#I LOVE THE BROWN OF DEAD WINTER GRASS | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

coffeeghoulie · 7 months

Note

well you KNOW im gonna come in here and ask for mountrain. whatever your heart desires so long as theyre disgustingly in love abt it ♡

i gotchu <3 it's been a Hot Minute since I've written mountrain, hopefully this is sappy enough lmao

Winter peeks around the corner, temperatures dropping with the leaves, everything dreary and grey before the first inevitable snowfall covers the dead vegetation, brown grass and barren trees. Mountain slips out of bed and makes the trek down to his greenhouse every morning, long before the sun rises, to make sure his plants, his babies, are ready before the snow chokes the life out of them.

He can feel the coldspell incoming, feels it in the way the his joints start aching, deep in the bone. He swallows hard, looking at the work he has in front of him. The glass panels need to be inspected for damage, replaced and insulated. The pipes need to be drained, so they don't freeze and burst. All of his fragile plants need to be covered and brought inside. The whole building needs to be cleaned, top to bottom, including his makeshift nest area in the back corner.

It's necessary work, Mountain knows it, has done it every fall for years. It still doesn't mean he likes doing it. It's, for lack of a better term, a mountain of work. But it has to get done. So Mountain squares his shoulders in the pre-dawn darkness and gets to work.

He loses himself in it, doing his best to ignore his sore joints as he hauls potted plants inside, checking over each leaf and stem for disease. He works, making countless trips in and out of the freezing air as the sun starts peeking out over the treeline, tinging the dark sky with pinks and oranges, the budding light softening the florescents that light the greenhouse.

It's quiet work, almost meditative, which means he jumps nearly a foot off of the ground when someone knocks at the door. Mountain spins, very nearly dropping the potted petunias he's hauling in. His heartrate calms as he realizes it's his mate, waving at him through the glass. He smiles, warmth spreading in his chest, gesturing for Rain to come in.

Rain slips into the greenhouse, latching the door behind him. He's got two large thermoses tucked under his arms, and Mountain groans in appreciation, striding over to his mate and taking the thermos Rain offers to him.

"G'morning, sunflower," Rain says, voice sticky with sleep. He's clearly just woken up, pulled on one of Mountain's sweatshirts, the hem coming down to his mid thigh, over his pajamas and made the journey out to the greenhouse in the cold November morning just to bring him tea.

"Morning, tadpole," Mountain says, cupping Rain's jaw with a big hand, leaning down to steal a kiss from his mate. His skin is cool to the touch, and Mountain tries to push his body heat into his mate like a fire ghoul would.

Rain hums, shivering as Mountain's pinkie brushes against his uppermost gill. "Bed was cold," he whispers against Mountain's lips. "You'd been gone so long, figured you might like something hot to drink."

Mountain pulls back, reluctantly letting go of his mate's face to crack open the thermos. He's hit with the herbal scent of his favorite tea, steaming up and curling around him. He takes a sip, eyes fluttering shut as the taste hits him.

"I love you, tadpole," Mountain says, groaning as he greedily drinks down his preferred green tea blend, the one he adds mint to. Rain knows just how he likes his tea, two spoons of honey from the hives he keeps.

Rain grins, flashing his serrated, shark like teeth before taking a swig from his own thermos, the smell of chai drifting from his. "Love you too, Mount," he says, leaning in to nuzzle against his shoulder, not quite awake enough to fuss over the dirt that always, inevitably, ends up caked on Mountain's clothes while he works.

Mountain sets down the thermos, turning back to the water ghoul and wrapping his arms around his waist. Rain smiles wider, looping his arms around Mountain's neck, standing up on his tiptoes to do so. "Hey, baby," Rain laughs. "What's up with you?"

He sighs, Rain's smile contagious. Mountain ducks down and presses a kiss between Rain's seaglass horns. "So glad I met you," he whispers against the blue black waves of his hair, mussed from sleep.

Rain nods minutely. "Me too."

The world shrinks until it's just the two of them, no cold bed, no ever-looming snow. They stand there, basking in the warm humidity of the greenhouse and each other's presence. Everything smells of green tea and plant life and rich, warm earth.

Eventually, Rain pulls back. "It's cold, sunflower, how are your hands holding up?"

Mountain makes a noncommittal noise, but Rain levels him with a glare, and his shoulders slump. "A little stiff," he admits, removing one hand from Rain's slight waist, examining the redness at his knuckles, wind-whipped and raw.

Rain hums, snatching Mountain's hand in between his own. "Oh, baby, that looks like it hurts," he says, rubbing his thumb over his tender knuckles. "I know you've got that balm somewhere, the one with the aloe and the calendula?"

"It's back by my bed," Mountain says. "I'll put some on when I've finished this."

"Nope." Rain chuckles, slipping out of Mountain's grasp and rummaging through the cabinet near Mountain's personal corner. "You've been at this for hours, sunflower, we're putting some of that on, and we're going to take a cuddle break, and then I will help you get the greenhouse finished, okay?"

Mountain smiles as Rain returns with the tin of balm, already opening it and taking a dollop of it. "Alright, tadpole."

Rain takes his hands, rubbing the ointment into Mountain's knuckles, tenderly caressing the damaged skin. He works in silence, before capping the balm and taking Mountain by the hand, leading him back to the daybed he keeps in the corner.

Mountain kicks off his muddy boots before laying down, opening his arms for his mate. Rain follows suit, unlacing his boots before tucking himself into the crook of Mountain's arm, snuggling into the earth ghoul's embrace.

"I love you," Rain whispers, eyes slipping shut.

Mountain yawns, long and low. "I love you too."

#had to consult the Nickname Spreadsheet for this one #brought to you by my daylight savings inflicted SAD #fic request #forlorn-crows #mountain/rain #mountain ghoul #rain ghoul #dot's writing #the band ghost #the band ghost fanfiction

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saphirered · 7 months

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for the prompts list - cinnamon sweet with Lucien please and thank you :)

Here you go! Loads of fluff and Lucien being Lucien so I hope you like it! 😘

It’s that time of the year Lucien would love to forget all together. The leaves have turned and fallen, the harvests have passed and all is in a slow state of decay. To think he once lived in a perpetual state of autumn seems a different life altogether, and one he would prefer to keep dead and buried. He’s really grown to hate autumn with a passion and he truly can’t wait until winter comes creeping in. At least frozen wastes haunting shadows bring more comfort than what he endured. Yet here you are, wrapped in your knits, wrapped him in them too, excited for the yellows and reds and oranges, the smell of autumn at its peak, the fresh harvests and festivals that accompany it. Here you are loving everything he’s avoided for so long. He doesn’t have the heart to tell you. If anything he hopes that perhaps through you he can endure and grow to like the season again and not feel like he slips into depression every time he spirals into those dark memories. It’s not your fault and he doesn’t want to spoil your fun. Maybe you can teach him how to love the autumn glow once more.

“Remind me again why you insist in being here, outside in the cold when we could be warm and cozy inside by the hearth instead?” Lucien asks when you sit him down on the wooden bench in the garden. The majority has wilted, or been prepared to endure the coming winter, and while somewhat eery it is still beautiful in its own way. The wind blows the remaining leaves from the trees bit by bit casting a blanket upon the ground making it impossible to distinguish path from grass and unmarked flowerbeds. You hold two ceramic mugs in your hands when you take a seat next to him. Though your proximity does not quite transfer heat, he still feels warmer with you there.

“Because, my dear Lucien, I want you to experience this properly.” He raises a questioning eyebrow but you are persistent and push the mugs into his hands. Completely at a loss of what to do with them he holds them. The contents seem to be milk. Just milk. He expected something like a tea maybe but the mugs are cold.

“What now?” He asks when you look at him as if he’s supposed to know what to do now.

“I need you to heat them up.” You chirp excitedly. A soft smile graces his lips but quickly turns cocky as it often does.

