, throwing your body against the restraints, screaming louder than you can remember screaming since this all started.  He's screaming just as loudly.  They don't seem to worried about him living through this—skypeople aren't their big concern, territory fights with your clan are.  This should comfort you; it doesn't. You've been together for what has probably been days by now, and you can't stand the thought of losing the only person left in your small world, a world of pain, who still speaks to you kindly, who still cares about your life.   To your shock, the chains jerk, giving slightly.  Hope surges through you, and you lean forward walking backward up the wall behind you, using the chains to suspend your body, and push away with all your strength.  Bouncing every few seconds, the chains let your fall forward a little farther each time, farther, farther, until— You hit the ground face first.  The metal plate your chains are still attached to falls forward and slams into your back, along with clods of old plaster.  Shocked, the room is silent and still for a few moments, everyone too stunned to think.   You can't waste this time.  You have to save John Murphy. But you still can't feel your hands and arms.  So you roll—just as the torturer charges you.  Pulling your knees up under you, you push up onto your shoulder, then climb to your feet, arms useless at your sides, starting to ache and tingle and hurt.  You ignore them, slamming your whole body with all the force you muster into your attacker. Toppling together, you wrap your legs around today's assailant—larger, male, familiar—and force your numb arms into motion.  You wrap the chain around his neck—once, twice, pulling it, tighter, tighter, his hands are clawing at it, he's choking, gagging, adrenaline pulses through you, your hands are throbbing with sudden blood-flow and pain, but you hang on, hang on— Until he stops moving.  Stops breathing. You climb off, not bothering to waste time to make sure he's dead and not just unconscious.  There's no telling if anyone heard the commotion, if someone is coming.  So you head straight for John. He's chained up the same as you were.  You search the torturer's body for keys, find them, and take more time than necessary fumbling with them through your tingling fingers to get him free.  The first thing he does is take your hand. Then he's pulling you towards the door.  He leans around corners as you make your way through what amounts to an underground maze, but you only ever encounter any others once, and you manage to go around them completely without being noticed.  You find a dead end around a corner, but the wall is partially crumbled away, revealing the ground above, and you throw up your chain, hooking it around a large stone, and pull yourself up before reaching back for John. The two of you keep running through the woods, barely caring which direction you're headed, determined to put as much distance between yourself and your captors as possible.  The sun is rising by the time you literally stumble into a stream and collapse, too hurt and exhausted to move, gasping for air and finally feeling all the anguish that's coursing through your body—especially your arms. John turn right around and grabs you, pulling you with him and out of the water.  He doesn't take you far before you both settle against a tree, curling up next to each other without thought, as natural as breathing, for comfort.   You wake to stinging.  John Murphy has water, is rinsing your wounds, washing strips of cloth he's ripped from his own clothes are wrapping your cuts, bracing anything broken with thick sticks.  When he's done, without a word, you help him do the same to his own.  It's only then you notice he'd unlocked your chains while you'd slept.  Your wrists are bruised, crusted in blood, and bandaged as best he could. He raises up.  You don't know why, and don't care.  You grab hold of his wrist, stopping him.  Sitting up on your knees, you hold yourself proudly, shoulders back, and stare seriously into his face, his eyes. "I owe you my life." He shrugs, looking away, like you've made him uncomfortable.  "You're the one who go free and saved me." "I never would have gotten free on my own.  I had long lost the will to live.  The desire to save you saved us both." Now he definitely looks uncomfortable.  He wipes at his nose with his free hand. "I owe you a debt." "A what?"  He glances down at you, brow furrowed. "Do your people not have concepts like this?"  You shrug off your own question.  "I owe you everything, so I am giving your everything.  Consider me yours." "What?"  His lip cocks, like he's smiling, but there's no humor in it—just further confusion. "I will follow you to the ends of the earth, John Murphy.  Because I want to.  Because I choose to.  Because I deem you worthy of me."  You stand, a bit unsteady but determined.  "I will not return to my people; they did not come for me.  I do not blame them, but I will not fight for those who would not fight for me.  You are my flesh and blood now.  I go where you go—if you will have me." He snorts, and the discomfort is palpable.  "That's ridiculous." "Are you denying my request?" He pulls his hand free and takes a few steps back, shrugging.  "You do whatever you want." You smile, and follow. It takes quite a few days of wandering through the woods before John Murphy finds his way back to his people.  By then, you've spent cold nights huddled close for warmth, hunted for food, and listened to him talk about whatever mundane thing comes to his mind to fill the silence.  You find you like this—being together.  It wasn't just being trapped, the life or death situation.  You honestly like John Murphy, like being with him. And, once you get to his camp, you can't say it's skypeople in general that you like.  Because you don't.  And you don't like the way they treat him.  You purpose running off together to live in the woods several times, promising to take care of him.  He waves you off. But if you are certain about anything, it's that you are determined to protect John Murphy.  You rarely leave his side.  And you begin to think that oath you made to him might have less to do with owing him your life, and more to do with wanting your lives bound together in a more tangible way.  You want claim on him, somehow.  You want him to be as much yours as you are his.   Oh.  You went and fell in love with him.

