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starbornsinger · 3 years

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Favourite Distraction (Gwyn x Azriel One-shot)

Summary: During a training session, the line between friendship and romance becomes more and more blurred for Gwyn and Azriel. Fluff, some steam. Set in the Nepenthe universe.

Word Count: 2.4K

“The chances of you making it out of this alive are slim.”

Well, the blade at Gwyneth’s neck certainly proved that point. The sharp tip pressed into her skin, threatening to slice her open with the slightest flick of a wrist. “If I apply any pressure, I’d go straight through your neck. If you move, I’ll slice your throat.”

Nowhere to go.

Gwyn’s teal eyes scanned the surrounding area wildly, landing on the sword which had skittered a mere foot away. Even with her fingers splayed painfully, the priestess could only graze the hilt of her weapon with her fingertips. There was no way she could grab hold of it, not without risking death.

She gulped. Pinned to the floor on her stomach, the cold steel of the dagger kept her from fighting back, and Gwyn knew she was running out of options. Bargaining was her last resort.

“I—” “Don’t move,” the male repeated harshly, his knee digging into her spine. “My hand might slip.”

Gwyneth was stuck. She had no escape.

“Damn it,” she swore under her breath, and patted her hand on the solid ground. “Alright, you win.”

Azriel withdrew his blade at her tap-out; he was sitting on her back, practically crushing her lungs with the weight of him. Six months ago, she might have panicked at a male being so close— and being trapped by him as well. But Gwyn had made great strides in her journey to healing, and now, the comfort and trust she had formed with Azriel was unbreakable.

“Not bad,” he mused lowly, flicking dust off his shoulder. “But not good enough.”

“Well, when you’ve got a blade to my jugular, defending myself gets a bit tough,” she choked out, as Azriel lounged on her as though she were a bit of furniture. She rubbed her neck, where a small bead of blood had formed, and wiped it off. It smeared on her freckled skin, but didn’t seem to notice. “Are you going to get off of me, spymaster?”

Azriel shrugged. “I’ll think about it,” he replied dryly,but she could hear the grin in his voice. Gwyn scowled, and rolled onto her side, effectively pushing him off of her.

She laid on her back, staring up at the sky as she panted. “Must you make everything so difficult, Shadowsinger?”

“I doubt your opponent would be any easier on you,” he replied, not missing a beat. It made her want to throttle him. “Well then. Thank the Mother my opponent is only you.” The priestess smirked, and Azriel had the nerve to look mock-offended. “Lucky me.”

“Lucky you,” he echoed, with a twinkle in his hazel eyes. Gods, he was handsome, Gwyn thought, sitting up. She drew her knees to her chest, resting her chin atop them. Azriel sheathed Truth-Teller. Gwyn watched silently, chewing on her lip. He stretched his wings momentarily, shaking them out as though it were a sore muscle. He looked so peaceful, Gwyn thought, as the sun shone through his wings. It made the reds and blues dance, and illuminated every vein and curve. The hair that looked raven black most days now looked reddish-brown in the sunset, which cut his features in a most handsome way.

Even sweaty and tired, he still managed to be so damn handsome. Azriel was distracted, thankfully, and so Gwyn could take a moment to take in all his features. She sighed softly. She was falling way, way too hard. But Mother knew she’d die before she admitted it.

Azriel must have assumed she was tired— which in truth, she was— because he glanced in her direction, and announced, “We can stop for today. It’s close to dinner. I’m sure you’re hungry.” He pulled himself to his feet, offering her a hand. The shadowsinger then paused, looking down at his scars with a frown, and began to withdraw. His shadows thickened.

No.

Gwyn’s hand shot out to grab his, gripping it tightly. Azriel blinked, the only indication of his surprise, and hoisted her up alongside him. She dusted herself off, then stood up straight. The two of them stood mere inches from each other, practically chest-to-chest as the Valkyrie looked up at him. “If— if you’re up for it, I wouldn’t mind another round,” she heard herself saying. Wait, what? The priestess amended quickly, stumbling over her words a bit, “I um, I had a late lunch. With Nesta. So I wouldn’t… I mean, only if you want to. I’m sure you’re tired of training.”

ꕥ

Azriel didn’t want Gwyn to leave. Not really. Nor did his shadows, really. So when she had asked for an overtime lesson, he felt a bit pathetic about how his heart seemed to skip a happy little beat. His shadows were clearly elated; a moment ago, they had been swirling with the blackness of his insecurity, and now? It was like watching an excited puppy pace back and forth. They danced and darted, and it took all of his control to wrangle them away from Gwyn. They shot towards her, curling around her arms and waist in a misty embrace. She let out a laugh, the sound ringing beautifully. Every smile, every giggle: it was all carved into his mind. A brand, a disarming he was glad to accept.

Gwyn’s lips twitched upwards. “Is that a yes, then?”

Azriel scratched the back of his head nervously, looking away from that piercing teal gaze. “I suppose it is,” he replied. The spymaster was a bit surprised at himself, really, surprised to see how relieved he was that she had asked. And Gwyn, it seemed, was relieved as well. She exhaled, letting her shoulders sag a bit, and chuckled. His eyes caught on the bit of exposed skin her white tunic had revealed, admiring the splatter of freckles on her collarbone. Her skin looks so damn soft, he thought, as his shadows once more crept out to caress her skin. They settled on her shoulder, and she tilted her head to rub her cheek against a tendril. She grinned at him, her lips curling back to reveal that bright smile of hers. With this priestess, he swore he had found religion in an entirely new way.

Azriel shook out his hands, then clenched them into fists and got into a fighting stance. He narrowed his eyes, studying her. Where would she strike first? How would she try to trick him? She seemed to be doing the same, because she had a damn smirk on her face that the spymaster couldn’t help but return.

“What?” She laughed, as they circled each other. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because that’s how you’re looking at me!” He replied, with a snicker. Gwyn’s foot pivoted ever so slightly, and he anticipated the punch that was thrown seconds later. Ducking low, Azriel managed to avoid that swift hook of hers, throwing one of his own.

“I am not!” The priestess protested, using her padded forearm to block his hit, then raised her knee and slammed it into him. Azriel let out a loud “oof”, stumbling back a step. He clutched his side, praying she’d take the bait. “Yes, you are,” he said between exaggerated pants. Gwyn did as he’d hoped: she raised her other leg to strike his uninjured side. Faster than lightning, his shadows wrapped around her ankle, suspending it mid-air.

Gwyn’s eyes widened, and she looked at him in disbelief. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I?” He asked, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. When the Valkyrie was yanked to the ground, she let out a cry of frustration, slamming her fist on the mat. She propped herself up on her elbows, squinting up at him.

“You know, you make it especially difficult for me to like you sometimes, Spymaster,” she scowled, as Azriel crouched down beside her.

“You and I both know that’s a lie,” he drawled. He couldn’t help but tease her, especially considering that he had beaten her in mere seconds. “I thought you wanted another round.”

“I did,” she replied, then suddenly, her leg swept out and smashed into his. He went toppling backwards, losing his balance and falling on his ass. “We’re not done yet.” Gwyn grabbed hold of his forearms, trying to grapple with him. They were a tangle of limbs and fists, tossing battle strategy out the window for an all-out brawl. It was a rare moment for Azriel, one where he decided that, for once, he’d have a bit of fun.

ꕥ

Gwyn was laughing once more, as they rolled around on the mat like warring toddlers. She wasn’t a small woman by any means, standing only a half foot shorter than he, but she was thin and flexible, which meant trying to grab her was like trying to catch a summer breeze. Grappling with each other alone in the ring, Azriel tried his best to pin down the nymph, but that only seemed to encourage her more. Those tricky fingers of hers now began tickling him, and Azriel’s eyes widened.

For the first time in what felt like ages, he giggled.

The Spymaster of the Night Court was giggling. He was chuckling at first, which evolved into a laugh, which then turned into an eruption of giggles and guffaws. He flailed his arms, trying to push her off. Gwyn was absolutely stunned. She’d never heard such a sound from him; Mother, he barely even reached a dozen decibels. But now? Now his shadows swirled about them, rippling from each laugh that escaped those perfect lips of his.

Gwyn was seeing stars, and it wasn’t because of the approaching twilight.

“Stop— No, not there!” He managed to choke out, grinning like an idiot. Tears came to his eyes as she attacked his abdomen, his underarms, his neck.

“No,” Gwyn shouted back, with a devious smile. “You’re a feared Ilyrian warrior who kills great beasts! Can’t you fight off the Tickle Monster?” But Azriel was too overcome to respond, trying to push her off and retaliate by attacking her sides. The priestess clambered on top of the male, sat atop his hips as she straddled them with her thighs. Finally, she managed to pin his arms to the floor, leaning over him as he gasped for air.

Azriel’s wheezed, letting out a chuckle. Gwyn had him pinned by the wrists, and although he could escape if he tried, he didn’t want to. Because he had realized the position they were now in.

And he liked it.

Gwyn seemed to realize too, because her face turned even redder than her hair. She was straddling him, and she could feel every inch of his body, the soft bulge that pressed in between her legs. The bulge that was slowly hardening as it absorbed the heat of her. The priestess swallowed, his hands still pinned above his head. Azriel made no move to escape, looking up at her like— Like he wanted her.

His hazel eyes, usually dark and brooding, were sparkling like the night, focusing all of his raw emotion on her with an intensity she didn’t think she could handle. There was mischief in his gaze; there was affection.

His lips parted slightly, and he inhaled slowly. Was he smelling her? Oh Mother, could he smell her? Gwyn swore silently, realizing that her own scent had changed from its usual flower sweetness to something smoky, and tangy. She squeezed her thighs together, trying to trap the heat she was feeling down there.

He missed nothing, glancing at her hips and then back up at her face. Gwyn bit down on the inside of her lip. A strand of her hair had fallen from behind her ear, and she tucked it back. With one hand now freed, Azriel lifted it. Hesitantly, he set it on her thigh, scanning her eyes for permission. All she did was offer a barely perceptible nod. He slid it up higher, to the curve of her hip. They had gotten closer, their faces inches apart as her hair curtained their faces. The shadows around them had thickened, wrapping around Gwyn’s waist and neck.

He wanted her badly. There was no denying it. The spymaster had felt desire for Elain, but what he felt for Gwyn was magnetic. She made him laugh, made him smile. She would be the destruction of every wall he had painstakingly built, and gods, he welcomed it. Those teal eyes of hers were foggy, darting up and down his body. The priestess was stunning. He loved every state of her: her robes, the dress she had worn to Nesta’s mating ceremony, how she looked after training. Even when she was a sweaty mess, the afterglow of her rosy cheeks made his heart skip.

His hand trailed that path from her hip to her thigh, as they stared at each other in silence. There was a humming in his head, a euphoric feeling he only got from faerie wine. Gwyn bit her lip, an action that set him aflame, then cupped his cheek. Her thumb traced his cheekbone, running over his lips and parting them.

“You’re beautiful,” she said absentmindedly, and Azriel blinked, a bit taken aback. He let out a soft laugh.

“I’m beautiful? I’m a male, Gwyn.”

“And?” She challenged. “Males can be beautiful.” She lifted her chin, letting out a hum. Her fingers brushed over the cleft in his chin. “They all say you are.”

“Who?” He asked, his voice soft, low.

“Anyone in Prythian with a working pair of eyes. You’re quite popular, you know,” she mused, her voice smooth as silk. Azriel’s shadows toyed with the strands of her hair, brushing them gently.

“Am I popular with you?”

Gwyn was quiet for a moment, and he worried he’d overstepped, withdrawing his hand—

“Yes,” she said quietly, placing her palm over his. He froze. “Your shadows are too. Or rather, I am with them.” She glanced around them, to see the cocoon of night that had formed, contrasting the setting sky. Azriel hummed his agreement. Gwyn paused again.

“You're our favourite,” he quipped quietly, and that seemed to make her blush deepen. Gwyn gulped, looking around as though trying to grapple for something to say.

“So, uh, does this mean I win?” the Priestess stuttered. She motioned to their position, snapping Azriel out of his trance. He blinked in surprise, before his face contorted into a devious grin.

“Not a chance.”

He shoved her off him, and she fell backwards laughing, kicking his chest.

And then the fighting started all over again.

#sjm #acotar #acosf spoilers #gwynriel #sarah j maas #a court of silver flames #acosf #azriel #shadowsinger #acomaf #gwyn berdara #gwyneth berdara #gwyn x azriel #gwynriel fanfiction #acotar fluff #acotar fic #gwynriel fic

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hiiraya · 3 years

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one last chance (rewrite)

masterlist

pairing: wanda maximoff x reader

words: ~2,029

warnings: angst with a happy ending

requested:

a/n: part 2 of one last dance. hopefully i’ll post a nat fic in a few days, i miss writing for my other baby. happy reading!! ♡

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

"I wish you all the happiness in the world, Wan. Out of everyone in the world, you deserve it the most. So take care of yourself for me, okay?"

If only she knew then that she was at her happiness whenever she was with you, no matter where in the world you might've been, she would've never let you leave.

Like history repeating itself, it'd been months since she last saw you. Since anyone on the team had seen you in the flesh.

When you left that night after your dance with her, you did it in the way you knew best; quietly, without a fuss, not a single word to anyone on where you were going.

You were never one for causing a scene anyway.

Fury kept his promise to you about telling no one your whereabouts, much to chagrin of Wanda. It didn't help that you'd been around the Avengers for so long you'd picked up all sorts of tips and tricks to staying hidden whenever you needed your space.

Wanda knew she wasn't the only one missing your presence back at the compound (though she was the only one that outwardly showed it), but she had to respect your decision to go, hoping that something would bring you back to the team.

To bring you home.

She tells herself that she's happy.

Because why wouldn't she be?

She's married the man she loves, the one who she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. She's already chosen him, the weight of the gold band on her ring finger serving as a constant reminder of her decision.

She wasn't supposed to be longing for someone else.

Wanda had promised him for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish him until death do they part.

So, she's tells herself that she's happy. Because there's no other choice for her to take. She's happy even though there's you sized whole in her chest that continues to remind her of the way your eyes drank her in on the night of her wedding, memorising the sight of her face, the sight of her before you left for good.

Being who he was, Vision could tell that something was off with his wife.

He could see the change in her behaviour ever you left the reception that night all those months ago. He would see the looks she would give the door whenever she would pass by your old room, as if she was waiting for you to come out and greet her for the day.

From the moment you were gone, Wanda started to retreat back into her own shell no matter how many times she insisted that she was fine.

It hurt him to see her be excited to come home from a successful mission, to watch her look around for you, ready to share stories about what had happened, only to have the reality of your absence wash over her.

Every now and then Wanda would slip, telling the team “I can’t wait to tell Y/N about this!" or "Wait till Y/N sees this, she's not going to believe it!"

Everyone would only stare at her expectantly, and for a moment she was confused as to why until she remembered. The smile disappearing from her face before she excused herself to her room. He knew that there was no stopping the heaviness in her chest when she remembers that you weren't there anymore.