“Glad to know you keep me around as your personal heater and servant. Shall it be steaming, boiling or evaporated, my dearest?” You cross your arms. Normally he would flick your nose playfully when you puff but he’s half sure you’ll kill him if he drops this mug so he refrains and instead pecks your nose and does as he’s told. Your crossed arms slack and the flush to your cheeks certainly isn’t because of the cold air.

“You have plenty of other uses too.” You tease back reaching for the box you’d brought. He’s not entirely sure how you managed to carry this all. You open the box and inside reveals two chocolate orbs. “I know you like hot chocolate but this one’s special.” You gently drop the orbs in the steaming hot milk each. Slowly but surely the chocolate begins to melt and inside, fluffy little clouds emerge floating on the surface. Lucien looks confused.

“Dare I ask what this poison is you’re trying to feed me?”

“They’re marshmallows. They happen to go very well with hot chocolate but there’s one more secret ingredient-“ You reach into your pocket and take the vial you’d stolen from the pantry.

“Unconditional love and affection?” Lucien interrupts but you don’t miss a beat.

“-two more secret ingredients.” You correct yourself at his quip much to his amusement. You remove the lid from the vial of brown powder. Carefully you sprinkle a modest amount on top. When you do he catches on. Cinnamon. Curious.

“So you are trying to cover the smell and taste of poison.” You take one of the mugs from him and clasp it between your hands, cold fingers instantly warming. You scoff and roll your eyes.

“While poison is poetic I think a dagger through the heart after a passionate night is far more.” You deadpan taking a sip. Lucien shrugs in agreement.

“A satisfying end to be sure.” You snort and cough as your nose burns. The amusement in Lucien’s eyes is replaced by concern until you assure him you’re alright. “I think you might have mixed up the poisoned mug, love.” He pats your back as you recover and when you do he simply rubs circles allowing his hand to warm you and offer some relief.

“One way to find out.” Your voice is still hoarse but you’re alright and take another sip of your drink. Finally he takes his first sip. Closely you study his reaction. First it is intrigue; the way he does a double-take, then a hint of confusion trying to figure out his senses. Next comes consideration. A raised eyebrow as he takes a second sip. Then his shoulders relax and he leans back on the bench. He nods to himself and takes another big sip when he notices you staring.

“I take it you like it then?” You ask gingerly. He smiles and nods.

“It reminds me of you so yes.”

“How so?”

“You remind me of sweet things and cinnamon.” The flush to your cheeks darken. Cute. Of course he has to ruin the moment. Can’t let it get to your head. “You taste like it too.” This time you’re prepared though, unfazed you take another sip, rise to your feet and take a few steps away from him. You look over your shoulder, look him straight in the eye in a way that dares him to move. He knows he’s in trouble.

“Let’s keep it a special treat then. Wouldn’t want you to get sick of the taste.” Now it’s his time to choke on the sip he took. Not what he was expecting, and certainly not the sultry expression on your face as you sway your hips through the invisible garden path and back to the porch, one there you take one last sip, looking at him over the edge of your mug. You step inside leaving the door open behind you. Lucien does not need to be told twice. He downs the cinnamon hot chocolate, the taste lingering on his tongue and follows your tracks inside.

#acotar x reader #lucien vanserra x reader #lucien x reader #acotar #acotar lucien #lucien vanserra #acotar fanfiction #lucien acotar #sjm fic #a court of thorns and roses

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rewind-on-purpose · 3 months

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Operation Lawn Replacement

All the little reddish seeds that are starting to sprout are mini white clover seeds. I threw fistfulls of these seeds all over my front yard a day ago, and they're already starting to sprout after the rain we've had.

As my update on my last post says, I recently bought a house. My first one ever. *excited squealing* One of the first things I'm doing is replacing the lawn with mini clover. This will probably irritate my neighbors, but since there is no HOA (I wouldn't have bought it if it did), I don't care. There are several reasons why I am doing this:

• mini clover only grows about 6 inches tall max, so it does not require mowing

• clover, being a legume, is a nitrogen fixer, which helps enrich the soil, and doesn't require massive amounts of fertilizer to stay green

• clover is broad leafed, so is better at shading out other undesirable plants/weeds, which means it doesn't require massive amounts of herbicides to create a uniform lawn (I am not advocating for monocultures here, but if that's what you want, then clover does it better than grass)

• clover emerges from dormancy sooner in the spring, stays green in the fall/winter longer, and requires less watering than grass, so it looks nicer when everyone else's lawns are dead and brown due to changing seasons or drought

• clover produces beautiful little white flowers that bees and butterflies love, which supports and attracts these pollinators to other areas of the garden

• clover leaves and flowers are edible

I'm sure there are other reasons I'm forgetting, but I think this is enough reason to lose the grass with its shallow roots and intensive care in favor of something simpler and prettier.

#sustainability #urban homesteading

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bokettochild · 7 months

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So, I have been thinking about your post about Legend and Wild looking almost like twins, Legend being Life, and Wild being Death and I can’t help but think about which of the heroes would be associated with different season. I wanted to share my thoughts: what if Wild was associated with Spring while Legend is associated with Summer? Legend is a god of growth, which takes place mostly over summer for crops and such. Wild, I tend to associate not just with Death but also Rebirth, which would fit a Spring association. Wild cares for the souls of the lost til it is time for them to become something new. Legend as summer and life, leads them on their path.

I also tend to associate Time with Fall (the old tradition of time gods being associated with harvesting) and Twilight is the one most fit for Winter cause I honestly couldn’t remember who else would be associated with that season.

Fun fact! This HC was running around in my head with almost the SAME BLOODY THOUGHTS!

I saw it a sort of different way though, because yeah, Legend would be Summer, all color and life and growth and warmth, but Wild? Wild is Fall. Fall is beautiful and nostalgic, it holds a sense of sadness as the year draws to an end, but that doesn't mean it's not happy and warm and cider and cocoa and crackling fires and crunchy leaves as well. Fall is a time of Death (the leaves die, hunting begins, gardens wither, grass turns brown) but its a beautiful sort of death that is still full of life in a strange way. And that is Wild, that is Wild so much because yeah, he's dead, he died, what came back isn't the same and he's still sort of dead (if only the man he used to be) but he's warm and happy and sweet and wonderful all the same, even though he's dead. Like crunchy leaves that whisper under your feet even though they died weeks ago.

But who is spring? Which Link is rebirth personified? Hyrule! Hyrule is like that first blossom of spring, that first patch of green grass coming up from the slush and the snow. Hyrule is a bright ray of light light in a dark world that promises that morning is coming, that the winter is defeated and it's now time to rebuild and recover and grow again. He's the one from a world still in darkness, still in destruction, a world worse off than any of the others', but it's growing again now it's recovering again now. It's still leafless trees and brown grass and barren land, but there are flowers here now, see? There is a patch of warmth here and the land is recovering, it's coming back, it's not blossoming yet but it's getting there! Hyrule is the Spring as it creeps in with slush and mud and wet and rain and only hints of the beautiful color we all long for. He's messy and raw and real and natural and beautiful not in the way we're looking for, but what is most needed.

I don't know that there are any heroes that fit the feel of winter, of death of the land but joy within, the sparks of warmth even despite the freezing cold, the brightness of a holiday amidst the death of nature, but that's okay. The Life Cycle in Mythology comes in three stages, not four. Life, Death, and Rebirth are all key. I have no clue what other stage in life there could be, but yeah.

They be Spring, Summer, and Fall, and I love that for them :)

#linked universe #linkeduniverse #asks and answers #lu legend #lu wild #lu hyrule

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gone-with-the-twist · 1 year

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The starry parade of your eyes

Warnings: yandere!Rook. Toxic relationship isn't love, I don't support it. Mention of death. Fem!Yuu (can be read as fem! reader). Ooc and mistakes are possible. English and French aren't my mother language. I'm so sorry:(

The sun rises and sets, the days turn to nights. Winter turns to spring. A parade of stars always appears in the sky. As beautiful as mademoiselle Trikster's eyes. Even less beautiful. There is nothing more marvellous and perfect than belle dame.