#the 100 #john murphy #torture #blood

[imaginingmyforest]

Fandom:  Until Dawn

Pairing:  Reader/Josh

Overprotective, gender-neutral Cree reader; Post game.  LITERALLY everyone lives–Josh included.  Also, I need one hundred and fifty more fics with Sub!Josh, just saying.

It doesn't matter how many times Josh's friends come to visit him at your parents' cabin—you always suddenly feel like an outsider in your own home.  The guy who, during his stay to recover from being possessed by the unspeakable, has become your best friend has his own friends, his own life outside of his unlicensed, unorthodox therapy.  

And you can't tell the difference between your own jealousy and your very valid anger at these people who, in your opinion, were the cause of everything that had happened to Josh.  You've tried to work through both of those things—it's been difficult. After learning everything that had happened to this guy from a combination of your parents and his own stories, you'd been understandably resentful of them—some more than others, of course.  

Chris, you like.  He seems harmless enough, dorky and well meaning.  He could have been a better friend, though. They all could have.  Let the guy with a history of mental instability get so drunk he passes out?  Were none of these kids the least bit responsible?

You try not to grind your teeth at that.  They were just normal teenagers. You let out a sigh.  You can't change the past.

Ashley is Chris' new girlfriend.  She's been mostly timid and sweet around you.  You don't mind her much, either, except when you think about the things Josh has told you.  You can't blame her for not wanting to die, you tell yourself.

You are so angry about so many things, though.  But you are glad no one died.

Well, no one else.  Not after Josh's sisters.

Sam, you've heard little to nothing bad about.  Josh thinks rather highly of her, in fact. There's a different kind of jealousy there—very different.

Matt tends to pale behind his girlfriend Emily's strong personality, but there's a respect there born from what they've been through together that makes them look rather sweet together.  It's hard to picture Matt being involved in that cruel prank that got Hannah and Beth killed, but you can see it—he's playful and a people pleaser. Emily, however, you can easily believe would want to be part of punishing someone for liking someone who was hers.  There's something admirable in her tenacity—you try to focus on that, on the good things about these people, instead of the bad.

It's hard.  When you see the scarring where the stitches were that held together the left side of Josh's face, repairing the damage his partial transformation had done, you want someone to punish for it.  To pay. To blame.

You're biased, though.  You know it. You keep repeating that to yourself, watching from the back of the room as Josh smiles and socializes with his visitors.  Watching—more like guarding, really. Ready to step in at any moment. Waiting for them to say or do the wrong thing and upset Josh.

You're more than a little overprotective.  Who can blame you? After how Josh was when your parents first brought him home.  The weeks he spent working through everything. The bad days.

Great heavens above, the bad days.

He's smiling now, laughing.  The tears and the screams in your memories are just that—just memories.  

Jessica is the most visibly changed by what happened besides Josh.  The girl is covered in scars. As the person who originally planned the prank that spurred all the events that came after, you have to make extra effort to feel bad for her.  After all, her dreams are ruined—she'd wanted to be a model. But so are Hannah's and Beth's.

She's nice enough to you, though, so it's easy enough to be nice right back.

And then there's Mike.  Mike, who was totally willing to trick Hannah.  Mike, who hit Josh with a gun. Mike, who dragged Josh out and tied him up and left him there.  Mike, who literally hid and left Josh to die--worse than, even.

He's the hardest for you to hold your temper around.  You know what Josh did, and you know there's no excuse.  He was wrong, too. But you don't forgive Mike. You don't.

