#sunlight has a smell and no I cannot explain it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

daemonoferror · 1 year

Text

Asgard's Bard- Chapter 3

TW Phobia of birds, swears, Heimdall not being in a heimdall x reader fic.

Summary: Odin got you a gift, how nice of him! Also PROBABLY musical historical inaccuracies? Sheet music definitely is wrong. But I tried my best. My defense is if it's wrong, the dwarves or Aesir probably invented it early, okay?

--------

You're grateful when sunlight floods your room and signifies the start of a new day. At best you got in a nap, but you aren't tired. You feel energized, and the sun rising finally means it's a reasonable time to get out of your room.

Before leaving you made sure to grab the talharpa and its bow off the wall. It's not as familiar to you as the lyre, but it's close enough. You're just excited to play something at the pub, a personal mission in mind to breathe life into the space often occupied by the dead warriors.

You step out of your room and to the hall. You set the instrument on the table, and get a plate of food. It occurs to you that you could eat at the pub, but perhaps it's better to delay your arrival, as to not be cooped up in a tavern all day long. You sit down with a large plate of food, and an herbal drink with it. It looks and smells delicious. You only get a few bites in before a booming voice behind you makes you jump, almost choking on your food.

"Bard." Thor says. You start coughing, sending little shocks of pain through your back. You had almost forgotten that pain, your soft bed doing wonders for it while you laid awake, antsy.

"Thor!" You exclaim through your final coughs, taking a drink to help. "You startled me. How may I help you?" You clear your throat.

He stares you down, and you cannot see a single thought behind those sad eyes. "The All-Father is waiting for you outside." He says after a moment.

"This early? What for?" Thor shrugs, but for a split second there's a smile on his lips that he has to force back. He clearly knows something, but you'll let it slide. "Well, can I finish my breakfast first?" You ask, it'd be so sad to throw away a perfect meal.

Thor seems to think for a minute. A long minute, long enough to make you wonder if he's telepathically communicating with the All-Father for an answer. "Yes." He says at last, and he sounds confident in the answer. So much so he sits down next to you, making you smile as you take another bite and thank him for his patience. "What's that?" He asks, pointing at the talharpa.

"It's an intrustment, pretty similar to a lyre or harp, just with a bow string." You explain in between bites of food.

He chuckles, "I had thought your instrument came with a weapon." He says, pointing at the bow for it.

It makes you snort, "Ha! Yeah, you might get one good wack in, but it couldn't hold an arrow if that's where your mind goes."

"Good to know." He jokes, though he seems to seriously take note of the information.

"I was going to play it at the tavern today." You mention in between bites, "I guess that'll have to wait a while now." You mumble.

"I'll bring it with me. Was heading there anyways." Thor offers immediately. He reaches out for the instrument, and picks it up with more care than you'd expect- like he'd break it if he wasn't extremely gentle.

Figuring you'd be tired or busy with whatever the All-Father needed you for, you protest "Sure, but the All-Father's-" Thor interrupts you.

"It won't take you all day." Thor dismisses with a shrug, "probably." He tacks on. He's smiling again, and something tells you he's not great at keeping secrets. Part of his no thinking policy, perhaps. At least it reassures you whatever the All-Father wants isn't dangerous, or grueling. It's exciting, and encourages you to eat faster.

You shrug, and agree to let Thor take the instrument with him. "Alright. Thank you, Thor." He only grunts in response. You try to chat a little longer as you finish your meal, but the conversation dies fast. Thor doesn't seem to like speaking more than he has to, and clearly nothing else you have to say is interesting enough to him. Still, he must appreciate your company because he stays by your side until you finish eating.

The empty dishes clatter a bit as you stack them together and pick them up, sliding out of your seat to properly put them away. "I'm gonna head out." Thor tells you as you clean up, standing up with the talharpa in hand. He didn't wait for you to say goodbye before he started to leave, and soon after you'd follow after him out of the great hall.

All-Father is waiting right outside for you. He smiles when you step out, and extends his arms to you. "Ah! There you are!"

"Apologies for being late-" you start, you had no right to keep a god- much less the All-Father- waiting.

"No, no, don't worry about it. You're here now, that's the important part. C'mere, there's somethin' important I need your help with." Odin beckons you to follow him, but you're weary. A few feet away is a swirling circle of black feathers, just like the one Odin had stepped into yesterday, and been swarmed by ravens before disappearing. It was deeply unsettling to you. You knew of tales of Odin using the birds to travel, but it seems quite impractical and truthfully horrifying in person. Imagining a raven full of hatred flying straight at you made you grimace, and had you frozen in place. Odin recognizes the fear in your expression, walks beside you, and pats your shoulder, "I know, it's scary the first few times. But they're harmless. They can't move you anywhere if you don't allow 'em to, and it's so fast you don't even notice you left the ground. It'll be fine!" He reassures you, and gives you a gentle shove to make you stumble a couple feet. It's exactly what you needed to remind yourself you can walk, taking a few small steps towards the circle.

You do your damnedest to steel your nerves. You have to trust the All-Father, and you don't want to waste his time. So with a deep breath and one big step, you enter the circle.

"Ha! There you go!" Odin laughs, standing beside you as you squeeze your eyes tight. The flapping of wings and occasionally squawk makes you flinch. Hundreds of birds circling you almost like prey- it feels nightmarish. For a split second the ground is gone from under you, and your heart drops to your stomach. You nearly collapsed on the ground when it's over. You try to catch your breath, not quite sure where it went in the first place, a hand over your pounding heart.

Odin chuckles, "See? Not that bad." But his expression falls, seeing how shaken up you are, "Eh, well, you'll get used to it." He dismisses. Yeah, you'll get used to it, you repeat to yourself. It was only for a second, you're okay. Once your breathing evens and the ground beneath you feels stable under you, the realization you're in a new place sinks in, and you look up.

It's the middle of a city. There's a large statue next to you of Odin- at least the depiction of him you knew before meeting him. The town seems to be built around the lush greenery of the realm, the beauty of which could make you jealous compared to Midgard. It's extremely humid, almost unbearably so. The most stunning part though is the architecture. Small circular houses and buildings built into the landscape. Everything looks expertly crafted, with ornate details.

"Welcome to Svartalfheim." Odin says, and the name instantly clicks with you. The home realm of the dwarves. The craftsmanship makes sense, then. "Follow me." Odin commands, and you do as told, tripping over your feet a bit, excited to see more of the land's beauty. "So," All-Father begins as you walk. Out of nowhere one of his terrible ravens swoops out of the sky, straight towards you. Terrified, you duck, but the bird lands perfectly on Odin's shoulder. "Muninn found this last night." You straighten your posture to look at what All-Father was holding. A torn piece of paper. "I'm assume it's yours?"

The poem. Shit. Throwing it to the ground probably wasn't the best idea. Should've burned it instead. "Oh, yes. I'm sorry, let me just-" you go to take the page from him. He obviously tries to hold it away from you, but he's slow. It's enough to make you pause and give up, though, to ensure you don't seem rude.

"Eh, don't worry about it. Just know for future reference, Asgard had very strict rules against littering." He chuckles, "I take it your first time meeting Heimdall wasn't all you imagined?"

"Not- quite." You say begrudgingly, reminding yourself you're speaking to his father, the All-Father, who might not appreciate someone speaking negatively of his son.

"Yeah, he can be an asshole." Odin laughs, and his blunt reply makes you laugh too. "What'd he do now? Insult you? Yell at you? Accuse you of treachery?"

"Sort of all of it." You admit. The two of you walk across a bridge, which Odin stops in the middle of and turns to you.

"Yeah, that doesn't surprise me. You'll have to excuse Heimdall. He takes his job very seriously and- and, well, I think he worries." Odin shrugs with a heavy sigh. He nods to himself, satisfied with his answer, and continues walking.

"Worried? He knocked me to the ground instead of just asking me to step away from the lift. I'm sure he was so worried." You grumble to yourself sarcastically. You could almost feel the sharp pain in your stomach where the hilt of the sword hit you.

"Yes!" Odin answers despite you clearly not trying to speak to him. You worry you've struck a nerve, he seems passionate while he explains, "He's especially particular about no one going up on that wall. Thor went up there when he was drunk once, right? Dumb bastard lost his balance and fell off." You gasp! You had no idea! You'd never heard a story about it before either. All-Father just shrugs, "He had mjölnir, he was fine! But Heimdall hasn't liked anyone else on the wall since." His expression softens, he seems to realize he told a secret not meant to be shared and quickly tacks on, "ah, I probably shouldn't have mentioned it- it's a sore topic to both of em. You won't say anything, will ya?" He chuckles, a little embarrassed. He's like any other parent realizing they telling an embarrassing story about their kids.

"Of course not." You promise with a big smile. You could write a song about the great fall the God of Thunder took off the wall, and the horrified look the Watcher of the Aesir wore as he witnessed it. Except that seems like an excellent way to make an enemy of two gods, and would not bode well for you.

"Good. We're almost there, it's this building right up ahead." All-Father directs the both of you back on track. You can hear muffled music from inside. It's not a tune you recognize, in fact it sounds unfinished, by the sudden pauses after a note that didn't quite fit in, followed by the same melody with a new note. Still, the parts you could hear were beautiful, and the chance to meet a fellow bard was one you always met with excitement.

The building you enter is a forge. The heat inside doesn't offer relief from the humidity outside. In the corner of the room, the one furthest from the furnaces and other equipment, was a dwarf, sitting on the floor with an instrument in his lap. "Ah, All-Father. We were starting to wonder when you would arrive." He says curtly, without looking up or breaking from playing.

"All-Father!" Another dwarf drops what she's working on with a surprise gasp, turning to the both of you.

"Yeah yeah, it's me." Odin addresses the startled blacksmith. "Is it ready yet?" He asks impatiently.

"Yeah, of course! I put it away so it wouldn't get dirty. I'll go get it." She doesn't wait for a response before shuffling off to a connecting room. Odin seems annoyed by this, crossing his arms and tapping his foot as he waits.

In the meantime you walk over and address the guy playing music, "That song is beautiful."

His eyes dart up to look at you, seemingly accessing if you could be mocking him. "Thank you." He says, with a little semblance of a proud smile. "It's still a work in progress, something is off, just can't place what."

"Maybe you could try-" All-Father interrupts you, just now noticing you two talking.

"Ah, yes" He introduces you to the man and then tries to do the reverse, "and this is, uh, uh-" he snaps his fingers, as if trying to remember as best he can the man's name.

It goes on for an embarrassing long time until the man gives in, "Raeb." He answers for the All-Father.

"Raeb, Raeb, of course. He's a... uh. I don't know? A musician of some sort?" All-Father states with a shrug. He's clearly disinterested, but perhaps feels it important to talk, even if he has nothing to say.

"Sure." Raeb doesn't agree or disagree, but is clearly irritated. There's obvious tension between the dwarves and Odin. Neither of them seems to like the other, or even want to tolerate the other's presence. But the All-Father has been nothing but kind to you, even without being an Aesir. So the hate doesn't make much sense to you. "And you are the new 'bard of Asgard'? I am riddled with envy." He says dryly, words saturated with sarcasm. The smile on his face tells you he's joking, but the remark makes Odin scoff.

"You do not have to converse with him. It's probably best to ignore him." He advises you. Raeb takes this as his que to turn his attention back to his music.

You frown and tell him, "it's always nice to meet a fellow bard, though."

"Likewise." Is his short response, not looking back at you, indicating the interaction was over. At the same time, the other dwarf re-enters.

"People gotta stop moving my things." She mumbles under her breath. "Sorry bout that! Here it is." She beams.

She holds out a lyre, like the one you had at home, but so much grander. It's made of a red wood, with the sides plated in gold. It's covered in engravings, and you can tell it took a lot of effort and care to create. It's a beautiful instrument, and with a nod of approval, the woman walks past Odin to hand it over to you. You think this must be what had Thor so happy, the surprise All-Father had planned, but you didn't assume anything until it was in your hands. You treat it as if it's made of glass and easy to break, beford slowly looking to Odin with a speechless grin.

"Well? Play it. Make sure it's in tune and such." He encourages you, and very carefully you strum the lyre. It plays perfectly, and the strings glow a soft gold after they've been plucked.

"What-" you mutter in shock, turning the lyre back to you to watch the glow settle, the strings returning to their natural color.

Raeb speaks up at your wanderment, "I prefer mechanical elements to mine, but magic works just the same. Sort of." He mutters the last part with a shrug.

"Raeb was a big help. Don't let him fool you, he was so excited someone wanted a musical instrument. He had so much fun designing it." The lady, who apparently will stay unnamed, tells you.

"Well, it was all my idea. Unless you hate it. If you hate it, then... er, I don't know why we came here, why're we here?" All-Father looks around the room as if he's just an old man with a failing memory. When he's done with the bit, he laughs, "You don't hate it though, do you?"

"No, I love it, it's gorgeous! Thank you!" You beam brightly, holding the lyre close to your chest.

"Glad to hear it. In that case, we shouldn't linger. I have another matter I need to discuss with you." Odin kind of abruptly turns to the door, starting to leave without another word.

"Oh. Yeah, well- good day to the both of you!" You tell the dwarves as you leave so you can keep up with All-Father. Raeb waves to you in reply. A little ways away from the store, another circle of ravens are forming, and you feel your stomach twist. "What is it you want to discuss?"

"Well, it'll be easier to explain back at my study. There's a piece of music I want to give you. It's special, though, I found it while exploring the realms." His explanation stopped short as he stepped into the circle. He looks at you and frowns at your apparent uncertainty. "You ready?"

You take a deep breath and nod. You take a big step into the circle and stand beside him. As you close your eyes tight and hold your breath, Odin grips your shoulder. The birds flock around you, and it's still just as terrifying as before, but this time your brain knows enough to block it out, like a performance you were nervous about. The hand on your shoulder reassured you, to. When your feet didn't touch the floor, you figured it had to be already because Odin didn't budge in the slightest.

When it was over, All-Father patted your shoulder before stepping away. You breathe out and open your eyes. You're in Odin's study, and he's already scouring through each shelf and drawer for the piece of music.

"So, you've noticed all the snow in midgard, right?" Odin mentions as he searches.

"It's fimbulwinter, isn't it? You inquire. It had been here for over a year, with non-stop snow, but some people were still insistent that there was no way fimbulwinter had started.