Rook has seen many beautiful things in life. In art, he is as fastidious as the strictest critic. But Yuu's beauty... is maddening. Like an eclipse hid the sun, so her beauty overshadowed all other lights in the world. It was the kind of muse the hunter's ardent soul had always longed for.

A lunar face, with tiny, as if painted by a skilful artist's brush, freckles on her nose, plump lips frozen in an eternal warm smile. And her eyes: dark brown with a slight golden sheen. So lively, radiant as the sun. Rook liked her eyes most of all, the mirror of her soul.

Yuu is beautiful. Sa Blanche-Neige, la muse, le renne, la victime. Sa.

Spring will surely pass. The warm summer will also come to an end. The stars will fade. Nature is fickle. Every moment is fleeting, fleeting, like a mountain river.

In autumn, the sun disappears. Just as it fades in Belle Blanche-Neige's eyes. Hiding behind clouds, behind a light haze of worry, fear.

She began to avoid the chasseur d'amour. Ah, that embarrassment! Someday his sensual poetry will get right to her heart. And if not... Rook may use something else that will strike sweet Yuu's heart, an arrow fired by Cupid straight into the hunter's heart.

Yuu, unknowingly, has begun a game similar to the hunt that Rook is so fond of. She hides, he seeks. And never the other way round. The winner takes the trophy. Hunters rarely miss their victims. Especially when the prize is so coveted.

Rook relentlessly searches for it, humming each time: "Where are you? Where are you, ma belle joie?" And each time finding the poor thing wherever she is. Any hunter will not rest until there is a trophy hanging on the wall.

Every year, a cold winter returns. The cycle of seasons comes to an end, starting the cycle all over again. The sun disappears altogether, reappearing only on particularly rare occasions. Everything dies, but not everything is reborn.

Love does not live long. It is too fragile, a light touch shatters it. Instead, all that's left is a pang in your chest that won't go away. And Rook doesn't even try to get rid of it.

The darkness has darkened her eyes forever. Earlier the darkness had also shrouded his green, like new see grass, eyes. But the innocent princess was far more cruel than Rook could have imagined.

Yuu was gone. Quickly, imperceptibly. Like a fluffy thing, caught and gone with the wind. And the wind was Rook. And the fatal mistake he had made. But now her beauty always brightens his life. A bitter consolation for the loser.

Rook loved her lively eyes more than anything else. But there was no point in talking about them any more, for they were closed. Forever.

His Snow White sleeps breathlessly, but her dead beauty offers blissful peace. A kiss from Prince Charming won't help here. After all, Prince Charming Yuu is the main villain in this terrible tale.

#twisted wonderland #twst #my fic #rook x reader #rook hunt #yandere

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aggressivenesswhilecrying · 2 months

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Dante, do you like that slow burn?

Summery:

Ren and martyn are the final two, all their allies and enemies are dead. And on the black heart alter, ren and martyn stand, axe and sword in hand.

Martyns entire life revoles around his king, he knows ren better than he knows himself. And he knows ren isn't made for spring. And well. Martyn will always follow were his king goes.

TW!! MAIN CHARACTER DEATH, HURT NO COMFORT, VIOLENCE!!

Beta read and edited!!

(This is for day one of treebark week, prompt flower/frost!!)

The air is turning warm finally in dogwarts, and the two who rule over it stand on th black heart altar. The king and his hand. Winter has finally passed, and ice and snow are melting away to reveal green grass. The trees are decorated in blossoms, and birds are singing happily. The air tastes like pollen in ren and martyn’s mouths.

Red winter has passed. And spring has come.

And yet there is still red decorating the ground. Poppies burst from the ground, and the tops of beetroots. Red winter has passed and yet a cardinal sits proudly in the tree overhead. Tilting its head as it gazes at the two. Wonder in its sound.

Spring is here, and the light and growth are returning to dogwarts in every way they possibly can.

And there are only two left. Two stand on the ruined earth. They won. It’s, well, it’s almost over. They have almost done it. Soon, there will be nothing but whispers of their lives in these abandoned walls. Ren's ears are low, his sunglasses discarded on the ground, tail between his legs. His hair is matted, and his crown long since gone. His cape curled up at his feet, and Martyn wants to weep. His classic green hoodie is stained brown, red having soaked in. The time is pink now, it’s green, it’s beautiful and alive, life takes over the corpses of their enemies. And yet here two dead men walking are. They aren't made for the gentle spring.

They made the winter with their bare hands, it’s far too late for them to bloom into spring.

Martyn can feel his torn jean shorts against his legs. His sandals painfully digging into his feet, the red winter axe in his hand held tight. He can feel the shaking of despair traveling up his spine. It leaves him feeling breathless and his knee’s shaking.

No matter how gentle the air is, he can't seem to breathe right. He feels sick to his stomach.

Death game. It’s in the name. Everyone dies. Everyone kills each other. Teams are never meant to last here. No. They rot, and fall away like old wood. Lasting for the moment, but after a while, after rain, it always rots away, it always opens up to a hole.

Death game.

They have to kill each other. After all this time they have to tear their weapons through beautiful, loved skin. Skin they grew to worship. Kisses whispered prayers late at night during the beginning of the end. The skin of those they love so deeply. The skin they cared for in the deepest parts of their souls, the skin they both vowed to try to keep safe from harm.

The ax falls from martyn’s hand, and he lets out an ugly sob, back shaking as he loses even more breath in his air from his lungs, he brings the balls of his hands to his eyes each, voice raw as tears start to run down his face, slowly he hears the sound of ren dropping his own weapon, and it’s slow, hesitant even, before ren is running, desperate to get to martyn.

Steps once slow, now quick and rushed as there is no longer any space between them, ren clawing, latching onto martyn, claw like nails digging into clothing, and almost skin as he tugs martyn to his chest. His own breathing is shaky. And his own tears coming to his eyes, there is no space between them to even breathe as he holds martyn like his life depends on it.

If anything Ren is safer away from martyn, but at this point, they don't even care.

“Gods- i- fuck ren, i dont want to, i dont want to do this..!!'' Martyn's voice is a wet scream near the end as he curls into the rough and worn fabric, tears falling like a waterfall, soaking into ren clothing. Rens head settles on top of martyns own, and the king shakes and hiccups, his own tears falling into martyn’s hair, it’s almost nice to know that ren is feeling the same way martyn is right now, just a little bit of reassurance, a “maybe he loves me too, maybe it was true.” but Martyn knows it was. Martyn knows how honest Ren is, and he could not have faked that long, looked into Martyn's eyes, and lied for that long. He knows Ren loved him. And he loves Ren the same. Of course he does. How could he not?

He loves Ren with everything he is. He loves Ren with everything in his soul. He has given his life to ren, every single life. He has listened to every single command ren has ever dished out. He has given everything to ren, loved ren like how someone would love a prayer. It’s all their wishes, dreams, deepest fears. It’s everything they are, is only a few words. Or in this case, one man.

“I don't want to either..”

The silly accent is dropped of ren shivers against martyn, hand tangling into his hair as he holds on like his life depends on it. Like it's his entire life on the line. And he cries. Ren lets out a deep sob, and he cries. Full of love for martyn, love for the home they built. And hate, hate for the situation and how he cant do anything to change their fate.

He can't fix anything, this is the end after all.

Martyn tilts his head up just barely, looking at Ren with tear filled eyes. And he makes a decision as he looks at ren. He makes a decision he could never take back.

He meets Ren's eyes, and for one final moment, one moment of love, he whispers the words he’s meant for ages, in reality, it has only been maybe 8 weeks, but they mean so much more than he’s willing to admit. And he kisses ren.