Mike acts so friendly.  Josh has worked so hard, come so far, and has made such immense strides towards forgiving his friends.  It's part of his healing. You, who have nothing to heal from, are holding on to the anger Josh has tossed away.

He turns then, and smiles at you, motions you towards the group.  Frowning, you shoot the most neutral expression you can manage around to each one of them before slowly stepping forward to stand slightly behind Josh, at his shoulder.  

“So.”  Jessica smiles at you.  “You're not very talkative.”

It's an in for you, an ice breaker.  None of them have any idea what you feel for them.  To them, you are a relative stranger. Just the kid of the Cree couple taking care of Josh who he's befriended.  You know that Josh has mentioned you rather often in his phone calls to them—he doesn't normally mind you being in the room when he talks, even if you prefer to leave and try to give him his privacy (there isn’t much of that when you have a history of being a suicide risk).  Of course, there's not much else to mention besides the actual therapy (getting over being possessed isn't easy, especially with pre-existing mental illness, not to mention traumatic experiences; but there isn't really a licensed psychiatrist who would believe that, so the Washingtons had come, desperate, to your Tribe, who’d tasked your parents and their ancestral knowledge with this young man’s life).

When Josh is doing well, you guys walk to town or take rides around the woods (both horseback and on dirtbikes—it's summer, so there's little snow at the base of the mountain where your cabin is).  Your family has been worried about isolating him too much, or him becoming dependant on any of you. He’s joined a local bowling league, and works part time at the tiny theater. So far, he hasn't had any major problems, no setbacks in weeks.

Josh's parents visit as much as they can.  You can tell that, after losing their two girls and almost losing Josh a year later, they are willing to do just about anything for him.  They're good people. Busy, rich, and easily distracted, but obviously well meaning. They love their son. And they are afraid for him.

Josh is chuckling.  You haven't answered Jessica.  They are all staring at you. You shoot Josh a look, quirking your brow, and then shrug.

“I guess I'm not.”

“Y/N's sense of humor is pretty lacking, too.”  Josh informs them with a strange amount of pride.  “I always consider it a testament to my skills as an entertainer when I can get them to laugh or banter with me.”

That's true enough.  It's hard to have a sense of humor when good-natured pranks are what got your new friend into this mess.  Besides, you were homeschooled and spend more time on the internet and playing video games than socializing with real people—your humor doesn't translate as well in real life as it does online.

“So Y/N's a stick in the mud,” Chris states, his expression playful.

“My stick in the mud.”  Josh wraps an arm around your shoulder and gives you a shake.

That does make you grin, and the awkward mood shifts to a more friendly atmosphere.  You remain at Josh's side a while longer, but when conversations drift into territory you deem safe, you slip backwards towards the kitchen to fix dinner for everyone.  There's no division in the cabin between the kitchen and the living room, so you never have to take your eyes off Josh, and you can keep an ear out for their topics.

Your parents are out staying with your aunt, mostly as an excuse to let Josh have his visit unsupervised.  You'd offered to go, too, but he'd insisted you stay. He said he feels more grounded with you around.

Dinner is, of course, one of Josh's favorites.  Things stay pretty cheerful, for which you are grateful, and the group gathers around the TV for a late night of movies before everyone moves to the upstairs bedrooms to crash about three in the morning.  The girls, despite quite a few eye rolls, get ushered into your room, while the guys are across the hall in what used to be the guest room and has since been officially dubbed Josh's room. There's plenty of floor space in both for the guests to lay out blankets and make makeshift beds.

You hesitate in the hall, wondering where you should sleep.  You suppose your parents' bed downstairs is open. You don't really want to take your bed with the girls, and though you've slept in the same room with Josh too many times for it to bother you anymore, it's still weird to stay with all the guys.  Both groups are relative strangers. Moving to head down the stairs, Josh's appearance in his doorway stops you.

“Hey, where are you going?”

You nod towards the bottom of the stairs.  “I figured I'd take my parents' bed.”

“No way, Y/N.”  Josh grins, shaking his head, and motions you his way.  “Get in here.”

You cock a brow.  “You sure? I mean, it's a room full of guys, and you do remember I like guys, right?”

He rolls his eyes.  “You gonna jump every guy in the room?”

Your face wrinkles in distaste.  “No.”

“What a coincidence, no one in here is gonna jump you, either.  I think we're all good.”