"Yes, unfortunately." Odin sighs. He grabs a book and flips through it, stopping on a certain page and tearing it out. "But, I have a hunch that this can stop it." He grins and holds the paper up. "The title roughly reads 'rebirth of spring'. I found it originally carved in stone in Alfheim, and wrote it down in hopes one day I would find someone talented enough to play it."

"And I'm that someone?" You try to feign confidence and not laugh picturing yourself as some hero.

"Exactly. Now take this," he pushes the paper into your hand. "And I want you to take the next few days to learn it. Can you do that?" You look at the sheet music, it seems simple enough.

"Yes. A few days is all I need." You assure him with a nod, and he chuckles. In a few days you might regret promising that much, though.

"Good, that's what I want to hear! Go on, I've got some work to catch up on- and hey! Now so do you!" He laughs, shooing you away as he returns to his desk. As you leave he calls out to you, "Oh! And you are becoming a wonderful addition to Asgard!"

The affirmation makes your smile so big it hurts your face. You're not just a midgardian getting in the way, you're a useful member of Asgard! It feels amazing, and powerful. You walk proudly back to your room.

You sit down at your desk, lyre in hand and sheet music in front of you. With your new found confidence, you pick the first measure of notes. You think you do it correctly, but the notes sour when you play, instead of glowing gold, the strings glow a blood red. Your eyebrows furrow, and you try again, slower to ensure it's right. Once again the chords sour. Not only do the strings glow red, but an unnaturally quick annoyance falls over you. You grit your teeth and fix your posture. You huff, "okay. It's just dissonance. It's supposed to sound bad, songs do it to create interest. Just. Keep. Going."

You play the next measure, and it sounds worse than the first. "Shit." You cursed under your breath, "am I playing in the wrong scale or something?" You check, but there's nothing written to indicate one way or another. You still try adjusting the notes and replay the song. It's an improvement, but there's still some bad notes that irk you. You try to push through them and continue the song with hope it'll improve.

You play for hours, you start to lose track of time. Adjusting the notes only does so much to fix the music, and no matter how much you try to push past it, the awful sound grinds on you, makes you impatient and angry. Your teeth could just shatter from how tightly your jaw is clenched. The sound is terrible and hurts your ears. The strings do more than glow, they start to burn with every bad note you play. You don't even notice the cracks forming in the ground beneath your feet.

Something snaps within you after playing a particularly awful measure. You shoot up from the chair- knocking it over in the process- and throw the lyre down. "Shit! Fuck, fuck! Fuck this!" You scream, clasping your hands over your ears and crouch down. You can't recall ever being this angry over something so simple. Music takes patience, you know that. You shouldn't be mad, you just are.

"What are you throwing a tantrum about?" Sif's annoyed voice in your doorway catches you off guard.

"It's not me! It's this fucking lyre!" You yell. You stand up, stomp, and point at the offending instrument.

"You need to calm down." Sif orders, "I will not stand for this tone of yours." Her voice is fierce and not to be trifled with.

You scoff, but she stays and watches you pace around your room for as long as it takes you to calm down. "Why're you here?" You ask, wishing she wasn't as the anger tugged at you.

"Thor asked me to drop this off for him." She raises up the talharpa for you to see, before setting it in its place on the wall. "He was disappointed you didn't show up today."

The rage quickly switched to guilt. You promised Thor to play at the pub, but you had forgotten all about it by now! "Oh no! I didn't mean to, I didn't realize it's gotten so late!" You whine, putting your head in your hands.

"My husband does not need more reasons to drink. He needs to be a father to his daughter. It's probably for the better you didn't go." Sif assures you. She enters your room, picking the chair and lyre off the ground. "It seems you've been busy anyways. What are you working on?" She asks, tilting her head as she notices the music sheet on the desk.

"All-Father wants me to learn this in the next few days." You flop down on the bed as you explain. "But it sounds terrible."

"Hm. Did All-Father write this?" She wonders allowed as she reads over it.

"He copied it from a stone carving." You explain with a sigh, an ache in your back as you try to relax into the mattress.

"So maybe he just wrote it down wrong. Suppose we change the notes so they fit basic music theory?" She suggests and looks over at you.

"What? No! This is important, I need to play it just as it's written. There's no way the All-Father would mess this up." You protest and shoot up in bed.

"Sometimes it's necessary to break the rules." Sif states with an almost mischievous grin.

"Not when it's from the All-Father! I'm sure he'd know-" Sif cuts you off.

"The All-Father is an," she scoffs, "intelligent man. But he's called All-knowing because he wants to know everything. Not because he does know everything. If he did, he could play this piece without your help." She hands you the lyre back, and sits down in the chair across from you. "You need to be more confident in your own abilities. Forget this song for a minute." She slides it further down the desk, out of your sight. "Why don't you play a song you're familiar with?"

You don't know if you feel like playing after earlier, but you still ask, "like what?" To humor her.

"I don't know. What's the first song you learned?" A lullaby. You hadn't played it in years, but without much thought your fingers pluck the right strings. It's simple and sweet, but you get lost in playing it. The strings are a soft glowing warmth under your fingertips, no longer violent and burning like earlier. You start to feel tired as the song ends, and even Sif yawns. "That was lovely. Do more of that." She compliments as she rises for the chair.

"Thank you." You speak quietly and rub your tired eyes. You might actually be able to sleep tonight, you think.

"It's late. Get some sleep, worry about fixing All-Father's mess in the morning." Sif wishes you a goodnight before leaving your room, closing the door behind her.

Before you go to bed you play the lullaby one more time. You fall asleep only halfway through it.

#heimdall x reader #heimdall gow #asgard's bard #x reader

71 notes · View notes

samseabxrn · 3 months

Note

Happy Friday! For DADWC, how about a three word prompt for Glass, Bliss, & Gesture!!!

Happy Friday!! I have some M!Amell/Cullen mutual pining (that got out of hand) for @dadrunkwriting !

WC: ~1500

As he scales the steps to Enchanter Uldred’s office, Cullen can’t help but take his time. It’s a slow day, syrupy in the way time moves. Dismal weather. It’s been storming for days now. The whole tower is damp, the smell of mildew creeping into the templar quarters, rising off of the carpet. This kind of weather always has him thinking—of the past, of home. All the things he’s trying to forget. And since he left, of Amell, who’d spend long hours in the library on these wet days, catching up on assignments, he assumes.

He gestured gracefully. Like a noble. Cullen was fascinated with the tilt of his fingers through the air. And it happened a lot, when Amell explained something to his friend. Cullen’s never met a noble, but he’s read about them. Knows they’re elegant, or they should be, and that’s what Amell was. Is.

And he’s in the library again. Rain pattering against the window glass as Amell talks to Jowan, hushed tones and Cullen stares ahead at the wall across the room trying to ignore the low twinge in his back.

“And the last ingredient is…” Amell traces the blank in the air, long fingers carving out space.

“Witherstalk.”

“Good, Jowan. I told you you’re getting it.”

He should be thinking of them as Apprentice, talking to another Apprentice, he knows. The capitalization is important. Like characters in a stage play, enter left, exit right. Cullen loves stories. That’s why he looks forward to library duty.

“Right, ser?” His eyes snap back to the boy, his own eyes shining out of his face and his mouth set serious.

He doesn’t say anything and the smile starts to form, something unleashed from behind his lips. And Maker, it’ll be over for him now if he catches that glint of teeth, brilliant in the low light.

“Did you need something?” he asks, but he can’t quite keep the smile out of his own voice, and Amell’s eyes crinkle.

“I was saying to Jowan that the weather has been beautiful. And wouldn’t it be nice to go out for a walk?”

The knight-commander has been talking about the physical activity courses. Been getting riskier to hold them outside, especially after the last boy who ran. But he can’t bring himself to say any of this to the boy, for some stupid reason. “It’s windy,” he says. And then he imagines it, the two of them on a walk, and perhaps Jowan there too, why not. Cullen wouldn’t have to watch him, but he would anyway, he knows.

He’d wear the sunlight well, the fractions that come through the painted windows a pale imitation. He’s tall, lanky, and he’d look at peace among the trees, solid and stocky. They’d stretch up against the wood and climb and they’d get to be children again, not nineteen and grown the way the knight-commander scolds him. It’s a familiar sight, this daydream.

He’s placed Amell in the tree on his family’s farm. Sturdy wood. A swing his father made, rope dangling by his legs. He shouldn’t be thinking of this.

“It’s also raining,” Jowan says flatly, and Amell laughs at that, something about how he meant earlier in the week, obviously not now, and Cullen is still thinking about the way his hair falls into his face and how it would be ruffled by the wind, and how the image is perhaps the most natural thing to him, Amell in the woods with the wind in his hair and his deep skin tanned deeper by the sun.

“Even yesterday it was sunny,” he adds.

Greagoir came in then, and a door slams now, and Cullen comes back to himself, worried by how long he’s spent dreaming in this corner of the stairwell, by how big a part Amell played in his life before he left, and by how still he cannot seem to shake this selfish urge to miss him even if he is better suited out there, to the grass and the dirt and the unselfish life of a Warden.

Five hundred miles away, Amell cannot decide if it’s nerves or fear or even some strange sort of pride that has his palms sweaty as he reads The Circles of Magi across the top of the Grey Warden treaty he’s uncovered.

"It’s my home, Morrigan. We’ll go first.”

“It’s not wise. You would do well to go after your big man instead.” She turns her attention back to her robes, and Amell pushes down the rising frustration in his temples.

“You have an opinion?” he asks Alistair, but the other boy simply shrugs. And so they go to bed in the hopes a decision will appear in those clean hours of the morning.

For most of his life he has had the same dreams in rotation: that he’d run away, or that the Circle itself was gone. And most often, that he never had his magic at all. And he wondered which one the demons would tempt him with when he was Harrowed, yet it was something he never would have foreseen.

Tonight, he’s finally out, but he’s not free; still, he dreams of his only home. The grass is damp and cold like the walls of the tower, and Morrigan’s mana rubs up against his as she starts her fire, wild and shameless in a way he can’t understand, and Alistair is half a templar snoring lightly by his feet. All different and yet familiar.

It is the morning after his Harrowing and he thinks, of course. Isn’t that always what dreams are supposed to be about? The things you want and the things you couldn’t change. The carpet is soft under his feet, soft with the security of survival.

He goes to the chapel, one of the few places he can go this early without someone seeing it as suspicious. He only ever went there to work before, but in the days before his Harrowing he would go to pray, consumed with a sensation that the walls were narrowing around him and perhaps he could claw his way out.

It’s so early that no one is up, the tower is quiet and still. He trails through the halls and lets his feet drag on the carpets, pausing at the windows to let the slants of stained sunlight paint across his face.

He’s probably not going to pray today either, as his eyes fall on the far edge of a pew in the front where the other sole occupant sits, templar armor harsh against wood, his head bowed in thoughtful contemplation, golden curls like cornsilk in the night. Even in this half-real world, Amell is hit with the rush of kind words and flushed cheeks and soft stutter, feelings washing over him in a cascade as he nears him.

“Did you have night duty?” he asks, and Cullen looks up.

He opens his eyes and looks around and when his eyes light in Amell for a moment he sees something like joy there, comparable to the pure bliss on his face when he comes in from a shift outside, from a trip across the lake. And it’s eclipsed, slightly, like a shadow falling.

“No, I…” He swallows thickly. “I’m glad to see you doing well.”

Clumsy, artless they both are.

“You weren’t there, were you?” In his bones he knows and he’s not sure why he asks. It is a long moment before Cullen respond, a moment that’s heavy, waterlogged.

“I was the one assigned to strike you down. If you fell.” he rasps. A confession, in the low light of the chantry when the sisters stepped out for a moment. He’s the only one left to hear it.

Amell doesn’t know what to say to that. Because he would have done it. That’s the way things are.

“I believed you would be strong enough, but still I prayed,” he continues, and that sounds like a confession too. It’s not a dream, it’s a memory, he sees, because he’s a mage and he can’t dream right. Not even now. He remembers this, that this was when he saw it: that there was a hole in Cullen that matched the one in him. The edges would catch. The hole could get bigger, or maybe they could close it up between them.

The walls are narrowing still, he wants to tell himself. Wants to rip away this fixation, this security that he will stay. It’s a poor attempt, this trip into the Fade. He aches for the days when he thought freedom was a real thing, withheld from him. For the days he wasn’t a real boy.

He bumps Cullen’s knee with his. Clumsy. Artless. And Cullen does it back, after a moment. The sister walks back in. Cullen stiffens, but he doesn’t move away. Amell looks down, and he’s forgotten his shoes.

He jolts awake then, upset in a thousand ways he can’t put into words.

He could have met him in a hundred different lives; why did it have to be this one? Amell could have been the barkeep at the Singing Maiden or a lay brother in the chapel or a merchant’s son in Ferelden, and it wouldn’t be armor and robes between them.

He will go to Redcliffe, he decides. Perhaps it will sting less with time and distance, all a balm to his wounds. To let that gap heal up. To make something of himself. It can all keep.

#i get so emotional about baby amell #thank you for the prompt!!#my writing #dadwc #cullen rutherford #warden amell

6 notes · View notes

ragnarlothcat · 2 years

Note

1/2 1/2 Pls talk more about your love triangle au! I’m so in love! Imagine Obi-wan, who has been in love with anakin for years, having to silently suffer as anakin regales him with more reasons why he & padme are perfect for one another. Anakin: “so turns out we have nothing in common, but! 1. Pads has curls! Like me! 2. She does her laundry on Tuesdays! Also like me!! 3. & she doesn’t /hate/ podracing & I love podracing!! SO!! (Or whatever the French 17th equivalent of podracing is).

2/2 Meanwhile Obi-wan: “I’ll keep all my emotions right here (in my poems), and then one day I’ll day 🙂”

Gladly, thank you!!! I'm so glad you're liking it because it's suddenly got a hold of me. I still don't know if I'll write it in its entirety because a) I have so many WIPs and b) it's not a time period I'm super familiar with. I know the broad strokes of 17th century France but I'm struggling with some of the details.

However, I did just write a little snippet from it. The backstory: Celebrated poet Obi-Wan used to be Anakin's tutor but now they are close friends. I toyed with making them the same age but the simple truth is that I'm really into older bearded Obi-Wan. So sue me! Here is the scene where Anakin devises his objectively terrible plan to win Padmé's heart.