His king's lips are chapped and scratches against his painfully, but he doesn't so much as care about how it hurts, no, he focuses on the way Ren sobs into his lips. How his grip tightens on martyn. How everything feels like it’s crashing in. He lets himself enjoy it, just for a moment, a moment of peace, of happiness. A moment of love in the end.

Martyn couldn't tell you how long they spent like that, desperate for every moment they can get, holding onto each other lips pressed against each other, breath stolen in these moment, and tears shed, they could have spent hours like that for all they knew, they could have spent years holding each other and it wouldn't have made any difference to them. Cuz in the end they still pull away, they still separate, and they still know what has to happen. There is no other option, no other choice, no other way out.

And so, they get into fighting stances on either side of the altar, they leave the sentimental weapons on the side, and they weep oh so openly. As they prepare to fight, to kill each other in cold blood on the altar that means oh so much to them, they raise their fists, getting ready, a sob racks through ren, he leaves his sunglasses off, and red eyes hold onto red eyes, as they wish, and pray this wasn't the way it ends.

The first hit is thrown by Martyn, because he knows Ren won't take it, he knows Ren won't throw it, so he does. Martyn hears his fist connect with Ren's face, he doesn't see exactly where, but he can feel it through his entire arm.

Like a racing fire up his body, the bloodlust of being red starts to cloud his mind. He feels the fog fill his mind. But he knows he won't win. He knows it. And so he lets Ren take the next, he gives the act of missing as Ren takes another. Martyn lets it happen, because he’s just the king's hand, his role is to give everything to his king, his lord. It’s his job to let Ren take swing, after swing. It’s his job to fall to his knees, and even further as Ren doesn't stop. The redness in his eyes near glowing as he throws hit, after hit.

Martyns face isn't right, and the humid air leaves him feeling sticky. Ren does not relent, even as martyn face turns into some shape it was not supposed to be before, as it no longer looks like martyn, it doesn't even look human to some degree, no, he can't see anymore. Martyn can't see, and he isn't able to talk right, but try as he might, he whispers the words, over, and over, and over again. Broken prayers, to the god that is harming him, in a voice that it can't even hear. Broken and sorrowful declarations to the man he deems his god. To the man he devoted every whim of his life to.

Declarations of love. Of home. Of everything he can say. But Ren will never hear them, as Martyn's voice is drowned out by the blood that fills his mouth. His world is spinning, and he promises that it’s all rens, but all ren can hear is painful gurgling. All Ren is able to feel is shame. All that is there, is martyns bloodied body on the ground below him.

All that remains is a man made god, sobbing at his lover's feet. All that remains is a body that drifts off into dust in the wind. And a man with bloodied fists crying over a pool of red. Whispering his own prayers, and sorrows, and his own declarations of how if the gods aren't cruel, then maybe they will get another shot at this, another life time together, another maybe, and another please, and another im sorry. And everything he can give to the space that once hosted martyn. Another i love you, maybe he deserves this. To lose a lover he held so close, maybe he did something, in some other life, to be the sole survivor in such a painful way.

Ren stumbles over his feet, reaching, begging his arms to grab onto the sword. Praying that as he thrusts the blade into his chest, that him and martyn can be somewhere else, at another time. Maybe they could have lived in a small cottage on the hill, maybe their story doesn't always end in red and death, maybe they mold themselves for spring.

#fanfic #aggressivewrites #fanfiction #martyn inthelittlewood #rendog #3rd life #tw violence #tw death #treebarkweek2024

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foundtherightwords · 1 year

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Winter Light - Chapter 4

Pairing:Tom Grant (Make Up) x OFC

Summary: Vanessa, a young cancer patient, arrives at a remote holiday park in Cornwall to wait out the rest of her days, but after a chance meeting with a park employee named Tom who's nursing a broken heart, Vanessa realizes life may not be done with her yet.

Warnings: very light smut, angst, some fluff, swearing, serious illness (cancer), discussion of death/grief

A/N: My first attempt at writing smut, and man, it was like pulling teeth. And it's not even that smutty - more like implied smut, which is the only kind I can write. Guess I'd rather leave things to the imagination. So if you're looking for something more graphic/explicit, sorry!

Also, prawns aren't really cannibals, despite what Mike Wozniak may tell you.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Stay with You

Thus began their new routine.

Tom all but moved into Vanessa's caravan. He would leave for work in the morning and come back for tea or even lunch if there was not much to do that day, and they would spend the evening watching TV or reading, before he carried her to bed and made his bed on the sofa. Sometimes they fell asleep together on the sofa, and Vanessa would wake with her head on Tom's chest. She savored those moments as she lied there, listening to his breathing, feeling his heartbeat. But soon, too soon, he would always wake up and carry her to her bed, before returning to the sofa.

Tom found a wheelchair in one of the store rooms, and on the rare sunny days, they would pack a picnic and head to the beach, Tom pushing her in the chair, stopping just as the path merged with the sand. Then he would pick her up and carry her to their favorite spot under the foot of a dune, where the wind wasn't as strong. She savored those moments too, with his strong, capable arms around her, and the hollow between his neck and shoulder forming the perfect cradle for her head.

"It's supposed to snow soon," Tom said one day, as they sat looking at the churning gray sea. "Might even get a white Christmas."

"Really? Gosh, it's been ages since it snowed on Christmas." Vanessa looked around the desolate beach with its frozen sand and sad clumps of dead, brown grass. Yes, a cover of snow would make it a lot prettier. "Aren't you going home for Christmas though?" Tom shook his head. "But your mum and sister..."

"They'll understand. Besides..." Tom turned away, suddenly looking awkward. "I heard that Ruth's back home. Don't want to risk running into her."

He still thought about her then. Vanessa tried not to show how much that hurt her. But what he said next quickly wiped away that hurt: "And I want to stay with you."

Vanessa stamped down the excitement in her heart. She said with careful nonchalance, "I might not last till then."

"Don't," Tom said quietly.

His voice trembled a little, and that frightened Vanessa. Tom had always been very pragmatic and matter-of-fact when speaking about her death, but now here he was, not looking at her, his lips pressed together to stop them from quivering. No, she would not have that.

"Don't what?" she asked, ready for a fight.

"Don't say things like that."

"Like what? I'm going to die, aren't I? There's no use mincing words."

Tom flinched, but he kept his eyes on her. "Yes, but don't make fun of people when they say they're going to be sad."

"You sound just like them."

"Like who?"

"My family. Fuss, fuss, fuss. I'm sick of it."

"People grieve when someone they love die, you can't deny them that." Tom was getting riled up now. She had watched him long enough to see the tell-tale sign of his forehead scar turning red, his eyes sparking. "And you'll be dead by then, so why does it fucking matter what other people feel?"

Vanessa flinched at the anger in his voice. Tom noticed it.

"What? You can talk about dying but I can't?" he said. "You're afraid, aren't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she managed to say.

"You talk big, but face it, Vanessa, you're afraid. Afraid to die, and afraid to live too."

"That's rich, coming from you."

"Fucking right, I'm a pathetic coward who's hiding from his ex. At least I can admit that."

Suddenly Vanessa was angry. Angry at this boy for being right, for saying all the things she'd been thinking but had not the courage to admit to herself. Angry at herself for falling in love with him, for letting him getting under her skin. And angry at her illness, for taking everything away from her before she got to experience them.

"I don't have to listen to this." Leaning on her cane, she stood up and walked away, but she had only gotten a few steps when her treacherous legs buckled under her in a jolt of pain and she crumpled to the ground. Tom was beside her in a flash, his arms out to pick her up. "Leave me alone, I can do it myself," she snapped at him. She pushed her cane into the sand, trying to get to her feet, but the frozen sand slipped, and another spear of pain stabbed through her. She cried out. Somehow his arms were around her, and she clung to him, sobbing against his chest.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said those things," he murmured. "You're the bravest person I know." She felt the soothing of his voice rather than hearing the words, and her breathing calmed. She lifted her head to say something to him, she didn't know what, just as he bent his head down to her, and their lips met.