Because how could you be happy when the one person you love is hundreds of miles away from you?

"Wanda, can I ask you something?"

The look in her husband's eyes tells her that there really was no excusing herself from the conversation that they were about to have.

"Of course, Vis."

"First, I need you to close your eyes." He says, quickly adding a soft 'please' when she throws him a confused look. Nevertheless, she follows his instructions and lets her eyes fall shut.

"I want you to be honest with me, I'm not here to judge or pick a fight." She hears him walking towards her, only to feel the couch dip a few seconds later, telling her that he was sitting by her side, most definitely watching her reactions.

"If I tell you to go back to our wedding night, at the reception, who comes to mind first when I ask you to remember a dance from that night?" His voice holds no malice, no grudge or bitterness towards her.

She sighs as she lets her mind wander back to that night. The dance she shared with her husband should be the first one to come to mind, she knows this but it's not at all who she sees.

Instead she sees you, like she always does. She sees your smile as you held her flush against your body, sees the way your eyes studied her like you were trying to memorise everything and anything in that moment.

She sees you.

By the look on Vision's face when she opens her eyes, she knows that he's known for a long time. Maybe he's known all along.

He gives her a soft smile, nodding his head in understanding as he leans forward to press a kiss to her forehead before exiting the room.

You missed your home. You missed your family.

You wanted to say that leaving helped heal your heart, that your decision to leave was treating you well but you couldn't lie to yourself. Not when it was so painfully obvious that you were anything but fine being away for so long.

You missed helping Peter with his homework on the days that he would stop by the compound after school.

You missed the bickering between Sam and Bucky whenever they asked you to play mediator whenever they had their little arguments.

You missed being in the labs with Tony and Bruce, keeping them company and offering your opinions on their newest ideas when you could.

And even though you hated the way it left you with sore muscles and aching bones, you missed training with Steve and Natasha, the only two who could truly get your ass out of bed.

You missed everything that ever made you feel at home.

But you couldn’t go back. There was a reason why you left in the first place, and as much as you missed your family, you were a coward when it came to the matters of your heart.

You still loved Wanda and there was nothing you could do about it. You told Fury that you would only come back if they needed you. The fact that it had been months of radio silence from him, you just assumed that they were doing fine without you.

They didn't need you as much as you needed them.

But when Fury calls you about a rouge syndicate planning an attack using a chemical nerve agent, saying that they needed your help to create a antitoxin with Bruce if things took a turn for the worse, you don't hesitate in taking the next flight back to New York.

Thankfully, the team manages to stop the attack before it could even begin.

Since they'd been tracking the movement of the syndicate ever since they caught wind of the attack, they managed to track down the base they'd been using to create the nerve agent.

Still, you and Bruce create the antitoxin as a precaution.

But now that meant you had to stay in the compound until it was time for your flight back.

Everyone had been elated that you had returned that Tony threw a small party just for you and the rest of the team after returning from the mission.

“Y/N, can we talk?”

Ever since you all arrived back to the tower, you'd been actively trying to avoid Wanda, talking to whoever was around when you saw her looking at you from across the room.

It was a cruel thing to do but you couldn't help it. You were still hopelessly in love with her despite everything. You could feel the tension fall around room as everyone became quiet, trying hard not to make it obvious that everyone was waiting for your response.

Nodding your head, you meet her eyes for the first time in months.

"Lead the way."

It's silent as you head to your old room. Closing the door behind you, your eyes can't help but drink in the sight of the woman in front of you.

"What did you want to talk about, Wanda?"

She gestures for you to sit on the empty bed beside her.

“They say absence makes the heart fonder, but Y/N, all it did was make mine even more yours.” She starts, eyes downcast to her lap.

You furrow your eyebrows at her words but don't get the chance to ask her what she means as she continues to talk.

“For months, I’ve been trying to convince myself that I’m happy with Vision because that’s what I’m supposed to be right? I’m supposed to be happy because I chose him, because I married him so why wouldn’t I be happy with the decisions I’ve made?”

“Wand-“

“But I’m not. I’m not happy. I'm far from it. Every time he touches me, I can’t help but wish it was you. Every time he says my name, it sounds wrong coming from his lips. It feels wrong looking into his eyes and seeing them morph into yours. I find myself looking for you until I remember that you're not here, that you're god knows where. You're not here with me."

You too shocked by her words to realize that she's crying until she reaches up to wipe her cheeks.

"I danced with two people that night, Y/N. The one I married and the one I wish I had married instead.”

Your mouth drops open at that, you know you should say something, but you don't know what and even if you did, you were too scared that this was all just a trick.

She just missed you being around, that's all it was. She mistook missing you as thinking that she was in love with you.

“You left and it was like you took a part of me with you. You left and I didn’t know where to look for you. I love you, Y/N and I’m so sorry I let you go in the first place.”

You stopped her rambling there, leaning forward and kissing her lips before she could say more. Because when Wanda Maximoff looks at you like that, with apologies and honestly written all over her face, there’s not a thing in the word that could stop you from pressing your lips against hers.

“I love you too, but you already knew that. There isn’t anyone else but you.”

It's only after you two catch your breath that you remember something important.

“But what about Vision? Aren't you two still married?”

She offers you a sheepish smile as you look at her with concern, dread filling your chest at the thought of being the reason that Wanda was unfaithful to her husband.

“Actually, he was the one who actually made me realize my feelings for you.”

“So what you’re saying is-” You start. She nods as her smile grows, planting another kiss on your lips.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, moya lyubov. We’re not together anymore.” She finished.

Abruptly standing up from the mattress, you turn your body to face her, bowing slightly as you hold out your hand to her, palms facing up at you smile at her.

Wanda frowns at your sudden movement before a knowing smile appears on her face as she realizes what you were doing.

“May I have this dance?”

Her smiles grows up at you as she stands, nodding her head as she places her hand over yours. With your arms wrapped around her waist, her own around your neck, you pull her close and she can't help but think that this was where she was meant to be all along

“You may.”

#wanda maximoff x reader #scarlet witch x reader #wanda x reader #avengers x reader #scarlet witch imagine #wanda maximoff imagine #avengers imagine #marvel imagine #myfics.txt

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sweetestlamb · 3 years

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Love Me Like You Do ( Guide To Getting Back Your Self-Respect)

Summary: Dae-sung just wants Sol-i to be happy, even if that’s not with him so he decides to bury his feelings while Sol-i realizes how much strength she gained from his constant unwavering support. She becomes to questions her feelings for Cha Heon.

Author's note: For the Dae-sung appreciators and anyone who wants Sol-i to keep her self-respect. I finally watched the recent episodes and I saw Heon making an effort but honestly I am already over him and anyone with some self-respect would be too. So in this my girl gets her self-respect back, wins over Dae-sung and gets the love and unconditional support she deserves.

He doesn't cry. Not there on the bench, in front of her lying his heart out. He'd never thought he'd have to lie to her always wanting to give her nothing but his genuine honesty and support, but her question had stunned him. It was ridiculously moronic of him to write something so.. revealing on the paper. He knew it was a possibility that she would see it. A small hopeful part of him wanted her to see it, to finally know his heart and how much she meant to him, she was like the sun on a gray stormy day and he was tired of carrying these feelings in his heart.

But she was uncomfortable, that much was evident. He couldn't handle that, she was his first real friend and he couldn't imagine his life without her dimpled smile- didn't want to. So he lied. It made his stomach churn, bubbling up with bile until he felt nauseous and he had to escape from her relief, she was so relieved by his admission. It was apparent that his feelings were unwelcome, she would never look at him the way she looked at Heon. He needed to find a way to accept that.

So he waits until he's in the pool to unleash the tsunami swirling in his eyes, sobs wrenched from his lungs as he breaks apart slapping at the water and wishing he could turn off his heart. He tried to stop this by calling her "brother" hoping he'd be able to trick his heart into truly seeing her as a brother. In the end it was all futile and every second he spent with her only heightened his infatuation, until it shifted from like and swung into dangerous territory.

It was good. This was good. It was better that he find out now, he needed to move on for the salvation of their friendship. He would do it. He could do anything for Sol-i. But he would let himself mourn today, mourn the loss of his feelings and any chance of her reciprocating. He would cry until his throat was hoarse. Roaring into the air before dunking his head under the chilling pool and submerging his feelings.

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It isn't easy but he stops doing the things that are natural to him: buying snacks he knows she likes, saving the best hand warmer for her, going out of his way to make her smile and when he sees her with Heon, he doesn't interrupt leaving Sol-i to shine brightly up at someone else. Too sad to even be jealous.

"Woo Dae-sung? Are you listening? Who have I been talking to this whole time?" Jin-Hwan sighs exasperatedly, knocking into his shoulder. He turns to smile in apology, lost in his thoughts staring out the window. It was the safest place to look with Sol-i right in his line of vision, it was difficult not to get lost in the way the sunlight hit her dark brown hair, setting the strands ablaze.

"Sorry. I was daydreaming. What were you saying?" He nods staring into the spectacled eyes of his friend, giving his full attention and he laughs and nods at all the correct moments as Jin-Hwan regals his newest plot to win over Ha-Young, his latest idea a flash mob. He laughs freely at the other boys antics as he flails to mimic the possible choreography, at least Ha-Young never seemed uncomfortable with his various love confessions. He'd even found the other girl looking at the vocally gifted boy when she thought no one was looking, an inquisitive look as if she were seeing him for the first time.

Despite his own rejection he would be elated for his friends, he wanted those he cared about to always be smiling even if he wasn't.

Before he realizes it's time to go to the pool, he has a competition very soon and his coach has been shorter than usual pushing him past his limit. He accepts the punishment, enjoying the sharp knife of the water on his skin using his heartbreak as fuel. He was in control in the pool, his domain and his first love that would never turn its back on him.

"I'll see you all later!" He calls out to his small group of friends, making sure not to let his eyes linger on Sol-i as he usually does instead sprinting out of the room. He will get over this and things will go back to normal again.

When coach praises him on his form and speed he realizes for once his mind is not filled with a certain pint-sized girl.

One day at a time.

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"Heon-ah! Wait let's go together!" She calls out to the retreating back of the boy who is always on her mind, her sweet honey Heon. Just his mere presence is enough to make her feel like she's on cloud nine. Huffing when he doesn't slow down at all, she starts to chase after him closing the gap between them. But being as clumsy as she is her feet get tangled up and she finds herself tripping over nothing, she closes her eyes waiting for the painful collision. It never comes.

Squinting one eye open she finds herself staring at the flecks of cobble in the ground, seemingly elevating above it.

"Brother! Are you okay?" A familiar voice greets her and when she twists to look behind her, Dae-sung’s hands are latched onto the top handle of her backpack preventing her fall. She smiles in gratitude, Dae-sung is such a great friend he's always there when she needs him. She beams up at him dimples making an appearance.

He smiles back, tugging her back onto her feet.

"I'm okay. Thank you for saving me." She bows her head slightly before remembering that she'd been following Heon. She spins around only to find the boy in question already climbing into his bike, looking at them with passive eyes before riding away.

"You should hurry so he doesn't leave you. Be careful and get home safely."

She hums not looking back before running over to follow Heon, he doesn't talk to her the entire ride home fleeing before she can even wish him goodnight. She huffs but goes inside her house calling out to her parents before running to her room and diving into her bed. Tomorrow, she'll make Heon like her tomorrow.

Probably.

Hopefully.

She dozes off her head filled with the boy who owns her mind, body and soul.

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"Anyone know where Dae-sung is? Doesn't it feel like he's always in the pool, has he turned in a merman? Aquaman?" Ji-Hwan quips at the lunch table, looking around at them as he mimes swimming in a pool. Sol-i stops mid chew looking around, she hadn't noticed he was missing but it was so obvious, normally he'd be there handing out snacks and laughing at Ji-Hwan's bad jokes. Making everything brighter with his infectious smile.

"He has that big swim meet coming up remember? Are we all going to cheer him on?" Ha-Young responds, asking in a tone that leaves little room for argument. She looks at Heon to see his answer, he doesn't look up from his sandwich chewing slowly as if he's eating alone.

"Heon-ah, are you going?" She grins at him, willing him to agree with her winning smile.

His face remains impassive but he shrugs and she takes it as a yes. Jumping in her seat and turning back to Ha-Young nodding her head at the question finally.

Her friend squints at her though, looking annoyed for some reason. But the bell rings signaling the end of lunch before she can inquire why that cold look was directed her way. She nervously picks up her tray trailing behind her friends, not remembering to wait for Heon.

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She almost slept through her alarm but she manages to drag herself out of bed and she dances when she sees that Heon is getting on his bicycle too, they can go together.

"Heon-ah! Good morning."

He turns to look at her nodding softly, "You actually woke up?"

She playfully glares at him, "If you were so worried about me, why didn't you call me?"

"Why would I call you? You have an alarm."

"Your voice is much better than an alarm though." She answers honestly, boldly staring into his eyes before he scoffs at her and grabs his bike riding off without a word.

She cries indignantly before racing off after him.

She wonders what it's like to be so good at something as she watches Dae-sung effortlessly swipe through the water, powerful strokes as he closes in on the wall reaching out a hand and screaming triumphantly when his name lights up, first place Woo Dae-sung.

They all jump up cheering, signs in their hands and they celebrate his win. Jin-Hwan starts the chant and soon every voice in the room has joined them, all cheering his name.

Woo Dae-sung! Woo Dae-sung! Woo Dae-sung!

They find him later, leaving the locker room in jeans and a hoodie now, hair still plastered to his head from the swim cap. They are cheer when they see him, his smile is blinding as he waves at them a slight blush rising on his cheeks.

"Dae-sung congratulations! You were amazing!" She proudly cries sticking two thumbs out at him.

He smiles back at her, "Thank you. Thanks for coming to cheer for me. You all really motivated me."

It's only right that they should have a celebratory meal, they stay close going to a tteokbokki place near by and easily getting a table. She sits down in the middle leaving two empty seats on either side of her, Ha-Young and Ji-Hwan sit on the opposite side. She turns to smile at Heon patting the seat next to her, he sits down immediately looking at the menu, barely sparing her a glance. She's momentarily surprised though when Dae-sung goes to sit on the other side as well, eyeing the empty seat right next to her that had been much closer.

But he's looking at the menu as well as if they didn't come here specifically to eat the spicy noodle. Weird.

Ji-Hwan carries the conversation praising Dae-sung again then telling them all about his new favorite song, crying out with Ha-Young slaps his hand when he tries to serenade her. Dae-sung laughs at them both but never starts a conversation with her, never looking over at her for too long. She tries and fails to engage Heon in a conversation, her own voice filling the void.

After a few minutes, a waitress comes to take their order.

"Hi, I'm your server-- excuse me are you Woo Dae-sung?" The girl who looks like she's not much older than them, she's short with deep brown hair in a high ponytail and a small round face. Very pretty.

They all still and look up at her question, turning to Dae-sung who looks confused but nods in confirmation.