Shaking your head, you nevertheless back up and follow Josh into his room.  Even he's made a pallet on the floor, leaving the bed empty. You do the same.  No one has enough energy left after the long night to stay awake any longer, and no one even looks up as you settle beside Josh.

They all take off the next morning.  Josh is all smiles, slapping people on the back and hugging everyone, welcoming them back anytime and promising lots of calls to keep in touch.  You get a few hugs, as well, and 'thank yous' for helping Josh. And then everyone is gone, and the house is empty again, as usual. You let out a relieved breath; you aren't used to being so social, fun or not.

Josh looks so smug, grinning at you out of the corner of his eye, that you know he knows exactly what you're thinking.  

“Come on.  That wasn't so bad, was it?”  He nudges you, and you stumble sideways a few steps.

The smile slips right off Josh's face and he closes the distance again, reaching for you even as you regain your balance.

“I'm fine.”  You're reassuring him before you're even standing still again.  “I'm fine, Josh. The ground just slants down towards the creek, that's all.”

“I'm-m s-sorry,” he says anyway, his expression that heartbreaking equivalent to a kicked puppy that hurts you so much.

“You didn't hurt me, Josh.”  You continue calmly. “I just stumbled.”

He stares down at the ground, hands falling to his sides again.  “I thought I had the hang of ... all this.”

He gestures vaguely to all of himself, but you know what he means.  The scars aren't the only thing left over from his possession, after all.  The unnatural strength is still part of him, something he's really had to work at getting used to.  Along with the cravings.

“What if I'd have done that to one of the girls?”  His voice is barely a whisper.

You snort.  “They might have fallen down, got a little dirt on their clothes?  You didn't exactly hulk out, Josh.”

Though, with Josh's strength, that's a valid concern.  His vision isn't as good as it used to be, either, from what he tells you.  He's debated on getting glasses, but you aren't sure it will help. He's definitely colorblind now, unlike before.  His hearing is better, though, and his reflexes and movements are much faster. His teeth had to be filed when he first arrived, too, and his nails have to be cut almost every week.  They're unnaturally thick and sharp, and he can't use nail clippers; they break. His fingers are longer, and he's taller, too. Taller than all his friends, certainly.

His temper, though, combined with his strength and speed are what worry him.  And his mental illnesses. He worries about losing control or making bad decisions.  If Josh is anything, it's caring, and there's nothing that hurts him more than the thought of hurting others.

His actions on at the lodge cause him anguish now.  His revenge did nothing for his healing like he'd hoped, and he regrets it.

Josh regrets a lot.

And Josh is afraid of a lot.

Mostly himself.

“You did good, Joshua,” you tell him, reaching out and putting a hand on his head, ruffling his hair lightly.

The tension starts to visibly leave his shoulders, his body relaxing.

“It was almost like old times.”  His voice is calmer, a hint of a smile there despite his hidden face.  Then he's suddenly shaking with laughter. “Oh my goodness, Ashley trying not to stare at my scar?”

You cringe.  “She wasn't doing a good job.”

Josh snorts, and you're glad he's taking this with such good humor.  “I was more impressed with Jess. She didn't even flinch, man.”

“She's got her share.”

“Yeah, yeah she does.”  He finally looks up, wide grin and happy crinkles around the edges of his eyes.  “I think we're all gonna be okay, you know?”

“Of course you are.”

There's only have a second to register Josh's face morphing into a devious smirk before he shoves you.  Toppling backward, you grab wildly for purchase and latch onto Josh's shirt, tugging him with you. The added weight only makes you fall faster, and you both end up toppling into the shallow creek with a loud splash.

The water seeps into your clothes quickly, and you shiver; it's, thankfully, a warm morning, but that doesn't mean you were prepared to suddenly be soggy.  Josh is laughing his head off.

You can't even be mad; not at his obvious joy, his carefree expression, or the step forward he made trusting himself to push you into the water without hurting you.  His good mood lifts your heart, and suddenly rush forward, tackling him at an angle and shoving him backward, so that now he's on his backside in the water like you were.  You rise up above him on your knees, smiling in triumph.

He gazes up at you with his cheeky little half grin, chin pulled down so his eyes are shining beneath his dark lashes.  You don't think he knows what that look does to you, but it certainly seems like it. Josh plays you like a fiddle sometimes.

“I saw that,” he says playfully.

“Saw what?”  You shoot back.

“You just fell a little in love with me.”

You can't help it; you snort.