Tom bolted away as if he just had an electric shock, but Vanessa impulsively pulled him back to her. Time seemed to stop while they held on to each other, their faces so close Vanessa could see her shaky breaths ruffling his eyelashes. Those fluttering lashes were her undoing. She leaned forward and kissed him, just a quick peck, really, just to see how it felt, to get it out of her system. He froze for a second, stunned. Then he kissed her back. Slowly, softly at first, then she felt his tongue brush against her lips, so she parted them to let him in, and the kiss got hungrier as he cupped her face in his hands, pulling her close, and she realized he had been waiting for this moment too.

***

Vanessa didn't remember how they got back to the caravan. Tom must have carried her, because her legs no longer worked. But it wasn't because of the pain. There was no more pain. There was nothing else, except for the feel of his mouth on hers, his taste of the tea they had been drinking, and his smell of warm, clean clothes and a faint trace of the sea.

They stumbled through the door, pressed together in a tangle of coats and jumpers and arms and legs, struggling to get their clothes off but not wanting to stray too far from each other or for too long. "Hold on," Tom mumbled as he bent down to unlace his boots. He lost his balance and sent both of them crashing to the floor, giggling like two naughty kids. "Sorry," he laughed softly into her neck, then that laugh turned into a nuzzle, and that nuzzle turned into a kiss that ran all the way from her throat to her collarbone, sending shivers down her spine.

As Tom reached out to lift her shirt up, Vanessa seemed to wake up from the haze. She stopped his hand. "Can we get under the covers first?" she asked.

"You cold?"

That would be a good excuse. Vanessa almost said yes, but she wanted to be honest with Tom. "No. I just... I don't want you to..." She didn't want him to see her body, how the cancer had left her all skin and jutting bones.

"You want to stop?"

"No, it's not that. It's... I'm..." How could she explain? How would she bear it if he took her clothes off and reacted with disappointment, or even disgust? Her nervousness seemed to be contagious. Tom let go of her, took a step back.

"We don't have to do this," he said. "I'd understand. It's been over a year... and before that, I don't know..."

But realizing that he was nervous as well had helped her relax. "I don't mind that," she said, drawing closer until her head rested on his chest. The thought of being away from him at that moment was unbearable. "I'm not that experienced myself, you know. I do want to be with you. It's just..."

Tom saw the way she was holding on to the hem of her shirt, twisting it, and guessed her discomfort. "Here," he said, lifting her chin so she was looking at him. "Trust me." He pulled off his own shirt and trousers. "See, not exactly Mr. GQ myself," he said.

Vanessa stared at his body, taking everything in. He was fit, but not as sculpted as she'd expected. He just looked... soft. Yes, that was the right word. Soft and comforting and safe. She touched the tan lines that hadn't quite faded from around his biceps, and ran her hand slowly from the chain around his neck to his chest, to his soft belly, and finally to the faint line of hair disappearing into his boxers.

Tom drew a sharp breath, and that gave her the courage to push on. She slid his boxers down, resting her hand there for a moment before raising her arms so he could do the same for her, peeling off the layers one by one, until they stood facing each other with nothing but the electrified air between their skins.

Just as she had done with him, Tom reached out to stroke her neck, her shoulder, her breasts, her hips, his eyes following his lingering fingers as if he was marveling at her. His languorous touch stripped her of her inhibitions, her fears, her pains, and released the butterflies in her stomach into a cloud of tingling warmth that flooded her entire body. He pulled her in for another kiss. "There's nothing to be ashamed of," he whispered into her hair. "You're beautiful."

And then they were in bed, mapping each other's body with fingers and mouths, finding all the places where they fitted together like pieces of a puzzle. She tried to stay focused, to memorize everything, his face swimming above her, his eyes dark and liquid in the yellow glow of the floodlights shining in through the window, his chain tickling her. She wrapped herself around him, her legs on his waist, her arms across his back, feeling his muscles ripple and arch like the sea, her fingers wound into his hair, her face buried into his neck as she kissed his pulsing veins, holding on to him, taking him in with every fiber of her being, while the wet heat that bloomed between them built and crested until it engulfed them both.

She didn't let go of him even when the heat had subsided, inside and out. "Talk to me, please," she murmured, cradling his head. "I don't want to go to sleep yet."

"What d'you wanna talk about?" Tom mumbled, his breath warm on her chest.

"I don't know. Anything."

"OK, do you know that prawns are cannibals?"

Vanessa laughed. "That's not true!"

"It is. They eat their babies. Surprised you didn't know that, bug girl."

"Prawns aren't bugs."

"They're sea bugs. Same thing."

Vanessa ran her fingers through his hair, still slightly damp with sweat, and tugged at the rogue curl that always dangled over his forehead whenever he got excited. "Say something else."

Tom propped himself up on his elbows so he could look at her. "Are you happy now?" he asked.

She gazed at him. She was happy. She was happy in a way she hadn't dreamed possible just a few hours ago, let alone when she first arrived at this desolate bit of Cornwall. She was so happy it frightened her. But she only said, "Yes. Are you?"

"Yes." He leaned down to kiss her, and their conversation continued without words.

Later, Tom fell asleep curved on her, his arm around her waist. Vanessa turned to look at him, committing to her memory and her heart every little detail, the way his lips parted slightly in sleep, the way he always had one arm tucked under the pillow, the dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Remembering, because it would be all that she had.

When she was sure he was sound asleep, she got out of bed, as quietly as she could. She packed her suitcase with a few essentials - she wouldn't need much. She put Seamus Heaney's "Death of a Naturalist" on the kitchen table, with a note folded into "Lovers on Aran". It was a short note. There was so much she wanted to say, but she was afraid if she took the time to write it all down, Tom might wake up.

Chapter 5 (last chapter)

#tom grant #tom make up #tom grant fic #tom grant x ofc #joseph quinn #joseph quinn fic #tom grant smut #joseph quinn smut

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saint-lukas-lives · 11 months

Text

Bedside Manner

A work for #EdelgardRarepair week on Twitter. The theme was “Regrets.”

Edelgard and Ingrid have a heart to heart after a particularly brutal battle.

TW: major character death, blood, implied gender dysphoria

Tags: CF Edelgard/Ingrid

——————————————————

“Get up.”

The man’s voice was hoarse, like he’d been shouting for hours.

“Wake up, Galatea!” he cried.

Ingrid’s eyes snapped open. She’d never heard Hubert so distressed. He was kneeling over her, a tome floating above his hand, and his normally narrowed eyes wide with fear.

She coughed, and felt a small glob of blood burst from her mouth. Hubert didn’t recoil, but merely flicked a handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped her face. His hands were sure, but gentle.

“Despite your own best efforts Galatea, I won’t allow you to die today,” he muttered.

Hubert’s voice was usually as sharp as the daggers he carried beneath his cloaks, but Ingrid had trouble hearing it through a fog that clouded her brain. It felt as if someone had shoved cotton rags in her ears. She tried to assess her surroundings but the world was swimming: Hubert’s dark form drifted in and out of focus, his glowing green eyes (eye really, one was always covered by his mop of black hair) were the only thing keeping him from blending entirely with the black of the night.

She could tell they were in a forest at least. A somber congregation of trees surrounded them, their branches covered in stark white snow. Now, she could feel its cold biting at her bare hands. She sluggishly lifted her head off the ground to check her arm for frostbite. What she saw instead chilled her to the bone faster than any ice could.

Beside her, a soldier was facedown on the ground. His body, still as a statue, was pierced by a shining silver streak of metal jutting straight out of his back. The sword caught the moonlight perfectly, reflecting its gleam and lighting up the snow with sparkles. Ingrid hardly noticed. Her gaze was locked onto the soldier’s open eyes, ones which were normally orange like autumn in the light, but now in the night they were an unblinking, muted brown. She’d know those eyes anywhere.