Love triangle au (or whatever I'm calling it)

The doors to Obi-Wan’s study bang open in Anakin’s haste and he sighs at the sight that greets him. It’s a beautiful day outside: bright sunlight, flowers in bloom, birdsong whistling among the bustle of the streets.

And yet here is Obi-Wan, as always, hunched over his writing desk in nothing but trousers and a loose linen shirt with his windows shuttered and his eyes fixed on the paper before him.

This cannot stand, not when Anakin needs him so desperately. “Obi-Wan,” Anakin says reproachfully. “I have to talk you.”

“Can it wait?” Obi-Wan asks, scratching at his paper. “I’m nearly done this verse.”

“It cannot,” Anakin declares. “Obi-Wan: I’m in love.”

That has Obi-Wan glancing up from his manuscript. “What?”

Obi-Wan looks shocked, Anakin thinks, or maybe confused. His eyes are wide and very blue and he seems not to notice a bead of ink dripping off the end of his quill to spatter on the paper beneath it.

Anakin can understand the confusion. He’s never shown any particular interest in anyone before. He can acknowledge Aayla’s famous beauty or Rex’s rugged handsomeness but he’s never felt that spark, that warmth and longing and adulation that the poets say comes with romance.

Until now.

“With Padmé Amidala,” Anakin continues, and Obi-Wan rolls his eyes and turns back to his now messy page.

“Yes, Anakin, I remember. You were nine years old. She gave you a blanket and smiled prettily and you thought that was the same thing as—”

“But that’s just it,” Anakin interrupts, perhaps rudely. He cannot find it in himself to mind, not while he’s bursting with love and needs Obi-Wan, his dearest, most beloved friend, to share in it. “She’s back in town!”

Obi-Wan’s quill twitches between his fingers. “Oh?”

“Yes! Her sister is getting married and so the whole Amidala family came to celebrate. I had been training in the yard—”

“That does rather explain the smell.”

“—when I saw her. She looks exactly as I remembered when I was a boy. Like a princess, Obi-Wan, or an angel.” Anakin sighs wistfully and drops down to the soft red rug by Obi-Wan’s feet. “I even got to talk to her.”

Obi-Wan shifts so that his knee is no longer brushing Anakin’s shoulder. “Oh yes? What did you say?”

Anakin twists until he can lean his head against Obi-Wan thigh and peers up at him, upside down. “Well, I introduced myself, again, because she didn’t recognize me at first because of how much I’ve grown.”

Obi-Wan hums and Anakin feels it against his skull. “You are a great deal taller than you were at nine.”

Anakin laughs and smiles up at Obi-Wan. “Thankfully, or else my only sparring partner would be old Master Yoda.”

“You could do worse,” Obi-Wan replies, a smile in his voice.

“But after she realized who I was she very kindly asked about my studies and my training and so I asked her how she had spent the last eleven years and she told me about her family’s travels and how they’d been to the sea and I said I hoped she didn’t get any sand in her belongings because it’s impossible to get rid of, and I should know, and then—”

“And then?”

“Well, she was with her friend who said they really did have to hurry to make their next engagement. So she said her goodbyes and said she hoped we’d see each other again.”

Obi-Wan stares down at him and his eyebrows draw together, causing a funny little crease between the auburn hair. “That’s it?”

Something in Obi-Wan incredulous tone has Anakin huffing, suddenly defensive. “What’s wrong with that?”

“You had a two minute conversation with a woman you knew for a few hours over a decade ago, and on that basis you believe yourself to be in love?”

“Believe? I am in love!”

Obi-Wan scoffs. “I’m sure she’s beautiful. I’m sure she’s elegant. But what about her mind? Her soul? What does she do for fun, Anakin? Do you know her favourite songs? Her favourite poems?”

“You know I don’t care much for poetry,” Anakin says, bristling. Other than Obi-Wan’s, of course. As a rule he finds the medium too opaque, too layered in hidden meanings that Anakin cannot dream of parsing. “And anyway, what does that matter? I’ll have plenty of time to learn her favourite songs once we’re married.”

“Once you’re—Anakin, you cannot be serious. You’re only a boy.”

“A boy?” Anakin draws away from the warmth of Obi-Wan’s legs to kneel up and face him, outraged. “A boy? I’m twenty years old, Obi-Wan. I’ve seen combat. I’ve seen death. I know what I want, and I want her.”

Obi-Wan swipes a hard across his face and a lock of hair flops down to meet it. “I know, of course you do. I apologize. But Anakin, you can learn these important things during courting, perhaps. Why don’t you arrange to meet Lady Amidala and get to know her. Discover the woman beyond the soothing angel of your childhood.”

Anakin wants to bite back that he doesn’t need to know more about Padmé because she’s already perfect, already the most beautiful, kindest person who has ever lived.

But maybe Obi-Wan has a point. Padmé deserves to be wooed, doesn’t she? If Anakin is going to be her husband he needs to first demonstrate his suitability. They’re soulmates, surely, but there’s propriety to keep in mind, and Padmé is a lady.

“Fine,” Anakin agrees, slumping down. “How do I do that?”

Obi-Wan settles back in his chair. “How do you declare your intention to court her?”

“No, well, yes, but how do I actually woo her? What kinds of things do women like?” Obi-Wan is older and Anakin knows he’s had dalliances before. He knows what it meant when Obi-Wan showed up to their lessons slightly rumpled and smelling of perfume.

He hasn’t noticed that recently but then, Obi-Wan has been rather busy of late, throwing himself into his work. His most recent poem is still the talk of the town, a story of two tragic lovers kept apart by fate.

“How—Anakin, I know I was your tutor for a decade,” Obi-Wan says, frowning down at him. “But this really goes beyond what Master Qui-Gon wanted me to teach you.”

“Please? You’re well-liked,” Anakin says, biting his lip even as he says it. Obi-Wan is universally adored. He’s popular at court, with the other knights, with the servants, even with his rivals. “I just want her to like me.”

Obi-Wan’s gaze softens, just slightly. “I’m sure she does,” he says, and then stares up at the ceiling. “Just…talk to her about your interests. Your beliefs. Ask her about hers. Try to compliment her dress, Lady Amidala is well-known for her bold fashions.”

Anakin tries and fails to remember what she was wearing in the courtyard. He thinks it was blue, maybe? “I can do that.”

“Be personal, but not too personal. Compliment her wit, her beauty, but be sincere. Tell her—I don’t know, tell her why you like her, specifically. Anything you tell her will be fine, as long as it’s honest.”

Anakin cocks his head. “She reminds me of my mother.”

Obi-Wan blinks, once, and then heaves a sigh. “I stand corrected. You absolutely cannot tell her that.”

“I don’t mean it like that,” Anakin whines, falling forward and burying his face in the rough fabric of Obi-Wan’s breeches. “My mother was sick and I was so scared, so alone, and then Padmé was there and she was so beautiful, so shining—”

“Yes, I know, like an angel.” Obi-Wan’s hand tentatively drops down to Anakin’s damp, tangled curls. “Tell her that, then. Without comparing her to your mother.”

Anakin’s brow creases and he pushes back into the gentle pressure of Obi-Wan’s touch. “But I’m not well-spoken like she is,” Anakin complains, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Or like you. I can’t—”

Hang on.

Anakin looks up at Obi-Wan, who is saying something, and thinks. That's an idea, isn't it?

“—romance is about more than pretty words," Obi-Wan is saying, when Anakin bothers to listen again. "It’s about fundamental compatibility, about waking up every morning and looking forward to nothing more than your beloved’s company and their smile, about knowing that you’ve found—” Obi-Wan stops and purses his lips. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Padmé is clever and well-read,” Anakin says slowly. “She has an eye for beauty.”

“Yes, Anakin, but yours cannot be the—”

“—and an ear for it, I’d wager.” Anakin looks up at Obi-Wan, his mind racing. Obi-Wan is one of the most celebrated poets in the land. His verses win prizes, are quoted amongst the court, are passed around by the other knights who pretend they aren't moved, even as their eyes stream with tears. “She would love a poem dedicated to her,” Anakin finishes, eyeing Obi-Wan’s manuscript meaningfully.

Obi-Wan fails to hide a grimace. “Maybe, but you really have other strengths. Why not…sing to her? You have a lovely voice.”

“No,” Anakin says, shaking his head. “I need your help.”

“I spent ten years trying to teach you how to write, Anakin, I don’t know what you think I could possibly—”

“Not teach me,” Anakin corrects, pressing into Obi-Wan’s space fully now. “Help me. You know I have no talent for pretty words, Obi-Wan, you’ve read my compositions. But if you were to write something, on my behalf, mind, and I could present it to her…” Anakin pauses, lets Obi-Wan process—

Obi-Wan exhales heavily. “I’m not going to help you trick her, Anakin.”

“It wouldn’t be tricking!” Anakin objects. “The sentiment would be true, the compliments, the feeling behind it. Just the actual words would be yours. She’d never need to know but she’d be so impressed, she’d finally see me as the man I am now, as her equal.”

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says again. “I just don’t think it’s a very good idea.”

It’s the best idea Anakin has ever had. Why can’t Obi-Wan see that? Anakin’s words aren’t clever enough for an angel like Padmé, but Obi-Wan’s? Padmé would have no choice but to be swept off her feet. “Please?” Anakin begs, “haven’t you ever been in love?”

Obi-Wan’s cheeks colour delicately and he averts his eyes. “That isn’t the point.”

“But it is,” Anakin insists, pushing closer until Obi-Wan’s thighs dig into his shoulders and the rug bunches up under his knees. “Remember how you felt then? How you’d do anything for her, how her happiness was the only thing that mattered. That’s how I feel now, that’s why I need you, Obi-Wan.”

“You don’t need me—”

“I do,” Anakin says, solemnly, and then tilts his chin so he’s looking up at Obi-Wan through his eyelashes, begging with his eyes like he did when he was a boy and he wanted Obi-Wan to let him do his lessons outside.

Maybe Obi-Wan’s thinking of those days too because his eyes go soft and hazy. “Anakin,” he says, like the repetition of his name alone will convince him of his folly. “It’s unwise.”

“Just one or two poems,” Anakin pleads, letting his eyes go big and sad, letting his lips settle into a pout. “Just to break the ice with her. I promise that’s it, just a few. You’d make me incomparably happy, Obi-Wan, if you’d lend me your gifts. I’d be forever in your debt, if you were the cause of my everlasting bliss.”

“Anakin—”

“Please,” Anakin says once more, desperately. “For me.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes flutter shut and his hand drifts to Anakin’s forearm. “Fine,” he breathes. “Fine. But just a couple. Just until you—”

But Anakin doesn’t wait to hear the end of that sentence. He scrambles up from the floor and throws himself into Obi-Wan’s chair, which rocks back on two legs for a moment before settling down with a creak under their combined weight.

“Thank you,” Anakin says, nuzzling against Obi-Wan’s scratchy beard. “Thank you so much, Obi-Wan. You’re such a good friend, such a good man. I just know this is going to go perfectly.”

Obi-Wan’s hands settle against Anakin’s waist and he sighs into Anakin’s messy hair. “I’m glad you think so,” he says, resignation in his voice. “I, for one, have a bad feeling about this.”

#asks #anon #obikin #love circuit au #or love triangle #or off-brand cyrano #what was courting like in 17th century france?#that's for someone much smarter than me to know #i'm here to torture obi-wan psychologically for a bit #also i haven't decided if padmé is sleeping with sabé (the friend)#or if she's just too busy trying to make reforms at court to have time for anakin and his nonsense #i don't want her to be interested back because i am a baby about unrequited love #i'm not going to hurt padmé like that she deserves better #also sorry about the star wars quote i couldn't help myself #i'm weak

58 notes · View notes

mik0rin · 2 years

Text

is it better to speak or to die ?

college!jean kirsten x college!black fem reader

genre: angst

warnings: the word die is used quite a lot, major character death (even though not explicitly stated), grief, cursing

word count: 1.3k

a/n: acacia flowers symbolize concealed love, just a little fact you should know ;))

Is it better to speak or to die?

Maybe it’s better to speak.

Talk endlessly until it ends in a fit of giggles. And then keep going because it makes one feel warm and fuzzy inside.

Talk endlessly until it ends in blubbering tears. And then keep going because it hurts in a way that needs words to explain.

And then the realization dawns that words carry quite the weight.

And with that they can kill; they kill the soul, kill confidence, and kill relationships.

But words can also resurrect, something the dead can never do. But do people always want to take that chance?

The brave do.

Or maybe the foolish do.

They string together eloquent sentences or stutter through their consonants. They speak because the words scratch them up inside, tearing at their hearts and minds until the pain becomes unbearable and the words must spill out.

Is it better to speak or to die?

Maybe it’s better to die.

Is it a requirement for every thought to be vocalized? What’s wrong with quiet? With silence?

There’s beauty in unspoken agreement and chats based on facial expressions.

So die with unspoken words- without ever knowing the reaction of the ears it lands on.

Avoid rejection and heartbreak. Creeping around arguments and pent-up anger. Narrowly missing trauma and anguish.

Take your words to the grave the same way promises are taken to the coffin, and for every nail that keeps the wood in place: a person that doesn’t have to hear your wretched voice.

Maybe it’s better to speak.

Speak with love and adoration. Joy and wonder.

For every letter to pass through your lips at least thrice. And for syllables to start sounding rhythmic.

To never die with words unspoken.

Maybe it’s better to die.

Die after life has had its fill with you. Die because you’ve had your fill with life.

Die with words stuck behind your lips, saving your breath.

For less than kind words to never bathe in sunlight.

Or for the moonlight to be savored in silence.

Is it better to speak or to die?

Maybe it’s better to speak and then die.

Because one cannot die and then speak.

And even if it was possible, it would only be ghostly paragraphs and mourning speeches.

Because the living and the dead can never truly have a conversation.

“What do you think? I have to turn it in tomorrow.”

The repeating click of a pen follows the question. A sign of anxiety or maybe impatience.

“I forgot a comma somewhere….” The voice trails off and flips the pages, looking for a mistake to correct.

The spring wind blows and it carries the sweet smell of budding flowers and yesterday’s rain. It sweeps up the assignment, scattering it about the ground. And the boy begins to quickly pick it up, hoping the lingering rainwater doesn’t cause the ink to bleed. But a small fumble of the finger results in a paper cut and blood stains the sheets instead.

“Ha.”

It comes out in a short puff of air.