"I'm sorry I'm a fan of yours. I've seen you around school but I couldn't bring myself to say hi. You were amazing today, that was your best time!" She gushes practically bouncing in her spot, eyes bright as she looks at the boy, who is scarlet under her gaze.

"Oh. Thank you! You don't need to be shy, you can say hi. I'm just a student like you. I'm nobody special."

"Don't say that! You're the youngest in your group and you have the best time. I really admire you."

They all sit in silence watching the interaction, ping-ponging back and forth with each exchange. Before the girl seems to recall that they're all there.

"Oh! I'm so sorry!" She bows low, "Do you know what you want to order?" She asks avoiding eye contact now and Ha-Young orders for them all and she tells them their food will be out soon. Bowing another time before stealing a gaze at Dae-sung and scurrying off.

"Maybe I should start swimming. I want fan girls too." Ha-Young slaps Jin-Hwan in the back of the head and he folds over in pain before crying out that his heart belongs to her, gaining another smack that he receives like it's a hug smiling through the gentle abuse.

In a few minutes the food arrives, steaming hot and delicious aroma wafting off and filling her nostril. The waitress asks them if they need anything else and it is not lost on Sol-i that her eyes never leave Dae-sung’s face. They all decline and she bows before retreating, looking reluctant to leave. Sol-i feels uneasy but she can’t decipher why. Her emotions twisting up in the pits of her stomach.

Sol-i stealthy peeks over at Dae-sung to see if he's excited about having a fan girl but he's focused on eating, stuffing noodles into his cheeks before humming in pleasure, eyes closing as he enjoys the meal. Her stomach does a weird somersault. It must be indigestion. She grabs her glass of water, taking a big gulp. Choking a little when it goes down the wrong hole, Heon stares at her in the corner of his eye but then there's already a napkin in front of her face.

"Here. You should drink slower."

She takes the proffered napkin dabbing at her chin, "Thank you." Dae-sung smiles at her, but it looks different. Strained. Not quite reaching his eyes. Her stomach squeezes again.

What's wrong with me?

When it starts to get late they finally start to leave, Jin-Hwan slapping Dae-sung's wallet out of his hands when he tries to pay. They all chip in instead but he insists on leaving a tip and Jin- Hwan rolls his eyes but nods in agreement before a sly smile spreads across his face.

"Oh. I know why you want to leave the tip. Smooth." He throws a wink and smile the sputtering boy's way as he denies any ulterior motives. But their waitress is making her way back out and Jin-Hwan is already vibrating slapping Dae-sung on his back in encouragement.

"I hope you enjoyed your meal and I didn't bother you too much. I'm sorry about earlier." She apologizes again and Dae-sung smiles brightly at her, a real smile that curves his eyes into half moons. Sol-i feels that same tinge in her stomach, when will her food finally digest?

"You don't need to be sorry! What's your name? Next time I see you at school I'll say hi." He sounds so friendly and Sol-i watches the other girl blush as she stares at Dae-sung, she finally turns away looking at Heon. This is where her focus should be, why she finding it so hard to focus? She likes Heon. She always has.

"They look good together." Jin-Hwan claims shamelessly watching them talk through the window, Sol-i pointedly doesn't look. Telling herself she wants to respect his privacy.

Minutes pass by before Dae-sung rejoins them.

"Where did you all go?" He tilts his head and this time to her surprise, it's Ha-Young who teases him.

"We wanted to give you space. It seemed like she wanted to say something to you. Did you have a good talk? Did you learn her name?" She raises her eyebrows and smirks at him.

Sol-i feels uneasy listening to them interrogate Dae-sung even more so when he looks down bashfully, running a hand across his head.

"It's Seong Mi-Ho. She um...she gave me her number."

Ji-Hwan cheers loudly jumping to put him in a headlock and Sol-i feels sick to her stomach now, like a someone is doing a drumline in her small intestine.

She doesn't notice Heon nudging at her shoulder, until he calls her name. In a daze she turns to look at him.

"Sorry?"

"I asked if you were ready to go. I'm leaving."

She nods quietly before calling out to her friends, Ha-Young now has Jin-Hwan in a headlock as Dae-sung laughs watching them another real smile, it makes her feel small and jagged.

"We're leaving." The three stop to look at her before saying their goodbyes.

Impulsively she looks at Dae-sung and he meets her eyes for once. Maybe this had all been in her head. Her stupid imagination.

"Dae-sung, I'm so proud of you! Good night."

He stands frozen, unprepared for her exclamation before he nods smiling at her.

"Thank you brother. Get home safely."

Fake smile. This time the pain is in her chest.

When she's safely back in her room she stares at her ceiling, head of full of questions and worries. All about a certain swimmer. Void of another stoic boy.

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She wakes up late and dashes through the door, grabbing her bike and pedaling until her feet hurt but she makes it to school with two minutes to spare.

Waves good morning to her friends minus Dae-sung who isn't in his seat, she struggles to focus as she stares blankly at her notebook devoid of any notes. Head too full of thoughts to process any new information. She doesn't even notice Heon staring at her, confused that she isn't staring back.

Dae-sung doesn't show up until lunch and she lights up before realizing he isn't alone. The same girl from the tteokbokki shop is walking very close to him, their shoulders brushing with every step. Dae-sung waves happily when he sees them all before stopping to motion at the girl.

"Everyone this is Seong Mi-Ho, she's in the same lunch period as us! Is it okay if she sits with us?" He asks hopefully and Ha-Young scoots over giving her ample space and he smiles in gratitude. Dae-sung looks at the remaining seats hesitating before sitting next to her, directly across the other girl.

They eat comfortably, but she can't help sneaking glances at the other girl. She seems nice, laughing and asking them all questions but it's obvious her attention is mostly focused on Dae-sung, enraptured every time he speaks.

"Sol-i ah do you want to go to the bathroom with me?" Ha-Young's voice cuts through her contemplation and she jumps before answering, "Yes I'll come."

She bounds after her friend before walking straight into her back with a soft oomph.

Grabbing her forehead she looks up at Ha-Young in question.

"Sol-i, are you okay?"

She squirms under the penetrating stare, shifting from side to side before tugging at her hair.

"What do you mean?"

A thin eyebrow raises, "You haven't been staring at Heon at all today. Do you not like Seong Mi-Ho? You keep looking at her."

She rushes to immediately deny that speculation, "No! I mean yes! I mean..."

Ha-Young crosses her arms now, gaze getting harder as she struggles to find an answer.

"I.. Ha-Young ah....have you ever realized something when it was too late?"

The girl tilts her head accessing her with a sharp gaze.

"What are you talking about?"

She loses her nerve, feeling stupid in Ha-Young's no nonsense gaze. The last time they'd spoken she had adamantly told the other girl she had no interest in Dae-sung, how could she possibly say that she was faltering now? Plus he'd only been joking she'd gotten nervous for no reason, overwhelmed at the idea of someone liking her. Liking Heon was easier, she could do so without any expectation.

"Nothing. I'm just feeling tired I didn't get enough sleep last night." She lies walking towards the bathroom, desperate to keep her new feelings to herself.

It's better this way.

#a love so beautiful #a love so beautiful 2020 #shin sol i #dae sung #Cha Heon will barely speak or do anything just like the show #jeong jin-hwan #kang Ha-Young #part 1 #I think it'll be 3 parts #some angst and longing #then fluffy fluff #fix it #for the 3 people who said they wanted this

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yan---kyo · 5 years

Text

Seen

Beetlejuice x Reader insert

I'm weak.

No warnings yet

"You can see me, can't you?" The green haired demon asked for what was probably the umpteenth time, only for you to pointedly ignore him as you busied yourself with watering the flowers. It had been an accident, really, usually you were very careful to not let the various ghosts and ghouls hanging around town know that you could see them - too many times had you been dragged into something dangerous, unnecessary or stress inducing as a child, back when you thought it was your duty to drop everything to try and help out simply because you could see. Yeah. Right. And half the time you were possessed for the trouble.

This time, however, you had been tricked. There was a little girl that came into your shop from time to time, often times just browsing through the various plants you had on display and asking about the more poisonous one. Precocious kid, real cute. Said her name was Lydia. Well, one day she had come in with your current annoyance in tow, the two jabbering on about some prank they were planning and the green haired one had stopped every so often to point out various herbs to tell Lydia their use, though he got more wrong than right and you found yourself automatically correcting him - if just to make sure their prank remained a harmless one.

"I'd suggest the rose hips, what you don't use for the itching powder you can eat. Also, I wouldn't recommend using poison oak unless you really hate the person." You spoke up from behind the bouquet you were busy assembling. "Have your older brother handle the hairs, make sure to get them all before you try eating them." You peeked over, only to see the duo giving you stunned looks.

"You can see me?" The man asked, looking as elated as could be

"Older brother?" On the other hand, Lydia couldn't look more disgusted if she tried. Alarm bells were quick to start ringing in your head as you actually looked at Lydia's companion - taking in palid, greenish flesh, his torn and ragged suit and oh yeah, the fact that he wasn't actually standing on the ground. He was actually floating about an inch off of the ground. Shit.

"Y-you know, that nice young man I see you walking around town with. Has a beard?" You tried, knowing just how bad the lie sounded. Mr. Deetz looked young for his age, sure, but not that young. Now you refused to look at the floating man, even as he rushed over to your side, his happy expression not fading in the least.

"Come on babes, don't be shy," he stood way too close and - ugh he stank of mold, smoke and a harsher musk that you weren't interested in trying to decipher. Lydia, on the other hand, was still standing in place, her disgusted expression changing into one of intrigue instead.

"Come on Beej, she can't see you, let's just go home." Thankfully, the spirit currently crowding you obediently trailed after, but you didn't miss the way he kept looking back at you. And you certainly noticed the business card he left on the counter. Holding your breath, you waited until the pair had disappeared from sight before you risked picking up the card, but all that was written there was one word repeated three times.

Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice.

#beetlejuice x reader #beetlejuice #musical #eventual smut #im weak dudes

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angst-fairygodmother · 4 years

Note

"Close your eyes and hold out your hands" Jaskier x Reader pls/thx

A/N: This one was a challenge. I thought about just having Jaskier drop something cute and fluffy into your arms, but I wanted to really try and stick with the spirit of the prompt list this time and that by itself didn’t feel like a way to say I love you.Anyway, Enjoy!Word Count: 2602Content Warnings: near death experiences, injury, small/enclosed underground spaces, flagrant disregard for geological functioning and probably physics, Angst (with a happy ending because I am not heartless)

“Geralt,” Jaskier whined, dragging the name out. “Please I need your help.”

“No.”

“I promise if you help me with this I will never ask you for another favor ever again.”

The witcher looked at him incredulously.

Okay fine, that’s probably a lie, but I really really need the help. It’s for Y/N. Please? Please please please?”

“If I agree to help will you shut up?”

Jaskier grinned broadly at his best friend and Geralt sighed in resignation.

In an effort to distract you, Geralt had sent you out to gather a rare pigment found nearby and cheerfully enough you had gone off, always eager for new materials to experiment with on your artworks. Then he and Jaskier had set about creating the bard’s vision.

They were bickering over who was going to go into the little town up ahead and get the few items they were missing when a scream pierced the air.

Jaskier’s heart dropped. He would know your voice anywhere. Before Geralt could even react, he was off, running for you and heedless of any danger he might be in.

The afternoon was lovely, bright and warm still, with a crisp breeze carrying the welcoming smells of autumn. So of course, when Geralt announced that you would be stopping now, rather than pushing on toward town or even through it, you were puzzled.

And then there was Jaskier, who had been acting cagey and even more high-strung than usual for days. You had planned to use the downtime to ferret out what was going on with them. Until Geralt mentioned that he had heard of a rare brilliant blue stone vein that ran through the nearby mountain face and could be turned into paint fairly easily once extracted. Even the mysteries of your best friend and your beloved and their odd behavior could not compare to the prospect of an artistic adventure. The word rare stirred up a ringing bell in the back of your mind and it would not rest until you had acquired the pigment.

“We’ll set up camp. You go,” Geralt offered.

Your eyes lit up and you swore you were flying at his suggestion.

“Wow…You don’t even get that excited when I—“ Jaskier purred, laughing by the time you clamped a hand over his mouth to cut off the rest of his sentence. He might have no shame about broadcasting the details of your intimacy but you preferred to keep it private (there may have been a song that had already ruined that and it may have taken a lot of work for you to forgive him, but it was never spoken of again).

A moment later, you relented and released him, kissing him on the cheek. Then you had gathered up your things and dashed off, calling your thanks back to them.

It did not take you long to spot a vein like Geralt spoke of. It was darker than you had hoped for, still secretly struggling to find a color close enough to Jaskier’s eyes to satisfy you, but still a gorgeous color and you were determined to get it. Unfortunately, it appeared to be a bit of a climb to get to it. With a sigh, you hiked up your skirt and started upward.

Upon reaching the streak of blue, you bit your lip with a smile. From directly in front of it, rather than below, it was as if the eyes that were your favorite sight were made from chips of the stone. Reverently, you ran your hand along the line before setting down your bag and digging around for a small pick and a vial. Soon enough you had collected enough of it to satisfy you, the soft, chalky texture of it promising for conversion into paint.

Elated and distracted by your triumph as you made your way back down the mountain, you did not hear the rumbling of the earth. When the ground shifted beneath your feet, you stumbled, scrabbling back to your feet and running. But it was too late. As rock and sand gave way, you pitched forward, your bag sent flying. You screamed surprise and terror combining in a high, clear sound. You landed with a thud and groaned, dazed and confused, but seemingly safe.

And then you felt yourself sliding. Beneath you, more rock crumbled and somehow both suddenly and in slow motion you were tumbling downward. You tried to move against the torrent of debris and wrap your arms around your head. And then everything was black.

Coughing dirt and dust from your lungs, you pushed yourself into a seated position and tried to look around in the darkness. Your head throbbed as your waited for your eyes to adjust and every breath you drew in felt short, as if there was not enough air to satisfy your lungs.

You were in a shallow cave. You couldn’t quite see the walls around you, and looking up you saw that the shifting ground had closed over you, unstable but solid for now.

Counting backwards from ten, you tried to calm your racing heart.

“Hello?” you called out, angling your voice upward. The space was not big enough for it to echo back at you and you breathed a sigh of relief.

You tried to stand and hissed as the weight sent pain shooting up through your leg. Gingerly you pressed on, standing fully, only for your ankle to give beneath your weight, sending you tumbling onto your hands and knees, scraping them further, leaving faint red streaks on the stony floor.

“Can anyone hear me? Help!” You shouted again, knowing that it was hopeless. But Geralt and Jaskier would notice how long you’d been gone, or have heard your scream – did you scream, you wondered sluggishly – and they would come looking for you. You just had to save your air and your voice until then.

Trying to keep your breath shallow, you waited. The shadows around you shifted menacingly, something an even darker black seeming to move around you, taunting and baiting you. You shook your head, telling yourself that it was just your frightened and still dizzy mind playing tricks. Still, you whispered a prayer to Melitele for protection and swift salvation.