He starts laughing, too, all the while trying to look chagrined.  “Come on, admit it. You did—just a little.”

Standing up, you splash some water at him.  “Shut up, Josh.”

“You know you did!”  He calls after you, still laughing.

Ignoring him, you head back to the house.  The soggy footsteps behind you let you know he's following.  He catches up easily, and you push him away.

“I'm heading upstairs to change, you can take the bathroom—your clean laundry's in the dryer, anyway.”

“Sure you don't want to join me?”

You shake your head and open the door.  “Shut up, Josh.”

Racing into the house, you head for the stairs and take them two at a time.  Josh calls after you, “Too tempting? It's okay, I understand!”

Your heart is racing when he finally close your bedroom door behind you, and it has nothing to do with the run upstairs.  You quickly strip your wet clothes and toss them out the sliding door onto the porch and rummage through your closet for a towel and something else to wear.  There isn't much—yesterday was laundry day, and that was forgotten in the excitement of Josh's friends visiting. Your clothes are either in the washer or waiting to be next.  You end up in a pair of sweats that had been hiding under your bed and one of Josh's tank tops that had somehow found its way into your room—both are probably dirty, but they don't smell and at least they're dry.

Taking an extra moment before heading downstairs, you pick back up your wet clothes and hang them over the rails on the porch to sun dry, hoping the weather stays nice.

Josh is already on the couch when you get to the living room, curled up beside one of the arms.  He hasn't even bothered with a shirt, and is only wearing jeans. That is not helping your overworked heart one bit.

“Seriously, Josh?”  You can't help but ask.

His grin is slow and very full of itself, crooked and beautiful.  He cocks a brow. “Still too tempting?”

Hesitating a moment, you get an idea.  Your answering smirk is so devious it makes Josh's eyes go wide.  

“Y/N—”

You launch yourself onto the couch, arms reaching out, fingers wiggling before they even reached their destination—the bare skin of Josh's stomach and sides.  He flinches back immediately, curling in on himself in an attempt to block your roaming hands. He has little success, as you maneuver beneath his elbows and he squirms, barking with laughter, under your tickle attack.

Josh wants you to have a sense of humor, then he can deal with the consequences—and you can use it to cover up those awkward feelings you have that you're trying to ignore.

Speaking of those feelings, the position you two are now was probably a bad thing.

Why did you think stradling a shirtless Josh on your couch and touching him all over was a good idea?  

He tries shifting beneath you, his face moving closer, and you suck in a breath as covertly as possible.  Then he's moving back again, and you let out the air in relief, but it's short lived as he shuffles all the way onto his back and your fingers slide down over an especially sensitive spot and suddenly his hips buck up and grind against yours.

You gasp, entire body freezing.  Electricity shoots through you, heart hammering, and your stomach twists as your affection morphs into arousal so quickly there's no way to even attempt to hide it.

Josh goes still beneath you, and your eyes lock.  

Oh, no.  No no no—

You raise up and move back, trying to extricate yourself from Josh and climb off the couch, but instead you trip yourself up on one of his legs.  In almost the reverse of what happened earlier at the creek, Josh reaches to grab you, trying to pull you back to him, but your toppling sideways cannot be stopped.  You just end up tugging him off the couch and into the floor with you—along with all the couch cushions that just slide off and flip over on top of you both.

Covered in cushions, tangled in Josh's legs, and with your back now aching where it hit the coffee table, you shuffle around, tossing cushions away—and find yourself, despite your efforts and your pain, in almost the exact same position as before, except now you're both in the floor and you're the one between his legs.

Josh bats a cushion off the top of his head, and the awkwardness is momentarily forgotten as you ask, “You okay?”

“Just dan—”  He meets your eyes again, and trails off.  “—dy ...”

He's got one arm partially still on the couch, but the rest of him is sprawled beneath you.  And he is certainly something to look at—bare chest, golden skin, sharp angles, that boyish charm, dark, thick hair, strong jaw, those big, beautiful eyes ... and his lips.  Those strangely appealing lips, that always draw you in, whether it's his smile, or when he bites one with worry, the way he rolls them, toys with them when he's not speaking ...

Oh, how far gone are you?

Too far gone.  He's staring up at you, and you can't move.  Can't look away. Can't even catch your breath right; each one comes stuttering out, painfully loud in the heavy silence.

“... Y/N?”