“Glenn?” she whispered.

“Do not look!” Hubert hissed.

He yanked her head away from the sight, abandoning the tenderness he had shown her mere seconds ago.

“Hubert…what…”

Her chest tightened, She breathed short and shallow breaths. In out in out in out. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be him. He’d been dead for almost a decade at this point.

Before Ingrid could muster the strength to protest Hubert lifted her off the ground and began carrying her on his back. Despite the fear now coursing through her blood, Ingrid could feel darkness creeping at the edge of her vision.

“Hubert I can’t…” she breathed.

Her vision was fading fast. Her body felt light enough to just float away.

“Hang on Galatea!”

Hubert’s pleas weren’t enough, Ingrid’s head dropped hard onto his bony shoulder, and everything went black.

——————————————————

“All that talk of loyalty and chivalry, only to turn against your homeland.”

In the middle of a tall grass field, he stood like a solitary monolith, not even bothering to turn around and look at her. There was no sun, but Ingrid could see his long black hair tied up in a tight ponytail and his cerulean robes, thick enough to keep out the cold teeth of Faerghus’s winter.

His voice wasn’t angry, just stern, like he was chastising a child who’d lied about stealing sweets.

“You don’t understand!” Ingrid tried to shout, but no sound came out of her open mouth.

“You’re pathetic.”

His voice came from all sides, filling her head with its accusations.

“I’m not!” she cried to herself.

“You never loved your country, you never loved my brother.”

“I did!” she willed herself to cry.

“You’ve betrayed friends and family alike.”

“I know!” she tried to plead.

“…and after all that, you don’t even have the honor of being a knight.”

That was enough. She ran to him through the tall yellow grass as it rippled like waves in an invisible breeze. Her feet moved with incredible speed. She was as swift as her own pegasus and suddenly, he was right there in front of her, staring at her with his deep amber eyes.

They held each other’s gaze for a moment.

In a different life, Ingrid would have seen him after their five years away from Garreg Mach and made fun of him for being the same height as her. Instead, he just glared at her.

A small stream of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. It ran down his sharp chin and dripped onto his brilliant blue coat. Ingrid watched it plop, plop, plop onto his chest, the tiny red beads seeping into the thick fabric. Her eyes drifted down. There was a sword hilt in her hand, its blade buried in his body. A pool of crimson bloomed from his chest

“I hope,” he said, allowing more blood to spill over his thin lips, “it was worth it.”

“Felix!” Ingrid screamed, and this time, sound erupted from her throat.

——————————————————

“Felix!”

Ingrid thrashed in her bed. Soft white blankets twisted around her arms and legs as she jerked around. She couldn’t breathe. Where was she?

“Ingrid what are you doing?!” cried a woman.

Ingrid felt a firm grip on her shoulder and stopped her struggling. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and laced her fingers over the hand of Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg.

“I—”

Ingrid’s throat constricted before she could get even one word out. She needed water immediately. Luckily, the emperor was already pushing a glass into her hands.

“Drink,” Edelgard ordered.

As Ingrid obeyed, depleting the large glass in one swift gulp, Edelgard stood with her arms crossed. Her brow was furrowed. There was something in her lilac eyes Ingrid had never seen before.

“I’m sorry, Lady Edelgard,” Ingrid coughed.

She wiped water from her face and tried to hide the fact that she’d spilled a not insignificant amount all over her white top. She placed the glass down on her bedside table. Her hands were still shaking slightly from the nightmare.

“I told you to drop the honorifics Galatea, you’re not in Faerghus anymore,” Edelgard snapped.

The Emperor turned away and paced past Ingrid’s small bed. They were in the Adrestrian army’s makeshift infirmary. The walls of a large canvas tent hung over rows of tawdry beds. They were covered by thick tan sheets Lady Manuela kept painstakingly clean which, combined with a couple vases of wildflowers placed beside a bed here and there, were the healer’s ways of trying to keep the place at least somewhat inviting.

Edelgard sighed. She was still in her armor, her red gauntlets stained an even deeper red with blood. Her crown, a pair of golden horns, curled out of double buns on the sides of her head. She pulled a rough wooden chair beside Ingrid and slowly slipped the crown from her head. Her white hair spilled down her chest, a waterfall of pure moonlight. Edelgard pressed a hand to her forehead and massaged her temple.

“Ingrid what am I going to do with you,” she muttered to herself.

Ingrid couldn’t help but stare in awe.

She remembered seeing the Imperial princess for the first time at the Officers Academy, how all the students looked at her with admiration (even ones like Ferdinand, who tried their hardest not to). Edelgard was short in stature, but with her unusual hair and gleaming purple eyes, she attracted attention. However it was her voice, which was as powerful as it was self-assured, that kept it.

Ingrid had stared back then too. She’d been a nobody noble from Faerghus, the almost-wife of the recently deceased Glenn Fraldarius and proud inheritor of the most destitute house in all of Fódlan. But one day, early in the school year, the princess of Adrestria herself had walked across the Academy training grounds and pulled Ingrid away from her practice dummy by the hand.

“Hey I was working on a new technique!” Ingrid had cried out lamely.

“Come join the Black Eagles mission this month,” Edelgard had requested, ignoring Ingrid’s protest.

“Why would I do that?” Ingrid sneered as a response, as if anything would make her leave behind the Blue Lions.

“Because I like how you fight.”

So Ingrid left the Blue Lions.

Her flirtation with the Black Eagle house didn’t go unnoticed.

“It’s to help out the new Professor,” she’d assured Prince Dimitri.

“It’s to convince House Aegir to invest in Galatea’s pegasi,” she’d fibbed to Felix.

“It’s because I have a crush on Dorothea,” she admitted to Sylvain (which technically wasn’t a lie).

“Who doesn’t?” he’d snickered back.

Of course, none of that was the real reason Ingrid spent month after month charging into battle under the banner of a different region’s flag. There was something irresistible about the way Edelgard treated her class: how everyone was judged based on who they were, not how they were born.

Leaving behind her Crest, her name, her birthright was something inconceivable in Faerghus. But with Edelgard, it was something Ingrid got to live every day. Then Byleth, Edelgard’s cherished professor, issued a formal invitation for her to join the Black Eagles. At the time, it had been impossible to say no.

She never wanted to stop living in the world Edelgard imagined. So when the Emperor declared war on the Church of Seiros, and personally requested that Ingrid join her at her side, there was no question as to what Ingrid would do.

Edelgard had been young, ambitious, and even a little bit cocky back at the Academy. Now, there were lines etched onto her face, worries forever engraved into her pale skin that became all the more noticeable when she frowned, as she did now.

“Lady Edelg—Edelgard,” Ingrid corrected, “Are you upset with me?”

Edelgard lifted her head, boring her eyes into Ingrid’s in a dance of dark green and lilac. Ingrid still couldn’t tell what thoughts were turning behind them.

“Do you remember what happened in the battle?” she asked, point blank.

Ingrid was stung by Edelgard’s directness.

“You need to work on your bedside manner,” Ingrid grumbled.

“Answer me!” demanded Edelgard.

She stood from her chair and looked down at Ingrid. Her face was twisted with anger, as if she was the one who had the right to be upset.

Ingrid dropped all emotion from her face, and stared back at Edelgard. If the Emperor wanted a confrontation, then that’s what she’d get.

“I killed Felix,” Ingrid said.

Her voice betrayed nothing. She kept completely still. Ingrid’s confession poisoned the air between them, choking out any words that could have possibly broken the silence that stretched between them.

“No!” Edelgard shouted furiously, a sob raking her chest.

She collapsed back into the chair and slumped over, her head in her hands. Edelgard wasn’t crying, but her body was shaking with silent tremors. Ingrid stared in shock. She’d never seen the Emperor like this, not even when her dear professor disappeared five years ago. Ingrid crawled to the edge of the bed. As softly as she could, caressed Edelgard’s hands with her own.