Then another ha accompanies it. And another and another until they all just turn into laughter.

Then laughter into devastating tears.

“I must look fucking insane, bleeding and reading my homework to you. You can’t comment on anything, you can't even look me in the eyes anymore.”

His hands grip the grass, tearing a few blades out of the ground. He sprinkles them back on the ground and grabs a tissue from his backpack, using it to wipe away his tears and to clean the blood from his small wound. His back hits the wet grass and it soaks his thin t-shirt but he doesn’t care, the uncomfortable feeling of wet clothing could be ignored.

“Would you believe me if I said this was a love letter?” Jean whispers even though no one is listening.

It wasn’t a lie, it truly was a love letter even if I didn’t sound like one. And it wasn’t supposed to be written like that either, the words were once arranged in different order and the stanzas weren’t twinged with such helplessness.

The brown-eyed boy remembers when the paper was covered in a hundred different ways to detail her beauty, when he compared her to the cosmos and her voice to the calming sound of the tides. But that’s all he can remember, he can only remember the words he wanted to say.

His mind is full of conversations they could’ve had and the paths he could’ve taken.

Jean’s emotions, maybe the second most important part of this entire ordeal, only grow as the days go on. And he realizes humans are liars by design, not only out of ill-intent. He knows they were trying to make him feel better but all these emotions, the ones everyone said would subside with time, haven’t and he’s starting to doubt they ever will.

The only thing that’s become faint are the memories. They have started to fade and it’s absolutely terrifying.

What happens when he forgets the sound of her laugh? Her face of sheer determination and utter concentration. What about that quiet exasperated sigh that always left her glossy lips when she would explain something to him for the fifth time? (Even though he got it the first time but adores her pronunciation). When he can no longer recognize the scent of her perfume? When he forgets the way she slightly trips over her untied shoelaces, or how she saved him a seat every Wednesday because he was always fifteen minutes late.

And how horrifying it will be when he forgets how absolutely wonderful and heartbreaking it was to only be her friend.

“I was supposed to confess to you, you know.” A sad smile bends his lips, and the tears roll down his face once again but not as fast as before.

“I had a whole plan and it was pretty brilliant, it had all these flowers and pretty lights and a love poem. You would’ve loved it- if you liked me back and I guess that’s the worst part of it all. I’ll never know if you would’ve accepted my feelings or rejected me. I’ll never get a chance to find out.”

His voice cracks with grief as he continues speaking, “I really loved- love, I really love you and it isn’t fair. What good is it that only I know the love I have for you? You should know, you deserve to know, it’s something that should be shared between the two of us.”

A single droplet of rain falls onto Jean’s cheeks and he confuses it with his tears until more follow. It starts as a light drizzle but within seconds it begins to pour and it drenches him. But he doesn’t move, he lets the rain wash over him and cover every inch of his body.

And he cries.

He cries tears of sorrow, of regret, of desperation, and arguably the most important and painful: tears of love.

He cries out her name and pleas for his lover to be returned back to him.

And the last thing he cries for is an opportunity, an opportunity to tell her how much of his heart she owns.

The downpour starts to slow and the long-haired boy thinks it’s a sign telling him to leave.

So Jean sits up, his clothes heavier and his heart even moreso. His papers were now reduced to mush on the ground and he couldn’t even read the title. He collects his rain-damaged belongings and stands up, mustering up the energy to leave. And as his parting message to his beloved, he places a single pink acacia atop the disintegrating papers and whispers out a very shaky,

“I like you. I will always like you.”

a/n: hiii, i’ve returned (with something extra sad lmao) but i had to write after hearing a quote on tiktok,,, hopefully i didn’t break y’all’s hearts too much and if i did…. sorry <333,,, something happy will be posted next, promise !!

#jean kirstein #jean kirschtein scenarios #jean kirschtein x reader #jean kirschtein angst #attack on titan #jean kirschtien #jean kirschtein x you #jean kirschtein fanfiction #aot #jean aot #jean x black reader #jean kirstein x black reader #jean kirstein x reader #jean kirstein x you #aot fanfiction #attack on titan fanfiction #jean kirstein fanfiction #saturn’s masterlist #mik0rin’s masterlist

78 notes · View notes

arickaandherfictionalothers · 3 months

Text

The daughter of Poseidon

Characters by appearance : Poseidon, Aricka Jackson, Sally Jackson, Amphitrite, Percy Jackson.

Song:

If I could catch a star for you I swear I'd steal them all tonight

To make your every wish come true and every dream for all your life…

She was born on a cool October evening. A cry loud enough to change the tides, Aricka Coral Jackson was a fighter from the moment she first opened her eyes-

And what beautiful eyes she had. A startling turquoise-teal-periwinkle, almost the perfect shade of the sea. Poseidon was full of pride for her.

But that's not how the story goes

The world is full of perfect plans

If there's a promise that I broke, I know one day you will understand…

One night, he snuck into her nursery, scooped up the sleeping babe. She didn’t even stir, content to slumber in her father’s embrace. “My daughter,” he whispered. “μικρά μάτια του ωκεανού, pride of the seas. I can’t be there to watch you grow… I can only hope one day you make it to camp… you belong to the sea. You will one day return. I await that day eagerly, already.” He kisses her forehead, catches a whiff of the soap and powder she smelled off. “κόρη, I will always love you.”

(Little ocean eyes.

(Daughter.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~

When times are hard I know you'll be strong

I'll be there in your heart and you'll carry on

Like moonlight on the water, and sunlight in the sky

Fathers and daughters never say goodbye…

Aricka is five now. Strange things has been happening to her since she went to the aquarium with her daycare. “What is the matter, αστερίας?” He spoke funnily, made Aricka giggle.

“What’s that word?” She repeats the funny word clumsily, but Poseidon merely smiles amusedly at his daughter awkwardly copying his mother tongue.

“It means starfish, where I’m from,” he explains. “You seem upset. Where is your mother?”

“She’s at work, this is daycare. Are you lost mister?” She asks.

“No, παιδί. Waiting for someone.” A funny dressed woman walks up to the man then, and he loops his arm around her. “Be well, Aricka. We will meet again soon.”

An angel I will read to sleep, gave me one dream of my own

So learn to love and spread your wings, and find the one to call your home

The funny dressed woman smiled warmly at Aricka too, and they seemed to vanish, leaving a pleasant sea-salt vapor scent behind them.

(Starfish)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When times are hard I know you'll be strong

I'll be there in your heart and you'll carry on

Like moonlight on the water, and sunlight in the sky

Fathers and daughters never say goodbye…

Aricka is seven, and she’s a big sister now. She holds her wriggling baby brother carefully, sitting in the hospital bed with her mommy. “He’s so little,” she coos. “What’s his name mama?”

Sally kisses her daughter’s cheek, knowing now that her days with her daughter were numbered. Chiron would come for her soon. “His name is Perseus Caspian,” she answered. “He’s your brother, and your responsibility. I won’t always be able to protect him, but you will be able to. You will always be able to guard him.” Aricka nods seriously.

“I love you Percy. I won’t ever let anybody hurt you. I promise.”

Later; when mommy and Percy were sleeping, Aricka woke up to see the same man from the daycare standing next to Percy’s bassinet. When he noticed her staring, he put a finger to his lips, shushing her quietly. “You must pretend you didn’t see me here, μικρό γκουπί. Some people wouldn’t approve.” He turns to look at Percy again. “But I had to see your little brother once, before I return to my palace.”

“Are you a king?” She asks in quiet awe. He laughs.

“Yes, η κόρη μου, you could say that.” She tilts her head at the funny words. “I cannot reveal who I am to you yet, but know that the ocean will always be your refuge. Do you understand that?” She nods.

“I like swimming; and seeing fishies.” He laughs again, and the sound makes Aricka feel happy and relaxed.

“Yes, yes you would.” He walks over to her, brushes her cheek softly. “Be brave, little warrior. One day you’ll be called on to protect your brother. You must prepare for it.” He looks at Percy one last time and vanishes, leaving the same sweet ocean vapor behind him.

(My daughter)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When times are hard I know you'll be strong

I'll be there in your heart and you'll carry on

Like moonlight on the water, and sunlight in the sky…

Aricka is 17, and reunited with her brother for the first time since she was 12. That night, she dreamed of an underwater palace and the man from the hospital- her dad. Poseidon. He sees her, and smiles warmly at her. “My daughter,” he greets. “You’ve been reunited with Percy, then. Is he well?”

“Yes dad,” she says softly. “Scared and traumatized, but as well as he can be. I start his water training tomorrow.” Poseidon nods.

“Good. Keep him safe. Protect him. Guide him to the bolt and back to Olympus. I await your safe arrival eagerly. I have long awaited the day we would officially meet, face to face.” He caresses her cheek and her eyes slip shut, wishing this was real, not a dream. All she wanted was for her dad to be able to hug her. “We will meet soon. This I vow.” She felt herself begin to wake and her father nods. “Wake now. Know that no matter what, you are the pride of the seven seas.”

Then her eyes opened, and she went about her day, with no recollection of the dream she just had, other than a feeling that she was loved.

~~~~~

Fathers and daughters never say goodbye

Fathers and daughters never say goodbye…

Aricka is 24 now, battle scarred and covered in burns. “μικρή μου γοργόνα,” a now familiar voice calls. Weary, Aricka turns to face her father, and tears fill her unique eyes as she runs across the Olympian throne room to collide with her father’s arms. “Oh, my daughter,” he says, and she finds herself comforted by how much he smelled like the ocean. “You fought so well. I’m so proud of you.” Aricka cried at those words, words she’d craved since she was 12. “Your brother fought so well, also. I must speak to him too.” She nods, sniffling as she steps back. He cradled her face in both his hands. “You are my pride and joy, as is your brother; and all my children are. The spirit of the sea is strong with you.”

“Father…” she breathes. “πατερούλης…” The word brings tears to Poseidon’s eyes; and he kisses her forehead gently.

“Go now. That boyfriend of yours is waiting for you.” With a smile and a pat to the shoulder, he sends his daughter off to her friends and loved ones, knowing that she would always return to his domain. As would her brother.

As would her children, one day.

(Little mermaid.)

(Daddy.)