“Y/N!” Jaskier called out again and again, not caring if he screamed himself hoarse in the effort to find you.

He could feel the panic rising in his chest, threatening to spill over when he spotted something on the ground. He ran for it, heart racing, and let out a whimper when he saw that it was your workbag, contents spilled down the face of the hill. That bag was precious to you in the same way that his lute was to him, a gift of such great importance that almost anything would be worth surrendering to keep it with you (he recalled, for example, how you had risked actual death rather than hand the bag over to bandits, only a narrow save from Geralt sparing your pretty throat from their blades). Frantically, he began gathering up the reagents and tools and pages of sketches that were scattered about, calling out your name once more.

Geralt, far calmer, stood nearby, head tilted as if he was listening to something, or for something.

“Geralt…” Jaskier said, voice choked with fear, “We will find her, right? We have to. I…I can’t…”

Geralt sighed and pressed a finger to his lips, motioning for his friend to be silent, fairly certain he had heard your faint voice but not wanting to get Jaskier’s hopes up until he was certain. There it was again, muffled and pained, but clearly you.

“This way,” he growled, leading Jaskier further up the mountainside.

Moments later, they found the spot where the ground had given way, swallowing you down into it.

“Please, you cried, no longer sure that your voice was even loud enough to breach the surface. “Gods, someone help me.”

“Y/N!” Jaskier cried, dropping to his knees and digging desperately until Geralt yanked him back, just as the surface soil shifted again and more collapsed down into the hole, soil and small chunks of limestone raining down on your arms as you sheltered your head.

By some stroke of luck, this new shift was enough to clear the hole, letting in the dying light, and more thankfully, fresh air. You looked up just as both Jaskier and Geralt’s faces peered over the edge.

“Oh thank the gods,” Jaskier laughed in relief. “Are you alright Y/N?”

Tears welled up in your eyes.

“No,” you admitted, trembling. “I might have blacked out? I think I hit my head when I fell, or it was the lack of air…It’s hard to put weight on my ankle. Also, I think there’s something else alive down here.”

“Don’t worry, Y/N. We’ll get you out of there. Right Geralt?”

“Hmm.” The witcher seemed to be sizing up the hole, and then the three of you. “We need rope. I’ll be back. Stay here.” He turned to go back toward camp, to collect Roach and make a hard ride to town.

“Oh yes, because I was planning on going anywhere.” You snapped at Geralt’s retreating back, rolling your eyes.

“I think he was talking to me with the last part,” Jaskier pointed out with a wry grin. “Not that I would ever go anywhere until I knew you were safe.”

As night began to fall more fully, you shivered, feeling afraid and exhausted. You just wanted to curl up in a ball and sleep, but you had enough medicinal knowledge to know that was a bad idea.

“Jaskier,” you said softly, drawing his attention, which was constantly wandering as he sought some way to more quickly get you back on solid ground and in his arms.

“Yes, love?”

“Will you sing for me?”

He smiled softly, and began a gentle croon, a love song he had been writing for you, had planned to play for you tonight in an entirely different context.

“I’m scared.” You said softly when he paused to try and compose another verse on the spot, your voice trembling, and you finally gave up fighting back tears. “I don’t want to die down here.”

Jaskier felt his heart stop and then crack in two. “No. No, love, you’re not going to die,” he tried to assure you in a rush. “Not now and not for a long time. I promise. Geralt will be back soon and then we’ll get you out of there.”

He hated himself for being so useless, unable to help you himself, and his eyes once again roamed over the area. Finally, he spotted a ledge on the other side of the hole from where he sat. It wasn’t far down, and it wouldn’t be much, but if the world was kind, its shape and position might just let him reach down to you.

“Jaskier, what are you doing?” you asked in alarm as you watched him lower himself down precariously.

“This will work, trust me. I’m going to get you out.”

“No, you’re going to fall and hurt yourself!”

“Shh, Y/N. It will be fine, I promise.”

He grunted as he wedged his legs between two jutting rocks, hoping that it would be enough to hold him in place if it came to it. He slowly dangled downward, reaching out.

“Jaskier, I don’t like this plan. Let’s just…let’s just wait for Geralt. Like you said, he’ll be back soon, he has to be.”

You gave a small shriek as you jumped at a movement in the shadow, certain that you had heard something breathing heavily.

“No. We are not waiting. Just close your eyes and hold out your hands. I’ll grab onto you and pull you up.” His thanked the stars that his voice was surer than he felt, watching your face relax as you surrendered to his own confidence in the plan.

You took a deep breath, following his command and felt your fingertips brush together. He strained forward and you heard the slide of fabric on stone. You gasped, nearly withdrawing.

“It’s fine, Y/N, but I still can’t quite reach you. I just need to get a little…” his spoke through gritted teeth as he leaned as far as he dared.

You rose up onto your toes, stretching as far upward as you could until finally, finally, his hands curled around yours and he began to pull, easily lifting you the first few inches before he stalled, unable to get the right leverage to go any higher. Your shoulders felt like they might rip from their sockets and you could feel your grips slipping and you pressed your lips together to keep back the terrified sound that bubbled in the back of your throat. Your eyes remained pinched shut as air moved around your feet.

“I’ve got you,” he grunted. “I’ll get you out of there.”

“Jaskier, if you don’t drop me, we’ll both end up down here. And while I’d love the company I don’t want you to get hurt because of me. Just let go. It’s not far of a drop, much less than I’ve already had today. It was a good try. We’ll wait for Geralt.”

“No!”

Neither of you were exactly in a great position to be arguing. You felt him struggle to regain his hold on you, and then suddenly, you felt as if you were sailing through the air, lifted clear of the hole as if you weighed nothing, and then falling gracelessly into a heap on the ground with your bard.

“Y/N!” he breathed, wrapping his arms tightly around you in a hug that felt designed to squeeze you to death. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.” His breath tickled your ear as he held you and you felt the telltale dampness of tears on your hair as he cradled you.

You sighed, burying your face in his fine chest hair, and leaned in, content to be held, not caring that you were both covered in dirt and grit. Opening your eyes, you looked over his shoulder at the witcher who was intently averting his eyes, finding something fascinating in the threads of Roach’s saddle.

“Thank you Geralt,” you murmured, “I don’t know what I would have done if this idiot had gotten himself killed trying to save me.”

Geralt chuckled and Jaskier made a noise of protest, quickly quieted when you shifted, tilting your head back to press a tender kiss to his lips.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the attempted rescue, but…”

He sighed, finally letting go just enough to cup your face between his hands. His hand brushed tenderly over a scrape on your cheek.

Somewhere in the back of your mind you registered the sound of retreating hoof beats.

“Y/N, this wasn’t how I planned to do this,” Jaskier leaned his forehead against yours, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

“I should hope you hadn’t planned for me to fall down a sinkhole. What’s going on darling?”

“I love you. I knew I loved you. You are…everything to me. Almost losing you tonight, it just made everything all the clearer. I cannot imagine a day in my life without you, Y/N, and I don’t want to. If you’ll let me, I want to spend the rest of my life trying to make you as happy as you have me, and probably failing because I am not a fraction of the person you are.”

“Jaskier…” you breathed.

He looked intently into your eyes. “Will you marry me?”

#Jaskier x Reader #The Witcher #The Witcher fic #reader insert #Jaskier #angst leading to fluff #I swear I tripped and suddenly there was angst #(I do also have a non-angsty story from the same prompt #that I started writing and then this idea came to me #I'm happy to post that one too if you prefer...not this #just let me know)#or beat me with the 'no angst' stick #you know either one #I am Dramatique

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cinebration · 4 years

Text

By My Rules (Quentin Beck x Reader) [Part 8]

Unexpected news.

Warnings: none

Gif Source: p-pikachu

Alyssa Margrove looked small in the seat despite her five-nine frame. Her brown hair was glossy with the oils from her scalp, suggesting she hadn’t washed it in a few days. Dark circles ringed her eyes, the irises shiny with paranoia.

You checked the notes in her file, frowning as you verified what you already knew: the current S.H.I.E.L.D. agent wasn’t yet in phase three of her nightmare “treatment.” She shouldn’t be this on edge.

“Alyssa, if you don’t mind my bluntness, you look worse than last we met.”

Alyssa’s hands clasped each other tightly, squeezing until her perfectly manicured but unpainted nails went white.

“Have the nightmares become worse?”

Alyssa jerked her head in a nod. You frowned again, your misgiving deepening. Had Quentin accelerated this woman’s exposure to his tech without telling you?

“Please explain, Alyssa. When you’re ready.”

Alyssa swallowed thickly and stared down at her hands. When she finally spoke, her voice had thinned, haunted. “Waking nightmares are a thing, right?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re having a nightmare, but it’s day time and you aren’t asleep.”

“You’ve been having nightmares…awake?”

“That’s the only thing I can think of to explain what I saw.”

Trying to contain your interest to professional curiosity, you gestured wordlessly for Alyssa to go on.

Taking a deep breath, she continued, “Two days ago, I left work at the usual time—Fury keeps me on a schedule but always on call—but I accidentally left my keys on the desk. I’ve not gotten much sleep, so I’ve been forgetting things.” She paused, as though having lost her train of thought. “Anyway, when I returned to my desk, I heard voices in Fury’s office, but they weren’t his or Hill’s. When I looked inside, I saw…”

You were practically perched on the edge of your seat. Alyssa remained silent, eyes unfocused as she recalled the memory.

“Alyssa,” you prompted, your voice a little harsher than you intended.

Flinching, she rushed through it. “I saw two aliens. Sharp teeth, pointy ears, green skin. Wearing Fury’s clothes and Hill’s clothes. I couldn’t believe it, but all of a sudden, they spun around in a panic, and they suddenly weren’t aliens anymore. They were Fury and Hill.”

Your brain struggled with this unexpected information. Aliens? Had Fury and Hill been replaced by aliens? Had they been aliens all along?

“Did they see you?” you managed to ask.

Alyssa nodded. “I turned away last second. When they got to the door, I was jangling my keys and immediately said, ‘Sorry, sir, I forgot my keys. Do you need anything?’ And he said no, and I left.”

You blinked, impressed that this woman, curling in on herself in panic and hopelessness, could so easily lie in the face of such a bizarre vision. You had to check with Quentin, but infiltrating S.H.I.E.L.D. on that level was impossible. What she had seen had either been a trick of her mind or had actually been real.

If it’s real, Fury and Hill aren’t home.

You burst through the front door. Quentin looked up from the couch, visibly brightening in your presence.

“Hi, sweetheart, how—”

“I think Fury and Hill are gone.”

“What?”

Dropping your bag onto the side table and peeling off your coat, you explained in rapid fire the vision Alyssa had seen. As personal secretary to Fury, she was the one whose access you most prized. After considerable thought in the wake of Alyssa’s statement, you had concluded that while Quentin was known for spontaneity and recklessness, he wouldn’t be so stupid as to thwart the one client that could get them into S.H.I.E.L.D.

You had to believe that the woman had been telling the truth.

“Holy shit,” Quentin breathed as the information sunk in. “Holy shit!”

“We’ll have to accelerate the timetable to take advantage of this,” you said, kicking off your heels. “It may not be true, but it’s too ludicrous not to at least consider it as a possibility.”

“This is amazing!”

“Don’t let yourself get carried away.” Taking the stairs two at a time, you reached your study and hastily scouted through your paperwork, locating the information you wanted: the number of a woman skilled at procuring, under the radar, particular tech suited to your needs.

Quentin had followed you upstairs, eyes bright with excitement as he envisaged the possibilities. You entered the number and typed up a cryptic text message asking for the equipment you would need for the next step.

“If Fury isn’t here, that makes everything a million times easier,” Quentin said, voice high with elation. “We can have the whole place sucking on—”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you repeated. “We’ve got to keep our wits about ourselves.”

Clapping his hands, Quentin burst into laughter and swept you up into his arms, spinning you around in his joy. You laughed despite yourself, hands on his shoulders.

When he set you down, he pressed a hard kiss to your lips. You didn’t fight it. To your surprise, you felt yourself returning the action.

Quentin didn’t notice, too excited by the new development.

“Amazing,” he cried again, and left you standing there wondering why everything had turned fuzzy.

#Quentin Beck x Reader #Quentin Beck #Quentin Beck imagine #Mysterio x Reader #Mysterio #Mysterio imagine #Jake Gyllenhaal #Jake Gyllenhaal imagine #Spider-Man: Far From Home #FFH #Spider Man Far From Home

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theonotdora · 3 years

Text

NAME: Theodora Jones NICKNAMES: Theo. Please don’t call her Dora. DATE OF BIRTH: September 17, 1987 AGE: 33 GENDER: Non-binary (she/they) SEXUALITY: Queer PLACE OF BIRTH: Scottsdale, AZ CURRENT RESIDENCE: Pleasance, OH OCCUPATION: Librarian POSITIVE TRAITS: Clever, detail-oriented, thoughtful, honest, meticulous NEUTRAL TRAITS: Diplomatic, pragmatic, analytical, luxurious NEGATIVE TRAITS: Judgemental, slow to open up, proud, sensitive ZODIAC: Virgo sun, Libra moon, Cancer rising ARCHETYPE: The Intellect TEMPERMENT: Choleric

HISTORY:

born to Theodore and Victoria Jones in Scottsdale, AZ; an only child

Victoria was an art curator for the Scottsdale Museum of Contemporary Art, Theodore was a political strategist, the household was always filled with important people

Theodora grew up quickly, always very polite and “mature for her age,” had a deep appreciation for the arts as they spent a lot of time with their mother at the museum, enjoyed the order and organization that came with it

throughout high school Theo’s attention to detail and intellect pushed her towards the top of her class. she didn’t want to follow in either of her parents’ footsteps, as she loathed the idea of nepotism, so she pursued a degree in english

as she was nearing her sophomore year of college, her father grew close with a mayoral candidate who had a son around theo’s age named edgar

the two spent a lot of time together at various political gatherings and grew close

they officially began courting at the start of theo’s junior year

he proposed the same day they were accepted into grad school

theo was elated - they’d always wanted a family, and edgar was kind and seemed as family oriented as they were. he was kind and caring and supported all of their endeavors

theo remembers exactly where they were when they discovered their relationship was a sham

the night before thanksgiving, she overheard her father speaking with edgar’s about the success of the carefully plotted relationship

theo ran to edgar -- devastated as she was that her father had tricked her, she didn’t want edgar to find out the same way she had

when she revealed what she had learned to edgar, he’d shrugged

i thought you knew, too.

theo was heartbroken.

she had loved edgar with all of her heart

but upon hearing he’d been willing to lie to her for so long, she couldn’t feel any of the warmth of his love

in one swift moment, he’d grown cold to them

they felt limited. if they left, it would cause ripples of rumors throughout the town, everything her father and soon-to-be father-in-law had been hoping to avoid with the marriage

theo hoped, perhaps, over time, the rift between her and edgar could be closed

they were wrong

all throughout grad school, their relationship continued to fracture

theo, who ached for real love, couldn’t find it in their fiance’s eyes

they began to save money, gathering a nest egg over the next two years

as they approached graduation, the job postings began: the pleasance public library was hiring a librarian. theo couldn’t escape the postings. they were on every job site, every email, mentioned at every job fair and in all her google search results (even when she wasn’t looking for a job)

six days after she accepted the position, theo woke up at five am

they left their engagement ring on the bedside table, but nothing else

they made the drive from arizona to ohio in two days, stopping only once to sleep

they cried the whole way

her parents called her hundreds of times, but the one person she wanted to hear from had never really cared about her at all

theo isn’t sure what she expected upon arriving in pleasance, but a town filled with conspiracy theories and ghost stories certainly wasn’t it

however, she can’t deny that she’s grown accustomed to the pace of it all

she loves the library, her small home, the daily walks through the town

but she can’t deny the crack in her heart, still growing, mourning over the love she always wanted and never truly had

i’ll be posting some wanted connections / random headcanons here at a later date, but this is the basic layout!! ok thx 4 reading xo

#[ index: autobiography notes ]#[ index: past ]#[ index: edgar ]

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scenes-in-between · 6 years

Text

Deadalive (5/5)

She has this recurring dream.