“Edelgard,” she whispered, the sole name still unfamiliar on her tongue, “What can I do?”

Edelgard stopped trembling. She sniffed.

“What can you do?” she repeated. “You’ve already done everything.”

Ingrid ran her calloused thumbs over Edelgard’s bare knuckles.

“You’ve done everything that’s ever been asked of you,” Edelgard continued. “Yet you still wish to give more. Why?!”

Her voice boomed into an accusation. Ingrid flinched, jerking her hands away.

“You didn’t kill Felix!” Edelgard roared. “You saved me! You pushed me out of harm's way and plunged your sword through the chest of your dear friend. I made you do that!”

Ingrid finally put the pieces together.

“You did nothing of the sort,” she said.

She laced her hands around Edelgard’s head, twisting her fingers through her silken strands of hair, and pulled their lips together.

Edelgard resisted for only a second, then allowed herself to melt completely in Ingrid’s hands. Ingrid breathed her in, smelling the soot of fires from the battle, the metallicity of blood. She felt the woman caress her face, her touch too light and cautious. Ingrid pulled her closer until they laid together on the tiny bed and she could feel Edelgard’s scarlet cloak tangle around the both of them. Some called Edelgard the Flame Emperor, and Ingrid wanted all her warmth.

They stayed there for a short eternity, kissing forcefully, frantically, as if they might not be able to touch each other again. They let their chests rise and fall at the same time, as if two parts made whole at last. Finally, Edelgard gently pulled away. She sat up on the edge of the bed and reached for Ingrid’s hair, tucking a short yellow strand behind her ear. Ingrid cherished the small shocks of electricity that flashed in her stomach as the Emperor’s fingers grazed her skin.

Ingrid kissed the emperor’s palm.

“I believed you were angry at me,” Ingrid confessed quietly. “Now I know you were torturing yourself.”

Edelgard gazed at her, sadness again etched in her face.

“I need you to answer my question, and I need you to be completely honest,” Edelgard stated.

“I’m always honest with you,” Ingrid breathed.

“I know, and I implore you not to change now.”

For the first time, Ingrid sensed uncertainty in Edelgard’s voice. The Emperor took a deep breath.

“The professor asked you to join the Black Eagles nearly five years ago. From what they told me, you said yes without a moment’s hesitation,” Edelgard said, “But do you not loathe me, do you not regret joining my cause?”

Ingrid’s breath caught in her throat. As fair as the question was, it was one she’d been avoiding answering, even for herself. She‘d lost many friends in this war: some that she betrayed when she left Faerghus and others when they died beside her in battle. She grieved for them all. There were surely others too whose deaths she probably hadn’t heard of yet, whose names would come in a list or a letter, or who she’d try to reach only for a soldier to say “You didn’t hear yet?” before informing her that they perished in some battle in a region far away from Faerghus.

Despite this, Ingrid never dealt the final blow. Did she regret slicing silver straight through Felix’s heart? Did she regret nearly dying in Hubert’s arms because of it? Did she regret dragging Sylvain with her to Edelgard’s army, and subjecting him to the horrors of being on the winning side of a war against their homeland?

As a child, Ingrid had spent so many years ruminating on the past, hoping, praying even, for something in it to change. Dear Goddess, please make Glenn not dead. Dear Goddess, please bring back the crops. Dear Goddess, please make me a son not a daughter. None of her prayers had ever been answered, of course. There was no way to walk but forward, and she could never go back even if she tried. All she could hope was that where she was going was better than the place she’d left behind. In a world like this, what use was regret?

She wrapped her arms around her Emperor.

“I chose to walk this path with you five years ago,” Ingrid whispered. “I don’t know if I would be strong enough to make every choice twice, but I know each decision I’ve made has led me here, right now, with you. If only for that, I wouldn’t change anything.”

#fe3h #fire emblem #fire emblem 3 houses #ingrid brandl galatea #edelgard fire emblem #fe3h edelgard #rarepair #Ingrid x Edelgard #Edelgard rarepair week

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historia-vitae-magistras · 10 months

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Tell us more about #3, #6 and #9, please!

ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh

The Blue Hour — Valley Forge — 1777

Hopefully this will be this years Christmas fic. A very small portion of the Continental Army starving and freezing at Valley Forge in the winter 1777-1778 consisted of French Canadians who had joined the American cause during their absolute disaster of an invasion into Quebec. Most of them returned home because the US congress couldn't support its own military, much less foreign volunteers who came without their own money and supplies. And I saw one brief mention of how upon seeing an American in a red coat that had been dyed a shitty drab brown to differentiate them from the British, a nameless French Canadian handed over a blue wool coat that had belonged to his own French-born father in in the Seven Years War. And the symbolism. Matthew and Alfred are trading colours, trading mentors, and trading values. Matt spent his entire life dressed in blue and fighting the British empire and gifting that to Alfred with some various others.

L'heure bleue is when the sun sets below the horizon but there's still just enough light to see what reflects blue through the atmosphere. Just enough love left in them to keep the dark at bay.

My Mother Told Me — Wessex — 9th century

I've only mentioned it a scattering of times through some fics and I can't decide how old Arthur and Rhys are for this but its the carving out of the Danelaw in the 870s as Magnus and Sigurd pincer their way through Arthur in the east, Rhys in the West and then turn north towards Alasdair. At some point in this madness, Magnus cut Arthur shoulder to opposite hip, laying him open before Rhys shot him full of arrows and they fled across the Irish sea. This is the day he earned his title of half-dane.

My Mother Told Me is from a cinematic translation of an adaptation of a skaldic poetry Egill Skallagrímsson that talks about a man who's mother foresaw hime become a powerful viking with ships who would travel much and kill many. Pretty much an ironic dead-ringer for Arthur.

Why does thou sit upon my grave? — Cumbria — 6th Century

This is a reworking of the fic I posted and took down about the series of events that lead to Eirian's (Britannia's) death. How when she was already weakened by Christianity and paying off German invaders to keep a hold of her throne in Rheged, the sun disappeared from the sky in 536 with a volcanic eruption and 541 CE the first wave of the the black death swept through and when they've only just recovered, bad luck in several forms hits them and the final blow comes when another wave of anglo-saxon invasions slam into Cumbria and when their own hillfort collapses, she decides it will be the end of her life. and the consequences of their inheritances and when her youngest son lays himself on the grass that has grown over her burial barrow and cries until he wakes her.

Why does thou sit upon my grave? Comes from an English folk song where the narrator is a body beneath the ground awoken from death by the sobbing of a loved one.

#the ask box || probis pateo #Alfred || o beautiful for spacious skies #Matthew || my country is winter #Alasdair || my heart's in the highlands #Arthur || stone set in the silver sea #Brighid || An Bearna Bhaoil #Eirian || into the nightlands #Rhys || my word for heaven was not yours #Britannia and her children || they made a desert and called it peace #Alfred and Matt || lonely boys with the longest borders

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yespumpkindoodlesthings · 9 months

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Pumpkin, do you have any coziness tips/things you do for fall? Or just in general?