~~~~~~~~~

When times are hard I know you'll be strong

I'll be there in your heart and you'll carry on

Like moonlight on the water, and sunlight in the sky

Fathers and daughters never say goodbye…

~~~~~~~~~~~~

@astralshipper @rosieshipper @hyperionshipping @yeehawselfshipping @letsgofoletsgo @tsundere-selfship @callsign-revenge

#Spotify #the sea fam #born of sea and shore #Aricka and Poseidon #a father’s love knows no depths 🌊

4 notes · View notes

thelonelyraven · 2 years

Text

Aberdeen Gothic

Because I've been seeing a bunch of these and I couldn't help myself.

Lately there’s been a smell of something burning in the air. You’re not sure what it is. It’s not quite leaves, not quite paper. It smells sweet. You see no smoke. Hear no fire engine. There are no gardens around, just old granite buildings. Where can this be coming from?

There’s always ships waiting in the distance. You see them from the beach. You never see them in the harbour. You never see them move. They’re gone the next day, other ships stand in slightly different places. They all look the same but you know you’ve never seen the same ship twice.

Sometimes, when you walk on King Street, there is a smell of fish. The harbour is far away. There’s no fish market anymore. No one really knows where the smell comes from.

Summer is the worst. The sun sets at 10 pm. At midnight it looks like dawn is already there. The sun isn’t supposed to rise for another 4 hours. You hear a scream. It sound like a seagull but you know it’s not, though you’re not sure what it is. It sounds ancient and in pain. It sounds tired. You know how it feels. You haven’t slept since April.

Winter is the worst. The sun remains low. A constant dusk envelops Seaton Park. You go to sleep early in the morning. It is pitch black outside. By the time you wake up, the sun is setting. You could have sworn it was midday. The darkness is hungry. You’ve not seen your friends in a month and a half. Last time you went on a walk you could swear a man was eaten alive by shadows. You’re too scared to leave your house.

The leaves start to fall from the trees. One day, you notice a crow on the grass from your window. You don’t remember when was the last time you saw one. The next day there are three. After a week, there’s so many you can’t count them anymore. You begin to wonder if the darkness at night is just the absence of sunlight.

You go past Saint Machar cathedral. You know better than to look at the graves in the cemetery. You feel them watching you. You walk a little faster.

You have to go through Seaton Park. You hurry. You don’t want to be there after nightfall. There are worst things than the humans that hide in the shadows away from the street lamps. You know that when they’re near the river goes silent.

The buses never show up on time. You used to think it was because of poor time management. That did not explain the ones that disappeared. You long for the days you didn’t know the truth.

Some nights you hear a roar, like from a motorway. You’re in a residential area with no major road for miles. It is 3 am. You know you will never learn the true nature of the sound. It is for the best.

You used to see foxes when you walked back from parties. They’ve gone now. They felt it way before you did. By the time you realised something was wrong, it was too late to escape. The streets are empty now.

Several years ago, you planted potatoes in your garden. You cared for them but nothing grew. When came time for harvest, you dug them out to see what was wrong. They were all rotting away. You discarded them in the compost bin. You never tried to grow any more potatoes since. The soil felt reticent to let you. This year, you saw them. Potato plants growing in your garden. Nowhere near where you’d planted the previous ones. You do no know where they came from, or if it is a good idea to eat them. You decide to take a couple days to think about it. You hear them calling to you. Then, one morning, they are gone. “It’s for the best, really” says a soft voice behind you. You are alone in the house.

You order some food online. A couple seconds later, the doorbell rings. You open it to see the food, in a bag, at your doorstep. There is no one outside. You go into the street, no vehicle can be seen in the distance. When you go back inside and check the receipt, it only has your name on it. No address, no price, no mention of the restaurant. The order doesn’t appear on the app and you cannot find the restaurant anywhere online. Your credit card history shows the amount being taken from your bank account, but whenever you try to read the name of the company, it changes to a different string of random letters.

No matter how long you put your clothes to dry, they’re always damp. Even the ones that felt dry when you put them away now feel damp when you take them out of the drawer.

Any food you leave out for more than a day grows mould. Any food you leave in the fridge for more than a week grows mould. Even in the freezer, mould starts to appear. You’d never seen this kind of mould before. One day, you look in the mirror and see you are yourself covered in it. You look down at your arms in shock, but they’re normal. When you look back up at your reflection, you cannot see the mould anymore. Sometimes, you feel it, however. Every now and then, when someone walks by, from the corner of your eye you will see the mould that covers them. When you turn to look, however, it’s gone. Last time, letters appeared on your bread. They were from an alphabet you’ve not been able to identify. All the pictures you took of it are now corrupted files, and cannot be accessed. Any notes have mysteriously disappeared.

#scottish gothic #writing prompts #horror prompts #horror writer #scottish horror #regional gothic meme #british gothic #gothic meme

40 notes · View notes

adamwatchesmovies · 11 months

Text

The Last Man on Earth (1964)

Richard Matheson’s 1954 post-apocalyptic horror novel I Am Legend has received three big-screen adaptations, all of which have certain elements that work and their share of flaws too. This one may not be as slick as the later adaptations but it’s moody and exciting. The combination of Vincent Price as the world-weary hero and the ending cements this as the best version.

In 1965, a plague ravaged mankind. Most died, only to return to life as undead vampire-like creatures who crave blood, cannot stand sunlight, the sight of their own reflection or the smell of garlic. Three years later, the last man on earth is Dr. Robert Morgan (Vincent Price). He defends his home from the creatures at night and goes hunting for them during the day.

Although Vincent Price has no one to speak to for a large chunk of the film (some of it is set in flashback to explain how the world came to this sad state) he narrates his character's thoughts as he goes about his monotonous days checking the defences for weaknesses, addressing the dead bodies he finds around the city and hunting any vampires hiding from the sun so he can take their corpses to a pit and burn them. Price’s voice perfectly sets up the mood. He’s very matter-of-fact about everything, reminding us that he no longer has room in his life for luxuries such as anger. He’s become a shadow of himself; not even looking for a cure as much as a way to eliminate the creatures who have taken over the world that once belonged to his people. Even when signs of hope burst through the hardened soil, it’s not long before it gets stamped out. Maybe if he stumbles upon some kind of breakthrough, he'll suddenly find a greater purpose than daily extermination. More likely, he's going to make a mistake and get taken down by the vampires. The third possibility? He'll grow tired of it all and give up. It’s grim and unsettling.

The film captures the feel of the novel (I’d hope so, as it was written by Matheson under a pseudonym) with a couple of deviations here and there. The scenario is inherently interesting. You want to see where what’s coming next. Even with the mostly unnecessary flashback scenes, your intrigue is peaked. Will these hold the clue to a cure somehow?

The flashback scenes are unfortunately where the film is at its weakest for a few reasons. Firstly, it’s pretty obvious the film was shot in Italian and then dubbed into English. Not helping are the voice actors who recorded the dialogue. Most are pretty bad. Some are even worse.

There’s a strange moment towards the end where Morgan’s actions don’t quite match up with everything we’ve been told about him previously (I attribute it to a culmination of tragic events that come in quick succession) that might rub you the wrong way but it leads to a solid conclusion. The way you see it, the plot can go one of two ways and you just don’t know which we’ll get. It makes things tense up until the very last second. The picture’s final act is the reason you'll overlook the flaws and the low-budget (it looks fine overall but it’s shot in black-and-white, probably the first widescreen film in the public domain I’ve seen like this). I've witnessed so many movies chicken out at the eleventh hour. The Last Man on Earth commits all the way.

For Vincent Price alone, I’d say The Last Man on Earth is worth seeing. This is by no means the definitive adaptation of the novel but so far, it’s the best version we’ve gotten. (On DVD, March 23, 2020)

#The Last Man on Earth #I am legend #movies #films #movie reviews #film reviews #Sidney Salkow #Ubaldo B. Ragona #Richard Matheson #Vincent Price #Franca Bettoia #Emma Danieli #Giacomo Rossi Stuart #1964 movies #1964 films

2 notes · View notes

doghousetimes · 6 months

Text

How Do Dogs Remember Where They Bury Bones? (Do They Remember)

Do dogs remember where they bury bones? The way my dog digs holes all over the yard, I wonder if he doesn't just dig for fun. Do you watch videos of soldiers returning home and their dogs giving them a big welcome? Isn’t it fascinating that dogs cherish the memories of their beloved humans, although years can pass without them seeing each other? Dogs are great at memorizing several essential things – and safely stored bones are at the top of the list. Read on to find out why. A dog’s memory forms around events it recognizes as significant to its survival. It has a natural impulse to conserve its food for the future. If a dog is affected by an event or triggered by strong emotion, there’s a higher chance this memory will become long-term. People believe a dog can locate the bones it buried because of its sense of smell. In reality, this is more complex. Because dogs are a part of the natural world, their behavior still reflects it, even though they have learned to live with humans. No matter how trained a dog is, it cannot escape its biological makeup.

Why Do Dogs Bury Bones? Do Dogs Remember Where They Bury Bones?

We all know dogs can smell way better than us, but how does it interact with memory? You see your dog digging in your yard once again. Although there’s nothing out there, it always comes back with a treasure. How does it know this was the precise place it buried a bone? What’s the connection between its mental capabilities and its ancestors? Dogs are descendants of wolves, a notorious species for their hunting abilities. They work together in packs to ensure every member has enough food to survive. Yet nature cannot always provide them with the food they need, so they ration their supplies. Many other hunters do this, dogs included. (source) Natural Preservation Digging a deep hole in the ground works like a natural fridge. The bones buried inside are preserved from decay and sunlight, as well as from other animals. The earth surrounding the bones serves as a marinade, providing a more nutritious meal. The instinct to preserve some food for when it’s needed has remained in the dog’s brain and way of life. Even if dogs don’t live in the wild anymore, their resources aren’t scarce as they used to be. They have evolved quite a lot from the wild animals they used to be. They’ve adapted to how humans live and have learned to imitate their owners. Recent studies have been able to provide more insight into the behavior of dogs. There’s more to it than what meets the eye.

Kinds of Dog Memory

Like humans, dogs have various kinds of memory stored in different parts of their brains. The ones most researched are: - Short-term memory – holding bits of information for a short period. - Long-term memory – information stored for a long time. - Associative memory – remembering connections between unrelated things. - Episodic memory – recalling past actions. Dogs don’t have excellent short-term memory like other animals. The information is learned quickly and lost just as easily. The human species is the only one able to develop this function further. Dog’s Memory Explained A dog’s long-term memory is a much vaster area, where dogs can easily recall past events and feelings. Episodic memories are stored here. It is where a dog’s special memories go, such as coming to their new home for the first time or their owner’s return from an incredibly long trip. Dogs have great associative memory, making them hard to fool once they see you putting your shoes on. They know it means you’re going out, and they make the connection that they’re about to be taken for a walk. Or that there’s the possibility of it happening. The same goes for more negative associations. Dogs that have experienced trauma might be afraid of people carrying sticks. A large fragment of a dog’s brain is, for its most precious sense, smell. It’s a dog’s primary source of interaction with the outside world, where many memories are created.

The Keen Sense Of Smell

“While we have about 6 million olfactory receptors, dogs have a staggering 300 million. Their epithelium, or nasal tissue, is about 30 times larger than ours. And while people have between 12 million and 40 million olfactory neurons — specialized cells involved in transmitting odor information to the brain — dogs, depending on the breed, can have 220 million to 2 billion.” A dog’s nose is an incredible asset it uses every day to help navigate its world. It’s no wonder it comes in handy when digging out that bone it once buried. Its nose updates itself with new smells every day, and with it, its memory. Unique Ways Dogs Use Their Nose Dogs use their noses for communication, much like we use eye contact. In truth, more so. A dog can recognize another dog’s scent, even if it’s miles away. More interestingly, it can tell another dog’s gender and mood. Using their smell, they can remember dogs they haven’t seen for years. Not to mention their ability to know somehow what’s going on with their owners. Dogs are so attuned to our emotions; that they intuitively know when something’s wrong with us. Or celebrate when they get a whiff of joy in the air. Humans hold a special place in the minds and hearts of dogs. They take care of us just as much as we take care of them, at times more. Why shouldn’t we help them with things out of their control, like dog memory games? They’d do the same for us!

Strengthening Your Dog’s Memory

As dogs get older, their memories get worse. All their cognitive abilities experience a downfall. It doesn’t have to be a painful process – you can assist your dog in its transition into old age. Older dogs are not the only ones that experience memory difficulties. Genetics and diseases can play their role here, as well as too much routine. If your dog is repeatedly exposed to the same environment, it gets used to it. The same goes for tricks. By repeating the same actions, there’s no chance of it learning something different. Introduce New Faces A great way to get your dog to learn something new is by introducing it to new people or new dogs. Faces and smells it never encountered before trigger responses that form new connections. New tricks do the job, too, like brand-new toys and games designed for dog memory training. Spending more quality time with your dog will be very useful, no matter the kind of practice you decide to proceed with for the pooch. It enjoys spending time with you, and creating lovely new memories for both of you.

Dogs Remember More Than You Think

A dog is called a human’s best friend for a reason. It’s loyal and cheerful and shows you it loves you. Sometimes you can’t recognize that’s what it’s trying to do. It comes in a form you’re unfamiliar with, like a dirty branch or your sister’s half-eaten slipper. Consider yourself a lucky dog owner if your dog brings you its fresh dug-out bone. Dogs bury bones because they think they might taste better after some time. They also test themselves to see if they can trace back their steps and see if their prize is still waiting for them. You might not realize that you occupy a considerable part of your dog’s memories because you don’t understand how it works. You do, and your dog treasures you more than you think. Want to learn more about the dog's mind and thinking? Great books worth reading are finally here! Check the latest prices. Latest Articles Article Sources - The Washington Post, Ellen Furlong, https://www.washingtonpost.com/science/dog-love-working-home/2020/10/30/75adc50e-1895-11eb-befb-8864259bd2d8_story.html - Why Do Dogs Bury Bones? https://vcahospitals.com/know-your-pet/why-do-dogs-bury-bones - Why Do Dogs Bury Bones? https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Associative_memory_(psychology) - Your Dog Remembers Even More about What You Do Than You Think, https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/your-dog-remembers-even-more-about-what-you-do-than-you-think/ Read the full article

#burytreats #dogbones #dogdigging

0 notes

elatssss · 1 year

Text

ADULTHOOD

Life may be sometimes fast or slow paced; the question is are we too old to see the true beauty in life?

Adulthood

By: Carmela Bargas

If there is a chance to talk to your younger self, what will you ask or tell him/her?

I can still recall how I got my first mini “palayok” cooking set and told my mom “I can’t wait to grow up and cook real foods.” Also, when I got my first ever official mini-airline plane and told my dad “I can’t wait to grow up and travel on my own.” When I saw my first ever mistletoe, I told myself “I can’t wait to grow up and have my first kiss.” But what is it with childhood that we rush to grow up? I think I have this theory.