It started about a month after Mulder’s funeral, and she’s had it at least once a week since then. The location of the dream isn’t always the same; sometimes she’s at home, sometimes in the office or her car. But no matter where it takes place, in the dream she always gets a phone call, and it’s always Mulder’s voice on the other end.

“Scully, it’s me.”

The first time it happened, she woke up gasping, elation plunging into grief as reality tore apart the illusion. It was just a dream. He’s still gone. I’m still alone. After it recurred a few times, she grew angry, furious at the cruel trick of her subconscious, even lashing out in her sleep to yell at him over the phone.

“You’re dead, Mulder! Stop doing this to me! It isn’t fair!”

She kept having the dream.

Anger gave way eventually to resignation. Now when he calls her, she tells him about her day, or works through problems she’s having with cases, the way she used to “talk” to him in her head when he was missing. She’s not lucid dreaming -- there’s no conscious control over what she says and does -- but apparently her unconscious mind has decided she needs this, whether or not she wants it. It still hurts when she wakes up, but not as sharply as it used to. It’s a dull ache that lingers and leaves her quiet for the rest of the day at work, rather than a piercing emptiness that leaves her struggling to catch her breath or make it out of bed.

One night, the phone rings for real, waking her from a dreamless sleep. She answers it, expecting to hear Doggett’s voice, or Skinner’s. Instead, it’s a woman, whose voice she doesn’t recognize.

“I’m looking for Dana Scully?”

“Y-yes, this is she. Can I help you?”

“Ma’am, this is the admitting nurse at Annapolis Naval Hospital. I’m calling because you are listed as the next of kin for a man who’s been brought in.” Her stomach twists with fear over something happening to one of her brothers, but she is completely unprepared for what the woman says next. “A Fox Mulder?”

“Wait… what?”

“Yes, ma’am. I assume he was missing and presumed dead because he showed up in our system as deceased. But we have a positive ID from the FBI agents who brought him in.”

But that’s impossible. There has to be some mistake.

“Are you telling me that he’s… he’s alive?”

“I don’t know much about his status beyond the fact that they’ve got him on a ventilator.”

She says something else, but Scully can’t make out the words over the blood pounding in her ears. They don’t put dead bodies on ventilators.

“I’m on my way.”

Her hands shake as she rushes to get dressed. Not letting herself get her hopes up would be the smart thing, but it’s a fool’s errand. If it’s true… if he’s really alive… She’s had prayers answered before, but never like this. Never in a way that completely defies not just explanation but reality itself. How in the hell could he go from a casket six feet underground to a hospital bed 300 miles away, three months after burial? It’s the very definition of impossible.

A thought hits her then that stops her in her tracks. What if his death itself was a lie? What if that was never Mulder’s body to begin with?

After they found him in Montana, she begged Skinner to countermand the autopsy order. She was in no shape to perform the autopsy herself, and she couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else cutting into him. It was clear from an external examination that he’d been tortured, and her emotional reaction to that fact overtook the rational response she would have had under any other circumstances. Probably against his better judgment, Skinner did as she asked, and Mulder was buried without anything more than a cursory blood type match to confirm his identity. There was no reason to think additional confirmation was needed, and she was too distraught at the time to question the result.

But they have been fooled before. Maybe they were only supposed to think he was dead so they would stop looking for him.

She is so distracted that she leaves her cell phone charging on the kitchen counter, only realizing when she reaches for it in the car to call Skinner. She curses but doesn’t turn around. If he’s not already there when she gets to the hospital, she will call him from a pay phone.

The whole drive to Annapolis, she tries in vain to keep her thoughts in check. Which is more plausible, Dana - that you buried a man you only thought was Mulder, or that the real case of mistaken identity is this one, tonight? Obviously, it is the latter; the nurse only said that “FBI agents” made a positive ID, not that any actual verification had been done. Still, now that it’s taken hold of her heart, there is no suppressing the hope that somehow, against all odds, he is alive.

When she all but runs through the hospital doors and sees Skinner standing in the hallway, she knows. Odds be damned, he’s come back. Mulder has come back to her.

Oh my God.

***

“Tell me it’s true. Tell me.”

The naked hope in her eyes is heartbreaking, and Skinner almost lies to her, almost tells her there’s been a mistake. It would be far kinder to crush her hope here and now, rather than watch her go through the inevitable agony of thinking she’s got him back only to lose him again. Because she will lose him again. Whatever he hoped might happen, bringing Mulder up out of the ground, the man in that hospital bed is never going to wake up.

He can’t lie to her, though. “It’s not what you think.” He frowns. “How did you even find out about this?”

“The admitting nurse called me. She said--” Her voice cracks, and she blinks back tears. “Please, sir. I need to know.”

Skinner clenches his jaw. Part of him wishes he’d listened to Doggett, aborted the exhumation, let sleeping dogs lie. That was never an option, however, and now what’s done is done.

“I got a call yesterday. Fishermen pulled a body out of the water off the North Carolina coast. An autopsy was ordered but called off when the pathologist found… vital signs.” Her eyes widen, and he rushes to get the rest out before she can jump to the wrong conclusions. “The body was later confirmed to be that of Billy Miles.”

She blinks, clearly thrown. “Billy Miles? But they told me--”

“I made a judgment call. One that I’m not sure was right, but I don’t see how I could have done anything different.” Like a coward, he looks away from her face before he continues. “I ordered Mulder’s grave exhumed and his body examined. The same doctor who caught nearly imperceptible vitals in Billy Miles… found the same thing in Mulder.”

“Oh my God,” she whispers, bringing her hands up and clasping them together in front of her mouth.

“Listen to me, Dana. You need to understand… The fact that he’s clinically alive does not mean his prognosis is any better than it was when we found him. The doctors can’t explain how any of this happened, but we don’t have any reason to think he is ever going to walk out of here, okay?”

The door opens behind him, effectively cutting off anything more he might have said.

***

“I have to see him.”

“I know. But I wish you wouldn’t.”

She brushes past him, and Doggett watches her go, more sad than angry but not by much. They agreed not to tell her.

“You made a big mistake calling her, sir,” he mutters as soon as she’s through the door.

“I didn’t call her. The hospital did. Believe me, John, I don’t like that she’s here any more than you do.”

Doggett turns around, and Skinner does look genuinely unhappy. He’s probably not lying about calling her. It’s cold comfort, though. Whoever did the calling, she’s here now, and he doesn’t see this ending any way but horribly. She doesn’t deserve this, damn it. No one should have to endure what she’s already had to go through, let alone what’s coming, but least of all her.

“What did they say?” Skinner asks, and Doggett shakes his head.

“Nothing good. His body is still decomposing, for Christ’s sake. Explain to me how that’s possible.”

“I can’t. It’s just as impossible as everything else about this case.”

“And yet here we are.” Doggett frowns, glancing back at the hospital room door. “We never shoulda dug up that grave.”

“Look, what do you think would have happened once she found out about Billy Miles? There’s going to be a case report on him eventually. Or did you think we could keep that from her forever, too?”

“Maybe!” he says, a little too loudly, then takes a breath and lowers his voice. “Sure as hell would’ve been worth trying. You know, some truths don’t need to come to light, when all they’re gonna do is cause pain for someone who’s already had more than their share.”

Skinner sighs. “I don’t disagree. But I’m afraid that ship has sailed. All we can do now is try to help her through this.”

Doggett shakes his head again. “Honestly, sir? I’m not convinced there’s a single thing we can do to help her through this.”

***

His heart thuds steadily under her ear, evidence of the miracle to which she is bearing witness. It’s a sound she never thought she would hear again, and she thinks it might be the most beautiful thing she has ever heard. Grateful tears slip down over her nose, falling on the fabric of his hospital gown. Whatever happens next, he is here now. Despite all of the odds, he is here, and he is alive.

She imagines a message in the rhythm of the beats.

Scully… it’s me… Scully… it’s me…

#x-files fanfic #txf: deadalive #scullyfic #walter skinner #john doggett #a/n: it's probably a mistake to post this now #amid all of the pre-episode frenzy #buuuuuut i knocked this sucker out in a DAY AND A HALF #which is like #i can't remember the last time i wrote this much this fast #so i'm feeling good about that ;)#here you go folks #deadalive complete #onward to three words :)

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yellowfeather84 · 7 years

Note

Lovely, is it true that Cait is afraid of Jamie not thinking she's still beautiful? Can you post the passage? Thanks!!!!!

Yes, she does! I really hope that we get this scene tonight. We’ve bits from It in the previews so hopefully it’s all there.

I took a deep breath and turned to face him.

“I need an honest opinion, from somebody I can depend on to be objective. No,” I amended, “I take that back. I need an opinion and then—depending on the opinion—maybe a favor.”

“No problem,” Joe assured me. “Especially the opinion. My specialty, opinions.” He rocked back in his chair, unfolded his gold-rimmed glasses and set them firmly atop his broad nose. Then he folded his hands across his chest, fingers steepled, and nodded at me. “Shoot.”

“Am I sexually attractive?” I demanded. His eyes always reminded me of coffee drops, with their warm golden-brown color. Now they went completely round, enhancing the resemblance.

Then they narrowed, but he didn’t answer immediately. He looked me over carefully, head to toe.

“It’s a trick question, right?” he said. “I give you an answer and one of those women’s libbers jumps out from behind the door, yells ‘Sexist pig!’ And hits me over the head with a sign that says ‘Castrate Male Chauvinists.’ Huh?”

“No,” I assured him. “A sexist male chauvinist answer is basically what I want.”

“Oh, okay. As long as we’re straight, then.” He resumed his perusal, squinting closely as I stood up straight.

“Skinny white broad with too much hair, but a great ass,” he said at last. “Nice tits, too,” he added, with a cordial nod. “That what you want to know?”

“Yes,” I said, relaxing my rigid posture. “That’s exactly what I wanted to know. It isn’t the sort of question you can ask just anybody.”

He pursed his lips in a silent whistle, then threw back his head and roared with delight.

“Lady Jane! You’ve got you a man!”

I felt the blood rising in my cheeks, but tried to keep my dignity. “I don’t know. Maybe. Just maybe.”

“Maybe, hell! Jesus Christ on a piece of toast, L. J., it’s about time!”

“Kindly quit cackling,” I said, lowering myself into his visitor’s chair. “It doesn’t become a man of your years and station.”

“My years? Oho,” he said, peering shrewdly at me through the glasses. “He’s younger than you? That’s what you’re worried about?”

“Not a lot,” I said, the blush beginning to recede. “But I haven’t seen him in twenty years. You’re the only person I know who’s known me for a long time; have I changed terribly since we met?” I looked at him straight on, demanding honesty.

He looked at me, took off his glasses and squinted, then replaced them.

“No,” he said. “You wouldn’t, though, unless you got fat.”

“I wouldn’t?”

“Nah. Ever been to your high school reunion?”

“I didn’t go to a high school.”

His sketchy brows flicked upward. “No? Well, I have. And I tell you what, L.J.; you see all these people you haven’t seen for twenty years, and there’s this split second when you meet somebody you used to know, when you think, ‘My God, he’s changed!,’ and then all of a sudden, he hasn’t—it’s just like the twenty years weren’t there. I mean”—he rubbed his head vigorously, struggling for meaning—“ you see they’ve got some gray, and some lines, and maybe they aren’t just the same as they were, but two minutes past that shock, and you don’t see it anymore. They’re just the same people they always were, and you have to make yourself stand back a ways to see that they aren’t eighteen anymore.

“Now, if people get fat,” he said meditatively, “they change some. It’s harder to see who they were, because the faces change. But you”—he squinted at me again—“ you’re never going to be fat; you don’t have the genes for it.”

“I suppose not,” I said. I looked down at my hands, clasped together in my lap. Slender wristbones; at least I wasn’t fat yet. My rings gleamed in the autumn sun from the window.

“Is it Bree’s daddy?” he asked softly.

I jerked my head up and stared at him. “How the hell did you know that?” I said.

He smiled slightly. “I’ve known Bree how long? Ten years, at least.” He shook his head. “She’s got a lot of you in her, L. J., but I’ve never seen anything of Frank. Daddy’s got red hair, huh?” he asked. “And he’s one big son of a bitch, or everything I learned in Genetics 101 was a damn lie.”

“Yes,” I said, and felt a kind of delirious excitement at that simple admission. Until I had told Bree herself and Roger about Jamie, I had said nothing about him for twenty years. The joy of suddenly being able to talk freely about him was intoxicating.

“Yes, he’s big and red-haired, and he’s Scottish,” I said, making Joe’s eyes go round once more.

“And Bree’s in Scotland now?”

I nodded. “Bree is where the favor comes in.”

Two hours later, I left the hospital for the last time, leaving behind me a letter of resignation, addressed to the Hospital Board, all the necessary documents for the handling of my property until Brianna should be of age, and another one, to be executed at that time, turning everything over to her. As I drove out of the parking lot, I experienced a feeling of mingled panic, regret, and elation. I was on my way.

#answered #book quotes #voyager

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jarpadandjensenaremyheroes · 7 years

Text

Home: Chapter 8

A/n-Last part of my 8-part series for @whispersandwhiskerburn’s 2k follower challenge. I had so much fun writing this! This part is set a few years ahead of where the rest of the fic was. That being said, I’m super sorry for this last part. I really am. Please don’t hate me.

Word count: 1,466

Warnings: Character death and angst. So much angst… fluff in the beginning

Need to catch up? HERE is the masterlist!