You should move.  You ought to climb off him, put some distance between the two of you, like you'd been trying to do before.  But you're still frozen, still staring at his wide eyes, gaze flickering down to those lips ...

You're going to ruin this.  Ruin everything. Josh is your friend, your parents' charge, and he trusts you.  What are you doing? Move move MOVE.

“Kiss me.”

Your breathing literally stops.

Josh eyes flit back and forth between yours.  His mouth opens slightly, and it's only to add—to beg— “Please?”

You suck in one shuddering, deep breath of air—and then lean in.  Slowly, barely believing this is happening, that he asked, that he wants—

Your head turns just a tiny bit, your noses brush, your foreheads lean together, and then your lips meld.  Oh, he tastes as good as he looks, feels better than you could of ever dreamed, soft and chapped and slick, the scent of him flooding your senses, the warmth of his closeness overwhelming.  Everywhere, all around you, in your head, is all just Josh, Josh, Josh, with every pound of your heart.

One hand goes to the floor to hold you up, the other goes to his face to run your thumb along his cheek—this left cheek, his scar—and he's leaning back, and you're leaning forward, and his hands wrap around you and you have him practically pinned down, moving slowly against his lips, savoring.

Kiss piles upon kiss, and you dread the thought of moving apart as his arms roam along your back, but after a few more moments you do pull away, just far enough to see his face, his eyes, to make sure this is still okay.

Josh has been through so much.  The last thing you want is to take advantage of him, of the unintentional symbol of stability you've become in his life beside your parents.  You would never betray his trust like that.

He's breathing just as hard as you are, and his eyes are heavy lidded, but he cocks a crooked grin at you and asks breathlessly, “How long have you wanted to do that?”

You try to keep your answer short, but your voice still cracks a little.  “Ages.”

He huffs a tiny laugh.  “Well, don't stop now.”

“You sure?”

Both brows go up this time, and one of his hands makes its way up your body, wraps around the back of your head, and pulls you back down as he raises up to meet you.  Your return kiss is so fervent, Josh is flat on the floor again in seconds. He doesn't complain.

Healing

#until dawn #joshua washington #possession

[imaginingmyforest]

Title:  A Glimpse Characters:  Erik Lehnsherr (/Reader), Charles Xavier, mentions of Logan and Hank McCoy Word Count:  2344 Age Suggestion/Rating:  Teen Summary:  Imagine the X-Men (including Erik) discussing and tracking down an extremely powerful mutant—You—that can replicate powers and create new ones, whom Erik falls in love with.

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#x-men #erik lehnsherr

[imaginingmyforest]

Title:  Imagine how Charles and Erik would react to a genderfluid student Characters:  Erik Lehnsherr, Charles Xavier Word Count:  1620 Age Suggestion/Rating:  Everyone Summary:  You’re moving into the X Mansion and decide to get the subject of your gender out in the open first thing.

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#x-men #erik lehnsherr #charles xavier #genderfluid reader

[imaginingmyforest]

Title:  Imagine how Charles and Erik would react to a genderfluid student Characters:  Erik Lehnsherr, Charles Xavier Word Count:  1620 Age Suggestion/Rating:  Everyone Summary:  You’re moving into the X Mansion and decide to get the subject of your gender out in the open first thing.

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#x-men #erik lehnsherr #charles xavier #genderfluid reader

[imaginingmyforest]

Maybe

“Imagine Charles (before he got shot) reading your mind and discovering your suicidal thoughts.”

Requested by an anon

Fandom:  X-men

Characters:  Charles Xavier

Trigger Warnings:  Talks of suicide, depression, and self harm

Author’s note:  I’m crying.  I don’t really care for Charles so I don’t write him much (I have a great aversion to his powers, and it shows here probably), but this hurt.  Why does everything I write hurt lately?  I probably needed this, though.  I feel like I’ve been on both sides of this argument, and both positions are so painful and bleak and hopeless and confusing.  I hope it makes sense, and I hope it was something along the lines of what you wanted, anon.

As always, there are links in my sidebar is anyone needs self help tips, suicide hotlines or chatrooms, etc.  Please, stay safe, stay strong, and God bless you.

“Y/N?”  

“Hm?”  You mumble lazily, letting your head fall to the side to see who’s approached you.  Staring at the ceiling hadn’t been very productive, after all.  Yet you still felt the overwhelming desire to get back to it, as you had been for the past half and hour, and only barely managed to suppress a glare at the person who’d interrupted you.