I recently got very sick and went home to the province, away from the busy city life, smelling the cool and salty breeze of the sea. For a sick girl like I was, this is a breather. So, I decided to go to shore every afternoon.

While I was sitting near the shore, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, and strangely a cool and comforting breeze was hugging me, also the warm sunlight touched my face, like it was my long-lost friend somehow, that so much so my eyes started to shed tears. I cannot fathom and explain how home I felt, like the ocean gave me a welcome greeting. Then the feeling that I felt was so familiar yet it remained a mystery for a bit, my heart started to pound very quickly then suddenly I saw a blurry face.

I had goosebumps when I saw the young me, genuinely smiling while running barefooted on the sand wearing a white flowy dress. I then asked myself when will I be genuinely happy again? It is when I realized, yup, I definitely grew up and drank my coffee – they say when you drink your first ever coffee, it is a mark that you’re ready to mature and grow up.

Nowadays, it can be scary to watch the news, it is dangerous to voice out or share an opinion that’s not so in on social media, or even at the dinner table. In every subject from politics, to gardening, people always have something to say. When our age increases, our world views also widen. We see and hear things we never expected could be true, such as people dying, war, poverty, or an outbreak of a virus, all of these may somehow place our inner child aside, automatically being serious about surviving life.

“Responsibility”, a 14-letter word that kids are not aware about. One day we are running around, riding bikes, playing pretend where we cook leaves from the streets, or happily eating at our favorite child friendly fast-food chain, the next day, we have mails – reminding us to pay our bills. Then suddenly there are people relying on us and asking us to create things for them. Our never-ending to-do list appears to get any smaller.

I am aware that none of us choose to live unpleasant lives on purpose. We don't deliberately set out to exhaust ourselves by pursuing frivolities that only serve to highlight our pointlessness.

If there is one thing you should attempt to live by for the rest of your life, it is, “If you cannot be joyful, if you cannot enjoy life in its most basic aspect, if you cannot have fun with the simplest of things, you will never be happy.” Life has its ups and downs, but if you can find hope in even the worst situations — whether it's the taste of your favorite ice cream or the feel of the breeze upon your skin — you will gain the courage to overcome your fears or challenges as adults that others might think of it as magic. So, the question is… Are you willing to listen to your inner child?

References:

1 note · View note

420hamlet · 1 year

Text

Remembrance – Raúl Victoria III (#7)

I smell your perfume as you open your room.

It’s that scent of you that I’m so addicted to.

You stand in front; and I am not blunt.

But if you’d allow to, I’d hold you like glue.

I’d kiss you in tune, we’d fall in love soon.

Back to the past, and now it would last.

You’d moan like before, if I’d cross that door.

But that’s not what I came for,

So I’m fixed to the floor.

You are one step away

And my mind’s far away

Deep in an abyss I cannot escape.

The touch of your body,

The kiss of your lips

The memory of it

I need to resist.

If only you’d fall.

Come to my call.

Follow me down

To the darkness I’m found.

You’d fit in my arms like the sunlight in clouds.

You’d be in my mind like the sadness of night.

You’d return to my life like the rain from the sky

So I stand there and talk, I try to explain.

I rip my heart off; I give you your slave.

You toss it away, see it bounce on the floor.

My soul that you’ve torn, but I have no scorn.

“Say it!” I plead in my mind.

“I love you” you don’t say it aloud.

“Say it!” I beg that you feel it.

“I need you” you keep quiet and proud.

“Say it!” if you’d be so kind.

“I don’t feel it no more” I see in your eyes.

You stand there, no love in sight

You ignore my silence, no love inside.

You say no more, let my nightmare come

You vanish slowly, and so it’s done.

The nightmare has grown

The nightmare we’ve known.

The remembrance of our absence.

The acceptance of our circumstance.

The reality of our finality.

The fallacy of our eternity.

The end of our love.

Cold once again, so close to the heat.

Alone once again, in my one heartbeat.

Unloved once again, but I stop the plead.

Tears roll down my face as your warmth eludes me

Tears roll down my face and the door’s locked to me.

This is goodbye, it’s finally here

“I miss you” I say,

But you do not hear.

This is the end; I’ll be letting you go

“I love you”

That’s all I still know.

“I need you.” I forever will.

“I thank you.” I forever will.

“I miss you.” I forever will.

“I’m here for you.” I forever will.

“I love you.” I forever will.

From: Remembrance - Adisara Helena (#2)

(420 words)

Instagram: @thevictoryville

#writing #escribir #challenge #420culture #hamlet #shakespeare

0 notes

athenaistired · 2 years

Text

𝐊𝐋𝐄𝐄❞

— 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐭 𝐩𝐭.𝟏 //

ᴘʟᴏᴛ: ɪᴛ ʜᴀꜱ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴄᴇɴᴛᴜʀɪᴇꜱ ꜱɪɴᴄᴇ ʏᴏᴜ — ꜱᴜᴄʜ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀꜰᴜʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀᴏᴜꜱ ᴅᴇᴍᴏɴ — ʜᴀᴅ ʙᴇᴇɴ ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴏɴᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴇᴀʀᴛʜ. ᴘᴇʀʜᴀᴘꜱ ᴍᴏʀᴛᴀʟꜱ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ꜰᴏʀɢᴏᴛᴛᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʀɪᴛᴜᴀʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ʀᴇQᴜɪʀᴇᴅ ᴏʀ ᴇʟᴇᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ᴀʀᴄʜᴏɴꜱ ʙʟᴏᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴀᴛᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʟʟ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ꜱɪᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜʀᴏɴᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄʜᴀᴍʙᴇʀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴅ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ Qᴜɪᴛᴇ ʙᴏʀᴇᴅ. ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ᴏɴᴇ ᴅᴀʏ, ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴀ ᴍɪʟʟᴇɴɴɪᴀ, ʏᴏᴜ ꜰɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ɢᴏᴛ ᴀ ᴄᴀʟʟ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ʀᴇꜱɪᴅɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴡɪɴᴅ — ᴏɴʟʏ ᴛᴏ ꜰɪɴᴅ ᴀ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ᴀʟʙɪɴᴏ ɢɪʀʟ ʟᴏᴏᴋɪɴɢ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ɪɴ ꜱᴜʀᴘʀɪꜱᴇ.

art credit & word count: 2789

RELATIONSHIP IS !!PLATONIC!!

— 𝑮𝑼𝑬𝑺𝑻 𝑭𝑹𝑶𝑴 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑫𝑬𝑷𝑻𝑯𝑺 𝑶𝑭 𝑯𝑬𝑳𝑳 ꕤ !1!

How long has it been since you've seen the sunlight outside of the gates of Hell? Probably a millennia. And the reason why you were finally outside the flaming prison was a child's accident while creating a weapon inside the laboratory of an alchemist? What sort of children were in the current time? Amusing and pathetic. So humans really must have forgotten about demons and cursed contracts. Erosion takes place in all — even with history and traditions.

"A child...? Who would have thought that a mere chemical mistake would make a call all the way to Hell." You deeply sighed with a small shook of your head; although you weren't going to openly admit that, a part of you was happy that at least an accident finally made you come up to the surface, "I am a demon. What is your wish, child?" You asked, to which the albino girl in red clothing blinked in confusion.

"Like... My biggest, biggest wish?" She hummed as she looked up in deep thought, but in a second she jumped up, "To meet mama of course!"

It was often that one requested a meeting with another, especially children centuries ago who had their parents go into a battlefield, so you nodded in understanding, "And what are you willing to give in exchange?"

"Uhm... I don't know. I don't think I have anything." You held back a groan at that, "I can give you a bomb!" The girl lifted up something that she had been busy making. It was round and you could smell the gunpowder stuffed inside of it, "Just please don't blow up... Or Master Jean will be really, really mad at me."

"How about your soul?" You ignored her previous babbling and came back to the original topic. You were so hungry that your mind was clouded to consume any living being that was willing to give up their form in exchange for a desire. The rumble in your stomach had been concealed with silence after not receiving a feast for over a millennia.

"My soul? What's that?" She asked, and you rolled your eyes at her cluelessness. It has been long since you've spoken to someone apart the skulls of sinners among your collection, and apparently the new generation really stopped educating children in basics of the world system.

"A soul is what you are." You tried to explain as easily as possible.

"You're gonna kill me?!" The girl instantly gasped with her mouth hung open and eyes wide in surprise and alertness, which should have been a reaction the moment that you stated you were a demon, "Are you a bad guy? Hey!" She furrowed her eyebrows, "Don't be a meanie or I will blow you up!"

"Your 'bombs' cannot harm me, child." If this situation was happening in the past, you would have walked away by now but.. This was present. The people have changed and stopped seeking demons. You have no idea when will be the next time you'll get summoned, so perhaps.. "Fine, I'll give you time to think about it but I can't accept a request if you are unwilling to pay."

"Your price is too high! You're so mean!" The girl pouted while looking away.

In that moment inside the room walked in a tall woman dressed in elegant white-and-blue uniform. She had light blonde hair put up in a high ponytail, crystal blue eyes and a fighter's posture. There was a sword hanging around her hip that caught your eye for just a second. Was this the child's step-mother or older sister? They looked nothing alike. Perhaps they were not blood-related.

"Klee, what are you doing in the laboratory? And what is this mess?" The woman looked around at the piles of scattered papers and shook her head in disappointed.

"Sorry Master Jean, me and—" 'Klee' — as you now found out was offspring's name — tried to point at you but there was no use.

"Klee, I don't have time!" 'Jean' snapped, but then breathed in and out; collecting herself. She then crouched down and patted the girl on her head as an apology for her outburst, "Later, okay? But please, clean up after yourself." At that she quickly stood up and walked away as she loudly shut the door; leaving the child all alone behind herself. You watched the scene in interest while trying to figure out the relationship between two individuals.

"O-okay." Klee mumbled even though the door had already been closed. Although she was sad, she instantly swapped her mood when she turned to look at you with curiosity, "Master Jean did not see you! Or she was seriously in a hurry..."

"I make myself visible to the ones that must see me." You explained, and the girl's face melted into an excited smile.

"That's so cool! Must be very good when fighting! Can I do that too?!" She quickly came up to you with the happiest grin.

"Perhaps." You shrugged, "Once I'll take your soul you'll be so invisible that no one will ever see you again." At that the bright mood instantly died down and the girl took a defensive step back.

"That's just scary! I am not giving you my soul. It's the biggest no of all no's!" At that she angrily stomped away and began cleaning up. You positioned your non-physical form on top of the table in the center of the laboratory as you silently observed Klee carry around stacks and books.

"So, can you tell me more about the mother of yours?" You asked while leaning your face against your palm. Your eyes were boring into her form, but she did not seem to mind the scary look you were giving. Either she was completely gullible by nature or learned to ignore when people did not smile at her.

"Uhm.. I actually don't know much! But her name is Alice and she's an adventurer. She went on some dangerous adventure far away.. I haven't seen her for a while." You weren't getting much information out of this, "Master Jean and Albedo might know more than me." Once she said that, she was done cleaning and turned to face you, "Do you wanna come fish blasting with me? I'll get grounded for a whole day but it's way worth it 'coz the fish tastes so good!"

You looked at the child a bit lost. Even if she did not know what a demon was, she should be scared by the air around you and aura that you radiate. Yet she seemed to be happy to be in your company and even wanted to welcome you to spend time with her. Was this child... this lonely and yearning for attention and comfort? How pitiful and desperate.

"Do what you want."

It was an evening time now with loads of dead fish floating in the lake of the Whispering Woods. You haven't been here for so long, and yet you could not help the nostalgia creeping up on you. Klee was sitting in front of you by the fire while cooking two fishes on the sticks. They smelled good. You got taken aback by surprise when the girl suddenly extended one of her fishes with a smile. You stared at it awkwardly and tried to distance yourself.

"I can't accept this or you'll want something in return." You mumbled, to which the girl got up and walked towards you with confidence — almost pushing food into your face; or where the face was supposed to be at least.

"Awe, c'mon! It's just a fish and I tell you it tastes very, very good!" You shook your head; still declining, "Hm.. How about this will be my payment for you to find mom? I can also give you some mora.." The girl reached with her free hand to search her pockets and pulled out few golden coins, "I have.. Uhm.. 50 mora! Will that be enough? If not then I can—"

"Money of the Geo Lord has no worth for me." You interrupted her, and then there was a pause. You looked at the grilled fish once again, and then at the scenery around you. The night sky filled with thousands of starts, the grand trees that surrounded you like a blanket, the flowers that lit up in the dark as if they were mystical crystals — you were not ready for this to end yet. You were not ready to leave and perhaps never come back again to the surface. You craved to stay for longer.

"Fine, fish is good enough." You sighed, and eventually extended your hand while accepting the girl's 'payment'. You had officially sealed a contract now and received your payment, there was no going back on making Klee's wish come true.

"Awesome!" The girl flopped back onto her seat while munching down her food as if she had never eaten before.

It was oddly calming to be in her presence. Perhaps... Even harmonic.

It has been a week since you've arrived to Teyvat. You had been following Klee everywhere that she would go and comment on what she would do when you felt like it, but eventually you found yourself looking out for her. Finally, during the night when the girl was in deep sleep you wondered the streets of Mondstat, then Liyue while searching for any whispers, conversations or documents that could tell you something about where "Alice" might be. In the morning when you came back you did not find Klee in her bed, so you followed her scent which led you to the statue of the seven outside of Mondstat's city gates.

"What are you doing?" You asked, and at your presence the girl instantly brightened up and put down her hands on her hips while smiling.

"I don't know yet but I am going to find out!" As you were about to roll your 'eyes' and deeply sigh; Klee suddenly gasped and ran through your ghostly form towards something. You turned around to look where she was headed and saw a butterfly. It was extremely simple looking — just plain white, yet it got the girl so excited that you almost got jealous at the lack of emotions that you were experiencing.

"Oh. My. God! Isn't that an Anemo Butterfly?!" You followed with your gaze where she was pointing and to your surprise she was right. A beautiful, gorgeous butterfly that was leaving magical dust behind the flapping of its wings was floating around in the air while Klee was running around in weak attempts to catch it. You groaned while extending your hand — and instantly the magical being landed on top of your palm without any resistance or fear, "How did you do that?!" The girl looked in awe, at which you shrugged like this wasn't a big deal. Because it really wasn't for you.

"It's called Anemo Crystalfly. There are also separate types for each of the elements that exist. Crystaflies see humans as dangerous since they are often killed by them. But us — demons — do no harm to them."

"I won't hurt it, I swear!"

You slowly lowered your hand meanwhile Klee put both of her palms together in a bowl-like position. Soon, the Crystalfly flew from your hand into the girl's.

"It's so pretty.. Look! Look! It trusts me too now. That's because I am also good!" She happily grinned and giggled to herself. For some reason seeing her this happy made you feel at ease too.

"Good."

You spent a whole day catching lizards and frogs that later Master Jean was not so happy about.

#genshin impact #genshin imagines #genshin #writing #genshin scenarios #fanfic #fiction #genshin klee #klee #klee fluff #klee angst #genshin angst #jean genshin impact #jean genshin

129 notes · View notes

samstree · 2 years

Text

my sunlight, sunlight, sunlight (3/4)

In which Geralt still has terrible timing in everything, including his love confession.

(2.6k, previous chapters: [1] [2], or read on AO3)

The night has Jaskier’s stomach churning with worry.