Chapter 8

Dean stopped hunting as much after you had professed your love for each other, and taught you how to protect yourself. Sammy taught you about the lore, and how to figure out what kind of monster they were hunting. You rarely went on hunts with them; mostly you stayed at the bunker on research duty. You didn’t mind though. After 10 years of being alone, it was nice to have the place to yourself every now and then. You cleaned and jammed out to your favorite music in your t-shirt and underwear, you drank and reorganized things. You cataloged archives of information from the library which made research a thousand times easier. The three of you had this flow, and it was perfect. Your relationship with Dean was spectacular. You hardly ever fought, and the sex was phenomenal. But it always felt like something was lacking. You could never put your finger on it. It wasn’t like you were unhappy; this was the happiest you had been since you lost your family. It was almost as if something was missing but you weren’t sure what.

Until you sat on the bathroom floor staring at those two pink lines. You understood what you had been missing these last couple years. You wanted a family of your own. And now you were going to have it.

When you told Dean, he was over the moon. You had talked briefly about having kids in the past, but never really hammered out whether you wanted them or not. You weren’t sure where he stood. Knowing that he was as happy about this as you were was only furthering your elated mood.

The months passed by, and soon, you were bringing home your little boy from the hospital. John James Winchester, JJ for short. He was named for both your fathers, you couldn’t be happier. You had the perfect little family, and nothing could possibly make it better. Except the surprise twin girls you brought home 3 years later.

Mary Jessica, and Amelia Harper. The two most beautiful little bundles you had ever seen. They were identical twins though, so distinguishing them has hard for all of you sometimes. Especially for a 3 year old JJ. He often brought you all to tears from laughter trying to talk to his little sisters.

Dean eventually stopped hunting altogether, after an especially close call with a rougarou. He and Sam almost left you alone with the kids, permanently. So after a discussion between the three of you, Sam decided he would only be taking local hunts, and Dean would stop hunting. He could do research, but no more field duty. You agreed staying in the bunker was best though, considering Dean and Sam were still celebrities in the monster world.

As the years passed, your love for Dean and your little family only grew. As did his and your children’s for you. But there was sometimes this nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach, like something wasn’t quite right; you would just push it aside and continue on with your happy, perfect little life.

One day, when you came home from running errands and dropping the kids off at school, the bunker was covered in flowers. Literally almost every surface had flowers on it. And the ones without flowers were covered in candles. There was a clear path, lined by more flowers of course, leading to your shared bedroom with Dean. As you rounded the corner, you heard your song.

Love don’t run

And love don’t hide

It won’t turn away or back down from a fight

Baby I’m right here and I ain’t goin’ anywhere

Love’s too tough, it won’t give up, no not on us

Baby love don’t run

Tears pricked and stung your eyes already. This was one of the most romantic things Dean has ever done! I wonder what this is all about… You gently pushed open the bedroom door to find Dean kneeling on one knee.

“Y/N Y/M/N, I know it’s like we’re already married, with the kids and the home, but I’ve been a fool. I love you with all my heart and soul. I love everything about you; your y/c/h hair and the way it blows in the breeze, your y/c/e and the way they sparkle when you look at me and the kids, I love your amazing body for providing me with three amazing children, I love your brain that can honestly rival Sammy’s in smarts, I love your personality and loving soul for the way you just keep giving and giving, I love everything that is you, Y/N. So will you please be mine, and be Mrs. Winchester, so I can love one more thing about you?”

“Yes you idiot of course!” You threw yourself into his arms as you kissed each other over and over again.

“You know, I was expecting a yes, but I was expecting more of an ‘about time’ yes,” he chuckled.

“You could have just thrown a ring at me and said ‘There. Now we’re married.’ and I still would have reacted this way! I love you Dean Winchester, and this has officially made me the happiest I’ll ever be.”

“Well Sam is picking the kids up today and taking them to visit Jody for the weekend, so you and I have this place all to ourselves,” he said to you with a wink.

“Why, Mr. Winchester! You should be ashamed of yourself! Implying that a girl should sleep with you before she’s married?” You tried to feign irritation, but you couldn’t keep the humor out of your voice. You gave him a playful swat as you ran out of the bedroom.

You expected him to chase you, but he didn’t. And that nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach had returned, but it was so much worse this time. It was almost painful.

“Dean?” you called out for him. When there was no answer, you began to panic. You ran back into the bedroom, but it was no longer lit with candles and covered in flowers. It was dark and covered in dust and cobwebs.

“What the hell…” This had to be some kind of trick. You pulled out your phone to call Sam.

“Hello?”

“Sam, it’s me. I’m at the bunker, and something weird is going on…I can’t find Dean and I’m scared…”

“I’m sorry…who is this and what are you doing in our home? I don’t know this number, and my brother is with me…”

“What? That’s impossible. He was just with me. He just proposed! And you are picking the kids up from school to go visit Jody for the weekend so we could have some alone time…”

Sam laughed. “Okay now I know this is a prank. Dean doesn’t have kids. And furthermore, he would never get married. So I’m hanging up now. Whoever or whatever you are, goodbye.”

Click.

Your whole world just shattered. You screamed out in frustration. Just then there was a sharp pain in your neck. Shortly after, a dull throb started throughout your whole body. You were so tired. You needed to lie down…

You managed to make it to the dusty and dirty old bed before you collapsed, but it no longer felt like a bed. It didn’t feel like anything, just coldness. And there was a terrible ache in your shoulders.

You closed your eyes as you heard a voice off in the distance, but you couldn’t make it out. It was like being underwater. And then, there was nothing…

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

“This isn’t our fault Dean. The damn things were smart. They knew we were coming. I know it sucks, but we did everything we could.”

Sam always had a point when we had cases end like this. It was always the same ‘you can’t save everyone’ speech. I know he’s right, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling guilty. I mean, this poor girl had no family left, but still. That doesn’t mean she wasn’t worth a damn in this world. She was still a human, an innocent.

“I know Sammy. It doesn’t make this part of the job any less shitty though.”

Sam looked at me with sympathy. “I know man. But this doesn’t happen often, because we’re good at what we do; but we’ll never be perfect. No one is ever perfect.”

“Yeah. Let’s just burn the bodies and get out of here. I need a drink.”

“Why don’t you go wait in Baby. I’ll take care of stuff in here. I know you really wanted to save her, especially since she was so helpful at the library.”

I chanced a glance at her dead body. “I just hope she had decent dreams Sammy.”

“I’m sure she did. You know they always are.”

@quackerstheduck663057

#Angel's2k #2ways2go #Dean Winchester x reader #spn fanfic #Home series

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dunmerofskyrim · 7 years

Text

Intermission, Marked: Part 5

The soil itself is cinders, sown with bones, overgrown with weeds. Fallen stones that once were walls, bricks, homes, now litter the caved-in streets. Other houses stand whole but empty, left only for the use of ghosts.

Blood cried out from Bodram before we came. It shall carry on long after we’re gone. It floods the lungs with every breath here, thick as drowning.

We came hungry, down the river and downland from High Silgrad, perched in the hills. Our carts and wagons limp behind us on broken buckled wheels. A hamlet by the water told us:

“Bodram. You’ll find it not far now. Nothing to spare here, seras, but no doubt there’s them in the city’ll trade your stocks full again.”

And by the time I feel the wrongness on the air – the savagery set into the stones of this place – it’s too late.

First comes the near-silent sound of arrows. Shorn air. Then an ululation, singing out high between joy and mourning: their warwail. I’ve heard it in my dreams more often than in waking. Still, something in my blood responds to it, and sets my marrow singing. The oft-eclipsed aspect in my ancestry that, when asked Who are you? will answer: Vereansu.

A moment of elation, and then I am part of our crowd again, and drowned in new knowledge. A realisation. We have been trapped – tricked – and they fall on us like prey, driven fear-mad to the hunters’ close.

…

My eyes try to fix themselves. One finds focus and finds me staring. A corner of the horizon is curtained off with smoke from some distant source. So why do I smell its sharpness now, as near as near as near?

Simra. He’s here and has brought the reek of smoke with him. He wears it like a coarse grey coat, and like wet wool it hangs from him. He wears it like Bodram’s still clinging to him. I blink hard with both eyes and pinch my ear to make sure I’m myself and awake.

“You’re back,” he says. “Good. So am I.”

His voice is hoarse; red and worn as rust. Everything about him seems slack and starved and sleepless. He stands, moves in a desperate lurch to a new spot, stands still. He looks round to stare and then again he looks anywhere else.

He’d be pacing if he had the strength — I know him well enough to know it. But instead he’s spent the last of himself. No ease or energy remains in him. I still have a scrap of both, and together they feel a little like bravery.

“Is this why you do it?” I say. “Leaving, the way that you do. So that when you come back they’ll be so thankful you’re not gone for good that you won’t ever have to say you’re sorry and shouldn’t have gone at all?”

He stops and turns midstride. I’m under his eyes again, fixed under all their low bright fire. I might have flinched once. Now I only wait.

“Might be.” He kisses his teeth and his eyes turn laughing. “Fuck knows why I keep trying though…” The sound he makes after is a difficult one. It’s hard to call it a laugh or a sigh — it tries to be both and gets lost halfway. “Might be why I lie too,” he says. “Tell stories. Use different names. Simrin, Katharas, Lyros, Nimmun. It just…happens. I just do it. Been all kinds of person to all sorts of people just so I’d never have to be myself. Whatever my fake names did, and whatever stories stuck to them, they wouldn’t end up part of who I am for anyone but me. And the only ones that owe anyone anything are dead names I’ve left behind while I’m off and free and starting again.”

“And again. And again… For a mer who heaps so much worth on the things they own, you try very hard to go back to having nothing. No history, no name, no friends.”

He brushes a jut of rock almost-clean and sits down on it, arms hugged round his middle. “I set you right didn’t I? Told you who I was. What d’you make of that?”

“What were you trying to make of it? I’ve always wondered…”

“I was trying to make a friend!” He yelps like I’ve pulled the words from him. Yanked out like hair tugged up at the roots. “I’d lied for months to everyone I’d met since I crossed that fucking border. No-one in Morrowind knew who Simra Hishkari was and no-one gave a shit. And then every time you called me Katharas, it fucked with me, alright? I didn’t want to lie to you anymore.”

“So why did you start again?” I ask. “Not telling the truth can be a kind of lying too, just the same as telling untruths.”

“Tssht.” Simra pushes back. He is trying to smile. Brush me off with sweetness, like taking hair from the limbs with honey. “If failing to speak your mind the whole entirety of always is lying — fine, I’m a liar. But so are you and so’s anyone. Listen. I read something once – story, history, parable, hard to say which – but it said something…resonant, right?”

And after that his talking changes.

“The daedra are the truths we acknowledge to better know ourselves, and our world, and the trials we face just by living in it. That’s how it began, and that’s where we started. Our people woke to that when they achieved their Exodus. And that was the work of Boethiah, it said, Prince of Foment and of Overthrow. Boethiah let the followers of Veloth walk into chaos. Broke them so they might be remade. But on their journey it was Mephala who taught them to remake themselves.”

Rhythm and cadence — by now he is almost chanting.

“When all our people lived by was a scathing storm of truth, the story goes, Black Hands Mephala taught them lies. Among them were the lies that trust’s worth trusting in, and those who lead worth loving. Among them were the lies that help us hide desires, and grow to be more by chastising our lesser selves. The lies of patience and prudence. Society, Veloth’s followers learnt, is a web of lies, but one that ties together as much as it entraps. And by then they had forgotten the people they had been, for they had learnt to turn by truth and lies, and so became Ch—”

“I don’t care!” The sound bolts free of me. His voice turned telltale. His words milled their edges fine – polished their sides smooth – all so that they might be easy to swallow. And all the while the sound of me telling him to stop and see me and tell the truth struggled behind my teeth. “I don’t care, I don’t care!” Free now. “I don’t care what you’ve read. I don’t care about tricks and pretty distractions or puzzles…”

Simra stares at me. His eyes are sharp and flat as glass for a moment. He doesn’t like to be interrupted, but I will not be intimidated. Not by him and not anymore. He sighs a long sharp sound through his nose, then speaks on like I’ve said nothing. His voice is tight:

“Point is, lies show truths too when you look at them right. Listening to me lie taught you an important truth.”

“What?”

“You really need me to tell you? Shit…” He started by trying to smile but now his mouth is pulling downward. It tugs the false Harrowmarks on his face askew as he gestures to them with a restless hand. One Who Lies, they say. “Written on me, ain’t that right? But look at yourself while you’re at it. We’re both liars here, Tam. Didn’t know you even could lie but turns out you’ve been doin’ it this whole time. Either way, I’m the liar you’re stuck with, and the same for you to me, and without each other? Shit, we’d both have to give our plans a good fuckin’ rethink, wouldn’t we? I suggest we get the fuck on.”

He stands. Against the sky and the smoke that streaks it he looks like a broken thing bundle-mended together. A thing made of limbs and little enough else, like the ancestor scarecrows that kept watch on the hillsides near Stregaris. One hand closes over the grip of his sword. The knuckles flex white through the skin.

“Which way now?” he asks, blunt and tired and guarded. “Close, aren’t we?”

“Yes.”

We’re done here. I think it, but with every shift of his face and form he speaks it, loud as laughing.

“It’s Bodram, isn’t it? That’s where you’re taking us. Where she’s holed up.”

I am silent, shrinking, shrivelled round a seed of selfish guilt.

“Went off walking and I know what I saw, so don’t try tell me otherwise or just say nothing. Valley, riverfork, ruin. So tell me — is that where we’re headed?”

“Yes.” Smaller this time.

“How long’ve you known and not told me? Second thought, fuck it, I don’t care. Just proves my point. Come on. Still daylight left to spend.”

I stand too and follow him as he walks across the hillside. I think: How long did I know and not tell myself?

We pass through a swathe of blackened grass. A black stunted tree stands with a red-glowing heart of embers, still breathing threads of smoke. Even the stones are scorch-split, white as cinders where they’re not burnt dark as charcoal.

Simra looks at me over his shoulder. The glance is sly and secret, smug as blistered sugar but scrupled and muddled with something like shame. I think: He did this.

After that, he has eyes only for the valley below, and my eye follows his back. In his white hair, the restive wind. In the folds of his clothes, it comes and goes. Another day perhaps to Bodram.

…

“INSIDE!”

A hand closes round my elbow. The pull of it nearly breaks the joint.

My one good eye rolls in its socket. In a single split moment, it’s seen too much.

One mer tackles another to the ground, throwing themself on the other, overshadowing them. An instant later, their back bristles with arrowshafts. The child covered and trapped in their arms is one shriek among many.

A flash of white light. Someone stands on a cart-top, arms wide. In front of them the air is hazed, rippling like water, and full of arrows caught in their flight. My ears ring with the sound of the spell. A whirring whipcrack of sound and the mage sweeps the air in front of them sidewards. The arrows move again, veering off to stick and splinter against a wall.

In a thunder of feet and a wail of glee, a rider crashes into our caravan’s clamour. We are crammed into the street. Bones break and figures fall under the charging guar’s ramming head and stamping feet. A blade flashes. Blood streaks the air.

And more and so much more.

“INSIDE! NOW!”

Katharas has me. He pulls me almost off my feet and then I’m running with him.

We stumble into and past someone. They fall and tangle on the ground. Friend or foe?