It’s Charles.  He’s smiling, but it looks like a rather painful process.  It doesn’t reach his eyes, and is stiff, like he’s trying to keep it in place too hard.  "We need to talk.“

Cocking a brow, you shrug and pull yourself up into a sitting position, groaning slightly as your body aches in protest.  The window seat hadn’t been all that comfortable.  Why you’d chosen it when you weren’t even looking out the window was beyond you.  It had just been the first logical place away from everyone else that you’d found to collapse in, in an empty room off the main hall. 

You’d picked it because you could hear when people were passing by, and keep up with whether any commotion was happening and you needed to get up.  Charles had still managed to sneak up on you, though.  Oh, well.

"What’s up?”  You finally ask, rubbing your neck.  It does little to southe the ache there. 

Charles seems to flounder awkwardly for a moment, biting his lip, before he pulls up a chair and sits down beside you, leaning forward to clasp his hands in his lap. “… looks serious.”  You say, watching the way his eyes keep darting to you and away again, a little glossy.  Why does he look like he’s in pain?  "You okay?“

He laughs so hard and so suddenly it’s practically a snort.  Despite that, he looks closer to tears than amusement, and you let your legs fall forward as you turn towards him, seriously concerned now.

"I should be asking you that.”  He replies after a moment.  His hand goes up to the bridge between he eyes, and he rubs there slowly.

“M'fine.”  You say automatically, not really thinking about it.  

“No, you aren’t!”  Charles snaps, looking up at you.  His face is so harsh you recoil back a bit, hands clamping down on the window seat.

He bites his lip again, blinking rapidly.  You don’t know what to say, what’s going on, but why does he look like he’s in so much pain?  You keep wondering, panicking.  What do I do?  What’s wrong?  How do I help?

He chuckles lowly then.  "Y/N, you are … so kind.“

Your brow furrows; this doesn’t make sense.  "Professor, what’s wrong?”

“You keep asking me the things I should be asking you.”  He smiles, and you don’t know what you’ll do if those tears there actually fall.  You can’t breathe.  It hurts to watch him like this.  "And I just don’t know what to say.“

"That’s my line.”  

He only shakes his head slowly. Silence starts to stretch out again, and you want so badly to say something, but what do you say when someone looks like they are hurting this bad?

“I could hear you.”  Charles finally says.  "Y/N, I was passing down the hallway, and I could … I wasn’t trying to, but I pick up on things sometimes—things I have my mind listen for, to protect the students, just in case—and I heard you.  In your head.“

He meets your eyes again, and a tear escapes, racing down his cheek, and he repeats, voice cracking, ”I heard you.“

Oh.  Well, that would explain it.  

You dart up from your seat and stomp across the room, racing to escape, but Charles is on his feet right after you, calling, "Wait, Y/N, please–”

“No!”  You snap, whirling around, furious.  "You don’t get to cry!  You don’t get to invade my privacy, barge your way into my thoughts without my consent, and then come in here with all of your hurt and your pain! This isn’t about you, and don’t you dare do this to me!  This is about my life!“

"I know, Y/N, I’m sorry–”

“I can have my thoughts, Charles!  No matter what they are about, I can have my thoughts!”

“But I don’t want you to kill yourself!”  He yells back, fists clenched, face drawn, tears still falling.

You glare right back.  "That isn’t your choice.  This is my life, my depression, my pain, and you don’t get to decide what I do with it.“

"I can help–”

“Then help.”  You cut him off.  "But this?  This isn’t help.  Stay out of my head unless I say you can be there.  And don’t make this about you. Because that doesn’t make me want to stay any more than I already did—or didn’t, as the case may be.“

He takes a step back, runs a hand roughly through his hair, and deflates.  "Then what do I do, Y/N?  Please, tell me.”

You stare at him, silently, fuming, heart racing, knowing the moment the anger leaves—and it will leave, no matter how justifiable it is, becuase this is Charles, and you hurt him, and darn it, this is exactly what you hadn’t wanted to happen, you have to take care of yourself, you’re messed up enough without worrying about the pain you’re causing him—you’re going to cry.  Or not cry.  Feel nothing.  Both prospects are terrifying, in a way that you dread the flip flop of pain and nothingness, which one will it be?  "It’s not about what you can do.  I can’t think about you right now.  I have to think about me, because I’m the one in control of me.  If you want to help, you have to figure out what to do on your own.  But in the end, I am the one that makes this decision.“

"To die?”  He sounds almost spiteful.