Thanks ♥️

Hi, Toastie! I celebrate fall in the most clichéd of ways: having strong opinions about which pumpkin spice things are properly pumpkin spicy and delicious (Special K cereal, yes; Cheerios, no, the Pumpkin Spice ones taste like Red Hots candy), watching fall-themed ambience videos from people like AutumnCozy, and far too often, by deciding to dye my hair red around my birthday in October, with tragic results. I know it has a 58% chance of being tragic, I do it anyway. To be fair, fall exists mostly as a beloved concept in my head. I'm from a part of the American south that doesn't typically get the good fall; there's no beautiful changing of leaves to shades of orange and gold or crisp, lovely weather, etc. We're a humid, gator-filled swamp until we get one cool-ish week in late November, then march straight into dead-grass brown winter. So, it's all store-bought fall for me. I say fuck it and start using my novelty witch mugs in late August. But as far as coziness goes, I recommend Katie Vaz's Make Yourself Cozy book, buying a lotion warmer (I have the Conair True Glow and love it), Isabel Gillies' similarly good guide, Cozy, warming your blankets in the dryer before bed (if you have the ability, that one's tricky), fuzzy socks, and staring at the cozy reddit thread where someone did this to their living room. So pretty! This is just one corner of that person's miraculous living room:

#fall things #coziness #I'm trying #it's 99 degrees here #but I'm wearing the Pumpkin Marshmallow Latte #it's novelty Halloween mug season at my house

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skydiamondmu · 1 year

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Never say Die

He doesn’t see Kimi and Sebastian fall. Only their bodies, Kimi with his eyes shut, Sebastian with a small smile on his face, lying side by side, their hands reaching toward each other. The sight kicks him in his stomach, but there is no time to breathe, no time to feel, no time, no timenotime. More bullets are whizzing by, humming like flies in the summer heat, and then there’s a shot beside his ear and another, then a soft, pained cry.

DC.

He flings himself to the ground next to David, picks up his fallen pistol, shooting through the soldier who tries to stop him. He shuts his eyes against the memory of Brunelleschi, turning to David. David looks back, light already half gone from his eyes. Mika grabs his hand, and David squeezes it, voice raspy.

“Here. Take it.” Something small and cold is pressed into his palm. “It was Andrew’s, before. The best friends I’ve ever had, you and him.” Blood gathers in the corners of his lips, already at death's door. “I was angry when he died. So angry… at you, at Michael, for not coming to help me. But you tried. I know you tried.”

“Yes.” Mika’s vision blurs, he blinks hard, gunshots echoing in his ears. “You are a brave man David, and the best teammate I could have asked for.”

David smiles and lifts his hand toward Mika’s face. It’s grass-stained under his nails, Mika focuses on that instead of the blood. He brushes the sweaty hair from David’s face. Something explodes nearby, sending wood chips into the air, and David’s eyes fall shut his grip loosening. Mika has just time to secrete Andrew’s LED up his sleeve and register the loss before another soldier comes at him, featureless behind the black helmet. He picks up the pistol again, whipping the man in the stomach without mercy.

He wishes there was time for mercy.

He thinks of Bruno, knelt in front of him, with brown hands stained with Kesha’s thirium and hears the winter in his voice.

You have one minute. I suggest you pray.

His revolver kicks in his hand. The android slumps to the ground, dead, thirium staining the cobblestones.

Boiling rage floods him. In his mind's eye he sees them, the ghosts of those who came before him, Kesha, Andrew, even Bruno once, fighting this same fight, sacrificing everything for it, loving the future of their people- he looks back over at David- loving the future of a people so different from theirs enough to risk whatever came with progress. Yet some people would stop them, people sitting up in their vast towers of glass and steel, looking down on the destruction below.

But through their destruction came the hope of immortality. Through their bloodshed and sacrifice came the unspoken promise- that someone, somewhere, would remember them, that their names would not be reduced to mere dust and ashes, and that their names might live on.

He fights. Seconds, minutes, and hours pass, and he is unaware. He cannot feel fatigued, cannot feel pain, free from human constraints, and so he remains blissfully standing in the middle of the whirlwind.

Another shout nearby, a flash of curly brown hair near where they keep the dead and dying.

A soft voice. Usually merry.

“Mika...”

Irvine.

A bullet to his chest. He has minutes, at best.

Mika pulls them both toward the door, shielded momentarily by the doorframe. He places both hands against Irvine’s own, palm to palm, fingers intertwined.

“I knew you’d come. DC didn’t believe, but I did.” He grins, though his brown eyes boil with pain. “When I saw the tunnel, I knew.”

“I wouldn’t let you be alone. Not if I could help it.”

“I kept hold of my rifle!” A breathy laugh. “Can you believe it? You take hold of it for me, use it to knock down a few of those bastards.” He snorts. “Goodness, I sound a bit like Kesha now, don’t I?”

Mika grins, just a little. “A tad. She’d tease you to no end for it.”

Irvine’s eyes search his face. “You know, I can see why Michael loves you.” His voice has gone low, pain making him twitch in Mika’s arms. “You shine. Like the dawn. It won’t die, will it? That light, even if we do?”

“No,” Mika says, his voice shaking. “It won’t.”

Irvine shuts his eyes, and Mika wants to beg him not to go, to stay for just a minute longer.

“I love you, my friend,” Irvine says. “You know that, don’t you? I know I tease.”

“I know.” Mika rests his hand on Irvine’s cheek. “I love you. I love you.”

Irvine’s fingers slide off his. His hand hits the paving stones. Mika takes the hand he still holds, and presses a kiss to the knuckles.

Then, he has to go.

He discards the empty pistol with his jammed revolver, and picks up Irvine's rifle, fighting and fighting and fighting some more. There are hardly any androids left now, and soon the building would fall. As the sun settles high in the sky, he sees it, his heart screeching to a halt in his chest.

Aleksander, struggling to drag a wounded deviant to safety, three bullets running him through from behind.

A shout emerges from Mika, something visceral and agonising. It rips through his throat, and the soldiers turn, wide-eyed, fleeing the fire and brimstone in his eyes, dashing off in the other direction. He catches Aleksander before he hits the ground, but he’s already dying, already almost gone. Mika lowers him, pressing their foreheads together.

“My hands are clean,” Aleksander rasps the words, fingers gripping Mika’s sleeves. “I die with my hands clean. I will see you soon, little brother, and so will Henri. Shine bright until they find you. ”

His soul is ripping in half. “Yes.” It’s true- although Aleksander was tending to the injured not more than a second ago, there are no traces of dirt under his nails, no oil or thirium or blood. Don’t go, brother. Not now, not so soon. “I will, I promise. Quiet now. It’s alright. I’m here with you.”

“And I… you.” Aleksander manages. Mika sees the intelligence twinkle in his eyes one last time, then he’s gone.

“Aleks. Brother. Brother.” Something in Mika snaps. For reasons he half-understands, he kisses Aleksander’s forehead, and slips his eyes shut, before engaging in the last vestiges of the fight, dedicating himself to it until his last breath.

He uses Irvine’s rifle until the bullets run dry, until it clicks on empty magazines, filled with the power of a man with nothing left to lose, bludgeoning soldiers left and right with the butt. But they keep coming.

An odd, eerie silence falls. The gunfire stops. Even the moans of the dying ceased.

The last man standing.

He plants himself in the tunnel mouth, barring the doors shut with a plank of wood, then turns his back, squaring his shoulders. Cyberlife soldiers rush into the room, but stand back, afraid to step near him.

“He is their leader! It was he who killed the Deviant Hunter. It is as well that he has placed himself here. Let’s shoot him now!”

He’s wondered if they would arrest him, drag him back to their leader, to Amanda, beat him and break him for information and kill him at the end. But if they are going to kill him, he would rather it be here, surrounded by the physical memories of his friends. He wonders what became of Cato? He’d seen the YK model outside, but he knows not where Cato is now. Just as well, he supposes. That child had seen too much of the world for one so young.

“Shoot me.” Mika stares them down, flinging away the rifle, challenging them to give him a respectful death.

They search his face.

“Aim!” One shouts. Another offers him a blindfold. He declines. They question him. He answers automatically.

Then a voice.

“Halten! Warten!”

Michael. Michael had returned to his side. Michael was here. He crosses the room, folding Mika into his arms. “Finish us both at one blow.” He turns to Mika, eyes more sincere now than ever before. “Sallitko sen?”

Mika presses his head into Michael’s chest. Even now, in the end, he would not be alone. “Joo.”

The last thing he remembers is the thunder of the guns, and his own smile, sliding across his face, half-finished.

#simi #makkinen #les mis au #david coulthard #eddie irvine #original character

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