Katharas drags us off the street. Under a broken arch and into a walled-off thicket of once-garden. We strike a cowering sprint through the shadows of a long porch.

He’s found a locked door. He curses, makes to kick it, remembers his part-healed feet, and looks at me with a plea in his eyes.

I step forward and the song I use to twist and slag the iron sounds a little like the screaming at our backs. The bolt on the door smokes and shudders.

Something clatters from the cracked brickwork beside me as I sing. The warwail sounds again. Something flashes on my blindside — a blur of hot light and a scuffle of feet, panting breath. Flesh strikes flesh. Then a wet and shallow tearing sound. Once, twice…

“Go!”

Katharas pushes me through the doorway. Follows. Slams it shut behind us as we pour into a narrow stairwell. The touch of his hand stains both of us red.

He turns to me, wild-eyed. “Up?”

“Down!” I hiss.

A cold blue-green ghostlight comes to life in my cupped palms. I make it light our way downward.

In the cellar, Katharas’ breathing rasps in my ears and the floor beneath our feet is broken pottery, drifts and dunes of cinder and dirt.

“Stormtunnels,” I whisper aloud. “They’ll have to have — Ah!”

I find the boards and bolt of another door in the darkness. I jolt it. It doesn’t budge. I heave til my arms ache and it springs loose. The door yawns onto a tunnel beyond.

We hurry aimless together through the channel burrowed under Bodram’s streets. Tight-cramped, we have to go one ahead and one behind, stooping under the low ceiling.

We pass turnings and splits in the tunnel until another door looms out from the darkness.

“No bolt on this side. Fuck this, we don’t have time!”

Katharas snaps in a language long-lost and familiar — almost Nordic. He moves me aside, plants his feet, and snarls something at the doorway. Flame answers what could only have been a Calling. The wood of the door glows low red, smouldering. He barks another Calling and it flares up furious orange. He lashes out a hand and it falls in on itself and apart, crumbs and embers and sparks spraying into the chamber beyond.

He draws his sword and steps inside. I watch his shoulders tense as he turns, scouring each corner, then his whole stance falls loose.

“Safe,” he says.

This cellar squats under a ruin, I think. Daylight slants through the floorboards above. A trapdoor hangs shut in one corner. And through the gaps the sunlight creeps through, sound carries too. Screaming, warcries, the stench of smoke and blood from the city overhead.

“It’s still happening,” I say, following him in. “I can hear them. Can’t you? We’re dying.”

“No. Not us. Them. We’re not dying here. Not you, not me. We wait.”

But I talk us towards the light. It is one of those rare times when purpose overcomes me and makes me calm. I know what to do. But my knowing takes what peace he’s found and casts it, torn, off towards terror.

“You’re talking crowshit! Madness and suicide. There’s no way…”

“I don’t want to leave them.”

“There’s no way. No way! You’ll get yourself killed. You’ll get us both killed!”

“Is there any other way?”

“Yes! Ghosts and bones and godsblood, yes! We stay! We hide! Here!”

“Waiting it out? Like a storm? No. I don’t want that. Could you live with yourself? After that? Knowing?”

“You don’t know half what I live with.”

“I don’t. But are you happy living with it?”

“Fucking what?”

“I wouldn’t be. I won’t be. They wouldn’t be. I know that. Not the dead, not the living. Do you understand? I know a way, I think. But I’ll need you to guard me, at first.”

“I swear, Tammu… I fucking swear…”

“Stay or leave. Whatever you want. But I need you to stay.”

Frightened. Both of us are frightened. Gnawed by fear like a plague of fleas. When it seemed we’d stay in the cellar, for him perhaps things were simpler. It made him calm. I grew worse. Itched by voices; pricked by the pang of new death after new death, constant as rain above us both.

He is wild eyed, wide eyed. His expression flickers like fire, from conclusion to question, to question on and on.

“You’ve saved me once,” I say, gentle as only those who can’t yield can be. “I’d trust you to do it again. Will you?” In my voice it murmurs like magic, like music — a certainty that scares me and leaves me unafraid.

“Stupid… Stupid… You don’t—… Trust me? You don’t even—”

I am losing him. His words are falling to pieces. He look younger now, all but a child.

“I trust you, Katharas.” I lay a hand on him, hinged open over his shoulder. He flinches once, hard, then stiffens, falls still. “I need you to trust me. Do you? Trust me?”

“That’s not my name…”

…

I thought: This place has known too much of death. This land has lost the ones who lived on it and been made to drink their blood. I thought: These people already have known death too well. First their oxen and horses, guars for the pack and the saddle, and then their kin, by choice and by blood. They were made to swallow their tears and walk on, and now this final horror too? I thought: I can’t change the loss or stop the losing, but I won’t let it worsen.

Five years are all that’s passed but I look back on the self that once I was and think I was far too young. Five years only, and already I think I’ve grown older, old. Has wisdom started to find me too? Is hardness, firmness, coldness a kind of wisdom? Too often perhaps, and not often enough.

Simra was younger still. Older now, yes, but still younger than me. But maybe he was the wiser of us when he told me it was too late for Bodram.

“A dead city,” he thinks aloud, walking ahead of me through the valley. “Not a big one, fine, but still a whole city. And all of it gutted or burnt or just fucking empty.”

There’s marvel in his voice. Or else there’s a marvel his heart feels, seeing this place, and he’s talking to tell himself why. Since this morning he’s started speaking again, afraid of the shadow our silence had cast. We pick through the stiff and waist-high grass that grows near this fork of rivers, blue-grey-green in black-grey dirt. He talks on. My shadow is still growing. I trudge along, half-here.

“Fucks with me, if I’m honest. Not the fact that it got that way in the first place. One lean Winter on the plains and the Vereansu ride farther afield, flattest way they can, to find someone whose harvest wasn’t utter shit — least compared with pickings in Deshaan. The kinband survives another year. Nasty, yeah, but it figures, right? Makes sense. I get that. Might not have, once, but… What fucks with me’s that it stayed empty after. Once the Vereansu were done with it.”

“They killed what they couldn’t take or burn,” I hear myself say.

“So did the Red Year up north. So did the Argonians in the South. People rebuilt. Reclaimed what they could. Last I remember, Bodram still had good empty buildings. Broken bits to build with. Good ground to plant in, for all I fucking know.”

“Dead buildings. Dead earth. Wrong in the soul.”

I see his shoulders shudder ahead of me. After, he kisses his teeth. “Reckon this makes sense too then. That a necromancer’d get herself nested up in a place like that. Like this. Not so empty after all.”

I concentrate on the sounds nearby so as not to hear what lies ahead. The long-moaning wind and the flutter of grass. The clatter and jangle of Simra as he moves, all bracelets, beads and necklaces, rings in his untorn ear. The heartbeat of our footsteps, never quite in time.

I concentrate on what is, but things that were sometimes blur in, and I see Simra as someone he’s not.

…

He walks before me. All too well, by days and days, I get to know his walking back. The cast of his shoulders, slumped and rolling, are known to me, and known to me are the rain-matted patchwork of pelts he wears, stitched into one motley with stretched dried gut.

“Not far now,” he tells me. And his voice is like sinews flexing under skin. “Be in the mountains soon.”

His unwashed hair is the colour of straw and it spikes and flicks in the wind.

“Think about it,” he says. “I’m taking you home, like as not.”

He drags me along behind. The manacles blister my wrists. The magic in the iron sucks the magic from me. They make my brain sluggish and my stomach feel wrong. Or is that the plan I keep behind my teeth?

He drags me, tugs hard when I lag behind, and I make myself stumble. It’s not difficult. I fall onto my side, next to the tangle of canisroot I saw and stooped for. I writhe like the tumble has hurt me. It puts my mouth near enough. Shoving the ball of chewed alchemy between teeth and cheek for safekeeping, I bite off as much canisroot as I can. It joins the rest.

As Amarin yanks me upright again, by the rope attached to my wrists, I think how I’ll make myself free of him — hold his life in my hands and choose.

Soon, says the hate he’s planted in me. Soon.

…

It’s not the truth, this overlap of when and where. The ghost-images are easier to disbelieve as they overbleed into what I see. Easier, yes, but not always easy. What’s hard is to comb out the feelings I have: real and fake; remembered and current.

Simra is speaking. Simra, not Amarin. He says something I can’t make out, and turns to look over his shoulder. I fix his face in my mind, assuring myself it’s his.

I squint and tell myself, I do not hate you, just to test the truth of it, in silence on my tongue. I try very hard these days not to hate very many things, places, people, but sometimes the stronger sharpest feelings are the ones most clearly mine. Selfish, stubborn, I cling to them — they’re anchors in all the tide and ebb of ghosts that fill my mind.

Beyond him is the tight scurry and splash of buildings and ruins that make up Bodram, beyond us both but drawing closer with every step we take. We’ve taken enough that it’s near now. For me it’s in clear loud earshot already, and I try not to hear what it says.

Evening darkens the valley. The mountains that line it help the night to fall early. Around us the grasses turn to shadow, and the voice of the river, its fork, and the streams that feed it, all sound like the running of ink. All but deafening.

“Lights,” Simra stops and says. He points ahead and I follow his hand.

In the dark tumble of Bodram, lamps are being lit. Windows show as slits and squares of golden light. They hang close to the ground, in the deeper blacker darkness pooled beneath the first beginnings of starlight, the first gauzy seeming of moons.

“Not so empty after all,” he says. “Just took the night to see.”

“I don’t understand. How can they bear it?”

“What?”

“I can hear it from here.”

“Maybe they’re just not so much for listening as you. Or they healed it. Fixed it? Whoever they are.”

Most of the city still lies dark. Out of the small pocket that’s pricked through with light, a few detach and begin to move. They come closer with time.

“Shit…” Simra mutters. “Looks like we’ll find out soon enough.”

Strangers, I think.

Simra’s mouth is a hard line now and the evening is sliding fast into full night. He whispers into his cupped hands and calls a surly red magelight. With a gesture it wisps into the air overhead. It glows down as we walk on toward the moving lamps, and the dark between grows smaller.

There is wrongness in the air and a buzzing in my ears. I cannot feel my belly but know it’s twisting.

“Simra, I can’t…”

“It’s alright. I’ll talk to them.”

Was it always so difficult? Or is it only this place? This time?

“Who goes?”

To us they are figures now, wrapped up in the glow and dancing shadows of fire. To them, we are figures too, bathed in steady spell-light. Simra’s hand goes to the grip of his sword as he calls back:

“Two travellers.” He takes a step forward. “I’ve got a sword but I’d sooner keep it sheathed. My friend here’s unarmed. Neither of us means any harm to you or anyone else in Bodram.”

Liar, I think.

“What cause d’you have to be in Bodram?”

“We’re searching for a friend. Once we find her we’ll be back on our way.”

“Your friend…” They are drawing closer too. A different voice speaks, but their accent and tongue are shared. Mountain people; a flinty hillfolk edge in their speech. “She Vereansu like you? You’ll not find her here.”

Simra hisses under his breath before speaking back. “What makes you so sure we’re Vereansu?”

“You’re ashlanders, I’m sure of that. Marked as much.” A murmur of laughter from many mouths. “Two gravenfaces come in by night, here so near from the plains? Who’s t’assume you’re not skullshapers after that?”

“Assumption…” Simra snaps it, close and quiet like a curse, then carries on loud once more. “We’re on foot, not a bow between us, and coming in from the north. You want more proof than that, you can check my skull yourself!”

We’re close enough to see them now, and they to see us too. My one good eye made nightblind, I can make out little enough – the tapering cones of helmet-crests; a lantern-staff and pair of torches – but Simra has noticed something. It’s taut in his voice, making each word sound like a boast or a threat.

He strides out, over shorn-down stems of barley, fallow after the harvest that must have been and gone. “How long’s House Sadras held Bodram?” he asks.

A bearded mer and a lantern-bearer go out to meet him. “To look at you, I’d say since you were in swaddling clothes.”

“Bout as long as Sadras has been a House at all then, hm? Great or otherwise. What about recently? How long’ve you had it back for? Y’know, after you let the Vereansu borrow it a while? Gotta say, they didn’t keep it in the best nick, did they?”

“Careful, stranger. I don’t know who you think you are—”

“Simra Hishkari. Simra Seven-Fingers to you.” He raises his bandaged hand and flutters the five fingers on it. I feel myself frown. “Heard of me? No? Ask round, you might hear a story or two. Now — d’you mind?”

The soldier growls. Most of the sound is tiredness. “To your posts,” he barks. “Fall back in.” In a muddle of motion and bobbing lights, his company turns toward the city again and starts to march.

Simra looks back at me. He beckons.

I try to step forward. For a moment I press through a wall of noise. It scrapes me naked, sees and exposes me. Then only the nightsounds remain. The air is purged and ordinary.

“It’ll be alright,” he says again. “Trust me. A real bath. A real bed. It might even help…”

I walk towards him and say, “It might.” But the sounds are cold and heavy.

#TES #Morrowind #Dunmer #Tammunei Ereshkigal #Simra Hishkari #SH Intermission 1 #SH new canon

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lotornomiko · 6 years

Text

The Shattered Dream of Innocence Chapter Nineteen

Brand spanking new summary!

Adults can’t be trusted, Emma Swan knows this first hand. They lie and they hurt, and act with an evil that leads to all kind of ruin. They shatter dreams and destroy innocence, and more than not trusting them, Emma has never wanted to grow up to be just like them. Never once tempted, never once dreaming, she’s about to find out that becoming an adult is not just inevitable, it’s a fate that just might be worth dying for.

This unavoidable state, this end to her childhood? It comes in the form of a storm dark pirate named Captain Hook. Through her encounters with the pirate, Emma’s about to learn it all, the joys and the sorrows of being an adult, the heartbreak and elation of letting go. There’s a choice to be made here, a future that might just be worth reaching for, if her friends and her family don’t tear her apart. If HE doesn’t tear apart, the demon known as Peter Pan willing to go to just about ANY length to keep her….

As of 2/15/2018 currently going over it, to correct a few typos, and do some overhaul and rewriting, to hopefully get Arc Two finally started! A Hook Emma pairing….some triggers may apply…M rating that will get a little more explicit over time….

That smile haunted her now, Emma embarrassed by and regretting it. Regretting the emotions leading up to it, the sleepless night she had spent, the worries that had plagued her. She felt like the biggest fool in all of Neverland for letting herself soften for even one second towards the pirate. How it-SHE must have amused him, how it must be making him laugh to think Emma had been that worried, that caring. She could only thank God for small miracles that Hook hadn't been privy to all of it. That he didn't know the secret thoughts she had had, the feelings that Emma herself didn't understand, and the fact that she had considered him SPECIAL.

Her heart would have broke a thousand times over if Hook had known all that, Emma relieved she hadn't been tricked into acting anymore foolishly. And yet it hadn't been enough to keep the tears from coming, the bitter hurt overwhelming her, leaving Emma sobbing and she hadn't been free even once asleep. Dreaming of him, of the pirate, but not as he was, but as she had seen him, Hook kind and impressive, and then he was kneeling over her, fingers not quite touching her cheek, a stricken expression on his face as he mumbled out apologies.