You want to hit him.  You want to snear at him and laugh and tell him, yeah, maybe.  It isn’t any of his business.  Heck, it took him invading your head for him to even realize something was wrong, and this wasn’t the first time you’d thought about ending it.

Charles is apparently too worked up to wait for your answer.  "Y/N, just—talk to me.“

Noncommittedly, you reply, "Maybe.”

He steps forward, raising a hand towards you, gesturing towards your head.  "I can make things better–“

"Don’t you dare!”  You shreik, backing up into the wall, as far from him as you can get.  "Maybe you could change things in my head, make me think I’m happy, but it wouldn’t be real and it wouldn’t be me.  So would you freaking listen to me for once and stay the heck out of my head!?“

He backs off, nodding over and over, hands at his sides.  One shoots up to wipe his face before falling again.

"I’m sorry.”  He chokes out.  "I know I’m going about this all wrong and saying the wrong things, but I’m so scared, Y/N.  I just don’t want to lose you.  Please, whatever you need, please tell me.“

"If I knew what I needed, wouldn’t I be better right now?”  You feel tired again, the anger starting to ebb.  The window seat is looking appealing again; a quiet place to just sit and not think and not be and occasionally think about not being at all.  Nothingness.

“Then … would you just—would you promise me something?”

Your eyes narrow again, anticipating some kind of well-meaning but ultimantly selfish and impossible request that’s only going to make things worse.  That’s what usually happens.  That’s why you don’t talk about it anymore.

He sees the wariness in your expression and hurries on.  "Just … just come to to me, alright?  If you ever want to hurt yourself or, or if you make a decision and—just, please, don’t leave without seeing me.  I know this is your choice, but don’t make the decision alone.  I know there are others out there who have gone through something similar, in some way, to what you are, and I swear to you, I will take the X-Jet and talk to every one of them if I have to, use Cerebro to find them, but I will not stop until I figure out how to support you in this.“

Promises.  Promises.

The anger is gone.  You can barely work up the energy to protest.  "Stay out of their heads, too, Charles.”

“Whatever you want.”

That brings back a little spark.  "That’s common decency, it isn’t about me.  You aren’t God, Charles.  Don’t use me or my pain as an excuse to act like it.“

Better off, your mind mumbles.  Better off without you. You, causing this pain.  You, making him want to march into other minds uninvited and invade peoples’ most intimate sufferings all in the name of helping you.  Better off. If you’re dead, you don’t have to worry about any of that.

"I’m sorry,” he says, and his eyes are overflowing again, like he knows he’s said just the wrong thing, and you wonder if he’s in your head again, and the thought makes you so angry that you’re half tempted to throw the nearest wooden chair at him.  "You’re right, I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.“

You both stand there, chests heaving for different reasons, eyes locked. Laughter floats in from the hallways—Charles had left the door cracked.  Footsteps pass without stopping.

"Please?”  Charles repeats.  "Please, promise me?“

"I promise.”  You finally whisper, feeling defeated.  Hopeless.

A smile flutters across his face, hopeful.  You want to throw up.

You can’t depend on him for this.  If you want to live, you have to make that decision for yourself.  It’s your life.  But a few days later, when things are particularly bleak, and kitchen knives are so easy to get a hold of—really, anyone could just walk in, pick one up, and leave without anyone ever noticing—you walk into Charles office and plop down in the seat in front of his desk.  He’s on the phone, and stares at you oddly as you say nothing, and watch as it clicks in his face and he hangs up on his conversation and suddenly he’s in the floor at your feet, on his knees, hand on your leg, tentative, you think it’s not so bad not to go through this alone.

Even though you are alone.  Even though he doesn’t understand.  Still, it’s nice to talk.  For him to listen.  To stay out of your head and focus on your words, to stop trying to fix you and to just be there sometimes.  It’s all a lot of people can do in these situations.  Occasionally, it’s all you need. Not always.  But it’s nice.

(You tell him about the kitchen knives. By the end of the week, the entire X-men has been what amounts to child proofed, much to everyone’s confusion.  You actually smile.  Maybe you won’t go just yet.)

(Maybe.)

#x-men #charles xavier #suicide mention #self harm #depression