He strums his lute absently at The Beekeeper, humming the tunes absently. The smell of alcohol lingers in the air, warm and stuffy. The audience expects a drinking song at this hour, with their cheeks red and eyes glassy.

Geralt’s presence at his side is a grounding point, but Jaskier’s mind spirals.

“Hey.” Geralt stills his hand. “We can just leave.”

How his heart yearns for that. The small space of his single bed and Geralt’s body against his.

“But we can’t. You see,” Jaskier explains, “there’s something I haven’t told you. It only started after we parted on that mountain, and it’s not something I can just leave—”

“The Sandpiper?”

The world stops.

“Yennefer?” Jaskier observes Geralt’s reaction, but only finds pride gleaming in those golden eyes, the candlelight flickering with warmth. “Of course. She told you.”

“It’s dangerous.”

“And important. Your point?”

A pause.

“Nothing.”

Geralt understands, because of course he does. He is kind and wonderful like this. Pride remains in those honey eyes, and the last of the weight disappears from Jaskier’s chest. He squeezes Geralt’s hand in reassurance, ready to take the stage. There are no more secrets between them, no more rotten parts of him hidden.

Except—

“Hey, bard!” A drunk patron shouts from two tables down, patience running out at the late start. “Give us Burn Butcher Burn!”

The warm candlelight suddenly stings Jaskier’s eyes, blurring his vision. He blinks away the dark spots and says something to that man but not registering the words leaving his mouth, only that it’s placating, explaining why he cannot sing that song again—an artist must move on.

The man slurs nonsense, heedless of Jaskier’s frantic attempt for a diversion. He begins singing it himself.

Burn, burn, burn.

The tavern erupts into chaos. The barkeep strong-arms the drunk man out the door. He shoulders past Jaskier and almost knocks him to the floor.

The crowd is quiet, staring at the odd image of an awkward bard and a stunned witcher. Jaskier cannot look at Geralt as he passes him, and it takes everything in him not to dash out of the door again. Instead, the mask of a performer comes on, and he loses himself on stage.

The show must go on.

Jaskier finishes the set, his hands trembling and voice hoarse. Distantly, he is aware of how much he has exerted himself tonight, but there’s no room to care. Fear and shame return as he passes the barmaid and the tray of wine and ale in her hands. He ducks his head, only to walk straight into Geralt’s chest.

“I—” He opens his mouth, not daring to meet Geralt’s gaze. “I can explain, please. Let me explain. I was angry and drunk and I couldn’t think. I know what that name means to you, Geralt, and I will never sing it again—”

“I don’t care.”

A gentle hand rests on Jaskier’s chin, making him look up, and he meets no judgment. Geralt holds him closely the same way he has done for the past two days. “I hurt you. It’s only fair.”

Jaskier shakes his head, anguish rising in his throat like bile. He closes his fists to stop them from shaking, the echo of Geralt’s old moniker pounding on his every nerve. Strange, this pains him more than the worst hangovers.

One hurt does not justify another, he wants to argue. Geralt doesn’t deserve this decade-old hatred from anyone, least of all him.

The air shifts just when Jaskier opens his mouth, only a slight quiver but it's hard to miss. It doesn’t take witcher senses to realize something is wrong.

A few things happen at once.

Geralt’s eyes, which were warm and gentle a second ago, widen with alert. The medallion that rests against his dark shirt vibrates, the hum nearly imperceptible against the backdrop of the noisy tavern.

“Get down!” Geralt yells.

Strong hands tug Jaskier forward, and he finds himself on the floor within the next heartbeat with all the air knocked out of his chest.

That’s when the building explodes.

The wall at the far end of the tavern caves in and flames fill the room, accompanied by the world-ending sound of screams and shouting. The weight of Geralt on Jaskier’s back is suffocating. The witcher shields him with his whole body, his arms wrapped around Jaskier’s head and holding him down. Jaskier chokes on the settling dust.

“G’ralt?” Jaskier isn’t sure what he’s saying with the ringing in his ears, drowning out his whimper. He blinks his eyes open and finds the world on fire.

His chest seizes with fear when phantom pain shoots up from the scars on his fingers. Jaskier scrambles to retract his hands, begging the fire to go away.

“Please, no.” he sucks in breathes but there’s no air in his lungs. “Not again, please, I can’t—”

“Jaskier!”

It’s the panic in Geralt’s voice that pulls Jaskier back to reality. His vision narrows down to the razor-sharp focus in Geralt’s eyes, and realizes that they are still very much inside a burning building.

“We need to go!” Geralt adds, pulling Jaskier up on shaky legs. They follow the hurrying crowd, leaning into each other. Jaskier drags his feet forward, coughing with every other inhale. The smell of gunpowder and burnt wood makes him double over and gag. “That’s it. Keep going,” Geralt murmurs into his ear. “We are nearly there.”

They cross the threshold and step into the open ground, gathering with the patrons who just escaped with their lives. The Beekeeper is consumed in flames, the smoke rising to the dark sky. The barkeep remains in front of the frightened crowd, his face desperate with fear.

“The basement,” he says, and Jaskier’s blood runs cold.

The elves.

The basement has one exit, and it’s right next to the wall that fell.

“Geralt,” Jaskier hears himself call out in fear, his grip tight on Geralt’s arm. “We have to go back. There must be people still in there—the basement. People seeking refuge.”

He stresses the last word, and watches the same panic rise in Geralt’s eyes. He watches the unknowing bystanders around him and checks Jaskier one last time before turning.

Jaskier follows.

“No, Jaskier.” Geralt halts him by the shoulder. There’s an urgency in the way his palm finds Jaskier’s cheek and holds him still. “Stay here with everyone.”

“We don’t know how many there are. I could help—”

“No!” Geralt flinches when a wooden beam breaks in half and falls into the burning room. “I won’t lose you, Jaskier. Not like this, not after everything.”

“And I can’t lose you!” Jaskier argues, ready to push past his witcher who is just as stubborn. They are a terrible match.

Geralt’s hair is lined with gold, and there’s soot and dust smeared across his skin. The look on his face is one that should only exist in dreams, resigned and beautiful and equally heartbreaking.

“You won’t.”

“You can’t just sacrifice yourself like this, I—”

A featherlight kiss lands on Jaskier’s hair. It only lasts a split second, but an eternity could be fit into it. Jaskier gasps when they part.

“I’ll come back, I promise,” Geralt whispers, backing away. “I love you.”

The confession is quiet in the wind. For a moment, Jaskier thinks he imagined it. There’s a tingling on his skin where Geralt held him, and the afterimage of fire dances in his vision. The flames lick up like a curtain, swallowing up Jaskier’s heart.

And he waits.

Every crack of the fire tugs at his heartstrings, holding his breaths in a death grip. It can’t be more than a few minutes when the shape of two people emerges from the crumbling doorway, a woman and a boy, their faces covered with the same scarf they are holding.

“Hey, here. You are safe.” Jaskier catches them right before they fall on their knees and lowers the child on the ground. “It’s okay now.”

“A man saved us.” the woman says, fear shining in her wide eyes. “The trapdoor was stuck, but he saved us.”

“He’s a witcher, mama,” her boy corrects with the matter-of-fact attitude of young children. “Is that why he gets to say the bad word?”

“No, my darling. He didn’t say any bad word.”

“But I heard! He said f—”

The woman pulls the kid into her embrace and effectively stops that train of thought, half in distress and half in embarrassment. Jaskier lets out a small laugh despite himself, despite everything.

He puts a hand on the boy’s head, but there’s no time to comfort them. Another group follows them, all coughing and barely holding on. An audience of startled humans still stands behind Jaskier to watch the scene closely. Some are already eyeing the elves. It won’t be long until someone notices their ears and start asking questions.

“You can’t stay here.” Jaskier wraps the scarf over the woman’s head and pulls her up, all the while keeping himself in front of the curious crowd. “The ship is already here. Go to the dock now and tell them to sail early. There are too many eyes around.”

He guides a few more elves away from the street and points them in the direction of the dock. Another couple stumbles out of the door, and Jaskier lets instinct take over. His mind falls into the mode of comfort and reassurance, pushing down the soul-crushing fear that threatens to break him at the first chance.

They thank him and hurry away, and suddenly the stream of survivors ceases. No one else is coming out of the door. Jaskier watches the doorway, flinching when the roof creaks, dangerously close to caving in.

“Come on,” Jaskier mutters under his breath. “Come one, Geralt. This can’t be it. It can’t end like this.”

If he could go back to the small kitchen of Kaer Morhen, Jaskier swears silently, he would never push Geralt away again. If he has one more chance, he’ll kiss Geralt like it’s the last chance he has. Every chance may as well be, and he won’t lose another.

There are hands holding Jaskier back. He doesn’t even notice walking towards the fire, or struggling against the strangers trying to calm him down.

And then—

There Geralt is, his silhouette dark against the orange light. He’s carrying someone in his arms so his footsteps are careful as he dodges another falling beam. Jaskier lets out a yelp, but luckily, Geralt is quick enough to steer both of them out of the way.

“She’s the last one,” Geralt shouts while placing her on the ground.

The person in his arms is an elderly woman, her head lolling back but eyes still open, muttering something indistinguishable, something about the fire being eternal.

“We have to leave now,” Jaskier says.

“She needs—”

“There’s no time. The ship must leave. The city guards will come for the fire.” Jaskier places a hand on Geralt’s shoulder and steadies him as he lifts the woman. “They can’t draw attention here—no more than we already have. Come on, Geralt. I know what I’m doing.”

The trust in Geralt’s eyes is determined, unthinking, even as he follows Jaskier away from the street and cuts through dark alleys to reach the dock. The ship is there and ready. The mother who came out of the fire first is waiting for them at the ramp.

At his peripheral, Jaskier sees a limp in the way Geralt hurries them inside, but there are more pressing matters at hand. They settle the old woman on the only hay bed and someone brings her water immediately after.

“This ship goes to Xin’trea, a land reclaimed by elves,” Jaskier speaks in Elder. “You will all be safe there, with enough shelter and food for everyone. It’s going to be okay now.”

He checks with every person who still stares speechlessly or curls into themselves out of fear, asking for their names and giving short reassurance. He finds the child and ruffles his hair. “Listen to your mother, kid. Don’t say the bad word.”

The child stares at Geralt, who still stands by the hay bed, his shoulders hunched and hair tangled with ash.

“Are you a witcher too?” the kid asks.

“I’m not.” Jaskier finds the smile on his face warm and genuine.

“But you are helping us.”

The boy is shushed by his mother before Jaskier can answer. A few knocks lands on the deck, signaling the ship’s imminent departure. Geralt stays quiet as Jaskier says his last goodbye. With a heavy heart, they return to shore and watch for a long time, waiting motionlessly until the ship slips into the night.

Geralt is holding his hand, but Jaskier doesn’t remember when it happened. He’s so tired he just wants to rest his head on Geralt’s shoulder and sleep for the rest of eternity.

It’s Geralt who breaks the silence first.

“You are good at this.”

Jaskier could laugh. “Not good enough, apparently. Or no one would have known and attacked us.”

“I’m sorry this happened,” Geralt croaks, his voice is hoarser than usual. There’s a labored sound when he inhales, lodged deep in his lungs. “We should go back, find out who planted the bomb.”

Jaskier shakes his head, meeting Geralt’s gaze.

“I just want to go home,” Jaskier says. “They can’t investigate tonight, and we just smuggled more than a dozen elves out of this town. Questions will be asked, and I’d rather not answer them tonight.”

Geralt nods in understanding. He looks as tired as Jaskier feels, perhaps even more so.

“Okay,” Geralt answers, but his face contorts in pain, his brows knitted tightly together.

“Geralt?”

Something isn’t right. Every time Geralt takes in a breath, the wheezing sound in his lungs deepens, trapping the air inside. It’s like the smoke and dust never left them, suffocating and deadly.

“Jask,” Geralt chokes, swaying on his feet. “You know, I—"

It’s like a mountain falling on top of Jaskier when Geralt’s knees buckle, taking them both down to the cold hard ground.

“Geralt!” Jaskier calls out, scrambling to keep Geralt upright. His head ends up pillowed on Jaskier’s chest, his breaths shallow and irregular. “Hey, what is it? I thought—you were alright just now, right? You said you'd come back to me and you did. Geralt, talk to me. What is happening?”

Jaskier pats down Geralt’s torso and thighs, and finds no open wounds. There’s no blood, no cuts or bruises, but Geralt cannot seem to breathe. When Jaskier finds his pulse point, it’s beating nearly as fast as a human.

There are tears down Jaskier’s face, wet and cold under the night sky. Geralt’s hand twitches in an attempt to wipe them away as if he cannot bear the sight, but there's no strength left in him.

“You should know,” Geralt says between labored breaths, “I meant it.”

“Hey, don’t speak. We are going to a healer, alright? Just listen to me, we are going to be fine. It’s all over now.” Jaskier swallows the lump in his throat, trying to put on a brave face. “I’m getting better, and everyone is safe. We can make it work, right? I can make everything work, just believe in me, and don’t—don’t’ give up.”

“It’s all worth it, loving you.”

“Don’t say that,” Jaskier pleads.

But Geralt looks happy, his smile peaceful and without an ounce of regret. It’s how he loses consciousness, with love on his lips and trust in his eyes. There is salt in the air, but Jaskier can no longer tell if it’s his tears or the sea.

He drops his head to Geralt’s, pressing their temples together, and holds on to the weak pulse under his fingertips like a lifeline.

#geraskier #geraskier fic #alcoholism #sobriety #alcoholic jaskier #hurt/comfort #sandpiper jaskier #geralt whump #hurt geralt #soft geralt #love confessions #competent jaskier #it's all gonna be okay i promise

85 notes · View notes

thatbritishactor · 3 years

Text

Together we stand (part 19)

Pairing: Billy Russo x Reader

Summary: Together We Stand explores the relationship between Billy Russo and Reader (You), over the course of twenty years. You meet as children, and you two are best friends until life tears you apart. You always find your way to each other over the years, although you witness him becoming someone you barely recognize. Billy is your weakness, the one person you cannot resist, and as he grows into a selfish, cold, manipulative man, you can’t let go of the Billy you once knew.

Warning: Mature (SMUT), 18+, language (cursing), abuse (psychological), toxic relationship dynamics.

Total words: 3,400

The * indicates steamy/ mature content

My Masterlist

Together we stand playlist

Part 1 Part 2* Part 3 Part 4* Part 5 Part 6* Part 7* Part 8

Part 9* Part 10 Part 11* Part 12* Part 13 Part 14 Part 15

Part 16 Part 17 Part 18

TWO YEARS APART

You’re squirming under Billy’s weight, laughing loudly while he tickles your sides. The bed is bathed in sunlight, a soft breeze is coming from the window.

“Stop it!!” you scream, still laughing, and Billy bites your neck, making you giggle even more.

“What was that?” he grins, leaning back to look at you. Your cheeks are red: you’re flustered from the tickles and moving around in bed.

“Okay, fine” you sigh, finally relaxing under him, a wide smile on your lips “You win”. You exhale loudly, and he places a kiss on your lips, reveling in the feeling of your body under his, of your soft skin, and the smell of your hair.

“I always win” he smirks, and you gently slap his arm.

“No, you don’t!” you scoff, rolling your eyes, and Billy slides a hand under your shirt, caressing your breast.

“Oh, no?” he asks innocently, and he sees another blush spreading on your cheeks.

“Fine” you mumble, reaching to kiss him, and he smiles into the kiss, satisfied.

“I love ---”

Billy awakes before you finish your sentence, disoriented. The lights are hurting his eyes, and he blinks a few times, feeling like his head has been bashed in with baseball bat. The headache makes him feel dizzy, and he glances around him, his vision blurry.

The sounds around him make him think he’s in a hospital: he hears beeps coming from a machine, and the walls are white. He checks his body and sees that his thigh is encased in gauze. Shit.

His heart beating fast in his chest, he understands that the dream he just had was a memory, and the heartbreak is almost as painful as the searing feeling in his thigh. It seemed so real, he felt like he was with you, and he closes his eyes, trying to cling to the memory.

A voice tears him away from his thoughts.

“Ah, Private Russo, finally awake” someone says, and he opens his eyes to see a doctor approaching.

“You were out for a whole day, glad you’re finally back with us” he says.

Billy winces and closes his eyes again; he doesn’t want to be awake. Part of him is disappointed that he wasn’t shot to death. He grimaces at the thought, discovering a side of himself he had never acknowledged. This isn’t good he thinks to himself, while the doctor explains to him what’s happened.