She had hurt all the more for his sorrow, knowing it wasn't real, knowing that Hook wasn't real, the secret wish in her heart having wanted him to be sorry. Wanting him to be moved enough with feelings for Emma that he regretted the hurt he had dealt her. That he was sorry for it all, that he was in fact still the man she had been so impressed with.

Wanting those things as much as anything else she had ever wanted in her young life, Emma had wept all the harder to know she wasn't going to get it. The tears started again long before she opened her eyes, Emma moaning, crying out in her sleep. Such was the magnitude of her distress, Emma didn't at first register the loud crash of sound that thundered ominously all around her. Or the sounds that followed, the faint noise of an alarm bell ringing, the loud repeating thumps of many feet marching. The shouts that she barely heard, too far below deck to hear the worst of the crew's screamed out exclamations.

And then the booming sounded again, and it was closer, and louder, and something cracked in the sky. Emma awoke with a loud shriek of her own, jolting upright with the blanket clutched around her. She heard something falling, felt the shaking of the ship, and the roar of the ocean. And above it all she heard the thundering sound of the storm, Emma's heart beginning to hammer harder in her chest.

Fighting the fear that was filling her, the fright that chased away all her other concerned and hurt feelings, Emma unsteadily lurched to her feet. The footing was unstable, the Jolly Roger battling against the sea itself, riding on churning waters, being lifted up then dropped by larger and larger waves. It sent everything not nailed down falling, chests sliding, even turning over, gold and jewels spilling all around her with loud sounding clatters.

Emma bit back another scream, fought the rising panic, and made her shaking way to the hold's door. She didn't know what she would do if it was locked, if anyone would hear her screams over the storm, if anyone would care enough to come investigate. But she nerved herself to reach out, to try the handle, and breathed an immense sigh of relief to find it unlocked and turning.

The door now opened, she stumbled out into the narrow hall. It was dark there too, Emma in the bowels of the ship, the only light coming from the windows, jagged arcs of white lightning casting brief flashes of illumination against an otherwise pitch black sky. The dark rumbling clouds, they hid even the stars, Emma not sure if it was still the same day, or if she had slept long enough for night to have actually fallen.

She didn't stand around trying to figure it out. Her self preserving instincts were alive, her heart screaming about the danger, Emma fighting to stay rational, to think and not give in to her fears about what COULD happen. Not while the Roger was still intact, not while the alarm bell was still ringing, and she needed to make her way to the deck before something worse happened, and the crew decided to abandon ship.

Making her shaky, stumbling way through the darkened hall, Emma found the steps that led to the next level of the ship. The shouts of the crew were louder here, but she still couldn't make out what was being said. She took comfort in the voices all the same, following them to topside, and then she was out on deck, surrounded by what seemed like pure chaos. The storm itself attacking, it's fierce howling wind tearing at her clothes, sending Emma's hair whipping wildly about her face.

Amidst the long strands of gold, Emma took in the sights around her, of the flooded floorboards of the deck, the wood so slippery even the big burly pirates were having trouble staying upright. She made her way closer to the rail, intending to use that to support her, Emma's hand reaching out to damp wood that felt ice cold against her warm skin. The rain hadn't yet started, the storm bad enough that it had affected the sea, rousing forty foot high waves to come splashing onto the deck, wetting everything down. Emma clung harder to the rail with both hands, but she wasn't paying enough attention to the sea. Not with the sights all around her, the pirates busy. They weren't abandoning the ship, they were actively trying to maintain it, several pirates including Hook climbing up the rigging, Emma's shocked breath squeaking out of her at seeing the man so high up. There was no netting laid out to catch him should he or any of the other pirates fall, Emma frightened for Hook despite what her hurt feelings told her that she should be feeling.

Those hurt feelings were all but ignored, Emma frozen in place. Watching the captain climb higher, hand over hook, his feet seeking purchase on the wet, icy ropes. He was moving faster than the others, catching at the flapping canvas of one of the sails. Another pirate who might have been Mason was just under him, helping Hook to secure the sail. Together the two men worked to roll and tie it down, the canvas sail too precious an item to risk it being torn up by the storm's winds.

The other sails were being similarly tended to, not just on the Roger, but on the ships flanking it's rear. Emma could even see smoke, one of the other ship's sails having caught fire. The crew there worked to contain it, to keep it from spreading to the other sails, but they were having difficulty, the storm withholding it's rain. But not it's lightning, the jagged white lines of energy arcing across the sky. Again and again, and then one was striking the Jolly Roger, a loud sizzle of sound that was swallowed up by the sound of wood moaning. Screaming, Emma turned, one of her hands letting go of the railing. She saw the great beam of wood splintering apart, it's broken top half falling to the deck. She screamed again, when it landed on top of a pirate, the man falling silent and no one had noticed, or maybe they just didn't care!

Panicking anew, Emma wondered why they hadn't yet abandoned ship. She began to let go of the rail completely, intent on the long boats, wanting to run to them, to reach for them, and to pitch over inside one. She wasn't thinking rationally, not realizing the long boats would most likely be swallowed up by a sea this vicious, or that it would take more than her thin arms to be able to man one. She couldn't even remember just where on the ship the long boats were kept, Emma taking a step forward just as the sky opened up completely, the fat drops of water coming so hard, so fast, it was almost like being pelted with frozen bits of hail.

It soaked everything not already wet within seconds, Emma cringing, shivering as she walked. She was almost to the center of the ship, when the Jolly Roger lifted up on a wave, Emma screaming louder than ever in her life, the girl slipping, hitting the floorboards hard enough that she'd bruise. She tried to scramble up right, and there was a sound that let her know she was still screaming, the shrieks hurting her throat, as the ship abruptly was dropped, crashing hard onto the surface of the ocean.

And with that drop, Emma slammed into the floor boards a second time. She thought she saw stars, thought she heard a furious shout that was even more ferocious than that of the storm. It was Hook, and he was screaming her name, and Emma whipping around on her hands and her knees, and finding he was still up in the rigging.

"Hook!" Her heart lodged firmly into her throat, Emma watching as he dangled with a precarious one handed grip on the rigging. He was looking right at her, so angry, and it was too dark for her to make out the worry in his eyes.

"Someone get her off the deck NOW!" Hook was bellowing, and there wasn't enough pirates moving fast enough to reach her. Another large wave came, but the ship didn't ride this one, the water crashing over the railing, over the ship, hitting everyone, and Emma wasn't big enough, wasn't weighted down enough to keep from being swept over. She screamed as the water pulled her with it, hitting the railing, and then going over it. She scrabbled at the wood, broke her nails trying to secure a grip on it. And then a hand was snagging hold of her wrist, and Emma looked up, shrieking.

"Hook?!"

But it wasn't the captain, but the surly faced pirate, Damien, his blonde hair flattened by the water. He held onto her wrist, but made no move to pull her up to the relative safety of the deck. Instead he just stared at her, letting her dangle, and Emma then realized that he was going to let her die, his grip starting to loosen, and she was grabbing at him, clawing up his arm, trying to pull herself up on her own.

She heard him scream a curse in retort, and then another hand was grabbing her. His hook embedded in the wet wood of the railing, Hook hauled Emma up and into his arms. She wanted to start sobbing, ready to tighten her arms around his body, and then he was roughly shoving her away, into Damien's arms.

"Get her out of the way, and make sure she stays that way!" Came Hook's orders. Emma's jaw fell open, the girl trying to speak. Did he not know what Damien had just tried to do, did he not realize that she had almost just died at the blonde pirate’s hands? She tried to tell Hook, tried to alert him to the danger, but her words were eaten up by the storm, Hook already having turned away, and there was enough distance now between them, that he wasn't paying attention, wasn't even trying.

Screaming all the same, Emma fought and twisted against Damien's hold. She scratched her broken nails on what skin she could reach, hearing him cry out, and then he was lifting her, and Emma was screaming even louder, being thrown over the pirate's shoulder. He slapped his hand against her ass, spanking her harder when she still fought, kicking and screaming, and beating her tiny fists against his back. He never said a real word to her, just cursing to himself about what a troublesome bitch she was, and then they were below deck, and she was being thrown against the floor.

Emma sprang up, ready to rush Damien, ready to rush the door that was already slamming shut. She had reached it too late, the door locking, Emma screaming, banging on the wood, pulling on the handle. Damien didn't even laugh, just walked away cursing, the storm raging on, and now Emma was physically hurt as well as scared, her bottom hurting from his repeated strikes to it, her body bruised and battered from the storm.

Shaking violently, freezing cold and thoroughly soaked to the bone, Emma looked around the room. It was not the treasure hold Damien had locked her into, but some other room, a store house of some kind. Sniffling to herself, Emma began searching through the barrels, finding nothing but fish, nothing but the left over stores of the food the pirates had gathered, the meats that they had so recently hunted.

There was nothing she could use, nothing that she thought would break down the door, or allow Emma to pick the lock. And certainly there was nothing to dry herself off with, no towels or blankets to keep Emma warm. She let out a sneeze, feeling sore, wet, and miserable, not even able to sit down at the moment. Worst yet she was scared, Emma fearing the storm, fearing the ship might start to go down, and no one, not even Hook would remember enough to come get her. Just like they hadn't cared enough to bother with the pirate who had been trapped under the beam of wood, Emma shaking, fearing the ship would lead her to a watery grave.

Thoughts like these occupied her for hours, Emma too frightened to settle down, let alone sleep. She sat there shaking, shivering long after her clothes had dried on her body, Emma cold beyond measure and unable to get warm. She didn't calm down even once the storm subsided, the waters turning calm, the ship going relatively quiet. And then the door was opening, Emma cringing from the sound, huddled in on herself, her knees drawn up to her chest, and she was crying, barely able to recognize Smee, let alone able to hear what he was saying.

"Captain, I've found her!" The older pirate cried out, holding up a lantern that spilled warm light into the room. Emma didn't move, didn't so much as speak, merely sobbing in relief when Hook pushed his way into the room. The pirate captain took one look at Emma's miserable state, and she heard him mutter several choice curses under his breath.

"Is she all right?" A worried Smee was asking.

"So cold...." Emma managed to say around her teeth chattering. Hook swore again, and then a third time, his fingers having tried to close around her arm, only to draw back as though scalded.

"She's burning up!" Hook cried out in agitation. He seemed to take in just what Emma's surroundings truly were, a murderously angry look glinting in his blue eyes.

"What was Damien thinking?! Locking a child up in here?!"

"That's just it. He wasn't." Hook said in a sour tone, gathering Emma up into his arms. She was too frozen to truly respond, curling in on herself even once Hook lifted her up off the floor. She was carried out the room, carried out onto the still wet deck. Pirates were everywhere, putting the ship to rights. Even the sails were being let out, the canvas billowing in the now gentle breeze.

Hook didn't waste time on addressing the stares of his crew, instead rushing Emma to his own private cabin. Smee was hot on his heels, the two men working together without a single word spoken. Emma found herself set down on the floor, Hook wrapping a blanket around her, while Smee ran into the bathroom. Sounds of the shower was heard, Emma being given a drink, and then they were pushing her into the bathroom, Hook ordering her to disrobe and get in the shower.

Before Emma could do much more than blink stupidly at him, the pirates had left, the girl standing there shaking, cold and hot at the same time. She was understandable nervous to take off her clothes, not trusting anyone, not even Hook, to go that far. But the hot shower beckoned, Emma moving towards it, dropping the blanket, and clambering into the stall with her clothes still on.

She sighed in relief at finally feeling a little warm, the hot shower chasing away some of her chill. She stood basking under the spray of water, sneezing again, and then again, until she was having a fit, the room spinning, Emma dizzy and leaning against the wall. Sick with the cold, burning up from a fever, Emma closed her eyes, as she slid down to the floor. The water continued to gently fall over her, and Emma couldn't keep conscious any longer, barely able to move enough to crawl out of the stall.

What happened next was all a blur, Emma vaguely aware of voices. They were concerned, and there was anger too, Hook angry over something, or at someone. She was too sick to wonder, too sick to focus, Emma slipping in and out of conscious, barely aware of anything, anyone. She was like that for hours, maybe days, the sea fever and chills having taken strong hold of her.

Sometimes she was aware enough to make out Hook's worried expression, the captain and Smee both taking turns sitting with her, trying to nurse her through the worst of her illness. But mostly Emma just maintained a fitful sleep, restlessly turning, endlessly moaning. How long she was like this, Emma couldn't say, but eventually her fever broke, the chills went away. She was still sick, but Emma was no longer at death's door, the girl's eyes fluttering open.

Her gasp was pronounced, a sharp exhalation of air. Fir Emma had found herself not in the ship's treasure hold, but in what had to be the most comfortable bed she had ever had the privilege to sleep in. It was like nothing from her foster home experiences, and it was nothing like her alcove back at the tree house. And it was a world's way apart from sleeping on bedding on the cold, hard floor of the ship.

It was in fact the captain's bed, Emma situated squarely in the middle of it. The shock of finding herself in Hook's bed, was enough to get Emma shaking off her lethargy, the girl sitting upright, and gasping again. Because she wasn't wearing her clothes, the green tunic replaced by a long silk nightshirt. A MAN"S nightshirt, and wasn't Emma turning red, as she vaguely recalled Hook laying hands on her, stripping the girl of her soaked clothing, putting her in one of his shirts, then bundling her up in his blanket strewn bed.

But that wasn't the only memory she had, Emma experiencing her vague recollections from the times she had been lucid. Of Hook sitting with her, holding her hand, or reading to her. Of Hook and Smee taking turns putting cold cloths on her, trying to break the worst of her fever. Of Smee trying to feed her, Emma only taking sparing spoonfuls of porridge. And most of all the worry in both men faces, Hook looked broken by the pitiful sight of Emma nearly dying.

The hurt feelings she had had, the anger and confusion, the bitter disappointments had died with her fever, Emma again daring to believe. In Hook, and in the kind of man he was, the girl certain he hadn't done anything more, that his hand hadn't lingered inappropriately, that he hadn't touched her in a way that would have made her uncomfortable. Emma was certain she hadn't been molested, and what's more, she was amazed by that fact, Hook so unlike any other adult she had ever known, not acting to take advantage.

His behavior towards her, his restraint had made their impression, Emma's heart swelling with deep emotion. She found herself touching the front of her shirt, lifting the collar up, so she could sniff at it. It smelled mostly like her, but there was the faint clean scent of Hook there too, mingling with hers, creating something uniquely pleasing. Emma smiled to herself, and it was an expression that would have startled her had the girl looked into a mirror. Because that secret smile expressed, held a grown woman's satisfaction, Emma caught firmly in the grip of her first enduring crush.

#once upon a time #ouat #fanfic #captain swan #Killian Jones #emma swan #captain hook #TheShatteredDreamOfInnocence #neverland AU #peter pan #killian jones x emma swan

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