The bone wasn’t touched, nor the nerves. The artery was though, and he almost bled to death before he was evacuated. He’s going to have to rest for six weeks, and he’ll be shipped back to America once he’s recovered for his leave. Great, he thinks, not relieved in the slightest.

* * * * * * * * *

Billy barely registers what happens around him: the people who care for him, the hospital, his recovery, everything is blurry and shapeless around him. The painkillers don’t help, and Billy find himself constantly dreaming about you.

He misses you, as much as when he was on the field. Although back there, he had distractions: the other marines, routine tasks, and the missions. Here, Billy has nothing to take his mind off you, and he’s forced to confront his feelings.

He realizes that the only person who might appease him would be you, and he curses himself for not having written back to you, not even once.

Billy relives glimpses of your relationship and lying in bed without distractions forces him to indulge in the memories. He struggles at first, resisting the flashbacks. He quickly finds out that there’s no escaping, his brain is settled on making him relive the best – and worst – moments he’s had with you.

The memories come out of order, but some are different than others. They’re more emotionally charged, and they take Billy’s breath away. Sometimes he revels in them, while other times he struggles, forcing himself to somehow forget. But he never does.

He remembers how he had felt when the social workers had come to get him ten years ago, looking at your form disappearing the distance. He recalls the look on your face, the tears in your eyes, the feeling of your small hand gripping his before you were torn apart. He rethinks about the games you played at kids, the books you read together, snuggled in your father’s office. The many nights he had crawled into your bed, scared to sleep alone, because he was afraid that when he’d wake up, the whole family would have left and abandoned him. Billy invoked nightmares, thunderstorms, the noises coming from the street, but in reality he wanted to be close to you. Sleeping next to you appeased his anxieties, and you’d welcome him every time, playing with his hair, holding him, and he felt whole.

He remembers the punches he took for you at school, the patience you had when you helped him with his homework. Although Billy’s love for you wasn’t romantic back then, his attachment for you was already strong, almost unbreakable. You were the blood in his veins, the air in his lungs. Back then, you felt like a part of each other, and often as adult, Billy could still feel this way.

He recalls the heated discussions you had about your favorite books, the way your eyes lit up when you talked about literature. The first time he had kissed you in your parent’s kitchen, the smell of scrambled eggs and bacon cooking, of your wet hair against his stubble, the feeling of your naked skin under your robe. Your sighs and cries when he was pleasuring you, your laughter in the morning.

The two blissful months where you had lived together, sharing a place in a domestic, simple life he had never knew he wanted so badly. How it felt to wake up next to you every morning, the coffee you made, the noises coming from the kitchen. The routine you two had in the evenings, or when he watched you reading a book, your nose scrunched up with concentration.

Reminiscing forces Billy to face his mistakes, and he finds himself regretting the choices he’s made. He cringes when he remembers his possessiveness, how jealous he’s been. Some memories are painful, like the one where he met your friends back at Brown. He’s angry with himself, how could he have pushed you away like this? Although Billy still feels torn with jealousy, he regrets having rejected you. He finally realizes how selfish he’s been, and how he’s been his own worst enemy. Frank’s words finally reach to him, and he understands how he’s sabotaged the relationship so far.

Billy finally realizes how precious you are to him, and his heart aches every time he remembers how he’s tried to jeopardize the relationship. Billy wonders why he feels this way, how come that things appear to him so clearly now? He thinks about it a lot, and decides that the distance, and his close brush with death might have something to do with it.

He needs to sort out his priorities, and you’re the most important person in his life; he needs to treat you accordingly. You’ve shown him nothing but kindness over the years: comforting him, accepting him just as he was. You love him, unconditionally. And he has thrown that all away. And for what? Pride, selfishness? No, fear, he responds to himself.

The fear of losing you. The fear of loving you so deeply, it might destroy him. And it almost did. He was suicidal, he realized, because without you, life wasn’t worth living.

But you are alive, and you love him. And he needs to give this relationship a try. He needs to be better, for you, because you deserve it. He can try to become the person you need. Billy takes a vow, his eyes closed, lying in the bed, almost like a prayer: he won’t get in the way again. His demons won’t stop him from having a chance at a life with you. You can make him happy.

All right, ten steps plan, he thinks to himself, smiling. Except that this time, the plan is you.

Frank comes to visit him in the military hospital before his leave, and he’s beyond pissed at Billy, scolding him for half an hour before he finally relaxes.

“You endangered us all, you scared the hell out of me” Frank says, clenching his fists. Billy knows that his friend has bottled up his feelings for when he’d finally be able to tell him off, so he lets him, part of him ashamed of his recklessness. He surprises Frank when he flatly apologizes.

“I’m sorry, man, I was so torn up about what’s happened with Y/N… Part of me wanted to die that day, and that wasn’t fair to you, or the other guys.”

Frank’s eyes widen, and his lips part: he didn’t expect Billy to apologize and reflect on his behavior.

“Jesus, man, what happened to you? Where does the sudden maturity come from?”

Billy scoffs. “You’d be surprised at what bedrest does to a man” he lowers his eyes “Turns out I’ve had plenty of time to reflect on my past… and I didn’t like it.”

Frank nods, before he asks the dreaded question:

“You told Y/N about your injury yet?” Billy’s heart drops in his chest. He’s thought about it, a lot. When he woke up, the first thing he had wanted was to reach out to you and tell you he was safe, and that he was sorry. But he also didn’t want to worry you, and he already felt pretty shitty about himself.

“Nah, not yet” Billy bites his lower lip, and Frank rolls his eyes.

“What you waiting for, exactly?” his brown eyes are fixed on Billy, piercing through his soul.

“I don’t know man” Billy admits. “I keep avoiding it. I guess I’m just scared.”

Frank doesn’t reply immediately, thinking for a few moments.

“There’s nothing to be scared about. She loves you, man. I bet she’s waiting for a letter from you.”

Billy nods. “You’re probably right.”

“What about your leg? How you healing?”

“Nothing important was touched” Billy winces “I won’t have problems to walk again, although it might be weird at first. Doctors told me that I didn’t have to go through physical therapy, which is a relief.”

Frank nods, looking pensive. “When you comin’ home?”

“Another week in this shithole, and I’ll be shipped back to America” Billy smiles, and his grin warms Frank’s heart.

“You got a place to stay?”

Billy shakes his head. “Nah, apart from my adoptive folks.”

“You know you can crash with us, right?” Frank replies, and Billy closes his eyes briefly.

“Thanks, man”. Billy’s thankful for his friend, his brother. He has no idea where he’d be without him, and he vows to himself, just like he did with you, to never disappoint him again.

After Frank leaves, Billy finally asks for a pen and paper. He takes a big breath in, and he starts writing, pouring his soul into the ink, hoping that his words will get to you. He writes four pages back and front, and he explains it all: how hard it’s been for him to be away from you, how every time he tried to write the words didn’t come, the depressed state he was in, and the injury. He begs for your forgiveness and finishes the letter saying that he’ll be back in New York in a week, hoping to see you there. Once he’s done, he reads it once over, and decides to send it right away, as to not waste any time. He hopes that you’ll get the letter quickly, and he wonders how you’ll react to it. Will you be angry or relieved? Happy, or sad? Billy closes his eyes, letting a sharp breath out, comforted by the fact that he’ll be in New York in no time.

* * * * * * * * *

You’re lying in bed, your small bedroom under the roofs lit by a single bedside lamp. The decoration of your Parisian place must be fifty years old, but you don’t mind: the old pink wallpaper, the leather armchair, and the pretty desk make a cozy, aesthetically pleasing ensemble, and you’ve personalized it with pictures and plants.

As usual, you can’t sleep. Ever since you’ve arrived in France, you’ve started suffering from insomnia, as if you’ve never quite accustomed to the jet lag.

Some nights are worse than others, like the one where you had woken up from a vivid dream about Billy in Iraq. Going back to sleep is almost impossible after those nightmares, and writing is the only thing that helps.

After arriving in France, you quickly learned how to navigate through the city and made new friends in class. Some of them were exchange students coming from Europe, others were French students who you learned the language from, but you struggled, having difficulties understanding the grammar.

You resisted Adam’s courtship for nine months, saying that you wanted to focus on your studies and your new Parisian life, and that you were uninterested in dating. Truth is, you were still broken up about your separation with Billy, still clinging to the two perfect months you had spent together. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t get Billy out of your head.

Constantly thinking about Billy had its upsides: you had written a book about him, a recollection of your relationship with a few fictionalized plotlines. The novel had been published in the US first and was later met with great success in English speaking countries. You won the Best First Novel written by an American author the same year you were published, an accomplishment you couldn’t wrap your head around. A year after, your editor told you that foreign publishing companies were interested. There was talk about the book being translated in France, and you’d have a meeting with an editor soon. Part of you wished Billy would read your book someday, that he would finally understand what you had gone through for him.

The joy of being published, of living in another country and in an exciting new city was contaminated by the deep sadness you always carried with you. At first, writing to Billy helped: you put a lot of effort in the letters, and you imagined his reaction when he’d read them. It excited you and brought you a speck of joy.

After a few months with no answer from Billy, you were even more miserable. It reminded you of what had happened ten years ago: when Billy was sent back to the group home, and your correspondence ended abruptly after Billy stopped writing back to you. It reopened a wound you thought had healed a long time ago, and you were angry to discover that you still felt like your twelve-year-old self: abandoned and ignored.

One night, you decided that it was enough. You wrote a final letter to him, and you allowed yourself to finally move on. You wouldn’t let Billy keep you from living anymore, you had already given him too much. And what did he give you in return? Silence and indifference. You couldn’t believe that he ignored you this way, and you accessed rage and anger, sadness dissolving a bit.

You finally accepted to date Adam and resumed on your relationship with him. He was charming, funny, interesting, he took you to the movies, you hanged out in bars every weekend, he introduced you to new people. The sex was good, you were even exclusive. But you were still depressed, sometimes unable to leave your bed, crushed by a sadness too strong and deep to be able to function. When Adam asked you what was wrong, you always replied the same thing: you had no idea how Billy was, and you missed him. It drove you insane. After six months of dating, Adam started to resent you for your sadness, and called you pathetic. He was angry with you, unable to watch you torture yourself over Billy. You ended the relationship on a nasty tone but didn’t regret it. Whoever dated you needed to understand that Billy would always be a part of you, and Adam didn’t.

A month later, you received an answer from Billy.

Your hands shaking, you had opened the letter, a lump in your throat and tears already forming in your eyes. You had finally a physical proof that Billy was all right, and that he was thinking about you. Your heartbeat pounding in your ears, you sat on the floor and read it, tears streaming down your face.

Billy wrote to you from a hospital bed: he had gotten hurt. He reassured you that he was fine, and that there’d be no consequences to his injury. He explained to you why he had never responded, and it took you some time to understand, the anger still sharp within you. After that, your bond felt stronger than before, and you finally felt at peace for the first time since you had said your goodbyes at the airport. Billy even told you that you were right, that the distance was a good thing, and that he’d be fine.

After you resumed on your correspondence with Billy, you felt lighter. The deep, crushing sadness that hadn’t left you in a year and half was finally gone. Sure, you missed him. But you felt like you could finally move on.

And then, you met Antoine.

He was your contact at the publishing company, and from the first time you met him, you were smitten. You had entered his office and he had gotten up to greet you, towering over you. He wore a well-tailored suit but looked casually comfortable and elegant. He spoke English in a smooth, seductive French accent that sent shivers down your spine, his warm brown eyes appraising you curiously. Antoine wore glasses, he was witty, sarcastic, and the funniest person you had ever met. You were almost embarrassed at how easily he made you laugh, but you couldn’t resist. His brown hair was slightly curly, his sharp jaw enhanced by a beard; he had large, strong hands, and a gorgeous smile that made your knees weak. Your professional relationship was short, you agreed to the terms of the contract rapidly, advised by your agent to accept the deal.

Antoine asked you out almost immediately after, and you were delighted to find out that the attraction you felt seemed to be shared. He took you to a nice restaurant, nested in a gorgeous Parisian alley lit by garlands and invaded by vegetation. He introduced to wine tasting, and made you laugh until your eyes filled with tears. You discovered that he was seven years older than you, having just turned thirty. He wasn’t born in Paris, coming from Bourgogne, and he promised he’d take you there to visit one day.

With him, you felt light, carefree, unburdened with your previous emotional battles. Antoine introduced you to an easiness in life, a casualness you welcomed with wide arms. You had never felt this way before, like the world was wide open for you to explore, like everything was possible. Antoine made you feel alive, invincible. You met his friends, and he met yours, and you started to move in intellectual circles, meeting influent people in the publishing world.

You spent weekends in Normandy at one of his family’s secondary houses, sometimes with friends, other times just the two of you.

You dated for six months before he asked you to move in with him, and you accepted immediately. You were crazy about him, and you moved into his large Parisian apartment, and started sharing a life with him. You didn’t think about the end of your exchange program, about the future, or even about Billy. You only experienced this new, exciting life, and you took everything it had to offer with a hunger you had never felt before.

Billy still wrote back to you, but you were careful not to mention Antoine to him. You didn’t feel the need for the two men to know about each other: they were from separated areas of your life, and you wanted to feel free to experience what you needed to, without feeling guilty.

For the first time in your life, Billy wasn’t at the center of your universe, and you felt somehow relieved by it. You had another two years before your exchange program would come to an end, and you intended to enjoy every second of them.

Part 20

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Woooh!!! This one was slightly less heartbreaking, right ? It’s hard writing these two being apart CAUSE I WANT THEM TO BE TOGETHER AGAIN OK ?

but we have to be patient. We’re slowly approaching the Anvil era and I’m so excited !

Did you like this part ? Tell me your thoughts!! Your feedback fuels my writing, for real. It gives me incentive and inspiration to know that I’m not writing for myself only.

Love you guys !

Taglist

@mood---board

@carlywhomever

@jessevans

@karamelcoveredolicity

@thismightgetboring

@mysticbeauty2005

@blackbirddaredevil23

@aleksanderwh0r3

@ilkaeliseb

@chrismcdaddyevans

@mysticbeauty2005

@stuckysavedmylive

@made-of-stars03

@partypoison00

@odetostep

@crowssixof

@deviantsendbyreallife

@tooconspicuous

@inlovewithliferuiners

@marimorena06

@ohsorandomlyme

@tomhollandisabae

@mindshowerr

@bat-revival

@russosbitch

@sassyvillaintrophy

@alltheloztboys

@katedrexel

@shazianazir05

@liajiah

@stuckysdaughter

@blanchedelioncourt

#ben barnes #billy russo #billy russo x reader #billy russo x you #billy russo fanfiction #billy russo imagine #the punisher #my fics #together we stand

180 notes · View notes